A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Well, she could trade it for some Falari sailor's
rum. There were enough idiots on this ship who didn't
know better, she just had to find one. A sailor, like that one
there.
    'Hey. Look, I got N'm'l brandy, but I'm thirsty for rum,
right? Paid ten crescents for this, I know, it's a lot, but my
squad, they love me y'see. Took up a c'lection. So's, I'm
thinking, how 'bout we trade. Straight across, baw'll for
baw'll. Sure, I drunk most a this, but it's worth more, right.
Which, as you can see, e'ens thingzup.' Then she waited.
    The man was a tall bastard. Kind of severe looking.
Other people were staring – what was their problem,
anyway?
    Then the man took the bottle, swished it back and forth
and frowned. He drank it down, three quick swallows.
    'Hey—'
    And reached beneath his fancy cloak, drawing out a
flask, which he passed across to her. 'Here, soldier,' he said.
'Now get below and drink until you pass out.'
    She collected the flask with both hands, marvelling at its
polished silver surface, even the gouge that ran diagonally
across one side, and the sigils stamped into it, very nice.
The Imperial Sceptre, and four old ones – the ones that
used to identify flagships – she'd seen those before. There,
that was Cartheron Crust's, and that one was Urko's, and
that one she didn't know, but the last one was the same as
on the flag up top of this ship she was on. That's a
coincidence now, ain't it? She blinked at the man. 'Can't,'
she said. 'I got orders—'
    'I am countermanding those orders, Sergeant.'
    'You can do that?'
    'Under these circumstances, yes.'
    'Well then, I'll never forget you, sailor. Promise. Now,
where's the hatch ...?'
    He guided her, with one firm hand on her shoulder, in
the right direction. Clutching the beautiful and beautifully
swishing flask against her chest, Hellian made her way
along, through the green murk, and all the staring faces.
She stuck out her tongue.
    They can get their own.
     
    Apsalar turned at the sigh from the Adjunct.
    Tavore's expression was ... philosophic, as she stared at
the eastern horizon. 'Humbling, is it not?'
    'Yes, Adjunct, I suppose it is.'
    'All of our plans ... our conceits ... as if the sheer force
of our wills, each of us, can somehow ensure that all else
remains unchanged around us, awaiting naught but what
we do, what we say.'
    'The gods—'
    'Yes, I know. But that' – she nodded eastward – 'does not
belong to them.'
    'No?'
    'It is too devastating, soldier. Neither side is that desperate
... yet. And now,' she shrugged, 'even their games
dwindle into insignificance.'
    'Adjunct,' Apsalar said, 'you lack confidence.'
    'Do I? In what?'
    'Our resilience.'
    'Perhaps.'
    But Apsalar could feel her own confidence crumbling,
clinging to a single thought – and the resolve behind that
thought was itself weakening. Even so. A single thought. This – this was anticipated. By someone. It had to be.
    Someone saw this coming.
    Most people were blind, wilfully or otherwise. But, there
were some who weren't.
    So now, my prescient friend, you had better do something
    about it. And quick.
     
    Ormulogun, trailed by his toad, stumbled into view, an
overflowing leather satchel in his arms. The toad was bleating
something about delusional artists and the brutal world
in a tone of pessimistic satisfaction. Ormulogun tripped and
fell almost at Paran's feet, the satchel tipping and spilling
its contents – including scores of wooden cards, most of
them blank.
    'You've barely started! You damned fool!'
    'Perfection!' Ormulogun shrieked. 'You said—'
    'Never mind,' Paran snarled. He looked back at the eastern
sky. Spears of fire were descending like rain. 'Mainland? Into
the sea?' he wondered aloud. 'Or Otataral Island?'
    'Maybe all three,' Noto Boil said, licking his lips.
    'Well,' Paran said, crouching down and clearing a space
in the sand before him, 'sea's worse. That means ...' He
began drawing with his index finger.
    'I have some!' Ormulogun whimpered, fumbling through
the cards.
    Mael. I hope you're paying attention – I hope you're ready to
do what needs doing. He studied the streaks he had etched in
the sand. Enough? It has to be. Closing his eyes, he focused
his will. The Gate is before me —
    'I have this one!'
    The shout was loud in Paran's right ear, and even as the
force of his will was unleashed, he opened his eyes – and
saw, hovering before him, another card—
    And all of his power rushed into it—
    Onto his knees, skidding on clay that deformed