A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

who doesn't get it tries to take advantage
of this broken thing, all forty-odd of us will skin him or her alive.
Add one more. Faradan Sort.
    Four children scrambled across the deck, one squealing
with laughter. Tucked in Masan Gilani's arms, Sinn stirred
slightly, then settled in once more, her mouth planted firm
on the woman's nipple. The Dal Honese woman stared
after the children, pleased to see that they'd recovered from
the march, that they'd begun their own healing. We all cope
in our own ways, aye.
    So who was Sinn seeing, when she said that they were all
dead?
    Gods below, I don't think I want to know. Not tonight, anyway.
Let her sleep. Let those others play, then curl up beneath
blankets somewhere below. Let us all sleep to this beast's swaying.
Quick Ben's gift to us, all of this.
     
    Brother and sister stood at the prow, wrapped against the
chill, and watched as stars filled the darkness of the north
sky. Creaking cordage, the strain of sails canted over as the
ship made yet another tack. Westward, a ridge of mountains
blacker than the heavens marked the Olphara
Peninsula.
    The sister broke the long silence between them. 'It
should have been impossible.'
    Her brother snorted, then said, 'It was. That's the whole
point.'
    'Tavore won't get what she wants.'
    'I know.'
    'She's used to that.'
    'She's had to deal with us, yes.'
    'You know, Nil, he saved us all.'
    A nod, unseen beneath the heavy hood of Wickan wool.
    'Especially Quick Ben.'
    'Agreed. So,' Nil continued, 'we are also agreed that it is
a good thing he is with us.'
    'I suppose,' Nether replied.
    'You're only sounding like that because you like him,
sister. Like him the way a woman likes a man.'
    'Don't be an idiot. It's those dreams ... and what she
does ...'
    Nil snorted again. 'Quickens your breath, does it? That
animal hand, gripping him hard—'
    'Enough! That's not what I meant. It's just ... yes, it's a
good thing he's with this army. But her, with him, well, I'm
not so sure.'
    'You're jealous, you mean.'
    'Brother, I grow weary of this childish teasing. There's
something, well, compulsive about it, the way she uses
him.'
    'All right, on that I would agree. But for you and me,
sister, there is one vital question remaining. The Eres'al has
taken an interest. She follows us like a jackal.'
    'Not us. Him.'
    'Exactly. And that is at the heart of the question here.
Do we tell her? Do we tell the Adjunct?'
    'Tell her what? That some wet-crotched soldier in
Fiddler's squad is more important to her and her army than
Quick Ben, Kalam and Apsalar all put together? Listen, we
wait until we discover what the High Mage tells the
Adjunct – about what just happened.'
    'Meaning, if he says little, or even claims complete
ignorance—'
    'Or takes credit and struts around like a First Hero –
that's when we decide on our answer, Nil.'
    'All right.'
    They were silent then for a dozen heartbeats, until Nil said,
    'You shouldn't worry overmuch, Nether. A half-woman half-animal all covered
    in smelly fur isn't much competition for his heart, I'd imagine.'
    'But it wasn't my hand—' Abruptly, she shut up, then
offered up a most ferocious string of Wickan curses.
    In the dark, Nil was smiling. Thankful, nonetheless, that
his sister could not see it.
     
    Marines crowded the hold, sprawled or curled up beneath
blankets, so many bodies Apsalar was made uneasy, as if
she'd found herself in a soldier barrow. Drawing her own
coverings to one side, she rose. Two lanterns swung from
timbers, their wicks low. The air was growing foul. She
clasped on her cloak and made her way towards the hatch.
    Climbing free, she stepped onto the mid deck. The night
air was bitter cold but blissfully fresh in her lungs. She saw
two figures at the prow. Nil and Nether. So turned instead
and ascended to the stern castle, only to find yet another
figure, leaning on the stern rail. A soldier, short, squat, his
head left bare despite the icy wind. Bald, with a fringe of
long, grey, ratty strands that whipped about in the frigid
blasts. She did not recognize the man.
    Apsalar hesitated, then, shrugging, walked over. His
head turned when she reached the rail at his side. 'You
invite illness, soldier,' she said. 'At the least, draw up your
hood.'
    The old man grunted, said nothing.
    'I am named Apsalar.'
    'So you want my name back, do you? But if I do that,
then it ends. Just silence. It's always that way.'
    She looked down on the churning wake twisting away
from the ship's stern.