The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (99 page)

“Enough, Mesker,” Baria rumbled.

His brother's tulwar rasped from its scabbard. “You dare command me!”

The Wickans shouted encouragement. A few brave souls in the crowd behind them laughed.

Mesker's face was sickly with rage.

Baria sighed. “Brother, this is not the time.”

A mounted troop of Hissar Guard appeared above the heads of the crowd, pushing along the aisles between the market stalls. A chorus of hoots sounded to their left and Duiker and the others turned to see three score Wickan bowmen with arrows nocked and bows drawn on the Red Blades.

Baria slowly raised his left hand, making a twisting gesture. His warriors lowered their own weapons.

Snarling with disgust, Mesker slammed his tulwar back into its wooden scabbard.

“Your escort has arrived,” Kulp said dryly. “It seems the Fist has been expecting you.”

Duiker stood at the mage's side and watched as Baria led the Red Blades forward to meet the Hissari troop. The historian shook himself. “Hood's breath, Kulp, that was a chancy cast of the knuckles!”

The man grunted. “You can always count on Mesker Setral,” he said. “As brainless as a cat and just as easy to distract. For a moment there I was hoping Baria would accept the challenge—whatever the outcome, there'd be one less Setral, and that's an opportunity missed.”

“Those disguised Wickans,” Duiker said, “were not part of any official welcome. Coltaine had infiltrated the market.”

“A cunning dog, is Coltaine.”

Duiker shook his head. “They've shown themselves now.”

“Aye, and showed as well they were ready to lay down their lives to protect the citizens of Hissar.”

“Had Coltaine been here, I doubt he would have ordered those warriors forward, Kulp. Those Wickans were eager for a fight. Defending the market mob had nothing to do with it.”

The mage rubbed his face. “Best hope the Hissari believe otherwise.”

“Come,” Duiker said, “let us take wine—I know a place in Imperial Square, and on the way you can tell me how the Seventh has warmed to their new Fist.”

Kulp barked a laugh as they began walking. “Respect maybe, but no warmth. He's completely changed the drills. We've done one battlefield formation since he arrived, and that was the day he took command.”

Duiker frowned. “I'd heard that he was working the soldiers to exhaustion, that he didn't even need to enforce the curfew since everyone was so eager for sleep and the barracks were silent as tombs by the eighth bell. If not practicing wheels and turtles and shield-walls, then what?”

“The ruined monastery on the hill south of the city—you know the one? Just foundations left except for the central temple, but the chest-high walls cover the entire hilltop like a small city. The sappers have built them up, roofed some of them over. It was a maze of alleys and cul-de-sacs to begin with, but Coltaine had the sappers turn it into a nightmare. I'd wager there's soldiers still wandering around lost in there. The Wickan has us there every afternoon, mock battles, street control, assaulting buildings, break-out tactics, retrieving wounded. Coltaine's warriors act the part of rioting mobs and looters, and I tell you, historian, they were born to it.” He paused for breath. “Every day…we bake under the sun on that bone-bleached hill, broken down to squad level, each squad assigned impossible objectives.” He grimaced. “Under this new Fist, each soldier of the Seventh has died a dozen times or more in mock battle. Corporal List has been killed in every exercise so far, the poor boy's Hood-addled, and through it all those Wickan savages hoot and howl.”

Duiker said nothing as they continued on their way to Imperial Square. When they entered the Malazan Quarter, the historian finally spoke. “Something of a rivalry, then, between the Seventh and the Wickan Regiment.”

“Oh, aye, that tactic's obvious enough, but it's going too far, I think. We'll see in a few days' time, when we start getting Wickan Lancer support. There'll be double-crossing, mark my words.”

They strode into the square. “And you?” Duiker asked. “What task has Coltaine given the Seventh's last cadre mage?”

“Folly. I conjure illusions all day until my skull's ready to burst.”

“Illusions? In the mock battles?”

“Aye, and it's what makes the objectives so impossible. Believe me, there's been more than one curse thrown my way, Duiker. More than one.”

“What do you conjure, dragons?”

“I wish. I create Malazan refugees, historian. By the hundred. A thousand weighted scarecrows for the soldiers to drag around aren't sufficient for Coltaine, the ones he has me create flee the wrong way, or refuse to leave their homes, or drag furniture and other possessions. Coltaine's orders—my refugees create chaos, and so far cost more lives than any other element in the exercises. I'm not a popular man, Duiker.”

“What of Sormo E'nath?” the historian asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

“The warlock? Nowhere to be seen.”

Duiker nodded to himself. He'd already guessed Kulp's answer to that question.
You're busy reading the stones in the sand, Sormo. Aren't you? While Coltaine hammers the Seventh into shape as guardians to Malazan refugees
. “Mage,” he said.

“Aye?”

“Dying a dozen times in mock battle is nothing. When it's for real you die but once. Push the Seventh, Kulp. Any way you can. Show Coltaine what the Seventh's capable of—talk it over with the squad leaders. Tonight. Come tomorrow, win your objectives, and I'll talk to Coltaine about a day of rest. Show him, and he'll give it.”

“What makes you so certain?”

Because time's running out and he needs you. He needs you sharp
. “Win your objectives. Leave the Fist to me.”

“Very well, I'll see what I can do.”

 

Corporal List died within the first few minutes of the mock engagement. Bult, commanding a howling mob of Wickans rampaging down the ruin's main avenue, had personally clouted the hapless Malazan on the side of his head, hard enough to leave the boy sprawled unconscious in the dust. The veteran warrior had then thrown List over one shoulder and carried him from the battle.

Grinning, Bult jogged up the dusty track to the rise from which the new Fist and a few of his officers observed the engagement, and dropped the corporal into the dust at Coltaine's feet. Duiker sighed.

Coltaine glanced around. “Healer! Attend the boy!”

One of the Seventh's cutters appeared, crouching at the corporal's side.

Coltaine's slitted eyes found Duiker. “I see no change in this day's proceedings, Historian.”

“It is early yet, Fist.”

The Wickan grunted, returning his attention to the dust-filled ruins. Soldiers were emerging from the chaos, fighters from the Seventh and Wickans, staggering with minor wounds and broken limbs.

Readying his cudgel, Bult scowled. “You spoke too soon, Coltaine,” he said. “This one's different.”

There were, Duiker saw, more Wickans among the victims than soldiers of the Seventh, and the ratio was widening with every passing moment. Somewhere in the chaotic clouds of dust, the tide had turned.

Coltaine called for his horse. He swung himself into the saddle and shot Bult a glare. “Stay here, Uncle. Where are my Lancers?” He waited impatiently as forty horsemen rode onto the rise. Their lances were blunted with bundled strips of leather. For all that, Duiker knew, anything more than a glancing blow from them was likely to break bones.

Coltaine led them at a canter toward the ruins.

Bult spat dust. “It's about time,” he said.

“What is?” Duiker asked.

“The Seventh's finally earned Lancer support. It's been a week overdue, Historian. Coltaine had expected a toughening, but all we got was a wilting. Who's given them new spines, then? You? Careful or Coltaine'll make you a captain.”

“As much as I'd like to take credit,” Duiker said, “this is the work of Kulp and the squad sergeants.”

“Kulp's making things easier, then? No wonder they've turned the battle.”

The historian shook his head. “Kulp follows Coltaine's orders, Bult. If you're looking for a reason to explain your Wickans' defeat, you'll have to look elsewhere. You might start with the Seventh showing their true mettle.”

“Perhaps I shall,” the veteran mused, a glint in his small dark eyes.

“The Fist called you Uncle.”

“Aye.”

“Well? Are you?”

“Am I what?”

Duiker gave up. He was coming to understand the Wickan sense of humor. No doubt there would be another half a dozen or so brisk exchanges before Bult finally relented with an answer.
I could play it through. Or I could let the bastard wait…wait forever, in fact
.

From the dust clouds a score of refugees appeared, wavering strangely as they walked, each of them burdened with impossible possessions—massive dressers, chests, larder-packed cupboards, candlesticks and antique armor. Flanking the move in a protective cordon were soldiers of the Seventh, laughing and shouting and beating swords on shields as they made good their withdrawal.

Bult barked a laugh. “My compliments to Kulp when you see him, Historian.”

“The Seventh's earned a day of rest,” Duiker said.

The Wickan raised his hairless brows. “For one victory?”

“They need to savor it, Commander. Besides, the healers will be busy enough mending bones—you don't want them with exhausted warrens at the wrong time.”

“And the wrong time is soon, is it?”

“I am sure,” Duiker said slowly, “Sormo E'nath would agreed with me.”

Bult spat again. “My nephew approaches.”

Coltaine and his Lancers had appeared, providing cover for the soldiers, many of whom dragged or carried the scarecrow refugees. The sheer numbers made it clear that victory for the Seventh had been absolute.

“Is that a smile on Coltaine's face?” Duiker asked. “Just for a moment, I thought I saw…”

“Mistaken, no doubt,” Bult growled, but Duiker was coming to know these Wickans, and he detected a hint of humor in the veteran's voice. After a moment Bult continued, “Take word to the Seventh, Historian. They've earned their day.”

Fiddler sat in darkness. The overgrown garden had closed in around the well and its crescent-shaped stone bench. Above the sapper only a small patch of starlit sky was visible. There was no moon. After a moment he cocked his head. “You move quietly, lad, I'll give you that.”

Crokus hesitated behind Fiddler, then joined him on the bench. “Guess you never expected him to pull rank on you like that,” the young man said.

“Is that what it was?”

“That's what it seemed like.”

Fiddler made no reply. The occasional rhizan flitted through the clearing in pursuit of the capemoths hovering above the well-mouth. The cool night air was rank with rotting refuse from beyond the back wall.

“She's upset,” Crokus said.

The sapper shook his head. Upset. “It was an argument, we weren't torturing prisoners.”

“Apsalar doesn't remember any of that.”

“I do, lad, and those are hard memories to shake.”

“She's just a fishergirl.”

“Most of the time,” Fiddler said. “But sometimes…” He shook his head.

Crokus sighed, then changed the subject. “So it wasn't part of the plan, then, Kalam going off on his own?”

“Old blood calls, lad. Kalam's Seven Cities born and raised. Besides, he wants to meet this Sha'ik, this desert witch, the Hand of Dryjhna.”

“Now you're taking his side,” Crokus said in quiet exasperation. “A tenth of a bell ago you nearly accused him of being a traitor…”

Fiddler grimaced. “Confusing times for us all. We've been outlawed by Laseen, but does that make us any less soldiers of the Empire? Malaz isn't the Empress and the Empress isn't Malaz—”

“A moot distinction, I'd say.”

The sapper glanced over. “Would you now? Ask the girl, maybe she'll explain it.”

“But you're expecting the rebellion. In fact, you're counting on it—”

“Don't mean we have to be the ones who trigger the Whirlwind, though, does it? Kalam wants to be at the heart of things. It's always been his way. This time, the chance literally fell into his lap. The Book of Dryjhna holds the heart of the Whirlwind Goddess—to begin the Apocalypse it needs to be opened, by the Seeress and no one else. Kalam knows it might well be suicidal, but he'll deliver that Hood-cursed book into Sha'ik's hands, and so add another crack in Laseen's crumbling control. Give him credit for insisting on keeping the rest of us out of it.”

“There you go again, defending him. The plan was to assassinate Laseen, not get caught up in this uprising. It still doesn't make any sense coming to this continent—”

Fiddler straightened, eyes on the stars glittering overhead. Desert stars, sharp diamonds that ever seemed eager to draw blood. “There's more than one road to Unta, lad. We're here to find one that's probably never been used before and may not even work, but we'll look for it anyway, with Kalam or without him. Hood knows, it might be Kalam's taking the wiser path, overland, down to Aren, by mundane ship back to Quon Tali. Maybe dividing our paths will prove the wisest decision of all, increasing our chances that one of us at least will make it through.”