The sergeant sighed. “I know. Came out of nowhere, didn't it?”
“Bloody convenient.”
Quick Ben reached the dome of rock. Both men fell silent at seeing his expression.
“I'm about to propose something you're going to hate,” the wizard said.
“Let's hear it,” Whiskeyjack replied, in a voice empty of feeling.
Ten minutes later the three men arrived on the slick pebbled beach, both Whiskeyjack and Kalam looking shaken. A dozen yards from the water's edge sat the fisher boat. Trotts was straining on the rope attached to the prow hook, gasping and moaning as he leaned forward with all his weight.
The rest of the squad stood in a clump off to one side, quietly discussing Trotts” futile efforts. Fiddler chanced to look up. Seeing Whiskeyjack marching towards them, he blanched.
“Trotts!” the sergeant bellowed.
The Barghast's face, woad tattoos stretched into illegibility, turned to Whiskeyjack with wide eyes.
“Let go of the rope, soldier.”
Kalam released an amused snort behind Whiskeyjack, who glared at the others. “Now,” he said, his voice harsh, “since one of you idiots convinced everyone else that loading all the equipment into the boat when it's still on shore was a good idea, you can all man the rope and drag it into the lake-not you, Trotts. You get inside, get comfortable, there at the stern.” Whiskeyjack paused. He studied Sorry's expressionless face.
“From Fiddler and Hedge I expect this, but I thought I put you in charge of setting things up.”
Sorry shrugged.
Whiskeyjack sighed. “Can you rig us a sail?”
“There's no wind.”
“Well, maybe there will be.” Whiskeyjack said, exasperated.
“Yes,” Sorry answered. “We have some canvas. We'll need a mast.”
“Take Fiddler and make one. Now, the rest of you, get this boat into the water.”
Trotts climbed inside and sat down at the stern. He stretched out his long legs and draped an arm over the splashboard. He bared his filed teeth in what might have been a smile.
Whiskeyjack turned to a grinning Kalam and Quick Ben. “Well?” he demanded. “What're you waiting for?”
The grins died.
CHAPTER NINE
Have you seen the one who stands apart cursed in a ritual sealing his kind beyond death the host amassed and whirling like a plague of pollen-
he stands apart the First among all ever veiled in time yet outcast and alone a T'lan Imass wandering like a seed unfallen
Lay of Onos T'oolan Toc the Younger
Toc the younger leaned forward in his saddle and spat. It was his third day out from Pale, and he longed for the city's high wall around him. The Rhivi Plain stretched out on all sides, cloaked in yellow grass that rippled in the afternoon wind, but otherwise featureless He scratched the edges of the wound that had taken his left eye, and muttered under his breath. Something was wrong. He should have met her two days past. Nothing was going as planned these days. What with Captain Paran vanishing before even meeting Whiskeyjack and the story making the rounds about a Hound attacking the 2nd's last-surviving mage and leaving fourteen dead marines in its wake, he supposed he shouldn't be surprised that this rendezvous had gone awry as well.
Chaos seemed a sign of the times. Toc straightened and rose in his saddle. Though there was no true road as such on the Plain, merchant caravans had mapped a rough track running north-south along the western edge. Trade had since died out, but the passing of generations of wagons and horse trains had left its mark. The centre of the Plain was home to the Rhivi, those small brown-skinned people who moved with the herds in a seasonal cycle. Though not warlike, the Malazan Empire had forced their hand, and now they fought and scouted alongside Caladan Brood's Tiste And? legions against the Empire.
Moranth reports placed the Rhivi far to the north and east, and Toc was thankful for that. He was feeling very alone out in this wasteland, yet loneliness was a lesser evil, all things considered.
Toc's single eye widened. It seemed he wasn't so alone, after all.
Perhaps a league ahead ravens wheeled. The man cursed and loosened the scimitar sheathed at his hip. He fought the urge to push his horse into a gallop and settled for a quick trot.
As he neared he saw trampled grass off to one side of the trader's track. The cackling laughter of the ravens was the only sound to break the stillness. They had already begun feeding. Toc reined in his horse and sat unmoving in his saddle, hunched forward. None of the bodies he saw looked as if they were apt to start moving, and the ravens” preoccupied squabbling was good evidence that any survivors had long gone. Still, he a bad feeling about this. Something hung in the air, something between a smell and a taste.
