Dust of Dreams

Chapter Five

Corporal Tarr’s memory of his father could be entirely summed up inside a single recollected quote, ringing like Talian death bells across the breadth of Tarr’s childhood. A raw, stentorian pronouncement battering down on the flinching son. ‘Sympathy? Aye, I have sympathy-for the dead and no one else! Ain’t nobody in this world deserves sympathy unless they’re dead! You understanding me, son?’

‘You understanding me, son?’

Yes, sir. Good words for making a soldier. Kept the brain from getting too… cluttered. With things that might get in the way of holding his shield just so, stabbing out with his short sword right there. It was a kind of discipline, what others might call obstinate stupidity, but that simply showed that lots of people didn’t understand soldiering.

Teaching people to be disciplined, he was discovering, wasn’t easy. He walked the length of Letherii soldiers-and aye, that description was a sorry stretch-who stood at what passed for attention for these locals. A row of red faces in the blazing sunlight, dripping like melting wax.

‘Harridict Brigade,’ Tarr said in a snarl, ‘what kind of name is that? Who in Hood’s name was Harridict-no, don’t answer me, you damned fool! Some useless general, I’d imagine, or worse, some merchant house happy to kit you all in its house colours. Merchants! Businesses got no place in the military. We built an empire across three continents by keeping ’em outa things! Businesses are the vultures of war, and maybe those beaks look like smiles, but take it from me, they’re just beaks.’

He halted then, his repertoire of words exhausted, and gestured to Cuttle, who stepped up with a hard grin-the idiot loved this Braven role, as it was being called now (‘Letherii got master sergeants; we Malazans got Braven Sergeants, and say it toothy when you say it, lads, and be sure to keep the joke private’-so said Ruthan Gudd and that, Tarr had decided then and there, was a soldier).

Cuttle was wide and solid, a perfect fit to the role. Wider than Tarr but shorter by half a head, which meant that Tarr was an even better fit. Not one of these miserable excuses for soldiers could stand toe to toe with either Malazan for anything past twenty heartbeats, and that was the awful truth. They were soft. ‘This brigade,’ Cuttle now said, loud and contemptuous, ‘is a waste of space!’ He paused to glare at the faces, which were slowly hardening under the assault.

About time. Tarr watched on, thumbs hooked now in his weapon belt.

‘Aye,’ Cuttle went on, ‘I’ve listened to your drunken stories-’ and his tone invited them to sit at his table: knowing and wise and damned near… sympathetic. ‘And aye, I’ve seen for myself that raw, ugly pig you call magic hereabouts. Undisciplined-no finesse-brutal power but nothing clever. So, for you lot, battle means eating dirt, and a battlefield is where hundreds die for no good reason. Your mages have made war a miserable, useless joke-’ and he spun round and stepped up to one soldier, nose to nose. ‘You! How many times has this brigade taken fifty per cent or more losses in a single battle?’

The soldier-and Cuttle had chosen well-almost bared his teeth. ‘Seven times, Braven Sergeant!’

‘Seventy-five per cent losses?’

‘Four, Braven Sergeant!’

‘Losses at ninety?’

‘Once, Braven Sergeant, but not ninety-one hundred per cent, Braven Sergeant.’

Cuttle let his jaw drop. ‘One hundred?’

‘Yes, Braven Sergeant!’

‘Wiped out to the last soldier?’

‘Yes, Braven Sergeant!’

And Cuttle leaned even closer, his face turning crimson. In a bellowing shout, he said, ‘And has it not once occurred to you-any of you-that you might do better by murdering all your mages at the very start of the battle?’

‘Then the other side would-’

‘You parley with ’em first, of course-you all agree to butcher the bastards!’ He reeled back and threw up his hands. ‘You don’t fight wars! You don’t fight battles! You just all form up and make new cemeteries!’ He wheeled on them. ‘Are you all idiots?’

On a balcony overlooking the parade grounds, Brys Beddict winced. Beside him, standing in the shade, Queen Janath grunted and then said, ‘You know, he has a point.’

‘It is, for the moment,’ Brys said, ‘almost irrelevant. We have few mages of any stature left, and even those ones have gone to ground-it seems there is a quiet revolution under way, and I suspect that when the dust has settled, the entire discipline of sorcery will be transformed.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘In any case, that wasn’t what alarmed me-listening to that soldier down there. It’s their notion of taking matters into their own hands.’

‘An invitation to mutiny,’ Janath was nodding, ‘but you could look at it another way. Their kind of thinking in turn keeps their commanders in check-following orders is one thing, but if those orders are suicidal or just plain stupid…’

‘The thought of my soldiers second-guessing me at every turn hardly inspires confidence. I am beginning to regret employing these Malazans in the reshaping of the Letherii military. Perhaps the way they do things works for them, but it does not necessarily follow that it will work for us.’

‘You may be right, Brys. There is something unusual about the Malazans. I find them fascinating. Imagine, an entire civilization that does not suffer fools.’

‘From what I have heard,’ Brys pointed out, ‘that did not protect them from betrayal-their very own Empress was prepared to sacrifice them all.’

‘But they did not kneel to the axe, did they?’

‘I see your point.’

‘There exists an exchange of trust between the ruler and the ruled. Abuse that from either direction and all mutual agreements are nullified.’

‘Civil war.’

‘Unless one of the aggrieved parties has the option of simply leaving. Assuming it’s not interested in retribution or vengeance.’

Brys thought about that for a time, watching the relentless bullying of his Letherii soldiers by those two Bonehunters in the yard below. ‘Perhaps they have things to teach us after all,’ he mused.

Cuttle stepped close to Tarr and hissed, ‘Gods below, Corporal, they’re worse than sheep!’

‘Been thrashed too many times, that’s their problem.’

‘So what do we do with them?’

Tarr shrugged. ‘All I can think of is thrash ’em again.’

Cuttle’s small eyes narrowed on his corporal. ‘Somehow, that don’t sound right.’

Grimacing, Tarr looked away. ‘I know. But it’s all I’ve got. If you’ve a better idea, feel free, sapper.’

‘I’ll get ’em marching round-that’ll give us time to think.’

‘There must be some clever strategy at work down there,’ Brys concluded after a time, and then he turned to the Queen. ‘We should probably attend to Tehol-he said something about a meeting in advance of the meeting with the Adjunct.’

‘Actually, that was Bugg. Tehol proposed a meeting to discuss Bugg’s idea of the meeting in advance-oh, listen to me! That man is like an infection! Yes, let us march with solemn purpose upon my husband-your brother-and at least find out whatever needs finding out before the Malazans descend upon us. What must they think? Our King wears a blanket!’

Lostara Yil’s hand crept to the knife at her hip and then drew back once more. A muttering whisper in her head was telling her the blade needed cleaning, but she had just cleaned and honed it not a bell ago, and even the sheath was new. None of this was logical. None of this made sense. Yes, she understood the reasons for her obsession. Twisted, pathetic reasons, but then, driving a knife through the heart of the man she loved was bound to leave an indelible stain on her soul. The knife had become a symbol-she’d be a fool not to see that.

Still, her hand itched, desperate to draw forth the knife.

She sought to distract herself by watching Fist Blistig pacing along the far wall, measuring out a cage no one else could see-yet she knew its dimensions. Six paces in length, about two wide, the ceiling low enough to make the man hunch over, the floor worn smooth, almost polished. She understood that kind of invention, all the effort in making certain the bars fit tightly, that the lock was solid and the key flung into the sea.

Fist Keneb was watching the man as well, doing an admirable job of keeping his thoughts to himself. He was the only one seated at the table, seemingly relaxed, although Lostara well knew that he was probably as bruised and battered as she was-Fiddler’s cursed reading had left them all in rough shape. Being bludgeoned unconscious was never a pleasant experience.

The three of them looked over as Quick Ben walked into the chamber. The High Mage carried an air of culpability about him, which was nothing new. For all his bravado, accusations clung to him like gnats on a web. Of course he was hiding secrets. Of course he was playing unseen games. He was Quick Ben, the last surviving wizard of the Bridgeburners. He thought outwitting gods was fun. But even he had taken a beating at Fiddler’s reading, which should have humbled the man.

She squinted as he sauntered up to the table, pulled out the chair beside Keneb, and sat, whereupon he began drumming his fingers on the varnished surface.

No, not much humility there.

‘Where is she?’ Quick Ben asked. ‘We’re seeing the King in a bell’s time-we need to settle on what we’re doing.’

Blistig had resumed pacing, and at the wizard’s words he snorted and then said, ‘She’s settled already. This is just a courtesy.’

‘Since when is the Adjunct interested in decorum?’ Quick Ben retorted. ‘No, we need to discuss strategies. Everything has changed-’

Keneb straightened at that. ‘What has, High Mage? Since the reading? Can you be specific?’

The wizard grinned. ‘I can, but maybe she doesn’t want me to.’

‘Then the rest of us should just leave you and her to it,’ said Blistig, his blunt features twisting with disgust. ‘Unless your egos demand an audience, in which case, why, we wouldn’t want those bruised, would we?’

‘Got a dog house in there, Blistig? You could always take a nap.’

Lostara made sure to glance away, amused. She had none of their concerns on her mind. In fact, she didn’t care where this pointless army ended up. Maybe the Adjunct would simply dissolve the miserable thing, cashier them all out. Letheras was a nice enough city, although a little too humid for her tastes-it was probably drier inland, away from this sluggish river.

She knew that such an outcome was unlikely, of course. Impossible, in fact. Maybe Tavore Paran didn’t possess the nobility’s addiction to material possessions. The Bonehunters were the exception. This was her army. And she didn’t want it sitting pretty on a shelf like some prized bauble. No, she wanted to use it. Maybe even use it up.

Which was where everyone else came in. Blistig and Keneb, Quick Ben and Sinn. Ruthan Gudd-not that he ever bothered attending briefings-and Arbin and Lostara herself. Add to that eight and a half thousand soldiers in Tavore’s own command, along with the Burned Tears and the Perish, and that, Lostara supposed, more than satisfied whatever noble acquisitiveness the Adjunct might harbour.

It was no wonder these men here were nervous. Something was driving the Adjunct, her very own fierce, cruel obsession. Quick Ben might have some idea about it, but she suspected the man was mostly bluff and bluster. The one soldier who might well know wasn’t even here. Thank the gods above and below for that one mercy.

‘We’re marching into the Wastelands,’ said Keneb. ‘We know that much, I suppose. Just not the reasons why.’

Lostara Yil cleared her throat. ‘That is a rumour, Fist.’

His brows lifted. ‘I understood it to be more certain than that.’

‘Well,’ said Quick Ben, ‘it’s imprecise, as most rumours turn out to be. More specifically, it’s incomplete. Which is why most of the speculation thus far has been useless.’

‘Go on,’ said Keneb.

The wizard drummed the tabletop once more, and then said, ‘We’re not marching into the Wastelands, my friends. We’re marching through them.’ He smiled but it wasn’t a real smile. ‘See how that added detail makes all the difference? Because now the rumours can chew hard on possibilities. The notion of goals, right? Her goals. What she needs us to do to meet them.’ He paused and then added, ‘What we need to do to convince ourselves and our soldiers that meeting them is even worth it.’

Well, that was said plainly enough. Here, chew hard on this mouthful of glass.

‘Unwitnessed,’ Keneb muttered.

Quick Ben fluttered a hand dismissively. ‘I don’t think we have a problem with that. She’s already said what she needed to say on that subject. It’s settled. Her next challenge will come when she finally spills out precisely what she’s planning.’

‘But you think you’ve already figured that out.’

Lostara wasn’t fooled by the High Mage’s coy smile. The idiot hasn’t a clue. He’s just like the rest of us.

Adjunct Tavore made her entrance then, dragging Sinn by one skinny arm-and the expression on the girl’s face was a dark storm of indignation and fury. The older woman pulled out the chair opposite Keneb and sat Sinn down in it, then walked to position herself at one end, where she remained standing. When she spoke, her tone was uncharacteristically harsh, as if rage seethed just beneath the surface. ‘The gods can have their war. We will not be used, not by them, not by anyone. I do not care how history judges us-I hope that’s well understood.’

Lostara found herself captivated; she could not take her eyes off the Adjunct, seeing at last a side of her that had remained hidden for so long-that indeed might never before have revealed itself. It was clear that the others were equally shocked, as not one spoke to fill the silence when Tavore paused-showing them all the cold iron of her eyes.

‘Fiddler’s reading made it plain,’ she resumed. ‘That reading was an insult. To all of us.’ She began drawing off her leather gloves with a kind of ferocious precision. ‘No one owns our minds. Not Empress Laseen, not the gods themselves. In a short time we will speak with King Tehol of Lether. We will formalize our intention to depart this kingdom, marching east.’ She slapped the first glove down. ‘We will request the necessary permissions to ensure our peaceful passage through the petty kingdoms beyond the Letherii border. If this cannot be achieved, then we will cut our way through.’ Down thumped the second glove.

If there was any doubt in this chamber that this woman commanded the Bonehunters, it had been obliterated. Succinctly.

‘Presumably,’ she went on, her voice a rasp, ‘you wish to learn of our destination. We are marching to war. We are marching to an enemy that does not know we even exist.’ Her icy gaze fixed on Quick Ben and it was a measure of the man’s courage that he did not flinch. ‘High Mage, your dissembling is at an end. Know that I value your penchant for consorting with the gods. You will now report to me what you believe is coming.’

Quick Ben licked his lips. ‘Shall I be specific or will a summary suffice, Adjunct?’

She said nothing.

The High Mage shrugged. ‘It will be war, yes, but a messy one. The Crippled God’s been busy, but his efforts have been, without exception, defensive, for the Fallen One also happens to know what is coming. The bastard’s desperate, probably terrified, and thus far, he has failed more often than succeeded.’

‘Why?’

He blinked. ‘Well, people have been getting in the way-’

‘People, yes. Mortals.’

Quick Ben nodded, eyes narrowing. ‘We have been the weapons of the gods.’

‘Tell me, High Mage, how does it feel?’

Her questions struck from unanticipated directions, Lostara could see, and it was clear that Quick Ben was mentally reeling. This was a sharp talent, a surprising one, and it told Lostara that Adjunct Tavore possessed traits that made her a formidable tactician-but why had none of them seen this before?

‘Adjunct,’ the wizard ventured, ‘the gods have inevitably regretted using me.’

The answer evidently satisfied her. ‘Go on, High Mage.’

‘They will chain him again. This time it will be absolute, and once chained, they will suck everything out of him-like bloodflies-’

‘Are the gods united on this?’

‘Of course not-excuse me, Adjunct. Rather, the gods are never united, even when in agreement. Betrayals are virtually guaranteed-which is why I cannot fathom Shadowthrone’s thinking. He’s not that stupid-he can’t be that stupid-’

‘He has outwitted you,’ Tavore said. ‘You “cannot fathom” his innermost intentions. High Mage, the first god you have mentioned here is one that most of us wouldn’t expect to be at the forefront of all of this. Hood, yes. Togg, Fanderay-even Fener. Or Oponn. And what of the Elder Gods? Mael, K’rul, Kilmandaros. No. Instead, you speak of Shadowthrone, the upstart-’

‘The once Emperor of the Malazan Empire,’ cut in Keneb.

Quick Ben scowled. ‘Aye, even back then-and it’s not easy to admit this-he was a wily bastard. The times I thought I’d worked round him, beat him clean, it turned out he had been playing me all along. He was the ruler of shadows long before he even ascended to that title. Dancer gave him the civilized face, that mask of honest morality-just as Cotillion does now. But don’t be fooled, those two are ruthless-none of us mortals are worth a damned thing, except as a means to an end-’

‘And what, High Mage, would that end be?’

Quick Ben threw up his hands and leaned back. ‘I have little more than rude guesses, Adjunct.’

But Lostara saw something shining in the wizard’s eyes, as if he had been stirred into wakefulness from a long, long sleep. She wondered if this was how he had been with Whiskeyjack, with Dujek Onearm. No wonder they saw him as their shaved knuckle in the hole.

‘I would hear those guesses,’ the Adjunct said.

‘The pantheon comes crashing down-and what emerges from the dust and ashes is almost unrecognizable. The same for sorcery-the warrens-the realm of K’rul. All fundamentally changed.’

‘Yet, one assumes, at the pinnacle… Shadowthrone and Cotillion.’

‘A safe assumption,’ Quick Ben admitted, ‘which is why I don’t trust it.’

Tavore looked startled. ‘Altruism from those two?’

‘I don’t even believe in altruism, Adjunct.’

‘Thus,’ she observed, ‘your confusion.’

The wizard’s ascetic face was pinched, as if he was tasting something unbearably foul. ‘Who’s to say that the changes create something better, something more equitable? Who’s to say that what emerges isn’t even worse than what we have right now? Yes, it might seem a good move-driving that mob of miserable gods off some cliff, or some other place that puts them out of reach, that puts us out of their reach.’ He was musing now, as if unaware of his audience. ‘But consider that eventuality. Without the gods, we’re on our own. And with us on our own-Abyss fend! — what mischief we might do! What grotesque invention to plague the world!’

‘But… not entirely on our own.’

‘The fun would pall,’ Quick Ben said, as if irritated with the objection. ‘Shadowthrone has to realize that. Who would he have left to play with? And with K’rul a corpse, sorcery will rot, grow septic-it will kill whoever dares use it.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Tavore with a certain remorselessness, ‘it is not Shadowthrone’s intent to reshape anything. Rather, to end it once and for all. To wipe the world clean.’

‘I doubt that. Kallor tried it and the lesson wasn’t lost on anyone-how could it be? Gods know, Kellanved then went and claimed that destroyed warren for the empire, so he couldn’t be blind…’ His words fell away, but Lostara saw how his thoughts suddenly raced down a new, treacherous track, destination unknown.

Yes, they claimed Kallor’s legacy. But… what does that signify?

No one spoke for a time. Blistig stood rooted-he had not moved from the moment the Adjunct began speaking, and what should have been a confused expression was nowhere to be seen on his rough features. Instead, he was closed up with a kind of obstinate belligerence, as if everything he had heard thus far wasn’t relevant, could not rattle the cage-for even as the cage imprisoned him within it, so it kept everything else at a safe distance.

Sinn sat perched on the oversized chair, glowering at the tabletop, pretending not to listen to anything being said here, but she was paler than usual.

Keneb leaned forward on his elbows, his hands against the sides of his face: the pose of a man wishing to be elsewhere.

‘It comes down to gates,’ Quick Ben muttered. ‘I don’t know how, or even why, but my gut tells me it comes down to gates. Kurald Emurlahn, Kurald Galain, Starvald Demelain-the old ones-and the Azath. No one has plumbed the secrets of the Houses as they have, not even Gothos. Windows on to the past, into the future, paths leading to places no mortal has ever visited. They have crawled up and down the skeleton of existence, eager as bone-grubs-’

‘Too many assumptions,’ Tavore said. ‘Rein yourself in, High Mage. Tell me, have you seen the face of our enemy to the east?’

The look he shot her was bleak, wretched. ‘Justice is a sweet notion. Too bad its practice ends up awash in innocent blood. Honest judgement is cruel, Adjunct, so very cruel. And what makes it a disaster is the way it spreads outward, swallowing everything in its path. Allow me to quote Imperial Historian Duiker: “The object of justice is to drain the world of colour.” ’

‘Some would see it that way-’

Quick Ben snorted. ‘Some? Those cold-eyed arbiters can’t see it any other way!’

‘Nature insists on a balance-’

‘Nature is blind.’

‘Thus favouring the notion that justice too is blind.’

‘Blinkered, not blind. The whole notion is founded on a deceit: that truths are reducible-’

‘Wait!’ barked Keneb. ‘Wait-wait! You’re leaving me behind, both of you! Adjunct, are you saying that justice is our enemy? Making us what, the champions of injustice? How can justice be an enemy-how can you expect to wage war against it? How can a simple soldier cut down an idea?’ His chair rocked back as he suddenly rose. ‘Have you lost your minds? I don’t understand-’

‘Sit down, Fist!’

Shocked by the order, he sank back, looking defeated, bewildered.

Hood knew, Lostara Yil sympathized.

‘Kolanse,’ said Tavore. ‘According to Letherii writings, an isolated confederation of kingdoms. Nothing special, nothing particularly unique, barring a penchant for monotheism. For the past decade, suffering a terrible drought, sufficient to cripple the civilization.’ She paused. ‘High Mage?’

Quick Ben rubbed vigorously at his face, and then said, ‘The Crippled God came down in pieces. Everyone knows that. Most of him, it’s said, fell on Korel, which is what gave that continent its other name: Fist. Other bits fell… elsewhere. Despite the damage done to Korel, that was not where the true heart of the god landed. No, it spun away from the rest of him. It found its very own continent…’

‘Kolanse,’ said Keneb. ‘It landed in Kolanse.’

Tavore said, ‘I mentioned that penchant for monotheism-it is hardly surprising, given what must have been a most traumatic visitation by a god-the visitor who never went away.’

‘So,’ said Keneb through clenched teeth, ‘we are marching to where the gods are converging. Gods that intend to chain the Crippled God one final time. But we refuse to be anyone’s weapon. If that is so, then what in Hood’s name will we be doing there?’

‘I think,’ Quick Ben croaked, ‘we will have the answer to that when we get there.’

Keneb groaned and slumped back down, burying his face in his hands.

‘Kolanse has been usurped,’ said Tavore. ‘Not in the name of the Crippled God, but in the name of justice. Justice of a most terrible kind.’

Quick Ben said, ‘Ahkrast Korvalain.’

Sinn jumped as if stung, then huddled down once more.

Keneb’s hands dropped away, though the impressions of his fingertips remained, mottling his face. ‘I’m sorry, what?’

‘The Elder Warren, Fist,’ said the Adjunct, ‘of the Forkrul Assail.’

‘They are preparing the gate,’ Quick Ben said, ‘and for that, they need lots of blood. Lots.’

Lostara finally spoke. She could not help it. She knew more about the cult of Shadow than anyone here, possibly excepting Quick Ben. ‘Adjunct, you say we march at the behest of no god. Yet, I suspect, Shadowthrone will be most pleased when we strike for Kolanse, when we set out to destroy that unholy gate.’

‘Thank you,’ Tavore said. ‘I take it we now comprehend High Mage Quick Ben’s angst. His fear that, somehow, we are playing into Shadowthrone’s hands.’

I think we are.

‘Even when he was Emperor,’ said Keneb, ‘he learned to flinch from the sting of justice.’

‘The T’lan Imass occupation of Aren,’ said Blistig, nodding.

Tavore flicked a glance at Blistig, and then said, ‘Though we may share an enemy it does not mean we are allies.’

Adjunct, that is too brazen. Fiddler’s reading was anything but subtle. But she was awestruck. By what Tavore had done here. Something blistered in this chamber now, touching like fire everyone present-even Blistig. Even that whelp of nightmare, Sinn. If a god showed its face in this chamber at this moment, six fists would vie to greet it.

‘What is the gate for?’ Lostara asked. ‘Adjunct? Do you know that gate’s purpose?’

‘The delivery of justice,’ Quick Ben offered in answer. ‘Or so one presumes.’

‘Justice against whom?’

The High Mage shrugged. ‘Us? The gods? Kings and queens, priests, emperors and tyrants?’

‘The Crippled God?’

Quick Ben’s grin was feral. ‘They’re sitting right on top of him.’

‘Then the gods might well stand back and let the Forkrul Assail do their work for them.’

‘Not likely-you can’t suck power from a dead god, can you?’

‘So, we could either find ourselves the weapon in the hands of the gods after all, or, if we don’t cooperate, trapped between two bloodthirsty foes.’ Even as she spoke those words, Lostara regretted them. Because, once said, everything points to… points to the worst thing imaginable. Oh, Tavore, now I understand your defiance when it comes to how history will judge us. And your words that what we will do will be unwitnessed-that was less a promise, I think now. More like a prayer.

‘It is time,’ the Adjunct said, collecting her gloves, ‘to speak with the King. You can run away now, Sinn. The rest of you are with me.’

Brys Beddict needed a moment alone, and so he held back when the Queen entered the throne room, and moved a few paces away from the two helmed guards flanking the entrance. The Errant was on his mind, a one-eyed nemesis clutching a thousand daggers. He could almost feel the god’s cold smile, icy and chilling as a winter breath on the back of his neck. Inside and outside, in front of him and behind him, it made no difference. The Errant passed through every door, stood on both sides of every barrier. The thirst for blood was pervasive, and Brys felt trapped like a fly in amber.

If not for a Tarthenal’s mallet fist, Brys Beddict would be dead.

He was still shaken.

Since his return to the mortal world, he had felt strangely weightless, as if nothing in this place could hold him down, could keep him firmly rooted to the earth. The palace, which had once been the very heart of his life, his only future, now seemed but a temporary respite. This was why he had petitioned his brother to be given command of the Letherii army-even in the absence of enemies he could justify travelling out from the city, to wander to the very border marches of the kingdom.

What was he looking for? He did not know. Would he-could he-find it in the reaches beyond the city’s walls? Was something out there awaiting him? Such thoughts were like body-blows to his soul, for they sent him reeling back-into brother Hull’s shadow.

Perhaps he haunts me now. His dreams, his needs, slipping like veils in front of my eyes. Perhaps he has cursed me with his own thirst-too vast to be appeased in a single life-no, he will now use mine.

Ungracious fears, these. Hull Beddict was dead. The only thing that haunted Brys now was his memories of the man, and they belonged to no one else, did they?

Let me lead the army. Let us march into unknown lands-leave me free, brother, to try again, to deliver unto strangers a new meaning to the name ‘Letherii’-not one foul with treachery, not one to become a curse word to every nation we encounter.

Let me heal Hull’s wounds.

He wondered if Tehol would understand any of that, and then snorted-the sound startling both guards, their eyes shifting to him and then away again. Of course Tehol would understand. All too well, in fact, on levels far surpassing Brys’s paltry, shallow efforts. And he would say something offhand, that would cut deep enough to bite bone-or he might not-Tehol was never as cruel as Brys dreaded. And what odd dynamic is that? Only that he’s too smart for me… and if I had his wits, why, I would use them with all the deadly skill I use when wielding a sword.

Hull had been the dreamer, and his dreams were the kind that fed on his own conscience before all else. And see how that blinded him? See how that destroyed him?

Tehol tempered whatever dream he held. It helped having an Elder God at his side, and a wife who was probably a match to Tehol’s own genius. It helps, too, I suppose, that he’s half mad.

What of Brys, then? This brother least of the three? Taking hold of a sword and making it a standard, an icon of adjudication. A weapon master stood before two worlds: the complex one within the weapon’s reach and the simplified one beyond it. I am Hull’s opposite, in all things.

So why do I now yearn to follow in his steps?

He had been interred within stone upon the unlit floor of an ocean. His soul had been a single thread woven into a skein of forgotten and abandoned gods. How could that not have changed him? Perhaps his new thirst was their thirst. Perhaps it had nothing whatsoever to do with Hull Beddict.

Perhaps, indeed, this was the Errant’s nudge.

Sighing, he faced the doors to the throne room, adjusted his weapon belt, and then strode into the chamber.

Brother Tehol, King of Lether, was in the midst of a coughing fit. Janath was at his side, thumping on his back. Bugg was pouring water into a goblet, which he then held at the ready.

Ublala Pung stood before the throne. He swung round at Brys’s approach, revealing an expression of profound distress. ‘Preda! Thank the spirits you’re here! Now you can arrest and execute me!’

‘Ublala, why would I do that?’

‘Look, I have killed the King!’

But Tehol was finally recovering, sufficiently to take the goblet Bugg proffered. He drank down a mouthful, gasped, and then sat back on the throne. In a rasp he said, ‘It’s all right, Ublala, you’ve not killed me… yet. But that was a close one.’

The Tarthenal whimpered and Brys could see that the huge man was moments from running away.

‘The King exaggerates,’ said Janath. ‘Be at ease, Ublala Pung. Welcome, Brys, I was wondering where you’d got to, since I could have sworn you were on my heels only a few moments ago.’

‘What have I missed?’

Bugg said, ‘Ublala Pung was just informing us of, among other things, something he had forgotten. A matter most, well, extraordinary. Relating to the Toblakai warrior, Karsa Orlong.’

‘The slayer of Rhulad Sengar has returned?’

‘No, we are blessedly spared that, Brys.’ And then Bugg hesitated.

‘It turns out,’ explained Janath-as Tehol quickly drank down a few more mouthfuls of water-‘that Karsa Orlong set a charge upon Ublala Pung, one that he had until today entirely forgotten, distracted as he has been of late by the abuses heaped upon him by his fellow guards.’

‘I’m sorry-what abuses?’

Tehol finally spoke. ‘We can get to that later. The matter may no longer be relevant, in any case, since it seems Ublala must leave us soon.’

Brys squinted at the abject Tarthenal. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To the islands, Preda.’

‘The islands?’

Ublala nodded solemnly. ‘I must gather all the Tarthenal and make an army. And then we have to go to find Karsa Orlong.’

‘An army? Why would Karsa Orlong want an army of Tarthenal?’

‘To destroy the world!’

‘Of course,’ interjected Bugg, ‘by my last census there are fourteen hundred and fifty-one Tarthenal now settled on the islands. One half of them not yet adults-under seventy years of age by Tarthenal reckoning. Ublala’s potential “army” will amount to around five hundred adults of reasonable maturity and dubious martial prowess.’

‘To destroy the world!’ Ublala shouted again. ‘I need a boat! A big one!’

‘These sound like heady matters,’ Brys said after a moment, ‘which require more discussion. For the moment-forgive me, Ublala-we are soon to entertain the Malazan high command. Should we not begin discussing that impending meeting?’

‘What’s to discuss?’ Tehol asked. He scowled suddenly down at his cup. ‘Gods below, I’ve been drinking water! Bugg, are you trying to poison me or something? Wine, man, wine! Oops, sorry, Brys, that was insensitive of me. Beer, man, beer!’

‘The Malazans will probably petition us,’ Brys said. ‘For some unfathomable reason, they intend to march into the Wastelands. They will seek to purchase writs of passage-which will involve diplomatic efforts on our part-as well as sufficient supplies to satisfy their troops. King Tehol, I admit to having little confidence with respect to those writs of passage-we all know the inherent duplicity of the Bolkando and the Saphii-’

‘You want to provide the Malazans with an escort,’ said Janath.

‘A big one!’ shouted Ublala, as if unaware that the conversation in the throne room had moved on. ‘I want Captain Shurq Elalle. Because she’s friendly and she likes sex. Oh, and I need money for food and chickens, too, and boot polish to make my army. Can I get all that?’

‘Of course you can!’ replied Tehol with a bright smile. ‘Chancellor, see to it, won’t you?’

‘This very day, King,’ said Bugg.

‘Can I go now?’ Ublala asked.

‘If you like.’

‘Sire,’ began Brys, in growing exasperation, ‘I think-’

‘Can I stay?’ Ublala asked.

‘Naturally!’

‘Sire-’

‘Dear brother,’ said Tehol, ‘have you gleaned no hint of my equanimity? Of course you can escort the Malazans, although I think your chances with the Adjunct are pretty minimal, but who am I to crush hopeless optimism under heel? I mean, would I even be married to this lovely woman at my side here, if not for her seemingly unrealistic hopes?’ Bugg delivered a new mug to the King, this one filled with beer. ‘Bugg, thank you! Do you think Ublala’s worked up a thirst?’

‘Undoubtedly, sire.’

‘Then pour away!’

‘Not away!’ cried Ublala. ‘I want some!’

‘It would give me an opportunity to observe the Malazan military in the field, sire,’ explained Brys, ‘and to learn what I can-’

‘Nobody’s objecting, Brys!’

‘I am simply stating the accurate reasons justifying my desire-’

‘Desires should never be justified,’ Tehol said, wagging a finger. ‘All you end up doing is illuminating the hidden reasons by virtue of their obvious absence. Now, brother, you happen to be the most eligible Beddict-legitimately eligible, I mean-so why not cast wide your amorous net? Even if, by some peculiar quirk on your part, the Adjunct is not to your tastes, there is always her aide-what was that foreign-sounding name again, Bugg?’

‘Blistig.’

Tehol frowned. ‘Really?’

Brys rubbed at his brow, and at an odd splashing sound glanced over at Ublala and saw the man guzzling from an enormous pitcher, a brown pool spreading round his bare feet. ‘Her name is Lostara Yil,’ he said, unaccountably weary, almost despondent.

‘Then,’ demanded Tehol, ‘who is Blistig, Bugg?’

‘Sorry, one of the Fists-uhm, Atri-Predas-in her command. My mistake.’

‘Is he pretty?’

‘I’m sure someone exists in the world who might think so, sire.’

‘Tehol,’ said Brys, ‘we need to discuss the motivations of these Malazans. Why the Wastelands? What are they looking for? What do they hope to achieve? They are an army, after all, and armies exist to wage wars. Against whom? The Wastelands are empty.’

‘It’s no use,’ said Janath. ‘I’ve already tried addressing this with my husband.’

‘A most enlightening discussion, dear wife, I assure you.’

She regarded him with raised brows. ‘Oh? That hardly describes my conclusions.’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Tehol asked, gaze flicking from Janath to Brys, to Bugg and hence to Ublala, and then back to Brys once more-and then, with a slight widening of his eyes, back again to the Tarthenal who had just consumed most of the contents of the pitcher and was belching golden froth that ran down his chin. Noting the King’s attention, Ublala Pung wiped his chin and smiled.

‘Isn’t what obvious?’ Janath asked.

‘Huh? Oh, they’re not going to the Wastelands, my Queen, they’re going to Kolanse. They’re just passing through the Wastelands since they no longer have the transports to get to Kolanse by sea. Nor have we the ships to accommodate them, alas.’

‘What do they seek in Kolanse?’ Brys asked.

Tehol shrugged. ‘How should I know? Do you think, maybe, we should ask them?’

‘I would wager,’ said Bugg, ‘they’ll rightly tell us it’s none of our business.’

‘Is it?’

‘Sire, your question encourages me to dissemble, and I’d rather not do that.’

‘Entirely understandable, Bugg. Let’s leave it there, then. Are you unwell, Ublala Pung?’

The giant was frowning down at his feet. ‘Did I piddle myself?’

‘No, that’s beer.’

‘Oh. That’s good, then. But…’

‘Yes, Ublala?’

‘Where are my boots?’

Janath reached out and stayed her husband’s hand as he was lifting his goblet to drink. ‘Not again, husband. Ublala, you informed us earlier that you fed your boots to the other guards in your billet.’

‘Oh.’ Ublala belched, wiped foam from his nose, and then smiled again. ‘I remember now.’

Tehol blessed his wife with a grateful look and then said, ‘That reminds me, did we send healers to the palace barracks?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Well done, Bugg. Now then, since I hear the Malazan entourage on its way in the hallway beyond: Brys, how big do you want to make your escort?’

‘Two brigades and two battalions, sire.’

‘Is that reasonable?’ Tehol asked, looking round.

‘I have no idea,’ Janath replied. ‘Bugg?’

‘I’m no general, my Queen.’

‘We need an expert opinion, then,’ said Tehol. ‘Brys?’

Nothing good was going to come of this, Bottle knew, but he also recognized the necessity and so walked uncomplaining in Ebron’s company as they cut across the round with its heaving, shouting throng locked in a frenzy of buying and selling and consuming-like seabirds flocking to a single rock day after day, reliving the same rituals that built up a life in layers of… well, don’t hedge now… of guano. Of course, one man’s shit was another man’s… whatever.

There was a hidden privilege in being a soldier, he decided. He had been pushed outside normal life, protected from the rigours of meeting most basic needs-food, drink, clothes, shelter: all of these were provided to him in some form or other. And family-don’t forget that. All in exchange for the task of delivering terrible violence; only every now and then to be sure, for such things could not be sustained over long periods of time without crushing the capacity for feeling, without devouring a mortal’s humanity.

In that context, Bottle reconsidered-with a dull spasm of anguish deep inside-maybe the exchange wasn’t that reasonable after all. Less a privilege than a burden, a curse. Seeing the faces in this crowd flashing past, a spinning, whirling cascade of masks-each a faintly stunning alternative to his own-he felt himself not simply pushed outside, but estranged. Leaving him bemused, even perturbed, as he witnessed their seemingly mindless, pointless activities, only to find himself envious of these shallow, undramatic lives-wherein the only need was satiation. Possessions, stuffed bellies, expanding heaps of coin.

What do any of you know about life? he wanted to ask. Try stumbling through a burning city. Try cradling a dying friend with blood like tattered shrouds on all sides. Try glancing to an animated face beside you, only to glance a second time and find it empty, lifeless.

A soldier knew what was real and what was ephemeral. A soldier understood how thin, how fragile, was the fabric of life.

Could one feel envy when looking upon the protected, ignorant lives of others-those people whose cloistered faith saw strength in weakness, who found hope in the false assurance of routine? Yes, because once you become aware of that fragility, there is no going back. You lose a thousand masks and are left with but one, with its faint lines of contempt, its downturned mouth only a comment away from a sneer, its promise of cold indifference.

Gods, we’re just going for a walk here. I don’t need to be thinking any of this.

Ebron tugged at his arm and they edged into a narrow, high-walled alley. Twenty paces down, the well-swept corridor broadened out into a secluded open-air tavern shaded by four centuries-old fig trees, one at each corner.

Deadsmell was already sitting at one of the tables, scraping chunks of meat and vegetable from copper skewers with his dagger and with a stab lifting morsels to his grease-stained mouth, a tall cup of chilled wine within reach.

Leave it to necromancers to find pleasure in everything.

He looked up as they arrived. ‘You’re late.’

‘See how you suffered for it?’ Ebron snapped, dragging out a chair.

‘Yes, well, one must make do. I recommend these things-they’re like Seven Cities tapu, though not as spicy.’

‘What’s the meat?’ Bottle asked, sitting down.

‘Something called orthen. A delicacy, I’m told. Delicious.’

‘Well, we might as well eat and drink,’ said Ebron, ‘while we discuss the miserable extinction of sorcery and the beginning of our soon-to-be-useless lives.’

Deadsmell leaned back, eyes narrowing on the mage. ‘If you’re going to steal my appetite, you’re paying for it first.’

‘It was the reading,’ Bottle said, and oh, how that snared their attention, not to mention demolished the incipient argument between the two men. ‘What the reading revealed goes back to the day we breached the city wall and struck for the palace-do you recall those conflagrations? That damned earthquake?’

‘It was the dragon that showed up,’ said Deadsmell.

‘It was munitions,’ countered Ebron.

‘It was neither. It was Icarium Lifestealer. He was here, waiting in line to cross blades with the Emperor, but he never got to him, because of that Toblakai-who was none other than Leoman of the Flails’ old friend back in Raraku, by the way. Anyway, Icarium did something, right here in Letheras.’ Bottle paused and eyed Ebron. ‘What are you getting when you awaken your warren?’

‘Confusion, powers spitting at each other, nothing you can grasp tight, nothing you can use.’

‘And it’s got worse since the reading, hasn’t it?’

‘It has,’ confirmed Deadsmell. ‘Ebron will tell you about the mad house we unleashed the night of the reading-I could have sworn Hood stepped right into our room. But the truth was, the Reaper was nowhere even close. If anything, he was sent sprawling the other way. And now, it’s all… jumpy, twisty. You take hold and everything shudders until it squirms loose.’

Bottle was nodding. ‘That’s the real reason Fid was so reluctant. His reading fed into what Icarium made here all those months back.’

‘Made?’ Ebron demanded. ‘Made what?’

‘I’m not sure-’

‘Liar.’

‘No, Ebron, I’m really not sure… but I have an idea. Do you want to hear it or not?’

‘No, yes. Go on, I need to finish my list of reasons to commit suicide.’

A server arrived, a man older than a Jaghut’s stockings, and the next few moments were spent shouting at the deaf codger-fruitlessly-until Ebron stumbled on to the bright notion of pointing at Deadsmell’s plate and goblet and showing two fingers.

As the man set off, wilful as a snail, Bottle said, ‘It might not be that bad, Ebron. I think what we’re dealing with here is the imposition of a new pattern on to the old, familiar one.’

‘Pattern? What pattern?’

‘The warrens. That pattern.’

Deadsmell dropped his last skewer-scraped clean-on the plate and leaned forward. ‘You’re saying Icarium went and made a new set of warrens?’

‘Swallow what’s in your mouth before you gape, please. Yes, that’s my idea. I’m telling you, Fiddler’s game was insane with power. Almost as bad as if someone tried a reading while sitting in K’rul’s lap. Well, not quite, since this new pattern is young, the blood still fresh-’

‘Blood?’ demanded Ebron. ‘What blood?’

‘Icarium’s blood,’ Bottle said.

‘Is he dead then?’

‘Is he? How should I know? Is K’rul dead?’

‘Of course not,’ Deadsmell answered. ‘If he was, the warrens would have died-that’s assuming all your theories about K’rul and the warrens are even true-’

‘They are. It was blood magic. That’s how the Elder Gods did things-when we use sorcery we’re feeding on K’rul’s blood.’

No one spoke for a time. The server approached with a heavy tray. It was like watching the tide come in.

‘So,’ ventured Ebron once the tray clunked down and the plates and wine and goblets were randomly arrayed on the table by a quivering hand, ‘are things going to settle out, Bottle?’

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, pouring out some wine as the waiter shuffled away. ‘We may have to do some exploring.’

‘Of what?’

‘The new warrens, of course.’

‘How can they be any different?’ Ebron asked. ‘It’s the fact that they’re mostly the same that’s got things confused-has to be. If they were completely different, there wouldn’t be this kind of trouble.’

‘Good point. Well, we should see if we can nudge things together, until the overlap is precise.’

Deadsmell snorted. ‘Bottle, we’re squad mages, for Hood’s sake. We’re like midges feeding on a herd of bhederin-and here you’re suggesting we try and drive that herd. It’s not going to happen. We haven’t the power-even if we put ourselves together on this.’

‘That’s why I’m thinking we should involve Quick Ben, maybe even Sinn-’

‘Don’t even think that,’ Ebron said, eyes wide. ‘You don’t want her anywhere close, Bottle. I still can’t believe the Adjunct made her High Mage-’

‘Well,’ cut in Deadsmell, ‘since she’s mute she’ll be the only High Mage in history who never complains.’

‘Just Quick Ben, then.’

‘He’ll complain enough for both of them,’ Deadsmell nodded.

‘Just how nasty is he?’ Ebron asked Bottle.

‘Quick? Well, he gave a dragon a bloody nose.’

‘A real dragon or a Soletaken dragon?’

‘It makes no difference, Ebron-you pretty much can’t tell just from looking at them. You’ll only know a Soletaken when it veers. Anyway, don’t forget, he faced down the Edur mages once we quit Seven Cities.’

‘That was illusion.’

‘Ebron, I was in on that-a lot closer than you. Sure, maybe it was illusion, but maybe not.’ He paused, then said, ‘That’s another thing to consider. The local mages. They used raw sorcery, pretty much Chaotic and nothing else. No warrens. But now there’s warrens here. The local mages are in worse shape than we are.’

‘I still don’t like the idea of some kind of collective ritual,’ Deadsmell said. ‘When you’re under siege you don’t pop your head up over the parapet, do you? Unless you want feather eyelashes.’

‘Well, Fiddler went and did just that with the reading, didn’t he? Nobody died-’

‘Rubbish. A whole building went crashing down!’

‘Nothing new there, Ebron. This whole city is on shaky ground.’

‘People died, is what I’m telling you, Bottle. And if that’s not bad enough, there were plenty of witnesses claiming to see two dragons rise out of the rubble.’ He ducked his head and looked round. ‘I don’t like dragons. I don’t like places where dragons show up all the time. Say we try some ritual-what if fifty dragons come blasting down out of the sky, splatting right on top of us? What then, hey?’

‘Well, I don’t know, Ebron. It depends. I mean, are they real or Soletaken?’

Sinn held Grub’s hand in a tight, sweaty grip. They were edging once more on to the grounds of the old Azath tower. The day was hot, steamy, the air above the tortured mounds glittering with whirling insects. ‘Can you smell it?’ she asked.

He didn’t want to reply.

She shot him a wild look, and then tugged him on to the winding stone path. ‘It’s all new, Grub. You can drink it like water. It tastes sweet-’

‘It tastes dangerous, Sinn.’

‘I can almost see it. New patterns, getting stronger-it’s running roots right through this place. This is all new,’ she said again, almost breathless. ‘Just like us-you and me, Grub, we’re going to leave all the old people behind. Feel this power! With it we can do anything! We can knock down gods!’

‘I don’t want to knock anything down, especially gods!’

‘You didn’t have to listen to Tavore, Grub. And Quick Ben.’

‘We can’t just play with this stuff, Sinn.’

‘Why not? No one else is.’

‘Because it’s broken, that’s why. It doesn’t feel right at all-these new warrens, they feel wrong, Sinn. The pattern is broken.’

They halted just outside the tower’s now gaping doorway and its seemingly lifeless wasp nest. She faced him, eyes bright. ‘So let’s fix it.’

He stared at her. ‘How?’

‘Come on,’ she said, pulling him into the gloom of the Azath tower.

Feet crunching on dead wasps, she led him without hesitation to the stairs. They climbed to the empty chamber that had once been the nexus of the Azath’s power.

It was empty no longer.

Blood-red threads sizzled within, forming a knotted, chaotic web that spanned the entire chamber. The air tasted metallic, bitter.

They stood side by side at the threshold.

‘It uses what it finds,’ Sinn whispered.

‘So now what?’

‘Now, we step inside.’

‘They march in circles any longer and they’ll drop.’

Corporal Tarr squinted at the gasping, foot-dragging soldiers. ‘They’re out of shape, all right. Pathetic. Of course, we were supposed to think of something.’

Cuttle scratched at his jaw. ‘So we ended up thrashing them after all. Look, here comes Fid, thank the gods.’

The sergeant scowled upon seeing his two soldiers and almost turned round before Cuttle’s frantic beckoning beat down his defences, or at least elicited the man’s pity. Raking fingers through his red and grey beard, he walked over. ‘What are you two doing to those poor bastards?’

‘We run out of things to make them do,’ Cuttle said.

‘Well, stumbling round inside a compound only takes it so far. You need to get them out of the city. Get them practising entrenchments, redoubts and berms. You need to turn their penchant for wholesale rout into something like an organized withdrawal. You need to stretch their chain of command and see who’s got the guts to step up when it snaps. You need to make those ones squad-leaders. War games, too-set them against one of the other brigades or battalions being trained by our marines. They need to win a few times before they can learn how to avoid losing. Now, if Hedge comes by, you ain’t seen me, right?’

They watched him head off down the length of the colonnade.

‘That’s depressing,’ Cuttle muttered.

‘I’ll never make sergeant,’ Tarr said, ‘not in a thousand years. Damn.’

‘Good point, you just lifted my mood, Corporal. Thanks.’

Hedge pounced on his old friend at the end of the colonnade. ‘What’re you bothering with them for, Fid? These Bonehunters ain’t Bridgeburners and those Letherii ain’t soldiers. You’re wasting your time.’

‘Gods below, stop stalking me!’

Hedge’s expression fell. ‘It’s not that, Fid. Only, we were friends-’

‘And then you died. So I went and got over you. And now you show up all over again. If you were just a ghost then maybe I could deal with it-aye, I know you whispered in my ear every now and then, and saved my skin and all that and it’s not that I ain’t grateful either. But… well, we ain’t squad mates any more, are we? You came back when you weren’t supposed to, and in your head you’re still a Bridgeburner and you think the same of me. Which is why you keep slagging off these Bonehunters, like it was some rival division. But it isn’t, because the Bridgeburners are finished, Hedge. Dust and ashes. Gone.’

‘All right all right! So maybe I need to make some adjustments, too. I can do that! Easy. Watch me! First thing-I’ll get the captain to give me a squad-’

‘What makes you think you deserve to lead a squad?’

‘Because I was a-’

‘Exactly. A damned Bridgeburner! Hedge, you’re a sapper-’

‘So are you!’

‘Mostly I leave that to Cuttle these days-’

‘You did the drum! Without me!’

‘You weren’t there-’

‘That makes no difference!’

‘How can it not make a difference?’

‘Let me work on that. The point is, you were doing sapping stuff, Fid. In fact, the point is, you and me need to get drunk and find us some whores-’

‘Only works the other way round, Hedge.’

‘Now you’re talking! And listen, I’ll get a finger-bone nose-ring so I can fit right in with these bloodthirsty Bonehunters you’re so proud of, how does that sound?’

Fiddler stared at the man. His ridiculous leather cap with its earflaps, his hopeful grin. ‘Get a nose-ring and I’ll kill you myself, Hedge. Fine, then, let’s stir things up. Just don’t even think about asking for a squad, all right?’

‘So what am I supposed to do instead?’

‘Tag along with Gesler’s squad-I think it’s short of a body.’ And then he snorted a laugh. ‘A body. You. Good one.’

‘I told you I wasn’t dead no more, Fid.’

‘If you say so.’

Lieutenant Pores sat in the captain’s chair behind the captain’s desk, and held his hands folded together on the surface before him as he regarded the two women who had, until recently, been rotting in cells in some Letherii fort. ‘Sisters, right?’

When neither replied, Pores nodded. ‘Some advice, then. Should either of you one day achieve higher rank-say, captain-you too will learn the art of stating the obvious. In the meantime, you are stuck with the absurd requirement of answering stupid questions with honest answers, all the while keeping a straight face. You will need to do a lot of this with me.’

The woman on the right said, ‘Aye, sir, we’re sisters.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant Sinter. Wasn’t that satisfying? I’m sure it was. What I will find even more satisfying is watching you two washing down the barracks’ latrines for the next two weeks. Consider it your reward for being so incompetent as to be captured by these local fools. And then failing to escape.’ He scowled. ‘Look at you two-nothing but skin and bones! Those uniforms look like shrouds. I order you to regain your lost weight, in all the right places, within the same fortnight. Failure to do will result in a month on half-rations. Furthermore, I want you both to get your hair cut, down to the scalp, and to deposit said sheared hair on this desk precisely at the eighth bell this evening. Not earlier, not later. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir!’ barked Sergeant Sinter.

‘Very good,’ nodded Pores. ‘Now get out of here, and if you see Lieutenant Pores in the corridor remind him that he has been ordered to a posting on Second Maiden Fort, and the damned idiot should be on his way by now. Dismissed!’

As soon as the two women were gone, Pores leapt up from behind the captain’s desk, scanned the surface to ensure nothing had been knocked askew, and then carefully repositioned the chair just so. With a nervous glance out the window, he hurried out into the reception room and sat down behind his own, much smaller desk. Hearing heavy boots in the corridor he began shuffling the scrolls and wax tablets on the surface in front of him, planting a studious frown on his features in time for his captain’s portentous arrival.

As soon as the door opened, Pores leapt to attention. ‘Good morning, sir!’

‘It’s mid-afternoon, Lieutenant. Those wasp stings clearly rotted what’s left of your brain.’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Have those two Dal Honese sisters reported yet?’

‘No, sir, not hide nor… hair, sir. We should be seeing one or both any time now-’

‘Oh, and is that because you intend to physically hunt them down, Lieutenant?’

‘As soon as I’ve done this paperwork, sir, I will do just that, even if it takes me all the way to Second Maiden Fort, sir.’

Kindly scowled. ‘What paperwork?’

‘Why, sir,’ Pores gestured, ‘this paperwork, sir.’

‘Well, don’t dally, Lieutenant. As you know, I need to attend a briefing at half seventh bell, and I want them in my office before then.’

‘Yes, sir!’

Kindly walked past and went inside. Where, Pores imagined, he would spend the rest of the afternoon looking at his collection of combs.

‘Everyone’s right,’ Kisswhere muttered as she and her sister made their back to the dormitory, ‘Captain Kindly is not only a bastard, but insane. What was all that about our hair?’

Sinter shrugged. ‘No idea.’

‘Well, there’s no regulations about our hair. We can complain to the Fist-’

‘No we won’t,’ Sinter cut in. ‘Kindly wants hair on his desk, we give him hair on his desk.’

‘Not mine!’

‘Nor mine, Kisswhere, nor mine.’

‘Then whose?’

‘Not whose. What’s.’

Corporal Pravalak Rim was waiting at the entrance. ‘Did you get commendations then?’ he asked.

‘Oh love,’ said Kisswhere, ‘Kindly doesn’t give out commendations. Just punishments.’

‘What?’

Sinter said, ‘The captain ordered us to put on weight,’ and then she stepped past him, ‘among other things.’ And then she paused and turned back to Pravalak. ‘Corporal, find us some shears, and a large burlap sack.’

‘Aye, Sergeant. Shears-how big?’

‘I don’t care, just find some.’

Kisswhere offered the young man a broad smile as he hurried off, and then she went inside, marching halfway down the length of the dormitory. She halted at the foot of a cot where the bedding had been twisted into something resembling a nest. Squatting in the centre of this nest was a wrinkled, scarified, tattooed bad dream with small glittering eyes. ‘Nep Furrow, I need a curse.’

‘Eh? Geen way! Groblet! Coo!’

‘Captain Kindly. I was thinking hives, the real itchy kind. No, wait, that’ll just make him even meaner. Make him cross-eyed-but not so he notices, just everyone else. Can you do that, Nep?’

‘War butt wod i’meen, eh?’

‘How about a massage?’

‘Kissands?’

‘My very own, yes.’

‘Urble ong eh? Urble ong?’

‘Bell to bell, Nep.’

‘Nikked?’

‘Who, you or me?’

‘Bat!’

‘Fine, but we’ll need to rent a room, unless of course you want an audience?’

Nep Furrow was getting excited, in all the wrong ways, she saw. He jumped round, squirmed, his skin glistening with sweat. ‘Blether squids, Kiss, blether squids!’

‘With the door barred,’ she said. ‘I won’t have any strangers walking in.’

‘Hep haw! Curseed?’

‘Aye, cross-eyed, but he can’t know it-’

‘Impable, lees in glusion.’

‘Illusion? A glamour? Oh, that’s very good. Get on it, then, thanks.’

Badan Gruk rubbed at his face as Sinter collapsed on to the cot beside him. ‘What in Hood’s name are we doing here?’ he asked.

Her dark eyes flicked to his-the momentary contact sweet as a caress-and then she looked away. ‘You’re the only kind of soldier a body can trust, Badan, did you know that?’

‘What? No, I-’

‘You’re reluctant. You’re not cut out for violence and so you don’t go looking for it. You use your wits first and that silly bonekisser as a last resort. The dangerous ones do it the other way round and that costs lives every time. Every time.’ She paused. ‘Did I hear right? Some drunk marine sergeant crossed this damned empire from tavern to tavern?’

He nodded. ‘And left a trail of local sympathizers, too. But she wasn’t afraid of spilling blood, Sinter, she just picked out the right targets-people nobody liked. Tax collectors, provosts, advocates.’

‘But she’s a drunk?’

‘Aye.’

Shaking her head, Sinter fell back on to the cot. She stared at the ceiling. ‘How come she doesn’t get busted down?’

‘Because she’s one of the Y’Ghatan Stormcrawlers, that’s why. Them that went under.’

‘Oh, right.’ A moment’s consideration, and then: ‘Well, we’re marching soon.’

Badan rubbed at his face again. ‘But nobody knows where, or even why. It’s a mess, Sinter.’ He hesitated, and then asked, ‘You got any bad feelings about it?’

‘Got no feelings at all, Badan. About anything. And no, I don’t know what took me by the throat the night of Fid’s reading, either. In fact, I don’t even remember much of that night, not the ride, nor what followed.’

‘Nothing followed. Mostly, you just passed out. Some Fenn had already stepped in, anyway. Punched a god in the side of the head.’

‘Good.’

‘That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?’

‘Well, like the one-eyed hag says, there’s all kinds of worship in the world, Badan.’

‘I don’t…’ but the look she shot him ground the words down to dust in his mouth. He flinched and glanced away. ‘That thing you said about wits, Sinter, was that a joke, too?’

She sighed, closing her eyes. ‘No, Badan. No. Wake me when Rim gets back, will you?’

Trailed by Lostara Yil, Keneb, Blistig and Quick Ben, the Adjunct Tavore strode down the length of the throne room and halted ten paces from the two thrones.

‘Welcome to you all,’ said King Tehol. ‘Adjunct, my Chancellor here informs me that you have a list of requests, most of which will contribute to a happy burgeoning of the royal coffers. Now, if I was the venal sort I would say let’s get right to that. But I am no such sort and so I would like to broach an entirely different matter, one of immense importance.’

‘Of course, sire,’ said Tavore. ‘We are at your disposal and will assist in any way we can.’

The King beamed.

Lostara wondered at the Queen’s sigh, but not for long.

‘Wonderful! Now, as soon as I recall the specific details of what I wanted to ask, why, I will. In the meantime, my Ceda tells me that you have stirred awake a sorcerous nest of trouble. My Chancellor, alas, assures me that the confusion is exaggerated-which of the two am I to believe? Please, if you can, break asunder this dreadful deadlock.’

Frowning, Tavore turned and said, ‘High Mage, can you address this matter, please?’

Quick Ben moved to stand beside the Adjunct. ‘Sire, both your Chancellor and your Ceda are, essentially, correct.’

Lostara saw Bugg smile, and then scowl from where he stood to the right of Tehol’s throne.

‘How fascinating,’ the King murmured, leaning forward to settle his chin in one hand. ‘Can you elaborate, High Mage?’

‘Probably not, but I will try. The situation, terrifying as it is, is probably temporary. The reading of the Deck of Dragons, which Preda Brys Beddict attended, seems to have illuminated a structural flaw in the… uhm… fabric of reality, a wounding of sorts. It seems, sire, that someone-someone very powerful-attempted to impose a new structure upon the already existing warrens of sorcery.’

Brys Beddict, positioned to the left of the Queen, asked, ‘High Mage, can you explain these “warrens” which seem so central to your notions of magic?’

‘Unlike the sorcery that prevailed on this continent until recently, Preda, magic everywhere else exists in a more formalized state. The power, so raw here, is elsewhere refined, aspected, organized into something like themes, and these themes are what we call warrens. Many are accessible to mortals and gods alike; others are’-and he glanced at Bugg-‘Elder. Some are virtually extinct, or inaccessible due to ignorance or deliberate rituals of sealing. Some, in addition, are claimed and ruled over by elements either native to those warrens, or so fundamentally related to them as to make the distinction meaningless.’

King Tehol lifted a finger. ‘A moment, whilst I blink the glaze from my eyes. Now, let’s mull on what has been said thus far-I’m good at mulling, by the way. If I understand you, High Mage, the realm the Tiste Edur called Kurald Emurlahn represents one of these warrens, yes?’

‘Aye,’ Quick Ben responded, and then hastily added, ‘sire. The Tiste warrens-and there are three that we know of-are all Elder. Two of them, by the way, are no longer ruled by the Tiste. One is virtually sealed. The other has been usurped.’

‘And how do these warrens relate to your Deck of Dragons?’

The High Mage flinched. ‘Not my Deck, sire, I assure you. There is no simple answer to your question-’

‘It’s about time! I was beginning to feel very stupid. Please understand, I have no problem about being stupid. Feeling stupid is entirely another matter.’

‘Ah, yes, sire. Well, the Deck of Dragons probably originated as a means of divination-less awkward than tiles, burnt bones, silt patterns, random knots, knucklebones, puke, faeces-’

‘Understood! Please, there are ladies present, good sir!’

‘Forgive me, sire. In some obvious ways, the High Houses of the Deck relate to certain warrens and as such they present a kind of window looking in on those warrens-conversely, of course, things can in turn look out from the other side, which is what makes a reading so… risky. The Deck is indifferent to barriers-in the right hands it can reveal patterns and relationships hidden to mortal eyes.’

‘Even what you describe,’ said Brys, ‘hardly matches what happened at that reading, High Mage.’

‘Aye, Preda, which brings us back to the wound that is this city. Someone drew a knife and carved a new pattern here. New, and yet ancient beyond belief. There was an attempt at a reawakening, but what awoke was broken.’

‘And do you know who that “someone” might have been?’ King Tehol asked.

‘Icarium Lifestealer, sire. A Champion intended to cross blades with Emperor Rhulad Sengar.’

Tehol leaned back and said, ‘Ceda, do you have anything to add at this moment?’

Bugg started and then winced. ‘The High Mage’s knowledge is most impressive, sire. Uncannily so.’

Queen Janath asked, ‘Can this wound be healed, Ceda? And if not, what is the threat to Letheras should it continue to… bleed?’

The old man made a face that suggested he’d just tasted something unpleasant. ‘Letheras is now like a pool of water with all the silts stirred up. We are blinded, groping, and none of us can draw more than a thin, shallow handful of magic. The effect ripples outward and will soon incapacitate the mages throughout the kingdom.’

‘High Mage,’ Janath then said, ‘you said earlier that the effect is temporary. Does this presume a healing is imminent?’

‘Most wounds heal themselves, over time, Highness. I expect that will begin… as soon as we Malazans get the Hood out of here. The reading gave that wound a sharp poke. Blood flowed out, and in this instance, blood is power.’

‘Well now,’ mused the King. ‘How fascinating, how curious, how alarming. I think we had best proceed with haste to the matter of filling the royal coffers. Adjunct Tavore, you wish to supply a baggage train sufficient to see you into and, presumably, across the Wastelands. This we are happy to provide, at a complimentary, reduced rate-to show our appreciation of your exemplary efforts in ousting the Edur tyranny. Now, my Chancellor has already begun arranging matters from our end, and he informs me that his projected estimate to meet your needs is substantial. It will take us approximately four weeks to assemble such a train and hopefully only moments for you to pay for it. Of course, Brys will arrange his escort’s resupply, so you need not worry about that.’

He paused then, noting the Adjunct’s involuntary start. ‘Ah, your escort. Yes, my brother insists that he accompany you through the neighbouring kingdoms. Quite simply, neither Saphinand nor Bolkando can be trusted to do anything but betray and undermine you at every turn. Depressing neighbours-but then, so were we to them not so long ago. I am considering announcing a Royal Project to construct the world’s highest fence for ever separating our respective territories, with some fine hedging to soften the effect. Yes yes, dear wife, I am now rambling and yes, it was fun!’

‘Sire,’ said Tavore, ‘thank you for the offer of an escort, but I assure you, there is no need. Those kingdoms we seek to pass through may well be treacherous, but I doubt they can succeed in surprising us.’ Her tone was flat and though she couldn’t see, Lostara was certain that the Adjunct’s eyes were if anything even flatter.

‘They are thieves,’ said Brys Beddict. ‘Your baggage train, Adjunct, will be enormous-the lands you seek are bereft-it may be that even Kolanse itself is unable to accommodate you.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Tavore. ‘I do not recall stating our intended destination.’

‘There’s little else out there,’ said Brys, shrugging.

The Adjunct said nothing and all at once the atmosphere was tense.

‘Preda Brys,’ said the King, ‘will be assisting in policing your train as you pass through two entire nations of pickpockets.’

Still Tavore hesitated. ‘Sire, we have no desire to embroil your kingdom in a war, should Saphinand or Bolkando attempt to betray the passage agreements.’

‘It will be our very presence,’ said Brys, ‘that will ensure nothing so overt on their part, Adjunct. Please understand, if we do not escort you and you subsequently find yourselves in a vicious war with no retreat possible, then we in turn will have no choice but to march to your rescue.’

‘Just so,’ agreed the King. ‘So accept the escort, Adjunct, or I shall hold my breath until I achieve a most royal shade of purple.’

Tavore bowed her head in acquiescence. ‘I withdraw all objections, sire. Thank you for the escort.’

‘That’s better. Now, I must now seek reassurance from my staff on three distinct issues. Chancellor, are you content with everything pertaining to outfitting the Adjunct’s forces?’

‘I am, sire,’ said Bugg.

‘Excellent. Royal Treasurer, are you confident that the Malazans have sufficient funds for this enterprise?’

‘So I am assured, sire,’ said Bugg.

‘Good. Ceda, do you concur that the departure of the Malazans will hasten the healing that has befallen the city?’

‘I do, sire,’ said Bugg.

‘Consensus at last! How delightful! Now what should we do?’

Queen Janath stood. ‘Food and wine awaits us in the dining hall. Allow me to lead our guests.’ And she stepped down from the dais.

‘Darling wife,’ said Tehol, ‘for you I make all manner of allowances.’

‘I am relieved that you so willingly assume such a burden, husband.’

‘So am I,’ he replied.