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

Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7) Page 347

In any case, the thought of Masan Gilani ending up with Crump, of all people, was simply too hilarious to let pass. If she wasn’t interested in decent men like Sergeant Cord, well, she could have the sapper and so deserve everything that came with him. Aye, he’ll worship you all right. Even what you cough up every morning and that sweet way you clear your nose before going into battle. Oh, wait till I tell Shard about this. And Ebron. And Limp. We’ll set up a book, aye. How long before she runs screaming. With Crump loping desperate after her, knees at his ears.

Ebron climbed onto the aft deck. ‘What’s got you looking so cheerful, Sergeant?’

‘I’ll tell you later. Dropped out of the game?’

‘Crump’s still winning.’

‘Ain’t turned it yet?’

‘We tried, half a bell ago, Sergeant. But the damned fool’s luck’s gone all uncanny.’

‘Really? He’s not a mage or something, is he?’

‘Gods no, the very opposite. All my magics go awry-the ones I tried on him and on the bones and skull. Those Mott Irregulars, they were mage-hunters, you know. High Marshal this and High Marshal that-if Crump really is a Bole, one of the brothers, well, they were legendary.’

‘You saying we’re underestimating the bastard, Ebron?’

The squad mage looked morose. ‘By about three hundred imperial jakatas and counting, Sergeant.’

Hood’s balls, maybe Masan Gilani will like being Queen of the Universe.

‘What was that you were going to tell me about, Sergeant?’

‘Never mind.’

Shurq Elalle stood on the foredeck of the Froth Wolf and held a steady, gauging eye on the Undying Gratitude five reaches ahead. All sails out, riding high. Skorgen Kaban was captaining her ship and would continue to do so until they reached the mouth of the Lether River. Thus far, he’d not embarrassed himself-or, more important, her.

She wasn’t very happy about all of this, but these Malazans were paying her well indeed. Good-quality gold, and a chestful of that would come in handy in the days, months and probably years to come.

Yet another invasion of the Letherii Empire, and in its own way possibly just as nasty as the last one. Were these omens, then, signalling the decline of a once great civilization? Conquered by barbaric Tiste Edur, and now in the midst of a protracted war that might well bleed them out, right down to a lifeless corpse.

Unless, of course, those hapless abandoned marines-whatever ‘marines’ were; soldiers, anyway-were already jellied and dissolving into the humus. A very real possi-bility, and Shurq was not privy to any details of the campaign so she had no way of knowing either way.

So, here she was, returning at last to Letheras… maybe just in time to witness its conquest. Witness-now really, darling Shurq, you’ve a bigger role than that. Like leading ihe damned enemy right up to the docks’. And how famous will that make you then? How many more curses on your name?

There is a ritual,’ said a voice behind her.

She turned. That odd man, the one in the ratty robes, whose face was so easily forgotten. The priest. ‘Banaschar, is it?’

He nodded. ‘May I join you, Captain?’

‘As you please, but at the moment I am not a captain. I’m a passenger, a guest.’

‘As am I,’ he replied. ‘As I mentioned a moment ago, there is a ritual.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘To find and bind your soul to your body once more-to remove your curse and make you alive again.’

‘A little late for that, even if I desired such a thing, Banaschar.’

His brows rose. ‘You do not dream of living again?’

‘Should I?’

‘I am probably the last living High Priest of D’rek, the Worm of Autumn. The face of the aged, the dying and the diseased. And of the all-devouring earth that takes flesh and bone, and the fires that transform into ashes-’

‘Yes, fine, I grasp the allusions.’

‘I, more perhaps than most, do understand the tension between the living and the dead, the bitterness of the season that finds each and every one of us-’

‘Do you always go on like this?’

He looked away. ‘No. I am trying to resurrect my faith-’

‘By the Tiles, Banaschar, don’t make me laugh. Please.’

‘Laugh? Ah, yes, the play on words. Accidental-’

‘Rubbish.’

That elicited a mocking smile-which was better than the grave misery that had been there a moment earlier. ‘Very well, Shurq Elalle, why do you not wish to live once again?’