Dust of Dreams: Book Nine of The Malazan Book of the Fallen - By Steven Erikson Page 0,193

corporal sat leaning against a wagon wheel, one of those fat rustleaf rollers jammed between her fat lips, smoke puffing out from everywhere, maybe even her ears.

‘Doo sheen see inny ting tru at smick!’ barked Nep Furrow.

Despite himself Reliko grunted a laugh. ‘Y’got that one right, Nep—Ruffle, you got something wrong with air?’

She lifted one hand languidly and plucked the thing from her mouth. ‘You fool. This is keeping those nasty mosquitoes away.’

‘Hey, now that’s clever—where can I get me some?’

‘I brought about a thousand of ’em. But I warn you, Reliko, they’ll make you green the first few days. But pretty soon you start sweating it outa your pores and not a bug will want you.’

‘Huh. Anyway, where’s Badan?’

‘Having a chat with some other sergeants, Fiddler and them.’ Ruffle puffed some more, and then added, ‘I think Badan’s decided we should stick with them—we all worked good enough before.’

‘I suppose.’ But Reliko didn’t like the idea. Those squads were lodestones to trouble. ‘What’s Sinter say about that?’

‘Seems all right with it, I guess.’

‘Hey, where’s our useless recruits?’

‘Some Letherii came by and scooped them up.’

‘Who said he could do that?’

Ruffle shrugged. ‘Didn’t ask.’

Reliko rubbed the back of his neck—not much to rub, he didn’t have much of a neck, but he liked rubbing it, especially along the ridge of calluses where his helm’s flare usually rested. He saw Skim’s booted feet sticking out from under the wagon, wondered if she was dead. ‘I’m going to get Vastly. Squad should be together for when Badan gets back.’

‘Aye, good idea,’ said Ruffle.

‘You’re the laziest damned corporal I ever seen.’

‘Privilege of rank,’ she said around her roller.

‘You won’t last a day on the march,’ observed Reliko. ‘You’re fatter than the last time I seen you.’

‘No I’m not. In fact, I’m losing weight. I can feel it.’

‘Kennai felp too?’

‘Don’t even think it, Nep, you dried-up toad,’ drawled Ruffle.

Reliko set off to find Vastly Blank. Him and Badan and that was it. The rest . . . not even close.

Fiddler tugged free the stopper on the jug and then paused to survey the others. Gesler had caught a lizard by the tail and was letting it bite his thumb. Balm sat crosslegged, frowning at the furious lizard. Cord stood leaning against the bole of a tree—something he’d likely regret as it was leaking sap, but he was making such an effort with the pose no one was going to warn him off. Thom Tissy had brought up a salted slab of some local beast’s flank and was carving it into slices. Hellian was staring fixedly at the jug in Fiddler’s hands and Urb was staring fixedly at Hellian. The three others, the two South Dal Honese—Badan Gruk and Sinter—and Primly, were showing old loyalties by sitting close together on an old boom log and eyeing everyone else.

Fiddler wanted maybe five more sergeants here but finding anyone in the chaotic sprawl that was a camp about to march was just about impossible. He lifted the jug. ‘Cups ready, everyone,’ and he set out to make the round. ‘You only get half, Hellian,’ he said when he came opposite her, ‘since I can see you’re already well on your way.’

‘On my way where? Fillitup and don’ be cheap neither.’

Fiddler poured. ‘You know, you ain’t treating Beak’s gift with much respect.’

‘What giff? He never give me nothing but white hair and thank the gods that’s gone.’

When he had filled the other cups he returned to the rotted tree-stump and sat down once more. Fifty paces directly opposite was the river, the air above it swirling with swallows. After a moment he dropped his gaze and studied the soldiers arrayed round the old fisher’s campfire. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘this is the kind of meeting sergeants used to do back in the days of the Bridgeburners. It was a useful tradition and I’m thinking it’s time it was brought back. Next time we’ll get the rest of the company’s sergeants.’

‘What’s the point of it?’ Sinter asked.

‘Every squad has its own skills—we need to know what the others can do, and how they’re likely to do it. We work through all this and hopefully there won’t be any fatal surprises in a scrap.’

After a moment, Sinter nodded. ‘Makes sense.’

Cord asked, ‘You’re expecting us to run into trouble any time soon, Fid? That what your deck told you? Has this trouble got a face?’

‘He’s not saying,’ said Gesler. ‘But it’s a fair guess that we’ll know it when we see it.’

‘Bolkando,’ suggested