‘I am Malazan,’ he acknowledged. ‘But not a spy. I am disguised to avoid discovery . . . by Malazans.’ The old priest poured the wine and handed the sapper a goblet. ‘You are a soldier.’ ‘I am.’ ‘A deserter?’ Fiddler winced. ‘Not by choice. The Empress saw fit to outlaw my regiment.’ He sipped the flowery sweet wine. Captain Turqa hissed. ‘A Bridgeburner. A soldier of Onearm’s Host.’ ‘You are well informed, sir.’
