At Dujek's left side rode another officer, grey-bearded and solidly built. A visored helm with a chain camail disguised much of his features, but the Mhybe sensed in him an immeasurable strength of will. He sat straight in his saddle, though she noted that his left leg was held awkwardly, the boot not in the stirrup. The chain of his calf-length hauberk was battered and ribboned with leather stitches. That he sat on Dujek's unprotected left side was not lost on the Mhybe.
To the renegade High Fist's right sat a young man, evidently an aide of some sort. He was nondescript, yet she saw that his eyes roved ceaselessly, taking in details of all that he saw. It was this man who held the outlawry pennon in one leather-gloved hand.
The fourth rider was a Black Moranth, entirely encased in chitinous armour, and that armour was badly damaged. The warrior had lost all four fingers of his right hand, yet he continued to wear what was left of its gauntlet. Countless sword-slashes marred the gleaming black armour.
Korlat grunted softly beside her. 'That's a hard-bitten lot, wouldn't you say?'
The Mhybe nodded. 'Who is that on Dujek Onearm's left?'
'Whiskeyjack, I would imagine,' the Tiste Andü replied with a wry smile. 'Cuts quite a figure, doesn't he?'
For a moment the Mhybe felt like the young woman that she was in truth. She wrinkled her nose. 'Rhivi aren't that hairy, thank the spirits.'
'Even so…'
'Aye, even so.'
Silverfox spoke. 'I would like him for an uncle.' The two women looked down at her in surprise. 'An uncle?' the Mhybe asked.
The girl nodded. 'You can trust him. While the one-armed old man is hiding something—well, no, they both are and it's the same secret, yet I trust the bearded one anyway. The Moranth—he laughs inside. Always laughs, and no-one knows this. Not a cruel laugh, but one filled with sorrow. And the one with the banner…' Silverfox frowned. 'I am uncertain of him. I think I always have been…' The Mhybe met Korlat's eyes over the girl's head. 'I suggest,' the Tiste Andü said, 'we move closer.' As they approached the rise two figures emerged from the picket line, followed by an outrider bearing a pennonless standard, all on foot. Seeing them, the Mhybe wondered what the Malazans would make of the two warriors in the lead. There was Barghast blood in Caladan Brood, reflected in his tall, hulking form and his wide, flat face; and something else besides, something not quite human. The man was huge, well matched to the iron hammer strapped to his back. He and Dujek had been duelling on this continent for over twelve years, a clash of wills that had seen more than a score pitched battles and as many sieges. Both soldiers had faced dire odds more than once, yet had come through, bloodied but alive. They had long since taken the measure of the other on fields of battle, but now, finally, they were about to come face to face.
At Brood's side strode Kallor, tall, gaunt and grey. His full-length surcoat of chain glittered in the morning's diffuse light. A plain bastard sword hung from the iron rings of his harness, swinging in time with his heavy steps. If any player in this deadly game had remained a mystery to the Mhybe, it was the self-named High King. Indeed, all the Rhivi woman could be certain of was Kallor's hatred for Silverfox, a hatred bred of fear, and perhaps a knowledge that the man alone possessed—a knowledge he was unwilling to share with anyone. Kallor claimed to have lived through millennia, claimed to have once ruled an empire that he himself had finally destroyed, for reasons he would not reveal. Yet he was not an ascendant—his longevity probably came from alchemies, and was anything but perfect, for his face and body were as ravaged as those of a mortal man who was nearing a century of life.
Brood made use of Kallor's knowledge of tactics, what seemed an instinctive mastery of the sweep and shift of vast campaigns, but for the High King it was clear to all that such contests were but passing games, attended to with distraction and barely veiled disinterest. Kallor commanded no loyalty among the soldiers. Grudging respect was all the man achieved, and, the Mhybe suspected, all he ever had achieved, or ever would.
His expression now, as he and Brood reached the rise, revealed disdain and contempt as he regarded Dujek, Whiskeyjack, and the Moranth commander. It would be a struggle not to take offence, yet all three Malazans seemed to be ignoring the High King as they dismounted, their attention fixed unwaveringly on Caladan Brood.
Dujek Onearm stepped forward. 'Greetings, Warlord. Permit me to introduce my modest contingent. Second-in-command Whiskeyjack. Artanthos, my present standard-bearer. And the leader of the Black Moranth, whose title translates into something like Achievant, and whose name is entirely unpronounceable.' The renegade High Fist grinned over at the armoured figure. 'Since he shook hands with a Rhivi spirit up in Blackdog Forest, we've taken to calling him Twist.'
'Artanthos…' Silverfox quietly murmured. 'He's not used that name in a long time. Nor is he as he appears.'
'If an illusion,' Korlat whispered, 'then it is masterful. I sense nothing untowards.'
The child nodded. 'The prairie air's… rejuvenated him.'
'Who is he, daughter?' the Mhybe asked.
'A chimera, in truth.'
Following Dujek's words, Brood grunted and said, 'At my side is Kallor, my second-in-command. On behalf of the Tiste Andü is Korlat. Of the Rhivi, the Mhybe and her young charge. Bearing what's left of my standard is Outrider Hurlochel.'
Dujek was frowning. 'Where is the Crimson Guard?'
'Prince K'azz D'Avore and his forces are attending to internal matters, for the moment, High Fist. They will not be joining our efforts against the Pannion Domin.'
'Too bad,' Dujek muttered.
Brood shrugged. 'Auxiliary units have been assembled to replace them. A Saltoan Horse Regiment, four clans of the Barghast, a mercenary company from One Eye Cat, and another from Mott—'
Whiskeyjack seemed to choke. He coughed, then shook his head. 'That wouldn't be the Mott Irregulars, Warlord, would it?'
Brood's smile revealed filed teeth. 'Aye, you've some experience with them, haven't you, Commander? When you soldiered among the Bridgeburners.'
'They were a handful,' Whiskeyjack agreed, 'though not just in a fight—they spent most of their time stealing our supplies then running away, as I recall.'
'A talent for logistics, we called it,' Kallor commented.
'I trust,' Brood said to Dujek, 'that the arrangements with Darujhistan's Council have proved satisfactory.'
'They have, Warlord. Their… donations… have allowed us to fulfil our resupply needs.'
'I believe a delegation is on its way from Darujhistan and should be here in a short while,' Brood added. 'Should you require additional assistance…'
'Generous of them,' the High Fist said, nodding.
'The command tent awaits us,' the warlord said. 'There are details that need to be discussed.'
'As you say,' Dujek agreed. 'Warlord, we have battled one another for a long time—I look forward to fighting side by side for a change. Let us hope the Pannion Domin proves a worthy foe.'
Brood grimaced. 'But not too worthy.'
'Granted,' Dujek said, grinning.
Still standing slightly apart with the Tiste Andü and the Mhybe, Silverfox smiled and spoke quietly. 'So we have it. They have locked gazes. Taken the measure of the other… and both are pleased.'
'A remarkable alliance, this,' Korlat muttered with a faint shake of her head. 'To so easily relinquish so much…'
'Pragmatic soldiers,' the Mhybe said, 'are the most frightening among the people whom I have known in my short life.'
Silverfox laughed low in her throat. 'And you doubt your own wisdom, Mother…'
Caladan Brood's command tent was situated in the centre of the Tiste Andü encampment. Though she had visited it many times and had acquired some familiarity with the Tiste Andü, the Mhybe was once again struck by the sense of strangeness as she strode with the others into their midst. Antiquity and pathos were twin breaths filling the aisles and pathways between the high-peaked narrow tents. There was little in the way of conversation among th
e few tall, dark-clothed figures they passed, nor was any particular attention accorded Brood and his entourage—even Korlat, Anomander Rake's second-in-command, received but scant notice.
It was difficult for the Mhybe to understand—a people plagued by indifference, an apathy that made even the efforts of civil discourse too much to contemplate. There were secret tragedies in the long, tortured past of the Tiste Andü. Wounds that would never heal. Even suffering, the Rhivi had come to realize, was capable of becoming a way of life. To then extend such an existence from decades into centuries, then into millennia, still brought home to the Mhybe a dull shock of horror. These narrow, arcane tents might be home to ghosts, a restless, roving necropolis haunted with lost spirits. The strangely stained, ragged ribbons tied to the iron tent poles added a votive touch to the scene, as did the gaunt, spectral figures of the Tiste Andü themselves. They seemed to be waiting, an eternal expectation that never failed to send shivers through the Mhybe. And worse, she knew their capabilities—she had seen them draw blades in anger, then wield them with appalling efficiency. And she had seen their sorcery.
Among humans, cold indifference was often manifested in acts of brutal cruelty, was often the true visage of evil—if such a thing existed—but the Tiste Andü had yet to reveal such wanton acts. They fought at Brood's command, for a cause not their own, and those few of them who were killed on such occasions were simply left on the ground. It had fallen to the Rhivi to retrieve those bodies, to treat them in the Rhivi way and to mourn their passing. The Tiste Andü looked upon such efforts without expression, as if bemused by the attention accorded to a mere corpse.
The command tent waited directly ahead, octagonal and wood-framed, the canvas a much-mended sun-faded orange that had once been red. It had once belonged to the Crimson Guard, and had been left on a rubbish heap before Outrider Hurlochel had come to rescue it for the warlord. As with the standard, Brood wasn't much for proud accoutrements.
The large flap at the entrance had been tied back. Atop the front support pole sat a Great Raven, head cocked towards the group, beak open as if in silent laughter. The Mhybe's thin lips quirked into a half-smile upon seeing Crone. Anomander Rake's favoured servant had taken to hounding Caladan Brood, offering incessant advice like a conscience twisted awry. The Great Raven had tested the warlord's patience more than once—yet Brood tolerates her in the same way he tolerates Anomander Rake himself. Uneasy allies… the tales all agree that Brood and Rake have worked side by side for a long, long time, yet is there trust between them? That particular relationship is a hard one to understand, with layers upon layers of complexity and ambiguity, all the more confusing for Crone's dubious role in providing the bridge between the two warriors.
'Dujek Onearm!' Crone screamed, the outburst followed by a mad cackle. 'Whiskeyjack! I bring you greetings from one Baruk, an alchemist in Darujhistan. And, from my master, Anomander Rake, Lord of Moon's Spawn, Knight of High House Darkness, son of Mother Dark herself, I convey to you his… no, not greeting as such… not greeting… but amusement. Yes, amusement!'
Dujek frowned. 'And what so amuses your master, bird?'
'Bird?' the Great Raven shrieked. 'I am Crone, the unchallenged matriarch of Moon's Spawn's cacophonous, vast murder of kin!'
Whiskeyjack grunted. 'Matriarch to the Great Ravens? You speak for them all, do you? I'd accept that—Hood knows you're loud enough.'
'Upstart! Dujek Onearm, my master's amusement is beyond explanation—'
'Meaning you don't know,' the renegade High Fist interjected.
'Outrageous audacity—show respect, mortal, else I choose your carcass to feed on when the day comes!'
'You'd likely break your beak on my hide, Crone, but you're welcome to it when that moment arrives.'
Brood growled, 'Do you still have that beak-strap, Hurlochel?'
'I do, sir.'
The Great Raven hissed, ducking her head and half raising her vast wings. 'Don't you dare, ox! Repeat that affront at your peril!'
'Then hold your tongue.' Brood faced the others and waved them to the entrance. Crone, perched over everyone, bobbed her head as each soldier strode beneath her. When it was the Mhybe's turn the Great Raven chuckled. 'The child in your hand is about to surprise us all, old woman.'
The Rhivi paused. 'What do you sense, old crow?'
Crone laughed in silence before replying, 'Immanence, dearest clay pot, and naught else. Greetings, child Silverfox.'
The girl studied the Great Raven for a moment, then said, 'Hello, Crone. I had not before realized that your kind were born in the rotting flesh of a—'
'Silence!' Crone shrieked. 'Such knowledge should never be spoken! You must learn to remain silent, child—for your own safety—'
'For yours, you mean,' Silverfox said, smiling.
'In this instance, aye, I'll not deny it. Yet listen to this wise old creature before stepping into this tent, child. There are those waiting within who will view the extent of your awareness—should you be foolish enough to reveal it—as the deadliest threat. Revelations could mean your death. And know this: you are not yet able to protect yourself. Nor can the Mhybe, whom I cherish and love, hope to defend you—hers is not a violent power. You will both need protectors, do you understand?'
Her smile unperturbed, Silverfox nodded.
The Mhybe's hand tightened instinctively around her daughter's, even as a tumult of emotions assailed her. She was not blind to the threats to Silverfox and herself, nor was she unaware of the powers burgeoning within the child. But I sense no power within me, violent or otherwise. Though spoken with affection, Crone named me 'clay pot' in truth, and all that it once protected is no longer within me, but standing here, exposed and vulnerable, at my side. She glanced up at the Great Raven one last time as Silverfox led her inside. She met Crone's black, glittering eyes. Love and cherish me, do you, crow? Bless you for that.
The command tent's central chamber was dominated by a large map table of rough-hewn wood, warped and misshapen as if cobbled together by a drunken carpenter. As the Mhybe and Silverfox entered, the veteran Whiskeyjack—helmet unstrapped and under one arm—was laughing, his eyes fixed upon the table.
'You bastard, Warlord,' he said, shaking his head. Brood was frowning at the object of Whiskeyjack's attention. 'Aye, I'll grant you it's not pretty—'
'That's because Fiddler and Hedge made the damned thing,' the Malazan said. 'In Mott Wood—'
'Who are Fiddler and Hedge?'
'My two sappers, when I was commanding the Ninth Squad. They'd organized one of their notorious card games, using the Deck of Dragons, and needed a surface on which to play it. A hundred fellow Bridgeburners had gathered for the game, despite the fact that we were under constant attack, not to mention bogged down in the middle of a swamp. The game was interrupted by a pitched battle—we were overrun, then driven back, then we retook the position, all of which consumed maybe a bell—and lo, someone had walked off with a two hundred pound table in the meantime! You should have heard the sappers cursing…'
Caladan Brood crossed his arms, still frowning at the table. After a few moments he grunted. 'A donation from the Mott Irregulars. It has served me well—my, uh, compliments to your sappers. I can have it returned—'
'No need, Warlord…' It seemed the Malazan was about to say something more, something important, but then he simply shook his head.
A soft gasp from Silverfox startled the Mhybe. She looked down, brows raised questioningly, but the girl's attention was swinging from the table to Whiskeyjack, then back again, a small smile on her lips. 'Uncle Whiskeyjack,' she said suddenly.
All eyes turned to Silverfox, who blithely continued, 'Those sappers and their games—they cheat, don't they?'
The bearded Malazan scowled. 'Not an accusation I'd recommend you repeat, especially if there's any Bridgeburners around, lass. A lot of coin's gone one way and one way only in those games. Did Fid and Hedge cheat? They made their rules so complicated no-one could tell one way o
r the other. So, to answer you, I don't know.' His scowl was deepening as he studied Silverfox, as if the man was growing troubled by something.
Something… like a sense of familiarity… Realization dawned within the Mhybe. Of course, he knows nothing about her—about what she is, what she was. It's their first meeting, as far as he's concerned, yet she called him uncle, and more, there's that voice—throaty, knowing… He knows not the child, but the woman she once was.
Everyone waited for Silverfox to say more, to offer explanation. Instead she simply walked up to the table and slowly ran her hand across its battered surface. A fleeting smile crossed her features. Then she pulled close one of the mismatched chairs and sat down.
Brood sighed, gestured to Hurlochel. 'Find us that map of the Pannion Domin territories.'
With the large map laid out, the others slowly gathered round the table. After a moment, Dujek grunted. 'None of our own maps are this detailed,' he said. 'You've noted the locations of various Pannion armies—how recent is this?'
'Three days,' Brood said. 'Crone's cousins are there, tracking movements. The notes referring to the Pannions' means of organization and past tactics have been culled from various sources. As you can see, they're poised to take the city of Capustan. Maurik, Setta and Lest have all fallen within the past four months. The Pannion's forces are still on the south side of the Catlin River, but preparations for the crossing have begun—'
'The Capustan army won't contest that crossing?' Dujek asked. 'If not, then they're virtually inviting a siege. I take it no-one expects Capustan to put up much of a fight.'
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