Ian Esslemont - Stonewielder

The big man let the second fellow drop. ‘Now don’t get greedy. We’ve always split the gains. You’re not going all priestly on me, are you?’

‘How many times do I have to tell you? There’ll be no proceeds from this operation, Manask. Not the tangible kind, in any case.’

Manask clasped his fingertips across the top of his great bulging front and peered down at the squat man before him. His tangled brows knitted together. ‘Oh dear. You are going all religious in your old age, aren’t you? Very well. If you must indulge your guilty conscience. Temples do as well as any other racket — better than many.’

Ipshank pressed his fists to his forehead. ‘How many times do I have to…’ The fists fell. ‘Never mind. Do as you will. As far as I’m concerned we’re no longer associated. Don’t expect anything from me.’ And he marched away, grumbling under his breath.

Manask stood for a time in the dark alley, fingertips clasped and brows clenched. Then a sly smile blossomed on his long face and he raised a finger, chuckling. ‘Ahh! So that’s how we’re going to play it! I see it now. A falling out! Very good. No one will suspect.’ He chuckled more, tried to turn and jammed his stomach on the brick wall. ‘Damn! Curse it to the Dark Taker…’ He clasped his front in an attempt to squeeze himself, hissing and puffing. ‘Oh, to the Lady with it!’ He began feeling his way backwards. ‘Oh yes,’ he murmured as he retreated into the gloom. ‘We’ll fleece these Fistians to the bone, my friend. I can smell it in the air, the turmoil, the tension, and — oh dear — what have I stepped in?’

Esslemont, Ian Cameron

Stonewielder

Hisname was not Suth, but the Malazan recruiting officer at the station kept open year round just north of the Dal Hon lands shortened it into that and so was he entered into official Malazan rolls. He didn’t care. Names others chose to call one did not matter. People would use whatever forms of address they wished. These were merely terms imposed from without. For Suthahl ’Ani, the only thing that really mattered was what one named oneself.

And perhaps it was this indifference to names and the petty rivalries and contests for status among the new recruits, male and female, that prevented Suth from attracting yet another name — a nickname to be used within the ranks like so many of the recruits’: Dim, Worm, Lard, Roach or Thumbs.

He’d joined because of the stories of great battles up north, but when he got there all the fighting was over. Only the talking remained — too much talking for his liking. Boasting and storytelling. The cheap puffery of those who were cowards on the field, for only those who ran or hid from the fighting could have survived the slaughters they described.

Now he and a handful of recruits had been assigned their squads. After basic training on the march, he, Dim, and Lard ended up in the 17th Squad, 4th Company, 2nd Division, Malazan Fourth Army, encamped in the hills and coastline around the capital city, Unta. He felt privileged; instead of squatting under ponchos or makeshift tents in the rain, the 17th actually inhabited a thatch-roofed fisherman’s cottage, either abandoned, or seized. He wondered if perhaps the reason the squad rated such luxury was the man who met them in the night and beating downpour just outside its doorway.

He wore a battered janzerian cuirass with scaled armoured sleeves. A well-worn longsword hung peace-strapped at his belt. The rain ran down the mail coif under his plain iron helmet. Pale, mild eyes looked them up and down from beneath the dark rim of that helmet.

‘Welcome to the 17th,’ the man said in a surprisingly soft voice. He spoke the common Imperial dialect, Talian, close enough to Suth’s own Dal Hon. ‘I’m your sergeant, Goss. You three are here because you’re classed as heavies, and the 17th has always been a heavy infantry squad.’ He pointed to Lard. ‘What’s your name, soldier?’

‘Weveth Lethall,’ said Lard.

Their sergeant looked the hulking fellow up and down again. ‘You sure? Not Fatty? Or Bhederin? Or Ox?’

‘We call him Lard,’ said Dim, grinning good-naturedly.

‘And you?’

‘Dim.’

‘Right.’ He raised his chin to Suth. ‘You?’

‘Suth.’

‘Suth? What kind of name is that?’

‘It’s a name.’

‘Well, that it is. Okay, you three can sleep inside. I’ll see about getting you kitted out.’ And he remained, motionless, in front of them. It seemed to Suth that the man was waiting for something. Then he remembered his training and he saluted. Dim and Lard followed suit. Goss answered the salute. ‘Right. See you later.’

Their sergeant disappeared into the sheeting rain. Suth, Dim and Lard exchanged glances. Lard shrugged and headed to the open doorway. Suth and Dim followed. Inside, embers glowed in a stone hearth, old straw lay kicked about over a beaten dirt floor. A small, rat-faced fellow sat at a table of adzed planks, smoking a pipe. It was warm and humid and stank of sweat and manure. Lard headed to an inner door.

The little man’s eyes followed him. ‘Un-uh…’ he warned, his small pointy teeth clenched tight on the white clay pipe stem.

‘The sergeant told us to sleep in here,’ Lard said, testy. Suth wiped the rain from his face.

‘I know what he said. You three sleep here.’ He pointed to the floor.

‘What? On the floor? In the dirt?’

‘That or outside.’ He blew smoke from his pinched nose. ‘Your choice.’

‘And who’re you?’

‘Faro’s the name.’

‘Why in Hood’s name should we listen to you?’

‘’Cause it would be smart to play along till you know the rules.’ And he bared his tiny white teeth.

Shrugging, Suth sat next to the hearth and gathered up an armful of straw. Dim sat heavily across from him, grinning. He leaned close: ‘Just like home!’

Suth said nothing, but it was in fact just like home, hugging the firepit for warmth after minding the herd in the rain all day.

Lard sat awkwardly, cursing and grumbling. ‘Gave up a goddamned warm bed for this! Should’ve stayed home. Fucking choices I make.’

Suth lay down facing the glowing hearth, ignoring the stink of his soaked leather jerkin, his itching wool trousers, and heavy sodden rag wraps at his legs. He hoped to all the Dal Hon gods that the man would soon shut up.

A kick woke him to light streaming in the open doorway. He’d managed to sleep despite the scratchy clothes these Malazans had issued him, despite his hunger, and despite the massive passing of gas from his two ox-like companions. Someone was leaning over him, offering something — a beast’s horn.

‘Take it, it’s hot.’ He was an older fellow, a veteran, not their sergeant, his voice dry-sand hoarse.

‘Thanks.’ It was hot. A kind of weak tea. ‘I’m new.’

A tired indulgent smile drew up the man’s lips as if to hint at all the oh-so-smart comments he could make in response to that painfully obvious statement, but that he was far above scoring such easy points. A grey beard, hacked short, surrounded that mouth, and dark eyes peered out of deep wells of hatched lines. ‘Len’s the name. Sapper.’

‘Suth.’

‘Good to have you.’

Suth peered down at his snoring companions. ‘Let ’em rest,’ said Len. ‘Have to brew up more tea.’

The sunlight glare from the door was obscured and Suth shaded his gaze and stared at what he saw there. It was singularly the most unfavoured female he had ever set eyes on. She wore a dirty tattered uniform of a grey jupon over old leathers, was skinny to the point of malnourished, and even the bulging eyes that appeared to look in both directions at once couldn’t draw all attention away from a mouthful of uneven, yellowed teeth. ‘Where’s Hunter?’ she demanded.