The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (379 page)

‘Has he a name?'

‘Grub.'

‘Grub?'

Keneb's shrug was apologetic. ‘For now, Adjunct. It well suits him—'

‘And the 8th. Yes, I see that. Deliver him to your hired nurse, Captain. Then, tomorrow, fire her and hire a better one…or three. Will the child accompany the army?'

‘He has no-one else, Adjunct. There will be other families among the camp followers—'

‘I am aware of that. Be on your way, Captain Keneb.'

‘I—I am sorry, Adjunct—'

But she was already turning away, and only Gamet heard her sigh and murmur, ‘It is far too late for that.'

And she was right. Soldiers—even recruits—recognized an omen when it arrived.
A child in the very boot prints of the woman who would lead this army. Raising high a sun-bleached thigh bone.

Gods below…

 

‘Hood's balls skewered on a spit.'

The curse was spoken as a low growl, in tones of disgust.

Strings watched Cuttle set his bag down and slide it beneath the low flatboard bed. The stable that had been transformed into a makeshift barracks held eight squads now, the cramped confines reeking of fresh sweat…and stark terror. At the back wall's urine hole someone was being sick.

‘Let's head outside, Cuttle,' Strings said after a moment. ‘I'll collect Gesler and Borduke.'

‘I'd rather go get drunk,' the sapper muttered.

‘Later, we'll do just that. But first, we need to have a small meeting.'

Still the other man hesitated.

Strings rose from his cot and stepped close. ‘Aye, it's that important.'

‘All right. Lead on…Strings.'

As it turned out, Stormy joined the group of veterans that pushed silently past ashen-faced recruits—many of them with closed eyes and mouthing silent prayers—and headed out into the courtyard.

It was deserted, Lieutenant Ranal—who had proved pathetically ineffective at the assembly—having fled into the main house the moment the troop arrived.

All eyes were on Strings. He in turn studied the array of grim expressions around him. There was no doubt among them concerning the meaning of the
omen, and Strings was inclined to agree.
A child leads us to our deaths. A leg bone to signify our march, withered under the curse of the desert sun. We've all lived too long, seen too much, to deceive ourselves of this one brutal truth: this army of recruits now see themselves as already dead
.

Stormy's battered, red-bearded face finally twisted into an expression too bitter to be wry. ‘If you're going to say that us here have a hope at Hood's gate in fighting the tide, Strings, you've lost your mind. The lads and lasses in there ain't unique—the whole damned three legions—'

‘I know,' Strings cut in. ‘We ain't none of us stupid. Now, all I'm asking is for a spell of me talking. Me talking. No interruptions. I'll tell you when I'm done. Agreed?'

Borduke turned his head and spat. ‘You're a Hood-damned Bridgeburner.'

‘Was. Got a problem with that?'

The sergeant of the 6th squad grinned. ‘What I meant by that, Strings, is that for you I'll listen. As you ask.'

‘Same with us,' Gesler muttered, Stormy nodding agreement at his side.

Strings faced Cuttle. ‘And you?'

‘Only because it's you and not Hedge, Fiddler. Sorry.
Strings
.'

Borduke's eyes widened in recognition of the name. He spat a second time.

‘Thank you.'

‘Don't thank us yet,' Cuttle said, but took the edge off with a slight smile.

‘All right, I'll start with a story. Has to do with Nok, the admiral, though he wasn't an admiral back then, just the commander of six dromons. I'd be surprised if any of you have heard this story but if you have don't say nothing—but its relevance here should have occurred to you already. Six dromons. On their way to meet the Kartool fleet, three pirate galleys, which had each been blessed by the island's priests of D'rek. The Worm of Autumn. Yes, you all know D'rek's other name, but I said it for emphasis. In any case, Nok's fleet had stopped at the Napan Isles, went up the mouth of Koolibor River to drag barrels—drawing fresh water. What every ship did when heading out to Kartool or beyond on the Reach. Six ships, each drawing water, storing the barrels below decks.

‘Half a day out of the Napan Isles, the first barrel was broached, by a cook's helper, on the flagship. And straight out through the hole came a snake. A paralt, up the lad's arm. Sank both fangs into his left eye. Screaming, he ran out on deck, the snake with its jaws wide and holding tight, writhing around. Well, the lad managed two steps before he died, then he went down, already white as a sun-bleached yard. The snake was killed, but as you can imagine, it was too late.

‘Nok, being young, just shrugged the whole event off, and when word spread and sailors and marines started dying of thirst—in ships loaded with barrels of fresh water that no-one would dare open—he went and did the obvious thing. Brought up another barrel. Breached it with his own hands.' Strings paused. He could see that no-one else knew the tale. Could see that he had their attention.

‘The damned barrel was full of snakes. Spilling out onto the deck. A damned miracle Nok wasn't bitten. It was just starting dry season, you see. The paralts' season in the river was ending. The waters fill with them as they head down to
the river mouth on their way out to sea. Every single barrel on those six dromons held snakes.

‘The fleet never closed to do battle with the Kartoolians. By the time it made it back to Nap, half of the complement was dead of thirst. All six ships were holed outside the harbour, packed with offerings to D'rek, the Worm of Autumn, and sent to the deep. Nok had to wait until the next year to shatter Kartool's paltry fleet. Two months after that, the island was conquered.' He fell silent for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, I'm not finished. That was a story, a story of how to do things wrong. You don't destroy an omen by fighting it. No, you do the opposite. You swallow it whole.'

Confused expressions. Gesler's was the first to clear and at the man's grin—startling white in his bronze-hued face—Strings slowly nodded, then said, ‘If we don't close both hands on this omen, we're all nothing more than pall-bearers to those recruits in there. To the whole damned army.

‘Now, didn't I hear that captain mention something about a nearby cemetery? Blown clear, the bones exposed to all. I suggest we go find it. Right now. All right, I'm finished talking.'

‘That was a damned thigh bone,' Stormy growled.

Gesler stared at his corporal.

 

‘We march in two days' time.'

Before anything else happens,
Gamet silently added to the Adjunct's announcement. He glanced over at Nil and Nether where they sat side by side on the bench against the wall. Both racked with shivers, the aftermath of the omen's power leaving them huddled and pale.

Mysteries stalked the world. Gamet had felt their chill breath before, a reverberation of power that belonged to no god, but existed none the less. As implacable as the laws of nature. Truths beneath the bone. To his mind, the Empress would be better served by the immediate disbanding of the Fourteenth Army. A deliberate and thorough breaking up of the units with reassignments throughout the empire, the wait of another year for another wave of recruits.

Adjunct Tavore's next words to those gathered in the chamber seemed to speak directly to Gamet's thoughts. ‘We cannot afford it,' she said, uncharacteristically pacing. ‘The Fourteenth cannot be defeated before it sets foot outside Aren. The entire subcontinent will be irretrievably lost if that happens. Better we get annihilated in Raraku. Sha'ik's forces will have at least been reduced.

‘Two days.

‘In the meantime, I want the Fists to call their officers together, rank of lieutenant and higher. Inform them I will be visiting each company in person, beginning tonight. Give no indication of which one I will visit first—I want them all alert. Apart from guard postings, every soldier is restricted to barracks. Keep a particular eye on veterans. They will want to get drunk, and stay drunk, if they can. Fist Baralta, contact Orto Setral and have him assemble a troop of Red Blades. They're to sweep the settlement of the camp followers and confiscate all
alcohol and durhang or whatever else the locals possess that deadens the senses. Then establish a picket round that settlement. Any questions? Good. You are all dismissed. Gamet, send for T'amber.'

‘Aye, Adjunct.'
Uncharacteristically careless. That perfumed lover of yours has been kept from the sights of everyone here but me. They know, of course. Even so…

 

Outside in the hallway, Blistig exchanged a nod with Baralta then gripped Gamet's upper arm. ‘With us, if you please.'

Nil and Nether shot them a glance then hurried off.

‘Take that damned hand off me,' Gamet said quietly. ‘I can follow without your help, Blistig.'

The grip fell away.

They found an empty room, once used to store items on hooks fixed three-quarters of the way up all four walls. The air smelled of lanolin.

‘Time's come,' Blistig said without preamble. ‘We cannot march in two days' time, Gamet, and you know it. We cannot march at all. There will be a mutiny at worst, at best an endless bleeding of desertions. The Fourteenth is finished.'

The satisfied gleam in the man's eyes triggered a boiling rage in Gamet. He struggled for a moment then managed to clamp down on his emotions, sufficient to lock gazes with Blistig and ask, ‘Was that child's arrival set up between you and Keneb?'

Blistig recoiled as if struck, then his face darkened. ‘What do you take me for—'

‘Right now,' Gamet snapped, ‘I am not sure.'

The once-commander of the Aren garrison tugged the peace-loop from his sword's hilt, but Tene Baralta stepped between the two men, armour clanking. Taller and broader than either Malazan, the dusk-skinned warrior reached out to set a gloved hand on each chest, then slowly pushed the men apart. ‘We are here to reach agreement, not kill one another,' he rumbled. ‘Besides,' he added, facing Blistig, ‘Gamet's suspicion had occurred to me as well.'

‘Keneb would not do such a thing,' Blistig rasped, ‘even if you two imagine that I might.'

A worthy answer
.

Gamet pulled away and strode to face the far wall, back to the others. His mind raced, then he finally shook his head. Without turning round, he said, ‘She asked for two days—'

‘Asked? I heard an order—'

‘Then you were not listening carefully enough, Blistig. The Adjunct, young and untested though she may be, is not a fool. She sees what you see—what we all see. But she has asked for two days. Come the moment to march…well, a final decision will become obvious, either way, at that moment. Trust her.' He swung round. ‘For this and this alone, if need be. Two days.'

After a long moment, Baralta nodded. ‘So be it.'

‘Very well,' Blistig allowed.

Beru bless us
. As Gamet made to leave, Tene Baralta touched his shoulder. ‘Fist,' he said, ‘what is the situation with this…this T'amber? Do you know? Why is the Adjunct being so…cagey? Women who take women for lovers—the only crime is the loss to men, and so it has always been.'

‘Cagey? No, Tene Baralta. Private. The Adjunct is simply a private woman.'

The ex-Red Blade persisted, ‘What is this T'amber like? Does she exercise undue influence on our commander?'

‘I have no idea, to answer your latter question. What is she like? She was a concubine, I believe, in the Grand Temple of the Queen of Dreams, in Unta. Other than that, my only words with her have been at the Adjunct's behest. Nor is T'amber particularly talkative…'
And that is an understatement of prodigious proportions. Beautiful, aye, and remote. Has she undue influence over Tavore? I wish I knew
. ‘And speaking of T'amber, I must leave you now.'

At the door he paused and glanced back at Blistig. ‘You gave good answer, Blistig. I no longer suspect you.'

In reply, the man simply nodded.

 

Lostara Yil placed the last of her Red Blade accoutrements into the chest then lowered the lid and locked it. She straightened and stepped back, feeling bereft. There had been a vast comfort in belonging to that dreaded company. That the Red Blades were hated by their tribal kin, reviled in their own land, had proved surprisingly satisfying. For she hated them in turn.

Born a daughter instead of the desired son in a Pardu family, as a child she had lived on the streets of Ehrlitan. It had been common practice—before the Malazans came with their laws for families—among many tribes to cast out their unwanted children once they reached the fifth year of life. Acolytes from numerous temples—followers of mystery cults—regularly rounded up such abandoned children. No-one knew what was done with them. The hopeful among the rough circle of fellow urchins Lostara had known had believed that, among the cults, there could be found a kind of salvation. Schooling, food, safety, all leading to eventually becoming an acolyte in turn. But the majority of children suspected otherwise. They'd heard tales of—or had themselves seen—the occasional nightly foray of shrouded figures emerging from the backs of temples, wending down alleyways with a covered cart, on their way to the crab-infested tidal pools east of the city, pools not so deep that one could not see the glimmer of small picked bones at the bottom.

One thing all could agree on. The hunger of the temples was insatiable.

Optimistic or pessimistic, the children of Ehrlitan's streets did all they could to evade the hunters with their nets and pole-ropes. A life could be eked out, a kind of freedom won, bitter though it might be.