A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

and not just by that pitching mule.
    Silverfox was staring at him as she drew rein, an expression that Paran could not define. As I had sensed, she's thrown up a wall between us – gods, but she looks like Tattersail! A woman, now. No longer the child. And the illusion of years spanning our parting is complete – she's become guarded, a possessor of secrets that as a child she would not have hesitated to reveal. Hood's breath, every time we meet it seems I must readjust . . . everything.
    Quick Ben spoke, 'Well met. Silverfox, what—'
    'No.'
    'Excuse me?'
    'No, Wizard. I have no explanations that I am prepared to voice. No questions that I will answer. Kruppe has already tried, too many times. My temper is short – do not test it.'
    Guarded, and harder. Much, much harder.
    After a moment, Quick Ben shrugged. 'Be that way, then.'
    'I am that way,' she snapped. 'The anger you would face is Nightchill's, and the rest of us will do nothing to restrain it. I trust I am understood.'
    Quick Ben simply grinned. Cold, challenging.
    'Kind sirs!' Kruppe cried. 'By chance would you be riding to our fair armies? If so, we would accompany you, delighted and relieved to return to said martial bosom. Delighted indeed, with the formidable company of yourselves. Relieved, as Kruppe has said, by the welcoming destination so closely pending. Impatient, it must be admitted, for the resumption of the journey. Incorrigibly optimistic—'
    'That will do, Kruppe,' Silverfox growled.
    'Ahem, of course.'
    If anything truly existed between us, it is now over. She has left Tattersail behind. She is indeed a Bonecaster, now. The realization triggered a weaker pang of loss than he had expected. Perhaps we both have moved on. The pressure of what we have grown into, our hearts cannot overcome.
    So be it. No self-pity. Not this time. We've tasks before us.
    Paran gathered his reins. 'As Kruppe has said. Let us resume – we're already late as it is.'
     
    A large sheet of burlap had been raised over the hilltop to shield the parley from the hot afternoon sun. Malazan soldiers ringed the hill in a protective cordon, crossbows cradled in their arms.
    Eyes on the figures beneath the tarp, Itkovian halted his horse and dismounted a dozen paces from the guards. The Mask Council's carriage had also stopped, the side-doors swinging open to the four representatives of Capustan.
    Hetan had clambered down from her horse with a relieved grunt and now came alongside Itkovian. She thumped his back. 'I've missed you, wolf!'
    'The wolves may be all around me, sir,' Itkovian said, 'but I make no such claim for myself.'
    'The tale's run through the clans,' Hetan said, nodding. 'Old women never shut up.'
    'And young women?' he asked, still studying the figures on the hilltop.
    'Now you dance on danger, dear man.'
    'Forgive me if I offended.'
    'I would forgive you a smile no matter its reason. Aye, not likely. If you've humour you hide it far too well. This is too bad.'
    He regarded her. 'Too bad? Do you not mean tragic?'
    Her eyes narrowed, then she hissed in frustration and set off up the slope.
    Itkovian watched her for a moment, then shifted his attention to the priests who were now gathered beside the carriage. Rath'Shadowthrone was complaining.
    'They would have us all winded! A gentler slope and we could have stayed in the carriage—'
    'Sufficient horses and we might have done the same,' Rath'Hood sniffed. 'This is calculated to insult—'
    'It is nothing of the sort, comrades,' Keruli murmured. 'Even now, swarms of biting insects begin their assault upon our fair selves. I suggest you cease complaining and accompany me to the summit and its saving wind.' With that, the small, round-faced man set off.
    'We should insist – ow!'
    The three scrambled after Keruli, deer-flies buzzing their heads.
    Humbrall Taur laughed. 'They need have only smeared themselves in bhederin grease!'
    Gruntle replied, 'They're slippery enough as it is, Warchief. Besides, it's a far more fitting introduction for our visitors – three masked priests stumbling and puffing and waving at phantoms circling their heads. At least Keruli's showing some dignity, and he's probably the only one among them with a brain worthy of the name.'
    'Thank the gods!' Stonny cried.
    Gruntle turned to her. 'What? Why?'
    'Well, you've just used up your entire store of words, oaf. Meaning you'll be silent for the rest of the day!'
    The huge man's grin was far more feral than he intended.
    Itkovian