A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

watched the two Daru set off, followed by Humbrall Taur, Hetan and Cafal.
    Captain Norul said, 'Sir?'
    'Do not wait for me,' he replied. 'You now speak for the Grey Swords, sir.'
    She sighed, strode forward.
    Itkovian slowly scanned the landscape. Apart from the cordon encircling the base of the hill, the two foreign armies were nowhere to be seen. There would be no blustery display of strength to intimidate the city's representatives – a generous gesture that might well be lost on the priests; which was unfortunate indeed, since Rath'Hood, Rath'Burn and Rath'Shadowthrone were in serious need of humbling.
    Fly-bitten and winded would have to do.
    He cast an appraising glance at the Malazan guards. Their weapons, he noted, were superbly crafted, if a little worn. The repairs and mending on their armour had been done in the field – this was an army a long way from home, a long way from resupply annexes. Dark-skinned faces beneath battered helms studied him in return, expressionless, perhaps curious that he had remained here, with only a silent Gidrath carriage-driver for company.
    I am garbed as an officer. Misleading details, now. He drew off his gauntlets, reached up and removed the brooch denoting his rank, let it drop to the ground. He pulled free the grey sash tied about his waist and threw it to one side. Finally, he unstrapped his visored helm.
    The soldier closest to him stepped forward then.
    Itkovian nodded. 'I am amenable to an exchange, sir.'
    'It would hardly be fair,' the man replied in broken Daru.
    'Forgive me if I disagree. The silver inlay and gold crest may well suggest an ornamental function to my war-helm, but I assure you, the bronze and iron banding are of the highest quality, as are the cheek-guards and the webbing. Its weight is but a fraction more than the one you presently bear.'
    The soldier was silent for a long moment, then he slowly unstrapped his camailed helm. 'When you change your mind—'
    'I shall not.'
    'Yes. Only, I was saying, when you change your mind, seek me out and not a single harsh thought to the return. I am named Azra Jael. Eleventh squad, fifth cohort, the third company of marines in Onearm's Host.'
    'I am Itkovian ... once a soldier of the Grey Swords.'
    They made the exchange.
    Itkovian studied the helm in his hands. 'Solidly fashioned. I am pleased.'
    'Aren steel, sir. Hasn't needed hammering out once, so the metal's sound. The camail's Napan, yet to see a sword-cut.'
    'Excellent. I am enriched by the exchange and so humbled.'
    The soldier said nothing.
    Itkovian looked up to the summit. 'Would they be offended, do you think, if I approached? I'll not venture an opinion, of course, but I would hear—'
    The soldier seemed to be struggling against some strong emotion, but he shook his head. 'They would be honoured by your presence, sir.'
    Itkovian half smiled. 'I think not. Besides, I'd rather they did not notice, if truth be told.'
    'Swing round the hill, then. Come up from behind, sir.'
    'Good idea. Thank you, sir, I will. And thank you, as well, for this fine helm.'
    The man simply nodded.
    Itkovian strode through the cordon, the soldiers to either side stepping back a measured pace to let him pass, then saluting as he did so.
    Misplaced courtesy, but appreciated none the less.
    He made his way to the hill's opposite side. The position revealed to him the two encamped armies to the west. Neither one was large, but both had been professionally established, the Malazan forces marked by four distinct but connected fortlets created by mounded ridges and steep-sided ditches. Raised trackways linked them.
    I am impressed by these foreigners. And I must now conclude that Brukhalian was right – could we have held, these would have proved more than a match to Septarch Kulpath's numerically superior forces. They would have broken the siege, if we but could have held ...
    He began the ascent, the Malazan helm tucked under his left arm.
    The wind was fierce near the summit, driving the insects away. Reaching the crest, Itkovian paused. The sun-tarp on its poles was fifteen paces directly ahead. On this, the backside of the formal meeting place, sat a row of water casks and ornate crates bearing the sigil of the Trygalle Trade Guild – well recognizable as the traders had first become established in Elingarth, Itkovian's homeland. Eyes resting on that sigil, he felt proud on their behalf for their evident success.
    A large table had been set up beneath the tarp, but