Mulch staggered into view, swung to the captain. The man's face was white, his eyes wide. He stumbled over.
No, tell me nothing. Go away, damn you. 'Let's hear it, Healer.'
'It's — it's all right, Captain. Trotts will make it-'
'And Mallet?'
'Superficial wounds — I'll take care of those, sir. He lives — don't ask me how-'
'Leave me, Mulch.'
'Sir?'
'Go. Back to Mallet. Get out of my sight.'
Paran swung his back to the man, listened to him scurrying away. The captain shut his eyes, waiting for the agony of his gut to resume, to rise once again like a fist of fire. But all was quiescent within him. He wiped at his eyes, drew a deep breath. No-one dies. We 're all getting out of here. Better tell Humbrall Taur. Trotts has won his claim. and damn the rest of you to Hood!
Fifteen paces away, Mulch and Aimless crouched, watching their captain's back straighten, watching as Paran adjusted his sword belt, watching as he strode towards Humbrall Taur's command tent.
'He's a hard bastard,' the healer muttered.
'Cold as a Jaghut winter,' Aimless said, face twisting. 'Mallet looked a dead man there for a time.'
'For a time, he damn near was.'
The two men were silent for a while, then Mulch leaned to one side and spat. 'Captain might make it after all,' he said.
'Aye,' Aimless said. 'He might.'
'Hey!' one of the soldiers nearby shouted. 'Look at that ridge! Ain't that Detoran? And there's Spindle — they're carrying somebody between 'em!'
'Probably Quick Ben,' Mulch said, straightening. 'Played too long in his warrens. Idiot.'
'Mages,' Aimless sneered. 'Who needs the lazy bastards anyway?'
'Mages, huh? And what about healers, Corporal?'
The man's long face suddenly lengthened even more as his jaw dropped. 'Uh, healers are good, Mulch. Damned good. I meant wizards and sorcerers and the like-'
'Stow it before you say something real stupid, Aimless. Well, we're all here, now. Wonder what these White Faces will do to us?'
Trotts won!'
'So?'
The corporal's jaw dropped a second time.
Woodsmoke filled Humbrall Taur's hide tent. The huge warchief stood alone, his back to the round hearth, silhouetted by the fire's light. 'What have you to tell me?' he rumbled as Paran let the hide flap drop behind him.
'Trotts lives. He asserts his claim to leadership.'
'Yet he has no tribe-'
'He has a tribe, Warchief. Thirty-eight Bridgeburners. He showed you that, in the style he chose for the duel.'
'I know what he showed us-'
'Yet who understood?'
'I did, and that is all that matters.'
There was silence. Paran studied the tent and its meagre scatter of contents, seeking clues as to the nature of the warrior who stood before him. The floor was covered in bhederin hides. A half-dozen spears lay to one side, one of them splintered. A lone wooden chest carved from a single tree trunk, big enough to hold a three-deep stack of stretched-out corpses, dominated the far wall. The lid was thrown back, revealing on its underside a huge, massively complex locking mechanism. An unruly tumble of blankets ran parallel to the chest where Taur evidently slept. Coins, stitched into the hide walls, glittered dully on all sides, and on the conical ceiling more coins hung like tassels — these ones blackened by years of smoke.
'You have lost your command, Captain.'
Paran blinked, met the warchief's dark eyes. 'That is a relief,' he said.
'Never admit your unwillingness to rule, Malazan. What you fear in yourself will cloud your judgement of all that your successor does. Your fear will blind you to his wisdom and stupidity both. Trotts has never been a commander — I saw that in his eyes when he first stepped forward from your ranks. You must watch him, now. With clear vision.' The man turned and walked to the chest. 'I have mead. Drink with me.'
Gods, my stomach … 'Thank you, Warchief.'
Humbrall Taur withdrew from the chest a clay jug and two wooden mugs. He unstoppered the jug, sniffed tentatively, then nodded and poured. 'We shall wait another day,' he said. 'Then I shall address the clans. Trotts will have leave to speak, he has earned his place among the chiefs. But I tell you this now, Captain.' He handed Paran a mug. 'We shall not march on Capustan. We owe those people nothing. Each year we lose more of our youths to that city, to their way of life. Their traders come among us with nothing of value, bold with claims and offers, and would strip my people naked if they could.'