'You've just come to a closed door, Corporal.'
Kalam smiled. 'That's all right. Times like these I can see through them well enough.'
'Then I needn't say any more.'
'Looking at Minala, none of this makes sense,' the assassin said.
'There's different kinds of strength, I guess. And defences. She used to be close with Selv, with the children. Now she wraps herself around them like armour, just as cold and just as hard. What she's having trouble with is you, Kalam. You've wrapped yourself in the same way but around her — and the rest of us.'
And she's feeling redundant? Maybe that's how it would look to Keneb. 'Her trouble with me is that she doesn't trust me, Captain.'
'Why in Hood's name not?'
Because I'm holding daggers unseen. And she knows it. Kalam shrugged. 'From what you've told me, I'd expect trust to be something she wouldn't easily grant to anyone, Captain.'
Keneb mused on this, then he sighed and rose. 'Well, enough of that. I've a shroud to stare up at and snores to count.'
Kalam watched the captain move away and settle down beside Selv. The assassin drew a deep, slow breath. I expect your death was a quick one, Colonel Tras. Be fickle, dear Hood, and spit the bastard back out. I'll kill him again, and Queen turn away, I'll not be quick.
On his belly, Fiddler wormed his way down the rock-tumbled slope, heedlessly scraping his knuckles as he held out his cocked crossbow before him. That bastard Servant's dissolving in a dozen stomachs by now. Either that or his head's riding a pike minus the ears now dangling from someone's hip.
All of Icarium's and Mappo's skills had been stretched to the limit with the simple effort of keeping everyone alive. The Whirlwind, for all its violence, was no longer an empty storm scouring a dead land. Servant's trail had led the group into a more focused mayhem.
Another lance flew out from the swirling ochre curtain to his left and landed with a clatter ten paces from where the sapper lay. Your goddess's wrath leaves you as blind as us, fool!
They were in hills crawling with Sha'ik's desert warriors. There was both coincidence and something else in this fell convergence. Convergence indeed. The followers seek the woman they're sworn to follow. Too bad that the other path happens to be here as well.
Distant screams rose above the wind's more guttural howl. ho, the hills are alive with beasts. Foul-tempered ones at that. Three times in the past hour Icarium had led them around a Soletaken or a D'ivers. There was some kind of mutually agreed avoidance going on — the shapeshifters wanted nothing to do with the Jhag. But Sha'ik's fanatics. . ah, now they're fair game. Lucky for us.
Still, the likelihood that Servant still lived seemed, to Fiddler's mind, very small indeed. He worried for Apsalar as well, and found himself-ironically — praying that a god's skills would prove equal to the task.
Two desert warriors wearing leather armour appeared ahead and below, scampering with panicked haste down towards the base of the gorge.
Fiddler hissed a curse. He was the group's flank on this side — if they got past him …
The sapper raised his crossbow.
Black cloaks swept over the two figures. They shrieked. The cloaks swarmed, crawled. Spiders, big enough to make out each one even at this distance. Fiddler's skin prickled. You should have brought brooms, friends.
He pushed himself up from the crevasse he had wedged himself into, angled right as he scrambled along the slope. And if I don't get back into Icarium's influence soon, I'll be wishing I had as well.
The screams of the desert warriors ceased, either with the distance the sapper put between him and them, or blissful release — he hoped the latter. Directly ahead rose the side of the ridge that had — thus far — marked Apsalar and her father's trail.
The wind tugged at him as he clambered his way to the top. Almost immediately he stumbled onto the spine and caught sight of the others, no more than ten paces ahead. The three were crouched over a motionless figure.
Fiddler went cold. Oh, Hood, make it a stranger...
It was. A young man, naked, his skin too pale to make him one of Sha'ik's desert tribesmen. His throat had been cut, the wound gaping down to the vertebra's flattened inner side. There was no blood.
As Fiddler slowly crouched down, Mappo looked over at the sapper. 'A Soletaken, we think,' he said.
'That's Apsalar's work,' Fiddler said. 'See how the head was pushed forward and down, chin tucked to anchor the blade — I've seen it before …'
'Then she's alive,' Crokus said.
'As I said,' Icarium rumbled. 'As is her father.'
So far so good. Fiddler straightened. 'There's no blood,' he said. 'Any idea how long ago he was killed?'
'No more than an hour,' Mappo said. 'As for the lack of blood …' He shrugged. 'The Whirlwind is a thirsty goddess.'
The sapper nodded. 'I think I'll stick closer from now on, if you don't mind — I don't think we'll have any more trouble from Sha'ik's warriors — call it a gut feeling.'
Mappo nodded. 'For the moment, we ourselves walk the Path of Hands.'
And why is that, I wonder?
They resumed their journey. Fiddler mused on the half-dozen times he'd seen desert warriors in the past twelve hours. Desperate men and women in truth. Raraku was the centre of the Apocalypse, yet the rebellion was headless and had been for some time. What was going on beyond the Holy Desert's ring of crags?
Anarchy, I'd wager. Slaughter and frenzy. Hearts of ice and the mercy of cold steel. Even if the illusion of Sha'ik is being maintained — her ranking followers now issuing commands — she's not led her army out to make it the rebellion's lodestone. Doesn't sit well proclaiming an uprising, then not showing up to lead it…
Apsalar would have her hands full, should she accept the role. An assassin's skills might keep her alive, but they offered nothing of the intangible magnetism necessary to lead armies. Commanding armies was easy enough — the traditional structures ensured that, as the barely competent Fists of the Malazan Empire clearly showed — but leading was another thing entirely.
Fiddler could think of only a handful of people possessing that magnetic quality. Dassem Ultor, Prince K'azz D'Avore of the Crimson Guard, Caladan Brood and Dujek Onearm. Tattersail if she'd had the ambition. Likely Sha'ik herself. And Whiskeyjack.
As alluring as Apsalar was, the sapper had seen nothing of such force of personality. Competence, without a doubt. Quiet confidence as well. But she clearly preferred observing over participating — at least until the time came to draw the sticker. Assassins don't bother honing their powers to persuade — why bother? She'll need the right people around her. .
Fiddler scowled to himself. He'd already taken it as given that the lass would assume the guise, twined to the central thread of this goddess-woven tapestry. And here we are, racing through the Whirlwind. . to arrive in time to witness the prophetic rebirth.
Eyes narrowed against the blowing grit, the sapper glanced at Crokus. The lad strode half a dozen paces ahead, a step behind Icarium. Even leaning as he did into the biting wind, he betrayed something fraught and fragile in his posture. She'd said nothing to him before leaving — she'd dismissed him and his concerns as easily as she did the rest of us. Pust offered her father to seal the pact. But sent him out here first. That suggested the old man was a willing player in the scheme, a co'conspirator. If I was that lass, I'd have some hard questions for ol' Dadda...