'The very paradigm of explication, dear friends. Cogent, clear, if somewhat quaintly couched. Precision is a precise art. Poignancy is preeminent and precludes prevarication. Truths are no trivial thing, after all—'
Itkovian swung towards Whiskeyjack and Korlat and set off.
Paran called out, 'Itkovian?'
'I was reminded of that Gredfallan ale,' he replied over a shoulder. 'It has been years, yet I find the need suddenly overwhelming, sir.'
'I concur. Wait up.'
'Wait, indeed, you three! What of Kruppe's own prodigious thirst?'
'By all means,' Quick Ben replied, setting off in the wake of Itkovian and Paran, 'quaintly quench it—just do so somewhere else.'
'Oh ho! But is that not Whiskeyjack waving Kruppe hence? Generous, kindly soldier, is Whiskeyjack! A moment! Kruppe would catch up!'
The two marines sat on boulders that were part of an old tipi ring, fifteen paces from where Silverfox stood. Shadows were stretching as the day closed over the prairie.
'So,' one of them muttered, 'how long do you think?'
'I'd guess she's communing with them T'lan Imass. See the swirls of dust around her? Could be all night.'
'I'm hungry.'
'Yeah, well, I admit I've been eyeing your leather straps, darling.'
'Problem is, they've forgotten about us.'
'That's not the problem. It's maybe we ain't needed no more. She doesn't need bodyguards. Not dirt-nosed mortals like us, anyway. And we've already seen what we were supposed to see, meaning we're overdue on making a report.'
'We weren't supposed to report, love. Remember? Anyone wants news from us they come by for a conversation.'
'Right, only nobody's come by for a while now. Which was my point in the first place.'
'Doesn't mean we should up and walk away. Besides, here's somebody coming now…'
The other marine twisted in her seat. After a moment, she grunted. 'Nobody we're supposed to report to. Hood knows, I don't even recognize 'em.'
'Sure you do. One, anyway. That's the Trygalle trader-sorceress, Haradas.'
'The other's a soldier, I'd say. An Elin lass, nice sway to the hips—'
'Hard face, though.'
'Eyes fulla hurt. Could be one of them Grey Swords—saw her at the parley.'
'Yeah, well, they're coming our way.'
'So am I,' a voice spoke from a few paces to their left. The marines turned to see that Silverfox was joining them. 'This is a fell thing,' she murmured.
'Oh, what's that?' one of the marines asked her.
'A gathering of women.'
The soldier grunted. 'We ain't gonna gossip, are we?'
Silverfox smiled at the facetious tone. 'Among the Rhivi, it's the men who do all the gossiping. The women are too busy giving them things to gossip about.'
'Huh. That's a surprise. I would've thought there'd be all kind of ancient laws against adultery and such. Banishment, stoning, it's what tribes do, ain't it?'
'Not the Rhivi. Bedding the wrong husbands is great sport. For the women, that is. The men take it all too seriously, of course.'
'They take everything too seriously, if you ask me,' the marine muttered.
'Self-importance will do that,' Silverfox replied, nodding.
Haradas and her companion arrived. In their wake, still sixty paces distant, a Barghast was approaching as well.
The trader-sorceress bowed to Silverfox, then the two Malazans. 'Dusk is a magical time, is it not?'
'What would you ask?' Silverfox drawled.
'A question born of a thought, Bonecaster, that but recently came to me, hence my coming to you.'
'You've been around Kruppe too long, Haradas.'
'Perhaps. Issues of supply continue to plague these armies, as you well know. At the parley, the White Face Barghast offered to provide a fair portion of what will be required. Despite their confidence, I believe that they too will find their resources stretched before long—'
'You would enquire of Tellann,' Silverfox said.
'Ah, indeed, I would. The warren of the T'lan Imass must surely remain… uninfected, after all. Could our guild respectfully employ its path—'
'Uninfected. Yes, it so remains. None the less, there is within Tellann the potential for violence, for risk to your caravans.'
Haradas's brows rose. 'It is assailed?'
'In a fashion. The Throne of the Beast Hold is… contested. There are renegades among the T'lan Imass. The Vow is weakening.'
The sorceress sighed. 'I thank you for the warning, Bonecaster. Risk, of course, is factored in when it comes to the Trygalle Trade Guild. Thus, the usurious fees we charge for our services. Will you then permit us the use of Tellann?'
Silverfox shrugged. 'I see no reason why not. Have you the means to fashion a portal into our warren? If not, I can—'
'No need, Bonecaster,' Haradas said with a faint smile. 'We have long since found such means, yet in respect to the T'lan Imass, and given the accessibility of less… uncivilized… warrens, such portals were never employed.'
Silverfox studied the sorceress for a long moment. 'Remarkable. I can only conclude that the Trygalle Trade Guild is run by a cabal of High Mages, of singular prowess. Do you know that not even the Malazan Empire's most powerful, most knowledgeable mages were ever successful in penetrating the secrets of Tellann? I would like to meet your guild's founders one day.'
Haradas's smile broadened. 'I am sure they would be delighted and indeed honoured by your company, Bonecaster.'
'You are perhaps too generous on their behalf, Sorceress.'
'Not in the least, I assure you. I am pleased that the matter has been concluded so effortlessly—'
'We're a fell gathering indeed,' Silverfox murmured.
Haradas blinked, then recovered and continued, 'So that I may now introduce you to the new Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords, Captain Norul.'
The soldier bowed. 'Bonecaster.' The woman hesitated, then her expression hardened with resolve. 'The Grey Swords are sworn to Togg, Wolf of Winter, and to Fanderay, She-Wolf of Winter.'
'Interesting choices,' Silverfox said. 'Lovers lost for all eternity, yet in your twice-sworn company, united in spirit. A bold and courageous gesture, Shield Anvil.'
'Bonecaster, Togg and Fanderay are no longer lost to each other. Each has finally caught the other's scent. Your manner seems to convey no knowledge of this, which confuses me, sir.'
Now it was Silverfox who frowned. 'Why should it? I've no particular interest in ancient wolf-gods…' Her words slowly trailed to silence.
The Shield Anvil spoke again, 'Bonecaster, Summoner of the Second Gathering of the T'lan Imass, I formally ask that you yield the T'lan Ay—the children of our gods.'
Silence.
Silverfox stared at the Grey Sword commander, eyes half lidded, her full, rounded face expressionless. Then a tremor crossed her features.
'You don't understand,' she finally whispered. 'I need them.'
The Shield Anvil cocked her head. 'Why?'
'F-for a… gift. A… repayment. I have sworn—'
'To whom?'
'To—to myself.'
'And how, sir, are the T'lan Ay involved in the fashioning of this gift? They have run with the T'lan Imass, it is true. But they are not to be owned. Not by the T'lan Imass. Not by you.'
'Yet they were joined in the Ritual of Tellann, the First Gathering—'
'They were… encompassed. In ignorance. Bound by loyalty and love to the flesh and blood Imass. As a result, they lost their souls. Sir, my gods are coming, and in their cries—which now visit me each night in my dreams—they demand… reparation.'
'I must deny you,' Silverfox said. 'Until Togg and Fanderay can come, physically and manifesting their power, to enforce their demand, I shall not yield the T'lan Ay.'
'You risk your life, Bonecaster—'
'Will the wolf-gods announce war against the T'lan Imass? Will they and the T'lan Ay come for our throats, Shield Anvil?'
<
br /> 'I do not know, sir. You will have to answer for the decisions you have made. But I fear for you, Bonecaster. Togg and Fanderay are ascended beasts. Their souls are unknowable to such as you and me. Who can predict what lies in the hearts of such creatures?'
'Where are they now?'
The Shield Anvil shrugged. 'South. We shall, it seems, all converge within the Pannion Domin.'
'Then I still have time.'
'The achievement of your gift, sir, could see you killed.'
'Always an even exchange,' Silverfox muttered, half to herself. The marines exchanged a glance at those words, legendary in Onearm's Host.
The Barghast woman had arrived and was standing a few paces distant, sharp, dark eyes fixed intently on the exchange between the Shield Anvil and Silverfox. At the pause, she laughed low in her throat, drawing everyone's attention.
'Too bad there are no men worthy of this company,' she growled. 'Seeing you, I am reminded of this world's true heart of power. Malazan marines, a Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords, a witch and a sorceress. And now, to complete the tapestry, a daughter of the White Face Barghast… bringing food and wine.'
The two marines shot to their feet, grinning.
'And I would gossip!' Hetan shouted. 'Shield Anvil! Itkovian holds to vows no longer, true? I can bed him—'
'If you can catch him,' the Grey Sword replied, one brow arching. 'If he had fifty legs I could still catch him! Silverfox! What of Kruppe, hey?'
The Bonecaster blinked. 'What of him?'
'You're a big woman. You could trap him under you! Leave him squealing!'
'What a horrifying image.'
'I'll grant you he's round and small and slimy, but clever, yes? Clever heats the blood all on its own, does it not? I have heard that, while you may look like a woman, you remain as a child in the most important way. Stir yourself with desire, lass! You've been consorting with the undead and the withered for far too long! Grasp the spear with both hands, I always say!'
Silverfox slowly shook her head. 'You said you brought wine?'
Grin broadening, Hetan approached. 'Aye, two bladders as big as your breasts and no doubt just as sweet. Gather, formidable companions, and let us feast!'
Haradas smiled. 'A wonderful idea, thank you.'
The Shield Anvil hesitated. She glanced over at the marines, then began removing her battered helm. She sighed loudly. 'Let the wolves wait,' she said. 'I cannot hold to dread comportment in the manner of my predecessor—'
'Cannot?' Hetan challenged. 'Or will not?'
'Will not,' the woman corrected, pulling her helm free. Sweat-soaked, iron-streaked hair tumbled loose. 'May the Wolves forgive me.'
'One of them will,' the Barghast asserted, crouching to lay out the foodstuffs from her pack.
Coll drew the furs closer about the Mhybe's frail, shrunken form. There was movement behind the lids of her eyes, random and frantic. Her breath was a broken wheeze. The Daru councillor looked down on her for a moment longer, then he straightened and slipped down from the edge of the wagon-bed.
Murillio stood nearby, tightening the straps of the water casks attached to the wagon's right side-rail. Old tents had been used to cover the packages of food they had purchased from a Barghast trader that morning, which had been affixed to the opposite side-rail, giving the Rhivi wagon a wide, bloated appearance.
The two men had also acquired a pair of horses, at exorbitant cost, from the Mott Irregulars, a strangely ineffectual-looking company of mercenaries attached to Caladan Brood's army that Coll had not even known were present. Mercenaries whose backwoods garb belied the martial profession, yet perfectly suited the company's name. The horses were barely broken, thick-limbed yet tall, a breed the Irregulars claimed was their own—bloodlines that included Nathi destriers, Mott carthorses and Genabarü drays, all drawn together to produce a large, sturdy, ill-tempered animal with a surprisingly wide back that made riding them a luxury.
'Provided they don't bite your hand off,' the buck-toothed Mottman had added, pulling lice from his long, stringy hair and popping them into his mouth as he talked.
Coll sighed, vaguely discomfited by the memory, and warily approached the two horses.
The two mounts could have been twins, both sorrel, their manes uncut and long, thick tails snagged with burrs and spar-grass seeds. The saddles were Malazan—old spoils of war, no doubt—the thick blankets beneath them Rhivi. The beasts eyed him.
One casually swung its hindquarters in the Daru's direction. He stopped, muttering a soft curse.
'Sweetroot,' Murillio said from beside the wagon. 'Bribe 'em. Here, we have some in the packs.'
'And reward their ill manners? No.' Coll circled at a distance. The horses had been tethered to a tent peg, allowing them to match his movement. Three steps closer and the Daru would get his head kicked in. He cursed in a slightly louder tone, then said, 'Murillio, lead the oxen up beside that peg—use the wagon to block them. And if this doesn't work, find me a mallet.'
Grinning, Murillio climbed up onto the seat and gathered the traces. Fifteen heartbeats later he halted the beasts just past the tent peg, the wagon effectively barring the horses from circling any further.
Coll hurried round until the wagon was between him and the mounts.
'So you'd rather a bite than a kick,' Murillio commented, watching his friend come up to the wagon, climb its side, then cross the bed—stepping over the Mhybe's unconscious form—and halt within an arm's reach of the horses.
They had pulled their tethers taut, backing as far as they could, tugging on the tent peg. A Rhivi wedge, the peg's design was intended to hold against even the fiercest prairie wind. Driven deep in the hard-packed earth, it did not budge.
Coil's leather-gauntleted hand snapped out, closed on one of the tethers. He tugged sharply down as he dropped from the wagon.
The animal stumbled towards him, snorting. Its comrade skittered back in alarm.
The Daru collected the reins from the saddle-horn, still gripping the tether in his other hand and holding the horse's head down, and edged to its shoulder. He planted a boot in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle in a single motion.
The horse tried to duck out from under his weight, a sideways slew that thudded against its comrade—with Coll's leg trapped in between. He grunted but held the reins firm. 'That'll be a nice bruise,' Murillio commented. 'Keep saying pleasant things why don't you?' Coll said through gritted teeth. 'Now come over and slip the tether. Carefully, mind. There's a lone vulture above our heads, looking hopeful.'
His companion glanced skyward, scanned for a moment, then hissed. 'All right, so I was momentarily gullible—stop gloating.' He clambered over the seat-back.
Coll watched him drop lightly to the ground and warily approach the tent peg.
'On second thoughts, maybe you should have found me that mallet.'
'Too late now, friend,' Murillio said, pulling the knot free.
The horse plunged back a half-dozen steps, then planted its hind legs and reared.
To Murillio's eyes, Coll's backward somersault displayed almost poetic grace, artfully concluded by the big Daru's landing squarely on his feet, only to lunge straight back to avoid a vicious two-hoofed kick that, had it connected, would have shattered his chest. He landed four paces away with a thud.
The horse ran off, bucking with glee.
Coll lay unmoving for a moment, blinking at the sky.
'You all right?' Murillio asked.
'Get me a lasso. And some sweetroot.'
'I'd suggest a mallet instead,' Murillio replied, 'but since you know your mind, I won't.'
Distant horns sounded.
'Hood's breath,' Coll groaned. 'The march to Capustan's begun.' He slowly sat up. 'We were supposed to be up front for this.'
'We could always ride in the wagon, friend. Return the horses to the Mott Irregulars and get our money back.'
'That wagon's overloaded as it is.' Coll painfully regained his feet. 'Besides, he sa
id no refunds.'
Murillio squinted at his companion. 'Did he now? And not even a stir of suspicion from you at that?'
'Quiet.'
'But—'
'Murillio, you want the truth? The man was so homely I felt sorry for him, all right? Now stop babbling and let's get on with this.'
'Coll! He was asking a prince's ransom for—'
'Enough,' he growled. 'That ransom's going to pay for the privilege of killing the damned beasts, or you—which do you prefer?'
'You can't kill them—'
'Then another word from you and it's this hillside under a pile of boulders for dear old Murillio of Darujhistan. Am I understood? Good. Now hand me that lasso and the sweetroot—we'll start with the one still here.'
'Wouldn't you rather run after—'
'Murillio,' Coll warned.
'Sorry. Make the boulders small, please.'
The miasmic clouds churned low over the heaving waves, waves that warred with each other amidst jagged mountains of ice, waves that spun and twisted even as they struck the battered shoreline, flinging spume skyward. The thunderous roar was shot through with grinding, cracking, and the ceaseless hiss of driving rain.
'Oh my,' Lady Envy murmured.
The three Seguleh crouched on the leeside of a large basaltic boulder, applying thick grease to their weapons. They were a sadly bedraggled trio, sodden with rain, smeared with mud, their armour in tatters. Minor wounds crisscrossed their arms, thighs and shoulders, the deeper ones roughly stitched with gut, the rows of knots black and gummed with old blood that streamed crimson in the rain.
Nearby, surmounting a jutting spar of basalt, stood Baaljagg. Matted, scabbed, her fur in tangled tufts around bare patches, a hand's length of broken spear shaft jutting from her right shoulder—three days it had been, yet the beast would not allow Envy close, nor the Seguleh—the giant wolf stared steadily northward with feverish, gleaming eyes.
Garath lay three paces behind her, shivering uncontrollably, wounds suppurating as if his body wept since he could not, massive and half mad, allowing no-one—not even the wolf—to come near.
Only Lady Envy remained, to all outward appearances, untouched by the horrendous war they had undertaken; untouched, even, by the driving rain. Her white telaba showed not a single stain. Her unbound black hair hung full and straight down to the small of her back. Her lips were painted a deep, vaguely menacing red. The kohl above her eyes contained the hues of dusk.
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