Reaper's Gale

‘There goes that tavernkeeper,’ Deadsmell observed.



It was easy talking about anything and everything, since no-one here but them understood Malazan.



‘There’s another one all moon-eyed over her,’ Sergeant Balm said with a sneer. ‘But who does she sit with? Hood take me, it don’t make sense.’



Deadsmell slowly leaned forward on the table and carefully refilled his tankard. ‘It’s the delivery of that cask. Brullyg’s. Looks like the pretty one and the dead lass have volunteered.’



Balm’s bulging eyes bulged even more. ‘She ain’t dead! I’ll tell you what’s dead, Deadsmell, that puddle-drowned worm between your legs!’



Throatslitter eyed the corporal. ‘1f that’s how you like them,’ he’d said. A half-strangled gulp escaped him, making both his companions flinch.



‘What in Hood’s name are you gonna laugh about?’ Balm demanded. ‘Just don’t, and that’s an order.’



Throatslitter bit down hard on his own tongue. Tears blurred his vision for a moment as pain shot round his skull like a pebble in a bucket. Mute, he shook his head. Laugh? Not me.



The sergeant was glaring at Deadsmell again. ‘Dead? She don’t look much dead to me.’



‘Trust me,’ the corporal replied after taking a deep draught. He belched. ‘Sure, she’s hiding it well, but that woman died some time ago.’



Balm was hunched over the table, scratching at the tangles of his hair. Flakes drifted down to land like specks of paint on the dark wood. ‘Gods below,’ he whispered. ‘Maybe somebody should… I don’t know… maybe… tell her?’



Deadsmell’s mostly hairless brows lifted. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, you have a complexion to die for and I guess that’s what you did.’



Another squawk from Throatslitter.



The corporal continued, ‘Is it true, ma’am, that perfect hair and expensive make-up can hide anything?’



A choked squeal from Throatslitter.



Heads turned.



Deadsmell drank down another mouthful, warming to the subject. ‘Funny, you don’t look dead.’



The high-pitched cackle erupted.



As it died, sudden silence in the main room of the tavern, barring that of a rolling tankard, which then plunged off a tabletop and bounced on the floor.



Balm glared at Deadsmell. ‘You done that. You just kept pushing and pushing. Another word from you, corporal, and you’ll be deader than she is.’



‘What’s that smell?’ Deadsmell asked. ‘Oh right. Essence of putrescence.’



Balm’s cheeks bulged, his face turning a strange purple shade. His yellowy eyes looked moments from leaping out on their stalks.



Throatslitter tried squeezing his own eyes shut, but the image of his sergeant’s face burst into his mind. He shrieked behind his hands. Looked round in helpless appeal.



All attention was fixed on them now, no-one speaking. Even the beautiful woman who’d shipped in with that maimed oaf and the oaf himself-whose one good eye glittered out from the folds of a severe frown-had paused, standing each to one side of the cask of ale the tavernkeeper had brought out. And the keeper himself, staring at Throatslitter with mouth hanging open.



‘Well,’ Deadsmell observed, ‘there goes our credit as bad boys. Throaty here’s making mating calls-hope there’s no turkeys on this island. And you, sergeant, your head looks ready to explode like a cusser.’



Balm hissed, ‘It was your fault, you bastard!’



‘Hardly. As you see, I am calm. Although somewhat embarrassed by my company, alas.’



‘Fine, we’re shifting you off. Hood knows, Gilani’s a damned sight prettier to look at-’



‘Yes, but she happens to be alive, sergeant. Not your type at all.’



‘I didn’t know!’



‘Now that is a most pathetic admission, wouldn’t you say?’



‘Hold on,’ Throatslitter finally interjected. ‘1 couldn’t tell about her either, Deadsmell.’ He jabbed a finger at the corporal. ‘Further proof you’re a damned necromancer. No, forget that shocked look, we ain’t buying no more. You knew she was dead because you can smell ‘em, just like your name says you can. In fact, I’d wager that’s why Braven Tooth gave you that name-doesn’t miss a thing, ever, does he?’



The ambient noise was slowly resurrecting itself, accompanied by more than a few warding gestures, a couple of chairs scraping back through filth as patrons made furtive escapes out of the front door.