The mage, Widdershins, said, ‘Omtose Phellack, Adjunct. Elder.’
Tavore was perfectly still, as if frozen in place. Her eyes narrowed on the healer. ‘You have found a Jaghut for a patron, Deadsmell?’
To that question the man seemed at a loss for an answer.
‘The God of Death is no more,’ Widdershins said, his teeth chattering as the temperature in the chamber plummeted. ‘But it may be that Hood himself ain’t quite as dead as we all thought he was.’
‘We thought that, did we?’ Tavore’s lips thinned as she regarded Deadsmell. ‘Healer, approach.’
One hand twisting tight to keep the man upright, Balm guided Deadsmell back outside. Throatslitter and Widdershins closed in from either side, the looks on their faces fierce, as if they were moments from drawing weapons should anyone come close.
The Fists backed away as one, and the sergeant scowled at them all. ‘Make room if you please, sirs. Oh, and she’ll see you now.’ Without waiting a reply, Balm tugged Deadsmell forward, the healer staggering – his clothes sodden as frost and ice melted in the morning heat. Twenty paces away, behind a sagging supply tent, the sergeant finally halted. ‘Sit down, Deadsmell. Gods below, tell me this’ll pass.’
The healer slumped to the ground. His head sank and the others waited for the man to be sick. Instead, they heard something like a sob. Balm stared at Throatslitter, and then at Widdershins, but by their expressions they were as baffled as he was. He crouched down, one hand resting lightly on Deadsmell’s back – he could feel the shudders pushing through.
The healer wept for some time.
No one spoke.
When the sobs began to subside, Balm leaned closer. ‘Corporal, what in Togg’s name is going on with you?’
‘I – I can’t explain, Sergeant.’
‘The healing worked,’ said Balm. ‘We all saw it.’
He nodded, still not lifting his head.
‘So … what?’
‘She let down her defences, just for a moment. Let me in, Sergeant. She had to, so I could heal the damage – and gods, was there damage! Stepping into view – that must have taken everything she had. Standing, talking …’ he shook his head. ‘I saw inside. I saw—’
He broke down all over again, shaking with vast, overwhelming sobs.
Balm remained crouched at his side. Widdershins and Throatslitter stood forming a kind of barrier facing outward. There was nothing to do but wait.
In the moments before the Fists trooped inside, Lostara Yil stood facing Tavore. She struggled to keep her voice steady, calm. ‘Welcome back, Adjunct.’
Tavore slowly drew a deep breath. ‘Your thoughts, High Priest?’
To one side, Banaschar lifted his head. ‘I’m too cold to think, Adjunct.’
‘Omtose Phellack. Have you felt the footfalls of the Jaghut, Banaschar?’
The ex-priest shrugged. ‘So Hood had a back door. Should we really be surprised? That devious shit of a god was never one for playing straight.’
‘Disingenuous, High Priest.’
His face twisted. ‘Think hard on where your gifts come from, Adjunct.’
‘At last,’ she retorted, ‘some sound advice from you, High Priest. Almost … sober.’
If he planned on a reply, he bit it off when Kindly, Sort and Blistig entered the chamber.
There was a stretch of silence, and then Faradan Sort snorted and said, ‘And here I always believed a chilly reception was just a—’
‘I am informed,’ cut in the Adjunct, ‘that our guests are on their way. Before they arrive, I wish each of you to report on the disposition of your soldiers. Succinctly, please.’
The Fists stared.
Lostara Yil glanced over at Banaschar, and saw something flickering in his eyes as he studied the Adjunct.
Their approach took them down the north avenue of the Malazan encampment, winding down the crooked track between abattoir tents, where the stench of butchered animals was rank in the fly-swarmed air. Atri-Ceda Aranict rode in silence beside Commander Brys, hunched against the bleating of myrid and lowing of rodara, the squeal of terrified pigs and the moaning of cattle. Creatures facing slaughter well understood their fate, and the sound of their voices crowding the air was a torment.
‘Ill chosen,’ muttered Brys, ‘this route. My apologies, Atri-Ceda.’
Two soldiers crossed their path, wearing heavy blood-drenched aprons. Their faces were flat, expressionless. Their hands dripped gore.
‘Armies bathe in blood,’ said Aranict. ‘That is the truth of it, isn’t it, Commander?’
‘I fear we all bathe in it,’ he replied. ‘Cities permit us to hide from that bleak truth, I think.’
‘What would it be like, I wonder, if we all ate only vegetables?’
‘We’d break all the land and the wild animals would have nowhere to live,’ Brys replied.
‘So we should see these domesticated beasts as sacrifices in the name of wildness.’
‘You could,’ he said, ‘if it helps.’
‘I’m not sure it does.’
‘Nor am I.’
‘I think I am too soft for all this,’ she concluded. ‘I have a sentimental streak. Maybe you can hide from the slaughter itself, but if you possess any imagination at all, well, there’s no real hiding, is there?’
They drew closer to a broad intersection, and opposite them a sizeable troop of riders was converging on the same place, coming up from the south track. ‘Well now,’ said Brys, ‘are those Bolkando royal standards?’
‘Seems the queen has taken her escort duties well beyond her kingdom’s borders.’
‘Yes, most curious. Shall we await them?’
‘Why not?’
They reined in at the intersection.
The queen’s entourage was oversized, yet as it drew closer Brys frowned. ‘Those are Evertine regulars, I think,’ he said. ‘Not an officer among them.’
In addition to these hardened soldiers, three Barghast warriors rode close to Abrastal, while off to the right rode two Khundryl women, one of them seven or eight months pregnant. On the left was a pair of armoured foreigners – the Perish? Aranict drew a sharp breath. ‘That must be Mortal Sword Krughava. She alone could command a palace tapestry.’
Brys grunted. ‘I know what you mean. I have seen a few hard women in my time, but that one … formidable indeed.’
‘I doubt I could even lift that sword at her belt.’
With a gesture Queen Abrastal halted the entire troop. She said something to one of her soldiers, and suddenly the veterans were all dismounting, lifting satchels from their saddle horns and setting out into the Malazan camp. Aranict watched the soldiers fanning out, apparently seeking squad camps. ‘What are they doing?’
Brys shook his head. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘They’ve brought … bottles.’
Brys Beddict grunted, and then tapped his horse’s flanks. Aranict followed suit.
‘Commander Brys Beddict,’ said Queen Abrastal, settling back in her saddle. ‘We finally meet. Tell me, does your brother know where you are?’
‘Highness, does your husband?’
Her teeth flashed. ‘I doubt it. But isn’t this better than our meeting in anger?’
‘Agreed, Highness.’
‘Now, barring this Gilk oaf at my side and of course you, it seems this will be a gathering of women. Do you quake in your boots, Prince?’
‘If I am, I am man enough to not admit it, Highness. Will you be so kind as to perform introductions?’
Abrastal removed her heavy gauntlets and gestured to her right. ‘From the Khundryl, Hanavat, wife to Warleader Gall, and with her Shelemasa, bodyguard and One of the Charge.’
Brys tilted his head to both women. ‘Hanavat. We were witness to the Charge.’ His gaze momentarily flicked to Shelemasa, then back to Hanavat. ‘Please, if you will, inform your husband that I was shamed by his courage and that of the Burned Tears. Seeing the Khundryl stung me to action. I would he understand that all that the Letherii were subsequently able to achieve in relieving the Bonehunters is set in humble gratitude at the Warleader’s feet.’