A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

little water to assuage their thirst.
    Maybe we didn't listen because none of us believed we
    would ever reach the coast. Maybe Heboric decided the same after that first
    meal. Only I wasn't thinking that far ahead, was I? No wise acceptance
    of the futility of all this. I mocked and ignored the advice out of
    spite, nothing more. As for Baudin, well, rare was the criminal with brains,
    and he wasn't at all rare.
    She joined the breakfast, ignoring their looks as she took an extra mouthful of lukewarm water from the bladder when washing down the smoked meat.
    When she was done, Baudin repacked the food.
    Heboric sighed. 'What a threesome we are!' he said.
    'You mean our dislike of each other?' Felisin asked, raising a brow. 'You shouldn't be surprised, old man,' she continued. 'In case you haven't noticed, we're all broken in some way. Aren't we? The gods know you've pointed out my fall from grace often enough. And Baudin's nothing more than a murderer – he's dispensed with all notions of brotherhood, and is a bully besides, meaning he's a coward at heart...' She glanced over to see him crouched at the packs, flatly eyeing her. Felisin gave him a sweet smile. 'Right, Baudin?'
    The man said nothing, the hint of a frown in his expression as he studied her.
    Felisin returned her attention to Heboric. 'Your flaws are obvious enough – hardly worth mentioning—'
    'Save your breath, lass,' the ex-priest muttered. 'I don't need no fifteen-year-old girl telling me my failings.'
    'Why did you leave the priesthood, Heboric? Skimmed the coffers, I suppose. So they cut your hands off, then tossed you onto the rubbish heap behind the temple. That's certainly enough to make anyone take up writing history as a profession.'
    'Time to go,' Baudin said.
    'But he hasn't answered my question—'
    'I'd say he has, girl. Now shut up. Today you carry the other pack, not the old man.'
    'A reasonable suggestion, but no thanks.'
    Face darkening, Baudin rose.
    'Leave it be,' Heboric said, moving to sling the straps through his arms. In the gloom Felisin saw the stump that had touched the jade finger for the first time. It was swollen and red, the puckered skin stretched. Tattoos crowded the end of the wrist, turning it nearly solid dark. She realized then that the etchings had deepened everywhere on him, grown riotous like vines.
    'What's happened to you?'
    He glanced over. 'I wish I knew.'
    'You burned your wrist on that statue.'
    'Not burned,' the old man said. 'Hurts like Hood's own kiss, though. Can magic thrive buried in Otataral sand? Can Otataral give birth to magic? I've no answers, lass, for any of this.'
    'Well,' she muttered, 'it was a stupid thing to do – touching the damned thing. Serves you right.'
    Baudin started off without comment. Ignoring Heboric, Felisin fell in behind the thug. 'Is there a waterhole ahead this night?' she asked.
    The big man grunted. 'Should've asked that before you took more than your ration.'
    'Well, I didn't. So, is there?'
    'We lost half a night yesterday.'
    'Meaning?'
    'Meaning no water until tomorrow night.' He looked back at her as he walked. 'You'll wish you'd saved that mouthful.'
    She made no reply. She had no intention of being honourable when the time came for her next drink. Honour's for fools. Honour's a fatal flaw. I'm not going to die on a point of honour, Baudin. Heboric's probably dying anyway. It'd be wasted on him.
    The ex-priest trudged in her wake, the sound of his footfalls dimming as he fell farther back as the hours passed. In the end, she concluded, it would be she and Baudin, just the two of them, standing facing the sea at the western edge of this Queen-forsaken island. The weak always fall to the wayside. It was the first law of Skullcup; indeed, it was the first lesson she'd learned – in the streets of Unta on the march to the slaveships.
    Back then, in her naivety, she'd looked upon Baudin's murder of Lady Gaesen as an act of reprehensible horror. If he were to do the same today – putting Heboric out of his misery – she would not even blink. A long journey, this one. Where will it end? She thought of the river of blood, and the thought warmed her.
     
    True to Baudin's prediction, there was no waterhole to mark the end of the night's journey. The man selected as a campsite a sandy bed surrounded by wind-sculpted projections of limestone. Bleached human bones littered the bed, but Baudin simply tossed them aside when laying out the tents.
    Felisin sat down