Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Thanks, Bottle,’ Koryk said. ‘Now she can try again.’

  The knife thudded into the ground between the halfblood’s boots.

  All eyes snapped to stare at Smiles.

  Bottle licked his lips. That damned thing had come all too close to his left hand.

  ‘That’s where I was aiming,’ Smiles said.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Koryk asked, his voice strangely high.

  Bottle drew a deep breath to slow his pounding heart.

  Tarr walked over and pulled the knife from the ground. ‘I’ll keep this for a while, I think.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Smiles said. ‘I got plenty more.’

  ‘And you will keep them sheathed.’

  ‘Aye, Corporal. So long as no-one provokes me.’

  ‘She’s insane,’ Koryk muttered.

  ‘She’s not insane,’ Bottle replied. ‘Just lonely for…’

  ‘Some farm-boy from the inland village,’ Koryk finished, grinning.

  ‘Probably a cousin,’ Bottle added, low so that only Koryk heard.

  The man laughed.

  There. Bottle sighed. Another hairy moment on this endless march passed by, with only a little blood spilled. The Fourteenth Army was tired. Miserable. It didn’t like itself, much. Deprived of delivering fullest vengeance upon Sha’ik and the murderers, rapists and cut-throats who followed her, and now in slow pursuit of the last remnant of that rebel army, along crumbling, dusty roads in a parched land, through sandstorms and worse, the Fourteenth still waited for a resolution. It wanted blood, but so far most of the blood spilled had been its own, as altercations turned into feuds and things got ugly.

  The Fists were doing their best to keep things under control, but they were as worn down as everyone else. It didn’t help that there were very few captains worthy of the rank in the companies.

  And we don’t have one at all, now that Keneb got moved. There was the rumour of a new contingent of recruits and officers disembarking at Lato Revae and now somewhere behind them, hurrying to catch up, but that rumour had begun ten days ago. The fools should have caught them by now.

  Messengers had been coming and going in the last two days, pelting along the track from their wake, then back again. Dujek Onearm and the Adjunct were doing a lot of talking, that much was clear. What wasn’t was what they were talking about. Bottle had thought about eavesdropping on the command tent and its occupants, as he had done many times before, between Aren and Raraku, but the presence of Quick Ben made him nervous. A High Mage. If Quick turned over a rock and found Bottle under it, there’d be Hood to pay.

  The damned bastards fleeing ahead of them could run for ever, and probably would if their commander had any brains. He could have chosen a last stand at any time. Heroic and inspiring in its pointlessness. But it seemed he was too clever for that. Westward, ever westward, out into the wastes.

  Bottle returned to where he had been sitting, collecting handfuls of sand to scrub Koryk’s blood from his fingers and palms. We’re just getting on each other’s nerves. That’s all. His grandmother would know what to do about this situation, but she was long dead and her spirit was anchored to the old farm outside Jakata, a thousand leagues from here. He could almost see her, shaking her head and squinting in that half-crazed genius way she’d had. Wise in the ways of mortals, seeing through to every weakness, every flaw, reading unconscious gestures and momentary expressions, cutting through the confused surface to lay bare the bones of truth. Nothing was hidden from her.

  He could not talk with her, however.

  But there’s another woman… isn’t there? Despite the heat, Bottle shivered. She still haunted his dreams, that Eres’al witch. Still showed him the ancient hand-axes spread out over this land like the stone leaves of a world-encompassing tree, scattered by the winds of countless passing ages. He knew, in fact, that fifty or so paces south of this track, there was a basin cluttered with the damned things. Out there, a short walk, waiting for him.

  I see them, but I do not yet understand their significance. That’s the problem. I’m not equal to this.

  His eyes caught movement down by his boots and he saw a locust, swollen with eggs and crawling slowly. Bottle leaned forward and picked it up by pinching together its folded wings. With his other hand he reached into his pack, and removed a small black wooden box, its lid and sides pierced through with small holes. He flicked open the clasp and lifted the lid.

  Joyful Union, their prized Birdshit scorpion. In the sudden light, the creature’s tail lifted as it backed into a corner.

  Bottle tossed the locust into the box.

  The scorpion had known what was coming, and it darted forward, and moments later was feeding on the still-kicking insect.

  ‘Simple for you, isn’t it?’ Bottle said under his breath.

  Something thumped into the sand beside him – a karybral fruit, round and dusty-lime-coloured. Bottle looked up to find Cuttle standing over him.

  The sapper had an armful of the fruit. ‘A treat,’ he said.

  Grimacing, Bottle closed the lid on Joyful Union. ‘Thanks. Where did you get them?’

  ‘Went for a walk.’ Cuttle nodded southward. ‘A basin, karybral vines everywhere.’ He started tossing them to the others in the squad.

  A basin. ‘Plenty of hand-axes, too, right?’

  Cuttle squinted. ‘Didn’t notice. Is that dried blood on your hands?’

  ‘That would be mine,’ Koryk said in a growl, already husking the fruit.

  The sapper paused, studied the rough circle of soldiers around him, finishing on Corporal Tarr, who shrugged. This seemed sufficient, as Cuttle flung the last karybral globe over to Smiles.

  Who caught it on a knife.

  The others, Cuttle included, watched as she proceeded to slice the skin away with deft strokes.

  The sapper sighed. ‘Think I’ll go find the sergeant.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Bottle said.

  ‘You should let Joyful out for the occasional walk,’ Cuttle said. ‘Stretch the old legs. Maybe and Lutes have found a new scorpion – never seen its like before. They’re talking re-match.’

  ‘Scorpions can’t stretch their legs,’ Bottle replied.

  ‘A figure of speech.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Cuttle said, then ambled off.

  Smiles had managed to remove the entire husk in one strip, which she lobbed in Koryk’s direction. He had been looking down, and he jumped at the motion in the edge of his vision.

  She snorted. ‘There you go. Add it to your collection of charms.’

  The half-Seti set down his karybral and slowly stood, then winced and threw Bottle a glare. ‘I thought you healed this damned thing.’

  ‘I did. It’s still going to be sore, though.’

  ‘Sore? I can barely stand.’

  ‘It’ll get better.’

  ‘She’s liable to run,’ Tarr observed. ‘It should be amusing, Koryk, seeing you hobbling after her.’

  The big man subsided. ‘I’m patient enough,’ he said, sitting back down.

  ‘Ooh,’ Smiles said, ‘I’m all in a sweat.’

  Bottle climbed to his feet. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ he said. ‘Nobody kill anybody until I get back.’

  ‘If someone gets killed,’ Tarr pointed out, ‘your healing skills won’t be much help.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking about healing, just watching.’

  They had ridden north, out of sight of the encamped column, over a low ridge and onto a flat, dusty plain. Three guldindha trees rose from a low knoll two hundred paces distant, and they had reined in beneath the shade of the leathery, broad leaves, unpacking food and a jug of Gredfalan ale Fiddler had procured from somewhere, and there they awaited the High Mage’s arrival.

  Something of Fiddler’s old spirit had been dampened, Kalam could see. More grey in the russet beard, a certain far-off look in his pale blue eyes. True, the Fourteenth was an army filled with resentful, bitter soldiers, the glory of
an empire’s vengeance stolen from them the very night before battle; and this march wasn’t helping. These things alone could suffice to explain Fiddler’s condition, but Kalam knew better.

  Tanno song or no, Hedge and the others were dead. Ghosts on the other side. Then again, Quick Ben had explained that the official reports were slightly inaccurate. Mallet, Picker, Antsy, Blend, Spindle, Bluepearl… there were survivors, retired and living soft in Darujhistan. Along with Captain Ganoes Paran. So, some good news, and it had helped. A little.

  Fiddler and Hedge had been as close as brothers. When together, they had been mayhem. A conjoined mindset more dangerous than amusing most of the time. As legendary as the Bridgeburners themselves. It had been a fateful decision back there on the shoreline of Lake Azur, their parting. Fateful for all of us, it turns out.

  Kalam could make little sense of the ascendancy. This Spiritwalker’s blessing on a company of soldiers, the parting of the fabric at Raraku. He was both comforted and uneasy with the notion of unseen guardians – Fiddler’s life had been saved by Hedge’s ghost… but where was Whiskeyjack? Had he been there as well?

  That night in the camp of Sha’ik had been nightmarish. Too many knives to count had been unsheathed in those dark hours. And he had seen some of those ghosts with his own eyes. Bridgeburners long dead, come back grim as a hangover and as ugly as they had been in life. If he ever met that Tanno Spiritwalker Fid had talked to…

  The sapper was pacing in the shade of the trees.

  Crouching, Kalam Mekhar studied his old friend. ‘All right, Fid, out with it.’

  ‘Bad things,’ the sapper muttered. ‘Too many to count. Like storm-clouds, gathering on every horizon.’

  ‘No wonder you’ve been miserable company.’

  Fiddler squinted over at him. ‘You ain’t been much better.’

  The assassin grimaced. ‘Pearl. He’s keeping out of my sight, but he’s hovering nonetheless. You’d think that Pardu woman – what’s her name?’

  ‘Lostara Yil.’

  ‘Her. You’d think she’d have unhorsed him by now.’

  ‘The game those two play is all their own,’ Fiddler said, ‘and they’re welcome to it. Anyway, it’s clear he’s still here because the Empress wants someone close to Tavore.’

  ‘That was always her problem,’ Kalam said, sighing.

  ‘Trust.’

  Kalam regarded the sapper. ‘You’ve marched with Tavore since Aren. Any sense of her? Any at all?’

  ‘I’m a sergeant, Kalam.’

  ‘Exactly.’ The assassin waited.

  Fiddler scratched his beard, tugged at the strap of his battered helm, then unclasped it and tossed it to one side. He continued pacing, kicking at the leaves and nutshells in the sand. He waved at an errant bloodfly hovering in front of his face. ‘She’s cold iron, Kalam. But it’s untested. Can she think in battle? Can she command on the run? Hood knows, her favoured Fist, that old man Gamet, he couldn’t. Which doesn’t bode well for her judgement.’

  ‘She knew him from before, didn’t she?’

  ‘Someone she trusted, aye, there’s that. He was worn out, that’s all. I ain’t as generous as I used to be.’

  Kalam grinned, looking away. ‘Oh yes, generous, that’s Fid all right.’ He gestured at the finger bones hanging from the sapper’s belt. ‘What about those?’

  ‘She walked straight with that, it’s true. Oponn’s shove, maybe.’

  ‘Or maybe not.’

  Fiddler shrugged. His hand snapped out and closed on the bloodfly. He smeared it to death between his palms with evident satisfaction.

  Looking older, true enough, but fast and mean as ever. A wash of gritty, dead air sent the leaves scrabbling over the sand, the air audibly splitting a few paces away, and Quick Ben emerged from a warren. Coughing.

  Kalam collected the jug of ale and walked over. ‘Here.’

  The wizard drank, coughed once more, then spat. ‘Gods below, that imperial warren is awful.’ He swallowed another mouthful.

  ‘Send me in there,’ Fiddler said, striding over, ‘then I can drink some of that, too.’

  ‘Glad to see your mood’s improved,’ Quick Ben said, handing the jug over. ‘We will be having some company in a short while… after we eat, that is,’ he added, spying the wrapped foodstuffs and heading over. ‘I’m so hungry I could eat bloodflies.’

  ‘Lick my palm,’ Fiddler said.

  The wizard halted, looked over. ‘You’ve lost your mind. I’d sooner lick the hand of a camel-dung hawker.’ He began unwrapping the leaves protecting the food.

  ‘How was your meeting with Tavore?’ Kalam asked, joining him.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Quick Ben replied. ‘I’ve seen people under siege before, but she’s raised walls so thick and so high I doubt a dozen irate dragons would get through… and not an enemy in sight, either.’

  ‘You might be wrong there,’ the assassin said. ‘Was Pearl around?’

  ‘Well, one curtain moved a bit.’

  Fiddler snorted. ‘He ain’t that obvious. Was probably T’amber.’

  ‘I wasn’t being literal, Fid. Somebody in a warren, close and watchful.’

  ‘Tavore wasn’t wearing her sword, then,’ Kalam said.

  ‘No, she never does when talking with me, thank the gods.’

  ‘Ah, considerate, then!’

  The wizard shot a dark glare at Kalam. ‘Doesn’t want to suck everything out of her High Mage, you mean.’

  ‘Stop,’ Fiddler said. ‘I don’t like the images popping into my head. Hand me a chunk of that sepah bread – no, not the one you’ve taken a bite out of, Quick, thanks anyway. There – oh, never mind.’ He reached across.

  ‘Hey, you’re raining sand on my food!’

  Kalam settled back on his haunches. Fiddler was looking younger by the minute. Especially with that scowl. This break away from the army and all that went with it was long overdue.

  ‘What?’ Fiddler demanded. ‘Worried you’ll wear your teeth down? Better stop chewing on that bread, then.’

  ‘It’s not that hard,’ the wizard replied in a mouth-full muffle.

  ‘No, but it’s full of grit, Quick Ben. From the millstones. Anyway, I’m always raining sand these days. I got sand in places you wouldn’t imagine—’

  ‘Stop, images popping into my head and all that.’

  ‘After this,’ Fiddler continued remorselessly, ‘a year’s worth of sitting sweet in Darujhistan and I’ll still be shitting gritty bricks—’

  ‘Stop, I said!’

  Kalam’s eyes narrowed on the sapper. ‘Darujhistan? Planning on joining the others, then?’

  The sapper’s gaze shied away. ‘Some day…’

  ‘Some day soon?’

  ‘I ain’t planning on running, Kalam.’

  The assassin met Quick Ben’s eyes, just a flicker of contact, and Kalam cleared his throat. ‘Well… maybe you should, Fid. If I was giving advice—’

  ‘If you’re giving advice then I know we’re all doomed. Thanks for ruining my day. Here, Quick, some more of that ale, please, I’m parched.’

  Kalam subsided. All right, at least that’s cleared up.

  Quick Ben brushed crumbs from his long-fingered hands and sat back. ‘She has ideas about you, Kalam…’

  ‘I’ve got one wife too many as it is.’

  ‘Maybe she wants you to put together a squad of assassins?’

  ‘A what? From this lot?’

  ‘Hey,’ Fiddler growled, ‘I know this lot.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And you’re right, is all. They’re a mess.’

  ‘Even so,’ the wizard said, shrugging. ‘And she probably wants you to do it on the sly—’

  ‘With Pearl listening in on your conversation, right.’

  ‘No, that was later. The second half of our meetings is for our audience. The first half, before Pearl and whoever else arrives, is when we talk privately. She makes these meetings as impromptu as possible. Uses Grub as
a messenger.’ The wizard made a warding gesture.

  ‘Just a foundling,’ Fiddler said.

  But Quick Ben simply shook his head.

  ‘So she wants her own cadre of assassins,’ Kalam said. ‘Unknown to the Claw. Oh, I don’t like where this is going, Quick.’

  ‘Whoever is hiding behind those walls might be scared, Kal, but stupid it ain’t.’

  ‘This whole thing is stupid,’ Fiddler pronounced.

  ‘She crushed the rebellion – what more does Laseen want?’

  ‘Strong, when it comes to dealing with our enemies,’ Kalam said. ‘And weak when it comes to popularity.’

  ‘Tavore ain’t the popular sort of person, so what’s the problem?’

  ‘She might get popular. A few more successes – ones where it’s clear it’s not dumb luck. Come on, Fid, you know how fast an army can turn round.’

  ‘Not this army,’ the sapper said. ‘It barely got up off the ground to start with. We’re a damned shaky bunch – Quick Ben, does she have any idea of that?’

  The wizard considered for a time, then he nodded. ‘I think so. But she doesn’t know what to do about it, beyond catching Leoman of the Flails and obliterating him and his army. Thoroughly.’

  Fiddler grunted. ‘That’s what Cuttle is afraid of. He’s convinced we’re all going to end up wearing Ranal before this is done.’

  ‘Ranal? Oh, right.’

  ‘He’s being a right pain about it, too,’ Fiddler went on. ‘Keeps talking about the cusser he’s holding back, the one he’ll sit on when the doom descends on us all. You should see the look on the recruits’ faces when he goes on like that.’

  ‘Sounds like Cuttle needs a talking to.’

  ‘He needs a fist in the face, Kal. Believe me, I’ve been tempted…’

  ‘But sappers don’t do that to each other.’

  ‘I’m a sergeant, too.’

  ‘But you need him still on your side.’

  Glumly, ‘Aye.’

  ‘All right,’ Kalam said, ‘I’ll put him right.’

  ‘Careful, he might toss a sharper at your feet. He don’t like assassins.’

  ‘Who does?’ Quick Ben commented.

  Kalam frowned. ‘And here I thought I was popular… at least with my friends.’