‘You misunderstood me,’ Gamet replied. ‘I simply cannot believe that your soldiers found him here .’
Unease flitted across Blistig’s solid, broad features. ‘Aye, well, we’ve rounded up others in worse places, Fist. It’s what comes of-’ he squinted up the street, ‘of broken hearts.’
Fist. The title still clambers into my gut like a starving crow . Gamet frowned. ‘The Adjunct has no time for broken-hearted soldiers, Commander.’
‘It was unrealistic to arrive here expecting to stoke the fires of vengeance. Can’t stoke cold ashes, though don’t take me wrong, I wish her the Lady’s luck.’
‘Rather more is expected of you than that,’ Gamet said drily.
The streets were virtually deserted at this time of day, the afternoon heat oppressive. Of course, even at other times, Aren was not as it once had been. Trade from the north had ceased. Apart from Malazan warships and transports, and a few fisherboats, the harbour and river mouth were empty. This was, Gamet reflected, a scarred populace.
The squad was re-emerging from the inn, carrying with them a rag-clad, feebly struggling old man. He was smeared in vomit, the little hair he had left hanging like grey strings, his skin patched and grey with filth. Cursing at the stench, the soldiers of Blistig’s Aren Guard hurried their burden towards the cart’s bed.
‘It was a miracle we found him at all,’ the commander said. ‘I truly expected the old bastard to up and drown himself.’
Momentarily unmindful of his new title, Gamet turned and spat onto the cobbles. ‘This situation is contemptible, Blistig. Damn it, some semblance of military decorum-of control , Hood take me-should have been possible…’
The commander stiffened at Gamet’s tone. The guards gathered at the back of the cart all turned at his words.
Blistig stepped close to the Fist. ‘You listen to me and listen well,’ he growled under his breath, a tremble shivering across his scarred cheeks, his eyes hard as iron. ‘I stood on the damned wall and watched . As did every one of my soldiers. Pormqual running in circles like a castrated cat-that historian and those two Wickan children wailing with grief. I watched-we all watched-as Coltaine and his Seventh were cut down before our very eyes. And if that wasn’t enough, the High Fist then marched out his army and ordered them to disarm! If not for one of my captains delivering intelligence concerning Mallick Rel being an agent of Sha’ik’s, my Guard would have died with them. Military decorum? Go to Hood with your military decorum, Fist!’
Gamet stood unmoving at the commander’s tirade. It was not the first time that he’d felt the snap of this man’s temper. Since he had arrived with Adjunct Tavore’s retinue, and was given the liaison role that took him to the forefront of dealing with the survivors of the Chain of Dogs-both those who had come in with the historian Duiker, and those who had awaited them in the city-Gamet had felt under siege. The rage beneath the mantle of propriety erupted again and again. Hearts not simply broken, but shattered, torn to pieces, trampled on. The Adjunct’s hope of resurrecting the survivors-making use of their local experience to steady her legions of untested recruits-was, to Gamet, seeming more and more unrealistic with each day that passed.
It was also clear that Blistig cared little that Gamet made daily reports to the Adjunct, and could reasonably expect his tirades to have been passed on to Tavore, in culpable detail. The commander was doubly fortunate, therefore, that Gamet had as yet said nothing of them to the Adjunct, exercising extreme brevity in his debriefings and keeping personal observations to the minimum.
As Blistig’s words trailed away, Gamet simply sighed and approached the cart to look down on the drunken old man lying on its bed. The soldiers backed away a step-as if the Fist carried a contagion. ‘So,’ Gamet drawled, ‘this is Squint. The man who killed Coltaine-’
‘Was a mercy,’ one of the guards snapped.
‘Clearly, Squint does not think so.’
There was no reply to that. Blistig arrived at the Fist’s side. ‘All right,’ he said to his squad, ‘take him and get him cleaned up-and under lock and key.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Moments later the cart was being pulled away. Gamet faced Blistig once more. ‘Your rather unsubtle plan of getting yourself stripped of rank, shackled in irons, and sent back to Unta on the first ship, will not succeed, Commander. Neither the Adjunct, nor I, care one whit for your fragile state. We are preparing to fight a war, and for that you will be needed. You and every one of your crumple-faced soldiers.’
