Ah,' he said around the mouthful, 'she has roe. Delicious.'
Leoman looked over, then he drew once more on the mouthpiece. 'We're running out of horses,' he said.
Corabb swallowed. The other half of the slug was writhing on the knife tip, threads of pink eggs dangling like tiny pearls. 'We'll make it, Commander,' he said, then poked out his tongue to lap up the roe, following up by inserting the rest of the slug into his mouth. He chewed, then swallowed. 'Four, five days, I would judge.'
Leoman's eyes glittered. 'You know, then.'
'Where we're going? Yes.'
'Do you know why?'
Corabb tossed the piece of wood onto the fire. 'Y'Ghatan. The First Holy City. Where Dassem Ultor, curse his name, died in betrayal. Y'
Ghatan, the oldest city in the world. Built atop the forge of a blacksmith of the Abyss, built on his very bones. Seven Y'Ghatans, seven great cities to mark the ages we have seen, the one we see now crouched on the bones of the other six. City of the Olive Groves, city of the sweet oils-' Corabb paused, frowned. 'What was your question, Commander?'
'Why.'
'Oh, yes. Do I know why you have chosen Y'Ghatan? Because we invite a siege. It is a difficult city to conquer. The fool Malazans will bleed themselves to death attempting to storm its walls. We shall add their bones to all the others, to Dassem Ultor's very own-'
'He didn't die there, Corabb.'
'What? But there were witnesses-'
'To his wounding, yes. To the assassination… attempt. But no, my friend, the First Sword did not die, and he lives still.'
'Then where is he?'
'Where doesn't matter. You should ask: Who is he? Ask that, Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas, and I will give you answer.'
Corabb thought about that. Even swimming in the fumes of durhang, Leoman of the Flails was too smart for him. Clever, able to see all that Corabb could not. He was the greatest commander Seven Cities had ever produced. He would have defeated Coltaine. Honourably. And, had he been left to it, he would have crushed Adjunct Tavore, and then Dujek Onearm. There would have been true liberation, for all Seven Cities, and from here the rebellion against the damned empire would have rippled outward, until the yoke was thrown off by all. This was the tragedy, the true tragedy. 'Blessed Dessembrae hounds our heels…'
Leoman coughed a cloud of smoke. He doubled over, still coughing.