The cattle-dog ran on, slipping between two tents and disappearing from sight.
Ahead of the historian, a number of figures appeared, armed with large rocks and — bizarrely — Kanese parasols. One and all, they were dressed as if about to attend a royal function, although in their expressions Duiker saw raw fury.
'You there!' one yelled imperiously. 'Old man! Did you see a mad hound just now?'
'I saw a running cattle-dog, aye,' the historian quietly replied.
'With a rare Hengese roach dog in its mouth?'
A dog that eats cockroaches? 'Rare? I assumed it was raw.'
The nobles grew quiet as gazes focused on Duiker.
'A foolish time for humour, old man,' the spokesman growled. He was younger than the others, his honey-coloured skin and large eyes denoting his Quon Talian lineage. He was lean, with the physical assurance of a duellist — the identification confirmed by the basket-hiked rapier at his belt. Moreover, there was something in the man's eyes that suggested to Duiker that here was someone who enjoyed killing.
The man approached, his walk becoming a swagger. 'An apology, peasant — though I'll grant it won't save you from a beating, at least you'll stay breathing …'
A horseman approached from behind at a canter.
Duiker saw the duellist's eyes dart over the historian's shoulder.
Corporal List reined in, ignoring the nobleman. 'My apologies, sir,' he said. 'I was delayed at the smithy. Where is your horse?'
'With the main herd,' Duiker replied. 'A day off for the poor beast — long overdue.'
For a young man of low rank, List managed an impressive expression of cold regard as he finally looked down at the nobleman. 'If we arrive late, sir,' he said to Duiker, 'Coltaine will demand an explanation.'
The historian addressed the nobleman. 'Are we done here?'
The man gave a curt nod. 'For now,' he said.
Escorted by the corporal, Duiker resumed his journey through the nobles' camp. When they had gone a dozen paces, List leaned over his saddle. 'Alar looked ready to call you out, Historian.'
'He's known, then? Alar.'
'Pullyk Alar-'
'How unfortunate for him.'
List grinned.
They came to a central clearing in the encampment and discovered a whipping underway. The short, wide man with the leather cat-tail in one heat-bloated hand was familiar. The victim was a servant. Three other servants stood off to one side, their eyes averted. A few other noble-born stood nearby, gathered around a weeping woman and voicing murmurs of consolation.
Lenestro's gold-brocaded cloak had lost some of its brilliant sheen, and in his red-faced frenzy as he swung the cat-tail he looked like a frothing ape performing the traditional King's Mirror farce at a village fair.
'I see the nobles are pleased by the return of their servant-folk,' List said dryly.
'I suspect this has more to do with a snatched lapdog,' the historian muttered. 'In any case, this stops now.'
The corporal glanced over. 'He'll simply resume it later, sir.'
Duiker said nothing.
'Who would steal a lapdog?' List wondered, staying alongside the historian as he approached Lenestro.
'Who wouldn't? We've water but we're still hungry. In any case, one of the Wickan cattle-dogs thought it up before the rest of us — to our collective embarrassment.'
'I blame preoccupation, sir.'
Lenestro noted their approach and paused his whipping, his breath loud as a bellows.
Ignoring the nobleman, Duiker went to the servant. The man was old, down on his elbows and knees, hands held protectively behind his head. Red welts rode his knuckles, his neck and down the length of his bony back. Beneath the ruin were the tracks of older scars. A jewel-studded leash with a broken collar lay in the dust beside him.
'Not your business, Historian,' Lenestro snapped.
'These servants stood a Tithansi charge at Sekala,' Duiker said. 'That defence helped to keep your head on your shoulders, Lenestro.'
'Coltaine stole property!' the nobleman squealed. 'The Council so judged him, the fine has been issued!'
'Issued,' List said, 'and duly pissed on.'
Lenestro wheeled on the corporal, raised his whip.
'A warning,' Duiker said, straightening. 'Striking a soldier of the Seventh — or, for that matter, his horse — will see you hung.'
Lenestro visibly struggled with his temper, his arm still raised, the whip quivering.
Others were gathering, their sympathy clearly united with Lenestro. Even so, the historian did not anticipate violence. The nobles might well possess unrealistic notions, but they were anything but suicidal.
Duiker spoke, 'Corporal, we'll take this man to the Seventh's healers.'
'Yes, sir,' List replied, briskly dismounting.
The servant had passed out. Together they carried him to the horse and laid him belly-down across the saddle.
'He shall be returned to me once healed,' Lenestro said.
'So you can do it all over again? Wrong, he'll not be returned to you.' And if you and your comrades are outraged, wait till an hour from now.
'All such acts contrary to Malazan law are being noted,' the nobleman said shrilly. 'There shall be recompense, with interest.'
Duiker had heard enough. He suddenly closed the distance to grasp Lenestro's cloak collar with both hands, and gave the man a teeth-rattling shake. The whip fell to the ground. The nobleman's eyes were wide with terror — reminding the historian of the lapdog's as it rode the hound's mouth.
'You probably think,' Duiker whispered, 'that I'm about to tell you about the situation we're all in. But it's already quite evident that there'd be little point. You are a small-brained thug, Lenestro. Push me again, and I'll have you eating pigshit and liking it.' He shook the pathetic creature again, then dropped him.
Lenestro collapsed.
Duiker frowned down at the man.
'He's fainted, sir,' List said.
'So he has.' Old man scared you, did he?
'Was that really necessary?' a voice asked plaintively. Nethpara emerged from the crowd. 'As if our ongoing petition is not crowded enough, now we have personal bullying to add to our grievances. Shame on you, Historian-'
'Excuse me, sir,' List said, 'but you might wish to know — before you resume berating the historian — that scholarship came late to this man. You will find his name among the Noted on the First Army's Column at Unta, and had you not just come late to this scene, you would have witnessed an old soldier's temper. Indeed, it was admirable restraint that the historian elected to use both hands to grip Lenestro's cloak, lest he use one to unsheathe that well-worn sword at his hip and drive it through the toad's heart.'
Nethpara blinked sweat from his eyes.
Duiker slowly swung to face List.
The corporal noted the dismay in the historian's face and answered it with a wink. 'We'd best move on, sir,' he said.
They left behind a gathering in the clearing that broke its silence only after they'd entered the opposite aisle.
List walked alongside the historian, leading his horse by the reins. 'It still astonishes me that they persist in the notion that we will survive this journey.'
Duiker glanced over in surprise. 'Are you lacking such faith, then, Corporal?'
'We'll never reach Aren, Historian. Yet the fools compile their petitions, their grievances — against the very people keeping them alive.'
'There's great need to maintain the illusion of order, List. In us all.'
The young man's expression turned wry. 'I missed your moment of sympathy back there, sir.'
'Obviously.'
They left the nobles' encampment and entered the mayhem of the wagons bearing wounded. Voices moaned a constant chorus of pain. A chill crept over Duiker. Even wheeled hospitals carried with them that pervasive atmosphere of fear, the sounds of defiance and the silence of surrender. Mortality's many comforting layers had been stripped away, revealing wracked bones, a sudden comprehension of death that throbbed like an exposed nerve.