The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (762 page)

‘Now there, friends, is one beautiful woman.'

‘If that's how you like them.'

‘Now why wouldn't I, y'damned barrow-digger? Thing is, and it's always the way isn't it, look at that hopeless thug she's with. I can't figure things like that. She could have anyone in here. She could have me, even. But no, there she is, sittin' aside that limpin' one-armed, one-eared, one-eyed and no-nosed cattle-dog. I mean, talk about ugly.'

The third man, who had yet to speak, gave him a surreptitious, sidelong look, noting the birdnest hair, the jutting steering-oar ears, the bulging eyes, and the piebald patches that were the scars of fire on features that reminded him of a squashed gourd – sidelong and brief, that glance, and Throatslitter quickly looked away. The last thing he wanted to do was break into another one of his trilling, uncanny laughs that seemed to freeze everyone within earshot.

Never used to have a laugh sounding like that. Damn thing scares even me
. Well, he'd taken a throatful of oily flames and it'd done bad things to his voice-reed. The damage only revealed itself when he laughed, and, he recalled, in the months following…
all that stuff
…there had been few reasons for mirth.

‘There goes that tavernkeeper,' Deadsmell observed.

It was easy talking about anything and everything, since no-one here but them understood Malazan.

‘There's another one all moon-eyed over her,' Sergeant Balm said with a sneer. ‘But who does she sit with? Hood take me, it don't make sense.'

Deadsmell slowly leaned forward on the table and carefully refilled his tankard. ‘It's the delivery of that cask. Brullyg's. Looks like the pretty one and the dead lass have volunteered.'

Balm's bulging eyes bulged even more. ‘She ain't dead! I'll tell you what's dead, Deadsmell, that puddle-drowned worm between your legs!'

Throatslitter eyed the corporal. ‘
If that's how you like them
,' he'd said. A half-strangled gulp escaped him, making both his companions flinch.

‘What in Hood's name are you gonna laugh about?' Balm demanded. ‘Just don't, and that's an order.'

Throatslitter bit down hard on his own tongue. Tears blurred his vision for a moment as pain shot round his skull like a pebble in a bucket. Mute, he shook his head.
Laugh? Not me.

The sergeant was glaring at Deadsmell again. ‘Dead? She don't look much dead to me.'

‘Trust me,' the corporal replied after taking a deep draught. He belched. ‘Sure, she's hiding it well, but that woman died some time ago.'

Balm was hunched over the table, scratching at the tangles of his hair. Flakes drifted down to land like specks of paint on the dark wood. ‘Gods below,' he whispered. ‘Maybe somebody should…I don't know…maybe…tell her?'

Deadsmell's mostly hairless brows lifted. ‘Excuse me, ma'am, you have a complexion to die for and I guess that's what you did.'

Another squawk from Throatslitter.

The corporal continued, ‘Is it true, ma'am, that perfect hair and expensive make-up can hide anything?'

A choked squeal from Throatslitter.

Heads turned.

Deadsmell drank down another mouthful, warming to the subject. ‘Funny, you don't
look
dead.'

The high-pitched cackle erupted.

As it died, sudden silence in the main room of the tavern, barring that of a rolling tankard, which then plunged off a tabletop and bounced on the floor.

Balm glared at Deadsmell. ‘You done that. You just kept pushing and pushing. Another word from you, corporal, and you'll be deader than she is.'

‘What's that smell?' Deadsmell asked. ‘Oh right. Essence of putrescence.'

Balm's cheeks bulged, his face turning a strange purple shade. His yellowy eyes looked moments from leaping out on their stalks.

Throatslitter tried squeezing his own eyes shut, but the image of his sergeant's face burst into his mind. He shrieked behind his hands. Looked round in helpless appeal.

All attention was fixed on them now, no-one speaking. Even the beautiful woman who'd shipped in with that maimed oaf and the oaf himself – whose one good eye glittered out from the folds of a severe frown – had paused, standing each to one side of the cask of ale the tavernkeeper had brought out. And the keeper himself, staring at Throatslitter with mouth hanging open.

‘Well,' Deadsmell observed, ‘there goes our credit as bad boys. Throaty here's making mating calls – hope there's no turkeys on this island. And you, sergeant, your head looks ready to explode like a cusser.'

Balm hissed, ‘It was
your
fault, you bastard!'

‘Hardly. As you see, I am calm. Although somewhat embarrassed by my company, alas.'

‘Fine, we're shifting you off. Hood knows, Gilani's a damned sight prettier to look at—'

‘Yes, but she happens to be alive, sergeant. Not your type at all.'

‘I didn't know!'

‘Now that is a most pathetic admission, wouldn't you say?'

‘Hold on,' Throatslitter finally interjected. ‘I couldn't tell about her either, Deadsmell.' He jabbed a finger at the corporal. ‘Further proof you're a damned necromancer. No, forget that shocked look, we ain't buying no more. You knew she was dead because you can smell 'em, just like your name says you can. In fact, I'd wager that's why Braven Tooth gave you that name – doesn't miss a thing, ever, does he?'

The ambient noise was slowly resurrecting itself, accompanied by more than a few warding gestures, a couple of chairs scraping back through filth as patrons made furtive escapes out of the front door.

Deadsmell drank more ale. And said nothing.

The dead woman and her companion headed out, the latter limping as he struggled to balance the cask on one shoulder.

Balm grunted. ‘There they go. Typical, isn't it? Just when we're under strength, too.'

‘Nothing to worry about, sergeant,' Deadsmell said. ‘It's all in hand. Though if the keeper decides on following…'

Throatslitter grunted. ‘If he does, he'll regret it.' He rose then, adjusting the marine-issue rain cape. ‘Lucky you two, getting to sit here adding fat to your arses. It's damned cold out there, you know.'

‘I'm making note of all this insubordination,' Balm grumbled. Then tapped his head. ‘In here.'

‘Well that's a relief,' Throatslitter said. He left the tavern.

 

Shake Brullyg, tyrant of Second Maiden Fort, would-be King of the Isle, slouched in the old prison prefect's high-backed chair and glared from under heavy brows at the two foreigners at the table beside the chamber's door. They were playing another of their damned games. Knuckle bones, elongated wooden bowl and split crow-feathers.

‘Two bounces earns me a sweep,' one of them said, although Brullyg was not quite sure of that – picking up a language on the sly was no easy thing, but he'd always been good with languages. Shake, Letherii, Tiste Edur, Fent, trader's tongue and Meckros. And now, spatterings of this…this
Malazan
.

Timing. They'd taken it from him, as easily as they'd taken his knife, his war-axe. Foreigners easing into the harbour – not so many aboard as to cause much worry, or so it had seemed. Besides, there had been enough trouble to chew on right then. A sea filled with mountains of ice, bearing down on the Isle, more ominous than any fleet or army. They said they could take care of that – and he'd been a drowning man going down for the last time.

Would-be King of the Isle, crushed and smeared flat under insensate ice. Face to face with that kind of truth had been like dragon claws through his sail. After all he'd done…

Timing. He now wondered if these Malazans had brought the ice with them. Sent it spinning down on the season's wild current, just so they could arrive one step ahead and offer to turn it away. He'd not even believed them, Brullyg recalled, but desperation had spoken with its very own voice.
‘Do that and you'll be royal guests for as long as you like.'
They'd smiled at that offer.

I am a fool. And worse.

And now, two miserable squads ruled over him and every damned resident of this island, and there was not a thing he could do about it.
Except keep the truth from everyone else. And that's getting a whole lot harder with every day that passes.

‘Sweep's in the trough, pluck a knuckle and that about does it,' said the other soldier.

Possibly.

‘It skidded when you breathed – I saw it, you cheat!'

‘I ain't breathed.'

‘Oh right, you're a Hood-damned corpse, are you?'

‘No, I just ain't breathed when you said I did. Look, it's in the trough, you deny it?'

‘Here, let me take a closer look. Ha, no it isn't!'

‘You just sighed and moved it, damn you!'

‘I didn't sigh.'

‘Right, and you're not losing neither, are ya?'

‘Just because I'm losing doesn't mean I sighed right then. And see, it's not in the trough.'

‘Hold on while I breathe—'

‘Then I'll sigh!'

‘Breathing is what winners do. Sighing is what losers do. Therefore, I win.'

‘Sure, for you cheating is as natural as breathing, isn't it?'

Brullyg slowly shifted his attention from the two at the door, regarded the last soldier in the chamber. By the coven she was a beauty. Such dark, magical skin, and those tilted eyes just glowed with sweet invitation – damn him, all the mysteries of the world were in those eyes. And that mouth! Those lips! If he could just get rid of the other two, and maybe steal away those wicked knives of hers, why then he'd discover those mysteries the way she wanted him to.

I'm King of the Isle. About to be. One more week, and if none of the dead Queen's bitch daughters show up before then, it all falls to me. King of the Isle. Almost. Close enough to use the title, sure. And what woman wouldn't set aside a miserable soldier's life for the soft, warm bed of a king's First Concubine? Sure, that is indeed a Letherii way, but as king I can make my own rules. And if the coven doesn't like it, well, there're the cliffs.

One of the Malazans at the table said, ‘Careful, Masan, he's getting that look again.'

The woman named Masan Gilani straightened catlike in her chair, lifting her smooth, not-scrawny arms in an arching stretch that transformed her large breasts into round globes, tautening the worn fabric of her shirt. ‘'S long as he keeps thinking with the wrong brain, Lobe, we're good and easy.' She then settled back, straightening her perfect legs.

‘We should bring him another whore,' the one named Lobe said as he gathered the knuckle bones into a small leather bag.

‘No,' Masan Gilani said. ‘Deadsmell barely revived the last one.'

But that's not the real reason, is it? Brullyg smiled. No, you want me for yourself. Besides, I'm not usually like that. I was taking out some…frustrations. That's all.
His smile faded.
They sure do use their hands a lot when talking. Gestures of all sorts. Strange people, these Malazans.
He cleared his throat and spoke Letherii in the slow way they seemed to need. ‘I could do with another walk. My legs want exercise.' A wink towards Masan Gilani, who responded with a knowing smile that lit him up low down, enough to make him shift in the chair. ‘My people need to see me, you understand? If they start getting suspicious – well, if anybody knows what a house arrest looks like, it is the citizens of Second Maiden Fort.'

In terribly accented Letherii, Lobe said, ‘You get your ale comes today, right? Best want to be waiting here for that. We walk you tonight.'

Like a Liberty mistress her pampered dog. Isn't that nice? And when I lift a leg and piss against you, Lobe, what then?

These soldiers here did not frighten him. It was the other squad, the one still up-island. The one with that scrawny little mute girl. And she had a way of showing up as if from nowhere. From a swirl of light – he wondered what the Shake witches would make of that cute trick. All Lobe needed to do – Lobe, or Masan Gilani, or Galt, any of them – all they needed to do was call her name.

Sinn.

A real terror that one, and not a talon showing. He suspected he'd need the whole coven to get rid of her. Preferably with great losses. The coven had a way of crowding the chosen rulers of the Shake.
And they're on their way, like ravens to a carcass, all spit and cackle. Of course, they can't fly. Can't even swim. No, they'll need boats, to take them across the strait – and that's assuming the Reach isn't now a jumbled mass of ice, which is how it looks from here.

The soldier named Galt rose from his chair, wincing at some twinge in his lower back, then ambled over to what had been the prefect's prize possession, a tapestry that dominated an entire wall. Faded with age – and stained in the lower left corner with dried spatters of the poor prefect's blood – the hanging depicted the First Landing of the Letherii, although in truth that was not the colonizers' first landing. The fleet had come within sight of shore somewhere opposite the Reach. Fent canoes had ventured out to establish contact with the strangers. An exchange of gifts had gone awry, resulting in the slaughter of the Fent men and the subsequent enslavement of the women and children in the village. Three more settlements had suffered the same fate. The next four, southward down the coast, had been hastily abandoned.