A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

quietly.
    'What is?'
    'The reason why I picked a Birdshit, soldiers.'
    'You didn't pick ...'
    At the suspicious silence that followed, Strings simply smiled. Then he shrugged. 'Hunting's one thing. An easy thing. Birdshits don't need to get... elaborate, killing a maimed capemoth. It's when they have to fight. Protecting territory, or their young. That's when the surprise comes. You think Joyful's going to lose tonight, Bottle? Think your heart's going to get broken? Relax, lad, old Strings here has always got your tender feelings in mind ...'
    'You can drop that "Strings" bit, Sergeant,' Bottle said after a moment. 'We all know who you are. We all know your real name.'
    'Well, that's damned unfortunate. If it gets out to the command—'
    'Oh, it won't, Fiddler.'
    'Maybe not on purpose, but in the heat of battle?'
    'Who's going to listen to our screams of panic in a battle, Sergeant?'
    Fiddler shot the young man a look, gauging, then he grinned. 'Good point. Still, be careful what you say and when you say it.'
    'Aye, Sergeant. Now, could you explain that surprise you were talking about?'
    'No. Wait and see.'
    Strings fell silent then, noting a small party of riders approaching down the line of march. 'Straighten up, soldiers. Officers coming.'
    Fist Gamet, the sergeant saw, was looking old, worn out. Getting dragged out of retirement was never a good thing, he knew, since the first thing that an old soldier put away was his nerve, and that was hard, if not impossible, to get back. That stepping away, of course, marked a particular kind of retirement – and one a cautious soldier usually
avoided. Abandoning the lifestyle was one thing, but surrendering the deadly edge was another. Studying the Fist as the man rode up, Fiddler felt a tremor of unease.
    Accompanying Gamet were Captain Keneb and the lieutenant, the latter so grim-faced as to be near comical. His officer mask, with which he tries to look older and thus more professional. Instead, it's the scowl of a constipated man. Someone should tell him ...
    The threesome reined in to walk their horses alongside Fiddler's own squad – somewhat unnerving to the sergeant, though he offered them a nod. Keneb's eyes, he noted, were on Cuttle.
    But it was Ranal who spoke first. 'Sergeant Strings.'
    'Aye, sir?'
    'You and Cuttle, please, off to one side for a private conversation.' Then he raised his voice to the squad marching ahead. 'Sergeant Gesler and Corporal Stormy, back with us on the double.'
    'Four should be enough,' the Fist rumbled, 'to see the instructions properly delivered to the other squads.'
    'Yes, sir,' said Ranal, who had been about to call over Borduke.
    When the four marines were assembled, Fist Gamet cleared his throat, then began, 'It's clear you are all veterans. And Captain Keneb informs me that you have marched in these lands before – no, I need no more details of that. My reliance depends on that very experience, however. The Adjunct wishes the marines to answer the desert raiders tonight.'
    He fell silent then.
    And no-one spoke for a time, as the significance of the Fist's words slowly settled in the minds of the four marines.
    Finally, Captain Keneb said, 'Aye, Dassem's answer, all those years ago. It's fortunate, then, that you'd planned on using the word-line this evening. Simple enough to keep it going once the three-way fight's finished.' He leaned over slightly in his saddle and said to Fiddler, 'You've the
Birdshit, Sergeant? What are the odds running at right now?'
    'Maybe says it's about forty to one,' Fiddler replied, keeping his face straight.
    'Even better than I'd hoped,' Keneb replied, leaning back. 'But I should add, Sergeant, that I've convinced the Fist to back your Birdshit as well.'
    'Ten jakatas,' Gamet said, 'and in this I rely upon the captain's ... experience. And yours, Sergeant ... Strings.'
    'Uh, we'll do our best, sir.'
    Gesler turned to Stormy. 'Smell something, Corporal?'
    The huge Falari with the flint sword on his back scowled. 'Ain't no scorpions on the coasts, dammit. Aye, Sergeant, I'm smelling something all right.'
    'Get used to it,' Cuttle advised.
    Ranal was looking confused, but wisely said nothing ... for now.
    'Use the word-line,' Keneb said, resuming his instructions, 'and remember, make sure the toughest squads are the ones showing their smiles.'
    'Aye, Captain,' Fiddler replied, wondering if he should reassess his opinion of Keneb.
    'One last thing,' the man added. 'Fist Gamet will be commanding the