Of course when you’ve finally got that power, it doesn’t matter how ugly you are, you can breed with the best. Maybe this explained Lostara’s presence at Tavore’s side. But Throatslitter was not entirely sure of that. He didn’t think they were lovers. He wasn’t even convinced they were friends.
Aligned near the wall to the right of the door stood the rest of the Adjunct’s retinue. Fist Blistig, his blunt, wide face shadowed with some kind of spiritual exhaustion. Doesn’t pay, Adjunct, to keep close a man like that-he drains life, hope, faith. No, Tavore, you need to get rid of him and pro-mote some new Fists. Faradan Sort. Madan tul’Rada. Fiddler. Not Captain Kindly, though, don’t even think that, woman. Not unless you want a real mutiny on your hands.
Mutiny. Well, there, he’d said it. Thought it, actually, but that was close enough. To conjure the word was to awaken the possibility, like making the scratch to invite the fester. The Bonehunters were now scattered to the winds and that was a terrible risk. He suspected that, at the end of this bizarre campaign, her soldiers would come trickling back in paltry few number, if at all.
Unwitnessed. Most soldiers don’t like that idea. True, it made them hard-when she told them-but that fierceness can’t last. The iron is too cold. Its taste too bitter. Gods, just look at Blistig for the truth of that.
Beside the Fist stood Withal, the Meckros blacksmith-the man we went to Malaz City to get, and we still don’t know why. Oh, there’s blood in your shadow, isn’t there? Malazan blood. Tamber’s. Kalam’s. Maybe Quick Ben’s, too. Are you worth it? Throatslitter had yet to see Withal speaking to a soldier. Not one, not a word of thanks, not an apology for the lives sacrificed. He was here because the Adjunct needed him. For what? Hah, not like she’s talking, is it? Not our cagey Tavore Varan.
To Withal’s right stood Banaschar, a deposed high priest of D’rek, if the rumours were true. Yet another passenger in this damned renegade army. But Throatslitter knew Banaschar’s purpose. Coin. Thousands, tens of thousands. He’s our paymaster, and all this silver and gold in our pouches was stolen from somewhere. Has to be. Nobody’s that rich. The obvious answer? Why, how about the Worm of Autumn’s temple coffers?
Pray to the Worm, pay an army of disgruntled malcontents. Somehow, all you believers, I doubt that was in your prayers.
Poor Brullyg had few allies in this chamber. Balm’s source of lust, this Captain Shurq Elalle of the privateer Undying Gratitude, and her first mate, Skorgen Kaban the Pretty. And neither seemed eager to leap to Brullyg’s side of the sandpit.
But that Shurq, she was damned watchful. Probably a lot more dangerous than the usurper of this cruddy island.
The Adjunct had been explaining, in decent traders’ tongue, the new rules of governance on Second Maiden Fort, and with each statement Brullyg’s expression had sagged yet further.
Entertaining, if one was inclined towards sardonic humour.
‘Ships from our fleet,’ she was now explaining, ‘will be entering the harbour to resupply. One at a time, since it wouldn’t do to panic your citizens-’
A snort from Shurq Elalle, who had drawn her chair to one side, almost in front of where Throatslitter leaned against the wall, to permit herself a clear view of host and guests. Beside her, Skorgen was filling his prodigious gut with Brullyg’s favourite ale, the tankard in one hand, the finger of the other hand exploring the depths of one mangled, rose-red ear. The man had begun a succession of belches, each released in a heavy sigh, that had been ongoing for half a bell now, with no sign of ending. The entire room stank of his yeasty exhalations.
The captain’s derisive expostulation drew the Adjunct’s attention. ‘I understand your impatience,’ Tavore said in a cool voice, ‘and no doubt you wish to leave. Unfortunately, I must speak to you and will do so shortly-’
‘Once you’ve thoroughly detailed Brullyg’s emasculation, you mean.’ Shurq lifted one shapely leg and crossed it on the other, then laced together her hands on her lap, smiling sweetly up at the Adjunct.
Tavore’s colourless eyes regarded the pirate captain for a long moment, then she glanced over to where stood her retinue. ‘Banaschar.’
‘Adjunct?’
‘What is wrong with this woman?’
‘She’s dead,’ the ex-priest replied. ‘A necromantic curse.’
Are you certain?’
Throatslitter cleared his throat and said, Adjunct, Corporal Deadsmell said the same thing when we saw her down in the tavern.’
Brullyg was staring at Shurq with wide, bulging eyes, his jaw hanging slack.
At Shurq’s side, Skorgen Kaban was suddenly frowning, his eyes darting. Then he withdrew the finger that had been plugging one ear and looked down at the gunk smeared all over it. After a moment, Pretty slid that finger into his mouth.
‘Well,’ Shurq sighed up at Tavore, ‘you’ve done it now, haven’t you? Alas, the coin of this secret is the basest of all, namely vanity. Now, if you possess some unpleasant bigotry regarding the undead, then I must re-evaluate my assessment of you, Adjunct. And your motley companions.’
To Throatslitter’s surprise, Tavore actually smiled. ‘Captain, the Malazan Empire is well acquainted with undead, although few possessing your host of charms.’
Gods below, she’s flirting with this sweet’Scented corpse!
‘Host indeed,’ murmured Banaschar, then was so rude as to offer no elaboration. Hood-damned priests. Good for nothing at all.
‘In any case,’ Tavore resumed, ‘we are without prejudice in this matter. I apologize for posing the question leading to this unveiling. I was simply curious.’
‘So am I,’ Shurq replied. ‘This Malazan Empire of yours-do you have any particular reason for invading the Lether Empire?’
‘I was led to understand that this island is independent-’
‘So it is, since the Edur Conquest. But you’re hardly invading one squalid little island. No. You’re just using this to stage your assault on the mainland. So let me ask again, why?’
‘Our enemy,’ the Adjunct said, all amusement now gone, ‘are the Tiste Edur, Captain. Not the Letherii. In fact, we would encourage a general uprising of Letherii-’
‘You won’t get it,’ Shurq Elalle said.
‘Why not?’ Lostara Yil asked.
‘Because we happen to like things the way they are. More or less.’ When no-one spoke, she smiled and continued, ‘The Edur may well have usurped the rulers in their absurd half-finished palace in Letheras. And they may well have savaged a few Letherii armies on the way to the capital. But you will not find bands of starving rebels in the forests dreaming of independence.’
‘Why not?’ Lostara demanded again in an identical tone.
‘They conquered, but we won. Oh, I wish Tehol Beddict was here, since he’s much better at explaining things, but let me try. I shall imagine Tehol sitting here, to help me along. Conquest. There are different kinds of conquests. Now, we have Tiste Edur lording it here and there, the elite whose word is law and never questioned. After all, their sorcery is cruel, their judgement cold and terribly simplistic. They are, in fact, above all law-as the Letherii understand the notion-’
‘And,’ Lostara pressed, ‘how do they understand the notion of law?’
‘Well, a set of deliberately vague guidelines one hires an advocate to evade when necessary.’
‘What were you, Shurq Elalle, before you were a pirate?’
A thief. I’ve employed a few advocates in my day. In any case, my point is this. The Edur rule but either through ignorance or indifference-and let’s face it, without ignorance you don’t get to indifference-they care little about the everyday administration of the empire. So, that particular apparatus remains Letherii and is, these days, even less regulated than it has been in the past.’ She smiled again, one leg rocking. As for us lower orders, well, virtually nothing has changed. We stay poor. Debt-ridden and comfortably miserable and, as Tehol might say, miserable in our comfort.’