Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7)

‘Captain,’ Skorgen objected, ‘he’s in mourning-’

‘Be quiet, Pretty. Me and Ballant are having an inconsequential conversation.’

Yes, most inconsequential, even if that diamond blinded him, and that wonderful spicy aroma that was her breath made his head swim as if it was the finest liqueur. Blinking, he licked his lips-tasting sweat-then said, ‘They have lots of private meetings with Brullyg Shake. Then they come down here and waste time.’

Even her answering grunt was lovely.

Skorgen snorted-wetly-then reached out with his one good hand and wiped clean the tabletop. ‘Can you believe that, Captain? Brullyg an old friend of yours and you can’t e’en get in to see him while a bunch of cheap foreigners can natter in his ear all day an’ every day!’ He half rose. ‘I’m thinking a word with these here-’

‘Sit down, Pretty. Something tells me you don’t want to mess with that crowd. Unless you’re of a mind to lose another part of your body.’ Her frown deepened, almost swallowing that diamond. ‘Ballant, you said they waste time, right? Now, that’s the real curious part about all this. People like them don’t waste time. No. They’re waiting. For something or someone. And those meetings with the Shake-that sounds like negotiating, the kind of negotiating that Brullyg can’t walk away from.’

That don’t sound good, Captain,’ Skorgen muttered. ‘In fact, it makes me nervous. Never mind avalanches of ice-Brullyg didn’t run when that was coming down-’

Shurq Elalle thumped the table. ‘That’s it! Thank you, Pretty. It-was something one of those women said. Brevity or Pithy-one of them. That ice was beaten back, all right, but not thanks to the handful of mages working for the Shake. No-those foreigners are the ones who saved this damned island. And that’s why Brullyg can’t bar his door against them. It isn’t negotiation, because they’re the ones doing all the talking.’ She slowly leaned back. ‘No wonder the Shake won’t see me-Errant take us, I’d be surprised if he was still alive-’

‘No, he’s alive,’ Ballant said. ‘At least, people have seen him. Besides, he has a liking for Fent ale and orders a cask from me once every three days without fail, and that hasn’t changed. Why, just yesterday-’

The captain leaned forward again. ‘Ballant. Next time you’re told to deliver one, let me and Pretty here do the delivering.’

‘Why, I could deny you nothing, Captain,’ Ballant said, then felt his face flush.

But she just smiled.

He liked these inconsequential conversations. Not much different from those he used to have with his wife. And… yes, here it was-that sudden sense of a yawning abyss awaiting his next step. Nostalgia rose within him, brimming his eyes.

Under siege, dear husband? One swing of this fist and those walls will come tumbling down-you do know that, husband, don’t you?

Oh yes, my love.

Odd, sometimes he would swear she’d never left. Dead or not, she still had teeth.

Blue-grey mould filled pocks in the rotted ice like snow’s own fur, shedding with the season as the sun’s bright heat devoured the glacier. But winter, when it next came, would do little more than slow the inexorable disintegration. This river of ice was dying, an age in retreat.

Seren Pedac had scant sense of the age to come, since she felt she was drowning in its birth, swept along in the mud and refuse of long-frozen debris. Periodically, as their discordant, constantly bickering party climbed ever higher into the northern Bluerose Mountains, they would hear the thundering collapse of distant ice cliffs, calving beneath the besieging sun; and everywhere water streamed across bared rock, coughed its way along channels and fissures, swept past them in its descent into darkness-the journey to the sea just begun-swept past, to traverse subterranean caverns, shadowed gorges, sodden forests.

The mould was sporing, and that had triggered a recoil of Seren’s senses-her nose was stuffed, her throat was dry and sore and she was racked with bouts of sneezing that had proved amusing enough to elicit even a sympathetic smile from Fear Sengar. That hint of sympathy alone earned her forgiveness-the pleasure the others took at her discomfort deserved nothing but reciprocation, when the opportunity arose, and she was certain it would.

Silchas Ruin, of course, was not afflicted with a sense of humour, in so far as she could tell. Or its dryness beggared a desert. Besides, he strode far enough ahead to spare himself her sneezing fits, with the Tiste Andii, Clip, only a few strides in his wake-like a sparrow harassing a hawk. Every now and then some fragment of Clip’s monologue drifted back to where Seren and her companions struggled along, and while it was clear that he was baiting the brother of his god, it was equally evident that the Mortal Sword of the Black-Winged Lord was, as Udinaas had remarked, using the wrong bait.