The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (617 page)

‘She ain't a real woman,' Touchy said. ‘You don't know her at all, sapper. Now, me and Brethless, we were two of the poor fools who came first to the temple in Kartool, where this whole nightmare started.'

‘What are you talking about?' Balgrid demanded.

‘Someone went and butchered all the priests in the D'rek temple, and we was the first ones on the scene. Anyway, you know how this goes. That was our quarter, right? Not that we could patrol
inside
temples, of course, so we weren't to blame. But since when does common sense count for anything in the empire? So, they had to send us away. Hopefully to get killed, so none of it gets out—'

‘It just did,' Tavos Pond said, scratching beneath the rough, crusted bandages swathing one side of his face.

‘What are you talking about?' Balgrid demanded again. ‘And what's the sergeant doing over there?'

Maybe glared at Lutes. ‘He's still deaf. Do something!'

‘It'll come back,' the healer replied, shrugging. ‘Mostly. It takes time, that's all.'

‘Anyway,' Touchy resumed, ‘she ain't a real woman. She drinks—'

‘Right,' Brethless cut in, ‘and why does she drink? Why, she's scared of spiders!'

‘That don't matter,' his brother retorted. ‘And now she's stuck sober and that's bad. Listen, all of you—'

‘What?' Balgrid asked.

‘Listen, the rest of you, we just keep her drunk and everything'll be fine—'

‘Idiot,' Maybe said. ‘Probably you didn't catch whoever killed all those priests because your sergeant
was
drunk. She did good in Y'Ghatan, or have you forgotten? You're alive 'cause of her.'

‘That'll wear off, sapper. Just you wait. I mean, look at her – she's fussing over her nails!'

 

Adopting heavies into a squad was never easy, Gesler knew. They didn't think normally; in fact, the sergeant wasn't even sure they were human. Somewhere between a flesh-and-blood Imass and a Barghast, maybe. And now he had four of them. Shortnose, Flashwit, Uru Hela and Mayfly. Flashwit could probably out-pull an ox, and she was Napan besides, though those stunning green eyes came from somewhere else; and Shortnose seemed in the habit of losing body parts, and there was no telling how far that had gone beyond the missing nose and ear. Uru was a damned Korelri who'd probably been destined for the Stormwall before stowing aboard a Jakatakan merchanter, meaning she felt she didn't owe anybody anything. Mayfly was just easily confused, but clearly as tough as they came.

And Heavies came tough. He'd have to adjust his thinking on how to work the squad.
But if he ever shows up, Stormy will love these ones.

Maybe in one way it made sense to reorganize the squads, but Gesler wasn't sure of the captain's timing. It was Fist Keneb's responsibility, anyway, and he'd likely prefer splitting up soldiers who were, one and all now, veterans. Well, that was for the damned officers to chew over. What concerned him the most at the moment, was the fact that they were mostly unarmed and unarmoured. A score of raiders or even bandits happening upon them and there'd be more Malazan bones bleaching in the sun. They needed to get moving, catch up with the damned army.

He fixed his gaze on the west road, up on the ridge. Hellian was there already, he saw. Lit up by the rising sun. Odd woman, but she must have done something right, to have led her soldiers through that mess. Gesler would not look back at Y'Ghatan. Every time he had done that before, the images returned: Truth shouldering the munitions packs, running into the smoke and flames. Fiddler and Cuttle racing back, away from what was coming. No, it wasn't worth any last looks back at that cursed city.

What could you take from it that was worth a damned thing, anyway? Leoman had drawn them right in, made the city a web from which there was no escape –
only…we made it, didn't we? But, how many didn't?
The captain had told them. Upwards of two thousand, wasn't it? All to kill a few hundred fanatics who would probably have been just as satisfied killing themselves and no-one else, to make whatever mad, futile point they felt worth dying for. It was how fanatics thought, after all. Killing Malazans simply sweetened an already sweet final meal.
All to make some god's eyes shine.

Mind you, polish anything long enough and it'll start to shine.

The sun lifted its blistered eye above the horizon, and it was almost time to begin the march.

 

Ten, maybe more pups, all pink, wrinkled and squirming inside an old martin's nest that had dislodged from an exploding wall. Bottle peered down at them, the nest in his hands. Their mother clung to his left shoulder, nose twitching as if she was contemplating a sudden leap – either towards her helpless brood or towards Bottle's neck.

‘Relax, my dear,' he whispered. ‘They're as much mine as they are yours.'

A half-choking sound nearby, then a burst of laughter.

Bottle glared over at Smiles. ‘You don't understand a thing, you miserable cow.'

‘I can't believe you want to take that filthy thing with you. All right, it got us out, so now leave it be. Besides, there's no way you can keep them alive – she's got to feed 'em, right, meaning she has to scrounge. When's she gonna be able to do that? We're about to march, you fool.'

‘We can manage,' he replied. ‘They're tribal creatures, rats. Besides, we've already scrounged enough food – it's only Y'Ghatan who needs to eat lots, for now. The pups just suckle.'

‘Stop, you're making me sick. There's enough rats in the world already, Bottle. Take the big one, sure, but leave the others for the birds.'

‘She'd never forgive me.'

 

Sitting nearby, Koryk studied the two bickering soldiers a moment longer, then he rose.

‘Don't go far,' Strings said.

The half-Seti grunted a wordless reply, then headed towards the far, northern end of the flats, where broad, deep pits pockmarked the ground. He arrived at the edge of one and looked down. Long ago, these pits had yielded clay for the potters, back when there had been water close to the surface. When that had dried up, they had proved useful for the disposal of refuse, including the bodies of paupers.

The pits nearest the city's walls held only bones, bleached heaps, sun-cracked amidst tattered strips of burial cloth.

He stood above the remains for a moment longer, then descended the crumbling side.

The soldiers had lost most of the bones affixed to their armour and uniforms. It seemed only fitting, Koryk thought, that these long-dead citizens of Y'Ghatan offer up their own.
After all, we crawled through the city's own bones. And we can't even measure what we left behind.

Knee-deep in bones, he looked round. No shortage of fetishes here. Satisfied, he began collecting.

‘You look damn near naked without all that armour.'

Corporal Tarr grimaced. ‘I
am
damn near naked without all my armour, Sergeant.'

Smiling, Strings looked away, searching until he found Koryk, who was in the process of climbing into the ground. At least, it looked that way from here. Strange, secretive man. Then again, if he wanted to crawl into the earth, that was his business. So long as he showed up for the call to march.

Cuttle was near the fire, pouring out the last of the tea, a brew concocted from a half-dozen local plants Bottle had identified as palatable, although he'd been a little cagey on toxicity.

After a moment surveying his squad, the sergeant returned to shaving off his beard, hacking at the foul-smelling, singed hair with his camp knife – the only weapon left to him.

One of the foundling children had attached herself to him and sat opposite, watching with wide eyes, her round face smeared with ash and two wet, dirty streaks running down from her nose. She had licked her lips raw.

Strings paused, squinted at her, then raised one eyebrow. ‘You need a bath, lass. We'll have to toss you into the first stream we run across.'

She made a face.

‘Can't be helped,' he went on. ‘Malazan soldiers in the Fourteenth are required to maintain a certain level of cleanliness. So far, the captain's been easy about it, but trust me, that won't last…' He trailed off when he saw that she wasn't listening any more. Nor was she looking at him, but at something beyond his left shoulder. Strings twisted round to follow her gaze.

And saw a rider, and three figures on foot. Coming down from the road that encircled Y'Ghatan. Coming towards them.

From a short distance to the sergeant's right, he heard Gesler say, ‘That's Stormy – I'd recognize that bludgeon walk anywhere. And Kalam and Quick. Don't know the woman on the horse, though…'

But I do.
Strings rose. Walked up the slope to meet them. He heard Gesler behind him, following.

‘Hood take us,' Strings said, studying first Apsalar, then Kalam and Quick Ben, ‘half the old squad. All here.'

Quick Ben was squinting at Fiddler. ‘You shaved,' he said. ‘Reminds me just how young you are – that beard turned you into an old man.'

He paused, then added, ‘Be nice to have Mallet here with us.'

‘Forget it,' Strings said, ‘he's getting fat in Darujhistan and the last thing he'd want to do is see our ugly faces again.' He coughed. ‘And I suppose Paran's there, too, feet up and sipping chilled Saltoan wine.'

‘Turned out to be a good captain,' the wizard said after a moment. ‘Who'd have thought it, huh?'

Strings nodded up at the woman on the horse. ‘Apsalar. So where's Crokus Younghand?'

She shrugged. ‘He goes by the name of Cutter, now, Fiddler.'

Oh.

‘In any case,' she continued, ‘we parted ways some time ago.'

Stormy stepped closer to Gesler. ‘We lost him?' he asked.

Gesler looked away, then nodded.

‘What happened?'

Strings spoke in answer: ‘Truth saved all our skins, Stormy. He did what we couldn't do, when it needed to be done. And not a word of complaint. Anyway, he gave up his life for us. I wish it could have been otherwise…' He shook his head. ‘I know, it's hard when they're so young.'

There were tears now, running down the huge man's sun-burnt face. Saying nothing, he walked past them all, down onto the slope towards the encamped Malazans. Gesler watched, then followed.

No-one spoke.

‘I had a feeling,' Quick Ben said after a time. ‘You made it out of Y'Ghatan – but the Fourteenth's marched already.'

Fiddler nodded. ‘They had to. Plague's coming from the east. Besides, it must've seemed impossible – anyone trapped in the city surviving the firestorm.'

‘How did you pull it off?' Kalam demanded.

‘We're about to march,' Fiddler said as Faradan Sort appeared, clambering onto the road. ‘I'll tell you along the way. And Quick, I've got a mage in my squad I want you to meet – he saved us all.'

‘What do you want me to do?' the wizard asked. ‘Shake his hand?'

‘Not unless you want to get bit.'
Hah, look at his face. That was worth it.

 

The bridge was made of black stones, each one roughly carved yet perfectly fitted. Wide enough to accommodate two wagons side by side, although there were no barriers flanking the span and the edges looked worn, crumbly, enough to make Paran uneasy. Especially since there was nothing beneath the bridge. Nothing at all. Grey mists in a depthless sea below. Grey mists swallowing the bridge itself twenty paces distant; grey mists refuting the sky overhead.

A realm half-born, dead in still-birth, the air was cold, clammy, smelling of tidal pools. Paran drew his cloak tighter about his shoulders. ‘Well,' he muttered, ‘it's pretty much how I saw it.'

The ghostly form of Hedge, standing at the very edge of the massive bridge, slowly turned. ‘You've been here before, Captain?'

‘Visions,' he replied. ‘That's all. We need to cross this—'

‘Aye,' the sapper said. ‘Into a long forgotten world. Does it belong to Hood? Hard to say.' The ghost's hooded eyes seemed to shift, fixing on Ganath. ‘You should've changed your mind, Jaghut.'

Paran glanced over at her. Impossible to read her expression, but there was a stiffness to her stance, a certain febrility to the hands she lifted to draw up the hood of the cape she had conjured.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘I should have.'

‘This is older than the Holds, isn't it?' Paran asked her. ‘And you recognize it, don't you, Ganath?'

‘Yes, in answer to both your questions. This place belongs to the Jaghut – to our own myths. This is our vision of the underworld, Master of the Deck. Verdith'anath, the Bridge of Death. You must find another path, Ganoes Paran, to find those whom you seek.'

He shook his head. ‘No, this is the one, I'm afraid.'