Whiskeyjack seemed to choke. He coughed, then shook his head. ‘That wouldn’t be the Mott Irregulars, Warlord, would it?’

Brood’s smile revealed filed teeth. ‘Aye, you’ve some experience with them, haven’t you, Commander? When you soldiered among the Bridgeburners.’

‘They were a handful,’ Whiskeyjack agreed, ‘though not just in a fight – they spent most of their time stealing our supplies then running away, as I recall.’

‘A talent for logistics, we called it,’ Kallor commented.

‘I trust,’ Brood said to Dujek, ‘that the arrangements with Darujhistan’s Council have proved satisfactory.’

‘They have, Warlord. Their ... donations ... have allowed us to fulfil our resupply needs.’

‘I believe a delegation is on its way from Darujhistan and should be here in a short while,’ Brood added. ‘Should you require additional assistance . . .’

‘Generous of them,’ the High Fist said, nodding.

‘The command tent awaits us,’ the warlord said. ‘There are details that need to be discussed.’

‘As you say,’ Dujek agreed. ‘Warlord, we have battled one another for a long time – I look forward to fighting side by side for a change. Let us hope the Pannion Domin proves a worthy foe.’

Brood grimaced. ‘But not too worthy.’

‘Granted,’ Dujek said, grinning.

Still standing slightly apart with the Tiste Andii and the Mhybe, Silverfox smiled and spoke quietly. ‘So we have it. They have locked gazes. Taken the measure of the other... and both are pleased.’

‘A remarkable alliance, this,’ Korlat muttered with a faint shake of her head. ‘To so easily relinquish so much...’

‘Pragmatic soldiers,’ the Mhybe said, ‘are the most frightening among the people whom I have known in my short life.’

Silverfox laughed low in her throat. ‘And you doubt your own wisdom, Mother ...’

Caladan Brood’s command tent was situated in the centre of the Tiste Andii encampment. Though she had visited it many times and had acquired some familiarity with the Tiste Andii, the Mhybe was once again struck by the sense of strangeness as she strode with the others into their midst. Antiquity and pathos were twin breaths filling the aisles and pathways between the high-peaked narrow tents. There was little in the way of conversation among the few tall, dark-clothed figures they passed, nor was any particular attention accorded Brood and his entourage – even Korlat, Anomander Rake’s second-in-command, received but scant notice.

It was difficult for the Mhybe to understand – a people plagued by indifference, an apathy that made even the efforts of civil discourse too much to contemplate. There were secret tragedies in the long, tortured past of the Tiste Andii. Wounds that would never heal. Even suffering, the Rhivi had come to realize, was capable of becoming a way of life. To then extend such an existence from decades into centuries, then into millennia, still brought home to the Mhybe a dull shock of horror.

These narrow, arcane tents might be home to ghosts, a restless, roving necropolis haunted with lost spirits. The strangely stained, ragged ribbons tied to the iron tent poles added a votive touch to the scene, as did the gaunt, spectral figures of the Tiste Andii themselves. They seemed to be waiting, an eternal expectation that never failed to send shivers through the Mhybe. And worse, she knew their capabilities – she had seen them draw blades in anger, then wield them with appalling efficiency. And she had seen their sorcery.