Reaper's Gale

‘They are arrogant,’ Redmask said. ‘Besides, they have no choice. They wish to avenge the slaughter of settlements and the theft of herds they call their property-even though they stole them from us. They wish to punish us, and so will be eager to cross blades.’

‘Using cavalry, infantry, archers and mages.’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you intend to negate those mages, Redmask?’

‘I will not tell you, yet.’

‘In case I leave, circle round and somehow elude you and your hunters.’

‘The chance of that is remote.’

At the foreigner’s smile, Redmask continued, ‘I understand you are a skilled rider, but I would not send Awl after you. I would send my K’Chain Che’Malle.’

Anaster Toe had turned and he seemed to be studying the encampment, the rows upon rows of tents, the wreathed dung smoke of the fires. ‘You have fielded what, ten, twelve thousand warriors?’

‘Closer to fifteen.’

‘Yet you have broken up the clans.’

‘I have.’

‘In the manner needed to field something resembling a professional army. You must shift their loyalty from the old blood-ties. I’ve seen you badgering your troop commanders, ensuring that they will follow your commands in battle. I’ve seen them in turn badgering their squad leaders, and the squad leaders their squads.’

‘You are a soldier, Anaster Toe’

‘And I hated every moment of it, Redmask.’

That matters not. Tell me of your Grey Swords, the tactics they employed.’

‘That won’t be much help. I could, however, tell you of the army I originally belonged to, before the Grey Swords.’ He glanced over with his one glittering eye, and Redmask saw amusement there, a kind of mad hilarity that left him uneasy. ‘I could tell you of the Malazans.’

‘I have not heard of that tribe.’

Anaster Toe laughed again. ‘Not a tribe. An empire. An empire three, four times the size of Lether.’

‘You will stay, then?’

Anaster Toe shrugged. ‘For now.’

There was nothing simple to this man, Redmask realized. Mad indeed, but it could prove a useful madness. ‘Then how,’ he asked, ‘do the Malazans win their wars?’

The foreigner’s twisted smile gleamed in the dusk, like the flash of a knife. ‘This could take a while, Redmask.’

‘I will send for food.’

‘And oil lamps-I can’t make out a damned thing o your map.’

‘Do you approve of my intent, Anaster Toc?’

‘To create a professional army? Yes, it’s essential, but it will change everything. Your people, your culture, everything.’ He paused, then added in a dry, mocking tone, ‘You’ll need a new song.’

‘Then you must create it,’ Redmask replied. ‘Choose one from among the Malazans. Something appropriate.’

Aye,’ the man muttered, ‘a dirge.’

The white knife flashed again, and Redmask would rather it had remained sheathed.

Chapter Nine