Stonewielder

CHAPTER VI

After the tenth wave of the night Lord Protector Hiam discovered his endurance was failing him. Times were he could stand two watches of back-to-back fighting without feeling the strain. But in the weakened parry of a Rider’s lance-thrust, his spear nearly wrenched from his grasp, he saw instantly that he would not last to the dawn.

He abandoned the counter-strike, readying instead, content to let that Rider slide past. The men of his bodyguard urged it on. Yet there was no time to recuperate as the next wave came crashing in far higher than he could ever remember this early in the season. It inundated the lowest defences. Hiam charged down where Chosen wallowed in the knee-deep, frigid water. Riders now walked the outer machicolations. Their shell-like scaled armour hung as ragged skirting all the way down to the waters. They dropped their lances and drew saw-bladed longswords.

He and his six bodyguards crashed into the Riders like their own wave. Hiam faced one, lunging high to draw his parry while his bodyguard thrust low to impale the demon, who grunted and grasped the spear, only to have his hand slashed as the guard yanked free the broad leaf-shaped blade. This one fell into the shallow water to dissolve like ice rotting. Another Rider shook off the attacks of two Chosen to charge Hiam. He parried the Rider’s swing but the ice-blade caught at the haft of his spear like a gripping fist to heave it aside.

A kind of calm acceptance took Hiam then. The Rider was inside his guard — this was how it should end for him. The fiend’s sword swung, but a spear from a guard deflected the blade enough for it to clash from Hiam’s full helm like a bell. The blow brought him to one knee.

His guards pressed close, defending. Hiam regained his footing, launched his spear at the Rider then shrugged his broad round shield from his back and drew his thrusting blade. By this time his guards had finished the last Rider.

So be it. The spirit is willing but age has wrought its betrayal. Imagine, to have survived nearly thirty seasons upon the wall only to fall to so pedestrian an enemy — the snail’s crawl of the years.

Out amid the chop of the surging breakers the Riders did not press their advantage. The nearest reined in its horse-like mount of glowing sapphire ice and pearl-like spume to sink beneath the surface. As it went Hiam believed he saw it raise its lance in salute. Lady damn them for this facade of honour and courtesy. They fool no one.

The attack upon this section of the wall was over for now. A tap on his shoulder let the Lord Protector know his shift might as well end. He rotated out, accompanied by his guard of six, back to the marshalling walk behind the layered walltop defences. Shaking, he drew off his lined gauntlets to warm his hands over a nearby brazier. He told himself the shaking was the cold… only the cold.

I’m slowing. Twice the age of these men around me. Might not last the season. All it takes is one mistake, or the mounting sluggishness of exhaustion. Better this way, though. Better to fall now on the ramparts than perhaps to live to see… No! That is unworthy — Lady forgive me! Now is my trial of weakness.

He pushed down his steaming hands until the heat seared them and he groaned, yanking them away. Tears started from his eyes. How I will miss these men! He felt as if his heart were squeezing to a knot in his chest. That is my regret. That I will share no more time with my brothers. These are the best of men. Our cause is just and our hearts are pure.

Other hands extended over the charcoal embers and Hiam glanced up to see Wall Marshal Quint eyeing him with narrowed gaze.

‘A close one,’ Quint murmured.

Hiam cleared his throat. ‘Shouldn’t have been. I just lost my footing.’

Not even deigning to honour that with a response, Quint watched him from over the embers.

‘You have a report?’ Hiam asked, rather testily.

A slow nod. ‘Trouble in the west. Out near the Wind Tower. Seven fell in one shift — a run of bad luck.’

Hiam straightened, alarmed. ‘And?’

‘Marshal Real was there. He called for the Lady’s grace — and was answered. He held until relief arrived.’

Grunting his understanding, Hiam relaxed. ‘I see. Bless him then. The Lady has gathered him to her. May he sit as one of the Holy Martyrs.’

Quint nodded again. ‘She judged him worthy.’

‘And our champion. How is he doing?’

‘He has roused himself. We should squeeze another season out of him after all.’

‘Excellent. That frees up a lot of men.’

‘Yes. And you — just what did you think you were doing down there?’

Hiam drew his cloak more tightly about his shoulders. ‘Helping out.’

‘Damn foolishness is what that was. Throwing yourself away. Don’t do that. We all need you. The men need to know you’re here watching over them. That alone is worth a thousand spears.’

Hiam was quite impressed by his old friend’s burst of loquaciousness. It was the most he’d heard out of him in years. He smiled chidingly at the scowling Wall Marshal. ‘Why, Quint… if I didn’t know better I’d think you were worried.’

‘Ha! I want you out of the action. Am I going to have to post a guard on you?’

‘You wouldn’t do that.’

‘You know I would and you know it’s within my rights.’

It is at that. The Wall Marshal was meant as a counter-weight to the Lord Protector — and his judge also, if need be.

To change the subject Hiam asked, ‘Any word from Master Stimins?’

Quint snorted his contempt. ‘Came across him on the Rampart of the Stars. Lying prostrate he was, ear to the stones. Says he was listening to the wall. Mad as a barking cat.’

Hiam smiled, imagining the confrontation. Quint’s outrage. Stimins’ complete confusion in the face of it.

Quint turned his head aside, drawing Hiam’s gaze to an approaching runner. The man jogged straight up, extending a folded slip. Hiam thanked him and took the missive.

Emissary from Overlord of Fist. Must talk. Shool.

Hiam nodded to the runner. ‘I will accompany you back.’ To Quint: ‘You have the wall, Marshal.’

Quint’s scarred face twisted even further. ‘It’s about damned time.’

It was after dawn when Hiam and the messenger reached the Great Tower. The Lord Protector was clenching his teeth against the sour bile of exhaustion and he managed the last few trotting leagues on blind will alone. Reaching the door he nodded stiffly to the messenger, dismissing him without daring to risk a word. Within, he leaned back upon the door to suck in great lungfuls of the warmer air and tried to swallow to wet his parched throat. A guard approached and he knelt, adjusting the studded leather wraps and his greaves. Seeing him, the guard, a Chosen veteran, stood to attention. ‘Sir!’

Hiam straightened, nodded to acknowledge the man then edged back the folds of his cloak and drew off his full helm. He pushed a hand through his icy sweat-soaked hair. ‘Hot out there tonight, Chenal.’

‘And me stuck in here.’

‘No matter — more than enough for all of us. Tomorrow, yes?’

‘Aye. Tomorrow.’

‘Guests?’

Chenal raised his gaze to the ceiling. ‘Claims to be Roolian. But he’s one o’ them invaders from way back. Plain as the nose on his face.’

‘Thank you, Chenal. Give them my regards tomorrow.’

‘That I will, doubly.’ He saluted, fist to heart. ‘Lord Protector!’

Hiam answered the salute, headed to the circular stairs. He took his time. He wiped his face on his cloak as he climbed, steadied his breath. Outside the door he paused, then slowly pushed it open. Within, Marshal Shool leapt to his feet, saluting. ‘Lord Protector!’ Another man wheeled, startled from where he stood warming himself at the fireplace. The moment he turned Hiam knew him as Malazan, as his skin ran to a far darker hue than the coffee brown common among many of this region. He was wrapped in furred cloaks and wore thick boots, and a fur hat rested on a chair nearby.

Hiam acknowledged Shool, who extended a hand to the guest: ‘Lord Hurback, emissary of the Overlord of Fist.’

Hiam bowed, placed his helm on the narrow table next to the door, set his shield on a stand, then hung his cloak. ‘Lord Hurback. You are most welcome.’

Hurback bowed also, then his thick black brows wrinkled in confusion. ‘You have seen fighting, Lord Protector?’

Hiam went to a sideboard, poured himself a cup of tea, picked up a slice of black bread. ‘Of course. Every brother — and sister — of the Stormguard fights. During the season none is away from the wall for more than a day.’

‘Of course,’ the emissary echoed weakly. ‘How commendable.’

Hiam invited him to sit before his plain wooden desk and slid in behind. He tried not to show the relief he felt as he eased his weight from his aching legs. Shool bowed and moved to leave; Hiam gestured that he should remain.

‘To what do we owe the honour of your visit, m’lord?’

The man sat, taking care to straighten his fur-trimmed robes. Ermine and wolf, so it appeared to Hiam. His curly black hair was greased to a bright shine and rings set with red stones glittered at his fingers. Hiam reflected that this was perhaps the first of these invader Malazans he’d met who wasn’t in chains at the wall. They sell their own as readily as they sell any other — remember that, Hiam.

‘I bear a personal missive direct from Overlord Yeull. I have been entrusted with its contents and have been instructed to offer any further clarification as needed.’

Full of his intimacy with this self-styled Overlord, isn’t this one… Hiam eyed his cot waiting for him across the room. Why didn’t he just hand over the damned thing? ‘He is well, I hope? Any word from our Mare allies regarding these renewed Malazan aggressions?’

The emissary goggled at him, clearly startled beyond words. What do they think we are here? Brainless brutes? Our intelligence service is vastly superior to theirs. Across these lands every adherent of the Lady knows where their loyalties ought to lie. With us. Those whose blood defends them.

‘The Lord Protector is eminently well informed,’ the emissary managed. ‘Reports are that they have broken the invading fleet and that only a few stray vessels managed to land on Skolati shores.’

That is not what our sources in Mare are reporting. So, landings are confirmed. A thought struck the Lord Protector and he almost glared at the hapless emissary: Lady forgive them! He hasn’t come to request troops to help defend Rool, surely!

Struggling to keep his voice level, he asked, ‘And what can we in Korel do for the Overlord?’

An expression flitted across Lord Hurback’s broad flat face, one Hiam was unaccustomed to seeing opposite him: a kind of vain smugness. The emissary extended the sealed vellum missive. ‘You shall see, Lord Protector.’

Vaguely troubled by the man’s manner, Hiam broke the seal, opened the folds, and read. It was some time before he looked up again. ‘Is this true?’ he breathed, stunned and perplexed. ‘The Overlord pledges ten thousand fighting men for the wall? Even now? Facing invasion? This does not make sense…’

In the face of the Lord Protector’s amazement, the emissary’s self-satisfaction returned. He shrugged as if to dismiss the offer as inconsequential between friends. ‘It makes perfect sense, Lord Protector. As you know, we in Rool cleave tightly to the Blessed Lady — more so than many of our erstwhile allies, yes? We know this land’s true enemy. And we are concerned. This pledge is a measure of that concern.’

And what, dear Lady, does Yeull expect in return? Yet… ten thousand! Half again our entire remaining complement. It was as if they knew! Our Lady, as Lord Protector, defender of your lands, this is an offer I simply cannot reject.

Hiam took a slow sip of the now cold tea and regarded the emissary, who answered his look with half-lidded satisfaction. However much I may dislike the messenger or dread the answer, I must ask. He cleared his throat. ‘And what, if anything, does the Overlord request in answer to such extraordinary generosity?’

Knowing he had won, Lord Hurback smiled broadly. He raised his hands, open and palm up. ‘The smallest of requests, Lord Protector. Nothing you could possibly object to given the measure of his offer. Indeed, you should even welcome his proposal…’

Listening, Hiam could not dismiss the suspicion that nothing this man might propose would be welcome. Yet listen he did. His commitment to the defence of the wall gave him no choice — this was perhaps what men like this emissary, or Overlord Yeull, could never understand. They could ask for twenty galleys full of gold, or all the jewels of the mines of Jasston. Such worldly treasure was as nothing to the Stormguard, who were ready to give over everything they possessed — which was in truth only the armour on their backs and the weapons in their hands, and of course their lives — to defend their faith.

Most mornings Ivanr awoke shortly after dawn. As an officer he had the privilege of a private tent, which servants attached to the brigade raised and struck each day. It was framed with poles set into the ground and others laid atop as crosspieces. Felt cloth wrapped it against the cold of the region’s winter. The bedding was of woven blankets over sheep hides. Rising, he straddled the honeypot and eased his taut bladder, then pulled on a long tunic of linen and quilted wool that hung down to the thighs of his buckskin pants. He rewrapped the rags round his feet and strapped on sandals that tied up just beneath his knees.

A cup of tea and a flatbread lay on a board set just inside the flap. Taking them up, he thrust aside the cloth to find a crowd of men and women sitting in a semicircle before his tent. He stared. They stared back. Steam from his tea plumed in the frigid dawn air.

‘Yes? What?’

One old fellow raised a staff to lever himself upright; the others followed his lead. He looked familiar but Ivanr couldn’t quite place him.

‘Hail, Ivanr. I bring the word of the Priestess.’

Now he knew him: the old pilgrim he’d met months ago. He eyed the crowd, uneasy. ‘Yes? What of it?’

The pilgrim inclined his head as if in prayer. ‘I bring her last instructions, given just as she was taken from us.’

‘She’s… dead?’

‘We do not know. She was imprisoned at Abor.’

Ivanr grunted his understanding. ‘I’m sorry. She was… something special.’

‘Yes, she was. Is. And her last words speak of you.’

Now his empty stomach twisted, and to fortify himself he took most of the tea and a bite of the bread. Now what? Just when he’d kicked the brigade into shape. Couldn’t she — they — just leave him alone? He looked over their heads to the stirring camp. Maybe he could just ignore them. They would be marching today, as usual. Keeping their pikes at the ready against the ranging Jourilan Imperial lights who relentlessly dogged them, harrying, darting in, skirmishing.

The old pilgrim drew himself up straight. The wind tossed his thin grey hair and his robes licked about his staff. ‘The Priestess has spoken, Ivanr of Antr. Before she was taken away she named you her disciple, her true heir in the Path.’

At these words the crowd reverently bowed their heads.

Ivanr was struck speechless. Had they gone mad? Him? Heir to the Priestess’s mission? What did he know of this ‘Path’ of hers? He was a ridiculous choice. He shook his head, scowling. ‘No. Not me. Find someone else to follow around — or, better yet, don’t follow anyone. Following people only leads to trouble.’

He dismissed them with a wave of his flatbread and walked off to find Lieutenant Carr.

‘As I warned you before, Ivanr,’ the old pilgrim called after him, ‘it is too late. Already many deny the Lady in your name. With or without you, it has begun. Your life these last few years has been nothing but denial and flight. Are you not tired of fleeing?’

That last comment stopped him; but he did not turn round. After a pause, he continued on. No matter. Let the religion-mad fool rant. Faiths! Name one other thing that has brought more misery and murder into the world!

That day they continued the long march north. Farmlands gave way to rolling pasture, copses of woods, and tracts of land given over to aristocratic estates and managed forests. Their pace had improved as the army now openly followed the roads laid down decades ago by the Imperial engineers. And always, hiding in the edges of copses, or walking the ridges of distant hills, the Jourilan light cavalry, watching, raiding pickets and falling upon smaller foraging parties.

This incessant raiding drove Martal to order the baggage train moved to the interior of the column. The pike brigades marched ahead, behind, and to the sides. Archers ranged within their perimeter, ready to contribute to driving off the cavalry.

Ivanr was sceptical of these bands of roving archers. Short-bows so cheaply made he could break them in his hands. He complained of them to Carr: ‘I could throw rocks farther than these can reach.’

The lieutenant laughed as they walked along. It had rained the previous day, the winter season in Jourilan a time of dark skies and rainstorms, though this season had so far proved remarkably dry. Mud of the churned line of march weighted their feet and spattered their cloaks. ‘This is a peasant army, Ivanr. There are only a handful of professionally trained warriors with us. These farmers and burghers aren’t trained to pull a real bow. You know that takes years. Martal has to work with what she has at hand. And hence these bands of archers with short-bows. All those too young or old or weak to hoist the pikes.’

Ivanr thought of the boy. He’d yet to find him among the regulars. Perhaps he’d been sent to pull a bow. He supposed that would make more sense. ‘And these hulking carriages?’

Carr shrugged his ignorance. ‘That is Martal’s project entirely. I’m not sure what she has planned for them.’

Ivanr didn’t believe a word of that. You know, Carr. You’ve been with Beneth for years. This army’s lousy with spies and you’re just keeping quiet. Very well. No doubt we’ll see sooner than we’d like.

Over the next few days of marching, Ivanr managed to push the old man’s words from his thoughts. Among the men and women of his command he noted nothing more troubling than stares, hushed murmurs, and an unusual alacrity in obeying his orders. What disturbed him far more was the constant presence of Jourilan cavalry on the surrounding hillsides and always ranging ahead, just out of reach. Every passing day seemed to bring more, and as far as he could see Martal was content to do nothing about it. Poor Hegil Lesour ’an ’al, the Jourilan aristocrat commander of the Reform cavalry, was run ragged day and night ranging against the Imperial lights. Making it worse was the lack of winter rain; normally the fields and roads would be almost impassable this time of year.

Eventually, Ivanr was fed up enough to put aside his determination to avoid Martal and any hint of his participating in the command structure, and fell back to where she rode with her staff at the head of the spine of the army, the long winding column of carriages. He waited until she rode abreast of him, her mount keeping an easy walking pace, then stepped up alongside her.

Her blackened armour was covered by dust and mud kicked up in the march and a light misting spotted it in dark dots. She brushed a hand back through her short hair and nodded to him. ‘Ivanr. To what do we owe the honour?’

‘Honour? What do you mean, honour?’

Martal’s smile was tight and wry. ‘Just the talk of everyone. How the Army of Reform is privileged to have with it the spiritual heir to the Priestess.’

Ivanr was not amused; he eyed the woman thinly. ‘That would be Beneth, I’m sure.’

‘Beneth, I understand, sees himself as a prophet of the movement only. While she was its arrival… but all that is not my area of expertise.’ As she smiled down at him he thought she was deriving far too much amusement from his predicament. ‘Perhaps you should speak to him about it.’

I’d rather stand the wall, Martal. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’

Now the lips crooked up. Her gaze roamed, scanning the ranks, or the surrounding copses and farmland. ‘No? Then what can I do for you?’

Where was this woman from? Closer now, he thought her no native of the region. Her complexion was smooth, the hue of dark honey, her black hair thick and bristly. From some distant land like Genabackis? Or perhaps Quon Tali? Why not the lands south of the Great Ice Wastes? What of them? Ivanr almost asked but thought it too public here, surrounded by her staff and guards. In fact, the idea of a private conversation with this woman was suddenly very desirable. Realizing he was staring, he looked away, cleared his throat. ‘I’m here about horses.’

She nodded appreciatively. ‘Really? I had no idea you were interested in horseflesh.’

‘Only when there’s more of it than I could possibly spear.’

‘Ah. You are concerned.’

‘Extremely.’

‘You are wondering what is going on.’

‘Very much so.’

‘I see.’ She drew off her black leather gloves, slapped them into a palm while looking ahead. ‘Now, let me understand this. You haven’t come to any staff briefings. You will not dine in Beneth’s tent. You refuse to participate in any of the command discussions. Yet now you come to me demanding to know what’s going on…’ She peered down at him and a mocking arched brow took the sting from her words. ‘Is that an accurate appraisal, Ivanr of Antr?’

Ivanr lowered his gaze, grimacing. Aye, he deserved that. Can’t have it both ways. Either you’re in or you’re out. He looked up, acknowledging her point. ‘I suppose that’s about right.’ Somehow, he did not mind being teased by this woman.

She was smiling quite openly now, looking ahead, and he studied the blunt profile of her flattened nose. ‘They’re all around us now,’ she said. ‘Massing for an attack. The traditional cavalry lancer charge that has scattered every tradesman rebellion, peasant army, and religious uprising before.’

‘What are they waiting for?’

‘Better terrain. North of us the land opens up. Broad pasturage, smooth hillsides. They’ll form up there and wait for us to arrive.’

He swallowed, thinking: Now comes my question. ‘And you? What are you waiting for?’

The dark eyes captured his gaze for an instant, unreadable, searching, then she looked skyward. ‘Rain, Ivanr. I’m waiting for more rain.’

At first Bakune refused to number the days of his imprisonment. He judged it irrelevant and frankly rather cliched. But being imprisoned in a cell so narrow he could touch a hand to either side, and so short it was less than two of his paces, he almost immediately came to the realization that, in point of fact, there was little else for him to do.

Those first few days he sat on his straw-padded cot attempting to calm himself to the point where he would not embarrass himself when they came to execute him. Each day that then passed, in his opinion, made that outcome less and less likely. After the first week he decided that he would be down here for some time; they must be planning to let him work upon himself in the solitude and the dark and the damp. So he attempted to cultivate a more distanced, even ironic, attitude. It simplified matters that he saw his predicament as so very rich in irony.

Just how many men and women had he condemned to these very Carceral Quarters? More than he could easily quantify. What did he think of his country’s law enforcement regime now that he was the object — nay, perhaps victim — of it? Far less sanguine, he had to admit. These stone walls were scouring from his skin a certain insulating layer of smugness, a certain armouring of self-righteousness.

By the second week he began to worry. Perhaps they really did have no intention of returning to him. Every passing day made that possibility ever more likely as well. What need had they of his endorsement now that their control grew ever more firm? Perhaps through his own stiff-necked pride he had succeeded only in making himself superfluous. Yet a part of him could not help but note: So this is the process… how many convicted had he himself condemned to rot for months before being dragged out to reconsider their stories? The mind… gnaws at itself. Certainties become probabilities, become doubts. Whilst doubts become certainties. And nothing is as it was.

What will become of me? Will I even I recognize me?

On the seventeenth night strange noises awoke him. It was utterly dark, of course; even darker than during the working day as all torches and lamps had been taken away or extinguished. But he believed that what jerked him awake was a definite crash as of wood smashing. He went to his door and listened at the small metal grate.

Whispers. Heated whispers. Angry muffled argument. Whatever was going on? He was tempted to shout a question — then, steps outside his door. Two sets: one light, the other heavy and flat-footed. The dim glow of a flame shone through the door’s timbers. He backed away to the not-so-far wall.

A faint tap on the door. A low growled voice: ‘Hello? Anyone there? Are you the Assessor, Bakune?’

This did not sound like a midnight execution squad. He made an effort to steady his voice, said: ‘Who are you?’

‘A friend. You are the Assessor?’

‘Yes,’ he answered faintly, then, stronger, ‘Yes — I am.’

‘Very good. I’m going to get you out.’

What? Lady’s dread, no! An escape? Escape to where? ‘Wait a moment-’

‘I’ll be right back.’

‘I will get him out!’ boomed a new voice.

‘Will you shut up!’ hissed the first. ‘You will do no such thing. You’ve already done enough.’

‘But this is my specialty,’ the second voice bellowed out again cheerily. ‘I will pick the lock!’

‘No! Don’t… stand back, Assessor!’

Bakune already had his back to the opposite wall. He had to straddle the vile hole that served as the privy to do so. He jumped as the door crashed with a great blow that made his ears ring. Dust and broken slivers dropped from the aged hand-adzed planks. It seemed as if a giant’s fist had struck it.

‘Would you stop doing that!’ the gravelly voice shouted.

‘One last delicate touch!’

The door jumped inward to reverberate against the wall. A bald head gleaming with sweat peered in — the defendant, the priest. Bakune couldn’t recall his name. Next to him stood a giant. So tall was he that the opening only came up to his shoulders, and so wide Bakune did not think he was capable of entering the cell.

‘There!’ the giant announced. ‘The lock is picked!’

The priest rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘We’re leaving,’ he growled, then glared at the giant. ‘It seems we have no choice!’

The giant bent his head down to peer in. ‘Using my unparalleled skills in stealth and deception I have effected your escape, good Assessor.’

Bakune shared an incredulous look with the priest. ‘How very… discreet… it has been, too.’

Beneath an enormous bushy heap of curly hair bound up on top of his head, the man beamed. The two would-be rescuers appeared to share a Theftian background by their accent and their blunt features. ‘But I am not going.’

The giant’s gaze narrowed and he peered left and right as if confused. The priest sighed. ‘Yes, I understand. But there’s no choice now… they’ll just kill you out of hand. Or torture you to death. Come, time is short.’

‘I can’t-’ Bakune stopped himself. Can’t break the law? Whose law? These Guardians have no legitimacy. He felt his shoulders fall. ‘Yes. Very well.’

‘Good. This way.’

The priest led. The giant, who gave his name as Manask, followed him. Bakune was last. Up the hall they came to a guard station — or the remains of one. The door had been smashed open and guards lay bashed into unconsciousness. Bakune eyed Manask, who gestured proudly to encompass the scene. ‘I snuck up upon them.’

‘Yes… I see.’

‘They did not suspect a thing!’

The priest lit an oil lamp then urged them forward. Speaking as quietly as possible, Bakune demanded, ‘And just where are we going?’

‘We will flee into the wilds,’ announced Manask. ‘Live off berries and mushrooms. Slay animals with our bare hands and wear their hides.’ Bakune and the priest both wordlessly studied the man, who looked back at them, eager. ‘Yes?’

‘I’ve a boat waiting,’ the priest growled.

Bakune felt infinite relief. ‘Where are we going?’

The priest rubbed the grey bristles at his jaw and cheeks as if surprised by the question. ‘Going? Don’t know. Maybe we’ll just hide,’ and he shrugged. ‘Now, c’mon. We’ve wasted enough time.’

Bakune was surprised when the priest led them a different route from the way most prisoners were brought in. As Assessor he’d visited the Carceral Quarters a number of times, but always by the main way. The route the priest took brought them to narrower, winding halls. After a time he realized that they walked the passages of the old fort that the carcery had been built upon. A lifetime of enquiry and assessing prompted him to wonder about this.

At one point, while they waited for Manask to edge his huge bulk round a particularly tight corner, he murmured to the priest, ‘You know these ways well.’

The priest’s frog mouth widened even further into a tight smile that suggested he knew exactly what Bakune was up to. ‘I’ve been through here before. Long ago.’

‘In similar circumstances, perhaps?’

But the man just smiled. Gasping, Manask yanked himself free, his armour scraping the walls. ‘Free!’ he announced. ‘Slippery as an eel! Able to wriggle through the tightest of corners!’

The priest just shook his head; it seemed the pair knew each other well. Old friends. Old conspirators and criminal partners too? It seemed probable. There was something familiar there; something he could not quite recall. This couple must be well known. It also occurred to him that there was something strange about Manask’s armour: it appeared to consist of a great deal of layered padding. And he walked strangely upon his boots, which apparently comprised no more than tall heels and thick soles. While upon closer examination a significant portion of the man’s height was really nothing more than his immensely thick nest of hair.

After many twists and turns, the halls becoming ever narrower and more neglected, the priest stopped before a door. He whispered: ‘This should lead to the kitchens. From here we can make our way out, then down to the waterfront-’

Manask lurched forward. ‘I will sneak ahead!’

Like a moving wall he pushed Bakune ahead of him. ‘Wait! There’s not enough room! Please…’

The priest threw open the door and the three burst through like peas from a pod to crash into shelves of pots and hanging pans. Bakune bumped a table and stacked bowls came crashing down. ‘Quiet as mice now!’ Manask yelled.

A man — one of the prison cooks, obviously — bolted up from his cot to gape at them. Manask heaved a long oaken table on to the fellow, sending crockery flying in an explosion of shattering. ‘Let us creep right past this one’s nose!’ The giant charged on, upending tables in his path. ‘I will spy the way!’

Bakune and the priest remained standing amid the wreckage. The priest hung his head, sighing. He motioned Bakune onward. They picked their way through the broken crockery.

Shell was surprised that it was only a few days before she became acclimatized to the stink and the shocking lack of hygiene on board the boats of the Sea-Folk. Her gorge no longer rose. She even became rather casual about squeezing the ubiquitous fleas, all the while trying not to think about where they’d been biting her. The boats were open to the elements and so the sun roasted her during the day while the wind sucked all the warmth from her through the night. The flotilla kept to the south shore, putting in every other night at secluded coves and beaches. As they travelled the Sea-Folk caught fish and other creatures that they sometimes gutted over the sides and ate raw — a practice Shell could not bring herself to share despite their constant pressing upon her of the limp and tentacled delicacies.

Some lines should not be crossed.

These Sea-Folk also practised the revolting custom of rubbing animal fat over themselves; they lived perpetually in the same coarsely sewn hides, which they never took off or washed; their hair they never cut or washed but oiled instead into thick ropes. She felt as if all this filth were a contagion she would never rid herself of. Yet none of the huge extended family was ever obviously sick as far as she could tell.

Travelling on another of the boats, Blues and Fingers appeared to share none of her qualms. Closet barbarians, they happily rubbed fat upon themselves and ate raw things that had more eyes than was proper for any animal. Only Lazar shared her reserve; the huge fellow, taller and broader even than Skinner, his Sea-Folk hides bursting at the seams, sat with arms crossed, frowning at the family as they scampered over the boat and just shook his head as if perpetually amazed.

The young girl-mother, Ena, who seemed to have adopted her, came to her side carrying a bowl of that rancid fat. ‘Cold, yes?’ she asked. Shell, arms crossed, shivering, shook a negative.

‘No. Fine.’

The girl got a vexed look as if she were dealing with a stubborn child. ‘You are cold. This will keep you warm.’

Some privations are better endured. If only as the lesser of two evils. ‘No. Thank you.’

Ena set a hand on her broad hip. ‘You foreign people are crazy.’ And she moved off, taking wide squatting steps over the heaped gear and belongings.

We’re not the ones rubbing animal fat on ourselves.

Shell threw herself down next to Lazar at the pointed stern. She looked him up and down. ‘You’re dirty, but at least you’re not all greased up.’

He raised then lowered his shoulders. ‘I layered.’

‘Can you believe this? Some people are willing to live in absolute filth.’

The hazel eyes shifted to her. ‘Seems to me we coulda used some of that grease out on the ice.’

‘You think it works?’

The look he gave her echoed Ena’s. He raised his chin to the nearest of the clan, an elderly uncle on the boat’s tiller arm. ‘See that outer hide jacket, the leather pants, the boots?’

Shell studied the gleaming greasy leathers. ‘Yes. What of it? Other than they’ve never been washed for longer than I’ve been alive.’

‘You raised on the coast, Shell? I forget.’

‘No.’

Lazar grunted. ‘Ah. Well, all that oil makes his clothes practically waterproof. No spray or rain can get through that, so he’s toasty warm. I’m thinking these lot know what they’re doing.’

Fine. But there’s gotta be a cleaner way to do it.

Later that day Shell was roused from a doze when all at once the Sea-Folk jumped into action. The men and women went to work rearranging the gear, giving tense quiet orders. Shading her eyes, she peered around and spotted a vessel closing: two-masted, long and narrow, no merchant boat.

Ena came to her and Lazar. ‘Say nothing, yes? No matter what.’

‘What is it?’ Shell asked.

‘These navy ships, they stop us whenever they wish. Steal what they like. Call it fees and taxes.’

‘What country are they from?’ Shell asked.

Ena blinked her incomprehension. ‘How does that matter?’

Lazar barked a laugh. ‘She’s got that right, Shell.’

Shell waved her reassurance. ‘We won’t interfere — unless we have to.’

‘Good. Our thanks.’

The girl waddled away, awkward in her pregnancy.

Shell and Lazar watched while the warship trimmed its sails. Boats of the flotilla were ordered to come alongside. Marines climbed down rope ladders and ‘inspected’ the cargo. Studying the worn and begrimed gear of her own boat, Shell didn’t think the pickings very rich. Something did startle her though: a gleaming brass teapot now rested amid the blackened cooking pots, and a roll of bright yellow cloth peeped from beneath a frayed and stained burlap covering. And a tall female figurehead, painted white, now graced the boat’s prow. When had that appeared? She nudged Lazar and indicated the figurehead.

He nodded. ‘Like I said.’

Two more inspections proceeded as the first: the marines ransacking the boats, tossing goods up into their ship. The afternoon waned. A cold wind blew though the sun was hot. Thankfully so far neither their boat, nor the one carrying Blues and Fingers, had been waved over. As the third inspection finished, Shell half rose from her seat: the marines were dragging someone with them. A young man or woman. Elders on board clutched at them, only to be thrust aside. ‘Lazar! Do you see that? What’re they doing?’

‘Looks like a head tax.’

Shell clambered to where Ena sat beneath a wind-rippled awning. ‘What’s this? What’s going on?’

Her gaze shaded, the girl said grimly, ‘It happens sometimes.’

‘Happens? What’re you going to do about it?’

The girl’s voice tightened even more. ‘What would you have us do? There is nothing we can do. The strong prey upon the weak — that is how it has always been.’

Shell spun away. If only they could get Blues or Lazar on board that ship, then these Sea-Folk would see the strong preying upon the weak! And then — she let go her held breath… and then she would only have proved Ena’s point.

And what would these Sea-Folk do with such a ship anyway? How would they explain it? They just found it? No. Distasteful as it was, Ena was right. There was nothing they could do. Being what she was, Shell was used to being on the taking end of such exchanges. How much harder and galling it was to be on the giving!

The youth had been urged on board at sword-point. Sailors climbed the warship’s spars to give out more canvas. The vessel pulled away.

‘Now what?’ she snapped, unable to hide her anger and frustration.

‘Now we wait.’

‘Wait? Wait for what?’

‘We shall see.’

‘Shell!’ a voice called across the waves; it was Blues. The Sea-Folk were oaring his boat closer through the tall slate-grey waves.

‘Yes?’

‘Did you see that?’

‘Yes.’

‘A tough one to swallow.’

‘You did nothing?’

‘Almost did. Orzu and the others here begged us not to interfere.’

‘Same here. What now?’

‘Orzu says we have to wait a time.’

‘What in Hood’s name for?’

‘Don’t know. No choice.’

The boats bumped sides and the Sea-Folk lashed them together. Supplies were handed back and forth. Shell waved to Fingers, who was a miserable shape at the stern, near prostrate from seasickness. Poor fellow; she had at least found her sea-legs.

‘So who were they?’ she asked Blues.

‘Some country called Jasston.’ He pointed south. ‘That’s their shore.’

‘And the north?’ The coast to the north was dark, and not once had she seen a fire or a settlement.

‘Some land called Remnant Isle. No one lives there. Supposed to be haunted.’

Shell saw that the figurehead of the white woman was now gone, as was the gleaming brass teapot: secreted away for the next ‘inspection’. She frowned then and wiped her hands on her thighs, but the problem was her trousers were as dirty as her hands. ‘And the youth? What will happen?’

Blues’ face seemed even darker than usual. ‘Orzu says almost everyone taken prisoner in all these lands ends up on the wall, sold to the Korelri.’

The wall and its insatiable thirst for blood. And Bars was on it. Had he fallen? No. Not him. Yet they could die — all of them. They were of the Avowed, yes, but they could still drown or be hacked to pieces. Could he be dead already? Their mission a failure?

A hardening in her chest told Shell that should that be the case, these Korelri Stormguard might find themselves swept from their own Hood-damned wall.

The Sea-Folk untied the lines securing the boats. Blues waved farewell. The flotilla idled, tillers and oars used only to hold steady. Yet they were moving. She’d heard they were in a narrow stretch of water called Flow Strait. The coast to the south was crawling ever so slowly past.

The sun was approaching the horizon almost due west. Shell shaded her gaze from its glare. The wind picked up; it would be a damned cold night. Then shouts from ahead — excited yells. Everyone in her boat stood to scan the waters. Shell likewise clambered up, her feet well apart. What was this?

The lead boat was under oar, moving south with stunning speed. Shell stared. So far this journey all she’d seen was a lackadaisical nudging of the oars. Seemed these Sea-Folk could really charge when they needed to. Of course — why exert yourself unless necessary?

The lead boat back-oared now, slowing. Shell squinted, and as the intervening waves rose and fell, she thought she glimpsed a dark shape and splashing amid them. A fish?

Figures leaned over the side of the boat, gesturing, waving. Shell flinched as someone jumped overboard. Queen preserve them! They’ll drown!

She turned to Ena and was surprised to see her amid her kin, everyone hugging and kissing one another. Seeing her confusion, Ena came to her. She waved ahead, laughing. ‘It is Turo. He found us.’ She cupped her hands to her mouth, shouting, ‘Finished playing in the water, Turo?’

Shell felt her brow crimping as her gaze narrowed. ‘I do not understand, Ena.’

The girl-woman giggled, covering her mouth. ‘You do not know, do you? Why, everyone in these lands knows the Sea-Folk hate to be captive. We throw ourselves into the sea rather than be prisoner.’ And she grinned like an imp. ‘So many of us taken away disappear like that.’

Shell felt her brows rising as understanding dawned. She looked at Lazar, who was smiling crookedly in silent laughter.

High praise indeed, coming from him.

Beneath the setting sun a dark line caught Shell’s eye and she shaded her gaze. ‘What’s that ahead to the west?’ she asked, her eyes slitted almost closed.

Ena’s smile was torn away and a hand rose in a gesture against evil. ‘The Ring!’ she hissed. Turning, she yelled orders at her kinsmen and women. All were galvanized into action. Hands went to mouths and piercing whistles flew like birdcalls between the boats. Gear was shifted and a mast appeared, dragged out from beneath everything to be stepped in place. Tarps covering equipment and possessions were whipped free, rolled and mounted as shrouds. The speed and competence of the transformation dazzled Shell. She tried to find Ena to ask what was going on, but was brushed aside as everyone on board seemed to be holding a line or adjusting stowage. She finally reached the girl towards the bow, where she was twisting a sheet affixed to the sail.

‘What’s going on? What is it?’

She shot a glance ahead. ‘You do not know? No, of course not.’ She sighed, searching for words. ‘It is, how do you say… a cursed place. A haunt of the Lady herself. The Ring. A great circle ridge around a deep hole. Some say bottomless. And it is guarded. Korelri Stormguard are there. None dare approach. It is very bad luck we come to it so late. Those thieving landsmen delayed us half the day!’

Shell nodded, allowing her to return to her work. She found a place where she could sit out of the way at the bow and peered ahead, trying to separate some detail from the sunset. Stormguard here! Just within reach. What would these Sea-Folk say if they knew they were carrying four outlanders intent upon challenging this military order that so dominated the region? They would probably think us insane. All these generations they have survived beneath the very gaze of the Lady through strategies of trickery and deception.

Perhaps, she thought, hugging herself for warmth, they would be wise to follow suit.

Kiska dreamt of her youth on Malaz Island. She was walking its storm-racked rocky coast, with its litter and treasure and corpses of wrecks from three seas. And she was reviewing the ruin that was her life. My childishness and wilfulness. Yet who isn’t when young? My foolish decisions. Yet how else does one learn? Her loss on the field at the plains. I failed him! She picked her way through the bleached timbers and crab-picked bones while all around her the island appeared to be shrinking. Eventually she could complete a full circuit in a mere few strides.

And it was closing even tighter.

A sharp pain such as stepping on a nail woke her. Groggy, she blinked up at jagged stone above. Her cave. Her prison. She was still here.

‘Hist! Kiska! Are you still with me?’

She raised her head. Jheval was there, silhouetted against the slightly lighter cave mouth. ‘Yes,’ she croaked. Her mouth felt as dusty and dry as the cave floor itself. ‘Regrettably.’

‘I’m hearing something new,’ he murmured, keeping his voice as low as possible.

There is nothing new in Shadow, Kiska pronounced to herself. Now where had she heard something like that?

‘And I haven’t seen our friends for some time now.’

Meaningless. Without significance. Empty. Futile.

‘Kiska!’

She blinked, startled. She’d dropped off again. She levered herself up by the elbows. ‘Yes?’

He gestured her to him. ‘Come here. Listen. What do you make of this?’

Crawling to the cave mouth was one of the hardest things Kiska had ever forced herself to do. She thought she could hear her every sinew and ligament creaking and stretching as she moved. She fancied she could see the bones of her hands through her dusty cracked skin. She planted herself next to Jheval, who appeared to be watching her carefully. ‘Yes?’ she demanded.

He glanced away and seemed to crook a smile as he turned to the silvery monochrome landscape beyond. ‘Listen.’

Listen? Listen to what? Our flesh rotting? The sighing of sands? There’s nothing She heard something. Creaking. Loud abrasive squeaking and creaking like wood on wood. What in the world? Or — in Shadow?

‘Perhaps we should have a look, yes?’

‘It does sound… close.’

The man was grinning now through the caked-on dirt of his face. How pale the son of the desert looked now, dust-covered. Like a ghost. Though a lively one. She felt a kind of resentful admiration: he seemed to not know how to give up.

‘Very good. The both of us, yes? Side by side.’

She nodded, swallowed to sluice the grit from her mouth. ‘Yes. Let’s go. I have to get out of here.’

‘Yes. I feel it too.’ He edged forward, hunched, then straightened outside the narrow crack. Kiska picked up her staff and followed. Out on the sand slope she expected the air to be fresher and cooler, different somehow. Yet the lifeless atmosphere seemed no better. It was as if all Shadow was stale, somehow suspended.

They climbed a nearby bare hill. Kiska tried to be watchful. She knew they should expect an attack at any instant. But she could not muster the necessary focus; she just felt exhausted by all the waiting and almost wanted to have it over with. And no hound appeared. When they reached the crest and looked beyond, they saw why.

It was a migration. Across the plain before them stretched columns of large creatures. Through the plumes of dust it appeared as if many of them marched in teams, heaving on ropes drawing gigantic boats lashed to wheeled platforms. It was the ear-splitting screeching of these wooden wheels that assaulted them, even from this great distance.

‘Locals on the move,’ Jheval said, and started down the hillside.

Kiska followed, reluctant. Walking out upon them in the open? How could he know they weren’t hostile? They didn’t look even vaguely human.

Before they reached the lowest hill a figure veered towards them, a picket, or outlier of some sort. As they neared, he — or she, or it — reared ever taller until it became clear to Kiska that it was nearly twice their height. It was, clearly, a daemon, a Shadow creature. Dull black, furred in parts, carrying on its back a brace of spears twice again its own height. It looked insectile: multiple-faceted eyes, a mouthful of oversized fangs, out-of-proportion skinny limbs that appeared armoured. Jheval hailed it, waving. Kiska gripped her staff and winced. She almost shouted: How do you know it speaks our language? How do you know it won’t eat you?

It stopped, peered down to regard the two of them. Jheval stood with arms crossed, examining the creature in turn. Kiska kept her staff at the ready.

‘Do you understand this language?’ Jheval asked.

‘Yes, I know this tongue,’ it replied in a startlingly high piping voice.

Jheval was clearly surprised. ‘You do? Why?’

‘This is the language of the pretenders.’

Pretenders? Ah! Cotillion and Shadowthrone.

‘Greetings. I am Jheval. This is Kiska.’

‘My name would translate as Least Branch.’

Jheval gestured beyond, to the columns of its brethren. ‘You are on some sort of migration?’

‘Yes. Though not one of our choice. We have been forced to move. Our home has been destroyed.’

Destroyed? Queen forfend! What force could possibly overcome an entire race of Shadow daemons? And here, in their own homeland.

Jheval was studying the columns. ‘You are sea-people?’

‘Yes. We fished the giant bottom-feeders. We gathered among the shallow wetlands. But the great lake that has supported my people since before yours rose up on your hind legs has been taken from us. Great Ixpcotlet! How we mourn its passing.’

An entire lake gone? ‘What happened?’ Kiska asked, astonished. This went against all her impressions of a timeless Shadow realm.

She imagined that many expressions must be flitting across Least Branch’s face, but she and Jheval could not read them. ‘A Chaos Whorl has eaten into this realm you call Emurlahn. It has swallowed Ixpcotlet. It grows even as we flee.’

Kiska almost dropped her staff. ‘A Whorl? Like a Void? Touching Chaos?’

Some sort of membrane shuttered across Least Branch’s eyes — an expression of surprise? ‘Yes. Just so. We go to find another body of water, and to warn others. Perhaps we may even find the Guardian.’

Kiska stared anew. ‘A guardian? Gaunt, ancient? Carries a sword?’

The creature took a step backwards, obviously stunned. ‘You know of him?’

‘Yes. I’ve met him. He calls himself Edgewalker.’

‘He spoke to you? That is… unusual. We name him the Guardian.’

Jheval was eyeing her, clearly surprised himself.

Least Branch gestured, inviting them to accompany him. ‘Come, won’t you? Don’t you know it is dangerous out here? The Hounds are about.’

All the way down the hill Kiska wondered if Least Branch was tempted to ask why the two of them laughed so much. How they chuckled uncontrollably, then, catching one another’s gaze, burst out anew. Don’t you know the Hounds are about?

Least Branch led them to the rear of the migration. They passed two of the boats. Each towered over them, scaled to their gigantic makers. They rumbled on their immense platforms pulled by teams of hundred of the daemons. The dust blinded and choked them and Kiska glimpsed Jheval untying the cloth wrapped about his helmet to wind it over his mouth and face. She imitated him, winding a scarf over her face and leaving only a slit for her vision. The noise was the worst, as wooden wheels shrieked against wooden axles. The daemons did not seem to mind the cacophony but it almost drove Kiska mad.

Behind the horde, among the churned-up dirt, the shin-deep ruts and tossed rubbish, the gnawed bones, broken pots and excrement, Least Branch stopped to point back along the trail of broken earth. ‘Just follow our path. You cannot miss it. But you do not really seek this Whorl, do you? It opens on to the shores of Chaos. And we sense behind it an unhinged intelligence. We flee it. As you should, too.’

Kiska was staring up the trail all the way to the flat horizon, which to her eyes appeared bruised, darker. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I believe it’s what we’re here for.’

‘Then I must say farewell, though I confess I am tempted to accompany you.’

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘Because I believe there is a chance you will meet the Guardian. I say this because he has spoken to you once and so may again, for he seldom does anything without a reason. And so, should you meet him, ask him this for myself and for my people, the fishers of Ixpcotlet — why did he do nothing? Why did he not intervene? We are very confused and disappointed by this.’

Kiska faced Least Branch directly, gazing almost straight up. ‘If I meet him I will ask. This I swear.’

The daemon waved its thin armoured limbs, the meaning of the gesture unknown to Kiska. ‘I will have to be satisfied with your vow. My thanks. Safe journeying to you.’

‘Goodbye. And our thanks.’

‘Fare you well,’ Jheval added.

They watched the great daemon lumber away. The spears clattered and swung on its back as it went. Alone now, free of their huge guide, Kiska felt exposed once more, though the plains that surrounded them lay utterly flat and featureless.

Jheval cleared his throat. ‘Well, I suppose we’d best get on our way.’

Kiska eyed him: his fingers were tucked into the lacing securing his morningstars; a habit of his while walking. Thinking of her behaviour during their imprisonment, Kiska said nothing, nodding and starting off. Perhaps they would discuss those days — perhaps even weeks, who knew? — of cramped involuntary companionship some time in the future. Right now it was too close and too raw.

Perhaps, as she suspected, neither of them would ever mention it again.

They had assembled forty thousand regulars supported by a backbone of six thousand Malazan veterans of the Sixth. The force was known officially as the Army of Rool. Envoy Enesh-jer commanded, representative of Overlord Yeull. Ussu served as adviser, while Borun commanded his detachment of a thousand Black Moranth. The Overlord remained at the capital, Paliss.

Ussu was mounted, out of consideration if not for his age, then for his rank. Most of the officers and all of the Envoy’s staff were mounted. However, there was no organized cavalry force large enough to play a major part in any engagement, save harassment, scouting and serving as messengers. The Jourilan and Dourkan might pride themselves on their cavalry, but it had never been cultivated in Rool, or Mare. Possibly the peoples of Fist followed the model of the Korelri — who of course considered horses particularly useless.

Ussu wished they had many more mounts; the crawling progress of the army chafed him. They had yet to reach the Ancy valley, let alone the Ancy itself. Perhaps it was pure nostalgia, but he was sure the old Sixth could have managed a far better pace. Riding by, he shared many a jaundiced gaze with the veterans, sergeants and officers, as together they scanned the trudging, bhederin-like Roolian troops. He pulled his cloak tighter against the freezing wind cutting down from the Trembling range and stretched his back, grimacing. Gods, when was the last time he rode for more than pleasure? Yes, we’re all older now. And perhaps the past glows brighter as it recedes ever further. But what we face is not the past — it is the present Malazan army. What of their standards? Who is to say? We know just as much of them as they of us.

And so two blind armies grope towards each other.

Where lies the advantage? Intelligence.

He spurred his mount to the van, and the coterie of officers and staffers clustered around the Envoy. Like flies. Yet is that fair? This Enesh-jer was selected by Yeull. Though it seems as if the choice was based more on the fervency of the man’s devotion to the Lady than on any command competence or experience. Like those of his staff and inner circle: more like priests in their pursuit of rank and prestige than interested in field command. And so similarly am I suspect to them. Magicker, they whisper. Dabbler in the forbidden arts.

Ussu eased up to catch the Envoy’s gaze as he rode past, but the man was engaged in conversation with an aide, his lean hound’s head averted — stiffly, it seemed to Ussu. The staffers and other lackeys were not so circumspect. Some eyed him coolly, others with open disapproval, while the worst offered open enjoyment of what could be taken as a deliberate, calculated insult.

Ussu revealed no discomfort. He bowed respectfully in his saddle, urged his mount on. In advance of the van, he kneed the mare into a gallop. What lay ahead? Three days ago word had reached their column by way of refugees of the fall of Aamil. The stories were wild, even given a penchant for panicked exaggeration. The city levelled; citizens slaughtered; a demon army in blue armour, which from their description Ussu quickly understood to be Blue Moranth. The invaders marching west. Things became rather fanciful after that. Flash floods tearing down from the Trembling range carrying off hundreds of the invaders; roads washed out; murderous hailstorms, landslides and earthquakes.

The literal end of the world. Absurd. Though, nights ago, a shaking of the ground and yells of horror and alarm throughout the camp woke everyone. Such manifestations were thought to represent the displeasure of the Lady.

The landings would have been more than ten days ago now. Just where were these invading Malazans, their new rivals? Had scouts reached the bridge? Had their commander — could it really be Greymane? — ordered a spear-like dash for control of this single crossing over the Ancy?

And why was Yeull so reluctant to destroy it?

Climbing a rise he came to a small contingent of Roolian horse halted at its crest. In their midst sat Borun, looking rather uncomfortable atop a broad, muscular stallion. Ussu walked his mount ahead until he shared their view down into the Ancy valley stretched out below, the broad river flowing south towards Mirror Lake at the foot of the Black range. Mid-valley it broadened over a course of shallow rapids spanned by the long slim timber and stone bridge raised by Malazan engineers of the Sixth what seemed so long ago. Beside it, on the west shore, the bailey and stone keep of the fortress of the Three Sisters, named for the rapids. Surrounding the fortress sprawled a small town of farmers and businesses catering to travellers of this main trader road.

Borun dismounted and joined him. ‘Any sign of them?’ Ussu asked.

‘None. We seem to have beaten them here.’

‘I’m surprised. They must be aware of the bridge’s importance.’

‘Perhaps,’ the Black Moranth commander mused, ‘they assume it already destroyed.’

Ussu eyed the blunt side of the commander’s helm. Yes. If it were up to them it would have been blown immediately. ‘You still have munitions?’

The helm tilted an assent. ‘We yet have some crates we salvaged from our wrecked vessels.’

‘I suggest you put them to use.’

Borun faced him direct; Ussu could discern no detail behind the narrow vision slits of his helm. ‘The Overlord has not given his permission to mine the bridge.’

Ussu smiled faintly. ‘We can always blame the Malazans. Their saboteurs can’t leave any bridge unblown.’

A sound escaped Borun’s helm as he rocked slightly. It took a moment for Ussu to recognize the gravelly hoarse rasping as laughter. It was the first time he’d ever heard it. ‘Let us go down and examine this fortress, then. Shall we?’

‘Yes, High Mage.’

To Ussu’s critical eye, the fortress of the Three Sisters was more a glorified tax hut than a defensible fortification. Its walls were thin, single-layered. It possessed a ditch, yes, but the causeway leading up to the gate was far too wide for his liking. And streaming up this causeway came a steady line of refugees carrying their few worldly goods wrapped in rags, heaped in donkeys, or pulled in carts. To Ussu’s surprise they were also allowed to drive cattle, goats, and sheep up into the bailey. Where would the fodder come from to feed all these animals? Flanked by Borun, he urged his mount ahead through the press. He reflected that, if the worst came to the worst, at least they could eat the animals.

Within, makeshift huts crowded what should be an open marshalling field. Smoke rose from a blacksmith’s hut across the way. A long barracks of a sort ran down one side. Across rose the motte, topped by a square stone tower keep. A slimmer inner causeway led up to its gate. Ussu directed his mount to that dirt ramp and to the black-robed figures standing upon it, each bearing a staff.

Upon reaching the base, Ussu bowed in his saddle. The four bearded priests remained unmoving. ‘Greetings. I am Ussu, adviser to our Overlord. This is Commander Borun.’

One of the priests gave a slight nod. ‘Greetings, Ussu, Borun. I am Abbot Nerra. I command this fortress.’

Ussu blinked his surprise. ‘What of Captain Hender?’

‘He has been relieved.’

Ussu strove to keep his face blank. Hender was a veteran of the Sixth. He would have sent these refugees onward, not allowed them to clog up a military outpost. The disarray, the admission of all these civilians — so many mouths to feed! — now made sense.

‘And where is the Envoy?’ Nerra demanded.

Turning in his saddle, Ussu saw that indeed the Envoy, surrounded by his entourage, was just now entering the bailey. He gestured to the gate. As the Envoy drew near, the priests of Our Lady descended the ramp until their heads were close to level with those mounted. Abbot Nerra bowed to Enesh-jer, who received the obeisance as if it were no less than his due. ‘My lord Envoy,’ Nerra began, ‘the fate of this flock, all those loyal to Our Blessed Lady, is in your hands.’

The Envoy’s lean features drew back in a skull-like grin. ‘We will stop these invaders. Heretics and unbelievers all.’

Ussu glanced from face to face. Could these men really be in earnest? When Enesh-jer arrived with the Sixth he knew nothing of this local cult. Still, it was said that there was no fanatic like the converted. He looked to Borun then wondered why he bothered: it was impossible to read the armoured Moranth. If he could distinguish anything from the man’s posture, it was disengagement and boredom.

‘Do not concern yourself, Abbot,’ Enesh-jer was saying. ‘We will establish a bridgehead across the Ancy. No invaders will reach Roolian lands.’

‘Excuse me, m’lord.’ Ussu spoke up, astonished. ‘Surely you do not plan to march forces across the bridge. They will be isolated upon the far side. If the bridge is not to be blown we must remain on this shore, defend here.’

Something like a hissed sigh escaped the Envoy’s slit lips and his eyes bulged in his skull face. ‘No doubt,’ he enunciated, nearly strangled by his passion, ‘our Overlord sees some value in your opinions on esoteric topics, Adviser. But in matters of tactics and disposition of forces I suggest you remain silent.’

Inwardly Ussu fumed, but he also felt a distinct chill as all eyes studied him — many with open enmity. Keeping his face flat, he bowed.

Enesh-jer nodded stiffly, accepting Ussu’s apparent deference. ‘I will remain to command the fortress with, ah, your permission, Abbot.’ Nerra bowed. ‘Very good. There remains, then, the matter of the near shore…’

Ussu kicked Borun’s armoured boot. The Moranth commander loudly cleared his throat. ‘I would ask for the honour, Envoy. With your permission.’

The Envoy gave a wave to signal his granting of said honour.

Ussu bowed again to take his leave and reined his mount round. He was ignored. As he crossed the bailey Borun joined him. ‘This fortress is a death trap,’ Ussu murmured to the Moranth commander. They urged their way forward through the press of wide-eyed civilians and complaining animals. As they reached the ramp across the ditch, he studied the narrow wall of set stones and shook his head. ‘There will be no siege. It will be a sacking.’

‘Perhaps they will hold them on the far shore,’ Borun answered, his voice even more hoarse than usual as he tried to keep it low.

Ussu sighed. ‘Perhaps. But if I were Greymane — if he survived to land — then I would send marines ahead to cross to the north and south to make a lunge for the bridge while the main forces closed. And if they succeed in that, we must withdraw swiftly. I suggest to the south, then west.’

‘Then that recourse of which you spoke. Just in case.’

‘Yes. I would also require a tent in your camp, Borun. Where I can work unmolested. And prisoners.’

‘Prisoners? Who?’

‘Any. It does not matter. So long as they are strong. I mean to do some scrying.’

Borun inclined his helmed head. ‘As you request, High Mage.’

*

For the night watch Suth crept down with Len and Yana to the forward nook of rocks where a viewpoint was kept on the bridge over the Ancy far down the valley below. They relieved a team from the 11th, three women. Suth tried to meet the gaze of one as she was of Dal Hon. But she looked through him as if he wasn’t there and he knew why: she was a veteran while he had yet to truly prove himself.

Yana peered out over the rocks. ‘Nice of them to mark out their lines with torches like that for us.’

Len, lying flat with his chin on his folded forearms, said, ‘They’re working day and night. Digging ditches, making stake rows, traps, burning all the brush cover. Digging in.’

‘Damn fools.’

Suth looked to Yana. ‘Why?’

‘The river splits their forces in two.’

‘So? They can retreat over the bridge.’

Len and Yana just shared a glance.

‘What I can’t figure,’ Len said, ‘is why that bridge is standing at all.’

‘Maybe it’s a trap,’ Suth offered.

‘Not worth the risk. You’d only get a few hundred troops.’ He was shaking his head. ‘Hard to believe ex-Malazans are in charge down there.’

Yana snorted. ‘They’re outlaws. Deserters. Good for nothing.’

But Len was unconvinced. He kept shaking his head, lips pursed.

Suth sat back to wrap his cloak more tightly about his shoulders. It was winter season here in Fist. A chill wind blew out of the north. Locals named it cursed. Not that he’d met that many locals. They tended to run away; thought them some sort of demons come to eat their young. Through their entire advance west across Skolati all they found were deserted hamlets, abandoned farmsteads. Everyone had fled to the hills or taken to the cities in the south. Suth found it incomprehensible. But then he came from a land that had known countless sweeping conquests and changes of rulership while this one was so insular they’d even forgotten their current rulers had invaded a generation ago.

All three stiffened as someone hissed from their rear. It was Keri. ‘Officers coming — pull your pants up.’ She scrambled away into the dark.

The three eyed one another. Officers? Yana mouthed, annoyed.

Then footsteps descending among the rocks, three sets. Len just raised his eyes to the night sky, turned away. Suth watched, saw who it was emerging from the dark and reflexively straightened, then forced himself to relax as he remembered the battle rules against identifying officers. It was their captain, Betteries, their Fist, Rillish Jal Keth, and the representative of their overall commander, the Adjunct.

Yana straightened as well while Len, exercising the code of complete indifference affected by saboteurs, ignored the newcomers. Captain Betteries signed for Suth and Yana to stand down, invited the Fist and the Adjunct to a lookout some distance off. Suth pretended to return to the watch but studied the three out of the corner of his eye. Betteries was gesturing to the valley below as if explaining tactics; the Fist was also adding comments, and nodding. The Adjunct just listened, his dark sun- and wind-burnished face revealing nothing. Suth’s gaze strayed to the twinned swords sheathed at the Fist’s belt. Untan duelling blades. Formidable weapons. Long, narrow, twin-edged and needle-pointed. Able to both cut and thrust. Once polished perhaps, but now battered, the leather sheaths hacked and worn. As for the Adjunct’s weapon; Suth pulled his gaze from the curved sword whose ivory pommel and grip seemed to glow with an inner light.

‘Now we’re in for it,’ Len murmured.

‘You think this is it?’ Suth answered, low.

‘Yeah. The main force must be in striking distance.’

‘So — when?’

The saboteur frowned his uncertainty. ‘Sooner than we’d like, no doubt.’

The Adjunct gestured then, suddenly, catching all their eyes. The young man was pointing off to the dark. Then he crooked a finger. Out from a slim shadow between rocks straightened Faro. He inclined his head in acknowledgement. The three officers spoke briefly then picked their way back. Captain Betteries lingered long enough to give Faro a snarled dressing-down before heading off. Their squad ‘scout’ leaned back against a rock, pulled out his short-stemmed pipe, and began packing it.

Suth cast Len and Yana a questioning look: both shrugged, so he headed over. Faro ignored him while he worked on his pipe. ‘Well?’ Suth asked after a time. The man didn’t answer. ‘What do you want? A damned bag of Imperial suns?’

The man glanced up, bared his bright pointed teeth. ‘A little wet behind the ears to be makin’ demands, don’t you think?’

‘I’d say we’re squadmates now and it would help the squad to know the plan.’

Faro snorted, looked past Suth to Len and Yana, both of whom were now standing, shrugged. He clenched the pipe in his teeth, unlit. ‘Tomorrow night. The main columns are gonna dash in.’

‘And us?’ Len asked, stepping up next to Suth.

Faro smiled again, this time evilly, Suth thought. ‘You boys have to make sure that bridge is still there when it’s time for Greymane to cross it. That or get blown up with it.’

‘Blown up?’

Faro nodded, grinning his pointy grin. ‘Oh yeah. There’ve been rumours of Moranth Black forces among these Roolians and Sixth veterans. Now it’s confirmed. Odds are they got their munitions too.’ He raised his chin in a question to Len. ‘How do you like that? Bein’ on the receivin’ end for a change, hey?’

The old saboteur kept his face carefully blank. ‘Let’s not start a panic,’ he drawled. ‘How’d you get spotted anyway? Thought you were better than that.’

Faro just pulled his lips back even more. ‘That Adjunct. Talk is he was Crimson Guard. They say the ghosts of their own dead watch over them.’

For some reason the idea of that sent a cold shiver down Suth’s back. It seemed to him that that would be the last thing he’d want.

*

Ussu had to bring all his waning influence to bear just to be allowed entrance into the main keep of the Three Sisters. Once within he was kept waiting through half the night while he knew not what was discussed in the Envoy’s hall. How to reconquer Skolati, perhaps. Or such premature nonsense.

Finally, past the mid-night ring on the candles, he was summoned into the Envoy’s presence. Members of the Lady’s militant religious order, these Guardians of the Faith, stood watch at the door to his quarters. Escorted in, Ussu bowed. He blinked in the glare of many more candles and lamps, then found the Envoy warming his hands at a brazier. The man was surrounded by sumptuousness: woven hangings depicted scenes from the Lady’s ages-long war against the enemy, the demon Stormriders. Thick rugs and cushions lay strewn about. Bright icons of the Lady gleamed on tables, on the walls, each with its own cluster of slim white candles representing the purity of faith. The Envoy wore a heavy wrap of dark wool though the room was stifling. Two Guardians of the Faith stood within to either side of the doors. ‘This is my devotional time, High Mage,’ the man said. ‘So please be quick.’

Ussu decided to try compliance first and therefore set aside all complaints or cutting remarks. ‘I have been busy, m’lord…’ for an instant the chilling vision of five pale corpses piled haphazardly near the wall of a tent flashed before his vision but this he also thrust aside and continued, ‘scrying, m’lord. Scrying our surroundings. Attempting to divine what is to come. I have glimpsed the enemy. They are close. I believe an attack is imminent.’ He took a cautious breath, and in the Envoy’s silence, plunged on: ‘M’lord, you must withdraw from the east shore. Any retreat, or rout, will press our forces into the river. Only a handful will make it across the bridge-’

Envoy Enesh-jer had shot up a hand for silence. He faced Ussu, glaring what the mage could only name hatred. ‘You have scried, have you?’ Taking a step closer, he studied Ussu as if he were an object of disgust. ‘Why Our Lady tolerates your perverted dabbling in these demon-arts is beyond my understanding. However, her tolerance and compassion is infinite. And so I must honour it. As to the deployment of our forces, mage… you have far overstepped your authority. You have no say in this at all.’

Ussu almost gaped his amazement. Did the Envoy actually believe what he was saying? He’d thought all these airs mere calculation for advancement. Had the man in truth found faith? It could happen, Ussu supposed. But ‘dabbling in arts’? What nonsense was this? Clenching his teeth to keep his voice low, Ussu grated, ‘Enesh-jer… stop pretending to be a local. You were born in Gris. I knew you as a young lieutenant in the Sixth. What insanity is this you are talking?’

The Envoy flinched away as if struck. He waved to the guards. ‘Leave us!’

As the Guardians closed the door behind them Enesh-jer lurched to a table, poured himself a glass of wine and downed it. This seemed to calm him. ‘Ussu — you are a mystery to me. Where are all our other cadre mages, hm? Where have they gone?’ And he laughed. ‘Oh, yes! I remember. I was there. The Lady’s power, Ussu! She has crushed them all. She is paramount here. No one can touch her. She is real! What are these other so-called gods? Hood? A bony face on the merely inevitable. Burn? Nothing more than lip service to an ancient hearth-spirit. And Shadowthrone?’ He laughed. ‘Well, I need not even comment. Ussu, what are all these other gods but rivals angered by her supremacy?’ He thrust an arm to the east. ‘And them! Out there! They too will fall to her. No one can defeat her in these lands. Over all these ages everyone who has tried has fallen! Even he… even Greymane was thrust aside.’ The Envoy opened his arms as if to say none of this mattered anyway. ‘And even if we should lose Rool to this new invasion force, the Korelri remain. You know what the Stormguard are like. What they can do. They cannot be defeated!’

Ussu could only shake his head. So, not so much faith as a bowing in submission to a greater power. Yet is there any distinction? Is not worship no more than a prettified effort at cringing ingratiation? Perhaps now is not the time for the philosophical question. No matter. These arguments I know and understand. ‘Enesh… the Stormguard only defend the wall. They will not fight your war for you.’

The Envoy now smiled with a kind of animal slyness. He stepped close. Sweat gleamed on his narrow hatchet face. His eyes were wide, the pupils huge. He took Ussu’s hands in his. ‘Poor fool! How you cling to your delusions. Yet you too have adapted to these new truths.’ He raised Ussu’s arms to reveal the blood staining the sleeves of his robes. The stigmata of his latest… efforts. ‘You too are implicated, friend. You too are with us. Up to your bloody elbows.’

And in the man’s glazed eyes, Ussu thought he saw the Lady there, laughing at him.

*

Rillish leaned back against a sun-warmed rock and stretched out his leg to rub the thigh. A cold clear night was before them. He was more exhausted than he could ever remember — day after day of continuous riding back and forth, joking, cajoling, outright browbeating — whatever it took to get the troops moving again. And his leg had never really recovered from that old wound. It was so numb he knew he couldn’t stand even if he wanted to.

How he longed for a fire! A hot meal, something to warm his hands over. But some bastard had forbidden all fires. That bastard being he. But they’d arrived. They’d made it. And though tired, wrung out, he judged his men and women angry and damned irritated enough to still look forward to a fight.

And the entire time young Kyle, the Adjunct, had ridden with him, though usually keeping to the extreme lead elements. He was an awkward rider, clearly not used to horses, but freakishly hardy, able to ride all day then walk the perimeter through the night. In his opinion the youth may not have the tactical experience to command, but what he did have could not be learned: that certain something that made men and women willing to follow his orders. Rillish saw how the troopers regarded him, the deference, the way their eyes tracked that weapon at his hip. It was similar to the way they acted in Greymane’s presence.

It was a regard that were he, Rillish, a lesser man would drive him to a petty and galling resentment. He pulled a boot off and wriggled his toes. Good thing he wasn’t so inclined. He was just a gentleman trooper, here to do his people right, then retire and get contentedly fat. He may not like the Adjunct’s choosing to accompany the squads tasked with preserving the bridge, but he could hardly stop him. Another commander might have taken the action as some sort of personal affront, or dismissed the youth as a glory-chaser. But the truth was that the contingent had a low chance for survival, and the Adjunct’s presence could help greatly. He would have gone himself but for Greymane’s orders placing him in command of the attack meant to draw attention from the bridge teams. He would lead the probe against the extreme easterly lines while the majority of his forces waited in the north for a drive to the bridge. Ahead of everyone, though, five squads would float down the Ancy to the bridge and once there act to preserve it from any possible demolition. Captain Betteries had outlined what he had in mind and he was satisfied with the man’s choices. It would be a small force counting on secrecy, but should something arise signals had been established.

Rillish rummaged in a saddlebag and unwrapped an old bruised pear. Biting into it reverently, he held the sweet flesh of the fruit in his mouth, tried to ease the tension from his shoulders. Nectar. Absolute nectar. He could look forward to four hours or so of sleep before the night attack. And he would sleep; the troops knew their jobs. He was now in that enviable, but difficult, command position of seeming irrelevancy. The challenge for him was to refrain from interfering and to trust the men and women to do the right thing.

Another problem was that on paper he commanded all the Fourth’s elements. But in truth his charging advance had spread his command over several days’ march. Flash floods had cut off sections of the columns, delaying their advance for days. Tremors had sent landslides across paths down steep valley sides, mangling and stranding units. It was as if the very land were battling them — at least here in the north. The result was that he currently had with him at the leading edge of his spear-like dash less than three thousand soldiers of the Fourth. Indeed, had the Skolati mustered the will and coordination for a counter-offensive, they could have found him embarrassingly exposed.

But they hadn’t. That had been Greymane’s throw. He had judged the Skolati shattered and proceeded upon the assumption. And privately Rillish agreed. Not that he had to — it just made his job a little bit easier to bear.

Communiques from the main body under Greymane put the van of his forces still two days’ march away — a distance the High Fist intended to cross in one day and night of continuous forced march beginning immediately. Thus Rillish’s orders. Hold until the High Fist arrived with the van. If they were to choose to destroy the bridge, they would do so tomorrow. Every hour thereafter strengthened Greymane’s position as more and more of the Fourth and the Eighth dribbled in.

These messengers also talked among the men before returning, and it appeared that Greymane’s reputation among the troops had gained an even greater burnishing. Soldiers, being the inveterate superstitious lot they were, attributed their good luck in avoiding the worst of these strange manifestations of flood and earth tremors to Greymane’s, and his High Mage’s, protection. A comparison Rillish might also choose to resent. But he was of the mind that anything that strengthened the morale of the troops was to be encouraged, even if he personally came out the worse for it.

He finished the pear, said goodnight to his aides, then rolled up in his blanket and promptly fell asleep.

*

At their camp among the rocks Suth sat with the rest of the 17th and thought about what to do before the night wake-up call. They and four other squads had been selected to make for the bridge. Some fifty or so men and women, give or take. He doubted, for example, that Faro would show, though Pyke was still with them — to everyone’s disgust. Should he try to sleep? Why bother when he knew he wouldn’t? He eyed Wess, who was taking his time preparing a long-stemmed pipe. The herbs going into that bowl might help him sleep but he couldn’t face the river half numb. To one side Dim was already asleep, while Lard was steadily working through his remaining stash of food. Sergeant Goss sat in low conversation with Len and Keri; discussing the bridge no doubt.

Then Pyke sent up a low laugh, pointing aside. ‘Look who’s here, Yana. It’s your boyfriend! Dragging his sorry arse back for a grab at yours.’

It was a stoop-shouldered hulking trooper from the 5th, shaggy-headed like the great horned cattle of the Dal Hon savannah. Suth couldn’t remember the fellow’s name. Gipe, something like that. Yana stood, flicked Pyke a gesture, faced the fellow hands on hips.

‘What have you got to say, then?’ she demanded.

The fellow hung his head, kicked at the ground. ‘Sorry. I guess.’

‘Sorry,’ Yana echoed. She crossed her arms. ‘You’re sorry?’

‘Yeah!’ He looked up all sullen; then, eyeing Yana, his expression melted away to a kind of hurt mope. ‘Yeah.’

Shaking her head, Yana stepped up to take his head in her hands and planted a great kiss on his lips. ‘Silly fool! You just had to say so!’

The consternation mixed with delight that played across the man’s unguarded face almost made Suth laugh out loud. Helpless. Utterly helpless in her hands.

They linked arms and Yana scooped up her bedroll as they walked off.

‘Brainless oaf,’ Pyke said. ‘Probably doesn’t even remember what he’s supposed to be sorry for.’

‘It ain’t the what of it that matters,’ Wess commented from where he lay on his side, eyes closed, pipe cradled gently in one hand.

Pyke wrinkled his face. ‘What in Hood’s name is that supposed to mean?’

Keri walked up holding a blanket at her shoulders. She was eyeing the retreating couple and stopped before Suth. ‘They make up again?’

Suth nodded. ‘Yeah. Again?’

The woman had a strange sort of half-smile on her lips as she looked down at him. ‘Yeah. They always make up before every standing battle then have a big ol’ fight afterwards and break up.’

Suth snorted. These Malazan soldiers — the oddest lot of misfits all jammed together.

‘Me, I get all tense. Can’t sleep. What about you?’

Shrugging, Suth had almost said no, not really, when he looked up at the woman standing over him in the blanket, her shirt untucked and untied, and the words died in his mouth. He swallowed and stammered, ‘Yeah. Me too. Tense.’

The smile broadened and as she reached down he reached up and they entwined arms. ‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘I know a way to work off all that tension. And bring your blanket — I don’t want to freeze my arse off.’

*

A knock on the front pole of his tent woke Ussu. He rose, threw on his thick outer robes over his shirt and trousers, and called out, ‘Yes?’

‘Word from Borun, High Mage. A disturbance in the east.’

He raised the flaps; a Black Moranth trooper bowed. ‘Take me to him.’

Borun occupied a slight rise in the valley slope below the Three Sisters fort along the descent to the Ancy. The vantage offered a view of Three Sisters town, the bridge, and a slice of the far shore where the Roolian forces were dug in. Since it was night all Ussu could see were the dancing shadows and dots of light of torches moving far from the shore. ‘What is it?’ he asked the Moranth Commander.

‘Listen.’

Ussu slowed his breathing, worked on calming his pulse. He reached out to the east with his senses, though careful not to draw upon his Warren. Not yet, in any case. Then over the churning of the river as it charged south he heard it: the definite muted roar of contact. ‘I thought them at least a day away yet,’ he breathed, the air pluming in the chill night.

‘Could be an advance force sent ahead to probe us,’ Borun offered.

‘Why announce their presence before they’re fully assembled?’

The Moranth commander said nothing. It was his way of letting Ussu know that he had no idea.

‘The… ah… packets? They are in place?’

Borun nodded. ‘All set.’

‘Very good. You have sent someone, I assume?’

‘To ascertain the character of the contact, yes. She should be returning soon.’

‘Ah — of course.’

The matt-black helm turned to him. ‘High Mage, the Envoy has committed nearly fifteen thousand troops to the far shore. We cannot abandon them.’

Yet, Ussu added. ‘Very good, Commander.’ He peered round the position; Borun’s tent stood nearby. ‘You wouldn’t have a stool, would you?’

‘Of course, High Mage.’

Shortly afterwards a Moranth Black trooper came jogging up. He — she, Ussu corrected himself — saluted. ‘It appears to be a small force of no more than a few thousand probing the road defences, Commander. The Roolians are holding them off.’

‘Or are the Malazans not pressing as hard as they might?’ Ussu cut in.

The scout turned her helm to Borun, who gave a small wave, granting permission for the woman to answer. Why the permission, Ussu wondered. Ah, yes! He’d asked for an opinion.

‘Hard to say, High Mage,’ she began, slowly, ‘but if I must offer an interpretation, I would say that no, the invaders are not pressing as hard as they might. Though their small number would rule out advancing as they would be overwhelmed,’ she added.

Invaders. How odd to hear that from our mouths when we ourselves are invaders. Yet he nodded at the Moranth scout’s words. To Borun, he said, ‘Then why attack at all? A waste of men and women when they have no chance for reinforcements.’

The blunt bullet helm cocked slightly as Borun thought. ‘Could be an impetuous officer, or one hungering to make a mark for him or herself. New to combat.’

‘If I were Greymane I’d cashier the fool.’

‘Let us hope this officer’s uncle is far too important for that,’ Borun suggested, with the closest thing to humour Ussu had yet heard from the man.

‘You don’t know Greymane,’ Ussu said darkly.

*

They were given logs to grip for the trip downriver. As it was the winter season the Ancy was low. Great boulders thrust up amid its wide length and intermittent rapids foamed its surface. Suth was told he should be able to touch bottom most of the way down — if he reached for it. Their equipment they stashed in rolls and tied to the logs. In teams of three they slogged out through the shallows to the deeper, swift-flowing centre channel. The cold mountain water took his breath away and stung as if burning. The river stretched before him like churning night beneath the stars. It humped and hissed where rocks lurked just beneath its surface. It pulled at him as if eager to pin him under them.

One by one they lifted their legs and allowed the current to draw them along. Slowly at first, Suth was pulled around submerged boulders; then more swiftly, as if down a slick chute, he picked up speed. He tried to hold his feet out before him and the trick worked a number of times as hidden rocks merely drove his knees into his chest and barked his shins. He clenched his teeth against the pain and raised his head for a glimpse ahead of the dark span of the bridge: nothing yet. A curl turned him, and as he sped along backwards he used one hand to pull himself back round. As he did so he caught a glimpse of the timber undersides of the bridge almost overhead and the sight nearly made him let go of the log in shock. A small island of boulders lay ahead, the water cresting around them, and he reached down for bottom here to slow himself. The water slammed him into the rocks, crushing the breath from him. He hugged the log, mouth open and head down as water foamed over him. He hoped to all his Dal Hon gods that anyone peering over the side of the bridge would merely see a length of driftwood jammed among the rocks.

Now what? He was pressed here as tight as if strapped in. He tried to edge himself out but the current kept pushing him back into his hollow. Come sun-up he would be sure to be spotted — if he wasn’t dead from exposure by then!

Something struck him a blow and for an instant he thought he’d been hit by a crossbow bolt from the bridge. But it was a length of rope, pitifully thin, pressed up against him. Struggling, he wrapped the rope round one arm as many times as he could then gripped the log again.

A yank almost dislocated his shoulder. Ye gods, have a care! The pressure was steady and agonizing. The rope cut into the flesh and muscle of his arm. He felt a tingling as its circulation was cut off. Slowly, the excruciating pull overcame the water’s pressure and he popped free of the trap like a cork. He could only float limply, hardly able to keep a grip of the log one-handed. Hands drew him out of the water.

‘Who’s this guy?’ a voice whispered.

‘He’s with Goss’ bunch.’

‘Hunh.’ A cuff on his cheek. ‘Well, welcome to the 6th.’

Through numb lips Suth slurred, ‘Have to get to my squad.’

A dark shape over him snorted. ‘No way. You sit tight. We’re on the job now ’cause this bridge is mined to blow.’

*

Ussu jerked awake at a touch on his shoulder; he’d fallen asleep leaning forward against his staff. Those efforts earlier must have taken more out of me than I suspected. And I’m not getting any younger. It was nearly dawn; the eastern horizon held that same pink you could find inside a seashell. Ussu felt the chill of the winter night painfully in his hands and feet. He nodded to the Moranth trooper, and crossed to where Borun was in conversation with others of his command.

‘No sortie?’ Borun was asking.

‘None ordered. Just repair of the lines and retrenchment.’

Borun bowed to Ussu. ‘The day’s regards, High Mage.’

‘The engagement is over?’

‘Yes, some time ago. A slow withdrawal of the invaders.’

‘A slow withdrawal? And the Envoy did not press them, maintain contact?’

‘No. Orders forbade it.’

Ussu was astonished. ‘Why?’

‘Perhaps he fears an ambush or a counterattack.’

‘And so he hides behind his lines.’ The foolishness of it was dismaying. ‘We’ve abandoned all initiative. Given it to them.’

‘True,’ Borun granted. ‘But they do have to come to us. Perhaps you could say time is on our side.’

It was dawning upon Ussu that the Black commander had the annoying capacity of being able to see all sides of any tactical situation. ‘Let us hope so,’ he eventually replied. Then he cleared his throat; he was fading without his morning herbal infusion and hot spiced tea. ‘In the meantime, I will be in my tent. Send word of any development.’

Borun inclined his helmed head. ‘Very good, High Mage.’

Devaleth knew she was no veteran of land campaigns, but it appeared to her that Greymane, in his dash to reach the Roolian border and the advance element under Rillish, was making excellent time.

They had a lot of ground to make up. The High Fist had lingered for over a week to sort out the new Malazan military rulership and accept the surrender of Skolati elements that came trickling in. Then he waited, jaws bunched impatiently, while the remaining Skolati commanders scattered throughout the countryside bickered and undermined each other until finally, disheartened and demoralized, the army failed to field an organized resistance.

Once it became clear that no pending threat remained, Greymane assembled ten thousand soldiers from the Fourth and Eighth and immediately set out for the Roolian border. Fist Khemet Shul remained behind with orders to consolidate, assign garrisons, and follow as soon as prudent.

And at what a pace! As horses were rare everyone walked — and walked — and walked. Greymane rose with the dawn and did not stop walking until after nightfall. Meals — a crust of stale bread scavenged from an abandoned village, or a scrap of dried meat — were taken on the stride. The man was utterly relentless; those who could not keep up were left behind. Soon for the soldiers it became a matter of pride to see to it that that would not happen to them. More than one trooper limped past Devaleth leaving a trail of bloody prints.

Devaleth was one of the handful mounted — albeit on a donkey. Some no doubt thought her lucky, but she knew the truth: it was a kind of torture. The animal’s spine was like a knife and the beast would deliberately stop suddenly and dip its head in an effort to tumble her upside down. Whenever this happened soldiers nearby suggested a knife to the hindquarters, or a sharp stick to one ear, but for some reason she could not bring herself to beat the animal and so it had its way. She became resigned to it, thinking herself still far better off than the poor footslogging regulars.

In deference to her position as mage she also had one of the two tents; the other served the mobile infirmary, which followed along the route of march drawn by a team of oxen. All other logistical support and followers — the blacksmiths, armourers and cooks — Greymane had left behind in his utter determination to catch up. For the rankers, it was scavenge on the march or starve. Devaleth saw abandoned overgrown garden plots pillaged, roaming livestock claimed, and even a wild ubek doe brought down by javelins and butchered on the spot, haunches carried off over shoulders for the cook fires.

Each night she had to track down Greymane. She’d eventually find him wrapped in his muddied travelling cloak, lying among the troopers next to some fire or other. His long ash-grey hair would be almost luminous in the night, and likewise the beard he was growing. Devaleth would ease herself down near the fire and from the edge of her gaze usually spend the evening studying the puzzle that was this man.

It seemed to her that he was in his element. Here, in the field, sharing the company of the regulars. Clearly, this was where he was most comfortable. No wonder he’d been so eager to get away. Yet what of the men and women of his command? She knew some officers liked to fancy themselves as being of the common people, with a common touch and able to rub shoulders with the average rankers, when they clearly actually lacked all such gifts. From the glances and bearing of all those the High Fist talked to or sat among Devaleth saw that he had their hearts. In this manner he fit the mould of the old Malazan commanders she’d heard of: the legendary Dujek, the gruff Urko, or the revered Whiskeyjack.

Yet on this subcontinent he was the most reviled criminal in history. Here was the man who, when she was a student at the Mare academy, dared to approach the enemy, the Riders, who would wipe them all from the face of the earth. Was he an utter solipsist? No, he did not strike her as such. Heartless sociopath? Again, no. Or to be pitied as a pathetic gullible fool? No, not that.

Then… what?

He was a mystery. A man who went his own way and be damned to the consequences. She didn’t know whether to admire the fellow, or to be profoundly terrified of him.

That dilemma took a new twist when, on the fifth day of marching, the ground shook. It was a common tremor; Devaleth was used to them. Local folk superstition attributed them to the Lady’s struggle against the Riders. This one appeared to have been centred nearby as the ground opened up beneath the rear elements and many tumbled into a gaping sinkhole. Soon after this the van was crossing a stream when a flash flood stormed down with stunning fury and swept some fifty soldiers away. It was the first of many more disasters: ravines collapsing, rockslides down steep valley sides. It was as if the very ground were revolting against them.

Yet none of these manifestations struck near where Greymane marched. A region of peace and calm seemed to encircle him. No tremor could be felt. No twisting ridgeback descent was suddenly swept out from beneath his feet. Sensibly, as the days passed, and the tremors intensified, the column came to constrict around wherever Greymane happened to be walking. And since Devaleth accompanied the High Fist, she was always caught up in the crush.

The ninth night of the march she sat at a fire with the High Fist. She had wrapped her robes and blankets around her, arms tight about her knees; the cold had intensified as they approached the windward side of the island. During a moment of relative privacy she cleared her throat and ventured, low: ‘She reaches for you but she cannot catch hold. Why is that?’

The man’s ice-cold eyes slid to her and the wide jaws slowly un-bunched. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘We both know what I’m talking about.’

The lips pulled down, granting acknowledgement. ‘Do you know what the troopers think?’

‘What does that have to do with it?’

He smiled as if having achieved some sort of victory. ‘What have you noticed recently? How have the boys and girls been treating you?’

Devaleth frowned. What insanity was this? Certainly they were talking to her now, offering advice on how to ride. And she’d noticed she was never alone. A number of them now flanked her all through the day. And they offered bowls of berries and hot strips of meat from whatever animal happened to be on the fire at night.

He leaned close to lower his voice. ‘They think you’re the one defending them.’

She stared at the High Fist, appalled. ‘But that’s not true!’

He raised a hand for silence. ‘That doesn’t matter.’ He eased back; his gaze returned to the fire where it usually rested, studying the flames. ‘I’ve come to understand that the truth isn’t really what’s important.’ He cocked his head, his cold blue gaze edging back to her. ‘What really matters is what people come to agree is the truth.’

Devaleth found she could not hold his gaze and glanced away. Was that a message for her? For everyone? Was everything, then, a lie? Yet he had not denied that he did approach the Riders.

‘Get some sleep now,’ he said, rolling over and wrapping himself in his thick cloak. ‘We’ll reach the Ancy valley tomorrow or the next day. There’ll be no sleep then.’

Suth was freezing on his perch under the bridge. The wind whipped unimpeded through the wooden girders he and members of the 6th squad sat among like miserable monkeys. It had dried him but sucked all the warmth from him in doing so. Constant traffic rattled and groaned overhead across the squared timbers of the bridge bedding. Dust and gravel rained down, threatening to make him cough. He hugged himself, adjusted his numb buttocks, and tried to pull some slack from the rope securing him to his seat. Beneath his feet the blue-grey waters of the Ancy churned past.

They’d climbed what the saboteurs named ‘piers’: timber frames filled with rocks and rubble. The bridge rested atop five of them. They hid high among the braces and joists of the underframing, safe from the eyes of those up and down the shores. Still, it made Suth twitch to see the enemy collecting water and urinating just a stone’s throw from the most shoreward pier.

He and the 6th occupied the top of one of the central piers standing in the deepest water. Elsewhere, the second pier eastward, the rest of the 17th had taken up a similar position. He’d tried slithering out to rejoin them but the 6th’s sergeant, Twofoot, had signed an enraged no.

And so they waited, hidden, while the saboteurs did whatever it was they were supposed to do. Which so far looked to Suth like absolutely nothing. The 6th’s, Thumbs and Lorr, had pulled themselves out to a bundle roped to the bridge’s supports midway between two piers and there they’d remained all morning, pointing to various parts of it and whispering.

Bored and numb with cold, Suth turned to the nearest trooper and whispered, ‘What’re they up to?’

This heavy infantryman kept some kind of leaf-and-nut concoction jammed in one cheek. ‘Checkin’ it out,’ came the laconic reply between chews.

No kidding. They’ve been doing that all morning. ‘Yeah. But what’re they gonna do?’

A shrug. ‘Gotta check for boobytraps.’

‘Then what?’ Suth whispered again.

‘I dunno. Disarm ’em, I suppose.’

Suth sat back, defeated by the soldier’s denseness — or at least his unrelenting pose of it. ‘What’s your name, anyway?’

The man chewed for a time as if giving the question some thought, then said, ‘Fish.’

Fish. Suth eyed the fellow, the thick arm slung through a triangular gap between timbers, the wide bovine jaws working. Fish? ‘Why Fish?’

‘I dunno. The drill sergeant asked about my family so I said, “We fish.” So he says, okay. You Fish.’

Suth stared. Remarkable. All without the slightest inflection. He would’ve liked to have pressed the fellow to see how far he could carry it; but perhaps that was enough talk as Twofoot glared murder at him whenever he opened his mouth. He sat back again in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. ‘Right.’

Something moved over his head and he jerked a flinch that nearly dropped him from his perch to hang over the river like a piece of idiotic fruit. It was a saboteur, a woman, pulling herself along a timber, skinny in muddy leathers. She let herself down next to him to take up a squatting pose, arms over her head gripping the wood. She winked. He nodded back, uncertain. He’d seen her before: damned ugly with snaggled teeth, bulbous eyes that looked able to peer in two directions at once. Long hair pulled back and tied so tight as to make her eyes bulge even more. Urfa. The saboteur lieutenant.

‘What’s up?’ he barely mouthed.

‘Time to start the show.’ And she bared her yellow uneven teeth.

‘You going to drop the munitions into the river?’

The woman looked absolutely horrified. She eyed him as if he were crazy. ‘Hood no! We’re gonna keep them.’ Then she swung out under the horizontal timber, hand over hand, nothing beneath her but river, shaking her head at his stupidity.

Well how was I supposed to know? He watched while Urfa joined the short, rotund Thumbs and the equally lanky Lorr on their crowded perch. The three of them began pulling out tools from various pockets all about their trousers, vests and jerkins. Elsewhere, Len and Keri would be starting this very process. The idea of Keri leaning over a munition and being blown to bits made him squirm. Still, the woman had a gentle deft touch — if that counted for anything. And if things went awry with Thumbs here he’d be just as dead as well.

*

Ussu was washing his hands at a basin when Borun ducked into his tent. The Moranth commander looked at the sheet-covered body on the central table, then at Ussu. ‘Any news?’

Ussu frowned his disappointment. ‘No. None. This one died immediately. Shock. Sometimes the heart just gives out. Have you anyone else?’

‘We do have a captive…’

‘Yes? Bring him. I must see what’s going on.’

The Moranth Black officer gripped his belt in both gauntleted hands and was quiet for a time, his gaze on the body. Ussu knew his friend well enough to read reluctance and a kind of vague unease. ‘Yes?’

‘She is… Malazan.’

‘Ah. I see.’ Unease on two fronts. ‘Do not worry, my friend. We are at war. We must do what we must.’

The matt-dark helm inclined a slow acquiescence. ‘Very good, High Mage. She will be sent.’ Borun ducked from the tent.

Ussu turned to his aides, pointed to the body. ‘Get rid of that. Prepare the table.’

Yurgen bowed. ‘Yes, High Mage.’

When the captive was delivered Ussu was disappointed by how tiny she was. Not much room in the chest cavity to reach the heart. He gestured for his apprentices to prepare her. She was gagged, her arms stretched out to either side and strapped, legs bound straight. Ussu found himself studying her face much more closely than he had any prior subject. Hazel eyes bored into his, full of animal fury. Spirit. And tawny. Were you of Tali perhaps? A soldier? But so gracile! A scout, possibly. Yes, probably so. Still, there is hope. This conceit some have of males being stronger than females — not borne out by the evidence. Women always endure longer than men. Through privation, stress, even wounds. And so perhaps my efforts will bear fruit.

Taking his sharpest instrument, an obsidian-bladed scalpel, he cut open her ragged shirt, exposing her side. Then, feeling his way with his fingers, he slit down vertically between the ridges of two ribs. He held out a hand: ‘Spacer.’

The wood and brass instrument was set into his palm. Probing with his fingers he found purchase on the ribs. The subject convulsed, gurgling an agonized scream; Ussu flinched away. Damn. Have to start all over again. ‘Stop her from moving!’

‘Yes, High Mage.’ Yurgen and Temeth leaned on the slight woman, using their weight to steady her torso.

‘Very good. Let’s begin again, shall we…’

At the first turn of the spacing screws the subject let out a lacerating incoherent howl of anguish then slumped, unconscious. Thank the Lady! Now I can concentrate. He pressed ahead with the procedure while he could. When his questing fingertips brushed the woman’s heart he felt his Warren come to him with a power he hadn’t felt in decades. Head down close to the subject’s naked shoulder, eyes shut, his inner sight pierced the edges of Mockra and flew free.

And almost immediately the Lady was there to greet him. It was as if a cat had taken him by the nape of his neck. Her voice seemed to stroke as if searching for the perfect place to clench.

Ussu. My loyal servant. What blasphemy is this you practise in my name? Abandon these false delusions and join me!

He could not speak; was utterly helpless. And she knew it.

You trust too much to my affection and forbearance. It is only…

The voice broke off. He sensed a swirling shift as crushing pressures built around him. He glimpsed something bright amid mist. A blade. A bright blade.

Another is here… An interloper! She is here. This is intolerable! How dare she!

Something snapped round his neck like a vice. Blinking, he forced open his eyes to see that the subject had somehow slipped an arm free of the strapping and was now strangling him with an inhuman strength. Yurgen! Temeth! Where are you!

I will destroy the bitch!

The subject’s head rolled over to face him, the eyes open but empty of life. Something fell free round the neck, a leather strap and pendant. The simple stone bore an engraved image: an open hand. Emblem of the Queen of Dreams! An image flickered in those staring glassy eyes, a presence. And Ussu felt soul-crushing shame.

You have betrayed me, Ussu, another voice whispered to him. The sadness and regret borne in those words brought tears to his eyes. He felt himself fading from consciousness but behind the voice came faintly the rush of running water.

No! This one’s mine!

A blow and the iron band at his neck was yanked away. Someone supporting him. He clasped his throat, gasping for air. Borun, arm round him, sword bared and bloody. Ussu looked down: the woman’s torso, headless.

‘Speak,’ the Moranth commander demanded.

Ussu was massaging his throat. His apprentices all lay fallen round the table as if slain where they stood. Stiffly, he knelt beside Yurgen, turned the youth’s head to peer into his eyes. Not lifeless. Alive. But blank. The mind wiped clean. Perhaps, as they say, Mockra is a child of High Thyr. Perhaps, as they whisper, the Enchantress knows no boundaries. ‘The bridge, Commander,’ he said, still kneeling. ‘I heard… water.’

‘Guards!’ the Moranth bellowed, storming from the tent.

Ussu could not look away from those empty orbs. What was your last sight, Yurgen? Who did this? Was it truly the Enchantress? Perilous indeed is my… research. Yet I am helpless without it. What am I to do? Betrayer to both sides? In the end, is there to be no sanctuary, no refuge, for me?

*

The first Suth knew of any trouble was a change in tone within the general noise of the Roolian forces. Traffic over the bridge grated to a halt. Then a great many footsteps came thumping over the bed. Along the river’s shores a crowd of soldiers pressed down to the silt and gravel bars. He noted with a sick feeling that they all carried bows.

Then pointing, yells, bows raised, fired. A storm of arrows flew to the tops of the most shoreward piers. ‘We’re spotted, lads and lasses,’ Twofoot called — just to make it official.

No fucking kidding. Suth felt that his backside was now very exposed and very fat.

‘We gonna go for a dive?’ Fish called.

Twofoot frowned a negative. ‘Naw — we’d all just get shot.’

Scraping sounded once more high among the timber bracings and a black-armoured figure appeared, sword out, rope snaking up from its shoulders. Everyone stared, amazed. A Black Moranth?

‘Get the fucker!’ Twofoot bellowed.

Suth launched himself up, only to be yanked backwards by the rope at his waist. He flailed like an upturned beetle, almost falling off the timber. Fish and the others of the 6th made for the Moranth while he, or she, scrambled hunched among the crossbeams for the saboteurs.

Before any of the 6th could close, a crossbow bolt took the Moranth in the chest and it slipped from its perch to fall swinging and spinning from its rope. Lorr raised his crossbow from his shoulder, regarded the emptied weapon, then, with a shrug, dropped it to the milky-blue water below.

‘Ain’t you two finished yet?’ one of the 6th yelled.

‘Shut your Hood-damned mouth,’ Thumbs answered.

Suth slit the rope at his waist, readied his weapon. Arrows pecked at the timbers around them. They were hiding amid the under-structure and it was a difficult shot for the archers as they had to aim high to make the distance. ‘Now what?’ he shouted to Twofoot. The 6th’s sergeant ignored him.

Someone was yanking on the Black Moranth’s rope, attempting to raise it. But the body just kept banging upwards into a horizontal beam. After a few goes whoever was trying must’ve given up as the rope suddenly slithered hissing through the maze of timbers and the body plunged to disappear into the Ancy.

‘Boats,’ Fish noted laconically, and he raised his chin upriver.

Suth shifted his seat. Sure enough, a whole flotilla of boats was being readied upriver on both shores. Archers were pouring into them. All my homeland gods damn them! Now what? They were completely trapped! Couldn’t go up. Couldn’t go down. Couldn’t stay. Whose bloody plan was this anyway?

Thumbs swung free of the timber he’d been lying prone upon. A fat sack hung from his waist and a big grin was pasted on his broad face. ‘We’d better-’ An arrow appeared at his side, driven all the way up to the fletching. He grunted, peered at it amazed. ‘Just my friggin’ luck.’

Lorr lunged for him but he let go and fell, looking up at them all, his face a pale oval. He disappeared into the opaque turbulence around the pier’s base.

‘Damn!’ Twofoot snarled. ‘Things are gettin’ discomfortable.’

There’s an understatement. ‘Should we just jump?’ Suth called.

Twofoot chewed on that. ‘You could jump on to one of the boats an’ sink it like the big sack of shit you are. Now keep your mouth shut!’

Funny bastard. Wait till we get out of this. I’ll find you. And to think I didn’t even bring my shield!

Everyone tried to scramble even higher into the crossbeams to find cover from the bow-fire. Suth was shifting sideways to another bracing when the entire bridge jumped. The blast knocked him from the top of the timber. He clung on, swinging. Through the roaring in his ears he just made out a scream as someone fell. Pieces of shattered equipment and timber splashed into the river below.

After a brief stunned silence Twofoot bellowed: ‘Up and at ’em!’

Up! Up? A charge? What about me? Suth managed to hook a foot over the brace. The 6th was climbing to the edges of the under-framing, headed over the top. Wait for me, damn you!

*

From the hillside Rillish saw as well as everyone the surge of black figures charging the bridge; the wave of archers darkening the shores on both sides of the Ancy. The flight of bow-fire merely confirmed it. He straightened and beckoned an aide to him. ‘Last report on Greymane?’

‘Sometime tonight is the best estimate, Fist,’ the woman answered. Her eyes remained fixed on the distant bright ribbon of river. Then she swung her gaze to him, entreating. I was once so young; so eager. Now it is only the costs I think of. Would it be worth it? The maths is unforgiving: there are only some fifty of them, after all.

But — as always — there is so much more than mere numbers at stake.

Turning, he nodded to Captain Peles at his side. Then, to the aide: ‘Order the charge. We strike straight to the shore, cut south to the bridge.’

The woman was already dashing off.

‘We’ll hold,’ Peles said, securing her wolf-visored helm.

‘We have no choice now.’

*

From his tent Ussu was watching the attack while sipping a restorative glass of hot tea boiled from a rare poppy found on the foothills of the Ebon range. He dropped the glass in shock when a blast shot smoke and debris blossoming over the bridge. Human figures, carts and equipment flew pinwheeling to splash soundlessly into the river.

Damn the Lady! Was that them or us? Deliberate, or accidental?

As the smoke cleared he could see that the explosion hadn’t completely severed that length of the bridge: a few thick braces still spanned the section. Accidental perhaps — not where it was meant. That, or we Malazans built damned well. Borun came jogging up. Beyond him, fighting had broken out all over the bridge. The rats driven up from cover. Can’t be too many of them.

‘Not us,’ the Moranth commander announced.

‘Unintentional.’

‘For those holding it — undoubtedly.’

Hooves shook the ground as one of the Envoy’s entourage came thundering over to them and brought his mount to a savage halt. It was one of the self-styled Roolian noblemen: a Duke Kurran, or Kherran. The man pointed to Borun. ‘What treachery is this? You had your orders!’

‘We are not the only ones with munitions,’ Borun pointed out, his hoarse voice bland.

‘It is hardly in their interests to demolish the bridge!’

‘They would strand the forces on the far shore,’ Ussu observed. ‘With their retreat cut off they may surrender and we will have lost a third of our army.’

The Duke glared as if Ussu had suggested that very plan to the enemy. Through clenched teeth he ground out: ‘The Overlord will deal with you.’ He yanked the horse’s reins around.

‘We shall be blamed no matter what,’ Borun said, his gaze on the retreating noble.

A Black Moranth runner sped to Borun, spoke to him. The commander turned to Ussu, who was straining another glass of tea. ‘The advance force on the far shore is attacking.’

This time Ussu managed not to spill his tea.

*

Suth pulled himself up and over the bridge railing to roll amid scattered equipment and splayed corpses. Smoke still plumed from the east end where for all he knew the bridge had collapsed. To the west lines had formed amid turned-up wagons. He threw himself into cover next to a cart, shouted to the nearest trooper, a woman binding her own arm: ‘What’s going on?’

‘We’re holding this side,’ she answered; then, eyeing him, added, ‘The 17th?’

‘Yeah.’

She motioned ahead. ‘You’re further on.’

He thanked her and crawled forward. Arrow-fire fell thick and indiscriminate. What do these archers think they’re doing? There’s more of them than us! Ahead, an empty length of bridge swept by bow-fire stood between him and the squads defending the barrier of wagons. He spotted Yana, Goss and Wess amid the fighting. Thank the Hearth-Goddess! It hadn’t been Keri… What to do? No shield! Oh well. Nothing for it! He hunched and bolted out across the open length of bridge.

Arrows peppered the adze-hewn planks as he ran. He didn’t bother dodging; these were all just sent high in the hopes of hitting something. Close to the barrier white fire clamped its teeth into his right thigh and he fell rolling into cover.

‘That was foolish,’ someone said, righting him. It was the young Adjunct; he peered at Suth’s leg, frowned beneath his moustache. ‘You’ve broken the shaft.’ Suth couldn’t answer, the pain was so all-consuming. He thought he was going to throw up. ‘Urfa!’ The Adjunct stood. ‘She’ll take care of you.’

The saboteur lieutenant threw herself down next to him. She pushed him flat none too gently. ‘Why am I doin’ this?’ she grumbled. ‘I’m no Hood-damned nurse!’ Suth was on his stomach with her lying on him, her elbow on his neck; he could hardly breathe let alone speak. A cold blade slashed the back of his trousers. ‘I see it!’ she announced. ‘Just because I’ve done a few amputations!’ She added, lower: ‘I bet our Adjunct boy can sew too! This’ll hurt.’ A blade stabbed the back of his leg. He screamed, adding his voice to the roar of battle surrounding them. She was digging in the meat at the rear of his thigh. Stars appeared in his sight. The clash of fighting receded to a mute hollow murmur. His vision darkened.

*

They fought their way down the riverside. They trampled the camp, kicked over tents and cook fires, kept their backs to the muddy shore. Rillish fought with both swords; Captain Peles and other guards covered his flanks. It seemed to him that this force didn’t particularly want to dispute their route to the bridge.

He didn’t blame them now that it was useless. The blast had surprised everyone. Stones and litter had rained down all around. It seemed to him that the Roolian forces hadn’t really recovered from that explosion. Their officers urged them on but he could imagine the average foot soldier wondering why he should die for a useless piece of wood and stone.

Especially now that they were utterly cut off.

Still, they were more than willing to allow Rillish’s force to rush in to be encircled; that suited their officers. Once their archers began taking shots at him Rillish retreated to the Fourth’s shield wall and ordered everyone to hold ground defending this end of the bridge.

He just hoped Greymane wouldn’t judge him too harshly for delivering damaged goods.

Then a man appeared, escorted by Peles. He was scorched, sleeves burned away, skin blistered and black. Rillish recognized him as Cresh, sergeant of the 11th, one of the teams sent to secure the bridge. The man saluted.

Rillish answered the salute. ‘Good to see you, Sergeant. I’m glad you survived. Too bad they got to it anyway.’

‘No, sir, they didn’t.’

Rillish studied the man; didn’t he have a full beard last he’d seen him? ‘What was that?’

‘Was an accident. Us. Lit off above the bed. We’ve beat down the fires an’ taken a squint. My boy Slowburn says there’s enough of the frame left. Give us time and we’ll have it patched up.’

Rillish stared at the sergeant, then turned to the Roolian lines. Damn. How soon before they see that?

*

Ussu judged it half an hour’s glass and so he turned to Borun while the commander fielded messages and enquired mildly, ‘Why is there still fighting on the bridge?’

The Moranth commander did not even look up. ‘You I will tell the truth — I have been husbanding my own people. This is one battle and we have a war to fight.’

‘I see.’

‘Also, there are reports of one among them anchoring their lines. He carries a weapon… witnesses call it white or yellow, like ivory. None is willing to face him.’

Ussu’s gaze snapped to the distant bridge where a horde of soldiers pressed, pikes and spears waving like a small forest. White or yellow… bright… the weapon he saw? No doubt. Did this one deserve his attention? But he was exhausted from being caught like a fly in the confrontation between the Lady and the Enchantress. He simply was not up to it.

A grunt from Borun pulled his attention to the slope. There a band of black-clad priests descended, staves striking the ground as they paced. Soldiers flinched from their advance. Ah! Abbot Nerra and his three assistants. This fellow on the bridge had also drawn the Lady’s attention. She would now take a hand. He should get closer; this could prove quite instructive.

‘I would witness this,’ he told Borun.

The Black Moranth commander grunted his disinterest. ‘If you must. I will remain.’ He waved one of his aides to accompany him.

Ussu descended. Or rather, he attempted to; the soldiers did not cooperatively part for him as they had for the priests. And it was a terrible press as thousands jammed in towards the bridge to reach the enemy. In the end he settled for following in the wake of the Moranth as he — or she? — forced a way through.

*

Suth could stand; if he gritted his teeth hard enough and concentrated. Urfa’s binding was as tight as a winding-sheet and she’d wrapped with it a poultice that stank of fat and urine and other things he didn’t want to think about. But it was supposed to be proof against the wound’s suppurating.

He was reserve now, of course. Rear rank. Bending over stiffly, he picked up a spear. The front lines had all scavenged shields and now fought a stubborn defence. All except the Adjunct, who watched from behind, ever ready to push in where needed. No archer could reach them now, unless he dared step out from the enemy’s front lines. In which case they still had their crossbows.

When the Adjunct happened to be standing near him, Suth asked, ‘Do we retreat?’

The young man smiled behind his moustache. ‘Not unless we can take our wagons with us.’

This close Suth wondered why he had ever considered the officer young. He was no younger than himself, surely, nor a good portion of the entire army. This was a young person’s calling. Probably it was the rank: the fellow was slim in years to be second in command to a High Fist.

The Adjunct’s gaze narrowed, the cross-hatching of wrinkles all around almost hiding the eyes — a plainsman’s gaze. ‘Trouble,’ he breathed, then, gesturing, ‘Goss, Twofoot, to me.’

Suth strained to look: men in dark robes advancing. Pressure eased along the twelve-foot width as the Roolian soldiers backed off. Four more priests of the Lady, just as at the temple in Aamil. He remembered his throat constricting then, his stolen breath. Would that happen again? And would the Adjunct be able to counter it as before?

The four stamped their iron-shod staves to the timbers and stood waiting. Flanked by his sergeants the Adjunct stepped out to meet them.

‘I am Abbot Nerra,’ one of the priests announced. He did not wait for the Adjunct to reply; indeed, it was clear that he did not want any response. ‘You are trespassing. Retreat from this valley and you will be unmolested. You have the word of the Lady. Such is her infinite leniency and forbearance.’

‘Generous of the Lady to offer territory we already hold,’ the Adjunct answered.

The Abbot appeared to have expected such an answer. ‘Surrender now or be driven before the Lady’s wrath like ash before the wind.’

‘Is this the leniency or the forbearance?’

The Abbot was untroubled. ‘Her patience is without end. Mine is not.’ He signalled to his fellows.

At the same instant the sergeants signed as well and from behind the upturned wagons saboteurs jumped up to fire crossbows. Multiple bolts slammed into the priests, some passing through entirely to speed on and strike soldiers behind.

The four staggered but none fell. The Abbot raised his eyes and something more seemed to glare from their depths that fixed them all with their rage. ‘Blasphemers! Your essences will writhe in agony!’

Energy detonated between the priests in crackling arcs and filaments. The timbers shuddered as if pounded by a charge of cavalry. Everyone flinched: the Adjunct, the sergeants, even the Roolian troops. The robes of the priests began to smoulder and smoke. A chain of the energy lashed out, striking one wagon in an explosion of shards sending men and women flying. Suth remembered the spear in his hand and took one step to launch it. The leaf-blade disappeared into the torso of a priest while the haft immediately burst to ash. The priest seemed unaffected by what was certainly a mortal wound.

The four advanced a step, staves held horizontal before them. The wagon Suth hid behind slid backwards, almost knocking him from his feet. He staggered, yelling his pain with every hop of his injured leg. Another chain of energy lashed the lines and soldiers fell, smouldering, charred and withered.

Then the Adjunct lunged forward, rolling. A priest fell, his leg severed at the knee. Another swung his stave and the Adjunct caught the blow on his sword, two-handed. The stave was severed in a blast that sent the youth spinning to slam into the bridge’s side. The eruption flattened a score of the nearest Roolian soldiers as well. That priest fell, his arms and chest in bloody ruins, his hands gone. The remaining two pushed onward, seemingly uncaring and unaffected. The wagon slammed backwards into Suth once more.

‘Drop!’ Urfa called, and she straightened to throw a fist-sized orb. Suth hunched behind the wagon. Normally the crack of the munition would have made him flinch, but now the blast was lost in the maelstrom of wrath unleashed before them. When the woman peered up again she gaped, snarling, ‘Shit!’

He peered, an arm shielding his eyes, to see the two still advancing despite countless slashing wounds — one’s face a bloom of blood from a mortal head wound. The Adjunct appeared to be unconscious. Suth hobbled over to him, and found Goss examining him. ‘What do we do?’ Suth shouted.

‘Don’t know!’

The pale yellow blade lay on the timbers. Both Suth and Goss eyed it. ‘Should I touch it?’ Suth asked.

‘Don’t know!’

‘Oh, to the Witches with it!’ Suth picked it up; it was warm in his hand and not quite as heavy as an iron weapon. Nothing seemed to happen to him. The curved blade looked more golden than pale yellow, translucent at its edge. He turned to the remaining priests. They were ignoring them, intent upon forcing everyone back up the bridge. He glanced at Goss, who wore a thoughtful frown.

‘Maybe I should…’ the sergeant offered.

Well, he was wounded. A great yell snapped their attention to the priests. A soldier had leapt from cover swinging a two-handed sword. The trooper wore a long mail coat and a helm whose visor was hammered into the likeness of a snarling beast. Suth recognized her as an officer he often saw with Fist Rillish. Her heavy blade crashed into a blocking stave, triggering an eruption of energy that crackled and lashed all about the bridge. But she hadn’t come with them! What was she doing here?

A second arcing blow slipped under the stave and slit one priest across the gut almost to the spine. A spin and she brought the weapon swinging up to catch the second at the groin, tearing a gash up to his sternum. Even then neither priest fell. Smoke now plumed from them as if driven by a ferocious wind; it appeared to Suth that they’d been dead for some time. Enraged, her mail blackened and scoured by the energies, the woman kicked one of the priests. He fell corpse-stiff in a clatter of dry limbs.

The crackling power snapped out of existence; the staves lay consumed to blackened sticks, iron fittings melted. A crowd of troopers from the Fourth washed over them all. They came dragging carts and equipment that they heaved up into a barricade. Suth and Goss helped the groggy Adjunct up.

Goss offered a wink. ‘Have to be the hero another time, hey?’

Suth examined the pale blade. ‘I guess it takes more than just a sword.’ He picked up a torn cloak and used it wrap the weapon.

The sergeant was nodding his serious agreement. ‘Yeah. Looks more like a question of timing to me.’

The Adjunct was standing on his own now. He rolled one shoulder, wincing and hissing his pain. Suth offered him the sword. He took it and shook his head. ‘Fat lot of good it did me.’

‘You’re still alive, sir,’ Goss pointed out.

The Adjunct nodded thoughtfully, accepting the point. ‘True enough, Sergeant.’

Goss straightened, offering an abbreviated battlefield salute, and Suth turned to see Fist Rillish approaching. ‘Just in time,’ the Adjunct called.

Fist Rillish bowed. ‘Let’s hope Greymane is as prompt.’

The Adjunct was massaging his shoulder. ‘When do you expect him?’

‘Tonight — Burn speed him.’

The Adjunct grunted his acknowledgement. ‘We should be able to hold till then. I leave you to it.’

Fist Rillish bowed again, turned to Sergeant Goss; he pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger as he studied the man. ‘Your captain is on the east shore, Sergeant.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Goss took Suth’s arm. ‘On our way.’

*

Within the pressing mass of Roolian soldiers Ussu tapped the shoulder of his Moranth escort. He had seen enough. It was now plain to him that this second wave of invasion brought more than mere soldiers. Other powers, it seemed, deemed the timing right to challenge the Lady’s long dominance. Head down, he walked back up the slope, hands clasped behind his back. If it was equally evident to her by now… then he may be able to strike a bargain, of a kind.

Head down, lost in thought, he failed to note the row raging around Borun’s command position. If he had seen it he would have turned right round; as it was, he walked right into it. ‘You! Mage,’ someone demanded. ‘Talk some sense into your companion.’ Ussu looked up, blinking: a crowd of the Envoy’s officer and aristocratic entourage surrounded Borun. The Duke had spoken. Kherran, that was his name.

‘Yes, my Duke?’ Ussu asked mildly.

‘Remind him of his duty!’

Ussu turned to Borun. ‘Well, Commander? Whatever is the matter?’

‘It is now Envoy Enesh’s wish that the bridge be blown.’

Ussu raised an eyebrow. Rather late for that. ‘I see. And?’

A shrug. ‘We do not possess sufficient munitions for the task.’

‘I see.’ Ussu turned to Duke Kherran. ‘You heard the man. You had your chance. Now it can’t be done.’

The Duke advanced upon him, his round face darkening with rage. For a moment Ussu thought he would strike. Through clenched teeth he snarled, ‘We note you had sufficient munitions to mine the bridge earlier!’

‘That was earlier,’ Borun said, his voice flat. ‘Now, more importantly, what we do not possess is the bridge itself.’

The Duke was almost beyond words in his frustration. He pointed to the structure. ‘Well… do it here! This end!’

Borun waved the suggestion aside. ‘Inconsequential. The damage would be no more than that incurred on the far side. It could be repaired in a day. No, our only hope would be to seize the nearest shoreward pier and demolish it.’

‘Well? Do it!’

‘We do not possess sufficient munitions for the task.’

The man went for his weapon. He froze in the act, his chest heaving, gulping down air. ‘You two… You are deliberately frustrating our efforts! You wish us to fail! Overlord Yeull will deal with you!’ He gestured to the entourage. ‘Come!’

‘I strongly urge that all boats be pressed into a general withdrawal from the east shore,’ Borun called after the Duke.

‘Let it be on your head!’

The Moranth commander watched them march off. ‘We will be blamed no matter what,’ he mused aloud.

‘Yes. But not to worry.’

The matt-dark helm turned to him. Ussu could almost imagine the arched brow. ‘No?’

‘No. I have a feeling that we may count on the intervention of a higher authority.’

The helm cocked sideways in thought. ‘Indeed.’

Ussu entered the opened front of his tent. He searched among his herbs, touched a hand to his teapot: cold. ‘Hot water!’ he shouted. At the fire a servant youth leapt up to do his bidding. ‘So much for the imponderables, Borun. What of the practicalities? Do we withdraw?’ And Ussu glanced out of the tent. The Moranth commander was facing the river, armoured hands brushing his belt at his hips.

‘No.’

Ussu was quite surprised. ‘Really? We relinquish one bank just to keep the other?’

The commander entered the tent. He picked up a twist of dried leaves and brought them to his visor, took an experimental sniff. ‘Haste, High Mage. Speed. This quick dash to take the bridge. The forced march across Skolati. All these speak of a strategy for a swift victory. Yes?’

From a meal set out for him Ussu tore a pinch of cold smoked meat. ‘Granted.’ The dirt, he noted, had been raked clean. Poor Yurgen, Temeth and Seel. Able apprentices, but all without even the slightest talent. What would he do for assistants now? He sighed. Ham-handed soldiers no doubt.

Borun crossed his arms, leaned against the central table. ‘Then it is my duty to frustrate this strategy, no? I must impede, slow, delay. Disputing the crossing will effect that.’ He began pacing. ‘Oh, he may cross downstream, or upstream, but that would add weeks to his march. Not to his liking, I think.’

‘Very well. So we remain.’

‘Yes. And thus the question, High Mage… What can you contribute?’

Ussu popped the meat into his mouth, both brows rising. Ah. Good question. He cleared his throat. ‘I will need new assistants.’

Bakune sat hunched forward on his elbows over his small table next to the kitchen entrance at the back of a crowded tavern. He was dressed in old tattered clothes, his dirty hair hung forward over his face and he kept one hand tight round the shot glass of clear Styggian grain alcohol. He studied that hand, the blackened broken nails. When was the last time he had been so dirty? If ever at all? Perhaps once, as a child, running pell-mell through these very waterfront streets.

That night of the escape the Theftian priest might have had a boat waiting but neither he nor Bakune had anticipated the harbour’s being closed. No vessels allowed in or out. The gates of the city had been sealed as well. They might have escaped their cells, but they effectively remained imprisoned within Banith. Bakune was under no illusions; he was certainly not important enough to warrant these precautions, nor did he think the priest so. No, the posted notices revealed that these prohibitions against travel had been levelled more than ten days ago.

The giant Manask, about whom Bakune had his doubts — after all, the man’s features betrayed none of the telltale markers of Elder blood, such as pronounced jaw, jutting brow, or deep-set eyes — had then bent down for a whispered conference with the priest. It was yet some time to dawn and the three occupied a narrow trash-choked alley close to the waterfront. While Bakune kept watch, the whispering behind him escalated into a full-blown shouting match with the two almost coming to blows. Only his intervention brought silence. The priest glowered, face flushed, while the cheerfulness the giant usually displayed was now clouded, almost occluded.

Manask had turned to him, set a hand on his shoulder, and winked broadly. ‘You will wait here a time, then Ip- the priest will lead you to our agreed hiding hole. I myself must travel ahead by stealth and secrecy to make arrangements for our disappearance. Do not fear! These clod-footed Guardians will not track us down. For am I not the most amazing thief in all these lands? Come now, admit it, have you never seen anything like me?’

‘No, Manask. I admit that I have never seen anything like you.’

The giant cuffed the priest. ‘There. You see?’ The priest just rolled his eyes. ‘And now… I must away into the gloom…’ and the giant backed down the alley, hunched low. ‘Disappear like smoke… like the very mist…’ He waved his hands before his face as if he were a conjuror, hopped round a corner. ‘There! And I am gone! Ha!’

‘Like a fart in the wind,’ the priest growled.

Bakune never did find out just what the giant’s ‘arrangements’ constituted. The priest had merely slid down one dirty wall and sat for a time, arms hung over his knees. Then, after a while, he had stood, sighing, and motioned for the Assessor to follow. They walked the back alleys. It struck Bakune that the city was astonishingly quiet, the streets empty; there must be a curfew in place. Eventually the priest stopped at one slop-stained door. The alley was appallingly filthy here, littered with rotting food and stinking of urine. Cats scattered at their intrusion. The door scraped open and an old woman eyed them as if they themselves were no better than the rubbish they stood among. She pulled the door open a crack more and beckoned them in with a desultory wave.

It was the kitchen of some sort of public house. The old cook kicked a bundle of rags in a corner and a child sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and blinked at them. The woman picked up a butcher’s knife and motioned curtly. The girl nodded, and urged them to follow her. Behind them the heavy blade slammed into the chopping block.

Bakune had since learned the girl’s name was Soon. Her plight pulled at his heart. To see her cuffed and kicked, forced to perform the dirtiest, most degrading tasks in the tavern, made him wince. True, she was half-blood, of the old indigenous tribes, but still it grated. The child was forced to do this work simply because she was small and weak and could not defend herself. It had never before occurred to him to be bothered by such a pedestrian truth. Such was the normal way of the world: the powerful got their way — it was their prerogative.

Perhaps seeing this principle demonstrated by a fist applied vigorously to the head of a child put a different perspective on it. A perspective that had not been available from his seat of office, or any courtroom.

He spent his days here in the tavern, named the Sailor’s Roost, retreating at night to the room he shared with the priest and attempting to sleep through the shouts, the drunken brawls, and the shrieks of real pain and faked pleasure. As for the priest, the man hadn’t left the room since they first entered it. Of Manask he had seen no sign.

Of course, if they wanted to sneak away, they could. The gates might be officially closed, vessels prohibited from sailing, the streets patrolled by the Guardians of the Faith, but the human urge to profit cannot so easily be suppressed. Already this night Bakune had overheard several arrangements for illegal shipments and deals to smuggle individuals in and out of the city. This tavern seemed a regular hotbed of black-market activities. He wondered why no cases involving it had ever come before him.

Early on the priest had made it clear he had no intention of leaving. He would stay for reasons of his own that he would not discuss. He also told Bakune that he and Manask would do whatever they could to help him escape.

Immediately his Assessor’s mind was suspicious of such generosity. ‘And why would you do so?’ he had asked.

Sitting on his mattress of straw the priest had smiled his wide froglike grin. ‘And why did you refuse to sign my death certificate? Who was I to you? A stranger. Nothing. Yet you helped me.’

‘I was merely following the dictates of my calling. It would not have been just.’

The smile was swallowed by a sour glower. ‘Just,’ he grunted. ‘You are a man of principle and no hypocrite, and you have my respect… but it seems to me that your notion, and practice, of justice has been rather narrow and blinkered.’

Bakune had no idea what the man meant. His brows crimped and he was silent for some time. Narrow? Had he not known — and enforced — the laws of the land all his life?

‘Manask and I can arrange to have you on a boat tonight.’

Silent, Bakune shook his head in a negative.

‘No? You won’t go?’

‘I cannot leave.’

‘Why not?’

Bakune smiled. ‘For reasons I’d rather not discuss.’

The priest cocked a brow. ‘I see. So you will remain.’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well. Suit yourself. Who am I to tell you what to do?’

Bakune eyed the man, uncertain. ‘So… I may stay?’

‘Yes. Certainly. You should be safe here.’

‘Well… my thanks.’

Now, Bakune turned the shot glass in his hand and thought again about his reason for remaining. That he was free now to act as never before. More free even than when he was the city magistrate, its Assessor. Then, he’d been constrained on all sides. Now, yes, he was a fugitive, hunted, but he could do as he wished. He could pursue lines of inquiry and take actions he’d only dreamed of months ago. What consequences could he possibly be threatened with now? The Abbot and his Guardians through their actions had only escalated matters. As, of course, all confrontation does.

From beneath his unwashed hair he watched the crowded room. Yes, he was safe here. The tavern catered to sailors and petty merchants — all now stranded and waiting for the Guardians to relax the curfew and the injunctions against movement.

Men and women from all nations of the subcontinent mingled here; even some who might be hiding origins from beyond the Ocean of Storms. Surely, then, such a concentration of foreigners deserved the close scrutiny of the Guardians. Yet he saw no signs of their surveillance. Unless, of course, they were somehow even more subtle and discreet in their methods than Karien’el.

Which, from what he’d seen so far, he very much doubted.

He sipped the fiery near-pure alcohol and winced. Lady be damned! Why were there no laws against serving such poison? He was about to rise when two men thumped down at his tiny round table. At first he flinched, thinking: Invoke the Riders and they appear. Then he recognized the two slouched, stoop-shouldered, lazy-eyed men as the guards Karien’el had tapped to shadow him. His composure regained, he regarded them narrowly. ‘Yes?’

The one with the darkest brows and a fat moustache pointed to his glass. ‘You gonna drink that?’

‘What do you two want?’

‘I want one of those,’ said the other.

‘Well you can’t have it ’cause it’s mine,’ said the first.

‘Neither of you-’

‘Just ’cause you asked first,’ the second pouted.

‘That’s right. I showed ’nitiative. That’s why I’m the captain.’

‘What do you two think…’ Bakune tailed off as the first guard took the shot glass between his thumb and forefinger and downed the entire drink. Then he carefully brushed back his ridiculous moustache to the right and left using the back of his hand, and sighed.

Like a cat. And so, to Bakune’s mind, the man became Cat.

The other, who was regarding his companion with a kind of sour resentment, Bakune couldn’t tag with a name. The fellow was pulling at his thick lower lip, his eyes on the now empty glass, and at last he offered, ‘You ain’t the captain of me.’

‘I’ll just be going then,’ Bakune said, half rising.

‘Don’tcha have orders?’ Cat said. Then, to his partner, he added, ‘Course I’m captain. Chain of command! Chaos otherwise.’

‘Orders?’ Bakune asked. Then he remembered: Karien had placed these two under his command. Lady, no! He was the commander of these cretins! He sat back down.

Cat shrugged. ‘Just thought maybe you might on account of all the bodies.’

‘Bodies?’

Stroking his moustache, Cat directed Bakune’s gaze to the empty glass. Giving a sigh of defeat, Bakune raised a hand to the tavern-keeper. The other fellow’s hand shot up as well. Bakune signed for two. He sat with arms crossed until the shot glasses arrived. The two raised the glasses. ‘Your health, ah, sir,’ said Cat.

Bakune leaned forward. ‘Listen… what are your names anyway?’

‘Puller,’ said the junior partner, wiping his wet lips.

‘Captain Hyuke at your service, sir,’ said Cat, his voice suddenly low and conspiratorial.

‘You’re no captain,’ Puller complained.

Bakune used his thumb and forefinger to massage his brow. Blessed Lady! Puller and Hyuke? He preferred Cat and, what, Mole? ‘Listen… you two. No one’s captain until Karien gets back.’ The two exchanged knowing, sceptical looks. ‘So, how about sergeant, Hyuke… if you must?’

Hyuke sat back grinning while he brushed his moustache. Then he cuffed his partner. ‘Hear that, Pull? I just made sergeant.’

Bakune felt his shoulders sag.

‘’Nitiative,’ Hyuke added, nodding profoundly.

Puller pouted into his glass.

‘So what was that about bodies then, Sergeant?’

‘Ah!’ Hyuke touched a finger to the side of his bulbous nose. ‘Been turning up at an awful rate. Used to be no more than one every few months, hey? Now it’s two a week.’

Bakune felt himself clenching tight. A hot sourness bubbled up in his stomach. ‘Where?’ he said, his voice faint.

‘All over. Both male and female. All young, though.’

Damn this monster, whoever he was! Taking advantage of the upheaval. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ He swallowed to wet his throat. Something took a bite out of his stomach.

Hyuke was frowning at him. ‘You okay, Ass- ah, sir?’

He waved a hand. ‘Yes. Now, are we safe here? Can we use this place?’

Both nodded. ‘Oh, yes,’ Hyuke said. ‘Safe as the baker’s wife in the morning.’

Bakune felt his suspicions stirring once more. ‘Why?’ he asked slowly.

The partners exchanged uncertain looks. Hyuke opened his hands. ‘Because he’s busy baking…’

Bakune just glared. Hyuke’s thick brows rose. ‘Ah! I see. On account this is Boneyman’s place.’

‘Boneyman…?’

The two watchmen shared another glance; it seemed they could communicate solely by looks alone. Hyuke shook his head. ‘Really, sir. You bein’ the Ass- ah… I’m surprised.’

Bakune struggled to keep his face flat. ‘Please inform me. If you would be so kind.’

‘Boneyman runs the smuggling and the night market here in town, now that-’ Puller loudly cleared his throat, glaring, and Hyuke frowned, confused. Puller tilted his head to glance significantly to Bakune. Hyuke’s brows rose even higher. ‘Ah! Well… now that things have… changed…’ he finished, flustered.

Bakune felt his gaze narrowing. Things have changed now, have they? Now that Karien’el has been marched off to war. So that was why so very few black-market cases ever came to me. So be it. All that is the past. The question is what to do now.

‘Things’ll be really bad next week,’ Puller complained.

‘How so?’ Bakune asked.

The big stoop-shouldered fellow blushed, looking to his partner for help. Hyuke cleared his throat. ‘On account of the Festival of Renewal.’

Of course! He’d lost all track of the time. The winter festival celebrating the Lady’s arising and our deliverance from the Stormriders! Banith will be crushed beneath pilgrims as usual — surely the Guardians will allow the shiploads of worshippers to dock! And the Cloister will be open to all devout as well. This monster will think he has a free hand that night. That’s when we will act! He nodded to his two men. ‘We’ll lie low until then.’

Hyuke touched his finger to his nose. ‘Wise as a mouse in a kennel, sir.’

Puller was frowning. ‘A kennel?’

Hyuke leaned to him. ‘No cats.’

The man’s round face lit up. ‘Oh yeah. Course!’

Hyuke stood, brushed his moustache. ‘Thanks for the drink.’ He motioned to Puller, who remained slouched in his seat, unhappy again. ‘What?’

‘I still don’t see why you get to be sergeant.’

Hyuke cuffed his partner. ‘Tell you what. You show some command qualities like me an’ maybe you can make corporal.’

Puller straightened, his eyes widening. ‘Really? Me? Corporal?’ He stood and the two pushed their way through the crowd. ‘You think so?’

‘If you’re the best candidate.’

Bakune watched them go. All the foreign gods help him. What did he think he could possibly accomplish? Still, he had to try, didn’t he? Yes. That’s all one could do. Follow the dictates of one’s conscience.

He got up to return to his room, where the priest would no doubt be sound asleep despite the raucous crowd of the night.

They followed the track of the daemon migration. The carnage it wrought across the rolling Shadow landscape was unmistakable. So much for my fears of wandering lost, Kiska thought wryly. How long they walked she had no idea. Time seemed suspended here in the Shadow Realm. Or so it had seemed to her. But now change had struck. What the daemons described as a ‘Whorl’ had opened on to Shadow and drained an entire lake, obliterating their aeons-old way of life. That Whorl sounded suspiciously like the rift that had swallowed Tayschrenn. It even touched on to Chaos, or so Least Branch claimed.

They’d been walking in a protracted silence. Neither, it seemed, knew what to say. She thought of asking about his past, but comments from him suggested that that was a sensitive, if not closed, subject.

Then something moved beneath her clothes.

Kiska shrieked her surprise; she dropped her staff, tore off her cloak, her equipment, her jacket. Jheval watched, tense, hands going to his morningstars. ‘What is it?’

Kiska retrieved her stave, pointed to her heaped clothes and equipment. ‘There!’

Jheval regarded the pile, frowned his puzzlement. ‘You were bitten? A scorpion perhaps?’

Something beneath the clothes shifted. ‘Did you see that?’

One of Jheval’s morningstars whirred to life. ‘I’ll finish it.’

‘No!’ Gently, she prised apart the layers until she revealed her blanket and the few odds and ends wrapped in it. Kiska felt an uneasy sourness in her stomach. The sack! Some thing inside?

Kneeling, she untied the blanket and gingerly unrolled it. The dirty burlap sack was exposed. Something small squirmed within.

‘Do we let it out?’ Jheval asked.

Kiska rocked on her haunches. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think we should yet.’

‘Well I’m not carrying it.’

She gave him a hard stare. ‘You haven’t been, have you?’

The man had the grace to look chastened. He brushed his moustache. ‘I was just saying…’

‘Never mind.’ Raising it gently, she tied the sack to her belt. Perhaps there it wouldn’t get crushed — if it could be. She drew on her jacket, her bandolier of gear, shoulder bags and cloak and started off again. ‘Come on.’

After walking for a time she regarded the man who was pacing along beside her, hands clasped behind his back. ‘So you participated in the Seven Cities uprising.’

‘Yes.’

‘And now you are here hoping to buy some sort of pardon.’

Jheval waved a hand deprecatingly. ‘Oh, not a full pardon. I don’t think I will ever be granted that… but it would be good not to have to worry about my back for the rest of my life.’

Now Kiska wondered just what crimes the man had committed against the Empire. Or, in a case of bloated vanity, he may just fancy himself an infamous wanted criminal. Or he was just plain lying to impress… her. She cleared her throat. ‘So. You served in the army of this Sha’ik?’

The man stopped dead. ‘Served? I? I…’

‘Yes?’

A cunning smile crept up his lips and he waved a finger. ‘Now, now. You see a mystery and you thrust a stick in — what will emerge? A lion or a goose?’ He walked on. ‘You thought you’d found a weakness, yes?’

Thought?

‘But all that is over,’ he said, waving a hand again. ‘For a time I was a true believer. Now, I’m just embarrassed.’ He slowed suddenly, shading his gaze. ‘What is that?’

Kiska peered ahead: a dark shape in the midst of the daemons’ wide migration track. Some sort of abandoned trash? A corpse?

Jheval picked up his pace. Kiska clasped her staff in both hands, horizontal across her waist. Then the stink struck them. She almost gagged. Rotten fish; an entire shack of rotting fish. A shoreline of putrescence. ‘Gods!’ she said, turning her head and wincing. ‘What is that?’

Jheval pressed a hand under his nose. ‘Perhaps we should go round.’

The dark shape moved. It seemed to heave itself. Jheval growled some Seven Cities curse, started off again. Kiska followed.

Closer, the shape resolved itself into the disintegrating, putrid remains of a very large fish. A fish that at one time might have been as large as a full-grown bull. Two extraordinarily large ravens stood atop the corpse — both looking very glossy and well fed. But that was not what captured Kiska’s and her companion’s attention. What they stared at was the scrawny old man in rags attempting to drag it.

He was yanking on a rope tied to a grapnel stuck in the fish’s enormous bony jaw. Kiska and Jheval stopped and watched. The man was making no progress at all that Kiska could see, though a track did extend off behind the carcass.

Jheval cleared his throat.

The man leapt as if stabbed in the rear. The ravens let out loud squawks of surprise and protest, launching themselves to whirl overhead. The old man spun round, glaring. He was dark, his frizzy hair mostly grey. ‘What are you looking at?’ he demanded.

Kiska did not know where to begin. Jheval pointed. ‘That’s a big fish.’

The old fellow hunched, peering suspiciously about. He held his arms out as if trying to hide the huge corpse. ‘It’s mine.’

‘Okay.’

‘You can’t have it.’

‘I assure you-’

‘Get your own.’

‘I don’t want your damned fish!’ Jheval shouted.

The old man put a finger to one eye, nodding. ‘Oh, yes. That’s what they all say… but they’re lying!’

Jheval caught Kiska’s gaze. He tapped a finger to his head. ‘Let’s go.’

Kiska followed, reluctant; it seemed to her that there was more here, that none of this was an accident. In her earlier visits to Shadow she’d had the impression that the Realm had been trying to tell her things. That everything was a lesson, if she could only understand the language.

The old man straightened, astonished. ‘You would go?’ He waved both hands at the fish. ‘How could you abandon such a prize? Surely you would not turn your backs on such an opportunity?’

‘It is of no use to us,’ Jheval said.

‘Use?’ The man shouted, outraged. ‘Use! Is that your measure? Utility? Have you not longed all your life to catch the big one?’

Overhead, the ravens’ raucous cawing sounded almost like laughter.

Kiska glanced back. The man was staring after them. As it became clear they would not stop he ran round the carcass to follow but something yanked him back to fall on his rear and he let out a startled squawk. The rope, she saw, was tied round his waist.

‘Wait,’ she called to Jheval.

The Seven Cities warrior halted. He hung his head. ‘Kiska. He’s a mage lost in Shadow and gone insane.’ He faced her, hands apart. ‘I’ve heard of such things.’

‘We can’t just leave him…’

The man shrugged, unperturbed. ‘Why not?’

‘Well I’m not going to just walk away.’

She found him lying on his stomach, kicking and punching the dirt, crying, ‘It’s not fair! Not fair!’

‘What’s not fair?’

He stilled, turned his head to look up at her, smiled crazily. ‘Nothing.’ He sat up, brushed the dirt from his tattered grimed robes.

Peering down at him, Kiska sighed. She pointed to the huge fish, its exposed ribs, saucer-sized eyes milky and half pecked out. The two midnight-black ravens had resettled on its back and now paced about searching for morsels. ‘It’s dead. Putrid. Useless. Drop the rope and come away.’

The old man gestured helplessly. ‘But I can’t.’

‘You can’t? You mean you won’t.’

He shook his head, bared his grey uneven teeth in what might have been meant as a cringe of embarrassment. ‘No, I mean I can’t. I can’t untie the rope. Could you… maybe…’

‘Oh, for the love of Burn!’ She turned the handle of her stave and its blade snicked free. She stabbed the rope, slitting it.

The old man sprang up. ‘I’m free! Free!’ And he giggled.

Kiska backed away, uneasy. It occurred to her that she might just have made a serious mistake. But then the old man threw himself down on the slimy putrescent carcass, hugging its jaws. ‘I don’t mean you, my lovely one. No, no, no. Not you! I won’t go far. I promise. There could never be another like you!’

The ravens cawed again, protesting.

Her stomach clenching and rising with bile, Kiska continued backing away. ‘Well… good luck.’

She rejoined Jheval, who’d been watching, arms crossed. As they walked he jerked a thumb backwards. ‘You see? What did I say? Crazy as a sun-stroked rat.’

Walking with her staff across her shoulders, arms draped over it, Kiska reflected that that may be so, but at least the crazy mage was free of the trap he’d made for himself. Not that he might not blunder into something worse, here in Shadow.

The track had become soft underfoot. The surface was brittle, dried in patterns of cracks; the wheel-tracks deep slit ruts. Ahead, the flat horizon was one dark front of churning black and grey clouds. Lightning glowed within.

‘You are looking for the lake?’

Kiska and Jheval jumped, spinning. It was the old man. Jheval glared at Kiska as if to say, Now look what you’ve done!

‘What are you doing?’ Kiska demanded.

He peered up at her, his beady yellow eyes narrowing. ‘I should think that’s obvious. I’m following you.’

‘Look,’ Jheval said. ‘What do you want?’

He tilted his head, considered the question for a time. ‘I want to be left alone.’

Jheval gaped, spread his arms to the vast emptiness around. ‘You want to be alone yet you follow us?’

A scowl of annoyance. ‘Not you two.’ He pointed to his head. ‘The voices. They won’t leave me alone. Do this. Do that. Give me this, give me that. Will they never stop?’ He dug his hands into his thin hair. ‘They’re driving me crazy!’

Jheval eyed Kiska then rolled his gaze to the sky. ‘Okay. The voices. Listen, I’ve heard that if you dig a hole in the ground and stick your head in it makes the voices go away.’

‘Jheval!’ Kiska cuffed his shoulder. She turned to the man. ‘What’s your name?’

His brows furrowed in thought. Kiska flinched away when a waft of fish-rot struck her. She glimpsed two dark shapes wheeling far overhead — the giant ravens?

‘Warbin al Blooth?’ the old man muttered. ‘No, no. Horos Spitten the Fifth? No. That’s not right. Crethin Spoogle?’ He yanked frantically at his hair again. ‘I can’t remember my name!’

Kiska held out her hands. ‘It’s all right. Never mind. But we have to call you something — just pick one.’

‘I can’t! You pick one.’

‘I have some suggestions,’ Jheval muttered.

Kiska waved Jheval onward. She tried to think of inoffensive names. ‘Okay. How about Grajath?’

‘No.’

‘Frecell?’

‘No.’

She clenched down on her irritation. ‘Warran?’

‘Warran,’ he echoed. As they walked along he repeated the name, trying it out. ‘Okay. I suppose that will do.’

And thank you too! She gestured ahead. ‘You came this way?’

‘No. Yes. Maybe. Once. Long ago.’

Jheval snorted, shaking his head.

‘And the lake?’

The old man shot her a narrowed glare. ‘Why? The fish?’ He pointed. ‘I knew it! You’re after an even bigger one! Well, you’re too late! It’s gone.’ He laughed hoarsely, cleared his throat, and spat something up.

‘Not the fish!’ Kiska snapped. ‘The Whorl — the Rift — the thing that drained the lake.’

Warran waved dismissively. ‘Oh, that. No fish there.’ He gestured aside. ‘Best to go that way.’

Now Jheval was eyeing the old man. ‘Why?’

‘Shorter. No crabs.’

‘Crabs?’

‘You think that fish was big? Wait till you see the crabs that eat them.’

‘Ah.’ They stopped. Jheval looked at Kiska. She squeezed her hands on her staff. She squinted to the storm on the horizon.

‘Is that it?’

Warran nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘You’ll show us the way round the lake?’

‘Yes — but then we’re through! No more favours! I mean, fair’s fair.’

She let out a long breath. ‘All right. Show us.’

He rubbed his chin, clearly taken aback. ‘Really? Okay. Ah, this way — I think.’

Jheval hung back next to Kiska, opened his mouth. ‘I know!’ she cut in. ‘I know. We’ll see. Time doesn’t seem to matter, does it? We’ll just backtrack if we must.’

He frowned, considering this, then shrugged. ‘Very well.’

After a time they came to a field of tall sand dunes. A miasmic wind hardly stirred them. Tufts of sharp brittle grass grew on their slopes and in the troughs between. Kiska found the going very tiring as her sandalled feet sank into the shifting sands. Occasionally she would peer around for the two dark shapes; eventually she would find two dark dots on a distant rise, or black angular shapes cruising far above. She almost spoke of them to Jheval but decided not to raise the subject in front of their companion.

‘After I caught my prize I was struck by many regrets,’ the odd fellow announced suddenly as they slogged up one slope.

‘That you didn’t have the strength to pull it?’ she offered.

‘Oh, no. I was making progress… slow… but progress. No, my biggest regret was in not thinking ahead.’

‘Oh?’ she said drily.

‘Yes. Because it is one thing to catch what you’ve always sought. After that it is quite another matter. The question really should be: what do you do with it once you’ve caught it?’

Kiska could only frown, uncertain. There seemed almost to be something there. It was almost as if it applied to her — a tangential lesson? Homey aphorism? Or insane babble? The problem was she had no idea how to take anything this crazy old man came out with.