The birth of Barghast gods rang like a hammer on the anvil of the pantheon. Primordial in their aspect, these ascended spirits emerged from the Hold of the Beast, that most ancient of realms from the long-lost Elder Deck. Possessors of secrets and mysteries born in the bestial shadow of humanity, theirs was a power wreathed in antiquity.

Indeed, the other gods must have felt the tremor of their rising, rearing their heads in alarm and consternation. One of their own, after all, had just been abandoned in the mortal realm, whilst a First Hero assumed the warrior mantle in his place. More, the Fallen One had returned to the game in dire malice, corrupting the warrens to announce his deadly desire for vengeance and, it must be said in clear-eyed retrospect, domination.

Burn's sleep was fevered. Human civilization floundered in countless lands, drowning in the mire of spilled blood. These were dark times, and it was a darkness that seemed made for the dawn of the Barghast gods . . .

In the Wake of Dreams
Imrygyn Tallobant the Younger

 

The wizard's eyes opened.

To see, squatting atop a backpack directly in front of him, a small figure of wrapped sticks and knotted twine, its head an acorn, that now cocked slightly to one side.

'Awake. Yes. A mind once more sound.'

Quick Ben grimaced. 'Talamandas. For a moment there, I thought I was reliving a particularly unpleasant nightmare.'

'By your ravings these past few days and nights, Ben Adaephon Delat, you've lived through more than a few unpleasant nightmares, yes?'

Light rain was pattering on the tent's sloped walls. The wizard pushed the furs from his body and slowly sat up. He found he was wearing little more than his thin wool undergarments: leather armour and quilted tunic had been removed. He was sweat-chilled, the grubby, coarse wool damp. 'Ravings?'

The sticksnare's laugh was soft. 'Oh yes. And I listened, I listened indeed. So, you know the cause of the illness besetting the Sleeping Goddess. You would set yourself in the Crippled God's path, match his wits if not his power, and defeat all he seeks. Mortal, yours is a surpassing conceit ... which I cannot but applaud.'

Quick Ben sighed, scanning the tumbled contents of the tent. 'Mockingly, no doubt. Where are the rest of my clothes?'

'I do not mock you, Wizard. Indeed, I am humbled by the depth of your ... integrity. To find such, in a common soldier, one serving a malevolent, spiteful Empress who sits on a blood-stained throne, ruling an empire of murderers—'

'Now hold on, you misbegotten puppet—'

Talamandas laughed. 'Oh, but it has always been so, has it not? Within the rotting corpse hide diamonds! Pure of heart and stalwart with honour, yet besieged within their own house by the foulest of masters. And when the historians are done, the ink drying, may the house shine and sparkle even as it burns!'

'You've lost me, runt,' Quick Ben muttered. 'How long have I been ... out?'

'Long enough. With the city retaken, the Thrall yielding the bones of our Founders, and the Pannions driven into the maw of Brood and your Malazan kin, well, you have missed most of the fun. For the moment, in any case. The tale's far from done, after all.'

The wizard found his quilted tunic. 'All of that,' he muttered as he pulled the heavy garment on, 'would have been nice to witness, but given my present lack of efficacy—'

'Ah, as to that. . .'

Quick Ben glanced at the sticksnare. 'Go on.'

'You would best the Crippled God, yet you find yourself unable to use the powers you possess. How, then, will you manage?'

He reached for his leggings. 'I'll think of something, eventually. Of course, you think you have an answer for me, don't you?'

'I do.'

'Well, let's hear it, then.'

'My gods are awakened, Wizard. Nose in the air, gleaning the scent of things, given to troubled thought and dour contemplation. You, Ben Adaephon Delat, pursue a worthy course. Sufficiently bold to snare their regard. Leading to certain conclusions. Sacrifices must be made. To your cause. Into the warrens, a necessary step. Thus, the need to supply you with ... suitable armour. So that you may be fended from the Crippled God's poisons.'

Quick Ben massaged his brow. 'Talamandas, if you and your gods have sewn together some kind of impervious cloak or baldric or something, just say so. Please.'

'Nothing so ... bland, Wizard. No, your flesh itself must be immune to infection. Your mind must be implacable to fevers and other similar plagues. You must be imbued with protective powers that by nature defy all that the Crippled God attempts when he seeks to thwart you.'

'Talamandas, what you describe is impossible.'

'Precisely.' The sticksnare untangled itself and rose. 'Thus. Before you, stands the worthy sacrifice. Twigs and twine do not sicken. A soul that has known death cannot be made fevered. The protective powers binding me are ancient and vast, the highest of sorceries to trap me within myself—'

'Yet you were taken. Once before. Torn from your barrow—'

'By necromancers, rot their foul hearts. There shall be no repetition. My gods have seen to that, with the power of their own blood. I shall accompany you, Ben Adaephon Delat. Into the warrens. I am your shield. Use me. Take me where you will.'

Quick Ben's dark eyes narrowed as he studied the stick-snare. 'I don't walk straight paths, Talamandas. And no matter how little sense my actions may make to you, I won't waste time with explanations.'

'My gods have given their trust in you, mortal.'

'Why?'

'Because they like you.'

'Hood's breath! What have I been raving about?'

'I cannot in truth tell you why they trust you, Wizard, only that they do. Such matters are not for me to question. In your fevered state, you revealed the way your mind works – you wove a net, a web, yet even I could not discern all the links, the connecting threads. Your grasp of causality surpasses my intellect, Ben Adaephon Delat. Perhaps my gods caught a glimmer of your design. Perhaps no more than a hint, triggering an instinctive suspicion that in you, mortal, the Crippled God will meet his match.'

Quick Ben climbed to his feet and strode to where his leather armour and Bridgeburner colours waited in a heap near the tent flap. 'That's the plan, anyway. All right, Talamandas, we've a deal. I admit, I was at a loss as to how to proceed without my warrens.' He paused, turned to the sticksnare once more. 'Maybe you can answer me a few questions. Someone else is in this game. Seems to be shaping its own opposition to the Fallen One. Do you know who or what that might be?'

Talamandas shrugged. 'Elder Gods, Wizard. My Barghast gods conclude their actions have been reactionary by and large—'

'Reactionary?'

'Aye, a kind of fighting withdrawal. They seem incapable of changing the future, only preparing for it.'

'That's damned fatalistic of them.'

'Their perennial flaw, Wizard.'

Quick Ben shrugged himself into his armour. 'Mind you,' he muttered, 'it's not really their battle. Except for maybe K'rul. . .'

Talamandas leapt to the floor and scrambled to stand directly in front of the wizard. 'What did you say? K'rul? What do you know of him?'

Quick Ben raised an eyebrow. 'Well, he made the warrens, after all. We swim his immortal blood – we mages, and everyone else who employs the pathways of sorcery, including the gods. Yours, too, I imagine.'

The sticksnare hopped about, twig fingers clutching at the yellowed grass bound to its acorn head. 'No-one knows all that! No-one! You – you – how can you – aagh! The web! The web of your infernal brain!'

'K'rul is in worse shape even than Burn, given the nature of the Crippled God's assault,' Quick Ben said. 'So, if I felt helpless, imagine how he must feel. Makes that fatalism a little more understandable, don't you think? And if that's not enough, all the last surviving Elder Gods have lived under a host of nasty curses for a long, long time. Haven't they? Given those circumstances, who wouldn't be feeling a little fatalistic?'

'Bastard mortal! Warp and weft! Deadly snare! Out with it, damn you!'

Quick Ben shrugged. 'Your Barghast gods aren't ready to go it alone. Not by throwing all their weight behind me, in any case. Not a chance, Talamandas – they're still babes in the woods. Now, the Elder Gods have been on the defensive – tried to go it alone, I imagine. Legendary hubris, with that lot. But that wasn't working, so they've gone looking for allies.

'Thus ... who was at work refashioning you into something capable of shielding me in the warrens? Hood, for one, I'd imagine. Layers of death protecting your soul. And your own Barghast gods, of course. Cutting those binding spells that constrained your own power. And Fener's thrown you a bone, or Treach, or whoever's on that particular roost right now – you can hit back if something comes at you. And I'd guess the Queen of Dreams has stepped in, a bridge between you and the Sleeping Goddess, to turn you into a lone and likely formidable crusader against the poison in her flesh, and in K'rul's veins. So, you're all ready to go, but where? How? And that's where I come in. How am I doing so far, Talamandas?'

'We are relying upon you, Ben Adaephon Delat,' the sticksnare growled.

'To do what?'

'Whatever it is you're planning to do!' Talamandas shrieked. 'And it had better work!'

After a long moment, Quick Ben grinned down at the creature.

But said nothing.

The sticksnare scrambled after Quick Ben when he left the tent. The mage paused to look around. What he had thought to be rain had been, in fact, water dripping from the leaves of a broad, verdant oak, its branches hanging over the tent. It was late afternoon, the sky clear overhead.

A Barghast encampment was sprawled out on all sides. Wicker and hide dwellings rose from the forest floor along the base of a lightly treed slope directly behind the wizard, whilst before him – to the south – were the dun-coloured humps of rounded tipis. The different styles reflected at least two distinct tribes. The mud-churned pathways crisscrossing the encampment were crowded with warriors, many wounded or bearing fallen kin.

'Where,' Quick Ben asked Talamandas, 'are my fellow Bridgeburners?'

'First into Capustan, Wizard, and still there. At the Thrall, likely.'

'Did they get into any fighting?'

'Only at the north gate – breaking through the siege line. Swiftly done. There are none wounded, Ben Adaephon Delat. Making your tribe unique, yes?'

'So I see,' Quick Ben murmured, watching the warriors filing into the camp. 'Not much duelling of late, I take it.'

The sticksnare grunted. 'True enough. Our gods have spoken to our shamans, who have in turn conveyed to the clan warriors a ... chastisement. It would appear that the White Faces are not yet done with these Pannions – or with your war, Wizard.'

Quick Ben glanced down. 'You'll be marching south with us, Talamandas?'

'We shall. It is not enough blunting the sword – we must sever the hand wielding it.'

'I need to contact my allies ... in the army to the west. Should I attempt a warren?'

'I am ready.'

'Good. Let's find somewhere private.'

 

Two leagues to the west of Capustan, in the shadows edging down a broad slope, the massed ranks of Malazan heavy infantry locked shields and advanced. Marines armed with crossbows ranged ahead, firing quarrels into the milling line of Betaklites less than thirty paces distant.

Whiskeyjack watched through the slits of his helm's visor from where he had reined in at the hill's crest, his horse tossing its head at the smell of blood. Aides and messengers gathered around him.

Dujek's flank attack on the Septarch's regiment of archers had virtually eliminated the whizzing flight of arrows from the valley side opposite. Whiskeyjack's heavy infantry had drawn their fire, which had provided Onearm's heavy cavalry the time needed to mount a charge along the north slope. Had the Pannion archers the discipline – and competent commanders – they would have had time to wheel in formation and loose at least three flights at the charging cavalry, perhaps sufficient to beat off the attack. Instead, they had milled in confusion upon seeing the horsewarriors closing on their right flank, then had disintegrated into a rout. Pursuit and wholesale slaughter followed.

The marines slipped back through aisles in the advancing heavy infantry. They would reappear on each wing, resuming their crossbow-fire against the enemy line's edges. Before then, however, four thousand silent, scale-armoured and shield-bearing veterans closed with the Betaklites. Javelins preceded their charge when but a dozen paces remained, the long-headed, barbed spears cutting into the Pannion line – a tactic peculiar to Onearm's Host – then thrusting swords snapped from scabbards. And the Malazans surged forward.

The Betaklite line crumpled.

Whiskeyjack's heavy infantry reformed into individual four-squad wedges, each one independently driving deeper into the Pannion ranks once the battle was fully joined.

The details before the commander were precise in following the Malazan doctrine of set battles, as devised by Dassem Ultor decades past. Shield-locked lines and squares worked best in defending engagements. When delivering chaos into massed enemy ranks in an assault, however, it was found that smaller, tighter units worked best. A successful advance that drove the enemy back often lost its momentum, and, indeed, its contact with the retreating foes, amidst a corpse-cluttered ground and the need to maintain closed ranks. Almost a thousand four-squad wedges, of thirty-five to forty soldiers each, on the other hand, actually delayed the moment of rout. Flight was more difficult, communication problematic, and lines of sight to fellow soldiers often broken – none knew what the others were doing, and in the face of that uncertainty, they often hesitated before fleeing – a fatal option. There was another choice, of course, and that was to fight, but it took a very special army to be capable of maintaining such discipline and adaptability in those circumstances, and in those instances the Malazan forces would hold their shield-locked formation.

These Betaklites possessed none of these qualities. Within fifty heartbeats, the division was shattered. Entire companies, finding themselves surrounded by the silent, deadly Malazans, flung their weapons down.

This part of the battle, Whiskeyjack concluded, was finished.

A Saltoan messenger rode up to Whiskeyjack's side. 'Sir! Word from the warlord!'

Whiskeyjack nodded.

'The Ilgres Barghast and their Rhivi skirmishers have broken the Seerdomin and Urdomen. There was a Mage Cadre active in the engagement, at least at the start, but the Tiste Andii nullified them. Brood owns the field on the south flank.'

'Very good,' Whiskeyjack grunted. 'Anything else?'

'Sir, a well-aimed slingstone from a Rhivi gave Septarch Kulpath a third eye – killed the bastard outright. We are in possession of his army's standard, sir.'

'Inform the warlord that the Betaklites, Beklites, Scalandi and Desandi companies have been defeated. We command the centre and north. Enquire of the warlord as to our next move – my scouts inform me that upwards of two hundred thousand Tenescowri are encamped half a league to the east. Rather mauled by all accounts, yet potentially a nuisance. At the same time – and on this Dujek and I are agreed – an unmitigated slaughter of these peasants would not sit well with us.'

'I will convey your words, Commander.' The messenger saluted, swung his horse round, and rode southward.

A slash of darkness opened before Whiskeyjack, startling his horse and those of the riders nearest him. Snorting, stamping, the beast came close to rearing until a low growl from Whiskeyjack calmed it. His retinue managed the same.

Korlat emerged from her warren. Her black armour glittered with blood-spray, but he saw no obvious wounds. None the less ...

'Are you injured?'

She shook her head. 'A hapless Pannion warlock. Whiskeyjack, I need you to come with me. Are you done here?'

He grimaced, ever loath to leave a battle – even one drawing to a quick, satisfying conclusion. 'I'll assume it's important – enough to have you risk your warren – so the answer is yes. Do we go far?'

'To Dujek's command tent.'

'He's taken wounds?'

'No. All is well, you old worrier,' she said, cracking a smile. 'How long would you have me wait?'

'Well enough,' he growled. He turned to an officer sitting on a roan destrier nearby. 'Barack, you're in charge here.'

The young man's eyes widened. 'Sir, I'm a captain—'

'So here's your chance. Besides, I'm a sergeant – at least I would be if I was still drawing coin on the Empress's paylists. Besides again, you're the only officer present who doesn't have his or her own company to worry about.'

'But sir, I am Dujek's liaison to the Black Moranth—'

'And are they here?'

'Uh, no sir.'

'So, enough jawing and make sure things get wrapped up here, Barack.'

'Yes, sir.'

Whiskeyjack dismounted and handed the reins of his charger to an aide, then joined Korlat. He resisted an urge to draw her into his arms, and was disconcerted to see a glimmer of prescient knowledge in her eyes.

'Not in front of the troops, surely,' she murmured.

He growled. 'Lead me through, woman.'

 

Whiskeyjack had travelled a warren only a few times, but his memories of those fraught journeys did little to prepare him for Kurald Galain. Taking him by the hand, Korlat drew him into the ancient realm of Mother Dark, and though he could feel the sure grip of her fingers, he stepped into blindness.

No light. Gritty flagstones under his boots, the air perfectly motionless, scentless, with an ambient temperature that seemed no different from that of his skin.

He was pulled forward, his boots seeming to barely touch the floor.

A sudden streak of grey assaulted his eyes, and he heard Korlat hiss: 'We are assailed even here – the Crippled God's poison seeps deep, Whiskeyjack. This does not bode well.'

He cleared his throat. 'No doubt Anomander Rake has recognized the threat, and if so, do you know what he plans to do about it?'

'One thing at a time, dear lover. He is the Knight of Darkness, the Son. Mother Dark's own champion. Not one to shy from a confrontation.'

'I'd never have guessed,' he replied wryly. 'What's he waiting for, then?'

'We're a patient people, us Tiste Andii. The true measure of power lies in the wisdom to wait for the propitious moment. When it comes, and he judges it to be so, then Anomander Rake will respond.'

'Presumably the same holds for unleashing Moon's Spawn on the Pannion Domin.'

'Aye.'

And, somehow, Rake's managed to hide a floating fortress the size of a mountain... 'You've considerable faith in your Lord, haven't you?'

He felt her shrug through the hand clasped in his. 'There is sufficient precedent to disregard notions of faith, when it comes to my Lord. I am comforted by certainty.'

'Glad to hear it. And are you comfortable with me, Korlat?'

'Devious man. The answer to every facet of that question is yes. Would you now have me ask in kind?'

'You shouldn't have to.'

'Tiste Andii or human, when it comes to males, they're all the same. Perhaps I shall force the words from you none the less.'

'You won't have to work hard. My answer's the same as yours.'

'Which is?'

'Why, the very word you used, of course.'

He grunted at the jab in his ribs. 'Enough of that. We've arrived.'

The portal opened to painful light – the interior of Dujek's command tent, shrouded in the gloom of late afternoon. They stepped within, the warren closing silently behind them.

'If all this was just to get me alone—'

'Gods, the ego!' She gestured with her free hand and a ghostly figure took form in front of Whiskeyjack. A familiar face – that smiled.

'What a charming sight,' the apparition said, eyeing them. 'Hood knows, I can't recall the last time I had a woman.'

'Watch your tongue, Quick Ben,' Whiskeyjack growled, disengaging his hand from Korlat's. 'It's been a while, and you look terrible.'

'Why, thanks a whole lot, Commander. I'll have you know I feel even worse. But I can traverse my warrens, now, more or less shielded from the Fallen One's poison. I bring news from Capustan – do you want it or not?'

Whiskeyjack grinned. 'Go ahead.'

'The White Faces hold the city.'

'We'd guessed that much, once Twist delivered the news of your success with the Barghast, and once the Pannion army stumbled into our laps.'

'Fine. Well, assuming you've taken care of that army, I'll add just one more thing. The Barghast are marching with us. South. If you and Dujek found things tense dealing with Brood and Kallor and company – your pardon, Korlat – now you've got Humbrall Taur to deal with as well.'

Whiskeyjack grunted at that. 'What's he like, then?'

'Too clever by half, but at least he's united the clans, and he's clear-eyed on the mess he's heading into.'

'I'm glad one of us is. How fare Paran and the Bridgeburners?'

'Reportedly fine, though I haven't seen them in a while. They are at the Thrall – with Humbrall Taur and the survivors of the city's defenders.'

Whiskeyjack's brows rose. 'There are survivors?'

'Aye, so it seems. Non-combatants still cowering in tunnels. And some Grey Swords. Hard to believe, isn't it? Mind you, I doubt there's much fight left in them. From what I've heard about Capustan's streets...' Quick Ben shook his head. 'You'll have to see it to believe it. So will I, in fact, which is what I'm about to do. With your leave, that is.'

'With caution, I trust.'

The wizard smiled. 'No-one will see me unless I want them to, sir. When do you anticipate reaching Capustan?'

Whiskeyjack shrugged. 'We've the Tenescowri to deal with. That could get complicated.'

Quick Ben's dark eyes narrowed. 'You're not intending to parley with them, are you?'

'Why not? Better than slaughter, Wizard.'

'Whiskeyjack, the Barghast are returning with stories . . . of what happened in Capustan, of what the Tenescowri did to the defenders. They have a leader, those Tenescowri, a man named Anaster, the First Child of the Dead Seed. The latest rumour is he personally skinned Prince Jelarkan, then served him up as the main course of a banquet – in the prince's own throne room.'

The breath hissed from Korlat.

Grimacing, Whiskeyjack said, 'If such crimes can be laid with certainty at the feet of this Anaster – or of any Tenescowri – then Malazan military law will prevail.'

'Simple execution grants them a mercy not accorded their victims.'

'Then they will be fortunate that Onearm's Host captured them, and none other.'

Quick Ben still looked troubled. 'And Capustan's surviving citizens, the defenders and the priests of the Thrall – will they have no say in the disposition of the prisoners? Sir, troubled times might await us.'

'Thank you for the warning, Wizard.'

After a moment, Quick Ben shrugged, then sighed. 'See you in Capustan, Whiskeyjack.'

'Aye.'

The apparition faded.

Korlat turned to the commander. 'Malazan military law.'

He raised his brows. 'My sense of Caladan Brood is that he's not the vengeful type. Do you anticipate a clash?'

'I know what Kallor will advise.' A hint of tension was present in her tone.

'So do I, but I don't think the warlord's inclined to listen. Hood knows, he hasn't thus far.'

'We have not yet seen Capustan.'

He released a long breath, drew off his gauntlets. 'Horrors to answer in kind.'

'An unwritten law,' she said in a low voice. 'An ancient law.'

'I don't hold to it,' Whiskeyjack growled. 'We become no better, then. Even simple execution...' He faced her. 'Over two hundred thousand starving peasants. Will they stand about like sheep? Not likely. As prisoners? We couldn't feed them if we tried, nor have we sufficient soldiers to spare guarding them.'

Korlat's eyes were slowly widening. 'You are proposing we leave them, aren't you?'

She's leading up to something here. I've caught glimmers before, the whisper of a hidden wedge, poised to drive itself between us. 'Not all of them. We'll take their leaders. This Anaster, and his officers – assuming there are any. If the Tenescowri walked a path of atrocity, then the First Child led the way.' Whiskeyjack shook his head. 'But the real criminal awaits us within the Domin itself – the Seer – who would starve his followers into cannibalism, into madness. Who would destroy his own people. We'd be executing the victims – his victims.'

The Tiste Andii frowned. 'By that token, we should absolve the Pannion armies as well, Whiskeyjack.'

The Malazan's grey eyes hardened. 'Our enemy is the Seer. Dujek and I agree on this – we're not here to annihilate a nation. The armies that impede our march to the Seer, we will deal with. Efficiently. Retribution and revenge are distractions.'

'And what of liberation? The conquered cities—'

'Incidental, Korlat. I'm surprised at your confusion on this. Brood saw it the same as we did – at that first parley when tactics were discussed. We strike for the heart—'

'I believe you misunderstood, Whiskeyjack. For over a decade, the warlord has been waging a war of liberation – from the rapacious hunger of your Malazan Empire. Caladan Brood has now shifted his focus – a new enemy – but the same war. Brood is here to free the Pannions—'

'Hood's breath! You can't free a people from themselves!'

'He seeks to free them from the Seer's rule.'

'And who exalted the Seer to his present status?'

'Yet you speak of absolving the commonalty, even the soldiers of the Pannion armies, Whiskeyjack. And that is what is confusing me.'

Not entirely. 'We speak at cross-purposes here, Korlat. Neither I nor Dujek will willingly assume the role of judge and executioner – should we prove victorious. Nor are we here to put the pieces back together for the Pannions. That's for them to do. That responsibility will turn us into administrators, and to effectively administrate, we must occupy.'

She barked a harsh laugh. 'And is that not the Malazan way, Whiskeyjack?'

'This is not a Malazan war!'

'Isn't it? Are you sure?'

He studied her through slitted eyes. 'What do you mean? We're outlawed, woman. Onearm's Host is...' He fell silent, seeing a flatness come to Korlat's gaze, then realized – too late – that he had just failed a test. And with that failure had ended the trust that had grown between them. Damn, I walked right into it. Wide-eyed stupid.

She smiled then, and it was a smile of pain and regret. 'Dujek approaches. You might as well await him here.'

The Tiste Andii turned and strode from the tent.

Whiskeyjack stared after her, then, when she'd left, he flung his gauntlets on the map table and sat down on Dujek's cot. Should I have told you, Korlat? The truth? That we've got a knife at our throats. And the hand holding it – on Empress Laseen's behalf – is right here in this very camp, and has been ever since the beginning.

He heard a horse thump to a halt outside the tent. A few moments later Dujek Onearm entered, his armour sheathed in dust. 'Ah, wondered where you'd got to—'

'Brood knows,' Whiskeyjack cut in, his voice low and raw.

Dujek paused but a moment. 'He does, does he? What, precisely, has he worked out?'

'That we're not quite as outlawed as we've made out to be.'

'Any further?'

'Isn't that enough, Dujek?'

The High Fist strode over to the side table where waited a jug of ale. He unstoppered it and poured two tankards full. 'There are ... mitigating circumstances—'

'Relevant only to us. You and I—'

'And our army—'

'Who believe their lives are forfeit in the Empire, Dujek. Made into victims once again – no, it's you and I and no-one else this time.'

Dujek drained his tankard, refilled it in silence. Then he said, 'Are you suggesting we spread our hand on the table for Brood and Korlat? In the hopes that they'll do something about our ... predicament?'

'I don't know – not if we're hoping for absolution for having maintained this deceit all this time. That would be a motive that wouldn't sit well with me, even if patently untrue. Appearances—'

'Will make it seem precisely that, aye. "We've been lying to you from the very beginning to save our own necks. But now that you know, we'll tell you ..." Gods, that's insulting even to me and I'm the one saying it. All right, the alliance is in trouble—'

A thud against the tent flap preceded the arrival of Artanthos. 'Your pardon, sirs,' the man said, flat eyes studying the two soldiers in turn before he continued, 'Brood has called for a counsel.'

Ah, standard-bearer, your timing is impeccable . . .

Whiskeyjack collected the tankard awaiting him and drained it, then turned to Dujek and nodded.

The High Fist sighed. 'Lead the way, Artanthos, we're right behind you.'

 

The encampment seemed extraordinarily quiet. The Mhybe had not realized how comforting the army's presence had been on the march. Now, only elders and children and a few hundred rearguard Malazan soldiers remained. She had no idea how the battle fared; either way, deaths would make themselves felt. Mourning among the Rhivi and Barghast, bereft voices rising into the darkness.

Victory is an illusion. In all things.

She fled in her dreams every night. Red and was, eventually, caught, only to awaken. Sudden, as if torn away, her withered body shivering, aches filling her joints. An escape of sorts, yet in truth she left one nightmare for another.

An illusion. In all things.

This wagon bed had become her entire world, a kind of mock sanctuary that reappeared each and every time sleep ended. The rough woollen blankets and furs wrapped around her were a personal landscape, the bleak terrain of dun folds startlingly similar to what she had seen when in the dragon's grip, when the undead beast flew high over the tundra in her dream, yielding an echo of the freedom she had experienced then, an echo that was painfully sardonic.

To either side of her ran wooden slats. Their patterns of grain and knots had become intimate knowledge. Far to the north, she recalled, among the Nathii, the dead were buried in wood boxes. The custom had been born generations ago, arising from the more ancient practice of interring corpses in hollowed-out tree trunks. The boxes were then buried, for wood was born of earth and to earth it must return. A vessel of life now a vessel of death. The Mhybe imagined that, if a dead Nathii could see, moments before the lid was lowered and darkness swallowed all, that Nathii's vision would match hers.

Lying in the box, unable to move, awaiting the lid. A body past usefulness, awaiting the darkness.

But there would be no end. Not for her. They were keeping it away. Playing out their own delusions of mercy and compassion. The Daru who fed her, the Rhivi woman who cleaned and bathed her and combed the wispy remnants of her hair. Gestures of malice. Playing out, over and over, scenes of torture.

The Rhivi woman sat above her now, steadily pulling the horn comb through the Mhybe's hair, humming a child's song. A woman the Mhybe remembered from her other life. Old, she had seemed back then, a hapless woman who had been kicked in the head by a bhederin and so lived in a simple world.

I'd thought it simple. But that was just one more illusion. No, she lives amidst unknowns, amidst things she cannot comprehend. It is a world of terror. She sings to fend off the fear born of her own ignorance. Given tasks to keep her busy.

Before I had come along for her, this woman had helped prepare corpses. After all, the spirits worked through such childlike adults. Through her, the spirits could come close to the fallen, and so comfort them and guide them into the world of the ancestors.

It could be nothing other than malice, the Mhybe concluded, to have set this woman upon her. Possibly, she was not even aware that the subject of her attentions was still alive. The woman met no-one's eyes, ever. Recognition had fled with the kick of a bhederin's hoof.

The comb dragged back and forth, back and forth. The humming continued its ceaseless round.

Spirits below, I would rather even your terror of the unknown. Rather that, than the knowledge of my daughter's betrayal – the wolves she has set upon me, to pursue me in my dreams. The wolves, which are her hunger. The hunger, which has already devoured my youth and now seeks yet more. As if anything's left. Am I to be naught but food for my daughter's burgeoning life? A final meal, a mother reduced to nothing more than sustenance?

Ah, Silverfox, are you every daughter? Am I every mother? There have been no rituals severing our lives – we have forgotten the meaning behind the Rhivi ways, the true reasons for those rituals. I ever yield. And you suckle in ceaseless demand. And so we are trapped, pulled deeper and deeper, you and I.

To carry a child is to age in one's bones. To weary one's blood. To stretch skin and flesh. Birthing splits a woman in two, the division a thing of raw agony. Splitting young from old. And the child needs, and the mother gives.

I have never weaned you, Silverfox. Indeed, you have never left my womb. You, daughter, draw far more than just milk.

Spirits, please, grant me surcease. This cruel parody of motherhood is too much to bear. Sever me from my daughter. For her sake. My milk is become poison. I can feed naught but spite, for there is nothing else within me. And I remain a young woman in this aged body—

The comb caught on a snarl, tugging her head back. The Mhybe hissed in pain, shot a glare up at the woman above her. Her heart suddenly lurched.

Their gazes were locked.

The woman, who looked at no-one, was looking at her.

I, a young woman in an old woman's body. She, a child in a woman's body—

Two prisons, in perfect reflection.

Eyes locked.

 

'Dear lass, you look weary. Settle here with magnanimous Kruppe and he will pour you some of this steaming herbal brew.'

'I will, thank you.'

Kruppe smiled, watching Silverfox slowly lower herself onto the ground and lean back against the spare saddle, the small hearth between them. The well-rounded curves of the woman were visible through the worn deer-leather tunic. 'So where are your friends?' she asked.

'Gambling. With the crew of the Trygalle Trade Guild. Kruppe, for some odd reason, has been barred from such games. An outrage.' The Daru handed her a tin cup. 'Mostly sage, alas. If you've a cough—'

'I haven't, but it's welcome anyway.'

'Kruppe, of course, never coughs.'

'And why is that?'

'Why, because he drinks sage tea.'

Her brown eyes slipped past his and settled on the wagon a dozen paces away. 'How does she fare?'

Kruppe's brows lifted. 'You might ask her, lass.'

'I can't. I can be nothing other than an abomination for my mother – her stolen youth, in the flesh. She despises me, with good reason, especially now that Korlat's told her about my T'lan Ay.'

'Kruppe wonders, do you now doubt the journey undertaken?'

Silverfox shook her head, sipped at the tea. 'It's too late for that. The problem persists – as you well know. Besides, our journey is done. Only hers remains.'

'You dissemble,' Kruppe murmured. 'Your journey is anything but done, Silverfox. But let us leave that subject for the moment, yes? Have you gleaned news of the dreadful battle?'

'It's over. The Pannion forces are no more. Barring a couple of hundred thousand poorly armed peasants. The White Faces have liberated Capustan – what's left of it, that is. The Bridgeburners are already in the city. More pressing: Brood has called a council – you might be interested in attending that.'

'Indeed, if only to bless the gathering with Kruppe's awesome wisdom. What of you – are you not also attending?'

Silverfox smiled. 'As you said earlier, Daru, my journey's not quite over.'

'Ah, yes. Kruppe wishes you well in that, lass. And dearly hopes he will see you again soon.'

The woman's eyes glanced once more at the wagon. 'You will, friend,' she replied, then drained her tea and rose with a soft sigh.

Kruppe saw her hesitate. 'Lass? Is something wrong?'

'Uh, I'm not sure.' Her expression was troubled. 'A part of me desires to accompany you to that council. A sudden urge, in fact.'

The Daru's small eyes narrowed. 'A part of you, Silverfox?'

'Aye, inviting the question: which part? Whose soul within me now twitches with suspicion? Who senses that sparks are about to fly in this alliance of ours? Gods, even worse, it's as if I know precisely why ... but I don't.'

'Tattersail doesn't, yes? Leaving Nightchill and Bellurdan as potential candidates possessing prescient knowledge fraught with dire motivation. Uh, perhaps that can be said a simpler way—'

'Never mind, Kruppe.'

'You are torn, Silverfox, to put it bluntly. Consider this: will a minor delay in seeking your destiny unduly affect its outcome? Can you, in other words, spare the time to come with me to the warlord's command tent?'

She studied him. 'You've a hunch as well, don't you?'

'If a rift is imminent, lass, then your personage could prove essential, for you are the bridge indeed between these formidable camps.'

'I – I don't trust Nightchill, Kruppe.'

'Most mortals occasionally fail in trusting parts of themselves. Excepting Kruppe, of course, whose well-earned confidence is absolute. In any case, conflicting instincts are woven in our natures, excepting Kruppe, of—'

'Yes, yes. All right. Let's go.'

 

A slash of darkness opened in the canvas wall. The mild breath of Kurald Galain flowed into the command tent, dimming the lanterns. Anomander Rake strode through. The midnight rent closed silently behind him. The lanterns flared back into life.

Brood's wide, flat face twisted. 'You are late,' he growled. 'The Malazans are already on their way.'

Shrugging the black leather cape from his shoulders, the Lord of Moon's Spawn said, 'What of it? Or am I to adjudicate yet again?'

Her back to one side of the tent wall, Korlat cleared her throat. 'There have been ... revelations, Lord. The alliance itself is in question.'

A dry snort came from Kallor, the last person present. 'In question? We've been lied to from the very start. A swift strike against Onearm's Host – before it's had a chance to recover from today's battles – is imperative.'

Korlat watched her master study his allies in silence.

After a long moment, Rake smiled. 'Dear Caladan, if by lying you are referring to the hidden hand of the Empress – the daggers poised behind the backs of Dujek Onearm and Whiskeyjack – well, it would seem that, should action be required – which I add I do not believe to be the case – our position should be one of intervention. On behalf of Dujek and Whiskeyjack, that is. Unless, of course' – his eyes flattened on Brood – 'you are no longer confident of their capabilities as commanders.' He slowly withdrew his gauntlets. 'Yet Crone's report to me of today's engagement was characterized by naught but grudging praise. The Malazans were professional, perfunctory and relentless. Precisely as we would have them.'

'It's not their fighting ability that is the problem,' Kallor rasped. 'This was to be a war of liberation—'

'Don't be a fool,' Rake muttered. 'Is there wine or ale? Who will join me in a drink?'

Brood grunted. 'Aye, pour me one, Rake. But let it be known, whilst Kallor has uttered foolish statements in the past, he did not do so now. Liberation. The Pannion Domin—'

'Is just another empire,' the Lord of Moon's Spawn drawled. 'And as such, its power represents a threat. Which we are intending to obliterate. Liberation of the commonalty may well result, but it cannot be our goal. Free an adder and it will still bite you, given the chance.'

'So we are to crush the Pannion Seer, only to have some High Fist of the Malazan Empire take his place?'

Rake handed the warlord a cup of wine. The Tiste Andii's eyes were veiled, almost sleepy as he studied Brood. 'The Domin is an empire that sows horror and oppression among its own people,' Rake said. 'None of us here would deny that. Thus, for ethical reasons alone, there was just cause for marching upon it.'

'Which is what we've been saying all along—'

'I heard you the first time, Kallor. Your penchant for repetition is wearisome. I have described but one ... excuse. One reason. Yet it appears that you have all allowed that reason to overwhelm all others, whilst to my mind it is the least in importance.' He sipped his wine, then continued. 'However, let us stay with it for a moment. Horror and oppression, the face of the Pannion Domin. Consider, if you will, those cities and territories on Genabackis that are now under Malazan rule. Horror? No more so than mortals must daily face in their normal lives. Oppression? Every government requires laws, and from what I can tell Malazan laws are, if anything, among the least repressive of any empire I have known.

'Now. The Seer is removed, a High Fist and Malazan-style governance replaces it. The result? Peace, reparation, law, order.' He scanned the others, then slowly raised a single eyebrow. 'Fifteen years ago, Genabaris was a fetid sore on the northwest coast, and Nathilog even worse. And now, under Malazan rule? Rivals to Darujhistan herself. If you truly wish the best for the common citizens of Pannion, why do you not welcome the Empress?

'Instead, Dujek and Whiskeyjack are forced into an elaborate charade to win us as allies. They're soldiers, in case you've forgotten. Soldiers are given orders. If they don't like them, that's just too bad. If it means a false proclamation of outlawry – without letting every private in the army in on the secret and thereby eliminating the chance of it ever remaining a secret – then a good soldier grits his teeth and gets on with it.

'The truth is simple – to me at least. Brood, you and I, we have fought the Malazans as liberators in truth. Asking no coin, no land. Our motives aren't even clear to us – imagine how they must seem to the Empress? Inexplicable. We appear to be bound to lofty ideals, to nearly outrageous notions of self-sacrifice. We are her enemy, and I don't think she even knows why.'

'Sing me the Abyss,' Kallor sneered. 'In her Empire there would be no place for us – not one of us.'

'Does that surprise you?' Rake asked. 'We cannot be controlled. The truth laid bare is we fight for our own freedom. No borders for Moon's Spawn. No world-spanning peace that would make warlords and generals and mercenary companies obsolete. We fight against the imposition of order and the mailed fist that must hide behind it, because we're not the ones wielding that fist.'

'Nor would I ever wish to,' Brood growled.

'Precisely. So why begrudge the Empress possessing the desire and its attendant responsibilities?'

Korlat stared at her Lord. Stunned once again, thrown off-balance yet one more time. The Draconian blood within him. He does not think as we do. Is it that blood? Or something else? She had no answer, no true understanding of the man she followed. A sudden welling of pride filled her. He is the Son of Darkness. A master worth swearing fealty to – perhaps the only one. For me. For the Tiste Andii.

Caladan Brood let out a gusting sigh. 'Pour me another, damn you.'

'I shall set aside my disgust,' Kallor said, rising from his chair in a rustle of chain armour, 'and voice a subject only marginally related to what's been said thus far. Capustan has been cleansed. Before us, the river. South of that, three cities to march on. To do so in succession as a single army will slow us considerably. Setta, in particular, is not on our path to Coral. So, the army must divide in two, meeting again south of Lest and Setta, perhaps at Maurik, before striking for Coral. Now, the question: along what lines do we divide?'

'A reasonable subject,' Rake murmured, 'for discussion at this pending meeting.'

'And none other, aye,' Caladan Brood rumbled. 'Won't they be surprised?'

They will indeed. Regret seeped through Korlat's thoughts. And more, I have done Whiskeyjack an injustice. I hope it is not too late to make reparations. It is not well for a Tiste Andii to judge in haste. My vision was clouded. Clouded? No, more like a storm. Of emotions, born of need and of love. Can you forgive me, Whiskeyjack?

The tent flap was drawn back and the two Malazan commanders entered, trailed by the standard-bearer, Artanthos. Dujek's face was dark. 'Sorry we were delayed,' he growled. 'I have just been informed that the Tenescowri are on the move. Straight for us.'

Korlat sought to meet Whiskeyjack's eyes, but the man was studying the warlord as he added, 'Expect another battle, at dawn. A messy one.'

'Leave that to me,' Anomander Rake drawled.

The voice pulled Whiskeyjack round in surprise. 'Lord, forgive me. I didn't see you. I'm afraid I was somewhat... preoccupied.'

Dujek asked, 'You are offering to set your Tiste Andii against the Tenescowri, Lord?'

'Hardly,' Rake replied. 'I mean to scare them witless. In person.'

No-one spoke for a moment, then Caladan Brood began rummaging in a trunk for more cups. 'We have another issue to discuss, High Fist,' he said.

'So I gather.'

The old man looked positively sick, while Whiskeyjack's colour was high.

The warlord poured more wine, then gestured at the cups he had filled. 'Help yourselves. Kallor has noted a pending problem in the disposition of our forces.'

Oh, the bastards are making fun of this. Enough. Korlat spoke, 'High Fist, to the south await three cities. Lest and Setta should be taken simultaneously, if possible, with a rejoining of our forces at Maurik, before continuing on to Coral. We would like to discuss with you how to divide the armies.'

Whiskeyjack's eyes found hers. She offered him a half-smile. He frowned in reply.

'I see,' Dujek said after a moment. He collected his cup and sat down on a camp chair. 'Well enough.' And, for the moment, said no more.

Whiskeyjack cleared his throat and spoke, 'The division, at least initially, seems fairly obvious. Onearm's Host southwest to Setta – which will close our lines of communication with our Black Moranth, who remain in place in the Vision Mountains. The warlord and his forces straight south to Lest. Once we have taken Setta, we strike for the headwaters of the Maurik River, then follow the course south to Maurik itself. Possibly, you will have arrived there first, but that is not especially problematic.'

'Agreed,' Brood said.

'I said initially, alas,' Whiskeyjack continued.

The others turned to him.

The man shrugged. 'The White Face Barghast are joining the campaign. We also have to consider the surviving elements of Capustan's defenders – they might well desire to accompany us. Finally, there is the looming question of Silverfox, and her T'lan Imass.'

'If we allow the bitch and her T'lan Imass into this war,' Kallor snarled, 'we will have lost all hope of guiding it.'

Whiskeyjack studied the ancient warrior. 'Yours is a singular obsession, Kallor. It has twisted your mind—'

'And sentiment has twisted yours, soldier. Perhaps a day will come when you and I can test our respective resolve—'

'Enough,' Brood cut in. 'It seems, then, that this meeting must be adjourned. We can reconvene when all the relevant commanders are present.' The warlord turned to Rake. 'How fares Moon's Spawn?'

The Tiste Andii Lord shrugged. 'We will rendezvous at Coral as planned. It might be worth noting that the Seer has been under serious assault from the south, which he answers with Omtose Phellack sorcery. My Great Ravens have caught sight of his enemy, or at least some of them. A T'lan Imass, a she-wolf and a very large dog. Thus, the old battle: Omtose Phellack, ever retreating from Tellann. There might well be other players as well – lands to the south of Outlook have been completely shrouded in mists born of dying ice. The significance of all this is that the Seer has fled Outlook, and is heading by warren to Coral.'

There was silence as the implications of Rake's revelations slowly settled in the minds of those present.

Whiskeyjack was the first to speak. 'A lone T'lan Imass? A Bonecaster, then, to have sufficient power to single-handedly sunder a Jaghut's sorcery.'

'Having heard the summons made by Silverfox,' Dujek added. 'Yes, that's likely.'

'This T'lan Imass is a warrior,' Rake responded laconically. 'Wielding a two-handed flint sword. Bonecasters carry no weapons. Clearly, he has singular skill. The wolf is an ay, I believe, a creature thought long extinct. The hound rivals those of Shadow.'

'And they are driving the Seer into our laps,' Brood rumbled. 'It seems that Coral will not simply be the last city we can reach this campaigning season. We'll be facing the Seer himself.'

'Damn well ensuring that the battle will be fraught with sorcery,' Dujek muttered. 'Bloody terrific.'

'We've plenty of time to formulate our tactics,' Brood said after a moment. 'This meeting is adjourned.'

 

Thirty paces from the command tent, as darkness settled ever deeper on the camp, Silverfox slowed her steps.

Kruppe glanced at her. 'Ah, lass, you sense the storm's passing unbroken. As do I. Shall we pay a visit to formidable personages in any case?'

She hesitated, then shook her head. 'No, why precipitate a confrontation? I must now turn to my own ... destiny. If you please, Kruppe, inform no-one of my departure. At least not for a while.'

'The Gathering is come.'

'It is,' she agreed. 'I sense the imminent convergence of the T'lan Imass, and would rather it occur somewhere beyond the sight of anyone else.'

'A private matter, of course. None the less, Silverfox, would you resent company? Kruppe is wise – wise enough to keep silent when silence is called for, and yet wiser still to speak when wise words are required. Wisdom, after all, is Kruppe's blood brother.'

She smiled down at him. 'You would witness the Second Gathering?'

'There is no better witness to all things wondrous than Kruppe of Darujhistan, lass. Why, the tales that could flow effortlessly from these rather oily lips, should you ever but prod with curiosity—'

'Forgive me if I refrain from doing so,' she replied. 'At least in the near future.'

'Lest you become distracted, of course. It is clear, is it not, that even Kruppe's mere presence generates wisdom in bounty.'

'Very clear. Very well. We'll have to find you a horse, since I plan to ride.'

'A horse? Horrors! Foul beasts. Nay, I hold to my trusty mule.'

'Tightly.'

'To the limits of my physical abilities, aye.' He turned at a clopping sound behind them. 'Ah, speak of the demon! And look, a moonstruck horse follows like a pup on a leash, and is it any wonder, when one looks upon my handsome, proud beast?'

Silverfox studied the saddled horse trailing the mule with narrowed eyes. 'Tell me, Kruppe, who else will be witness to the Gathering through you?'

'Through Kruppe? Why, naught but Kruppe himself! He swears!'

'Not the mule, surely?'

'Lass, the mule's capacity for sleep – in no matter what the circumstances – is boundless, unaffected and indeed, admirable. I assure you, none shall witness through its eyes!'

'Sleep, is it? No doubt, to dream. Very well, let us be on with it, Kruppe. I trust you're comfortable with a ride through the night?'

'Not in the least, but perseverance is Kruppe's closest cousin ...'

 

'Walk with me.'

Pausing as he emerged from the tent entrance, Whiskeyjack looked left, to see Anomander Rake standing in the gloom. Ah, not Korlat, then. Oh well. . . 'Of course, Lord.'

The Son of Darkness led him through the tent rows, southward, out to the very edge of the encampment, then beyond. They ascended a ridge and came within sight of Catlin River. Starlight played on its swirling surface two hundred paces away.

Moths fluttered like flecks of snow fleeing the warm wind.

Neither man spoke for a long while.

Finally, Anomander Rake sighed, then asked, 'How fares the leg?'

'It aches,' Whiskeyjack answered truthfully. 'Especially after a full day in the saddle.'

'Brood is an accomplished healer. High Denul. He would not hesitate should you ask.'

'When there's time—'

'There has been plenty of that, as we both know. None the less, I share something of your stubbornness, so I'll not raise the subject again. Have you been contacted by Quick Ben?'

Whiskeyjack nodded. 'He's in Capustan. Or should be by now.'

'I am relieved. The assault on the warrens has made being a mage somewhat perilous. Even Kurald Galain has felt the poison's touch.'

'I know.'

Rake slowly turned to regard him. 'I had not expected to find in her such ... renewal. A heart I'd believed closed for ever. To see it flowering so ...'

Whiskeyjack shifted uneasily. 'I may have wounded it this evening.'

'Momentarily, perhaps. Your false outlawry is known.'

'Thus the meeting, or so we thought.'

'I pulled the thorn before you and the High Fist arrived.'

The Malazan studied the Tiste Andii in the gloom. 'I wasn't sure. The suspicion could find no root, however.'

'Because, to you, my position makes no sense.'

'Aye.'

Rake shrugged. 'I rarely see necessity as a burden.'

Whiskeyjack thought about that, then nodded. 'You still need us.'

'More than ever, perhaps. And not just your army. We need Quick Ben. We need Humbrall Taur and his White Face clans. We need your link to Silverfox and through her to the T'lan Imass. We need Captain Paran—'

'Ganoes Paran? Why?'

'He is the Master of the Deck of Dragons.'

'It's no secret, then.'

'It never was.'

'Do you know,' Whiskeyjack asked, 'what that role signifies? A genuine question, because, frankly, I don't and wish I damn well did.'

'The Crippled God has fashioned a new House and now seeks to join it to the Deck of Dragons. A sanction is required. A blessing, if you will. Or, conversely, a denial.'

Whiskeyjack grunted. 'What of the House of Shadow, then? Was there a Master of the Deck around who sanctioned its joining?'

'There was no need. The House of Shadow has always existed, more or less. Shadowthrone and Cotillion simply reawakened it.'

'And now, you want Paran – the Master of the Deck – to deny the Crippled God's House.'

'I believe he must. To grant the Fallen One legitimacy is to grant him power. We see what he is capable of in his present weakened state. The House of Chains is the foundation he will use to rebuild himself.'

'Yet, you and the gods took him down once before. The Chaining.'

'A costly endeavour, Whiskeyjack. One in which the god Fener was vital. Tell me, among your soldiers, the Tusked One is a popular god – have you priests as well?'

'No. Fener's popular enough, being the Lord of Battle. Malazans are somewhat ... relaxed when it comes to the pantheon. We tend to discourage organized cults within the military.'

'Fener is lost to us,' Rake said.

'Lost? What do you mean?'

'Torn from his realm, now striding the mortal earth.'

'How?'

There was a grim smile in Rake's tone as he explained. 'By a Malazan. A once-priest of Fener, a victim of the Reve.'

'Which means?'

'His hands were ritually severed. The power of the Reve then sends those hands to the hooves of Fener himself. The ritual must be the expression of purest justice, but this one wasn't. Rather, there was a perceived need to reduce the influence of Fener, and in particular that High Priest, by agents of the Empire – likely the Claw. You mentioned the discouraging of cults within the army. Perhaps that was a factor – my knowledge is not complete, alas. Certainly the High Priest's penchant for historical analysis was another – he had completed an investigation that concluded that the Empress Laseen in fact failed in her assassination of the Emperor and Dancer. Granted, she got the throne she so badly wanted, but neither Kellanved nor Dancer actually died. Instead, they ascended.'

'I can see why Surly's back would crawl at that revelation.'

'Surly?'

'The Empress Laseen. Surly was her old name.'

'In any case, those severed hands were as poison to Fener. He could not touch them, nor could he remove them from his realm. He burned the tattoos announcing his denial upon the high priest's skin, and so sealed the virulent power of the hands, at least for the time being. And that should have been that. Eventually, the priest would die, and his spirit would come to Fener to retrieve what had been cruelly and wrongfully taken from him. That spirit would then become the weapon of Fener's wrath, his vengeance upon the priests of the fouled temple, and indeed upon the Claw and the Empress herself. A dark storm awaited the Malazan Empire, Whiskeyjack.'

'But something's happened.'

'Aye. The High Priest has, by design or chance, come into contact with the Warren of Chaos – an object, perhaps, forged within that warren. The protective seal around his severed hands was obliterated by that vast, uncontrolled surge of power. And, finding Fener, those hands ... pushed.'

'Hood's breath,' Whiskeyjack muttered, his eyes on the glittering river.

'And now,' Rake continued, 'the Tiger of Summer ascends to take his place. But Treach is young, much weaker, his warren but a paltry thing, his followers far fewer in number than Fener's. All is in flux. No doubt the Crippled God is smiling.'

'Wait a moment,' Whiskeyjack objected. 'Treach has ascended? That's one huge coincidence.'

'Some fates were foreseen, or so it seems.'

'By whom?'

'The Elder Gods.'

'And why are they so interested in all this?'

'They were there when the Crippled God fell – was dragged – down to this earth. The Fall destroyed many of them, leaving but a few survivors. Whatever secrets surround the Fallen One – where he came from, the nature of his aspect, the ritual itself that captured him – K'rul and his kin possess them. That they have chosen to become directly involved, now that the Crippled God has resumed his war, has dire implications as to the seriousness of the threat.'

'Quite an understatement, Lord.' Whiskeyjack said nothing for a time, then he sighed. 'Leading us back to Ganoes Paran and the House of Chains. All right, I understand why you want him to deny the Crippled God's gambit. I should warn you, however, Paran doesn't take orders well.'

'We must hope, then, that he sees which course is wisest. Will you advise him on our behalf ?'

'I'll try.'

'Tell me, Whiskeyjack,' Rake said in a different tone, 'do you ever find the voice of a river unsettling?'

The Malazan frowned. 'To the contrary, I find it calming.'

'Ah. This, then, points to the essential difference between us.'

Between mortals and immortals? Beru fend . . . Anomander Rake, I know precisely what you need. 'I've a small cask of Gredfallan ale, Lord. I would like to retrieve it, now, if you don't mind waiting?'

'A sound plan, Whiskeyjack.'

And by dawn, may you find the voice grown calm.

The Malazan turned and made his way back to the encampment. As he approached the first row of tents, he paused and turned back to look at the distant figure, standing tall and motionless on the grassy ridge.

The sword Dragnipur, strapped crossways on Anomander Rake's back, hung like an elongated cross, surrounded in its own breath of preternatural darkness.

Alas, I don't think Gredfallan ale will be enough . . .

 

'And which warren will you choose for this?'

Quick Ben studied the sprawled bodies and the tumbled, blood-stained stones of the city wall. Spot-fires were visible through the gap, smoke blotting the night sky above dark, seemingly lifeless buildings. 'Rashan, I think,' he said.

'Shadow. I should have guessed.' Talamandas scrambled atop a heap of corpses then turned to look at the wizard. 'Shall we proceed?'

Quick Ben opened the warren, tightly leashed, and held it close about him. The sorcery swallowed him in shadows. Talamandas snickered, then approached.

'I shall ride your shoulder for this, yes?'

'If you insist,' the wizard grumbled.

'You leave me little choice. To control a warren by tumbling it before you and sweeping it up behind you may well reveal your mastery, but I am left with little room to manoeuvre within it. Though why we need bother with warrens at all right now is beyond me.'

'I need the practice. Besides, I hate being noticed.' Quick Ben gestured. 'Climb aboard, then.'

The sticksnare clambered up the wizard's leg, set its feet of bound twine on his belt, then dragged itself up Quick Ben's tunic. The weight, as Talamandas settled on his left shoulder, was insubstantial. Twig fingers closed on his collar. 'I can handle a tumble or two,' the sticksnare said, 'but don't make a habit of it.'

Quick Ben moved forward, slipping through the gap in the wall. The firelight threw stark slashes through the shadows, randomly painting glimpses of the wizard's body. Deep shadow cutting through any firelit scene would have been noticeable. He concentrated on blending into what surrounded him.

Flame, smoke and ashes. Vague moans from collapsed buildings; a few streets away, the mourning chant of Barghast.

'The Pannions are all gone,' Talamandas whispered. 'Why the need to hide?'

'It's my nature. Caution keeps me alive, now be quiet.'

He entered a street lined by Daru estates. While other avenues evinced the efforts of the White Face tribes to clear away bodies, no such task had taken place here. Pannion soldiery lay dead in appalling numbers, heaped around one estate in particular, its blackened gatehouse a maw ringed in dried blood. A low wall ran to either side of the gate. Dark, motionless figures stood guard along it, apparently perched on some kind of walkway halfway up the other side.

Crouched at the foot of another building, sixty paces away, Quick Ben studied the scene. The bitter breath of sorcery still clung to the air. On his shoulder, Talamandas hissed in sudden recognition.

'The necromancers! The ones who tore me from my barrow!'

'I thought you had nothing to fear from them any more,' Quick Ben murmured.

'I don't, but that does nothing to diminish my hatred or disgust.'

'That's unfortunate, because I want to talk to them.'

'Why?'

'To take their measure, why else?'

'Idiocy, Wizard. Whatever they are, is nothing good.'

'And I am? Now let me think.'

'You'll never get past those undead guards.'

'When I say let me think, I mean shut up.'

Grumbling, shifting about on Quick Ben's shoulder, Talamandas reluctantly subsided.

'We'll need a different warren for this,' the wizard finally said. 'The choice is this: Hood's own, or Aral Gamelon—'

'Aral what? I've never heard—'

'Demonic. Most conjurors who summon demons are opening a path to Gamelon – though they probably don't know it, not by its true name, anyway. Granted, one can find demons in other warrens – the Aptorians of Shadow, for example. But the Korvalahrai and the Galayn, the Empire's favoured, are both of Gamelon. Anyway, if my instincts are accurate, there's both kinds of necromancy present in that estate – you did say there were two of them, didn't you?'

'Aye, and two kinds of madness.'

'Sounds interesting.'

'This is a whim! Have you learned nothing from your multiple souls, Wizard? Whims are deadly. Do something for no reason but curiosity and it closes like a wolf's jaws on your throat. And even if you manage to escape, it haunts you. For ever.'

'You talk too much, Sticksnare. I've made my decision. Time to move.' He folded the warren of Rashan about himself, then stepped forward.

'Ashes in the urn!' Talamandas hissed.

'Aye, Hood's own. Comforted by the familiarity? It's the safer choice, since Hood himself has blessed you, right?'

'I am not comforted.'

That wasn't too surprising, as Quick Ben studied the transformation around him. Death ran riot in this city. Souls crowded the streets, trapped in cycles of their own last moments of life. The air was filled with shrieks, wailing, the chop of weapons, the crushing collapse of stone and the suffocating smoke. Layered beneath this were countless other deaths – those that were set down, like successive snowfalls, on any place where humans gathered. Generation upon generation.

Yet, Quick Ben slowly realized, this conflagration was naught but echoes, the souls themselves ghostly. 'Gods below,' he murmured in sudden understanding. 'This is but memory – what the stones of the streets and buildings hold, memories of the air itself. The souls – they've all gone through Hood's Gate ...'

Talamandas was motionless on his shoulder. 'You speak true, Wizard,' he muttered. 'What has happened here? Who has taken all these dead?'

'Taken, aye, under wing. They've been blessed, one and all, their pain ended. Is this the work of the Mask Council?'

The sticksnare spat, 'Those fools? Not likely.'

Quick Ben said nothing for a time, then he sighed. 'Capustan might recover, after all. I didn't think that was possible. Well, shall we walk with these ghosts?'

'Do we have to?'

Not replying, Quick Ben strode forward. The undead guards – Seerdomin and Urdomen – were dark smears, stains on Hood's own warren. But they were blind to his presence in the realm where the wizard now walked. Of the two necromancers residing within, one was now negated.

The only risk remaining was if the other one – the summoner – had released any demons to supplement the estate's defences.

Quick Ben strode through the gateway. The compound before him was clear of any bodies, though caked blood coated the flagstones here and there.

Twig fingers spasmed tight on his shoulder. 'I smell—'

The Sirinth demon had been squatting in front of the main house doors, draped in the lintel stone's shadow. It now grunted and heaved its bulk clear of the landing, coming into full view. Swathed in folds of toad-like skin, splay-limbed, with a wide, low head that was mostly jaws and fangs, the Sirinth massed more than a bhederin bull. In short bursts, however, it could be lightning fast.

A short burst was all it needed to reach Quick Ben and Talamandas.

The sticksnare shrieked.

Quick Ben lithely side-stepped, even as he unfolded yet another warren, this one layered over Hood's own. A backward stride took him into that warren, where heat flowed like liquid and dry amber light suffused the air.

The Sirinth wheeled, then dropped flat on its belly within Aral Gamelon.

Quick Ben edged further into the demonic warren.

Whining, the Sirinth sought to follow, only to be brought short by a now visible iron collar and chain, the chain leading back out – all the way, Quick Ben knew, to whatever binding circle the summoner had conjured when chaining this creature.

'Too bad, friend,' the wizard said as the demon squealed. 'Might I suggest a deal, Sirinth? I break the chain and you go find your loved ones. Peace between us.'

The creature went perfectly motionless. Folded lids slid back to reveal large, luminous eyes. In the mortal realm they'd just left, those eyes burned like fire. Here, within Aral Gamelon, they were almost docile.

Almost. Don't fool yourself, Quick. This thing could gobble you up in one bite. 'Well?'

The Sirinth slithered sideways, stretched its neck.

Sorcery glowed from the collar and chain, the iron crowded with carved glyphs.

'I'll need to take a closer look,' Quick Ben told the demon. 'Know that Hood's warren remains with us—'

'Not well enough!' Talamandas hissed. 'Those undead guards have seen us!'

'We've a few moments yet,' Quick Ben replied. 'If you shut up, that is. Sirinth, if you attack me when I come close, I'll reveal for you another chain about your neck – Hood's. Dead but not dead, trapped in the in-between. For ever. Understand me?'

The creature squealed again, but made no other move.

'Good enough.'

'You fool—'

Ignoring the sticksnare, Quick Ben stepped to the side of the huge demon. He knew that head could snap round, fast enough to be nothing more than a blur, the jaws opening to swallow head, shoulders – Talamandas included – and torso down to hips.

He studied the glyphs, then grunted. 'Accomplished indeed. The key, however, to breaking this chaining lies in unravelling but a single thread. The challenge is finding the right one—'

'Will you hurry! Those undead are converging! On us!'

'A moment, please.' Quick Ben leaned closer, squinting at the sigils. 'Curious,' he murmured, 'this is Korelri script. High Korelri, which hasn't been used in centuries. Well, easy enough then.' He reached out, muttering a few words, and scored one glyph with the nail of his thumb. 'Thus, changing its meaning—' Gripping the chain on either side of the marred sigil, Quick Ben gave a quick yank.

The chain snapped.

The Sirinth lunged forward, then spun, jaws wide.

Talamandas screamed.

Quick Ben was already in the air, through the warren's gate, back into Hood's own, where he dipped a shoulder as he struck the flagstones, rolling over then back onto his feet – with Talamandas still clinging to his tunic. The wizard then froze.

They were surrounded by dark, insubstantial figures, now motionless as their quarry was no longer visible.

Wisely, Talamandas said nothing. Still crouching, Quick Ben slowly, silently edged between two undead guards, then padded clear, approaching the double doors.

'Gods,' the sticksnare moaned in a whisper, 'why are we doing this?'

'Because it's fun?'

The doors were unlocked.

Quick Ben slipped inside and shut the door behind them, the soft click of the latch seeming over-loud in the alcove.

'So,' Talamandas breathed, 'which warren now?'

'Ah, do I sense you're getting into the spirit of the thing?'

'Bad word to choose, mortal.'

Smiling, Quick Ben closed Hood's own. It should be clear why I'm doing this, Sticksnare. I've been without warrens for too long. I need the practice. More, I need to know just how efficacious you are. And so far, so good. The poison is held at bay, unable to close on me. I'm pleased. He strode to the nearest wall, set both hands against the cool stone.

Talamandas chuckled. 'D'riss. The Path of Stone. Clever bastard.'

Quick Ben pushed the warren open, slid into the wall.

There was nothing easy in this. Stone could be traversed easily enough – its resistance no more than water – but mortar was less yielding, tugging at his passage like the strands of a particularly stubborn spider's web. Worse, the walls were thin, forcing him to edge along sideways.

He followed the wall's course from room to room, working his way ever inward. Daru-style architecture was predictable and symmetrical. The main chamber of the ground floor would be central. Upper levels were more problematic, but more often than not the ground floor's main chamber was vaulted, pushing the upper rooms to the building's sides.

The rooms were visible to him, but just barely. Grainy, grey, the furniture smudged and indistinct. But living flesh positively glowed. 'Stone knows blood, but cannot hold it. Stone yearns for life, yet can only mimic it.' The words were ancient ones, a mason and sculptor who'd lived centuries ago in Unta. Appropriate enough when on the Path of D'riss. When in the flesh of the Sleeping Goddess.

Slipping round a corner, Quick Ben caught his first sight of the main chamber.

A figure reclined on some kind of divan near the fireplace. He seemed to be reading a book. Another man stoked the fire's faintly pink, dull flames, muttering under his breath. Pacing back and forth on the mantel was a small creature, a crow or raven perhaps.

The man on the divan was speaking even as he flipped parchment pages in his book, his words made muted and brittle-sounding by the stone. 'When you're done there, Emancipor, return the guards to their positions on the wall. Having them standing in the courtyard all facing inward on nothing is suggestive of the ridiculous. Hardly a scene to inspire fear in potential intruders.'

'If you don't mind my saying so, master,' Emancipor said as he rose from before the hearth and wiped soot from his hands, 'if we've unwelcome company shouldn't we be doing something about it?'

'Much as I dislike losing my demons, dear servant, I do not assume that all visitors are malign. Dismissing my Sirinth was no doubt the only option available, and even then it must have been a risk-laden endeavour. The chain is but half of the geas, of course; the commands within the collar cannot so easily be defeated. Thus, some patience, now, until our guest decides to make formal his or her visit.'

Talamandas's acorn head touched Quick Ben's ear. 'Leave me here when you step through, Wizard. Treachery from this man is not just a likelihood, it's a damned certainty.'

Quick Ben shrugged. The sticksnare's weight left his shoulder.

Smiling, the wizard stepped from the warren, began brushing gritty dust from his tunic and rain-cape.

The seated man slowly closed his book without looking up. 'Some wine, Emancipor, for me and my guest.'

The servant spun to face Quick Ben. 'Hood's breath! Where did he come from?'

'The walls have ears, eyes and all the rest. Be on with your task, Emancipor.' The man finally lifted his head and met the wizard's gaze.

Now that's a lizard's regard. Well, I've never quailed from the like before, so why should I now? 'Wine would be wonderful,' Quick Ben said, matching the seated man's Daru.

'Something ... flowery,' the necromancer added as the servant strode towards a side door.

The crow on the mantel had ceased its pacing and now studied the wizard with cocked head. After a moment, it resumed its back and forth ambling.

'Please, be seated. My name is Bauchelain.'

'Quick Ben.' The wizard walked to the plush chair opposite the necromancer and settled into it. He sighed.

'An interesting name. Aptly chosen, if I may so presume. To have dodged the Sirinth's attack – I assume it attacked once you'd released it?'

'Clever,' Quick Ben conceded, 'locking a hold-over spell in that collar, one last command to kill whomever frees it. I assume that doesn't include you, its summoner.'

'I never free my demons,' Bauchelain said.

'Never?'

'Every exception to a magical geas weakens it. I allow none.'

'Poor demons!'

Bauchelain shrugged. 'I hold no sympathy for mere tools. Do you weep for your dagger when it breaks in someone's back?'

'That depends on whether it killed the bastard or just made him mad.'

'Ah, but then you weep for yourself.'

'I was making a joke.'

Bauchelain raised a single, thin eyebrow.

The subsequent silence was broken by Emancipor's return, bearing a tray on which sat a dusty bottle and two crystal goblets.

'Not a glass for yourself?' the necromancer asked. 'Am I so unegalitarian, Emancipor?'

'Uh, I took a swig below, master.'

'You did?'

'T'see if it was flowery.'

'And was it?'

'Not sure. Maybe. What's flowery?'

'Hmm, we must resume your education, I think, of such finer things. Flowery is the opposite of ... woody. Not bitter memory of sap, in other words, but something sweet, as of narcissus or skullcrown—'

'Those flowers are poisonous,' Quick Ben noted in faint alarm.

'But pretty and sweet in appearance, yes? I doubt any of us are in the habit of eating flowers, thus in analogy I sought visual cues for dear Emancipor.'

'Ah, I see.'

'Before you pour from that bottle, then, Emancipor. Was the aftertaste bitter or sweet?'

'Uh, it was kind of thick, master. Like iron.'

Bauchelain rose and grasped the bottle. He held it close, then sniffed the mouth. 'You idiot, this is blood from Korbal Broach's collection. Not that row, the one opposite. Take this back to the cellar.'

Emancipor's lined face had gone parchment-white. 'Blood? Whose?'

'Does it matter?'

As Emancipor gaped, Quick Ben cleared his throat and said, 'To your servant, I think the answer would be "yes, it does".'

The crow cackled from the mantelpiece, head bobbing.

The servant sagged on watery knees, the goblets on the tray clinking together.

Frowning, Bauchelain collected the bottle again and sniffed once more. 'Well,' he said, returning it to the tray, 'I'm not the one to ask, of course, but I think it's virgin's blood.'

Quick Ben had no choice but to enquire, 'How can you tell?'

Bauchelain regarded him with raised brows. 'Why, it's woody.'

 

To Hood with plans. Paran sat slouched on one of the lower benches in the Thrall's council chamber. The night outside seemed to have flowed into the vast, dusty room, dulling the torchlight along the walls. Before him, the floor had been gutted, revealing an array of dust-caked outrigger canoes. The wrapped corpses that had once filled them had been removed by the Barghast in solemn ceremony, but, to the captain's senses, the most important artefacts had been left behind. His eyes never left the seafaring canoes, as if they held truths that might prove overwhelming, if only he could glean them.

The pain in his stomach rode dwindling echoes. He thought he now understood the source of his illness. He was not a man who welcomed power, but it had been thrust upon him regardless. Nothing so clear or obvious as a sword, such as Dragnipur; nothing that he could wield, cutting through enemies like an avenging demon who knelt only before cold justice. Yet, power none the less. Sensitivity to unseen currents, knowledge of the inter-connectedness that bound all things and everyone to everyone else. Ganoes Paran, who despised authority, had been chosen as an adjudicator. A mitigator of power whose task was to assert a structure – the rules of the game – upon players who resented every challenge to their freedom to do as they pleased.

Worse than a Malazan magistrate in Unta. Holding fast to the law, whilst being pressured by every influence imaginable, from rival factions to the wishes of the Empress herself. Prod and pull, push and tug, turning even the easiest and most straight' forward of decisions into a nightmare.

No wonder my body recoils, seeks to reject what has been forced upon me.

He was alone in the Thrall's council chamber. The Bridgeburners had found the Gidrath barracks more to their style and were no doubt gambling and drinking themselves blind with the half-hundred Gidrath who comprised the Thrall's Inner Guard; whilst the priests of the Mask Council had retired for the night.

And it seemed Trake's Mortal Sword, the man named Gruntle, had initiated a friendship with Humbrall Taur's daughter, Hetan, in a manner that Paran suspected might eventually result in kin ties with the White Face clan – the two had made their way into the heart of the Thrall, no doubt in search of somewhere private. Much to the disgust of the woman, Stonny Menackis.

Shield Anvil Itkovian had led his troop back to the barracks near Jelarkan's Palace, to effect repairs and, come the morrow, begin the task of retrieving the refugees hidden in the tunnels beneath the city. The resurrection of Capustan would likely prove torturous and anguished, and the captain did not envy the Grey Sword the task.

We, on the other hand, will have moved on. Itkovian will need to find, among the survivors, someone with royal blood – no matter how thinned – to set on that stained throne. The city's infrastructure is in ruins. Who will feed the survivors? How long before trade is re-established with cities like Saltoan and Darujhistan? Hood knows the Barghast don't owe the people of Capustan anything . . .

Peace had come to his stomach, finally. He drew a tentative breath, slowly sighed. Power. His thoughts had a way of slipping into mundane considerations – a means to procrastination, he well knew, and it was a struggle to return to the one issue he would have to deal with sooner or later. A storm of plans, each one trying to make me into a fulcrum. I need only spread the fingers of one hand, and so encompass the entire Deck of Dragons. A truth I'd rather not recognize. But I feel those damned cards within me, like the barely articulated bones of a vast beast, so vast as to be unrecognizable in its entirety. A skeleton threatening to blow apart. Unless I can hold on, and that is the task forced upon me now. To hold it all together.

Players in the game, wanting no others. Players outside the game and wanting in. Players to the forefront and ones behind, moving in the shadows. Players who play fair, players who cheat. Gods, where do I begin to unravel all of this?

He thought about Gruntle, Mortal Sword to the newly ascended Treach. In a way, the Tiger of Summer had always been there, silently padding in Fener's wake. If the tales were true, the First Hero had lost his way long ago, surrendered entirely to the bestial instincts of his Soletaken form. Still, the sheer, overwhelming coincidence ... Paran had begun to suspect that the Elder Gods had not orchestrated matters to the degree Nightchill had implied; that opportunism and serendipity was as much responsible for the turn of events as anything else. Otherwise, against the Elder Gods, none of us stand a chance, including the Crippled God. If it was all planned, then that plan would have had to involve Treach losing his way – thereby becoming a sleeper in the game, his threat to Fener deftly negated until the moment the First Hero was needed. And his death, too, would have had to have been arranged, the timing made precise, so that he would ascend at the right moment.

And every event that led, ultimately, to Fener's extremity, his sudden, brutal vulnerability, would have had to have been known to the Elder Gods, down to the last detail.

Thus, unless we are all playing out roles that are predetermined and so inevitable – thereby potentially knowable by such beings as the Elder Gods – unless that, then, what each and every one of us chooses to do, or not to do, can have profound consequences. Not just on our own lives, but on the world – the worlds, every realm in existence.

He recalled the writings of historians who had asserted precisely that. The old soldier Duiker, for one, though he's long since fallen out of favour. Any scholar who accepts an Imperial robe is immediately suspect . . . for obvious reasons of com-promised integrity and bias. Still, in his early days, he was a fierce proponent of individual efficacy.

The curse of great minds. Arriving young to an idea, surviving the siege that invariably assails it, then, finally, standing guard on the ramparts long after the war's over, weapons dull in leaden hands . . . damn, I'm wandering yet again.

So, he was to be the fulcrum. A position demanding a sudden burgeoning of his ego, the unassailable belief in his own efficacy. That's the last thing I'm capable of, alas. Plagued by uncertainty, scepticism, by all the flaws inherent in someone who's chronically without purpose. Who undermines every personal goal like a tree gnawing its own roots, if only to prove its grim opinion by toppling.

Gods, talk about the wrong choice . . .

A scuffling sound alerted Paran to the presence of someone else in the chamber. Blinking, he scanned the gloom. A figure was among the canoes, hulking, armoured in tarnished coins.

The captain cleared his throat. 'Paying a last visit?'

The Barghast warrior straightened.

His face was familiar, but it was a moment before Paran recognized the young man. 'Cafal, isn't it? Brother to Hetan.'

'And you are the Malazan captain.'

'Ganoes Paran.'

'The One Who Blesses.'

Paran frowned. 'No, that title would better fit Itkovian, the Shield Anvil—'

Cafal shook his head. 'He but carries burdens. You are the One Who Blesses.'

'Are you suggesting that if anyone is capable of relieving Itkovian's... burden ... then it's me? I need only ... bless him?' Adjudicator, I'd thought. Obviously more complicated than that. The power to bless? Bern fend.

'Not for me to say,' Cafal growled, his eyes glittering in the torchlight. 'You can't bless someone who denies your right to do so.'

'A good point. No wonder most priests are miserable.'

Teeth glimmered in either a grin or something nastier.

Oh, I think I dislike this notion of blessing. But it makes sense. How else does a Master of the Deck conclude arbitration? Like an Untan magistrate indeed, only there's something of the religious in this – and that makes me uneasy. Mull on that later, Ganoes . . .

'I was sitting here,' Paran said, 'thinking – every now and then – that there is a secret within those decaying canoes.'

Cafal grunted.

'If I take that as agreement, would I be wrong?'

'No.'

Paran smiled. He'd learned that Barghast hated saying yes to anything, but an affirmative could be gleaned by guiding them into saying no to the opposite. 'Would you rather I leave?'

'No. Only cowards hoard secrets. Come closer, if you like, and witness at least one of the truths within these ancient craft.'

'Thank you,' Paran replied, slowly pushing himself upright. He collected a lantern and strode to the edge of the pit, then climbed down to stand on the mouldy earth beside Cafal.

The Barghast's right hand was resting on a carved prow.

Paran studied it. 'Battle scenes. On the sea.'

'Not the secret I would show you,' Cafal rumbled. 'The carvers possessed great skill. They hid the joins, and even the passing of centuries has done little to reveal their subterfuge. See how this canoe looks to have been carved of a single tree? It was, but none the less the craft was constructed in pieces – can you discern that, Ganoes Paran?'

The captain crouched close. 'Barely,' he said after a while, 'but only because some of the pieces have warped away from the joins. These panels with the battle scenes, for example—'

'Aye, those ones. Now, witness the secret.' Cafal drew a wide-bladed hunting knife. He worked the point and edge between the carved panel and its underlying contact. Twisted.

The battle-scene gunnel sprang free at the prow end. Within, a long hollow was visible. Something gleamed dull within it. Returning the knife to his belt, Cafal reached into the cavity and withdrew the object.

A sword, its water-etched blade narrow, single-edged, and like liquid in the play of torchlight. The weapon was overlong, tip flaring at the last hand-span. A small diamond-shaped hilt of black iron protected the sinew-wrapped grip. The sword was unmarked by its centuries unoiled and unsheathed.

'There is sorcery within that.'

'No.' Cafal raised the weapon, closing both hands in an odd finger-locking grasp around the grip. 'In our people's youth, patience and skill were wedded in perfect union. The blades we made were without equal then, and remain so now.'

'Forgive me, Cafal, but the hook-blades and spears I've seen among your warriors hardly evince singular skill.'

Cafal bared his teeth. 'No need to forgive. Indeed, you tread too kindly with your words. The weapons our smiths forge these days are poorly made. We have lost the ancient knowledge.'

'I can't imagine a wholly mundane sword to survive unscathed such neglect, Cafal. Are you sure it has not been imbued with—'

'I am. The blend of metals defies time's assault. Among them, metals that have yet to be rediscovered and now, with sorcery so prevalent, may never be.' He held the sword out to Paran. 'It looks unbalanced, yes? Top-heavy. Here.'

Paran accepted the weapon. It was as light as a dagger. 'Impossible,' he muttered. 'It must break—'

'Not easily, Captain. The flex seems stiff, yes? Thus you conclude it is brittle, but it is not. Examine the edge. There are no nicks, yet this particular sword has seen battle many, many times. The edge remains true and sharp. This sword does not need mothering.'

Handing it back, Paran turned his gaze upon the canoes. 'And these craft possess more of such weapons?'

'They do.'

'Who will use them? The warchiefs?'

'No. Children.'

'Children?'

'Carefully selected, to begin their training with these swords. Imagine swinging this blade, Captain. Your muscles are tuned to something far heavier. You will either over-swing or over-compensate. A hard blow could spring it from your hand. No, the true potential of these swords can only be found in hands that know no other weapon. And much of what those children learn, they must do so by themselves – after all, how can we teach what we do not know?'

'And what will be the purpose of these swords? Of those young warriors who will wield them?'

'You may find an answer one day, Ganoes Paran.'

Paran was silent for a time. 'I think,' he finally said, 'I have gleaned another secret.'

'And what is that?'

You will dismantle these canoes. Learn the. art of making them. 'Will the land remain your home for much longer, Barghast?'

Cafal smiled. 'No.'

'Thus.'

'Thus. Captain, Humbrall Taur would ask something of you. Would you hear his request from him, or may I voice it on his behalf?'

'Go ahead.'

'The Barghast would have their gods... blessed.'

'What? You don't need me for that—'

'That is true. We ask it none the less.'

'Well, let me think about it, Cafal. One of my problems is, I don't know how it's done. Do I just walk up to the bones and say "I bless you" or is something more complicated necessary?'

Cafal's heavy brows rose. 'You do not know?'

'No. You might want to call together all your shamans and discuss the matter.'

'Aye, we shall need to do just that. When we discover the ritual that is necessary, will you agree to it?'

'I said I'd think about it, Cafal.'

'Why do you hesitate?'

Because I'm a Hood-damned fulcrum and what I choose to do could – will – change everything. 'I intend no offence. But I'm a cautious bastard.'

'A man possessing power must act decisively, Ganoes Paran. Else it trickle away through his fingers.'

'When I decide to act, Cafal, it will be decisive. If that makes sense. One thing it won't be is precipitous, and if indeed I possess vast power then be glad for that.'

The Barghast warrior grunted. 'Perhaps your caution is wise, after all. I shall convey your words to my father.'

'So be it.'

'If you wish solitude now, find somewhere else. My kin are coming to retrieve the remaining weapons. This will be a busy night.'

'All right. I'll go for a walk.'

'Be careful, Ganoes Paran.'

The captain turned. 'Of what?'

'The Mask Council know who – what – you are, and they dislike it.'

'Why?'

Cafal grinned once more. 'Rivals do not sit well with the Mask Council. They have still not relented in acknowledgement of Keruli, who seeks to join their company. You – you might well be in a position to claim yourself as their master in all things. Eyes are darting within those masks, Captain.'

'Hood's breath,' Paran sighed. 'Who is Keruli, by the way?'

'K'rul's High Priest.'

'K'rul? The Elder God?'

'Expect Keruli to seek your blessing. On his god's behalf.'

Paran rubbed his brow, suddenly weary beyond belief. 'I've changed my mind,' he muttered. 'Never mind the walk.'

'What will you do?'

'Find a hole and crawl into it, Cafal.'

The warrior's laugh was harsh, and not quite as sympathetic as Paran would have liked.

 

Emancipor Reese had managed to find a more suitable bottle from the cellars and had filled the two goblets before hastily retreating from the room, his sickly pallor if anything even starker on his lined face.

Quick Ben was none the less tentative as he took his first sip. After a moment, he swallowed, then sighed.

Sitting across from him, Bauchelain half smiled. 'Excellent. Now, having made the effort to penetrate this estate's defences, you are here with some purpose in mind. Thus, you have my utmost attention.'

'Demonic summoning. It's the rarest and most difficult discipline among the necromantic arts.'

Bauchelain responded with a modest shrug.

'And the power it draws upon,' Quick Ben continued, 'while from Hood's own warren, is deeply tainted with Chaos. Striding both sides of that border between those warrens. As an aside, why do you think the summoning of demons is death-aspected?'

'The assertion of absolute control over a life-force, Quick Ben. The threat of annihilation is inherently death-aspected. Regarding your observation of the influence of the Warren of Chaos, do go on.'

'The warrens have been poisoned.'

'Ah. There are many flavours to chaotic power. That which assails the warrens has little to do with the elements of the Warren of Chaos with which I am involved.'

'So, your access to your warrens has not been affected.'

'I did not say that,' Bauchelain replied, pausing to drink some wine. 'The ... infection ... is an irritant, an unfortunate development that threatens to get worse. Perhaps, at some point in the future, I shall find need to retaliate upon whomever is responsible. My companion, Korbal Broach, has communicated to me his own growing concern – he works more directly through Hood's warren, and thus has felt the greater brunt.'

Quick Ben glanced over at the crow on the mantelpiece. 'Indeed. Well,' he added, returning his gaze to Bauchelain, 'as to that, I can tell you precisely who is responsible.'

'And why would you tell us, mage? Unless it be to elicit our help – I am assuming you are opposing this ... poisoner. And are in search of potential allies.'

'Allies? Elicit your help? No, sir, you misunderstand me. I offer my information freely. Not only do I expect nothing in return, should you offer I will respectfully decline.'

'Curious. Is yours a power to rival the gods, then?'

'I don't recall referring to gods in this conversation, Bauchelain.'

'True enough; however, the entity responsible for poisoning all the warrens is without doubt a formidable individual – if not a god then an aspirant.'

'In any case,' Quick Ben said with a smile, 'I don't rival gods.'

'A wise decision.'

'But, sometimes, I beat them at their own game.'

Bauchelain studied the wizard, then slowly leaned back. 'I find myself appreciating your company, Quick Ben. I am not easily entertained, but you have indeed proved- a worthy diversion this night, and for that I thank you.'

'You're quite welcome.'

'My companion, Korbal Broach, alas, would like to kill you.'

'Can't please everyone.'

'Very true. He dislikes being confused, you see, and you have confused him.'

'Best he remain perched on the mantelpiece,' Quick Ben quietly advised. 'I don't treat hecklers very well.'

Bauchelain raised a brow.

The shadow of wings spread suddenly vast to Quick Ben's left, as Korbal Broach dropped from his position and began sembling even as he descended.

The Malazan flung his left arm out, waves of layered sorcery sweeping across the intervening space, to strike the necromancer.

Half man, half bedraggled crow, Korbal Broach had not completed his sembling into human form. The waves of power had yet to blossom. The necromancer was lifted from his feet by the magical impact, caught in the crest of that sorcery. It struck the wall above the fireplace, carrying the oddly winged, semi-human figure with it, then detonated.

Painted plaster exploded in a cloud of dust. The wall shook, crumpling inward at the point where Korbal Broach hit – punching a hole through to whatever was on the other side. The last sight Quick Ben had of the man was that of his boots, before the roiling dust and twisting tendrils of power obscured the wall.

There was the sound of a heavy thump beyond, in what was probably a corridor, then the patter of plaster on the hearthstone was all that broke the silence.

Quick Ben slowly settled back into his chair.

'More wine?' Bauchelain asked.

'Please. Thank you. Apologies for the mess.'

'Think nothing of it. I have never before seen – what – six, perhaps seven warrens all unleashed at once, all intricately bound together in such complementary fashion. You, sir, are an artist. Will Korbal Broach recover?'

'I am your guest, Bauchelain. It would be poor form to kill your companion. After all, strictly speaking I am his guest, as well.'

With the chimney thoroughly compromised, the room was slowly filling with smoke.

'True,' Bauchelain admitted. 'Although, I reluctantly point out, he sought to kill you.'

'No need for dismay,' the Malazan responded. 'I was not greatly inconvenienced.'

'And that is what I find most astonishing. There was no sign of chaotic poison in your sorcery, Quick Ben. You can imagine the plethora of questions I would like to ask.'

There was a groan from the corridor.

'And, I confess,' Bauchelain continued, 'that curiosity is a rather obsessive trait of mine, often resulting in regrettable violence to the one being questioned, particularly when he or she is not as forthcoming as I would like. Now, six, seven warrens—'

'Six.'

'Six warrens, then – all at once – your claim to finding little inconvenience in the effort strikes me as bravado. Therefore, I conclude that you are, shall we say it bluntly: used up.'

'You make it clear that my welcome is at an end,' Quick Ben said, sighing as he set down the goblet.

'Not necessarily. You need only tell me everything, and we can continue in this civil fashion.'

'I'm afraid that won't be possible,' the Malazan replied. 'None the less, I will inform you that the entity poisoning the warrens is the Crippled God. You will have to consider ... retaliation ... against him. Rather sooner than you might think.'

'Thank you. I'll not deny I am impressed by your mastery of six warrens, Quick Ben. In retrospect, you should have held back on at least half of what you command.' The man made to rise.

'But, Bauchelain,' the wizard replied, 'I did.'

The divan, and the man on it, fared little better when struck by the power of a half-dozen bound warrens than had the wall and Korbal Broach moments earlier.

 

Quick Ben met Emancipor Reese in the smoky hallway leading to the estate's front doors. The servant had wrapped a cloth around the lower half of his face, his eyes streaming as he squinted at the wizard.

'Your masters require your attention, Emancipor.'

'They're alive?'

'Of course. Although smoke inhalation—'

The servant pushed past Quick Ben. 'What is wrong with all of you?' he barked.

'What do you mean?' the Malazan asked after him.

Emancipor half turned. 'Ain't it obvious? When you swat a wasp to the ground, you then use your heel, right? Otherwise, you're liable to get stung!'

'Are you encouraging me to kill your masters?'

'You're all Hood-damned idiots, that's what you are! Clean this up, Mancy! Scrub that down! Bury this in the garden! Pack those trunks – we're leaving in a hurry! It's my curse – no-one kills them! You think I like my job? Idiots! You think—'

The old man was still roaring as Quick Ben retreated outside.

Talamandas awaited him on the threshold. 'He's right, you know—'

'Quiet,' the wizard snapped.

In the courtyard beyond, the undead guards had all toppled from the walkway on the wall and lay sprawled on the flagstones, but movement was returning to them. Limbs wavered and twitched. Like armoured beetles on their backs. We'd better get out of here. Because, now, I am all used up.

'I'd almost moved to that wall you destroyed, you know.'

'That would have been very unfortunate,' Quick Ben replied. 'Climb aboard – we're leaving.'

'Finally, some wisdom!'

 

Bauchelain's eyes opened. Emancipor looked down on him.

'We're in the garden, master,' the servant said. 'I dragged you and Korbal out. Doused the fire, too. Got to go open all the windows now ...'

'Very good, Emancipor,' the grey-bearded necromancer groaned after a moment. 'Emancipor,' he called when the servant made to move away.

'Master?'

'I confess ... to a certain ... confusion. Do we possess some chronic flaw, Emancipor?'

'Sir?'

'Underestima— oh, never mind, Emancipor. Be about your tasks, then.'

'Aye, master.'

'Oh, and you've earned a bonus for your efforts – what do you wish?'

The servant stared down at Bauchelain for a dozen heartbeats, then he shook his head. 'It's all right, master. Part of my job. And I'll be about it, now.'

The necromancer raised his head to watch the old man trudge back into the house. 'Such a modest man,' he breathed. He looked down the length of his tattered, bruised body, and raggedly sighed. 'What's left in my wardrobe, I wonder?'

Insofar as he could recall – and given recent events – not much.

 

Shrouded once more in shadow, Quick Ben made his way down the rubble-littered street. Most of the fires had either died down or been extinguished, and not one of the remaining structures showed any light behind shutters or from gaping windows. The stars commanded the night sky, though darkness ruled the city.

'Damned eerie,' Talamandas whispered.

The wizard softly grunted. 'That's rich, coming from someone who's spent generations in an urn in the middle of a barrow.'

'Wanderers like you have no appreciation of familiarity,' the sticksnare sniffed.

The dark mass of the Thrall blotted the skyline directly ahead. Faint torchlight from the square before the main gate cast the structure's angled stones in dulled relief. As they entered an avenue that led to the concourse they came upon the first knot of Barghast, surrounding a small fire built from broken furniture. Tarps slung between the buildings down the avenue's length made the passage beyond a kind of tunnel, strikingly similar to market streets in Seven Cities. Figures lay sleeping along the edges down the entire length. Various cookfires painted smoke-stained, mottled patterns of light on the undersides of the tarps. A good many Barghast warriors remained awake, watchful.

'Try wending unseen through that press, Wizard,' Talamandas murmured. 'We'll have to go round, assuming you still cling to your bizarre desire to slink like a mouse in a hut full of cats. In case you've forgotten, those are my kin—'

'Be quiet,' Quick Ben commanded under his breath. 'Consider this another test of our partnership – and the warrens.'

'We're going straight through?'

'We are.'

'Which warren? Not D'riss again, please – these cobbles—'

'No no, we'd end up soaked in old blood. We won't go under, Talamandas. We'll go over. Serc, the Path of the Sky.'

'Thought you'd exhausted yourself back at the estate.'

'I have. Mostly. We could sweat a bit on this one.'

'I don't sweat.'

'Let's test that, shall we?' The wizard unveiled the warren of Serc. Little alteration was discernible in the scene around them. Then, slowly, as Quick Ben's eyes adjusted, he detected currents in the air, the layers of cold and warm flowing parallel to the ground, the spirals coiling skyward from between the tarps, the wake of passing figures, the heat-memory of stone and wood.

'Looks sickly,' the sticksnare muttered. 'You would swim those currents?'

'Why not? We're almost as insubstantial as the air we see before us. I can get us started, but the problem then is keeping me afloat. You're right – I've no reserves left. So, it's up to you, Talamandas.'

'Me? I know nothing of Serc'

'I'm not asking you to learn, either. What I want is your power.'

'That wasn't part of the deal!'

'It is now.'

The sticksnare shifted and twitched on Quick Ben's shoulder. 'By drawing on my power, you weaken the protection I offer against the poison.'

'And we need to find that threshold, Talamandas. I need to know what I can pull from you in an emergency.'

'Just how nasty a situation are you anticipating when we finally challenge the Crippled God?' the sticksnare demanded. 'Those secret plans of yours – no wonder you're keeping them secret!'

'I could have sworn you said you were offering yourself up as a sacrifice to the cause – do you now balk?'

'At madness? Count on it, Wizard!'

Quick Ben smiled to himself. 'Relax, I'm not stoking a pyre for you. Nor have I any plans to challenge the Crippled God. Not directly. I've been face to face with him once, and once remains enough. Even so, I was serious about finding that threshold. Now, pull the cork, shaman, and let's see what we can manage.'

Hissing with fury, Talamandas growled reluctant assent.

Quick Ben rose from the ground, slipped forward on the nearest current sweeping down the length of the street. The flow was cool, dipping down beneath the tarps. A moment before reaching the downdraught, the wizard nudged himself upward, into a spiral of heat from one of the fires. They shot straight up.

'Dammit!' Quick Ben snapped as he spun and cavorted on the column of heat. Gritting his teeth, the wizard reached for the sticksnare's power – and found what he had suspected to be the truth all along.

Hood's. Through and through. Of the Barghast gods, barely a drop of salty piss. The damned newcomers are stretched far too thin. Wonder what's drawing on their energies? There's a card in the Deck, in the House of Death, that's been a role unfilled for a long, long time. The Magi. I think it's just found a face – one painted on a stupid acorn. Talamandas, you may have made a terrible mistake. And as for you, Barghast gods, here's some wisdom to heed in the future. Never hand your servants over to another god, because they're not likely to stay your servants for long. Instead, that god's likely to turn them into weapons . . . aimed directly at your backs.

Dear Barghast gods, you're in a world of predators, nastier by far than what was around in the past. Lucky for you I'm here.

He drew on that power, harshly.

The sticksnare writhed, twig fingers digging into the wizard's shoulder and neck.

In his mind, Quick Ben closed an implacable grip on the Lord of Death's power, and pulled.

Come to me, bastard. We're going to talk, you and I.

Within his clenched hand was the rough weave of cloth, stretching, bunching. The breath of Death flowed over the wizard, the presence undeniable, heavy with rage.

And, in the clutch of a mortal, entirely helpless.

Quick Ben grunted a laugh. 'So much for thresholds. You want to ally with me, Hood? All right, I'll give you fair consideration, despite the deception. But you're going to have to tell me what you're up to.'

'Damned fool!' Hood's voice was thunderous in the wizard's skull, launching waves of pain.

'Quieter,' Quick Ben gritted. 'Or I'll drag you through hide and all and Fener won't be the only god who's fair game.'

'The House of Chains must be denied!'

The wizard blinked, knocked sideways by Hood's statement. 'The House of Chains? It's the poison we're trying to excise, isn't it? Burn's fever – the infected warrens—'

'The Master of the Deck must be convinced, mortal. The Crippled God's House is finding . . . adherents—'

'Wait a moment. Adherents? Among the pantheon?'

'Betrayal, aye. Poliel, Mistress of Pestilence, aspires to the role of Consort to the King in Chains. A Herald has been . . . recruited. An ancient warrior seeks to become Reaver; whilst the House has found, in a distant land, its Mortal Sword. Mowri now embraces the Three – Cripple, Leper and Fool – which are in place of Spinner, Mason and Soldier. Most disturbing of all, ancient power trembles around the last of the dread cards . . . mortal, the Master of the Deck must not remain blind to the threat.'

Quick Ben scowled. 'Captain Paran's not the blinkered type, Hood. Indeed, he likely sees things clearer than even you – far more dispassionately, at least, and something tells me that cold reason is what will be needed come the time to decide. In any case, the House of Chains may be your problem, but the poison within the warrens is mine.' That, and what it's doing to Burn.

'Misdirection, wizard – you are being led astray. You will find no answers, no solutions within the Pannion Domin, for the Seer is at the heart of an altogether different tale.'

'I'd guessed as much, Hood. Even so, I plan on unravelling the bastard – and his power.'

'Which will avail you nothing.'

'That's what you think,' Quick Ben replied, grinning. 'I am going to call upon you again, Hood.'

'And why should I answer? You've not heard a word I've—'

'I have, but consider this, Lord. The Barghast gods may be young and inexperienced, but that won't last. Besides, young gods are dangerous gods. Scar them now and they'll not forget the one who delivered the wound. You've offered to help, so you'd better do just that, Hood.'

'You dare threaten me—'

'Now who's not listening? I am not threatening you, I am warning you. And not just about the Barghast gods, either. Treach has found a worthy Mortal Sword – can you not feel him? Here I am, a thousand paces or more away from him, with at least twenty walls of stone between us, and I can feel the man. He's wrapped in the pain of a death – someone close, whose soul you now hold. He's no friend of yours, Hood, this Mortal Sword.'

'Do you not think I welcomed all that he has delivered? Treach promised me souls, and his human servant has provided them.'

'In other words, the Tiger of Summer and the Barghast gods have followed through on their sides of the deal. Now, you'd better do the same, and that includes relinquishing Talamandas when the time comes. Hold to the spirit of the agreement, Hood ... unless you learned nothing from the mistakes you made with Dassem Ultor ...'

The wizard felt seething rage burgeon from the Lord of Death, yet the god remained silent.

'Aye,' Quick Ben growled, 'think on that. In the mean-time, you're going to ease loose your power, sufficient to carry me over this crowd of Barghast, and into the plaza in front of the Thrall. Then you're going to withdraw, far enough to give Talamandas the freedom he's supposed to have. Hover behind his painted eyes, if you so desire, but no closer. Until I decide I need you once more.'

'You will be mine one day, mortal—'

'No doubt, Hood. In the meantime, let's just luxuriate in the anticipation, shall we?' With these words, the wizard released his grip on the god's cloak. The presence flinched back.

Power flowed steady, the currents of air drawing Quick Ben and the sticksnare clinging to his shoulder over the tops of the canopies.

Talamandas hissed. 'What has happened? I, uh, vanished for a moment.'

'Everything's fine,' the wizard murmured. 'Does the power feel true, Sticksnare?'

'Aye, it does. This, this I can use.'

'Glad to hear it. Now, guide us to the plaza.'

 

A thin gauze of old smoke dulled the stars overhead. Captain Paran sat on the wide steps of the Thrall's main entrance. Directly ahead, at the end of a wide avenue, stood the gatehouse. Visible through its open doorway, in the plaza beyond, firelight from Barghast camps gleamed through gathering mists.

The Malazan was exhausted, yet sleep would not come to him. His thoughts had wandered countless paths since he'd left Cafal's company two bells earlier. Barghast shoulder-men still worked in the chamber, dismantling the canoes, collecting ancient weapons. Outside that room and beyond that activity, the Thrall seemed virtually deserted, lifeless.

The empty halls and corridors led Paran inexorably to what he imagined his parents' estate in Unta might now look like, with his mother and father dead, Felisin chained to a line in some mining pit a thousand leagues away, and dear sister Tavore dwelling in a score opulent chambers in Laseen's palace.

A house alone with its memories, looted by servants and guards and the street's gutter rats. Did the Adjunct ever ride past? Did her thoughts turn to it in the course of her busy day?

She was not one to spare a moment to sentiment. Cold-eyed, hers was a brutal rationality, pragmatism with a thousand honed edges – to cut open anyone foolish enough to come close.

The Empress would be well pleased with her new Adjunct.

And what of you, Felisin? With your wide smile and dancing eyes? There is no modesty in the Otataral Mines, nothing to shield you from the worst of human nature. You'll have been taken under wing none the less, by some pimp or pit-thug.

A flower crushed underfoot.

Yet your sister has it in mind to retrieve you – that much I know of her. She might well have thrown in a guardian or two for the length of your sentence.

But she'll not be rescuing a child. Not any more. No smile, and something hard and deadly in those once-dancing eyes. You should have found another way, sister. Gods, you should have killed Felisin outright – that would have been a mercy.

And now, now I fear you will some day pay dearly . . .

Paran slowly shook his head. His was a family none would envy. Tom apart by our own hands, no less. And now, we siblings, each launched on our separate fates. The likelihood of those fates' one day converging never seemed so remote.

The worn steps before him were flecked with ash; as if the only survivor in this city was the stone itself. The darkness felt solemn, sorrowful. All the sounds that should have accompanied the night, in this place, were absent. Hood feels close this night. . .

One of the massive double doors behind him swung open. The captain glanced back over a shoulder, then nodded. 'Mortal Sword. You look well... rested.'

The huge man grimaced. 'I feel beaten to within a finger's breadth of my life. That's a mean woman.'

'I've heard men say that of their women before, and always there's a pleased hint to the complaint. As I hear now.'

Gruntle frowned. 'Aye, you're right. Funny, that.'

'These stairs are wide. Have a seat if you like.'

'I would not disturb your solitude, Captain.'

'Please do, it's nothing I would regret abandoning. Too many dark thoughts creep in when I'm alone.'

The Mortal Sword moved forward and slowly settled down onto the step at Paran's side, his tattered armour – straps loose – rustling and clinking. He rested his forearms on his knees, the gauntleted hands dangling. 'I share the same curse, Captain.'

'Fortunate, then, that you found Hetan.'

The man grunted. 'Problem is, she's insatiable.'

'In other words, you're the one in search of solitude, which my presence has prevented.'

'So long as you don't claw my back, your company is welcome.'

Paran nodded. 'I'm not the catty type – uh, sorry.'

'No need. If Trake ain't got a sense of humour that's his problem. Then again, he must have, since he picked me as his Mortal Sword.'

Paran studied the man beside him. Behind the barbed tattoos was a face that had lived hard years. Weathered, roughly chiselled, with eyes that matched those of a tiger's now that the god's power was within his flesh and blood. None the less, there were laugh lines around those eyes. 'Seems to me Trake chose wisely ...'

'Not if he expects piety, or demands vows. Hood knows, I don't even like fighting. I'm not a soldier and have no desire to be. How, then, am I supposed to serve the God of War?'

'Better you, I think, than some blood-lusting square-foot with a single eyebrow, Gruntle. Reluctance to unsheathe those swords and all they represent seems a good thing to me. The gods know it's rare enough at the moment.'

'Not sure about that. This whole city was reluctant. The priests, the Gidrath, even the Grey Swords. If there'd been any other way...' He shrugged. 'The same for me. If it wasn't for what happened to Harllo and Stonny, I'd be down in the tunnels right now, gibbering with the rest of them.'

'Stonny's your friend with the broken rapier, right? Who's Harllo?'

Gruntle turned his head away for a moment. 'Another victim, Captain.' Bitterness filled his tone. 'Just one more on the trail. So I hear that your Malazan army's just west of here, come to join this death-cursed war. Why?'

'A temporary aberration. We ran out of enemies.'

'Soldiers' humour. I never could understand it. Is fighting that important to you?'

'If you mean me, personally, then no, it isn't. But for men like Dujek Onearm and Whiskeyjack, it's the sum total of their lives. They're makers of history. Their gift is the power to command. What they do revises the scholar's maps. As for the soldiers who follow them, I'd say that most of them see it as a profession, a career, probably the only one they're any good at. They are the physical will of the commanders they serve, and so are their own makers of history, one soldier at a time.'

'And what happens if their commanders are suicidal fools?'

'It's a soldier's lot to complain about their officers. Every mud-crusted footman is an artist at second-guessing, master strategists after the fact. But the truth is, the Malazan Empire has a tradition of superb, competent commanders. Hard and fair, usually from the ranks, though I'll grant you my own noble class has made destructive inroads on that tradition. Had I myself followed a safer path, I might well be a Fist by now – not through competence, of course, or even experience. Connections would have sufficed. The Empress has finally recognized the rot, however, and has already acted upon it, though likely too late.'

'Then why in Hood's name would she have outlawed Dujek Onearm?'

Paran was silent for a moment, then he shrugged. 'Politics. Expedience can force even the hand of an Empress, I suppose.'

'Has the sound of a feint to me,' Gruntle muttered. 'You don't cut loose your best commander in a fit of pique.'

'You might be right. Alas, I'm not the one who can either confirm or deny. There's some old wounds still festering between Laseen and Dujek, in any case.'

'Captain Paran, you speak too freely for your own good – not that I'm a liability, mind you. But you've an openness and an honesty that might earn you the gallows some day.'

'Here's some more, Mortal Sword. A new House has appeared, seeking membership in the Deck of Dragons. It belongs to the Crippled God. I can feel the pressure – the voice of countless gods, all demanding that I deny my sanction, since it seems that I am the one cursed with that responsibility. Do I bless the House of Chains, or not? The arguments against such a blessing are overwhelming, and I don't need any god whispering in my head to apprise me of that.'

'So, where is the problem, Captain?'

'It's simple. There's a lone voice crying out, deep within me, so buried as to be almost inaudible. A lone voice, Gruntle, demanding the very opposite. Demanding that I must sanction the House of Chains. I must bless the Crippled God's right to a place within the Deck of Dragons.'

'And whose voice cries out such madness?'

'I think it's mine.'

Gruntle was silent for a dozen heartbeats, yet Paran felt the man's unhuman eyes fixed on him. Eventually, the Mortal Sword looked away and shrugged. 'I don't know much about the Deck of Dragons. Used for divinations, yes? Not something I've ever pursued.'

'Nor I,' Paran admitted.

Gruntle barked a laugh, sharp and echoing, then he slowly nodded. 'And what did you say of me earlier? Better a man who hates war to serve the God of War than one who lusts for it. Thus, why not a man who knows nothing of the Deck of Dragons to adjudicate it rather than a lifelong practitioner?'

'You may have something there. Not that it alleviates my sense of inadequacy.'

'Aye, just that.' He paused, then continued, 'I felt my god recoil at your words, Captain – your instincts on the Crippled God's House of Chains. But as I said before, I'm not a follower. So I guess I saw it different. If Trake wants to tremble on four watery legs that's his business.'

'Your lack of fear has me curious, Gruntle. You seem to see no risk in legitimizing the House of Chains. Why is that?'

The man shrugged his massive shoulders. 'But that's just it, isn't it. Legitimizing. Right now, the Crippled God's outside the whole damned game, meaning he's not bound by any rules whatsoever—'

Paran suddenly sat straight. 'You're right. Abyss take me, that's it. If I bless the House of Chains then the Crippled God becomes ... bound—'

'Just another player, aye, jostling on the same board. Right now, he just keeps kicking it whenever he gets the chance. When he's on it, he won't have that privilege. Anyway, that's how it seems to me, Captain. So when you said you wanted to sanction the House, I thought: why the fuss? Sounds perfectly reasonable to me. The gods can be damned thick-witted on occasion – probably why they need us mortals to do the straight thinking when straight thinking's required. Listen to that lone voice, lad, that's my advice.'

'And it's good advice—'

'Maybe, or maybe not. I might end up being roasted over the eternal fires of the Abyss by Trake and all the other gods for having given it.'

'I'll have company, then,' Paran said, grinning.

'Good thing we both hate solitude.'

'That's a soldier's humour, Gruntle.'

'Is it? But I was being serious, Captain.'

'Oh.'

Gruntle glanced over. 'Got you.'

 

A sliding downdraught of cool air brought Quick Ben onto the gritty flagstones of the plaza. A dozen paces ahead loomed the gatehouse. Beyond it, seated side by side on the Thrall's wide, low steps, were Captain Paran and the Mortal Sword.

'Just the two I wanted to talk with,' the wizard muttered, relinquishing the Warren of Serc.

'No more arguments, please,' Talamandas replied from his perch on Quick Ben's shoulder. 'Those are two powerful men—'

'Relax,' the wizard said. 'I'm not anticipating a confrontation.'

'Well, I'll make myself unseen, just in case.'

'Suit yourself.'

The sticksnare vanished, though the wizard could still feel his meagre weight, and the twig fingers gripping his cloak.

The two men looked up as Quick Ben approached.

Paran nodded a greeting. 'Last time I saw you, you were racked with fever. I'm glad to see you're better. Gruntle, this is Quick Ben, a soldier in the Bridgeburners.'

'A mage.'

'That, too.'

Gruntle studied Quick Ben for a moment, and Paran sensed a bestial presence shifting uneasily behind the man's amber, feline eyes. Then the Daru said, 'You smell of death and it's not to my liking.'

Quick Ben started. 'Indeed? I've been consorting with the wrong company lately. Unpalatable, agreed, but, alas, necessary.'

'Is it just that?'

'I hope so, Mortal Sword.'

A brutal threat glared for a moment in Gruntle's eyes, then, slowly, dimmed. He managed a shrug. 'It was a Bridgeburner who saved Stonny's life, so I'll keep my reins taut. At least until I see if it wears off.'

'Consider it,' Paran said to Quick Ben, 'an elaborate way of saying you need to bathe soon.'

'Well,' the wizard replied, eyes on the captain, 'humour from you makes for a change.'

'Plenty of changes,' Paran agreed, 'of late. If you're looking to rejoin the company they're in the Gidrath barracks.'

'Actually, I bring word from Whiskeyjack.'

Paran sat straighter. 'You've managed to contact him? Despite the poisoned warrens? Impressive, Wizard. Now you have my utmost attention. Has he new orders for me?'

'Another parley has been requested by Brood,' Quick Ben said. 'With all the commanders, including Gruntle here, and Humbrall Taur and whomever's left of the Grey Swords. Can you make the request known to the other principals here in Capustan?'

'Aye, I suppose so. Is that it?'

'If you've a report to make to Whiskeyjack, I can convey it.'

'No thank you. I'll save that for when we meet in person.'

Quick Ben scowled. Be that way, then. 'Regarding the rest, best we speak in private, Captain.'

Gruntle made to rise but Paran reached out and halted the motion.

'I can probably anticipate your questions right here and now, Quick Ben.'

'Maybe you can but I'd rather you didn't.'

'Too bad for you, then. I'll make it plain. I have not yet decided whether or not to sanction the House of Chains. In fact, I haven't decided anything about anything, and it might be some time before that changes. Don't bother trying to pressure me, either.'

Quick Ben raised both hands. 'Please, Captain. I have no intention of pressuring you, since I was the victim of such an effort only a short while ago, by Hood himself, and it's left me riled. When someone warns me to follow one course of action, my instinct is to do the very opposite. You're not the only one inclined to stir the manure.'

Gruntle barked a laugh. 'Such droll understatement! Seems I've found perfect company this night. Do go on, Wizard.'

'Only one more thing to add,' Quick Ben continued, studying Paran. 'An observation. Might be a wrong one, but I don't think so. You got sick, Captain, not from resisting the power forced upon you, but from resisting yourself. Whatever your instincts are demanding, listen to them. Follow them, and Abyss take the rest. That's all.'

'Is that your advice,' Paran quietly asked, 'or Whiskeyjack's?'

Quick Ben shrugged. 'If he was here, he'd say no different, Captain.'

'You've known him a long time, haven't you?'

'Aye, I have.'

After a moment, Paran nodded. 'I'd just about reached the same conclusion myself, this night, with Gruntle's help, that is. Seems the three of us are about to make some very powerful beings very angry.'

'Let 'em squeal,' the Mortal Sword growled. 'Hood knows, we've done more than our share, while they sat back and laughed. Time's come to pull the gauntlet onto the other hand.'

Quick Ben sighed under his breath. All right, Hood, so I didn't really try, but only because it was clear that Paran wasn't inclined to heed you. And maybe I see why, now that I think on it. So, for what it's worth, consider this advice: there will be a House of Chains. Accept it, and prepare for it. You've ample time . . . more or less.

Oh, one more thing, Hood. You and your fellow gods have been calling out the rules uncontested for far too long. Step back, now, and see how us mortals fare ... I think you're in for a surprise or two.

 

Wan, dirt-smeared, but alive. The survivors of Capustan emerged from the last pit mouth as the sky paled to the east, blanched dwellers from the city's roots, shying from the torchlight as they stumbled onto the concourse, where they milled, as if lost in the place they had once known as home.

Shield Anvil Itkovian sat once more astride his warhorse, even though any quick movement made him sway, head spinning with exhaustion and the pain of his wounds. His task now was to be visible, his sole purpose was his presence. Familiar, recognizable, reassuring.

Come the new day, the priests of the Mask Council would begin a procession through the city, to add their own reassurance – that authority remained, that someone was in control, that things – life – could now begin again. But here, in the still darkness – a time Itkovian had chosen to ease the shock of the surrounding ruination – with the priests sleeping soundly in the Thrall, the Grey Swords, numbering three hundred and nineteen in all when including those from the tunnels, were positioned at every tunnel mouth and at every place of convergence.

They were there to ensure martial law and impart a sombre order to the proceedings, but their greatest value, as Itkovian well knew, was psychological.

We are the defenders. And we still stand.

While grieving was darkness, victory and all it meant was a greying to match the dawn, a lessening of the oppression that was loss, and of the devastation that slowly revealed itself on all sides. There could be no easing of the conflict within each and every survivor – the brutal randomness of fate that plagued the spirit – but the Grey Swords made of themselves a simple, solid presence. They had become, in truth, the city's standard.

And we still stand.

Once this task was complete, the contract was, to Itkovian's mind, concluded. Law and order could be left to the Gidrath from the Thrall. The surviving Grey Swords would leave Capustan, likely never to return. The question now occupying the Shield Anvil concerned the company's future. From over seven thousand to three hundred and nineteen: this was a siege from which the Grey Swords might never recover. But even such horrific losses, if borne alone, were manageable. The expelling of Fener from his warren was another matter. An army sworn to a god bereft of its power was, as far as Itkovian was concerned, no different from any other band of mercenaries: a collection of misfits and a scattering of professional soldiers. A column of coins offered no reliable backbone; few were the existent companies that could rightly lay claim to honour and integrity; few would stand' firm when flight was possible.

Recruiting to strength had become problematic. The Grey Swords needed sober, straight-backed individuals; ones capable of accepting discipline of the highest order; ones for whom a vow held meaning.

Twin Tusks, what I need is fanatics . . .

At the same time, such people had to be without ties, of any sort. An unlikely combination.

And, given such people could be found, to whom could they swear? Not Trake – that army's core already existed, centred around Gruntle.

There were two other war-aspected gods that Itkovian knew of; northern gods, rarely worshipped here in the midlands or to the south.

What did Hetan call me? She never likened me to a cat, or a bear. No. In her eyes, I was a wolf.

Very well, then . . .

He raised his head, scanned over the heads of the milling survivors in the concourse until he spied the other lone rider.

She was watching him.

Itkovian gestured her over.

It was a few moments before she could pick her horse through the press and reach his side. 'Sir?'

'Find the captain. We three have a task before us, sir.'

The woman saluted, swung her mount round.

He watched her ride onto a side street, then out of sight. There was a strong logic behind his decision, yet, for him, it felt hollow, as if he personally was to have no part to play in what was to come beyond the act of preparation – no subsequent role in what had to be. None the less, the survival of the Grey Swords took precedence over his own wishes; indeed, his own life. It has to be this way. I can think of no other. A new Reve must be fashioned. Even in this, I am not yet done.

 

Captain Norul had found a horse for herself. Her face was aged beneath the rim of her helm: sleep had been denied them all for too long. She said nothing as she and the recruit reined in beside the Shield Anvil.

'Follow me, sirs,' Itkovian said, wheeling his mount.

They rode through the city, the sky paling to cerulean blue overhead, and left through the north gate. Encamped on the hills a third of a league away were the Barghast, the yurts and tents sparsely patrolled by a modest rearguard. Smoke rose from countless fires as the camp's old men and women began the morning meal. Children already ran down the uneven aisles, quieter than their city counterparts, but no less energetic.

The three Grey Swords crossed the looted remains of the Pannion lines and rode directly for the nearest Barghast camp.

Itkovian was not surprised to see a half-dozen old women gathering to meet them at the camp's edge. There is a current that carries us to this, and you witches have felt it as surely as have I, and thus the trueness is made known and plain. The realization did little to diminish the bleakness of his resolution. Consider it but one more burden, Shield Anvil, one for which you were made as you were for all the others.

They drew rein before the Barghast elders.

No-one spoke for a long moment, then one old woman cackled and gestured. 'Come, then.'

Itkovian dismounted, his companions following suit. Children appeared to take the reins of the three horses and the beasts were led away.

The elders, led by the spokeswoman, set off down the camp's main path, to a large yurt at the far end. The entrance was flanked by two Barghast warriors. The old woman hissed at them and both men retreated.

Itkovian, the recruit and the captain followed the elders into the yurt's interior.

'Rare is the man who comes to this place,' the spokeswoman said as she hobbled to the other side of the central hearth and lowered herself onto a bundle of furs.

'I am honoured—'

'Don't be!' she replied with a cackle. 'You would have to beat a warrior senseless and drag him, and even then it's likely his brothers and friends would attack you before you reached the entrance. You, a young man, are among old women, and there is nothing in the world more perilous!'

'But look at him!' another woman cried. 'He has no fear!'

'The hearth of his soul is nothing but ashes,' a third sniffed.

'Even so,' the first woman retorted, 'with what he now seeks, he would promise a firestorm to a frozen forest. Togctha and Farand, the lovers lost to each other for eternity, the winter hearts that howl in the deep fastnesses of Laederon and beyond – we have all heard those mournful cries, in our dreams. Have we not? They come closer – only not from the north, oh no, not the north. And now, this man.' She leaned forward, lined face indistinct behind the hearth's smoke. 'This man ...'

The last words were a sigh.

Itkovian drew a deep breath, then gestured to the recruit. 'The Mortal Sword—'

'No,' the old woman growled.

The Shield Anvil faltered. 'But—'

'No,' she repeated. 'He has been found. He exists. It is already done. Look at her hands, Wolf. There is too much caring in them. She shall be the Destriant.'

'Are you – are you certain of this?'

The old woman nodded towards the captain. 'And this one,' she continued, ignoring Itkovian's question, 'she is to be what you were. She will accept the burden – you, Wolf, have shown her all she must know. The truth of that is in her eyes, and in the love she holds for you. She would be its answer, in kind, in blood. She shall be the Shield Anvil.'

The other elders were nodding agreement, their eyes glittering in the gloom above beaked noses – as if a murder of crows now faced Itkovian.

He slowly turned to Captain Norul. The veteran looked stricken.

She faced him. 'Sir, what—'

'For the Grey Swords,' Itkovian said, struggling to contain his own welling of pain and anguish. 'It must be done, sir,' he rasped. 'Togg, Lord of Winter, a god of war long forgotten, recalled among the Barghast as the wolf-spirit, Togctha. And his lost mate, the she-wolf, Fanderay. Farand in the Barghast tongue. Among our company, now, more women than men. A Reve must be proclaimed, kneeling before the wolf god and the wolf goddess. You are to be the Shield Anvil, sir. And you,' he said to the recruit – whose eyes were wide – 'are to be the Destriant. The Grey Swords are remade, sirs. The sanction is here, now, among these wise women.'

The captain stepped back, armour clanking. 'Sir, you are the Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords—'

'No. I am the Shield Anvil of Fener, and Fener, sir, is... gone.'

'The company is virtually destroyed, sir,' the veteran pointed out. 'Our recovery is unlikely. The matter of quality—'

'You will require fanatics, Captain. That cast of mind, of breeding and culture, is vital. You must search, sir, you must needs find such people. People with nothing left to their lives, with their faith dismantled. People who have been made ... lost.'

Norul was shaking her head, but he could see growing comprehension in her grey eyes.

'Captain,' Itkovian continued inexorably, 'the Grey Swords shall march with the two foreign armies. South, to see the end of the Pannion Domin. And, at a time deemed propitious, you will recruit. You will find the people you seek, sir, among the Tenescowri.'

Fear not, I shall not abandon you yet, my friend. There is much you must learn.

And, it seems, no end to my purpose.

He saw the bleakness come to her, saw it, and struggled against the horror of what he had done. Some things should never be shared. And that is my most terrible crime, for to the title – the burden that is Shield Anvil – I gave her no choice.

I gave her no choice.