‘Exactly. Good idea. Shoulda thought of it myself.’
The man moved off again, and Fiddler’s gaze tracked him until he reached his original position at the head of the Bridgeburners.
‘Aye, Captain,’ barked out a heavy. ‘Could do with some fucking exercise.’
Another soldier answered. ‘Knew I should never have carried you, woman!’
‘If you’d been carrying me, Reliko, I’d be pregnant by now — any chance y’get, right, you rat-eating piece of elephant dung.’
‘Maybe if I closed my eyes. But then, can a man even breed with a warthog?’
‘If anybody’d know the answer to that-’
‘Save your breaths, damn you,’ growled Fiddler.
They trudged over the lesser rises, tackled the hillside. Bottle moved up past Corabb and made the climb alongside Sergeant Tarr. ‘Listen, Sergeant …’
‘Now what, Bottle? Pull out your shovel — we got work to do.’
Soldiers were throwing down their kits on all sides, muttering and complaining about sore backs and aching shoulders.
‘It’s this ground,’ Bottle said, drawing close. ‘I need to talk to the captain.’
Tarr scowled at him, and then nodded. ‘Go on, but don’t take too long. I don’t want you dying ’cause you dug your hole too shallow.’
Bottle stared at the man, and then looked round. ‘They that close?’
‘How should I know? Care to risk your life that they aren’t?’
Swearing under his breath, Bottle set out to where he’d last seen Fiddler — up near the crest of the hill. Hedge had gone up there as well.
Taking a narrow, twisted route between outcrops of bedrock, he heard boots behind him and turned. ‘Deadsmell. You following me for a reason or is it my cute backside?’
‘Your cute backside, but I need to talk to Fid, too. Two joys in one, what can I say?’
‘This hill-’
‘Barrow.’
‘Right, fine. Barrow. There’s something-’
‘Sunk deep all the way round it, aye. Widdershins damn near shit himself the moment he hit the slope.’
Bottle shrugged. ‘Us other squaddies call him Widdershits, on account of his loose bowels. What about it?’
‘Really? Widdershits? That’s great. Wait till Throatslitter hears that one. But listen, how come you’re keeping secrets from us like that? Names like that? We wouldn’t do it to you, you know.’
‘Stifflips and Crack? Scuttle and Corncob? Turd and Brittle?’
‘Oh, you heard them, huh?’
They reached the crest, stepped out on to level ground. Ahead, standing near a long sword thrust into the ground, Fiddler and Hedge. Both men turned as the soldiers approached, hearing the stones snapping underfoot.
‘Forgot how to dig holes, you two?’
‘No, Captain. It’s just that we got us company.’
‘Explain that, Bottle. And be succinct for a change.’
‘There’s a god here with us.’
Hedge seemed to choke on something and turned away, coughing, hacking and then spitting.
‘You idiot,’ said Fiddler. ‘That’s the whole fucking point.’
‘Not him, Captain,’ said Deadsmell.
‘What do you mean, not him? Of course he’s here — as much of him as there is, I mean. The Adjunct said this was the place.’
Deadsmell met Bottle’s eyes, and after a moment Bottle turned away, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘Captain,’ he said, ‘the Crippled God ain’t here. We’d know it if he was.’
Fiddler gestured at the sword. ‘That’s the Adjunct’s, Bottle. Otataral, remember? Why should you think you’d be able to sense anything?’
Deadsmell was rubbing at the back of his neck as if he wanted to wear off two or three layers of skin, checking to see if he still had a backbone. Then he drew a fortifying breath and said, ‘He’s foreign — we’d know it anyway, Captain.’
Fiddler seemed to sag.
Hedge clapped him on the back. ‘Relax, Fid, it’s just the usual fuck-up. So we go through the motions anyway — you’re still a damned sapper, you know. Who said you were supposed to be on the thinking side of things? We don’t know that all this isn’t how it’s supposed to be right now, anyway. In fact, we don’t know a damned thing about anything. The way it always is. What’s the problem?’ He faced Bottle then. ‘So which turd-chewing god’s got the nerve to horn in our business?’
But Deadsmell was the first to respond. ‘Smells like old death.’
‘Hood? Wrong. Impossible.’
‘Didn’t say that, did I?’ Deadsmell retorted, scowling. ‘Just smells old and dead, right? Like brown leaves in a cold wind. Like a barrow’s stone-lined pit. Like the first breath of winter. Like-’
‘Worm of Autumn,’ growled Bottle.
‘I was working up to that, damn you!’
‘What does D’rek want with us?’ Hedge demanded.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Fiddler, turning back to stare at the sword. ‘We’ve had that priest crouching on our shoulders ever since Malaz City. When we were here he said something about his god, I seem to recall. Wrapping round the base of the hill. Him and the Adjunct seemed to think we’d need help. Anyway, it’s not like we can do anything about it. Fine, what you said, Hedge. We go through the motions. Deadsmell, is this place a barrow?’
‘Aye, but no longer sanctified. The tomb’s been looted. Broken.’
‘Broken, huh?’
‘Trust the Adjunct,’ said Hedge.
Fiddler rounded on him. ‘Was that you saying that?’
Hedge shrugged. ‘Thought it worth a try.’ Then he frowned. ‘What’s that smell?’
‘Probably Widdershits,’ Bottle said.
‘Gods, downwind, damn him — always downwind!’
Masan Gilani threw herself down near Sinter and Kisswhere. ‘Balm just tried putting his hand down my breeches. Said he forgot where he was. Said he wasn’t even looking. Said he thought he was reaching into his kit bag.’
Kisswhere snorted. ‘And with that sharpness of wit, Dal Honese men won an empire.’
‘I should’ve stayed with the cavalry.’
‘There was no cavalry.’
‘The Khundryl, then.’
Sinter slowly straightened, studied the darkening sky. ‘See any clouds?’ she asked, slowly turning as she scanned the heavens.
‘Clouds? What’s up, sister?’
‘Not sure. I keep expecting …’
‘Clouds?’
Sinter made a face. ‘You were the one asking me what I was seeing, remember? Now I’m telling you, I got something.’
‘Clouds.’
‘Oh, never mind.’ She settled back down lengthways in the slit trench she’d hacked out of the stony barrowside. ‘But if anyone sees …’
