Reaper's Gale

‘I’m making note of all this insubordination,’ Balm grumbled. Then tapped his head. ‘In here.’

‘Well that’s a relief,’ Throatslitter said. He left the tavern.

Shake Brullyg, tyrant of Second Maiden Fort, would-be King of the Isle, slouched in the old prison prefect’s high-backed chair and glared from under heavy brows at the two foreigners at the table, beside the chamber’s door. They were playing another of their damned games. Knuckle bones, elongated wooden bowl and split crow-feathers.

‘Two bounces earns me a sweep,’ one of them said, although Brullyg was not quite sure of that-picking up a language on the sly was no easy thing, but he’d always been good with languages. Shake, Letherii, Tiste Edur, Fent, trader’s tongue and Meckros. And now, spatterings of this… this Malazan.

Timing. They’d taken it from him, as easily as they’d taken his knife, his war-axe. Foreigners easing into the harbour-not so many aboard as to cause much worry, or so it had seemed. Besides, there had been enough trouble to chew on right then. A sea filled with mountains of ice, bearing down on the Isle, more ominous than any fleet or army. They said they could take care of that-and he’d been a drowning man going down for the last time.

Would-be King of the Isle, crushed and smeared flat under insensate ice. Face to face with that kind of truth had been like dragon claws through his sail. After all he’d done…

Timing. He now wondered if these Malazans had brought the ice with them. Sent it spinning down on the season’s wild current, just so they could arrive one step ahead and offer to turn it away. He’d not even believed them, Brullyg recalled, but desperation had spoken with its very own voice. ‘Do that and you’ll be royal guests for as long as you like.’ They’d smiled at that offer.

I am a fool. And worse.

And now, two miserable squads ruled over him and every damned resident of this island, and there was not a thing he could do about it. Except keep the truth from everyone else. And that’s getting a whole lot harder with every day that passes.

‘Sweep’s in the trough, pluck a knuckle and that about does it,’ said the other soldier.

Possibly.

‘It skidded when you breathed-I saw it, you cheat!’

‘I ain’t breathed.’

‘Oh right, you’re a Hood-damned corpse, are you?’

‘No, I just ain’t breathed when you said I did. Look, it’s in the trough, you deny it?’

‘Here, let me take a closer look. Ha, no it isn’t!’

‘You just sighed and moved it, damn you!’

‘I didn’t sigh.’

‘Right, and you’re not losing neither, are ya?’

‘Just because I’m losing doesn’t mean I sighed right then. And see, it’s not in the trough.’

‘Hold on while I breathe-’

‘Then I’ll sigh!’

‘Breathing is what winners do. Sighing is what losers do. Therefore, I win.’

‘Sure, for you cheating is as natural as breathing, isn’t it?’

Brullyg slowly shifted his attention from the two at the door, regarded the last soldier in the chamber. By the coven she was a beauty. Such dark, magical skin, and those tilted eyes just glowed with sweet invitation-damn him, all the mysteries of the world were in those eyes. And that mouth! Those lips! If he could just get rid of the other two, and maybe steal away those wicked knives of hers, why then he’d discover those mysteries the way she wanted him to.

I’m King of the Isle. About to be. One more week, and if none of the dead Queen’s bitch daughters show up before then, it all falls to me. King of the Isle. Almost. Close enough to use the title, sure. And what woman wouldn’t set aside a miserable soldier’s life for the soft, warm bed of a king’s First Concubine? Sure, that is indeed a Letherii way, but as king I can make my own rules. And if the coven doesn’t like it, well, there’re the cliffs.

One of the Malazans at the table said, ‘Careful, Masan, he’s getting that look again.’

The woman named Masan Gilani straightened catlike in her chair, lifting her smooth, not-scrawny arms in an arching stretch that transformed her large breasts into round globes, tautening the worn fabric of her shirt. “S long as he keeps thinking with the wrong brain, Lobe, we’re good and easy.’ She then settled back, straightening her perfect legs.

‘We should bring him another whore,’ the one named Lobe said as he gathered the knuckle bones into a small leather bag.

‘No,’ Masan Gilani said. ‘Deadsmell barely revived the last one.’