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.'
'We reject your offer.'
Lull was right to dread this moment. Dammit—
'It is too much,' the woman said. 'The treaty with the Empress is specific'
At a loss, Duiker could only shrug. 'Then a portion thereof—'
'With the remainder entering Aren, where it shall be hoarded uselessly until such time as Korbolo Dom breaches the gates, and so you end up paying him for the privilege of slaughtering you.'
'Then,' Nether said, 'with that remainder, we would hire you as escort.'
Duiker's heart stuttered.
'To the city's gates? Too far. We shall escort you to Balahn village, and the beginning of the road known as Aren Way. This, however, leaves a portion remaining. We shall sell you food, and what healing may prove necessary and within the abilities of our horsewives.'
'Horsewives?' Nether asked, her brows rising.
The elder nodded.
Nether smiled. 'The Wickans are pleased to know the Kherahn Dhobri.'
'Come forward, then, with your people.'
The two rode back to their kin. Duiker watched them for a moment, then he wheeled his horse and stood in his stirrups. Far to the north, over Sanimon, hung a dust cloud. 'Nether, can you send Coltaine a message?'
'I can offer him a knowing, yes.'
'Do so. Tell him: he was right.'
The sense rose slowly, as if from a body all had believed cold, a corpse in truth, the realization rising, filling the air, the spaces in between. Faces took on a cast of disbelief, a numbness that was reluctant to yield its protective barriers. Dusk arrived, clothing an encampment of thirty thousand refugees in the joining of two silences – one from the land and the night sky with its crushed-glass stars, the other from the people themselves. Dour-faced Kherahnal moved among them, their gifts and gestures belying their expressions and reserve. And to each place they went, it was as if they brought, in their touch, a release.
Sitting beneath that glittering night sky, surrounded by thick grasses, Duiker listened to the cries that cut through the darkness, wrenching at his heart. Joy wrought with dark, blistering anguish, wordless screams, uncontrolled wailing. A stranger would have believed that some horror stalked the camp, a stranger would not have understood the release that the historian heard, the sounds that his own soul answered with burning pain, making him blink at the stars that blurred and swam overhead.