'I imagine it does.'
'Yet you won't provide them.'
He glanced at her. 'Hood no. They stole the damned thing in the first place.'
A bell remained before the sun's rise. Leaving Picker and her hapless crew to their task, and departing as well from the Mhybe's presence, Paran made his way to the Bridgeburner encampment situated at the southwest edge of Brood's main camp. A handful of soldiers stood at sentry duty at the pickets, offering ragged salutes as the captain passed them.
He was surprised to find Whiskeyjack near the centre hearth, the commander busy saddling a tall chestnut gelding.
Paran approached. 'Has the meeting concluded, sir?' he asked.
The commander's glance was wry. 'I am beginning to suspect it will never end, if Kruppe has his way.'
'This trade guild of his has not gone down well, then.'
'To the contrary, it has been fully endorsed, though they'll cost the Council a king's ransom in truth. We have guarantees, now, ensuring the overland supply lines. Precisely what we required.'
'Why then does the meeting continue, sir?'
'Well, it seems that we'll have some envoys attached to our army.'
'Not Kruppe-'
'Indeed, the worthy Kruppe. And Coll — I suspect he's eager to get out of those fancy robes and back into armour.'
'Aye, he would be.'
Whiskeyjack cinched the girth strap one last time, then faced Paran. He seemed about to say one thing, then he hesitated, and chose another. 'The Black Moranth will take you and the Bridgeburners to the foot of the Barghast Range.'
The captain's eyes widened. 'That's quite a journey. And once there?'
'Once there, Trotts detaches from your command. He's to initiate contact with the White Face Barghast, by whatever means he deems proper. You and your company are to provide his escort, but you will not become otherwise entangled in the negotiations. We need the White Face clan — the entire clan.'
'And Trotts will do the negotiating? Beru fend.'
'He's capable of surprising you, Captain.'
'I see. Assuming he manages to succeed, we are then to proceed south?'
Whiskeyjack nodded. 'To the relief of Capustan, aye.' The commander set a boot within the stirrup and, with a wince, pulled himself up into the saddle. He gathered the reins, looking down on the captain. 'Any questions?'
Paran glanced around, studying the sleeping camp, then shook his head.
'I'd offer you Oponn's luck-'
'No, thank you, sir.'
Whiskeyjack nodded.
The gelding shied under the commander suddenly, pitching to one side with a squeal of terror. Wind buffeted the camp, ripping the small tents from their shallow moorings. Voices shouted in alarm. Paran stared upward as a vast black shape swept towards the Tiste Andii encampment. A faint aura outlined the enormous draconian form to the captain's eyes, silvery-white and flickering. Paran's stomach flared with pain, intense but mercifully brief, leaving him trembling.
'Hood's breath,' Whiskeyjack cursed, struggling to calm his horse as he looked around. 'What was that?'
He could not see as I saw — he has not the blood for that. 'Anomander Rake has arrived, sir. He descends among his Tiste Andii.' Paran studied the chaos that had been the slumbering Bridgeburners' camp, then sighed. 'Well, it's a little early, but now's as good a time as any.' He strode forward, raised his voice. 'Everyone up! Break camp! Sergeant Antsy — rouse the cooks, will you?'
'Uh, aye, sir! What woke us?'
'A gust of wind, Sergeant. Now get moving.'
'Aye, sir!'
'Captain.'
Paran turned to Whiskeyjack. 'Sir?'
'I believe you will find yourself busy for the next few bells. I return to Brood's tent — would you like me to send Silverfox to you for a final goodbye?'
The captain hesitated, then shook his head. 'No, thank you, sir.' Distance no longer presents a barrier to us — a private, personal link, too fraught to be unveiled to anyone. Her presence in my head is torture enough. 'Fare you well, Commander.'
Whiskeyjack studied him a moment longer, then nodded. He wheeled his horse around and nudged the gelding into a trot.
The Tiste Andii had gathered into a silent ring around the central clearing, awaiting the arrival of their master.
The black, silver-maned dragon emerged from the darkness overhead like a piece of night torn loose, flowing down to settle with a soft crunch of talons in the plain's stony soil. The huge, terrible beast blurred even as it landed, with a warm flow of spice-laden air swirling out to all sides as the sembling drew the dragon's shape inward. A moment later the Son of Darkness stood, cloaked, framed by the gouged tracks of the dragon's front talons, his slightly epicanthic eyes glimmering dull bronze as he surveyed his kin.