He hand-signalled Leave, rejoin the squads.
Cuttle shook his head.
Shrugging-this was no time to argue and if Cuttle had a death-wish it wasn’t news to Fiddler-he rose and set off to collect the third cusser. Even footfalls were now risky, forcing him to move slowly along the verge of the track. There was plenty of superstition about where to stash munitions when working. Hedge would have insisted the cussers be ahead of the work at all times, but the less Fiddler handled them the better he felt. No matter what, there was back and forth with the damned things, wasn’t there?
He reached the spot and looked down at the two remaining cussers. More superstition. Which one? Heart side or head side? Facing the hole or with the hole behind him as it was now? Hood’s breath, Hedge was clambering around in his skull like a fiend. Enough of the superstition! Fiddler crouched and collected a cusser.
Heart side.
And was random chance really any more than just that? The Moranth were fanatics when it came to precision. Every class of munitions perfect beyond belief. No variation at all. With variation, being a sapper would be nothing more than being a rock-thrower-with explosive rocks, mind, but even so. No real talent involved, no hard-earned skill.
Fiddler remembered, with the appalling clarity of a god-touched revelation, his first encounter with Moranth munitions. Northern Genabackis, a week before the march on the city of Mott followed by the twin nightmares of Mott Wood and Blackdog Swamp. There had been rumours of contact and extensive negotiations with a strange people ruling a place called Cloud Forest, far to the south. An isolated people, said to be terrifying and inhuman in appearance, who rode enormous domesticated four-winged insects-giant dragonflies-and could rain death upon enemies from great heights.
The Malazan negotiators had included Tayschrenn, some nobleborn dignitary named Aragan, and a lone T’lan Imass named Onos T’oolan. The Second and Third Armies had been encamped on Nathii farmland two days from the landing south of Malyntaeas. A crate had been carried-gingerly, by sweating soldiers from the quartermaster’s unit-and set down ten paces from the squad’s hearth fire. Whiskeyj ack had gestured Hedge and Fiddler over.
‘You two do most of the sapping in this miserable squad,’ the sergeant had said, grimacing as if he’d swallowed something unpleasant-which he had, by virtue of legitimizing Fid and Hedge’s destructive anarchy. ‘In yon box there are grenados and nastier stuff, come from the Moranth now that we’re allied with ‘em. Seems to make sense-in an insane way-to hand ‘em over to you two. Now, obviously, you need to do some experimenting with what’s in that box. Just make sure you do it half a league or more from this here camp.’ He hesitated, scratched at his bearded jaw, then added, ‘The big ones are too big to throw far enough, far enough to survive them exploding, I mean. So you’ll need to crack your heads together to work out trying them. As a final order, soldiers, don’t kill yourselves. This squad’s under strength as it is and I’d need to pick out two others to hump these damned things around. And the only two I could use are Kalam and Trotts.’
Aye, Trotts.
Fiddler and Hedge had pried the lid loose, then had stared down, bemused, at the well-packed grenados, nestled in frames and matted straw. Small round ones, long tapered ones, spike-shaped ones of exquisite glass-not a bubble to be seen-and, at the bottom, much larger ones, big enough to ride a catapult cup if one was so inclined (and, it turned out, suicidal, since they tended to detonate as soon as the catapult arm struck the brace. Great for destroying catapults and their hapless crews, though).
Experimentation indeed. Hedge and Fid had set out, the crate between them, on a long, exhausting walk into some out-of-the-way place, where they threw the small ones they decided to call sharpers because when detonated too close they had a tendency to pepper the thrower with slivers of iron and made the ears bleed; where they discovered the incendiary properties of the burners, to the wailing protestations of a farmer who’d witnessed the fiery destruction of a hay wagon (at least until they’d handed over four gold imperial sceptres-Kellanved’s newly minted currency-which was enough money to buy a new farm). Crackers, driven into elongated wedge-shaped holes in hard-packed earth, did sweet mayhem on foundation stones, mortared or otherwise. And, finally, the cussers, the ugliest, nastiest munitions ever created. They were intended to be dropped from high overhead by the Moranth on their Quorls, and Hedge and Fid had used up most of their allotted supply trying to work out an alternative means of practical, non-fatal use. And, in the end, had needed twenty more-two crates’ worth-to finally conclude that a fool would have to be Oponn-kissed by the Lady to try anything but secondary usage; add-ons to crackers and burners and, if the chance presented itself, a well-thrown sharper.
The oversized crossbows came much later, as did maniacal variations like the drum and the slow burn. And through all of that, the Lady’s Pull always remained as the last resort. Had Fiddler been a religious man, he would have been obliged, he well knew, to drop every single coin of pay and loot he earned into the coffers of the Lady’s temples, given how many times he had loosed a cusser at targets well within blast range of himself and countless other Malazans. Hedge had been even less… restrained. And, alas, his demise had therefore been of a nature succinctly
unsurprising.
Reminiscing had a way of arriving at the worst of moments, a glamour of nostalgia no doubt infused with subtle but alluring suicidal inclinations, and Fiddler was forced to push all such remembrances aside as he approached Cuttle and the last hole in the path.
‘You should have hightailed it out of here,’ Fiddler said as he settled down beside the modest excavation.
‘No chance of that,’ Cuttle replied in a low voice.
‘As you like, then, but don’t be standing there at Hood’s Gate if I mess this one up.’
‘I hear you, Fid.’
And, trying not to think of Hedge, of Whiskeyjack, Trotts and all the rest; trying not to think of the old days, when the world still seemed new and wondrous, when taking mad risks was all part of the game, Fiddler, the last great saboteur, went to work.
Bottle squinted at the farmhouse. Someone or ones inside there, he was sure enough of that. Living, breathing folk, oh yes. But… something, a faint odour, charnel recollections, or… whatever. He wasn’t sure, couldn’t be sure, and that made him seriously uneasy.
Gesler had moved up beside him, had lain there patient as a tick on a blade of grass, at least to start. But now, a hundred or more heartbeats on, Bottle could sense the man growing restless. Fine enough for him, with that gold skin that didn’t burn once in Y’Ghatan-of course, Truth had
.
shown that the strange skin wasn’t truly impervious, especially when it came to Moranth munitions. Even so, Gesler was a man who had walked through fire, in every permutation of the phrase Bottle could think of, so all of this skulking and trickery and brutal slaughter was fine for him.
But I’m the one they’re all counting on, and I couldn’t use this stupid sword at my belt to hack my way clear of a gaggle of puritanical do-gooders with their pointing fingers and sharp nails and all-gods below, where did that image come from? Damned Mockra, someone’s leaking thoughts. Bottle glanced over at Gesler. ‘Sergeant?’ he whispered.
‘What?’
‘Got strange notions in your skull, by any chance?’
A suspicious glance, then Gesler shook his head. ‘Was thinking of an old mage I knew. Kulp. Not that you remind me of him or anything, Bottle. You’re more like Quick Ben, I think, than any of us are comfortable with. Last 1 saw of Kulp, though, was the poor bastard flung head over heels off the stern rail of a ship-in a firestorm. Always wondered what happened to him. I like to think he made it just fine, dropping out of that furnace of a warren and finding himself in some young widow’s back garden, waist-deep in the cool waters of her fountain. Just as she was on her knees praying for salvation or something.’ All at once he looked embarrassed and his gaze flicked away. Aye, I paint pretty pictures of what could be, since what is always turns out so damned bad.’