The Crippled God (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #10)

by Steven Erikson

Brys glanced up at the standard and fought down a groan, reminded once again of his brother’s perverse humour. Not a legion’s standard. No, the Imperial Standard, no less. Depending from a cross-bridge of iron, the cloth was a tattered rectangle of colourless wool – it was, in fact, a fair copy of Tehol’s blanket, almost to scale. And where one might expect some elegant or proud heraldic crest at centre, there was instead the new royal sigil of King Tehol the Only of Lether: a three-quarter-on rendition of his brother’s roof-top bed, and if one looked carefully one would see cowering beneath that bed a row of six plucked – but living – hens. Eyeing it, Brys recalled his meeting with Tehol upon the unveiling. ‘You would have our armies fight under that?’ ‘Well, I did. The bed, I mean. And so did the chickens – can you imagine the extent of their holy dread, knowing that God wanted to cook them? All right, not their god, not precisely. Though we cannot actually be sure of that, can we? Bugg, are you worshipped by hens and cocks?’ ‘Not both at the same time, sire.’ ‘Thank you. Most enlightening.’ ‘My very reason to exist, sire. You are welcome.’ ‘Tehol—’ ‘Yes, Brys?’ ‘I understand your notion that dignity cannot be found in the … er, material – not a throne, not a crown, not even a fine estate or whatnot – but when it comes to the military—’ ‘Oh, that’s all I ever hear from you, brother! “It’s not that way in the military, Tehol”, “The enlisted won’t go for that, Tehol”, “The...