The Crippled God (57 page)

Kindly reached up and wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘There
is
wisdom, Faradan. The wisdom that comes with knowing – right to the very core of your soul – just how fragile life really is. You earn that wisdom when you take someone else’s life.’

‘And what about the ones who don’t think twice about it? Wisdom? Hardly. More like … a growing taste for it. That dark rush of pleasure that’s so … addictive.’ She looked away.
I know. I stood the Wall
.

Lostara pointed. ‘There’s a runner coming … for one of us.’

They waited until the thin, round-faced soldier arrived. A soldier with mutilated hands. He saluted with the right one and proffered Kindly a wax tablet with the other. ‘Compl’ments of Lieutenant Master-Sergeant Quartermaster Pores, sir.’

Kindly took the tablet and studied it. ‘Soldier,’ he said.

‘Sir?’

‘The sun’s heat has melted the wax. I do hope you committed the message to memory.’

‘Sir, I have.’

‘Let’s hear it.’

‘Sir, the missive was private.’

‘From Pores? I really don’t have time for this. We’re past all the duelling. Spit it out, soldier.’

‘Sir. To quote: “Private missive, from Lieutenant Master-Sergeant Field Quartermaster Pores, to Fist Kindly. Warmest salutations and congratulations on your promotion, sir. As one might observe from
your advancement and, indeed, mine, cream doth rise, etc. In as much as I am ever delighted in corresponding with you, discussing all manner of subjects in all possible idioms, alas, this subject is rather more official in nature. In short, we are faced with a crisis of the highest order. Accordingly, I humbly seek your advice and would suggest we arrange a most private meeting at the earliest convenience. Yours affectionately, Pores.”’ The soldier then saluted again and said, ‘I’m t’wait yer answer, sir.’

In the bemused silence that followed, Faradan Sort narrowed her eyes on the soldier. ‘You were heavy infantry, weren’t you?’

‘Corporal Himble Thrup, Fist.’

‘How stands the rank and file, soldier?’

‘Standin’ true, Fist.’

‘Do the enlisted say much about the Adjunct, soldier? Off the record here.’

The watery eyes flicked momentarily to her, then away again. ‘Occasionally, sir.’

‘And what do they say?’

‘Not much, sir. Mostly, it’s all them rumours.’

‘You discuss them.’

‘No sir. We chew ’em up till there’s nothing left. And then invent new ones, sir.’

‘To sow dissension?’

Brows lifted beneath the rim of the helm. ‘No, Fist. It’s … er … entertainment. Beats boredom, sir. Boredom leads to laziness, sir, and laziness can get a soldier up and killt. Or the one beside ’im, which is e’en worse. We hate being bored, sir, that’s all.’

Kindly said, ‘Tell Pores to find me at my command tent, whenever he likes.’

‘Sir.’

‘Dismissed, soldier.’

The man saluted a third time, wheeled and set off.

Kindly grunted.

‘That’s a heavy for you,’ Faradan Sort muttered, and then snorted. ‘Inventing nasty rumours for fun.’

‘They’re only nasty, I suppose, once someone decides one’s for real.’

‘If you say so, Kindly. As for my regulars, well, now I know where the barrage is coming from.’

‘Even if it is coming down on them,’ observed Lostara Yil, ‘from what you said it’s not stirring up much dust.’

Faradan met Kindly’s eyes. ‘Are we panicking over nothing, Kindly?’

‘To be honest,’ he admitted, ‘I don’t really know any more.’

Ruthan Gudd drew off his gambeson and paused to luxuriate in the sudden escape from unbearable heat as his sweat-slicked skin cooled.

‘Well,’ said Skanarow from her cot, ‘that woke me up.’

‘My godlike physique?’

‘The smell, Ruthan.’

‘Ah, thank you, woman, you’ve left me positively glowing.’ He unclipped his sword belt and let it fall to the ground, then slumped down on the edge of his cot and settled his head in his hands.

Skanarow sat up. ‘Another one?’

Through his fingers he said, ‘Not sure how many more of those she can weather.’

‘We’re barely two days into the desert, Ruthan – I hope she’s tougher than you think.’

He let his hands fall and glanced at her. ‘So do I.’ He studied her for a moment and then said, ‘I should probably tell you, I was considering … leaving.’

‘Oh.’

‘Not you. This army.’

‘Ruthan, I’m
in
this army.’

‘I planned on kidnapping you.’

‘I see.’

He sighed. ‘Today, she changed my mind. So, my love, we’re in this till the bitter end.’

‘If that’s a marriage proposal … I kind of like it.’

He studied her.
Gods, I’d forgotten
…

Loud clattering came from behind the cook tents, where the scullions were scrubbing pots with handfuls of rocks and pebbles. Cuttle cinched tight a strap on his kit bag. Straightening, he arched his back and winced. ‘Gods, it’s a young un’s game, ain’t it just. Koryk, you giving up on those?’

The Seti half-blood had thrown his military issue hobnailed boots to one side, and was using a rounded stone to work out the creases in a pair of worn, tribal moccasins. ‘Too hot,’ he said.

‘Won’t those get cut to shreds?’ Smiles asked from where she sat on her pack. ‘You start limping, Koryk, don’t look to me for help.’

‘Toss the boots on to the wagon,’ Cuttle said. ‘Just in case, Koryk.’

The man shrugged.

Sergeant Tarr returned from the company command tent. ‘Finish loading up,’ he said. ‘We’re getting a quick start here.’ He paused. ‘Anybody managed to sleep?’

Silence answered him.

Tarr grunted. ‘Right. I doubt it’ll be the same come tomorrow. It’s a long haul ahead of us. Weapons fit to use? Everybody? Shortnose?’

The heavy looked up, small eyes glittering in the gloom. ‘Yah.’

‘Corabb?’

‘Aye, Sergeant. Can still hear her moaning from the whetstone—’

‘It ain’t a woman,’ said Smiles. ‘It’s a sword.’

‘Then why’s she moaning?’

‘You never heard a woman moan in your life, so how would you know?’

‘Sounds like a woman.’

‘I don’t hear any moaning anyway,’ she replied, drawing out a brace of fighting knives. ‘Weapons good, Sergeant. Just give me some sweet flesh to stick ’em in.’

‘Hold the thought,’ Tarr advised.

‘For, like, five months, Smiles.’ Koryk looked up, studied her from under his unbound hair. ‘Can you do that?’

She sneered. ‘If it’s going to take five months to cross this desert, idiot, we’re deader than dead.’ She rapped one blade against the clay jug slung by braided webbing on her pack. ‘And I ain’t drinking my own piss neither.’

‘Want mine?’ Bottle asked from where he was lying, eyes closed, hands behind his head.

‘Is that an offer to swap? Gods, Bottle, you’re sick, you know that?’

‘Listen, if I have to drink it, better it be a woman’s, because then, if I work real hard, I might be able to pretend I like it. Or something.’ When no one said anything, Bottle opened his eyes, sat up. ‘What?’

Cuttle made to spit, checked himself, and turned to Tarr. ‘Fid have anything new to say, Sergeant?’

‘No. Why, should he have?’

‘Well, I mean, he figures we’re going to make it across, right?’

Tarr shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Can’t do that mission if we don’t.’

‘That’s a fair point, sapper.’

‘He say anything about all this drinking our own piss?’

Tarr frowned.

Koryk spoke up, ‘Sure he did, Cuttle. It’s all in that Deck of Dragons of his. New card. Piss Drinker, High House.’

‘High House what?’ Smiles asked.

Koryk simply grinned, and then looked up at Cuttle and the smile became cold. ‘Card’s got your face on it, Cuttle, big as life.’

Cuttle studied the half-blood, the ritual scarring and tattoos, all in the glyph language of the Seti that Koryk probably only half understood. The ridiculous moccasins. His view was suddenly blocked, and his gaze flicked up to meet Tarr’s dark, deceptively calm eyes.

‘Just leave it,’ the sergeant said in a low mutter.

‘Thought I was gonna do something?’

‘Cuttle …’

‘Thought I was going to rip a few new arseholes in him? Shove my last sharper up inside and then throw him into yonder wagon? Something like that, Sergeant?’

From behind Tarr, Koryk snorted.

‘Load your pack on the wagon, Cuttle.’

‘Aye, Sergeant.’

‘Rest of you, get your gear up and get ready – the night beckons and all that.’

‘I might sell my piss,’ said Smiles.

‘Yeah,’ said Koryk, ‘all that silver and gold, only it won’t go on the wagon, Smiles. We need to keep the bed clear for all the booty we’re going to scoop up. No, soldier, you got to carry it.’ He pulled on the first moccasin, tugged the laces. Both strings of leather snapped in his hands. He swore.

Cuttle heaved his pack on to the wagon’s bed, and then stepped back as Corabb followed suit with his own gear, the others lining up, Koryk coming last wearing two untied moccasins. The sapper stepped past the corporal, Bottle, and then Smiles.

His fist caught Koryk flush on the side of the man’s head. The crack was loud enough to make the oxen start. The half-blood thumped hard on the ground, and did not move.

‘Well now,’ Tarr said, glowering at Cuttle, ‘come the fight and this soldier beside you, sapper, you going to step sure then?’

‘Makes no difference what I done just now,’ Cuttle replied. ‘Beside him, in the next battle, I ain’t gonna step sure at all. He mouthed off in the trench – to Fiddler himself. And he’s been mopin’ around ever since. Y’can have all the courage you want on the outside, but it ain’t worth shit, Sergeant, when what’s inside can’t even see straight.’ The speech had dried out his mouth. He lifted his right hand. ‘Gotta see a cutter now, Sergeant. I broke the fucker.’

‘You
stupid
… go on, get out of my sight. Corabb, Bottle, get Koryk on to the wagon. Wait. Is he even alive? All right, into the wagon. He probably won’t wake up till the night’s march is done.’

‘Just his luck,’ muttered Smiles.

Horns sounded. The Bonehunters stirred, shook out, fell back into column, and the march was under way. Bottle slipped in behind Corabb, with Smiles on his left. Three strides in their wake walked Shortnose. Bottle’s pack was light – most of his kit had gone into general resupply, and as was true of armies the world over, there was no such thing as oversupply, at least not when it came to useful gear.
Useless stuff, well, that’s different. If we were back in Malaz, or Seven Cities, we’d have plenty of that. Quills and no ink, clasps but not a sewing kit
to be found, wicks and no wax – still, wouldn’t it be nice to be back in Malaz? Stop that, Bottle. Things are bad enough without adding pointless nostalgia to the unruly mess
. In any case, he’d lost most of his useful gear. Only to discover that he really didn’t need it after all.

The clay jug rolled in its webbing alongside his hip, swinging with each stride.
Well, it made sense to me anyway. I could always ask … I don’t know. Flashwit. Or … gods below, Masan Gilani! I’m sure she’d
—

‘Get up here beside me, Bottle.’

‘Sergeant?’

‘Fid wanted me to ask you some questions.’

‘We already went over what I remembered—’

‘Not that. Ancient history, Bottle. What battle was that again? Never mind. Drop back there, Corabb. No, you’re still corporal. Relax. Just need some words with Bottle here – our squad mage, right?’

‘I’ll be right behind you then, Sergeant.’

‘Thanks, Corporal, and I can’t tell you how reassuring it is to feel your breath on the back of my neck, too.’

‘I ain’t drunk no piss yet, Sergeant.’

Once past the corporal, Bottle scowled back at him over a shoulder. ‘Corabb, why are you talking like Cuttle’s dumber brother these days?’