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

Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7) Page 173

‘Enemies? Why would he think that?’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘We’re just bugs he can crush underfoot any time he likes. An enemy is one who poses a threat. We don’t.’

‘Well, on that count, I see no need to enlighten you. Yet.’

Snorting, she turned and collected the pot with its chunks of glittering ice.

‘Plan on keeping your find?’ Clip asked.

She looked down at the weapon in her right hand. ‘Udinaas can use it as a crutch.’

Clip’s laugh was bitterly cruel. ‘Oh, the injustice, Acquitor. For a storied weapon such as that one.’

She frowned at him. ‘You speak as if you recognise it. Do you?’

‘Let’s just say it belongs with us.’

Frustrated, she moved past him, back towards the camp.

The spear drew attention, frighteningly fast from Silchas Ruin, who-before he spun round to face her-seemed to flinch. Udinaas, too-his head snapping up as she walked towards him. She felt her heart lurch in her chest and was suddenly afraid.

She sought to hide it by holding stubbornly to her original thought. ‘Udinaas, I found this-you can use it to keep your balance.’

He grunted, then nodded. ‘A ground-stone tip-can’t have much of an edge, can it? At least I won’t stumble and poke my eye out, unless I work hard at it, and why would I do that?’

‘Do not mock it,’ Silchas Ruin said. ‘Use it in the manner the Acquitor has suggested, by all means. But know that it is not yours. You will have to surrender it-know that, Udinaas.’

‘Surrender it-to you, perchance?’

Again the flinch. ‘No.’ And Silchas Ruin turned away once more.

Udinaas grinned weakly at Seren. ‘Have you just given me a cursed weapon, Acquitor?’

‘I don’t know.’

He leaned on it. ‘Well, never mind. I’ve a whole collection of curses-one more won’t make much difference.’

Ice was melted, waterskins refilled. Another pot of frozen snow provided the water for a broth of herbs, rinds of myrid fat, berries and nuggets of sap taken from maple trees-the last of which they had seen ten days ago, at an elevation where the air was invigorating and sweetly pungent with life. Here, there were no trees. Not even shrubs. The vast forest surrounding them was barely ankle high-a tangled world of lichen and mosses.

Holding a bowl of the soup in trembling hands, Udinaas spoke to Seren. ‘So, just to get things straight in this epic farce of ours, did you find this spear or did it find you?’

She shook her head. ‘No matter. It’s yours now.’

‘No. Silchas is right. You’ve but loaned it to me, Acquitor. It slides like grease in my hands. I couldn’t use it to fight-even if I knew how, which I don’t.’

‘Not hard,’ Clip said. ‘Just don’t hold it at the sharp end and poke people with it until they fall over. I’ve yet to face a warrior with a spear I couldn’t cut to pieces.’

Fear Sengar snorted.

And Seren knew why. It was enough to brighten this morning, enough to bring a wry smile to her lips.

Clip noted it and sneered, but said nothing.

‘Pack up,’ Silchas Ruin said after a moment. ‘I weary of waiting.’

‘I keep telling you,’ Clip said, spinning the rings once more, ‘it’ll all come in its own time, Silchas Ruin.’

Seren turned to face the rearing peaks to the north. The gold had paled, as if drained of all life, all wonder. Another day of weary travel awaited them. Her mood plunged and she sighed.

Given the choice, this game should have been his own. Not Cotillion’s, not Shadowthrone’s. But enough details had drifted down to Ben Adaephon Delat, heavy and grim as the ash from a forest fire, to make him content, for the moment, to choke on someone else’s problems. Since the Enfilade at Pale, his life had been rather headlong. He felt as if he was plunging down a steep hill, for ever but one step from bone-snapping, blood-spraying disaster.

Used to be he thrived on such feelings. Proof that he was alive.

Yet… too many friends had fallen to the wayside on the journey. Far too many, and he was reluctant to let others take their places-not even this humble Tiste Edur with his too-full heart, his raw wound of grief; nor that damned T’lan Imass who now waded through a turgid sea of memories, as if seeking one-just one-that did not sob with futility. The wrong company indeed for Quick Ben-they were such open invitations to friendship. Not pity-which would have been easier. No, their damned nobility demolished that possibility.

And look where all his friends had gone. Whiskeyjack, Hedge, Trotts, Dujek Onearm, Kalam… well, wasn’t it always the way, that the pain of loss so easily overwhelmed the… the not-yetAost? And that sad list was only the most recent version. All since Pale. What of all the others, from long ago? Us damned survivors don’t have it easy. Not even close.