‘Lieutenant wants your head on a plate,’ a voice murmured beside him.
Strings sighed and closed his eyes, lifting his face to the afternoon sun. ‘What the lieutenant wants and what he gets ain’t the same thing, Koryk.’
‘What he’ll get is the bunch of us right here,’ the Seti half-blood replied, rolling his broad shoulders, strands of his long black hair whipping across his flat-featured face.
‘The practice is to mix recruits with veterans,’ Strings said. ‘Despite everything you’ve heard, there’s survivors of the Chain of Dogs in yon city over there. A whole shipload of wounded marines and Wickans made it through, I’ve heard. And there’s the Aren Guard, and the Red Blades. A number of coastal marine ships straggled in as well. Finally, there’s Admiral Nok’s fleet, though I imagine he’ll want to keep his own forces intact.’
‘What for?’ another recruit asked. ‘We’re heading for a desert war, aren’t we?’
Strings glanced over at her. Frighteningly young, reminding him of another young woman who’d marched alongside him a while ago. He shivered slightly, then said, ‘The Adjunct would have to be a fool to strip the fleet. Nok’s ready to begin the reconquest of the coast cities-he could’ve started months ago. The empire needs secure ports. Without them we’re finished on this continent.’
‘Well,’ the young woman muttered, ‘from what I’ve heard, this Adjunct might be just what you said, old man. Hood knows, she’s nobleborn, ain’t she?’
Strings snorted, but said nothing, closing his eyes once more. He was worried the lass might be right. Then again, this Tavore was sister to Captain Paran. And Paran had shown some spine back in Darujhistan. At the very least, he was no fool.
‘Where’d you get the name “Strings”, anyway?’ the young woman asked after a moment.
Fiddler smiled. ‘That tale’s too long to tell, lass.’
Her gauntlets thudded down onto the tabletop, raising a cloud of dust. Armour rustling, sweat soaking the under-padding between her breasts, she unstrapped her helmet and-as the wench arrived with the tankard of ale-dragged out the rickety chair and sat down.
Street urchin messenger. Delivering a small strip of green silk which bore, written in a fine hand, the Malazan words: Dancer’s Tavern, dusk . Lostara Yil was more irritated than intrigued.
The interior of Dancer’s Tavern consisted of a single room, the four walls making some ancient claim to whitewashed plaster, remnants of which now clung to the adobe bricks in misshapen, wine-stained patches, like a map of a drunkard’s paradise. The low ceiling was rotting before the very eyes of owner and patron, dust sifting down in clouds lit by the low sun that cast streams of light through the front window’s shutters. Already, the foam-threaded surface of the ale in the tankard before her sported a dull sheen.
There were but three other patrons, two bent over a game of slivers at the table closest to the window, and a lone, mumbling, semi-conscious man slumped against the wall beside the piss trench.
Although early, the Red Blade captain was already impatient to see an end to this pathetic mystery, if mystery it was meant to be. She’d needed but a moment to realize who it was who had set up this clandestine meeting. And while a part of her was warmed by the thought of seeing him again-for all his affectations and airs he was handsome enough-she had sufficient responsibilities to wrestle with as Tene Baralta’s aide. Thus far, the Red Blades were being treated as a company distinct from the Adjunct’s punitive army, despite the fact that there were few soldiers available with actual fighting experience… and even fewer with the backbone to put that experience to use .
The disordered apathy rife in Blistig’s Aren Guard was not shared by the Red Blades. Kin had been lost in the Chain of Dogs, and that would be answered. If …
The Adjunct was Malazan-an unknown to Lostara and the rest of the Red Blades; even Tene Baralta, who had met her face to face on three occasions, remained unable to gauge her, to take her measure. Did Tavore trust the Red Blades?
Maybe the truth is already before us. She’s yet to give our company anything. Are we part of her army? Will the Red Blades be permitted to fight the Whirlwind?
Questions without answers. And here she sat, wasting time-The door swung open.
A shimmering grey cloak, green-tinted leathers, dark, sun-burnished skin, a wide, welcoming smile. ‘Captain Lostara Yil! I am delighted to see you again.’ He strode over, dismissing the approaching serving wench with a casual wave of one gloved hand. Settling into the chair opposite her, he raised two crystal goblets that seemed to appear from nowhere and set them on the dusty table. A black bottle, long-necked and glistening, followed. ‘I strongly advise against the local ale in this particular establishment, my dear. This vintage suits the occasion far better. From the sun-drenched south slopes of Gris, where grow the finest grapes this world has seen. Is mine an informed opinion, you are wondering? Most assuredly so, lass, since I hold a majority interest in said vineyards-’
