extremely ill at ease until the detachment of Talian cavalry escortinging him rode up to rendezvous. Leading them was Commander Amaron, accompanied by Toc's new aide, Captain Moss.
‘They rejected the offer?’ Amaron called.
‘Yes.’
A sour shake of the head. ‘The fools. They're going to get themselves wiped out.’
‘You're so sure?’
Amaron smiled knowingly, signed for a return to the fortified encampment — Fort Urko, some called it. ‘You are not?’
Ullen merely raised a brow; he motioned to the ruins. ‘I've just come away from speaking with Skinner, Amaron. I never did meet him before, and I have to say he looks every bit as nasty as his reputation.’
‘Oh, I don't doubt that.’ The commander shifted his considerable broad weight on his tall horse. ‘I'm not saying we'll pull down the Avowed. What I'm saying is that if they are so foolish as to take to the field their regular force will be broken and the surviving Avowed will have to withdraw alone. Then what can they do? A handful of men and women cannot hold territory. They will have to flee once again. No, the whole thing, their recruiting and return, will all have been for nothing. A sad waste, really.’
Behind the commander's mount, Ullen and Moss shared a glance, saying nothing. Moss flicked his eyes to indicate the fifty troopers walking their mounts along behind and Ullen nodded. Amaron was not speaking to them; he was speaking to the men, fulfilling one of the obligations of command, bolstering morale.
The Napan turned to Moss. ‘So, Captain, served in Genabackis, did you?’
‘Yes, Commander.’
‘With Dujek?’
‘No, sir. Not directly. I remained up north. Rotated out.’
‘Up north? Why, so you've faced the Guard before, then! Didn't they have a contract with a warlord there, that fellow named Brood?’
‘Yes, sir. I've faced them.’
‘And they were beaten there, weren't they?’
Moss shot Ullen a glance of veiled amusement. Oh yes, sir,’ he responded loudly. ‘They were beaten.’
Half of the cavalry officer's expression told Ullen that he could play Amaron's game too — and had said what the men would be helped to hear. The other half of the expression told Ullen just how far from the truth were the man's words.
The Wickan camp occupied a stretch of the east shore of the River Jurd, just north of Unta. Circular yurts dotted hillsides in a sudden new township of some four thousand. The surrounding Untan villages and hamlets supplied fodder for horses, firewood and staples. Nil and Nether promised eventual payment in trade goods. Rillish and his Malazan command occupied a large farmhouse and compound in the middle of vineyards where bunches of white grapes hung heavy on the stems. Since his night foray with Nether, his sergeant, Talia, had been even more insistent on their intimacy — to his great relief and pleasure, he had to admit.
So it was they lay in bed together one morning when a discreet knock sounded on the door of his room. He pulled on his trousers, while Talia dressed as well, quickly strapping on her swordbelt. ‘What is it?’ he called.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir. Riders from the south.’
‘Yes?’
‘They carry the Imperial banner.’
‘I see. Thank you, sergeant. I'll be down shortly.’
He turned to Talia and she laughed at the embarrassment that must have been obvious. He splashed his hot face in a basin. Outside in the courtyard, horses readied by Chord waited. Rillish mounted, invited Chord to attend him, gave command of the compound over to him, and rode off with a troop of ten.
Wickan horsemen had already met and stopped the small column, which consisted of some twenty Untan cavalry. Room was made for Rillish to edge to the front. He inclined his head to the man leading the column, who, by the markings on his helmet, held the rank of Imperial Fist, though Rillish did not recognize him. The man's dark eyes glanced to him but in no other way did he acknowledge Rillish's presence. Eventually, Nil and Nether arrived from their more distant camp. They pushed through to the front, nodded to the Fist who saluted, bowing. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Fist Tazil Jhern. I am come as envoy from the capital, empowered to discuss terms.’
Nether inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘I am Nether, this is my brother Nil. And this is Lieutenant Rillish Jal Keth. Greetings.’ The man continued to studiously ignore Rillish.
‘What terms, may I ask?’ Nil inquired. Terms of your surrender?’
‘Terms of cessation of hostilities. You have grievances, conditions you wish to discuss, surely?’
The twins exchanged narrowed glances. ‘We have
‘You say you are empowered, Fist,’ Rillish asked. ‘Empowered by whom?’
The envoy said nothing, continued to stare straight ahead. Nether's brow furrowed. ‘The lieutenant asked you a question, Fist.’
‘I am sure you understand that I feel in no way obligated to speak with a traitor,’ the man told her.
Nil flinched, stung, and tightened his reins. ‘Then I am sure you understand that we-’
Struggling to keep his astonishment from his face, Rillish bowed stiffly. ‘As you order.’
Nil invited the Fist onward. ‘This way, envoy.’
Later that day, the Fist begged off early to retire to the quarters prepared for his party. Once the man left the large tent a fury of debate leapt to life among the gathered clan representatives, elders and surviving warlocks. The twins sat quietly, letting the storm blow itself out. Rillish was alarmed by some opinions he overheard: sacking the province, ravaging the countryside, even claiming the Throne. When that suggestion, taking the Throne, was called across the tent to Nil, he merely observed, ‘What would we do with it? It's too heavy to sit on a horse.’
A new round of debate began, this time peppered by escalating retorts, condemnations and insults. It seemed to Rillish that the discussion was veering further and further into the territory of past transgressions, slights and ages-old grudges. He glanced to Nil and saw him watching — the lad winked, tilted his head to invite him outside. Rillish uncrossed his numb legs, bowed to the assembly and ducked out of the tent.
Without, twilight was gathering. The hillside sloped down like a dark green swath of silk to the Jurd, which glimmered, tree-lined, wide and black. The air was thick with the scent of ripeness, pressing into rot. Night moths and flies clouded around, attracted by the light. It occurred to Rillish that he was home yet this was no longer his home. Where could he call home now? The Wickan plains? They could hardly be expected to be welcoming at this point. Nil ducked out, joining him. The lad hugged himself over his plain deerskin jerkin. His unkempt black hair was a tangle, yet Rillish said nothing — one does not tell the premier Wickan warlock that he needs a haircut.
‘A rich land,’ the youth said, viewing the green hillsides. ‘You people have done well by it.’
Rillish eyed the Wickan adolescent, blinking. ‘Pardon…?’
A blush and duck of the head. ‘Sorry. All this once belonged to my ancestors.’
‘No, Nil,’ Rillish managed, his stomach clenching, ‘It is I who am sorry.’
The youth blew out a breath. ‘So different from Seven Cities.’
‘So, what will you do?’ Rillish asked, gesturing to the tent.
‘We will let them talk, then give our opinions, then let them talk some more, then give our opinions again and let them talk. Once they begin saying our opinions back to us as if they are their own, then we will agree with their wisdom and we will have their unshakable support.’
Rillish eyed the lad, who was looking down the slope, unmindful of his regard. ‘Nil?’
‘Yes?’
‘You are far too young to be so cynical.’
A bright smile. ‘My sister and I are far from young, Lieutenant.’
