And yet … they saluted us .
She could not get that moment out of her mind. The faces haunted her and she feared they would do so for the rest of her life.
Whose army are they? These Bonehunters. What is their cause? And the strength within them, where does it come from? Is it held in the soul of the Adjunct? No – at least, I don’t think so. Oh, she is the focus for them all, but they have no love for her. They see her, if at all, as no different from a mountain, a column of storm clouds, a bitter grey sea – they see her as part of the natural world, a thing to be borne, to be weathered .
I saw in their faces the erosion of her will, and they bore it. They bore it as they did all else. These Malazans, they shame the gods themselves .
‘Coming up on us fast, Highness, out of the northwest.’
Brys nodded. ‘Draw in the flying wing, Preda. I will take out our standard-bearer and my Atri-Ceda – when you see us ride out from the column, fall the wing in behind us.’
‘Yes, Highness.’
Brys listened to the Preda dispatching riders, one out to the flanking wing of light cavalry, another to retrieve Aranict from down the column. The standard-bearer rode up beside the prince, his face pale and drawn. ‘No need for alarm, soldier,’ Brys said to the young man. ‘This shall be a meeting of allies.’
‘But … lizards, sir!’
‘K’Chain Che’Malle. Not Short-Tails – I am sure you have heard, the army now approaching us subsequently defeated the Nah’ruk.’
The young man nodded, nervously licking his lips.
Brys studied him. ‘Soldier, our clash with the Nah’ruk – was that your first taste of battle?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You bore this standard?’
‘No, sir. Well, I was the third to take it up that day, and by then we were in full retreat—’
‘Withdrawal,’ Brys corrected. ‘Trust me, a full retreat is a far messier thing than what we managed.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Brys glanced up at the standard and fought down a groan, reminded once again of his brother’s perverse humour. Not a legion’s standard. No, the Imperial Standard, no less . Depending from a cross-bridge of iron, the cloth was a tattered rectangle of colourless wool – it was, in fact, a fair copy of Tehol’s blanket, almost to scale. And where one might expect some elegant or proud heraldic crest at centre, there was instead the new royal sigil of King Tehol the Only of Lether: a three-quarter-on rendition of his brother’s roof-top bed, and if one looked carefully one would see cowering beneath that bed a row of six plucked – but living – hens. Eyeing it, Brys recalled his meeting with Tehol upon the unveiling.
‘ You would have our armies fight under that? ’
‘ Well , I did. The bed, I mean. And so did the chickens – can you imagine the extent of their holy dread, knowing that God wanted to cook them? All right, not their god, not precisely. Though we cannot actually be sure of that, can we? Bugg, are you worshipped by hens and cocks? ’
‘ Not both at the same time, sire .’
‘ Thank you. Most enlightening .’
‘ My very reason to exist, sire. You are welcome .’
‘ Tehol —’
‘ Yes, Brys? ’
‘ I understand your notion that dignity cannot be found in the … er, material – not a throne, not a crown, not even a fine estate or whatnot – but when it comes to the military —’
‘ Oh, that’s all I ever hear from you, brother! “It’s not that way in the military, Tehol”, “The enlisted won’t go for that, Tehol”, “They don’t like pink, Tehol”. The pathetic conservatism of that hoary institution is, frankly, embarrassing .’
‘ I don’t recall any mention of pink, sire .’
‘ There wasn’t, Bugg. I was being illustrative .’
‘ What kind of illustration did you have in mind? Shall I summon the court artist again? ’
‘ Abyss no! After that debacle with my wife and that pretty guard —’
‘ Ex-guard, sire .’
‘ Really? By whose order? I demand to know! ’
‘ Your wife, the queen, sire .’
‘ That interfering cow … oh, don’t look at me like that, beloved – I was but referring to you in your official capacity. Thus, while I rail at the queen, my love for my beautiful wife remains in its usual beaming manner for ever untarnished —’
‘ Too bad the same cannot be said for that poor young woman, husband .’