In my dreams I come face to face
with myriad reflections of myself,
all unknown and passing strange.
They speak unending
in languages not my own
and walk with companions
I have never met, in places
my steps have never gone.

In my dreams I walk worlds
where forests crowd my knees
and half the sky is walled ice.
Dun herds flow like mud,
vast floods tusked and horned
surging over the plain,
and lo, they are my memories,
the migrations of my soul.

In the Time before Night
D'arayans of the Rhivi

 

Whiskeyjack rose in the saddle as his horse leapt over the spiny ridge of outcroppings cresting the hill. Hooves thumped as the creature resumed its gallop, crossing the mesa's flat top, then slowing as the Malazan tautened the reins and settled back in the saddle. At a diminishing canter, he approached the summit's far side, then drew up at its edge.

A rumpled, boulder-strewn slope led down into a broad, dry riverbed. At its base two 2nd Army scouts sat on their horses, backs to Whiskeyjack. Before them, a dozen Rhivi were moving on foot through what seemed to be a field of bones.

Huge bones.

Clicking his mount into motion, Whiskeyjack slowly worked it down onto the ancient slide. His eyes held on the scatter of bones. Massive iron blades glinted there, as well as crumpled, oddly shaped armour and helmets. He saw long, reptilian jaws, rows of jagged teeth. Clinging to some of the shattered skeletons, the remnants of grey skin.

Clearing the scree, Whiskeyjack rode up to the nearest scout.

The man saluted. 'Sir. The Rhivi are jabbering away – can't quite follow what they're talking about. Looks to have been about ten of the demons. Whatever tore into them was nasty. Might be the Rhivi have gleaned more, since they're crawling around among the corpses.'

Nodding, Whiskeyjack dismounted. 'Keep an eye out,' he said, though he knew the scouts were doing just that, but feeling the need to say something. The killing field exuded an air of dread, old yet new, and – even more alarming – it held the peculiar tension that immediately followed a battle. Thick silence, swirling as if not yet settled by the sounds of violence, as if somehow still trembling, still shivering. . .

He approached the Rhivi and the sprawl of bones.

The tribal scouts were indeed jabbering.

'Dead wolves ...'

'Twice tracks, the touches heavy yet light, wider than my hand. Big.'

'Big dead wolves.'

'No blood, agreed? Barrow stench.'

'Black stone dust. Sharp.'

'Glittering beneath forearms – the skin ...'

'Black glass fragments.'

'Obsidian. Far south ...'

'Southwest. Or far north, beyond Laederon Plateau.'

'No, I see no red or brown. Laederon obsidian has wood-coloured veins. This is Morn.'

'If of this world ,. .'

'The demons are here, are they not? Of this world. In this world.'

'Barrow stench.'

'Yet in the air, ice stench, tundra wind, the smell of frozen peat.'

'The wake of the wolves, the killers—'

Whiskeyjack growled, 'Rhivi scouts, attend to me, please.'

Heads lifted, faces turned. Silence.

'I will hear your report, now. Which of you commands this troop?'

Looks were exchanged, then one shrugged. 'I can speak this Daru you use. Better than the others. So, for this that you ask, me.'

'Very well. Proceed.'

The young Rhivi swept back the braided strands of his grease-laden hair, then waved expansively at the bones around them. 'Undead demons. Armoured, with swords instead of hands. Coming from the southeast, more east than south.' He made an exaggerated frown. 'Damaged. Pursued. Hunted. Fleeing. Driven like bhederin, this way and that, loping, silent followers four-legged and patient—'

'Big undead wolves,' Whiskeyjack cut in.

'Twice as big as the native wolves of this plain. Yes.' Then his expression cleared as if with revelation. 'They are like the ghost-runners of our legends. When the eldest shouldermen or women dream their farthest dreams, the wolves are seen. Never close, always running, all ghostly except the one who leads, who seems as flesh and has eyes of life. To see them is great fortune, glad tiding, for there is joy in their running.'

'Only they're no longer running just in the dreams of your witches and warlocks,' Whiskeyjack said. 'And this run was far deadlier.'

'Hunting. I said these wolves are like those in the dreams. I did not say they were those in the dreams.' His expression went blank, his eyes the eyes of a cold killer. 'Hunting. Driving their quarry, down to this, their trap. Then they destroyed them. A battle of undead. The demons are from barrows far to the south. The wolves are from the dust in the north winds of winter.'

'Thank you,' Whiskeyjack said. The Rhivi manner of narrative – the dramatic performance – had well conveyed the events this valley had witnessed.

More riders were approaching from the main column, and he turned to watch them.

Three. Korlat, Silverfox, and the Daru, Kruppe, the latter bobbing and weaving on his mule as it raced with stiff, short-legged urgency in the wake of the two horse-riding women. His cries of alarm echoed in the narrow valley.

'Yes.'

The commander swung round, eyes narrowing on the Rhivi scoutleader who, along with all his kin, was now studying the three riders. 'Excuse me?'

The Rhivi shrugged, expressionless, and said nothing.

The scree of boulders had forced the newcomers to slow, except for Kruppe who was thrown forward then back on his saddle as the mule pitched headlong down the slope. Somehow the beast kept its footing, plummeting past a startled Korlat and a laughing Silverfox, then, reaching the flat, slowing its wild charge and trotting up to where Whiskeyjack stood, its head lifted proudly, ears up and forward-facing.

Kruppe, on the other hand, remained hugging the animal's neck, eyes squeezed shut, face crimson and streaming sweat. 'Terror!' he moaned. 'Battle of wills, Kruppe has met his match in this brainless, delusional beast! Aye, he is defeated! Oh, spare me . . .'

The mule halted.

'You can climb off, now,' Whiskeyjack said.

Kruppe opened his eyes, looked around, then slowly sat straight. He shakily withdrew a handkerchief. 'Naturally. Having given the creature its head, Kruppe now reacquires the facility of his own.' Pausing a moment to pat his brow and daub his face, he then wormed off the saddle and settled to the ground with a loud sigh. 'Ah, here come Kruppe's lazy dust-eaters. Delighted you could make it, dear ladies! A fine afternoon for a trot, yes?'

Silverfox had stopped laughing, her veiled eyes now on the scattered bones.

Hood take me, that fur cloak becomes her indeed. Mentally shaking himself, Whiskeyjack glanced up to meet Korlat's steady, faintly ironic gaze. But oh, she pales beside this Tiste Andii. Dammit, old man, think not of the nights past. Do not embrace this wonder so tightly you crush the life from it.

'The scouts,' he said to both women, 'have come upon a scene of battle—'

'K'Chain Che'Malle,' Korlat nodded, eyeing the bones. 'K'ell Hunters, fortunately undead rather than enlivened flesh. Likely not as fast as they would have been. Still, to have been torn apart in such fashion—'

'T'lan Ay,' Silverfox said. 'They are why I have come.'

Whiskeyjack studied her. 'What do you mean?'

She shrugged. 'To see for myself, Commander. We are all drawing close. You to your besieged city, and I to the destiny to which I was born. Convergence, the plague of this world. Even so,' she added as she swung down from the saddle and strode among the bones, 'there are gifts. Dearest of such gifts . . . the T'lan Ay.' She paused, the wind caressing the fox fur on her shoulders, then whispered the name once more. 'T'lan Ay.'

'Kruppe shivers when she so names them, ah ... gods bless this grim beauty in its barrenland tableau, from which starry dreams so dimmed with time are as rainbow rivers in the sky!' He paused, blinked at the others. 'Sweet sleep, in which hidden poetry resides, the flow of the disconnected, so smooth as to seem entwined. Yes?'

'I'm not the man,' Whiskeyjack growled, 'to appreciate your abstractions, Kruppe, alas.'

'Of course, blunt soldier, as you say! But wait, does Kruppe see in your eyes a certain . . . charge? The air veritably crackles with imminence – do you deny your sensitivity to that, Malazan? No, say nothing, the truth resides in your hard gaze and your gauntleted hand where it edges closer to the grip of your sword.'

Whiskeyjack could not deny the hairs rising on the back of his neck. He looked around, saw a similar alertness among the Rhivi, and in the pair of Malazan scouts who were scanning the hill-lines on all sides.

'What comes?' Korlat whispered.

'The gift,' Kruppe murmured with a beatific smile as he rested his eyes upon Silverfox.

Whiskeyjack followed the Daru's gaze.

To see the woman, so much like Tattersail, standing with her back to them, arms raised high.

Dust began swirling, rising in eddies on all sides.

The T'lan Ay took form, in the basin, on the slopes and the crests of the surrounding hills.

In their thousands . . .

Grey dust into grey, matted fur, black shoulders, throats the hue of rain clouds, thick tails silver and black-tipped; while others were brown, the colour of rotted, powdered wood, faded to tan at throat and belly. Wolves, tall, gaunt, their eyes shadowed pits. Huge, long heads were turned, one and all, to Silverfox.

She glanced over a shoulder, her heavy-lidded eyes fixing on Whiskeyjack. She smiled. 'My escort.'

The commander, struck silent, stared at her. So like Tattersail. Yet not. Escort, she says, but I see more – and her look tells me she is aware . . . so very aware, now.

Escort . . . and bodyguard. Silverfox may no longer require us. And, now that her need for our protection has passed, she is free to do . . . whatever she pleases. . .

A cold wind seemed to rattle through Whiskeyjack's mind. Gods, what if Kallor was right all along! What if we've all missed our chance? With a soft grunt, he shook off the unworthy thoughts. No, we have shown our faith in her, when it mattered most – when she was at her weakest. Tattersail would not forget that. . .

So like . . . yet not. Nightchill, dismembered by betrayal. Is it Tayschrenn her remnant soul hates? Or the Malazan Empire and every son and daughter of its blood? Or the one she had been called upon to battle: Anomander Rake, and by extension Caladan Brood? The Rhivi, the Bar ghost. . . does she seek vengeance against them?

Kruppe cleared his throat. 'And a lovely escort they are, my dear lass. Alarming to your enemies, reassuring to your loyal friends! We are charmed, for we can see that you are as well, so very deeply charmed by these silent, motionless T'lan Ay. Such well-behaved pups, Kruppe is impressed beyond words, beyond gestures, beyond suitable response entire!'

'If only,' Korlat murmured, 'that were the case.' She faced Whiskeyjack, her expression closed and professional. 'Commander, I will take my leave now to report to our leaders—'

'Korlat,' Silverfox interrupted, 'forgive me for not asking earlier, but when did you last look upon my mother?'

'This morning,' the Tiste Andii replied. 'She can no longer walk, and this has been her condition for almost a week now. She weakens by the day, Silverfox. Perhaps if you were to come and see her...'

'There is no need for that,' the fur-cloaked woman said. 'Who attends her at this moment?'

'Councillor Coll and the Daru man, Murillio.'

'Kruppe's most loyal friends, Kruppe assures you all. She is safe enough.'

'Circumstances,' Silverfox said, her expression tight, 'are about to grow ... tense.'

And what has it been till now, woman? Kallor haunts your shadow like a vulture – I'm surprised he let you get away just now . . . unless he's lurking about on the other side of the nearest hill. . .

'Do you ask something of me, Silverfox?' Korlat enquired.

She visibly gathered herself. 'Aye, some of your kin, to guard my mother.'

The Tiste Andii frowned. 'It would seem, with your new guardians in such number, that you have some to spare—'

'She would not let them approach her, I'm afraid. She has ... nightmares. I am sorry, but I must ensure my T'lan Ay are kept out of her sight, and senses. She may look frail and seem powerless, but there is that within her that is capable of driving the T'lan Ay away. Will you do as I ask?'

'Of course, Silverfox.'

The woman nodded, attention shifting once more back to Whiskeyjack as Korlat wheeled her mount and rode back up the slope. She studied him in silence for a moment, then looked to Kruppe. 'Well, Daru? Are you satisfied thus far?'

'I am, dearest one.' Not Kruppe's usual tone, but spoken low, measured.

Satisfied. With what?

'Will she hold on, do you think?'

Kruppe shrugged. 'We shall see, yes? Kruppe has faith.'

'Enough for both of us?'

The Daru smiled. 'Naturally.'

Silverfox sighed. 'Very well. I lean heavily on you in this, you know.'

'Kruppe's legs are as pillars of stone. Your touch is so light as to pass unnoticed by worthy self. My dear, the sound of additional riders urges upon you a decision – what will you permit to be seen by those who now approach?'

'Nothing untoward,' the woman replied. She raised her arms again.

The T'lan Ay returned to the dust from which they had arisen.

With a soft grunt, Whiskeyjack strode back to his horse. There were too many mysteries roiling through the company of the two armies, secrets that seemed to hold promises of explosive revelation. Probably violent ones at that. He felt uneasy. I wish Quick Ben was here . . . Hood knows, I wish I knew what was happening with him, and Paran and the Bridgeburners. Did they succeed? Or are they all now dead, their skulls surmounting poles around the Barghast camps?

A substantial part of the column's vanguard reached the hill's crest, where they halted in a ragged line.

Whiskeyjack swung himself into the saddle and made his way towards the group.

Kallor, riding a gaunt, grey horse, had deliberately drawn rein apart from the others. His faded grey cloak was tight about his broad, armoured shoulders. Shadows deepened the lines of his ancient, weathered face. Long strands of his grey hair drifted to one side in the wind.

Whiskeyjack's gaze held on the man a moment longer, gauging, then shifted to the others lining the ridge. Brood and Dujek were side by side. On the warlord's right was the outrider, Hurlochel; on the Malazan's left, the standard-bearer, Artanthos. The Trygalle Trade Guild's merchant-mage, Haradas, was also present, and, of course, Korlat.

None were speaking as Whiskeyjack's horse reached the crest. Then Dujek nodded and growled, 'Korlat's described what the scouts found. Anything else to add?'

Whiskeyjack glanced at the Tiste Andii, but her expression was closed. He shook his head. 'No, High Fist. Korlat and her kin seem to know more about these K'Chain Che'Malle than the rest of us – what lies below are a jumble of shattered bones, some weapons and armour. I could not have identified them myself. The Rhivi scouts believe they were undead—'

'Fortunate for us all,' muttered Kallor. 'I am not so ignorant of these creatures as the rest of you, barring Korlat. Further, I am feeling unusually . . . loquacious. Thus. Remnants of the K'Chain Che'Malle civilization can be found on virtually every continent on this world. Indeed, in the place of my old empire, Jacuruku, their strange mechanisms filled pits and holes in the earth – whenever my people had to cut below the surface, they discovered such constructs. More, barrows were found. Scholars conducted careful examination of their contents. Do you wish to hear an account of their conclusions or am I boring you?'

'Go on,' Caladan drawled.

'Very well. Perhaps there is more wisdom present here than I had previously credited. The beasts appear to be reptilian, capable of breeding their own kind to specific talents. Those the Tiste Andii called K'ell Hunters, for example, were born as warriors. Undead versions are in the valley below, yes? They had no hands, but swords in their stead, somehow melded to the very bones of their forearms. The K'Chain Che'Malle were matriarchal, matrilineal. As a population of bees have their queen, so too these beasts. She is the breeder, the mother of every child. And within this Matron resided the sorcerous capacity of her entire family. Power to beggar the gods of today. Power to keep the Elder Gods from coming to this world, and were it not for the self-destruction of the K'Chain Che'Malle, they would rule unchallenged to this day.'

'Self-destruction,' Korlat said, a sharpness in her eyes as she studied Kallor. 'An interesting detail. Can you explain?'

'Of course. Among the records found, once the language was deciphered – and that effort alone is worthy of lengthy monologue, but seeing how you all shift about in your saddles like impatient children, I'll spare the telling. Among the records found, then, it was learned that the Matrons, each commanding the equivalent of a modern city, had gathered to meld their disparate ambitions. What they sought, beyond the vast power they already possessed, is not entirely clear. Then again, what need there be for reasons when ambition rules? Suffice to say, an ancient breed was ... resurrected, returned from extinction by the Matrons; a more primitive version of the K'Chain Che'Malle themselves. For lack of a better name, my scholars at the time called them Short-Tails.'

Whiskeyjack, his eyes on Korlat, was the only one to see her stiffen at that. Behind him, he could hear Silverfox and Kruppe making their way back up the slope.

'For the singular reason,' Kallor went on in his dry monotone, 'that they physically deviated from the other K'Chain Che'Malle in having short, stubby tails rather than the normal, long, tapered ones. This made them not as swift – more upright, suited to whatever world and civilization they had originally belonged to. Alas, these new children were not as tractable as the Matrons were conditioned to expect among their brood – more explicitly, the Short-Tails would not surrender or merge their magical talents with their mothers'. The result was a civil war, and the sorceries unleashed were apocalyptic. To gauge something of the desperation among the Matrons, one need only travel south on this continent, to a place called Morn.'

'The Rent,' Korlat murmured, nodding.

Kallor's smile was wintry. 'She sought to harness the power of a gate itself, but not simply a common warren's gate. Oh no, she elected to open the portal that led to the Realm of Chaos. Such hubris, to think she could control – could assert order – upon such a thing.' He paused, as if reconsidering his own words, then laughed. 'Oh, a bitter lesson or two in that tale, don't you think?'

Caladan Brood grunted. 'Let's bring this back to the present, shall we? In the valley below, undead K'ell Hunters. The question to address is: what are they doing here?'

'They are being used.'

Everyone's eyes fixed on Silverfox, who stood before her horse, reins in hand.

'I like not the sound of that,' Dujek growled.

'Used,' Silverfox repeated, 'by the Pannion Seer.'

'Impossible,' Kallor snapped. 'Only a K'Chain Che'Malle Matron could command a Ke'll Hunter – even when undead.'

'Then it would appear,' Korlat said, 'that we have more than one enemy.'

'The Pannion Seer has an ally?' Dujek leaned on his saddle and spat. 'There's not been even so much as a hint—'

'None the less,' Silverfox cut in. 'Proof lies before us, in the valley below.'

'A Matron cannot breed more of her kind without the seed of living males,' Kallor said. 'Therefore, with each K'ell Hunter destroyed, there is one less for us to deal with.'

Brood turned at that, eyes thinning to slits. 'Easily swallowed, this revelation.'

Kallor shrugged.

'There is also before us,' the warlord continued, 'another truth. Regarding the destruction of the K'ell Hunters, someone is doing it for us, it seems.'

Silence; then, slowly, attention focused on Silverfox.

She smiled. 'I did say, some time ago, that you would all need help.'

Kallor snarled. 'T'lan Imass! So tell us, bitch, why would they concern themselves with K'Chain Che'Malle? Are not the Jaghut their avowed enemies? Why task your undead followers with a new one? Why have you and the T'lan Imass joined this war, woman?'

'We have joined nothing,' she replied, her eyes heavy-lidded, standing as Tattersail would stand, hands clasped and resting on the folds of her belly, her body solid yet curvaceous beneath her deerhide tunic.

Ah, I know that look. Sleight of hand. Careful, now . . .

'Do you deny, then,' Brood began slowly, his expression clouded, uncertain, 'that your T'lan Imass were responsible for destroying these K'ell Hunters?'

'Have none of you ever wondered,' Silverfox said, looking at each of them, 'why the T'lan Imass warred with the Jaghut?'

'Perhaps an explanation,' Dujek said, 'will assist us in understanding.'

Silverfox gave a sharp nod. 'When the first Imass emerged, they were forced to live in the shadow of the Jaghut. Tolerated, ignored, but only in small, manageable numbers. Pushed to the poorest of lands. Then Tyrants arose among the Jaghut, who found pleasure in enslaving them, in forcing upon them a nightmarish existence – that successive generations were born into and so knew of no other life, knew nothing of freedom itself.

'The lesson was hard, not easily swallowed, for the truth was this: there were intelligent beings in the world who exploited the virtues of others, their compassion, their love, their faith in kin. Exploited, and mocked. How many Imass tribes discovered that their gods were in fact Jaghut Tyrants? Hidden behind friendly masks. Tyrants, who manipulated them with the weapon of faith.

'The rebellion was inevitable, and it was devastating for the Imass. Weaker, uncertain even of what it was they sought, or what freedom would show them should they find it... But we would not relent. We could not.'

Kallor sneered. 'There were never more than but a handful of Tyrants among the Jaghut, woman.'

'A handful was too many, and aye, we found allies among the Jaghut – those for whom the activities of the Tyrants were reprehensible. But we now carried scars. Scars born of mistrust, of betrayal. We could trust only in our own kind. In the name of our generations to come, all Jaghut would have to die. None could be left, to produce more children, to permit among those children the rise of new Tyrants.'

'And how,' Korlat asked, 'does this relate to the K'Chain Che'Malle?'

'Before the Jaghut ruled this world, the K'Chain Che'Malle ruled. The first Jaghut were to the K'Chain Che'Malle as the first Imass were to the Jaghut.' She paused, her heavy gaze moving among them all. 'In each species is born the seeds of domination. Our wars with the Jaghut destroyed us, as a living people, as a vibrant, evolving culture. That was the price we paid, to ensure the freedom you now possess. Our eternal sacrifice.' She fell silent once more, then continued in a harder tone, 'So, now, I ask you – all of you, who have taken upon yourselves the task of waging war against a tyrannical, all-devouring empire, of possibly sacrificing your own lives to the benefit of peoples who know nothing of you, of lands you have never and will never set foot upon – I ask you, what is there about us, about the T'lan Imass, that still escapes your understanding? Destroy the Pannion Domin. It must be done. For me, for my T'lan Imass, awaits the task of destroying the threat hiding behind the Pannion Seer, the threat that is the K'Chain Che'Malle.'

She slowly studied their faces. 'A Matron lives. Flesh and blood. Should she find a male of her kind, a flesh and blood male ... the tyranny of the Jaghut will be as nothing to that of the K'Chain Che'Malle. This, then, will be our sacrifice.'

Only the wind filled the silence following her words.

Then Caladan Brood turned to Kallor. 'And you find in this woman an abomination?'

'She lies,' he rasped in reply. 'This entire war is meaningless. Nothing more than a feint.'

'A feint?' Dujek repeated in disbelief. 'By whom?'

Kallor snapped his mouth shut, made no reply.

The Trygalle Trade Guild merchant-mage, Haradas, cleared her throat. 'There may be some truth in that. Not that the woman Silverfox is lying – I believe she speaks true, as far as she is willing to tell us. No, I meant the feint. Consider the infection of the warrens. Granted, its focus seems to emanate from the Pannion Domin, and granted, as well, that the poison's taint is that of the Warren of Chaos. Granted all of that, one must then ask: why would a K'Chain Che'Malle Matron, who is the repository of a vast wellspring of sorcery, seek to destroy the very conduits of her power? If she was present when Morn was destroyed – when the Rent was created – why would she then try to harness chaos again? Ambitious, perhaps, but a fool? That is hard to countenance.'

Even as the import of her words sank in to Whiskeyjack, there came to him another realization. There is another enemy indeed, and from the looks on most of the faces around me – barring Dujek and, no doubt, my own – the revelation is not as surprising as it should be. True, we'd caught a hint, but we'd failed to make the connection. Brood, Korlat, Kallor – gods, even Kruppe and Artanthos! Remind me to avoid every damn one of them the next time I join a game of bones! He jerked his gaze back to Silverfox, was met with that sleepy, knowing regard.

No, that won't work again. 'Silverfox,' he growled. 'You spin a tale to sting sympathy from our hearts, yet it seems that your effort was misdirected, and so you end up undermining all you sought to achieve. If there is a deeper threat, a third hand, deftly manipulating both us and the Pannion Seer . . . will you and your T'lan Imass then focus your attention on that hand?'

'No.'

'Why?'

He was surprised as her steady gaze wavered, then fell away. Her voice came out in a raw whisper. 'Because, Whiskeyjack, you ask too much of us.'

No-one spoke.

Dread swept through Whiskeyjack. He swung about, locked gazes with Dujek, saw in the old man's face a mirror to his own growing horror. Gods below, we are heading to our deaths. An unseen enemy – but one we've known about for a long time, one we knew was coming, sooner or later, one that – by the Abyss – makes the T'lan Imass recoil. . .

'Such palpable distraughtness!' Kruppe cried. 'Distraughtness? Is there such a word? If not, then among Kruppe's countless talents we must add linguistic invention! My friends! Attend! Hark! Listen! Take heart, one and all, in the knowledge that Kruppe has placed himself, feet square and ample girth firm, in the path of said – yet unmentioned – formidable enemy of all existence! Sleep calm at night in this knowledge. Slumber as babes in your mother's arms, as each of you once did – even Kallor, though the image shocks and dismays—'

'Dammit!' Caladan Brood roared, 'what in Hood's name are you talking about, little man? You claim to stand in the path of the Crippled God? By the Abyss, you are mad! If you do not,' he continued in a low tone as he swung down from his horse, 'give instant proof of your efficacy' – he strode towards Kruppe, one hand reaching for the wrapped handle of his hammer – 'I will not predict the extremity of my temper.'

'I wouldn't do that, Brood,' Silverfox murmured.

The warlord twisted to face her, teeth bared. 'You now extend your protection to this arrogant, fat toad?'

Her eyes widened and she looked to the Daru. 'Kruppe, do you make such a request?'

'Absurd! No offence, dear, in that expostulation, Kruppe sweetly assures you!'

Whiskeyjack stared, disbelieving, as the round little man in his food- and drink-stained clothes drew himself up as straight as he was able and fixed small, glittering eyes on Caladan Brood. 'Threaten Kruppe of Darujhistan, will you? Demand an explanation, do you? Fondling that hammer, are you? Baring those fa—'

'Silence!' the warlord bellowed, struggling to control his anger.

Gods below, what is Kruppe up to?

'Kruppe defies all threats! Kruppe sneers at whatever demonstration bristling warlord would attempt—'

The hammer was suddenly in Brood's hands, a smudged blur as it swung through the air, a downward arc, to strike the earth almost at Kruppe's feet.

The detonation threw horses down, sent Whiskeyjack and the others flying. A thunderous concussion cracked the air. The ground seemed to leap up to meet the Malazan commander, the impact like a fist when he struck, rolled, then tumbled his way down the boulder-strewn slope.

Above him, horses were screaming. A wind, hot, shrieking, shot dust and earth skyward.

The scree of boulders was moving beneath Whiskeyjack, flowing, sliding down into the valley at an ever quickening pace with a rumbling, growing roar. Rocks clanged against his armour, rapped into the helm on his head, leaving him stunned. He caught a flashing glimpse, through a jagged tear in the dustcloud, of the line of hills on the other side the valley. Impossibly, they were rising, fast, the bedrock splitting the grassy hide, loosing gouts of dust, rock-shards and smoke. Then the swarming dust swallowed the world around him. Boulders bounced over him, tumbling. Others struck him solid, painful blows that left him gasping, coughing, choking as he rolled.

Even now, the ground continued to heave beneath the sliding scree. Distant detonations shook the air, trembled through Whiskeyjack's battered bones.

He came to a rest, half buried in gravel and rocks. Blinking, eyes burning, he saw before him the Rhivi scouts – dodging, leaping from the path of bounding boulders as if in some bizarre, deadly game. Beyond, black, steaming bedrock towered, the spine of a new mountain range, still growing, still rising, lifting and tilting the floor of the valley where the Malazan now lay. The sky behind it churned iron-grey with steam and smoke.

Hood take me . . . poor Kruppe . . . Groaning, Whiskeyjack twisted round as far as he could. He was covered in scrapes, could feel the tender birth of huge bruises beneath his dented, torn armour, but his bones were, amazingly, intact. He strained his watering eyes to the hilltop behind him.

The scree was gone, leaving a gaping, raw cliff-face. Most of the mesa's summit was simply no longer there, obliterated, leaving a small, flat-topped island . . . where Whiskeyjack now saw figures moving, rising. Horses scrambling upright. Faintly, came the brazen complaint of a mule.

To the north, cutting a path down along the side of a distant valley, then through distant hills, a narrow, steaming crack was visible, a fissure in the earth that seemed depthless.

Whiskeyjack painfully pulled himself clear of the rubble, slowly straightened.

He saw Caladan Brood, hammer hanging down from his hands, motionless ... and standing before the warlord, on an island of his own, was Kruppe. Brushing dust from his clothes. The crack that had been born where the hammer had struck the earth, parted neatly around the short, fat Daru, joining again just behind him.

Whiskeyjack struggled to hold back a laugh, knowing how desperate, how jarring it would sound. So, we have seen Brood's fury. And Kruppe, that preposterous little man, has stood it down. Well, if proof was ever needed that the Daru was not as he appeared to be ... He then frowned. A demonstration indeed – directed towards whom, I wonder?

A cry of dismay cut through his thoughts.

Korlat. She faced north, her posture somehow contracted, drawn in on itself.

The fissure, Whiskeyjack now saw – all amusement gone – was filling with blood.

Fouled blood, rotten blood. Beru fend, the Sleeping Goddess . . . Burn sleeps the sleep of the dying, the poisoned. And this, he realized, was the day's final, most terrible revelation. Diseased . . . the hidden hand of the Crippled God . . .

 

The Mhybe's eyes snapped open. The wagon rocked and pitched. Thunder shook the ground. The shouts of Rhivi were on all sides, a wailing chorus of alarm and consternation. Her bones and muscles protested as she was thrown about in the cataclysm, but she would not cry out. She wanted only to hide.

The rumbling faded, replaced by the distant lowing of the bhederin and, closer by, the soft footpads of her kin as they rushed past the wagon. The herd was close to panic, and a stampede was imminent.

Bringing ruin to us all. Yet that would be a mercy. An end to the pain, to my nightmares . . .

In her dreams she was young once more, but those dreams held no joy. Strangers walked the tundra landscape where she invariably found herself. They approached. She fled. Darting like a snow hare. Running, always running.

Strangers. She did not know what they wanted, but they were seeking her – that much was clear. Tracking her, like hunters their quarry. To sleep was to awaken exhausted, limbs trembling, chest heaving with agonized breaths.

She had been saved from the Abyss, from those countless tattered souls lost in eternal, desperate hunger. Saved, by a dragon. To what end? Leaving me in a place where I am hunted, pursued without surcease?

Time passed, punctuated by the herders' calming words to the frightened bhederin. There would be no stampede after all. Rumbles still trembled through the earth, in diminishing ripples that grew ever farther apart.

The Mhybe moaned softly to herself as the wagon rocked once more, this time to the arrival of the two Daru, Coll and Murillio.

'You've awakened,' the councillor noted. 'It's no surprise.'

'Leave me be,' she said, drawing the hides around her shivering body and curling away from the two men. It's so cold...

'Any idea what's happened up ahead?' Murillio asked Coll.

'Seems Brood lost his temper.'

'Gods! With whom? Kallor? That bastard deserves—'

'Not Kallor, friend,' Coll growled. 'Make another guess – shouldn't take you long.'

Murillio groaned. 'Kruppe.'

'Hood knows he's stretched the patience of all of us at one time or another . . . only none of us was capable of splitting apart half the world and throwing new mountains skyward.'

'Did the little runt get himself killed? I can't believe—'

'Word is, he's come out unscathed. Typically. Complaining of the dust. No-one else was injured, either, though the warlord himself almost got his head kicked in by an angry mule.'

'Kruppe's mule? The one that sleeps when it walks?'

'Aye, the very one.'

Sleeps. Dreams of being a horse, no doubt. Magnificent, tall, fierce . . .

'That beast is a strange one, indeed. Never seen a mule so ... so watchful. Of everything. Queen of Dreams, that's the oddest looking range of mountains I've ever seen!'

'Aye, Murillio, it does look bigger than it really is. Twists the eye. A broken spine, like something you'd see at the very horizon, yet there it is, not half a league from us. Doesn't bear thinking about, if you ask me ...'

Nothing bears thinking about. Not mountains, not mules, not Brood's temper. Souls crowd my daughter, there, within her. Two women, and a Thelomen named Skullcrusher. Two women and a man whom I've never met. . . yet I carried that child within me. I, a Rhivi, young, in the bloom of my life, drawn into a dream then the dream made real. Yet where, within my daughter, am 1? Where is the blood, the heart, of the Rhivi?

She has nothing of me, nothing at all. Naught but a vessel in truth – that is all I was – a vessel to hold then birth into the world a stranger.

She has no reason to see me, to visit, to take my hand and offer me comfort. My purpose is done, over. And here I lie, a discarded thing. Forgotten. A mhybe.

A hand settled gently on her shoulder.

Murillio spoke. 'I think she sleeps once more.'

'For the best,' Coll murmured.

'I remember my own youth,' the Daru went on in a quiet, introspective tone.

'I remember your own youth, too, Murillio.'

'Wild and wasteful—'

'A different widow every night, as I recall.'

'I was a lodestone indeed, and, you know, it was all so effortless—'

'We'd noticed.'

The man sighed. 'But no longer. I've aged, paid the price for my younger days—'

'Nights, you mean.'

'Whatever. New rivals have arrived. Young bloods. Marak of Paxto, tall and lithe and turning heads wherever he saunters. The smug bastard. Then there's Perryl of M'necrae—'

'Oh, really, Murillio, spare me all this.'

'The point is, it was all a stretch of years. Full years. Pleasurable ones. And, for all that I'm on the wane, at least I can look back and recall my days – all right, my nights – of glory. But here, with this poor woman...'

'Aye, I hear you. Ever notice those copper ornaments she's wearing – there, you can see the pair on her wrist. Kruppe's gifts, from Darujhistan.'

'What about them?'

'Well, as I was saying. Ever noticed them? It's a strange thing. They get brighter, shinier, when she's sleeping.'

'Do they?'

'I'd swear it on a stack of Kruppe's handkerchiefs.'

'How odd.'

'They're kind of dull right now, though...'

There was silence from the two men crouched above her. After a long moment the hand resting on her shoulder squeezed slightly.

'Ah, my dear,' Murillio whispered, 'would that I could take back my words ...'

Why? They were truth. Words from your heart, and it is a generous one for all your irresponsible youth. You've given voice to my curse. That changes nothing. Am I to be pitied? Only when I'm asleep, it seems. To my face, you say nothing, and consider your silence a kindness. But it mocks me, for it arrives as indifference.

And this silence of mine? To these two kind men looking down on me right now? Which of my countless flaws does this reveal?

Your pity, it seems, is no match for my own.

Her thoughts trailed away, then. The treeless, ochre wasteland of her dreamworld appeared. And she within it.

She began running.

 

Dujek flung his gauntlets against the tent wall as he entered, his face dark with fury.

Whiskeyjack unstoppered the jug of ale and filled the two goblets waiting on the small camp table before him. Both men were smeared in sweaty dust.

'What madness is this?' the High Fist rasped, pausing only long enough to snatch up one of the goblets before beginning to pace.

Whiskeyjack stretched his battered legs out, the chair creaking beneath him. He swallowed a long draught of ale, sighed and said, 'Which madness are you referring to, Dujek?'

'Aye, the list is getting damned long. The Crippled God! The ugliest legends belong to that broken bastard—'

'Fisher Kel Tath's poem on the Chaining—'

'I'm not one for reading poetry, but Hood knows, I've heard bits of it spoken by tavern bards and the like. Fener's balls, this isn't the war I signed on to fight.'

Whiskeyjack's eyes narrowed on the High Fist. 'Then don't.'

Dujek stopped pacing, faced his second. 'Go on,' he said after a moment.

'Brood already knew,' he replied with a shrug that made him wince. As did Korlat. 'With him, you could reasonably include Anomander Rake. And Kallor – though I liked not the avid glint in that man's eye. So, two ascendants and one would-be ascendant. The Crippled God is too powerful for people like you and me to deal with, High Fist. Leave it to them, and to the gods. Both Rake and Brood were there at the Chaining, after all.'

'Meaning it's their mess.'

'Bluntly, yes it is.'

'For which we're all paying, and might well pay the ultimate price before too long. I'll not see my army used as fodder in that particular game, Whiskeyjack. We were marching to crush the Pannion Domin, a mortal empire – as far as we could determine.'

'Manipulation seems to be going on on both sides, Dujek.'

'And I am to be comforted by that?' The High Fist's glare was fierce. He held it on his second for another moment, then quaffed his ale. He thrust the empty goblet out.

Whiskeyjack refilled it. 'We're hardly ones to complain of manipulation,' he rumbled, 'are we, friend?'

Dujek paused, then grunted.

Indeed. Calm yourself, High Fist. Think clear thoughts. 'Besides,' Whiskeyjack continued, 'I have faith.'

'In what?' his commander snapped. 'In whom? Pray, tell me!'

'In a certain short, corpulent, odious little man—'

'Kruppe! Have you lost your mind?'

Whiskeyjack smiled. 'Old friend, look upon your own seething anger. Your rage at this sense of being manipulated. Used. Possibly deceived. Now consider how an ascendant like Caladan Brood would feel, upon the realization that he is being manipulated? Enough to shatter the control of his temper? Enough to see him unlimber his hammer and seek to obliterate that smug, pompous puppet-master.'

Dujek stood unmoving for a long time, then a grin curved his lips. 'In other words, he took Krupp seriously ...'

'Darujhistan,' Whiskeyjack said. 'Our grand failure. Through it all, I had the sense that someone, somewhere, was orchestrating the whole damned thing. Not Anomander Rake. Not the Cabal. Not Vorcan and her assassins. Someone else. Someone so cleverly hidden, so appallingly ... capable ... that we were helpless, utterly helpless.

'And then, at the parley, we all discover who was responsible for Tattersail's rebirth. As Silverfox, a child of a Rhivi woman, the seed planted and the birth managed within an unknown warren. The drawing together of threads – Nightchill, Bellurdan, Tattersail herself. And, it now appears, an Elder God, returned to the mortal realm. And, finally and most remarkably, the T'lan Imass. So, Tattersail, Nightchill and Bellurdan – all of the Malazan Empire – reborn to a Rhivi woman, of Brood's army ... with a parley looming, the potential of a grand alliance ... how Hood-damned convenient that a child should so bridge the camps—'

'Barring Kallor,' Dujek pointed out.

Whiskeyjack slowly nodded. 'And Kallor's just been reminded of Brood's power – hopefully sufficiently to keep him in line.'

'Is that what all that was about?'

'Maybe. He demanded a demonstration, did he not? What Kruppe manipulates is circumstance. Somehow. I don't feel we are fated to dance as he wills. There is an Elder God behind the Daru, but even there, I think it's more an alliance of ... mutual benefit, almost between equals. A partnership, if you will. Now, I'll grant you, all this is speculation on my part, but I'll tell you this: I have been manipulated before, as have you. But this time it feels different. Less inimical. Dujek, I sense compassion this time.'

'An alliance of equals,' the High Fist muttered, then he shook his head. 'What, then, does that make this Kruppe? Is he some god in disguise? A wizard of magnitude, an archmage?'

Whiskeyjack shrugged. 'My best guess. Kruppe is a mortal man. But gifted with an intelligence that is singular in its prowess. And I mean that most literally. Singular, Dujek. If an Elder God was suddenly flung back into this realm, would he not seek out as his first ally the greatest of minds?'

Dujek's face revealed disbelieving wonder. 'But, Whiskeyjack ... Kruppe?'

'Kruppe. Who gave us the Trygalle Trade Guild, the only traders capable of supplying us on the route we chose to march. Kruppe, who brought to the Mhybe the surviving possessions of the First Rhivi, for her to wear and so diminish the pain she feels, and those ornaments are, I suspect, yet to fully flower. Kruppe, the only one Silverfox will speak with, now that Paran is gone. And, finally, Kruppe, who has set himself in the Crippled God's path.'

'If just a mortal, then how did he survive Brood's wrath?'

'Well, I expect his ally the Elder God would not wish to see the Daru killed. I'd guess there was intervention, then. What else could it have been?'

Dujek emptied his goblet. 'Damn,' he sighed. 'All right. We ignore, as best we can, the Crippled God. We remain focused on the Pannion Domin. Still, my friend, I mislike it. I can't help but be nervous in that we are not actively engaged in considering this new enemy ...'

'I don't think we are, High Fist.'

Dujek's glance was sharp, searching, then his face twisted. 'Quick Ben.'

Whiskeyjack slowly nodded. 'I think so. I'm not certain – Hood, I don't even know if he's still alive, but knowing Quick, he is. Very much alive. And, given his agitation the last time I saw him, he's without illusions, and anything but ignorant.'

'And he's all we've got? To outwit the Crippled God?'

'High Fist, if Kruppe is this world's foremost genius, then Quick Ben's but a step behind him. A very short step.'

They heard shouts outside the tent, then booted feet. A moment later the standard-bearer Artanthos pulled aside the flap and entered. 'Sirs, a lone Moranth has been spotted. Flying in from the northeast. It's Twist.'

Whiskeyjack rose, grunting at the cascade of aches and twinges the motion triggered. 'Queen of Dreams, we're about to receive some news.'

'Let's hope it's cheering news,' Dujek growled. 'I could do with some.'

 

Her face was pressed against the lichen-skinned stones, the roughness fading as her sweat soaked the ragged plant. Heart pounding, breaths coming in gasps, she Jay whimpering, too tired to keep running, too tired to even so much as raise her head.

The tundra of her dreams had revealed new enemies. Not the band of strangers pursuing her this time.

This time, she had been found by wolves. Huge, gaunt creatures, bigger than any she had ever seen in her waking life. They had loped into view on a ridge marking the skyline to the north. Eight long-legged, shoulder-hunched beasts, their fur sharing the muted shades of the landscape. The one in the lead had turned, as if catching her scent on the dry, cold wind.

And the chase had begun.

At first the Mhybe had revelled in the fleetness of her young, lithe legs. Swift as an antelope – faster than anything a mortal human could achieve – she had fled across the barren land.

The wolves kept pace, tireless, the pack ranging out to the sides, one occasionally sprinting, darting in from one side or the other, forcing her to turn.

Again and again, when she sought to remain between hills, on level land, the creatures somehow managed to drive her up' slope. And she began to tire.

The pressure never relented. Into her thoughts, amidst the burgeoning pain in her legs, the fire in her chest and the dry, sharp agony of her throat, came the horrifying realization that escape was impossible. That she was going to die. Pulled down like any other animal doomed to become a victim of the wolves' hunger.

For them, she knew, the sea of her mind, whipped now to a frenzied storm of panic and despair, meant nothing. They were hunters, and what resided within the soul of their quarry had no relevance. As with the antelope, the bhederin calf, the ranag, grace and wonder, promise and potential – reduced one and all to meat.

Life's final lesson, the only truthful one buried beneath a layered skein of delusions.

Sooner or later, she now understood, we are all naught but food. Wolves or worms, the end abrupt or lingering, it mattered not in the least.

Whimpering, half blind, she staggered up yet another hillside. They were closer. She could hear their paws crunching through wind-dried lichen and moss. To her right, to her left, closing, edging slightly ahead.

Crying out, the Mhybe stumbled, fell face first onto the rocky . summit. She closed her eyes, waited for the first explosion of pain as teeth ripped into her flesh.

The wolves circled. She listened to them. Circled, then began spiralling in, closer, closer.

A hot breath gusted against the back of her neck.

The Mhybe screamed.

And awoke. Above her, a fading blue sky, a passing hawk. Haze of dust from the herd, drifting. In the air, distant voices and, much closer, the ragged, rattling sound of her own breathing.

The wagon had stopped moving. The army was settling in for the night.

She lay huddled, motionless beneath the furs and hides. A pair of voices were murmuring nearby. She smelled the smoke of a dung cookfire, smelled a herbal, meaty broth – sage, a hint of goat. A third voice arrived, was greeted by the first two – all strangely indistinct, beyond her ability to identify. And not worth the effort. My watchers. My jailers.

The wagon creaked. Someone crouched beside her. 'Sleep should not leave you so exhausted.'

'No, Korlat, it should not. Please, now, let me end this myself—'

'No. Here, Coll has made a stew.'

'I've no teeth left with which to chew.'

'Just slivers of meat, easily swallowed. Mostly broth.'

'I'm not hungry.'

'Nevertheless. Shall I help you sit up?'

'Hood take you, Korlat. You and the rest. Every one of you.'

'Here, I will help you.'

'Your good intentions are killing me. No, not killing. That's just it, isn't it—' She grunted, feebly trying to twist away from Korlat's hands as the Tiste Andii lifted her effortlessly into a sitting position. 'Torturing me. Your mercy. Which is anything but. No, look not at my face, Korlat.' She drew her hood tighter. 'Lest I grow avid for the pity in your eyes. Where is this bowl? I will eat. Leave me.'

'I will sit with you, Mhybe,' Korlat replied. 'There are two bowls, after all.'

The Rhivi woman stared down at her own wrinkled, pocked, skeletal hands, then at the bowl clutched between them, the watery broth with its slivers of wine-stained meat. 'See this? The butcher of the goat. The slayer. Did he or she pause at the desperate cries of the animal? Look into its pleading eyes? Hesitate with the knife? In my dreams, I am as that goat. This is what you curse me to.'

'The slaughterer of the goat was Rhivi,' Korlat said after a moment. 'You and I know that ritual well, Mhybe. Propitiation. Calling upon the merciful spirit whose embrace is necessity. You and I both know how that spirit comes upon the goat, or indeed any such creature whose body shall feed your people, whose skin shall clothe you. And so the beast does not cry out, does not plead. I have witnessed ... and wondered, for it is indeed a remarkable thing. Unique to the Rhivi, not in its intent, but in its obvious efficacy. It is as if the ritual's arriving spirit shows the beast a better future – something beyond the life it's known to that point—'

'Lies,' the Mhybe murmured. 'The spirit deceives the poor creature. To make the slaying easier.'

Korlat fell silent.

The Mhybe raised the bowl to her lips.

'Perhaps, even then,' the Tiste Andii resumed, 'the deception is a gift... of mercy.'

'There is no such thing,' the Mhybe snapped. 'Words to comfort the killer and his kin and naught else. Dead is dead, as the Bridgeburners are wont to say. Those soldiers know the truth of it. Children of the Malazan Empire hold no illusions. They are not easily charmed.'

'You seem to know much of them.'

'Two marines come to visit occasionally. They've taken it upon themselves to guard my daughter. And to tell me of her, since no-one else has a mind to, and I cherish them for that.'

'I did not know this ...'

'It alarms you? Have terrible secrets been revealed to me? Will you now put a stop to it?'

A hand closed on her shoulder. 'I wish you would at least look upon my face, Mhybe. No, I will do no such thing. Nor am I aware of any dire secrets being kept from you. Indeed, I now wish to seek out these two marines, to thank them.'

'Leave them be, Korlat. They do not ask for thanks. They are simple soldiers, two women of the Empire. Through them, I know that Kruppe visits Silverfox regularly. He's taken on the role of kindly uncle, perhaps. Such a strange man, endearing despite the terrible curse he has laid upon me.'

'Curse? Oh. Mhybe, of all that I have seen of Kruppe, I can tell you, he is not one to curse anyone. I do not believe he ever imagined what the rebirthing of Tattersail would mean to you.'

'So very true, that. I understand it well, you see. He was called upon by the Elder God – who either chose to become involved or was so already. An abomination had been created, as Kallor has called it, and it was an abomination in fact. The withered corpse of Nightchill, Tattersail's soul trapped within it, the apparition webbed by T'lan Imass sorcery. A nightmare creation. The Elder God sought to save it, somehow, in some form, and for that it seemed he needed Kruppe. Thus. The Daru did all he could, believing it to be a mercy. But make no mistake, now, Korlat. Kruppe and his Elder God have decided to make use of the child they fashioned. Opportunistic or deliberate from the start? Does it matter? And lo, Kruppe now walks with Silverfox. Do they conspire? Am I blind ...'

'Conspire? To what end, Mhybe?'

'You don't know? I find that hard to believe.'

'Clearly, you have concluded we are all conspiring ... against you.'

'Aren't you?' With all the strength she could muster, the Mhybe flung the bowl away, heard it splash, bounce off something, heard a shout of surprise from Murillio, who – it seemed – had the misfortune to be in its path of flight. 'Guard me!' she hissed. 'Feed me! Watch me so I don't take my own life! And this is not a conspiracy? And my daughter – my own daughter – does she visit? No! When have I last seen her face? When? I can barely remember the time!'

The hand tightened on her shoulder. Korlat's voice, when she spoke, was low yet taut. 'I hear you, my friend. I shall get to the bottom of this. I shall discover the truth, and then I shall tell you. This I promise, Mhybe.'

'Then tell me, what has happened? Earlier today. I felt ... something. An event. Coll and Murillio spoke of a scene between Kruppe and Brood. Tell me, where was Silverfox in all this?'

'She was there,' Korlat replied. 'She joined me as I rode forward in answer to Whiskeyjack's summons. I will be honest, Mhybe. Something indeed did occur, before the clash between Brood and Kruppe. Your daughter has found ... protectors, but she will not extend that protection to you – for some reason she believes you are in danger, now. I do not know the source.'

Yet I do. Oh, Korlat, your friendship for me has blinded you. I am in danger indeed. From myself. 'Protectors. Who? What?'

Korlat drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. 'Silverfox asked that I say nothing to you of them. I could not understand why, yet I acquiesced. I realize now that to do so was wrong. Wrong to you, Mhybe. A conspiracy, and I shall not be party to it. Your daughter's protectors were wolves. Ancient, giant beasts—'

Terror ripped through the Mhybe. Snarling, she flung a hand at Korlat's face, felt her nails tear through skin. 'My hunters!' she screamed as the Tiste Andii flinched away. 'They want to kill me! My daughter—' My daughter! Plaguing my dreams! Spirits below, she wants to kill me!

Coll and Murillio had leapt onto the wagon, were shouting in alarm even as Korlat hissed at them to calm down, but the Mhybe ceased hearing them, ceased seeing anything of the world surrounding her at that moment. She continued thrashing, nails clawing the air, betrayal searing through her chest, turning her heart into ashes. My daughter! My daughter!

And my voice, it whimpers.

And my eyes, they plead.

And that knife is in her hands, and in her gaze there is naught but cold, cold intent.

 

Whiskeyjack's half-smile vanished when he turned upon Korlat's arrival, to see that her eyes were as white hot iron, to see as she stalked through the tent's entrance four parallel slashes on her right cheek, wet with blood that had run down to the line of her jaw and now dripped onto the rushes covering the floor.

The Malazan almost stepped back as the Tiste Andii strode towards him. 'Korlat, what has happened?'

'Hear my words, lover,' the woman grated in an icy voice. 'Whatever secrets you have withheld from me – about Tattersail reborn, about those damned T'lan Ay, about what you've instructed those two marines guarding the child to say to the Mhybe – you will tell me. Now.'

He felt himself grow cold, felt his face twitch at the full thrust of her fury. 'Instructions?' he asked quietly. 'I have given them no instructions. Not even to guard Silverfox. What they've done has been their own decision. What they might have said, that it should lead to this – well, I shall accept responsibility for that, for I am their commander. And I assure you, if punishment is required—'

'Stop. A moment, please.' Something had settled within her, and now she trembled.

Whiskeyjack thought to take her in his arms, but held back. She needed comfort, he sensed, but his instincts told him she was not yet ready to receive it. He glanced around, found a relatively clean hand-cloth, soaked it in a basin, then held it out to her.

She had watched in silence, the shade of her eyes deepening to slate grey, but she made no effort to accept the cloth.

He slowly lowered his hand.

'Why,' Korlat asked, 'did Silverfox insist that her mother not learn of the T'lan Ay?'

'I have no idea, Korlat, beyond the explanation she voiced. At the time, I thought you knew.'

'You thought I knew.'

He nodded.

'You thought that I had been keeping from you ... a secret. Something to do with Silverfox and her mother ...'

Whiskeyjack shrugged.

'Were you planning to confront me?'

'No.'

Her eyes widened on him. Silence stretched, then, 'For Hood's sake, clean my wounds.'

Relieved, he stepped closer and began, with the gentlest of touches, to daub her cuts. 'Who struck you?' he asked quietly.

'The Mhybe. I think I have just made a dreadful mistake, for all my good intentions ...'

'That's often the case,' he murmured, 'with good intentions.'

Korlat's gaze narrowed searchingly. 'Pragmatic Malazans. Clear-eyed indeed. Why do we keep thinking of you as just soldiers? Brood, Rake, Kallor ... myself, we all look upon you and Dujek and your army as something ... ancillary. A sword we hope to grasp in our hands when the need arrives. It seems now that we're all fools. In fact, not one of us has come to realize the truth of how things now stand.'

He frowned. 'And how do they now stand?'

'You have become our backbone. Somehow, you are what gives us our strength, holds us together. Oh, I know you possess secrets, Whiskeyjack—'

He smiled wryly. 'Not as many as you seem to think. I will tell you the biggest one. It's this. We feel outmatched. By you – by Rake, by Caladan Brood, by Kallor. By the Tiste Andii army and that of the Rhivi and the Barghast. Hood, even that mob of mercenaries accompanying you makes us nervous. We don't have your power. We're just an army. Our best wizard isn't even ranked. He's a squad mage, and right now he's very far away and, I suspect, feeling like a fly in a web. So, come the battles, we know we'll be the spear's head, and it's going to cost us dear. As for the Seer himself, and whatever hides behind him, well, we're now hoping you'll deal with that. Same goes for the Crippled God. You're right, Korlat, we're just soldiers. Tired ones, at that. If we're this combined army's backbone, then Hood help us, it's a bowed, brittle one.'

She reached up and laid her hand over his, pressed it against her cheek. Their eyes locked. 'Bowed and brittle? I think not.'

Whiskeyjack shook his head. 'I'm not being modest, Korlat. I speak the truth, though I fear you're not prepared to hear it.'

'Silverfox is manipulating her mother,' the Tiste Andii said after a moment. 'Somehow. Possibly even being responsible for the old woman's terrible nightmares.'

'I find that hard to countenance—'

'Not something Tattersail would do, right? But what of this Nightchill? Or the Thelomen? You knew them, Whiskeyjack. Better than any of us, at least. Is it possible that one of them – or both – are responsible for this?'

He said nothing while he completed wiping clean the wounds on her cheek. 'This will require a healer's touch, Korlat, lest infection—'

'Whiskeyjack.'

He sighed, stepped back. 'Nightchill, I fear, might well harbour feelings of betrayal. Her targets for vengeance could be chosen indiscriminately. Same for Bellurdan Skullcrusher. Both were betrayed, after all. If you are right, about what's happening to the Mhybe – that they're doing something to her – then I still think that Tattersail would be resisting them.'

'What if she's already lost the struggle?'

'I've seen no sign of—'

Korlat's eyes flashed and she jabbed a finger against his chest. 'Meaning your two marines have reported no sign of it!'

He grimaced. 'They are volunteers none the less, Korlat. Given the alarming extent of our ignorance in these matters, it pays to be watchful. Those two marines chose to guard Silverfox because they see in her Tattersail; Not just physically, but in the woman's personality as well. If anything had gone awry, they would've noticed it, and they would've come to me. Fast.'

Korlat lowered her hand. She sighed. 'And here I've come storming in to tear your head from your shoulders. Damn you, Whiskeyjack, how did I come to deserve you? And, the Abyss take me, why are you still here? After all my accusations ...'

'A few hours ago, Dujek made a similar entrance.' He grinned. 'It's just been that kind of day, I suppose. Now, we should call for a healer—'

'In a moment.' She studied him. 'Whiskeyjack. You've truly no idea of how rare a man you are, do you?'

'Rare?' His grin broadened. 'Of course I know. There's only one of me, thank Hood.'

'That's not what I meant.'

He moved closer and drew an arm about her waist. 'Time to find a healer, woman. I've got simple needs, and we're wasting time.'

'A soldier's reply,' she said. 'I'm not fooled, you know.'

Unseen by her, he closed his eyes. Oh, but you are, Korlat. If you'd known the full extent of my fear . . . that I might lose you . . .

 

Arms waving expansively, Kruppe, Eel of Darujhistan, occasional fence and thief, Defier of Caladan Brood the Warlord, ambled his way down the main avenue of tents towards the supply wagons. He had just come from the cook tent of the Mott Irregulars, and in each hand was a Nathi black-cake, dripping with syrup. A few paces in his wake, his mule kept pace, nose stretched out to those two cakes, ears pricked forward.

The second bell since midnight had just tolled through the camps, stirring the distant herds of bhederin to a mournful lowing, which faded as the beasts slipped back into slumber. As he reached the edge of the wagons – arranged rectangularly to form a wheeled fort – he noted two Malazan marines, cloaks wrapped about their bodies, sitting before a small dung-fire.

Kruppe altered his course and approached. 'Gentle friends,' he softly called.' Tis late and no doubt your pretty selves are due for some sweetness.'

The two women glanced up. 'Huh,' one of them grunted. 'It's that fat Daru.'

'And his mule, hovering there in the shadows.'

'Unique indeed is Kruppe! Behold!' He thrust forward the dripping cakes. 'For you, darlings.'

'So which should we eat, the cakes or your hands?'

The other drew her knife at her companion's words. 'A couple of quick cuts and we can choose for ourselves, right?'

Kruppe stepped back. 'Queen of Dreams! Hard-bitten and distinctly unfeminine! Guardians of fair Silverfox, yes? Reassuring truth. Heart of Tattersail, shining so bright from the child-now-woman—'

'Aye, we seen you before plenty enough. Chatting with the lass. She's the sorceress, all right. Plain to see for them of us who knew her.'

'Extraordinary disconnectiveness, this exchange. Kruppe is delighted—'

'We getting them syrup cakes or what?'

'Naturally, though the flash of that blade still blinds generous Kruppe.'

'Y'ain't got no sense of humour, have ya? Join us, if you dare.'

The Daru smiled and strode forward. 'Nathi black-cakes, my dears.'

'We recognize 'em. The Mott Irregulars used to throw them at us when they ran out of arrows.'

'Jaybar got one full in the face, as I recall.'

'That he did, then he stumbled and when he came up he was like the forest floor with eyes.'

'Dreadful sap, deadly weapon,' Kruppe agreed, once more offering the cakes to the two marines.

They took them.

'Courageous task, protection of the Rhivi lass.'

'She ain't no Rhivi lass. She's Tattersail. That fur and the hides are just for show.'

'Ah, then you have spoken with her.'

'Not much and we don't need to. These cakes go down better without all the twigs and leaves, don't they just.'

Kruppe blinked, then slowly nodded. 'No doubt. Vast responsibility, being the eyes of your commander regarding said lass.'

Both women paused in their chewing. They exchanged a glance, then one of them swallowed and said, 'Who, Dujek? If we're his eyes then he's blind as a mole.'

'Ah, Kruppe meant Whiskeyjack, of course.'

'Whiskeyjack ain't blind and he don't need us to see for him, either.'

'None the less,' the Daru smiled, 'he no doubt is greatly comforted by your self-appointed task and reports and such. Were Kruppe Whiskeyjack, he knows he would.'

'Would what?'

'Why, be comforted, of course.'

Both women grunted, then one snorted and said, 'That's a good one. If you were Whiskeyjack. Hah.'

'A figure of speech—'

'Ain't no such thing, fatty. You trying to walk in Whiskeyjack's footsteps? Trying to see through his eyes? Hah.'

'I'll say,' the other woman agreed. 'Hah.'

'And so you did,' Kruppe noted.

'Did what?'

'Agree.'

'Damned right. Whiskeyjack should've been Emperor, when the old one got knocked off. Not Laseen. But she knew who her rival was, didn't she just. That's why she stripped him of rank, turned him into a Hood-damned sergeant and sent him away, far away.'

'An ambitious man, this Whiskeyjack, then.'

'Not in the least, Daru. And that's the whole point. Would've made a good Emperor, I said. Not wanting the job is the best and only qualification worth considering.'

'A curious assertion, dear.'

'I ain't.'

'Pardon, you ain't what?'

'Curious. Listen, the Malazan Empire would be a far different thing if Whiskeyjack had taken the throne all those years ago. If he'd done what we all wanted him to do and grabbed Laseen by the scruff of the neck and sent her through a tower window.'

'And was he capable of such a remarkable feat?'

The two marines looked confused. One turned to her companion. 'Seen him out of his boots?'

The other shook her head. 'No. Still, they might be remarkable. Why not?'

'Then it'd be a boot to the backside, but I said by the scruff of the neck.'

'Well, feet that could do that would be remarkable, wouldn't they?'

'You got a point, friend.'

'Ahem,' Kruppe interrupted. 'A remarkable feat, dears. As in achievement.'

'Oh.'

'Oh yeah, right. Got it. So you're asking could he have done it if he'd a mind to? Sure. Not good to cross Whiskeyjack, and if that's not enough, he's got wits.'

'So, why then, Kruppe asks in wonder, did he not do so at the time?'

'Because he's a soldier, you idiot. Laseen's taking the throne was messy enough. The whole empire was shaky. People start stabbing and jumping into a blood-wet throne and sometimes it don't stop, sometimes it's like dominoes, right? One after another after another, and the whole thing falls apart. He was the one we all looked to, right? Waiting to see how he'd take it, Laseen and all that. And when he just saluted and said, "Yes, Empress," well, things just settled back down.'

'He was giving her a chance, you see.'

'Of course. And do you lasses now believe he made a mistake?'

The women shrugged in unison. 'Don't matter, now,' one said. 'We're here and here's here and that's that.'

'So be it and so be it,' Kruppe said, rising with a sigh. 'Wondrous conversation. Kruppe thanks you and will now take his leave.'

'Right. Thanks for the cakes.'

'Kruppe's pleasure. Good night, dears.'

He ambled off, back towards the supply wagons.

 

As he disappeared into the gloom the two marines said nothing for a time, busy as they were licking the sap from their fingers.

Then one sighed.

The other followed suit.

'Well?'

'Ah, that was damned easy.'

'Think so?'

'Sure. He came expecting to find two brains and found barely one.'

'Still, it might've babbled too much.'

'That's the nature of half-brains, love. T'do otherwise would've made him suspicious.'

'What do you figure he and Tattersail talk about, anyway?'

'The old woman, is my guess.'

'I'd figured the same.'

'They got something in the works.'

'My suspicions exactly.'

'And Tattersail's in charge.'

'So she is.'

'Which is good enough for me.'

'Same here. You know, that black-cake wasn't quite the same without the twigs and leaves.'

'That's odd, I was just thinking the same thing ...'

 

Within the wheeled fort, Kruppe approached another campfire. The two men huddled around it looked up as he arrived.

'What's with your hands?' Murillio asked.

'All that Kruppe touches sticks to him, my friend.'

'Well,' Coll rumbled, 'we've known that for years.'

'And what's with that damned mule?' Murillio enquired.

'The beast haunts me in truth, but never mind that. Kruppe has had an interesting discourse with two marines. And he is pleased to inform that the lass Silverfox is in capable hands indeed.'

'Sticky as yours?'

'They are now, dear Murillio, they are now.'

'What you say is fine enough,' Coll said, 'but is it any help to us? There's an old woman sleeping in yon wagon whose broken heart is the least of her pains and it's bad enough to break the strongest man, let alone a frail ancient.'

'Kruppe is pleased to assure you that matters of vast mercy are in progress. Momentary appearances are to be discounted.'

'Then why not tell her that?' Coll growled, nodding towards the Mhybe's wagon.

'Ah, but she is not yet ready to receive such truths, alas. This is a journey of the spirit. She must begin it within herself. Kruppe and Silverfox can only do so much, despite our apparent omnipotence.'

'Omnipotence, is it?' Coll shook his head. 'Yesterday, and I'd laugh at that claim. So you faced down Caladan Brood, did you? I'm interested in precisely how you managed that, you damned toad.'

Kruppe's brows rose. 'Dear boon companion Coll! Your lack of faith crushes frail Kruppe to his very toes which are themselves wriggling in anguish!'

'For Hood's sake don't show us,' Murillio said. 'You've been wearing those slippers for as long as I've known you, Kruppe. Poleil herself would balk at what might lurk likely between them.'

'And well she should! To answer Coll with succinct precision, Kruppe proclaims that anger – nay, rage – has no efficacy against one such as himself, for whom the world is as a pearl nestled within the slimy confines of his honed and muscled brain. Uh, perhaps the allusion falters with second thought ... and worse with third. Kruppe tries again! For whom, it was said, the world is naught but a plumaged dream of colours and wonders unimagined, where even time itself has lost meaning, speaking of which, it's very late, yes? Sleep beckons, the stream of calm transubstantiation that metamorphoses oblivion into reparation and rejuvenation, and that alone is wonder enough for one and all to close this fitful night!' He fluttered his hands in a final wave and walked off. After a moment, the mule trotted in his wake.

The two men stared after them.

'Would that Brood's hammer connected with that oily pate,' Coll rumbled after a moment.

'It'd likely slip,' Murillio said.

'Aye, true enough.'

'Mussels and brains and cheesy toes, by the Abyss, I think I'm going to be sick.'

 

High above the camp, Crone crooked her weary, leaden wings and spiralled down towards the warlord's tent. Despite her exhaustion, shivers of excitement and curiosity ran through her. The fissure to the north of the encampment still bled Burn's fouled blood. The Great Raven had felt that detonation when still over the Vision Mountains far to the southeast, and had instantly known it for what it was.

Caladan Brood's anger.

Kiss of the hammer, and with it an explosive reshaping of the natural world. She could see despite the darkness, and the sharply defined spine of a basaltic mountain range loomed where no mountains belonged, here at the heart of the Catlin plain. And the sorcery emanating from the blood of the Sleeping Goddess – it, too, Crone recognized.

The touch of the Crippled God. Within Burn's veins, a transformation was taking place. The Fallen One was making her blood his own. And that is a taste I know well, for it was as mother's milk to me, so very long ago. To me, and to my kin.

Changes had come to the world below, and Crone revelled in changes. Her soul and that of her kin had been stirred once more to acute wakefulness. She never felt more alive.

Slipping beneath the warm thermals, she descended, bobbing on pockets of cool air – echoes of the traumatic disturbance that had churned through the atmosphere at the eruption of Brood's fury – then sliding down to land with a soft thump on the earth before the warlord's tent.

No lights showed within.

Faintly cackling, Crone hopped beneath the half-hitched entrance flap.

'Not a word,' Brood rumbled from the darkness, 'about my temper's snapped leash.'

The Great Raven cocked her head towards the cot. The warlord was seated on its edge, head in his hands. 'As you wish,' Crone murmured.

'Make your report.'

'I shall. First, from Anomander Rake. He has succeeded. Moon's Spawn has passed unseen and now ... hides. My children are ranging far over the lands of the Pannion Seer. Warlord, not just their eyes have witnessed the truth of all that lies below. I myself have seen—'

'Save those details for later. Moon's Spawn is in place. Good. Did you fly to Capustan as I requested?'

'I did, grave one. And was witness to the first day and first night of battle.'

'Your assessment, Crone?'

'The city will not hold, Warlord. Through no fault of the defenders. What opposes them is too vast.'

Brood grunted. 'Perhaps we should have reconsidered Dujek's disposition of the Black Moranth—'

'Ah, they too are emplaced, precisely where Onearm wanted them to be.' Crone hesitated, turning first one eye then the other towards Caladan Brood. 'One unusual detail must be uttered now, Warlord. Will you hear it?'

'Very well.'

'The Seer wages a war to the south.'

Brood's head snapped up.

'Aye,' Crone nodded. 'My children have seen Domin armies, routed and retreating north. To Outlook itself. The Seer has unleashed formidable sorceries against the unknown enemy. Rivers of ice, walls of ice. Blistering cold, winds and storms – it has been a long time since we have witnessed said particular warren unveiled.'

'Omtose Phellack. The warren of the Jaghut.'

'Even so. Warlord, you seem less surprised by that than I had anticipated.'

'Of a war to the south, I am indeed surprised, Crone.' He rose, drawing a fur blanket about his shoulders, and began pacing. 'Of Omtose Phellack ... no, I am not surprised.'

'Thus. The Seer is not as he seems.'

'Evidently not. Rake and I had suspicions...'

'Well,' Crone snapped, 'had I known them I would have more closely examined the situation at Outlook. Your recalcitrance wounds us all.'

'We'd no proof, Crone. Besides, we value your feathered hide too highly to risk your close approach to an unknown enemy's fastness. It is done. Tell me, does the Seer remain in Outlook?'

'My kin were unable to determine that. There are condors in the area, and they did not appreciate our presence.'

'Why should mundane birds cause you trouble?'

'Not entirely mundane. Aye, mortal birds are little more than feathered lizards, but these particular condors were more lizard than most.'

'The Seer's own eyes?'

'Possibly.'

'That could prove troublesome.'

Crone shrugged with her wings half crooked. 'Have you some slivers of meat? I hunger.'

'There's leftover goat from supper in the refuse pit behind the tent.'

'What? You would have me eat from a refuse pit V

'You're a damned raven, Crone, why not?'

'Outrage! But if that's all there is...'

'It is.'

Clucking to contain her fury, Crone hopped towards the tent's back wall. 'Take me as an example in the future,' she murmured as she began edging her way under the fabric.

'What do you mean?' Brood asked behind her.

She ducked her head back inside, opened her beak in a silent laugh, then replied, 'Did I lose my temper?'

Growling, he stepped towards her.

The Great Raven squawked and fled.