Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(117)

Cartheron pushed forward and Jute followed. The old Napan captain picked what seemed a random narrow mud trail that led up the gently rising slope of the shore. Before they’d made five turns Jute had had to step over three bodies. One he was certain was dead, what with his throat slit and the stream of blood that stained the already ochre-red mud a far deeper crimson. The other two, a woman and a man, he suspected to have merely passed out dead drunk in the muck.

Cartheron appeared to be making for the noisiest – and largest – tent nearby. Within, under the raised eaves, was the equivalent of a tavern. A band, of sorts, played stringed and wind instruments. The crowd roared their encouragement from tables assembled from wave-wrack and ship’s timbers. Fights broke out and spilled into the mud surrounding the great tent. A long bar separated the patrons from the kegs of spirits. On the counter stood several fine weight scales of the sort one might find in a goldsmith’s.

The skinny old captain mortified Jute by stepping right up on to the nearest table. The men and women drinking there yanked their leather and earthenware tankards from beneath his muddy boots. ‘What in the name of the Matron you doin’?’ one huge bear of a fellow bellowed and Jute flinched – an ex-Urdomen from the old Pannion Annexation, for certain.

Cartheron ignored him. He set two fingers to his mouth and emitted the most piercing whistle that had ever punished Jute’s ears. The entire tavern became instantly silent. Every face turned to him; even the musicians had frozen. Cartheron raised a hand, signed something, circled the arm overhead, then stepped down from the table and exited the tent. Jute, still somewhat stunned, hurried to follow.

Outside, he caught up. ‘What was that? What’s going on?’

‘Now we wait.’

The music started up once more. The crowd laughed and jeered, perhaps at Cartheron’s expense. After a few minutes two men came out, followed by a third. The first two were thick-shouldered and heavy, obvious ex-soldiers. Both possessed bushy flame-hued beards.

‘Names?’ Cartheron demanded.

‘Red,’ said one.

‘Rusty.’

‘How’s the gold-huntin’ business treating you?’

‘Piss-poor,’ said Rusty.

‘You in?’ Both nodded. ‘Okay, spread the word – Cartheron’s in town.’

Red’s arm rose to salute but he stopped his fist before it struck his chest and lowered it. ‘Sorry.’ They ambled off.

The third man approached. He looked like nothing more than a starving itinerant, thin unto emaciation. His mussed pale brown hair was going to premature grey. His face was pinched and his small close-set eyes were yellow with what Jute recognized as a heavy addiction to the khall leaf. Indeed, one cheek was fat with a ball of it.

‘You look like you are in need of some gold dust,’ the fellow called out, quite loudly.

‘No we’re not,’ Jute answered. ‘Get out of here, y’damned khall-head.’

Cartheron raised a hand to quiet Jute. He was studying the man closely, frowning in something like wary recognition. ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘we’re lookin’ for gold dust.’

‘I know who has it – and who doesn’t.’

‘Good. Show us round and we’ll send some your way.’

The man smiled dreamily. Something in his lazy distracted manner made Jute’s skin crawl. It was as if he was moving underwater. And he was constantly brushing at his tattered shirt, tapping his fingertips together, and shifting his weight from side to side in a kind of weaving dance. ‘Need to get some to have some,’ he murmured.

Jute thought he saw Cartheron sign something to the man before the fellow waved an arm, inviting them on. ‘This way,’ he said vaguely.

He started off ahead of them and Cartheron pulled Jute back, whispering, ‘You keep out of this one’s way, yes?’

Jute was utterly confused, but nodded. ‘Certainly. If you say so.’ The khall-head glanced back at them, a languorous smile on his lips, and urged them on. ‘Come, come. This way.’

He led them to a tent containing another of the informal bars and here Cartheron repeated his performance. Afterwards, he led them on a lazy walk round an intervening set of tents before squatting on his skinny haunches in the mud.

Three men and one woman came ambling in from different directions to join them. Jute was startled to see by the cut of their hair and facial scars the mark of north Genabackan tribals – Barghast half-breeds perhaps. But veterans, cashiered Malazan veterans. They stood stiffly before Cartheron but couldn’t stop shooting each other excited grins.

Cartheron looked them up and down then nodded to himself. ‘Make the rounds. Tap any old hands you can find. Spread the word. We’ll rendezvous at …’ He turned to their guide. ‘I’m looking for a place with a nice view.’

The man tilted his head to stare off into the distance. He smiled, but emptily. ‘Anna’s Alehouse,’ he said.

Cartheron waved the four away. ‘There you go.’ They nodded and their grins turned savage with glee. They wandered off in different directions.

Jute watched all this feeling his brows crimping harder and harder, and finally he had to ask: ‘What’s going on? What are you doing?’

‘Crewing up.’ Cartheron urged their guide onward. ‘Let’s go.’