Henar took hold of Lostara’s left arm, and they were still, and she looked down at the ground, as if to make it familiar to her eyes, knowing that from this place she would not move, ever again. Not her, not Henar. This, this is my grave .
The Fists and their officers were arriving. Faradan Sort with Skanarow and, beside her, Ruthan Gudd. Kindly, his face puffy and red, as if he’d stumbled and driven it into something. Raband standing close, one hand on his sword as he eyed Fist Blistig. That man, Lostara saw, had taken a punch – the evidence was plain in his swollen, misaligned nose, his split lips and the smears of dried blood. Bruises had spread out under his reddened eyes, and it seemed as if those eyes were nailed to the Adjunct. Fevered, burning with malice.
Behind them all, the army slowly ground down into something motionless, and she could see the faces of the nearest soldiers – this legion of old men and old women – all staring. Equipment bags slumped to the ground. A few, here and there, followed their kit to the ground.
It’s done, then .
All eyes were on the Adjunct.
Tavore Paran suddenly looked small. A person none would notice on a street, or in a crowd. The world was filled with such people. They bore no proof of gifts, no lines of beauty or grace, no bearing of confidence or challenge. The world is filled with them. Filled. For ever unnoticed. For ever … unwitnessed .
Her plain face was ravaged by the sun, blistered and cracked. The weight she had lost made her gaunt, shrunken. Yet she stood, weathering this multitude of stares, the rising heat of hatred – as every need was refused, as every hope was answered with nothing but silence.
Now the T’lan Imass arrived. They held their weapons of stone in their lifeless hands, drawing closer to the Adjunct.
Blistig snarled. ‘Bodyguards, bitch? Can they kill us all? We’ll get to you. I swear it.’
The Adjunct studied the man, but said nothing.
Please, Tavore. Give us some words. Give us something. To make this dying … palatable. We tried, didn’t we? We followed where you led. That was duty. That was loyalty. And all you kept asking of us, the battles, the marches … we did them. See how many have died for you, Tavore. See us who remain. Now we too will die. Because we believed .
Gods below, say something!
The Adjunct twisted round, to where Fiddler was standing, and then she faced Ruthan Gudd. ‘Captain,’ her voice was a dull croak, ‘where lies Icarias?’
‘South and east of us, Adjunct. Nine, ten days.’
‘And directly east? Where is the edge of this desert?’
He clawed at his beard, and then shook his head. ‘Another ten, eleven days, if we continue angling northeast – if we continue following this shallow basin as we have been doing since yesterday.’
‘Is there water beyond the desert, Captain? On the Elan Plain?’
‘Not much, I would warrant, or so the children have told us.’
Tavore looked to the T’lan Imass. ‘Upon the Elan Plain, Beroke, can you find us water?’
One of the undead creatures faced her. ‘Adjunct, we are then within the influence of Akhrast Korvalain. It is possible, but difficult, and the efforts we make will be felt. We would not be able to hide.’
‘I understand. Thank you, Beroke.’
She still thinks we can make it. Ten more days! Has she lost her mind?
Blistig laughed, a sound like the tearing open of his own throat. ‘We have followed a mad woman. Where else would she lead us?’
Lostara could not understand where Blistig found the energy for his rage, but he now raised his arms, shouted, ‘Malazans! She gave us nothing! We pleaded – we begged! In the name of our soldiers, in the name of all of you – we begged her !’ He faced the army. ‘You saw us! Marching to her tent again and again – all our questions she spat back into our faces! Our fears, our concerns – they told us this desert was impassable – but she ignored them all!’
Before him stood the ranks, and from them, not a sound.
Blistig spun, advanced on the Adjunct. ‘What power is this? Within you, woman? That they now die without a complaint?’
Kindly, Raband, Sort and Skanarow had all drawn closer, and all at once Lostara knew that if Blistig sought to attack Tavore now he would never reach her, never mind the T’lan Imass. Yet, for all that, those officers kept looking to the Adjunct, and Lostara saw the yearning in their eyes.
No one could withstand this much longer – even a god would fall to his knees. But still the Adjunct stood. ‘Banaschar,’ she said.
The ex-priest limped over to Lostara. ‘Captain,’ he said, ‘your kit bag, please.’
