A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

his face at any of the jaw sessions, if that's what you mean. But he's around. Somewhere. Coltaine's finally accepted that the man's shy.'
    'Shy?'
    Lull shrugged. 'A joke, Historian. Remember those?'
    Nil finally turned to face them.
    'That's it,' the captain said. 'No more talking.'
    Half a dozen Wickan guards pulled up the spikes anchoring one of the wicker barriers, then quietly lowered it flat. A thick hide was unrolled over it to mask the inevitable creaking of the party's passage.
    The mist beyond was dissipating into patches. One such cloud drifted over, then settled around the group, keeping pace as they struck out onto the plain.
    Duiker wished he'd asked more questions earlier. How far to the enemy camp's pickets? What was the plan for getting through them undiscovered? What was the fallback should things go awry? He laid a hand on the grip of the short sword at his hip, and was alarmed at how strange it felt – it had been a long time since he'd last used a weapon. Being pulled from the front lines had been the Emperor's reward all those years ago. That and the various alchemies that keep me tottering on well past my prime. Gods, even the scars from that last horror have faded away! 'No-one who's grown up amidst scrolls and books can write of the world,' Kellanved had told him once, 'which is why I'm appointing you Imperial Historian, soldier.'
    'Emperor, I cannot read or write.'
    'An unsullied mind. Good. Toc the Elder will be teaching you over the next six months –he's another soldier with a brain. Six months, mind. No more than that.'
    'Emperor, it seems to me that he would be better suited than I—'
    'I've something else in store for him. Do as I say or I'll have you spiked on the city wall.'
    Kellanved's sense of humour had been strange even at the best of times. Duiker recalled those learning sessions: he a soldier of thirty-odd years who'd been campaigning for over half that, seated alongside Toe's own son, a runt of a boy who always seemed to be suffering from a cold – the sleeves of his shirt were crusty with dried snot. It had taken longer than six months, but by then it was Toe the Younger doing the teaching.
    The Emperor loved lessons in humility. So long as it was never thrown back at him. What happened to Toe the Elder, I wonder? Vanishing after the assassinations – I'd always imagined it as Laseen's doing . . . and Toe the Younger – he'd rejected a life amidst scrolls and books . . . now lost in the Genabackan campaign —
    A gauntleted hand gripped the historian's shoulder and squeezed hard. Duiker focused on Lull's battered face, nodded. Sorry. Mind wandering still, it seems.
    They had stopped. Ahead, vague through the mists, rose a spike-bristling ridge of packed earth. The glow of fires painted the fog orange beyond the earthwork perimeter.
    Now what?
    The two warlocks knelt in the grass five paces in front. Both had gone perfectly still.
    They waited. Duiker heard muffled voices from the other side of the ridge, slowly passing from left to right, then fading as the Tithansi patrol continued on. Nil twisted around and gestured.
    Crossbows cocked, the marines slipped forward. After a moment the historian followed.
    A tunnel mouth had opened in the earth before the two warlocks. The soil steamed, the rocks and gravel popping with heat. It looked to have been clawed open by huge taloned hands – from below.
    Duiker scowled. He hated tunnels. No, they terrified him. There was nothing rational in it – wrong again. Tunnels collapse. People get buried alive. All perfectly reasonable, possible, probable, inevitable.
    Nil led the way, slithering down and out of sight. The other warlock quickly followed. Lull turned to the historian and gestured him forward.
    Duiker shook his head.
    The captain pointed at him, then pointed to the hole and mouthed Now.
    Hissing a curse, the historian edged forward. As soon as he was within reach Lull's hand snapped out, gathering a handful of dusty telaba, and dragged Duiker to the tunnel mouth.
    It took all his will not to shriek as the captain unceremoniously stuffed him down into the tunnel. He scrambled, clawed wildly. He felt his kicking heel connect with something in the air behind him. Lull's jaw, I bet. Serves you right, bastard! The rush of satisfaction helped. He scrabbled past the old flood silts and found himself cocooned in warm bedrock. Collapse was unlikely, he told himself, the thought almost a gibber. The tunnel continued to angle