It was a wonder. But it was also a danger.
He’d seen what such regard could do to a person. The power it offered. This man might be a favourite of Hood, but all those around him, and following him, certainly weren’t. He’d seen blind worship lead a lot of people to their deaths.
He hoped this swordsman would prove able to resist its seductive call.
He shifted his stance to rub his left leg, wincing. That was not all there was to worry about. What of the Napans? Where were they? Gone off raiding, most of them, while Surly kept out of everyone’s sight. With the absence of their glorious leaders – the fearsome mage and his assassin partner – just where were the soldiers to place their esteem and regard? And, dare he say it … their loyalty?
It was another danger.
The class below laughed then, hazing or chaffing one of their number, and he smiled, remembering such comradeship. He shook his head at himself; gods above, he was becoming quite the gloomy old duffer, wasn’t he! Searching for trouble everywhere he looked.
No, he should keep his thoughts to his assigned job – setting up a cadre system of mages among the army such as had been instituted in the old days among the Talian legions.
So he studied every set of recruits just as carefully as Dassem. And, just as Dassem admitted he was surprised by the depth of the fighting talent offered up by the island – as almost every family was the selected product of generations of raiders – so, too, was Nedurian again surprised by the depth of true talent. Nearly every day’s lineup saw at least one witch or warlock or talent of some order. Sometimes as many as four.
Again, it was astonishing to him that this tiny insignificant island could possibly churn out so many touched by the Warrens. True, the vast majority were minor hedge wizards only, or wax-witches, or wind-callers, or sea-soothers, or minor clairvoyants. But still – so many!
And this was after Surly’s own sorting through the pick of everyone for her own unit of specialized recruits. He suspected that he’d missed out on a number of talented youths in this regard and this irked him, but there was nothing to be done about it, as in Kellanved and Dancer’s absence the Napan aristocrat pretty much ran everything.
This afternoon he watched while the Dal Hon swordsman ran down the line of men and women all eager to enter Malazan service – many from elsewhere drawn by the reputation of Dassem himself, plus the fearsome tales spreading of Kellanved’s prowess – fed, no doubt cynically, by Surly’s agents on the mainland and elsewhere. This day, as Dassem walked down the line of hopefuls Nedurian eyed each in turn as well, and when the Dal Hon came to one particular young woman, an obvious Seti girl, in leathers, with a bone-handled blade thrust though her belt and her long auburn hair tied in a single thick braid, he tapped his dagger’s hilt on the stones and Dassem glanced back to nod.
This girl Dassem spoke to in low tones and sent to him.
She met him with her head thrown back and scorn in her brown eyes. ‘And who are you?’ she demanded.
Inwardly, Nedurian smiled, remembering his own youth and his own assurance of immortality and supreme talent. He crossed his arms. ‘Name’s Nedurian. I’m organizing a special element among the Malazan forces. A cadre of mages to serve in the combat units. Are you interested in fighting?’
The girl snorted her impatience. ‘Of course! That is why I am here, fool.’
‘Yes, you have come a long way. Why?’
She curled a lip. ‘I am disgusted. The elders of my people are fat and lazy. They refuse to see what is coming – or are blind to it.’
‘And that is?’
‘Destruction. The loss of our way of life. We are bounded in, surrounded. With each day our land is smaller. The trend is obvious.’
Nedurian nodded at this and rubbed his neck, thinking. ‘But isn’t the cult of the White Jackal fighting this? Why not join it?’
The girl’s brows rose, as she was apparently quite impressed by his knowledge. ‘The cult of Ryllandaras has always been with our people. Traditionally he is regarded as a threat, a scourge. I, personally, am not comfortable with his worship.’
Nedurian nodded his understanding. ‘I see. So here you are, forced to fight among foreigners.’
‘As my own people will not, yes.’
‘And your name?’
‘Thistle.’
Nedurian cocked a brow, wondering whether she was named after her character manifested itself, or whether she just grew into the name. ‘So you agree to join the cadre?’
‘Not if it means some sort of special treatment, or being taken from the ranks.’
Nedurian smiled, encouraged by her reaction, though others might have thought it insolent. ‘No. As I said, you will remain in the ranks.’
‘I answer to you?’
He smiled again, amused by how she somehow managed to make every statement a challenge. He shook his head. ‘No. There is no hierarchy among the cadre. Each squad mage is equal to any other. All may have their say in tactics or strategy.’
This claim obviously surprised her. She frowned, thinking, then she threw back her head, sneering once more. ‘And what of this Kartoolian magus I hear so much of? This Tayschrenn?’
Nedurian nodded, rubbing the bristles of his growing beard. ‘He is in charge of the formal cadre. Those who mostly don’t wish to serve among the ranks. Who think they are above it. Or those who wisely know they’d be of no use in the field.’
Thistle’s scowl deepened. ‘They will consider themselves above us.’
His smile turned wry. ‘Well, they can think that all they want – can’t they?’
An answering smile grew on the girl’s lips, and she laughed. ‘Very good. May I return to the ranks?’
‘Yes. Just come to me if you have any questions.’
She inclined her head, then jogged off.
Nedurian watched the slim, vibrant young girl go and wished, for however brief an instant, that he was a hundred years younger.
Chapter 4
It was cold, raining, and dark when Gregar and Haraj came across an army encampment at the edge of the woods. Fires burned fitfully in the thin misty rain and troops moved between a jumbled patchwork of tents. Horses nickered from somewhere across the crowded field.
Gregar looked to the skinny mage; the lad’s black hair lay flat and dripping, and as he wiped his nose, sniffling, he let the bundle of equipment he carried fall at his feet.
‘Where’s the shield?’ Gregar asked.
‘Dumped it. Too godsdamned heavy.’
Gregar swore under his breath.
‘I’m cold,’ Haraj complained, stammering. ‘Can’t sleep out in the rain again – it’s fucking winter!’
Gregar nodded. Neither of them knew how to survive outdoors. The wretched few scraps of food and water they’d looted from fallen Bloorian troops wouldn’t sustain them; they needed shelter. He couldn’t even feel his fingers or toes any more. Another night in the open might finish them – his sickly friend especially.
He kept nodding, disgusted. ‘So, we turn ourselves in just to survive.’
Haraj’s answering nod was a puppet-like jerking shiver. ‘Welcome to how things are for most nobodies.’
Gregar gestured to the belt-wrapped bundle. ‘Fine. Pick it up and let’s go.’
‘Take it? Whatever for? Don’t need it no more, do we?’
Gregar was already pushing his way through the low brush. ‘It’s a bribe now.’
‘Who are they, do you think?’ Haraj asked, following.
‘Doesn’t really matter any more, does it?’ But Gregar made a quick last check to make certain neither of them was wearing or carrying any colours or sigils – of any troop or side.
They had to stand in the open for some time before one of the spear-carrying pickets noticed them through the rain. The skinny girl jumped and raised her spear. ‘Halt!’ she squeaked out, the spear quivering. ‘Raise your arms! Who – who’re you?’