A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

not busy running
around skewering goddesses in my youth—'
    'Neither was I, although I suppose, like any healthy young
non-leg-breaking boy, I lusted after a few. At least, based on
their statues and the like. Take Soliel, for instance—'
    'Soliel! A likeness expressly visualized to encourage
notions of motherhood!'
    'Oh, really? My, that's a little too revealing, isn't it?'
    'Mind you,' Noto Boil said in a commiserating tone, 'you were a young boy ...'
    'So I was, now let's forget all that. You were saying?
After your leg-breaker career died with a whimper, then
what?'
    'Oh, how very droll, sir. I should also point out, the
manifestation of Soliel back in G'danisban—'
    'Damned disappointing,' Paran agreed. 'You've no idea
how many adolescent fantasies were obliterated by that.'
    'I thought you had no desire to discuss that subject any
further?'
    'Fine. Go on.'
    'I was apprenticed for a short time to a local healer—'
    'Healing lame dogs?'
    'Not our primary source of income, sir. There was a misunderstanding,
as a consequence of which I was forced to
depart his company, in some haste. A local recruiting drive
proved opportune, especially since such efforts by the
Malazans rarely garnered more than a handful of
Kartoolians – and most of those either destitute or
criminal—'
    'And you were both.'
    'The principal source of their delight at my joining the
ranks derived from my skills as a healer. Anyway my first
campaign was in Korel, the Theftian Campaigns, where I
was fortunate to acquire further tutelage from a healer who
would later become infamous. Ipshank.'
    'Truly?'
    'Indeed, none other. And yes, I met Manask as well. It
must be said – and you, High Fist, will comprehend more
than most the necessity of this – it must be said, both
Ipshank and Manask remained loyal to Greymane ... to
the last. Well, as far as I knew, that is – I was healer to a full
legion by then, and we were sent to Genabackis. In due
course—'
    'Noto Boil,' Paran interrupted, 'it seems you have a
singular talent for consorting with the famous and the
infamous.'
    'Why, yes, sir. I suppose I have at that. And now, I suspect,
you are wondering into which category I place you?'
    'Me? No, don't bother.'
    The healer prepared to speak again but was interrupted
by the arrival of Hurlochel.
    'High Fist.'
    'Outrider.'
    'The trail ahead, sir, has up until now revealed little
more than a scattering of your so-called pilgrims. But it
seems that a troop of riders have joined the migration.'
    'Any idea how many?'
    'More than five hundred, High Fist. Could be as many as
a thousand – they are riding in formation so it's difficult to
tell.'
    'Formation. Now, who might they be, I wonder? All
right, Hurlochel, advance your scouts and flanking out-riders
– how far ahead are they?'
    'Four or five days, sir. Riding at a collected canter for the
most part.'
    'Very good. Thank you, Hurlochel.'
    The outrider rode back out of the column.
    'What do you think this means, High Fist?'
    Paran shrugged at the healer's question. 'I imagine we'll
discover soon enough, Boil.'
    'Noto Boil, sir. Please.'
    'Good thing,' Paran continued, unable to help himself,
'you became a healer and not a lancer.'
    'If you don't mind, sir, I think I hear someone complaining
up ahead about saddle sores.' The man clucked his
mount forward.
    Oh my, he prefers saddle sores to my company. Well, to each
his own ...
     
    'High Fist Paran,' Captain Sweetcreek muttered. 'What's
he doing riding back there, and what's all that about no
saluting? It's bad for discipline. I don't care what the
soldiers think – I don't even care that he once commanded
the Bridgeburners – after all, he took them over only to see
them obliterated. It's not proper, I'm saying. None of it.'
    Fist Rythe Bude glanced over at the woman. Her colour
was up, the Fist observed, eyes flashing. Clearly, the
captain was not prepared to forget that punch in the jaw. Mind you, I probably wouldn't forgive something like that
either.
    'I think the Fists need to organize a meeting—'
    'Captain,' Rythe Bude warned, 'you forget yourself.'
    'My apologies, sir. But, now that we're trailing some kind
of army, well, I don't want to end up like the Bridgeburners.
That's all.'
    'Dujek Onearm's confidence in Paran, and his admiration
for the man, Captain, is sufficient for me. And my
fellow Fists. I strongly advise you to suppress your anger and
recall your own discipline. As for the army ahead of us,
even a thousand mounted