Deadhouse Gates - Page 125/334

The last bandit finished dying with a faint, wet gurgle.

'You're Seven Cities,' the voice behind Kalam said.

'Aye, yet a soldier of the Empire. Listen, work it out. I rode up from the other side, with the bandits' leader. He was dead before his horse carried him into your camp.'

'So why does a soldier wear a telaba and no colours and ride alone? Desertion, and that's a death sentence.'

Kalam hissed in exasperation. 'And clearly you chose to protect your family instead of whatever company you're attached to. By Imperial Military Law that counts as desertion, soldier.' As he spoke the Malazan stepped around, his crossbow still trained on the assassin.

Kalam saw a man half dead on his feet. Short and wide, he wore the tattered remnants of an Outpost detachment uniform, light-grey leather jerkin, dark-grey surcoat. His face was covered in a network of scratches, as were his hands and forearms. A deep wound marred his bristly chin, and the helm shadowing his eyes was dented. The clasp of his surcoat ranked him a captain.

The assassin's eyes widened upon seeing that. 'Though a captain deserting is a rare thing ...'

'He didn't desert,' the woman said, now fully recovered and sorting through the weapons of the dead bandits. She found a lightweight tulwar and tested its balance with a few swings. In the firelight Kalam could see she was attractive, medium-boned, her hair streaked with iron. Her eyes were a startling light grey. She collected a belted sword-hoop and strapped it on.

'We rode out of Orbal,' the captain said, pain evident in his voice. 'A whole company escorting out refugees – our families. Ran smack into a Hood-damned army on the march south.'

'We're all that's left,' the woman said, turning to gesture into the darkness. Another woman – a younger, thinner version of the other one – and two children stepped cautiously into the light, then rushed to the captain's side.

The man continued to aim an unsteady crossbow at Kalam. 'Selv, my wife,' he said, gesturing to the woman now at his side. 'Our children, there. And Selv's sister Minala. That's us. Now, let's hear your story.'

'Corporal Kalam, Ninth Squad ... Bridgeburners. Now you know why I'm out of uniform, sir.'

The man grinned. 'You've been outlawed. So why aren't you marching with Dujek? Unless you've returned to your homeland to join the Whirlwind.'

'Is that your horse?' Minala asked.

The assassin turned to see his mount step casually into the camp. 'Aye.'

'You know your horses,' she said.

'It cost me a virgin's ransom. I figure if something's expensive it's probably good, and that's how much I know horses.'

'You still haven't explained why you're here,' the captain muttered, but Kalam could see he was relaxing his guard.

'Smelled the uprising in the wind,' the assassin said. 'The Empire brought peace to Seven Cities. Sha'ik wants a return to the old days – tyrants, border wars and slaughter. I ride for Aren. That's where the punitive force will land – and if I'm lucky I can slip myself in, maybe as a guide.'

'You'll ride with us, then, Corporal,' the captain said. 'If you're truly a Bridgeburner you'll know how to soldier, and if that's what you show me on the way to Aren, I'll see you rejoin the Imperial ranks without fuss.'

Kalam nodded. 'Can I retrieve my weapons now, Captain?'

'Go ahead.'

The assassin crouched down, reached for his long-knife, paused. 'Oh, one thing, Captain ...'

The man had sagged against his wife. He swung bleary eyes on Kalam. 'What?'

'Better my name should change ... I mean, officially. I wouldn't welcome the gallows if I'm marked in Aren. Granted, Kalam is common enough, but there's always the chance I'd be recognized—'

'You're that Kalam? You said the Ninth, didn't you? Hood's breath!' If the captain had planned to say more it was lost as the man's knees buckled. With a soft whimper his wife eased him down to the ground, looked up at her sister with frightened eyes, then over at Kalam.

'Relax, lass,' the assassin said, straightening. He grinned. 'I'm back in the army now.'

The two boys, one about seven and the other four, moved with exaggerated caution towards the unconscious man and his wife. She saw them and opened her arms. They rushed to her embrace.

'He was trampled,' Minala said. 'One of the bandits dragged him behind his horse. Sixty paces before he cut himself free.'

Women who lived with garrisons were either harlots or wives – there was little doubt which one Minala had been. 'Your husband was in the company as well?'