Reaper's Gale

  In terribly accented Letherii, Lobe said, ‘You get your ale comes today, right? Best want to be waiting here for that. We walk you tonight.’

  Like a Liberty mistress her pampered dog. Isn’t that nice? And when I lift a leg and piss against you, Lobe, what then?

  These soldiers here did not frighten him. It was the other squad, the one still up-island. The one with that scrawny little mute girl. And she had a way of showing up as if from nowhere. From a swirl of light – he wondered what the Shake witches would make of that cute trick. All Lobe needed to do – Lobe, or Masan Gilani, or Galt, any of them – all they needed to do was call her name.

  Sinn.

  A real terror that one, and not a talon showing. He suspected he’d need the whole coven to get rid of her. Preferably with great losses. The coven had a way of crowding the chosen rulers of the Shake. And they’re on their way, like ravens to a carcass, all spit and cackle. Of course, they can’t fly. Can’t even swim. No, they’ll need boats, to take them across the strait – and that’s assuming the Reach isn’t now a jumbled mass of ice, which is how it looks from here.

  The soldier named Galt rose from his chair, wincing at some twinge in his lower back, then ambled over to what had been the prefect’s prize possession, a tapestry that dominated an entire wall. Faded with age – and stained in the lower left corner with dried spatters of the poor prefect’s blood – the hanging depicted the First Landing of the Letherii, although in truth that was not the colonizers’ first landing. The fleet had come within sight of shore somewhere opposite the Reach. Fent canoes had ventured out to establish contact with the strangers. An exchange of gifts had gone awry, resulting in the slaughter of the Fent men and the subsequent enslavement of the women and children in the village. Three more settlements had suffered the same fate. The next four, southward down the coast, had been hastily abandoned.

  The fleet had eventually rounded Sadon Peninsula on the north coast of the Ouster Sea, then sailed past the Lenth Arm and into Gedry Bay. The city of Gedry was founded on the place of the First Landing, at the mouth of the Lether River. This tapestry, easily a thousand years old, was proof enough of that. The general belief these days was that the landing occurred at the site of the capital itself, well up the river. Strange how the past was remade to suit the present. A lesson there Brullyg could use, once he was king. The Shake were a people of failure, fated to know naught but tragedy and pathos. Guardians of the shore, but incapable of guarding it against the sea’s tireless hunger. All of that needed . . . revising.

  The Letherii had known defeat. Many times. Their history on this land was bloody, rife with their betrayals, their lies, their heartless cruelties. All of which were now seen as triumphant and heroic.

  This is how a people must see itself. As we Shake must. A blinding beacon on this dark shore. When I am king . . .

  ‘Look at this damned thing,’ Galt said. ‘Here, that writing in the borders – that could be Ehrlii.’

  ‘But it isn’t,’ Lobe muttered. He had dismantled one of his daggers; on the table before him was the pommel, a few rivets and pins, a wooden handle wrapped in leather, a slitted hilt and the tanged blade. It seemed the soldier was now at a loss on how to put it all back together again.

  ‘Some of the letters—’

  ‘Ehrlii and Letherii come from the same language,’ Lobe said.

  Galt’s glare was suspicious. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I don’t, you idiot. It’s just what I was told.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ebron, I think. Or Shard. What difference does it make? Somebody who knows things, that’s all. Hood, you’re making my brain hurt. And look at this mess.’

  ‘Is that my knife?’

  ‘Was.’

  Brullyg saw Lobe cock his head, then the soldier said, ‘Footsteps bottom of the stairs.’ And with these words, his hands moved in a blur, and even as Galt was walking towards the door, Lobe was twisting home the pommel and flipping the knife into Galt’s path. Where it was caught one-handed – Galt had not even slowed in passing.

  Brullyg settled back in his chair.

  Rising, Masan Gilani loosened from their scabbards the vicious-looking long-bladed knives at her hips. ‘Wish I was with my own squad,’ she said, then drew a step closer to where Brullyg sat.

  ‘Stay put,’ she murmured.

  Mouth dry, he nodded.

  ‘It’s likely the ale delivery,’ Lobe said from one side of the door, while Galt unlocked it and pushed it out wide enough to enable him to peer through the crack.

  ‘Sure, but those boots sound wrong.’

  ‘Not the usual drooling fart and his son?’

  ‘Not even close.’

  ‘All right.’ Lobe reached under the table and lifted into view a crossbow. A truly foreign weapon, constructed entirely of iron – or something very much like Letherii steel. The cord was thick as a man’s thumb, and the quarrel set into the groove was tipped with an x-shaped head that would punch through a Letherii shield as if it was birch bark. The soldier cranked the claw back and somehow locked it in place. Then he moved along the door’s wall to the corner.

  Galt edged back as the footsteps on the stairs drew nearer. He made a series of hand gestures to which Masan Gilani grunted in response and Brullyg heard ripping cloth behind him and a moment later the point of a knife pressed between his shoulder blades – thrust right through the damned chair. She leaned down. ‘Be nice and be stupid, Brullyg. We know these two and we can guess why they’re here.’

  Glancing back at Masan Gilani, nodding once, Galt then moved into the doorway, opening wide the door. ‘Well,’ he drawled in his dreadful Letherii, ‘if it isn’t the captain and her first mate. Run out of money comes too soon? What you making to comes with ale?’

  A heavy growl from beyond. ‘What did he say, Captain?’

  ‘Whatever it was, he said it badly.’ A woman, and that voice – Brullyg frowned. That was a voice he had heard before. The knife tip dug deeper into his spine.

  ‘We’re bringing Shake Brullyg his ale,’ the woman continued.

  ‘That’s nice,’ Galt replied. ‘We see he comes gets it.’

  ‘Shake Brullyg’s an old friend of mine. I want to see him.’

  ‘He’s busy.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Thinking.’

  ‘Shake Brullyg? I really doubt that – and who in the Errant’s name are you anyway? You’re no Letherii, and you and those friends of yours hanging out at the tavern, well, none of you were prisoners here either. I asked around. You’re from that strange ship anchored in the bay.’

  ‘Why, Captain, it is simple. We comes to goes all the ice. So Brullyg he rewards us. Guests. Royal guests. Now we keep him company. He is smiles nice all the time. We nice too.’

  ‘Nice idiots, I think,’ the man outside – presumably the captain’s first mate – said in a growl. ‘Now, my arm’s getting tired – move aside and let me deliver this damned thing.’

  Galt glanced back over a shoulder at Masan Gilani, who said in Malazan, ‘Why you looking at me? I’m just here to keep this man’s tongue hanging.’

  Brullyg licked sweat from his lips. So even knowing that, why does it still work? Am I that stupid? ‘Let them in,’ he said in a low voice. ‘So I can ease their minds and send them away.’

  Galt looked at Masan Gilani again, and though she said nothing, some kind of communication must have passed between them, for he shrugged and stepped back. ‘Comes the ale.’

  Brullyg watched as the two figures entered the chamber. The one in the lead was Skorgen Kaban the Pretty. Which meant . . . yes. The would-be king smiled, ‘Shurq Elalle. You’ve not aged a day since I last saw you. And Skorgen – put the cask down, before you dislocate your shoulder and add lopsided to your list of ailments. Broach the damned thing and we can all have a drink. Oh,’ he added as he watched the two pirates take in the soldiers – Skorgen almost jumping when he saw Lobe in the corner, crossbow now cradled in his
arms – ‘these are some of my royal guests. At the door, Galt. In the corner, Lobe, and this lovely here with the one hand behind the back of my chair is Masan Gilani.’

  Shurq Elalle collected one of the chairs near the door and dragged it opposite Brullyg. Sitting, she folded one leg over the other and laced her hands together on her lap. ‘Brullyg, you half-mad cheating miser of a bastard. If you were alone I’d be throttling that flabby neck of yours right now.’

  ‘Can’t say I’m shocked by your animosity,’ Shake Brullyg replied, suddenly comforted by his Malazan bodyguards. ‘But you know, it was never as bad or ugly as you thought it was. You just never gave me the chance to explain—’

  Shurq’s smile was both beautiful and dark. ‘Why, Brullyg, you were never one to explain yourself.’

  ‘A man changes.’

  ‘That’d be a first.’

  Brullyg resisted shrugging, since that would have opened a nasty slit in the flesh of his back. Instead, he lifted his hands, palms up, as he said, ‘Let’s set aside all that history. The Undying Gratitude rests safe and sound in my harbour. Cargo offloaded and plenty of coin in your purse. I imagine you’re itching to leave our blessed isle.’

  ‘Something like that,’ she replied. ‘Alas, it seems we’re having trouble getting, uh, permission. There’s the biggest damned ship I’ve ever seen blocking the harbour mouth right now, and a sleek war galley of some kind is making for berth at the main pier. You know,’ she added, with another quick smile, ‘it’s all starting to look like some kind of . . . well . . . blockade.’

  The knife-point left Brullyg’s back and Masan Gilani, sliding the weapon into its scabbard, stepped round. When she spoke this time, it was in a language Brullyg had never heard before.

  Lobe levelled the crossbow again, aiming towards Brullyg, and answered Masan in the same tongue.

  Skorgen, who had been kneeling beside the cask, thumping at the spigot with the heel of one hand, now rose. ‘What in the Errant’s name is going on here, Brullyg?’

  A voice spoke from the doorway, ‘Just this. Your captain’s right. Our waiting’s done.’

  The soldier named Throatslitter was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed. He was smiling across at Masan Gilani. ‘Good news ain’t it? Now you can take your delicious curves and such and dance your way down to the pier – I’m sure Urb and the rest are missing ‘em something awful.’

  Shurq Elalle, who had not moved from her chair, sighed loudly then said, ‘Pretty, I don’t think we’ll be leaving this room for a while. Find us some tankards and pour, why don’t you?’

  ‘We’re hostages?’

  ‘No no,’ his captain replied. ‘Guests.’

  Masan Gilani, hips swaying considerably more than was necessary, sauntered out of the chamber.

  Under his breath, Brullyg groaned.

  ‘As I said earlier,’ Shurq murmured, ‘men don’t change.’ She glanced over at Galt, who had drawn up the other chair. ‘I assume you won’t let me strangle this odious worm.’

  ‘Sorry, no.’ A quick smile. ‘Not yet anyway.’

  ‘So, who are your friends in the harbour?’

  Galt winked. ‘We’ve a little work to do, Captain. And we’ve decided this island will do just fine as headquarters.’

  ‘Your skill with Letherii has noticeably improved.’

  ‘Must be your fine company, Captain.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Throatslitter said from the doorway.

  ‘Deadsmell says she’s standing on the wrong side of Hood’s gate, despite what you see or think you see.’

  Galt slowly paled.

  ‘Not sure what he means by all that,’ Shurq Elalle said, her sultry eyes settling on Galt, ‘but my appetites are as lively as ever.’

  ‘That’s . . . disgusting.’

  ‘Explains the sweat on your brow, I suppose.’

  Galt hastily wiped his forehead. ‘This one’s worse than Masan Gilani,’ he complained.

  Brullyg shifted nervously in his chair. Timing. These damned Malazans had it by the bucketful. Freedom should’ve lasted longer than this. ‘Hurry up with that ale, Pretty.’

  Finding yourself standing, alone, cut loose, with an unhappy army squirming in your hands, was a commander’s greatest nightmare. And when you got them running straight into the wilderness of an ocean at the time, it’s about as bad as it can get.

  Fury had united them, for a while. Until the truth started to sink in, like botfly worms under the skin. Their homeland wanted them all dead. There’d be no seeing family – no wives, husbands, mothers, fathers. No children to bounce on one knee while working numbers in the head – wondering which neighbour’s eyes you’re looking down at. No chasms to cross, no breaches to mend. Every loved one as good as dead.

  Armies get unruly when that happens. Almost as bad as no loot and no pay.

  We were soldiers of the empire. Our families depended on the wages, the tax relief, the buy-outs and the pensions. And a lot of us were young enough to think about signing out, making a new life, one that didn’t involve swinging a sword and looking in the eye of some snarling thug wanting to cut you in two. Some of us were damned tired.

  So, what kept us together?

  Well, no ship likes to sail alone, does it?

  But Fist Blistig knew that there was more to it. Dried blood holding everyone in place like glue. The seared burn of betrayal, the sting of fury. And a commander who sacrificed her own love to see them all survive.

  He had spent too many days and nights on the Froth Wolf standing no less than five paces from the Adjunct, studying her stiff back as she faced the surly seas. A woman who showed nothing, but some things no mortal could hide, and one of those things was grief. He had stared and he had wondered. Was she going to come through this? Someone – might have been Keneb, who at times seemed to understand Tavore better than anyone else, maybe even Tavore herself – had then made a fateful decision. The Adjunct had lost her aide. In Malaz City. Aide, and lover. Now, maybe nothing could be done about the lover, but the role of aide was an official position, a necessary one for any commander. Not a man, of course – would have to be a woman for certain.

  Blistig recalled that night, even as the eleventh bell was sounded on deck – the ragged fleet, flanked by the Perish Thrones of War, was three days east of Kartool, beginning a northward-wending arc to take them round the tumultuous, deadly straits between Malaz Island and the coast of Korel – and the Adjunct was standing alone just beyond the forecastle mast, the wind tugging fitfully at her rain cape, making Blistig think of a broken-winged crow. A second figure appeared, halting close to Tavore on her left. Where T’amber would stand, where any aide to a commander would stand.

  Tavore’s head had turned in startlement, and words were exchanged – too low for Blistig’s ears – followed by a salute from the newcomer.

  The Adjunct is alone. So too is another woman, seemingly as bound up in grief as Tavore herself, yet this one possesses an edge, an anger tempered like Aren steel. Short on patience, which might be precisely what’s needed here.

  Was it you, Keneb?

  Of course, Lostara Yil, once a captain in the Red Blades, now just one more outlawed soldier, had revealed no inclinations to take a woman to her bed. Not anyone, in fact. Yet she was no torture to look at, if one had a taste for broken glass made pretty. That and Pardu tattoos. But it was just as likely that the Adjunct wasn’t thinking in those terms. Too soon. Wrong woman.

  Throughout the fleet, officers had been reporting talk of mutiny among the soldiers – excepting, oddly enough, the marines, who never seemed capable of thinking past the next meal or game of Troughs. A succession of reports, delivered in increasingly nervous tones, and it had seemed the Adjunct was unwilling or unable to even so much as care.

  You can heal wounds of the flesh well enough, but it’s the other ones that can bleed out a soul.

  After that night, Lostara Yil clung to a resentful Tavore like a damned tick. Commander’s aide. She unde
rstood the role. In the absence of actual direction from her commander, Lostara Yil assumed the task of managing nearly eight thousand miserable soldiers. The first necessity was clearing up the matter of pay. The fleet was making sail for Theft, a paltry kingdom torn to tatters by Malazan incursions and civil war. Supplies needed to be purchased, but more than that, the soldiers needed leave and for that there must be not only coin but the promise of more to come, lest the entire army disappear into the back streets of the first port of call.

  The army’s chests could not feed what was owed.

  So Lostara hunted down Banaschar, the once-priest of D’rek. Hunted him down and cornered him. And all at once, those treasury chests were overflowing.

  Now, why Banaschar? How did Lostara know?

  Grub, of course. That scrawny runt climbing the rigging with those not-quite-right bhok’aral – I ain’t once seen him come down, no matter how brutal the weather. Yet Grub somehow knew about Banaschar’s hidden purse, and somehow got the word to Lostara Yil.

  The Fourteenth Army was suddenly rich. Too much handed out all at once would have been disastrous, but Lostara knew that. Enough that it be seen, that the rumours were let loose to scamper like stoats through every ship in the fleet.

  Soldiers being what they were, it wasn’t long before they were griping about something else, and this time the Adjunct’s aide could do nothing to give answer.

  Where in Hood’s name are we going?

  Are we still an army and if we are, who are we fighting for? The notion of becoming mercenaries did not sit well, it turned out.

  The story went that Lostara Yil had it out with Tavore one night in the Adjunct’s cabin. A night of screams, curses and, maybe, tears. Or something else happened. Something as simple as Lostara wearing her commander down, like D’rek’s own soldier worms gnawing the ankles of the earth, snap snick right through. Whatever the details, the Adjunct was . . . awakened. The entire Fourteenth was days from falling to pieces.

  A call was issued for the Fists and officers ranking captain and higher to assemble on the Froth Wolf. And, to the astonishment of everyone, Tavore Paran appeared on deck and delivered a speech. Sinn and Banaschar were present, and through sorcery the Adjunct’s words were heard by everyone, even crew high in the riggings and crow’s nests.