The Crippled God

  ‘Mostly heavies and marines – the heart of the army, Ges—’

  ‘So you find a new one. A thousand.’

  ‘Worst case? Not a heavy left, not a marine left, with the regulars broken and scattering like hares.’

  Gesler glared at Stormy. ‘I’m supposed to be the pessimist here, not you.’

  ‘Get the Matron to order that assassin down here.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I feel like it.’

  Stormy’s face reddened. ‘You’re still a Hood-shitting sergeant, you know that? Mortal Sword? Mortal Bunghole is more like it! Gods, to think I been taking orders from you for how long?’

  ‘Well, who’s a better Shield Anvil than a man with an anvil for a head?’

  Stormy grunted, and then said, ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Gesler. ‘Let’s go and eat.’

  They set out for the feeding area.

  ‘Do you remember, when we were young – too young? That cliff—’

  ‘Don’t go on about that damned cliff, Stormy. I still get nightmares about it.’

  ‘It’s guilt you’re feeling.’

  Gesler halted. ‘Guilt? You damned fool. I saved your life up there!’

  ‘After nearly killing me! If that rock coming down had hit me in the head—’

  ‘But it didn’t, did it? No, just your shoulder. A tap, a bit of dust, and then I—’

  ‘The point is,’ Stormy interrupted, ‘we did stupid things back then. We should’ve learned, only it’s turning out we never learned a damned thing.’

  ‘That’s not the problem,’ Gesler retorted. ‘We got busted down all those times for good reason. We can’t handle responsibilities, that’s our problem. We start bickering – you start thinking and that’s as bad as bad can get. Stop thinking, Stormy, and that’s an order.’

  ‘You can’t order me, I’m the Shield Anvil, and if I want to think, that’s damn well what I’ll do.’

  Gesler set out again. ‘Be sure to let me know when you start. In the meantime, stop moaning about everything. It’s tiresome.’

  ‘You strutting around like High King of the Universe is pretty tiresome, too.’

  ‘Look there – more porridge. Hood’s breath, Stormy, I’m already so bunged up I could pick my nose and—’

  ‘It ain’t porridge. It’s mould.’

  ‘Fungus, idiot.’

  ‘What’s the difference? All I know is, those drones are growing it in their own armpits.’

  ‘Now you done it, Stormy. I told you to stop complaining.’

  ‘Well, once I think up a reason to stop complaining, I will. But then, I’m not supposed to think, am I? Hah!’

  Gesler scowled. ‘Gods below, Stormy, but I’m feeling old.’

  The red-bearded man paused, and then nodded. ‘Aye. It’s bloody miserable. I might be dead in a month, that’s how I feel. Aches and twinges, all the rest. I need a woman. I need ten women. Rumjugs and Sweetlard, that’s who I need – why didn’t that assassin steal them, too? Then I’d be happy.’

  ‘There’s always Kalyth,’ Gesler said under his breath.

  ‘I can’t roger the Destriant. It’s not allowed.’

  ‘She’s comely enough. Been a mother, too—’

  ‘What’s so special about that?’

  ‘Their tits been used, right? And their hips are all looser. That’s a real woman, Stormy. She’ll know what to do under the furs. And then there’s that look in the eye – stop gawking, you know what I mean. A woman who’s dropped a baby has got this look – they been through the worst and come out the other side. So they do that up and down thing and you know that they know they can reduce you to quivering meat if they wanted to. Mothers, Stormy. Give me a mother over any other woman every time, that’s what I’m saying.’

  ‘You’re sick.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for me you’d still be clinging halfway up that cliff, a clutch of bones with birds nesting in your hair and spiders in your eye sockets.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for you I’d never have tried climbing it.’

  ‘Yes you would.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because, Stormy, you never think.’

  He’d gathered things. Small things. Shiny stones, shards of crystal, twigs from the fruit trees, and he carried them about, and when he could he’d sit down on the floor and set them out, making mysterious patterns or perhaps no patterns, just random settings. And then he’d look at them, and that was all.

  The whole ritual, now that she’d witnessed it dozens of times, deeply disturbed Badalle, but she didn’t know why.

  Saddic has things in a bag

  He’s a boy trying to remember

  Though I tell him not to

  Remembering’s dead

  Remembering’s stones and twigs

  In a bag and each time they come out

  I see dust on his hands

  We choose not remembering

  To keep the peace inside our heads

  We were young once

  But now we are ghosts in the dreams

  Of the living.

  Rutt holds a baby in a bag

  And Held remembers everything

  But will not speak, not to us.

  Held dreams of twigs and stones

  And knows what they are.

  She thought to give Saddic these words, knowing he would hide them in the story he was telling behind his eyes, and then it occurred to her that he didn’t need to hear to know, and the story he was telling was beyond the reach of anyone. I am trapped in his story. I have flown in the sky, but the sky is the dome of Saddic’s skull, and there is no way out. Look at him studying his things, see the confusion on his face. A thin face. Hollowed face. Face waiting to be filled, but it will never be filled. ‘Icarias fills our bellies,’ she said, ‘and starves everything else.’

  Saddic looked up, met her eyes, and then looked away. Sounds from the window, voices in the square below. Families were taking root, sliding into the crystal walls and ceilings, the floors and chambers. Older boys became pretend-fathers, older girls became pretend-mothers, the young ones scampered but never for long – they’d run, as if struck with excitement, only to falter after a few steps, faces darkening with confusion and fear as they ran back to find shelter in their parents’ arms.

  This is the evil of remembering.

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ she said. ‘Someone is seeking us. We need to go and find them. Rutt knows. That’s why he walks to the end of the city and stares into the west. He knows.’

  Saddic began collecting his things. Into his little bag. Like a boy who’d caught something out of the corner of his eye, only to find nothing when he turned.

  If you can’t remember it’s because you never had what it is you’re trying to remember. Saddic, we’ve run out of gifts. Don’t lie to fill up your past. ‘I don’t like your things, Saddic.’

  He seemed to shrink inside himself and would not meet her eyes as he tied up the bag and tucked it inside his tattered shirt.

  I don’t like them. They hurt.

  ‘I’m going to find Rutt. We need to get ready. Icarias is killing us.’

  ‘I knew a woman once, in my village. Married. Her husband was a man you wanted, like a hot stone in your gut. She’d walk with him, a step behind, down the main track between the huts. She’d walk and she’d stare right at me all the way. You know why? She was staring at me to keep me from staring at him. We are really nothing but apes, hairless apes. When she’s not looking, I’ll piss in her grass nest – that’s what I decided. And I’d do more than that. I’d seduce her man. I’d break him. His honour, his integrity, his honesty. I’d break him between my legs. So when she walked with him through the village, she’d do anything but meet my eyes. Anything.’

  With that, Kisswhere reached for the jug.

  The Gilk Warchief, Spax, studied her from beneath a lowered brow. And then he belched. ‘How dangerous is love, hey?
’

  ‘Who said anything about love?’ she retorted with a loose gesture from the hand holding the jug. ‘It’s all about possession. And stealing. That’s what makes a woman wet, what makes her eyes shine. ’Ware the dark streak in a woman’s soul.’

  ‘Men have their own,’ he muttered.

  She drank, and then swung the jug back to his waiting hand. ‘Different.’

  ‘Mostly, aye. But then, maybe not.’ He swallowed down a mouthful, wiped his beard. ‘Possession only counts for too much in a man afraid of losing whatever he has. If he’s settled he doesn’t need to own, but then how many of us are settled? Few, I’d wager. We’re restless enough, and the older we get, the more restless we are. The misery is, the one thing an old man wants to possess the most is the one thing he can’t have.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Add a couple of decades to that man in the village and his wife won’t have to stare into any rival’s eyes.’

  She grunted, collected up her stick and pushed it beneath the splints binding her leg. Scratched vigorously. ‘Whatever happened to decent healing?’

  ‘They’re saying magic’s damn near dead in these lands. How nimble are you?’

  ‘Nimble enough.’

  ‘How drunk are you?’

  ‘Drunk enough.’

  ‘Just what a man twice her age wants to hear from a woman.’

  A figure stepped into the firelight. ‘Warchief, the queen summons you.’

  Sighing, Spax rose. To Kisswhere he said, ‘Hold that thought.’

  ‘Doesn’t work that way,’ she replied. ‘We flowers blossom but it’s a brief blooming. If you miss your chance, well, too bad for you. This night, at least.’

  ‘You’re a damned tease, Malazan.’

  ‘Keeps you coming back.’

  He thought about that, and then snorted. ‘Maybe, but don’t count on it.’

  ‘What you never find out will haunt you to the end of your days, Barghast.’

  ‘I doubt I’ll miss my chance, Kisswhere. After all, how fast can you run?’

  ‘And how sharp is my knife?’

  Spax laughed. ‘I’d best not keep her highness waiting. Save me some rum, will you?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not one for promises.’

  Once he’d left, Kisswhere sat alone. Her own private fire out beyond the useless pickets, her own promise of blisters and searing guilt, if that was how she wanted it. Do I? Might be I do. So they’re not all dead. That’s good. So we arrived too late. That’s bad, or not. And this leg, well, it’s hardly a coward’s ploy, is it? I tried riding with the Khundryl, didn’t I? At least, I think I did. At least, that’s how it looked. Good enough.

  She drank down some more of the Bolkando rum.

  Spax was a man who liked women. She’d always preferred the company of such men over that of wilting, timid excuses who thought a shy batting of the eyes was – gods below – attractive. No, bold was better. Coy was a stupid game played by pathetic cowards, as far as she was concerned. All those stumbling words, the shifting about, what’s the point? If you want me, come and get me. I might even say yes.

  More likely, of course, I’ll just laugh. To see the sting.

  They were marching towards whatever was left of the Bonehunters. No one seemed to know how grim it was, or at any rate they weren’t telling her. She’d witnessed the sorcery, tearing up the horizon, even as the hobnailed boots of the Evertine Legion thundered closer behind her. She’d seen the moonspawn – a cloud- and fire-wreathed mountain in the sky.

  Was there betrayal in this? Was this what Sinter feared? Sister, are you even alive?

  Of course I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to know. I should just say what I’m feeling. ‘Go to Hood, Queen. And you too, Spax. I’m riding south.’ I don’t want to see their faces, those pathetic survivors. Not the shock, not the horror, not all those things you see in the faces of people who don’t know why they’re still alive, when so many of their comrades are dead.

  Every army is a cauldron, with the flames getting higher and higher on all sides. We stew, we boil, we turn into grey lumps of meat. ‘Queen Abrastal, it’s you and people like you whose appetites are never sated. Your maws gape, and in we go, and it sickens me.’

  When the two Khundryl riders appeared, three days past, Kisswhere had turned away. In her mind she drew a knife and murdered her curiosity, a quick slash, a sudden spray and then silence. What was the point of knowing, when knowing was nothing more than the taste of salt and iron on the tongue?

  She drank more rum, pleased at the numbness of her throat. Eating fire was easy and getting easier.

  A sudden memory. Their first time standing in a ragged line, the first day of their service in the marines. Some gnarled master sergeant had walked up to them, wearing the smile of a hyena approaching a crippled gazelle. Sinter had straightened beside Kisswhere, trying to affect the appropriate attention. Badan Gruk, she’d seen with a quick sidelong glance, was looking miserable – with the face of a man who’d just realized where love had taken him.

  You damned fool. I can play their game. You two can’t, because for you there are no games. They don’t exist in your Hood-shitting world of honour and duty.

  ‘Twelve, is it?’ the master sergeant had said, his grin broadening. ‘I’d wager three of you are going to make it. The rest, well, we’ll bury half of ’em and the other half we’ll send on to the regular infantry, where all the losers live.’

  ‘Which half?’ Kisswhere had asked.

  Lizard eyes fixed on her. ‘What’s that, sweet roundworm?’

  ‘Which half of the one you cut in two goes in the ground, and which half goes to the regulars? The legs half, well, that solves the marching bit. But—’

  ‘You’re one of those, are ya?’

  ‘What? One who can count? Three make it, nine don’t. Nine can’t get split in half. Of course,’ she added with her own broad smile, ‘maybe marines don’t need to know how to count, and maybe master sergeants are the thickest of the lot. Which is what I’m starting to think, anyway.’

  She’d never got close to completing the thousand push-ups. Arsehole. Men who smile like that need a sense of humour, but I’m not one to believe in miracles.

  She scratched some more with her stick. Should’ve broken him, right here between my legs. Aye, save the last laugh for Kisswhere. She wins every game. ‘Every one of them, aye, isn’t it obvious?’

  Spax made a point of keeping his shell-armour loose, the plates clacking freely, and with all the fetishes tied everywhere he was well pleased with the concatenation of sounds when he walked. Had he been a thin runt, the effect would not have worked, but he was big enough and loud enough to be his own squad, a martial apparition that could not help but make a dramatic entrance no matter how sumptuous the destination.

  In this case, the queen’s command tent was as close to a palace as he was likely to find in these Wastelands, and shouldering in between the curtains of silk and the slap of his heavy gauntlets on the map table gave him no small amount of satisfaction. ‘Highness, I am here.’

  Queen Abrastal lounged in her ornate chair, legs stretched out, watching him from under lowered lids. Her red hair was unbound and hanging loose, freshly washed and combed out, and the Barghast’s loins stirred as he observed her in turn.

  ‘Wipe off that damned grin,’ Abrastal said in a growl.

  His brows lifted. ‘Something wrong, Firehair?’

  ‘Only everything I know you’re thinking right now, Spax.’

  ‘Highness, if you’d been born in an alley behind a bar, you’d still be a queen in my eyes. Deride me for my admiration all you like, it changes nothing in my heart.’

  She snorted. ‘You stink of rum.’

  ‘I was pursuing a mystery, Highness.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The onyx-skinned woman. The Malazan.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Gods below, you’re worse than a crocodile in the mating season.’

&n
bsp; ‘Not that mystery, Firehair, though I’ll chase that one down given the chance. No, what makes me curious is her, well, her lack of zeal. This is not the soldier I would have expected.’

  Abrastal waved one hand. ‘There is no mystery there, Spax. The woman’s a coward. Every army has them, why should the Malazan one be any different?’

  ‘Because she’s a marine,’ he replied.

  ‘So?’

  ‘The marines damn near singlehandedly conquered Lether, Highness, and she was one of them. On Genabackis whole armies would desert if they heard they’d be facing an assault by Malazan marines. They stank with magic and Moranth munitions, and they never broke – you needed to cut them down to the last man and woman.’

  ‘Even the hardest soldier reaches an end to their endurance, Spax.’

  ‘Well, she’s been a prisoner to the Letherii, so perhaps you are right. Now then, Highness, what did you wish of your loyal warchief?’

  ‘I want you with me at the parley.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Sober.’

  ‘If you insist, but I warn you, what plagues me also plagues my warriors. We yearn for a fight – we only hired on with you Bolkando because we expected an invasion or two. Instead, we’re marching like damned soldiers. Could we have reached the Bonehunters in time—’

  ‘You’d likely be regretting it,’ Abrastal said, her expression darkening.

  Spax tried on a scowl. ‘You believe those Khundryl?’

  ‘I do. Especially after Felash’s warning – though I am coming to suspect that my Fourteenth Daughter’s foresight was focused on something still awaiting us.’

  ‘More of these two-legged giant lizards?’

  She shrugged, and then shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so, but unfortunately it’s only a gut feeling. We’ll see what we see at the parley.’

  ‘The Malazans never conquered the Gilk Barghast,’ Spax said.

  ‘Gods below, if you show up with your hackles raised—’

  ‘Spirits forbid the thought, Highness. Facing them, I will be like the one hare the eagle missed. I’m as likely to freeze as fill my breeches.’

  Slowly, Abrastal’s eyes widened. ‘Warchief,’ she said in wonder, ‘you are frightened of them.’