‘We got no idea what we’re going to find, Fid. But we can all feel it. There’s a dread, settling down on all of us like a sky full of ashes. Makes my skin crawl. We crossed Seven Cities. We took on this empire. So what’s so different this time?’ He shook himself. ‘Our landings here, they were pretty much a blind assault-and what information we had was mostly wrong. But it didn’t matter. Not knowing ain’t enough to drag us down s’far as we been dragged down right now. I don’t get it.’
Fiddler scratched at his beard, adjusted the strap beneath his chin. ‘Hot and sticky, isn’t it? Not dry like Seven Cities. Sucks all the energy away, especially when you’re wearing armour.’
‘We need that armour to guard against the Hood-damned mosquitoes,’ said Cuttle. ‘Without it we’d be wrinkled sacks filled with bones. And those bugs carry diseases-the healers been treating twenty soldiers a day who come down with that sweating ague.’
‘The mosquitoes are the cause?’
‘So I heard.’
‘Well then, as soon as we get deeper into the wastelands, we won’t have to worry about that any longer.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Mosquitoes need water to breed. Anyway, these local ones, they’re small. We hit swarms in Blackdog you’d swear were flocks of hummingbirds.’
Blackdog. Still a name that could send chills through a Malazan soldier, whether they’d been in it or not. Cuttle wondered how a place-a happening now years and years old-could sink into a people, like scars passed from parents to child. Scars, aye, and stains, and the sour taste of horror and misery-was it even possible? Or was it the stories-stories like the one Fiddler just told? Not even a story, was it? Just a detail. Exaggerated, aye, but still a detail. Enough details, muttered here and there, every now and then, and something started clumping up inside, like a ball of wet clay, smearing everything. And before too long, there it is, compacted and hard as a damned rock, perfect to rattle around inside a man’s head, knocking about his thoughts and confusing him.
And confusion was what hid behind fear, after all. Every soldier knew it, and knew how deadly it could be, especially in the storm of battle. Confusion led to mistakes, bad judgements, and sure enough, blind panic was the first stinking flower confusion plucked when it was time to dance in the fields.
‘Looking way too thoughtful there, sapper,’ said Fiddler. ‘Bad for your health.’
‘Was thinking about dancing in the fields.’
‘Hood’s breath, it’s been years since I heard that phrase. No reason to dredge that up just yet, Cuttle. Besides, the Bonehunters haven’t shown any inclination to break and run-’
‘I know it makes sense to keep us all dumb and ignorant, Sergeant, but sometimes that can go too far.’
‘Our great unknown purpose.’
Cuttle nodded sharply. ‘If we’re mercenaries now we should be for hire. But we aren’t, and even if we were, there’s nobody around wants to hire us, is there? And not likely anybody out in the Wastelands or even beyond. And now I caught them rumours of scraps in Bolkando. The Burned Tears, and maybe even the Perish. Now, going in and extricating our allies is a good cause, a decent one-’
‘Waves all the right banners.’
‘Exactly. But it wouldn’t be our reasons for being here in the first place, would it?’
‘We kicked down a mad emperor, sapper. And delivered to the Letherii a message about preying on foreign shores-’
‘They didn’t need it. The Tiste Edur did-’
‘And don’t you think we humbled them enough, Cuttle?’
‘So now what? We’re really getting nothing here, Fid, and less than nothing.’
‘Give it up,’ drawled Fiddler. ‘You wasn’t invited to the reading. Nothing that happened then was for you-I’ve already told you so.’
‘Plenty for Tavore, though, and hey, look! We just happen to be following her around!’
The last of the wagons reached the makeshift depot, and the oxen were being unhitched. Sighing, Fiddler unclipped his helm and drew it off. ‘Let’s go look in on Koryk.’
Cuttle frowned as he fell in beside his sergeant. ‘Our squad’s all over the place these days.’
‘Bottle likes wandering off. Nobody else. You can’t count Koryk, can you? It’s not like he camped out in the infirmary because of the decor.’
‘Bottle’s your problem, Sergeant. Ducking out of stuff, disappearing for days on end-’