‘Aye, just the one.’
She straightened. ‘So where are the rest of them?’
‘Start looking for a trail or something,’ Balm said to Masan Gilani.
They all watched her head off into the gloom.
Then smiled at each other.
Lostara Yil walked up to where stood the Adjunct. ‘Most of the squads are back,’ she reported. ‘Pickets are being set now.’
‘Has Sergeant Balm returned?’
‘Not yet, Adjunct.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘Fist Keneb would have sent a runner.’
Tavore turned slightly to regard her. ‘Would he?’
Lostara Yil blinked. ‘Of course. Even at full strength-which we know would be impossible-he doesn’t have the soldiers to take Letheras. Adjunct, having heard nothing, we have to anticipate the worst.’
During the battle, Lostara Yil had remained close to her commander, although at no point was the Adjunct in any danger from the Letherii. The landing had been quick, professional. As for the battle, classic Malazan, even without the usual contingent of marines to augment the advance from the shoreline. Perfect, and brutal.
The Letherii were already in poor shape, she saw. Not from any fight, but from a fast march from well inland-probably where the wave of sorcery had erupted. Disordered in their exhaustion, and in some other, unaccountable way, profoundly rattled.
Or so had been the Adjunct’s assessment, after watching the enemy troops form ranks.
And she had been proved right. The Letherii had shattered like thin ice on a puddle. And what had happened to their mages? Nowhere in sight, leading Lostara to believe that those mages had used themselves up with that terrible conflagration they’d unleashed earlier.
Moranth munitions broke the Letherii apart-the Letherii commander had sent archers down the slope and the Bonehunters had had to wither a hail of sleeting arrows on their advance. There had been three hundred or so killed or wounded but there should have been more. Malazan armour, it turned out, was superior to the local armour; and once the skirmishers drew within range of their crossbows and sharpers, the enemy archers took heavy losses before fleeing back up the slope.
The Malazans simply followed them.
Sharpers, a few cussers sailing over the heads of the front Letherii ranks. Burners along the slope of the far left flank to ward off a modest cavalry charge. Smokers into the press to sow confusion. And then the wedges struck home.
Even then, had the Letherii stiffened their defence along the ridge, they could have bloodied the Malazans. Instead, they melted back, the lines collapsing, writhing like a wounded snake, and all at once the rout began. And with it, unmitigated slaughter.
The Adjunct had let her soldiers go, and Lostara Yil understood that decision. So much held down, for so long-and the growing belief that Fist Keneb and all his marines were dead. Murdered by sorcery. Such things can only be answered one sword-swing at a time, until the arm grows leaden, until the breaths are gulped down ragged and desperate.
And now, into the camp, the last of the soldiers were returning from their slaughter of Letherii. Faces,drawn, expressions numbed-as if each soldier had but just awakened from a nightmare, one in which he or she-surprise-was the monster.
She hardens them, for that is what she needs.
The Adjunct spoke, ‘Grub does not behave like a child who has lost his father.’
Lostara Yil snorted. ‘The lad is addled, Adjunct. You saw him dance. You heard him singing about candles.’
‘Addled. Yes, perhaps.’
‘In any case,’ Lostara persisted, ‘unlike Sinn, Grub has no talents, no way of knowing the fate of Fist Keneb. As for Sinn, well, as you know, I have little faith in her. Not because I believe her without power. She has that, Dryjhna knows.’ Then she shrugged. ‘Adjunct, they were on their own-entirely on their own-for so long. Under strength to conduct a full-scale invasion.’ She stopped then, realizing how critical all of this sounded. And isn’t it just that? A
criticism of this, and of you, Adjunct. Didn’t we abandon them?
‘I am aware of the views among the soldiers,’ Tavore said, inflectionless.
‘Adjunct,’ Lostara said, ‘we cannot conduct much of a siege, unless we use what sappers we have and most of our heavier munitions-I sense you’re in something of a hurry and have no interest in settling in. When will the rest of the Perish and the Khundryl be joining us?’
‘They shall not be joining us,’ Tavore replied. ‘We shall be joining them. To the east.’
The other half of this campaign. Another invasion, then. Damn you, Adjunct, 1 wish you shared your strategies. With me. Hood, with anyone! ‘I have wondered,’ she said, ‘at the disordered response from the Tiste Edur and the Letherii.’
The Adjunct sighed, so low, so drawn out that Lostara Yil barely caught it. Then Tavore said, ‘This empire is unwell. Our original assessment that the Tiste Edur were unpopular overseers was accurate. Where we erred, with respect to Fist Keneb’s landing, was in not sufficiently comprehending the complexities of that relationship. The split has occurred, Captain. It just took longer.’
At the expense of over a thousand marines.
‘Fist Keneb would not send a runner,’ Tavore said. ‘He would, in fact, lead his marines straight for Letheras. “First in, last out,” as Sergeant Fiddler might say.’
‘Last in, looking around,’ Lostara said without thinking, then winced. ‘Sorry, Adjunct-’
‘The Bonehunters’ motto, Captain?’
She would not meet her commander’s eyes. ‘Not a serious one, Adjunct. Coined by some heavy infantry soldier, I am told-’
‘Who?’
She thought desperately. ‘Nefarrias Bredd, I think.’
And caught, from the corner of her eye, a faint smile twitch Tavore’s thin lips. Then it was gone and, in truth, might never have been.
‘It may prove,’ the Adjunct said, ‘that Fist Keneb will earn us that ironic motto-those of us here, that is, in this camp.’
A handful of marines to conquer an imperial capital? ‘Adjunct-’
‘Enough. You will command for this night, Captain, as my representative. We march at dawn.’ She turned. ‘I must return to the Froth Wolf.’
‘Adjunct?’
Tavore grimaced. ‘Another argument with a certain weaponsmith and his belligerent wife.’ Then she paused, ‘Oh, when or if Sergeant Balm returns, I would hear his report.’
‘Of course,’ Lostara Yil replied. If?
She watched the Adjunct walk away, down towards the shore.
Aboard the Froth Wolf, Shurq Elalle leaned against the mainmast, her arms crossed, watching the three black, hairless, winged ape-like demons fighting over a shortsword. The scrap, a tumbling flurry of biting, scratching and countless inadvertent cuts and slices from the weapon itself, had migrated from the stern end of the mid-deck and was now climbing up onto the foredeck.
Sailors stood here and there, keeping well clear, and trading wagers on which demon would win out-an issue of some dispute since it was hard to tell the three beasts apart.
‘-with the cut across the nose-wait, Mael’s salty slick! Now another one’s got the same cut! Okay, the one without-’
‘-which one just lost that ear? Cut nose and missing ear, then!’
Close beside Shurq Elalle, a voice said*, ‘None of it’s real, you know.’
She turned. ‘Thought she had you chained below.’
‘Who, the Adjunct? Why-’
‘No. Your wife, Withal.’
The man frowned. ‘That’s how it looks, is it?’
‘Only of late,’ Shurq replied. ‘She’s frightened for you, I think.’
To that he made no response.
‘A launch is returning,’ Shurq observed, then straightened. ‘I hope it’s the Adjunct-I’m ready to leave your blessed company. No offence, Withal, but I’m nervous about my first mate and what he might be doing with the Undying Gratitude.’
The Meckros weaponsmith turned to squint out into the darkness of the main channel. ‘Last I saw, he’d yet to drop anchor and was just sailing back and forth.’