A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

a dead stalk. Attractive but not for long. She was capable, but if he let her, her own needs would end up undermining that capability. Not good for her. And besides, if I led this one on, she'd stop being what attracted me to her in the first place. Best to leave well alone. Best to stay remote.
    'Corporal Kalam,' Minala said behind him.
    He swung about. 'What?'
    'Those women. I think we should bury them.'
    The assassin hesitated, then resumed checking his horse's girth strap. 'No time,' he grunted. 'Worry about the living, not the dead.'
    Her voice hardened. 'I am. There are two young boys who need to be reminded about respect.'
    'Not now.' He faced her again. 'Respect won't help them if they're dead, or worse. See that everyone else is ready to ride, then get to your horse.'
    'Captain gives the orders,' she said, paling.
    'He's got a busted head and keeps thinking this is a picnic. Watch the times he comes round – his eyes fill with fear. And here you go wanting to add yet another burden on the man. Even the slightest nudge might make him retreat into his head for good, and then what use is he? To anyone?'
    'Fine,' she snapped, whirling away.
    He watched her stalk off. Selv and Keneb stood by their horses, too far away to have heard anything but close enough to know that dark waters had been stirred between Minala and the assassin. A moment later the children rode into view on a single horse, the seven-year-old in front and sitting tall with his younger brother's arms wrapped around him. Both looked older than their years.
    Respect for life. Sure. The other lesson is just how cheap that life can become. Maybe the former comes from the latter, in which case they're well on their way as it is.
    'Ready,' Minala said in a cold voice.
    Kalam swung into the saddle. He scanned the growing darkness. Stay close, Apt. Only not too close.
    They rode out of the river bed and onto the grassy Odhan, Kalam in the lead. Luckily, the demon was shy.
     
    The rogue wave took them from the port side, a thick, sludgy wall that seemed to leap over the railing, crashing down on the deck like a landslide of mud. The water drained from the silts within seconds, leaving Felisin and the others on the main deck knee-deep in the foul-smelling muck. The pyramid of heads was a shapeless mound.
    Crawling, Heboric reached her, his face smeared a dull ochre. 'This silt!' he gasped, pausing to spit some from his mouth. 'Look at what's in it!'
    Almost too miserable to respond, she nevertheless reached down and scooped up a handful. 'It's full of seeds,' she said. 'And rotting plants—'
    'Aye! Grass seeds and rotting grasses – don't you understand, lass? That's not sea bottom down there. It's prairie. Inundated. This warren's flooded. Recently.'
    She grunted, unwilling to share in his excitement. 'That's a surprise? Can't sail a ship on prairie, can you?'
    His eyes narrowed. 'You got something there, Felisin.'
    The silt around her shins felt strange, crawling, restless. Ignoring the ex-priest, she clambered her way towards the stern-castle. The wave had not gone that high. Gesler and Stormy were both at the steering oar, all four hands needed to maintain a course. Kulp was near them, waiting to relieve the first man whose strength gave out. And he'd been waiting long enough for it to be obvious that Gesler and Stormy were locked in a battle of pride, neither one wanting to surrender before the other. Their bared grins confirmed it for Felisin. Idiots! They'll both collapse at once, leaving the mage to handle the steering oar by himself.
    The sky continued to convulse over them, lashing lightning in all directions. The surface of the sea resisted the shrieking wind, the silt-heavy water lifting in turgid swells that seemed reluctant to go anywhere. The headless oarsmen continued their ceaseless rowing, though a dozen oars had snapped, the splintered shafts keeping time with those still pushing water. The drum beat on, answering the thunder overhead with its measured, impervious patience.
    She reached the steps and climbed clear of the mud, then stopped in surprise. The silt fled her skin as if alive, poured down from her legs to rejoin the quaking pool that covered the main deck.
    Crouched near the main mast, Heboric yelled in sudden alarm, eyes on the mud surrounding him as its shivering increased. 'There's something in it!'
    'Come this way!' Truth shouted from the forecastle steps, reaching out with one hand. Baudin anchored him with a