A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

are all pulled, as tides are pulled by an unseen, implacable will—'
    The girl's hand tightened in the Mhybe's hand. 'Then ask Korlat, Mother, what her memories tell her.'
    Glancing over at the Tiste Andii, the Rhivi woman raised her brows and said, 'You have been listening, yet saying nothing. What reply does my daughter expect from you?'
    Korlat's smile was wistful. 'Experiences are the same. Between your two armies, indeed. But also ... across the breadth of time. Among all who possess memories, whether an individual or a people, life's lessons are ever the same lessons.' The Tiste Andii's now-violet eyes rested on Silverfox. 'Even among the T'lan Imass – is this what you are telling us, child?'
    She shrugged. 'In all that is to come, think on forgiveness. Hold to it, but know too that it must not always be freely given.' Silverfox swung her sleepy gaze to Korlat and the dark eyes suddenly hardened. 'Sometimes forgiveness must be denied.'
    Silence followed. Dear spirits, guide us. This child frightens me. Indeed, I can understand Kallor . . . and that is more worrying than anything else.
    They came to a halt far to one side of the place of parley just beyond the pickets of Brood's encampment.
    Moments later, the Malazans reached the rise. There were four of them. The Mhybe had no difficulty in recognizing Dujek, the now-renegade High Fist. The one-armed man was older than she had expected, however, and he sat in the saddle of his roan gelding as would a man pained with old aches and stiff bones. He was thin, of average height, wearing plain armour and an undecorated standard-issue shortsword strapped to his belt. His narrow, hatchet face was beardless, displaying a lifetime of battle scars. He wore no helmet, the only indication of rank being his long grey cape and its silver-wrought fastening.
    At Dujek's left side rode another officer, grey-bearded and solidly built. A visored helm with a chain camail disguised much of his features, but the Mhybe sensed in him an immeasurable strength of will. He sat straight in his saddle, though she noted that his left leg was held awkwardly, the boot not in the stirrup. The chain of his calf-length hauberk was battered and ribboned with leather stitches. That he sat on Dujek's unprotected left side was not lost on the Mhybe.
    To the renegade High Fist's right sat a young man, evidently an aide of some sort. He was nondescript, yet she saw that his eyes roved ceaselessly, taking in details of all that he saw. It was this man who held the outlawry pennon in one leather-gloved hand.
    The fourth rider was a Black Moranth, entirely encased in chitinous armour, and that armour was badly damaged. The warrior had lost all four fingers of his right hand, yet he continued to wear what was left of its gauntlet. Countless sword-slashes marred the gleaming black armour.
    Korlat grunted softly beside her. 'That's a hard-bitten lot, wouldn't you say?'
    The Mhybe nodded. 'Who is that on Dujek Onearm's left?'
    'Whiskeyjack, I would imagine,' the Tiste Andii replied with a wry smile. 'Cuts quite a figure, doesn't he?'
    For a moment the Mhybe felt like the young woman that she was in truth. She wrinkled her nose. 'Rhivi aren't that hairy, thank the spirits.'
    'Even so ...'
    'Aye, even so.'
    Silverfox spoke. 'I would like him for an uncle.'
    The two women looked down at her in surprise.
    'An uncle?' the Mhybe asked.
    The girl nodded. 'You can trust him. While the one-armed old man is hiding something – well, no, they both are and it's the same secret, yet I trust the bearded one any-way. The Moranth – he laughs inside. Always laughs, and no-one knows this. Not a cruel laugh, but one filled with sorrow. And the one with the banner ...' Silverfox frowned. 'I am uncertain of him. I think I always have been ...'
    The Mhybe met Korlat's eyes over the girl's head.
    'I suggest,' the Tiste Andii said, 'we move closer.'
    As they approached the rise two figures emerged from the picket line, followed by an outrider bearing a pennon-less standard, all on foot. Seeing them, the Mhybe wondered what the Malazans would make of the two warriors in the lead. There was Barghast blood in Caladan Brood, reflected in his tall, hulking form and his wide, flat face; and something else besides, something not quite human. The man was huge, well matched to the iron hammer strapped to his back. He and Dujek had been duelling on this continent for over twelve years, a clash of wills that had seen more than a score