‘The thought of my soldiers second-guessing me at every turn hardly inspires confidence. I am beginning to regret employing these Malazans in the reshaping of the Letherii military. Perhaps the way they do things works for them, but it does not necessarily follow that it will work for us.’
‘You may be right, Brys. There is something unusual about the Malazans. I find them fascinating. Imagine, an entire civilization that does not suffer fools.’
‘From what I have heard,’ Brys pointed out, ‘that did not protect them from betrayal-their very own Empress was prepared to sacrifice them all.’
‘But they did not kneel to the axe, did they?’
‘I see your point.’
‘There exists an exchange of trust between the ruler and the ruled. Abuse that from either direction and all mutual agreements are nullified.’
‘Civil war.’
‘Unless one of the aggrieved parties has the option of simply leaving. Assuming it’s not interested in retribution or vengeance.’
Brys thought about that for a time, watching the relentless bullying of his Letherii soldiers by those two Bonehunters in the yard below. ‘Perhaps they have things to teach us after all,’ he mused.
Cuttle stepped close to Tarr and hissed, ‘Gods below, Corporal, they’re worse than sheep!’
‘Been thrashed too many times, that’s their problem.’
‘So what do we do with them?’
Tarr shrugged. ‘All I can think of is thrash ’em again.’
Cuttle’s small eyes narrowed on his corporal. ‘Somehow, that don’t sound right.’
Grimacing, Tarr looked away. ‘I know. But it’s all I’ve got. If you’ve a better idea, feel free, sapper.’
‘I’ll get ’em marching round-that’ll give us time to think.’
‘There must be some clever strategy at work down there,’ Brys concluded after a time, and then he turned to the Queen. ‘We should probably attend to Tehol-he said something about a meeting in advance of the meeting with the Adjunct.’
‘Actually, that was Bugg. Tehol proposed a meeting to discuss Bugg’s idea of the meeting in advance-oh, listen to me! That man is like an infection! Yes, let us march with solemn purpose upon my husband-your brother-and at least find out whatever needs finding out before the Malazans descend upon us. What must they think? Our King wears a blanket!’
Lostara Yil’s hand crept to the knife at her hip and then drew back once more. A muttering whisper in her head was telling her the blade needed cleaning, but she had just cleaned and honed it not a bell ago, and even the sheath was new. None of this was logical. None of this made sense. Yes, she understood the reasons for her obsession. Twisted, pathetic reasons, but then, driving a knife through the heart of the man she loved was bound to leave an indelible stain on her soul. The knife had become a symbol-she’d be a fool not to see that.
Still, her hand itched, desperate to draw forth the knife.
She sought to distract herself by watching Fist Blistig pacing along the far wall, measuring out a cage no one else could see-yet she knew its dimensions. Six paces in length, about two wide, the ceiling low enough to make the man hunch over, the floor worn smooth, almost polished. She understood that kind of invention, all the effort in making certain the bars fit tightly, that the lock was solid and the key flung into the sea.
Fist Keneb was watching the man as well, doing an admirable job of keeping his thoughts to himself. He was the only one seated at the table, seemingly relaxed, although Lostara well knew that he was probably as bruised and battered as she was-Fiddler’s cursed reading had left them all in rough shape. Being bludgeoned unconscious was never a pleasant experience.
The three of them looked over as Quick Ben walked into the chamber. The High Mage carried an air of culpability about him, which was nothing new. For all his bravado, accusations clung to him like gnats on a web. Of course he was hiding secrets. Of course he was playing unseen games. He was Quick Ben, the last surviving wizard of the Bridgeburners. He thought outwitting gods was fun. But even he had taken a beating at Fiddler’s reading, which should have humbled the man.
She squinted as he sauntered up to the table, pulled out the chair beside Keneb, and sat, whereupon he began drumming his fingers on the varnished surface.
No, not much humility there.
‘Where is she?’ Quick Ben asked. ‘We’re seeing the King in a bell’s time-we need to settle on what we’re doing.’
Blistig had resumed pacing, and at the wizard’s words he snorted and then said, ‘She’s settled already. This is just a courtesy.’
