Gardens of the Moon & Deadhouse Gates - By Steven Erikson Page 0,540

go.

'From the south,' the captain laughed, clapping Kalam on the shoulder. 'We'll turn on the hunters, aye, won't we just! Storm-jibbed and marines crowding the forecastle, we'll ram 'em down their throats! Hood take these smirking stalkers – we'll see how long their grins last with a short sword jabbing 'em in the face, hey?' He leaned close, the wine sour on his breath. 'Look to your daggers, man, it'll be a night for close work, aye, won't it just.' His face spasmed suddenly and he jerked away, began screaming at his crew.

The assassin stared after him. Perhaps I'm not being paranoid, after all. The man's afflicted with something.

The deck heeled as they came hard about. The storm's wind arrived at the same time, lifting Ragstopper to run before it on stiff, shortened sails. Lanterns shuttered and the crew settling into their tasks, they plunged on, northward.

A sea battle in a raging storm, and the captain expects the marines to board the enemy craft, to stand on a pitching, wave-whipped deck and take the fight to the pirates. This is beyond audacious.

Two large figures appeared from behind, flanking the assassin. Kalam grimaced. Both of the treasurer's bodyguards had been incapacitated by seasickness since the first day, and neither looked in any condition to be able to do anything except puke his guts out on the assassin's boots, yet they stood their ground, hands on weapons.

'Master wishes to speak with you,' one of them growled.

'Too bad,' Kalam growled back.

'Now.'

'Or what, you kill me with your breath? Master can speak with corpses, can he?'

'Master commands—'

'If he wants to talk, he can come here. Otherwise, like I said, too bad.'

The two tribesmen retreated.

Kalam moved forward, past the main mast, to where the two squads of marines crouched low before the forecastle. The assassin had weathered more than his share of squalls while serving in the Imperial campaigns, in galleys, transports and triremes, on three oceans and half a dozen seas. This storm was – thus far at least – comparatively tame. The marines were grim-faced, as would be expected before an engagement, but otherwise laconic as they readied their assault crossbows in the blunted glow of a shuttered lantern.

Kalam's gaze searched among them until he found the lieutenant. 'A word with you, sir—'

'Not now,' she snapped, donning her helmet and locking the cheek-guards in place. 'Get below.'

'He means to ram—'

'I know what he means to do. And when the crunch comes, the last thing we need is some Hood-damned civilian to watch out for.'

'Do you take the captain's orders ... or the treasurer's?'

She looked up at that, eyes narrowing. The other marines paused. 'Get below,' she said.

Kalam sighed. 'I'm an Imperial veteran, Lieutenant—'

'Which army?'

He hesitated, then said, 'Second. Ninth Squad, Bridgeburners.'

As one, the marines sat back. All eyes were on him now.

The lieutenant scowled. 'Now how likely is that?'

Another marine, a grizzled veteran, barked out, 'Your sergeant? Let's hear some names, stranger.'

'Whiskeyjack. Other sergeants? Not many left. Antsy. Tormin.'

'You're Corporal Kalam, ain't you?'

The assassin studied the man. 'Who are you?'

'Nobody, sir, and been that way a long time.' He turned to his lieutenant and nodded.

'Can we count on you?' she asked Kalam.

'Not up front, but I'll be close by.'

She looked around. 'The treasurer's got an Imperial Writ – we're shackled to it, Corporal.'

'I don't think the treasurer trusts you, should it come down to making a choice between him and the captain.'

She made a face, as if tasting something bad. 'This attack's madness, but it's sharp madness.'

Kalam nodded, waited.

'I guess the treasurer's got reason.'

'If it comes to it,' the assassin said, 'leave the bodyguards to me.' 'Both of them?'

'Aye.'

The veteran spoke up. 'If we make the sharks sick in the gut with the treasurer, we'll hang for it.'

'Just be somewhere else when it happens – all of you.'

The lieutenant grinned. 'I think we can manage that.'

'Now,' Kalam said, loud enough to be heard by every marine, 'I'm just another one of those grease-faced civilians, right?'

'We never figured this outlawing stuff was for real,' a voice called out. 'Not Dujek Onearm. No way.'

Hood, for all I know you may be right, soldier. But he hid his uncertainty with a half-salute before making his way back down the length of the deck.

Ragstopper reminded Kalam of a bear crashing through thickets as it barrelled along – lumbering, broad and solid in the spraying high seas – a spring bear, an hour out of the den, eyes red-rimmed with old sleep, miserable and gnawed with hunger deep