Choss leaned against the railing and looked to Cartheron, shaking his head. ‘Plenty of work ahead for all of us. So where’s your new guy, Dujek, and his tag-along?’
‘Out whipping our Malazan boys and girls into shape.’
Choss raised his chin to the pier. ‘What do you think of the new mage?’
Cartheron considered, lifted his shoulders. ‘Looks like a veteran.’
‘He is,’ Hawl said from behind. Cartheron turned to her; she was eyeing the retreating figures. ‘He has ex-legionnaire written all over him.’
‘Ex-legionnaire?’ Cartheron echoed. ‘As in the Talian iron legions?’ He whistled. ‘We could use him.’
‘If we can trust him.’
‘Trust him? What do you mean?’
But the heavy mage simply hugged her broad chest and tilted her head in thought. ‘Don’t know. Got a funny feeling on the ship just then with everyone … Keep an eye on him, Crust.’
Cartheron nodded his full agreement. ‘If you say so, Hawl.’
* * *
The caravan was encamped a day’s journey from Fedal, a southern Itko Kan city, and termination point of the main north–south overland trade route. At the sprawling caravanserai grounds – a broad meadow of trampled grass – fires were lit against the dark and animals were being brushed, fed, and cared for.
As was usual, Dassem went for a long walk through the night. This time, however, he was alone. Shear no longer even spoke to him, save to lower her masked head to him in passing as if she were his subordinate, which, he knew she now believed herself to be.
It was autumn; the grass was dry and brittle and snagged at his trousers. There was an early chill to the air; he’d overheard some merchants attribute this to the Sea of Storms just to their south.
He paused in the dark to look skyward. Old familiar stars glowed above the southern horizon. The constellations of his youth: the Spear, the Cart, the Sky Mother.
Tomorrow they would part. He would carry on to the coast to take a ship out to Malaz Island, which he’d heard described uninvitingly as cold, rainy, and dreary. While she, he understood, would return to her island home far away.
He ran a hand through the tall, sharp-edged grasses. Should he simply allow that to happen? Shouldn’t he return, ask her to accompany him and Nara? Why not?
After standing silent for a time he let out a long slow breath. No; Hood had not taken his eye from him. He was certain of that. The Grey Walker held some special fate in store for him. Some stern lesson for his defiance.
He would not embroil her in that.
Yet shouldn’t that be
He half turned back to the distant flickering fires of the encampment, then quickly sank to his haunches amid the tall sighing grasses.
Then, the brush of ring-mail, and the faint click of a crossbow setting.
He reached down to his waist only to remember that he’d left his sword behind.
He lay still, listening. From what he could piece together it sounded as if a wide, staggered picket line just passed his position, closing on the caravanserai. Crouched still, he padded along behind the nearest of the individuals. To his benefit it was a dark night, and none of the figures carried any source of light – no doubt being guided by the fires of the camp. He took the man from the rear, clamped his hands round his neck just long enough for unconsciousness, then lowered him into the grasses. What he found, a ragged patched hauberk over a stained old Kanian uniform, confirmed his suspicion: outlaws, or renegades.
Through this gap in the picket he hurried inward, still crouched for a time, and jogged for camp.
The main body of the outlaws entered the caravanserai even as he closed. Panicked shouts arose but thankfully no screams or clash of blades – yet.
He pushed through the milling families and groggy fretful merchants to a position across a fire from where Shear stood with Horst Grethall. The fat-bellied caravan-master had his arms in the air and was shouting for calm.
Shear, of course, spotted him amid the flickering shadows. In the firelight her mask seemed to swim with a kaleidoscope of rich colours. Her blade was not drawn, as yet. A hand low at her side gave a slight flat wave –
‘No need for any violence, Luel,’ Horst was saying to one of the outlaws. ‘You’ll have your payment.’
‘Tithe,’ the man clarified, rather archly. He wore a faded officer’s surcoat over a hauberk of scale. He was bearded, and his hair was long and bedraggled, suggesting he’d been camping in the field for a great many months. ‘Our legal due for keeping the roads safe here, so close to the Dal Hon border.’
‘Safe from whom?’ Horst grumbled under his breath.
The former officer chose magnanimously to ignore the complaint. He gestured to his men and women, all probably his own troops, and they set to searching the wagons.