might be, but she was no fool when it came to Skulldeath’s confused desires.
No, the real fool in the equation was sitting off to one side. Sergeant Urb, whose love for the woman glittered like the troubled waters of a spring, fed unceasingly from the bedrock of his childlike faith. A faith in the belief that one day her thoughts would clear, enough for her to see what was standing right in front of her. That the seduction of alcohol would suddenly sour.
The man was an idiot. But there were idiots aplenty in the world. An unending supply, in fact.
When Skulldeath finally stirred, Bottle edged out of the rat’s mind. Watching things like that-love-making-was too creepy. Besides, hadn’t his grandmother pounded into him the risk of deadly perversions offered by his talents? Oh, she had, she had indeed.
Skanarow moved up to stand alongside Captain Ruthan Gudd where he leaned on the rail.
‘Dark waters,’ she murmured.
‘It’s night.’
‘You like keeping things simple, don’t you?’
‘It’s because things are, Skanarow. All the complications we suffer through are hatched inside our own skulls.’
‘Really? Doesn’t make them any less real, though. Does it?’
He shrugged. ‘Something you want?’
‘Many things, Ruthan Gudd.’
He looked across at her-seemed startled to find how close she stood, almost as tall as he was, her Kanese eyes dark and gleaming-and then away again. ‘And what makes you think I can help you with any of them?’
She smiled, though the captain was not paying attention, and it was a lovely smile. ‘Who promoted you?’ she asked.
‘A raving lunatic.’
‘Where?’
He raked fingers through his beard, scowled. ‘And all this is in aid of what, precisely?’
‘Kindly was right, you know. We need to work together. You, I want to know more about, Ruthan Gudd.’
‘It’s not worth it.’
She leaned on the railing. ‘You’re hiding, Captain. But that’s all right. I’m good at finding things out. You were among the first list of officers for the Fourteenth. Meaning you were in Malaz City, already commissioned and awaiting attachment. Now, which armies washed up on Malaz Island too torn up to keep intact? The Eighth. The Thirteenth. Both from the Korelri Campaign. Now, the Eighth arrived at about the time the Fourteenth shipped out, but given the slow pace of the military ink- scratchers, it’s not likely you were from the Eighth-besides, Faradan Sort was, and she doesn’t know you. I asked. So, that leaves the Thirteenth. Which is rather… interesting. You served under Greymane-’
‘I’m afraid you got it all wrong,’ Ruthan Gudd cut in. ‘I came in on a transfer from Nok’s fleet, Skanarow. Wasn’t even a marine-’
‘Which ship did you serve on?’
‘The
‘Which sank off the Strike Bight-’
‘Aye-’
‘About eighty years ago.’
He eyed her for a long moment. ‘Now, that kind of recall verges on the obsessive, don’t you think?’
‘As opposed to pathological lying, Captain?’
‘That was the first
‘You stood the Wall?’
‘No, I was handed over in a prisoner exchange.’
‘Into the Thirteenth?’
‘Straight back to the fleet, Skanarow. We’d managed to capture four Mare triremes loaded with volunteers for the Wall-aye, hard to believe anyone would volunteer for that. In any case, the Stormguard were desperate for the new blood. So, you can put all your suspicions to rest, Captain. My history is dull and uneventful and far from heroic. Some mysteries, Skanarow, aren’t worth knowing.’
‘All sounds very convincing, I’ll grant you that.’
‘But?’
She gave him another bright smile, and this one he saw. ‘I still think you’re a liar.’
He pushed himself away from the railing. ‘Lots of rats on these barges, I’ve noticed.’
‘We could go hunting.’
Ruthan Gudd paused, combed his beard, and then shrugged. ‘Hardly worth the trouble, I should think.’
When he walked off, the Kanese woman hesitated, and then followed.
‘Gods below,’ Bottle muttered, ‘everyone’s getting it this night.’ He felt a stab somewhere deep within him, an old, familiar one. He’d not been the kind of man that women chased down. He’d had friends who rolled from one bed to the next, every one of those beds soft and warm. He’d had no such fortune. The irony of the thing that visited him in his dreams was that much sharper, in how it mocked the truths of his life.
Not that she’d been appearing of late, not for a month. Maybe she’d grown tired of him. Maybe she’d taken all she needed, whatever that was. But those last few times had been frightening in their desperation, the fear in her unhuman eyes. He’d awaken to the stench of grass fires on the savannah, the sting of smoke in his eyes and the thunder of fleeing herds ringing in his skull. Sickened by the overwhelming sense of dislocation, he would lie shivering beneath his threadbare blankets like a fevered child.
A month of peace, but why then did her absence fill him with foreboding?
The barge opposite had slipped ahead, riding some vagary of the current, and he could now see the eastern shore of the river. A low bank of boulders and reeds and beyond that rolling plains lit a luminous green by the jade slashes in the southern sky. Those grasslands should have been teeming with wildlife. Instead, they were empty.
This continent felt older than Quon Tali, older than Seven Cities. It was a land that had been fed on for too long.
On the western shore, farmland formed narrow strips with one end reaching down to the river and the other, a third of a league inland, debouching on to the network of roads crisscrossing the region. Without these farms, the Letherii would starve. Yet Bottle was troubled by the dilapidated condition of many of the homesteads, the sagging barns and weed-ringed silos. Not a single stand of trees remained; even the stumps had been pulled from the withered earth. The alder and aspen windbreaks surrounding the farm buildings looked skeletal, not parched but perhaps diseased. Broad fans of topsoil formed muddy islands just beyond drainage channels, making that side of the river treacherous. The rich earth was drifting away.
Better indeed, then, to be facing the eastern shoreline, desolate as it was.
Some soldier had been making the circuit, pacing the barge as if it was a cage, and he’d heard the footsteps pass behind him twice since he’d first settled at the railing. This time, those boots came opposite him, hesitated, and then clumped closer.
A midnight-skinned woman arrived on his left, setting hands down on the rail.
Bottle searched frantically for her name, gave up and sighed. ‘You’re one of those Badan Gruk thought drowned, right?’
She glanced over. ‘Sergeant Sinter.’
‘With the beautiful sister-oh, not that you’re not-’
‘With the beautiful sister, aye. Her name’s Kisswhere, which is a kind of knowing wink all on its own, isn’t it? Sometimes names find you, not the other way round. So it was with my sister.’
‘Not her original name, I take it.’
‘You’re Bottle. Fiddler’s mage, the one he doesn’t talk about-why’s that?’
‘Why doesn’t he talk about me? How should I know? What all you sergeants yak about is no business of mine anyway-so if you’re curious about something Fid’s saying or not saying, why don’t you just ask him?’
‘I would, only he’s not on this barge, is he?’
‘Bad luck.’
‘Bad luck, but then, there’s you. When Fiddler lists his, uh, assets, it’s like you don’t even exist. So, I’m wondering, is it that he doesn’t trust us? Or maybe it’s you he doesn’t trust? Two possibilities, two directions-unless you can think of another one?’
‘Fid’s been my only sergeant,’ Bottle said. ‘If he didn’t trust me, he’d have long since got rid of me, don’t you think?’
‘So it’s us he doesn’t trust.’
‘I don’t think trust has anything to do with it, Sergeant.’
‘Shaved knuckle, are you?’
‘Not much of one, I’m afraid. But I suppose I’m all he’s got. In his squad, I mean.’
She’d chopped short her hair, probably to cut down on the lice and whatnot-spending a few months in a foul cell had a way of making survivors neurotic about hygiene-and she now ran the fingers of both hands across her scalp. Her profile, Bottle noted with a start, was pretty much… perfect.
‘Anyway,’ Bottle said, even as his throat tightened, ‘when you first showed up, I thought you were your sister.’ And then he waited.
After a moment, she snorted. ‘Well now, that took some work, I’d wager. Feeling lonely, huh?’
He tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound pathetic. Came up with nothing. It all sounded pathetic.
Sinter leaned back down on the rail. She sighed. ‘The first raiding parties us Dal Honese assembled-long before we were conquered-were always a mess. Suicidal, in fact. You see, no way was a woman going to give up the chance to join in, so it was always both men and women forming the group. But then, all the marriages and
