The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (293 page)

‘Sir?’ Blend queried, emerging from the shadows of the temple’s entrance.

‘You heard me.’

‘I’d noted something inside this hovel, went to investigate—’

‘Hovel? Shadowthrone’s sacred abode, you mean.’

She was pleased to see Blend suddenly pale. ‘Oh. I’d, uh, forgotten.’

‘You panicked. Hee hee. Blend panicked. Smelled a scene about to happen and fled into the nearest building like a rabbit down a bolt-hole! Just wait until I tell the others—’

‘An unseemly version,’ Blend sniffed, ‘malignly twisting a purely coincidental occurrence. They’ll not believe you.’

‘That’s what you—’

‘Oh oh.’

Blend vanished once again.

Startled, Picker looked round.

Two black-cloaked figures were coming down the street, making directly for the corporal.

‘Dear soldier,’ the taller, pointy-bearded one called out.

Her hackles rose at the imperious tone. ‘What?’

A thin brow arched. ‘Respect is accorded ourselves, woman. We demand no less. Now listen. We are in need of supplies to effect the resumption of our journey. We require food, clean water and plenty of it, and if you could direct us to a clothier…’

‘At once. Here—’ She stepped up to him and drove her gauntleted fist full into his face. The man’s feet flew out from under him and he struck the cobbles with a meaty smack. Out cold.

Blend stepped up behind, the other man and cracked him in the head with the pommel of her short sword. With a high-pitched grunt, he crumpled.

Closing fast behind them was an old man in ragged servant garb. He skidded to a halt five paces away and raised his hands. ‘Don’t hit me!’ he shrieked.

Picker frowned. ‘Now why would we do that? Are these two … yours?’

The manservant’s expression was despondent. ‘Aye,’ he sighed, lowering his hands.

‘Advise them,’ Picker said, ‘of proper forms of address. When they awaken.’

‘Absolutely, sir.’

‘We should get moving, Corporal,’ Blend said, eyes on the two unconscious men.

‘Yes. Yes, please!’ the manservant begged.

Picker shrugged. ‘I see no point in dawdling. Lead on, soldier.’

*   *   *

Paran and Quick Ben rode within a thousand paces of the Tenescowri encampment, which lay north of the road, on their right. Neither man spoke until they were well past, then the captain sighed. ‘That looks to be trouble fast approaching.’ ‘Oh? Why?’

Paran shot his companion a startled glance, then returned his gaze to the road. ‘The lust for vengeance against those peasants. The Capans might well swarm out through the gate and slaughter them, with the Mask Council’s blessing.’
And why, Wizard, do I think I see something out of the corner of my eye? There, on your shoulder. Then, when I look more closely, it’s gone.

‘That’d be a mistake for the Mask Council,’ Quick Ben commented. ‘The Grey Swords looked ready to defend their guests, if those pickets and trenches were any indication.’

‘Aye, they’re anticipating becoming very unpopular, with what they’re now up to.’

‘Recruiting. Then again, why not? That mercenary company paid a high price defending the city and its citizens.’

‘The memory of their heroic efforts could vanish in an eye’s wink, Wizard. There’s only a few hundred Grey Swords left, besides. Should a few thousand Capans charge them—’

‘I wouldn’t worry, Captain. Even the Capans – no matter how enraged – would hesitate before crossing those soldiers. They’re the ones who survived, after all. As I said, the Mask Council would be foolish to hold the grudge. We’ll discover more at the parley, no doubt.’

‘Assuming we’re invited. Quick Ben, we’d do better with a private conversation with Whiskeyjack. I personally have very little to say to most of the others who will be present. I have a report to deliver, in any case.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t planning on speaking at the parley, Captain. Just listening.’

They had left the occupied areas behind and now rode down an empty road, the rolling plain stretching out on their right, the bluffs marking the river three hundred paces distant on their left.

‘I see riders,’ Quick Ben said. ‘North.’

Paran squinted, then nodded. ‘It’s happened.’

‘What has?’

‘The Second Gathering.’

The wizard shot him a glance. ‘The T’lan Imass? How do you know?’

Because she’s stopped reaching out to me. Tattersail, Nightchill, Bellurdan – something’s happened. Something … unexpected. And it’s left them reeling.
‘I just know, Wizard. Silverfox is the lead rider.’

‘Your vision must be as a hawk’s.’

Paran said nothing.
I don’t need eyes. She’s coming.

‘Captain, does Tattersail’s soul still dominate within Silverfox?’

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘All I will say, however, is that whatever faith we held to that we could predict Silverfox’s actions should now be dispensed with.’

‘What has she become, then?’

‘A Bonecaster in truth.’

They reined in to wait for the four riders. Kruppe’s mule seemed to be competing for the lead position, the short-legged beast slipping between a frenzied trot and a canter, the round Daru wobbling and bouncing atop the saddle. Two Malazan marines rode behind Silverfox and Kruppe, looking relaxed.

‘Would that I had seen,’ Quick Ben murmured, ‘what her companions had seen.’

Yet nothing went as planned. I can see that in her posture – the bridled anger, the diffidence – and, buried deep, pain. She’s surprised them. Surprised, and defied. And the T’lan Imass have answered in an equally unexpected way. Even Kruppe looks off-balanced, and not just by that pitching mule.

Silverfox was staring at him as she drew rein, an expression that Paran could not define.
As I had sensed, she’s thrown up a wall between us – gods, but she looks like Tattersail! A woman, now. No longer the child. And the illusion of years spanning our parting is complete – she’s become guarded, a possessor of secrets that as a child she would not have hesitated to reveal. Hood’s breath, every time we meet it seems I must readjust … everything.

Quick Ben spoke, ‘Well met. Silverfox, what—’

‘No.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘No, Wizard. I have no explanations that I am prepared to voice. No questions that I will answer. Kruppe has already tried, too many times. My temper is short – do not test it.’

Guarded, and harder. Much, much harder.

After a moment, Quick Ben shrugged. ‘Be that way, then.’

‘I
am
that way,’ she snapped. ‘The anger you would face is Nightchill’s, and the rest of us will do nothing to restrain it. I trust I am understood.’

Quick Ben simply grinned. Cold, challenging.

‘Kind sirs!’ Kruppe cried. ‘By chance would you be riding to our fair armies? If so, we would accompany you, delighted and relieved to return to said martial bosom. Delighted indeed, with the formidable company of yourselves. Relieved, as Kruppe has said, by the welcoming destination so closely pending. Impatient, it must be admitted, for the resumption of the journey. Incorrigibly optimistic—’

‘That will do, Kruppe,’ Silverfox growled.

‘Ahem, of course.’

If anything truly existed between us, it is now over. She has left Tattersail behind. She is indeed a Bonecaster, now.
The realization triggered a weaker pang of loss than he had expected.
Perhaps we both have moved on. The pressure of what we have grown into, our hearts cannot overcome.

So be it. No self-pity. Not this time. We’ve tasks before us.

Paran gathered his reins. ‘As Kruppe has said. Let us resume – we’re already late as it is.’

*   *   *

A large sheet of burlap had been raised over the hilltop to shield the parley from the hot afternoon sun. Malazan soldiers ringed the hill in a protective cordon, crossbows cradled in their arms.

Eyes on the figures beneath the tarp, Itkovian halted his horse and dismounted a dozen paces from the guards. The Mask Council’s carriage had also stopped, the side-doors swinging open to the four representatives of Capustan.

Hetan had clambered down from her horse with a relieved grunt and now came alongside Itkovian. She thumped his back. ‘I’ve missed you, wolf!’

‘The wolves may be all around me, sir,’ Itkovian said, ‘but I make no such claim for myself.’

‘The tale’s run through the clans,’ Hetan said, nodding. ‘Old women never shut up.’

‘And young women?’ he asked, still studying the figures on the hilltop.

‘Now you dance on danger, dear man.’

‘Forgive me if I offended.’

‘I would forgive you a smile no matter its reason. Aye, not likely. If you’ve humour you hide it far too well. This is too bad.’

He regarded her. ‘Too bad? Do you not mean tragic?’

Her eyes narrowed, then she hissed in frustration and set off up the slope.

Itkovian watched her for a moment, then shifted his attention to the priests who were now gathered beside the carriage. Rath’Shadowthrone was complaining.

‘They would have us all winded! A gentler slope and we could have stayed in the carriage—’

‘Sufficient horses and we might have done the same,’ Rath’Hood sniffed. ‘This is calculated to insult—’

‘It is nothing of the sort, comrades,’ Keruli murmured. ‘Even now, swarms of biting insects begin their assault upon our fair selves. I suggest you cease complaining and accompany me to the summit and its saving wind.’ With that, the small, round-faced man set off.

‘We should insist – ow!’

The three scrambled after Keruli, deer-flies buzzing their heads.

Humbrall Taur laughed. ‘They need have only smeared themselves in bhederin grease!’

Gruntle replied, ‘They’re slippery enough as it is, Warchief. Besides, it’s a far more fitting introduction for our visitors – three masked priests stumbling and puffing and waving at phantoms circling their heads. At least Keruli’s showing some dignity, and he’s probably the only one among them with a brain worthy of the name.’

‘Thank the gods!’ Stonny cried.

Gruntle turned to her. ‘What? Why?’

‘Well, you’ve just used up your entire store of words, oaf. Meaning you’ll be silent for the rest of the day!’

The huge man’s grin was far more feral than he intended.

Itkovian watched the two Daru set off, followed by Humbrall Taur, Hetan and Cafal.

Captain Norul said, ‘Sir?’

‘Do not wait for me,’ he replied. ‘You now speak for the Grey Swords, sir.’

She sighed, strode forward.

Itkovian slowly scanned the landscape. Apart from the cordon encircling the base of the hill, the two foreign armies were nowhere to be seen. There would be no blustery display of strength to intimidate the city’s representatives – a generous gesture that might well be lost on the priests; which was unfortunate indeed, since Rath’Hood, Rath’ Burn and Rath’ Shadowthrone were in serious need of humbling.

Fly-bitten and winded would have to do.

He cast an appraising glance at the Malazan guards. Their weapons, he noted, were superbly crafted, if a little worn. The repairs and mending on their armour had been done in the field – this was an army a long way from home, a long way from resupply annexes. Dark-skinned faces beneath battered helms studied him in return, expressionless, perhaps curious that he had remained here, with only a silent Gidrath carriage-driver for company.

I am garbed as an officer. Misleading details, now.
He drew off his gauntlets, reached up and removed the brooch denoting his rank, let it drop to the ground. He pulled free the grey sash tied about his waist and threw it to one side. Finally, he unstrapped his visored helm.

The soldier closest to him stepped forward then.

Itkovian nodded. ‘I am amenable to an exchange, sir.’

‘It would hardly be fair,’ the man replied in broken Daru.

‘Forgive me if I disagree. The silver inlay and gold crest may well suggest an ornamental function to my war-helm, but I assure you, the bronze and iron banding are of the highest quality, as are the cheek-guards and the webbing. Its weight is but a fraction more than the one you presently bear.’

The soldier was silent for a long moment, then he slowly unstrapped his camailed helm. ‘When you change your mind—’

‘I shall not.’

‘Yes. Only, I was saying, when you change your mind, seek me out and not a single harsh thought to the return. I am named Azra Jael. Eleventh squad, fifth cohort, the third company of marines in Onearm’s Host.’

‘I am Itkovian … once a soldier of the Grey Swords.’

They made the exchange.

Itkovian studied the helm in his hands. ‘Solidly fashioned. I am pleased.’

‘Aren steel, sir. Hasn’t needed hammering out once, so the metal’s sound. The camail’s Napan, yet to see a sword-cut.’

‘Excellent. I am enriched by the exchange and so humbled.’

The soldier said nothing.

Itkovian looked up to the summit. ‘Would they be offended, do you think, if I approached? I’ll not venture an opinion, of course, but I would hear—’

The soldier seemed to be struggling against some strong emotion, but he shook his head. ‘They would be honoured by your presence, sir.’

Itkovian half smiled. ‘I think not. Besides, I’d rather they did not notice, if truth be told.’

‘Swing round the hill, then. Come up from behind, sir.’

‘Good idea. Thank you, sir, I will. And thank you, as well, for this fine helm.’

The man simply nodded.

Itkovian strode through the cordon, the soldiers to either side stepping back a measured pace to let him pass, then saluting as he did so.

Misplaced courtesy, but appreciated none the less.

He made his way to the hill’s opposite side. The position revealed to him the two encamped armies to the west. Neither one was large, but both had been professionally established, the Malazan forces marked by four distinct but connected fortlets created by mounded ridges and steep-sided ditches. Raised trackways linked them.

I am impressed by these foreigners. And I must now conclude that Brukhalian was right – could we have held, these would have proved more than a match to Septarch Kulpath’s numerically superior forces. They would have broken the siege, if we but could have held …