BOOK TWO COLD IRON

There are folds in this shadow… hiding entire worlds.

Call to Shadow

Felisin

CHAPTER FIVE

Woe to the fallen in the alleys of Aren…

Anonymous

A SINGLE KICK FROM THE BURLY SOLDIER IN THE LEAD SENT THE flimsy door crashing inward. He disappeared into the gloom beyond, followed by the rest of his squad. From within came shouts, the sound of crashing furniture.

Gamet glanced over at Commander Blistig.

The man shrugged. ‘Aye, the door was unlocked-it’s an inn, after all, though such a lofty title for this squalid pit is stretching things somewhat. Even so, it’s a matter of achieving the proper effect.’

‘You misunderstood me,’ Gamet replied. ‘I simply cannot believe that your soldiers found him here.’

Unease flitted across Blistig’s solid, broad features. ‘Aye, well, we’ve rounded up others in worse places, Fist. It’s what comes of-’ he squinted up the street, ‘of broken hearts.’

Fist. The title still clambers into my gut like a starving crow. Gamet frowned. ‘The Adjunct has no time for broken-hearted soldiers, Commander.’

‘It was unrealistic to arrive here expecting to stoke the fires of vengeance. Can’t stoke cold ashes, though don’t take me wrong, I wish her the Lady’s luck.’

‘Rather more is expected of you than that,’ Gamet said drily.

The streets were virtually deserted at this time of day, the afternoon heat oppressive. Of course, even at other times, Aren was not as it once had been. Trade from the north had ceased. Apart from Malazan warships and transports, and a few fisherboats, the harbour and river mouth were empty. This was, Gamet reflected, a scarred populace.

The squad was re-emerging from the inn, carrying with them a rag-clad, feebly struggling old man. He was smeared in vomit, the little hair he had left hanging like grey strings, his skin patched and grey with filth. Cursing at the stench, the soldiers of Blistig’s Aren Guard hurried their burden towards the cart’s bed.

‘It was a miracle we found him at all,’ the commander said. ‘I truly expected the old bastard to up and drown himself.’

Momentarily unmindful of his new title, Gamet turned and spat onto the cobbles. ‘This situation is contemptible, Blistig. Damn it, some semblance of military decorum-of control, Hood take me-should have been possible…’

The commander stiffened at Gamet’s tone. The guards gathered at the back of the cart all turned at his words.

Blistig stepped close to the Fist. ‘You listen to me and listen well,’ he growled under his breath, a tremble shivering across his scarred cheeks, his eyes hard as iron. ‘I stood on the damned wall and watched. As did every one of my soldiers. Pormqual running in circles like a castrated cat-that historian and those two Wickan children wailing with grief. I watched-we all watched-as Coltaine and his Seventh were cut down before our very eyes. And if that wasn’t enough, the High Fist then marched out his army and ordered them to disarm! If not for one of my captains delivering intelligence concerning Mallick Rel being an agent of Sha’ik’s, my Guard would have died with them. Military decorum? Go to Hood with your military decorum, Fist!’

Gamet stood unmoving at the commander’s tirade. It was not the first time that he’d felt the snap of this man’s temper. Since he had arrived with Adjunct Tavore’s retinue, and was given the liaison role that took him to the forefront of dealing with the survivors of the Chain of Dogs-both those who had come in with the historian Duiker, and those who had awaited them in the city-Gamet had felt under siege. The rage beneath the mantle of propriety erupted again and again. Hearts not simply broken, but shattered, torn to pieces, trampled on. The Adjunct’s hope of resurrecting the survivors-making use of their local experience to steady her legions of untested recruits-was, to Gamet, seeming more and more unrealistic with each day that passed.

It was also clear that Blistig cared little that Gamet made daily reports to the Adjunct, and could reasonably expect his tirades to have been passed on to Tavore, in culpable detail. The commander was doubly fortunate, therefore, that Gamet had as yet said nothing of them to the Adjunct, exercising extreme brevity in his debriefings and keeping personal observations to the minimum.

As Blistig’s words trailed away, Gamet simply sighed and approached the cart to look down on the drunken old man lying on its bed. The soldiers backed away a step-as if the Fist carried a contagion. ‘So,’ Gamet drawled, ‘this is Squint. The man who killed Coltaine-’

‘Was a mercy,’ one of the guards snapped.

‘Clearly, Squint does not think so.’

There was no reply to that. Blistig arrived at the Fist’s side. ‘All right,’ he said to his squad, ‘take him and get him cleaned up-and under lock and key.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Moments later the cart was being pulled away. Gamet faced Blistig once more. ‘Your rather unsubtle plan of getting yourself stripped of rank, shackled in irons, and sent back to Unta on the first ship, will not succeed, Commander. Neither the Adjunct, nor I, care one whit for your fragile state. We are preparing to fight a war, and for that you will be needed. You and every one of your crumple-faced soldiers.’

‘Better we’d died with the rest-’

‘But you did not. We have three legions of recruits, Commander. Wide-eyed and young but ready to shed Seven Cities blood. The question is, what do you and your soldiers intend to show them?’

Blistig glared. ‘The Adjunct makes the captain of her House Guard into a Fist, and I’m supposed to-’

‘Fourth Army,’ Gamet snapped. ‘In the 1st Company at its inception. The Wickan Wars. Twenty-three years’ service, Commander. I knew Coltaine when you were still bouncing on your mother’s knee. I took a lance through the chest but proved too stubborn to die. My commander was kind enough to retire me to what he figured was a safe position back in Unta. Aye, captain of the guard in the House of Paran. But I’d damn well earned it!’

After a long moment, a wry grin twisted Blistig’s mouth. ‘So you’re as happy to be here as I am.’ Gamet grimaced, made no reply. The two Malazans returned to their horses.

Swinging himself onto the saddle, Gamet said, ‘We’re expecting the last transport of troops from Malaz Island some time today. The Adjunct wants all the commanders assembled in her council chambers at the eighth bell.’

‘To what end?’ Blistig asked.

If I had my way, to see you drawn and quartered. ‘Just be there, Commander.’


The vast mouth of the Menykh River was a brown, turgid swirl that reached half a league out into Aren Bay. Leaning on the transport’s starboard railing just behind the forecastle, Strings studied the roiling water below, then lifted his gaze to the city on the river’s north shore.

He rubbed at the bristles on his long jaw. The rusty hue of his beard in youth had given way now to grey… which was a good thing as far as he was concerned.

The city of Aren had changed little in the years since he had last seen it, barring the paucity of ships in the harbour. The same pall of smoke hanging over it, the same endless stream of sewage crawling the currents into the Seeker’s Deep-through which the broad-beamed, sluggish transport now sailed.

The newly issued leather cap chafed the back of his neck; it had damned near broken his heart to discard his old one, along with his tattered leather surcoat, and the sword-belt he’d stripped from a Falah’dan guard who no longer needed it. In fact, he had retained but one possession from his former life, buried down in the bottom of his kit bag in his berth below decks, and he had no intention of permitting its discovery by anyone.

A man came alongside him, leaned casually on the rail and stared out over the water to the city drawing ever nearer.

Strings offered no greeting. Lieutenant Ranal embodied the worst of Malazan military command. Nobleborn, commission purchased in the city of Quon, arrogant and inflexible and righteous and yet to draw a sword in anger. A walking death sentence to his soldiers, and it was the Lord’s luck that Strings was one of those soldiers.

The lieutenant was a tall man, his Quon blood the purest it could be; fair-skinned, fair-haired, his cheekbones high and wide, his nose straight and long, his mouth full. Strings had hated him on sight.

‘It is customary to salute your superior,’ Ranal said with affected indifference.

‘Saluting officers gets them killed, sir.’

‘Here on a transport ship?’

‘Just getting into the habit,’ Strings replied.

‘It has been plain from the start that you have done this before, soldier.’ Ranal paused to examine the supple, black knuckles of his gloved hands. ‘Hood knows, you’re old enough to be the father of most of those marines sitting on the deck behind us. The recruiting officer sent you straight through-you’ve not trained or sparred once, yet here I am, expected to accept you as one of my soldiers.’

Strings shrugged, said nothing.

‘That recruiting officer,’ Ranal went on after a moment, his pale blue eyes fixed on the city, ‘said she saw from the start what you’d been trying to hide. Oddly, she considered it-you, to be more precise-a valuable resource, even so much as to suggesting I make you a sergeant. Do you know why I find that odd?’

‘No, sir, but I am sure you will tell me.’

‘Because I think you were a deserter.’

Strings leaned far forward and spat down into the water. ‘I’ve met more than a few, and they’ve all got their reasons and no two of them alike. But there’s one thing they all have in common.’

‘And what is that?’

‘You’ll never find them in an enlistment line, Lieutenant. Enjoy the view, sir.’ He turned away and wandered back to where the other marines sprawled on the midship deck. Most had long since recovered from their seasickness, yet their eagerness to disembark was palpable. Strings sat down, stretched out his legs.

‘Lieutenant wants your head on a plate,’ a voice murmured beside him.

Strings sighed and closed his eyes, lifting his face to the afternoon sun. ‘What the lieutenant wants and what he gets ain’t the same thing, Koryk.’

‘What he’ll get is the bunch of us right here,’ the Seti half-blood replied, rolling his broad shoulders, strands of his long black hair whipping across his flat-featured face.

‘The practice is to mix recruits with veterans,’ Strings said. ‘Despite everything you’ve heard, there’s survivors of the Chain of Dogs in yon city over there. A whole shipload of wounded marines and Wickans made it through, I’ve heard. And there’s the Aren Guard, and the Red Blades. A number of coastal marine ships straggled in as well. Finally, there’s Admiral Nok’s fleet, though I imagine he’ll want to keep his own forces intact.’

‘What for?’ another recruit asked. ‘We’re heading for a desert war, aren’t we?’

Strings glanced over at her. Frighteningly young, reminding him of another young woman who’d marched alongside him a while ago. He shivered slightly, then said, ‘The Adjunct would have to be a fool to strip the fleet. Nok’s ready to begin the reconquest of the coast cities-he could’ve started months ago. The empire needs secure ports. Without them we’re finished on this continent.’

‘Well,’ the young woman muttered, ‘from what I’ve heard, this Adjunct might be just what you said, old man. Hood knows, she’s nobleborn, ain’t she?’

Strings snorted, but said nothing, closing his eyes once more. He was worried the lass might be right. Then again, this Tavore was sister to Captain Paran. And Paran had shown some spine back in Darujhistan. At the very least, he was no fool.

‘Where’d you get the name “Strings”, anyway?’ the young woman asked after a moment.

Fiddler smiled. ‘That tale’s too long to tell, lass.’


Her gauntlets thudded down onto the tabletop, raising a cloud of dust. Armour rustling, sweat soaking the under-padding between her breasts, she unstrapped her helmet and-as the wench arrived with the tankard of ale-dragged out the rickety chair and sat down.

Street urchin messenger. Delivering a small strip of green silk which bore, written in a fine hand, the Malazan words: Dancer’s Tavern, dusk. Lostara Yil was more irritated than intrigued.

The interior of Dancer’s Tavern consisted of a single room, the four walls making some ancient claim to whitewashed plaster, remnants of which now clung to the adobe bricks in misshapen, wine-stained patches, like a map of a drunkard’s paradise. The low ceiling was rotting before the very eyes of owner and patron, dust sifting down in clouds lit by the low sun that cast streams of light through the front window’s shutters. Already, the foam-threaded surface of the ale in the tankard before her sported a dull sheen.

There were but three other patrons, two bent over a game of slivers at the table closest to the window, and a lone, mumbling, semi-conscious man slumped against the wall beside the piss trench.

Although early, the Red Blade captain was already impatient to see an end to this pathetic mystery, if mystery it was meant to be. She’d needed but a moment to realize who it was who had set up this clandestine meeting. And while a part of her was warmed by the thought of seeing him again-for all his affectations and airs he was handsome enough-she had sufficient responsibilities to wrestle with as Tene Baralta’s aide. Thus far, the Red Blades were being treated as a company distinct from the Adjunct’s punitive army, despite the fact that there were few soldiers available with actual fighting experience… and even fewer with the backbone to put that experience to use.

The disordered apathy rife in Blistig’s Aren Guard was not shared by the Red Blades. Kin had been lost in the Chain of Dogs, and that would be answered. If

The Adjunct was Malazan-an unknown to Lostara and the rest of the Red Blades; even Tene Baralta, who had met her face to face on three occasions, remained unable to gauge her, to take her measure. Did Tavore trust the Red Blades?

Maybe the truth is already before us. She’s yet to give our company anything. Are we part of her army? Will the Red Blades be permitted to fight the Whirlwind?

Questions without answers. And here she sat, wasting time-The door swung open.

A shimmering grey cloak, green-tinted leathers, dark, sun-burnished skin, a wide, welcoming smile. ‘Captain Lostara Yil! I am delighted to see you again.’ He strode over, dismissing the approaching serving wench with a casual wave of one gloved hand. Settling into the chair opposite her, he raised two crystal goblets that seemed to appear from nowhere and set them on the dusty table. A black bottle, long-necked and glistening, followed. ‘I strongly advise against the local ale in this particular establishment, my dear. This vintage suits the occasion far better. From the sun-drenched south slopes of Gris, where grow the finest grapes this world has seen. Is mine an informed opinion, you are wondering? Most assuredly so, lass, since I hold a majority interest in said vineyards-’

‘What is it you want with me, Pearl?’

He poured the magenta-hued wine into the goblets, his smile unwavering. ‘Plagued as I am with sentimentality, I thought we might raise our glasses to old times. Granted, they were rather harrowing times; none the less, we survived, did we not?’

‘Oh yes,’ Lostara replied. ‘And you went your way, on to greater glory no doubt. Whilst I went mine-straight into a cell.’

The Claw sighed. ‘Ah well, poor Pormqual’s advisers failed him dearly, alas. But I see now that you and your fellow Red Blades are free once more, your weapons returned to you, your place in the Adjunct’s army secure-’

‘Not quite.’

Pearl arched an elegant brow.

Lostara collected the goblet and drank a mouthful, barely noticing its taste. ‘We have had no indication of the Adjunct’s wishes towards us.’

‘How strange!’

Scowling, the captain said, ‘Enough games-you surely know far more about it than we do-’

‘Alas, I must disabuse you of that notion. The new Adjunct is as unfathomable to me as she is to you. My failure was in making assumptions that she would hasten to repair the damage done to your illustrious company. To leave unanswered the question of the Red Blades’ loyalty…’ Pearl sipped wine, then leaned back. ‘You have been released from the gaols, your weapons returned to you-have you been barred from leaving the city? From headquarters?’

‘Only her council chambers, Pearl.’

The Claw’s expression brightened. ‘Ah, but in that you are not alone, my dear. From what I have heard, apart from the select few who have accompanied her from Unta, the Adjunct has hardly spoken with anyone at all. I believe, however, that the situation is about to change.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why, only that there will be a council of war tonight, one to which your commander, Tene Baralta, has no doubt been invited, as well as Commander Blistig and a host of others whose appearance will likely surprise one and all.’ He fell silent then, his green eyes holding on her.

Lostara slowly blinked. ‘That being the case, I must needs return to Tene Baralta-’

‘A fair conclusion, lass. Unfortunately wrong, I am afraid.’

‘Explain yourself, Pearl.’

He leaned forward once more and topped up her drink. ‘Delighted to. As recalcitrant as the Adjunct has been, I did manage to have occasion to present to her a request, which she has approved.’

Lostara’s voice was flat. ‘What kind of request?’

‘Well, sentimentality is my curse, as I mentioned earlier. Fond are my memories of you and me working together. So fond, in fact, that I have requested you as my, uhm, my aide. Your commander has of course been informed-’

‘I am a captain in the Red Blades!’ Lostara snapped. ‘Not a Claw, not a spy, not a mur-’ She bit the word back.

Pearl’s eyes widened. ‘I am deeply hurt. But magnanimous enough this evening to excuse your ignorance. Whilst you may find no distinction between the art of assassination and the crude notion of murder, I assure you that one exists. Be that as it may, permit me to allay your fears-the task awaiting you and me will not involve the ghastlier side of my calling. No indeed, lass, my need for you in this upcoming endeavour depends entirely upon two of your numerous qualities. Your familiarity as a native of Seven Cities, for one. And the other-even more vital-your unquestioned loyalty to the Malazan Empire. Now, while you could in no way argue the veracity of the former, it now falls to you to reassert your claim to the latter.’

She stared at him for a long moment, then slowly nodded. ‘I see. Very well, I am at your disposal.’

Pearl smiled once more. ‘Wonderful. My faith in you was absolute.’

‘What is this mission we are to embark upon?’

‘Details will be forthcoming once we have our personal interview with the Adjunct this evening.’

She straightened. ‘You have no idea, do you?’

His smile broadened. ‘Exciting, yes?’

‘So you don’t know if it will involve assassination-’

‘Assassination? Who knows? But murder? Assuredly not. Now, drink up, lass. We must needs march to the palace of the late High Fist. I have heard that the Adjunct has little toleration for tardiness.’


Everyone had arrived early. Gamet stood near the door through which the Adjunct would appear, his back to the wall, his arms crossed. Before him, stationed in the long, low-ceilinged council chamber, were the three commanders who had been assembled for this evening’s first set of meetings. The next few bells, with all the orchestration directing them, promised to be interesting. None the less, the once-captain of House Paran was feeling somewhat intimidated.

He had been a common soldier years back, not one to find himself in councils of war. There was little comfort in this new mantle of Fist, for he knew that merit had had nothing to do with acquiring the title. Tavore knew him, had grown used to commanding him, to leaving to him the tasks of organization, the arranging of schedules… but for a noble household. Yet it seemed she intended to use him in an identical manner, this time for the entire Fourteenth Army. Which made him an administrator, not a Fist. A fact of which no-one present in this room was unaware.

He was unused to the embarrassment he felt, and recognized that the bluster he often displayed was nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction to his own sense of inadequacy. For the moment, however, he did not feel capable of managing even so much as diffidence, much less bluster. Admiral Nok was standing a half-dozen paces away, in quiet conversation with the imposing commander of the Red Blades, Tene Baralta. Blistig sat sprawled in a chair at the far end of the map table, farthest from where the Adjunct would seat herself once the meeting commenced.

Gamet’s eyes were drawn again and again to the tall admiral. Apart from Dujek Onearm, Nok was the last of the commanders from the Emperor’s time. The only admiral who didn’t drown. With the sudden deaths of the Napan brothers, Urko and Crust, Nok had been given overall command of the imperial fleets. The Empress had sent him and a hundred and seven of his ships to Seven Cities when the rumours of rebellion had reached fever pitch. Had the High Fist in Aren not effectively impounded that fleet in the harbour, Coltaine’s Chain of Dogs could have been prevented; indeed, the rebellion might well be over. Now, the task of reconquest promised to be a drawn-out, bloody endeavour. Whatever feelings the admiral might have regarding all that had occurred and all that was likely to come, he gave no outward indication, his expression remaining cold and impersonal.

Tene Baralta had his own grievances. The Red Blades had been charged with treason by Pormqual, even as one of their companies fought under Coltaine’s command-fought, and was annihilated. Blistig’s first order once the High Fist left the city had been their release. As with the survivors of the Chain of Dogs and the Aren Guard, the Adjunct had inherited their presence. The question of what to do with them-what to do with them all-was about to be answered.

Gamet wished he could allay their concerns, but the truth was, Tavore had never been free with her thoughts. The Fist had no idea what this evening would bring.

The door opened.

As was her style, Tavore’s clothes were well made, but plain and virtually colourless. A match to her eyes, to the streaks of grey in her reddish, short-cropped hair, to her unyielding, unprepossessing features. She was tall, somewhat broad in the hips, her breasts slightly oversized for her frame. The otataral sword of her office was scabbarded at her belt-the only indication of her imperial title. A half-dozen scrolls were tucked under one arm.

‘Stand or sit as you like,’ were her first words as she strode to the High Fist’s ornate chair.

Gamet watched Nok and Tene Baralta move to chairs at the table, then followed suit.

Back straight, the Adjunct sat. She set the scrolls down. ‘The disposition of the Fourteenth Army is the subject of this meeting. Remain in our company, Admiral Nok, please.’ She reached for the first scroll and slipped its ties. ‘Three legions. The 8th, 9th and 10th. Fist Gamet shall command the 8th. Fist Blistig, the 9th, and Fist Tene Baralta, the 10th. The choice of officers under each respective command is at the discretion of each Fist. I advise you to select wisely. Admiral Nok, detach Commander Alardis from your flagship. She is now in charge of the Aren Guard.’ Without pause she reached for a second scroll. ‘As to the survivors of the Chain of Dogs and sundry unattached elements at our disposal, their units are now dissolved. They have been reassigned and dispersed throughout the three legions.’ She finally looked up-and if she took note of the shock on the faces that Gamet saw, a shock he shared, she hid it well. ‘In three days’ time, I will review your troops. That is all.’

In numbed silence, the four men slowly rose.

The Adjunct gestured at the two scrolls she had laid out. ‘Fist Blistig, take these please. You and Tene Baralta might wish to reconvene in one of the side chambers, in order to discuss the details of your new commands. Fist Gamet, you can join them later. For now, remain with me. Admiral Nok, I wish to speak with you privately later this evening. Please ensure that you are at my disposal.’

The tall, elderly man cleared his throat. ‘I shall be in the mess hall, Adjunct.’

‘Very good.’

Gamet watched the three men depart.

As soon as the doors closed, the Adjunct rose from her chair. She walked over to the ancient, woven tapestries running the length of one of the walls. ‘Extraordinary patterns, Gamet, don’t you think? A culture obsessed with intricacies. Well,’ she faced him, ‘that was concluded with unexpected ease. It seems we have a few moments before our next guests.’

‘I believe they were all too shocked to respond, Adjunct. The imperial style of command usually includes discussion, argument, compromise-’

Her only reply was a brief half-smile, then she returned her attention to the weavings. ‘What officers will Tene Baralta choose, do you imagine?’

‘Red Blades, Adjunct. How the Malazan recruits will take-’

‘And Blistig?’

‘Only one seemed worthy of his rank-and he’s now in the Aren Guard and so not available to Blistig,’ Gamet replied. ‘A captain, Keneb-’

‘Malazan?’

‘Yes, though stationed here in Seven Cities. He lost his troops, Adjunct, to the renegade, Korbolo Dom. It was Keneb who warned Blistig about Mallick Rel-’

‘Indeed. So, apart from Captain Keneb?’

Gamet shook his head. ‘I feel for Blistig at the moment.’

‘Do you?’

‘Well, I didn’t say what I was feeling, Adjunct.’

She faced him again. ‘Pity?’

‘Some of that,’ he allowed after a moment.

‘Do you know what bothers Blistig the most, Fist?’

‘Witnessing the slaughter-’

‘He may well claim that and hope that you believe it, but you are wrong to do so. Blistig disobeyed a High Fist’s order. He stands before me, his new commander, and believes I hold no faith in him. From that, he concludes that it would be best for everyone concerned if I were to send him to Unta, to face the Empress.’ She turned away again, was silent.

Gamet’s thoughts raced, but he finally had to conclude that Tavore’s thoughts proceeded on levels too deep for him to fathom. ‘What is it you wish me to tell him?’

‘You think I wish you to tell him something from me? Very well. He may have Captain Keneb.’

A side door swung open and Gamet turned to see three Wickans enter. Two were children, the third one not much older. While the Fist had yet to meet them, he knew who they must be. Nether and Nil. The witch and the warlock. And the lad with them is Temul, the eldest among the warrior youths Coltaine sent with the historian.

Only Temul seemed pleased at having been summoned into the Adjunct’s presence. Nil and Nether were both unkempt, their feet bare and almost grey with layers of dirt. Nether’s long black hair hung in greasy ropes. Nil’s deer-hide tunic was scarred and torn. Both held expressions of disinterest. In contrast, Temul’s war gear was immaculate, as was the mask of deep red face paint denoting his grief, and his dark eyes glittered like sharp stones as he drew himself to attention before the Adjunct.

But Tavore’s attention was on Nil and Nether. ‘The Fourteenth Army lacks mages,’ she said. ‘Therefore, you will now be acting in that capacity.’

‘No, Adjunct,’ Nether replied.

‘This matter is not open for discussion-’

Nil spoke. ‘We want to go home,’ he said. ‘To the Wickan plains.’

The Adjunct studied them for a moment, then, gaze unwavering, said, ‘Temul, Coltaine placed you in charge of the Wickan youths from the three tribes present in the Chain of Dogs. What is the complement?’

‘Thirty,’ the youth replied.

‘And how many Wickans were among the wounded delivered by ship to Aren?’

‘Eleven survived.’

‘Thus, forty-one in all. Are there any warlocks among your company?’

‘No, Adjunct.’

‘When Coltaine sent you with the historian Duiker, did he attach warlocks to your company at that time?’

Temul’s eyes flicked to Nil and Nether for a moment, then his head jerked in a nod. ‘Yes.’

‘And has your company been officially dissolved, Temul?’

‘No.’

‘In other words, Coltaine’s last command to you still obtains.’ She addressed Nil and Nether once more. ‘Your request is denied. I have need of both you and Captain Temul’s Wickan lancers.’

‘We can give you nothing,’ Nether replied. ‘The warlock spirits within us are silent,’ Nil added. Tavore slowly blinked as she continued to regard them. Then she said, ‘You shall have to find a means of awakening them once more. The day we close to battle with Sha’ik and the Whirlwind, I expect you to employ your sorcery to defend the legions. Captain Temul, are you the eldest among the Wickans in your company?’

‘No, Adjunct. There are four warriors of the Foolish Dog, who were on the ship bearing the wounded.’

‘Do they resent your command?’

The youth drew himself straighter. ‘They do not,’ he replied, his right hand settling on the grip of one of his long knives. Gamet winced and looked away.

‘You three are dismissed,’ the Adjunct said after a moment. Temul hesitated, then spoke. ‘Adjunct, my company wishes to fight. Are we to be attached to the legions?’

Tavore tilted her head. ‘Captain Temul, how many summers have you seen?’

‘Fourteen.’

The Adjunct nodded. ‘At present, Captain, our mounted troops are limited to a company of Seti volunteers, five hundred in all. In military terms, they are light cavalry at best, scouts and outriders at worst. None have seen battle, and none are much older than you. Your own command consists of forty Wickans, all but four younger than you. For our march northward, Captain Temul, your company will be attached to my entourage. As bodyguards. The ablest riders among the Seti will act as messengers and scouts. Understand, I have not the forces to mount a cavalry engagement. The Fourteenth Army is predominantly infantry.’

‘Coltaine’s tactics-’

‘This is no longer Coltaine’s war,’ Tavore snapped.

Temul flinched as if struck. He managed a stiff nod, then turned on his heel and departed the chamber. Nil and Nether followed a moment later.

Gamet let out a shaky breath. ‘The lad wanted to bring good news to his Wickans.’

‘To silence the grumbling from the four Foolish Dog warriors,’ the Adjunct said, her voice still holding a tone of irritation. ‘Aptly named indeed. Tell me, Fist, how do you think the discussion between Blistig and Tene Baralta is proceeding at this moment?’

The old veteran grunted. ‘Heatedly, I would imagine, Adjunct. Tene Baralta likely expected to retain his Red Blades as a discrete regiment. I doubt he has much interest in commanding four thousand Malazan recruits.’

‘And the admiral, who waits below in the mess hall?’

‘To that, I have no idea, Adjunct. His taciturnity is legend.’

‘Why, do you think, did he not simply usurp High Fist Pormqual? Why did he permit the annihilation of Coltaine and the Seventh, then of the High Fist’s own army?’

Gamet could only shake his head.

Tavore studied him for another half-dozen heartbeats, then slowly made her way to the scrolls lying on the tabletop. She drew one out and removed its ties. ‘The Empress never had cause to question Admiral Nok’s loyalty.’

‘Nor Dujek Onearm’s,’ Gamet muttered under his breath. She heard and looked up, then offered a tight, momentary smile. ‘Indeed. One meeting remains to us.’ Tucking the scroll under one arm, she strode towards a small side door. ‘Come.’

The room beyond was low-ceilinged, its walls virtually covered in tapestries. Thick rugs silenced their steps as they entered. A modest round table occupied the centre, beneath an ornate oil lamp that was the only source of light. There was a second door opposite, low and narrow. The table was the chamber’s sole piece of furniture.

Tavore dropped the scroll onto its battered top as Gamet shut the door behind him. When he turned he saw that she was facing him. There was a sudden vulnerability in her eyes that triggered a clutching anxiety in his gut-for it was something he had never before seen from this daughter of House Paran. ‘Adjunct?’

She broke the contact, visibly recovered. ‘In this room,’ she quietly said, ‘the Empress is not present.’

Gamet’s breath caught, then he jerked his head in a nod. The smaller door opened, and the Fist turned to see a tall, almost effeminate man, clothed in grey, a placid smile on his handsome features as he took a step into the chamber. An armoured woman followed-an officer of the Red Blades. Her skin was dark and tattooed in Pardu style, her eyes black and large, set wide above high cheekbones, her nose narrow and aquiline. She seemed anything but pleased, her gaze fixing on the Adjunct with an air of calculating arrogance. ‘Close the door behind you, Captain,’ Tavore said to the Red Blade. The grey-clad man was regarding Gamet, his smile turning faintly quizzical. ‘Fist Gamet,’ he said. ‘I imagine you are wishing you were still in Unta, that bustling heart of the empire, arguing with horse-traders on behalf of House Paran. Instead, here you are, a soldier once more-’

Gamet scowled and said, ‘I am afraid I do not know you-’

‘You may call me Pearl,’ the man replied, hesitating on the name as if its revelation was the core of some vast joke of which only he was aware. ‘And my lovely companion is Captain Lostara Yil, late of the Red Blades but now-happily-seconded into my care.’ He swung to the Adjunct and elaborately bowed. ‘At your service.’

Gamet could see Tavore’s expression tighten fractionally. ‘That remains to be seen.’

Pearl slowly straightened, the mockery in his face gone. ‘Adjunct, you have quietly-very quietly-arranged this meeting. This stage has no audience. While I am a Claw, you and I are both aware that I have-lately-incurred my master Topper’s-and the Empress’s-displeasure, resulting in my hasty journey through the Imperial Warren. A temporary situation, of course, but none the less, the consequence is that I am at something of a loose end at the moment.’

‘Then one might conclude,’ the Adjunct said carefully, ‘that you are available, as it were, for a rather more… private enterprise.’ Gamet shot her a glance. Gods below! What is this about? ‘One might,’ Pearl replied, shrugging.

There was silence, broken at last by the Red Blade, Lostara Yil. ‘I am made uneasy by the direction of this conversation,’ she grated. ‘As a loyal subject of the empire-’

‘Nothing of what follows will impugn your honour, Captain,’ the Adjunct replied, her gaze unwavering on Pearl. She added nothing more. The Claw half smiled then. ‘Ah, now you’ve made me curious. I delight in being curious, did you know that? You fear that I will bargain my way back into Laseen’s favour, for the mission you would propose to the captain and me is, to be precise, not on behalf of the Empress, nor, indeed, of the empire. An extraordinary departure from the role of Imperial Adjunct. Unprecedented, in fact.’ Gamet took a step forward, ‘Adjunct-’

She raised a hand to cut him off. ‘Pearl, the task I would set to you and the captain may well contribute, ultimately, to the well-being of the empire-’

‘Oh well,’ the Claw smiled, ‘that is what a good imagination is for, isn’t it? One can scrape patterns in the blood no matter how dried it’s become. I admit to no small skill in attributing sound justification for whatever I’ve just done. By all means, proceed-’

‘Not yet!’ Lostara Yil snapped, her exasperation plain. ‘In serving the Adjunct I expect to serve the empire. She is the will of the Empress. No other considerations are permitted her-’

‘You speak true,’ Tavore said. She faced Pearl again. ‘Claw, how fares the Talon?’

Pearl’s eyes went wide and he almost rocked back a step. ‘They no longer exist,’ he whispered.

The Adjunct frowned. ‘Disappointing. We are all, at the moment, in a precarious position. If you are to expect honesty from me, then can I not do so in return?’

‘They remain,’ Pearl muttered, distaste twisting his features. ‘Like bot-fly larvae beneath the imperial hide. When we probe, they simply dig deeper.’

‘They none the less serve a certain… function,’ Tavore said. ‘Unfortunately, not as competently as I would have hoped.’

‘The Talons have found support among the nobility?’ Pearl asked, a sheen of sweat now visible on his high brow.

The Adjunct’s shrug was almost indifferent. ‘Does that surprise you?’

Gamet could almost see the Claw’s thoughts racing. Racing on, and on, his expression growing ever more astonished and… dismayed. ‘Name him,’ he said.

‘Baudin.’

‘He was assassinated in Quon-’

‘The father was. Not the son.’

Pearl suddenly began pacing in the small chamber. ‘And this son, how much like the bastard who spawned him? Baudin Elder left Claw corpses scattered in alleys throughout the city. The hunt lasted four entire nights…’

‘I had reason to believe,’ Tavore said, ‘that he was worthy of his father’s name.’

Pearl’s head turned. ‘But no longer?’

‘I cannot say. I believe, however, that his mission has gone terribly wrong.’

The name slipped from Gamet’s lips unbidden but with a certainty heavy as an anchor-stone: ‘Felisin.’

He saw the wince in Tavore’s face, before she turned away from all three of them to study one of the tapestries.

Pearl seemed far ahead in his thoughts. ‘When was contact lost, Adjunct? And where?’

‘The night of the Uprising,’ she replied, her back to them still. ‘The mining camp called Skullcup. But there had been a… a loss of control for some weeks before then.’ She gestured at the scroll on the table. ‘Details, potential contacts. Burn the scroll once you have completed reading it, and scatter the ashes in the bay.’ She faced them suddenly. ‘Pearl. Captain Lostara Yil. Find Felisin. Find my sister.’


The roar of the mob rose and fell in the city beyond the estate’s walls. It was the Season of Rot in Unta, and, in the minds of thousands of denizens, that rot was being excised. The dreaded Cull had begun.

Captain Gamet stood by the gatehouse, flanked by three nervous guards. The estate’s torches had been doused, the house behind them dark, its windows shuttered. And within that massive structure huddled the last child of Paran, her parents gone since the arrests earlier that day, her brother lost and presumably dead on a distant continent, her sister-her sister… madness had come once again to the empire, with the fury of a tropical storm…

Gamet had but twelve guards, and three of those had been hired in the last few days, when the stillness of the air in the streets had whispered to the captain that the horror was imminent. No proclamations had been issued, no imperial edict to fire-lick the commoners’ greed and savagery into life. There were but rumours, racing through the city’s streets, alleys and market rounds like dust-devils. ‘The Empress is displeased.’

‘Behind the rot of the imperial army’s incompetent command, you will find the face of the nobility.’

‘The purchase of commissions is a plague threatening the entire empire. Is it any wonder the Empress is displeased?’

A company of Red Blades had arrived from Seven Cities. Cruel killers, incorruptible and far removed from the poison of noble coin. It was not difficult to imagine the reason behind their appearance.

The first wave of arrests had been precise, almost understated. Squads in the dead of night. There had been no skirmishes with house guards, no estates forewarned to purchase time to raise barricades, or even flee the city.

And Gamet thought he knew how such a thing came to pass. Tavore was now the Adjunct to the Empress. Tavore knew… her kind.

The captain sighed, then strode forward to the small inset door at the gate. He drew the heavy bolt, let the iron bar drop with a clank. He faced the three guards. ‘Your services are no longer required. In the murder hole you’ll find your pay.

Two of the three armoured men exchanged a glance, then, one of them shrugging, they walked to the door. The third man had not moved. Gamet recalled that he’d given his name as Kollen-a Quon name and a Quon accent. He had been hired more for his imposing presence than anything else, though Gamet’s practised eye had detected a certain… confidence, in the way the man wore his armour, seemingly indifferent to its weight, hinting at a martial grace that belonged only to a professional soldier. He knew next to nothing of Kollen’s past, but these were desperate times, and in any case none of the three new hirelings had been permitted into the house itself.

In the gloom beneath the gatehouse lintel, Gamet now studied the motionless guard. Through the tidal roar of the rampaging mob that drew ever closer came shrill screams, lifting into the night a despairing chorus. ‘Make this easy, Kollen,’ he said quietly. ‘There are four of my men twenty paces behind you, crossbows cocked and fixed on your back.

The huge man tilted his head. ‘Nine of you. In less than a quarter-bell several hundred looters and murderers will come calling.’ He slowly looked around, as if gauging the estate’s walls, the modest defences, then returned his steady gaze to Gamet.

The captain scowled. ‘No doubt you would have made it even easier for them. As it is, we might bloody their noses enough to encourage them to seek somewhere else.

No, you won’t, Captain. Things will simply get… messier.

Is this how the Empress simplifies matters, Kollen? An unlocked gate. Loyal guards cut down from behind. Have you honed your knife for my back?

‘I am not here at the behest of the Empress, Captain.

Gamet’s eyes narrowed.

No harm is to come to her,’ the man went on after a moment. ‘Provided I have your full co-operation. But we are running out of time.

This is Tavore’s answer? What of her parents? There was nothing to suggest that their fate would be any different from that of the others who’d been rounded up.

Alas, the Adjunct’s options are limited. She is under some… scrutiny.

What is planned for Felisin, Kollen-or whoever you are?

A brief stint in the otataral mines-’

What!?

She will not be entirely alone. A guardian will accompany her. Understand, Captain, it is this, or the mob outside.

Nine loyal guards cut down, blood on the floors and walls, a handful of servants overwhelmed at flimsy barricades outside the child’s bedroom door. Then, for the child… no-one.Who is this “guardian”, then, Kollen?’

The man smiled. ‘Me, Captain. And no, my true name is not Kollen.

Gamet stepped up to him, until their faces were but a hand’s width apart. ‘If any harm comes to her, I will find you. And I don’t care if you’re a Claw-’

I am not a Claw, Captain. As for harm coming to Felisin, I regret to say that there will be some. It cannot be helped. We must hope she is resilient-it is a Paran trait, yes?

After a long moment, Gamet stepped back, suddenly resigned. ‘Do you kill us now or later?

The man’s brows rose. ‘I doubt I could manage that, given those crossbows levelled behind me. No, but I am to ask that you now escort me to a safe house. At all costs, we must not permit the child to fall into the mob’s hands. Can I rely upon your help in this, Captain?

Where is this safe house?

On the Avenue of Souls.’

Gamet grimaced. Judgement’s Round. To the chains. Oh, Beru guard you, lass. He strode past Kollen. ‘I will awaken her.’


Pearl stood at the round table, leaning on both hands, his head lowered as he studied the scroll. The Adjunct had departed half a bell past, her Fist on her heels like a misshapen shadow. Lostara waited, arms crossed, with her back against the door through which Tavore and Gamet had left. She had held silent during the length of Pearl’s perusal of the scroll, her anger and frustration growing with each passing moment.

Finally, she’d had enough. ‘I will have no part of this. Return me to Tene Baralta’s command.’

Pearl did not look up. ‘As you wish, my dear,’ he murmured, then added: ‘Of course I will have to kill you at some point-certainly before you report to your commander. It’s the hard rules of clandestine endeavours, I regret to say.’

‘Since when are you at the Adjunct’s beck and call, Pearl?’

‘Why,’ he glanced up and met her gaze, ‘ever since she unequivocally reasserted her loyalty to the Empress, of course.’ He returned his attention to the scroll.

Lostara scowled. ‘I’m sorry, I think I missed that part of the conversation.’

‘Not surprising,’ Pearl replied, ‘since it resided in between the words actually spoken.’ He smiled at her. ‘Precisely where it belonged.’

With a hiss, Lostara began pacing, struggled against an irrational desire to take a knife blade to these damned tapestries and their endless scenes of past glories. ‘You will have to explain, Pearl,’ she growled.

‘And will that relieve your conscience sufficiently to return you to my side? Very well. The resurgence of the noble class in the chambers of imperial power has been uncommonly swift. Indeed, one might say unnaturally so. Almost as if they were receiving help-but who? we wondered. Oh, absurd rumours of the return of the Talons persisted. And every now and then some poor fool who’d been arrested for something completely unrelated went and confessed to being a Talon, but they were young, caught up in romantic notions and the lure of cults and whatnot. They might well call themselves Talons, but they did not even come close to the real organization, to Dancer’s own-of which many of us Claw possessed firsthand experience.

‘In any case, back to the matter at hand. Tavore is of noble blood, and it’s now clear that a truly covert element of Talons has returned to plague us, and has been making use of the nobility. Placing sympathetic agents in the military and administration-a mutually profitable infiltration. But Tavore is now the Adjunct, and as such, her old ties, her old loyalties, must needs be severed.’ Pearl paused to tap a finger on the laid-out scroll before him. ‘She has given us the Talons, Captain. We will find this Baudin Younger, and from him we will unravel the entire organization.’

Lostara said nothing for a long moment. ‘In a sense, then,’ she said, ‘our mission is not extraneous to the interests of the empire after all.’ Pearl flashed a smile.

‘But if so,’ Lostara continued, ‘why didn’t the Adjunct just say so?’

‘Oh, I think we can leave that question unanswered for the time being-’

‘No, I would have it answered now!’

Pearl sighed. ‘Because, my dear, for Tavore, the surrendering of the Talons is secondary to our finding Felisin. And that is extraneous, and not only extraneous, but also damning. Do you think the Empress would smile upon this clever little scheme, the lie behind this all-too-public demonstration of the new Adjunct’s loyalty? Sending her sister to the otataral mines! Hood take us all, that’s a hard woman! The Empress has chosen well, has she not?’

Lostara grimaced. Chosen well… based on what, though? ‘Indeed she has.’

‘Aye, I agree. It’s a fair exchange in any case-we save Felisin and are rewarded with a principal agent of the Talons. The Empress will no doubt wonder what we were doing out on the Otataral Isle in the first place-’

‘You will have to lie to her, won’t you?’

Pearl’s smile broadened. ‘We both will, lass. As would the Adjunct, and Fist Gamet if it came to that. Unless, of course, I take what the Adjunct has offered me. Offered me personally, that is.’

Lostara slowly nodded. ‘You are at a loose end. Yes. Out of favour with the Clawmaster and the Empress. Eager to make reparations. An independent mission-you somehow latched onto the rumour of a true Talon, and set off on his trail. Thus, the credit for unravelling the Talons is to be yours, and yours alone.’

‘Or ours,’ Pearl corrected. ‘If you so desire.’

She shrugged. ‘We can decide that later. Very well, Pearl. Now,’ she moved to his side, ‘what are these details with which the Adjunct has so kindly provided us?’


Admiral Nok had been facing the hearth, his gaze on its cold ashes. At the sound of the door opening, he slowly turned, his expression as impassive as ever.

‘Thank you,’ the Adjunct said, ‘for your patience.’

The admiral said nothing, his level gaze shifting to Gamet for a moment.

The midnight bell’s muted echoes were only now fading. The Fist was exhausted, feeling fragile and scattered, unable to meet Nok’s eyes for very long. This night, he’d been little more than the Adjunct’s pet, or worse, a familiar. Tacitly conjoined with her plans within plans, bereft of even so much as the illusion of a choice. When Tavore had first drawn him into her entourage-shortly after Felisin’s arrest-Gamet had briefly considered slipping away, vanishing in the time-honoured tradition of Malazan soldiers who found themselves in unwelcome circumstances. But he hadn’t, and his reasons for joining the Adjunct’s core of advisers-not that they were ever invited to advise-had, upon ruthless self-reflection, proved less than laudable. He had been driven by macabre curiosity. Tavore had ordered the arrests of her parents, had sent her younger sister into the horrors of the otataral mines. For her career’s sake. Her brother, Paran, had in some way been disgraced on Genabackis. He had subsequently deserted. An embarrassment, granted, but surely not sufficient to warrant Tavore’s reaction. Unless… There were rumours that the lad had been an agent of Adjunct Lorn’s, and that his desertion had led, ultimately, to the woman’s death in Darujhistan. Yet, if that were true, then why did the Empress turn her royal gaze upon another child of the House of Paran? Why make Tavore the new Adjunct? ‘Fist Gamet.’ He blinked. ‘Adjunct?’

‘Seat yourself, please. I would have some final words with you, but they can wait for the time being.’

Nodding, Gamet glanced around until he spied the lone high-backed chair set against one of the small room’s walls. It looked anything but comfortable, which was probably an advantage, given his weariness.

Ominous creaks sounded when he settled into the chair and he grimaced. ‘No wonder Pormqual didn’t send this one off with all the rest,’ he muttered.

‘It is my understanding,’ Nok said, ‘that the transport ship in question sank in the harbour of Malaz City, taking the late High Fist’s loot with it.’

Gamet’s wiry brows rose. ‘All that way… just to sink in the harbour? What happened?’

The admiral shrugged. ‘None of the crew reached the shore to tell the tale.’

None?

Nok seemed to note his scepticism, for he elaborated, ‘Malaz Harbour is well known for its sharks. A number of dories were found, all awash but otherwise empty.’

The Adjunct had, uncharacteristically, been permitting the exchange to continue, leading Gamet to wonder if Tavore had sensed a hidden significance to the mysterious loss of the transport ship. Now she spoke. ‘It remains, then, a peculiar curse-unexplained founderings, empty dories, lost crews. Malaz Harbour is indeed notorious for its sharks, particularly since they seem uniquely capable of eating victims whole, leaving no remnants whatsoever.’

‘There are sharks that can do just that,’ Nok replied. ‘I know of at least twelve ships on the muddy bottom of the harbour in question-’

‘Including the Twisted,’ the Adjunct drawled, ‘the old emperor’s flagship, which mysteriously slipped its moorings the night after the assassinations, then promptly plummeted into the deeps, taking its resident demon with it.’

‘Perhaps it likes company,’ Nok observed. ‘The island’s fishermen all swear the harbour’s haunted, after all. The frequency with which nets are lost-’

‘Admiral,’ Tavore cut in, her eyes resting on the dead hearth, ‘there is you, and three others. All who are left.’

Gamet slowly straightened in his chair. Three others. High Mage Tayschrenn, Dujek Onearm, and Whiskeyjack. Four… gods, is that all now? Tattersail, Bellurdan, Nightchill, Duikerso many fallen-

Admiral Nok was simply studying the Adjunct. He had stood against the wrath of the Empress, first with Cartheron Crust’s disappearance, then Urko’s and Ameron’s. Whatever answers he had given, he had done so long ago.

‘I do not speak for the Empress,’ Tavore said after a moment. ‘Nor am I interested in… details. What interests me is… a matter of personal… curiosity. I would seek to understand, Admiral, why they abandoned her.’

There was silence, filling the room, growing towards something like an impasse. Gamet leaned back and closed his eyes. Ah, lass, you ask questions of… of loyalty, as would someone who has never experienced it. You reveal to this admiral what can only be construed as a critical flaw. You command the Fourteenth Army, Adjunct, yet you do so in isolation, raising the very barricades you must needs take down if you would truly lead. What does Nok think of this, now? Is it any wonder he does not-

‘The answer to your question,’ the admiral said, ‘lies in what was both a strength and a flaw of the Emperor’s… family. The family that he gathered to raise an empire. Kellanved began with but one companion-Dancer. The two then hired a handful of locals in Malaz City and set about conquering the criminal element in the city-I should point out, that criminal element happened to rule the entire island. Their target was Mock, Malaz Island’s unofficial ruler. A pirate, and a cold-blooded killer.’

‘Who were these first hirelings, Admiral?’

‘Myself, Ameron, Dujek, a woman named Hawl-my wife. I had been First Mate to a corsair that worked the sea lanes around the Napan Isles-which had just been annexed by Unta and were providing a staging point for the Untan king’s planned invasion of Kartool. We’d taken a beating and had limped into Malaz Harbour, only to have the ship and its crew arrested by Mock, who was negotiating a trade of prisoners with Unta. Only Ameron and Hawl and I escaped. A lad named Dujek discovered where we were holed up and he delivered us to his new employers. Kellanved and Dancer.’

‘Was this before they were granted entry into the Deadhouse?’ Gamet asked.

‘Aye, but only just. Our residency in the Deadhouse rewarded us with-as is now clearly evident-certain gifts. Longevity, immunity to most diseases, and… other things. The Deadhouse also provided us with an unassailable base of operations. Dancer later bolstered our numbers by recruiting among the refugee Napans who’d fled the conquest: Cartheron Crust and his brother, Urko. And Surly-Laseen. Three more men were to follow shortly thereafter. Toc Elder, Dassem Ultor-who was, like Kellanved, of Dal Honese blood-and a renegade High Septarch of the D’rek Cult, Tayschrenn. And finally, Duiker.’ He half smiled at Tavore. ‘The family. With which Kellanved conquered Malaz Island. Swiftly done, with minimal losses…’

Minimal… ‘Your wife,’ Gamet said.

‘Yes, her.’ After a long moment, he shrugged and continued, ‘To answer you, Adjunct. Unknown to the rest of us, the Napans among us were far more than simple refugees. Surly was of the royal line. Crust and Urko had been captains in the Napan fleet, a fleet that would have likely repelled the Untans if it hadn’t been virtually destroyed by a sudden storm. As it turned out, theirs was a singular purpose-to crush the Untan hegemony-and they planned on using Kellanved to achieve that. In a sense, that was the first betrayal within the family, the first fissure. Easily healed, it seemed, since Kellanved already possessed imperial ambitions, and of the two major rivals on the mainland, Unta was by far the fiercest.’

‘Admiral,’ Tavore said, ‘I see where this leads. Surly’s assassination of Kellanved and Dancer shattered that family irrevocably, but that is precisely where my understanding falters. Surly had taken the Napan cause to its penultimate conclusion. Yet it was not you, not Tayschrenn, Duiker, Dassem Ultor or Toc Elder who… disappeared. It was… Napans.’

‘Barring Ameron,’ Gamet pointed out.

The admiral’s lined face stretched as he bared his teeth in a humourless grin. ‘Ameron was half-Napan.’

‘So it was only the Napans who deserted the new Empress?’ Gamet stared up at Nok, now as confused as Tavore. ‘Yet Surly was of the royal Napan line?’

Nok said nothing for a long time, then he sighed. ‘Shame is a fierce, vigorous poison. To now serve the new Empress… complicity and damnation. Crust, Urko and Ameron were not party to the betrayal… but who would believe them? Who could not help but see them as party to the murderous plot? Yet, in truth,’ his eyes met Tavore’s, ‘Surly had included none of us in her scheme-she could not afford to. She had the Claw, and that was all she needed.’

‘And where were the Talons in all this?’ Gamet asked, then cursed himself-ah, gods, too tired-

Nok’s eyes widened for the first time that night. ‘You’ve a sharp memory, Fist.’

Gamet clamped his jaws tight, sensing the Adjunct’s hard stare fixing on him.

The admiral continued, ‘I am afraid I have no answer to that. I was not in Malaz City on that particular night; nor have I made enquiries to those who were. The Talons essentially vanished with Dancer’s death. It was widely believed that the Claw had struck them down in concert with the assassinations of Dancer and the Emperor.’

The Adjunct’s tone was suddenly curt. ‘Thank you, Admiral, for your words this night. I will keep you no longer.’

The man bowed, then strode from the room.

Gamet waited with held breath, ready for her fiercest castigation. Instead, she simply sighed. ‘You have much work ahead of you, Fist, in assembling your legion. Best retire now.’

‘Adjunct,’ he acknowledged, pushing himself to his feet. He hesitated, then with a nod strode to the door.

‘Gamet.’

He turned. ‘Yes?’

‘Where is T’amber?’

‘She awaits you in your chambers, Adjunct.’

‘Very well. Goodnight, Fist.’

‘And to you, Adjunct.’


Buckets of salt water had been sloshed across the cobbled centre aisle of the stables, which had the effect of damping the dust and sending the biting flies into a frenzy, as well as making doubly rank the stench of horse piss. Strings, standing just within the doors, could already feel his sinuses stinging. His searching gaze found four figures seated on bound rolls of straw near the far end. Scowling, the Bridgeburner shifted the weight of the pack on his shoulder, then headed over.

‘Who was the bright spark missing the old smells of home?’ he drawled as he approached.

The half-Seti warrior named Koryk grunted, then said, ‘That would be Lieutenant Ranal, who then had a quick excuse to leave us for a time.’ He’d found a flap of hide from somewhere and was cutting long strands from it with a thin-bladed pig-sticker. Strings had seen his type before, obsessed with tying things down, or worse, tying things to their bodies. Not just fetishes, but loot, extra equipment, tufts of grass or leafy branches depending on the camouflage being sought. In this case, Strings half expected to see twists of straw sprouting from the man.

For centuries the Seti had fought a protracted war with the city-states of Quon and Li Heng, defending the barely inhabitable lands that had been their traditional home. Hopelessly outnumbered and perpetually on the run, they had learned the art of hiding the hard way. But the Seti lands had been pacified for sixty years now; almost three generations had lived in that ambivalent, ambiguous border that was the edge of civilization. The various tribes had dissolved into a single, murky nation, with mixed-bloods coming to dominate the population. What had befallen them had been the impetus, in fact, for Coltaine’s rebellion and the Wickan Wars-for Coltaine had clearly seen that a similar fate awaited his own people.

It was not, Strings had come to believe, a question of right and wrong. Some cultures were inward-looking. Others were aggressive. The former were rarely capable of mustering a defence against the latter, not without metamorphosing into some other thing, a thing twisted by the exigencies of desperation and violence. The original Seti had not even ridden horses. Yet now they were known as horse warriors, a taller, darker-skinned and more morose kind of Wickan.

Strings knew little of Koryk’s personal history, but he felt he could guess. Half-bloods did not lead pleasant lives. That Koryk had chosen to emulate the old Seti ways, whilst joining the Malazan army as a marine rather than a horse warrior, spoke tomes of the clash in the man’s scarred soul.

Setting down his pack, Strings stood before the four recruits. ‘As much as I hate to confess it, I am now your sergeant. Officially, you’re 4th Squad, one of three squads under Lieutenant Ranal’s command. The 5th and 6th squads are supposedly on their way over from the tent city west of Aren. We’re all in the 9th Company, which consists of three squads of heavy infantry, three of marines, and eighteen squads of medium infantry. Our commander is a man named Captain Keneb-and no, I’ve not met him and know nothing of him. Nine companies in all, making up the 8th Legion-us. The 8th is under the command of Fist Gamet, who I gather is a veteran who’d retired to the Adjunct’s household before she became the Adjunct.’ He paused, grimacing at the slightly glazed faces before him. ‘But never mind all that. You’re in the 4th Squad. We’ve got one more coming, but even with that one we’re undermanned as a squad, but so are all the others and before you ask, I ain’t privy to the reasons for that. Now, any questions yet?’

Three men and one young woman sat in silence, staring up at him.

Strings sighed, and pointed to the nondescript soldier sitting to Koryk’s left. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

A bewildered look, then, ‘My real name, Sergeant, or the one the drill sergeant in Malaz City gave me?’

By the man’s accent and his pale, stolid features, Strings knew him as being from Li Heng. That being the case, his real name was probably a mouthful: nine, ten or even fifteen names all strung together. ‘Your new one, soldier.’

‘Tarr.’

Koryk spoke up. ‘If you’d seen him on the training ground, you’d understand. Once he’s planted his feet behind that shield of his, you could hit him with a battering ram and he won’t budge.’

Strings studied Tarr’s placid, pallid eyes. ‘All right. You’re now Corporal Tarr-’

The woman, who’d been chewing on a straw, suddenly choked.

Coughing, spitting out pieces of the straw, she glared up at Strings with disbelief. ‘What? Him? He never says nothing, never does nothing unless he’s told, never-’

‘Glad to hear all that,’ Strings cut in laconically. ‘The perfect corporal, especially that bit about not talking.’

The woman’s expression tightened, then unveiled a small sneer as she looked away in feigned disinterest.

‘And what is your name, soldier?’ Strings asked her.

‘My real name-’

‘I don’t care what you used to be called. None of you. Most of us get new ones and that’s just the way it is.’

‘I didn’t,’ Koryk growled.

Ignoring him, Strings continued, ‘Your name, lass?’

Sour contempt at the word lass.

‘Drill sergeant named her Smiles,’ Koryk said.

‘Smiles?’

‘Aye. She never does.’

Eyes narrowing, Strings swung to the last soldier, a rather plain young man wearing leathers but no weapon. ‘And yours?’

‘Bottle.’

‘Who was your drill sergeant?’ he demanded to the four recruits.

Koryk leaned back as he replied, ‘Braven Tooth-’

‘Braven Tooth! That bastard’s still alive?’

‘It was hard to tell at times,’ Smiles muttered.

‘Until his temper snapped,’ Koryk added. ‘Just ask Corporal Tarr there. Braven Tooth spent near two bells pounding on him with a mace. Couldn’t get past the shield.’

Strings glared at his new corporal. ‘Where’d you learn that skill?’

The man shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Don’t like getting hit.’

‘Well, do you ever counter-attack?’

Tarr frowned. ‘Sure. When they’re tired.’

Strings was silent for a long moment. Braven Tooth-he was dumbfounded. The bastard was grizzled back when… when the whole naming thing began. It had been Braven who’d started it. Braven who’d named most of the Bridgeburners. Whiskeyjack. Trotts, Mallet, Hedge, Blend, Picker, Toes… Fiddler himself had avoided a new name through his basic training; it had been Whiskeyjack who’d named him, on that first ride through Raraku. He shook his head, glanced sidelong at Tarr. ‘You should be a heavy infantryman, Corporal, with a talent like that. The marines are supposed to be fast, nimble-avoiding the toe-to-toe whenever possible or, if there’s no choice, making it quick.’

‘I’m good with a crossbow,’ Tarr said, shrugging.

‘And a fast loader,’ Koryk added. ‘It was that that made Braven decide to make him a marine.’

Smiles spoke. ‘So who named Braven Tooth, Sergeant?’

I did, after the bastard left one of his in my shoulder the night of the brawl. The brawl we all later denied happening. Gods, so many years ago, now… ‘I have no idea,’ he said. He shifted his attention back to the man named Bottle. ‘Where’s your sword, soldier?’

‘I don’t use one.’

‘Well, what do you use?’

The man shrugged. ‘This and that.’

‘Well, Bottle, someday I’d like to hear how you got through basic training without picking up a weapon-no, not now. Not tomorrow either, not even next week. For now, tell me what I should be using you for.’

‘Scouting. Quiet work.’

‘As in sneaking up behind someone. What do you do then? Tap him on the shoulder? Never mind.’ This man smells like a mage to me, only he doesn’t want to advertise it. Fine, be that way, we’ll twist it out of you sooner or later.

‘I do the same kind of work,’ Smiles said. She settled a forefinger on the pommel of one of the two thin-bladed knives at her belt. ‘But I finish things with these.’

‘So there’s only two soldiers in this outfit who can actually fight toe-to-toe?’

‘You said one more’s coming,’ Koryk pointed out.

‘We can all handle crossbows,’ Smiles added. ‘Except for Bottle.’

They heard voices from outside the commandeered stables, then figures appeared in the doorway, six in all, burdened with equipment. A deep voice called, ‘You put the latrine trench outside the barracks, for Hood’s sake! Bastards don’t teach ya anything these days?’

‘Compliments of Lieutenant Ranal,’ Strings said.

The soldier who’d spoken was in the lead as the squad approached. ‘Right. Met him.’

Aye, nothing more need be said on that. ‘I’m Sergeant Strings-we’re the 4th.’

‘Well hey,’ a second soldier said, grinning through his bushy red beard, ‘someone can count after all. These marines are full of surprises.’

‘Fifth,’ the first soldier said. There was a strange, burnished cast to the man’s skin, making Strings doubt his initial guess that he was Falari. Then he noted an identical sheen to the red-bearded soldier, as well as on a much younger man. ‘I’m Gesler,’ the first soldier added. ‘Temporarily sergeant of this next-to-useless squad.’

The red-bearded man dropped his pack to the floor. ‘We was coastal guards, me and Gesler and Truth. I’m Stormy. But Coltaine made us marines-’

‘Not Coltaine,’ Gesler corrected. ‘Captain Lull, it was, Queen harbour his poor soul.’

Strings simply stared at the two men.

Stormy scowled. ‘Got a problem with us?’ he demanded, face darkening.

‘Adjutant Stormy,’ Strings muttered. ‘Captain Gesler. Hood’s rattling bones-’

‘We ain’t none of those things any more,’ Gesler said. ‘Like I said, I’m now a sergeant, and Stormy’s my corporal. And the rest here… there’s Truth, Tavos Pond, Sands and Pella. Truth’s been with us since Hissar and Pella was a camp guard at the otataral mines-only a handful survived the uprising there, from what I gather.’

‘Strings, is it?’ Stormy’s small eyes had narrowed suspiciously. He nudged his sergeant. ‘Hey, Gesler, think we should have done that? Changed our names, I mean. This Strings here is Old Guard as sure as I’m a demon in my dear father’s eye.’

‘Let the bastard keep whatever name he wants,’ Gesler muttered. ‘All right, squad, find some place to drop your stuff. The 6th should be showing up any time, and the lieutenant, too. Word is, we’re all being mustered out to face the Adjunct’s lizard eyes in a day or two.’

The soldier Gesler had named Tavos Pond-a tall, dark, moustached man who was probably Korelri-spoke up. ‘So we should polish our equipment, Sergeant?’

‘Polish whatever you like,’ the man replied disinterestedly, ‘just not in public. As for the Adjunct, if she can’t handle a few scuffed up soldiers then she won’t last long. It’s a dusty world out there, and the sooner we blend in the better.’

Strings sighed. He was feeling more confident already. He faced his own soldiers. ‘Enough sitting on that straw. Start spreading it out to soak up this horse piss.’ He faced Gesler again. ‘A word with you in private?’

The man nodded. ‘Let’s head back outside.’

Moments later the two men stood on the cobbled courtyard of the estate that had once housed a well-off local merchant and was now the temporary bivouac for Ranal’s squads. The lieutenant had taken the house proper for himself, leaving Strings wondering what the man did with all those empty rooms.

They said nothing for a moment, then Strings grinned. ‘I can picture Whiskeyjack’s jaw dropping-the day I tell him you was my fellow sergeant in the new 8th Legion.’

Gesler scowled. ‘Whiskeyjack. He was busted down to sergeant before I was, the bastard. Mind you, I then made corporal, so I beat him after all.’

‘Except now you’re a sergeant again. While Whiskeyjack’s an outlaw. Try beating that.’

‘I just might,’ Gesler muttered.

‘Got concerns about the Adjunct?’ Strings quietly asked. The courtyard was empty, but even so…

‘Met her, you know. Oh, she’s as cold as Hood’s forked tongue. She impounded my ship.’

‘You had a ship?’

‘By rights of salvage, aye. I was the one who brought Coltaine’s wounded to Aren. And that’s the thanks I get.’

‘You could always punch her in the face. That’s what you usually end up doing to your superiors, sooner or later.’

‘I could at that. I’d have to get past Gamet, of course. The point I was making is this: she’s never commanded anything more than a damned noble household, and here she’s been handed three legions and told to reconquer an entire subcontinent.’ He glanced sidelong at Strings. ‘There wasn’t many Falari made it into the Bridgeburners. Bad timing, I think, but there was one.’

‘Aye, and I’m him.’

After a moment, Gesler grinned and held out his hand. ‘Strings. Fiddler. Sure.’

They clasped wrists. To Strings, the other man’s hand and arm felt like solid stone.

‘There’s an inn down the street,’ Gesler continued. ‘We need to swap stories, and I guarantee you, mine’s got yours beat by far.’

‘Oh, Gesler,’ Strings sighed, ‘I think you’re in for a surprise.’

CHAPTER SIX

We came within sight of the island, close enough to gaze into the depths through the ancient cedars and firs. And it seemed there was motion within that gloom, as if the shadows of long dead and long fallen trees still remained, swaying and shifting on ghostly winds…

Quon Sea Charting Expedition of

Drift Avalii

Hedoranas

THE JOURNEY HOME HAD BEEN ENOUGH, IF ONLY TO RETURN ONE last time to the place of beginnings, to crumbled reminiscences amidst sea-thrust coral sands above the tide line, the handful of abandoned shacks battered by countless storms into withered skeletons of wood. Nets lay buried in glistening drifts blinding white in the harsh sunlight. And the track that had led down from the road, overgrown now with wind-twisted grasses… no place from the past survived unchanged, and here, in this small fisher village on the coast of Itko Kan, Hood had walked with thorough and absolute deliberation, leaving not a single soul in his wake.

Barring the one man who had now returned. And the daughter of that man, who had once been possessed by a god.

And in the leaning shack that had once housed them both-its frond-woven roof long since stripped away-with the broad, shallow-draught fisherboat close by now showing but a prow and a stern, the rest buried beneath the coral sand, the father had laid himself down and slept.


Crokus had awakened to soft weeping. Sitting up, he had seen Apsalar kneeling beside the still form of her father. There were plenty of footprints on the floor of the shack from the previous evening’s random explorations, but Crokus noted one set in particular, prints large and far apart yet far too lightly pressed into the damp sand. A silent arrival in the night just past, crossing the single chamber to stand square-footed beside Rellock. Where it had gone after that left no markings in the sand.

A shiver rippled through the Daru. It was one thing for an old man to die in his sleep, but it was another for Hood himself-or one of his minions-to physically arrive to collect the man’s soul.

Apsalar’s grief was quiet, barely heard above the hiss of waves on the beach, the faint whistle of the wind through the warped slats in the shack’s walls. She knelt with bowed head, face hidden beneath her long black hair that hung so appropriately like a shawl. Her hands were closed around her father’s right hand.

Crokus made no move towards her. In the months of their travelling together, he had come, perversely, to know her less and less. Her soul’s depths had become unfathomable, and whatever lay at its heart was otherworldly and… not quite human.

The god that had possessed her-Cotillion, the Rope, Patron of Assassins within the House of Shadow-had been a mortal man, once, the one known as Dancer who had stood at the Emperor’s side, who had purportedly shared Kellanved’s fate at Laseen’s hands. Of course, neither had died in truth. Instead, they had ascended. Crokus had no idea how such a thing could come to be. Ascendancy was but one of the countless mysteries of the world, a world where uncertainty ruled all-god and mortal alike-and its rules were impenetrable. But, it seemed to him, to ascend was also to surrender. Embracing what to all intents and purposes could be called immortality, was, he had begun to believe, presaged by a turning away. Was it not a mortal’s fate-fate, he knew, was the wrong word, but he could think of no other-was it not a mortal’s fate, then, to embrace life itself, as one would a lover? Life, with all its fraught, momentary fragility.

And could life not be called a mortal’s first lover? A lover whose embrace was then rejected in that fiery crucible of ascendancy?

Crokus wondered how far she had gone down that path-for it was a path she was surely on, this beautiful woman no older than him, who moved in appalling silence, with a killer’s terrible grace, this temptress of death.

The more remote she grew, the more Crokus felt himself drawn forward, to that edge within her. The lure to plunge into that darkness was at times overwhelming, could, at a moment’s thought, turn frantic the beat of his heart and fierce the fire of the blood in his veins. What made the silent invitation so terrifying to him was the seeming indifference with which she offered it to him.

As if the attraction itself was… self-evident. Not worth even acknowledging. Did Apsalar want him to walk at her side on this path to ascendancy-if that was what it was? Was it Crokus she wanted, or simply… somebody, anybody?

The truth was this: he had grown afraid to look into her eyes. He rose from his bedroll and quietly made his way outside. There were fisherboats out on the shoals, white sails taut like enormous shark fins plying the sea beyond the breakers. The Hounds had once torn through this area of the coast, leaving naught but corpses, but people had returned-there if not here. Or perhaps they had been returned, forcibly. The land itself had no difficulty absorbing spilled blood; its thirst was indiscriminate, true to the nature of land everywhere.

Crokus crouched down and collected a handful of white sand. He studied the coral pebbles as they slipped down between his fingers. The land does its own dying, after all. And yet, these are truths we would escape, should we proceed down this path. I wonder, does fear of dying lie at the root of ascendancy?

If so, then he would never make it, for, somewhere in all that had occurred, all that he had survived in coming to this place, Crokus had lost that fear.

He sat down, resting his back against the trunk of a massive cedar that had been thrown up onto this beach-roots and all-and drew out his knives. He practised a sequenced shift of grips, each hand reversing the pattern of the other, and stared down until the weapons-and his fingers-became little more than blurs of motion. Then he lifted his head and studied the sea, its rolling breakers in the distance, the triangular sails skidding along beyond the white line of foam. He made the sequence in his right hand random. Then did the same for his left. Thirty paces down the beach waited their single-masted runner, its magenta sail reefed, its hull’s blue, gold and red paint faint stains in the sunlight. A Korelri craft, paid in debt to a local bookmaker in Kan-for an alley in Kan had been the place where Shadowthrone had sent them, not to the road above the village as he had promised.

The bookmaker had paid the debt in turn to Apsalar and Crokus for a single night’s work that had proved, for Crokus, brutally horrifying. It was one thing to practise passes with the blades, to master the deadly dance against ghosts of the imagination, but he had killed two men that night. Granted, they were murderers, in the employ of a man who was making a career out of extortion and terror. Apsalar had shown no compunction in cutting his throat, no qualms at the spray of blood that spotted her gloved hands and forearms.

There had been a local with them, to witness the veracity of the night’s work. In the aftermath, as he stood in the doorway and stared down at the three corpses, he’d lifted his head and met Crokus’s eyes. Whatever he saw in them had drained the blood from the man’s face.

By morning Crokus had acquired a new name. Cutter.

At first he had rejected it. The local had misread all that had been revealed behind the Daru’s eyes that night. Nothing fierce. The barrier of shock, fast crumbling to self-condemnation. Murdering killers was still murder, the act like the closing of shackles between them all, joining a line of infinite length, one killer to the next, a procession from which there was no escape. His mind had recoiled from the name, recoiled from all that it signified.

But that had proved a short-lived rectitude. The two murderers had died indeed-at the hands of the man named Cutter. Not Crokus, not the Daru youth, the cutpurse-who had vanished. Vanished, probably never to be seen again.

The delusion held a certain comfort, as cavernous at its core as Apsalar’s embrace at night, but welcome all the same.

Cutter would walk her path.

Aye, the Emperor had Dancer, yes? A companion, for a companion was what was needed. Is needed. Now, she has Cutter. Cutter of the Knives, who dances in his chains as if they were weightless threads. Cutter, who, unlike poor Crokus, knows his place, knows his singular task-to guard her back, to match her cold precision in the deadly arts.

And therein resided the final truth. Anyone could become a killer. Anyone at all.

She stepped out of the shack, wan but dry-eyed.

He sheathed his knives in a single, fluid motion, rose to his feet and faced her.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘What now?’


Broken pillars of mortared stone jutted from the undulating vista. Among the half-dozen or so within sight, only two rose as tall as a man, and none stood straight. The plain’s strange, colourless grasses gathered in tufts around their bases, snarled and oily in the grey, grainy air.

As Kalam rode into their midst, the muted thunder of his horse’s hoofs seemed to bounce back across his path, the echoes multiplying until he felt as if he was riding at the head of a mounted army. He slowed his charger’s canter, finally reining in beside one of the battered columns.

These silent sentinels felt like an intrusion on the solitude he had been seeking. He leaned in his saddle to study the one nearest him. It looked old, old in the way of so many things within the Warren of Shadow, forlorn with an air of abandonment, defying any chance he might have of discerning its function. There were no intervening ruins, no foundation walls, no cellar pits or other angular pocks in the ground. Each pillar stood alone, unaligned.

His examination settled on a rusted ring set into the stone near the base, from which depended a chain of seized links vanishing into the tufts of grass. After a moment, Kalam dismounted. He crouched down, reaching out to close his hand on the chain. A slight upward tug. The desiccated hand and forearm of some hapless creature lifted from the grasses. Dagger-length talons, four fingers and two thumbs.

The rest of the prisoner had succumbed to the roots, was half buried beneath dun-coloured, sandy soil. Pallid yellow hair was entwined among the grass blades.

The hand suddenly twitched.

Disgusted, Kalam released the chain. The arm dropped back to the ground. A faint, subterranean keening sound rose from the base of the pillar.

Straightening, the assassin returned to his horse.

Pillars, columns, tree stumps, platforms, staircases leading nowhere, and for every dozen there was one among them holding a prisoner. None of whom seemed capable of dying. Not entirely. Oh, their minds had died-most of them-long ago. Raving in tongues, murmuring senseless incantations, begging forgiveness, offering bargains, though not one had yet-within Kalam’s hearing-proclaimed its own innocence.

As if mercy could be an issue without it. He nudged his horse forward once more. This was not a realm to his liking. Not that he’d in truth had much choice in the matter. Bargaining with gods was-for the mortal involved-an exercise in self-delusion. Kalam would rather leave Quick Ben to play games with the rulers of this warren-the wizard had the advantage of enjoying the challenge-no, it was more than that. Quick Ben had left so many knives in so many backs-none of them fatal but none the less sure to sting when tugged, and it was that tugging the wizard loved so much.

The assassin wondered where his old friend was right now. There’d been trouble-nothing new there-and, since then, naught but silence. And then there was Fiddler. The fool had re-enlisted, for Hood’s sake! Well, at least they’re doing something. Not Kalam, oh no, not Kalam. Thirteen hundred children, resurrected on a whim. Shining eyes following his every move, mapping his every step, memorizing his every gesture-what could he teach them? The art of mayhem? As if children needed help in that.

A ridge lay ahead. He reached the base and brought his horse into a gentle canter up the slope.

Besides, Minala seemed to have it all under control. A natural born tyrant, she was, both in public and in private amidst the bedrolls in the half-ruined hovel they shared. And oddly enough, he’d found he was not averse to tyranny. In principle, that is. Things had a way of actually working when someone capable and implacable took charge. And he’d had enough experience taking orders to not chafe at her position of command. Between her and the aptorian demoness, a certain measure of control was being maintained, a host of life skills were being inculcated… stealth, tracking, the laying of ambushes, the setting of traps for game both two- and four-legged, riding, scaling walls, freezing in place, knife throwing and countless other weapon skills, the weapons themselves donated by the warren’s mad rulers-half of them cursed or haunted or fashioned for entirely unhuman hands. The children took to such training with frightening zeal, and the gleam of pride in Minala’s eyes left the assassin… chilled.

An army in the making for Shadowthrone. An alarming prospect, to say the least.

He reached the ridge. And suddenly reined in.

An enormous stone gate surmounted the hill opposite, twin pillars spanned by an arch. Within it, a swirling grey wall. On this side of the gate, the grassy summit flowed with countless, sourceless shadows, as if they were somehow tumbling out from the portal, only to swarm like lost wraiths around its threshold.

‘Careful,’ a voice murmured beside Kalam.

He turned to see a tall, hooded and cloaked figure standing a few paces away, flanked by two Hounds. Cotillion, and his favoured two, Rood and Blind. The beasts sat on their scarred haunches, lurid eyes-seeing and unseeing-on the portal.

‘Why should I be careful?’ the assassin asked.

‘Oh, the shadows at the gate. They’ve lost their masters… but anyone will do.’

‘So this gate is sealed?’

The hooded head slowly turned. ‘Dear Kalam, is this a flight from our realm? How… ignoble.’

‘I said nothing to suggest-’

‘Then why does your shadow stretch so yearningly forward?’

Kalam glanced down at it, then scowled. ‘How should I know? Perhaps it considers its chances better in yonder mob.’

‘Chances?’

‘For excitement.’

‘Ah. Chafing, are you? I would never have guessed.’

‘Liar,’ Kalam said. ‘Minala has banished me. But you already know that, which is why you’ve come to find me.’

‘I am the Patron of Assassins,’ Cotillion said. ‘I do not mediate marital disputes.’

‘Depends on how fierce they get, doesn’t it?’

‘Are you ready to kill each other, then?’

‘No. I was only making a point.’

‘Which was?’

‘What are you doing here, Cotillion?’

The god was silent for a long moment. ‘I have often wondered,’ he finally said, ‘why it is that you, an assassin, offer no obeisance to your patron.’

Kalam’s brows rose. ‘Since when have you expected it? Hood take us, Cotillion, if it was fanatical worshippers you hungered for, you should never have looked to assassins. By our very natures, we’re antithetical to the notion of subservience-as if you weren’t already aware of that.’ His voice trailed off, and he turned to study the shadow-wreathed figure standing beside him. ‘Mind you, you stood at Kellanved’s side, through to the end. Dancer, it seems, knew both loyalty and servitude…’

‘Servitude?’ There was a hint of a smile in the tone.

‘Mere expedience? That seems difficult to countenance, given all that the two of you went through. Out with it, Cotillion, what is it you’re asking?’

‘Was I asking something?’

‘You want me to… serve you, as would a minion his god. Some probably disreputable mission. You need me for something, only you’ve never learned how to ask.’

Rood slowly rose from his haunches, then stretched, long and languorous. The massive head then swung round, lambent eyes settling on Kalam.

‘The Hounds are troubled,’ Cotillion murmured. ‘I can tell,’ the assassin replied drily.

‘I have certain tasks before me,’ the god continued, ‘that will consume much of my time for the near future. Whilst at the same time, certain other… activities… must be undertaken. It is one thing to find a loyal subject, but another entirely to find one conveniently positioned, as it were, to be of practical use-’

Kalam barked a laugh. ‘You went fishing for faithful servants and found your subjects wanting.’

‘We could argue interpretation all day,’ Cotillion drawled.

There was a detectable irony in the god’s voice that pleased Kalam. In spite of his wariness, he admitted that he actually liked Cotillion. Uncle Cotillion, as the child Panek called him. Certainly, between the Patron of Assassins and Shadowthrone, only the former seemed to possess any shred of self-examination-and thus was actually capable of being humbled. Even if the likelihood was in truth remote. ‘Agreed,’ Kalam replied. ‘Very well, Minala has no interest in seeing my pretty face for a time. Leaving me free, more or less-’

‘And without a roof over your head.’

‘Without a roof over my head, aye. Fortunately it never seems to rain in your realm.’

‘Ah,’ Cotillion murmured, ‘my realm.’

Kalam studied Rood. The beast had not relinquished its steady stare. The assassin was growing nervous under that unwavering attention. ‘Is your claim-yours and Shadowthrone’s-being contested?’

‘Difficult to answer,’ Cotillion murmured. ‘There have been… trembles. Agitation…’

‘As you said, the Hounds are troubled.’

‘They are indeed.’

‘You wish to know more of your potential enemy.’

‘We would.’

Kalam studied the gate, the swirling shadows at its threshold. ‘Where would you have me begin?’

‘A confluence to your own desires, I suspect.’

The assassin glanced at the god, then slowly nodded.


In the half-light of dusk, the seas grew calm, gulls wheeling in from the shoals to settle on the beach. Cutter had built a fire from driftwood, more from the need to be doing something than seeking warmth, for the Kanese coast was subtropical, the breeze sighing down off the verge faint and sultry. The Daru had collected water from the spring near the trail head and was now brewing tea. Overhead, the first stars of night flickered into life.

Apsalar’s question earlier that afternoon had gone unanswered. Cutter was not yet ready to return to Darujhistan, and he felt nothing of the calm he’d expected to follow the completion of their task. Rellock and Apsalar had, finally, returned to their home, only to find it a place haunted by death, a haunting that had slipped its fatal flavour into the old man’s soul, adding yet one more ghost to this forlorn strand. There was, now, nothing for them here.

Cutter’s own experience here in the Malazan Empire was, he well knew, twisted and incomplete. A single vicious night in Malaz City, followed by three tense days in Kan that closed with yet more assassinations. The empire was a foreign place, of course, and one could expect a certain degree of discord between it and what he was used to in Darujhistan, but if anything what he had seen of daily life in the cities suggested a stronger sense of lawfulness, of order and calm. Even so, it was the smaller details that jarred his sensibilities the most, that reinforced the fact that he was a stranger.

Feeling vulnerable was not a weakness he shared with Apsalar. She seemed possessed of absolute calm, an ease, no matter where she was-the confidence of the god who once possessed her had left something of a permanent imprint on her soul. Not just confidence. He thought once more of the night she had killed the man in Kan. Deadly skills, and the icy precision necessary when using them. And, he recalled with a shiver, many of the god’s own memories remained with her, reaching back to when the god had been a mortal man, had been Dancer. Among those, the night of the assassinations-when the woman who would become Empress had struck down the Emperor… and Dancer.

She had revealed that much, at least, a revelation devoid of feeling, of sentiment, delivered as casually as a comment about the weather. Memories of biting knives, of dust-covered blood rolling like pellets across a floor…

He removed the pot from the coals, threw a handful of herbs into the steaming water.

She had gone for a walk, westward along the white beach. Even as dusk settled, he had lost sight of her, and he had begun to wonder if she was ever coming back.

A log settled suddenly, flinging sparks. The sea had grown entirely dark, invisible; he could not even hear the lap of the waves beyond the crackling fire. A cooler breath rode the breeze.

Cutter slowly rose, then spun round to face inland as something moved in the gloom beyond the fire’s light. ‘Apsalar?’

There was no reply. A faint thumping underfoot, as if the sands trembled to the passage of something huge… huge and four-legged.

The Daru drew out his knives, stepping away from the flickering light.

Ten paces away, at a height to match his own, he saw two glowing eyes, set wide, gold and seemingly depthless. The head and the body beneath it were darker stains in the night, hinting at a mass that left Cutter cold.

‘Ah,’ a voice said from the shadows to his left, ‘the Daru lad. Blind has found you, good. Now, where is your companion?’

Cutter slowly sheathed his weapons. ‘That damned Hound gave me a start,’ he muttered. ‘And if it’s blind, why is it looking straight at me?’

‘Well, her name is something of a misnomer. She sees, but not as we see.’ A cloaked figure stepped into the firelight. ‘Do you know me?’

‘Cotillion,’ Cutter replied. ‘Shadowthrone is much shorter.’

‘Not that much, though perhaps in his affectations he exaggerates certain traits.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I would speak with Apsalar, of course. There is the smell of death here… recent, that is-’

‘Rellock. Her father. In his sleep.’

‘Unfortunate.’ The god’s hooded head turned, as if scanning the vicinity, then swung back to face Cutter. ‘Am I your patron now?’ he asked.

He wanted to answer no. He wanted to back away, to flee the question and all his answer would signify. He wanted to unleash vitriol at the suggestion. ‘I believe you might be at that, Cotillion.’

‘I am… pleased, Crokus.’

‘I am now named Cutter.’

‘Far less subtle, but apt enough, I suppose. Even so, there was the hint of deadly charm in your old Daru name. Are you sure you will not reconsider?’

Cutter shrugged, then said, ‘Crokus had no… patron god.’

‘Of course. And one day, a man will arrive in Darujhistan. With a Malazan name, and no-one will know him, except perhaps by reputation. And he will eventually hear tales of the young Crokus, a lad so instrumental in saving the city on the night of the Fete, all those years ago. Innocent, unsullied Crokus. So be it… Cutter. I see you have a boat.’

The change of subject startled him slightly, then he nodded. ‘We have.’

‘Sufficiently provisioned?’

‘More or less. Not for a long voyage, though.’

‘No, of course not. Why should it be? May I see your knives?’

Cutter unsheathed them and passed them across to the god, pommels forward.

‘Decent blades,’ Cotillion murmured. ‘Well balanced. Within them are the echoes of your skill, the taste of blood. Shall I bless them for you, Cutter?’

‘If the blessing is without magic,’ the Daru replied.

‘You desire no sorcerous investment?’

‘No.’

‘Ah. You would follow Rallick Nom’s path.’

Cutter’s eyes narrowed. Oh, yes, he would recall him. When he saw through Sorry’s eyes, at the Phoenix Inn, perhaps. Or maybe Rallick acknowledged his patron… though I find that difficult to believe. ‘I think I would have trouble following that path, Cotillion. Rallick’s abilities are… were-’

‘Formidable, yes. I do not think you need use the past tense when speaking of Rallick Nom, or Vorcan for that matter. No, I’ve no news… simply a suspicion.’ He handed the knives back. ‘You underestimate your own skills, Cutter, but perhaps that is for the best.’

‘I don’t know where Apsalar’s gone,’ Cutter said. ‘I don’t know if she’s coming back.’

‘As it has turned out, her presence has proved less vital than expected. I have a task for you, Cutter. Are you amenable to providing a service to your patron?’

‘Isn’t that expected?’

Cotillion was silent for a moment, then he laughed softly. ‘No, I shall not take advantage of your… inexperience, though I admit to some temptation. Shall we begin things on a proper footing? Reciprocity, Cutter. A relationship of mutual exchanges, yes?’

‘Would that you had offered the same to Apsalar.’ Then he clamped his jaw shut.

But Cotillion simply sighed. ‘Would that I had. Consider this new tact the consequence of difficult lessons.’

‘You said reciprocity. What will I receive in return for providing this service?’

‘Well, since you’ll not accept my blessing or any other investment, I admit to being at something of a loss. Any suggestions?’

‘I’d like some questions answered.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Yes. Such as, why did you and Shadowthrone scheme to destroy Laseen and the empire? Was it just a desire for revenge?’

The god seemed to flinch within his robes, and Cutter felt unseen eyes harden. ‘Oh my,’ Cotillion drawled, ‘you force me to reconsider my offer.’

‘I would know,’ the Daru pressed on, ‘so I can understand what you did… did to Apsalar.’

‘You demand that your patron god justify his actions?’

‘It wasn’t a demand. Just a question.’ Cotillion said nothing for a long moment.

The fire was slowly dying, embers pulsing with the breeze. Cutter sensed the presence of a second Hound somewhere in the darkness beyond, moving restlessly.

‘Necessities,’ the god said quietly. ‘Games are played, and what may appear precipitous might well be little more than a feint. Or perhaps it was the city itself, Darujhistan, that would serve our purposes better if it remained free, independent. There are layers of meaning behind every gesture, every gambit. I will not explain myself any further than that, Cutter.’

‘Do-do you regret what you did?’

‘You are indeed fearless, aren’t you? Regret? Yes. Many, many regrets. One day, perhaps, you will see for yourself that regrets are as nothing. The value lies in how they are answered.’

Cutter slowly turned and stared out into the darkness of the sea. ‘I threw Oponn’s coin into the lake,’ he said.

‘And do you now regret the act?’

‘I’m not sure. I didn’t like their… attention.’

‘I am not surprised,’ Cotillion muttered.

‘I have one more request,’ Cutter said, facing the god again. ‘This task you shall set me on-if I am assailed during it, can I call upon Blind?’

‘The Hound?’ The astonishment was clear in Cotillion’s voice.

‘Aye,’ Cutter replied, his gaze now on the huge beast. ‘Her attention… comforts me.’

‘That makes you rarer than you could imagine, mortal. Very well. If the need is dire, call upon her and she will come.’

Cutter nodded. ‘Now, what would you have me do on your behalf?’


The sun had cleared the horizon when Apsalar returned. After a few hours’ sleep, Cutter had risen to bury Rellock above the tide line. He was checking the boat’s hull one last time when a shadow appeared alongside his own.

‘You had visitors,’ she said.

He squinted up at her, studied her dark, depthless eyes. ‘Aye.’

‘And do you now have an answer to my question?’

Cutter frowned, then he sighed and nodded. ‘I do. We’re to explore an island.’

‘An island? Is it far?’

‘Middling, but getting farther by the moment.’

‘Ah. Of course.’

Of course.

Overhead, gulls cried in the morning air on their way out to sea. Beyond the shoals, their white specks followed the wind, angling south-westward.

Cutter set his shoulder to the prow and pushed the craft back out onto the water. Then he clambered aboard. Apsalar joined him, making her way to the tiller.

What now? A god had given him his answer.


There had been no sunset in the realm the Tiste Edur called the Nascent for five months. The sky was grey, the light strangely hued and diffuse. There had been a flood, and then rains, and a world had been destroyed.

Even in the wreckage, however, there was life.

A score of broad-limbed catfish had clambered onto the mud-caked wall, none less than two man-lengths from blunt head to limp tail. They were well-fed creatures, their silvery-white bellies protruding out to the sides. Their skins had dried and fissures were visible in a latticed web across their dark backs. The glitter of their small black eyes was muted beneath the skin’s crinkled layer.

And it seemed those eyes were unaware of the solitary T’lan Imass standing over them.

Echoes of curiosity still clung to Onrack’s tattered, desiccated soul. Joints creaking beneath the knotted ropes of ligaments, he crouched beside the nearest catfish. He did not think the creatures were dead. Only a short time ago, these fish had possessed no true limbs. He was witness, he suspected, to a metamorphosis.

After a moment, he slowly straightened. The sorcery that had sustained the wall against the vast weight of the new sea still held along this section. It had crumbled in others, forming wide breaches and foaming torrents of silt-laden water rushing through to the other side. A shallow sea was spreading out across the land on that side. There might come a time, Onrack suspected, when fragments of this wall were this realm’s only islands.

The sea’s torrential arrival had caught them unawares, scattering them in its tumbling maelstrom. Other kin had survived, the T’lan Imass knew, and indeed some had found purchase on this wall, or on floating detritus, sufficient to regain their forms, to link once more so that the hunt could resume.

But Kurald Emurlahn, fragmented or otherwise, was not amenable to the T’lan Imass. Without a Bonecaster beside him, Onrack could not extend his Tellann powers, could not reach out to his kin, could not inform them that he had survived. For most of his kind, that alone would have been sufficient cause for… surrender. The roiling waters he had but recently crawled from offered true oblivion. Dissolution was the only escape possible from this eternal ritual, and even among the Logros-Guardians of the First Throne itself-Onrack knew of kin who had chosen that path. Or worse…

The warrior’s contemplation of choosing an end to his existence was momentary. In truth, he was far less haunted by his immortality than most T’lan Imass.

There was always something else to see, after all.

He detected movement beneath the skin of the nearest catfish, vague hints of contraction, of emerging awareness. Onrack drew forth his two-handed, curved obsidian sword. Most things he stumbled upon usually had to be killed. Occasionally in self-defence, but often simply due to an immediate and probably mutual loathing. He had long since ceased questioning why this should be so.

From his massive shoulders hung the rotted skin of an enkar’al, pebbled and colourless. It was a relatively recent acquisition, less than a thousand years old. Another example of a creature that had hated him on first sight. Though perhaps the black rippled blade swinging at its head had tainted its response.

It would be some time, Onrack judged, before the beast crawled out from its skin. He lowered his weapon and stepped past it. The Nascent’s extraordinary, continent-spanning wall was a curiosity in itself. After a moment, the warrior decided to walk its length. Or at least, until his passage was blocked by a breach.

He began walking, hide-wrapped feet scuffing as he dragged them forward, the point of the sword inscribing a desultory furrow in the dried clay as it trailed from his left hand. Clumps of mud clung to his ragged hide shirt and the leather straps of his weapon harness. Silty, soupy water had seeped into the various gashes and punctures on his body and now leaked in trickling runnels with every heavy step he took. He had possessed a helm once, an impressive trophy from his youth, but it had been shattered at the final battle against the Jaghut family in the Jhag Odhan. A single crossways blow that had also shorn away a fifth of his skull, parietal and temporal, on the right side. Jaghut women had deceptive strength and admirable ferocity, especially when cornered.

The sky above him had a sickly cast, but one he had already grown used to. This fragment of the long-fractured Tiste Edur warren was by far the largest he had come across, larger even than the one that surrounded Tremorlor, the Azath Odhanhouse. And this one had known a period of stability, sufficient for civilizations to arise, for savants of sorcery to begin unravelling the powers of Kurald Emurlahn, although those inhabitants had not been Tiste Edur.

Idly, Onrack wondered if the renegade T’lan Imass he and his kin pursued had somehow triggered the wound that had resulted in the flooding of this world. It seemed likely, given its obvious efficacy in obscuring their trail. Either that, or the Tiste Edur had returned, to reclaim what had once been theirs.

Indeed, he could smell the grey-skinned Edur-they had passed this way, and recently, arriving from another warren. Of course, the word ‘smell’ had acquired new meaning for the T’lan Imass in the wake of the Ritual. Mundane senses had for the most part withered along with flesh. Through the shadowed orbits of his eyes, for example, the world was a complex collage of dull colours, heat and cold and often measured by an unerring sensitivity to motion. Spoken words swirled in mercurial clouds of breath-if the speaker lived, that is. If not, then it was the sound itself that was detectable, shivering its way through the air. Onrack sensed sound as much by sight as by hearing.

And so it was that he became aware of a warm-blooded shape lying a short distance ahead. The wall here was slowly failing. Water spouted in streams from fissures between the bulging stones. Before long, it would give way entirely.

The shape did not move. It had been chained in place.

Another fifty paces and Onrack reached it.

The stench of Kurald Emurlahn was overpowering, faintly visible like a pool enclosing the supine figure, its surface rippling as if beneath a steady but thin rain. A deep ragged scar marred the prisoner’s broad brow beneath a hairless pate, the wound glowing with sorcery. There had been a metal tongue to hold down the man’s tongue, but that had dislodged, as had the straps wound round the figure’s head.

Slate-grey eyes stared up, unblinking, at the T’lan Imass.

Onrack studied the Tiste Edur for a moment longer, then he stepped over the man and continued on.

A ragged, withered voice rose in his wake. ‘Wait.’

The undead warrior paused and glanced back.

‘I-I would bargain. For my freedom.’

‘I am not interested in bargains,’ Onrack replied in the Edur language.

‘Is there nothing you desire, warrior?’

‘Nothing you can give me.’

‘Do you challenge me, then?’

Tendons creaking, Onrack tilted his head. ‘This section of the wall is about to collapse. I have no wish to be here when it does.’

‘And you imagine that I do?’

‘Considering your sentiments on the matter is a pointless effort on my part, Edur. I have no interest in imagining myself in your place. Why would I? You are about to drown.’

‘Break my chains, and we can continue this discussion in a safer place.’

‘The quality of this discussion has not earned such an exercise,’ Onrack replied.

‘I would improve it, given the time.’

‘This seems unlikely.’ Onrack turned away.

‘Wait! I can tell you of your enemies!’

Slowly, the T’lan Imass swung round once more. ‘My enemies? I do not recall saying that I had any, Edur.’

‘Oh, but you do. I should know. I was once one of them, and indeed that is why you find me here, for I am your enemy no longer.’

‘You are now a renegade among your own kind, then,’ Onrack observed. ‘I have no faith in traitors.’

‘To my own kind, T’lan Imass, I am not the traitor. That epithet belongs to the one who chained me here. In any case, the question of faith cannot be answered through negotiation.’

‘Should you have made that admission, Edur?’

The man grimaced. ‘Why not? I would not deceive you.’

Now, Onrack was truly curious. ‘Why would you not deceive me?’

‘For the very cause that has seen me Shorn,’ the Edur replied. ‘I am plagued by the need to be truthful.’

‘That is a dreadful curse,’ the T’lan Imass said.

‘Yes.’

Onrack lifted his sword. ‘In this case, I admit to possessing a curse of my own. Curiosity.’

‘I weep for you.’

‘I see no tears.’

‘In my heart, T’lan Imass.’

A single blow shattered the chains. With his free right hand, Onrack reached down and clutched one of the Edur’s ankles. He dragged the man after him along the top of the wall.

‘I would rail at the indignity of this,’ the Tiste Edur said as he was pulled onward, step by scuffing step, ‘had I the strength to do so.’

Onrack made no reply. Dragging the man with one hand, his sword with the other, he trudged forward, his progress eventually taking them past the area of weakness on the wall.

‘You can release me now,’ the Tiste Edur gasped.

‘Can you walk?’

‘No, but-’

‘Then we shall continue like this.’

‘Where are you going, then, that you cannot afford to wait for me to regain my strength?’

‘Along this wall,’ the T’lan Imass replied.

There was silence between them for a time, apart from the creaks from Onrack’s bones, the rasp of his hide-wrapped feet, and the hiss and thump of the Tiste Edur’s body and limbs across the mud-layered stones. The detritus-filled sea remained unbroken on their left, a festering marshland on their right. They passed between and around another dozen catfish, these ones not quite as large yet fully as limbed as the previous group. Beyond them, the wall stretched on unbroken to the horizon.

In a voice filled with pain, the Tiste Edur finally spoke again. ‘Much more… T’lan Imass… and you’ll be dragging a corpse.’

Onrack considered that for a moment, then he halted his steps and released the man’s ankle. He slowly swung about.

Groaning, the Tiste Edur rolled himself onto his side. ‘I assume,’ he gasped, ‘you have no food, or fresh water.’

Onrack lifted his gaze, back to the distant humps of the catfish. ‘I suppose I could acquire some. Of the former, that is.’

‘Can you open a portal, T’lan Imass? Can you get us out of this realm?’

‘No.’

The Tiste Edur lowered his head to the clay and closed his eyes. ‘Then I am as good as dead in any case. None the less, I appreciate your breaking my chains. You need not remain here, though I would know the name of the warrior who showed me what mercy he could.’

‘Onrack. Clanless, of the Logros.’

‘I am Trull Sengar. Also clanless.’

Onraek stared down at the Tiste Edur for a while. Then the T’lan Imass stepped over the man and set off, retracing their path. He arrived among the catfish. A single chop downward severed the head of the nearest one.

The slaying triggered a frenzy among the others. Skin split, sleek four-limbed bodies tore their way free. Broad, needle-fanged heads swung towards the undead warrior in their midst, tiny eyes glistening. Loud hisses from all sides. The beasts moved on squat, muscular legs, three-toed feet thickly padded and clawed. Their tails were short, extending in a vertical fin back up their spines.

They attacked as would wolves closing on wounded prey.

Obsidian blade flashed. Thin blood sprayed. Heads and limbs flopped about.

One of the creatures launched itself into the air, huge mouth closing over Onrack’s skull. As its full weight descended, the T’lan Imass felt his neck vertebrae creak and grind. He fell backward, letting the animal drag him down.

Then he dissolved into dust.

And rose five paces away to resume his killing, wading among the hissing survivors. A few moments later they were all dead.

Onrack collected one of the corpses by its hind foot and, dragging it, made his way back to Trull Sengar.

The Tiste Edur was propped up on one elbow, his flat eyes fixed on the T’lan Imass. ‘For a moment,’ he said, ‘I thought I was having the strangest dream. I saw you, there in the distance, wearing a huge, writhing hat. That then ate you whole.’

Onrack pulled the body up alongside Trull Sengar. ‘You were not dreaming. Here. Eat.’

‘Might we not cook it?’

The T’lan Imass strode to the seaside edge of the wall. Among the flotsam were the remnants of countless trees, from which jutted denuded branches. He climbed down onto the knotted detritus, felt it shift and roll unsteadily beneath him. It required but a few moments to snap off an armful of fairly dry wood, which he threw back up onto the wall. Then he followed.

He felt the Tiste Edur’s eyes on him as he prepared a hearth.

‘Our encounters with your kind,’ Trull said after a moment, ‘were few and far between. And then, only after your… ritual. Prior to that, your people fled from us at first sight. Apart from those who travelled the oceans with the Thelomen Toblakai, that is. Those ones fought us. For centuries, before we drove them from the seas.’

‘The Tiste Edur were in my world,’ Onrack said as he drew out his spark stones, ‘just after the coming of the Tiste Andu. Once numerous, leaving signs of passage in the snow, on the beaches, in deep forests.’

‘There are far fewer of us now,’ Trull Sengar said. ‘We came here-to this place-from Mother Dark, whose children had banished us. We did not think they would pursue, but they did. And upon the shattering of this warren, we fled yet again-to your world, Onrack. Where we thrived…’

‘Until your enemies found you once more.’

‘Yes. The first of those were… fanatical in their hatred. There were great wars-unwitnessed by anyone, fought as they were within darkness, in hidden places of shadow. In the end, we slew the last of those first Andu, but were broken ourselves in the effort. And so we retreated into remote places, into fastnesses. Then, more Andu came, only these seemed less… interested. And we in turn had grown inward, no longer consumed with the hunger of expansion-’

‘Had you sought to assuage that hunger,’ Onrack said as the first wisps of smoke rose from the shredded bark and twigs, ‘we would have found in you a new cause, Edur.’

Trull was silent, his gaze veiled. ‘We had forgotten it all,’ he finally said, settling back to rest his head once more on the clay. ‘All that I have just told you. Until a short while ago, my people-the last bastion, it seems, of the Tiste Edur-knew almost nothing of our past. Our long, tortured history. And what we knew was in fact false. If only,’ he added, ‘we had remained ignorant.’

Onrack slowly turned to gaze at the Edur. ‘Your people no longer look inward.’

‘I said I would tell you of your enemies, T’lan Imass.’

‘You did.’

‘There are your kind, Onrack, among the Tiste Edur. In league with our new purpose.’

‘And what is this purpose, Trull Sengar?’

The man looked away, closed his eyes. ‘Terrible, Onrack. A terrible purpose.’

The T’lan Imass warrior swung to the corpse of the creature he had slain, drew forth an obsidian knife. ‘I am familiar with terrible purposes,’ he said as he began cutting meat.

‘I shall tell you my tale now, as I said I would. So you understand what you now face.’

‘No, Trull Sengar. Tell me nothing more.’

‘But why?’

Because your truth would burden me. Force me to find my kin once more. Your truth would chain me to this world-to my world, once more. And I am not ready for that. ‘I am weary of your voice, Edur,’ he replied.

The beast’s sizzling flesh smelled like seal meat. A short time later, while Trull Sengar ate, Onrack moved to the edge of the wall facing onto the marsh. The flood waters had found old basins in the landscape, from which gases now leaked upward to drift in pale smears over the thick, percolating surface. Thicker fog obscured the horizon, but the T’lan Imass thought he could sense a rising of elevation, a range of low, humped hills.

‘It’s getting lighter,’ Trull Sengar said from where he lay beside the hearth. ‘The sky is glowing in places. There… and there.’

Onrack lifted his head. The sky had been an unrelieved sea of pewter, darkening every now and then to loose a deluge of rain, though that had grown more infrequent of late. But now rents had appeared, ragged-edged. A swollen orb of yellow light commanded one entire horizon, the wall ahead seeming to drive towards its very heart; whilst directly overhead hung a smaller circle of blurred fire, this one rimmed in blue. ‘The suns return,’ the Tiste Edur murmured. ‘Here, in the Nascent, the ancient twin hearts of Kurald Emurlahn live on. There was no way of telling, for we did not rediscover this warren until after the Breach. The flood waters must have brought chaos to the climate. And destroyed the civilization that existed here.’

Onrack looked down. ‘Were they Tiste Edur?’

The man shook his head. ‘No, more like your descendants, Onrack. Although the corpses we saw here along the wall were badly decayed.’ Trull grimaced. ‘They are as vermin, these humans of yours.’

‘Not mine,’ Onrack replied.

‘You feel no pride, then, at their insipid success?’

The T’lan Imass cocked his head. ‘They are prone to mistakes, Trull Sengar. The Logros have killed them in their thousands when the need to reassert order made doing so necessary. With ever greater frequency they annihilate themselves, for success breeds contempt for those very qualities that purchased it.’

‘It seems you’ve given this some thought.’

Onrack shrugged in a clatter of bones. ‘More than my kin, perhaps, the edge of my irritation with humankind remains jagged.’

The Tiste Edur was attempting to stand, his motions slow and deliberate. ‘The Nascent required… cleansing,’ he said, his tone bitter, ‘or so it was judged.’

‘Your methods,’ Onrack said, ‘are more extreme than what the Logros would choose.’

Managing to totter upright, Trull Sengar faced the T’lan Imass with a wry grin. ‘Sometimes, friend, what is begun proves too powerful to contain.’

‘Such is the curse of success.’

Trull seemed to wince at the words, and he turned away. ‘I must needs find fresh, clean water.’

‘How long had you been chained?’

The man shrugged. ‘Long, I suppose. The sorcery within the Shorning was designed to prolong suffering. Your sword severed its power, and now the mundane requirements of the flesh return.’

The suns were burning through the clouds, their combined heat filling the air with humidity. The overcast was shredding apart, vanishing before their very eyes. Onrack studied the blazing orbs once more. ‘There has been no night,’ he said.

‘Not in the summer, no. The winters, it’s said, are another matter. At the same time, with the deluge I suspect it is fruitless to predict what will come. Personally, I have no wish to find out.’

‘We must leave this wall,’ the T’lan Imass said after a moment.

‘Aye, before it collapses entirely. I think I can see hills in the distance.’

‘If you have the strength, clasp your arms about me,’ Onrack said, ‘and I will climb down. We can skirt the basins. If any local animals survived, they will be on higher ground. Do you wish to collect and cook more from this beast?’

‘No. It is less than palatable.’

‘That is not surprising, Trull Sengar. It is a carnivore, and has fed long on rotting flesh.’

The ground was sodden underfoot when they finally reached the base of the wall. Swarms of insects rose around them, closing on the Tiste Edur with frenzied hunger. Onrack allowed his companion to set the pace as they made their way between the water-filled basins. The air was humid enough to sheathe their bodies, soaking through the clothing they wore. Although there was no wind at ground level, the clouds overhead had stretched into streamers, racing to overtake them then scudding on to mass against the range of hills, where the sky grew ever darker.

‘We are heading right towards a squall,’ Trull muttered, waving his arms about to disperse the midges.

‘When it breaks, this land will flood,’ Onrack noted. ‘Are you capable of increasing your pace?’

‘No.’

‘Then I shall have to carry you.’

‘Carry, or drag?’

‘Which do you prefer?’

‘Carrying seems somewhat less humiliating.’

Onrack returned his sword to its loop in the shoulder harness. Though the warrior was judged tall among his own kind, the Tiste Edur was taller, by almost the length of a forearm. The T’lan Imass had the man sit down on the ground, knees drawn up, then Onrack squatted and slipped one arm beneath Trull’s knees, the other below his shoulder blades. Tendons creaking, the warrior straightened.

‘There’s fresh gouges all around your skull, or what’s left of it at any rate,’ the Tiste Edur noted.

Onrack said nothing. He set forth at a steady jog. Before long a wind arrived, tumbling down from the hills, growing to such force that the T’lan Imass had to lean forward, his feet thumping along the gravel ridges between the pools. The midges were quickly swept away.

There was, Onrack realized, a strange regularity to the hills ahead. There were seven in all, arrayed in what seemed a straight line, each of equal height though uniquely misshapen. The storm clouds were piling well behind them, corkscrewing in bulging columns skyward above an enormous range of mountains.

The wind howled against Onrack’s desiccated face, snapped at the strands of his gold-streaked hair, thrummed with a low-pitched drone through the leather strips of his harness. Trull Sengar was hunched against him, head ducked away from the shrieking blast.

Lightning bridged the heaving columns, the thunder long in reaching them.

The hills were not hills at all. They were edifices, massive and hulking, constructed from a smooth black stone, seemingly each a single piece. Twenty or more man-lengths high. Dog-like beasts, broad-skulled and small-eared, thickly muscled, heads lowered towards the two travellers and the distant wall behind them, the vast pits of their eyes faintly gleaming a deep, translucent amber. Onrack’s steps slowed. But did not halt.

The basins had been left behind, the ground underfoot slick with wind-borne rain but otherwise solid. The T’lan Imass angled his approach towards the nearest monument. As they came closer, they moved into the statue’s lee.

The sudden falling off of the wind was accompanied by a cavernous silence, the wind to either side oddly mute and distant. Onrack set Trull Sengar down.

The Tiste Edur’s bewildered gaze found the edifice rearing before them. He was silent, slow to stand as Onrack moved past him. ‘Beyond,’ Trull quietly murmured, ‘there should be a gate.’ Pausing, Onrack slowly swung round to study his companion. ‘This is your warren,’ he said after a moment. ‘What do you sense of these… monuments?’

‘Nothing, but I know what they are meant to represent… as do you. It seems the inhabitants of this realm made them into their gods.’

To that, Onrack made no reply. He faced the massive statue once more, head tilting as his gaze travelled upward, ever upward. To those gleaming, amber eyes.

‘There will be a gate,’ Trull Sengar persisted behind him. ‘A means of leaving this world. Why do you hesitate, T’lan Imass?’

‘I hesitate in the face of what you cannot see,’ Onrack replied. ‘There are seven, yes. But two of them are… alive.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘And this is one of them.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

An army that waits is soon an army at war with itself.

Kellanved

THE WORLD WAS ENCIRCLED IN RED. THE HUE OF OLD BLOOD, OF IRON rusting on a battlefield. It rose in a wall like a river turned on its side, crashing confused and uncertain against the rough cliffs that rose broken-toothed around the rim of Raraku. The Holy Desert’s most ancient guardians, those bleached limestone crags, now withering beneath the ceaseless storm of the Whirlwind, the raging goddess who could countenance no rival to her dominion. Who would devour the cliffs themselves in her fury.

Whilst the illusion of calm lay within her heart. The old man who had come to be known as Ghost Hands slowly clambered his way up the slope. His ageing skin was deep bronze, his tattooed, blunt and wide face as creased as a wind-clawed boulder. Small yellow flowers cloaked the ridge above him, a rare blossoming of the low-growing desert plant the local tribes called hen’bara. When dried, the flowers made a heady tea, mender of grief, balm against pain in a mortal soul. The old man scrabbled and scraped his way up the slope with something like desperation.

No life’s path is bloodless. Spill that of those blocking your path. Spill your own. Struggle on, wade the growing torrent with all the frenzy that is the brutal unveiling of self-preservation. The macabre dance in the tugging currents held no artistry, and to pretend otherwise was to sink into delusion.

Delusions. Heboric Light Touch, once priest of Fener, possessed no more delusions. He had drowned them one by one with his own hands long ago. His hands-his Ghost Hands-had proved particularly capable of such tasks. Whisperers of unseen powers, guided by a mysterious, implacable will. He knew that he had no control over them and so held no delusions. How could he?

Behind him, in the vast flat where tens of thousands of warriors and their followers were encamped amidst a city’s ruins, such clear-eyed vision was absent. The army was the strong hands, now at rest but soon to raise weapons, guided by a will that was anything but implacable, a will that was drowning in delusions. Heboric was not only different from all those below-he was their very opposite, a sordid reflection in a mangled mirror.

Hen’bara’s gift was dreamless sleep at night. The solace of oblivion.

He reached the ridge, breathing hard from the exertion, and settled down among the flowers for a moment to rest. Ghostly hands were as deft as real ones, though he could not see them-not even as the faint, mottled glow that others saw. Indeed, his vision was failing him in all things. It was an old man’s curse, he believed, to witness the horizons on all sides drawing ever closer. Even so, while the carpet of yellow surrounding him was little more than a blur to his eyes, the spicy fragrance filled his nostrils and left a palpable taste on his tongue.

The desert sun’s heat was bludgeoning, oppressive. It had a power of its own, transforming the Holy Desert into a prison, pervasive and relentless. Heboric had grown to despise that heat, to curse Seven Cities, to cultivate an abiding hatred for its people. And he was trapped among them, now. The Whirlwind’s barrier was indiscriminate, impassable both to those on the outside and those within-at the discretion of the Chosen One.

Movement to one side, the blur of a slight, dark-haired figure. Who then settled down beside him.

Heboric smiled. ‘I thought I was alone.’

‘We are both alone, Ghost Hands.’

‘Of that, Felisin, neither of us needs reminding.’ Felisin Younger, but that is a name I cannot speak out loud. The mother who adopted you, lass, has her own secrets. ‘What is that you have in your hands?’

‘Scrolls,’ the girl replied. ‘From Mother. She has, it seems, rediscovered her hunger for writing poetry.’

The tattooed ex-priest grunted, ‘I thought it was a love, not a hunger.’

‘You are not a poet,’ she said. ‘In any case, to speak plainly is a true talent; to bury beneath obfuscation is a poet’s calling these days.’

‘You are a brutal critic, lass,’ Heboric observed.

Call to Shadow, she has called it. Or, rather, she continues a poem her own mother began.’

‘Ah, well, Shadow is a murky realm. Clearly she has chosen a style to match the subject, perhaps to match that of her own mother.’

‘Too convenient, Ghost Hands. Now, consider the name by which Korbolo Dom’s army is now called. Dogslayers. That, old man, is poetic. A name fraught with diffidence behind its proud bluster. A name to match Korbolo Dom himself, who stands square-footed in his terror.’ Heboric reached out and plucked the first flower head. He held it to his nose a moment before dropping it into the leather bag at his belt. ‘ “Square-footed in his terror.” An arresting image, lass. But I see no fear in the Napan. The Malazan army mustering in Aren is nothing but three paltry legions of recruits. Commanded by a woman devoid of any relevant experience. Korbolo Dom has no reason to be afraid.’

The young girl’s laugh was a trill that seemed to cut an icy path through the air. ‘No reason, Ghost Hands? Many reasons, in fact. Shall I list them? Leoman. Toblakai. Bidithal. L’oric. Mathok. And, the one he finds most terrifying of all: Sha’ik. My mother. The camp is a snake-pit, seething with dissent. You have missed the last spitting frenzy. Mother has banished Mallick Rel and Pullyk Alar. Cast them out. Korbolo Dom loses two more allies in the power struggle-’

‘There is no power struggle,’ Heboric growled, tugging at a handful of flowers. ‘They are fools to believe that one is possible. Sha’ik has thrown those two out because treachery flows in their veins. She is indifferent to Korbolo Dom’s feelings about it.’

‘He believes otherwise, and that conviction is more important than what might or might not be true. And how does Mother respond to the aftermath of her pronouncements?’ Felisin swiped the plants before her with the scrolls. ‘With poetry.’

‘The gift of knowledge,’ Heboric muttered. ‘The Whirlwind Goddess whispers in the Chosen One’s ear. There are secrets within the Warren of Shadow, secrets containing truths that are relevant to the Whirlwind itself.’

‘What do you mean?’

Heboric shrugged. His bag was nearly full. ‘Alas, I possess my own prescient knowledge.’ And little good it does me. ‘The sundering of an ancient warren scattered fragments throughout the realms. The Whirlwind Goddess possesses power, but it was not her own, not at first. Just one more fragment, wandering lost and in pain. What was the goddess, I wonder, when she first stumbled onto the Whirlwind? Some desert tribe’s minor deity, I suspect. A spirit of the summer wind, protector of some whirlpool spring, possibly. One among many, without question. Of course, once she made that fragment her own, it did not take long for her to destroy her old rivals, to assert complete, ruthless domination over the Holy Desert.’

‘A quaint theory, Ghost Hands,’ Felisin drawled. ‘But it speaks nothing of the Seven Holy Cities, the Seven Holy Books, the prophecy of Dryjhna the Apocalyptic.’

Heboric snorted. ‘Cults feed upon one another, lass. Whole myths are co-opted to fuel the faith. Seven Cities was born of nomadic tribes, yet the legacy preceding them was that of an ancient civilization, which in turn rested uneasy on the foundations of a still older empire-the First Empire of the T’lan Imass. That which survives in memory or falters and fades away is but chance and circumstance.’

‘Poets may know hunger,’ she commented drily, ‘but historians devour. And devouring murders language, makes of it a dead thing.’

‘Not the historian’s crime, lass, but the critic’s.’

‘Why quibble? Scholars, then.’

‘Are you complaining that my explanation destroys the mysteries of the pantheon? Felisin, there are more worthy things to wonder at in this world. Leave the gods and goddesses to their own sickly obsessions.’

Her laugh struck through him again. ‘Oh, you are amusing company, old man! A priest cast out by his god. An historian once gaoled for his theories. A thief with nothing left worth stealing. I am not the one in need of wonder.’

He heard her climb to her feet. ‘In any case,’ she continued, ‘I was sent to find you.’

‘Oh? Sha’ik seeks more advice that she will no doubt ignore?’

‘Not this time. Leoman.’

Heboric scowled. And where Leoman is, so too will be Toblakai. The slayer’s only quality his holding to his vow to never again speak to me. Still, I will feel his eyes upon me. His killer’s eyes. If there’s anyone in the camp who should be banished… He slowly clambered upright. ‘Where will I find him?’

‘In the pit temple,’ she replied.

Of course. And what, dear lass, were you doing in Leoman’s company?

‘I would take you by hand,’ Felisin added, ‘but I find their touch far too poetic.’

She walked at his side, back down the slope, between the two vast kraals which were empty at the moment-the goats and sheep driven to the pastures east of the ruins for the day. They passed through a wide breach in the dead city’s wall, intersecting one of the main avenues that led to the jumble of sprawling, massive buildings of which only foundations and half-walls remained, that had come to be called the Circle of Temples.

Adobe huts, yurts and hide tents fashioned a modern city on the ruins. Neighbourhood markets bustled beneath wide, street-length awnings, filling the hot air with countless voices and the redolent aromas of cooking. Local tribes, those that followed their own war chief, Mathok-who held a position comparable to general in Sha’ik’s command-mingled with Dogslayers, with motley bands of renegades from cities, with cut-throat bandits and freed criminals from countless Malazan garrison gaols. The army’s camp followers were equally disparate, a bizarre self-contained tribe that seemed to wander a nomadic round within the makeshift city, driven to move at the behest of hidden vagaries no doubt political in nature. At the moment, some unseen defeat had them more furtive than usual-old whores leading scores of mostly naked, thin children, weapon smiths and tack menders and cooks and latrine diggers, widows and wives and a few husbands and fewer still fathers and mothers… threads linked most of them to the warriors in Sha’ik’s army, but they were tenuous at best, easily severed, often tangled into a web of adultery and bastardy.

The city was a microcosm of Seven Cities, in Heboric’s opinion. Proof of all the ills the Malazan Empire had set out to cure as conquerors then occupiers. There seemed few virtues to the freedoms to which the ex-priest had been witness, here in this place. Yet he suspected he was alone in his traitorous thoughts. The empire sentenced me a criminal, yet I remain Malazan none the less. A child of the empire, a reawakened devotee to the old emperor’s ‘peace by the sword’. So, dear Tavore, lead your army to this heart of rebellion, and cut it dead. I’ll not weep for the loss.

The Circle of Temples was virtually abandoned compared to the teeming streets the two had just passed through. The home of old gods, forgotten deities once worshipped by a forgotten people who left little behind apart from crumbling ruins and pathways ankle-deep in dusty potsherds. Yet something of the sacred still lingered for some, it seemed, for it was here where the most decrepit of the lost found meagre refuge. A scattering of minor healers moved among these destitute few-the old widows who’d found no refuge as a third or even fourth wife to a warrior or merchant, fighters who’d lost limbs, lepers and other diseased victims who could not afford the healing powers of High Denul. There had once numbered among these people abandoned children, but Sha’ik had seen to an end to that. Beginning with Felisin, she had adopted them all-her private retinue, the Whirlwind cult’s own acolytes. By Heboric’s last cursory measure, a week past, they had numbered over three thousand, in ages ranging from newly weaned to Felisin’s age-close to Sha’ik’s own, true age. To all of them, she was Mother.

It had not been a popular gesture. The pimps had lost their lambs. In the centre of the Circle of Temples was a broad, octagonal pit, sunk deep into the layered limestone, its floor never touched by the sun, cleared out now of its resident snakes, scorpions and spiders and re-occupied by Leoman of the Flails. Leoman, who had once been Elder Sha’ik’s most trusted bodyguard. But the reborn Sha’ik had delved deep into the man’s soul, and found it empty, bereft of faith, by some flaw of nature inclined to disavow all forms of certainty. The new Chosen One had decided she could not trust this man-not at her side, at any rate. He had been seconded to Mathok, though it seemed that the position involved few responsibilities. While Toblakai remained as Sha’ik’s personal guardian, the giant with the shattered tattoo on his face had not relinquished his friendship with Leoman and was often in the man’s sour company.

There was history between the two warriors, of which Heboric was certain he sensed but a fraction. They had once shared a chain as prisoners of the Malazans, it was rumoured. Heboric wished the Malazans had shown less mercy in Toblakai’s case.

‘I will leave you now,’ Felisin said at the pit’s brick-lined edge. ‘When next I desire to clash views with you, I will seek you out.’

Grimacing, Heboric nodded and began making his way down the ladder. The air around him grew cooler in layers as he descended into the gloom. The smell of durhang was sweet and heavy-one of Leoman’s affectations, leading the ex-priest to wonder if young Felisin was following her mother’s path more closely than he had suspected.

The limestone floor was layered in rugs now. Ornate furniture-the portable kind wealthy travelling merchants used-made the spacious chamber seem crowded. Wood-framed screens stood against the walls here and there, the stretched fabric of their panels displaying woven scenes from tribal mythology. Where the walls were exposed, black and red ochre paintings from some ancient artist transformed the smooth, rippled stone into multi-layered vistas-savannas where transparent beasts roamed. For some reason these images remained clear and sharp to Heboric’s eyes, whispering memories of movement ever on the edges of his vision.

Old spirits wandered this pit, trapped for eternity by its high, sheer walls. Heboric hated this place, with all its spectral laminations of failure, of worlds long extinct.

Toblakai sat on a backless divan, rubbing oil into the blade of his wooden sword, not bothering to look up as Heboric reached the base of the ladder. Leoman lay sprawled among cushions near the wall opposite.

‘Ghost Hands,’ the desert warrior called in greeting. ‘You have hen’bara? Come, there is a brazier here, and water-’

‘I reserve that tea for just before I go to bed,’ Heboric replied, striding over. ‘You would speak with me, Leoman?’

‘Always, friend. Did not the Chosen One call us her sacred triangle? We three, here in this forgotten pit? Or perhaps I have jumbled my words, and should reverse my usage of “sacred” and “forgotten”? Come, sit. I have herbal tea, the kind that makes one wakeful.’

Heboric sat down on a cushion. ‘And what need have we to be wakeful?’

Leoman’s smile was loose, telling Heboric that durhang had swept away his usual reticence. ‘Dear Ghost Hands,’ the warrior murmured, ‘it is the need of the hunted. It is the gazelle with its nose to the ground that the lion sups with, after all.’

The ex-priest’s brows rose. ‘And who is stalking us now, Leoman?’

Leaning back, Leoman replied, ‘Why, the Malazans, of course. Who other?’

‘Why, most certainly then we must talk,’ Heboric said in mock earnestness. ‘I had no idea, after all, that the Malazans were planning on doing us harm. Are you certain of your information?’

Toblakai spoke to Leoman. ‘As I have told you before, this old man should be killed.’

Leoman laughed. ‘Ah, my friend, now that you are the only one of us three who still has the Chosen One’s ear… as it were… I would suggest you relinquish that subject. She has forbidden it and that is that. Nor am I inclined to agree with you in any case. It is an old refrain that needs burying.’

‘Toblakai hates me because I see too clearly what haunts his soul,’ Heboric said. ‘And, given his vow to not speak to me, his options for dialogue are sadly limited.’

‘I applaud your empathy, Ghost Hands.’

Heboric snorted. ‘If there is to be subject to this meeting, Leoman, let’s hear it. Else I’ll make my way back to the light.’

‘That would prove a long journey,’ the warrior chuckled. ‘Very well. Bidithal is back to his old ways.’

‘Bidithal, the High Mage? What “old ways”?’

‘His ways with children, Heboric. Girls. His unpleasant… hungers. Sha’ik is not all-knowing, alas. Oh, she knows Bidithal’s old predilections-she experienced them first-hand when she was Sha’ik Elder, after all. But there are close to a hundred thousand people in this city, now. A few children vanishing every week… easily passing virtually unnoticed. Mathok’s people, however, are by nature watchful.’

Heboric scowled. ‘And what would you have me do about it?’

‘Are you disinterested?’

‘Of course not. But I am one man, without, as you say, a voice. While Bidithal is one of the three sworn to Sha’ik, one of her most powerful High Mages.’

Leoman began making tea. ‘We share a certain loyalty, friend,’ he murmured, ‘the three of us here. With a certain child.’ He looked up then, leaning close as he set the pot of water on the brazier’s grate, his veiled blue eyes fixing on Heboric. ‘Who has caught Bidithal’s eye. But that attention is more than simply sexual. Felisin is Sha’ik’s chosen heir-we can all see that, yes? Bidithal believes she must be shaped in a manner identical to her mother-when her mother was Sha’ik Elder, that is. The child must follow the mother’s path, Bidithal believes. As the mother was broken inside, so too must the child be broken inside.’

Cold horror filled Heboric at Leoman’s words. He snapped a glare at Toblakai. ‘Sha’ik must be told of this!’

‘She has,’ Leoman said. ‘But she needs Bidithal, if only to balance the schemes of Febryl and L’oric. The three despise each other, naturally. She has been told, Ghost Hands, and so she tasks us three in turn to be… watchful.’

‘How in Hood’s name am I supposed to be watchful?’ Heboric snapped. ‘I am damned near blind! Toblakai! Tell Sha’ik to take that wrinkled bastard and flay him alive, never mind Febryl and L’oric!’

The huge savage bared his teeth at Leoman. ‘I hear a lizard hissing from under its rock, Leoman of the Flails. Such bravado is quickly ended with the heel of a boot.’

‘Ah,’ Leoman sighed to Heboric, ‘alas, Bidithal is not the problem. Indeed, he may prove Sha’ik’s saviour. Febryl schemes betrayal, friend. Who are his co-conspirators? Unknown. Not L’oric, that’s for certain-L’oric is by far the most cunning of the three, and so not a fool by any measure. Yet Febryl needs allies among the powerful. Is Korbolo Dom in league with the bastard? We don’t know. Kamist Reloe? His two lieutenant mages, Henaras and Fayelle? Even if they all were, Febryl would still need Bidithal-either to stand aside and do nothing, or to join.’

‘Yet,’ Toblakai growled, ‘Bidithal is loyal.’

‘In his own way,’ Leoman agreed. ‘And he knows that Febryl is planning treachery, and now but awaits the invitation. Whereupon he will tell Sha’ik.’

‘And all the conspirators will then die,’ Toblakai said.

Heboric shook his head. ‘And what if those conspirators comprise her entire command?’

Leoman shrugged, then began pouring tea. ‘Sha’ik has the Whirlwind, friend. To lead the armies? She has Mathok. And me. And L’oric will remain, that is certain. Seven take us, Korbolo Dom is a liability in any case.’

Heboric was silent for a long moment. He made no move when with a gesture Leoman invited him to partake of the tea. ‘And so the lie is revealed,’ he finally murmured. ‘Toblakai has told Sha’ik nothing. Not him, nor Mathok, nor you, Leoman. This is your way of getting back into power. Crush a conspiracy and thereby eliminate all your rivals. And now, you invite me into the lie.’

‘Not a great lie,’ Leoman replied. ‘Sha’ik has been informed that Bidithal hunts children once more…’

‘But not Felisin in particular.’

‘The Chosen One must not let her personal loyalties place the entire rebellion at risk. She would act too quickly-’

‘And you think I give a damn about this rebellion, Leoman?’

The warrior smiled as he leaned back on the cushions. ‘You care about nothing, Heboric. Not even yourself. But no, that is not true, is it? There is Felisin. There is the child.’

Heboric climbed to his feet. ‘I am done here.’

‘Go well, friend. Know that your company is always welcome here.’

The ex-priest made his way towards the ladder. Reaching it, he paused. ‘And here I’d been led to believe that the snakes were gone from this pit.’

Leoman laughed. ‘The cool air but makes them… dormant. Be careful on that ladder, Ghost Hands.’

After the old man had left, Toblakai sheathed his sword and rose. ‘He will head straight to Sha’ik,’ he pronounced.

‘Will he?’ Leoman asked, then shrugged. ‘No, I think not. Not to Sha’ik…’

Of all the temples of the native cults in Seven Cities, only the ones raised in the name of a particular god displayed an architectural style that could be seen to echo the ancient ruins in the Circle of Temples. And so, in Heboric’s mind, there was nothing accidental to Bidithal’s choice of abode. Had the foundations of the temple the High Mage now occupied still held aloft walls and ceiling, it would be seen to be a low, strangely elongated dome, buttressed by half-arches like the ribs of a vast sea-creature, or perhaps the skeletal framework of a longship. The tent-cloth covering the withered and crumbled remnants was affixed to the few surviving upright wings. These wings and the floor plan gave sufficient evidence of what the temple had originally looked like; and in the Seven Holy Cities and among its more populated lesser kin, a certain extant temple could be found that closely resembled this ruin in style.

And in these truths, Heboric suspected a mystery. Bidithal had not always been a High Mage. Not in title in any case. In the Dhobri language, he had been known as Rashan’ais. The archpriest of the cult of Rashan, which had existed in Seven Cities long before the Throne of Shadow had been reoccupied. In the twisted minds of humanity, it seemed, there was nothing objectionable about worshipping an empty throne. No stranger than kneeling before the Boar of Summer, before a god of war.

The cult of Rashan had not taken well the ascension of Ammanas-Shadowthrone-and the Rope into positions of penultimate power within the Warren of Shadow. Though Heboric’s knowledge of the details was sketchy at best, it seemed that the cult had torn itself apart. Blood had been spilled within temple walls, and in the aftermath of desecrating murder, only those who acknowledged the mastery of the new gods remained among the devotees. To the wayside, bitter and licking deep wounds, the banished slunk away.

Men like Bidithal.

Defeated but, Heboric suspected, not yet finished. For it is the Meanas temples of Seven Cities that most closely mimic this ruin in architectural style… as if a direct descendant of this land’s earliest cults

Within the Whirlwind, the cast-out Rashan’ais had found refuge. Further proof of his belief that the Whirlwind was but a fragment of a shattered warren, and that shattered warren was Shadow. And if that is indeed the case, what hidden purpose holds Bidithal to Sha’ik? Is he truly loyal to Dryjhna the Apocalyptic, to this holy conflagration in the name of liberty? Answers to such questions were long in coming, if at all. The unknown player, the unseen current beneath this rebellion-indeed, beneath the Malazan Empire itself-was the new ruler of Shadow and his deadly companion. Ammanas Shadowthrone, who was Kellanved-emperor of Malaz and conqueror of Seven Cities. Cotillion, who was Dancer-master of the Talon and the empire’s deadliest assassin, deadlier even than Surly. Gods below, something breathes there… I now wonder, whose war is this?

Distracted by such troubling thoughts as he made his way to Bidithal’s abode, it was a moment before Heboric realized that his name had been called. Eyes straining to focus as he searched for the originator of that call, he was suddenly startled by a hand settling on his shoulder.

‘My apologies, Ghost Hands, if I frightened you.’

‘Ah, L’oric,’ Heboric replied, finally recognizing the tall, white-robed figure standing beside him. ‘These are not your usual haunts, are they?’

A slightly pained smile. ‘I regret that my presence is seen as a haunting-unless of course your use of the word was unmindful.’

‘Careless, you mean. It was. I have been in the company of Leoman, inadvertently breathing fumes of durhang. What I meant was, I rarely see you in these parts, that is all.’

‘Thus explaining your perturbed expression,’ L’oric murmured.

Meeting you, the durhang or Leoman? The tall mage-one of Sha’ik’s three-was not by nature approachable, nor given to drama. Heboric had no idea which warren the man employed in his sorceries. Perhaps Sha’ik alone knew.

After a moment, the High Mage resumed, ‘Your route suggests a visit to a certain resident here in the Circle. Further, I sense a storm of emotions stirring around you, which could lead one to surmise the impending encounter will prove tumultuous.’

‘You mean we might argue, Bidithal and I,’ Heboric growled. ‘Well yes, that’s damned likely.’

‘I myself have but recently departed his company,’ L’oric said. ‘Perhaps a warning? He is much agitated over something, and so short of temper.’

‘Perhaps it was something you said, ‘Heboric ventured.

‘Entirely possible,’ the mage conceded. ‘And if so, then I apologize.’

‘Fener’s tusks, L’oric, what are you doing in this damned army of vipers?’

Again the pained smile, then a shrug. ‘Mathok’s tribes have among them women and men who dance with flare-necked vipers-such as are sometimes found where grasses grow deep. It is a complicated and obviously dangerous dance, yet one possessed of a certain charm. There are attractions to such exercise.’

‘You enjoy taking risks, even with your life.’

‘I might in turn ask why are you here, Heboric? Do you seek to return to your profession as historian, thus ensuring that the tale of Sha’ik and the Whirlwind will be told? Or are you indeed ensnared with loyalties to the noble cause of liberty? Surely, you cannot say you are both, can you?’

‘I was a middling historian at best, L’oric,’ Heboric muttered, reluctant to elaborate on his reasons for remaining-none of which had any real relevance, since Sha’ik was not likely to let him leave in any case.

‘You are impatient with me. I will leave you to your task, then.’ L’oric made a slight bow as he stepped back.

Watching the man walk away, Heboric stood motionless for a moment longer, then he resumed his journey. Bidithal was agitated, was he? An argument with L’oric, or something behind the veil? The High Mage’s dwelling was before him now, the tent walls and peaked ceiling sun-faded and smoke-stained, a dusty smear of mottled magenta squatting above the thick foundation stones. Huddled just outside the flap entrance was a sunburned, filthy figure, mumbling in some foreign language, face hidden beneath long greasy strands of brown hair. The figure had no hands and no feet, the stumps showing old scar tissue yet still suppurating a milky yellow discharge. The man was using one of his wrist stumps to draw broad patterns in the thick dust, surrounding himself in linked chains, round and round, each pass obscuring what had been made before.

This one belongs to Toblakai. His master work-Sulgar? Silgar. The Nathii. The man was one of the many crippled, diseased and destitute inhabitants of the Circle of Temples. Heboric wondered what had drawn him to Bidithal’s tent.

He arrived at the entrance. In tribal fashion, the flap was tied back, the customary expansive gesture of invitation, the message one of ingenuousness. As he ducked to step through, Silgar stirred, head snapping up.

‘Brother of mine! I’ve seen you before, yes! Maimed-we are kin!’ The language was a tangled mix of Nathii, Malazan and Ehrlii. The man’s smile revealed a row of rotting teeth. ‘Flesh and spirit, yes? We are, you and I, the only honest mortals here!’

‘If you say so,’ Heboric muttered, striding into Bidithal’s home. Silgar’s cackle followed him in.

No effort had been made to clean the sprawling chamber within. Bricks and rubble lay scattered across a floor of sand, broken mortar and potsherds. A half-dozen pieces of furniture were positioned here and there in the cavernous space. There was a large, low bed, wood-slatted and layered in thin mattresses. Four folding merchant chairs of the local three-legged kind faced onto the bed in a ragged row, as if Bidithal was in the habit of addressing an audience of acolytes or students. A dozen small oil lamps crowded the surface of a small table nearby.

The High Mage had his back to Heboric and most of the long chamber. A torch, fixed to a spear that had been thrust upright, its base mounded with stones and rubble, stood slightly behind Bidithal’s left shoulder, casting the man’s own shadow onto the tent wall.

A chill rippled through Heboric, for it seemed the High Mage was conversing in a language of gestures with his own shadow. Cast out in name only, perhaps. Still eager to play with Meanas. In the Whirlwind’s name, or his own? ‘High Mage,’ the ex-priest called.

The ancient, withered man slowly turned. ‘Come to me,’ he rattled, ‘I would experiment.’

‘Not the most encouraging invitation, Bidithal.’ But Heboric approached none the less.

Bidithal waved impatiently. ‘Closer! I would see if your ghostly hands cast shadows.’

Heboric halted, stepped back with a shake of his head. ‘No doubt you would, but I wouldn’t.’

‘Come!’

‘No.’

The dark wrinkled face twisted into a scowl, black eyes glittering.

‘You are too eager to protect your secrets.’

‘And you aren’t?’

‘I serve the Whirlwind. Nothing else is important-’

‘Barring your appetites.’

The High Mage cocked his head, then made a small, almost effeminate wave with one hand. ‘Mortal necessities. Even when I was Rashan’ais, we saw no imperative to turn away from the pleasures of the flesh. Indeed, the interweaving of the shadows possesses great power.’

‘And so you raped Sha’ik when she was but a child. And scourged from her all future chance at such pleasures as you now espouse. I see little logic in that, Bidithal-only sickness.’

‘My purposes are beyond your ability to comprehend, Ghost Hands,’ the High Mage said with a smirk. ‘You cannot wound me with such clumsy efforts.’

‘I’d been given to understand you were agitated, discomfited.’

‘Ah, L’oric. Another stupid man. He mistook excitement for agitation, but I will say no more of that. Not to you.’

‘Allow me to be equally succinct, Bidithal.’ Heboric stepped closer. ‘If you even so much as look in Felisin’s direction, these hands of mine will twist your head from your neck.’

‘Felisin? Sha’ik’s dearest? Do you truly believe she is a virgin? Before Sha’ik returned, the child was a waif, an orphan in the camp. None cared a whit about her-’

‘None of which matters,’ Heboric said.

The High Mage turned away. ‘Whatever you say, Ghost Hands. Hood knows, there are plenty of others-’

‘All now under Sha’ik’s protection. Do you imagine she will permit such abuses from you?’

‘You shall have to ask her that yourself,’ Bidithal replied. ‘Now leave me. You are guest no longer.’

Heboric hesitated, barely resisting an urge to kill the man now, this instant. Would it even be pre-emptive? Has he not as much as admitted to his crimes? But this was not a place of Malazan justice, was it? The only law that existed here was Sha’ik’s. Nor will I be alone in this. Even Toblakai has vowed protection over Felisin. But what of the other children? Why does Sha’ik tolerate this, unless it is as Leoman has said. She needs Bidithal. Needs him to betray Febryl’s plotting.

Yet what do I care for all of that? This… creature does not deserve to live.

‘Contemplating murder?’ Bidithal murmured, his back turned once more, his own shadow dancing on its own on the tent wall. ‘You would not be the first, nor, I suspect, the last. I should warn you, however, this temple is newly resanctified. Take another step towards me, Ghost Hands, and you will see the power of that.’

‘And you believe Sha’ik will permit you to kneel before Shadowthrone?’

The man whirled, his face black with rage. ‘Shadowthrone? That… foreigner! The roots of Meanas are found in an elder warren! Once ruled by-’ he snapped his mouth shut, then smiled, revealing dark teeth. ‘Not for you. Oh no, not for you, ex-priest. There are purposes within the Whirlwind-your existence is tolerated but little more than that. Challenge me, Ghost Hands, and you will know holy wrath.’

Heboric’s answering grin was hard. ‘I’ve known it before, Bidithal. Yet I remain. Purposes? Perhaps mine is to block your path. I’d advise you to think on that.’

Stepping outside once more, he paused briefly, blinking in the harsh sunlight. Silgar was nowhere to be seen, yet he had completed an elaborate pattern in the dust around Heboric’s moccasins. Chains, surrounding a figure with stumps instead of hands… yet footed. The ex-priest scowled, kicking through the image as he set forth.

Silgar was no artist. Heboric’s own eyes were bad. Perhaps he’d seen only what his fears urged-it had been Silgar himself within the circle of chains the first time, after all. In any case, it was not important enough to make him turn back for a second look. Besides, his own steps had no doubt left it ruined.

None of which explained the chill that clung to him as he walked beneath the searing sun.

The vipers were writhing in their pit, and he was in their midst.


The old scars of ligature damage made his ankles and wrists resemble segmented tree trunks, each pinched width encircling his limbs to remind him of those times, of every shackle that had snapped shut, every chain that had held him down. In his dreams, the pain reared like a thing alive once more, weaving mesmerizing through a tumult of confused, distraught scenes.

The old Malazan with no hands and the shimmering, near solid tattoo had, despite his blindness, seen clearly enough, seen those trailing ghosts, the wind-moaning train of deaths that stalked him day and night now, loud enough in Toblakai’s mind to drown out the voice of Urugal, close enough to obscure his god’s stone visage behind veil after veil of mortal faces-each and every one twisted with the agony and fear that carved out the moment of dying. Yet the old man had not understood, not entirely. The children among those victims-children in terms of recently birthed, as the lowlanders used the word-had not all fallen to the bloodwood sword of Karsa Orlong. They were, one and all, the progeny that would never be, the bloodlines severed in the trophy-cluttered cavern of the Teblor’s history.

Toblakai. A name of past glories, of a race of warriors who had stood alongside mortal Imass, alongside cold-miened Jaghut and demonic Forkrul Assail. A name by which Karsa Orlong was now known, as if he alone was the inheritor of elder dominators in a young, harsh world. Years ago, such a thought would have filled his chest with fierce, bloodthirsty pride. Now it racked him like a desert cough, weakened him deep in his bones. He saw what no-one else saw, that his new name was a title of polished, blinding irony.

The Teblor were long fallen from Thelomen Toblakai. Mirrored reflections in flesh only. Kneeling like fools before seven blunt-featured faces carved into a cliffside. Valley dwellers, where every horizon was almost within reach. Victims of brutal ignorance-for which no-one else could be blamed-entwined with deceit, for which Karsa Orlong would seek a final accounting.

He and his people had been wronged, and the warrior who now strode between the dusty white boles of a long-dead orchard would, one day, give answer to that.

But the enemy had so many faces…

Even alone, as he was now, he longed for solitude. But it was denied him. The rattle of chains was unceasing, the echoing cries of the slain endless. Even the mysterious but palpable power of Raraku offered no surcease-Raraku itself, not the Whirlwind, for Toblakai knew that the Whirlwind was like a child to the Holy Desert’s ancient presence, and it touched him naught. Raraku had known many such storms, yet it weathered them as it did all things, with untethered skin of sand and the solid truth of stone. Raraku was its own secret, the hidden bedrock that held the warrior in this place. From Raraku, Karsa believed, he would find his own truth.

He had knelt before Sha’ik Reborn, all those months ago. The young woman with the Malazan accent who’d stumbled into view half carrying her tattooed, handless pet. Knelt, not in servitude, not from resurrected faith, but in relief. Relief, that the waiting had ended, that he would be able to drag Leoman away from that place of failure and death. They had seen Sha’ik Elder murdered while under their protection. A defeat that had gnawed at Karsa. Yet he could not deceive himself into believing that the new Chosen One was anything but a hapless victim that the insane Whirlwind Goddess had simply plucked from the wilderness, a mortal tool that would be used with merciless brutality. That she had proved a willing participant in her own impending destruction was equally pathetic in Karsa’s eyes. Clearly, the scarred young woman had her own reasons, and seemed eager for the power.

Lead us, Warleader.

The words laughed bitterly through his thoughts as he wandered through the grove-the city almost a league to the east, the place where he now found himself a remnant outskirt of some other town. Warleaders needed such forces gathered around them, arrayed in desperate defence of self-delusion, of headlong singlemindedness. The Chosen One was more like Toblakai than she imagined, or, rather, a younger Toblakai, a Teblor commanding slayers-an army of two with which to deliver mayhem.

Sha’ik Elder had been something else entirely. She had lived long through her haunting, her visions of Apocalypse that had tugged and jerked her bones ever onward as if they were string-tied sticks. And she had seen truths in Karsa’s soul, had warned him of the horrors to come-not in specific terms, for like all seers she had been cursed with ambiguity-but sufficient to awaken within Karsa a certain… watchfulness.

And, it seemed, he did little else these days but watch. As the madness that was the soul of the Whirlwind Goddess seeped out like poison in the blood to infect every leader among the rebellion. Rebellion… oh, there was truth enough in that. But the enemy was not the Malazan Empire. It is sanity itself that they are rebelling against. Order. Honourable conduct. ‘Rules of the common’, as Leoman called them, even as his consciousness sank beneath the opaque fumes of durhang. Yes, I would well understand his flight, were I to believe what he would present to us all-the drifting layers of smoke in his pit, the sleepy look his eyes, the slurred words… ah, but Leoman, I have never witnessed you actually partake of the drug. Only its apparent aftermath, the evidence scattered all about, and the descent into sleep that seems perfectly timed whenever you wish to close a conversation, end a certain discourse…

Like him, Karsa suspected, Leoman was biding his time. Raraku waited with them. Perhaps, for them. The Holy Desert possessed a gift, yet it was one that few had ever recognized, much less accepted. A gift that would arrive unseen, unnoticed at first, a gift too old to find shape in words, too formless to grasp in the hands as one would a sword.

Toblakai, once a warrior of forest-cloaked mountains, had grown to love this desert. The endless tones of fire painted on stone and sand, the bitter-needled plants and the countless creatures that crawled, slithered or scampered, or slipped through night-air on silent wings. He loved the hungry ferocity of these creatures, their dancing as prey and predator a perpetual cycle inscribed on the sand and beneath the rocks. And the desert in turn had reshaped Karsa, weathered his skin dark, stretched taut and lean his muscles, thinned his eyes to slits.

Leoman had told him much of this place, secrets that only a true inhabitant would know. The ring of ruined cities, harbours one and all, the old beach ridges with their natural barrows running for league upon league. Shells that had turned hard as stone and would sing low and mournful in the wind-Leoman had presented him with a gift of these, a vest of hide on which such shells had been affixed, armour that moaned in the endless, ever-dry winds. There were hidden springs in the wasteland, cairns and caves where an ancient sea-god had been worshipped. Remote basins that would, every few years, be stripped of sand to reveal long, high-prowed ships of petrified wood that was crowded with carvings-a long-dead fleet revealed beneath starlight only to be buried once more the following day. In other places, often behind the beach ridges, the forgotten mariners had placed cemeteries, using hollowed-out cedar trunks to hold their dead kin-all turned to stone, now, claimed by the implacable power of Raraku.

Layer upon countless layer, the secrets were unveiled by the winds. Sheer cliffs rising like ramps, in which the fossil skeletons of enormous creatures could be seen. The stumps of cleared forests, hinting of trees as large as any Karsa had known from his homeland. The columnar pilings of docks and piers, anchor-stones and the open cavities of tin mines, flint quarries and arrow-straight raised roads, trees that grew entirely underground, a mass of roots stretching out for leagues, from which the ironwood of Karsa’s new sword had been carved-his blood-sword having cracked long ago.

Raraku had known Apocalypse first-hand, millennia past, and Toblakai wondered if it truly welcomed its return. Sha’ik’s goddess stalked the desert, her mindless rage the shriek of unceasing wind along its borders, but Karsa wondered at the Whirlwind’s manifestation-just whose was it? Cold, disconnected rage, or a savage, unbridled argument?

Did the goddess war with the desert?

Whilst, far to the south in this treacherous land, the Malazan army prepared to march.

As he approached the heart of the grove-where a low altar of flat-stones occupied a small clearing-he saw a slight, long-haired figure, seated on the altar as if it was no more than a bench in an abandoned garden. A book was in her lap, its cracked skin cover familiar to Toblakai’s eyes.

She spoke without turning round. ‘I have seen your tracks in this place, Toblakai.’

‘And I yours, Chosen One.’

‘I come here to wonder,’ she said as he walked into view around the altar to stand facing her.

As do I.

‘Can you guess what it is I wonder about?’ she asked.

‘No.’

The almost-faded pocks of bloodfly scars only showed themselves when she smiled. ‘The gift of the goddess…’ the smile grew strained, ‘offers only destruction.’

He glanced away, studied the nearby trees. ‘This grove will resist in the way of Raraku,’ he rumbled. ‘It is stone. And stone holds fast.’

‘For a while,’ she muttered, her smile falling away. ‘But there remains that within me that urges… creation.’

‘Have a baby.’

Her laugh was almost a yelp. ‘Oh, you hulking fool, Toblakai. I should welcome your company more often.’

Then why do you choose not to?

She waved a small hand at the book in her lap. ‘Dryjhna was an author who, to be gracious, lived with malnourished talent. There are naught but bones in this tome, I am afraid. Obsessed with the taking of life, the annihilation of order. Yet not once does he offer anything in its stead. There is no rebirth among the ashes of his vision, and that saddens me. Does it sadden you, Toblakai?’

He stared down at her for a long moment, then said, ‘Come.’

Shrugging, she set the book down on the altar and rose, straightening the plain, worn, colourless telaba that hung loose over her curved body.

He led her into the rows of bone-white trees. She followed in silence.

Thirty paces, then another small clearing, this one ringed tight in thick, petrified boles. A squat, rectangular mason’s chest sat in the skeletal shade cast down by the branches-which had remained intact down to the very twigs. Toblakai stepped to one side, studied her face as she stared in silence at his works-in-progress.

Before them, the trunks of two of the trees ringing the clearing had been reshaped beneath chisel and pick. Two warriors stared out with sightless eyes, one slightly shorter than Toblakai but far more robust, the other taller and thinner.

He saw that her breath had quickened, a slight flush on her cheeks. ‘You have talent… rough, but driven,’ she murmured without pulling her eyes from their study. ‘Do you intend to ring the entire clearing with such formidable warriors?’

‘No. The others will be… different.’

Her head turned at a sound. She stepped quickly closer to Karsa. ‘A snake.’

He nodded. ‘There will be more, coming from all sides. The clearing will be filled with snakes, should we choose to remain here.’

‘Flare-necks.’

‘And others. They won’t bite or spit, however. They never do. They come… to watch.’

She shot him a searching glance, then shivered slightly. ‘What power manifests here? It is not the Whirlwind’s-’

‘No. Nor do I have a name for it. Perhaps the Holy Desert itself.’

She slowly shook her head to that. ‘I think you are wrong. The power, I believe, is yours.’

He shrugged. ‘We shall see, when I have done them all.’

‘How many?’

‘Besides Bairoth and Delum Thord? Seven.’

She frowned. ‘One for each of the Holy Protectors?’

No. ‘Perhaps. I have not decided. These two you see, they were my friends. Now dead.’ He paused, then added, ‘I had but two friends.’

She seemed to flinch slightly at that. ‘What of Leoman? What of Mathok? What of… me?’

‘I have no plans on carving your likenesses here.’

‘That is not what I meant.’

I know. He gestured at the two Teblor warriors. ‘Creation, Chosen One.’

‘When I was young, I wrote poetry, in the path that my mother already walked. Did you know that?’

He smiled at the word ‘young’ but replied in all seriousness, ‘No, I did not.’

‘I… I have resurrected the habit.’

‘May it serve you well.’

She must have sensed something of the blood-slick edge underlying his statement, for her expression tightened. ‘But that is never its purpose, is it. To serve. Or to yield satisfaction-self-satisfaction, I mean, since the other kind but follows as a returning ripple in a well-’

‘Confusing the pattern.’

‘As you say. It is far too easy to see you as a knot-browed barbarian, Toblakai. No, the drive to create is something other, isn’t it? Have you an answer?’

He shrugged. ‘If one exists, it will only be found in the search-and searching is at creation’s heart, Chosen One.’

She stared at the statues once more. ‘And what are you searching for? With these… old friends?’

‘I do not know. Yet.’

‘Perhaps they will tell you, one day.’

The snakes surrounded them by the hundreds now, slithering unremarked by either over their feet, around their ankles, heads lifting again and again to flick tongues towards the carved trunks.

‘Thank you, Toblakai,’ Sha’ik murmured. ‘I am humbled… and revived.’

‘There is trouble in your city, Chosen One.’

She nodded. ‘I know.’

‘Are you the calm at its heart?’

A bitter smile twisted her lips as she turned away. ‘Will these serpents permit us to leave?’

‘Of course. But do not step. Instead, shuffle. Slowly. They will open for you a path.’

‘I should be alarmed by all this,’ she said as she edged back on their path.

But it is the least of your worries, Chosen One. ‘I will keep you apprised of developments, if you wish.’

‘Thank you, yes.’

He watched her make her way out of the clearing. There were vows wrapped tight around Toblakai’s soul. Slowly constricting. Some time soon, something would break. He knew not which, but if Leoman had taught him one thing, it was patience.

When she was gone, the warrior swung about and approached the mason’s chest.


Dust on the hands, a ghostly patina, tinted faintly pink by the raging red storm encircling the world.

The heat of the day was but an illusion in Raraku. With the descent of darkness, the desert’s dead bones quickly cast off the sun’s shimmering, fevered breath. The wind grew chill and the sands erupted with crawling, buzzing life, like vermin emerging from a corpse. Rhizan flitted in a frenzied wild hunt through the clouds of capemoths and chigger fleas above the tent city sprawled in the ruins. In the distance desert wolves howled as if hunted by ghosts.

Heboric lived in a modest tent raised around a ring of stones that had once provided the foundation for a granary. His abode was situated well away from the settlement’s centre, surrounded by the yurts of one of Mathok’s desert tribes. Old rugs covered the floor. Off to one side a small table of piled bricks held a brazier, sufficient for cooking if not warmth. A cask of well-water stood nearby, flavoured with amber wine. A half-dozen flickering oil lamps suffused the interior with yellow light.

He sat alone, the pungent aroma of the hen’bara tea sweet in the cooling air. Outside, the sounds of the settling tribe offered a comforting background, close enough and chaotic enough to keep scattered and random his thoughts. Only later, when sleep claimed all those around him, would the relentless assault begin, the vertiginous visions of a face of jade, so massive it challenged comprehension. Power both alien and earthly, as if born of a natural force never meant to be altered. Yet altered it had been, shaped, cursed sentient. A giant buried in otataral, held motionless in an eternal prison.

Who could now touch the world beyond, with the ghosts of two human hands-hands that had been claimed then abandoned by a god. But was it Fener who abandoned me, or did I abandon Fener? Which of us, I wonder, is moreexposed?

This camp, this war-this desert-all had conspired to ease the shame of his hiding. Yet one day, Heboric knew, he would have to return to that dreaded wasteland from his past, to the island where the stone giant waited. Return. But to what end?

He had always believed that Fener had taken his severed hands into keeping, to await the harsh justice that was the Tusked One’s right. A fate that Heboric had accepted, as best he could. But it seemed there was to be no end to the betrayals a single once-priest could commit against his god. Fener had been dragged from his realm, left abandoned and trapped on this world. Heboric’s severed hands had found a new master, a master possessed of such immense power that it could war with otataral itself. Yet it did not belong. The giant of jade, Heboric now believed, was an intruder, sent here from another realm for some hidden purpose.

And, instead of completing that purpose, someone had imprisoned it.

He sipped at his tea, praying that its narcotic would prove sufficient to deaden the sleep to come. It was losing its potency, or, rather, he was becoming inured to its effects.

The face of stone beckoned.

The face that was trying to speak.

There was a scratching at the tent flap, then it was pulled aside.

Felisin entered. ‘Ah, still awake. Good, that will make this easier. My mother wants you.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes. There have been events in the world beyond. Consequences to be discussed. Mother seeks your wisdom.’

Heboric cast a mournful glance at the clay cup of steaming tea in his invisible hands. It was little more than flavoured water when cold. ‘I am uninterested in events in the world beyond. If she seeks wise words from me, she will be disappointed.’

‘So I argued,’ Felisin Younger said, an amused glint in her eyes. ‘Sha’ik insists.’

She helped him don a cloak then led him outside, one of her hands light as a capemoth on his back.

The night was bitter cold, tasting of settling dust. They set out along the twisting alleyways between the yurts, walking in silence.

They passed the raised dais where Sha’ik Reborn had first addressed the mob, then through the crumbled gateposts leading to the huge, multi-chambered tent that was the Chosen One’s palace. There were no guards as such, for the goddess’s presence was palpable, a pressure in the chill air.

There was little warmth in the first room beyond the tent flap, but with each successive curtain that they parted and stepped through, the temperature rose. The palace was a maze of such insulating chambers, most of them empty of furniture, offering little in the way of distinguishing one from another. An assassin who proceeded this far, somehow avoiding the attention of the goddess, would quickly get lost. The approach to where Sha’ik resided followed its own torturous, winding route. Her chambers were not central, not at the heart of the palace as one might expect.

With his poor vision and the endless turns and twists, Heboric was quickly confused; he had never determined the precise location of their destination. He was reminded of the escape from the mines, the arduous journey to the island’s west coast-it had been Baudin in the lead, Baudin whose sense of direction had proved unerring, almost uncanny. Without him, Heboric and Felisin would have died.

A Talon, no less. Ah, Tavore, you were not wrong to place your faith in him. It was Felisin who would not co-operate. You should have anticipated that. Well, sister, you should have anticipated a lot of things… But not this.

They entered the square, low-ceilinged expanse that the Chosen One-Felisin Elder, child of the House of Paran-had called her Throne Room. And indeed there was a dais, once the pedestal for a hearth, on which was a tall-backed chair of sun-bleached wood and padding. In councils such as these, Sha’ik invariably positioned herself in that makeshift throne; nor would she leave it while her advisers were present, not even to peruse the yellowed maps the commanders were wont to lay out on the hide-covered floor. Apart from Felisin Younger, the Chosen One was the smallest person there.

Heboric wondered if Sha’ik Elder had suffered similar insecurities. He doubted it.

The room was crowded; among the army’s leaders and Sha’ik’s select, only Leoman and Toblakai were absent. There were no other chairs, although cushions and pillows rested against the base of three of the four tent walls, and it was on these that the commanders sat. Felisin at his side, Heboric made his way to the far side, Sha’ik’s left, and took his place a few short paces from the dais, the young girl settling down beside him.

Some permanent sorcery illuminated the chamber, the light somehow warming the air as well. Everyone else was in their allotted place, Heboric noted. Though they were little more than blurs in his eyes, he knew them all well enough. Against the wall opposite the throne sat the half-blood Napan, Korbolo Dom, shaved hairless, his dusty blue skin latticed in scars. On his right, the High Mage Kamist Reloe, gaunt to the point of skeletal, his grey hair cut short to stubble, a tight-curled iron beard reaching up to prominent cheekbones above which glittered sunken eyes. On Korbolo’s left sat Henaras, a witch from some desert tribe that had, for unknown reasons, banished her. Sorcery kept her youthful in appearance, the heavy languor in her dark eyes the product of diluted Tralb, a poison drawn from a local snake, which she imbibed to inure her against assassination. Beside her was Fayelle, an obese, perpetually nervous woman of whom Heboric knew little.

Along the wall opposite the ex-priest were L’oric, Bidithal and Febryl, the latter shapeless beneath an oversized silk telaba, its hood opened wide like the neck of a desert snake, tiny black eyes glittering out from its shadow. Beneath those eyes gleamed twin fangs of gold, capping his upper canines. They were said to hold Emulor, a poison rendered from a certain cactus that gifted not death, but permanent dementia.

The last commander present was on Felisin’s left. Mathok. Beloved of the desert tribes, the tall, black-skinned warrior possessed an inherent nobility, but it was the kind that seemed to irritate everyone around him, barring perhaps Leoman who appeared to be indifferent to the war chief’s grating personality. There was, in fact, little to give cause to the dislike, for Mathok was ever courteous, even congenial, quick to smile-perhaps too quick at that, as if the man dismissed everyone as not worth taking seriously. With the exception of the Chosen One, of course.

As Heboric settled, Sha’ik murmured, ‘Are you with us this evening, Ghost Hands?’

‘Well enough,’ he replied.

An undercurrent of tense excitement was in her voice, ‘You had better be, old man. There have been… startling developments. Distant catastrophes have rocked the Malazan Empire…’

‘How long ago?’ Heboric asked.

Sha’ik frowned at the odd question, but Heboric did not elaborate. ‘Less than a week. The warrens have been shaken, one and all, as if by an earthquake. Sympathizers of the rebellion remain in Dujek Onearm’s army, delivering to us the details.’ She gestured to L’oric. ‘I’ve no wish to talk all night. Elaborate on the events, L’oric, for the benefit of Korbolo, Heboric, and whoever else knows nothing of all that has occurred.’

The man tilted his head. ‘Delighted to, Chosen One. Those of you who employ warrens will no doubt have felt the repercussions, the brutal reshaping of the pantheon. But what specifically happened? The first answer, simply, is usurpation. Fener, Boar of Summer, has, to all intents and purposes, been ousted as the pre-eminent god of war.’ He was merciful enough to not glance at Heboric. ‘In his place, the once First Hero, Treach. The Tiger of Summer-’

Ousted. The fault is mine and mine alone.

Sha’ik’s eyes were shining, fixed on Heboric. The secrets they shared taut between them, crackling yet unseen by anyone else.

L’oric would have continued, but Korbolo Dom interrupted the High Mage. ‘And what is the significance of that to us? War needs no gods, only mortal contestants, two enemies and whatever reasons they invent in order to justify killing each other.’ He paused, smiling at L’oric, then shrugged. ‘All of which satisfies me well enough.’

His words had pulled Sha’ik’s gaze from Heboric. An eyebrow rising, she addressed the Napan. ‘And what are your reasons, specifically, Korbolo Dom?’

‘I like killing people. It is the one thing I am very good at.’

‘Would that be people in general?’ Heboric asked him. ‘Or perhaps you meant the enemies of the Apocalypse.’

‘As you say, Ghost Hands.’

There was a moment of general unease, then L’oric cleared his throat and said, ‘The usurpation, Korbolo Dom, is the one detail that a number of mages present may already know. I would lead us, gently, towards the less well known developments on far-away Genabackis. Now, to continue. The pantheon was shaken yet again-by the sudden, unexpected taking of the Beast Throne by Togg and Fanderay, the mated Elder Wolves that had seemed eternally cursed to never find each other-riven apart as they were by the Fall of the Crippled God. The full effect of this reawakening of the ancient Hold of the Beast is yet to be realized. All I would suggest, personally, is to those Soletaken and D’ivers among us: ’ware the new occupants of the Beast Throne. They may well come to you, eventually, to demand that you kneel before them.’ He smiled. ‘Alas, all those poor fools who followed the Path of the Hand. The game was won far, far away-’

‘We were the victims,’ Fayelle murmured, ‘of deception. By minions of Shadowthrone, no less, for which there will one day be a reckoning.’

Bidithal smiled at her words, but said nothing.

L’oric’s shrug affected indifference. ‘As to that, Fayelle, my tale is far from done. Allow me, if you will, to shift to mundane-though if anything even more important-events. A very disturbing alliance had been forged on Genabackis, to deal with a mysterious threat called the Pannion Domin. Onearm’s Host established an accord with Caladan Brood and Anomander Rake. Supplied by the supremely wealthy city of Darujhistan, the joined armies marched off to wage war against the Domin. We were, truth be told, relieved by this event from a short-term perspective, though we recognized that in the long term such an alliance was potentially catastrophic to the cause of the rebellion here in Seven Cities. Peace on Genabackis would, after all, free Dujek and his army, leaving us with the potential nightmare of Tavore approaching from the south, and Dujek and his ten thousand disembarking at Ehrlitan then marching down from the north.’

‘An unpleasant thought,’ Korbolo Dom growled. ‘Tavore alone will not cause us much difficulty. But the High Fist and his ten thousand… that’s another matter. Granted, most of the soldiers are from Seven Cities, but I would not cast knuckles on the hope that they would switch sides. Dujek owns them body and soul-’

‘Barring a few spies,’ Sha’ik said, her voice strangely flat.

‘None of whom would have contacted us,’ L’oric said, ‘had things turned out… differently.’

‘A moment, please,’ young Felisin cut in. ‘I thought that Onearm and his host had been outlawed by the Empress.’

‘Thus permitting him to forge the alliance with Brood and Rake,’ L’oric explained. ‘A convenient and temporary ploy, lass.’

‘We don’t want Dujek on our shores,’ Korbolo Dom said ‘Bridgeburners. Whiskeyjack, Quick Ben, Kalam, Black Moranth and their damned munitions-’

‘Permit me to ease your pattering heart, Commander,’ L’oric murmured. ‘We shall not see Dujek. Not anytime soon, at any rate. The Pannion War proved… devastating. The ten thousand lost close to seven thousand of their number. The Black Moranth were similarly mauled. Oh, they won, in the end, but at such a cost. The Bridgeburners… gone. Whiskeyjack… dead.’

Heboric slowly straightened. The room was suddenly cold.

‘And Dujek himself,’ L’oric went on, ‘a broken man. Is this news pleasing enough? There is this: the scourge that is the T’lan Imass is no more. They have departed, one and all. No more will their terrors be visited upon the innocent citizens of Seven Cities. Thus,’ he concluded, ‘what has the Empress left? Adjunct Tavore. An extraordinary year for the empire. Coltaine and the Seventh, the Aren Legion, Whiskeyjack, the Bridgeburners, Onearm’s Host-we will be hard-pressed to best that.’

‘But we shall,’ Korbolo Dom laughed, both hands closed into pale-knuckled fists. ‘Whiskeyjack! Dead! Ah, blessings to Hood this night! I shall make sacrifice before his altar! And Dujek-oh, his spirit will have been broken indeed. Crushed!’

‘Enough gloating,’ Heboric growled, sickened.

Kamist Reloe was leaning far forward, ‘L’oric!’ he hissed. ‘What of Quick Ben?’

‘He lives, alas. Kalam did not accompany the army-no-one knows where he has gone. There were but a handful of survivors from the Bridgeburners, and Dujek disbanded them and had them listed as casualties-’

Who lived?’ Kamist demanded.

L’oric frowned. ‘A handful, as I said. Is it important?’

‘Yes!’

‘Very well.’ L’oric glanced over at Sha’ik. ‘Chosen One, do you permit me to make contact once more with my servant in that distant army? It will be but a few moments.’

She shrugged. ‘Proceed.’ Then, as L’oric lowered his head, she slowly leaned back in her chair. ‘Thus. Our enemy has faced irreparable defeat. The Empress and her dear empire reel from the final gush of life-blood. It falls to us, then, to deliver the killing blow.’

Heboric suspected he was the only one present who heard the hollowness of her words.

Sister Tavore stands alone, now.

And alone is what she prefers. Alone is the state in which she thrives. Ah, lass, you would pretend to excitement at this news, yet it has achieved the very opposite for you, hasn’t it. Your fear of sister Tavore has only deepened. Freezing you in place.

L’oric began speaking without raising his head. ‘Blend. Toes. Mallet. Spindle. Sergeant Antsy. Lieutenant Picker… Captain Paran.’

There was a thump from the high-backed chair as Sha’ik’s head snapped back. All colour had left her face, the only detail Heboric could detect with his poor eyes, but he knew the shock that would be written on those features. A shock that rippled through him as well, though it was but the shock of recognition-not of what it portended for this young woman seated on this throne.

Unmindful, L’oric continued, ‘Quick Ben has been made High Mage. It is believed the surviving Bridgeburners departed by warren to Darujhistan, though my spy is in fact uncertain of that. Whiskeyjack and the fallen Bridgeburners… were interred… in Moon’s Spawn, which has-gods below! Abandoned! The Son of Darkness has abandoned Moon’s Spawn!’ He seemed to shiver then, and slowly looked up, blinking rapidly. A deep breath, loosed raggedly. ‘Whiskeyjack was killed by one of Brood’s commanders. Betrayal, it seemed, plagued the alliance.’

‘Of course it did,’ Korbolo Dom sneered.

‘We must consider Quick Ben,’ Kamist Reloe said, his hands wringing together incessantly on his lap. ‘Will Tayschrenn send him to Tavore? What of the remaining three thousand of Onearm’s Host? Even if Dujek does not lead them-’

‘They are broken in spirit,’ L’oric said. ‘Hence, the wavering souls among them who sought me out.’

‘And where is Kalam Mekhar?’ Kamist hissed, inadvertently glancing over his shoulder then starting at his own shadow on the wall.

‘Kalam Mekhar is nothing without Quick Ben,’ Korbolo Dom snarled. ‘Even less now that his beloved Whiskeyjack is dead.’

Kamist rounded on his companion. ‘And what if Quick Ben is reunited with that damned assassin? What then?’

The Napan shrugged. ‘We didn’t kill Whiskeyjack. Their minds will be filled with vengeance for the slayer among Brood’s entourage. Do not fear what will never come to pass, old friend.’

Sha’ik’s voice rang startlingly through the room. ‘Everyone out but Heboric! Now!’

Blank looks, then the others rose.

Felisin Younger hesitated. ‘Mother?’

‘You as well, child. Out.’

L’oric said, ‘There is the matter of the new House and all it signifies, Chosen-’

‘Tomorrow night. We will resume the discussion then. Out!’

A short while later Heboric sat alone with Sha’ik. She stared down at him in silence for some time, then rose suddenly and stepped down from the dais. She fell to her knees in front of Heboric, sufficiently close for him to focus on her face. It was wet with tears.

‘My brother lives!’ she sobbed.

And suddenly she was in his arms, face pressed against his shoulders as shudders heaved through her small, fragile frame.

Stunned, Heboric remained silent.

She wept for a long, long time, and he held her tight, unmoving, as solid as he could manage. And each time the vision of his fallen god rose before his mind’s eye, he ruthlessly drove it back down. The child in his arms-for child she was, once more-cried in nothing other than the throes of salvation. She was no longer alone, no longer alone with only her hated sister to taint the family’s blood.

For that-for the need his presence answered-his own grief would wait.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Among the untried recruits of the Fourteenth Army, fully half originated from the continent of Quon Tali, the very centre of the empire. Young and idealistic, they stepped onto blood-soaked ground, in the wake of the sacrifices made by their fathers and mothers, their grandfathers and grandmothers. It is the horror of war that, with each newly arrived generation, the nightmare is reprised by innocents.

The Sha’ik Rebellion, Illusions of Victory

Imrygyn Tallobant

ADJUNCT TAVORE STOOD ALONE IN FRONT OF FOUR THOUSAND milling, jostling soldiers, while officers bellowed and screamed through the press, their voices hoarse with desperation. Pikes wavered and flashed blinding glares through the dusty air of the parade ground like startled birds of steel. The sun was a raging fire overhead.

Fist Gamet stood twenty paces behind her, tears in his eyes as he stared at Tavore. A pernicious wind was sweeping the dust cloud directly towards the Adjunct. In moments she was engulfed. Yet she made no move, her back straight, her gloved hands at her sides.

No commander could be more alone than she was now. Alone, and helpless.

And worse. This is my legion. The 8th. The first to assemble, Beru fend us all.

But she had ordered that he remain where he was, if only to spare him the humiliation of trying to impose some kind of order on his troops. She had, instead, taken that humiliation upon herself. And Gamet wept for her, unable to hide his shame and grief.

Aren’s parade ground was a vast expanse of hard-packed, almost white earth. Six thousand fully armoured soldiers could stand arrayed in ranks with sufficient avenues between the companies for officers to conduct their review. The Fourteenth Army was to assemble before the scrutiny of Adjunct Tavore in three phases, a legion at a time. Gamet’s 8th had arrived in a ragged, dissolving mob over two bells past, every lesson from every drill sergeant lost, the few veteran officers and non-coms locked in a titanic struggle with a four-thousand-headed beast that had forgotten what it was.

Gamet saw Captain Keneb, whom Blistig had graciously given him to command the 9th Company, battering at soldiers with the flat of his blade, forcing them into a line that broke up in his wake as other soldiers pressed forward from behind. There were some old soldiers in that front row, trying to dig in their heels-sergeants and corporals, red-faced with sweat streaming from beneath their helms.

Fifteen paces behind Gamet waited the other two Fists, as well as the Wickan scouts under the command of Temul. Nil and Nether were there as well, although, mercifully, Admiral Nok was not-for the fleet had sailed.

Impulses at war within him, Gamet trembled, wanting to be elsewhere-anywhere-and wanting to drag the Adjunct with him. Failing that, wanting to step forward, defying her direct order, to take position at her side.

Someone came alongside him. A heavy leather sack thumped into the dust, and Gamet turned to see a squat soldier, blunt-featured beneath a leather cap, wearing barely half of a marine’s standard issue of armour-a random collection of boiled leather fittings-over a threadbare, stained uniform, the magenta dye so faded as to be mauve. No insignia was present. The man’s scarred, pitted face stared impassively at the seething mob.

Gamet swung further round to see an additional dozen decrepit men and women, each standing an arm’s reach from the one in front, wearing unrepaired, piecemeal armour and carrying an assortment of weapons-few of which were Malazan.

The Fist addressed the man in the lead. ‘And who in Hood’s name are you people?’

‘Sorry we was late,’ the soldier grunted. ‘Then again,’ he added, ‘I could be lying.’

‘Late? Which squads? What companies?’

The man shrugged. ‘This and that. We was in Aren gaol. Why was we there? This and that. But now we’re here, sir. You want these children quelled?’

‘If you can manage that, soldier, I’ll give you a command of your own.’

‘No you won’t. I killed an Untan noble here in Aren. Name of Lenestro. Snapped his neck with these two hands.’

Through the clouds of dust before them, a sergeant had clawed free of the mob and was approaching Adjunct Tavore. For a moment Gamet was terrified that he would, insanely, cut her down right there, but the man sheathed his short-sword as he drew up before her. Words were exchanged.

The Fist made a decision. ‘Come with me, soldier.’

‘Aye, sir.’ The man reached down and collected his kit bag.

Gamet led him to where Tavore and the sergeant stood. An odd thing happened then. There was a grunt from the veteran at the Fist’s side, even as the wiry, red-and-grey-bearded sergeant’s eyes flickered past the Adjunct and fixed on the soldier. A sudden broad grin, then a quick succession of gestures-a hand lifting, as if holding an invisible rock or ball, then the hand flipping, index finger inscribing a circle, followed by a jerk of the thumb towards the east, concluded with a shrug. In answer to all this, the soldier from the gaol gave his kit bag a shake.

The sergeant’s blue eyes widened.

They arrived, coming alongside the Adjunct, who swung a blank gaze on Gamet.

‘Your pardon, Adjunct,’ the Fist said, and would have added more, but Tavore raised a hand and made to speak.

She didn’t get a chance.

The soldier at Gamet’s side spoke to the sergeant. ‘Draw us a line, will ya?’

‘I’ll do just that.’

The sergeant pivoted and returned to the heaving ranks.

Tavore’s eyes had snapped to the soldier, but she said nothing, for the man had set his bag down, drawn back its flap, and was rummaging inside it.

Five paces in front of the legion’s uneven ranks, the sergeant once more drew his sword, then drove its blunt tip into the dust and set off, inscribing a sharp furrow in the ground.

Draw us a line, will ya?

The soldier crouched over his kit bag looked up suddenly. ‘You two still here? Go back to them Wickans, then all of you pull back another thirty, forty paces. Oh, and get them Wickans off their horses and a tight grip on the reins, and all of ya, take for yourselves a wide stance. Then when I give the signal, plug your ears.’

Gamet flinched as the man began withdrawing a succession of clay balls from his bag. The bag… that thumped down beside me not fifty heartbeats ago. Hood’s breath!

‘What is your name, soldier?’ Adjunct Tavore rasped.

‘Cuttle. Now, better get moving, lass.’

Gamet reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘Adjunct, those are-’

‘I know what they are,’ she snapped. ‘And this man’s liable to kill fifty of my soldiers-’

‘Right now, lady,’ Cuttle growled as he drew out a folding shovel, ‘you ain’t got any. Now take it from me, that otataral blade at your comely hip ain’t gonna help you one bit if you decide to stand here. Pull ’em all back, and leave the rest to me and the sergeant.’

‘Adjunct,’ Gamet said, unable to keep the pleading from his tone.

She shot him a glare, then wheeled. ‘Let us be about it, then, Fist.’

He let her take the lead, paused after a few paces to glance back. The sergeant had rejoined Cuttle, who had managed to dig a small hole in what seemed an absurdly short time.

‘Cobbles down there?’ The sergeant nodded. ‘Perfect!’

‘About what I figured,’ Cuttle replied. ‘I’ll angle these crackers, with the cusser a hand’s width deeper-’

‘Perfect. I’d have done the same if I’d thought to bring some with me.’

‘You supplied?’

‘Well enough.’

‘What I got here in my bag are the last.’

‘I can mend that, Cuttle.’

‘For that, Fid-’

‘Strings.’

‘For that, Strings, you’ve earned a kiss.’

‘I can’t wait.’

Gamet pulled himself away with a shake of his head. Sappers.

The explosion was a double thump that shook the earth, cobbles punching free of the overburden of dust-which had leapt skyward-to clack and clash in a maelstrom of stone chips and slivers. Fully a third of the legion were thrown from their feet, taking down others with them.

Astonishingly, none seemed fatally injured, as if Cuttle had somehow directed the force of the detonation downward and out under the cobbles.

As the last rubble pattered down, Adjunct Tavore and Gamet moved forward once again.

Facing the silenced mob, Cuttle stood with a sharper held high in one hand. In a bellowing voice, he addressed the recruits. ‘Next soldier who moves gets this at his feet, and if you think my aim ain’t any good, try me! Now, sergeants and corporals! Up nice and slow now. Find your squads. You up here in front, Sergeant Strings here has drawn us a tidy nice line-all right, so it’s a bit messy right now so he’s drawing it again-walk up to it easy like, toes a finger’s width away from it, boots square! We’re gonna do this right, or people are going to die.’

Sergeant Strings was moving along the front line now, ensuring the line was held, spreading soldiers out. Officers were shouting once more, though not as loud as before, since the recruits remained silent. Slowly, the legion began taking shape.

Those recruits were indeed silent, and… watchful, Gamet noted as he and the Adjunct returned to close to their original position-the gaping, smoking crater off to one side. Watchful… of the madman with the sharper held high above his head. After a moment, the Fist moved up to stand beside Cuttle.

‘You killed a nobleman?’ he asked in a low voice, studying the assembling ranks.

‘Aye, Fist. I did.’

‘Was he on the Chain of Dogs?’

‘He was.’

‘As were you, Cuttle.’

‘Until I took a spear through a shoulder. Went with the others on the Silanda. Missed the final argument, I did. Lenestro was… second best. I wanted Pullyk Alar to start, but Alar’s run off with Mallick Rel. I want both of them, Fist. Maybe they think the argument’s over, but not for me.’

‘I’d be pleased if you took me up on that offer of command,’ Gamet said.

‘No thanks, sir. I’m already assigned to a squad. Sergeant Strings’s squad, in fact. Suits me fine.’

‘Where do you know him from?’

Cuttle glanced over, his eyes thinned to slits. Expressionless, he said, ‘Never met him before today, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I owe him a kiss.’


Less than a quarter-bell later, Fist Gamet’s 8th Legion stood motionless in tight, even ranks. Adjunct Tavore studied them from where she stood at Gamet’s side, but had yet to speak. Cuttle and Sergeant Strings had rejoined the 9th Company’s 4th squad.

Tavore seemed to reach some decision. A gesture behind her brought Fists Tene Baralta and Blistig forward. Moments later they came up alongside Gamet and halted. The Adjunct’s unremarkable eyes fixed on Blistig. ‘Your legion waits in the main avenue beyond?’

The red-faced man nodded. ‘Melting in the heat, Adjunct. But that cusser going off settled them down.’

Her gaze shifted to the Red Blade. ‘Fist Baralta?’

‘Calmed, Adjunct.’

‘When I dismiss the 8th and they depart the parade ground, I suggest the remaining soldiers enter by company. Each company will then take position and when they are ready the next one follows. It may take longer, but at the very least we will not have a repetition of the chaos we have just witnessed. Fist Gamet, are you satisfied with the assemblage of your troops?’

‘Well enough, Adjunct.’

‘As am I. You may now-’

She got no further, seeing that the attention of the three men standing before her had slipped past, over her shoulder; and from the four thousand soldiers standing at attention, there was sudden, absolute silence-not a rustle of armour, not a cough. For the 8th had drawn a single breath, and now held it.

Gamet struggled to maintain his expression, even as Tavore raised an eyebrow at him. Then she slowly turned.

The toddler had come from nowhere, unseen by any until he arrived to stand in the very spot where the Adjunct had first stood, his oversized rust-red telaba trailing like a royal train. Blond hair a tangled shock above a deeply tanned, cherubic face smeared with dirt, the child faced the ranks of soldiers with an air of unperturbed calculation.

A strangled cough from among the soldiers, then someone stepped forward.

Even as the man emerged from the front line, the toddler’s eyes found him. Both arms, buried in sleeves, reached out. Then one sleeve slipped back, revealing the tiny hand, and in that hand there was a bone. A human longbone. The man froze in mid-step.

The air above the parade ground seemed to hiss like a thing alive with the gasps of four thousand soldiers.

Gamet fought down a shiver, then spoke to the man. ‘Captain Keneb,’ he said loudly, struggling to swallow a welling dread, ‘I suggest you collect your lad. Now, before he, uh, starts screaming.’

Face flushed, Keneb threw a shaky salute then strode forward.

‘Neb!’ the toddler shouted as the captain gathered him up.

Adjunct Tavore snapped, ‘Follow me!’ to Gamet, then walked to the pair. ‘Captain Keneb, is it?’

‘Your p-pardon, Adjunct. The lad has a nurse but seems determined to slip through her grasp at every opportunity-there’s a blown graveyard behind the-’

‘Is he yours, Captain?’ Tavore demanded, her tone brittle.

‘As good as, Adjunct. An orphan from the Chain of Dogs. The historian Duiker placed him into my care.’

‘Has he a name?’

‘Grub.’

‘Grub?’

Keneb’s shrug was apologetic. ‘For now, Adjunct. It well suits him-’

‘And the 8th. Yes, I see that. Deliver him to your hired nurse, Captain. Then, tomorrow, fire her and hire a better one… or three. Will the child accompany the army?’

‘He has no-one else, Adjunct. There will be other families among the camp followers-’

‘I am aware of that. Be on your way, Captain Keneb.’

‘I-I am sorry, Adjunct-’

But she was already turning away, and only Gamet heard her sigh and murmur, ‘It is far too late for that.’

And she was right. Soldiers-even recruits-recognized an omen when it arrived. A child in the very boot prints of the woman who would lead this army. Raising high a sun-bleached thigh bone.

Gods below…


‘Hood’s balls skewered on a spit.’

The curse was spoken as a low growl, in tones of disgust.

Strings watched Cuttle set his bag down and slide it beneath the low flatboard bed. The stable that had been transformed into a makeshift barracks held eight squads now, the cramped confines reeking of fresh sweat… and stark terror. At the back wall’s urine hole someone was being sick.

‘Let’s head outside, Cuttle,’ Strings said after a moment. ‘I’ll collect Gesler and Borduke.’

‘I’d rather go get drunk,’ the sapper muttered.

‘Later, we’ll do just that. But first, we need to have a small meeting.’

Still the other man hesitated.

Strings rose from his cot and stepped close. ‘Aye, it’s that important.’

‘All right. Lead on… Strings.’

As it turned out, Stormy joined the group of veterans that pushed silently past ashen-faced recruits-many of them with closed eyes and mouthing silent prayers-and headed out into the courtyard.

It was deserted, Lieutenant Ranal-who had proved pathetically ineffective at the assembly-having fled into the main house the moment the troop arrived.

All eyes were on Strings. He in turn studied the array of grim expressions around him. There was no doubt among them concerning the meaning of the omen, and Strings was inclined to agree. A child leads us to our deaths. A leg bone to signify our march, withered under the curse of the desert sun. We’ve all lived too long, seen too much, to deceive ourselves of this one brutal truth: this army of recruits now see themselves as already dead.

Stormy’s battered, red-bearded face finally twisted into an expression too bitter to be wry. ‘If you’re going to say that us here have a hope at Hood’s gate in fighting the tide, Strings, you’ve lost your mind. The lads and lasses in there ain’t unique-the whole damned three legions-’

‘I know,’ Strings cut in. ‘We ain’t none of us stupid. Now, all I’m asking is for a spell of me talking. Me talking. No interruptions. I’ll tell you when I’m done. Agreed?’

Borduke turned his head and spat. ‘You’re a Hood-damned Bridgeburner.’

‘Was. Got a problem with that?’

The sergeant of the 6th squad grinned. ‘What I meant by that, Strings, is that for you I’ll listen. As you ask.’

‘Same with us,’ Gesler muttered, Stormy nodding agreement at his side.

Strings faced Cuttle. ‘And you?’

‘Only because it’s you and not Hedge, Fiddler. Sorry. Strings.’

Borduke’s eyes widened in recognition of the name. He spat a second time.

‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank us yet,’ Cuttle said, but took the edge off with a slight smile.

‘All right, I’ll start with a story. Has to do with Nok, the admiral, though he wasn’t an admiral back then, just the commander of six dromons. I’d be surprised if any of you have heard this story but if you have don’t say nothing-but its relevance here should have occurred to you already. Six dromons. On their way to meet the Kartool fleet, three pirate galleys, which had each been blessed by the island’s priests of D’rek. The Worm of Autumn. Yes, you all know D’rek’s other name, but I said it for emphasis. In any case, Nok’s fleet had stopped at the Napan Isles, went up the mouth of Koolibor River to drag barrels-drawing fresh water. What every ship did when heading out to Kartool or beyond on the Reach. Six ships, each drawing water, storing the barrels below decks.

‘Half a day out of the Napan Isles, the first barrel was broached, by a cook’s helper, on the flagship. And straight out through the hole came a snake. A paralt, up the lad’s arm. Sank both fangs into his left eye. Screaming, he ran out on deck, the snake with its jaws wide and holding tight, writhing around. Well, the lad managed two steps before he died, then he went down, already white as a sun-bleached yard. The snake was killed, but as you can imagine, it was too late.

‘Nok, being young, just shrugged the whole event off, and when word spread and sailors and marines started dying of thirst-in ships loaded with barrels of fresh water that no-one would dare open-he went and did the obvious thing. Brought up another barrel. Breached it with his own hands.’ Strings paused. He could see that no-one else knew the tale. Could see that he had their attention.

‘The damned barrel was full of snakes. Spilling out onto the deck. A damned miracle Nok wasn’t bitten. It was just starting dry season, you see. The paralts’ season in the river was ending. The waters fill with them as they head down to the river mouth on their way out to sea. Every single barrel on those six dromons held snakes.

‘The fleet never closed to do battle with the Kartoolians. By the time it made it back to Nap, half of the complement was dead of thirst. All six ships were holed outside the harbour, packed with offerings to D’rek, the Worm of Autumn, and sent to the deep. Nok had to wait until the next year to shatter Kartool’s paltry fleet. Two months after that, the island was conquered.’ He fell silent for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, I’m not finished. That was a story, a story of how to do things wrong. You don’t destroy an omen by fighting it. No, you do the opposite. You swallow it whole.’

Confused expressions. Gesler’s was the first to clear and at the man’s grin-startling white in his bronze-hued face-Strings slowly nodded, then said, ‘If we don’t close both hands on this omen, we’re all nothing more than pall-bearers to those recruits in there. To the whole damned army.

‘Now, didn’t I hear that captain mention something about a nearby cemetery? Blown clear, the bones exposed to all. I suggest we go find it. Right now. All right, I’m finished talking.’

‘That was a damned thigh bone,’ Stormy growled.

Gesler stared at his corporal.


‘We march in two days’ time.’

Before anything else happens, Gamet silently added to the Adjunct’s announcement. He glanced over at Nil and Nether where they sat side by side on the bench against the wall. Both racked with shivers, the aftermath of the omen’s power leaving them huddled and pale.

Mysteries stalked the world. Gamet had felt their chill breath before, a reverberation of power that belonged to no god, but existed none the less. As implacable as the laws of nature. Truths beneath the bone. To his mind, the Empress would be better served by the immediate disbanding of the Fourteenth Army. A deliberate and thorough breaking up of the units with reassignments throughout the empire, the wait of another year for another wave of recruits.

Adjunct Tavore’s next words to those gathered in the chamber seemed to speak directly to Gamet’s thoughts. ‘We cannot afford it,’ she said, uncharacteristically pacing. ‘The Fourteenth cannot be defeated before it sets foot outside Aren. The entire subcontinent will be irretrievably lost if that happens. Better we get annihilated in Raraku. Sha’ik’s forces will have at least been reduced.

‘Two days.

‘In the meantime, I want the Fists to call their officers together, rank of lieutenant and higher. Inform them I will be visiting each company in person, beginning tonight. Give no indication of which one I will visit first-I want them all alert. Apart from guard postings, every soldier is restricted to barracks. Keep a particular eye on veterans. They will want to get drunk, and stay drunk, if they can. Fist Baralta, contact Orto Setral and have him assemble a troop of Red Blades. They’re to sweep the settlement of the camp followers and confiscate all alcohol and durhang or whatever else the locals possess that deadens the senses. Then establish a picket round that settlement. Any questions? Good. You are all dismissed. Gamet, send for T’amber.’

‘Aye, Adjunct.’ Uncharacteristically careless. That perfumed lover of yours has been kept from the sights of everyone here but me. They know, of course. Even so…

Outside in the hallway, Blistig exchanged a nod with Baralta then gripped Gamet’s upper arm. ‘With us, if you please.’

Nil and Nether shot them a glance then hurried off.

‘Take that damned hand off me,’ Gamet said quietly. ‘I can follow without your help, Blistig.’

The grip fell away.

They found an empty room, once used to store items on hooks fixed three-quarters of the way up all four walls. The air smelled of lanolin.

‘Time’s come,’ Blistig said without preamble. ‘We cannot march in two days’ time, Gamet, and you know it. We cannot march at all. There will be a mutiny at worst, at best an endless bleeding of desertions. The Fourteenth is finished.’

The satisfied gleam in the man’s eyes triggered a boiling rage in Gamet. He struggled for a moment then managed to clamp down on his emotions, sufficient to lock gazes with Blistig and ask, ‘Was that child’s arrival set up between you and Keneb?’

Blistig recoiled as if struck, then his face darkened. ‘What do you take me for-’

‘Right now,’ Gamet snapped, ‘I am not sure.’

The once-commander of the Aren garrison tugged the peace-loop from his sword’s hilt, but Tene Baralta stepped between the two men, armour clanking. Taller and broader than either Malazan, the dusk-skinned warrior reached out to set a gloved hand on each chest, then slowly pushed the men apart. ‘We are here to reach agreement, not kill one another,’ he rumbled. ‘Besides,’ he added, facing Blistig, ‘Gamet’s suspicion had occurred to me as well.’

‘Keneb would not do such a thing,’ Blistig rasped, ‘even if you two imagine that I might.’ A worthy answer.

Gamet pulled away and strode to face the far wall, back to the others. His mind raced, then he finally shook his head. Without turning round, he said, ‘She asked for two days-’

‘Asked? I heard an order-’

‘Then you were not listening carefully enough, Blistig. The Adjunct, young and untested though she may be, is not a fool. She sees what you see-what we all see. But she has asked for two days. Come the moment to march… well, a final decision will become obvious, either way, at that moment. Trust her.’ He swung round. ‘For this and this alone, if need be. Two days.’

After a long moment, Baralta nodded. ‘So be it.’

‘Very well,’ Blistig allowed.

Beru bless us. As Gamet made to leave, Tene Baralta touched his shoulder. ‘Fist,’ he said, ‘what is the situation with this… this T’amber? Do you know? Why is the Adjunct being so… cagey? Women who take women for lovers-the only crime is the loss to men, and so it has always been.’

‘Cagey? No, Tene Baralta. Private. The Adjunct is simply a private woman.’

The ex-Red Blade persisted, ‘What is this T’amber like? Does she exercise undue influence on our commander?’

‘I have no idea, to answer your latter question. What is she like? She was a concubine, I believe, in the Grand Temple of the Queen of Dreams, in Unta. Other than that, my only words with her have been at the Adjunct’s behest. Nor is T’amber particularly talkative…’ And that is an understatement of prodigious proportions. Beautiful, aye, and remote. Has she undue influence over Tavore? I wish I knew. ‘And speaking of T’amber, I must leave you now.’

At the door he paused and glanced back at Blistig. ‘You gave good answer, Blistig. I no longer suspect you.’ In reply, the man simply nodded.


Lostara Yil placed the last of her Red Blade accoutrements into the chest then lowered the lid and locked it. She straightened and stepped back, feeling bereft. There had been a vast comfort in belonging to that dreaded company. That the Red Blades were hated by their tribal kin, reviled in their own land, had proved surprisingly satisfying. For she hated them in turn.

Born a daughter instead of the desired son in a Pardu family, as a child she had lived on the streets of Ehrlitan. It had been common practice-before the Malazans came with their laws for families-among many tribes to cast out their unwanted children once they reached the fifth year of life. Acolytes from numerous temples-followers of mystery cults-regularly rounded up such abandoned children. No-one knew what was done with them. The hopeful among the rough circle of fellow urchins Lostara had known had believed that, among the cults, there could be found a kind of salvation. Schooling, food, safety, all leading to eventually becoming an acolyte in turn. But the majority of children suspected otherwise. They’d heard tales of-or had themselves seen-the occasional nightly foray of shrouded figures emerging from the backs of temples, wending down alleyways with a covered cart, on their way to the crab-infested tidal pools east of the city, pools not so deep that one could not see the glimmer of small picked bones at the bottom.

One thing all could agree on. The hunger of the temples was insatiable.

Optimistic or pessimistic, the children of Ehrlitan’s streets did all they could to evade the hunters with their nets and pole-ropes. A life could be eked out, a kind of freedom won, bitter though it might be.

Midway through her seventh year, Lostara was dragged down to the greasy cobbles by an acolyte’s net. Her shrieks went unheeded by the citizens who stepped aside as the silent priest dragged his prize back to the temple. Impassive eyes met hers every now and then on that horrible journey, and those eyes Lostara would never forget.

Rashan had proved less bloodthirsty than most of the other cults in the habit of hunting children. She had found herself among a handful of new arrivals, all tasked with maintenance of the temple grounds, destined, it seemed, for a lifetime of menial servitude. The drudgery continued until her ninth year, when for reasons unknown to Lostara she was selected for schooling in the Shadow Dance. She had caught rare and brief glimpses of the dancers-a hidden and secretive group of men and women for whom worship was an elaborate, intricate dance. Their only audience were priests and priestesses-none of whom would watch the actual dancers, only their shadows.

You are nothing, child. Not a dancer. Your body is in service to Rashan, and Rashan is this realm’s manifestation of Shadow, the drawing of darkness to light. When you dance, it is not you that is watched. It is the shadow your body paints. The shadow is the dancer, Lostara Yil. Not you.

Years of discipline, of limb-stretching training that loosened every joint, that drew out the spine, that would allow the Caster to flow with seamless movement-and all for naught.

The world had been changing outside the temple’s high walls. Events unknown to Lostara were systematically crushing their entire civilization. The Malazan Empire had invaded. Cities were falling. Foreign ships had blockaded Ehrlitan’s harbour.

The cult of Rashan was spared the purges of the new, harsh masters of Seven Cities, for it was a recognized religion. Other temples did not fare as well. She recalled seeing smoke in the sky above Ehrlitan and wondering at its source, and she was awakened at night by terrible sounds of chaos in the streets.

Lostara was a middling Caster. Her shadow seemed to have a mind of its own and was a recalcitrant, halting partner in the training. She did not ask herself if she was happy or otherwise. Rashan’s Empty Throne did not draw her faith as it did the other students’. She lived, but it was an unquestioning life. Neither circular nor linear, for in her mind there was no movement at all, and the notion of progress was measured only in terms of mastering the exercises forced upon her.

The cult’s destruction was sudden, unexpected, and it came from within.

She recalled the night when it had all begun. Great excitement in the temple. A High Priest from another city was visiting. Come to speak with Master Bidithal on matters of vast importance. There would be a dance in the stranger’s honour, for which Lostara and her fellow students would provide a background sequence of rhythms to complement the Shadow Dancers.

Lostara herself had been indifferent to the whole affair, and had been nowhere close to the best of the students in their minor role in the performance. But she remembered the stranger.

So unlike sour old Bidithal. Tall, thin, a laughing face, remarkably long-fingered, almost effeminate hands-hands the sight of which awakened in her new emotions.

Emotions that stuttered her mechanical dancing, that sent her shadow twisting into a rhythm that was counterpoint to that cast by not only her fellow students, but the Shadow Dancers themselves-as if a third strain had slipped into the main chamber.

Too striking to remain unnoticed.

Bidithal himself, his face darkening, had half risen-but the stranger spoke first.

‘Pray let the Dance continue,’ he said, his eyes finding Lostara’s own. ‘The Song of the Reeds has never been performed in quite this manner before. No gentle breeze here, eh, Bidithal? Oh no, a veritable gale. The Dancers are virgins, yes?’ His laugh was low yet full. ‘Yet there is nothing virginal about this dance, now, is there? Oh, storm of desire!’

And those eyes held Lostara still, in fullest recognition of the desire that overwhelmed her-that gave shape to her shadow’s wild cavort. Recognition, and a certain pleased, but cool… acknowledgement. As if flattered, but with no invitation offered in return.

The stranger had other tasks that night-and in the nights that followed-or so Lostara would come to realize much later. At the moment, however, her face burned with shame, and she had broken off her dance to flee the chamber.

Of course, Delat had not come to steal the heart of a Caster. He had come to destroy Rashan.

Delat, who, it proved, was both a High Priest and a Bridgeburner, and whatever the Emperor’s reason for annihilating the cult, his was the hand that delivered the death-blow.

Although not alone. The night of the killings, at the bell of the third hour-two past midnight-after the Song of Reeds, there had been another, hidden in the black clothes of an assassin…

Lostara knew more of what had happened that night in the Rashan Temple of Ehrlitan than anyone else barring the players themselves, for Lostara had been the only resident to be spared. Or so she had believed for a long time, until the name of Bidithal rose once more, from Sha’ik’s Apocalypse army.

Ah, I was more than spared that night, wasn’t I?

Delat’s lovely, long-fingered hands…

Setting foot onto the city’s streets the following morning, after seven years’ absence, she had been faced with the terrifying knowledge that she was alone, truly alone. Resurrecting an ancient memory of when she was awakened following the fifth birthday, and thrust into the hands of an old man hired to take her away, to leave her in a strange neighbourhood on the other side of the city. A memory that echoed with a child’s cries for her mother.

The short time that followed her departure from the temple, before she joined the Red Blades-the newly formed company of Seven Cities natives who avowed loyalty to the Malazan Empire-held its own memories, ones she had long since repressed. Hunger, denigration, humiliation and what seemed a fatal, spiralling descent. But the recruiters had found her, or perhaps she found them. The Red Blades would be a statement to the Emperor, the marking of a new era in Seven Cities. There would be peace. None of this interested Lostara, however. Rather, it was the widely-held rumour that the Red Blades sought to become the deliverers of Malazan justice.

She had not forgotten those impassive eyes. The citizens who were indifferent to her pleas, who had watched the acolyte drag her past to an unknown fate. She had not forgotten her own parents.

Betrayal could be answered by but one thing, and one thing alone, and the once-captain Lostara Yil of the Red Blades had grown skilled in that answer’s brutal delivery.

And now, am I being made into a betrayer?

She turned away from the wooden chest. She was a Red Blade no longer. In a short while, Pearl would arrive, and they would set out to find the cold, cold trail of Tavore’s hapless sister, Felisin. Along which they might find opportunity to drive a blade into the heart of the Talons. Yet were not the Talons of the empire? Dancer’s own, his spies and killers, the deadly weapon of his will. Then what had turned them into traitors?

Betrayal was a mystery. Inexplicable to Lostara. She only knew that it delivered the deepest wounds of all.

And she had long since vowed that she would never again suffer such wounds.

She collected her sword-belt from the hook above the bed and drew the thick leather band about her hips, hooking it in place.

Then froze.

The small room before her was filled with dancing shadows.

And in their midst, a figure. A pale face of firm features, made handsome by smile lines at the corners of the eyes-and the eyes themselves, which, as he looked upon her, settled like depthless pools.

Into which she felt, in a sudden rush, she could plunge. Here, now, for ever.

The figure made a slight bow with his head, then spoke, ‘Lostara Yil. You may doubt my words, but I remember you-’

She stepped back, her back pressing up against the wall, and shook her head. ‘I do not know you,’ she whispered.

‘True. But there were three of us that night, so very long ago in Ehrlitan. I was witness to your… unexpected performance. Did you know Delat-or, rather, the man I would eventually learn was Delat-would have taken you for his own? Not just the one night. You would have joined him as a Bridgeburner, and that would well have pleased him. Or so I believe. No way to test it, alas, since it all went-outwardly-so thoroughly awry.’

‘I remember,’ she said.

The man shrugged. ‘Delat, who had a different name for that mission and was my partner’s responsibility besides-Delat let Bidithal go. I suppose it seemed a… a betrayal, yes? It certainly did to my partner. Certainly to this day Shadowthrone-who was not Shadowthrone then, simply a particularly adept and ambitious practitioner of Rashan’s sister warren, Meanas-to this day, I was saying, Shadowthrone stokes eternal fires of vengeance. But Delat proved very capable of hiding… under our very noses. Like Kalam. Just another unremarked soldier in the ranks of the Bridgeburners.’

‘I do not know who you are.’

The man smiled. ‘Ah, yes, I am well ahead of myself…’ His gaze fell to the shadows spread long before him, though his back was to an unlit, closed door, and his smile broadened as if he was reconsidering those words. ‘I am Cotillion, Lostara Yil. Back then, I was Dancer, and yes, you can well guess the significance of that name, given what you were being trained to do. Of course, in Seven Cities, certain truths of the cult had been lost, in particular the true nature of Shadow Dancing. It was never meant for performance, Lostara. It was, in fact, an art most martial. Assassination.’

‘I am no follower of Shadow-Rashan or your version-’

‘That is not the loyalty I would call upon with you,’ Cotillion replied.

She was silent, struggling to fit sense to her thoughts, to his words. Cotillion… was Dancer. Shadowthrone… must have been Kellanved, the Emperor! She scowled. ‘My loyalty is to the Malazan Empire. The Empire-’

‘Very good,’ he replied. ‘I am pleased.’

‘And now you’re going to try to convince me that the Empress Laseen should not be the empire’s true ruler-’

‘Not at all. She is welcome to it. But, alas, she is in some trouble right now, isn’t she? She could do with some… help.’

‘She supposedly assassinated you!’ Lostara hissed. ‘You and Kellanved both!’ She betrayed you.

Cotillion simply shrugged again. ‘Everyone had their… appointed tasks. Lostara, the game being played here is far larger than any mortal empire. But the empire in question-your empire-well, its success is crucial to what we seek. And, were you to know the fullest extent of recent, distant events, you would need no convincing that the Empress sits on a tottering throne right now.’

‘Yet even you betrayed the Emper-Shadowthrone. Did you not just tell me-’

‘Sometimes, I see further than my dear companion. Indeed, he remains obsessed with desires to see Laseen suffer-I have other ideas, and while he may see them as party to his own, there is yet no pressing need to disabuse him of that notion. But I will not seek to deceive you into believing I am all-knowing. I admit to having made grave errors, indeed, to knowing the poison of suspicion. Quick Ben. Kalam. Whiskeyjack. Where did their loyalty truly reside? Well, I eventually got my answer, but I am not yet decided whether it pleases me or troubles me. There is one danger that plagues ascendants in particular, and that is the tendency to wait too long. Before acting, before stepping-if you will-from the shadows.’ He smiled again. ‘I would make amends for past, at times fatal, hesitation. And so here I stand before you, Lostara, to ask for your help.’

Her scowl deepened. ‘Why should I not tell Pearl all about this… meeting?’

‘No reason, but I’d rather you didn’t. I am not yet ready for Pearl. For you, remaining silent will not constitute treason, for, if you do as I ask, you two will walk step in step. You will face no conflict, no matter what may occur, or what you may discover in your travels.’

‘Where is this… Delat?’

His brows rose, as if he was caught off guard momentarily by the question, then he sighed and nodded. ‘I have no hold over him these days, alas. Why? He is too powerful. Too mysterious. Too conniving. Too Hood-damned smart. Indeed, even Shadowthrone has turned his attentions elsewhere. I would love to arrange a reunion, but I am afraid I have not that power.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Sometimes, one must simply trust in fate, Lostara. The future can ever promise but one thing and one thing only: surprises. But know this, we would all save the Malazan Empire, in our own ways. Will you help me?’

‘If I did, would that make me a Talon?’

Cotillion’s smile broadened. ‘But, my dear, the Talons no longer exist.’

‘Oh, really, Cotillion, would you ask my help and then play me for a fool?’

The smile slowly faded. ‘But I am telling you, the Talons no longer exist. Surly annihilated them. Is there knowledge you possess that would suggest otherwise?’

She was silent a moment, then turned away. ‘No. I simply… assumed.’

‘Indeed. Will you help me then?’

‘Pearl is on his way,’ Lostara said, facing the god once again.

‘I am capable of brevity when need be.’

‘What is it you want me to do?’

Half a bell later there was a light rap upon the door and Pearl entered.

And immediately halted. ‘I smell sorcery.’

Seated on the bed, Lostara shrugged then rose to collect her kit bag. ‘There are sequences in the Shadow Dance,’ she said casually, ‘that occasionally evoke Rashan.’

‘Rashan! Yes.’ He stepped close, his gaze searching. ‘The Shadow Dance. You?’

‘Once. Long ago. I hold to no gods, Pearl. Never have. But the Dance, I’ve found, serves me in my fighting. Keeps me flexible, and I need that the most when I am nervous or unhappy.’ She slung the bag over a shoulder and waited.

Pearl’s eyebrows rose. ‘Nervous or unhappy?’

She answered him with a sour look, then walked to the doorway. ‘You said you’ve stumbled on a lead…’

He joined her. ‘I have at that. But a word of warning first. Those sequences that evoke Rashan-it would be best for us both if you avoided them in the future. That kind of activity risks drawing… attention.’

‘Very well. Now, lead on.’

A lone guard slouched outside the estate’s gate, beside a bound bundle of straw. Pale green eyes tracked Lostara and Pearl as they approached from across the street. The man’s uniform and armour were dull with dust. A small human finger bone hung on a brass loop from one ear. His expression was sickly, and he drew a deep breath before saying, ‘You the advance? Go back and tell her we’re not ready.’

Lostara blinked and glanced over at Pearl.

Her companion was smiling. ‘Do we look like messengers, soldier?’

The guard’s eyes thinned. ‘Didn’t I see you dancing on a table down at Pugroot’s Bar?’

Pearl’s smile broadened. ‘And have you a name, soldier?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Well, what is it?’

‘I just told you. Maybe. Do you need me to spell it or something?’

‘Can you?’

‘No. I was just wondering if you was stupid, that’s all. So, if you’re not the Adjunct’s advance, come to warn us about that surprise inspection, then what do you want?’

‘A moment,’ Pearl said, frowning. ‘How can an inspection be a surprise if there’s advance warning?’

‘Hood’s leathery feet, you are stupid after all. That’s how it’s done-’

‘A warning, then.’ He glanced at Lostara and winked as he added, ‘Seems I’m offering those all day. Listen, Maybe, the Adjunct won’t be warning you about her inspections-and don’t expect your officers to do so either. She has her own rules, and you’d better get used to it.’

‘You still ain’t told me what you want.’

‘I need to speak to a certain soldier of the 5th squad of the 9th Company, and I understand he is stationed in the temporary barracks here.’

‘Well, I’m in the 6th, not the 5th.’

‘Yes… so?’

‘Well, it’s obvious then, isn’t it? You don’t want to speak to me at all. Go on in, you’re wasting my time. And hurry up, I’m not feeling too well.’

The guard opened the gate and watched them stride inside, his eyes falling to Lostara’s swaying hips for a long moment before he slammed the reinforced gate shut.

Beside him, the bale of straw shimmered suddenly then reformed as an overweight young man seated cross-legged on the cobbles.

Maybe’s head turned and he sighed. ‘Don’t do that again-not near me, Balgrid. Magic makes me want to puke.’

‘I had no choice but to maintain the illusion,’ Balgrid replied, drawing a sleeve across his sweat-beaded brow. ‘That bastard was a Claw!’

‘Really? I could have sworn I saw him wearing a woman’s clothes and dancing at Pug-’

‘Will you shut up with that! Pity the poor bastard he’s looking for in the 5th!’

Maybe suddenly grinned. ‘Hey, you just fooled a real live Claw with that damned illusion! Nice work!’

‘You ain’t the only one feeling sick,’ Balgrid muttered.

Thirty paces took Lostara and Pearl across the compound to the stables.

‘That was amusing,’ said the man at her side.

‘And what was the point?’

‘Oh, just to see them sweat.’

‘Them?’

‘The man and the bale, of course. Well, here we are.’ As she reached to draw back one of the broad doors, Pearl closed a hand on her wrist. ‘In a moment. Now, there’s actually more than one person within that we need to question. A couple of veterans-leave them to me. There’s also a lad, was a guard at a mining camp. Work your charms on him while I’m talking with the other two.’

Lostara stared at him. ‘My charms,’ she said, deadpan.

Pearl grinned. ‘Aye, and if you leave him smitten, well, consider it a future investment in case we need the lad later.’

‘I see.’

She opened the door, stepping back to let Pearl precede her. The air within the stables was foul. Urine, sweat, honing oil and wet straw. Soldiers were everywhere, lying or sitting on beds or on items from a collection of ornate furniture that had come from the main house. There was little in the way of conversation, and even that fell away as heads turned towards the two strangers.

‘Thank you,’ Pearl drawled, ‘for your attention. I would speak with Sergeant Gesler and Corporal Stormy…’

‘I’m Gesler,’ a solid-looking, bronze-skinned man said from where he sprawled on a plush couch. ‘The one snoring under those silks is Stormy. And if you come from Oblat tell him we’ll pay up… eventually.’

Smiling, Pearl gestured at Lostara to follow and strode up to the sergeant. ‘I am not here to call in your debts. Rather, I would like to speak with you in private… concerning your recent adventures.’

‘Is that right. And who in Fener’s hoofprint are you?’

‘This is an imperial matter,’ Pearl said, his gaze falling to Stormy. ‘Will you wake him or shall I? Further, my companion wishes to speak with the soldier named Pella.’

Gesler’s grin was cool. ‘You want to wake my corporal? Go right ahead. As for Pella, he’s not here at the moment.’

Pearl sighed and stepped to the side of the bed. A moment’s study of the heap of expensive silks burying the snoring corporal, then the Claw reached down and flung the coverings clear.

The hand that snapped to Pearl’s right shin-halfway between knee and ankle-was large enough to almost close entirely around the limb. The surge that followed left Lostara gaping.

Up. Pearl yelling. Up, as Stormy reared from the bed like a bear prodded from its hibernation, a roar rolling from his lungs.

Had the chamber contained a ceiling of normal height-rather than a few simple crossbeams spanning the space beneath the stable roof, none of which were, mercifully, directly overhead-Pearl would have struck it, and hard, as he was lifted into the air by that single hand clasped around his shin. Lifted, then thrown.

The Claw cavorted, arms flailing, his knees shooting up over his head, spinning, legs kicking free as Stormy’s hand let go. He came down hard on one shoulder, the breath leaving his lungs in a grunting whoosh. He lay unmoving, drawing his legs up, in increments, into a curled position.

The corporal was standing now, shaggy-haired, his red beard in wild disarray, the oblivion of sleep vanishing from his eyes like pine needles in a fire-a fire that was quickly flaring into a rage. ‘I said no-one wakes me!’ he bellowed, huge hands held out to either side and clutching at the air, as if eager to close on offending throats. His bright blue eyes fixed suddenly on Pearl, who was only now moving onto his hands and knees, his head hanging low. ‘Is this the bastard?’ Stormy asked, taking a step closer.

Lostara blocked his path. Grunting, Stormy halted.

‘Leave them be, Corporal,’ Gesler said from the couch. ‘That fop you just tossed is a Claw. And a sharper look at that woman in front of you will tell you she’s a Red Blade, or was, and can likely defend herself just fine. No need to get into a brawl over lost sleep.’

Pearl was climbing to his feet, massaging his shoulder, his breaths deep and shuddering.

Hand on the pommel of her sword, Lostara stared steadily into Stormy’s eyes. ‘We were wondering,’ she said conversationally, ‘which of you is the better story-teller. My companion here would like to hear a tale. Of course, there will be payment for the privilege. Perhaps your debts to this Oblat can be… taken care of, as a show of our appreciation.’

Stormy scowled and glanced back at Gesler.

The sergeant slowly rose from the couch. ‘Well, lass, the corporal here’s better with the scary ones… since he tells them so bad they ain’t so scary any more. Since you’re being so kind with… uh, our recent push of the Lord at knuckles, me and the corporal will both weave you a tale, if that’s what you’re here for. We ain’t shy, after all. Where should we start? I was born-’

‘Not that early,’ Lostara cut in. ‘I will leave the rest to Pearl-though perhaps someone could get him something to drink to assist in his recovery. He can advise you on where to start. In the meantime, where is Pella?’

‘He’s out back,’ Gesler said.

‘Thank you.’

As she was making her way to the narrow, low door at the back of the stables, another sergeant emerged to move up alongside her. ‘I’ll escort you,’ he said.

Another damned Falari veteran. And what’s with the finger bones? ‘Am I likely to get lost, Sergeant?’ she asked as she swung open the door. Six paces beyond was the estate’s back wall. Heaps of sun-dried horse manure were banked against it. Seated on one of them was a young soldier. At the foot of a nearby pile lay two dogs, both asleep, one huge and terribly scarred, the other tiny-a snarl of hair and a pug nose.

‘Possibly,’ the sergeant replied. He touched her arm as she made to approach Pella, and she faced him with an enquiring look. ‘Are you with one of the other legions?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Ah.’ He glanced back at the stables. ‘Newly assigned to handmaid the Claw.’

‘Handmaid?’

‘Aye. The man needs… learning. Seems he chose well in you, at least.’

‘What is it you want, Sergeant?’

‘Never mind. I’ll leave you now.’

She watched him re-enter the stables. Then, with a shrug, she swung about and walked up to Pella.

Neither dog awoke at her approach.

Two large burlap sacks framed the soldier, the one on the soldier’s right filled near to bursting, the other perhaps a third full. The lad himself was hunched over, holding a small copper awl which he was using to drill a hole into a finger bone.

The sacks, Lostara realized, contained hundreds of such bones.

‘Pella.’

The young man looked up, blinked. ‘Do I know you?’

‘No. But we perhaps share an acquaintance.’

‘Oh.’ He resumed his work.

‘You were a guard in the mines-’

‘Not quite,’ he replied without looking up. ‘I was garrisoned at one of the settlements. Skullcup. But then the rebellion started. Fifteen of us survived the first night-no officers. We stayed off the road and eventually made our way to Dosin Pali. Took four nights, and we could see the city burning for the first three. Wasn’t much left when we arrived. A Malazan trader ship showed up at about the same time as us, and took us, eventually, here to Aren.’

‘Skullcup,’ Lostara said. ‘There was a prisoner there. A young girl-’

‘Tavore’s sister, you mean. Felisin.’

Her breath caught.

‘I was wondering when somebody would find me about that. Am I under arrest, then?’ He looked up.

‘No. Why? Do you think you should be?’

He returned to his work. ‘Probably. I helped them escape, after all. The night of the Uprising. Don’t know if they ever made it, though. I left them supplies, such as I could find. They were planning on heading north then west… across the desert. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only one aiding them, but I never found out who the others were.’

Lostara slowly crouched down until she was at his eye-level. ‘Not just Felisin, then. Who was with her?’

‘Baudin-a damned frightening man, that one, but strangely loyal to Felisin, though…’ He lifted his head and met her gaze. ‘Well, she wasn’t one to reward loyalty, if you know what I mean. Anyway. Baudin, and Heboric.’

‘Heboric? Who is that?’

‘Was once a priest of Fener-all tattooed with the fur of the Boar. Had no hands-they’d been cut off. Anyway, them three.’

‘Across the desert,’ Lostara murmured. ‘But the west coast of the island has… nothing.’

‘Well, they were expecting a boat, then, weren’t they? It was planned, right? Anyway, that’s as far as I can take the tale. For the rest, ask my sergeant. Or Stormy. Or Truth.’

‘Truth? Who is he?’

‘He’s the one who’s just showed up in the doorway behind you… come to deliver more bones.’ He raised his voice. ‘No need to hesitate, Truth. In fact, this pretty woman here has some questions for you.’

Another one with the strange skin. She studied the tall, gangly youth who cautiously approached, carrying another bulging burlap sack from which sand drifted down in a dusty cloud. Hood take me, a comely lad… though that air of vulnerability would get on my nerves eventually. She straightened. ‘I would know of Felisin,’ she said, slipping some iron into her tone.

Sufficient to catch Pella’s notice, and he threw her a sharp look.

Both dogs had awakened at Truth’s arrival, but neither rose from where they lay-they simply fixed eyes on the lad.

Truth set down the bag and snapped to sudden attentiveness. Colour rose in his face.

My charms. It’s not Pella who’ll remember this day. Not Pella who’ll find someone to worship. ‘Tell me about what happened on the western shore of Otataral Island. Did the rendezvous occur as planned?’

‘I believe so,’ Truth replied after a moment. ‘But we weren’t part of that plan-we just happened to find ourselves in the same boat with Kulp, and it was Kulp who was looking to collect them.’

‘Kulp? The cadre mage from the Seventh?’

‘Aye, him. He’d been sent by Duiker-’

‘The imperial historian?’ Gods, what twisted trail is this? ‘And why would he have any interest in saving Felisin?’

‘Kulp said it was the injustice,’ Truth answered. ‘But you got it wrong-it wasn’t Felisin that Duiker wanted to help. It was Heboric.’

Pella spoke in a low voice quite unlike what she had heard from him moments earlier. ‘If Duiker is going to be made out as some kind of traitor… well, lass, better think twice. This is Aren, after all. The city that watched. That saw Duiker delivering the refugees to safety. He was the last one through the gate, they say.’ The emotion riding his words was now raw. ‘And Pormqual had him arrested!’

A chill rippled through Lostara. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Blistig loosed us Red Blades from the gaols. We were on the wall by the time Pormqual had his army out there on the plain. If Duiker was seeking to free Heboric, a fellow scholar, well, I have no complaint with that. The trail we are on is Felisin’s.’

Truth nodded at that. ‘Tavore has sent you, hasn’t she? You and that Claw inside, listening to Gesler and Stormy.’

Lostara briefly closed her eyes. ‘I am afraid I lack Pearl’s subtlety. This mission was meant to be… secret.’

‘Fine with me,’ Pella said. ‘And you, Truth?’

The tall lad nodded. ‘It doesn’t really matter anyway. Felisin is dead. They all are. Heboric. Kulp. They all died. Gesler was just telling that part.’

‘I see. None the less, please say nothing to anyone else. We will be pursuing our task, if only to gather her bones. Their bones, that is.’

‘That would be a good thing,’ Truth said with a sigh.

Lostara made to leave but Pella gestured to catch her attention. ‘Here.’ He held out to her the finger bone he had been drilling a hole through. ‘Take this for yourself. Wear it in plain sight.’

‘Why?’

Pella scowled. ‘You’ve just asked a favour of us…’

‘Very well.’ She accepted the grisly object.

Pearl appeared in the doorway. ‘Lostara,’ he called. ‘Are you done here?’

‘I am.’

‘Time to leave, then.’ She could see by his expression that he too had been told of Felisin’s death. Though probably in greater detail than the little that Truth had said.

In silence, they retraced their route through the stables, out into the compound, then across to the gate. The door swung open as they arrived and the soldier named Maybe waved them out. Lostara’s attention was drawn to the bale of straw, which seemed to be wavering, strangely melting where it squatted, but Pearl simply waved her on.

As they drew some distance from the estate, the Claw voiced a soft curse, then said, ‘I need a healer.’

‘Your limp is barely noticeable,’ Lostara observed.

‘Years of discipline, my dear. I’d much rather be screaming. The last time I suffered such strength used against me was with that Semk demon, that godling. The three of them-Gesler, Stormy and Truth-there’s more that’s strange about them than just their skin.’

‘Any theories?’

‘They went through a warren of fire-and somehow survived, though it seems that Felisin, Baudin and Heboric didn’t. Though their actual fate remains unknown. Gesler simply assumes they died. But if something unusual happened to those coastal guards in that warren, then why not the same to the ones who were washed overboard?’

‘I’m sorry. I was not told the details.’

‘We must pay a visit to a certain impounded ship. I will explain on the way. Oh, and next time don’t offer to pay off someone else’s debt… until you find out how big it is.’

And next time, leave that pompous attitude at the stable doors. ‘Very well.’

‘And stop taking charge.’

She glanced over at him. ‘You advised me to use my charm, Pearl. It’s hardly my fault if I possess more of that quality than you.’

‘Really? Let me tell you, that corporal was lucky you stepped between us.’

She wanted to laugh, but pushed it back. ‘You clearly did not notice the weapon under the man’s bed.’

‘Weapon? I care-’

‘It was a two-handed flint sword. The weapon of a T’lan Imass, Pearl. It probably weighs as much as I do.’

He said no more until they reached the Silanda.

The ship’s berth was well guarded, yet clearly permission for Pearl and Lostara had been provided earlier, for the two were waved onto the old dromon’s battered deck then left deliberately alone, the ship itself cleared of all others.

Lostara scanned the area amidships. Flame-scarred and mud smeared. A strange pyramidal mound surrounded the main mast, draped in a tarpaulin. New sails and sheets had been fitted, clearly taken from a variety of other vessels.

Standing at her side, Pearl’s gaze fell upon the covered mound, and he voiced a soft grunt. ‘Do you recognize this ship?’ he asked.

‘I recognize it’s a ship,’ Lostara replied.

‘I see. Well, it’s a Quon dromon of the old, pre-imperial style. But much of the wood and the fittings are from Drift Avalii. Do you know anything of Drift Avalii?’

‘It’s a mythical island off the Quon Tali coast. A drifting island, peopled with demons and spectres.’

‘Not mythical, and it does indeed drift, though the pattern seems to describe a kind of wobbly circle. As for demons and spectres… well…’ he strode to the tarpaulin, ‘hardly anything so frightening.’ He drew the covering back.

Severed heads, neatly piled, all facing outward, eyes blinking and fixing on Pearl and Lostara. The glimmer of wet blood.

‘If you say so,’ Lostara croaked, stepping back.

Even Pearl seemed taken aback, as if what he had unveiled was not entirely what he had expected. After a long moment he reached down and touched a fingertip to the pooled blood. ‘Still warm…’

‘B-but that’s impossible.’

‘Any more impossible than the damned things being still conscious-or alive at the very least?’ He straightened and faced her, then waved expansively. ‘This ship is a lodestone. There are layers upon layers of sorcery, soaked into the very wood, into the frame. It descends upon you with the weight of a thousand cloaks.’

‘It does? I don’t feel it.’

He looked at her blankly, then faced the mound of severed heads once more. ‘Neither demons nor spectres, as you can see. Tiste Andu, most of them. A few Quon Talian sailors. Come, let us go and examine the captain’s cabin-magic tumbles from that room in waves.’

‘What kind of magic, Pearl?’

He had already begun walking towards the hatch. A dismissive gesture. ‘Kurald Galain, Tellann, Kurald Emurlahn, Rashan-’ He paused suddenly and swung round. ‘Rashan. Yet you feel nothing?’

She shrugged. ‘Are there more… heads… in there, Pearl? If so, I think I’d rather not-’

‘Follow me,’ he snapped.

Inside, black wood, the air thick as if roiling with memories of violence. A grey-skinned, barbaric-looking corpse pinned to the captain’s chair by a massive spear. Other bodies, sprawled here and there as if grabbed, broken then tossed aside.

A dull, sourceless glow permeated the low, cramped room. Barring strange patches on the floor, smeared with, Lostara saw, otataral dust. ‘Not Tiste Andu,’ Pearl muttered. ‘These must be Tiste Edur. Oh, there are plenty of mysteries here. Gesler told me about the crew manning the oars down below-headless bodies. Those poor Tiste Andu on the deck. Now, I wonder who killed these Edur…’

‘How does all this lead us further onto Felisin’s trail, Pearl?’

‘She was here, wasn’t she? Witness to all this. The captain here had a whistle, strung around his neck, which was used to direct the rowers. It’s disappeared, alas.’

‘And without that whistle, this ship just sits here.’

Pearl nodded. ‘Too bad, isn’t it? Imagine, a ship with a crew you never have to feed, that never needs rest, that never mutinies.’

‘You can have it,’ Lostara said, turning back to the doorway. ‘I hate ships. Always have. And now I’m leaving this one.’

‘I see no reason not to join you,’ Pearl said. ‘We have a journey ahead of us, after all.’

‘We do? Where?’

‘The Silanda travelled warrens between the place where it was found by Gesler, and where it reappeared in this realm. From what I can gather, that journey crossed the mainland, from the north Otataral Sea down to Aren Bay. If Felisin, Heboric and Baudin jumped off, they might well have reappeared on land somewhere on that route.’

‘To find themselves in the midst of the rebellion.’

‘Given what seems to have led up to it, they might well have considered that a far less horrendous option.’

‘Until some band of raiders stumbled onto them.’


Captain Keneb’s 9th Company was called to muster in three successive assemblies on the parade ground. There had been no advance warning, simply the arrival of an officer commanding the soldiers to proceed at double-time.

Squads 1, 2 and 3 went first. These were heavy infantry, thirty soldiers in all, loaded down in scale armour and chain vambraces and gauntlets, kite shields, weighted longswords, stabbing spears strapped to their backs, visored and cheek-guarded helms with lobster tails, dirks and pig-stickers at their belts.

The marines were next. Ranal’s 4th, 5th and 6th squads. Following them were the bulk of the company’s troops, medium infantry, the 7th to the 24th squads. Only slightly less armoured than the heavy infantry, there was, among them, the addition of soldiers skilled in the use of the short bow, the longbow, and the spear. Each company was intended to work as a discrete unit, self-reliant and mutually supportive.

As he stood in front of his squad, Strings studied the 9th. Their first assembly as a separate force. They awaited the Adjunct’s arrival in mostly precise ranks, saying little, not one out of uniform or weaponless.

Dusk was fast approaching, the air growing mercifully cool.

Lieutenant Ranal had been walking the length of the three squads of marines for some time, back and forth, his steps slow, a sheen of sweat on his smooth-shaven cheeks. When he finally halted, it was directly before Strings.

‘All right, Sergeant,’ he hissed. ‘It’s your idea, isn’t it?’

‘Sir?’

‘Those damned finger bones! They showed up in your squad first-as if I wouldn’t have noticed that. And now I’ve heard from the captain that it’s spreading through every legion. Graves are being robbed all over the city! And I’ll tell you this-’ He stepped very close and continued in a rough whisper. ‘If the Adjunct asks who is responsible for this last spit in her face over what happened yesterday, I won’t hesitate in directing her to you.’

‘Spit in her face? Lieutenant, you are a raging idiot. Now, a clump of officers have just appeared at the main gate. I suggest you take your place, sir.’

Face dark with fury, Ranal wheeled and took position before the three squads.

The Adjunct led the way, her entourage trailing.

Captain Keneb awaited her. Strings remembered the man from the first, disastrous mustering. A Malazan. The word was out that he had been garrisoned inland, had seen his share of fighting when their company had been overrun. Then the flight southward, back to Aren. There was enough in that to lead Strings to wonder if the man hadn’t taken the coward’s route. Rather than dying with his soldiers, he’d been first in the rout. That’s how many officers outlived their squads, after all. Officers weren’t worth much, as far as the sergeant was concerned.

The Adjunct was speaking with the man now, then the captain stepped back and saluted, inviting Tavore to approach the troops. But instead she drew a step closer to the man, reached out and touched something looped about Keneb’s neck.

Strings’ eyes widened slightly. That’s a damned finger bone.

More words between the man and the woman, then the Adjunct nodded and proceeded towards the squads.

Alone, her steps slow, her face expressionless.

Strings saw the flicker of recognition as she scanned the squads. Himself, then Cuttle. After a long moment, during which she entirely ignored the ramrod-straight Lieutenant Ranal, she finally turned to the man. ‘Lieutenant.’

‘Adjunct.’

‘There seems to be a proliferation of non-standard accoutrements on your soldiers. More so here than among any of the other companies I have reviewed.’

‘Yes, Adjunct. Against my orders, and I know the man responsible-’

‘No doubt,’ she replied. ‘But I am not interested in that. I would suggest, however, that some uniformity be established for those… trinkets. Perhaps from the hip belt, opposite the scabbard. Furthermore, there have been complaints from Aren’s citizenry. At the very least, the looted pits and tombs should be returned to their original state… as much as that is possible, of course.’

Ranal’s confusion was obvious. ‘Of course, Adjunct.’

‘And you might note, as well,’ the Adjunct added drily, ‘that you are alone in wearing a… non-standard uniform of the Fourteenth Army, at this time. I suggest you correct that as soon as possible, Lieutenant. Now, you may dismiss your squads. And on your way out, convey my instruction to Captain Keneb that he can proceed with moving the company’s medium infantry to the fore.’

‘Y-yes, Adjunct. At once.’ He saluted. Strings watched her walk back to her entourage. Oh, well done, lass.


Gamet’s chest was filled with aching as he studied the Adjunct striding back to where he and the others waited. A fiercely welling emotion. Whoever had come up with the idea deserved… well, a damned kiss, as Cuttle would have said. They’ve turned the omen.

Turned it!

And he saw the rekindled fire in Tavore’s eyes as she reached them.

‘Fist Gamet.’

‘Adjunct?’

‘The Fourteenth Army requires a standard.’

‘Aye, it does indeed.’

‘We might take our inspiration from the soldiers themselves.’

‘We might well do that, Adjunct.’

‘You will see to it? In time for our departure tomorrow?’

‘I will.’

From the gate a messenger arrived on horseback. He had been riding hard, and drew up sharply upon seeing the Adjunct.

Gamet watched the man dismount and approach. Gods, not bad news… not now…

‘Report,’ the Adjunct demanded.

‘Three ships, Adjunct,’ the messenger gasped. ‘Just limped into harbour.’

‘Go on.’

‘Volunteers! Warriors! Horses and wardogs! It’s chaos at the docks!’

‘How many?’ Gamet demanded.

‘Three hundred, Fist.’

‘Where in Hood’s name are they from?’

The messenger’s gaze snapped away from them-over to where Nil and Nether stood. ‘Wickans.’ He met Tavore’s gaze once more. ‘Adjunct! Clan of the Crow. The Crow! Coltaine’s own!’

CHAPTER NINE

At night ghosts come

In rivers of grief,

To claw away the sand

Beneath a man’s feet

G’danii saying

THE TWIN LONG-KNIVES WERE SLUNG IN A FADED LEATHER HARNESS stitched in swirling Pardu patterns. They hung from a nail on one of the shop’s corner posts, beneath an elaborate Kherahn shaman’s feather headdress. The long table fronting the canopied stall was crowded with ornate obsidian objects looted from some tomb, each one newly blessed in the name of gods, spirits or demons. On the left side, behind the table and flanking the toothless proprietor who sat cross-legged on a high stool, was a tall screened cabinet.

The burly, dark-skinned customer stood examining the obsidian weapons for some time before a slight flip of his right hand signalled an interest to the hawker.

‘The breath of demons!’ the old man squealed, jabbing a gnarled finger at various stone blades in confusing succession. ‘And these, kissed by Mael-see how the waters have smoothed them? I have more-’

‘What lies in the cabinet?’ the customer rumbled.

‘Ah, you’ve a sharp eye! Are you a Reader, perchance? Could you smell the chaos, then? Decks, my wise friend! Decks! And oh, haven’t they awakened! Yes, all anew. All is in flux-’

‘The Deck of Dragons is always in flux-’

‘Ah, but a new House! Oh, I see your surprise at that, friend! A new House. Vast power, ’tis said. Tremors to the very roots of the world!’

The man facing him scowled. ‘Another new House, is it? Some local impostor cult, no doubt-’

But the old man was shaking his head, eyes darting past his lone customer, suspiciously scanning the market crowd-paltry as it was. He then leaned forward. ‘I do not deal in those, friend. Oh, I am as loyal to Dryjhna as the next, make no claims otherwise! But the Deck permits no bias, does it? Oh no, balanced wise eyes and mind is necessary. Indeed. Now, why does the new House ring with truth? Let me tell you, friend. First, a new Unaligned card, a card denoting that a Master now commands the Deck. An arbiter, yes? And then, spreading out like a runaway stubble fire, the new House. Sanctioned? Undecided. But not rejected out of hand, oh no, not rejected. And the Readers-the patterns! The House will be sanctioned-not one Reader doubts that!’

‘And what is the name of this House?’ the customer asked. ‘What throne? Who claims to rule it?’

‘The House of Chains, my friend. To your other questions, there is naught but confusion in answer. Ascendants vie. But I will tell you this: the Throne where the King shall sit-the Throne, my friend, is cracked.’

‘You are saying this House belongs to the Chained One?’

‘Aye. The Crippled God.’

‘The others must be assailing it fiercely,’ the man murmured, his expression thoughtful.

‘You would think, but not so. Indeed, it is they who are assailed! Do you wish to see the new cards?’

‘I may return later and do that very thing,’ the man replied. ‘But first, let me see those poor knives on that post.’

‘Poor knives! Aaii! Not poor, oh no!’ The old man spun on his seat, reached up and collected the brace of weapons. He grinned, blue-veined tongue darting between red gums. ‘Last owned by a Pardu ghost-slayer!’ He drew one of the knives from its sheath. The blade was blackened, inlaid with a silver serpent pattern down its length.

‘That is not Pardu,’ the customer growled.

‘Owned, I said. You’ve a sharp eye indeed. They are Wickan. Booty from the Chain of Dogs.’

‘Let me see the other one.’

The old man unsheathed the second blade.

Kalam Mekhar’s eyes involuntarily widened. Quickly regaining his composure, he glanced up at the proprietor-but the man had seen and was nodding.

‘Aye, friend. Aye…’

The entire blade, also black, was feather-patterned, the inlay an amber-tinged silver-that amber taint… alloyed with otataral. Crow clan. But not a lowly warrior’s weapon. No, this one belonged to someone important.

The old man resheathed the Crow knife, tapped the other one with a finger. ‘Invested, this one. How to challenge the otataral? Simple. Elder magic.’

‘Elder. Wickan sorcery is not Elder-’

‘Oh, but this now-dead Wickan warrior had a friend. See, here, take the knife in your hand. Squint at this mark, there, at the base-see, the serpent’s tail coils around it-’

The long-knife was startlingly heavy in Kalam’s hand. The finger ridges in the grip were overlarge, but the Wickan had compensated for this with thicker leather straps. The stamp impressed into the metal in the centre of the looped tail was intricate, almost beyond belief, given the size of the hand that must have inscribed it. Fenn. Thelomen Toblakai. The Wickan had a friend indeed. And worse, I know that mark. I know precisely who invested this weapon. Gods below, what strange cycles am I striding into here?

There was no point in bartering. Too much had been revealed. ‘Name your price,’ Kalam sighed.

The old man’s grin broadened. ‘As you can imagine, a cherished set-my most valuable prize.’

‘At least until the dead Crow warrior’s son comes to collect it-though I doubt he will be interested in paying you in gold. I will inherit that vengeful hunter, so rein in your greed and name the price.’

‘Twelve hundred.’

The assassin set a small pouch on the table and watched the proprietor loosen the strings and peer inside.

‘There is a darkness to these diamonds,’ the old man said after a moment.

‘It is that shadow that makes them so valuable and you know it.’

‘Aye, I do indeed. Half of what is within will suffice.’

‘An honest hawker.’

‘A rarity, yes. These days, loyalty pays.’

Kalam watched the old man count out the diamonds. ‘The loss of imperial trade has been painful, it seems.’

‘Very. But the situation here in G’danisban is doubly so, friend.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Why, everyone is at B’ridys, of course. The siege.’

‘B’ridys? The old mountain fortress? Who is holed up there?’

‘Malazans. They retreated from their strongholds in Ehrlitan, here and Pan’potsun-were chased all the way into the hills. Oh, nothing so grand as the Chain of Dogs, but a few hundred made it.’

‘And they’re still holding out?’

‘Aye. B’ridys is like that, alas. Still, not much longer, I wager. Now, I am done, friend. Hide that pouch well, and may the gods ever walk in your shadow.’

Kalam struggled to keep the grin from his face as he collected the weapons. ‘And with you, sir.’ And so they will, friend. Far closer than you might want.

He walked a short distance down the market street, then paused to adjust the clasps of the weapon harness. The previous owner had not Kalam’s bulk. Then again, few did. When he was done he slipped into the harness, then drew his telaba’s overcloak around once more. The heavier weapon jutted from under his left arm.

The assassin continued on through G’danisban’s mostly empty streets. Two long-knives, both Wickan. The same owner? Unknown. They were complementary in one sense, true, yet the difference in weight would challenge anyone who sought to fight using both at the same time.

In a Fenn’s hand, the heavier weapon would be little more than a dirk. The design was clearly Wickan, meaning the investment had been a favour, or in payment. Can I think of a Wickan who might have earned that? Well, Coltaine-but he carried a single long-knife, un-patterned. Now, if only I knew more about that damned Thelomen Toblakai

Of course, the High Mage named Bellurdan Skullcrusher was dead.

Cycles indeed. And now this House of Chains. The damned Crippled God-

You damned fool, Cotillion. You were there at the last Chaining, weren’t you? You should have stuck a knife in the bastard right there and then.

Now, I wonder, was Bellurdan there as well?

Oh, damn, I forgot to ask what happened to that Pardu ghost-slayer…


The road that wound southwest out of G’danisban had been worn down to the underlying cobbles. Clearly, the siege had gone on so long that the small city that fed it was growing gaunt. The besieged were probably faring worse. B’ridys had been carved into a cliffside, a longstanding tradition in the odhans surrounding the Holy Desert. There was no formal, constructed approach-not even steps, nor handholds, cut into the stone-and the tunnels behind the fortifications reached deep. Within those tunnels, springs supplied water. Kalam had only seen B’ridys from the outside, long abandoned by its original inhabitants, suggesting that the springs had dried up. And while such strongholds contained vast storage chambers, there was little chance that the Malazans who’d fled to it had found those chambers supplied.

The poor bastards were probably starving.

Kalam walked the road in the gathering dusk. He saw no-one else on the track, and suspected that the supply trains would not set out from G’danisban until the fall of night, to spare their draught animals the heat. Already, the road had begun its climb, twisting onto the sides of the hills.

The assassin had left his horse with Cotillion in the Shadow Realm. For the tasks ahead, stealth, not speed, would prove his greatest challenge. Besides, Raraku was hard on horses. Most of the outlying sources of water would have been long since fouled, in anticipation of the Adjunct’s army. He knew of a few secret ones, however, which would of necessity have been kept untainted.

This land, Kalam realized, was in itself a land under siege-and the enemy had yet to arrive. Sha’ik had drawn the Whirlwind close, a tactic that suggested to the assassin a certain element of fear. Unless, of course, Sha’ik was deliberately playing against expectations. Perhaps she simply sought to draw Tavore into a trap, into Raraku, where her power was strongest, where her forces knew the land whilst the enemy did not.

But there’s at least one man in Tavore’s army who knows Raraku. And he’d damn well better speak up when the time comes.

Night had arrived, stars glittering overhead. Kalam pressed on. Burdened beneath a pack heavy with food and waterskins, he continued to sweat as the air chilled. Reaching the summit of yet another hill, he discerned the glow of the besiegers’ camp beneath the ragged horizon’s silhouette. From the cliffside itself there was no light at all.

He continued on.

It was midmorning before he arrived at the camp. Tents, wagons, stone-ringed firepits, arrayed haphazardly in a rough semicircle before the rearing cliff-face with its smoke-blackened fortress. Heaps of rubbish surrounded the area, latrine pits overflowing and reeking in the heat. As he made his way down the track, Kalam studied the situation. He judged that there were about five hundred besiegers, many of them-given their uniforms-originally part of Malazan garrisons, but of local blood. There had been no assault in some time. Makeshift wooden towers waited off to one side.

He had been spotted, but no challenge was raised, nor was much interest accorded him as he reached the camp’s edge. Just another fighter come to kill Malazans. Carrying his own food, ensuring he would not burden anyone else, and therefore welcome.

As the hawker in G’danisban had suggested, the patience of the attackers had ended. Preparations were under way for a final push. Probably not this day, but the next. The scaffolds had been left untended for too long-ropes had dried out, wood had split. Work crews had begun the repairs, but without haste, moving slowly in the enervating heat. There was an air of dissolution to the camp that even anticipation could not hide.

The fires have cooled here. Now, they’re only planning an assault so they can get this over with, so they can go home.

The assassin noted a small group of soldiers near the centre of the half-ring where it seemed the orders were coming from. One man in particular, accoutred in the armour of a Malazan lieutenant, stood with hands on hips and was busy haranguing a half-dozen sappers.

The workmen wandered off a moment before Kalam arrived, desultorily making for the towers.

The lieutenant noticed him. Dark eyes narrowed beneath the rim of the helm. There was a crest on that skullcap. Ashok Regiment.

Stationed in Genabaris a few years past. Then sent back to… Ehrlitan, I think. Hood rot the bastards, I’d have thought they would have stayed loyal.

‘Come to see the last of them get their throats cut?’ the lieutenant asked with a hard grin. ‘Good. You’ve the look of an organized and experienced man, and Beru knows, I’ve far too few of them here in this mob. Your name?’

‘Ulfas,’ Kalam replied.

‘Sounds Barghast.’

The assassin shrugged as he set down his pack. ‘You’re not the first to think that.’

‘You will address me as sir. That’s if you want to be part of this fight.’

‘You’re not the first to think that… sir.’

‘I am Captain Irriz.’

Captainin a lieutenant’s uniform. Felt unappreciated in the regiment, did you? ‘When does the assault begin, sir?’

‘Eager? Good. Tomorrow at dawn. There’s only a handful left up there. It shouldn’t take long once we breach the balcony entrance.’

Kalam looked up at the fortress. The balcony was little more than a projecting ledge, the doorway beyond narrower than a man’s shoulders. ‘They only need a handful,’ he muttered, then added, ‘sir.’

Irriz scowled. ‘You just walked in and you’re already an expert?’

‘Sorry, sir. Simply an observation.’

‘Well, we’ve a mage just arrived. Says she can knock a hole where that door is. A big hole. Ah, here she comes now.’

The woman approaching was young, slight and pallid. And Malazan. Ten paces away, her steps faltered, then she halted, light brown eyes fixing now on Kalam. ‘Keep that weapon sheathed when you’re near me,’ she drawled. ‘Irriz, get that bastard to stand well away from us.’

‘Sinn? What’s wrong with him?’

‘Wrong? Nothing, probably. But one of his knives is an otataral weapon.’

The sudden avarice in the captain’s eyes as he studied Kalam sent a faint chill through the assassin. ‘Indeed. And where did you come by that, Ulfas?’

‘Took it from the Wickan I killed. On the Chain of Dogs.’

There was sudden silence. Faces turned to regard Kalam anew. Doubt flickered onto Irriz’s face. ‘You were there?’

‘Aye. What of it?’

There were hand gestures all round, whispered prayers. The chill within Kalam grew suddenly colder. Gods, they’re voicing blessings… but not on me. They’re blessing the Chain of Dogs. What truly happened there, for this to have been born?

‘Why are you not with Sha’ik, then?’ Irriz demanded. ‘Why would Korbolo have let you leave?’

‘Because,’ Sinn snapped, ‘Korbolo Dom is an idiot, and Kamist Reloe even worse. Personally, I am amazed he didn’t lose half his army after the Fall. What true soldier would stomach what happened there? Ulfas, is it? You deserted Korbolo’s Dogslayers, yes?’

Kalam simply shrugged. ‘I went looking for a cleaner fight.’

Her laugh was shrill, and she spun in mocking pirouette in the dust. ‘And you came here? Oh, you fool! That’s so funny! It makes me want to scream, it’s so funny!’

Her mind is broken. ‘I see nothing amusing in killing,’ he replied. ‘Though I find it odd that you are here, seemingly so eager to kill fellow Malazans.’

Her face darkened. ‘My reasons are my own, Ulfas. Irriz, I would speak with you in private. Come.’

Kalam held his expression impassive as the captain flinched at the imperious tone. Then the renegade officer nodded. ‘I will join you in a moment, Sinn.’ He turned back to the assassin. ‘Ulfas. We want to take most of them alive, to give us sport. Punishment for being so stubborn. I especially want their commander. He is named Kindly-’

‘Do you know him, sir?’

Irriz grinned. ‘I was 3rd Company in the Ashok. Kindly leads the 2nd.’ He gestured at the fortress. ‘Or what’s left of it. This is a personal argument for me, and that is why I intend to win. And it’s why I want those bastards alive. Wounded and disarmed.’

Sinn was waiting impatiently. Now she spoke up, ‘There’s a thought. Ulfas, with his otataral knife-he can make their mage useless.’

Irriz grinned. ‘First into the breach, then. Acceptable to you, Ulfas?’

First in, last out. ‘It won’t be my first time, sir.’

The captain then joined Sinn and the two strode off.

Kalam stared after them. Captain Kindly. Never met you, sir, but for years you’ve been known as the meanest officer in the entire Malazan military. And, it now seems, the most stubborn, too.

Excellent. I could use a man like that.

He found an empty tent to stow his gear-empty because a latrine pit had clawed away the near side of its sand-crusted wall and was now soaking the ground beneath the floor’s single rug along the back. Kalam placed his bag beside the front flap then stretched out close to it, shutting his mind and senses away from the stench.

In moments he was asleep.

He awoke to darkness. The camp beyond was silent. Slipping out from his telaba, the assassin rose into a crouch and began winding straps around his loose-fitting clothes. When he was done, he drew on fingerless leather gloves, then wound a black cloth around his head until only his eyes remained uncovered. He edged outside.

A few smouldering firepits, two tents within sight still glowing with lamplight. Three guards sitting in a makeshift picket facing the fortress-about twenty paces distant.

Kalam set out, silently skirting the latrine pit and approaching the skeletal scaffolding of the siege towers. They had posted no guard there. Irriz was probably a bad lieutenant, and now he’s an even worse captain. He moved closer.

The flicker of sorcery at the base of one of the towers froze him in place. After a long, breathless moment, a second muted flash, dancing around one of the support fittings.

Kalam slowly settled down to watch.

Sinn moved from fitting to fitting. When she finished with the closest tower, she proceeded to the next. There were three in all.

When she was working on the last fitting at the base of the second tower, Kalam rose and slipped forward. As he drew near her, he unsheathed the otataral blade.

He smiled at her soft curse. Then, as realization struck her, she whirled.

Kalam held up a staying hand, slowly raised his knife, then sheathed it once more. He padded to her side. ‘Lass,’ he whispered in Malazan, ‘this is a nasty nest of snakes for you to play in.’

Her eyes went wide, gleaming like pools in the starlight. ‘I wasn’t sure of you,’ she replied quietly. Her thin arms drew tight around herself. ‘I’m still not. Who are you?’

‘Just a man sneaking to the towers… to weaken all the supports. As you have done. All but one of them, that is. The third one is the best made-Malazan, in fact. I want to keep that one intact.’

‘Then we are allies,’ she said, still hugging herself.

She’s very young. ‘You showed fine acting abilities earlier on. And you’ve surprising skill as a mage, for one so…’

‘Minor magicks only, I’m afraid. I was being schooled.’

‘Who was your instructor?’

‘Fayelle. Who’s now with Korbolo Dom. Fayelle, who slid her knife across the throats of my father and mother. Who went hunting for me, too. But I slipped away, and even with her sorcery she could not find me.’

‘And this is to be your revenge?’

Her grin was a silent snarl. ‘I have only begun my revenge, Ulfas. I want her. But I need soldiers.’

‘Captain Kindly and company. You mentioned a mage in that fortress. Have you been in touch with him?’

She shook her head. ‘I have not that skill.’

‘Then why do you believe that the captain will join you in your cause?’

‘Because one of his sergeants is my brother-well, my half-brother. I don’t know if he still lives, though…’

He settled a hand on her shoulder, ignoring the answering flinch. ‘All right, lass. We will work together on this. You’ve your first ally.’

‘Why?’

He smiled unseen behind the cloth. ‘Fayelle is with Korbolo Dom, yes? Well, I have a meeting pending with Korbolo. And with Kamist Reloe. So, we’ll work together in convincing Captain Kindly. Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’

The relief in her voice sent a twinge through the assassin. She’d been alone for far too long in her deadly quest. In need of help… but with no-one around to whom she could turn. Just one more orphan in this Hood-cursed rebellion. He recalled his first sight of those thirteen hundred children he had unwittingly saved all those months back, his last time crossing this land. And there, in those faces, was the true horror of war. Those children had been alive when the carrion birds came down for their eyes… A shudder ran through him.

‘What is wrong? You seemed far away.’

He met her eyes. ‘No, lass, far closer than you think.’

‘Well, I have already done most of my work this night. Irriz and his warriors won’t be worth much come the morning.’

‘Oh? And what did you have planned for me?’

‘I wasn’t sure. I was hoping that, with you up front, you’d get killed quick. Captain Kindly’s mage wouldn’t go near you-he’d leave it to the soldiers with their crossbows.’

‘And what of this hole you were to blast into the cliff-face?’

‘Illusion. I’ve been preparing for days. I think I can do it.’

Brave and desperate. ‘Well, lass, your efforts seem to have far outstripped mine in ambition. I’d intended a little mayhem and not much more. You mentioned that Irriz and his men wouldn’t be worth much. What did you mean by that?’

‘I poisoned their water.’

Kalam blanched behind his mask. ‘Poison? What kind?’

‘Tralb.’

The assassin said nothing for a long moment. Then, ‘How much?’

She shrugged. ‘All that the healer had. Four vials. He once said he used it to stop tremors, such as afflicted old people.’

Aye. A drop. ‘When?’

‘Not long ago.’

‘So, unlikely anyone’s drunk it yet.’

‘Except maybe a guard or two.’

‘Wait here, lass.’ Kalam set out, silent in the darkness, until he came within sight of the three warriors manning the picket. Earlier, they had been seated. That was no longer the case. But there was movement, low to the ground-he slipped closer.

The three figures were spasming, writhing, their limbs jerking. Foam caked their mouths and blood had started from their bulging eyes. They had fouled themselves. A water skin lay nearby in a patch of wet sand that was quickly disappearing beneath a carpet of capemoths.

The assassin drew his pig-sticker. He would have to be careful, since to come into contact with blood, spit or any other fluid was to invite a similar fate. The warriors were doomed to suffer like this for what to them would be an eternity-they would still be spasming by dawn, and would continue to do so until either their hearts gave out or they died from dehydration. Horribly, with Tralb it was often the latter rather than the former.

He reached the nearest one. Saw recognition in the man’s leaking eyes. Kalam raised his knife. Relief answered the gesture. The assassin drove the narrow-bladed weapon down into the guard’s left eye, angled upward. The body stiffened, then settled with a frothy sigh. He quickly repeated the grisly task with the other two. Then meticulously cleaned his knife in the sand. Capemoths, wings rasping, were descending on the scene. Hunting rhizan quickly joined them. The air filled with the sound of crunching exoskeletons.

Kalam faced the camp. He would have to stove the casks. Enemies of the empire these warriors might be, but they deserved a more merciful death than this.

A faint skittering sound spun him around.

A rope had uncoiled down the cliff-face from the stone balcony. Figures began descending, silent and fast.

They had watchers.

The assassin waited.

Three in all, none armed with more than daggers. As they came forward one halted while still a dozen paces distant.

The lead man drew up before the assassin. ‘And who in Hood’s name are you?’ he hissed, gold flashing from his teeth.

‘A Malazan soldier,’ was Kalam’s whispered reply. ‘Is that your mage hanging back over there? I need his help.’

‘He says he can’t-’

‘I know. My otataral long-knife. But he need not get close-all he has to do is empty this camp’s water casks.’

‘What for? There’s a spring not fifty paces downtrail-they’ll just get more.’

‘You’ve another ally here,’ Kalam said. ‘She fouled the water with Tralb-what do you think afflicted these poor bastards?’

The second man grunted. ‘We was wondering. Not pleasant, what happened to them. Still, it’s no less than they deserved. I say leave the water be.’

‘Why not take the issue to Captain Kindly? He’s the one making the decisions for you, right?’

The man scowled.

His companion spoke. ‘That’s not why we’re down here. We’re here to retrieve you. And if there’s another one, we’ll take her, too.’

‘To do what?’ Kalam demanded. He was about to say Starve? Die of thirst? but then he realized that neither soldier before him looked particularly gaunt, nor parched. ‘You want to stay holed up in there for ever?’

‘It suits us fine,’ the second soldier snapped. ‘We could leave at any time. There’s back routes. But the question is, then what? Where do we go? The whole land is out for Malazan blood.’

‘What is the last news you’ve heard?’ Kalam asked.

‘We ain’t heard any at all. Not since we quitted Ehrlitan. As far as we can see, Seven Cities ain’t part of the Malazan Empire any more, and there won’t be nobody coming to get us. If there was, they’d have come long since.’

The assassin regarded the two soldiers for a moment, then he sighed. ‘All right, we need to talk. But not here. Let me get the lass-we’ll go with you. On condition that your mage do me the favour I asked.’

‘Not an even enough bargain,’ the second soldier said. ‘Grab for us Irriz. We want a little sit-down with that fly-blown corporal.’

‘Corporal? Didn’t you know, he’s a captain now. You want him. Fine. Your mage destroys the water in those casks. I’ll send the lass your way-be kind to her. All of you head back up. I may be a while.’

‘We can live with that deal.’

Kalam nodded and made his way back to where he’d left Sinn.

She had not left her position, although instead of hiding she was dancing beneath one of the towers, spinning in the sand, arms floating, hands fluttering like capemoth wings.

The assassin hissed in warning as he drew near. She halted, saw him, and scurried over. ‘You took too long! I thought you were dead!’

And so you danced? ‘No, but those three guards are. I’ve made contact with the soldiers from the fortress. They’ve invited us inside-conditions seem amenable up there. I’ve agreed.’

‘But what about the attack tomorrow?’

‘It will fail. Listen, Sinn, they can leave at any time, unseen-we can be on our way into Raraku as soon as we can convince Kindly. Now, follow me-and quietly.’

They returned to where the three Malazan imperials waited.

Kalam scowled at the squad mage, but he grinned in return. ‘It’s done. Easy when you’re not around.’

‘Very well. This is Sinn-she’s a mage as well. Go on, all of you.’

‘Lady’s luck to you,’ one of the soldiers said to Kalam.

Without replying, the assassin turned about and slipped back into the camp. He returned to his own tent, entered and crouched down beside his kit bag. Rummaging inside it, he drew out the pouch of diamonds and selected one at random.

A moment’s careful study, holding it close in the gloom. Murky shadows swam within the cut stone. Beware of shadows bearing gifts. He reached outside and dragged in one of the flat stones used to hold down the tent walls, and set the diamond onto its dusty surface.

The bone whistle Cotillion had given him was looped on a thong around his neck. He pulled it clear and set it to his lips. ‘Blow hard and you’ll awaken all of them. Blow soft and directly at one in particular, and you’ll awaken that one alone.’ Kalam hoped the god knew what he was talking about. Better if these weren’t Shadowthrone’s toys… He leaned forward until the whistle was a mere hand’s width from the diamond.

Then softly blew through it.

There was no sound. Frowning, Kalam pulled the whistle from his lips and examined it. He was interrupted by a soft tinkling sound.

The diamond had crumbled to glittering dust.

From which a swirling shadow rose.

As I’d feared. Azalan. From a territory in the Shadow Realm bordering that of the Aptorians. Rarely seen, and never more than one at a time. Silent, seemingly incapable of language-how Shadowthrone commanded them was a mystery.

Swirling, filling the tent, dropping to all six limbs, the spiny ridge of its massive, hunched back scraping against the fabric to either side of the ridge-pole. Blue, all-too-human eyes blinked out at Kalam from beneath a black-skinned, flaring, swept-back brow. Wide mouth, lower lip strangely protruding as if in eternal pout, twin slits for a nose. A mane of thin bluish-black hair hung in strands, tips brushing the tent floor. There was no indication of its gender. A complicated harness crisscrossed its huge torso, studded with a variety of weapons, not one of which seemed of practical use.

The azalan possessed no feet as such-each appendage ended in a wide, flat, short-fingered hand. The homeland of these demons was a forest, and these creatures commonly lived in the tangled canopy high overhead, venturing down to the gloomy forest floor only when summoned.

Summoned… only to then be imprisoned in diamonds. If it was me, I’d be pretty annoyed by now.

The demon suddenly smiled.

Kalam glanced away, considering how to frame his request. Get Captain Irriz. Alive, but kept quiet. Join me at the rope. There would need to be some explaining to do, and with a beast possessing no language-

The azalan turned suddenly, nostrils twitching. The broad, squat head dipped down on its long, thickly muscled neck. Down to the tent’s back wall at the base.

Where urine from the latrine pit had soaked through.

A soft cluck, then the demon wheeled about and lifted a hind limb. Two penises dropped into view from a fold of flesh.

Twin streams reached down to the sodden carpet.

Kalam reeled back at the stench, back, out through the flap and outside into the chill night air, where he remained, on hands and knees, gagging.

A moment later the demon emerged. Lifted its head to test the air, then surged into the shadows-and was gone.

In the direction of the captain’s tent.

Kalam managed a lungful of cleansing air, slowly brought his shuddering under control. ‘All right, pup,’ he softly gasped, ‘guess you read my mind.’ After a moment he rose into a crouch, reached back with breath held into the tent to retrieve his pack, then staggered towards the cliff-face.

A glance back showed steam or smoke rising out from his tent’s entrance, a whispering crackle slowly growing louder from within it.

Gods, who needs a vial of Tralb?

He padded swiftly to where the rope still dangled beneath the balcony.

A sputtering burst of flames erupted from where his tent had been.

Hardly an event to go unnoticed. Hissing a curse, Kalam sprinted for the rope.

Shouts rose from the camp. Then screams, then shrieks, each one ending in a strange mangled squeal.

The assassin skidded to a halt at the cliff-face, closed both hands on the rope, and began climbing. He was halfway up to the balcony when the limestone wall shook suddenly, puffing out dust. Pebbles rained down. And a hulking shape was now beside him, clinging to the raw, runnelled rock. Tucked under one arm was Irriz, unconscious and in his bedclothes. The azalan seemed to flow up the wall, hands gripping the rippled ribbons of shadow as if they were iron rungs. In moments the demon reached the balcony and swung itself over the lip and out of sight.

And the stone ledge groaned.

Cracks snaked down.

Kalam stared upward to see the entire balcony sagging, pulling away from the wall.

His moccasins slipped wildly as he tried to scrabble his way to one side. Then he saw long, unhuman hands close on the lip of the stone ledge. The sagging ceased.

H-how in Hood’s name-

The assassin resumed climbing. Moments later he reached the balcony and pulled himself over the edge.

The azalan was fully stretched over it. Two hands gripped the ledge. Three others held shadows on the cliffside above the small doorway.

Shadows were unravelling from the demon like layers of skin, vaguely human shapes stretching out to hold the balcony to the wall-and being torn apart by the immense strain. As Kalam scrambled onto its surface, a grinding, crunching sound came from where the balcony joined the wall, and it dropped a hand’s width along the seam.

The assassin launched himself towards the recessed doorway, where he saw a face in the gloom, twisted with terror-the squad mage. ‘Back off!’ Kalam hissed. ‘It’s a friend!’ The mage reached out and clasped Kalam’s forearm. The balcony dropped away beneath the assassin even as he was dragged into the corridor.

Both men tumbled back, over Irriz’s prone body. Everything shook as a tremendous thump sounded from below. The echoes were slow to fade.

The azalan swung in from under the lintel stone. Grinning. A short distance down the corridor crouched a squad of soldiers. Sinn had an arm wrapped round one of them-her half-brother, Kalam assumed as he slowly regained his feet.

One of the soldiers the assassin had met earlier moved forward, edging past the assassin and-with more difficulty-the azalan, back out to the edge. After a moment he called back. ‘All quiet down there, Sergeant. The camp’s a mess, though. Can’t see anyone about…’ The other soldier from before frowned. ‘No one, Bell?’

‘No. Like they all ran away.’

Kalam offered nothing, though he had his suspicions. There was something about all those shadows in the demon’s possession

The squad mage had disentangled himself from Irriz and now said to the assassin, ‘That’s a damned frightening friend you have there. And it ain’t imperial. Shadow Realm?’

‘A temporary ally,’ Kalam replied with a shrug.

‘How temporary?’

The assassin faced the sergeant. ‘Irriz has been delivered-what do you plan on doing with him?’

‘Haven’t decided yet. The lass here says you’re named Ulfas. Would that be right? A Genabackan Barghast name? Wasn’t there a war chief by that name? Killed at Blackdog.’

‘I wasn’t about to tell Irriz my real name, Sergeant. I’m a Bridgeburner. Kalam Mekhar, rank of corporal.’

There was silence.

Then the mage sighed. ‘Wasn’t you outlawed?’

‘A feint, one of the Empress’s schemes. Dujek needed a free hand for a time.’

‘All right,’ the sergeant said. ‘It don’t matter if you’re telling the truth or not. We’ve heard of you. I’m Sergeant Cord. The company mage here is Ebron. That’s Bell, and Corporal Shard.’

The corporal was Sinn’s half-brother, and the young man’s face was blank, no doubt numbed by the shock of Sinn’s sudden appearance.

‘Where’s Captain Kindly?’

Cord winced. ‘The rest of the company-what’s left, is down below. We lost the captain and the lieutenant a few days ago.’

‘Lost? How?’

‘They, uh, they fell down a well shaft. Drowned. Or so Ebron found out, once he climbed down and examined the situation more closely. It’s fast-running, an underground river. They were swept away, the poor bastards.’

‘And how do two people fall down a well shaft, Sergeant?’

The man bared his gold teeth. ‘Exploring, I imagine. Now, Corporal, it seems I outrank you. In fact, I’m the only sergeant left. Now, if you aren’t outlawed, then you’re still a soldier of the empire. And as a soldier of the empire…’

‘You have me there,’ Kalam muttered.

‘For now, you’ll be attached to my old squad. You’ve got seniority over Corporal Shard, so you’ll be in charge.’

‘Very well, and what’s the squad’s complement?’

‘Shard, Bell and Limp. You’ve met Bell. Limp’s down below. He broke his leg in a rock-slide, but he’s mending fast. There’s fifty-one soldiers in all. Second Company, Ashok Regiment.’

‘It seems your besiegers are gone,’ Kalam observed. ‘The world hasn’t been entirely still while you’ve been shut up in here, Sergeant. I think I should tell you what I know. There are alternatives to waiting here-no matter how cosy it might be-until we all die of old age… or drowning accidents.’

‘Aye, Corporal. You’ll make your report. And if I want to ask for advice on what to do next, you’ll be first in line. Now, enough with the opinions. Time to go below-and I suggest you find a leash for that damned demon. And tell it to stop smiling.’

‘You’ll have to tell it yourself, Sergeant,’ Kalam drawled.

Ebron snapped, ‘The Malazan Empire don’t need allies from the Shadow Realm-get rid of it!’

The assassin glanced over at the mage. ‘As I said earlier, changes have come, Mage. Sergeant Cord, you’re entirely welcome to try throwing a collar round this azalan’s neck. But I should tell you first-even though you’re not asking for my advice-that even though those weird gourds, pans and knobby sticks strapped on to the beast’s belts don’t look like weapons, this azalan has just taken the lives of over five hundred rebel warriors. And how long did that take? Maybe fifty heartbeats. Does it do what I ask? Now that’s a question worth pondering, don’t you think?’

Cord studied Kalam for a long moment. ‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Having worked alone for some time, Sergeant,’ the assassin replied in a low voice, ‘my skin’s grown thin. I’ll take your squad. I’ll even follow your orders, unless they happen to be idiotic. If you have a problem with all this, take it up with my own sergeant next time you see him. That’d be Whiskeyjack. Apart from the Empress herself, he’s the only man I answer to. You want to make use of me? Fine. My services are available to you… for a time.’

‘He’s on some secret mission,’ Ebron muttered. ‘For the Empress, is my guess. He’s probably back in the Claw-that’s where he started, after all, isn’t it?’

Cord looked thoughtful, then he shrugged and turned away. ‘This is making my head ache. Let’s get below.’

Kalam watched the sergeant push between the clump of soldiers crowding the corridor. Something tells me I’m not going to enjoy this much.

Sinn danced a step.


A blurred sword of dark iron rose along the horizon, a massive, bruised blade that flickered as it swelled ever larger. The wind had fallen off, and it seemed that the island in the path of the sword’s tip grew no closer. Cutter moved up to the lone mast and began storm-rigging the luffing sail. ‘I’m going to man the sweeps for a while,’ he said. ‘Will you take the tiller?’

With a shrug Apsalar moved to the stern.

The storm still lay behind the island of Drift Avalii, over which hung a seemingly permanent, immovable bank of heavy clouds. Apart from a steeply rising shoreline, there seemed to be no high ground; the forest of cedars, firs and redwoods looked impenetrable, their boles ever cloaked in gloom.

Cutter stared at the island for a moment longer, then gauged the pace of the approaching storm. He settled onto the bench behind the mast and collected the sweeps. ‘We might make it,’ he said, as he dropped the oar blades into the murky water and pulled.

‘The island will shatter it,’ Apsalar replied.

He narrowed his eyes on her. It was the first time in days that she had ventured a statement without considerable prodding on his part. ‘Well, I may have crossed a damned ocean, but I still understand nothing of the sea. Why should an island without a single mountain break that storm?’

‘A normal island wouldn’t,’ she answered.

‘Ah, I see.’ He fell silent. Her knowledge came from Cotillion’s memories, appearing to add yet another layer to Apsalar’s miseries. The god was with them once more, a haunting presence between them. Cutter had told her of the spectral visitation, of Cotillion’s words. Her distress-and barely constrained fury-seemed to originate from the god’s recruitment of Cutter himself.

His choosing of his new name had displeased her from the very first, and that he had now become, in effect, a minion of the patron god of assassins appeared to wound her deeply. He had been naive, it now seemed in retrospect, to have believed that such a development would bring them closer.

Apsalar was not happy with her own path-a realization that had rocked the Daru. She drew no pleasure or satisfaction from her own cold, brutal efficiency as a killer. Cutter had once imagined that competency was a reward in itself, that skill bred its own justification, creating its own hunger and from that hunger a certain pleasure. A person was drawn to his or her own proficiency-back in Darujhistan, after all, his thieving habits had not been the product of necessity. He’d suffered no starvation on the city’s streets, no depredation by its crueller realities. He had stolen purely for pleasure, and because he had been good at it. A future as a master thief had seemed a worthy goal, notoriety indistinguishable from respect.

But now, Apsalar was trying to tell him that competence was not justification. That necessity demanded its own path and there was no virtue to be found at its heart.

He’d found himself at subtle war with her, the weapons those of silence and veiled expressions.

He grunted at the sweeps. The seas were growing choppy. ‘Well, I hope you’re right,’ he said. ‘We could do with the shelter… though from what the Rope said, there will be trouble among the denizens of Drift Avalii.’

‘Tiste Andu,’ Apsalar said. ‘Anomander Rake’s own. He settled them there, to guard the Throne.’

‘Do you recall Dancer-or Cotillion-speaking with them?’

Her dark eyes flicked to his for a moment, then she looked away. ‘It was a short conversation. These Tiste Andu have known isolation for far too long. Their master left them there, and has never returned.’

‘Never?’

‘There are… complications. The shore ahead offers no welcome-see for yourself.’

He drew the oars back in and twisted round on the seat.

The shoreline was a dull grey sandstone, wave-worn into undulating layers and shelves. ‘Well, we can draw up easily enough, but I see what you mean. No place to pull the runner up, and tethering it risks battering by the waves. Any suggestions?’

The storm-or the island-was drawing breath, tugging the sail. They were quickly closing on the rocky coast.

The sky’s rumbles were nearer now, and Cutter could see the wavering treetops evincing the arrival of a high and fierce wind, stretching the clouds above the island into long, twisting tendrils.

‘I have no suggestions,’ Apsalar finally replied. ‘There is another concern-currents.’

And he could see now. The island did indeed drift, unmoored to the sea bottom. Spinning vortices roiled around the sandstone. Water was pulled under, flung back out, seething all along the shoreline. ‘Beru fend us,’ Cutter muttered, ‘this won’t be easy.’ He scrambled to the bow.

Apsalar swung the runner onto a course parallel to the shore. ‘Look for a shelf low to the water,’ she called. ‘We might be able to drag the boat onto it.’

Cutter said nothing to that. It would take four or more strong men to manage such a task… but at least we’d get onto shore in one piece. The currents tugged at the hull, throwing the craft side to side. A glance back showed Apsalar struggling to steady the tiller.

The dull grey sandstone revealed, in its countless shelves and modulations, a history of constantly shifting sea levels. Cutter had no idea how an island could float. If sorcery was responsible, then its power was vast, and yet, it seemed, far from perfect.

‘There!’ he shouted suddenly, pointing ahead where the coast’s undulations dropped to a flat stretch barely a hand’s width above the roiling water.

‘Get ready,’ Apsalar instructed, half rising from her seat.

Clambering up alongside the prow, a coil of rope in his left hand, Cutter prepared to leap onto the shelf. As they drew closer, he could see that the stone ledge was thin, deeply undercut.

They swiftly closed. Cutter jumped.

He landed square-footed, knees flexing into a crouch.

There was a sharp crack, then the stone was falling away beneath his moccasined feet. Cold water swept around his ankles. Unbalanced, the Daru pitched backward with a yelp. Behind him, the boat rushed inward on the wave that tumbled into the sinking shelf’s wake. Cutter plunged into deep water, even as the encrusted hull rolled over him.

The currents yanked him downward into icy darkness. His left heel thumped against the island’s rock, the impact softened by a thick skin of seaweed.

Down, a terrifyingly fast plummet into the deep.

Then the rock wall was gone, and he was pulled by the currents under the island.

A roar filled his head, the sound of rushing water. His last lungful of air was dwindling to nothing in his chest. Something hard hammered into his side-a piece of the runner’s hull, wreckage being dragged by the currents-their boat had overturned. Either Apsalar was somewhere in the swirling water with him, or she had managed to leap onto solid sandstone. He hoped it was the latter, that they would not both drown-for drowning was all that was left to him.

Sorry, Cotillion. I hope you did not expect too much of me-

He struck stone once more, was rolled along it, then the current tugged him upward and suddenly spat him loose.

He flailed with his limbs, clawing the motionless water, his pulse pounding in his head. Disorientated, panic ripping through him like wildfire, he reached out one last time.

His right hand plunged into cold air.

A moment later his head broke the surface.

Icy, bitter air poured into his lungs, as sweet as honey. There was no light, and the sounds of his gasping returned no echoes, seeming to vanish in some unknown immensity.

Cutter called out to Apsalar, but there was no reply.

He was swiftly growing numb. Choosing a random direction, he set out.

And quickly struck a stone wall, thick with wet, slimy growth. He reached up, found only sheerness. He swam along it, his limbs weakening, a deadly lassitude stealing into him. He struggled on, feeling his will seep away.

Then his outstretched hand slapped down onto the flat surface of a ledge. Cutter threw both arms onto the stone. His legs, numbed by the cold, pulled at him. Moaning, he sought to drag himself out of the water, but his strength was failing. Fingers gouging tracks through the slime, he slowly sank backward.

A pair of hands closed, one on each shoulder, to gather the sodden fabric in a grip hard as iron. He felt himself lifted clear from the water, then dropped onto the ledge.

Weeping, Cutter lay unmoving. Shivers racked him.

Eventually, a faint crackling sound reached through, seeming to come from all sides. The air grew warmer, a dull glow slowly rising.

The Daru rolled onto his side. He had expected to see Apsalar.

Instead, standing above him was an old man, extraordinarily tall, his white hair long and dishevelled, white-bearded though his skin was black as ebony, with eyes a deep, glittering amber-the sole source, Cutter realized with a shock-of the light.

All around them, the seaweed was drying, shrivelling, as waves of heat radiated from the stranger.

The ledge was only a few paces wide, a single lip of slick stone flanked by vertical walls stretching out to the sides.

Sensation was returning to Cutter’s legs, his clothes steaming now in the heat. He struggled into a sitting position. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said in Malazan.

‘Your craft has littered the pool,’ the man replied. ‘I suppose you will want some of the wreckage recovered.’

Cutter twisted to stare out on the water, but could see nothing. ‘I had a companion-’

‘You arrived alone. It is probable that your companion drowned. Only one current delivers victims here. The rest lead only to death. On the isle itself, there is but one landing, and you did not find it. Few corpses of late, of course, given our distance from occupied lands. And the end of trade.’

His words were halting, as if rarely used, and he stood awkwardly.

She drowned? More likely she made it onto shore. Not for Apsalar the ignoble end that almost took me. Then again… She was not yet immortal, as subject to the world’s cruel indifference as anyone. He pushed the thought away for the moment.

‘Are you recovered?’

Cutter glanced up. ‘How did you find me?’

A shrug. ‘It is my task. Now, if you can walk, it is time to leave.’

The Daru pushed himself to his feet. His clothing was almost dry. ‘You possess unusual gifts,’ he observed. ‘I am named… Cutter.’

‘You may call me Darist. We must not delay. The very presence of life in this place risks his awakening.’

The ancient Tiste Andu turned to face the stone wall. At a gesture, a doorway appeared, beyond which were stone stairs leading upward. ‘That which survived the wrecking of your craft awaits you above, Cutter. Come.’

The Daru set off after the man. ‘Awakening? Who might awaken?’

Darist did not reply.

The steps were worn and slick, the ascent steep and seemingly interminable. The cold water had stolen Cutter’s strength, and his pace grew ever slower. Again and again Darist paused to await him, saying nothing, his expression closed.

They eventually emerged onto a level hallway down which ran, along the walls, pillars of rough-skinned cedars. The air was musty and damp beneath the sharp scent of the wood. There was no-one else in sight. ‘Darist,’ Cutter asked as they walked down the aisle, ‘are we still beneath ground level?’

‘We are, but we shall proceed no higher for the time being. The island is assailed.’

‘What? By whom? What of the Throne?’

Darist halted and swung round, the glow in his eyes somehow deepening. ‘A question carelessly unasked. What has brought you, human, to Drift Avalii?’

Cutter hesitated. There was no love lost between the present rulers of Shadow and the Tiste Andu. Nor had Cotillion even remotely suggested actual contact be made with the Children of Darkness. They had been placed here, after all, to ensure that the true Throne of Shadow remain unoccupied. ‘I was sent by a mage-a scholar, whose studies had led him to believe the island-and all it contained-was in danger. He seeks to discover the nature of that threat.’

Darist was silent for a moment, his lined face devoid of expression. Then he said, ‘What is this scholar’s name?’

‘Uh, Baruk. Do you know him? He lives in Darujhistan-’

‘What lies in the world beyond the island is of no concern to me,’ the Tiste Andu replied.

And that, old man, is why you’re in this mess. Cotillion was right. ‘The Tiste Edur have returned, haven’t they? To reclaim the Throne of Shadow. But it was Anomander Rake who left you here, entrusted with-’

‘He lives still, does he? If Mother Dark’s favoured son is displeased with how we have managed this task, then he must come and tell us so himself. It was not some human mage who sent you here, was it? Do you kneel before the Wielder of Dragnipur? Does he renew his claims to the blood of the Tiste Andu, then? Has he renounced his Draconian blood?’

‘I wouldn’t know-’

‘Does he now appear as an old man-older by far than me? Ah, I see by your face the truth of it. He has not. Well, you may go back to him and tell him-’

‘Wait! I do not serve Rake! Aye, I saw him in person, and not very long ago, and he looked young enough at the time. But I did not kneel to him-Hood knows, he was too busy at the time in any case! Too busy fighting a demon to converse with me! We but crossed paths. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Darist. Sorry. And I am most certainly not in any position to find him and tell him whatever it is you want me to say to him.’

The Tiste Andu studied Cutter for a moment longer, then he swung about and resumed the journey.

The Daru followed, his thoughts wild with confusion. It was one thing to accept the charge of a god, but the further he travelled on this dread path, the more insignificant he himself felt. Arguments between Anomander Rake and these Tiste Andu of Drift Avalii… well, that was no proper business of his. The plan had been to sneak onto this island and remain unseen. To determine if indeed the Edur had found this place, though what Cotillion would do with such knowledge was anyone’s guess.

But that’s something I should think about, I suppose. Damn it, Cutter-Crokus would’ve had questions! Mowri knows, he would’ve hesitated a lot longer before accepting Cotillion’s bargain. If he accepted at all! This new persona was imposing a certain sense of stricture-he’d thought it would bring him more freedom. But now it was beginning to appear that the truly free one had been Crokus.

Not that freedom ensured happiness. Indeed, to be free was to live in absence. Of responsibilities, of loyalties, of the pressures that expectation imposed. Ah, misery has tainted my views. Misery, and the threat of true grieving, which draws nearer-but no, she must be alive. Somewhere up above. On an island assailed… ‘Darist, please, wait a moment.’

The tall figure stopped. ‘I see no reason to answer your questions.’

‘I am concerned… for my companion. If she’s alive, she’s somewhere above us, on the surface. You said you were under attack. I fear for her-’

‘We sense the presence of strangers, Cutter. Above us, there are Tiste Edur. But no-one else. She is drowned, this companion of yours. There is no point in holding out hope.’

The Daru sat down suddenly. He felt sick, his heart stuttering with anguish. And despair.

‘Death is not an unkind fate,’ Darist said above him. ‘If she was a friend, you will miss her company, and that is the true source of your grief-your sorrow is for yourself. My words may displease you, but I speak from experience. I have felt the deaths of many of my kin, and I mourn the spaces in my life where they once stood. But such losses serve only to ease my own impending demise.’

Cutter stared up at the Tiste Andu. ‘Darist, forgive me. You may be old, but you are also a damned fool. And I begin to understand why Rake left you here then forgot about you. Now, kindly shut up.’ He pushed himself upright, feeling hollowed out inside, but determined not to surrender to the despair that threatened to overwhelm him. Because surrendering is what this Tiste Andu has done.

‘Your anger leaves me undamaged,’ Darist said. He turned and gestured to the double doors directly ahead. ‘Through here you will find a place to rest. Your salvage awaits there, as well.’

‘Will you tell me nothing of the battle above?’

‘What is there to tell you, Cutter? We have lost.’

‘Lost! Who is left among you?’

‘Here in the Hold, where stands the Throne, there is only me. Now, best rest. We shall have company soon enough.’


The howls of rage reverberated through Onrack’s bones, though he knew his companion could hear nothing. These were cries of the spirits-two spirits, trapped within two of the towering, bestial statues rearing up on the plain before them.

The cloud cover overhead had broken apart, was fast vanishing in thinning threads. Three moons rode the heavens, and there were two suns. The light flowed with shifting hues as the moons swung on their invisible tethers. A strange, unsettling world, Onrack reflected.

The storm was spent. They had waited in the lee of a small hill while it thrashed around the gargantuan statues, the wind howling past from its wild race through the rubble-littered streets of the ruined city lying beyond. And now the air steamed.

‘What do you see, T’lan Imass?’ Trull asked from where he sat hunched, his back to the edifices.

Shrugging, the T’lan Imass turned away from his lengthy study of the statues. ‘There are mysteries here… of which I suspect you know more than I.’

The Tiste Edur glanced up with a wry expression. ‘That seems unlikely. What do you know of the Hounds of Shadow?’

‘Very little. The Logros crossed paths with them only once, long ago, in the time of the First Empire. Seven in number. Serving an unknown master, yet bent on destruction.’

Trull smiled oddly, then asked, ‘The human First Empire, or yours?’

‘I know little of the human empire of that name. We were drawn into its heart but once, Trull Sengar, in answer to the chaos of the Soletaken and D’ivers. The Hounds made no appearance during that slaughter.’ Onrack looked back at the massive stone Hound before them. ‘It is believed,’ he said slowly, ‘by the bonecasters, that to create an icon of a spirit or a god is to capture its essence within that icon. Even the laying of stones prescribes confinement. Just as a hut can measure out the limits of power for a mortal, so too are spirits and gods sealed into a chosen place of earth or stone or wood… or an object. In this way power is chained, and so becomes manageable. Tell me, do the Tiste Edur concur with that notion?’

Trull Sengar climbed to his feet. ‘Do you think we raised these giant statues, Onrack? Do your bonecasters also believe that power begins as a thing devoid of shape, and thus beyond control? And that to carve out an icon-or make a circle of stones-actually forces order upon that power?’

Onrack cocked his head, was silent for a time. ‘Then it must be that we make our own gods and spirits. That belief demands shape, and shaping brings life into being. Yet were not the Tiste Edur fashioned by Mother Dark? Did not your goddess create you?’

Trull’s smile broadened. ‘I was referring to these statues, Onrack. To answer you-I do not know if the hands that fashioned these were Tiste Edur. As for Mother Dark, it may be that in creating us, she but simply separated what was not separate before.’

‘Are you then the shadows of Tiste Andu? Torn free by the mercy of your goddess mother?’

‘But Onrack, we are all torn free.’

‘Two of the Hounds are here, Trull Sengar. Their souls are trapped in the stone. And one more thing of note-these likenesses cast no shadows.’

‘Nor do the Hounds themselves.’

‘If they are but reflections, then there must be Hounds of Darkness, from which they were torn,’ Onrack persisted. ‘Yet there is no knowledge of such…’ The T’lan Imass suddenly fell silent.

Trull laughed. ‘It seems you know more of the human First Empire than you first indicated. What was that tyrant emperor’s name? No matter. We should journey onward, to the gate-’

‘Dessimbelackis,’ Onrack whispered. ‘The founder of the human First Empire. Long vanished by the time of the unleashing of the Beast Ritual. It was believed he had… veered.’

‘D’ivers?’

‘Aye.’

‘And beasts numbered?’

‘Seven.’

Trull stared up at the statues, then gestured. ‘We didn’t build these. No, I am not certain, but in my heart I feel… no empathy. They are ominous and brutal to my eyes, T’lan Imass. The Hounds of Shadow are not worthy of worship. They are indeed untethered, wild and deadly. To truly command them, one must sit in the Throne of Shadow-as master of the realm. But more than that. One must first draw together the disparate fragments. Making Kurald Emurlahn whole once more.’

‘And this is what your kin seek,’ Onrack rumbled. ‘The possibility troubles me.’

The Tiste Edur studied the T’lan Imass, then shrugged. ‘I did not share your distress at the prospect-not at first. And indeed, had it remained… pure, perhaps I would still be standing alongside my brothers. But another power acts behind the veil in all this-I know not who or what, but I would tear aside that veil.’

‘Why?’

Trull seemed startled by the question, then he shivered. ‘Because what it has made of my people is an abomination, Onrack.’

The T’lan Imass set out towards the gap between the two nearest statues.

After a moment, Trull Sengar followed. ‘I imagine you know little of what it is like to see your kin fall into dissolution, to see the spirit of an entire people grow corrupt, to struggle endlessly to open their eyes-as yours have been opened by whatever clarity chance has gifted you.’

‘True,’ Onrack replied, his steps thumping the sodden ground.

‘Nor is it mere naivete,’ the Tiste Edur went on, limping in Onrack’s wake. ‘Our denial is wilful, our studied indifference conveniently self-serving to our basest desires. We are a long-lived people who now kneel before short-term interests-’

‘If you find that unusual,’ the T’lan Imass muttered, ‘then it follows that the one behind the veil has need for you only in the short term-if indeed that hidden power is manipulating the Tiste Edur.’

‘An interesting thought. You may well be right. The question then is, once that short-term objective is reached, what will happen to my people?’

‘Things that outlive their usefulness are discarded,’ Onrack replied.

‘Abandoned. Yes-’

‘Unless, of course,’ the T’lan Imass went on, ‘they would then pose a threat to one who had so exploited them. If so, then the answer would be to annihilate them once they are no longer useful.’

‘There is the unpleasant ring of truth to your words, Onrack.’

‘I am generally unpleasant, Trull Sengar.’

‘So I am learning. You say the souls of two Hounds are imprisoned within these-which ones again?’

‘We now walk between them.’

‘What are they doing here, I wonder?’

‘The stone has been shaped to encompass them, Trull Sengar. No-one asks the spirit or the god, when the icon is fashioned, if it wishes entrapment. Do they? The need to make such vessels is a mortal’s need. That one can rest eyes on the thing one worships is an assertion of control at worst, or at best the illusion that one can negotiate over one’s own fate.’

‘And you find such notions suitably pathetic, Onrack?’

‘I find most notions pathetic, Trull Sengar.’

‘Are these beasts trapped for eternity, do you think? Is this where they go when they are destroyed?’

Onrack shrugged. ‘I have no patience with these games. You possess your own knowledge and suspicions, yet would not speak them. Instead, you seek to discover what I know, and what I sense of these snared spirits. I care nothing for the fate either way of these Hounds of Shadow. Indeed, I find it unfortunate that-if these two were slain in some other realm and so have ended up here-there are but five remaining, for that diminishes my chances of killing one myself. And I think I would enjoy killing a Hound of Shadow.’

The Tiste Edur’s laugh was harsh. ‘Well, I won’t deny that confidence counts for a lot. Even so, Onrack of the Logros, I do not think you would walk away from a violent encounter with a Hound.’

The T’lan Imass halted and swung towards Trull Sengar. ‘There is stone, and there is stone.’

‘I am afraid I do not understand-’

In answer, Onrack unsheathed his obsidian sword. He strode up to the nearer of the two statues. The creature’s forepaw was itself taller than the T’lan Imass. He raised his weapon two-handed, then swung a blow against the dark, unweathered stone.

An ear-piercing crack ripped the air.

Onrack staggered, head tilting back as fissures shot up through the enormous edifice.

It seemed to shiver, then exploded into a towering cloud of dust.

Yelling, Trull Sengar leapt back, scrambling as the billowing dust rolled outward to engulf him.

The cloud hissed around Onrack. He righted himself, then dropped into a fighting stance as a darker shape appeared through the swirling grey haze.

A second concussion thundered-this time behind the T’lan Imass-as the other statue exploded. Darkness descended as the twin clouds blotted out the sky, closing the horizons to no more than a dozen paces on all sides.

The beast that emerged before Onrack was as tall at the shoulder as Trull Sengar’s full height. Its hide was colourless, and its eyes burned black. A broad, flat head, small ears…

Faint through the grey gloom, something of the two suns’ light, and that reflected from the moons, reached down-to cast beneath the Hound a score of shadows.

The beast bared fangs the size of tusks, lips peeling back in a silent snarl that revealed blood-red gums.

The Hound attacked.

Onrack’s blade was a midnight blur, flashing to kiss the creature’s thick, muscled neck-but the swing cut only dusty air. The T’lan Imass felt enormous jaws close about his chest. He was yanked from his feet. Bones splintered. A savage shake that ripped the sword from his hands, then he was sailing through the grainy gloom-

To be caught with a grinding snap by a second pair of jaws.

The bones of his left arm shattered into a score of pieces within its taut hide of withered skin, then it was torn entirely from his body.

Another crunching shake, then he was thrown into the air once more. To crash in a splintered heap on the ground, where he rolled once, then was still.

There was thunder in Onrack’s skull. He thought to fall to dust, but for the first time he possessed neither the will nor, it seemed, the capacity to do so.

The power was shorn from him-the Vow had been broken, ripped away from his body. He was now, he realized, as those of his fallen kin, the ones that had sustained so much physical destruction that they had ceased to be one with the T’lan Imass.

He lay unmoving, and felt the heavy tread of one of the Hounds as it padded up to stand over him. A dust- and shard-flecked muzzle nudged him, pushed at the broken ribs of his chest. Then lifted away. He listened to its breathing, the sound like waves riding a tide into caves, could feel its presence like a heaviness in the damp air.

After a long moment, Onrack realized that the beast was no longer looming over him. Nor could he hear the heavy footfalls through the wet earth. As if it and its companion had simply vanished.

Then the scrape of boots close by, a pair of hands dragging him over, onto his back.

Trull Sengar stared down at him. ‘I do not know if you can still hear me,’ he muttered. ‘But if it is any consolation, Onrack of the Logros, those were not Hounds of Shadow. Oh, no, indeed. They were the real ones. The Hounds of Darkness, my friend. I dread to think what you have freed here…”

Onrack managed a reply, his words a soft rasp. ‘So much for gratitude.’

Trull Sengar dragged the shattered T’lan Imass to a low wall at the city’s edge, where he propped the warrior into a sitting position. ‘I wish I knew what else I could do for you,’ he said, stepping back.

‘If my kin were present,’ Onrack said, ‘they would complete the necessary rites. They would sever my head from my body, and find for it a suitable place so that I might look out upon eternity. They would dismember the headless corpse and scatter the limbs. They would take my weapon, to return it to the place of my birth.’

‘Oh.’

‘Of course, you cannot do such things. Thus, I am forced into continuation, despite my present condition.’ With that, Onrack slowly clambered upright, broken bones grinding and crunching, splinters falling away.

Trull grunted, ‘You could have done that before I dragged you.’

‘I regret most the loss of an arm,’ the T’lan Imass said, studying the torn muscles of his left shoulder. ‘My sword is most effective when in the grip of two hands.’ He staggered over to where the weapon lay in the mud. Part of his chest collapsed when he leaned down to retrieve it. Straightening, Onrack faced Trull Sengar. ‘I am no longer able to sense the presence of gates.’

‘They should be obvious enough,’ the’Tiste Edur replied. ‘I expect near the centre of the city. We are quite a pair, aren’t we?’

‘I wonder why the Hounds did not kill you.’

‘They seemed eager to leave.’ Trull set off down the street directly opposite, Onrack following. ‘I am not even certain they noticed me-the dust cloud was thick. Tell me, Onrack. If there were other T’lan Imass here, then they would have done all those things to you? Despite the fact that you remain… functional?’

‘Like you, Trull Sengar, I am now shorn. From the Ritual. From my own kind. My existence is now without meaning. The final task left to me is to seek out the other hunters, to do what must be done.’

The street was layered in thick, wet silt. The low buildings to either side, torn away above the ground level, were similarly coated, smoothing every edge-as if the city was in the process of melting. There was no grand architecture, and the rubble in the streets revealed itself to be little more than fired bricks. There was no sign of life anywhere.

They continued on, their pace torturously slow. The street slowly broadened, forming a vast concourse flanked by pedestals that had once held statues. Brush and uprooted trees marred the vista, all a uniform grey that gradually assumed an unearthly hue beneath the now-dominant blue sun, which in turn painted a large moon the colour of magenta.

At the far end was a bridge, over what had once been a river but was now filled with silt. A tangled mass of detritus had ridden up on one side of the bridge, spilling flotsam onto the walkway. Among the garbage lay a small box.

Trull angled over towards it as they reached the bridge. He crouched down. ‘It seems well sealed,’ he said, reaching out to pry the clasp loose, then lifting the lid. ‘That’s odd. Looks like clay pots. Small ones…’

Onrack moved up alongside the Tiste Edur. ‘They are Moranth munitions, Trull Sengar.’

The Tiste Edur glanced up. ‘I have no knowledge of such things.’

‘Weapons. Explosive when the clay breaks. They are generally thrown. As far as is possible. Have you heard of the Malazan Empire?’

‘No.’

‘Human. From my birth realm. These munitions belong to that empire.’

‘Well, that is troubling indeed-for why are they here?’

‘I do not know.’

Trull Sengar closed the lid and collected the box. ‘While I would prefer a sword, these will have to do. I was not pleased at being unarmed for so long.’

‘There is a structure beyond-an arch.’

Straightening, the Tiste Edur nodded. ‘Aye. It is what we seek.’

They continued on.

The arch stood on pedestals in the centre of a cobbled square. Floodwaters had carried silt to its mouth where it had dried in strange, jagged ridges. As the two travellers came closer, they discovered that the clay was rock hard. Although the gate did not manifest itself in any discernible way, a pulsing heat rolled from the space beneath the arch.

The pillars of the structure were unadorned. Onrack studied the edifice. ‘What can you sense of this?’ the T’lan Imass asked after a moment.

Trull Sengar shook his head, then approached. He halted within arm’s reach of the gate’s threshold. ‘I cannot believe this is passable-the heat pouring from it is scalding.’

‘Possibly a ward,’ Onrack suggested.

‘Aye. And no means for us to shatter it.’

‘Untrue.’

The Tiste Edur glanced back at Onrack, then looked down at the box tucked under his arm. ‘I do not understand how a mundane explosive could destroy a ward.’

‘Sorcery depends on patterns, Trull Sengar. Shatter the pattern and the magic fails.’

‘Very well, let us attempt this thing.’

They retreated twenty paces from the gate. Trull unlatched the box and gingerly drew forth one of the clay spheres. He fixed his gaze on the gate, then threw the munition.

The explosion triggered a coruscating conflagration from the portal. White and gold fires raged beneath the arch, then the violence settled back to form a swirling golden wall.

‘That is the warren itself,’ Onrack said. ‘The ward is broken. Still, I do not recognize it.’

‘Nor I,’ Trull muttered, closing the munitions box once more. Then his head snapped up. ‘Something’s coming.’

‘Yes.’ Onrack was silent then for a long moment. He suddenly lifted his sword. ‘Flee, Trull Sengar-back across the bridge. Flee!’

The Tiste Edur spun and began running.

Onrack proceeded to back up a step at a time. He could feel the power of the ones on the other side of the gate, a power brutal and alien. The breaking of the ward had been noted, and the emotion reaching through the barrier was one of indignant outrage.

A quick look over his shoulder showed that Trull Sengar had crossed the bridge and was now nowhere in sight. Three more steps and Onrack would himself reach the bridge. And there, he would make his stand. He expected to be destroyed, but he intended to purchase time for his companion.

The gate shimmered, blindingly bright, then four riders cantered through. Riding white, long-limbed horses with wild manes the colour of rust. Ornately armoured in enamel, the warriors were a match for their mounts-pale-skinned and tall, their faces mostly hidden behind slitted visors, cheek and chin guards. Curved scimitars that appeared to have been carved from ivory were held in gauntleted fists. Long silver hair flowed from beneath the helms.

They rode directly towards Onrack. Canter to gallop. Gallop to charge.

The battered T’lan Imass widened his stance, lifted his obsidian sword and stood ready to meet them.

The riders could only come at him on the narrow bridge two at a time, and even then it was clear that they simply intended their horses to ride Onrack down. But the T’lan Imass had fought in the service of the Malazan Empire, in Falar and in Seven Cities-and he had faced horse warriors in many a battle. A moment before the front riders reached him, Onrack leapt forward. Between the two mounts. Ignoring the sword that whirled in from his left, the T’lan Imass slashed his blade into the other warrior’s midsection.

Two ivory blades struck him simultaneously, the one on his left smashing through clavicle and cutting deep into his shoulder blade, then through in a spray of bone shards. The scimitar on his right chopped down through the side of his face, sheering it off from temple to the base of the jaw.

Onrack felt his own obsidian blade bite deep into the warrior’s armour. The enamel shattered.

Then both attackers were past him, and the remaining two arrived.

The T’lan Imass dropped into a crouch and positioned his sword horizontally over his head. A pair of ivory blades hammered down on it, the impacts thundering through Onrack’s battered frame.

They were all past him now, emerging out onto the concourse to wheel their horses round, visored heads turned to regard the lone warrior who had somehow survived their attacks.

Hoofs thudding the clay-limned cobbles, the four warriors reined in, weapons lowering. The one whose armour had been shattered by Onrack’s obsidian sword was leaning forward, one arm pressed against his stomach. Spatters of blood speckled his horse’s flank.

Onrack shook himself, and pieces of shattered bone fell away to patter on the ground. He then settled his own weapon, point to the ground, and waited while one of the riders walked his horse forward.

A gauntleted hand reached up to draw the visor upward, revealing features that were startlingly similar to Trull Sengar’s, apart from the white, almost luminous skin. Eyes of cold silver fixed on the T’lan Imass with distaste. ‘Do you speak, Lifeless One? Can you understand the Language of Purity?’

‘It seems no purer than any other,’ Onrack replied.

The warrior scowled. ‘We do not forgive ignorance. You are a servant of Death. There is but one necessity when dealing with a creature such as you, and that is annihilation. Stand ready.’

‘I serve no-one,’ Onrack said, raising his sword once more. ‘Come, then.’

But the wounded one held up a hand. ‘Hold, Enias. This world is not ours-nor is this deathless savage one of the trespassers we seek. Indeed, as you yourself must sense, none of them are here. This portal has not been used in millennia. We must needs take our quest elsewhere. But first, I require healing.’ The warrior gingerly dismounted, one arm still pressed against his midsection. ‘Orenas, attend me.’

‘Allow me to destroy this thing first, Seneschal-’

‘No. We shall tolerate its existence. Perhaps it will have answers for us, to guide us further on our quest. Failing that, we can destroy it later.’

The one named Orenas slipped down from his horse and approached the seneschal.

Enias edged his horse closer to the T’lan Imass, as if still mindful of a fight. He bared his teeth. ‘There is not much left of you, Lifeless One. Are those the scorings of fangs? Your chest has been in the jaws of some beast, I think. The same that stole your arm? By what sorcery do you hold on to existence?’

‘You are of Tiste blood,’ Onrack observed.

The man’s face twisted into a sneer. ‘Tiste blood? Only among the Liosan is the Tiste blood pure. You have crossed paths with our tainted cousins, then. They are little more than vermin. You have not answered my questions.’

‘I know of the Tiste Andu, but I have yet to meet them. Born of Darkness, they were the first-’

‘The first! Oh, indeed. And so tragically imperfect. Bereft of Father Light’s purifying blood. They are a most sordid creation. We tolerate the Edur, for they contain something of the Father, but the Andu-death by our hands is the only mercy they deserve. But I grow weary of your rudeness, Lifeless One. I have asked you questions and you are yet to answer a single one.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes? What does that mean?’

‘I agree that I have not answered them. Nor do I feel compelled to do so. My kind has much experience with arrogant creatures. Although that experience is singular: in answer to their arrogance we proclaimed eternal war, until they ceased to exist. I have always believed the T’lan Imass should seek out a new enemy. There is, after all, no shortage to be noted among arrogant beings. Perhaps you Tiste Liosan are numerous enough in your own realm to amuse us for a time.’ The warrior stared, as if shocked speechless.

Behind him, one of his companions laughed. ‘There is little value in conversing with lesser creatures, Enias. They will seek to confound you with falsehoods, to lead you away from the righteous path.’

‘I see now,’ Enias replied, ‘the poison of which you have long warned me, Malachar.’

‘There will be more to come, young brother, on the trail we must follow.’ The warrior strode up to Onrack. ‘You call yourself a T’lan Imass, yes?’

‘I am Onrack, of the Logros T’lan Imass.’

‘Are there others of your kind in this ruined realm, Onrack?’

‘If I did not answer your brother’s questions, why imagine I would answer yours?’

Malachar’s face darkened. ‘Play such games with young Enias, but not with me-’

‘I am done with you, Liosan.’ Onrack sheathed his sword and swung away.

‘You are done with us! Seneschal Jorrude! If Orenas has completed his ministrations, I humbly request your attention. The Lifeless One seeks to flee.’

‘I hear you, Malachar,’ the seneschal rumbled, striding forward. ‘Hold, Lifeless One! We have not yet released you. You will tell us what we wish to know, or you will be destroyed here and now.’

Onrack faced the Liosan once more. ‘If that was a threat, the pathos of your ignorance proves an amusing distraction. But I weary of it, and of you.’

Four ivory scimitars lifted threateningly.

Onrack drew his sword once more.

And hesitated, his gaze drawn to something beyond them. Sensing a presence at their backs, the warriors turned.

Trull Sengar stood fifteen paces away, the box of munitions at his feet. There was something odd about his smile. ‘This seems an uneven fight. Friend Onrack, do you require assistance? Well, you need not answer, for it has arrived. And for that, I am sorry.’

Dust swirled upward around the Tiste Edur. A moment later, four T’lan Imass stood on the muddy cobbles. Three held weapons ready. The fourth figure stood a pace behind and to Trull’s right. This one was massively boned, its arms disproportionately long. The fur riding its shoulders was black, fading to silver as it rose up to surround the bonecaster’s head in a mangled hood.

Onrack allowed his sword’s point to rest on the muddy cobbles once more. With his link, born of the Ritual, now severed, he could only communicate with these T’lan Imass by speaking out loud. ‘I, Onrack, greet you, Bonecaster, and recognize you as from the Logros, as I once was. You are Monok Ochem. One of many chosen to hunt the renegades, who, as did those of my own hunt, followed their trail into this realm. Alas, I alone of my hunt survived the flood.’ His gaze shifted to the three warriors. The clan leader, its torso and limbs tightly wrapped in the outer skin of a dhenrabi and a denticulated grey flint sword in its hands, was Ibra Gholan. The remaining two, both armed with bone-hafted, double-bladed axes of chalcedony, were of Ibra’s clan, but otherwise unknown to Onrack. ‘I greet you as well, Ibra Gholan, and submit to your command.’

Bonecaster Monok Ochem strode forward with a heavy, shambling gait. ‘You have failed the Ritual, Onrack,’ it said with characteristic abruptness, ‘and so must be destroyed.’

‘That privilege will be contested,’ Onrack replied. ‘These horse warriors are Tiste Liosan and would view me as their prisoner, to do with as they please.’

Ibra Gholan gestured to his two warriors to join him and the three walked towards the Liosan.

The seneschal spoke. ‘We release our prisoner, T’lan Imass. He is yours. Our quarrel with you is at an end, and so we shall leave.’

The T’lan Imass halted, and Onrack could sense their disappointment.

The Liosan commander regarded Trull for a moment, then said, ‘Edur-would you travel with us? We have need of a servant. A simple bow will answer the honour of our invitation.’

Trull Sengar shook his head. ‘Well, that is a first for me. Alas, I will accompany the T’lan Imass. But I recognize the inconvenience this will cause you, and so I suggest that you alternate in the role as servant to the others. I am a proponent of lessons in humility, Tiste Liosan, and I sense that among you there is some need.’

The seneschal smiled coldly. ‘I will remember you, Edur.’ He whirled. ‘On your horses, brothers. We now leave this realm.’

Monok Ochem spoke. ‘You may find that more difficult than you imagine.’

‘We have never before been troubled by such endeavours,’ the seneschal replied. ‘Are there hidden barriers in this place?’

‘This warren is a shattered fragment of Kurald Emurlahn,’ the bonecaster said. ‘I believe your kind have remained isolated for far too long. You know nothing of the other realms, nothing of the Wounded Gates. Nothing of the Ascendants and their wars-’

‘We serve but one Ascendant,’ the seneschal snapped. ‘The Son of Father Light. Our lord is Osric.’

Monok Ochem cocked its head. ‘And when last has Osric walked among you?’

All four Liosan visibly flinched.

In his affectless tone, the bonecaster continued, ‘Your lord, Osric, the Son of Father Light, numbers among the contestants in the other realms. He has not returned to you, Liosan, because he is unable to do so. Indeed, he is unable to do much of anything at the moment.’

The seneschal took a step forward. ‘What afflicts our lord?’

Monok Ochem shrugged. ‘A common enough fate. He is lost.’

‘Lost?’

‘I suggest we work together to weave a ritual,’ the bonecaster said, ‘and so fashion a gate. For this, we shall need Tellann, your own warren, Liosan, and the blood of this Tiste Edur. Onrack, we shall undertake your destruction once we have returned to our own realm.’

‘That would seem expedient,’ Onrack replied.

Trull’s eyes had widened. He stared at the bonecaster. ‘Did you say, my blood?’

‘Not all of it, Edur… if all goes as planned.’

CHAPTER TEN

All that breaks must be discarded even as the thunder of faith returns ever fading echoes.

Prelude to Anomandaris

Fisher

THE DAY THE FACES IN THE ROCK AWAKENED WAS CELEBRATED AMONG the Teblor by a song. The memories of his people were, Karsa Orlong now knew, twisted things. Surrendered to oblivion when unpleasant, burgeoning to a raging fire of glory when heroic. Defeat had been spun into victory in the weaving of every tale.

He wished Bairoth still lived, that his sagacious companion did more than haunt his dreams, or stand before him as a thing of rough-carved stone in which some chance scarring of his chisel had cast a mocking, almost derisive expression.

Bairoth could have told him much of what he needed to know at this moment. While Karsa’s familiarity with their homeland’s sacred glade was far greater than either Bairoth’s or Delum Thord’s, and so ensured the likenesses possessed some accuracy, the warrior sensed that something essential was missing from the seven faces he had carved into the stone trees. Perhaps his lack of talent had betrayed him, though that did not seem the case with the carvings of Bairoth and Delum. The energy of their lives seemed to emanate from their statues, as if merged with the petrified wood’s own memory. As with the entire forest, in which there was the sense that the trees but awaited the coming of spring, of rebirth beneath the wheel of the stars, it seemed that the two Teblor warriors were but awaiting the season’s turn.

But Raraku defied every season. Raraku itself was eternal in its momentousness, perpetually awaiting rebirth. Patience in the stone, in the restless, ever-murmuring sands.

The Holy Desert seemed, to Karsa’s mind, a perfect place for the Seven Gods of the Teblor. It was possible, he reflected as he slowly paced before the faces he had carved into the boles, that something of that sardonic sentiment had poisoned his hands. If so, the flaw was not visible to his eyes. There was little in the faces of the gods that could permit expression or demeanour-his recollection was of skin stretched over broad, robust bone, of brows that projected like ridges, casting the eyes in deep shadow. Broad, flat cheekbones, a heavy, chinless jaw… a bestiality so unlike the features of the Teblor…

He scowled, pausing to stand before Urugal which, as with the six others, he had carved level with his own eyes. Serpents slithered over his dusty, bared feet, his only company in the glade. The sun had begun its descent, though the heat remained fierce.

After a long moment of contemplation, Karsa spoke out loud. ‘Bairoth Gild, look with me upon our god. Tell me what is wrong. Where have I erred? That was your greatest talent, wasn’t it? Seeing so clearly my every wrong step. You might ask: what did I seek to achieve with these carvings? You would ask that, for it is the only question worth answering. But I have no answer for you-ah, yes, I can almost hear you laugh at my pathetic reply.’ I have no answer. ‘Perhaps, Bairoth, I imagined you wished their company. The great Teblor gods, who one day awakened.’

In the minds of the shamans. Awakened in their dreams. There, and there alone. Yet now I know the flavour of those dreams, and it is nothing like the song. Nothing at all.

He had found this glade seeking solitude, and it had been solitude that had inspired his artistic creations. Yet now that he was done, he no longer felt alone here. He had brought his own life to this place, the legacies of his deeds. It had ceased to be a refuge, and the need to visit was born now from the lure of his efforts, drawing him back again and again. To walk among the snakes that came to greet him, to listen to the hiss of sands skittering on the moaning desert wind, the sands that arrived in the glade to caress the trees and the faces of stone with their bloodless touch.

Raraku delivered the illusion that time stood motionless, the universe holding its breath. An insidious conceit. Beyond the Whirlwind’s furious wall, the hourglasses were still turned. Armies assembled and began their march, the sound of their boots, shields and gear a deathly clatter and roar. And, on a distant continent, the Teblor were a people under siege.

Karsa continued staring at the stone face of Urugal. You are not Teblor. Yet you claim to be our god. You awakened, there in the cliff, so long ago. But what of before that time? Where were you then, Urugal? You and your six terrible companions?

A soft chuckle from across the clearing brought Karsa around.

‘And which of your countless secrets is this one, friend?’

‘Leoman,’ Karsa rumbled, ‘it has been a long time since you last left your pit.’

Edging forward, the desert warrior glanced down at the snakes. ‘I was starved for company. Unlike you, I see.’ He gestured at the carved boles. ‘Are these yours? I see two Toblakai-they stand in those trees as if alive and but moments from striding forth. It disturbs me to be reminded that there are more of you. But what of these others?’

‘My gods.’ He noted Leoman’s startled expression and elaborated, ‘The Faces in the Rock. In my homeland, they adorn a cliffside, facing onto a glade little different from this one.’

‘Toblakai-’

‘They call upon me still,’ Karsa continued, turning back to study Urugal’s bestial visage once more. ‘When I sleep. It is as Ghost Hands says-I am haunted.’

‘By what, friend? What is it your… gods… demand of you?’

Karsa shot Leoman a glance, then he shrugged. ‘Why have you sought me out?’

Leoman made to say one thing, then chose another. ‘Because my patience is at an end. There has been news of events concerning the Malazans. Distant defeats. Sha’ik and her favoured few are much excited… yet achieve nothing. Here we await the Adjunct’s legions. In one thing Korbolo Dom is right-the march of those legions should be contested. But not as he would have it. No pitched battles. Nothing so dramatic or precipitous. In any case, Toblakai, Mathok has given me leave to ride out with a company of warriors-and Sha’ik has condescended to permit us beyond the Whirlwind.’

Karsa smiled. ‘Indeed. And you are free to harass the Adjunct? Ah, I thought as much. You are to scout, but no further than the hills beyond the Whirlwind. She will not permit you to journey south. But at least you will be doing something, and for that I am pleased for you, Leoman.’

The blue-eyed warrior stepped closer. ‘Once beyond the Whirlwind, Toblakai-’

‘She will know none the less,’ Karsa replied.

‘And so I will incur her displeasure.’ Leoman sneered. ‘There is nothing new in that. And what of you, friend? She calls you her bodyguard, yet when did she last permit you into her presence? In that damned tent of hers? She is reborn indeed, for she is not as she once was-’

‘She is Malazan,’ Toblakai said.

‘What?’

‘Before she became Sha’ik. You know this as well as I-’

‘She was reborn! She became the will of the goddess, Toblakai. All that she was before that time is without meaning-’

‘So it is said, ‘Karsa rumbled. ‘Yet her memories remain. And it is those memories that chain her so. She is trapped by fear, and that fear is born of a secret which she will not share. The only other person who knows that secret is Ghost Hands.’

Leoman stared at Karsa for a long moment, then slowly settled into a crouch. The two men were surrounded by snakes, the sound of slithering on sand a muted undercurrent. Lowering one hand, Leoman watched as a flare-neck began entwining itself up his arm. ‘Your words, Toblakai, whisper of defeat.’

Shrugging, Karsa strode to where his tool kit waited at the base of a tree. ‘These years have served me well. Your company, Leoman. Sha’ik Elder. I once vowed that the Malazans were my enemies. Yet, from what I have seen of the world since that time, I now understand that they are no crueller than any other lowlander. Indeed, they alone seem to profess a sense of justice. The people of Seven Cities, who so despise them and wish them gone-they seek nothing more than the power that the Malazans took from them. Power that they used to terrorize their own people. Leoman, you and your kind make war against justice, and it is not my war.’

‘Justice?’ Leoman bared his teeth. ‘You expect me to challenge your words, Toblakai? I will not. Sha’ik Reborn says there is no loyalty within me. Perhaps she is right. I have seen too much. Yet here I remain-have you ever wondered why?’

Karsa drew out a chisel and mallet. ‘The light fades-and that makes the shadows deeper. It is the light, I now realize. That is what is different about them.’

‘The Apocalyptic, Toblakai. Disintegration. Annihilation. Everything. Every human… lowlander. With our twisted horrors-all that we commit upon each other. The depredations, the cruelties. For every gesture of kindness and compassion, there are ten thousand acts of brutality. Loyalty? Aye, I have none. Not for my kind, and the sooner we obliterate ourselves the better this world will be.’

‘The light,’ Karsa said, ‘makes them look almost human.’

Distracted as he was, the Toblakai did not notice Leoman’s narrowing eyes, nor the struggle to remain silent.

One does not step between a man and his gods.

The snake’s head lifted in front of Leoman’s face and hovered there, tongue flicking.


‘The House of Chains,’ Heboric muttered, his expression souring at the words.

Bidithal shivered, though it was hard to tell whether from fear or pleasure. ‘Reaver. Consort. The Unbound-these are interesting, yes? For all the world like shattered-’

‘From whence came these images?’ Heboric demanded. Simply looking upon the wooden cards with their lacquered paintings-blurred as they were-was filling the ex-priest’s throat with bile. I sense… flaws. In each and every one. That is no accident, no failing of the hand that brushed them into being.

‘There is no doubting,’ L’oric said in answer to his question, ‘their veracity. The power emanating from them is a sorcerous stench. I have never before witnessed such a vigorous birth within the Deck. Not even Shadow felt-’

‘Shadow!’ Bidithal snapped. ‘Those deceivers could never unveil that realm’s true power! No, here, in this new House, the theme is pure. Imperfection is celebrated, the twist of chaotic chance mars one and all-’

‘Silence!’ Sha’ik hissed, her arms wrapped tight about herself. ‘We must think on this. No-one speak. Let me think!’

Heboric studied her for a moment, squinting to bring her into focus, even though she sat beside him. The cards from the new House had arrived the same day as the news of the Malazan defeats on Genabackis. And the time since then had been one of seething discord among Sha’ik’s commanders, sufficient to dampen her pleasure at hearing of her brother Ganoes Paran’s survival, and now leading her to uncharacteristic distraction.

The House of Chains was woven into their fates. An insidious intrusion, an infection against which they’d had no chance to prepare. But was it an enemy, or the potential source for renewed strength? It seemed Bidithal was busy convincing himself that it was the latter, no doubt drawn in that direction by his growing disaffection with Sha’ik Reborn. L’oric, on the other hand, seemed more inclined to share Heboric’s own misgivings; whilst Febryl was unique in remaining silent on the entire matter.

The air within the tent was close, soured by human sweat. Heboric wanted nothing more than to leave, to escape all this, yet he sensed Sha’ik clinging to him, a spiritual grip as desperate as anything he’d felt from her before.

‘Show once more the new Unaligned.’

Yes. For the thousandth time.

Scowling, Bidithal searched through the Deck, then drew out the card, which he laid down in the centre of the goat-hair mat. ‘If any of the new arrivals is dubious,’ the old man sneered, ‘it is this one. Master of the Deck? Absurd. How can one control the uncontrollable?’

There was silence.

The uncontrollable? Such as the Whirlwind itself?

Sha’ik had clearly not caught the insinuation. ‘Ghost Hands, I would you take this card, feel it, seek to sense what you can from it.’

‘You make this request again and again, Chosen One,’ Heboric sighed. ‘But I tell you, there is no link between the power of my hands and the Deck of Dragons. I am of no help to you-’

‘Then listen closely and I shall describe it. Never mind your hands-I ask you now as a once-priest, as a scholar. Listen. The face is obscured, yet hints-’

‘It is obscured,’ Bidithal interrupted in a derisive tone, ‘because the card is no more than the projection of someone’s wishful thinking.’

‘Cut me off again and you will regret it, Bidithal,’ Sha’ik said. ‘I have heard you enough on this subject. If your mouth opens again I will tear out your tongue. Ghost Hands, I will continue. The figure is slightly above average in height. There is the crimson streak of a scar-or blood perhaps-down one side of the face-a wounding, yes? He-yes, I am certain it’s a man, not a woman-he stands on a bridge. Of stone, shot through with cracks. The horizon is filled with flames. It seems he and the bridge are surrounded, as if by followers, or servants-’

‘Or guardians,’ L’oric added. ‘Your pardon, Chosen One.’

‘Guardians. Yes, a good possibility. They have the look of soldiers, do they not?’

‘On what,’ Heboric asked, ‘do these guardians stand? Can you see the ground they stand upon?’

‘Bones-there is much fine detail there, Ghost Hands. How did you know?’

‘Describe those bones, please.’

‘Not human. Very large. Part of a skull is visible, long-snouted, terribly fanged. It bears the remnants of a helmet of some sort-’

‘A helmet? On the skull?’

‘Yes.’

Heboric fell silent. He began rocking yet was only remotely aware of the motion. There was a sourceless keening growing in his head, a cry of grief, of anguish.

‘The Master,’ Sha’ik said, her voice trembling, ‘he stands strangely. Arms held out, bent at the elbows so that the hands depend, away from the body-it is the strangest posture-’

‘Are his feet together?’

‘Almost impossibly so.’

As if forming a point. Dull and remote to his own ears, Heboric asked, ‘And what does he wear?’

‘Tight silks, from the way they shimmer. Black.’

‘Anything else?’

‘There is a chain. It cuts across his torso, left shoulder down to right hip. It is a robust chain, black wrought iron. There are wooden discs on his shoulders-like epaulets, but large, a hand’s span each-’

‘How many in all?’

‘Four. You know something now, Ghost Hands. Tell me!’

‘Yes,’ L’oric murmured, ‘you have thoughts on this-’

‘He lies,’ Bidithal growled. ‘He has been forgotten by everyone-even his god-and he now seeks to invent a new importance.’

Febryl spoke in a mocking rasp. ‘Bidithal, you foolish man. He is a man who touches what we cannot feel, and sees what we are blind to. Speak on, Ghost Hands. Why does this Master stand so?’

‘Because,’ Heboric said, ‘he is a sword.’

But not any sword. He is one sword, above all, and it cuts cold. That sword is as this man’s own nature. He will cleave his own path. None shall lead him. He stands now in my mind. I see him. I see his face. Oh, Sha’ik…

‘A Master of the Deck,’ L’oric said, then sighed. ‘A lodestone to order… in opposition to the House of Chains-yet he stands alone, guardians or no, while the servants of the House are many.’

Heboric smiled. ‘Alone? He has always been thus.’

‘Then why is your smile that of a broken man, Ghost Hands?’

I grieve for humanity. This family, so at war with itself. ‘To that, L’oric, I shall not answer.’

‘I shall now speak with Ghost Hands alone,’ Sha’ik pronounced. But Heboric shook his head. ‘I am done speaking, for now, even with you, Chosen One. I will say this and nothing more: have faith in the Master of the Deck. He shall answer the House of Chains. He shall answer it.’

Feeling ancient beyond his years, Heboric climbed to his feet. There was a stir of motion beside him, then young Felisin’s hand settled on his forearm. He let her guide him from the chamber.

Outside, dusk had arrived, marked by the cries of the goats as they were led into the enclosures. To the south, just beyond the city’s outskirts, rumbled the thunder of horse hoofs. Kamist Reloe and Korbolo Dom had absented themselves from the meeting to oversee the exercises of the troops. Training conducted in the Malazan style, which Heboric had to admit was the renegade Fist’s only expression of brilliance thus far. For the first time, a Malazan army would meet its match in all things, barring Moranth munitions. Tactics and disposition of forces would be identical, ensuring that numbers alone would decide the day. The threat of the munitions would be answered with sorcery, for the Army of the Whirlwind possessed a full cadre of High Mages, whilst Tavore had-as far as they knew-none. Spies in Aren had noted the presence of the two Wickan children, Nil and Nether, but both, it was claimed, had been thoroughly broken by Coltaine’s death.

Yet why would she need mages? She carries an otataral sword, after all. Even so, its negating influence cannot be extended over her entire army. Dear Sha’ik, you may well defeat your sister after all.

‘Where would you go, Ghost Hands?’ Felisin asked.

‘To my home, lass.’

‘That is not what I meant.’

He cocked his head. ‘I do not know-’

‘If indeed you do not, then I have seen your path before you have, and this I find hard to believe. You must leave here, Ghost Hands. You must retrace your path, else what haunts you will kill you-’

‘And that matters? Lass-’

‘Look beyond yourself for a moment, old man! Something is contained within you. Trapped within your mortal flesh. What will happen when your flesh fails?’

He was silent for a long moment, then he asked, ‘How can you be so sure of this? My death might simply negate the risk of escape-it might shut the portal, as tightly sealed as it had been before-’

‘Because there is no going back. It’s here-the power behind those ghostly hands of yours-not the otataral, which is fading, ever fading-’

Fading?

‘Yes, fading! Have not your dreams and visions worsened? Have you not realized why? Yes, my mother has told me-on the Otataral Isle, in the desert-that statue. Heboric, an entire island of otataral was created to contain that statue, to hold it prisoner. But you have given it a means to escape-there, through your hands. You must return!’

‘Enough!’ he snarled, flinging her hand away. ‘Tell me, did she also tell you of herself on that journey?’

‘That which she was before no longer matters-’

‘Oh, but it does, lass! It does matter!’

‘What do you mean?’

The temptation came close to overwhelming him. Because she is Malazan! Because she is Tavore’s sister! Because this war is no longer the Whirlwind’s-it has been stolen away, twisted by something far more powerful, by the ties of blood that bind us all in the harshest, tightest chains! What chance a raging goddess against that?

Instead, he said nothing.

‘You must undertake the journey,’ Felisin said in a low voice. ‘But I know, it cannot be done alone. No. I will go with you-’

He staggered away at her words, shaking his head. It was a horrible idea, a terrifying idea. Yet brutally perfect, a nightmare of synchronicity.

‘Listen! It need not be just you and I-I will find someone else. A warrior, a loyal protector-’

‘Enough! No more of this!’ Yet it will take her away-away from Bidithal and his ghastly desires. It will take her awayfrom the storm that is coming. ‘With whom else have you spoken of this?’ he demanded.

‘No-one, but I thought… Leoman. He could choose for us someone from Mathok’s people-’

‘Not a word, lass. Not now. Not yet.’

Her hand gripped his forearm once more. ‘We cannot wait too long, Ghost Hands.’

‘Not yet, Felisin. Now, take me home, please.’


‘Will you come with me, Toblakai?’

Karsa dragged his gaze from Urugal’s stone face. The sun had set with its characteristic suddenness, and the stars overhead were bright. The snakes had begun dispersing, driven into the eerily silent forest in search of food. ‘Would you I run beside you and your puny horses, Leoman? There are no Teblor mounts in this land. Nothing to match my size-’

‘Teblor mounts? Actually, friend, you are wrong in that. Well, not here, true, as you say. But to the west, in the Jhag Odhan, there are wild horses that are a match to your stature. Wild now, in any case. They are Jhag horses-bred long ago by the Jaghut. It may well be that your Teblor mounts are of the same breed-there were Jaghut on Genabackis, after all.’

‘Why have you not told me this before?’

Leoman lowered his right hand to the ground, watched as the flare-neck unwound down the length of his arm. ‘In truth, this is the first time you have ever mentioned that you Teblor possessed horses. Toblakai, I know virtually nothing of your past. No-one here does. You are not a loquacious man. You and I, we have ever travelled on foot, haven’t we?’

‘The Jhag Odhan. That is beyond Raraku.’

‘Aye. Strike west through the Whirlwind, and you will come to cliffs, the broken shoreline of the ancient sea that once filled this desert. Continue on until you come to a small city-Lato Revae. Immediately to the west lies the tip of the Thalas Mountains. Skirt their south edge, ever westward, until you come to River Ugarat. There is a ford south of Y’Ghatan. From the other side, strike west and south and west, for two weeks or more, and you will find yourself in the Jhag Odhan. Oh, there is some irony in this-there were once nomadic bands of Jaghut there. Hence the name. But these Jaghut were fallen. They had been predated on for so long they were little more than savages.’

‘And are they still there?’

‘No. The Logros T’lan Imass slaughtered them. Not so long ago.’

Karsa bared his teeth. ‘T’lan Imass. A name from the Teblor past.’

‘Closer than that,’ Leoman muttered, then he straightened. ‘Seek leave from Sha’ik to journey into the Jhag Odhan. You would make an impressive sight on the battlefield, astride a Jhag horse. Did your kind fight on horseback, or simply use them for transport?’

Karsa smiled in the darkness. ‘I will do as you say, Leoman. But the journey will take long-do not wait for me. If you and your scouts are still beyond the Whirlwind upon my return, I will ride out to find you.’

‘Agreed.’

‘What of Felisin?’

Leoman was silent for a moment, then he replied, ‘Ghost Hands has been awakened to the… threat.’

Karsa sneered. ‘And what value will that be? I should kill Bidithal and be done with it.’

‘Toblakai, it is more than you that troubles Ghost Hands. I do not believe he will remain in camp much longer. And when he leaves, he will take the child with him.’

‘And that is a better option? She will become no more than his nurse.’

‘For a time, perhaps. I will send someone with them, of course. If Sha’ik did not need you-or at least believe she does-I would ask you.’

‘Madness, Leoman. I have travelled once with Ghost Hands. I shall not do so again.’

‘He holds truths for you, Toblakai. One day, you will need to seek him out. You might even need to ask for his help.’

‘Help? I need no-one’s help. You speak unpleasant words. I will hear them no more.’

Leoman’s grin was visible in the gloom. ‘You are as you always are, friend. When will you journey into the Jhag Odhan, then?’

‘I shall leave tomorrow.’

‘Then I had best get word to Sha’ik. Who knows, she might even condescend to see me in person, whereupon I might well succeed in ending her distraction with this House of Chains-’

‘This what?’

Leoman waved a dismissive hand. ‘The House of Chains. A new power in the Deck of Dragons. It is all they talk about these days.’

‘Chains,’ Karsa muttered, swinging round to stare at Urugal. ‘I so dislike chains.’

‘I will see you in the morning, Toblakai? Before you depart?’

‘You shall.’

Karsa listened to the man stride away. His mind was a maelstrom. Chains. They haunted him, had haunted him ever since he and Bairoth and Delum rode out from the village. Perhaps even before then. Tribes fashioned their own chains, after all. As did kinship, and companions, and stories with their lessons in honour and sacrifice. And chains as well between the Teblor and their seven gods. Between me and my gods. Chains again, there in my visions-the dead I have slain, the souls Ghost Hands says I drag behind me. I am-all that I am-has been shaped by such chains.

This new House-is it mine?

The air in the clearing was suddenly cold, bitterly so. A final, thrashing rush as the last of the snakes fled the clearing. Karsa blinked his eyes into focus, and saw Urugal’s indurated visage… awakening.

A presence, there in the dark holes of the face’s eyes.

Karsa heard a howling wind, filling his mind. A thousand souls moaning, the snapping thunder of chains. Growling, he steeled himself before the onslaught, fixed his gaze on his god’s writhing face.

‘Karsa Orlong. We have waited long for this. Three years, the fashioning of this sacred place. You wasted so much time on the two strangers-your fallen friends, the ones who failed where you did not. This temple is not to be sanctified by sentimentality. Their presence offends us. Destroy them this night.’

The seven faces were all wakeful now, and Karsa could feel the weight of their regard, a deathly pressure behind which lurked something… avid, dark and filled with glee.

‘By my hand,’ Karsa said to Urugal, ‘I have brought you to this place. By my hand, you have been freed from your prison of rock in the lands of the Teblor-yes, I am not the fool you believe me to be. You have guided me in this, and now you are come. Your first words are of chastisement? Careful, Urugal. Any carving here can be shattered by my hand, should I so choose.’

He felt their rage, buffeting him, seeking to make him wither beneath the onslaught, yet he stood before it unmoving, and unmoved. The Teblor warrior who would quail before his gods was no more.

‘You have brought us closer,’ Urugal eventually rasped. ‘Close enough to sense the precise location of what we desire. And there you must now go, Karsa Orlong. You have delayed the journey for so long-your journey to ourselves, and on to the path we have set before you. You have hidden too long in the company of this petty spirit who does little more than spit sand.’

‘This path, this journey-to what end? What is it you seek?’

‘Like you, warrior, we seek freedom.’

Karsa was silent. Avid indeed. Then he spoke. ‘I am to travel west. Into the Jhag Odhan.’

He sensed their shock and excitement, then the chorus of suspicion that poured out from the seven gods.

‘West! Indeed, Karsa Orlong. But how do you know this?’ Because, at last, I am my father’s son. ‘I shall leave with the dawn, Urugal. And I will find for you what you desire.’ He could feel their presence fading, and knew instinctively that these gods were not as close to freedom as they wanted him to believe. Nor as powerful.

Urugal had called this clearing a temple, but it was a contested one, and now, as the Seven withdrew, and were suddenly gone, Karsa slowly turned from the faces of the gods, and looked upon those for whom this place had been in truth sanctified. By Karsa’s own hands. In the name of those chains a mortal could wear with pride.

‘My loyalty,’ the Teblor warrior quietly said, ‘was misplaced. I served only glory. Words, my friends. And words can wear false nobility. Disguising brutal truths. The words of the past, that so clothed the Teblor in a hero’s garb-this is what I served. While the true glory was before me. Beside me. You, Delum Thord. And you, Bairoth Gild.’

From the stone statue of Bairoth emerged a distant, weary voice. ‘Lead us, Warleader.’

Karsa flinched. Do I dream this? Then he straightened. ‘I have drawn your spirits to this place. Did you travel in the wake of the Seven?’

‘We have walked the empty lands,’ Bairoth Gild replied. ‘Empty, yet we were not alone. Strangers await us all, Karsa Orlong. This is the truth they would hide from you. We are summoned. We are here.’

‘None,’ came Delum Thord’s voice from the other statue, ‘can defeat you on this journey. You lead the enemy in circles, you defy every prediction, and so deliver the edge of your will. We sought to follow, but could not.’

‘Who, Warleader,’ Bairoth asked, his voice bolder, ‘is our enemy, now?’

Karsa drew himself up before the two Uryd warriors. ‘Witness my answer, my friends. Witness.’

Delum spoke, ‘We failed you, Karsa Orlong. Yet you invite us to walk with you once again.’

Karsa fought back an urge to scream, to unleash a warcry-as if such a challenge might force back the approaching darkness. He could make no sense of his own impulses, the torrential emotions threatening to engulf him. He stared at the carved likeness of his tall friend, the awareness in those unmarred features-Delum Thord before the Forkassal-the Forkrul Assail named Calm-had, on a mountain trail on a distant continent, so casually destroyed him.

Bairoth Gild spoke. ‘We failed you. Do you now ask that we walk with you?’

‘Delum Thord. Bairoth Gild.’ Karsa’s voice was hoarse. ‘It is I who failed you. I would be your warleader once more, if you would so permit me.’

A long moment of silence, then Bairoth replied, ‘At last, something to look forward to.’

Karsa almost fell to his knees, then. Grief, finally unleashed. At an end, his time of solitude. His penance was done. The journey to begin again. Dear Urugal, you shall witness. Oh, how you shall witness.


The hearth was little more than a handful of dying coals. After Felisin Younger left, Heboric sat motionless in the gloom. A short time passed, then he collected an armload of dried dung and rebuilt the fire. The night had chilled him-even the hands he could not see felt cold, like heavy pieces of ice at the end of his wrists.

The only journey that lay ahead of him was a short one, and he must walk it alone. He was blind, but in this no more blind than anyone else. Death’s precipice, whether first glimpsed from afar or discovered with the next step, was ever a surprise. A promise of the sudden cessation of questions, yet there were no answers waiting beyond. Cessation would have to be enough. And so it must be for every mortal. Even as we hunger for resolution. Or, even more delusional: redemption.

Now, after all this time, he was able to realize that every path eventually, inevitably dwindled into a single line of footsteps. There, leading to the very edge. Then… gone. And so, he faced only what every mortal faced. The solitude of death, and oblivion’s final gift that was indifference.

The gods were welcome to wrangle over his soul, to snipe and snap over the paltry feast. And if mortals grieved for him, it was only because by dying he had shaken them from the illusion of unity that comforted life’s journey. One less on the path.

A scratch at the flap entrance, then the hide was drawn aside and someone entered.

‘Would you make of your home a pyre, Ghost Hands?’ The voice was L’oric’s.

The High Mage’s words startled Heboric into a sudden realization of the sweat running down his face, the gusts of fierce heat from the now raging hearth. Unthinking, he had fed the flames with piece after piece of dung.

‘I saw the glow-difficult to miss, old man. Best leave it, now, let it die down.’

‘What do you want, L’oric?’

‘I acknowledge your reluctance to speak of what you know. There is no value, after all, in gifting Bidithal or Febryl with such details. And so I shall not demand that you explain what you’ve sensed regarding this Master of the Deck. Instead, I offer an exchange, and all that we say will remain between the two of us. No-one else.’

‘Why should I trust you? You are hidden-even to Sha’ik. You give no reason as to why you are here. In her cadre, in this war.’

‘That alone should tell you I am not like the others,’ L’oric replied.

Heboric sneered. ‘That earns you less than you might think. There can be no exchange because there is nothing you can tell me that I would be interested in hearing. The schemes of Febryl? The man’s a fool. Bidithal’s perversions? One day a child will slip a knife between his ribs. Korbolo Dom and Kamist Reloe? They war against an empire that is far from dead. Nor will they be treated with honour when they are finally brought before the Empress. No, they are criminals, and for that their souls will burn for eternity. The Whirlwind? That goddess has my contempt, and that contempt does naught but grow. Thus, what could you possibly tell me, L’oric, that I would value?’

‘Only the one thing that might interest you, Heboric Light Touch. Just as this Master of the Deck interests me. I would not cheat you with the exchange. No, I would tell you all that I know of the Hand of Jade, rising from the otataral sands-the Hand that you have touched, that now haunts your dreams.’

‘How could you know these-’ He fell silent. The sweat on his brow was now cold.

‘And how,’ L’oric retorted, ‘can you sense so much from a mere description of the Master’s card? Let us not question these things, else we trap ourselves in a conversation that will outlive Raraku itself. So, Heboric, shall I begin?’

‘No. Not now. I am too weary for this. Tomorrow, L’oric.’

‘Delay may prove… disastrous.’ After a moment, the High Mage sighed. ‘Very well. I can see your exhaustion. Permit me, at least, to brew your tea for you.’

The gesture of kindness was unexpected, and Heboric lowered his head. ‘L’oric, promise me this-that when the final day comes, you be a long way from here.’

‘A difficult promise. Permit me to think on it. Now, where is the hen’bara?’

‘Hanging from a bag above the pot.’

‘Ah, of course.’

Heboric listened to the sounds of preparation, the rustle of flower-heads from the bag, the slosh of water as L’oric filled the pot. ‘Did you know,’ the High Mage murmured as he worked, ‘that some of the oldest scholarly treatises on the warrens speak of a triumvirate. Rashan, Thyr and Meanas. As if the three were all closely related to one another. And then in turn seek to link them to corresponding Elder warrens.’

Heboric grunted, then nodded. ‘All flavours of the same thing? I would agree. Tiste warrens. Kurald this and Kurald that. The human versions can’t help but overlap, become confused. I am no expert, L’oric, and it seems you know more of it than I.’

‘Well, there certainly appears to be a mutual insinuation of themes between Darkness and Shadow, and, presumably, Light. A confusion among the three, yes. Anomander Rake himself has asserted a proprietary claim on the Throne of Shadow, after all…’

The smell of the brewing tea tugged at Heboric’s mind. ‘He has?’ he murmured, only remotely interested.

‘Well, of a sort. He set kin to guard it, presumably from the Tiste Edur. It is very difficult for us mortals to make sense of Tiste histories, for they are such a long-lived people. As you well know, human history is ever marked by certain personalities, rising from some quality or notoriety to shatter the status quo. Fortunately for us, such men and women are few and far between, and they all eventually die or disappear. But among the Tiste… well, those personalities never go away, or so it seems. They act, and act yet again. They persist. Choose the worst tyrant you can from your knowledge of human history, Heboric, then imagine him or her as virtually undying. In your mind, bring that tyrant back again and again and again. How, having done so, would you imagine our history then?’

‘Far more violent than that of the Tiste, L’oric. Humans are not Tiste. Indeed, I have never heard of a Tiste tyrant…’

‘Perhaps I used the wrong word. I meant only-in human context-a personality of devastating power, or potential. Look at this Malazan Empire, born from the mind of Kellanved, a single man. What if he had been eternal?’

Something in L’oric’s musings had reawakened Heboric. ‘Eternal?’ He barked a laugh. ‘Perhaps he is at that. There is one detail you might consider, perhaps more relevant than anything else that’s been said here. And that is, the Tiste are no longer isolated in their scheming. There are humans now, in their games-humans, who’ve not the patience of the Tiste, nor their legendary remoteness. The warrens of Kurald Galain and Kurald Emurlahn are no longer pure, unsullied by human presence. Meanas and Rashan? Perhaps they are proving the doors into both Darkness and Shadow. Or perhaps the matter is more complex than even that-how can one truly hope to separate the themes of Darkness and Light from Shadow? They are as those scholars said, an interdependent triumvirate. Mother, father and child-a family ever squabbling… only now the in-laws and grandchildren are joining in.’

He waited for a reply from L’oric, curious as to how his comments had been received, but none was forthcoming. The ex-priest looked up, struggled to focus on the High Mage-

– who sat motionless, a cup in one hand, the ring of the brewing pot in the other. Motionless, and staring at Heboric.

‘L’oric? Forgive me, I cannot discern your expression-’

‘Well that you cannot,’ the High Mage rasped. ‘Here I sought to raise the warning of Tiste meddling in human affairs-to have you then voice a warning in the opposite direction. As if it is not us who must worry, but the Tiste themselves.’

Heboric said nothing. A strange, whispering suspicion flitted through him for a moment, as if tickled into being by something in L’oric’s voice. After a moment, he dismissed it. Too outrageous, too absurd to entertain.

L’oric poured the tea.

Heboric sighed. ‘It seems I am to be ever denied the succour of that brew. Tell me, then, of the giant of jade.’

‘Ah, and in return you will speak of the Master of the Deck?’

‘In some things I am forbidden to elaborate-’

‘Because they relate to Sha’ik’s own secret past?’

‘Fener’s tusk, L’oric! Who in this rat’s nest might be listening in to our conversation right now? It is madness to speak-’

‘No-one is listening, Heboric. I have made certain of that. I am not careless with secrets. I have known much of your recent history since the very beginning-’

‘How?’

‘We agreed to not discuss sources. My point is, no-one else is aware that you are Malazan, or that you are an escapee from the otataral mines. Except Sha’ik, of course. Since she escaped with you. Thus, I value privacy-with my knowledge and with my thoughts-and am ever vigilant. Oh, there have been probes, sorcerous questings-a whole menagerie of spells as various inhabitants seek to keep track of rivals. As occurs every night.’

‘Then your absence will be detected-’

‘I sleep restful in my tent, Heboric, as far as those questings are concerned. As do you in your tent. Each alone. Harmless.’

‘You are more than a match for their sorceries, then. Which makes you more powerful than any of them.’ He heard as much as saw L’oric’s shrug, and after a moment the ex-priest sighed. ‘If you wish details concerning Sha’ik and this new Master of the Deck, then it must be the three of us who meet. And for that to occur, you will have to reveal more of yourself to the Chosen One than you might wish.’

‘Tell me this, at least. This new Master-he was created in the wake of the Malazan disaster on Genabackis. Or do you deny that? That bridge on which he stands-he was of, or is somehow related to, the Bridgeburners. And those ghostly guardians are all that remains of the Bridgeburners, for they were destroyed in the Pannion Domin.’

‘I cannot be certain of any of that,’ Heboric replied, ‘but what you suggest seems likely.’

‘So, the Malazan influence ever grows-not just on our mundane world, but throughout the warrens, and now in the Deck of Dragons.’

‘You make the mistake of so many of the empire’s enemies, L’oric. You assume that all that is Malazan is perforce unified, in intent and in goal. Things are far more complicated than you imagine. I do not believe this Master of the Deck is some servant of the Empress. Indeed, he kneels before no-one.’

‘Then why the Bridgeburner guardians?’

Heboric sensed that the question was a leading one, but decided he would play along. ‘Some loyalties defy Hood himself-’

‘Ah, meaning he was a soldier in that illustrious company. Well, things are beginning to make sense.’

‘They are?’

‘Tell me, have you heard of a Spiritwalker named Kimloc?’

‘The name is vaguely familiar. But not from around here. Karakarang? Rutu Jelba?’

‘Now resident of Ehrlitan. His history is not relevant here, but somehow he must have come into recent contact with a Bridgeburner. There is no other explanation for what he has done. He has given them a song, Heboric. A Tanno song, and, curiously, it begins here. In Raraku. Raraku, friend, is the birthplace of the Bridgeburners. Do you know the significance of such a song?’

Heboric turned away, faced the hearth and its dry heat, and said nothing.

‘Of course,’ L’oric went on after a moment, ‘that significance has now diminished somewhat, since the Bridgeburners are no more. There can be no sanctification…’

‘No, I suppose not,’ Heboric murmured.

‘For the song to be sanctified, a Bridgeburner would have to return to Raraku, to the birthplace of the company. And that does not seem likely now, does it?’

‘Why is it necessary a Bridgeburner return to Raraku?’

‘Tanno sorcery is… elliptical. The song must be like a serpent eating its tail. Kimloc’s Song of the Bridgeburners is at the moment without an end. But it has been sung, and so lives.’ L’oric shrugged. ‘It’s like a spell that remains active, awaiting resolution.’

‘Tell me of the giant of jade.’

The High Mage nodded. He poured out the tea and set the cup down in front of Heboric. ‘The first one was found deep in the otataral mines-’

‘The first one!’

‘Aye. And the contact proved, for those miners who ventured too close, fatal. Or, rather, they disappeared. Leaving no trace. Sections of two others have been discovered-all three veins are now sealed. The giants are… intruders to our world. From some other realm.’

‘Arriving,’ Heboric muttered, ‘only to be wrapped in chains of otataral.’

‘Ah, you are not without your own knowledge, then. Indeed, it seems their arrival has, each time, been anticipated. Someone, or something, is ensuring that the threat these giants impose is negated-’

But Heboric shook his head at that and said, ‘No, I think you are wrong, L’oric. It is the very passage-the portal through which each giant comes-that creates the otataral.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Of course not. There are too many mysteries surrounding the nature of otataral to be certain of anything. There was a scholar-I forget her name-who once suggested that otataral is created by the annihilation of all that is necessary for sorcery to operate. Like slag with all the ore burned out. She called it the absolute draining of energy-the energy that rightfully exists in all things, whether animate or otherwise.’

‘And had she a theory as to how that could occur?’

‘Perhaps the magnitude of the sorcery unleashed-a spell that is all-devouring of the energy it feeds on.’

‘But not even the gods could wield such magic.’

‘True, but I think it is nevertheless possible… through ritual, such as a cadre-or army-of mortal sorcerers could achieve.’

‘In the manner of the Ritual of Tellann,’ L’oric nodded. ‘Aye.’

‘Or,’ Heboric said softly as he reached for the cup, ‘the calling down of the Crippled God…’

L’oric was motionless, staring fixedly at the tattooed ex-priest. He said nothing for a long time, whilst Heboric sipped the hen’bara tea. He finally spoke. ‘Very well, there is one last piece of information I will tell you-I see now the need, the very great need to do so, though it shall… reveal much of myself.’

Heboric sat and listened, and as L’oric continued speaking, the confines of his squalid hut dimmed to insignificance, the heat of the hearth no longer reaching him, until the only sensation left came from his ghostly hands. Together, there at the ends of his wrists, they became the weight of the world.


The rising sun washed all tones from the sky to the east. Karsa checked his supplies one last time, the foodstuffs and waterskins, the additional items and accoutrements necessary for survival in a hot, arid land. A kit wholly unlike what he had carried for most of his life. Even the sword was different-ironwood was heavier than bloodwood, its edge rougher although almost-but not quite-as hard. It did not slice the air with the ease of his oiled bloodwood sword. Yet it had served him well enough. He glanced skyward; dawn’s colours were almost entirely gone, now, the blue directly above vanishing behind suspended dust.

Here, in Raraku’s heart, the Whirlwind Goddess had stolen the colour of the sun’s own fire, leaving the landscape pallid and deathly. Colourless, Karsa Orlong? Bairoth Gild’s ghostly voice was filled with wry humour. Not so. Silver, my friend. And silver is the colour of oblivion. Of chaos. Silver is when the last of the blood is washed from the blade-

‘No more words,’ Karsa growled.

Leoman spoke from nearby. ‘Having just arrived, Toblakai, I am yet to even speak. Do you not wish my farewell?’

Karsa slowly straightened, slinging his pack over a shoulder. ‘Words need not be spoken aloud, friend, to prove unwelcome. I but answered my own thoughts. That you are here pleases me. When I began my first journey, long ago, none came to witness.’

‘I asked Sha’ik,’ Leoman replied from where he stood ten paces away, having just passed through the trail’s gap in the low, crumbled wall-the mud bricks, Karsa saw, were on their shaded side covered with rhizan, clinging with wings contracted, their mottled colourings making them almost identical to the ochre bricks. ‘But she said she would not join me this morning. Even stranger, it seemed as if she already knew of your intentions, and was but awaiting my visit.’

Shrugging, Karsa faced Leoman. ‘A witness of one suffices. We may now speak our parting words. Do not hide overlong in your pit, friend. And when you ride out with your warriors, hold to the Chosen One’s commands-too many jabs from the small knife can awaken the bear no matter how deep it sleeps.’

‘It is a young and weak bear, this time, Toblakai.’

Karsa shook his head. ‘I have come to respect the Malazans, and fear that you would awaken them to themselves.’

‘I shall consider your words,’ Leoman replied. ‘And now ask that you consider mine. Beware your gods, friend. If you must kneel before a power, first look upon it with clear eyes. Tell me, what would your kin say to you in parting?’

‘ “May you slay a thousand children.” ’

Leoman blanched. ‘Journey well, Toblakai.’

‘I shall.’

Karsa knew that Leoman could neither see nor sense that he was flanked where he stood at the trail’s gap in the wall. Delum Thord on the left, Bairoth Gild on the right. Teblor warriors, blood-oil smeared in crimson tones even the Whirlwind could not eradicate, and they stepped forward as the Teblor swung about to face the western trail.

Lead us. Lead your dead, Warleader.

Bairoth’s mocking laugh clicked and cracked like the potsherds breaking beneath Karsa Orlong’s moccasins. The Teblor grimaced. There would be, it seemed, a fierce price for the honour.

None the less, he realized after a moment, if there must be ghosts, it was better to lead them than to be chased by them. ‘If that is how you would see it, Karsa Orlong.’ In the distance rose the swirling wall of the Whirlwind. It would be good, the Teblor reflected, to see the world beyond it again, after all these months. He set out, westward, as the day was born.


‘He has left,’ Kamist Reloe said as he settled onto the cushions.

Korbolo Dom eyed the mage, his blank expression betraying nothing of the contempt he felt for the man. Sorcerers did not belong in war. And he had shown the truth of that when destroying the Chain of Dogs. Even so, there were necessities to contemplate, and Reloe was the least of them. ‘That leaves only Leoman,’ he rumbled from where he lay on the pillows and cushions.

‘Who departs with his rats in a few days.’

‘Will Febryl now advance his plans?’

The mage shrugged. ‘It is hard to say, but there is a distinct avidness in his gaze this morning.’

Avidness. Indeed. Another High Mage, another insane wielder of powers better left untapped. ‘There is one who remains, who perhaps presents us with the greatest threat of them all, and that is Ghost Hands.’

Kamist Reloe sneered. ‘A blind, doddering fool. Does he even know that hen’bara tea is itself the source of the thinning fabric between his world and all that he would flee from? Before long, his mind will vanish entirely within the nightmares, and we need concern ourselves with him no more.’

‘She has secrets,’ Korbolo Dom muttered, leaning forward to collect a bowl of figs. ‘Far beyond those gifted her by the Whirlwind. Febryl proceeds headlong, unmindful of his own ignorance. When the battle with the Adjunct’s army is finally joined, success or failure will be decided by the Dogslayers-by my army. Tavore’s otataral will defeat the Whirlwind-I am certain of it. All that I ask of you and Febryl and Bidithal is that I am unobstructed in commanding the forces, in shaping that battle.’

‘We are both aware,’ Kamist growled, ‘that this struggle goes far beyond the Whirlwind.’

‘Aye, so it does. Beyond all of Seven Cities, Mage. Do not lose sight of our final goal, of the throne that will one day belong to us.’

Kamist Reloe shrugged. ‘That is our secret, old friend. We need only proceed with caution, and all that opposes us will likely vanish before our very eyes. Febryl kills Sha’ik, Tavore kills Febryl, and we destroy Tavore and her army.’

‘And then become Laseen’s saviour-as we crush this rebellion utterly. Gods, I swear I will see this entire land empty of life if need be. A triumphant return to Unta, an audience with the Empress, then the driven knife. And who will stop us? The Talon are poised to cut down the Claws. Whiskeyjack and the Bridgeburners are no more, and Dujek remains a continent away. How fares the Jhistal priest?’

‘Mallick travels without opposition, ever southward. He is a clever man, a wise man, and he will play out his role to perfection.’

Korbolo Dom made no reply to that. He despised Mallick Rel, but could not deny his usefulness. Still, the man was not one to be trusted… to which High Fist Pormqual would attest, were the fool still alive. ‘Send for Fayelle. I would a woman’s company now. Leave me, Kamist Reloe.’

The High Mage hesitated, and Korbolo scowled.

‘There is the matter,’ Kamist whispered, ‘of L’oric…’

‘Then deal with him!’ Korbolo snapped. ‘Begone!’

Bowing his head, the High Mage backed out of the tent.

Sorcerers. Could he find a way to destroy magic, the Napan would not hesitate. The extinction of powers that could slaughter a thousand soldiers in an instant would return the fate of mortals to the mortals themselves, and this could not but be a good thing. The death of warrens, the dissolution of gods as memory of them and their meddling slowly vanished, the withering of all magic… the world then would belong to men such as Korbolo himself. And the empire he would shape would permit no ambiguity, no ambivalence.

His will unopposed, the Napan could end, once and for all, the dissonant clangour that so plagued humanity-now and throughout its history.

I will bring order. And from that unity, we shall rid the world of every other race, every other people, we shall overpower and crush every discordant vision, for there can in the end be only one way, one way of living, of ruling this realm. And that way belongs to me.

A good soldier well knew that success was found in careful planning, in incremental steps.

Opposition had a way of stepping aside all on its own. You are now at Hood’s feet, Whiskeyjack. Where I have always wanted you. You and your damned company, feeding worms in a foreign land. None left to stop me, now

CHAPTER ELEVEN

This was a path she did not welcome.

The Sha’ik Rebellion

Tursabaal

THE BREATHS OF THE HORSES PLUMED IN THE CHILL MORNING AIR. Dawn had but just arrived, the air hinting nothing of the heat the coming day would deliver. Wrapped in the furs of a bhederin, old sweat making the lining of his helm clammy as the touch of a corpse, Fist Gamet sat motionless on his Wickan mount, his gaze fixed on the Adjunct.

The hill just south of Erougimon where Coltaine had died had come to be known as the Fall. Countless humps on the summit and slopes indicated where bodies had been buried, the metal-strewn earth already cloaked in grasses and flowers.

Ants had colonized this entire hill, or so it seemed. The ground swarmed with them, their red and black bodies coated in dust yet glittering none the less as they set about their daily tasks.

Gamet, the Adjunct and Tene Baralta had ridden out from the city before dawn. Outside the gates to the west, the army had begun to stir. The march would begin this day. The journey north, to Raraku, to Sha’ik and the Whirlwind. To vengeance.

Perhaps it was the rumours that had drawn Tavore out here to the Fall, but already Gamet regretted her decision to bring him along. This place showed him nothing he wanted to see. Nor, he suspected, was the Adjunct well pleased with what they had found.

Red-stained braids, woven into chains, draped across the summit, and coiled around the twin stumps of the cross that had once stood there. Dog skulls crowded with indecipherable hieroglyphs looked out along the crest through empty sockets. Crow feathers dangled from upright-thrust broken arrow shafts. Ragged banners lay pinned to the ground on which were painted various representations of a broken Wickan long-knife. Icons, fetishes, a mass of detritus to mark the death of a single man.

And all of it was aswarm in ants. Like mindless keepers of this now hallowed ground.

The three riders sat in their saddles in silence.

Finally, after a long while, Tavore spoke. ‘Tene Baralta.’ Inflectionless.

‘Aye, Adjunct?’

‘Who-who is responsible for… for all of this? Malazans from Aren? Your Red Blades?’

Tene Baralta did not immediately reply. Instead, he dismounted and strode forward, his eyes on the ground. Near one of the dog skulls he halted and crouched down. ‘Adjunct, these skulls-the runes on them are Khundryl.’ He pointed towards the wooden stumps. ‘The woven chains, Kherahn Dhobri.’ A gesture to the slope. ‘The banners… unknown, possibly Bhilard. Crow feathers? The beads at their stems are Semk.’

Semk!’ Gamet could not keep the disbelief from his voice. ‘From the other side of Vathar River! Tene, you must be in error…’

The large warrior shrugged. He straightened and gestured towards the rumpled hills directly north of them. ‘The pilgrims only come at night-unseen, which is how they will have it. They’re hiding out there, even now. Waiting for night.’

Tavore cleared her throat. ‘Semk. Bhilard-these tribes fought against him. And now they come to worship. How is this? Explain, please, Tene Baralta.’

‘I cannot, Adjunct.’ He eyed her, then added, ‘But, from what I understand, this is… modest, compared with what lines the Aren Way.’

There was silence once more, though Gamet did not need to hear her speak to know Tavore’s thoughts.

This-this is the path we now take. We must walk, step by step, the legacy. We? No. Tavore. Alone. ‘This is no longer Coltaine’s war!’ she said to Temul. But it seems it remains just that. And she now realizes, down in the depths of her soul, that she will stride that man’s shadow… all the way to Raraku.

‘You will both leave me now,’ the Adjunct said. ‘I shall rejoin you on the Aren Way.’

Gamet hesitated, then said, ‘Adjunct, the Crow Clan still claim the right to ride at the forefront. They will not accept Temul as their commander.’

‘I will see to their disposition,’ she replied. ‘For now, go.’ He watched Tene Baralta swing back onto his horse. They exchanged a glance, then both wheeled their mounts and set off at a canter along the track leading to the west gate.

Gamet scanned the rock-studded ground rolling past beneath his horse’s hoofs. This was where the historian Duiker drove the refugees towards the city-this very sweep of empty ground. Where, at the last, that old man drew rein on his weary, loyal mare-the mare that Temul now rode-and watched as the last of his charge was helped through the gate.

Whereupon, it was said, he finally rode into the city.

Gamet wondered what had gone through the man’s mind at that moment. Knowing that Coltaine and the remnants of the Seventh were still out there, fighting their desperate rearguard action. Knowing that they had achieved the impossible.

Duiker had delivered the refugees.

Only to end up staked to a tree. It was beyond him, Gamet realized, to comprehend the depth of that betrayal.

A body never recovered. No bones laid to rest.

‘There is so much,’ Tene Baralta rumbled at Gamet’s side.

‘So much?’

‘To give answer to, Gamet. Indeed, it takes words from the throat, yet the silence it leaves behind-that silence screams.’

Discomforted by Tene’s admission, Gamet said nothing.

‘Pray remind me,’ the Red Blade went on, ‘that Tavore is equal to this task.’

Is that even possible? ‘She is.’ She must be. Else we are lost.

‘One day, Gamet, you shall have to tell me what she has done, to earn such loyalty as you display.’

Gods, what answer to make to that? Damn you, Tene, can you not see the truth before you? She has done… nothing. I beg you. Leave an old man to his faith.

‘Wish whatever you like,’ Gesler growled, ‘but faith is for fools.’


Strings cleared the dust from his throat and spat onto the side of the track. Their pace was torturously slow, the three squads trailing the wagon loaded down with their supplies. ‘What’s your point?’ he asked the sergeant beside him. ‘A soldier knows but one truth, and that truth is, without faith, you are already as good as dead. Faith in the soldier at your side. But even more important-and no matter how delusional it is in truth-there is the faith that you cannot be killed. Those two and those two alone-they are the legs holding up every army.’

The amber-skinned man grunted, then waved at the nearest of the trees lining Aren Way. ‘Look there and tell me what you see-no, not those Hood-damned fetishes-but what’s still visible under all that mess. The spike holes, the dark stains of bile and blood. Ask the ghost of the soldier who was on that tree-ask that soldier about faith.’

‘A faith betrayed does not destroy the notion of faith itself,’ Strings retorted. ‘In fact, it does the very opposite-’

‘Maybe for you, but there are some things you can’t step around with words and lofty ideals, Fid. And that comes down to who is in that vanguard somewhere up ahead. The Adjunct. Who just lost an argument with that pack of hoary Wickans. You’ve been lucky-you had Whiskeyjack, and Dujek. Do you know who my last commander was-before I was sentenced to the coastal guard? Korbolo Dom. I’d swear that man had a shrine to Whiskeyjack in his tent-but not the Whiskeyjack you know. Korbolo saw him differently. Unfulfilled potential, that’s what he saw.’

Strings glanced over at Gesler. Stormy and Tarr were walking in step behind the two sergeants, close enough to hear, though neither had ventured a comment or opinion. ‘Unfulfilled potential? What in Beru’s name are you talking about?’

‘Not me. Korbolo Dom. “If only the bastard had been hard enough,” he used to say, “he could’ve taken the damned throne. Should’ve.” As far as Dom is concerned, Whiskeyjack betrayed him, betrayed us all-and that’s something that renegade Napan won’t forgive.’

‘Too bad for him,’ Strings growled, ‘since there’s a good chance the Empress will send the whole Genabackan army over in time for the final battle. Dom can take his complaints to Whiskeyjack himself.’

‘A pleasant thought,’ Gesler laughed. ‘But my point was, you’ve had commanders worthy of the faith you put in them. Most of the rest of us didn’t have that luxury. So we got a different feeling about it all. That’s it, that’s all I was trying to say.’

The Aren Way marched past on both sides. Transformed into a vast, open-air temple, each tree cluttered with fetishes, cloths braided into chains, figures painted on the rough bark to approximate the soldiers who had once writhed there on spikes driven in by Korbolo Dom’s warriors. Most of the soldiers ahead and behind Strings walked in silence. Despite the vast, empty expanse of blue sky overhead, the road was oppressive.

There had been talk of cutting the trees down, but one of the Adjunct’s first commands upon arriving in Aren had been to forbid it. Strings wondered if she now regretted her decision.

His gaze travelled up to one of the Fourteenth’s new standards, barely visible through clouds of roiling dust up ahead. She had understood the whole thing with the finger bones well enough, understood the turning of the omen. The new standard well attested to that. A grimy, thin-limbed figure holding a bone aloft, the details in shades of dun colours that were barely visible on the yellow ochre field, the border a woven braid of the imperial magenta and dark grey. A defiant figure standing before a sandstorm. That the standard could as easily apply to Sha’ik’s army of the Apocalypse was a curious coincidence. As if Tavore and Sha’ik-the two armies, the forces in opposition-are in some way mirrored reflections of the other.

There were many strange… occurrences in all this, nibbling and squirming beneath Strings’ skin like bot-fly larvae, and it seemed indeed that he was feeling strangely fevered throughout the day. Strains of a barely heard song rose up from the depths of his mind on occasion, a haunting song that made his flesh prickle. And stranger still, the song was entirely unfamiliar.

Mirrored reflections. Perhaps not just Tavore and Sha’ik. What of Tavore and Coltaine? Here we are, reversing the path on that blood-soaked road. And it was that road that proved Coltaine to most of those he led. Will we see the same with our journey? How will we see Tavore the day we stand before the Whirlwind? And what of my own return? To Raraku, the desert that saw me destroyed only to rise once more, mysteriously renewed-a renewal that persists, since for an old man I neither look nor feel old. And so it remains for all of us Bridgeburners, as if Raraku stole something of our mortality, and replaced it with… with something else.

He glanced back to check on his squad. None were lagging, which was a good sign. He doubted any of them were in the shape required for the journey they were now on. The early days would prove the most difficult, before marching in full armour and weapons became second nature-not that it would ever prove a comfortable second nature-this land was murderously hot and dry, and the handful of minor healers in each of the companies would recall this march as a seemingly endless nightmare of fending off heat prostration and dehydration.

There was no way yet to measure the worth of his squad. Koryk certainly had the look, the nature, of the mailed fist that every squad needed. And the stubborn set to Tarr’s blockish features hinted at a will not easily turned aside. There was something about the lass, Smiles, that reminded Strings all too much of Sorry-the remorseless chill of her eyes belonged to those of a murderer, and he wondered at her past. Bottle had all the diffident bluster of a young mage, probably one versed in a handful of spells from some minor warren. The last soldier in his squad, of course, the sergeant had no worries about. He’d known men like Cuttle all his life. A burlier, more miserable version of Hedge. Having Cuttle there was like… coming home.

The testing would come, and it would probably be brutal, but it would temper those who survived.

They were emerging from the Aren Way, and Gesler gestured to the last tree on their left. ‘That’s where we found him,’ he said in a low tone.

‘Who?’

‘Duiker. We didn’t let on, since the lad-Truth-was so hopeful. Next time we came out, though, the historian’s body was gone. Stolen. You’ve seen the markets in Aren-the withered pieces of flesh the hawkers claim belonged to Coltaine, or Bult, or Duiker. The broken long-knives, the scraps of feathered cape…’

Strings was thoughtful for a moment, then he sighed. ‘I saw Duiker but once, and that at a distance. Just a soldier the Emperor decided was worth schooling.’

‘A soldier indeed. He stood on the front line with all the others. A crusty old bastard with his short-sword and shield.’

‘Clearly, something about him caught Coltaine’s eye-after all, Duiker was the one Coltaine chose to lead the refugees.’

‘I’d guess it wasn’t Duiker’s soldiering that decided Coltaine, Strings. It was that he was the Imperial Historian. He wanted the tale to be told, and told right.’

‘Well, it’s turned out that Coltaine told his own tale-he didn’t need a historian, did he?’

Gesler shrugged. ‘As you say. We weren’t in their company long, just long enough to take on a shipload of wounded. I talked a bit with Duiker, and Captain Lull. And then Coltaine broke his hand punching me in the face-’

‘He what?’ Strings laughed. ‘No doubt you deserved it-’

Stormy spoke behind them. ‘Broke his hand, aye, Gesler. And your nose, too.’

‘My nose has been broke so many times it does it on instinct,’ the sergeant replied. ‘It wasn’t much of a punch.’

Stormy snorted. ‘He dropped you to the ground like a sack of turnips! That punch rivalled Urko’s, the time he-’

‘Not even close,’ Gesler drawled. ‘I once saw Urko punch down the side of a mudbrick house. Three blows, no more than four, anyway, and the whole thing toppled in a cloud of dust. That Napan bastard could punch.’

‘And that’s important to you?’ Strings asked.

Gesler’s nod was serious. ‘The only way any commander will ever earn my respect, Fid.’

‘Planning on testing the Adjunct soon?’

‘Maybe. Of course, I’ll make allowances, she being nobleborn and all.’

Once beyond Aren Way’s battered gate and the abandoned ruins of a small village, they could now see the Seti and Wickan outriders on their flanks-a comforting sight to Strings. The raiding and sniping could begin at any time, now that the army had left the walls of Aren behind. Most of the tribes had, if the rumours were true, conveniently forgotten the truces they had won from the Malazan Empire. The old ways did naught but sleep restless beneath the surface of such peoples.

The landscape ahead and to either side was sun-blasted and broken, a place where even wild goats grew lean and listless. The mounded, flat-topped heaps of rubble that marked long-dead cities were visible on every horizon. Ancient raised roads, now mostly dismantled, stitched the rugged hillsides and ridges.

Strings wiped sweat from his brow. ‘Green as we are, it’s about time she called-’

Horns sounded along the massive train’s length. Motion ceased, and the shouts of the water crews rose into the dusty air as they scrambled for the barrels. Strings swung about and studied his squad-they were already on the ground, sitting or sprawled, their long-sleeved undershirts darkened with sweat.

Among Gesler’s and Borduke’s squads, the reaction to the rest-halt had been identical, and Borduke’s mage, Balgrid-slightly overweight and clearly unused to the armour he was wearing-looked pale and shivering. That squad’s healer, a quiet, small man named Lutes, was already moving towards him.

‘A Seti summer,’ Koryk said, offering Strings a carnivorous smile. ‘When the grasslands are driven to dust by the herds, when the earth underfoot clicks like breaking metal.’

‘Hood take you,’ Smiles snapped. ‘This land’s full of dead things for a reason.’

‘Aye,’ the Seti half-blood replied, ‘only the tough survive. There are tribes aplenty out there-they’ve left enough sign in passing.’

‘You have seen that, have you?’ Strings said. ‘Good. You’re now the squad’s scout.’

Koryk’s white grin broadened. ‘If you insist, Sergeant.’

‘Unless it’s night,’ Strings added. ‘Then it’ll be Smiles. And Bottle, assuming his warren is suitable.’

Bottle scowled, then nodded. ‘Well enough, Sergeant.’

‘So what’s Cuttle’s role, then?’ Smiles demanded. ‘Lying around like a beached porpoise?’

Beached porpoise? Grew up by the sea, did you? Strings glanced over at the veteran soldier. The man was asleep. I used to do that, back in the days when nothing was expected of me, when I wasn’t in charge of a damned thing. I miss those days. ‘Cuttle’s task,’ Strings replied, ‘is keeping the rest of you alive when I’m not close by.’

‘Then why isn’t he the corporal?’ Smiles wanted to know, a belligerent set to her petite features.

‘Because he’s a sapper, and you don’t want a sapper for a corporal, lass.’ Of course, I’m a sapper, too. Best keep that to myself

Three soldiers from the company’s infantry arrived with waterskins.

‘Drink it down slow,’ Strings instructed. Gesler caught his eye from a few paces away, near the wagon, and Strings headed over. Borduke joined them.

‘Well, this is curious,’ Gesler muttered. ‘Borduke’s sickly mage-his warren’s Meanas. And my mage is Tavos Pond, and he’s the same. Now, Strings, your lad, Bottle…’

‘I’m not sure yet.’

‘He’s also Meanas,’ Borduke growled, pulling at his beard in a habitual gesture Strings knew would come to irritate him. ‘Balgrid’s confirmed it. They’re all Meanas.’

‘Like I said.’ Gesler sighed. ‘Curious.’

‘That could be put to use,’ Strings said. ‘Get all three of them working on rituals-illusions are damned useful, when done right. Quick Ben could pull a few-the key is in the details. We should drag them all together tonight-’

‘Ah,’ said a voice from beyond the wagon, and Lieutenant Ranal strode into view, ‘all my sergeants together in one place. Convenient.’

‘Come to eat dust with the rest of us?’ Gesler asked. ‘Damned generous of you.’

‘Don’t think I haven’t heard about you,’ Ranal sneered. ‘Had it been my choice, you’d be one of the lads carrying those waterskins, Gesler-’

‘You’d go thirsty if I was,’ the sergeant replied.

Ranal’s face darkened. ‘Captain Keneb wants to know if there’s any mages in your squads. The Adjunct needs a tally of what’s available.’

‘None-’

‘Three,’ Strings interrupted, ignoring Gesler’s glare. ‘All minor, as would be expected. Tell the captain we’ll be good for covert actions.’

‘Keep your opinions to yourself, Strings. Three, you said. Very well.’ He wheeled about and marched off.

Gesler rounded on Strings. ‘We could lose those mages-’

‘We won’t. Go easy on the lieutenant, Gesler, at least for now. The lad knows nothing of being an officer in the field. Imagine, telling sergeants to keep their opinions quiet. With Oponn’s luck, Keneb will explain a few things to the lieutenant, eventually.’

‘Assuming Keneb’s any better,’ Borduke muttered. He combed his beard. ‘Rumour has it he was the only one of his company to survive. And you know what that likely means.’

‘Let’s wait and see,’ Strings advised. ‘It’s a bit early to start honing the knives-’

‘Honing the knives,’ Gesler said, ‘now you’re talking a language I understand. I’m prepared to wait and see, as you suggest, Fid. For now. All right, let’s gather the mages tonight, and if they can actually get along without killing each other, then we might find ourselves a step or two ahead.’

Horns sounded to announce the resumption of the march. Soldiers groaned and swore as they clambered upright once more.


The first day of travel was done, and to Gamet it seemed they had travelled a paltry, pathetic distance from Aren. To be expected, of course. The army was a long way from finding its feet.

As am I. Saddle sore and light-headed from the heat, the Fist watched from a slight rise alongside the line of march as the camp slowly took shape. Pockets of order amidst a chaotic sea of motion. Seti and Wickan horse warriors continued to range well beyond the outlying pickets, far too few in number, however, to give him much comfort. And those Wickans-grandfathers and grandmothers one and all. Hood knows, I might well have crossed blades with some of those old warriors. Those ancient ones, they were never settled with the idea of being in the Empire. They were here for another reason entirely. For the memory of Coltaine. And the children-well, they were being fed the singular poison of bitter old fighters filled with tales of past glory. And so, ones who’ve never known the terror of war and ones who’ve forgotten. A dreadful pairing…

He stretched to ease the kinks in his spine, then forced himself into motion. Down from the ridge, along the edge of the rubble-filled ditch, to where the Adjunct’s command tent sat, its canvas pristine, Temul’s Wickans standing guard around it.

Temul was not in sight. Gamet pitied the lad. He was already fighting a half-dozen skirmishes, without a blade drawn, and he was losing. And there’s not a damned thing any of us can do about it.

He approached the tent’s entrance, scratched at the flap and waited.

‘Come in, Gamet,’ the Adjunct’s voice called from within.

She was kneeling in the fore-chamber before a long, stone box, and was just settling the lid into place when he stepped through the entrance. A momentary glimpse-her otataral sword-then the lid was in place. ‘There is some softened wax-there in that pot over the brazier. Bring it over, Gamet.’

He did so, and watched as she brushed the inset join between lid and base, until the container was entirely sealed. Then she rose and swept the windblown sand from her knees. ‘I am already weary of this pernicious sand,’ she muttered.

She studied him for a moment, then said, ‘There is watered wine behind you, Gamet. Pour yourself some.’

‘Do I look in need, Adjunct?’

‘You do. Ah, I well know, you sought out a quiet life when you joined our household. And here I have dragged you into a war.’

He felt himself bridling and stood straighten ‘I am equal to this, Adjunct.’

‘I believe you. None the less, pour yourself some wine. We await news.’

He swung about in search of the clay jug, found it and strode over. ‘News, Adjunct?’

She nodded, and he saw the concern on her plain features, a momentary revelation that he turned away from as he poured out a cup of wine. Show me no seams, lass. I need to hold on to my certainty.

‘Come stand beside me,’ she instructed, a sudden urgency in her tone.

He joined her. They faced the clear space in the centre of the chamber.

Where a portal flowered, spreading outward like liquid staining a sheet of gauze, murky grey, sighing out a breath of stale, dead air. A tall, green-clad figure emerged. Strange, angular features, skin the shade of coal-dust marble; the man’s broad mouth had the look of displaying a perpetual half-smile, but he was not smiling now.

He paused to brush grey dust from his cloak and leggings, then lifted his head and met Tavore’s gaze. ‘Adjunct, greetings from the Empress. And myself, of course.’

‘Topper. I sense your mission here will be an unpleasant one. Fist Gamet, will you kindly pour our guest some wine?’

‘Of course.’ Gods below, the damned master of the Claw. He glanced down at his own cup, then offered it to Topper. ‘I have yet to sip. Here.’

The tall man tilted his head in thanks and accepted the cup.

Gamet went to where the jug waited.

‘You have come directly from the Empress?’ Tavore asked the Clawmaster.

‘I have, and before that, from across the ocean… from Genabackis, where I spent a most glum evening in the company of High Mage Tayschrenn. Would it shock you to know that he and I got drunk that night?’

Gamet’s head turned at that. It seemed such an unlikely image in his mind that he was indeed shocked.

The Adjunct looked equally startled, then she visibly steeled herself. ‘What news have you to tell me?’

Topper swallowed down a large mouthful of wine, then scowled. ‘Watered. Ah well. Losses, Adjunct. On Genabackis. Terrible losses…’


Lying motionless in a grassy depression thirty paces beyond the squad’s fire, Bottle closed his eyes. He could hear his name being called. Strings-who was called Fid by Gesler-wanted him, but the mage was not ready. Not yet. He had a different conversation to listen to, and managing that-without being detected-was no easy task.

His grandmother back in Malaz City would have been proud. ‘Never mind those damned warrens, child, the deep magic is far older. Remember, seek out the roots and tendrils, the roots and tendrils. The paths through the ground, the invisible web woven from creature to creature. Every creature-on the land, in the land, in the air, in the water-they are all linked. And it is within you, if you have been awakened, and spirits below, you’ve been awakened, child! Within you, then, to ride those tendrils.

And ride them he did, though he would not surrender his private fascination with warrens, with Meanas in particular. Illusions… playing with those tendrils, with those roots of being, twisting and tying them into deceptive knots that tricked the eye, the touch, that deceived every sense, now that was a game worth playing…

But for the moment, he had immersed himself in the old ways, the undetectable ways-if one were careful, that is. Riding the life-sparks of capemoths, of rhizan, of crickets and chigger fleas, of roving blood-flies. Mindless creatures dancing on the tent’s wall, hearing but not comprehending the sound shivers of the words coming from the other side of that tent wall.

Comprehension was Bottle’s task. And so he listened. As the newcomer spoke, interrupted by neither the Adjunct nor Fist Gamet. Listened, and comprehended.


Strings glared down at the two seated mages. ‘You can’t sense him?’

Balgrid’s shrug was sheepish. ‘He’s out there, hiding in the dark somewhere.’

‘And he’s up to something,’ Tavos Pond added. ‘But we can’t tell what.’

‘It’s strange,’ Balgrid muttered.

Strings snorted and strode back to Gesler and Borduke. The other squad members were brewing tea at the small fire they had built to one side of the path. Cuttle’s snores were loud from the tent beyond. ‘The bastard’s vanished,’ Strings said.

Gesler grunted. ‘Maybe he’s deserted, and if that’s the case the Wickans will hunt him down and come back with his head on a spear. There won’t be-’

‘He’s here!’

They turned to see Bottle settling down by the fire. Strings stamped over. ‘Where in Hood’s name have you been?’ he demanded.

Bottle looked up, his brows slowly lifting. ‘Nobody else felt it?’ He glanced over at Balgrid and Tavos Pond, who were both approaching. ‘That portal? The one that opened in the Adjunct’s tent?’ He frowned at the blank expressions on the faces of the two other mages, then asked in a deadpan voice, ‘Have you two mastered hiding pebbles yet? Making coins disappear?’

Strings lowered himself opposite Bottle. ‘What was all that about a portal?’

‘Bad news, Sergeant,’ the young man replied. ‘It all went foul on Genabackis. Dujek’s army mostly wiped out. The Bridgeburners annihilated. Whiskeyjack’s dead-’

‘Dead!’

‘Hood take us!’

‘Whiskeyjack? Gods below!’

The curses grew more elaborate, along with postulations of disbelief, but Strings no longer heard them. His mind was numb, as if a wildfire had ripped through his inner landscape, scorching the ground barren. He felt a heavy hand settle on his shoulder and vaguely heard Gesler murmuring something, but after a moment he shook the man off, rose and walked into the darkness beyond the camp.

He did not know how long, or how far he walked. Each step was senseless, the world outside his body not reaching through to him, remaining beyond the withered oblivion of his mind. It was only when a sudden weakness took his legs that he sank down onto the wiry, colourless grasses.

The sound of weeping, coming from somewhere ahead, a sound of sheer despair that pierced through the fog and thrummed in his chest. He listened to the ragged cries, winced to hear how they seemed torn from a constricted throat, like a dam finally sundered by a flood of grief.

He shook himself, growing mindful once more of his surroundings. The ground beneath the thin skein of grasses was hard and warm beneath his knees. Insects buzzed and flitted through the dark. Only starlight illuminated the wastes stretching out to all sides. The encamped army was easily a thousand or more paces behind him. Strings drew a deep breath, then rose. He walked slowly towards the sound of the weeping.

A lad, lean-no, damn near scrawny, crouched down with arms wrapped about his knees, head sunk low. A single crow feather hung from a plain leather headband. A few paces beyond stood a mare, bearing a Wickan saddle, a tattered vellum scroll hanging from the horn. The horse was placidly tugging at the grass, her reins dangling.

Strings recognized the youth, though for the moment he could not recall his name. But Tavore had placed him in command of the Wickans.

After a long moment, the sergeant moved forward, making no effort to stay quiet, and sat down on a boulder a half-dozen paces from the lad.

The Wickan’s head snapped up. Tear-streaked warpaint made a twisted net of his narrow face. Venom flared in his dark eyes and he hissed, a hand unsheathing his long-knife as he staggered upright.

‘Relax,’ Strings muttered. ‘I’m in grief’s arms this night myself, though likely for an entirely different reason. Neither of us expected company, but here we are.’

The Wickan hesitated, then snapped the weapon back into its sheath and made to walk away.

‘Hold a moment, Horsewarrior. There’s no need to flee.’

The youth spun round, mouth twisting into a snarl.

‘Face me. I will be your witness this night, and we alone will know of it. Give me your words of sorrow, Wickan, and I will listen. Hood knows, it would serve me well right now.’

‘I flee no-one,’ the warrior rasped.

‘I know. I just wanted to get your attention.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Nobody. And that is how I will stay, if you like. Nor will I ask for your name-’

‘I am Temul.’

‘Ah, well. So your bravery puts me in my place. My name is Fiddler.’

‘Tell me,’ Temul’s voice was suddenly harsh, and he wiped angrily at his face, ‘did you think my grief a noble thing? Did I weep for Coltaine? For my fallen kin? I did not. My pity was for myself! And now you may go. Proclaim me-I am done with commanding, for I cannot command myself-’

‘Easy there, I’ve no intention of proclaiming anything, Temul. But I can guess at your reasons. Those wrinkled Wickans of the Crow, is my guess. Them and the survivors who walked off Gesler’s ship of wounded. They won’t accept you as their leader, will they? And so, like children, they blunt you at every turn. Defy you, displaying a mocking regard to your face then whispering behind your back. And where does that leave you? You can’t challenge them all, after all-’

‘Perhaps I can! I shall!’

‘Well, that will please them no end. Numbers alone will defeat your martial prowess. So you will die, sooner or later, and they will win.’

‘You tell me nothing I do not know, Fiddler.’

‘I know. I’m just reminding you that you’ve good reason to rail at the injustice, at the stupidity of those you would lead. I had a commander once, Temul, who was faced with the same thing you’re facing. He was in charge of a bunch of children. Nasty children at that.’

‘And what did he do?’

‘Not much, and ended up with a knife in his back.’ There was a moment of silence, then Temul barked a laugh. Fiddler nodded. ‘Aye, I’m not one for stories with lessons in life, Temul. My mind bends to more practical choices.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, I would imagine that the Adjunct shares your frustration. She wants you to lead, and would help you do so-but not so you lose face. She’s too clever for that. No, the key here is deflection. Tell me, where are their horses right now?’

Temul frowned. ‘Their horses?’

‘Aye. I would think the Seti outriders could do without the Crow Clan for a day, don’t you think? I’m sure the Adjunct would agree-those Seti are young, by and large, and untested. They need the room to find themselves. There’s good reason, then, militarily, to keep the Wickans from their horses come tomorrow. Let them walk with the rest of us. Barring your loyal retinue, of course. And who knows, a day might not be enough. Could end up being three, or even four.’

Temul spoke softly, thoughtfully. ‘To get to their horses, we would need to be quiet…’

‘Another challenge for the Seti, or so I’m sure the Adjunct would note. If children your kin must be, then take away their favoured playthings-their horses. Hard to look tall and imperious when you’re spitting dust behind a wagon. In any case, you’d best hurry, so as not to awaken the Adjunct-’

‘She may already be asleep-’

‘No, she isn’t, Temul. I am certain of it. Now, before you leave, answer me a question, please. You’ve a scroll hanging from your mare’s saddle. Why? What is written on it?’

‘The horse belonged to Duiker,’ Temul answered, turning to the animal. ‘He was a man who knew how to read and write. I rode with him, Fiddler.’ He spun back with a glare. ‘I rode with him!’

‘And the scroll?’

The young Wickan waved a hand. ‘Men such as Duiker carried such things! Indeed, I believe it once belonged to him, was once in his very hands.’

‘And the feather you wear… to honour Coltaine?’

‘To honour Coltaine, yes. But that is because I must. Coltaine did what he was expected to do. He did nothing that was beyond his abilities. I honour him, yes, but Duiker… Duiker was different.’ He scowled and shook his head. ‘He was old, older than you. Yet he fought. When fighting was not even expected of him-I know this to be true, for I knew Coltaine and Bult and I heard them speak of it, of the historian. I was there when Coltaine drew the others together, all but Duiker. Lull, Bult, Chenned, Mincer. And all spoke true and with certainty. Duiker would lead the refugees. Coltaine even gave him the stone the traders brought-’

‘The stone? What stone?’

‘To wear about his neck, a saving stone, Nil called it. A soul trapper, delivered from afar. Duiker wore it, though he liked it not, for it was meant for Coltaine, so that he would not be lost. Of course, we Wickans knew he would not be lost. We knew the crows would come for his soul. The elders who have come, who hound me so, they speak of a child born to the tribe, a child once empty, then filled, for the crows came. They came.’

‘Coltaine has been reborn?’

‘He has been reborn.’

‘And Duiker’s body disappeared,’ Strings muttered. ‘From the tree.’

‘Yes! And so I keep his horse for him, for when he returns. I rode with him, Fiddler!’

‘And he looked to you and your handful of warriors to guard the refugees. To you, Temul-not just Nil and Nether.’

Temul’s dark eyes hardened as he studied Strings, then he nodded. ‘I go now to the Adjunct.’

‘The Lady’s pull on you, Commander.’

Temul hesitated, then said, ‘This night… you saw…’

‘I saw nothing,’ Strings replied.

A sharp nod, then the lad was swinging onto the mare, the reins in one long-fingered, knife-scarred hand.

Strings watched him ride into the darkness. He sat motionless on the boulder for a time, then slowly lowered his head into his hands.


The three were seated now, in the lantern-glow of the tent’s chamber. Topper’s tale was done, and it seemed that all that remained was silence. Gamet stared down at his cup, saw that it was empty, and reached for the jug. Only to find that it too was empty.

Even as exhaustion tugged at him, Gamet knew he would not leave, not yet. Tavore had been told of, first, her brother’s heroism, then his death. Not a single Bridgeburner left alive. Tayschrenn himself saw their bodies, witnessed their interment in Moon’s Spawn. But lass, Ganoes redeemed himself-redeemed the family name. He did that much at least. But that was where the knife probably dug deepest. She had made harrowing sacrifices, after all, to resurrect the family’s honour. Yet all along, Ganoes was no renegade; nor had he been responsible for Lorn’s death. Like Dujek, like Whiskeyjack, his outlawry was nothing but a deception. There had been no dishonour. Thus, the sacrifice of young Felisin might have, in the end, proved… unnecessary.

And there was more. Jarring revelations. It had, Topper explained, been the hope of the Empress to land Onearm’s Host on the north coast, in time to deliver a double blow to the Army of the Apocalypse. Indeed, the expectation all along had been for Dujek to assume overall command. Gamet could understand Laseen’s thinking-to place the fate of the imperial presence on Seven Cities in the hands of a new, young and untested Adjunct was far too long a reach of faith.

Though Tavore had believed the Empress had done just that. Now, to find this measure of confidence so lacking… gods, this had been a Hood-damned night indeed.

Dujek Onearm was still coming, with a scant three thousand remaining in his Host, but he would arrive late, and, by both Topper’s and Tayschrenn’s unforgiving assessments, the man’s spirit was broken. By the death of his oldest friend. Gamet wondered what else had happened in that distant land, in that nightmarish empire called the Pannion.

Was it worth it, Empress? Was it worth the devastating loss? Topper had said too much, Gamet decided. Details of Laseen’s plans should have been filtered through a more circumspect, less emotionally damaged agent. If the truth was so important, after all, then it should have been laid out for the Adjunct long before now-when it actually mattered. To tell Tavore that the Empress had no confidence in her, then follow that with the brutal assertion that she was now the empire’s last hope for Seven Cities… well, few were the men or women who would not be rocked to their knees by that.

The Adjunct’s expression revealed nothing. She cleared her throat. ‘Very well, Topper. Is there more?’

The Clawmaster’s oddly shaped eyes widened momentarily, then he shook his head and rose. ‘No. Do you wish me to convey a message to the Empress?’

Tavore frowned. ‘A message? No, there is no message. We have begun our march to the Holy Desert. Nothing more need be said.’

Gamet saw Topper hesitate, then the Clawmaster said, ‘There is one more thing, Adjunct. There are probably worshippers of Fener among your army. I do not think the truth of the god’s… fall… can be hidden. It seems the Tiger of Summer is the lord of war, now. It does an army little good to mourn; indeed, grief is anathema to an army as we all well know. There may prove some period of difficult adjustment-it would be well to anticipate and prepare for desertions-’

‘There will be no desertions,’ Tavore said, the flat assertion silencing Topper. ‘The portal is weakening, Clawmaster-even a box of basalt cannot entirely block the effects of my sword. If you would leave this night, I suggest you do so now.’

Topper stared down at her. ‘We are badly hurt, Adjunct. And hurting. It is the hope of the Empress that you will exercise due caution, and make no precipitous actions. Suffer no distraction on your march to Raraku-there will be attempts to draw you from the trail, to wear you down with skirmishes and pursuits-’

‘You are a Clawmaster,’ Tavore said, sudden iron in her tone. ‘Dujek’s advice I will listen to, for he is a soldier, a commander. Until such time as he arrives, I shall follow my own instincts. If the Empress is dissatisfied, she is welcome to replace me. Now, that is all. Goodbye, Topper.’

Scowling, the Clawmaster swung about and strode without ceremony into the Imperial Warren. The gate collapsed behind him, leaving only a sour smell of dust.

Gamet let out a long sigh, pushed himself gingerly from the rickety camp chair. ‘You have my sorrow, Adjunct, on the loss of your brother.’

‘Thank you, Gamet. Now, get some sleep. And stop by-’

‘T’amber’s tent, aye, Adjunct.’

She quirked an eyebrow. ‘Is that disapproval I hear?’

‘It is. I’m not the only one in need of sleep. Hood take us, we haven’t even eaten this night.’

‘Until tomorrow, Fist.’

He nodded. ‘Aye. Goodnight, Adjunct.’


There was but one figure seated at the ebbing fire when Strings returned.

‘What are you doing up, Cuttle?’

‘I’ve done my sleep. You’ll be dragging your feet tomorrow Sergeant.’

‘I don’t think rest will come to me this night,’ Strings muttered, sitting down cross-legged opposite the burly sapper.

‘It’s all far away,’ Cuttle rumbled, tossing a last scrap of dung onto the flames.

‘But it feels close.’

‘At least you’re not walking in the footprints of your fallen companions, Fiddler. But even so, it’s all far away.’

‘Well, I’m not sure what you mean but I’ll take your word for it.’

‘Thanks for the munitions, by the way.’

Strings grunted. ‘It’s the damnedest thing, Cuttle. We always find more, and they’re meant to be used, but instead we hoard them, tell no-one we have them-in case they order us to put them to use-’

‘The bastards.’

‘Aye, the bastards.’

‘I’ll use the ones you’ve given me,’ Cuttle avowed. ‘Once I’ve crawled under Korbolo Dom’s feet. I don’t mind going to Hood at the same time, either.’

‘Something tells me that’s what Hedge did, in his last moment. He always threw them too close-that man had so many pieces of clay in him you could’ve made a row of pots from his insides.’ He slowly shook his head, eyes on the dying fire. ‘I wish I could have been there. That’s all. Whiskeyjack, Trotts, Mallet, Picker, Quick Ben-’

‘Quick’s not dead,’ Cuttle said. ‘There was more after you’d left-I heard from my tent. Tayschrenn’s made your wizard a High Mage.’

‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me, actually. That he’d survive, somehow. I wonder if Paran was still the company’s captain-’

‘He was. Died with them.’

‘The Adjunct’s brother. I wonder if she grieves this night.’

‘Wondering’s a waste of time, Fiddler. We got lads and lasses that need taking care of, right here. Korbolo Dom’s warriors know how to fight. My guess is, we’ll get whipped and sent back with our tails between our legs-and it’ll be another chain, as we stagger back to Aren, only this time we won’t get even close.’

‘Well, that’s a cheering prediction, Cuttle.’

‘It don’t matter. So long as I kill that Napan traitor-and his mage, too, if possible.’

‘And what if you can’t get close?’

‘Then I take as many of them with me as I can. I ain’t walking back, Fid, not again.’

‘I’ll remember that if the moment arrives. But what about taking care of these recruits of ours, Cuttle?’

‘Well, that’s the walk, isn’t it? This march. We deliver them to that battle, we do that much, if we can. Then we see what kind of iron they’re holding.’

‘Iron,’ Strings smiled. ‘It’s been a long time since I last heard that saying. Since we’re looking for revenge, you’ll want it hot, I expect.’

‘You expect wrong. Look at Tavore-there won’t be any heat from her. In that she’s just like Coltaine. It’s obvious, Fiddler. The iron needs to be cold. Cold. We get it cold enough, who knows, we might earn ourselves a name.’

Strings reached across the fire and tapped the finger bone hanging from Cuttle’s belt. ‘We’ve made a start, I think.’

‘We might have at that, Sergeant. Them and the standards. A start. She knows what’s in her, give her that. She knows what’s in her.’

‘And it’s for us to bring it out into view.’

‘Aye, Fid, it is at that. Now, go away. These are the hours I spend alone.’

Nodding, the sergeant climbed to his feet. ‘Seems I might be able to sleep after all.’

‘It’s my scintillating conversation what’s done you in.’

‘So it was.’

As Strings made his way to his small tent, something of Cuttle’s words came back to him. Iron. Cold iron. Yes, it’s in her. And now I’d better search and search hard… to find it in me.

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