The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1202 page)

‘Why?'

‘He has seven questions. How would I know? Go on, Princess. The idiot lost his whole squad. He probably wants to try and explain. So he doesn't get a knife in his back.'

‘I wouldn't stick a knife in his back,' Flashwit said, shaking her head. ‘No matter what he did.'

‘Really?'

‘If he killed them all and told me about it, I'd just break his neck. A knife in the back, that's cowardly.'

‘No it ain't,' Mayfly objected. ‘It's making a point. Victim's not worth a look in the eye when y'kill him. Victim's not s'posed to know what ended it, just that it ended, and there's Hood's Gate calling 'im.'

‘But sometimes you miss.'

‘Better go, he's gettin' cross.'

Grunting, Flashwit made her way up to Sergeant Gaunt-Eye. Wasn't a friendly face, that one. But a face a person would remember anyway. For all the wrong things in it. ‘Sergeant?'

‘You don't know the hand-talk, soldier?'

‘What talk? Oh, that. Yah, I know it. Mostly. Advance. Stop. Hit the ground. Fight. Go fuck yourself. Like that.'

‘A marine should know how to put together whole sentences, Flashwit.'

‘Yah? I'm a heavy, Sergeant.'

‘Tell me about the girly one.'

‘Using my hands? Can't, Sergeant. I mean, I'd have to try and ask, “What girly one?” and I don't know how to do that.'

‘Skulldeath. Talk to me, soldier. With words – but keep your voice down.'

‘I ain't never raised my voice, not once, Sergeant, in my whole life.'

‘Skulldeath.'

‘What about him?'

‘Why's he so girly, for one?'

‘He's a prince, Sergeant. From some tribe in Seven Cities. He's the heir, in fact—'

‘Then what in Hood's name is he doing here?'

She shrugged. ‘They sent him to grow up somewhere else. With us. T'see the world and all that.'

Gaunt-Eye bared crooked teeth. ‘Bet he's regretting that.'

‘No reason why,' Flashwit said. ‘Not yet, anyway.'

‘So, he grew up all pampered and perfumed, then.'

‘I suppose.'

‘So how did he get that stupid name?'

Flashwit squinted at the sergeant. ‘Beggin' yer pardon, Sergeant, but where was you and your squad? Back at the Trench, I mean.'

He shot her a vicious look. ‘What difference does that make?'

‘Well, you couldn't have not seen him then. Skulldeath. He jumps high, y'see. He was the only one of us cutting Nah'ruk
throats
, right? Jumps high, like I said. See those eight notches on his left wrist?'

‘Those burns?'

‘Aye. One for each Nah'ruk he personally throat-cut.'

Gaunt-Eye snorted. ‘A liar, too, then. About what I figured.'

‘But he never counted, Sergeant. Never does. Eight is what we saw him do, those who saw him at all, I mean. We talked about it, comparing and all that. Eight. So we told him and he burned those marks on his wrist. When we asked him how many he gutted, he said he didn't know. When we asked him how many he hamstrung, he didn't know that either. The rest of us couldn't come up with numbers on those. Lot more than eight, though. But since we seen him burn himself, we decided not to tell him how many. He'd be one big burn now, right? And since he's so pretty, well, that'd be a shame.'

She fell silent then, to catch her breath. She'd broken three or so ribs in the fight, so talking hurt. More than breathing, which hurt bad enough. Talking was worse. That had been the most words she'd used all at once since the battle.

‘Drawfirst and Mayfly,' said Gaunt-Eye, ‘and you. All heavies.'

‘Aye, Sergeant.'

‘Get back in line, Flashwit.'

She gave him a bright smile that seemed to startle him, and then fell back, past one-armed Corporal Rib – who eyed her with something like suspicion – and then Drawfirst and Skulldeath, before positioning herself beside Mayfly.

‘Well?' Mayfly asked.

‘You was wrong,' Flashwit said with deep satisfaction.

‘About what?'

‘Hah. He only asked
six
questions!'

Gaunt-Eye was throwing more looks back at his squad.

‘Who's he want now?' Mayfly wondered.

And then the sergeant pointed at Skulldeath. ‘You blow me one more kiss, soldier, and I'll wrap your guts round your Hood-damned neck!'

‘Well now,' Flashwit muttered.

Mayfly nodded. ‘The prince ain't missed yet, has he?'

Hedge could hear howling laughter behind him, and the breath gusted from him. ‘Listen to that, Bavedict! Fid slapped 'em up and down all right – I knew it!'

The Letherii alchemist tugged again on the ox lead. ‘Alas, Commander, I don't know what you mean by that.'

‘Bet he gave 'em the old “Walking Dead” speech. It's like cutting shackles, that one. There was a night, you see, when Dujek Onearm himself came into the Bridgeburners' camp. We was working Pale then, the tunnels – I never shifted so many boulders in my life. He came in, right, and told us what we already knew.' Hedge drew off his scorched leather cap and scratched at his fresh-shaven scalp. ‘We was the walking dead. Then he left. Left us to figure out what we were going to do about it.'

‘What did you do?'

Hedge tugged on the cap again. ‘Well, most of us, er, died. Before we even had a chance. But Whiskeyjack, he wasn't going to turn his back on any of it. And Quick Ben and Kalam, gods, they just wanted to start the killing. Y'ain't got nothing to lose once you're the walking dead.'

‘I do admit, Commander, that I don't much like being described in that manner.'

‘Got cold feet now?'

‘I always appreciate your wit, sir,' said Bavedict. ‘But cold feet are precisely what I don't want, if you understand me.'

‘So buck up, then. Besides, what Fid had to say to his Bonehunters, well, that's up to him. Got nothing to do with us Bridgeburners—'

‘Presumably because the Bridgeburners have been walking dead since, er, Pale.'

Hedge slapped him on the back. ‘Exactly. It's not like it's an exclusive club, right?'

‘Sir,' ventured Bavedict, ‘was it just this afternoon that you were complaining how your old friend had turned his back on you? That you were feeling like a leper—'

‘Things are easier when you're dead. I mean, for him. He could put me away, on some shelf in his skull, and leave me there.' Hedge gestured carelessly with one hand. ‘I get it. I always did. I just don't like it. I feel
insulted.
I mean, I'm back. Anyone can see that. Fid should be happy. And Quick Ben – well, you saw what he did at the battle, before he skipped out. Went and did a Tayschrenn on us. Next time we meet, him and me are going to have some words, we are.'

‘My point, sir, was that Fiddler has actually drawn himself closer to you, if indeed he spoke of his soldiers being among the walking dead.'

‘You might think that,' Hedge said, nodding. ‘But you'd be wrong. When you're dead, Bavedict, you ain't got no brothers. Nothing holds ya together. At least, not that I ever seen. Aye, the dead Bridgeburners are all together, but that's just old memories, chaining 'em all to each other. It's just ghostly echoes, from back when they were alive. I'm telling you, Alchemist, keep doing all you can to stay alive, for as long as you can. Because the dead got no friends.'

Bavedict sighed. ‘I do hope you're wrong, Commander. Did you not say the Realm of Death has changed – that the Reaper himself surrendered the Unliving Throne? And that this Whiskeyjack—'

‘You never knew him. Whiskeyjack, I mean. So you'll just have to take me at my word, he's a stubborn bastard. Probably the stubbornest bastard ever to walk this world. So, maybe you got a point. Maybe he can make it all different. If anyone can, it's him.' Another slap on Bavedict's shoulder. ‘You gave me something to think about there. Fid never did that, you know. In fact, I can't remember what he ever did for me. I'm thinking now, I never really liked him at all.'

‘How unfortunate. Did you like Whiskeyjack?'

‘Aye, we was the best of friends. Plenty there to like, basically. In both of us. Fid was the odd one out, come to think on it.'

‘And now Whiskeyjack rides among the dead.'

‘Tragic, Bavedict. A damned shame.'

‘And you loved him deeply.'

‘So I did. So I did.'

‘But Fiddler is still alive.'

‘Aye—'

‘And you never really liked him.'

‘Just so—'

‘In fact, you love
all
the dead Bridgeburners.'

‘Of course I do!'

‘Just not the last one left alive.'

Hedge glared, and then slapped the man on the side of the head. ‘Why am I talking to you? You don't understand nothing!'

Off he marched, up to where his company trudged.

Bavedict drew out a small jar. Porcelain and studded jewels. He unscrewed the top, dipped one fingertip in, drew it back and examined it, and then rubbed it across his gums. ‘Die?' he whispered. ‘But I have no intention of dying. Not ever.'

 

Jastara finally found them, up near the head of the Khundryl column. It was impressive, how Hanavat managed to keep up this pace, the way she waddled with all that extra weight. It was never easy being pregnant. Sick to start, and then hungry all the time, and finally big as a bloated bhederin, until it all ends in excruciating pain. She recalled her first time, going through all that so bright-eyed and flushed, only to lose the damned thing as soon as it came out.

‘The child did what she had to do, Jastara. Showed you the journey you will know again, and again. She did what she had to do, and is now returned to the black waters.'

But other mothers didn't have to go through that, did they? It was hardly as if Jastara was blessed with a life of greatness, was it?
‘Married Gall's favourite son, though, didn't she? That woman has ambitions, if not for herself, then for her get.'
Ambitions. That word now dangled like a bedraggled crow from a spear point, a rotted, withered clutch of shredded feathers and old blood.
‘Watch out for widows. See how she took Gall in? What are they doing at night, when the children are asleep? Hanavat had better beware, especially as vulnerable as she is now, with a child about to drop, and her husband fled from her side. No, look hard at that Gilk, Widow Jastara.'

There were measures of disgust, and they came close and one recoiled, and then they came back a second time, and one didn't recoil quite so far. And when they crept back a third time, and a fourth, when the hand reached out from the darkness to caress her bared thigh, to probe under the furs…well, sometimes disgust was like a mourner's shroud, suddenly too heavy to wear any more.
‘Look hard at her now. You can see it in her eyes.'

Comfort a broken man and you take the breaking inside. What woman didn't know that? The cracks spread outward, whispering into everything within reach. It was the curse of drunks and d'bayang addicts, and womanizers and sluts. The curse of men who spoiled young boys and girls – their own get, sometimes. Spoiled them for ever.

Accusations and proof and then all that shame, kneeling in the dirt with hands over his eyes. Or
her
eyes. And suddenly all the disgust comes back, only now it tastes familiar. No, more than familiar. It tastes
intimate.

Do I feel soiled? Do I dare look into Hanavat's eyes?
The question held her back, not ten paces behind Gall's wife.
My mother-in-law. Oh yes, look at Jastara now. But you forget, she lost the man she loved. She too was wounded. Maybe even broken. Of course, she couldn't show it, couldn't indulge in it, because while wife she may no longer be, mother she remains.

What of me? My pain? His arms are the wrong arms, but the embrace is still warm, and strong. His shoulder has taken my tears. What am I to do?

So she held back, and the others looked at her, and whispered things to each other.

 

‘Her courage has failed her,' murmured Shelemasa.

Hanavat sighed. ‘Perhaps tomorrow, then.'

‘I don't know what she thinks she can say,' the younger woman said. ‘To make this right. Cast him out is what she should do.'

Hanavat glanced across at Shelemasa. ‘So that is what everyone is saying, is it? That hard tone, those hard words. The most plentiful coin, spent so freely, is also the most worthless one.'

Shelemasa frowned. ‘What do you mean?'

‘When you are judgemental, all the paint in the world cannot hide the ugliness of your face. The viciousness inside pushes through and twists every feature.'

‘I – I am sorry, Hanavat. I was thinking of you—'

‘And you would take what you imagine to be my feelings and speak them back to me. You proclaim yourself the warrior at my side, the line standing firm, to give comfort to me – I understand all that, Shelemasa. Yet what I hear from you – what I see in the eyes of the others – has nothing to do with me. Have I asked for pity? Have I asked for allies in this hidden war? Is there even any war at all? You presume much.'