A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

hovel,
burned and gutted, where goats were now gathering, driven
by habit alone as the day's light faded. He discerned no
obvious sign of graves, and was not inclined to search
among the ruins. Plague, the silent, invisible breath of the
Grey Goddess. It was likely, he realized, the city ahead was
in the grip of that terror.
    The first spatters of rain struck his back, and a moment
later, in a rushing sizzle, the downpour was upon him. The
rocky trail was suddenly treacherous, forcing Paran to slow
his horse to a cautious trot. Visibility reduced to a dozen
paces on all sides, the world beyond washed away behind a
silver wall. Warm water trickling beneath his clothes,
Paran drew up the tattered hood of the military rain-cape
covering his shoulders, then hunched over as the rain
hammered down.
    The worn trail became a stream, muddy water sluicing
along amidst rocks and cobbles. Horse slowing to a walk,
they pressed on. Between two low hills, the track sprawling
out into a shallow lake, and Paran found himself flanked by
two soldiers.
    One gauntleted hand reached out to take the reins.
'You're headed the wrong way, stranger,' growled the man,
in Malazan.
    The other held cradled in his arms a crossbow, but it
wasn't loaded, and he now spoke from the shadows beneath
his hood: 'Is that cape loot? Dragged it from the body of a
Malazan soldier, did you?'
    'No,' Paran replied. 'Issued to me, just like your capes
were to you, soldier.' Ahead, he could just make out in a
brief easing of the downpour, was an encampment. Two,
perhaps three legions, the tents cloaking a series of hills
beneath a low ceiling of smoke from cookfires dying in the
rain. Beyond it, with the road winding down a slope, rose
the walls of G'danisban. He returned his attention to the
soldiers. 'Who commands this army?'
    The one with the crossbow said, 'How 'bout you answer
the questions to start? You a deserter?'
    Well, technically speaking, yes. Then again, I'm supposed
to be dead. 'I wish to speak with your commanding
officer.'
    'You pretty much ain't got no choice, now. Off the horse,
stranger. We're arresting you on suspicion of desertion.'
    Paran slipped down from the horse. 'Fine. Now will you
tell me whose army this is?'
    'The lad's push for you. You're now a prisoner of
Onearm's Host.'
     
    For all the outward signs, it slowly dawned on Paran that
this was not a siege. Companies held the roads leading into
G'danisban, and the camp itself formed a half-ring cordon
along the north and west sides, no pickets closer than four
hundred paces from the unmanned walls.
    One of the soldiers led Paran's horse towards the
temporary stables, whilst the other one guided Paran down
avenues between sodden tents. Figures moved about,
cloaked and hooded, but none wearing full battle regalia.
    They entered an officer's tent.
    'Captain,' the soldier said, flipping back his hood, 'we
come upon this man trying to ride into G'danisban from
the Raraku road. You see, sir, he's wearing a Malazan
military rain-cape. We think he's a deserter, probably from
the Adjunct's Fourteenth.'
    The woman he addressed was lying on her back on a cot
that ran parallel to the back wall. She was fair-skinned, her
petite features surrounded by a mass of long red hair. Head
tilting to take in her soldier and Paran, she was silent for a
moment, then resumed her stare at the dipping ceiling
above her. 'Take him to the stockade – we have a stockade,
don't we? Oh, and get his details – what regiment, which
legion and all that. So it can be recorded somewhere before
he's executed. Now get out, the both of you, you're dripping
water everywhere.'
    'Just a moment, Captain,' Paran said. 'I wish to speak
with the High Fist.'
    'Not possible, and I don't recall giving you permission to
speak. Pull out his fingernails for that, Futhgar, will you?
When it's time, of course.'
    Years ago, Paran would have done ... nothing.
Succumbed to the rules, the written ones and the unwritten
ones. He would have simply bided his time. But he
was soaked through, in need of a hot bath. He was tired.
And, he had gone through something like this once before,
long ago and on a distant continent. Back then, of course,
it had been a sergeant – same red hair, but a moustache
under the nose – even so, the similarity was there, like the
poke of an assassin's knife.
    The soldier, Futhgar, was standing on his left, half a pace
back. Paran gave nothing away, simply stepping to his right
then driving his left elbow into the