'But then they came to their senses.'
'With a little prodding.'
'So now you've got all the help you need in keeping that insane eunuch from playing doorman to Hood's gate. Good. Can't have panic in the streets, what with a quarter-million Pannions laying siege to the city.'
Buke's eyes thinned on Gruntle. 'Thought you'd appreciate the calm.'
'Now that's much better.'
'I still need your help.'
'Can't see how, Buke. Unless you want me to kick down the door and separate Korbal Broach's head from his shoulders. In which case you'll need to keep Bauchelain distracted. Set him on fire or something. I only need a moment. Of course, timing's everything. Once the walls have been breached, say, and there's Tenescowri mobbing the streets. That way we can all go hand in hand to Hood singing a merry tune.'
Buke smiled behind his tankard. 'That'll do,' he said, then drank.
Gruntle drained his own cup, reached for the new one. 'You know where to find me,' he said after a moment.
'Until the wave comes.'
The cat leapt down from the crossbeam, pounced forward, trapping a cockroach between its paws. It began playing.
'All right,' the caravan captain growled after a moment, 'what else do you want to say?'
Buke shrugged offhandedly. 'I hear Stonny has volunteered. Latest rumours have it the Pannions are finally ready for the first assault — any time now.'
'The first? Likely they'll only need the one. As for being ready, they've been ready for days, Buke. If Stonny wants to throw away her life defending the indefensible, that's her business.'
'What's the alternative? The Pannions won't take prisoners, Gruntle. We'll all have to fight, sooner or later.'
That's what you think.
'Unless,' Buke continued after a moment as he raised his tankard, 'you plan on switching sides. Finding faith as a matter of expedience-'
'What other way is there?'
The old man's eyes sharpened. 'You'd fill your belly with human flesh, Gruntle? Just to survive? You'd do that, would you?'
'Meat is meat,' Gruntle replied, his eyes on the cat. A soft crunch announced that it had finished playing.
'Well,' Buke said, rising, 'I didn't think you were capable of shocking me. I guess I thought I knew you-'
'You thought.'
'So this is the man Harllo gave his life for.'
Gruntle slowly raised his head. Whatever Buke saw in his eyes made him step back. 'Which Camp are you working with right now?' the caravan captain calmly asked.
'Uldan,' the old man whispered.
'I'll look in on you, then. In the meantime, Buke, get out of my sight.'
The shadows had retreated across most of the compound, leaving Hetan and her brother, Cafal, in full sunlight. The two Barghast were squatting on a worn, faded rug, heads bowed. Sweat — blackened with ash — dripped from them both. Between them was a broad, shallow brazier, perched on three hand-high iron legs and filled with smouldering coals.
Soldiers and court messengers flowed around them on all sides.
Shield Anvil Itkovian studied the siblings from where he stood near the headquarters entrance. He had not known the Barghast as a people enamoured of meditation, yet Hetan and Cafal had done little else, it seemed, since their return from the Thrall. Fasting, uncommunicative, inconveniently encamped in the centre of the barracks compound, they had made of themselves an unapproachable island.
Theirs is not a mortal calm. They travel among the spirits. Brukhalian demands that I find a way through — by any means. Does Hetan possess yet one more secret? An avenue of escape, for her, her brother, and for the bones of the Founding Spirits? An unknown weakness in our defence? A flaw in the Pannion investiture?
Itkovian sighed. He had tried before, without success. He would now try once again. As he prepared to step forward, he sensed a presence at his side and turned, to find Prince Jelarkan.
The young man's face was etched deep with exhaustion. His long-fingered, elegant hands trembled despite being knitted together just above his robe's belt. His gaze was fixed on the swirling activity in the compound as he said, 'I must know, Shield Anvil, what Brukhalian intends. He holds what you soldiers call a shaved knuckle in the hole — that much is clear. And so I have come, once again, seeking audience with the man in my employ.' He made no effort to hide the sardonic bitterness of that statement. 'To no avail. The Mortal Sword has no time for me. No time for the Prince of Capustan.'
