'We knew we had a challenge on our hands,' Karpolan Demesand said with a beatific, glittering smile as they sat in Coltaine's command tent, with only the Fist and Duiker for company because everyone else was working outside, dispensing the caravan's life-giving supplies with all speed. 'That foul Wan-en of Hood is wrapped about you tighter than a funeral shroud on a corpse ... if you'll forgive the image. The key is to ride fast, to stop for nothing, then get out as soon as humanly possible. In the lead wagon, I maintain the road, with every sorcerous talent at my command – a gruelling journey, granted, but then again, we don't come cheap.'
'I still find it hard to fathom,' Duiker said, 'that the citizens of Darujhistan, fifteen hundred leagues distant, should even know of what's happening here, much less care.'
Karpolan's eyes thinned. 'Ah, well, perhaps I exaggerated somewhat – the heat of the moment, I confess. You must understand – soldiers who not long ago were bent on conquering Darujhistan are now locked in a war with the Pannion 'Domin, a tyranny that would dearly love to swallow the Blue City if it could. Dujek Onearm, once Fist of the Empire and now outlaw to the same, has become an ally. And this, certain personages in Darujhistan know well, and appreciate...'
'But there is more to it,' Coltaine said quietly.
Karpolan smiled a second time. 'Is this water not sweet? Here, let me pour you another cup.'
They waited, watching the trader refill the three tin cups arrayed on the small table between them. When he was done, Karpolan sighed and sat back in the plush chair he had had removed from the carriage. 'Dujek Onearm.' The name was spoken half in benediction, half in wry dismay. 'He sends his greetings, Fist Coltaine. Our office in Darujhistan is small, newly opened, you understand. We do not advertise our services. Not openly, in any case. Frankly, those services include activities that are, on occasion, clandestine in nature. We trade not only in material goods but in information, the delivery of gifts, of people themselves ... and other creatures.'
'Dujek Onearm was the force behind this mission,' Duiker said.
Karpolan nodded. 'With financial assistance from a certain cabal in Darujhistan, yes. His words were thus: “The Empress cannot lose such leaders as Coltaine of the Crow Clan.'” The trader grinned. 'Extraordinary for an outlaw under a death sentence, wouldn't you say?' He leaned forward and held out a hand, palm up. Something shimmered into existence on it, a small oblong bottle of smoky grey glass on a silver chain. 'And, from an alarmingly mysterious mage among the Bridgeburners, this gift was fashioned.' He held it out to Coltaine. 'For you. Wear it. At all times, Fist.'
The Wickan scowled and made no move to accept it.
Karpolan's smile was wistful. 'Dujek is prepared to pull rank on this, friend—'
'An outlaw pulling rank?'
Ah, well, I admit I voiced the same query. His reply was this: “Never underestimate the Empress.”'
Silence descended, the meaning behind that statement slowly taking shape. Locked in a war against an entire continent . . . stumbling onto a recognition of an even greater threat – the Pannion Domin . . . shall the Empire alone fight on behalf of a hostile land? Yet . . . how to fashion allies among enemies, how to unify against a greater threat with the minimum of fuss and mistrust? Outlaw your occupying army, so they've 'no choice' but to step free of Laseen's shadow. Dujek, ever loyal Dujek – even the ill-conceived plan of killing the last of the Old Guard – Tayschrenn's foolishness and misguided idea – insufficient to turn him. So now he has allies – those who were once his enemies – perhaps even Caladan Brood and Anomander Rake themselves . . . Duiker turned to Coltaine and saw the same knowledge there in his drawn, stern visage.
The Wickan reached out and received the gift.
'The Empress must not lose you, Fist. Wear it, sir. Always. And when the time comes, break it – against your own chest. Even if it's your last act, though I suggest you do not leave it until then. Such were its creator's frantic instructions.' Karpolan grinned again. 'And such a man, that creator! A dozen Ascendants would dearly love his head served up on a plate, his eyes pickled, his tongue skewered and roasted with peppers, his ears grilled—'
'Your point is made,' Duiker cut in.
Coltaine placed the chain around his neck and slipped the bottle beneath his buckskin shirt.
'A dire battle awaits you come dawn,' Karpolan said after a time. 'I cannot stay, will not stay. Though mage of the highest order, though merchant of ruthless cunning, I admit to a streak of sentimentality, gentlemen. I will not stand witness to this tragedy. More, we have one more delivery to make before we begin our return journey, and its achievement shall demand all of my skills, indeed, may exhaust them.'
