'Oh, we have people there, too, up in the vanguard. They'd been trying to reach the warlord, but Kallor kept turning them back.'
'Now, that's curious,' Gruntle murmured.
'Kallor says we shouldn't even be here. Says the warlord will be furious. So, we're not going close any more. We're thinking of turning round, in fact. We miss Mott Wood — there's no trees here. We like wood. All kinds — we've just reacquired this amazing table … no legs, though, they seemed to have snapped off.'
'For what it is worth,' Gruntle said, 'we'd rather you didn't leave the army, Marshal.'
The man's long face grew glum.
'There's trees!' Stonny suddenly exclaimed. 'South! A forest, around Coral!'
The High Marshal brightened. 'Really?'
'Indeed,' Itokovian said. 'Purportedly a forest of cedars, firs and spruce.'
'Oh, that's OK, then. I'll tell the others. They'll be happy again, and it's better when they're all happy. They've been blunting their weapons of late — a bad sign when they do that.'
'Blunting, sir?'
Straw nodded. 'Dull the edges, make nicks. That way, the damage they do is a lot messier. It's a bad sign when they get into that kind of mood. Very bad. Pretty soon they start dancing around the fire at night. Then that stops and when it stops you know it couldn't get worse, because that means the lads are ready to make war parties, head out in the night looking for something to kill. They been eyeing that big wagon on our trail…'
'Oh,' Gruntle said, 'don't do that — tell them not to do that, Marshal. Those people-'
'Necromancers, yeah. Dour. Very dour. We don't like necromancers, especially the Bole brothers don't like necromancers. They had one squatting on their land, you know, holed up in some old ruined tower in the swamp. Wraiths and spectres every night. So finally the Boles had to do something about it, and they went and rousted the squatter. It was messy, believe me — anyway, they strung up what was left of him at the Low Crossroads, just as a warning to others, you see.'
'These Bole brothers,' Itkovian said, 'sound to be a formidable pair.'
'Pair?' Straw's tangled brows rose. 'There's twenty-three of 'em. Not one of 'em shorter than me. And smart — some of 'em, anyway. Can't read, of course, but can count past ten and that's something, isn't it? Anyway, I got to go. Tell everyone about the trees down south. Goodbye.'
They watched the man ride off.
'He never did get an answer to his question,' Gruntle said after a while.Itkovian glanced at him. 'Which was?'
'Who we are.'
'Don't be an idiot,' Stonny said, 'he knows precisely who we are.'
'You think that was an act?'
'High Marshal Straw! Abyss take me, of course it was! And he had you both, didn't he? Well, not me. I saw right through it. Instantly.'
'Do you think Brood should be informed, sir?' Itkovian asked her.
'About what?'
'Well, the Malazans, for one.'
'Does it make any difference? Brood will still reach Maurik first. So we wait two days instead of two weeks, what of it? Just means we get this whole mess over with that much sooner — Hood knows, maybe Dujek's already conquered Coral — and he can have it, as far as I'm concerned.'
'You've got a point,' Gruntle muttered.
Itkovian glanced away. Perhaps she has. To what am I riding? What do I still seek from this world? I do not know. I care nothing for this Pannion Seer — he'll accept no embrace from me, after all, assuming the Malazans leave him breathing, which is itself unlikely.
Is this why I lag so far behind those who will reshape the world? Indifferent, empty of concern? I seem to be done — why can I not accept that truth? My god is gone — my burden is my own. Perhaps there is no answer for me — is that what the new Shield Anvil sees when she looks upon me with such pity in her eyes?
Is the entirety of my life now behind me, save for the daily, senseless trudge of this body?
Perhaps I am done. Finally done.
'Cheer up, Itkovian,' Gruntle said, 'the war might be over before we get even close — wouldn't that be a wild whimper to close this tale, eh?'
'Rivers are for drinking from and drowning in,' Hetan grumbled, one arm wrapped about a barrel.
Whiskeyjack smiled. 'I thought your ancestors were seafarers,' he said.
'Who finally came to their senses and buried their damn canoes once and for all.'