‘This morning,’ Hetan resumed after a moment, ‘I watched one company of marines strike the tents of three companies, all through the Malazan camp. One for three, again and again.’

‘Aye, one can count on the Malazans!’

Hetan rode closer, reached out and closed a hand on Kruppe’s cloak collar. She half dragged him from his saddle, her smile broadening. ‘Man of Lard,’ she hissed, ‘when I bed you – soon – this mule will need a travois to carry what’s left of you. Dragging everyone along in your dance of words is a fine talent, but come tonight, I will pump the breath from your lungs. I will leave you speechless for days to come. And I will do all this to prove who is the master between us. Now, another utterance from you and I won’t wait until tonight – I will give these children and everyone else a show that you, Daru, will never live down. Ah, I see by your bulging eyes that you understand. Good. Now, stop clenching that mule with your knees – the beast hates it. Settle in that saddle as if it was a horse, for it believes itself to be so. It notes how everyone else rides, notes how the horses carry their charges. Its eyes never rest – have you not noticed? This is the most alert beast this world has ever seen, and don’t ask me why. There, my words are done. Until tonight, Man of Lard, when I will see you melt.’ She released him.

Gasping, Kruppe dropped back onto the saddle. He opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it shut.

Cafal grunted. ‘He learns fast, sister.’

She snorted. ‘You all do, brother.’

The two rode away.

Staring after them, Kruppe removed his handkerchief from a sleeve and patted the sweat from his brow. ‘Dear me. Dear, dearest me. You heard, mule? It is Kruppe who is doomed. Doomed!’

Whiskeyjack studied the two women standing before him, then said, ‘Permission denied.’

‘She ain’t here, sir,’ one of the marines reiterated. ‘We got no-one to watch, right?’

‘You will not rejoin your company, soldiers. You stay with me. Any other issues you wanted to discuss? No? Dismissed.’

The two marines exchanged a glance, then saluted and marched off.

‘Sometimes,’ Artanthos said from a half-dozen paces away, ‘it comes back and sinks its teeth into you, doesn’t it?’

Whiskeyjack eyed the man. ‘What does?’

‘Dassem Ultor’s style of command. Soldiers given permission to think, to question, to argue ...’

‘Making us the best army this world has ever seen, Standard- Bearer.’

‘None the less ...’

‘There is no “none the less”. It is the reason why we’re the best. And when time comes for the hard orders, you’ll see the discipline – you may not have seen it here and now, but it’s there, under the surface, and it’s solid.’

‘As you say,’ Artanthos replied with a shrug.