A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

felt the old wounds within them resonate in sympathy. Commander, your shame is an insult. Discard it, or you will deliver unto your soldiers the deepest wound of all.'
    He stared down at her. 'We're a short-lived people,' he said after a long moment. 'We lack such complexity in our lives.'
    'Bastard. Remind me to never again apologize to you.'
    He looked back once more at the Malazan legions. 'I still fear to face them at close range,' he muttered.
    'The distance between you and them has already closed, Whiskeyjack. Your army will follow you into the Abyss, should you so command.'
    'The most frightening thought uttered thus far today.'
    She made no reply to that.
    Aye, war's imposition – of extremities. Harsh, yet simple. It is no place for humanity, no place at all. 'Dujek was displeased,' he said.
    'Dujek wants to keep his army alive.'
    His head snapped round.
    Her eyes regarded him, cool and gauging.
    'I have no interest in usurping his authority—'
    'You just did, Whiskeyjack. Laseen's fear of you be damned, the natural order has reasserted itself. She could handle Dujek. That's why she demoted you and put him in charge. Gods, you can be dense at times!'
    He scowled. 'If I am such a threat to her, why didn't she—' He stopped, closed his mouth. Oh, Hood. Pale. Darujhistan. It wasn't the Bridgeburners she wanted destroyed. It was me.
    'Guard your trust, my love,' Korlat said. 'It may be that your belief in honour is being used against you.'
    He felt himself go cold inside.
    Oh, Hood.
    Hood's marble balls on an anvil. . .
     
    Coll made his way down the gentle slope towards the Mhybe's wagon. Thirty paces to the right were the last of the Trygalle Trade Guild's carriages, a group of shareholders throwing bones on a tarp nearby. Messengers rode in the distance, coming from or returning to the main army's position a league to the southwest.
    Murillio sat with his back to one of the Rhivi wagon's solid wood wheels, eyes closed.
    They opened upon the councillor's arrival.
    'How does she fare?' Coll asked, crouching down beside him.
    'It is exhausting,' Murillio replied. 'To see her suffer those nightmares – they are endless. Tell me the news.'
    'Well, Kruppe and Silverfox haven't been seen since yesterday; nor have those two marines Whiskeyjack had guarding the Mhybe's daughter. As for the battle ...' Coll looked away, squinting southwestward. 'It was short-lived. Anomander Rake assumed his Soletaken form. A single pass dispersed the Tenescowri. Anaster was captured, and, uh, the mages in his service were ... executed.'
    'Sounds unpleasant,' Murillio commented.
    'By all reports it was. In any case, the peasants are fleeing back to Capustan, where I doubt they will be much welcome. It's a sad fate indeed for those poor bastards.'
    'She's been forgotten, hasn't she?'
    Coll did not need to ask for elaboration. 'A hard thing to swallow, but aye, it does seem that way.'
    'Outlived her usefulness, and so discarded.'
    'I cling to a faith that this is a tale not yet done, Murillio.'
    'We are the witnesses. Here to oversee the descent. Naught else, Coll. Kruppe's assurances are nothing but wind. And you and I, we are prisoners of this unwelcome circumstance – as much as she is, as much as that addled Rhivi woman who comes by to comb her hair.'
    Coll slowly swung to study his old friend. 'What do you suggest we do?' he asked.
    Shrugging, Murillio growled, 'What do most prisoners do sooner or later?'
    'They try to escape.'
    'Aye.'
    Coll said nothing for a long moment, then he sighed. 'And how do you propose we do that? Would you just leave her? Alone, untended—'
    'Of course not. No, we take her with us.'
    'Where?'
    'I don't know! Anywhere! So long as it's away.'
    'And how far will she need to go to escape those nightmares?'
    'We need only find someone willing to help her, Coll. Someone who does not judge a life by expedience and potential usefulness.'
    'This is an empty plain, Murillio.'
    'I know.'
    'Whereas, in Capustan ...'
    The younger man's eyes narrowed. 'By all accounts, it's little more than rubble.'
    'There are survivors. Including priests.'
    'Priests!' he snorted. 'Self-serving confidence artists, swindlers of the gullible, deceivers of—'
    'Murillio, there are exceptions to that—'
    'I've yet to see one.'
    'Perhaps this time. My point is, if we're to escape this – with her – we've a better chance of finding help in Capustan than out here in this wasteland.'
    'Saltoan—'
    'Is a week or more away, longer