‘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 …
He began the ascent, the Malazan helm tucked under his left arm.
The wind was fierce near the summit, driving the insects away. Reaching the crest, Itkovian paused. The sun-tarp on its poles was fifteen paces directly ahead. On this, the backside of the formal meeting place, sat a row of water casks and ornate crates bearing the sigil of the Trygalle Trade Guild – well recognizable as the traders had first become established in Elingarth, Itkovian’s homeland. Eyes resting on that sigil; he felt proud on their behalf for their evident success.
A large table had been set up beneath the tarp, but everyone stood beyond it, under the sun, as if the formalities of introductions were not yet complete.
Perhaps there has already been a disagreement. Probably the Mask Council, voicing their complaints.
Itkovian angled to his left and walked quietly forward, intending to take position in the leeside of the tarp, close to the water casks.
Instead, a Malazan officer noticed him and leaned towards another man. A short exchange followed, then the other man, also a commander of the Malazans, slowly turned to study Itkovian.
A moment later everyone else was doing the same.
Itkovian halted.
A large warrior, hammer strapped to his back, stepped forward. ‘The man we have been waiting to meet. You are Itkovian, Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords. Defender of Capustan. I am Caladan, Brood—’
‘Your pardon, sir, but I am no longer Shield Anvil, and no longer a soldier of the Grey Swords.’
‘So we have been told. None the less, please come forward.’
Itkovian did not move. He studied the array of faces fixed on him. ‘You would unveil my shame, sir.’
The warrior frowned. ‘Shame?’
‘Indeed. You called me the defender of Capustan, and in that I must accept the mocking title, for I did not defend Capustan. The Mortal Sword Brukhalian commanded that I hold the city until your arrival. I failed.’
No-one spoke. A half-dozen heartbeats passed.
Then Brood said, ‘No mockery was intended. And you failed only because you could not win. Do you understand me, sir?’
Itkovian shrugged. ‘I comprehend your argument, Caladan Brood, but I see little value in debating semantics. I would, if you so permit, stand to one side of these proceedings. I shall venture no comments or opinions, I assure you.’
‘Then the loss is ours,’ the warrior growled.
Itkovian glanced at his captain and was shocked to see her weathered cheeks streaked with tears.
‘Would you have us argue your value, Itkovian?’ Brood asked, his frown deepening.
‘No.’
‘Yet you feel that you have no worth here at this gathering.’
‘It may be that I am not yet done, sir, but such responsibilities that I must one day embrace are mine to bear, and thus must be borne alone. I lead no-one, and so have no role in those discussions that are to be undertaken here. I would only listen. It is true that you have no cause to be generous—’
‘Please,’ Caladan Brood cut in. ‘Enough. You are welcome, Itkovian.’
‘Thank you.’
As if in silent agreement the dignitaries ended their immobility and approached the large, wooden table. The priests of the Mask Council sat themselves down at one end. Humbrall Taur, Hetan and Cafal took positions behind the chairs closest to them, making it clear that they would stand during the proceedings. Gruntle and Stonny sat opposite each other near the middle, the Grey Swords’ new Shield Anvil beside the latter. Caladan Brood and the two Malazan commanders – one of them, Itkovian now saw, one-armed – sat down at the end opposite the priests. A tall, grey-haired warrior in full-length chain stood two paces behind Brood, on his left. A Malazan standard-bearer hovered behind his commanders to the right.
Cups were filled from a jug of watered wine, yet even before the task had been completed for everyone present, Rath’Hood was speaking.
‘A more civilized location for this historic gathering would have been at the Thrall, the palace from which the rulers of Capustan govern—’
‘Now that the prince is dead, you mean,’ Stonny drawled, her lip curling. ‘The place has no floor, in case you forgot, Priest’
‘You could call that a structural metaphor, couldn’t you?’ Gruntle asked her.
‘You might, being an idiot.’
Rath’Hood tried again. ‘As I was saying—’
‘You weren’t saying, you were posturing.’
‘This wine is surprisingly good,’ Keruli murmured. ‘Given that this is a martial gathering, the location seems appropriate. I, for one, have a question or two for the commanders of the foreign army.’
The one-armed commander grunted, then said, ‘Ask them.’
‘Thank you, High Fist, I will. First of all, someone is missing, true? Are there not Tiste Andii among you? And their legendary leader, Anomander Rake, Lord of Moon’s Spawn, should he not be present? Indeed, one wonders at the disposition of Moon’s Spawn itself – the tactical advantages of such an edifice—’
‘Pause there, if you will,’ Brood interrupted. ‘Your questions assume … much. I do not think we’ve advanced to point of discussing tactics. As far as we are concerned, Capustan is but a temporary stop in our march; its liberation by the Barghast was a strategic necessity, but only the first of what will doubtless be many in this war. Do you now suggest, High Priest, that you wish to contribute to the campaign in some direct fashion? It would seem that your primary concern at the moment is the rebuilding of your city.’
Keruli smiled. ‘Thus, questions are exchanged, but as yet, no answers.’
Brood frowned. ‘Anomander Rake and the majority of his Tiste Andii have returned to Moon’s Spawn. They – and it – shall have a role in this war, but there will be no further elaboration on that subject.’
‘Just as well Rake isn’t here,’ Rath’Shadowthrone said, his mask fixed in a sneer. ‘He’s hopelessly unpredictable and outright murderous company.’
‘To which your god can attest,’ Keruli smiled, then turned back to Brood. ‘Sufficient answers to warrant the like in return. As you point out, the Mask Council’s overriding concern is with the reparation of Capustan. None the less, my companions here are all – beyond impromptu governors – servants to their respective gods. No-one here can be entirely unaware of the tumultuous condition of the pantheon. You, Caladan Brood, carry Burn’s hammer, after all, and continue to struggle with the responsibilities that entails. Whilst the Grey Swords, bereft of one god, have chosen to kneel before two others – a mated, if riven, pair. My once-caravan captain, Gruntle, is reborn as a new god’s Mortal Sword. The Barghast gods have been rediscovered, and so represent an ancient horde of untested power and disposition. Indeed, in surveying those gathered here, the only truly unaspected agents at this table are High Fist Dujek a
nd his second, Whiskeyjack. The Malazans.’
Itkovian saw the suddenly closed expression of the warlord, Caladan Brood, and wondered at the hammer’s responsibilities that Keruli had so blithely mentioned.
The standing, grey-haired warrior broke the ensuing silence with a barking laugh. ‘You conveniently forgot yourself, Priest. Of the Mask Council, yet unmasked. Indeed, unwelcome in their company, it seems. Your companions make their gods plain, but not you, and why is that?’
Keruli’s smile was benign, unperturbed. ‘Dear Kallor, how you’ve withered under your curse. Do you still cart that meaningless throne with you? Yes, I had guessed as much—’
‘I thought it was you,’ Kallor hissed. ‘Such a paltry disguise—’
‘Issues of physical manifestation have proved problematic.’
‘You’ve lost your power.’
‘Not entirely. It has … evolved, and so I am forced to adjust, and learn.’
The warrior reached for his sword. ‘In other words, I could kill you now—’
‘I am afraid not,’ Keruli sighed. ‘Only in your dreams, perhaps. But then, you no longer dream, do you, Kallor? The Abyss takes you into its embrace each night. Oblivion, your own personal nightmare.’
Without turning, Brood rumbled, ‘Remove your hand from your weapon, Kallor. My patience with you has stretched to its limit.’
‘This is no priest sitting before you, Warlord!’ the warrior rasped. ‘It is an Elder God! K’rul himself.’
‘I had gathered as much,’ Brood sighed.
For a half-dozen heartbeats no-one spoke, and Itkovian could almost hear the grating, jarring shift of power. An Elder God was among them. Seated, expression benign, at this table.
‘A limited manifestation,’ Keruli said, then, ‘to be more precise.’
‘It had better be,’ Gruntle interjected, his feline eyes fixed squarely on him, ‘given Harllo’s fate.’
Sorrow flitted across the Elder God’s smooth, round features.
‘Profoundly so, at the time, I am afraid. I did all that I could, Gruntle. I regret that it proved insufficient.’
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