That night he tried to dream of a woman's hand and a fountain that no doubt held the sweetest water he had ever tasted. If he succeeded, he couldn't remember.
Nait Simal ‘Ap Url, of the Untan harbour guard, sat in the warm afternoon light watching yet another wallowing merchantman loaded with the collected loot of an empire lumber its way from the wharf pulled along by oared launches. Stinking rats. He leaned forward to spit a red stream of kaff juice into the oily waves beneath the piers. Fat rats. They must smell something – not the Imperial rot we regular vermin smell all around – no, their noses must quiver after other scents shifting in the wind. The stink of influence; the perfume of power. Nait smiled, his lips a red smear. He liked that one. The perfume of power. The musk of money? He frowned. Well, no, maybe not that one.
But where could they expect safe refuge if not here in the capital? Malaz? He chuckled, almost gagged on the wad of leaves tucked into one cheek. Hood no! Maybe a small anchorage somewheres, an isolated bay. Out of the way. Maybe buy protection from the fortified harbours of Nap or Kartool…
Leaning back, he banged on the wall of the harbour guard shack. ‘Sarge?’
‘What?’
‘I was thinkin’-’
‘How many times I gotta tell you not to do that, son. Bad for your health.’
‘I was just thinkin’ that maybe we oughta charge an exit fee. You know, like a departure tax. Somethin’ fancy like that. There's a whole flock o’ sheep skippin’ out unsheared.’
‘You think those merchant houses aren't paid up already? You want a visit from the Claw?’
The Claw? What've they got to do with anything? We got our thing goin’ as do others. Everyone gets a piece of the pie, no one gets hurt. Always been that way.’
‘Some folks want to run the bakery,’ his sergeant said so low Nait barely caught it.
The gold afternoon light warming Nait was occluded. Squinting, he made out a pair of polished black leather boots that climbed all the way up to wide hips, ending under the canted weaponbelt and broad heavy bosom of the corporal of the guard, Hands.
‘You're chewin’ that outland filth again, Nait,’ she said.
‘Yes, ma'am.’
‘That's “sir” to you, skinny.’
‘Yes – sir.’
‘Spit it out.’
‘Aw, Hands-’
‘Sir!’
‘It cost me my last-’
‘I don't give a dead rat to Hood what you choose to waste your money on. You're on duty.’
‘That's right,’ came Sergeant Tinsmith's voice.
Scowling, Nait leaned forward opening his mouth wide and pushed out the wad with his tongue. It landed on the grey slats of the pier with a spray of red spit that dappled Hands’ boots.
‘Damn you to Fener!’
Nait wiped his sleeve across his mouth. ‘Sorry – sir’
Hands reached up to straighten the braid of auburn hair tucked down the back of her scaled hauberk. Raising her chin to the shack she said, low, ‘We'll talk later, soldier.’
As she walked away Nait blew a kiss.
‘Like I said, soldier,’ said his sergeant, ‘bad for your health.’
‘I'm not scared of her.’
‘You should be.’
Bending down again, Nait picked up the wet lump and shoved it back into his mouth. Ha! He could take her. Maybe that's what she's been holding out for all this time – for him to show her who was the boss. Nait smiled again. Then he frowned, puzzled. What the Abyss had that been? He peered out over the edge of the slats. Little pads, like leaves, floating out on the waves. Some appeared to hold copper coins, twists of ribbon, rice, fruit and the stubs of candles, a few still burning. They bobbed along together like some kind of flotilla. It was more of those damned offerings to that ruddy sea god cult. He'd been seeing more of that lately. He spat out a stream, upending a swath of the pads. Ha! Stupid superstitions for fearful times. He could understand such things out in the backwaters of Nap or Geni, but here in Unta? People were supposed to be sophisticated here. He shook his head. What was civilization coming to?
Fist Genist D'Irdrel of Cawn took one glance at Fort Saran and despaired. A four-year stint in this sore on the hind of a mule? Why couldn't command have been moved to the settlement of Seti? Pitiable though it may be. He wiped the sweat-caked sleeve of his grey Malazan jupon once more across his face. Squinting against the glare of the sun, he studied the burnt umber of the low rolling grassland hills, the clumps of faded greenery here and there in cut streams and slumps. But what most caught his attention was the surprisingly large number of Seti camps, collections of their felt and hide tents, gathered around the fort in slums of cookfires, corralled horses and mongrel dogs. By the Gods, he vowed, someone back at staff headquarters was going to pay for this insult.
‘Not so bad if you squint real hard,’ the man riding behind remarked.
Genist swung in his saddle, glared. ‘You said something, Captain?’
The captain, newly transferred to the 15th Horse, shrugged in a way that annoyed Genist. In fact, everything about the man annoyed Genist. The man had only been with the regiment for a few weeks yet almost immediately the sergeants deferred to him – he'd seen how when he gave orders their eyes shifted edge-wise to this captain, Moss, he called himself, for confirmation. Yet there was also something about his sharp eyes, worn gloves and the equally worn sheaths of the two ivory-gripped sabres at his sides that blunted Genist's usual treatment of his subordinates.
Behind them, the double-ranked column of two thousand Malazan cavalry waited silent under the beating sun.
‘Sign the advance,’ Genist snarled to the signaller.
Captain Moss cleared his throat.
‘What now?’ Genist hissed.
The scouts haven't returned from the fort, Commander.’
‘Well, what of it? There it is! The fort! What do we need scouts for, by Hood's own eyes!’
‘It's not regulation.’
‘Regulation!’ Genist blinked, lowered his voice. ‘We're not at the front, you damned fool. This is the centre of the continent.’ Genist took a low breath, turned on the signaller. ‘The advance.’
As they rode, for once Captain Moss said nothing. The man's slowly learning his place, Genist decided. In the distance, cresting the hillocks, groups of mounted Seti cavalry raised plumes of dust into the still hot air. Gods, Genist groaned inwardly. Two years among these half-breed barbarians. What might the whores look like? Probably not a decent one in the whole plains. He squinted at the nearest horsemen – grey fur standard. Wolf soldiers. He scanned the hills, searching. There, to the rear, a white fur standard. Jackal soldiers – the legendary aristocracy of the warrior societies, sworn to the terror of the plains, Ryllandaras, the white jackal. An ancient power of the same blood, so legend went, as the First Heroes themselves. Treach, now Trake, the newly risen god of battle, among them.
Ahead, the tall double doors of Fort Saran opened. The officer of the gate saluted Genist, who nodded his acknowledgement. Within, the central marshalling grounds lay empty. A stone tower stood a squat and broad three storeys at the fort's north palisade wall. Thank the Lady for that, Genist allowed. A delegation awaited before it.
‘Order the assembly,’ he told the signaller, and urged his mount forward. To his irritation, Moss accompanied him. ‘I do not see Fist Darlat.’ Behind them, the cavalry formed up ranks on the grounds.
‘Never met her,’ said Moss.
Instead of Fist Darlat, all that awaited Genist and formal transfer of command was a motley gang of scruffy officers in faded, worn surcoats. Surely they could not be serious! True, Saran was only a fort, but command here was putative Malazan military governor of the entire Seti plains! A region as large as Dal Hon itself to the south. Was this some kind of calculated insult?