The Crippled God

‘Not him, Captain,’ said Deadsmell.



‘What do you mean, not him? Of course he’s here – as much of him as there is, I mean. The Adjunct said this was the place.’



Deadsmell met Bottle’s eyes, and after a moment Bottle turned away, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘Captain,’ he said, ‘the Crippled God ain’t here. We’d know it if he was.’



Fiddler gestured at the sword. ‘That’s the Adjunct’s, Bottle. Otataral, remember? Why should you think you’d be able to sense anything?’



Deadsmell was rubbing at the back of his neck as if he wanted to wear off two or three layers of skin, checking to see if he still had a backbone. Then he drew a fortifying breath and said, ‘He’s foreign – we’d know it anyway, Captain.’



Fiddler seemed to sag.



Hedge clapped him on the back. ‘Relax, Fid, it’s just the usual fuck-up. So we go through the motions anyway – you’re still a damned sapper, you know. Who said you were supposed to be on the thinking side of things? We don’t know that all this isn’t how it’s supposed to be right now, anyway. In fact, we don’t know a damned thing about anything. The way it always is. What’s the problem?’ He faced Bottle then. ‘So which turd-chewing god’s got the nerve to horn in our business?’



But Deadsmell was the first to respond. ‘Smells like old death.’



‘Hood? Wrong. Impossible.’



‘Didn’t say that, did I?’ Deadsmell retorted, scowling. ‘Just smells old and dead, right? Like brown leaves in a cold wind. Like a barrow’s stone-lined pit. Like the first breath of winter. Like—’



‘Worm of Autumn,’ growled Bottle.



‘I was working up to that, damn you!’



‘What does D’rek want with us?’ Hedge demanded.



‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Fiddler, turning back to stare at the sword. ‘We’ve had that priest crouching on our shoulders ever since Malaz City. When we were here he said something about his god, I seem to recall. Wrapping round the base of the hill. Him and the Adjunct seemed to think we’d need help. Anyway, it’s not like we can do anything about it. Fine, what you said, Hedge. We go through the motions. Deadsmell, is this place a barrow?’



‘Aye, but no longer sanctified. The tomb’s been looted. Broken.’



‘Broken, huh?’



‘Trust the Adjunct,’ said Hedge.



Fiddler rounded on him. ‘Was that you saying that?’



Hedge shrugged. ‘Thought it worth a try.’ Then he frowned. ‘What’s that smell?’



‘Probably Widdershits,’ Bottle said.



‘Gods, downwind, damn him – always downwind!’



* * *

Masan Gilani threw herself down near Sinter and Kisswhere. ‘Balm just tried putting his hand down my breeches. Said he forgot where he was. Said he wasn’t even looking. Said he thought he was reaching into his kit bag.’



Kisswhere snorted. ‘And with that sharpness of wit, Dal Honese men won an empire.’



‘I should’ve stayed with the cavalry.’



‘There was no cavalry.’



‘The Khundryl, then.’



Sinter slowly straightened, studied the darkening sky. ‘See any clouds?’ she asked, slowly turning as she scanned the heavens.



‘Clouds? What’s up, sister?’



‘Not sure. I keep expecting …’



‘Clouds?’



Sinter made a face. ‘You were the one asking me what I was seeing, remember? Now I’m telling you, I got something.’



‘Clouds.’



‘Oh, never mind.’ She settled back down lengthways in the slit trench she’d hacked out of the stony barrowside. ‘But if anyone sees …’



‘Clouds, aye,’ said Masan Gilani, rubbing at her eyes.



Rejoining his squad, Bottle glanced over at Shortnose. ‘Joined us again, have you?’



‘I brought a shield,’ the heavy said.



‘Oh, that’s nice.’



‘You need to tie it to my hand.’



‘What, now?’



‘Tie it so it doesn’t come loose. Use … knots and things.’



‘With rawhide.’



‘And knots and things.’



Bottle moved over to the man, crouched down.



‘You do that,’ Smiles observed, ‘and next he’ll be asking you to give him a shake, too.’



‘Make sure it’s after the little shudder,’ Cuttle advised. ‘Else you get wet.’