'Then hold your tongue.' Brood faced the others and waved them to the entrance. Crone, perched over everyone, bobbed her head as each soldier strode beneath her. When it was the Mhybe's turn the Great Raven chuckled. 'The child in your hand is about to surprise us all, old woman.'
The Rhivi paused. 'What do you sense, old crow?'
Crone laughed in silence before replying, 'Immanence, dearest clay pot, and naught else. Greetings, child Silverfox.'
The girl studied the Great Raven for a moment, then said, 'Hello, Crone. I had not before realized that your kind were born in the rotting flesh of a-'
'Silence!' Crone shrieked. 'Such knowledge should never be spoken! You must learn to remain silent, child — for your own safety-'
'For yours, you mean,' Silverfox said, smiling.
'In this instance, aye, I'll not deny it. Yet listen to this wise old creature before stepping into this tent, child. There are those waiting within who will view the extent of your awareness — should you be foolish enough to reveal it — as the deadliest threat. Revelations could mean your death. And know this: you are not yet able to protect yourself. Nor can the Mhybe, whom I cherish and love, hope to defend you — hers is not a violent power. You will both need protectors, do you understand?'
Her smile unperturbed, Silverfox nodded.
The Mhybe's hand tightened instinctively around her daughter's, even as a tumult of emotions assailed her. She was not blind to the threats to Silverfox and herself, nor was she unaware of the powers burgeoning within the child. But I sense no power within me, violent or otherwise. Though spoken with affection, Crone named me 'clay pot' in truth, and all that it once protected is no longer within me, but standing here, exposed and vulnerable, at my side. She glanced up at the Great Raven one last time as Silverfox led her inside. She met Crone's black, glittering eyes. Love and cherish me, do you, crow? Bless you for that.
The command tent's central chamber was dominated by a large map table of rough-hewn wood, warped and misshapen as if cobbled together by a drunken carpenter. As the Mhybe and Silverfox entered, the veteran Whiskeyjack — helmet unstrapped and under one arm — was laughing, his eyes fixed upon the table.
'You bastard, Warlord,' he said, shaking his head.
Brood was frowning at the object of Whiskeyjack's attention. 'Aye, I'll grant you it's not pretty-'
'That's because Fiddler and Hedge made the damned thing,' the Malazan said. 'In Mott Wood-'
'Who are Fiddler and Hedge?'
'My two sappers, when I was commanding the Ninth Squad. They'd organized one of their notorious card games, using the Deck of Dragons, and needed a surface on which to play it. A hundred fellow Bridgeburners had gathered for the game, despite the fact that we were under constant attack, not to mention bogged down in the middle of a swamp. The game was interrupted by a pitched battle — we were overrun, then driven back, then we retook the position, all of which consumed maybe a bell — and lo, someone had walked off with a two hundred pound table in the meantime! You should have heard the sappers cursing…'
Caladan Brood crossed his arms, still frowning at the table. After a few moments he grunted. 'A donation from the Mott Irregulars. It has served me well — my, uh, compliments to your sappers. I can have it returned-'
'No need, Warlord …' It seemed the Malazan was about to say something more, something important, but then he simply shook his head.
A soft gasp from Silverfox startled the Mhybe. She looked down, brows raised questioningly, but the girl's attention was swinging from the table to Whiskeyjack, then back again, a small smile on her lips. 'Uncle Whiskeyjack,' she said suddenly.
All eyes turned to Silverfox, who blithely continued, 'Those sappers and their games — they cheat, don't they?'
The bearded Malazan scowled. 'Not an accusation I'd recommend you repeat, especially if there's any Bridgeburners around, lass. A lot of coin's gone one way and one way only in those games. Did Fid and Hedge cheat? They made their rules so complicated no-one could tell one way or the other. So, to answer you, I don't know.' His scowl was deepening as he studied Silverfox, as if the man was growing troubled by something.
Something. like a sense of familiarity … Realization dawned within the Mhybe. Of course, he knows nothing about her — about what she is, what she was. It's their first meeting, as far as he's concerned, yet she called him uncle, and more, there's that voice — throaty, knowing … He knows not the child, but the woman she once was.
Everyone waited for Silverfox to say more, to offer explanation. Instead she simply walked up to the table and slowly ran her hand across its battered surface. A fleeting smile crossed her features. Then she pulled close one of the mismatched chairs and sat down.
Brood sighed, gestured to Hurlochel. 'Find us that map of the Pannion Domin territories.'
With the large map laid out, the others slowly gathered round the table. After a moment, Dujek grunted. 'None of our own maps are this detailed,' he said. 'You've noted the locations of various Pannion armies — how recent is this?'
'Three days,' Brood said. 'Crone's cousins are there, tracking movements. The notes referring to the Pannions' means of organization and past tactics have been culled from various sources. As you can see, they're poised to take the city of Capustan. Maurik, Setta and Lest have all fallen within the past four months. The Pannion's forces are still on the south side of the Catlin River, but preparations for the crossing have begun-'
'The Capustan army won't contest that crossing?' Dujek asked. 'If not, then they're virtually inviting a siege. I take it no-one expects Capustan to put up much of a fight.'
'The situation in Capustan is a bit confused,' the warlord explained. 'The city's ruled by a prince and a coalition of High Priests, and the two factions are ever at odds with each other. Problems have been compounded by the prince's hiring a mercenary company to augment his own minimal forces-'
'What company?' Whiskeyjack asked.
'The Grey Swords. Have you heard of them, Commander?'
'No.'
'Nor have I,' Brood said. 'It's said they're up from Elingarth — a decent complement: over seven thousand. Whether they'll prove worthy of the usurious fees they've carved from the prince remains to be seen. Hood knows, their so-called standard contract is almost twice the coin of what the Crimson Guard demands.'
'Their commander read the situation,' Kallor commented, his tone suggesting vast weariness, if not outright boredom. 'Prince Jelarkan has more coin than soldiers, and the Pannions won't be bought off — it's a holy war as far as the Seer's concerned, after all. To worsen matters, the council of High Priests has the backing of each temple's private company of highly trained, well-equipped soldiers. That's almost three thousand of the city's most able fighters, whilst the prince himself has been left with dregs for his own Capanthall — which he's prevented from expanding beyond two thousand by law. For years the Mask Council — the coalition of temples — has been using the Capanthall as a recruiting ground for their own companies, bribing away the best-'
Clearly the Mhybe wasn't alone in suspecting that, given the opportunity, Kallor would have gone on all afternoon, for Whiskeyjack interrupted the man as he drew breath.
'So this Prince Jelarkan circumvented the law by hiring mercenaries.'
'Correct,' was Brood's swift reply. 'In any case, the Mask Council has managed to invoke yet another law, preventing the Grey Swords from active engagement beyond the city walls, so the crossing will not be contested-'
'Idiots,' Dujek growled. 'Given this is a holy war, you'd think the temples would do all they could to effect a united front against the Pannions.'