A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

kneeling, heads bowed, in the muddy water.
    Gamet could see, upon arriving, Tavore's tightly bridled anger. Aye, they cling still to the chains, and it seems letting go is the last thing they would do . . . given the choice. Well, I was the one who mentioned initiative. 'I see the children are playing in the mud, Adjunct.'
    Her head snapped round and her eyes narrowed.
    Gamet went on, 'I advise we assign a minder for them, lest they injure themselves in their exuberance. After all, Adjunct, I doubt the Empress intended you to mother them, did she?'
    'Well, no,' she drawled after a moment. 'They were to be my mages.'
    'Aye, so I wonder, have you instructed them to commune with the ghosts? Do they seek to appease the river spirits?'
    'No, again, Fist. In truth, I have no idea what they're doing.'
    'I am of the opinion that you are proving far too permissive a mother, Adjunct.'
    'Indeed. Then I give you leave to act in my stead, Fist.'
    There was no way Nil and Nether were uncognizant of the conversation behind them, but neither altered their position. With a loud sigh, Gamet dismounted and walked to the muddy waterline.
    Then reached down and closed a hand on their hide shirts, just behind their necks, and yanked the two Wickans upright.
    Loud squeals, then hissing fury as the Fist shook them both for a moment, then turned them round until they faced the Adjunct. 'This is what a Wickan grandmother would have done. I know, somewhat harsher than is the Malazan style of parenting. Then again, these two children are not Malazan, are they?' He set them down.
    'Perhaps it's too late, Fist,' Tavore said, 'but I would remind you that these two children are also warlocks.'
    'I've seen no sign of it yet, Adjunct. But if they want to curse me, then so be it.'
    For the moment, however, neither seemed inclined to do so. Rage had given way to something very much resembling a sulk.
    Tavore cleared her throat. 'Nil, Nether, I believe there
will be need for representatives of our army to seek out the local tribes in this forest, to assure them we are aware of the meaning behind their gesture. None the less, we must ensure safe passage across this ford.'
    'Adjunct, Fist Tene Baralta has suggested something similar, but using the Khundryl.'
    'Perhaps representatives from both, then.' To the Wickans: 'Report to Fist Tene Baralta.'
    Gamet watched the siblings exchange a glance, then Nil said to the Adjunct, 'As you wish.'
    Nether cast a parting look of venom at Gamet as they headed off.
    'Pray you won't have to pay for that,' Tavore said when they were out of earshot.
    Gamet shrugged.
    'And next time, have Tene Baralta bring his suggestions to me personally.'
    'Aye, Adjunct.'
     
    Cuttle and Strings scrambled back from the shoreline. Soaked and sheathed in blood-crusted mud, they none the less could not keep grins from their faces. A doubling of pleasure in that the munitions had come from the Fourteenth's stores, not their own. Twelve crackers that would drive the explosions horizontally, three cussers placed shallow in the detritus to loosen the wreckage.
    And a bare handful of heartbeats before it all went up.
    The rest of the army had pulled back to the top of the slope on this side; the Seti scouts on the opposite side were nowhere to be seen. Leaving only the two sappers—
    —running like madmen.
    A thundering whump sent both men flying. Sand, mud, water, followed by a rain of debris.
    Hands over their heads, they lay motionless for a long moment, with the only sound to reach them the rush of water sweeping over the cleared ford. Then Strings looked across at Cuttle, to find him looking back.
    Maybe two cussers would have done.
    They exchanged nods, then clambered to their feet.
    The ford was indeed clear. The water beyond seethed with flotsam, now making its way down to the Dojal Hading Sea.
    Strings wiped mud from his face. 'Think we made any holes, Cuttle?'
    'Nothing that'll drown anyone, I'd wager. Good thing you didn't run,' Cuttle added in a murmur, as riders made their way down the slope behind them.
    Strings shot the man a glance. 'What don't you hear?'
    'Not a question I can answer, is it, Fid?'
    The first rider arrived – their fellow sapper, Maybe, from the 6th squad. 'Flat and clean,' he said, 'but you left it too close – what's the point of making a big explosion when you've got your face in the dirt when it goes off?'
    'Any other bright comments to make, Maybe?' Cuttle growled, brushing himself down – a gesture