People spilled out around the woman, with more waterskins.
She halted close to the bearded father, her eyes on Badalle, and when she spoke it was in the language of Badalle’s dreams. ‘Fiddler, they are walking the wrong way.’
‘Aye, Adjunct.’
‘I see only children.’
‘Aye.’
Standing behind this woman was another soldier. ‘But … Adjunct, who do they belong to?’
She turned. ‘It doesn’t matter, Fist, because they now belong to us.’
Rutt turned to Badalle. ‘What are they saying?’
‘They’re saying we have to go back.’
The boy mouthed the last word. Back?
Badalle said, ‘Rutt, you did not fail. You guided the Snake, and your blind tongue flicked out and found these strangers who are strangers no longer. Rutt, you led us from death and into life. Rutt,’ she stepped close, ‘you can rest now.’
The bearded man – whose name was Fiddler – managed to break Rutt’s fall, but both went down to their knees.
The Adjunct took a half-step. ‘Captain? Does he live?’
He looked up after a moment. ‘If his heart still beats, Adjunct, I can neither feel nor hear it.’
Badalle spoke in their language. ‘He lives, Father. He has just gone away. For a time.’
The man Mother had called Fist, who had been standing back, now edged forward and said, ‘Child, how is it you speak Malazan? Who are you?’
Who am I? I don’t know. I’ve never known. She met Mother’s eyes. ‘Rutt led us to you. Because you are the only ones left.’
‘Only ones?’
‘The only ones who will not turn away from us. You are our mother.’
At that the Adjunct seemed to step back, her eyes flaring as if struck to pain. And then she looked away from Badalle, who then pointed at Fiddler. ‘And he is our father, and soon he will go away and we will never see him again. It is the way of fathers.’ That thought made her sad, but she shook her head against the feeling. ‘It is just the way.’
The Adjunct seemed to be trembling and unable to look upon Badalle. Instead, she turned to the man beside her. ‘Fist, broach the reserve casks.’
‘Adjunct! Look at them! Half will die before dawn!’
‘Fist Blistig, I have given you an order.’
‘We cannot spare any water! Not for these – these …’
‘Obey my command,’ said the Adjunct in a weary tone, ‘or I will have you executed. Here. Immediately.’
‘And face open rebellion! I swear it—’
Fiddler had straightened and now he walked to stand in front of Fist Blistig, so close that the Fist took a step back. He said nothing, only smiled, his teeth white amidst that tangle of rusty beard.
Snarling an oath, Blistig swung round. ‘On your heads, then.’
The Adjunct spoke. ‘Captains Yil and Gudd, accompany Fist Blistig.’
A man and a woman who had been hanging back swung round to flank Blistig as he marched back into the column.
Fiddler returned to where Rutt was lying. He knelt beside the boy, settled one hand to one side of the thin face. Then he looked up at Badalle. ‘He led you?’
She nodded.
‘How far? How long?’
She shrugged. ‘Kolanse.’
The man blinked, looked over at the Adjunct for an instant, and then back to Badalle. ‘How many days, then, to water?’
She shook her head. ‘To Icarias, where there are wells … I – I can’t remember. Seven days? Ten?’
‘Impossible,’ said someone from the crowd gathered behind the Adjunct. ‘We have a day’s supply left. Without water, three days at the most – Adjunct, we cannot make it.’
Badalle cocked her head. ‘Where there is no water, there is blood. Flies. Shards. Where there is no food, there are children who have died.’
Someone said, ‘Fist Blistig is right this time, Adjunct. We can’t do this.’
‘Captain Fiddler.’
‘Aye?’
‘Have your scouts guide the ones who can walk back to the food wagons. Ask the Khundryl to attend to those who cannot. See to it that everyone gets water, and food if they can manage any.’
‘Aye, Adjunct.’
Badalle watched him ease his arms under Rutt, watched him lift the boy. Rutt is now Held. He carried Held until he could carry her no longer, and now he is carried, and this is how it goes on.
‘Adjunct,’ she said as Fiddler carried Rutt away, ‘I am named Badalle, and for you I have a poem.’
‘Child, if you stand there unattended to for much longer, you are going to die. I will hear your poem, but not now.’
Badalle smiled. ‘Yes, Mother.’
And for you I have a poem. She stared at the straining backs, the shedding ropes, the toppled statues by the wayside. Two nights now since that meeting, since the last time Badalle had seen the Adjunct. Or the man named Fiddler. And the water was now gone, and still Rutt would not wake, and Saddic sat atop the bales putting his things in patterns only to pack them away again, until the next time.
And she listened to the arguments. She heard the fighting, saw the sudden roiling eddies where fists lashed out, soldiers grappled, knives were drawn. She watched as these men and women stumbled towards death, because Icarias was too far away. They had nothing left to drink, and now those who drank their own piss were starting to go mad, because piss was poison – but they would not bleed out the dead ones. They just left them to lie on the ground.
This night, she had counted fifty-four. The night before there had been thirty-nine, and on the day in between they’d carried seventy-two bodies from the camp, not bothering to dig a trench this time, simply leaving them lying in rows.
The children of the Snake were on the food wagons. Their walking was done, and they too were dying.
Icarias. I see your wells. They were almost dry when we left you. Something is taking the water away, even now. I don’t know why. But it doesn’t matter. We will not reach them. Is it true, then, that all mothers must fail? And all fathers must walk away never to be seen again?
Mother, for you I have a poem. Will you come to me? Will you hear my words?
The wagon rocked, the heavies strained. Soldiers died.
They were on a path now. Fiddler’s scouts had little trouble following it. Small, bleached bones, all the ones who had fallen behind the boy named Rutt, the girl named Badalle. Each modest collection he stumbled over was an accusation, a mute rebuke. These children. They had done the impossible. And now we fail them.
He could hear the blood in his own veins, frantic, rushing through hollow places, and the sound it made was an incessant howl. Did the Adjunct still believe? Now that they were dying by the score, did she still hold to her faith? When determination, when stubborn will, proved not enough, what then? He had no answers to such questions. If he sought her out – no, she’s had enough of that. They’re on her constantly. Fists, captains, the cutters. Besides, talking was torture – lips split open, the swollen tongue struggled, the back of the throat – tight and cracked – was pained by every uttered word.
He walked with his scouts, not wanting to drop back, to see what was happening in the column. Not wanting to witness its disintegration. Were his heavies still pulling the wagons? If they were, they were fools. Were any of those starved children left? That boy, Rutt – who’d carried that thing for so long his arms looked permanently crippled – was he still in a coma, or had he slipped away, believing he’d saved them all?
That would be the best. To ride the delusion into oblivion. There are no ghosts here, not in this desert. His soul just drifted away. Simple. Peaceful. Rising, carrying that baby – because he will always carry that baby. Go well, lad. Go well, the both of you.