The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1201 page)

No one's allowed to get off. On pain of death, aye.

Stay right here, this rocking wagon, the rank sweat of the oxen so sweet in our nostrils. We got us a war, comrades. Can't stop and chat. We got us a war, and no one's allowed to get off. No one's allowed to get off. No one's allowed to—

 

Badan grunted and looked up.

‘Shit,' said Sinter, starting forward.

Kisswhere had been leaning forward over her thighs, one leg dangling off the wooden tail, the other splinted straight, thrust out at an angle. She'd just fallen back, head cracking as it bounced on the slats.

Sinter clambered on to the wagon. ‘Gods below, she's on fire. Badan – get us a cutter, fast.' Straightening, she faced forward and leaned over the bundles of gear. ‘Ruffle! Pull this thing over to one side – hurry! Out of the line!'

‘Aye, Sergeant!'

 

‘They're pulling outa line, Sergeant. Should we go back and see what's up?'

Hellian scowled. ‘Just march, Corporal.'

It was dark but not so dark as it maybe should be. People glowed green, but then, could be that was how it always was, when she didn't drink.
No wonder I drink.
‘Listen, all of you,' she said, ‘keep an eye out.'

‘For what?' Breathy asked.

‘For a tavern, of course. Idiot.'

They'd gotten two transfers. From the Seventh Squad. A pair of swords, one of them with a bad knee and the other one with the face of a gut-sick horse.
Limp's the name of one of them. But which one? That other one… Crump. A sapper? Is Crump the sapper? But sappers ain't worth much now, are they? Big enough to be a sword, though, unless Crump is the one with the bad knee. Imagine, a sapper with a bad knee. Set the charge and run! Well, hobble. Fast as you can. Guess you looking like a horse was some kind of joke, huh?

Sappers. Nothing but a bad idea that stayed bad. Bust up one leg on all of 'em, that'd make the breed extinct quick enough.

Aye, Limp's the sapper. Crump's the other one. Crump goes the knee. Limp goes the sapper. But wait, which one's got the bad knee again? I could turn round. I suppose. Turn round and, say, take a look. Which one's limping? Get the limper sorted and I got Crump, meaning the sapper's the other one, with the bad knee. Limp, then. He's named Limp on account of the bad knee of his buddy's, since he has to help the fool along all the time. But then, if he got that name at the start, why, he'd not make it as a soldier at all. He'd of been drummed out, or planted behind a desk. So, the sapper didn't run fast enough from some fuse, that's how he earned his name. Got the name Crump, on account of a crumpling knee. Now I get it. Whew.

But what's the point of a horse with a bad knee?

‘'S getting cold, Sergeant.'

Hellian's scowl deepened. ‘What do you want me to do about it, fart in your face?'

‘No. Was just saying. Oh, and Limp's lagging – we should've stuck 'im on the wagon.'

‘Who are you again?'

‘I'm Maybe, Sergeant. Been with you since the beginning.'

‘Which door?'

‘What?'

‘The street we lived on in Kartool City. Which door was you in?'

‘I ain't from Kartool, Sergeant. I meant, the beginning of the squad. That's what I meant. Aren. Seven Cities. The first time we marched across a Hood-rotting desert.'

‘Back to Y'Ghatan? No wonder I'm so thirsty. Got water in that jug there, soldier?'

‘Just my piss, Sergeant.'

‘Lucky you ain't a woman. Try pissing into a bottle when you're a woman. Y'Ghatan. Gods below, how many times do we got to take that place?'

‘We ain't marching to Y'Ghatan, Sergeant. We're – oh, never mind. It's a desert for sure, though. Cold.'

‘Corporal Touchless!'

‘Sergeant?'

‘What you got in that jug there?'

‘Piss.'

‘Who's selling that stuff anyway? Bloody genius.'

Maybe said, ‘Heard the quartermaster was tying bladders on the Khundryl stallions.'

Hellian frowned. ‘They'd explode. Why would he do that? And more to the point, how? Stick your hand up its—'

‘Not the horse's bladder, Sergeant. Waterskins, right? Cow bladders. Tied to the stallion's cock.'

‘Duck, you mean.'

‘What?'

‘Horses hate cocks, but they don't mind ducks. But that bladder would slow 'em down something awful. Quite the farm where you grew up, Maybe.'

‘I ain't fooled, you know,' said Maybe, leaning close. ‘But I see the point, right? You're keeping us entertained. It's like a game, pieces jumping every which way.'

She eyed him. ‘Oh, I'm just fooling with ya, am I?'

He met her gaze, and then his eyes shied away. ‘Sorry, Sergeant. Feeling it, huh?'

Hellian said nothing.
Glowing green, aye. And all those rocks and shards out there, where the spiders are. Tiny eyes all heaped up, all watching me pass. I'm sober. Can't pretend they're not there, not any more.

And not a tavern in sight.

This is going to be bad. Very bad.
‘Hear that?' she asked. ‘That was a damned hyena.'

‘That was Throatslitter, Sergeant.'

‘He killed a hyena? Good for him. Where's Balgrid anyway?'

‘Dead.'

‘Damned slacker. I'm going to sleep. Corporal, you're in charge—'

‘Can't sleep now,' Brethless objected. ‘We're walking, Sergeant—'

‘Best time for it, then. Wake me when the sun comes up.'

 

‘Now that ain't fair how she does that.'

Brethless grunted. ‘You hear about them all the time, though. Those veterans who can sleep on the march.' He mused, and then grunted a second time. ‘Didn't know she was one of them.'

‘Sober now,' Maybe muttered. ‘That's what's new with her.'

‘Did you see her and Urb and Tarr heading back into the trench? I'd just about given up, and then I saw her, and she pulled me along as if I was wearing chains round my neck. I had nothing left – me and Touchy – remember, Touchy?'

‘Aye. What of it?'

‘We were finished. When I saw Quick Ben go down, it was like someone carved out my gut. I went all hollow inside. Suddenly, I knew it was time to die.'

‘You were wrong,' said Maybe in a growl.

‘We got us a good sergeant, is what I'm saying.'

Maybe nodded, and glanced back at Crump. ‘You listening, soldier? Don't mess it up.'

The tall, long-faced man with the strangely wide-spaced eyes blinked confusedly. ‘They stepped on my cussers,' he said. ‘Now I ain't got any more.'

‘Can you use that sword on your belt, sapper?'

‘What? This? No, why would I want to do that? We're just marching.'

Lagging behind, breath coming in harsh gasps, Limp said, ‘Crump had a bag of munitions. Stuck his brain in there, too. For, uh, safekeeping. It all went up, throwing Nah'ruk everywhere. He's just an empty skull now, Maybe.'

‘So he can't fight? What about using a crossbow?'

‘Never seen him try one of those. But fight? Crump fights, don't worry about that.'

‘Well, with what, then? That stupid bush knife?'

‘He uses his hands, Maybe.'

‘Well, that's just great then.'

‘We're just marching,' said Crump again, and then he laughed.

 

Urb glanced back at the squad trudging five paces behind his own. She had nothing to drink now. She was waking up. To who she really was. And maybe she didn't like what she saw. Wasn't that what drinking was all about to begin with? He rubbed the back of his neck, faced forward again.

Sober now. Eyes clear. Clear enough to see…well, it wasn't like she'd really shown any interest. And besides, did he really want to get tangled with someone like that? Standing up only to probably fall down again. It was a narrow path for people like her, and they needed to want to walk it. If they didn't, off they went again, sooner or later. Every time.

Of course, if what Fid had said was true, what did any of it even matter? They were the walking dead, looking for a place to finish up with all the walking. So in the meantime, if there was a chance at anything, why not take it? She'd not be serious about it, though, would she? She'd just mock the whole idea of love, of what he would end up cutting out and slapping down wet and red on the table between them – she'd just laugh.

He wasn't brave enough for that. In fact, he wasn't brave at all, about anything. Not fighting Nah'ruk, or Letherii, or Whirlwind fanatics. Every time he had to draw his sword, he went cold as ice inside. Loose, quaking, dread shivering out from his stomach to steal the heat from his limbs. He drew his sword expecting to die, and die poorly.

But he'd do what he could to keep her alive. Always had. Always would. Usually she was too drunk to even see it, or maybe she was so used to him being there when it counted that he was no different from a stone wall for her to throw her back against. But wasn't even that enough for him?

It would have to be, because he didn't have the courage for anything more. Being the walking dead didn't have a thing to do with bravery. It was just a way of looking at the time left, of ducking down and pushing on and not complaining. He could do that. He'd been doing that all his life, in fact.

I've been the walking dead all along, and I didn't even know it.
The thought left him weakened, as if some hidden knife had just pushed deep inside, piercing his soul.
I've been telling myself this was being alive. This here. This…hiding. Wishing. Dreaming. Wanting. And all the while, what does anyone else see when they look at me?

Quiet Urb. Not much going on in there, is there? But a fair soldier. Adequate. Made sergeant, sure, but don't ever think he'll go higher. Hasn't got it inside, you see. It's quiet as a cave in there, but you got to, well, admire him. He's a man without troubles. He's a man who lives it easy, if you know what I mean.

That's Sergeant Urb. He'll do until a better sergeant comes along.

Hiding ain't living. Hiding's just walking dead.

He looked up into the jade-lit night sky, studied those grim slashes cleaving the darkness. Huge now, seeming ready to slice into the face of this very world. Urb shivered.
But if I'm the walking dead, why am I still so afraid?

 

Corporal Clasp dropped back from her position alongside Urb, until Saltlick, who'd been taking up the rear, reached her, and she fell in beside him. ‘Can I have a quiet word with you?' she asked.

He glanced over, blinked. ‘I can be quiet.'

‘I'd noticed, Saltlick. Is that how it is in this squad?'

‘What do you mean?'

She nodded ahead. ‘Sergeant Urb. You and him are the same. You don't say anything, don't give yourselves away. You know, we all knew there was a…well, a kind of elite group. Squads and a few heavies. Somehow all closer to Fiddler, back when he was a sergeant. Closer than the rest of us. We knew it. We could see it. Fiddler, and round him Gesler and Stormy, Balm and Hellian, Cord and Shard. And Urb. With Quick Ben dropping in, and then Hedge. And finally, some of you heavies. Shortnose, Mayfly, Flashwit. You. I know, it was all about Fiddler, and the ones he drew in around him. The ones he picked.'

Saltlick was staring at her now.

Clasp grimaced. ‘Look at my soldiers,' she said under her breath. ‘Look at Sad. You know what she is? A damned Semk witch.
Semk.
You know what she does when she gets ready for a fight? Never mind. You'll see for yourself, assuming we survive this desert. Then there's Burnt Rope. Sapper. But he surprised me at the trench. So did our cutter – you know, he once went and sought out Gesler and Stormy – fellow Falaris, right? We sent him. We sent Lap Twirl to Ges and Stormy, to test them out. To see if we could get in.'

‘Get in?'

‘To those elites. To the insiders, right? Well, he didn't get anywhere. They were friendly enough, and the three of them got drunk – it was in Letheras. Got beastly drunk, and hired up a whole whorehouse of women. But Lap kept a bit of himself cold sober, and when he judged it right he just went and asked. Asked in. You know what Gesler said?'

Saltlick shook his head.

‘The bastard denied it to Lap's face. Said it didn't exist. Lied to Lap's face. That's how we know there's no getting in.'

Saltlick continued studying her. ‘So,' he said after a few strides, ‘why are you telling me?'

‘Urb's one of the finest sergeants we marines got left to us. We know that. In fact, it's got us pissing in our boots. The pressure's getting unbearable, Saltlick. We can't get a word outa him. And you can see in his eyes – he's damned disappointed to be saddled with us.'

‘All right,' said Saltlick.

She frowned up at him. ‘All right what?'

‘You're in, Corporal. You and your soldiers. You're all in.'

‘Really? You sure?'

‘You're in.'

Smiling, she moved ahead again, paused to glance back and nod. He nodded back, saw the lightness in her step. Watched as she leaned in close to Lap Twirl, and the two soldiers spoke in whispers and gestures, and a moment later Sad and Burnt Rope closed up to listen in. Faces turned, looked back at him.

He waved.

I can't wait till Flashwit hears this one.

Saltlick shifted uncomfortably. He'd sweated a lot in his tent, and now his sack was chafing. He could almost feel the skin peeling off.
Fuck, that stings. Better air out my balls tomorrow.

 

The sergeant was glaring at her, gesturing. Flashwit frowned.

Mayfly nudged her. ‘Wants to talk to you.'