The Crippled God (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #10)

The Crippled God (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #10) Page 156

He let his hands fall and glanced at her. ‘So do I.’ He studied her for a moment and then said, ‘I should probably tell you, I was considering … leaving.’

‘Oh.’

‘Not you. This army.’

‘Ruthan, I’m in this army.’

‘I planned on kidnapping you.’

‘I see.’

He sighed. ‘Today, she changed my mind. So, my love, we’re in this till the bitter end.’

‘If that’s a marriage proposal … I kind of like it.’

He studied her. Gods, I’d forgotten …

Loud clattering came from behind the cook tents, where the scullions were scrubbing pots with handfuls of rocks and pebbles. Cuttle cinched tight a strap on his kit bag. Straightening, he arched his back and winced. ‘Gods, it’s a young un’s game, ain’t it just. Koryk, you giving up on those?’

The Seti half-blood had thrown his military issue hobnailed boots to one side, and was using a rounded stone to work out the creases in a pair of worn, tribal moccasins. ‘Too hot,’ he said.

‘Won’t those get cut to shreds?’ Smiles asked from where she sat on her pack. ‘You start limping, Koryk, don’t look to me for help.’

‘Toss the boots on to the wagon,’ Cuttle said. ‘Just in case, Koryk.’

The man shrugged.

Sergeant Tarr returned from the company command tent. ‘Finish loading up,’ he said. ‘We’re getting a quick start here.’ He paused. ‘Anybody managed to sleep?’

Silence answered him.

Tarr grunted. ‘Right. I doubt it’ll be the same come tomorrow. It’s a long haul ahead of us. Weapons fit to use? Everybody? Shortnose?’

The heavy looked up, small eyes glittering in the gloom. ‘Yah.’

‘Corabb?’

‘Aye, Sergeant. Can still hear her moaning from the whetstone—’

‘It ain’t a woman,’ said Smiles. ‘It’s a sword.’

‘Then why’s she moaning?’

‘You never heard a woman moan in your life, so how would you know?’

‘Sounds like a woman.’

‘I don’t hear any moaning anyway,’ she replied, drawing out a brace of fighting knives. ‘Weapons good, Sergeant. Just give me some sweet flesh to stick ’em in.’

‘Hold the thought,’ Tarr advised.

‘For, like, five months, Smiles.’ Koryk looked up, studied her from under his unbound hair. ‘Can you do that?’

She sneered. ‘If it’s going to take five months to cross this desert, idiot, we’re deader than dead.’ She rapped one blade against the clay jug slung by braided webbing on her pack. ‘And I ain’t drinking my own piss neither.’

‘Want mine?’ Bottle asked from where he was lying, eyes closed, hands behind his head.

‘Is that an offer to swap? Gods, Bottle, you’re sick, you know that?’

‘Listen, if I have to drink it, better it be a woman’s, because then, if I work real hard, I might be able to pretend I like it. Or something.’ When no one said anything, Bottle opened his eyes, sat up. ‘What?’

Cuttle made to spit, checked himself, and turned to Tarr. ‘Fid have anything new to say, Sergeant?’

‘No. Why, should he have?’

‘Well, I mean, he figures we’re going to make it across, right?’

Tarr shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Can’t do that mission if we don’t.’

‘That’s a fair point, sapper.’

‘He say anything about all this drinking our own piss?’

Tarr frowned.

Koryk spoke up, ‘Sure he did, Cuttle. It’s all in that Deck of Dragons of his. New card. Piss Drinker, High House.’

‘High House what?’ Smiles asked.

Koryk simply grinned, and then looked up at Cuttle and the smile became cold. ‘Card’s got your face on it, Cuttle, big as life.’

Cuttle studied the half-blood, the ritual scarring and tattoos, all in the glyph language of the Seti that Koryk probably only half understood. The ridiculous moccasins. His view was suddenly blocked, and his gaze flicked up to meet Tarr’s dark, deceptively calm eyes.

‘Just leave it,’ the sergeant said in a low mutter.

‘Thought I was gonna do something?’

‘Cuttle …’

‘Thought I was going to rip a few new arseholes in him? Shove my last sharper up inside and then throw him into yonder wagon? Something like that, Sergeant?’