Kellanved's Reach

‘If you have him you do not need me,’ Tayschrenn told Surly.

Kellanved had returned to toying with something on his desk. ‘You’ll keep all those Ruse mages off my back,’ he said.

To this, the Kartoolian renegade arched an ironic brow that said, Oh, is that all?

Surly studied everyone, then nodded to herself as if reaching some sort of conclusion. ‘We’re all going.’

Tayschrenn huffed; Dassem nodded his agreement.

Dancer realized that, yes, they all should go. Why leave your strongest pieces off the board? He inclined his head in assent to Surly. ‘Very well. It’s agreed. We leave at dawn in three days.’ He brushed his hands together. ‘I don’t know about all of you but I’m famished. Where can we get something to eat?’

The crew bowed to Kellanved, who made further shooing gestures, and left with Dancer. On the stairs Surly beckoned him aside, obviously wanting a word. He didn’t blame her.

In the empty and cold kitchen she turned on him, arms crossed. ‘Our dread mage. He seems out of sorts.’

Dancer nodded, rubbing his forehead. ‘Yes. Our search didn’t work out, and it was a blow to him. He seemed so utterly certain of it.’

One narrow brow rose and a single finger tapped a biceps. ‘Well, he had better be prepared to perform. Uncertainty regarding his … capabilities … is one reason we have time.’

‘Time?’

‘Before an attack. Perhaps from Dal Hon, or Itko Kan. While we are relatively weak.’

‘Ah. I see.’ He hadn’t considered that. But then, in his defence, he’d been busy … babysitting. ‘I’ll bring him round,’ he assured her.

She gave a slow, serious nod. ‘You’d better. For all our sakes.’

He motioned to the doors. ‘You are coming with us?’

‘No. Not … that is, I have work to do.’

‘Very well. Another time.’

She smiled, but it appeared forced. ‘Yes. Another time.’

Bowing, he left to join Cartheron, Dassem, and Tayschrenn waiting in the street. Surrounding these three, at a discreet distance, stood a rather large contingent of Malazan soldiers. Dancer motioned to them. ‘Who are these?’

Tayschrenn, hands clasped behind his back, tilted his head to Dassem. ‘His bodyguard.’

Dancer quirked a disbelieving smile. If anyone did not need guarding, it was the swordsman.

‘Self-appointed,’ Dassem supplied, by way of explanation.

Tayschrenn continued, ‘I, unfortunately, have to prepare,’ and he bowed to take his leave.

Dancer looked to Cartheron. ‘So, where should we go?’

Cartheron motioned him onward. ‘Anywhere my brother’s not cooking.’

*   *   *

Nedurian leaned up against the side of the Insufferable as the crew raised the sails and the vessel gained headway out of Malaz harbour. At this point – rather belatedly – he decided that he was of two minds regarding the expedition.

He wanted it to succeed, of course, and end the pointless waste and loss of life of the feud between Nap and Malaz; but on the other hand it was reckless, and to his mind pretty damned foolish, and could lead to the loss of even more lives. Lives of lads and lasses he’d had a hand in training, whom he’d become rather fond of, and perhaps couldn’t bear to see thrown into the meat-grinder of yet another leader’s overweening ambition or selfish greed.

As he had seen all too often before.

So he had told himself he didn’t care, and eventually, over the years, he’d even come to believe it. But that was then. Now, he left the gambits of king-making to others; he would content himself with what was important – looking after his lads and lasses.

He walked the deck, which was crowded with lounging marines, eyeing each squad in turn. When he came to the First Army, Seventh Company, Eleventh Squad, he stopped and set his hands on his hips before one marine in particular. This lad sat hunched beneath a mule’s load of equipment: two shovels, a pickaxe, tent pieces, rolled canvas and blankets, an iron cooking pot, an infantryman’s shield, two shortswords, and a spare helmet strapped to his straining belt.

Nedurian gestured to the shop’s worth of gear. ‘What is all this?’

The lad saluted with a fist to his chest. ‘Proper equipage, cap’n.’

‘Is that so? Proper equipage for an entire regiment, maybe. Why’re you carrying all this?’

‘Me squaddies said I had to on account of me being the designated siegeworker’n’saboteur’n’such.’

‘Said that, did they?’ Nedurian spotted them nearby, pretending to be uninterested but eyeing him sidelong. He waved them over. ‘Spread this gear out. You know the rule: share the load.’ Grumbling, they plucked pieces of gear from the lad and divided it among them. Nedurian watched the process, then frowned, uncertain. ‘Where’s your mage?’

‘That one?’ said a Malazan girl, sniffing. ‘Too good for us, she is. Won’t dirty her fine sandals with trash like us.’

Nedurian rubbed the scar at his cheek; he knew the one. ‘Where is she?’ They all glanced up at the shrouds. He sighed, crossed to the ratlines, and climbed.