The Crippled God

formality in all this, Highness – is it not best that we each make our own introductions? Mortal Sword, Shield Anvil, it is good to see you both …
    Fist Faradan Sort had held to her own standard of formality, Aranict supposed. Both comfortable and respectful. Whereas Fists Kindly and Blistig had said nothing, the tension between the two men palpable.
    She’d stood close to Commander Brys. It was difficult to know where to look. The Khundryl women, Hanavat and Shelemasa, held back from the others, as if uncertain of their own worth. As words were exchanged between Sort and Krughava and Abrastal on the matter of who should enter first – a clash of deference, of all things – Aranict edged back a step and made her way over to the Khundryl.
    They observed her approach with evident trepidation. Aranict stopped, drew out her pouch and counted out three sticks of rustleaf. She held them up with brows raised. Sudden smiles answered her.
    She stood and smoked with them, a few paces back from all the others, and Aranict caught Brys’s eye and was pleased by the pride she saw in her lover’s regard.
    It was finally determined that Queen Abrastal would be the first to enter, accompanied by the Barghast Warchief Spax, followed by the Perish. When faces turned to the Khundryl women, Hanavat gesturedwith one hand – clearly, now that she had something to do, she was content to wait. Shelemasa seemed even more relieved.
    Brys approached. ‘Atri-Ceda Aranict, if you please, would you escort the Khundryl inside once you are … er, done here.’
    ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘It will be my pleasure.’
    Moments later the three women were alone apart from the two soldiers flanking the tent’s entrance.
    Hanavat was the first to speak. ‘I am tempted to go back to my people. I do not belong in such company.’
    ‘You stand in your husband’s stead,’ said Aranict.
    She grimaced. ‘It is not what I would choose.’
    ‘No one is blind to that,’ Aranict said, as gently as she could. ‘But, if you like, I can invent an excuse …’
    ‘No,’ Hanavat said. ‘Even my husband struggled in this particular duty. The Burned Tears are sworn to the field of battle, in the memory of Coltaine of the Crow clan.’ She released a harsh stream of smoke. ‘But it seems failure finds us no matter where we turn.’ She nodded to the tent. ‘I will stand before their disappointment since my husband dares not. My midwives tell me again and again that a woman’s spirit is stronger than a man’s. This day I mean to prove it.’
    ‘If you like, I shall introduce you, Hanavat.’
    ‘I expect no such formalities, Atri-Ceda. The Adjunct has more important matters to attend to in there.’
    ‘My head is spinning,’ said Shelemasa.
    ‘It passes,’ said Aranict.
    A short time later they were done. Hanavat gestured for Aranict to precede them. The Atri-Ceda turned to the tent entrance, but then Hanavat said, ‘Aranict.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘My commander spoke from the heart with the words he gave you earlier, Hanavat. The Khundryl have nothing to be ashamed of. Indeed, the very opposite is true.’ She led them into the command tent.
    In the outer chamber were the two Malazan captains, Raband and Skanarow. Muted voices came from the other side of the curtain.
    Skanarow gave them all a strained smile. ‘We decided we didn’t want to crowd the room.’
    When Shelemasa hesitated, Hanavat took the younger woman by the arm.
    Aranict drew the entrance curtain to one side. The Khundryl women entered the chamber.
    Conversation fell away.
    As Aranict stepped in she sensed the tension. Mortal Sword Krughava’s face was dark with anger – or shame. A pace behind herwas the Shield Anvil, pale, clearly rattled. Brys stood to the right, his back almost brushing the curtain wall. Alarm was writ plain on his face. To the left stood the queen, taut and watchful as her sharp eyes tracked from Krughava to the Adjunct and back again. Who had just been speaking? Aranict wasn’t sure.
    The Fists stood to the Adjunct’s left, close to the corner of the chamber. Banaschar leaned against a support pole on the other side, his arms crossed and his eyelids half lowered. Close by, as if ready to catch the ex-priest should he collapse, was Lostara Yil.
    Adjunct Tavore looked hale, her expression severe, holding Krughava’s glare unflinchingly.
    Upon the arrival of the Khundryl, Fist Faradan Sort cleared her throat and said, ‘Adjunct,