Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

'Just my point,' Hetan growled.

'And a sharp one it is.'

'So you'd noticed, then.'

'Noticed what, my dear? The sumptuous curves of yourself? How could Kruppe not notice such wondrous, if slightly barbaric, beauty? As a prairie flower-'

'-about to kill you,' Hetan said, grinning.

'A prairie flower, Kruppe observes, such as blooms on prickly cactus …'

' 'Ware the misstep, Man of Lard.'

'Kruppe's wares are without misstep, for he wears wariness well — uh …'

'This morning,' Hetan resumed after a moment, 'I watched one company of marines strike the tents of three companies, all through the Malazan camp. One for three, again and again.'

'Aye, one can count on the Malazans!'

Hetan rode closer, reached out and closed a hand on Kruppe's cloak collar. She half dragged him from his saddle, her smile broadening. 'Man of Lard,' she hissed, 'when I bed you — soon — this mule will need a travois to carry what's left of you. Dragging everyone along in your dance of words is a fine talent, but come tonight, I will pump the breath from your lungs. I will leave you speechless for days to come. And I will do all this to prove who is the master between us. Now, another utterance from you and I won't wait until tonight — I will give these children and everyone else a show that you, Daru, will never live down. Ah, I see by your bulging eyes that you understand. Good. Now, stop clenching that mule with your knees — the beast hates it. Settle in that saddle as if it was a horse, for it believes itself to be so. It notes how everyone else rides, notes how the horses carry their charges. Its eyes never rest — have you not noticed? This is the most alert beast this world has ever seen, and don't ask me why. There, my words are done. Until tonight, Man of Lard, when I will see you melt.' She released him.

Gasping, Kruppe dropped back onto the saddle. He opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it shut.

Cafal grunted. 'He learns fast, sister.'

She snorted. 'You all do, brother.'

The two rode away.

Staring after them, Kruppe removed his handkerchief from a sleeve and patted the sweat from his brow. 'Dear me. Dear, dearest me. You heard, mule? It is Kruppe who is doomed. Doomed!'

Whiskeyjack studied the two women standing before him, then said, 'Permission denied.'

'She ain't here, sir,' one of the marines reiterated. 'We got no-one to watch, right?'

'You will not rejoin your company, soldiers. You stay with me. Any other issues you wanted to discuss? No? Dismissed.'

The two marines exchanged a glance, then saluted and marched off.

'Sometimes,' Artanthos said from a half-dozen paces away, 'it comes back and sinks its teeth into you, doesn't it?'

Whiskeyjack eyed the man. 'What does?'

'Dassem Ultor's style of command. Soldiers given permission to think, to question, to argue …'

'Making us the best army this world has ever seen, Standard-Bearer.'

'None the less …'

'There is no "none the less". It is the reason why we're the best. And when time comes for the hard orders, you'll see the discipline — you may not have seen it here and now, but it's there, under the surface, and it's solid.'

'As you say,' Artanthos replied with a shrug.

Whiskeyjack resumed leading his horse to the kraal. The sun was already pulling the last of its lurid light below the horizon. On all sides, soldiers hurried to pitch tents and prepare cook fires. They were, he could see, a weary lot. Too many doubletime shifts through the day, then the added bell's worth of marching through dusk. He realized he'd need to tail that off over at least three days then add two more bells of stationary rest before reaching Coral, to give his infantry sufficient recovery time. An exhausted army was a defeated army.

A stabler collected Whiskeyjack's horse, and the commander set off towards Dujek's tent.

A squad of marines sat on their packs in front of the entrance, helms and armour on, still wearing the scarves that had covered their faces against the day's dust. None rose at Whiskeyjack's arrival.

'Carry on,' he growled sarcastically as he strode between the soldiers and entered the tent.

Within, Dujek was on his knees. He'd thrown a map down on the carpeted floor and was studying it by lantern-light, muttering under his breath.

'So,' Whiskeyjack said as he pulled a camp chair close and settled, 'the divided army … divides yet again.'

Dujek glanced up, his bushy brows knitting into a momentary frown before he resumed his perusal of the map. 'My bodyguard outside?'

'Aye.'

'They're a miserable lot at the best of times, and this isn't exactly best.'

Whiskeyjack stretched out his legs, wincing as old pain awoke once more in the left one. 'They're all Untan, aren't they? Haven't seen them around much of late.'

'You haven't seen them around because I told them to get scarce. Calling 'em miserable was being kind. They're not of the Host and as far as they're concerned they'll never be and, damn, I agree with 'em. Anyway, they wouldn't have saluted you even if we wasn't splitting into two commands. It's a struggle them saluting even me, and I'm the one they're sworn to protect.'

'We've got a tired army out there.'

'I know. With Oponn's luck the pace will return to sanity once we're the other side of Maurik. That's three days of loose reins and stretched necks to Coral — we've managed with less.'

'Managed to get mauled, you mean. That run to Mott damn near finished us, Dujek. We can't afford a repetition — there's a lot more to lose this time.'

The High Fist leaned back and began rolling up the map. 'Have faith, friend.'

Whiskeyjack glanced around, noted the cross-slung backpack resting against the centre pole, the old short-sword in its equally ancient scabbard draped over it. 'So soon?'

'You ain't been paying attention,' Dujek said. 'We've been peeling off without a hitch every night since the divide. Do the roll call, Whiskeyjack, you're six thousand short. Come the morning, you've got your command back — well, slightly under half of it, anyway. You should bedancing round the pole.'

'No, I should be the one flying out tonight, not you, Dujek. The risk-'

'Precisely,' the High Fist growled. 'The risk. You never seem to realize, but you're more important to this army than I am. You always have been. To the soldiers, I'm just a one-armed ogre in a fancy uniform — they damned well see me as a pet.'

Whiskeyjack studied Dujek's battered, unadorned armour and grinned sourly.

'A figure of speech,' the High Fist said. 'Besides, it's as the Empress has commanded.'

'So you keep saying.'

'Whiskeyjack, Seven Cities is devouring itself. The Whirlwind has risen over blood-soaked sands. The Adjunct has a new army and it's on its way, but too late for the Malazan forces already there. I know you were talking retirement, but look at it from Laseen's point of view. She has two commanders left who know Seven Cities. And, before long, only one seasoned army — stuck here on Genabackis. If she has to risk one of us in the Pannion War, it has to be me.'

'She plans on sending the Host to Seven Cities? Hood take us, Dujek-'

'If the new Adjunct falls to Sha'ik, what choice does she have? More important, she wants you in command.'

Whiskeyjack slowly blinked. 'What about you?'

Dujek grimaced. 'I don't think she expects me to survive what's about to come. And if by some miracle I do, well, the campaign in Korel is a shambles. '

'You don't want Korel.'

'What I want doesn't matter, Whiskeyjack.'

'And Laseen would say the same of me, I gather. Dujek, as I said before, I intend to retire, to disappear if need be. I'm done. With all of this. Some log cabin in some frontier kingdom, a long way away from the Empire-'