Anaster finally rode clear of the camp. His lone eye noted Gruntle and the man reined in, waited for the Daru.

He spoke before Gruntle had a chance to do the same, ‘You’re Gruntle, Trake’s Mortal Sword. The Destriant has told me about you. I’m glad you’ve come.’ Anaster glanced back at the Tenescowri, who hung back, within their encampment, as if its edge was some kind of invisible, impassable barrier, then the young man dismounted. ‘The Shield Anvil insisted I remain visible,’ he grunted, wincing as he stretched his legs. ‘Much more of this and I’ll start walking like a Wickan.’

‘You said you are glad that I’ve come,’ Gruntle rumbled. ‘Why?’

‘Well, you’re a Mortal Sword, right? They’re calling me one, too. I guess, uh, well. What does that mean, anyway?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No. Do you?’

Gruntle said nothing for a long moment, then he grinned. ‘Not really.’

The tension left Anaster in a heartfelt sigh. He stepped close. ‘Listen. Before this – uh, before I arrived in this body, I was a scout in the Malazan army. And as far as I was concerned, temples were where poor people paid to keep the priests’ wine cellars well stocked. I don’t want followers. That Destriant back there, the Shield Anvil – gods, what a hard woman! They’re piling expectations on me – I’m feeling like that man Itkovian is feeling right now, not that he’s feeling anything, I suppose. Hood, just mentioning his name breaks my heart and I never even knew him.’

‘I did, Anaster. Relax, lad – about everything. Did you think I asked to be Trake’s Mortal Sword? I was a caravan guard, and a miserable one and I was happy with it—’

‘You were happy being miserable?’

‘Damned right I was.’

Anaster suddenly smiled. ‘I stumbled on a small cask of ale – it’s back in the camp of the Grey Swords. We should go for a walk, Gruntle.’

‘Under the trees, aye. I’ll find Stonny – a friend. You’ll like her, I think.’

‘A woman? I like her already. I’ll get the ale, meet you back here.’

‘A sound plan, Anaster. Oh, and don’t tell the Destriant or the Shield Anvil—’

‘I won’t, even if they torture me ...’ His voice fell away, and Gruntle saw the young man grow paler than usual. Then he shook his head. ‘See you soon, friend.’

‘Aye.’ Friend ... Yes, I think so.

He watched Anaster swing back onto the horse – the man he had been knew how to ride.

No, not the man he had been. The man he is. Gruntle watched him riding away for a moment longer, then turned back to find Stonny.

Steam or smoke still drifted from the four Trygalle Trade Guild carriages waiting at the base of the hill. Quick Ben had gone ahead to speak with the train’s master – an opulently dressed, overweight man whose bone-deep exhaustion was discernible from fifty paces away.