Silverfox strode away, as if she had said all she’d intended to say and had no interest in the mundane matters still needing discussion. Itkovian noted that Captain Paran, his dark-skinned companion and Whiskeyjack had already departed. Gruntle seemed to have begun dozing in his chair, oblivious of Stonny’s scowl opposite him. Rath’Hood and Rath’Shadowthrone were slumped in their chairs, masks angled into morose expressions – leaving Itkovian to wonder at how much control the priests had over those lacquered, hinged contrivances.

The new Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords sat motionless, her gaze fixed on Itkovian with unveiled sorrow.

And . . . pity.

I am a distraction. Very well. He stepped back, turned about and made his way towards the back of the tarp.

He was surprised to find Paran, Whiskeyjack and the dark-skinned man waiting there. A tall, martial woman with midnight skin had joined them and now studied Itkovian with extraordinary, almond-shaped eyes the colour of sun-bleached grass.

Meeting that gaze, Itkovian almost staggered. Fener’s tusks, such sadness – an eternity of loss . . . empty existence—

She broke the contact with a startled, then alarmed, expression.

Not for me. Not for my embrace. Not that. Some wounds can never be healed, some memories should never be reawakened. Cast no light upon that darkness, sir. It is too much— He came then to another realization. Fener was gone, and with the god had vanished his protection. Itkovian was vulnerable as he had never been before. Vulnerable to the world’s pain, to its grief.

‘Itkovian, we were hoping,’ Captain Paran said, ‘that you’d come. This is my commander, Whiskeyjack. And Quick Ben, of the Bridgeburners. And the Tiste Andii is Korlat, second to Anomander Rake. We are pleased with your company, Itkovian. Will you join us?’

‘I’ve a restless cask of Gredfallan ale in my tent,’ Whiskeyjack said.

My vow— ‘A welcome invitation, sirs. I accept. Thank you. Mistress,’ he added to Korlat, ‘my deepest apologies.’

‘They are mine to make,’ she replied. ‘I was unguarded, and carelessly unmindful of all that you are.’

The three Malazans looked back and forth at the two of them, but none ventured a query or comment.

‘Allow me,’ Whiskeyjack finally said, setting off down the slope towards the Host’s camp.

The Bridgeburner, Quick Ben, paced alongside Itkovian. ‘Well, it seems Silverfox has surprised us all this day.’

‘I do not know her, sir, and so can make no observation as to her disposition.’

‘You sensed nothing from her?’

‘I did not say that.’

The man flashed a white grin. ‘True enough. You didn’t.’

‘She has done a terrible wrong, sir, yet upon her shoulders it weighs nothing.’

The breath hissed between Quick Ben’s teeth. ‘Nothing? Are you certain? Hood’s breath, that’s not good. Not good at all.’

‘Nightchill,’ Paran said behind them.

Quick Ben threw a glance over a shoulder. ‘You think?’