Return of the Crimson Guard

CHAPTER IV

Nevall Od’ Orr, chief factor of Cawn, was breaking fast with tea and a green melon on his terrace overlooking the Street of Virtuous Discretion when his worthless nephew shouted up from below, ‘Another fleet, Uncle! A fleet!’ Nevall gagged, scalding the inside of his mouth — and spat the offending liquid over the terrace. ‘What? Already?’ He stood at the railing and sure enough a cloud of sails was closing on the harbour mouth. His perfidious nephew had taken off down the street to the waterfront carried in his new sky-blue palanquin. Gods, even the village idiot travelled in style these days.

So. Already she had arrived. Must have killed all her oar-slaves or squeezed the life from a mage of Ruse. All as his sources had told: and why not, he paid them a fortune. Yet another expeditionary force to be milked. Hood's infertile member: after they've squeezed all the gold from this one even the dogs will go about on silk cushions. He tossed down his half-melon to the mud and shit-smeared cobbles below for the beggars to fight over and called for his robes of office to be readied. His last thought on the terrace was that he would have to get a much bigger palanquin.

The wharf was heaving with onlookers but his bodyguards beat a passage. ‘Make way for your elected representative!’ Groten bellowed as he kicked the citizens of Cawn aside.

‘What is it? What do you see?’ Nevall called through the hangings.

Groten stuck his glistening bullet-head through the cloths. He wiped a hand across his slick brow. ‘Small for an Imperial fleet, sir.’

‘That's Chief Factor. And what do you expect? It must be the lead element.’

‘If you say so, sir.’ He batted aside the filmy hangings.

‘Groten! You're getting the cloth all sweaty!’

‘Sorry.’ Ducking his head he glanced out. ‘Pretty damned shabby too, sir.’

‘Well, she was probably forced to commandeer the scows and bay-boats left behind in Unta harbour. I heard that attack from mercenary raiders had cost her dear.’

‘So you say, sir.’

Nevall waved him away. ‘Just take me to whoever docks.’

‘Yes, sir.’

As the labourers tied the ropes to bollards and the gangway was readied, Nevall had his carriers set him down. He waved a hand to demand help in straightening from his palanquin. A representative stepped down the gangway — a commander or captain. Nevall rearranged his thick velvet robes of office and peered nearsightedly up at the fellow. To the Chief Factor's surprise, the man wore a long set of mail that dragged along the gangway, a tall full helm and scaled, articulated iron gauntlets. And the equipage was not new either. It was blackened and scoured, as if having been thrown into a smith's furnace.

‘Cawn welcomes — welcomes…’ Nevall searched the masts, the lines, for flagging or any heraldry at all, ‘… your forces. Consider yourself among friends.’

The fellow stopped before him. The tall helm turned as he took in the waterfront. ‘We require drayage and mounts. Wagons, carts. All the food you can supply for an army in the field.’

‘Of course! Our pleasure. But a secessionist force has preceded you. They left us nothing. What little we have is vitally needed to feed us and our children.’ Nevall gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘In our defence, I must warn you, it will take much for us to part with the least of it.’

Metal ground and scratched as the helm edged down to regard him directly. ‘It will take what?’

Flames lit the column of the Crimson Guard as it climbed the road west out of town. Afoot, Shimmer paused to look back to burning Cawn as the buildings collapsed into charred ruins. Wagons piled high with hoarded and hidden foodstuffs rumbled past her drawn by straining, sweaty racing thoroughbreds, their eyes rolling white at their unaccustomed treatment. A column of impressed Cawn levies also marched by, pikes and spears awry, the youths’ own eyes also wide from their unaccustomed treatment. She rubbed her side where Shell had cut deep to cure the infection from that crossbow bolt — one of the worst woundings she'd ever yet received.

She had spoken against any impressments at the field meeting. But she had to admit that their numbers were needed to flesh out the base of the Guard forces. An officer cadre of nearly one hundred Avowed commanded a force of nine thousand Guard veterans, swelled now by close to fifteen thousand recruits from Bael, Stratem and Cawn. A force small in numbers, she knew, in comparison to Imperial armies, but the Avowed were worth much more than mere numbers, and twelve were mages.

She watched the flames licking the south horizon and the coiling haze of smoke and wondered just how many towns and settlements they had left behind in similar straits. So many! Did all now count their name a curse? As surely did the Cawnese. Yet hadn't they come as liberators? She drew off a soot-stained gauntlet to pinch her eyes for a time as if attempting to blot out the sight. A cough brought her attention around; the Malazan renegade, Greymane, at her side. Helmet under an arm, his thinned ice-blue eyes seemed to regard her with real concern. ‘Yes?’

He raised his grey-stubbled chin to the west. ‘The column's well past, Lieutenant.’

Frowning, Shimmer followed his glance; sure enough, while she stood lost in thought the column had marched completely past. She was noticing such moments more often now that she and the other Avowed moved among — how should she put it — normal men and women. Occasionally, she or and another Avowed would stand sharing a conversation, or their reminiscences, only to find an entire afternoon had fled. It was as if they had entered into a different time — or more accurately a differing perception of it — from the rest of humanity.

She inclined her head and invited Greymane onward. ‘Shall we join them?’

A half-smile pulled at the man's fleshy mouth and he bowed.

‘Many of the Avowed wonder at your being with us here, Greymane,’ she said as they walked. ‘Once more we will face Imperials — perhaps those of your old command.’

A thoughtful nod of agreement. ‘We will face Imperials, but none of my command. They remain trapped in Korel. The truth is I am even more pleased to be among the Guard with what we hear of this civil war, or insurgency, call it what you will, and this Talian League. It would seem to me that any domestic, ah, reorganization, would hopefully work against the continuance of, ah… overseas entanglements.’

Shimmer regarded the wide-shouldered ex-commander. The wind pulled at his long, straight grey hair; sun and wind had tanned his round, blunt features a dark berry hue. Obviously, the man had benefited from his share of the life-extending Denul rituals the riches of Empire allowed. It occurred to her that here was one of the few people alive who could be considered close to an Avowed himself. Yet so far what had he demonstrated while among them? Very little. The majority of her brothers and sisters were — to be honest — dismissive of the man. They regarded him a failure, a flawed officer who had broken under the strain of a difficult command. She however sensed within him something more. A veiled strength great enough to have defied not only his own superiors but the Korelan Stormguard as well. Overseas entanglements’ Obviously, here also was an officer who felt keenly the responsibilities of leading soldiers.

‘I have been considering my staff and I'm offering you a captaincy and command of a flank in the field.’

The man's grey-shot brows climbed. ‘A captaincy?’

‘Yes. Do you accept?’

‘I am honoured by your trust. But perhaps there will be objections-’

There damn well will be objections, but no challenges. Do you accept?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Now, what can we do to make these recruits reliable?’

A grin of square white teeth. ‘A few small victories would go a long way.’

The chambers of Li Heng's ruling High Court of Magistrates were known officially as the Hall of Prudence and Conscientious Guidance; to others it was the Palace of Puckering and Spluttering. Predictably, it mirrored the city as a round room where a raised gallery looked down on a central floor. A continuous table of pink marble circuited the upper gallery where the magistrates held court over all petitioners below.

Hurl, her torso tightly bandaged beneath her leathers, now occupied that floor, alongside Storo, Silk, Liss, Rell and Captain Gujran. Gritting her teeth, it was all she could do to stop herself from walking out on this absurd proceeding immediately. But Storo had requested her cooperation and so she was present, despite the strong need for a drink. It was also only the first time she'd seen Silk since the attack — the mage had been busy or making himself absent of late. She still had a lot of pointed questions for him regarding that city mage, Ahl.

The magistrates fiddled and shuffled their papers, or rather, their servants did, sitting behind them and acting as their amanuenses. Many eyes, Hurl noted, watched not Storo, as one might expect, but rather the wiry Genabackan youth Rell, who stood with his head lowered, long greasy hair obscuring his face. Rumours abounded of what this man had accomplished at the North Gate of the Inner Round. Hurl was not surprised; she'd seen him in action enough not to be surprised by any of his unbelievable acts of swordsmanship.

Magistrate Ehrlann tapped the butt of his switch on the table, cleared his throat. ‘Honoured fellow magistrates, assembled citizens, appellants. We are gathered here to discuss a serious course of action arising from the recent catastrophes inflicted upon this city by its current military leadership.’ Behind Ehrlann his servant, Jamaer, scribbled awkwardly on a vellum sheet balanced on his knees. The magistrate pointed the switch at Storo. ‘Sergeant Storo Matash, temporarily promoted Fist, do you have anything to say in your defence at this time?’

Storo unclasped his hands from behind his back, his broad face impassive. ‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing.’

High above them, the magistrates exchanged uneasy glances. Ehrlann shook his switch as if dusting the table of the case. ‘Very well, commander. You leave us no choice but to pursue the painful course of action this court has decided upon.’ He pointed the switch. ‘You, Fist, are stripped of all rank, dismissed and placed under arrest for gross negligence.’ The switch flicked to Captain Gujran. ‘You, Captain, by the power invested in this court, are promoted to rank of Fist — on a provisional basis only, of course — and charged with military command of this city. Your first action as commander will be to open negotiations with the besieging force to explore terms of surrender. There you are, Fist Gujran. You have your commission. Please act upon it.’

Hurl turned to peer about the room, at the set faces of the magistrates glowering in a full circle down upon them. It occurred to her that the place didn't have one window. Just seven old men and five old women blinking inward at one another from across a circular room. A single window looking out on the city, it seemed to her, would have helped this court a great deal. As it was, Captain Gujran standing beside her just scratched a flame-scorched brow and said, ‘No.’

The switch froze. ‘No?’

‘No.’

The switch trembled. ‘Think, Captain. You are risking your future, your career. You are being offered a rank far above that which your breeding could otherwise ever allow.’

Gujran's hands went to his belt. ‘You're doin’ yourself no favours with that, magistrate.’

‘Enough of this charade,’ Magistrate Plengyllen burst out from where he sat a quarter of the way around the room. ‘Arrest the lot of them.’ He waved his switch at a guard. ‘Summon the soldiers of the court. Arrest these criminals.’

The guard glanced to the centre of the room. Storo gave the smallest of assents. The guard left. Three of the twelve magistrates also sprang to their feet and hurriedly left the room. Hurl grasped Storo's arm to point but Storo waved her concern aside. Shortly the magistrates reappeared, backing into the chamber, forced in by soldiery filling all exits.

Magistrate Ehrlann glanced about, took in the soldiery, their Imperial colours, and swore. He threw his switch to the tabletop. He slipped his fingers over the forward edge of the table, his mouth twisting his disgust. ‘So,’ he hissed. ‘It comes to this. Usurpation of legitimate republican rule. Once more you Malazans are revealed for the pirates and thugs you are. Your rule is the sword and the fist. Ours authority arises from the consent of the ruled. We shall see of which history approves.’

Storo inclined his head to the guards, who motioned the magistrates from their seats. ‘It seems to me, Magistrate Ehrlann, that you are only legitimately blind to the truth that oppression comes in many forms. Consider, if you are capable, the rather narrow constituency you and your circle claim to speak for in this city for the last hundred years.’

The magistrate gaped at Storo — as did Hurl. Never before had she heard the man speak in such a manner. It occurred to her that many hours of expensive private tutoring stood behind such opinions.

Contact with rulership seemed to be bringing out the man's hidden talents.

As a guard reached for him, Ehrlann spun to his servant. ‘Do something, Jamaer! They're arresting me!’ Jamaer's feather pen scratched as he dutifully copied down the magistrate's words. Snarling, Ehrlann slapped the papers from the man's lap. ‘No, no! Do something, you fool. You've worked for me for over thirty years! Doesn't that count for something?’

Slowly, solemnly, Jamaer handed the magistrate his umbrella.

Hurl suppressed a laugh while Liss chortled. The stunned incomprehension on Ehrlann's face was worth it.

Once the magistrates had been taken away Storo ordered the guard to withdraw. He waited for the room to clear, his hands reclasped at his back, and studied the flagged black marble floor. Silk paced, and Hurl noted that despite the opportunity, even in a besieged city, the mage had yet to replace or mend his tattered finery, or even repair his worn boots. He also noted that while the mage paced from one side of the room to the other, his glance unfailingly returned to Storo. While Storo, it seemed to her, with his downcast eyes, was avoiding the man's attention.

Then Liss straightened, hissing, and faced the single lower floor entry portal. Silk stopped pacing. Three men entered — or, rather, three versions of what seemed to Hurl to be the same man, though each was dressed differently — Ahl, the very mage who had saved her. Hurl rubbed her eyes. Liss visibly shrank from the three's advance. Reacting to the tensions of the room, Rell shifted to stand next to Storo, his hands on the grips of his twinned swords now returned to his shoulder baldrics.

Liss's heated gaze darted to Silk. ‘How dare you invite this man — this creature — back into the city.’

‘We need allies, Liss.’

A fat arm shot out, pointing. ‘That Path is an abomination!’

As one, the three grinned — though their smiles were not identical; the one Hurl was sure had introduced himself as Ahl, the left side of his face drooped as if dead, while another's right side hung slack, also as if dead. The third seemed to suffer no such affliction at all. Studying them more closely now, Hurl noted many more differences: one had his hair cut short while it hung long and unkempt on another. Each also bore differing wounds: a facial slash on one, a mangled, mishealed hand on another.

‘Nice to see…’ said the one in a soldier's light leathers.

‘… You too…’ said Ahl, wearing his dirty frayed robes.

‘… Liss,’ finished the third, in a reversed sheepskin tunic sashed at his waist.

‘Explanations, Silk,’ Hurl demanded in the silence following the three Ahls’ eerie, mangled form of communication. Six glittering black eyes shifted to Hurl and she felt the power of that regard, like a red-hot iron plate held just before her face.

‘Later,’ Silk said, and the weight of the three's eyes slid from Hurl leaving her able to inhale.

Liss obviously had more to say but Storo straightened, letting out a long breath, and turned to study everyone present. Smiling at a sudden funny thought, he scratched a thumb across his chin. ‘Ehrlann was closer to the truth than he realized. We are gathered here to consider a very serious course of action.’

Silk was shaking his head, his thin blond hair tossing. ‘No,’ he barely mouthed, hushed. ‘Don't do it.’

Liss took a step to Storo, her eyes now narrowing to slits, the three forgotten. ‘Do — what?

‘We're far outnumbered, Liss. Have to shorten the odds. And a way does exist to do just that. Here, in the city.’

The Seti shamaness, who claimed to be the reborn Vessel of Baya-Gul, patroness of all Seti Seeresses, stood frozen for an instant, then, it appeared to Hurl, her matted greasy ropes of hair actually seemed to stand on end and her eyes, raw red with exhaustion, widened in horror. ‘So,’ she said, now nodding her comprehension, ‘this is how it will be fulfilled — his last words: “Those who hate me most shall set me free”.

‘Who-’ began Hurl.

‘What of the containment wards?’ Liss demanded.

‘Between all of us, we have a chance,’ Silk said, hugging himself.

Liss snorted her disdain. ‘Us? Wards set by Tayschrenn, the emperor himself and Gods know how many mage cadres?’

‘We think…’

‘… we can…’

‘… manage.’

A fat arm shot out to point in the three's direction. ‘You stay out of this.’ Liss faced Storo. ‘Please, consider all the lives that will be lost. The bloodshed.’

‘That's the idea, Liss. I'm sorry, but he'll tear them to pieces out there and that's what we want.’

The old woman shook her head. ‘And after all this is over, Storo? All the lives to be lost in the centuries to come? What of them?’

Storo lowered his gaze. ‘We'll deal with that then — assuming any of us remain alive.’

Hurl had had enough. ‘What are you two talking about?’ she shouted. ‘What's going on, Captain?’

The three regarded one another in silence for a time. Then Silk turned to her. ‘The man-jackal's still alive, Hurl,’ he said, still hugging himself. ‘He was imprisoned beneath the city. Probably yet another of the hidden assets Kellanved seemed to love salting away for emergencies.’

‘I heard he was cast over the cliffs of the escarpment.’

‘He was,’ said Silk.

‘What? Am I just slow or am I missing something here?’

‘Many have claimed to have destroyed him but he just keeps showing up again. Some say he is unkillable. That so long as the plains remain, so shall he. But…’ and the mage's gaze slid to the three brothers, ‘there are other theories.’

The three gave Silk their mix-matched unnerving grins. The avid glitter of their eyes made Hurl's skin shiver. They struck her as unhinged.

‘In any case, Silk knows how to get to him,’ Storo said.

Hurl looked from face to face. Gods no. Ryllandaras. The eater-of-men. Heng's Curse. A God, some said. She shook her head, appalled by the vision of centuries of slaughter. ‘No, Captain. Don't do it. They'll curse your name for a hundred years.’

‘There!’ Liss pointed again. ‘That from the most level head among you.’

Storo kicked at the polished black flagging. ‘Rell?’

The Genabackan did not answer immediately. He kept his head low. ‘Do not ask me strategy,’ he finally said.

Waving that aside, Storo took hold of one of the man's sheathed weapons and shook it. ‘Think tactically.’

A shrug. ‘In that case there is nothing to discuss. We are engaged in a duel. We have an opportunity to wound the enemy. We must take it.’

‘That's good enough for me.’ Storo motioned Silk to the exit.

‘Wait!’ Liss raised a commanding hand. ‘There is more going on here than just this. I must speak now as Seeress. Have you forgotten that Ryllandaras is said to be brother to Trake? Of the First Heroes? Trake ascends as god of war and now war comes to Heng and his brother is released? Is this coincidence? Just who do we serve here — have you considered any of this?’

Broad, feral smiles had been spreading on the crippled lips of the three Ahls for some time now. The madness that seemed to sparkle in their eyes kept dislodging Hurl's thoughts. Looking away, she offered, ‘It would serve Trake, I imagine.’

Or weaken him? Might he challenge his brother? Are we releasing a rival claimant to the Godhead? And what sort of god? You forget, Ryllandaras is the enemy of humanity.’

‘He's…’

‘… no…’

‘… god.’

‘You fool!’ Liss stamped a sandalled foot, cracking a marble flag in an explosion that echoed like the eruption of a Moranth munition and rocked Hurl where she stood. In the stunned silence following, all recovered from their flinch and stared at the fat woman in her tattered layered skirts and stained muslin wrap. ‘The Seti have worshipped him for ten thousand years!’

Storo rubbed a hand over his balding pate, glanced to the others. ‘Well. They'll be spared the brunt of his savagery. He'll fall on the Talian forces. Just what we want.’

‘You remain determined?’

‘Yes.’

Liss tightened her wrap, shaking her head. ‘Do not expect my help.’

‘Very well. I'm sorry.’ Storo motioned to the exit. Coming aside Hurl, he said, ‘They can curse my name, Hurl, so long as they die doing it.’

The ancestral castle of the D'Avig family of Unta was burning at night. Flames gouted from windows and painted the keep in writhing shadows. The town of the same name it overlooked echoed with screams and the harsh clap of hooves as Wickan raiders looted and burned. But no slaughter, Rillish told himself. Please, Lady, little of that. Nil and Nether had been stern in their warnings — take all you want but no killing. Not that some would not die this night. Rillish had witnessed enough sackings to know it inevitable, as hot blood demanded it. Still, the twins’ warning ought to carry weight — they'd threatened the most ignoble punishment imaginable to any Wickan — death by drowning.

With his Malazan command Rillish had been assigned the barricading of a crossroads on the main road south out of D'Avig. They found it to be the centre of a small hamlet. A wayside inn, a corral and a carpenter's workshop lined the crossroads. Rillish promptly had the men toss everything big and moveable across the road. Watching the glow of the sacked castle, he took the waterskin from his side and drank, easing back on the high cantle of his saddle. His leg throbbed; the wild ride through the hills and down in the rich Untan farmlands had re-torn the freshly healed muscle. He sought out and caught his sergeant's eye. ‘No one gets past, Chord.’

‘No chance, sir. There's Wickans crawling all over the hillsides. Like the old days it is, so I understand.’

Yes. The old border warfare all along the Wickan frontier. How appropriate; the central authority collapses and it's a quick return to the tried and true old ways of doing things. No one's learned a thing. Cocking his head, he listened: distant panicked cries only, no clash of sustained resistance. From where he sat it looked as if D'Avig had well and truly been overrun. Surprise had been complete. His job was to keep it so. ‘Sergeant.’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Gather the freshest horses and send a squad all the way south to the fortress at Jurda. I want eyes on that stronghold.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Chord spat out a wad of rustleaf, bellowed, ‘Talia! Get your squad provisioned and ready to move!’

Rillish shot a glance to the rear. Talia — newly promoted squad sergeant and his lover — signed her acknowledgement to Chord and flashed a bright mocking smile to Rillish. The lieutenant spun to stiffly face the front. Were those grins he'd caught on the faces of his soldiers? Damn Togg, woman, show some discretion. He ached to glance back once more but dared not now. The most dangerous assignment he'd be asking of his command and she pulls it. What if he was to countermand Chord's selection? He'd just undermine the man's authority — never mind what he'd be doing to his own. No, he would just have to trust his senior sergeant's judgment in the matter. And wish her Oponn's favour.

‘Cavalry, sir!’ came a shout. ‘And it ain't Wickan!’

‘Form up!’ Chord barked.

The double ranks of regulars levelled the spears they'd collected to assemble the traditional hedgehog. Rillish glanced to the second-storey windows of the inn and the lofts of the stable and woodworking shop opposite, and eased his swords in their scabbards. Soon the crash of horses at full gallop reached them and the horsemen — perhaps twenty — reined up before the barricade of upturned carts. Untan white and red surcoats declared their allegiance. Among their milling numbers one pointed, ordering, ‘Remove the barrier, fools! Are you blind! We're no Wickans!’

‘Then who are you?’ Rillish called.

‘Who? Who!’ the man yelled, outraged, his face darkened above his full grey and black beard. ‘Dol D'Avig, you fool!’

Rillish felt his insides twist sickeningly. Curse Fener, it was the man. He recognized him now, brother to the count. They had met once or twice at functions in the capital. Rillish tightened his stomach muscles and clenched his jaw against a vertigo as it came home that now was the time he would cut his own past from himself as surely as if he had lost a limb. Either with this man or another, sooner or later — it was just a shock for it to have come so soon. ‘Then I ask you, Dol, for the sake of your men, to throw down your weapons and surrender.’

The brother to the count yanked the reins of his mount, shearing the beast's head aside. ‘What! Surrender?’ His thick brows clenched as he studied more closely the forces arrayed before him. ‘You wear Imperial colours — where in Hood's Arse did you come from?’

Not there, I assure you. ‘Never mind. I ask you again — throw down your weapons.’

Teeth shone white in a savage, knowing smile. And something surfaced in Rillish's mind, a memory of chatter during those dreary social gatherings at the capital: ‘Dol D'Avig — a better mage than his brother is count.’ Queen take it! He drew breath to shout but at the same instant Dol waved curtly and Rillish's throat constricted shut. All around him spears and swords clattered to the cobbles as his men gasped, choking, tearing at their throats.

The same overwhelming need for breath flamed in Rillish's chest and it was all he could do to draw a sword and hold it high. The shutters of the inn's second-storey windows banged open and in the loft doors opposite crossbowmen rose to their knees. Bolts raked the Untan cavalry. Get him! Gods, please! His sight was darkening, the sword fell from his grip.

Then, thank Soliel! breath, sweet clean air. Rillish sucked great lungfuls deep into his chest. ‘Where is he?’ he gasped as soon as he could manage, righting himself in his saddle.

‘Gone, sir. Rode off.’

‘Well-get him!’

‘Where?’ asked Chord.

Cursing, Rillish sawed his mount around and kneed it into motion. ‘South, of course!’

‘Sir! Wait!’

But Rillish could not wait. Only he was mounted. Only he stood any chance of catching the man. Storming through the modest hamlet he left it behind almost immediately and entered the unrelieved darkness of an overcast night. Empty flat fields lined the way in monochrome pewter, interrupted occasionally by black lines of low stone walls and the darkness of small copses. His leg screamed its pain at him, making him squirm in his saddle. A cool mist, the beginnings of rain, chilled his face and neck. Where he imagined he should have caught up with the fellow his mount balked at the road ahead, almost throwing him over its neck. He grunted the agony of using his legs to rescue his seating. When he'd recovered a mounted rider blocked the way. Rillish reached for one sword but found an empty sheath only. Damn! He drew the left.

‘Wrong rider,’ called the figure in a young woman's familiar voice. Rillish peered into the gloom. ‘Nether?’

‘Come. We must hurry.’

Rillish kneed his mount forward, clenching his teeth. ‘How did you…’ But of course — the Warrens. He sheathed the sword.

‘He's good, this one. Eluded us all night but betrayed himself at your roadblock.’

‘He is headed south?’

Nether tossed her wild black hair, hacked unevenly to a medium length and damp with sweat. ‘You could ride all the way to Fist and not meet him. He's taken to the Warrens but I have his scent — come!’ Her mount lunged away at a gallop.

Cursing, Rillish struggled to urge his sweating horse onward. ‘C'mon, boy. That's a handsome mare she's riding. C'mon.’

Either she reined in to wait for him or he had coaxed renewed vigour from his mount but he gained upon her and they raced single file. She glanced back, grinning the pleasure of a daughter of the steppes who had ridden before walking. ‘Hold on, Malazan!’

Not knowing what to expect Rillish flinched and thereby missed the transition. When he opened his eyes the fields were gone as was the road and the low rain clouds. Instead, his mount's hooves sank noiselessly into deep moss and rotting humus while all around squat trees loomed from a shadowed silver night. Nether pulled up savagely.

‘The arrogant fool! He has no idea the risks he runs here!’

‘Where is here?’ Rillish's mount shuddered beneath him, muscles flinching in exhaustion, and perhaps in fear.

‘Shadow. Meneas and Mockra skeined together I sensed in his weavings. Now we have proof. But illusion will not save him from this,’ and she waved to the forest.

Rillish slipped a hand to the grip of his remaining weapon. ‘What is it?’

She regarded him closely. The flat light of shadow cast her face into sharp planes of light and dark. Gods, she looked to Rillish like the ground-down mother of nine who had seen most of those into the dirt. Yet she was young enough to be his daughter. Child, life has been so unfair to you. She asked, ‘What do you know of the houses of the Azath?’

He shrugged. ‘Some. Stories, legends.’

‘They capture any foolish enough to enter their grounds. Sometimes with vines or trees.’ She gestured to the forest. ‘As those trees are to the Azath, so is this forest to Shadow. None who enter escape…’ Cocking her head she raised a hand to forestall any comment. ‘And this raises a disturbing question — what could be so difficult, or important, to imprison that an entire forest is required?’

Rillish stared at the girl, or rather young woman. Damn these mages and their unfathomable academic minds. He waved the question aside. ‘He's getting away.’

‘Is he?’ And she smiled again. ‘I do not ask that you accompany me, but will you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then stay close — as your saboteurs say, things are about to get hairy.’ She kneed her mount forward. Rillish followed, gasping as he too kneed his mount. What trail Nether followed he had no idea — some sort of magical wake of warren manipulation perhaps. In any case, she did not hesitate, leaping fallen rotting logs, dodging trunks and ducking low branches. Rillish struggled to keep up. Glancing ahead, it seemed to him that the thick leafless branches were becoming more numerous, were perhaps even swinging into their path. Now, a yellow glow spread out ahead of Nether, almost like ripples, which pushed back against the branches while she and he slipped through. Then, in the distance, Rillish heard a sound that raised the hairs of his neck and forearms: the angry baying of a hound. Nether's head snapped around, and though her face was no more than a pale oval, Rillish thought he saw fear in the witch's eyes.

Roots now writhed through the moss and heaps of steaming fallen leaves. Nether's mount stumbled, legs stamping, snorting its alarm. Pulling up, she pointed. ‘There! His horse was taken. He is afoot.’ She urged her mount onward but it baulked, dancing aside. ‘What?’

A yell of outrage reached them from ahead, then the ground erupted, sending their mounts rearing. Rillish shielded his face from a driven spray of dirt and smoke. Blinking, arm raised over his eyes, he made out Nether standing tall in her saddle, peering ahead. ‘What was that!’ he yelled through the roaring in his ears.

‘I thought I saw…’

Bellowing as loud as a bull's snapped their heads around. Something huge thrashed in the forest back along their trail. Wood cracked sounding like explosions. He and Nether shared a grin of terrified amusement — the forest, it seemed, wasn't too particular. ‘We have to go!’

Nether was nodding, but her gaze was captured by what lay ahead. ‘He has escaped again. But I believe I know…’ She snapped a gesture and the surroundings wavered, lightening to a grey dusk. At that instant her mount shrieked a death-cry.

The transition felt like the worst hangover Rillish had ever experienced. He held his blazing forehead, blinked away tears. As his eyes refocused, he found he was still mounted, but Nether lay on the ground at his horse's hooves, her mount splayed dead in a pool of its own viscera. Half the animal had not made the shift. ‘Nether!’

An arm wrapped around her side, she pointed, snarling, ‘Get him!’

Rillish kicked his mount into motion. He had a blurred impression of a dirt plain scattered with boulders, a flat dull sky, then his mount carried him over the lip of a ridge to slide dancing and side-stepping down a long scree slope to a narrow, dry valley floor. Coughing, he waved at the dust cloud while dirt and rocks skittered down around him. Nearby, someone else was coughing.

As the dust thinned Rillish saw Dol lying among the rocks, both hands clenching the empty rags of one trouser leg. He was looking up at him, anger and a touch of bitter amusement twisting his face. ‘Damned trees took my leg,’ he said, his teeth flashing behind his beard. Rillish allowed himself to relax, massaged his thigh.

‘You know,’ Dol said conversationally, ‘in the songs, the hero jumps from Warren to Warren always landing on his feet. He never appears on a Hood-be-damned hillside and falls on his arse.’

Rillish nodded his tired agreement. ‘I don't think the minstrels have been there.’

A fierce grin of suppressed agony, then the man squinted up at him. ‘The Keth family, right? Rillish?’

‘Yes.’

‘Gone over to the barbarians, hey?’

‘Let's say I disagree with the Empress's policies.’

Dol stared, then laughed ending with a snarl of pain. ‘The Empress? Oh yes, her’

Rillish eyed the man uncertainly and opened his mouth to ask the obvious question when the man glanced aside and gaped his surprise. Someone else was walking up, picking his way between the rocks of the valley: slim, wild grey hair, the tattered rags of what once must have been expensive finery hanging from him. ‘What in Hood's paths is that?' Dol said, speaking Rillish's own thoughts.

The bizarre figure closed on Dol to peer down with an antic grin that seemed about to break into laughter. Dol gaped up doubtfully at him. Rillish clasped his sword grip. ‘Who-’

A foot lashed out, taking Dol in the throat. The mage's blood-splashed hands leapt from the ruins of his thigh to his neck. His eyes bulged his disbelief.

‘Damn you!’ Rillish drew, but his numb leg couldn't restore his balance and he slid sideways off his horse. He lay on his back like an upturned turtle, his leg twisted in the stirrup.

The man came around the horse. He rubbed a hand over the animal's quivering sweaty flanks and studied it with open approval. ‘Falling off your horse like that… was that some sort of fiendishly cunning manoeuvre meant to confuse me?’ Rillish had no idea what to say or do; his leg was useless and he lay helpless before this insane murderous beggar.

‘No, I just fell off my horse.’

A barked laugh. ‘I like you,’ a sudden frown, ‘a pity.’

Closer now, the man's wild filthy hair was perhaps very light beneath the dirt and the hue of his flesh underneath the caked grime was quite dark. Rillish wondered if the fellow were part Napan. But the eyes were wrong; the eyes were… almost inhuman. ‘Who are you?’

The quick rictus of a smile, gone just as suddenly as it appeared. ‘A lie. A lost letter. A message whispered to the wind. A dart tossed into a cyclone.’

A madman. Rillish wet his lips. ‘What do you want?’

‘Nothing you-’ the man stopped himself, glanced up the valley slope. His brows rose. ‘Not who I was expecting,’ he said. He may not even have been aware he was speaking aloud. ‘No, not yet, I think.’ He backed away, pointed to Rillish. The Lady is with you today. Do not imagine she will be tomorrow.’

‘Who…?’ But the harlequin figure disappeared among the boulders.

Moments later Nether came hobbling around the horse, still clenching her side. She nodded to Rillish then returned her stare to where the apparition had gone. ‘You saw him?’ he demanded, as if doubting his own sanity.

‘Yes. You spoke with him?’

‘Yes — you know who he is?’

A long slow affirmation. ‘Oh yes. And I will tell you in all honesty, Jal Keth. I seriously debated whether or not to come down here.’

‘Well, who i5 he?’

A shake of the head. ‘No. It is safer for you not to know — for now. Someone who was supposed to be out of the game.’

Rillish allowed himself to lie limp on the ground. ‘Gods, woman! Well, at least help me up.’

‘Who, me?’ Together, each aiding the other, with much trial and error, they mounted with Nether behind holding Rillish steady. She nickered to start his mount walking; it picked a path between the boulders.

‘Just where in all the Realms are we anyway?’ Rillish asked.

‘The Imperial Warren.’

‘Oh. I thought no one was supposed to come here any more.’

‘That's right.’

‘Did we perhaps just meet the reason behind that prohibition?’

She whispered in his ear, ‘How could we when we've never been here?’

While Nether gently weaved their transition from the Warren Rillish tried to fight his sudden keen awareness of the warmth of the young warlock's embrace. It did not help later that night, close to dawn, as Nether and he and their exhausted mount were walking the road north through a cold drizzle, when soldiers straightened from hedgerows alongside the road and Rillish pulled up suddenly to see Talia watching him from over the stock of a levelled crossbow. She did lower the weapon, but the look she gave him there on the horse in Nether's arms was a caution for when they next met.

To Kyle the coast of this land seemed to consist of nothing more than league after league of empty sand beaches leading up to dense jungle. Ereko skilfully wove the Kite through gaps in reefs as they skirted north-west. White and black seabirds hovered and dived in their wake. Peering over the gunwale was like staring down from a great height — undersea mountains of coral passed majestically beneath them. The sun glared with a ferocity Kyle had never known. It seemed to bake the top of his head. The brothers had used leather strips to tie rags over their heads and Stalker had even removed his armour and now sat in his leathers, a sash around his head and face like a scarf. Only Traveller and Ereko seemed unmoved by the oppressive heat. Kyle itched with sweat and rashes seemed to be creeping over his entire body.

‘Won't we land now?’ he asked Ereko yet again, rubbing a finger over his cracked lips. ‘We're low on water.’ Blood smeared his fingers.

‘This is a dangerous land, Kyle,’ the Thel Akai giant answered, as patiently as the first time Kyle had asked. ‘We have to be careful.’

Careful! Kyle almost pointed to the bow where Traveller reclined in the shade of a sailcloth. With an obvious master swordsman like him on board? And you, a giant nearly twice the height of a man? And these three veterans from Assail who quit the Crimson Guard because they found it boring? Gods and Spirits, what kind of a land was this?

Still, they did not pull in — even when the last of the water was shaken from the last keg. The afternoon golden light faded to the red sunsets that came with disorienting suddenness. He almost asked again why Ereko made no effort at landing and would they simply career along like this until they all died of exposure when he realized that no one else was asking. Everyone else, even fiercely independent Stalker, seemed content to defer to the giant's experience. Clenching his teeth, Kyle sat back against the warm, damp and now mouldy planking of the Kite.

As the evening deepened Kyle dozed in the deadening heat and humidity. A grunt from one of the Lost brothers woke him. Everyone was staring ahead. Kyle sat up straighten Distant torches lit the edge of a long low spit of sand. Behind the torches stood a large tent, the thin cloth of its sides billowing lightly in the weak night wind. Ereko turned the bow to shore.

Traveller stood, rearranged the simple padded mail hauberk he wore beneath his dark leathers, and belted his long, slim black-hilted sword at his side. Kyle found he could not take his eyes from that weapon. As the bow scraped up into sand Traveller leapt down into the wash to steady the vessel. Stalker and the brothers joined him. They pulled the Kite as far up the strand as they could. Kyle belted on his own tulwar and jumped into the wet sand. Ereko stepped down unarmed. When his feet touched ground the giant stood still for a time, head lowered. Kyle thought he heard him whispering something that may have been a prayer. Straightening, his usually smiling lips were set, his brow lined. He had the air of a man facing a trial. Traveller led the way to the tent.

As they neared, a man stepped from the open flap. He was a large fellow, tall and well-padded in fat. The torchlight glimmered on his bright silk robes and his round head was shaved. His flesh held the hue of oiled ironwood. He bowed. ‘Welcome to you all,’ he said in accented Talian. ‘Welcome to the lands you call Jacuruku.’

Within, carpets covered the sand. Lamps on tall iron tripods lit the large interior. Pillows lay scattered, as were silver platters containing covered bowls, cups and carafes. Traveller eased himself down to sit cross-legged. Their host sat opposite. Stalker, Coots and Badlands sat together uneasily, glancing about. The tent was tall enough to accommodate Ereko who sat near the entrance. Kyle sat with him.

‘Greetings all,’ their host continued. ‘Please… eat, drink. My name is Jhest Golanjar. How it is I know your language you are wondering. That is simplicity. It is the language spoken by an invading army that conquered a neighbouring kingdom decades ago. They rule as a caste of warrior-aristocrats who enforce their will with sword and magery. All in the name of that kingdom's ancient Goddess — the Queen Ardata. Know you them?’

Their host seemed to be addressing everyone, but his dark glittering eyes remained fixed upon Traveller. Coots, his mouth stuffed full of bread and meat sauce, slurred, ‘No.’

Untroubled, Jhest continued. ‘In our language we call them the Isture? Forlan Edegash. In your language,’ he lifted a meaty hand to Kyle, ‘the Crimson Guard.’

Kyle stared, speechless, then he remembered the sigil still pinned to his chest and he felt his face redden in embarrassment. Fool, to have kept it!

‘Are we enemies, then?’ Traveller asked, his voice low, yet Kyle now felt attuned to the man's moods and he heard the coiled warning behind the question.

Jhest's smile was broad and easy, yet oddly flat. He raised both hands. ‘Not at all. We admire the Isture? for what they have accomplished.’

‘Which is?’ Ereko asked.

Jhest answered without so much as a glance to the Thel Akai; it was as if the giant did not exist. ‘They have advanced far in the path that is our… how shall I put it?… our passion — my brothers and sisters’ speciality of interest and research.’

‘That being?’ Stalker prompted.

Again, the broad yet oddly empty smile. The man's black eyes unmoving on Traveller. ‘Why, the Paths of Ascension, of course.’

No one spoke for a time. Badlands and Coots ate noisily; Stalker picked up a flatbread and tore off a bite. Kyle poured himself a drink that proved to be some sort of sweetened water. Traveller pressed a hand to his brow, sighing. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Jhest, but we are tired and should sleep. Perhaps tomorrow we could trouble you for water and supplies?’

‘Of course.’ The man stood, brushed at the folds of his robes. ‘Until tomorrow, then. Goodnight.’ Bowing, he left the tent.

Chewing a mouthful, Stalker caught Badland's eye and cocked his head to the flap. Badlands crossed to the opening. ‘Gone.’

‘Anyone around?’ Stalker asked.

‘Hard to say. It's damned dark. Probably someone.’

Grunting his assent, Stalker gestured Coots out. ‘You two, first watch.’

Glowering, Coots picked up the tray and carried it out the door. ‘Figures. First decent meal in months…’

Stalker now turned his attention to Ereko. ‘What do you think?’

During all of this, Traveller merely ate, eyes downcast. It was as if the man had given up on everything and was willing to accept whatever might come to him; it was either the worst sort of pathetic fatalism, or a kind of enlightened understanding that expectations, plans, ambitions, were no more than deluding vapours that, in the end, could not change anything. It was maddening to Kyle that he couldn't decide which.

Ereko lifted a pot of a thick yellow cream that Kyle thought might be yogurt. He sniffed it, set it down. ‘I have been away for a very long time, of course. But I have heard rumours. It seems they may be true. This portion of the continent is ruled by a magiocracy, an oligarchy of powerful mages who bend all their resources and research to unravelling the mysteries of Ascendancy. It is said they are masters of the Paths of Denul, and even conduct rather horrifying surgeries and experiments upon the bodies of their people to that end. No doubt they see Ascendancy as their way to power and immortality, and so on.’

‘Yet he ignored you,’ Kyle said.

Ereko laughed, smiling. ‘Ascendancy holds no interest for me, Kyle. To them, I am probably just some sort of wretched failure. Nothing more than that.’

‘You are the Eldest of all living things here of the world, Ereko,’ Traveller suddenly announced. ‘Father to us all.’

‘Father?’ Kyle echoed, his wonder and amazement obvious.

Ereko waved the words aside. Our friend is speaking poetically, Kyle. When one considers such ancient times one's only recourse is the language of poetry. Thus legends, myths, creation accounts, history. All are no more than stories shaped to justify the present appearance of things.’

Rolling his eyes, Stalker tossed back a drink. ‘I was hoping for rather more practical information.’

Ereko laughed, smiling self-consciously. ‘Sorry, yes. To the point then. They are torn. They want to move against us — but they are of course anxious as to our capabilities. The question for us is which faction will prevail. The voices for caution or the voices for action.’

‘They will act.’ This from Traveller as he sat, head lowered, studying one of the land's unfamiliar yellow fruits. ‘When it becomes clear that we will perhaps get away, a small faction will take matters into their own hands and will move. Once they do so the rest will have no choice but to commit themselves.’

Kyle stared, unable to breathe. ‘You have seen it?’

The eyes rose, met his. The intensity of that gaze drove Kyle's gaze aside, but not before he glimpsed a well of terrifying emotion kept locked under an almost inhuman control. ‘I have seen it all before, Kyle.’

Ereko gestured to the cushions. ‘Sleep for now, lad. You can have the last watch.’

Having eaten and now sitting comfortably on soft cloth Kyle already felt his eyelids drooping. He lay back and curled up without argument — Ereko would wake him if anything happened. Sleep took him almost instantly.

A tap of his foot woke Kyle. Stalker stood looking down at him; the scout gestured him out and left. Kyle grabbed up his armour, helmet and weapon belt and followed. Outside, a false dawn of diffuse light made the sea look strangely flat, the beach lifeless and the jungle a dark mystery. Stalker unbuckled his tall conical helmet. ‘Been quiet.’

Over his linen shirt and padded aketon, Kyle pulled on his hauberk of iron rings laced to leather, adjusted the leather wrappings at his legs. ‘No one at all?’

‘Only if you count the soldiers surrounding us.’

‘What? When?’

An indifferent shrug. ‘Who knows? Right away maybe. Coots has been watching them all night. Says it ain't right the way none of them have moved. Not even to take a piss, apparently. Coots thinks that's downright unnatural for any soldiers.‘ Stalker gestured around. ‘You can maybe make them out on the dunes and the forest edge.’ His watch done, the scout ducked inside. Kyle adjusted the weight of his tulwar on his left hip, pulled on his helmet. For the thousandth time he wished he had a shield, a bow or even a fistful of javelins. Squinting, he could just distinguish the tall dark shapes standing still as tree trunks in the mist and pre-dawn gloom. Big bastards, with good discipline, sounds like. He didn't relish having to tangle with them.

Nothing stirred during Kyle's watch. The day brightened and the sun rose like a ball of fire over the jungle. Kyle thought it a wondrous sight, quite unlike anything he'd seen on the prairie. It was as if the entire east jungle was aflame. Traveller eventually emerged behind him. The tall swordsman was tying back his long, kinked black hair. He gestured Kyle in with a nod. ‘Break your fast.’

Over the remains of the platters Badlands and Coots worked the edges of their weapons with the small sharpening stones they carried with their gear; Badlands his two long-knives and Coots his single-edged longsword with an extended two-handed grip. Out of their rolls also came helmets — iron and bronze, with faceguards that curved down to nasal shields. ‘Haven't seen those recently,’ Kyle observed.

‘Haven't faced a stand-up fight recently,’ Coots said. ‘We prefer to avoid them.’

Badlands pulled his helmet on. ‘Yeah. They can get you killed.’

Kyle almost burst out laughing: the helmet looked two sizes too small on the hairy burly fellow, like a bull wearing a pot. After mastering himself Kyle reflected that he mustn't look much better in his hand-me-down mismatched armour. He drew his tulwar, examined its edge — as bright and keen as the day Smoky inscribed it. Nothing seemed able to mar it. He turned to Ereko who sat cross-legged with no weapon in sight.

‘Where's your spear?’

The Thel Akai looked up and in his golden eyes something flashed that stabbed Kyle to his heart before it was hidden away and the familiar wintry smile returned to his lips. ‘Not here, Kyle. Not in my homeland.’

The brothers continued fussing with their equipment. Stalker checked the positioning of more weapons than Kyle had even guessed he might be carrying. He wondered what they were waiting for then, then Traveller re-entered the tent, and he understood.

The man examined each of them in turn, his face dark with churning emotions Kyle couldn't name, a kind of impatient anger, even disgust. The lines that bracketed his mouth slashed down like cuts. He nodded his approval and the Lost brothers jumped to the tent flap, flanking it with hands on their weapons. Stalker ducked out first. Traveller exited, then Kyle and Ereko. The brothers brought up the rear.

Jhest awaited them down the beach near the Kite. He stood next to a collection of bundled fruits, foodstuffs and wooden casks that Kyle presumed held water. Also present were the tall soldiers, positioned in a wide semicircle. They wore no uniforms or colours, only a strange sort of armour made from a mosaic of small stones, each a slightly differing shade of green, varying from dark sea-blue-green to a pale yellow-olive. Helms completely enclosed their faces and gauntlets their hands — all of the same shimmering mosaic surface. The weapons at their waists were hidden in wooden sheaths clasped in worked bronze, but from the shape they appeared curved and perhaps flaring out toward the point.

Jhest bowed. ‘I trust you slept well and are refreshed. Please do not be alarmed by the presence of our soldiers. They are here to help load your vessel. You must find them somewhat familiar, yes? They are inspired by the many insights gained by those Malazan allies, the Moranth.’

‘Yes,’ Traveller answered curtly. Thank you for the food and water. We will be leaving now.’

‘If you must. But I must ask that you reconsider your goal.’

Traveller, who had bent to a cask, straightened to face Jhest. ‘Yes?’ Ereko picked up two casks, one under each arm, and began loading the Kite. Kyle and the Lost brothers all spread out around Traveller.

‘You really do not expect to succeed, do you? It is impossible. You would only be throwing away your existence in a futile gesture. Your presumption is beyond arrogance. It is a sad waste.’

Traveller was silent for some time. Kyle, his back to them and eyes fixed on the soldiers, could only hear their exchange. He adjusted his footing — the sand was strangely loose and yielding now, unlike earlier when they had landed the Kite. Traveller finally answered, his voice so low Kyle barely caught it, ‘Do not come between me and my vengeance, Jhest. My response will be felt not just by you, but by all those who speak with you as well — and who are no doubt listening at this very moment. Think on that!’ he suddenly yelled, startling Kyle.

‘That is the question, is it not?’ Jhest answered, his voice still eerily flat, unperturbed. ‘Are we interposing ourselves when said goal is then abandoned? An interesting philosophical point, yes? Room enough, perhaps, for the risk.’

‘Finished,’ Ereko called. Kyle and Stalker, on one side, began edging backwards.

‘You risk far more than you comprehend,’ Traveller said, sounding almost regretful.

‘It would not be a risk otherwise.’

Beneath Kyle's sandals the beach shook, churning. A hissing flow of sands sank his feet to the calves. He jumped, staggering, to keep his footing. A shocked yell from Ereko snapped his head around. Traveller was gone. Kyle gaped at Ereko who stared at the empty sand.

‘No,’ the giant mouthed, appalled.

‘You fools!’ the giant roared at Jhest. ‘You have no idea who — what — you are interfering with!’

‘What may, or may not, happen far away in another land is of no interest to us,’ said the mage and he gestured. As one, weapons slid from the soldiers’ wooden and leather sheaths. Ereko sank to his knees, pressed his hands to the sands.

‘Get him on board,’ Stalker snarled, drawing his curved blade. Kyle grasped an arm, but he might as well have been pulling at a tree trunk. The giant dug at the yielding sand, yanking free of Kyle's grip.

‘You really did not think we would be so foolish as to cross swords with him, did you?’ Jhest said — his voice still as flat as when they exchanged pleasantries last night.

‘Oh, just kill the bastard, will you?’ Stalker said over his shoulder. Kyle ignored him, a hand at Ereko's arm.

‘We must go — please!’

The soldiers advanced, swinging, and the Lost cousins parried once, twice, holding their ground, ripostes gouging scatterings of the small stones to the sands.

Jhest's bland smile drew down and his smooth brow furrowed. ‘What is this?’ he murmured.

Ereko raised his head and Kyle was shocked by the rage roiling in his molten eyes. ‘You and your cabal have erred, Jhest. You should not have chosen D'riss. Any Warren but that. For you seem to have forgotten who, in truth, / am.’

‘You are Thel Akai, yes. An ancient race of this land — a useless remnant of a sad past.’

‘And who were we before we named ourselves, before any other sentient kind arose? Our forebears were the children of the earth!’

‘Kyle!’ A yell from Stalker. One of the soldiers had caught Badlands in a bearhug. The man stitched the armoured giant in thrusts of his long-knives but to no visible effect. Kyle darted forward, drawing. He swung at a shoulder and the tulwar slid through the stones with a grating screech. The arm hung half-dismembered, accompanied by a gout of black blood as thick as tar. Badlands fell to the sand and lay stunned. Kyle stared. He was so amazed that a ponderous attack from another of the armoured giants almost decapitated him. He ducked, swung two-handed at the leading leg and severed it at the knee. The soldier collapsed to lie flailing in the sands like an upturned beetle.

‘What? How is this?’ Jhest gaped his disbelief.

Kyle leapt to one of three soldiers Stalker had kept at bay, severing an arm at the elbow and crippling a leg on the backswing.

‘No!’ Jhest bellowed. ‘You are not of the Isture!’

Unhesitating, Kyle continued hacking the lumbering giants — none of whom uttered a sound or even flinched from their attack though it was obvious they were doomed. Once down, the brothers finished them off.

After the last, Kyle spun on Jhest. He was exhausted, his arms numb and tingling from the jarring impacts of swings that he'd had to give every ounce of his strength. The Jacuruku mage eyed him in turn. ‘You should not have been able to do that,’ he said flatly. ‘It is therefore the blade. Allow me to examine it.’

‘Allow me to kill him,’ Stalker said to Kyle, panting his own weariness.

‘Not yet.’ He crouched beside Ereko who still knelt on his hands and knees, his arms sunk to his elbows. ‘What should we do?’ he asked, pleading.

Ereko did not answer. His eyes were screwed shut, his teeth clenched, lips drawn back in a rictus of effort. ‘Almost,’ he hissed on a breath. ‘Almost…’

Jhest clapped his hands, barking an order. Stalker raised his sword. ‘Wait!’ Kyle yelled.

‘Why is this shit still alive?’ Stalker demanded.

‘Damn right,’ Badlands added.

‘Because we may need him.’

‘For what?’

‘To retrieve Traveller.’

Hesitating, Stalker slammed home his blade. ‘Damn the Dark Hunter!’

Jhest, however, appeared utterly unconcerned. His gaze was directed far off to the jungle-line beyond. A one-sided smile crooked up his thick lips. Kyle, a cold presentiment shivering his flesh, slowly turned following the mage's gaze.

‘Trouble,’ Coots said laconically, spitting.

Movement shivered the treeline all up and down the beachfront for as far as Kyle could see in either direction. Armoured soldiers identical to those dismembered around them stepped forth. Tens, hundreds. ‘Ereko!’

But still enmeshed in his efforts the giant did not answer.

‘You have no choice but to abandon him,’ Jhest observed blandly.

Snarling, Stalker drew and thrust in one movement. The mage did not flinch. Instead, he looked down calmly at the sword impaling his abdomen and cocked one brow. ‘You will find me a great deal more difficult to kill than my servants.’

Stalker stepped back. His blade sucked free, glistening with a clear, thick ichor. ‘Kyle…’

‘Wait!’

Ereko, grunting his effort, was withdrawing his arms from the sands. His hands came free, clasped in a shared wristlock with another's arm — Traveller's. Up and down the shore, the beach shuddered, rippling beneath everyone. Even the mage, Jhest, was rocked. ‘No!’ he bellowed. ‘Impossible!’

Beneath Ereko was revealed a gap, a wound into darkness. Sands disappeared, sucked in a growing vortex that appeared to lead to… dark nothingness. Kyle leaned forward to lend a hand.

‘No!’ Ereko gasped. ‘It will take you.’

Traveller's other hand appeared, pushed down against the surface. Gasping, Ereko straightened his legs, drawing the man free. The gaping void disappeared with an explosion like the burst of a Moranth munition. The report of its closure echoed from the tree-line. Traveller lay supine while Ereko straightened, drawing in great bellowing breaths.

‘They're still comin’,’ Coots drawled into the silence.

The swordsman pushed himself to his feet. Jhest watched, his face eager, almost avid, lustful. ‘You live,’ he breathed, awed.

Traveller rolled his shoulders, wincing. ‘My life is now my own, magus. It can no longer be taken by anyone.’

The statement seemed to transport the mage. His eyes lit up and open glee twisted his mouth into a frog-like leer. ‘Then it is true! It can be done!’

Traveller seemed merely to gesture and the mage's head flew from his shoulders to roll to the sands. ‘Not by you.’ He sheathed his sword.

‘Time to run away,’ Coots suggested.

Blinking, Kyle stared at the headless torso of the mage that remained standing, immobile. He had the unnerving impression that should he touch it a hand would leap up to grab him. Glancing away he saw the army of armoured soldiers almost within reach. ‘Run!’ They leaned their shoulders to the Kite, pushed it out into the surf. The Lost brothers pulled themselves in. Ereko, Kyle saw, glanced back and cursed, slogging away. Traveller had remained on the shore.

Cursing as well, Kyle threw himself back into the surf. When he arrived Ereko was pleading with the swordsman. ‘It is of no use!’

‘Go,’ Traveller said. ‘I will deal with all of these and their masters as well.’

‘There is no need!’ Ereko was fairly weeping.

‘They came between myself and my vengeance.’

‘Traveller!’ Kyle called sharply.

The dark-skinned swordsman pulled his gaze from the relentless advance of the soldiers. He glanced to Kyle, puzzled, ‘Yes?’

‘Your vengeance is elsewhere, isn't it?’

A hand rose from his sword grip to massage his brow. He clenched his eyes shut, pinching them.

‘Well?’

The front ranks of soldiers met and trampled the body of Jhest. They drew their weapons in a clash of iron that echoed all up and down the treeline. Traveller allowed Ereko to drag him backwards into the surf. ‘Yes. Elsewhere…’ he murmured, sounding confused.

The waves buoyed them, darkening Traveller's leathers. Ereko continued pulling the man backwards. Kyle forced himself out against the waves. Glancing back, his chest clenched at the sight of the statue-like soldiers marching on, not even hesitating, to push into the surf. ‘Don't stop!’

The cousins reached for them over the side of the Kite, Ereko slapped their hands aside. ‘Trim the sail!’

Springing up, Kyle grasped hold of a rope. Ereko had an arm around Traveller who still held his head, his eyes closed. The sail snapped, filling. The Kite pulled on Kyle. Behind them the soldiers marched on, disappearing beneath the waves rank after rank. Hanging from the side, Kyle could not help but raise his legs as tightly as he could from the water.

Impatient strikes on the tunnel wall next to his alcove brought Ho from his meal of stewed vegetables and unleavened bread. He swept aside the rag hanging across the opening, a retort on his lips, to meet no one. Peering down he found the bent double shape of Su, an aged Wickan witch whom gossip in the tunnels had as once member of the highest circles of tribal councils. ‘What is it, Su?’

She closed her dark knotted hands on a walking stick no longer than his foreleg. Her fingers were twisted by the swelling of the joints that afflicts the aged — those who cannot afford the Denul treatments or have access to them — and she cocked her head to examine him with one eye black and beady like the proverbial crow's. ‘Just thought you might want to know. They caught those two newcomers. The Malazan spies. Caught them poking around down at the excavation. I do believe Yath intends to kill them.’

Ho started, shocked. ‘Kill them? How in Togg's teats is he to manage that? Talk them to death?’

A cackle. ‘Ha! That's a good one. I don't know how. But he does intend to introduce them to our guest down below.’

Introduce them? Sweet Soliel, no. Who knows what might become of that? ‘I'll get my things. Many thanks, Su.’

‘Oh, I'm coming with you.’

At the tunnel he paused, pulled on his jerkin and sandals. ‘I'm rather in a hurry.’

The Wickan witch was tapping her way along the uneven tunnel. She waved a hand contemptuously. ‘Faugh! There's no rush. You know how these things go. Everyone has a stick to throw on to the fire. They'll be talking through the night watch.’

They came to the broad main gallery and Ho was surprised to find it nearly deserted. ‘Where is everyone?’

Su jabbed her stick to the beaten earth floor. ‘Didn't I just tell you, fool? They're down below!’

Slowly walking along, down a side gallery, Ho tucked his hands into the sash he used to hold up his old worn pantaloons, so loose after he'd lost so much weight. ‘And no one came to tell me…’

‘I came! Thank you very much!’

‘Other than you, Su.’

She leaned heavily on her stick, a bit out of breath. ‘Poor Ho. You really didn't think that you could simply stand aside, did you? Yath has been whispering against you for years! Undermining you constantly! Haven't you noticed?’

A shrug. ‘No…’

‘Bah! You blind idiot! Not much of an infighter, are you…’ She sighed. ‘Ah well, we all have our strengths and weaknesses. I suppose I'll just have to work with the material the Gods have mockingly cursed me with.’

Ho stopped short. ‘Your innuendo and vague pronouncements might impress the others, Su, but I have no time for them.’ The witch caught up with him, peered aside.

‘Oho! Some spirit! There's one segment of spine left in there after all!’

Ho refrained from commenting that she, of all people, should not talk about spines. He collected a full lamp from a nearby alcove and lit it from another, then crossed to a steeply sloped side tunnel complete with guide-rope. He led while Su huffed and puffed her way down behind. Small stones they kicked loose bounced and rattled down the slope until so distant their noise was lost in the dark. Hot, humid air wafted up the tunnel in a steady stream, licking at the lamp flame. ‘All right,’ Ho finally announced, ‘what did you mean by that comment?’

A cackle from the dark above. ‘Ha! Takes you longer than anyone to admit you're human just like the rest of us, doesn't it? Makes perfect sense! Ha!’

Ho slowed his descent. Was the hag merely casting darts into the dark? Yet every one falls just that degree of uncomfortably close… ‘I've no idea what you're talking about.’

The stick echoed from the dirt behind. ‘Oh, come, come! The ore inhibits any new castings but the old remain! I… smell… you, Ho.’

Queen, no. He froze. ‘Unkind, Su. Precious little water down here, after all.’

The crone's long face loomed into the guttering lamplight. The flame danced in her black eyes; she leered conspiratorially. ‘I smell the old ritual on you, magus. The forbidden one. How did you manage it? Everyone thinks it lost.’

And so it must remain. He pulled away, descending. ‘I've no idea what you're talking about.’

‘Very well! Be that way. It seems trust is in as short a supply down here as initiative. I don't begrudge you your caution. But you could end the farce below should you wish. Just bring forth a fraction of what sleeps within, magus. I believe it is possible despite the ore.’

Possible! Aye, it may well be possible — bringing madness with it! And I have a strong aversion to madness, witch. Very strong.

After a long gentle curve and another long descent the narrow tunnel met a natural cavern, its floor levelled by dirt that Ho knew had been excavated from elsewhere further within. Its walls rose serried like the teeth of a comb, climbing in teardrop shape to an apex lost in the dark. A knot of men and women, a selection of the Pit's inmates, filled the floor. Lamps on tall poles lit the gathering in a dim gold light. Without slowing down Su pushed her way through the crowd, elbows jabbing and stick poking. ‘Out of the way, fools!’ she hissed.

Ho, following, squeezed past, nodding to inmates he knew who glared, holding shins and sides. ‘Sorry.’

Broaching the front he found the two newcomers, Treat and Grief, surrounded by a gang of the more hale men armed with spears. Both looked healthy and, if anything, bored by the proceedings. Grief especially radiated contempt, standing with arms crossed and mouth crooked as if ready to laugh. Yath and Sessin stood nearby. Catching sight of Ho, Yath pointed his staff. ‘Here he is! Of course he has come. Their Malazan confederate. We'll deal with you next, Ho.’

‘Confederate?’

‘You have been seen on many occasions secretly meeting with these two spies. Do you deny it?’

Ho scratched his scalp, shrugging. ‘Well, we've talked, yes. I've talked with everyone here at one time or another.’

‘Brilliant,’ Su muttered under her breath. ‘What are you doing here, Yath?’ she barked. ‘Is this a court? What are the charges? Under whose authority are you empowered?’

Yath stamped his staff on the soft ground. ‘Quiet, witch!’

‘Or you will deal with me later also? When will it end? How many will you kill?’

Behind his full beard Yath smiled and Ho realized that Su had overplayed her hand. He opened his arms, gesturing broadly. ‘No one here is going to die. What do you think I am? We are all civilized people down here — a description I extend even to you, Su. I am merely planning a small demonstration. A little show for our new friends meant to impress upon them the importance of our work.’ Yath glanced about the crowd entreatingly. ‘It is, after all, what they have come for. Is it not?’

From the nods and shouts of agreement, Ho understood that, as Su said, he had been withdrawn from the community for far too long now. How could their small brotherhood of scholars and mages have come to this? Singling out ‘spies’ for punishment; arming themselves; sowing fear? Those who would speak against Yath were obviously too disgusted to even bother coming down. Like himself.

‘We don't know what might happen, Yath. It's too dangerous.’

‘Silence! You have discredited yourself, Ho. Plotting with your fellow Malazans.’

‘Malazan? I'm from Li Heng, Yath.’

‘Exactly. From the very centre of the Malazan Empire.’ Yath waved the spearmen to move the prisoners forward. Sessin stepped up between Yath and the two, his hands twitching at his sides. Ho could only stare; the ignorance the man's statement revealed was stunning. How can one possibly reason one's way across such a gap?

‘Yath,’ Ho called, following with the crowd, ‘you know about as much about Malaz and Quon Tali as I know about Seven Cities! Many on the continent consider the Malazans occupiers just as you do!’ But the tall Seven Cities priest was no longer listening.

Amid the spearmen, Grief peered back to Ho. ‘What's gonna happen?’

‘Quiet,’ warned a number of the guards. Grief ignored them.

‘They're just going to… show you something. It's nothing physically threatening.’

The man's mouth pulled down as he glanced away, considering. ‘I'm kinda curious myself.’

Su, Ho noted, was watching the two with keen interest, her sharp eyes probing. After a moment she let out a cawing laugh. She edged her head up to Ho and smiled as before, touched the side of her hooked nose, winked.

‘What is it?’ he murmured.

‘Something else I smell. Took me a while to place it. Was a long time ago at the Council of All Clans.’

‘What?’

‘You'll see. You and Yath, I think. Ha!’

Ho snorted. ‘More of your games.’

‘Ha!’

The path led away to a crack in the stone wall of the cavern. Beaten earth steps led down through the narrow gap to another cavern, this one excavated from the layered, seared sedimentary stone that carried the Otataral ore. The spearmen pushed Treat and Grief to the fore where yath and Sessin waited. Beyond them, a walkway of earth climbed the far wall that appeared made of some smooth and glassy rock.

Grief glanced around. ‘This is it?’

Yath had at his mouth a grin of hungry triumph. He urged, ‘Look more closely. Raise the lights!’

Poles were taken down, lamps affixed, and re-straightened. The light blossomed, revealing a wall of dark green stone that held hidden depths where reflections glimmered. Ho watched as, stage by stage, slow realization took hold of Grief. ‘No — it can't be…’ the fellow murmured. His gaze went to the bulge excavated at the base, the slope up to a gaping cave opening, the jutting cliff above this cut off by the roof of the cavern. Of all the forgotten Gods,‘ he said. He looked to Yath, open unguarded wonder upon his dark Napan face. ‘A jade giant… I'd read of them, of course. But this…’ He shook his head, staggered beyond words.

Ho shared the man's astonishment; no matter how often he came down to look it stupefied, and humbled, every time. The oval cave, taller than two men, now transformed itself in his mind's eye to a mouth, yawning — or screaming. The bulge below, the chin. One then scaled this lower half of the face to the upper, then face to head, head to neck, and… and that was as far as Ho's imagination could carry the exercise. It became absurd. Unimaginable. How could such a thing possibly be constructed? Would it not collapse under its own colossal weight?

But of course, they come from elsewhere. Yet would not such a Realm, no matter how alien, possess its own properties, its own set of physical laws which could not be contravened? It was too much for Ho — as it had proved for this entire battalion of professional mages, scholars and theurgical researchers who had made the mystery their primary fixation for the last three decades.

All these revelations were lost on Treat who nudged Grief. ‘What is it?’

Grief just shrugged. ‘A fucking big statue.’

‘Come, come,’ urged Yath, starting up the walkway. ‘Come for a better look.’ He waved Grief to follow. The man's eyes were narrow in open distrust, but he clearly could not turn down such an opportunity. One of us after all. Ho decided.

Grief followed the Seven Cities priest up the walkway of beaten dirt. It ended at the edge of the dark cave, the open gaping mouth. Yath gestured within and backed away. Keeping a wary eye on the priest, Grief leant forward, cast a quick glance in and flinched back, stunned. ‘A throat!’ he called down. ‘They carved a throat!’

Ho, his eyes closed, nodded, almost despairing. Yes, a throat. And none of our sounding stones have yet to reach bottom. There is not enough rope in all the island to descend the innards of this statue. And so the mystery only confounds us further: as there is a throat, what of a stomach? Intestines? Ought one continue deeper into this route of inquiry? Perhaps not. What would a giant statue of jade eat? More reasonably, it would have no need for sustenance. Why then a throat?

‘And what do you hear?’ Yath urged, a hand clutched at his own throat, his eyes feverishly bright.

Grief cocked his head, crouched, silent for a time. Everyone below stilled as well. ‘I hear a breeze… sighing, or whispering… like the wind through a forest in the fall.’

‘He's a strong one,’ Su whispered to Ho. Edging her head sideways, she glanced up. ‘What did you hear?’

‘Screams of the insane. You?’

She dropped her head. ‘Inconsolable weeping.’

Yath now spread both his hands over the carved jade face, his long fingers splayed. He pressed the side of his own face to it, his mouth moving silently.

‘What in Oponn's name is the fool doing now?’ Ho murmured in wonder.

Sensing something, Grief peered up. ‘What?’ He shifted to the lip of the walkway, glanced down to them uncertainly. ‘I am amazed, I'll grant you that. And if we had-’

‘Wait,’ Yath interrupted, moving away from the opening.

Something drew Grief around. Ho felt it as well, in the stirring of his own thin hair, the pressing of the cloth of his shirt against his chest. A hiss of alarm escaped Su's lips.

Roaring burst from the mouth in a rushing torrent. Grief ducked but an explosion of air erupted from the mouth like the giant's own exhalation of breath. It plucked the man from the landing and threw him flying across the cavern. Everyone clapped hands to their heads as their ears popped. Several fell, screaming excruciating pain. A storm of dust roiled about the cavern blocking all vision, while above them Yath laughed and howled like a madman possessed.

As the dust settled Ho found the knot of inmates who had gathered around the fallen Malazan. He pushed his way through; Treat was there, kneeling at the side of his friend, who lay motionless.

‘Bring the next one!’ Yath ordered from the walkway, but no one listened. Everyone was shouting at him at once: when did he discover this capability? Why hadn't he shared his knowledge? How had he come to it? Was it conscious, or merely reflexive? What of the qualities of the air?

Ho stood silent, looking down at the dead man. The fellow had been difficult, brusque, highhanded even, but he had liked him. And none of them had even suspected what Yath had intended. That is, none except Su.

Treat raised a hand and slapped it hard across his dead friend's face. Inmates took hold of the man to pull him away, but Grief coughed, wincing, and covered his face with both hands. He groaned. ‘Hood take me, that hurt.’

Ho gaped — this was impossible! The man flew right over their heads! How… without magic… how? Treat pulled Grief upright and he stood swaying, brushed the dust from his leathers. He cupped his neck in both hands, twisted his head side to side. ‘Well, now that that's out of the way maybe we can get out of here.’

‘What!’ came a bellow of consternation from above.

The inmates flinched away leaving a broad empty circle around the three Malazans. Su burst out laughing her contempt. ‘Difficult to kill, these two.’ She cocked her head, addressed Grief. ‘Come recruiting?’

Grief examined her up and down. ‘Wickan? Definitely.’

Yath arrived, his eyes wild. ‘What is this? Still alive?’ He gestured to the spearmen. ‘What are you waiting for? They are obviously a threat! Kill them now.’

Treat snatched a spear from the nearest, levelled it against Yath. Sessin was suddenly there to slap his hands on the haft just short of the knapped stone point. The two men yanked back and forth, spear between them, sandalled feet shifting in the dry dirt. ‘Stop this now!’ Ho shouted. Yath waved everyone back. The tug of war continued, Sessin grinning, his back hunched, Treat's mouth tight, eyes gauging. They strained, motionless, as if engaged in a pantomime of effort, until with an explosive report the spear burst in half between them. Each staggered backwards.

Yath raised a hand, shouted something in the Seven Cities dialect. He addressed Grief: ‘Who are you?’

‘An ally.’ Grief raised his voice to address everyone. ‘We've come to bring you all back to Quon to fight the Empire. What say you? Revenge against those who imprisoned you?’

Yath stared, eyes bulging, then he laughed his madman's laugh. ‘You idiot! What use can any of these old men and women be? What of the Otataral?’

Grief shrugged. ‘The Pit has long since been mined out. It's just a prison now. The little ore that remains that you have been digging out contains the barest trace element. And that raw, unrefined. It can be cleaned off.’

‘It's in the food!’ someone called out.

Again the shrug. ‘A change of diet. It will pass.’

Yath smoothed his beard, thinking. ‘If its presence is as mild as you say — then why can none of us draw upon the Warrens? Why is all theurgy closed to us?’

‘Proximity. It's our location here on the island. Once we get away it will come back.’

‘But we've been breathing it in!’ a voice objected.

‘There are many alchemical treatments, expectorants.’

‘That's true,’ someone said. ‘D'bayang powder inhaled with sufficient force can-’

‘Will you shut up!’ Yath snarled. He clasped his staff in both hands across his middle. ‘Believe me, Mezla, I want revenge upon your Empire more than you can possibly imagine. But we are down here in this — prison — as you name it and I do not see how you propose to get us out!’

Grief was rubbing and rolling a shoulder, grimacing. ‘Fair enough.’ He glanced around. ‘What time of day is it above?’

‘Before dawn,’ someone answered, nods all around.

‘OK. Let's go up to the mine-head and we'll have you lot out by dawn.’

Yath sneered. ‘Lies! Once there you'll call for the guards to rescue you.’

‘So stick us with your spears.’

Yath subsided, glowering, his mouth working. Su laughed her scorn. The two headed to the tunnel; everyone moved from their path.

Ho brought up the rear, waiting for Su. Once the rest of the inmates were sufficiently ahead he asked, ‘So, who are they then?’

The witch cast him a creamy self-satisfied look. ‘Have you not guessed by now?’

‘No. So, they're not Malazan.’

Her stick lashed him across his shin and he danced away, wincing. ‘Please! Of course they are Malazan. But then there are Malazans and then there are Malazans.’

‘I don't understand.’

‘Obviously.’

They walked along in silence for a time. ‘So they're with this secessionist movement we've been hearing of.’

Su waved him away like an annoying insect and headed off. At the long ascending tunnel he waited while she caught her breath. ‘I am old,’ she said suddenly. ‘Strange how those of us who have benefited from manipulating the Warrens, or by ritual, to linger on — continue to do so here in the mines?’ Ho did not answer; what was there to say? That it was a mystery? For a time I feared I would spend eternity here. Or until the wind eroded the island down around me and I could simply walk away. Do you have no such fears?’

Ho shook his head. ‘I've never thought about it.’

She studied him keenly once more, frowning. ‘You have no imagination, Ho. In fact, you lack many things that would make a man whole.’

‘Is that an insult?’

‘A temper, for example. I don't recall ever seeing you angry. Where did your temper walk off to, magus? Your ambition? Your drive?’

‘That subject's closed, Su,’ he growled and headed off.

He waited for her where the sloping tunnel met the side gallery. From here they walked along side by side, though quiet. They met no one. Coming to the main gallery they found this deserted as well. Ho wondered if Grief and Treat had already whisked everyone off — perhaps they'd dug a tunnel climbing all the way to the surface, with toothpicks.

The murmur of many voices, however, reached them from the round mine-head. A milling mass of what appeared to be the entire Pit's population, all talking, mixing, exchanging opinions and rumours. Ho caught the eye of the nearest. ‘What's going on?’

‘Two of the newcomers climbed the wall.’

Ho's brows rose. ‘Really.’ Just as they'd said. ‘But everyone's tried that.’

A helpless wave. ‘Apparently one had two short sticks that he jabbed into the wall, climbing like that, one then the other. The second followed along his path, punching and kicking the holes deeper.’ Ho thought of the short batons he'd seen Grief whittling. So not weapons after all.

‘Since then?’ Su asked.

‘Nothing. Silence. Yath says they've run off.’

‘He would say that.’ There was something pathological about that man's hatred. If they did get out he'd have to keep an eye on him. Who knew what he might try; he'd already attempted murder.

Grating and ratcheting above announced the hanging platform moving. All talking stopped. A number of inmates fled the mine-head, perhaps afraid it was the guards on their way to bash heads. Ho thought it possible, but unlikely. Why come down here to dirty their hands when they could just withhold food?

As the platform descended it became obvious that it held only one occupant, Grief. After it touched down, rather clumsily, he unclipped a safety rope and waved an invitation. ‘Five at a time, please.’

No one spoke, or moved. Faces turned to examine one another in wonderment as if searching for some clue as to what next to do. Grief frowned his disappointment. ‘Well, aren't you all an eager lot. Don't trample anyone.’

Taking a steadying breath, Ho stepped forward. ‘What happened up there, Grief?’

‘C'mon up. Take a look around.’

‘I'll come,’ said a female inmate, stepping up. Ho recognized her as another of the latest newcomers who had arrived with Grief and Treat. Three other inmates joined them. On the platform, Ho asked the woman, ‘You know each other?’

She looked Grief up and down. ‘No.’

Grief pulled a cord strung among the fat hemp rope suspending the platform and shortly afterwards the mechanism jerked upwards, climbing. Ho saw that two mismatched swords now hung at the man's belt.

The grey, yellow and gold sedimentary layers of the excavated rock edged past as they rose. The rope creaked alarmingly. Ho glanced down, thinking, how many decades kicking through that dust? Six? Seven? Had he simply lost count? Somehow the future now alarmed him. What would he do? Where would he go? He'd gone too long now without even having to consider such questions. He eyed Grief; not a mark on the man and how many guards? Twenty-five, or thereabouts. How had the two accomplished this? All without any Warren magics either. The achievement irked Ho in a way — he felt as if he'd been rendered obsolete. What need for mages if they can manage this?

The platform bumped to a stop, swinging. With a screeching of wood on wood, the cantilevered solid tree-trunk supporting them began turning aside, carrying the platform over to rest on the dirt beside the opening. Grief unhitched the safety rope. Ho blinked in the unaccustomed dawn light, shaded his eyes. The Pit's infrastructure had not changed much since he'd last seen it. A long clapboard house looking like a guard barracks stood where, when Ho had been processed, had only been a tent. A lean-to blacksmith's shop, a corral for donkeys, a dusty heap of open piled barrels and a squat officer's house completed the penal station. Broken barrels and rusted pieces of metal littered the landscape. Beyond, dunes tufted by brittle grasses led off in all directions. Curtains of wind-blown dust obscured the distances. Treat was busy watering the four donkeys hooked to the spokes of the broad, circular lifting mechanism. ‘Where is everyone?’

Grief raised his chin to the barracks. ‘Inside.’

Ho wet his lips, forced himself to ask, ‘Alive?’

‘See for yourself.’

Ho decided that, yes, he would. But he could not bring himself to step from the platform. The others had walked off immediately. He looked down, edged a sandalled foot forward, brought it down on the surface, shifted some weight on to it, bounced slightly up and down as if testing its soundness. Only after this could he bring his other foot from the wood slats.

Grief watched all this without comment, his lips pursed. ‘I'm sorry,’ he finally said as they walked along to the barracks.

‘For what?’

‘I hadn't thought about just how hard this might be for some of you.’

‘For most of us, I think you'll find.’ Then Ho stopped. Something had been bothering him about the installation. He glanced around again, thinking. ‘Where are the wagons? Where's the track to the coast to deliver the ore?’ He pointed to the haphazardly piled barrels. ‘Those are empty. Where are all the full ones?’

Grief was looking away, squinting into the distance, the wrinkles around his eyes almost hiding them. ‘I'm sorry.’

‘Sorry? You're sorry? What do you mean, Hood take you!’

‘He means they've been dumping them,’ said the woman. Ho spun; she'd followed along.

‘Dumping them? They dump them!’ Ho raised his dirty, broken-nailed hands to Grief. ‘Seventy years of scraping and gouging — halved rations when we missed our quotas — and they… they just…’ Ho lurched off for the barracks.

Grief hurried to catch up. ‘Not at first, I understand. Only the last few, ah, decades. It was all played out, not worth refining. I'm sorry, Ho.’

The door wouldn't open. When Ho turned his shoulder to it as if he would batter it down, Grief stepped in front, pulled out two wedges. Ho pushed it open. He found the guards on the floor, lying down and sitting. Seeing Ho, those who could, stood. Seeing Grief they flinched. Almost all carried bloody head wounds, bruising blossoming deep black and purple. Ho thought again of the short batons Grief had whittled. So, yes, weapons after all. ‘Who is the senior officer?’

A short, broad fellow with a blond beard stood forward. He straightened his linen shirt. ‘I am Captain Galith. Who in the Abyss are you?’

‘Am I to understand that you have been dumping the ore that we have been sending up?’

A smile of understanding crept up the man's mouth. ‘Yes, it was policy when I arrived five years ago. We tested each delivery and dumped anything below refinable traces.’

Ho ran a hand through his short hair and found drops of sweat running down his temples. ‘And tell me when… how often were these standards met?’

The smile turned down into mocking defiance. ‘Never.’

Ho grasped a handful of the man's shirt. ‘Come with me.’ He walked the man out towards the gaping ledge.

Grief followed along. ‘What are you going to do, Ho? Toss him in? I can't allow that.’

‘You can't-’ Ho stopped, faced the short, muscular Napan. ‘Who do you think you are? You hang around for a few months and you know everything? This goes way back.’

‘These men surrendered to me. Not you. They're under my protection.’

Facing the Malazan officer, Ho took a deep steadying breath then forced his fist open; Captain Galith pulled his bunched shirt free. ‘You didn't have the guts anyway,’ he grated.

Ho swung a backhanded slap that caught the man across the side of his head, sending him off his feet to lie motionless. Grief leapt backwards clasping the grip of one sword. ‘How did you do that!’ he demanded, eyes slitted.

‘How did you have Treat defeat some twenty guards?’

Grief straightened, inclining his head in acknowledgement of the point. He smiled in a wicked humour. ‘We surprised them.’

‘If you two have finished your pissing contest then perhaps we can discuss how we're getting off this island?’

Grief and Ho turned to the dumpy, grey-haired female inmate. ‘Listen,’ Ho said impatiently, ‘what in the Lady's Favour is your name anyway?’

She crossed her thick arms across her wide chest. ‘Devaleth Omptol.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘It wouldn't mean anything to you.’

Ho rolled his eyes. ‘Gods, woman, there are over forty scholars, historians and archivists here.’

‘Mare. Ship's mage, out of Black City.’

‘You're from Fist, then.’

The woman's brows rose, surprised. ‘Yes. That name's not in common usage.’

Grief took the feet of the unconscious captain, began dragging him back to the barracks. ‘Ship's mage, hey? That'll be damned useful.’

‘If either of you think I'm going to summon my Warren with all this Otataral around you're the insane ones.’ She shouted after Grief, ‘How are we getting off this blasted island anyway?’

‘Treat's going to get the rest of our, ah, team, tonight. We have a ship.’

Devaleth snorted something that sounded like ‘Fine!’ and walked away.

‘Where are you going?’ Ho called after her.

She pointed to the dunes. ‘There's an ocean out there. I'm going to wash my clothes, scrub my skin with sand, scrub my hair, and then I'm going to do it all over again!’

Ho plucked at his threadbare, dirty jerkin, lifted a foot in its worn leather sandal. All impregnated with the ore. He looked to the barracks, his eyes widening, and he ran after Grief. ‘Wait a moment!’

Ghelel wanted to curry her own mount. It was an eager mare she'd grown quite fond of, but Molk had warned against it saying that the regulars took care of such things and that she, as a Prevost, ought not to lower herself. She personally saw nothing odd in an officer caring for his or her own horse; Molk, however, was insistent. And so she found herself facing another empty evening of waiting — waiting for intelligence from Li Heng on any development in the siege, which appeared to have settled into a sullen stalemate despite the early victories. Or waiting for intelligence from the east on the progress of the Empress's armada. Or of a new development: the coastal raids of a significant pirate navy that had coalesced to take advantage of the chaos, pillaging Unta and now Cawn. Just two days ago word reached them that these raiders had become so emboldened they were actually marching inland. The betting around the tents was on how far they dared go. Raids on Telo or Ipras were the odds-on favourites.

She therefore faced the same choice that wasn't really a choice this last week since General Urko's army had marched through: lie staring at the roof of her tent, sitting at the main campfire or visiting the command tent. Spending another useless evening at the campfire meant watching the Falaran cavalrymen led by their fat captain, Tonley, share barbs and boasts with the Seti while swilling enormous quantities of whatever alcohol his men had most recently ‘liberated’. Most often beer, though the occasional cask of distilled spirits appeared, and even skins of mead. Visiting the command tent meant, well, getting even closer to Commander Ullen. Something she found frighteningly easy to do.

What would the Marquis think? Or Choss? Would they approve? Ghelel pulled her gloves tighter against the chill night air, glanced to the east where the land fell away into the Idryn's flat, rich floodplain. Somewhere there just days away marched a ragged horde of pirate raiders. Idly, she wondered why Ullen didn't simply uproot his rearguard battalion together with the Falaran lancers, the Seti scouts and the Marshland cavalry and wipe the brigands from the face of the continent. Well, damn them anyway; they maintained she was the heir of the Talian Hegemony, the Tali of Quon Tali. Therefore she outranked the Marquis and Choss wasn't here. She headed to the command tent.

Reaching a main alley in the encampment, she saw ahead the torches and the posted guards, Malazan regulars of the Falaran brigades, and she slowed. If the League should win the coming confrontation and she were installed as the Tali of Quon Tali… how would her behaviour here now come to reflect upon her in the eyes of these regulars everywhere? The thought of their mockery burned upon her face.

The eyes of those guards had her now, glittering in the dark beneath their helmets, and she forced herself to keep moving. Well, damn them too; right now she was nothing more than a lowly cavalry captain, a Prevost. Lowly, and lonely.

As she approached, the guards inclined their heads in acknowledgement and one pushed aside the flap. Ghelel gave as courteous a response as she dared and ducked within. It was warm inside. The golden light of lanterns lit a cluttered table, a scattering of chairs and a low table littered with fruit, meats and carafes of wine. Commander Ullen straightened from pouring wine at the table and bowed. The Marquis Jhardin straightened and bowed as well, though more slowly and perfunctorily — a mere observance of aristocratic courtesy. For her part, Ghelel saluted two superior officers.

Ullen waved the salute aside. ‘Please, Alil. How many times must I ask?’

‘Every time, sir.’ Ghelel drew off her gloves and cloak, draped them over a chair.

‘We were just talking of this pirate army,’ the Marquis said, easing himself back down. ‘They say that at Unta they must have tried to rob the Imperial Arsenal. Blew up half the city and themselves for their trouble.’

‘There's enough of them left,’ Ullen growled into his cup, and sat, stretching out his legs. Ghelel liked the way he did that; and liked the way he watched her from the corner of his pale-blue eyes, almost shyly. She sat at the table, picked up a carafe. ‘I quite understand why we aren't swatting them. I mean, since they number so many…’

A smile from Ullen. One that held no mockery at all, only a bright amusement shared by his eyes. ‘How gigantic have they become now?’

‘I overheard one trooper swear them to be at least thirty thousand.’

The Marquis whistled. ‘Prodigious multiplying indeed. Forget them, Alil. They're just a mob of looters. We don't care about the vultures. We've come for a lioness.’

But Ullen frowned, the lines of care around his mouth deepening. Ghelel caught his eye, arched a questioning brow. ‘We aren't ignoring them, Alil. I have Seti scouts watching from a distance. There have been some rather disturbing, admittedly contrary, rumours about them. But they are — how shall I put it? Difficult to credit. And our mage with Urko, Bala, has sent the message that she is troubled. She suspects powerful mages shielding themselves from her questings.’

‘There must be one or two forceful personalities keeping the horde together,’ the Marquis opined. ‘We'll spot them and eliminate them and the mob will evaporate. They should not have come inland — they are obviously overconfident.’

‘Was Kellanved overconfident?’ Ullen mused aloud, eyeing his glass, ‘when he marched inland with his pirate raiders from Malaz? And Heng was one of his first conquests.’

Neither the Marquis nor Ghelel spoke for a time. The Marquis inclined his head to concede the point. ‘I suppose you could say he was the exception that proves the rule.’

Ghelel studied her wine glass. ‘Speaking of the Throne… why don't we go to meet her? Excuse me for asking, but as new to the command — could we not stop her in the narrow plains west of Cawn?’

Another smile from Ullen. ‘True.’ He stretched, ran both hands through his short blond hair. ‘But then she would simply withdraw to Cawn and wait for us. That we cannot have. As an advocate would say, the burden of proof lies with us. We have to beat her; she merely has to stand back and wait for our support to erode.’

For all Ghelel knew Ullen was patronizing her just as Choss and Amaron had, only his manners were smoother. But there was nothing in it that felt that way to her; they were merely talking through the options together and he was giving the benefit of his greater experience. She wondered again just how much the man knew of her, how much Urko or the Marquis had told him. It could mean a great deal to know that. ‘Why should our support be eroding — not hers?’

‘Because if we can't take Heng, how can we take anything?’

Ghelel pursed her lips at the truth of that sobering evaluation. Indeed. Why should any of the League's supporters stay with them if they should fail here? They would face wholesale desertions. A return to independent kingdoms with the old war of all against all not far behind. Continent-wide strife, the inevitable dissolution into chaos with starvation, brutality and petty warlordism. Something Ghelel would do anything to avoid.

The Marquis drained his glass and stood. ‘If the Empress commits to the field then Heng can hang itself.’ He saluted Ullen: ‘Commander.’ Bowed to Ghelel: ‘Prevost. I will leave you two to sort out the rest of the problems facing our army and will expect appropriate orders tomorrow. Good night.’

Laughing, Ullen waved the Marquis out. When the heavy canvas flap closed Ghelel faced Ullen alone. For a time neither spoke. Ghelel poured herself another glass of wine. ‘Did the Marquis tell you I am new to his command?’

Ullen nodded. ‘Yes… Your family goes back quite far in Tali?’

Ghelel felt her face reddening and damned the reaction. To cover it, she shrugged. ‘Rich in ancestry, poor in cash. Yourself?’

An edge of his mouth crooked up. ‘Like you. Rich in experience, poor in cash. I have served in the military all my life.’

‘Then you have been overseas? Genabackis? Seven Cities?’

He shook his head. ‘No.’ A mischievous smile. ‘Unless Falar counts?’

She answered his smile. ‘Oh, I suppose we could allow that — just for this one night.’

Ullen raised his glass. ‘My thanks. Now I possess a more soldierly exotic flair.’

But Ghelel was troubled. The man looked to be in his late forties, yet had never served overseas. Where had he been all these years?

Had he seen only garrison duty for the last twenty years? Yet Urko seemed to have every confidence in him; could he be nothing more than a competent manager, more clerk than soldier?

A knock at the front post. ‘Yes?’ Ullen called.

A guard edged aside the thick canvas. ‘Seti scout here, sir, with word from the raiders.’

Sighing, Ullen pushed himself to his feet, crossed to the work table. ‘Send him in, sergeant.’

A slight wisp of a figure slipped through the opening and Ghelel stared. A child! What had they come to, sending children into the field? The girl-child's deerskin trousers were torn and muddied, her moccasins worn through. A sleeveless leather jerkin was all else she wore despite the bitter cold night. Her long hair hung in a tangle of sweat, knots and lengths of leather and beads, and a sheathed long-knife hung from a rope tied round one shoulder. Despite her bedraggled and hard-travelled appearance the girl-child surveyed the contents of the tent with the scorn of a princess.

‘Ullar yesh ‘ap?’ she addressed Ullen in obvious disapproval.

‘Aya,’ he replied easily in Seti. ‘Tahian heshar?’

‘Nyeh.’

Ullen looked to Ghelel. ‘Excuse us, please.’ To the girl-child, ‘Bergar, sho.’

The child launched into a long report in Seti. When she gestured Ghelel was wrenched to see that her fingertips were blue with cold, as were her lips. Gods! This child was half-frozen with exposure from riding through the night. The Seti youth tossed a fold of torn cloth on to Ullen's table and turned to go. Ghelel intervened, ‘Wait! Please!’

A hand went to the grip of the long-knife and the girl glared an accusation at Ullen. ‘What is it?’ he asked of Ghelel.

‘Ask her to stay. To warm herself — anything.’

He spoke to her and the tone of the girl's reply told Ghelel all she needed to know. She offered her own cloak. ‘She can take this.’

Ullen translated; the girl responded, shooting Ghelel a glare of ferocious pride that would be humorous if it were not so obviously heartfelt. Ullen translated, ‘She thanks you but says she would only be burdened by such a possession.’

Ghelel squeezed the thick rich cloth in both hands. ‘Then will she not stay?’

‘No. I'm sure she means to return immediately to her scouting party.’

‘She'll die of exposure! Can't you order her to stay until tomorrow?’

Ullen passed a hand through his hair, sighing. ‘Alil… her party probably consists of her own brothers, sisters and cousins.’

Ghelel leant her weight into the chair, let the cloak fall over its back. ‘I… see. Tell her… tell her, I'm sorry.’

In answer the girl reached out a hand to cover Ghelel's who hissed, shocked, so cold was the girl's grip. She left then, and Ghelel could not raise her head to watch her go.

After some moments Ullen cleared his throat and came around the table. He squeezed Ghelel's arm. ‘Your concern does you credit, Alil. But it is misplaced. She was born to this. Grew up with it, and is used to it.’

Ghelel flinched away, shocked by the man's words. ‘So they are less than us, are they? Coarser? They feel less than we do?’

Ullen's face froze. He dropped his arm. ‘That is not what I meant at all.’ He returned to the table, picked up the scrap of cloth the messenger had left. ‘Ehra — that's her name by the way. Named for a tiny blue flower you can find everywhere here — she reports that her party captured a runaway from the raiders. And since they're under my orders to find out what they can about these pirates, they questioned him. The fellow claimed the sigil they wear is important.’ Ullen waved the fold of cloth. ‘He sketched it here.’

Sitting heavily, Ghelel poured herself another glass of wine. ‘Commander… I'm sorry. I forgot myself. No doubt you meant that she was used to such privation; that she's grown up riding in such weather all year round. You are no doubt right. I'm sorry. It's just that we Talians border on the Seti. There is a long history of antagonism and I have grown up hearing much that is… how shall I put it — bigoted — against them. You have my apology, commander.’ Hearing nothing from him, she glanced up, ‘Commander?’

Ullen had backed away from the table. His gaze was fixed upon the opened cloth. He appeared to have had a vision of Hood himself; his face was sickly pale from shock. His hands had fisted white. Ghelel threw aside her glass and came to his side. ‘What is it?’

‘Gods no… it's true,’ he breathed.

She picked up the scrap. Sketched in charcoal and ochre dust was a long rust smear bearing a weaving undulating line. ‘What is it?’

Ullen swallowed, wiped a hand across his glistening brow. ‘Something I prayed I'd never see again. Sergeant!’

The guard stepped in. ‘Sir?’

‘Summon the Marquis and Captain Tonley, quickly.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Ullen went to the low table and poured himself a glass of wine.

‘What is it?’ Ghelel asked again.

Downing the drink, Ullen said, ‘It means nothing to you? A red field, a long sinuous beast — a dragon perhaps?’

‘No.’

He spoke into the depths of his empty glass. ‘How quickly so much is forgotten.’

The Marquis threw open the tent flap; he wore only an open felt shirt, trousers and boots. ‘What news?’

Ullen nodded to Ghelel, who held out the torn strip. The Marquis took it. ‘Surely you are versed in liveries, Marquis. What do you make of that insignia?’

‘A red field, a long beast or perhaps a weapon — it could be any number of things.’

‘And if the thing were a dragon?’

‘What would that mean?’ Ghelel asked.

‘Then-’ Snorting, he tossed the cloth to the table. ‘Imposture, surely. An empty boast.’

‘I think not. This confirms rumours out of Unta.’

‘What rumours?’ Ghelel asked more loudly.

‘You cannot be certain though,’ said the Marquis.

‘No, but certain enough to treat them more warily. I ask that you return to your command south of the Idryn.’

‘Agreed.’

Captain Tonley pushed aside the canvas flap. Wincing, he shielded his eyes from the bright lantern light. ‘What is it — ah, sirs?’

‘Yes!’ Ghelel added. ‘What is it, damn it to Hood!’

‘The sigil of the Crimson Guard,’ Ullen said.

Ghelel stared, her brows rising. The Crimson Guard? That hoary old-woman's bogeyman? Mere mercenaries? Was this what so unnerved Ullen? Only her tact stopped her from laughing out loud.

Captain Tonley scratched his auburn beard. His face betrayed an utter lack of recognition. ‘The Crimson Guard, you say? That so, sir? Amazing.’ He took a great deep breath, noticed the carafes of wine and scooped one up. ‘Orders, sir?’

Ullen either didn't notice or was inured to the man's manners — or lack thereof. ‘Send your best rider to Urko at Command.’ He scratched a message on a scrap of vellum, handed it to Tonley. ‘The invading army confirmed as Crimson Guard.’

‘Anyone could use that symbol,’ Ghelel objected.

‘No one would dare,’ the Marquis answered. ‘Come, Prevost. We leave immediately.’ He bowed to Ullen. Ghelel did not move. She watched Ullen who bowed his farewell to her while, she thought, keeping his face carefully empty of emotion. The Marquis took her arm. ‘Prevost.’

Outside, the Marquis said low, ‘Change quickly, we ride within the hour,’ and he was off to his tent. Feeling somehow drunk, stunned by these quick developments, Ghelel walked slowly away. Inside her tent, she found Molk lying across the entrance, an arm over his face. ‘Get up. We're going.’

He moved his arm to blink up at her. ‘Going? So soon?’

‘Yes. And hurry — you have to pack.’ She began changing to dress in her armour.

He sat up quickly. ‘What's the news? Is it her?’

Pulling off her shirt, Ghelel paused. Her? Oh, yes, her, ‘No. Not her.’

‘Who then?’

A laugh from Ghelel. ‘Yes, who indeed.’ She shook out a silk undershirt, pulled it on. ‘Apparently our glorious commander believes these raiders are the Crimson Guard returned. Can you believe that?’ She straightened the front lacings, looked up. ‘Molk?’

She turned full circle, peering around the tent. The fool had disappeared. Well, damn the man. Now who was going to pack?

It was not until the column started off south for the Pilgrim road that Ghelel had an opportunity to speak in relative privacy with the Marquis. Side by side just behind the column's van riding with lit torches, she leaned to him. ‘So you believe him then? That this is the Guard, returned?’

Helmet under an arm and reins in one hand, the Marquis turned to examine her. His eyes were dark pits in the night and his black curly hair blew unbounded about his face. ‘I believe Ullen,’ he called back.

‘Why should Ullen be so certain? And why so fearful? They are only mercenaries. Famous, yes. But just a band of hireswords.’

The Marquis's mouth straightened in a cold humourless smile. ‘Have you not heard the stories then?’

Ghelel thought of the bedtime tales her nanny had told of the Guard and how they opposed the emperor. Romantic heroics of great champions and fanciful unbelievable deeds. ‘I've heard them. Troubadours’ tales and romances. But that was all long ago. Why should Ullen fear them now?’

It was now the Marquis's turn to look confused. ‘Do you not know who he is, was?’

Ghelel stared, taken aback, then cut off a snarled reply. She pulled her mount closer to the Marquis. ‘How in the Queen's own Mysteries am I to know anything if no one tells me anything!’

The Marquis raised a hand in surrender. ‘Apologies. I thought you knew. The man served on Dassem's staff! Was Choss's adjutant for a time. That's why I believe him.’

Astonished, Ghelel relaxed and fell behind the Marquis. Ranks of her cavalry thundered past while her mount slowed. Served with Dassem! Served all his life yet had never left the continent — the man had fought during the wars of consolidation! Damn the fellow! She was half tempted to turn her horse around and confront him. Why didn't he just out and say so? Yet why should he have to? Why shouldn't she have faith in him regardless? Urko chose him for a reason, didn't he? Didn't she accept his competence unquestioned?

She slowed her mount to a canter, gazed back to the encampment, a distant glow in the clear starry night. Her and her mount's breath steamed in the frigid air and Ghelel thought of a bony Seti girl riding east dressed far more poorly than she. Ahead, four of her cavalry had held back from the column, awaiting her. Idly, she wondered where Molk had got himself off to and whether she'd ever see the man again. The stars blazed down with a hard cold light from horizon to horizon and suddenly new ones appeared in the east. Ghelel squinted, surprised. No, not stars, yellow flickering lights, torches. A handful appearing and disappearing in the dark above the horizon where…

Gods turn from her! Ghelel raked her spurs, leaning high and forward. Ride! ‘Haugh!’ She dashed between her startled guard, racing for the column. When she reached the van, the Marquis took one glance at her face and raised an arm in the halt.

His mount rearing, he called, ‘What is it?’

Also struggling to control her own mount, she pointed, ‘Look! Lights! It must be them. They're taking the ruins of the monastery.’

The Marquis studied the east. His mouth twisted his disgust. ‘Trake take us, we'll never lever them out of there! It's a rat warren.’ Then he stared at Ghelel as if seeing her for the first time, his eyes widened, and he yanked on his helmet, securing the strap one-handed. ‘Outriders! Form up! We ride for the bridge!’

A guard of the cavalry formed around Ghelel and the Marquis. Scouts stormed ahead. The Marquis signalled the advance. The column gathered speed to a gallop into absolute darkness.

They met no one, though fires burned fitfully beside the road where bands of travellers lay sleeping. Down toward the Idryn dogs rushed out of the dark, snarling at the mounts. Fires burned before the black openings of caves. Ghelel's face was numb with cold, her hands frozen claws around her reins.

Before they reached the bridge their scouts emerged from the dark, barring their way. ‘Armed men at the bridge.’

‘Hood bugger them!’ the Marquis exploded. Then he inclined his head to Ghelel. ‘Pardon me, Prevost.’ To the scouts, ‘Can you identify them?’

‘No, sir. No colours.’

‘It's them,’ Ghelel said, feeling oddly like laughing. Strange how she was the one to deny even the Guard's existence yet now she felt completely certain of their presence ahead. She thought of those stories from her youth; of the romantic yet tragic figure of Duke, then Prince, K'azz. ‘We should go to meet them. Parley.’

‘Parley?’ the Marquis answered, annoyed. ‘Whatever for?’

‘Passage south, of course.’

‘Passage? Why in Fanderay's name should they grant us passage?’

‘Why ever should they not, Marquis?’

He studied her for a time, his head cocked to one side. Then he raised a hand in consent. ‘Very well, Prevost. Let us go down and speak with these mercenaries. I admit to no small curiosity myself.’

They took a guard of four men. With torches held high they advanced slowly on the bridge. Four figures, that they could see, awaited them, blocking the way across. Torches on poles stood to either side where the flagged way met the broad granite blocks of the bridge. The figures themselves stood far back from the light.

‘Far enough!’ a man called in Talian as the Marquis and Ghelel entered the flickering light.

‘Who are you? And how dare you block this way?’ the Marquis called. ‘This is a pilgrim road, open to all.’

‘It's still open to pilgrims,’ the man responded. ‘Well armed for devotions, you are.’

‘Come forward,’ Ghelel invited. ‘Let's discuss passage.’

A tall man and a very short and broad woman came forward into the light. Both wore helmets wrapped in dark cloth that wove around under their chins and surcoats of a thick dark cloth over blackened mail shirts that hung to their knees. Gauntlets covered their hands. The man bore a shield at his back, a longsword at his side, while the hilts of two curved blades jutted forward from the woman's wide sash.

‘Identify yourselves,’ the Marquis demanded again. ‘Are you part of a legitimate army or mere brigands?’

‘Questionable distinction,’ the woman said, a dark brow arching.

‘It's just a matter of scale, really,’ the man said to her.

‘Or success,’ Ghelel added.

Both looked up, surprised. ‘Hello,’ the man said. ‘I am Cole, this is Lean.’

‘Prevost Alil, the Marquis Jhardin of the Marchland Sentries.’ While they had been talking, Ghelel's sight had been adjusting to the light and she could now see that the cloth wrapped around the helmets and the jupons as well was of a very dark, almost black, crimson.

‘Prevost, Marquis, greetings,’ the man said. ‘That you have chosen not to charge down here with your cavalry to overrun us means that you already know who we are. I congratulate you on your intelligence services. We've tried to keep as low a profile as possible.’

‘Obliterating half of Unta?’ the Marquis snapped. ‘Burning Cawn to the ground?’

The man smiled, baring sharp teeth. ‘As I said — a low profile.’

Ghelel leaned forward, crossing her arms on the tall pommel of her saddle. ‘Cole, we formally request passage south for our detachment.’

Waving an invitation, Cole bowed. ‘Granted, Prevost. All, ah, combatants wishing to withdraw south are invited to do so. But none may come north. Spread the word if you would, please.’

The Marquis glared his disgust. ‘Expecting a flow of desertions, are you?’

‘In the near future, to be brief… yes.’

With a curt nod the Marquis sent a man back with word to advance. ‘I suppose we should thank you for our passage.’

Cole and Lean stood aside. ‘Just doing our job.’

Hurl found Storo on the parapet of the Inner Round wall, chin on hands, staring north. Talian soldiers in the cover of a tower in the lower Outer Round wall were taking pot-shots at him and the nearby soldiers manning the wall. ‘Collect those bolts,’ Storo called to the men as Hurl came to his side and ducked behind a merlon.

‘What are you doing up here?’ Hurl demanded.

‘Being useful.’

‘You'll be pincushioned!’

Occupational hazard of straw targets.’

‘You're in a mood.’

Storo lay his chin on his hands once more. ‘How're you feeling now?’

Hurl couldn't help rubbing her side. ‘Better. Thanks.’

‘Thank Liss. Where is she now anyway?’

‘Watching the east. Won't turn from it for an instant.’

Storo frowned, tilting his head. A crossbow bolt ricocheted from the merlon next to him, spraying stone dust. ‘We know she's coming. Just a matter of time.’

‘No, not that. She says something else is out there, a blank spot where there shouldn't be.’

‘A blank spot, hunh? We have bigger worries.’ He swept his arm to encompass the broad arc of the army camp that spilled out beyond the Outer Round. ‘It's now official — they have enough men.’

‘Why don't they attack?’

‘They will. In the next few days. Escalade all around the north curtain wall, I imagine.’

‘Sir?’ A soldier further along the wall pointed. Hurl glanced through a crenel, saw double ranks of crossbowmen standing atop a nearby tower, all aiming in their direction. She yanked Storo down as a fusillade of bolts staccatoed into the parapet around Storo. Mocking shouts sounded from across the way requesting more target practice. Storo set his forearms on his knees, brushed the dust from his stubbled pate. ‘So, how's our leveller coming along?’

Hurl could only shake her head. Was the man mad, or determined not to survive the siege? She decided then that however it went she'd have everyone keep a close eye on him. ‘That's the news. Silk says they're ready.’

He faced her, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken, but still hard. ‘Ready? Well, it's about bloody time. They can go ahead with it.’

‘Says you should be there, you want it done.’

The eyes rolled to the sky. ‘Tell him I'm busy.’

‘Getting yourself killed, I know.’ She tilted her head to the nearest soldier, lowered her voice, ‘Not exactly what you'd call confidence inspiring.’

The Fist stood once again in full view of the besiegers. ‘The men like a commander with endearing eccentricities.’

Hurl grabbed his arm to pull him along while crossbow bolts ricocheted from the parapets with sharp metallic tings.

Silk met them at the central city temple. Rell was with him, as were Sunny and Jalor. Hurl realized that they hadn't all been together like this since the beginning of the siege. She felt a pang of loss for Shaky — unreliable son of a bitch that he'd been.

The city mage looked worse than he had after the attack. His worn silk finery hung from him in lank sweaty folds. His greasy hair gripped his skull like a cap, and his hand, when he gestured for them to follow, shook with a palsy. ‘Follow me,’ he croaked.

Storo fell into step with Silk, Hurl with Rell. She'd spent little time with the Genabackan lately. The man was ever on the move around the city leading a company of some twenty elite. Wherever he went morale soared — the Hengans thought him some kind of champion. As far as Hurl was concerned, they didn't know the half of it. ‘How are you doing?’ she asked.

‘Well.’ His voice was different now, distorted by his burnt lips. He wore a helmet complete with a faceguard of gilded bronze and a long camail that hung to his shoulders. She still wondered if all that was for protection or to cover up the scarring. A cuirass of iron banding, mail sleeves and greaves completed his serious accoutrement. She doubted the man had ever worn that much iron in all his life. But the same twinned, single-edged, slightly curved swords hung at his sides.

She nodded to Sunny who now commanded a party of emergency response sappers pulled together out of city masons, glassblowers and builders. They'd already blocked a number of attempts upon the Inner Round north gates and had countersunk two tunnels dug by Talian sappers. Jalor, for his part, had somehow fallen even further into a sort of worship of Rell and had elected himself chief bodyguard, accompanying him everywhere.

And what of her? Somehow she had fallen into a role as well. For some reason everyone seemed to consider her second in command after Storo.

Silk led them through the city temple, which Hurl noted had been cleared of all the new shrines to the various Quon Talian gods and spirits that the conquering Malazans had forced upon the Hengans: Burn, Osserc, Hood, Oponn, Soliel, Fener, Togg, Fanderay, even the brand new gold incense bowl dedicated to Trake. Hurl came to Silk's side. ‘House cleaning?’

A tired glance aside and weak smile. ‘Re-consecrated, Hurl.’

‘To who?’

‘Not who, what. The city itself.’

‘The city worships itself? Sounds incestuous.’

‘Just old-fashioned.’

‘That's what my uncle said.’

‘What happened to him?’

Hurl cocked her head to study the ceiling as they walked along. ‘Come to think of it, nothing happened to him. He lived a long life in a rule of terror over a huge family of idiots. Choked to death on a bird bone.’

Silk gave a long thoughtful nod to that. ‘There you go.’

‘Yup. There you go.’

He opened the door of the Inner Sanctum that they'd first entered through during the night of the insurrection. ‘This way.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Sunny growled, stopping. ‘This leads to the shit.’

‘Indeed it does — more than you would know.’

‘Well, I'm not going back down there to get all covered in crap again.’

‘Came off, did it?’ Hurl said.

Sunny bared his jagged teeth. Sighing his impatience, Storo waved a forward.

True to Sunny's forebodings they ended up ducking back out by the gigantic stone jackal head. It slowly ground shut behind them, closing with a boom that shook the floor and leaving them in darkness but for the shielded candle Silk carried. It was gloomy, but it looked to Hurl as if someone had cleaned most of the excrement from the chamber leaving only a dry flaking layer of scum on the limestone floor and a quarter of the way up the walls. ‘Now what?’ Sunny asked in what Hurl thought forced bravado.

Silk motioned to a row of lanterns. ‘Light those.’ Hurl and Jalor complied; Silk turned his attention to the jackal head. Standing directly before it he inscribed in the air a complicated twisting pattern with his arms then spoke in a language Hurl did not recognize. The grinding of stone announced the jackal's maw grating open once more.

‘Why didn't you just do that the first time?’ Sunny asked resentfully.

‘Because we're going somewhere different now.’

Indeed, behind the open jaws, where the throat would open up was now a dark stone pit set with iron rungs. Of the tunnel they'd followed out, no sign remained. Silk led the way in and down. Hurl imagined that were Shaky still with them he'd be asking something like ‘How'd he do that?’

They climbed down a long chute that, thankfully, bore the dry dusty air of never once having had shit poured down it. The chute ended at a claustrophobic rectangular chamber of roughly shaped limestone blocks. Intricate drawings of geometric designs covered the blocks of the roof, all four walls and the floor. A layperson to theurgy, even Hurl could recognize multilayered linked wards, or inscribed incantations, or investments of overlapping Warrens. A section of one wall had been deconstructed, and the huge blocks, far larger than Hurl imagined any man could move — except perhaps Ahl — had been tossed aside. Beyond ran a low descending passage that looked to have been carved from the very igneous rock underlying the city. Again, Silk led the way, followed by Rell. Coming along close to the rear, just ahead of Jalor, Hurl's lantern lit the wrenched and torn remains of a series of barriers set across the passage: first a slab of copper as thick as three of her fingers, blasted as if by some physical blow; then a slab of what she recognized as hardened silver, melted; lastly a slab of iron, shattered and bent outward. Surely not Ahl?

The passage debouched into a large chamber that echoed their footfalls and groans as they straightened their backs and stretched. Three ghostly figures emerged from the gloom to meet them: Ahl and his brothers Thai and Lar. Grime and sweat smeared their clothes almost black. Lopsided grins leered at them wetly making Hurl damned uncomfortable.

‘Is this it?’ Storo asked, his voice booming in the immense quiet of the chamber.

Silk nodded.

‘Kellanved didn't build all this, did he?’ Hurl asked, awed by the sheer scale of the construction.

‘No. It was built long ago. All in the hopes of eventual occupation. He merely fulfilled its purpose.’

‘Merely,’ Sunny echoed, sneering.

‘What next?’ Hurl asked.

Silk waved to the darkness. ‘This way.’ An object ahead dimly separated itself from the surrounding shadow. It resolved into a circular ledge, then finally into the raised border of what appeared to be a common well. A chain of black iron descended from the darkness above, and on down into the well. It was constructed of enormous square links each as thick as Hurl's forearm. But of all these wonders what caught Hurl's eye were the two bright objects thrust through the opening of the link level with the top of the mortared stones of the well: two longswords, their blades spanning the diameter of the opening. It seemed to Hurl that to pull the swords would free the chain to continue its descent.

‘The last barrier,’ Silk said into the silence of them all gathered around studying the amazing arrangement. Or last link. Pull these and he is released.’

‘Where?’ Storo asked. ‘Released where? Into this room?’

‘Gods no!’ Silk laughed — more than a touch feverishly, Hurl thought. ‘Far below. He will be released to make his escape to the plains, north.’

‘Who can do it?’ Storo asked.

Silk waved a hand. ‘Oh, anyone strong enough, I imagine. But I wonder if you, Rell, might…’

The engraved visor turned to Storo who waved for him to do so if he wished. Rell stepped forward, studied the arrangement. Hurl looked to Silk — it seemed to her that there was more going on here than the mage was letting on. And Silk was now more animated than he'd been so far the entire evening; watching the Genabackan swordsman the mage's eyes glowed, his hands were fists at his sides. The three brothers, Hurl also noted, appeared uniformly sour, almost uncomfortable. She took a strange sort of reassurance from this.

Rell took firm hold of the grips, set one booted foot against the side of the well, and yanked. The first time nothing happened. Sunny snorted. Rell adjusted his grip, hunched his back. He yanked again. The screeching of iron on stone pierced Hurl's ears; she flinched, covering them. Finger's breadth by finger's breadth, the blades scraped towards Rell. Ominous rattling ran up and down the length of the chain above. Finally, with an explosive shattering of the stone, the tips fell. Rell was yanked forward, disappearing, and only the quick hands of Storo and Jalor at his thighs saved him. He straightened with the swords still in his hands, blades intact. The enormous length of chain, each link as large as a child's head, jangled and knocked, descending. Hurl felt the movement of something distant shuddering the ground beneath her feet. Dust sifted down around them. She brushed it from her hair and shoulders.

‘It is done,’ Silk exhaled into the dark. ‘He will have to dig a long distance but that won't stop him.’

No one spoke. The chamber was quiet but for the distant rumbling. Storo rubbed a hand down his stubbled jowls. ‘Let's go, then. We've been away for damn long enough.’

‘Aye,’ Sunny ground out, and he spat into the well.

Walking away, Rell admired the blades still in his hands. ‘You should use them,’ Silk said. ‘I think you'll find them…’ his voice trailed off into silence.

Hurl turned to the mage. ‘What is it?’

Silk raised a pale hand for silence. Hurl listened, straining.

Something… sounds from behind them, from the well. Words? The hair at her neck and forearms stirred as Hurl recognized the sounds for hoarse, growled Talian, distorted, but understandable, echoing up the pit of the well:

‘Those who free me,

be my enemies.

Those who enslave me,

kneel to me.

When the end of all things comes,

as surely it does,

on which scale stand you?

In the final balance

And the accounting?’

A long low chuckle, more a panting than a laugh, followed. Hurl sought out Silk's gaze but the mage's eyes were resolutely downcast. The three brothers, however, grinned insanely at everyone.

‘Let's get out of here,’ Storo rumbled.