A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

courageous enterprise!'
    'If you speak a word of this to anyone,' Quick Ben growled, 'I will slit your throat.'
    The Daru withdrew his decrepit handkerchief and mopped his forehead, three quick dabs that seemed to leave the silk cloth sodden with sweat. 'Kruppe assures deadly wizard that silence is as Kruppe's closest mistress, lover unseen and unseeable, unsuspected and unmitigable. Whilst at the same time, Kruppe proclaims that the fair citizens of Darujhistan will hark to such a noble cause – Baruk himself so assures and would do so in person were he able. Alas, he has naught but this to offer.' With that Kruppe withdrew with a flourish a small glass ball from the handkerchief, then dropped it to the ground. It broke with a soft tinkle. Mists rose, gathered knee-high between the Daru and the two Malazans, and slowly assumed the form of a bhokaral.
    'Aai,' Kruppe muttered, 'such ugly, indeed visually offensive, creatures.'
    'Only because you resemble them all too closely,' Quick Ben pointed out, his eyes on the apparition.
    The bhokaral twisted its neck to look up at the wizard, glittering black eyes in a black, grapefruit-sized head. The creature bared its needle teeth. 'Greet! Baruk! Master! Would! Help!'
    'Sadly terse effort on dear, no doubt overworked Baruk's part,' Kruppe said. 'His best conjurations display linguistic grace, if not amiable fluidity, whilst this . . . thing, alas, evinces—'
    'Quiet, Kruppe,' Quick Ben said. He spoke to the bhokaral. 'Uncharacteristic as it sounds, I would welcome Baruk's help, but I must wonder at the alchemist's interest. This is a rebellion in Seven Cities, after all. A Malazan matter.'
    The bhokaral's head bobbed. 'Yes! Baruk! Master! Raraku! Azath! Great!' The head jumped up and down again.
    'Great?' Paran echoed.
    'Great! Danger! Azath! Icarium! More! Coltaine! Admire! Honour! Allies! Yes! Yes?'
    'Something tells me this won't be easy,' Quick Ben muttered. 'All right, let's get down to details ...'
    Paran turned at the sound of an approaching rider. The figure appeared, indistinct in the starlight. The first detail the captain noted was the horse, a powerful destrier, proud and clearly short-tempered. The woman astride the animal was by contrast unprepossessing, her armour plain and old, the face beneath the rim of the helm apparently undistinguished, middle-aged.
    Her gaze flicked to Kruppe, the bhokaral and Quick Ben. Her expression unchanged, she said to Paran, 'Captain, I would a word with you in private, sir.'
    'As you wish,' he replied, and led her off fifteen paces from the others. 'Private enough?'
    'This will suffice,' the woman replied, reining in and dismounting. She stepped up to him. 'Sir, I am the Destriant of the Grey Swords. Your soldiers hold a prisoner and I have come to formally request that he be taken into our care.'
    Paran blinked, then nodded. 'Ah, that would be Anaster, who once commanded the Tenescowri.'
    'It would, sir. We are not yet done with him.'
    'I see ...' He hesitated.
    'Has he recovered from his wounds?'
    'The lost eye? He has been treated by our healers.'
    'Perhaps,' the Destriant said, 'I should deliver my request to High Fist Dujek.'
    'No, that won't be necessary. I can speak on behalf of the Malazans. In that capacity, however, it's incumbent that I ask a few questions first.'
    'As you wish, sir. Proceed.'
    'What do you intend to do with the prisoner?'
    She frowned. 'Sir?'
    'We do not countenance torture, no matter what his crime. If it is required, we would be forced to extend protection over Anaster, and so deny your request.'
    She glanced away briefly, then fixed her level gaze on him once more, and Paran realized she was much younger than he had at first assumed. 'Torture, sir, is a relative term.'
    'Is it?'
    'Please, sir, permit me to continue.'
    'Very well.'
    'The man, Anaster, might well view what we seek for him as torture, but that is a fear born of ignorance. He will not be harmed. Indeed, my Shield Anvil seeks the very opposite for the unfortunate man.'
    'She would take the pain from him.'
    The Destriant nodded.
    'That spiritual embrace – such as Itkovian did to Rath'Fener.'
    'Even so, sir.'
    Paran was silent a moment, then he said, 'The notion terrifies Anaster?'
    'Yes.'
    'Why?'
    'Because he knows of nothing else within him. He has equated his entire identity with the pain of his soul. And so fears its end.'
    Paran turned towards the Malazan camp. 'Follow me,' he said.
    'Sir?' she asked behind him.
    'He is yours,