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‘Shattered,’ the other prisoner said as he walked over to the door, which the first guard unlocked and swung open. ‘The brand makes your face look like it’s been shattered.’
Two guards escorted the man outside, whilst the others, nervously eyeing Karsa, waited for their return. One of the crossbowmen, whose high forehead revealed white blotches-leading the Teblor to speculate that he was the one named Gullstream-leaned back against the opposite wall and said, ‘I don’t know, I’m thinking Scrawl made it too big-he was ugly enough to start with, now he looks damned terrifying.’
‘So what?’ another guard drawled. ‘There’s plenty of hill-grubbing savages that carve up their own faces to frighten weak-kneed recruits like you, Gullstream. Barghast and Semk and Khundryl, but they all break against a Malazan legion just the same.’
‘Well, ain’t none of them being routed these days, though, are they?’
‘That’s only because the Fist’s cowering in his keep and wants us all to put ’im to bed every night. Nobleborn officers-what do you expect?’
‘Might change when the reinforcements arrive,’ Gullstream suggested. ‘The Ashok Regiment knows these parts-’
‘And that’s the problem,’ the other retorted. ‘If this rebellion actually happens this time, who’s to say they won’t turn renegade? We could get smilin’ throats in our own barracks. It’s bad enough with the Red Blades stirrin’ things up in the streets…’
The guards returned.
‘You, Fenn, now it’s your turn. Make it easy for us and it’ll be easy for you. Walk. Slow. Not too close. And trust me, the mines ain’t so bad, considering the alternatives. All right, come forward now.’
Karsa saw no reason to give them trouble.
They emerged onto a sunlit compound. Thick, high walls surrounded the broad parade ground. A number of squat, solid-looking buildings projected out from three of the four walls; along the fourth wall there was a line of prisoners shackled to a heavy chain that ran its entire length, bolted to the foundation stones at regular intervals. Near the heavily fortified gate was a row of stocks, of which only two were occupied-Silgar and Damisk. On the slavemaster’s right ankle there glinted a copper-coloured ring.
Neither man had lifted his head at Karsa’s appearance, and the Teblor considered shouting to attract their attention; instead, he simply bared his teeth at seeing their plight. As the guards escorted him to the line of chained prisoners, Karsa turned to the one named Jibb and spoke in Malazan. ‘What will be the slavemaster’s fate?’
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‘Shattered,’ the other prisoner said as he walked over to the door, which the first guard unlocked and swung open. ‘The brand makes your face look like it’s been shattered.’
Two guards escorted the man outside, whilst the others, nervously eyeing Karsa, waited for their return. One of the crossbowmen, whose high forehead revealed white blotches-leading the Teblor to speculate that he was the one named Gullstream-leaned back against the opposite wall and said, ‘I don’t know, I’m thinking Scrawl made it too big-he was ugly enough to start with, now he looks damned terrifying.’
‘So what?’ another guard drawled. ‘There’s plenty of hill-grubbing savages that carve up their own faces to frighten weak-kneed recruits like you, Gullstream. Barghast and Semk and Khundryl, but they all break against a Malazan legion just the same.’
‘Well, ain’t none of them being routed these days, though, are they?’
‘That’s only because the Fist’s cowering in his keep and wants us all to put ’im to bed every night. Nobleborn officers-what do you expect?’
‘Might change when the reinforcements arrive,’ Gullstream suggested. ‘The Ashok Regiment knows these parts-’
‘And that’s the problem,’ the other retorted. ‘If this rebellion actually happens this time, who’s to say they won’t turn renegade? We could get smilin’ throats in our own barracks. It’s bad enough with the Red Blades stirrin’ things up in the streets…’
The guards returned.
‘You, Fenn, now it’s your turn. Make it easy for us and it’ll be easy for you. Walk. Slow. Not too close. And trust me, the mines ain’t so bad, considering the alternatives. All right, come forward now.’
Karsa saw no reason to give them trouble.
They emerged onto a sunlit compound. Thick, high walls surrounded the broad parade ground. A number of squat, solid-looking buildings projected out from three of the four walls; along the fourth wall there was a line of prisoners shackled to a heavy chain that ran its entire length, bolted to the foundation stones at regular intervals. Near the heavily fortified gate was a row of stocks, of which only two were occupied-Silgar and Damisk. On the slavemaster’s right ankle there glinted a copper-coloured ring.
Neither man had lifted his head at Karsa’s appearance, and the Teblor considered shouting to attract their attention; instead, he simply bared his teeth at seeing their plight. As the guards escorted him to the line of chained prisoners, Karsa turned to the one named Jibb and spoke in Malazan. ‘What will be the slavemaster’s fate?’
The man’s helmed head jerked up in surprise. Then he shrugged. ‘Ain’t been decided yet. He claims to be rich back in Genabackis.’
Karsa sneered. ‘He can buy his way out from his crimes, then.’
‘Not under imperial law-if they’re serious crimes, that is. Might be he’ll just be fined. He may be a merchant who deals in flesh, but he’s still a merchant. Always best to bleed ’em where it hurts most.’
‘Enough jawing, Jibb,’ another guard growled.
They approached one end of the line, where oversized shackles had been attached. Once more, Karsa found himself in irons, though these were not tight enough to cause him pain. The Teblor noted that he was beside the blue-eyed native.
The squad checked the fittings one more time, then marched away.
There was no shade, though buckets of well-water had been positioned at intervals down the line. Karsa remained standing for a time, then finally settled down to sit with his back against the wall, matching the position of most of the other prisoners. There was little in the way of conversation as the day slowly dragged on. Towards late afternoon shade finally reached them, though the relief was momentary, as biting flies soon descended.
As the sky darkened overhead, the blue-eyed native stirred, then said in a low voice, ‘Giant, I have a proposal for you.’
Karsa grunted. ‘What?’
‘It’s said that the mining camps are corrupt, meaning one can carve out favours-make life easier. The kind of place where it pays to have someone guarding your back. I suggest a partnership.’
Karsa thought about it, then he nodded. ‘Agreed. But if you attempt to betray me, I will kill you.’
‘I could see no other answer to betrayal,’ the man said.
‘I am done talking,’ Karsa said.
‘Good, so am I.’
He thought to ask the man’s name, but there would be time enough for that later. For now, he was content to stretch the silence, to give space for his thoughts. It seemed Urugal was willing him to these otataral mines after all. Karsa would have preferred a more direct-a simpler-journey, such as the one the Malazans had originally intended. Too many blood-soaked digressions, Urugal. Enough .
