A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

'Dead? She
don't look much dead to me.'
    'Trust me,' the corporal replied after taking a deep
draught. He belched. 'Sure, she's hiding it well, but that
woman died some time ago.'
    Balm was hunched over the table, scratching at the
tangles of his hair. Flakes drifted down to land like specks
of paint on the dark wood. 'Gods below,' he whispered.
'Maybe somebody should . . . I don't know . . . maybe . . .
tell her?'
    Deadsmell's mostly hairless brows lifted. 'Excuse me,
ma'am, you have a complexion to die for and I guess that's
what you did.'
    Another squawk from Throatslitter.
    The corporal continued, 'Is it true, ma'am, that perfect
hair and expensive make-up can hide anything?'
    A choked squeal from Throatslitter.
    Heads turned.
    Deadsmell drank down another mouthful, warming to
the subject. 'Funny, you don't look dead.'
    The high-pitched cackle erupted.
    As it died, sudden silence in the main room of the
tavern, barring that of a rolling tankard, which then
plunged off a tabletop and bounced on the floor.
    Balm glared at Deadsmell. 'You done that. You just kept
pushing and pushing. Another word from you, corporal,
and you'll be deader than she is.'
    'What's that smell?' Deadsmell asked. 'Oh right. Essence
of putrescence.'
    Balm's cheeks bulged, his face turning a strange purple
shade. His yellowy eyes looked moments from leaping out
on their stalks.
    Throatslitter tried squeezing his own eyes shut, but the
image of his sergeant's face burst into his mind. He shrieked
behind his hands. Looked round in helpless appeal.
    All attention was fixed on them now, no-one speaking.
Even the beautiful woman who'd shipped in with that
maimed oaf and the oaf himself – whose one good eye
glittered out from the folds of a severe frown – had paused,
standing each to one side of the cask of ale the
tavernkeeper had brought out. And the keeper himself,
staring at Throatslitter with mouth hanging open.
    'Well,' Deadsmell observed, 'there goes our credit as bad
boys. Throaty here's making mating calls – hope there's no
turkeys on this island. And you, sergeant, your head looks
ready to explode like a cusser.'
    Balm hissed, 'It was your fault, you bastard!'
    'Hardly. As you see, I am calm. Although somewhat
embarrassed by my company, alas.'
    'Fine, we're shifting you off. Hood knows, Gilani's a
damned sight prettier to look at—'
    'Yes, but she happens to be alive, sergeant. Not your type
at all.'
    'I didn't know!'
    'Now that is a most pathetic admission, wouldn't you
say?'
    'Hold on,' Throatslitter finally interjected. 'I couldn't
tell about her either, Deadsmell.' He jabbed a finger at the
corporal. 'Further proof you're a damned necromancer. No,
forget that shocked look, we ain't buying no more. You
knew she was dead because you can smell 'em, just like your
name says you can. In fact, I'd wager that's why Braven
Tooth gave you that name – doesn't miss a thing, ever, does
he?'
    The ambient noise was slowly resurrecting itself,
accompanied by more than a few warding gestures, a couple
of chairs scraping back through filth as patrons made
furtive escapes out of the front door.
    Deadsmell drank more ale. And said nothing.
    The dead woman and her companion headed out, the
latter limping as he struggled to balance the cask on one
shoulder.
    Balm grunted. 'There they go. Typical, isn't it? Just when
we're under strength, too.'
    'Nothing to worry about, sergeant,' Deadsmell said. 'It's
all in hand. Though if the keeper decides on following . . .'
    Throatslitter grunted. 'If he does, he'll regret it.' He rose
then, adjusting the marine-issue rain cape. 'Lucky you two,
getting to sit here adding fat to your arses. It's damned cold
out there, you know.'
    'I'm making note of all this insubordination,' Balm
grumbled. Then tapped his head. 'In here.'
    'Well that's a relief,' Throatslitter said. He left the
tavern.
    Shake Brullyg, tyrant of Second Maiden Fort, would-be
King of the Isle, slouched in the old prison prefect's high-backed
chair and glared from under heavy brows at the two
foreigners at the table beside the chamber's door. They
were playing another of their damned games. Knuckle
bones, elongated wooden bowl and split crow-feathers.
    'Two bounces earns me a sweep,' one of them said,
although Brullyg was not quite sure of that – picking up a
language on the sly was no easy thing, but he'd always been
good with languages. Shake, Letherii, Tiste Edur, Fent,
trader's tongue and Meckros. And now, spatterings of this
. . . this