A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

he
bowed and turned away.
    The boy had a name, but she would give him a new
name. One better suited to her vision of the future. After a
moment, she smiled. Yes, she would name him Crokus.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    An old man past soldiering
his rivets green, his eyes
rimmed in rust,
stood as if heaved awake
from slaughter's pit, back-cut
from broken flight
when young blades chased him
from the field.
He looks like a promise only fools
could dream unfurled,
the banners of glory
gesticulating
in the wind over his head,
stripped like ghosts,
skulls stove in, lips flapping,
their open mouths mute.
    'Oh harken to me,' cries he
atop his imagined summit,
'and I shall speak – of riches
and rewards, of my greatness,
my face once young like these
I see before me – harken!'
    While here I sit at the Tapu's
table, grease-fingered
with skewered meat, cracked goblet
pearled in the hot sun, the wine
watered to make, in the
alliance of thin and thick,
both passing palatable.
As near as an arm's reach
from this rabbler, this
ravelling trumpeter who once
might have stood shield-locked
at my side, red-hued, masked
drunk, coarse with fear, in
the moment before he broke—
broke and ran—
and now he would call a new
generation to war, to battle-clamour,
and why? Well, why – all
because he once ran, but listen:
a soldier who ran once
ever runs, and this,
honoured magistrate,
is the reason—
the sole reason I say—
for my knife finding his back.
He was a soldier
whose words heaved me
awake.
    'Bedura's Defence' in The Slaying of King Qualin Tros of Bellid
transcribed as song by Fisher, Malaz City, last year of
Laseen's Reign
     
    W ithin an aura redolent and reminiscent of a
crypt, Noto Boil, company cutter, Kartoolian by
birth and once priest of Soliel, long, wispy,
colourless hair plucked like strands of web by the wind, his
skin the hue of tanned goat leather, stood like a bent
sapling and picked at his green-furred teeth with a fish spine.
It had been a habit of his for so long that he had worn round
holes between each tooth, and the gums had receded far back,
making his smile skeletal.
    He had smiled but once thus far, by way of greeting, and
for Ganoes Paran, that had been once too many.
    At the moment, the healer seemed at best pensive, at
worst distracted by boredom. 'I cannot say for certain,
Captain Kindly,' the man finally said.
    'About what?'
    A flicker of the eyes, grey floating in yellow murk. 'Well,
you had a question for me, did you not?'
    'No,' Paran replied, 'I had for you an order.'
    'Yes, of course, that is what I meant.'
    'I commanded you to step aside.'
    'The High Fist is very ill, Captain. It will avail you
nothing to disturb his dying. More pointedly, you might
well become infected with the dread contagion.'
    'No, I won't. And it is his dying that I intend to do something
about. For now, however, I wish to see him. That is all.'
    'Captain Sweetcreek has—'
    'Captain Sweetcreek is no longer in command, cutter. I
am. Now get out of my way before I reassign you to irrigating
horse bowels, and given the poor quality of the feed
they have been provided of late ...'
    Noto Boil examined the fish spine in his hand. 'I will
make note of this in my company log, Captain Kindly. As
the Host's ranking healer, there is some question regarding
chain of command at the moment. After all, under normal
circumstances I far outrank captains—'
    'These are not normal circumstances. I'm losing my
patience here.'
    An expression of mild distaste. 'Yes, I have first-hand
knowledge of what happens when you lose patience, no
matter how unjust the situation. It fell to me, I remind you,
to heal Captain Sweetcreek's fractured cheekbone.' The
man stepped to one side of the entrance. 'Please, Captain,
be welcome within.'
    Sighing, Paran strode past the cutter, pulled aside the
flap and entered the tent.
    Gloom, the air hot and thick with heavy incense that
could only just mask the foul reek of sickness. In this first
chamber were four cots, each occupied by a company
commander, only two of whom were familiar to Paran. All
slept or were unconscious, limbs twisted in their sweatstained
blankets, necks swollen by infection, each drawn
breath a thin wheeze like some ghastly chorus. Shaken, the
captain moved past them and entered the tent's back
chamber, where there was but one occupant.
    In the grainy, crepuscular air, Paran stared down at the
figure in the cot. His first thought was that Dujek Onearm
was already dead. An aged, bloodless face