The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘The Claw has a long memory.’

  ‘What’s left of them, after Malaz City. I think they’d save all their venom for the Adjunct and all of us traitorous officers of significance. Heroic veterans such as myself, not to mention the Fists, barring perhaps Blistig. Presumably,’ he continued, ‘you are thinking in the long term. The two of you settling down somewhere, a house overlooking the Kanese beaches, perhaps, with smoke rising from the chimney and a brood of bearded offspring playing with fire-ants and whatnot. For what it is worth, Skanarow, I believe you will face no challenge in sleeping peacefully at night.’

  ‘I’m beginning to understand how Lieutenant Pores felt when serving under you, Kindly. It all slides past, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

  ‘Right,’ she drawled. ‘Consider this. Ruthan’s getting nervous. And it’s getting worse. He’s just about combed his beard off his chin. He has troubled dreams. He speaks in his sleep, in languages I’ve never heard before.’

  ‘Most curious.’

  ‘For example, have you ever heard of Ahkrast Korvalain?’

  Kindly frowned. ‘Can’t say I have, but it sounds Tiste. For example, the Elder Warrens of Kurald Galain and Emurlahn. Similar construction, I’d wager. You might mention it to the High Mage.’

  She sighed, looked away. ‘Right. Well, I’d best get back to my squads. The loss of Gesler and Stormy, so soon after Masan lit out—and that other one—well, things are fragile at the moment.’

  ‘That they are, Skanarow. On your way out, have Corporal Thews bring in my collection.’

  ‘Your collection?’

  ‘Combs, Skanarow, combs.’

  ______

  Master Sergeant Pores sat up, wiping the blood from his nose. Strange motes still floated and drifted in front of his eyes, but he could see that his personal wagon of stores had been ransacked. The two oxen harnessed to it were watching him as they gnawed on their bits. He wondered, briefly, if it was possible to train oxen as guard dogs, but the image of the beasts baring giant square teeth and moaning in a threatening fashion struck him as not quite frightening enough.

  As he was picking himself up, brushing dirt and grass from his clothes, the sound of approaching footsteps made him flinch and then straighten, raising his hands defensively.

  But there was no need. The newcomers didn’t look particularly threatening. Hedge, and behind him four of his Bridgeburners. ‘What happened to you?’ Hedge asked.

  ‘Not sure, I’m afraid. Someone came by with a requisition I was, er, unable to fill.’

  ‘Wrong wax seal on the request?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Hedge eyed the wagon. ‘Looks like he went and took what he wanted anyway.’

  ‘Capital offence,’ said one of Hedge’s corporals, shaking his head and frowning as if in disbelief. ‘You Bonehunters lack discipline, Master Sergeant.’

  Pores stared at the scrawny Letherii. ‘You know, I was just thinking the same thing, Corporal. It’s anarchy here. I truly feel under siege, a lone island of reason and order in a storm of rapacious chaos.’ He gestured behind him and said to Hedge, ‘If you’re here to request anything, as you can see you will have to wait until I reorganize things. Besides, my own supplies are not, strictly speaking, available for official restitution. I can, however, provide you with a writ giving you an audience with the Quartermaster.’

  ‘Kind of you,’ said Hedge. ‘Only we already been there.’

  ‘Without a writ? You had no joy, did you?’

  ‘No, funny that. Seems the only writs he’s looking at are the ones from you.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Pores. ‘As you might imagine, Commander—it is “commander”, isn’t it? As you might imagine, in the midst of the very chaos your corporal so sharply observed, it has been necessary to take it upon myself to enforce some measure of control on our dwindling supplies.’

  Hedge was nodding, eyes still on the wagon. ‘Thing is, Master Sergeant, what we’re hearing is that most of the chaos is due to the fact that everyone has to go through you. Now, I’m wondering if Fist Keneb is fully aware of the situation. As a commander, you see, I can just go straight and talk to him, as equals, I mean. None of your cronies to try to get through—aye, I marked ’em in that unofficial cordon round the HQ camp. Quite the organization you put together, Master Sergeant. Makes me wonder who got through to rearrange your nose like that.’

  ‘If I had memory of the incident, Commander, I’d tell you who—at least, after I’d hunted him down and crucified him for looting.’

  ‘Well,’ said Hedge, ‘I caught a rumour not fifty paces from here. It’s fresh as that dung behind them oxen.’

  ‘Splendid.’ Pores waited.

  ‘About that writ,’ Hedge said.

  ‘Coming right up—let me just find a spare wax tablet—’

  ‘Not using parchment? No, of course not. Parchment doesn’t melt, does it? Wax does. Evidence? What evidence? Clever, Master Sergeant.’

  Pores found a tablet and a stylus from his small portable desk close to the toppled-over folding chair where he’d—presumably—been sitting when the fist said hello. He quickly scratched his symbol and then looked up expectantly. ‘What is it you want, specifically?’

  ‘Specifically? Whatever we decide we need.’

  ‘Right. Excellent. I’ll write that right here.’

  ‘Make it legible and all.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  Pores handed the tablet over, waited while Hedge squinted at it.

  Finally, the bastard looked up and smiled. ‘Rumour is, it was Neffarias Bredd who done cracked you one.’

  ‘Ah, him. Who else would it be? How silly of me. I don’t suppose you know what he looks like?’

  Hedge shrugged. ‘Big, I heard. Got a brow like a rock shelf, a hamster’s eyes, a nose spread from here to Malaz Island and he can crush rocks with his teeth. More hair than a bull bhederin’s dangly sack. Knuckles that can bust a Master Sergeant’s nose—’

  ‘You can stop there,’ said Pores. ‘I have an amazingly precise picture in my head now, thank you.’

  ‘Mayfly says that’s all wrong, though,’ Hedge added. ‘Bredd’s tall but skinny, says Mayfly, and his whole face is tiny, like the bud of a flower. With sweet and pleasant eyes and pouty lips—’

  ‘And Mayfly dreams about him every night, aye. Well, this has been a wonderful conversation, Commander. Is our business finished? As you can see, I have some work to do here.’

  ‘So you do, so you do.’

  He and the oxen watched them leave. Then he sighed. ‘Gods, they really are Bridgeburners.’ He glared at the oxen. ‘Chew on that some, you useless oafs.’

  Skulldeath, last surviving prince of some Seven Cities desert tribe and the most frightening melee killer Sergeant Sinter had ever seen, was plaiting Ruffle’s hair. The style was markedly different from anything the Dal Hon tribes favoured, but on Ruffle’s round and somewhat small head the effect was, to Sinter’s eyes, somewhere between functional and terrifying.

  ‘Lickeet at,’ muttered Nep Furrow, his blotched brow wrinkling into folds that reminded her of turtle skin, ‘Dasgusting!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ interjected Primly. ‘Those curls will be all the padding she needs under her helm. Should keep her a lot cooler than the rest of us.’

  ‘Nabit, furl! Skeendath, rap izzee, a gurl?’

  ‘Nice rhyme,’ offered Shoaly from where he lounged, legs stretched out and boots edging the still smouldering coals of the hearth. The heavy’s hands were laced behind his head and his eyes were closed.

  Sinter and the other half-dozen soldiers seated close by occasionally glanced over to check on progress. Through a flurry of hand signals bets had been laid on when Shoaly would finally notice he was cooking his feet. Corporal Rim was doing the ten-count and he’d already reached sixty.

  Ruffle’s now ubiquitous pipe was puffing smoke into Skulldeath’s eyes and he had to keep wiping th
em as he worked his wooden plug and bone hook.

  Strange, mused Sinter, how it was misfits always found each other in any crowd or, in this case, wilderness. Like those savannah grass-spiders that dangled finger-long feelers out in front of them in the mating season. Catching herself thinking about spiders again, for perhaps the fifth time since the morning, she looked over at the recumbent, motionless form of Sergeant Hellian, who’d stumbled into their camp thinking it belonged to her own squad. She was so drunk Rim kept her from getting too close to the fire, lest the air round her should ignite. She’d been running from the spiders. What spiders? Hellian didn’t explain. Instead, she’d toppled.

  Skulldeath had looked her over for a time, stroking her hair and making sure none of her limbs were pinned at odd angles, and when at last he fell asleep, it was curled up against her. The mother he never had. Or the mother he never left. Well, all those lost princes in fairy tales ain’t nearly as lost as Skulldeath here. What a sad—if confused—story he’d make, our sweet little boy.

  Sinter rubbed at her face. She wasn’t feeling much different from Hellian, though she’d had nothing but weak ale to drink the night before. Her mind felt bludgeoned, bruised into numbness. Her haunting sensitivities had vanished, making her feel half deaf. I think I am . . . overwhelmed.

  By something. It’s close. It’s getting closer. Is that what this is?

  She wondered where her sister was by now—how far away were the Perish and Khundryl anyway? They were overdue, weren’t they?

  Sinter thought back to her fateful audience with the Adjunct. She remembered Masan Gilani’s fierce expression the moment before the Adjunct sent her off. There had been no hesitation in Tavore’s response to what Sinter said what was needed, and not a single objection to any one of her suggestions. The only visible reaction had preceded all that. Betrayal. Yes, that word hurt her. It’s the one thing she cannot face. The one thing, I think, that devours her courage. What happened to you, Tavore Paran? Was it something in your childhood, some terrible rejection, a betrayal that stabbed to the deepest core of you, of the innocent child you once were?

  When does it happen? All those wounds that ended up making us the adults we are? A child starved never grows tall or strong. A child unloved can never find love or give it when grown. A child that does not laugh will become someone who can find nothing in the world to laugh at. And a child hurt deeply enough will spend a lifetime trying to scab that wound—even as they ceaselessly pick at it. She thought of all the careless acts and indifferent, impatient gestures she’d seen among parents in civilized places, as if they had no time for their own children. Too busy, too full of themselves, and all of that was simply passed on to the next generation, over and over again.

  Among the Dal Honese, in the villages of both the north and the south, patience was the gift returned to the child who was itself a gift. Patience, the full weight of regard, the willingness to listen and the readiness to teach—were these not the responsibilities of parenthood? And what of a civilization that could thrive only by systematically destroying that precious relationship? Time to spend with your children? No time. Work to feed them, yes, that is your responsibility. But your loyalty and your strength and your energy, they belong to us.

  And we, who are we? We are the despoilers of the world. Whose world? Yours. Hers—the Adjunct’s, aye. And even Skulldeath’s. Poor, lost Skulldeath. And Hellian, ever bathed in the hot embrace of alcohol. You and that wandering ex-priest with his smirk and broken eyes. Your armies, your kings and queens, your gods, and, most of all, your children.

  We kill their world before they even inherit it. We kill it before they grow old enough to know what it is.

  She rubbed at her face again. The Adjunct was so alone, aye. But I tried. I think I did, anyway. You’re not quite as alone as you think, Tavore Paran. Did I leave you with that much? When I was gone, when you stood there in your tent, in the silence—when Lostara Yil left and not one set of eyes was upon you . . . what did you do? What did you free from chains inside yourself?

  If Bottle watched through the eyes of one of his rats, what did he see? There in your face?

  Anything? Anything at all?

  ‘What’s burning?’

  ‘You are, Shoaly.’

  The heavy made no move. His boots were now peeling off black threads of smoke. ‘Am I done yet, Primly?’

  ‘Crispy bacon, I’d wager.’

  ‘Gods, I love bacon.’

  ‘You gonna move your feet, Shoaly?’ Mulvan Dreader demanded.

  ‘Got bids, all you bastards?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Pravalak Rim.

  ‘Who’s counting tens?’

  ‘I am,’ said Rim. ‘Got an order, doing rounds. We got ten in all, counting Skulldeath and Ruffle, though they ain’t counted in personally, being busy and all.’

  ‘Sinter bet?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Sinter.

  ‘What number?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Rim, where you at now?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Out loud.’

  ‘Five, six, se—’

  Shoaly pulled his feet from the fire and sat up.

  ‘Now that’s loyalty,’ Sinter said, grinning.

  ‘De ain feer! De ain feer! I eed farv! Farv! Erim, de ain feer!’

  ‘It’s Shoaly’s feet,’ said Mulvan, ‘he can do what he wants with them. Sinter wins the pot, cos she’s so pretty, right, Shoaly?’

  The man smiled. ‘Right. Now, Sint, you like me?’

  ‘By half,’ she replied.

  ‘I’ll need it. Nep Furrow, what’ll a quick heal cost me?’

  ‘Ha! Yar half! Yar half! Ha ha!’

  ‘Half of my half—’

  ‘Nad! Nad!’

  ‘It’s either that or the sergeant orders you to heal me and you get nothing.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Sinter, glancing over to Badan Gruk. ‘Got need for your healer, Badan, you all right with that?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied.

  ‘This was all a set-up,’ Primly muttered. ‘I’m smelling more than bacon right now.’

  ‘Arf ad yar arf! Shably! Arf ad yar arf!’

  ‘Be kind to him, Shoaly, so he does you a good job.’

  ‘Aye, Sergeant Sinter. Half of half. Agreed. Where’s the kitty?’

  ‘Everybody spill now,’ said Rim, collecting a helm. ‘In here, pass it around.’

  ‘Scam,’ said Drawfirst. ‘Lookback, we all been taken.’

  ‘What’s new about that? Marines never play fair—’

  ‘They just play to win,’ Drawfirst finished, scowling at the old Bridgeburner adage.

  Sinter rose and walked from the camp. Numb and restless at the same time, what kind of state was that to be in? After a few strides she realized she had company and glanced over to see Badan Gruk.

  ‘Sinter, you look . . . different. Sick? Listen, Kisswhere—’

  ‘Never mind my sister, Badan. I know her best, remember.’

  ‘Exactly. She was going to run, we all knew it. You must’ve known it too. What I don’t get is that she didn’t try to get us to go with her.’

  Sinter glanced at him. ‘Would she have convinced you, Badan?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And then the two of you would have ganged up on me, until I relented.’

  ‘Could be like that, aye. Point is, it didn’t happen. And now she’s somewhere and we’re stuck here.’

  ‘I’m not deserting, Badan.’

  ‘Ain’t you thought about it, though? Going after Kisswhere?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She’s all grown up now. I should have seen that long ago, don’t you think? I don’t have to take care of her any more. Wish I’d realized that the day she joined up.’

  He grimaced. ‘You ain’t the only one, Sinter.’

  Ah, Badan, what am I to do with you? You keep breaking my heart. But pity and love don’t live together, do they?


  Was it pity? She just didn’t know. Instead, she took his hand as they walked.

  The soft wind on his face woke him. Groggy, thick-tongued and parched, Gesler blinked open his eyes. Blue sky, empty of birds, empty of everything. He groaned, struggling to work out the last thing he remembered. Camp, aye, some damned argument with Stormy. The bastard had been dreaming again, some demonic fist coming down out of the dark sky. He’d had the eyes of a hunted hare.

  Did they drink? Smoke something? Or just fall back to sleep, him on one side of the tent, Stormy on the other—one side neat and ordered, the other a stinking mess. Had he been complaining about that? He couldn’t remember a damned thing.

  No matter. The camp wasn’t moving for some reason—and it was strangely quiet, too, and what was he doing outside? He slowly sat up. ‘Gods below, they left us behind.’ A stretch of broken ground, odd low mounds in the distance—had they been there last night? And where were the hearths, the makeshift berms? He heard a scuffing sound behind him and twisted round—the motion rocking the brain in his skull fierce enough to make him gasp.

  A woman he’d never seen before was crouched at a small fire. Just to her right was Stormy, still asleep. Weapons and their gear were stacked just beyond him.

  Gesler squinted at the stranger. Dressed like some damned savage, all colourless gum-gnawed deerhide and bhederin leather. She wasn’t a young thing either. Maybe forty, but it was never easy to tell with plainsfolk, for that she surely was, like an old-fashioned Seti. Her features were regular enough; she’d probably been good-looking once, but the years had been hard since then. When his assessing gaze finally lifted to her dark brown eyes he found her studying him with something like sorrow.

  ‘Better start talking,’ Gesler said. He saw a waterskin and pointed at it.

  She nodded.

  Gesler reached over, tugged loose the stopper and drank down three quick mouthfuls. An odd flavour came off his lips and his head spun momentarily. ‘Hood’s knocker, what did I do last night?’ He glared at the woman. ‘You understanding me?’

  ‘Trader tongue,’ she said.

  It was a moment before he comprehended her words. Her accent was one he’d never heard before. ‘Good, there’s that at least. Where am I? Who are you? Where’s my damned army?’