A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

beneath
the shadow of a jutting brow. Hairy beyond reason. Twisted
snarls exploding out from both ears, the ebon-hued curls
wending down to merge with the vast gull's nest that was
his beard, which in turn engulfed his neck and continued
downward, unabated, to what was visible of the man's
bulging chest; and, too, climbed upward to fur his cheeks –
conjoining on the way with the twin juts of nostril hairs, as
if the man had thrust tiny uprooted trees up his nose – only
to then merge uninterrupted with the sprung hemp ropes
that were the man's eyebrows, which in turn blended neatly
into the appallingly low hairline that thoroughly disguised
what had to be a meagre, sloping forehead. And, despite
the man's absurd age – rumoured age, actually, since no one
knew for certain – that mass of hair was dyed squid-ink
black.
    He was drinking red-vine tea, a local concoction sometimes
used to kill ants.
    Banaschar made his way over and sat down opposite the
man. 'If I'd thought about it, I'd say I've been looking for
you all this time, Master Sergeant Braven Tooth.'
    'But you ain't much of a thinker, are you?' The huge man
did not bother looking up. 'Can't be, if you were looking for
me. What you're seeing here is an escape – no, outright
flight – Hood knows who's deciding these pathetic nitwits
they keep sending me deserve the name of recruits. In the
Malazan Army, by the Abyss! The world's gone mad.
Entirely mad.'
    'The gatekeeper,' Banaschar said. 'Top of the stairs,
Mock's Hold. The gate watchman, Braven Tooth, I assume
you know him. Seems he's been there as long as you've
been training soldiers.'
    'There's knowing and there's knowing. That bell-backed
old crab, now, let me tell you something about him. I could
send legion after legion of my cuddly little recruits up them
stairs, with every weapon at their disposal, and they'd never
get past him. Why? I'll tell you why. It ain't that Lubben's
some champion or Mortal Sword or something. No, it's that
I got more brains lodged up my left nostril waitin' for my
finger than all my so-called recruits got put together.'
    'That doesn't tell me anything about Lubben, Braven
Tooth, only your opinion of your recruits, which it seems I
already surmised.'
    'Just so,' said the man, nodding.
    Banaschar rubbed at his face. 'Lubben. Listen, I nee
talk with someone, someone holed up in Mock's. I send
messages, they get into Lubben's hands, and then ...
nothing.'
    'So who's that you want to talk to?'
    'I'd rather not say.'
    'Oh, him.'
    'So, is Lubben dropping those messages down that slimy
chute the effluence of which so decorously paints the
cliff-side?'
    'Efflu-what? No. Tell you what, how about I head up
there and take that You'd rather not say by the overlong
out-of-style braid on top of his head and give 'im a shake or
three?'
    'I don't see how that would help.'
    'Well, it'd cheer me up, not for any particular gripe, mind
you, but just on principle. Maybe You'd rather not say'd
rather not talk to you, have you thought of that? Or maybe
you'd rather not.'
    'I have to talk to him.'
    'Important, huh?'
    'Yes.'
    'Imperial interest?'
    'No, at least I don't think so.'
    'Tell you what, I'll grab him by his cute braid and dangle
him from the tower. You can signal from below. I swing him
back and forth and it means he says "Sure, come on up, old
friend". And if I just drop 'im it means the other thing.
That, or my hands got tired and maybe slipped.'
    'You're not helpful at all, Braven Tooth.'
    'Wasn't me sitting at your table, was you sitting at mine.'
    Banaschar leaned back, sighing. 'Fine. Here, I'll buy you
some more tea—'
    'What, you trying to poison me now?'
    'All right, how about we share a pitcher of Malazan
Dark?'
    The huge man leaned forward, meeting Banaschar's eyes
for the first time. 'Better. Y'see, I'm in mourning.'
    'Oh?'
    'The news from Y'Ghatan.' He snorted. 'It's always the
news from Y'Ghatan, ain't it? Anyway, I've lost some
friends.'
    'Ah.'
    'So, tonight,' Braven Tooth said, 'I plan on getting
drunk. For them. I can't cry unless I'm drunk, you see.'
    'So why the red-vine tea?'
    Braven Tooth looked up as someone arrived, and gave
the man an ugly smile. 'Ask Temper here. Why the redvine
tea, you old hunkered-down bastard?'
    'Plan on crying tonight, Braven Tooth?'
    The Master Sergeant nodded.
    Temper levered himself into a chair that creaked alarmingly
beneath him. Red-shot eyes fixed on Banaschar.
'Makes his tears the colour of blood. Story goes, he's only
done it