'That's it!' Spindle hissed. 'The Assassin's face—it's Kalam!'
'Bastard!' Hedge growled. I'd suspected as much—him and Fid paddling off the way they did—you know what this means, don't you…'
'We can guess,' the corporal said, sounding unhappy. 'But the other thing's clear, Spin, isn't it?'
'Aye. Seven Cities is about to rise—may have already. The Whirlwind… Hood must be smiling right now. Smiling something fierce.'
'I got some questions for Quick Ben,' Hedge muttered. 'Don't I just.'
'You should ask him about the new card, too,' Spindle said. 'If he don't mind crawling, let him take a look.'
'Aye…'
A new card of the Deck of Dragons? Crone cocked her head up farther, thinking furiously. New cards were trouble, especially ones with power. The House of Shadow was proof enough of that… Her eyes—one, then, as she further cocked her head, the other—slowly focused, her mind dragged back from its abstracted realm, fixing at last on the underside of the table.
To find a pair of human eyes, the paint glittering as if alive, staring back down at her.
The Mhybe stepped out of the tent, her mind befuddled with exhaustion. Silverfox had fallen asleep in her chair, during one of Kruppe's rambling accounts describing yet another peculiarity of the Trygalle Trade Guild's Rules of Contract, and the Mhybe had decided to let the child be.
In truth, she longed for some time away from her daughter. A pressure was building around Silverfox, an incessant need that, moment by moment, was taking ever more of the Mhybe's life-spirit. Of course, this feeble attempt at escape was meaningless. The demand was boundless, and no conceivable distance could effect a change. Her flight from the tent, from her daughter's presence, held naught but symbolic meaning.
Her bones were a rack of dull, incessant pains, an ebb and flow of twinges that only the deepest of sleep could temporarily evade—the kind of sleep that had begun to elude her.
Paran emerged from the tent and approached. 'I would ask you something, Mhybe, then I shall leave you in peace.'
Oh, you poor, savaged man. What would you have me answer? 'What do you wish to know, Captain?'
Paran stared out at the sleeping camp. 'If someone wished to hide a table…'
She blinked, then smiled. 'You will find them in the tent of the Shrouds—it is unfrequented for the moment. Come, I shall take you there.'
'Directions will suffice—'
'Walking eases the aches, Captain. This way.' She made her way between the first of the tent rows. 'You have stirred Tattersail awake,' she observed after a few moments. 'As a dominant personality for my daughter, I think I am pleased by the development.'
'I am glad for that, Mhybe.'
'What was the sorceress like, Captain?'
'Generous… perhaps to a fault. A highly respected and indeed well-liked cadre mage.'
Oh, sir, you hold so much within yourself, chained and in darkness. Detachment is a flaw, not a virtue—don't you realize that?
He went on, 'You might well have viewed, from your Rhivi perspective, the Malazan forces on this continent as some kind of unstoppable, relentless monster, devouring city after city. But it was never like that. Poorly supplied, often outnumbered, in territories they had no familiarity with—by all accounts, Onearm's Host was being chewed to pieces. The arrival of Brood, the Tiste Andü, and the Crimson Guard stopped the campaign in its tracks. The cadre mages were often all that stood between the Host and annihilation.'
'Yet they had the Moranth…'
'Aye, though not as reliable as you might think. None the less, their alchemical munitions have changed the nature of warfare, not to mention the mobility of their quorls. The Host has come to rely heavily on both.'
'Ah, I see faint lantern-glow coming from the Shroud—there, directly ahead. There have been rumours that all was not well with the Moranth…'
Paran shot her a glance, then shrugged. 'A schism has occurred, triggered by a succession of defeats weathered by their elite forces, the Gold. At the moment, we have the Black at our side, and none other, though the Blue continue on the sea-lanes to Seven Cities.'
They were startled by the staggering appearance of a Great Raven from the Shroud's flap. She reeled drunkenly, flopped onto her chest but three paces from the Mhybe and the Malazan. Crone's head jerked up, one eye fixing on Paran.
'You!' she hissed, then, spreading her vast wings, she sprang into the air. Heavy, savage thuds of her wings lifted her up into the darkness. A moment later she was gone.
The Mhybe glanced at the captain. The man was frowning.
'Crone showed no sign of fearing you before,' she murmured.
Paran shrugged.
Voices sounded from the Shroud, and a moment later figures began filing out, the lead one carrying a hooded lantern.
'Far enough,' the captain growled.
The woman with the lantern flinched, then thumped a wrong-handed salute. 'Sir. We have just made a discovery—in this tent, sir. The purloined table has been found.'
'Indeed,' Paran drawled. 'Well done, Corporal. You and your fellow soldiers have shown admirable diligence.'
'Thank you, sir.'
The captain strode towards the tent. 'It is within, you said?'
'Yes sir.'
'Well, military decorum insists we return it to the warlord at once, wouldn't you agree, Picker?'
'Absolutely, sir.'
Paran paused and surveyed the soldiers. 'Hedge, Spindle, Blend. Four in all. I trust you will be able to manage.'
Corporal Picker blinked. 'Sir?'
'Carrying the table, of course.'
'Uh, might I suggest we find a few more soldiers—'
'I think not. We are departing in the morning, and I want the company well rested, so best not disturb their sleep. It shouldn't take the four of you more than an hour, I would judge, which will give you a few moments to spare readying your kits. Well, best not delay, Corporal, hmm?'
'Yes, sir.' Picker glumly swung to her soldiers. "Dust up your hands, we've work to do. Spindle, you got a problem?'
The man in question was staring slack-jawed at Paran.
'Spindle?'
'Idiot,' the mage whispered.
'Soldier!'
'How could I have missed it? It's him. As plain as can be…'
Picker stepped up and cuffed the mage. 'Snap out of it, damn you!'
Spindle stared at her, then scowled. 'Don't hit me again, or you'll regret it till the end of your days.'
The corporal stood firm. 'The next time I hit you, soldier, you won't be getting up. Any more threats from you will be your last, am I clear?'
The mage shook himself, eyes straying once more to Paran. 'Everything will change,' he whispered. 'Can't happen yet. I need to think. Quick Ben…'
'Spindle!'
He flinched, then gave his corporal a sharp nod. 'Pick up the table, aye. Let's get to it, aye, right away. Come on, Hedge. Blend.'
The Mhybe watched the four soldiers re-enter the Shroud, then turned to Paran. 'What was all that about, Captain?'
'I have no idea,' he replied levelly.
'That table needs more than four pairs of hands.'
'I imagine it does.'
'Yet you won't provide them.'
He glanced at her. 'Hood no. They stole the damned thing in the first place.'
A bell remained before the sun's rise. Leaving Picker and her hapless crew to their task, and departing as well from the Mhybe's presence, Paran made his way to the Bridgeburner encampment situated at the southwest edge of Brood's main camp. A handful of soldiers stood at sentry duty at the pickets, offering ragged salutes as the captain passed them.
He was surprised to find Whiskeyjack near the centre hearth, the commander busy saddling a tall chestnut gelding.
Paran approached. 'Has the meeting concluded, sir?' he asked.
The commander's glance was wry. 'I am beginning to suspect it will never end, if Kruppe has his way.'
'This tr
ade guild of his has not gone down well, then.'
'To the contrary, it has been fully endorsed, though they'll cost the Council a king's ransom in truth. We have guarantees, now, ensuring the overland supply lines. Precisely what we required.'
'Why then does the meeting continue, sir?'
'Well, it seems that we'll have some envoys attached to our army.'
'Not Kruppe—'
'Indeed, the worthy Kruppe. And Coll—I suspect he's eager to get out of those fancy robes and back into armour.'
'Aye, he would be.'
Whiskeyjack cinched the girth strap one last time, then faced Paran. He seemed about to say one thing, then he hesitated, and chose another. The Black Moranth will take you and the Bridgeburners to the foot of the Barghast Range.'
The captain's eyes widened. 'That's quite a journey. And once there?'
'Once there, Trotts detaches from your command. He's to initiate contact with the White Face Barghast, by whatever means he deems proper. You and your company are to provide his escort, but you will not become otherwise entangled in the negotiations. We need the White Face clan—the entire clan.'
'And Trotts will do the negotiating? Beru fend.'
'He's capable of surprising you, Captain.'
'I see. Assuming he manages to succeed, we are then to proceed south?'
Whiskeyjack nodded. 'To the relief of Capustan, aye.' The commander set a boot within the stirrup and, with a wince, pulled himself up into the saddle. He gathered the reins, looking down on the captain. 'Any questions?'
Paran glanced around, studying the sleeping camp, then shook his head.
'I'd offer you Oponn's luck—'
'No, thank you, sir.'
Whiskeyjack nodded.
The gelding shied under the commander suddenly, pitching to one side with a squeal of terror. Wind buffeted the camp, ripping the small tents from their shallow moorings. Voices shouted in alarm. Paran stared upward as a vast black shape swept towards the Tiste Andü encampment. A faint aura outlined the enormous draconian form to the captain's eyes, silvery-white and flickering. Paran's stomach flared with pain, intense but mercifully brief, leaving him trembling.
'Hood's breath,' Whiskeyjack cursed, struggling to calm his horse as he looked around. 'What was that?'
He could not see as I saw—he has not the blood for that. 'Anomander Rake has arrived, sir. He descends among his Tiste Andü.' Paran studied the chaos that had been the slumbering Bridgeburners' camp, then sighed. 'Well, it's a little early, but now's as good a time as any.' He strode forward, raised his voice. 'Everyone up! Break camp! Sergeant Antsy—rouse the cooks, will you?'
'Uh, aye, sir! What woke us?'
'A gust of wind, Sergeant. Now get moving.'
'Aye, sir!'
'Captain.'
Paran turned to Whiskeyjack. 'Sir?'
'I believe you will find yourself busy for the next few bells. I return to Brood's tent—would you like me to send Silverfox to you for a final goodbye?'
The captain hesitated, then shook his head. 'No, thank you, sir.' Distance no longer presents a barrier to us—a private, personal link, too fraught to be unveiled to anyone. Her presence in my head is torture enough. 'Fare you well, Commander.'
Whiskeyjack studied him a moment longer, then nodded. He wheeled his horse around and nudged the gelding into a trot.
The Tiste Andü had gathered into a silent ring around the central clearing, awaiting the arrival of their master.
The black, silver-maned dragon emerged from the darkness overhead like a piece of night torn loose, flowing down to settle with a soft crunch of talons in the plain's stony soil. The huge, terrible beast blurred even as it landed, with a warm flow of spice-laden air swirling out to all sides as the sembling drew the dragon's shape inward. A moment later the Son of Darkness stood, cloaked, framed by the gouged tracks of the dragon's front talons, his slightly epicanthic eyes glimmering dull bronze as he surveyed his kin.
The Mhybe watched as Korlat strode to meet her master. She had seen Anomander Rake but once before, just south of Blackdog Forest, and then from a distance as the Son of Darkness spoke with Caladan Brood. She remembered Moon's Spawn, filling the sky above the Rhivi Plain. Rake had been about to ascend to that floating fortress. A pact with the wizards of Pale had been achieved, and the city was about to be besieged by Onearm's Host. He had stood then as he did now: tall, implacable, a sword emanating sheer terror hanging down the length of his back, his long, silver hair drifting in the breeze.
A slight turn of his head was his only acknowledgement of Korlat's approach.
Off to their right appeared Caladan Brood, Kallor, Dujek and the others.
Tension bristled in the air, yet one that the Mhybe recalled as being present at that last meeting, years before. Anomander Rake was an ascendant as unlike Caladan Brood as to make them seem the opposite ends of power's vast spectrum. Rake was an atmosphere, a heart-thudding, terror-threaded presence no-one could ignore, much less escape. Violence, antiquity, sombre pathos, and darkest horror—the Son of Darkness was a gelid eddy in immortality's current, and the Mhybe could feel, crawling beneath her very skin, every Rhivi spirit awakened in desperation.
The sword, yet more than the sword. Dragnipur in the hands of cold justice, cold and unhuman. Anomander Rake, the only one among us whose presence sparks fear in Kallor's eyes… the only one… except, it seems, for Silverfox—for my daughter. What might Kallor fear most, if not an alliance between the Son of Darkness and Silverfox?
All traces of exhaustion torn away by the thought, the Mhybe stepped forward.
Kallor's voice boomed. 'Anomander Rake! I seek your clearest vision—I seek the justice of your sword—allow none to sway you with sentiment, and that includes Korlat, who would now whisper urgent in your ear!'
The Son of Darkness, a lone brow raised, slowly turned to regard the High King. 'What else, Kallor,' he said in a low, calm voice, 'keeps my blade from your black heart… if not sentiment?'
With the light of the dawn finally stealing into the sky, the ancient warrior's weathered, lean face assumed a paler shade. 'I speak of a child,' he rumbled. 'No doubt you sense her power, the foulest of blossoms—'
'Power? It abounds in this place, Kallor. This camp has become a lodestone. You are right to fear.' His gaze swung to the Mhybe, who had stopped but a few paces from him.
Her steps ceased. His attention was a fierce pressure, power and threat, enough to make her softly gasp, her limbs weakening.
'Forces of nature, Mother,' he said, 'are indifferent to justice, would you not agree?'
It was a struggle to reply. 'I would, Lord of Moon's Spawn.'
'Thus it falls to us sentient beings, no matter how unworthy, to impose the moral divide.'
Her eyes flashed. 'Does it now?'
'She has spawned the abomination, Rake,' Kallor said, striding closer, his expression twisted with anger as he glared at the Mhybe. 'Her vision is stained. Understandably, granted, but even that does not exculpate.'
'Kallor,' the Son of Darkness murmured, his eyes still on the Mhybe, 'approach further at your peril.'
The High King halted.
'It would appear,' Rake continued, 'that my arrival has been anticipated, with the collective desire that I adjudicate what is clearly a complex situation—'
'Appearances deceive,' Caladan Brood said from where he stood outside the command tent—and the Mhybe now saw that Silverfox was at the warlord's side. 'Decide what you will, Rake, but I will not countenance Dragnipur's unsheathing in my camp.'
There was silence, as explosive as any the Rhivi woman had ever felt. By the Abyss, this could go very, very wrong… She glanced over at the Malazans. Dujek had drawn his soldier's expressionless mask over his features, but his taut stance revealed his alarm. The standard-bearer Artanthos was a step behind and slightly to the right of Onearm, a marine's rain cape drawn about him, hiding his hands. The young man's eyes glittered. Is that power swirling from the man? No, I a
m mistaken—I see nothing now…
Anomander Rake slowly faced the warlord. 'I see that the lines have been drawn,' he said quietly. 'Korlat?'
'I side with Caladan Brood in this, Master.'
Rake eyed Kallor. 'It seems you stand alone.'
'It was ever thus.'
Oh, a sharp reply, that.
Anomander Rake's expression tightened momentarily. 'I am not unfamiliar with that position, High King.'
Kallor simply nodded.
Horse hooves sounded then, and the Tiste Andü lining the southeast side of the ring parted. Whiskeyjack rode into the clearing, slowing his mount to a walk, then to a perfect square-stanced halt. It was unclear what the commander had heard, yet he acted none the less. Dismounting, he strode towards Silverfox, stopping directly before her. His sword slid smoothly from its scabbard. Whiskeyjack faced Rake, Kallor and the others in the centre of the clearing, then planted his sword in the ground before him.
Caladan Brood stepped to the Malazan's side. 'With what you might face, Whiskeyjack, it would be best if you—'
'I stand here,' the commander growled.
Sorcery flowed from Anomander Rake, grainy grey, rolling in a slow wave across the clearing, passing through Whiskeyjack effortlessly, then swallowing Silverfox in an opaque, swirling embrace.
The Mhybe cried out, lurched forward, but Korlat's hand closed on her arm. 'Fear not,' she said, 'he but seeks to understand her—understand what she is…'
The sorcery frayed suddenly, flung away in tattered fragments to all sides. The Mhybe hissed. She knew enough of her daughter to see, in her reappearance, that she was furious. Power, twisting like taut ropes, rose around her, knotting, bunching.
Oh, spirits below, I see Nightchill and Tattersail both… a shared rage. And, by the Abyss, another! A stolid will, a sentience slow to anger… so much like Brood—who? Is this—oh!—is this Bellurdan? Gods! We are moments from tearing ourselves apart. Please…
'Well,' Rake drawled, 'I have never before had my hand slapped in such a fashion. Impressive, though perilously impertinent. What is it, then, that the child does not wish me to discover?' He reached over his left shoulder for Dragnipur's leather-wrapped handle.