He rises bloodless from dust,
with dead eyes that are pits
twin reaches to eternal pain.

He is the lodestone
to the gathering clan,
made anew and dream-racked.

The standard a rotted hide,
the throne a bone cage, the king
a ghost from dark fields of battle.

And now the horn moans
on this grey clad dawn
drawing the disparate host

To war, to war,
and the charging frenzy
of unbidden memories of ice.

Lay of the First Sword
Irig Thann Delusa (b. 1091)

 

Two days and seven leagues of black, clinging clouds of ash, and Lady Envy's telaba showed not a single stain. Grumbling, Toc the Younger pulled the caked cloth from his face and slowly lowered his heavy leather pack to the ground. He never thought he'd bless the sight of a sweeping, featureless grassy plain, but, after the volcanic ash, the undulating vista stretching northward beckoned like paradise.

'Will this hill suffice for a camp?' Lady Envy asked, striding over to stand close to him. 'It seems frightfully exposed. What if there are marauders on this plain?'

'Granted, marauders aren't usually clever,' Toc replied, 'but even the stupidest bandit would hesitate before trying three Seguleh. The wind you're feeling up here will keep the biting insects away come night, Lady. I wouldn't recommend low ground – on any prairie.'

'I bow to your wisdom, Scout.'

He coughed, straightening to scan the area. 'Can't see your four-legged friends anywhere.'

'Nor your bony companion.' She turned wide eyes on him. 'Do you believe they have stumbled into mischief?'

He studied her, bemused, and said nothing.

She raised an eyebrow, then smiled.

Toc swiftly turned his attention back to his pack. 'I'd best pitch the tents,' he muttered.

'As I assured you last night, Toc, my servants are quite capable of managing such mundane activities. I'd much rather you assumed for yourself a higher rank than mere menial labourer for the duration of this great adventure.'

He paused. 'You wish me to strike heroic poses against the sunset, Lady Envy?'

'Indeed!'

'I wasn't aware I existed for your entertainment.'

'Oh, now you're cross again.' She stepped closer, rested a sparrow-light hand on his shoulder. 'Please don't be angry with me. I can hardly hold interesting conversations with my servants, can I? Nor is your friend Tool a social blossom flushed with enlivening vigour. And while my two pups are near-perfect companions in always listening and never interrupting, one yearns for the spice of witty exchanges. You and I, Toc, we have only each other for this journey, so let us fashion the bonds of friendship.'

Staring down at the bundled tents, Toc the Younger was silent for a long moment, then he sighed. 'I'm a poor excuse for witty exchanges, Lady, alas. I am a soldier and scant else.' More, I've a soldier's scars – who can naught but flinch upon seeing me?

'Not modesty, but deception, Toc'

He winced at the edge to her tone.

'You have been educated, far beyond what is common for a professional soldier. And I have heard enough of your sharp exchanges with the T'lan Imass to value your wit. What is this sudden shyness? Why the growing discomfort?'

Her hand had not moved from his shoulder. 'You are a sorceress, Lady Envy. And sorcery makes me nervous.'

The hand withdrew. 'I see. Or, rather, I do not. Your T'lan Imass was forged by a ritual of such power as this world has not seen in a long time, Toc the Younger. His stone sword alone is invested to an appalling degree – it cannot be broken, not even chipped, and it will cut through wards effortlessly. No warren can defend against it. I would not wager on any blade against it when in Tool's hands. And the creature himself. He is a champion of sorts, isn't he? Among the T'lan Imass, Tool is something unique. You have no idea of the power – the strength – he possesses. Does Tool make you nervous, soldier? I've seen no sign of that.'

'Well,' Toc snapped, 'he's shrunken hide and bones, isn't he? Tool doesn't brush against me at every chance. He doesn't throw smiles at me like lances into my heart, does he? He doesn't mock that I once had a face that didn't make people turn away, does he?'

Her eyes were wide. 'I do not mock your scars,' she said quietly.

He glared over to the three motionless, masked Seguleh. Oh, Hood, I've made a mess of things here, haven't I? Are you laughing behind those face-shields, warriors? 'My apologies, Lady,' he managed. 'I regret my words—'

'Yet hold to them none the less. Very well, it seems I must accept the challenge, then.'

He looked up at her. 'Challenge?'

She smiled. 'Indeed. Clearly, you think my affection for you is not genuine. I must endeavour to prove otherwise.'

'Lady—'

'And in your efforts to push me away, you'll soon discover that I am not easily pushed.'

'To what end, Lady Envy?' All my defences broken down . . . for your amusement?

Her eyes flashed and Toc knew, with certainty, the truth of his thoughts. Pain stole through him like cold iron. He began unfolding the first tent.

Garath and Baaljagg arrived, bounding up to circle around Lady Envy. A moment later a swirl of dust rose from the ochre grasses a few paces from where Toc crouched. Tool appeared, carrying across his shoulders the carcass of a pronghorn antelope, which he shrugged off to thump on the ground.

Toc saw no wounds on the animal. Probably scared it to death.

'Oh, wonderful!' Lady Envy cried. 'We shall dine like nobles tonight!' She swung to her servants. 'Come, Senu, you have some butchering to do.'

Won't be the first time, either.

'And you other two, uhm, what shall we devise for you? Idle hands just won't do. Mok, you shall assemble the hide bath-tub. Set it on that hill over there. You needn't worry about water or perfumed oils – I shall take care of all that. Thurule, unpack my combs and robe, there's a good lad.'

Toc glanced over to see Tool facing him. The scout grimaced wryly.

The T'lan Imass strode over. 'We can begin our arrow-making efforts, soldier.'

'Aye, once I'm done with the tents.'

'Very well. I shall assemble the raw material we have collected. We must fashion a tool kit.'

Toc had put up enough tents in his soldiering days to allow him to maintain fair attention on Tool's preparations while he worked. The T'lan Imass knelt beside the antelope and, with no apparent effort, broke off both antlers down near the base. He then moved to one side and unslung the hide bag he carried, loosening the drawstring so that it unfolded onto the ground, revealing a half-dozen large obsidian cobbles collected on their passage across the old lava flow, and an assortment of different kinds of stones which had come from the shoreline beyond the Jaghut tower, along with bone-reeds and a brace of dead seagulls, both of which were still strapped to Toc's pack.

It was always a wonder – and something of a shock – to watch the deftness of the undead warrior's withered, almost fleshless hands, as he worked. An artist's hands. Selecting one of the obsidian cobbles, the T'lan Imass picked up one of the larger beach stones and with three swift blows detached three long, thin blades of the volcanic glass. A few more concussive strikes created a series of flakes that varied in size and thickness.

Tool set down the hammerstone and the obsidian core. Sorting through the flakes, he chose one, gripping it in his left hand, then, with his right, he reached for one of the antlers. Using the tip of the foremost tine of the antler, the T'lan Imass began punching minute flakes from the edge of the larger flake.

Beside Toc the Younger, Lady Envy sighed. 'Such extraordinary skill. Do you think, in the time before we began to work metal, we all possessed such abilities?'

The scout shrugged. 'Seems likely. According to some Malazan scholars, the discovery of iron occurred only half a thousand years ago – for the peoples of the Quon Tali continent, in any case. Before that, everyone used bronze. And before bronze we used unalloyed copper and tin. Before those, why not stone?'

'Ah, I knew you had been educated, Toc the Younger. Human scholars, alas, tend to think solely in terms of human accomplishments. Among the Elder Races, the forging of metals was quite sophisticated. Improvements on iron itself were known. My father's sword, for example.'

He grunted. 'Sorcery. Investment. It replaces technological advancement – it's often a means of supplanting the progress of mundane knowledge.'

'Why, soldier, you certainly do have particular views when it comes to sorcery. However, did I detect something of rote in your words? Which bitter scholar – some failed sorcerer no doubt – has espoused such views?'

Despite himself, Toc grinned. 'Aye, fair enough. Not a scholar, in fact, but a High Priest.'

'Ah, well, cults see any advancement – sorcerous or, indeed, mundane – as potential threats. You must dismantle your sources, Toc the Younger, lest you do nothing but ape the prejudices of others.'

'You sound just like my father.'

'You should have heeded his wisdom.'

I should have. But I never did. Leave the Empire, he said. Find someplace beyond the reach of the court, beyond the commanders and the Claw. Keep your head low, son...

Finished with the last of the three tents, Toc made his way to Tool's side. Seventy paces away, on the summit of a nearby hill, Mok had assembled the wood-framed hide-lined bath-tub. Lady Envy, Thurule marching at her side with folded robe and bath-kit in his arms, made her way towards it. The wolf and dog sat close to Senu where he worked on the antelope. The Seguleh flung spare bits of meat to the animals every now and then.

Tool had completed four small stone tools – a backed blade; some kind of scraper, thumbnail-sized; a crescent-bladed piece with its inside edge finely worked; and a drill or punch. He now turned to the original three large flakes of obsidian.

Crouching down beside the T'lan Imass, Toc examined the finished items. 'All right,' he said after a few moments' examination, 'I'm starting to understand this. These ones are for working the shaft and the fletching, yes?'

Tool nodded. 'The antelope will provide us with the raw material. We need gut string for binding. Hide for the quiver and its straps.'

'What about this crescent-shaped one?'

'The bone-reed shafts must be trued.'

'Ah, yes, I see. Won't we need some kind of glue or pitch?'

'Ideally, yes. Since this is a treeless plain, however, we shall make do with what we possess. The fletching will be tied on with gut.'

'You make the fashioning of arrowheads look easy, Tool, but something tells me it isn't.'

'Some stone is sand, some is water. Edged tools can be made of the stone that is water. Crushing tools are made of the stone that is sand, but only the hardest of those.'

'And here I've gone through life thinking stone is stone.'

'In our language, we possess many names for stone. Names that tell of its nature, names that describe its function, names for what has happened to it and what will happen to it, names for the spirit residing within it, names—'

'All right, all right! I see your point. Why don't we talk about something else?'

'Such as?'

Toc glanced over at the other hill. Only Lady Envy's head and knees were visible above the tub's framework. The sunset blazed behind her. The two Seguleh, Mok and Thurule, stood guard over her, facing outward. 'Her.'

'Of Lady Envy, I know little more than what I have already said.'

'She was a ... companion of Anomander Rake's?'

Tool resumed removing thin, translucent flakes of obsidian from what was quickly assuming the shape of a lanceolate arrowhead. 'At first, there were three others, who wandered together, for a time. Anomander Rake, Caladan Brood, and a sorceress who eventually ascended to become the Queen of Dreams. Following that event, dramas ensued – or so it is told. The Son of Darkness was joined by Lady Envy, and the Soletaken known as Osric. Another three who wandered together. Caladan Brood chose a solitary path at the time, and was not seen on this world for score centuries. When he finally returned – perhaps a thousand years ago – he carried the hammer he still carries: a weapon of the Sleeping Goddess.'

'And Rake, Envy and this Osric – what were they up to?'

The T'lan Imass shrugged. 'Of that, only they could tell you. There was a falling out. Osric is gone – where, no-one knows. Anomander Rake and Lady Envy remained companions. It is said they parted – argumentatively – in the days before the ascendants gathered to chain the Fallen One. Rake joined in that effort. The lady did not. Of her, this is the sum of my knowledge, soldier.'

'She's a mage.'

'The answer to that is before you.'

'The hot bathwater appearing from nowhere, you mean.'

Tool set the finished arrowhead down and reached for another blank. 'I meant the Seguleh, Toc the Younger.'

The scout grunted. 'Ensorcelled – forced to serve her – Hood's breath, she's made them slaves!'

The T'lan Imass paused to regard him. 'This bothers you? Are there not slaves in the Malazan Empire?'

'Aye. Debtors, petty criminals, spoils of war. But, Tool, these are Seguleh! The most feared warriors on this continent. Especially the way they attack without the slightest warning, for reasons only they know—'

'Their communication,' Tool said, 'is mostly non-verbal. They assert dominance with posture, faint gestures, direction of stance and tilt of head.'

Toc blinked. 'They do? Oh. Then why haven't I, in my ignorance, been cut down long ago?'

'Your unease in their presence conveys submission,' the T'lan Imass replied.

'A natural coward, that's me. I take it, then, that you show no ... unease.'

'I yield to no-one, Toc the Younger.'

The Malazan was silent, thinking on Tool's words. Then he said, 'That oldest brother – Mok – his mask bears but twin scars. I think I know what that means, and if I'm right. . .' He slowly shook his head.

The undead warrior glanced up, shadowed gaze not wavering from the scout's face. 'The young one who challenged me – Senu – was . . . good. Had I not anticipated him, had I not prevented him from fully drawing his swords, our duel might well have been a long one.'

Toc scowled. 'How could you tell how good he was when he didn't even get his swords clear of their scabbards?'

'He parried my attacks with them none the less.'

Toc's lone eye slowly widened. 'He parried you with half-drawn blades?'

'The first two attacks, yes, but not the third. I need only to study the eldest's movements, the lightness of his steps on the earth – his grace – to sense the full measure of his skill. Senu and Thurule both acknowledge him as their master. Clearly you believe, by virtue of his mask, that he is highly ranked among his own kind.'

'Third, I think. Third highest. There's supposed to be a legendary Seguleh with an unmarked mask. White porcelain. Not that anyone has ever seen him, except the Seguleh themselves, I suppose. They are a warrior caste. Ruled by the champion.' Toc turned to study the two distant warriors, then glanced over a shoulder at Senu, who still knelt over the antelope not ten paces away. 'So what has brought them to the mainland, I wonder?'

'You might ask the youngest, Toc.'

The scout grinned at Tool. 'Meaning you're as curious as I am. Well, I am afraid I can't do your dirty work for you, since I rank below him. He may choose to speak with me, but I cannot initiate. If you want answers, it is up to you to ask the questions.'

Tool set down the antler and blank, then rose to his feet in a muted clack of bones. He strode towards Senu. Toc followed.

'Warrior,' the T'lan Imass said.

The Seguleh paused in his butchering, dipped his head slightly.

'What has driven you to leave your homeland? What has brought you and your brothers to this place?'

Senu's reply was a dialect of Daru, slightly archaic to Toc's ears. 'Master Stoneblade, we are the punitive army of the Seguleh.'

Had anyone other than a Seguleh made such a claim, Toc would have laughed outright. As it was, he clamped his jaw tight.

Tool seemed as taken aback as was the scout, for it was a long moment before he spoke again. 'Punitive. Whom does the Seguleh seek to punish?'

'Invaders to our island. We kill all that come, yet the flow does not cease. The task is left to our Blackmasks – the First Level Initiates in the schooling of weapons – for the enemy comes unarmed and so are not worthy of duelling. But such slaughter disrupts the discipline of training, stains the mind and so damages the rigours of mindfulness. It was decided to travel to the homeland of these invaders, to slay the one who sends his people to our island. I have given you answer, Master Stoneblade.'

'Do you know the name of these people? The name by which they call themselves?'

'Priests of Pannion. They come seeking to convert. We are not interested. They do not listen. And now they warn of sending an army to our island. To show our eagerness for such an event, we sent them many gifts. They chose to be insulted by our invitation to war. We admit we do not understand, and have therefore grown weary of discourse with these Pannions. From now on, only our blades will speak for the Seguleh.'

'Yet Lady Envy has ensnared you with her charms.'

Toc's breath caught.

Senu dipped his head again, said nothing.

'Fortunately,' Tool continued in his dry, uninflected tone, 'we are now travelling towards the Pannion Domin.'

'The decision pleased us,' Senu grated.

'How many years since your birth, Senu?' the T'lan Imass asked.

'Fourteen, Master Stoneblade. I am Eleventh Level Initiate.'

 

Square-cut pieces of meat on skewers dripped sizzling fat into the flames. Lady Envy appeared from the gloom with her entourage in tow. She was dressed in a thick, midnight blue robe that hung down to brush the dew-laden grasses. Her hair was tied back into a single braid.

'A delicious aroma – I am famished!'

Toc caught Thurule's casual turn, gloved hands lifting. The unsheathing of his two swords was faster than the scout's eye could track, as was the whirling attack. Sparks flashed as bright steel struck flint. Tool was driven back a half-dozen paces as blow after blow rained down on his own blurred weapon. The two warriors vanished into the darkness beyond the hearth's lurid glow.

Wolf and dog barked, plunging after them.

'This is infuriating!' Lady Envy snapped.

Sparks exploded ten paces away, insufficient light for Toc to discern anything more than the vague twisting of arms and shoulders. He shot a glance at Mok and Senu. The latter still crouched at the hearth, studiously tending to the supper. The twin-scarred eldest stood motionless, watching the duel – though it seemed unlikely he could see any better than Toc could. Maybe he doesn't need to ...

More sparks rained through the night.

Lady Envy stifled a giggle, one hand to her mouth.

'I take it you can see in the dark, Lady,' Toc murmured.

'Oh yes. This is an extraordinary duel – I have never... no, it's more complicated. An old memory, dredged free when you first identified these as Seguleh. Anomander Rake once crossed blades with a score of Seguleh, one after the other. He'd paid an unannounced visit to the island – knowing nothing of the inhabitants. Taking human form and fashioning a mask for himself, he elected to walk down the city's main thoroughfare. Being naturally arrogant, he showed no deference to any who crossed his path . . .'

Another clash lit up the night, the exchange followed by a loud, solid grunt. Then the blades collided once again.

'Two bells. That was the full duration of Rake's visit to the island and its people. He described the ferocity of that short time, and his dismay and exhaustion which led him to withdraw into his warren if only to slow the hammering of his heart.'

A new voice, rasping and cold, now spoke. 'Blacksword.'

They turned to see Mok facing them.

'That was centuries ago,' Lady Envy said.

'The memory of worthy opponents does not fade among the Seguleh, mistress.'

'Rake said the last swordsman he faced wore a mask with seven symbols.'

Mok tilted his head. 'That mask still awaits him. Blacksword holds the Seventh position. Mistress, we would have him claim it.'

She smiled. 'Perhaps soon you can extend to him the invitation in person.'

'It is not an invitation, mistress. It is a demand.'

Her laugh was sweet and full-throated. 'Dear servant, there is no-one whom the Lord of Darkness will not meet with a steady, unwavering eye. Consider that a warning.'

'Then shall our swords cross, mistress. He is the Seventh. I am the Third.'

She turned on him, arms folded. 'Oh, really! Do you know where that score of Seguleh souls ended up when he killed them ... including the Seventh? Chained within the sword Dragnipur, that's where. For eternity. Do you truly wish to join them, Mok?'

There was another loud thud from the darkness beyond the firelight, then silence.

'Seguleh who die, fail,' Mok said. 'We spare no thoughts for the failed among us.'

'Does that,' Toc softly enquired, 'include your brother?'

Tool had reappeared, his flint sword in his left hand, dragging Thurule's body by the collar with his right. The Seguleh's head lolled. Dog and wolf trailed the two, tails wagging.

'Have you killed my servant, T'lan Imass?' Lady Envy asked.

'I have not,' Tool replied. 'Broken wrist, broken ribs, a half-dozen blows to the head. I believe he will recover. Eventually'

'Well, that won't do at all, I'm afraid. Bring him here, please. To me.'

'He is not to be healed magically,' Mok said.

The Lady's temper snapped then. She spun, a wave of argent power surging out from her. It struck Mok, threw him back through the air. He landed with a heavy thud. The coruscating glare vanished. 'Servants do not make demands of me! I remind you of your place, Mok. I trust once is enough.' She swung her attention back to Thurule. 'Heal him I shall. After all,' she continued in a milder tone, 'as any lady of culture knows, three is the absolute minimum when it comes to servants.' She laid a hand on the Seguleh's chest.

Thurule groaned.

Toc glanced at Tool. 'Hood's breath, you're all chopped up!'

'It has been a long time since I last faced such a worthy opponent,' Tool said. 'All the more challenging for using the flat of my blade.'

Mok was slowly climbing to his feet. At the T'lan Imass's last words, he went still, then slowly faced the undead warrior.

I'll be damned, Tool, you gave the Third pause.

'There will be no more duels this night,' Lady Envy said in a stern voice. 'I'll not constrain my wrath the next time.'

Mok casually slid his attention away from the T'lan Imass.

Straightening, Lady Envy sighed. Thurule is mended. I am almost weary! Senu, dear, get out the plates and utensils. And the Elin Red. A nice quiet meal is called for, I should say.' She flashed Toc a smile. 'And witty discourse, yes?'

It was now Toc's turn to groan.

 

The three horsemen drew rein to halt on the low hill's summit. Pulling his mount around to face the city of Pale, Whiskeyjack stared for a time, jaw muscles bunching.

Quick Ben said nothing, watching the grey-bearded commander, his old friend, with fullest understanding. Upon this hill, we came to retrieve Hairlock. Amidst piles of empty armour – gods, they're still here, rotting in the grasses – and the sorceress Tattersail, the last left standing of the cadre. We'd just crawled out of the collapsed tunnels, leaving hundreds of brothers and sisters buried behind us. We burned with rage . . . we burned with the knowledge of betrayal.

Here . . . on this sorcery-blasted hill, we were ready to commit murder. With cold, cold hands . . . The wizard glanced over at Mallet. The healer's small eyes were narrowed on Whiskeyjack, and Quick Ben knew that he too was reliving bitter memories.

There is no burying the history of our lives. Yellow nails and fingers of bone claw up from the ground at our feet, and hold us fast.

'Summarize,' Whiskeyjack growled, his grey eyes on the empty sky above the city.

Mallet cleared his throat. 'Who starts?'

The commander swung his head to the healer.

'Right,' Mallet said. 'Paran's ... affliction. His mortal flesh has the taint of ascendant blood ... and ascendant places ... but as Quick will tell you, neither one should be manifesting as illness. No, that blood, and those places, are like shoves down a corridor.'

'And he keeps crawling back,' Quick Ben added. 'Trying to escape. And the more he tries—'

'The sicker he gets,' Mallet finished.

Whiskeyjack, eyes once again on Pale, grimaced wryly. 'The last time I stood on this hill I had to listen to Quick and Kalam finishing each other's sentences. Turns out less has changed than I'd thought. Is the captain himself ascendant?'

'As near as,' the wizard admitted. And, needless to say, that's worrying. But it'd be even more worrying if Paran . . . wanted it. Then again, who knows what ambitions lie hidden beneath that reluctant visage?

'What do you two make of his tale of the Hounds and Rake's sword?'

'Troubling,' Mallet replied.

'That's an understatement,' Quick Ben said. 'Damned scary.'

Whiskeyjack scowled at him. 'Why?'

'Dragnipur's not Rake's sword – he didn't forge it. How much does the bastard know about it? How much should he know? And where in Hood's name did those Hounds go? Wherever it is, Paran's linked by blood with one of them—'

'And that makes him . . . unpredictable,' Mallet interjected.

'What's at the end of this corridor you described?'

'I don't know.'

'Me neither,' Quick Ben said regretfully. 'But I think we should add a few shoves of our own. If only to save Paran from himself.'

'And how do you propose we do that?'

The wizard grinned. 'It's already started, Commander. Connecting him to Silverfox. She reads him like Tattersail did a Deck of Dragons, sees more every time she rests eyes on him.'

'Maybe that's just Tattersail's memories ... undressing him,' Mallet commented.

'Very funny,' Whiskeyjack drawled. 'So Silverfox dips into his soul – no guarantee she'll be sharing her discoveries with us, is there?'

'If Tattersail and Nightchill's personae come to dominate ...'

'The sorceress is well enough, but Nightchill . . .' Whiskeyjack shook his head.

'She was a nasty piece of work,' Quick Ben agreed. 'Something of a mystery there. Still, a Malazan ...'

'Of whom we know very little,' the commander growled. 'Remote. Cold.'

Mallet asked, 'What was her warren?'

'Rashan, as far as I could tell,' Quick Ben said sourly. 'Darkness.'

'That's knowledge that Silverfox can draw on, then,' the healer said after a moment.

'Probably instinctively, in fragments – not much of Nightchill survived, I gather.'

'Are you sure of that, wizard?' Whiskeyjack asked.

'No.' About Nightchill, I'm less sure than I'm implying. There have been other Nightchills . . . long before the Malazan Empire. The First Age of the Nathilog Wars. The Liberation of Karakarang on Seven Cities, nine centuries back. The Seti and their expulsion from Venn, on Quon Tali, almost two thousand years ago. A woman, a sorceress, named Nightchill, again and again. If she's the same one ...

The commander leaned in his saddle and spat to the ground. 'I'm not happy.'

Wizard and healer said nothing.

I'd tell him about Burn . . .but if he ain't happy now what'll the news of the world's impending death do to him? No, deal with that one on your own, Quick, and be ready to jump when the time comes . . . The Crippled God's declared war on the gods, on the warrens, on the whole damned thing and every one of us in it. Fine, O Fallen One, but that means you'll have to outwit me. Forget the gods and their clumsy games, I'll have you crawling in circles before long ...

Moments passed, the horses motionless under the riders except for the flicking of tails and the twitching of coats and ears to ward off biting flies.

'Keep facing Paran in the right direction,' Whiskeyjack finally said. 'Shove when the opportunity arises. Quick Ben, find out all you can about Nightchill – through any and every source available. Mallet, explain about Paran to Spindle – I want all three of you close enough to the captain to count nose hairs.' He gathered the reins and swung his mount round. 'The Darujhistan contingent's due to arrive at Brood's any time now – let's head back.'

They rode down from the hill and its ruinous vestiges at a canter, leaving the flies buzzing aimlessly above the summit.

 

Whiskeyjack reined in before the tent that had been provided for Dujek Onearm, his horse breathing hard from the extended ride, through the Bridgeburners' encampment where he'd left Quick Ben and Mallet, and into Brood's sprawled camp. He swung from the saddle, wincing as he stepped down on his bad leg.

The standard-bearer Artanthos appeared. 'I'll take the reins, Commander,' the young man said. 'The beast needs rubbing down—'

'He ain't the only one,' Whiskeyjack muttered. 'Onearm's within?'

'Aye. He has been expecting you.'

Without another word the commander entered the tent.

'Damned about time,' Dujek growled from his cot, grunting as as he sat up. 'Pour us some ale, there, on the table. Find a chair. You hungry?'

'No.'

'Me neither. Let's drink.'

Neither spoke until Whiskeyjack had finished repositioning furniture and pouring ale. The silence continued until they'd both finished the first tankards and the commander refilled them from the jug.

'Moon's Spawn,' Dujek said after wiping his mouth then reaching for the tankard once again. 'If we're lucky, we'll see it again, but not till Coral, or even later. So, Anomander Rake's agreed to throw his – and the Moon's – weight against this Pannion Domin. Reasons? Unknown. Maybe he just likes a fight.'

Whiskeyjack frowned. 'At Pale, he struck me as a reluctant combatant, Dujek.'

'Only because his Tiste Andii were busy elsewhere. Good thing, too, or we would have been annihilated.'

'You might be right. Seems we're mustering a whole lot to take on a middling-sized empire of zealots, Dujek. I know, the Domin's smelled foul from the start, and something's building. Even so ...'

'Aye.' After a moment, Dujek shrugged. 'We'll see what we see. Did you speak with Twist?'

Whiskeyjack nodded. 'He agrees that his flights should remain unseen – no supplying of our forces on the march if at all possible. He has scouts seeking a strategic place to hold up close to the Pannion border – hidden but close enough to strike when the time comes.'

'Good. And is our army ready to leave Pale?'

'As ready as it'll ever be. The question of supply on the march remains.'

'We'll cover that when the emissaries from Darujhistan get here. Now. Silverfox ...'

'Hard to say, Dujek. This gathering of Plan Imass is worrying, especially when she asserts that we'll all need those undead warriors when we take on the Pannion Domin. High Fist, we don't know enough about our enemy—'

'That will change – have you instructed Quick Ben on initiating contact with that mercenary company in Capustan?'

'He's worked something out. We'll see if they take the bait.'

'Back to Silverfox, Whiskeyjack. Tattersail was a solid ally – a friend—'

'She's there, in this Rhivi child. Paran and she have ... spoken.' He fell silent for a moment, then sighed, his eyes on the tankard in his hands. 'Things have yet to unfold, so we'll just have to wait and see.'

'Any creature that so devours its parent. . .'

'Aye, but then again, whenever have the T'lan Imass shown a speck of compassion? They're undead, soulless and let's face it, once-allies or not, damned horrific. They were on the Emperor's leash and no-one else's. Fighting alongside them back in Seven Cities was not a comforting experience – we both know that, Dujek.'

'Expedience always comes arm-in-arm with discomfort,' the High Fist muttered. 'And now they're back, only this time they're on a child's leash ...'

Whiskeyjack grunted. 'That's a curious observation, but I see what you mean. Kellanved showed ... restraint with the T'lan Imass, discounting that mess at Aren. Whereas a child, born of ravaged souls within the warren of Tellann, acquiring such power . . .'

'And how many children have you met capable of showing restraint? Tattersail's wisdom needs to come to the fore, and soon.'

'We'll do all we can, Dujek.'

The old man sighed, then nodded. 'Now, your sense of our newfound allies?'

'The departure of the Crimson Guard is a blow,' Whiskeyjack said. 'A disparate collection of dubious mercenaries and hangers-on in their place signifies a drop in quality. The Mott Irregulars are the best of the bunch, but that's not saying a whole lot. The Rhivi and Barghast are solid enough, as we both know, and the Tiste Andii are unequalled. Still, Brood needs us. Badly.'

'Perhaps more than we need him and his forces, aye,' Dujek said. 'In a normal kind of war, that is.'

'Rake and Moon's Spawn are Brood's true shaved knuckles in the hole. High Fist, with the T'lan Imass joined to our cause, I cannot see any force on this continent or any other that could match us. God knows, we could annex half the continent—'

'Could we now?' Dujek grinned sourly. 'Stow that thought, old friend, stow it deep so it never again sees the light of day. We're about to march off and sword-kiss a tyrant – what happens afterwards is a discussion that will have to await another time. Right now, we're both edging around a deadly pit—'

'Aye, we are. Kallor.'

'Kallor.'

'He will try to kill the child,' Whiskeyjack said.

'He won't,' Dujek countered. 'If he tries, Brood will go for him.' The one-armed man leaned forward with his tankard and Whiskeyjack refilled it. Settling back, the High Fist studied the commander, then said, 'Caladan Brood is the real shaved knuckle in the hole, old friend. I've read of his times up around Laederon, in the Nathilog Histories. Hood's breath, you don't want to get him riled – whether you're an ally or an enemy makes no difference to Brood when his rage is unleashed. At least with Anomander Rake, it's a cold, taut power. Not so with the warlord. That hammer of his ... it's said that it's the only thing that can awaken Burn. Swing it against the ground, hard enough, and the goddess will open her eyes. And the truth is, if Brood didn't have the strength to do so, he wouldn't be carrying the hammer in the first place.'

Whiskeyjack mused on this for a while, then said, 'We have to hope that Brood remains as the child's protector.'

'Kallor will work to sway the warlord,' Dujek asserted, 'with argument rather than with his sword. He may well seek Rake's support, as well...'

The commander eyed the High Fist. 'Kallor's paid you a visit.'

'Aye, and he's a persuasive bastard. Even to the point of dispelling his enmity towards you – he's not been physically struck in centuries, or so he said. He also said he deserved it.'

'Generous of him,' Whiskeyjack drawled. When it's politically expedient. 'I'll not stand to one side in the butchering of a child,' the commander added in a cold voice. 'No matter what power or potential is within her.'

Dujek glanced up. 'In defiance of my command, should I give it?'

'We've known each other a long time, Dujek.'

'Aye, we have. Stubborn.'

'When it matters.'

The two men said nothing for a time, then the High Fist looked away and sighed. 'I should bust you back down to sergeant.'

Whiskeyjack laughed.

'Pour me another,' Dujek growled. 'We've got an emissary from Darujhistan on the way and I want to be properly cheerful when he arrives.'

 

'What if Kallor's right?'

The Mhybe's eyes narrowed. 'Then, Warlord, you had best give him leave to cut me down the same time he kills my daughter.'

Caladan Brood's wide, flat brow furrowed as he scowled down at her. 'I remember you, you know. Among the tribes when we campaigned in the north. Young, fiery, beautiful. Seeing you – seeing what the child has done to you – causes pain within me, woman.'

'Mine is greater, I assure you, Warlord, yet I choose to accept it—'

'Your daughter is killing you – why?'

The Mhybe glanced across at Korlat. The Tiste Andii's expression was distraught. The air within the tent was sweltering, the currents around the three of them damp and turgid. After a moment, the old woman returned her gaze to Caladan Brood. 'Silverfox is of Tellann, of the T'lan Imass, Warlord. They have no life-force to give her. They are kin, yet can offer no sustenance, for they are undead, whilst their new child is flesh and blood. Tattersail too is dead. As was Nightchill. Kinship is more important than you might think. Blood-bound lives are the web that carries each of us; they make up that which a life climbs, from newborn to child, then child to adulthood. Without such life-forces, one withers and dies. To be alone is to be ill, Warlord, not just spiritually, but physically as well. I am my daughter's web, and I am alone in that—'

Brood was shaking his head. 'Your explanation does not answer her ... impatience, Mhybe. She claims she will command the T'lan Imass. She claims they have heard her summons. Does this not in turn mean that the undead armies have already accepted her?'

Korlat spoke up. 'Warlord, you believe Silverfox seeks to hasten her own growth in order to confirm her authority when she comes face to face with the T'lan Imass? The undead armies will reject a child summoner – is this your belief?'

'I am seeking the reason for what she's doing to her mother, Korlat,' Brood said, with a pained expression.

'You might well be correct, Warlord,' the Mhybe said. 'Bone and flesh can hold only so much power – the limit is always finite. For such beings as you and Anomander Rake – and you, too, Korlat – you possess the centuries of living necessary to contain what you command. Silverfox does not, or, rather, her memories tell her she does, yet her child's body denies those memories. Thus, vast power awaits her, and to fully command it she must be a grown woman – and even then ...'

'Ascendancy is born of experience,' Korlat said. 'An interesting notion, Mhybe.'

'And experience . . . tempers,' the Rhivi woman nodded.

'Thus, Kallor's fear,' Brood rumbled, rising from his chair with a restless sigh. 'Untempered power.'

'It may be,' Korlat said in a low voice, 'that Kallor himself is the cause of the child's impatience – she seeks to become a woman in order to alleviate his fears.'

'I'd doubt he'd appreciate the irony,' the warlord muttered. 'Alleviate, you said? Thinking on it, more likely she knows she'll have to defend herself against him sooner or later—'

'A secret hovers between them,' Korlat murmured.

There was silence. All knew the truth of that, and all were troubled. One of the souls within Silverfox had crossed paths with Kallor before. Tattersail, Bellurdan or Nightchill.

After a long moment, Brood cleared his throat. 'Life experiences ... the child possesses those, does she not, Mhybe? The three Malazan mages ...'

The Mhybe smiled wearily. 'A Thelomen, two women, and myself – one father and three reluctant mothers to the same child. The father's presence seems so faint that I have begun to suspect it exists only as Nightchill's memory. As for the two women, I am seeking to discover who they were, and what I have learned thus far – of Tattersail – comforts me.'

'And Nightchill?' Korlat asked.

Brood interjected, 'Did not Rake kill her here at Pale?'

'No, Nightchill was ambushed – betrayed – by the High Mage Tayschrenn,' the Tiste Andii replied. 'We have been informed,' she added drily, 'that Tayschrenn has since fled back to the Empress.' Korlat faced the Mhybe again. 'What have you learned of her?'

'I have seen flashes of darkness within Silverfox,' the Rhivi woman replied reluctantly, 'which I would attribute to Nightchill. A seething anger, a hunger for vengeance, possibly against Tayschrenn. At some time, perhaps soon, there will be a clash between Tattersail and Nightchill – the victor will come to dominate my daughter's nature.'

Brood was silent for a half-dozen breaths, then said, 'What can we do to aid this Tattersail?'

'The Malazans are seeking to do that very thing, Warlord. Much rests on their efforts. We must have faith in them. In Whiskeyjack, and in Captain Paran – the man who was once Tattersail's lover.'

'I have spoken with Whiskeyjack,' Korlat said. 'He possesses an unshakeable integrity, Warlord. An honourable man.'

'I hear your heart in your words,' Brood observed.

Korlat shrugged. 'Less cause to doubt me, then, Caladan. I am not careless in such matters.'

The warlord grunted. 'I dare not take another step in that direction,' he said wryly. 'Mhybe, hold close to your daughter. Should you begin to see the spirit of Nightchill rising and that of Tattersail setting, inform me at once.'

And should that occur, my telling you will see my daughter killed.

'My thoughts,' Brood continued, his thin eyes fixed on her, 'are not settled on that matter. Rather, such an event may well lead to my more directly supporting the Malazans in their efforts on Tattersail's behalf.'

The Mhybe raised her brows. 'Precisely how, Warlord?'

'Have faith in me,' Brood said.

The Rhivi woman sighed, then nodded. 'Very well, I shall so inform you.'

The tent flap was drawn back and Hurlochel, Brood's standard-bearer, entered. 'Warlord,' he said, 'the Darujhistan contingent approach our camp.'

'Let us go to meet them, then.'

 

Since arriving, the hooded driver seemed to have fallen asleep. The huge, ornate carriage's double doors opened from within and a regent-blue slippered foot emerged. Arrayed before the carriage and its train of six jewel-decked horses, in a crescent, were the representatives of the two allied armies: Dujek, Whiskeyjack, Twist and Captain Paran to the left, and Caladan Brood, Kallor, Korlat, Silverfox and the Mhybe to the right.

The Rhivi matron had been left exhausted by the events of the night just past, and her meeting with Brood had added yet more layers of weariness – the holding back on so much in the face of the warlord's hard questions had been difficult, yet, she felt, necessary. Her daughter's meeting with Paran had been far more strained and uncertain than the Mhybe had suggested to Brood. Nor had the intervening hours since then diminished the awkwardness of the situation. Worse, the reunion may have triggered something within Silverfox – the child had drawn heavily on the Mhybe since then, stripping away year after year from her mother's failing life. Is it Tattersail behind the fevered demand on my life-spirit? Or Nightchill?

This will end soon. I yearn for the release of the Hooded One's embrace. Silverfox has allies, now. They will do what is necessary, I am certain of it – please, Spirits of the Rhivi, make me certain of it. The time for me is surely past, yet those around me continue to make demands of me. No, I cannot go on . . .

The slippered foot probed daintily downward, wavering until it touched ground. A rather plump calf, knee and thigh followed. The short, round man who emerged was wearing silks of every colour, the effect one of clashing discord. A shimmering, crimson handkerchief was clutched in one pudgy hand, rising to dab a glittering forehead. Both feet finally on the ground, the Daru loosed a loud sigh. 'Burn's fiery heart, but it's hot!'

Caladan Brood stepped forward. 'Welcome, representative of the City of Darujhistan, to the armies of liberation. I am Caladan Brood, and this is Dujek Onearm ...'

The short, round man blinked myopically, mopped his brow once again, then beamed a smile. 'Representative of the City of Darujhistan? Indeed! None better, Kruppe says, though he be a lowly citizen, a curious commoner come to cast kindly eyes upon this momentous occasion! Kruppe is suitably honoured by your formal, nay, respectful welcome – what vast display, Kruppe wonders, will you formidable warriors unveil when greeting the Council of Darujhistan's official representatives? The sheer escalation now imminent has Kruppe's heart all apatter with anticipation! Look on, to the south – the councillors' carriage even now approaches!'

A Great Raven's cackle spilled into the silence following the man's pronouncements.

Despite her fraught, worn emotions, the Mhybe smiled. Oh yes, of course. I know this man. She stepped forward, unable to resist herself as she said, 'I have been in your dreams, sir.'

Kruppe's eyes fixed on her and widened in alarm. He mopped his brow. 'My dear, while all things are possible ...'

Crone cackled a second time.

'I was younger then,' the Mhybe added. 'And with child. We were in the company of a Bonecaster ... and an Elder God.'

Recognition lit his round, flushed face, followed swiftly by dismay. For once he seemed at a loss for words. His gaze held on hers a moment longer, then dropped to the child at her side. She noted his narrowing eyes. He senses the way of things between us. Instantly. Howl And why is it I know the truth of my conviction? How profound is this link?

Caladan Brood cleared his throat. 'Welcome, citizen Kruppe. We are now aware of the events surrounding the birth of the child, Silverfox. You, then, are the mortal involved. The identity of this Elder God, however, remains unknown to us. Which one? The answer to that question may well do much to determine our ... relationship with the girl.'

Kruppe blinked up at the warlord. He patted the soft flesh beneath his chin with the silk cloth. 'Kruppe understands. Indeed he does. A sudden tension permeates this prestigious gathering, yes? The god in question. Yes, hmm. Ambivalence, uncertainty, all anathema to Kruppe of Darujhistan ... possibly, then again possibly not.' He glanced over a shoulder as the official delegation's carriage approached, mopped his brow again. 'Swift answers may well mislead, nay, give the wrong impression entirely. Oh my, what to do?'

'Damn you!' The cry came from the other carriage driver as the ornate contrivance arrived. 'Kruppe! What in Hood's name are you doing here?'

The silk-clad man pivoted and attempted a sweeping bow which, despite its meagre success, nevertheless managed to seem elegant. 'Dear friend Murillio. Have you climbed in the world with this new profession, or perhaps sidled sideways? Kruppe was unaware of your obvious talents in leading mules—'

The driver scowled. 'Seems the Council's select train of horses inexplicably vanished moments before our departure. Horses decidedly similar to ones you and Meese seem to have acquired, might I add.'

'Extraordinary coincidence, friend Murillio.'

The carriage doors opened and out climbed a broad-shouldered, balding man. His blunt-featured face was dark with anger as he strode towards Kruppe.

The small round citizen spread his arms wide even as he involuntarily stepped back. 'Dearest friend and lifelong companion. Welcome, Councillor Coll. And who is that behind you? Why, none other than Councillor Estraysian D'Ariel In such fashion all the truly vital representatives of fair Darujhistan are thus gathered!'

'Excluding you, Kruppe,' Coll growled, still advancing on the man who was now back-pedalling to his own carriage.

'Untrue, friend Coll! I am here as representative of Master Baruk—'

Coll halted. He crossed his burly arms. 'Oh, indeed? The alchemist sent you on his behalf, did he?'

'Well, not in so many words, of course. Baruk and I are of such closeness in friendship that words are often unnecessary—'

'Enough, Kruppe.' Coll turned to Caladan Brood. 'My deepest apologies, Warlord. I am Coll, and this gentleman at my side is Estraysian D'Arle. We are here on behalf of the Ruling Council of Darujhistan. The presence of this ... this Kruppe ... was unintended, and indeed is unwelcome. If you can spare me a moment I will send him on his way.'

'Alas, it seems we have need of him,' Brood replied. 'Rest assured I will explain. For now, however, perhaps we should reconvene in my command tent.'

Coll swung a glare on Kruppe. 'What outrageous lies have you uttered now?'

The round man looked offended. 'Kruppe and the truth are lifelong partners, friend Coll! Indeed, wedded bliss – we only yesterday celebrated out fortieth anniversary, the mistress of veracity and I. Kruppe is most certainly of need – in all things, at all times and in all places! It is a duty Kruppe must accept, howsoever humbly—'

With a low growl Coll raised a hand to cuff the man.

Estraysian D'Arle stepped forward and laid a hand on Coll's shoulder. 'Be at ease,' the councillor murmured. 'It appears to be obvious to all that Kruppe does not speak for anyone but Kruppe. We are not responsible for him. If in truth he is to prove useful, the task of impressing us falls upon him and him alone.'

'And impress I shall!' Kruppe cried, suddenly beaming again.

Crone bounded down to hop towards Kruppe. 'You, sir, should have been a Great Raven!'

'And you a dog!' he shouted back.

Crone halted, teetered a moment, wings half spreading. She cocked her head, whispered, 'A dog?'

'Only so that I might ruffle you behind the ears, my dear!'

'Ruffle? Ruffle!'

'Very well, not a dog, then. A parrot?'

'A parrot!'

'Perfect!'

'Enough!' Brood roared. 'All of you, follow me!' He whirled and stomped towards the Tiste Andii encampment.

It took only a glance from the Mhybe to start Whiskeyjack laughing. Dujek joined him a moment later, then the others.

Silverfox squeezed her hand. 'Kruppe has already revealed his value,' she said in low voice, 'don't you think?'

'Aye, child, that he has. Come, we'd best lead the way in catching up with the warlord.'

 

As soon as all were within the command tent and the removal of cloaks and weapons had begun, Paran strode over to Councillor Coll. 'It is good to see you again,' the captain said, 'though,' he added in a low tone, 'you wore a soldier's armour with more ease, I think, than those robes.'

Coll grimaced. 'You're right enough in that. Do you know I at times think back on that night camped in the Gadrobi Hills with something like nostalgia. We weren't anything but ourselves, then.' He met Paran's eyes with a flicker of worry at what he saw. They gripped hands. 'Simpler times ...'

'An unlikely toast,' a voice said and they turned as Whiskeyjack joined them, an earthenware jug in one hand. 'There's tankards there behind you, Councillor, on what passes for a table. Brood has no servants as such so I've elected myself to that worthy task.'

Pulling three tankards close, Paran frowned at the table. 'This is the bed of a wagon – you can still see the straw.'

'Which also explains this place smelling like a stable,' the commander added, pouring the tankards full of Gredfallan ale. 'Brood's map table went missing last night.'

Coll raised an eyebrow. 'Someone stole a table?'

'Not someone,' Whiskeyjack replied, glancing at Paran. 'Your Bridgeburners, Captain. I'd lay a column on it.'

'What in Hood's name for?'

'That's something you'll have to find out. Fortunately, the warlord's only complaint was at the inconvenience.'

Caladan Brood's deep voice rose then. 'If one and all will find seats, we can get to the business of supply and materiel.'

Kruppe was the first to lower himself into a chair – at the head of the makeshift table. He held a tankard and a handful of Rhivi sweetcakes. 'Such rustic environs!' he sighed, round face flushed with pleasure. 'And traditional pastries of the plains to lure the palate. More, this ale is most delicious, perfectly cooled—'

'Be quiet, damn you,' Coll growled. 'And what are you doing in that chair?'

'Why, sitting, friend Coll. Our mutual friend the alchemist—'

'Would skin you alive if he knew you were here, claiming to represent him.'

Kruppe's brows rose and he nearly choked on a mouthful of sweetcake, spraying crumbs as he coughed. He quickly drank down his ale, then belched. 'By the Abyss, what a distasteful notion. And entirely in error, Kruppe assures everyone. Baruk has a keen interest in the smooth conduct of this prestigious gathering of legendary persons. The success of the venture impending is uppermost in his mind, and he pledges to do all that is within his – and his servant Kruppe's – formidable abilities.'

'Has your master specific suggestions?' Brood asked.

'Innumerable suggestions of a specific nature, sir Warlord. So many that, when combined, they can only be seen or understood in the most general terms!' He then lowered his tone. 'Vague and seemingly vacuous generalities are proof of Master Baruk's all-embracing endeavours, Kruppe sagely points out.' He offered everyone a broad, crumb-flecked smile. 'But please, let us get under way lest this meeting stretch on, forcing the delivery of a sumptuous supper replete with the dryest of wines to whet the gullet and such a selection of sweets as to leave Kruppe groaning in fullest pleasure!'

'Gods forbid,' Coll muttered.

Estraysian D'Arle cleared his throat. 'We are faced with only minor difficulties in maintaining a supply route to your combined armies, Warlord and Dujek Onearm. The most pressing of these centres on the destroyed bridge west of Darujhistan. There are but few manageable crossings on the Catlin River, and the destruction of that stone bridge by the Jaghut Tyrant has created an inordinate amount of difficulty—'

'Ah,' Kruppe interjected, raising a pudgy finger, 'but are not bridges naught but a means of travelling from one side of a river to another? Does this not assume certain prerequisites regarding the projected plans of movement as directed by the leaders of the armies? Kruppe is left wondering ...' He reached for another sweetcake.

'As are we all,' D'Arle drawled after a moment.

Dujek, his eyes narrowed on Kruppe, cleared his throat. 'Well, much as I hate to admit it, there's something in that.' He swung his gaze to Estraysian. 'Catlin River only presents a problem if we look to employing the south routes. And we'd only want those if the armies seek to cross early in the march.'

Both councillors frowned.

'It is our intent,' Brood explained, 'to remain north of the river, to march directly towards Capustan. Our route will take us north of Saltoan ... well north. Then proceed in a southeast direction.'

Coll spoke. 'You describe a direct route to Capustan, sir, for your forces. Such a route will, however, strain our efforts at maintaining supply. We will not be able to deliver via the river. An overland train of such magnitude will sorely test our capabilities.'

'It must be understood,' Estraysian D'Arle added, 'that the Council must needs deal with private enterprises in fulfilling your supply needs.'

'Such delicacy!' Kruppe cried. 'The issues, martial comrades, are these. The Council of Darujhistan consists of various noble houses, of which virtually one and all possess interests in mercantile endeavours. Discounting the potentially confusing reality of the Council's providing vast loans to your armies with which you will in turn purchase supplies from the Council, the particular nature of the redistribution of said wealth is paramount to specific members of the Council. The vying, the back-chamber deals and conniving – well! One would be hard-pressed to imagine such a nightmarish tangle of weights, measures, wefts and webs, dare Kruppe say! The instructions delivered to these two worthy representatives are no doubt manifest, not to mention a veritable skein of conflicting commands. The councillors here before you are thus constrained by a knot that not even the gods could disentangle! It falls to Kruppe, lowly but worthy citizen of fair Darujhistan, to propose his and Master Baruk's solution.'

Coll leaned forward and rubbed his eyes. 'Let's hear it, then, Kruppe.'

'An impartial and exquisitely competent manager of said supply is required, of course. Not on the Council and therefore possessing nothing of the internal pressures so afflicting its honourable members. Skilled, as well, in mercantile matters. A vast capacity for organizing. In all, a superior—'

Coll's fist thumped down on the table, startling everyone. He rounded on Kruppe. 'If you imagine yourself in such a role – you, a middling fence to middling pickpockets and warehouse thieves—'

But the small, round man raised his hands and leaned back. 'Dear friend Coll! You flatter me with such an offer! However, poor Kruppe is far too busy with his own middling affairs to tackle such an endeavour. Nay, in close consultation with his loyal and wise servant Kruppe, Master Baruk proposes a different agent entirely—'

'What is all this?' Coll hissed dangerously. 'Baruk doesn't even know you're here!'

'A minor breakdown in communication, nothing more. The alchemist's desire was plain to Kruppe, he assures you one and all! Whilst Kruppe may well and with some justification claim sole credit for the impending proposal, alas, he must bow to the virtue of truthfulness and therefore acknowledge Master Baruk's minor – yet vital – contribution. Why, it was only yesterday that he mused on the peculiar talents of the agent in question, and if this was not a hint as to his desires, then what, dear Coll, could it have been?'

'Get on with it, sir,' Estraysian D'Arle grated.

'Kruppe delights in doing so, friend Councillor – and by the way, how fares your daughter, Challice? Has she indeed partaken of marriage nuptials with that hero of the fete? Kruppe so regrets his missing that no doubt sumptuous event—'

'Which has yet to occur,' D'Arle snapped. 'She is well, sir. My patience with you is growing very thin, Kruppe—'

'Alas, I can only dream of thin. Very well, the agent in question is none other than the newly arrived mercantile enterprise known as the Trygalle Trade Guild.' Beaming, he sat back, lacing his fingers together over his belly.

Brood turned to Coll. 'An enterprise I have never heard of...'

The councillor was frowning. 'As Kruppe said, newly arrived in Darujhistan. From the south – Elingarth, I believe. We used them but once – a singularly difficult delivery of funds to Dujek Onearm.' He looked to Estraysian D'Arle, who shrugged, then spoke.

'They have made no bids regarding the contracts to supply the combined armies. Indeed, they have sent no representative to the meetings – that single use of them Coll mentioned was a sub-contract, I believe.' He swung a scowl on Kruppe. 'Given their obvious lack of interest, why would you – or, rather, Master Baruk – believe that this Trygalle Trade Guild is amenable to participating, much less acting as mitigator?'

Kruppe poured himself another tankard of ale, sipped, then smacked his lips appreciatively. 'The Trygalle Trade Guild does not offer bids, for every other enterprise would be sure to greatly underbid them without even trying. In other words, they are not cheap. More exactly, their services demand a king's ransom generally. One thing you can be sure of, however, is that they will do precisely what they have been hired to do, no matter how ... uh, nightmarish ... the logistics.'

'You've invested in them, haven't you, Kruppe?' Coll's face had darkened. 'So much for impartial advice – and Baruk has absolutely nothing to do with you being here. You're acting on behalf of this Trygalle Trade Guild, aren't you?'

'Kruppe assures, the conflict of interest is a matter of appearance only, friend Coll! The truth is more precisely a convergence. The needs are evident here before us all, and so too is the means of answering them! Happy coincidence! Now, Kruppe would partake of more of these delicious Rhivi cakes, whilst you discuss the merits of said proposal and no doubt reach the propitious, inevitable conclusion.'

 

Crone could smell sorcery in the air. And it doesn't belong. No, not Tiste Andii, not the Rhivi spirits awakened either ... She circled over the encampment, questing with all her senses. The afternoon had drawn into dusk, then night, as the meeting within Caladan Brood's command tent stretched on, and on. The Great Raven was quickly bored by interminable discussions of caravan routes and how many tons of this and that were required on a weekly basis to keep two armies fed and content on the march. Granted, that repugnant creature Kruppe was amusing enough, in the manner that an obese rat trying to cross a rope bridge was worth a cackle or three. A finely honed mind dwelt beneath the smeared, grotesque affectations, she well knew, and his ability at earning his seat at the head of the table and of confounding the flailing councillors of Darujhistan was most certainly an entertaining enough display of deftness ... until Crone had sensed the stirrings of magic somewhere in the camp.

There, that large tent directly below ... I know it. The place where the Rhivi dress the Tiste Andii dead. Crooking her wings, she dropped in a tight spiral.

She landed a few paces from the entrance. The flap was drawn shut, tightly tied, but the leather thongs and their knots were poor obstacles for Crone's sharp beak. In moments she was within, hopping silently and unseen beneath the huge table – a table she recognized with a silent chuckle – and among a few scattered folded cots in the darkness.

Four figures leaned on the table above her, whispering and muttering. The muted clatter of wooden cards echoed through to Crone, and she cocked her head.

'There it is again,' a gravelly-voiced woman said. 'You sure you shuffled the damned things, Spin?'

'Will you – of course I did, Corporal. Stop asking me. Look, four times now, different laying of the fields every one, and it's simple. Obelisk dominates – the dolmen of time is the core. It's active, plain as day – the first time in decades . . .'

'Could still be that untoward skew,' another voice interjected. 'You ain't got Fid's natural hand, Spin—'

'Enough of that, Hedge,' the corporal snapped. 'Spindle's done enough readings to be the real thing, trust me.'

'Didn't you just—'

'Shut up.'

'Besides,' Spindle muttered, 'I told you already, the new card's got a fixed influence – it's the glue holding everything together, and once you see that it all makes sense.'

'The glue, you said,' the fourth and final voice – also a woman's – mused. 'Linked to a new ascendant, you think?'

'Beats me, Blend,' Spindle sighed. 'I said a fixed influence, but I didn't say I knew the aspect of that influence. I don't know, and not because I'm not good enough. It's like it hasn't ... woken up yet. A passive presence, for the moment. Nothing more than that. When it does awaken ... well, things should heat up nicely, is my guess.'

'So,' the corporal said, 'what are we looking at here, mage?'

'Same as before. Soldier of High House Death's right-hand to Obelisk. Magi of Shadow's here – first time for that one, too – a grand deception's at work, is my guess. The Captain of High House Light holds out some hope, but it's shaded by Hood's Herald – though not directly, there's a distance there, I think. The Assassin of High House Shadow seems to have acquired a new face, I'm getting hints of it ... bloody familiar, that face.'

The one named Hedge grunted. 'Should bring Quick Ben in on this—'

'That's it!' Spindle hissed. 'The Assassin's face – it's Kalam!'

'Bastard!' Hedge growled. 'I'd suspected as much – him and Fid paddling off the way they did – you know what this means, don't you...'

'We can guess,' the corporal said, sounding unhappy. 'But the other thing's clear, Spin, isn't it?'

'Aye. Seven Cities is about to rise – may have already. The Whirlwind ... Hood must be smiling right now. Smiling something fierce.'

'I got some questions for Quick Ben,' Hedge muttered. 'Don't I just.'

'You should ask him about the new card, too,' Spindle said. 'If he don't mind crawling, let him take a look.'

'Aye...'

A new card of the Deck of Dragons? Crone cocked her head up farther, thinking furiously. New cards were trouble, especially ones with power. The House of Shadow was proof enough of that... Her eyes – one, then, as she further cocked her head, the other – slowly focused, her mind dragged back from its abstracted realm, fixing at last on the underside of the table.

To find a pair of human eyes, the paint glittering as if alive, staring back down at her.

 

The Mhybe stepped out of the tent, her mind befuddled with exhaustion. Silverfox had fallen asleep in her chair, during one of Kruppe's rambling accounts describing yet another peculiarity of the Trygalle Trade Guild's Rules of Contract, and the Mhybe had decided to let the child be.

In truth, she longed for some time away from her daughter. A pressure was building around Silverfox, an incessant need that, moment by moment, was taking ever more of the Mhybe's life-spirit. Of course, this feeble attempt at escape was meaningless. The demand was boundless, and no conceivable distance could effect a change. Her flight from the tent, from her daughter's presence, held naught but symbolic meaning.

Her bones were a rack of dull, incessant pains, an ebb and flow of twinges that only the deepest of sleep could temporarily evade – the kind of sleep that had begun to elude her.

Paran emerged from the tent and approached. 'I would ask you something, Mhybe, then I shall leave you in peace.'

Oh, you poor, savaged man. What would you have me answer? 'What do you wish to know, Captain?'

Paran stared out at the sleeping camp. 'If someone wished to hide a table ...'

She blinked, then smiled. 'You will find them in the tent of the Shrouds – it is unfrequented for the moment. Come, I shall take you there.'

'Directions will suffice—'

'Walking eases the aches, Captain. This way.' She made her way between the first of the tent rows. 'You have stirred Tattersail awake,' she observed after a few moments. 'As a dominant personality for my daughter, I think I am pleased by the development.'

'I am glad for that, Mhybe.'

'What was the sorceress like, Captain?'

'Generous ... perhaps to a fault. A highly respected and indeed well-liked cadre mage.'

Oh, sir, you hold so much within yourself, chained and in darkness. Detachment is a flaw, not a virtue – don't you realize that?

He went on, 'You might well have viewed, from your Rhivi perspective, the Malazan forces on this continent as some kind of unstoppable, relentless monster, devouring city after city. But it was never like that. Poorly supplied, often outnumbered, in territories they had no familiarity with – by all accounts, Onearm's Host was being chewed to pieces. The arrival of Brood, the Tiste Andii, and the Crimson Guard stopped the campaign in its tracks. The cadre mages were often all that stood between the Host and annihilation.'

'Yet they had the Moranth ...'

'Aye, though not as reliable as you might think. None the less, their alchemical munitions have changed the nature of warfare, not to mention the mobility of their quorls. The Host has come to rely heavily on both.'

'Ah, I see faint lantern-glow coming from the Shroud – there, directly ahead. There have been rumours that all was not well with the Moranth ...'

Paran shot her a glance, then shrugged. 'A schism has occurred, triggered by a succession of defeats weathered by their elite forces, the Gold. At the moment, we have the Black at our side, and none other, though the Blue continue on the sea-lanes to Seven Cities.'

They were startled by the staggering appearance of a Great Raven from the Shroud's flap. She reeled drunkenly, flopped onto her chest but three paces from the Mhybe and the Malazan. Crone's head jerked up, one eye fixing on Paran.

'You!' she hissed, then, spreading her vast wings, she sprang into the air. Heavy, savage thuds of her wings lifted her up into the darkness. A moment later she was gone.

The Mhybe glanced at the captain. The man was frowning.

'Crone showed no sign of fearing you before,' she murmured.

Paran shrugged.

Voices sounded from the Shroud, and a moment later figures began filing out, the lead one carrying a hooded lantern.

'Far enough,' the captain growled.

The woman with the lantern flinched, then thumped a wrong-handed salute. 'Sir. We have just made a discovery – in this tent, sir. The purloined table has been found.'

'Indeed,' Paran drawled. 'Well done, Corporal. You and your fellow soldiers have shown admirable diligence.'

'Thank you, sir.'

The captain strode towards the tent. 'It is within, you said?'

'Yes sir.'

'Well, military decorum insists we return it to the warlord at once, wouldn't you agree, Picker?'

'Absolutely, sir.'

Paran paused and surveyed the soldiers. 'Hedge, Spindle, Blend. Four in all. I trust you will be able to manage.'

Corporal Picker blinked. 'Sir?'

'Carrying the table, of course.'

'Uh, might I suggest we find a few more soldiers—'

'I think not. We are departing in the morning, and I want the company well rested, so best not disturb their sleep. It shouldn't take the four of you more than an hour, I would judge, which will give you a few moments to spare readying your kits. Well, best not delay, Corporal, hmm?'

'Yes, sir.' Picker glumly swung to her soldiers. 'Dust up your hands, we've work to do. Spindle, you got a problem?'

The man in question was staring slack-jawed at Paran.

'Spindle?'

'Idiot,' the mage whispered.

'Soldier!'

'How could I have missed it? It's him. As plain as can be . . .'

Picker stepped up and cuffed the mage. 'Snap out of it, damn you!'

Spindle stared at her, then scowled. 'Don't hit me again, or you'll regret it till the end of your days.'

The corporal stood firm. 'The next time I hit you, soldier, you won't be getting up. Any more threats from you will be your last, am I clear?'

The mage shook himself, eyes straying once more to Paran. 'Everything will change,' he whispered. 'Can't happen yet. I need to think. Quick Ben ...'

'Spindle!'

He flinched, then gave his corporal a sharp nod. 'Pick up the table, aye. Let's get to it, aye, right away. Come on, Hedge. Blend.'

The Mhybe watched the four soldiers re-enter the Shroud, then turned to Paran. 'What was all that about, Captain?'

'I have no idea,' he replied levelly.

'That table needs more than four pairs of hands.'

'I imagine it does.'

'Yet you won't provide them.'

He glanced at her. 'Hood no. They stole the damned thing in the first place.'

 

A bell remained before the sun's rise. Leaving Picker and her hapless crew to their task, and departing as well from the Mhybe's presence, Paran made his way to the Bridgeburner encampment situated at the southwest edge of Brood's main camp. A handful of soldiers stood at sentry duty at the pickets, offering ragged salutes as the captain passed them.

He was surprised to find Whiskeyjack near the centre hearth, the commander busy saddling a tall chestnut gelding.

Paran approached. 'Has the meeting concluded, sir?' he asked.

The commander's glance was wry. 'I am beginning to suspect it will never end, if Kruppe has his way.'

'This trade guild of his has not gone down well, then.'

'To the contrary, it has been fully endorsed, though they'll cost the Council a king's ransom in truth. We have guarantees, now, ensuring the overland supply lines. Precisely what we required.'

'Why then does the meeting continue, sir?'

'Well, it seems that we'll have some envoys attached to our army.'

'Not Kruppe—'

'Indeed, the worthy Kruppe. And Coll – I suspect he's eager to get out of those fancy robes and back into armour.'

'Aye, he would be.'

Whiskeyjack cinched the girth strap one last time, then faced Paran. He seemed about to say one thing, then he hesitated, and chose another. 'The Black Moranth will take you and the Bridgeburners to the foot of the Barghast Range.'

The captain's eyes widened. 'That's quite a journey. And once there?'

'Once there, Trotts detaches from your command. He's to initiate contact with the White Face Barghast, by whatever means he deems proper. You and your company are to provide his escort, but you will not become otherwise entangled in the negotiations. We need the White Face clan – the entire clan.'

'And Trotts will do the negotiating? Beru fend.'

'He's capable of surprising you, Captain.'

'I see. Assuming he manages to succeed, we are then to proceed south?'

Whiskeyjack nodded. 'To the relief of Capustan, aye.' The commander set a boot within the stirrup and, with a wince, pulled himself up into the saddle. He gathered the reins, looking down on the captain. 'Any questions?'

Paran glanced around, studying the sleeping camp, then shook his head.

'I'd offer you Oponn's luck—'

'No, thank you, sir.'

Whiskeyjack nodded.

The gelding shied under the commander suddenly, pitching to one side with a squeal of terror. Wind buffeted the camp, ripping the small tents from their shallow moorings. Voices shouted in alarm. Paran stared upward as a vast black shape swept towards the Tiste Andii encampment. A faint aura outlined the enormous draconian form to the captain's eyes, silvery-white and flickering. Paran's stomach flared with pain, intense but mercifully brief, leaving him trembling.

'Hood's breath,' Whiskeyjack cursed, struggling to calm his horse as he looked around. 'What was that?'

He could not see as I saw – he has not the blood for that. 'Anomander Rake has arrived, sir. He descends among his Tiste Andii.' Paran studied the chaos that had been the slumbering Bridgeburners' camp, then sighed. 'Well, it's a little early, but now's as good a time as any.' He strode forward, raised his voice. 'Everyone up! Break camp! Sergeant Antsy – rouse the cooks, will you?'

'Uh, aye, sir! What woke us?'

'A gust of wind, Sergeant. Now get moving.'

'Aye, sir!'

'Captain.'

Paran turned to Whiskeyjack. 'Sir?'

'I believe you will find yourself busy for the next few bells. I return to Brood's tent – would you like me to send Silverfox to you for a final goodbye?'

The captain hesitated, then shook his head. 'No, thank you, sir.' Distance no longer presents a barrier to us – a private, personal link, too fraught to be unveiled to anyone. Her presence in my head is torture enough. 'Fare you well, Commander.'

Whiskeyjack studied him a moment longer, then nodded. He wheeled his horse around and nudged the gelding into a trot.

 

The Tiste Andii had gathered into a silent ring around the central clearing, awaiting the arrival of their master.

The black, silver-maned dragon emerged from the darkness overhead like a piece of night torn loose, flowing down to settle with a soft crunch of talons in the plain's stony soil. The huge, terrible beast blurred even as it landed, with a warm flow of spice-laden air swirling out to all sides as the sembling drew the dragon's shape inward. A moment later the Son of Darkness stood, cloaked, framed by the gouged tracks of the dragon's front talons, his slightly epicanthic eyes glimmering dull bronze as he surveyed his kin.

The Mhybe watched as Korlat strode to meet her master. She had seen Anomander Rake but once before, just south of Blackdog Forest, and then from a distance as the Son of Darkness spoke with Caladan Brood. She remembered Moon's Spawn, filling the sky above the Rhivi Plain. Rake had been about to ascend to that floating fortress. A pact with the wizards of Pale had been achieved, and the city was about to be besieged by Onearm's Host. He had stood then as he did now: tall, implacable, a sword emanating sheer terror hanging down the length of his back, his long, silver hair drifting in the breeze.

A slight turn of his head was his only acknowledgement of Korlat's approach.

Off to their right appeared Caladan Brood, Kallor, Dujek and the others.

Tension bristled in the air, yet one that the Mhybe recalled as being present at that last meeting, years before. Anomander Rake was an ascendant as unlike Caladan Brood as to make them seem the opposite ends of power's vast spectrum. Rake was an atmosphere, a heart-thudding, terror-threaded presence no-one could ignore, much less escape. Violence, antiquity, sombre pathos, and darkest horror – the Son of Darkness was a gelid eddy in immortality's current, and the Mhybe could feel, crawling beneath her very skin, every Rhivi spirit awakened in desperation.

The sword, yet more than the sword. Dragnipur in the hands of cold justice, cold and unhuman. Anomander Rake, the only one among us whose presence sparks fear in Kallor's eyes . . . the only one . . . except, it seems, for Silverfox – for my daughter. What might Kallor fear most, if not an alliance between the Son of Darkness and Silverfox?

All traces of exhaustion torn away by the thought, the Mhybe stepped forward.

Kallor's voice boomed. 'Anomander Rake! I seek your clearest vision – I seek the justice of your sword – allow none to sway you with sentiment, and that includes Korlat, who would now whisper urgent in your ear!'

The Son of Darkness, a lone brow raised, slowly turned to regard the High King. 'What else, Kallor,' he said in a low, calm voice, 'keeps my blade from your black heart. . . if not sentiment?'

With the light of the dawn finally stealing into the sky, the ancient warrior's weathered, lean face assumed a paler shade. 'I speak of a child,' he rumbled. 'No doubt you sense her power, the foulest of blossoms—'

'Power? It abounds in this place, Kallor. This camp has become a lodestone. You are right to fear.' His gaze swung to the Mhybe, who had stopped but a few paces from him.

Her steps ceased. His attention was a fierce pressure, power and threat, enough to make her softly gasp, her limbs weakening.

'Forces of nature, Mother,' he said, 'are indifferent to justice, would you not agree?'

It was a struggle to reply. 'I would, Lord of Moon's Spawn.'

'Thus it falls to us sentient beings, no matter how unworthy, to impose the moral divide.'

Her eyes flashed. 'Does it now?'

'She has spawned the abomination, Rake,' Kallor said, striding closer, his expression twisted with anger as he glared at the Mhybe. 'Her vision is stained. Understandably, granted, but even that does not exculpate.'

'Kallor,' the Son of Darkness murmured, his eyes still on the Mhybe, 'approach further at your peril.'

The High King halted.

'It would appear,' Rake continued, 'that my arrival has been anticipated, with the collective desire that I adjudicate what is clearly a complex situation—'

'Appearances deceive,' Caladan Brood said from where he stood outside the command tent – and the Mhybe now saw that Silverfox was at the warlord's side. 'Decide what you will, Rake, but I will not countenance Dragnipur's unsheathing in my camp.'

There was silence, as explosive as any the Rhivi woman had ever felt. By the Abyss, this could go very, very wrong. . . She glanced over at the Malazans. Dujek had drawn his soldier's expressionless mask over his features, but his taut stance revealed his alarm. The standard-bearer Artanthos was a step behind and slightly to the right of Onearm, a marine's rain cape drawn about him, hiding his hands. The young man's eyes glittered. Is that power swirling from the man? No, I am mistaken – I see nothing now ...

Anomander Rake slowly faced the warlord. 'I see that the lines have been drawn,' he said quietly. 'Korlat?'

'I side with Caladan Brood in this, Master.'

Rake eyed Kallor. 'It seems you stand alone.'

'It was ever thus.'

Oh, a sharp reply, that.

Anomander Rake's expression tightened momentarily. 'I am not unfamiliar with that position, High King.'

Kallor simply nodded.

Horse hooves sounded then, and the Tiste Andii lining the southeast side of the ring parted. Whiskeyjack rode into the clearing, slowing his mount to a walk, then to a perfect square-stanced halt. It was unclear what the commander had heard, yet he acted none the less. Dismounting, he strode towards Silverfox, stopping directly before her. His sword slid smoothly from its scabbard. Whiskeyjack faced Rake, Kallor and the others in the centre of the clearing, then planted his sword in the ground before him.

Caladan Brood stepped to the Malazan's side. 'With what you might face, Whiskeyjack, it would be best if you—'

'I stand here,' the commander growled.

Sorcery flowed from Anomander Rake, grainy grey, rolling in a slow wave across the clearing, passing through Whiskeyjack effortlessly, then swallowing Silverfox in an opaque, swirling embrace.

The Mhybe cried out, lurched forward, but Korlat's hand closed on her arm. 'Fear not,' she said, 'he but seeks to understand her – understand what she is . . .'

The sorcery frayed suddenly, flung away in tattered fragments to all sides. The Mhybe hissed. She knew enough of her daughter to see, in her reappearance, that she was furious. Power, twisting like taut ropes, rose around her, knotting, bunching.

Oh, spirits below, I see Nightchill and Tattersail both . . . a shared rage. And, by the Abyss, another! A stolid will, a sentience slow to anger . . . so much like Brood – who? Is this – oh! – is this Bellurdan? Gods! We are moments from tearing ourselves apart. Please . . .

'Well,' Rake drawled, 'I have never before had my hand slapped in such a fashion. Impressive, though perilously impertinent. What is it, then, that the child does not wish me to discover?' He reached over his left shoulder for Dragnipur's leather-wrapped handle.

Grunting a savage curse, Brood unlimbered his hammer.

Whiskeyjack shifted his stance, raising his own blade.

Gods no, this is wrong—

'Rake,' Kallor rasped, 'do you wish me on your left or right?'

Snapping tent poles startled everyone. A loud yelp from the command tent was followed by a massive, awkward, flying shape exploding out from the tent's entrance. Cavorting, spinning wildly in the air, the huge wooden table the Mhybe had last seen emerging from the Shroud now rose above the clearing, and from one leg dangled Kruppe, sweetcakes fluttering away from him. He yelped again, kicking the air with his slippered feet. 'Aai! Help! Kruppe hates flying!'

 

As the Bridgeburners completed assembling their gear, the sentries positioned to the east shouting out the news that the Black Moranth had been seen and now approached on their winged quorls, Captain Paran, plagued by a growing unease, strode among the gathered soldiers.

Off to one side, an exhausted Picker sat watching him, her expression a strange mixture of dismay and admiration, and thus she was the only one to see him taking yet another forward step, then simply vanishing.

The corporal bolted to her feet. 'Oh, Hood's balls! Spindle! Get Quick Ben!'

A few paces away, the hairshirted mage glanced up. 'Why?'

'Someone's just snatched Paran – find Quick Ben, damn you!'

 

The vision of busy soldiers vanished before the captain's eyes, and from a blurred veil that swiftly parted Paran found himself facing Anomander Rake and Kallor – both with weapons drawn – and behind them the Mhybe and Korlat, with a ring of alert Tiste Andii just beyond.

Countless eyes fixed on him, then darted up over his right shoulder, then back down. No-one moved, and Paran realized he was not alone in his shock.

'Help!'

The captain spun at that plaintive cry, then looked up. An enormous wooden table twisted silently in the air, Kruppe's round, silk-flowing form hanging beneath it. On the underside of the table, painted in bright, now glowing colours, was the image of a man. Slowly blinking in and out of Paran's view, it was a few moments before he recognized the figure's face. That's me ...

Pain ripped into him, a black surge that swallowed him whole.

 

The Mhybe saw the young captain buckle, drop to his knees, as if drawing tight around an overwhelming agony.

Her attention darted to her daughter, in time to see those bound coils of power snake outward from Silverfox, slipping round and past the motionless forms of Brood and Whiskeyjack, then upward to touch the table.

The four legs snapped. With a shriek Kruppe plunged earthward, to land in a flailing of limbs and silk among a crowd of Tiste Andii. Cries and grunts of pain and surprise followed. The table now steadied, the underside facing Rake and Kallor, the image of Paran coruscating with sorcery. Wisps of it reached down to clothe the hunched, kneeling captain in glittering, silver chains.

'Well,' a slightly breathless voice said beside her, 'that's the largest card of the Deck I've ever seen.'

She pulled her gaze away, stared wide-eyed at the lithe, dark-skinned mage standing beside her. 'Quick Ben ...'

The Bridgeburner stepped forward then, raising his hands. 'Please excuse my interruption, everyone! Whilst it seems that a confrontation is desired by many of you here, might I suggest the absence of ... uh, wisdom ... in inviting violence here and now, when it is clear that the significance of all that seems to be occurring is as yet undetermined. The risks of precipitate action right now . . . Well, I trust you see what I mean.'

Anomander Rake stared at the mage a moment, then, with a faint smile, he sheathed his sword. 'Cautious words, but wise ones. Who might you be, sir?'

'Just a soldier, Son of Darkness, come to retrieve my captain.'

At that moment Kruppe emerged from the muttering, no doubt bruised crowd that had cushioned his fall. Brushing dust from his silks, he strode seemingly unaware to halt directly between the kneeling Paran and Anomander Rake. He looked up then, blinking owlishly. 'What an unseemly conclusion to Kruppe's post-breakfast repast! Has the meeting adjourned?'

 

Captain Paran was insensate to the power bleeding into him. In his mind he was falling, falling. Then striking hard, rough flagstones, the clash of his armour echoing. The pain was gone. Gasping, shivering uncontrollably, he raised his head.

In the dim light of reflected lanterns, he saw that he was sprawled in a narrow, low-ceilinged hallway. Heavy twin doors divided the strangely uneven wall on his right; on his left, opposite the doors, was a wide entrance, with niches set in its flanking walls. On all sides, the stone appeared rough, undressed, resembling the bark of trees. A heavier door of sheeted bronze – black and pitted – was at the far end, eight or so paces distant. Two shapeless humps lay at the inner threshold.

Where? What?

Paran pushed himself upright, using one wall for support. His gaze was drawn once again to the shapes at the foot of the bronze door. He staggered closer.

A man, swathed in the tightly bound clothes of an assassin, his narrow, smooth-shaven face set in a peaceful expression, his long black braids still glistening with oil. An old-fashioned crossbow lay beside him.

Lying at his side, a woman, her cloak stretched and twisted as if the man had dragged her across the threshold. A nasty head wound glittered wetly on her brow, and, from the blood-smears on the flagstones, she was the bearer of other wounds as well.

They're both Daru . . . wait, I have seen the man before. At Simtal's Fete . . . and the woman! She's the Guild Master . . .

Rallick Nom and Vorcan, both of whom vanished that night of the ill-fated fete. I am in Darujhistan, then. I must be.

Silverfox's words returned to him, resounding now with veracity. He scowled. The table – the card, with my image painted upon it. Jen'isand Rul, the Unaligned newly come to the Deck of Dragons . . . powers unknown. I have walked within a sword. It seems now that I can walk . . . anywhere.

And this place, this place ... I am in the Firmest House. Gods, I am in a House of the Azath!

He heard a sound, a shuffling motion approaching the twin doors opposite, and slowly turned, reaching for the sword belted at his hip.

The wooden portals swung wide.

Hissing, Paran backed up a step, his blade sliding from its scabbard.

The Jaghut standing before him was almost fleshless, ribs snapped and jutting, strips of flayed skin and muscle hanging in ghastly ribbons from his arms. His gaunt, ravaged face twisted as he bared his tusks. 'Welcome,' he rumbled. 'I am Raest. Guardian, prisoner, damned. The Azath greets you, as much as sweating stone is able. I see that, unlike the two sleeping in the threshold, you have no need for doors. So be it.' He lurched a step closer, then cocked his head. 'Ah, you are not here in truth. Only your spirit.'

'If you say so.' His thoughts travelled back to that last night of the fete. The debacle in the estate's garden. Memories of sorcery, detonations, and Paran's unexpected journey into the realm of Shadow, the Hounds and Cotillion. A journey such as this one ... He studied the Jaghut standing before him. Hood take me, this creature is the Jaghut Tyrant – the one freed by Lorn and the T'lan Imass – or, rather, what's left of him. 'Why am I here?'

The grin broadened. 'Follow me.'

Raest stepped into the corridor and turned to his right, each bared foot dragging, grinding as if the bones beneath the skin were all broken. Seven paces along, the hallway ended with a door on the left and another directly in front. The Jaghut opened the one on the left, revealing a circular chamber beyond, surrounding spiral stairs of root-bound wood. There was no light, yet Paran found he could see well enough.

They went down, the steps beneath them like flattened branches spoking out from the central trunk The air warmed, grew moist and sweet with the smell of humus.

'Raest,' Paran said as they continued to descend, 'the assassin and the Guild Master ... you said they were asleep – how long have they been lying there?'

'I measure no days within the House, mortal. The Azath took me. Since that event, a few outsiders have sought entry, have probed with sorceries, have indeed walked the yard, but the House has denied them all. The two within the threshold were there when I awoke, and have not moved since. It follows, then, that the House has already chosen.'

As the Deadhouse did Kellanved and Dancer. 'All very well, but can't you awaken them?'

'I have not tried.'

'Why not?'

The Jaghut paused, glanced back up at the captain. 'There has been no need.'

'Are they guardians as well?' Paran asked as they resumed the descent.

'Not directly. I suffice, mortal. Unwitting servants, perhaps. Your servants.'

'Mine? I don't need servants – I don't want servants. Furthermore, I don't care what the Azath expects of me. The House is mistaken in its faith, Raest, and you can tell it that for me. Tell it to find another ... another whatever I am supposed to be.'

'You are the Master of the Deck. Such things cannot be undone.'

'The what? Hood's breath, the Azath had better find a way of undoing that choice, Jaghut,' Paran growled.

'It cannot be undone, as I've already told you. A Master is needed, so here you are.'

'I don't want it!'

'I weep a river of tears for your plight, mortal. Ah, we have arrived.'

They stood on a landing. Paran judged that they had gone down six, perhaps seven levels into the bowels of the earth. The stone walls had disappeared, leaving only gloom, the ground underfoot a mat of snaking roots.

'I can go no further, Master of the Deck,' Raest said. 'Walk into the darkness.'

'And if I refuse?'

'Then I kill you.'

'Unforgiving bastard, this Azath,' Paran muttered.

'I kill you, not for the Azath, but for the wasted effort of this journey. Mortal, you've no sense of humour.'

'And you think you do?' the captain retorted.

'If you refuse to go further, then ... nothing. Apart from irritating me, that is. The Azath is patient. You will make the journey eventually, though the privilege of my escort occurs but once, and that once is now.'

'Meaning I won't have your cheery company next time? How will I cope?'

'Miserably, if there was justice in the world.'

Paran faced the darkness. 'And is there?'

'You ask that of a Jaghut? Now, do we stand here for ever?'

'All right, all right,' the captain sighed. 'Pick any direction?'

Raest shrugged. 'They are all one to me.'

Grinning in spite of himself, Paran strode forward. Then he paused and half turned. 'Raest, you said the Azath has need for a Master of the Deck. Why? What's happened?'

The Jaghut bared his tusks. 'A war has begun.'

Paran fought back a sudden shiver. 'A war? Involving the Houses of the Azath?'

'No entity will be spared, mortal. Not the Houses, not the gods. Not you, human, nor a single one of your short-lived, insignificant comrades.'

Paran grimaced. 'I've enough wars to deal with as it is, Raest.'

'They are all one.'

'I don't want to think about any of this.'

'Then don't.'

After a moment, Paran realized his glare was wasted on the Jaghut. He swung about and resumed his journey. With his third step his boot struck flagstone instead of root, and the darkness around him dissolved, revealing, in a faint, dull yellow light, a vast concourse. Its edges, visible a hundred paces or more in every direction, seemed to drift back into gloom. Of Raest and the wooden stairs there was no sign. Paran's attention was drawn to the flagstones beneath him.

Carved into their bleached surfaces were cards of the Deck of Dragons. No, more than just the Deck of Dragons – there's cards here I don't recognize. Lost Houses, and countless forgotten Unaligned. Houses, and ... The captain stepped forward, crouched down to study one image. As he focused his attention on it the world around him faded, and he felt himself moving into the carved scene.

A chill wind slid across his face, the air smelling of mud and wet fur. He could feel the earth beneath his boots, chill and yielding. Somewhere in the distance crows cackled. The strange hut he had seen in the carving now stood before him, long and humped, the huge bones and long tusks comprising its framework visible between gaps in the thick, umber fur-skins clothing it. Houses . . . and Holds, the first efforts at building. People once dwelt within such structures, like living inside the rib-cage of a dragon. Gods, those tusks are huge – whatever beast these bones came from must have been massive . . .

I can travel at will, it seems. Into each and every card, of every Deck that ever existed. Amidst the surge of wonder and excitement he felt ran an undercurrent of terror. The Deck possessed a host of unpleasant places.

And this one?

A small stone-lined hearth smouldered before the hut's entrance. Wreathed in the smoke was a rack made of branches, on which hung strips of meat. The clearing, Paran now saw, was ringed with weathered skulls – doubtless from the beasts whose bones formed the framework of the hut itself. The skulls faced inward, and he could see by the long, yellowed molars in the jaws that the animals had been eaters of plants, not flesh.

Paran approached the hut's entrance. The skulls of carnivores hung down from the doorway's ivory frame, forcing him to duck as he entered.

Swiftly abandoned, from the looks of it. As if the dwellers just left but moments ago ... At the far end sat twin thrones, squat and robust, made entirely of bones, on a raised dais of ochre-stained human skulls – well, close enough to human in any case. More like T'lan Imass...

Knowledge blossomed in his mind. He knew the name of this place, knew it deep in his soul. The Hold of the Beasts . . . long before the First Throne . . . this was the heart of the T'lan Imass's power – their spirit world, when they were still flesh and blood, when they still possessed spirits to be worshipped and revered. Long before they initiated the Ritual of Tellann . . . and so came to outlast their own pantheon ...

A realm, then, abandoned. Lost to its makers. What then, is the Warren of Tellann that the T'lan Imass now use? Ah, that warren must have been born from the Ritual itself, a physical manifestation of their Vow of Immortality, perhaps. Aspected, not of life, nor even death. Aspected . . . of dust.

He stood unmoving for a time, struggling to comprehend the seemingly depthless layers of tragedy that were the burden of the T'lan Imass.

Oh my, they've outlasted their own gods. They exist in a world of dust in truth – memories untethered, an eternal existence ... no end in sight. Sorrow flooded him in a profound, heart-rending wave. Beru fend . . . so alone, now. So alone for so long . . . yet now they are gathering, coming to the child seeking benediction . . . and something more ...

Paran stepped back – and stood on the flagstones once again. With an effort he pulled his eyes from the carved Hold of Beasts – but why were there two thrones and not just one? – as he now knew the card was called. Another etched stone, a dozen paces to his left, caught his attention. A throbbing, crimson glow suffused the air directly above it.

He walked to it, looked down.

The image of a sleeping woman, as seen from above, dominated the flagstone. Her flesh seemed to spin and swirl. Paran slowly lowered himself into a crouch, his eyes narrowing. Her skin was depthless, revealing ever more detail as the captain's vision was drawn ever closer. Skin, not skin. Forests, sweeps of bedrock, the seething floor of the oceans, fissures in the flesh of the world – she is Burn! She is the Sleeping Goddess.

Then he saw the flaw, the marring a dark, suppurating welt. Waves of nausea swept through Paran, yet he would not look away. There, at the wound's heart, a humped, kneeling, broken figure. Chained. Chained to Burn's own flesh. From the figure, down the length of the chains, poison flowed into the Sleeping Goddess.

She sensed the sickness coming, sinking claws into her. Sensed . . . and chose to sleep. Less than two thousand years ago, she chose to sleep. She sought to escape the prison of her own flesh, in order to do battle with the one who was killing that flesh. She – oh gods above and below! She made of herself a weapon! Her entire spirit, all its power, into a single forging ... a hammer, a hammer capable of breaking . . . breaking anything. And Burn then found a man to wield it...

Caladan Brood.

But breaking the chains meant freeing the Crippled God. And an unchained Crippled God meant an unleashing of vengeance – enough to sweep all life from the surface of this world. And yet Burn, the Sleeping Goddess, was indifferent to that. She would simply begin again.

Now he saw it, saw the truth – he refuses! The bastard refuses! To defy the Crippled God's unleashing of a deadly will, that would see us all destroyed, Caladan Brood refuses her!

Gasping, Paran pulled himself away, pushed himself upright, staggering back – and was at Raest's side once again.

The Jaghut's tusks glimmered. 'Have you found knowledge a gift, or a curse?'

Too prescient a question ... 'Both, Raest.'

'And which do you choose to embrace?'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'You are weeping, mortal. In joy or sorrow?'

Paran grimaced, wiped at his face. 'I want to leave, Raest,' he said gruffly. 'I want to return—'

 

His eyes blinked open, and he found himself on his knees, facing, with an interval of but a half-dozen paces, a bemused Son of Darkness. Paran sensed that but moments had passed since his sudden arrival, yet something of the tension he had first picked up had eased in the interval.

A hand rested on his shoulder and he looked up to find Silverfox standing beside him, the Mhybe hovering uncertainly a step behind. The Daru, Kruppe, stood nearby, carefully adjusting his silk clothing and humming softly, while Quick Ben took a step closer to the captain – though the wizard's eyes held on the Knight of Darkness.

The captain closed his eyes. His mind was spinning. He felt uprooted by all that he had discovered – starting with myself. Master of the Deck. Latest recruit to a war I know nothing about. And now ... this. 'What,' Paran growled, 'in Hood's name is going on here?'

'I drew on power,' Silverfox replied, her eyes slightly wild.

Paran drew a deep breath. Power, oh yes, I am coming to know that feeling. Jen'isand Rul. We each have begun our own journey, yet you and I, Silverfox, are destined to arrive at the same place. The Second Gathering. Who, I wonder, will ascend to those two ancient, long-forgotten thrones? Where, dear child, will you lead the T'lan Imass?

Anomander Rake spoke. 'I had not anticipated such a ... taut reunion, Caladan—'

Paran's head snapped around, found the warlord. And the hammer held so lightly in his massive arms. I know you now, Warlord. Not that I'll reveal your dark secret – what would be the point in that? The choice is yours and yours alone. Kill us ail, or the goddess you serve. Brood, I do not envy the curse of your privilege to choose. Oh, I do not, you poor bastard. Still, what is the price of a broken vow?

The Son of Darkness continued. 'My apologies to one and all. As this man,' Rake gestured towards Quick Ben, 'has wisely noted, to act now – knowing so little of the nature of the powers revealed here – would indeed be precipitous.'

'It may already be too late,' Kallor said, his flat, ancient eyes fixed on Silverfox. 'The child's sorcery was Tellann, and it has been a long time since it has been so thoroughly awakened. We are now all of us in peril. A combined effort, begun immediately, might succeed in cutting down this creature – we may never again possess such an opportunity.'

'And should we fail, Kallor?' Anomander Rake asked. 'What enemy will we have made for ourselves? At the moment this child has acted to defend herself, nothing more. Not an inimical stance, is it? You risk too much in a single cast, High King.'

'Finally,' boomed Caladan Brood, returning the dreaded, all-breaking hammer to its harness, 'the notion of strategy arrives.' The anger remained in his voice, as if he was furious at having to state what to him had been obvious all along. 'Neutrality remains the soundest course open to us, until the nature of Silverfox's power reveals itself. We've enough enemies on our plate as it is. Now, enough of the drama, if you please. Welcome back, Rake. No doubt you've information to impart regarding the status of Moon's Spawn, among other details of note.' He faced Paran with sudden exasperation. 'Captain, can you not do something about that damned floating table!'

Flinching at the attention, Paran stared up at it. 'Well,' he managed, 'nothing immediately comes to mind, Warlord. Uh, I'm no mage—'

Brood grunted, swung away. 'Never mind, then. We'll consider it a crass ornament.'

Quick Ben cleared his throat. 'I might be able to manage something, Warlord, in time ...'

Caladan glanced at Dujek, who grinned and nodded his permission to Quick Ben.

'Not simply a soldier, I see,' Anomander Rake said.

The Seven Cities mage shrugged. 'I appreciate challenges, Lord. No guarantee that I'll have any success, mind you – no, do not quest towards me, Son of Darkness. I value my privacy.'

'As you wish,' Rake said, turning away.

'Is anyone else hungry?'

All eyes turned to Kruppe.

 

With everyone's attention elsewhere, the Mhybe edged away from the clearing, between two rows of peaked Tiste Andii tents, then she spun and tried to run. Bone and muscle protested, even as her veins burned with panic and terror.

She hobbled on, half blinded by tears, her breath harsh, rattling gasps broken by soft whimpers. Oh . . . dear spirits . . . look upon me. Show me mercy, I beg you. Look at me stumble and totter – look! Pity me, spirits below! I demand it! Take my soul, you cruel ancestors, I beg you!

The copper on her wrists and ankles – minor tribal wards against the aches in her bones – felt cold as ice against her withered skin, cold as a rapist's touch, disdainful of her frailty, contemptuous of her labouring heart.

The Rhivi spirits refused her, mocking, laughing.

The old woman cried out, staggered, fell hard to her knees. The jolt of the impact drove the air from her lungs. Twisting, she sagged to the ground, bedraggled, alone in an alley of dirt.

' "Flesh,"' a voice murmured above her, ' "which is the life within." These, cherished friend, are the words of birth, given in so many forms, in countless languages. They are joy and pain, loss and sacrifice, they give voice to the binds of motherhood ... and more, they are the binds of life itself.'

Grey hair dangling, the Mhybe raised her head.

Crone sat atop a tent's ridgepole, wings hunched, eyes glittering wet. 'I am not immune to grief, you see, my dear – tell no-one you have seen me so weakened by love. How can I comfort you?'

The Mhybe shook her head, croaked, 'You cannot.'

'She is you more than the others – more than the woman Tattersail, and Nightchill, more than the T'lan Imass—'

'Do you see me, Crone? Do you truly see me?' The Mhybe pushed herself to her hands and knees, then sat back and glared up at the Great Raven. 'I am naught but bones and leather skin, I am naught but endless aches. Dried brittle – spirits below, each moment of this life, this terrible existence, and I edge closer to ... to ...' her head drooped, 'to hatred,' she finished in a ragged whisper. A sob racked her.

'And so you would die now,' Crone said. 'Yes, I understand. A mother must not be led to hate the child she has birthed ... yet you demand too much of yourself.'

'She has stolen my life!' the Mhybe screamed, gnarled hands closing to fists from which the blood within them fled. The Rhivi woman stared at those fists, eyes wide as if they were seeing a stranger's hands, skeletal and dead, there at the end of her thin arms. 'Oh, Crone,' she cried softly. 'She has stolen my life . . .'

The Great Raven spread her wings, tilted forward on the pole, then dropped in a smooth curve to thud on the ground before the Mhybe. 'You must speak with her.'

'I cannot!'

'She must be made to understand—'

'She knows, Crone, she knows. What would you have me do – ask my daughter to stop growing? This river flows unceasing, unceasing ...'

'Rivers can be dammed. Rivers can be ... diverted.'

'Not this one, Crone.'

'I do not accept your words, my love. And I shall find a way. This I swear.'

'There is no solution – do not waste your time, my friend. My youth is gone, and it cannot be returned, not by alchemy and not by sorcery – Tellann is an unassailable warren, Crone. What it demands cannot be undone. And should you somehow succeed in stopping this flow, what then? You would have me an old woman for decades to come? Year after year, trapped within this cage? There is no mercy in that – no, it would be a curse unending. No, leave me be, please ...'

Footsteps approached from behind. A moment later Korlat lowered herself to the Mhybe's side, laid a protective arm around her and held her close. 'Come,' the Tiste Andii murmured. 'Come with me.'

The Mhybe let Korlat help her to her feet. She felt ashamed at her own weakness, but all her defences had crumbled, her pride was in tatters, and she felt in her soul nothing but helplessness. I was a young woman once. What point in raging at the loss? My seasons have tumbled, it is done. And the life within fades, whilst the life beyond flowers. This is a battle no mortal can win, but where, dear spirits, is the gift of death? Why do you forbid me an end?

She straightened slightly in Korlat's arms. Very well, then. Since you have already so cursed my soul, the taking of my own life can cause me no greater pain. Very well, dear spirits, I shall give you my answer. I shall defy your plans. 'Take me to my tent,' she said.

'No,' Korlat said.

The Mhybe twisted round, glared up at the Tiste Andii. 'I said—'

'I heard you, Mhybe, indeed, more than you intended me to hear. The answer is no. I shall remain at your side, and I am not alone in my faith—'

The Rhivi woman snorted. 'Faith? You are Tiste Andii! Do you take me for a fool with your claims to faith?'

Korlat's expression tightened and she looked away. 'Perhaps you are right.'

Oh, Korlat, I am sorry for that – I would take it back, I swear—

'None the less,' the Tiste Andii continued, 'I shall not abandon you to despair.'

'I am familiar with being a prisoner,' the Mhybe said, angry once again. 'But I warn you, Korlat – I warn you all, hatred is finding fertile soil within me. And in your compassion, in your every good intention, you nurture it. I beg you, let me end this.'

'No, and you underestimate our resilience, Mhybe. You'll not succeed in turning us away.'

'Then you shall indeed drag me into hatred, and the price will be all I hold dear within me, all that you might have once valued.'

'You would make our efforts worthless?'

'Not by choice, Korlat – and this is what I am telling you

– I have lost all choice. To my daughter. And now, to you. You will create of me a thing of spite, and I beg you again – if you care for me at all – to let me cease this terrible journey.'

'I'll not give you permission to kill yourself, Mhybe. If it must be hate that fuels you, so be it. You are under the care – the guardianship – of the Tiste Andii, now.'

The Rhivi woman sagged, defeated. She struggled to fashion words for the feelings within her, and what came to her left her cold.

Self-pity. To this I have fallen ...

All right, Korlat, you've won for now.

 

'Burn is dying.'

Caladan Brood and Anomander Rake stood alone in the tent, the remnants of tension still swirling around them. From the sounds in the clearing outside the mage Quick Ben seemed to have succeeded in pulling the massive wooden card back to the ground, and a discussion was under way as to what to do with it.

The Son of Darkness removed his gauntlets, letting them drop to the tabletop before facing the warlord. 'Barring the one thing you must not do, can you do nothing else?'

Brood shook his head. 'Old choices, friend – only the one possibility remains, as it always has. I am Tennes – the goddess's own warren – and what assails her assails me as well. Aye, I could shatter the one who has so infected her—'

'The Crippled God,' Rake murmured, going perfectly still. 'He has spent an eternity nurturing his spite – he will be without mercy, Brood. This is an old tale. We agreed – you, I, the Queen of Dreams, Hood – we all agreed ...'

The warlord's broad face seemed on the verge of crumpling. Then he shook himself as would a bear, turned away. 'Almost twelve hundred years, this burden—'

'And if she dies?'

He shook his head. 'I do not know. Her warren dies, surely, that at the least, even as it becomes the Crippled God's pathway into every other warren ... then they all die.'

'And with that, all sorcery.'

The warlord nodded, then drew a deep breath and straightened. 'Would that be so bad a thing, do you think?'

Rake snorted. 'You assume the destruction would end with that. It seems that, no matter which of the two choices is made, the Crippled God wins.'

'So it seems.'

'Yet, having made your choice, you gift this world, and everyone on it, with a few more generations of living—'

'Living, and dying, waging wars and unleashing slaughter. Of dreams, hopes and tragic ends—'

'Not a worthy track, these thoughts of yours, Caladan.' Rake stepped closer. 'You have done, you continue to do, all that could be asked of you. We were there to share your burden, back then, but it seems we are – each of us – ever drawn away, into our own interests . . . abandoning you. . .'

'Leave this path, Anomander. It avails us nothing. There are more immediate concerns to occupy this rare opportunity to speak in private.'

Rake's broad mouth found a thin smile. 'True enough.' He glanced over to the tent's entrance. 'Out there ...' He faced Brood again, 'Given the infection of Tennes, was your challenge a bluff?'

The warlord bared his filed teeth. 'Somewhat, but not entirely. The question is not my ability to unleash power, it is the nature of that power. Wrought through with poison, rife with chaos—'

'Meaning it might well be wilder than your usual maelstrom? That is alarming indeed, Brood. Is Kallor aware of this?'

'No.'

Rake grunted. 'Best keep it that way.'

'Aye,' the warlord growled. 'So practise some restraint of your own, next time, Rake.'

The Tiste Andii walked over to pour himself some wine. 'Odd, I could have sworn I'd just done that.'

'We must now speak of the Pannion Domin.'

'A true mystery indeed, Caladan. Far more insidious than we had surmised. Layers of power, one hidden beneath another, then another. The Warren of Chaos lies at its heart, I suspect – and the Great Ravens concur.'

'This strides too close a path to the Crippled God for it to be accidental, Rake. The Chained One's poison is that of Chaos, after all.'

'Aye,' Rake smiled. 'Curious, isn't it? I think there can be no question of who is using whom—'

'Maybe.'

'Dealing with the Pannion Domin will present us with formidable challenges.'

Brood grimaced, 'As the child insisted, we will need help.'

The Son of Darkness frowned. 'Explain, please.'

'The T'lan Imass, friend. The undead armies are coming.'

The Tiste Andii's face darkened. 'Is this Dujek Onearm's contribution, then?'

'No, the child. Silverfox. She is a flesh and blood Bonecaster, the first in a long, long time.'

'Tell me of her.'

The warlord did, at length, and when he was done there was silence in the tent.

 

Studying Paran with hooded eyes, Whiskeyjack strode over. The young captain was trembling, as if gripped by fever, his face bone-white and slick with sweat. Quick Ben had somehow managed to lower the tabletop to the ground; sorcery still wreathed it with dancing lightning that seemed reluctant to fade. The wizard had crouched down beside it and Whiskeyjack recognized by his flat expression that the man was in a sorcerous trance. Questing, probing ...

'You are a fool.'

The commander turned at the rasping words. 'None the less, Kallor.'

The tall, grey-haired man smiled coldly. 'You will come to regret your vow to protect the child.'

Shrugging, Whiskeyjack turned to resume his walk.

'I am not done with you!' Kallor hissed.

'But I am with you,' the Malazan calmly replied, continuing on.

Paran was facing him now. The captain's eyes were wide, uncomprehending. Behind him, the Tiste Andii had begun to drift away, spectral and seemingly indifferent now that their lord had retired within the command tent with Caladan Brood. Whiskeyjack looked for Korlat but didn't see her; nor, he realized after a moment, was the Mhybe anywhere in sight. The child Silverfox stood a dozen paces from Paran, watching the captain with Tattersail's eyes.

'No questions,' Paran growled as Whiskeyjack halted before him. 'I have no answers for you – not for what's happened here, not for what I've become. Perhaps it would be best if you placed someone else in command of the Bridgeburners—'

'No reason for that,' Whiskeyjack said. 'Besides, I hate changing my mind on anything, Captain.'

Quick Ben joined them. He grinned. 'That was close, wasn't it?'

'What is that thing?' Whiskeyjack asked him, nodding towards the tabletop.

'Just what it appears to be. A new Unaligned card in the Deck of Dragons. Well, it's the Unaligned of all Unaligneds. The table holds the entire Deck, remember.' The wizard glanced over at Paran. 'The captain here's on the threshold of ascendancy, as we suspected. And that means that what he does – or chooses not to do – could have profound effects. On all of us. The Deck of Dragons seems to have acquired a Master. Jen'isand Rul.'

Paran turned away, clearly not wanting to be part of this conversation.

Whiskeyjack frowned at the wizard. 'Jen'isand Rul. I thought that was a name referring to his ... escapades within a certain weapon.'

'It is, but since that name is on the card it seems the two are linked... somehow. If the captain's in the dark as much as the rest of us, then I'll have to do some hard thinking on what that linkage signifies. Of course,' he added, 'the captain might well know enough to help me along in this, provided he's willing.'

Paran opened his mouth for a reply but Whiskeyjack spoke first. 'He's got no answers for us... right now. I take it we're carrying that ridiculous tabletop along with us on the march?'

Quick Ben slowly nodded. 'It would be best, at least for a while, so I can study it some more. Still, I would advise we unload it before we cross into Pannion territory. The Trygalle Trade Guild can deliver it to the alchemist in Darujhistan for safekeeping.'

A new voice cut in, 'The card does not leave us.'

The three men turned to find Silverfox standing close. Behind her, a dozen Rhivi warriors were lifting the tabletop.

Watching the dark-skinned, lithe men carrying the tabletop away, Quick Ben frowned. 'Risky, taking an object of such power into battle, lass.'

'We must accept that risk, Wizard.'

Whiskeyjack grunted. 'Why?'

'Because the card belongs to Paran, and he will have need of it.'

'Can you explain that?'

'We struggle against more than one enemy, as shall be seen.'

'I don't want that card,' Paran snapped. 'You'd better paint a new face on that thing. I have the blood of a Hound of Shadow within me. I am a liability – when will you all see that? Hood knows, I do!'

The rustle of armour alerted them to Kallor's approach.

Whiskeyjack scowled. 'You are not part of this conversation.'

Kallor smiled wryly. 'Never part of, but often the subject of—'

'Not this time.'

The High King's flat, grey eyes fixed on Quick Ben. 'You, wizard, are a hoarder of souls ... I am a man who releases souls – shall I break the chains within you? An easy thing, to leave you helpless.'

'Even easier,' Quick Ben replied, 'to make a hole in the ground.'

Kallor dropped from sight, the earth gone from beneath him. Armour clattered, followed by a bellow of rage.

Silverfox gasped, eyes widening on Quick Ben.

The wizard shrugged. 'You're right, I don't care who, or what, Kallor is.'

Whiskeyjack stepped to the edge of the pit, glanced down. 'He's climbing out... not bad for an old man.'

'But since I'm not stupid,' Quick Ben said hastily, 'I'll take leave, now.' The wizard gestured and seemed to blur a moment before vanishing altogether.

Turning his back on the grunting, cursing Kallor – whose gauntleted hands were now visible scrabbling at the crumbly edge of the pit – Whiskeyjack said to Paran, 'Return to the Bridgeburners, Captain. If all goes well, we'll meet again at Capustan.'

'Yes, sir.' Somewhat unsteadily, Paran strode away.

'I suggest,' Silverfox said, eyes fixed on Kallor's efforts to extricate himself, 'we too should depart this particular place.'

'Agreed, lass.'

 

Slumped in his saddle, Whiskeyjack watched the columns of Onearm's Host marching out from the city of Pale. The day was hot, the hint of thunderstorms in the humid air. Quorl-mounted Black Moranth circled high above the two de-camped armies, fewer in number than was usual – their Achievant, Twist, had departed with Captain Paran and the Bridgeburners four days ago, and eight of the eleven Flights had left in the night just past, on their way to the Vision Mountains on the northwest border of the Domin.

The commander was exhausted. The ache in his leg was robbing him of sleep, and each day was filled with the demands of supply, details on the planned deployment on the march, and the ceaseless swarm of messengers delivering reports and orders then hurrying off with the same. He was restless to begin the journey across half a continent, if only to answer the thousand questions of what awaited them.

Quick Ben sat in silence beside Whiskeyjack, the mage's horse shifting nervously beneath him.

'Your mount's picked up on your state of mind, Quick,' the commander said.

'Aye.'

'You're wondering when I'll cut you loose so you can chase after and catch up with Paran and the Bridgeburners, and put some distance between you and Kallor. You're also eager to get as far away from Silverfox as you can.'

Quick Ben started at this last observation, then he sighed. 'Aye. I imagine I haven't managed to hide my unease – at least not from you, it's clear. The child's grown five years or more since we arrived, Whiskeyjack – I looked in on the Mhybe this morning. Korlat's doing what she can, as are the Rhivi shoulderwomen, but Silverfox has taken from that old woman almost her entire life-force – Hood knows what's keeping her alive. The thought of converging T'lan Imass ain't making me happy, either. And then there's Anomander Rake – he wants to know all about me—'

'Has he attempted any further probing?'

'Not yet, but why tempt him?'

'I need you for a while longer,' Whiskeyjack said. 'Ride with my entourage – we'll keep our distance from the Son of Darkness, as best we can. Have those mercenaries in Capustan taken your bait yet?'

'They're playing with it.'

'We'll wait another week, then. If nothing, then off you go.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Now,' Whiskeyjack drawled, 'why don't you tell me what else you've got going, Quick Ben?'

The mage blinked innocently. 'Sir?'

'You've visited every temple and every seer in Pale, mage. You've spent a small fortune on readers of the Deck. Hood, I've had a report of you sacrificing a goat at dawn atop a barrow – what in the Abyss were you up to with that, Quick?'

'All right,' the man muttered, 'the goat thing stinks of desperation. I admit it. I got carried away.'

'And what did the lost spirits in the barrow tell you?'

'Nothing. There, uh, there weren't any.'

Whiskeyjack's eyes narrowed. 'There weren't any? It was a Rhivi barrow, was it not?''

'One of the few still remaining in the area, aye. It was, uh, cleaned out. Recently.'

'Cleaned out?'

'Someone or something gathered them up, sir. Never known that to happen before. It's the strangest thing. Not a single soul remains within those barrows. I mean, where are they?'

'You're changing the subject, Quick Ben. Nice try.'

The mage scowled. 'I'm doing some investigating. Nothing I can't handle, and it won't interfere with anything else. Besides, we're now officially on the march, right? Not much I can do out in the middle of nowhere, is there? Besides, I have been sidetracked, sir. Those snatched spirits ... someone took them, and it's got me curious.'

'When you figure it out you'll let me know, right?'

'Of course, sir.'

Whiskeyjack gritted his teeth and said no more. I've known you too long, Quick Ben. You've stumbled onto something, and it's got you scampering like a stoat with its tail between its legs.

Sacrificing a goat, for Hood's sake!

On the road from Pale, Onearm's Host – almost ten thousand veterans of the Genabackan Campaign – moved to join the ranks of Caladan Brood's vast army. The march had begun, onward to war, against an enemy they had never seen and of whom they knew almost nothing.