Return of the Crimson Guard

CHAPTER IV

Twelve days after the storm, the Kestral and the Wanderer dropped anchor at a length of uninhabited shoreline of the Sea of Chimes. At Shimmer's orders, the Nabrajan captains had kept clear of all coastline where possible, yet what lengths of shore Kyle had glimpsed appeared far from promising: grey and black tumbled rocks skirted by twisted and stunted trees, distant dusty-grey rounded hillocks, and forests of thin black-limbed evergreens. Glimpses of a level plateau of some sort broken up by copses of trees.

That dawn Kyle had watch. In the calm, almost glass-like bay, he sat cross-legged on the raised cargo hatch at mid-deck, needle in hand, attempting to mend the padded quilted shirt he wore beneath his hauberk.

‘A sailor'd do a better job of that.’

Kyle looked up. It was Greymane, standing at the gunwale. He hadn't heard a thing. How could a man so big be so quiet? He returned to his sewing. ‘Have to learn some time.’

‘True enough.’

Kyle kept his head down. Why was the renegade talking to him? The man was practically an Avowed — had even fought against them in the past, so he'd heard. The Malazan cleared his throat. ‘Kyle, is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I've been meaning to have a word about the Spur. I understand you're a Bael native — that the Ascendant, or whatever he was, we found up there meant something to you, and maybe your people…’

Kyle looked up from his sewing. ‘Yes?’

‘Well,’ the man frowned at the deck, ‘I suppose I want to apologize for that. I didn't intend for things to go the way they went.’ He looked out over the water, to the dark treed shore a stone's throw distant, crossed his arms. ‘Things just have a way of taking on a life of their own…’

Kyle watched, wondering if perhaps he'd been forgotten. For the man was now obviously thinking of other things.

After standing silent for a time the Malazan said, ‘You know they call me a renegade.’

Kyle looked up from his sewing once more. ‘Yes.’

‘Ever wondered why?’

Kyle shrugged. ‘No. It means nothing to me.’

The man laughed. ‘Good. Then I'll tell you. I'm a renegade because I tried to make peace, Kyle. Strike an accord. For that I enraged the Korelans and was denounced by Malazan command. Me ‘n’ a handful of others.’ The big man glanced to Kyle, his pale ice-blue eyes bright in the gathering dawn. ‘And do you know why of all of them I alone survived the hunt that followed?’

‘No.’

‘Because I ran the farthest of all of them. Was the most thorough coward of the lot.’

Kyle's fists clenched his undershirt. This was not what he wanted to hear. Apologies! Confessions! Damn the man. He, a coward? What could he mean by such a ridiculous claim? ‘Perhaps I'm not the one you should be talking to…’

‘No. You're the one. Perhaps the only one. Because you're not from around here, Kyle. No one from around here would understand.’

The renegade pushed himself from the gunwale, walked off, his sandalled feet silent on the deck. Kyle watched him go. Understand? He didn't understand any of it.

The next morning Kyle saw Shimmer for the first time in months; apparently she'd been locked away in the only private cabin for what seemed the entire crossing. A sailor told him that she appeared suddenly that dawn, startling the captain as had no other event during the voyage. Later, word came for the Ninth squad to assemble.

They stood at attention, some having come across from the Wanderer, Shimmer examined them and they in turn examined her. At first Kyle hardly recognized her. Gone was all her usual garb of war and so startling was the transformation he could well appreciate the captain's reaction. Her hair was unbounded by her usual bright steel domed helmet and hung midnight-black and shimmering to the small of her back. The next thing Kyle noted was her height — she barely reached his chin. He'd always held an impression of her as taller. Her eyes, however, remained the same. Black under narrow slanted lids, they matched the blue-Napan cast of her face. And they held that slow reserved light that had seen just about all they possibly could, and wouldn't be surprised by anything more. Instead of her glittering coat of fine mail that reached her ankles and her long whipsword sheathed at her back, she now wore only a short-sleeved soft leather jacket and loose pantaloons.

‘Just north up the coast stands Fortress Haven,’ she began, ‘one of the first of our settlements here in Stratem. There, Lieutenant Skinner pledged he would return and await us. The Ninth Blade will go secretly without alarming any Malazan forces or spies that may be present, and contact him.’

While Shimmer spoke, her hands moved restlessly, brushing at her waist or searching for the scabbard that would've rested at her back. Kyle didn't know her well enough to read her moods, but she appeared nervous and rushed.

‘We have no idea if he still lives, or even if Malazan forces occupy Haven. You'll find that out also. But if you do reach him, all the Guard forces will immediately reunite under his command as agreed at the beginning of the Diaspora. Understood?’

‘Aye, Commander.’

They gathered their equipment, rolled and belted armour, weapons and one pack each, then climbed down the rope ladder to the waiting launch. The sergeant, the Falari exile Trench, two hulking ex-Free City swordsmen, Meek and Harman, a Barghast half-breed, Grere, the Genabackan Free City mage just attached to the blade, Twisty, and the Bael natives Stalker and Kyle.

Just before they pushed off Stoop came one-handed down a rope ladder to join them. ‘Thought I'd have a look,’ he told Kyle, grinning, and he took the tiller next to Trench. Everyone else manned oars. They followed the shore north. Stalker next to Kyle at an oar examined the forested shore. ‘Uninhabited,’ he judged.

‘How can you tell?’

‘All old growth. No logging, no trails.’

‘You know such woods?’

The scout pursed his lips, nodded.

‘Quiet,’ Trench ordered.

Late in the afternoon they rounded a rocky headland revealing a forested bay and the huts of a modest village. The towers of a grey stone fortress thrust high above the treetops overlooked the settlement. A set of rotting canted docks stretched out from the shore beneath.

‘Back oars,’ Trench ordered.

Hidden behind the headland, they pulled the launch up out of the water and camouflaged it as best they could. While the light held, they moved inland. Stalker, Grere and Kyle spread out to scout. All he saw that afternoon was virgin land, forest stretching inland free of any sign of habitation.

After dusk Trench ordered camp set; they would scout the village at dawn. In the light of a small fire he unrolled a tattered vellum map of Stratem. The squad, all but Stalker who stood watch, crowded around. Kyle sensed their hushed anticipation. Meek and Harman exchanged hungry grins. Theirs were the most clear-cut duties of the squad, and the hardest. They were simply expected to stand and fight until they or the attackers were all dead. The squad was in the field again, except this time it was Guard lands, a war more theirs than any before. During the passage Kyle had heard constant talk of the rewards waiting: fiefs, land for each. Titles. Everything a fighting man desired — if they won.

Trench pointed a blunt finger to the unsettled western shore of the inland Sea of Chimes. ‘We're here.’ Then he pointed to a string of fortresses built by the Guard to keep watch over their southern shores. Exile stood over the extreme east; Thick at the straits leading into the Sea of Chimes; Iron Citadel over the sands to the south-west; and North Bastion over the far west.

‘But they ignored them,’ said Stoop.

No one asked, ‘Who?’

‘It was a three-pronged attack,’ Stoop said. ‘In the middle of the coasts, east, west and south. Forty thousand men. We were vastly outnumbered. They hadn't forgotten the years we opposed them on Quon Tali. They meant to wipe us out. Things were pretty confused then, the Duke disappearing, lines of communication cut, forces encircled. Skinner fought Dassem to a standstill but the effort broke us. The Diaspora was ordered to preserve the Guard for the future.’ Stoop grinned, winking. ‘And now we're comin’ back with ten times the men we left with — not counting what the other companies have assembled. We may find that the Guard now numbers more than thirty thousand.’

Kyle examined the map. A cordillera labelled the Aurgatt Range crossed the extreme north. ‘Korel is north of this?’ he asked of Stoop.

‘Yes. Korel lands. Stratem is the name of the southern lands of this continent. Korel is the northern; then some islands and the south shore of Quon Tali. Took the Malazans long to get here ‘cause of the strait, the Sea of Storms. It separates us from them. The Korelri fight demons out of the strait — Riders, they call them. The current is eroding Korel lands. An unfriendly lot. The Empire's welcome to them.’

Kyle tried to imagine the line that their voyage must have taken. As far as he could figure they came from the south-east. There was no way they should have gone anywhere near the Sea of Storms. He stood, said to Trench, ‘I'll relieve Stalker.’ The sergeant nodded, his eyes on the map.

He walked a ways into the woods and shook a branch. A few minutes later Stalker appeared. They squatted together; Kyle scratched at the damp earth with a twig. The land looked rich: full of resources. During their short march they'd passed only one hint of human activity: an abandoned logging camp. Low, wooded hills appeared to lie ahead, cut by clear streams and thick with wildlife sign. So far the appearance that it wasn't permanently occupied carried.

‘What did you see on the Wanderer?’ Kyle asked, thinking if there was any time to put aside pretences, it was now. He waited, tense for the tall man's reply.

Stalker let out a long breath, pulled off his helmet. ‘I listened and watched mostly. Shimmer won't answer a direct question and is suspicious of anyone who asks. What I can piece together is that these Riders were waiting for us. They allowed our two ships through but the rest were scattered. How this was arranged I have no idea.’

The man kneaded a pouch hanging from his neck, a habit of his when thinking. Kyle waited. He realized he shouldn't be surprised there were rivalries among the Avowed. Now that they'd reached the homeland, everything was bound to come to a head.

‘I figure the other ships were delayed because Greymane and Shimmer wanted to get here before Cowl and his Veils. From what I picked up this Skinner is one nasty fellow. The only remaining Avowed who can put Cowl in his place. We were sent because the Ninth is Skinner's old command. Seems those who know are afraid the man might be around the bend — the Ninth is the only squad he might listen to.’

Kyle could only shake his head. Far worse than he'd imagined.

The scout stood, grunting. ‘A word to the wise: if you come across this Skinner fellow, don't let him near you.’ He disappeared into the woods.

Mallick's servants notified him of midnight vistors then saw them to the banquet hall. They offered the representatives of the Untan noble houses drinks and cold meats while letting them know that the master was dressing. Mallick was in fact already dressed but he waited, rearranging the folds of his robes. Timing, he knew, was everything in conspiracy.

Eventually, Mallick nodded to his servants, waved off his bodyguards and threw open the double doors of his banquet chamber. The men straightened at his entrance. Dim lamplight flickered at the chamber's centre. ‘And to what do I owe this honour?’ he asked as he crossed to a table crowded by carafes. He poured a small glass of golden almond liqueur.

‘You know,’ growled one, a grey-haired elder wrapped in a burgundy cloak.

Mallick swallowed slowly, nodding. ‘The generalities, yes, Quail. But not the specifics.’

Quail's answer, a dark ‘I wonder’, was lost beneath an outbreak of clamour from the others. Mallick raised a hand for quiet.

‘Please, please. Illata, would you speak?’

Illata helped himself to a tall glass of red wine. His cloak fell open, revealing that he wore a boiled leather cuirass studded with iron. ‘It has happened as you predicted, Mallick. Imry has withdrawn from the Assembly.’

Mallick lowered his gaze to this glass. ‘His actions remain his own, of course. Though it weakens our cause greatly. Was any explanation offered?’

‘Sickness in the family,’ sneered Illata. ‘But-’

‘I have a source in his household,’ interrupted another, ‘and that source overheard talk of a visitor in the night and threats to the family.’

‘And you think…’

Illata tossed back his wine. ‘Dammit, man, isn't it obvious. The Claws! She goes too far!’

‘Illata!’ This from several of the men.

A raised bare arm from Quail brought silence. ‘Regardless of who — ’ he eyed Mallick ‘- or how… we need men and materiel to guard our lands. If we cannot push emergency measures through the Assembly to gain them then we are forced to act independently.’

‘The emperor forbade all private armies,’ Mallick observed, setting down his empty glass.

‘Nonetheless, Grisan nobles are massing on our eastern border. Our intelligence has it they command a “bodyguard” of over four thousand men. And she has done nothing.’

‘We need the Imperial Arsenal,’ said Illata. ‘And we are prepared to take it.’

‘Much we have speculated on this in our confidence, of course, yet-’

‘No more talk,’ cut in Illata. ‘The plan is in motion. We will hold the arsenal by dawn.’

Mallick regarded the tense gleaming faces arrayed before him. ‘I see. And I, like a goat to the slaughter, shall be the one you would push forward?’ His sibilant voice fell even further, ‘Are you all still so terrified?’

‘Your, ah, influence, is known. You will speak for us. We mean no disloyalty. We merely wish to defend our own. All costs to Imperial coffers will be redeemed.’

‘Very well. I shall humbly bow before her as spokesman and beg our case. There may be complications though, you understand. The arsenal is guarded.’

Illata swept his cloak over his shoulder. ‘We understand. It is to be regretted, yet it is unavoidable.’

Mallick gave the slightest of bows. ‘Then the chaff is cast upon the waters. We each have our assigned fates. Let us go see what the currents may bring.’

After the men had left the chamber a woman in a dark plain tunic and leggings entered by a side-door. ‘Your orders?’ she asked. Mallick refilled his glass then turned. At the woman's chest the small silver sigil of a bird's foot grasping a pearl glimmered in the lamplight; Mallick studied that one bright point of light.

‘Send word to all the — well, the glove has become the hand now, has it not? Send word to our Hands. Corrupt officials will be attempting to steal munitions from the arsenal this night. Assassinate them all, enslave their families and confiscate all assets and possessions to the Throne. All in the name of the Empress, of course.’

‘And the Empress?’

‘The matter is too small to concern her.’

The woman inclined her head. ‘So it shall be.’ At the door, she turned. ‘Strange that none of us visited Imry on any night. What make you of that, Mallick?’

The priest's thick lips turned down as he examined the liquid gold in his glass. ‘Laseen must still have her loyal followers among the Claw, Coil. They must be rooted out.’

‘Yes. We have our suspicions.’

Mallick's gaze rose, his round face bright in the lantern light. ‘Oh? Who?’

‘Possum, among others.’

Smiling, Mallick set the glass down. ‘Ah, yes. Possum. Your superior now that Pearl is gone. He remains.’

The woman stood motionless while the lanterns sputtered and flickered at the centre of the room. Finally, she allowed herself a stiff half bow. ‘So be it — for the time.’ Yet she did not leave; Mallick pushed his hands into the sash across his wide stomach. ‘Yes, Coil?’

‘It occurs to us, Mallick, that with this night you will be in control of the Imperial Assembly. You perforce command the Claw. Therefore, there are those among us who wonder — when will you… act?’

‘Past failures in Seven Cities and elsewhere have impressed upon me the harsh lesson of patience, Coil. Instruction I, more than any, ought to have appreciated long ago. But, as you say, I command already. Why then act at all?’

‘She would not show such restraint.’

He waved Coil away. ‘Her chance missed. Now none remain. Go!’

In the doldrums of the Southern Rust Sea, a slave galley, the Ardent, came across a sodden raft. The galley's master, Hesalt, ordered the lashed fragments brought alongside. A sailor searched among the sprawled bodies.

‘How many live?’ Hesalt called down.

The sailor straightened and even from far to the bow Hesalt could see the wonder on his upturned face. ‘The God of the Deep's mercy. Every one! Eleven living souls!’

The Twins smiled upon them, whoever they are, Hesalt reflected. But he considered himself lucky as well — eleven warm bodies for the shackles. ‘Give them water and food then throw them below.’

‘Aye, Master.’

The nine men and two women, whoever they were, recovered with amazing speed. One, a burly scarred fellow — a veteran obviously — even pulled himself upright when a sailor came with a ladle of sweet water. ‘I demand to see the captain,’ he rasped in a passable north Genabackan dialect of the East Coast.

‘The captain is nothing to you now, friend,’ whispered the sailor. ‘You live, but the price is your freedom.’

The man knew to take only a small sip to wet his throat. ‘Tell your captain I demand that he set sail for Stratem at once.’

Those nearby laughed. The sailor took in the castaway's cracked and oozing skin, burnt almost black across his shoulders. How many weeks marooned under this pitiless sun! Amazing the fellow was even conscious. No wonder he was delirious. ‘Lay back, heal. Thank Oponn for your life.’

‘What is your name, sailor?’

‘Jemain.’

‘You are a compassionate man, Jemain. Therefore, I warn you — stand aside.’

Something in the man's eyes quelled Jemain's laugh. The castaway pushed himself to his feet, staggered but, with a groan, righted himself. ‘See to my men,’ he croaked.

The crew watched amused while the castaway made his laborious way to the stern. There, he stopped and stood swaying before the gaze of an old man at the tiller flanked by guards in leather armour who watched him, arms crossed, mouths downturned. ‘Who is the captain of this slave-scow?’ he asked of the old man.

‘That would be Master Hesalt of the Southern Confederacies.’

‘That's enough from you,’ said one of the guards. ‘Turn around or we'll whip the burnt flesh off your back.’

‘How many guards does he travel with?’

Brows rising, the tillerman replied, ‘Eight.’

The guards pulled truncheons from their belts — no edged weapons that might damage the merchandise. The first to swing had his head grasped in both of the castaway's hands and twisted until a wet noise announced the neck breaking. The second guard beat the man about his shoulders, tearing the burnt skin and raising a sluggish flow of dark blood. But the man ignored the blows until he managed to grasp one forearm, which he twisted, snapping. Then he drove his fingers up under the guard's chin to crush his throat. The guard fell to the deck gagging and thrashing.

All this the tillerman watched without shifting his stance. ‘There's six more,’ he observed, laconically.

‘Think they'll surrender?’ the castaway gasped, drawing in great shuddering breaths.

‘Don't think that's likely.’

‘I fear you're right.’

The yells brought the remaining six stamping up the deck. They surrounded the man, beat him down to the blood-slick timbers. Yet somehow he would not stop struggling. One by one he dragged the guards down. He bashed heads to the decking, throttled necks, clawed eyes from sockets, until the last one flinched away, his face pale with superstitious dread.

‘Back off!’ shouted a new voice.

The man pulled himself to his feet. Blood ran from him, his skin hung in cracked ribbons down his back and shoulders. Master Hesalt stood covering him with a levelled crossbow. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

The man felt about in his mouth, pulled out a bloodied tooth. ‘My name wouldn't mean a damn thing to you. You going to shoot that, or not?’

‘I thought I would do you the courtesy first.’

‘Well, to the Abyss with courtesy. Just shoot.’

Hesalt paused. What a price such a fighting man would bring! What a shame to have to kill him like a rabid dog. Still, he had earned death many times over and the hired crew were watching… He fired. The quarrel took the man low in the chest throwing him back against the gunwale where he slumped. Hesalt lowered the crossbow. What a loss! Still, if the other ten were anything like this one he might yet squeeze some profit from this debacle.

A low groan brought the slave master's attention around. Incredibly, impossibly, the man was now struggling to rise. An arm grasped the side, pulled, and he stood, quarrel jutting obscenely from his chest. Hesalt backed away, his throat tightening in horror. What magery was this? Did some God favour this man?

‘It never,’ the castaway ground out, ‘gets any easier.’ Ignoring the quarrel, he addressed Hesalt. ‘Now, yield this ship to me and no more need be hurt. What say you?’

The slave master could only stare. He'd heard stories of such horrors… But he'd never believed…

The castaway lurched a step closer. ‘Speak, man! For once act to save lives!’

‘I… That is… Who? What… are you?’

Snarling, the man grasped Hesalt by the front of his shirts and yanked him to the gunwale. ‘Too late.’ In one swing he lifted the slave master and tossed him, screaming, over the side. He turned to face the stunned sailors. ‘I am Bars. Iron Bars. I claim this vessel in the name of the Crimson Guard. Tillerman!’

‘Aye?’

Make southwest round the Cape for Stratem.’

‘Aye, Captain. Sou'west.’

‘Jemain!’

The sailor straightened, dread stealing the breath from him. ‘Aye?’

‘You are first mate.’

Jemain wiped the cold sweat from his face, swallowed. ‘Aye, sir. Your orders?’

A cough took the man and he grimaced at the agony of the convulsion. One hand a claw on the gunwale, he pushed back his shoulders. ‘Get my men conscious. The slaves can row for their freedom.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘Now help me get this damned thing from my chest.’

From the top of the frontier fort Lieutenant Rillish watched the mob of would-be settlers, squatters and plain shiftless land-rush opportunists surrounding his command grow each day. By the fifth they must have judged their sprawling strength great enough because they sent an envoy to discuss terms. At the Lieutenant's side his sergeant spat a great stream of brown juice from the rustleaf jammed into a cheek and raised his crossbow.

‘Skewer the bastards?’

‘No, not yet. Let's see who's taken charge of that mess out there.’

They waited, watching, while a gang of twenty approached the gate.

‘Close enough,’ Rillish yelled down.

‘This is parley!’ a man in a bearskin cloak answered. ‘Come and talk.’

‘I do not negotiate with bandits.’

‘Bandits!’ The men laughed. ‘You should get out more often, Lieutenant. Haven't you heard? But then no, you wouldn't have, would you? No messenger has come in — how long has it been now — almost a month?’

So, there it is. This man is more than he seems, or speaks for someone who is. Rillish decided to cut to the heart. ‘Your terms?’

The man waved the matter aside and Rillish caught a clutter of rings at his fingers. His thick black hair was greased as was his beard. ‘Simplicity itself. You and your men, the entire garrison, are free to go. March away west. You are of course welcome to keep your weapons.’

Rillish rested his hands upon the sharpened tips of the palisade. Yes, free to go. Free to walk away… He turned to the fort compound. There, filling the dirt square, sitting and standing, faces peering back up at him, waited more than a hundred Wickan elders and children. He returned his gaze to the envoy and the mob of would-be besiegers beyond. Sour bile rose in his mouth like iron from a stomach thrust. Damn these scum to Hood's darkest path.

‘Come now, Lieutenant, surely you must see your situation is untenable. You are surrounded, without hope of succour. Low on provisions and without water. Come, Lieutenant, throw your own life away if you must, but think of your men.’

His sergeant spat over the wall. ‘Skewer the bastard now!’

Rillish raised a hand to stay his sergeant. ‘Who do you speak for?’

The envoy's smile convinced Rillish that his probe had worked. The man pointed off to the low hills of the Wickan territory. ‘How does North Unta sound to you?’

Rillish considered ordering his sergeant to skewer the bastard. Damned Untan Great Families — they'd feuded with the Wickans for generations. Now they saw their chance.

And he was in the way.

To his sergeant Rillish asked aside, ‘You are certain you saw no soldiers out there?’

‘None. Adventurers, opportunists, squatters, shiftless frontier malingerers. Nothing but filth.’

Rillish drew off his helmet, wiped the sweat from his forehead. Hot here on the plains. Not like down south. Or like Korel. It'd been damned cold all those years in Korel. He cinched tight the helmet. ‘Pack up your mob and decamp and I promise you we will not pursue.’

The envoy stared, frowning, as if the lieutenant had gibbered in some foreign language. Then he rallied, flushed. ‘Aren't you aware of your situation, you ox-brained foot soldier? You haven't even enough men to properly defend your walls!’

‘And you haven't the belly for a siege.’

Raising his voice, the envoy addressed the entire fort: ‘You fools! This man has just thrown away your lives!’

‘Now I'm gonna skewer the bastard.’

‘Is the parley over then?’ Rillish called. ‘Because if it is, my sergeant here would very much like to shoot you.’

The envoy's jaws worked as he swallowed the rest of his words. ‘We are done,’ he spat and turned his back to march away.

‘What now, sir?’ the sergeant, Chord, asked beneath his breath.

‘Quarter rations immediately. Confiscate all water. Double the watch. They'll probably try to rush us tonight.’

‘Aye-aye, sir. Pardon me for saying so, sir, but this garrison's green, sir. Not like the old command.’

‘No new command is ever like the old one, Chord.’

‘Yes, sir. That's true as rain, sir.’

‘We could use some of that.’

‘Use some of what, sir?’

‘Rain.’

‘That's true, sir.’

Rillish looked out over the fort enclosure. The faces of the Wickan elders and children he'd managed to shelter turned up to him. Their eyes watched him, but not with worry, or with pleading, just watchful, patient. ‘A quiet posting until retirement, they said, Chord. A well-earned rest. I should've stayed in that chaos-hole of Korel.’

‘May the Gods answer you, sir.’

Rillish strode to the stairs. ‘Well, on second thought, let's hope they don't, Chord.’

They were trimming and setting the boat's planking when ships breasted the south headlands following the shore north. Shouts from the villagers took Ereko's attention from overseeing the adzing. At his side Traveller set down his axe. ‘Locals?’ Ereko asked, though he felt certain they were not.

Traveller shaded his eyes. ‘Far from it.’

Ereko studied the vessels’ low beam, their simple square sail configuration. ‘They are daring seamen.’

‘They have come a very far way.’

‘You know them, then.’

‘Yes.’

In that ‘yes’ rode the strongest emotion Ereko had yet to hear revealed by his companion. Curiosity grew within him to meet these people who had somehow managed to stir within Traveller what could only be called plain human hate. The headman's nephew came running from the huts, pointing out to sea. ‘They come! It is they! The grey raiders from the sea!’ His people came following in a wave; mothers running with their skirts gathered in one hand, children yanked along in the other.

‘Yes.’

The nephew swallowed to still his panting. ‘What… What do we do?’

‘Run away. All of you. Run into the forest. Don't stop.’

‘What of you?’

‘I'll meet them.’

‘But — if we all hide — perhaps they will pass us by.’

‘I don't want them to.’

The headman gaped at Traveller as if he'd just promised to commit suicide. He backed away, his gaze troubled, then sad, and finally he turned and jogged off.

Traveller crossed to where he'd left his weapon. He shook it from its sheath. ‘You too,’ he said. ‘You need not involve yourself.’

Ereko joined him as he started down to the strand. ‘No, I will come. I should mark these people so that I would know to avoid them in the future.’

Traveller deigned not to answer that, though he did glance sidelong. Out in the bay the ship's prows had turned to shore. Either they had seen them or they intended to land in any case.

‘Your armour?’

‘There's no time.’

Of course he showed no fear but Ereko was worried. Warriors who inspired such dread were obviously no fools. They would bring their bows to bear upon them, if they had such. On the way down he retrieved his spear. ‘Two ships,’ he mused as they reached the strand.

The ghost of a smile teased Traveller's lips. ‘Very well. The right or the left?’

Ereko eyed the two tall-prowed, narrow vessels. Both decks seethed with figures. ‘The right, I think.’

The raiders had jumped down into the surf and were pushing their way up on to shore when Ereko understood the reason behind the villager's dread. The grey raiders from the sea. To him, nothing more than one more race of alien invaders. Tiste Edur. Children of Shadow. As they closed where the surf licked the black shingle Ereko dredged up what Edur he'd picked up over the ages. ‘Welcome.’

The lead figure, this detachment's war leader probably, gestured a halt and looked Ereko up and down. ‘Name yourself.’

Like his men he wore furs over leather armour decorated by tufts of hair, twists of ribbon and smears of orange and umber pigments. His long hair was braided and greased. He bore a spear, sword and knife — Ereko saw no missile weapons. But his relief at that ended when a woman, no more than a girl really, appeared at the ship's high prow. One of their witch women. The long tatters of the cloths, shawls and scarves wrapped about her flickered in the weak wind.

‘Stand aside, Ancient One,’ she called.

The war leader glanced to her. ‘Perhaps we should invite this one to accompany us.’

‘Not him. He is no warrior.’

A clash of weapons carried over the heaving of the surf. The dark eyes of the warriors now fixed glittering upon the far vessel.

‘Slay him and go,’ the war leader commanded.

‘Hold!’ This from the girl. ‘Strike him not! He is sacrosanct.’

The leader spun to the girl. ‘Claims who?’

‘I!’

‘Warleader…’ This from one of the Edur.

‘Yes!’

A nod in the direction of the other vessel. He turned to where all the warriors stared and Ereko watched a sickly paling of this Edur's grey hue. The sounds of battle, Ereko noted, had ended some moments ago. A wave and the warriors charged past. Their leader called up to the girl, ‘That one I hope you will allow us to slay.’

But the young witch woman was deaf to his jibe. She too had seen Traveller, and so too had she seen all that moves inexorably with him. Her body was frozen, yet a war had broken out upon her face as it twisted, appalled, stunned, fascinated and horrified. The war leader had run to engage Traveller. Ereko, however, chose to watch the battle betrayed on this young girl's face as one faith held as immutable truth met the incarnation of another.

Which would win?

So far, of all the spiritual crises he'd witnessed in those open to them, Traveller — or rather that which travels with him — had won.

A slight wash in the surf and Traveller stood beside him. His shirt was slashed and dappled in lashes of blood. Rising in clouds from his stained chamois trousers blood stained the water around him. The girl stared down at them, her face frozen in a rictus that pained Ereko to see, then, with a howl, she threw herself backwards from sight.

‘What of the ships?’ Ereko asked. They both knew they could not use them; they hadn't the crew.

‘We'll have to burn them.’

‘A shame, that. They are of interesting construction. We can salvage some of the wood, I hope? It would speed our efforts considerably.’

‘Very well. But nothing distinctive.’

He turned away and Ereko followed him up out of the surf. So many questions pressed themselves upon him but their peculiar partnership did not permit anything approaching explanations. For his own reasons Traveller wished it that way. But then, so too did Ereko.

A shrill call from the water, ‘Revealed One!’

It was the girl. She stood in the surf, supporting herself against the ship's bow. The tatters of cloths and scarves she wore hung from her like draped seaweed. While they watched she dragged herself up the black gravel of the shingle.

‘Please! I beg your guidance!’

‘What is she saying?’ Traveller asked.

‘Ahh, you do not know Edur. I will translate. She wishes guidance.’ Ereko lowered his voice. ‘Should she be allowed to live? She is a witness. There may be reprisals.’

‘Some things must be witnessed.’

Traveller's response staggered Ereko. Even he, of another kind and immortal, glimpsed in those words the faintest hint of what this man might be bringing forth upon the world and he was awestruck by its implications. After a time he indicated the girl now prone on the wet stones before them. ‘What should I tell her?’

‘If it is guidance she wishes tell her that I cannot give her anything she does not already have.’

Ereko translated, ‘What you seek lies within.’

She howled, disconsolate. Her fingers clawed through the stones. ‘I have nothing. Everything was a lie! I — my life — all is bereft of meaning! I am empty!’

‘Tell her to spread the word of what she has seen.’

Ereko thought about Traveller's words. ‘What is your name, child?’

She wiped her eyes savagely. ‘Sorrow.’

Ancient Mother! Now it was Ereko's turn to stare until, misunderstanding his silence, the girl hung her head. He had to clear his throat before he could find his voice. ‘Sorrow, go forth into the world. Bring word of what has been revealed.’

At his words the length of her body convulsed as if struck. She raised her face and deep within her dark eyes Ereko saw flames kindled. Those flames rose to a shining that brought tears streaming down her cheeks. She climbed to her feet. Her mouth tightened to a bloodless slash and she knelt on one knee. ‘I will return to my people and all the ancient lies will be cast down. I will bring this new truth to them.’

Ereko translated for Traveller.

He was staggered. ‘No. They'd just kill her out of hand. Tell her to go north. She might have a chance up there.’

Ereko translated, ‘Your people are not yet ready for the truth, Sorrow. It would destroy them as it nearly did you. Their time will yet come. He bids you travel north as a pilgrim. There you may find fertile ground.’

She straightened, though her eyes now remained downcast. He studied her: such a young malnourished thing! Is this part of the foundation upon which Traveller would set his message? And there were marks upon her, invisible to others, but which he could sense. Monstrous cruelties were there burnt upon her spirit. This one has spilt much blood. But then, who else would possibly dare to carry such a burden as the one Traveller lays upon these converts?

‘Tell her to go — I cannot stand to see her trembling.’

‘The one who has given up his name, his past, all that he once was, to bring his message to the world, blesses you, and bids you go.’

‘My Lord!

The girl's gaze was averted as if from a glaring light. She could not see how her actions, her words, tormented Traveller. ‘Go,’ Ereko repeated. ‘Go.’

She backed away, weeping, a hand at her mouth, the other wiping her eyes. She was beyond words, stricken. Transformed. Annealed by the flames that burn within these mortals’ spirits that so erupt in Traveller's presence. Like handfuls of mineral powders tossed upon a fire.

They watched her retreat until she clambered up a cliff of tumbled rocks and disappeared from sight.

‘Perhaps we should burn these ships before the villagers loot them,’ Traveller said into the long silence.

‘I want the wood.’

He let out a long sigh. ‘Very well. I'll forbid any looting.’

Ereko turned to him. ‘Forgive me, Traveller, but I must ask. What is it they sense? The ones like this.’ He was startled to see that Traveller too was trembling. Perhaps it was the chill wind. The man had swung his gaze out to sea, squinting now into the shards of sunlight flashing there among the waves.

‘I really do not know. They see what they must see. I didn't lie when I said it was already there within them. It was always there. I believe that I merely show them the Path. They must choose to walk it.’

‘And where does this new Path of yours lead?’

His answering smile was full of self-mockery. ‘I do not know. I am still walking it. Though I will say this one thing — it leads to a meeting and a choice. A confrontation that I cannot see beyond.’

He left Ereko standing motionless in thought upon the wave-washed shingle. More had been revealed than Ereko had ever expected, or dared ask. Yet it all remained a closed mystery to him. Among his kind they were born of Mother Earth, their flesh remained of the Earth, and when they faltered so they returned to Her embrace. Things, it seemed, were far simpler back then.

Stalker, Grere and Kyle scouted the settlement the next dawn. Empty rotting huts and grass-choked lanes. The hulks of sunken boats in the weeds of the shore. Long abandoned it was. Yet Kyle could not shake a feeling of unease. The gaping doorways seemed to mock him. Unseen figures seemed to watch from among fallen rafters. His back prickled as if hidden bows were trained upon him. After a quick search they returned to the blade waiting in the woods. ‘Abandoned,’ Stalker announced. Kyle nodded his agreement.

‘Visited now and then,’ added Grere. ‘Fishermen, hunters, ‘n’ such.’

‘Did you enter the fortress?’ Trench asked.

They shook their heads.

‘Good. Don't for now.’ He stood. ‘Let's move in. Stalker, Grere, point. Stoop, with me. Kyle, Twisty, rear.’

The blade spent the day kicking through the falling-down huts and storehouses. Trench appropriated the least collapsed house as the base. He dragged the only usable chair into the shade just inside the gaping front opening and sat facing the bay.

Kyle looked to the hamlet's rear where an overgrown path led into dense brush and on, presumably, to the cliff and fortress above.

‘Why not camp down in the woods, out of sight?’ Stalker asked.

Sitting on the steps. Stoop answered, ‘’Cause we want to make contact.’

Trench pulled a pouch from his waist, pushed a pinch of leaf and white powder into one cheek. ‘That's right. Keep watch. Someone comes, grab ‘em.’

‘Aye.’

That night Kyle stood watch with Twisty. They kept no fires. Kyle stood in the dark close to shore, watching the moonlight shimmer from the bay's calm water. It was cool and he wondered how hard a winter this region drew. While he tried to make himself as still as the night he heard someone approaching slowly and stealthily from his rear; listening, he believed he identified the man making the noise. ‘You're supposed to be watching the woods.’

Twisty pulled up short, surprised. ‘Damn. How'd you know it was me?’

‘You told me you were from a city — no woodsman would make that much noise.’

Twisty grimaced his disbelief. ‘Is that really true?’

‘No. I've never even been in a city. Seen one from a distance though.’

Twisty unrolled a wool cloak he carried over a shoulder and pulled it tight about himself. ‘You're down here at the shore, I've come down from the woods. I think we both felt it last night and this night too.’

‘Felt what?’

‘The spirits.’

‘Spirits?’

‘Yes.’ Twisty's bony shoulders shook as he shivered. ‘The land's lousy with them.’

Kyle squinted up to the dark tree line. ‘It feels empty to me.’

‘Maybe they're the reason why it's empty.’

‘Maybe. I'm not sure what I feel.’

‘No? Really? They're interested in you.’

Kyle couldn't suppress a flinch of recognition. ‘How do you know this?’

‘My Warren is Denul. I sense these things.’

Now that it had been named, Kyle shook off the feeling he'd sensed since setting foot in this land — the feeling of being watched. He turned to the bay. ‘Warrens,’ he ground out. ‘I don't understand your Warrens. How do they work? On the steppes we just worshipped the land and the rain and-’ Kyle stopped.

‘Yes?’ Twisty prompted.

‘And the wind. We worshipped Father Wind.’

Twisty blew out a long thoughtful breath. ‘The Warrens… Good question. Hardly anyone actually knows. They're not ours after all. In your lands, do you have brotherhoods, groups of men or women?’

‘Yes. We have warrior societies. Most young men join if they can. The Tall Grass, The Red Earth. The women have theirs.’

‘Well, you might think of the Warrens that way. Each one has its own way of doing things. Its own secret words, symbols, and rituals. That's all there is to it. Sadly puerile, really.’

Still facing away, Kyle whispered, ‘But gods?’

Kyle snorted. ‘Just powerful spirits to my mind. Beings who have more power than others — nothing more. But you don't have to believe me. I'm something of a cynic on the matter.’

Kyle turned to eye the mage. ‘Just power — is that the only difference?’

‘Yes. There should be more but it's not something any of them seem willing to accept.’

‘What's that?’

‘The connection.’

The next day a small boat entered the bay. An old man rowed it. He tied it up at the least decrepit dock. The men of the blade watched from cover. ‘Alive,’ Trench whispered, raising a warning finger to Grere who bared his teeth in answer. Stalker, Kyle and Grere spread out among the empty huts.

Kyle allowed the old man to walk past his hiding place then stepped out on to the overgrown lane behind. The man had been whistling but stopped now that Grere suddenly faced him. He shot a glimpse to his rear, saw Kyle and his shoulders slumped. He drew a long-knife from his waist and dropped it. Grere waved him up the hill with a flick of his hand.

‘Thought you were ghosts,’ the man said to Trench in what Kyle heard as oddly accented Talian.

‘Ghosts?’ Grere answered, sneering. ‘We're flesh and blood.’

‘Funny that.’

‘Why's that funny?’

‘That's what they say too.’

Grere clouted the man across his face and Kyle fought down an urge to do the same to the Barghast tribesman. ‘What settlement is north of here, old man?’ Trench asked.

‘Thikton.’

‘How many men and women there?’

‘A lot. Many hundreds.’

‘How long have the Malazans run the place?’

The old man peered at them all. ‘Malazans? Ain't no Malazans here. Just traders, if that's what you mean.’

‘No? Then who runs the place?’

The old man scratched his head. ‘Well, no one, I s'pose. We just mind our own business.’

Trench's mouth hardened. ‘You sayin’ there's no ruler? No authority?’

‘Oh, well. There's the factor upriver at Quillon. I s'pose you could say he runs things.’

‘The factor? A trader?’

‘Yes.’

‘What if you were attacked? Pirates or raiders?’

The old man nodded eagerly. ‘Oh, yes. That used to happen all the time. Korelan raiders from up north. Even invaders from Mare landed south of here.’

‘And? What happened?’

The old man swallowed, hunched his shoulders. ‘Ah. Well. The ghosts, y'see. They run them all off.’

Trench raised a gauntleted hand to cuff the man but turned away in disgust. ‘This is useless.’

‘Kill him?’ Grere asked.

‘Kill him? You Genabackan recruits are a bloodthirsty lot.’

‘I think we can manage one fisherman,’ Stoop drawled.

‘I'll keep watch on him,’ said Kyle.

‘So will I,’ Twisty added.

Trench waved to take the old man away. ‘Fine. He goes missing, I'll take the skin off your backs.’

That night Kyle sat on the steps with Stoop who smoked his pipe. High broken clouds moved raggedly across the face of the moon. A weak wind stirred the limbs of the birch and spruce. ‘What of the ship?’ Kyle asked.

‘They'll wait while we scout out this town upriver.’

‘Then what?’

‘Well, we'll see, won't we? If there's no Malazan garrisons like the man says, then we'll just move right in.’

‘But this isn't Quon Tali.’

‘No.’ Stoop took the pipe from his mouth, knocked the embers in a shower of sparks to the wet ground and gave Kyle a wink. ‘But we're real close now, lad. We just have to reach out, and it's ours.’

Somehow Kyle didn't think it would be so easy.

Stoop slipped the pipe into a pocket. ‘I'm off for sleep. These old bones don't take to cold bivouacs no more. Did you know that not one of these roofs don't leak?’

‘Try the one across the way.’

The old saboteur eyed the canted, sunken-roofed ruin. ‘Thanks a lot.’

Kyle sat for a time in the dark. These last few nights he'd hardly slept at all. That feeling of being watched that Twisty blamed on spirits wouldn't leave him. Sometimes he thought he'd heard voices whispering in the night. He even felt as if he'd heard his name called once or twice.

A walk might do him good. Too little action recently; too much waiting. First the agonizing ocean crossing and now this strange non-event of an arrival. Where was everyone? It was an unnerving land. As his feet took him on to a forest path he realized that, for all its foreignness, it was also eerily familiar. He'd felt something just like this land's haunted presence when his clan had ventured on to the northernmost high plateau of their territory. His uncle had gestured to the misty lowlands north of them saying that there they never ventured: those were Assail lands. Just studying them from the distance Kyle had sensed their eerie alienness.

When his feet brushed cut stones, he stopped. A set of stairs overgrown by vines and layered in moss led up to the clifftop fortress, Haven. More of a tower, really, than a full-sized fort. Since it was plain by now that there was no one but his blade around, he decided to climb.

The steps brought him to a dark humid tunnel that opened on to a central court. Saplings had pushed up through the flags and vines gripped the mottled walls. Kyle studied the grounds and it was clear that no one ever came up here. He crossed to another set of stairs along one wall that led up to the battlements. On his way the pale smear of aged ivory caught his eye and he knelt. A skull grinned up at him, helmet fused to it with age and green verdigris. Nearby lay a corroded sword overgrown by moss. Small animals had foraged the carcass, but no larger beasts. Not even humans had scavenged here it seemed, unless swords and armour used to be as common as weeds. No, this soldier still lay where he fell, arms and all. Question was: which army? Was this a fallen brother? Or one of those Malazans? There was no telling now; time and the gnawing teeth of scavengers had rendered them akin.

Straightening from the remains, Kyle wondered at the meanderings of his strange thoughts. Never before had he given a body a second thought. Was this lofty perspective taught by travel? He started up the stairs. Halfway, he paused as the steps ahead seemed to shimmer in the tatters of moonlight. Empty night appeared to be gliding down towards him, engulfing the steps one by one in some dark tide. Then the clouds passed and the shadows dispersed. Kyle felt at the stairs and his hand came away dust dry. An omen? But of what?

From the battlements ragged moonlight painted the Sea of Chimes a mottled blue and silver. Not one light was visible along all the shore. Was this the land the Guard had fled so long ago? Where was everyone? He leant against the gritty stones and let the evening breeze cool him. It was surprisingly quiet but for the wind hissing through the trees and the flutter of night insects. But standing there Kyle slowly became aware of another noise — that hushed whispering called from the night once again and he slowly turned. The patchy shadows of the derelict courtyard seemed to flicker and shift. He thought he could almost see shapes within them — was this why no one was supposed to come up here? Some kind of haunting? He wished Trench had been more plain about the dangers. He wondered if he was now stuck up there all night. It might just be the murmuring of the surf far below, but he imagined he could almost hear a multitude of soft voices down there.

A fresh wind brushed his cheek, this one crossways to the sea-breeze. It was hot and thick and smelled not of the sea but of some other place. From a corner turret came a whirlwind of leaves and with them something iridescent in the moonlight. Puzzled, he knelt. A scattering of gold and pink flower petals. Soft and fresh. The wind out of the turret picked up and the stink of rot filled Kyle's nostrils. He backed away. The whispering from the courtyard rose to an eager susurration louder than the wind through the trees then abruptly cut off as if swept away.

A heavy step sounded from the turret, the stamp of iron on stone. Kyle's hand went to his tulwar. Another heavy step and a figure emerged. Layered iron armour that glittered darkly in the silver light encased it head to toe. A tall closed helm accented the man's great height and his hands in articulated gauntlets rested on the grip of a greatsword belted at his waist. Kyle dreaded that he faced one of those nightmares from his people's legends, a Jhag. It waved an arm, seeming to dismiss him.

‘The ships await, brother,’ it announced in Talian. ‘Go now. Kellanved and his lackeys are close. We are agreed on the Diaspora.’

Wonder clenched Kyle's throat. His hand was slick on his tulwar that seemed oddly warm to his touch.

The helm turned and regarded him more closely. Kyle now saw that flower petals dusted the man's surcoat, which was of a dark, almost black, shimmering cloth.

‘Go! Dancer has taken too many of our mages, though Cowl made him pay for it. We can counter Tayschrenn no longer. Flee while you may. I will delay them.’

Still Kyle could not move. Was this an apparition? A ghost reliving its last moments in the moonlight? Perhaps its skull was the one below.

The figure seemed to have found its doubts as well for its gauntleted hands returned to the long grip of its sword. ‘Who are you, brother? Name yourself. What blade?’

Kyle struggled to find his voice. ‘Kyle,’ he managed, weakly. ‘The Ninth.’

‘You lie!’ The sword sprang from its sheath.

‘Skinner!’ someone shouted and Kyle spun to see Stoop at the stairs. ‘Skinner! Damn, you're a sight for these old eyes.’ Stoop stepped past Kyle while at the same time pushing him away. ‘Welcome back. You gave me ‘n’ the lad here quite the start.’

The helmed head inclined ever so slightly. ‘Stoop… You are here? Shimmer's command has already departed.’

Stoop gave a loud exaggerated laugh. ‘Why, we've returned, man. We're back. Near a century's passed an’ we're back.’

The apparition, if it was indeed this Skinner that Kyle had heard so much of, stilled for a time, sword raised to strike. ‘Returned? But… Malazan columns in the forest…’

‘Gone, man. Long gone. Just us Guardsmen now.’

A hand went to the helm. ‘Yes, of course. I too escaped. Yet, returning, it is as if…’ Skinner sheathed his blade.

Kyle was relieved to see that sword safely put away. The glimpse he had of it made him recoil. The blade had been mottled black in corrosion and something told him that its slightest touch would be unhealthy.

‘Yes,’ Skinner continued, his voice firming. ‘Now we will crush them.’ He raised a gauntleted hand, clenching a fist, iron grating upon iron. ‘The last time I nearly had Kellanved but for Dassem's intervention and now I am returned far more than I was then.’

‘That so?’ said Stoop. ‘Thought you looked… different.’

A laugh from Skinner. ‘Different? More than you imagine, Stoop.’

The old saboteur gestured to the surcoat whose heraldry was too dark to make out in this light. ‘And these colours?’

‘Heraldry of our Patron, Queen Ardata.’

‘Never heard of her. You been with her all this time?’

‘She has been very generous to us.’

‘Us? How many of our brothers and sisters do you speak for, Skinner?’

The Guard champion shifted to look out over the court. Kyle had noted that the whispering had returned. Its rustling was driving him to distraction; weren't these two bothered?

‘I speak for over fifty Avowed and of regular recruits, many thousands.’

The whispering was stilled as if swept away by the wind. Stoop took Kyle's arm. ‘You can go back to camp. Get some sleep.’

‘Shall I report to Trench? What of the Kestral?’

‘They know, lad. They know. Word's bein’ spread.’

The Imperial Council was convened in new quarters: one of the oldest of Imperial holdings in the capital city — the ancient castle of the old Untan city state overlooking the broad arc of the harbour. Possum, first to arrive in what proved to be a bare stone-walled room, tried to puzzle out the hidden message in this sudden new venue of Laseen's rulership. Was it a subtle reminder for the council of the traditional Untan ruling family, eradicated by Kellanved, Dancer, and, he constantly struggled to keep in mind, Laseen herself? A table only, no chairs, no food or wine in evidence — a calculated insult? But why bother? The council and Laseen were hardly on speaking terms; each treated the other as irrelevant.

It was, he reflected, dragging a gloved finger through the dust layering the thick embrasure of the single window, a damned inefficient way to run an empire. Through his control of the Assembly Mallick held the treasury and the government bureaucracy. Meanwhile, as Sword of the Empire, Korbolo Dom commanded the military. That is, what remained of it. Tayschrenn's continued unsettling silence and Quick Ben's desertion to follow Tavore left command of the Imperial Mage Cadre to the completely unknown Havva Gulen — once Archiveress of Imperial Records. A librarian. Gods above and below, Possum brushed the dust from his hands, the new Imperial High Mage was an ex-librarian. The old emperor, who some say ascended to godhood after his death, must be falling off his throne laughing.

The heavy door rattled open and in strode High Fist Anand, commander of the Malazan 4th Army, its domestic defence forces, which by Possum's intelligence sources now mustered less than twenty thousand men all told. The old commander stopped short at the threshold of the empty room. His white brows rose in silent comment. Possum shrugged.

Pursing his lips as if to say ‘well, well’, Anand crossed to the table, began sifting through the maps provided.

Possum rocked back and forth on his heels. And what of the Claw? He followed Laseen's command, for now. Yet knives were being sharpened all down the hierarchy. It was just a question of where they would be pointed.

The door opened once more and in came the tall and broad figure of Havva Gulen wrapped in dark robes. Again Possum gauged first reactions. A pause of rapid blinking followed by a wide sly smile. Possum gave a nod in welcome, thinking that he just might come to like this new High Mage — despite her matted unwashed hair and ink-spotted robes.

‘Chilly in here,’ she offered with a mock shudder.

He smiled. ‘Palpably.’

‘It's the wind off the straits,’ Anand said without looking up.

Havva and Possum shared a wry look. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Looks like the wind is changing.’

The door banged open. Possum watched surprise, consternation and finally anger darken the blue-Napan features of the Sword of the Empire, Korbolo Dom. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Possum shrugged. Havva studied Korbolo the way a scholar might examine a curious specimen. Anand did not even bother to look up from the map table. ‘Look at this!’ Korbolo waved a hand about the room. ‘This is an insult!’

‘Rather appropriate, I should think,’ said Possum.

Korbolo turned on him. ‘You! Why are you even here? You are irrelevant.’

Possum opened his mouth to make the obvious reply when Havva cut in, ‘Perhaps we all are, Sword of the Empire. Have you considered that?’

‘What are you going on about, woman?’

She glanced about the bare walls. ‘In the old days, when a councillor to the King or any high military officer was called to a meeting only to find himself delivered to an empty prison-like room… well, the conclusion would be inescapable, don't you think?’ She put a fat, ink-stained finger to her mouth. ‘Shall we perhaps try the door? Does it even open from the inside, do you think?’

Korbolo stared at the High Mage, his eyes bulging. Possum could not hold back a laugh. The door rattled and everyone glanced to it; Mallick stood in the threshold, blinking. ‘Nothing important missed, I trust?’

‘Nothing important,’ said Possum, ‘just us talking.’

Smiling, Mallick rubbed his pale hands together. ‘Good.’ He shut the door, peered about the room. ‘How very severe. Proper war footing, yes? I see we have quorum. Let us begin. High Fist Anand, the Assembly asks me to humbly convey their concerns. How go domestic preparations?’

Anand looked up, frowning. ‘Assembly? What Assembly? What can it possibly consist of now? You and your dog?’

Mallick's bland smile on his round moon-like face did not waver. ‘Assurances, commander. We have maintained full membership throughout traitorous desertions. Brave new representatives have consented to sit. All provisional, of course, until peace and order restored.’

‘And how much did that cost,’ Anand muttered into his maps. Sighing, he shrugged his high thin shoulders. ‘It is going as well as can be hoped given how hamstrung we are. We've lost most of our resources across the continent. Entire regiments have fallen back to their roots and come out as Itko Kanese or Grisan. Ugly rumours of ethnic slaughters accompany those reports. Armouries have been confiscated; ships impounded. The shortage of competent mages means communication by the old ways of road and sea. It's a damned mess.’

‘And what would you advise?’

Korbolo cut in, ‘You forget yourself, Mallick. As First Sword I determine strategy.’

Mallick merely raised a placating hand. A hand like a blind fish drawn up from the depths, thought Possum, suppressing a shudder. ‘Merely canvassing for opinions. We are here to discuss, after all. Indulgence please. High Fist Anand?’

The glower that knuckled Korbolo's face told Possum that the First Sword was seriously wondering just how much longer to indulge Mallick.

Anand frowned, his white brows drawing down to almost hide his eyes. ‘We can't be certain of any territory, therefore we must consolidate. Secure from the centre outward.’

‘Excellent. And you, Sword of the Empire? Your opinion?’

Korbolo scowled, almost pouting. ‘I disagree. We must move with all speed.’

Mallick folded his hands across his paunch. ‘So. Opposing strategies. Perhaps this is good in that relative merits may be examined.’

Possum could not take his eyes from the fat little man. He'd done it again — taken charge. How did he do it? Was it some weakness in their collective character, or strength of a trait in him? Again Possum felt unnerved by the little man's presence, as if Mallick were something other, something less, or more, than what he appeared. It reminded Possum of a similar situation from long ago. One he could not quite place.

The door opened once again. All straightened, turning. Laseen entered. She wore her signature plain slippers, straight trousers and green silk tunic. No symbol of rank or standing upon her — it had long ago occurred to Possum that this lack was not an affectation; the woman simply did not need them to let anyone know who she was. It was in her eyes, her posture: sovereignty. She was shorter than Possum but he always had the impression she was looking down at him. The deepened lines bracketing her thin mouth told him she was not pleased.

A curt nod acknowledged their obeisance. ‘You have had a chance to talk?’

‘Yes,’ said Mallick. ‘We were just-’

‘A brief, if you please, High Fist Anand,’ Laseen cut through Mallick.

Mallick's mouth snapped shut like a fish. Beneath his short greying beard, Anand gave his first smile. ‘A pleasure, Your Highness. I was merely awaiting your arrival. Our sources, such as they are, agree that an army is marching in all haste from Tali. It is gathering forces as it moves east. It seems this insurgent Duchess Ghelel is quite certain of her control. Enough to accompany the army, in any case-’

‘A Duchess,’ snorted Korbolo. ‘How absurd!’

Possum shot a glance to the Empress whose mouth tightened even further. Havva, he saw, grinned openly. ‘Or those who control her,’ Korbolo continued, unaware.

Again a shrug like an ungainly seabird adjusting its wings. ‘Irrelevant to me. I deal with certainties. Also,’ Anand's gaze moved to Possum, ‘not my department.’

Possum declined to respond. Anand cleared his throat. ‘A rendezvous is no doubt planned with the Seti who have come out strong in favour of independence.’ The old commander waved a hand dismissively. ‘Some kind of traditionalist movement, I understand. A generation too late, I'd say. In any case, they've dug up a competent warlord who has taken control of the plains and effectively severed all communications. He's cut the continent in half, whoever he is.’

‘Their goal?’ Laseen prompted.

Korbolo Dom could contain himself no longer. ‘Their goal? Destroy us, of course! Empress, with all due respect, I suggest you leave such matters to your military commanders. We will settle strategy.’

‘First Sword!’ Laseen snapped, almost cutting the air between them. ‘You are here to advise. And I must remind you that since you possess the title of First Sword of the Empire, you thus command only in the field. Dassem himself deferred to others in matters of strategy.’

Yes, Possum reflected, and should the intelligences he had received be true, among those commanders would be the very names now assembled against them.

Laseen returned to Anand. ‘High Fist?’

‘Their goal is the same as ours. Consolidation, step by step. Once they take Li Heng then they will threaten Cawn. Then the Kanese will join them for fear of being left behind and having no presence behind the new throne. From there it's a quick march on good roads to us.’

Into the silence following that Laseen asked, ‘Our options?’

‘We have only two. We can await them here and hope to break them, or meet them in the field and hope to break them there.’

‘Thank you, High Fist. First Sword, your assessment?’

Korbolo bared his clenched teeth. ‘To say that we have only two courses of action, to stay or to march, is too much of an oversimplification to be of any use at all! Of course that is true. Any fool can see this.’

Havva smiled her ironic agreement while Anand merely raised a brow.

‘What would be your advice?’

‘We must move, Empress. Your pardon, but this slow deliberation is seen by all as hesitation and weakness.’

‘Thank you, First Sword. Havva, your evaluation?’

The Empire's new High Mage steepled her fingers at her broad chest. ‘Empress, if there is any consolation to be gained from the thinning of our mage corps, it is that this sad state extends to our enemies as well. My compatriots and I are of the opinion that no mage of any stature can be fielded by them. Regrettably, they can say the same of us. That is, unless…’

Laseen's lips tightened white. ‘He is not to be counted on.’

‘I thought not. As do they, apparently, else they would not be proceeding. So, I shall strive to do my best. An option, though — perhaps a few of the cadre mages from our overseas holdings…’

‘No.’

‘No?’ This from Korbolo. ‘Why not? They are ours to command. If these nationalists have few mages as Havva claims, then should we not strengthen ourselves in this very regard? Strike them where they are weak. And on the subject — where is the Imperial Navy? Where is Admiral Nok? Why does he not simply land in Quon harbour, take the city?’

It seemed to Possum that Laseen met this outburst with amazing equanimity. She clasped her hands behind her back, as if mistrusting what she might be tempted to do. She cocked her head to Anand without taking her hooded gaze from Korbolo Dom. ‘Why would that be, High Fist?’

‘Because this Duchess would simply turn around, retake her city, and we'd be back to square one.’

‘Then Admiral Nok should-’

‘Enough!’

Possum flinched at the snap in that command. Korbolo, however, did not bother to disguise his seething frustration.

‘We are on our own, Sword of the Empire,’ Laseen said, her tone final. ‘My commands to Nok cannot be countered. I have given over to him maintenance of our overseas holdings. He is fully committed with the logistics of supply, troop transport, relief and reinforcement. Expect no succour. We must win back the continent, or be destroyed in the attempt.’

Throughout, Possum noted, Mallick had remained silent, pudgy hands clasped at his stomach, eyes downcast, his thick lips slightly pursed as if in thought. Now he raised his gaze, opened his hands. ‘Your orders, then, Empress?’

‘For now, as our military hierarchy suggests — gather forces. I want Unta province back under our control. I want those nobles back in the capital with their forces.’ Her gaze swung to Possum. ‘Clawmaster, take family members hostage to ensure cooperation, starting tonight.’

Possum smiled his acknowledgement.

‘In one sense time is now on our side. Theirs is an uneasy alliance of new rulers jealous of their independence. If we can hold out long enough it will unravel. We will do all we can to help that process along. Havva, Possum, send out missives to all your contacts arguing that Tali intends to reassert its old hegemony. Make overtures to Dal Hon. Send messages to the Bloorian nobles that the Gris have been promised their lands. Begin a campaign of mutual suspicion and disinformation that will leave them unable to recognize the truth.’

The High Mage and the Clawmaster bowed.

‘And Clawmaster,’ Laseen continued, ‘general intelligence?’

Possum shrugged dismissively. ‘The streets are awash in rumours, of course. But nothing worthy of following. One persistent story does seem to be gathering strength despite its improbability. There's talk of the Crimson Guard's return.’

Anand barked a laugh. ‘Every year they're supposed to show up. Those old tales resurface any time morale is low. They're like a dose of the clap. We never seem able to shake them off entirely.’

Laseen smiled thinly. ‘Then let us hope they do oblige us, High Fist. It will give us a chance to finally rid ourselves of them.’

‘You're so certain?’ This from Havva.

‘Yes. They'd be fools to come back, and K'azz was no fool.’

Possum noted Mallick watching Laseen more intently than during the entire meeting. The fat man's lips drew down in thought and he lowered his gaze.

‘This council has ended. You are dismissed.’

‘As the Empress commands,’ all responded, even Korbolo.

Laseen caught Possum's eye. ‘A word, Clawmaster.’

Possum held back while the others withdrew. Now his time had come. He could delay no longer. What would it be? Denial? Rage? He had to admit to a certain curiosity, even if he feared the cliched killing of the messenger. The door closed and he and the Empress were alone. She went to the single window, stood facing out, hands clasped at her back.

‘Your silence tells me all I need to know, Possum.’ She glanced back, sidelong. ‘You stand distant, close by the door. Am I that terrifying a tyrant?’

For the life of him, Possum did not know how to respond. Topper, now he would not have had any reservations. How familiar Topper had been with her! Or Pearl… he'd have some glib line. Ever ready with the facile patter that man had been. Like oral flatulence. But not Possum. His expertise was lying low. Now he was being called to creep out into the light. How bright the glare!

‘Names, Clawmaster.’

Possum cleared his throat, tried to speak, found his mouth too dry. He wondered distantly at this: fear for himself? Or pity for the pain he must convey? ‘Amaron,’ he managed. Toc the Elder, Choss and… Urko.’

‘So — Toc. He is this Seti warlord, is he not?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yet Anand does not know.’

‘No. Very few are aware — bad for morale, yes?’

Silence. A back so tense Possum imagined it incapable of flexing. Watching her standing there all alone taking this news of the betrayal of so many old companions, Possum settled on pity.

‘Leave me,’ she said, her voice still under ruthless control.

Possum bowed and exited pulling the door tight behind him. To the guards outside he said, ‘The Empress does not wish to be disturbed.’

On board Urko's flagship, the Genabackan barque Keth's Loss, Ullen watched the latest wave of Moranth Silver quorls, exhausted, come scudding in low over the waves to set down ever so daintily on shore. Made of spun glass, the giant dragonfly-like monsters seemed to him. Yet surprisingly sturdy. Each carried two riders, a handler and passenger, plus one small box — one exceedingly precious box. The riders dismounted and unloaded the quorl. The passenger, a Moranth Gold warrior, would assemble for transport in one of the ten contracted Moranth Blue galleys while the handler would take his mount to rest and eat. So elegant, Ullen reflected, the flying creatures with their four tissue-thin wings and long segmented tails. Until you see them eat. The damned monsters ate live prey.

A messenger presented papers for his inspection — objections regarding space for water requisition. Ullen scrawled ‘Maximum!’ and handed back the orders then returned to studying the foreigners. Forty more Gold warriors for Urko's grand alliance of the disaffected. Some two thousand of them now. And the last wave of recruitment, too. Word had come from Quon; events were far ahead of schedule. The fleet had to move now or risk becoming a footnote.

Further out to sea, beyond the anchorage, swift scout vessels already scoured the sea-lanes southward, securing the route of the hundred-vessel convoy that would sail this very night.

‘Watching our Genabackan allies, aren't you?’ came a woman's rich contralto. Ullen turned. Dominating the mid-deck beneath a shading canopy sat Urko's new mage cadre leader, the ample, midnight-hued Dal Honese witch, Bala Jesselt.

Ullen allowed himself a guarded nod. ‘Yes.’

‘Can we trust them, hmm? Why are they with us, yes? What are their goals?’

‘Yes? What are they? You are the mage.’

Bala shrugged her thick shoulders, fanned her face. ‘Well, who can say? Their minds work in strange ways.’

‘Strong allies for now though.’

‘Yes… for now.’

Ullen chose to overlook the opening — Bala was notorious for her innuendo and constant scheming for self-advancement. Her unbridled ambition had had her eliminated from the cadre long ago. No doubt Urko believed he could keep her in check, but Ullen wondered. Further messages arrived. Bala continued fanning her glistening sweaty face while Ullen answered each. ‘What of you?’ she asked as he struggled with the final order of sailing.

‘I'm sorry?’

Once Adjutant to Choss, now a mere staff-chief. A demotion, yes?’

Ullen returned the orders. He gave the new mage cadre leader his best smile. ‘I think of it as more of a sideways move.’

She sighed her disappointment, flicked her fan. ‘I suppose one must make the best of what little one can manage.’

‘Speaking of what little one can manage — what word from Li Heng or Dal Hon?’

The fan snapped shut. ‘Do not mock me! All of you should be grateful for my presence! If it were not for me shielding this fleet Admiral Nok would have sunk the lot of you.’

‘Nok is wholly preoccupied by the Seven Cities pacification. He is wise enough to keep to one war at a time.’

Bala's laugh shook her wide bosom. ‘What could you know of the mind of a commander as great as he?’

Ullen almost explained that he was Choss's adjutant and that Choss had been Nok's prote?ge? but he realized the effort would be lost on one such as this. He gratefully accepted the distraction of a Gold Moranth messenger arrived by launch. ‘Yes?’

‘Commander V'thell once again asks to be informed of our destination.’

‘Inform V'thell that for reasons of security no one but Urko knows our destination. Not even I know. Word will be given once the fleet is at sea.’

‘Very well. What of storms scattering the fleet?’

‘We will communicate by flag, lantern and,’ he nodded to Bala, ‘mage. What of your quorls?’

‘All the quorls will be returned. They hate the water.’

‘A shame that.’

The messenger bowed and climbed down the side to the waiting launch. Idly, Ullen wondered if a Moranth in all his armour would sink just as swiftly as any normal armoured man, and whether they were insane not to bow in any way to the altered circumstances of travel at sea.

A half-bell later he decided, reluctantly, that now was as good a time as any. He called to a flagman, ‘Signal for the larger vessels, the Blues, and the dromonds, to begin exiting the anchorage.’ The Dal Hon witch now had her sleepy-eyed attention on the captain's cabin containing Urko. The man was probably staying in there solely to avoid her. ‘What can you do to speed our passage?’ he asked her. ‘Events are moving faster than we.’

‘I? I am no Chem priestess. And the Warren of Mael is a mystery to me, thank Thesorma.’

Ullen rubbed his eyes. Why have the Gods cursed him so? ‘Do you know anyone who can be of help? Any of our associates or sympathizers?’

The fan slid open and resumed fluttering. ‘I will make inquiries.’

‘Thank you.’

As the day's light faded Ullen kept in communication with the fleet through the flag signalmen for as long as he could. Lanterns appeared more and more often, flashing their coded responses. All the while Bala's fan fluttered as a blur. Sometimes she seemed to whisper into it while at other times she wafted its wind over the side of her face. Ullen shaded his gaze to take in the distant huge Blue transports far out to sea. Impatient, that Gold commander, V'thell.

At one point Bala jerked as if pinched, biting back a gasp, and Ullen swung on her. ‘Yes?’

The fan resumed its blurred flashing. The puffed lazy eyes slid to the darkening horizon. ‘Strange scents from Stratem. Something there. Something very powerful. I smell it; even this far across the world.’

Stratem? Who gave a damn about Stratem? ‘Any word on who could help us with the crossing?’

She nodded. ‘A hint. A sympathizer in Unta. His representatives are open to the possibility. I think they want gold or political influence in return.’

Tell them that if they speed our passage they will get whatever they ask for.’

The Dal Hon witch appeared doubtful; she pursed her full lips. ‘I shall. But a dangerous promise. Who knows what they might ask for?’

‘I don't care if they ask for Hood himself. We've dawdled here assembling long enough. We must move.’

‘Very well. I will negotiate with this mage of Ruse.’

The refugees came streaming into Heng like drips of blood leaking down from the Seti plains. Atop the wall next to the Northern Plains Gate, the Gate of Doleful Regards, Captain Storo Matash, now Interim-Fist of the Malazan Garrison, watched the dusty knots of men, women and families while a sour ulcerous pain ate at his stomach. More mouths to feed. More souls to house. More voices to complain. And more potential traitors to watch. How many among this latest train of displaced settlers and traders were Seti agents and spies? Too many, no doubt. As if that new tribal warlord they've got out there needed any more spies in this leaking tub of a city.

A scrape of boots on stone and Silk stood next to him. ‘You should still be in bed recuperating,’ the mage told him.

‘I have no reason to complain. How's Rell doing?’

Silk grimaced in sympathetic pain. ‘Recovering. It's a miracle he's alive at all, let alone healing. I've requisitioned and pressed every skilled healer in the city into helping out. But even if he does recover completely there's nothing to be done for the scarring. The man lost most of the skin of his arms and face. High Denul can do only so much. For all that, though, he actually doesn't seem to mind. He's even practising to keep limber as he heals.’ Silk raised his hands in wonderment. ‘Simply amazing.’

‘Well, you move my bed up here and I'll lie down in it. In any case,’ Storo eyed the pale, sunken-eyed mage, ‘you look worse off than me.’

Silk shrugged, leant his weight against the stone crenellations. ‘Up all night with the saboteurs, helping to hide their work. They're making miracles all up and down the walls. Shaky's actually working. I don't think I've ever seen him work before.’

‘You too. Back in Genabackis, I always had the feeling you had one hand behind your back. That you weren't committed.’

A dry wind off the prairie tousled the mage's long blond hair. He pushed it back from his face. ‘Not my battle. This is.’

‘You proved that last week. Going to finally tell me what you did? I was out of it by then. Sunny claims the sun shone out of your arse and you farted everyone away.’

Silk could not keep a grin away. ‘Colourful. And not too inaccurate. No, all I did was summon the power of the old city temple and it responded with one last glow of its old reflected glory. That's all.’

‘And I'm Dessembrae the Lord of Tragedy.’

The mage shaded his gaze and studied the plain and distant dun-brown hills along the horizon. Storo shifted his own hard stare to share the view. ‘All right,’ he sighed. ‘There's the real worry.’ He rubbed his chest beneath his shirts, grimaced his pain. ‘Truth is I'm blind, Silk. I've no idea what's going on out there. Don't know how many men they have. Even where they are. There might be fifty thousand Seti tribesmen just over those damned hills and I haven't the faintest idea of it. Or at Unta. What's going on at the capital? Are reinforcements on their way? How much support can I expect?’ He spat over the wall. ‘It's a mess. A Hood-spawned bitch's-whelp of a mess.’

The mage gave a slow shrug of commiseration. ‘I'm sorry. I wish I could be more of a help. But that sort of scrying and communication over great distances is not my forte.’

‘Well, who in Utter Night can help? Isn't there another battle mage in the city? Have they found the garrison cadre mages yet?’

‘No. One was thought to have joined Orlat. The other disappeared that night, fled or killed by them. That leaves me.’ Silk paused; his gaze flicked to Storo. ‘There is one other who could be of help — if you'd accept.’

‘Who? Gods, I hope you don't mean that hag you got to help us before.’

‘Her name is Liss, Captain.’

‘Ah. Sorry, Silk.’ Wincing, Storo squeezed his side, drew an experimental breath. ‘How can she help?’

Silk raised his chin to the distant undulations of the Seti prairie. ‘She knows them, Fist. Knows them well. She was once one of their shamanesses — a Seer. I gather that they're actually rather frightened of her.’

‘So am I.’

A voice called from far along the wall, ‘Sergeant Storo!’ Silk and Storo turned. Magistrate Ehrlann approached, the servant at his side struggling to keep him within the shade of a wide umbrella.

‘Sergeant?’ Silk replied. ‘This man is senior officer of this Malazan command-’

Storo raised a hand to quiet Silk.

‘Yes, yes. All very well,’ allowed Ehrlann, waving negligently. ‘However, a ruling body recognized by the Throne really cannot afford to acknowledge a field-promotion until it is approved by military high command.’

‘And just when might that be?’ Silk asked, not even bothering to lighten his tone.

‘Why, when the paperwork comes through, of course,’ Ehrlann smiled.

Silk pointed to the prairie. ‘You do understand that the Imperial Warren is now closed to all. That no mage dare risk travelling any of the Warrens now that civil war is upon us. That the Kingdom of Cawn lies between us and Unta and that it has arisen in rebellion against the Imperial Throne!’

Magistrate Ehrlann frowned. ‘Well, then, it may take some time for the paperwork to reach us here.’

Storo clamped a hand on Silk's shoulder and squeezed hard. ‘Quite right, magistrate. The City High Court should call an emergency meeting to discuss its course of action. You must settle the positioning of troops, the strategy of the defences, the organization of the civilian population. You must commission a detailed inventory of all logistical necessities and the requisition of the funds to purchase them. And all that is just a beginning.’

Magistrate Ehrlann blinked at Storo, quite stunned. ‘Of course… well… the process has already begun in special committee-’

‘Then you'd best get back in case they decide on some idiotic course of action in your absence.’

Ehrlann smiled thinly. ‘Thank you. Yes.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Come, Jamaer.’ The magistrate swung to the stairs.

Storo watched them go then turned away to rest his forearms on the battlements once more. ‘Gods, they'll be talking until the Last Night is upon us.’ He addressed Silk. ‘Until that time comes, what do you suggest?’

‘I intend to find us some allies.’

‘Good. Please do. As many as possible.’

‘And Liss?’

Storo nodded his assent. ‘Tell her to keep those Seti shamans as far away as she can.’

Silk's smile was tight with suppressed pleasure. ‘Oh, she'll enjoy that a great deal, I'm sure.’ He bowed and went to the stairs. At the top he paused. ‘Fist, may I ask, just what is our defence strategy in any case?’

Our defence strategy? An odd one. Kill as many of the Seti bastards as is humanly possible.’

Ho was releaved to find that the newcomers to the Pit intended to keep a low profile. Thinking it over for a time, however, he realized that this worried him just as much. The two were acting less like the potential tyrants he feared, but more like the suspected spies he feared even more. Yet it all seemed too preposterous; an insignificant detail no doubt buried among the chaos and smoke of the uprising: why did Pit not rise in rebellion? Even after guards were pulled away to help pacify Skullcap, Pit remained a model of quiet. Why should this be? What could over a hundred mages, warlocks, seers, thaumaturgs and assorted talents possibly be up to? Not a thing, certainly, sir. No, nothing at all.

A council meeting would have been called to settle upon a course of action but the problem was the two would be sure to hear every word of the screaming matches yammering down the tunnels. And so Yath and his people kept watch; especially that eerie shadow of his, Sessin.

On his way to the minehead, Ho scratched the patches of dry raw skin on his arms and legs that so cursed all inhabitants of the Pit. They all had more than enough to keep themselves busy in any case. There was the question of what to do with Iffin; just two weeks ago the fellow was walking down a tunnel when he meets Sulp ‘Ul — a man he'd worked beside peaceably enough for nearly ten years — when suddenly Iffin reaches over and jabs a sharpened stick through Sulp's throat. Sulp dies choking on his own blood. We confine Iffin to a barred cave and question him. Turns out it was a family vendetta from the old Cawn-Itko Kan border wars from before the Empire. And Iffin wasn't even old enough to remember those days!

Hopping to scratch one ankle, Ho had to shake his head. He'd thought those old rivalries and hatreds had all gone the way of the Jaghut. But now, with rumours arriving of nations seceding from the Empire — Quon, Dal Hon, Gris — and every week the list seeming to grow longer, old, long-quiescent hatreds and rivalries were now raising their noses and sniffing the wind. All the old festering slights that only the heel of the emperor manged to quell. Ho could only dread what was to come if the continent returned to its old destructive ways of shifting alliances and the never-ending feud for dominance.

At the great round of the mine-head he spotted the two newcomers silently staring upwards at the circle of clear blue sky overhead. Or so it seemed to any casual observer — to Ho it looked more like they were studying the crumbling, rotten stone of the walls searching for a way up. He came up behind them. ‘Those walls won't support the weight of a man.’

The one who gave his name as Grief slowly turned his head to give Ho a long hard stare. ‘Looks that way.’

‘If I were you I wouldn't waste my time trying to scare up an escape plan. Escape attempts only bring reprisals for the rest of us.’

The one named Treat turned around fully. ‘You warnin’ us? Gonna turn us in?’

The Napan, Grief, briefly rested a hand on the arm of Treat who eased back a step. So, not equals. This Grief — what a ridiculous name to give! — seemed to outrank his companion. Ho shook his head. ‘No. You'll notice there's no one to turn you in to. I'm just asking that you try to keep the welfare of everyone here in mind.’

A broad secretive smile lifted Grief's lips and he bowed his assent to Ho. ‘Good idea. We'll try to do just that.’ He patted his companion on the arm and they walked off leaving Ho to watch them go, wondering, what did the fellow mean by that — if anything?

Turning away, Ho walked straight into the lean but dense form of Sessin. The tanned Seven Cities native glowered down at him. ‘What did he say?’ he demanded in thickly accented Talian.

‘Nothing significant.’ Ho scratched at his scalp. Gods, here he was answering to the man as if he were an Official Inquisitor. ‘Listen, do you do this all day? Just follow them around? Aren't they suspicious?’

The scowl edged into a sneer. ‘Where would they go?’

OK. The man had a point there. So, they know, he knows, and they know he knows.

‘Yath has judged. If they find out anything we will kill them.’

Yath has judged that, has he? Well, he'd have to have a word with the man about that. As for killing those two, something told Ho they could take a whole lot of killing.

While Traveller slept inside the hut Ereko sat cross-legged in the doorway watching the Moon, strangely mottled as of late, reflecting from the surf. The violent predations of these Edur and Traveller's extreme response had stirred dusty memories in him; ones he'd hoped were buried for ever. Memories that still wrenched after millennia. Memories of ancient vows and the violence of further extreme solutions. Vows of absolute extermination levelled against a people, and answering vows of vengeance. Could a similar cycle of destruction be born out of this new exchange? How similar the ages remain despite the passage of aeons. How disheartening!

Brooding upon what had he worked so hard to put behind him for ever, Ereko saw ghosts. For an instant he thought them his own — phantom memories of friends and family long gone — but these were human. Since descending the mountains he'd glimpsed them some nights in the woods. Pallid shadows. Always they lingered nearby, drawn to them — to Traveller certainly — but unwilling or unable to approach. Perhaps Traveller could not see them; he'd yet to remark upon them.

Perhaps it was the blood still wet upon the sands and the presence of alien spirits now wandering these shores, but this night they assembled out among the sighing grasses beyond the glow of the driftwood fire in numbers far greater than any Ereko had yet glimpsed. A troop of opalescent shades. Soldiers in damaged armour revealing ghastly death-wounds. One held a ragged banner that hung limp from a cross-piece: the snake-like twisting of a shimmering bright dragon against a dark field.

More and more congregated. A spectral host. A great battle must have ravaged this coast some time in history. Somehow, Traveller's presence seemed to call to them. Their empty spirits lusted for his essence. Eyes like torn openings into unending desolation fixed past Ereko into the dark of the hut. Clawed hands reached…

Ereko waved them away with the back of a hand. He whispered, ‘Be gone spirits! Trouble not the living with your old hatreds.’ Sleep, rest, wait. Be patient. Wait long enough and your time will come. Was he not living proof?

The spectres dispersed. Some sank into the earth, others drifted away. One remained, however. The standard-bearer. Tall he must've been in life, for a human. He closed upon Ereko. A horrific wound had carried away half his skull. The empty pits of his eyes fixed upon him.

‘My name is Surat,’ came his words, achingly faint — such potent yearning to cross an unbridgeable distance. Great must have been this one's power in life. They come,’ he intoned.

‘Who comes?’

‘The Diaspora ends. The Guard returns. The appointed time has come to us.’ He pointed to the hut. ‘This one shall be destroyed.’

‘What is he to you now?’

Silence, a coldness that bit even at Ereko. ‘Malazan.’

‘Whatever he once was he has given all that up now. He is Malazan no longer. Now, I do not even know what he is.’

The empty pits regarded Ereko and he believed he saw in their depths utter uninterest. ‘The Vow remains.’

A strange emotion stirred in Ereko's stomach then, roused the hairs upon his neck and forearms. It took him a time to recognize it, so long had it been. Anger. Fury at the plain uselessness of hatreds carried beyond life. Who were these Crimson Guardsmen to awaken such an emotion within him? ‘Then you are fools! Put aside your old rivalries, your precious feuds. But you cannot… You dare not release your desperate grip. Without them you would be nothing… They are all you have left. Not even Death awaits you now.’

Ghost hands shifted on the haft of the lifeless banner. ‘He waits for you. He is close now. Closer than you think.’

‘There are few walking the world today whom I fear.’ Ereko's words were trite but he was intrigued and, he must admit, tense with a new emotion, a touch of dread.

‘Such a one you will meet.’

The tension drained from him in a gust of exhalation. Nothing new. No revelations. No darkness dispelled. That meeting was foretold before humans walked these lands, Surat. You have nothing of interest to me.’

He waved the spectre away. It sank, reluctantly, into the windswept grasses. As it disappeared it raised a hand, accusing: ‘That one leads you to Him.’

Ereko nodded. ‘That was the promise made long ago.’

Late in the evening, leaning his chair back against the shack of the Untan harbour guard, Nait banged a knuckle on the clapboard slats.

‘What is it?’ Sergeant Tinsmith grumbled.

‘Ship just tied up. Looks like that tub, the Rag-what's it. The Ragstopper?

‘The Ragstopper sank. Could be his new one, the Ragstopper.’

Chair legs thumped to the dock. ‘New? You gotta be kidding me.’

‘All his new ships are old. He buys them new old. He says he likes them worn in; says they know what to do then.’

Nait shifted the bird's bone he chewed from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘Well, this one looks like it knows what to do, an’ that's sink.’

Sergeant Tinsmith came to the open doorway. His white moustache hung to either side of his turned-down mouth. Deep fissures framed the mouth, lancing beneath narrowed brown eyes. ‘All right then,’ he sighed. ‘Let's have a look. Get the boys rousted.’

Jogging, Nait crossed to a row of waterfront three-storey buildings housing poor merchants, flophouses, inns and a Custom House. The building he headed to featured a tall wooden figurehead cut from a man-o‘-war and subsequently vandalized by countless knives and fists until all semblance of its original build, paint and gilt were gone. All that remained were two clawed feet, perhaps of some demon or fantastic bird. This tavern, The Figurehead, the harbour guard had adopted as their billet. He found a band of the guard sitting around a table engrossed in a game of troughs. Corporal Hands had just thrown. Nait took the bird legbone from his mouth. ‘The old man says to get your gear.’ Hands snatched up the knucklebone dice. Yells burst from around the table.

‘Hey! That was a six,’ said Honey Boy. ‘Make the move.’

Hands slipped the dice into a pouch. ‘You heard the man — get your gear.’

The biggest man at the table, a Barghast warrior, straightened to his feet, banging the table in the process and sending the counters dancing. Yells of fresh outrage. A shaggy black bhederin cloak hung at his shoulders making them almost as wide as a horse. Twists of cloth and totems swung and clattered in his matted hair. ‘You count that throw or I'll use your head.’

‘No fighting, Least,’ said Hands.

Least frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Because I might get hurt.’ Hands picked up her weaponbelt from the back of her chair. ‘What's it about?’ she asked Nait.

‘How the fuck should I know?’

‘Hey! What'd I tell you about that swearing. No swearing.’

Nait walked away. ‘Hood on his bone throne! Who the fuck cares?’

Outside Nait stood studying the moonlit forest of masts crowding the harbour. A lot of traffic, even for this time of the season. War was always good for business. He hoped the harbourmaster was keeping his books in good order; their cut had better be up to date. The majority of the company on duty that night came shuffling out, pulling on their guard surcoats and rearranging belts and hauberks. Hands led the way up the dock to Tinsmith who waited, a leather vest over his shirt, long-knives at his waist.

‘Let's go.’

They walked down the pier to the newly berthed ship. It looked worse the closer they got. Nait wondered if it was the original Ragstopper drawn up from the bottom of whatever sea it was that took it. ‘Cap'n!’ Tinsmith called up to the apparently empty deck. A rat waddled along the gunwale.

‘Maybe that's him,’ suggested Honey Boy.

‘No, he's a bigger one,’ said Tinsmith, sounding tired by the whole thing.

A head popped up into view from the stern. Wild greasy hair framed a pale smear of a face, eyes bulging. ‘What in the Twins’ name do you want?’

‘Harbour guard. You carrying any contraband?’

The man straightened, lurched to the gunwale, clenched the stained wood in a white-knuckled grip. ‘Contraband? Contraband! I wish we were! Tons of it! D'bayang poppy! Moranth blood liquor! White nectar! Barrels of it! Anything! But no! I'll tell you what we're carrying — Nothing! Not a stitch! The full bounteous mercy of Hood we have in our hold! No! Off we go sailing from port to port — empty! It's a crime I'm telling you! A crime!’

Least tapped a blunt finger to his temple. Honey Boy nodded. ‘Back home among your people someone like that would be sacred or something, right?’

‘No. Back home we'd just kick the shit out of him.’

‘What in the infinite Abyss is all the yellin'?’ An old man, his face the pale blue cast of a Napan, came to the gunwale. He was wincing, scratching at a halo of white hair standing in all directions, and wore a white patchy beard to match.

‘’Evening, Cap'n,’ said Tinsmith.

‘Eh? Who's that?’ The man caught sight of Tinsmith, winced anew. ‘Oh, it's you.’ He waved to the squad. ‘Why the army? There's no need for all this between us old friends.’

‘These days I'm in charge of the peace down here along the waterfront, Cap'n. Passing strange you showing up here and now. There's those who'd like to know.’

The captain dragged his fingers through his beard. His tongue worked around his mouth like it was hunting down a bad taste. ‘But you wouldn't do that to an old comrade, now would you?’

‘No, I wouldn't. Unless there was trouble. Don't like trouble.’

The captain brightened. ‘No trouble at all, Smithy. No trouble at all. Just come to do some salvage work here in the harbour. Gettin’ a little low on funds these days, I am.’

‘Because the blasted hold is empty, that's why!’ the sailor screamed. ‘You damned senile-’

A wooden belaying pin ricocheted from the sailor's head; he disappeared behind the gunwale. The captain lowered his arm. ‘Quiet, Tillin. Won't have no insolence on board the Ragstopper.’

Sergeant Tinsmith gave a long slow shake of his head. ‘Haven't changed a bit I see, Cartharon.’

Captain Cartharon's smile was savage. ‘Caught you a few times, hey, Smithy? I never miss.’

On the way back to the Figurehead, Hands asked Tinsmith, ‘What did that crazy old guy mean, he was after salvage in the harbour?’

Tinsmith traced a finger over his moustache. ‘Salvage. There's more cargo ‘n’ ships sunk in this bay than anyone can guess and that old guy had a hand in the sinking of most of it. Maybe just for such an eventuality. Anyways, we'll keep a close eye on him. And Hands…’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘That name stays with us in the company.’

‘Yes, sir. Why? Might someone recognize it?’

At the door to the guardhouse the old sergeant stopped. He watched his corporal for a time, an unreadable expression on his long dour face. ‘Double the watch, corporal. I'll be inside. I need a drink.’

‘Yes, sir.’

More than just Kyle were relieved when it became clear that Skinner intended to keep to the ruins that had once been Fortress Haven. But it did make life hard for Kyle for a number of days as second and third investiture men — all those recruited into the Guard since the original Vow — kept coming around asking what the man was like. ‘Pretty damned scary’ was the answer they liked the best. Skinner had brought through a few of his Avowed. Names the Guardsmen whispered around the campfires in tones of awe: a Kartoolan master swordsman named Shijel, and a Napan named Black the Lesser. He'd also brought over his own personal bodyguard of Avowed mages, Mara, Gwynn and Petal, all of whom, Stoop said, now stayed busy masking everyone's presence from any sorcerous probings. Shimmer once came ashore and climbed the stairs into the ruins for a meet. Kyle wondered if was just him, but when she'd come back down she'd looked shaken.

Another ship had arrived. A foreign vessel storm-battered and listing, its masts shattered. Rumour was the twelve Avowed it held had rowed night and day across half the world. Coming ashore they'd looked the part — emaciated, exhausted, dressed in rags. But the second and third investiture men were jubilant. Apparently the number of Avowed now with the Guard had passed seventy. The men were of the opinion that nothing would stop them now. Kyle couldn't help reflecting that while he knew the Avowed were the nastiest news around, why did it look like they always had their arses kicked?

The days passed in a numbing round of training and practice. New recruits had to be integrated into the Guard. More local recruits came trickling in from the upriver settlements, small villages and homesteads, all eager to join — if only for the chance to get away from their lives here — but numbering far fewer than Kyle thought Shimmer and other of the Avowed had expected.

Two weeks after Skinner's arrival, word came that the other ships of the crossing from Bael were now close after having stopped for repairs and that not one had been lost in the storms. It seemed that the sea was inclined to be kind to the Guard. That night in the squad's shared hut Stoop woke Kyle when he jerked upright from his blankets cursing as if burned. ‘What is it?’ Kyle whispered.

‘Nothing,’ he answered, surprised to see Kyle awake. ‘Get back to sleep.’

Kyle lay down but kept one eye open. Stoop dressed hurredly, then stamped out into the night. After debating things for a time Kyle finally threw himself out after him. He was bored, frankly, and Stalker had warned him to keep an eye out for anything unusual.

He found that he'd waited too long; Stoop was out of sight. The old saboteur had been heading into the woods though. Kyle snuck along, easily evading one picket. He was surprised, and a little disappointed, to find that while these Guardsmen might be hardened professional soldiers, woodsmen or scouts they certainly weren't. Lying still on the cold damp moss he stilled his breath and listened — after his hearing adjusted to the night sounds he heard voices murmuring deeper into the woods. Staying low, he edged ahead.

As it turned out he needn't have worried about sneaking up: a full-blown argument between three Avowed was raging in a clearing of tall weeds. Stoop was there, with Skinner and, the hairs on Kyle's forearms rose in a tingle, Cowl. What was he doing here? Last he'd heard that man should be days from shore.

‘I don't like the way talk here's going, Cowl,’ Stoop was saying. ‘We have to keep up the search for the Duke.’

‘That's always been your priority, Stoop,’ Cowl answered, sounding dismissive. ‘What about you, Skinner? What's your opinion on the matter?’

‘There is no need. The Dolmans remain.’

‘No need?’ Stoop echoed outraged. ‘What in Hood's grin does that mean? Dolmans? What're you two dancing around here like a couple o’ Talian whores?’

‘Dancing around?’ asked Cowl. ‘Why nothing, Stoop. There can't be anything hidden between us old campaigners, now can there?’

‘Then why bar all our brothers and sisters from this meet? Even the Brethren?’

The Guard's High Mage and Master Assassin eyed Stoop in silence. He clasped his hands behind his back. Skinner, for his part, hadn't moved the entire time Kyle had been watching; the man stood with his arms crossed, feet planted firmly wide apart, as still as a statue of iron. ‘This is a command discussion between myself and Skinner,’ Cowl finally said.

‘Don't pull that shit with me,’ Stoop answered. ‘I was siegemaster to K'azz and his father afore him. Strickly speaking I out-rank you.’

Kyle was amazed; siegemaster to the Guard? He wished he'd paid more attention when the old man had held forth on various topics the way he always seemed to.

Cowl now paced the clearing, a gloved hand brushing at the dark tattoos down his chin. ‘Yes, now that you bring that up, that does remain a problem for us. What to do about it, hmm, Stoop?’

The old saboteur eyed Cowl, puzzled. ‘What're you gettin’ at?’

The mage's pacing had brought him to a point where Skinner now stood to Stoop's rear. Kyle saw it even as it happened. The huge commander moved with astonishing speed; he drew and thrust in one move, his blade bursting through Stoop's chest. Kyle gasped as if that very blade had pierced him.

The mage's gaze snapped to the brush disguising Kyle's hiding place. ‘Finish Stoop,’ he snarled. ‘I'll deal with this one.’

Kyle could only stare, stunned, utterly immobile. What was going on? He knew he should run, but how could he possibly escape the Guard's premier mage and assassin? Stoop broke the spell by lashing out and slapping his hand to Cowl's wrist.

‘Takes more than that to kill an Avowed, Cowl,’ he ground out through clenched teeth. Or have you fogotten?’

Skinner tore his blade free. Stoop grunted but held on. ‘Run lad! I've got a good grip o’ this snake.’

‘Finish him!’ Cowl bellowed to Skinner.

Kyle ran. In the clearing behind, Skinner raised his blade.

Not far from the clearing a huge figure rose from the darkness to take Kyle's arm. His heart jumping to his throat, Kyle moved to draw his weapon — the man's hand shifted to push the blade down in its sheath. ‘What's the fright, lad?’ the figure asked.

Kyle saw it was Greymane, Ogilvy, the Genabackan veteran, with him and he struggled to find the words. ‘Back in the woods — Skinner killed Stoop! He and Cowl!’

Greymane's gaze flicked to Ogilvy. ‘We heard nothing.’

‘They're coming… please!’

Greymane rubbed a finger along his flattened broken nose in thought. A nod of his head gave Kyle permission to pass. ‘I'll see about this. You go on now.’

Kyle ran, not pausing to thank the man. He struck south through the gloom of the woods, avoiding any trail, trusting to the broken moonlight to guide his path. At times he thought he glimpsed figures moving through the dense forest around him. At other times magery flashed in the distances, killing his night vision, and echoing distant thunder. He had no idea why Cowl nor any of the other Guard mages had not yet found him. There must be some explanation. But for now he had no time to think about such things. Now, all that concerned him was when to end this diversion south to strike west into the interior, and how long could he keep this punishing pace given the weeks spent crammed in that ship? He also tried not to think about just how many Guardsmen and Avowed might be at this moment on his trail.

Kyle had grown up running; for days on end he'd jogged after game across the plains of his youth. He'd run from and chased the raiding parties of neighbouring tribes. That sinewy endurance saw him through now, as it was not until the night of the third day of alternating dog-trotting and running that his numb legs collapsed under him and he was too exhausted even to push himself up. He slept where he fell.

While Kyle's body may have been drained beyond all exhaustion, his mind was not. Strange, otherwordly dreams possessed him. Images and colours swirled before his mind's eye. He dreamed the darkness that filled his vision assaulted him; he fought it with a power that drove it back yet entities emerged from within to attack. He and they fought with all manner of limbs, talons, claws and teeth. They wrapped themselves around each other squeezing and tearing. Shapes blended, melded, in a ferocious roiling battle in a dark sky that seemed to have no end or beginning. The enormity of the confrontation numbed him; he could not grasp it. He seemed to float for a time, insensate.

Then, in his dreams it was as if Stoop was still alive: the old saboteur came and knelt at his side. ‘Time to wake up, lad,’ he said. ‘The enemy's coming. T'ain't safe. This is my last warning, I'm sorry. That snake Cowl's sent me off. But I promise I'll try to make it back. Now, wake up — they've found you’

Coughing, groaning, Kyle forced open his eyes and he awoke wincing, surprised that he was still alive, the sun high. He was not alone; a Dal Hon woman stood to one side, hands hidden in the folds of her robes that she wore bunched over one shoulder. Her kinky black hair hung in thick strands that covered her shoulders like foam. Mara, one of Skinner's Avowed mages.

A smile quirked up her full lips. ‘So, now that you are rested we can have a conversation, can we not, little rabbit? Such as who you truly work for, yes?’

Kyle was too weak to care; he hadn't eaten in three days. ‘Work for? What in Father Sky do you mean?’

‘I mean that you have eluded the combined efforts of over twelve mages to locate you and we are now very intrigued — who could possibly be so potent? What power has taken enough of an interest in the Guard to plant a spy among us, hmm? Tell me now, little rabbit, for you surely will later. Who do you work for?’

Kyle gaped up at the woman. ‘Spy? I'm no spy.’

Frowning, Mara drew her hands from the folds of her robes. ‘Very well. I find interrogations distasteful, but you leave me no choice. I-’

She broke off, turning to where a crash of undergrowth preceded the arrival of a man who leant against a tree, gasping in air, his leather vest dark with sweat, twigs in his wild grizzled hair. One of the two fellows always hanging out with Stalker, Badlands. ‘Damn,’ he breathed, ‘but you can run, lad.’

Mara lowered her hands. ‘You were supposed to have tracked him down by now.’

Hands on his knees he bared his teeth. ‘Guess I'm gettin’ old.’

‘Where is-’

‘Here.’

Both Mara and Kyle flinched, surprised to see Stalker crouched opposite from where Badlands had crashed in with so much noise.

‘And here.’

Mara turned; the other fellow, Coots, now leaned against a tree behind her. Her mouth tightened. She adjusted the robes at her shoulder. ‘Better late then never, I imagine. Perhaps now we could return him alive for questioning.’

‘Questions regarding what?’ Stalker asked, straightening.

‘What power has extended his — or her — protection over him. Who is spying upon us.’

‘Not questions ‘bout why he killed Stoop?’

‘I did not-’ Kyle began but Badlands motioned for his silence.

The Avowed mage paused, the tip of her tongue emerged to touch her upper lip. She turned in place, eyeing the three men surrounding her. ‘Of course… that as well… is of great concern to us…’

Coots and Badlands leapt, drawing knives in the air. Mara gestured, yelling, to disappear into darkness as the men landed in a tangle where she'd stood. They helped each other to their feet.

‘Suspicious bitch,’ Stalker spat into the long silence that followed the echoes of the Warren closing.

Kyle gaped anew from man to man. What in the name of all these foreign Gods was going on?

‘They'll be back,’ said Coots.

‘In force,’ from Badlands.

‘No more questions neither,’ finished Stalker.

Badlands and Coots nodded and took off running into the forest. Stalker pulled Kyle to his feet. ‘Let's go.’

‘Wait! What's-’

The scout yanked Kyle onward. ‘Move.’

Kyle wrenched his arm free. ‘What's going on, damn you!’

Stalker grimaced his irritation. ‘They'll be comin’ back, Kyle. Maybe Cowl himself. We have to move, now.’

‘While we go then.’

A curt nod and the scout headed out, following Badlands and Coots. ‘I didn't kill Stoop,’ Kyle began, pushing aside branches and jumping fallen trunks.

‘That's their story,’ answered Stalker. ‘You killed him ‘n’ ran.’

‘Who'd believe that?’

A shrug from the scout as he trotted along. ‘Don't matter. That renegade, Greymane, he doesn't seem convinced. But it's official. What can they do?’

‘What about you three? Why attack Mara? What's it to you?’

The tall scout held up a hand for a halt, crouched behind cover, peering behind them. Kyle joined him. They listened, trying to dampen their breathing. After a moment Stalker straightened. He yanked the pin from the breast of his leathers: the silver dragon sigil of the Crimson Guard. He tossed it aside. ‘Me ‘n’ the boys, we never really were cut out for this mercenary business. We don't think much of fighting for money or power. We fight for other things.’

Kyle realized that he still wore his sigil. Somehow, he could not bring himself to throw it away. ‘So what now?’

Stalker shrugged. ‘Get the Abyss away from here. Clear some land.’ He offered a one-sided smile. ‘Raise chickens. C'mon, my brothers won't wait for ever.’

‘Brothers?’

‘Brothers, cousins, call it what you will. We're all descended from one big family. The Lost. That's us. Welcome to the family.’ The scout cuffed Kyle on his back and jogged off.

Lost. Well, that's just great. Wonderful! Not only was he a renegade, disbanded and hunted. He was now lost too, by adoption. Shaking his head at the strange rightness of it all he set off as well, hurrying to catch up. Before them stretched league after league of boreal forest. The western reach of the Stratem subcontinent.