The Malazan Empire, page 298
Minimal…‘Your wife,’ Gamet said.
‘Yes, her.’ After a long moment, he shrugged and continued, ‘To answer you, Adjunct. Unknown to the rest of us, the Napans among us were far more than simple refugees. Surly was of the royal line. Crust and Urko had been captains in the Napan fleet, a fleet that would have likely repelled the Untans if it hadn’t been virtually destroyed by a sudden storm. As it turned out, theirs was a singular purpose—to crush the Untan hegemony—and they planned on using Kellanved to achieve that. In a sense, that was the first betrayal within the family, the first fissure. Easily healed, it seemed, since Kellanved already possessed imperial ambitions, and of the two major rivals on the mainland, Unta was by far the fiercest.’
‘Admiral,’ Tavore said, ‘I see where this leads. Surly’s assassination of Kellanved and Dancer shattered that family irrevocably, but that is precisely where my understanding falters. Surly had taken the Napan cause to its penultimate conclusion. Yet it was not you, not Tayschrenn, Duiker, Dassem Ultor or Toc Elder who…disappeared. It was…Napans.’
‘Barring Ameron,’ Gamet pointed out.
The admiral’s lined face stretched as he bared his teeth in a humourless grin. ‘Ameron was half-Napan.’
‘So it was only the Napans who deserted the new Empress?’ Gamet stared up at Nok, now as confused as Tavore. ‘Yet Surly was of the royal Napan line?’
Nok said nothing for a long time, then he sighed. ‘Shame is a fierce, vigorous poison. To now serve the new Empress…complicity and damnation. Crust, Urko and Ameron were not party to the betrayal…but who would believe them? Who could not help but see them as party to the murderous plot? Yet, in truth,’ his eyes met Tavore’s, ‘Surly had included none of us in her scheme—she could not afford to. She had the Claw, and that was all she needed.’
‘And where were the Talons in all this?’ Gamet asked, then cursed himself—ah, gods, too tired—
Nok’s eyes widened for the first time that night. ‘You’ve a sharp memory, Fist.’
Gamet clamped his jaws tight, sensing the Adjunct’s hard stare fixing on him.
The admiral continued, ‘I am afraid I have no answer to that. I was not in Malaz City on that particular night; nor have I made enquiries to those who were. The Talons essentially vanished with Dancer’s death. It was widely believed that the Claw had struck them down in concert with the assassinations of Dancer and the Emperor.’
The Adjunct’s tone was suddenly curt. ‘Thank you, Admiral, for your words this night. I will keep you no longer.’
The man bowed, then strode from the room.
Gamet waited with held breath, ready for her fiercest castigation. Instead, she simply sighed. ‘You have much work ahead of you, Fist, in assembling your legion. Best retire now.’
‘Adjunct,’ he acknowledged, pushing himself to his feet. He hesitated, then with a nod strode to the door.
‘Gamet.’
He turned. ‘Yes?’
‘Where is T’amber?’
‘She awaits you in your chambers, Adjunct.’
‘Very well. Goodnight, Fist.’
‘And to you, Adjunct.’
Buckets of salt water had been sloshed across the cobbled centre aisle of the stables, which had the effect of damping the dust and sending the biting flies into a frenzy, as well as making doubly rank the stench of horse piss. Strings, standing just within the doors, could already feel his sinuses stinging. His searching gaze found four figures seated on bound rolls of straw near the far end. Scowling, the Bridgeburner shifted the weight of the pack on his shoulder, then headed over.
‘Who was the bright spark missing the old smells of home?’ he drawled as he approached.
The half-Seti warrior named Koryk grunted, then said, ‘That would be Lieutenant Ranal, who then had a quick excuse to leave us for a time.’ He’d found a flap of hide from somewhere and was cutting long strands from it with a thin-bladed pig-sticker. Strings had seen his type before, obsessed with tying things down, or worse, tying things to their bodies. Not just fetishes, but loot, extra equipment, tufts of grass or leafy branches depending on the camouflage being sought. In this case, Strings half expected to see twists of straw sprouting from the man.
For centuries the Seti had fought a protracted war with the city-states of Quon and Li Heng, defending the barely inhabitable lands that had been their traditional home. Hopelessly outnumbered and perpetually on the run, they had learned the art of hiding the hard way. But the Seti lands had been pacified for sixty years now; almost three generations had lived in that ambivalent, ambiguous border that was the edge of civilization. The various tribes had dissolved into a single, murky nation, with mixed-bloods coming to dominate the population. What had befallen them had been the impetus, in fact, for Coltaine’s rebellion and the Wickan Wars—for Coltaine had clearly seen that a similar fate awaited his own people.
It was not, Strings had come to believe, a question of right and wrong. Some cultures were inward-looking. Others were aggressive. The former were rarely capable of mustering a defence against the latter, not without metamorphosing into some other thing, a thing twisted by the exigencies of desperation and violence. The original Seti had not even ridden horses. Yet now they were known as horse warriors, a taller, darker-skinned and more morose kind of Wickan.
Strings knew little of Koryk’s personal history, but he felt he could guess. Half-bloods did not lead pleasant lives. That Koryk had chosen to emulate the old Seti ways, whilst joining the Malazan army as a marine rather than a horse warrior, spoke tomes of the clash in the man’s scarred soul.
Setting down his pack, Strings stood before the four recruits. ‘As much as I hate to confess it, I am now your sergeant. Officially, you’re 4th Squad, one of three squads under Lieutenant Ranal’s command. The 5th and 6th squads are supposedly on their way over from the tent city west of Aren. We’re all in the 9th Company, which consists of three squads of heavy infantry, three of marines, and eighteen squads of medium infantry. Our commander is a man named Captain Keneb—and no, I’ve not met him and know nothing of him. Nine companies in all, making up the 8th Legion—us. The 8th is under the command of Fist Gamet, who I gather is a veteran who’d retired to the Adjunct’s household before she became the Adjunct.’ He paused, grimacing at the slightly glazed faces before him. ‘But never mind all that. You’re in the 4th Squad. We’ve got one more coming, but even with that one we’re undermanned as a squad, but so are all the others and before you ask, I ain’t privy to the reasons for that. Now, any questions yet?’
Three men and one young woman sat in silence, staring up at him.
Strings sighed, and pointed to the nondescript soldier sitting to Koryk’s left. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
A bewildered look, then, ‘My real name, Sergeant, or the one the drill sergeant in Malaz City gave me?’
By the man’s accent and his pale, stolid features, Strings knew him as being from Li Heng. That being the case, his real name was probably a mouthful: nine, ten or even fifteen names all strung together. ‘Your new one, soldier.’
‘Tarr.’
Koryk spoke up. ‘If you’d seen him on the training ground, you’d understand. Once he’s planted his feet behind that shield of his, you could hit him with a battering ram and he won’t budge.’
Strings studied Tarr’s placid, pallid eyes. ‘All right. You’re now Corporal Tarr—’
The woman, who’d been chewing on a straw, suddenly choked. Coughing, spitting out pieces of the straw, she glared up at Strings with disbelief. ‘What? Him? He never says nothing, never does nothing unless he’s told, never—’
‘Glad to hear all that,’ Strings cut in laconically. ‘The perfect corporal, especially that bit about not talking.’
The woman’s expression tightened, then unveiled a small sneer as she looked away in feigned disinterest.
‘And what is your name, soldier?’ Strings asked her.
‘My real name—’
‘I don’t care what you used to be called. None of you. Most of us get new ones and that’s just the way it is.’
‘I didn’t,’ Koryk growled.
Ignoring him, Strings continued, ‘Your name, lass?’
Sour contempt at the word lass.
‘Drill sergeant named her Smiles,’ Koryk said.
‘Smiles?’
‘Aye. She never does.’
Eyes narrowing, Strings swung to the last soldier, a rather plain young man wearing leathers but no weapon. ‘And yours?’
‘Bottle.’
‘Who was your drill sergeant?’ he demanded to the four recruits.
Koryk leaned back as he replied, ‘Braven Tooth—’
‘Braven Tooth! That bastard’s still alive?’
‘It was hard to tell at times,’ Smiles muttered.
‘Until his temper snapped,’ Koryk added. ‘Just ask Corporal Tarr there. Braven Tooth spent near two bells pounding on him with a mace. Couldn’t get past the shield.’
Strings glared at his new corporal. ‘Where’d you learn that skill?’
The man shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Don’t like getting hit.’
‘Well, do you ever counter-attack?’
Tarr frowned. ‘Sure. When they’re tired.’
Strings was silent for a long moment. Braven Tooth—he was dumbfounded. The bastard was grizzled back when…when the whole naming thing began. It had been Braven who’d started it. Braven who’d named most of the Bridgeburners. Whiskeyjack. Trotts, Mallet, Hedge, Blend, Picker, Toes…Fiddler himself had avoided a new name through his basic training; it had been Whiskeyjack who’d named him, on that first ride through Raraku. He shook his head, glanced sidelong at Tarr. ‘You should be a heavy infantryman, Corporal, with a talent like that. The marines are supposed to be fast, nimble—avoiding the toe-to-toe whenever possible or, if there’s no choice, making it quick.’
‘I’m good with a crossbow,’ Tarr said, shrugging.
‘And a fast loader,’ Koryk added. ‘It was that that made Braven decide to make him a marine.’
Smiles spoke. ‘So who named Braven Tooth, Sergeant?’
I did, after the bastard left one of his in my shoulder the night of the brawl. The brawl we all later denied happening. Gods, so many years ago, now…‘I have no idea,’ he said. He shifted his attention back to the man named Bottle. ‘Where’s your sword, soldier?’
‘I don’t use one.’
‘Well, what do you use?’
The man shrugged. ‘This and that.’
‘Well, Bottle, someday I’d like to hear how you got through basic training without picking up a weapon—no, not now. Not tomorrow either, not even next week. For now, tell me what I should be using you for.’
‘Scouting. Quiet work.’
‘As in sneaking up behind someone. What do you do then? Tap him on the shoulder? Never mind.’ This man smells like a mage to me, only he doesn’t want to advertise it. Fine, be that way, we’ll twist it out of you sooner or later.
‘I do the same kind of work,’ Smiles said. She settled a forefinger on the pommel of one of the two thin-bladed knives at her belt. ‘But I finish things with these.’
‘So there’s only two soldiers in this outfit who can actually fight toe-to-toe?’
‘You said one more’s coming,’ Koryk pointed out.
‘We can all handle crossbows,’ Smiles added. ‘Except for Bottle.’
They heard voices from outside the commandeered stables, then figures appeared in the doorway, six in all, burdened with equipment. A deep voice called, ‘You put the latrine trench outside the barracks, for Hood’s sake! Bastards don’t teach ya anything these days?’
‘Compliments of Lieutenant Ranal,’ Strings said.
The soldier who’d spoken was in the lead as the squad approached. ‘Right. Met him.’
Aye, nothing more need be said on that. ‘I’m Sergeant Strings—we’re the 4th.’
‘Well hey,’ a second soldier said, grinning through his bushy red beard, ‘someone can count after all. These marines are full of surprises.’
‘Fifth,’ the first soldier said. There was a strange, burnished cast to the man’s skin, making Strings doubt his initial guess that he was Falari. Then he noted an identical sheen to the red-bearded soldier, as well as on a much younger man. ‘I’m Gesler,’ the first soldier added. ‘Temporarily sergeant of this next-to-useless squad.’
The red-bearded man dropped his pack to the floor. ‘We was coastal guards, me and Gesler and Truth. I’m Stormy. But Coltaine made us marines—’
‘Not Coltaine,’ Gesler corrected. ‘Captain Lull, it was, Queen harbour his poor soul.’
Strings simply stared at the two men.
Stormy scowled. ‘Got a problem with us?’ he demanded, face darkening.
‘Adjutant Stormy,’ Strings muttered. ‘Captain Gesler. Hood’s rattling bones—’
‘We ain’t none of those things any more,’ Gesler said. ‘Like I said, I’m now a sergeant, and Stormy’s my corporal. And the rest here…there’s Truth, Tavos Pond, Sands and Pella. Truth’s been with us since Hissar, and Pella was a camp guard at the otataral mines—only a handful survived the uprising there, from what I gather.’
‘Strings, is it?’ Stormy’s small eyes had narrowed suspiciously. He nudged his sergeant. ‘Hey, Gesler, think we should have done that? Changed our names, I mean. This Strings here is Old Guard as sure as I’m a demon in my dear father’s eye.’
‘Let the bastard keep whatever name he wants,’ Gesler muttered. ‘All right, squad, find some place to drop your stuff. The 6th should be showing up any time, and the lieutenant, too. Word is, we’re all being mustered out to face the Adjunct’s lizard eyes in a day or two.’
The soldier Gesler had named Tavos Pond—a tall, dark, moustached man who was probably Korelri—spoke up. ‘So we should polish our equipment, Sergeant?’
‘Polish whatever you like,’ the man replied disinterestedly, ‘just not in public. As for the Adjunct, if she can’t handle a few scuffed up soldiers then she won’t last long. It’s a dusty world out there, and the sooner we blend in the better.’
Strings sighed. He was feeling more confident already. He faced his own soldiers. ‘Enough sitting on that straw. Start spreading it out to soak up this horse piss.’ He faced Gesler again. ‘A word with you in private?’
The man nodded. ‘Let’s head back outside.’
Moments later the two men stood on the cobbled courtyard of the estate that had once housed a well-off local merchant and was now the temporary bivouac for Ranal’s squads. The lieutenant had taken the house proper for himself, leaving Strings wondering what the man did with all those empty rooms.
They said nothing for a moment, then Strings grinned. ‘I can picture Whiskeyjack’s jaw dropping—the day I tell him you was my fellow sergeant in the new 8th Legion.’
Gesler scowled. ‘Whiskeyjack. He was busted down to sergeant before I was, the bastard. Mind you, I then made corporal, so I beat him after all.’
‘Except now you’re a sergeant again. While Whiskeyjack’s an outlaw. Try beating that.’
‘I just might,’ Gesler muttered.
‘Got concerns about the Adjunct?’ Strings quietly asked. The courtyard was empty, but even so…
‘Met her, you know. Oh, she’s as cold as Hood’s forked tongue. She impounded my ship.’
‘You had a ship?’
‘By rights of salvage, aye. I was the one who brought Coltaine’s wounded to Aren. And that’s the thanks I get.’
‘You could always punch her in the face. That’s what you usually end up doing to your superiors, sooner or later.’
‘I could at that. I’d have to get past Gamet, of course. The point I was making is this: she’s never commanded anything more than a damned noble household, and here she’s been handed three legions and told to reconquer an entire subcontinent.’ He glanced sidelong at Strings. ‘There wasn’t many Falari made it into the Bridgeburners. Bad timing, I think, but there was one.’
‘Aye, and I’m him.’
After a moment, Gesler grinned and held out his hand. ‘Strings. Fiddler. Sure.’
They clasped wrists. To Strings, the other man’s hand and arm felt like solid stone.
‘There’s an inn down the street,’ Gesler continued. ‘We need to swap stories, and I guarantee you, mine’s got yours beat by far.’
‘Oh, Gesler,’ Strings sighed, ‘I think you’re in for a surprise.’
Chapter Six
We came within sight of the island, close enough to gaze into the depths through the ancient cedars and firs. And it seemed there was motion within that gloom, as if the shadows of long dead and long fallen trees still remained, swaying and shifting on ghostly winds…
QUON SEA CHARTING EXPEDITION OF 1127 BURN’S SLEEP, DRIFT AVALII
HEDORANAS
The journey home had been enough, if only to return one last time to the place of beginnings, to crumbled reminiscences amidst sea-thrust coral sands above the tide line, the handful of abandoned shacks battered by countless storms into withered skeletons of wood. Nets lay buried in glistening drifts blinding white in the harsh sunlight. And the track that had led down from the road, overgrown now with wind-twisted grasses…no place from the past survived unchanged, and here, in this small fisher village on the coast of Itko Kan, Hood had walked with thorough and absolute deliberation, leaving not a single soul in his wake.
Barring the one man who had now returned. And the daughter of that man, who had once been possessed by a god.
And in the leaning shack that had once housed them both—its frond-woven roof long since stripped away—with the broad, shallow-draught fisherboat close by now showing but a prow and a stern, the rest buried beneath the coral sand, the father had laid himself down and slept.
