The Malazans had built well, each barge carrying broad, solid ramps that neatly joined bow to bow, while the sterns had been designed to fit flush once the backwash guards had been removed. The bridge they formed when linked was both flexible where required, and secure everywhere else, and it was surprisingly wide – capable of allowing two wagons to travel side by side.

Commander Whiskeyjack and his companies of the Host had crossed the river more than fifteen bells ago, followed by Humbrall Taur’s three clans of Barghast. Gruntle knew that Itkovian had hoped to see and meet with both men once again, in particular Whiskeyjack, but by the time they’d come within sight of the river, Malazan and Barghast were both long gone.

Caladan Brood had encamped his forces for the night on this side of River Maurik, rousing his troops three bells before dawn. They had just completed their crossing. Gruntle wondered at the disparity of pace between the two allied armies.

They reined in among the Rhivi herders. A tall, awkward-looking man who was not Rhivi stood off to one side, watching the bhederin thump their way across the first barge to hoots and whistles from the drivers.

Gruntle dismounted and approached the lone man. ‘Mott Irregulars?’ he asked.

‘High Marshal Sty,’ the man replied with a lopsided, toothy grin. ‘I’m glad you’re here – I can’t understand these little guys at all. I’ve been trying real hard, too. I guess they’re speaking a different language.’

Gruntle glanced back at Itkovian, expressionless, then faced the High Marshal once more. ‘So they are. Have you been standing here long?’

‘Since last night. Lots of people have crossed. Lots. I watched them put the barges together. They were fast. The Malazans know wood, all right. Did you know Whiskeyjack was apprenticed as a mason, before he became a soldier?’

‘No, I didn’t. What has that got to do with carpentry, High Marshal?’

‘Nothing. I was just saying.’

‘Are you waiting for the rest of your company?’ Gruntle asked.

‘Not really, though I suppose they’ll show up sooner or later. They’ll come after the bhederin, of course, so they can collect the dung. These little guys do that, too. We’ve had a few fights over that, you know. Tussles. Good-natured, usually. Look at them, what they’re doing – kicking all that dung into a pile and guarding it. If I get any closer, they’ll pull knives.’

‘Well, then I’d suggest you not get any closer, High Marshal.’

Sty grinned again. ‘There’d be no fun, then. I ain’t waiting here for nothing, you know.’

Itkovian dismounted and joined them.

Gruntle swung to the herders, spoke in passable Rhivi, ‘Which of you is in charge here?’

A wiry old man looked up, stepped forward. ‘Tell him to go away!’ he snapped, stabbing a finger at High Marshal Sty.