Nodding, Koryk set out along the trail.
Smiles licked her lips, glowered at Tarr. ‘Put the damned pig-sticker away, Tarr.’
‘That’s “Corporal” to you, Smiles.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Hood’s breath, it’s gone to his head.’
‘And those aren’t knives in your hands?’
Smiles sheathed them, said nothing.
‘Go on,’ Fiddler ordered them. ‘Koryk’s waiting.’
Corabb picked up his end of the stretcher again and set out after the others. Bottle had slept through that distant succession of explosions. Sign of just how exhausted the poor man was. Still, it was unnerving not having him awake and keeping an eye on things, the way he could leap from animal to animal. Birds, too. And even insects. Although Corabb wondered just how far an insect could see.
He reached up and crushed a mosquito against one eyelid. The stretcher pitched behind him and he heard Cuttle swear under his breath. Corabb quickly regained his hold on the sapling. Damned insects, he needed to stop thinking about them. Because thinking about them led to hearing and feeling them, crawling and biting everywhere and him with both hands used up. This wasn’t like the desert. You could see chigger fleas coming on the wind, could hear a bloodfly from five paces, could pretty much guess that under every rock or stone there was a scorpion or a big hairy spider or a snake all of which wanted to kill you. Simple and straightforward, in other words. None of this devious whispering in the night, this whining at the ear, this winged flit up a man’s nostril. Or crawling into the hair to take nips of flesh that left a swollen, oozing, damnably itching hole.
And then there were the slithery things that sucked blood. Hid under leaves waiting for some poor bastard handless soldier to go past. And ticks. And plants that, when one brushed innocently against them, started up an awful itching rash that then leaked some kind of oil – this was a true underworld, peopled by demon farmers and every life form of the night a raving, rapacious devourer of desert-born men. And never mind the Tiste Edur and the spineless Letherii. Imagine, fighting at the behest of tyrannical masters. Had they no pride? Might be smart to take a prisoner or two, just to get some answers. A Letherii. He might mention the idea to the sergeant. Fiddler was all right with suggestions. In fact, the entire Malazan Army seemed all right with that kind of thing. Sort of a constant warrior gathering, when anyone could speak up, anyone could argue, and thus decisions were forged. Of course, among the tribes, when that gathering was done, argument ended.
No, the Malazans did almost everything differently, their own way. Corabb wasn’t bothered by that any more. It was probably a good thing he had held to so many ignorant, outrageous beliefs about them back when he was among the rebels. Otherwise, he might have found it hard to hate the enemy the way he was supposed to, the way it needed to be.
But now I know what it means to be a marine in the Malazan Army, even if the empire’s decided we’re outlaws or something. Still marines. Still the elite and that’s worth fighting for – the soldier at your side, the one in the stretcher, the one on point. Not sure about Smiles, though. Not sure about her at all. Reminds me of Dunsparrow, with that knowing look in her eyes and the way she licks her lips whenever someone talks about killing. And those knives – no, not sure about her at all.
At least they had a good corporal, though. A tough bastard not interested in words. Shield and sword did all Tarr’s talking, and Corabb always found himself rushing forward to stand at the man’s side in every scrap. Sword-arm side, but a step forward since Tarr used that short-bladed sticker so his parrying was foreshortened and that risked too much close-in stuff, the quick dirty underhanded kind – the style the desert tribes would use against a shield-wall soldier like Tarr – when there was no shield-wall, when it was just the one man, flank exposed and guard too tight. Batter and wail at the shield until his knees bent a fraction more and he ducked in behind and below that shield, left leg forward – then just sidestep and slip round the shield, over or under that stabbing shortsword, to take arm tendons or the unprotected underarm.
Corabb knew he needed to protect Tarr on that side, even if it meant disobeying Fiddler’s orders about staying close to Bottle. So long as Bottle looked to be out of trouble, Corabb would move forward, because he understood Tarr and Tarr’s way of fighting. Not like Koryk, who was more the desert warrior than any other in these two squads, and what he needed fending his flanks was someone like Smiles, with her flicking knives, crossbow quarrels and the like. Staying back and to one side, out of range of Koryk’s frenzied swings of his longsword, and take down the enemy that worked in from the flanks. A good pairing, that.
Cuttle, the miserable old veteran, he had his cussers, and if Bottle got in danger the sapper would take care of things. Was also pretty sharp and quick with the crossbow, an old hand at the release and load-while-you-run.
It was no wonder Seven Cities was conquered the first time round, with Malazan marines in the field. Never mind the T’lan Imass. They’d only been let loose at the Aren uprising, after all. And if Fiddler’s telling the truth, that wasn’t the Emperor at all. No, it was Laseen who’d given the order.
Gesler ain’t convinced, so the truth is, no-one knows the truth. About Aren. Just like, I suppose, pretty soon no-one will know the truth about Coltaine and the Chain of Dogs, or – spirits below – the Adjunct and the Bonehunters at Y’Ghatan, and at Malaz City.
He felt a chill whisper through him then, as if he’d stumbled onto something profound. About history. As it was remembered, as it was told and retold. As it was lost to lies when the truth proved too unpleasant. Something, aye…Something…Damn! Lost it!
From the stretcher behind him, Bottle muttered in his sleep, then said, distinctly: ‘He never sees the owl. That’s the problem.’
Poor bastard. Raving in delirium. Exhausted. Sleep easy, soldier, we need you.
I need you. Like Leoman never needed me, that’s how I need you. Because I’m a marine now. I suppose.
‘Ask the mice,’ Bottle said. ‘They’ll tell you.’ He then mumbled something under his breath, before sighing and saying: ‘If you want to live, pay attention to the shadow. The shadow. The owl’s shadow.’
At the other end of the stretcher, Cuttle grunted then shook the handles until Bottle groaned again and edged onto his side. Whereupon the young mage fell silent.
They continued on through the night. And once more, sometime later, they heard detonations in the distance again. These ones to the north.
Oh, they’d stirred ’em awake all right.
Shurq Elalle’s herbs were getting stale. It had been all right out on the Undying Gratitude, on a wind-whipped deck and in the privacy of her cabin. And with a man with no nose for company. But now she found herself in a cramped map room with a half-dozen foreigners and Shake Brullyg, the eponymous king of this miserable little island, and – especially among the women – she could see their nostrils wrinkle as they caught unpleasant aromas in the turgid, over-warm air.
Oh well. If they wanted to deal with her, they’d have to live with it. And be grateful for that ‘living’ part. She eyed the Adjunct, who never seemed to want to actually sit down; and although she stood behind the chair she had claimed at one end of the long, scarred table, hands resting on its back, she revealed none of the restlessness one might expect from someone for whom sitting felt like a sentence in a stock in the village square.
When it came to looks, there was not much to this Tavore Paran. Studious drab, sexless indifference, the wardrobe of the uncaring. A woman for whom womanly charms had less value than the lint in the creases of a coin purse. She could have made herself more attractive – almost feminine, in fact – if she so chose. But clearly such charms did not count as valuable assets to the Adjunct’s notions of command. And this was interesting, in a vague, academic sort of way. A leader who sought to lead without physical presence, without heroic or lustful or any other sort of imaginable grandeur. And so, with nary a hint of p
ersonality, what was Tavore left with?
Well, Shurq considered, there was her mind. Some kind of tactical genius? She wasn’t sure of that. From what Shurq had gathered from the fragmented mutterings of Balm’s squad, some vast error in judgement had already occurred. Seemed there had been an advance landing of some sort. Elite troops, creeping onto the wild shore and its tangled swamps and forests in the dead of night. Soldiers with a mission to sow confusion and destabilize the Edur rule, and so stir the downtrodden Letherii into uprising.
Tactical genius? More like bad intelligence. The Letherii liked things just fine. This Tavore may well have condemned to slaughter a vital element of her army. They’d burned the transports – and what was that about? Leaving her own troops with no choice but to go on? That stinks of distrust, of no confidence – aye, that stinks worse than I do. Unless I’m reading it all wrong. Which is a distinct possibility. There’s nothing simple about these Malazans.
The Malazan Empire, aye. But nothing like the Letherii Empire, with its petty games of bloodlines and racial hierarchy. No, these Malazans came in all styles indeed. Look at Tavore’s aide – a stunning tattooed barbarian whose every movement was sensuality personified. Anyone looking that savage and primitive would be cleaning stalls here in the Letherii Empire. And there was Masan Gilani, another invitation to manly blubbering – oh, how Shurq wished she had skin that luscious, burnished hue, and the graceful, leonine lines of those long legs and full thighs, the swell of unsagging breasts with nipples that made her think of overripe figs – not that I needed to peek, she’s got less modesty than me and that’s saying a lot indeed. So, Tavore keeps the pretty ones close. Now that might be a telling hint.
‘What are we waiting for?’ Shake Brullyg demanded, close to being drunk enough to start slurring his words. He slouched in the chair at the other end of the long table, directly opposite the Adjunct but with his heavy-lidded eyes fixed on Masan Gilani. The man truly believed that lascivious leers could make a woman swoon with desire. Yet Masan Gilani hid her disgust well, playing it along to keep the pathetic king dangling. The barbaric soldier was following very specific orders, Shurq suspected. To keep Brullyg from getting belligerent. Until they didn’t need him any more.
Well, that wouldn’t work with her, now, would it? Unless these Malazans had an Ublala Pung hidden nearby. Oh, that would be unfortunate indeed, to see her dissolving into an insatiable rutting animal in front of everyone. That was one secret she had better keep to herself. ‘Relax, Brullyg,’ she said. ‘All of this has to do with those huge trimarans that sailed into harbour last night.’ She’d love to have one of those, too, although she’d need two crews which meant less coin for everyone – damned logistics, always getting in the way of my dreams.
The Adjunct was eyeing her now, one of those gauging regards she settled on Shurq Elalle whenever the undead pirate said anything. Her own fault, actually – Shurq had sent Skorgen back to the Undying Gratitude. Her first mate’s unfortunate assortment of afflictions had proved far too distracting for everyone else, until she realized he was becoming a liability, undermining her…professionalism. Yes, that’s the word I was looking for. Got to be taken seriously here. I suspect my very existence depends on it. But she now found herself missing his weeping hole in the face, his mangled ear, blinded eye, stumped arm and bad leg – anything to swing away Tavore’s attention every time she was unwise enough to voice an opinion or observation.
Throatslitter, who sat opposite Shurq, now cleared his throat – producing an odd squeak – and smiled across at her.
She looked away, pointedly. That man was not a nice man. The way Gerun Eberict hadn’t been a nice man. Took too much pleasure in his job, she suspected. And even for a soldier, that wasn’t sensible. People like that tended to linger when lingering wasn’t good. Tended to put other soldiers at risk. Tended to get carried away. No, she didn’t like Throatslitter.
Yet her glance away had inadvertently shifted her attention to Corporal Deadsmell. Oh, funny name, that. In some ways, that man was even worse. No secrets from him, she suspected, no matter how coy she was – yes, he could smell her, and not stale herbs either. Had smelled her, from the very start. Had it been some bastard like him who wove the curse now afflicting me? No, that wasn’t right. Deadsmell had talents unknown here on Lether. Talents that made her think of that dying tower in Letheras, and Kettle, and the barrows in the yard.
Fortunately, he was dozing at the moment, bearded chin on his broad chest, thus sparing her his knowing look.
Ah, if only Tehol Beddict was here with me – he’d have them all reeling. In confusion or laughter? Laughter would be bad, very bad. For me. For anyone sitting too close to me. Very well, forget Tehol Beddict. I must be losing my mind.
The Adjunct addressed her. ‘Captain, I have spoken at length with Shake Brullyg, seeking to complete my understanding of this Letherii Empire. Yet I find his replies increasingly unsatisfactory—’
‘Poor Brullyg’s despondent,’ Shurq said. ‘And lovelorn. Well, perhaps unrequited lust is more accurate a description for his sordid, uncommunicative state of mind.’ Hah, she could out-Tehol Tehol Beddict! With no risk of laughing either!
Brullyg blinked at her.
Sergeant Balm leaned towards Throatslitter. ‘What did she just say?’
‘The Emperor,’ said Tavore.
Shurq frowned, but waited.
‘Of a Thousand Deaths.’
‘The title’s an exaggeration, I’m sure. Maybe a few hundred. Champions. They all die, eventually.’
‘Presumably he is well protected by his Edur in the palace.’
Shurq Elalle shrugged. ‘Not many details creep out of the Eternal Domicile, Adjunct. The Chancellor and his entire staff – Letherii – were retained after the conquest. There is also, now, a very powerful secret police, also Letherii. As for the economic apparatus, well, that too is Letherii.’
The tattooed woman named Lostara Yil snorted. ‘Then what in Hood’s name are the Edur doing? Where do they fit?’
‘On top,’ Shurq replied. ‘Wobbling.’
There was a long moment of silence.
‘Yet,’ Tavore finally said, ‘the Edur Emperor cannot be killed.’
‘That is true.’ Shurq watched as these details worked their way through the Malazans, with the exception of Deadsmell, of course, whose snores were waves rolling ashore in the little dank cavern of a room.
‘Is that,’ Tavore asked, ‘irrelevant?’
‘Sometimes seems that way,’ Shurq conceded. Oh, she wished she could drink wine without its draining out everywhere. She could do with a tankard or two.
‘An Emperor whose very rule is dictated by the sword,’ Tavore said. ‘What remain unhoned, however, are the necessities of administering an empire.’
‘Very dull necessities, aye,’ Shurq said, smiling.
‘The Tiste Edur, leaning hard against the undying solidity of their ruler, exist under the delusion of mastery,’ Tavore continued. ‘But reality is not so generous.’
Nodding, Shurq Elalle said, ‘The Tiste Edur were fisher folk, seal-hunters. Builders in wood. A half-dozen or so tribes. There was someone called the Warlock King, Hannan Mosag, who waged a war of subjugation – why he didn’t end up with that dreadful sword only the Edur know and it is not something they talk about.’
‘Does this Hannan Mosag still live?’ Tavore asked.
‘The Emperor’s new Ceda.’
Deadsmell’s snores ceased. ‘Imperial High Mage,’ he said. ‘Ceda, a degradation of “Cedance”, I’d wager. “Cedance” was some sort of ritual back in the days of the First Empire.’ His eyes opened halfway. ‘Ebron won’t be at all surprised. These Letherii are some lost colony of the First Empire.’ The heavy lids slid down once more, and a moment later his snores groaned back to life.
Shurq Elalle thought to clear her throat, changed her mind. Things were rank enough as it was. ‘The point I was making, Adjunct, is that the Tiste Edur couldn’t administer their
way through a mooring tithe. They’re warriors and hunters – the males, that is. The females are, as far as I can tell, completely useless mystics of some sort, and since the conquest they’ve virtually disappeared from sight.’
Boots echoed from the corridor and moments later the door opened. Accompanied by Galt and the odd little man named Widdershins, two Letherii soldiers strode into the chamber. One of them was an Atri-Preda.
Shake Brullyg lurched back in his chair, almost toppling it. Face twisting, he rose. ‘Damn every damned witch to the deep!’
‘It gets worse,’ the Atri-Preda replied with a faint smile on her lips. ‘I choose my own Rise, and you are not him. Yedan, throw this fool out on his arse – any window will do.’
Sudden alarm in Brullyg’s eyes as he stared at the soldier at the captain’s side, who made to move forward.
Galt’s sword was out of its scabbard in a blur, settled flat against the soldier’s stomach, halting the man in his tracks. ‘Maybe we should all back this up a few steps,’ he said in a drawl. ‘Adjunct, allow me to present Atri-Preda Yan Tovis and Shore Watch Yedan Derryg – which I take it is some kind of sergeant in charge of some kind of coastal patrol. What’s “Atri-Preda”? Captain? Commander? Whatever, they was in charge of that half-drowned bunch the Perish plucked from the storm.’
The Adjunct was frowning at Yan Tovis. ‘Atri-Preda, welcome. I am Adjunct Tavore Paran of the Malazan Empire—’
Yan Tovis glanced across at her. ‘You’re commanding this invasion? How many soldiers did you land on the coast, Adjunct? Ten thousand? Twenty? I saw the ships, the burning ships – you followed our fleets all the way from your empire? That’s a long way for a little vengeful bloodletting, isn’t it?’
Shurq dreamed of downing another tankard of wine. At least the Malazans weren’t looking her way any more.
The Adjunct’s frown deepened, accentuating her drab plainness. ‘If you wish,’ she said coolly, ‘we can formalize your status as prisoners of war. Yet I find it difficult to characterize your sinking ferry as a punitive invasion expedition. According to the reports I have received, your status is better likened as refugees, yes? A modest company of soldiers overseeing a sizeable collection of old men and women, children and other non-combatants. Were you sailing here assuming the island remained independent?’ She flicked her gaze across to Brullyg, who stood leaning against the far wall. ‘That you and Shake Brullyg are acquainted suggests you are here to resolve some private matter between you.’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 650