The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  ‘You. You’re in Fiddler’s squad, right?’

  Blinking, Bottle focused on the man standing in front of him. ‘Hedge. What do you want?’

  The man smiled, and given the wayward glint in the man’s mud-grey eyes that was a rather frightening expression. ‘Quick Ben sent me to you.’

  ‘Really? Why? What’s he want?’

  ‘Never could answer that one—but you’re the one, Bottle, isn’t it?’

  ‘Look, I’m busy—’

  Hedge lifted up a sack. ‘This is for you.’

  ‘Bastard!’ Bottle snatched the bag. A quick look inside. Oh, stop your chewing now, Koryk. Relax.

  ‘It was moving,’ said Hedge.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The sack. Got something alive in there? It was jumping around in my hand—’ He grunted then as someone collided with him.

  An armoured regular, big as a bear, lumbered past.

  ‘Watch where you’re walking, y’damned ox!’

  At Hedge’s snarl, the man turned. His broad, flat face assumed the hue of a beet. He stomped back, lips twisting.

  Seeing the man’s huge hands closing into fists, Bottle stepped back in alarm. Hedge simply laughed.

  The beet looked ready to explode.

  Even as the first fist flew, Hedge was ducking under it, closing tight up against the man. The sapper’s hands shot between the soldier’s legs, grabbed, squeezed and yanked.

  With a piercing shriek, the soldier doubled over.

  Hedge added a knee to his jaw, flinging the head back upward. Then he drove an elbow into a cheekbone, audibly shattering it.

  The huge man crumpled. Hedge stood directly over him. ‘You just went for the last living Bridgeburner. I’m guessing you won’t do that again, huh?’ Hedge then turned back to Bottle and smiled a second time. ‘Quick Ben wants to talk with you. Follow me.’

  A few paces along, Bottle said, ‘You’re not, you know.’

  ‘Not what?’

  ‘The last living Bridgeburner. There’s Fiddler and Quick Ben, and I even heard about some survivors from Black Coral hiding out in Darujhistan—’

  ‘Retired or moved on every one of them. Fid said I should do the same and I thought about it, I really did. A new start and all that.’ He tugged at his leather cap. ‘But then I thought, what for? What’s so good about starting all over again? All that ground you covered the first time, why do it a second time, right? No—’ and he tapped the Bridgeburner sigil sewn on to his ratty rain-cape. ‘This is what I am, and it still means something.’

  ‘I expect that regular back there agrees with you.’

  ‘Aye, a good start. And even better, I had me a talk with Lieutenant Pores, and he’s giving me command of a squad of new recruits. The Bridgeburners ain’t dead after all. And I hooked up with a Letherii alchemist, to see if we can come up with replacements for the Moranth munitions—he’s got this amazing powder, which I’m calling Blue. You mix it and then get it inside a clay ball which you seal right away. In about half a day the mix is seasoned and set.’

  Bottle wasn’t much interested, but he asked anyway. ‘Burns good, does it?’

  ‘Don’t burn at all. That’s the beauty of Blue, my friend.’ Hedge laughed. ‘Not a flicker of flame, not a whisper of smoke. We’re working on others, too. Eaters, Sliders, Smarters. And I got two assault weapons—a local arbalest and an onager—we’re fitting clay heads on the quarrels. And I got me a new lobber, too.’ He was almost jumping with excitement as he led Bottle through the camp. ‘My first squad’s going to be all sappers along with whatever other talents they got. I was thinking—imagine a whole Bridgeburner army, say, five thousand, all trained as marines, of course. With heavies, mages, sneaks and healers, but every one of them is also trained as a sapper, an engineer, right?’

  ‘Sounds terrifying.’

  ‘Aye, doesn’t it? There.’ He pointed. ‘That tent. Quick’s in there. Or he said he would be, once he got back from the command tent. Anyway, I got to go collect my squad.’

  Hedge walked off.

  Bottle tried to imagine five thousand Hedges, with the real Hedge in charge. Hood’s breath, I’d want a continent between me and them. Maybe two. He repressed a shiver, and then headed to the tent. ‘Quick? You in there?’

  The flap rippled.

  Scowling, Bottle crouched and ducked inside.

  ‘Stop spying on the Adjunct and me,’ the wizard said. He was sitting at the far end, crosslegged. In front of him and crowding the earthen floor in the tent’s centre was a heap of what looked like children’s dolls.

  Bottle sat down. ‘Can I play?’

  ‘Funny. Trust me, these things you don’t want to play with.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. My grandmother—’

  ‘I’m tying threads, Bottle. You want to get yourself tangled in that?’

  Bottle shrank back. ‘Ugh, no thanks.’

  Quick Ben bared his smallish teeth, a neat white row. ‘The mystery is, there’s at least three in there I can’t even identify. A woman, a girl and some bearded bastard who feels close enough to spit on.’

  ‘Who are they tied to?’

  The wizard nodded. ‘Your granny taught you way too much, Bottle. I already told Fiddler to treat you as our shaved knuckle. Aye, I’ve been trying to work that out, but the skein’s still a bit of a mess, as you can see.’

  ‘You’re rushing it too much,’ Bottle said. ‘Leave them to shake loose on their own.’

  ‘Maybe so.’

  ‘So, what have you and the Adjunct got to be so secret about? If I really am your shaved knuckle, I need to know things like that, so I know what to do when it needs doing.’

  ‘Maybe it’s her,’ mused Quick Ben, ‘or more likely it was T’amber. They’ve sniffed me out, Bottle. They’ve edged closer than anybody’s ever done, and that includes Whiskeyjack.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Maybe Kallor. Maybe Rake—yes, Rake probably saw clear enough—was it any wonder I avoided him? Well, Gothos, sure, but—’

  ‘High Mage,’ cut in Bottle, ‘what are you going on about?’

  Quick Ben started, and then glared. ‘Distracted, sorry. You don’t need to spy on her—Lostara saw the rat and nearly chopped it in half. I managed to intervene, made up some story about using it for an augury. If anything vital comes up, I will let you know.’

  ‘A whisper in my skull.’

  ‘We’re heading into a maze, Bottle. The Adjunct’s ageing in front of my eyes, trying to figure out a way through the Wastelands. Have you tried soul-riding anything into it? It’s a snarl of potent energies, massive blind-spots, and a thousand layers of warring rituals, sanctified grounds, curse-holes, blood-pits, skin-sinks. I try and just reel back, head ready to split, tasting blood in my mouth.’

  ‘The ghost of a gate,’ said Bottle.

  Quick Ben’s eyes glittered in the gloom. ‘An area of influence, yes, but that ghost gate, it’s wandered—it’s not even there any more, in the Wastelands, I mean.’

  ‘East of the Wastelands,’ said Bottle. ‘That’s where we’ll find it, and that’s where we’re going, isn’t it?’

  Quick Ben nodded. ‘Better the ghost than the real thing.’

  ‘Familiar with the real one, are you, High Mage?’

  He glanced away. ‘She’s worked that one out all on her own. Too canny, too damned unknowable.’

  ‘Do you think she’s in communication with her brother?’

  ‘I don’t dare ask,’ Quick Ben admitted. ‘She’s like Dujek that way. Some things you just don’t bring up. But, you know, that might explain a lot of things.’

  ‘But then ask yourself this,’ said Bottle. ‘What if she isn’t?’

  The wizard was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed. ‘If not Paran, then who?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘That’s a nasty question.’

  ‘I don’t spy on the Adjunct just when she has you for company, Quick Ben. Most of the time I watch her, it’s when she’s alone.’

 
; ‘That’s pathetic—’

  ‘Fuck the jokes, High Mage. Our Adjunct knows things. And I want to know how. I want to know if she has company none of us know a thing about. Now, if you want me to stop doing that, give me a solid reason. You say she’s got close to you. Have you returned the favour?’

  ‘I would, if I knew how. That otataral sword pushes me away—it’s what they’re made to do, isn’t it.’ Seeing the sceptical expression opposite him, he scowled. ‘What?’

  ‘It doesn’t push you as hard as you like to pretend it does. The risk is that the harder and deeper you push through the otataral, the more of yourself you potentially expose—and if she catches sight of you, she won’t just be close to knowing you, she’ll be certain.’ He jabbed a finger at Quick Ben. ‘And that is what you don’t want to happen, and it’s the real reason why you don’t dare push through. So, your only chance is me. Do I resume spying or not?’

  ‘Lostara’s suspicious—’

  ‘When the Adjunct is presumably alone.’

  The High Mage hesitated, and then nodded. ‘Found anything yet?’

  ‘No. She’s not in the habit of thinking out loud, that much is obvious. She doesn’t pray, and I’ve yet to hear a one-sided conversation.’

  ‘Could you be blinded?’

  ‘I could, yes, but I’d sense the gaps of awareness. I think. Depending on how good the geas is.’

  ‘If it’s a geas directed specifically at your extra eyes?’

  ‘It would have to be. But you’re right, something specific, Mockra maybe, that slips into the rat’s tiny brain and paints a pretty picture of nothing happening. If that’s the case, then I don’t know how I could do anything about it, because with the local effect of the otataral, the source of that sorcery would be an appallingly high level—a damned god’s level, I mean.’

  ‘Or an Elder’s.’

  ‘These waters are too deep for a mortal like me, Quick Ben. My spying only works because it’s passive. Strictly speaking, riding a soul isn’t magic, not in the common sense.’

  ‘Then seek out something on the Wastelands, Bottle. See what you can see, because I can’t get close and neither, I think, can the Adjunct. Find a wolf, or a coyote—they like to hang round armies and such. Who’s out there?’

  ‘I’ll try. But if it’s that risky, you might lose me. I might lose me, which is even worse.’

  Quick Ben smiled his little smile and reached into the heap of dolls. ‘That’s why I’ve tied this thread to this particular doll.’

  Bottle hissed. ‘You miserable shit.’

  ‘Stop complaining. I’ll pull you back if you get into trouble. That’s a promise.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Bottle, rising.

  The High Mage looked up in surprise. ‘What’s to think about?’

  ‘Quick Ben, if it’s that dangerous in the Wastelands, hasn’t it occurred to you that if I’m grabbed, you may not be the one doing the pulling on that thread? With you suddenly drooling and playing with dolls for real, the Adjunct and, more importantly, her army, are well and truly doomed.’

  ‘I can hold my own,’ Quick Ben growled.

  ‘How do you know you can? You don’t even know what’s out there. And why would I want to put myself in the middle of a tugging contest? I might well get torn to pieces.’

  ‘Since that wasn’t the first thing you brought up,’ said Quick Ben, with a sly look, ‘I expect you have a few contingency plans to deal with the possibility.’

  ‘I said I’d think about it.’

  ‘Don’t wait too long deciding, Bottle.’

  ‘Two full crates of that smoked sausage, aye. Fist Keneb’s orders.’

  ‘Will do, Master Sergeant.’

  ‘Strap them tight, remember,’ Pores reminded the spotty-faced young man and was pleased at the eager nod. Quartermaster division always pulled in the soldiers who couldn’t fight their way out of a school playground, and they had two ways of going once they’d got settled—either puppies who jumped at the snap of an officer’s fingers or the ones who built impregnable fortresses out of regulations and then hoarded supplies somewhere inside—as if to give anything up drew blood and worse. Those ones Pores had made a career out of crushing; but at times like this, the puppies were the ones he wanted.

  He cast a surreptitious glance around, but the chaos swirled unabated on all sides and no one was paying him any attention. And the puppy was happy at being collared, so when accosted he could shake his head, duck down and use the various lines Pores himself used. ‘Fist Keneb’s orders, take it up with him.’ And ‘Master Sergeant’s got recruits to outfit, fifty of ’em, and Captain Kindly said to do it quick.’ Keneb was safe enough since at the moment nobody apart from his personal adjutants could even get close to him; and as for Kindly, well, the name itself usually sucked the blood from even the heartiest faces.

  It was a minor and mostly irrelevant detail that Pores had somehow lost his recruits. Snatched away from the marine squads by someone nobody knew anything about. If trouble arrived Pores could look innocent and point fingers at the squad sergeants. Never make a roadblock of yourself on trouble’s road. No, make yourself a bridge instead, with stones slick as grease.

  I should compose a mid-level officer’s guide to continued health, indolence and undeserved prosperity. But then, if I did that, I’d have to be out of the battle, no longer in competition, as it were. Say, retired somewhere nice. Like a palace nobody was using. And that would be my crowning feat—requisitioning a palace.

  ‘Queen Frabalav’s orders, sir. If you got a problem, you can always discuss it with her one-eyed torturer.’

  But for now, fine Letherii smoked sausages, three crates of excellent wine, a cask of cane syrup, all for Fist Keneb (not that he’d ever see any of that); and extra blankets, extra rations, officer boots including cavalry high-steppers, rank sigils and torcs for corporals, sergeants, and lieutenants, all for his fifty or was it sixty vanished recruits—which translated into Pores’s very own private stock for those soldiers on the march who lost things but didn’t want to be officially docked for replacements.

  He’d already commandeered three wagons with decent teams, under guard at the moment by soldiers from Primly’s squad. It occurred to him he might have to draw those three squads in as partners in his black-market operation, but that shouldn’t be too hard. Envy diminished the more one shared the rewards, after all, and with something at stake those soldiers would have the proper incentive when it came to security and whatnot.

  All in all, things were shaping up nicely.

  ‘Hey there, what’s in that box?’

  ‘Combs, sir—’

  ‘Ah, for Captain Kindly then.’

  ‘Aye, sir. Personal requisition—’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll take those to him myself.’

  ‘Well, uhm—’

  ‘Not only is the captain my immediate superior, soldier, I also happen to be his barber.’

  ‘Oh, right. Here you go, sir—just a signature here—that wax bar, yes sir, that’s the one.’

  Smiling, Pores drew out his reasonable counterfeit of Kindly’s own seal and pressed it firmly down on the wax bar. ‘Smart lad, keeping things proper is what makes an army work.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Hedge’s pleasure at seeing that his Letherii alchemist had rounded up the new recruits as he had ordered quickly drained away when he cast a gauging eye on the forty would-be soldiers sitting not fifteen paces from the company latrine trench. When he first approached the bivouac he’d thought they were waving at him, but turned out it was just the swarming flies.

  ‘Bavedict!’ he called to his alchemist, ‘get ’em on their feet!’

  The alchemist gathered up his long braid and with a practised twist spun it into a coil atop his head, where the grease held it fast, and then rose from the peculiar spike-stool he’d set up outside his hide tent. ‘Captain Hedge, the last mix is ready to set and the special rain-capes were delivered by my brother
half a bell ago. I have what I need to do some painting.’

  ‘That’s great. This is all of them?’ he asked, nodding towards the recruits.

  Bavedict’s thin lips tightened in a grimace. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How long have they been sitting in that stench?’

  ‘A while. Not ready to do any thinking for themselves yet—but that’s what’s to be expected from us Letherii. Soldiers do what they’re told to do and that’s that.’

  Hedge sighed.

  ‘There’s two acting sergeants,’ Bavedict added. ‘The ones with their backs to us.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Sunrise—he’s the one with the moustache. And Nose Stream.’

  ‘Well now,’ Hedge said, ‘who named them?’

  ‘Some Master Sergeant named Pores.’

  ‘I take it he wasn’t around when you snatched them.’

  ‘They’d been tied to some squads and those squads were none too pleased about it anyway. So it wasn’t hard cutting them loose.’

  ‘Good.’ Hedge glanced over at Bavedict’s carriage, a huge, solid-looking thing of black varnished wood and brass fittings; he then squinted at the four black horses waiting in their harnesses. ‘You was making a good living, Bavedict, leading me to wonder all over again what you’re doing here.’

  ‘Like I said, I got too close a look at what one of those cussers of yours can do—to a damned dragon, no less. My shop’s nothing but kindling.’ He paused and balanced himself on one foot, the other one set against the leg just below the knee. ‘But mostly professional curiosity, Captain, ever a boon and a bane both. So, you just keep telling me anything and everything you recall about the characteristics of the various Moranth alchemies, and I’ll keep inventing my own brand of munitions for your sappers.’