Dust of Dreams

Chapter Nineteen

Moving like one bludgeoned, Kilmandaros slowly, by degrees, picked herself up from the ground. She leaned to one side and spat red phlegm, and then glanced over to see Errastas lying curled on the dead grasses, motionless as a stillborn calf. Off to one side stood Sechul Lath, arms wrapped tightly about his torso, face bleached of all warmth.

She spat again. ‘It’s him.’

‘A summoning beyond all expectation,’ Sechul said. ‘Odd, Errastas looks less than pleased at his own efficacy.’

Kilmandaros levered herself upright, stood unsteadily. ‘He could be subtle when he wanted,’ she said, in some irritation. ‘Instead, he made sure to let us know.’

‘Not just us,’ Sechul replied. ‘Nothing so crass,’ he added, ‘as careless.’

‘Is it anger, do you think?’

He rubbed at his face with both hands. ‘The last time Draconus was wakened to anger, Mother, nothing survived intact. Nothing.’ He hesitated, and then shook his head. ‘Not anger, not yet, anyway. He just wanted everyone to know. He wanted to send us all spinning.’

Kilmandaros grunted. ‘Rude bastard.’

They stood at the end of a long row of standing stones that had taken them round a broad, sweeping cursus. The avenue opened out in front of them, with scores of lesser stones spiralling the path inward to a flat-topped altar, its surface stained black. Little of this remained in the real world, of course. A few toppled menhirs, rumpled tussocks and ruts made by wandering bhederin. Errastas had drawn them ever closer to a place where time itself dissolved into confusion. Assailed by chaos, straining beneath the threats of oblivion, even the ground underfoot felt porous, at risk of crumbling under their weight.

The builders of this holy shrine were long gone. Resonance remained, however, tingling her skin, but it was an itch she could not scratch away. The sensation further fouled her mood. Glaring down at Errastas, she asked, ‘Will he recover? Or will we have to drag him behind us by one foot.’

‘A satisfying image,’ Sechul conceded, ‘but he’s already coming round. After the shock, the mind races.’ He walked up to where the Errant lay. ‘Enough, Errastas. On your feet. We have a task to complete and now more than ever, it needs doing.’

‘She took an eye,’ rasped the figure lying on the grasses. ‘With it, I would have seen-’

‘Only what you wanted to see,’ Sechul finished. ‘Never mind that, now. There is no going back. We won’t know what Draconus intends until he shows us-or, Abyss forbid, he finds us.’ He shrugged. ‘He’s thrown his gauntlet down-’

Errastas snorted. ‘Gauntlet? That, Setch, was his fist.’

‘So punch back,’ Sechul snapped.

Kilmandaros laughed. ‘I’ve taught him well, haven’t I?’

The Errant uncurled, and then sat up. He stared bleakly at the altar stone. ‘We cannot just ignore him. Or what his arrival tells us. He is freed. The sword Dragnipur is shattered-there was no other way out. If the sword is shattered, then-’

‘Rake is dead,’ said Kilmandaros.

Silence for a time. She could see in the faces of the two men sweeping cascades of emotion as they contemplated the raw fact of Anomander Rake’s death. Disbelief, denial, wonder, satisfaction and pleasure. And then… fear. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Great changes, terrible changes.’

‘But,’ Errastas looked up at her, ‘how was it possible? Who could have done such a thing? Has Osserc returned-no, we would have sensed that.’ He climbed to his feet. ‘Something has gone wrong. I can feel it.’

Sechul faced him. ‘Master of the Holds, show us your mastery. You need to look to your own hands, and the power within them.’

‘Listen to my son,’ said Kilmandaros. ‘Seek the truth in the Holds, Errastas. We must know where things stand. Who struck him down? Why? And how did the sword break?’

‘There is irony in this,’ Sechul said with a wry smile. ‘The removal of Anomander Rake is like kicking down a gate-in an instant the path beyond runs straight and clear. Only to have Draconus step into the breach. As deadly as Rake ever was, but a whole lot crueller, that much closer to chaos. His appearance is, I think, a harbinger of the madness to come. Squint that lone eye, Errastas, and tell me you see other than ruination ahead.’

But the Errant was shaking his head. ‘I can tell you now who broke Dragnipur. There could be no other. The Warlord.’

Breath hissed from Kilmandaros. ‘Brood. Yes, I see that. The weapon he holds-none other. But that only confuses things all the more. Rake would not have willingly surrendered that weapon, not even to Caladan Brood.’ She eyed the others. ‘We are agreed that the Son of Darkness is dead? Yet his slayer did not take Dragnipur. Can it be that the Warlord killed him?’

Sechul Lath snorted. ‘Centuries of speculation-who was the deadlier of the two? Have we our answer? This is absurd-can any of us even imagine a cause that would so divide those two? With the history they shared?’

‘Perhaps the cause was Dragnipur itself-’

Kilmandaros grunted. ‘Think clearly, Errastas. Brood had to know that shattering the sword would free Draconus, and a thousand other ascendants-’ her hands closed into fists-‘and Eleint. He would not have done it if he’d had a choice. Nothing could have so fractured that ancient alliance, for it was more than an alliance. It was friendship.’ She sighed heavily and looked away. ‘We clashed, yes, but even me-no, I would not have murdered Anomander Rake if the possibility was presented to me. I would not. His existence… had purpose. He was one you could rely upon, when justice needed a blade’s certain edge.’ She passed a hand over her eyes. ‘The world has lost some of its colour, I think.’

‘Wrong,’ said Sechul. ‘Draconus has returned. But listen to us. We swirl round and round this dread pit of truth. Errastas, will you stand there frozen as a hare? Think you not the Master of the Deck is bleeding from the ears right now? Strike quickly, friend-he will be in no condition to intercept you. Indeed, make him fear we planned this-all of it-make him believe we have fashioned the Consort’s escape from Dragnipur.’

Kilmandaros’s eyes were wide on her son.

Errastas slowly nodded. ‘A detour, of sorts. Fortunately, a modest one. Attend me.’

‘I shall remain here,’ announced Kilmandaros. At the surprise and suspicion she saw in the Errant’s face, she raised her fists. ‘There was the danger-so close to the Eleint-that I lose control. Surely,’ she added, ‘you did not intend me to join you when you walked through that last gate. No, leave me here. Return when it’s done.’

Errastas looked round at the shrine’s standing stones. ‘I would not think this place suited you, Kilmandaros.’

‘The fabric is thin. My presence weakens it more-this pleases me.’

‘Why such hatred for humans, Kilmandaros?’

Her brows rose. ‘Errastas, really. Who among all the races is quickest to claim the right to judgement? Over everyone and everything? Who holds that such right belongs to them and them alone? A woodcutter walks deep into the forest, where he is attacked and eaten by a striped cat-what do his fellows say? They say: “The cat is evil and must be punished. The cat must answer for its crime, and it and all its kind must answer to our hate.” Before too long, there are no cats left in that forest. And humans consider that just. Righteous. Could I, Errastas, I would gather all the humans of the world, and I would gift them with my justice-and that justice is here, in these two fists.’

Errastas reached up to probe his eye socket, and he managed a faint smile. ‘Well answered, Kilmandaros.’ He turned to Sechul Lath. ‘Arm yourself, friend. The Holds have grown feral.’

‘Which one will you seek first?’

‘The one under a Jaghut stone, of course.’

She watched as blurry darkness swallowed them. With the Errant’s departure, the ephemeral fragility of the ancient shrine slowly dissolved, revealing the stolid ruins of its abandonment. A slew of toppled, shattered stones, pecked facings hacked and chipped-the images obliterated. She walked closer to the altar stone. It had been deliberately chiselled, cut in two. Harsh breaths and sweat-slick muscles, a serious determination to despoil this place.

She knew all about desecration. It was her hobby, after all, an obsessive lure that tugged her again and again, with all the senseless power of a lodestone.

A few thousand years ago, people had gathered to build their shrine. Someone had achieved the glorious rank of tyrant, able to threaten life and soul, and so was able to compel hundreds to his or her bidding. To quarry enormous stones, drag them to this place, tilt them upright like so many damned penises. And who among those followers truly believed that tyrant’s calling? Voice of the gods in the sky, the groaning bitches in the earth, the horses of the heavens racing the seasons, the mythologies of identity-all those conceits, all those delusions. People of ancient times were no more fools than those of the present, and ignorance was never a comfortable state of being.

So they had built this temple, work-gangs of clear-eyed cynics sacrificing their labour to the glory of the gods but it wasn’t gods basking in that glory-it was the damned tyrant, who needed to show off his power to coerce, who sought to symbolize his power for all eternity.

Kilmandaros could comprehend the collective rage that had destroyed this place. Every tyrant reaches the same cliff-edge, aged into infirmity, or eyeing the strutting of heirs and recognizing the hungry looks in their regard. That edge was death, and with it all glory fell to dust. Even stone cannot withstand the fury of mortals when fuelled by abnegation.

Nature was indifferent to temples, to sacred sites. It did not withhold its gnawing winds and dissolute rains. It devoured such places with the same remorseless will that annihilated palaces and city walls, squalid huts and vast aqueducts. But carve a face into stone and someone is bound to destroy it long before nature works its measured erosion.

She understood that compulsion, the bitter necessity of refuting monumental achievements, whether they be dressed in stone or in the raiment of poetry. Power possessed a thousand faces and one would be hard pressed to find a beautiful one among them. No, they were ugly one and all, and if they managed to create something wondrous, then the memory of its maker must be made to suffer all the more for it.

‘For every soul sweeping away the dust,’ said a voice behind her, ‘there are a thousand scattering it by the handful.’

Kilmandaros did not turn round, but bared her teeth nonetheless. ‘I was growing impatient.’

‘It’s not rained here for some time. Only the roots of the stones still hold moisture. I have followed your journey in the morning mists, in the damp breaths of the beasts.’ After a moment, Mael moved up to stand beside her, his eyes settling on the desecrated altar stone. ‘Not your handiwork, I see. Feeling cheated?’

‘I despise conceit,’ she said.

‘And so every mortal creation is to be crushed by your fists. Yes, the presumption of all those fools.’

‘Do you know where they have gone, Mael?’

He sighed. ‘The Holds are not as they once were. Have you considered, they may not return?’

‘Errastas is their Master-’

‘Was, actually. The Holds have not had a master for tens of thousands of years, Kilmandaros. Do you know, you forced the Errant’s retreat from the Holds. He feared you were coming for him, to destroy him and his precious creations.’

‘He was right. I was.’

‘See how things have turned out. His summoning compelled none of us-you must realize that.’

‘That is no matter-’

‘Because deceiving him continues to serve your purposes. And now Knuckles walks at his side. Or, more accurately, a step behind. When will the knife strike?’

‘My son understands the art of subtlety.’

‘It’s not an art, Kilmandaros, it’s just one among many tactics to get what you want. The best subtlety is when no one even notices what you’ve done, ever. Can Sechul Lath achieve that?’

‘Can you?’ she retorted.

Mael smiled. ‘I know of only a few capable of such a thing. One is mortal and my closest friend. The other wasn’t mortal, but is now dead. And then, of course, there is Draconus.’

She fixed a glare upon him. ‘Him? You must be mad!’

Mael shrugged. ‘Try this for a consideration. Draconus needed to get something done. And, it now seems, he achieved it. Without lifting a hand. Without anyone even noticing his involvement. Only one man ever defeated him. Only one man could possess Dragnipur but never kneel before it. Only one man could oversee the weapon’s destruction-no matter the cost. Only one man could force an end to Mother Dark’s denial. And only one man could stand in the face of chaos and not blink.’

Breath gusted from her in a growl. ‘And now that man is dead.’

‘And Draconus walks free. Draconus has broken Kallor’s curse on him. He holds Darkness in a blade of annihilation. No longer chained, no longer on the run, no longer haunted by the terrible error in judgement that was Dragnipur.’

‘All this by his hand? I do not believe it, Mael.’

‘But that is precisely my point, Kilmandaros. About true subtlety. Will we ever know if what I have just described was all by the Consort’s hand? No.’

‘Unless he admits it.’

‘But who wouldn’t?’

‘I hate your words, Mael. They gnaw like the waves you love so much.’

‘We are all vulnerable, Kilmandaros. Don’t think Draconus is about to build a little farm in some mountain valley and spend the rest of his days whittling whistles while birds nest in his hair. He knows we’re here. He knows we’re up to something. Either he’s already figured it out, in which case he will come to find us, or he is even now setting out to pull loose all our secret ambitions.’

‘Who killed Anomander Rake?’

‘Dessembrae, wielding a sword forged by Rake’s own hand.’

She was rocked by that. Her mind raced. ‘Vengeance?’

‘None other.’

‘That weapon always terrified me,’ she said. ‘I could never understand why he set it aside.’

‘Really? The hand that holds it must be pure in its desire. Kilmandaros, Rake yielded it to his brother because his heart was already broken, while Andarist… well, we know that tale.’

As the significance of Mael’s words struck home, Kilmandaros found she was trembling. ‘Andarist,’ she whispered. ‘That… that…’ but she had no words to describe her feeling. Instead, her hands rose to her face again. ‘He is gone,’ she said, voice catching in a sob. ‘Anomander Rake is gone!’

Mael spoke, his tone suddenly harsh. ‘Leave Dessembrae alone. He was as much a victim as anyone else involved. Worse, he has been cheated, and used, and now his suffering is immeasurable.’

She shook her head, the muscles of her jaws creaking. ‘I was not thinking of Dessembrae.’

‘Kilmandaros, listen well. My thoughts on Draconus-my musings on his possible culpability-they are unproven. Speculations, nothing more. If you seek a confrontation with Draconus-if you seek vengeance-you will die. And it may well be for naught, for perhaps Draconus is innocent of all charges.’

‘You do not believe that.’

‘I was but reminding you of the danger he presents to us. How long was he trapped within Dragnipur? What did that do to him? To his mind? Is he even sane any more? One other thing, and think on this carefully, Kilmandaros. Would Rake have willingly freed a mad Draconus? Has he ever shown a thoughtless side to his decisions? Ever?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘He had a purpose.’

Mael’s smile was wry. ‘Even though he is dead, we find ourselves holding to faith in him. Extraordinary, isn’t it?’

‘Mother Dark-’

‘No longer faces away, and as with Darkness, so too it is with-’

‘Light. Gods below, Mael. What has he forced upon us?’

‘A final accounting, I’d wager. An end to the stupid games. He might as well have locked us all in one room-and no one leaves until we settle things once and for all.’

‘Bastard!’

‘Your grief was rather shortlived, Kilmandaros.’

‘Because what you say rings true-yes! Rake would think that way, wouldn’t he?’

‘Else he could not permit his own death-his removal from the stage. More than just ending Mother Dark’s obstreperous pique, he now forces our hands-we are all stirred awake, Elders and children both, mortal and immortal.’

‘To what end?’ she demanded. ‘More blood? A damned ocean’s worth?’

‘Not if there’s a way around it,’ Mael replied. ‘To what end, you ask. This, I think: he wants us to deal with the Crippled God.’

‘That pathetic creature? You cannot be serious, Mael.’

‘The wound ever festers, the poison spreads. That alien god’s power is anathema. We need to fix it-before we seek anything else. Before we lose K’rul’s gift for ever.’

‘Errastas had other ideas.’

‘So do you and Setch. So does Olar Ethil. And Ardata.’

‘And Draconus too, I would think.’

‘We cannot know if Anomander Rake and Draconus spoke-was a bargain reached between them within Dragnipur? “I will free you, Draconus, if…”’

‘They could not have spoken,’ said Kilmandaros. ‘For Rake was killed by Vengeance. You said so yourself.’

Mael walked over to sit down on one of the blocks of the altar stone. ‘Ah, well. There is more to say on that. Among other things. Tell me, Kilmandaros, what Hold did Errastas choose?’

She blinked. ‘Why, the obvious one. Death.’

‘Then I will begin with this curious detail-for I wish to know your thoughts on the, uh, implications.’ He looked up and something glinted in his eyes. ‘Before Rake met Dessembrae, he met Hood. Met him, and killed him. With Dragnipur.’

She stared.

Mael continued: ‘Two gods were in attendance, that I know of.’

‘Who?’ the word came out in a dry rasp.

‘Shadowthrone and Cotillion.’

Oh, how she wished for a tall, imposing standing stone-within her reach-a proud pinnacle of conceit-just there, at the very end of her fist as it swung out its path of ferocious destruction.

‘Them!’

Mael watched her flail and stamp about, watched as she descended on one toppled menhir after another, pounding each one into rubble. He scratched at the bristles on his chin.

Oh, you are indeed clever, Kilmandaros. It all falls home, doesn’t it?

It all falls home.

He’d wanted her to consider the implications. So much for being subtle.

Suffering could be borne. When the blood was pure, purged of injustices. Brayderal was not like the others, not the same as Rutt, or pernicious Badalle with Saddic ever at her side. She alone possessed the legacy of the Inquisitors, shining bright beneath her almost translucent skin. And among all the others, only Badalle suspected the truth. I am a child of the Quitters. I am here to complete their work.

She had finally seen her kin on their trail, and now wondered why they did not simply stride into the midst of the Chal Managal, to take up the last of these pathetic lives.

I want to go home. Back to Estobanse. Please, come and get me, before it’s too late.

Suffering could be borne. But even her unhuman flesh was failing. Each morning, she looked upon the survivors of yet another night and trembled with disbelief. She watched them drag the corpses close and she watched them pick the bones clean and then split them to greedily suck at the marrow.

‘Children are quickest to necessity. They can make any world normal. Be careful, daughter, with these humans. To live, they will do anything.’

She looked upon Rutt’s world and saw the truth in her father’s words. With Held cradled in his arms, he called the stronger ones to him and examined the floppy bags of human skin they now used to trap Shards whenever a swarm found the ribby snake. These fleshless, de-boned bodies, flung into the air as the locusts descended, drew the creatures as flames drew moths, and when the seething mass struck the ground the children pounced, stuffing locusts into their mouths by the handful. Rutt had found a way to turn the war of attrition, to hunt the hunters of this glass wasteland.

His followers were hardened now, all angles and flat eyes. Badalle’s poems had turned cruel, savage. Abandonment honed sure edges; sun and heat and crystal horizons had forged a terrible weapon. Brayderal wanted to scream to her kin, there in the blurred haze of their wake. She wanted to warn them. She wanted to say Hurry! See these survivors! Hurry! Before it’s too late!

But she dared not slink away-not even in the deepest of night beneath the jade spears. They would find out. Badalle had made certain that she was watched. Badalle knew.

She has to die. I have to kill her. It would be easy. I am so much stronger than them. I could snap her neck. I could unleash my Holy Voice for the first time ever and so force my kin to come to my aid when Rutt and Saddic and all the others close on me. I could end this, all of it.

Yet, the Inquisitors kept their distance. They must have a reason. Any precipitate act by Brayderal could ruin everything. She needed to be patient.

Huddled beneath layers of rags, ever careful to stand in the way that humans stood-so limited, so bound by physical imperfections-she watched as Rutt walked out ahead of the snake’s head, the flicking tongue, Badalle would say, before snapping open her mouth and sucking in flies, which she then crunched with obvious relish.

The city that awaited them did not look real. Every glimmering line and angle seemed to bite Brayderal’s eyes-she could barely look in that direction, so powerful was her sense of wrongness. Was it in ruin? It did not seem so. Was it lifeless? It must be. There were no farms, no trees, no rivers. The sky above it was clear, dustless, smokeless. Why then this horror and dread?

The humans did not feel as she did. Instead, they eyed the distant towers and open faces of buildings as they would the arrival of a new torment-diamonds and rubies, gems and shards-and she could see the gauging regard in their eyes, as if they silently asked: Will this attack us? Can we eat it? Is its need greater than ours? Is any need greater than ours?

Sickened, Brayderal watched Rutt walk ever closer to the faintly raised track encircling the unwalled city.

He has decided. We are going in. And I can do nothing to stop it.

‘In knowing,’ Badalle whispered, ‘I am in knowing, always. See her, Saddic? She hates this. She fears this. We are not as weak as she hopes. Saddic, listen, we have a prisoner in the ribby snake. She is chained to us, even as she pretends her freedom under those rags. See how she holds herself. Her control is failing. The Quitter awakens.’

Kill her then, Saddic pleaded with his eyes.

But Badalle shook her head. ‘She would take too many of us down. And the others would help her. Remember how the Quitters command? The voice that can drive a man to his knees? No, leave her to the desert-and the city, yes, the city.’ But is this even true? I could-I could… She had fled the Quitters, made them a thing of her past, and the past was ever dead. It had no hold, no claim upon her. Yet, none of this had proved true. The past stalked them. The past was fast closing in.

Torn fragments floated through her mind, island memories surrounded in the depthless seas of fear. Tall gaunt figures, words of slaying, the screams of slaughter. Quitters.

She caught a fly, crunched it down. ‘The secret is in his arms,’ she said. ‘Held. Held is the secret. One day, everyone will understand. Do you think it matters, Saddic? Things will be born, life will catch fire.’

Badalle could see that he did not understand, not yet. But he was like all the others. Their time was coming. The city called to us. Only those it chooses can find it. Once, giants walked the world. The sun’s rays were snared in their eyes. They found this city and made it a temple. Not a place in which to live. It was made to exist for itself.

She had learned so much. When she’d had wings and had journeyed across the world. Stealing thoughts, snatching ideas. Madness was a gift. Even as memories were a curse. She needed to find power. But all she could find within herself was a knotted host of words. Poems were not swords. Were they?

‘Remember temples?’ she asked the boy beside her. ‘Fathers in robes, the bowls filling with coins no one could eat. And on the walls gems winked like drops of blood. Those temples, they were like giant fists built to batter us down, to take our spirits and chain them to worldly fears. We were supposed to shred the skin from our souls and accept the pain and punishment as just. The temples told us we were flawed and then promised to heal us. All we needed to do was pay and pray. Coin for absolution and calluses on the knees, but remember how splendid those robes were! That’s what we paid for.’

And the Quitters came among us, down from the north. They walked like the broken, and when they spoke, souls crumpled like eggshells. They came with white hands and left with red hands.

Words have power.

She lifted a hand and pointed at the city. ‘But this temple is different. It was not built for adoration. It was built to warn us. Remember the cities, Saddic? Cities exist to gather the suffering beneath the killer’s sword. Swords-more than anyone could even count. So many swords. In the hands of priests and Quitters and merchant houses and noble warriors and slavers and debt-holders and keepers of food and water-so many. Cities are mouths, Saddic, filled with sharp teeth.’ She snapped another fly from the air. Chewed. Swallowed.

‘Lead them now,’ she said to the boy beside her. ‘Follow Rutt. And keep an eye on Brayderal. Danger comes. The time of the Quitters has arrived. Go, lead them after Rutt. Begin!’

He looked upon her with alarm, but she waved him away, and set out for the snake’s tattered tail.

The Quitters were coming.

To begin the last slaughter.

Inquisitor Sever stood looking down on the body of Brother Beleague, seeing as if for the first time the emaciated travesty of the young man she had once known and loved. On her left was Brother Adroit, breathing fast and shallow, hunched and wracked with tremors. The bones of his spine and shoulders were bowed like an old man’s, legacy of this journey’s terrible deficiencies. His nose was rotting, a raw wound glistening and crawling with flies.

To her right was Sister Rail, her gaunt face thin as a hatchet, her eyes rimmed in dull, dry red. She had little hair left-that lustrous mane was long gone, and with it the last vestiges of the beauty she had once possessed.

Sister Scorn had collected Beleague’s staff and now leant upon it as would a cripple. The joints of her elbows, high-wrists and wrists were inflamed and swollen with fluids, but Sever knew that strength remained within her. Scorn was the last Adjudicator among them.

When they had set out to deliver peace upon the last of the south-dwellers-these children-they had numbered twelve. Among them, three of the original five women still lived, and but one of the seven men. Inquisitor Sever accepted responsibility for this tragic error in judgement. Of course, who could have imagined that thousands of helpless children could march league upon league through this tortured land, bereft of shelter, their hands empty? Outlasting the wild dogs, the cannibal raiders among the last of the surviving adults, and the wretched parasites swarming the ground and the skies above-no, not one Inquisitor could have anticipated this terrible will to survive.

Surrender was the easy choice, the simplest decision of all. They should have given up long ago.

And we would now be home. And my mate could stand before his daughter and feel such pride at her courage and purity-that she chose to walk with the human children, that she chose to guide her kin to the delivery of peace.

And I would not now be standing above the body of my dead son.

It was understood-it had always been understood-that no human was an equal to the Forkrul Assail. Proof was delivered a thousand times a day-and towards the end, ten thousand, as the pacification of the south kingdoms reached its blessed conclusion. Not once had the Shriven refused their submission; not once had a single pathetic human straightened in challenge. The hierarchy was unassailable.

But these children did not accept that righteous truth. In ignorance they found strength. In foolishness they found defiance.

‘The city,’ said Scorn, her voice a broken thing. ‘We cannot permit it.’

Sever nodded. ‘The investment is absolute, yes. We cannot hope to storm it.’

Adroit said, ‘Its own beauty, yes. To challenge would be suicide.’

The women turned at that and he flinched back a step. ‘Deny me? The clarity of my vision?’

Sever sighed, gaze dropping once more to her dead son. ‘We cannot. It is absolute. It shines.’

‘And now the boy with the baby leads them to it,’ said Sister Rail. ‘Unacceptable.’

‘Agreed,’ said Sever. ‘We may fail to return, but we shall not fail in what we set out to do. Adjudicator, will you lead us into peace?’

‘I am ready,’ Scorn replied, straightening and holding out the staff. ‘Wield this, Inquisitor, my need for it has ended.’

She longed to turn away, to reject Scorn’s offer. My son’s weapon. Fashioned by my own hands and then surrendered to him. I should never have touched it again.

‘Honour him,’ Scorn said.

‘I shall.’ She took the iron-shod staff, and then faced the others. ‘Gather up the last of your strength. I judge four thousand remain-a long day of slaughter awaits us.’

‘They are unarmed,’ said Rail. ‘Weak.’

‘Yes. In the delivering of peace, we will remind them of that truth.’

Scorn set out. Sever and the others fell in behind the Adjudicator. When they drew closer, they would fan out, to make room for the violence they would unleash.

Not one Shriven would ever reach the city. And the boy with the baby would die last. By my husband’s daughter’s hand. Because she lives, she still lives.

Something like panic gripped the children, dragging Brayderal along in a rushing tide. Swearing, she tried to pull loose, but hands reached out, clutched tight, pushed her onwards. She should have been able to defy them all, but she had overestimated her reserves of strength-she was more damaged than she had believed.

She saw Saddic, leading this charge. Plunging after Rutt, who was now almost at the city’s threshold. But of Badalle there was no sign. This detail frightened her. There is something about her. She is transformed, but I do not know how. She is somehow… quickened.

Her kin had finally comprehended the danger. They waited no longer.

Scuffed, tugged and pushed, she waited for the first screams behind her.

Words. I have nothing but words. I cast away many of them, only to have others find me. What can words achieve? Here in this hard, real place? But doubts themselves are nothing but words, a troubled song in my head. When I speak, the snakes listen. Their eyes are wide. But what happens to all I say, once the words slip into them? Alchemies. Sometimes the mixture froths and bubbles. Sometimes it boils. Sometimes, nothing stirs and the potion lies dead, cold and grey as mud. Who can know? Who can predict?

I speak softly when all that I say is a howl. I pound upon bone with my fists, and they hear naught but whispers. Savage words will thud against dead flesh. But the slow drip of blood, ah, then they are content as cats at a stream.

Badalle hurried along, and it seemed the snake parted, as if her passage was ripping it in two. She saw skeletal faces, shining eyes, limbs wrapped in skin dry as leather. She saw thigh bones from ribbers picked up on the trail-held like weapons-but what good would they do against the Quitters?

I have words and nothing else. And, in these words, I have no faith. They cannot topple walls. They cannot crush mountains down to dust. The faces swam past her. She knew them all, and they were nothing but blurs, each one smeared inside tears.

But what else is there? What else can I use against them? They are Quitters. They claim power in their voice. The islands in her mind were drowning.

I too seek power in my words.

Have I learned from them? This is how it seems. Is this how it is?

Stragglers. The sickened, the weakened, and then she was past them all, standing alone on the glass plain. The sun made the world white, bitter with purity. This was the perfection so cherished by the Quitters. But it was not the Quitters who cut down our world. They only came in answer to the death of our gods-our faith-when the rains stopped, when the last green withered and died. They came in answer to our prayers. Save us! Save us from ourselves!

Emerging from the heat shimmer, four figures, fast closing. Like wind-rocked puppets, every limb snapped back until broken, wheeling loose, and death surrounded them in whirlwinds. Monstrous, clambering out of her memories. Swirls of power-she saw mouths open-

‘YIELD!’

The command rushed through Badalle, hammered children to the ground behind her. Voices crying out, helpless with dread. She felt it rage against her will, weakening her knees. She felt a snap, as if a tether had broken, and all at once she lifted free-she saw the ribby snake, the sinuous length stretched out as if in yearning. But, segment by segment, it writhed in pain.

As that command thundered from bone to bone, Badalle found her voice. Power in the word, but I can answer it.

‘-to the assault of wonder

Humility takes you in hand-’

She spun back down to lock herself behind her own eyes. She saw energies whirl away, ignite in flashes.

‘HALT!’

Cracking like a fist. Lips split, blood threading down. Badalle spat, pushed forward. One step, only one.

‘-in softest silence

Enfold the creeping doubt-’

She saw her words strike them. Stagger them. Almost close enough, at last, to see their ravaged faces, the disbelief, the bafflement and growing distress. The indignation. And yes, that she understood. Games of meaning in evasion. Deceit of intent in sleight of hand.

Badalle took another step.

‘Yield all these destinations

Unbidden jostle to your bones

Halt in the shadow thrown

Beneath the yoke of dismay-’

She felt fire in her limbs, saw blinding incandescence erupt from her hands. Truth was such a rare weapon, and all the more deadly for it.

‘Do not give me your words!

They are dead with the squalor

Of your empty virtues

YIELD to your own lies!

HALT in the breathless moment

Your lungs scream

And silence answers

Your heart drums

Brittle surfaces

BLEED!’

They staggered back as if blinded. Blue fluids spurted from ruptured joints, gushed down from gaping mouths. Agony twisted their angled faces. One fell, thrashing, kicking on the ground. Another, a woman closer to Badalle than the others, dropped down on to her knees, and their impact with the crystalline ground was marked by two bursts of bluish blood-the Quitter shrieked. The remaining two, a man and a woman, reeling as if buffeted by invisible fists, had begun retreating-stumbling, half-running.

The fires within Badalle flared, and then died.

The Quitters deserved worse-but she did not have it in her to deliver such hard punishment. They had given her but two words. Not enough. Two words. Obedience to the privilege of dying. Accept your fate. But… we will not. We refuse. We have been refusing things for a long time, now. We are believers in refusal.

They will not come close now. Not for a long time. Maybe, for these ones, never again. I have hurt them. I took their words and made them my own. I made the power turn in their hands and cut them. It will have to do.

She turned round. The ribby snake had begun moving again, strangely mindless, as if beaten by drovers, senseless as a herd of cattle crossing a… a river? But, when have I seen a river?

She blinked. Licked salty blood from her lips. Flies danced.

The city awaited them.

‘It is what we can bear,’ she whispered. ‘But there is more to life than suffering.’

Now we must find it.

Darkness passed, and yet it remained. A splinter pure, promising annihilation. Onos T’oolan could sense it, somewhere ahead, a flickering, wavering presence. His stride, unbroken for so long, now faltered. The bitter rage within him seemed to stagger, sapped of all strength. Depression rose like flood waters, engulfing all sense of purpose. The tip of his sword bit the ground.

Vengeance meant nothing, even when the impulse was all-consuming. It was a path that, once started upon, could conceivably stretch on for ever. The culpable could stand in a line reaching past the horizon. An avenger’s march was endless. So it had been with the vengeance sought against the Jaghut, and Onos T’oolan had never been blind to the futility of that. Was he nothing but an automaton, stung into motion that would never slow in step?

He felt a sudden pressure wash over him from behind.

Baffled, all at once frightened, his weapon’s stone tip carving a furrow in the dry soil, the First Sword slowly swung round.

He could deny. He could refuse. But these choices would not lead him to the knowledge he sought. He had been forced back from the realms of death. The blood ties he had chosen had been severed. No longer a husband, a father, a brother. He had been given vengeance, but what vengeance could he find sifting through a valley heaped with corpses? There were other purposes, other reasons for walking this pathetic world once again. Onos T’oolan had been denied his rightful end-he intended to find out why.

Not one among the thousand or so T’lan Imass approaching him had yet touched his thoughts. They walked enshrouded in silence, ghosts, kin reduced to strangers.

He waited.

Children of the Ritual, yes, but his sense of many of them told him otherwise. There was mystery here. T’lan Imass, and yet…

When all the others halted their steps, six bonecasters emerged, continuing their approach.

He knew three. Brolos Haran, Ulag Togtil, Ilm Absinos. Bonecasters of the Orshayn T’lan Imass. The Orshayn had failed to appear at Silverfox’s Gathering. Such failure invited presumptions of loss. Extinction. Fates to match those of the Ifayle, the Bentract, the Kerluhm. The presumption had been erroneous.

The remaining three were wrong in other ways. They were clothed in the furs of the white bear-a beast that had come late in the age of the Imass-and their faces were flatter, the underlying structure more delicate than that of true Imass. Their weapons were mostly bone, ivory, tusk or antler, with finely chipped chert and flint insets. Weapons defying the notion of finesse: intricate in their construction and yet the violence they would deliver promised an almost primitive brutality.

Bonecaster Ulag Togtil spoke. ‘First Sword. Who knew dust could be so interesting?’

There was a frustrated hiss from Brolos Haran. ‘He insists on speaking for us, and yet he never says what we wish him to say. Why we ever acquiesce is a mystery.’

‘I have my own paths,’ Ulag said easily, ‘and I do not imagine the First Sword lacks patience.’

‘Not patience,’ snapped Brolos, ‘but what about tolerance?’

‘Bone bends before it breaks, Brolos Haran. Now, I would say more to the First Sword, before we all await the profundity of his words. May I?’

Brolos Haran half-turned to Ilm Absinos, one hand lifting in an odd gesture that baffled Onos T’oolan-for a moment-before he understood.

Helplessness.

‘First Sword,’ Ulag resumed, ‘we do not reach to you in the manner of Tellann, because we make no claim upon you. We are summoned, yes, but it was-we have come to believe-not by your hand. You may refuse us. It is not in our hearts to force ourselves upon the will of another.’

Onos T’oolan said, ‘Who are these strangers?’

‘Profound indeed,’ Ulag said. ‘First Sword, they are T’lan Imass of a second Ritual. The descendants of those who sought to follow Kilava Onass when she rejected the first Ritual. It was their failure not to determine beforehand Kilava’s attitude to being accompanied. But when there is but one hole in the ice, then all must use it to breathe.’

‘My sister invited no one.’

‘Alas. And so it comes to this. These three are bonecasters of the Brold T’lan Imass. Lid Ger, Lera Epar and Nom Kala. The Brold number two thousand seven hundred and twelve. The majority of these remain in the dust of our wake. Our own Orshayn number six hundred and twelve-you see them here. If you need us, we shall serve.’

Nom Kala studied the First Sword, this warrior she had once believed was nothing but an invention, a myth. Better, she concluded, had he remained so. His bones were latticed, as if he had been pounded into fragments-and some of those bones were not even his own.

The First Sword was not the giant of the legends. He did not wear a cloak of ice. Caribou antlers did not sprout from his head. He did not possess breath that gave the gift of fire. Nor did he seem the kind of warrior to recount his exploits for three days and four nights to belittle an overly proud hero. She began to suspect few of those ancient tales belonged to this figure at all. Dancing across the sea on the backs of whales? Crossing swords with demon walruses in their underwater towers? The secret seducer of wives left alone at night?

How many children among her clan, generation upon generation, bore some variation of the name Onos, to account for impossible pregnancies?

The sudden shocked gulp that erupted from her drew everyone’s attention.

Brolos Haran had been speaking-about what Nom Kala had no idea-and he was not pleased with the interruption. ‘Nom Kala, what is it about the Fall at the Red Spires that so amuses you?’

‘Nothing,’ she replied, ‘unless it was meant to. I apologize, Brolos Haran. A stray thought. Well, a few stray thoughts.’

The others waited.

She elected to refrain from elaborating.

The wind moaned, whispered through remnants of fur.

Onos T’oolan spoke. ‘Orshayn. Brold. I have forsworn the Jaghut Wars. I seek no battle. I do not invite you to join me, for what I seek is an accounting. Like you, I am summoned from the dust, and it is to dust that I wish to return. But first, I will find the one who has so punished me with resurrection. The bonecaster of the Logros T’lan Imass, Olar Ethil.’

Ulag said, ‘Can you be certain it is her, First Sword?’

Onos T’oolan cocked his head. ‘Ulag Togtil, after all this time, do you still hold to the virtue of certainty?’

‘We fought no war against the Jaghut,’ Nom Kala said.

The bonecasters of the Orshayn reacted with a chill wave of disapproval. She ignored it.

Onos T’oolan said, ‘Ulag. I see the Orshayn Warleader standing with your kin. Why does Inistral Ovan not come forward?’

‘He is shamed, First Sword. The losses at the Red Spire…’

‘Nom Kala,’ Onos then said, ‘have you no ruler of the Brold Clan?’

‘Only us,’ she replied. ‘Even the war we fought against the humans was not a war that demanded a warleader. It was clear that we could not defeat them on a field of battle. There were too many.’

‘Then how did you fight?’

‘By keeping alive our stories, our ways of living. And by hiding, for in hiding, we survived. We persisted. This is itself a victory.’

‘And yet,’ cut in Ilm Absinos, ‘you failed in the end. Else you would not have attempted the Ritual of Tellann.’

‘That is true,’ she replied. ‘We ran out of places to hide.’

Ulag spoke. ‘First Sword, we would accompany you nonetheless. Like you, we wish to know the purpose of our return.’

‘If you join my quest,’ said Onos T’oolan, ‘then you bow to Olar Ethil’s desires.’

‘That perception may lead to carelessness on her part,’ Ulag replied.

Standing amidst the other T’lan Imass, Rystalle Ev watched, listened, and imagined a world taut with purpose. It had once been such a world, for her, for all of her kin. But that had vanished long ago. Perhaps the First Sword could bind them all to this quest of his. Perhaps answers could relieve the burden of despair. Reasons to stand, reasons to stand against.

But the dust beckoned with its promise of oblivion. The trail to the end of things had been hacked clear, pounded level. She yearned to walk it.

Beside her, Kalt Urmanal said, ‘See the sword he carries. See how its tip pins the earth. This Onos T’oolan, he is not one for poses. He never was. I remember when I last saw him. He had defeated his challenger. He had shown such skill that ten thousand Imass stood silent with awe. Yet, he stood as one defeated.’

‘Weary,’ Rystalle murmured.

‘Yes, but not from the fighting. He was weary, Rystalle Ev, of its necessity.’

She considered that, and then nodded.

Kalt then added, ‘This warrior I will follow.’

‘Yes.’

She sat on a pyramid of three stacked canvas bolts, huddled beneath her night-cloak. The shivering would not go away. She watched the glowing tip of her smoker dancing like a firefly close to her fingers. Atri-Ceda Aranict listened to the muted sounds of the Malazan encampment. Subdued, weary and shaken. She understood that well enough. Soldiers had fallen out from the column, staggering as if reeling from blows. Collapsing senseless, or falling to their knees spitting blood. Panic rippling through the ranks-was this an attack?

Not as such.

Those stricken soldiers had been, one and all, mages. And the enemy, blind and indifferent, had been power.

Her nausea was fading. Mind slowly awakening-wandering like a hungover reveller, desultorily sweeping aside the ashes-she thought back to her first meeting with High Mage Ben Adaephon Delat. She had been pathetic. It was bad enough fainting in a heap in front of Commander Brys Beddict; she had barely recovered from that before she was led into Quick Ben’s presence.

And now, weeks later, only fragments of the conversation that followed remained with her. He had been a distracted man, but when he had seen the enlivened earth cupped in Aranict’s hand, his dark eyes had sharpened, hardened as if transformed into onyx.

He had cursed, and she remembered that curse.

‘Hood’s frantic balls on the fire.’

She had since discovered that Hood was the god of death, and that if any god deserved its name being uttered in bitter curses, then he was the one. At the time, however, she had taken the High Mage’s expostulation somewhat more literally.

Fire, she’d thought. Yes, fire in the earth, heat cupped in my hand.

Her eyes had widened on the High Mage, astonished at his instant percipience, convinced in that moment of his profound genius. She had no place in his company. Her mind moved in a slow crawl at the best of times, especially in the early morning before she’d drawn alive the coal of her first smoker. Quickness of thought (and there, she’d assumed, must be the reason for his name) was in itself a thing of magic, a subtle sorcery, which she could only view with superstitious awe.

Such lofty opinion could persist only in the realm of mystery, however, and mystery rarely survived familiarity. The High Mage had formally requested that she be temporarily attached to his cadre. Since then, she’d heard plenty of curses from Ben Adaephon Delat, and had come to conclude that his quickness was less sorcerous than quixotic.

Oh, he was indeed brilliant. He was also in the habit of muttering to himself in a host of entirely distinct voices, and playing with dolls and lengths of string. And as for the company he kept…

She pulled fiercely on her smoker, watching a figure approach-walking like a drunk, his ill-fitting, cheap clothing caked in dust. Bottle’s strangely childlike face looked swollen, almost dissolute.

Here we go. Yet another incomprehensible conversation between them. And oh, he doesn’t like me being there for it, either. That makes two of us.

‘Is he breathing?’ the Malazan soldier asked as he halted in front of the tent.

She glanced at the drawn flap to her left. ‘He sent me out,’ she said.

‘He’ll want to see me.’

‘He wants to know how Fiddler fared.’

Bottle grimaced, looked away briefly, then back down to her, seeming to study her. ‘You’ve got sensitivity, Atri-Ceda. A draught of rum will soothe your nerves.’

‘I’ve already had one.’

He nodded, as if unsurprised. ‘Fiddler’s still losing what’s left of his supper. He’ll need a new tent.’

‘But he’s not even a mage.’

‘No, he isn’t.’

She fixed her eyes on him. ‘Are all you Malazans this cagey?’

He smiled. ‘And we’re getting worse, Atri-Ceda.’

‘Why is that?’

The smile dropped away, like it never really fitted in the first place. ‘It’s simple enough. The less we know, the less we say. Pretty soon, I expect, we’ll be an army of mutes.’

I can’t wait. Sighing, she flicked away the smoker, slowly rose.

The stars were returning to the sky in the northeast. At least that was something. But someone’s out there. Holding a weapon… gods, such a weapon! ‘Errant’s bouncing eye,’ she said, ‘he’s the High Mage. He can’t hide for ever.’

Bottle’s eyes were wide on her. ‘Never heard that curse before,’ he said.

‘I just made it up.’

‘Seems oddly irreverent coming from a Letherii. I’m slightly shocked, in fact.’

‘It’s all your bad habits, I suppose.’ She stepped to the tent-flap and rapped the hide with her knuckles. ‘We’re coming in.’

‘Fine!’ came the snapped reply.

The cramped interior was steamy, as scented candles flickered from the floor in a circle surrounding a crosslegged Quick Ben. The High Mage dripped with sweat. ‘Bastard’s reaching out to me,’ he said, voice grating. ‘Do I want a conversation? No, I do not. What’s to say? Anomander killed Hood, Dassem killed Anomander, Brood shattered Dragnipur, and now Draconus walks free. Burn trembles, the Gate of Starvald Demelain rages with fire, and cruel twisted warrens the like of which we’ve never before seen now lie in wait-when will they awaken? What will they deliver?

‘And there’s more. Do you realize that? There’s more-stop staring, just listen. Who brokered the whole damned mess? Bottle?’

‘Sorry, I was listening, not thinking. How should I know? No, wait-’

‘Aye. Shadowthrone and Cotillion. Does the Adjunct really believe she chooses her own path? Our path? She’s been driving us hard, ever since we landed-sure, it’s all a matter of logistics. It’s not like the Akryn traders are happily handing over everything they have, is it? It’s not like things won’t get worse the further east we march-the Wastelands are well named.’

‘Quick Ben-’

‘Of course I’m babbling! Listen! There are T’lan Imass out there!’ His wild gaze fixed with sudden intensity on Aranict. ‘The dust will dance! Who commands them? What do they want? Do you know what I want to do with that dirt? I want to throw it away. Who wants to know? Not me!’

‘The T’lan Imass,’ said Bottle, ‘knelt to the Emperor. He took the First Throne and never relinquished it.’

‘Exactly!’

‘We’re being set up. We need to speak with Tavore. Now.’

But the High Mage was shaking his head. ‘It’s no use. She’s made up her mind.’

‘About what?’ Bottle demanded, his voice rising.

‘She thinks she can cheat them. Did you know she was the pre-eminent scholar of the lives of Kellanved, Dancer and Dassem? You didn’t, did you? Before she was made Adjunct. Even before she inherited command of House Paran. A student of war-imperial war. The Conquests-not just tactics on the field, but the motivations of the Emperor and his mad cohorts. The lives of them all. Crust, Toc the Elder, Urko, Ameron, Admiral Nok, Surly, even Tayschrenn-why do you think she keeps Banaschar around? That drunk fool is her potential emissary should Tayschrenn finally decide to do something.’

But Bottle was clearly stuck at Quick Ben’s first revelation. ‘Cheat them? Cheat the Lords of Shadow? Cheat them of what?’

Quick Ben’s bared teeth glimmered like gold in the flickering candlelight. ‘I dare not say.’

‘You don’t trust us to keep our mouths shut?’

‘No. Why would I?’ He pointed a long finger at Bottle. ‘You’d be the first one running for the hills.’

‘If it’s that bad, why are you still here?’

‘Because Draconus changes everything, and I’m the only one who can stand against him.’

Bottle gaped, and then a thin word creaked out: ‘You?’

‘But don’t think for a moment that I’m doing it for Shadowthrone and Cotillion. And don’t think I’m even doing this for the Adjunct. All that time inside Dragnipur-it’s changed him. He was never so subtle before-imagine, a gentle invitation to converse-does he think we’re idiots? But wait’-and he waved his hands-‘it’d only be subtle if it wasn’t so obvious! Why didn’t we think of that?’

‘Because it makes no sense, you damned fool!’

But the High Mage did not react to Bottle’s outburst. ‘No, he really wants to talk! Now that’s subtle for you! Well, we can match that, can’t we? Talk? Not a chance! No, and let’s see what he makes of it, let’s just see!’

Aranict ran both hands through the thick hair on her scalp, and then rummaged in her belt-bag for a smoker. She crouched and snatched up one of Quick Ben’s candles. As she was lighting up she happened to glance across at the High Mage and saw him staring, his expression frozen.

Bottle grunted a laugh. ‘She ain’t so shy any more, is she? Good. Now we’ll find out the real Atri-Ceda. Just like Brys wanted.’

Behind a veil of swirling smoke, Aranict’s gaze narrowed on Quick Ben. She slowly returned the candle to its pool of melted wax on the hide floor. Brys? Is that what all this is about?

The High Mage shot Bottle a disdainful look. ‘It’s ignorance, not bravado.’

‘Bravado usually is ignorance,’ Bottle snapped back.

‘I’ll grant you that,’ Quick Ben conceded. ‘And you’re right,’ he added, sighing, ‘we could do with a little more of the unflappable around here.’

Aranict snorted. ‘Unflappable? You’re not describing me.’

‘Maybe not,’ the High Mage replied, ‘but you manage a convincing pose. That candle you took from the circle of protection-you opened a pathway to Draconus. He sensed it immediately. And yet-’

‘He didn’t use it,’ Bottle said.

‘He didn’t use it.’

‘Subtle.’

‘Ha ha, Bottle, but you’re more right than you know. The point is, she made us address that so fiercely burning question, didn’t she?’

‘Unknowingly.’

Quick Ben glanced up at her, curious, thoughtful.

Aranict shrugged. ‘I needed the flame.’

The reply seemed to please them both, in rather different ways. She decided to leave it at that. What point was there in explaining that she’d no idea what they’d been talking about. All those names Quick Ben mentioned-even Draconus-they meant nothing to her. Well, almost nothing. Draconus. He is the one who arrived in darkness, who made a gate that stole half the sky, who holds in his hand a weapon of darkness and cold, of blackest ice.

And Quick Ben means to stand in his path.

Errant’s mangled nuts, I only joined because I’m lusting after Brys Beddict. Me and a thousand other women.

Quick Ben said, ‘Atri-Ceda, your commander, Brys-’

She started guiltily. Had he read her thoughts?

‘He died once, didn’t he?’

‘What? Yes, so it is said. I mean, yes, he did.’

The High Mage nodded. ‘Best go see him, then-he may have need of you right now.’

‘Me? Why?’

‘Because Hood is gone,’ said Bottle.

‘What does that mean to Commander Beddict?’ she asked.

She saw Bottle meet Quick Ben’s eyes, and then the soldier nodded and said, ‘The dead never quite come back all the way, Aranict. Not while there was a god of death. It may be that Brys is now… awakened. To everything he once was. He will have things to say to his Atri-Ceda.’

‘We’ll see you again,’ Quick Ben added. ‘Or not.’

They dismiss me. Oh well. She turned and exited the tent. Paused in the sultry darkness of the camp. Drew deep on her smoker, and then set out for the distant Letherii encampment.

Brys wants me. What a lovely thought.

Smiles threw herself down by the fire. ‘Stupid patrols,’ she said. ‘There’s no one out there. Those Akryn traders-all creaking old or snot-nosed runts.’ She glanced at the others sitting round the hearth. ‘See that village we passed yesterday? Looked half empty.’

‘No warriors,’ said Cuttle. ‘All off fighting the White Faces. The Akryn can’t maintain control of this Kryn Free Trade right now, which also explains all those D’ras traders coming up from the south.’

Tarr grunted. ‘Heard from some outriders about a Barghast camp they came on-site of a big battle, and looks like the White Faces got bloodied. Might be they’re on the run just like the Akryn are saying.’

‘Hard to believe that,’ Cuttle countered. ‘I’ve fought Barghast and it’s no fun at all, and the White Faces are said to be the toughest of the lot.’

Smiles unstrapped her helm and pulled it off. ‘Where’s Koryk then?’ she asked.

‘Wandered off,’ Tarr answered, tossing another dung chip on to the fire. ‘Again,’ he added.

Smiles hissed. ‘That fever, it marked him. In the head.’

‘Just needs a good scrap,’ Cuttle ventured. ‘That’ll settle him right enough.’

‘Could be a long wait,’ Tarr said. ‘We’ve got weeks and weeks of travel ahead of us, through mostly empty territory. Aye, we’re covering ground awfully fast, but once we’re done with the territories of these plains tribes, it’ll be the Wastelands. No one can even agree how far across it is, or what’s on the other end.’ He shrugged. ‘An army’s deadliest enemy is boredom, and we’re under siege these days.’

‘Corabb not back yet?’ Smiles shook her head. ‘He had two heavies with him on the round. They might’ve got lost.’

‘Someone will find ’em,’ Cuttle said, climbing to his feet. ‘I’ll check in on the sergeant again.’

Smiles watched him step out of the firelight. She sighed. ‘Ain’t had me a knife fight in months. That stay in Letheras made us soft, and them barges was even worse.’ She stretched her boots closer to the fire. ‘I don’t mind the marching, now the blisters are gone. At least we’re squads again.’

‘We need us a new scam,’ Tarr said. ‘You see any scorpions?’

‘Sure, plenty,’ Smile replied, ‘but only two kinds. The little nasty ones and the big black ones. Besides, we try that again and people will get suspicious-even if we could find a good cheat.’ She mulled on the notion for a time, and then shook her head. ‘It’s no good, Tarr. The mood’s all wrong.’

He squinted across at her. ‘Sharp. You’re right. It’s like we’re past all that, and it’ll never come again. Amazing, that I should feel nostalgic about Seven Cities and that miserable, useless march. We were raw, aye, but what we were trying to do, it made sense. That’s the difference. It made sense.’

Smiles snorted. ‘Hood’s breath, Tarr.’

‘What?’

‘Cuttle’s right. None of it made sense. Never did, never will. Look at us. We march around and cut up other people, and they do the same to us-if they can. Look at Lether-aye, it’s now got a decent King and people can breathe easy and go about their lives-but what’s in those lives? Scraping for the next bag of coins, the next meal. Scrubbing bowls, praying to the damned gods for the next catch and calm seas. It ain’t for nothing, Tarr, and that’s the truth. It ain’t for nothing.’

‘That fishing village you come from was a real hole, wasn’t it?’

‘Leave it.’

‘I didn’t bring it up, soldier. You did.’

‘It was no different from anywhere else, that’s my point. I bet you wasn’t sorry to get out from wherever you come from, either. If it was all you wanted, you wouldn’t be here, would you?’

‘Some people don’t go through their lives searching, Smiles. I’m not looking, because I’m not expecting to find anything. You want meaning? Make it up. You want truth? Invent it. Makes no difference, to anything. Sun comes up, sun goes down. We see one, maybe we don’t see the other, but the sun doesn’t care, does it?’

‘Right,’ she said, ‘so we’re in agreement.’

‘Not quite. I’m not saying it’s not worth it. I’m saying the opposite. You make worlds, worlds inside your head and worlds outside, but only the one inside counts for anything. It’s where you find peace, acceptance. Worth. You, you’re just talking about everything being useless. Starting with yourself. That’s a bad attitude, Smiles. Worse than Cuttle’s.’

‘Where are we marching to, then?’

‘Fate’s got a face, and we’re going to meet it eye to eye. The rest I don’t care about.’

‘So you’ll follow the Adjunct. Anywhere. Like a dog on a master’s heel.’

‘Why not? It’s all the same to me.’

‘I don’t get you.’

‘There’s nothing to get. I’m a soldier and so are you. What more do you want?’

‘I want a damned war!’

‘It’s coming.’

‘What makes you so sure of that?’

‘Because we’re an army on the march. If the Adjunct didn’t need an army, she’d have dissolved the whole thing in Lether.’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘I mean, maybe she’s just selfish.’

The dung burned down to layered glowing chips. Moths spun round the licking flames. Silence descended on the two soldiers, who had nothing more to say to each other. At least for this night.

Cuttle found his sergeant lying on the floor. A jug of rum lay on its side close by. The confined space reeked of puke with the rum’s heady layer settling on it like sweet sap.

‘Dammit, Fid, that won’t help your gut.’

‘I ain’t got a gut no more,’ Fiddler replied in a slur. ‘I tossed it up a bell ago.’

‘Come the morning, your skull’s gonna crack open.’

‘Too late. Go ’way, Cu’ll.’

The sapper drew one edge of the cot closer and settled down. ‘Who was it, then?’

‘Iz all changed, Cu’ll. Iz all goin’ bad.’

‘That’s news to me? Listen, this fast march-I’ve already worn out one pair of boots-but it’s got to tell you something. The Adjunct, she’s got a nose-she can sniff things out better than you, I think. Ever since the barges, we’ve been damned near on the run. And even before what happened tonight, you’ve been a haunted man.’ He rubbed at the bristle on his cheeks. ‘I’ll follow you, Fid, you know that. I’ve got your back, always.’

‘Don’ mind me, Cu’ll. It’s the young ones, y’got to guard their backs, not mine.’

‘You’re seeing a lot of dead faces, aren’t you?’

‘I ain’t no seer.’

Cuttle grunted. ‘It’s a precious day, you ain’t talking it up. Squad’s the thing, you keep tellin’ ’em. The soldier at your side, the one whose sweat stink you smell every damned day. We’re family, you say. Sergeant, you’re making us nervous.’

Fiddler slowly sat up, clutched at his head. ‘Fishing,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘There’s a demon in the deep. Sly eyes… watchin’ the bait, y’see? Jus’ watchin. Quick Ben, he’s got to show himself. Finally. We need ’em, we need ’em all.’

‘Fid, you’re drunk.’

‘Darkness’ got an edge. Sharp, the blackest ice-cold like you never imagined. You don’t get it. Here we was, all yippin’ and dancin’, but now the biggest wolf of all has returned. Games are over, Cuttle.’

‘What about the Adjunct? Fiddler?’

He looked up with red, bleary eyes. ‘She don’t stand a chance. Gods below, not a chance.’

‘Is that the camp? It’s got to be.’ Corabb looked at his companions. Three blank faces stared back at him. ‘It’s all lit up, too big for a caravanserai. Let’s go.’

He led the way down the grassy slope, waving as a cloud of midges rose to engulf them. ‘We should never have followed that rabbit-this is no place to get lost in, didn’t I say that? The land rolls too much. You could hide whole armies in these valleys.’

‘Maybe that’s what they did,’ Saltlick said. ‘Hey, Corabb, did you think of that? They’s playing a trick on us.’

‘The whole Bonehunter army? That’s stupid.’

‘It was a big rabbit,’ said Drawfirst.

‘It wasn’t a rabbit at all,’ Saltlick insisted. ‘It was a wolf. Rabbits ain’t got glowing eyes and a bloody muzzle and they don’t snarl neither.’

‘It got a bloody muzzle biting you,’ Drawfirst pointed out.

‘Passed right by me-who wouldn’t jump on it being so close? It’s dark out here, you know. But I jumped on rabbits before, and that was no rabbit.’

‘Beasts are different here,’ Drawfirst said. ‘We keep hearing howling, but that could be rabbits, how do we know? Did you see those lizard hides them D’ras was selling? Those lizards was even bigger than the ones we saw from the barge. Those lizards could eat a horse.’

‘That’s how they catch ’em down south, that’s what the trader said. They stick a big hook through a horse and throw it in the river-’

‘That won’t work unless you tie a rope to the hook.’

‘He didn’t mention that, but it makes sense.’

They were drawing closer to the sea of campfires-well, Corabb amended, maybe not a sea. More like a big lake. But an awfully big lake. He glanced over at Flashwit, who wasn’t saying much, but then she rarely did. All she did was smile and wasn’t it a lovely smile? It was.

‘If we hooked a rabbit,’ said Saltlick, ‘we could catch wolves.’

‘Hook a horse and we’d get an even bigger wolf, I bet.’

‘We got horses, too. That’s an idea, Drawfirst, it surely is. Hey, Corabb, we’re gonna jump the next big lizard we see. For its skin. You want in?’

‘No.’

A distant howl sounded, drifting mournfully through the night.

‘Hear that?’ Saltlick asked. ‘More rabbits-keep an eye out, Drawfirst. You too, Flashwit.’

‘That sounded more like a hooked horse,’ Drawfirst muttered.

Corabb halted. ‘Cut it out, all of you. I’m Fid’s heavy, right? I stand just like you do.’ He pointed at Flashwit. ‘Don’t even think of winking. I spent half my life making mistakes about people, and I vowed I’d never do that again. So I keep my peace, but I pay attention, right? I’m a heavy, too. So stop it.’

‘We was jus’ havin’ fun, Corabb,’ Saltlick said. ‘You could always join in.’

‘I don’t believe in funny things. Now, come on, we done enough walking.’

They walked a further twenty paces before a sentry in the gloom ahead barked something-in Letherii. ‘Hood’s breath,’ hissed Corabb. ‘We done found the other army.’

‘Nobody can hide from the Bonehunters,’ intoned Drawfirst.

Koryk stood in darkness, a hundred paces out from the nearest picket. He had a memory that might be real or invented-he could not be certain. A dozen youths commandeered to dig a latrine trench for some garrison troop out on manoeuvres. Seti and Seti half-bloods, back when they were young enough to see no difference between the two, no reason yet for contempt, envy and all the rest.

He’d been one of the runts, and so his friends set him against a boulder at the far end of the pit, where he could strain and sweat and fail. Blistered hands struggling with the oversized pick, he had worked the whole morning trying to dislodge that damned boulder-with the others looking over every now and then with jeers and laughter.

Failure wasn’t a pleasant notion. It stung. It burned like acid. On that day, he now believed, young Koryk had decided he would never again accept failure. He’d dislodged that boulder in the end, with dusk fast coming on, the other boys long gone and that troop of riders-their little exercise in independence done-riding off in a cloud that hung like a god’s mocking breath of gold dust.

That rock had been firmly lodged in place. It had hidden a cache of coins. As twilight crept in, he found himself on his knees at one end of the trench, with a vast treasure cupped in his hands. Mostly silver, a few tiny gold clips, not one recognizable to Koryk’s pathetically limited experience-this was a spirit hoard, straight out from Seti legends. ‘Under any stone, lad… ’ Yes, the whores who’d raised him had plenty of tales. Could be the whole memory was just one of those tales. A pathetic story, but…

He’d found a treasure, that was the meaning of it. Something precious, wonderful, rare.

And what did he do with his spirit hoard?

Squandered it. Every last fucking coin. Gone, and what was left to show for it?

Whores are warm to the touch, but they hide their souls inside a cold keep. It’s when you surrender to that world that you know you are truly lost, you are finally… alone.

It’s all cold to the touch these days. Everything. And now I spend the rest of my years blaming every damned coin.

But nobody’s fooled. Except me. Always me. Forever me.

He longed to draw his sword, to vanish into the mad mayhem of battle. He could then cut in two every face on every coin, howling that it made a difference, that a life wasn’t empty if it was filled with detritus. He could scream and curse and see not a single friend-only enemies. Justifying every slice, every lash of blood. At the very least, he vowed, he’d be the last one standing.

Smiles said the fever had scarred him. Perhaps it had. Perhaps it would from now on. It had done one thing for certain: it had shown him the truth of solitude. And that truth was seared into his soul. He listened to Fiddler going on and on about this so-called family of companions, and he believed none of it. Betrayals stalked the future-he felt it in his bones. There was coming a time when everything would cut clear, and he could stand before them all and speak aloud the fullest measure of his distrust. We are each of us alone. We always were. I am done with all your lies. Now, save yourselves. As I intend to do for myself.

He wasn’t interested in any last stands. The Adjunct asked for faith, loyalty. She asked for honesty, no matter how brutal, how incriminating. She asked for too much. Besides, she gave them nothing in return, did she?

Koryk stood, facing the empty land in the empty night, and contemplated deserting.

Everything they gave me was a lie, a betrayal. It was the spirit hoard, you see. Those coins. Someone put them there to lure me in, to trap me. They poisoned me-not my fault, how could it be?

‘Look at him under that boulder! Careful, Koryk, playing under there will get you crushed!’

Too late. It was all those fucking coins that did me in. You can’t fill a boy’s hands like that. You just can’t.

It was a memory. Maybe real, maybe not.

The whores, they just wink.

Skanarow’s lithe form rippled with shadows as someone outside the tent walked past bearing a lantern. The light coming through the canvas was cool, giving her sleeping form a deathly hue. Chilled by the vision, Ruthan Gudd looked away. He sat up, moving slowly to keep her from waking.

The sweat that had sheathed him earlier was drying on his skin.

He had no interest in revisiting the cause of his extremity-it wasn’t the love-making, Hood knew. As pleasing as she was-with that sudden smile of hers that could melt mountains of ice-Skanarow didn’t have it in her to send his heart thundering the way it had not long ago. She could delight, she could steal him away from his thoughts, his memories of a grim and eventful life; she could, in bright, stunning flashes, give him back his life.

But this night darkness had opened its flower, with a scent that could freeze a god’s soul. Still alive, Greymane? Did you feel it? I think, your bones could be rotting in the ground right now, old friend, and still you’d have felt it.

Draconus.

Fuck.

He combed through the damp snarl of his beard.

The world shook. Balls of fire descending, the terrible light filling the sky. Fists hammering the world.

Wish I’d seen it.

But he remembered the Azath’s deathcry. He remembered the gnarled trees engulfed in pillars of flames, the bitter heat of the soil he’d clawed through. He remembered staggering free beneath a crazed sky of lurid smoke, lightning and a deluge of ashes. He remembered his first thought, riding that breath of impossible freedom.

Jacuruku, you’ve changed.

One found loyalty under the strangest circumstances. Penitence and gratitude, arms entwined, a moment’s lustful exultation mistaken for worship. His gaze flicked back to Skanarow. The shadows and ill hue were gone. She slept, beauty in repose. Innocence was so precious. But do not think of me with love, woman. Do not force upon me a moment of confession, the truth of foolish vows uttered a lifetime ago.

Let us play this game of blissful oblivion a little while longer.

‘It’s better this way, Draconus.’

‘This is Kallor’s empire, friend. Will you not reconsider?’

Reconsider. Yes, there is that. ‘The shore seems welcoming enough. If I mind my own business…’

He’d smiled at that.

And I smiled back.

Draconus returned to that continent-I felt his footfalls, there inside my seemingly eternal prison. He returned to see for himself the madness of Kallor.

You were right, Draconus. I should have minded my own business. For once.

Can you hear me now? Draconus? Are you listening?

I have reconsidered. At long last. And so I give you this. Find me, and one of us will die.

‘It’s the swirl in the dog’s fur.’

Balm stared. ‘What?’

Widdershins scowled. ‘You want this divination or not?’

‘I ain’t so sure no more.’

The mage stared down at the mangy creature he held by the scruff of the neck, and then snarled and sent it winging through the air.

Deadsmell and Balm and Throatslitter watched the thing twist smartly in the air and manage in the last possible instant to land splayed out wide on its four paws, whereupon with a flick of its bushy tail it bolted, vanishing into the night.

‘Just like a damned cat,’ Throatslitter said.

‘Wasn’t even a dog,’ Deadsmell said.

Widdershins threw up a hand in dismissal. ‘Dog, fox, what’s the difference? Now I’ll need to find something else.’

‘How about a sheepskin?’ Balm asked.

‘Is a sheepskin alive? No. Won’t work. Needs to be breathing.’

‘Because breathing fluffs the swirls,’ Balm said, nodding. ‘I get it.’

Widdershins cast a helpless look upon Deadsmell, who shrugged and then said, ‘This whole thing’s a waste of time anyway. Every seer and diviner in the whole damned world’s got scrambled brains right now.’ He gingerly touched his own neck. ‘I swear I felt that sword’s bite. What was Hood thinking? It’s insane. The whole thing-’

‘Never mind Hood,’ snapped Widdershins. ‘Wasn’t him made me wet my trousers.’

Balm stared with huge eyes. ‘Did you really? Gods below.’

Throatslitter burst out a sudden, piping laugh. Then ducked. ‘Sorry. Just… well, never mind.’

Widdershins spat on the ground. ‘None of this is funny, Throatslitter. You don’t get it. That… that thing. It didn’t show up on the other side of the world. It showed up here.’

Balm started, looked round. ‘Where? Get me my armour-who-what-’

‘Relax, Sergeant,’ Deadsmell said. ‘He didn’t mean “here” as in right here. He meant it as… Wid, what did you mean, exactly?’

‘What’s with the jokes? You’re as bad as Throatslitter. I don’t know why I’m talking to any of you.’

‘We wanted a divination,’ said Throatslitter. ‘I’m changing my mind. It was a stupid idea. You think Fid’s playing with the Deck right now? Not a chance. Forget it, I’m going to bed. Not that I’ll get any sleep. In fact-’

Balm stepped up and punched Widdershins. The man fell in a heap.

Throatslitter yelped again. ‘Sergeant! What did you do that for?’

Frowning, Balm rubbed at his knuckles. ‘He said he wasn’t gonna get any sleep. He’s asleep now. You two, drag him to his tent. It’s time to take charge of things and that’s what I’m doing. Once you get him tucked in, why, we can go find Ebron. We’ll get a divination tonight if it kills us.’

‘I need more corporals,’ Hellian announced to the night sky. She’d been sitting by the hearth, staring into the flames. But now she was on her back, beneath spinning stars. The world could change in an instant. Who decided things like that? ‘One ain’t enough. Ballsgird, you’re now a corporal. You too, Probbly.’

‘It’s Maybe.’

‘No, I made up my mind.’

‘And Balgrid.’

‘Tha’s what I said. As soon as the earthquake’s over, we’ll get right on it. Who am I missing? How many in my squad? Four of ya, right? That last one, he’s a corporal now, too. I want four corporals, t’take my orders.’

‘What orders?’

‘The ones I come up with. Firs’ off, you’re all my bodyguards-I’m done with Skulldumb-keep him away from me.’

‘He’s convinced you’re royalty, Sergeant.’

‘An’ I am, Iffy, so you got to do what I say. Where my ’riginal corporal? Touchy Breath? You here?’

‘Aye, Sergeant.’

‘Yes, Sergeant.’

‘I can’t be looking at this mess any longer. Take me to my tent-no, quit that, don’t help me up, you idiots. Take my feet. Nice an’ slow now-ow, who put rocks under me? Corperl Marble, clear them rocks, will ya? Gods, where’s my tent? Letheras?’

‘We’re looking, Sergeant-didn’t you put it up?’

‘Me? You’re my corperl, that was your job.’

‘Hold on, Sergeant. Just rest here-we’re on it.’

‘So I should think. Derliction of duty. Gi’me a wax and a stick, someone, got to write you up. I’m bustin’ you down, to… to, uh, undercorperl. What’s that pounding?’

‘Putting the stakes down, Sergeant. Not long now.’

‘Hey! Look at those green things! In the sky! Who put those there-get rid of ’em!’

‘Wish I could, Sergeant.’

‘You’re now an unnerunnercorperl-for disobeying unners. Orners. Oars. Udders. Hold on.’ She rolled on to her side and was sick, but in a lazy way. ‘Orders. Hah. Hey, where you dragging me to? I wasn’t done there. Something’s in the sky-I saw it-cut right across those greens. Saw it, corperls, you lissinin’? Big wings-I saw… oh, whatever. Someone’s in turble, but it ain’t me. Check that tent now-no spiders allowed-stupid stars, how’d they get in here?’

Gesler brought the lantern close. ‘Look at that, will you? One of Bottle’s rats did that, I bet. Chewed right through the Hood-damned strap. If I catch ’im, I’m going to twist his tiny head right off.’

‘The rat or Bottle?’ Stormy asked.

‘Either. Both. I knew it was hanging funny, down on one shoulder-’

‘Aye,’ Stormy said, ‘you looked ridiculous. Lopsided. Like some green recruit ain’t figured out how to wear the slingwork.’

Gesler glared across at his corporal. ‘And you didn’t say nothing all day-some friend you are. What if I got snot smeared across half my face-you just going to stand there?’

‘Count on it,’ Stormy said, ‘assuming I can keep a straight face.’

‘Next time I see you with bark-hair hanging from your back end, I ain’t saying a thing.’

‘Pays to check twice-I learned that much. Think we should go find Flashwit? She’s way overdue.’

‘Send Mayfly and Shortnose.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

Gesler paused in his tugging loose the chewed-through strap. ‘Huh. Right. Off you go, then.’

‘Sure you don’t need any help there?’

‘Naw, you done too much already.’

‘That’s just it-I’m all wore out, Ges. I’m too old to march the way we’re marching right now. I’ll be walking on stumpy knees if this goes on much longer.’

‘Thus matching your intellectual height. Know what your problem is, Stormy? You’ve gone all edgy.’

The huge Falari snorted. ‘Ges, we just saw a hundred or so squad mages fall out of line, leaking every which way, eyes rolling up inside their skulls, kicking and gagging. And our scary High Mage reeled like a damned drunk and nearly brained himself on a wagon’s edge. Fid lost his last five meals.’

‘None of that’s got anything to do with you going round saying someone’s spyin’ on us, Stormy.’

‘I’m just telling you what I’m feeling, that’s all. Like an itch between my shoulder-blades, you know the kind. And it’s only got worse since whatever happened… happened.’

‘Fid said you’re just imagining things-’

‘No he didn’t. He didn’t say anything-he wouldn’t even meet my eyes-you were there, you saw.’

‘Well, maybe he didn’t say anything, but then, he didn’t have to.’

‘I been having strange dreams, Ges.’

‘So?’

‘Stuff falling out of the sky. I look up and I’m right under it and there’s no way to escape. Can’t run far enough or fast enough, can’t do anything, except watch it come down on me.’ He leaned forward and slapped his hand on the ground, making Gesler jump. ‘Like that. You’d think I’d wake up then. But I don’t. I just lie there, crushed, feeling all that weight. Can’t move a muscle, can’t even breathe.’

Gesler tossed down his hauberk and harness. ‘Stand up, Stormy, you’re coming with me.’

‘Where?’

‘Walk, Corporal, it’s an order.’

Gesler led Stormy through the camp, passing cookfires with their huddled, muttering circles of soldiers. They threaded through the cutters’ station, where weary healers worked on soldiers suffering blistered feet, ankle sprains and whatnot, and then out past the first of the horse corrals. Ahead was a trio of laden wagons, an oversized carriage, and fifteen or so tents.

Gesler called out as they approached. ‘Hedge?’

A figure came round one end of the carriage and walked over. ‘Gesler? You deserting the Bonehunters? Come to join the Bridgeburners? Smart lads-the legend’s right here and nowhere else. I got these soldiers stepping smart, but they could do with your learnin’ and that’s a fact.’

‘Enough of the rubbish,’ Gesler said. ‘Where’s your two beauties?’

‘Aw, Gesler, they’re beat, honest-’

‘Wake ’em up, both of them. Stormy here’s got a need.’

‘You got a need, you mean-’

‘No, both of them for him. By the time I come to collect my corporal, I want this man’s rope so stretched it’s tangled round his ankles. I want to see bludgeoned bliss in his tiny blue eyes and curly black hairs in his beard. Tell the lovelies I’ll pay triple the going rate.’

‘Fine, only you got to consider what I said. About deserting, I mean.’

‘Capital offence, Hedge.’

‘Unofficial transfer, then.’

‘Keneb would never allow it.’

‘Fine, then just march with my squads for a week or so, alongside like, right? Give ’em advice and stuff-’

‘Advice?’ Gesler snorted. ‘Like what? “Don’t die, soldiers.” “First hint of trouble, strap on and belt up.” “Your weapon’s the thing strapped to your web.” How’s that?’

‘That’s perfect!’

‘Hedge, what in Hood’s name are you doing here?’

The sapper glanced round, and then grasped Stormy by an arm. ‘See those tents, those big ones there? Go on, Corporal, tell the lasses it’s a special order.’

Stormy scowled across at Gesler, who scowled back.

‘I never rolled with real fat women before-’

‘Nothing like it,’ Hedge said. ‘Get one under ya and one over ya and it’s all pillows. Go on, Stormy, me and Ges got to talk.’

‘Pillows, huh?’

‘Aye. Nice warm pillows. Step smartly now, Corporal. There you go.’

As the Falari trundled off, Hedge looked round suspiciously once more, and then gestured for Gesler to follow.

‘Bottle’s using bats,’ Hedge muttered as they walked away from the firelight. ‘Almost skewered one of his rats, y’see, so now he’s gone more cagey.’

‘What’re you up to that’s got him so curious, Hedge?’

‘Nothing. Honest.’

‘Gods below, you’re a bad liar.’

‘Just comes from being a legend, Ges, all that fawning and spying. Y’get used to it, so the precautions, they come natural now. All right, this will do.’

They had walked a dozen or so paces past the ornate carriage, out beyond the faint glows from the fires, and then Hedge had led him into a circle of low stones which Gesler assumed was an old tipi ring. They now stood within it.

‘Bottle could use anything out here, Hedge-’

‘No he can’t. I got my company mage to seal this circle. We do this every night, for our staff meetings.’

‘Your what?’

‘Me, my sergeants, corporals and Bavedict. Daily reports, right? To stay on top of things.’

‘What things?’

‘Things. Now, listen, you heard anything yet about what happened earlier?’

Gesler shrugged. ‘Some. There was a gate and someone came through it. Someone stinking with power.’

Hedge was nodding and then he changed it to shaking his head. ‘That’s nothing-so some nasty’s shown up-that means he’s here, in the real world. Anyone here in the real world can die from a damned rotten tooth, or a knife, or whatever. I ain’t shaking in my boots, and if I have to, I’ll kiss a quarrel’s point and whisper the fool’s name. A bolt in the eye can fuck up even a god’s day. No, what really matters is what happened before he showed up.’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s Hood.’

‘What about him? Oh, right, you and he are best friends these days-or bitter enemies-how does he take you coming back, anyway?’

‘Probably not well, but it don’t matter any more. I won.’

‘You won what?’

‘I won! The Harrower’s gone and gotten killed! The God of Death is dead! Head chopped right off! A carcass but no grin, a bouncer down the hill, a roll and wobble and blink, a mouth mover, a hat stand-’

‘Hold on, Hedge! What-who-but that doesn’t make sense! How-’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care! Details? Squat and shit on ’em! Hood’s dead! Gone!’

‘But then, who’s taking the Throne?’

‘Nobody and everybody!’

Gesler’s right hand twitched. Gods, how he wanted to punch this grinning fool! But that nose had seen a few dozen breaks already-he doubted Hedge would even notice. ‘What,’ he said carefully, ‘do you mean, Hedge?’

‘I mean, there’s a whole crew of ’em. Holding the gate. Nothing’s shaken out yet. It’s all hazy. But one thing I can tell you-and you can ask Fid if you want-he won’t say any different unless he lies to you. One thing, Ges. I can feel them. I can feel him.’

Gesler stared at the man’s glittering eyes. ‘Who?’

‘The Fallen Bridgeburners, Ges. And aye, Whiskeyjack. It’s him-I’d know that sour look anywhere, no matter how dark it is around him. He’s astride a horse. He’s in the Gate, Gesler.’

‘Wait. That’s who stepped through?’

‘Naw, never mind that one. That one ain’t got a thought that ain’t ten thousand years outa touch. Different gate, anyway. I’m talking about Whiskeyjack. Go and die, Ges, and who’d you rather meet at the Gate? Hood or Whiskeyjack?’

‘So why ain’t you cut your own throat, if you’re so excited about it all?’

Hedge frowned. ‘No reason t’get all edgy. I was a sapper, remember. Sappers understand the importance of patience.’

Gesler choked back a laugh. From the tents someone squealed. He couldn’t tell who.

‘Laugh all you want. You’ll be thankful enough when it’s your head rolling up to that gate.’

‘I thought you hated worshipping anyone, Hedge.’

‘This is different.’

‘If you say so. Now, anything else you wanted to tell me about?’

‘Nothing you’d care about either way. You can hand over the coins now, though. Triple the going rate, right? Dig it out, Ges, it’s getting late.’

Commander Brys threw on his cloak and fastened the breast clasp. ‘I walk through camp before settling in, Atri-Ceda. Join me, if you please.’

‘Honoured, my Prince.’

He stepped out of the command tent and she followed. They set out for the nearest row of legionaries’ tents. ‘That title just won’t sit comfortably, Atri-Ceda,’ he said after a moment. ‘ “Commander” or “sir” will do. In fact, when it’s just the two of us, “Brys” ’.

She wondered if he caught her faint gasp, or noted the momentary wobble in her knees as she moved up alongside him.

‘Assuming,’ he continued, ‘you will permit me to call you Aranict.’

‘Of course, sir.’ She hesitated, could feel him waiting, and then said, ‘Brys.’ A wave of lightheadedness followed, as if she’d quaffed a tumbler of brandy. Her mind spun wildly for a moment and she drew a deep breath to calm herself.

This was ridiculous. Embarrassing. Infuriating. She itched to light a smoker, but that would likely breach protocol.

‘At ease, Aranict.’

‘Sir?’

‘Relax. Please-you’re starting to make me jumpy. I don’t bite.’

Try the right nipple. Oh gods, shut up, woman. ‘Sorry.’

‘I was hoping your stay with the Malazan High Mage might have calmed you some.’

‘Oh, it has, sir. I mean, I’m better.’

‘No more fainting?’

‘No. Well, almost once.’

‘What happened?’

‘At day’s end, I made the mistake of being in his tent when he pulled off his boots.’

‘Ah.’ And then he shot her a startled look, his face lighting in a sudden smile. ‘Remind me to send you out before I do the same.’

‘Oh, sir, I’m sure you don’t-uh, that is, it’s not the same-’

But he was laughing. She saw soldiers round campfires turn, looking over at the two of them. She saw a few mutter jests and there were grins and nods. Her face burned hot as coals.

‘Aranict, I assure you, after a day’s fast march as we’ve been experiencing since the landing, my socks could stun a horse. None of us are any different in such matters.’

‘Because you choose to march alongside your soldiers, Brys. When you could ride or even sit in one of the grand carriages, and no one would think ill of you-’

‘You would be wrong in that, Aranict. Oh, they might not seem any different, outwardly, saluting as smartly as ever and all the rest. Certain to follow every order I give, yes. But somewhere deep inside every one of them, there’s a stone of loyalty-when it comes to most of those giving them orders, that stone stays smooth and nothing sticks, it all washes off. And so it would be with me as well, were I to take any other path than the one they happen to be on. But, you see, there may come a time when I must demand of my soldiers something… impossible. If the stone was still smooth-if it did not have my name carved deep into it-I could lose them.’

‘Sir, they would never mutiny-’

‘Not as such. But in asking for the impossible, I would intend that they succeed in achieving it. The impossible is not the same as sending them to their deaths. That I would never do. But if I am to ask more of them than any commander has even the right to ask of his or her soldiers, then I must be with them, and be seen to be with them.

‘Tonight,’ he continued, ‘you must become my Atri-Ceda again for a time, and I your commander. When we speak with our soldiers. When we ask them how they fared on this day. When we endeavour to answer their questions and concerns, as best we can.’ He paused, his steps slowing. They were in a gap of relative darkness between two cookfires. ‘Especially on this night,’ he said, his tone low. ‘They are shaken-word’s come of the affliction striking the Malazan mages.’

‘Yes, Commander. I understand. In fact, High Mage Delat wondered, er, rather, he asked me. About you. Said that you may seem… different now… sir.’

‘And what will you tell him, when next you two meet?’

‘I–I am not sure, sir. I think so. Maybe…’

‘He is a clever man,’ Brys said. ‘This evening, Aranict, I felt as if… well, as if I had awakened, stepped out from a dark, cold place. A place I’d thought was the real world, the honest world-the coldness, I’d thought, was simply what I had never before noticed-before my death and resurrection, I mean. But I understand, now, that the cold and darkness were within me, death’s own touch upon my soul.’

She stared at him, adoring, eyes bright. ‘And it is gone now, sir?’

His returning smile was all the answer she needed.

‘Now, Atri-Ceda, let us speak with our soldiers.’

‘Carving the stone, sir.’

‘Just that.’

No need to worry about mine. I am yours. That stone, it’s all melted, reshaped-Errant save me, it’s got your face now. Oh, and about that biting-

As they stepped into the firelight, Brys chanced to glance across at his Atri-Ceda, and what he saw in her expression-quickly veiled but not quickly enough-almost took his breath away.

Lascivious hunger, a half-smile upon her lips, a fancy snared in the reflecting flames in her eyes. For an instant, he was at a loss for words, and could only smile his greeting as the soldiers turned and voiced their heartfelt welcome.

Aranict. I truly was half-dead inside, to have so thoroughly missed what is now so obvious. The question now is, what am I to do about it? About you?

That look, there was a darkness upon it-not cold as I found in myself-but hot as a burning ember. Is it any wonder I so often see you standing inside swirls of smoke?

Atri-Ceda, what am I to do?

But he knew he would have no answer to that question, not until he knew his own feelings. It all seemed so new, so peculiar, so unfamiliar. All at once-and he felt the shift with a grinding lurch-she was the one standing so self-possessed and content inside her own inner world’s visions-whatever they happened to be-while he stood awkwardly at her side, flustered, dumbstruck.

Ridiculous. Set it aside for later, Brys.

This soldiering business was getting easier, Sunrise decided. Plenty of marching, and marching fast at that, but the soles of his feet had toughened, he’d got his wind back, and even carrying his armour, shield and weapons wasn’t proving so hard any more. They’d even found time for some sword practice. Duck and stab, duck and stab-hold the shield up, soldier! Hold the line-no one breaks in the Bridgeburners. You stand and take the shock and then you step forward. Stand, take, step-it’s like felling a forest, soldiers, tree by tree. Duck and stab!

Couldn’t help but be a bit of a challenge, of course, living up to the legend that was the Bridgeburners, but then they had themselves a real one looking on, all sharp-eyed and stern, and that kept everyone trying and trying hard. High standards, aye, the highest.

The Bridgeburners had singlehandedly won the Blackdog Campaign. Sent the Crimson Guard and the Mott and Genabarii legions reeling in retreat. Kicked in the front gates of a dozen cities from Nathilog to One Eye Cat. And before that, they’d conquered all of Seven Cities. He’d never heard of any of these places but he liked the names. Seven Cities sounded simple and obvious. Place got seven cities? Call it Seven Cities. Straight thinking, that was. And all that Genabackan stuff, well, those names were amazing and exotic. Cities called Pale and Greydog, Tulips and Bulge. And then there were the wonderful beasts in those distant lands. Dragonflies big enough to ride-imagine whizzing through the clouds, looking down on everything! Seeing how beautiful it all was, and then dropping hundreds of bombs on it.

And the Bridgeburners had done all that and, more importantly, they weren’t done yet. More adventures were coming. Glories and heroic defences, monsters in the sky and flooded deserts and ghosts with sharp swords and warriors made of dust. Moranth and Barghast and Tiste Andii and Jaghut tyrants and all the rest.

Sunrise couldn’t wait, couldn’t wait to get to the legendary stuff. It’s what he was meant for, what his whole life was heading towards-as if he’d only been waiting for these foreign soldiers to arrive. To sweep him up and carry him along and now he was one of them. And he knew the others felt the same. We’re Bridgeburners now. They’ll look to us when things get desperate, too desperate for the others to handle. We’ll march forward, shields locked, faces cold and with hearts of iron. We’ll prove we’re worthy of the legend.

Wait and see, just wait and see.

Two women stood well away from the fires, waiting for a third.

There was nothing sure in this. In fact, Sinter reminded herself, it was almost guaranteeing trouble. There wasn’t much sisterhood among the Dal Honese. Scarce any brotherhood either, come to that. Tribes get left behind, and with them ties of the blood, feuds and all the rest. That was how it should be and mostly they held to it, since to do otherwise could rip a company apart. Squad’s the new kin, company’s the tribe, army’s the people-the kingdom, the damned empire. What are you, soldier?

Marine, Fourth Squad, Third Company, Bonehunters, sir.

Not Dal Honese?

No, sir.

Malazan?

No, sir. Bonehunters, sir.

Now, if only she believed all that-there, in that gnarled hard thing at the centre of her being. Step up, aye, and mark it out with all the right attitudes. Diligence, discipline, loyalty. Don’t blink at any damned order given, no matter how stupid or pointless. The tribe lived to keep itself alive, and keeping itself alive meant making sure everything was in order and working the way it should. Made sense to her. And it was worthy enough to believe in, especially when there was nothing else in sight looking any better.

So, she’d wanted to believe. For herself and for her wayward, flighty sister. Steady enough for the both of them, aye. Kisswhere was going to stray-she was like that, it was in her nature. People like her needed understanding kin, the kind of kin who’d step in and clean up and set right what needed setting right. And Sinter had always held to that role. Kisswhere bends, I stand firm. She slips out, I fill the gap. She makes a mess, I clean and set right. She lets people down, I pick them back up.

Sometimes, however, she chafed under the strictures of being ever reliable, solid and practical. Of being so utterly capable. Just once, Kisswhere could take Sinter’s cloak and hold fast, and Sinter could snag her sister’s and go out and play. Stealing husbands, jilting lovers, signing on, fucking off. Why not? Why did all the expectation have to settle on her shoulders, every damned time?

She was, she realized, still waiting to start living.

Badan Gruk wanted her, loved her. But she… she didn’t know. If she wanted to be loved, or even chased after. She played it out, aye, as if it was all real. She even spent time telling herself it was the way it looked. But the truth was, she didn’t know what she felt, not about him, not about anything. And wasn’t that the real joke in all this? Everyone saw her as such a capable person, and all the while she asked herself: capable of what? Will I ever find out?

When is it my turn?

She had no idea what this army was doing, and that frightened her. Not that she’d ever give away her true feelings. Sinter saw how the others relied on her. Even the other sergeants. Primly, Badan Gruk, even that cow-eyed fool, Urb. No, she needed to keep playing the unimaginative soldier, biting her tongue and with that solid look in her eyes not once wavering, not for an instant giving away the crazed storm in her head.

She needed help. They were marching into blackness, a future profoundly unknown barring the simple, raw truth that at some point they would all draw their weapons, they would all stand facing an enemy that sought their annihilation. They would be told to fight, to kill. But will we? Can we? If you could show us a cause, Adjunct. A reason, just a handful of worth, we’d do as you ask. I know we would.

She glanced across at her sister. Kisswhere stood, a faint smile on her face to mark whatever inner peace and satisfaction she found so easy to indulge, her eyes on the blurry stars in the northern sky. Amused patience and the promise of derision: that was her most favoured expression, there on those deceptively sweet and innocent features. Yes, she was breathtaking in her natural beauty and charm, and there was that wild edge-sticky as honey-that so drew to her otherwise reasonable men. She froze lives and loves in amber, and her hoard was vast indeed.

Could I be like her? Could I live as she does? Look at that half-smile. So contented. Gods, how I wish…

There had to be a way out of this, and her sister had better find it soon. Else Kisswhere feared she would go mad. She’d joined the Malazan marines, for Hood’s sake, not some renegade army marching up some damned god’s ass. She’d joined knowing she could hand it all back to them once boredom forced the situation. Well, not that they’d happily let her go, of course, but disappearing wasn’t so hard, not in a civilized land like the Malazan Empire. So many people, so many places to go, so many possible lives to assume. And even in the military itself, who really cared which face was which beneath the rim of the helm? Could be anyone, so long as they took orders and could march in step.

She could have slept her way into some soft posting. In Unta, or Li Heng, or Quon itself. Even Genabackis would have been fine. If only her sister hadn’t jammed her nose into things. Always trying to take charge, constantly stepping into Kisswhere’s path and causing grief. Complicating everything and that had always been the problem. But Sinter hadn’t figured it out yet-Kisswhere had run to the marines to escape her sister’s infuriating interference in her life. Among other things.

But she followed, didn’t she? She followed and so did Badan Gruk. It’s not my choice, not my fault at all. I’m not responsible for them-they’re all grown up, aren’t they?

So if I want to desert now, before we head into someplace where I can’t, well, that’s my business, isn’t it?

But now Sinter had dragged her out from the cosy fire, and here they were, waiting for one of Urb’s soldiers and what was all this about, anyway?

Running. Is that it, finally? I hope so, sister. I hope you’ve finally come to your senses. This time, I’m with you.

But why this woman we hardly even know? Why not Badan Gruk?

We got to get out, and now. I got to get out. And I don’t need anyone’s help to do it. Stow away with a D’ras trader. Easy, nothing to it. Two of us could do it, even three. But four? Now that’s a stretch. It’s logistics, sister, plain and simple. The kind you like so much. Straightforward. Too many and we’ll get caught. You’ll want Badan, too. And four’s too many.

She’d wait, however. She’d see what Sinter had in mind here, with this meeting. She could work on Sinter later, but nothing direct, since that never worked. Sinter was stubborn. She could dig in deeper than anyone Kisswhere knew. No, Kisswhere would have to twist carefully, so that the decision, when it finally went the right way, would seem to be coming from Sinter herself.

It wasn’t easy, but then Kisswhere had had a lifetime of practice. She knew she could do it.

Sinter softly grunted and she turned to see a figure approaching from the camp. Swaying hips, and everywhere a whole lot of what men liked. A Dal Honese for sure, which was why Sinter had invited her in the first place. But since when did three Dal Honese women agree about anything?

Madness. Sinter, this won’t work. You remember the histories. It’s us women who start most of the wars. Snaring the wrong men, using them up, humiliating them. Throwing one against another. Whispering blood vengeance beneath the furs at night. A sly comment here, a look there. We’ve been in charge a long time, us women of Dal Hon, and we’re nothing but trouble.

Masan Gilani was from a savannah tribe. She was tall, making her curvaceous form all the more intimidating. She had the look of a woman who was too much for any man, and should a man get her he’d spend his whole life convinced he could never hold on to her. She was a monster of sensuality, and if she’d stayed in her tribe the whole north half of Dal Hon would be in the midst of a decades-long civil war by now. Every Dal Honese god and mud spirit tossed in on this one, didn’t they? She’s got pieces of them all.

And here I thought I was dangerous.

‘Sinter,’ she said under her breath, ‘you have lost your mind.’

Her sister heard her. ‘This one is far on the inside, Kiss, way farther in than anyone we know.’

‘What of it?’

Sinter did not reply. Masan Gilani had drawn too close for any exchange now, no matter how muted.

Her elongated eyes flitted between the sisters, curious, and then amused.

Bitch. I hate her already.

‘Southerners,’ she said. ‘I’ve always liked southerners. Your sweat smells of the jungle. And you’re never as gangly and awkward as us northerners. Did you know, I have to special-order all my armour and clothes-I’m no standard fit anywhere, except maybe among the Fenn and that’s no good because they’re extinct.’

Kisswhere snorted. ‘You ain’t that big,’ and then she looked away, as she realized how petty that sounded.

But Gilani’s smile had simply broadened. ‘The only real problem with you southerners is that you’re barely passable on horseback. I’d not count on you to ride hard as me, ever. So it’s a good thing you’re marines. Me, I could be either and to be honest, I’d have jumped over to the scouts long ago-’

‘So why didn’t you?’ Kisswhere asked.

She shrugged. ‘Scouting’s boring. Besides, I’m not interested in always being the one delivering bad news.’

‘Expecting bad news?’

‘Always.’ And her teeth gleamed.

Kisswhere turned away. She was done with this conversation. Sinter was welcome to it.

‘So,’ Masan Gilani said after a moment, ‘Sergeant Sinter. Rumour has it you’re a natural, a talent. Tell me if that’s true or not, since it’s the only thing that brought me out here-the chance that you are, I mean. If you’re not, then this meeting is over.’

‘Listen to her!’ Kisswhere sneered. ‘The Empress commands!’

Masan blinked. ‘You still here? Thought you went to pick flowers.’

Kisswhere reached for her knife but Sinter’s hand snapped out and closed on her wrist. Hissing, Kisswhere yielded, but her eyes remained fixed on Gilani’s.

‘Oh, it’s all so amusing to you, isn’t it?’

‘Kisswhere, yes? That’s your name? I’ll say this once. I don’t know what’s got the stoat in your breeches so riled, since as far as I know I ain’t never done anything to cross you. Leaves me no choice but to assume it’s just some kind of bizarre bigotry-what happened, lose a lover to a willowy northerner? Well, it wasn’t me. So, why not drop the hackles? Here, will this help?’ And she drew out a Dal Honese wineskin. ‘Not wild grape from our homeland, alas-’

‘It ain’t that rice piss from Lether, is it?’

‘No. It’s Bluerose-an Andiian brew, originally, or so the trader claimed.’ She shrugged and held out the skin. ‘It’s drinkable enough.’

Kisswhere accepted the skin. She knew overtures when they arrived, and she knew that Masan had given her a way through without too much damage to her pride, so it’d be stupid not to take that path. She tugged loose the gum stopper and took a mouthful. Swallowed and then gasped. ‘That’ll do,’ she said in a suddenly husky voice.

Sinter finally spoke: ‘Everyone’s claws retracted? Good. Masan, you want to know if I’m a talent. Well, not in the way of Dal Honese witches. But I’ve got something, I suppose.’

‘All right. So what’s that “something” telling you?’

Sinter hesitated, and then reached out to intercept the wineskin. She took two deep draughts. ‘Aye, you’re a northerner and we’re not, but we’re all still Dal Honese. So we understand each other, and when I say I’m going to give you something I don’t need to add that I expect something back.’

Masan Gilani laughed, but it was not a mocking laugh. Not quite. ‘You just did.’

‘You been a soldier longer than us,’ Sinter countered, ‘so I was just reminding you of the ways you’ve maybe forgotten, or at least not used in a while.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘I get senses of things about to happen, or maybe could happen-if we don’t do something to make sure they don’t.’

‘You’re a seer.’

But Sinter shook her head. ‘Not so clear as that.’

‘What is about to happen to us, Sergeant?’

‘We’re about to be abandoned.’

Kisswhere joined Masan Gilani in regarding Sinter with alarm. What was all this? ‘Sister,’ she said, ‘what does that mean? Abandoned? By who? Do you mean just us? Or the Bonehunters?’

‘Yes,’ answered Sinter. ‘Bonehunters. All of us, the Adjunct included.’

Masan Gilani was frowning. ‘You’re talking about the Burned Tears? The Perish? Or the Letherii escort?’

‘I’m not sure. Maybe all of them.’

‘So wherever we end up,’ Masan said slowly, ‘we’ll be fighting on our own. No one guarding our backs, no one on our flanks. Like that?’

‘I think so.’

Masan rubbed at her neck. When Kisswhere offered her the skin she shook her head. ‘Hard to know, Sinter, how much shit should be freezing with that, since nobody has a clue about who we’ll be fighting. What if it’s some noseplug savages cowering behind a bamboo palisade throwing rocks at us? We’d hardly need help knocking on that door, would we?’

‘But you know we’re not heading for anything so easy,’ Sinter said.

Masan’s lovely eyes narrowed. ‘This is what you want back from me? You think I’ve got my ear against the Adjunct’s tent?’

‘I know you know more than we do.’

‘And if I do? What difference would it make to you?’

Kisswhere’s breath caught as she saw her sister’s hands clench into fists at her sides. ‘I need a reason, Masan Gilani. I need to know it’s all worth it.’

‘And you think what little I know can give you that? You must be desperate-’

‘Yes! I am!’

‘Why?’

Sinter’s mouth shut, her jaw setting.

Masan Gilani looked over at Kisswhere, as if to ask: What’s her problem here? What’s so hard to say?

But Kisswhere had no answers. Well, not satisfying ones. ‘My sister,’ she said, ‘is a very loyal person. But she holds that loyalty in highest regard. She’ll give it, I mean-’

‘But,’ cut in Masan Gilani, ‘whatever or whoever she’s giving it to had better be worthy of it. Right. I think I’m beginning to understand this. Only, Kisswhere, you should look to your own feelings about that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, you sounded pretty bitter right there. As if loyalty is a curse and not one you want any part of. I’d wager your sister dragged you here as much to convince you of something as to convince me. Sinter, would that be a good guess?’

‘That’s between me and her,’ Sinter replied.

Kisswhere glared at her sister.

‘All right,’ said Masan Gilani, ‘I’ll give you what little I know. What Ebron and Bottle and Deadsmell and Widdershins have put together. Maybe it’ll help, maybe it won’t. That’s for you to decide. Here’s what we think.’ She paused, reached for the skin.

Kisswhere handed it to her.

Masan drank, then squatted before them-taking the pose of the teller of tales, one they knew well-and both sisters followed suit.

‘He didn’t ask for it. But he’s been making trouble ever since. Quick Ben met him face to face. So, we worked out, did that Meckros weaponsmith, Withal. He’s poison and he knows it and he can’t help it, because he doesn’t belong here. There are pieces of him scattered over half the world, but the biggest one is sitting in this place called Kolanse-and it’s being… used.’

‘We’re going to kill the Crippled God.’

Kisswhere shot her sister a wild look. ‘But who’d want to stop us doing that?’

Sinter shook her head. Her face was wretched with confusion.

Masan was eyeing them and when she spoke her voice was flat, ‘You jumped the wrong way, Sinter, like a one-eyed mongoose.’ She drank again, sloshed the skin and then scowled. ‘Should’ve brought two. We don’t think we’re off to kill the Chained One. In fact, it’s those chains we’re after. Well, the Adjunct, I mean. What she’s after.’ She lifted her head and fixed on Sinter’s eyes, and then Kisswhere’s. ‘We’re going to set the bastard free.’

Kisswhere barked a savage laugh. ‘No wonder they’ll all abandon us! And I’m the first in line to join them!’

‘Be quiet,’ Sinter said through the hands she’d lifted to her face. She was trembling, no, shuddering, and Kisswhere saw the glitter of tears trickle to the heels of her sister’s palms.

Masan Gilani’s face was grave, patient.

Kisswhere rounded on Sinter. ‘You cannot! No! This is impossible! What if they’re wrong? They must be-even the Adjunct’s not that stupid! Every god and ascendant in the world will be coming against us, never mind those idiots in Kolanse! She’s lost her mind! Our commander’s insane and there’s no damned law anywhere says we have to follow her!’

Sinter drew a deep breath and then lowered her hands. Something solid filled her face, as if implacable stone was replacing the soft tissues beneath her onyx skin. The bleakness drained from her eyes as they settled on Kisswhere. ‘It will do,’ she said. ‘I think,’ she added, ‘nothing else would have.’

‘What-’

‘It is just, sister. Just.’

‘They’ll all turn on us,’ Kisswhere retorted. ‘You said so yourself-’

‘If we do nothing, yes. They will turn on us. And what little chance we had to succeed will go with them. We need to change their minds.’

‘How?’ asked Masan Gilani.

‘I will tell you how,’ said Sinter. ‘And it begins with you, Kisswhere.’

‘I didn’t say I was going to help-’

‘You’re going to desert.’

‘Wha-what?’

‘That’s how this starts. It’s the only way. Now, it’s what you want and don’t tell me any different. You’re deserting the Bonehunters, and you’re doing it tonight-on the fastest horse Masan Gilani can find you.’

But Masan Gilani held up a staying hand. ‘Hold on. I need to talk this over with-’

‘Of course,’ cut in Sinter, ‘but it changes nothing. Now, you need to hear the rest, because I need you to do the same-’

‘Desert? Me?’

Sinter nodded. ‘But you’ll ride in a different direction, Masan Gilani. Different from Kisswhere. With luck, you’ll both return.’

‘And get hanged? No thanks, sister-’

‘You won’t. The Adjunct is cold iron-the coldest there ever was. She’ll work it out, fast as lightning, she’ll work it out.’

‘Then why don’t we just go tell her?’ asked Masan Gilani. ‘We figured it all out but there’s a problem, only you got an idea on how to fix it.’

Sinter smiled, and it was a smile that would have fitted well on the Adjunct’s own face. ‘I will do just that… once you two are gone.’

‘She might just chase us down anyway.’

‘She won’t. I said she’s quick.’

‘So why wait until we leave?’

Sinter rubbed at her face, wiping away the last of the tears. ‘You don’t get it. She’s locked in a room, a prison of her own making. In there, she hears nothing, sees nothing. In there, she is absolutely alone. And holding on with white knuckles. It’s her burden and she won’t dump it on anyone else, not even her Fists, not even on her High Mage-though he’s probably worked it out by now. She’s put herself between us and the truth-but it’s killing her.’

‘So,’ said Masan Gilani, ‘you got to show her she ain’t alone, and that we’re not all fools, that maybe we’re ready for that truth. We not only worked it out, we’re with her. There to help, whether she asks for it or not.’

‘That’s it,’ said Sinter.

Masan Gilani sighed, and then flashed Kisswhere a grin. ‘You won’t surprise anyone. Me, that’s a different story.’

‘The Adjunct will hint something to put your reputation square,’ said Sinter. ‘Otherwise, you going might tip the balance for a whole mass of wavering soldiers in the ranks. Kisswhere, well, sister, nobody will be much surprised by you, will they?’

‘Thank you. So long as people understand I’m no coward-’

Masan Gilani grunted, ‘But they’ll see it that way. Nothing you can do about it, either, Kisswhere. We’re marching to a war, and you went and ran off. Me too. So Sinter and the Adjunct work it out so it sounds like I was sent on some kind of mission-’

‘Which is true,’ cut in Sinter.

‘Which helps, aye. Thing is, people already thinking of maybe deserting might just take it as the perfect push. That’s the risk that the Adjunct might find unacceptable, no matter what you say to her, Sinter.’

‘I’m no coward,’ Kisswhere repeated. ‘I’m just not one for this whole family thing. Armies ain’t families, no matter how many times you try to tell me different. It’s rubbish. It’s the lie commanders and kings need so they always got us ready to do shit for them.’

‘Right,’ snapped Masan Gilani, ‘and I guess in that snarly jungle where you grew up you never heard any stories about what happens when armies mutiny. Kill their commanders. Depose their country’s ruler. Take over-’

‘What’s that got to do with the whole “we’re family” business?’

‘I’m saying some people run things and the rest should just stay out of it. That’s all. Just like in a family. Somebody’s in charge, not everybody. Usurpers never been anything better, or even different, from whoever they killed. Usually, they make it worse. That whole “family” thing, it’s about fighting to survive. You stand fast for kin, not strangers. Don’t you get that?’

‘And the ones in charge exploit it. Use us up. They ain’t interested in being kin to the rest of us, and you know it.’

‘You two,’ Sinter said, ‘could go at this all night. But we don’t have the time. Kisswhere, since when did you care what the people you leave behind think of you? Unless, of course, you’ve found some pride as a Bonehunter-’

‘Do you want me to help you or not?’

‘All right. Peace, then. The point is, it’s only looking like you’re deserting. The way Faradan Sort did outside Y’Ghatan.’

‘I ride south.’

Sinter nodded.

‘I go find the Perish and the Khundryl.’

‘Yes.’

‘And say what?’

‘You convince them not to abandon us.’

‘How in Hood’s name do I do that?’

Sinter’s look was wry. ‘Try using your charms, sister.’

Masan Gilani spoke. ‘Sergeant, if she’s going after both of them, where am I going?’

‘That’s not so easy to say,’ Sinter admitted haltingly.

Masan snorted. ‘Work on that answer, Sinter. Meanwhile, let’s go steal some horses.’

‘Ah, Lieutenant, found you at last.’

‘Master Sergeant now, sir.’

‘Of course, and where are your charges, Master Sergeant?’

‘Dispensed with, sir.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Rather, dispersed, sir. Inserted seamlessly into the ranks, not a stitch out of place.’

‘Why, that is simply superb, Master Sergeant. You would deserve a commendation if you deserved anything. Alas, having perused the latest roster updates, I have discovered that not a single one of those recruits can be found anywhere in the army.’

‘Yes, sir, they are well trained.’

‘At what, Master Sergeant? Disappearing?’

‘Well now, sir, I am reminded of a story from my youth. May I?’

‘Please, do go on.’

‘Thank you, sir. Ah, my youth. A sudden zeal afflicted young Aramstos Pores-’

‘Aramstos?’

‘Yes, sir-’

‘That’s your other name?’

‘It is indeed, sir. May I continue my tale, sir?’

‘Proceed.’

‘A sudden zeal, sir, to dig me a pond.’

‘A pond.’

‘Just behind the heap of broken bricks, sir, close to the lot’s back wall. I often played there when my parents had gone from fighting with words to fighting with knives, or the hovel caught fire as it was wont to do. On my hands and knees among the broken shards of pots and shattered dog teeth-’

‘Dog teeth.’

‘My father’s failures with pets, but that, sir, is another story, perhaps for another time. A pond, sir, one into which I could transplant the tiny minnows I was rescuing from the fouled river down past the sewage outlets-where we used to swim on cold days, warming up as it were, sir. Minnows, then, into my pond. Imagine my excitement-’

‘It is suddenly vivid in my mind’s eye, Master Sergeant.’

‘Wonderful. And yet, having deposited, oh, fifty of the tiny silver things, just the day before, imagine my horror and bafflement upon returning the very next morning to find not a single minnow in my pond. Why, what had happened to them? Some voracious bird, perhaps? The old woman from down the alley who kept her hair in a net? Are there perchance now glinting minnows adorning her coiffure? Insects? Rats? Unlikely to be either of those two, as they generally made up our nightly repast at the dinner table and so accordingly were scarce round our home. Well, sir, a mystery it was and a mystery it remains. To this very day and, I am certain, for the entirety of the rest of my life. Fifty minnows. Gone. Poof! Hard to believe, sir, and most crushing for that bright-eyed, zealous lad.’

‘And now, if I am to understand you, Master Sergeant, once more you find yourself victimized by inexplicable mystery.’

‘All those recruits, sir. Dispersed into the ranks. And then…’

‘Poof.’

‘As you say and say well, sir.’

‘Whatever happened to your pond, Master Sergeant?’

‘Well, my pet water snake thrived for a while longer, until the pond dried up. Children have such grand dreams, don’t they?’

‘That they do, Master Sergeant. Until it all goes wrong.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘Until we meet again, Master Sergeant Pores.’

‘And a good night to you, too, Captain Kindly.’

It was him. I was fooling myself ever thinking otherwise. Who can explain love anyway? She slid the knife back into its sheath and pushed through the loose flaps of the tent, stepping outside and suddenly shivering as something cold slithered through the faint breeze.

The dark north flicks its tongue. Echoes of some unwanted rebirth-glad I’m not a mage. They had nothing to dance about this afternoon.

Lostara moved away from the command tent. The Adjunct sending her away this late at night was unusual-I was ready for bed, dammit- but having the guards roust and drive out a drunken Banaschar wasn’t just sweet entertainment. It was, on another level, alarming.

What did Quick Ben and Bottle tell you this night, Tavore? Is there any end to your secrets? Any breach in your wall of privacy? What’s so satisfying about being alone? Your love is a ghost. The empire you served has betrayed you. Your officers have stopped talking, even to each other.

O serpent of the north, your tongue does not lie. Draw closer. We’re barely breathing.

She was forced to halt as Banaschar reeled across her path. Seeing her, he managed to stop, tottering a moment before straightening. ‘Captain Yil,’ he said genially, taking a deep breath and then letting it loose in the way that drunks did when mustering sodden thoughts. ‘Pleasant evening, yes?’

‘No. It’s cold. I’m tired. I don’t know why the Adjunct cleared everyone out-it’s not as if she needs the extra room. For what?’

‘For what, indeed,’ he agreed, smiling as if his purse was full of sweets. ‘It’s the wardrobe, you see.’

‘What?’

He weaved back and forth. ‘Wardrobe. Yes, that’s the word? I think so. Not makes for easy travel, though. Doesn’t, rather. But… sometimes… where was I? Oh, sometimes the wardrobe’s so big the girl, she just runs away from it, fast and long as she can. Is that what I mean? Did I say it right?’

‘Wardrobe.’

Banaschar pointed at her, nodding. ‘Precisely.’

‘Who runs away from a wardrobe? Girls don’t do that-’

‘But women do.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘All those choices, right? What to put on. And when, and when not. If it’s this, but not if it’s that. What to put on, Captain Yil. Choices. Surrounding you. Closing in. Creeping. Girl’s got to run, and let’s hope she makes it.’

Sniffing, Lostara stepped round the fool and continued on between the tent rows.

It was him. But you let him go. Maybe you thought he’d come back, or you’d just find him again. You thought you had the time. But the world’s always armed and all it takes is a misstep, a wrong decision. And suddenly you’re cut, you’re bleeding, bleeding right out. Suddenly he’s gasping his last breaths and it’s time to put him away, just close him up, like a scroll bearing bad news.

What else can you do?

It was him, but he’s gone and he’s not coming back.

Her pace slowed. She frowned. Where am I going? Ah, that’s right. ‘New whetstone, that’s it.’

The world’s armed, Adjunct, so be careful. Kick open that wardrobe, girl, and start throwing on that armour. The days of fetes are over, all those nights among the glittering smirks of privilege and entitlement.

‘You idiot, Banaschar, there’s only one item in her wardrobe. What’s to choose?’

She almost heard him reply, ‘And still she’s running away.’

No, this conversation wasn’t even real, and it made no sense anyway. Resuming her journey to the smiths’ compound, she encountered a marine coming up the other way. A quick exchange of salutes, and then past.

A sergeant. Marine. Dal Honese. Where in Hood’s name is she going this time of night? Never mind. Whetstone. They keep wearing out. And the sound of the iron licking back and forth, the way it just perfectly echoes the word in my head-amazing. Perfect.

It was him. It was him.

It was him.

Most of the ties and fittings on his armour had loosened or come undone. The heavy dragon-scale breast-and back-plates hung askew from his broad shoulders. The clawed bosses on his knees rested on the ground as he knelt in the wet grasses. He’d pulled off the bone-strip gauntlets to better wipe the tears from his cheeks and the thick smears of snot running from his nose. The massive bone-handled battleaxe rested on the ground beside him.

He’d bawled through half the night, until his throat was raw and his head felt packed solid with sand. Where was everyone? He was alone and it seemed he’d been alone for years now, wandering lost on this empty land. He’d seen old camps, abandoned villages. He’d seen a valley filled with bones and rubble. He’d seen a limping crow that laughed at him only to beg for mercy when he caught it. Stupid! His heart had gone all soft and he foolishly released it, only to have the horrid thing start laughing at him all over again as it limped away. It only stopped laughing when the boulder landed on it. And now he missed that laughing crow and its funny hopping-at least it had been keeping him company. Stupid boulder!

The day had run away and then come back and it wasn’t nearly as cold as it’d been earlier. The ghost of Old Hunch Arbat had blown away like dust and was that fair? It wasn’t. So he was lost, looking for something but he’d forgotten what it was and he wanted to be home in Letheras, having fun with King Tehol and sexing with Shurq Elalle and breaking the arms of his fellow guards in the palace. Oh, where were all his friends?

His bleary, raw eyes settled on the battleaxe and he scowled. It wasn’t even pretty, was it. ‘Smash,’ he mumbled. ‘Crush. Its name is Rilk, but it never says anything. How’d it tell anybody its name? I’m alone. Everybody must be dead. Sorry, crow, you were last other thing left alive! In the whole world! And I killed you!’

‘Sorry I missed it,’ said a voice behind him.

Ublala Pung climbed to his feet and turned round. ‘Life!’

‘I share your exultation, friend.’

‘It’s all cold around you,’ Ublala said.

‘That will pass.’

‘Are you a god?’

‘More or less, Toblakai. Does that frighten you?’

Ublala Pung shook his head. ‘I’ve met gods before. They collect chickens.’

‘We possess mysterious ways indeed.’

‘I know.’ Ublala Pung fidgeted and then said, ‘I’m supposed to save the world.’

The stranger cocked his head. ‘And here I was contemplating killing it.’

‘Then I’d be all alone again!’ Ublala wailed, tears springing back to his puffy eyes.

‘Be at ease, Toblakai. You are reminding me that some things in this world remain worthwhile. If you would save the world, friend, that Draconean armour is fine preparation, as is that weapon at your feet-indeed, I believe I recognize both.’

‘I don’t know,’ Ublala said. ‘I don’t know where to go to save the world. I don’t know anything.’

‘Let us journey together, then.’

‘Gods make good friends,’ nodded Ublala Pung, pleased at this turn of events.

‘And spiteful enemies,’ the stranger said, ‘but we shall not be enemies, so that need not concern us. Wielder of Rilk, Wearer of Dra Alkeleint, what is your name?’

He swelled his chest. He liked being called Wielder and Wearer of things. ‘Ublala Pung. Who are you?’

The stranger smiled. ‘We will walk east, Ublala Pung. I am named Draconus.’

‘Oh, funny.’

‘What is?’

‘That’s the word Old Hunch Arbat’s ghost screamed, before the black wind tore him to pieces.’

‘You must tell me how you came to be here, Ublala Pung.’

‘I’m no good with questions like that, Draconus.’

The god sighed. ‘Then we have found something in common, friend. Now, collect up Rilk there and permit me to refasten your straps.’

‘Oh, thank you. I don’t like knots.’

‘No one does, I should think.’

‘But not as bad as chains, though.’

The strangers hands hesitated on the fittings, and then resumed. ‘True enough, friend.’

Ublala Pung wiped clean his face. He felt light on his feet and the sun was coming up and, he decided, he felt good again.

Everybody needs a friend.