So, she’d wanted to believe. For herself and for her wayward, flighty sister. Steady enough for the both of them, aye. Kisswhere was going to stray-she was like that, it was in her nature. People like her needed understanding kin, the kind of kin who’d step in and clean up and set right what needed setting right. And Sinter had always held to that role. Kisswhere bends, I stand firm. She slips out, I fill the gap. She makes a mess, I clean and set right. She lets people down, I pick them back up.
Sometimes, however, she chafed under the strictures of being ever reliable, solid and practical. Of being so utterly capable. Just once, Kisswhere could take Sinter’s cloak and hold fast, and Sinter could snag her sister’s and go out and play. Stealing husbands, jilting lovers, signing on, fucking off. Why not? Why did all the expectation have to settle on her shoulders, every damned time?
She was, she realized, still waiting to start living.
Badan Gruk wanted her, loved her. But she… she didn’t know. If she wanted to be loved, or even chased after. She played it out, aye, as if it was all real. She even spent time telling herself it was the way it looked. But the truth was, she didn’t know what she felt, not about him, not about anything. And wasn’t that the real joke in all this? Everyone saw her as such a capable person, and all the while she asked herself: capable of what? Will I ever find out?
When is it my turn?
She had no idea what this army was doing, and that frightened her. Not that she’d ever give away her true feelings. Sinter saw how the others relied on her. Even the other sergeants. Primly, Badan Gruk, even that cow-eyed fool, Urb. No, she needed to keep playing the unimaginative soldier, biting her tongue and with that solid look in her eyes not once wavering, not for an instant giving away the crazed storm in her head.
She needed help. They were marching into blackness, a future profoundly unknown barring the simple, raw truth that at some point they would all draw their weapons, they would all stand facing an enemy that sought their annihilation. They would be told to fight, to kill. But will we? Can we? If you could show us a cause, Adjunct. A reason, just a handful of worth, we’d do as you ask. I know we would.
She glanced across at her sister. Kisswhere stood, a faint smile on her face to mark whatever inner peace and satisfaction she found so easy to indulge, her eyes on the blurry stars in the northern sky. Amused patience and the promise of derision: that was her most favoured expression, there on those deceptively sweet and innocent features. Yes, she was breathtaking in her natural beauty and charm, and there was that wild edge-sticky as honey-that so drew to her otherwise reasonable men. She froze lives and loves in amber, and her hoard was vast indeed.
Could I be like her? Could I live as she does? Look at that half-smile. So contented. Gods, how I wish…
There had to be a way out of this, and her sister had better find it soon. Else Kisswhere feared she would go mad. She’d joined the Malazan marines, for Hood’s sake, not some renegade army marching up some damned god’s ass. She’d joined knowing she could hand it all back to them once boredom forced the situation. Well, not that they’d happily let her go, of course, but disappearing wasn’t so hard, not in a civilized land like the Malazan Empire. So many people, so many places to go, so many possible lives to assume. And even in the military itself, who really cared which face was which beneath the rim of the helm? Could be anyone, so long as they took orders and could march in step.
She could have slept her way into some soft posting. In Unta, or Li Heng, or Quon itself. Even Genabackis would have been fine. If only her sister hadn’t jammed her nose into things. Always trying to take charge, constantly stepping into Kisswhere’s path and causing grief. Complicating everything and that had always been the problem. But Sinter hadn’t figured it out yet-Kisswhere had run to the marines to escape her sister’s infuriating interference in her life. Among other things.
But she followed, didn’t she? She followed and so did Badan Gruk. It’s not my choice, not my fault at all. I’m not responsible for them-they’re all grown up, aren’t they?
So if I want to desert now, before we head into someplace where I can’t, well, that’s my business, isn’t it?
But now Sinter had dragged her out from the cosy fire, and here they were, waiting for one of Urb’s soldiers and what was all this about, anyway?
Running. Is that it, finally? I hope so, sister. I hope you’ve finally come to your senses. This time, I’m with you.
But why this woman we hardly even know? Why not Badan Gruk?
We got to get out, and now. I got to get out. And I don’t need anyone’s help to do it. Stow away with a D’ras trader. Easy, nothing to it. Two of us could do it, even three. But four? Now that’s a stretch. It’s logistics, sister, plain and simple. The kind you like so much. Straightforward. Too many and we’ll get caught. You’ll want Badan, too. And four’s too many.
She’d wait, however. She’d see what Sinter had in mind here, with this meeting. She could work on Sinter later, but nothing direct, since that never worked. Sinter was stubborn. She could dig in deeper than anyone Kisswhere knew. No, Kisswhere would have to twist carefully, so that the decision, when it finally went the right way, would seem to be coming from Sinter herself.
It wasn’t easy, but then Kisswhere had had a lifetime of practice. She knew she could do it.
Sinter softly grunted and she turned to see a figure approaching from the camp. Swaying hips, and everywhere a whole lot of what men liked. A Dal Honese for sure, which was why Sinter had invited her in the first place. But since when did three Dal Honese women agree about anything?
Madness. Sinter, this won’t work. You remember the histories. It’s us women who start most of the wars. Snaring the wrong men, using them up, humiliating them. Throwing one against another. Whispering blood vengeance beneath the furs at night. A sly comment here, a look there. We’ve been in charge a long time, us women of Dal Hon, and we’re nothing but trouble.
Masan Gilani was from a savannah tribe. She was tall, making her curvaceous form all the more intimidating. She had the look of a woman who was too much for any man, and should a man get her he’d spend his whole life convinced he could never hold on to her. She was a monster of sensuality, and if she’d stayed in her tribe the whole north half of Dal Hon would be in the midst of a decades-long civil war by now. Every Dal Honese god and mud spirit tossed in on this one, didn’t they? She’s got pieces of them all.
And here I thought I was dangerous.
‘Sinter,’ she said under her breath, ‘you have lost your mind.’
Her sister heard her. ‘This one is far on the inside, Kiss, way farther in than anyone we know.’
‘What of it?’
Sinter did not reply. Masan Gilani had drawn too close for any exchange now, no matter how muted.
Her elongated eyes flitted between the sisters, curious, and then amused.
Bitch. I hate her already.
‘Southerners,’ she said. ‘I’ve always liked southerners. Your sweat smells of the jungle. And you’re never as gangly and awkward as us northerners. Did you know, I have to special-order all my armour and clothes-I’m no standard fit anywhere, except maybe among the Fenn and that’s no good because they’re extinct.’
Kisswhere snorted. ‘You ain’t that big,’ and then she looked away, as she realized how petty that sounded.
But Gilani’s smile had simply broadened. ‘The only real problem with you southerners is that you’re barely passable on horseback. I’d not count on you to ride hard as me, ever. So it’s a good thing you’re marines. Me, I could be either and to be honest, I’d have jumped over to the scouts long ago-’