Spax glanced across at Gaedis, saw the man’s face and the expression that seemed carved from stone. Coward. ‘Highness, I am Warchief of the Gilk. Each day I am under siege from the clan leaders, not to mention the bolder of the young warriors-who’d wage war on the wind if they had any chance of winning. They don’t complain of the coin, Highness. But they want a fight.’
‘Bolkando is at peace,’ Abrastal replied. ‘At least, it was when you were first hired, and now it is so again. If it was war you wanted, Spax, you should have stayed with the other White Faces, since they went and jumped with both feet on to a hornet’s nest.’ She faced him and he saw all the places he could put his hands, given the chance. Her expression darkened. ‘You are Warchief, as you say. A proud title, one with responsibility, one assumes. You are under siege, Spax? Deal with it.’
‘Not many arrows left in my quiver, Highness.’
‘Do I look like a fletcher?’
‘You look like someone with something on her mind.’ Spax spread his broad, scarred hands. ‘I don’t know these Perish Grey Helms, but I know of the order, Highness-’
‘What order?’
‘The warrior cult of the Wolves. A chapter of that cult defended at the siege of Capustan. The Grey Swords, they were called.’
Abrastal studied him for a time, and then she sighed. ‘Gaedis, open us a jug of wine-but don’t even think of pouring yourself one. I’m still annoyed with you for letting this cattle-dog whine his way into my presence.’
The lieutenant saluted and walked to the ornate wooden frame bearing a dozen or so amphorae, drawing a small knife as he scanned the stamps on the dusty necks.
‘Cults, Mortal Swords, Shield Anvils and wolf gods,’ Abrastal said in a mutter, shaking her head. ‘This has the stink of fanaticism-and that well matches my assessment after this evening’s parley. Is it simply war they seek, Spax? One where any face will do?’
The Warchief watched as Gaedis selected a jug and then, with an expert hook and twist of his knife, deftly removed the cork. ‘Impressive, Lieutenant-you learn that between off-handed swordsmanship and riding backwards?’
‘Pay attention to me!’ barked Abrastal. ‘I asked you a question, you island of fleas!’
Spax tilted his head in something between deference and amused insolence. When he saw the flaring of her eyes he bared his teeth and snapped out, ‘As long as you feel inclined to spit out insults, Highness, I will indeed stand as an island. Let the seas crash-the stones will not blink.’
‘Errant’s shit-hole throne-pour that wine, Gaedis!’
Wine sloshed.
Abrastal walked over to her cot and sat down. She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands, and then looked up in time to accept a goblet. She drank deep. ‘Another, damn you.’ Gaedis managed to get the second goblet into Spax’s hand before turning about to retrace his steps. ‘Never mind the Perish for now. You say you know these Malazans, Spax. What can you tell me of this Adjunct Tavore?’
‘Specifically? Almost nothing, Highness. Never met her, and the Barghast have never crossed her path. No, what I can do is tell you about the cant of the Malazan military-as it took shape at the hands of Dassem Ultor, and the way the command structure changed.’
‘It’s a start, but first, what does her title mean? Adjunct? To whom? To what?’
‘Not sure this time round,’ the Warchief admitted after swallowing down a mouthful of wine. ‘They’re a renegade army, after all. So why hold on to the old title? Because it’s what her soldiers are used to, I suppose. Or is there more to it? Highness, the Adjunct-as far as I’ve gathered-was the weapon-bearing hand of the Empress. Her murderer, if you like. Of rivals inside the empire, enemies outside it. Slayer of sorcerors-she carries an otataral weapon, proof against any and all manner of magic.’
Abrastal remained sitting through this, only to rise once more when he paused. She held out her empty goblet and Gaedis poured again. ‘Elite, then, specially chosen-how many of these Adjuncts did this Empress have at any one time?’
Spax frowned. ‘I think… one.’
The Queen halted. ‘And this Malazan Empire-it spans three continents?’
‘And more, Highness.’
‘Yet Tavore is a renegade. The measure of that betrayal…’ she slowly shook her head. ‘How can one trust this Adjunct? It is impossible. I wonder, did this Tavore attempt to usurp her Empress? Is she even now being pursued? Will the enemy they find be none other than her Malazan hunters?’
Spax shrugged. ‘I doubt the Grey Helms would care much either way. It’s a war. As you said, any face will serve. As for the Khundryl, well, they’re sworn to the Adjunct personally, so they will follow her anywhere.’
‘Yes, and why would they do that to a betrayer?’
‘Highness, this is none of our concern,’ said Spax. ‘As much as my warriors lust for a fight, we have put ourselves at a tactical disadvantage-after all, it would have been better to deal with the Khundryl and the Perish back in Bolkando, and then take on the Bonehunters later. Mind you, it’s still possible. A secret emissary to the Saphii, a few tens of thousands of coins-we could catch them by surprise-’
‘No. After all, Spax, if it truly is none of our concern as you say, why attack them at all?’
‘Just my point, Highness. I was simply observing that our opportunity for a tactical advantage is fast disappearing, assuming we had cause, which we haven’t.’
‘I’m not prepared to make any such assumption, Warchief. Thus my dilemma. It is as you describe. None of the three foreign armies still poses us any threat. They have made plain their desire to vanish into the east. Is it time to dust off our hands and return to our beloved homeland?’
‘It might be, Highness.’
‘But then,’ and her frown deepened. ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I have sent a daughter eastward, by sea, Spax. A most precious daughter. It seems you and I share the same curse: curiosity. Kolanse has fallen silent. Our trader ships find nothing but empty ports, abandoned villages. The Pelasiar Sea is empty of traffic. Even the great net-ships have vanished. And yet… and yet… something is there, perhaps deep inland. A power, and it’s growing.’
Spax studied the Queen. She was not dissembling. He saw her fear for her daughter (gods, woman, you got enough of them, what’s the loss of one?) and it was genuine. Your heiress? Does it work that way in Bolkando? How should I know, when I don’t even care? ‘Summon her to return, Highness.’
‘Too late, Spax. Too late.’
‘Highness,’ said the Warchief, ‘do you mean to tell me we’re going with the foreigners? Across the Wastelands?’
Gaedis had frozen in place, two strides to one side where he had been about to open another jug. The lieutenant’s eyes were on his Queen.
‘I don’t know,’ Abrastal said, eventually. ‘No, in fact-we are not equipped for such a venture, nor, I imagine, would they even welcome us. Nonetheless… I will see this Adjunct.’ She fixed Spax with a look that told him her tolerance was at an end, and she said, ‘Chew on what you’ve heard this night, Warchief, and if your stomach still growls, do not bring your complaints to my tent.’
Spax dipped his head and then handed his goblet to Gaedis. ‘I hear your maids readying that bath, Highness. A most restorative conclusion to this night, I’m sure. Good night to you, Highness, Lieutenant.’
Once outside, he set out, not back to his clans, but to the encampments of the Burned Tears. It had occurred to him, when envisioning the grand parley to come, that he and Gall would, in all likelihood, be the only men present. An exciting notion. He wasn’t sure Gall would see it that way, of course, if the rumours he’d picked up were true, but there was another rumour that, if accurate, could offer a common rug for them both. Not a drinker of fancy wines, this Gall. No, the man likes his beer, and if manhood has any measure, it’s that.
Just my opinion, mind. Now, let’s see, Warleader Gall, if you share it.