Reaper's Gale

Chapter Thirteen

‘Now there, friends, is one beautiful woman.’

‘If that’s how you like them.’

‘Now why wouldn’t I, y’damned barrow-digger? Thing is, and it’s always the way isn’t it, look at that hopeless thug she’s with. I can’t figure things like that. She could have anyone in here. She could have me, even. But no, there she is, sittin’ aside that limpin’ one-armed, one-eared, one-eyed and no-nosed cattle-dog. I mean, talk about ugly.’

The third man, who had yet to speak, gave him a surreptitious, sidelong look, noting the birdnest hair, the jutting steering-oar ears, the bulging eyes, and the piebald patches that were the scars of fire on features that reminded him of a squashed gourd-sidelong and brief, that glance, and Throatslitter quickly looked away. The last thing he wanted to do was break into another one of his trilling, uncanny laughs that seemed to freeze everyone within earshot.

Never used to have a laugh sounding like that. Damn thing scares even me. Well, he’d taken a throatful of oily flames and it’d done bad things to his voice-reed. The damage only revealed itself when he laughed, and, he recalled, in the months following… all that stuff… there had been few reasons for mirth.

‘There goes that tavernkeeper,’ Deadsmell observed.

It was easy talking about anything and everything, since no-one here but them understood Malazan.

‘There’s another one all moon-eyed over her,’ Sergeant Balm said with a sneer. ‘But who does she sit with? Hood take me, it don’t make sense.’

Deadsmell slowly leaned forward on the table and carefully refilled his tankard. ‘It’s the delivery of that cask. Brullyg’s. Looks like the pretty one and the dead lass have volunteered.’

Balm’s bulging eyes bulged even more. ‘She ain’t dead! I’ll tell you what’s dead, Deadsmell, that puddle-drowned worm between your legs!’

Throatslitter eyed the corporal. ‘1f that’s how you like them,’ he’d said. A half-strangled gulp escaped him, making both his companions flinch.

‘What in Hood’s name are you gonna laugh about?’ Balm demanded. ‘Just don’t, and that’s an order.’

Throatslitter bit down hard on his own tongue. Tears blurred his vision for a moment as pain shot round his skull like a pebble in a bucket. Mute, he shook his head. Laugh? Not me.

The sergeant was glaring at Deadsmell again. ‘Dead? She don’t look much dead to me.’

‘Trust me,’ the corporal replied after taking a deep draught. He belched. ‘Sure, she’s hiding it well, but that woman died some time ago.’

Balm was hunched over the table, scratching at the tangles of his hair. Flakes drifted down to land like specks of paint on the dark wood. ‘Gods below,’ he whispered. ‘Maybe somebody should… I don’t know… maybe… tell her?’

Deadsmell’s mostly hairless brows lifted. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, you have a complexion to die for and I guess that’s what you did.’

Another squawk from Throatslitter.

The corporal continued, ‘Is it true, ma’am, that perfect hair and expensive make-up can hide anything?’

A choked squeal from Throatslitter.

Heads turned.

Deadsmell drank down another mouthful, warming to the subject. ‘Funny, you don’t look dead.’

The high-pitched cackle erupted.

As it died, sudden silence in the main room of the tavern, barring that of a rolling tankard, which then plunged off a tabletop and bounced on the floor.

Balm glared at Deadsmell. ‘You done that. You just kept pushing and pushing. Another word from you, corporal, and you’ll be deader than she is.’

‘What’s that smell?’ Deadsmell asked. ‘Oh right. Essence of putrescence.’

Balm’s cheeks bulged, his face turning a strange purple shade. His yellowy eyes looked moments from leaping out on their stalks.

Throatslitter tried squeezing his own eyes shut, but the image of his sergeant’s face burst into his mind. He shrieked behind his hands. Looked round in helpless appeal.

All attention was fixed on them now, no-one speaking. Even the beautiful woman who’d shipped in with that maimed oaf and the oaf himself-whose one good eye glittered out from the folds of a severe frown-had paused, standing each to one side of the cask of ale the tavernkeeper had brought out. And the keeper himself, staring at Throatslitter with mouth hanging open.

‘Well,’ Deadsmell observed, ‘there goes our credit as bad boys. Throaty here’s making mating calls-hope there’s no turkeys on this island. And you, sergeant, your head looks ready to explode like a cusser.’

Balm hissed, ‘It was your fault, you bastard!’

‘Hardly. As you see, I am calm. Although somewhat embarrassed by my company, alas.’

‘Fine, we’re shifting you off. Hood knows, Gilani’s a damned sight prettier to look at-’

‘Yes, but she happens to be alive, sergeant. Not your type at all.’

‘I didn’t know!’

‘Now that is a most pathetic admission, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Hold on,’ Throatslitter finally interjected. ‘1 couldn’t tell about her either, Deadsmell.’ He jabbed a finger at the corporal. ‘Further proof you’re a damned necromancer. No, forget that shocked look, we ain’t buying no more. You knew she was dead because you can smell ‘em, just like your name says you can. In fact, I’d wager that’s why Braven Tooth gave you that name-doesn’t miss a thing, ever, does he?’

The ambient noise was slowly resurrecting itself, accompanied by more than a few warding gestures, a couple of chairs scraping back through filth as patrons made furtive escapes out of the front door.

Deadsmell drank more ale. And said nothing.

The dead woman and her companion headed out, the latter limping as he struggled to balance the cask on one shoulder.

Balm grunted. ‘There they go. Typical, isn’t it? Just when we’re under strength, too.’

‘Nothing to worry about, sergeant,’ Deadsmell said. ‘It’s all in hand. Though if the keeper decides on following…’

Throatslitter grunted. ‘If he does, he’ll regret it.’ He rose then, adjusting the marine-issue rain cape. ‘Lucky you two, getting to sit here adding fat to your arses. It’s damned cold out there, you know.’

‘I’m making note of all this insubordination,’ Balm grumbled. Then tapped his head. ‘In here.’

‘Well that’s a relief,’ Throatslitter said. He left the tavern.

Shake Brullyg, tyrant of Second Maiden Fort, would-be King of the Isle, slouched in the old prison prefect’s high-backed chair and glared from under heavy brows at the two foreigners at the table, beside the chamber’s door. They were playing another of their damned games. Knuckle bones, elongated wooden bowl and split crow-feathers.

‘Two bounces earns me a sweep,’ one of them said, although Brullyg was not quite sure of that-picking up a language on the sly was no easy thing, but he’d always been good with languages. Shake, Letherii, Tiste Edur, Fent, trader’s tongue and Meckros. And now, spatterings of this… this Malazan.

Timing. They’d taken it from him, as easily as they’d taken his knife, his war-axe. Foreigners easing into the harbour-not so many aboard as to cause much worry, or so it had seemed. Besides, there had been enough trouble to chew on right then. A sea filled with mountains of ice, bearing down on the Isle, more ominous than any fleet or army. They said they could take care of that-and he’d been a drowning man going down for the last time.

Would-be King of the Isle, crushed and smeared flat under insensate ice. Face to face with that kind of truth had been like dragon claws through his sail. After all he’d done…

Timing. He now wondered if these Malazans had brought the ice with them. Sent it spinning down on the season’s wild current, just so they could arrive one step ahead and offer to turn it away. He’d not even believed them, Brullyg recalled, but desperation had spoken with its very own voice. ‘Do that and you’ll be royal guests for as long as you like.’ They’d smiled at that offer.

I am a fool. And worse.

And now, two miserable squads ruled over him and every damned resident of this island, and there was not a thing he could do about it. Except keep the truth from everyone else. And that’s getting a whole lot harder with every day that passes.

‘Sweep’s in the trough, pluck a knuckle and that about does it,’ said the other soldier.

Possibly.

‘It skidded when you breathed-I saw it, you cheat!’

‘I ain’t breathed.’

‘Oh right, you’re a Hood-damned corpse, are you?’

‘No, I just ain’t breathed when you said I did. Look, it’s in the trough, you deny it?’

‘Here, let me take a closer look. Ha, no it isn’t!’

‘You just sighed and moved it, damn you!’

‘I didn’t sigh.’

‘Right, and you’re not losing neither, are ya?’

‘Just because I’m losing doesn’t mean I sighed right then. And see, it’s not in the trough.’

‘Hold on while I breathe-’

‘Then I’ll sigh!’

‘Breathing is what winners do. Sighing is what losers do. Therefore, I win.’

‘Sure, for you cheating is as natural as breathing, isn’t it?’

Brullyg slowly shifted his attention from the two at the door, regarded the last soldier in the chamber. By the coven she was a beauty. Such dark, magical skin, and those tilted eyes just glowed with sweet invitation-damn him, all the mysteries of the world were in those eyes. And that mouth! Those lips! If he could just get rid of the other two, and maybe steal away those wicked knives of hers, why then he’d discover those mysteries the way she wanted him to.

I’m King of the Isle. About to be. One more week, and if none of the dead Queen’s bitch daughters show up before then, it all falls to me. King of the Isle. Almost. Close enough to use the title, sure. And what woman wouldn’t set aside a miserable soldier’s life for the soft, warm bed of a king’s First Concubine? Sure, that is indeed a Letherii way, but as king I can make my own rules. And if the coven doesn’t like it, well, there’re the cliffs.

One of the Malazans at the table said, ‘Careful, Masan, he’s getting that look again.’

The woman named Masan Gilani straightened catlike in her chair, lifting her smooth, not-scrawny arms in an arching stretch that transformed her large breasts into round globes, tautening the worn fabric of her shirt. “S long as he keeps thinking with the wrong brain, Lobe, we’re good and easy.’ She then settled back, straightening her perfect legs.

‘We should bring him another whore,’ the one named Lobe said as he gathered the knuckle bones into a small leather bag.

‘No,’ Masan Gilani said. ‘Deadsmell barely revived the last one.’

But that’s not the real reason, is it? Brullyg smiled. No, you want me for yourself. Besides, I’m not usually like that. 1 was taking out some… frustrations. That’s all. His smile faded. They sure do use their hands a lot when talking. Gestures of all sorts. Strange people, these Malazans. He cleared his throat and spoke Letherii in the slow way they seemed to need. ‘I could do with another walk. My legs want exercise.’ A wink towards Masan Gilani, who responded with a knowing smile that lit him up low down, enough to make him shift in the chair. ‘My people need to see me, you understand? If they start getting suspicious-well, if anybody knows what a house arrest looks like, it is the citizens of Second Maiden Fort.’

In terribly accented Letherii, Lobe said, ‘You get your ale comes today, right? Best want to be waiting here for that. We walk you tonight.’

Like a Liberty mistress her pampered dog. Isn’t that nice? And when I lift a leg and piss against you, Lobe, what then?

These soldiers here did not frighten him. It was the other squad, the one still up-island. The one with that scrawny little mute girl. And she had a way of showing up as if from nowhere. From a swirl of light-he wondered what the Shake witches would make of that cute trick. All Lobe needed to do-Lobe, or Masan Gilani, or Gait, any of them-all they needed to do was call her name.

Sinn.

A real terror that one, and not a talon showing. He suspected he’d need the whole coven to get rid of her. Preferably with great losses. The coven had a way of crowding the chosen rulers of the Shake. And they’re on their way, like ravens to a carcass, all spit and cackle. Of course, they can’t fly. Can’t even swim. No, they’ll need boats, to take them across the strait-and that’s assuming the Reach isn’t now a jumbled mass of ice, which is how it looks from here.

The soldier named Gait rose from his chair, wincing at some twinge in his lower back, then ambled over to what had been the prefect’s prize possession, a tapestry that dominated an entire wall. Faded with age-and stained in the lower left corner with dried spatters of the poor prefect’s blood-the hanging depicted the First Landing of the Letherii, although in truth that was not the colonizers’ first landing. The fleet had come within sight of shore somewhere opposite the Reach. Fent canoes had ventured out to establish contact with the strangers. An exchange of gifts had gone awry, resulting in the slaughter of the Fent men and the subsequent enslavement of the women and children in the village. Three more settlements had suffered the same fate. The next four, southward down the coast, had been hastily abandoned.

The fleet had eventually rounded Sadon Peninsula on the north coast of the Ouster Sea, then sailed past the Lenth Arm and into Gedry Bay. The city of Gedry was founded on the place of the First Landing, at the mouth of the Lether River. This tapestry, easily a thousand years old, was proof enough of that. The general belief these days was that the landing occurred at the site of the capital itself, well up the river. Strange how the past was remade to suit the present. A lesson there Brullyg could use, once he was king. The Shake were a people of failure, fated to know naught but tragedy and pathos. Guardians of the shore, but incapable of guarding it against the sea’s tireless hunger. All of that needed… revising.

The Letherii had known defeat. Many times. Their history on this land was bloody, rife with their betrayals, their lies, their heartless cruelties. All of which were now seen as triumphant and heroic.

This is how a people must see itself. As we Shake must. A blinding beacon on this dark shore. When I am king…

‘Look at this damned thing,’ Gait said. ‘Here, that writing in the borders-that could be Ehrlii.’

‘But it isn’t,’ Lobe muttered. He had dismantled one of his daggers; on the table before him was the pommel, a few rivets and pins, a wooden handle wrapped in leather, a slitted hilt and the tanged blade. It seemed the soldier was now at a loss on how to put it all back together again.

‘Some of the letters-’

‘Ehrlii and Letherii come from the same language,’ Lobe said.

Gait’s glare was suspicious. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I don’t, you idiot. It’s just what I was told.’

‘Who?’

‘Ebron, I think. Or Shard. What difference does it make?

Somebody who knows things, that’s all. Hood, you’re making my brain hurt. And look at this mess.’

‘Is that my knife?’

‘Was.’

Brullyg saw Lobe cock his head, then the soldier said, ‘Footsteps bottom of the stairs.’ And with these words, his hands moved in a blur, and even as Gait was walking towards the door, Lobe was twisting home the pommel and flipping the knife into Gait’s path. Where it was caught one-handed-Gait had not even slowed in passing.

Brullyg settled back in his chair.

Rising, Masan Gilani loosened from their scabbards the vicious-looking long-bladed knives at her hips. ‘Wish I was with my own squad,’ she said, then drew a step closer to where Brullyg sat.

‘Stay put,’ she murmured.

Mouth dry, he nodded.

‘It’s likely the ale delivery,’ Lobe said from one side of the door, while Gait unlocked it and pushed it out wide enough to enable him to peer through the crack.

‘Sure, but those boots sound wrong.’

‘Not the usual drooling fart and his son?’

‘Not even close.’

‘All right.’ Lobe reached under the table and lifted into view a crossbow. A truly foreign weapon, constructed entirely of iron-or something very much like Letherii steel. The cord was thick as a man’s thumb, and the quarrel set into the groove was tipped with an x-shaped head that would punch through a Letherii shield as if it was birch bark. The soldier cranked the claw back and somehow locked it in place. Then he moved along the door’s wall to the corner.

Gait edged back as the footsteps on the stairs drew nearer. He made a series of hand gestures to which Masan Gilani grunted in response and Brullyg heard ripping cloth behind him and a moment later the point of a knife pressed between his shoulder blades-thrust right through the damned chair. She leaned down. ‘Be nice and be stupid, Brullyg. We know these two and we can guess why they’re here.’

Glancing back at Masan Gilani, nodding once, Gait then moved into the doorway, opening wide the door. ‘Well,’ he drawled in his dreadful Letherii, ‘if it isn’t the captain and her first mate. Run out of money comes too soon? What you making to comes with ale?’

A heavy growl from beyond. ‘What did he say, Captain?’

‘Whatever it was, he said it badly.’ A woman, and that voice-Brullyg frowned. That was a voice he had heard before. The knife tip dug deeper into his spine.

‘We’re bringing Shake Brullyg his ale,’ the woman continued.

‘That’s nice,’ Gait replied. ‘We see he comes gets it.’

‘Shake Brullyg’s an old friend of mine. I want to see him.’

‘He’s busy.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Thinking.’

‘Shake Brullyg? I really doubt that-and who in the Errant’s name are you anyway? You’re no Letherii, and you and those friends of yours hanging out at the tavern, well, none of you were prisoners here either. I asked around. You’re from that strange ship anchored in the bay.’

‘Why, Captain, it is simple. We comes to goes all the ice. So Brullyg he rewards us. Guests. Royal guests. Now we keep him company. He is smiles nice all the time. We nice too.’

‘Nice idiots, I think,’ the man outside-presumably the captain’s first mate-said in a growl. ‘Now, my arm’s getting tired-move aside and let me deliver this damned thing.’

Gait glanced back over a shoulder at Masan Gilani, who said in Malazan, ‘Why you looking at me? I’m just here to keep this man’s tongue hanging.’

Brullyg licked sweat from his lips. So even knowing that, why does it still work? Am 1 that stupid? ‘Let them in,’ he said in a low voice. ‘So I can ease their minds and send them away.’

Gait looked at Masan Gilani again, and though she said nothing, some kind of communication must have passed between them, for he shrugged and stepped back. ‘Comes the ale.’

Brullyg watched as the two figures entered the chamber. The one in the lead was Skorgen Kaban the Pretty. Which meant… yes. The would-be king smiled, ‘Shurq Elalle. You’ve not aged a day since I last saw you. And Skorgen-put the cask down, before you dislocate your shoulder and add lopsided to your list of ailments. Broach the damned thing and we can all have a drink. Oh,’ he added as he watched the two pirates take in the soldiers-Skorgen almost jumping when he saw Lobe in the corner, crossbow now cradled in his arms-‘these are some of my royal guests. At the door, Gait. In the corner, Lobe, and this lovely here with the one hand behind the back of my chair is Masan Gilani.’

Shurq Elalle collected one of the chairs near the door and dragged it opposite Brullyg. Sitting, she folded one leg over the other and laced her hands together on her lap. ‘Brullyg, you half-mad cheating miser of a bastard. If you were alone I’d be throttling that flabby neck of yours right now.’

‘Can’t say I’m shocked by your animosity,’ Shake Brullyg replied, suddenly comforted by his Malazan bodyguards. ‘But you know, it was never as bad or ugly as you thought it was. You just never gave me the chance to explain-’

Shurq’s smile was both beautiful and dark. ‘Why, Brullyg, you were never one to explain yourself.’

‘A man changes.’

‘That’d be a first.’

Brullyg resisted shrugging, since that would have opened a nasty slit in the flesh of his back. Instead, he lifted his hands, palms up, as he said, ‘Let’s set aside all that history. The Undying Gratitude rests safe and sound in my harbour. Cargo offloaded and plenty of coin in your purse. I imagine you’re itching to leave our blessed isle.’

‘Something like that,’ she replied. ‘Alas, it seems we’re having trouble getting, uh, permission. There’s the biggest damned ship I’ve ever seen blocking the harbour mouth right now, and a sleek war galley of some kind is making for berth at the main pier. You know,’ she added, with another quick smile, ‘it’s all starting to look like some kind of… well… blockade.’

The knife-point left Brullyg’s back and Masan Gilani, sliding the weapon into its scabbard, stepped round. When she spoke this time, it was in a language Brullyg had never heard before.

Lobe levelled the crossbow again, aiming towards Brullyg, and answered Masan in the same tongue.

Skorgen, who had been kneeling beside the cask, thumping at the spigot with the heel of one hand, now rose. ‘What in the Errant’s name is going on here, Brullyg?’

A voice spoke from the doorway, ‘Just this. Your captain’s right. Our waiting’s done.’

The soldier named Throatslitter was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed. He was smiling across at Masan Gilani. ‘Good news ain’t it? Now you can take your delicious curves and such and dance your way down to the pier-I’m sure Urb and the rest are missing ‘em something awful.’

Shurq Elalle, who had not moved from her chair, sighed loudly then said, ‘Pretty, I don’t think we’ll be leaving this room for a while. Find us some tankards and pour, why don’t you?’

‘We’re hostages?’

‘No no,’ his captain replied. ‘Guests.’

Masan Gilani, hips swaying considerably more than was necessary, sauntered out of the chamber.

Under his breath, Brullyg groaned.

‘As I said earlier,’ Shurq murmured, ‘men don’t change.’ She glanced over at Gait, who had drawn up the other chair. ‘I assume you won’t let me strangle this odious worm.’

‘Sorry, no.’ A quick smile. ‘Not yet anyway.’

‘So, who are your friends in the harbour?’

Gait winked. ‘We’ve a little work to do, Captain. And we’ve decided this island will do just fine as headquarters.’

‘Your skill with Letherii has noticeably improved.’

‘Must be your fine company, Captain.’

‘Don’t bother,’ Throatslitter said from the doorway. ‘Deadsmell says she’s standing on the wrong side of Hood’s gate, despite what you see or think you see.’

Gait slowly paled.

‘Not sure what he means by all that,’ Shurq Elalle said, her sultry eyes settling on Gait, ‘but my appetites are as lively as ever.’

‘That’s… disgusting.’

‘Explains the sweat on your brow, 1 suppose.’

Gait hastily wiped his forehead. ‘This one’s worse than Masan Gilani,’ he complained.

Brullyg shifted nervously in his chair. Timing. These damned Malazans had it by the bucketful. Freedom should’ ve lasted longer than this. ‘Hurry up with that ale, Pretty.’

Finding yourself standing, alone, cut loose, with an unhappy army squirming in your hands, was a commander’s greatest nightmare. And when you got them running straight into the wilderness of an ocean at the time, it’s about as bad as it can get.

Fury had united them, for a while. Until the truth started to sink in, like botfly worms under the skin. Their homeland wanted them all dead. There’d be no seeing family-no wives, husbands, mothers, fathers. No children to bounce on one knee while working numbers in the head-wondering which neighbour’s eyes you’re looking down at. No chasms to cross, no breaches to mend. Every loved one as good as dead.

Armies get unruly when that happens. Almost as bad as no loot and no pay.

We were soldiers of the empire. Our families depended on the wages, the tax relief, the buy-outs and the pensions. And a lot of us were young enough to think about signing out, making a new life, one that didn’t involve swinging a sword and looking in the eye of some snarling thug wanting to cut you in two. Some of us were damned tired.

So, what kept us together?

Well, no ship likes to sail alone, does it?

But Fist Blistig knew that there was more to it. Dried blood holding everyone in place like glue. The seared burn of betrayal, the sting of fury. And a commander who sacrificed her own love to see them all survive.

He had spent too many days and nights on the Froth Wolf standing no less than five paces from the Adjunct, studying her stiff back as she faced the surly seas. A woman who showed nothing, but some things no mortal could hide, and one of those things was grief. He had stared and he had wondered. Was she going to come through this?

Someone-might have been Keneb, who at times seemed to understand Tavore better than anyone else, maybe even Tavore herself-had then made a fateful decision. The Adjunct had lost her aide. In Malaz City. Aide, and lover. Now, maybe nothing could be done about the lover, but the role of aide was an official position, a necessary one for any commander. Not a man, of course-would have to be a woman for certain.

Blistig recalled that night, even as the eleventh bell was sounded on deck-the ragged fleet, flanked by the Perish Thrones of War, was three days east of Kartool, beginning a northward-wending arc to take them round the tumultuous, deadly straits between Malaz Island and the coast of Korel-and the Adjunct was standing alone just beyond the forecastle mast, the wind tugging fitfully at her rain cape, making Blistig think of a broken-winged crow. A second figure appeared, halting close to Tavore on her left. Where T’amber would stand, where any aide to a commander would stand.

Tavore’s head had turned in startlement, and words were exchanged-too low for Blistig’s ears-followed by a salute from the newcomer.

The Adjunct is alone. So too is another woman, seemingly as bound up in grief as Tavore herself, yet this one possesses an edge, an anger tempered like Aren steel. Short on patience, which might be precisely what’s needed here.

Was it you, Keneb?

Of course, Lostara Yil, once a captain in the Red Blades, now just one more outlawed soldier, had revealed no inclinations to take a woman to her bed. Not anyone, in fact. Yet she was no torture to look at, if one had a taste for broken glass made pretty. That and Pardu tattoos. But it was just as likely that the Adjunct wasn’t thinking in those terms. Too soon. Wrong woman.

Throughout the fleet, officers had been reporting talk of mutiny among the soldiers-excepting, oddly enough, the marines, who never seemed capable of thinking past the next meal or game of Troughs. A succession of reports, delivered in increasingly nervous tones, and it had seemed the Adjunct was unwilling or unable to even so much as care.

You can heal wounds of the flesh well enough, but it’s the other ones that can bleed out a soul.

After that night, Lostara Yil clung to a resentful Tavore like a damned tick. Commander’s aide. She understood the role. In the absence of actual direction from her commander, Lostara Yil assumed the task of managing nearly eight thousand miserable soldiers. The first necessity was clearing up the matter of pay. The fleet was making sail for Theft, a paltry kingdom torn to tatters by Malazan incursions and civil war. Supplies needed to be purchased, but more than that, the soldiers needed leave and for that there must be not only coin but the promise of more to come, lest the entire army disappear into the back streets of the first port of call.

The army’s chests could not feed what was owed.

So Lostara hunted down Banaschar, the once-priest of D’rek. Hunted him down and cornered him. And all at once, those treasury chests were overflowing.

Now, why Banaschar? How did Lostara know?

Grub, of course. That scrawny runt climbing the rigging with those not-quite-right bhok’aral-I ain’t once seen him come down, no matter how brutal the weather. Yet Grub somehow knew about Banaschar’s hidden purse, and somehow got the word to Lostara Yil.

The Fourteenth Army was suddenly rich. Too much handed out all at once would have been disastrous, but Lostara knew that. Enough that it be seen, that the rumours were let loose to scamper like stoats through every ship in the fleet.

Soldiers being what they were, it wasn’t long before they were griping about something else, and this time the Adjunct’s aide could do nothing to give answer.

Where in Hood’s name are we going?

Are we still an army and if we are, who are we fighting for? The notion of becoming mercenaries did not sit well, it turned out.

The story went that Lostara Yil had it out with Tavore one night in the Adjunct’s cabin. A night of screams, curses and, maybe, tears. Or something else happened. Something as simple as Lostara wearing her commander down, like D’rek’s own soldier worms gnawing the ankles of the earth, snap snick right through. Whatever the details, the Adjunct was… awakened. The entire Fourteenth was days from falling to pieces.

A call was issued for the Fists and officers ranking captain and higher to assemble on the Froth Wolf. And, to the astonishment of everyone, Tavore Paran appeared on deck and delivered a speech. Sinn and Banaschar were present, and through sorcery the Adjunct’s words were heard by everyone, even crew high in the riggings and crow’s nests.

A Hood-damned speech.

From Tavore. Tighter-lipped than a cat at Togg’s teats, but she talked. Not long, not complicated. And there was no brilliance, no genius. It was plain, every word picked up from dusty ground, strung together on a chewed thong, not even spat on to bring out a gleam. Not a precious stone to be found. No pearls, no opals, no sapphires.

Raw garnet at best.

At best.

Tied to Tavore’s sword belt, there had been a finger bone. Yellowed, charred at one end. She stood in silence for a time, her plain features looking drawn, aged, her eyes dull as smudged slate. When at last she spoke, her voice was low, strangely measured, devoid of all emotion.

Blistig could still remember every word.

‘There have been armies. Burdened with names, the legacy of meetings, of battles, of betrayals. The history behind the name is each army’s secret language-one that no-one else can understand, much less share. The First Sword of Dassem Ultor-the Plains of Unta, the Grissian Hills, Li Heng, Y’Ghatan. The Bridgeburners-Raraku, Black Dog, Mott Wood, Pale, Black Coral. Coltaine’s Seventh-Gelor Ridge, Vathar Crossing and the Day of Pure Blood, Sanimon, the Fall.

‘Some of you share a few of those-with comrades now fallen, now dust. They are, for you, the cracked vessels of your grief and your pride. And you cannot stand in one place for long, lest the ground turn to depthless mud around your feet.’ Her eyes fell then, a heartbeat, another, before she looked up once more, scanning the array of sombre faces before her.

‘Among us, among the Bonehunters, our secret language has begun. Cruel in its birth at Aren, sordid in a river of old blood. Coltaine’s blood. You know this. I need tell you none of this. We have our own Raraku. We have our own Y’Ghatan. We have Malaz City.

‘In the civil war on Theft, a warlord who captured a rival’s army then destroyed them-not by slaughter; no, he simply gave the order that each soldier’s weapon hand lose its index finger. The maimed soldiers were then sent back to the warlord’s rival. Twelve thousand useless men and women. To feed, to send home, to swallow the bitter taste of defeat. I was… I was reminded of that story, not long ago.’

Yes, Blistig thought then, and 1 think I know by whom. Gods, we all do.

‘We too are maimed. In our hearts. Each of you knows this.

‘And so we carry, tied to our belts, a piece of bone. Legacy of a severed finger. And yes, we cannot help but know bitterness.’ She paused, held back for a long moment, and it seemed the silence itself grated in his skull.

Tavore resumed. ‘The Bonehunters will speak in our secret language. We sail to add another name to our burden, and it may be it will prove our last. I do not believe so, but there are clouds before the face of the future-we cannot see. We cannot know.

‘The island of Sepik, a protectorate of the Malazan Empire, is now empty of human life. Sentenced to senseless slaughter, every man, child and woman. We know the face of the slayer. We have seen the dark ships. We have seen the harsh magic unveiled.

‘We are Malazan. We remain so, no matter the judgement of the Empress. Is this enough reason to give answer?

‘No, it is not. Compassion is never enough. Nor is the hunger for vengeance. But, for now, for what awaits us, perhaps they will do. We are the Bonehunters, and sail to another name. Beyond Aren, beyond Raraku and beyond Y’Ghatan, we now cross the world to find the first name that will be truly our own. Shared by none other. We sail to give answer.

‘There is more. But I will not speak of that beyond these words: “What awaits you in the dusk of the old world’s passing, shall go… unwitnessed.” T’amber’s words.’ Another long spell of pained silence.

‘They are hard and well might they feed spite, if in weakness we permit such. But to those words I say this, as your commander: we shall be our own witness, and that will be enough. It must be enough. It must ever be enough.’

Even now, over a year later, Blistig wondered if she had said what was needed. In truth, he was not quite certain what she had said. The meaning of it. Witnessed, unwitnessed, does it really make a difference? But he knew the answer to that, even if he could not articulate precisely what it was he knew. Something stirred deep in the pit of his soul, as if his thoughts were black waters caressing unseen rocks, bending to shapes that even ignorance could not alter.

Well, how can any of this make sense? I do not have the words.

But damn me, she did. Back then. She did.

Unwitnessed. There was crime in that notion. A profound injustice against which he railed. In silence. Like every other soldier in the Bonehunters. Maybe. No, I am not mistaken-I see something in their eyes. I can see it. We rail against injustice, yes. That what we do will be seen by no-one. Our fate unmeasured.

Tavore, what have you awakened? And, Hood take us, what makes you think we are equal to any of this?

There had been no desertions. He did not understand. He didn’t think he would ever understand. What had happened that night, what had happened in that strange speech.

She told us we would never see our loved ones again. That is what she told us: Isn’t it?

Leaving us with what?

With each other, I suppose.

‘We shall be our own witness.’

And was that enough?

Maybe. So far.

But now we are here. We have arrived. The fleet, the fleet burns-gods, that she would do that. Not a single transport left. Burned, sunk to the bottom off this damned shore. We are… cut away.

Welcome, Bonehunters, to the empire of Lether.

Alas, we are not here in festive spirit.

The treacherous ice was behind them now, the broken mountains that had filled the sea and clambered onto the Fent Reach, crushing everything on it to dust. No ruins to ponder over in some distant future, not a single sign of human existence left on that scraped rock. Ice was annihilation. It did not do what sand did, did not simply bury every trace. It was as the Jaghut had meant it: negation, a scouring down to bare rock.

Lostara Yil drew her fur-lined cloak tighter about herself as she followed the Adjunct to the forecastle deck of the Froth Wolf. The sheltered harbour was before them, a half-dozen ships anchored in the bay, including the Silanda-its heap of Tiste Andii heads hidden beneath thick tarpaulin. Getting the bone whistle from Gesler hadn’t been easy, she recalled; and among the soldiers of the two squads left to command the haunted craft, the only one willing to use it had been that corporal, Deadsmell. Not even Sinn would touch it.

Before the splitting of the fleet there had been a flurry of shifting about among the squads and companies. The strategy for this war demanded certain adjustments, and, as was expected, few had been thrilled with the changes. Soldiers are such conservative bastards.

But at least we pulled Blistig away from real command-worse than a rheumy old dog, that one.

Lostara, still waiting for her commander to speak, turned for a glance back at the Throne of War blockading the mouth of the harbour. The last Perish ship in these waters, for now. She hoped it would be enough for what was to come.

‘Where is Sergeant Cord’s squad now/’ the Adjunct asked.

‘Northwest tip of the island,’ Lostara replied. ‘Sinn is keeping the ice away-’

‘How?’ Tavore demanded, not for the first time.

And Lostara could but give the same answer she had given countless times before. ‘I don’t know, Adjunct.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘Ebron believes that this ice is dying. A Jaghut ritual, crumbling. He notes the water lines on this island’s cliffs-well past any earlier high water mark.’

To this the Adjunct said nothing. She seemed unaffected by the cold, damp wind, barring an absence of colour on her features, as if her blood had withdrawn from the surface of her flesh. Her hair was cut very short, as if to discard every hint of femininity.

‘Grub says the world is drowning,’ Lostara said.

Tavore turned slightly and looked up at the unlit shrouds high overhead. ‘Grub. Another mystery,’ she said.

‘He seems able to communicate with the Nachts, which is, well, remarkable.’

‘Communicate? It’s become hard to tell them apart.’

The Froth Wolf was sidling past the anchored ships, angling towards the stone pier, on which stood two figures. Probably Sergeant Balm and Deadsmell.

Tavore said, ‘Go below, Captain, and inform the others we are about to disembark.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Remain a soldier, Lostara Yil told herself, a statement that whispered through her mind a hundred times a day. Remain a soldier, and all the rest will go away.

With dawn’s first light paling the eastern sky, the mounted troop of Letherii thundered down the narrow coastal track, the berm of the old beach ridge on their left, the impenetrable, tangled forest on their right. The rain had dissolved into a clammy mist, strengthening the night’s last grip of darkness, and the pounding of hoofs was oddly muted, quick to dwindle once the last rider was out of sight.

Puddles in the track settled once more, clouded with mud. The mists swirled, drifted into the trees.

An owl, perched high on a branch of a dead tree, had watched the troop pass. The echoes fading, it remained where it was, not moving, its large unblinking eyes fixed on a chaotic mass of shrubs and brambles amidst thin-boled poplars. Where something was not quite as it seemed. Unease sufficient to confuse its predatory mind.

The scrub blurred then, as if disintegrating in a fierce gale-although no wind stirred-and upon its vanishing, figures rose as if from nowhere.

The owl decided it would have to wait a little longer. While hungry, it nevertheless experienced a strange contentment, followed by a kind of tug on its mind, as of something… leaving.

Bottle rolled onto his back. ‘Over thirty riders,’ he said. ‘Lancers, lightly armoured. Odd stirrups. Hood, but my skull aches. I hate Mockra-’

‘Enough bitching,’ Fiddler said as he watched his squad-barring a motionless Bottle-drawing in, with Gesler’s doing the same beneath some trees a few paces away. ‘You sure they didn’t smell nothing?’

‘Those first scouts nearly stepped right on us,’ Bottle said. ‘Something there… especially in one of them. As if he was somehow… I don’t know, sensitized, I suppose. Him and this damned ugly coast where we don’t belong-’

‘Just answer the questions,’ Fiddler cut in again.

‘We should’ve ambushed the whole lot,’ Koryk muttered, checking the knots on all the fetishes he was wearing, then dragging over his oversized supply pack to examine the straps.

Fiddler shook his head. ‘No fighting until our feet dry. I hate that.’

‘Then why are you a damned marine, Sergeant?’

‘Accident. Besides, those were Letherii. We’re to avoid contact with them, for now.’

‘I’m hungry,’ Bottle said. ‘Well, no. It was the owl, dammit. Anyway, you would not believe what looking through an owl’s eyes at night is like. Bright as noon in the desert.’

‘Desert,’ Tarr said. ‘I miss the desert.’

‘You’d miss a latrine pit if it was the last place you crawled out of,’ Smiles observed. ‘Koryk had his crossbow trained on those riders, Sergeant.’

‘What are you, my little sister?’ Koryk demanded. He then mimed Smiles’s voice. ‘He didn’t shake his baby-maker when he’d done peeing, Sergeant! I saw it!’

‘See it?’ Smiles laughed. ‘I’d never get that close to you, half-blood, trust me.’

‘She’s getting better,’ Cuttle said to Koryk, whose only response was a grunt.

‘Quiet everyone,’ Fiddler said. ‘No telling who else lives in these woods-or might be using the road.’

‘We’re alone,’ Bottle pronounced, slowly sitting up, then gripping the sides of his head. ‘Hiding fourteen grunting, farting soldiers ain’t easy. And once we get to more populated areas it’s going to be worse.’

‘Getting one miserable mage to shut his mouth is even harder,’ Fiddler said. ‘Check your gear, everyone. I want us a ways deeper into these woods before we dig in for the day.’ For the past month on the ships the Bonehunters had been shifting over into reversing their sleep cycles. A damned hard thing to do, as it turned out. But now at least pretty much everyone was done turning round. Lost the tans, anyway. Fiddler moved over to where Gesler crouched.

Except this gold-skinned bastard and his hairy corporal. ‘Your people ready?’

Gesler nodded. ‘Heavies are complaining their armour’s gonna rust.’

‘So long as they keep the squeaking to a minimum.’ Fiddler glanced at the huddled soldiers of Gesler’s squad, then back towards his own. ‘Some army,’ he said under his breath.

‘Some invasion, aye,’ Gesler agreed. ‘Ever known anyone to do it this way?’

Fiddler shook his head. ‘It makes a weird kind of sense, though, doesn’t it? The Edur are spread thin, from all reports. The oppressed are legion-all these damned Letherii.’

‘That troop just passed us didn’t look much oppressed to me, Fid.’

‘Well, I suppose we’ll find out one way or the other, won’t we? Now, let’s get this invasion under way.’

‘A moment,’ Gesler said, settling a scarred hand on Fiddler’s shoulder. ‘She burned the fucking transports, Fid.’

The sergeant winced.

‘Hard to miss the point of that, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Which meaning are you referring to, Gesler? The one about patrols on this coast seeing the flames or the one about for us there’s no going back?’

‘Hood take me, I can only chew on one piece of meat at a time, you know? Start with the first one. If I was this damned empire, I’d be flooding this coastline with soldiers before this day’s sun is down. And no matter how much Mockra our squad mages now know, we’re going to mess up. Sooner or later, Fid.’

‘Would that be before or after we start drawing blood?’

‘I ain’t even thinking about once we start killing Hood-damned Tiste Edur. I’m thinking about today.’

‘Someone stumbles onto us and we get nasty and dirty, then we bolt according to the plan.’

‘And try to stay alive, aye. Great. And what if these Letherii ain’t friendly?’

‘We just keep going, and steal what we need.’

‘We should’ve landed en masse, not just marines. With shields locked and see what they can throw at us.’

Fiddler rubbed at the back of his neck. Then sighed and said, ‘You know what they can throw at us, Gesler. Only the next time, there won’t be Quick Ben dancing in the air and matching them horror for horror. This is a night war we’re looking at. Ambushes. Knives in the dark. Cut and bolt.’

‘With no way out.’

‘Aye. So I do wonder if she lit up our transports to tell ‘em we’re here, or to tell us there’s no point in thinking about retreat. Or both.’

Gesler grunted. ‘ “Unwitnessed”, she said. Is that where we are? Already?’

Shrugging, Fiddler half rose. ‘Might be, Gesler. Let’s get moving-the birds are twittering almost as loud as we are.’

But, as they tramped deeper into the wet, rotting forest, Gesler’s last question haunted Fiddler. Is he right, Adjunct? We there already? Invading a damned empire in two-squad units. Running alone, unsupported, living or dying on the shoulders of a single squad mage. What if Bottle gets killed in the first scrap? We’re done for, that’s what. Best keep Corabb nice and close to Bottle, and hope the old rebel’s luck keeps pulling.

At the very least, the waiting was over. Real ground underfoot-they’d all wobbled like drunks coming up from the strand, which might have been amusing in other circumstances. But not when we could have staggered right into a patrol. Things were feeling solid now, though. Thank Hood. Well, as solid as one could be stumping over moss, overgrown sinkholes and twisted roots. Almost as bad as Black Dog. No, don’t think like that. Look ahead, Fid. Keep looking ahead.

Somewhere above them, through a mad witch’s weave of branches, the sky was lightening.

Any more complainin’ from any of you and I’ll cut off my left tit.’

A half-circle of faces ogled her. Good. She was pleased with the way that always worked.

‘Good thing the swim put you out,’ Bowl said.

Sergeant Hellian frowned at the huge soldier. Put out? ‘Heavies are idiots, you know that? Now.’ She looked down and tried counting the number of rum casks she’d managed to drag from the hold before the flames went wild. Six, maybe ten. Nine. She waved at the blurry array. ‘Everybody make room in your packs. For one each.’

Touchy Brethless said, ‘Sergeant, ain’t we supposed to find Urb and his squad? They gotta be close.’ Then her corporal spoke again, this time in a different voice, ‘He’s right. Bowl, where’d you come from again? Up the shore or down it?’

‘I don’t remember. It was dark.’

‘Hold on,’ Hellian said, taking a sidestep to maintain her balance on the pitching deck. No, the pitching ground. ‘You’re not in my squad, Bowl. Go away.’

‘I’d like nothing better,’ he replied, squinting at the wall of trees surrounding them. ‘I ain’t carrying no cask of damned ale. Look at you, Sergeant, you’re scorched all over.’

Hellian straightened. ‘Now hold on, we’re talking ‘ssential victuals. But I’ll tell you what’s a lot worse. I bet that fire was seen by somebody-and I hope the fool that started it is a heap of ash right now, that’s what I hope. Somebody’s seen it, that’s for sure.’

‘Sergeant, they lit up all the transports,’ said another one of her soldiers. Beard, thick chest, solid as a tree trunk and probably not much smarter either. What was his name?

‘Who are you?’

The man rubbed at his eyes. ‘Balgrid.’

‘Right, Baldy, now try explaining to me how some fool swam from ship to ship and set them afire? Well? That’s what I thought.’

‘Someone’s coming,’ hissed the squad sapper.

The one with the stupid name. A name she always had trouble remembering. Could be? No. Sometimes? Unsure? Ah, Maybe. Our sapper’s name is Maybe. And his friend there, that’s Lutes. And there’s Tavos Pond-he’s too tall. Tall soldiers get arrows in their foreheads. Why isn’t he dead? ‘Anybody got a bow?’ she asked.

A rustling of undergrowth, then two figures emerged from the gloom.

Hellian stared at the first one, feeling an inexplicable surge of rage. She rubbed thoughtfully at her jaw, trying to remember something about this sad-looking soldier. The rage drained away, was replaced with heartfelt affection.

Bowl stepped past her. ‘Sergeant Urb, thank Hood you found us.’

‘Urb?’ Hellian asked, weaving as she moved closer and peered up into the man’s round face. ‘That you?’

‘Found the rum, did you?’

Lutes said from behind her, ‘She’s poisoning her liver.’

‘My liver’s fine, soldier. Just needs a squeezing out.’

‘Squeezing out?’

She turned round and glared at the squad healer. ‘I seen livers before, Cutter. Big sponges full of blood. Tumbles out when you cut someone open.’

‘Sounds more like a lung, Sergeant. The liver’s this flat thing, muddy brown or purple-’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said, wheeling back to stare at Urb. ‘If the first one dies the other one kicks in. I’m fine. Well,’ she added with a loud sigh which seemed to make Urb reel back a step, ‘I’m in the best of moods, my friends. The best of moods. And now we’re all together, so let’s march because I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to march somewhere.’ She smiled over at her corporal. ‘What say you, Touchy Brethless?’

‘Sounds good, Sergeant.

‘Brilliant plan, Sergeant.’

‘Why do you always do that, Corporal?’

‘Do what?

‘Do what?’

‘Look, Baldy’s the one who’s half deaf-’

‘I’m not half deaf any more, Sergeant.’

‘You’re not? So who here is half deaf?’

‘Nobody, Sergeant.’

‘No need to shout. Baldy can hear you and if he can’t then we should’ve left him on the boat, along with that tall one there with the arrow in his skull, because neither one’s no good to us. We’re looking for grey-skinned murderers and they’re hiding in these trees. Behind them, I mean. If they were in them, it’d hurt. So we need to start looking behind all these trees. But first, collect us a cask here, one each now, and then we can get going.

‘What’re you all staring at? I’m the one giving the orders and I got me a new sword which will make chopping off one of these here tits a whole lot easier. Get moving, everyone, we got us a war to fight. Behind those trees.’

Crouched before him, Gullstream had the furtive look of a weasel in a chicken coop. He wiped his runny nose with the back of one forearm, squinted, then said, ‘Everyone accounted for, sir.’

Fist Keneb nodded, then turned as someone slid loudly down the beach ridge. ‘Quiet over there. All right, Gullstream, find the captain and send her to me.’

‘Aye, sir.’

The soldiers were feeling exposed, which was understandable. It was one thing for a squad or two to scout ahead of a column-at least retreat was possible in the traditional sense. Here, if they got into trouble, their only way out was to scatter. As the commander of what would be a prolonged, chaotic engagement, Keneb was worried. His attack unit of six squads would be the hardest one to hide-the mages with him were the weakest of the lot, for the simple reason that his platoon would be holding back on their inland march, with the primary objective being avoiding any contact. As for the rest of his legion, it was now scattered up and down thirty leagues of coastline. Moving in small units of a dozen or so soldiers and about to begin a covert campaign that might last months.

There had been profound changes to the Fourteenth Army since Malaz City. A kind of standardization had been imposed on the scores of wizards, shamans, conjurers and casters in the legions, with the intent of establishing sorcery as the principal means of communication. And, for the squad mages among the marines-a force that now had as many heavy infantry as sappers-certain rituals of Mockra were now universally known. Illusions to affect camouflage, to swallow sound, confuse scent.

And all of this told Keneb one thing. She knew. From the very beginning. She knew where we were going, and she planned for it. Once again there had been no consultation among the officers. The Adjunct’s only meetings were with that Meckros blacksmith and the Tiste Andii from Drift Avalii. What could they have told her about this land? None of them are even from here.

He preferred to assume it was a simple stroke of fortune when the fleet had sighted two Edur ships that had been separated from the others following a storm. Too damaged to flee, they had been taken by the marines. Not easily-these Tiste Edur were fierce when cornered, even when half-starved and dying of thirst. Officers had been captured, but only after every other damned warrior had been cut down.

The interrogation of those Edur officers had been bloody. Yet, for all the information they provided, it had been the ship’s logs and charts that had proved the most useful for this strange campaign. Ah, ‘strange’ is too mild a word for this. True, the Tiste Edur fleets clashed with our empire-or what used to be our empire-and they’d conducted wholesale slaughter of peoples under our nominal protection. But isn’t all that Laseen’s problem?

The Adjunct would not relinquish her title, either. Adjunct to whom? The woman who had done all she could to try to murder her? What had happened that night up in Mock’s Hold, anyway? The only other witnesses beyond Tavore and the Empress herself were dead. T’amber. Kalam Mekhar-gods, that’s a loss that will haunt us. Keneb wondered then-and wondered still-if the entire debacle at Malaz City had not been planned out between Laseen and her cherished Adjunct. Each time this suspicion whispered through him, the same objections arose in his mind. She would not have agreed to T’amber’s murder. And Tavore damned near died at the harbour front. And what about Kalam? Besides, even Tavore Paran was not cold enough to see the sacrifice of the Wickans, all to feed some damned lie. Was she?

But Laseen’s done this before. With Dujek Onearm and the Host. And that time, the deal involved the annihilation of the Bridgeburners-at least that’s how it looks. So… why not?

What would have happened ifwe’djust marched into the city? Killing every damned fool who got in our way? If we’d gone in strength with Tavore up to Mock’s Hold?

Civil war. He knew that to be the answer to those questions. Nor could he see a way out, even after months and months of second-guessing.

No wonder, then, that all of this was eating at Keneb’s guts, and he knew he was not alone in that. Blistig believed in nothing any more, beginning with himself. His eyes seemed to reflect some spectre of the future that only he could see. He walked as a man already dead-the body refusing what the mind knew to be an irrevocable truth. And they’d lost Tene Baralta and his Red Blades, although perhaps that was not quite as tragic. Well, come to think on it, Tavore’s inner circle is pretty much gone. Carved out. Hood knows I never belonged there anyway-which is why I’m here, in this damned dripping swamp of a forest.

‘We’re assembled and waiting, Fist.’

Blinking, Keneb saw that his captain had arrived. Standing-waiting-how long? He squinted up at the greying sky. Shit. ‘Very well, we’ll head inland until we find some dry ground.’

‘Aye.’

‘Oh, Captain, have you selected out the mage you want?’

Faradan Sort’s eyes narrowed briefly, and in the colourless light the planes of her hard face looked more angular than ever. She sighed and said, ‘I believe so, Fist. From Sergeant Gripe’s squad. Beak.’

‘Him? Are you sure?’

She shrugged. ‘Nobody likes him, so you’ll not rue the loss.’

Keneb felt a flicker of irritation. In a low tone he said, ‘Your task is not meant to be a suicide mission, Captain. I am not entirely convinced this sorcerous communication system is going to work. And once the squads start losing mages, it will all fall apart. You will probably become the only link among all the units-’

‘Once we find some horses,’ she cut in.

‘Correct.’

He watched as she studied him for a long moment, then she said, ‘Beak has tracking skills, Fist. Of a sort. He says he can smell magic, which will help in finding our soldiers.’

‘Very good. Now, it’s time to move inland, Captain.’

‘Aye, Fist.’

A short time later, the forty-odd soldiers of Keneb’s command platoon were fighting their way through a bog of fetid, black water, as the day’s heat grew. Insects swarmed in hungry clouds. Few words were exchanged.

None of us are sure of this, are we? Find the Tiste Edur-this land’s oppressors-and cut them down. Free the Letherii to rebel. Aye, foment a civil war, the very thing we fled the Malazan Empire to avoid.

Odd, isn’t it, how we now deliver upon another nation what we would not have done to ourselves.

About as much moral high ground as this damned swamp. No, we’re not happy, Adjunct. Not happy at all.

Beak didn’t know much about any of this. In fact, he would be the first to admit he didn’t know much about anything at all, except maybe weaving sorcery. The one thing he knew for certain, however, was that no-one liked him.

Getting tied to the belt of this scary captain woman would probably turn out to be a bad idea. She reminded him of his mother, looks-wise, which should have killed quick any thoughts of the lustful kind. Should have, but didn’t, which he found a little disturbing if he thought about it, which he didn’t. Much. Unlike his mother, anyway, she wasn’t the type to browbeat him at every turn, and that was refreshing.

‘I was born a stupid boy to very rich noble-born parents.’ Usually the first words he uttered to everyone he met. The next ones were: That’s why I became a soldier, so’s I could be with my own kind.’ Conversations usually died away shortly after that, which made Beak sad.

He would have liked to talk with the other squad mages, but even there it seemed he couldn’t quite get across his deep-in-the-bone love of magic. ‘Mystery,’ he’d say, nodding and nodding, ‘mystery, right? And poetry. That’s sorcery. Mystery and poetry, which is what my mother used to say to my brother when she crawled into his bed on the nights Father was somewhere else. “We’re living in mystery and poetry, my dear one,” she’d say-I’d pretend I was asleep, since once I sat up and she beat me real bad. Normally she never did that, with her fists I mean. Most of my tutors did that, so she wouldn’t have to. But Isat up and that made her mad. The House healer said I almost died that night, and that’s how I learned about poetry.’

The wonder that was sorcery was his greatest love, maybe his only one, so far, though he was sure he’d meet his perfect mate one day. A pretty woman as stupid as he was. In any case, the other mages usually just stared at him while he babbled on, which was what he did when getting nervous. On and on. Sometimes a mage would just up and hug him, then walk away. Once, a wizard he was talking to just started crying. That had frightened Beak.

The captain’s interview of the mages in the platoon had ended with him, second in line.

‘Where are you from, Beak, to have you so convinced you’re stupid?’..

He wasn’t sure what that question meant, but he did try to answer. ‘I was born in the great city of Quon on Quon Tali in the Malazan Empire, which is an empire ruled by a little Empress and is the most civilized place in the world. All my tutors called me stupid and they should know. Nobody didn’t agree with them, either.’

‘So who taught you about magic?’

‘We had a Seti witch in charge of the stables. In the country estate. She said that for me sorcery was the lone candle in the darkness. The lone candle in the darkness. She said my brain had put out all the other candles, so this one would shine brighter and brighter. So she showed me magic, first the Seti way, which she knew best. But later, she always found other servants, other people who knew the other kinds. Warrens. That’s what they’re called. Different coloured candles for each and every one of them. Grey for Mockra, green for Ruse, white for Hood, yellow for Thyr, blue for-’

‘You know how to use Mockra?’

‘Yes. Want me to show you?’

‘Not now. I need you to come with me-I am detaching you from your squad, Beak.’

‘All right.*

‘You and I, we are going to travel together, away from everyone else. We’re going to ride from unit to unit, as best we can.’

‘Ride, on horses?’

‘Do you know how?’

‘Quon horses are the finest horses in the world. We bred them. It was almost another candle in my head. But the witch said it was different, since I’d been born into it and riding was in my bones like writing in black ink.’

‘Do you think you’ll be able to find the other squads, even when they’re using sorcery to hide themselves?’

‘Find them? Of course. I smell magic. My candle flickers, then leans this way and whatever way the magic’s coming from.’

‘All right, Beak, you are now attached to Captain Faradan Sort. I’ve chosen you, over all the others.’

All right.’

‘Grab your gear and follow me.’

‘How close?’

‘Like you were tied to my sword-belt, Beak. Oh, and how old are you, by the way?’

‘I’ve lost count. I was thirty but that was six years ago so I don’t know any more.’

‘The warrens, Beak-how many candles do you know about?’

‘Oh, lots. All of them.’

‘All of them.’

‘We had a half-Fenn blacksmith for my last two years and he once asked me to list them, so I did, then he said that was all of them. He said: “That’s all of them, Beak.”‘

‘What else did he say?’

‘Nothing much, only he made me this knife.’ Beak tapped the large weapon at his hip. ‘Then he told me to run away from home. Join the Malazan Army, so I wouldn’t get beaten any more for being stupid. I was one year less than thirty when I did that, just like he told me to, and I haven’t been beaten since. Nobody likes me but they don’t hurt me. I didn’t know the army would be so lonely.’

She was studying him the way most people did, then she asked, ‘Beak, did you never use your sorcery to defend yourself, or fight back?’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever seen your parents or brother since?’

‘My brother killed himself and my parents are dead-they died the night I left. So did the tutors.’

‘What happened to them?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Beak admitted. ‘Only, I showed them my candle.’

‘Have you done that since, Beak? Showed your candle?’

‘Not all of it, not all the light, no. The blacksmith told me not to, unless I had no choice.’

‘Like that last night with your family and tutors.’

‘Like that night, yes. They’d had the blacksmith whipped and driven off, you see, for giving me this knife. And then they tried to take it away from me. And all at once, I had no choice.’

So she said they were going away from the others, but here they were, trudging along with the rest, and the insects kept biting him, especially on the back of his neck, and getting stuck in his ears and up his nose, and he realized that he didn’t understand anything.

But she was right there, right at his side.

The platoon reached a kind of island in the swamp, moated in black water. It was circular, and as they scrambled onto it Beak saw moss-covered rubble.

‘Was a building here,’ one of the soldiers said.

‘Jaghut,’ Beak called out, suddenly excited. ‘Omtose Phellack. No flame, though, just the smell of tallow. The magic’s all drained away and that’s what made this swamp, but we can’t stay here, because there’s broken bodies under the rocks and those ghosts are hungry.’

They were all staring at him. He ducked his head. ‘Sorry.’

But Captain Faradan Sort laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘No need, Beak. These bodies-Jaghut?’

‘No. Forkrul Assail and Tiste Liosan. They fought on the ruins. During what they called the Just Wars. Here, it was only a skirmish, but nobody survived. They killed each other, and the last warrior standing had a hole in her throat and she bled out right where the Fist is standing. She was Forkrul Assail, and her last thought was about how victory proved they were right and the enemy was wrong. Then she died.’

‘It’s the only dry land anywhere in sight,’ Fist Keneb said. ‘Can any mage here banish the ghosts? No? Hood’s breath. Beak, what are they capable of doing to us anyway?’

‘They’ll eat into our brains and make us think terrible things, so that we all end up killing each other. That’s the thing with the Just Wars-they never end and never will because Justice is a weak god with too many names. The Liosan called it Serkanos and the Assail called it Rynthan. Anyway, no matter what language it spoke, its followers could not understand it. A mystery language, which is why it has no power because all its followers believe the wrong things-things they just make up and nobody can agree and that’s why the wars never end.’ Beak paused, looking around at the blank faces, then he shrugged. ‘I don’t know, maybe if I talk to them. Summon one and we can talk to it.’

‘I think not, Beak,’ the Fist said. ‘On your feet, soldiers, we’re moving on.’

No-one complained.

Faradan Sort drew Beak to one side. ‘We’re leaving them now,’ she said. ‘Which direction do you think will get us out of this the quickest?’

Beak pointed north.

‘How far?’

‘A thousand paces. That’s where the edge of the old Omtose Phellack is.’

She watched Keneb and his squads move down from the island, splashing their way further inland, due west. ‘How long before they’re out of this heading in that direction-heading west, I mean?’

‘Maybe twelve hundred paces, if they stay out of the river.’

She grunted. ‘Two hundred extra steps won’t kill them. All right, Beak, north it is. Lead on.’

Aye, Captain. We can use the old walkway.’

She laughed then. Beak had no idea why.

There was a sound in war that came during sieges, moments before an assault on the walls. The massed onagers, ballistae and catapults were let loose in a single salvo. The huge missiles striking the stone walls, the fortifications and the buildings raised a chaotic chorus of exploding stone and brick, shattered tiles and collapsing rooftops. The air itself seemed to shiver, as if recoiling from the violence.

Sergeant Cord stood on the promontory, leaning into the fierce, icy wind, and thought of that sound as he stared across at the churning bergs of ice warring across the strait. Like a city tumbling down, enormous sections looming over where Fent Reach used to be were splitting away, in momentary silence, until the waves of concussion rolled over the choppy waves of the sea, arriving in thunder. Roiling silver clouds, gouts of foamy water-

A mountain range in its death-throes,’ muttered Ebron at his side.

‘War machines pounding a city wall,’ Cord countered.

‘A frozen storm,’ said Limp behind them.

‘You all have it wrong,’ interjected Crump through chattering teeth. ‘It’s like big pieces of ice… falling down.’

‘That’s… simply stunning, Crump,’ said Corporal Shard. ‘You’re a Hood-damned poet. I cannot believe the Mott Irregulars ever let you get away. No, truly, Crump. I cannot believe it.’

‘Well, it’s not like they had any choice,’ the tall, knock-kneed sapper said, rubbing vigorously at both sides of his jaw before adding, ‘I mean, I left when no-one was looking. I used a fish spine to pick the manacles-you can’t arrest a High Marshal anyhow. I kept telling them. You can’t. It’s not allowed.’

Cord turned to his corporal. ‘Any better luck at talking to your sister? Is she getting tired holding all this back? We can’t tell. Widdershins doesn’t even know how she’s doing it in the first place, so he can’t help.’

‘Got no answers for you, Sergeant. She doesn’t talk to me either. I don’t know-she doesn’t look tired, but she hardly sleeps any more anyway. There’s not much I recognize in Sinn these days. Not since Y’Ghatan.’

Cord thought about this for a time, then he nodded. ‘I’m sending Widdershins back. The Adjunct should be landing in the Fort by now.’

‘She has,’ said Ebron, pulling at his nose as if to confirm it hadn’t frozen off. Like Widdershins, the squad mage had no idea how Sinn was managing to fend off mountains of ice. A bad jolt to his confidence, and it showed. ‘The harbour’s blocked, the thug in charge is contained. Everything is going as planned.’

A grunt from Limp. ‘Glad you’re not the superstitious type, Ebron. As for me, I’m getting down off this spine before I slip and blow a knee.’

Shard laughed. ‘You’re just about due, Limp.’

‘Thanks, Corporal. I really do appreciate your concern.’

‘Concern is right. I got five imperials on you living up to your name before the month’s out.’

‘Bastard.’

‘Shard,’ Cord said after they’d watched-with some amusement-Limp gingerly retreat from the promontory, ‘where is Sinn now?’

‘In that old lighthouse,’ the corporal replied.

‘All right. Let’s get under some cover ourselves-there’s more freezing rain on the way.’

‘That’s just it,’ Ebron said in sudden anger. ‘She’s not just holding the ice back, Sergeant. She’s killing it. And the water’s rising and rising fast.’

‘Thought it was all dying anyway’

‘Aye, Sergeant. But she’s quickened that up-she just took apart that Omtose Phellack like reeds from a broken basket-but she didn’t throw ‘era away, no, she’s weaving something else.’

Cord glared at his mage. ‘Sinn ain’t the only one not talking. What do you mean by “something else”?’

‘I don’t know! Hood’s balls, I don’t!’

‘There’s no baskets over there,’ Crump said. ‘Not that I can see. Marsh pigs, you got good eyes, Ebron. Even when

I squint with one eye, I don’t see-’

‘That’s enough, Sapper,’ Cord cut in. He studied Ebron for a moment longer, then turned away. ‘Come on, I got a block of ice between my legs and that’s the warmest part of me.’

They headed down towards the fisher’s shack they used as their base.

‘You should get rid of it, Sergeant,’ Crump said.

‘What?’

‘That block of ice. Or use your hands, at least.’

‘Thanks, Crump, but I ain’t that desperate yet.’

It had been a comfortable life, all things considered. True,

Malaz City was hardly a jewel of the empire, but at least it wasn’t likely to fall apart and sink in a storm. And he’d had no real complaints about the company he kept. Coop’s had its assortment of fools, enough to make Withal feel as if he belonged.

Braven Tooth. Temper. Banaschar-and at least Banaschar was here, the one familiar face beyond a trio of Nachts and, of course, his wife. Of course. Her. And though an Elder God had told him to wait, the Meckros blacksmith would have been content to see that waiting last for ever. Damn the gods, anyway, with their constant meddling, they way they just use us. As they like.

Even after what had to be a year spent on the same ship as the Adjunct, Withal could not claim to know her. True, there had been that prolonged period of grief-Tavore’s lover had been killed in Malaz City, he’d been told-and the Adjunct had seemed, for a time, like a woman more dead than alive.

If she was now back to herself, then, well, her self wasn’t much.

The gods didn’t care. They’d decided to use her as much as they had used him. He could see it, that bleak awareness in her unremarkable eyes. And if she had decided to stand against them, then she stood alone.

I would never have the courage for that. Not even close. But maybe, to do what she’s doing, she has to make herself less than human. More than human? Choosing to be less to be more, perhaps. So many here might see her as surrounded by allies. Allies such as Withal himself, Banaschar, Sandalath, Sinn and Keneb. But he knew better. We all watch. Waiting. Wondering.

Undecided.

Is this what you wanted, Mael? To deliver me to her? Yes, she was who I was waiting for.

Leading, inevitably, to that most perplexing question: But why me?

True, he could tell her of the sword. His sword. The tool he had hammered and pounded into life for the Crippled God. But there was no answering that weapon.

Yet the Adjunct was undeterred. Choosing a war not even her soldiers wanted. With the aim of bringing down an empire. And the Emperor who held that sword in his hands. An Emperor driven mad by his own power. Another tool of the gods.

It was hard to feel easy about all this. Hard to find any confidence in the Adjunct’s bold decision. The marines had been flung onto the Letherii shore, not a single landing en masse, in strength, but one scattered, clandestine, at night. Then, as if to defy the tactic, the transports had been set aflame.

An announcement to be sure.

We are here. Find us, if you dare. But be assured, in time we will find you.

While most of another legion remained in ships well off the Letherii coast. And the Adjunct alone knew where the Khundryl had gone. And most of the Perish.

‘You have taken to brooding, husband.’

Withal slowly lifted his head and regarded the onyx-skinned woman sitting opposite him in the cabin. ‘I am a man of deep thoughts,’ he said.

You’re a lazy toad trapped in a pit of self-obsession.’

‘That, too.’

‘We will soon be ashore. I would have thought you’d be eager at the gunnel, given all your groaning and moaning. Mother Dark knows, I would never have known you for a Meckros with your abiding hatred of the sea.’

‘Abiding hatred, is it? No, more like… frustration.’ He lifted his huge hands. ‘Repairing ships is a speciality. But it’s not mine. I need to be back doing what I do best, wife.’

‘Horseshoes?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Shield-rims? Dagger-hilts? Swords?’

‘If need be.’

‘Armies always drag smiths with them.’

‘Not my speciality.’

‘Rubbish. You can fold iron into a blade as well as any weaponsmith.’

‘Seen plenty of ‘em, have you?’

‘With a life as long as mine has been, I’ve seen too much of everything. Now, our young miserable charges are probably down in the hold again. Will you get them or will I?’

‘Is it truly time to leave?’

‘I think the Adjunct is already off.’

‘You go. They still make my skin crawl.’

She rose. ‘You lack sympathy, which is characteristic of self-obsession. These Tiste Andii are young, Withal. Abandoned first by Anomander Rake. Then by Andarist. Brothers and sisters fallen in pointless battle. Too many losses-they are caught in the fragility of the world, in the despair it delivers to their souls.’

‘Privilege of the young, to wallow in world-weary cynicism.’

‘Unlike your deep thoughts.’

‘Completely unlike my deep thoughts, Sand.’

‘You think they have not earned that privilege?’

He could sense her growing ire. She was, after all, no less Tiste Andii than they were. Some things needed steering around. Volcanic island. Floating mountain of ice. Sea of fire. And Sandahth Drukorlat’s list of sensitivities. ‘I suppose they have,’ he replied carefully. ‘But since when was cynicism a virtue? Besides, it gets damned tiring.’

‘No argument there,’ she said in a deadly tone, then turned and marched out.

‘Brooding’s different,’ he muttered to the empty chair across from him. ‘Could be any subject, for one thing. A subject not at all cynical. Like the meddling of the gods-no, all right, not like that one. Smithing, yes. Horseshoes. Nothing cynical about horseshoes… I don’t think. Sure. Keeping horses comfortable. So they can gallop into battle and die horribly.’ He fell silent. Scowling.

Phaed’s flat, heart-shaped face was the colour of smudged slate, a hue unfortunate in its lifelessness. Her eyes were flat, except when filled with venom, which they were now as they rested on Sandalath Drukorlat’s back as the older woman spoke to the others.

Nimander Golit could see the young woman he called his sister from the corner of his eye, and he wondered yet again at the source of Phaed’s unquenchable malice, which had been there, as far as he could recall, from her very earliest days. Empathy did not exist within her, and in its absence something cold now thrived, promising a kind of brutal glee at every victory, real or imagined, obvious or subtle.

There was nothing easy in this young, beautiful woman. It began with the very first impression a stranger had upon seeing her, a kind of natural glamour that could take one’s breath away. The perfection of art, the wordless language of the romantic.

This initial moment was short-lived. It usually died following the first polite query, which Phaed invariably met with cold silence. A silence that transformed that wordless language, dispelling all notions of romance, and filling the vast, prolonged absence of decorum with bald contempt.

Spite was reserved for those who saw her truly, and it was in these instances that Nimander felt a chill of premonition, for he knew that Phaed was capable of murder. Woe to the sharp observer who saw, unflinchingly, through to her soul-to that trembling knot of darkness veined with unimaginable fears-then chose to disguise nothing of that awareness.

Nimander had long since learned to affect a kind of innocence when with Phaed, quick with a relaxed smile which seemed to put her at ease. It was at these moments, alas, when she was wont to confide her cruel sentiments, whispering elaborate schemes of vengeance against a host of slights.

Sandalath Drukorlat was nothing if not perceptive, which was hardly surprising. She had lived centuries upon centuries. She had seen all manner of creatures, from the honourable to the demonic. It had not taken her long to decide towards which end of the spectrum Phaed belonged. She had answered cold regard with her own; the contempt flung her way was like pebbles thrown at a warrior’s shield, raising not even a scratch. And, most cutting riposte of all, she had displayed amusement at Phaed’s mute histrionics, even unto overt mockery. These, then, were the deep wounds suppurating in Phaed’s soul, delivered by the woman who now stood as a surrogate mother to them all.

And now, Nimander knew, heart-faced Phaed was planning matricide.

He admitted to his own doldrums-long periods of flat indifference-as if none of this was in fact worth thinking about. He had his private host of demons, after all, none of which seemed inclined to simply fade away. Unperturbed by the occasional neglect, they played on in their dark games, and the modest hoard of wealth that made up Nimander’s life went back and forth, until the scales spun without surcease. Clashing discord and chaos to mark the triumphant cries, the hissed curses, the careless scattering of coin. He often felt numbed, deafened.

It may have been that these were the traits of the Tiste Andii. Introverts devoid of introspection. Darkness in the blood. Chimerae, even unto ourselves. He’d wanted to care about the throne they had been defending, the one that Andarist died for, and he had led his charges into that savage battle without hesitation. Perhaps, even, with true eagerness.

Rush to death. The longer one lives, the less valued is that life. Why is that?

But that would be introspection, wouldn’t it? Too trying a task, pursuing such questions. Easier to simply follow the commands of others. Another trait of his kind, this comfort in following? Yet who stood among the Tiste Andii as symbols of respect and awe? Not young warriors like Nimander Golit. Not wicked Phaed and her vile ambitions.

Anomander Rake, who walked away. Andarist, his brother, who did not. Silchas Ruin-ah, such a family! Clearly unique among the brood of the Mother. They lived larger, then, in great drama. Lives tense and humming like bowstrings, the ferocity of truth in their every word, the hard, cruel exchanges that drove them apart when nothing else would. Not even Mother Dark’s turning away. Their early lives were poems of epic grandeur. And we? We are nothing. Softened, blunted, confused into obscurity. We have lost our simplicity, lost its purity. We are the Dark without mystery.

Sandalath Drukorlat-who had lived in those ancient times and must grieve in her soul for the fallen Tiste Andii-now turned about and with a gesture beckoned the motley survivors of Drift Avalii to follow. Onto the deck-‘you have hair, Nimander, the colour of starlight’-to look upon this squalid harbour town that would be their home for the next little eternity, to use Phaed’s hissing words.

‘It used to be a prison, this island. Full of rapists and murderers.’ A sudden look into his eyes, as if seeking something, then she gave him a fleeting smile that was little more than a showing of teeth and said, A good place for murder.’

Words that, millennia past, could have triggered a civil war or worse, the fury of Mother Dark herself. Words, then, that barely stirred the calm repose of Nimander’s indifference.

‘You have hair, Nimander, the colour of-’ But the past was dead. Drift Avalii. Our very own prison isle, where we learned about dying.

And the terrible price of following.

Where we learned that love does not belong in this world.

Chapter Fourteen

The pitched sweep of ice had gone through successive thaws and freezes until its surface was pocked and sculpted like the colourless bark of some vast toppled tree. The wind, alternating between warm and cold, moaned a chorus of forlorn voices through this muricated surface, and it seemed to Hedge that with each crunching stamp of his boot, a lone cry was silenced for ever. The thought left him feeling morose, and this motley scatter of refuse dotting the plain of ice and granulated snow only made things worse.

Detritus of Jaghut lives, slowly rising like stones in a farmer’s field. Mundane objects to bear witness to an entire people-if only he could make sense of them, could somehow assemble together all these disparate pieces. Ghosts, he now believed, existed in a perpetually confused state, the way before them an endless vista strewn with meaningless dross-the truths of living were secrets, the physicality of facts for ever withheld. A ghost could reach but could not touch, could move this and that, but never be moved by them. Some essence of empathy had vanished-but no, empathy wasn’t the right word. He could feel, after all. The way he used to, when he had been alive. Emotions swam waters both shallow and deep. Tactile empathy perhaps was closer to the sense he sought. The comfort of mutual resistance.

He had willed himself this shape, this body in which he now dwelt, walking heavily alongside the withered, animate carcass that was Emroth. And it seemed he could conjure a kind of physical continuity with everything around him-like the crunching of his feet-but he now wondered if that continuity was a delusion, as if in picking up this curved shell of some ancient broken pot just ahead of him he was not in truth picking up its ghost. But for that revelation his eyes were blind, the senses of touch and sound were deceits, and he was as lost as an echo.

They continued trudging across this plateau, beneath deep blue skies where stars glittered high in the vault directly overhead, a world of ice seemingly without end. The scree of garbage accompanied them on all sides. Fragments of cloth or clothing or perhaps tapestry, potsherds, eating utensils, arcane tools of wood or ground stone, the piece of a musical instrument that involved strings and raised finger-drums, the splintered leg of a wooden chair or stool. No weapons, not in days, and the one they had discovered early on-a spear shaft-had been Imass.

Jaghut had died on this ice. Slaughtered. Emroth had said as much. But there were no bodies, and there had been no explanation forthcoming from the T’lan Imass. Collected then, Hedge surmised, perhaps by a survivor. Did the Jaghut practise ritual interment? He had no idea. In all his travels, he could not once recall talk of a Jaghut tomb or burial ground. If they did such things, they kept them to themselves.

But when they died here, they had been on the run. Some of those swaths of material were from tents. Flesh and blood Imass did not pursue them-not across this lifeless ice. No, they must have been T’lan. Of the Ritual. Like Emroth here.

‘So,’ Hedge said, his own voice startlingly loud in his ears, ‘were you involved in this hunt, Emroth?’

‘I cannot be certain,’ she replied after a long moment. ‘It is possible.’

‘One scene of slaughter looks pretty much the same as the next, right?’

‘Yes. That is true.’

Her agreement left him feeling even more depressed.

‘There is something ahead,’ the T’lan Imass said. ‘We are, I believe, about to discover the answer to the mystery’

‘What mystery?’

‘The absence of bodies.’

‘Oh, that mystery’

Night came abruptly to this place, like the snuffing out of a candle. The sun, which circled just above the horizon through the day, would suddenly tumble, like a rolling ball, beneath the gleaming, blood-hued skyline. And the black sky would fill with stars that only faded with the coming of strangely coloured brushstrokes of light, spanning the vault, that hissed like sprinkled fragments of fine glass.

Hedge sensed that night was close, as the wind’s pockets of warmth grew more infrequent, the ember cast to what he assumed was west deepening into a shade both lurid and baleful.

He could now see what had caught Emroth’s attention. A hump on the plateau, ringed in dark objects. The shape rising from the centre of that hillock at first looked like a spar of ice, but as they neared, Hedge saw that its core was dark, and that darkness reached down to the ground.

The objects surrounding the rise were cloth-swaddled bodies, many of them pitifully small.

As the day’s light suddenly dropped away, night announced on a gust of chill wind, Hedge and Emroth halted just before the hump.

The upthrust spar was in fact a throne of ice, and on it sat the frozen corpse of a male Jaghut. Mummified by cold and desiccating winds, it nevertheless presented an imposing if ghastly figure, a figure of domination, the head tilted slightly downward, as if surveying a ring of permanently supine subjects.

‘Death observing death,’ Hedge muttered. ‘How damned appropriate. He collected the bodies, then sat down and just died with them. Gave up. No thoughts of vengeance, no dreams of resurrection. Here’s your dread enemy, Emroth.’

‘More than you realize,’ the T’lan Imass replied.

She moved on, edging round the edifice, her hide-wrapped feet plunging through the crust of brittle ice in small sparkling puffs of powdery snow.

Hedge stared up at the Jaghut on his half-melted throne. All thrones should be made of ice, 1 think.

Sit on that numb arse, sinking down and down, with the puddle of dissolution getting ever wider around you. Sit, dear ruler, and tell me all your grand designs.

Of course, the throne wasn’t the only thing falling apart up there. The Jaghut’s green, leathery skin had sloughed away on the forehead, revealing sickly bone, almost luminescent in the gloom; and on the points of the shoulders the skin was frayed, with the polished knobs of the shoulder bones showing through. Similar gleams from the knuckles of both hands where they rested on the now-tilted arms of the chair.

Hedge’s gaze returned to the face. Black, sunken pits for eyes, a nose broad and smashed flat, tusks of black silver. I thought these things never quite died. Needed big rocks on them to keep them from getting back up. Or chopped to pieces and every piece planted under a boulder.

I didn’t think they died this way at all.

He shook himself and set off after Emroth.

They would walk through the night. Camps, meals and sleeping were for still-breathing folk, after all.

‘Emroth!’

The head creaked round.

‘That damned thing back there’s not still alive, is it?’

‘No. The spirit left.’

‘Just… left?’

‘Yes.’

‘Isn’t that, uh, unusual?’

‘The Throne of Ice was dying. Is dying still. There was-is-nothing left to rule, ghost. Would you have him sit there for ever?’ She did not seem inclined to await a reply, for she then said, ‘I have not been here before, Hedge of the Bridgeburners. For I would have known.’

‘Known what, Emroth?’

‘I have never before seen the true Throne of Ice, in the heart of the Hold. The very heart of the Jaghut realm.’

Hedge glanced back. The true Throne of Ice? ‘Who-who was he, Emroth?’

But she did not give answer.

After a time, however, he thought he knew. Had always known.

He kicked aside a broken pot, watched it skid, roll, then wobble to a halt. King on your melting throne, you drew a breath, then let it go. And… never again. Simple. Easy. When you are the last of your kind, and you release that last breath, then it is the breath of extinction.

And it rides the wind.

Every wind.

‘Emroth, there was a scholar in Malaz City-a miserable old bastard named Obo-who claimed he was witness to the death of a star. And when the charts were compared again, against the night sky, well, one light was gone.’

‘The stars have changed since my mortal life, ghost.’

‘Some have gone out?’

‘Yes.’

‘As in… died V

‘The Bonecasters could not agree on this,’ she said. Another observation offered a different possibility. The stars are moving away from us, Hedge of the Bridgeburners. Perhaps those we no longer see have gone too far for our eyes.’

‘Obo’s star was pretty bright-wouldn’t it have faded first, over a long time, before going out?’

‘Perhaps both answers are true. Stars die. Stars move away.’

‘So, did that Jaghut die, or did he move away?’

‘Your question makes no sense.’

Really? Hedge barked a laugh. You’re a damned bad liar, Emroth.’

‘This,’ she said, ‘is not a perfect world.’

The swaths of colours sweeping overhead hissed softly, while around them the wind plucked at tufts of cloth and fur, moaning through miniature gullies and caverns of ice, and closer still, a sound shared by ghost and T’lan Imass, the crackling destruction of their footsteps across the plateau.

Onrack knelt beside the stream, plunging his hands into the icy water, then lifting them clear again to watch the runnels trickling down. The wonder had not left his dark brown eyes since his transformation, since the miracle of a life regained.

A man could have no heart if he felt nothing watching this rebirth, this innocent joy in a savage warrior who had been dead a hundred thousand years. He picked up polished stones as if they were treasure, ran blunt, calloused fingertips across swaths of lichen and moss, brought to his heavy lips a discarded antler to taste with his tongue, to draw in its burnt-hair scent. Walking through the thorny brush of some arctic rose, Onrack had then halted, with a cry of astonishment, upon seeing red scratches on his bowed shins.

The Imass was, Trull Sengar reminded himself yet again, nothing-nothing-like what he would have imagined him to be. Virtually hairless everywhere barring the brown, almost black mane sweeping down past his broad shoulders. In the days since they had come to this strange realm, a beard had begun, thin along Onrack’s jawline and above his mouth, the bristles wide-spaced and black as a boar’s; but not growing at all on the cheeks, or the neck. The features of the face were broad and flat, dominated by a flaring nose with a pronounced bridge, like a knuckle bone between the wide-spaced, deeply inset eyes. The heavy ridge over those eyes was made all the more robust by the sparseness of the eyebrows.

Although not particularly tall, Onrack nevertheless seemed huge. Ropy muscles bound to thick bone, the arms elongated, the hands wide but the fingers stubby. The legs were disproportionately short, bowed so that the knees were almost as far out to the sides as his hips. Yet Onrack moved with lithe stealth, furtive as prey, eyes flicking in every direction, head tilting, nostrils flaring as he picked up scents on the wind. Prey, yet now he needed to satisfy a prodigious appetite, and when Onrack hunted, it was with discipline, a single-mindedness that was fierce to witness.

This world was his, in every way. A blend of tundra to the north and a treeline in the south that reached up every now and then to the very shadow of the huge glaciers stretching down the valleys. The forest was a confused mix of deciduous and coniferous trees, broken with ravines and tumbled rocks, springs of clean water and boggy sinkholes. The branches swarmed with birds, their incessant chatter at times overwhelming all else.

Along the edges there were trails. Caribou moved haphazardly between forest and tundra in their grazing. Closer to the ice, on higher ground where bedrock was exposed, there were goat-like creatures, scampering up ledges to look back down on the two-legged strangers passing through their domain.

Onrack had disappeared into the forest again and again in the first week of their wandering. Each time he reappeared his toolkit had expanded. A wooden shaft, the point of which he hardened in the fire of their camp; vines and reeds from which he fashioned snares, and nets that he then attached to the other end of the spear, displaying impressive skill at trapping birds on the wing.

From the small mammals caught in his nightly snares he assembled skins and gut. With the stomachs and intestines of hares he made floats for the weighted nets he strung across streams, and from the grayling and sturgeon harvested he gathered numerous spines which he then used to sew together the hides, fashioning a bag. He collected charcoal and tree sap, lichens, mosses, tubers, feathers and small pouches of animal fat, all of which went into the hide bag.

But all of these things were as nothing when compared with the burgeoning of the man himself. A face Trull had known only as dried skin taut over shattered bone was now animate with expression, and it was as if Trull had been blind to his friend in the time before, when even vocal inflection had been flat and lifeless.

Onrack now smiled. A sudden lighting of genuine pleasure that not only took Trull’s breath away-and, he admitted, often filled his eyes with tears-but could silence Quick Ben as well, the wizard’s dark face suddenly evincing ineffable wonder, an expression that a well-meaning adult might have upon seeing a child at play.

Everything about this Imass invited friendship, as if his smile alone cast some sorcery, a geas of charm, to which unquestioning loyalty was the only possible response. This glamour Trull Sengar had no interest in resisting. Onrack, after all, is the one brother I chose. But the Tiste Edur could see, on occasion, the gleam of suspicion in the Malazan wizard, as if Quick Ben was catching himself at the edge of some inner precipice, some slide into a place Ben could not, by his very nature, wholly trust.

Trull felt no worry; he could see that Onrack was not interested in manipulating his companions. His was a spirit contained within itself, a spirit that had emerged from a haunted place and was haunted no longer. Dead in a demonic nightmare. Reborn into a paradise. Onrack, my friend, you are redeemed, and you know it, with every sense-with your touch, your vision, with the scents of the land and the songs in the trees.

The previous evening he had returned from a trip into the forest with a sheath of bark in his hands. On it were nuggets of crumbly yellow ochre. Later, beside the fire, while Quick Ben cooked the remaining meat from a small deer Onrack had killed in the forest two days previously, the Imass ground the nuggets into powder. Then, using spit and grease, he made a yellow paste. As he worked these preparations, he hummed a song, a droning, vibrating cadence that was as much nasal as vocal. The range, like his speaking voice, was unearthly. It seemed capable of carrying two distinct tones, one high and the other deep. The song ended when the task was done. There was a long pause; then, as Onrack began applying the paint to his face, neck and arms, a different song emerged, this one with a rapid beat, fast as the heart of a fleeing beast.

When the last daub of paint marked his amber skin, the song stopped.

‘Gods below!’ Quick Ben had gasped, one hand on his chest. ‘My heart’s about to pound right through my cage of bones, Onrack!’

The Imass, settling back in his cross-legged position, regarded the wizard with calm, dark eyes. ‘You have been pursued often. In your life.’

A grimace from Quick Ben, then he nodded. ‘Feels like years and years of that.’

‘There are two names to the song. Agkor Raella and Allish Raella. The wolf song, and the caribou song.’

‘Ah, so my cud-chewing ways are exposed at last.’

Onrack smiled. ‘One day, you must become the wolf.’

‘Might be I already am,’ Quick Ben said after a long moment. ‘I’ve seen wolves-plenty of them around here, after all. Those long-legged ones with the smallish heads-’

Ay.’

Ay, right. And they’re damned shy. I’d wager they don’t go for the kill until the odds are well in their favour. The worst kind of gamblers, in fact. But very good at survival.’

‘Shy,’ Onrack said, nodding. ‘Yet curious. The same pack follows us now for three days.’

‘They enjoy scavenging your kills-let you take all the risks. Makes for a sweet deal.’

‘Thus far,’ Onrack said, ‘there have been few risks.’

Quick Ben glanced over at Trull, then shook his head and said, ‘That mountain sheep or whatever you call it not only charged you, Onrack, but it sent you flying. We thought it’d broken every bone in your body, and you just two days into your new one at that.’

‘The bigger the prey, the more you must pay,’ Onrack said, smiling again. ‘In the way of gambling, yes?’

Absolutely,’ the wizard said, prodding at the meat on the spit. ‘My point was, the wolf is the caribou until necessity forces otherwise. If the odds are too bad, the wolf runs. It’s a matter of timing, of choosing the right moment to turn round and hold your ground. As for those wolves tracking us, well, I’d guess they’ve never seen our kind before-’ ‘No, Quick Ben,’ Onrack said. ‘The very opposite is true.’

Trull studied his friend for a moment, then asked, ‘We’re not alone here?’

‘The ay knew to follow us. Yes, they are curious, but they are also clever, and they remember. They have followed Imass before.’ He lifted his head and sniffed loudly. ‘They are close tonight, those ay. Drawn to my song, which they have heard before. The ay know, you see, that tomorrow 1 will hunt dangerous prey. And when the moment of the kill comes, well, we shall see.’

‘Just how dangerous?’ Trull asked, suddenly uneasy.

‘There is a hunting cat, an emlava-we entered its territory today, for I found the scrapes of its claim, on stone and on wood. A male by the flavour of its piss. Today, the ay were more nervous than usual, for the cat will kill them at every opportunity, and it is a creature of ambush. But I have assured them with my song. I found Tog’tol-yellow ochre-after all.’

‘So,’ Quick Ben said, his eyes on the dripping meat above the flames, ‘if your wolves know we are here, how about the cat?’

‘He knows.’

‘Well, that’s just terrific, Onrack. I’m going to need some warrens close to hand all damned day, then. That happens to be exhausting, you know.’

‘You need not worry with the sun overhead, wizard,’ Onrack said. ‘The cat hunts at night.’

‘Hood’s breath! Let’s hope those wolves smell it before we do!’

‘They won’t,’ the Imass replied with infuriating calm. ‘In scenting its territory, the emlava saturates the air with its sign. Its own body scent is much weaker, freeing the beast to move wherever it will when inside its territory.’

‘Why are dumb brutes so damned smart, anyway?’

‘Why are us smart folk so often stupidly brutal, Quick Ben?’ Trull asked.

‘Stop trying to confuse me in my state of animal terror, Edur.’

An uneventful night passed and now, the following day, they walked yet further into the territory of the emlava. Halting at a stream in mid-morning, Onrack had knelt beside it to begin his ritual washing of hands. At least, Trull assumed it was a ritual, although it might well have been another of those moments of breathless wonder that seemed to afflict Onrack-and no surprise there; Trull suspected he’d be staggering about for months after such a rebirth. Of course, he does not think like us. 1 am much closer in my ways of thought to this human, Quick Ben, than 1 am to any Imass, dead or otherwise. How can that be?

Onrack then rose and faced them, his spear in one hand, sword in the other. ‘We are near the emlava’s lair. Although he sleeps, he senses us. Tonight, he means to kill one of us. I shall now challenge his claim to this territory. If I fail, he may well leave you be, for he will feed on my flesh.’

But Quick Ben was shaking his head. ‘You’re not doing this alone, Onrack. Granted, I’m not entirely sure of how my sorcery will work in this place, but dammit, it’s just a dumb cat, after all. A blinding flash of light, a loud sound-’

‘And I will join you as well,’ Trull Sengar said. ‘We begin with spears, yes? I have fought enough wolves in my time. We will meet its charge with spears. Then, when it is wounded and crippled, we close with bladed weapons.’

Onrack studied them for a moment, then he smiled. ‘I see that I will not dissuade you. Yet, for the fight itself, you must not interfere. I do not think I will fail, and you will see why before long.’

Trull and the wizard followed the Imass up the slope of an outwash fan that filled most of a crevasse, up among the lichen-clad, tilted and folded bedrock. Beyond this black-stone ledge rose a sheer wall of grey shale pocked with caves where sediments had eroded away beneath an endless torrent of glacial melt. The stream in which Onrack had plunged his hands earlier poured out from this cliff, forming a pool in one cavern that extended out to fill a basin before continuing downslope. To the right of this was another cave, triangular in shape, with one entire side formed by a collapse in the shale overburden. The flat ground before it was scattered with splintered bones.

As they skirted the pool Onrack suddenly halted, lifting a hand.

A massive shape now filled the cave mouth.

Three heartbeats later, the emlava emerged.

‘Hood’s breath,’ Quick Ben whispered.

Trull had expected a hunting cat little different from,a mountain lion-perhaps one of the black ones rumoured to live in the deeper forests of his homeland. The creature hulking into view, blinking sleep from its charcoal eyes, was the size of a plains brown bear. Its enormous upper canines projected down past its lower jaw, long as a huntsman’s knife and polished the hue of amber. The head was broad and flat, the ears small and set far back. Behind the short neck, the emlava’s shoulders were hunched, forming a kind of muscled hump. Its fur was striped, black barbs on deep grey, although its throat revealed a flash of white.

‘Not quite built for speed, is it?’

Trull glanced over at Quick Ben, saw the wizard holding a dagger in one hand. ‘We should get you a spear,’ the Tiste Edur said.

‘I’ll take one of your spares-if you don’t mind.’

Trull slipped the bound clutch from his shoulder and said, ‘Take your pick.’

The emlava was studying them. Then it yawned and with that Onrack moved lightly forward in a half-crouch.

As he did so, pebbles scattered nearby and Trull turned. ‘Well, it seems Onrack has allies in this after all.’

The wolves-ay in the Imass language-had appeared and were now closing on Onrack’s position, heads lowered and eyes fixed on the huge cat.

The sudden arrival of seven wolves clearly displeased the emlava, for it then lowered itself until its chest brushed the ground, gathering its legs beneath it. The mouth opened again, and a deep hiss filled the air.

‘We might as well get out of their way,’ Quick Ben said, taking a step back with obvious relief.

‘I wonder,’ Trull said as he watched the momentary stand-off, ‘if this is how domestication first began. Not banding together in a hunt for prey, but in an elimination of rival predators.’

Onrack had readied his spear, not to meet a charge, but to throw the weapon using a stone-weighted antler atlatl. The wolves to his either side had fanned out, edging closer with fangs bared.

‘Not a growl to be heard,’ Quick Ben said. ‘Somehow that’s more chilling.’

‘Growls are to warn,’ Trull replied. ‘There is fear in growls, just as there is in that cat’s hissing.’

The emlava’s single lungful of breath finally whistled down into silence. It refilled its lungs and began again.

Onrack lunged forward, the spear darting from his hand.

Flinching back, the emlava screamed as the weapon drove deep into its chest, just to one side of the neck and beneath the clavicle. At that moment the wolves rushed in.

A mortal wound, however, was not enough to slow the cat as it lashed out with two staggered swings of its forepaws at one of the wolves. The first paw sank talons deep into the wolf’s shoulder, snatching the entire animal closer, within the reach of the second paw, which dragged the yelping wolf closer still. The massive head then snapped down on its neck, fangs burying themselves in flesh and bone.

The emlava, lurching, then drove its full weight down on the dying wolf, probably breaking every bone in its body.

As it did so, four other wolves lunged for its soft belly, two to each side, their canines tearing deep, then pulling away as, screaming, the emlava spun round to fend them off.

Exposing its neck.

Onrack’s sword flashed, point-first, into the cat’s throat.

It recoiled, sending one wolf tumbling, then reared back on its hind legs-as if to wheel and flee back into its cave-but all strength left the emlava then. It toppled, thumped hard onto the ground, and was still.

The six remaining wolves-one limping-padded away, keeping a distance between themselves and the three men, and moments later were gone from sight.

Onrack walked up to the emlava and tugged free his gore-spattered spear. Then he knelt beside the cat’s head.

‘Asking forgiveness?’ Quick Ben queried, his tone only slightly ironic.

The Imass looked over at them. ‘No, that would be dishonest, wizard.’

‘You’re right, it would. I am glad you’re not dumping any blessed spirit rubbish on us. It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it, that there were wars long before there were wars between people. You had your rival hunters to dispose of first.’

‘Yes, that is true. And we found allies. If you wish to find irony, Quick Ben, know that we then hunted until most of our prey was extinct. And our allies then starved-those that did not surrender to our stewardship.’

‘The Imass are hardly unique in that,’ Trull Sengar said.

Quick Ben snorted. ‘That’s understating it, Trull. So tell us, Onrack, why are you kneeling beside that carcass?’

‘I have made a mistake,’ the Imass replied, climbing to his feet and staring into the cave.

‘Seemed pretty flawless to me.’

‘The killing, yes, Quick Ben. But this emlava, it is female.’

The wizard grunted, then seemed to flinch. ‘You mean the male’s still around?’

‘I do not know. Sometimes they… wander.’ Onrack looked down at the bloodied spear in his hands. ‘My friends,’ he said. ‘I am now… hesitant, I admit. Perhaps, long ago, I would not have thought twice-as you said, wizard, we warred against our competitors. But this realm-it is a gift. All that was lost, because of our thoughtless acts, now lives again. Here. I wonder, can things be different?’

In the silence following that question, they heard, coming from the cave, the first pitiful cry.

‘Did you ever wish, Udinaas, that you could sink inside stone? Shake loose its vast memories-’

The ex-slave glanced at Wither-a deeper smear in the gloom-then sneered. ‘And see what they have seen? You damned wraith, stones can’t see.’

‘True enough. Yet they swallow sound and bind it trapped inside. They hold conversations with heat and cold. Their skins wear away to the words of the wind and the lick of water. Darkness and light live in their flesh-and they carry within them the echoes of wounding, of breaking, of being cruelly shaped-’

‘Oh, enough!’ Udinaas snapped, pushing a stick further into the fire. ‘Go melt away into these ruins, then.’

‘You are the last one awake, my friend. And yes, I have been in these ruins.’

‘Games like those are bound to drive you mad.’

A long pause. ‘You know things you have no right to know.’

‘How about this, then? Sinking into stone is easy. It’s getting out again that’s hard. You can get lost, trapped in the maze. And on all sides, all those memories pressing in, pressing down.’

‘It is your dreams, isn’t it? Where you learn such things. Who speaks to you? Tell me the name of this fell mentor!’

Udinaas laughed. ‘You fool, Wither. My mentor? Why, none other than imagination.’

‘I do not believe you.’

There seemed little point in responding to that declaration. Staring into the flames, Udinaas allowed its flickering dance to lull him. He was tired. He should be sleeping. The fever was gone, the nightmarish hallucinations, the strange nectars that fed the tumbling delusions all seeped away, like piss in moss. The strength 1 felt in those other worlds was a lie. The clarity, a deceit. All those offered ways forward, through what will come, every one a dead end. 1 should have known better.

‘K’Chain Nah’ruk, these ruins.’

‘You still here, Wither? Why?’

‘This was once a plateau on which the Short-Tails built a city. But now, as you can see, it is shattered. Now there is nothing but these dread slabs all pitched and angled-yet we have been working our way downward. Did you sense this? We will soon reach the centre, the heart of this crater, and we will see what destroyed this place.’

‘The ruins,’ said Udinaas, ‘remember cool shadow. Then concussion. Shadow, Wither, in a flood to announce the end of the world. The concussion, well, that belonged to the shadow, right?’

‘You know things-’

‘You damned fool, listen to me! We came to the edge of this place, this high plateau, expecting to see it stretch out nice and flat before us. Instead, it looks like a frozen puddle onto which someone dropped a heavy rock. Splat. All the sides caved inward. Wraith, I don’t need any secret knowledge to work this out. Something big came down from the sky-a meteorite, a sky keep, whatever. We trudged through its ash for days. Covering the ancient snow. Ash and dust, eating into that snow like acid. And the ruins, they’re all toppled, blasted outward, then tilted inward. Out first, in second. Heave out and down, then slide back. Wither, all it takes is for someone to just look. Really look. That’s it. So enough with all this mystical sealshit, all right?’

His tirade had wakened the others. Too bad. Nearly dawn anyway. Udinaas listened to them moving around, heard a cough, then someone hawking spit. Which? Seren? Kettle?

The ex-slave smiled to himself. ‘Your problem, Wither, is your damned expectations. You hounded me for months and months, and now you feel the need to have made it-me-worth all that attention. So here you are, pushing some kind of sage wisdom on this broken slave, but I told you then what I’ll tell you now. I’m nothing, no-one. Understand? Just a man with a brain that, every now and then, actually works. Yes, I work it, because I find no comfort in being stupid. Unlike, I think, most people. Us Letherii, anyway. Stupid and proud of it. Belongs on the Imperial Seal, that happy proclamation. No wonder I failed so miserably.’

Seren Pedac moved into the firelight, crouching down to warm her hands. ‘Failed at what, Udinaas?’

‘Why, everything, Acquitor. No need for specifics here.’

Fear Sengar spoke from behind him. ‘You were skilled, I recall, at mending nets.’

Udinaas did not turn round, but he smiled. ‘Yes, I probably deserved that. My well-meaning tormentor speaks. Well-meaning? Oh, perhaps not. Indifferent? Possibly. Until, at least, I did something wrong. A badly mended net-aaii! Flay the fool’s skin from his back! I know, it was all for my own good. Someone’s, anyway.’

Another sleepless night, Udinaas?’

He looked across the fire at Seren, but she was intent on the flames licking beneath her outstretched hands, as if the question had been rhetorical.

‘I can see my bones,’ she then said.

‘They’re not real bones,’ Kettle replied, settling down with her legs drawn up. ‘They look more like twigs.’

‘Thank you, dear.’

‘Bones are hard, like rock.’ She set her hands on her knees and rubbed them. ‘Cold rock.’

‘Udinaas,’ Seren said, ‘I see puddles of gold in the ashes.’

‘I found pieces of a picture frame.’ He shrugged. ‘Odd to think of K’Chain Nah’ruk hanging pictures, isn’t it?’

Seren looked up, met his eyes. ‘K’Chain-’

Silchas Ruin spoke as he stepped round a heap of cut stone. ‘Not pictures. The frame was used to stretch skin. K’Chain moult until they reach adulthood. The skins were employed as parchment, for writing. The Nah’ruk were obsessive recorders.’

‘You know a lot about creatures you killed on sight,’ Fear Sengar said.

Clip’s soft laughter sounded from somewhere beyond the circle of light, followed by the snap of rings on a chain.

Fear’s head lifted sharply. ‘That amuses you, pup?’

The Tiste Andii’s voice drifted in, eerily disembodied. ‘Silchas Ruin’s dread secret. He parleyed with the Nah’ruk. There was this civil war going on, you see…’

‘It will be light soon,’ Silchas said, turning away.

Before too long, the group separated as it usually did. Striding well ahead were Silchas Ruin and Clip. Next on the path was Seren Pedac herself, while twenty or more paces behind her straggled Udinaas-still using the Imass spear as a walking stick-and Kettle and Fear Sengar.

Seren was not sure if she was deliberately inviting solitude upon herself. More likely some remnant of her old profession was exerting on her a disgruntled pressure to take the lead, deftly dismissing the presence ahead of the two Tiste warriors. As if they don’t count. As if they’re intrinsically unreliable as guides… to wherever it is we’re going.

She thought back, often, on their interminable flight from Letheras, the sheer chaos of that trek, its contradictions of direction and purpose; the times when they were motionless-setting down tentative roots in some backwater hamlet or abandoned homestead-but their exhaustion did not ease then, for it was not of blood and flesh. Scabandari Bloodeye’s soul awaited them, like some enervating parasite, in a place long forgotten. Such was the stated purpose, but Seren had begun, at last, to wonder.

Silchas had endeavoured to lead them west, ever west, and was turned aside each time-as if whatever threat the servants of Rhulad and Hannan Mosag presented was too vast to challenge. And that made no sense. The bastard can change into a damned dragon. And is Silchas a pacifist at heart! Hardly. He kills with all the compunction of a man swatting mosquitoes. Did he turn us away to spare our lives? Again, unlikely. A dragon doesn’t leave behind anything alive, does it? Driven north, again and again, away from the more populated areas.

To the very edge of Bluerose, a region once ruled by Tiste Andii-hiding still under the noses of Letherii and Edur-no, I do not trust any of this. 1 cannot. Silchas Ruin sensed his kin. He must have.

Suspecting Silchas Ruin of deceit was one thing, voicing the accusation quite another. She lacked the courage. As simple as that. Easier, isn’t it, to just go along, and to keep from thinking too hard. Because thinking too hard is what Udinaas has done, and look at the state he’s in. Yet, even then, he’s managing to keep his mouth shut. Most of the time. He may be an ex-slave, he may be ‘no-one’-but he is not a fool.

So she walked alone. Bound by friendship to none-none here, in any case-and disinclined to change that.

The ruined city, little more than heaps of tumbled stone, rolled past on all sides, the slope ahead becoming ever steeper, and she thought, after a time, that she could hear the whisper of sand, crumbled mortar, fragments of rubble, as if their passage was yet further pitching this landscape, and as they walked they gathered to them streams of sliding refuse. As if our presence alone is enough shift the balance.

The whispering could have been voices, uttered beneath the wind, and she felt-with a sudden realization that lifted beads of sweat to her skin-within moments of understanding the words. Of stone and broken mortar. I am sliding into madness indeed-

‘When the stone breaks, every cry escapes. Can you hear me now, Seren Pedac?’

‘Is that you, Wither? Leave me be.’

Are any warrens alive? Most would say no. Impossible. They are forces. Aspects. Proclivities manifest as the predictable-oh, the Great Thinkers who are long since dust worried this in fevered need, as befits the obsessed. But they did not under’ stand. One warren lies like a web over all the others, and its voice is the will necessary to shape magic. They did not see it. Not for what it was. They thought… chaos, a web where each strand was undifferentiated energy, not yet articulated, not yet given shape by an Elder God’s intent.’

She listened, as yet uncomprehending, even as her heart thundered in her chest and her each breath came in a harsh rasp. This, she knew, was not Wither’s voice. Not the wraith’s language. Not its cadence.

‘But K’rul understood. Spilled blood is lost blood, powerless blood in the end. It dies when abandoned. Witness violent death for proof of that. For the warrens to thrive, coursing in their appointed rivers and streams, there must be a living body, a grander form that exists in itself. Not chaos. Not Dark, nor Light. Not heat, not cold. No, a conscious aversion to disorder. Negation to and of all else, when all else is dead. For the true face of Death is dissolution, and in dissolution there is chaos until the last mote of energy ceases its wilful glow, its persistent abnegation. Do you understand?’

‘No. Who are you?’

‘There is another way, then, of seeing this. K’rul realized he could not do this alone. The sacrifice, the opening of his veins and arteries, would mean nothing, would indeed fail. Without living flesh, without organized functionality.

‘Ah, the warrens, Seren Pedac, they are a dialogue. Do you see now?’

‘No!’

Her frustrated cry echoed through the ruins. She saw Silchas and Clip halt and turn about.

Behind her, Fear Sengar called out, ‘Acquitor? What is it you deny?’

Knowing laughter from Udinaas.

‘Disregard the vicious crowd now, the torrent of sound overwhelming the warrens, the users, the guardians, the parasites and the hunters, the complicit gods elder and young. Shut them away, as Corlos taught you. To remember rape is to fold details into sensation, and so relive each time its terrible truth. He told you this could become habit, an addiction, until even despair became a welcome taste on your tongue. Understand, then-as only you can here-that to take one’s own life is the final expression of despair. You saw that. Buruk the Pale. You felt that, at the sea’s edge. Seren Pedac, K’rul could not act alone in this sacrifice, lest he fill every warren with despair.

‘Dialogue. Presupposition, yes, of the plural. One with another. Or succession of others, for this dialogue must be ongoing, indeed, eternal.

‘Do I speak of the Master of the Holds? The Master of the Deck? Perhaps-the face of the other is ever turned away-to all but K’rul himself. This is how it must be. The dialogue, then, is the feeding of power. Power unimaginable, power virtually omnipotent, unassailable… so long as that other’s face remains… turned away.

‘From you. From me. From all of us.’

She stared wildly about then, at these tilted ruins, this endless scree of destruction.

‘The dialogue, however, can be sensed if not heard-such is its power. The construction of language, the agreement in principle of meaning and intent, the rules of grammar-Seren

Pedac, what did you think Mockra was? If not a game of grammar? Twisting semantics, turning inference, inviting suggestion, reshaping a mind’s internal language to deceive its own senses?

‘Who am I?

‘Why, Seren Pedac, 1 am Mockra.’

The others were gathered round her now. She found herself on her knees, driven there by revelation-there would be bruises, an appalling softness in the tissue where it pressed against hard pavestone. She registered this, as she stared up at the others. Reproachful communication, between damaged flesh and her mind, between her senses and her brain.

She shunted those words aside, then settled into a sweet, painless calm.

As easy as that.

‘Beware, there is a deadly risk in deceiving oneself. You can blind youself to your own damage. You can die quickly in that particular game, Seren Pedac. No, if you must… experiment… then choose another.

‘Corlos would have showed you that, had he the time with you.’

‘So-so he knows you?’’

‘Not as intimately as you. There are few so… blessed.’

‘But you are not a god, are you?’

‘You need not ask that, Seren Pedac.’

‘You are right. But still, you are alive.’

She heard amusement in the reply. ‘Unless my greatest deceit is the announcement of my own existence! There are rules in language, and language is needed for the stating of the rules. As K’rul understood, the blood flows out, and then it returns. Weak, then enlivened. Round and round. Who then, ask your-self, who then is the enemy?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Not yet, perhaps. You will need to find out, however, Seren Pedac. Before we are through.’

She smiled. ‘You give me a purpose?’

‘Dialogue, my love, must not end.’

‘Ours? Or the other one?’

‘Your companions think you fevered now. Tell me, before we part, which you would choose. For your experiments?’

She blinked up at the half-circle of faces. Expressions of concern, mockery, curiosity, indifference. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It seems… cruel.’

‘Power ever is, Seren Pedac.’

‘I won’t decide, then. Not yet.’

‘So be it.’

‘Seren?’ Kettle asked. ‘What is wrong with you?’

She smiled, then pushed herself to her feet, Udinaas-to her astonishment-reaching out to help her regain her balance.

Seeing her wince, he half smiled. ‘You landed hard, Acquitor. Can you walk?’ His smile broadened. ‘Perhaps no faster than the rest of us laggards, now?’

‘You, Udinaas? No, I think not.’

He frowned. ‘Just the two of us right now,’ he said.

Her eyes flickered up to meet his, shied away, then returned again-hard. ‘You heard?’

‘Didn’t need to,’ he replied under his breath as he set the Imass walking stick into her hands. ‘Had Wither sniffing at my heels long before I left the north.’ He shrugged.

Silchas Ruin and Clip had already resumed the journey.

Leaning on the Imass spear, Seren Pedac walked alongside the ex-slave, struggling with a sudden flood of emotion for this broken man. Perhaps, true comrades after all. He and I.

‘Seren Pedac’

‘Yes?’

‘Stop shifting the pain in your knees into mine, will you?’

Stop-what? Oh.

‘Either that or give me that damned stick back.’

‘If I say “sorry” then, well…’

‘You give it away. Well, say it if you mean it, and either way we’ll leave it at that.’

‘Sorry.’

His surprised glance delighted her.

The rising sea level had saturated the ground beneath the village. Anyone with half their wits would have moved to the stony, treed terrace bordering the flood plain, but the sordid remnants of the Shake dwelling here had simply levered their homes onto stilts and raised the slatted walkways, living above fetid, salty bog crawling with the white-backed crabs known as skullcaps.

Yan Tovis, Yedan Derryg and the troop of lancers reined in at Road’s End, the ferry landing and its assorted buildings on their left, a mass of felled trees rotting into the ground on their right. The air was chill, colder than it should have been this late into spring, and tendrils of low-lying fog hid most of the salt marsh beneath the stilts and bridged walkways.

Among the outbuildings of the landing-all situated on higher ground-there was a stone-walled stable fronted by a courtyard of planed logs, and beyond that, facing the village, an inn without a name.

Dismounting, Yan Tovis stood beside her horse for a long moment, her eyes closing. We have been invaded. I should be riding to every garrison on this coast-Errant fend, they must know by now. Truth delivered the hard way. The empire is at war.

But she was now Queen of the Last Blood, Queen of the Shake. Opening her weary eyes she looked upon the decrepit fishing village. My people, Errant help me. Running away had made sense back then. It made even more sense now.

Beside her, Yedan Derryg, her half-brother, loosened the strap of his visored helm, then said, ‘Twilight, what now?’

She glanced over at him, watched the rhythmic bunching of his bearded jaw. She understood the question in all its ramifications. What now? Do the Shake proclaim their independence, rising eager in the chaos of a Malazan-Letherii war? Do we gather our arms, our young whom we would call soldiers? The Shake cry out their liberty, and the sound is devoured by the shore’s rolling surf.

She sighed. ‘I was in command on the Reach, when the Edur came in their ships. We surrendered. I surrendered.’

To do otherwise would have been suicidal. Yedan should have said those words, then. For he knew the truth of them. Instead, he seemed to chew again for a moment, before turning to squint at the flat, broad ferry. ‘That’s not slipped its mooring in some time, I think. The coast north of Awl must be flooded.’

He gives me nothing. ‘We shall make use of it, all the way out to Third Maiden Fort.’

A nod.

‘Before that, however, we must summon the witches and warlocks.’

‘You’ll find most of them huddled in the village yonder, Queen. And Pully and Skwish will have announced your return. Taloned toes are tapping the floorboards, I would wager.’

‘Go down there,’ she commanded, facing the inn. ‘Escort them back here-I will be in the tavern.’

‘And if the tavern is not big enough?’

An odd concern. She began walking towards the entrance. ‘Then they can perch on shoulders like the crows they are, Yedan.’

‘Twilight.’

She half turned.

Yedan was tightening the straps of his helm once again. ‘Do not do it.’

‘Do not do what?’

‘Send us to war, sister.’

She studied him.

But he said nothing more, and a moment later he had turned away and set off down towards the village.

She resumed her walk, while her soldiers led the mounts towards the stable, the beasts’ hoofs slipping on the slick logs of the courtyard. They had ridden hard, these last horses drawn from a virtually empty garrison fort just north of Tulamesh-reports of bandits had sent the squads into the countryside and they’d yet to return. Yan Tovis believed they would never do so.

At the entranceway she paused, looking down at the slab of stone beneath her boots, on which were carved Shake runes.

‘This Raised Stone honours Teyan Atovis, Rise, who was claimed by the Shore 1113th Year of the Isle. Slain by the Letherii for Debts Unremitted.’

Yan Tovis grunted. One of her kin, no less, dead a thousand years now. ‘Well, Teyan,’ she muttered, ‘you died of drink, and now your stone straddles the threshold of a tavern.’ True, some list of mysterious, crushing debts had invited his ignoble fall to alcohol and misery, but this grand commemoration had taken a slanted view on the hands guiding the man’s fate. And now… Brullyg would be Rise. Will you wear the crown as well as Teyan did?

She pushed open the door and strode inside.

The low-ceilinged room was crowded, every face turned to her.

A familiar figure pushed into view, her face a mass of wrinkles twisted into a half-smile.

‘Pully,’ Twilight said, nodding. ‘I have just sent the Watch down to the village to find you.’

‘Be well he’ll find Skwish and a score others. They be well weaving cob to web on th’ close sea beyond the shore, Queen, an’ all the truths writ there. Strangers-’

‘I know,’ Yan Tovis interjected, looking past the old hag and scanning the other witches and warlocks, the Shoulderfolk of the Old Ways. Their eyes glittered in the smoky gloom, and Twilight could now smell these Shake elders-half-unravelled damp wool and patchy sealskin, fish-oil and rank sweat, the breath coming from mouths dark with sickened gums or rotting teeth.

If there was a proprietor to this tavern he or she had fled. Casks had been broached and tankards filled with pungent ale. A huge pot of fish soup steamed on the centre hearth and there were countless gourd-shell bowls scattered on the tables. Large rats waddled about on the filthy floor.

Far more witches than warlocks, she noted. This had been a discernible trend among the demon-kissed-fewer and fewer males born bearing the accepted number of traits; most were far too demonic. More than two hundred of the Shoulderfolk. Gathered here.

‘Queen,’ Pully ventured, ducking her head. ‘Cob to web, all of Shake blood know that you now rule. Barring them that’s on the Isle, who only know that your mother’s dead.’

‘So Brullyg is there, anticipating…’

‘Aye, Twilight, that be well he will be Rise, King of the Shake.’

Errant take me. ‘We must sail to the Isle.’

A murmur of agreement amidst the eager quaffing of ale.

‘You intend, this night,’ Yan Tovis said, ‘a ritual.’

‘We are loosening the chains as they say, Queen. There are nets be strung across the path of the world, t’see what we catch.’

‘No.’

Pully’s black eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that?’

‘No. There will be no ritual tonight. Nor tomorrow night, nor the next. Not until we are on the Isle, and perhaps not even then.’

Not a sound in the tavern now.

Pully opened her mouth, shut it, then opened it again. ‘Queen, the shore be alive wi’ voices as they say and the words they are for us. These-these they be the Old Ways, our ways-’

‘And my mother was in the habit of looking away, yes. But I am not.’ She lifted her head and scanned once more the array of faces, seeing the shock, the anger, the growing malice. ‘The Old Ways failed us. Then and now. Your ways,’ she told them in a hard voice, ‘have failed us all. I am Queen. Twilight on the shore. At my side in my rule is the Watch. Brullyg would be Rise-that remains to be seen, for your proclamation is not cause enough, not even close. Rise is chosen by all the Shake. All’

‘Do not mar us, Queen.7 Pully’s smile was gone. Her face was a mask of venom.

Yan Tovis snorted. ‘Will you send a curse my way, old woman? Do not even think it. I mean to see my people survive, through all that will happen. From all of you, I will need healing, I will need blessing. You rule no longer-no, do not speak to me of my mother. I know better than any of you the depths of her surrender. I am Queen. Obey me.’

They were not happy. They had been the true power for so long-if that pathetic curse-weaving in the shadows could be called power-and Yan Tovis knew that this struggle had but just begun, for all their apparent acquiescence. They will begin planning my downfall. It is to be expected.

Yedan Derryg, never mind watching the shore. You must now watch my back.

Fiddler opened his eyes. Dusk had just begun to settle. Groaning, he rolled onto his back. Too many years of sleeping on hard, cold ground; too many years of a tattered rain cape for a mattress, a single blanket of coarse wool for cover. At least now he was sleeping through the day, easing his old bones with the sun’s warmth.

Sitting up, he looked round the glade. Huddled figures on all sides. Just beyond them was Koryk, the sleep’s last watch, sitting on a tree stump. Aye, woodcutters in this forest.

Not that we’ve seen any.

Three nights since the landing. Ever moving eastward, inland. A strange empire, this. Roads and tracks and the occasional farmstead, barely a handful of towns on the coast that we saw. And where in Hood’s name are these Tiste Edur?

Fiddler climbed to his feet, arching his back to work out the aches and twinges. He’d wanted to be a soldier named Strings, here among the Bonehunters, a different man, a new man. But that hadn’t worked so well. The conceit had fooled no-one. Even worse, he could not convince himself that he had begun anew, that the legacy of past campaigns could be put aside. A life don’t work that way. Dammit. He trudged over to Koryk.

The Seti half-blood glanced up. ‘Some damned war we got ourselves here, Sergeant. I’d even take one of Smiles’s knives in the leg just to get us the smell of blood. Let’s forget these damned Edur and go ahead and start killing Letherii.’

‘Farmers and swineherds, Koryk? We need them on our side, remember?’

‘So far there ain’t been enough of them to muster a damned squad. Least we should show ourselves-’

‘Not yet. Besides, it’s probably been just bad luck we haven’t met the enemy yet. I’d wager other squads have already been in a scrap or two.’

Koryk grunted. ‘I doubt it. All it takes is just one squad to kick the nest and these woods should be swarming. They ain’t.’

Fiddler had nothing to say to that. He scratched himself, then turned away. ‘Shut your eyes for a time now, soldier. We’ll wake you when breakfast’s ready.’

Do your complainin’ now, Koryk, because when this lets hose we’ll look back on sunsets like this one like it was idyllic paradise. Still, how many times could he make that promise? The legacy of the Bonehunters thus far was nothing to sing songs about. Even Y’Ghatan had been a mess, with them whistling a song while they walked right into a trap. It galled him still, that one. He should have smelled trouble. Same for Gesler-aye, we let them down that day. Badly.

Malaz City had been worse. True, weapons had been drawn. There’d even been a shield-line for a few squads of marines. Against Malazans. An undisciplined mob of our own people. Somehow, somewhere, this army needed to fight for real.

The Adjunct had thrown them onto this coast, like a handful of ticks onto a dog’s back. Sooner or later the beast was going to scratch.

As the others wakened to the coming of night, Fiddler walked over to his pack. Stood studying it for a time. The Deck was in there, waiting. And he was sorely tempted. Just to get a taste of what was coming. Don’t be a fool, Fid. Remember Tattersail. Remember all the good it did her.

‘Bad idea, Sergeant.’

Fiddler glanced over, scowled. ‘Stop reading my mind, Bottle. You’re not as good at it as you think.’

‘You’re like a man who’s sworn off drink but carries a flask in his pouch.’

‘Enough of that, soldier.’

Bottle shrugged, looked round. ‘Where’s Gesler gone?’

‘Probably off fertilizing the trees.’

‘Maybe,’ Bottle said, sounding unconvinced. ‘It’s just that I woke up earlier, and didn’t see him then either.’

Gods below. Waving at midges, Fiddler walked over to the far end of the glade, where the other squad was positioned. He saw Stormy standing like a sleep-addled bear-his red hair and beard a wild mass of twig-filled tangles-repeatedly kicking the side of a loudly snoring Shortnose.

‘Stormy,’ Fiddler called out softly, ‘where’s your sergeant gone to?’

‘No idea,’ the huge man replied. ‘He had last watch on this side, though. Hey, Fid, she wouldn’t have burned the Silanda, would she?’

‘Of course not. Listen, if Gesler ain’t back soon you’re going to have to go looking for him.’

Stormy’s small porcine eyes blinked at him. ‘Might be he’s lost? I didn’t think of that.’

‘Never mind that dimwitted act, Corporal.’

‘Yeah. That Koryk you got, he any good at tracking?’. ‘No. Damned near useless in fact, although don’t say that to his face. Bottle-’

‘Oh, him. That one gives me the creeps, Fid. Masturbates like I pick my nose. Now sure, soldiers will do that, but-’

‘He says it’s not him.’

‘Well, if Smiles wants to reach in under the covers-’

‘Smiles? What are you going on about, Stormy?’

‘I mean-’

‘Look, Bottle’s haunted by a damned ghost of some kind-Quick Ben confirmed it, so stop giving me that look. Anyway, that ghost’s, uh, female, and she likes him way too much-’

‘Mages are sick, Fid.’

‘Not a relevant point here, Stormy.’

‘So you say,’ the corporal said, shaking himself then turning away. ‘ “Not a relevant point here,”‘ he mimicked under his breath.

‘I can still hear you, Corporal.’

Stormy waved a wide, hairy hand but did not turn round, instead making his way towards the hearth. He paused in his first step to set his boot down on one of Shortnose’s hands. There was an audible crack and the heavy infantryman made a small sound, then sat up. Stormy continued on, while Shortnose looked down at his hand, frowning at the oddly angled third finger, which he then reset with a tug, before rising and wandering off to find somewhere to empty his bladder.

Fiddler scratched at his beard, then swung about and walked back to his squad.

Aye, we’re a lethal bunch.

Gesler wandered the strange ruins. The light was fast fading, making the place seem even more spectral. Round wells on all sides, at least a dozen scattered among the old trees. The stones were exquisitely cut, fitted without mortar-as he had discovered upon peeling back some moss. He had caught sight of the regular shapes from the edge of the glade, had first thought them to be the pedestals for some colonnaded structure long since toppled over. But the only other stone he found was paving, buckled by roots, making footing treacherous.

Seating himself on the edge of one of the wells, he peered down into the inky blackness, and could smell stagnant water. He felt oddly pleased with himself to find that his curiosity had not been as thoroughly dulled as he’d once believed. Not nearly as bad as, say, Cuttle. Now there was a grim bastard. Still, Gesler had seen a lot in his life, and some of it had permanently stained his skin-not to mention other, more subtle changes. But mostly that host of things witnessed, deeds done, not done, they just wore a man down.

He could not look at the tiny flames of the squad’s hearth without remembering Truth and that fearless plunge into Y’Ghatan’s palace. Or he’d glance down at the crossbow in his hands as they stumbled through this damned forest and recall Pella, skewered through the forehead, sagging against the corner of a building barely a hundred paces into Y’Ghatan itself. With every crow’s cackle he heard the echoes of the screams when dread ghosts had assailed the camp of the Dogslayers at Raraku. A glance down at his bared hands and their battered knuckles, and the vision rose in his mind of that Wickan, Coltaine, down on the banks of the Vathar-gods, to have led that mob that far, with more still to go, with nothing but cruel betrayal at the Fall.

The slaughter of the inhabitants of Aren, when the Logros T’lan Irrtass rose from the dust of the streets and their weapons of stone began to rise and fall, rise and fall. If not for that ex-Red Blade driving open the gates and so opening a path of escape, there would have been no survivors at all. None. Except us Malazans, who could only stand aside and watch the slaughter. Helpless as babes…

A dragon through fire, a ship riding flames-his first sight of a Tiste Edur: dead, pinned to his chair by a giant’s spear. Oar benches where sat decapitated rowers, hands resting on the sweeps, and their severed heads heaped in a pile round the mainmast, eyes blinking in the sudden light, faces twisting into appalling expressions-

So who built twelve wells in a forest? That’s what I want to know.

Maybe.

He recalled a knock at the door, and opening it to see, with absurd delight, a drenched T’lan Imass whom he recognized. Stormy, it’s for you. And aye, I dream of moments like this, you red-haired ox. And what did that say about Gesler himself? Wait, I’m not that curious.

‘There you are.’

Gesler looked up. ‘Stormy. I was just thinking of you.’

‘Thinking what?’

He waved at the well’s black hole. ‘If you’d fit, of course. Most of you would go, but not, alas, your head.’

‘You keep forgetting, Gesler,’ the corporal said as he drew nearer, ‘I was one of the ones who punched back.’

‘Got no recollection of that at all.’

‘Want me to remind you?’

‘What I want is to know why you’re bothering me.’

‘We’re all gettin’ ready to head out.’

‘Stormy.’

‘What?’

‘What do you think about all this?’

‘Someone liked building wells.’

‘Not this. I mean, the war. This war, the one here.’

‘I’ll let you know once we start busting heads.’

‘And if that never happens?’

Stormy shrugged, ran thick fingers through his knotted beard. ‘Just another typical Bonehunter war, then.’

Gesler grunted. ‘Go on, lead the way. Wait. How many battles have we fought, you and me?’

‘You mean, with each other?’

‘No, you damned idiot. I mean against other people. How many?’

‘I lost count.’

‘Liar.’

‘All right. Thirty-seven, but not counting Y’Ghatan since I wasn’t there. Thirty-eight for you, Gesler.’

And how many did we manage to avoid?’

‘Hundreds.’

‘So maybe, old friend, we’re just getting better at this.’

The huge Falari scowled. ‘You trying to ruin my day, Sergeant?’

Koryk tightened the straps of his bulky pack. ‘I just want to kill someone,’ he growled.

Bottle rubbed at his face then eyed the half-blood Seti.

‘There’s always Smiles. Or Tarr, if you jump him when he’s not looking.’

‘You being funny?’

‘No, just trying to deflect your attention from the weakest guy in this squad. Namely, me.’

‘You’re a mage. Sort of. You smell like one, anyway.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘If I kill you, you’d just curse me with your last breath, then I’d be miserable.’

‘So what would change, Koryk?’

‘Having a reason to be miserable is always worse than having no reason but being miserable anyway. If it’s just a way of life, I mean.’ He suddenly drew out the latest weapon in his arsenal, a long-knife. ‘See this? Just like the kind Kalam used. It’s a damned fast weapon, but I can’t see it doing much against armour.’

‘Where Kalam stuck them there wasn’t no armour. Throat, armpit, crotch-you should give it to Smiles.’

‘I grabbed it to keep it from her, idiot.’

Bottle looked over to where Smiles had, moments earlier, disappeared into the forest. She was on her way back, the placid expression on her face hiding all sorts of evil, no doubt. ‘I hope we’re not expected to stand against Edur the way heavies are,’ he said to Koryk while watching Smiles. ‘Apart from you and Tarr, and maybe Corabb, we’re not a big mailed fist kind of squad, are we? So, in a way, this kind of war suits us-subterfuge, covert stuff.’ He glanced over and saw the half-blood glaring at him. Still holding the long-knife. ‘But maybe we’re actually more versatile. We can be half mailed fist and half black glove, right?’

‘Anyway,’ Koryk said, resheathing the weapon, ‘when I said I wanted to kill someone I meant the enemy.’

Tiste Edur.’

‘Letherii bandits will do-there must be bandits around here somewhere.’

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean, why? There’s always bandits in the countryside, Bottle. Led by moustached rogues with fancy names. Zorala Snicker, or Pamby Doughty-’

A loud snort from Smiles, who had just arrived. ‘I remember those stories. Pamby Doughty with the feather in his hat and his hunchback sidekick, Pomolo Paltry the Sly. Stealers of the Royal Treasure of Li Heng. Cutters of the Great Rope that held Drift Avalii in one place. And Zorala, who as a child climbed the tallest tree in the forest, then found he couldn’t get back down, so that’s where he lived for years, growing up. Until the woodsman came-’

‘Gods below,’ Cuttle growled from the blankets he remained under, ‘someone cut her throat, please.’

‘Well,’ Smiles said with a tight, eponymous curve of her mouth, ‘at least I started the night in a good mood.’

‘She means she had a most satisfying-’

‘Clack the teeth together, Koryk, or I’ll cut those braids off when you’re sleeping and trust me, you won’t like what I’ll use ‘em for. And you, Bottle, don’t let that give you any ideas, neither. I took the blame for something you did once, but never again.’

‘I wouldn’t cut off Koryk’s braids,’ Bottle said. ‘He needs them to sneeze into.’

‘Get moving, Cuttle,’ Fiddler said as he strode among them. ‘Look at Corabb-he’s the only one actually ready-’

‘No I’m not,’ the man replied. ‘I just fell asleep in my armour, Sergeant, and now I need somewhere to pee. Only-’

‘Never mind,’ Fiddler cut in. ‘Let’s see if we can’t stumble onto some Edur tonight.’

‘We could start a forest fire,’ Koryk said.

‘But we happen to be in it,’ Tarr pointed out.

‘It was just an idea.’

Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas admitted to himself that these Malazans were nothing like the soldiers of the Dogslayers, or the warriors of Leoman’s army. He was not even sure if they were human. More like… animals. Endlessly bickering ones at that, like a pack of starving dogs.

They pretty much ignored him, which was a good thing. Even Bottle, to whom the sergeant had instructed Corabb to stay close. Guarding someone else’s back was something Corabb was familiar with, so he had no issue with that command. Even though Bottle was a mage and he wasn’t too sure about mages. They made deals with gods-but one didn’t have to be a mage to do that, he knew. No, one could be a most trusted leader, a commander whose warriors would follow him into the pit of the Abyss itself. Even someone like that could make deals with gods, and so doom his every follower in a fiery cataclysm even as that one ran away.

Yes, ran away.

He was pleased that he had got over all that. Old history, and old history was old so it didn’t mean anything any more, because… well, because it was old. He had a new history, now. It had begun in the rubble beneath Y’Ghatan. Among these… animals. Still, there was Fiddler and Corabb knew he would follow his sergeant because the man was worth following. Not like some people.

An army of fourteen seemed a little small, but it would have to do for now. He hoped, however, that somewhere ahead-further inland-they’d come to a desert. Too many trees in this wet, bad-smelling forest. And he’d like to get on a horse again, too. All this walking was, he was certain, unhealthy.

As the squad left the glade, slipping into the deeper darkness beyond, he moved alongside Bottle, who glanced over and grimaced. ‘Here to protect me from bats, Corabb?’

The warrior shrugged. ‘If they try attacking you I will kill them.’

‘Don’t you dare. I happen to like bats. I talk to them, in fact.’

‘The same as that rat and her pups you kept, right?’

‘Exactly’

‘I was surprised, Bottle, that you left them to burn on the transports.’

‘I’d never do that. I shipped them onto the Froth Wolf. Some time ago, in fact-’

‘So you could spy on the Adjunct, yes.’

‘It was an act of mercy-the one ship I knew would be safe, you see-’

‘And so you could spy.’

‘All right, fine. So I could spy. Let’s move on to another subject. Did Leoman ever tell you about his bargain with the Queen of Dreams?’

Corabb scowled. ‘I don’t like that subject. It’s old history, which means nobody talks about it any more.’

‘Fine, so why didn’t you go with him? I’m sure he offered.’

‘I will kill the next bat I see.’

Someone hissed from up ahead: ‘Stop that jabbering, idiots!’

Corabb wished he was riding a fine horse, across a sun-blistered desert-no-one could truly understand the magic wonder of water, unless they had spent time in a desert. Here, there was so much of it a man’s feet could rot off and that wasn’t right. ‘This land is mad,’ he muttered.

Bottle grunted. ‘More like deathless. Layer on layer, ghosts tangled in every root, squirming restlessly under every stone. Owls can see them, you know. Poor things.’

Another hiss from ahead of them.

It started to rain.

Even the sky holds water in contempt. Madness.

Trantalo Kendar, youngest son among four brothers in a coastal clan of the Beneda Tiste Edur, rode with surprising grace, unmatched by any of his Edur companions, alas. He was the only one in his troop who actually liked horses. Trantalo had been a raw fifteen years of age at the conquest, unblooded, and the closest he had come to fighting had been as an apprentice to a distantly related aunt who had served as a healer in Hannan Mosag’s army.

Under her bitter command, he had seen the terrible damage war did to otherwise healthy warriors. The ghastly wounds, the suppurating burns and limbs withered from Letherii sorcery. And, walking the fields of battle in search of the wounded, he had seen the same horrid destruction among dead and dying Letherii soldiers.

Although young, something of the eagerness for battle had left him then, driving him apart from his friends. Too many spilled out intestines, too many crushed skulls, too many desperate pleas for help answered by naught but crows and gulls. He had bound countless wounds, had stared into the glazed eyes of warriors shocked by their own mortality, or, worse, despairing with the misery of lost limbs, scarred faces, lost futures.

He did not count himself clever, nor in any other way exceptional-barring, perhaps, his talent for riding horses-but he now rode with eleven veteran Edur warriors, four of them Beneda, including the troop commander, Estav Kendar, Trantalo’s eldest brother. And he was proud to be at the column’s head, first down this coastal track that led to Boaral Keep, where, as he understood it, some sort of Letherii impropriety demanded Edur attention.

This was as far south from Rennis as he had been since managing to flee his aunt’s clutches just inland of the city of Awl. Trantalo had not seen the walls of Letheras, nor the battlefields surrounding it, and for that he was glad, for he had heard that the sorcery in those final clashes had been the most horrifying of them all.

Life in Rennis had been one of strange privilege. To be Tiste Edur alone seemed sufficient reason for both fear and respect among the subservient Letherii. He had exulted in the respect. The fear had dismayed him, but he was not so naive as not to understand that without that fear, there would be none of the respect that so pleased him. ‘The threat of reprisal,’ Estav had told him the first week of his arrival. ‘This is what keeps the pathetic creatures cowering.

And there will be times, young brother, when we shall have to remind them-bloodily-of that threat.’

Seeking to tug down his elation was the apprehension that this journey, down to this in-the-middle-of-nowhere keep, was just that-the delivery of reprisal. Blood-splashed adjudication. It was no wonder the Letherii strove to keep the Edur out of such disputes. We are not interested in niceties. Details bore us. And so swords will be drawn, probably this very night.

Estav would make no special demands of him, he knew. It was enough that he rode point on the journey. Once at the keep, Trantalo suspected he would be stationed to guard the gate or some such thing. He was more than satisfied with that.

The sun’s light was fast fading on the narrow track leading to the keep. They had a short time earlier left the main coastal road, and here on this lesser path the banks were steep, almost chest-high were one standing rather than riding, and braided with dangling roots. The trees pressed in close from both sides, branches almost entwining overhead. Rounding a twist in the trail, Trantalo caught first sight of the stockade, the rough boles-still bearing most of their bark-irregularly tilted and sunken. A half-dozen decrepit outbuildings crouched against a stand of alders and birch to the left and a flatbed wagon with a broken axle squatted in high grasses just to the right of the gate.

Trantalo drew rein before the entrance. The gate was open. The single door, made of saplings and a Z-shaped frame of planks, had been pushed well to one side and left there, its base snarled with grasses. The warrior could see through to the compound beyond, oddly lifeless. Hearing his fellow Edur draw closer at the canter, he edged his horse forward until he made out the smoke-stained facade of the keep itself. No lights from any of the vertical slit windows. And the front door yawned wide.

‘Why do you hesitate, Trantalo?’ Estav inquired as he rode up.

‘Preda,’ Trantalo said, delighting, as ever, in these new Letherii titles, ‘the keep appears to be abandoned. Perhaps we have ridden to the wrong one-’

‘Boaral,’ affirmed a warrior behind Estav. ‘I’ve been here before.’

‘And is it always this quiet?’ Estav asked, one brow lifting in the way Trantalo knew so well.

‘Nearly,’ the warrior said, rising gingerly on the swivelling Letherii stirrups to look round. ‘There should be at least two torches, one planted above that wagon-then one in the courtyard itself.’

No guards?’

‘Should be at least one-could be he’s staggered off to the latrine trench-’

‘No,’ said Estav, ‘there’s no-one here.’ He worked his horse past Trantalo’s and rode through the gate.

Trantalo followed.

The two brothers approached the stepped front entrance to the keep.

‘Estav, something wet on those stairs.’

‘You’re right. Good eye, brother.’ The Beneda warrior dismounted with obvious relief, passing the reins over to Trantalo, then strode towards the steps. ‘Blood-trail.’

‘Perhaps a mutiny?’

The other Edur had left their horses with one of their company and were now moving out across the courtyard to search the stables, smithy, coop and well-house.

Estav stood at the base of the steps, eyes on the ground. ‘A body has been dragged outside,’ he said, tracking the blood-trail.

Trantalo saw his brother’s head lift to face the stable. As it did Estav grunted suddenly, then abruptly sat down.

‘Estav?’

Trantalo looked out to the courtyard, in time to see four warriors crumple. Sudden shouts from the three near the stables, as something like a rock sailed down into their midst.

A flash of fire. A solid, cracking sound. The three were thrown onto their backs. As a small cloud bloomed, there was shrieking.

Trantalo kicked his boots free of the stirrups, swung one leg over then dropped down into a crouch. His mouth was dry as tinder. His heart pounded so hard in his chest he felt half deafened by its drumbeat. Drawing his sword, he hurried over to his brother.

‘Estav?’

Sitting, legs out before him in the careless manner of a child, hands resting on the muddy ground. Something was jutting from his chest. A hand’s length of a shaft, thicker than a normal arrow, the fletching curved fins of leather. Blood had poured down from Estav’s mouth, covering his chin and soaking into the front of his woollen cloak. His staring eyes did not blink.

‘Estav?’

In the courtyard, the sharp clash of blades.

Disbelieving, Trantalo dragged his eyes from his brother’s corpse. Two Edur warriors were attempting a fighting withdrawal, backing towards the uneasy horses that still stood five or so paces in from the gate. The Edur who had been left with them was on his hands and knees, crawling for the opening. There was something jutting from the side of his head.

Difficult to make out who the attackers were in the darkness, but they were well armed and armoured, four in all, maintaining close contact with the last two Edur.

Smudged movement behind them-Trantalo leapt to his feet, about to cry out a warning, when sudden fire filled his throat. Gagging, he lurched away and felt something cold slide out from the side of his neck. Blood gushed down, inside and out. Coughing, drowning, he fell to one knee, almost within reach of his brother. Blindness closing in, he lunged towards Estav, arms outstretched.

Estav?

He never made it.

Managing a straight line, Hellian walked out from the stable. She was slightly shivering, now that the time of serious sweating had passed. Fighting always evened her out. She didn’t know why that was the case, but it was and all in all probably a good thing, too. ‘Someone light a damned lantern,’ she growled. ‘You, Maybe, put that sharper away-we got ‘em all.’ She let out a loud sigh. ‘The big nasty enemy.’

Drawing nearer the two Edur down in front of the keep, she waved her sword. ‘Tavos, check those two. It ain’t enough to stab ‘im then just stand there looking down. Might be one last bite in ‘im, you know.’

‘Both dead as my sex-life,’ Tavos Pond said. ‘Who sniped the first one, Sergeant? Damned fine shot.’

‘Lutes,’ she replied, now watching Urb lead the others on a walk-past of the Edur bodies in the courtyard. ‘Leaned the weapon on my back.’

‘Your back?’

‘I was throwing up, if it’s any of your business. Between heaves, he let go. Got him dead centre, didn’t he?’

‘Aye, Sergeant.’

‘And you didn’t want t’bring the rum. Well, that’s why I’m in charge and you’re not. Where’s my corporal?’

‘Here.

‘Here.’

‘Gather up them horses-I don’t care what the Fist ordered, we’re going to ride.’

At that Urb glanced over, then approached. ‘Hellian-’

‘Don’t even try to sweet-talk me. I almost remember what you did.’ She drew out her flask and drank down a mouthful. ‘So be careful, Urb. Now, everybody who loosed quarrels go find them and that means all of them!’ She looked back down at the two dead Edur by the entrance.

‘Think we’re the first to draw blood?’ Tavos Pond asked, crouching to clean the blade of his sword on the cloak of the older Edur.

‘Big fat war, Tavos Pond. That’s what we got ourselves here.’

‘They weren’t so hard, Sergeant.’

‘Wasn’t expecting nothing either, were they? You think we can just ambush our way all the way to Letheras? Think again.’ She drank a couple more mouthfuls, then sighed and glowered over at Urb. ‘How soon before they’re the ones doing the ambushin’? That’s why I mean for us to ride-we’re gonna stay ahead of the bad news ‘s long as we can. That way we can be the bad news, right? The way it’s s’posed t’be.’

Corporal Reem walked up to Urb. ‘Sergeant, we got us twelve horses.’

‘So we get one each,’ Hellian said. ‘Perfect.’

‘By my count,’ said Reem with narrowed eyes, ‘someone’s going to have to ride double.’

‘If you say so. Now, let’s get these bodies dragged away-they got any coin? Anybody checked?’

‘Some,’ said Maybe. ‘But mostly just polished stones.’

‘Polished stones?’

‘First I thought slingstones, but none of them’s carrying slings. So, aye, Sergeant. Polished stones.’

Hellian turned away as the soldiers set off to dispose of the Edur corpses. Oponn’s pull, finding this keep, and finding nobody in it but one freshly dead Letherii in the hallway. Place had been cleaned out, although there’d been some foodstocks in the cold-rooms. Not a drop of wine or ale, the final proof, as far as she was concerned, that this foreign empire was a mess and useless besides and pretty much worth destroying down to its very last brick.

Too bad they weren’t going to get a chance to do so.

But then, it does a body good to misunderstand orders on occasion. So, let’s go hunting Edur heads, Hellian faced the courtyard again. Damn this darkness. Easy enough for the mages, maybe. And these grey-shins. ‘Urb,’ she said in a low voice.

He edged closer, warily. ‘Hellian?’

‘We need us to arrange our ambushes for dusk and dawn.’

‘Aye. You’re right. You know, I’m glad our squads were paired up.’

‘Of course you are. You unnerstand me, Urb. You’re the only one who does, you know.’ She wiped her nose with the back of one hand. ‘It’s a sad thing, Urb. A sad thing.’

‘What? Killing these Tiste Edur?’

She blinked at him. ‘No, you oaf. The fact that nobody else unnerstands me.’

‘Aye, Hellian. Tragic’

‘That’s what Banaschar always said to me, no matter what I was talking about. He’d just look at me, like you did there, and say tragic. So what’s all that about?’ She shook the flask-still half full, but another mouthful means I’m running it down, so’s I’ll need to top it up. Gotta be measured about these things, in case something terrible happens and I can’t get a fast refill. ‘Come on, it’s time to ride.’

And if we run into a troop of Letherii?’

Hellian frowned. ‘Then we do as Keneb told us. We talk to ‘em.’

And if they don’t like what we say?’

‘Then we kill ‘em, of course.’

And we’re riding for Letheras?’

She smiled at Urb. Then tapped the side of her slightly numb head with one finger. ‘I memmored th’map-ized, memmized the map. There’s towns, Urb. An’ the closer we get t’Letheras, the more of them. Wha’s in towns, Urb? Taverns. Bars. So, we’re not takin’ a straight, pre-dic-table route.’

‘We’re invading Lether from tavern to tavern?’

Aye/

‘Hellian, I hate to say this, but that’s kind of clever.’

Aye. And that way we can eat real cooked food, too. It’s the civilized way of conductin’ war. Hellian’s way.’

The bodies joined the lone Letherii in the latrine pit. Half naked, stripped of valuables, they were dumped down into the thick, turgid slop, which proved deeper than anyone had expected, as it swallowed up those corpses, leaving not a trace.

The Malazans threw the polished stones after them.

Then rode off down the dark road.

‘That has the look of a way station,’ the captain said under her breath.

Beak squinted, then said, ‘I smell horses, sir. That long building over there.’

‘Stables,’ Faradan Sort said, nodding. ‘Any Tiste Edur here?’

Beak shook his head. ‘Deepest blue of Rashan-that’s their candle, mostly. Not as deep as Kurald Galain. They call it Kurald Emurlahn, but these ones here, well, there’s skuzzy foam on that blue, like what sits on waves outside a harbour. That’s chaotic power. Sick power. Power like pain if pain was good, maybe even strong. I don’t know. I don’t like these Edur here.’

‘They’re here?’

‘No. I meant this continent, sir. There’s just Letherii in there. Four. In that small house beside the road.’

‘No magic?’

‘Just some charms.’

‘I want to steal four horses, Beak. Can you cast a glamour on those Letherii?’

‘The Grey Candle, yes. But they’ll find out after we’ve gone.’

‘True. Any suggestions?’

Beak was happy. He had never been so happy. This captain was asking him things. Asking for suggestions. Advice. And it wasn’t just for show neither. I’m in love with her. To her question he nodded, then tilted up his skullcap helm to scratch in his hair, and said, ‘Not the usual glamour, sir. Something lots more complicated. Finishing with the Orange Candle-’

‘Which is?’

‘Tellann.’

‘Is this going to be messy?’

‘Not if we take all the horses, Captain.’

He watched her studying him, wondered what she saw. She wasn’t much for expressions on that hard but beautiful face. Not even her eyes showed much. He loved her, true, but he was also a little frightened of Faradan Sort.

‘All right, Beak, where do you want me?’

‘In the stables with all the horses ready to leave, and maybe two saddled. Oh, and feed for us to take along.’

‘And I can do all that without an alarm’s being raised?’

‘They won’t hear a thing, sir. In fact, you could go up right now and knock on their door and they won’t hear it.’

Still she hesitated. ‘So I can just walk over to the stables, right out in the open, right now?’

Beak nodded with a broad smile.

‘Gods below,’ she muttered, ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this.’

‘Mockra has their minds, sir. They’ve got no defences. They’ve never been glamoured before, I don’t think.’

She set out in a half-crouch, moving quickly, although none of that was necessary, and moments later was inside the stables.

It would take some time, Beak knew, for her to do all that he’d asked-I just told a captain what to do! And she’s doing it! Does that mean she loves me right back? He shook himself. Not a good idea, letting his mind wander just now. He edged out from the cover of the trees lining this side of the stony road. Crouched to pick up a small rock, which he then spat on and set back down-to hold the Mockra in place-as he closed his eyes and sought out the White Candle.

Hood. Death, a cold, cold place. Even the air was dead. In his mind he looked in on that realm as if peering through a window, the wooden sill thick with melted candle wax, the white candle itself flickering to one side. Beyond, ash-heaped ground strewn with bones of all sorts. He reached through, closed a hand on the shaft of a heavy longbone, and drew it back. Working quickly, Beak pulled as many bones as would fit through the wandering window, always choosing big ones. He had no idea what the beasts had been to which all these bones belonged, but they would do.

When he was satisfied with the white, dusty pile heaped on the road, Beak closed the window and opened his eyes. Glancing across he saw the captain standing at the stables, gesturing at him.

Beak waved back, then turned and showed the bones the Purple Candle. They lifted from the road like feathers on an updraught, and as the mage hurried over to join Faradan Sort the bones followed in his wake, floating waist-high above the ground.

The captain disappeared back inside the stables before Beak arrived, then emerged, leading the horses, just as he padded up to the broad doors.

Grinning, Beak went into the stables, the bones tracking him. Once inside, smelling that wonderful musty smell of horses, leather, dung and piss-damp straw, he scattered the bones, a few into each stall, snuffing out the purple candle when he was done. He walked over to the mound of straw at one end, closed his eyes to awaken the Orange Candle, then spat into the straw.

Rejoining the captain outside he said to her, ‘We can go now.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yes sir. We’ll be a thousand paces down the road before the Tellann lights up-’

‘Fire?’

‘Yes sir. A terrible fire-they won’t even be able to get close-and it’ll burn fast but go nowhere else and by the morning there’ll be nothing but ashes.’

‘And charred bones that might belong to horses.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘You’ve done well tonight, Beak,’ Faradan Sort said, swinging up onto one of the saddled horses.

Feeling impossibly light on his feet, Beak leapt onto the other one then looked back, with pride, at the remaining seven beasts. Decent animals, just badly treated. Which made it good that they were stealing them. Malazans knew how to care for their horses, after all.

Then he frowned and looked down at his stirrups.

The captain was doing the same, he saw a moment later, with her own. ‘What is this?’ she demanded in a hiss.

‘Broken?’ Beak wondered.

‘Not that I can see-and yours are identical to mine. What fool invented these?’

‘Captain,’ said Beak, ‘I don’t think we have to worry much about Letherii cavalry, do we?’

‘You’ve that right, Beak. Well, let’s ride. If we’re lucky, we won’t break our necks twenty paces up the road.’

The father of the man named Throatslitter used to tell stories of the Emperor’s conquest of Li Heng, long before Kellanved was emperor of anywhere. True, he’d usurped Mock on Malaz Island and had proclaimed himself the island’s ruler, but since when was Malaz Island anything but a squalid haven for pirates? Few on the mainland took much notice of such things. A new tyrannical criminal in place of the old tyrannical criminal.

The conquest of Li Heng changed all that. There’d been no fleet of ships crowding the river mouth to the south and east of the city; nothing, in fact, to announce the assault. Instead, on a fine spring morning no different from countless other such mornings, Throatslitter’s father, along with thousands of other doughty citizens, had, upon a casual glance towards the Inner Focus where stood the Palace of the Protectress, noted the sudden inexplicable presence of strange figures on the walls and battlements. Squat, wide, wearing furs and wielding misshapen swords and axes. Helmed in bone.

What had happened to the vaunted Guard? And why were tendrils of smoke rising from the barracks of the courtyard and parade ground? And was it-was it truly-the Protectress herself who had been seen plunging from the High Tower beside the City Temple at the heart of the cynosure?

Someone had cut off Li Heng’s head in the Palace. Undead warriors stood sentinel on the walls and, a short time later, emerged in their thousands from the Inner Focus Gate to occupy the city. Li Heng’s standing army-after a half-dozen suicidal skirmishes-capitulated that same day. Kellanved now ruled the city-state, and officers and nobles of the high court knelt in fealty, and the reverberations of this conquest rattled the windows of palaces across the entire mainland of Quon Tali.

‘This, son, was the awakening of the Logros T’lan lmass. The Emperor’s undead army. I was there, on the streets, and saw with my own eyes those terrible warriors with their pitted eyeholes, the stretched, torn skin, the wisps of hair bleached of all colour. They say, son, that the Logros were always there, below Reacher’s Falls. Maybe in the Crevasse, maybe not. Maybe just the very dust that blew in from the west every damned day and night-who can say? But he woke them, he commanded them, and 1 tell you after that day every ruler on Quon Tali saw a skull’s face in their silver mirror, aye.

‘The fleet of ships came later, under the command of three madmen ~ Crust, Vrko and Nok-but first to step ashore was none other than Surly and you know who she’d become, don’t you?’

Didn’t he just. Command of the T’lan lmass didn’t stop the knife in the back, did it? This detail was the defining revelation of Throatslitter’s life. Command thousands, tens of thousands. Command sorcerors and imperial fleets. Hold in your hand the lives of a million citizens. The real power was none of this. The real power was the knife in the hand, the hand at a fool’s back.

The egalitarian plunge. There, Father, you old crab, a word you’ve never heard among the fifty or so you knew about in your long, pointless life. Paint on pots, now there’s a useless skill, since pots never survive, and so all those lovely images end up in pieces, on the pebbled beaches, in the fill between walls, on the fields of the farmers. And it’s true enough, isn’t it, Father, that your private firing of ‘The Coming of the Logros’ proved about as popular as a whore’s dose of the face-eater?

Eldest son or not, mixing glazes and circling a kiln on firing day was not the future he dreamed about. But you can paint me, Father, and call it ‘The Coming of the Assassin. My likeness to adorn funeral urns-those who fell to the knife, of course. Too bad you never understood the world well enough to honour me. My chosen profession. My war against inequity in this miserable, evil existence.

And striking my name from the family line, well now, really, that was uncalled for.

Fourteen years of age, Throatslitter found himself in the company of secretive old men and old women. The why and the how were without relevance, even back then. His future was set out before him, in measured strides, and not even the gods could drive him from this cold path.

He wondered about his old masters from time to time. All dead, of course. Surly had seen to that. Not that death meant failure. Her agents had failed in tracking down Throatslitter, after all, and he doubted he was the only one to evade the Claws. He also wondered if indeed he was still on the path-torn away, as he had been, from the Malazan Empire. But he was a patient man; one in his profession had to be, after all.

Still, the Adjunct has asked for loyalty. For service to an. unknown cause. We are to be unwitnessed, she said. That suits me fine. It’s how assassins conduct their trade. So he would go along With her and this Oponn-pushed army of sorry fools. For now.

He stood, arms crossed, shoulders drawn forward as he leaned against the wall, and could feel the occasional touch, light as a mouse’s paw, on his chest as he watched, with half-hearted interest, the proceedings in Brullyg’s private chamber.

The poor Shake ruler was sweating and no amount of his favoured ale could still the trembling of his hands as he sat huddled in his high-backed chair, eyes on the tankard in his grip rather than on the two armoured women standing before him.

Lostara Yil, Throatslitter considered, was if anything better-looking than T’amber had been. Or at least more closely aligned with his own tastes. The Pardu tattoos were sensuality writ on skin, and the fullness of her figure-unsuccessfully disguised by her armour-moved with a dancer’s grace (when she moved, which she wasn’t doing now, although the promise of elegance was unmistakable). The Adjunct stood in grim contrast, the poor woman. Like those destined to dwell in the shadows of more attractive friends, she suffered the comparison with every sign of indifference, but Throatslitter-who was skilled at seeing unspoken truths-could read the pain that dull paucity delivered, and this was a human truth, no more or less sordid than all the other human truths. Those without beauty compensated in other ways, the formal but artificial ways of rank and power, and that was just how things were the world over.

Of course when you’ve finally got that power, it doesn’t matter how ugly you are, you can breed with the best. Maybe this explained Lostara’s presence at Tavore’s side. But Throatslitter was not entirely sure of that. He didn’t think they were lovers. He wasn’t even convinced they were friends.

Aligned near the wall to the right of the door stood the rest of the Adjunct’s retinue. Fist Blistig, his blunt, wide face shadowed with some kind of spiritual exhaustion. Doesn’t pay, Adjunct, to keep close a man like that-he drains life, hope, faith. No, Tavore, you need to get rid of him and pro-mote some new Fists. Faradan Sort. Madan tul’Rada. Fiddler. Not Captain Kindly, though, don’t even think that, woman. Not unless you want a real mutiny on your hands.

Mutiny. Well, there, he’d said it. Thought it, actually, but that was close enough. To conjure the word was to awaken the possibility, like making the scratch to invite the fester. The Bonehunters were now scattered to the winds and that was a terrible risk. He suspected that, at the end of this bizarre campaign, her soldiers would come trickling back in paltry few number, if at all.

Unwitnessed. Most soldiers don’t like that idea. True, it made them hard-when she told them-but that fierceness can’t last. The iron is too cold. Its taste too bitter. Gods, just look at Blistig for the truth of that.

Beside the Fist stood Withal, the Meckros blacksmith-the man we went to Malaz City to get, and we still don’t know why. Oh, there’s blood in your shadow, isn’t there? Malazan blood. Tamber’s. Kalam’s. Maybe Quick Ben’s, too. Are you worth it? Throatslitter had yet to see Withal speaking to a soldier. Not one, not a word of thanks, not an apology for the lives sacrificed. He was here because the Adjunct needed him. For what? Hah, not like she’s talking, is it? Not our cagey Tavore Varan.

To Withal’s right stood Banaschar, a deposed high priest of D’rek, if the rumours were true. Yet another passenger in this damned renegade army. But Throatslitter knew Banaschar’s purpose. Coin. Thousands, tens of thousands. He’s our paymaster, and all this silver and gold in our pouches was stolen from somewhere. Has to be. Nobody’s that rich. The obvious answer? Why, how about the Worm of Autumn’s temple coffers?

Pray to the Worm, pay an army of disgruntled malcontents. Somehow, all you believers, I doubt that was in your prayers.

Poor Brullyg had few allies in this chamber. Balm’s source of lust, this Captain Shurq Elalle of the privateer Undying Gratitude, and her first mate, Skorgen Kaban the Pretty. And neither seemed eager to leap to Brullyg’s side of the sandpit.

But that Shurq, she was damned watchful. Probably a lot more dangerous than the usurper of this cruddy island.

The Adjunct had been explaining, in decent traders’ tongue, the new rules of governance on Second Maiden Fort, and with each statement Brullyg’s expression had sagged yet further.

Entertaining, if one was inclined towards sardonic humour.

‘Ships from our fleet,’ she was now explaining, ‘will be entering the harbour to resupply. One at a time, since it wouldn’t do to panic your citizens-’

A snort from Shurq Elalle, who had drawn her chair to one side, almost in front of where Throatslitter leaned against the wall, to permit herself a clear view of host and guests. Beside her, Skorgen was filling his prodigious gut with Brullyg’s favourite ale, the tankard in one hand, the finger of the other hand exploring the depths of one mangled, rose-red ear. The man had begun a succession of belches, each released in a heavy sigh, that had been ongoing for half a bell now, with no sign of ending. The entire room stank of his yeasty exhalations.

The captain’s derisive expostulation drew the Adjunct’s attention. ‘I understand your impatience,’ Tavore said in a cool voice, ‘and no doubt you wish to leave. Unfortunately, I must speak to you and will do so shortly-’

‘Once you’ve thoroughly detailed Brullyg’s emasculation, you mean.’ Shurq lifted one shapely leg and crossed it on the other, then laced together her hands on her lap, smiling sweetly up at the Adjunct.

Tavore’s colourless eyes regarded the pirate captain for a long moment, then she glanced over to where stood her retinue. ‘Banaschar.’

‘Adjunct?’

‘What is wrong with this woman?’

‘She’s dead,’ the ex-priest replied. ‘A necromantic curse.’

Are you certain?’

Throatslitter cleared his throat and said, Adjunct, Corporal Deadsmell said the same thing when we saw her down in the tavern.’

Brullyg was staring at Shurq with wide, bulging eyes, his jaw hanging slack.

At Shurq’s side, Skorgen Kaban was suddenly frowning, his eyes darting. Then he withdrew the finger that had been plugging one ear and looked down at the gunk smeared all over it. After a moment, Pretty slid that finger into his mouth.

‘Well,’ Shurq sighed up at Tavore, ‘you’ve done it now, haven’t you? Alas, the coin of this secret is the basest of all, namely vanity. Now, if you possess some unpleasant bigotry regarding the undead, then I must re-evaluate my assessment of you, Adjunct. And your motley companions.’

To Throatslitter’s surprise, Tavore actually smiled. ‘Captain, the Malazan Empire is well acquainted with undead, although few possessing your host of charms.’

Gods below, she’s flirting with this sweet’Scented corpse!

‘Host indeed,’ murmured Banaschar, then was so rude as to offer no elaboration. Hood-damned priests. Good for nothing at all.

‘In any case,’ Tavore resumed, ‘we are without prejudice in this matter. I apologize for posing the question leading to this unveiling. I was simply curious.’

‘So am I,’ Shurq replied. ‘This Malazan Empire of yours-do you have any particular reason for invading the Lether Empire?’

‘I was led to understand that this island is independent-’

‘So it is, since the Edur Conquest. But you’re hardly invading one squalid little island. No. You’re just using this to stage your assault on the mainland. So let me ask again, why?’

‘Our enemy,’ the Adjunct said, all amusement now gone, ‘are the Tiste Edur, Captain. Not the Letherii. In fact, we would encourage a general uprising of Letherii-’

‘You won’t get it,’ Shurq Elalle said.

‘Why not?’ Lostara Yil asked.

‘Because we happen to like things the way they are. More or less.’ When no-one spoke, she smiled and continued, ‘The Edur may well have usurped the rulers in their absurd half-finished palace in Letheras. And they may well have savaged a few Letherii armies on the way to the capital. But you will not find bands of starving rebels in the forests dreaming of independence.’

‘Why not?’ Lostara demanded again in an identical tone.

‘They conquered, but we won. Oh, I wish Tehol Beddict was here, since he’s much better at explaining things, but let me try. I shall imagine Tehol sitting here, to help me along. Conquest. There are different kinds of conquests. Now, we have Tiste Edur lording it here and there, the elite whose word is law and never questioned. After all, their sorcery is cruel, their judgement cold and terribly simplistic. They are, in fact, above all law-as the Letherii understand the notion-’

‘And,’ Lostara pressed, ‘how do they understand the notion of law?’

‘Well, a set of deliberately vague guidelines one hires an advocate to evade when necessary.’

‘What were you, Shurq Elalle, before you were a pirate?’

A thief. I’ve employed a few advocates in my day. In any case, my point is this. The Edur rule but either through ignorance or indifference-and let’s face it, without ignorance you don’t get to indifference-they care little about the everyday administration of the empire. So, that particular apparatus remains Letherii and is, these days, even less regulated than it has been in the past.’ She smiled again, one leg rocking. As for us lower orders, well, virtually nothing has changed. We stay poor. Debt-ridden and comfortably miserable and, as Tehol might say, miserable in our comfort.’

‘So,’ Lostara said, ‘not even the Letherii nobles would welcome a change in the present order.’

‘Them least of all.’

‘What of your Emperor?’

‘Rhulad? From all accounts, he is insane, and effectively isolated besides. The empire is ruled by the Chancellor, and lie’s Letherii. He was also Chancellor in the days of King Diskanar, and he was there to ensure that the transition went smoothly.’

A grunt from Blistig, and he turned to Tavore. ‘The marines, Adjunct,’ he said in a half-moan.

And Throatslitter understood and felt a dread chill seeping through him. We sent them in, expecting to find allies, expecting them to whip the countryside into a belligerent frenzy. But they won’t get that.

The whole damned empire is going to rise up all right. To tear out their throats.

Adjunct, you have done it again.

Chapter Fifteen

The fist slammed down at the far end of the table. Food-crusted cutlery danced, plates thumped then skidded. The reverberation- heavy as thunder-rattled the goblets and shook all that sat down the length of the long table’s crowded world.

Fist shivering, pain lancing through the numb shock, Tomad Sengar slowly sat back.

Candle flames steadied, seeming eager to please with their regained calm, the pellucid warmth of their yellow light an affront nonetheless to the Edur’s bitter anger.

Across from him, his wife lifted a silk napkin to her lips, daubed once, then set it down and regarded her husband. ‘Coward.’

Tomad flinched, his gaze shifting away to scan the plastered wall to his right. Lifting past the discordant object hanging there to some place less… painful. Damp stains painted mottled maps near the ceiling. Plaster had lifted, buckled, undermined by that incessant leakage. Cracks zigzagged down like the after-image of lightning.

‘You will not see him,’ Uruth said.

‘He will not see me,’ Tomad replied, and this was not in agreement. It was, in fact, a retort.

‘A disgusting, scrawny Letherii who sleeps with young boys has defeated you, husband. He stands in your path and your bowels grow weak. Do not refute my words-you will not even meet my eyes. You have surrendered our last son.’

Tomad’s lips twisted in a snarl. ‘To whom, Uruth? Tell me. Chancellor Triban Gnol, who wounds children and calls it love?’ He looked at her then, unwilling to admit, even to himself, the effort that gesture demanded of him. ‘Shall I break his neck for you, wife? Easier than snapping a dead branch. What do you think his bodyguards will do? Stand aside?’

‘Find allies. Our kin-’

‘Are fools. Grown soft with indolence, blind with un-certainty. They are more lost than is Rhulad.’

‘I had a visitor today,’ Uruth said, refilling her goblet with the carafe of wine that had nearly toppled from the table with Tomad’s sudden violence.

‘I am pleased for you.’

‘Perhaps you are. A K’risnan. He came to tell me that

.

Bruthen Trana has disappeared. He suspects that Karos Invictad-or the Chancellor-have exacted their revenge. They have murdered Bruthen Trana. A Tiste Edur’s blood is on their hands.’

‘Can your K’risnan prove this?’

‘He has begun on that path, but admits to little optimism. But none of that is, truth be told, what I would tell you.’

‘Ah, so you think me indifferent to the spilling of Edur blood by Letherii hands?’

‘Indifferent? No, husband. Helpless. Will you interrupt me yet again?’

Tomad said nothing, not in acquiescence, but because he had run out of things to say. To her. To anyone.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I would tell you this. I believe the K’risnan was lying.’

‘About what?’

‘I believe he knows what has happened to Bruthen Trana, and that he came to me to reach the women’s council, and to reach you, husband. First, to gauge my reaction to the news at the time of its telling, then to gauge our more measured reaction in the days to come. Second, by voicing his suspicion, false though it is, he sought to encourage our growing hatred for the Letherii. And our hunger for vengeance, thus continuing this feud behind curtains, which, presumably, will distract Karos and Gnol.’

‘And, so distracted, they perchance will miss comprehension of some greater threat-which has to do with wherever Bruthen Trana has gone.’

‘Very good, husband. Coward you may be, but you are not stupid.’ She paused to sip, then said, ‘That is something.’

‘How far will you push me, wife?’

‘As far as is necessary.’

‘We were not here. We were sailing half this damned world. We returned to find the conspiracy triumphant, dominant and well entrenched. We returned, to find that we have lost our last son.’

‘Then we must win him back.’

‘There is no-one left to win, Uruth. Rhulad is mad. Nisall’s betrayal has broken him.’

‘The bitch is better gone than still in our way. Rhulad repeats his errors. With her, so he had already done with that slave, Udinaas. He failed to learn.’

Tomad allowed himself a bitter smile. ‘Failed to learn. So have we all, Uruth. We saw for ourselves the poison that was Lether. We perceived well the threat, and so marched down to conquer, thus annihilating that threat for ever more. Or so we’d thought:’

‘It devoured us.’

He looked again to the wall on the right, where, hanging from an iron hook, there was a bundle of fetishes. Feathers, strips of sealskin, necklaces of strung shells, shark teeth. The bedraggled remnants of three children-all that remained to remind them of their lives.

Some did not belong, for the son who had owned certain of those items had been banished, his life swept away as if it had never been. Had Rhulad seen these, even the binding of filial blood would not spare the lives of Tomad and Uruth. Trull Sengar-the name itself was anathema, a crime, and the punishment of its utterance was death.

Neither cared.

‘A most insipid poison indeed,’ Uruth continued, eyeing her goblet. ‘We grow fat. The warriors get drunk and sleep in the beds of Letherii whores. Or lie unconscious in the durhang dens. Others simply… disappear.’

‘They return home,’ Tomad said, repressing a pang at the thought. Home. Before all this.

‘Are you certain?’

He met her eyes once more. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Karos Invictad and his Patriotists never cease their vigilant tyranny of the people. They make arrests every day. Who is to say they have not arrested Tiste Edur?’

‘He could not hide that, wife.’

‘Why not? Now that Bruthen Trana is gone, Karos Invictad does as he pleases. No-one stands at his shoulder now.’

‘He did as he pleased before.’

‘You cannot know that, husband. Can you? What constraints did Invictad perceive-real or imagined, it matters not-when he knew Bruthen Trana was watching him?’

‘I know what you want,’ Tomad said in a low growl. ‘But who is to blame for all of this?’

‘That no longer matters,’ she replied, watching him carefully-fearing what, he wondered. Another uncontrolled burst of violence? Or the far more insipid display revealing his despair?

‘I don’t know how you can say that,’ he said. ‘He sent our sons to retrieve the sword. That decision doomed them all. Us all. And look, we now sit in the palace of the Lether Empire, rotting in the filth of Letherii excess. We have no defence against indolence and apathy, against greed and decadence. These enemies do not fall to the sword, do not skid away from a raised shield.’

‘Hannan Mosag, husband, is our only hope. You must go to him.’

‘To conspire against our son?’

‘Who is, as you have said, insane. Blood is one thing,’ Uruth said, slowly leaning forward, ‘but we now speak of the survival of the Tiste Edur. Tomad, the women are ready-we have been ready for a long time.’

He stared at her, wondering who this woman was, this cold, cold creature. Perhaps he was a coward, after all. When Rhulad had sent Trull away, he had said nothing. But then, neither had Uruth. And what of his own conspiracy? With Binadas? Find Trull. Please. Find the bravest among us. Recall the Sengar bloodline, son. Our first strides onto this world. Leading a legion onto its stony ground, loyal officers of Scabandari. Who drew the first Andii blood on the day of betrayal? That is our blood. That not this.

So, Tomad had sent Binadas away. Had sent a son to his death. Because I had not the will to do it myself.

Coward.

Watching him still, Uruth carefully refilled her goblet.

Binadas, my son, your slayer awaits Rhulad’s pleasure. Is that enough?

Like any old fool who had once wagered mortal lives, the Errant wandered the corridors of enlivened power, muttering his litany of lost opportunities and bad choices. Exhalation of sorcery averted the eyes of those who strode past, the guards at various doorways and intersections, the scurrying servants who fought their losing battle with the crumbling residence known-now with irony-as the Eternal Domicile. They saw but did not see, and no after-image remained in their minds upon passing.

More than any ghost, the Elder God was forgettable. But not as forgettable as he would have liked. He had worshippers now, at the cost of an eye binding him and his power, warring with his will in the guise of faith. Of course, every god knew of that war-such subversion seemed the primary purpose of every priest. Reduction of the sacred into the mundane world of mortal rivalries, politics and the games of control and manipulation of as many people as there were adherents. Oh, and yes, the acquisition of wealth, be it land or coin, be it the adjudication of fate or the gathering of souls.

With such thoughts haunting him, the Errant stepped into the throne room, moving silently to one side to take his usual place against a wall between two vast tapestries, as unnoticed as the grandiose scenes woven into those frames-images in which could be found some figure in the background very closely resembling the Errant.

The Chancellor Triban Gnol-with whom the Errant had shared a bed when expedience demanded it-stood before Rhulad who slouched like some sated monstrosity, poignant with wealth and madness. One of the Chancellor’s bodyguards hovered a few paces back from Gnol, looking bored as his master recited numbers. Detailing, once more, the growing dissolution of the treasury.

These sessions, the Errant understood, with some admiration, were deliberate travails intended to further exhaust the Emperor. Revenues and losses, expenses and the sudden peak in defaulted debts, piled up in droning cadence like the gathering of forces preparing to lay siege. An assault against which Rhulad had no defence.

He would surrender, as he always did. Relinquishing all management to the Chancellor. A ritual as enervating to witness as it was to withstand, yet the Errant felt no pity. The Edur were barbarians. Like children in the face of civilized sophistication.

Why do 1 come here, day after day? What am 1 waiting to witness here? Rhulad’s final collapse? Will that please me? Entertain me? How sordid have my tastes become?

He held his gaze on the Emperor. Dulled coins luridly gleaming, a rhythm of smudged reflection rising and settling with Rhulad’s breathing; the black sanguine promise of the sword’s long, straight blade, tip dug into the marble dais, the grey bony hand gripping the wire-wrapped handle. Sprawled there on his throne, Rhulad was indeed a metaphor made real. Armoured in riches and armed with a weapon that promised both immortality and annihilation, he was impervious to everything but his own growing madness. When Rhulad fell, the Errant believed, it would be from the inside out.

The ravaged face revealed this truth in a cascade of details, from the seamed scars of past failures to which, by virtue of his having survived them, he was indifferent, to whatever lessons they might hold. Pocked flesh to mock the possession of wealth long lost. Sunken eyes wherein resided the despairing penury of his spirit, a spirit that at times pushed close to those glittering dark prisms and let loose its silent howl.

Twitches tracked this brutal mien. Random ripples beneath the mottled skin, a migration of expressions attempting to escape the remote imperial mask.

One could understand, upon looking at Rhulad on his throne, the lie of simplicity that power whispered in the beholder’s ear. The seductive voice urging pleasurable and satisfying reduction, from life’s confusion to death’s clarity. This, murmured power, is how I am revealed. Stepping naked through all the disguises. I am threat and if threat does not suffice, then I act. Like a reaper’s scythe.

The lie of simplicity. Rhulad still believed it. In that he was no different from every other ruler, through every age, in every place where people gathered to fashion a common, the weal of community with its necessity for organization and division. Power is violence, its promise, its deed. Power cares nothing for reason, nothing for justice, nothing for compassion. It is, in fact, the singular abnegation of these things-once the cloak of deceits is stripped away, this one truth is revealed.

And the Errant was tired of it. All of it.

Mael once said there was no answer. For any of this. He said it was the way of things and always would be, and the only redemption that could be found was that all power, no matter how vast, how centralized, no matter how dominant, will destroy itself in the end. What entertained then was witnessing all those expressions of surprise on the faces of the wielders.

This seemed a far too bitter reward, as far as the Errant was concerned. I have naught of Mael’s capacity for cold, depthless regard. Nor his legendary patience. Nor, for that matter, his temper.

No Elder God was blind to the folly of those who would reign in the many worlds. Assuming it was able to think at all, of course, and for some that was in no way a certain thing. Anomander Rake saw it clearly enough, and so he turned away from its vastness, instead choosing to concentrate on specific, minor conflicts. And he denied his worshippers, a crime so profound to them that they simply rejected it out of hand. Osserc, on the other hand, voiced his own refusal-of the hopeless truth-and so tried again and again and failed every time. For Osserc, Anomander Rake’s very existence became an unconscionable insult.

Draconus-ah, now he was no fool. He would have wearied of his tyranny-had he lived long enough. I still wonder if he did not in fact welcome his annihilation. To die beneath the sword made by his own hands, to see his most cherished daughter standing to one side, witness, wilfully blind to his need… Draconus, how could you not despair of all you once dreamed?

And then there was Kilmandaros. Now she liked the notion of… simplicity. The solid righteousness of her fist was good enough for her. But then, see where it took her!

And what of K’rul? Why, he was-

‘Stop!’ Rhulad shrieked, visibly jolting on the throne, the upper half of his body suddenly leaning forward, the eyes black with sudden threat. ‘What did you just say?’

The Chancellor frowned, then licked his withered lips. ‘Emperor, I was recounting the costs of disposing the corpses from the trench-pens-’

‘Corpses, yes.’ Rhulad’s hand twitched where it folded over the throne’s ornate arm. He stared fixedly at Triban Gnol, then, with a strange smile, he asked, ‘What corpses?’

‘From the fleets, sire. The slaves rescued from the island of Sepik, the northernmost protectorate of the Malazan Empire.’

‘Slaves. Rescued. Slaves.’

The Errant could see Triban Gnol’s confusion, a momentary flicker, then… comprehension.

Oh now, let us witness this!

‘Your fallen kin, sire. Those of Tiste Edur blood who had suffered beneath the tyranny of the Malazans.’

‘Rescued.’ Rhulad paused as if to taste that word. ‘Edur blood.’

‘Diluted-’

‘Edur blood!’

‘Indeed, Emperor.’

‘Then why are they in the trench’pens?’

‘They were deemed fallen, sire.’

Rhulad twisted on the throne, as if assailed from within. His head snapped back. His limbs were seized with trembling. He spoke as one lost. ‘Fallen? But they are our kin. In this entire damned world, our only kin!’

‘That is true, Emperor. I admit, I was somewhat dismayed at the decision to consign them to those most terrible cells-’

‘Whose decision, Gnol? Answer me!’

A bow, which the Errant knew hid a satisfied gleam in the Chancellor’s eyes-quickly disguised as he looked up once more. ‘The disposition of the fallen Sepik Edur was the responsibility of Tomad Sengar, Emperor.’

Rhulad slowly settled back. ‘And they are dying.’

‘In droves, sire. Alas.’

‘We rescued them to deliver our own torment. Rescued them to kill them.’

‘It is, I would suggest, a somewhat unjust fate-’

‘Unjust? You scrawny snake-why did you not tell me of this before?’

‘Emperor, you indicated no interest in the financial details-’

Oh, a mistake there, Gnol.

“The what?’

Beads of sweat on the back of the Chancellor’s neck now. “The varied expenses associated with their imprisonment, sire.’

‘They are Tiste Edur!’

Another bow.

Rhulad suddenly clawed at his face and looked away. ‘Edur blood,’ he murmured. ‘Rescued from slavery. Trench-pens is their reward.’

Triban Gnol cleared his throat. ‘Many died in the holds of the ships, sire. As I understand it, their maltreatment began upon leaving Sepik Island. What is it you would have me do, Emperor?’

And so deftly you regain ground, Triban Gnol.

‘Bring me Tomad Sengar. And Uruth. Bring to me my father and mother.’

‘Now?’

The sword scraped free, point lifting to centre on Triban Gnol. ‘Yes, Chancellor. Now.’

Triban Gnol and his bodyguard quickly departed.

Rhulad was alone in his throne room, now holding his sword out on nothing.

‘How? How could they do this? These poor people-they are of our own blood. I need to think.’ The Emperor lowered the sword then shifted about on the throne, drawing his coin-clad legs up. ‘How? Nisall? Explain this to me-no, you cannot, can you. You have fled me. Where are you, Nisall? Some claim you are dead. Yet where is your body? Are you just another bloated corpse in the canal-the ones I see from the tower-were you one of those, drifting past? They tell me you were a traitor. They tell me you were not a traitor. They all lie to me. I know that, I can see that. Hear that. They all lie to me-’ He sobbed then, his free hand covering his mouth, his eyes darting about the empty room.

The Errant saw that gaze slide right over him. He thought to step forward then, to relinquish the sorcery hiding him, to say to the Emperor: Yes, sire. They all lie to you. But I will not. Do you dare hear the truth, Emperor Rhukd? All of it?

‘Slaves. This-this is wrong. Tomad-Father-where did this cruelty come from?’

Oh, dear Rhulad…

‘Father, we will talk. You and me. Alone. And Mother, yes, you too. The three of us. It has been so long since we did that. Yes, that is what we will do. And you must… you must not lie to me. No, that I will not accept.

‘Father, where is Nisall?

‘Where is Trull?’

Could an Elder God’s heart break? The Errant almost sagged then, as Rhulad’s plaintive query echoed momentarily in the chamber, then quickly died, leaving only the sound of the Emperor’s laboured breathing.

Then, a harder voice emerging from the Emperor: ‘Hannan Mosag, this is all your fault. You did this. To us. To me. You twisted me, made me send them all away. To find champions. But no, that was my idea, wasn’t it? I can’t-can’t remember-so many lies here, so many voices, all lying. Nisall, you left me. Udinaas-I will find you both. I will see the skin flayed fr6m your writhing bodies, I will listen to your screams-’

The sound of boots in the hallway beyond.

Rhulad looked up guiltily, then settled into the throne. Righting the weapon. Licking his lips. Then, as the doors creaked open, he sat with a fixed grin, a baring of his teeth to greet his parents.

Dessert arrived at the point of a sword. A full dozen Letherii guards, led by Sirryn Kanar, burst into the private chambers of Tomad and Uruth Sengar. Weapons drawn, they entered the dining room to find the two Edur seated each at one end of the long table.

Neither had moved. Neither seemed surprised.

‘On your feet,’ Sirryn growled, unable to hide his satisfaction, his delicious pleasure at this moment. ‘The Emperor demands your presence. Now.’

The tight smile on Tomad’s face seemed to flicker a moment, before the old warrior rose to his feet.

Sneering, Uruth had not moved. ‘The Emperor would see his mother? Very well, he may ask.’

Sirryn looked down at her. ‘This is a command, woman.’

‘And I am a High Priestess of Shadow, you pathetic thug.’

‘Sent here by the Emperor’s will. You will stand, or-’

‘Or what? Will you dare lay hands on me, Letherii? Recall your place.’

The guard reached out.

‘Stop!’ Tomad shouted. ‘Unless, Letherii, you wish your flesh torn from your bones. My wife has awakened Shadow, and she will not suffer your touch.’

Sirryn Kanar found he was trembling. With rage. ‘Then advise her, Tomad Serigar, of her son’s impatience.’

Uruth slowly drained her goblet of wine, set it carefully down, then rose. ‘Sheathe your weapons, Letherii. My husband and I can walk to the throne room in your company, or alone. My preference is for the latter, but I permit you this single warning. Sheathe your swords, or I will kill you all.’

Sirryn gestured to his soldiers and weapons slid back into scabbards. After a moment, his did the same. I will have an answer for this, Uruth Sengar. Recall my place? Of course, if the lie suits you, as it does me…for now.

‘Finally,’ Uruth said to Tomad, ‘we shall have an opportunity to tell our son all that needs to be told. An audience. Such privilege.’

‘It may be you shall await his pleasure,’ Sirryn said.

‘Indeed? How long?’

The Letherii smiled at her. ‘That is not for me to say.’

‘This game is not Rhulad’s. It is yours. You and your Chancellor.’

‘Not this time,’Sirryn replied.

‘I have killed Tiste Edur before.’

Samar Dev watched Karsa Orlong as the Toblakai examined the tattered clamshell armour shirt he had laid out on the cot. The pearlescent scales were tarnished and chipped, and large patches of the thick leather under-panels-hinged with rawhide-were visible. He had gathered a few hundred holed coins-made of tin and virtually worthless-and was clearly planning to use them to amend the armour.

Was this a gesture of mockery, she wondered. A visible sneer in Rhulad’s face? Barbarian or not, she would not put it past Karsa Orlong.

‘I cleared the deck of the fools,’ he continued, then glanced over at her. ‘And what of those in the forest of the Anibar? As for the Letherii, they’re even more pathetic-see how they cower, even now? I will explore this city, with my sword strapped to my back, and none shall stop me.’

She rubbed at her face. ‘There is a rumour that the first roll of champions will be called. Soon. Raise the ire of these people, Karsa, and you will not have to wait long to face the Emperor.’

‘Good,’ he grunted. ‘Then I shall walk Letheras as its new emperor.’

‘Is that what you seek?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing on him in surprise.

‘If that is what is needed for them to leave me be.’

She snorted. ‘Then the last thing you want is to be emperor.’

He straightened, frowning down at the gaudy if bedraggled armour shirt. ‘I am not interested in fleeing, witch. There is no reason for them to forbid me,’

‘You can step outside this compound and wander where you will… just leave your sword behind.’

‘That I will not do.’

‘Then here you remain, slowly going mad at the Emperor’s pleasure.’

‘Perhaps I shall fight my way through.’

‘Karsa, they just don’t want you killing citizens. Given that you are so, uh, easily offended, it’s not an unusual request.’

‘What offends me is their lack of faith.’

‘Right,’ she snapped, ‘which you have well earned by killing Edur and Letherii at every turn. Including a Preda-’

‘I did not know he was that.’

‘Would it have made a difference? No, I thought not. How about the fact that he was a brother to the Emperor?’

‘I did not know that either.’

‘And?’

‘And what, Samar Dev?’

‘Murdered him with a spear, wasn’t it?’

‘He assailed me with magic-’

‘You have told me this tale, Karsa Orlong. You had just slaughtered his crew. Then kicked in the door to his cabin. Then crushed the skulls of his bodyguards. I tell you, in his place I too would have drawn upon my warren-assuming I had one, which I don’t. And I would have thrown everything I had at you.’

‘There is no point to this conversation,’ the Toblakai said in a growl.

‘Fine,’ she said, rising from her chair. ‘I am off to find Taxilian. At least his obdurate obsessions are less infuriating.’

‘Is he your lover now?’

She halted at the doorway. ‘And if he was?’

‘Just as well,’ Karsa said, now glowering down at his patchy armour. ‘1 would break you in two.’

Jealousy to join the host of other madnesses? Spirits below! She turned back to the door. ‘I’d be more inclined towards Senior Assessor. Alas, he has taken vows of celibacy.’

‘The fawning monk is still here?’

‘He is.’

‘You have sordid tastes, witch.’

‘Well,’ she said after a moment, ‘I see no possible way of responding to that comment.’

‘Of course not.’

Lips pressed tight together, Samar Dev left the room.

Karsa Orlong’s mood was foul, but it did not occur to him that it in any way flavoured his conversation with Samar Dev. She was a woman and any exchange of words with a woman was fraught with her torturer’s array of deadly implements, each one hovering at the very edge of a man’s comprehension. Swords were simpler. Even the harried disaster of all-out war was simpler than the briefest, lightest touch of a woman’s attention. What infuriated him was how much he missed that touch. True, there were whores aplenty for the champions awaiting the Emperor. But there was nothing subtle-nothing real-in that.

There must be a middle ground, Karsa told himself. Where the exchange exulted in all the sparks and feints that made things interesting, without putting his dignity at risk. Yet he was realistic enough to hold little hope of ever finding it.

The world was filled with weapons and combat was a way of life. Perhaps the only way of life. He’d bled to whips and words, to punches and glances. He’d been bludgeoned by invisible shields, blindsided by unseen clubs, and had laboured under the chains of his own vows. And as Samar Dev would say, one survives by withstanding this onslaught, this history of the then and the now. To fail was to fall, but falling was not always synonymous with a quick, merciful death. Rather, one could fall into the slow dissolution, losses heaped high, that dragged a mortal to his or her knees. That made them slow slayers of themselves.

He had come to understand his own traps, and, in that sense, he was probably not yet ready to encounter someone else’s, to step awry and discover the shock of pain. Still, the hunger never went away. And this tumult in his soul was wearisome and so a most sordid invitation to a disgruntled mood.

Easily solved by mayhem.

Lacking love, the warrior seeks violence.

Karsa Orlong sneered as he slung the stone sword over his left shoulder and strode out into the corridor. ‘I hear you, Bairoth Gild. You would be my conscience?’ He grunted a laugh. ‘You, who stole my woman.’

Perhaps you have found another, Karsa Orlong.

‘I would break her in two.’

That has not stopped you before.

But no, this was a game. Bairoth Gild’s soul was bound within a sword. These sly words filling Karsa’s skull were his own. Lacking someone else’s attention, he was now digging his own pitfalls. ‘I think I need to kill someone.’

From the corridor to a broader hallway, then on to the colonnaded transept, into a side passage and on to the compound’s north postern gate. Meeting no-one on the way, further befouling Karsa’s mood. The gate was inset with a small guardhouse to its left where the heavy latch release could be found.

The Letherii seated within had time to glance up before the Toblakai’s fist connected solidly with his face. Blood sprayed from a shattered nose and the hapless man sank down into his chair, then slid like a sack of onions to the floor. Stepping over him, Karsa lifted the latch and slid the bronze bar to his left, until its right-hand end cleared the gate itself. The bar dropped down into a wheeled recess with a clunk. Emerging outside once more, Karsa pushed the gate open and, ducking to clear the lintel, stepped out into the street beyond.

There was a flash as some sort of magical ward ignited the moment he crossed the threshold. Fires burgeoned, a whisper of vague pain, then the flames dwindled and vanished. Shaking his head to clear the spell’s metallic reverberation from his mind, he continued on.

A few citizens here and there; only one noted his appearance and that one-eyes widening-quickened his pace and moments later turned a corner and was lost from sight.

Karsa drew a deep breath, then set off for the canal he had seen from the roof of the barracks.

Vast as a river barge, the enormous black-haired woman in mauve silks filled the entrance to the courtyard restaurant, fixed her eyes on Tehol Beddict, then surged forward with the singular intent of a hungry leviathan.

Beside him, Bugg seemed to cringe back in his chair. ‘By the Abyss, Master-’

‘Now now,’ Tehol murmured as the woman drew closer. ‘Pragmatism, dear Bugg, must now be uppermost among your, uh, considerations. Find Huldo and get his lads to drag over that oversized couch from the back of the kitchen. Quick now, Bugg!’

The manservant’s departure was an uncharacteristic bolt.

The woman-sudden centre of attention with most conversations falling away-seemed for all her impressive girth to glide as she moved between the blessedly widely spaced tables, and in her dark violet eyes there gleamed a sultry confidence so at odds with her ungainly proportions that Tehol felt an alarming stir in his groin and sweat prickled in enough manly places to make him shift uneasily in his chair, all thoughts of the meal on the plate before him torn away like so many clothes.

He did not believe it possible that flesh could move in as many directions all at once, every swell beneath the silk seemingly possessed of corporeal independence, yet advancing in a singular chorus of overt sexuality. Her shadow engulfing him, Tehol loosed a small whimper, struggling to drag his eyes up, past the stacked folds of her belly, past the impossibly high, bulging, grainsack-sized breasts-lost for a moment in that depthless cleavage-then, with heroic will, yet higher to the smooth udder beneath her chin; higher still, neck straining, to that so round face with its broad, painted, purple lips-higher-Errant help me-to those delicious, knowing eyes.

‘You disgust me, Tehol.’

‘I-what?’

‘Where’s Bugg with that damned couch?’

Tehol leaned forward, then recoiled again with instinctive self-preservation. ‘Rucket? Is that you?’

‘Quiet, you fool. Do you have any idea how long it took us to perfect this illusion?’

‘B-but-’

‘The best disguise is misdirection.’

‘Misdirection? Oh, why… oh, well of course, when you put it that way. I mean, all the way. Sorry, that just tumbled out. Came out wrong, I mean-’

‘Stop staring at my tits.’

‘I’d be the only one in here not staring,’ he retorted, ‘which would be very suspicious. Besides, who decided on that particular… defiance of the earth’s eternal pull? Probably Ormly-it’s those piggy eyes of his, hinting at perverse fantasies.’

Bugg had arrived with two of Huldo’s servers carrying the couch between them. They set it down then hastily retreated.

Bugg returned to his seat. ‘Rucket,’ he said under his breath, shaking his head, ‘do you not imagine that a woman of your stature would not already be infamous in Letheras?’

‘Not if I never went out, would I? As it turns out, there are plenty of recluses in this city-’

‘Because most of them were the Guild’s illusions-false personalities you could assume when necessity demanded it.’

‘Precisely,’ she said, as if settling the matter.

Which she then did with consummate grace, easing down fluidly into the huge couch, her massive alabaster arms spreading out along the back, which had the effect of hitching her breasts up still further then spreading them like the Gates of the Damned.

Tehol glanced at Bugg. ‘There are certain laws regarding the properties of physical entities, yes? There must be. I’m sure of it.’

‘She is a defiant woman, Master. And please, if you will, adjust your blanket. Yes, there, beneath this blessed table.’

‘Stop that.’

‘Whom or what are you addressing?’ Rucket asked with a leer big enough for two women.

‘Damn you, Rucket, we’d just ordered, you know. Bugg’s purse, or his company’s, that is. And now my appetite… well… it’s-’

‘Shifted?’ she asked, thin perfect brows lifting above those knowing eyes. ‘The problem with men elucidated right there: your inability to indulge in more than one pleasure at any one time.’

‘Which you presently personify with terrible perfection. So, how precise is this illusion of yours? I mean, the couch creaked and everything.’

‘No doubt you’re most eager to explore that weighty question. But first, where’s Huldo with my lunch?’

‘He took one look at you and then went out to hire more cooks.’

She leaned forward and pulled Tehol’s plate closer. ‘This will do. Especially after that cruel attempt at humour, Tehol.’ She began eating with absurd delicacy.

‘There’s no real way in there, is there?’

Morsel of food halted halfway to her open mouth.

Bugg seemed to choke on something.

Tehol wiped sweat from his brow. ‘Errant take me, I’m losing my mind.’

‘You force me,’ Rucket said, ‘to prove to you otherwise.’ The dainty popped into her mouth.

‘You expect me to succumb to an illusion?’

‘Why not? Men do that a thousand times a day.’

‘Without that, the world would grind to a halt.’

‘Yours, maybe.’

‘Speaking of which,’ Bugg interjected hastily, ‘your Guild, Rucket, is about to become bankrupt.’

‘Nonsense. We have more wealth hidden away than the Liberty Consign.’

‘That’s good, because they’re about to discover that most of their unadvertised holdings have been so thoroughly undermined that they’re not only worthless, but fatal liabilities.’

‘We transferred ours beyond the empire, Bugg. Months ago. Once we fully understood what you and Tehol were doing.’

‘Where?’ Bugg asked.

‘Should I tell you?’

‘We’re not going after it,’ Tehol said. ‘Right, Bugg?’

‘Of course not. I just want to be sure it’s, uh, far enough removed.’

Rucket’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you that close?’

Neither man replied.

She looked down at the plate for a moment, then settled back like a human canal lock, her belly re-emerging from the shadows in silky waves. ‘Very well, gentlemen. South Pilott. Far enough away, Bugg?’

‘Just.’

‘That answer makes me nervous.’

‘I am about to default on everything 1 owe,’ Bugg said. ‘This will cause a massive financial cascade that will not spare a single sector of industry, and not just here in Letheras, but across the entire empire and beyond. Once I do it, there will be chaos. Anarchy. People may actually die.’

‘Bugg’s Construction is that big?’

‘Not at all. If it was, we’d have been rounded up long ago. No, there are about two thousand seemingly independent small-and middling-sized holdings, each one perfectly positioned according to Tehol’s diabolical planning to ensure that dread cascade. Bugg’s Construction is but the first gravestone to tip-and it’s a very crowded cemetery.’

‘Your analogy makes me even more nervous.’

‘Your glamour fades a touch when you’re nervous,’ Tehol observed. ‘Please, regain your confidence, Rucket.’

‘Shut your mouth, Tehol.’

‘In any case,’ Bugg resumed, ‘this meeting was to deliver to you and the Guild the final warning before the collapse. Needless to say, I will be hard to track down once it happens.’

Her eyes settled on Tehol. ‘And you, Tehol? Planning on crawling into a hole as well?’

‘I thought we weren’t talking about that any more.’

‘By the Abyss, Master,’ Bugg muttered.

Tehol blinked, first at Bugg, then at Rucket. Then, ‘Oh, Sorry. You meant, um, was I planning on going into hiding, right? Well, I’m undecided. Part of the satisfaction, you see, is in witnessing the mess. Because, regardless of how we’ve insinuated ourselves in the machinery of Lether’s vast commerce, the most bitter truth is that the causes behind this impending chaos are in fact systemic. Granted, we’re hastening things somewhat, but dissolution-in its truest sense-is an integral flaw in the system itself. It may well view itself as immortal, eminently adaptable and all that, but that’s all both illusional and delusional. Resources are never infinite, though they might seem that way. And those resources include more than just the raw product of earth and sea. They also include labour, and the manifest conceit of a monetary system with its arbitrary notions of value-the two forces we set our sights on, by the way. Shipping out the lowest classes-the dispossessed-to pressure the infrastructure, and then stripping away hard currency to escalate a recession-why are you two staring at me like that?’

Rucket smiled. ‘Defaulting to the comfort of your scholarly analysis to deflect us from your more pathetic fixations. That, Tehol Beddict, is perhaps the lowest you have gone yet.’

‘But we’ve just begun.’

‘You may wish to believe that to be the case. For myself, my own curiosity is fast diminishing.’

‘But think of all the challenges in store for us, Rucket!’

She surged to her feet. ‘I’m going out the back way.’

‘You won’t fit.’

‘Alas, Tehol, the same will never be said of you. Good day, gentlemen.’

‘Wait!’

‘Yes, Tehol?’

‘Well, uh, I trust this conversation will resume at a later date?’

‘I’m not hanging around for that,’ Bugg said, crossing his brawny arms in a show of… something. Disgust, maybe. Or, Tehol reconsidered, more likely abject envy.

‘Nothing is certain,’ Rucket told him. ‘Barring the truth that men are wont to get lost in their illusions of grandeur.’

‘Oh,’ murmured Bugg, ‘very nice, Rucket.’

‘If that hadn’t left me speechless,’ Tehol said as she rolled away, ‘I’d have said something.’

‘I have no doubt of that, Master.’

‘Your faith is a relief, Bugg.’

‘Small comfort in comparison, I’d wager.’

‘In comparison,’ Tehol agreed, nodding. ‘Now, shall we go for a walk, old friend?’

‘Assuming your drape is now unmarred by unsightly bulges.’

‘In a moment.’

‘Master?’

Tehol smiled at the alarm on Bugg’s face. ‘I was just imaging her stuck there, wedged in Huldo’s alleyway. Unable to turn. Helpless, in fact.’

‘There it is,’ he said with a sigh, ‘you did indeed manage to sink lower.’

There was an old Gral legend that had begun to haunt Taralack Veed, although he could not quite grasp its relevance to this moment, here in Letheras, with the Lifestealer walking at his side as they pushed through the crowds milling outside a row of market stalls opposite the Quillas Canal.

The Gral were an ancient people; their tribes had dwelt in the wild hills of the First Empire, and there had been Gral companies serving in Dessimbelackis’s vaunted armies, as trackers, as skirmishers and as shock troops, although this manner of combat ill suited them. Even then, the Gral preferred their feuds, the spilling of blood in the name of personal honour. The pursuit of vengeance was a worthy cause. Slaughtering strangers made no sense and stained the soul, demanding tortured cleansing rituals. Further, there was no satisfaction in such murder.

Two months before the Great Fall, a commander named Vorlock Duven, leading the Karasch Legion deep into the untamed wastes of the southwest, had sent her seventy-four Gral warriors into the Tasse Hills to begin a campaign of subjugation against the tribe believed to rule that forbidding range. The Gral were to incite the Tasse to battle, then withdraw, with the savages hard on their heels, to a place of ambush at the very edge of the highlands.

Leading the Gral was a wise veteran of the Bhok’ar clan named Sidilack, called by many Snaketongue after a sword-thrust into his mouth had sliced down the length of his tongue. His warriors, well blooded after a three-year campaign of conquest among the desert and plains peoples south of Ugari, were skilled at finding the hidden trails leading into the rough heights, and before long they were coming upon rude dwellings and rock shelters in the midst of ancient ruins that hinted that some terrible descent from civilization had afflicted the Tasse long ago.

At dusk on the third day seven woad-painted savages ambushed the lead scouts, killing one before being driven off. Of the four Tasse who had fallen in the clash, only one was not already dead of his wounds. The language of his pain-stricken ravings was like nothing Sidilack and his warriors had ever heard before. Beneath the dusty blue paint the Tasse were physically unlike any other nearby tribes. Tall, lithe, with strangely small hands and feet, they had elongated faces, weak chins and oversized teeth. Their eyes were close-set, the irises tawny like dried grass, the whites blistered with so many blood vessels it seemed they might well weep red tears.

Among all four of the Tasse the signs of dehydration and malnutrition were obvious, and as fighters they had been singularly ineffective with their stone-tipped spears and knotted clubs.

The wounded savage soon died.

Resuming their hunt, the Gral pushed ever deeper, ever higher into the hills. They found ancient terraces that had once held crops, the soil now lifeless, barely able to sustain dry desert scrub. They found stone-lined channels to collect rainwater that no longer came. They found stone tombs with large capstones carved into phallic shapes. On the trail potsherds and white bleached bone fragments crunched underfoot.

At noon on the fourth day the Gral came upon the settlement of the Tasse. Twelve scraggy huts, from which rushed three warriors with spears, shrieking as they lined up in a pathetic defensive line in front of five starving females and a lone two-or three-year-old female child.

Sidilack, the wise veteran who had fought twenty battles, who had stained his soul with the slaughter of countless strangers, sent his Gral forward. The battle lasted a half-dozen heartbeats. When the Tasse men fell their women attacked with their hands and teeth. When they were all dead, the lone child crouched down and hissed at them like a cat.

A sword was raised to strike her down.

It never descended. The clearing was suddenly swallowed in shadows. Seven terrible hounds emerged to surround the child, and a man appeared. His shoulders so broad as to make him seem hunched, he was wearing an ankle-length coat of blued chain, his black hair long and unbound. Cold blue eyes fixed upon Sidilack and he spoke in the language of the First Empire: ‘They were the last. I do not decry your slaughter. They lived in fear. This land-not their home-could not feed them. Abandoned by the Deragoth and their kind, they had failed in life’s struggle.’ He turned then to regard the child. ‘But this one I will take.’

Sidilack, it was said, could feel then the deepest stain settling upon his soul. One that no cleansing ritual could eradicate. He saw, in that moment, the grim fate of his destiny, a descent into the madness of inconsolable grief. The god would take the last child, but it was most certainly the last. The blood.of the others was on Sidilack’s hands, a curse, a haunting that only death could relieve.

Yet he was Gral. Forbidden from taking his own life.

Another legend followed, that one recounting the long journey to Snaketongue’s final end, his pursuit of questions that could not be answered, the pathos of his staggering walk into the Dead Man’s Desert-realm of the fallen Gral-where even the noble spirits refused him, his soul, the hollow defence of his own crime.

Taralack Veed did not want to think of these things. Echoes of the child, that hissing, less-than-human creature who had been drawn into the shadows by a god-to what end? A mystery within the legend that would never be solved. But he did not believe there had been mercy in that god’s heart. He did not want to think of young females with small hands and feet, with sloped chins and large canines, with luminous eyes the hue of savanna grasses.

He did not want to think of Sidilack and the endless night of his doom. The warrior with slaughter’s blood staining his hands and his soul. That tragic fool was nothing like Taralack Veed, he told himself again and again. Truths did not hide in vague similarities, after all; only in the specific details, and he shared none of those with old Snaketongue.

‘You speak rarely these days, Taralack Veed.’

The Gral glanced up at Icarium. ‘1 am frightened for you,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘1 see nothing of the hardness in your eyes, friend, the hardness that perhaps none but a longtime companion would be able to detect. The hardness that bespeaks your rage. It seems to sleep, and I do not know if even Rhulad can awaken it. If he cannot, then you will die. Quickly.’

‘If all you say of me is true,’ the Jhag replied, ‘then my death would be welcome. And justified in every sense of the word.’

‘No other can defeat the Emperor-’

‘Why are you so certain 1 can? I do not wield a magical sword. I do not return to life should 1 fall. These are the rumours regarding the Tiste Edur named Rhulad, yes?’

‘When your anger is unleashed, Icarium, you cannot be stopped.’

‘Ah, but it seems I can.’

Taralack Veed’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is this the change that has come to you, Icarium? Have your memories returned to you?’

‘I believe if they had, I would not now be here,’ the Jhag replied, pausing before one stall offering cord-wrapped pottery. ‘Look upon these items here, Taralack Veed, and tell me what you see. Empty vessels? Or endless possibilities?’

‘They are naught but pots.’

Icarium smiled.

It was, the Gral decided, a far too easy smile. ‘Do you mock me, Icarium?’

‘Something awaits me. I do not mean this mad Emperor. Something else. Answer me this. How does one measure time?’,

‘By the course of the sun, the phases of the moon, the wheel of the stars. And, of course, in cities such as this one, the sounding of a bell at fixed intervals-a wholly absurd conceit and, indeed, one that is spiritually debilitating.’

‘The Gral speaks.’

‘Now you truly mock me. This is unlike you, Icarium.’

‘The sounding of bells, their increments established by the passing of sand or water through a narrowed vessel. As you say, a conceit. An arbitrary assertion of constancy. Can we truly say, however, that time is constant?’

‘As any Gral would tell you, it is not. Else our senses lie.’

‘Perhaps they do.’

‘Then we are lost.’

‘I appreciate your intellectual belligerence today, Taralack Veed.’

They moved on, wandering slowly alongside the canal.

‘I understand your obsession with time,’ the Gral said. ‘You, who have passed through age after age, unchanging, unknowing.’

‘Unknowing, yes. That is the problem, isn’t it?’

‘I do not agree. It is our salvation.’

They were silent for a few more strides. Many were the curious-at times pitying-glances cast their way. The champions were also the condemned, after all. Yet was there hope, buried deep behind those shying eyes? There must be. For an end to the nightmare that was Rhulad Sengar, the Edur Emperor of Lether.

‘Without an understanding of time, history means nothing. Do you follow, Taralack Veed?’

‘Yet you do not understand time, do you?’

‘No, that is true. Yet I believe I have… pursued this… again and again. From age to age. In the faith that a revelation on the meaning of time will unlock my own hidden history. I would find its true measure, Taralack Veed. And not just its measure, but its very nature. Consider this canal, and those linked to it. The water is pushed by current and tide from the river, then traverses the city, only to rejoin the river not far from where it first entered. We may seek to step out from the river and so choose our own path, but no matter how straight it seems, we will, in the end, return to that river.’

‘As with the bells, then,’ the Gral said, ‘water tracks the passage of time.’

‘You misunderstand,’ Icarium replied, but did not elaborate.

Taralack Veed scowled, paused to spit thick phlegm onto his palms, then swept it back through his hair. Somewhere in the crowd a woman screamed, but the sound was not repeated. ‘The canal’s current cannot change the law that binds its direction. The canal is but a detour.’

‘Yes, one that slows the passage of its water. And in turn that water changes, gathering the refuse of the city it passes through, and so, upon returning to the river, it is a different colour. Muddier, more befouled.’

‘The slower your path, the muddier your boots?’

‘Even so,’ Icarium said, nodding.

‘Time is nothing like that.’

‘Are you so certain? When we must wait, our minds fill with sludge, random thoughts like so much refuse. When we are driven to action, our current is swift, the water seemingly clear, cold and sharp.’

‘I’d rather, Icarium, we wait a long time. Here, in the face of what is to come.’

‘The path to Rhulad? As you like. But I tell you, Taralack Veed, that is not the path I am walking.’

Another half-dozen strides.

Then the Gral spoke. ‘They wrap the cord around them, Icarium, to keep them from breaking.’

Senior Assessor’s eyes glittered as he stood amidst a crowd twenty paces from where Icarium and Taralack Veed had paused in front of a potter’s stall. His hands were folded together, the fingers twitching. His breathing was rapid and shallow;

Beside him, Samar Dev rolled her eyes, then asked, ‘Are you about to fall dead on me? If I’d known this walk involved skulking in that Jhag’s shadow, I think I would have stayed in the compound.’

‘The choices you make,’ he replied, ‘must needs be entirely of your own accord, Samar Dev. Reasonably distinct from mine or anyone else’s. It is said that the history of human conflict resides exclusively in the clash of expectations.’

‘Is it now?’

‘Furthermore-’

‘Never mind your “furthermore”, Senior Assessor. Compromise is the negotiation of expectation. With your wayward notions we do not negotiate, and so all the compromising is mine.’

‘As you choose.’

She thought about hitting him, decided she didn’t want to make a scene. What was it with men and their obsessions? ‘He is in all likelihood going to die, and soon.’

‘I think not. No, most certainly I think not.’

Icarium and the Gral resumed their meander through the crowds, and after a moment Senior Assessor followed, maintaining his distance. Sighing, Samar Dev set off after him. She didn’t like this mob. It felt wrong. Tense, overwrought. Strain was visible on faces, and the cries of the hawkers sounded strident and half desperate. Few passers-by, she noted, were buying.

‘Something’s wrong,’ she said.

‘There is nothing here that cannot be explained by impending financial panic, Samar Dev. Although you may believe I am unaware of anything but him, I assure you that I have assessed the condition of Letheras and, by extension, this entire empire. A crisis looms. Wealth, alas, is not an infinite commodity. Systems such as this are dependent upon the assumption of unlimited resources, however. These resources range from cheap labour and materials to an insatiable demand. Such demand, in turn, depends on rather more ethereal virtues, such as confidence, will, perceived need and the bliss of short-term thinking, any one of which is vulnerable to mysterious and often inexplicable influences. We are witness, here, to the effects of a complex collusion of factors which are serving to undermine said virtues. Furthermore, it is my belief that the situation has been orchestrated.’

Her mind had begun to drift with Senior Assessor’s diatribe, but this last observation drew her round. ‘Letheras is under economic assault?’

‘Well put, Samar Dev. Someone is manipulating the situation to achieve a cascading collapse, yes. Such is my humble assessment.’

‘Humble?’

‘Of course not. I view my own brilliance with irony’

‘To what end?’

‘Why, to make me humble.’

‘Are we going to follow Icarium and his pet Gral all afternoon?’

‘I am the only living native of Cabal, Samar Dev, to have seen with my own eyes our god. Is it any wonder I follow him?’

God? He’s not a god. He’s a damned Jhag from the Odhan west of Seven Cities. Suffering a tragic curse, but then, aren’t they all? A figure well ahead of Icarium and Taralack Veed caught her attention. A figure tall, hulking, with a shattered face and a huge stone sword strapped to its back. ‘Oh no,’ she murmured.

‘What is it?’ Senior Assessor asked.

‘He’s seen him.’

‘Samar Dev?’

But he was behind her now, and she was hurrying forward, roughly pushing past people. Expectations? Most certainly. Compromise? Not a chance.

One of the sconces had a faulty valve and had begun producing thick black tendrils of smoke that coiled like serpents in the air, and Uruth’s coughing echoed like barks in the antechamber. His back to the door leading to the throne room, Sirryn Kanar stood with crossed arms, watching the two Tiste Edur. Tomad Sengar was pacing, walking a path that deftly avoided the other waiting guards even as he made a point of pretending they weren’t there. His wife had drawn her dark grey robe about herself, so tight she reminded Sirryn of a vulture with its wings folded close. Age had made her shoulders slightly hunched, adding to the avian impression, sufficient to draw a half-smile to the guard’s mouth.

‘No doubt this waiting amuses you,’ Tomad said in a growl.

‘So you were watching me after all.’

‘I was watching the door, which you happen to be standing against.’

Contemplating kicking through it, no doubt. Sirryn’s smile broadened. Alas, you’d have to go through me, and that you won’t do, will you? ‘The Emperor is very busy.’

‘With what?’ Tomad demanded. ‘Triban Gnol decides everything, after all. Rhulad just sits with a glazed look and nods every now and then.’

‘You think little of your son.’

That struck a nerve, he saw, as husband and wife both fixed hard eyes on him.

‘We think less of Triban Gnol,’ Uruth said.

There was no need to comment on that observation, for Sirryn well knew their opinions of the Chancellor; indeed, their views on all Letherii. Blind bigotry, of course, all the more hypocritical for the zeal with which the Edur had embraced the Letherii way of living, even as they sneered and proclaimed their disgust and contempt. If you are so dis-gusted, why do you still suckle at the tit, Edur? You had your chance at destroying all this. Vs. And our own whole terrible civilization. No, there was little that was worth saying to these two savages.

He felt more than heard the scratch at the door behind him, and slowly straightened. ‘The Emperor will see you now.’

Tomad wheeled round to face the door, and Sirryn saw in the bastard’s face a sudden strain beneath the haughty facade. Beyond him, Uruth swept her cloak back, freeing her arms. Was that fear in her eyes? He watched her move up to stand beside her husband, yet it seemed all they drew from that proximity was yet another tension.

Stepping to one side, Sirryn Kanar swung open the door. ‘Halt in the tiled circle,’ he said. ‘Step past it and a dozen arrows will find your body. No warning will be voiced. By the Emperor’s own command. Now, proceed. Slowly.’

At this moment, a Tiste Edur and four Letherii soldiers approached the city’s west gate on lathered horses. A shout from the Edur sent pedestrians scattering from the raised • road. The five riders were covered in mud and two bore wounds. The swords of the two whose scabbards were not empty were blood-crusted. The Edur was one of those with-out weapons, and from his back jutted the stub of an arrow, its iron head buried in his right scapula. Blood soaked his cloak where the quarrel had pinned it to his back.

This warrior was dying. He had been dying for four days. Another hoarse shout from the Tiste Edur, as he led his ragged troop beneath the gate’s arch, and into the city of Letheras.

The Errant studied Rhulad Sengar, who had sat motionless since the Chancellor had returned to announce the imminent arrival of Tomad and Uruth. Was it some faltering of courage that had kept the Emperor from demanding their immediate presence? There was no way to tell. Even the Chancellor’s cautious queries had elicited nothing.

Lanterns burned on. The traditional torches breathed out smoke, their flickering light licking the walls. Triban Gnol stood, hands folded, waiting.

Within Rhulad’s head battles were being waged. Armies of will and desire contested with the raving forces of fear and doubt. The field was sodden with blood and littered with fallen heroes. Or into his skull some blinding fog had rolled in, oppressive as oblivion itself, and Rhulad wandered lost.

He sat as if carved, clothed in stained wealth, the product of a mad artist’s vision. Lacquered eyes and scarred flesh, twisted mouth and black strands of greasy hair. Sculpted solid to the throne to cajole symbols of permanence and imprisonment, but this madness had lost all subtlety-ever the curse of fascism, the tyranny of gleeful servility that could not abide subversion.

Look upon him, and see what comes when justice is. vengeance. When challenge is criminal. When scepticism is treason. Call upon them, Emperor! Your father, your mother. Call them to stand before you in this inverted nightmare of fidelity, and unleash your wrath!

‘Now,’ Rhulad said in a croak.

The Chancellor gestured to a guard near the side door, who turned in a soft rustle of armour and brushed his gauntleted hand upon the ornate panel. A moment later it opened.

All of this was occurring to the Errant’s left, along the same wall he leaned against, so he could not see what occurred then beyond, barring a few indistinct words.

Tomad and Uruth Sengar strode into the throne room, halting in the tiled circle. Both then bowed to their Emperor.

Rhulad licked his broken lips. ‘They are kin,’ he said.

A frown from Tomad.

‘Enslaved by humans. They deserved our liberation, did they not?’,

‘From the Isle of Sepik, Emperor?’ asked Uruth. ‘Are these of whom you speak?’

‘They were indeed liberated,’ Tomad said, nodding.

Rhulad leaned forward. ‘Enslaved kin. Liberated. Then why, dear Father, do they now rot in chains?’

Tomad seemed unable to answer, a look of confusion on his lined face.

‘Awaiting your disposition,’ Uruth said. ‘Emperor, we have sought audience with you many times since our return. Alas,’ she glanced over at Triban Gnol, ‘the Chancellor sends us away. Without fail.’

And so,’ Rhulad said in a rasp, ‘you proclaimed them guests of the empire as was their right, then settled them where? Why, not in our many fine residences surrounding the palace. No. You chose the trenches-the pits alongside debtors, traitors and murderers. Is this your notion of the Guest Gift in your household, Tomad? Uruth? Strange, for I do not recall in my youth this most profound betrayal of Tiste Edur custom. Not in the House of my family!’

‘Rhulad. Emperor,’ Tomad said, almost stepping back in the face of his son’s rage, ‘have you seen these kin of ours? They are… pathetic. To look upon them is to feel stained. Dirtied. Their spirits are crushed. They have been made a mockery of all that is Tiste Edur. This was the crime the humans of Sepik committed against our blood, and for that we answered, Emperor. That island is now dead.’

‘Kin,’ the Emperor whispered. ‘Explain to me, Father, for I do not understand. You perceive the crime and deliver the judgement, yes, in the name of Edur blood. No matter how fouled, no matter how decrepit. Indeed, those details are without relevance-they in no way affect the punishment, except perhaps to make it all the more severe. All of this, Father, is a single thread of thought, and it runs true. Yet there is another, isn’t there? A twisted, knotted thing. One where the victims of those humans are undeserving of our regard, where they must be hidden away, left to rot like filth.

‘What, then, were you avenging?

‘Where-oh where, Father-is the Guest Gift? Where is the honour that binds all Tiste Edur? Where, Tomad Sengar, where, in all this, is my will? I am Emperor and the face of the empire is mine and mine alone!’

As the echoes of that shriek rebounded in the throne room, reluctant to fade, neither Uruth nor Tomad seemed able to speak. Their grey faces were the colour of ash.

Triban Gnol, standing a few paces behind and to the right of the two Edur, looked like a penitent priest, his eyes down on the floor. But the Errant, whose senses could reach out with a sensitivity that far surpassed that of any mortal, could hear the hammering of that old man’s wretched heart; could almost smell the dark glee concealed behind his benign, vaguely rueful expression.

Uruth seemed to shake herself then, slowly straightening. ‘Emperor,’ she said, ‘we cannot know your will when we are barred from seeing you. Is it the Chancellor’s privilege to deny the Emperor’s own parents? The Emperor’s own blood? And what of all the other Tiste Edur? Emperor, a wall has been raised around you. A Letherii wall.’

The Errant heard Triban Gnol’s heart stutter in its cage. ‘Majesty!’ the Chancellor cried in indignation. ‘No such wall exists! You are protected, yes. Indeed. From all who would harm you-’

‘Harm him?’ Tomad shouted, wheeling on the Chancellor. ‘He is our son!’

‘Assuredly not you, Tomad Sengar. Nor you, Uruth. Perhaps the protection necessary around a ruler might seem to you a wall, but-’

‘We would speak to him!’

‘From you,’ Rhulad said in a dreadful rasp, ‘I would hear nothing. Your words are naught but lies. You both lie to me, as Hannan Mosag lies, as every one of my fellow Tiste Edur lies. Do you imagine I cannot smell the stench of your fear? Your hatred? No, I will hear neither of you. However, you shall hear me.’

The Emperor slowly leaned back in his throne, his eyes hard. ‘Our kin will be set free. This I command. They will be set free. For you, my dear parents, it seems a lesson is required. You left them to rot in darkness. In the ships. In the trench-pits. From these egregious acts, I can only assume that you do not possess any comprehension of the horror of such ordeals. Therefore it is my judgement that you must taste something of what you inflicted upon our kin. You will both spend two months interred in the dungeon crypts of the Fifth Wing. You will live in darkness, fed once a day through chutes in the ceilings of your cells. You will have no-one but each other with whom to speak. You will be shackled. In darkness-do you understand, Uruth? True darkness. No shadows for you to manipulate, no power to whisper in your ear. In that time, I suggest you both think long of what Guest Gift means to a Tiste Edur, of honouring our kin no matter how far they have fallen. Of what it truly means to liberate.’ Rhulad waved his free hand. ‘Send them away, Chancellor. I am made ill by their betrayal of our own kin.’

The Errant, very nearly as stunned as were Tomad and Uruth, missed whatever gesture Triban Gnol used to summon forth the Letherii guards. They appeared quickly, as if conjured from thin air, and closed round Tomad and Uruth.

Letherii hands, iron-scaled and implacable, closed about Tiste Edur arms.

And the Errant knew that the end had begun.

Samar Dev’s hope of ending things before they began did not last long. She was still four strides from Karsa Orlong when he reached Icarium and Taralack Veed. The Toblakai had approached from the side, almost behind the Jhag-who had turned to contemplate the canal’s murky waters

– and she watched as the huge warrior reached out one hand, grasped Icarium by an upper arm, and swung him round.

Taralack Veed lunged to break that grip and his head was snapped by a punch that seemed almost casual. The Gral collapsed onto the pavestones and did not move.

Icarium was staring down at the hand clutching his left arm, his expression vaguely perturbed.

‘Karsa!’ Samar Dev shouted, as heads turned and citizens

– those who had witnessed Taralack Veed’s fate-moved away. ‘If you’ve killed the Gral-’

‘He is nothing,’ Karsa said in a growl, his eyes fixed on Icarium. ‘Your last minder, Jhag, was far more formidable. Now you stand here with no-one to attack me from behind.’

‘Karsa, he is unarmed.’

‘But I am not.’

Icarium was still studying that battered hand gripping his arm-the red weals of scarring left by shackles encircling the thick wrist, the dots and dashes of old tattoos-as if the Jhag was unable to comprehend its function. Then he glanced over at Samar Dev, and his face brightened in a warm smile. ‘Ah, witch. Both Taxilian and Varat Taun have spoken highly of you. Would that we had met earlier

– although I have seen you from across the compound-’

‘She is not your problem,’ Karsa said. ‘I am your problem.’

Icarium slowly turned and met the Toblakai’s eyes. ‘You are Karsa Orlong, who does not understand what it means to spar. How many comrades have you crippled?’

‘They are not comrades. Nor are you.’

‘What about me?’ Samar Dev demanded. ‘Am I not a comrade of yours, Karsa?’

He scowled. ‘What of it?’

‘Icarium is unarmed. If you kill him here you will not face the Emperor. No, you will find yourself in chains. At least until your head gets lopped off.’

‘I have told you before, witch. Chains do not hold me.’

‘You want to face the Emperor, don’t you?’

‘And if this one kills him first?’ Karsa demanded, giving the arm a shake that clearly startled Icarium.

‘Is that the problem?’ Samar Dev asked. And is that why you’re crippling other champions? Not that any will play with you any more, you brainless bully.

‘You wish to face Emperor Rhulad before I do?’ Icarium inquired.

‘I do not ask for your permission, Jhag.’

‘Yet I give it nonetheless, Karsa Orlong. You are welcome to Rhulad.’

Karsa glared at Icarium who, though not as tall, somehow still seemed able to meet the Toblakai eye to eye without lifting his head.

Then something odd occurred. Samar Dev saw a slight widening of Karsa’s eyes as he studied Icarium’s face. ‘Yes,’ he said in a gruff voice. ‘I see it now.’

‘I am pleased,’ replied Icarium.

‘See what?’ Samar Dev demanded.

On the ground behind her Taralack Veed groaned, coughed, then rolled onto his side and was sick.

Karsa released the Jhag’s arm and stepped back. ‘You are good to your word?’

Icarium bowed slightly then said, ‘How could I not be?’

‘That is true. Icarium, I witness.’

The Jhag bowed a second time.

‘Keep your hands away from that sword!’

This shout brought them all round, to see a half-dozen Letherii guards edging closer, their weapons unsheathed.

Karsa sneered at them. ‘I am returning to the compound, children. Get out of my way.’

They parted like reeds before a canoe’s prow as the Toblakai marched forward, then moved into his wake, hurrying to keep up with Karsa’s long strides.

Samar Dev stared after them, then loosed a sudden yelp, before clapping her hands to her mouth.

‘You remind me of Senior Assessor, doing that,’ Icarium observed with another smile. His gaze lifted past her. ‘And yes, there he remains, my very own personal vulture. If 1 gesture him to us, do you think he will come, witch?’

She shook her head, still struggling with an overwhelming flood of relief and the aftermath of terror’s cold clutch that even now made her hands tremble. ‘No, he prefers to worship from a distance.’

‘Worship? The man is deluded. Samar Dev, will you inform him of that?’

‘As you like, but it won’t matter, Icarium. His people, you see, they remember you.’

‘Do they now.’ Icarium’s eyes narrowed slightly on the Senior Assessor, who had begun to cringe from the singular attention of his god.

Spirits below, why was 1 interested in this monk in the first place? There is no lure to the glow of fanatical worship. There is only smug intransigence and the hidden knives of sharp judgement.

‘Perhaps,’ said Icarium, ‘I must speak to him after all.’

‘He’ll run away.’

‘In the compound, then-’

‘Where you can corner him?’

The Jhag smiled. ‘Proof of my omnipotence.’

Sirryn Kanar’s exultation was like a cauldron on the boil, the heavy lid moments from stuttering loose, yet he had held himself down on the long walk into the crypts of the Fifth Wing, where the air was wet enough to taste, where mould skidded beneath their boots and the dank chill reached tendrils to their very bones.

This, then, would be the home of Tomad and Uruth Sengar for the next two months, and Sirryn could not be more pleased. In the light of the lanterns the guards carried he saw, with immense satisfaction, that certain look on the Edur faces, the one that settled upon the expression of every prisoner: the numbed disbelief, the shock and fear stirring in the eyes every now and then, until they were once more overwhelmed by that stupid refusal to accept reality.

He would take sexual pleasure this night, he knew, as if this moment now was but one half of desire’s dialogue. He would sleep satiated, content with the world. His world.

They walked the length of the lowest corridor until reaching the very end. Sirryn gestured that Tomad be taken to the cell on the left; Uruth into the one opposite. He watched as the Edur woman, with a last glance back at her husband, turned and accompanied her three Letherii guards. A moment later Sirryn followed.

‘I know that you are the more dangerous,’ he said to her as one of his guards bent to fix the shackle onto her right ankle. ‘There are shadows here, so long as we remain.’

‘I leave your fate to others,’ she replied.

He studied her for a moment. ‘You shall be forbidden visitors.’

‘Yes.’

‘The shock goes away.’

She looked at him, and he saw in her eyes raw contempt.

‘In its place,’ he continued, ‘comes despair.’

‘Begone, you wretched man.’

Sirryn smiled. ‘Take her cloak. Why should Tomad be the only one to suffer the chill?’

She pushed the guard’s hand away and unlocked the clasp herself.

‘You were foolish enough to refuse the Edur Gift,’ he said, ‘so now you receive’-he waved at the tiny cell with its dripping ceiling, its streaming walls-‘the Letherii gift. Granted with pleasure.’

When she made no reply, Sirryn turned about. ‘Come,’ he said to his guards, ‘let us leave them to their darkness.’

As the last echoes of their footfalls faded, Feather Witch moved out from the cell in which she had been hiding. Guests had arrived in her private world. Unwelcome. These were her corridors; the uneven stones beneath her feet, the slick, slimy walls within her reach, the sodden air, the reek of rot, the very darkness itself-these all belonged to her.

Tomad and Uruth Sengar. Uruth, who had once owned Feather Witch. Well, there was justice in that. Feather Witch was Letherii, after all, and who could now doubt that the grey tide had turned?

She crept out into the corridor, her moccasin-clad feet noiseless on the slumped floor, then hesitated. Did she wish to look upon them? To voice her mockery of their plight? The temptation was strong. But no, better to remain unseen, unknown to them.

And they were now speaking to each other. She drew closer to listen.

‘… not long,’ Tomad was saying. ‘This, more than anything else, wife, forces our hand. Hannan Mosag will approach the women and an alliance will be forged-’

‘Do not be so sure of that,’ Uruth replied. ‘We have not forgotten the truth of the Warlock King’s ambition. This is of his making-’

‘Move past that-there is no choice.’

‘Perhaps. But concessions will be necessary and that will be difficult, for we do not trust him. Oh, he will give his word, no doubt. As you say, there is no choice. But what value Hannan Mosag’s word? His soul is poisoned. He still lusts for that sword, for the power it holds. And that we will not give him. Never within his reach. Never!’

There was a rustle of chains, then Tomad spoke: ‘He did not sound mad, Uruth.’

‘No,’ she replied in a low voice. ‘He did not.’

‘He Was right in his outrage.’

‘Yes.’

‘As were we, on Sepik, when we saw how far our kin had fallen. Their misery, their surrender of all will, all pride, all identity. They were once Tiste Edur! Had we known that from the first-’

‘We would have left them, husband?’

Silence, then: ‘No. Vengeance against the Malazans was necessary. But for our sake, not that of our kin. Rhulad misunderstood that.’

‘He did not. Tomad, those kin suffered the holds of the fleet. They suffered the pits. Rhulad did not misunderstand. We were punishing them for their failure. That, too, was vengeance. Against our very own blood.’

Bitterness now in Tomad’s voice: ‘You said nothing when judgement was cast, wife. Please yourself with this false wisdom if you like. If it is what I must hear from you, then I’d rather silence.’

‘Then, husband, you shall have it.’

Feather Witch eased back. Yes, Hannan Mosag would be told. And what would he then do? Seek out the Edur women? She hoped not. If Feather Witch possessed a true enemy, it was they. Was the Warlock King their match? In deceit, most certainly. But in power? Not any more. Unless, of course, he had hidden allies.

She would need to speak with the Errant. With her god.

She would need to force some… concessions.

Smiling, Feather Witch slipped her way up the corridor.

The fate of Tomad and Uruth Sengar drifted through her mind, then passed on, leaving scarce a ripple.

One subterranean tunnel of the Old Palace stretched inland almost to the junction of the Main Canal and Creeper Canal. This passage had been bricked in at three separate locations, and these barriers Hannan Mosag had left in place, twisting reality with Kurald Emurlahn in order to pass through them, as he had done this time with Bruthen Trana in tow.

The Warlock King’s followers had kept the warrior hidden for some time now, whilst Hannan Mosag worked his preparations, and this had not been an easy task. It was not as if the palace was astir with search parties and the like-the fever of confusion and fear was endemic these days, after all. People vanished with disturbing regularity, especially among the Tiste Edur. No, the difficulty resided with Bruthen Trana himself.

A strong-willed man. But this will do us well, provided 1 can pound into his skull the fact that impatience is a weakness. A warrior needed resolve, true enough, but there was a time and there was a place, and both had yet to arrive.

Hannan Mosag had led Bruthen to the chamber at the very end of the tunnel, an octagonal room of ill-fitted stones. The angular domed ceiling overhead, tiled in once bright but now black copper, was so low the room felt like a hut.

When the Warlock King had first found this chamber, it and at least forty paces of the tunnel had been under water, the depth following the downward gradient until the black, murky sludge very nearly brushed the chamber’s ceiling.

Hannan Mosag had drained the water through a modest rent that led into the realm of the Nascent, which he then closed, moving quickly in his crab-like scrabble to drag seven bundled arm-length shafts of Blackwood down the slimy corridor and into the chamber. It had begun refilling, of course, and the Warlock King sloshed his way to the centre, where he untied the bundle, then began constructing an octagonal fence, each stick a hand’s width in from the walls, two to each side, held mostly upright in the thick sludge covering the floor. When he had completed this task, he called upon his fullest unveiling of Kurald Emurlahn.

At a dreadful cost. Seeking to purge the power of all chaos, of the poisonous breath of the Crippled God, he was almost unequal to the task. His malformed flesh, his twisted bones, the thin, blackened blood in his veins and arteries; these now served the malign world of the Fallen One, forming a symbiosis of life and power. It had been so long since he had last felt-truly felt-the purity of Kurald Emurlahn that, even in its fragmented, weakened state, he very nearly recoiled at its burning touch.

With the air reeking of scorched flesh and singed hair, Hannan Mosag sought to force sanctification upon the chamber. Trapping the power of Shadow in this, his new, private temple. An entire night of struggle, the cold water ever rising, his legs numb, he began to feel his concentration tearing apart. In desperation-feeling it all slipping away-he called upon Father Shadow.

Scabandari.

Despairing, knowing that he had failed-

And sudden power, pure and resolute, burgeoned in the chamber. Boiling away the water in roiling gusts of steam, until oven-dry heat crackled from the stone walls. The mud on the floor hardened, cementing the Blackwood shafts.

That heat reached into Hannan Mosag’s flesh, down to grip his very bones. He had shrieked in agony, even as a new kind of life spread through him.

It had not healed him; had done nothing to straighten his bones or unclench scarred tissue.

No, it had been more like a promise, a whispering invitation to some blessed future. Fading in a dozen heartbeats, yet the memory of that promise remained with Hannan Mosag.

Scabandari, Father Shadow, still lived. Torn from bone and flesh, true, but the spirit remained. Answering his desperate prayer, gifting this place with sanctity.

I have found the path. I can see the end.

Now he crouched on the hard, desiccated ground and Bruthen Trana-forced to hunch slightly because of the low ceiling-stood at his side. The Warlock King gestured to the centre of the chamber. ‘There, warrior. You must lie down. The ritual is readied, but I warn you, the journey will be long and difficult.’

‘I do not understand this, Warlock King. This… this temple. It is true Kurald Emurlahn.’

‘Yes, Bruthen Trana. Blessed by the power of Father Shadow himself. Warrior, your journey itself is so blessed. Does this not tell you that we are on the right path?’

Bruthen Trana stared down at him, was silent for a half-dozen heartbeats, then said, ‘You, among all others, should have been turned away. By Father Shadow. Your betrayal-’

‘My betrayal means nothing,’ the Warlock King snapped. ‘Warrior, we are blessed! This place, it is not simply a temple of Kurald Emurlahn! It is a temple of Scabandari! Of our god himself! The very first such temple in this realm-do you not grasp what that means? He is coming back. To us.’

‘Then perhaps what we seek is pointless,’ Bruthen replied.

‘What?’

‘Scabandari will return, and he will stand before Rhulad Sengar. Tell me, will your Crippled God risk that confrontation?’

‘Do not be a fool, Bruthen Trana. You ask the wrong question. Will Scabandari risk that confrontation? Upon the very moment of his return? We cannot know Father Shadow’s power, but I believe he will be weak, exhausted. No, warrior, it is for us to protect him upon his return. Protect, and nourish.’

‘Has Fear Sengar found him then?’

Hannan Mosag’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘What do you know of that, Bruthen Trana?’

‘Only what most Edur know. Fear left, to seek out Father Shadow. In answer to his brother. In answer to you, Warlock King.’

‘Clearly,’ Hannan Mosag said in a tight voice, ‘there has been a reconciliation.’

‘Perhaps there has. You did not answer my question.’

‘I cannot. For I do not know.’

‘Do you dissemble yet again?’

‘Your accusation is unjust, Bruthen Trana.’

‘Let us begin this ritual. Tell me, will I journey in the flesh?’

‘No. You would die, and instantly, warrior. No, we must tug free your spirit.’

Hannan Mosag watched as Bruthen Trana moved to the centre of the chamber. The warrior divested himself of his sword and belt and lay down on his back.

‘Close your eyes,’ the Warlock King said, crawling closer. ‘Lead your mind into the comfort of Shadow. You shall feel my touch, upon your chest. Shortly after, all sense of your physical body will vanish. Open your eyes then, and you will find yourself… elsewhere.’

‘How will I know when I have found the path I seek?’

‘By virtue of seeking, you will find, Bruthen Trana. Now, silence please. I must concentrate.’

A short time later the Warlock King reached out and settled his hand upon the warrior’s chest.

As easy as that.

The body lying before him drew no breath. Left alone for too long it would begin to rot. But this was sanctified ground, alive now with the power of Kurald Emurlahn. There would be no decay. There would, for the body, be no passage of time at all.

Hannan Mosag pulled himself closer. He began searching Bruthen Trana’s clothing. The warrior had something hidden on him-something with an aura of raw power that struck the Warlock King’s senses like a stench. He worked through the pockets on the underside of the warrior’s leather cloak and found naught but a tattered note of some kind. He emptied the coin pouch tied to the sword-belt. A lone polished stone, black as onyx but nothing more than wave-eroded obsidian. Three docks-the local Letherii currency. And nothing else. With growing irritation, Hannan Mosag began stripping the warrior.

Nothing. Yet he could smell it, permeating the clothing.

Snarling, Hannan Mosag settled back, his hands twitching.

He’s taken it with him. That should have been impossible. Yet… what other possibility is there?

His fevered gaze found the crumpled note. Collecting it, he flattened the linen and read what had been written there.

At first he could make no sense of the statement-no, not a statement, he realized. A confession. A signature he had not seen before, so stylized in the Letherii fashion as to be indecipherable. Moments later, his mind racing, revelation arrived.

His eyes lifted, fixed upon Bruthen Trana’s now naked form. ‘What deceit were you planning with this, warrior? Perhaps you are cleverer than I had imagined.’ He paused, then smiled. ‘No matter now.’

The Warlock King drew his dagger. ‘Some blood, yes, to seal the sacred life of my temple. Scabandari, you would understand this. Yes. The necessity.’

He crawled up beside Bruthen Trana. ‘Deliver the one we seek, warrior. Yes. Beyond that, alas, my need for you ends.’ He raised the knife, then drove it hard into the warrior’s heart.

Glancing over at Bugg, Tehol Beddict saw his manservant complete an entire turn, his eyes tracking the huge Tarthenal as if they had been nailed to the barbaric warrior with his absurd stone sword. The cordon of guards flanking i he giant looked appropriately terrified. ‘Well,’ Tehol said, ‘he’s no Ublala Pung, now is he?’

Bugg did not even seem to hear him.

‘Oh, be like that, then. I think I want to talk to that other one-what did you call him? Oh yes, the Jhag. Any person who would not flinch in the grip of that Tarthenal is either brainless or-oh, not a pleasant thought-even scarier. Perhaps it would do to hesitate at this moment, mindful as ever of loyal manservant’s advice… no? No it is. So please, do stand there like a man whose heart has just dropped through to lodge somewhere underneath his spliver or some such organ I don’t want to know about. Yes, then, do that.’

Tehol set off towards the Jhag. The other savage who had been punched unconscious by the Tarthenal-the Tarthenal whom Ublala Pung had broken into the compound to find-was now sitting up, looking dazedly about. Blood still streamed from his thoroughly broken nose. The woman, attractive in an earthy way, Tehol noted again, was speaking to the tattooed giant, while a dozen paces away a foreigner stood gazing with something like awe upon either the woman or the Jhag.

In all, Tehol decided, an interesting scenario. Interesting enough to interrupt in his usual charming manner. As he drew closer, he spread his arms and announced, ‘Time, I think, for a more proper welcome to our fair city!’ And his blanket slipped down to gather at his feet.

Bugg, alas, missed this delightful introduction, for even as his eyes had clung to the Toblakai, so he found himself walking, following, step after step, as the warrior and his escort marched towards the Champion’s Compound-or whatever unintentionally ironic name the guileless officials of the palace had named it. They had come to within a street of the walled enclosure when all hopes of continuing came to a sudden but confused end. For the street was filled with people.

Emaciated, fouled with excrement, mostly naked flesh covered in welts and sores, they packed the street like abandoned children, lost and forlorn, blinking in the harsh afternoon sun. Hundreds of the wretched creatures.

The Toblakai’s guards halted at this unexpected barrier, and Bugg saw the foremost one reel back as if assailed by a stench, then turn to argue with the others. Their ‘prisoner’, on the other hand, simply bellowed at the mob to clear the way, then walked on, shouldering through the press.

He had gone perhaps twenty paces when he too drew to a halt. Shoulders and head above the crowd, he glared about, then shouted in a rude version of Malazan: ‘I know you! Once slaves of Sepik Island! Hear me!’

Faces swung round. The crowd shifted on all sides, forming a rough circle.

They hear. They are desperate to hear.

‘I, Karsa Orlong, will give answer! So I vow. Your kin refuse you. They cast you out. You live or you die and neither matters to them. Nor to any in this cursed land. To your fate I offer nothing! In vengeance for what has been done to you, I offer everything. Now, go your way-your chains are gone. Go, so that never again will they return to you!’ With that, the Toblakai warrior moved on, towards the compound’s main gate.

Not precisely what they needed to hear, I think. Not yet, anyway. In time, 1 suspect, it may well return to them.

No, this-here and now-this demands another kind of leadership.

The guards had retreated, seeking another route.

The few citizens within sight were doing the same. No-one wanted to see this legacy.

Bugg pushed himself forward. He drew upon his power, felt it struggle at this unseemly purpose. Damn my worshippers-whoever, wherever you are. I will have my way here! Power, devoid of sympathy, cold as the sea, dark as the depths. I will have my way.

‘Close your eyes,’ he said to the mob. The words were little more than a whisper, yet all heard them, solid and undeniable in their minds. Close your eyes.

They did. Children, women, men. Motionless now. Eyes closed tight, breaths held in sudden tension, perhaps even fear-but Bugg suspected that these people were beyond fear. They waited for what would come next. And did not move.

I will have my way. ‘Hear me. There is a place of safety. Far from here. I will send you there. Now. Friends will find you. They will bring healing, and you will have food, clothing and shelter. When you feel the ground shift beneath you, open your eyes to your new home.’

The sea did not forgive. Its power was hunger and swelling rage. The sea warred with the shore, with the very sky. The sea wept for no-one.

Bugg did not care.

Like any tidal pool motionless under the hot sun, his blood had grown… heated. And the smallest pool was filled with the promise of an ocean, a score of oceans-all their power could be held in a single drop of water. Such was Denaeth Rusen, such was Ruse, the warren where life was first born. And there, in that promise of life itself, will I find what I need.

Of empathy.

Of warmth.

The power, when it came, was a true current. Angry, yes, yet true. Water had known life for so long it held no memory of purity. Power and gift had become one, and so it yielded to its god.

And he sent them away.

Bugg opened his eyes, and saw before him an empty street.

In his room once more, Karsa Oflong lifted free his shoulder scabbard, then, holding the weapon and its harness in his hands, he stared down at the long table, on which sat an oil lantern set on low burn. After a moment he laid the sword and rigging down. And grew still once more.

Many things to consider, a heaving of foam and froth from some struck well deep within him. The slaves. Cast out because their lives were meaningless. Both these Edur and the Letherii were heartless, yet cowards. Eager to turn away from witnessing the cost of their indifference. Content to strip fellowship from any whenever it suited them.

Yet they would call him the barbarian.

If so, then he was well pleased with the distinction.

And, true to his savagely clear vision of right and wrong, he would hold in his mind that scene-those starved faces, the liquid eyes that seemed to shine so bright he felt burned by their touch-hold to it when he faced Emperor Rhulad. When he then faced every Letherii and every Edur who chose to stand in his way.

So he had vowed, and so all would witness.

This cold thought held him motionless for another dozen heartbeats, then a second image returned to him. Icarium, the one they called Lifestealer.

He had been moments from breaking that Jhag’s neck.

And then he had seen in the ash-skinned face… something. And with it, recognition.

He would yield to Karsa. He had given his word, and Karsa now knew that would not be broken.

There was Jhag blood in this Icarium, but of that Karsa knew little. Father or mother a Jaghut; it hardly mattered which.

Yet the other parent. Father or mother. Well, he had seen enough in Icarium’s face to know that blood. To know it like the whisper of his very own.

Toblakai.

In his opulent office, Chancellor Triban Gnol slowly sat down with uncharacteristic caution. A dust-laden, sweat-and blood-stained Letherii soldier stood before him, Hanked on his right by Sirryn Kanar, whose return from the crypts had coincided with the arrival of this messenger.

Triban Gnol looked away from the exhausted soldier. He would call in the scrub-slaves afterwards, to wash down the floor where the man now stood; to scent the air once again with pine oil. Eyes on a lacquered box on the desktop before him, he asked, ‘How many did you come in with, (Corporal?’

‘Three others. And an Edur.’

Triban Gnol’s head snapped up. ‘Where is he now?’

‘Died not three steps into the Domicile’s grand entrance, sir.’

‘Indeed? Died?’

‘He was grievously wounded, sir. And I knew enough to prevent any healer reaching him in time. I moved close to help him as he staggered, and gave the arrow in his back a few twists, then a deeper push. He passed out with the pain of that, and as I caught him and lowered him to the floor, I closed my thumb upon the great artery in his neck. I was able to hold that grip for thirty or more heartbeats. That was more than the Edur could withstand.’

And you a mere corporal in my employ? I think not. Sirryn, after we are done here, draft a promotion for this man.’

‘Yes, Chancellor.’

And so,’ Triban Gnol resumed, ‘being of rank among the remaining Letherii, the responsibility for reporting fell to you.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘I need the names of the others.’

The corporal seemed to flinch. ‘Sir, without my soldiers, I would never have-’

‘I understand your loyalty, and I commend you. Alas, we must face this situation with a clear eye. We must recognize necessity. Those soldiers are not mine. Not like you.’

‘They are loyal, sir-’

‘To whom? To what? No, the risk is too great. I will grant you this gift, however.’ The Chancellor’s gaze flicked to Sirryn. ‘Quick and painless. No interrogation.’

Sirryn’s brows rose. ‘None?’

‘None.’

As you command, sir.’

The corporal licked his lips, and then, clearly forcing out the words, he said, ‘I thank you, sir.’

The Chancellor’s nod was distracted, his gaze once more on the gleaming box of Blackwood on his desk. ‘I would ask again,’ he said, ‘there was no indication of who they were? No formal declaration of war?’

‘Nothing like that at all, sir,’ the corporal replied. ‘Hundreds of burning ships-that was their declaration of war. And even then, they seemed… few. No army-no sign at all of the landing.’

‘Yet there was one.’

‘Errant fend, yes! Sir, I rode with twenty Letherii, veterans all, and six Tiste Edur of the Arapay. Edur magic or not, we were ambushed in a clearing behind an abandoned homestead. One moment-thinking to make our camp-we were reining in amidst the high grasses-alone

– and the next there was thunder and fire, and bodies fly

ing-flying, sir, through the air. Or just limbs. Pieces. And arrows hissing in the dusk.’

‘Yet your troop recovered.’

But the corporal shook his head. ‘The Edur commanding us-he knew that the news we were bringing to the capital

– that of the burning ships and the dead Tiste bodies on the roads-that news demanded that we disengage. As many of us as could fight clear. Sir, with the Edur in the lead, we bolted. Seven of us at first-they had killed the other five

Edur in the first breath of the attack-seven, then five.’

‘Did this enemy pursue?’ Triban Gnol asked in a quiet, thoughtful voice.

‘No sir. They had no horses-none that we saw in any case.’

The Chancellor simply nodded at that. Then asked, ‘Human?’

‘Yes sir. But not Letherii, not tribal either, from what we could see. Sir, they used crossbows, but not the small, weak fisher bows such as we use in the shallows during the carp run. No, these were weapons of blackened iron, with thick cords and quarrels that punched through armour and shield. I saw one of my soldiers knocked flat onto his back by one such quarrel, dead in the instant. And-’

He halted when Triban Gnol raised a perfectly manicured finger.

‘A moment, soldier. A moment. Something you said.’ The Chancellor looked up. ‘Five of the six Edur, killed at the very beginning of the ambush. And the discovery of Edur corpses on the roads leading in from the coast. No Letherii bodies on those roads?’

‘None that we found, sir, no.’

‘Yet the sixth Edur survived that initial strike in the glade-how?’

‘It must have seemed that he didn’t. The quarrel in his back, sir, the one that eventually killed him. He was sent tumbling from his saddle. I doubt any one expected him to rise again, to regain his mount-’

‘You saw all this with your own eyes?’

‘I did, sir.’

‘That quarrel-before or after the thunder and fire?’

The corporal frowned, then said, ‘Before. Just before-not even a blink from one to the next, I think. Yes, I am certain. He was the very first struck.’

‘Because he was clearly in command?’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

‘This thunder and fire, where did the sorcery strike first? Let me answer that for myself. In the midst of the remaining Edur.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘You may go now, soldier. Sirryn, remain with me a moment.’

As soon as the door closed Triban Gnol was’ on his feet. ‘Errant fend! A damned invasion! Against the Letherii Empire!’

‘Sounds more like against the Edur,’ Sirryn ventured.

The Chancellor glared across at him. ‘You damned fool. That is incidental-an interesting detail at most. Without true relevance. Sirryn, the Edur rule us-perhaps only in name, yes, but they are our occupiers. In our midst. Able to command Letherii forces as befits their need.’

He slammed a fist down on the table. The lacquered box jumped, the lid clattering free. Triban Gnol stared at what lay within. ‘We are at war,’ he said. ‘Not our war-not the one we planned for-no. War!’

‘We will crush these invaders, sir-’

‘Of course we will, once we meet their sorcery with our own. That too is not relevant.’

‘I do not understand, sir.’

Triban Gnol glared at the man. No, you don’t. Which is why your rank will never rise higher, you pathetic thug. ‘When you are done with silencing the other soldiers, Sirryn-oh yes, and the promotion for our enterprising young corporal-I want you to deliver, by hand, a message to Karos Invictad.’

‘Sir?’

‘An invitation. He is to come to the palace.’

‘When?’

‘Immediately.’

Sirryn saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Go.’

As the door closed a second time, Triban Gnol stared down at his desk. Down into the box with its dislodged lid. Wherein sat a small, squat bottle. A third of its contents remaining.

Triban Gnol often drew satisfaction from the sight of it, the very knowledge of it when hidden within its box. He would recall pouring the contents into the vessel of wine from which he knew Ezgara Diskanar would drink, there on that last terrible day. In the throne room. Ezgara, and that pathetic First Eunuch. Nisall should have followed. Not Brys. No, anyone but Brys Beddict.

Regrettable, that.

Chapter Sixteen

Fire had taken the grasses. Wind and water had taken the soil. The level stretch where the two drainage channels debouched was a scatter of button cacti, fist-sized cobbles and fire-cracked rock. The Letherii outrider’s corpse had rolled down from the ridge leaving a path of spattered blood now black as ink on the rocks. Coyotes, wolves or perhaps Awl dogs had chewed away the softer tissues-face and gut, buttocks and inner thighs-leaving the rest to the flies and their maggot spawn.

Overseer Brohl Handar-who knew he should have died at Bast Fulmar, had indeed believed at that last moment that he would, absurdly killed by his own sword-gestured to two of his troop to remain on the ridge and waved the others to the highest rise thirty paces away, on the other side of one of the gullies, then walked his horse down onto the flat. Steeling himself against the stench of the dead soldier, he forced his reluctant mount closer.

The K’risnan had reached him in time. With the power to heal, a power pure-no stain of chaos-that was, Brohl Handar now understood, a blessing. Kurald Emurlahn. Darkness reborn. He would not question it, would not doubt it. Blessing.

The stub of an arrow jutted from the outrider’s throat. His weapons had been taken, as had the vest of fine chain beneath the light tanned leather shirt. There was no sign of the Letherii’s horse. The buzz of the flies seemed preter-naturally loud.

Brohl Handar wheeled his mount round and guided it back up onto the ridge. He spoke to the Sollanta scout. ‘Tracks?’

‘Just his horse, Overseer,’ the warrior replied. ‘The ambusher was, I believe, on foot.’

Brohl nodded. This had been the pattern. The Awl were collecting horses, weapons and armour. The Atri-Preda had since commanded that no outrider scout alone. To this Redmask would no doubt add more ambushers.

‘The Awl rode southeast, Overseer.’

Days ago, alas. There was no point in pursuing.

Eyes narrowed against the harsh sunlight, Brohl Handar scanned the plain on all sides. How could a warrior hide in this empty land? The drainage gullies had seemed an obvious answer, and as soon as one was spotted a troop would dismount, advance on foot, and plunge into it seeking to flush out the enemy. All they had found were bedded deer and coyote dens.

Areas of high grasses were virtually attacked, both mounted and on foot. Again, nothing but the occasional deer bolting almost from the feet of some startled, cursing soldier; or ptarmigan or thrushes exploding skyward in a flurry of feathers and drumming wings.

The mages insisted that sorcery was not at work here; indeed, much of the Awl’dan seemed strangely bereft of whatever was necessary to shape magic. The valley known as Bast Fulmar had been, it was becoming clear, in no way unique. Brohl Handar had begun with the belief that the plains were but southern versions of tundra. In some ways this was true; in others it was anything but. Horizons deceived, distances lied. Valleys hid from the eye until one was upon them. Yet, so much like the tundra, a terrible place to fight a war.

Redmask and his army had disappeared. Oh, there were trails aplenty; huge swaths of trodden ground wending this way and that. But some were from bhederin herds; others were old and still others seemed to indicate travel in opposite directions, overlapping back and forth until all sense was lost. And so, day after day, the Letherii forces set out, their supplies dwindling, losing outriders to ambushes, marching this way and that, as if doomed to pursue a mythic battle that would never come.

Brohl Handar had assembled thirty of his best riders, and each day he led them out from the column, pushing far onto the flanks-dangerously far-in hopes of sighting the Awl.

He now squinted at the Sollanta scout. ‘Where have they gone?’

The warrior grimaced. ‘I have given this some thought, Overseer. Indeed, it is all I have thought about this past week. The enemy, I believe, is all around us. After Bast Fulmar, Redmask split the tribes. Each segment employed wagons to make them indistinguishable-as we have seen from the countless trails, those wagons are drawn from side to side to side, eight or ten across, and they move last, thus obliterating signs of all that precedes them on the trail. Could be a hundred warriors ahead, could be five thousand.’

‘If so,’ Brohl objected, ‘we should have caught up with at least one such train.’

‘We do not move fast enough, Overseer. Recall, we remained encamped on the south side of Bast Fulmar for two entire days. That gave them a crucial head start. Their columns, wagons and all, move faster than ours. It is as simple as that.’

‘And the Atri-Preda refuses to send out reconnaissance in force,’ Brohl said, nodding.

A wise decision,’ the scout said.

‘How so?’

‘Redmask would turn on such a force. He would overwhelm it and slaughter every soldier in it. Either way, Overseer, we are playing his game.’

‘That is… unacceptable.’

‘I imagine the Atri-Preda agrees with you, sir.’

‘What can be done?’

The warrior’s brows lifted. ‘I do not command this army, Overseer.’

Nor do I. ‘If you did?’

Sudden unease in the scout’s face and he glanced over at the other outrider with them on the ridge, but that man seemed intent on something else, far off on the horizon, as he tore loose bits of dried meat from the thin strip in his left hand, and slowly chewed.

‘Never mind,’ Brohl said, sighing. An unfair question.’

‘Yet I would answer still, Overseer, if you like.’

‘Go on.’

‘Retreat, sir. Back to Drene. Resume claiming land, and protect it well. Redmask, then, will have to come to us, if lie would contest the theft of Awl land.’

I agree. But she will not have it. ‘Sound the recall,’ he said.

‘We’re returning to the column.’

The sun had crawled past noon by the time the Tiste Edur troop came within sight of the Letherii column, and it was immediately evident that something had happened. Supply wagons were drawn into a hollow square formation, the oxen and mules already unhitched and led into two separate kraals within that defensive array. Elements of the various brigades and regiments were drawing into order both north and south of the square, with mounted troops well out east and west.

Brohl Handar led his troop into a quick canter. To his lead scout he said, ‘Rejoin my Arapay-I see them to the west.’

‘Yes sir.’

As the troop turned behind him, the Overseer kicked his horse into a gallop and rode for the small forest of standards marking the Atri-Preda’s position, just outside the east j barrier of wagons. The land here was relatively flat. Another ridge of slightly higher ground ran roughly east-west a thousand paces to the south, while the topography on this north side was more or less level with the trail, thick with the waist-high silver-bladed grass known as knifegrass, a direct translation of the Awl name, masthebe.

Redmask would be a fool to meet us here.

He eased his horse down to a fast trot as he drew nearer. He could see the Atri-Preda now, the flush of excitement on her face replacing the strain that had seemed to age her a year for every day since Bast Fulmar. She had gathered her officers, and they were now pulling away in answer to her orders. By the time the Overseer arrived only a few messengers remained, along with the standard bearer of Bivatt’s own command.

He reined in. ‘What has happened?’

‘Seems he’s grown weary of running,’ Bivatt replied with a fiercely satisfied expression.

‘You have found him?’

‘He even now marches for us, Overseer.’

‘But… why would he do that?’

There was a flicker of unease in her eyes, then she looked away, fixing her gaze to the southeast, where Brohl could now see a dust cloud on the horizon. ‘He believes us tired, worn out. He knows we are short of food and decent forage, and that we have wagons crowded with wounded. He means to savage us yet again.’

The sweat on Brohl Handar’s brow was plucked away by a gust of warm wind. Ceaseless breath of the plains, that wind, always from the west or northwest. It devoured every drop of moisture, turning the skin leathery and burnished. Licking chapped lips, the Overseer cleared his throat, then said, ‘Can sorcery be unleashed here, Atri-Preda?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Yes. And with that, we will give answer.’

‘And their shamans? What of the Awl shamans?’

‘Useless, Overseer. Their rituals are too slow for combat. Nor can they make use of raw power. We will have at them this day, Brohl Handar.’

‘You have positioned the Tiste Edur once again to the rear. Are we to guard the dung left by the oxen, Atri-Preda?’

‘Not at all. I believe you will see plenty of fighting today. There are bound to be flanking strikes, seeking our supplies, and I will need you and your Edur to throw them back. Recall, as well, those two demons.’

‘They are difficult to forget,’ he replied. ‘Very well, we shall position ourselves defensively.’ He collected his reins. ‘Enjoy your battle, Atri-Preda.’

Bivatt watched the Overseer ride off, irritated with his questions, his scepticism. Redmask was as mortal as any man. He was not immune to mistakes, and this day he had made one. The defender was ever at an advantage, and the general rule was that an attacker required substantial numerical superiority. Bivatt had lost to death or wounding over eight hundred of her soldiers in the debacle that was Bast Fulmar. Even with that, Redmask did not possess sufficient numbers, assuming he intended to advance beyond initial sighting.

Ideally, she would have liked to position her forces along the ridge to the south, but there had been no time for that; and by staying where she was, she would prevent that ridge from factoring in the battle to come. There was the chance that Redmask would simply take the ridge then await her, but she would not play into his hands again. If he sought battle this day, he would have to advance. And quickly. Standing and waiting on the ridge would not be tolerated, not when Bivatt had her mages. Stand there if you dare, Redmask, in the face of wave upon wave of sorcery.

But he was coming. Bivatt did not believe he would seek the ridge then simply wait, expecting her to yield her defensive formation in order to march upon him.

No, he has lost his patience. Revealed his weakness.

She scanned the positioning of her troops. Crimson Rampant heavy infantry to anchor the far left, the easternmost end of her line. Merchants’ Battalion heavy infantry to the far right. Artisan Battalion heavy infantry at the centre. To their flanks, extending out and at double-depth-twenty rather than ten lines-were the assorted medium infantry of her force. Reserve elements of her remaining skirmishers, the Drene Garrison and medium infantry were arrayed closer to the square of wagons. The Bluerose cavalry, divided into two wings, she held back to await a quick response, as either counter-attack or riding to close a breach.

Brohl Handar’s Tiste Edur guarded the north. They would be facing away from the main battle, yet Bivatt was certain there would be an attack on them, another strike for the supplies. And she suspected it would come from the high grasses on the north side of the track.

Rising on her stirrups, she studied the approaching dust cloud. Her scouts had confirmed that this was indeed Redmask, leading what had to be the majority of his warriors. That haze of dust seemed to be angling towards the ridge. The Atri-Preda sneered, then gestured a messenger over. ‘Bring me my mages. On the double.’

The old man had been found dead in his tent that morning. The imprints of the hands that had strangled him left a mottled map of brutality below his bloated face and bulging eyes. His murderer had sat atop him, staring down to witness death’s arrival. The last elder of the Renfayar, Redmask’s own tribe, perhaps the most ancient man among the entire Awl. The Blind Stalker that was death should have reached out a most gentle touch upon such a man.

In the camp fear and dismay whistled and spun like a trapped wind in a gorge, punctuated by terrible wails from the crones and cries announcing ill omen. Redmask had arrived to look down upon the corpse when it had been carried into the open, and of course none could see what lay behind his scaled mask, but he did not fall to his knees beside the body of his kin, his wise adviser. He had stood, motionless, cadaran whip wrapped crossways about his torso, the rygtha crescent axe held loose in his left hand.

Dogs were howling, their voices awakened by the mourners, and on the flanks of the slopes to the south the rodara herds shifted this way and that, nervous and fretful.

Redmask had turned away, then. His copper-masked officers drew closer, along with Masarch and, trailing a few steps behind, Toc Anaster.

‘We are done fleeing,’ Redmask said. ‘Today, we will spill yet more Letherii blood.’

This was what the Awl warriors had been waiting to hear. Their loyalty was not in question, not since Bast Fulmar, yet they were young and they had tasted blood. They wanted to taste it again. The elaborate hare-dance in which they had led the Letherii had gone on too long. Even the clever ambushes sprung on the enemy outriders and scouts had not been enough. The wending, chaotic march had seemed too much like flight.

The warriors were assembled north of the encampment with dawn still fresh in the air, the dog-masters and their helpers leashing the snapping, restless beasts and positioning their charges slightly to the east. Horses stamped on the dew-smeared ground, clan pennons wavering like tall reeds. Scouts were sent off with horse-archers to make contact with the Letherii outriders and drive them back to their nest. This would ensure that the specific presentation of Redmask’s forces would remain unknown for as long as possible.

Moments before the army set out, Torrent arrived to position himself at Toc’s side. The warrior was scowling, as he did most mornings-and afternoons and evenings-when he had forgotten to don his mask of paint. Since it had begun to give him a blotchy rash on cheeks, chin and forehead, he ‘forgot’ more often these days-and Toc answered that belligerent expression with a bright smile.

‘Swords unsheathed this day, Torrent.’

‘Has Redmask given you leave to ride to battle?’

Toc shrugged. ‘He’s said nothing either way, which I suppose is leave enough.’

‘It is not.’ Torrent backed his horse away, then swung it round to ride to where Redmask sat astride his Letherii mount beyond the rough line of readied riders.

Settling back in the strange boxy Awl saddle, Toc examined once again his bow, then the arrows in the quiver strapped to his right thigh. He wasn’t much interested in actually fighting, but at the very least he would be ready to defend himself if necessary. Ill omens. Clearly Redmask was indifferent to such notions. Toc scratched at the lurid tissue surrounding his eyeless socket. I miss that eye, gift of High Derail in what seems ages past. Gods knew, made me a real archer again-these days I’m damned near useless. Fast and inaccurate, that’s Toc the Unlucky.

Would Redmask forbid him his ride this day? Toc did not think so. He could see Torrent exchanging words with the war leader, the unmasked warrior’s horse sidestepping and tossing its head. True enough, how the beast comes to resemble its master. Imagine all the one’eyed dogs I might have owned. Torrent then wheeled his mount and made his way back towards Toc at a quick canter.

The scowl had darkened. Toc smiled once more. ‘Swords unsheathed this day, Torrent.’

‘You’ve said that before.’

‘I thought we might start over.’

‘He wants you out of danger.’

‘But I can still ride with the army.’

‘I do not trust you, so do not think that anything you do will not be unwitnessed.’

‘Too many nots there, I think, Torrent. But I’m feeling generous this morning so I’ll leave the reins loose.’

‘One must never knot his reins,’ Torrent said. ‘Any fool knows that.’

‘As you say.’

The army set out, all mounted for the moment-including the dog-masters-but’ that would not last. Nor, Toc suspected, would the force remain united. Redmask saw no battle as a singular event. Rather, he saw a collection of clashes, an engagement of wills; where one was blunted he would shift his attention to resume the sparring elsewhere, and it was in the orchestration of these numerous meetings that a battle was won or lost. Flanking elements would spin off from the main column. More than one attack, more than one objective.

Toc understood this well enough. It was, he suspected, the essence of tactics among successful commanders the world over. Certainly the Malazans had fought that way, with great success. Eschewing the notion of feints, every engagement was deliberate and deliberately intended to lock an enemy down, into fierce, desperate combat.

‘Leave feints to the nobility,’ Kellanved had once said. ‘And they can take their clever elegance to the barrow.’ That had been while he and Dassem Ultor had observed the Untan knights on the field of battle east of Jurda. Riding back and forth, back and forth. Tiring their burdened warhorses, sowing confusion in the dust-clouds engulfing their own ranks. Feint and blind. Dassem had ignored the pureblood fools, and before the day’s battle was done he had shattered the entire Untan army, including those vaunted, once-feared knights.

The Letherii did not possess heavy cavalry. But if they did, Toc believed, they would play feint and blind all day long.

Or perhaps not. Their sorcery in battle was neither subtle nor elegant. Ugly as a Fenn’s fist, in fact. This suggested a certain pragmatism, an interest in efficiency over pomp, and, indeed, a kind of impatience regarding the mannerisms of war.

Sorcery. Had Redmask forgotten the Letherii mages?

The vast level plain where the enemy waited-the Awl called it Pradegar, Old Salt-was not magically dead. Redmask’s shamans had made use of the residual magic there to track the movements of the enemy army, after all.

Redmask, have you lost your mind?

The Awl rode on.

More than swords unsheathed this day, 1 fear. He scratched again at his gaping socket, then kicked his horse into motion.

Orbyn Truthfinder disliked the feel of soft ground beneath him. Earth, loam, sand, anything that seemed uneasy beneath his weight. He would suffer a ride in a carriage, since the wheels were solid enough, the side to side lurching above the rocky trail serving to reassure him whenever he thought of that uncertainty below. He stood now on firm stone, a bulge of scraped bedrock just up from the trail that wound the length of the valley floor.

The air’s breath was sun-warmed, smelling of cold water and pine. Midges wandered in swarms along the streams of ice-melt threading down the mountainsides, slanting this way and that whenever a dragonfly darted into their midst.

The sky was cloudless, the blue so sharp and clean compared to the dusty atmosphere of Drene-or any other city for that matter-that Orbyn found himself glancing upward again and again, struggling with something like disbelief.

When not looking skyward, the Patriotist’s eyes were fixed on the three riders descending from the pass ahead. They had moved well in advance of his company, climbing the heights, then traversing the spine of the mountains to the far pass, where a garrison had been slaughtered. Where, more importantly, a certain shipment of weapons had not arrived. In the grander scheme, such a loss meant little, but Factor Letur Anict was not a man of grand schemes. His motivations were truncated, parsed into a language of precision, intolerant of deviation, almost neurotic when faced with anything messy. And this, indeed, was messy. In short, Letur Anict, for all his wealth and power, was a bureaucrat in the truest sense of the word.

The advance riders were returning, at long last, but Orbyn was not particularly pleased by that. They would have nothing good to say, he knew. Tales of rotting corpses, charred wood, squalling ravens and mice among mouldering bones. At the very least, he could force himself once again into the Factor’s carriage to sit opposite that obnoxious number-chewer, and counsel-with greater veracity this time-that they turn their column round and head back to Drene.

Not that he would succeed, he knew. For Letur Anict, every insult was grievous, and every failure was an insult. Someone would pay. Someone always did.

Some instinct made Orbyn glance back at the camp and he saw the Factor emerging from his carriage. Well, that was a relief, since Orbyn was in the habit of sweating pro-fusely in Letur’s cramped contrivance. He watched as the washed-out man picked a delicate path up to where stood Orbyn. Overdressed for the mild air, his lank, white hair covered by a broad-rimmed hat to keep the sun from pallid skin, his strangely round face already flushed with exertion.

Truthfinder,’ he said as soon as he reached the bulge of bedrock, ‘we both know what our scouts will tell us.’

‘Indeed, Factor.’

‘So… where are they?’

Orbyn’s thin brows rose, and he blinked to clear the sudden sweat stinging his eyes. ‘As you know, they never descended farther than this-where we are camped right now. Leaving three possibilities. One, they turned round, back up and through the pass-’

‘They were not seen to do that.’

‘No. Two, they left the trail here and went south, perhaps seeking the Pearls Pass into south Bluerose.’

‘Travelling the spine of the mountains? That seems unlikely, Truthfinder.’

‘Three, they went north from here.’

The Factor licked his lips, as if considering something. Inflectionless, he asked, ‘Why would they do that?’

Orbyn shrugged. ‘One could, if one so desired, skirt the range until one reached the coast, then hire a craft to take one to virtually any coastal village or port of the Bluerose Sea.’

‘Months.’

‘Fear Sengar and his companions are well used to that, Factor. No fugitive party has ever fled for as long within the confines of the empire as have they.’

‘Not through skill alone, Truthfinder. We both know that the Edur could have taken them a hundred times, in a hundred different places… And further, we both know why they have not done so. The question you and I have danced round for a long, long time is what, if anything, are we going to do regarding all of that.’

‘That question, alas,’ said Orbyn, ‘is one that can only be addressed by our masters, back in Letheras.’

‘Masters?’ Letur Anict snorted. ‘They have other, more pressing concerns. We must act independently, in keeping with the responsibilities granted us; indeed, in keeping with the very expectation that we will meet those responsibilities.

Do we stand aside while Fear Sengar searches for the Edur god? Do we stand aside while Hannan Mosag and his so-called hunters work their deft incompetence in this so-called pursuit? Is there any doubt in your mind, Orbyn Truthfinder, that Hannan Mosag is committing treason? Against the Emperor? Against the empire?’

‘Karos Invictad, and, I’m sure, the Chancellor, are dealing with the matter of the Warlock King’s treason.’

‘No doubt. Yet what might occur to their plans if Fear Sengar should succeed? What will happen to all of our plans, should the Edur God of Shadows rise again?’

‘That, Factor, is highly unlikely.’ No, it is in fact impossible.

‘I am well acquainted,’ Letur Anict said testily, ‘with probabilities and risk assessment, Truthfinder.’

‘What is it you desire?’ Orbyn asked.

Letur Anict’s smile was tight. He faced north. ‘They are hiding. And we both know where.’

Orbyn was not happy. ‘The extent of your knowledge surprises me, Factor.’

‘You have underestimated me.’

‘It seems I have at that.’

Truthfinder. I have with me twenty of my finest guard. You have forty soldiers and two mages. We have enough lanterns to cast out darkness and so steal the power of those decrepit warlocks. How many remain in that hidden fastness? If we strike quickly, we can rid ourselves of this damnable cult and that alone is worth the effort. Capturing Fear Sengar in the bargain would sweeten the repast. Consider the delight, the accolades, should we deliver to Karos and the Chancellor the terrible traitor, Fear Sengar, and that fool, Udinaas. Consider, if you will, the rewards.’

Orbyn Truthfinder sighed, then he said, ‘Very well.’

‘Then you know the secret path. I suspected as much.’

And you do not, and 1 knew as much. He withdrew a handkerchief and mopped the sweat from his face, then along the wattle beneath his chin. ‘The climb is strenuous.

We shall have to leave the carriages and horses here.’

‘Your three scouts can serve to guard the camp. They have earned a rest. When do we leave, Truthfinder?’ Orbyn grimaced. ‘Immediately.’

Two of the three scouts were sitting beside a fire on which sat a soot-stained pot of simmering tea, while the third one rose, arched to ease his back, then sauntered towards the modest train that had spent most of the day descending into the valley.

The usual greetings were exchanged, along with invitations to share this night and this camp. The leader of the train walked wearily over to join the scout.

‘Is that not the Drene Factor’s seal on that carriage?’ he asked.

The scout nodded. ‘So it is.’ His gaze strayed past the rather unimpressive man standing opposite him. ‘You are not traders, I see. Yet, plenty of guards.’

‘A wise investment, I should judge,’ the man replied, nodding. ‘The garrison fort gave proof enough of that. It stands abandoned still, half burnt down and strewn with the bones of slaughtered soldiers.’

The scout shrugged. ‘The west side of the range is notorious for bandits. I heard they was hunted down and killed.’

‘Is that so?’

‘So I heard. And there’s a new detachment on its way, along with carpenters, tree-fellers and a blacksmith. The fort should be rebuilt before season’s end.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s the risk of the road.’

Venitt Sathad nodded again. ‘We passed no-one on the trail. Is the Factor coming to join you here, then?’

‘He is.’

‘Is it not unusual, this journey? Drene, after all, is on the far side of the sea.’

‘Factor’s business is his own,’ the scout replied, a little tersely. ‘You never answered me, sir.’

‘I did not? What was your question again?’

‘I asked what you were carrying, that needs so few packs and so many guards.’

‘I am not at liberty to tell you, alas,’ Venitt Sathad said, as he began scanning the camp. ‘You had more soldiers here, not long ago.’

‘Went down the valley yesterday.’

‘To meet the Factor?’

‘Just so. And I’ve had a thought-if they come up this night, the campsite here won’t be big enough. Not for them and your group.’

‘I expect you are correct.’

‘Perhaps it’d be best, then, if you moved on. There’s another site two thousand paces down the valley. You’ve enough light, I should think.’

Venitt Sathad smiled. ‘We shall do as you have asked, then. Mayhap we will meet your Factor on the way.’

‘Mayhap you will, sir.’

In the man’s eyes, Venitt Sathad saw the lie. Still smiling, he walked back to his horse. ‘Mount up,’ he told his guards. ‘We ride on.’

A most displeasing command, but Venitt Sathad had chosen his escort well. Within a very short time, the troop was once more on its way.

He had no idea why the man he was sent to meet was on this trail, so far from Drene. Nor did Venitt know where Anict had gone, since on all sides but ahead there was naught but rugged, wild mountains populated by little more than rock-climbing horned sheep and a few cliff-nesting condors. Perhaps he would find out eventually. As it was, sooner or later Letur Anict would return to Drene, and he, Venitt Sathad, agent of Rautos Hivanar and the Letheras Liberty Consign, would be waiting for him.

With some questions from his master.

And some answers.

A shriek echoed in the distance, then faded. Closer to hand, amidst flickering lantern-light and wavering shadows, the last cries of the slaughtered had long since fallen away, as soldiers of Orbyn’s guard walked among the piled bodies-mostly the young, women and the aged in this chamber-ensuring that none still breathed.

None did. Orbyn Truthfinder had made certain of that himself. In a distracted way, torn as he was by distaste and the necessity that no carelessness be permitted. They had been four bells in this subterranean maze, at the most, to mark the first breach of wards at the entranceway in the crevasse and all that followed, from room to room, corridor to corridor, the assault of light and refulgent sorcery.

Whatever elaborate organization of power had held fast in this buried demesne had been obliterated with scarce the loss of a single Letherii life, and all that then remained was simple butchery. Hunting down the ones who hid, who fled to the farthest reaches, the smallest storage rooms, the children huddling in alcoves and, for one, in an amphora half filled with wine.

Less than four bells, then, to annihilate the Cult of the Black-Winged Lord. These degenerate versions of Tiste Edur. Hardly worth the effort, as far as Orbyn Truthfinder was concerned. Even more bitter to the tongue, there had been no sign of Fear Sengar or any of his companions. No sign, indeed, that they had ever been here.

His gaze resting upon the heaped corpses, he felt sullied. Letur Anict had used him in his obsessive pursuit of efficiency, of cruel simplification of his world. One less nagging irritant for the Factor of Drene. And now they would return, and Orbyn wondered if this journey to track down a few wagonloads of cheap weapons had, in fact, been nothing more than a ruse. One that fooled him as easily as it would a wide-eyed child.

He drew out a cloth to wipe the blood from his dagger, then slipped the long-bladed weapon back into its sheat below his right arm.

One of his mages approached. ‘Truthfinder.’

‘Are we done here?’

‘We are. We found the chamber of the altar. A half-dozen tottering priests and priestesses on their knees beseeching their god for deliverance.’ The mage made a sour face. ‘Alas, the Black-Winged Lord wasn’t home.’

‘What a surprise.’

‘Yes, but there was one, sir. A surprise, that is.’

‘Go on.’

‘That altar, sir, it was truly sanctified.’

Orbyn glanced at the mage with narrowed eyes. ‘Meaning?’

‘Touched by Darkness, by the Hold itself.’

‘I did not know such a Hold even existed. Darkness?’

‘The Tiles possess an aspect of Darkness, sir, although only the oldest texts make note of that. Of the Fulcra, sir. The White Crow.’

Orbyn’s breath suddenly caught. He stared hard at the mage standing before him, watched the shadows flit over the man’s lined face. ‘The White Crow. The strange Edur who accompanies Fear Sengar is so named.’

‘If that stranger is so named, then he is not Tiste Edur, sir.’

‘Then what?’

The mage gestured at the bodies lying on all sides. ‘Tiste Andii, they call themselves. Children of Darkness. Sir, I know little of this… White Crow, who travels with Fear Sengar. If indeed they walk together, then something has changed.’

‘What do you mean?’

The Edur and the Andii, sir, were most vicious enemies. If what we have gleaned from Edur legends and the like holds any truth, then they warred, and that war ended with betrayal. With the slaying of the White Crow.’ The mage shook his head. ‘That is why I do not believe in this White Crow who is with Fear Sengar-it is but a name, a name given in error, or perhaps mockery. But if I am wrong, sir, then an old feud has been buried in a deep grave, and this could prove… worrisome.’

Orbyn looked away. ‘We have slaughtered the last of these Andii, have we not?’

‘In this place, yes. Should we be confident that they are the last Andii left? Even in Bluerose? Did not the Edur find kin across the ocean? Perhaps other contacts were made, ones our spies in the fleets did not detect. I am made uneasy, sir, by all of this.’

You do not stand alone in that, mage. ‘Think more on it,’ he said.

‘1 shall.’

As the mage turned to leave Orbyn reached out a huge, plump hand to stay him. ‘Have you spoken with the Factor?’

A frown, as if the mage had taken offence at the question. ‘Of course not, sir.’

‘Good. Of the altar, and the sanctification, say nothing.’ He thought for a moment, then added, ‘Of your other thoughts, say nothing as well.’

‘I would not have done otherwise, sir.’

‘Excellent. Now, gather our soldiers. I would we leave here as soon as we can.’

‘Yes sir, with pleasure.’

heave Letur Anict to his world made simpler. What he would have it to be and what it is, are not the same. And that, dear Factor, is the path to ruin. You will walk it without me.

Clip stood facing south. His right hand was raised, the chain and its rings looped tight. He’d not spun it for more than a dozen heartbeats. His hair, left unbound, stirred in the wind. A few paces away, Silchas Ruin sat on a boulder, running a whetstone along the edge of one of his singing swords.

Snow drifted down from a pale blue sky, some high-altitude version of a sun-shower, perhaps, or winds had lifted the flakes from the young peaks that reared on all sides but directly ahead. The air was bitter, so dry that wool sparked and crackled. They had crossed the last of the broken plateau the day before, leaving behind the mass of shattered black stone that marked its cratered centre. The climb this morning had been treacherous, as so many slabs of stone under foot were sheathed in ice. Reaching the crest of the caldera in late afternoon light, they found themselves looking upon a vast descending slope, stretching north for half a league or more to a tundra plain. Beyond that the horizon reached in a flat, hazy white line. Ice fields, Fear Sengar had said, to which Udinaas had laughed.

Seren Pedac paced restlessly along the ridge. She had been walking with the others, well behind Clip and Silchas Ruin. There was light left to continue, yet the young Tiste Andii had perched himself on the crest to stare back the way they had come. Silent, expressionless.

She walked over to stand before Udinaas, who had taken to carrying the Imass spear again and was now seated on a rock poking the spear’s point into the mossy turf. ‘What is happening here?’ she asked him in a low voice. ‘Do you know?’

‘Familiar with the jarack bird, Acquitor? The grey-crested thief and murderer of the forest?’

She nodded.

‘And what happens when a jarack female finds a nest containing some other’s bird’s hatchlings? An unguarded nest?’

‘It kills and eats the chicks.’

He smiled. ‘True. Commonly known. But jaracks do something else on occasion, earlier in the season. They push out an egg and leave one of their own. The other birds seem blind to the exchange. And when the jarack hatches, of course it kills and eats its rivals.’

‘Then sounds its call,’ she said. ‘But it’s a call that seems no different from those of the other bird’s chicks. And those birds come with food in their beaks.’

‘Only to be ambushed by the two adult jaracks waiting nearby and killed in the nest. Another meal for their hatchling.’

‘Jaracks are in every way unpleasant birds. Why are we talking about jaracks, Udinaas?’

‘No reason, really. But sometimes it’s worth reminding ourselves that we humans are hardly unique in our cruelty.’

‘The Fent believed that jaracks are the souls of abandoned children who died alone in the forest. And so they yearn for a home and a family, yet are so driven to rage when they find them they destroy all that they desire.’

‘The Fent were in the habit of abandoning children?’

Seren Pedac grimaced. ‘Only in the last hundred or so years.’

‘Impediments to their self-destructive appetites, I should think.’

She said nothing to that comment, yet in her mind’s eye she saw Hull Beddict suddenly standing beside her, drawing to his full height, reaching down to take Udinaas by the throat and dragging the man upright.

Udinaas suddenly bolted forward, choking, one hand clawing up towards her.

Seren Pedac stepped back. No, dammit! She struggled to cast the vision away.

It would not leave.

Eyes bulging, face blackening, Udinaas closed his own hands about his neck, but there was nothing to pull away-

‘Seren!’ Kettle shrieked.

Errant fend! What, how… oh, I’m killing him! Hull Beddict stood, crushing the life from Udinaas. She wanted to reach out to him, drag his grip loose, but she knew she would not be strong enough. No, she realized, she needed someone else-

And conjured into the scene within her mind another figure, stepping close, lithe and half seen. A hand flashing up, striking Hull Beddict in his own throat. The Letherii staggered back, then fell to one knee, even as he released Udinaas. Hull then reached for his sword.

A spear shaft scythed into view, caught Hull flat on the forehead, snapping his head back. He toppled.

The Edur warrior now stood between Hull Beddict and Udinaas, spear held in a guard position.

Seeing him, seeing his face, sent Seren reeling back. Trull Sengar? Trull-

The vision faded, was gone.

Coughing, gasping, Udinaas rolled onto his side.

Kettle rushed to crouch beside the ex-slave.

A hand closed on Seren’s shoulder and swung her round. She found herself staring up into Fear’s face, and wondered at the warrior’s strange expression. He-he could not have seen. That would be-

‘Shorn,’ Fear whispered. ‘Older. A sadness-’ He broke off” then, unable to go on, and twisted away.

She stared after him. A sadness upon his eyes.

Upon his eyes.

‘Deadly games, Acquitor.’

She started, looked over to see that Silchas Ruin was now studying her from where he sat. Beyond him, Clip had not turned round, had not even moved. ‘I did not. I mean. I didn’t-’

‘Imagination,’ Udinaas grated from the ground to her right, ‘is ever quick to judge.’ He coughed again, then laughter broke from his ravaged throat. ‘Ask any jealous man. Or woman. Next time I say something that annoys you, Seren Pedac, just swear at me, all right?’

‘I’m sorry, Udinaas. I didn’t think-’

‘You thought all right, woman.’

Oh, Udinaas. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

‘What sorcery have you found?’ Fear Sengar demanded, his eyes slightly wild as he glared at her. ‘I saw-’

‘What did you see?’ Silchas Ruin asked lightly, slipping one sword into its scabbard, then drawing the other.

Fear said nothing, and after a moment he pulled his gaze horn Seren Pedac. ‘What is Clip doing?’ he demanded.

‘Mourning, I expect.’

This answer brought Udinaas upright into a sitting position. Glancing at Seren, he nodded, mouthed Jarack.

‘Mourning what?’ Fear asked.

‘All who dwelt within the Andara,’ Silchas Ruin replied, ‘are dead. Slaughtered by Letherii soldiers and mages. Clip is the Mortal Sword of Darkness. Had he been there, they would now still be alive-his kin. And the bodies lying motionless in the darkness would be Letherii. He wonders if he has not made a terrible mistake.’

‘That thought,’ the young Tiste Andii said, ‘was fleeting. They were hunting for you, Fear Sengar. And you, Udinaas.’ He turned, his face appalling in its calm repose. The chains spun out, snapped in the cold air, then whirled back inward again. ‘My kin would have made certain there would remain no evidence that you were there. Nor were the Letherii mages powerful enough-nor clever enough-to desecrate the altar, although they tried.’ He smiled. ‘They brought their lanterns with them, you see.’

‘The gate didn’t stay there long enough anyway,’ Udinaas said in a cracking voice.

Clip’s hard eyes fixed on the ex-slave. ‘You know nothing.’

‘I know what’s spinning from your finger, Clip. You showed us once before, after all.’

Silchas Ruin, finished with the second sword, now sheathed it and rose. ‘Udinaas,’ he said to Clip, ‘is as much a mystery as the Acquitor here. Knowledge and power, the hand and the gauntlet. We should move on. Unless,’ he paused, facing Clip, ‘it is time.’

Time? Time for what?

‘It is,’ Udinaas said, using the Imass spear to get to his feet. ‘They knew they were going to die. Hiding in that deep pit took them nowhere. Fewer young, ever weaker blood. But that blood, well, spill enough of it…’

Clip advanced on the ex-slave.

‘No,’ Silchas Ruin said.

The Mortal Sword stopped, seemed to hesitate, then shrugged and turned away. Chain spinning.

‘Mother Dark,’ Udinaas resumed with a tight smile. ‘Open your damned gate, Clip, it’s been paid for.’

And the spinning chain snapped taut. Horizontally. At each end a ring, balanced as if on end. Within the band closest to them there was… darkness.

Seren Pedac stared, as that sphere of black began growing, spilling out from the ring.

‘She has this thing,’ Udinaas muttered, ‘about birth canals.’

Silchas Ruin walked into the Dark and vanished. A moment later there was a ghostly flit as Wither raced into the gate. Kettle took Udinaas’s hand and led him through.

Seren glanced over at Fear. We leave your world behind, Tiste Edur. And yet, 1 can see the realization awaken in your eyes. Beyond. Through that gate, Fear Sengar, waits the soul of Scabandari.

He settled a hand on his sword, then strode forward.

As Seren Pedac followed, she looked at Clip, met his eyes as he stood there, waiting, the one hand raised, the gate forming a spiralling tunnel out from the nearest ring. In some other world, she imagined, the gate emerged from the other ring. He’s carried it with him. Our way through to where we needed to go. All this time.

Clip winked.

Chilled by that gesture, the Acquitor stepped forward and plunged into darkness.

Third Maiden Isle was dead astern, rising into view on the swells then falling away again in the troughs. The ferry groaned like a floundering beast, twisting beneath its forest of masts and their makeshift sails, and the mass of Shake huddled sick and terrified on the deck. Witches and warlocks, on their knees, wailed their prayers to be heard above the gale’s swollen fury, but the shore was far away now and they were lost.

Yedan Derryg, drenched by the spume that periodically thrashed over the low gunnels with what seemed demonic glee, was making his way towards Yan Tovis, who stood beside the four men on the steering oar. She was holding on to a pair of thick ratlines, legs set wide to take the pitch and yawl, and as she studied her half-brother’s face as he drew nearer, she saw what she already knew to be truth.

We’re not going to make it.

Cleaving the lines once past the salt marsh, then up, rounding the peninsula and out along the north edge of the reefs, a journey of three days and two nights before they could tie up in one of the small coves on the lee side of Third Maiden Isle. The weather had held, and at dawn this day all had seemed possible.

‘The seams, Twilight,’ Yedan Derryg said upon reaching her. ‘These waves are hammering ‘em wide open. We’re going down-’ He barked a savage laugh. ‘Beyond the shore, be well as they say! More bones to the deep!’

He was pale-as pale as she no doubt was-yet in his eyes there was a dark fury. ‘Tour’s Spit lies two pegs off the line, and there’re shoals, but, sister, it’s the only dry land we might reach.’

‘Oh, and how many on the deck there know how to swim? Any?’ She shook her head, blinking salty spray from her eyes. ‘What would you have us do, crash this damned thing onto the strand? Pray to the shore that we can slip through the shoals untouched? Dear Watch, would you curl up in the lap of the gods?’

Bearded jaw bunched, cabled muscles growing so tight she waited to hear bone or teeth crack, then he looked away. ‘What would you have us do, then?’

‘Get the damned fools to bail, Yedan. We get any lower and the next wave’ll roll us right over.’

Yet she knew it was too late. Whatever grand schemes of survival for her people she had nurtured, deep in her heart, had come untethered. By this one storm. It had been madness, flinging this coast-creeping ferry out beyond the shore, even though the only truly dangerous stretch had been… this one, here, north from Third Maiden Isle to the lee of Spyrock Island. The only stretch truly open to the western ocean.

The gale lifted loose suddenly, slammed a fist into the port side of the craft. A mast splintered, the sail billowing round, sheets snapping, and like a huge wing the sail tore itself loose, carrying the mast with it. Rigging snatched up hapless figures from the deck and flung them skyward. A second mast toppled, this one heavy enough to tug its sail downward. Yet more tinny screams reaching through the howl.

The ferry seemed to slump, as if moments from plunging into the deep. Yan Tovis found herself gripping the lines as if they could pull her loose, into the sky-as if they could take her from all of this. The Queen commands. Her people die.

At least I will join-

A shout from Yedan Derryg, who had gone forward into the chaos of the deck, a shout that reached her.

And now she saw. Two enormous ships had come upon them from astern, one to each side, heaving like hunting behemoths, their sails alone dwarfing the ferry pitching in their midst. The one to port stole the gale’s fierce breath and all at once the ferry righted itself amidst choppy waves.

Yan Tovis stared across, saw figures scrambling about side-mounted ballistae, saw others moving to the rail beneath huge coils of rope.

Pirates? Now?

The crew of the ship to starboard, she saw with growing alarm, was doing much the same.

Yet it was the ships that most frightened her. For she recognized them.

Perish. What were they called? Yes, Thrones of War. She well remembered that battle, the lash of sorceries ripping the crests of waves, the detonations as Edur galleys disintegrated before her very eyes. The cries of drowning warriors-

Ballistae loosed their robust quarrels, yet the missiles arced high, clearing the deck by two or more man-heights. And from them snaked out ropes. The launching had been virtually simultaneous from both ships. She saw those quarrels rip through the flimsy sails, slice past rigging, then the heavy-headed missiles dipped down to the seas in between.

She saw as the ropes were hauled taut. She felt the crunching bite of the quarrels as they lifted back clear of the water and anchored barbs deep into the gunnels of the ferry.

And, as the wind pushed them all onward now, the Thrones of War drew closer.

Massive fends of bundled seaweed swung down to cushion the contact of the hulls.

Sailors from the Perish ships scrambled along the lines, many of them standing upright as they did so-impossibly balanced despite the pitching seas-and dropped down onto the ferry deck with ropes and an assortment of tools.

The ropes were cleated to stanchions and pills on the ferry.

An armoured Perish emerged from the mass of humanity on the main deck and climbed her way to where stood Yan Tovis.

In the language of the trader’s tongue, the woman said, ‘Your craft is sinking, Captain. We must evacuate your passengers.’

Numbed, Yan Tovis nodded.

‘We are sailing,’ said the Perish, ‘for Second Maiden Isle.’

‘As were we,’ Yan Tovis responded.

A sudden smile, as welcome to Yan Tovis’s eyes as dawn after a long night. ‘Then we are most well met.’

Well met, yes. And well answered. Second Maiden Fort. The silent Isle has been conquered. Not just the Malazans then. The Perish. Oh, look what we have awakened.

He’d had months to think things over, and in the end very little of what had happened back in the Malazan Empire surprised Banaschar, once Demidrek of the Worm of Autumn. Perhaps, if seen from the outside, from some borderland where real power was as ephemeral, as elusive, as a cloud on the face of the moon, there would be a sense of astonishment and, indeed, disbelief. That the mortal woman commanding the most powerful empire in the world could find herself so… helpless. So bound to the ambitions and lusts of the faceless players behind the tapestries. Folk blissfully unaware of the machinations of politics might well believe that someone like Empress Laseen was omnipotent, that she could do entirely as she pleased. And that a High Mage, such as Tayschrenn, was likewise free, unconstrained in his ambitions.

For people with such simplistic world views, Banaschar knew, catastrophes were disconnected things, isolated in and of themselves. There was no sense of cause and effect beyond the immediate, beyond the directly observable. A cliff collapses onto a village, killing hundreds. The effect: death. The cause: the cliff’s collapse. Of course, if one were to then speak of cutting down every tree within sight, including those above that cliff, as the true cause of the disaster-a cause that, in its essence, lay at the feet ofthe very victims, then fierce denial was the response; or, even more pathetic, blank confusion. And if one were to then elaborate on the economic pressures that demanded such rapacious deforestation, ranging from the need for firewood among the locals and the desire to clear land for pasture to increase herds all the way to the hunger for wood to meet the shipbuilding needs of a port city leagues distant, in order to go to war with a neighbouring kingdom over contested fishing areas-contested because the shoals were vanishing, leading to the threat of starvation in both kingdoms, which in turn might destabilize the ruling families, thus raising the spectre of civil war… well, then, the entire notion of cause and effect, suddenly revealing its true level of complexity, simply overwhelmed.

Rebellion in Seven Cities, followed by terrible plague, and suddenly the heart of the Malazan Empire-Quon Tali-was faced with a shortage of grain. But no, Banaschar knew, one could go yet further back. Why did the rebellion occur at all? Never mind the convenient prophecies of apocalypse. The crisis was born in the aftermath of Laseen’s coup, when virtually all of Kellanved’s commanders vanished-drowned, as the grisly joke went. She sat herself down on the throne, only to find her most able governors and military leaders gone. And into the vacuum of their departure came far less capable and far less reliable people. She should not have been surprised at their avarice and corruption-for the chapter she had begun in the history of the empire had been announced with betrayal and blood. Cast bitter seeds yield bitter fruit, as the saying went.

Corruption and incompetence. These were rebellion’s sparks. Born in the imperial palace in Unta, only to return with a vengeance.

Laseen had used the Claw to achieve her coup. In her arrogance she clearly imagined no-one could do the same; could infiltrate her deadly cadre of assassins. Yet, Banaschar now believed, that is what had happened. And so the most powerful mortal woman in the world had suddenly found herself emasculated, indeed trapped by a host of exigencies, unbearable pressures, inescapable demands. And her most deadly weapon of internal control had been irrevocably compromised.

There had been no civil war-the Adjunct had seen to that-yet the enfilade at Malaz City might well have driven the final spike into the labouring heart of Laseen’s rule. The Claw had been decimated, perhaps so much so that no-one could use it for years to come.

The Claw had declared war on the wrong people. And so, at long last, Cotillion-who had once been Dancer-had his revenge on the organization that had destroyed his own Talon and then lifted Laseen onto the throne. For, that night in Malaz City, there had been a Shadow Dance.

Causes and effects, they were like the gossamer strands spanning the towers of Kartool City, a deadly web, a skein tethered to a thousand places. And to imagine that things were simple was to be naive, often fatally so.

A crime that he himself had been guilty of, Banaschar now understood. D’rek’s rage against her worshippers had not been an isolated, internal event. It belonged to a vast war, and in war people died. Perhaps, unlike Banaschar, Tayschrenn had not been greatly affected by the tragedy. Perhaps, indeed, the Imperial High Mage had known all along.

Such unpleasant thoughts were in the habit of wandering into his mind when the sun had long fled the sky, when he should have been asleep-plummeted into the drunken stupor of oblivion here in the decrepit room he had rented opposite the Harridict Tavern on this damned island. Instead he stood by the window, wide awake, listening to the cold wind creak its way through the shutters. And even if it had been a warm night, he doubted he would have opened those shutters. Better to see nothing but those weathered slats; better to be reminded that there was no way out.

The Worm of Autumn stirred in his gut; an immortal parasite and he its mortal host. The goddess was within him once more, after all these years. Again, no surprise. After all, I’m the only one left. Yet D’rek remained as no more than a presence, a faint taste on his tongue. There had been no battle of wills; but he knew it would come. The goddess needed him and sooner or later she would reach out and close a cold fist about his soul.

This was no way to be called by one’s god.

He heard skittering noises behind him and slowly closed his eyes.

‘Smells. Smells, smells, smells.’

The words were a whining whisper in Banaschar’s head.

‘That’s the problem, Telorast. With this island. With this entire continent! Oh, why did we come here? We should have stolen the bodies of two gulls, never mind these rotting stick-things with empty bellies we can’t never fill! How many rats have we killed, Telorast? Answer me!’

‘So we couldn’t eat them,’ muttered Telorast. ‘Killing them was fun, wasn’t it? Cleanest ships in the world. Enough of your complaining, Curdle. Can’t you feel how close we are?’

‘She’s walked here!’ Now there was terror in Curdle’s voice. ‘What are we doing in this place?’

Banaschar turned. The two knee-high skeletal reptiles were pacing back and forth the length of the cot, clambering awkwardly amidst the dishevelled folds of bedding. ‘A good question,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here? In my room? And who is “she”?’

Curdle’s head bobbed, jaws clacking. ‘Not-Not-Apsalar drove us away. But we need to tell someone!’

‘Anyone!’ chimed Telorast. ‘Even you!’

‘Her name is Lostara Yil,’ Banaschar said. ‘Not Not-Not-Apsalar-gods, did I just say that?’

‘ “She”,’ Curdle said, tail whipping, ‘is the one who walked here. Long ago. More long ago than you could even think of, that long ago. Telorast is mad. She’s excited, but how can anyone be excited when we’re so close to her? Madness!’

‘just because she walked here,’ Telorast said, ‘doesn’t mean she’s still hanging around. Got no big skulls to push her fist through, not for a long time, right? And look at us, Curdle. We could dance in the palm of her hand. Either one. Or both, one for me and one for you-and she wouldn’t be able to tell anything about us, not anything.’ The creature swung to face Banaschar again. ‘So there’s no reason to panic, and that’s what you need to tell Curdle, Wormfood. So, go on, tell her.’

Banaschar slowly blinked, then said, ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Curdle. Now, will you two leave? I have more brooding to do and half the night’s gone.’

Telorast’s razor-beaked head swung to Curdle. ‘See?

Everything’s fine. We’re close because we have to be. Because it’s where Edgewalker wants-’

‘Quiet!’ Curdle hissed.

Telorast ducked. ‘Oh. We have to kill him now, don’t we?’

‘No, that would be messy. We just have to hope for a terrible accident. Quick, Telorast, think of a tenible accident!’

‘I’ve never heard of Edgewalker,’ Banaschar said. ‘Relax and go away and forget thinking about killing me. Unless you want to awaken D’rek, that is. The goddess might well know who this Edgewalker is, and from that might be able to glean something of your deadly secret mission, and from that she might decide it would be better if you two were crushed into dust.’

Curdle leapt down from the cot, crept closer to Banaschar, then began to grovel. ‘We didn’t mean anything by any of that. We never mean anything, do we, Telorast? We’re most useless and tiny besides.’

‘We can smell the Worm all right,’ Telorast said, head bobbing. ‘On you. In you. Just one more dread smell hereabouts. We don’t like it at all. Let’s go, Curdle. He’s not the one we should be talking to. Not as dangerous as Not-Apsalar, but just as scary. Open those shutters, Wormfood; we’ll go out that way.’

‘Easy for you,’ Banaschar muttered, turning back to pull the slatted barriers aside. The wind gusted in like Hood’s own breath, and the reborn priest shivered.

In a flash the two reptiles were perched on the sill.

‘Look, Telorast, pigeon poo.’

Then the two creatures leapt from sight. After a moment, Banaschar closed the shutters once more. Making right his vision of the world. His world, at least.

‘Shillydan the dark’eyed man Pokes his head up for a look round Hillyman the black-clawed man Came up the well for a look round

“Well and and/” says the twelve-toed man And round down the hill he bound Still-me-hand the dead’Smile man Went bounding bound down he did bound

Shitty dan the red’Water man Croaks and kisses die lass’s brow Hillyman the blue-Cocked man-’

‘For Hood’s sake, Crump, stop that damned singing!’

The gangly sapper straightened, stared with mouth agape, then ducked down once more and resumed digging the pit. Under his breath he began humming his mad, endless swamp song.

Corporal Shard watched the dirt flying out, caught by the whipping wind in wild swirls, for a moment longer. Twenty paces beyond the deep hole and Crump’s flashing shovel squatted the low-walled stone enclosure where the squad had stashed their gear, and where now crouched Sergeant Cord, Masan Gilani, Limp and Ebron, taking shelter from the blustery wind. In a short while, Cord would call everyone to their feet, and the patrol of this part of die coast would begin.

In the meantime, Crump was digging a pit. A deep pit, just like the sergeant ordered. Just like the sergeant had been ordering every day for nearly a week now.

Shard rubbed at his numbed face, sick with worry over his sister. The Sinn he knew was gone and no sign of her remained. She’d found her power, creating something avid, almost lurid, in her dark eyes. He was frightened of her and he was not alone in that. Limp’s bad knees knocked together whenever she came too close, and Ebron made what he thought were subtle, unseen gestures of warding behind her back. Masan Gilani seemed unaffected-that at least was something, maybe a woman thing at that, since Faradan Sort had been pretty much the same.

That simple? Terrifying to men but not women? But why would that be the case?

He had no answer for that.

Crump’s humming was getting louder, drawing Shard’s attention once again. Loud enough to very nearly overwhelm the distant groans of dying ice from the other side of the strait. Worth yelling at the fool again? Maybe not.

Dirt flying out, skirling skyward then racing out on the wave of the gelid wind.

There were holes dotted along half a league of this island’s north coast. Crump was proud of his achievement, and would go on being proud, probably for ever. Finest holes ever dug. Ten, fifty, a hundred, however many the sergeant wanted, yes sir.

Shard believed that Cord’s fervent hope that one such pit would collapse, burying the damned idiot once and for all, was little more than wishful thinking.

After all, Crump digs great holes.

He heard a piping shriek from some way behind him and turned. And there she was. Sinn, the girl he used to throw onto a shoulder like a sack of tubers-a giggling sack-and rush with through room after room as her laughter turned to squeals and her legs started kicking. Straggly black hair whipping about, a bone flute in her hands, its music flung out into the bitter tumult like inky strands, as she cavorted in the face of the weather as if spider-bitten.

Sinn, the child witch. The High Mage with a thirst for blood.

Child of the rebellion. Stolen from the life she should have lived, fashioned by horror into something new. Child of Seven Cities, of the Apocalyptic, oh yes. Dryjhna’s blessed spawn.

He wondered how many such creatures were out there, stumbling through the ruins like starved dogs. Uprising, grand failure, then plague: how many scars could a young soul carry? Before it twisted into something unrecognizable, something barely human?

Did Sinn find salvation in sorcery? Shard held no faith that such salvation was in truth benign. A weapon for her will, and how far could a mortal go with such a weapon in their hands? How vast the weight of their will, unbound and unleashed?

They were right to fear. So very right.

A gruff command from Sergeant Cord and it was time to begin the patrol. A league’s worth of blasted, wind-torn coastline. Crump climbed out of the pit and dusted his palms, his face shining as he looked down on his handiwork.

‘Isn’t she fine, Corporal? A hole dug by a High Marshal of Mott Wood, and we know how to dig ‘em, don’t we just. Why, I think it might be the best one yet! Especially with all the baby skulls on the bottom, like cobbles they are, though they break too easy-need to step light! Step light!’

Suddenly chilled in a place far deeper than any wind could reach, Shard walked to the edge of the pit and looked down. Moments later the rest of the squad joined him.

In the gloom almost a man’s height down, the glimmer of rounded shapes. Like cobbles they are.

And they were stirring.

A hiss from Ebron and he glared across at Sinn, whose music and dancing had reached a frenzied pitch. ‘Gods below! Sergeant-’

‘Grab that shovel again,’ Cord growled to Crump. ‘Fill it in, you fool! Fill it in! Fill them all in!’

Crump blinked, then collected up his shovel and began pushing the dry soil back into the hole. ‘Best hole-fillers t’be found anywhere! You’ll see, Sergeant! Why, you won’t never see holes filled so good as them’s done by a High Marshal of Mott Wood!’

‘Hurry up, you damned fool!’

‘Yes sir, hurry up. Crump can do that!’

After a moment, the sapper began singing.

‘Shillydan the red-water man Croaks and kisses the lass’s brow Hillyman the blue-cocked man Strokes and blessings t’thank ‘er now!’

Nimander Golit, wrapped in a heavy dark blue woollen cloak, stood at one end of the winding street. Decrepit harbour buildings leaned and sagged, a brick grimace curling down to the waterfront that glittered a hundred paces distant. Shreds of cloud scudded beneath a night sky of bleary stars, rushing southward like advance runners of snow and ice.

Tiste Andii, sentinel to the dark; he would have liked such grand notions wrapped about him as tightly as this cloak. A mythic stance, heavy with… with something. And the sword at his side, a weapon of heroic will, which he could draw forth when dread fate arrived with its banshee wail, and use with a skill that could astound-like the great ones of old, a consummate icon of power unveiled in Mother Dark’s name.

But it was all a dream. His skill with the sword was middling, a symbol of mediocrity as muddied as his own bloodline. He was no soldier of darkness, just a young man standing lost in a strange street, a man with nowhere to go-yet driven, driven on at this very moment-to go somewhere.

No, even that was untrue. He stood in the night because of a need to escape. Phaed’s malice had become rabid, and Nimander was the one in whom she had chosen to confide. Would she murder Sandalath Drukorlat here in this port city, as she had vowed? More to the point, was he, Nimander, going to permit it? Did he even have the courage to betray Phaed-knowing how swiftly she would turn, and how deadly her venom?

Anomander Rake would not hesitate. No, he would kick down the door to Phaed’s room and drag the squealing little stoat out by her neck. And he’d then shake the life from her. He’d have no choice, would he? One look into Phaed’s eyes and the secret would be revealed. The secret of the vast empty space within her, where her conscience should be. He would see it plain, and then into her eyes would come the horror of exposure-moments before her neck snapped.

Mother Dark would wait for Phaed’s soul, then, for its shrieking delivery, the malign birth of just execution, of choices that were not choices at all. Why? Because nothing else can be done. Not for one such as her.

And Rake would accept the blood on his hands. He would accept that terrible burden as but one more amidst countless others he carried across a hundred thousand years. Childslayer. A child of one’s own blood.

The courage of one with power. And that was Nimander’s very own yawning emptiness in the heart of his soul. We may be his children, his grandchildren, we may be of his blood, but we are each incomplete. Phaed and her wicked moral void. Nenanda and his unreasoning rage. Aranatha with her foolish hopes. Kedeviss who screams herself awake every morning. Skintick for whom all of existence is a joke. Desra who would spread her legs for any man if it could boost her up one more rung on the ladder towards whatever great glory she imagines she deserves. And Nimander, who imagines himself the leader of this fell family of would-be heroes, who will seek out the ends of the earth in his hunt for… for courage,, for con-viction, for a reason to do, to feel anything.

Oh, for Nimander, then, an empty street in the dead of night. With the denizens lost in their fitful, pathetic sleep-as if oblivion offered any escape, any escape at all. For Nimander, these interminable moments in which he could contemplate actually making a decision, actually stepping between an innocent elder Tiste Andii and Nimander’s own murderous little sister. To say No, Phaed. You will not have this. No more. You shall be a secret no longer. You shall be known.

If he could do that. If he could but do that.

He heard a sound. Spinning, the whisper of fine chain cutting a path through the air-close, so close that Nimander spun round-but there was no-one. He was alone. Spinning, twirling, a hiss-then a sudden snap, two distinct, soft clicks as of two tiny objects held out at each end of that fine chain-yes, this sound, the prophecy-Mother fend, is this the prophecy?

Silence now, yet the air felt febrile on all sides, and his breath was coming in harsh gasps. ‘He carries the gates, Nimander, so it is said. Is this not a worthy cause? For us? To search the realms, to find, not our grandsire, but the one who carries the gates?

‘Our way home. To Mother Dark, to her deepest embrace-oh, Nimander, my love, let us-’

‘Stop it,’ he croaked. ‘Please. Stop.’

She was dead. On the Floating Isle. Cut down by a Tiste Edur who’d thought nothing of it. Nothing. She was dead.

And she had been his courage. And now there was nothing left.

The prophecy? Not for one such as Nimander.

Dream naught of glory. She too is dead.

She was everything. And she is dead.

A cool wind sighed, plucking away that tension-a tension he now knew he but imagined. A moment of weakness. Something skittering on a nearby roof.

These things did not come to those who were incomplete. He should have known better.

Three soft chimes sounded in the night, announcing yet another shift of personnel out in the advance pickets. Mostly silent, soldiers rose, dark shapes edging out from their positions, quickly replaced by those who had come to guard in their stead. Weapons rustled, clasps and buckles clicked, leather armour making small animal sounds. Figures moved back and forth on the plain. Somewhere in the darkness beyond, on the other side of that rise, out in the sweeps of high grasses and in the distant ravines, the enemy hid.

The soldiers knew that Bivatt had believed the battle was imminent. Redmask and his Awl were fast approaching. Blood would be spilled in the late afternoon on the day now gone. Oh, as the Letherii soldiers along the advance pickets well knew, the savages had indeed arrived. And the Atri-Preda had arrayed her mages to greet them. Foul sorceries had crackled and spat, blackening whole swaths of grassland until ash thickened the air.

Yet the enemy would not close, the damned Awl would not even show their faces. Even as they moved, just beyond line of sight, to encircle the Letherii army. This sounded deadlier than it was-no Awl line of barbarians would be able to hold against a concerted break-out, and the hundreds of low-ranking tactical geniuses common to all armies had predicted again and again that Bivatt would do just that: drive a solid wedge into contact with the Awl, scattering them to the winds.

Those predictions began falling away as the afternoon waned, as dusk gathered, as night closed in round them with its impenetrable cloak.

Well, they then said, of course she ain’t bitten. It’s an obvious trap, so clumsy it almost beggars belief. Redmask wants us out of our positions, moving this way and that. Wants the confusion, d’you see? Bivatt’s too smart for that.

So now they sat the night, tired, nervous, and heard in every sound the stealthy approach of killers in the dark. Yes, friends, there was movement out there, no doubt of that. So what were the bastards doing?

They’re waiting. To draw swords with the dawn, like they did the last time. We’re sitting out here, wide awake, for nothing. And come the morrow we’ll be sand’eyed and stiff as corpses, at least until the fighting starts for real, then we’ll tear their hides off. Blade and magic, friends. To announce the day to come.

The Atri-Preda paced. Brohl Handar could see her well enough, although even if he couldn’t he would be able to track her by the mutter of her armour. And, despite the diminishment of details, the Tiste Edur knew she was overwrought; knew she held none of the necessary calm expected of a commander; and so it was well, he concluded, that the two of them were twenty or more paces away from the nearest bivouac of troops.

More than a little exposed, in fact. If the enemy had infiltrated the pickets, they might be hiding not ten paces distant, adjusting grips on their knives moments before the sudden rush straight for them. Slaying” the two leaders of this invading army. Of course, to have managed that, the savages would have had to deceive the magical wards woven by the mages, and that seemed unlikely. Bivatt was not unique when it came to fraught nerves, and he needed to be mindful of such flaws.

Redmask excelled in surprises. He had already proved that, and it had been foolish to expect a sudden change, a dramatic failure in his deviousness. Yet was this simply a matter of seeking battle with the sun’s rise? That seemed too easy.

The Atri-Preda walked over. ‘Overseer,’ she said in a low voice, ‘I would you send your Edur out. I need to know what he’s doing.’

Startled, Brohl said nothing for a moment.

She interpreted that, rightly, as disapproval. ‘Your kind are better able to see in the dark. Is that not correct? Certainly better than us Letherii; but more important, better than the Awl.’

And their dogs, Atri-Preda? They will smell us, hear us-they will raise their heads and awaken the night. Like your soldiers,’ he continued, ‘mine are in position, facing the high grasses and expecting to sight the enemy at any moment.’

She sighed. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘He plays with us,’ Brohl Handar said. ‘He wants us second-guessing him. He wants our minds numbed with exhaustion come the dawn, and so slowed in our capacity to react, to respond with alacrity. Redmask wants us confused, and he has succeeded.’

‘Do you imagine that I don’t know all that?’ she demanded in a hiss.

‘Atri-Preda, you do not even trust your mages just now-the wards they have set to guard us this night. Our soldiers should be sleeping.’

‘If I have reason to lack confidence in my mages,’ Bivatt said dryly, ‘I have good cause. Nor has your K’risnan impressed me thus far, Overseer. Although,’ she added, ‘his healing talents have proved more than adequate.’

‘You sound very nearly resentful of that,’ Brohl said.

She waved a dismissive hand and turned away to resume her pacing.

A troubled commander indeed.

Redmask would be delighted.

Toc leaned along the length of the horse’s neck. He was riding bareback, and he could feel the animal’s heat and its acrid yet gentle smell filled his nostrils as he let the beast take another step forward. From the height of the horse’s shoulder he could see just above the line of the ridge off to his left.

The modest defensive berms were like humped graves along the flat this side of the Letherii camp. There had been a change of guard-the chimes had been readily audible-meaning yet another ideal time for the attack had slipped past.

He was no military genius, but Toc believed that this night could not have been more perfect as far as the Awl were concerned. They had their enemy confused, weary and frayed. Instead, Redmask exhausted his own warriors by sending them one way and then the next, with the seemingly sole purpose of raising dust no-one could even see. No command to initiate contact had been issued. No concerted gathering to launch a sudden strike into the Letherii camp. Not even any harassing flights of arrows to speed down in the dark.

He thought he understood the reason for Redmask’s inconstancy. The Letherii mages. His scouts had witnessed that impatient, deadly sorcery, held ready to greet the Awl attack. They had brought back stories of blistered land, rocks snapping in the incandescent heat, and these tales had spread quickly, driving deep into the army a spike of fear. The problem was simple. Here, in this place, Redmask had no answer to that magic. And Toc now believed that Redmask would soon sound the retreat, no matter how galling-no spilling of blood, and the great advantage of advancing well beyond reach of the Letherii column and so avoiding detection had been surrendered, uselessly thrown away. No battle, yet a defeat nonetheless.

His horse, unguided by the human on its back, took another step, head dipping so that the animal could crop grass. Too much of that and the beast would find its bowels in knots.

Oh, we take you into slaughter without a moment’s thought. And yes, some of you come to enjoy it, to lust for that cacophony, that violence, the reek of blood. And so we share with you, dear horse, our peculiar madness. But who judges us for this crime against you and your kind? No-one.

Unless you horses have a god.

He wondered if there might be a poem somewhere in that. But poems that remind us of our ghastlier traits are never popular, are they? Best the bald lies of heroes and great deeds. The slick comfort of someone else’s courage and conviction. So we can bask in the righteous glow and so feel uplifted in kind.

Aye, I’ll stay with the lies. Why not? Everyone else does.

And those who don’t are told they think too much. Hah, now there’s a fearsome attack enough to quail any venturesome soul. See me tremble.

His horse heard a whinny from off to the right and in whatever language the beasts shared that sound was surely a summons, for it lifted its head, then walked slowly towards it. Toc waited a few moments longer, then, when he judged they were well clear of the ridge line behind them, he straightened and gathered the reins.

And saw before him a solid line of mounted warriors, lances upright.

In front of the row was the young Renfayar, Masarch.

Toc angled his horse on an approach.

‘What is this, Masarch? A cavalry charge in the dark?’

The young warrior shrugged. ‘We’ve readied three times this night, Mezla.’

Toc smiled to himself. He’d thrown that pejorative out in a fit of self-mockery a few days past, and now it had become an honorific. Which, he admitted, appealed to his sense of irony. He edged his horse closer and in a low tone asked: ‘Do you have any idea what Redmask is doing, Masarch?’

A hooded glance, then another shrug.

‘Well,’ Toc persisted, ‘is this the main concentration of forces? No? Then where?’

‘To the northwest, I think.’

‘Is yours to be a feint attack?’

‘Should the horn sound, Mezla, we ride to blood.’

Toe twisted on the horse and looked back at the ridge. The Letherii would feel the drumming of hoofs, and then see the silhouettes as the Awl crested the line. And those soldiers had dug pits-he could already hear the snapping of leg bones and the animal screaming. ‘Masarch,’ he said, ‘you can’t charge those pickets.’

‘We can see them well enough to ride around them-’

‘Until the animal beside you jostles yours into one.’

At first Toc thought he was hearing wolves howling, but the sudden cry levelled out-Redmask’s rodara horn.

Masarch raised his lance. ‘Do you ride with us, Mezla?’

Bareback? ‘No.’

‘Then ride fast to one side!’

Toc kicked his horse into motion, and as he rode down the line he saw the Awl warriors ready their weapons above suddenly restless mounts. Breaths gusted like smoke into the air. From somewhere on the far side of the Letherii encampment there was the sudden reverberation of clashing arms.

He judged that Masarch led six or seven hundred Awl riders. Urging his horse into a gallop, Toc drew clear just as the mass of warriors surged forward. ‘This is madness!’ He spun the mount round, tugging his bow loose from his shoulder even as he looped the reins over his left wrist. Jamming one end of the bow onto his moccasined foot-between the big toe and the rest-he leaned down his weight to string it. Weapon readied and in his right hand, he deftly adjusted his hold on the reins and knotted them to ensure that they did not fall and foul the horse’s front legs.

As the beast cantered into the dusty wake of the cavalry charge, Toe Anaster drew out from the quiver at his hip the first stone-tipped arrow. What in Hood’s name am 1 doing?

Getting ready to cover the retreat 1 know is coming? Aye, a one-eyed archer…

With the pressure of his thighs and a slight shifting of weight, he guided his horse in the direction of the rise-where the Awl warriors had arrived in a dark mass, only now voicing their war-cries. Somewhere in the distance rose the sound of dogs, joining that ever-growing cacophony of iron on iron and screaming voices.

Redmask had finally struck, and now there was chaos in the night.

The cavalry, reaching the rise, swept down the other side and moments later were lost from sight.

Toc urged his horse forward, nocking the arrow. He had no stirrups to stand in while shooting, making this whole exercise seem ridiculous, yet he quickly approached the crest. Moments before arriving, he heard the clash ahead-the shouts, the piercing shrieks of injured horses, and beneath it all the thunder of hoofs.

Although difficult to discern amidst the darkness and dust, Toc could see that most of the lancers had swept round the outlying pickets, continuing on to crash into the camp itself. He saw soldiers emerging from those entrench-

ments, many wounded, some simply dazed. Younger Awl warriors rode among them, slashing down with scimitars in a grotesque slaughter.

Coruscating light burgeoned off to the right-the foaming rise of sorcery-and Toc saw the Awl cavalry begin to withdraw, pulling away like fangs from flesh.

‘No!’ he shouted, riding hard now towards them. ‘Stay among the enemy! Go back! Attack, you damned fools! Attack!’

But, even could they hear him, they had seen the magic, the tumult building into a writhing wave of blistering power. And fear took their hearts. Fear took them and they fled-

Still Toc rode forward, now among the berms. Bodies sprawled, horses lying on their sides, kicking, ears flat and teeth bared; others broken heaps filling pits.

The first of the retreating Awl raced past, unseeing, their faces masks of terror.

A second wave of sorcery had appeared, this one from the left, and he watched it roll into the first of the horse-warriors on that side. Flesh burst, fluids sprayed. The magic climbed, slowed as it seemed to struggle against all the flesh it contacted. Screams, the sound reaching Toc on its own wave, chilling his very bones. Hundreds died before the magic spent itself, and into the dust now swirled white ash-all that was left of human and horse along the entire west flank.

Riders swarming past Toc, along with riderless horses surging ahead in the grip of panic. Dust biting his lone eye, dust seeking to claw down his throat, and all around him shadows writhing in their own war of light and dark as sorceries lifted, rolled then fell in gusting clouds of ash.

And then Toc Anaster was alone, arrow still nocked, in the wasteland just inside the berms. Watching another wave of sorcery sweep past his position, pursuing the fleeing Awl.

Before he could think either way, Toc found himself riding hard, in behind that dread wave, into the scalding, brittle air of the magic’s wake-and there, sixty paces away, within a mass of advancing soldiers, he saw the mage. The latter clenched his hands and power tumbled from him, forming yet another excoriating conjuration of raw destruction that rose up to greet Toc, then heaved for him.

One eye or not, he could see that damned wizard.

An impossible shot, jostled as he was on the horse’s back as the beast weaved between pits and suspect tufts of grass, as its head lifted in sudden recognition of terrible danger.

Silver-veined power surging towards him.

Galloping now, mad as any other fool this night, and he saw, off to his left, a deep, elongated trench-drainage for the camp’s latrines-and he forced his mount towards it, even as the sorcery raced for him on a convergent path from his right.

The horse saw the trench, gauged its width, then stretched out a moment before gathering to make the leap.

He felt the beast lift beneath him, sail through the air-and for that one moment all was still, all was smooth, and in that one moment Toc twisted at the hips, knees hard against the animal’s shoulders, drew the bow back, aimed-damning this flat, one-eyed world that was all he had left

– then loosed the stone-tipped arrow.

The horse landed, throwing Toc forward onto its neck. Bow in his right hand, legs stretching out now along the length of the beast’s back, and his left arm wrapping, desperately tight, about the animal’s muscle-sheathed neck

– behind them and to the right, the heat of that wave, reaching out, closer, closer-

The horse screamed, bolting forward. He held on.

And felt a gust of cool air behind him. Risked a glance.

The magic had died. Beyond it, at the front line of the advancing-now halted and milling-Letherii troops, a body settling onto its knees. A body without a head; a neck from which rose, not blood, but something like smoke-

A detonation? Had there been a detonation-a thumping crack, bludgeoning the air-yes, maybe he had heard-

He regained control of his horse, took the knotted reins in his left hand and guided the frightened creature round, back towards the crest.

The air reeked of cooked meat. Other flashes lit the night. Dogs snarled. Soldiers and warriors died. And among Masarch’s cavalry, Toc would later learn, half were not there to see the dawn.

High overhead, night and its audience of unblinking stars had seen enough, and the sky paled, as if washed of all blood, as if drained of the last life.

The sun was unkind in lighting the morning sky, revealing the thick, biting ash of incinerated humans, horses and dogs. Revealing, as well, the strewn carnage of the battle just done. Brohl Handar walked, half numbed, along the east edge of the now-dishevelled encampment, and approached the Atri-Preda and her retinue.

She had dismounted, and was now crouched beside a corpse just inside the berms-where, it seemed, the suicidal Awl had elected to charge. He wondered how many had died to Letherii sorcery here. Probably every damned one of them. Hundreds for certain, perhaps thousands-there was no way to tell in this kind of aftermath, was there? A handful of fine ash to mark an entire human. Two for a horse. Half for a dog. Just so. The wind took it all away, less than an orator’s echo, less than a mourner’s gut-deep grunt of despair.

He staggered to a halt opposite Bivatt, the corpse-headless, it turned out-between them.

She looked up, and perhaps it was the harsh sunlight, or the dust in a thin sheath-but her face was paler than he had ever seen before.

Brohl studied the headless body. One of the mages.

‘Do you know, Overseer,’ Bivatt asked in a rough voice, ‘what could have done this?’

He shook his head. ‘Perhaps his sorcery returned to him, uncontrolled-’

‘No,’ she cut in. ‘It was an arrow. From a lone archer with the audacity to outrun… to slip between-Overseer, an archer riding bareback, loosing his arrow whilst his horse leapt a trench…’

She stared up at him, disbelieving, as if challenging him to do other than shake his head. He was too tired for this. He had lost warriors last night. Dogs rushing from the high grasses. Dogs… and two Kechra-two, there were only two, weren’t there? The same two he had seen before. Only one with those strapped-on swords.

Swords that had chopped his K’risnan in half, one swinging in from one side, the other from the opposite side. Not that the blades actually met. The left one had been higher, from the top of the shoulder down to-just below the ribcage. The right blade had cut into ribs, down through the gut, tearing free below the hip and taking a lot of that hip out with it. So, to be accurate, not in half. In three.

The other Kechra had just used its talons and jaws, proving no less deadly-in fact, Brohl thought this one more savage than its larger companion, more clearly delighting in its violent mayhem. The other fought with perfunctory grace. The smaller, swordless Kechra revelled in the guts and limbs it flung in every direction.

But those beasts were not immortal. They could bleed. Take wounds. And enough spears and swords had managed to cut through their tough hides to drive both of them off.

Brohl Handar blinked down at the Atri-Preda. ‘A fine shot, then.’

Rage twisted her features. ‘He was bound with another of my mages, both drawing their powers together. They were exhausted… all the wards.’ She spat. ‘The other one, Overseer, his head burst apart too. Same as this one here. I’ve lost two mages, to one damned arrow.’ She clambered stiffly to her feet. ‘Who was that archer? Who?’

Brohl said nothing.

‘Get your K’risnan to-’

‘I cannot. He is dead.’

That silenced her. For a moment. ‘Overseer, we mauled them. Do you understand? Thousands died, to only a few hundred of our own.’

‘1 lost eighty-two Tiste Edur warriors.’

He was pleased at her flinch, at the faltering of her hard gaze. ‘An arrow. A lone rider. Not an Awl-the eyewitnesses swear to that. A mage-killer.’

The only thorn from, this wild ride through the night. I see, yes. But I cannot help you. Brohl Handar turned away. Ten, fifteen strides across cracked, crackling, ash-laden ground.

Sorcery had taken the grasses. Sorcery had taken the soil and its very life. The sun, its glory stolen before it could rise this day, looked down, one-eyed. Affronted by this rival.

Yes. Affronted.

Chapter Seventeen

He might well speak of mystery and show a mask of delighted wonder, but the truth of it was, mystery frightened Beak. He could smell sorcery, yes, and sense its poetic music, so orderly and eloquent, but its heat could so easily burn, right down to a mortal man’s core. He was not much for bravery; oh, he could see it well enough among other soldiers-he could see it in every detail of Captain Faradan Sort, who now sat her horse at his side-but he knew he possessed none of it himself.

Coward and stupid were two words that went together, Beak believed, and both belonged to him. Smelling magic had been a way of avoiding it, of running from it, and as for all those candles within him, well, he was happiest when nothing arrived that might send their flames flickering, brightening, bursting into a conflagration. He supposed it was just another stupid decision, this being a soldier, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

Marching across that desert in that place called Seven Cities (although he’d only seen two cities, he was sure there were five more somewhere), Beak had listened to all the other soldiers complaining. About… well, everything. The fighting. Not fighting. The heat of the day, the cold at night, the damned coyotes yipping in the dark sounding so close you thought they were standing right beside you, mouth at your ear. The biting insects, the scorpions and spiders and snakes all wanting to kill you. Yes, they’d found lots to complain about. That terrible city, Y’Ghatan, and the goddess who’d opened one eye that night and so stolen away that evil rebel, Leoman. And then, when all had seemed lost, that girl-Sinn-showing her own candle. Blindingly bright, so pure that Beak had cowered before it. They’d complained about all of that, too. Sinn should have snuffed that firestorm out. The Adjunct should have waited a few days longer, because there was no way those marines would have died so easily.

And what about Beak? Hadn’t he sensed them? Well, maybe. That mage, Bottle, the one with all the pets. Maybe Beak had smelled him, still alive under all those ashes. But then he was a coward, wasn’t he? To go up to, say, the Adjunct, or Captain Kindly, and tell them-no, that was too much. Kindly was like his own father, who didn’t like to listen whenever it was something he wasn’t interested in hearing. And the Adjunct, well, even her own soldiers weren’t sure of her.

He’d listened with all the rest to her speech after they’d left Malaz City (a most terrifying night, that, and he was so glad he’d been far away from it, out on a transport), and he remembered how she talked about going it alone from now on. And doing things nobody else would ever know about. Unwitnessed, she said. As if that was important. Such talk usually confused Beak, but not this time. His entire life was, he knew, unwitnessed. So, she had made all the other soldiers just like him, just like Beak, and that had been an unexpected gift from that cold, cold woman. Coward or no and stupid as he was, she’d won him that night. Something she wouldn’t think much of, obviously, but it meant a lot to him.

Anyway, his heart had slowed its wild run, and he lifted his head and glanced over at the captain. She sat her horse in the deep shadow, unmoving just as he had been, and yet, in an instant, he thought he caught from her a sound-the hammering of waves against stone, the screams of soldiers in battle, swords and slaughter, lances like ice piercing hot flesh, and the waves-and then all of that was gone.

She must have sensed his attention, for she asked in a low voice: ‘Are they well past, Beak?’

‘Aye.’

‘Caught no scent of us?’

‘None, Captain. I hid us with grey and blue. It was easy. That mage she kneels in front of the Holds. She knows nothing about the grey and blue warrens.’

‘The Letherii were supposed to join us,’ Faradan Sort muttered. ‘Instead, we find them riding with Tiste Edur, doing their work for them.’

All stirred up, aye. Especially round here.’

‘And that’s the problem,’ she replied, gathering her reins and nudging her mount out from beneath the heavy branches where they had hidden-fifteen paces off the trail-while the war-party rode past. ‘We’re well ahead of the other squads. Either Hellian or Urb has lost their mind, or maybe both of them.’

Beak followed on his own horse, a gentle bay he’d named Lily. ‘Like a hot poker, Captain, pushing right to the back of the forge. Do that and you burn your hand, right?’

‘The hand, yes. Keneb. You and me. All the other squads.’

‘Um, your hand, I meant.’

‘I am learning to tell those moments,’ she said, now eyeing him.

‘What moments?’ Beak asked.

‘When you’ve convinced yourself how stupid you are.’

‘Oh.’ Those moments. ‘I ain’t never been so loyal, Captain. Never.’

She gave him a strange look then, but said nothing.

They rode up onto the trail and faced their mounts east. ‘They’re up there somewhere ahead,’ the captain said. ‘Causing all sorts of trouble.’

Beak nodded. They’d been tracking those two squads for two nights now. And it was truly a trail of corpses. Sprung ambushes, dead Letherii and Tiste Edur, the bodies dragged off into cover, stripped down and so naked Beak had to avert his eyes, lest evil thoughts sneak into his mind. All the places his mother liked him to touch that one night-no, all that was evil thinking, evil memories, the kind of evil that could make him hang himself as his brother had done.

‘We have to find them, Beak.’

He nodded again.

‘We have to rein them in. Tonight, do you think?’

‘It’s the one named Balgrid, Captain. And the other named Bowl-who’s learned magic real fast. Balgrid’s got the white candle, you see, and this land ain’t had no white candle for a long time. So he’s dragging the smell off all the bodies they’re leaving and that’s muddying things up-those ears they’re cutting off, and the fingers and stuff that they’re tying to their belts. That’s why we’re going from ambush to ambush, right? Instead of straight to them.’

‘Well,’ she said after a moment and another long, curious look, ‘we’re on damned horses, aren’t we?’

‘So are they now, Captain.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I think so. Just tonight. It’s the Holds. There’s one for beasts. And if the Letherii mages figure things out, they could turn with that and find them real fast.’

‘Hood’s breath, Beak. And what about us?’

‘Us too. Of course, there’s plenty of people riding horses round here, bad stirrups or no. But if they get close, then maybe even grey and blue candles won’t work.’

‘You might end up having to show a few more, then.’

Oh, he didn’t like that idea. ‘I hope not. I really hope not.’

‘Let’s get going then, Beak.’

Don’t burn me down to the core, Captain. Please. It won’t he nice, not for anyone. I can still hear their screams and there’s always screams and I start first. My screams scare me the most, Captain. Scare me stupid, aye.

‘Wish Masan Gilani was with us,’ Scant said, pulling up clumps of moss to wash the blood from his hands.

Hellian blinked at the fool. Masan who?

‘Listen, Sergeant,’ Balgrid said again.

He was always saying that and so she’d stopped listening to him. It was like pissing in the fire, the way men could do when women couldn’t. Just a hiss into sudden darkness and then that awful smell. Listen, Sergeant and hiss, she stopped listening.

‘You’ve got to,’ Balgrid insisted, reaching out to prod her with a finger. ‘Sergeant?’

She glared down at that finger. ‘Want me t’cut off my left cheek, soldier? Touch me again and you’ll be sorry ‘s what I’m sayin’.’

‘Someone’s tracking us.’

She scowled. ‘For how long?’

‘Two, maybe three nights going,’ Balgrid replied.

‘So you decide to tell me now7. All my soljers are idiots. How they trackin’ us? You and Bowl said you had it covered, had something covered, anyway. What was it you had covered? Right, you been pissing all over our trail or something.’ She glared at him. ‘Hiss.’

‘What? No. Listen, Sergeant-’

And there it went again. She rose to her feet, wobbling on the soft, loamy ground. Where one could fall at every damned step if one wasn’t careful. ‘Someone-you, Corporal, drag them bodies away.’

‘Aye Sergeant.

‘Right away, Sergeant.’

‘And you two. Maybe. Louts-’

‘Lutes.’

‘Help the corporal. You all made a mess killing these ones.’ And that was right enough, wasn’t it? This one had been nasty. Sixteen Letherii and four Edur. Quarrels to the heads did for them Edur what it does for normal people. Like sacks of stones on a big drop, whoo, toppling right off them horses. Then a pair of sharpers, one front of the Letherii column, the other at the tail end. Boom boom and the dusk was nothing but screaming and thrashing limbs human and horse and some couldn’t tell which.

Damned Letherii had recovered a little too fast for her liking. Dead sure too fast for Hanno’s liking, since Hanno went down with only half a skull left after one of the meanest sword swings she’d ever seen. Threw the soldier right off balance, though, with those stupid stirrups, and so it’d been easy for Urb to reach up one of those giant hands of his, grasp a belt or something and drag the fool right off. Throwing him down with such force that all wind rushed out of him both ends. At which point Urb pushed a mailed fist so hard into the face under the helmet that Urb hurt his knuckles on the back of the man’s skull-low, just above the vertables or whatever they were called. Teeth and bone splinters and meat spurting out everywhere.

The first loss in the squads, that’d been. All because Hanno jumped in close thinking the Letherii were still confused and useless. But no, these soldiers, they’d been veterans. They’d come round damned quick.

Saltlick was bad cut up, though Balgrid had worked on him and he wasn’t bleeding out and unconscious any more. And Corporal Reem went and got two fingers of his left hand cut off-a bad fend with his shield. Poor Urb wasn’t doing too well as sergeant.

Hellian worked round carefully until she faced another direction, and could see Urb sitting on a rotting log, looking miserable. She drank down a mouthful of rum then ambled over. ‘We’re both sergeants now, right? Let’s go find some bushes t’crawl under. I’m in the mood for sweat and grunts with somebody, and since we’re the same rank an’ all it’s only obvious and ain’t nobody here gonna c’mplain.’

He blinked up at her, wide-eyed as an owl.

‘Wha’s your probbem, Urb? I ain’t as ugly as you, am I?’

‘Urb ain’t ugly,’ Reem said with an incredulous laugh. ‘Masan couldn’t think straight around him! Probably why she let herself get shifted over to Balm’s squad.’

Hellian grunted, then said, ‘Be quiet, Reem. You’re a corporal. This is sergeant business.’

‘You want a roll with Urb, Sergeant,’ Reem said. ‘Got nothing to do with you two being sergeants and everything t’do with Urb looking like some goddamned god and you drunk enough to get hungry for the sweats and grunts.’

‘Still ain’t your business.’

‘Maybe not, but we gotta listen to those grunts. Like Scant said, if Masan was around we could all of us dream those dreams and maybe even try, hoping she’d be so frustrated trying to get anywhere with Urb she just might-’

‘Since when you find that runaway mouth of yours, Reem?’ Balgrid demanded. ‘You was better being silent and mysterious. So now you lose a couple fingers and what happens?’

‘Quiet allaya,’ Hellian said. ‘You want another patrol coming down on us and us not ready for ‘em this time? Now, the rest of you, not countin’ Urb here, check your gear and get your trophies and all that and if you wanna listen then just don’t make too many groanin’ noises. Of envy and the like.’

‘We won’t be groaning outa envy, Hellian. More like-’

‘Silent and mysterious, damn you, Reem!’

‘I feel like talking, Balgrid, and you can’t stop me-’

‘But I can, and you won’t like it at all.’

‘Damned necromancer.’

‘Just the other side of Denul, Reem, like I keep telling you. Denul’s giving, Hood’s taking away.’

Hellian closed in on Urb, who suddenly looked terrified. ‘Relax,’ she said. ‘I ain’t gonna cut anything off. Not any-thing of yours, anyway. But if I get clobbered with terrible rejection here…’

‘Nice bed of moss over here,’ Scant said, straightening and moving away with a gesture in his wake.

Hellian reached down and tugged Urb to his feet.

Balgrid was suddenly beside him. ‘Listen, Sergeant-’

She dragged Urb past the mage.

‘No, Sergeant! Those ones tracking us-I think they’ve found us!’

All at once weapons were drawn, figures scattering to defensive positions-a rough circle facing outward with Hellian and Urb in the centre.

‘Balgrid,’ she hissed. ‘You coulda said-’

Horse hoofs, the heavy breath of an animal, then a voice called out, low, in Malazan: ‘Captain Faradan Sort and Beak. We’re coming in so put your damned sharpers away.’

‘Oh, that’s just great,’ Hellian sighed. ‘Ease down, everyone, it’s that scary captain.’

Marines all right. Beak didn’t like the look of them. Mean, hungry, scowling now that the captain had found them. And there was a dead one, too.

Faradan Sort guided her horse into their midst, then dismounted. Beak remained where he was for the moment, not far from where two soldiers stood, only now sheathing their swords. He could see the necromancer, the man’s aura white and ghostly. Death was everywhere here, the still air heavy with last breaths, and he could feelthis assault of loss like a tight fist in his chest.

It was always this way where people died. He should never have become a soldier.

‘Hellian, Urb, we need to talk. In private.’ Cool and hard, the captain’s voice. ‘Beak?’

‘Captain?’

‘Join us.’

Oh no. But he rode forward and then slipped down from the saddle. Too much attention on him all at once, and he ducked as he made his way to the captain’s side.

Faradan Sort in the lead, the group set off into the wood.

‘We ain’t done nothin’ wrong,’ Sergeant Hellian said as soon as they halted twenty or so paces from the others. She seemed to be weaving back and forth like a flat-headed snake moments from spitting venom.

‘You were supposed to pace yourselves, not get too far ahead of the other squads. At any moment now, Sergeant, we won’t be running onto patrols of twenty, but two hundred. Then two thousand.’

‘Tha’s not the probbem,’ Hellian said-an accent Beak had never heard before. ‘The probbem is, Cap’in, the Letherii are fightin’ alongside them Edur-’

‘Have you attempted to make contact with those Letherii?’

‘We have,’ Urb said. ‘It got messy.’ He shook his head. ‘There’s no sign, Captain, that these people want to be liberated.’

‘Like Urb said,’ Hellian added, nodding vigorously.

The captain looked away. ‘The other squads have said much the same.’

‘Maybe we can convince them or something,’ Urb said.

Hellian leaned against a tree. ‘Seems t’me, Cap’in, we got two things we can do and ony two. We can retreat back t’the coast. Build ten thousand rafts and paddle away ‘s fast as we can. Or we go on. Fast, vicious mean. And iffin they come at us two thousand at once, then we run an’ hide like we was trained t’do. Fast and vicious mean, Cap’in, or a long paddle.’

‘There is only one thing worse than arguing with a drunk,’ Faradan Sort said, ‘and that’s arguing with a drunk who’s right.’

Hellian beamed a big smile.

She was drunk? She was drunk. A drunk sergeant, only, as the captain had just said, no fool either.

Faradan Sort continued, ‘Do you have enough horses for your squads?’,

Aye, sir,’ Urb replied. ‘More than enough.’

‘I still want you to slow down, for a few days at least. I intend to contact the other squads and get them to start doing what you’re doing, but that will take some time-’

‘Captain,’ Urb said. ‘I got a feeling they’re learning already. There’s lots more patrols now and they’re getting bigger and a lot more wary. We’ve been expecting to walk into an ambush at any time, and that’s what’s got us worried. Next time you ride to find us you might find a pile of corpses. Malazan corpses. We ain’t got the munitions to carry us all the way-no-one has-so it’s going to start getting a lot harder, sir.’

‘I know, Sergeant. You lost one in that fight, didn’t you?’

‘Hanno.’

‘Got careless,’ Hellian said.

Urb frowned, then nodded. Aye, that’s true.’

‘Then let us hope that one hard lesson is enough,’ the captain said.

‘Expect it is,’ Urb confirmed.

Faradan Sort faced Beak. ‘Tell them about the Holds, Beak.’

He flinched, then sighed and said, ‘Letherii mages-they might be able to find us by the horses, by smelling them out, I mean.’

‘Balgrid’s covering our trail,’ Urb said. ‘Are you saying it won’t work?’

‘Might be,’ Beak said. ‘Necromancy’s one thing they can’t figure. Not Letherii. Not Tiste Edur. But there’s a Beast Hold, you see.’

Hellian withdrew a flask and drank down a mouthful, then said, ‘We need to know for certain. Next time, Urb, we get us one of them Letherii mages alive. We ask some questions, and in between the screams we get answers.’

Beak shivered. Not just drunk but bloodthirsty, too.

‘Be careful,’ the captain said. ‘That could go sour very quickly.’

‘We know all about careful, sir,’ Hellian said with a bleary smile.

Faradan Sort studied the sergeant the way she sometimes studied Beak himself, then she said, ‘We’re done. Slow down some, and watch out for small patrols-they might be bait.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘We’re in this, now. Understand?’

‘No rafts?’

‘No rafts, Hellian.’

‘Good. If’n I never see another sea I’m going to die happy.’

She would, too, Beak knew. Die happy. She had that going for her.

‘Back to your squads,’ the captain said. ‘Set your nervous soldiers at ease.’

‘It’s not the smell,’ Beak said.

The others turned inquiringly.

‘That’s not what’s making them nervous, I mean,’ Beak explained. ‘The death smell-they’re carrying all that with them, right? So they’re used to it now. They’re only nervous because they’ve been sitting around too long. In one place. That’s all.’

‘Then let us not waste any more time,’ Faradan Sort said.

Good idea. That was why she was a captain, of course. Smart enough to make her ways of thinking a mystery to him-but that was one mystery he was happy enough with. Maybe the only one.

They flung themselves down at the forest’s edge. Edge, aye-too many damned edges. Beyond was a patchwork of farmland and hedgerows. Two small farms were visible, although no lantern-or candle-light showed through the tiny, shuttered windows. Heart pounding painfully in his chest, Fiddler rolled onto his side to see how many had made it. A chorus of harsh breaths from the scatter of bodies in the gloom to either side of the sergeant. All there. Thanks to Corabb and the desert warrior’s impossible luck.

The ambush had been a clever one, he admitted. Should have taken them all down. Instead, half a league back, in a small grassy glade, there was the carcass of a deer-a deer that Corabb had inadvertently flushed out-with about twenty arrows in it. Cleverly planned, poorly executed.

The Malazans had quickly turned it. Sharpers cracking in the night, crossbows thudding, the flit of quarrels and the punch of impact. Shrieks of agony. A rush from Gesler’s heavies had broken one side of the ambush-

And then the sorcery had churned awake, something raw and terrible, devouring trees like acid. Grey tongues of chaotic fire, heaving into a kind of standing wave. Charging forward, engulfing Sands-his scream had been mercifully short. Fiddler, not ten paces away from where Sands had vanished, saw the Letherii mage, who seemed to be screaming with his own pain, even as the wave hurled forward. Bellowing, he’d swung his crossbow round, felt the kick in his hands as he loosed the heavy quarrel.

The cusser had struck a bole just above and behind the mage’s head. The explosion flattened nearby trees, shredded a score of Letherii soldiers. Snuffed the sorcery out in an instant. As more trees toppled, branches thrashing down, the Malazans had pulled back, fast, and then they ran.

Movement from Fiddler’s left and a moment later Gesler dragged himself up alongside. ‘Hood’s damned us all, Fid. We’re running out of forest-how’s Cuttle?’

‘Arrow’s deep,’ Fiddler replied, ‘but not a bleeder. We can dig it out when we get a chance.’

‘Think they’re tracking us?’

Fiddler shook his head. He had no idea. If there were enough of them left. He twisted round. ‘Bottle,’ he hissed, ‘over here.’

The young mage crawled close.

‘Can you reach back?’ Fiddler asked. ‘Find out if they’re after us?’

‘Already did, Sergeant. Used every damned creature in our wake.’

‘And?’ Gesler wanted to know.

‘That cusser did most of them, Sergeant. But the noise brought others. At least a dozen Tiste Edur and maybe a few hundred Letherii. Are they tracking us now? Aye, but still a way behind-they’ve learned to be cautious, I guess.’

‘We’re losing the dark,’ Gesler said. ‘We need a place to hide, Fid-only that’s probably not going to work this time, is it? They’re not going to rest.’

‘Can we lose them?’ Fiddler asked Bottle.

‘I’m pretty tired, Sergeant-’

‘Never mind. You’ve done enough. What do you think, Gesler? Time to get messy?’

‘And use up our few cussers?’

‘Don’t see much choice, to be honest. Of course, I always hold one back. Same for Cuttle.’

Gesler nodded. ‘We had ours distributed-good thing, too, the way Sands went up. Still, he had munitions on him, yet they didn’t ignite-’

‘Oh, but they did,’ Fiddler said. ‘Just not in this realm.

Am I right, Bottle? That sorcery, it’s like a broken gate, the kind that chews up whoever goes through it.’

‘Spirits below, Fid, you smelled it out about dead right. That magic, it started as one thing, then became another-and the mage was losing control, even before you minced him.’

Fiddler nodded. He’d seen as much. Or thought he had. ‘So, Bottle, what does that mean?’

The young mage shook his head. ‘Things are getting out of hand… somewhere. There was old stuff, primitive magic, at first. Not as ancient as spirit-bound stuff. Still, primitive. And then something chaotic grabbed it by the throat

A short distance away, Koryk rolled onto his back. He was bone tired. Let Bottle and the sergeants mutter away, he knew they were neck-deep in Hood’s dusty shit.

‘Hey, Koryk.’

‘What is it, Smiles?’

‘You damned near lost it back there, you know.’

‘I did, did I?’

‘When them four came at you all at once, oh, you danced quite a jig, half-blood.’ She laughed, low and brimming with what sounded like malice. ‘And if I hadn’t come along to stick a knife in that one’s eye-the one who’d slipped under your guard and was ready to give you a wide belly smile-well, you’d be cooling fast back there right now.’

‘And the other three?’ Koryk asked, grinning in the gloom. ‘Bet you never knew I was that quick, did you?’

‘Something tells me you didn’t either.’

He said nothing, because she was right. He’d been in something like a frenzy, yet his eye and his hand had been cold, precise. Through it all it had been as if he had simply watched, every move, every block, every shift in stance and twist, every slash of his heavy blade. Watched, yes, yet profoundly in love with that moment, with each moment. He’d felt some of this at the shield wall on the dock that night in Malaz City. But what had begun as vague euphoria was now transformed into pure revelation. 1 like killing. Gods below, I do like it, and the more 1 like it, the better at it I get. He never felt more alive, never more perfectly alive.

‘Can’t wait to see you dance again,’ Smiles murmured.

Koryk blinked in the gloom, then shifted to face her. Was she stirred? Had he somehow kissed her awake between those muscled legs of hers? Because he’d killed well? Did 1 dance that jig, Smiles? ‘You get scarier, woman, the more I know you.’

She snorted. ‘As it should be, half-blood.’

Tarr spoke from Koryk’s other side: ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

A slightly more distant laugh from Cuttle, ‘Aye, Tarr, it’s what happens when your entire world view collapses. Of course,’ he added, ‘if you could manage to dance like poetry when killing people, who knows-’

‘Enough of that. Please.’

‘No worries,’ Cuttle persisted. ‘You ain’t the dancing kind. You’re as rooted as a tree, and just about as slow, Tarr.’

‘I may be slow, Cuttle, but the fools go down eventually, don’t they?’

‘Oh aye, that they do. Not suggesting otherwise. You’re a one-man shield-wall, you are.’

Corporal Stormy was spitting blood. A damned elbow had cracked his mouth, and now two teeth were loose and he’d bitten his tongue. The elbow might have been his own-someone had collided hard with him in the scrap and he’d had his weapon arm lifted high with the sword’s point angled downward. Nearly wrenched his shoulder out of its damned socket.

A savage back-swing with the pommel had crunched the attacker’s temple and he’d reeled away, one eye half popped out. Shortnose had then cut the Letherii down.

That had been some charge, him and his heavies, Shortnose and the trio of dread ladies each one of whom could both stare down a rutting bhederin bull and beat it into a pulp if it came to that. Making Stormy a very happy sergeant. Bad luck about Sands, though. But we ain’t gonna lose any more. Not one. 1 got my heavies and we can take down whatever they throw at us.

And not just us neither. That Tarr and Koryk… Fid’s got a good mean pair in those. And that Smiles, she’s got the hlackrock heart of a Claw. Good squads here, for this kinda work. And now we’re gonna turn round and kick ‘em dead in the jaw, 1 can feel it. Fid and Gesler, cooking in Kellanved’s old cauldron.

He was delighted the Adjunct had finally cut them loose. In just this way, too. To Hood with damned marching in column. No, cut in fast and low and keep going, aye, and keep their heads spinnin’ every which way. So the fools on their trail were coming for them, were they? And why not? just two puny squads. And them probably in the hundreds by now.

‘Kellanved’s curse,’ he muttered with a grin.

Flashwit’s round face loomed into view, ‘Say something, Corporal?’

‘Malazan marines, my dear, that’s us.’

‘Not heavies? I thought-’

‘You’re both, Flash. Relax. It’s this, you see-the Malazan marines haven’t done what they was trained to do in years, not since before Kellanved died. Trained, y’see. To do exactly what we’re doing right now, praise Fener. Them poor bastards Letherii and Edur, gods below, them poor ignorant fools.’

‘Smart enough to ambush us,’ Uru Hela said from beyond Flashwit.

‘Didn’t work though, did it?’

‘Only because-’

‘Enough from you, Uru Hela. I was talking here, right? Your corporal. So just listen.’

‘I was just askin’-’

‘Another word and you’re on report, soldier.’

If she snorted she fast turned it into a cough. From Gesler up with Fiddler: ‘Quiet down there!’ Point proved. Stormy nodded. Malazan marines. Hah.

Fiddler nodded at the narrow, wending track snaking towards the nearest farmhouse and its meagre outbuildings. ‘We jog good and heavy, dragging our wounded, down there. Straight for the farmhouse along that cart path.’

‘Like we was still running scared, panicked,’ Gesler said. ‘Aye. Of course, we got to clear that farmhouse, which means killing civilians, and I have to say, Fid, I don’t like that.’

‘Maybe we can figure a way round that,’ Fiddler replied. ‘Bottle?’

‘Aye, Sergeant. I’m tired, but I could probably glamour them. Maybe even throw some false ideas in their heads. Like, we went north when we really went south. Like that.’

‘Don’t ever die on us, Bottle,’ Gesler said. To Fiddler, he added, ‘I’ll go collect munitions from my squad, then.’

‘Me and Cuttle,’ Fiddler said, nodding again.

‘Trip wires?’

‘No, it’ll be daylight by then. No, we’ll do the drum.’

‘Hood take me,’ Gesler breathed. ‘You sure? I mean, I’ve heard about it-’

‘You heard because me and Hedge invented it. And perfected it, more or less.’

‘More or less?’

Fiddler shrugged. ‘It either works or it doesn’t. We’ve got Bottle’s deception, in case it doesn’t-’

‘But there’ll be no coming back to retrieve those cussers, though, will there?’

‘Not unless you want to see the bright white light, Gesler.’

‘Well,’ the amber-hued man said with a grin, ‘since there’s a chance at seeing the legend come real, with the genius who invented it right here… I ain’t gonna talk you out of it, Fid.’

‘Half the genius, Gesler. Hedge was the other.’

‘Second thoughts?’

‘Second, ninth and tenth, friend. But we’re doing it anyway. When everyone’s ready, you lead them ahead, excepting me and Cuttle. To that farmhouse-the near one. I think the far one’s abandoned. Could be the owner rebuilt. The fields look damned well kept, don’t they?’

‘Yeah, especially given how small the homestead is.’

‘Let Bottle sniff it out before you go charging in.’

‘Aye. You hear that, mage?’

‘What? Sorry, I think I fell asleep.’

Gesler glared across at Fiddler. ‘Our lives are in this man’s hands? Hood help us.’

Orders were given, passed down the ragged row of supine soldiers. Dawn was just tingeing the air when Gesler, Bottle at his side and trailed by Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas, led his now oversized squad onto the cart path. Scuffing the ground, dragging furrows here and there-not too obvious, just enough-as they made their way towards the modest farmhouse.

Fiddler and Cuttle watched them for a time, until they were well enough away from the place they’d decided was best for the trap. Shrubs running close to the cart path, narrowing lines of sight for that span. Beyond the bushes, two middle-aged trees on the left and one old ancient on the right.

Four cussers for this. Two close together, then one, and then the last.

Cuttle, his face sheathed in sweat from the arrow-head lodged in his shoulder, was strangely lacking in commentary as Fiddler directed the sapper to pace the track from this side of the narrowing to twenty strides beyond it, and set sticks in the ground when Fiddler so commanded. Once this was done, Cuttle’s task was to dig holes in the packed earth where the sticks had been. Shallow holes.

A sapper who trusted to Oponn’s pull might have left it at that, praying to the fickle Twins that a horse hoof would descend on at least one of the planted cussers. But that was not how the drum worked. All that was needed was vibration. If the cussers were thinned on one side just right; if the sharp stone against that spot was sharp enough and angled just right so that the reverberation would drive its tip into the clay shell. The real challenge, Fiddler and Hedge had discovered, was down to shaving the cusser-right down to eggshell thin-without breaking it and so painting leaves in the highest trees with one’s own blood and guts.

As soon as Cuttle finished the first scooped-out hole, Fiddler headed towards it with a cusser cradled in his hands. Setting it down carefully on the ground, he drew a knife and made some minute adjustments to the hole. Then he turned his attention to the cusser. This one, furthest down along the track, would be the one to go first. Which would trigger the others, in the midst of the troop, with two at the back end in case die column was especially long.

He set the cusser into the hole, then settled down onto his stomach and brought his knife close to one side of the mine. And began scraping clay.

The sun had risen, and although the air was still cool sweat streamed down Fiddler’s face as he shaved away minute slivers of the fine-grained clay. He wished for direct sunlight on the cusser, the side he was working on, s.o he could work until he saw that faint glow reaching through to the bright yellow incendiary powder with its shards of iron. But no such luck. All remained in shadow.

Finally, one last scrape, then he carefully edged the blade away. Found the sharp stone and set it down beside the thinned shell. Point against the clay, he made a half-twist-breath held, eyes squeezed shut-then slowly withdrew his hand. Opened his eyes. Studied his handiwork.

A few more deep breaths to settle his nerves, then he began filling the hole with small handfuls of earth. Then scattered detritus over the spot.

Fiddler belly-crawled away, until he reached the edge of the track where he’d left the other cussers. Glancing up the path, he saw Cuttle waiting at the far end, arms wrapped about his torso, looking like he’d just pissed himself. Aye, he knows why we’re a dying breed-Taking the second cusser, Fiddler made his way-lightly

– to the second hole. Not as thin this time, but thin enough. Each one in turn slightly easier, which made shaving each of them increasingly dangerous-the risk of getting careless, sloppy, just in that wash of relief at having managed the first one… well, he knew all the dangers in all this, didn’t he?

Teeth gritted, he arrived at the second hole in the path, slowly sank to his knees. Set the cusser down, and reached for his knife.

Cuttle was as close to pissing himself as he had ever been. Not at the prospect of dying-he was fine enough with that and had been ever since finding himself in the Fourteenth

– but at what he was witnessing here.

The last great Malazan sapper. No-one else came close. Imagine, shaving cusser shells. With a knife. Eggshell thin. Cuttle had watched, unable to make out much from this distance, as Fiddler had set to work on the first one, the deadliest one of all. And he had prayed, to every god he could think of, to gods he didn’t even know the names of, to spirits and ghosts and every sapper living or dead, each name-a benediction to one man’s brilliance. Praying that the one man he truly worshipped wouldn’t… wouldn’t what?

Let me down.

How pathetic. He knew that. He kept telling himself that, in between the breathed-out beseechings. As if he’d have time to rue the failing of his faith.

So there was Fiddler, closer now, at the second hole, doing it all over again. Imagine, Fid and Hedge, the way they must have been together. Gods, those Bridgeburners must have been holy terrors. But now… just Fiddler, and Cuttle here poorer than a shadow of the famous Hedge. It was all coming to an end. But so long as Fiddler stayed alive, well then, damn them all, it was worth holding on. And this arrow lodged in his left shoulder, well, true he’d seen it coming, but he hadn’t exactly leaned into it, had he? Might have looked that way. Might have at that. As if he’d had time to even think, with everything going on around him. He wasn’t superhuman, was he?

Edging back from the second set mine, Fiddler glanced over at Cuttle. The man’s face was white as death. Well, thinking on it, he didn’t need the man that close any more, did he?

He hand-signalled Leave, rejoin the squads.

Cuttle shook his head.

Shrugging-this was no time to argue and if Cuttle had a death-wish it wasn’t news to Fiddler-he rose and set off to collect the third cusser. Even footfalls were now risky, forcing him to move slowly along the verge of the track. There was plenty of superstition about where to stash munitions when working. Hedge would have insisted the cussers be ahead of the work at all times, but the less Fiddler handled them the better he felt. No matter what, there was back and forth with the damned things, wasn’t there?

He reached the spot and looked down at the two remaining cussers. More superstition. Which one? Heart side or head side? Facing the hole or with the hole behind him as it was now? Hood’s breath, Hedge was clambering around in his skull like a fiend. Enough of the superstition! Fiddler crouched and collected a cusser.

Heart side.

And was random chance really any more than just that? The Moranth were fanatics when it came to precision. Every class of munitions perfect beyond belief. No variation at all. With variation, being a sapper would be nothing more than being a rock-thrower-with explosive rocks, mind, but even so. No real talent involved, no hard-earned skill.

Fiddler remembered, with the appalling clarity of a god-touched revelation, his first encounter with Moranth munitions. Northern Genabackis, a week before the march on the city of Mott followed by the twin nightmares of Mott Wood and Blackdog Swamp. There had been rumours of contact and extensive negotiations with a strange people ruling a place called Cloud Forest, far to the south. An isolated people, said to be terrifying and inhuman in appearance, who rode enormous domesticated four-winged insects-giant dragonflies-and could rain death upon enemies from great heights.

The Malazan negotiators had included Tayschrenn, some nobleborn dignitary named Aragan, and a lone T’lan Imass named Onos T’oolan. The Second and Third Armies had been encamped on Nathii farmland two days from the landing south of Malyntaeas. A crate had been carried-gingerly, by sweating soldiers from the quartermaster’s unit-and set down ten paces from the squad’s hearth fire. Whiskeyj ack had gestured Hedge and Fiddler over.

‘You two do most of the sapping in this miserable squad,’ the sergeant had said, grimacing as if he’d swallowed something unpleasant-which he had, by virtue of legitimizing Fid and Hedge’s destructive anarchy. ‘In yon box there are grenados and nastier stuff, come from the Moranth now that we’re allied with ‘em. Seems to make sense-in an insane way-to hand ‘em over to you two. Now, obviously, you need to do some experimenting with what’s in that box. Just make sure you do it half a league or more from this here camp.’ He hesitated, scratched at his bearded jaw, then added, ‘The big ones are too big to throw far enough, far enough to survive them exploding, I mean. So you’ll need to crack your heads together to work out trying them. As a final order, soldiers, don’t kill yourselves. This squad’s under strength as it is and I’d need to pick out two others to hump these damned things around. And the only two I could use are Kalam and Trotts.’

Aye, Trotts.

Fiddler and Hedge had pried the lid loose, then had stared down, bemused, at the well-packed grenados, nestled in frames and matted straw. Small round ones, long tapered ones, spike-shaped ones of exquisite glass-not a bubble to be seen-and, at the bottom, much larger ones, big enough to ride a catapult cup if one was so inclined (and, it turned out, suicidal, since they tended to detonate as soon as the catapult arm struck the brace. Great for destroying catapults and their hapless crews, though).

Experimentation indeed. Hedge and Fid had set out, the crate between them, on a long, exhausting walk into some out-of-the-way place, where they threw the small ones they decided to call sharpers because when detonated too close they had a tendency to pepper the thrower with slivers of iron and made the ears bleed; where they discovered the incendiary properties of the burners, to the wailing protestations of a farmer who’d witnessed the fiery destruction of a hay wagon (at least until they’d handed over four gold imperial sceptres-Kellanved’s newly minted currency-which was enough money to buy a new farm). Crackers, driven into elongated wedge-shaped holes in hard-packed earth, did sweet mayhem on foundation stones, mortared or otherwise. And, finally, the cussers, the ugliest, nastiest munitions ever created. They were intended to be dropped from high overhead by the Moranth on their Quorls, and Hedge and Fid had used up most of their allotted supply trying to work out an alternative means of practical, non-fatal use. And, in the end, had needed twenty more-two crates’ worth-to finally conclude that a fool would have to be Oponn-kissed by the Lady to try anything but secondary usage; add-ons to crackers and burners and, if the chance presented itself, a well-thrown sharper.

The oversized crossbows came much later, as did maniacal variations like the drum and the slow burn. And through all of that, the Lady’s Pull always remained as the last resort. Had Fiddler been a religious man, he would have been obliged, he well knew, to drop every single coin of pay and loot he earned into the coffers of the Lady’s temples, given how many times he had loosed a cusser at targets well within blast range of himself and countless other Malazans. Hedge had been even less… restrained. And, alas, his demise had therefore been of a nature succinctly

unsurprising.

Reminiscing had a way of arriving at the worst of moments, a glamour of nostalgia no doubt infused with subtle but alluring suicidal inclinations, and Fiddler was forced to push all such remembrances aside as he approached Cuttle and the last hole in the path.

‘You should have hightailed it out of here,’ Fiddler said as he settled down beside the modest excavation.

‘No chance of that,’ Cuttle replied in a low voice.

‘As you like, then, but don’t be standing there at Hood’s Gate if I mess this one up.’

‘I hear you, Fid.’

And, trying not to think of Hedge, of Whiskeyjack, Trotts and all the rest; trying not to think of the old days, when the world still seemed new and wondrous, when taking mad risks was all part of the game, Fiddler, the last great saboteur, went to work.

Bottle squinted at the farmhouse. Someone or ones inside there, he was sure enough of that. Living, breathing folk, oh yes. But… something, a faint odour, charnel recollections, or… whatever. He wasn’t sure, couldn’t be sure, and that made him seriously uneasy.

Gesler had moved up beside him, had lain there patient as a tick on a blade of grass, at least to start. But now, a hundred or more heartbeats on, Bottle could sense the man growing restless. Fine enough for him, with that gold skin that didn’t burn once in Y’Ghatan-of course, Truth had

.

shown that the strange skin wasn’t truly impervious, especially when it came to Moranth munitions. Even so, Gesler was a man who had walked through fire, in every permutation of the phrase Bottle could think of, so all of this skulking and trickery and brutal slaughter was fine for him.

But I’m the one they’re all counting on, and I couldn’t use this stupid sword at my belt to hack my way clear of a gaggle of puritanical do-gooders with their pointing fingers and sharp nails and all-gods below, where did that image come from? Damned Mockra, someone’s leaking thoughts. Bottle glanced over at Gesler. ‘Sergeant?’ he whispered.

‘What?’

‘Got strange notions in your skull, by any chance?’

A suspicious glance, then Gesler shook his head. ‘Was thinking of an old mage I knew. Kulp. Not that you remind me of him or anything, Bottle. You’re more like Quick Ben, I think, than any of us are comfortable with. Last 1 saw of Kulp, though, was the poor bastard flung head over heels off the stern rail of a ship-in a firestorm. Always wondered what happened to him. I like to think he made it just fine, dropping out of that furnace of a warren and finding himself in some young widow’s back garden, waist-deep in the cool waters of her fountain. Just as she was on her knees praying for salvation or something.’ All at once he looked embarrassed and his gaze flicked away. Aye, I paint pretty pictures of what could be, since what is always turns out so damned bad.’

Bottle’s grunt was soft, then he nodded. ‘I like that, Sergeant. Kind of… relieves me.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Only, shows that you’re not as far from the rest of us as it sometimes seems.’

Gesler grimaced. ‘Then you’d be wrong, soldier. I’m a sergeant, which makes me as far from you and these other idiots as a cave bear from a damned three-legged stoat. Understood?’

‘Aye, Sergeant.’

‘Now why are we still hiding here? There’s smoke trickling up from that chimney, meaning we got folks inside. So, give us the damned go-ahead on this, Bottle, then your task’s done, for now.’

‘All right. I think there’s two in there. Quiet, contemplative thoughts, no conversation yet.’

‘Contemplative? As in what a cow thinks with a bellyful of feed in her and a calf tugging wet and hard at a teat? Or like some kind of giant two-headed snake that’s just come down the chimney and swallowed up old Crud-nails and his missus?’

‘Somewhere in between, I’d say.’

Gesler’s expression turned into a glare; then, with a snort, he twisted round and hand-signalled. A moment later Uru Hela crawled past Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas-who was directly behind the sergeant-and came up on Gesler’s left.

‘Sergeant?’

‘Bottle says there’s two in there. I want you to walk up peaceful-like and call ‘em out-you’re thirsty and want to ask for a ladle or two from that well there.’

‘I ain’t thirsty, Sergeant.’

‘Lie, soldier.’

Bottle could see the notion upset her. Spirits fend, the things you find out…

‘How about I just ask to refill my waterskin?’

Aye, that will do.’

‘Of course,’ she said, frowning, ‘I’ll need to empty it out first.’

‘Why don’t you do that?’

‘Aye, Sergeant.’

Gesler twisted to look at Bottle, and the young mage could plainly see the man’s battle with pathos and despair. ‘Get yourself ready,’ he said, ‘to hit ‘em with a glamour or something, in case things go all wrong.’

Bottle nodded, then, seeing an entirely new expression on Gesler’s face, he asked, ‘What’s wrong, Sergeant?’

‘Well, either I just wet myself or Uru Hela’s draining her waterskin. On some level,’ he added, ‘I think the distinction’s moot.’

That’s it, Sergeant. You’ve just won me. Right there. Won me, so I’ll give you what I got. From now on. Yet, even with that quasi-serious notion, he had to turn his head away and bite hard on the sleeve of his tanned leather shirt. Better yet, Sergeant, wait till we all see that fine wet patch on your crotch. You won’t live this one down, no sir, not a chance of that. Oh, precious memory!

Strapping her now empty waterskin onto her belt, Uru Hela then squirmed forward a little further, and climbed to her feet. Adjusting her heavy armour and plucking twigs and grass from metal joins and hinges, she tightened the helm strap and set out for the farmhouse.

‘Oh,’ Bottle muttered.

‘What?’ Gesler demanded.

‘They’re suddenly alert-I don’t know, maybe one of them saw her through a crack in the window shutters-no, that’s not right.’

‘What?’

‘Still not talking, but moving around now. A lot. Fast, too. Sergeant, I don’t think they saw her. I think they smelled her. And us.’

‘Smelled? Bottle-’

‘Sergeant, I don’t think they’re human-’

Uru Hela was just passing the well, fifteen paces from the farmhouse’s door, when that door flew open-pushed hard enough to tear it from its leather hinges-and the creature that surged into view seemed too huge to even fit through the frame, coming up as if from stairs sunk steep below ground level-coming up, looming massive, dragging free an enormous single-bladed two-handed wood-axe-

Uru Hela halted, stood motionless as if frozen in place.

‘Forward!’ Gesler bellowed, scrambling upright as he swung up his crossbow-

Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas charged past the sergeant, blade out-

Bottle realized his mouth was moving, yet no sounds came forth. He stared, struggling to comprehend. A demon. A Hood’damned Kenryll’ah demon!

It had lunged clear of the doorframe and now charged straight for Uru Hela.

She threw her waterskin at it, then spun to flee, even as she tugged at her sword.

Not nearly fast enough-to escape-the demon’s huge axe slashed in a gleaming, blurred arc, caught the soldier solid in her left shoulder. Arm leapt away. Blood spurted from joins in the scales right across her entire back, as the blade’s broad wedge drove yet deeper. Deeper, severing her spine, then further, tearing loose with her right scapula-cut halfway through-jammed on the gory blade as it whipped clear of Uru Hela’s body.

More blood, so much more, yet the sudden overwhelming gouts of red quickly subsided-the soldier’s heart already stopped, the life that was her mind already fleeing this corporeal carnage-and she was collapsing, forward, the sword in her right hand half drawn and never to go further, head dipping, chin to chest, then down, face-first onto the ground. A heavy sound. A thump. Whereupon all motion from her ceased.

Gesler’s crossbow thudded, releasing a quarrel that sliced past Corabb, not a hand’s breadth from his right shoulder.

A bellow of pain from the demon-the finned bolt sunk deep into its chest, well above its two hearts.

Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas closed fast, yelling something in the tribal tongue, something like ‘Leoman’s balls!’

Gesler reloading on one knee. Stormy, Saltlick and Shortnose thundering past him, followed by Koryk and Tarr. Smiles swinging wide, crossbow in her hands-one of Fid’s weapons, this one headed with a sharper-which she then trained on the farmhouse entrance, where a second demon had appeared. Oh, she was fast indeed, that quarrel flitting across the intervening space, making a strange warbling sound as it went, and the second demon, seeing it, somehow swinging his weapon-a tulwar-into its path-not much use, that gesture, as the sharper exploded.

Another scream of pain, the huge demon knocked back, off its feet, crashing into the side of the farmhouse. Wood, sod and chinking bowed inward, and as the demon fell, the entire wall on that side of the doorframe went with it.

And what am I doing? Damn me, what am 1 doing? Bottle leapt upright, desperately drawing on whatever warren first answered his summons.

The axe-wielding demon surged towards Corabb. The wedge-blade slashed its deadly arc. Struck Corabb’s shield at an oblique angle, caromed upward and would have caught the side of Corabb’s head if not for the man’s stumbling, left knee buckling as he inadvertently stepped into a groundhog hole, losing his balance and pitching to one side. His answering sword-swing, which should have been batted aside by the demon’s swing-through, dipped well under it, the edge thunking hard into the demon’s right knee.

It howled.

In the next instant Stormy, flanked by his heavies, arrived. Swords chopping, shields clattering up against the wounded Kenryll’ah. Blood and pieces of meat spattered the air.

Another bellow from the demon as it launched itself backward, clear of the deadly infighting, gaining room to swing the wood-axe in a horizontal slash that crumpled all three shields lifting to intercept it. Banded metal and wood exploded in all directions. Saltlick grunted from a broken arm.

‘Clear!’ someone shouted, and Stormy and his heavies flung themselves backward. Corabb, still lying on the ground, rolled after them.

The demon stood, momentarily confused, readying its axe.

Smiles’s hand-thrown sharper struck it on its left temple.

Bright light, deafening crack, smoke, and the demon was reeling away, one side of its bestial face obliterated into red pulp.

Yet Bottle sensed the creature’s mind already righting itself.

Gesler was yelling. ‘Withdraw! Everyone!’

Summoning all he had, Bottle assailed the demon’s brain with Mockra. Felt it recoil, stunned.

From the ruined farmhouse, the second Kenryll’ah was beginning to clamber free.

Smiles tossed another sharper into the wreckage. A second snapping explosion, more smoke, more of the building falling down.

‘We’re pulling out!’

Bottle saw Koryk and Tarr hesitate, desperate to close in on the stunned demon. At that moment Fiddler and Cuttle arrived.

‘Hood’s balls!’ Fiddler swore. ‘Get moving, Koryk! Tarr! Move!’

Gesler was making some strange gesture. ‘We go south! South!’

Saltlick and Shortnose swung in that direction, but Stormy pulled them back. ‘That’s called misdirection, y’damned idiots!’

The squads reforming as they moved, eastward, now in a run. The shock of Uru Hela’s death and the battle that followed keeping them quiet now, just their gasping breaths, the sounds of armour like broken crockery underfoot. Behind them, smoke billowing from the farmhouse. An axe-wielding demon staggering about in a daze, blood streaming from its head.

Damned sharper should have cracked that skull wide open, Bottle well knew. Thick bones, I guess. Kenryll’ah, aye, not their underlings. No, Highborn of Aral Gamelon, he was sure of that.

Stormy started up. ‘Hood-damned demon farmers! They got Hood-damned demon farmers! Sowing seeds, yanking teats, spinnin’ wool-and chopping strangers to pieces! Gesler, old friend, 1 hate this place, you hear me? Hate it!’

‘Keep quiet!’ Fiddler snarled. ‘We was lucky enough all those sharpers didn’t mince us on the road-now your bleating’s telling those demons exactly where we’re going!’

‘I wasn’t going to lose any more,’ Stormy retorted in a bitter growl. ‘I’d swore it-’

‘Should’ve known better,’ Gesler cut in. ‘Damn you, Stormy, don’t make promises you can’t keep-we’re in a fight here and people are going to die. No more promises, got me?’

A surly nod was his only answer.

They ran on, the end of a long, long night now tumbled over into day. For the others, Bottle knew, there’d be rest ahead. Somewhere. But not him. No, he’d need to work illusions to hide them. He’d need to flit from creature to creature out in the forest, checking on their backtrail. He needed to keep these fools alive.

Crawling from the wreckage of the farmhouse, the demon prince spat out some blood, then settled back onto his haunches and looked blearily around. His brother stood nearby, cut and lashed about the body and half his face torn away. Well, it had never been much of a face anyway, and most of it would grow back. Except maybe for that eye.

His brother saw him and staggered over. ‘I’m never going to believe you again,’ he said.

‘Whatever do you mean?’ The words were harsh, painful to utter. He’d inhaled some flames with that second grenade.

‘You said farming was peaceful. You said we could just retire.’

‘It was peaceful,’ he retorted. ‘All our neighbours ran away, didn’t they?’

‘These ones didn’t.’

‘Weren’t farmers, though. I believe I can say that with some assurance.’

‘My head hurts.’

‘Mine too.’

‘Where did they run to?’

‘Not south.’

‘Should we go after them, brother? As it stands, I’d have to venture the opinion that they had the better of us in this little skirmish, and that displeases me.’

‘It’s worth considering. My ire is awakened, after all. Although I suggest you find your matlock, brother, instead of that silly wood-axe.’

‘Nearest thing within reach. And now I’ll have to dig into our crumpled, smouldering abode-all that digging we did, all for nothing!’

At that moment they heard, distinctly, the sound of horses. Coming fast up the track.

‘Listen, there’s more of them. No time to find your matlock, brother. Let us set forth and commence our sweet vengeance, shall we?’

‘Superior notion indeed. One of my eyes still works, which should suffice.’

The two Kenryll’ah demon princes set out for the cart path.

It was really not their day.

A quarter of a league now from the farmhouse, and Fiddler swung round, confirming for Bottle yet again that the old sergeant had hidden talents. ‘Horses,’ he said.

Bottle had sensed the same.

The squads halted, under bright sunlight, alongside a cobbled road left in bad repair. Another cluster of farm buildings awaited them a thousand paces to the east. No smoke rising from the chimney. No surprise with demons for neighbours, 1 suppose.

The detonations were a drumbeat of thunderous concussions that shook the earth beneath them.

‘Four!’ Fiddler said with a savage grin.

Bottle saw Cuttle staring at the sergeant with undisguised awe and more than a little worship.

Smoke now, billowing in the distance, an earthen blot rising above the treeline.

‘Let’s make for that farm ahead,’ Fiddler said. ‘We’ll rest up there for the day-I don’t think our pursuers are in any condition to do much.’

‘The drum,’ Cuttle whispered. ‘I seen it. The drum. Now I can die happy.’

Damned sappers. Bottle shook his head. There was pain there, now, in that mangled stretch of track a quarter-league away. Human, beast, and… oh, and demon. You’d have done better chasing us. Even so, what a mess we’ve made.

Yes, plenty of pain, but more death. Flat, dwindling death, spreading dark as that dust in the air. Fiddler’s drum. No better announcement imaginable, that the Malazans were here.

Thom Tissy’s descent from the tree was a little loud, a little fast. In a skein of snapped branches, twigs, leaves and one abandoned wasp nest, the sergeant landed heavy and hard on his backside. ‘Ow, gods below, gods below!’

‘Ain’t no god at that end, just a tailbone,’ a soldier called out from the nearby squads.

Keneb waited for a few more heartbeats, then asked, ‘Sergeant, tell me what you saw.’

Thom Tissy slowly, carefully, regained his feet. He walked about on his short bandy legs, squat as an ogre, replete with pocked face and warty hands. ‘Smoke, Fist, and plenty of it. Counted ten spots in all, one of ‘em big-probably the thunder we heard a little while back-more than one cusser for sure. Maybe three, maybe more.’

Meaning someone was in desperate trouble. Keneb glanced away, scanned the motley soldiers hunkered down in the forest glade. ‘Ten?’

‘Aye, Fist. I guess we stirred ‘em up some, enough so that the fighting’s getting fierce. When the captain gets back, we’ll find out some details, I suppose.’

Yes. Faradan Sort. But she and Beak had been away for days, almost a week now.

‘Ten.’

‘Expecting more, Fist!’ Thorn Tissy asked. ‘My line of sight wasn’t bad, but not perfect. I saw six on the north side, four on the south, putting us near dead centre and a half a night’s travel behind. Anyway, the outermost smokes were right on the horizons, so we’re still spread well out, the way we should be. And the smoke just tells us where bigger fights happened, not all the other little ambushes and the like. Something wrong, Fist?’

‘Settle the squads in,’ Keneb replied, turning away. Oh, aye, there was fighting going on. But nothing evenly matched. His marines were outnumbered; no chance of acquiring the allies they’d thought they’d get. True, they were loaded down with munitions, but the more mages arriving with the Edur and Letherii troops the more the sheer overwhelming imbalance would start to tell. His squads, even paired up, couldn’t afford losses. Four or five dead and that threshold of effectiveness would have been crossed. There would have to be convergence, merging of survivors-and this leagues-long line of advance would start thinning out. Instead of gaining in strength and momentum as the advance began to close in on this empire’s capital, the Malazan marines would in fact be weaker.

Of course, this invasion was not simply Keneb’s covert marine advance. There were other elements-the Adjunct and Blistig’s regular infantry, who would be led in the field, when that time came, by the terrifying but competent Captain Kindly. There were the Khundryl Burned Tears and the Perish-although they were, for the moment, far away. A complicated invasion indeed.

For us, here, all we need to do is sow confusion, cut supplies to the capital whenever we can, and just keep the enemy off balance, guessing, reacting rather than initiating. The fatal blows will come from elsewhere, and I need to remind myself of that. So that I don’t try to do too much. What counts is keeping as many of my marines alive as possible-not that the Adjunct’s tactics with us give me much chance of that. 1 think I’m starting to understand how the Bridgehumers felt, when they were being thrown into every nightmare, again and again.

Especially at the end. Pale, Darujhistan, that city called Black Coral.

But no, this is different. The Adjunct doesn’t want us wiped out. That would be insanity, and she may be a cold, cold bitch, but she’s not mad. At least not so it’s showed, anyway.

Keneb cursed himself. The strategy had been audacious, yes, yet founded on sound principles. On traditional principles, in fact. Kellanved’s own, in the purpose behind the creation of the marines; in the way the sappers rose to pre-eminence, once the Moranth munitions arrived to revolutionize Malazan-style warfare. This was, in fact, the old, original way of employing the marines-although the absence of supply lines, no matter how tenuous or stretched, enforced a level of commitment that allowed no deviation, no possibility of retreat-she burned the transports and not a Quorl in sight-creating a situation that would have made the Emperor squirm.

Or not. Kellanved had known the value of gambles, had known how an entire war could shift, could turn on that single unexpected, outrageous act, the breaking of protocol that left the enemy reeling, then, all at once, entirely routed.

Such acts were what made military geniuses. Kellanved, Dassem Ultor, Sher’arah of Korel, Prince K’azz D’avore of the Crimson Guard. Caladan Brood. Coltaine. Dujek.

Did Adjunct Tavore belong in this esteemed company? She’s not shown it yet, has she? Gods above, Keneb, you’ve got to stop thinking like this. You’ll become another Blistig and one Llistig is more than enough.

He needed to focus on the matters at hand. He and the marines were committed to this campaign, this bold gamble. Leave the others to do their part, believing at all times that they would succeed, that they would appear in their allotted positions when the moment arrived. They would appear, yes, with the expectation that he, Keneb, would do the same. With the bulk of his marines.

Game pieces, aye. Leave the deciding hand to someone else. To fate, to the gods, to Tavore of Home Varan, Adjunct to No-one. So bringing me round, damn this, to faith. Again. Faith. That she’s not insane. That she’s a military genius to rival a mere handful of others across the span of Malazan history.

Faith. Not in a god, not in fate, but in a fellow mortal. Whose face he knew well, remembering with grim clarity its limited range of expression, through grief to anger, to her ferocious will to achieve… whatever it is she seeks to achieve. Now, if only I knew what that was.

Perhaps this kind of fighting was suited to the marines. But it was not suited to Keneb himself. Not as commander, not as Fist. It was hard not to feel helpless. He wasn’t even in contact with his army, beyond sporadic murmurings among the squad mages. I’ll feel better when Faradan Sort returns.

If she returns.

‘Fist.’

Keneb turned. ‘You following me round, Sergeant?’

‘No sir,’ Thorn Tissy replied. ‘Just thought I’d say, before I sack out, that, well, we understand.’

‘Understand what? Who is “we”?’

‘All of us, sir. It’s impossible. I mean, for you. We know that.’

‘Do you now?’

‘Aye. You can’t lead. You’re stuck with following, and not knowing what in Hood’s name is happening to your soldiers, because they’re all over the place-’

‘Go get some sleep, Sergeant. And tell the rest, I am not aware that any of this is impossible. We maintain the advance, and that is that.’

‘Well, uh-’

‘You presume too much, Sergeant. Now return to your squad, tell your soldiers to stow all the theorizing, and go get some sleep.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Keneb watched the squat man walk away. Decent of him, all that rubbish. Decent, but pointless and dangerous. We’re not friends, Thorn Tissy. Neither of us can afford that.

After a moment, he allowed himself a wry smile. All of his complaints regarding Tavore, and here he was, doing the same damned thing that she did-pushing them all away.

Because it was necessary. Because there was no choice.

So, if she’s mad, then so am I.

Hood take me, maybe we all are.

The long descent of the ice field stretched out before them, studded with the rubble and detritus that was all that remained of the Age of the Jaghut. They stood side by side, a body without a soul and a soul without a body, and Hedge wished he could be more mindful of that delicious irony, hut as long as he could not decide which of them was more lost, the cool pleasure of that recognition evaded his grasp.

Beyond the ice field’s ragged demise two thousand paces distant, copses of deciduous trees rose in defiant exuberance, broken here and there by glades green with chest-high grasses. This patchwork landscape extended onward, climbing modest hills until those hills lifted higher, steeper, and the forest canopy, unbroken now, was thie darker green of conifers.

‘I admit,’ Hedge said, finally breaking the silence between them, ‘I didn’t expect anything like this. Broken tundra, maybe. Heaps of gravel, those dry dusty dunes stirred round by the winds. Mostly lifeless. Struggling, in other words.’

‘Yes,’ Emroth said in her rasping voice. ‘Unexpected, this close to the Throne of Ice.’

They set out down the slope.

‘I think,’ Hedge ventured after a time, ‘we should probably get around to discussing our respective, uh, destinations.’

The T’lan Imass regarded him with her empty, carved-out eyes. ‘We have travelled together, Ghost. Beyond that, nothing exists to bind you to me. I am a Broken, an Unbound, and I have knelt before a god. My path is so ordained, and all that would oppose me will be destroyed by my hand.’

‘And how, precisely, do you plan on destroying me, Emroth?’ Hedge asked..’I’m a Hood-forsaken ghost, after all.’

‘My inability to solve that dilemma, Ghost, is the only reason you are still with me. That, and my curiosity. I now believe you intend something inimical to my master-perhaps, indeed, your task is to thwart me. And yet, as a ghost, you can do nothing-’

‘Are you so sure?’

She did not reply. They reached to within thirty or so paces from the edge of the ice, where they halted again and the T’lan Imass shifted round to study him.

‘Manifestation of the will,’ Hedge said, smiling as he crossed his arms. ‘Took me a long time to come up with that phrase, and the idea behind it. Aye, I am a ghost, but obviously not your usual kind of ghost. I persist, even unto fashioning this seemingly solid flesh and bone-where does such power come from? That’s the question. I’ve chewed on this for a long time. In fact, ever since I opened my nonexistent eyes and realized I wasn’t in Coral any longer. I was someplace else. And then, when I found myself in, uh, familiar company, well, things got even more mysterious.’ He paused, then winked. ‘Don’t mind me talking now, Emroth?’

‘Go on,’ she said.

Hedge’s smile broadened, then he nodded and said, ‘The Bridgeburners, Emroth. That’s what we were called. An elite division in the Malazan Army. Pretty much annihilated at Coral-our last official engagement, I suppose. And that should have been that.

‘But it wasn’t. No. Some Tanno Spiritwalker gave us a song, and it was a very powerful song. The Bridgeburners, Emroth-the dead ones, that is; couldn’t say either way for the few still alive-us dead ones, we ascended.

‘Manifestation of the will, T’lan Imass. I’d hazard you understand that notion, probably better than I do. But such power didn’t end with your cursed Ritual. No, maybe you just set the precedent.’

‘You are not flesh without soul.’

‘No, I’m more like your reflection. Sort of inverted, aye?’

‘I sense no power from you,’ Emroth said, head tilting a fraction. ‘Nothing. You are not even here.’

Hedge smiled again, and slowly withdrew a cusser from beneath his raincape. He held it up between them. ‘Is this, Emroth?’

‘I do not know what that is.’

‘Aye, but is it even here?’

‘No. Like you it is an illusion.’

‘An illusion, or a manifestation of the will? My will?’

‘There is no value in the distinction,’ the T’lan Imass asserted.

You cannot see the truth within me, for the vision you’d need to see it is not within you. You threw it away, at the Ritual. You wilfully blinded yourselves to the one thing that can destroy you. That is, perhaps, destroying your kind even now-some trouble on the continent of Assail, yes? I have vague recollections of somebody hearing something… well, never mind that. The point here, Emroth, is this: you cannot understand me because you cannot see me. Beyond, that is, what I have willed into existence-this body, this cusser, this face-’

‘In which,’ Emroth said, ‘I now see my destruction.’

‘Not necessarily. A lot depends on our little conversation here. You say you have knelt before a god-no, it’s all right, I’ve already worked out who, Emroth. And you’re now doing its bidding.’ Hedge eyed the cusser in his hand. Its weight felt just right. It’s here, just like back at the Deragoth statues. No different at all. ‘I’ve walked a long way,’ he resumed, ‘starting out in the Jaghut underworld. I don’t recall crossing any obvious borders, or stepping through any gates. And the ice fields we’ve been crossing for what must have been weeks, well, that made sense, too. In fact, I’m not even much surprised we found the Ice Throne-after all, where else would it be?’ With his free hand he gestured at the forest-clad expanse before them. ‘But this…’

‘Yes,’ said the T’lan Imass. ‘You held to the notion of distinction, as do all your kind. The warrens. As if each was separate-’

‘But they are,’ Hedge insisted. ‘I’m not a mage, but I knew one. A very good one, with more than a few warrens at his disposal. Each one is an aspect of power. There are barriers between them. And chaos at their roots, and threading in between.’

‘Then what do you see here, Ghost?’

‘I don’t know, but it isn’t Jaghut. Yet now, well, I’m thinking it’s Elder, just like Jaghut. An Elder Warren. Which doesn’t leave many options, does it? Especially since this is your destination.’

‘In that you would be wrong,’ Emroth replied.

‘But you recognize it.’

‘Of course. It is Tellann. Home.’

‘Yet it’s here, trapped in the Jaghut underworld, Emroth. How can that be?’

‘I do not know.’

‘If it’s not your destination, then, I think I need to know if our finding it changes anything. For you, I mean.’

The head cocked yet further. ‘And upon my answer hangs my fate, Ghost?’

Hedge shrugged. The cusser was too real all right: his arm had begun to ache.

‘I have no answer for you,’ Emroth said, and Hedge might have heard something like regret in the creature’s voice, although more likely that was just his imagination. ‘Perhaps, Ghost,’ she continued after a moment, ‘what we see here is an example of this manifestation of the will.’

The sapper’s eyes widened. ‘Whose?’

‘In the Jaghut Wars, many T’lan Imass fell. Those who could not flee what remained of their bodies were left where they fell, for they had failed. On rare occasions, a Fallen would be gifted, so that its eternal vision looked out upon a vista rather than a stretch of ground or the darkness of earth. The T’lan Imass who were more thoroughly destroyed were believed to have found oblivion. True nonexistence, which we came to hold as the greatest gift of all.’

Hedge glanced away. These damned T’lan Imass were heartbreakers, in every sense of the term.

‘Perhaps,’ Emroth continued, ‘for some, oblivion was not what they found. Dragged down into the Jaghut underworld, the Jaghut realm of death. A place without the war, without, perhaps, the Ritual itself.’

‘Without the war? This is the Jaghut underworld-shouldn’t it be filled with Jaghut? Their souls? Their spirits?’

‘The Jaghut do not believe in souls, Ghost.’

Hedge stared, dumbfounded. ‘But… that’s ridiculous. If no souls, then how in Hood’s name am I here?’

‘It occurs to me,’ Emroth said with rasping dryness, ‘that manifestation of the will can go both ways.’

‘Their disbelief annihilated their own souls? Then why create an underworld?’

‘Verdith’anath is an ancient creation. It may be that the first Jaghut souls found it not to their liking. To create a realm of death is the truest manifestation of will, after all. And yet, what is created is not always solely what was willed. Every realm finds… resident beings. Every realm, once formed, is rife with bridges, gates, portals. If the Jaghut did not find it to their liking, other creatures did.’

‘Like your T’lan Imass.’

‘In the ages of ice that beset our kind,’ Emroth said, ‘there existed pockets of rich land, often surrounded in ice, yet resisting its fierce power. In these pockets, Ghost, the old ways of the Imass persisted. Places of forests, sometimes tundra, and, always, the beasts we knew so well. Our name for such a place was Farl ved ten ara. A refugium.’

Hedge studied the forested hills. ‘There are Imass in there.’

‘I believe that is so.’

‘Do you intend to seek them out, Emroth?’

‘Yes. I must.’

‘And what of your new god?’

‘If you would destroy me, do it now, Ghost.’ With that she turned and began walking towards the Refugium.

Hedge stood, shifted the cusser to his right hand, and gauged distance. The Crippled God would welcome more allies, wouldn’t he just? You go, Emroth, to meet this timeless kin. With your words marshalled to sway them, to offer them a new faith. Your kin. Could be thousands of them. Tens of thousands.

But they’re not what you came for.

Like me, Emroth, you’re heading for the gate. Starvald Demelain. Where anything is possible.

Including the destruction of the warrens.

It’s the blood, you see. The blood of dragons. Outside and inside. Dead and living. Aye, amazing the things you figure out. once you’re dead. But not dead. Aye, it’s all about the will.

The cusser returned to his left hand.

Arm angled back. Then swung forward. He watched the cusser’s arc for the briefest of moments, then, as habit demanded, he pitched sideways, onto the ground-

Even as it lurched up to meet him, a stone cracking hard against his chin. The concussion had of course deafened him, and he stared about, spitting blood from his tooth-sliced tongue. His left arm was gone, as was most of his left hip and thigh. Snow and dust drifting down, sparkling in the sunlight. Pebbles and clods of frozen earth now landing all around him, bouncing, skittering. The snow in the air, sparkling like magic.

He spat more blood, felt his chin with his one remaining hand and found a deep gash there, studded with gravel. He scowled, dismissed these absurd details. No more blood, a tongue whole and ever eager to wag. Smooth chin, unmarred by any gash-well, more or less smooth, under all that stubble. New left leg, hip, arm. Aye, that’s better.

The sapper climbed to his feet.

The crater was appropriately large, suitably deep, reaching down past the skin of ice and snow to the ground underneath, that now steamed sodden and glistening. Pieces of Emroth here and there. Not many. Cussers were like that, after all.

‘Aye,’ Hedge muttered, ‘Fid’s the sentimental one.’

Thirty, then thirty-five paces on, reaching the first sward of riotous grass, the sapper came upon one more fragment of Emroth’s body. And he halted. Stared down for some time. Then slowly turned and studied the way he had come, the borderline between ice and earth.

Farl ved ten ara. Refugium indeed. ‘Shit,’ he muttered. Worse yet, she’d told him. A place without the Ritual itself.

After a long moment, Hedge turned back to the forest ahead. He stepped over the torn, severed left leg lying bleeding in the grass. Flesh and blood, aye. A woman’s leg. Damned shapely at that.

‘Shit,’ he said again, hurrying on. ‘Fid’s the soft-hearted one, that he is. Fiddler. Not me. Not me.’ Wiping at his cheeks, cursing the ghost tears on his ghost face, and alone once more in this insipid, uninspiring realm of the dead, the Bridgeburner went on. Undead for a few hundred thousand years. Broken, Fallen, then resurrected, enough to walk once more. And, finally, thirty or so paces from a return to life…

A grim lesson about keeping the wrong company.

Seeking the forest. Beneath the thick branches at last, the heavy fluttering of a new season’s painfully green leaves. Spin and whirl of insects, the chitter of birds. Into the forest, aye, beyond the sight of that severed limb, the borderland, the steaming crater.

Shit!

‘Damned soft of you, Fid. But we’re at war, like I keep telling you. We’re at war. And I don’t care if it’s a damned Jaghut Bridge of Death, it’s still a bridge, and you know what we do to bridges, don’t you?’

Refugium.

But no refuge for me.

The emlava kittens were heavy as cattle dogs but shorter of leg and nowhere near as energetic. All they wanted to do was sleep. And feed. For the first few days, carrying them invited deadly fits of lashing talons and terrifying lunges with jaws opened wide. Unmindful of macabre irony, Onrack used their mother’s skinned hide to fashion a sack. Ends affixed to a cut sapling, the Imass and either Quick Ben or Trull would then carry between them the two hissing, thrashing creatures in their ghastly bag.

The ay never came close again.

A male and a female, their grey fur not yet banded and the pale hue of ashes rather than the dark iron of their mother. In the cave there had been a third one, dead a week or more. From the condition of its body, its siblings had decided on eliminating it. So fared the weak in this and every other world.

Trull’s sense of wonder was reawakened every time he glanced across at Onrack. A friend in the flesh was truly a revelation. He had imagined himself long past such profound, prolonged astonishment. The day he had been Shorn by his brother, it had seemed to him that his heart had died. Chained to stone, awaiting the cold water and the rot that it promised, the muscle that forged the tides of his blood seemed to beat on in some kind of waning inertia.

The desiccated corpse that was Onrack, walking up to where he had been bound, had even then seemed an unlikely salvation.

Trull recalled he’d had to argue with the T’lan Imass to win his own release. The thought amused him still.

Creaking sinew and cabled muscle and torque-twisted bone, Onrack had been the personification of indifference. As unmindful of life and its struggle to persist as only a lifeless thing could be.

And so Trull had simply tagged along, unwilling to admit to himself the burgeoning truth of his salvation-his reluctant return to life in the company of an undead warrior who had begun to discover his own life, the memories once thought surrendered, to time and cruel ritual, to wilful denial spanning tens of thousands of years.

What had bound them together? What improbable menagerie of terse conversations, unanticipated emotions and the shared extremity of combat had so thoroughly entwined them together, now as brothers yet more a brother than any of those with whom Trull Sengar shared blood? We stood side by side, together facing certain defeat. Only to find blessing in the timid hand of a creature not even half human. Oh, 1 know her well, that one.

Yet she is a secret 1 find 1 cannot share with Onrack, with my friend. Now, if only he was as coy, as guarded. Not this… this open regard, this casting away of every natural, reasonable defence. This childness-by the Sisters, Trull, at least find yourself a word that exists. But he seems so young! Not of age, but of cast. A species of unmitigated innocence-is such a thing even possible?

Well, he might know the answer to that soon enough. They had found signs as they trekked this youthful world. Camps, hearthstones lining firepits. Places where stone tools had been made, a flat boulder where an Imass had sat, striking flakes from flint, leaving behind a half-circle scatter of splinters. Refuse pits, filled with bones charred white or boiled to extract the fat, leaving them crumbly and light as pumice; scorched shell fragments from the gourds used to heat the bones in water; and the shattered rocks that had been plunged hot into that water to bring it to a boil. Signs of passing this way, some only a few weeks old, by Onrack’s estimations.

Did those Imass know that strangers had come among them? To this even Onrack had no answer. His kind were shy, he explained, and cunning. They might watch from hiding places for days, nights, and only when they so chose would they reveal enough to touch Onrack’s senses, his animal awareness with its instinctive whispering. Eyes are upon us, friends. It is time.

Trull waited for those words.

The emlava kits yowled, announcing their hunger.

Trull, who had taken point whilst Onrack and the wizard carried the beasts in their sack, halted and turned about.

Time for feeding. Else not a single moment of peace.

Groaning, Quick Ben set down his end of the sling-pole, watched bemusedly as the two kits spat and clawed their way free of the skin, hissing at each other then at Onrack, who began withdrawing leaf-wrapped hunks of raw antelope. The meat was foul, but clearly this was no deterrent for the emlava cubs as they lunged towards him.

The Imass flung the meat onto the ground to spare his own hands, and then stepped away with an odd smile on his face.

Too many odd smiles these days, the wizard thought. As if the blinding wonder and joy had begun to dim-not much, only a fraction, yet Quick Ben believed it was there, a hint of dismay. He was not surprised. No-one could sus-tain such pure pleasure indefinitely. And, for all this seeming paradise-at least a paradise by Imass standards-there remained something vaguely unreal about it. As if it was no more than an illusion, already begun to fray at the edges.

No real evidence of that, however. The wizard could feel the health of this place. It was strong, and, he now suspected, it was growing. As Omtose Phellack waned on all sides. The end of an age, then. An age that had ended everywhere else long, long ago. But isn’t Tellann itself dead everywhere else? Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s just changed, grown into itself. Maybe, everywhere else, what we’re seeing-what we’re living in-is Tellann ascendant, victor in the war of millennia past, dominant and secure in its maturity. Is that possible?

Yet that did not mesh with Onrack, with how he had been and how he was now. Unless… gods below, unlike everywhere else, this is one fragment of Tellann that lies, somehow, beyond the Ritual. That is why he is flesh and blood here. In this place, there was no Ritual of Tellann, no severing of Imass souls. Suggesting that the Imass living here know nothing about it.

So what would happen if Logros led his thousands here? If Kron-But no, Silverfox wouldn’t permit that. She needed them for something else. For another war.

It’d be nice to know how this fragment related to the one created for the Wolves at the end of the Pannion War. From what Quick Ben had understood, that Beast Hold, or whatever it had been called, had been seeded with the souls of T’lan Imass. Or at least the memories of those souls-could be that’s all a soul really is: the bound, snarled mass of memories from one life. Huh. Might explain why mine is such a mess. Too many lives, too many disparate strands all now tangled together…

Trull Sengar had set off in search of water-springs bubbled up from bedrock almost everywhere, as if even the stone itself was saturated with glacial melt.

Onrack eyed the cats for another moment then turned to Quick Ben. ‘There is a sweep of ice beyond these hills,’ he said. ‘I can smell its rot-an ancient road, once travelled by Jaghut. Fleeing slaughter. This intrusion, wizard, troubles me.’

‘Why? Presumably that battle occurred thousands of years ago and the Jaghut are all dead.’

‘Yes. Still, that road reminds me of… things. Awakens memories…’

Quick Ben slowly nodded. ‘Like shadows, aye.’

‘Just so.’

‘You had to know it couldn’t last.’

The Imass frowned, the expression accentuating his strangely unhuman, robust features. ‘Yes, perhaps I did, deep within me. I had… forgotten.’

‘You’re too damned hard on yourself, Onrack. You don’t need to keep yourself shining so bright all the time.’

Onrack’s smile held sadness. ‘I gift my friend,’ he said quietly, ‘for all the gifts he has given me.’

Quick Ben studied the warrior’s face. ‘The gift loses its value, Onrack, if it goes on too long. It begins to exhaust us, all of us.’

‘Yes, I see that now.’

‘Besides,’ the wizard added, watching the two emlava, their bellies full, now mock-fighting on the blood-smeared grass, ‘showing your fallible side is another kind of gift. The kind that invites empathy instead of just awe. If that makes any sense.’

‘It does.’

‘You’ve been making lots of paints, haven’t you?’

A sudden smile. ‘You are clever. When I find a wall of stone that speaks… yes, a different kind of gift. My forbidden talents.’

‘Forbidden? Why?’

‘It is taboo among my people to render our own forms in likeness to truth. Too much is captured, too much is trapped in time. Hearts can break, and betrayals breed like vermin.’

Quick Ben glanced up at Onrack, then away. Hearts can break. Aye, the soul can haunt, can’t it just.

Trull Sengar returned, waterskins sloshing. ‘By the Sisters,’ he said to Onrack, ‘is that a frown you’re wearing?’

‘It is, friend. Do you wish to know why?’

‘Not at all. It’s just, uh, well, a damned relief, to be honest.’

Onrack reached down and snagged one of the cubs, lifting it by the scruff of its neck. The beast hissed in outrage, writhing as he held it up. ‘Trull Sengar, you may explain to our friend why Imass are forbidden to paint likenesses of themselves. You may also tell him my story, so that he understands, and need not ask again why I am awakened to pain within me, recalling now, as I do, that mortal flesh is only made real when fed by the breath of love.’

Quick Ben studied Onrack with narrowed eyes. I don’t recall asking anything like that. Well, not out hud, anyway.

Trull Sengar’s relieved expression fell away and he sighed, but it was a loose sigh, the kind that marked the unbinding of long-held tensions. ‘I shall. Thank you, Onrack. Some secrets prove a heavy burden. And when I am done revealing to Quick Ben one of the details of your life that has served to forge our friendship, I will then tell you both of my own secret. I will tell you of the Eres’al and what she did to me, long before she appeared to us all in the cavern.’

A moment of long silence.

Then Quick Ben snorted. ‘Fine. And I’ll tell a tale of twelve souls. And a promise I made to a man named Whiskeyjack-a promise that has brought me all this way, with farther still to go. And then, I suppose, we shall all truly know each other.’

‘It is,’ Onrack said, collecting the second cub so he could hold both beasts up side by side, ‘a day for gifts.’

From beyond the hills there came the sound of thunder. That faded, and did not repeat.

The emlava were suddenly quiet.

‘What was that?’ Trull Sengar asked.

Quick Ben could feel his heart pound in his chest. ‘That, friends, was a cusser.’

Fiddler made his way across the dirt floor of the barn to where Bottle slept. He stared down at the young soldier curled up beneath a dark grey blanket. Poor bastard. He nudged with his foot and Bottle groaned. ‘Sun’s set,’ Fiddler said.

‘I know, Sergeant. I watched it going down.’

‘We’ve rigged a stretcher. Just get up and eat something and then you’ve got a mobile bed for the rest of the night.’

‘Unless you need me.’

‘Unless we need you, aye.’

Bottle sat up, rubbed at his face. ‘Thanks, Sergeant. I don’t need the whole night-half will do.’

‘You take what I give you, soldier. Cut it short and we could all end up regretting it.’

‘All right, fine, make me feel guilty, then. See if I care.’

Smiling, Fiddler turned away. The rest of the squad was readying the gear, a few muted words drifting between the soldiers. Gesler and his crew were in the abandoned farmhouse-no point in crowding up all in one place. Poor tactics anyway.

There had been no pursuit. The drum had done its work. But that was four cussers lost, to add to the others they’d already used. Down to two left and that was bad news. If another enemy column found them… we’re dead or worse. Well, marines weren’t supposed to have it easy. Good enough that they were still alive.

Cuttle approached. ‘Tarr says we’re ready, Fid.’ He glanced over at Bottle. ‘I got the sorry end of the stretcher to start, soldier. You better not have gas.’

Bottle, a mouthful of nuts and lard bulging his cheeks, simply stared up at the sapper.

‘Gods below,’ Cuttle said, ‘you’re eating one of those Khundryl cakes, ain’t ya? Well, Fid, if we need us a torch to light the way-’

‘Permission denied, Cuttle.’

‘Aye, probably right. It’d light up half the night sky. Hood’s breath, why do I always get the short twig?’

‘So long as you face off against Corabb on that kind of thing,’ Fiddler said, ‘short’s your middle name.’

Cuttle edged closer to Fiddler and said in a low voice, ‘That big bang yesterday’s gonna draw down a damned army-

Assuming they’ve fielded one. So far, we’re running into companies, battalion elements-as if an army’s dispersed, which is more or less what we expected them to do. No point in maintaining a single force when your enemy’s scattered right across Hood’s pimply backside. If they were smart they’d draw up reserves and saturate the region, leave us not a single deer trail to slink along.’

‘So far,’ Cuttle said, squinting through the gloom at the rest of the squad and massaging his roughly healed shoulder, ‘they ain’t been very smart.’

‘Moranth munitions are new to them,’ Fiddler pointed out. ‘So’s our brand of magic. Whoever’s in command here is probably still reeling, still trying to guess our plans.’

‘My guess is whoever was in command, Fid, is now Rannalled in tree branches.’

Fiddler shrugged, then lifted his pack onto his shoulders and collected his crossbow.

Corporal Tarr checked his gear one last time, then straightened. He drew his left arm through the shield straps, adjusted his sword belt, then tightened the strap of his helm.

‘Most people just carry their shields on their backs,’ Koryk said from where he stood by the barn’s entrance.

‘Not me,’ said Tarr. ‘Get ambushed and there’s no time to ready, is there? So I stay readied.’ He then rolled his shoulders to settle his scaled hauberk, a most familiar, satisfying rustle and clack of iron. He felt unsteady on his feet without that solid, anchoring weight. He had quick-release clasps for his pack of equipment, could drop all that behind him one-handed even as he stepped forward and drew his sword. At least one of them in this squad had to be first to the front, after all, to give them time to bring whatever they had to bear.

This was what he had been trained to do, from the very beginning. Braven Tooth had seen it true enough, seen into Tarr’s stolid, stubborn soul, and he’d said as much, hadn’t he? ‘Your name’s Tarr, soldier. It’s under your feet and you’re s tuck fast. When needs be. It’s your job, from now on. You hold back the enemy at that first blink of contact, you make your squad survive mat moment, aye? Now, you ain’t solid enough yet. Strap on these extra weights, soldier, then get sparring…’

He liked the idea of being immovable. He liked the idea of being corporal, too, especially the way he hardly ever had to say anything. He had a good squad for that. Fast learners. Even Smiles. Corabb he wasn’t too sure about. Aye, the man had Oponn’s wink true enough. And no shortage of courage. But it seemed he always had to get there first, before Tarr himself. Trying to prove something, of course. No mystery there. As far as the squad was concerned, Corabb was a recruit. More or less. Well, maybe he was a bit past that-nobody called him Recruit, did they? Even if Tarr still thought of him that way.

But Corabb had dragged Fiddler out. All by himself. A damned prisoner, and he’d done that. Saved the sergeant’s life. Almost enough to excuse him being at Leoman’s side as the two of them lured the Bonehunters into Y’Ghatan’s fiery nightmare.

Almost.

Aye, Tarr knew he wasn’t the forgiving kind. Not the forgetting kind, either. And he knew, deep down inside, that he’d stand for every soldier in his squad, stand till he fell. Except, maybe, for Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas.

Koryk taking far point, they headed out into the night.

Along the edge of the nearest stand of trees, on the path between those boles and the edge of the fallow field, they silently merged with Gesler and his squad. Setting out in darkness beneath burgeoning stars.

Stormy’s heavies were good to have around, Tarr decided. Almost as tough and stubborn as he was. Too bad, though, about Uru Hela. But she’d been careless, hadn’t she? Even if you’re carrying a waterskin, the least you should have at the ready was a shield. Even more appalling, she’d turned and run, exposing her back.

Should’ve sent me to do all that. Demon or no, I’d have stood to meet the bastard. Stood, and held.

‘Remember your name, Tare. And just to help you remember it, come over here and listen to your Master Sergeant, while I tell you a tale. About another soldier with tar under his feet. His name was Temper, and on the day Dassem Ultor fell, outside Y’Ghatan, well, here then is that tale…’

Tarr had listened, all right. Enough to know that a man like that couldn’t have existed, except in the mind of Master Sergeant Braven Tooth. But it had been inspiring anyway. Temper, a good name, a damned good name. Almost as good as Tarr.

Three paces behind her corporal, Smiles scanned to either side as they moved along the trail, eyes restless with unease, senses awakened to such acuity her skull ached. Bottle was sleeping. Which meant no tiny spying eyes checking out the area, no forest animals tricked into succumbing to Bottle’s puny will, that empathy of similar brain size and intelligence that had so well served them all thus far.

And their damned corporal, all clicking scales and creaking leather, who probably couldn’t put fifteen words together in any reasonable, understandable order. Fine enough jamming a breach, with his ridiculous oversized shield-the only one left after that demon took care of the ones used by the heavies-and his short thick-bladed sword. The kind of soldier who’d hold his ground even when dead. Useful, aye, but as a corporal? She couldn’t figure that.

No, Fid would have been better served with a quickwitted, fast, nasty and hard-to-hit kind of corporal. Well, there was one consolation, and that was anyone could see she was next in line. And it’d been close back there, hadn’t it? Could’ve been Tarr sent out to say hello to that demon, and that would have been that. She’d now be Corporal Smiles, and look sharp there, y’damned fish-sniffers.

But never mind Tarr. It was Koryk who was riding her, uh, mind. A killer, oh yes, a real killer. Sort of like her but without the subtlety, and that made the two of them a good match. Dangerous, scary, the core of the nastiest squad in the Bonehunters. Oh, Balm’s crew might argue that, especially that yelping Throatslitter, but they were lounging round on a damned island right now, weren’t they? Not out here doing what marines were supposed to do, infiltrating, kicking the white squirmy balls outa Edur and Letherii and blowing up the occasional company just to remind Hood who did all the delivering.

She liked this life, yes she did. Better than that squalid existence she’d climbed out of back home. Poor village girl cowering in the ghostly shadow of a dead sister. Wondering when the next vanishing of the shoals would spell her watery demise. Oh, but the boys had wanted her once she’d been the only one left, wanted to fill that shadow with their own, as if that was even possible.

But Koryk here, well, that was different. Felt different, anyway. Because she was older now, she supposed. More experienced, so much so that she now knew what stirred her little winged flutter-bird. Watching Koryk kill people, ah, that had been so sweet, and lucky everyone else was too busy to have heard her moan and nearly squeal and guess what it’d meant.

Revelations were the world’s sharpest spice, and she’d just had a noseful. Making the night somehow clearer, cleaner. Every detail blade-edged, eager to be seen, noted by her glittering eyes. She heard the small creatures moving through the scrub of the fallow field, heard the frogs race up the boles of nearby trees. Mosquito hum and-

A sudden blinding flash to the south, a bloom of fiery light lifting skyward above a distant treeline. A moment later the rumble of twin detonations reached them. Everyone motionless now, crouched down. The small creatures frozen, quivering, terrified.

‘Bad time for an ambush,’ Koryk muttered as he worked his way back, slipping past Tarr.

‘So not one sprung by Malazan marines,’ Fiddler said, moving up to meet Koryk and Tarr. ‘That was a league away, maybe less. Anyone recall which squads were to our right first night?’

Silence.

‘Should we head over, Sergeant?’ Tarr asked. He had drawn his shortsword. ‘Could be they need our help.’

Gesler arrived. ‘Stormy says he heard sharpers after the cussers,’ the sergeant said. ‘Four or five.’

‘Could be the ambush got turned,’ Smiles said, struggling to control her breathing. Oh, take us there, you damned sergeant. Let me see Koryk fight again. It’s this itch, you see…

‘Not in our orders,’ Fiddler said. ‘If they’ve been mauled, the survivors will swing north or south and come looking for friends. We keep going.’

‘They come up to find us and they might have a thousand enemy on their heels,’ Gesler said.

‘Always a possibility,’ Fiddler conceded. ‘All right, Koryk, back on point. We go on, but with extra stealth. We’re not the only ones to see and hear that, so we might run into a troop riding hard across our path. Set us a cautious pace, soldier.’

Nodding, Koryk set out along the trail.

Smiles licked her lips, glowered at Tarr. ‘Put the damned pig-sticker away, Tarr.’

‘That’s “Corporal” to you, Smiles.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Hood’s breath, it’s gone to his head.’

‘And those aren’t knives in your hands?’

Smiles sheathed them, said nothing.

‘Go on,’ Fiddler ordered them. ‘Koryk’s waiting.’

Corabb picked up his end of the stretcher again and set out after the others. Bottle had slept through that distant succession of explosions. Sign of just how exhausted the poor man was. Still, it was unnerving not having him awake and keeping an eye on things, the way he could leap from animal to animal. Birds, too, And even insects. Although Corabb wondered just how far an insect could see.

He reached up and crushed a mosquito against one eyelid. The stretcher pitched behind him and he heard Cuttle swear under his breath. Corabb quickly regained his hold on the sapling. Damned insects, he needed to stop thinking about them. Because thinking about them led to hearing and feeling them, crawling and biting everywhere and him with both hands used up. This wasn’t like the desert. You could see chigger fleas coming on the wind, could hear a bloodfly from five paces, could pretty much guess that under every rock or stone there was a scorpion or a big hairy spider or a snake all of which wanted to kill you. Simple and straightforward, in other words. None of this devious whispering in the night, this whining at the ear, this winged flit up a man’s nostril. Or crawling into the hair to take nips of flesh that left a swollen, oozing, damnably itching hole.

And then there were the slithery things that sucked blood. Hid under leaves waiting for some poor bastard handless soldier to go past. And ticks. And plants that, when one brushed innocently against them, started up an awful itching rash that then leaked some kind of oil-this was a true underworld, peopled by demon farmers and every life form of the night a raving, rapacious devourer of desert-born men. And never mind the Tiste Edur and the spineless Letherii. Imagine, fighting at the behest of tyrannical masters. Had they no pride? Might be smart to take a prisoner or two, just to get some answers. A Letherii. He might mention the idea to the sergeant. Fiddler was all right with suggestions. In fact, the entire Malazan Army seemed all right with that kind of thing. Sort of a constant warrior gathering, when anyone could speak up, anyone could argue, and thus decisions were forged. Of course, among the tribes, when that gathering was done, argument ended.

No, the Malazans did almost everything differently, their own way. Corabb wasn’t bothered by that any more. It was probably a good thing he had held to so many ignorant, outrageous beliefs about them back when he was among the rebels. Otherwise, he might have found it hard to hate the enemy the way he was supposed to, the way it needed to be.

But now 1 know what it means to be a marine in the Malazan Army, even if the empire’s decided we’re outlaws or something. Still marines. Still the elite and that’s worth fighting for-the soldier at your side, the one in the stretcher, the one on point. Not sure about Smiles, though. Not sure about her at all. Reminds me of Dunsparrow, with that knowing look in her eyes and the way she licks her lips whenever someone talks about killing. And those knives-no, not sure about her at all.

At least they had a good corporal, though. A tough bastard not interested in words. Shield and sword did all Tarr’s talking, and Corabb always found himself rushing forward to stand at the man’s side in every scrap. Sword-arm side, but a step forward since Tarr used that short-bladed sticker so his parrying was foreshortened and that risked too much close-in stuff, the quick dirty underhanded kind-the style the desert tribes would use against a shield-wall soldier like Tarr-when there was no shield-wall, when it was just the one man, flank exposed and guard too tight. Batter and wail at the shield until his knees bent a fraction more and he ducked in behind and below that shield, left leg forward-then just sidestep and slip round the shield, over or under that stabbing shortsword, to take arm tendons or the unprotected underarm.

Corabb knew he needed to protect Tarr on that side, even if it meant disobeying Fiddler’s orders about staying close to Bottle. So long as Bottle looked to be out of trouble, Corabb would move forward, because he understood Tarr and Tarr’s way of fighting. Not like Koryk, who was more the desert warrior than any other in these two squads, and. what he needed fending his flanks was someone like Smiles, with her flicking knives, crossbow quarrels and the like. Staying back and to one side, out of range of Koryk’s frenzied swings of his longsword, and take down the enemy that worked in from the flanks. A good pairing, that.

Cuttle, the miserable old veteran, he had his cussers, and if Bottle got in danger the sapper would take care of things. Was also pretty sharp and quick with the crossbow, an old hand at the release and load-while-you-run.

It was no wonder Seven Cities was conquered the first time round, with Malazan marines in the field. Never mind the T’lan Imass. They’d only been let loose at the Aren uprising, after all. And if Fiddler’s telling the truth, that wasn’t the Emperor at all. No, it was Laseen who’d given the order.

Gesler ain’t convinced, so the truth is, no-one knows the truth. About Aren.]ust like, 1 suppose, pretty soon no-one will know the truth about Coltaine and the Chain of Dogs, or-spirits below-the Adjunct and the Bonehunters at Y’Ghatan, and at Mala? City.

He felt a chill whisper through him then, as if he’d stumbled onto something profound. About history. As it was remembered, as it was told and retold. As it was lost to lies when the truth proved too unpleasant. Something, aye… Something… Damn.’ Lost it.’

From the stretcher behind him, Bottle muttered in his sleep, then said, distinctly: ‘He never sees the owl. That’s the problem.’

Poor bastard. Rawng in delirium. Exhausted. Sleep easy, soldier, we need you.

I need you. Like Leoman never needed me, that’s how 1 need you. Because I’m a marine now. I suppose.

Ask the mice,’ Bottle said. ‘They’ll tell you.’ He then mumbled something under his breath, before sighing and saying: ‘If you want to live, pay attention to the shadow. The shadow. The owl’s shadow.’

At the other end of the stretcher, Cuttle grunted then shook the handles until Bottle groaned again and edged onto his side. Whereupon the young mage fell silent.

They continued on through the night. And once more, sometime later, they heard detonations in the distance again. These ones to the north.

Oh, they’d stirred ‘em awake all right.

Shurq Elalle’s herbs were getting stale. It had been all right out on the Undying Gratitude, on a wind-whipped deck and in the privacy of her cabin. And with a man with no nose for company. But now she found herself in a cramped map room with a half-dozen foreigners and Shake.Brullyg, the eponymous king of this miserable little island, and-especially among the women-she could see their nostrils wrinkle as they caught unpleasant aromas in the turgid, over-warm air.

Oh well. If they wanted to deal with her, they’d have to live with it. And be grateful for that ‘living’ part. She eyed the Adjunct, who never seemed to want to actually sit down; and although she stood behind the chair she had claimed at one end of the long, scarred table, hands resting on its back, she revealed none of the restlessness one might expect from someone for whom sitting felt like a sentence in a stock in the village square.

When it came to looks, there was not much to this Tavore Paran. Studious drab, sexless indifference, the wardrobe of the uncaring. A woman for whom womanly charms had less value than the lint in the creases of a coin purse. She could have made herself more attractive-almost feminine, in fact-if she so chose. But clearly such charms did not count as valuable assets to the Adjunct’s notions of command. And this was interesting, in a vague, academic sort of way. A leader who sought to lead without physical presence, without heroic or lustful or any other sort of imaginable grandeur. And so, with nary a hint of personality, what was Tavore left with?

Well, Shurq considered, there was her mind. Some kind of tactical genius? She wasn’t sure of that. From what Shurq had gathered from the fragmented mutterings of Balm’s squad, some vast error in judgement had already occurred.

Seemed there had been an advance landing of some sort. Elite troops, creeping onto the wild shore and its tangled swamps and forests in the dead of night. Soldiers with a mission to sow confusion and destabilize the Edur rule, and so stir the downtrodden Letherii into uprising.

Tactical genius? More like bad intelligence. The Letherii liked things just fine. This Tavore may well have condemned to slaughter a vital element of her army. They’d burned the transports-and what was that about? Leaving her own troops with no choice but to go on? That stinks of distrust, of no confidence-aye, that stinks worse than 1 do. Unless I’m reading it all wrong. Which is a distinct possibility. There’s nothing simple about these Malayans.

The Malazan Empire, aye. But nothing like the Letherii Empire, with its petty games of bloodlines and racial hierarchy. No, these Malazans came in all styles indeed. Look at Tavore’s aide-a stunning tattooed barbarian whose every movement was sensuality personified. Anyone looking that savage and primitive would be cleaning stalls here in the Letherii Empire. And there was Masan Gilani, another invitation to manly blubbering-oh, how Shurq wished she had skin that luscious, burnished hue, and the graceful, leonine lines of those long legs and full thighs, the swell of unsagging breasts with nipples that made her think of overripe figs-not that I needed to peek, she’s got less modesty than me and that’s saying a lot indeed. So, Tavore keeps the pretty ones close. Now that might be a telling hint.

‘What are we waiting for?’ Shake Brullyg demanded, close to being drunk enough to start slurring his words. He slouched in the chair at the other end of the long table, directly opposite the Adjunct but with his heavy-lidded eyes fixed on Masan Gilani. The man truly believed that lascivious leers could make a woman swoon with desire. Yet Masan Gilani hid her disgust well, playing it along to keep the pathetic king dangling. The barbaric soldier was following very specific orders, Shurq suspected. To keep Brullyg from getting belligerent. Until they didn’t need him any more.

Well, that wouldn’t work with her, now, would it? Unless these Malazans had an Ublala Pung hidden nearby. Oh, that would be unfortunate indeed, to see her dissolving into an insatiable rutting animal in front of everyone. That was one secret she had better keep to herself. ‘Relax, Brullyg,’ she said. ‘All of this has to do with those huge trimarans that sailed into harbour last night.’ She’d love to have one of those, too, although she’d need two crews which meant less coin for everyone-damned logistics, always getting in the way of my dreams.

The Adjunct was eyeing her now, one of those gauging regards she settled on Shurq Elalle whenever the undead pirate said anything. Her own fault, actually-Shurq had sent Skorgen back to the Undying Gratitude. Her first mate’s unfortunate assortment of afflictions had proved far too distracting for everyone else, until she realized he was becoming a liability, undermining her… professionalism. Yes, that’s the word 1 was looking for. Got to be taken seriously here. I suspect my very existence depends on it. But she now found herself missing his weeping hole in the face, his mangled ear, blinded eye, stumped arm and bad leg-anything to swing away Tavore’s attention every time she was unwise enough to voice an opinion or observation.

Throatslitter, who sat opposite Shurq, now cleared his throat-producing an odd squeak-and smiled across at her.

She looked away, pointedly. That man was not a nice man. The way Gerun Eberict hadn’t been a nice man. Took too much pleasure in his job, she suspected. And even for a soldier, that wasn’t sensible. People like that tended to linger when lingering wasn’t good. Tended to put other soldiers at risk. Tended to get carried away. No, she didn’t like Throatslitter.

Yet her glance away had inadvertently shifted her attention to Corporal Deadsmell. Oh, funny name, that. In some ways, that man was even worse. No secrets from him, she suspected, no matter how coy she was-yes, he could smell her, and not stale herbs either. Had smelled her, from the very start. Had it been some bastard like him who wove the curse now afflicting me? No, that wasn’t right. Deadsmell had talents unknown here on Lether. Talents that made her think of that dying tower in Letheras, and Kettle, and the barrows in the yard.

Fortunately, he was dozing at the moment, bearded chin on his broad chest, thus sparing her his knowing look.

Ah, if only Tehol Beddict was here with me-he’d have them all reeling. In confusion or laughter? Laughter would be bad, very bad. For me. For anyone sitting too close to me. Very well, forget Tehol Beddict. 1 must be losing my mind.

The Adjunct addressed her. ‘Captain, I have spoken at length with Shake Brullyg, seeking to complete my understanding of this Letherii Empire. Yet I find his replies increasingly unsatisfactory-’

‘Poor Brullyg’s despondent,’ Shurq said. ‘And lovelorn. Well, perhaps unrequited lust is more accurate a description for his sordid, uncommunicative state of mind.’ Hah, she could out’Tehol Tehol Beddict! With no risk of laughing either!

Brullyg blinked at her.

Sergeant Balm leaned towards Throatslitter. ‘What did she just say?’

‘The Emperor,’ said Tavore.

Shurq frowned, but waited.

‘Of a Thousand Deaths.’

‘The title’s an exaggeration, I’m sure. Maybe a few hundred. Champions. They all die, eventually.’

‘Presumably he is well protected by his Edur in the palace.’

Shurq Elalle shrugged. ‘Not many details creep out of the Eternal Domicile, Adjunct. The Chancellor and his entire staff-Letherii-were retained after the conquest. There is also, now, a very powerful secret police, also Letherii.

As for the economic apparatus, well, that too is Letherii.’

The tattooed woman named Lostara Yil snorted. ‘Then what in Hood’s name are the Edur doing? Where do they fit?’

‘On top,’ Shurq replied. ‘Wobbling.’

There was a long moment of silence.

‘Yet,’ Tavore finally said, ‘the Edur Emperor cannot be killed.’

‘That is true.’ Shurq watched as these details worked their way through the Malazans, with the exception of Deadsmell, of course, whose snores were waves rolling ashore in the little dank cavern of a room.

‘Is that,’ Tavore asked, ‘irrelevant?’

‘Sometimes seems that way,’ Shurq conceded. Oh, she wished she could drink wine without its draining out everywhere. She could do with a tankard or two.

‘An Emperor whose very rule is dictated by the sword,’ Tavore said. ‘What remain unhoned, however, are the necessities of administering an empire.’

‘Very dull necessities, aye,’ Shurq said, smiling.

‘The Tiste Edur, leaning hard against the undying solidity of their ruler, exist under the delusion of mastery,’ Tavore continued. ‘But reality is not so generous.’

Nodding, Shurq Elalle said, ‘The Tiste Edur were fisher folk, seal-hunters. Builders in wood. A half-dozen or so tribes. There was someone called the Warlock King, Hannan Mosag, who waged a war of subjugation-why he didn’t end up with that dreadful sword only the Edur know and it is not something they talk about.’

‘Does this Hannan Mosag still live?’ Tavore asked.

‘The Emperor’s new Ceda.’

Deadsmell’s snores ceased. ‘Imperial High Mage,’ he said. ‘Ceda, a degradation of “Cedance”, I’d wager. “Cedance” was some sort of ritual back in the days of the First Empire.’ His eyes opened halfway. ‘Ebron won’t be at all surprised. These Letherii are some lost colony of the First Empire.’ The heavy lids slid down once more, and a moment later his snores groaned back to life.

Shurq Elalle thought to clear her throat, changed her mind. Things were rank enough as it was. ‘The point I was making, Adjunct, is that the Tiste Edur couldn’t administer their way through a mooring tithe. They’re warriors and hunters-the males, that is. The females are, as far as I can tell, completely useless mystics of some sort, and since the conquest they’ve virtually disappeared from sight.’

Boots echoed from the corridor and moments later the door opened. Accompanied by Gait and the odd little man named Widdershins, two Letherii soldiers strode into the chamber. One of them was an Atri-Preda.

Shake Brullyg lurched back in his chair, almost toppling it. Face twisting, he rose. ‘Damn every damned witch to the deep!’

‘It gets worse,’ the Atri-Preda replied with a faint smile on her lips. ‘I choose my own Rise, and you are not him. Yedan, throw this fool out on his arse-any window will do.’

Sudden alarm in Brullyg’s eyes as he stared at the soldier at the captain’s side, who made to move forward.

Gait’s sword was out of its scabbard in a blur, settled flat against the soldier’s stomach, halting the man in his tracks. ‘Maybe we should all back this up a few steps,’ he said in a drawl. ‘Adjunct, allow me to present Atri-Preda Yan Tovis and Shore Watch Yedan Derryg-which I take it is some kind of sergeant in charge of some kind of coastal patrol. What’s “Atri-Preda”? Captain? Commander? Whatever, they was in charge of that half-drowned bunch the Perish plucked from the storm.’

The Adjunct was frowning at Yan Tovis. ‘Atri-Preda, welcome. 1 am Adjunct Tavore Paran of the Malazan I Empire-’

Yan Tovis glanced across at her. ‘You’re commanding this invasion? How many soldiers did you land on the coast, Adjunct? Ten thousand? Twenty? I saw the ships, the burning ships-you followed our fleets all the way from your empire? That’s a long way for a little vengeful bloodletting, isn’t it?’

Shurq dreamed of downing another tankard of wine. At least the Malazans weren’t looking her way any more.

The Adjunct’s frown deepened, accentuating her drab plainness. ‘If you wish,’ she said coolly, ‘we can formalize your status as prisoners of war. Yet I find it difficult to characterize your sinking ferry as a punitive invasion expedition. According to the reports I have received, your status is better likened as refugees, yes? A modest company of soldiers overseeing a sizeable collection of old men and women, children and other non-combatants. Were you sailing here assuming the island remained independent?’ She flicked her gaze across to Brullyg, who stood leaning against the far wall. ‘That you and Shake Brullyg are acquainted suggests you are here to resolve some private matter between you.’

Yan Tovis’s eyes were flat as she shrugged and said, ‘Hardly private. “Shake” is a tribe’s name and could, if desired, precede the names of myself and Yedan here, as well as our “collection” of “refugees”. The Shake were the original inhabitants of the central west coast and some of the islands off shore. We were long ago subjugated by the Letherii.’ She shrugged again. ‘My issue with Brullyg refers to a matter of succession.’

Tavore’s brows rose. ‘Succession? You retain such things even when subjugated?’

‘More or less. The line is maintained through the women. The Queen-my mother-has recently died. It was Brullyg’s hope that I not return to claim the title. Brullyg wanted to rule the Shake for himself. He also wanted, I suspect, to make some bold claim to independence, riding the wave of your invasion-assuming it proves successful. Casting off the Letherii yoke and creating a new centre for our people, on this once-holy island. Although a murderer and a betrayer, Brullyg is an ambitious creature. Alas, his rule on this island has come to an end.’

Throatslitter hissed laughter. ‘Hear that, Masan Gilani? You can stop showing all that sweet flesh now.’

‘I am not sure,’ the Adjunct said, ‘the decision is yours to make, Atri-Preda.’

‘That rank is now gone. You may address me as Queen or, if you like, as Twilight.’

Shurq Elalle saw Deadsmell’s eyes flick open then, saw them fix hard and unblinking on Yan Tovis.

The Adjunct missed nothing, for she glanced at Deadsmell for a moment, then away again.

‘Twilight, Watch and Rise,’ Deadsmell muttered. ‘Covered the whole night, haven’t ya? But damn me, the blood’s awful thin. Your skin’s the colour of clay-couldn’t have been more than a handful at the start, probably refugees hiding among the local savages. A pathetic handful, but the old titles remained. Guarding the Shores of Night.’

Yan Tovis licked her lips. ‘Just the Shore,’ she said.

Deadsmell smiled. ‘Lost the rest, did you?’

‘Corporal,’ Tavore said.

‘Our squad spent time on the right ship,’ Deadsmell explained. ‘Enough for me to do plenty of talking with our black-skinned guests. Twilight,’ he said to Yan Tovis, ‘that’s a Letherii word you use. Would you be surprised if I told you the word for “twilight”, in your original language, was “yenander”? And that “antovis” meant “night” or even “dark”? Your own name is your title, and I can see by your expression that you didn’t even know it. Yedan Derryg? Not sure what “derryg” is-we’ll need to ask Sandalath-but “yedanas” is “watch”, both act and title. Gods below, what wave was that? The very first? And why the Shore? Because that’s where newborn K’Chain Che’Malle came from, isn’t it? The ones not claimed by a Matron, that is.’ His hard eyes held on Yan Tovis a moment longer, then he settled back once more and closed his eyes.

Errant fend, is he going to do that all evening?

‘I do not know what he is talking about,’ Yan Tovis said, but it was clear that she had been rattled. ‘You are all foreigners-what can you know of the Shake? We are barely worth mentioning even in Letherii history.’

‘Twilight,’ said Tavore, ‘you are here to assert your title as Queen-will you also proclaim this island sovereign?’

‘Yes.’

‘And, in that capacity, do you seek to treat with us?’

‘The sooner I can negotiate you Malazans off this island, the happier I will be. And you, as well.’

‘Why is that?’

The mage named Widdershins spoke up, ‘Those refugees of hers, Adjunct. One big squall of witches and warlocks. Oh, squiggily stuff for the most part-fouling water and cursin’ us with the runs and boils and the like. Mind, they could get together and work nastier rituals…’

Shurq Elalle stared at the strange man. Squiggily?

‘Yes,’ said Yan Tovis. ‘They could become troublesome.’

Gait grunted. ‘So saving all their lives don’t count for nothing?’

‘It does, of course. But, like all things, even gratitude wanes in time, soldier. Especially when the deed hangs over us like an executioner’s axe.’

Gait’s scowl deepened, then he prodded Yedan Derryg with his sword. ‘I need to keep this here?’ he asked.

The bearded, helmed soldier seemed to chew on his reply before answering, ‘That is for my Queen to decide.’

‘Belay my last order,’ Yan Tovis said. ‘We can deal with Brullyg later.’

‘Like demon-spawn you will!’ Brullyg drew himself up. Adjunct Tavore Paran, I hereby seek your protection. Since I have co-operated with you from the very start, the least you can do is keep me alive. Sail me to the mainland if that suits. I don’t care where I end up-just not in that woman’s clutches.’

Shurq Elalle smiled at the fool. Only everything you don’t deserve, Brullyg. Mercy? In the Errant’s fart, that’s where you’ll find that.

Tavore’s voice was suddenly cold. ‘Shake Brullyg, your assistance is duly noted, and you have our gratitude, although I do seem to recall something about this island’s imminent destruction beneath a sea of ice-which we prevented and continue to prevent. It may please the Queen that we do not intend to remain here much longer.’

Brullyg paled. ‘But what about that ice?’ he demanded. ‘If you leave-’

‘As the season warms,’ Tavore said, ‘the threat diminishes. Literally.’

‘So what holds you here?’ Yan Tovis demanded.

‘We seek a pilot to the Lether River. And Letheras.’

Silence again. Shurq Elalle, who had been gleefully observing Brullyg’s emotional dissolution, slowly frowned. Then looked round. All eyes were fixed on her. What had the Adjunct just said? Oh. The Lether River and Letheras.

And a pilot to guide their invasion fleet.

‘What’s that smell?’ Widdershins suddenly asked.

Shurq scowled. ‘The Errant’s fart, is my guess.’

Chapter Eighteen

His mother had loved his hands. A musician’s hands. A sculptor’s hands. An artist’s hands. Alas, they had belonged on someone else, for Chancellor Triban Gnol was without such talents. Yet his fondness for his hands, tainted as it might be by the mockery of a physical gift without suitable expression, had grown over the years. They had, in a sense, become his own works of art. When lost in thought, he would watch them, their sinuous movements filled with grace and elegance. No artist could capture the true beauty of these pointless instruments, and although there was darkness to such appreciation, he had long since made peace with that.

Yet now, the perfection was gone. The healers had done what they could, but Triban Gnol could see the misshapen marring of once-flawless lines. He could still hear the snap of his finger bones, the betrayal of all that his mother had loved, had worshipped in their secret ways.

His father, of course, would have laughed. A sour grunt of a laugh. Well, not his true father, anyway. Simply the man who had ruled the household with thick-skulled murky cruelty. He had known that his wife’s cherished son was not his own. His hands were thick and clumsy-all the more viciously ironic in that artistic talent resided within those bludgeon tools. No, Triban Gnol’s once-perfect hands had come from his mother’s lover, the young (so young, then) consort, Turudal Brizad, a man who was anything but what he seemed to be. Anything, yes, and nothing as well.

She would have approved, he knew, of her son’s finding in the consort-his father-a perfect lover.

Such were the sordid vagaries of palace life in King Ezgara Diskanar’s cherished kingdom, all of which seemed aged now, exhausted, bitter as ashes in Triban Gnol’s mouth. The consort was gone, yet not gone. Touch withdrawn, probably for ever now, a consort whose existence had become as ephemeral as his timeless beauty.

Ephemeral, yes. As with all things that these hands had once held; as with all things that had passed through these long, slim fingers. He knew he was feeling sorry for himself. An old man, beyond all hopes of attraction for anyone. Ghosts crowded him, the array of stained hues that had once painted his cherished works of art, layer upon layer-oh, the only time they had been truly soaked in blood had been the night he had murdered his father. All the others had died somewhat removed from such direct effort. A host of lovers who had betrayed him in some way or other, often in the simple but terrible crime of not loving him enough. And now, like a crooked ancient, he took children to his bed, gagging them to silence their cries. Using them up. Watching his hands do their work, the failed and ever-failing artist in pursuit of some kind of perfection, yet destroying all that he touched.

The crowding ghosts were accusation enough. They did not need to whisper in his skull.

Triban Gnol watched his hands as he sat behind his desk, watched their hunt for beauty and perfection, lost now and for ever more. He broke my fingers. 1 can still hear-

‘Chancellor?’

He looked up, studied Sirryn, his newly favoured agent in the palace. Yes, the man was ideal. Stupid and unimaginative, he had probably tormented weaker children outside the tutor’s classroom, to’ compensate for the fog in his head that made every attempt at learning a pointless waste of time. A creature eager for faith, suckling at someone’s tit as if begging to be convinced that anything-absolutely any-thing-could taste like nectar.

‘It draws close to the eighth bell, sir.’

‘Yes.’

‘The Emperor-’

‘Tell me nothing of the Emperor, Sirryn. I do not need your observations on the Emperor.’

‘Of course. My apologies, Chancellor.’

He would see these hands before him painted crimson again, he now knew. In a most literal fashion. ‘Have you found Bruthen Trana?’

Sirryn’s gaze flickered, then fell to the floor. ‘No. He has truly vanished, sir.’

‘Hannan Mosag sent him away,’ Triban Gnol said, musing. ‘Back up to the Edur homeland, I suspect. To dig in the middens.’

‘The middens, sir?’

‘Heaps of garbage, Sirryn.’

‘But-why-’

‘Hannan Mosag did not approve of Bruthen’s precipitous stupidity. The fool very nearly launched a palace bloodbath. At the very least, sent away or not, Bruthen Trana has made it plain to all that such a bloodbath is imminent.’

‘But the Emperor cannot be killed. There can be no-’

‘That means nothing. It never has. I rule this empire. Besides, there is now a champion…’ Triban Gnol fell silent, then shook his head and slowly rose. ‘Come, Sirryn, it is time to tell the Emperor of the war we are now in.’

Outside in the corridor waited seven Letherii mages, called in from the four armies massing just west of Letheras. The Chancellor experienced a moment of regret that Kuru Qan was gone. And Enedictal and Nekal Bara, mages of impressive prowess. These new ones were but pale shadows, mostly supplanted by Hannan Mosag’s Cedance of Tiste Edur. Yet they would be needed, because there weren’t enough K’risnan left. And soon, the Chancellor suspected as he set out for the throne room, the others falling in behind him, soon there would be still fewer K’risnan.

The foreign enemy was deadly. They killed mages as a matter of course. Using explosive incendiaries, grenados. Able to somehow hide from the sorcery seeking them, they sprang deadly ambushes that rarely left behind a corpse of their own.

But the most important detail was one that Triban Gnol would keep from the Emperor. These foreigners were making a point of killing Tiste Edur. So, although Letherii soldiers were assembling to march west against the invaders, the Chancellor had prepared secret instructions to the commanders. He could see a way through all of this. For the Letherii, that is.

‘Have you readied your gear, Sirryn?’ he asked as they approached the throne room doors.

‘Yes,’ the soldier said bemusedly.

‘I need someone I can rely on with the armies, Sirryn, and that someone is you.’

‘Yes, Chancellor!’

Just convey my words to the letter, idiot. ‘Fail me, Sirryn, and do not bother coming back.’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘Get the doors.’

Sirryn rushed ahead.

Inside the throne room was an unexpected, unwelcome surprise. Crouched in a desultory heap of twisted bone and mangled flesh was Hannan Mosag and four of his K’risnan. As emblems of the foul sorcery feeding these Edur, there could be no better image to burn its bitter way into the Chancellor’s brain. His father would have appreciated the scene, would indeed have gathered huge chunks of marble from which he would hack out life-sized likenesses, as if in mimicking reality he could somehow discover what lay beneath it, the turgid currents of soul. A waste of time, as far as Triban Gnol was concerned. Besides, some things should never be revealed.

Hannan Mosag’s deformed face seemed to leer at the Chancellor as he strode past the Ceda and his four Tiste Edur warlocks, but there was fear in the Ceda’s eyes.

Sword-tip skittering on the cracked, scarred and gouged tiles, the Emperor of a Thousand Deaths shifted uneasily on his throne. ‘Chancellor,’ Rhulad rasped, ‘how good of you to come. And Letherii mages, a most impressive if useless gathering.’

Triban Gnol bowed, then said, ‘Allied with Hannan Mosag’s formidable Cedance, sire, our sorcerous prowess should be more than sufficient to rid ourselves of these foreign interlopers.’

Coins clicked on Rhulad’s face as he grimaced. ‘And the mages of the Borthen Brigade, were they sufficient? What of the Brigade itself, Chancellor? They have been mauled! Letherii mages, Letherii soldiers! Tiste Edur! Your foreign interlopers are carving through a damned army!’

‘Unanticipated,’ Triban Gnol murmured, eyes downcast, ‘that the imperial fleets in their search for champions should have so riled a distant empire. As to that empire’s belligerence, well, it seems almost unmatched; indeed, virtually insane, given the distances spanned to prosecute vengeance. Odd, as well, that no formal declaration of war was received-although, of course, it is doubtful our fleets ventured the same preceding the slaughter of that empire’s citizens. Perhaps,’ he added, glancing up, ‘negotiation remains possible. Some form of financial compensation, should we prove able to arrange a truce-’

Hacking laughter from Hannan Mosag. ‘You provincial fool, Gnol. Would that you were even capable of expanding that puny, melodramatic theatre of your mind, then mayhap humility would still that flapping tongue of yours.’

Brows raised, the Chancellor half turned to regard the Ceda. ‘And what secret knowledge of this enemy do you possess? And would you care to enlighten myself and your Emperor?’

‘This is not punitive,’ Hannan Mosag said. ‘Although it might seem that way. Empires get their noses bloodied all the time, and there were enough clashes at sea to deliver the message that this Malazan Empire was not to be trifled with. Our fleets were sent scurrying from their waters-Hanradi Khalag was brutally honest in his assessment. Malazan mages are more than a match for us, and for the Letherii.’

‘If not punitive,’ Triban Gnol asked, ‘then what?’

Hannan Mosag faced the Emperor. ‘Sire, my answer is best reserved for you alone.’

Rhulad bared his teeth. ‘I am not deceived by your games, Ceda. Speak.’

‘Sire-’

‘Answer him!’

‘I must not!’

Silence, in which Triban Gnol could hear naught but his own heart, thudding hard against his ribs. Hannan Mosag had made a terrible mistake here, victim of his own self-importance. Seeking to use this information of his as a means to crawl back to the Emperor’s side. But the effort… so clumsy!

‘Tell me,’ Rhulad said in a whisper, ‘why this must be our secret.’

‘Sire, this matter belongs among the Tiste Edur.’

‘Why?’

Ah. Because, dear Emperor, these Mahxzans, they are coining for you. Triban Gnol cleared his throat and clasped his hands together above his robe’s belt. ‘This is unnecessary,’ he said in his smoothest voice. ‘I am not so provincial as Hannan Mosag would like to believe. Emperor, your fleets set out across the world in search of champions, and so indeed they have gathered the best, most capable fighters from a host of peoples. What they could not have anticipated is that an entire empire would proclaim itself a champion. And set itself against you, sire. Our reports have made it clear,’ he added, ‘that the enemy is converging on Letheras, on this very city.’ He regarded Hannan Mosag as he added, ‘They are-and yes, Ceda, I see the truth plain on your face-they are coming for the Emperor of a Thousand Deaths. Alas, I do not expect they will elect to challenge him one soldier at a time.’

Rhulad seemed to have shrunk back into the throne. His red-shot eyes were wide with terror. ‘They must be stopped,’ he said in a trembling hiss. ‘You will stop them. You, Hannan Mosag! And you, Chancellor! Our armies must stop them!’

‘And so we shall,’ Triban Gnol said, bowing again, before straightening and glancing across at the Ceda. ‘Hannan Mosag, for all of our… disputes, do not for a moment fear that we Letherii will abandon our Emperor to these foreign dogs. We must unite, you and I, and bring all that we have together, and so annihilate these Malazans. Such audacity must be punished, thoroughly. Truly united, the Tiste Edur and the Letherii cannot be defeated.’

‘Yes,’ said Rhulad. ‘That is true. Array the armies in an unbroken line outside the city-it is clear, isn’t it, that they do not have the numbers to challenge such a thing?’

‘Sire,’ Triban Gnol ventured, ‘perhaps it would be best to advance a little distance nonetheless. Westward. In that way we can, if need be, assemble our reserves in case there is a breach. Two lines of defence, sire, to make certain.’

‘Yes,’ Rhulad said, ‘those tactics are sound. How far away are these Malazans? How long do we have?’

‘Weeks,’ Triban Gnol said.

‘Good. That is well. Yes, we must do that. All of that, as you say. Ceda! You will second yourself and your K’risnan to the Chancellor-’

‘Sire, he is no military commander-’

‘Quiet! You have heard my will, Hannan Mosag. Defy me again and I will have you flailed.’

Hannan Mosag did not quail at the threat. Why would he in that destroyed body? Clearly, the Ceda,.once Warlock King, was familiar with agony; indeed, at times it seemed the deadly magic that poured through him transformed pain into ecstasy, lighting Hannan Mosag’s eyes with fervent fire.

Triban Gnol said to the Emperor, ‘Sire, we shall protect you.’ He hesitated, just long enough, then half raised a hand as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘Emperor, I wonder, perhaps it would be best to begin the Challenges? Soon? Their presence is a distraction, an irritant for my guards. There have been incidents of violence, a growing impatience.’ He paused again, two heartbeats, then said in a lower tone: ‘Speculation, sire, that you fear to face them…’

Hannan Mosag’s sneer produced a bestial growl. ‘You pathetic creature, Gnol-’

‘Not another word, Ceda!’ Rhulad hissed. Spasms rippled across the Emperor’s mottled face. The sword skittered again.

Yes, Rhulad, you understand what it is to fear death more than any of us. Perhaps more than any mortal creature this world has seen. But you flinch not from some vague notion of oblivion, do you? No, for you, dear Emperor, death is something different. Never an end, only that which precedes yet another pain-filled rebirth. Even in death you cannot lose yourself, cannot escape-does anyone else here, apart from me, truly grasp the sheer horror of that?

‘The Challenges,’ said the Emperor, ‘will begin in four days. Chancellor, have your assessors agreed on an order?’

‘Yes, sire. Three of the least skilled to begin. It is likely you will kill all three in a single day. They will tax you, of that we can be sure, but not unduly so. The second day is reserved for one champion. A masked woman. Exceptional speed but perhaps lacking imagination. Yet she will be difficult.’

‘Good.’

‘Sire…’

‘Yes? What is it?’

‘There are the two we have spoken of before. The Tarthenal with the flint sword. Undefeated by any other champion-in fact, no-one dares spar with him any more. He has the habit of breaking bones.’

‘Yes. The arrogant one.’ Rhulad smiled. ‘But I have faced Tarthenal before.’

‘But not one with Karsa Orlong’s prowess, sire.’

‘No matter, that.’

‘He may succeed in killing you, sire. Perhaps more than once. Not seven. Such days are long past. But, perhaps, three or four. We have allotted three days.’

‘Following the masked woman?’

‘No, there are six others to span two days.’

Hannan Mosag was staring at the Chancellor now. ‘Three days for this Tarthenal? No champion has yet been accorded three days.’

‘Nonetheless, my assessors were unanimous, Ceda. This one is… unique.’

Rhulad was trembling once more. Slain by Karsa Orlong three, four times. Yes, sire, the sheer horror of that…

‘There remains one more,’ the Emperor said.

‘Yes. The one named Icarium. He will be the last. If not the eighth day, then the ninth.’

‘And the number of days with him, Chancellor?’

‘Unknown, sire. He does not spar.’

‘Then how do we know he can fight?’

Triban Gnol bowed again. ‘Sire, we have discussed this before. The report of Varat Taun, corroborated by Icarium’s companion, Taralack Veed. And now, I learned today, something new. Something most extraordinary.’

‘What? Tell me!’

‘Among the rejected champions, sire, a monk from a distant archipelago. It would appear, sire, that this monk-and indeed all of his people-worship a single god. And this god is none other than Icarium.’

Rhulad flinched as if struck across the face. The sword’s point leapt up from the floor, then cracked down again. Marble chips clattered down the dais step. ‘I am to cross blades with a god?’

The Chancellor shrugged. ‘Do such claims hold veracity, sire? A primitive, ignorant people, these Cabalhii. No doubt seeing in dhenrabi the soul of sea-storms and in crab carapaces the faces of the drowned. I should add, Emperor, that this monk believes his god to be insane, to which the only answer is a painted mask denoting laughter. Savages possess the strangest notions.’

‘A god…’

Triban Gnol risked a glance at Hannan Mosag. The Warlock King’s expression was closed as he studied Rhulad. Something about that awakened a worm of unease in the Chancellor’s gut.

‘I shall slay a god…’

‘There is no reason to believe otherwise,’ Triban Gnol said in a calm, confident voice. ‘It will serve timely, sire, in pronouncing your own godhood.’

Rhulad’s eyes widened.

‘Immortality,’ the Chancellor murmured, ‘already well established. Worshipped? Oh yes, by every citizen of this empire. Too modest, oh yes, to make the pronouncement of what is obvious to us all. But, when you stand over Icarium’s destroyed corpse, well, that will be pronouncement enough, I should imagine.’

‘Godhood. A god.’

‘Yes, sire. Most assuredly. I have instructed the guild of sculptors, and their finest artists have already begun work.

We shall announce the end of the Challenge in a most appropriate, a most glorious, manner.’

‘You are wise indeed,’ Rhulad said, slowly leaning back. ‘Yes, wise.’

Triban Gnol bowed, ignoring the sour grunt from Hannan Mosag. Oh, Ceda, you are mine now, and I shall use you. You and your foul Edur. Oh yes. His eyes focused on his hands, folded so serenely where they rested on the clasp of his belt. ‘Sire, orders must be delivered to our armies. The Ceda and I must discuss the disposition, of mages and K’risnan.’

‘Yes, of course. Leave me, all of you. Attend to your tasks.’

Gesturing behind him, Triban Gnol backed away, head still lowered, eyes now on the floor with its chips of marble and streaks of dust.

He could hear Hannan Mosag and his collection of freaks dragging their way towards the doors, like gigantic migrating toads. The simile brought a faint smile to his lips.,

Out in the corridor, the doors shutting behind them, Triban Gnol turned to study Hannan Mosag. But the Ceda was continuing on, toads crowding his wake.

‘Hannan Mosag,’ the Chancellor called out. ‘You and I have-’

‘Save your crap for Rhulad,’ the Ceda snapped.

‘He will be displeased to hear of your lack of co-operation.’

‘Flap away with that tongue of yours, Gnol. The displeasures yet to come will overwhelm your pathetic bleatings, 1 am sure.’

‘What do you mean?’

But Hannan Mosag did not answer.

Triban Gnol watched as they plunged into a side passage and were gone from sight. Yes, I will deal with you, Ceda, with great satisfaction. ‘Sirryn, assemble your entourage in the compound and be on your way within the bell. And take these mages with you.’

‘Yes sir.’

The Chancellor remained where he was until they too were gone, then he set off for his office, well pleased. That worm of unease was, however, reluctant to cease its gnawing deep inside him. He would have to think on that-too dangerous to just ignore such instincts, after all. But not right now. It was important to reward oneself, promptly, and so he released that flow of satisfaction. Everything was proceeding nicely-that detail about the Emperor himself being the final target of these foreigners simply sweetened the scenario. The Tiste Edur would of course stand to defend their Emperor-they would, certainly.

Yet, Rhulad’s own brothers, the day of the accession. The worm writhed, forcing a twitch to his face, and he quickened his pace, eager for the sanctuary of his office.

Only to discover it occupied.

Triban Gnol stood in the doorway, surprised and discomfited by the sight of the man standing to one side of the huge desk. The crimson silks, the onyx rings, that damned sceptre of office tapping rhythmically on one rounded shoulder. ‘What in the Errant’s name are you doing here, Invigilator?’

Karos Invictad sighed. ‘I share your displeasure, Chancellor.’

Triban Gnol entered the room, walked round his desk and sat. ‘I am in the habit of assuming that your control of the city is well in hand-’

‘Where is Bruthen Trana?’

The Chancellor pursed his lips. ‘I haven’t the time for this. Put your panic to rest-Bruthen Trana is no longer in Letheras.’

‘Then where has he gone? What road? How long ago? What is the size of his escort?’

Sighing, Triban Gnol leaned back, eyes settling on his hands where they rested palms down on the desktop. ‘Your need for vengeance, Invigilator, is compromising your responsibilities in maintaining order. You must step back, draw a few deep breaths-’

The sceptre cracked down on the desktop, directly between the Chancellor’s hands. Triban Gnol lurched back in alarm.

Karos Invictad leaned far forward, seeking an imposing, threatening posture that, alas, failed. The man was, simply put, too small. Sweat glistened on his brow, beads glinting from his nose and to either side of that too-full mouth. ‘You patronizing piece of shit,’ the Invigilator whispered. ‘I was given leave to hunt down Tiste Edur. I was given leave to make arrests. I wanted that K’risnan who accompanied Bruthen Trana, only to find him beyond my reach because of Hannan Mosag and this damned invasion from the west, Fine. He can wait until the trouble passes. But Bruthen Trana… no, I will not put that aside. I want him. I want him!’

‘He has been whisked away, Invigilator, and no, we have no information on when, or which road or ship he set out on. He is gone. Will he return? I imagine he will, and when that time comes, of course he is yours. In the meantime, Karos, we are faced with far more important concerns. I have four armies massing west of the city for which wages are now two weeks overdue. Why? Because the treasury is experiencing a shortage of coin. Even as you and your favourite agents line the walls of your new estates with stolen loot, even as you assume control of one confiscated enterprise after another. Tell me, Invigilator, how fares the treasury of the Patriotists these days? Minus the loot?’ The Chancellor then rose from his chair, making full use of his superior height and seeing with grim pleasure the small man step back. It was now Triban Gnol’s turn to lean across the desk. ‘We have a crisis! The threat of financial ruin looms over us all-and you stand here fretting over one Tiste Edur barbarian!’ He made a show of struggling to master his fury, then added, ‘I have received increasingly desperate missives from the Liberty Consign, from Rautos Hivanar himself-the wealthiest man in the empire. Missives, Invigilator, imploring me to summon you-so be it, here you are, and you will answer my questions! And if those answers do not satisfy me, I assure you they will not satisfy Rautos Hivanar!’

Karos Invictad sneered. ‘Hivanar. The old fool has gone senile. Obsessing over a handful of artifacts dug up from the river bank. Have you seen him of late? He has lost so much weight his skin hangs like drapery on his bones.’

‘Perhaps you are the source of his stress, Invigilator-’

‘Hardly.’

‘Rautos has indicated you have been… excessive, in your use of his resources. He begins to suspect you are using his coin for the payroll of the entire Patriotist organization.’

‘I am and will continue to do so. In pursuit of the conspirators.’ Karos smiled. ‘Chancellor, your opinion that Rautos Hivanar is the wealthiest man in the empire is, alas, in error. At least, if it was once so, it is no longer.’

Triban Gnol stared at the man. At his flushed, triumphant expression. ‘Explain yourself, Karos Invictad.’

At the beginning of this investigation, Chancellor, I perceived the essential weakness in our position. Rautos Hivanar himself. As leader of the Liberty Consign. And, by extension, the Consign itself was, as an organization, inherently flawed. We were faced with a looming collision, one that I could not will myself blind to, and accordingly it was incumbent on me to rectify the situation as quickly as possible. You see, the power lay with me, but the wealth resided in the clutches of Hivanar and his Consign. This was unacceptable. In order to meet the threat of the conspirators-or, as I now see, conspirator-yes, there is but one-in order to meet his threat, I needed to attack from a consolidated position.’

Triban Gnol stared, disbelieving even as he began to comprehend the direction of the Invigilator’s pompous, megalomaniacal monologue.

‘The sweetest irony is,’ Karos Invictad continued, sceptre once more tapping a beat on his shoulder, ‘that lone criminal and his pathetically simplistic efforts at financial sabotage provided me with the greatest inspiration. It was not difficult, for one of my intelligence, to advance and indeed to elaborate on that theme of seeming destabiliz’ ation. Of course, the only people being destabilized were Rautos Hivanar and his fellow bloated blue-bloods, and was I supposed to be sympathetic? I, Karos Invictad, born to a] family crushed by murderous debt? I, who struggled, using every talent I possessed to finally rid myself of that inherited misery-no,’ he laughed softly, ‘there was no sympathy in my heart. Only bright revelation, brilliant inspiration-do you know who was my greatest idol when I fought my war against Indebtedness? Tehol Beddict. Recall him? Who could not lose, whose wealth shot skyward with such stunning speed, achieving such extraordinary height, before flashing out like a spent star in the night sky. Oh, he liked his games, didn’t he? Yet, a lesson there, and one I heeded well. Such genius, sparking too hot, too soon, left; him a gutted shell. And that, Chancellor, I would not emulate.’

‘You,’ Triban Gnol said, ‘are the true source of this empire-wide sabotage.’

‘Who better positioned? Oh, I will grant you, my fellow conspirator has displayed increasingly impressive devious-ness of late. And there is no doubt that I could not have achieved quite the level of success as I have without him or her. Triban Gnol, standing before you at this moment is the wealthiest man ever to have lived in Lether. Yes, appalling stacks of coin have indeed vanished. Yes, the strain has sent fatal fissures through every merchant house in the empire. And yes, many great families are about to fall and nothing can save them, even were I so inclined. Which I am not. Thus.’ The sceptre settled motionless onto that shoulder. ‘I am both the power and the wealth, and I am poised to save this empire from financial ruin-should I so choose.’

The Chancellor’s hands, there on the desktop, had gone white, the veins and arteries prominent in their sickly blue and green hues. The hands-his hands-felt cold as death. ‘What do you want, Karos Invictad?’

‘Oh, I mostly have it already, Chancellor. Including, I am pleased to see, your fullest understanding of the situation. As it stands now. As it will stand in the future.’

‘You seem to forget there is a war on.’

‘There always is. Opportunities for yet more profit and power. In the next week or two, Chancellor, I will become more famous, more beloved, more powerful than even you could imagine, or, should I say, fear.’ His smile broadened. ‘I assume it’s fear, but relax, Chancellor, I do not have you next on my list. Your position is secure, and, once these damned Tiste Edur are taken care of, including the Emperor, it shall be you and I in control of this empire. No, you will see plain enough, as will everyone else. The saboteur arrested. The coins recovered. The invaders bought off. The Liberty Consign obliterated and the Patriotists dominant. You see, my agents will control the internal matters, while you will possess the armies-well-paid armies, I assure you-and absolute mastery of the palace.’

‘What?’ Triban Gnol asked dryly. ‘You do not seek the throne for yourself?’

The sceptre waved dismissively. ‘Not in the least. Throw a fop on it if you feel the need. Or better still, salute the legend and leave it empty.’

Triban Gnol folded his hands together. ‘You are about to arrest your conspirator?’

‘I am.’

‘And my armies?’

‘They will be paid. At once.’

The Chancellor nodded. ‘Invigilator,’ he then said, with a slight frown as he studied his hands, ‘I have heard disturbing reports…’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. It seems that, in a manner distressingly similar to Rautos Hivanar, you too have succumbed to a peculiar obsession.’ He glanced up searchingly, innocently. ‘Something about a puzzle?’

‘Who has told you that?’

The Chancellor shrugged.

After a moment the flush in Invictad’s round face faded to blotches on the cheeks, and the man shrugged. ‘An idle pursuit. Amusing. A quaint challenge which I will solve in a few days. Unlike Rautos Hivanar, you see, I have found that this puzzle has in fact sharpened my mind. The world has never been clearer to my eyes. Never as clean, as precise, as perfect. That puzzle, Chancellor, has become my inspiration.’

‘Indeed. Yet it haunts you-you cry out in your sleep-’

‘Lies! Someone mocks you with such untruths, Triban Gnol! I have come here, have I not, to inform you of the impending triumph of my plans. Every detail coming to fullest fruition. This effort of yours now, pathetically trans-parent as it is, is entirely unnecessary. As I told you, your position is secure. You are, and will remain, entirely essential.’

‘As you say, Invigilator.’

Karos Invictad turned to leave. ‘As soon as you learn of Bruthen Trana’s return…’

‘You shall be informed at once.’

‘Excellent. I am pleased.’ He paused at the door but did not turn round. ‘Regarding that K’risnan under the Ceda’s protection…’

‘I am sure something can be arranged.’

‘I am doubly pleased, Chancellor. Now, fare you well.’

The door closed. The odious, insane creature was gone.

Odious and insane, yes, but… now the wealthiest man in the empire. He would have to play this carefully, very carefully indeed. Yet Karos Invictad has revealed his own flaw. Too eager to gloat and too ready to give in to that eagerness. All too soon.

The Emperor of a Thousand Deaths remains on the throne.

A foreign army uninterested in negotiation approaches.

A champion who is a god will soon draw his sword.

Karos Invictad has the hands of a child. A vicious child, crooning as he watches them pull out the entrails of his still-alive pet cat. Or dog. Or abject prisoner in one of his cells. A child, yes, but one unleashed, free to do and be as he pleases.

By the Errant, children are such monsters.

Tonight, the Chancellor realized, he would summon a child for himself. For his own pleasure. And he would destroy that child, as only an adult with beautiful hands could. Destroy it utterly.

It was the only thing one could do with monsters.

The one-eyed god standing unseen in the throne room was furious. Ignorance was ever the enemy, and the Errant understood that he was under assault. By Chancellor Triban Gnol. By Hannan Mosag. The clash of these two forces of the empire was something that the Emperor on his throne barely sensed-the Errant was sure of that. Rhulad was trapped in his own cage of emotions, terror wielding all its instruments of torture, poking, jabbing, twisting deep. Yet the Errant had witnessed with clear eyes-no, a clear eye-in the fraught audience now past, just how vicious this battle was becoming.

But 1 cannot fathom their secrets. Neither Triban Gnol’s nor Hannan Mosag’s. This is my realm. Mine!

He might renew one old path. The one leading into the Chancellor’s bedroom. But even then, when that relationship had been in fullest bloom, Triban Gnol held to his secrets. Sinking into his various personas of innocent victim and wide-eyed child, he had become little more than a simpleton when with the Errant-with Turudal Brizad, the Consort to the Queen, who never grew old-and would not be moved from the games he so needed. No, that would not work, because it never had.

Was there any other way to the Chancellor?

Even now, Triban Gnol was a godless creature. Not one to bend knee to the Errant. So that path, too, was closed. I could simply follow him. Everywhere. Piece together his scheme by listening to the orders he delivers, by reading the missives he despatches. By hoping he talks in his sleep. Abyss below!

Furious, indeed. At his own growing panic as the convergence drew ever closer. His knowledge was no better when it came to Hannan Mosag, although some details were beyond dissembling. The power of the Crippled God, for one. Yet even there, the Warlock King was no simple servant, no mindless slave to that chaotic promise. He had sought the sword now in Rhulad’s hands, after all. As with any other god, the Fallen One played no favourites. First to arrive at the altar… No, Hannan Mosag would hold to no delusions there.

The Errant glanced once more at Rhulad, this Emperor of a Thousand Deaths. The fool, for all his bulk, now sat on that throne in painful insignificance-so obvious it hurt to just look at him. Alone in this vast domed chamber, the thousand deaths refracted into ten thousand flinches in those glittering eyes.

The Chancellor and his retinue were gone. The Ceda away with his broken handful as well. Not a guard in sight, yet Rhulad remained. Sitting, burnished coins gleaming. And on his face all that had been private, unrevealed, was now loosed in expressive array. All the pathos, the abject hauntings-the Errant had seen, had always seen, in face after face spanning too many years to count, the divide of the soul, the difference between the face that knew it was being watched, and the face that believed in its solitude. Bifurcation. And he had witnessed when inside crawled outside to a seemingly unseeing world.

Divided soul. Yours, Rhulad, has been cut in two. By that sword, by the spilled blood between you and each of your brothers, between you and your parents. Between you and your kind. What would you give me, Rhulad Sengar of the Hiroth Tiste Edur, to be healed?

Assuming I could manage such a thing, of course. Which I cannot.

But it was clear to the Errant now that Rhulad had begun to understand one thing at least. The fast approach of convergence, the dread gathering and inevitable clash of powers. Perhaps the Crippled God had been whispering in his sword-bearer’s ear. Or perhaps Rhulad was not quite the fool most believed him to be. Even me, on occasion-and who am I to sneer in contempt? A damned Letherii witch swallowed one of my eyes!

The growing fear was undisguised in the Emperor’s face. Coins bedded in burnt skin. Mottled pocking where the coins were gone. Brutal wealth and wounded penury, two sides of yet another curse to plague this modern age. Yes, divide humanity’s soul. Into the haves, the have’nots. Rhulad, you are in truth a living symbol. But that is a weight no-one can bear for very long. You see the end coming. Or, many endings, and yes, one of them is yours.

Shall it be this foreign army that has, in Triban Gnol’s clever words, proclaimed itself a champion?

Shall it be Icarium, Stealer of Life? The Wanderer through Time?

Or something far more sordid-some perfect ambush by Hannan Mosag; or one final betrayal to annihilate you utterly, as would one committed by your Chancellor?

And why do I believe the answer will be none of those? Not one. Not a single thing so… so direct. So obvious.

And when will this blood stop seeping from this socket? When will these crimson tears end?

The Errant melted into the wall behind him. He’d had enough of Rhulad’s private face. Too much, he suspected, like his own. Imagined unwatched-but am I too being watched? Whose cold gaze is fixed on me, calculating meanings, measuring weaknesses?

Yes, see where I weep, see what I weep.

And yes, this was all by a mortal’s hand.

He moved quickly, unmindful of barriers of mortar and stone, of tapestry and wardrobe, of tiled floors and ceiling beams. Through darkness and light and shadows in all their flavours, into the sunken tunnels, where he walked through ankle-deep water without parting its murky surface.

Into her cherished room.

She had brought stones to build platforms and walkways, creating a series of bridges and islands over the shallow lake that now flooded the chamber. Oil lamps painted ripples and the Errant stood, taking form once more opposite the misshapen altar she had erected, its battered top crowded with bizarre votive offerings, items of binding and investiture, reliquaries assembled to give new shape to the god’s worship. To the worship of me. The gnostic chthonic nightmare might have amused the Errant once, long ago. But now he could feel his face twisting in disdain.

She spoke from the gloomy corner to his left. ‘Everything is perfect, Immortal One.’

Solitude and insanity, most natural bedmates. ‘Nothing is perfect, Feather Witch. Look, all around you in this place-is it not obvious? We are in the throes of dissolution-’

‘The river is high,’ she said dismissively. ‘A third of the tunnels I used to wander are now under water. But I saved all the old books and scrolls and tablets. I saved them all.’

Under water. Something about that disturbed him-not the obvious thing, the dissolution he had spoken of, but… something else.

‘The names,’ she said. ‘To release. To bind. Oh, we shall have many servants, Immortal One. Many.’

‘I have seen,’ the god said, ‘the fissures in the ice. The meltwater. The failing prison of that vast demon of the sea. We cannot hope to enslave such a creature. When it breaks free, there will be devastation. Unless, of course, the Jaghut returns-to effect repairs on her ritual. In any case-and fortunately for everyone-I do not believe that Mael will permit it to get even that far-to escape.’

‘You must stop him!’ Feather Witch said in a hiss.

‘Why?’

‘Because I want that demon!’

‘I told you, we cannot hope to-’

‘I can! I know the names! All of the names!’

He stared across at her. ‘You seek an entire pantheon, Feather Witch? Is one god under your heel not enough?’

She laughed, and he heard something splash in the water near her. ‘The sea remembers. In every wave, every current. The sea, Immortal One, remembers the shore.’

‘What-what does that mean?’

Feather Witch laughed again. ‘Everything is perfect. Tonight, I will visit Udinaas. In his dreams. By morning he will be mine. Ours.’

‘This web you cast,’ the Errant said, ‘it is too thin, too weak. You have stretched it beyond all resilience, and it will snap, Feather Witch.’

‘I know how to use your power,’ she replied. ‘Better than you do. Because us mortals understand certain things far better than you and your kind.’

‘Such as?’ the Errant asked, amused.

‘The fact that worship is a weapon, for one.’

At those dry words, chill seeped through the god.

Ah, poor Udinaas.

‘Now go,’ she said. ‘You know what must be done.’

Did he? Well… yes. A nudge. What I do best.

The sceptre cracked hard against the side of Tanal Yathvanar’s head, exploding stars behind his eyes, and he staggered, then sank down onto one knee, as the blood began flowing. Above him, Karos Invictad said in a conversational tone: ‘I advise you, next time you are tempted to inform on my activities to one of the Chancellor’s agents, to reconsider. Because the next time, Tanal, I will see you killed. In a most unpleasant fashion.’

Tanal watched the blood fall in elongated droplets, spattering on the dusty floor. His temple throbbed, and his probing fingers found a flap of mangled skin hanging down almost to his cheek. His eye on that side ebbed in and out of focus in time with the throbbing. He felt exposed, vulnerable. He felt like a child among cold-faced adults. Invigilator,’ he said in a shaky voice, ‘I have told no-one anything.’

‘Lie again and I will dispense with mercy. Lie again and the breath you use to utter it will be your last.’

Tanal licked his lips. What could he do? ‘I’m sorry, Invigilator. Never again. I swear it.’

‘Get out, and send for a servant to clean up the mess you’ve left in my office.’

Nauseated, his throat tightening against an eager upswell of vomit, Tanal Yathvanar hurried out in a half-crouch.

I’ve done nothing. Nothing to deserve this. Invictad’s paranoia has driven him into the abyss of madness. Even as his power grows. Imagine, threatening to sweep away the Chancellor’s own life, in Trihan Gnol’s own office! Of course, that had been but the Invigilator’s version of what had transpired. But Tanal had seen the bright gleam in Invictad’s eyes, fresh from the glory of his visit to the Eternal Domicile.

It had all gone too far. All of it.

Head spinning, Tanal set out to find a healer. There was much still to do this day. An arrest to be made, and, split-open skull or no, Karos Invictad’s precise schedule had to be kept. This was to be a triumphant day. For the Patriotists. For the great Letherii Empire.

It would ease the pressure, the ever-tightening straits that gripped the people-and not just here in Letheras, but across the entire empire. Too many fraught rumours, of battles and defeats suffered. The strictures of not enough hard coin, the strange disappearance of unskilled labour, the tales of once-secure families falling into Indebtedness. The whisper of huge financial holdings tottering like trees with rotted roots. Heroic victories were needed, and this day would mark one. Karos Invictad had found the greatest traitor ever, and he, Tanal Yathvanar, would make the arrest. And they will hear that detail. My name, central to all that will happen this day. I intend to make certain of it.

Karos Invictad was not the only man skilled at reaping glory.

Ancient cities possessed many secrets. The average citizen was born, lived, and died in the fugue of vast ignorance. The Errant knew he had well learned his contempt for humanity, for the dross of mortal existence that called blindness vision, ignorance comprehension, and delusion faith. He had seen often enough the wilful truncation people undertook upon leaving childhood (and the wonder of its endless possibilities), as if to exist demanded the sacrifice of both unfettered dreams and the fearless ambition needed to achieve them. As if those self-imposed limitations used to justify failure were virtues, to add to those of pious self-righteousness and the condescension of the flagellant.

Oh, but look at himself, here and now, look at what he was about to do. The city’s ancient secrets made into things to be used, and used to achieve cruel ends. Yet was he not a god? Was this not his realm? If all that existed was not open to use and, indeed, abuse, then what was its purpose?

He walked through the ghostly walls, the submerged levels, acknowledging a vague awareness of hidden, mostly obscured patterns, structures, the array of things that held significance, although such comprehension was not for him, not for his cast of mind, but something alien, something long lost to the dead ages of the distant past.

No end to manifestations, however, few of which captured the awareness of the mortals he now walked among-walked unseen, less than a chill draught against the neck-and the Errant continued on, observing such details as snared his attention.

Finding the place he sought, he halted. Before him stood the walls of an estate. None other than the one that had belonged to the late Gerun Eberict. It stood abandoned, ownership mired in a legal tangle of claims that had stretched on and on. Gerun Eberict had, it seemed, taken all his wealth with him, a detail that amused the Errant no end.

The huge main building’s footprint cut across the unremarked lines of an older structure that had once stood bordered on three sides by open water: two cut channels and a stream born of deep artesian wells filled with cold black water beneath a vast shelf of limestone that itself lay below a thick layer of silts, sand lenses and beds of clay. There had been significance to these channels, and to the fact that the fourth side had possessed, beneath what passed for a street seven thousand years ago, a buried tunnel of fire-hardened clay. In this tunnel, kept distinct from all other local sources, there had flowed water from the depths of the river. Thus, all four sides, the precious lifeblood of the Elder God who had been worshipped in the temple that had once squatted in this place.

Eberict should have been mindful of that detail, in which a hired seer might well have discerned Gerun’s eventual demise at the blunt hands of a half-breed giant. It was no accident, after all, that those of Tarthenal blood were so drawn to Mael, even now-some whispering of instinct of that first alliance, forged on the water, between Imass and Tarthenal-or Toblakai, to use their true name. Before the Great Landings that brought the last of the giants who had chosen to remain pure of blood to this and other shores, where the first founders would become the vicious, spiteful gods of the Tarthenal.

But it was not just Gerun Eberict and the countless other citizens of Letheras who dwelt here who were unmindful-or, perhaps, forgetful-of the ancient significance of all that had been swept clean from the surface in this city.

The Errant moved forward. Through the estate’s outer wall. Then down, through the cobbles of the compound, sliding ghostly past the rubble and sand of fill, down into the foul, motionless air of the clay-lined tunnel. Knee-deep in thick, soupy water.

He faced the inner sloping wall of the tunnel, gauging his position relative to whatever remnants of the old temple remained beyond. And strode forward.

Shattered stone, jammed and packed tight, stained black by the thick, airless clays now filling every space. Evidence of fire in the burst cracks of foundation blocks. Remnants of ore-laden paints still clinging to fragments of plaster. Ubiquitous pieces of pottery, shapeless clumps of green copper, the mangled black knuckles of silver, the defiant gleam of red-tinged gold-all that remained of past complexities of mortal life, reminders of hands that had once touched, shaped, pressed tips to indent and nails to incise, brushed glaze and paint and dust from chipped rims; hands that left nothing behind but these objects poignant with failure.

Disgusted, nauseated, the god pushed his way through the detritus, and clawed his way clear: a steeply angled space, created by the partially collapsed inner wall. Blue tesserae to paint an image of unbroken sea, but various pieces had fallen away, revealing grey plaster still bearing the grooved patterns left by the undersides of the minute cut tiles. In this cramped space the Errant crouched, gasping. Time told no bright tales. No, time delivered its mute message of dissolution with unrelieved monotony.

By the Abyss, such crushing weight!

The Errant drew a deep breath of the stale, dead air. Then another.

And sensed, not far away, the faint whisper of power. Residual, so meagre as to be meaningless, yet it started the god’s heart pounding hard in his chest. The sanctification remained. No desecration, making what he sought that much simpler. Relieved at the thought of being quickly done with this ghastly place, the Errant set out towards that power.

The altar was beneath a mass of rubble, the limestone wreckage so packed down that it must have come from a collapsing ceiling, the huge weight slamming down hard enough to shatter the stones of the floor beneath that runnelled block of sacred stone. Even better. And… yes, bone dry. He could murmur a thousand nudges into that surrounding matrix. Ten thousand.

Edging closer, the Errant reached down and settled one hand on the altar. He could not feel those runnels, could not feel the water-worn basalt, could not feel the deep-cut channels that had once vented living blood into the salty streams filling the runnels. Ah, we were thirsty in those days, weren’t we?

He awakened his own power-as much as she would give him, and for this task it was more than enough.

The Errant began weaving a ritual.

Advocate Sleem was a tallj thin man. Covering most of his forehead and spreading down onto his left cheek, reaching the line of the jaw, was a skin ailment that created a cracked scale pattern reminiscent of the bellies of newly hatched alligators. There were ointments that could heal this condition, but it was clear that the legendary advocate of Letherii law in fact cultivated this reptilian dermatosis, which so cleverly complemented both his reputation and his cold, lifeless eyes.

He stood now in Bugg’s office, hunched at the shoulders as if to make himself even narrower, and the high collar of his dark green cloak flared out like a snake’s hood behind his elongated, small-eared and hairless head. His regard was languid in that lifeless way of his as he studied Bugg. ‘Did I hear you correctly?’ the advocate asked in a voice that he tried hard to make sibilant, but which instead came out awkward and wavering. The effect, Bugg realized with a faint start, precisely matched what he would imagine a snake would sound like with words emerging from a lip-less mouth. Although, he added to himself, the specific question hardly seemed one he would expect a snake to utter. Snakes don’t ask for clarification.

Do they?

‘You wear a most odd expression,’ Sleem said after a moment. ‘Did my inability to understand you leave you confused, Master Bugg?’

‘Did you truly misunderstand?’

‘That is why I sought reiteration.’

‘Ah. Well, what did you think you heard?’

The eyes blinked. ‘Have we truly uttered all these words to return to my original query?’

‘I invite you to use some more, Sleem.’

‘Rather than simply repeating yourself.’

‘I hate repeating myself.’

Advocate Sleem, Bugg knew, despised discombobu-lation, although that was in all probability not even a word.

‘Master Bugg, as you know, I despise discombobulation.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘You should be, since I charge by the word.’

‘Both our words, or just yours?’

‘It is a little late to ask that now, isn’t it?’ Sleem’s folded hands did something sinuous and vaguely disreputable. ‘You have instructed me, if I understand you correctly-and correct me if I am in error-you have instructed me, then, to approach your financier to request yet another loan with the stated intention to use it to pay a portion of the interest on the previous loan, which if I recall accurately, and I do, was intended to address in part the interest on yet another loan. This leads me to wonder, since I am not your only advocate, just how many loans you have arranged to pay interest on yet other loans?’

‘Well, that was expensive.’

‘I become loquacious when I get nervous, Master Bugg.’

‘Dealing with you gets more costly when you’re nervous? That, Sleem, is really quite clever.’

‘Yes, I am. Will you now answer my question?’

‘Since you insist. There are perhaps forty loans outstanding with respect to addressing interest payments on still other loans.’

The advocate licked suitably dry lips. ‘It was reasons of courtesy and respect, Master Bugg-and, I now see, certain misapprehensions as to your solvency-that encouraged me to refrain from asking for payment up front-for my services, that is, which have been substantial. Although not as substantial, proportionately, as I was led to believe.’

‘I don’t recall leading you into any such assumptions, Sleem.’

‘Of course you don’t. They were assumptions.’

‘As an advocate, you might have been expected to make very few assumptions indeed. About anything.’

‘Permit me to be blunt, Master Bugg. Where in this financial scheme of yours is the money you owe me?’

‘Nowhere as of yet, Sleem. Perhaps we should arrange another loan.’

‘This is most distressing,’

‘I am sure it is, but how do you think I feel?’

‘I am resisting asking myself that question, because I fear the answer will be something like: “He feels fine.” Now, were I to cling with great faith to those particular assumptions we spoke of earlier, I would now insist that this next loan be devoted exclusively to addressing my fees. No matter what lies I deliver to your financier. Which returns us, alas, to my original utterance, which was voiced in a tone of abject disbelief. You see, your financiers’ present state of panic is what has brought me here, for they have reached a level of harassment of my office with respect to you, Master Bugg, that has reached absurd proportions. I have had to hire bodyguards, in fact-at your expense. Dare I ask you then, how much money is in your possession?’

‘Right now?’

‘Yes.’

Bugg drew out his tattered leather purse, prised it open and peered inside. Then he looked up. ‘Two docks.’

‘I see. Surely you exaggerate.’

‘Well, I cut a sliver off one of them, to pay for a haircut.’

‘You have no hair.’

‘That’s why it was just a sliver. Nose hairs. Ear hairs, a trim of the eyebrows. It’s important to be presentable.’

‘At your Drowning?’

Bugg laughed. ‘That would be fun.’ Then he grew sober and leaned forward across his desk. ‘You don’t think it will come to that, surely. As your client, I expect a most diligent defence at my trial.’

‘As your advocate, Master Bugg, I will be first in line demanding your blood.’

‘Oh, that’s not very loyal of you.’

‘You have not paid for my loyalty.’

‘But loyalty is not something one pays for, Advocate Sleem.’

‘Had I known that delusions accompanied your now-apparent incompetence, Master Bugg, I would never have agreed to represent you in any matter whatsoever.’

Bugg leaned back. ‘That makes no sense,’ he said. ‘As Tehol Beddict has observed on countless occasions, delusions lie at the very heart of our economic system. Indenture as ethical virtue. Pieces of otherwise useless metal-beyond decoration-as wealth. Servitude as freedom. Debt as ownership. And so on.’

‘Ah, but those stated delusions are essential to my well-being, Master Bugg. Without them my profession would not exist. All of civilization is, in essence, a collection of contracts. Why, the very nature of society is founded upon mutually agreed measures of value.’ He stopped then, and slowly shook his head-a motion alarmingly sinuous. ‘Why am I even discussing this with you? You are clearly insane, and your insanity is about to trigger an avalanche of financial devastation.’

‘I don’t see why, Master Sleem. Unless, of course, your faith in the notion of social contract is nothing more than cynical self-interest.’

‘Of course it is, you fool!’

So much for awkward sibilance.

Sleem’s fingers wriggled like snared, blind and groping worms. ‘Without cynicism,’ he said in a strangled voice, ‘one becomes the system’s victim rather than its master, and I am too clever to be a victim!’

‘Which you must prove to yourself repeatedly in the measuring by your wealth, your ease of life, of the necessary contrast with the victims-a contrast that you must surround yourself with at every moment, as represented by your material excesses.’

‘Wordy, Master Bugg. Smug ostentation will suffice.’

‘Brevity from you, Advocate Sleem?’

‘You get what you pay for.’

‘By that token,’ Bugg observed, ‘I am surprised you’re saying anything at all.’

‘What follows is my gift. I will set forth immediately to inform your financiers that you are in fact broke, and I will in turn offer my services in the feeding frenzy over your material assets.’

‘Generous of you.’

Sleem’s lips disappeared into a bony grimace. One eye twitched. The worms at the ends of his hands had gone white and deathly. ‘In the meantime, I will take those two docks.’

‘Not quite two.’

‘Nonetheless.’

‘I can owe you that missing sliver.’

‘Be certain that I will have it, eventually.’

‘All right.’ Bugg reached into the purse and fished out the two coins. ‘This is a loan, yes?’

‘Against my fees?’

‘Naturally.’

‘I sense you are no longer playing the game, Master Bugg.’

‘Which game would that be?’

‘The one where winners win and losers lose.’

‘Oh, that game. No, I suppose not. Assuming, of course, I ever did.’

‘I have a sudden suspicion-this very real truth behind all the rumours of impending market collapse-it is all your doing, isn’t it?’

‘Hardly. Countless winners jumped in, I assure you. Believing, naturally, that they would win in the end. That’s how these things work. Until they stop working.’ Bugg snapped his fingers. ‘Poof!’

‘Without those contracts, Master Bugg, there will be chaos.’

‘You mean the winners will panic and the losers will launch themselves into their own feeding frenzy. Yes. Chaos.’

‘You are truly insane.’

‘No, just tired. I’ve looked into the eyes of too many losers, Sleem. Far too many.’

‘And your answer is to make losers of us all. To level the playing field? But it won’t do that, you know. You must know that, Bugg. It won’t. Instead, the thugs will find the top of every heap, and instead of debt you will have true slavery; instead of contracts you will have tyranny.’

‘All the masks torn off, yes.’

‘Where is the virtue in that?’

The Elder God shrugged. ‘The perils of unfettered expansion, Advocate Sleem, are revealed in the dust and ashes left behind. Assume the species’ immortality since it suits the game. Every game. But that assumption will not save you in the end. No, in fact, it will probably kill you. That one self-serving, pious, pretentious, arrogant assumption.’

‘The bitter old man speaks.’

‘You have no idea.’

‘Would that I carried a knife. For I would kill you with it, here and now.’

‘Yes. The game always ends at some point, doesn’t it?’

‘And you dare call me the cynical one.’

‘Your cynicism lies in your willing abuse of others to consolidate your superiority over them. My cynicism is in regard to humanity’s wilful blindness with respect to its own extinction.’

‘Without that wilful blindness there is naught but despair.’

‘Oh, I am not that cynical. In fact, I do not agree at all. Maybe when the wilful blindness runs its inevitable course, there will be born wilful wisdom, the revelation of seeing things as they are.’

‘Things? To which things are you referring, old man?’

‘Why, that everything of true value is, in fact, free.’

Sleem placed the coins in his own bulging purse and walked to the door. ‘A very quaint notion. Alas, I will not wish you a good day.’

‘Don’t bother.’

Sleem turned at the hard edge in Bugg’s voice. His brows lifted in curiosity.

Bugg smiled. ‘The sentiment wouldn’t be free now, would it?’

‘No, it would not.’

As soon as die hapless advocate was gone, Bugg rose. Well, it’s begun. Almost to the day when Tehol said it would. The man’s uncanny. And maybe in that, there lies some hope for humanity. All those things that cannot be measured, cannot be quantified in any way at all.

Maybe.

Bugg would have to disappear now. Lest he get torn limb from limb by a murder of advocates, never mind the financiers. And that would be a most unpleasant experience. But first, he needed to warn Tehol.

The Elder God glanced around his office with something like affectionate regret, almost nostalgia. It had been fun, after all. This game. Like most games. He wondered why Tehol had stopped short the first time. But no, perhaps that wasn’t at all baffling. Come face to face with a brutal truth-with any brutal truth-and it was understandable to back away.

As Sleem said, there is no value in despair.

But plenty of despair in value, once the illusion is revealed. Ah, I am indeed tired.;

He set out from his office, to which he would never return.

‘How can there be only four hens left? Yes, Ublala Pung, I am looking directly at you.’

‘For the Errant’s sake,’ Janath sighed, ‘leave the poor man alone. What did you expect to happen, Tehol? They’re hens that no longer lay eggs, making them as scrawny and dry and useless as the gaggle of matronly scholars at my old school. What Ublala did was an act of profound bravery.’

‘Eat my hens? Raw?’

‘At least he plucked their feathers.’

‘Were they dead by that point?’

‘Let’s not discuss those particular details, Tehol. Everyone is permitted one mistake.’

‘My poor pets,’ Tehol moaned, eyeing Ublala Pung’s overstuffed pillow at one end of the reed mat that served as the half-blood Tarthenal’s bed.

‘They were not pets.’

He fixed a narrow gaze on his ex-tutor. ‘I seem to recall you going on and on about the terrors of pragmatism, all through history. Yet what do I now hear from you, Janath? “They were not pets.” A declarative statement uttered in most pragmatic tones. Why, as if by words alone you could cleanse what must have been an incident of brutal avian murder.’

‘Ublala Pung has more stomachs than both you and me combined. They need filling, Tehol.’

‘Oh?’ He placed his hands on his hips-actually to make certain that the pin was holding the blanket in place, recalling with another pang his most public display a week past. ‘Oh?’ he asked again, and then added, And what, precisely and pragmatically, was wrong with my famous Grit Soup?’

‘It was gritty.’

‘Hinting of most subtle flavours as can only be cultivated from diligent collection of floor scrapings, especially a floor pranced upon by hungry hens.’

She stared up at him. ‘You are not serious, are you? That really was grit from the floor? This floor?’

‘Hardly reason for such a shocked expression, Janath. Of course,’ he threw in offhandedly as he walked over to stand next to the blood-splotched pillow, ‘creative cuisine demands a certain delicacy of the palate, a culture of appreciation-’ He kicked at the pillow and it squawked.

Tehol spun round and glared at Ublala Pung, who sat, back to a wall, and now hung his head.

‘I was saving one for later,’ the giant mumbled.

‘Plucked or unplucked?’

‘Well, it’s in there to stay warm.’

Tehol looked over at Janath and nodded, ‘See? Do you see, Janath? Finally see?’

‘See what?’ «

‘The deadly slope of pragmatism, Mistress. The very proof of your arguments all those years ago. Ublala Pung’s history of insensitive rationalizations-if you could call anything going on in that skull rational-leading him-and, dare I add, innumerable unsuspecting hens-into the inevitable, egregious extreme of… of abject nakedness inside a pillow!’

Her brows lifted. ‘Well, that scene last week really scarred you, didn’t it?’

‘Don’t be absurd, Janath.’

Ublala had stuck out his tongue-a huge, pebbled slab of meat-and was trying to study it, his eyes crossing with the effort.

‘What are you doing now?’ Tehol demanded.

The tongue retreated and Ublala blinked a few times to right his eyes. ‘Got cut by a beak,’ he said.

‘You ate their beaks?’

‘Easier to start with the head. They ain’t so restless with no heads.’

‘Really?’

Ublala Pung nodded.

‘And I suppose you consider that merciful?’

‘What?’

‘Of course not,’ Tehol snapped. ‘It’s just pragmatic. “Oh, I’m being eaten. But that’s all right. I have no head!”‘

Ublala frowned at him. ‘Nobody’s eating you, Tehol. And your head’s still there-I can see it.’

‘I was speaking for the hens.’

‘But they don’t speak Letherii.’

‘You are not eating my last four hens.’

‘What about the one in the pillow, Tehol? Do you want it back? Its feathers might grow back, though it might catch a cold or something. I can give it back if you like.’

‘Generous of you, Ublala, but no. Put it out of its misery, but mind the beak. In the meantime, however, I think you need to get yourself organized-you were supposed to leave days ago, after all, weren’t you?’

‘I don’t want to go to the islands,’ Ublala said, dragging a chipped nail through the grit on the floor. ‘I sent word. That’s good enough, isn’t it? I sent word.’

Tehol shrugged. ‘If it’s good enough, it’s good enough. Right, Janath? By all means, stay with us, but you have to set out now to find food. For all of us. A hunting expedition and it won’t be easy, Ublala. Not at all easy. There’s not been a supply ship on the river for days now, and people have started hoarding things, as if some terrible disaster were imminent. So, as I said, Ublala, it won’t be easy. And I hate to admit it, but there are people out there who don’t think you can succeed.’

Ublala Pung’s head snapped up, fire in his eyes. ‘Who? Who?’

The four hens paused in their scratchings and cocked heads in unison.

‘I better not say,’ Tehol said. ‘Anyway, we need food.’

The Tarthenal was on his feet, head crunching on the ceiling before he assumed his normal hunched posture when indoors. Plaster dust sprinkled his hair, drifted down to settle on the floor. The hens pounced, crowding his feet.

‘If you fail,’ Tehol said, ‘we’ll have to start eating, uh, plaster.’

‘Lime is poisonous,’ Janath said.

And hen guano isn’t? Did I hear you complain when you were slurping down my soup?’

‘You had your hands over your ears, Tehol, and I wasn’t slurping anything down, I was spewing it back up.’

‘I can do it,’ Ublala said, hands bunching into fists. ‘I can get us food. I’ll show you.’ And with that he pushed through the doorway, out into the narrow alley, and was gone.

‘How did you do that, Tehol?’

‘I won’t take credit. It’s how Shurq Elalle manages him. Ublala Pung has an eagerness to show what he can do.’

‘You prey on his low self-esteem, you mean.’

‘Now that’s rather hypocritical coming from a tutor, isn’t it?’

‘Ooh, all the old wounds still smarting, are they?’

‘Never mind old wounds, Janath. You need to leave.’

‘What? Are there rumours I’m incapable of something?’

‘No, I’m serious. Any day now, there is going to be trouble. Here.’

‘Where am I supposed to go?’

‘You need to contact who’s left of your scholarly friends-find one you can trust-’

‘Tehol Beddict, really now. I have no friends among my fellow scholars, and certainly not one I can trust. You clearly know nothing of my profession. We crush beaks between our teeth as a matter of course. In any case, what kind of trouble are you talking about? This economic sabotage of yours?’

‘Bugg should really learn to keep quiet.’

She was studying him in a most discomforting way. ‘You know, Tehol Beddict, I never imagined you for an agent of evil.’

Tehol smoothed back his hair and swelled his chest.

‘Very impressive, but I’m not convinced. Why are you doing all this? Is there some wound from the past that overwhelms all the others? Some terrible need for vengeance to answer some horrendous trauma of your youth? No, I am truly curious.’

‘It was all Bugg’s idea, of course.’

She shook her head. ‘Try again.’

‘There are all kinds of evil, Janath.’

‘Yes, but yours will see blood spilled. Plenty of it.’

‘Is there a difference between spilled blood and blood squeezed out slowly, excruciatingly, over the course of a foreshortened lifetime of stress, misery, anguish and despair-all in the name of some amorphous god that no-one dares call holy? Even as they bend knee and repeat the litany of sacred duty?’

‘Oh my,’ she said. ‘Well, that is an interesting question. Is there a difference? Perhaps not, perhaps only as a matter of degree. But that hardly puts you on a moral high ground, does it?’

‘I have never claimed a moral high ground,’ Tehol said, ‘which in itself sets me apart from my enemy.’

‘Yes, I see that. And of course you are poised to destroy that enemy with its own tools, using its own holy scripture; using it, in short, to kill itself. You are at the very end of the slope on which perches your enemy. Or should I say “clings”. Now, that you are diabolical comes as no surprise, Tehol. I saw that trait in you long ago. Even so, this blood-thirstiness? I still cannot see it.’

‘Probably something to do with your lessons on pragmatism.’

‘Oh now, don’t you dare point a finger at me! True pragmatism, in this instance, would guide you to vast wealth and the reward of indolence, to the fullest exploitation of the system. The perfect parasite, and be damned to all those lesser folk, the destitute and the witless, the discarded failures squatting in every alley. You certainly possess the necessary talent and genius and indeed, were you now the wealthiest citizen of this empire, living in some enormous estate surrounded by an army of bodyguards and fifty concubines in your stable, I would not in the least be surprised.’

‘Not surprised,’ Tehol said, ‘but, perhaps, disappointed nonetheless?’

She pursed her lips and glanced away. ‘Well, that is another issue, Tehol Beddict. One we are not discussing here.’

‘If you say so, Janath. In any case, the truth is, I am the wealthiest citizen in this empire. Thanks to Bugg, of course, my front man.’

‘Yet you live in a hovel.’

‘Disparaging my abode? You, an un-paying guest! 1 am deeply hurt, Janath.’

‘No you’re not.’

‘Well, the hens are-and since they do not speak Letherii…’

‘Wealthiest citizen or not, Tehol Beddict, your goal is not the ostentatious expression of that wealth, not the fullest exploitation of the power it grants you. No, you intend the collapse of this empire’s fundamental economic structure. And 1 still cannot fathom why.’

Tehol shrugged. ‘Power always destroys itself in the end, Janath. Would you contest that assertion?’

‘No. So, are you telling me that all of this is an exercise in power? An exercise culminating in a lesson no-one could not recognize for what it is? A metaphor made real?’

‘But Janath, when I spoke of power destroying itself I was not speaking in terms of metaphor. I meant it literally. So, how many generations of Indebted need to suffer-even as the civilized trappings multiply and abound on all sides, with an ever-increasing proportion of those material follies out of their financial reach? How many, before we all collectively stop and say, “Aaii! That’s enough! No more suffering, please! No more hunger, no more war, no more inequity!” Well, as far as I can see, there are never enough generations. We just scrabble on, and on, devouring all within reach, including our own kind, as if it was nothing more than the undeniable expression of some natural law, and as such subject to no moral context, no ethical constraint-despite the ubiquitous and disingenuous blathering over-invocation of those two grand notions.’

‘Too much emotion in your speechifying, Tehol Beddict. Marks deducted.’

‘Retreating to dry humour, janath?’

‘Ouch. All right, I begin to comprehend your motivations. You will trigger chaos and death, for the good of everyone.’

‘If I were the self-pitying kind, I might now moan that no-one will thank me for it, either.’

‘So you accept responsibility for the consequences.’

‘Somebody has to.’

She was silent for a dozen heartbeats, and Tehol watched her eyes-lovely eyes indeed-slowly widen. ‘You are the metaphor made real.’

Tehol smiled. ‘Don’t like me? But that makes no sense! How can I not be likeable? Admirable, even? I am become the epitome of triumphant acquisitiveness, the very icon of this great unnamed god! And if I do nothing with all my vast wealth, why, I have earned the right. By every rule voiced in the sacred litany, I have earned it!’

‘But where is the virtue in then destroying all that wealth? In destroying the very system you used to create it in the first place?’

‘Janath, where is the virtue in any of it? Is possession a virtue? Is a lifetime of working for some rich toad a virtue? Is loyal employment in some merchant house a virtue? Loyal to what? To whom? Oh, have they paid for that loyalty with a hundred docks a week? Like any other commodity? But then, which version is truer-the virtue of self-serving acquisitiveness or the virtue of loyalty to one’s employer? Are the merchants at the top of their treasure heaps not ruthless and cut-throat as befits those privileges they have purportedly earned? And if it’s good enough for them, why not the same for the lowest worker in their house? Where is the virtue in two sets of rules at odds with each other, and why are those fancy words like “moral” and “ethical” the first ones to bleat out from the mouths of those who lost sight of both in their climb to the top? Since when did ethics and morality become weapons of submission?’

She was staring up at him, her expression unreadable.

Tehol thought to toss up his hands to punctuate his; harangue, but he shrugged instead. ‘Yet my heart breaks for a naked hen.’

‘I’m sure it does,’ she whispered.

‘You should have left,’ Tehol said.

‘What?’

Boots clumping in the alley, rushing up to the doorway. The flimsy broken shutter-newly installed by Bugg in the name of Janath’s modesty-torn aside. Armoured figures pushing in.

A soft cry from Janath.

Tanal Yathvanar stared, disbelieving. His guards pushed in around him until he was forced to hold his arms out to the sides to block still more crowding into this absurd room with its clucking, frightened chickens and two wide-eyed citizens.

Well, she at least was wide-eyed. The man, who had to be the infamous Tehol Beddict, simply watched, ridiculous in his pinned blanket, as Tanal fixed his gaze on Janath and smiled. ‘Unexpected, this.’

‘I-1 know you, don’t I?’

Tehol asked in a calm voice, ‘Can I help you?’

Confused by Janath’s question, it was a moment before Tanal registered Tehol’s words. Then he sneered at the man. ‘I am here to arrest your manservant. The one named Bugg.’

‘Oh, now really, his cooking isn’t that bad.’

As it turns out, it seems I have stumbled upon another crime in progress.’

Tehol sighed, then bent to retrieve a pillow. Into which he reached, dragging out a live chicken. Mostly plucked, only a few tufts remaining here and there. The creature tried flapping flabby pink wings, its head bobbing this way and that atop a scrawny neck. Tehol held the chicken out. ‘Here, then. We never really expected the ransom in any case.’

Behind Tanal a guard grunted a quickly choked-off laugh.

Tanal scowled, reminding himself to find out who had made that noise. On report and a week of disciplinary duty should serve notice that such unprofessionalism was costly in Tanal Yathvanar’s presence. ‘You are both under arrest. Janath, for having escaped the custody of the Patriotists. And Tehol Beddict, for harbouring said fugitive.’

‘Ah, well,’ Tehol said, ‘if you were to check the Advocacy Accounts for the past month, sir, you will find the official pardon granted Janath Anar, in absentia. The kind of pardon your people always issue when someone has thoroughly and, usually, permanently disappeared. So, the scholar here is under full pardon, which in turn means I am not harbouring a fugitive. As for Bugg, why, when you track him down, tell him he’s fired. I will brook no criminals in my household. Speaking of which, you may leave now, sir.’

Oh no, she will not escape me a second time. ‘If said pardon exists,’ Tanal said to Tehol Beddict, ‘then of course you will both be released, with apologies. For the moment, however, you are now in my custody.’ He gestured to one of his guards. ‘Shackle them.’

‘Yes sir.’

Bugg turned the corner leading into the narrow lane only to find it blocked by a freshly killed steer, legs akimbo, white tongue lolling as Ublala Pung-an arm wrapped about the beast’s broken neck-grunted and pulled, his face red and the veins on his temples purple and bulging. The odd multiple pulsing of his hearts visibly throbbed on both sides of the Tarthenal’s thick neck as he endeavoured to drag the steer to Tehol’s door.

His small eyes lit up on seeing Bugg. ‘Oh good. Help.’

‘Where did you get this? Never mind. It will never fit in through the door, Ublala. You’ll have to dismember it out here.’

‘Oh.’ The giant waved one hand. ‘I’m always forgetting things.’

‘Ublala, is Tehol home?’

‘No. Nobody is.’

‘Not even Janath?’

The Tarthenal shook his head, eyeing the steer, which was now thoroughly jammed in the lane. ‘I’ll have to rip its legs off,’ he said. ‘Oh, the hens are home, Bugg.’

Bugg had been growing ever more nervous with each step that had brought him closer to their house, and now he understood why. But he should have been more than just nervous. He should have known. My mind-1 have been distracted. Distant worshippers, something closer to hand…

Bugg clambered over the carcass, pushing past Ublala Pung, which, given the sweat lathering the huge man, proved virtually effortless, then hurried to the doorway.

The shutter was broken, torn from its flimsy hinges. Inside, four hens marched about on the floor like aimless soldiers. Ublala Pung’s pillow was trying to do the same.

Shit. They’ve got them.

There would be a scene at the headquarters of the Patriotists. Couldn’t be helped. Wholesale destruction, an Elder God’s rage unleashed-oh, this was too soon. Too many heads would look up, eyes narrowing, hunger bursting like juices under the tongue. Just stay where you are. Stay where you are, lcarium. Lifestealer. Do not reach for your sword, do not let your brow knit. No furrows of anger to mar your unhuman face. Stay, lcarium!

He entered the room, found a large sack.

Ublala Pung filled the doorway. ‘What is happening?’

Bugg began throwing their few possessions into the sack.

‘Bugg?’

He snatched up a hen and stuffed it in, then another.

‘Bugg?’

The mobile pillow went last. Knotting the sack, Bugg turned about and gave it to Ublala Pung. ‘Find somewhere else to hide out,’ Bugg said. ‘Here, it’s all yours-’

‘But what about the cow?’

‘It’s a steer.’

‘I tried but it’s jammed.’

‘Ublala-all right, stay here, then, but you’re on your own. Understand?’

‘Where are you going? Where is everyone?’

Had Bugg told him then, in clear terms that Ublala Pung would comprehend, all might well have turned out differently. The Elder God would look back on this one moment, over all others, during his extended time of retrospection that followed. Had he spoken true-‘They’re just gone, friend, and none of us will be back. Not for a long time. Maybe never. Take care of yourself, Ublala Pung, and ‘ware your new god-he is much more than he seems.’

With that, Bugg was outside, climbing over the carcass once more and to the mouth of the alley. Where he halted.

They would be looking for him. On the streets. Did he want a running battle? No, just one single strike, one scene of unveiled power to send Patriotist body parts flying. Fast, then done. Before I awaken the whole damned menagerie.

No, I need to move unseen now.

And quickly.

The Elder God stirred power to life, power enough to pluck at his material being, disassembling it. No longer corporeal, he slipped down through the grimy cobbles of the street, into the veins of seepwater threading the entire city.

Yes, much swifter here, movement as fast as thought-

He tripped the snare before he was even aware that he had been pulled off course, drawn like an iron filing to a lodestone. Pulled, hard and then as if in a whirlpool, down to a block of stone buried in darkness. A stone of power-of Mael’s very own power-a damned altar!

Eagerly claiming him, chaining him as all altars sought to do to their chosen gods. Nothing of sentience or malice, of course, but a certain proclivity of structure. The flavour of ancient blood fused particle by particle into the stone’s crystalline latticework.

Mael resisted, loosing a roar that shivered through the foundations of Letheras, even as he sought to reassert his physical form, to focus his strength-

And the trap was so sprung-by that very act of regaining his body. The altar, buried beneath rubble, the rubble grinding and shifting, a thousand minute adjustments ensnaring Mael-he could not move, could no longer even so much as cry out.

Errant! You bastard!

Why?

Why have you done this to me?

But the Errant had never shown much interest in lingering over his triumphs. He was nowhere close, and even if he had been, he would not have answered.

A player had been removed from the game.

But the game played on.

In the throne room of the Eternal Domicile, Rhulad Sengar, Emperor of a Thousand Deaths, sat alone, sword in one hand. In wavering torchlight he stared at nothing.

Inside his mind was another throne room, and in that place he was not alone. His brothers stood before him; and behind them, his father, Tomad, and his mother, Uruth. In the shadows along the walls stood Udinaas, Nisall, and the woman Rhulad would not name who had once been Fear’s wife. And, close to the locked doors, one more figure, too lost in the dimness to make out. Too lost by far.

Binadas bowed his head. ‘I have failed, Emperor,’ he said. ‘I have failed, my brother.’ He gestured downward and Rhulad saw the spear transfixing Binadas’s chest. ‘A Toblakai, ghost of our ancient wars after the fall of the Kechra. Our wars on the seas. He returned to slay me. He is Karsa Orlong, a Teblor, a Tartheno Toblakai, Tarthenal, Fenn-oh, they have many names now, yes. I am slain, brother, yet I did not die for you.’ Binadas looked up then and smiled a dead man’s smile. ‘Karsa waits for you. He waits.’

Fear took a single step forward and bowed. Straightening, he fixed his heavy gaze on Rhulad-who whimpered and shrank back into his throne. ‘Emperor. Brother. You are not the child I nurtured. You are no child I have nurtured. You betrayed us at the Spar of Ice. You betrayed me when you stole my betrothed, my love, when you made her with child, when you delivered unto her such despair that she took her own life.’ As he spoke his dead wife walked forward to join him, their hands clasping. Fear said, ‘I stand with Father Shadow now, brother, and I wait for you.’

Rhulad cried out, a piteous sound that echoed in the empty chamber.

Trull, his pate pale where his hair had once been, his eyes the eyes of the Shorn-empty, unseen by any, eyes that could not be met by those of any other Tiste Edur. Eyes of alone. He raised the spear in his hands, and Rhulad saw the crimson gleam on that shaft, on the broad iron blade. ‘I led warriors in your name, brother, and they are now all dead. All dead.

‘I returned to you, brother, when Fear and Binadas could not. To beg for your soul, your soul of old, Rhulad, for the child, the brother you had once been.’ He lowered the spear, leaned on it. ‘You drowned me, chained to stone, while the Rhulad I sought hid in the darkness of your mind. But he will hide no longer.’

From the gloom of the doors, the vague figure moved forward, and Rhulad on his throne saw himself. A youth, weaponless, unblooded, his skin free of coins, his skin smooth and clear.

‘We stand in the river of Sengar blood,’ Trull said. ‘And we wait for you.’

‘Stop!’ Rhulad shrieked. ‘Stop!’

‘Truth,’ said Udinaas, striding closer, ‘is remorseless, Master. Friend?’ The slave laughed. ‘You were never my friend, Rhulad. You held my life in your hand-either hand, the empty one or the one with the sword, makes no difference. My life was yours, and you thought I had opened my heart to you. Errant take me, why would I do that? Look at my face, Rhulad. This is a slave’s face. No more memorable than a clay mask. This flesh on my bones? It works limbs that are naught but tools. I held my hands in the sea, Rhulad, until all feeling went away. All life, gone. From my once-defiant grasp.’ Udinaas smiled. ‘And now, Rhulad Sengar, who is the slave?

‘I stand at the end of the chains. The end but one. One set of shackles. Here, do you see? I stand, and I wait for you.’

Nisall spoke, gliding forward naked, motion like a serpent’s in candle-light. ‘I spied on you, Rhulad. Found out your every secret and I have them with me now, like seeds in my womb, and soon my belly will swell, and the monsters will emerge, one after another. Spawn of your seed, Rhulad Sengar. Abominations one and all. And you imagined this to be love? I was your whore. The coin you dropped in my hand paid for my life, but it wasn’t enough.

‘I stand where you will never find me. I, Rhulad, do not wait for you.’

Remaining silent, then, at the last, his father, his mother.

He could remember when last he saw them, the day he had sent them to dwell chained in the belly of this city. Oh, that had been so clever, hadn’t it?

But moments earlier one of the Chancellor’s guards had begged audience. A terrible event to relate. The Letherii’s voice had quavered like a badly strung lyre. Tragedy. An error in rotation among the jailers, a week passing without anyone descending to their cells. No food, but, alas, plenty of water.

A rising flood, in fact.

‘My Emperor. They were drowned. The cells, chest-deep, sire. Their chains… not long enough. Not long enough. The palace weeps. The palace cries out. The entire empire, sire, hangs its head.

‘Chancellor Triban Gnol is stricken, sire. Taken to bed, unable to give voice to his grief.’

Rhulad could stare down at the trembling man, stare down, yes, with the blank regard of a man who has known death again and again, known past all feeling. And listen to these empty words, these proper expressions of horror and sorrow.

And in the Emperor’s mind there could be these words: I sent them down to be drowned. With not a single wager laid down.

The rising waters, this melting, this sinking palace. This Eternal Domicile. I have drowned my father. My mother. He could see those cells, the black flood, the gouges in the walls where they had clawed at the very ends of those chains. He could see it all.

And so they stood. Silent. Flesh rotted and bloated with gases, puddles of slime spreading round their white, wrinkled feet. A father on whose shoulders Rhulad had ridden, shrieking with laughter, a child atop his god as it ran down the strand with limitless power and strength, with the promise of surety like a gentle kiss on the child’s brow.

A mother-no, enough. I die and die. More deaths, yes, than anyone can imagine. 1 die and I die, and 1 die.

But where is my peace?

See what awaits me? See them!

Rhulad Sengar, Emperor of a Thousand Deaths, sat alone on his throne, dreaming peace. But even death could not offer that.

At that moment his brother, Trull’ Sengar, stood near Onrack, the emlava cubs squalling in the dirt behind them, and watched with wonder as Ben Adaephon Delat, a High Mage of the Malazan Empire, walked out across the shallow river. Unmindful of the glacial cold of that stream that threatened to leave numb his flesh, his bones, the very sentiments of his mind-nothing could deter him from this.

Upon seeing the lone figure appear from the brush on the other side, Quick Ben had halted. And, after a long moment, he had smiled, and under his breath he had said something like: ‘Where else but here? Who else but him?’ Then, with a laugh, the High Mage had set out.

To meet an old friend who himself strode without pause into that broad river.

Another Malazan.

Beside Trull, Onrack settled a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘You, my friend, weep too easily.’

‘I know,’ Trull sighed. ‘It’s because, well, it’s because I dream of such things. For myself; My brothers, my family. My people. The gifts of peace, Onrack-this is what breaks me, again and again.’

‘I think,’ said Onrack, ‘you evade a deeper truth.’

‘I do?’

‘Yes. There is one other, is there not? Not a brother, not kin, not even Tiste Edur. One who offers another kind of peace, for you, a new kind. And this is what you yearn for, and see the echo of, even in the meeting of two friends such as we witness here.

‘You weep when I speak of my ancient love.

‘You weep for this, Trull Sengar, because your love has not been answered, and there is no greater anguish than that.’

‘Please, friend. Enough. Look. I wonder what they are saying to each other?’

‘The river’s flow takes their words away, as it does us all.’ Onrack’s hand tightened on Trull’s shoulder. ‘Now, my friend, tell me of her.’

Trull Sengar wiped at his eyes, then he smiled. ‘There was, yes, a most beautiful woman…’