'Impossible,' the Mhybe whispered. 'The spirits-'
'Were once flesh, my dear. Once mortal. That first band of Rhivi, perhaps? Faith,' he said with a wistful smile, 'is ever a welcoming mistress. Now, upon completing of morning ablutions, Kruppe expects to see said items adorning you. Through the days to come, through the nights yet to pass, Holy Vessel, hold fast to this faith.'
She could say nothing. Kruppe offered her the box. She took its weight in her hands.
How did you know? This morning of mornings, awakening in the ashes of abandonment. Bereft of lifelong beliefs. How, my dear, deceptive man, did you know?
The Daru stepped back with a sigh. 'The rigours of delivery have left Kruppe exhausted and famished! Said box trembled these all too civilized appendages.'
She smiled. 'Rigours of delivery, Kruppe? I could tell you a thing or two.'
'No doubt, but do not despair of ever receiving just reward, lass.' He winked, then swung about and ambled off. A few paces away, Kruppe stopped and turned. 'Oh, Kruppe further informs that Faith has a twin, equally sweet, and that is Dreams. To discount such sweetness is to dismiss the truth of her gifts, lass.' He fluttered one hand in a wave then turned once more.
He walked on, and moments later was beyond her line of sight. So like Manek, indeed. You buried something there, didn't you, Kruppe! Faith and dreams. The dreams of hope and desire? Or the dreams of sleep?
Whose path did I cross last night?
Eighty-five leagues to the northeast, Picker leaned back against the grassy slope, squinting as she watched the last of the quorls — tiny specks against a sea-blue sky — dwindle westward.
'If I have to sit another heartbeat on one a those,' a voice growled beside her, 'someone kill me now and I'll bless 'em for the mercy.'
The corporal closed her eyes. 'If you're giving leave to wring your neck, Antsy, I'll lay odds one of us will take you up on it before the day's done.'
'What an awful thing to say, Picker! What's made me so unpopular? I ain't done nothing to no-one never how, have I?'
'Give me a moment to figure out what you just said and I'll answer you honestly.'
'I didn't not make any sense, woman, and you know it.' He lowered his voice. 'Captain's fault, anyhow-'
'No it ain't, Sergeant, and that kinda muttering's damn unfair and could end up spitting poison right back in your eye. This deal was cooked up by Whiskeyjack and Dujek. You feel like cursing someone, try them.'
'Curse Whiskeyjack and Onearm? Not a chance.'
'Then stop your grumbling.'
'Addressing your superior in that tone earns you the role of duffer today, Corporal. Maybe tomorrow, too, if I feel like it.'
'Gods,' she muttered, 'I do hate short men with big moustaches.'
'Gettin' all personal, are ya? Fine, y'can scrub the pots and plates tonight, too. And I got a real complicated meal in mind. Hare stuffed with figs-'
Picker sat up, eyes wide. 'You're not gonna make us eat Spindle's hairshirt? With figs?'
'Hare, you idiot! The four-legged things, live in holes, saw a brace of 'em in the foodpack. With figs, I said. Boiled. And rubyberry sauce, with freshwater oysters-'
Picker sat back with a groan. 'I'll take the hairshirt, thanks.'
The journey had been gruelling, with few and all too brief rest-stops. Nor were the Black Moranth much in the way of company. Virtually silent, aloof and grim — Picker had yet to see one of the warriors shed his or her armour. They wore it like a chitinous second skin. Their commander, Twist, and his quorl were all that remained of the flight that had transported them to the foot of the Barghast Range. Captain Paran was saddled with the task of communicating with the Black Moranth commander — and Oponn's luck to him, too.
The quorls had taken them high, flying through the night, and the air had been frigid. Picker ached in every muscle. Eyes closed once more, she sat listening to the other Bridgeburners preparing the gear and food supplies for the journey to come. At her side, Antsy muttered under his breath a seemingly endless list of complaints.
Heavy boots approached, unfortunately coming to a halt directly in front of her, blocking out the morning sun. After a moment, Picker pried open one eye.
Captain Paran's attention, however, was on Antsy. 'Sergeant.'
Antsy's muttering ceased abruptly. 'Sir?'
'It appears that Quick Ben's been delayed. He will have to catch up with us, and your squad will provide his escort. The rest of us, with Trotts, will move out. Detoran's separated out the gear you'll need.'