The Crippled God (110 page)

A backside kick sent him out from childhood. He’d not forgotten those games, however. They lived with him and would until this – his last damned day. But not for the obvious reasons. Nostalgia was like a disease, one that crept in and stole the colour from the world and the time you lived in. Made for bitter people. Dangerous people, when they wanted back what never was.
And it wasn’t even our innocence back then – we never felt innocent
. They spent day after day living older than their years, after all. And no, not even the ties of family blood, those so-familiar faces he grew up alongside, and all the safety and protection and comfort they offered. No, those games stayed with him because of something else, something he now understood to have been with him, undying, since those days.

Maiden, stolen crown, the jewelled eye of a god. Die for a reason
.
That’s all. Cuttle, you’re the last brother left who can do this. The others didn’t make it, not to this epic’s end. So you carry them now, here on your back, those boys with their flushed faces, you carry them. You’re carrying them right past their useless deaths on that wall in a war that meant nothing. Take them now to where they need to go
.

We’re going to die for a reason. That’s not too much to ask, is it?

You should’ve seen our last stands. They were something
.

Corabb was thinking about Leoman of the Flails. Not that he wanted to, but that evil, lying, murdering bastard was like a friend you didn’t want any more who just kept showing up with a stupid grin on his ugly face. He was covered in dust, too, and he had no idea why and no, he didn’t care either.

That’s what came of believing in people. All sorts of people, with their foreheads all hot and burning and not a drink of water in sight. The man burned a city to the ground. Tried killing fifty million people, too, or however many were in Y’Ghatan when the army broke through and the temple caught fire and the priest’s head was rolling around on the floor like a kick-ball with a face on it.

Corabb had wanted to be good. He’d grown up wanting that and nothing else. The world was bad and he wanted it to be good. Was that stupid? What was that his tutor used to say, after the man had cried himself dry and in his fists were tangled clumps of his own hair – what was his name again? Baldy? He’d look over at young Corabb and say, ‘Good? You don’t know the meaning of the word. In fact, you’re about the worst student I have ever had the horror of entertaining.’

That was fine. He didn’t entertain very good either, Corabb recalled, old Baldy. In fact, he was the most boring man in the whole village, which was why they voted him to teach the young ones, because the young ones were causing so much trouble getting underfoot and all the grown-ups decided they needed to be talked at until they turned into motionless lumps and their eyes fell out and rolled like marbles.

But those fists, holding clumps of hair. That was exciting. Birds could use that for nests. So maybe Baldy really
was
entertaining, when he did his red-face thing and bounced around on his stool.

Leoman was no better. It was just Corabb’s luck, all these bad teachers.

He remembered the day he made his mother cry. The Gafan brothers had been teasing him, for what he couldn’t recall, so he’d chased them down, softened them up a bit, and then used a rope he stole from a rag man to tie them all together, wrist to ankle, the four of them, their faces like burst gourds, and dragged them into the house. ‘Ma! Cook these!’

Grunter Gafan had shown up to get his children back. Had the gall
to threaten Corabb’s mother, and since Canarab his father was still off in the wars it fell to Corabb to stand up to the pig-faced bully. But she’d been cooking a stew in that pot, and besides, once Grunter’s head was inside it there was no more room for the boys. They said he smelled like onions for weeks.

It was the spilled supper that made his ma cry. At least, that’s what Corabb worked out, eventually. Couldn’t have been anything else, and if they had to move to get away from the Gafan clan, the new neighbourhood was nicer anyway. And the day Grunter got killed, well, he should’ve known better than trying to slide all the way under that wagon, and Corabb’s kicking him in the head a few times had nothing to do with his tragic end. Nobody liked Grunter anyway, though Corabb probably shouldn’t have used that for his defence at the trial.

So it was the priest pits for young Corabb. Cutting limestone wasn’t that bad a job, except when people got crushed, or coughed their lungs out spraying blood everywhere. And this was where he started listening to stories people told. Passing the time. It had been a mistake. Of course, if not for the uprising he’d probably still be there, getting crushed and coughing his lungs out. And the uprising – well, if he looked back on it, that had been the beginning of his own rebellion, which later led him to join the bigger one. All because people told stories about freedom and the days before the Malazans. Stories that probably weren’t even true.

Leoman. Leoman of the Flails. And Sha’ik, and Toblakai. And all the fanatics. And all the bodies. Nothing good in any of that.
When you believe people telling all those lies
.

Was the Adjunct any different? He wasn’t sure any more. He didn’t understand all this business about being unwitnessed. That was what he’d been fighting against all his life.

But now I got a kick-ball head and it’s burning up in the sun. And by dawn we’ll all be done with, finished. Dead and no one left to see. Is that what she meant? But … what’s the point of that?

He had been born stubborn. Or so everyone said. Maybe it had made for problems in his life, but Tarr wasn’t one to dwell on them. Here, this night, stubbornness was all he had left. Sergeant to a squad of marines – he’d never thought he’d make it this far. Not with Fiddler there, taking care of everything that needed taking care of. But now Fid wasn’t running this squad any more.
Now it’s mine. I’m the one gets to walk it into the ground. I’m the one gets to watch them die like flies on the sill
.

He planned on being the last to go down – he had his stubbornness, after all. His way of pushing, and pushing, until he pushed through.

He remembered the day they formed up, officially, in Aren. The chaos,
the guarded looks, all the bitching that went on. Unruly, unhappy, close to falling apart. Then a few veterans stepped up. Fiddler. Cuttle. Gesler, Stormy. And did what was needed.
And that’s when I knew that I was going to stick with this. Be a soldier. I had them to follow, and that was good enough
.

It still is. It has to be
.

Fiddler’s up ahead somewhere. Cuttle’s right behind me. Only ever had the Adjunct as commander, and she’s kept me alive this long. She wants another march, she’ll get it. No questions, no complaining
.

He twisted round, glared at his squad. ‘First one falls, I will personally curse to the Thirteen Gates of the Abyss. Am I understood?’

‘That calls for a drink,’ said Cuttle.

The others laughed. It wasn’t much of a laugh, but for Tarr it was good enough.
They’ll make it through this night. Past that, I won’t ask them for a damned thing
.

Unless I need to
.

Himble Thrup had picked up a new name. Shorthand. He liked it. The old family line of Thrups, well, his brothers were welcome to it. That long, ropy thing tying him to where he’d come from, and who he’d been, well, he’d just cut it. Gone. All the shit going one way, all the shit going back the other way, the rotted birth cord no Thrup dared touch.
Snick. Gone. Good riddance
.

Shorthand it is, on account of my short hands, y’see? A damned giant lizard took ’em. No, boys, it’s all true. A giant lizard. Chain Kemalles they was called, but we called ’em Stumpies, on account of their tails. This was back when I was a heavy. Aye, I don’t look like a heavy. I know that. But it ain’t just size makes a heavy. In fact, I know a Dal Honese heavy no bigger than a toad, and no prettier either. It’s all attitude
.

Just look at the ones hauling those ropes – the ones just up ahead. What in Hood’s name are they doing, dragging these wagons? It don’t matter. They’re heavies and someone told ’em, ‘Haul these wagons,’ and so that’s what they’re doing. Y’see? Attitude
.

Aye, we stopped ’em cold, those Stumpies. They swung high, we ducked low. They gave us the blade, we gave ’em the shield. That’s how it’s done. True, I won’t lie, not many of us left. We was outnumbered, badly outnumbered
.

These days? I’m working for Master-Sergeant Lieutenant Quartermaster Pores. He’s just gone back to check on a cracked axle three wagons back. Be with us shortly. Me? I’m waiting for our squad of marines, t’stand guard, aye. But they had a scrap last night, got cut up a bit, but it never went further, since nobody’s got the strength to take
it further, if you see what I mean. Still, needed some sewing and the like. I’m expectin’ them any time
.

The name’s Shorthand
—

Something hard as stone smashed into the side of his head.

Rackle lowered the mace, watched as Stull and Bester dragged the body off to one side. A score or so regulars had looked up at the scuffle, and now watched with dull eyes as they went, their legs dragging them along as if those legs were the last parts of them still working.

Rackle wasn’t ready to be like that. Hood take ’em all, he wasn’t. ‘So much for the bodyguard,’ he said.

‘Quiet!’ hissed Bester, nodding ahead to the lines of haulers. ‘Get up on the wagon, Rack, but go slow and careful – they’re going to feel the extra weight no matter what.’

Rackle grunted. ‘Oafs are past feeling anything, Best.’ But he edged up close to the wagon, reached up one hand and set a foot on the helper, and as the wagon rolled ahead he let it lift him from the ground, nice and slow the way Best wanted it.

Rackle watched as Stull re-joined Bester, and the two melted away into the gloom.

So far so good. Somewhere in this wagon, probably packed dead centre, were Blistig’s special casks. Time had come for a drink. He drew himself higher up, leaning against the bales as he did so, reaching for more handholds. That water – he could smell it. Close.

Pores crawled out from under the wagon. ‘Cracked right through,’ he said, climbing to his feet. ‘What’s in this one?’ he asked the man beside him.

The once-company cook scratched at his beard. ‘Some lantern oil. Horseshoes. Wax, grease—’

‘
Grease?
And it didn’t occur to you to maybe
use
some of it on this damned axle?’

‘We was saving it for when it got real bad, sir. Aye, maybe that was a mistake.’

‘All right,’ Pores sighed. ‘Cut the haulers loose and send them on. I’ll take a closer look at what else is up there.’

‘Aye, sir, but I don’t think anybody’s going to come back for whatever you think we still need.’

Pores looked round. They’d been left behind by the train.
Shit
. ‘Even so – there might be a child hiding under the blankets, the way they come crawling out of the unlikeliest of places. Or too sick to move.’

‘I’ll be on with it then, sir.’

‘Spread the haulers out with the rest.’

‘Aye sir.’

Pores watched him go, and then heaved himself up on to the bed of the wagon. Trying to ignore the fire someone had lit in the back of his throat, and his growing sense of helplessness, he set to exploring.

The kegs of grease were pretty much empty – with only a few handfuls of the rancid gunk left – so it probably wouldn’t have been enough to save the axle anyway. He tried pushing clear a cask filled with horseshoes, but he no longer had the strength left to do that. Clambering over it, he thumped the nearest bale. ‘Anyone down there? Wake up or get left behind!’

Silence.

Pores drew his dagger and slit open the bale.
Spare uniforms? Gods below! If the haulers find out they’ll skin me alive
. He cut open a few more. Tick for mattresses. Lead shot packed in wool for slingers –
we don’t have any slingers. Who’s quartermaster of this mess? Oh, me. Right
. ‘That’s it, then,’ he muttered, ‘Master-Sergeant Pores, fire Quartermaster Pores. Can I do that, Lieutenant? You can, because I’m telling you so, or do I need to take this to Fist Kindly? Please, sir, no, don’t do that. He hates me! Odd, he doesn’t hate
me
, Master-Sergeant. Really, sir? I’m certain of it, Master-Sergeant. Reasonably. I hope. All right, no more excuses for the old man – he hates us all. This is what happens to a bald man who starts collecting combs—’

‘Quartermaster Pores.’

He looked up. Saw Fist Blistig standing at the back of the wagon. ‘Fist?’

‘I need to speak to you.’

‘Aye, sir. What can I do for you?’

‘You can give me my casks.’

‘Casks? Oh, those casks.’

‘Get over here, Pores, I ain’t in the mood to be looking up at you.’

He clambered his way to the back of the wagon, dropped down on to the ground – at the impact his knees folded under him and he swore as he sank lower.

And the knife meant for his heart went into his upper chest instead.

Pores fell back, sliding from the blade. Blood sprayed, pattering the dusty ground like raindrops. He found himself staring up at the Jade Strangers.