Flanked by Nil and Nether, Duiker rode at the head of the refugee train, heading towards the tribe on the ridge. The Wickan outriders and those guarding the selected wagons that trundled directly ahead were all very young – boys and girls still with their first weapons. Their collective outrage at having been sent from their clans was a silent storm.
Yet, if Coltaine has erred in this gamble, they will wield those weapons one more time . . . one last time.
'Two riders,' Nil said.
'Good sign,' Duiker grunted, eyes focusing on the Kherahn pair that now approached at a canter. Both were elders, a man and a woman, lean and weathered, their skin the same hue as the buckskins that clothed them. Hook-bladed swords were slung under their left arms and ornate iron helmets covered their heads; their eyes were framed in robust cheek-plates.
'Stay here, Nil,' Duiker said. 'Nether, with me, please.' He nudged his mare forward.
They met just beyond the lead wagons, reining in to face each other with a few paces between them.
Duiker was the first to speak. 'These are Kherahn Dhobri lands, recognized by treaty. The Malazan Empire honours all such treaties. We seek passage—'
The woman, her eyes on the wagons, snapped in unaccented Malazan, 'How much?'
'A collection from all the soldiers of the Seventh,' Duiker said. 'In Imperial coin, a worth totalling forty-one thousand silver jakatas—'
'A full-strength Malazan army's annual wages,' the woman said, scowling. 'This was no “collection”. Do your soldiers know you have stolen their wages to buy passage?'
Duiker blinked, then said softly, 'The soldiers insisted, Elder. This was in truth a collection.'
Nether then spoke. 'From the three Wickan clans, an additional payment: jewellery, cookware, skins, bolts of felt, horseshoes, tack and leather, and an assortment of coins looted in the course of our long journey from Hissar, in an amount approaching seventy-three thousand silver jakatas. All given freely.'
The woman was silent for a long moment, then her companion said something to her in their own tongue. She shook her head in reply, her flat, dun eyes finding the historian again. 'And with this offer, you seek passage for these refugees, and for the Wickan clans, and for the Seventh.'
'No, Elder. For the refugees alone – and this small guard you see here.'