He was not looking forward to the parley. Indeed, the truth was, he had no real business attending it. The captain at his side was now the commander of the Grey Swords. His role as her adviser was dubious; she was capable of representing the company's interests without any help from him.
They approached the west gate, which now resembled nothing more than a massive hole in the city's wall.
Leaning against one of the burnt-out, most fallen gate-towers, Gruntle watched them with a half-grin on his barbed face. Stonny Menackis paced nearby, apparently in a temper.
'Now there's only Humbrall Taur to wait for,' Gruntle said.
Itkovian frowned as he reined in. 'Where is the Mask Council's retinue?'
Stonny spat. 'They've gone ahead. Seems they want a private chat first.'
'Relax, lass,' Gruntle rumbled. 'Your friend Keruli's with them, right?'
'That's not the point! They hid. While you and the Grey Swords here kept them and their damned city alive!'
'None the less,' Itkovian said, 'with Prince Jelarkan dead and no heir apparent, they are Capustan's ruling body.'
'And they could damn well have waited!'
Captain Norul twisted in her saddle to look back up the avenue. 'Humbrall Taur's coming. Perhaps, if we rode fast enough, we could catch them.'
'Is it important?' Itkovian asked her.
'Sir, it is.'
He nodded. 'I concur.'
'Let's ready our horses, Stonny,' Gruntle said, pushing himself from the wall.
They set out across the plain, Humbrall Taur, Hetan and Cafal equally awkward on their borrowed mounts. The Barghast had been none too pleased by the Mask Council's attempted usurpation — old enmities and mistrust had flared to life once more. By all reports, the approaching armies were still a league, perhaps two, distant. Keruli, Rath'Hood, Rath'Burn and Rath'Shadowthrone were in a carriage, drawn by the three horses of the Gidrath that had not been butchered and eaten during the siege.
Itkovian recalled the last time he had ridden this road, recalled faces of soldiers now dead. Farakalian, Torun, Sidlis. Behind the formality imposed by the Reve, these had been his friends. A truth I dared not approach. Not as Shield Anvil, not as a commander. But that has changed. They are my own grief, as difficult to bear as those tens of thousands of others.
He pushed the thought away. Control was still necessary. He could afford no emotions.
They came within sight of the priests' carriage.