A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

gathering up his supplies in the soldier's wake.
    Whiskeyjack reined in. 'Good day to you, Itkovian.'
    'And to you, sir. Is there something you wish of me?'
    The bearded soldier shrugged, scanning the area. 'I am looking for Silverfox. Her, or the two marines who are supposed to be accompanying her.'
    'Following her, you no doubt mean. They passed me earlier, first Silverfox, then the two soldiers. Riding east.'
    'Did any of them speak with you?'
    'No. They rode at some distance from me, so courtesies were not expected. Nor did I endeavour to hail them.'
    The commander grimaced.
    'Is something wrong, sir?'
    'Quick Ben's been using his warrens to assist in the crossing. Our forces are on the other side and are ready to march, since we've the longer road.'
    'Indeed. Is Silverfox not of the Rhivi, however? Or do you simply wish to make formal your goodbye?'
    His frown deepened. 'She's as much Malazan as Rhivi. I would ask her to choose whom to accompany.'
    'Perhaps she has, sir.'
    'Maybe not,' Whiskeyjack replied, eyes now fixed on something to the east.
    Itkovian turned, but since he was on foot it was a moment longer before the two riders came into his line of sight. The marines, approaching at a steady canter.
    They drew up before their commander.
    'Where is she?' Whiskeyjack asked.
    The marine on the right shrugged. 'We followed her to the coast. Above the tide-line was a row of lumpy hills surrounded by swampy ditches. She rode into one of the hills, Whiskeyjack—'
    'Rode into the side of one of 'em,' the other elaborated. 'Vanished. Not a pause nor a stumble from her horse. We rode up to the spot but there was nothing there but grass, mud and rocks. We've lost her, which is, I guess, what she wanted.'
    The commander was silent.
    Itkovian had expected a heartfelt curse at the very least, and was impressed at the man's self-control.
    'All right. Ride back with me. We're crossing to the other side.'
    'We saw Gumble's pet on the way out.'
    'I've already sent him and Ormulogun back. Theirs is the last wagon, and you well know Ormulogun's instructions regarding his collection.'
    The marines nodded.
    Itkovian asked, 'His collection? How many scenes has he painted since Pale?'
    'Since Pale?' one of the marines grinned. 'There's over eight hundred stretches in that wagon. Ten, eleven years' worth. Dujek here, Dujek there, Dujek even where he wasn't but should have been. He's already done one of the siege of Capustan, with Dujek arriving in the nick of time, tall in his saddle and coming through the gate. There's one White Face Barghast crouching in the gate's shadow, looting a dead Pannion. And in the storm clouds over the scene you'll make out Laseen's face if you look carefully enough—'
    'Enough,' Whiskeyjack growled. 'Your words give offence, soldier. The man before you is Itkovian.'
    The marine's grin broadened but she said nothing.
    'We know that, sir,' the other one said. 'Which is why my comrade here was teasing him. Itkovian, there's no such painting. Ormulogun is the Host's historian, since we ain't got any other, and he's charged on pain of death to keep things accurate, right down to the nosehairs.'
    'Ride,' Whiskeyjack told them. 'I would a private word with Itkovian.'
    'Aye, sir.'
    The two marines departed.
    'Apologies, Itkovian—'
    'No need, sir. There is welcome relief to such irreverence. In fact, it pleases me that they would display such comfort.'
    'Well, they're only like that with people they respect, though it's often taken as the opposite, which can lead to all sorts of trouble.'
    'So I would imagine.'
    'Well,' Whiskeyjack said gruffly, then surprised Itkovian by dismounting, stepping up to him and holding out his gauntleted hand. 'Among the soldiers of the Empire,' he said, 'where the worn gauntlet is for war and nothing other than war, to remain gauntleted when grasping the hand of another, in peace, is the rarest of gestures.'
    'So it, too, is often misunderstood,' Itkovian said. 'I, sir, do not miscomprehend the significance, and so am honoured.' He grasped the commander's hand. 'You accord me far too much—'
    'I do not, Itkovian. I only wish you were travelling with us, so that I could come to know you better.'
    'Yet we will meet at Maurik, sir.'
    Whiskeyjack nodded. 'Until then, Itkovian.'
    They released their grips. The commander swung himself back into the saddle and gathered the reins. He hesitated, then said, 'Are all Elin like you, Itkovian?'
    He shrugged. 'I am not unique.'
    'Then