The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1167 page)

And around them all, the morning stretched out in its measured madness, senseless as ever. Lightening sky, the spin and whirl of insects, the muted baying of animals being driven to slaughter. One thing was missing, however. No one was saying much of anything. Soldiers sat, heads down, or glancing up every now and then, eyes empty and far away.

All under siege. By the gaps round the circle, by the heaps of tents left folded and bound with their clutter of poles and bag of stakes. The dead didn't have anything to say, either, but everyone still sat, listening for them.

Urb drew up at the foot of one such broken circle of seated soldiers. They'd set a pot on embers and the smell wafting from the brew was heady, alcoholic. Urb studied them. Two women, two men. ‘Twenty-second squad?'

The elder of the two women nodded without looking up. Urb remembered seeing her. A lively face, he recalled. Sharp tongue. Malaz City, maybe, or Jakatan. Islander for sure. ‘Stand up, all of you.'

He saw resentment in the faces lifting to him. The other woman, young, dark-skinned and black-haired, had eyes of startling blue, which now flashed in outrage. ‘Fine, Sergeant,' she said in an accent he'd never heard before, ‘you've just filled out your squad.' Seeing Saltlick standing behind Urb, her expression changed. ‘Heavy.' She nodded respectfully.

The other woman shot her companions a hard look. ‘This is the Thirteenth you're looking at, boys and girls. This squad, and Hellian's, they drank lizard blood that day. So, all of you, stand the fuck up and do it now.' She led the way. ‘Sergeant Urb, I'm Clasp. You come to collect us, good. We need collecting.'

The others had clambered to their feet, but the younger woman was still scowling. ‘We lost us a good sergeant—'

‘Who didn't listen when they said duck,' Clasp retorted.

‘Always had his nose in something,' said one of the men, a Kartoolian sporting an oiled beard.

‘Curiosity,' observed the other man, a short, broad Falari with long hair the colour of blood-streaked gold. The tip of his nose had been sliced off, stubbing his face.

‘You all done with the elegy?' Urb asked. ‘Good. This is Saltlick. Now, faces I know, so I know all of yours. Give me some names.'

The Kartoolian said, ‘Burnt Rope, Sergeant. Sapper.'

‘Lap Twirl,' said the Falari. ‘Cutter.'

‘Healing?'

‘Don't count on it, not on this ground.'

‘Sad,' said the younger woman. ‘Squad mage. About as useless as Lap right now.'

‘Still have your crossbows?' Urb asked.

No one spoke.

‘First task, then, off to the armoury. Then back here, and clean up this sty. The Twenty-second is retired. Welcome to the Thirteenth. Saltlick, keep them company. Clasp, you're now corporal. Congratulations.'

When they'd all trooped off, Urb stood alone, motionless, and for a long time, unnoticed by anyone, he stared at nothing.

 

Someone nudged her shoulder. She moaned and rolled on to her side. A second nudge, harder this time. ‘G'way. Still dark.'

‘Still dark, Sergeant, because you blindfolded yourself.'

‘I did? Well, why didn't you do the same, then we'd all be sleeping still. Go away.'

‘It's morning, Sergeant. Captain Fiddler wants—'

‘He always wants. Soon as they turn inta officers, it's do this do that alla time. Someone gimme a jug.'

‘All gone, Sergeant.'

She reached up, felt at the rough cloth covering her eyes, pulled one edge down, just enough to uncover one eye. ‘That can't be right. Go find some more.'

‘We will,' Brethless promised. ‘Soon as you get up. Someone's been through the squads, doing counts. We don't like it. Makes us nervous.'

‘Why?' The lone eye blinked. ‘I got me eight marines—'

‘Four, Sergeant.'

‘Fifty per cent losses ain't too bad, for a party.'

‘A party, Sergeant?'

She sat up. ‘I had eight last night.'

‘Four.'

‘Right, four twice over.'

‘There wasn't no party, Sergeant.'

Hellian tugged to expose her other eye. ‘There wasn't, huh? Thas what you get for wand'ring off, then, Corporal. Missed the good times.'

‘Aye, I suppose I did. We're melting a lump of chocolate in a pot – thought you might like some.'

‘That stuff? I remember now. Balklo chocolate. All right, get outa my tent so I can get decent.'

‘You're not in your tent, Sergeant, you're in our latrine ditch.'

She looked round. ‘That explains the smell.'

‘None of us used it yet, Sergeant, seeing as how you were here.'

‘Oh.'

 

His stomach convulsed again, but there was nothing left to spit up, so he rode it out, waited, gasping, and then slowly settled back on his haunches. ‘Poliel's prissy nipples! If I can't keep nothing down I'll waste away!'

‘You already have, Widder,' observed Throatslitter from a few paces upwind, his voice a cracking rasp. The old scars on his neck were inflamed; he'd taken a shot to his chest, hard enough to dent his sternum with matted rows from the mail's iron links, and something from that trauma had messed up his throat.

They were away from the camp, twenty paces beyond the eastern picket. Widdershins, Throatslitter, Deadsmell and Sergeant Balm. The survivors of the 9th Squad. The regulars crouched in their holes had watched them pass with red-shot eyes, saying nothing. Was that belligerence? Pity? The squad mage didn't know and at the moment was past caring. Wiping his mouth with the back of one forearm, he looked past Throatslitter to Balm. ‘You called us up here, Sergeant. What now?'

Balm drew off his helm, scratched vigorously at his scalp. ‘Just thought I'd tell you, we ain't breaking the squad up and we ain't picking up any new bodies. It's just us, now.'

Widdershins grunted. ‘We took a walk for that?'

‘Don't be an idiot,' said Deadsmell in a growl.

Balm faced his soldiers. ‘Talk, all of you. You first, Throatslitter.'

The tall man seemed to flinch. ‘What's to say? We're chewed to pieces. But Kindly hogtying Fid like that, well, bloody genius. We got ourselves a captain, now—'

‘There wasn't anything wrong with Sort,' Deadsmell interjected.

‘Not saying there was. Definite officer, that woman. But maybe that's the point. Fid's from the ground up a marine, through and through. He was a sapper. A sergeant. Now he's captain of what's left of us. I'm settled with that.' He shrugged, facing Balm. ‘Nothing more to say, Sergeant.'

‘And when he says it's time to go, you gonna bleat and whine about it?'

Throatslitter's brows lifted. ‘Go? Go where?'

Balm squinted and then said, ‘Your turn, Deadsmell.'

‘Hood's dead. Grey riders patrol the Gate. In my dreams I see faces, blurred, but still. Malazans. Bridgeburners. You can't imagine how comforting that feels, you just can't. They're all there, and I think we got Dead Hedge to thank for that.'

‘How do you mean?' Widdershins asked.

‘Just a feeling. As if, in coming back, he blazed a trail. Six days ago, well, I swear they were close enough to kiss.'

‘Because we all almost died,' Throatslitter snapped.

‘No, they were like wasps, and what was sweet wasn't us dying, wasn't the lizards neither. It was what happened at the vanguard. It was Lostara Yil.' His eyes were bright as he looked to each soldier in turn. ‘I caught a glimpse, you know. I saw her dance. She did what Ruthan Gudd did, only she didn't go down under blades. The lizards recoiled – they didn't know what to do, they couldn't get close, and those that did, gods, they were cut to pieces. I saw her, and my heart near burst.'

‘She saved the Adjunct's life,' said Throatslitter. ‘Was that such a good thing?'

‘Not for you to even ask,' said Balm. ‘Fid's calling us together. He's got things to say. About that, I expect. The Adjunct. And what's to come. We're still marines. We're
the
marines, and we got heavies in our ranks, the stubbornest bulls I ever seen.'

He turned then, since two regulars from the pickets were approaching. In their arms, two loaves of bread, a wrapped brick of cheese, and a Seven Cities clay bottle.

‘What's this?' Deadsmell wondered.

The two soldiers halted a few paces away, and the one on the right spoke. ‘Guard's changed, Sergeant. Came out with some breakfast for us. We weren't much hungry.' They then set the items down on a bare patch of ground. Nodded, set off back for camp.

‘Hood's pink belly,' Deadsmell muttered.

‘Save all that,' Balm said. ‘We're not yet done here. Widdershins.'

‘Warrens are sick, Sergeant. Well, you seen what they're doing to us mages. And there's new ones, new warrens, I mean, but they ain't nice at all. Still, I might have to delve into them, once I get tired of being completely useless.'

‘You're the best among us with a crossbow, Widder, so you ain't useless even without any magic.'

‘Maybe so, Throatslitter, but it doesn't feel that way.'

‘Deadsmell,' said Balm, ‘you've been doing some healing.'

‘I have, but Widder's right. It's not fun. The problem – for me, that is – is that I'm still somehow bound to Hood. Even though he's, uh, dead. Don't know why that should be, but the magic when it comes to me, well, it's cold as ice.'

Widdershins frowned at Deadsmell. ‘Ice. That makes no sense.'

‘Hood was a damned Jaghut, so yes, it does. And no, it doesn't, because he's… well, gone.'

Throatslitter spat and said, ‘If he really died, like you say, did he walk into his realm? And didn't he have to be dead in the first place, being the God of Death and all? What you're saying makes no sense, Deadsmell.'

The necromancer looked unhappy. ‘I know.'

‘Next time you do some healing,' said Widdershins, ‘let me do some sniffing.'

‘You'll heave again.'

‘So what?'

‘What are you thinking, Widder?' Balm asked.

‘I'm thinking Deadsmell's not using Hood's warren any more. I'm thinking it must be Omtose Phellack.'

‘It's occurred to me,' Deadsmell said in a mumble.

‘One way to test it for sure,' Balm said.

Widdershins swore. ‘Aye. We don't know the details, but the rumour is that she's got some broken ribs, maybe even spitting up blood, and is still concussed. But with that Otataral in her, no one can do much about it.'

‘But Omtose Phellack is Elder.' Deadsmell was nodding. ‘We should go, then. It's worth a try.'

‘We will,' said Balm, ‘but first we eat.'

‘And leave the Adjunct in pain?'

‘We eat and drink here,' said Balm, eyes flat, ‘because we're marines and we don't kick dirt in the faces of fellow soldiers.'

‘Exactly,' said Widdershins. ‘Besides,' he added, ‘I'm starving.'

 

Shortnose had lost the four fingers of his shield hand. To stop the bleeding that had gone on even after the nubs had been sewn up, he had held them against a pot left squatting in a fire. Now the ends looked melted and there were blisters up to his knuckles. But the bleeding had stopped.

He had been about to profess his undying love for Flashwit, but then that sergeant from the 18th had come by and collected up both Flashwit and Mayfly, so Shortnose was alone, the last left in Gesler's old squad.

He'd sat for a time, alone, using a thorn to pop blisters and then sucking them dry. When that was done he sat some more, watching the fire burn down. At the battle the severed finger of one of the lizards had fallen down the back of his neck, between armour and shirt. When he'd finally retrieved it, he and Mayfly and Flashwit had cooked and shared its scant ribbons of meat. Then they'd separated out and distributed the bones, tying them into their hair. It was what Bonehunters did.

They'd insisted he get the longest one, on account of getting his hand chopped up, and it now hung beneath his beard, overwhelming the other finger bones, which had all come from Letherii soldiers. It was heavy and long enough to thump against his chest when he walked, which is what he decided to do once he realized that he was lonely.

Kit packed, slung over one shoulder, he set out. Thirty-two paces took him into Fiddler's old squad's camp, where he found a place to set up his tent, left his satchel in that spot, and then walked over to sit down with the other soldiers.

The pretty little woman seated on his right handed him a tin cup filled with steaming something. When he smiled his thanks she didn't smile back, which was when he recalled that her name was Smiles.

This, he decided, was better than being lonely.

 

‘Got competition, Corabb.'

‘Don't see that,' the Seven Cities warrior replied.

‘Shortnose wants to be our new fist,' Cuttle explained.

‘Making what, four fists in this squad? Me, Corporal Tarr, Koryk and now Shortnose.'

‘I was a corporal not a fist,' said Tarr. ‘Besides, I don't punch, I just take 'em.'

Cuttle snorted. ‘Hardly. You went forward, no different from any fist I ever seen.'

‘I went forward to stand still, sapper.'

‘Well, that's a good point,' Cuttle conceded. ‘I stand corrected, then.'

‘I just realized something,' said Smiles. ‘We got no sergeant any more. Unless it's you, Tarr. And if that's the case, then we need a new corporal, and since I'm the only one left with any brains, it's got to be me.'

Tarr scratched at his greying beard. ‘Was thinking Corabb, actually.'

‘He needs his own private weapons wagon!'

‘I kept my Letherii sword,' Corabb retorted. ‘I didn't lose anything this time.'

‘Let's vote on it.'