Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7)

‘A party was sighted, west of Bluerose. Two Tiste Edur, one of them white-skinned. This latter one, I believe, has become known as the White Crow-a most disturbing title for us Letherii, by the way.’ He blinked, the lids heavy. ‘Accompanying them were three Letherii, two female and one an escaped slave with the ownership tattoos of the Hiroth tribe.’

Brohl forced himself to remain expressionless, although a tightness gripped his chest. This is none of your business. ‘Do you have more details as to their precise location?’

‘They were heading east, to the mountains. There are three passes, only two open this early in the season.’

Brohl Handar slowly nodded. ‘The Emperor’s K’risnan are also capable of determining their general whereabouts. Those passes are blocked.’ He paused, then said, ‘It is as Hannan Mosag predicted.’

Orbyn’s dark eyes studied him from between folds of fat ‘I am reminded of Edur efficiency.’

Yes.

The man known as Truthfinder went on, ‘The Patriotists have questions regarding this white-skinned Tiste Edur, this White Crow. From which tribe does he hail?’

‘None. He is not Tiste Edur.’

‘Ah. I am surprised. The description…’

Brohl Handar said nothing.

‘Overseer, can we assist?’

‘Unnecessary at this time,’ Brohl replied.

‘I am most curious as to why you have not already closed in on this party and effected a capture. My sources indicate that the Tiste Edur is none other than Fear Sengar, the Emperor’s brother.’

‘As I said, the passes are blocked.’

‘Ah, then you are tightening the net even as we speak.’

Brohl Handar smiled. ‘Orbyn, you said earlier the Bolkando Conspiracy is under the purview of the Liberty Consign. By that, are you truly telling me that the Patriotists are without interest in that matter?’

‘Not at all. The Consign makes use of our network on a regular basis-’

‘For which you are no doubt rewarded.’

‘Of course.’

‘I find myself-’

Orbyn raised a hand, head cocking. ‘You will have to excuse me, Overseer. I hear alarms.’ He rose with a grunt, pushing open the carriage door.

Bemused, Brohl said nothing, watching as the Letherii left. Once the door was closed he reached to a small compartment and withdrew a woven ball filled with scented grasses, then held it to his face. A tug on a cord stirred the driver to collect up the traces. The carriage lurched as it rolled forward. Brohl could hear the alarms now, a frantic cacophony. Leaning forward, he spoke into the voice-tube. ‘Take us to those bells, driver.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘No hurry.’

The Drene Garrison commanded a full dozen stone buildings situated on a low hill north of the city centre. Armoury, stables, barracks and command headquarters were all heavily fortified, although the complex was not walled. Drene had been a city-state once, centuries past, and after a protracted war with the Awl the beleaguered king had invited Letherii troops to effect victory against the nomads. Decades later, evidence had come out that the conflict itself had been the result of Letherii manipulations. In any case, the Letherii troops had never left; the king accepted the title of vizier and in a succession of tragic accidents he and his entire line were wiped out. But that was history, now, the kind that was met with indifference.

Four principal avenues extended out from the garrison’*s parade grounds, the one leading northward converging with the Gate Road that led to the city wall and the North Coast track-the least frequented of the three landward routes to and from the city.

In the shadows beneath the gabled balcony of a palatial estate just beyond the armoury, on the north avenue, a clear line of sight was available for the short, lithe figure standing in the cool gloom. A rough-woven hood hid the features, although had anyone bothered to pause in passing, squinting hard, they would have been startled to see the glint of crimson scales where the face should have been and eyes hidden in black-rimmed slits. But there was some-thing about the figure that encouraged inattention. Gazes slid past, rarely comprehending that, indeed, someone stood in those shadows.

He had positioned himself there just before dawn and it was now late afternoon. Eyes fixed on the garrison the messengers entering and exiting the headquarters, the visitation of a half-dozen noble merchants, the purchasing of horses, scrap metal, saddles and other sundry materiel He studied the skin hides on the round-shields of the lancers-flattened faces, the skin darkened to somewhere between purple and ochre, making the tattooing subtle and strangely beautiful.