‘The achievement of your gift, sir, could see you killed.’

‘Always an even exchange,’ Silverfox muttered, half to herself.

The marines exchanged a glance at those words, legendary in Onearm’s Host.

The Barghast woman had arrived and was standing a few paces distant, sharp, dark eyes fixed intently on the exchange between the Shield Anvil and Silverfox. At the pause, she laughed low in her throat, drawing everyone’s attention.

‘Too bad there are no men worthy of this company,’ she growled. ‘Seeing you, I am reminded of this world’s true heart of power. Malazan marines, a Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords, a witch and a sorceress. And now, to complete the tapestry, a daughter of the White Face Barghast ... bringing food and wine.’

The two marines shot to their feet, grinning.

‘And I would gossip!’ Hetan shouted. ‘Shield Anvil! Itkovian holds to vows no longer, true? I can bed him—’

‘If you can catch him,’ the Grey Sword replied, one brow arching.

‘If he had fifty legs I could still catch him! Silverfox! What of Kruppe, hey?’

The Bonecaster blinked. ‘What of him?’

‘You’re a big woman. You could trap him under you! Leave him squealing!’

‘What a horrifying image.’

‘I’ll grant you he’s round and small and slimy, but clever, yes? Clever heats the blood all on its own, does it not? I have heard that, while you may look like a woman, you remain as a child in the most important way. Stir yourself with desire, lass! You’ve been consorting with the undead and the withered for far too long! Grasp the spear with both hands, I always say!’

Silverfox slowly shook her head. ‘You said you brought wine?’

Grin broadening, Hetan approached. ‘Aye, two bladders as big as your breasts and no doubt just as sweet. Gather, formidable companions, and let us feast!’

Haradas smiled. ‘A wonderful idea, thank you.’

The Shield Anvil hesitated. She glanced over at the marines, then began removing her battered helm. She sighed loudly. ‘Let the wolves wait,’ she said. ‘I cannot hold to dread comportment in the manner of my predecessor—’

‘Cannot?’ Hetan challenged. ‘Or will not?’

‘Will not,’ the woman corrected, pulling her helm free. Sweat-soaked, iron-streaked hair tumbled loose. ‘May the Wolves forgive me.’

‘One of them will,’ the Barghast asserted, crouching to lay out the foodstuffs from her pack.

Coll drew the furs closer about the Mhybe’s frail, shrunken form. There was movement behind the lids of her eyes, random and frantic. Her breath was a broken wheeze. The Daru councillor looked down on her for a moment longer, then he straightened and slipped down from the edge of the wagon-bed.