Fifteen paces behind Gamet waited the other two Fists, as well as the Wickan scouts under the command of Temul. Nil and Nether were there as well, although, mercifully, Admiral Nok was not-for the fleet had sailed.
Impulses at war within him, Gamet trembled, wanting to be elsewhere-anywhere-and wanting to drag the Adjunct with him. Failing that, wanting to step forward, defying her direct order, to take position at her side.
Someone came alongside him. A heavy leather sack thumped into the dust, and Gamet turned to see a squat soldier, blunt-featured beneath a leather cap, wearing barely half of a marine’s standard issue of armour-a random collection of boiled leather fittings-over a threadbare, stained uniform, the magenta dye so faded as to be mauve. No insignia was present. The man’s scarred, pitted face stared impassively at the seething mob.
Gamet swung further round to see an additional dozen decrepit men and women, each standing an arm’s reach from the one in front, wearing unrepaired, piecemeal armour and carrying an assortment of weapons-few of which were Malazan.
The Fist addressed the man in the lead. ‘And who in Hood’s name are you people?’
‘Sorry we was late,’ the soldier grunted. ‘Then again,’ he added, ‘I could be lying.’
‘Late? Which squads? What companies?’
The man shrugged. ‘This and that. We was in Aren gaol. Why was we there? This and that. But now we’re here, sir. You want these children quelled?’
‘If you can manage that, soldier, I’ll give you a command of your own.’
‘No you won’t. I killed an Untan noble here in Aren. Name of Lenestro. Snapped his neck with these two hands.’
Through the clouds of dust before them, a sergeant had clawed free of the mob and was approaching Adjunct Tavore. For a moment Gamet was terrified that he would, insanely, cut her down right there, but the man sheathed his short-sword as he drew up before her. Words were exchanged.
The Fist made a decision. ‘Come with me, soldier.’
‘Aye, sir.’ The man reached down and collected his kit bag.
Gamet led him to where Tavore and the sergeant stood. An odd thing happened then. There was a grunt from the veteran at the Fist’s side, even as the wiry, red-and-grey-bearded sergeant’s eyes flickered past the Adjunct and fixed on the soldier. A sudden broad grin, then a quick succession of gestures-a hand lifting, as if holding an invisible rock or ball, then the hand flipping, index finger inscribing a circle, followed by a jerk of the thumb towards the east, concluded with a shrug. In answer to all this, the soldier from the gaol gave his kit bag a shake.
The sergeant’s blue eyes widened.