He heard movement behind him, then a soft, long-fingered hand settled on his shoulder, the touch sending waves through him. ‘It would be nice,’ Korlat murmured, ‘to hear good news for a change.’

He grunted.

‘I see the worry in your eyes, Whiskeyjack. It’s a long list, isn’t it? Your Bridgeburners, Silverfox, her mother, and now this assault on the warrens. We are marching blind. So much rests on unknowns. Does Capustan still hold, or has the city fallen? And what of Trotts? And Paran? Quick Ben?’

‘I am aware of that list, Korlat,’ he rumbled.

‘Sorry. I share them, that is all.’

He glanced at her. ‘Forgive me, but why? This is not your war – gods below, it’s not even your world! Why are you yielding to its needs?’ He sighed loudly and shook his head, returning his gaze to the night sky. ‘That’s a question we asked often, early in the campaigns. I remember, in Blackdog Forest, stumbling over a half-dozen of your kin. A Moranth cusser had taken them out. A squad of regulars was busy looting the bodies. They were cursing – not finding anything of worth. A few knotted strips of coloured cloth, a stream-polished pebble, plain weapons – the kind you could pick up in any market in any city.’ He was silent for a moment, then he continued, ‘And I remember wondering – what was the story of their lives? Their dreams, their aspirations? Would their kin miss them? The Mhybe once mentioned that the Rhivi took on the task of burying the Tiste Andii fallen ... well, we did the same, there in that wood. We sent the regulars packing with boots to the backside. We buried your dead, Korlat. Consigned their souls in the Malazan way ...’

Her eyes were depthless as she studied him. ‘Why?’ she asked quietly.

Whiskeyjack frowned. ‘Why did we bury them? Hood’s breath! We honour our enemies – no matter who they might be. But the Tiste Andii most of all. They accepted prisoners. Treated those that were wounded. They even accepted withdrawal – not once were we pursued after hightailing it from an unwinnable scrap.’

‘And did not the Bridgeburners return the favour, time and again, Commander? And indeed, before long, so did the rest of Dujek Onearm’s soldiers.’

‘Most campaigns get nastier the longer they drag on,’ Whiskeyjack mused, ‘but not that one. It got more ... civilized. Unspoken protocols ...’

‘Much of that was undone when you took Pale.’

He nodded. ‘More than you know.’

Her hand was still on his shoulder. ‘Come with me back to my tent, Whiskeyjack.’

His brows rose, then he smiled and said in a dry tone, ‘Not a night to be alone—’

‘Don’t be a fool!’ she snapped. ‘I did not ask for company – I asked for you. Not a faceless need that must be answered, and anyone will do. Not that. Am I understood?’

‘Not entirely.’