A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

infamy, bound to Temul's future. Of course, that future could be tomorrow. Besides, Grub
might be no more than a brain-addled waif ... all right, I
don't believe that – he seems to know too much. If only half the
things he said made any sense ... Well, in any case, Temul
still managed to startle Keneb with statements more
suited to some veteran campaigner. 'Very well, Fist
Temul. What would you do, were you in Leoman's place?'
    Silence, then a quick look at Keneb, something like
surprise in Temul's angular features. A moment later the
expressionless mask returned, and he shrugged.
    'Coltaine walks in your shadow, Temul,' Gall said,
running his fingers down his own face as if to mimic the
tears tattooed there. 'I see him, again and again—'
    'No, Gall. I have told you before. You see naught but the
ways of the Wickans; all else is but your imagination.
Coltaine sent me away; it is not to me that he will
return.'
    He haunts you still, Temul. Coltaine sent you with Duiker to
keep you alive, not to punish or shame you. Why won't you
accept that?
    'I have seen plenty of Wickans,' Gall said in a growl.
    This had the sound of an old argument. Sighing, Keneb
walked over to his horse. 'Any last words for the Adjunct?
Either of you? No? Very well.' He swung up into the saddle
and gathered the reins.
    The cattle-dog Bent watched him with its sand-coloured,
dead eyes. Nearby, Roach had found a bone and was lying
sprawled on its belly, legs spread out as it gnawed with the
mindless concentration unique to dogs.
    Halfway down the slope, Keneb realized where that bone
had likely come from. A kick, all right, hard enough to send
that rat straight through Hood's Gate.
     
    Corporal Deadsmell, Throatslitter and Widdershins were
sitting round a game of Troughs, black stones bouncing off
the rudder and rolling in the cups, as Bottle walked up.
    'Where's your sergeant?' he asked.
    Deadsmell glanced up, then back down. 'Mixing paint.'
    'Paint? What kind of paint?'
    'It's what Dal Honese do,' said Widdershins, 'death-mask
paint.'
    'Before a siege?'
    Throatslitter hissed – what passed for laughter, Bottle
supposed – and said, 'Hear that? Before a siege. That's very
cute, very cute, Bottle.'
    'It's a death mask, idiot,' Widdershins said to Bottle. 'He
paints it on when he thinks he's about to die.'
    'Great attitude for a sergeant,' Bottle said, looking
around. The other two soldiers of the Ninth Squad, Galt
and Lobe, were feuding over what to put in a pot of boiling
water. Both held handfuls of herbs, and as each reached to
toss the herbs in the other soldier pushed that hand away
and sought to throw in his own. Again and again, over the
boiling water. Neither spoke. 'All right, where is Balm finding
his paint?'
    'There's a local cemetery north of the road,' Deadsmell
said. 'I'd guess maybe there.'
    'If I don't find him,' Bottle said, 'the captain wants a
meeting with all the sergeants in her company. Dusk.'
    'Where?'
    'The sheep pen back of the farm south of the road, the
one with the caved-in roof.'
    Over by the hearth the pot had boiled dry and Galt and
Lobe were fighting over water jugs.
    Bottle moved on to the next encampment. He found
Sergeant Moak sprawled with his back resting on a heap of
bedrolls. The Falari, copper-haired and bearded, was picking
at his overlarge teeth with a fish spine. His soldiers were
nowhere in sight.
    'Sergeant. Captain Faradan Sort's called a meeting—'
    'I heard. I ain't deaf.'
    'Where's your squad?'
    'Got the squats.'
    'All of them?'
    'I cooked last night. They got weak stomachs, that's all.'
He belched, and a moment later Bottle caught a whiff of
something like rotting fish guts.
    'Hood take me! Where'd you find anywhere to catch fish
on this trail?'
    'Didn't. Brought it with me. Was a bit high, it's true, but
nothing a real soldier couldn't handle. There's some scrapings
in the pot – want some?'
    'No.'
    'No wonder the Adjunct's in trouble, what with a whole
damn army of cowardly whiners.'
    Bottle stepped past to move on.
    'Hey,' Moak called out, 'tell Fid the wager's still on as far
as I'm concerned.'
    'What wager?'
    'Between him and me and that's all you got to know.'
    'Fine.'
    He found Sergeant Mosel and his squad dismantling a
broken wagon in the ditch. They had piled up the wood
and Flashwit and Mayfly were prying nails, studs and
fittings from the weathered planks, whilst Taffo and Uru
Hela struggled with an axle under the sergeant's watchful
eye.
    Mosel glanced over. 'Bottle, isn't it?