‘On what?’ Whiskeyjack demanded, eyes fixing hard on the sapper.
Hedge glanced over at Fiddler. ‘On him, sir.’
And Fiddler knew what he had to say. ‘I let you go long ago, Hedge.’
‘Aye. But that was then and this isn’t. You want me to stay? A few more years, maybe? Till it’s your time, I mean?’
If he spoke at all, Fiddler knew that he would lose control. So he simply nodded.
Hedge faced Whiskeyjack. ‘Not yet, sir. Besides, I was talking with my sergeants just the other day. About buying us a bar, back in Malaz City. Maybe even Smiley’s.’
Fiddler shot the man a glare. ‘But no one can find it, Hedge. Kellanved went and hid it.’
‘Kitty-corner to the Deadhouse, that’s where it is. Everyone knows, Fid.’
‘But they can’t find it, Hedge!’
The man shrugged. ‘I will.’
‘Fiddler,’ Whiskeyjack said. ‘Pay attention now. Our time is almost done here – sun’s soon to rise, and when it does, we will have left this world for the last time.’ He gestured and Mallet stepped forward, carrying a satchel. He crouched down and removed the straps, and then drew out a fiddle. Its body was carved in swirling Barghast patterns. Seeing that, Fiddler looked up at Trotts. The warrior grinned, showing his filed teeth.
‘I did that, Fid. And that mistake there, up near the neck, that was Hedge’s fault. He tugged my braid. Blame him. I do.’
Mallet carefully set the instrument down, placing the bow beside it. The healer glanced up, almost shyly. ‘We all had a hand in its making, Fid. Us Bridgeburners.’
‘Take it,’ ordered Whiskeyjack. ‘Fiddler, you were the best of us all. You still are.’
Fiddler looked over at Quick Ben and Kalam, saw their nods, and then at Hedge, who hesitated, as if to object, and then simply shrugged. Fiddler met Whiskeyjack’s ethereal eyes. ‘Thank you, sir.’
The ghost then surprised him by stepping forward, reaching down and touching the fiddle. Straightening, he walked past them, to stand facing the lowland to the west.
Fiddler stared after him, frowning.
Sighing, Hedge spoke low at his side. ‘She’s out there, sembled now – they’re keeping their distance. They’re not sure what’s happened here. By the time she comes, it’ll be too late.’
‘Who? By the time who comes?’
‘The woman he loves, Fid. Korlat. A Tiste Andii.’
Tiste Andii. Oh … no .
Hedge’s grunt was strained with emotion. ‘Aye, the sergeant’s luck ain’t never been good. He’s got a long wait.’
But wait he will .
Then he caught a blur of motion from a nearby jumble of boulders. A woman, watching them.
Fiddler hugged himself, looked over once more at Mallet and Trotts. ‘Take care of him,’ he whispered.
They nodded.
And then Whiskeyjack was marching past. ‘Time to leave, you two.’
Mallet reached down and touched the fiddle before turning away. Trotts stepped past him, squatted and did the same.
Then they were down over the edge of the hill.
Moments later, Fiddler heard horses – but in the gloom he could not see his friends riding away.
A voice spoke beside Cotillion. ‘Well done.’
The patron god of assassins looked down at the knives still in his hands. ‘I don’t like failure. Never did, Shadowthrone.’
‘Then,’ and the ethereal form at his side giggled, ‘we’re not quite finished, are we?’
‘Ah. You knew, then.’
‘Of course. And this may well shock you, but I approve.’
Cotillion turned to him in surprise. ‘I knew you had a heart in there somewhere.’
‘Don’t be an idiot. I just appreciate … symmetry.’
Together they turned back to face the barrow once again, but now the ghosts were gone.
Shadowthrone thumped his cane on the ground. ‘Among all the gods,’ he said, ‘who do you think now hates us the most?’
‘The ones still alive, I should imagine.’
‘We’re not done with them either.’
Cotillion nodded towards the barrow. ‘They were something, weren’t they?’
‘With them we won an empire.’
‘I sometimes wonder if we should ever have given it up.’
‘Bloody idealist. We needed to walk away. Sooner or later, no matter how much you put into what you’ve made, you have to turn and walk away.’
‘Shall we, then?’