A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

time to deliver a double blow to the Army of the Apocalypse. Indeed, the expectation all along had been for Dujek to assume overall command. Gamet could understand Laseen's thinking – to place the fate of the imperial presence on Seven Cities in the hands of a new, young and untested Adjunct was far too long a reach of faith.
    Though Tavore had believed the Empress had done just that. Now, to find this measure of confidence so lacking . . . gods, this had been a Hood-damned night indeed.
    Dujek Onearm was still coming, with a scant three thousand remaining in his Host, but he would arrive late, and, by both Topper's and Tayschrenn's unforgiving assessments, the man's spirit was broken. By the death of his oldest friend. Gamet wondered what else had happened in that distant land, in that nightmarish empire called the Pannion.
    Was it worth it, Empress? Was it worth the devastating loss?
    Topper had said too much, Gamet decided. Details of Laseen's plans should have been filtered through a more circumspect, less emotionally damaged agent. If the truth was so important, after all, then it should have been laid out for the Adjunct long before now – when it
actually mattered. To tell Tavore that the Empress had no confidence in her, then follow that with the brutal assertion that she was now the empire's last hope for Seven Cities... well, few were the men or women who would not be rocked to their knees by that.
    The Adjunct's expression revealed nothing. She cleared her throat. 'Very well, Topper. Is there more?'
    The Clawmaster's oddly shaped eyes widened momentarily, then he shook his head and rose. 'No. Do you wish me to convey a message to the Empress?'
    Tavore frowned. 'A message? No, there is no message. We have begun our march to the Holy Desert. Nothing more need be said.'
    Gamet saw Topper hesitate, then the Clawmaster said, 'There is one more thing, Adjunct. There are probably worshippers of Fener among your army. I do not think the truth of the god's ... fall ... can be hidden. It seems the Tiger of Summer is the lord of war, now. It does an army little good to mourn; indeed, grief is anathema to an army as we all well know. There may prove some period of difficult adjustment – it would be well to anticipate and prepare for desertions—'
    'There will be no desertions,' Tavore said, the flat assertion silencing Topper. 'The portal is weakening, Clawmaster – even a box of basalt cannot entirely block the effects of my sword. If you would leave this night, I suggest you do so now.'
    Topper stared down at her. 'We are badly hurt, Adjunct. And hurting. It is the hope of the Empress that you will exercise due caution, and make no precipitous actions. Suffer no distraction on your march to Raraku – there will be attempts to draw you from the trail, to wear you down with skirmishes and pursuits—'
    'You are a Clawmaster,' Tavore said, sudden iron in her tone. 'Dujek's advice I will listen to, for he is a soldier, a commander. Until such time as he arrives, I shall follow my own instincts. If the Empress is dissatisfied, she is
welcome to replace me. Now, that is all. Goodbye, Topper.'
    Scowling, the Clawmaster swung about and strode without ceremony into the Imperial Warren. The gate collapsed behind him, leaving only a sour smell of dust.
    Gamet let out a long sigh, pushed himself gingerly from the rickety camp chair. 'You have my sorrow, Adjunct, on the loss of your brother.'
    'Thank you, Gamet. Now, get some sleep. And stop by—'
    'T'amber's tent, aye, Adjunct.'
    She quirked an eyebrow. 'Is that disapproval I hear?'
    'It is. I'm not the only one in need of sleep. Hood take us, we've not even eaten this night.'
    'Until tomorrow, Fist.'
    He nodded. 'Aye. Goodnight, Adjunct.'
     
    There was but one figure seated at the ebbing fire when Strings returned.
    'What are you doing up, Cuttle?'
    'I've done my sleep. You'll be dragging your feet tomorrow, Sergeant.'
    'I don't think rest will come to me this night,' Strings muttered, sitting down cross-legged opposite the burly sapper.
    'It's all far away,' Cuttle rumbled, tossing a last scrap of dung onto the flames.
    'But it feels close.'
    'At least you're not walking in the footprints of your fallen companions, Fiddler. But even so, it's all far away.'
    'Well, I'm not sure what you mean but I'll take your word for it.'
    'Thanks for the munitions, by the way.'
    Strings grunted. 'It's the damnedest thing, Cuttle. We always find more, and they're meant to be