Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(63)

Jethiss nodded. ‘Ah. I saw your mage friends. They did not appear convinced.’

Fisher chuckled. ‘No. But then, they have not seen what I have seen.’

‘And neither have I, it would seem.’

Fisher studied him, his lined face, his blowing white-streaked hair. ‘I believe you have. You just do not remember it.’

The man gave an easy shrug. ‘Perhaps. Immaterial now. What is gone is gone. How could I miss that which I do not even recall?’

Sidelong, Fisher studied the man. Could he cultivate such an untroubled equanimity if he’d lost all that he’d ever been? He doubted it. It would take a strong and centred spirit to awake into a strange new existence and still keep one’s sanity. Let alone one’s sense of humour, or irony.

He shivered in the cold wind blowing down out of the heights and shaking the trees. Dampness chilled it. A late snowstorm? Would the pass be open? He pulled his travelling cloak tighter about himself. ‘The old songs and stories are consistent on it. There must be something there.’

‘Perhaps they merely reference one another, perpetuating the myth.’

He walked for a time in silence. Ahead, Malle, the old Gris matriarch on her donkey, raised a parasol and opened it. Fisher held out a hand; a few drops struck. A cold rain. And perhaps snow in the upper passes. This late in the season, too. He drew his idum from his back to check its oiled leather wrap. ‘Perhaps,’ he allowed. ‘We shall see.’

That night it snowed. Fisher watched it from the open front of his tent. The fat flakes hissed and melted as they slapped the ground.

He played late into the evening. At times Jethiss stirred, thrashing on his bedding. It was not until Fisher put away the instrument and lay down upon his own Malazan-issued blankets that he realized he’d unconsciously been playing themes from Anomandaris, his epic lay concerning Anomander Rake.

Yelling from somewhere in the camp shocked him awake in the dead of night. He bolted up, pulled on his boots, and ran out of the tent in his leather shirt and trousers. Almost everyone was up and milling about, most running to the perimeter. He spotted Marshal Teal with a bodyguard of four men, jogging for Enguf’s camp, and followed. The pirate commander was shouting and waving to disperse his crew back to their campfires and tents.

Marshal Teal closed upon the captain. ‘What was it?’ he demanded. ‘What happened?’

Enguf was bleeding at the mouth. He wiped away the blood with the back of his hand. ‘Just a difference of opinion regarding this expedition of yours.’

Teal’s brows arched. ‘A difference of opinion? Really.’

‘We were debating its merits.’

‘A debate? Is that what this was? Sounded more like a damned tavern brawl.’

The captain rubbed his jaw. ‘For the Southern Confederacy, this was a debate.’

‘I see. Well, perhaps next time you could conduct your debating in such a manner that you do not alarm the entire camp.’

‘Well perhaps I’ll just table that at the next meeting!’

‘Gentlemen,’ Fisher interrupted. ‘It’s over now, whatever it was. I suggest we continue this discussion in the morning.’

Marshal Teal eyed him up and down, his mouth a sour line. ‘Very well. However,’ and he waved at him, ‘next time you respond to an alarm … I suggest you bring a weapon.’ And he stormed off.

Fisher watched him go, then looked down. It was true; he hadn’t brought a weapon. Not even his belt.

Enguf muttered under his breath, ‘The lads and lasses don’t like it. All this marching, with no loot in sight. Plenty of targets left behind along the coast …’ He shook his shaggy head and peered closely at Fisher. ‘How far now, would you say?’

Fisher let out a breath. His shoulders were damp and chilled with melted snow. ‘We’re close to the highest passes. Downhill from then on to the Sea of Gold.’

‘The Sea of Gold, you say?’ He nodded, impressed. ‘They’ll like that. Maybe that’ll keep ’em quiet.’ He frowned then, looking Fisher up and down as well. ‘And don’t come running without a weapon, y’damned fool.’ He lumbered off.

Fisher turned away to go back to his tent and flinched, almost jumping. Jethiss was there. The man seemed to have appeared from nowhere, emerging from the dark like magic. He held something out to him: his sheathed sword wrapped in its belt. Fisher ruefully shook his head and took it from him.

*

Two days later they tramped through the slush and muck of lingering snow cover. They were high here, but nowhere near the treeline. The spine of the Bone Peninsula did not rise anywhere as high as the Salt range. They marched through coniferous forest; the tall pine and spruce growing far apart, with moss and bare rock and patches of snow between. Ahead lay a pass, the ridgeline not far away.

Fisher was just thinking how quiet everything had been so far when he spotted Teal’s forward scouts come running pell-mell back to the column. He jogged up to the front along with some of Malle’s people.

The scouts were panting and short of breath. ‘What is it?’ Teal snapped.

‘Some kind of bridge,’ one of them managed, gulping and pointing ahead. ‘Spans a defile. Looks like the only way across.’

Fisher caught Holden’s eye; the mage rolled his gaze skyward. Teal grunted. ‘Imagine that. Let’s take a look.’ He turned to his men, called, ‘Spread out,’ and signed the order. The Letherii troops quickly shuffled to right and left, forming a skirmish line. The Malazans and Genabackans followed suit. Malle remained behind with a guard of five veterans. Fisher and Jethiss joined the line.