The half-Seti warrior named Koryk grunted, then said, ‘That would be Lieutenant Ranal, who then had a quick excuse to leave us for a time.’ He’d found a flap of hide from somewhere and was cutting long strands from it with a thin-bladed pig-sticker. Strings had seen his type before, obsessed with tying things down, or worse, tying things to their bodies. Not just fetishes, but loot, extra equipment, tufts of grass or leafy branches depending on the camouflage being sought. In this case, Strings half expected to see twists of straw sprouting from the man.

For centuries the Seti had fought a protracted war with the city-states of Quon and Li Heng, defending the barely inhabitable lands that had been their traditional home. Hopelessly outnumbered and perpetually on the run, they had learned the art of hiding the hard way. But the Seti lands had been pacified for sixty years now; almost three generations had lived in that ambivalent, ambiguous border that was the edge of civilization. The various tribes had dissolved into a single, murky nation, with mixed-bloods coming to dominate the population. What had befallen them had been the impetus, in fact, for Coltaine’s rebellion and the Wickan Wars-for Coltaine had clearly seen that a similar fate awaited his own people.

It was not, Strings had come to believe, a question of right and wrong. Some cultures were inward-looking. Others were aggressive. The former were rarely capable of mustering a defence against the latter, not without metamorphosing into some other thing, a thing twisted by the exigencies of desperation and violence. The original Seti had not even ridden horses. Yet now they were known as horse warriors, a taller, darker-skinned and more morose kind of Wickan.

Strings knew little of Koryk’s personal history, but he felt he could guess. Half-bloods did not lead pleasant lives. That Koryk had chosen to emulate the old Seti ways, whilst joining the Malazan army as a marine rather than a horse warrior, spoke tomes of the clash in the man’s scarred soul.

Setting down his pack, Strings stood before the four recruits. ‘As much as I hate to confess it, I am now your sergeant. Officially, you’re 4th Squad, one of three squads under Lieutenant Ranal’s command. The 5th and 6th squads are supposedly on their way over from the tent city west of Aren. We’re all in the 9th Company, which consists of three squads of heavy infantry, three of marines, and eighteen squads of medium infantry. Our commander is a man named Captain Keneb-and no, I’ve not met him and know nothing of him. Nine companies in all, making up the 8th Legion-us. The 8th is under the command of Fist Gamet, who I gather is a veteran who’d retired to the Adjunct’s household before she became the Adjunct.’ He paused, grimacing at the slightly glazed faces before him. ‘But never mind all that. You’re in the 4th Squad. We’ve got one more coming, but even with that one we’re undermanned as a squad, but so are all the others and before you ask, I ain’t privy to the reasons for that. Now, any questions yet?’

Three men and one young woman sat in silence, staring up at him.

Strings sighed, and pointed to the nondescript soldier sitting to Koryk’s left. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

A bewildered look, then, ‘My real name, Sergeant, or the one the drill sergeant in Malaz City gave me?’

By the man’s accent and his pale, stolid features, Strings knew him as being from Li Heng. That being the case, his real name was probably a mouthful: nine, ten or even fifteen names all strung together. ‘Your new one, soldier.’

‘Tarr.’

Koryk spoke up. ‘If you’d seen him on the training ground, you’d understand. Once he’s planted his feet behind that shield of his, you could hit him with a battering ram and he won’t budge.’

Strings studied Tarr’s placid, pallid eyes. ‘All right. You’re now Corporal Tarr-’

The woman, who’d been chewing on a straw, suddenly choked.

Coughing, spitting out pieces of the straw, she glared up at Strings with disbelief. ‘What? Him? He never says nothing, never does nothing unless he’s told, never-’

‘Glad to hear all that,’ Strings cut in laconically. ‘The perfect corporal, especially that bit about not talking.’

The woman’s expression tightened, then unveiled a small sneer as she looked away in feigned disinterest.

‘And what is your name, soldier?’ Strings asked her.

‘My real name-’

‘I don’t care what you used to be called. None of you. Most of us get new ones and that’s just the way it is.’

‘I didn’t,’ Koryk growled.

Ignoring him, Strings continued, ‘Your name, lass?’

Sour contempt at the word lass.

‘Drill sergeant named her Smiles,’ Koryk said.

‘Smiles?’

‘Aye. She never does.’

Eyes narrowing, Strings swung to the last soldier, a rather plain young man wearing leathers but no weapon. ‘And yours?’

‘Bottle.’

‘Who was your drill sergeant?’ he demanded to the four recruits.

Koryk leaned back as he replied, ‘Braven Tooth-’

‘Braven Tooth! That bastard’s still alive?’

‘It was hard to tell at times,’ Smiles muttered.

‘Until his temper snapped,’ Koryk added. ‘Just ask Corporal Tarr there. Braven Tooth spent near two bells pounding on him with a mace. Couldn’t get past the shield.’

Strings glared at his new corporal. ‘Where’d you learn that skill?’

The man shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Don’t like getting hit.’

‘Well, do you ever counter-attack?’

Tarr frowned. ‘Sure. When they’re tired.’

Strings was silent for a long moment. Braven Tooth-he was dumbfounded. The bastard was grizzled back when… when the whole naming thing began. It had been Braven who’d started it. Braven who’d named most of the Bridgeburners. Whiskeyjack. Trotts, Mallet, Hedge, Blend, Picker, Toes… Fiddler himself had avoided a new name through his basic training; it had been Whiskeyjack who’d named him, on that first ride through Raraku. He shook his head, glanced sidelong at Tarr. ‘You should be a heavy infantryman, Corporal, with a talent like that. The marines are supposed to be fast, nimble-avoiding the toe-to-toe whenever possible or, if there’s no choice, making it quick.’

‘I’m good with a crossbow,’ Tarr said, shrugging.

‘And a fast loader,’ Koryk added. ‘It was that that made Braven decide to make him a marine.’

Smiles spoke. ‘So who named Braven Tooth, Sergeant?’

I did, after the bastard left one of his in my shoulder the night of the brawl. The brawl we all later denied happening. Gods, so many years ago, now… ‘I have no idea,’ he said. He shifted his attention back to the man named Bottle. ‘Where’s your sword, soldier?’

‘I don’t use one.’

‘Well, what do you use?’

The man shrugged. ‘This and that.’

‘Well, Bottle, someday I’d like to hear how you got through basic training without picking up a weapon-no, not now. Not tomorrow either, not even next week. For now, tell me what I should be using you for.’

‘Scouting. Quiet work.’

‘As in sneaking up behind someone. What do you do then? Tap him on the shoulder? Never mind.’ This man smells like a mage to me, only he doesn’t want to advertise it. Fine, be that way, we’ll twist it out of you sooner or later.

‘I do the same kind of work,’ Smiles said. She settled a forefinger on the pommel of one of the two thin-bladed knives at her belt. ‘But I finish things with these.’

‘So there’s only two soldiers in this outfit who can actually fight toe-to-toe?’

‘You said one more’s coming,’ Koryk pointed out.

‘We can all handle crossbows,’ Smiles added. ‘Except for Bottle.’

They heard voices from outside the commandeered stables, then figures appeared in the doorway, six in all, burdened with equipment. A deep voice called, ‘You put the latrine trench outside the barracks, for Hood’s sake! Bastards don’t teach ya anything these days?’