‘Enough of that, soldier.’
Bottle shrugged, looked round. ‘Where’s Gesler gone?’
‘Probably off fertilizing the trees.’
‘Maybe,’ Bottle said, sounding unconvinced. ‘It’s just that I woke up earlier, and didn’t see him then either.’
Gods below. Waving at midges, Fiddler walked over to the far end of the glade, where the other squad was positioned. He saw Stormy standing like a sleep-addled bear-his red hair and beard a wild mass of twig-filled tangles-repeatedly kicking the side of a loudly snoring Shortnose.
‘Stormy,’ Fiddler called out softly, ‘where’s your sergeant gone to?’
‘No idea,’ the huge man replied. ‘He had last watch on this side, though. Hey, Fid, she wouldn’t have burned the Silanda, would she?’
‘Of course not. Listen, if Gesler ain’t back soon you’re going to have to go looking for him.’
Stormy’s small porcine eyes blinked at him. ‘Might be he’s lost? I didn’t think of that.’
‘Never mind that dimwitted act, Corporal.’
‘Yeah. That Koryk you got, he any good at tracking?’. ‘No. Damned near useless in fact, although don’t say that to his face. Bottle-’
‘Oh, him. That one gives me the creeps, Fid. Masturbates like I pick my nose. Now sure, soldiers will do that, but-’
‘He says it’s not him.’
‘Well, if Smiles wants to reach in under the covers-’
‘Smiles? What are you going on about, Stormy?’
‘I mean-’
‘Look, Bottle’s haunted by a damned ghost of some kind-Quick Ben confirmed it, so stop giving me that look. Anyway, that ghost’s, uh, female, and she likes him way too much-’
‘Mages are sick, Fid.’
‘Not a relevant point here, Stormy.’
‘So you say,’ the corporal said, shaking himself then turning away. ‘ “Not a relevant point here,”‘ he mimicked under his breath.
‘I can still hear you, Corporal.’
Stormy waved a wide, hairy hand but did not turn round, instead making his way towards the hearth. He paused in his first step to set his boot down on one of Shortnose’s hands. There was an audible crack and the heavy infantryman made a small sound, then sat up. Stormy continued on, while Shortnose looked down at his hand, frowning at the oddly angled third finger, which he then reset with a tug, before rising and wandering off to find somewhere to empty his bladder.
Fiddler scratched at his beard, then swung about and walked back to his squad.
Aye, we’re a lethal bunch.
Gesler wandered the strange ruins. The light was fast fading, making the place seem even more spectral. Round wells on all sides, at least a dozen scattered among the old trees. The stones were exquisitely cut, fitted without mortar-as he had discovered upon peeling back some moss. He had caught sight of the regular shapes from the edge of the glade, had first thought them to be the pedestals for some colonnaded structure long since toppled over. But the only other stone he found was paving, buckled by roots, making footing treacherous.
Seating himself on the edge of one of the wells, he peered down into the inky blackness, and could smell stagnant water. He felt oddly pleased with himself to find that his curiosity had not been as thoroughly dulled as he’d once believed. Not nearly as bad as, say, Cuttle. Now there was a grim bastard. Still, Gesler had seen a lot in his life, and some of it had permanently stained his skin-not to mention other, more subtle changes. But mostly that host of things witnessed, deeds done, not done, they just wore a man down.
He could not look at the tiny flames of the squad’s hearth without remembering Truth and that fearless plunge into Y’Ghatan’s palace. Or he’d glance down at the crossbow in his hands as they stumbled through this damned forest and recall Pella, skewered through the forehead, sagging against the corner of a building barely a hundred paces into Y’Ghatan itself. With every crow’s cackle he heard the echoes of the screams when dread ghosts had assailed the camp of the Dogslayers at Raraku. A glance down at his bared hands and their battered knuckles, and the vision rose in his mind of that Wickan, Coltaine, down on the banks of the Vathar-gods, to have led that mob that far, with more still to go, with nothing but cruel betrayal at the Fall.
The slaughter of the inhabitants of Aren, when the Logros T’lan Irrtass rose from the dust of the streets and their weapons of stone began to rise and fall, rise and fall. If not for that ex-Red Blade driving open the gates and so opening a path of escape, there would have been no survivors at all. None. Except us Malazans, who could only stand aside and watch the slaughter. Helpless as babes…
