The Malazan Empire, page 861
‘I am promoting you sideways,’ Kindly said to him. ‘Master Sergeant.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I do this out of recognition of your true talents, Master Sergeant Pores, in the area of recruiting from the local population.’
‘Ah, sir, I assure you again that I had nothing to do with those two whores’—and he gestured at the pair of immensely obese women at the end of the row— ‘showing up unannounced in your office.’
‘Your modesty impresses me, Master Sergeant. As you can see now, however, what we have before us here are Letherii recruits. Indebted, mostly, and, as you observed, two now retired from a most noble and altruistic profession.’ His tone hardened. ‘And as every Malazan soldier knows, a life before joining the ranks has no bearing once the vows are sworn and the kit is issued. There exist no barriers to advancement beyond competence—’
‘And sometimes not even that, sir.’
‘Even confessions are insufficient cause to interrupt me, Master Sergeant. Now, these venerable recruits belong to you. Kit them out and then take them for a long hike—they clearly need to be worked into fighting trim. We march in two days, Master Sergeant.’
‘Fighting trim in just two days, sir?’
‘Your recruits rely upon your competence, as do I,’ said Kindly, looking nauseatingly satisfied. ‘Might I suggest that your first task lies in sobering them up. Now, I leave you to it, Master Sergeant.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ And he saluted.
Captain Kindly marched back into the headquarters.
Pores stared after him. ‘This,’ he whispered, ‘is war.’
The nearest recruit, a scrawny man of forty or so with a huge stained moustache, suddenly brightened. ‘Can’t wait, sir!’
Pores wheeled on him. ‘I’m no “sir”, dung beetle! I am Master Sergeant!’
‘Sorry, Master Sergeant!’
‘You don’t think, I trust, that my sideways promotion is not a bold announcement of Captain Kindly’s confidence in me?’
‘Absolutely not, Master Sergeant!’
Pores strode down to the far end of the row and glared at the two whores. ‘Gods below, what are you two doing here?’
The blonde one, her face glowing in the manner of overweight people the world over, when made to stand for any length of time, belched and said, ‘Master Sergeant, look at us!’
‘I am looking.’
‘We ain’t had no luck cuttin’ the lard, y’see. But in a army, well, we got no choice, do we?’
‘You’re both drunk.’
‘We give up that, too,’ said the black-haired one.
‘And the whoring?’
‘Aw, Master Sergeant, leave us a little fun!’
‘You’re both standing here out of breath—kitting you out and running you will kill you both.’
‘We don’t mind, Master Sergeant. Whatever works!’
‘Tell me the name of the soldier who hired you to visit the captain.’
The women exchanged sly looks, and then the blonde said, ‘Never gave it to us.’
‘Man or woman?’
‘Never said either way, Master Sergeant.’
‘It was dark that day,’ added the black-haired woman. ‘Anyway, Big Kindly said—’
‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’
‘Oh, uhm. Captain Kindly is what I meant, now that he’s back in uniform, I mean—’
‘And it’s a nice uniform,’ chimed in the blonde.
‘And he said that you was the best and the hardest working, most fit, like, and healthy soldier in the whole Miserable Army—’
‘That’s Malazan Army.’
‘Right. Sorry, Master Sergeant, it’s all the foreign names done us in.’
‘And the jug of rum, I’d wager.’
She nodded. ‘And the jugs of rum.’
At the plural Pores’s two eyes found a pernicious will of their own, and fell slightly down from the woman’s face. He coughed and turned to study all the other recruits. ‘Running from debt I understand,’ he said. ‘Same for armies the world over. Indebted, criminal, misfit, pervert, patriot and insane, and that list’s from my very own military application. And look at me, promoted up to Lieutenant and sideways to Master Sergeant. So, dear recruits,’ and Pores slapped on a broad smile, which was answered by everyone in the line, ‘nobody knows better where you’re coming from, and nobody knows better where you’re going to end up, which is probably in either the infirmary or the stockade. And I mean to get you there in no time flat!’
‘Yes, Master Sergeant!’ shouted the moustached idiot.
Pores stamped up to the man, whose grin suddenly wavered. ‘In the Malazan Army,’ he said, ‘old names are tossed. They were bad names anyway, every one of them. You, you are now Twit, and you’re my first squad leader.’
‘Yes, Master Sergeant! Thank you, Master Sergeant!’
‘Now,’ Pores continued, hands behind his back as he began strolling up and down the row, ‘two days to turn you earwigs into soldiers—even for me—is simply impossible. No, what I need to do is attach you to a real squad, and I have the perfect squad in mind.’ And then he halted and wheeled to face them. ‘But first, we’re all going to march to the privy, where each and every one of you is going to—in perfect unison as befits soldiers—shove a finger down your throat and vomit into the trough. And then we’re going to collect uniforms from the quartermaster, and your training kits. Now, Sergeant Twit, fall ’em in behind you and follow me.’
‘Yes, Master Sergeant! We’re off to war!’
And the others cheered.
The cookfires were coal-bedded and simmering pots hung over them by the time Master Sergeant Pores led his sickly, gasping crew up to the squad tents of the 3rd Company. ‘Third Company Sergeants!’ he bellowed. ‘Front and forward this instant!’
Watched by a score of faces half-lit by firelight, Badan Gruk, Sinter, and Primly slowly converged to stand in front of Pores.
‘I am Master Sergeant Pores and this—’
‘Thought you was Captain Kindly,’ said Sinter.
‘No, that would be my twin, who sadly drowned in a bucket of his own puke yesterday. Interrupt me again, Sergeant, and I’ve got a whole trough of puke waiting just for you.’
Badan Gruk grunted. ‘But I thought he was Lieutenant Pores—’
Pores scowled at him. ‘My other twin, now detached from the Bonehunters and serving as bodyguard and consort to Queen Frapalava of the Kidgestool Empire. Now, enough yabbering. As you can see behind me, we have new recruits who need to be ready to march in two days—’
‘March where, Master Sergeant?’
Pores sighed. ‘Why, with the rest of us, Sergeant Sinter. In fact, right beside your three squads, as they are now your responsibilities.’ He turned and gestured at his row. Two recruits stepped out on cue. ‘Acting Sergeants Twit and Nose Stream.’ He gestured again and two more emerged. ‘Acting Corporals Rumjugs and Sweetlard—I suggest Corporal Kisswhere take them under her personal care. Now, you will note that they’ve brought tents. Unfortunately, none of the recruits know how to put them up. Get them to it. Any questions? Good. Dismissed.’
A short time later, Pores sighted one of the newer tents in the camp and, after eyeing the three soldiers squatting round the nearest cookfire, he drew himself up and marched up to them.
‘Soldiers—at ease. Is there a partition at the back of that tent? I thought so.’
‘Sergeant Urb’s commandeered that bit, Lieutenant—’
‘Commendable. Alas, my friends—and I know this is miserable news—but Captain Kindly is now requisitioning it on my behalf. I argued against it—I mean, the injustice of such a thing, but, well, you all know about Captain Kindly, don’t you?’ And he was pleased to see the sullen nods. Pores patted a satchel at his hip. ‘Supply lists—I need somewhere private, and now that the HQ’s been shut down, well, you’re to provide me with my office. But listen, friends—and be sure to tell this to Sergeant Urb—since I’m working on supplies, materiel and—did I mention?—foodstuffs for the officers, which of course includes wines of passing vintage—well, even one as perfect as me can’t help but lose a crate or two from the inventory.’ And see how they smiled.
‘All yours, Lieutenant.’
‘Excellent. Now, be sure not to disturb me.’
‘Aye, Lieutenant.’
Pores made his way in, stepping over the bedrolls and kits, and through the curtain where he found a decent camp cot, clean blankets and a well-maintained pillow. Kicking his boots off, he settled down on the cot, turned the lantern down, and drew out from his satchel the first of the five flasks he’d confiscated from his recruits.
One could learn a lot about a man or woman by their alcohol or drug of choice. Time to look more closely at the Bonehunters’ latest members, maybe work up something like a profile of their gumption. He tugged loose the first stopper.
‘He made us puke,’ said Rumjugs.
‘He makes all of us do that,’ Kisswhere replied. ‘Now, angle that peg out a bit before your sister starts pounding it.’
‘She ain’t my sister.’
‘Yes she is. We all are, now. That’s what being a soldier is all about. Sisters, brothers.’
Sweetlard hefted the wooden mallet. ‘So the officers, they’re like, parents?’
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Well, if your parents were demented, deluded, corrupt, useless or sadistic, or any combination of those, then yes, officers are just like them.’
‘That’s not always so,’ said Corporal Pravalak Rim, arriving with a bundle of groundsheets. ‘Some officers know what they’re about.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with knowing what they’re about, Rim,’ said Kisswhere.
‘You’re right, Kiss, it comes down to do you take their orders when things get nasty? That’s what it comes down to.’ He dropped two of the rolled-up canvas sheets. ‘Put these inside, laid out nice and flat. Oh, and check out if there’s any slope in the ground—you want your heads higher than your feet or your dreams will get wild and you’ll wake up with an exploding headache—’
‘They’re going to do that anyway,’ observed Kisswhere. ‘Can’t you smell ’em?’
Rim scowled and pulled the mallet from Sweetlard’s hands. ‘You lost your mind, Kiss? She swings this and she’ll crush the other one’s hands.’
‘Well, but then, one less dragging us down on the march.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Not really. So I wasn’t thinking. I’m no good being in charge of people. Here, you take over. I’m going into the city to drag Skulldeath back out here, out of Hellian’s clutches, I mean.’
As she walked off, Rumjugs licked her plump lips. ‘Corporal Rim?’
‘Aye?’
‘You got a soldier in your squad named Skulldeath?’
Rim smiled. ‘Oh yeah, and wait till you meet him.’
‘I don’t like the name he gave me,’ muttered Twit. ‘I mean, I tried looking at all this in the right spirit, you know? So it feels less like a death sentence. Made myself look all eager, and what does he do? He calls me Twit.’
Ruffle patted him on an arm. ‘Don’t like your name? That’s fine. Next time Captain Lieutenant Master Sergeant Kindly Pores comes by, we’ll tell him that Sergeant Twit drowned in a sop bucket, but his brother showed up and his name is . . . well? What name do you want?’
Twit frowned. He scratched his head. He stroked his moustache. He squinted. He shrugged. ‘I have t’think on it, I think.’
Ruffle smiled sweetly. ‘Let’s see if I can help you some. You an Indebted?’
‘I am. And it wasn’t fair at all, Ruffle. I was doing fine, you see, living good, even. Had a pretty wife who I always figured was on the thick side, thicker than me, I mean, which was perfect, since it put me in charge and I like being in charge—’
‘Don’t let anybody know that. Not here.’
‘Oh, so I already messed up, then.’
‘No you didn’t. That was your drowned brother.’
‘What? By the Errant he’s drowned—but, how did you hear about that? Hold on, wait! Oh, I get it. Right. Hah, that’s perfect.’
‘So you was doing fine.’
‘Huh? Yes, that’s just it. I was doing good. In fact, business was good enough so that I made some investments—first time in my life, some real investments. Construction. Not my area, but—’
‘Which was? Your area, I mean?’
‘Made and sold oil lamps, the big temple ones. Mostly bronze or copper, sometimes glazed clay.’
‘And then you invested in the building trade.’
‘And it all went down. Just before you all arrived. All went down. I lost everything. And my wife, why, she told me she’d only been waiting around until somebody better and richer showed up. So off she went, too.’ He wiped at his face. ‘Thought about killing myself, but I couldn’t figure out the best way. And then it hit me—join the army! But not the Letherii army, since the new King’s not looking to start any wars, is he? Besides, I’d probably get stationed here in the city and there I’d be, seeing all the people I once knew and thought my friends, and they’d be pretending I wasn’t even there. And then I heard you Malazans was marching into a war—’
‘Really? First I’ve heard of that.’
‘Well, something like that. The thing was, it hit me then that maybe it wasn’t a place to just up and get myself killed. No, it was a place where I could start over. Only’—and he pounded his thigh—‘first thing I do is mess up. Some new beginning!’
‘You’re fine,’ said Ruffle, grunting softly as she climbed to her feet. ‘Twit was the one who messed up, right?’
‘What? Oh, that’s right!’
‘I think maybe I come up with a new name for you,’ she said, looking down at him where he squatted behind his bundled kit. ‘How does Sunrise sound to you?’
‘Sunrise?’
‘Aye. Sergeant Sunrise. New beginnings, just like dawn breaking on the horizon. And every time you hear it out loud, you’ll be reminded of how you’ve begun again. Fresh. No debts, no disloyal friends, no cut-and-run wives.’
He suddenly straightened and impulsively hugged her. ‘Thanks, Ruffle. I won’t forget this. I mean it. I won’t.’
‘That’s nice. Now, spill out your bowl and spoon. Supper beckons.’
______
They found Brys Beddict standing on one of the canal bridges, the one closest to the river. He was leaning on the stone railing, eyes on the water flowing beneath the span.
Cuttle tugged on Fiddler’s arm as they were about to step on to the bridge. ‘What’s he doing?’ he whispered. ‘Looks like—’
‘I know what it looks like,’ Fiddler replied, grimacing. ‘But I don’t think it’s that. Come on.’
Brys glanced over as they approached, and straightened. ‘Good evening to you, soldiers.’
‘Commander Beddict,’ said Fiddler, nodding. ‘We’ve got ourselves a problem out in the camp, sir. That sweating ague, from the mosquitoes—got people falling ill everywhere, and our healers are dropping from exhaustion and making no headway.’
‘The Shivers, we call it,’ said Brys. ‘There’s a well, an imperial well, about half a league north of your camp. The water is drawn up by a sort of pump based on a mill. One of Bugg’s inventions. In any case, that water is filled with bubbles and rather tart to the taste, and it is the local treatment for the Shivers. I will dispatch teams to deliver casks to your camp. How many of your fellow soldiers have sickened?’
‘Two, maybe three hundred. With more every day, sir.’
‘We’ll start with five hundred casks—you need to get everyone drinking from them, as it may also possess some preventative properties, although no one has been able to prove that. I will also dispatch our military healers to assist your own.’
‘Thank you, sir. It’s been our experience that most of the time it’s the locals who get sick when foreigners arrive from across the seas. This time it’s proved the other way round.’
Brys nodded. ‘I gather that the Malazan Empire was predicated on expansion, the conquering of distant territories.’
‘Just a bit more rabid than your own Letherii expansion, sir.’
‘Yes. We proceeded on the principle of creep and crawl—that’s how our brother Hull described it, anyway. Spreading like a slow stain, until someone in the beleaguered tribe stood up and took notice of just what was happening, and then there’d be war. A war we justified at that point by claiming we were simply protecting our pioneering citizens, our economic interests, our need for security.’ His smile was sour. ‘The usual lies.’
Fiddler leaned on the railing beside Brys, and after a moment Cuttle did the same. ‘I remember a landing on one of the more remote of the Strike Islands. We weren’t assaulting, just making contact—the big island had capitulated by then. Anyway, the locals could muster about two hundred warriors, and there they were, looking out on a fleet of transports groaning with five thousand hardened marines. The old Emperor preferred to win without bloodshed, when he could. Besides, all of us, standing at the rails—sort of like we’re doing right now—well, we just pitied them.’
‘What happened?’ Cuttle asked.
‘The local chief gathered together a heap of trinkets on the beach, basically making himself look rich while at the same time buying our goodwill. It was a brave gesture, because it impoverished him. I don’t think he was expecting any reciprocal gesture from Admiral Nok. He just wanted us to take it and then go away.’ Fiddler paused, scratching at his beard, remembering those times. Neither Brys nor Cuttle prodded him to resume, but, with a sigh, he went on. ‘Nok had his orders. He accepts the gift. And then has us deliver on to that beach a golden throne for the chief, and enough silks, linens and wool to clothe every living person on that island—he gave the chief enough to turn around and be generous to his people. I still remember his face, the look on it . . .’ When he wiped at his eyes, only Brys held his gaze on Fiddler. Cuttle looked away, as if embarrassed.
‘That was a fine thing to do,’ said Brys.
