When it came to looks, there was not much to this Tavore Paran. Studious drab, sexless indifference, the wardrobe of the uncaring. A woman for whom womanly charms had less value than the lint in the creases of a coin purse. She could have made herself more attractive-almost feminine, in fact-if she so chose. But clearly such charms did not count as valuable assets to the Adjunct’s notions of command. And this was interesting, in a vague, academic sort of way. A leader who sought to lead without physical presence, without heroic or lustful or any other sort of imaginable grandeur. And so, with nary a hint of personality, what was Tavore left with?
Well, Shurq considered, there was her mind. Some kind of tactical genius? She wasn’t sure of that. From what Shurq had gathered from the fragmented mutterings of Balm’s squad, some vast error in judgement had already occurred.
Seemed there had been an advance landing of some sort. Elite troops, creeping onto the wild shore and its tangled swamps and forests in the dead of night. Soldiers with a mission to sow confusion and destabilize the Edur rule, and so stir the downtrodden Letherii into uprising.
Tactical genius? More like bad intelligence. The Letherii liked things just fine. This Tavore may well have condemned to slaughter a vital element of her army. They’d burned the transports-and what was that about? Leaving her own troops with no choice but to go on? That stinks of distrust, of no confidence-aye, that stinks worse than 1 do. Unless I’m reading it all wrong. Which is a distinct possibility. There’s nothing simple about these Malayans.
The Malazan Empire, aye. But nothing like the Letherii Empire, with its petty games of bloodlines and racial hierarchy. No, these Malazans came in all styles indeed. Look at Tavore’s aide-a stunning tattooed barbarian whose every movement was sensuality personified. Anyone looking that savage and primitive would be cleaning stalls here in the Letherii Empire. And there was Masan Gilani, another invitation to manly blubbering-oh, how Shurq wished she had skin that luscious, burnished hue, and the graceful, leonine lines of those long legs and full thighs, the swell of unsagging breasts with nipples that made her think of overripe figs-not that I needed to peek, she’s got less modesty than me and that’s saying a lot indeed. So, Tavore keeps the pretty ones close. Now that might be a telling hint.
‘What are we waiting for?’ Shake Brullyg demanded, close to being drunk enough to start slurring his words. He slouched in the chair at the other end of the long table, directly opposite the Adjunct but with his heavy-lidded eyes fixed on Masan Gilani. The man truly believed that lascivious leers could make a woman swoon with desire. Yet Masan Gilani hid her disgust well, playing it along to keep the pathetic king dangling. The barbaric soldier was following very specific orders, Shurq suspected. To keep Brullyg from getting belligerent. Until they didn’t need him any more.
Well, that wouldn’t work with her, now, would it? Unless these Malazans had an Ublala Pung hidden nearby. Oh, that would be unfortunate indeed, to see her dissolving into an insatiable rutting animal in front of everyone. That was one secret she had better keep to herself. ‘Relax, Brullyg,’ she said. ‘All of this has to do with those huge trimarans that sailed into harbour last night.’ She’d love to have one of those, too, although she’d need two crews which meant less coin for everyone-damned logistics, always getting in the way of my dreams.
The Adjunct was eyeing her now, one of those gauging regards she settled on Shurq Elalle whenever the undead pirate said anything. Her own fault, actually-Shurq had sent Skorgen back to the Undying Gratitude. Her first mate’s unfortunate assortment of afflictions had proved far too distracting for everyone else, until she realized he was becoming a liability, undermining her… professionalism. Yes, that’s the word 1 was looking for. Got to be taken seriously here. I suspect my very existence depends on it. But she now found herself missing his weeping hole in the face, his mangled ear, blinded eye, stumped arm and bad leg-anything to swing away Tavore’s attention every time she was unwise enough to voice an opinion or observation.
Throatslitter, who sat opposite Shurq, now cleared his throat-producing an odd squeak-and smiled across at her.
She looked away, pointedly. That man was not a nice man. The way Gerun Eberict hadn’t been a nice man. Took too much pleasure in his job, she suspected. And even for a soldier, that wasn’t sensible. People like that tended to linger when lingering wasn’t good. Tended to put other soldiers at risk. Tended to get carried away. No, she didn’t like Throatslitter.
Yet her glance away had inadvertently shifted her attention to Corporal Deadsmell. Oh, funny name, that. In some ways, that man was even worse. No secrets from him, she suspected, no matter how coy she was-yes, he could smell her, and not stale herbs either. Had smelled her, from the very start. Had it been some bastard like him who wove the curse now afflicting me? No, that wasn’t right. Deadsmell had talents unknown here on Lether. Talents that made her think of that dying tower in Letheras, and Kettle, and the barrows in the yard.
