Inwardly smiling, Duiker removed his dripping cloak, hanging it from an old torch bracket beside the doors. He then turned about and presented himself before the new Fist, who stood at the nearest end of the table, his officer on his left – a scowling veteran whose wide, flat face seemed to fold in on itself diagonally in a scar from right jawline to left brow.
'I am Duiker,' the historian said. 'Imperial Historian of the Empire.' He half bowed. 'Welcome to Hissar, Fist.' Up close, he could see that the warleader of the Crow Clan showed the weathering of forty years on the north Wickan Plains of Quon Tali. His lean, expressionless face was lined, deep brackets around the thin, wide mouth, and squint tracks at the corners of his dark, deep-set eyes. Oiled braids hung down past his shoulders, knotted with crow-feather fetishes. He was tall, wearing a battered vest of chain over a hide shirt, a crow-feather cloak hanging from his broad shoulders down to the backs of his knees. He wore a rider's leggings, laced with gut up the outer sides to his hips. A single horn-handled long-knife jutted out from under his left arm.
In answer to Duiker's words he cocked his head. 'When I last saw you,' he said in his harsh Wickan accent, 'you lay in fever on the Emperor's own cot, about to rise and walk through the Hooded One's Gates.' He paused. 'Bult was the young warrior whose lance ripped you open and for his effort a soldier named Dujek kissed Bult's face with his sword.' Coltaine slowly turned to smile at the scarred Wickan at his side.
The grizzled horseman's scowl remained unchanged as he glared at Duiker. After a moment he shook his head and swelled his chest. 'I remember an unarmed man. The lack of weapons in his hands turned my lance at the last moment. I remember Dujek's sword that stole my beauty even as my horse bit his arm crushing bone. I remember that Dujek lost that arm to the surgeons, fouled as it was with my horse's breath. Between us, I lost the exchange, for the loss of an arm did nothing to damage Dujek's glorious career, while the loss of my beauty left me with but the one wife that I already had.'
'And was she not your sister, Bult?'
'She was, Coltaine. And blind.'
Both Wickans fell silent, the one frowning and the other scowling.
Off to one side Kulp voiced something like a strangled grunt. Duiker slowly raised an eyebrow. 'I am sorry, Bult,' he said. 'Although I was at the battle, I never saw Coltaine, nor you. In any case, I had not noticed any particular loss of your beauty.'
The veteran nodded. 'One must look carefully, it's true.'
'Perhaps,' Mallick Rel said, 'time to dispense with the pleasantries, entertaining as they are, and begin this council.'
'When I'm ready,' Coltaine said casually, still studying Duiker.
Bult grunted. 'Tell me, Historian, what inspired you to enter battle without weapons?'
'Perhaps I lost them in the melee.'
'But you did not. You wore no belt, no scabbard, you carried no shield.'
Duiker shrugged. 'If I am to record the events of this Empire, I must be in their midst, sir.'
'Shall you display such reckless zeal in recording the events of Coltaine's command?'
'Zeal? Oh yes, sir. As for reckless,' he sighed, 'alas, my courage is not as it once was. These days I wear armour when attending battle, and a short sword and shield. And helm. Surrounded by bodyguards, and at least a league away from the heart of the fighting.'
'The years have brought you wisdom,' Bult said.
'In some things, I am afraid,' Duiker said slowly, 'not enough.' He faced Coltaine. 'I would be bold enough to advise you, Fist, at this council.'
Coltaine's gaze slid to Mallick Rel as he spoke, 'And you fear the presumption, for you will say things I will not appreciate. Perhaps, in hearing such things, I shall command Bult to complete the task of killing you. This tells me much,' he continued, 'of the situation at Aren.'
'I know little of that,' Duiker said, feeling sweat trickle beneath his tunic. 'But even less of you, Fist.'
Coltaine's expression did not change. Duiker was reminded of a cobra slowly rising before him, unblinking, cold.
'Question,' Mallick Rel said. 'Has the council begun?'
'Not yet,' Coltaine said slowly. 'We await my warlock.'
The priest of Mael drew a sharp breath at that. Off to one side, Kulp took a step forward.
Duiker found his throat suddenly dry. Clearing it, he said, 'Was it not at the command of the Empress – in her first year on the throne – that all Wickan warlocks be, uh, rooted out? Was there not a subsequent mass execution? I have a memory of seeing Unta's outer walls...'