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

Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7) Page 218

‘And my mother was in the habit of looking away, yes. But I am not.’ She lifted her head and scanned once more the array of faces, seeing the shock, the anger, the growing malice. ‘The Old Ways failed us. Then and now. Your ways,’ she told them in a hard voice, ‘have failed us all. I am Queen. Twilight on the shore. At my side in my rule is the Watch. Brullyg would be Rise-that remains to be seen, for your proclamation is not cause enough, not even close. Rise is chosen by all the Shake. All’

‘Do not mar us, Queen.7 Pully’s smile was gone. Her face was a mask of venom.

Yan Tovis snorted. ‘Will you send a curse my way, old woman? Do not even think it. I mean to see my people survive, through all that will happen. From all of you, I will need healing, I will need blessing. You rule no longer-no, do not speak to me of my mother. I know better than any of you the depths of her surrender. I am Queen. Obey me.’

They were not happy. They had been the true power for so long-if that pathetic curse-weaving in the shadows could be called power-and Yan Tovis knew that this struggle had but just begun, for all their apparent acquiescence. They will begin planning my downfall. It is to be expected.

Yedan Derryg, never mind watching the shore. You must now watch my back.

Fiddler opened his eyes. Dusk had just begun to settle. Groaning, he rolled onto his back. Too many years of sleeping on hard, cold ground; too many years of a tattered rain cape for a mattress, a single blanket of coarse wool for cover. At least now he was sleeping through the day, easing his old bones with the sun’s warmth.

Sitting up, he looked round the glade. Huddled figures on all sides. Just beyond them was Koryk, the sleep’s last watch, sitting on a tree stump. Aye, woodcutters in this forest.

Not that we’ve seen any.

Three nights since the landing. Ever moving eastward, inland. A strange empire, this. Roads and tracks and the occasional farmstead, barely a handful of towns on the coast that we saw. And where in Hood’s name are these Tiste Edur?

Fiddler climbed to his feet, arching his back to work out the aches and twinges. He’d wanted to be a soldier named Strings, here among the Bonehunters, a different man, a new man. But that hadn’t worked so well. The conceit had fooled no-one. Even worse, he could not convince himself that he had begun anew, that the legacy of past campaigns could be put aside. A life don’t work that way. Dammit. He trudged over to Koryk.

The Seti half-blood glanced up. ‘Some damned war we got ourselves here, Sergeant. I’d even take one of Smiles’s knives in the leg just to get us the smell of blood. Let’s forget these damned Edur and go ahead and start killing Letherii.’

‘Farmers and swineherds, Koryk? We need them on our side, remember?’

‘So far there ain’t been enough of them to muster a damned squad. Least we should show ourselves-’

‘Not yet. Besides, it’s probably been just bad luck we haven’t met the enemy yet. I’d wager other squads have already been in a scrap or two.’

Koryk grunted. ‘I doubt it. All it takes is just one squad to kick the nest and these woods should be swarming. They ain’t.’

Fiddler had nothing to say to that. He scratched himself, then turned away. ‘Shut your eyes for a time now, soldier. We’ll wake you when breakfast’s ready.’

Do your complainin’ now, Koryk, because when this lets hose we’ll look back on sunsets like this one like it was idyllic paradise. Still, how many times could he make that promise? The legacy of the Bonehunters thus far was nothing to sing songs about. Even Y’Ghatan had been a mess, with them whistling a song while they walked right into a trap. It galled him still, that one. He should have smelled trouble. Same for Gesler-aye, we let them down that day. Badly.

Malaz City had been worse. True, weapons had been drawn. There’d even been a shield-line for a few squads of marines. Against Malazans. An undisciplined mob of our own people. Somehow, somewhere, this army needed to fight for real.

The Adjunct had thrown them onto this coast, like a handful of ticks onto a dog’s back. Sooner or later the beast was going to scratch.

As the others wakened to the coming of night, Fiddler walked over to his pack. Stood studying it for a time. The Deck was in there, waiting. And he was sorely tempted. Just to get a taste of what was coming. Don’t be a fool, Fid. Remember Tattersail. Remember all the good it did her.

‘Bad idea, Sergeant.’

Fiddler glanced over, scowled. ‘Stop reading my mind, Bottle. You’re not as good at it as you think.’

‘You’re like a man who’s sworn off drink but carries a flask in his pouch.’