‘This is K’Chain Che’Malle.’
‘They ain’t got wings,’ objected Fiddler.
But Quick Ben was squinting skyward. Under his breath he said, ‘Some do.’
‘But no one heard a damned thing, Quick.’
‘The oil is like the breath of a dragon, Fid. Just not as virulent. It came down, sprayed the tent, took off again. The stuff soaked through, filled the air in the tent, and inside you could have knocked their heads together and neither one would’ve woken up. So it came back down, sliced through the tent to keep all the guys and stakes in place, and took them both.’
‘You can’t know all this-’ Bottle began but stopped at a look from Fiddler.
Quick Ben. You snake-eyed shifty know-it-all bastard from the bung-hole of Seven Cities. I never liked you. Never trusted you, even when I had to. The things you know about, why I-
Bottle blurted, ‘Quick! The strings you tied! They weren’t snapped? Then they’re still alive, right? You tied strings to them-to Gesler and Stormy-you did, didn’t you?’
‘Got lazy,’ Quick Ben said with a slow blink. ‘Had too many. It was hard concentrating, so I cut down on them, Bottle. Didn’t even think about Ges and Stormy.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘Head back to the squad, Bottle,’ said Fiddler. ‘Help Tarr get us ready to march.’
‘Sergeant-’
‘Get out of here, soldier.’
Bottle hesitated, and then, jabbing a warning finger at Quick Ben, he stalked off.
‘Strings still humming, Quick?’
‘Listen, Fid. I cut ’em, just like I told Bottle-’
‘Don’t even try.’
‘Yeah, well, you ain’t Whiskeyjack, are you? I don’t have to answer to you. I’m High Mage now and that means-’
‘It means do I have to talk to the Adjunct directly? Or are you gonna keep spinning round on that flagpole? How long can you keep up the puckered butt, Quick?’
‘All right. They’re alive. I know that much.’
‘Close by?’
‘No. A Shi’gal Assassin can fly two hundred leagues in a single night.’
A what? Never mind. ‘Why those two?’
‘No idea-’
‘I hear the Adjunct’s a damned dragon herself these days-’
‘Fine. I figure someone needed them.’
‘A shigral assassin K’Chain Che’Malle needed Gesler and Stormy?’
‘Shi’gal. But they don’t go rogue, not this way, anyway. Meaning it was sent. To find them.’
‘Sent by who?’
Quick Ben licked his lips, looked away and then shrugged. ‘A Matron, obviously.’
‘A Matron? A K’Chain Che’Malle Matron? A real live breathing K’Chain Che’Malle Matron?’
‘Keep it down, will you? People are looking. We can-’
Fiddler’s helm caught the High Mage flush on the side of his head. Watching the wizard fall in a heap was, for Fiddler, the most satisfying experience he’d known in years.
He stepped back, glared round. ‘High Mage Quick Ben needs to commune with his gods. Now, all of you, finish breaking your camps-we march in half a bell! Go!’
Fiddler stood, waiting for the captain and Fist Keneb. His threats about the Adjunct had come back to sink fangs deep into his backside. They’d need to talk to her. With Quick Ben up and awake and cornered with nowhere to hide. She could take over wresting answers from the smug bastard. For himself… he glanced down at the unconscious wizard… he’d had enough.
Never liked him. Need him, count on him, pray for him, love him, aye. But like him? Not a chance. Goatsticker, dollmaker, souleater. Probably Soletaken or D’ivers, too, if I’m any judge of things.
Whiskeyjack, did you hear the sound it made hitting his head? This old helm of mine? Did it stir the dead all around you? Did you all sit up, rush to the Gate? You looking in on us right now, Sarge? Hey, all you Bridgeburners. How’d I do?
Fist Keneb had ridden out alone just before dawn, passing through bleary-eyed pickets and cantering eastward until the sun broke the distant horizon. He reined in on a slight rise and sat slumped in the saddle, steam rising from his horse, low mists scudding over the broken ground as the air slowly warmed.
The Wastelands stretched before him. To his right and now slightly behind him, the vague smudge of the Saphii Mountains rumpled the southern skyline. He was exhausted, but insomnia plagued Keneb. He had been more or less running the Bonehunters since leaving Lether. Fist Blistig had done his best to evade the responsibilities of command-he was in the habit of wandering among his soldiers in the evenings, eager to tell tales of the Chain of Dogs and the Fall at Aren, as if no one had heard them a dozen times before. He’d drink with them and laugh overloud and play at being a comrade of no special rank. As a consequence, he was viewed with amused contempt by his soldiers. They had enough friends. They didn’t need their Fist spreading his hams on a crate at the fire, passing a jug. Such nights should be rare events, on the eve of battle, perhaps, but even then no one should ever be permitted to forget an officer’s position.
Blistig wanted to be one of the lads. But he was a Fist by rank, and that meant standing apart from his soldiers. Staying watchful, aye, but ever ready to command and expecting that command to be followed. He was supposed to lead, damn him. At the morning briefing sessions Blistig sat scowling, hungover, thick-tongued and bored. He ventured no ideas and looked upon every suggestion with something between disbelief and outright derision.
We need better than that. I need better than that.
The Adjunct had the right to expect that her Fists could manage the army on this march. She had other issues to chew on, whatever they were-and Keneb was nowhere near close enough to even imagine what they might be; in fact, no one was, not even Lostara Yil.
There were two sub-Fists, each commanding regulars-foot, skirmishers, scouts and archers-and Keneb found he was growing far too dependent on them with the logistical demands. They had enough of their own concerns to deal with, after all. But both were veteran officers, seasoned campaigners, and Keneb drew heavily on their experience-though he often felt as he once had when he’d been a young captain under the stubbled wing of a sergeant. Neither Hobble nor Kellant likely had much good to say about him behind his back.
Aye, that’s the truth of it. I just managed as a captain. I’m far past my level of competence here, and it’s showing.
The Wastelands looked forbidding. Perhaps even more lifeless than the worst stretches of Seven Cities-between Aren and Raraku, or that northwest push to the walls of Y’Ghatan. He’d managed to acquire an honest list of warlocks and witches among the ranks, those possessing magics that could conjure forth edible plants, small mammals, insects and such from even the most miserable of lands. And water, as well. To stretch out the supplies they carried, he had them hard at work supplementing daily rations allotted each squad.
But the complaints had already begun. ‘These Wastelands, Fist, are well named. Damn near sucked lifeless underfoot. Finding stuff is starting to hurt.’
Do what you can. It’s all I can ask.
A more useless response from an officer was beyond his imagining, and what soured the most were his own recollections of receiving such inane replies from his commanders all those years ago. At last he understood the helplessness they often suffered, when attempting to deal with something that couldn’t be dealt with; with things and forces beyond any hope of control. Just say what you can, and look confident and reassuring when saying it. Nobody buys it, and both sides know that fact, so what’s really being acknowledged is the motions we both go through.
Indeed, he was beginning to truly understand the burdens of command, a phrase he used to scoff at and mock derisively. Burden, sir? Try carrying this kit pack on your shoulders all day, up and down hills and worse. What do you know about burdens? Shut that whining, sir, before I slide my knife across your scrawny throat.