The inn commanding the southeast corner of old Daru Street held no more than half a dozen patrons, most of them visitors to the city who, like Gruntle, were now trapped. The Pannion armies surrounding Capustan's walls had done nothing for five days and counting. There had been clouds of dust from beyond the ridgeline to the north, the caravan captain had heard, signalling... something. But that had been days ago and nothing had come of it.
What Septarch Kulpath was waiting for, no-one knew, though there was plenty of speculation. More barges carrying Tenescowri had been seen crossing the river, until it seemed that half the empire's population had joined the peasant army. "With numbers like that," someone had said a bell earlier, "there'll be barely a mouthful of Capan citizen each." Gruntle had been virtually alone in appreciating the jest.
Memories of Ice, by Steven Erikson (Malazan Book of the Fallen #3)
