'Perhaps I shall,' the veteran mused, a glint in his small dark eyes.
'The Fist called you Uncle.'
'Aye.'
'Well? Are you?'
'Am I what?'
Duiker gave up. He was coming to understand the Wickan sense of humour. No doubt there would be another half a dozen or so brisk exchanges before Bult finally relented with an answer. I could play it through. Or I could let the bastard wait. . . wait for ever, in fact.
From the dust clouds a score of refugees appeared, wavering strangely as they walked, each of them burdened with impossible possessions – massive dressers, chests, larder-packed cupboards, candlesticks and antique armour. Flanking the mob in a protective cordon were soldiers of the Seventh, laughing and shouting and beating swords on shields as they made good their withdrawal.
Bult barked a laugh. 'My compliments to Kulp when you see him, Historian.'
'The Seventh's earned a day of rest,' Duiker said.
The Wickan raised his hairless brows. 'For one victory?'
'They need to savour it, Commander. Besides, the healers will be busy enough mending bones – you don't want them with exhausted warrens at the wrong time.'
'And the wrong time is soon, is it?'
'I am sure,' Duiker said slowly, 'Sormo E'nath would agree with me.'
Bult spat again. 'My nephew approaches.'
Coltaine and his Lancers had appeared, providing cover for the soldiers, many of whom dragged or carried the scarecrow refugees. The sheer numbers made it clear that victory for the Seventh had been absolute.
'Is that a smile on Coltaine's face?' Duiker asked. 'Just for a moment, I thought I saw ...'
'Mistaken, no doubt,' Bult growled, but Duiker was coming to know these Wickans, and he detected a hint of humour in the veteran's voice. After a moment Bult continued, 'Take word to the Seventh, Historian. They've earned their day.'
Fiddler sat in darkness. The overgrown garden had closed in around the well and its crescent-shaped stone bench. Above the sapper only a small patch of starlit sky was visible. There was no moon. After a moment he cocked his head. 'You move quietly, lad, I'll give you that.'
Crokus hesitated behind Fiddler, then joined him on the bench. 'Guess you never expected him to pull rank on you like that,' the young man said.
'Is that what it was?'
'That's what it seemed like.'
Fiddler made no reply. The occasional rhizan flitted through the clearing in pursuit of the capemoths hovering above the well-mouth. The cool night air was rank with rotting refuse from beyond the back wall.
'She's upset,' Crokus said.
The sapper shook his head. Upset. 'It was an argument, we weren't torturing prisoners.'
'Apsalar doesn't remember any of that.'
'I do, lad, and those are hard memories to shake.'
'She's just a fishergirl.'
'Most of the time,' Fiddler said. 'But sometimes...' He shook his head.
Crokus sighed, then changed the subject. 'So it wasn't part of the plan, then, Kalam going off on his own?'
'Old blood calls, lad. Kalam's Seven Cities born and raised. Besides, he wants to meet this Sha'ik, this desert witch, the Hand of Dryjhna.'
'Now you're taking his side,' Crokus said in quiet exasperation. 'A tenth of a bell ago you nearly accused him of being a traitor...'
Fiddler grimaced. 'Confusing times for us all. We've been outlawed by Laseen, but does that make us any less soldiers of the Empire? Malaz isn't the Empress and the Empress isn't Malaz—'
'A moot distinction, I'd say.'
The sapper glanced over. 'Would you now? Ask the girl, maybe she'll explain it.'
'But you're expecting the rebellion. In fact, you're counting on it—'
'Don't mean we have to be the ones who trigger the Whirlwind, though, does it? Kalam wants to be at the heart of things. It's always been his way. This time, the chance literally fell into his lap. The Book of Dryjhna holds the heart of the Whirlwind Goddess – to begin the Apocalypse it needs to be opened, by the Seeress and no-one else. Kalam knows it might well be suicidal, but he'll deliver that Hood-cursed book into Sha'ik's hands, and so add another crack in Laseen's crumbling control. Give him credit for insisting on keeping the rest of us out of it.'
'There you go again, defending him. The plan was to assassinate Laseen, not get caught up in this uprising. It still doesn't make any sense coming to this continent—'