‘A few times,’ the man replied. ‘When we were both drunk, alas. Her more drunk than me, I’ll admit. Neither of us talk about it, generally. We stumbled onto the subject once and it turned into an argument about which of us was the more embarrassed – ah, lass! What news?’

She reined in hard, her horse’s hooves kicking up dust. ‘Why in Hood’s name should I tell you?’

‘Then why in Hood’s name did you ride back to us?’

She scowled. ‘I was simply returning to my position, oaf – and you, Itkovian, that had better not be a hint of a smile I see there. If it was, I’d have to kill you.’

‘Most certainly not, sir.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘So?’ Gruntle asked her.

‘What?’

‘The news, woman!’

‘Oh, that. Wonderful news, of course, it’s the only kind we hear these days, right? Pleasing revelations. Happy times—’

‘Stonny.’

‘Old friends, Gruntle! Trundling after us about a league back. Big, bone carriage, pulled by a train that ain’t quite what it seems. Dragging a pair of flatbed wagons behind, too, loaded with junk – did I say junk? I meant loot, of course, including more than one sun-blackened corpse. And an old man on the driver’s seat. With a mangy cat in his lap. Well, what do you know? Old friends, yes?’

Gruntle’s expression had flattened, his eyes suddenly cold. ‘No Buke?’

‘Not even his horse. Either he’s flown, or—’

The Mortal Sword wheeled his horse round and drove his heels into the beast’s flanks.

Itkovian hesitated. He glanced at Stonny and was surprised to see undisguised sympathy softening her face. Her green eyes found him. ‘Catch up with him, will you?’ she asked quietly.

He nodded, lowered the visor of his Malazan helm. The faintest shift in weight and a momentary brush of the reins against his horse’s neck brought the animal about.

His mount was pleased with the opportunity to stretch its legs, and given its lighter burden was able to draw Itkovian alongside Gruntle with two-thirds of a league remaining. The Mortal Sword’s horse was already labouring.

‘Sir!’ Itkovian called. ‘Pace, sir! Else we’ll be riding double on the return!’

Gruntle hissed a curse, made as if to urge his horse yet faster, then relented, straightening in the saddle, reins loose, as the beast’s gallop slowed, fell into a canter.

‘Fast trot now, sir,’ Itkovian advised. ‘We’ll drop to a walk in a hundred paces so she can stretch her neck and open full her air passages.’

‘Sorry, Itkovian,’ Gruntle said a short while later. ‘There’s no heat to my temper these days, but that seems to make it all the deadlier, I’m afraid.’

‘Trake would—’