‘Yes.’
‘You want to join, you go sign up there.’
‘Right. Thanks.’
‘You Malazan?’ the second asked.
Kyle managed a scowl. ‘What d’you mean, Malazan? I’m from Jasston.’
‘Jasston? Where the Abyss is that?’
‘Korel.’
This second guard grunted, only slightly mollified. ‘There’s a guy here from Theft. You know Theft?’
Kyle struggled to appear indifferent, shrugged. ‘Yeah. Why?’
‘’Cause you don’t look nothing like him.’
Kyle gave a negligent wave then ended the gesture by tucking his hand into his shirt where he took hold of the grip of the white blade. ‘That’s because Theftians look like rats.’
The guard blinked, then they all broke into huge guffaws. Kyle allowed himself a tight grin. After the guards stopped chortling the first looked to him and frowned. ‘Well? Why’re you still here? Go sign your papers.’
Kyle gave a curt nod, then forced himself to amble off. As he walked away, he heard one say, ‘That Theftian did kinda look like a rat …’
He took care to walk in the direction of the two-storey frame and plaster daub house for a time, then, when he was certain he must be out of sight, he cut to the south and lost himself amid a maze of pitched tents. He had no intention of signing anything. So far no one had pointed him out directly as having quite a resemblance to the southern tribes of this region, but he wasn’t about to push his luck.
He’d almost given up hope of coming up with a plan to reach Lyan, short of storming her tent, when through the crowd of armed and armoured men and women, he glimpsed the slight short figure of a youth — Dorrin. The sight filled him with pleasure, and with hope; the lad would take him to Lyan. But it also twisted his throat, as the lad was walking only with the aid of a crutch: his left leg was gone below the knee.
Kyle halted, stricken. Whatever treatment Lyan had bargained for among the convoy hadn’t been good enough to save his leg.
It took a great deal of effort to shake off the shock of the sight; the lad was so young. But perhaps it was fortunate — he’d get used to it quickly. And it would win him credibility with the troops; a youth and already a veteran.
Speaking of troops, he also noted the two Genabackan guards escorting the lad. Lyan was of high enough rank to rate bodyguards for her and her ‘family’. Indeed, to listen to the talk, it sounded as if she was second-in-command out here.
Still, approaching Dorrin was his only hope of reaching her. He’d have to play it carefully and hope the lad could think on his feet. He jogged off, dodging around tents to get ahead, then waited just round the corner of a shed. When Dorrin approached, with his slow limping gait, Kyle stepped out and made a show of spotting the lad. ‘Dorrin!’ he shouted, ‘It’s me — Kyle! You remember, Kyle, yes?’
Dorrin had frozen, gaping. His mouth actually opened in an O as if to begin the sound of ‘Wh-’
‘Kyle! Yes? You remember, don’t you?’
The guards had recovered and one was striding forward to brush Kyle aside when Dorrin reached out to him, calling, ‘Kyle! Yes! How wonderful to see you!’ The guards looked to the youth, frowning. ‘We met …’
‘… on the ship,’ Kyle completed.
‘On the ship, yes,’ Dorrin said.
Kyle pushed forward and knelt in the mud before the youth, looked him up and down. He almost said, sorry about the leg, but caught himself in time: Whiteblade had been there, after all. So he asked, ‘What happened to your leg?’
Dorrin looked confused for a moment, but recovered quickly. ‘Oh. I, ah, lost it. Sickness in the bone.’
‘I’m sorry, lad.’
The boy shrugged. ‘It’s okay. I can still get around.’
‘So you can. And well, too. I assume Lyan’s here?’
‘Oh, yes! She would so much want to see you!’
‘I’m glad. Should I wait with you?’
Dorrin peered up to one guard. ‘Can he stay with me, Turath?’
This fellow, an older Genabackan, probably a veteran from the look of him, possibly of the Pannion wars, scratched his greying beard while glaring his ill-disguised suspicions of Kyle. After a moment of consideration — Dorrin had just handed him a very troubling poser of a problem — he reached a decision: ‘The Shieldmaiden should be informed, little sir.’
‘Oh! Of course,’ Dorrin answered.
Turath jerked his chin to his fellow and the guard jogged off. Then the veteran settled his scarred hand on the grip of his shortsword and planted his feet wide right next to Dorrin. ‘We’ll wait just here,’ he said. A lazy smile of anticipation quirked his lips.
Kyle ignored him and studied the lad. He did appear to be in good health; he was smiling, his eyes were bright, and he looked well fed. ‘Are there any others here your age?’ he asked. ‘To talk to?’
Dorrin shook his head regretfully. ‘No. No one.’
‘I’m sorry. It must be hard to be all alone.’
He brightened again. ‘But we aren’t any more! You’re here!’
Kyle just chuckled and squeezed his shoulder, rising. He found himself looking into the veteran’s troubled gaze; the man was frowning while he scratched his beard once more, as if chasing after a thought.
Kyle looked away. After a time of silent waiting, he saw the guard scowl his displeasure and he glanced over to find the second man jogging up. Obviously, Turath was disappointed not to see him accompanied by ten more troopers.
He nodded to Turath. ‘She says he can wait in their quarters.’
Turath grunted a non-committal sound.
Dorrin raised his trimmed tree-branch crutch. ‘This way, ah, Kyle.’
Lyan had one of the remaining houses — only a small one-room cabin, but a structure all the same. The front of the cabin was a general meeting room/living quarters, while hung blankets separated sleeping quarters for her and for Dorrin. The guards waited outside at the door. Dorrin clumped to a chair and sat; Kyle spotted a tall earthenware jug of water and poured himself a drink. ‘Some water?’ he asked Dorrin, who shook his head.
‘She will be awfully pleased to see you,’ the boy said.
Kyle smiled his thanks, but already he was beginning to see the foolishness of coming here. There’d been survivors from the fight on the Dread Sea shore. And at any turn in the encampment he could stumble on another Stormguard, or a Korel veteran. It was plain now that they had to get out as soon as possible, preferably this night.
‘She said we were lucky,’ Dorrin said.
He blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘That day. When we parted. She said one of the ships was from the north, and they recognized her.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘But …’ and the lad lowered his voice, ‘you’re not very popular around here.’
He raised his brows. ‘I imagine not.’
He sat, and they waited. Dorrin was very quiet for a young lad, and still, and Kyle realized why: it was difficult for him to get around. He reflected on the few amputations he’d seen amid all the fighting he’d known — because the Crimson Guard and the Malazans had had enough trained cadre mages familiar with basic Denul magics. Not so in these wilds, obviously.
It was late and dark when he heard the guards shift to attention outside the door. Moments later, it opened and Lyan entered. She wore her mail armour and her sword at her hip, but now a thick cloak of black and grey wolf fur hung over one shoulder. She carried her helmet in one hand and set it on a table. Her auburn hair was neatly braided and she was far cleaner than the last time he’d seen her.
Her face, he noted, was carefully flat and composed. She nodded to him. ‘Kyle … good to see you again.’
‘Lyan.’
She turned to Dorrin. ‘It is late. You should lie down.’
‘But …’
‘Kyle and I have much to discuss.’
The youth picked at the bark of his tree-branch crutch. ‘But he just got here.’
‘Tomorrow, Dorrin.’
He heaved an aggrieved sigh, thumped the crutch to the dirt and eased himself from the chair. ‘Good night, then.’