A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

of its
perch, wheeled once then flitted off, down along the
strand, where it alighted on the white flank of a huge treetrunk
some past storm had flung ashore, the creature's legs
spread wide, belly to the wood, its tiny sides palpitating.
Distracted and frightened, Bottle reached out to brush one
fingertip between the rhizan's eyes, a gesture intended to
offer comfort, even as he released his hold upon its lifespark.
The creature fled in a flurry of wings and whipping
tail.
    And now, five days later, Bottle found himself on the
foredeck of the Silanda, staring back down the ship to that
tarp-covered heap of severed heads that Stormy called his
brain's trust. Amusing, yes, but Bottle knew those undying
eyes were piercing the frayed fabric of the canvas, watching
him. In expectation. Of what? Damn you, I can't help you
poor fools. You have to see that!
    Besides, he had plenty of other things to worry over right
now. So many, in fact, that he did not know where to start.
    He had seen the sigil, the decoration the Adjunct had presented
    to Faradan Sort at what should have been her court-martial, and to the mute
    child Sinn – not that she was in truth mute, Bottle knew. The urchin
    just had very little to say to anyone, barring her brother Shard. The sigil
    ... in silver, a city wall over which rose ruby flames, and the sloped tel
    beneath that wall, a mass of gold human skulls. The echo of the Bridgeburners'
    old sigil was not accident – no, it was sheer genius. T'amber's genius.
    By the end of that same day, iron needles and silk threads
were out as blunted fingers worked with varying degrees of
talent, and military-issue cloaks found a new decoration
among the soldiers of the Fourteenth Army. To go along
with dangling finger bones, the occasional bird skull and
drilled teeth.
    All well and good, as far as it went. For much of the first
day, as Bottle and the others recovered, soldiers would
come by just to look at them. It had been unnerving, all
that attention, and he still struggled to understand what he
saw in those staring eyes. Yes, we're alive. Unlikely, granted,
but true nonetheless. Now, what is it that you see?
    The memories of that time beneath the city were a
haunting refrain behind every spoken word shared between
Bottle and his fellow survivors. It fuelled their terrible
dreams at night – he had grown used to awakening to some
muffled cry from a squad member; from Smiles, or Cuttle,
or Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas. Cries dimly echoed from
where other squads slept on the stony ground.
    Their kits had been rifled through in their absence, items
and gear redistributed as was the custom, and on that first
day soldiers arrived to return what they had taken. By dusk,
each survivor had more than they had ever begun with –
and could only look on in bemusement at the heaped
trinkets, buckles, clasps and charms; the mended tunics,
the scrubbed-clean quilted under-padding, the buffed
leather straps and weapon-rigging. And daggers. Lots of
daggers, the most personal and precious of all weapons – the
fighter's last resort. The weapon that, if necessary, would be
used to take one's own life in the face of something far worse.
Now, what significance are we to take from that?
    Crouched nearby on the foredeck, Koryk and Tarr were
playing a game of Bones that the former had found among
the offerings in his kit. A sailor's version, the cribbed box
deep to prevent the playing pieces bouncing out of the
field, the underside made stable by iron-tipped eagle talons
at each corner, sharp enough to bite into the wood of a
galley bench or deck. Tarr had lost every game thus far –
over twenty – both to Koryk and Smiles, yet he kept
coming back. Bottle had never seen a man so willing to
suffer punishment.
    In the captain's cabin lounged Gesler, Stormy, Fiddler
and Balm, their conversation sporadic and desultory. Deep
in shadows beneath the elongated map-table huddled
Y'Ghatan, Bottle's rat – my eyes, my ears ... my aching
teats.
    No other rats on board, and without his control over
Y'Ghatan and her brood, they would have flung themselves
overboard long ago. Bottle sympathized. The sorcery
engulfing this ship was foul, redolent with madness. It disliked
anything alive that was not bound by its chaotic will.
And it especially disliked ... me.
    Only ... Gesler and Stormy, they seem immune to it. The
bastards – forcing us to join them on this eerie, unwelcome floating
barrow.
    Bottle considered talking to Fiddler