Menackis and Gruntle and his score of barbed followers, along with a hundred or so Rhivi — mostly elders and their dogs. The animals snapped and squabbled in the confines of the flat, shallow craft, then settled down for the journey's second half once they'd managed to fight their way to the gunnels and could look out over the river.
The dogs were the first off when the barge ground ashore on the south side, barking wildly as they splashed through the reeds, and Itkovian was glad for their departure. Only half listening to Gruntle and Stonny exchanging insults like a husband and wife who had known each other far too long, Itkovian readied his horse to await the laying down of planks, and watched with mild interest the Rhivi elders following in the wake of their dogs without heed to the shore's churned mud and matted reeds.
The low, worn-down hills on this side of the river still held a haze of dust and dung-smoke, draped like a mourner's veil over the army's score thousand or more tents. Apart from a few hundred Rhivi herders and the bhederin herd they were tasked to drive across come the dawn, the entire force of the invaders was now on Pannion territory.
No-one had contested the landing. The low hills to the south seemed devoid of life, revealing naught but the worn tracks left behind by Septarch Kulpath's besieging army.
Gruntle moved up alongside him. 'Something tells me we'll be marching through razed land all the way down to Coral.'
'That seems likely, sir. It is as I would have done, were I the Seer.'
'I sometimes wonder if Brood and Dujek realize that the army that besieged Capustan was but one among at least three of comparable size. And while Kulpath was a particularly effective Septarch, there are six others competent enough to cause us grief.'
Itkovian pulled his gaze from the encampment ahead to study the hulking warrior at his side. 'We must assume our enemy is preparing for us. Yet, within the Domin, the last grains of the bell-glass are even now trickling down.'
Treach's Mortal Sword grunted. 'You know something the rest of us don't?'
'Not specifically, sir. I have but drawn conclusions based on such details as I was able to observe when viewing Kulpath's army, and the Tenescowri.'
'Well, don't keep them to yourself.'
Itkovian returned his gaze to the south. After a moment he sighed. 'Cities and governments are but the flowering head of a plant whose stalk is the commonalty, and it is the commonalty whose roots are within the earth, drawing the necessary sustenance that maintains the flower. The Tenescowri, sir, is the Domin's surviving commonalty — people torn from their land, from their villages, their homes, their farms. All food production has ceased, and in its place has arisen the horror of cannibalism. The countryside before us is indeed razed, but not in answer to us. It has been a wasteland for some time, sir. Thus, while the flower still blazes its colour, it is in fact already dead.'
'Drying from a hook beneath the Crippled God's shelf?'
Itkovian shrugged. 'Caladan Brood and the High Fist have selected cities as their destinations. Lest, Setta, Maurik and Coral. Of these, I believe only the last still lives. None of the others would be able to feed a defending army; indeed, not even its own citizenry — if any still remain. The Seer has no choice but to concentrate his forces on the one city where he now resides, and his soldiers will have no choice but to assume the practices of the Tenescowri. I suspect that the Tenescowri were created for that eventual purpose — as food for the soldiers.'
Gruntle's expression was troubled. 'What you describe, Itkovian, is an empire that was never meant to sustain itself.'
'Unless it could continue to expand without surcease.'
'But even then, it would be alive only on its outer, ever-advancing edges, spreading out from a dead core, a core that grew with it.'
Itkovian nodded. 'Aye, sir.'
'So, if Brood and Dujek are expecting battles at Setta, Lest and Maurik, they may be in for a surprise.'
'So I believe.'
'Those Malazans will end up doing a lot of pointless marching,' Gruntle observed, 'if you're right.'
'Perhaps there are other issues sufficient to justify the division of forces, Mortal Sword.'
'Not quite as united as they would have us believe?'
'There are powerful leaders gathered within that command, sir. It is perhaps miraculous that a serious clash of wills has not yet occurred.'
Gruntle said nothing for a time.
The broad wicker platforms were being anchored in place at the front of the barge, a company of mercenaries assembling the walkway with practised efficiency.
'Let us hope, then,' he finally rumbled, 'the siege at Coral is not a long one.'
'It will not be,' Itkovian asserted. 'I predict a single attack, intended to overwhelm. A combination of soldiery and sorcery. The massive sundering of defences is the intention of the warlord and the High Fist. Both are well aware of the risks inherent in any prolonged investment.'
'Sounds messy, Itkovian.'
Stonny Menackis came up behind them, leading her horse. 'Get moving, you two — you're holding us all up and this damned barge is settling. If I get any mud on these new clothes, I will kill whoever's to blame. Barbed or otherwise.'
Itkovian smiled. 'I'd intended complimenting you on your garb-'
'The wonders of the Trygalle. Made to order by my favourite tailor in Darujhistan.'
'You seem to favour green, sir.'
'Ever seen a jaelparda?'
Itkovian nodded. 'Such snakes are known in Elingarth.'
'Deadly kissers, jaelparda. This green is a perfect match, isn't it? It'd better be. It's what I paid for and it wasn't cheap. And this pale gold — you see? Lining the cloak? Ever looked at the underbelly of a white paralt?'
'The spider?'
'The death-tickler, aye. This is the colour.'
'I could not have mistaken it for otherwise,' Itkovian replied.
'Good, I'm glad someone here understands the subtle nuances of high civilization. Now move your damned horse or what you ain't used for far too long will get introduced to the toe of my shiny new boot.'
'Yes, sir.'
Corporal Picker watched Detoran drag Hedge towards her tent. The two passed in silence along the very edge of the firepit's light. Before they vanished once more into the gloom, Picker was witness to a comic pantomime as Hedge, the skin of his face stretched taut in a wild grimace, sought to bolt in an effort to escape Detoran. She responded by reaching up to grip the man's throat and shaking his head back and forth until his struggles ceased.
After they'd disappeared, Blend grunted. 'What night thankfully hides …'
'Not well enough, alas,' Picker muttered, poking at the fire with a splintered spear-shaft.
'Well, she'll probably be gagging him right now, then ripping off his-'
'All right all right, I take your point.'
'Poor Hedge.'
'Poor Hedge nothing, Blend. If it didn't get him going it wouldn't still be going on night after night.'
'Then again, we're soldiers one and all.'
'And what's that mean?'
'Means we know that following orders is the best way of staying alive.'
'So Hedge had better stand to attention if he wants to keep breathing? Is that what you're saying? I'd have thought terror'd leave it limp and dangling.'
'Detoran used to be a master sergeant, remember. I once saw a recruit stay at attention for a bell and a half after the poor lad's heart had burst to one of her tirades. A bell and a half, Picker, standing there dead and cold-'
'Rubbish. I was there. It was about a tenth of a bell and you know it.'
'My point still stands, and I'd bet my whole column of back pay that Hedge's is doing the same.'
Picker stabbed at the fire. 'Funny, that,' she murmured after a while.
