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Scowling, Kisswhere kicked her boots free of the stirrups and drew her right leg over. Rafala pulled the mare a step ahead and the Malazan set her right foot into the stirrup, rose, reaching for the Seven Cities saddle horn, and then pulled herself astride the broad-backed beast.

The transfer was smooth and Rafala’s lips tightened, as if the notion of a compliment threatened nausea. She dropped back to come up behind Kisswhere, taking the reins of her warrior’s battle-horse. Moments later she was leading that mount away.Advertisement

Kisswhere looked over to see Gall grinning. ‘I know just the place,’ he said.

The Barghast barked a laugh.

‘Ride with the Khundryl then,’ Krughava said to her. ‘Lead them to the Bonehunters.’

Gods below- how to get out of this? ‘I fear I would only slow them, Mortal Sword. While this mount is fresh I, alas, am not.’

‘Ever slept between two horses?’ Gall asked.

‘Excuse me?’

‘A slung hammock, Kisswhere, with tent poles to keep the beasts apart. This is how we carry wounded whilst on the move.’

All these women, looking at her. Knowing, seeing what the men did not. Showing all your sharp little teeth, are you? So delighted to see me trapped. To Gall she said, ‘If it comes to that need, Warleader, I will tell you.’

‘Very good,’ the warrior replied. ‘Then, let us ride to my Burned Tears. Highness, Mortal Sword, when next we meet it shall be in the Adjunct’s command tent. Until then, travel well and may the gods be blinded by your dust.’

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Kisswhere set off with the Warleader and they cut eastward and slightly arrears to where the main mass of the horse-warriors rode in loose formations. Once clear of the vanguard, Gall said, ‘My apologies, soldier. I see that you have discarded your uniform, and the last place you want to go is back to where you came from. But the Mortal Sword is a stern woman. Not one Perish Grey Helm has ever deserted, and should one ever try, I doubt they’d manage to live long. She would have acted on the Adjunct’s behalf, no matter the consequences. In every army imaginable, the Bonehunters included I’m sure, desertion is a death sentence.’

Not stupid after all. ‘I was commanded to give nothing away whilst riding alone, Warleader, and so I wore nothing that could be construed to be a uniform.’

‘Ah, I see. Then I must apologize a second time, Kisswhere.’

She shrugged. ‘My sister walks in that column, Warleader. How could I not seek to return as quickly as possible?’

‘Of course. I understand now.’

He fell into something like an amiable silence as they approached the Burned Tears. She wondered if he’d been fooled. True, simple wasn’t necessarily the same as stupid, after all. She’d given reasonable answers, with only a hint of affront. Aye, a little dignity before the insult, as my mother used to say, makes a fine weapon.

‘She will be delighted to see you again, I am sure.’

Kisswhere shot the man a searching look, but said nothing.

Columnar clouds heaped the western horizon ahead, and Masan Gilani could feel a cool breeze freshening against her face. She had taken to spelling her horse every three or so leagues, but the animal was wearying nonetheless. It was this detail that killed most deserters, she knew. The pursuing troop would be leading spare mounts, whilst the fool on the fly generally had nothing but the lone beast he or she was riding.

Of course, no one was chasing her, which, oddly enough, did nothing to assuage her guilt. She belonged with her squad, sharing mouthfuls of the same dust, cursing at the same whining flies. And, if things were as bad as people had intimated, she wanted to be there, right beside her friends, to face whatever arrived. Instead, here she was, hunting for… for what? For the tenth time this day she reached to brush her hand against the small leather pouch tied to her belt, confirming it was still there. Lose it, she knew, and this whole mission was a failure.

It probably already is, anyway. I can’t find what I can’t see, pouch or no pouch.

She could see the rain ahead and not much else, grey-blue sheets angling down on the sliding wind, the curtains sweeping across the land. More misery to add to this overflowing kitty. This is pointless. I’m looking for ghosts. Real ghosts? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe just the ghosts living in the Adjunct’s head, those old hoary hags of lost allegiances and forgotten promises. Tavore, you expect too much. You always did.

Rain spat into her face, swarmed the ground until it seemed the dust danced like crazed ants. In moments all visibility beyond a few dozen paces vanished. She was now more blinded to what she was looking for than at any other time. pqdm.com