《Memories of Ice (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #3)》


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    Prologue


    The ancient wars of the T''lan Imass and the Jaghut saw the world torn asunder. Vast armies contended on the ravaged lands, the dead piled high, their bone the bones of hills, their spilled blood the blood of seas. Sorceries raged until the sky itself was fire ¡­


    Ancient Histories, Vol. I Kinicik Karbar''n


    I


    Maeth''ki Im (Pogrom of the Rotted Flower), the 33rd Jaghut War


    298,665 years before Burn''s Sleep.


    Swallows darted through the clouds of midges dancing over the mudflats. The sky above the marsh remained grey, but it had lost its mercurial wintry gleam, and the warm wind sighing through the air above the ravaged land held the scent of healing.


    What had once been the inland freshwater sea the Imass called Jaghra Til ¡ª born from the shattering of the Jaghut ice-fields ¡ª was now in its own death-throes. The pallid overcast was reflected in dwindling pools and stretches of knee-deep water for as far south as the eye could scan, but none the less, newly birthed land dominated the vista.


    The breaking of the sorcery that had raised the glacial age returned to the region the old, natural seasons, but the memories of mountain-high ice lingered. The exposed bedrock to the north was gouged and scraped, its basins filled with boulders. The heavy silts that had been the floor of the inland sea still bubbled with escaping gases, as the land, freed of the enormous weight with the glaciers'' passing eight years past, continued its slow ascent.


    Jaghra Til''s life had been short, yet the silts that had settled on its bottom were thick. And treacherous.


    Pran Chole, Bonecaster of Cannig Tol''s clan among the Kron Imass, sat motionless atop a mostly buried boulder along an ancient beach ridge. The descent before him was snarled in low, wiry grasses and withered driftwood. Twelve paces beyond, the land dropped slightly, then stretched out into a broad basin of mud.


    Three ranag had become trapped in a boggy sinkhole twenty paces into the basin. A bull male, his mate and their calf, ranged in a pathetic defensive circle. Mired and vulnerable, they must have seemed easy kills for the pack of ay that found them.


    But the land was treacherous indeed. The large tundra wolves had succumbed to the same fate as the ranag. Pran Chole counted six ay, including a yearling. Tracks indicated that another yearling had circled the sinkhole dozens of times before wandering westward, doomed no doubt to die in solitude.


    How long ago had this drama occurred? There was no way to tell. The mud had hardened on ranag and ay alike, forming cloaks of clay latticed with cracks. Spots of bright green showed where windborn seeds had germinated, and the Bonecaster was reminded of his visions when spiritwalking ¡ª a host of mundane details twisted into something unreal. For the beasts, the struggle had become eternal, hunter and hunted locked together for all time.


    Someone padded to his side, crouched down beside him.


    Pran Chole''s tawny eyes remained fixed on the frozen tableau. The rhythm of footsteps told the Bonecaster the identity of his companion, and now came the warm-blooded smells that were as much a signature as resting eyes upon the man''s face.


    Cannig Tol spoke. ''What lies beneath the clay, Bonecaster?''


    ''Only that which has shaped the clay itself, Clan Leader.''


    ''You see no omen in these beasts?''


    Pran Chole smiled. ''Do you?''


    Cannig Tol considered for a time, then said, ''Ranag are gone from these lands. So too the ay. We see before us an ancient battle. These statements have depth, for they stir my soul.''


    ''Mine as well,'' the Bonecaster conceded.


    ''We hunted the ranag until they were no more, and this brought starvation to the ay, for we had also hunted the tenag until they were no more as well. The agkor who walk with the bhederin would not share with the ay, and now the tundra is empty. From this, I conclude that we were wasteful and thoughtless in our hunting.''


    ''Yet the need to feed our own young¡­''


    ''The need for more young was great.''


    ''It remains so, Clan Leader.''


    Cannig Tol grunted. ''The Jaghut were powerful in these lands, Bonecaster. They did not flee ¡ª not at first. You know the cost in Imass blood.''


    ''And the land yields its bounty to answer that cost.''


    ''To serve our war.''


    ''Thus, the depths are stirred.''


    The Clan Leader nodded and was silent.


    Pran Chole waited. In their shared words they still tracked the skin of things. Revelation of the muscle and bone was yet to come. But Cannig Tol was no fool, and the wait was not long.


    ''We are as those beasts.''


    The Bonecaster''s eyes shifted to the south horizon, tightened.

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    Cannig Tol continued, ''We are the clay, and our endless war against the Jaghut is the struggling beast beneath. The surface is shaped by what lies beneath.'' He gestured with one hand. ''And before us now, in these creatures slowly turning to stone, is the curse of eternity.''


    There was still more. Pran Chole said nothing.


    ''Ranag and ay,'' Cannig Tol resumed. ''Almost gone from the mortal realm. Hunter and hunted both.''


    ''To the very bones,'' the Bonecaster whispered.


    ''Would that you had seen an omen,'' the Clan Leader muttered, rising.


    Pran Chole also straightened. ''Would that I had,'' he agreed in a tone that only faintly echoed Cannig Tol''s wry, sardonic utterance.


    ''Are we close, Bonecaster?''


    Pran Chole glanced down at his shadow, studied the antlered silhouette, the figure hinted within furred cape, ragged hides and headdress. The sun''s angle made him seem tall ¡ª almost as tall as a Jaghut. ''Tomorrow,'' he said. ''They are weakening. A night of travel will weaken them yet more.''


    ''Good. Then the clan shall camp here tonight.''


    The Bonecaster listened as Cannig Tol made his way back down to where the others waited. With darkness, Pran Chole would spiritwalk. Into the whispering earth, seeking those of his own kind. While their quarry was weakening, Cannig Tol''s clan was yet weaker. Less than a dozen adults remained. When pursuing Jaghut, the distinction of hunter and hunted had little meaning.


    He lifted his head and sniffed the crepuscular air. Another Bonecaster wandered this land. The taint was unmistakable. He wondered who it was, wondered why it travelled alone, bereft of clan and kin. And, knowing that even as he had sensed its presence so it in turn had sensed his, he wondered why it had not yet sought them out.


    She pulled herself clear of the mud and dropped down onto the sandy bank, her breath coming in harsh, laboured gasps. Her son and daughter squirmed free of her leaden arms, crawled further onto the island''s modest hump.


    The Jaghut mother lowered her head until her brow rested against the cool, damp sand. Grit pressed into the skin of her forehead with raw insistence. The burns there were too recent to have healed, nor were they likely to ¡ª she was defeated, and death had only to await the arrival of her hunters.


    They were mercifully competent, at least. These Imass cared nothing for torture. A swift killing blow. For her, then for her children. And with them ¡ª with this meagre, tattered family ¡ª the last of the Jaghut would vanish from this continent. Mercy arrived in many guises. Had they not joined in chaining Raest, they would all ¡ª Imass and Jaghut both ¡ª have found themselves kneeling before that Tyrant. A temporary truce of expedience. She''d known enough to flee once the chaining was done; she''d known, even then, that the Imass clan would resume the pursuit.


    The mother felt no bitterness, but that made her no less desperate.


    Sensing a new presence on the small island, her head snapped up. Her children had frozen in place, staring up in terror at the Imass woman who now stood before them. The mother''s grey eyes narrowed. ''Clever, Bonecaster. My senses were tuned only to those behind us. Very well, be done with it.''


    The young, black-haired woman smiled. ''No bargains, Jaghut? You always seek bargains to spare the lives of your children. Have you broken the kin-threads with these two, then? They seem young for that.''


    ''Bargains are pointless. Your kind never agree to them.''


    ''No, yet still your kind try.''


    ''I shall not. Kill us, then. Swiftly.''


    The Imass was wearing the skin of a panther. Her eyes were as black and seemed to match its shimmer in the dying light. She looked well fed, her large, swollen breasts indicating she had recently birthed.


    The Jaghut mother could not read the woman''s expression, only that it lacked the typical grim certainty she usually associated with the strange, rounded faces of the Imass.


    The Bonecaster spoke. ''I have enough Jaghut blood on my hands. I leave you to the Kron clan that will find you tomorrow.''


    ''To me,'' the mother growled, ''it matters naught which of you kills us, only that you kill us.''


    The woman''s broad mouth quirked. ''I can see your point.''


    Weariness threatened to overwhelm the Jaghut mother, but she managed to pull herself into a sitting position. ''What,'' she asked between gasps, ''do you want?''


    ''To offer you a bargain.''


    Breath catching, the Jaghut mother stared into the Bonecaster''s dark eyes, and saw nothing of mockery. Her gaze then dropped, for the briefest of moments, on her son and daughter, then back up to hold steady on the woman''s own.

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    The Imass slowly nodded.


    The earth had cracked some time in the past, a wound of such depth as to birth a molten river wide enough to stretch from horizon to horizon. Vast and black, the river of stone and ash reached southwestward, down to the distant sea. Only the smallest of plants had managed to find purchase, and the Bonecaster''s passage ¡ª a Jaghut child in the crook of each arm ¡ª raised sultry clouds of dust that hung motionless in her wake.


    She judged the boy at perhaps five years of age; his sister perhaps four. Neither seemed entirely aware, and clearly neither had understood their mother when she''d hugged them goodbye. The long flight down the L''amath and across the Jagra Til had driven them both into shock. No doubt witnessing the ghastly death of their father had not helped matters.


    They clung to her with their small, grubby hands, grim reminders of the child she had but recently lost. Before long, both began suckling at her breasts, evincing desperate hunger. Some time later, the children slept.


    The lava flow thinned as she approached the coast. A range of hills rose into distant mountains on her right. A level plain stretched directly before her, ending at a ridge half a league distant. Though she could not see it, she knew that just the other side of the ridge, the land slumped down to the sea. The plain itself was marked by regular humps, and the Bonecaster paused to study them. The mounds were arrayed in concentric circles, and at the centre was a larger dome ¡ª all covered in a mantle of lava and ash. The rotted tooth of a ruined tower rose from the plain''s edge, at the base of the first line of hills. Those hills, as she had noted the first time she had visited this place, were themselves far too evenly spaced to be natural.


    The Bonecaster lifted her head. The mingled scents were unmistakable, one ancient and dead, the other ¡­ less so. The boy stirred in her clasp, but remained asleep.


    ''Ah,'' she murmured, ''you sense it as well.''


    Skirting the plain, she walked towards the blackened tower.


    The warren''s gate was just beyond the ragged edifice, suspended in the air at about six times her height. She saw it as a red welt, a thing damaged, but no longer bleeding. She could not recognize the warren ¡ª the old damage obscured the portal''s characteristics. Unease rippled faintly through her.


    The Bonecaster set the children down by the tower, then sat on a block of tumbled masonry. Her gaze fell to the two young Jaghut, still curled in sleep, lying on their beds of ash. ''What choice?'' she whispered. ''It must be Omtose Phellack. It certainly isn''t Tellann. Starvald Demelain? Unlikely.'' Her eyes were pulled to the plain, narrowing on the mound rings. ''Who dwelt here? Who else was in the habit of building in stone?'' She fell silent for a long moment, then swung her attention back to the ruin. ''This tower is the final proof, for it is naught else but Jaghut, and such a structure would not be raised this close to an inimical warren. No, the gate is Omtose Phellack. It must be so.''


    Still, there were additional risks. An adult Jaghut in the warren beyond, coming upon two children not of its own blood, might as easily kill them as adopt them. ''Then their deaths stain another''s hands, a Jaghut''s.'' Scant comfort, that distinction. It matters naught which of you kills us, only that you kill us. The breath hissed between the woman''s teeth. ''What choice?'' she asked again.


    She would let them sleep a little longer. Then, she would send them through the gate. A word to the boy ¡ª take care of your sister. The journey will not be long. And to them both ¡ª your mother waits beyond. A lie, but they would need courage. If she cannot find you, then one of her kin will. Go then, to safety, to salvation.


    After all, what could be worse than death?


    She rose as they approached. Pran Chole tested the air, frowned. The Jaghut had not unveiled her warren. Even more disconcerting, where were her children?


    ''She greets us with calm,'' Cannig Tol muttered.


    ''She does,'' the Bonecaster agreed.


    ''I''ve no trust in that ¡ª we should kill her immediately.''


    ''She would speak with us,'' Pran Chole said.


    ''A deadly risk, to appease her desire.''


    ''I cannot disagree, Clan Leader. Yet ¡­ what has she done with her children?''


    ''Can you not sense them?''


    Pran Chole shook his head. ''Prepare your spearmen,'' he said, stepping forward.


    There was peace in her eyes, so clear an acceptance of her own imminent death that the Bonecaster was shaken. Pran Chole walked through shin-deep water, then stepped onto the island''s sandy bank to stand face to face with the Jaghut. ''What have you done with them?'' he demanded.

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    The mother smiled, lips peeling back to reveal her tusks. ''Gone.''


    ''Where?''


    ''Beyond your reach, Bonecaster.''


    Pran Chole''s frown deepened. ''These are our lands. There is no place here that is beyond our reach. Have you slain them with your own hands, then?''


    The Jaghut cocked her head, studied the Imass. ''I had always believed you were united in your hatred for our kind. I had always believed that such concepts as compassion and mercy were alien to your natures.''


    The Bonecaster stared at the woman for a long moment, then his gaze dropped away, past her, and scanned the soft clay ground. ''An Imass has been here,'' he said. ''A woman. The Bonecaster-'' the one I could not find in my spiritwalk. The one who chose not to be found. ''What has she done?''


    ''She has explored this land,'' the Jaghut replied. ''She has found a gate far to the south. It is Omtose Phellack.''


    ''I am glad,'' Pran Chole said, ''1 am not a mother.'' And you, woman, should be glad I am not cruel. He gestured. Heavy spears flashed past the Bonecaster. Six long, fluted heads of flint punched through the skin covering the Jaghut''s chest. She staggered, then folded to the ground in a clatter of shafts.


    Thus ended the thirty-third Jaghut War.


    Pran Chole whirled. ''We''ve no time for a pyre. We must strike southward. Quickly.''


    Cannig Tol stepped forward as his warriors went to retrieve their weapons. The Clan Leader''s eyes narrowed on the Bonecaster. ''What distresses you?''


    ''A renegade Bonecaster has taken the children.''


    ''South?''


    ''To Morn.''


    The Clan Leader''s brows knitted.


    ''The renegade would save this woman''s children. The renegade believes the Rent to be Omtose Phellack.''


    Pran Chole watched the blood leave Cannig Tol''s face. ''Go to Morn, Bonecaster,'' the Clan Leader whispered. ''We are not cruel. Go now.''


    Pran Chole bowed. The Tellann warren engulfed him.


    The faintest release of her power sent the two Jaghut children upward, into the gate''s maw. The girl cried out a moment before reaching it, a longing wail for her mother, who she imagined waited beyond. Then the two small figures vanished within.


    The Bonecaster sighed and continued to stare upward, seeking any evidence that the passage had gone awry. It seemed, however, that no wounds had reopened, no gush of wild power bled from the portal. Did it look different? She could not be sure. This was new land for her; she had nothing of the bone-bred sensitivity that she had known all her life among the lands of the Tarad clan, in the heart of the First Empire.


    The Tellann warren opened behind her. The woman spun round, moments from veering into her Soletaken form.


    An arctic fox bounded into view, slowed upon seeing her, then sembled back into its Imass form. She saw before her a young man, wearing the skin of his totem animal across his shoulders, and a battered antler headdress. His expression was twisted with fear, his eyes not on her, but on the portal beyond.


    The woman smiled. ''I greet you, fellow Bonecaster. Yes, I have sent them through. They are beyond the reach of your vengeance, and this pleases me.''


    His tawny eyes fixed on her. ''Who are you? What clan?''


    ''I have left my clan, but I was once counted among the Logros. I am named Kilava.''


    ''You should have let me find you last night,'' Pran Chole said. ''I would then have been able to convince you that a swift death was the greater mercy for those children than what you have done here, Kilava.''


    ''They are young enough to be adopted-''


    ''You have come to the place called Morn,'' Pran Chole interjected, his voice cold. ''To the ruins of an ancient city-''


    ''Jaghut-''


    ''Not Jaghut! This tower, yes, but it was built long afterward, in the time between the city''s destruction and the T''ol Ara''d ¡ª this flow of lava which but buried something already dead.'' He raised a hand, pointed towards the suspended gate. ''It was this ¡ª this wounding ¡ª that destroyed the city, Kilava. The warren beyond ¡ª do you not understand? It is not Omtose Phellack! Tell me this ¡ª how are such wounds sealed? You know the answer, Bonecaster!''


    The woman slowly turned, studied the Rent. ''If a soul sealed that wound, then it should have been freed ¡­ when the children arrived-''


    ''Freed,'' Pran Chole hissed, '' in exchange !''


    Trembling, Kilava faced him again. ''Then where is it? Why has it not appeared?''


    Pran Chole turned to study the central mound on the plain. ''Oh,'' he whispered, ''but it has.'' He glanced back at his fellow Bonecaster. ''Tell me, will you in turn give up your life for those children? They are trapped now, in an eternal nightmare of pain. Does your compassion extend to sacrificing yourself in yet another exchange?'' He studied her, then sighed. ''I thought not, so wipe away those tears, Kilava. Hypocrisy ill suits a Bonecaster.''

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    ''What¡­'' the woman managed after a time, ''what has been freed?''


    Pran Chole shook his head. He studied the central mound again. ''I am not sure, but we shall have to do something about it, sooner or later. I suspect we have plenty of time. The creature must now free itself of its tomb, and that has been thoroughly warded. More, there is the T''ol Ara''d''s mantle of stone still clothing the barrow.'' After a moment, he added. ''But time we shall have.''


    ''What do you mean?''


    ''The Gathering has been called. The Ritual of Tellann awaits us, Bonecaster.''


    She spat. ''You are all insane. To choose immortality for the sake of a war ¡ª madness. I shall defy the call, Bonecaster.''


    He nodded. ''Yet the Ritual shall be done. I have spiritwalked into the future, Kilava. I have seen my withered face of two hundred thousand and more years hence. We shall have our eternal war.''


    Bitterness filled Kilava''s voice. ''My brother will be pleased.''


    ''Who is your brother?''


    ''Onos T''oolan, the First Sword.''


    Pran Chole turned at this. ''You are the Defier. You slaughtered your clan ¡ª your kin-''


    ''To break the link and thus achieve freedom, yes. Alas, my eldest brother''s skills more than matched mine. Yet now we are both free, though what I celebrate, Onos T''oolan curses.'' She wrapped her arms around herself, and Pran Chole saw upon her layers and layers of pain. Hers was a freedom he did not envy. She spoke again. ''This city, then. Who built it.''


    ''K''Chain Che''Malle.''


    ''I know the name, but little else of them.''


    Pran Chole nodded. ''We shall, I expect, learn.''


    II


    Continents of Korelri and Jacuruku, in the Time of Dying 119,736 years before Burn''s Sleep (three years after the Fall of the Crippled God)


    The Fall had shattered a continent. Forests had burned, the firestorms lighting the horizons in every direction, bathing crimson the heaving ash-filled clouds blanketing the sky. The conflagration had seemed unending, world-devouring, weeks into months, and through it all could be heard the screams of a god.


    Pain gave birth to rage. Rage, to poison, an infection sparing no-one.


    Scattered survivors remained, reduced to savagery, wandering a landscape pocked with huge craters now filled with murky, lifeless water, the sky churning endlessly above them. Kinship had been dismembered, love had proved a burden too costly to carry. They ate what they could, often each other, and scanned the ravaged world around them with rapacious intent.


    One figure walked this landscape alone. Wrapped in rotting rags, he was of average height, his features blunt and unprepossessing. There was a dark cast to his face, a heavy inflexibility in his eyes. He walked as if gathering suffering unto himself, unmindful of its vast weight; walked as if incapable of yielding, of denying the gifts of his own spirit.


    In the distance, ragged bands eyed the figure as he strode, step by step, across what was left of the continent that would one day be called Korelri. Hunger might have driven them closer, but there were no fools left among the survivors of the Fall, and so they maintained a watchful distance, curiosity dulled by fear. For the man was an ancient god, and he walked among them.


    Beyond the suffering he absorbed, K''rul would have willingly embraced their broken souls, yet he had fed ¡ª was feeding ¡ª on the blood spilled onto this land, and the truth was this: the power born of that would be needed.


    In K''rul''s wake, men and women killed men, killed women, killed children. Dark slaughter was the river the Elder God rode.


    Elder Gods embodied a host of harsh unpleasantries.


    The foreign god had been torn apart in his descent to earth. He had come down in pieces, in streaks of flame. His pain was fire, screams and thunder, a voice that had been heard by half the world. Pain, and outrage. And, K''rul reflected, grief. It would be a long time before the foreign god could begin to reclaim the remaining fragments of its life, and so begin to unveil its nature. K''rul feared that day''s arrival. From such a shattering could only come madness.


    The summoners were dead. Destroyed by what they had called down upon them. There was no point in hating them, no need to conjure up images of what they in truth deserved by way of punishment. They had, after all, been desperate. Desperate enough to part the fabric of chaos, to open a way into an alien, remote realm; to then lure a curious god of that realm closer, ever closer to the trap they had prepared. The summoners sought power.


    All to destroy one man.


    The Elder God had crossed the ruined continent, had looked upon the still-living flesh of the Fallen God, had seen the unearthly maggots that crawled forth from that rotting, endlessly pulsing meat and broken bone. Had seen what those maggots flowered into. Even now, as he reached the battered shoreline of Jacuruku, the ancient sister continent to Korelri, they wheeled above him on their broad, black wings. Sensing the power within him, they were hungry for its taste.

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    But a strong god could ignore the scavengers that trailed in his wake, and K''rul was a strong god. Temples had been raised in his name. Blood had for generations soaked countless altars in worship of him. The nascent cities were wreathed in the smoke of forges, pyres, the red glow of humanity''s dawn. The First Empire had risen, on a continent half a world away from where K''rul now walked. An empire of humans, born from the legacy of the T''lan Imass, from whom it took its name.


    But it had not been alone for long. Here, on Jacuruku, in the shadow of long-dead K''Chain Che''Malle ruins, another empire had emerged. Brutal, a devourer of souls, its ruler was a warrior without equal.


    K''rul had come to destroy him, had come to snap the chains of twelve million slaves ¡ª even the Jaghut Tyrants had not commanded such heartless mastery over their subjects. No, it took a mortal human to achieve this level of tyranny over his kin.


    Two other Elder Gods were converging on the Kallorian Empire. The decision had been made. The three ¡ª last of the Elder ¡ª would bring to a close the High King''s despotic rule. K''rul could sense his companions. Both were close; both had been comrades once, but they all ¡ª K''rul included ¡ª had changed, had drifted far apart. This would mark the first conjoining in millennia.


    He could sense a fourth presence as well, a savage, ancient beast following his spoor. A beast of the earth, of winter''s frozen breath, a beast with white fur bloodied, wounded almost unto death by the Fall. A beast with but one surviving eye to look upon the destroyed land that had once been its home ¡ª long before the empire''s rise. Trailing, but coming no closer. And, K''rul well knew, it would remain a distant observer of all that was about to occur. The Elder god could spare it no sorrow, yet was not indifferent to its pain.


    We each survive as we must, and when time comes to die, we find our places of solitude ¡­


    The Kallorian Empire had spread to every shoreline of Jacuruku, yet K''rul saw no-one as he took his first steps inland. Lifeless wastes stretched on all sides. The air was grey with ash and dust, the skies overhead churning like lead in a smith''s cauldron. The Elder God experienced the first breath of unease, sidling chill across his soul.


    Above him the god-spawned scavengers cackled as they wheeled.


    A familiar voice spoke in K''rul''s mind. Brother, I am upon the north shore.


    ''And I the west.''


    Are you troubled?


    ''I am. All is ¡­ dead.''


    Incinerated. The heat remains deep beneath the beds of ash. Ash ¡­ and bone.


    A third voice spoke. Brothers, I am come from the south, where once dwelt the cities. All destroyed. The echoes of a continent''s death-cry still linger. Are we deceived? Is this illusion?


    K''rul addressed the first Elder who had spoken in his mind. ''Draconus, I too feel that death-cry. Such pain ¡­ indeed, more dreadful in its aspect than that of the Fallen One. If not a deception as our sister suggests, what has he done?''


    We have stepped onto this land, and so all share what you sense, K''rul, Draconus replied. I, too, am not certain of its truth. Sister, do you approach the High King''s abode?


    The third voice replied, I do, brother Draconus. Would you and brother K''rul join me now, that we may confront this mortal as one?


    ''We shall.''


    Warrens opened, one to the far north, the other directly before K''rul.


    The two Elder Gods joined their sister upon a ragged hilltop where wind swirled through the ashes, spinning funereal wreaths skyward. Directly before them, on a heap of burnt bones, was a throne.


    The man seated upon it was smiling. ''As you can see,'' he rasped after a moment of scornful regard, ''I have ¡­ prepared for your arrival. Oh yes, I knew you were coming. Draconus, of Tiam''s kin. K''rul, Opener of the Paths.'' His grey eyes swung to the third Elder. ''And you. My dear, I was under the impression that you had abandoned your ¡­ old self. Walking among the mortals, playing the role of middling sorceress ¡ª such a deadly risk, though perhaps this is what entices you so to the mortal game. You''ve stood on fields of battles, woman. One stray arrow ¡­'' He slowly shook his head.


    ''We have come,'' K''rul said, ''to end your reign of terror.''


    Kallor''s brows rose. ''You would take from me all that I have worked so hard to achieve? Fifty years, dear rivals, to conquer an entire continent. Oh, perhaps Ardatha still held out ¡ª always late in sending me my rightful tribute ¡ª but I ignored such petty gestures. She has fled, did you know? The bitch. Do you imagine yourselves the first to challenge me? The Circle brought down a foreign god. Aye, the effort went¡­ awry, thus sparing me the task of killing the fools with my own hand. And the Fallen One? Well, he''ll not recover for some time, and even then, do you truly imagine he will accede to anyone''s bidding? I would have-''

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    ''Enough,'' Draconus growled. ''Your prattling grows wearisome, Kallor.''


    ''Very well,'' the High King sighed. He leaned forward. ''You''ve come to liberate my people from my tyrannical rule. Alas, I am not one to relinquish such things. Not to you, not to anyone.'' He settled back, waved a languid hand. ''Thus, what you would refuse me, I now refuse you.''


    Though the truth was before K''rul''s eyes, he could not believe it. ''What have-''


    ''Are you blind?'' Kallor shrieked, clutching at the arms of his throne. ''It is gone! They are gone! Break the chains, will you? Go ahead ¡ª no, I surrender them! Here, all about you, is now free ! Dust! Bones! All free!''


    ''You have in truth incinerated an entire continent?'' the sister Elder whispered. ''Jacuruku-''


    ''Is no more, and never again shall be. What I have unleashed will never heal. Do you understand me? Never. And it is all your fault. Yours. Paved in bone and ash, this noble road you chose to walk. Your road.''


    ''We cannot allow this-''


    ''It has already happened, you foolish woman!''


    K''rul spoke within the minds of his kin. It must be done. I will fashion a ¡­ a place for this. Within myself.


    A warren to hold all this? Draconus asked in horror. My brother -


    No, it must be done. join with me now, this shaping will not be easy-


    It will break you, K''rul, his sister said. There must be another way.


    None. To leave this continent as it is ¡­ no, this world is young. To carry such a scar ¡­


    What of Kallor? Draconus enquired. What of this ¡­ this creature?


    We mark him, K''rul replied. We know his deepest desire, do we not?


    And the span of his life?


    Long, my friends.


    Agreed.


    K''rul blinked, fixed his dark, heavy eyes on the High King. ''For this crime, Kallor, we deliver appropriate punishment. Know this: you, Kallor Eiderann Tes''thesula, shall know mortal life unending. Mortal, in the ravages of age, in the pain of wounds and the anguish of despair. In dreams brought to ruin. In love withered. In the shadow of Death''s spectre, ever a threat to end what you will not relinquish.'' Draconus spoke, ''Kallor Eiderann Tes''thesula, you shall never ascend. ''


    Their sister said, ''Kallor Eiderann Tes''thesula, each time you rise, you shall then fall. All that you achieve shall turn to dust in your hands. As you have wilfully done here, so it shall be in turn visited upon all that you do.''


    ''Three voices curse you,'' K''rul intoned. ''It is done.''


    The man on the throne trembled. His lips drew back in a rictus snarl. ''I shall break you. Each of you. I swear this upon the bones of seven million sacrifices. K''rul, you shall fade from the world, you shall be forgotten. Draconus, what you create shall be turned upon you. And as for you, woman, unhuman hands shall tear your body into pieces, upon a field of battle, yet you shall know no respite ¡ª thus, my curse upon you, Sister of Cold Nights. Kallor Eiderann Tes''thesula, one voice, has spoken three curses. Thus.''


    They left Kallor upon his throne, upon its heap of bones. They merged their power to draw chains around a continent of slaughter, then pulled it into a warren created for that sole purpose, leaving the land itself bared. To heal.


    The effort left K''rul broken, bearing wounds he knew he would carry for all his existence. More, he could already feel the twilight of his worship, the blight of Kallor''s curse. To his surprise, the loss pained him less than he would have imagined.


    The three stood at the portal of the nascent, lifeless realm, and looked long upon their handiwork.


    Then Draconus spoke, ''Since the time of All Darkness, I have been forging a sword.''


    Both K''rul and the Sister of Cold Nights turned at this, for they had known nothing of it.


    Draconus continued. ''The forging has taken ¡­ a long time, but I am now nearing completion. The power invested within the sword possesses a ¡­ a finality.''


    ''Then,'' K''rul whispered after a moment''s consideration, ''you must make alterations in the final shaping.''


    ''So it seems. I shall need to think long on this.''


    After a long moment, K''rul and his brother turned to their sister.


    She shrugged. ''I shall endeavour to guard myself. When my destruction comes, it will be through betrayal and naught else. There can be no precaution against such a thing, lest my life become its own nightmare of suspicion and mistrust. To this, I shall not surrender. Until that moment, I shall continue to play the mortal game.''


    ''Careful, then,'' K''rul murmured, ''whom you choose to fight for.''

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    ''Find a companion,'' Draconus advised. ''A worthy one.''


    ''Wise words from you both. I thank you.''


    There was nothing more to be said. The three had come together, with an intent they had now achieved. Perhaps not in the manner they would have wished, but it was done. And the price had been paid. Willingly. Three lives and one, each destroyed. For the one, the beginning of eternal hatred. For the three, a fair exchange.


    Elder Gods, it has been said, embodied a host of unpleasantries.


    In the distance, the beast watched the three figures part ways. Riven with pain, white fur stained and dripping blood, the gouged pit of its lost eye glittering wet, it held its hulking mass on trembling legs. It longed for death, but death would not come. It longed for vengeance, but those who had wounded it were dead. There but remained the man seated on the throne, who had laid waste to the beast''s home.


    Time enough would come for the settling of that score.


    A final longing filled the creature''s ravaged soul. Somewhere, amidst the conflagration of the Fall and the chaos that followed, it had lost its mate, and was now alone. Perhaps she still lived. Perhaps she wandered, wounded as he was, searching the broken wastes for sign of him.


    Or perhaps she had fled, in pain and terror, to the warren that had given fire to her spirit.


    Wherever she had gone ¡ª assuming she still lived ¡ª he would find her.


    The three distant figures unveiled warrens, each vanishing into their Elder realms.


    The beast elected to follow none of them. They were young entities as far as he and his mate were concerned, and the warren she might have fled to was, in comparison to those of the Elder Gods, ancient.


    The path that awaited him was perilous, and he knew fear in his labouring heart.


    The portal that opened before him revealed a grey-streaked, swirling storm of power. The beast hesitated, then strode into it.


    And was gone.


    BOOK ONE


    THE SPARK AND THE ASHES


    Five mages, an Adjunct, countless Imperial Demons, and the debacle that was Darujhistan, all served to publicly justify the outlawry proclaimed by the Empress on Dujek Onearm and his battered legions. That this freed Onearm and his Host to launch a new campaign, this time as an independent military force, to fashion his own unholy alliances which were destined to result in a continuation of the dreadful Sorcery Enfilade on Genabackis, is, one might argue, incidental. Granted, the countless victims of that devastating time might, should Hood grant them the privilege, voice an entirely different opinion. Perhaps the most poetic detail of what would come to be called the Pannion Wars was in fact a precursor to the entire campaign: the casual, indifferent destruction of a lone, stone bridge, by the Jaghut Tyrant on his ill-fated march to Darujhistan.


    Imperial Campaigns (The Pannion War) 1194¨C1195, Volume N, Genabackis Imrygyn Tallobant (b. 1151)


    CHAPTER ONE


    Memories are woven tapestries hiding hard walls-tell me, my friends, what hue your favoured thread, and I in turn, will tell the cast of your soul.


    Life of Dreams


    Ilbares the Hag


    1164th Year of Burn''s Sleep (two months after the Darujhistan Fete)


    4th Year of the Pannion Domin Tellann Year of the Second Gathering


    The bridge''s Gadrobi limestone blocks lay scattered, scorched and broken in the bank''s churned mud, as if a god''s hand had swept down to shatter the stone span in a single, petty gesture of contempt. And that, Gruntle suspected, was but a half-step from the truth.


    The news had trickled back into Darujhistan less than a week after the destruction, as the first eastward-bound caravans this side of the river reached the crossing, to find that where once stood a serviceable bridge was now nothing but rubble. Rumours whispered of an ancient demon, unleashed by agents of the Malazan Empire, striding down out of the Gadrobi Hills bent on the annihilation of Darujhistan itself.


    Gruntle spat into the blackened grasses beside the carriage. He had his doubts about that tale. Granted, there''d been strange goings on the night of the city''s Fete two months back ¡ª not that he''d been sober enough to notice much of anything ¡ª and sufficient witnesses to give credence to the sightings of dragons, demons and the terrifying descent of Moon''s Spawn, but any conjuring with the power to lay waste to an entire countryside would have reached Darujhistan. And, since the city was not a smouldering heap ¡ª or no more than was usual after a city-wide celebration ¡ª clearly nothing did.


    No, far more likely a god''s hand, or possibly an earthquake ¡ª though the Gadrobi Hills were not known to be restless. Perhaps Burn had shifted uneasy in her eternal sleep.


    In any case, the truth of things now stood before him. Or, rather, did not stand, but lay scattered to Hood''s gate and beyond. And the fact remained, whatever games the gods played, it was hard-working dirt-poor bastards like him who suffered for it.

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    The old ford was back in use, thirty paces upriver from where the bridge had been built. It hadn''t seen traffic in centuries, and with a week of unseasonal rains both banks had become a morass. Caravan trains crowded the crossing, the ones on what used to be ramps and the ones out in the swollen river hopelessly mired down; while dozens more waited on the trails, with the tempers of merchants, guards and beasts climbing by the hour.


    Two days now, waiting to cross, and Gruntle was pleased with his meagre troop. Islands of calm, they were. Harllo had waded out to a remnant of the bridge''s nearside pile, and now sat atop it, fishing pole in hand. Stonny Menackis had led a ragged band of fellow caravan guards to Storby''s wagon, and Storby wasn''t too displeased to be selling Gredfallan ale by the mug at exorbitant prices. That the ale casks were destined for a wayside inn outside Saltoan was just too bad for the expectant innkeeper. If things continued as they did, there''d be a market growing up here, then a Hood-damned town. Eventually, some officious planner in Darujhistan would conclude that it''d be a good thing to rebuild the bridge, and in ten or so years it would finally get done. Unless, of course, the town had become a going concern, in which case they''d send a tax collector.


    Gruntle was equally pleased with his employer''s equanimity at the delay. News was, the merchant Manqui on the other side of the river had burst a blood vessel in his head and promptly died, which was more typical of the breed. No, their master Keruli ran against the grain, enough to threaten Gruntle''s cherished disgust for merchants in general. Then again, Keruli''s list of peculiar traits had led the guard captain to suspect that the man wasn''t a merchant at all.


    Not that it mattered. Coin was coin, and Keruli''s rates were good. Better than average, in fact. The man might be Prince Arard in disguise, for all Gruntle cared.


    ''You there, sir!''


    Gruntle pulled his gaze from Harllo''s fruitless fishing. A grizzled old man stood beside the carriage, squinting up at him. ''Damned imperious of you, that tone,'' the caravan captain growled, ''since by the rags you''re wearing you''re either the world''s worst merchant or a poor man''s servant.''


    ''Manservant, to be precise. My name is Emancipor Reese. As for my masters'' being poor, to the contrary. We have, however, been on the road for a long time.''


    ''I''ll accept that,'' Gruntle said, ''since your accent is unrecognizable, and coming from me that''s saying a lot. What do you want, Reese?''


    The manservant scratched the silvery stubble on his lined jaw. ''Careful questioning among this mob had gleaned a consensus that, as far as caravan guards go, you''re a man who''s earned respect.''


    ''As far as caravan guards go, I might well have at that,'' Gruntle said drily. ''Your point?''


    ''My masters wish to speak with you, sir. If you''re not too busy ¡ª we have camped not far from here.''


    Leaning back on the bench, Gruntle studied Reese for a moment, then grunted. ''I''d have to clear with my employer any meetings with other merchants.''


    ''By all means, sir. And you may assure him that my masters have no wish to entice you away or otherwise compromise your contract.''


    ''Is that a fact? All right, wait there.'' Gruntle swung himself down from the buckboard on the side opposite Reese. He stepped up to the small, ornately framed door and knocked once. It opened softly and from the relative darkness within the carriage''s confines loomed Keruli''s round, expressionless face.


    ''Yes, Captain, by all means go. I admit as to some curiosity about this man''s two masters. Be most studious in noting details of your impending encounter. And, if you can, determine what precisely they have been up to since yesterday.''


    The captain grunted to disguise his surprise at Keruli''s clearly unnatural depth of knowledge ¡ª the man had yet to leave the carriage ¡ª then said, ''As you wish, sir.''


    ''Oh, and retrieve Stonny on your way back. She has had far too much to drink and has become most argumentative.''


    ''Maybe I should collect her now, then. She''s liable to poke someone full of holes with that rapier of hers. I know her moods.''


    ''Ah, well. Send Harllo, then.''


    ''Uh, he''s liable to join in, sir.''


    ''Yet you speak highly of them.''


    ''I do,'' Gruntle replied. ''Not to be too immodest, sir, the three of us working the same contract are as good as twice that number, when it comes to protecting a master and his merchandise. That''s why we''re so expensive.''


    ''Your rates were high? I see. Hmm. Inform your two companions, then, that an aversion to trouble will yield substantial bonuses to their pay.''

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    Gruntle managed to avoid gaping. ''Uh, that should solve the problem, sir.''


    ''Excellent. Inform Harllo thus, then, and send him on his way.''


    ''Yes, sir.''


    The door swung shut.


    As it turned out, Harllo was already returning to the carriage, fishing pole in one massive hand, a sad sandal-sole of a fish clutched in the other. The man''s bright blue eyes danced with excitement.


    ''Look, you sour excuse for a man ¡ª I''ve caught supper!''


    ''Supper for a monastic rat, you mean. I could inhale that damned thing up one nostril.''


    Harllo scowled. ''Fish soup. Flavour-''


    ''That''s just great. I love mud-flavoured soup. Look, the thing''s not even breathing ¡ª it was probably dead when you caught it.''


    ''I banged a rock between its eyes, Gruntle-''


    ''Must have been a small rock.''


    ''For that you don''t get any-''


    ''For that I bless you. Now listen. Stonny''s getting drunk-''


    ''Funny, I don''t hear no brawl-''


    ''Bonuses from Keruli if there isn''t one. Understood?''


    Harllo glanced at the carriage door, then nodded. ''I''ll let her know.''


    ''Better hurry.''


    ''Right.''


    Gruntle watched him scurry off, still carrying his pole and prize. The man''s arms were enormous, too long and too muscled for the rest of his scrawny frame. His weapon of choice was a two-handed sword, purchased from a weapon-smith in Deadman''s Story. As far as those apish arms were concerned, it might be made of bamboo. Harllo''s shock of pale blond hair rode his pate like a tangled bundle of fishing thread. Strangers laughed upon seeing him for the first time, but Harllo used the flat of a blade to stifle that response. Succinctly.


    Sighing, Gruntle returned to where Emancipor Reese stood waiting. ''Lead on,'' he said.


    Reese''s head bobbed. ''Excellent.''


    The carriage was massive, a house perched on high, spoked wheels. Ornate carvings crowded the strangely arched frame, tiny painted figures capering and climbing with leering expressions. The driver''s perch was canopied in sun-faded canvas. Four oxen lumbered freely in a makeshift corral ten paces downwind from the camp.


    Privacy obviously mattered to the manservant''s masters, since they''d parked well away from both the road and the other merchants, affording them a clear view of the hummocks rising on the south side of the road, and, beyond it, the broad sweep of the plain.


    A mangy cat lying on the buckboard watched Reese and Gruntle approach.


    ''That your cat?'' the captain asked.


    Reese squinted at it, then sighed. ''Aye, sir. Her name''s Squirrel.''


    ''Any alchemist or wax-witch could treat that mange.''


    The manservant seemed uncomfortable. ''I''ll be sure to look into it when we get to Saltoan,'' he muttered. ''Ah,'' he nodded towards the hills beyond the road, ''here comes Master Bauchelain.''


    Gruntle turned and studied the tall, angular man who''d reached the road and now strode casually towards them. Expensive, ankle-length cloak of black leather, high riding boots of the same over grey leggings, and, beneath a loose silk shirt ¡ª also black ¡ª the glint of fine blackened chain armour.


    ''Black,'' the captain said to Reese, ''was last year''s shade in Darujhistan.''


    ''Black is Bauchelain''s eternal shade, sir.''


    The master''s face was pale, shaped much like a triangle, an impression further accented by a neatly trimmed beard. His hair, slick with oil, was swept back from his high brow. His eyes were flat grey ¡ª as colourless as the rest of him ¡ª and upon meeting them Gruntle felt a surge of visceral alarm.


    ''Captain Gruntle,'' Bauchelain spoke in a soft, cultured voice, ''your employer''s prying is none too subtle. But while we are not ones to generally reward such curiosity regarding our activities, this time we shall make an exception. You shall accompany me.'' He glanced at Reese. ''Your cat seems to be suffering palpitations. I suggest you comfort the creature.''


    ''At once, master.''


    Gruntle rested his hands on the pommels of his cutlasses, eyes narrowed on Bauchelain. The carriage springs squeaked as the manservant clambered up to the buckboard.


    ''Well, Captain?''


    Gruntle made no move.


    Bauchelain raised one thin eyebrow. ''I assure you, your employer is eager that you comply with my request. If, however, you are afraid to do so, you might be able to convince him to hold your hand for the duration of this enterprise. Though I warn you, levering him into the open may prove something of a challenge, even for a man of your bulk.''

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    ''Ever done any fishing?'' Gruntle asked.


    ''Fishing?''


    ''The ones that rise to any old bait are young and they don''t get any older. I''ve been working caravans for more than twenty years, sir. I ain''t young. You want a rise, fish elsewhere.''


    Bauchelain''s smile was dry. ''You reassure me, Captain. Shall we proceed?''


    ''Lead on.''


    They crossed the road. An old goat trail led them into the hills. The caravan camp this side of the river was quickly lost to sight. The scorched grass of the conflagration that had struck this land marred every slope and summit, although new green shoots had begun to appear.


    ''Fire,'' Bauchelain noted as they walked on, ''is essential for the health of these prairie grasses. As is the passage of bhederin, the hooves in their hundreds of thousands compacting the thin soil. Alas, the presence of goats will spell the end of verdancy for these ancient hills. But I began with the subject of fire, did I not? Violence and destruction, both vital for life. Do you find that odd, Captain?''


    ''What I find odd, sir, is this feeling that I''ve left my wax-tablet behind.''


    ''You have had schooling, then. How interesting. You''re a swordsman, are you not? What need you for letters and numbers?''


    ''And you''re a man of letters and numbers ¡ª what need you for that well-worn broadsword at your hip and that fancy mail hauberk?''


    ''An unfortunate side effect of education among the masses is lack of respect.''


    ''Healthy scepticism, you mean.''


    ''Disdain for authority, actually. You may have noted, to answer your question, that we have but a single, rather elderly manservant. No hired guards. The need to protect oneself is vital in our profession-''


    ''And what profession is that?''


    They''d descended onto a well-trodden path winding between the hills. Bauchelain paused, smiling as he regarded Gruntle. ''You entertain me, Captain. I understand now why you are well spoken of among the caravanserai, since you are unique among them in possessing a functioning brain. Come, we are almost there.''


    They rounded a battered hillside and came to the edge of a fresh crater. The earth at its base was a swath of churned mud studded with broken blocks of stone. Gruntle judged the crater to be forty paces across and four or five arm-lengths in depth. A man sat nearby on the edge of the rim, also dressed in black leather, his bald pate the colour of bleached parchment. He rose silently, for all his considerable size, and turned to them with fluid grace.


    ''Korbal Broach, Captain. My ¡­ partner. Korbal, we have here Gruntle, a name that is most certainly a slanting hint to his personality.''


    If Bauchelain had triggered unease in the captain, then this man ¡ª his broad, round face, his eyes buried in puffed flesh and wide full-lipped mouth set slightly downturned at the corners, a face both childlike and ineffably monstrous ¡ª sent ripples of fear through Gruntle. Once again, the sensation was wholly instinctive, as if Bauchelain and his partner exuded an aura somehow tainted.


    ''No wonder the cat had palpitations,'' the captain muttered under his breath. He pulled his gaze from Korbal Broach and studied the crater.


    Bauchelain moved to stand beside him. ''Do you understand what you are seeing, Captain?''


    ''Aye, I''m no fool. It''s a hole in the ground.''


    ''Amusing. A barrow once stood here. Within it was chained a Jaghut Tyrant.''


    ''Was.''


    ''Indeed. A distant empire meddled, or so I gather. And, in league with a T''lan Imass, they succeeded in freeing the creature.''


    ''You give credence to the tales, then,'' Gruntle said. ''If such an event occurred, then what in Hood''s name happened to it?''


    ''We wondered the same, Captain. We are strangers to this continent. Until recently, we''d never heard of the Malazan Empire, nor the wondrous city called Darujhistan. During our all too brief stay there, however, we heard stories of events just past. Demons, dragons, assassins. And the Azath house named Finnest, which cannot be entered yet, seems to be occupied none the less ¡ª we paid that a visit, of course. More, we''d heard tales of a floating fortress, called Moon''s Spawn, that once hovered over the city-''


    ''Aye, I''d seen that with my own eyes. It left a day before I did.''


    Bauchelain sighed. ''Alas, it appears we have come too late to witness for ourselves these dire wonders. A Tiste Andii lord rules Moon''s Spawn, I gather.''


    Gruntle shrugged. ''If you say so. Personally, I dislike gossip.''


    Finally, the man''s eyes hardened.


    The captain smiled inwardly.

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    ''Gossip. Indeed.''


    ''This is what you wanted to show me, then? This ¡­ hole?''


    Bauchelain raised an eyebrow. ''Not precisely. This hole is but the entrance. We intend to visit the Jaghut tomb that lies below it.''


    ''Oponn''s blessing to you, then,'' Gruntle said, turning away.


    ''I imagine,'' the man said behind him, ''that your master would urge you to accompany us.''


    ''He can urge all he likes,'' the captain replied. ''I wasn''t contracted to sink in a pool of mud.''


    ''We''ve no intention of getting covered in mud.''


    Gruntle glanced back at him, crooked a wry grin. ''A figure of speech, Bauchelain. Apologies if you misunderstood.'' He swung round again and made his way towards the trail. Then he stopped. ''You wanted to see Moon''s Spawn, sirs?'' He pointed.


    Like a towering black cloud, the basalt fortress stood just above the south horizon.


    Boots crunched on the ragged gravel, and Gruntle found himself standing between the two men, both of whom studied the distant floating mountain.


    ''Scale,'' Bauchelain muttered, ''is difficult to determine. How far away is it?''


    ''I''d guess a league, maybe more. Trust me, sirs, it''s close enough for my tastes. I''ve walked its shadow in Darujhistan ¡ª hard not to for a while there ¡ª and believe me, it''s not a comforting feeling.''


    ''I imagine not. What is it doing here?''


    Gruntle shrugged. ''Seems to be heading southeast-''


    ''Hence the tilt.''


    ''No. It was damaged over Pale. By mages of the Malazan Empire.''


    ''Impressive effort, these mages.''


    ''They died for it. Most of them, anyway. So I heard. Besides, while they managed to damage Moon''s Spawn, its lord remains hale. If you want to call kicking a hole in a fence before getting obliterated by the man who owns the house "impressive", go right ahead.''


    Korbal Broach finally spoke, his voice reedy and high-pitched. ''Bauchelain, does he sense us?''


    His companion frowned, eyes still on Moon''s Spawn, then shook his head. ''I detect no such attention accorded us, friend. But that is a discussion that should await a more private moment.''


    ''Very well. You don''t want me to kill this caravan guard, then?''


    Gruntle stepped away in alarm, half drawing his cutlasses. ''You''ll regret the attempt,'' he growled.


    ''Be calmed, Captain.'' Bauchelain smiled. ''My partner has simple notions-''


    ''Simple as an adder''s, you mean.''


    ''Perhaps. None the less, I assure you, you are perfectly safe.''


    Scowling, Gruntle backed away down the trail. ''Master Keruli,'' he whispered, ''if you''re watching all this ¡ª and I think you are ¡ª I trust my bonus will be appropriately generous. And, if my advice is worth anything, I suggest we stride clear and wide of these two.''


    Moments before he moved beyond sight of the crater, he saw Bauchelain and Korbal Broach turn their backs on him ¡ª and Moon''s Spawn. They stared down into the hole for a brief span, then began the descent, disappearing from view.


    Sighing, Gruntle swung about and made his way back to the camp, rolling his shoulders to release the tension that gripped him.


    As he reached the road his gaze lifted once more, south-ward to find Moon''s Spawn, hazy now with distance. ''You there, lord, I wish you had caught the scent of Bauchelain and Korbal Broach, so you''d do to them what you did to the Jaghut Tyrant ¡ª assuming you had a hand in that. Preventative medicine, the cutters call it. I only pray we don''t all one day come to regret your disinterest.''


    Walking down the road, he glanced over to see Emancipor Reese, sitting atop the carriage, one hand stroking the ragged cat in his lap. Mange? Gruntle considered. Probably not.


    The huge wolf circled the body, head low and turned inward to keep the unconscious mortal within sight of its lone eye.


    The Warren of Chaos had few visitors. Among those few, mortal humans were rarest of all. The wolf had wandered this violent landscape for a time that was, to it, immeasurable. Alone and lost for so long, its mind had found new shapes born of solitude; the tracks of its thoughts twisted on seemingly random routes. Few would recognize awareness or intelligence in the feral gleam of its eye, yet they existed none the less.


    The wolf circled, massive muscles rippling beneath the dull white fur. Head low and turned inward. Lone eye fixed on the prone human.


    The fierce concentration was efficacious, holding the object of its attention in a state that was timeless ¡ª an accidental consequence of the powers the wolf had absorbed within this warren.

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    The wolf recalled little of the other worlds that existed beyond Chaos. It knew nothing of the mortals who worshipped it as they would a god. Yet a certain knowledge had come to it, an instinctive sensitivity that told it of ¡­ possibilities. Of potentials. Of choices now available to the wolf, with the discovery of this frail mortal.


    Even so, the creature hesitated.


    There were risks. And the decision that now gnawed its way to the forefront had the wolf trembling.


    Its circling spiralled inward, closer, ever closer to the unconscious figure. Lone eye fixing finally on the man''s face.


    The gift, the creature saw at last, was a true one. Nothing else could explain what it discovered in the mortal man''s face. A mirrored spirit, in every detail. This was an opportunity that could not be refused.


    Still the wolf hesitated.


    Until an ancient memory rose before its mind''s eye. An image, frozen, faded with the erosion of time.


    Sufficient to close the spiral.


    And then it was done.


    His single functioning eye blinked open to a pale blue, cloudless sky. The scar tissue covering what was left of his other eye tingled with a maddening itch, as if insects crawled under the skin. He was wearing a helm, the visor raised. Beneath him, hard sharp rocks dug into his flesh.


    He lay unmoving, trying to remember what had happened. The vision of a dark tear opening before him ¡ª he''d plunged into it, was flung into it. A horse vanishing beneath him, the thrum of his bowstring. A sense of unease, which he''d shared with his companion. A friend who rode at his side. Captain Paran.


    Toc the Younger groaned. Hairlock. That mad puppet. We were ambushed. The fragments coalesced, memory returning with a surge of fear. He rolled onto his side, every muscle protesting. Hood''s breath, this isn''t the Rhivi Plain.


    A field of broken black glass stretched away on all sides. Grey dust hung in motionless clouds an arm''s span above it. Off to his left, perhaps two hundred paces away, a low mound rose to break the flat monotony of the landscape.


    His throat felt raw. His eye stung. The sun was blistering overhead. Coughing, Toc sat up, the obsidian crunching beneath him. He saw his recurved horn bow lying beside him and reached for it. The quiver had been strapped onto the saddle of his horse. Wherever he''d gone, his faithful Wickan mount had not followed. Apart from the knife at his hip and the momentarily useless bow in his hand, then, he possessed nothing. No water, no food. A closer examination of his bow deepened his scowl. The gut string had stretched.


    Badly. Meaning I''ve been. away. for some time. Away. Where? Hairlock had thrown him into a warren. Somehow, time had been lost within it. He was not overly thirsty, nor particularly hungry. But, even if he had arrows, the bow''s pull was gone. Worse, the string had dried, the wax absorbing obsidian dust. It wouldn''t survive retightening. That suggested days, if not weeks, had passed, though his body told him otherwise.


    He climbed to his feet. The chain armour beneath his tunic protested the movement, shedding glittering dust.


    Am I within a warren? Or has it spat me back out? Either way, he needed to find an end to this lifeless plain of volcanic glass. Assuming one existed ¡­


    He began walking towards the mound. Though it wasn''t especially high, he would take any vantage point that was available. As he approached, he saw others like it beyond, regularly spaced. Barrows. Great, I just love barrows. And then a central one, larger than the rest.


    Toc skirted the first mound, noting in passing that it had been holed, likely by looters. After a moment he paused, turned and walked closer. He squatted beside the excavated shaft, peered down into the slanting tunnel. As far as he could see ¡ª over a man''s height in depth ¡ª the mantle of obsidian continued down. For the mounds to have showed at all, they must be huge, more like domes than beehive tombs. ''Whatever,'' he muttered. ''I don''t like it.''


    He paused, considering, running through in his mind the events that had led him to this ¡­ unfortunate situation. The deathly rain of Moon''s Spawn seemed to mark some kind of beginning. Fire and pain, the death of an eye, the kiss that left a savagely disfiguring scar on what had been a young, reputedly handsome face.


    A ride north onto the plain to retrieve Adjunct Lorn, a skirmish with Ilgres Barghast. Back in Pale, still more trouble. Lorn had drawn his reins, reviving his old role as a Claw courier. Courier? Let''s speak plain, Toc, especially to yourself. You were a spy. But you had been turned. You were a scout in Onearm''s Host. That and nothing more, until the Adjunct showed up. There''d been trouble in Pale. Tattersail, then Captain Paran. Flight and pursuit. ''What a mess,'' he muttered.

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    Hairlock''s ambush had swatted him like a fly, into some kind of malign warren. Where I. lingered. I think. Hood take me, time''s come to start thinking like a soldier again. Get your hearings. Do nothing precipitous. Think about survival, here in this strange, unwelcome place ¡­


    He resumed his trek to the central barrow. Though gently sloped, it was at least thrice the height of a man. His cough worsened as he scrambled up its side.


    The effort was rewarded. On the summit, he found himself standing at the hub of a ring of lesser tombs. Directly ahead, three hundred paces beyond the ring''s edge yet almost invisible through the haze, rose the bony shoulders of grey-cloaked hills. Closer and to his left were the ruins of a stone tower. The sky behind it glowed a sickly red colour.


    Toc glanced up at the sun. When he''d awoken, it had been at little more than three-quarters of the wheel; now it stood directly above him. He was able to orientate himself. The hill lay to the northwest, the tower a few points north of due west.


    His gaze was pulled back to the reddish welt in the sky beyond the tower. Yes, it pulsed, as regular as a heart. He scratched at the scar tissue covering his left eye-socket, winced at the answering bloom of colours flooding his mind. That''s sorcery over there. Gods, I''m acquiring a deep hatred of sorcery.


    A moment later, more immediate details drew his attention. The north slope of the central barrow was marred by a deep pit, its edges ragged and glistening. A tumble of cut stone ¡ª still showing the stains of red paint ¡ª crowded the base. The crater, he slowly realized, was not the work of looters. Whatever had made it had pushed up from the tomb, violently. In this place, it seems that even the dead do not sleep eternal. A moment of nervousness shook him, then he shrugged it off with a soft curse. You''ve known worse, soldier. Remember that T''lan Imass who''d joined up with the Adjunct. Laconic desiccation on two legs, Beru fend us all. Hooded eye-sockets with not a glimmer or gleam of mercy. That thing had spitted a Barghast like a Rhivi a plains boar.


    Eye still studying the crater in the mound''s flank, his thoughts remained on Lorn and her undead companion. They''d sought to free such a restless creature, to loose a wild, vicious power upon the land. He wondered if they''d succeeded. The prisoner of the tomb he now stood upon had faced a dreadful task, without question ¡ª wards, solid walls, and armspan after armspan of compacted, crushed glass. Well, given the alternatives, I imagine I would have been as desperate and as determined. How long did it take? How malignly twisted the mind once freed?


    He shivered, the motion triggering another harsh cough. There were mysteries in the world, few of them pleasant.


    He skirted the pit on his descent and made his way towards the ruined tower. He thought it unlikely that the occupant of the tomb would have lingered long in the area. I would have wanted to get as far away from here and as fast as was humanly possible. There was no telling how much time had passed since the creature''s escape, but Toc''s gut told him it was years, if not decades. He felt strangely unafraid in any case, despite the inhospitable surroundings and all the secrets beneath the land''s ravaged surface. Whatever threat this place had held seemed to be long gone.


    Forty paces from the tower he almost stumbled over a corpse. A fine layer of dust had thoroughly disguised its presence, and that dust, now disturbed by Toc''s efforts to step clear, rose in a cloud. Cursing, the Malazan spat grit from his mouth.


    Through the swirling, glittering haze, he saw that the bones belonged to a human. Granted, a squat, heavy-boned one. Sinews had dried nut-brown, and the furs and skins partially clothing it had rotted to mere strips. A bone helm sat on the corpse''s head, fashioned from the frontal cap of a horned beast. One horn had snapped off some time in the distant past. A dust-sheathed two-handed sword lay nearby. Speaking of Hood''s skull ¡­


    Toc the Younger scowled down at the figure. ''What are you doing here?'' he demanded.


    ''Waiting,'' the T''lan Imass replied in a leather-rasp voice.


    Toc searched his memory for the name of this undead warrior. ''Onos T''oolan,'' he said, pleased with himself. ''Of the Tarad Clan-''


    ''I am now named Tool. Clanless. Free.''


    Free? Free to do precisely what, you sack of bones? Lie around in wastelands?


    ''What''s happened to the Adjunct? Where are we?''


    ''Lost.''


    ''Which question is that an answer to, Tool?''


    ''Both.''


    Toc gritted his teeth, resisting the temptation to kick the T''lan Imass. ''Can you be more specific?''


    ''Perhaps.''


    ''Well?''


    ''Adjunct Lorn died in Darujhistan two months ago. We are in the ancient place called Morn, two hundred leagues to the south. It is just past midday.''

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    ''Just past midday, you said. Thank you for the enlightenment.'' He found little pleasure in conversing with a creature that had existed for hundreds of thousands of years, and that discomfort unleashed his sarcasm ¡ª a precarious presumption indeed. Get back to seriousness, idiot. That flint sword ain''t just for show. ''Did you two free the Jaghut Tyrant?''


    ''Briefly. Imperial efforts to conquer Darujhistan failed.''


    Scowling, Toc crossed his arms. ''You said you were waiting. Waiting for what?''


    ''She has been away for some time. Now she returns.''


    ''Who?''


    ''She who has taken occupation of the tower, soldier.''


    ''Can you at least stand up when you''re talking to me.'' Before I give in to temptation.


    The T''lan Imass rose with an array of creaking complaints, dust cascading from its broad, bestial form. Something glittered for the briefest of moments in the depths of its eye-sockets as it stared at Toc, then Tool turned and retrieved the flint sword.


    Gods, better I''d insisted he just stay lying down. Parched leather skin, taut muscle and heavy bone. all moving about like something alive. Oh, how the Emperor loved them. An army he never had to feed, he never had to transport, an army that could go anywhere and do damn near anything. And no desertions ¡ª except for the one standing in front of me right now.


    How do you punish a T''lan Imass deserter anyway?


    ''I need water,'' Toc said after a long moment in which they simply stared at each other. ''And food. And I need to find some arrows. And bowstring.'' He unstrapped his helmet and pulled it clear. The leather cap beneath it was soaked through with sweat. ''Can''t we wait in the tower? This heat is baking my brain.'' And why am I talking as if I expect you to help me, Tool?


    ''The coast lies a thousand paces to the southwest,'' Tool said. ''Food is available there, and a certain seagrass that will suffice as bowstring until some gut can be found. I do not, alas, smell fresh water. Perhaps the tower''s occupant will be generous, though she is less likely to be so if she arrives to find you within it. Arrows can be made. There is a salt-marsh nearby, where we can find bone-reed. Snares for coast birds will offer us fletching. Arrowheads. '' Tool turned to survey the obsidian plain. ''I foresee no shortage of raw material.''


    All right, so help me you will. Thank Hood for that. ''Well, I hope you can still chip stone and weave seagrass, T''lan Imass, not to mention work bone-reed ¡ª whatever that is ¡ª into true shafts, because I certainly don''t know how. When I need arrows, I requisition them, and when they arrive they''re iron-headed and straight as a plumb-line.''


    ''I have not lost the skills, soldier-''


    ''Since the Adjunct never properly introduced us, I am named Toc the Younger, and I am not a soldier, but a scout-''


    ''You were in the employ of the Claw.''


    ''With none of the assassin training, nor the magery. Besides which, I have more or less renounced that role. All I seek to do now is to return to Onearm''s Host.''


    ''A long journey.''


    ''So I gathered. The sooner I start the better, then. Tell me, how far does this glass wasteland stretch?''


    ''Seven leagues. Beyond it you will find the Lamatath Plain. When you have reached it, set a course north by northeast-''


    ''Where will that take me? Darujhistan? Has Dujek besieged the city?''


    ''No.'' The T''lan Imass swung its head round. ''She comes.''


    Toc followed Tool''s gaze. Three figures had appeared from the south, approaching the edge of the ring of barrows. Of the three, only the one in the middle walked upright. She was tall, slim, wearing a flowing white telaba such as were worn by highborn women of Seven Cities. Her black hair was long and straight. Flanking her were two dogs, the one on her left as big as a hill-pony, shaggy, wolflike, the other short-haired, dun-coloured and heavily muscled.


    Since Tool and Toc stood in the open, it was impossible that they had not been seen, yet the three displayed no perturbation or change of pace as they strode nearer. At a dozen paces the wolfish dog loped forward, tail wagging as it came up to the T''lan Imass.


    Musing on the scene, Toc scratched his jaw. ''An old friend, Tool? Or does the beast want you to toss it one of your bones?''


    The undead warrior regarded him in silence.


    ''Humour,'' Toc said, shrugging. ''Or a poor imitation. I didn''t think T''lan Imass could take offence.'' Or, rather, I''m hoping that''s the case. Gods, my big mouth ¡­


    ''I was considering,'' Tool replied slowly. ''This beast is an ay, and thus has little interest in bones. Ay prefer flesh, still warm if possible.''

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    Toc grunted. ''I see.''


    ''Humour,'' Tool said after a moment.


    ''Right.'' Oh. Maybe this won''t be so bad after all. Surprises never cease.


    The T''lan Imass reached out to rest the tips of its bony fingers on the ay''s broad head. The animal went perfectly still. ''An old friend? Yes, we adopted such animals into our tribes. It was that or see them starve. We were, you see, responsible for that starvation.''


    ''Responsible? As in overhunting? I''d have thought your kind was one with nature. All those spirits, all those rituals of propitiation-''


    ''Toc the Younger,'' Tool interrupted, ''do you mock me, or your own ignorance? Not even the lichen of the tundra is at peace. All is struggle, all is war for dominance. Those who lose, vanish.''


    ''And we''re no different, you''re saying-''


    ''We are, soldier. We possess the privilege of choice. The gift of foresight. Though often we come too late in acknowledging those responsibilities¡­'' The T''lan Imass''s head tilted as he studied the ay before him, and, it seemed, his own skeletal hand where it rested upon the beast''s head.


    ''Baaljagg awaits your command, dear undead warrior,'' the woman said upon arriving, her voice a lilting melody. ''How sweet. Garath, go join your brother in greeting our desiccated guest.'' She met Toe''s gaze and smiled. ''Garath, of course, might decide your companion''s worth burying ¡ª wouldn''t that be fun?''


    ''Momentarily,'' Toc agreed. ''You speak Daru, yet wear the telaba of Seven Cities. ''


    Her brows arched. ''Do I? Oh, such confusion! Mind you, sir, you speak Daru yet you are from that repressed woman''s empire ¡ª what was her name again?''


    ''Empress Laseen. The Malazan empire.'' And how did you know that? I''m not in uniform ¡­


    She smiled. ''Indeed.''


    ''I am Toc the Younger, and the T''lan Imass is named Tool''


    ''How apt. My, it is hot out here, don''t you think? Let us retire within the Jaghut tower. Garath, cease sniffing the T''lan Imass and awaken the servants.''


    Toc watched the burly dog trot towards the tower. The entrance, the scout now saw, was in fact via a balcony, probably the first floor ¡ª yet another indication of the depth of the crushed glass. ''That place doesn''t appear very habitable,'' he observed.


    ''Appearances deceive,'' she murmured, once again flashing him a heart-stuttering smile.


    ''Have you a name?'' Toc asked her as they began walking.


    ''She is Lady Envy,'' Tool said. ''Daughter of Draconus ¡ª he who forged the sword Dragnipur, and was slain by its present wielder, Anomander Rake, lord of Moon''s Spawn, with that selfsame sword. Draconus had two daughters, it is believed, whom he named Envy and Spite-''


    ''Hood''s breath, you can''t be serious,'' Toc muttered.


    ''The names no doubt amused him, as well,'' the T''lan Imass continued.


    ''Really,'' Lady Envy sighed, ''now you''ve gone and ruined all my fun. Have we met before?''


    ''No. None the less, you are known to me.''


    ''So it seems! It was, I admit, over-modest of me to assume that I would not be recognized. After all, I''ve crossed paths with the T''lan Imass more than once. At least twice, that is.''


    Tool regarded her with his depthless gaze. ''Knowing who you are does not answer the mystery of your present residency here in Morn, should you look to pursue coyness, Lady. I would know what you seek in this place.''


    ''Whatever do you mean?'' she asked mockingly.


    As they approached the tower''s entrance a leather-armoured masked figure appeared in the gaping doorway. Toc stopped in his tracks. ''That''s a Seguleh!'' He spun to Lady Envy. ''Your servant''s a Seguleh!''


    ''Is that what they''re called?'' Her brow wrinkled. ''A familiar name, though its context escapes me. Ah well. I have gleaned their personal names, but little else. They happened by and chanced to see me ¡ª this one, who is called Senu, and two others. They concluded that killing me would break the monotony of their journey.'' She sighed. ''Alas, now they serve me.'' She addressed the Seguleh. ''Senu, have your brothers fully awakened?''


    The short, lithe man tilted his head, his dark eyes flat within the slits of his ornate mask.


    ''I''ve gathered,'' Lady Envy said to Toc, ''that gesture indicates acquiescence. They are not a loquacious lot, I have found.''


    Toc shook his head, his eyes on the twin broadswords slung under Senu''s arms. ''Is he the only one of the three to acknowledge you directly, Lady?''

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    ''Now that you mention it. Is that significant?''


    ''Means he''s on the bottom rung in the hierarchy. The other two are above conversing with non-Seguleh.''


    ''How presumptuous of them!''


    The scout grinned. ''I''ve never seen one before ¡ª but I''ve heard plenty. Their homeland is an island south of here, and they''re said to be a private lot, disinclined to travel. But they are known of as far north as Nathilog.'' And Hood take me, aren''t they known.


    ''Hmm, I did sense a certain arrogance that has proved entertaining. Lead us within, dear Senu.''


    The Seguleh made no move. His eyes had found Tool and now held steady on the T''lan Imass.


    Hackles rising, the ay stepped to one side to clear a space between the two figures.


    ''Senu?'' Lady Envy enquired with honeyed politeness.


    ''I think,'' Toc whispered, ''he''s challenging Tool.''


    ''Ridiculous! Why would he do that?''


    ''For the Seguleh, rank is everything. If the hierarchy''s in doubt, challenge it. They don''t waste time.''


    Lady Envy scowled at Senu. ''Behave yourself, young man!'' She waved him into the room beyond.


    Senu seemed to flinch at the gesture.


    An itch spasmed across Toc''s scar. He scratched it vigorously, breathing a soft curse.


    The Seguleh backed into the small room, then hesitated a moment before turning and leading the others to the doorway opposite. A curved hallway brought them to a central chamber in which a tightly wound staircase rose from the centre. The walls were unadorned, roughly pitted pumice. Three limestone sarcophagi crowded the far end of the room, their lids leaning in a neatly arranged row against the wall behind them. The dog Lady Envy had sent in ahead sat nearby. Just within the entrance was a round wooden table, crowded with fresh fruit, meats, cheese and bread, as well as a beaded clay jug and a collection of cups.


    Senu''s two companions stood motionless over the table, as if standing guard and fully prepared to give their lives in its defence. Both were a match to their companion''s height and build, and similarly armed; the difference between each was evident only in their masks. Where Senu''s enamelled face-covering was crowded with dark-stained patterns, such decoration diminished successively in the other two examples. One was only slightly less marked than Senu''s, but the third mask bore naught but twin slashes, one on each gleaming white cheek. The eyes that stared out from the slits of this mask were like chips of obsidian.


    The twin-scarred Seguleh stiffened upon seeing the T''lan Imass, took one step forward.


    ''Oh really!'' Lady Envy hissed. ''Challenges are forbidden! Any more of this nonsense and I shall lose my temper-''


    All three Seguleh flinched back a step.


    ''There,'' the woman said, ''that''s much better.'' She swung to Toc. ''Assuage your needs, young man. The jug contains Saltoan white wine, suitably chilled.''


    Toc found himself unable to look away from the Seguleh wearing the twin-scarred mask.


    ''If a fixed stare represents a challenge,'' Lady Envy said quietly, ''I suggest, for the sake of peace ¡ª not to mention your life ¡ª that you refrain from your present engagement, Toc the Younger.''


    He grunted in sudden alarm, tore his gaze from the man. ''Good point, Lady. It''s only that I''ve never heard of ¡­ well, never mind. Doesn''t matter.'' He approached the table, reached for the jug.


    Movement exploded behind him, followed by the sound of a body skidding across the room, striking the wall with a sickly thud. Toc spun round to see Tool, sword upraised, facing the two remaining Seguleh. Senu lay crumpled ten paces away, either unconscious or dead. His two swords were both halfway out of their sheaths.


    Standing beside Tool, the ay named Baaljagg was staring at the body, tail wagging.


    Lady Envy regarded the other Seguleh with eyes of ice. ''Given that my commands have proved insufficient, I now leave future encounters in the T''lan Imass''s obviously capable hands.'' She swung to Tool. ''Is Senu dead?''


    ''No. I used the flat of my blade, Lady, having no desire to slay one of your servants.''


    ''Considerate of you, given the circumstances.''


    Toc closed one shaky hand on the jug''s handle. ''Shall I pour one for you as well, Lady Envy?''


    She glanced at him, raised one eyebrow, then smiled. ''A splendid idea, Toc the Younger. Clearly, it falls to you and me to establish civility.''


    ''What have you learned,'' Tool said, addressing her, ''of the Rent?''


    Cup in hand, she faced him. ''Ah, you cut to the quick in all matters, I see. It has been bridged. By a mortal soul. As I am sure you are aware. The focus of my studies, however, has been on the identity of the warren itself. It is unlike any other. The portal seems almost ¡­ mechanical.''

 Page 18

    Rent? That would be the red welt in the air. Uh.


    ''You have examined the K''Chain Che''Malle tombs, Lady?''


    She wrinkled her nose. ''Briefly. They are all empty, and have been for some time. Decades.''


    Tool''s head tilted with a soft creak. ''Only decades?''


    ''Unpleasant detail, indeed. I believe the Matron experienced considerable difficulty in extricating herself, then spent still further time in recovering from her ordeal, before releasing her children. She and her brood made further efforts in the buried city to the northwest, though incomplete, as if the results proved unsatisfactory. They then appear to have departed the area entirely.'' She paused, then added, ''It may be relevant that the Matron was the original soul sealing the Rent. Another hapless creature resides there now, we must presume.''


    The T''lan Imass nodded.


    During the exchange Toc had been busy eating, and was on his second cup of the crisp, cold wine. Trying to make sense of the conversation thus far was giving him a headache ¡ª he''d mull on it later. ''I need to head north,'' he said round a mouthful of grainy bread. ''Is there any chance, Lady, that you can furnish me with suitable supplies? I would be in your debt¡­'' His words trailed away at seeing the avid flash in her eyes.


    ''Careful what you offer, young man-''


    ''No offence, but why do you call me "young man"? You look not a day over twenty-five.''


    ''How flattering. Thus, despite Tool''s success in identifying me ¡ª and I admit that I find the depth of his knowledge most disconcerting ¡ª the names the T''lan Imass revealed meant little to you.''


    Toc shrugged. ''Anomander Rake I''ve heard, of course. I didn''t know he took a sword from someone else ¡ª nor when that event occurred. It strikes me, however, that you may well be justified in feeling some animosity towards him, since he killed your father ¡ª what was his name? Draconus. The Malazan Empire shares that dislike. So, in sharing enemies-''


    ''We are perforce allies. A reasonable surmise. Unfortunately wrong. Regardless, I would be pleased to provide what food and drink you are able to carry, though I have nothing in the way of weapons, I''m afraid. In return, I may some day ask of you a favour ¡ª nothing grand, of course. Something small and relatively painless. Is this acceptable?''


    Toc felt his appetite draining away. He glanced at Tool, got no help from the undead warrior''s expressionless face. The Malazan scowled. ''You have me at a disadvantage, Lady Envy.''


    She smiled.


    And here I was hoping we''d get past the polite civility to something more. intimate. Here you go again, Toc, thinking with the wrong brain -


    Her smile broadened.


    Flushing, he reached for his cup. ''Very well, I agree to your proposal.''


    ''Your equanimity is a delight, Toc the Younger.''


    He almost choked on his wine. If I wasn''t a sword-kissed one-eyed bastard, I''d be tempted to call that a flirt.


    Tool spoke. ''Lady Envy, if you seek further knowledge of this Rent, you will not find it here.''


    Toc was pleased to see the mild shock on her face as she swung to the T''lan Imass. ''Indeed? It appears I am not alone in enjoying a certain coyness. Can you explain?''


    Anticipating the response to that, Toc the Younger grunted, then ducked as she flashed him a dark look.


    ''Perhaps,'' Tool predictably replied.


    Hah, I knew it.


    An edge came into her tone. ''Please do so, then.''


    ''I follow an ancient trail, Lady Envy. Morn was but one stop on that trail. It now leads northward. You would find your answers among those I seek.''


    ''You wish me to accompany you.''


    ''I care not either way,'' Tool said in his uninflected rasp. ''Should you choose to stay here, however, I must warn you. Meddling with the Rent has its risks ¡ª even for one such as you.''


    She crossed her arms. ''You think I lack suitable caution?''


    ''Even now you have reached an impasse, and your frustration mounts. I add one more incentive, Lady Envy. Your old travelling companions are converging on the very same destination ¡ª the Pannion Domin. Both Anomander Rake and Caladan Brood prepare to wage war against the Domin. A grave decision ¡ª does that not make you curious?''


    ''You are no simple T''lan Imass,'' she accused.


    Tool made no reply to that.


    ''He has you at a disadvantage, it seems,'' Toc said, barely restraining his amusement.


    ''I find impertinence disgustingly unattractive,'' she snapped. ''Whatever happened to your affable equanimity, Toc the Younger?''


    He wondered at his sudden impulse to fling himself down at her feet, begging forgiveness. Shrugging the absurd notion off, he said, ''Badly stung, I think.''

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    Her expression softened to something doe-like.


    The irrational desire returned. Toc scratched his scar, looked away.


    ''I did not intend to sting you-''


    Right, and the Queen of Dreams has chicken feet.


    ''-and I sincerely apologize.'' She faced Tool again. ''Very well, we shall all of us undertake a journey. How exciting!'' She gestured to her Seguleh servants. ''Begin preparations at once!''


    Tool said to Toc, ''I shall collect materials for your bow and arrows now. We can complete them on the way.''


    The scout nodded, then added, ''I wouldn''t mind watching you make them, Tool. Could be useful knowledge ¡­''


    The T''lan Imass seemed to consider, then tilted his head. ''We found it so.''


    They all turned at a loud grunt from where Senu lay against the wall. He had regained consciousness, to find the ay standing over him, the beast licking with obvious pleasure the painted patterns on his mask.


    ''The medium,'' Tool explained in his usual deadpan tone, ''appears to be a mixture of charcoal, saliva and human blood.''


    ''Now that,'' Toc muttered, ''is what I call a rude awakening.''


    Lady Envy brushed close to him as she moved towards the doorway, and cast him a glance as she passed. ''Oh, I am looking forward to this outing!''


    The anything but casual contact slipped a nest of serpents into Toc''s gut. Despite his thudding heart, the Malazan was not sure if he should be pleased, or terrified.


    CHAPTER TWO


    Onearm''s Host bled from countless wounds. An endless campaign, successive defeats followed by even costlier victories. But of all the wounds borne by the army of Dujek Onearm, those to its soul were the gravest.


    Silverfox


    Outrider Hurlochel


    Nestled amidst the rocks and tumbled boulders of the hillside, Corporal Picker watched the old man make his laborious way up the trail. His shadow slipped over Blend''s position, yet the man who cast it knew nothing of the soldier''s proximity. Blend rose in silence behind him, dust sloughing down, and made a series of hand gestures intended for Picker.


    The old man continued on unawares. When he was but a half-dozen paces away, Picker straightened, the grey cloak left by the morning''s dust-storm cascading away as she levelled her crossbow. ''Far enough, traveller,'' she growled. His surprise sent the old man stumbling back a step. A stone turned underfoot and he pitched to the ground, crying out yet managing to twist to avoid landing atop the leather pack strapped to his back. He skidded another pace down the trail, and found himself almost at Blend''s feet.


    Picker smiled, stepped forward. ''That''ll do,'' she said. ''You don''t look dangerous, old fella, but just in case, there''s five other crossbows trained on you right now. So, how about you tell me what in Hood''s name you''re doing here?''


    Sweat and dust stained the old man''s threadbare tunic. His sunburned forehead was broad over a narrow set of features, vanishing into an almost chinless jaw. His snaggled, crooked teeth jutted out in all directions, making his smile an argumentative parody. He pulled his thin, leather-wrapped legs under himself and slowly levered upright. ''A thousand apologies,'' he gasped, glancing over a shoulder at Blend. He flinched at what he saw in her eyes, swung hastily back to face Picker. ''I''d thought this trail untenanted ¡ª even by thieves. You see, my life''s savings are invested in what I carry ¡ª I could not afford a guard, nor even a mule-''


    ''You''re a trader, then,'' Picker drawled. ''Bound where?''


    ''Pale. I am from Darujhistan-''


    ''That''s obvious enough,'' Picker snapped. ''Thing is, Pale is now in imperial hands¡­ as are these hills.''


    ''I did not know ¡ª about these hills, that is. Of course I am aware that Pale has entered the Malazan embrace-''


    Picker grinned at Blend. ''Hear that? An embrace. That''s a good one, old man. A motherly hug, right? What''s in the sack, then?''


    ''I am an artisan,'' the old man said, ducking his head. ''Uh, a carver of small trinkets. Bone, ivory, jade, serpentine-''


    ''Anything invested ¡ª spells and the like?'' the corporal asked. ''Anything blessed?''


    ''Only by my talents, to answer your first query. I am no mage, and I work alone. I was fortunate, however, in acquiring a priest''s blessings on a set of three ivory torcs-''


    ''What god?''


    ''Treach, the Tiger of Summer.''


    Picker sneered. ''That''s not a god, you fool. Treach is a First Hero, a demigod, a Soletaken ascendant-''


    ''A new temple has been sanctified in his name,'' the old man interrupted. ''On the Street of the Hairless Ape, in the Gadrobi Quarter ¡ª I myself was hired to punch the leather binding for the Book of Prayers and Rituals.''

 Page 20

    Picker rolled her eyes and lowered the crossbow. ''All right, let''s see these torcs, then.''


    With an eager nod, the old man unslung his pack and set it down before him. He released the lone strap.


    ''Remember,'' Picker grunted, ''if you pull out anything awry you''ll get a dozen quarrels airing your skull.''


    ''This is a pack, not my breeches,'' the trader murmured. ''Besides, I thought it was five.''


    The corporal scowled.


    ''Our audience,'' Blend said quietly, ''has grown.''


    ''That''s right,'' Picker added hastily. ''Two whole squads, hiding, watching your every move.''


    With exaggerated caution, the old man drew forth a small packet of twine-wrapped doeskin. ''The ivory is said to be ancient,'' he said in a reverent tone. ''From a furred, tusked monster that was once Treach''s favoured prey. The beast''s corpse was found in frozen mud in distant Elingarth-''


    ''Never mind all that,'' Picker snapped. ''Let''s see the damned things.''


    The trader''s white, wiry eyebrows rose in alarm. ''Damned! No! Not ever! You think I would sell cursed items?''


    ''Be quiet, it was just a damned expression. Hurry up, we haven''t got all damned day.''


    Blend made a sound, quickly silenced by a glare from her corporal.


    The old man unwrapped the packet, revealing three upper-arm rings, each of one piece and undecorated, polished to a gleaming, pale lustre.


    ''Where''s the blessing marks?''


    ''None. They were each in turn wrapped within a cloth woven from Treach''s own moult-hair ¡ª for nine days and ten nights-''


    Blend snorted.


    ''Moult-hair?'' The corporal''s face twisted. ''What a disgusting thought.''


    ''Spindle wouldn''t think so,'' Blend murmured.


    ''A set of three arm torcs,'' Picker mused. ''Right arm, left arm ¡­ then where? And watch your mouth ¡ª we''re delicate flowers, Blend and me.''


    ''All for one arm. They are solid, yet they interlock ¡ª such was the instruction of the blessing.''


    ''Interlocking yet seamless ¡ª this I have to see.''


    ''I cannot, alas, demonstrate this sorcery, for it will occur but once, when the purchaser has threaded them onto his ¡ª or her ¡ª weapon arm.''


    ''Now that has swindle written all over it.''


    ''Well, we got him right here,'' Blend said. ''Cheats only work if you can make a clean getaway.''


    ''Like in Pale''s crowded markets. Well indeed,'' Picker grinned down at the old man, ''we''re not in a crowded market, are we? How much?''


    The trader squirmed. ''You have selected my most valued work ¡ª I''d intended an auction for these-''


    ''How much, old man?''


    ''Th-three hundred g-gold councils.''


    ''Councils. That''s Darujhistan''s new coinage, isn''t it?''


    ''Pale''s adopted the Malazan jakata as standard weight,'' Blend said. ''What''s the exchange?''


    ''Damned if I know,'' Picker muttered.


    ''If you please,'' the trader ventured, ''the exchange in Darujhistan is two and one-third jakatas to one council. Broker''s fees comprise at least one jakata. Thus, strictly speaking, one and a third.''


    Blend shifted her weight, leaned forward for a closer look at the torcs. ''Three hundred councils would keep a family comfortable for a couple of years at least¡­''


    ''Such was my goal,'' the old man said. ''Although, as I live alone and modestly, I anticipated four or more years, including materials for my craft. Anything less than three hundred councils and I would be ruined.''


    ''My heart weeps,'' Picker said. She glanced over at Blend. ''Who''ll miss it?''


    The soldier shrugged.


    ''Rustle up three columns, then.''


    ''At once, Corporal.'' Blend stepped past the old man, moved silently up the trail, then out of sight.


    ''I beg you,'' the trader whined. ''Do not pay me in jakatas-''


    ''Calm down,'' Picker said. ''Oponn''s smiling on you today. Now, step away from the pack. I''m obliged to search it.''


    Bowing, the old man backed up. ''The rest is of lesser value, I admit. Indeed, somewhat rushed-''


    ''I''m not looking to buy anything else,'' Picker said, rummaging with one hand through the pack. ''This is official, now.''


    ''Ah, I see. Are some trade items now forbidden in Pale?''


    ''Counterfeit jakatas, for one. Local economy''s taking a beating, and Darujhistan councils aren''t much welcome, either. We''ve had quite a haul this past week.''

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    The trader''s eyes widened. ''You will pay me in counterfeited coin?''


    ''Tempting, but no. Like I said, Oponn''s winked your way.'' Finished with her search, Picker stepped back, and pulled out a small wax tablet from her belt-pouch. ''I need to record your name, trader. It''s mostly smugglers using these trails, trying to avoid the post at the plains track through the Divide ¡ª you''re one of the few honest ones, it seems. Those clever smugglers end up paying for their cleverness tenfold on these here trails, when the truth is they''d have a better chance slipping through the chaos at the post.''


    ''I am named Munug.''


    Picker glanced up. ''You poor bastard.''


    Blend returned down the trail, three wrapped columns of coins cradled in her arms.


    The trader shrugged sheepishly, his eyes on the wrapped coin stacks. ''Those are councils!''


    ''Aye,'' Picker muttered. ''In hundred-columns ¡ª you''ll probably throw your back lugging them to Pale, not to mention back again. In fact, you needn''t bother making the trip at all, now, right?'' She fixed him with her eyes as she put the tablet back into the pouch.


    ''You have a valid point,'' Munug conceded, rewrapping the torcs and passing the packet to Blend. ''I shall journey to Pale none the less ¡ª to deal the rest of my work.'' Eyes shifting nervously, he bared his crooked teeth in a weak smile. ''If Oponn''s luck holds, I might well double my take.''


    Picker studied the man a moment longer, then shook her head. ''Greed never pays, Munug. I''d lay a wager that in a month''s time you''ll come wending back down this trail with nothing but dust in your pockets. What say you? Ten councils.''


    ''If I lose, you''d have me ten in debt to you.''


    ''Ah well, I''d consider a trinket or three instead ¡ª you''ve skilled hands, old man, no question of that.''


    ''Thank you, but I respectfully decline the wager.''


    Picker shrugged. ''Too bad. You''ve another bell of daylight. There''s a wayside camp up near the summit ¡ª if you''re determined enough you might reach it before sunset.''


    ''I shall make the endeavour.'' He slung his arms through the pack''s straps, grunted upright, then, with a hesitant nod, moved past the corporal.


    ''Hold on there,'' Picker commanded.


    Munug''s knees seemed to weaken and the old man almost collapsed. ''Y-yes?'' he managed.


    Picker took the torcs from Blend. ''I''ve got to put these on, first. Interlocking, you claimed. But seamless.''


    ''Oh! Yes, of course. By all means, proceed.''


    The corporal rolled back the sleeve of her dusty shirt, revealing, in the heavy wool''s underside, its burgundy dye.


    Munug''s gasp was audible.


    Picker smiled. ''That''s right, we''re Bridgeburners. Amazing what dust disguises, hey?'' She worked the ivory rings up her scarred, muscled arm. Between her biceps and shoulder there was a soft click. Frowning, Picker studied the three torcs, then hissed in surprise. ''I''ll be damned.''


    Munug''s smile broadened for the briefest of moments, then he bowed slightly. ''May I now resume my journey?''


    ''Go on,'' she replied, barely paying him any further attention, her eyes studying the gleaming torcs on her arm.


    Blend stared after the man for a full minute, a faint frown wrinkling her dusty brow.


    Munug found the side-cut in the path a short while later. Glancing back down the trail to confirm for at least the tenth time that he was not followed, he quickly slipped between the two tilting stones that framed the hidden entrance.


    The gloomy passage ended after a half-dozen paces, opening out onto a track winding through a high-walled fissure. Shadows swallowed the trader as he scurried down it. Sunset was less than a hundred heartbeats away, he judged ¡ª the delay with the Bridgeburners could prove fatal, if he failed to make the appointment.


    ''After all,'' he whispered, ''gods are not known for forgiving natures ¡­''


    The coins were heavy. His heart thumped hard in his chest. He wasn''t used to such strenuous efforts. He was an artisan, after all. Down on his luck of late, perhaps, weakened by the tumours between his legs, no doubt, but his talent and vision had if anything grown sharper for all the grief and pain he''d suffered. ''I have chosen you for those very flaws, Munug. That, and your skills, of course. Oh yes, I have great need of your skills ¡­''


    A god''s blessing would surely take care of those tumours. And, if not, then three hundred councils would come close to paying for a Denul healer''s treatment back in Darujhistan. After all, it wasn''t wise to trust solely in a god''s payment for services. Munug''s tale to the Bridgeburners about an auction in Pale was true enough ¡ª it paid to fashion options, to map out fall-back plans ¡ª and while sculpting and carving were his lesser skills, he was not so modest as to deny the high quality of his work. Of course, they were as nothing compared to his painting. As nothing, nothing at all.

 Page 22

    He hastened along the track, ignoring the preternatural mists that closed in around him. Ten paces later, as he passed through the warren''s gate, the clefts and crags of the East Tahlyn Hills disappeared entirely, the mists thinning to reveal a featureless, stony plain beneath a sickly sky. Further out on the plain sat a ragged hide tent, smoke hanging over it in a sea-blue haze. Munug hurried towards it.


    Chest labouring, the artisan crouched down before the entrance and scratched on the flap covering it.


    A ragged cough sounded from within, then a voice rasped, ''Enter, mortal.''


    Munug crawled in. Thick, acrid smoke assaulted his eyes, nostrils and throat, but after his first breath a cool numbness spread out from his lungs. Keeping his head lowered and eyes averted, Munug stopped just within the entrance, and waited.


    ''You are late,'' the god said, wheezing with each breath.


    ''Soldiers on the trail, master-''


    ''Did they discover it?''


    The artisan smiled down at the dirty rushes of the tent floor. ''No. They searched my pack, as I knew they would, but not my person.''


    The god coughed again, and Munug heard a scrape as the brazier was drawn across the floor. Seeds popped on its coals, and the smoke thickened. ''Show me.''


    The artisan reached into the folds of his threadbare tunic and drew forth a thick, book-sized package. He unwrapped it to reveal a stack of wooden cards. Head still lowered and working blind, Munug pushed the cards towards the god, splaying them out as he did so.


    He heard the god''s breath catch, then a soft rustle. When it spoke again the voice was closer. ''Flaws?''


    ''Aye, master. One for each card, as you instructed.''


    ''Ah, this pleases me. Mortal, your skill is unsurpassed. Truly, these are images of pain and imperfection. They are tortured, fraught with anguish. They assault the eye and bleed the heart. More, I see chronic loneliness in such faces as you have fashioned within the scenes.'' Dry amusement entered its tone. ''You have painted your own soul, mortal.''


    ''I have known little happiness, mast-''


    The god hissed. ''Nor should you expect it! Not in this life, not in the thousand others you are doomed to endure before you attain salvation ¡ª assuming you have suffered enough to have earned it!''


    ''I beg that there be no release in my suffering, master,'' Munug mumbled.


    ''Lies. You dream of comfort and contentment. You carry the gold that you believe will achieve it, and you mean to prostitute your talent to achieve yet more ¡ª do not deny this, mortal. I know your soul ¡ª I see its avidness and yearning here in these images. Fear not, such emotions amuse me, for they are the paths to despair.''


    ''Yes, master.''


    ''Now, Munug of Darujhistan, your payment¡­''


    The old man screamed as fire blossomed within the tumours between his legs. Twisting with agony, he curled up tight on the filthy rushes.


    The god laughed, the horrible sound breaking into lung-ravaging coughs that were long in passing.


    The pain, Munug realized after a while, was fading.


    ''You are healed, mortal. You are granted more years of your miserable life. Alas, as perfection is anathema to me, so it must be among my cherished children.''


    ''M-master, I cannot feel my legs!''


    ''They are dead, I am afraid. Such was the price of curing. It seems, artisan, that you will have a long, wearying crawl to wherever it is you seek to go. Bear in mind, child, that the value lies in the journey, not in the goal achieved.'' The god laughed again, triggering yet another fit of coughing.


    Knowing he was dismissed, Munug pulled himself around, dragged the dead weight of his lower limbs through the tent entrance, then lay gasping. The pain he now felt came from his own soul. He pulled his pack up alongside him, rested his head on it. The columns of stacked coins were hard against his sweat-runnelled forehead. ''My rewards,'' he whispered. ''Blessed is the touch of the Fallen One. Lead me, dear master, down the paths of despair, for I deserve this world''s pain in unending bounty ¡­''


    From the tent behind him, the Crippled God''s laughter hacked the air. ''Cherish this moment, dear Munug! By your hand, the new game is begun. By your hand, the world shall tremble!''


    Munug closed his eyes. ''My rewards ¡­''


    Blend continued staring up the trail long after the trader had disappeared from view. ''He was not,'' she muttered, ''as he seemed.''


    ''None of them are,'' Picker agreed, tugging at the torcs on her arm. ''These things are damned tight.''


    ''Your arm will probably rot and fall off, Corporal.''


    She looked up with wide eyes. ''You think they''re cursed?''

 Page 23

    Blend shrugged. ''If it was me I''d have Quick Ben take a good long peer at them, and sooner not later.''


    ''Togg''s balls, if you''d a suspicion-''


    ''Didn''t say I did, Corporal ¡ª it was you complaining they were tight. Can you get them off?''


    She scowled. ''No, damn you.''


    ''Oh.'' Blend looked away.


    Picker contemplated giving the woman a good, hard cuff, but it was a thought she entertained at least ten times a day since they''d paired up for this posting, and once again she resisted it. ''Three hundred councils to buy my arm falling off. Wonderful.''


    ''Think positive, Corporal. It''ll give you something to talk about with Dujek.''


    ''I really do hate you, Blend.''


    She offered Picker a bland smile. ''So, did you drop a pebble in that old man''s pack, then?''


    ''Aye, he was fidgety enough to warrant it. He damn near fainted when I called him back, didn''t he?''


    Blend nodded.


    ''So,'' Picker said, unrolling her sleeve, ''Quick Ben tracks him-''


    ''Unless he cleans out his pack-''


    The corporal grunted. ''He cared less about what was in it than I did. No, whatever serious booty he carried was under his shirt, no doubt about it. Anyway, he''ll be sure to put out the word when he gets to Pale ¡ª the traffic of smugglers through these hills will drop right off, mark my words and I''ll lay coin on that wager ¡ª and I threw him the line about better chances at the Divide when you was off collecting the councils.''


    Blend''s smile broadened. '' "Chaos at the crossroads", eh? The only chaos Paran''s crew has over there is what to do with all the takings.''


    ''Let''s fix some food ¡ª the Moranth will likely be as punctual as usual.''


    The two Bridgeburners made their way back up the trail.


    An hour after sunset the flight of Black Moranth arrived, descending on their quorls in a slithering flutter of wings to the circle of lanterns Picker and Blend had set out. One of them carried a passenger who clambered off as soon as his quorl''s six legs alighted on the stony ground.


    Picker grinned at the cursing man. ''Over here, Quick-''


    He spun to face her. ''What in Hood''s name have you been up to, Corporal?''


    Her grin fell away. ''Not much, Wizard. Why?''


    The thin, dusk-skinned man glanced over a shoulder at the Black Moranth, then hastened to the position where Picker and Blend waited. He lowered his voice. ''We need to keep things simple, damn it. Coming over the hills I almost fell out of that knobby saddle ¡ª there''s warrens swirling around down here, power bleeding from everywhere-'' He stopped, stepped closer, eyes glittering. ''From you, too, Picker ¡­''


    ''Cursed after all,'' Blend muttered.


    Picker glared at her companion and threw as much sarcasm into her tone as she could muster, ''Just like you suspected all along, right, Blend? You lying-''


    ''You''ve acquired the blessing of an ascendant!'' Quick Ben accused in a hiss. ''You idiot! Which one, Picker?''


    She struggled to swallow with a suddenly dry throat. ''Uh, Treach?''


    ''Oh, that''s just great.''


    The corporal scowled. ''What''s wrong with Treach? Perfect for a soldier ¡ª the Tiger of Summer, the Lord of Battle-''


    ''Five centuries ago, maybe! Treach veered into his Soletaken form hundreds of years ago ¡ª the beast hasn''t had a human thought since! It''s not just mindless ¡ª it''s insane, Picker!''


    Blend snickered.


    The wizard whirled on her. ''What are you laughing at?''


    ''Nothing. Sorry.''


    Picker rolled up her sleeve to reveal the torcs. ''It''s these, Quick Ben,'' she explained hastily. ''Can you get them off me?''


    He recoiled upon seeing the ivory bands, then shook his head. ''If it was a sane, reasonable ascendant, maybe some ¡­ negotiation might be possible. In any case, never mind-''


    ''Never mind?'' Picker reached out and gripped handfuls of raincape. She shook the wizard. ''Never mind? You snivelling worm-'' She stopped suddenly, eyes widening.


    Quick Ben regarded her with a raised eyebrow. ''What are you doing, Corporal?'' he asked softly.


    ''Uh, sorry, Wizard.'' She released him.


    Sighing, Quick Ben adjusted his cape. ''Blend, lead the Moranth to the cache.''


    ''Sure,'' she said, ambling towards the waiting warriors.


    ''Who made the delivery, Corporal?''


    ''The torcs?''


    ''Forget the torcs ¡ª you''re stuck with them. The councils from Darujhistan. Who delivered them?''

 Page 24

    ''Odd thing, that,'' Picker said, shrugging. ''A huge carriage showed up, as if from nowhere. One moment the trail''s empty, the next there''s six stamping horses and a carriage ¡ª Wizard, this trail up here can''t manage a two-wheeled cart, much less a carriage. The guards were armed to the teeth, too, and jumpy ¡ª I suppose that makes sense, since they were carrying ten thousand councils.''


    ''Trygalle,'' Quick Ben muttered. ''Those people make me nervous ¡­'' After a moment he shook his head. ''Now, my last question. The last tracker you sent off-where is it?''


    Picker frowned. ''Don''t you know? They''re your pebbles, Wizard!''


    ''Who did you give it to?''


    ''A carver of trinkets-''


    ''Trinkets like the one you''re wearing on your arm, Corporal?''


    ''Well, yes, but that was his lone prize ¡ª I looked at all the rest and it was good but nothing special.''


    Quick Ben glanced over to where the black-armoured Moranth were loading wrapped columns of coin onto their quorls under Blend''s smirking gaze. ''Well, I don''t think it''s gone far. I guess I''ll just have to go and find it. Shouldn''t take long ¡­''


    She watched him walk off a short distance, then sit cross-legged on the ground.


    The night air was growing cold, a west wind arriving from the Tahlyn Mountains. The span of stars overhead had become sharp and crisp. Picker turned and watched the loading. ''Blend,'' she called, ''make sure there''s two spare saddles besides the wizard''s.''


    ''Of course,'' she replied.


    The city of Pale wasn''t much, but at least the nights were warm. Picker was getting too old to be camping out night after night, sleeping on cold, hard ground. The past week waiting for the delivery had settled a dull ache into her bones. At least, with Darujhistan''s generous contribution, Dujek would be able to complete the army''s resupply.


    With Oponn''s luck, they''d be on the march within a week. Off to another Hood-kissed war, as if we ain''t weary enough. Fener''s hoof, who or what is the Pannion Domin, anyway?


    Since leaving Darujhistan eight weeks past, Quick Ben had been attached to Second-in-Command Whiskeyjack''s staff, with the task of assisting in the consolidation of Dujek''s rebel army. Bureaucracy and minor sorceries seemed strangely well suited to one another. The wizard had been busy weaving a network of communications through Pale and its outlying approaches. Tithes and tariffs, in answer to the army''s financial needs, and the imposition of control, easing the transition from occupation to possession. At least for the moment. Onearm''s Host and the Malazan Empire had parted ways, after all, yet the wizard had wondered, more than once, at the curiously imperial responsibilities he had been tasked to complete.


    Outlaws, are we? Indeed, and Hood dreams of sheep gambolling in green pastures, too.


    Dujek was ¡­ waiting. Caladan Brood''s army had taken its time coming south, and had only the day before reached the plain north of Pale ¡ª Tiste Andii at its heart with mercenaries and Ilgres Barghast on one flank and the Rhivi and their massive bhederin herds on the other.


    But there would be no war. Not this time.


    No, by the Abyss, we''ve all decided to fight a new enemy, assuming the parley goes smoothly ¡ª and given that Darujhistan''s rulers are already negotiating with us, that seems likely. A new enemy. Some theocratic empire devouring city after city in a seemingly unstoppable wave of fanatic ferocity. The Pannion Domin ¡ª why do I have a bad feeling about this? Never mind, it''s time to find my wayward tracker.


    Eyes closing, Quick Ben loosed his soul''s chains and slipped away from his body. For the moment, he could sense nothing of the innocuous waterworn pebble he''d dipped into his particular host of sorceries, so he had little choice but to fashion his search into an outward spiral, trusting in proximity to brush his senses sooner or later.


    It meant proceeding blind, and if there was one thing the wizard hated-


    Ah, found you!


    Surprisingly close, as if he''d crossed some kind of hidden barrier. His vision showed him nothing but darkness ¡ª not a single star visible overhead ¡ª but beneath him the ground had levelled out. I''m into a warren, all right. What''s alarming is, I don''t quite recognize it. Familiar, but wrong.


    He discerned a faint reddish glow ahead, rising from the ground. It coincided with the location of his tracker. The smell of sweet smoke was in the tepid air. Quick Ben''s unease deepened, but he approached the glow none the less.


    The red light bled from a ragged tent, he now saw. A hide flap covered the entrance, but it hung untied. The wizard sensed nothing of what lay within.

 Page 25

    He reached the tent, crouched down, then hesitated. Curiosity is my greatest curse, but simple acknowledgement of a flaw does not correct it. Alas. He drew the flap aside and looked inside.


    A blanket-wrapped figure sat huddled against the tent''s far wall, less than three paces away, leaning over a brazier from which smoke rose in sinuous coils. Its breathing was loud, laboured. A hand that appeared to have had every one of its bones broken lifted into view and gestured. A voice rasped from beneath the hooded blanket. ''Enter, mage. I believe I have something of yours ¡­''


    Quick Ben accessed his warrens ¡ª he could only manage seven at any one time though he possessed more. Power rippled through him in waves. He did so with reluctance ¡ª to unveil simultaneously nearly all he possessed filled him with a delicious whisper of omnipotence. Yet he knew that sensation for the dangerous, potentially fatal illusion it was.


    ''You realize now,'' the figure continued between wheezing gasps, ''that you must retrieve it. For one such as myself to hold such a link to your admirable powers, mortal-''


    ''Who are you?'' the wizard asked.


    ''Broken. Shattered. Chained to this fevered corpse beneath us. I did not ask for such a fate. I was not always a thing of pain ¡­''


    Quick Ben pressed a hand to the earth outside the tent, quested with his powers. After a long moment, his eyes widened, then slowly closed. ''You have infected her.''


    ''In this realm,'' the figure said, ''I am as a cancer. And, with each passing of light, I grow yet more virulent. She cannot awaken, whilst I burgeon in her flesh.'' He shifted slightly, and from beneath the folds of filthy blanket came the rustle of heavy chain. ''Your gods have bound me, mortal, and think the task complete.''


    ''You wish a service in exchange for my tracker,'' Quick Ben said.


    ''Indeed. If I must suffer, then so too must the gods and their world-''


    The wizard unleashed his host of warrens. Power ripped through the tent. The figure shrieked, jerking backward. The blanket burst into flame, as did the creature''s long, tangled hair. Quick Ben darted into the tent behind the last wave of his sorcery. One hand flashed out, angled down at the wrist, palm up. His fingertips jabbed into the figure''s eye-sockets, his palm slamming into its forehead, snapping the head back. Quick Ben''s other hand reached out and unerringly scooped up the pebble as it rolled amidst the rushes.


    The power of the warrens winked out. Even as the wizard pulled back, pivoted and dived for the entrance, the chained creature bellowed with rage. Quick Ben scrambled to his feet and ran.


    The wave struck him from behind, sent him sprawling onto the hot, steaming ground. Screaming, the wizard writhed beneath the sorcerous onslaught. He tried to pull himself further away, but the power was too great. It began dragging him back. He clawed at the ground, stared at the furrows his fingers gouged in the earth, saw the dark blood welling from them.


    Oh, Burn, forgive me.


    The invisible, implacable grip pulled him closer to the tent entrance. Hunger and rage radiated from the figure within, as well as a certainty that such desires were moments from deliverance.


    Quick Ben was helpless.


    ''You will know such pain!'' the god roared.


    Something reached up through the earth, then. A massive hand closed about the wizard, like a giant child snatching at a doll. Quick Ben screamed again as it pulled him down into the churning, steaming soil. His mouth filled with bitter earth.


    A bellow of fury echoed dimly from above.


    Jagged rocks ripped along the wizard''s body as he was pulled further down through the flesh of the Sleeping Goddess. Starved of air, darkness slowly closed around his mind.


    Then he was coughing, spitting up mouthfuls of gritty mud. Warm, sweet air filled his lungs. He clawed dirt from his eyes, rolled onto his side. Echoing groans buffeted him, the flat, hard ground beneath him slowly buckling and shifting. Quick Ben rose to his hands and knees. Blood dripped from his soul''s torn flesh ¡ª his clothes were naught but strips ¡ª but he was alive. He looked up.


    And almost cried out.


    A vaguely human-shaped figure towered over him, easily fifteen times the wizard''s own height, its bulk nearly reaching the cavern''s domed ceiling. Dark flesh of clay studded with rough diamonds gleamed and glittered as the apparition shifted slightly. It seemed to be ignoring Quick Ben ¡ª though the wizard knew that it had been this beast that had saved him from the Crippled God. Its arms were raised to the ceiling directly above it, hands disappearing into the murky, red-stained roof. Vast arcs of dull white gleamed in that ceiling, evenly spaced like an endless succession of ribs. The hands appeared to be gripping or possibly were fused to two such ribs.

 Page 26

    Just visible beyond the creature, perhaps a thousand paces down the cavern''s length, squatted another such apparition, its arms upraised as well.


    Twisting, Quick Ben''s gaze travelled the opposite length of the cavern. More servants ¡ª the wizard saw four, possibly five of them ¡ª each one reaching up to the ceiling. The cavern was in fact a vast tunnel, curving in the distance.


    I am indeed within Burn, the Sleeping Goddess. A living warren. Flesh, and bone. And these. servants ¡­


    ''You have my gratitude!'' he called up to the creature looming above him.


    A flattened, misshapen head tilted down. Diamond eyes stared like descending stars. ''Help us.''


    The voice was childlike, filled with despair.


    Quick Ben gaped. Help?


    ''She weakens,'' the creature moaned. ''Mother weakens. We die. Help us.''


    ''How?''


    ''Help us, please.''


    ''I¨CI don''t know how.''


    ''Help.''


    Quick Ben staggered upright. The clay flesh, he now saw, was melting, running in wet streams down the giant''s thick arms. Chunks of diamond fell away. The Crippled God''s killing them, poisoning Burn''s flesh. The wizard''s thoughts raced. ''Servant, child of Burn! How much time? Until it is too late?''


    ''Not long,'' the creature replied. ''It nears. The moment nears.''


    Panic gripped Quick Ben. ''How close? Can you be more specific? I need to know what I can work with, friend. Please try!''


    ''Very soon. Tens. Tens of years, no more. The moment nears. Help us.''


    The wizard sighed. For such powers, it seemed, centuries were as but days. Even so, the enormity of the servant''s plea threatened to overwhelm him. As did the threat. What would happen if Burn dies? Beru fend, I don''t think I want to find out. All right, then, it''s my war, now. He glanced down at the mud-strewn ground around him, questing with his senses. He quickly found the tracker. ''Servant! I will leave something here, so that I may find you again. I will find help ¡ª I promise ¡ª and I will come back to you-''


    ''Not me,'' the giant said. ''I die. Another will come. Perhaps.'' The creature''s arms had thinned, were now almost devoid of their diamond armour. ''I die now.'' It began to sag. The red stain in the ceiling had spread to the ribs it held, and cracks had begun to show.


    ''I will find an answer,'' Quick Ben whispered. ''I swear it.'' He gestured and a warren opened. Without a last glance ¡ª lest the vision break his heart ¡ª he stepped within, and was gone.


    A hand shook his shoulder incessantly. Quick Ben opened his eyes.


    ''Damn you, mage,'' Picker hissed. ''It''s almost dawn ¡ª we have to fly.''


    Groaning, the wizard unfolded his legs, wincing with every move, then let the corporal help him upright.


    ''Did you get it back?'' she demanded as she half carried him to the waiting quorl.


    ''Get what back?''


    ''That pebble.''


    ''No. We''re in trouble, Picker-''


    ''We''re always in trouble-''


    ''No, I mean all of us.'' He dug in his heels, stared at her. '' All of us .''


    Whatever she saw in his expression left her shaken. ''All right. But right now we''ve got to get moving.''


    ''Aye. You''d better strap me in ¡ª I won''t be able to stay awake.''


    They came to the quorl. The Moranth seated in the forward chitinous saddle swung its helmed head to regard them in silence.


    ''Queen of Dreams,'' Picker muttered as she wrapped the leather harness around Quick Ben''s limbs. ''I ain''t never seen you this scared, Wizard. You got me ready to piss ice-cubes.''


    They were the last words of the night that Quick Ben remembered, but remember them he did.


    Ganoes Paran was plagued by images of drowning, but not in water. Drowning in darkness. Disorientated, thrashing in panic in an unknown and unknowable place. Whenever he closed his eyes, vertigo seized him, knots tightening in his gut, and it was as if he''d been stripped down to a child once again. Terrified, uncomprehending, his soul twisting with pain.


    The captain left the barricade at the Divide, where the day''s last traders were still struggling through the press of Malazan guards, soldiers and clerics. He''d done as Dujek had commanded, setting up his encampment across the throat of the pass. Taxation and wagon searches had yielded a substantial haul, although, as the news spread, the takings were diminishing. It was a fine balance, keeping the tax at a level that the merchants could stomach, and allowing enough contraband through lest the chokehold turn to strangulation and travel between Darujhistan and Pale dried up entirely. Paran was managing, but just barely. Yet it was the least of his difficulties.

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    Since the debacle at Darujhistan, the captain had been feeling adrift, tossed this way and that by the chaotic transformation of Dujek and his renegade army. The Malazans'' anchor had been cut away. Support structures had collapsed. The burden upon the officer corps had grown overwhelming. Almost ten thousand soldiers had suddenly acquired an almost childlike need for reassurance.


    And reassurance was something Paran was unable to give. If anything, the turmoil within him had deepened. Threads of bestial blood coursed his veins. Fragmented memories ¡ª few of them his own ¡ª and strange, unearthly visions plagued his nights. Daylight hours passed in a confused haze. Endless problems of materiel and logistics to deal with, the turgid needs of management pushed again and again through the rising flood of physical maladies now besetting him.


    He''d been feeling ill for weeks, and Paran had his suspicions as to the source. The blood of the Hound of Shadow. A creature that plunged into Dark''s own realm. yet can I be sure of this? The emotions frothing this crest. more like a child''s. A child''s¡­


    He pushed the thought away once more, knowing full well it would soon return ¡ª even as the pain in his stomach flared once again ¡ª and, with another glance up to where Trotts held sentinel position, continued making his way up the hillside.


    The pain of illness had changed him ¡ª he could see that within himself, conjured as an image, a scene both peculiar and poignant. He felt as if his own soul had been reduced into something piteous ¡ª a bedraggled, sweat-smeared rat, trapped within a rock-fall, twisting and squirming through cracks in a desperate search for a place where the pressure ¡ª the vast, shifting weight ¡ª relented. A space in which to breathe. And the pain all around me, those sharp stones, are settling, still settling, the spaces between them vanishing. darkness rising like water ¡­


    Whatever triumphs had been achieved in Darujhistan now seemed trivial to Paran. Saving a city, saving the lives of Whiskeyjack and his squad, the shattering of Laseen''s plans, they had one and all crumbled into ash in the captain''s mind.


    He was not as he had been, and this new shaping was not to his liking.


    Pain darkened the world. Pain dislocated. Turned one''s own flesh and bones into a stranger''s house, from which no escape seemed possible.


    Bestial blood. it whispers of freedom. Whispers of a way out ¡ª but not from the darkness. No. Into that darkness, where the Hounds went, deep into the heart of Anomander Rake''s cursed sword ¡ª the secret heart of Dragnipur.


    He almost cursed aloud at that thought, as he worked his way along the hillside trail overlooking the Divide. Day''s light was fading. The wind combing the grasses had begun to fall away, the rasping voice retreating to a murmur.


    The blood''s whisper was but one of many, each demanding his attention, each offering contradictory invitations ¡ª disparate paths of escape. But always escape. Flight. This cowering creature can think of nothing else. even as the burdens settle. and settle.


    Dislocation. All I see around me. feels like someone else''s memories. Grass woven on low hills, outcrops of bedrock studding the summits, and when the sun sets and the wind cools, the sweat on my face dries, and darkness comes ¡ª and I drink its air as if it was the sweetest water. Gods, what does that mean?


    The confusion within him would not settle. I escaped the world of that sword, yet I feel its chains about me none the less, drawing ever tighter. And within that tension, there was an expectation. Of surrender, of yielding. an expectation to become ¡­ what? Become what?


    The Barghast sat amidst high, tawny grasses on a summit overlooking the Divide. The day''s flow of traders had begun to ebb on both sides of the barricade, the clouds of dust fading over the rutted road. Others were setting up camps ¡ª the throat of the pass was turning into an unofficial wayside. If the situation remained as it was, the wayside would take root, become a hamlet, then a village.


    But it won''t happen. We''re too restless for that. Dujek''s mapped out our immediate future, shrouded in the dust of an army on the march. Even worse, there''re creases in that map, and it''s starting to look like the Bridgeburners are about to fall into one. A deep one.


    Breathless and fighting yet more twinges, Captain Paran moved to crouch down beside the half-naked, tattooed warrior. ''You''ve been strutting like a bull bhederin since this morning, Trotts,'' he said. ''What have you and Whiskeyjack brewed up, soldier?''


    The Barghast''s thin, wide mouth twisted into something like a smile, his dark eyes remaining fixed on the scene down in the valley. ''The cold darkness ends,'' he growled.

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    ''To Hood it does ¡ª the sun''s moments from setting, you grease-smeared fool.''


    ''Cold and frozen,'' Trotts continued. ''Blind to the world. I am the Tale, and the Tale has been unspoken for too long. But no longer. I am a sword about to leave its scabbard. I am iron, and in the day''s light I shall blind you all. Hah.''


    Paran spat into the grasses. ''Mallet mentioned your sudden ¡­ loquaciousness. He also mentioned that it hasn''t done anyone else any good, since with its arrival you''ve lost what little sense you showed before then.''


    The Barghast thumped his chest, the sound reverberating like a drumbeat. ''I am the Tale, and soon it shall be told. You will see, Malazan. You all will.''


    ''The sun''s withered your brain, Trotts. Well, we''re heading back to Pale tonight ¡ª though I''d imagine Whiskeyjack''s already told you that. Here comes Hedge to relieve you as lookout.'' Paran straightened, disguising the wince that came with the movement. ''I''ll just finish my rounds, then.''


    He trudged off.


    Damn you, Whiskeyjack, what have you and Dujek cooked up? The Pannion Domin. why are we sparing a mole''s ass for some upstart zealots? These things burn out. Every time. They implode. The scroll scribblers take over ¡ª they always do ¡ª and start arguing obscure details of the faith. Sects form. Civil war erupts, and there it is, just one more dead flower trampled on history''s endless road.


    Aye, it''s all so bright and flushed right now. Only, colours fade. They always do.


    One day, the Malazan Empire will come face to face with its own mortality. One day, dusk will fall on the empire.


    He bent over as yet another knot of burning pain seized his stomach. No, dunk not of the empire! Think not of Laseen''s cull! Trust in Tavore, Ganoes Paran ¡ª your sister will salvage the House. Better than you might have managed. Far better. Trust in your sister¡­ The pain eased slightly. Drawing a deep breath, the captain resumed making his way down to the crossing.


    Drowning. By the Abyss, I am drowning.


    Clambering like a rock ape, Hedge reached the summit. His bandy legs carried him to the Barghast''s side. As he passed behind Trotts he reached out and gave the warrior''s single knotted braid a sharp tug. ''Hah,'' he said, moving to settle down beside the warrior, ''I love the way your eyes bug out when I do that.''


    ''You, sapper,'' the Barghast said, ''are the scum beneath a pebble in a stream running through a field of sickly pigs.''


    ''Good one, though a tad longwinded. Got the captain''s head spinning, have ya?''


    Trotts said nothing, his gaze now on the distant Tahlyn Mountains.


    Hedge pulled his scorched leather cap from his head, scratched vigorously through the few remaining wisps of hair on his pate, studied his companion for a long moment. ''Not bad,'' he judged. ''Noble and mysterious. I''m impressed.''


    ''You should be. Such poses are not easy to hold, you know.''


    ''You''re a natural. So why are you twisting Paran around?''


    Trotts grinned, revealing a blue-stained row of filed teeth. ''It is fun. Besides, it''s up to Whiskeyjack to explain things-''


    ''Only he ain''t done any explaining yet. Dujek wants us back in Pale, gathering up what''s left of the Bridgeburners. Paran should be happy he''s getting a company to command again, instead of just a couple of beat-up squads. Did Whiskeyjack say anything about the upcoming parley with Brood?''


    Trotts slowly nodded.


    Hedge scowled. ''Well, what?''


    ''It is coming up.''


    ''Oh, thanks for that. By the way, you''re officially relieved of this post, soldier. They''re cooking up a bhederin carcass for you down there. I had the cook stuff it with dung since that''s how you like it.''


    Trotts rose. ''One day I may cook and eat you, sapper.''


    ''And choke to death on my lucky bone.''


    The Barghast frowned. ''My offer was true, Hedge. To honour you, my friend.''


    The sapper squinted up at Trotts, then grinned. ''Bastard! You almost had me there!''


    Sniffing, Trotts turned away. ''"Almost", he said. Hah hah.''


    Whiskeyjack was waiting when Paran returned to the trader post and its makeshift barricade. Once sergeant, now Dujek Onearm''s second-in-command, the grizzled veteran had come in with the last flight of Moranth. He stood with his old squad''s healer, Mallet, the two of them watching a score of soldiers from the 2nd Army loading the past week''s toll onto the quorls. Paran approached, walking cautiously so as to hide the pain within him.


    ''How fares the leg, Commander?'' he asked.


    Whiskeyjack shrugged.

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    ''We were just discussing that,'' Mallet said, his round face flushed. ''It''s healed badly. Needs serious attention-''


    ''Later,'' the bearded commander growled. ''Captain Paran, have the squads assembled in two bells ¡ª have you decided what to do with what''s left of the Ninth?''


    ''Aye, they''ll join what''s left of Sergeant Antsy''s squad.''


    Whiskeyjack frowned. ''Give me some names.''


    ''Antsy''s got Corporal Picker, and ¡­ let''s see ¡­ Spindle, Blend, Detoran. So, with Mallet here, and Hedge, Trotts and Quick Ben-''


    ''Quick Ben and Spindle are now cadre mages, Captain. But you''ll have them with your company in any case. Otherwise, I''d guess Antsy will be happy enough-''


    Mallet snorted. ''Happy? Antsy don''t know the meaning of the word.''


    Paran''s eyes narrowed. ''I take it, then, that the Bridgeburners won''t be marching with the rest of the Host.''


    ''No, you won''t be ¡ª we''ll go into that back at Pale, though.'' Whiskeyjack''s flat grey eyes studied the captain for a moment, then slid away. ''There''s thirty-eight Bridgeburners left ¡ª not much of a company. If you prefer, Captain, you can decline the position. There''s a few companies of elite marines short on officers, and they''re used to noble-borns commanding them ¡­''


    There was silence.


    Paran turned away. Dusk was coming, the valley''s shadow rising up the slopes of the surrounding hillsides, a spatter of dim stars emerging from the sky''s dome. I might take a knife in the back, is what he''s telling me. Bridgeburners have an abiding dislike for noble-born officers. A year ago he would have spoken those words out loud, in the belief that baring ugly truths was a good thing to do. The misguided notion that it was the soldier''s way. when in fact it''s the opposite that is a soldier''s way. In a world full of pitfalls and sinkholes, you dance the edges. Only fools jump feet first, and fools don''t live long besides. He''d felt knives enter his body once. Wounds that should have been fatal. The memory sheathed him in sweat. The threat was not something he could simply shrug off in a display of youthful, ignorant bravado. He knew that, and the two men facing him knew it as well. ''I still,'' Paran said, eyes on the darkness devouring the south road, ''would consider it an honour to command the Bridgeburners, sir. Perhaps, in time, I might have the opportunity to prove myself worthy of such soldiers.''


    Whiskeyjack grunted. ''As you like, Captain. The offer remains open if you change your mind.''


    Paran faced him.


    The commander grinned. ''For a little while longer, anyway.''


    A huge, dark-skinned figure emerged from the gloom, her weapons and armour softly clinking. Seeing both Whiskeyjack and Paran, the woman hesitated, then, fixing her gaze on the commander, she said, ''The watch is being turned over, sir. We''re all coming in, as ordered.''


    ''Why are you telling me, soldier?'' Whiskeyjack rumbled. ''You talk to your immediate superior.''


    The woman scowled, pivoted to face Paran. ''The watch-''


    ''I heard, Detoran. Have the Bridgeburners get their gear and assemble in the compound.''


    ''It''s still a bell and a half before we leave-''


    ''I''m aware of that, soldier.''


    ''Yes, sir. At once, sir.''


    The woman ambled off.


    Whiskeyjack sighed. ''About that offer-''


    ''My tutor was Napan,'' Paran said. ''I''ve yet to meet a Napan who knows the meaning of respect, and Detoran''s no exception. I''m also aware,'' he continued, ''that she''s no exception as far as Bridgeburners go, either.''


    ''It seems your tutor taught you well,'' Whiskeyjack muttered.


    Paran frowned. ''What do you mean?''


    ''His disrespect for authority''s rubbed off, Captain. You just interrupted your commander.''


    ''Uh, my apologies. I keep forgetting you''re not a sergeant any more.''


    ''So do I, which is why I need people like you to get it right.'' The veteran turned to Mallet. ''Remember what I said, Healer.''


    ''Aye, sir.''


    Whiskeyjack glanced once more at Paran. ''The hurry up and wait was a good touch, Captain. Soldiers love to stew.''


    Paran watched the man head off towards the gatehouse, then said to Mallet, ''Your private discussion with the commander, Healer. Anything I should know?''


    Mallet''s blink was sleepy. ''No, sir.''


    ''Very well. You may rejoin your squad.''


    ''Yes, sir.''


    When he was alone, Paran sighed. Thirty-eight bitter, resentful veterans, already twice betrayed. I wasn''t part of the treachery at the siege of Pale, and Laseen''s proclamation of outlawry embraced me as much as it did them. Neither event can be laid at my feet, yet they''re doing it anyway.

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    He rubbed at his eyes. Sleep had become an ¡­ unwelcome thing. Night after night, ever since their flight from Darujhistan ¡­ pain ¡ª and dreams, no, nightmares. Gods below. He spent the dark hours twisted beneath his blankets, his blood racing through him, acids bubbling in his stomach, and when consciousness finally slipped from him, his sleep was fitful, racked with dreams of running. Running on all fours. Then drowning .


    It''s the blood of the Hound, coursing undiminished within me. It must be.


    He had tried to tell himself more than once that the Shadow Hound''s blood was also the source of his paranoia. The thought elicited a sour grin. Untrue. What I fear is all too real. Worse, this vast sense of loss. without the ability to trust ¡ª anyone. Without that, what do I see in the life awaiting me? Naught but solitude, and thus, nothing of value. And now, all these voices. whispering of escape. Escape.


    He shook himself, spat to clear the sour phlegm in his throat. Think of that other thing, that other scene. Solitary. Baffling. Remember, Paran, the voice you heard. It was Tattersail''s ¡ª you did not doubt it then, why do so now? She lives. Somehow, some way, the sorceress lives.


    Ahh, the pain! A child screaming in darkness, a Hound howling lost in sorrow. A soul nailed to the heart of a wound. and I think myself alone! Gods, I wish I were!


    Whiskeyjack entered the gatehouse, closed the door behind him and strode over to the scribe''s table. He leaned against it, stretched out his aching leg. His sigh was like the easing of endless knots, and when it was done he was trembling.


    After a moment the door opened.


    Straightening, Whiskeyjack scowled at Mallet. ''I thought your captain''d called for an assembly, Healer-''


    ''Paran''s in worse shape than even you, sir.''


    ''We''ve covered this. Guard the lad''s back ¡ª you having second thoughts, Mallet?''


    ''You misunderstand. I just quested in his direction ¡ª my Denul warren recoiled, Commander.''


    Whiskeyjack only now noted the pallid cast of the healer''s round face. ''Recoiled?''


    ''Aye. That''s never happened before. The captain''s sick .''


    ''Tumours? Cancers? Be specific, damn it!''


    ''Nothing like that, sir. Not yet, but they''ll come. He''s eaten a hole in his own gut. All that he''s holding in, I guess. But there''s more ¡ª we need Quick Ben. Paran''s got sorceries running through him like fireweed roots.''


    ''Oponn-''


    ''No, the Twin Jesters are long gone. Paran''s journey to Darujhistan ¡ª something happened to him on the way. No, not something. Lots of things. Anyway, he''s fighting those sorceries, and that''s what''s killing him. I could be wrong in that, sir. We need Quick Ben-''


    ''I hear you. Get him on it when we get to Pale. But make sure he''s subtle. No point in adding to the captain''s unease.''


    Mallet''s frown deepened. ''Sir, it''s just¡­ Is he in any shape to take command of the Bridgeburners?''


    ''You''re asking me? If you want to talk to Dujek about your concerns, that''s your prerogative, Healer. If you think Paran''s unfit for duty ¡ª do you, Mallet?''


    After a long moment, the man sighed. ''Not yet, I suppose. He''s as stubborn as you are ¡­ sir. Hood, you sure you two aren''t related?''


    ''Damned sure,'' Whiskeyjack growled. ''Your average camp dog has purer blood than what''s in my family line. Let it rest for now, then. Talk to Quick and Spindle. See what you can find out about those hidden sorceries ¡ª if gods are plucking Paran''s strings again, I want to know who, and then we can mull on why.''


    Mallet''s eyes thinned as he studied the commander. ''Sir, what are we heading into?''


    ''I''m not sure, Healer,'' Whiskeyjack admitted with a grimace. Grunting, he shifted weight off his bad leg. ''With Oponn''s luck I won''t have to pull a sword ¡ª commanders usually don''t, do they?''


    ''If you gave me the time, sir-''


    ''Later, Mallet. Right now I''ve got a parley to think about. Brood and his army''s arrived outside Pale.''


    ''Aye.''


    ''And your captain''s probably wondering where in Hood''s name you''ve disappeared to. Get out of here, Mallet. I''ll see you again after the parley.''


    ''Yes, sir.''


    CHAPTER THREE


    Dujek Onearm and his army awaited the arrival of Caladan Brood and his allies: the fell Tiste Andii, Barghast clans from the far north, a half-score mercenary contingents, and the plains-dwelling Rhivi. There, on the still raw killing ground outside the city of Pale, the two forces would meet. Not to wage war, but to carve from bitter history, peace. Neither Dujek nor Brood, nor anyone else among their legendary company, could have anticipated the ensuing clash ¡ª not of swords, but of worlds ¡­

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    Confessions of Artanthos


    Shallow ridges ribboned the hillsides a league north of Pale, barely healed scars of a time when the city''s presumptions reached out to devour the steppes bordering the Rhivi Plain. Since memories began the hills had been sacred to the Rhivi. Pale''s farmers had paid for their temerity with blood.


    Yet the land was slow to heal; few of the ancient menhirs, boulder rings and flat-stone crypts remained in place. The stones were now haphazardly piled into meaningless cairns alongside what used to be terraced fields of maize. All that was sacred in these hills was held so only within the minds of the Rhivi.


    As in faith, so we are in truth. The Mhybe drew the antelope hide closer about her thin, bony shoulders. A new array of pains and aches mapped her frame this morning, evidence that the child had drawn more from her in the night just past. The old woman told herself she felt no resentment ¡ª such needs could not be circumvented, and there was little in the child that was natural in any case. Vast, cold-hearted spirits and the blind spells of sorcery had conspired to carve into being something new, unique.


    And time was growing short, so very short.


    The Mhybe''s dark eyes glittered within their nests of wrinkles as she watched the child scampering over the weathered terraces. A mother''s instincts ever abided. It was not right to curse them, to lash out at the bindings of love that came in the division of flesh. For all the flaws raging within her, and for all the twisted demands woven into her daughter, the Mhybe could not ¡ª would not ¡ª spin webs of hate.


    None the less, the withering of her body weakened the gifts of the heart to which she so desperately clung. Less than a season past, the Mhybe had been a young woman, not yet wedded. She had been proud, unwilling to accept the half-braids of grass that numerous young, virile men had set down before the entrance to her tent ¡ª not yet ready to entwine her own braid and thus bind herself to marriage.


    The Rhivi were a damaged people ¡ª how could one think of husband and family in this time of endless, devastating war? She was not as blind as her sister-kin; she did not embrace the supposed spirit-blessed duty to produce sons to feed into the ground before the Reaper''s Plough. Her mother had been a reader of bones, gifted with the ability to hold the people''s entire repository of memories ¡ª every lineage, reaching back to the Dying Spirit''s Tear. And her father had held the Spear of War, first against the White Face Barghast, then against the Malazan Empire.


    She missed them both, deeply, yet understood how their deaths, and her own defiance of accepting a man''s touch, had together conspired to make her the ideal choice in the eyes of the host of spirits. An untethered vessel, a vessel in which to place two shattered souls ¡ª one beyond death and the other held back from death through ancient sorceries, two identities braided together ¡ª a vessel that would be used to feed the unnatural child thus created.


    Among the Rhivi, who travelled with the herds and raised no walls of stone or brick, such a container, intended for a singular use after which it would be discarded, was called a mhybe, and so she had found herself a new name, and now every truth of her life was held within it.


    Old without wisdom, weathered without the gift of years, yet I am expected to guide this child ¡ª this creature ¡ª who gains a season with every one I lose, for whom weaning will mean my death. Look at her now, playing the games a child would play; she smiles all unknowing of the price her existence, her growth, demands of me.


    The Mhybe heard footsteps behind her, and a moment later a tall, black-skinned woman arrived to stand beside the Rhivi. The newcomer''s angled eyes held on the child playing on the hillside. The prairie wind sent strands of long black hair over her face. Fine, scaled armour glinted from beneath her black-dyed, rawhide shirt.


    ''Deceptive,'' the Tiste Andii woman murmured, ''is she not?''


    The Mhybe sighed, then nodded.


    ''Hardly a thing to generate fear,'' the midnight-skinned woman continued, ''or be the focus of searing arguments ¡­''


    ''There have been more, then?''


    ''Aye. Kallor renews his assault.''


    The Mhybe stiffened. She looked up at the Tiste Andii. ''And? Has there been a change, Korlat?''


    ''Brood remains steadfast,'' Korlat replied after a moment. She shrugged. ''If he has doubts, he hides them well.''


    ''He has,'' the Mhybe said. ''Yet his need for the Rhivi and our herds outweighs them still. This is calculation, not faith. Will such need remain, once an alliance with the onearmed Malazan is fashioned?''


    ''It is hoped,'' Korlat ventured, ''that the Malazans will possess more knowledge of the child''s origins-''

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    ''Enough to alleviate the potential threat? You must make Brood understand, Korlat, that what the two souls once were is nothing to what they have become.'' Her eyes on the playing child, the Mhybe continued, ''She was created within the influence of a T''lan Imass ¡ª its timeless warren became the binding threads, and were so woven by an Imass bonecaster ¡ª a bonecaster of flesh and blood, Korlat. This child belongs to the T''lan Imass. She may well be clothed in the flesh of a Rhivi, and she may well contain the souls of two Malazan mages, but she is now a Soletaken, and more ¡ª a Bonecaster. And even these truths but brush the edges of what she will become. Tell me, what need have the immortal T''lan Imass for a flesh and blood Bonecaster?''


    Korlat''s grimace was wry. ''I am not the person to ask.''


    ''Nor are the Malazans.''


    ''Are you certain of that? Did not the T''lan Imass march under Malazan banners?''


    ''Yet they do so no longer, Korlat. What hidden breach exists between them now? What secret motives might lie beneath all that the Malazans advise? We have no way of guessing, have we?''


    ''I imagine Caladan Brood is aware of such possibilities,'' the Tiste Andii said drily. ''In any case, you may witness and partake in these matters, Mhybe. The Malazan contingent approaches, and the Warlord seeks your presence at the parley.''


    The Mhybe turned about. Caladan Brood''s encampment stretched out before her, precisely organized as usual. Mercenary elements to the west, the Tiste Andii holding the centre, and her own Rhivi camps and the bhederin herds to the east. The march had been a long one, from the Old King Plateau, through the cities of Cat and then Patch, and finally onto the south-wending old Rhivi Trail crossing the plain that was the Rhivi''s traditional home. A home torn apart by years of war, of marching armies and the incendiaries of the Moranth falling from the sky. quorls whirling in black-specked silence, horror descending on our camps. our sacred herds.


    Yet now, we are to clasp wrists with our enemy. With the Malazan invaders and the cold-blooded Moranth, we are to weave braids of marriage ¡ª our two armies ¡ª jaws locked on one another''s throats for so long, but a marriage not in the name of peace. No, these warriors now seek another enemy, a new enemy ¡­


    Beyond Brood''s army to the south rose the recently mended walls of Pale, the stains of violence a chilling reminder of Malazan sorceries. A knot of riders had just departed from the city''s north gate, an unmarked grey banner announcing their outlawry for all to see as they slowly rode across the bare killing ground towards Brood''s encampment.


    The Mhybe''s gaze narrowed suspiciously on that pennant. Old woman, your fears are a curse. Think not of mistrust, think not of the horrors visited upon us by these once-invaders. Dujek Onearm and his Host have been outlawed by the hated Empress. One campaign has ended. A new one begins. Spirits below, shall we ever see an end to war?


    The child joined the two women. The Mhybe glanced down at her, saw within the steady, unwavering eyes of the girl a knowledge and wisdom that seemed born of millennia ¡ª and perhaps it was indeed so. Here we three stand, for all to see ¡ª a child of ten or eleven years, a woman of youthful visage with unhuman eyes, and a bent old woman ¡ª and it is, in every detail, an illusion, for what lies within us is reversed. I am the child. The Tiste Andii has known thousands of years of life, and the girl. hundreds of thousands.


    Korlat had also looked down at the child. The Tiste Andii smiled. ''Did you enjoy your play, Silverfox?''


    ''For a time,'' the girl replied in a voice surprisingly low. ''But I grew sad.''


    Korlat''s brows rose. ''And why is that?''


    ''There was once a sacred trust here ¡ª between these hills and spirits of the Rhivi. It is now broken. The spirits were naught but untethered vessels of loss and pain. The hills will not heal.''


    The Mhybe felt her blood turn to ice. Increasingly, the child was revealing a sensitivity to rival the wisest shoulderwoman among the tribes. Yet there was a certain coolness to that sensitivity, as if a hidden intent lay behind every compassionate word. ''Can nothing be done, daughter?''


    Silverfox shrugged. ''It is no longer necessary.''


    Such as now. ''What do you mean?''


    The round-faced girl smiled up at the Mhybe. ''If we are to witness the parley, Mother, we''d best hurry.''


    The place of meeting was thirty paces beyond the outermost pickets, situated on a low rise. The recent barrows that had been raised to dispose of the dead after the fall of Pale were visible to the west. The Mhybe wondered if those countless victims now watched from afar the scene unfolding before her. Spirits are born of spilled blood, after all. And without propitiation, they often twist into inimical forces, plagued by nightmare visions and filled with spite. Is it only the Rhivi who know these truths?

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    From war to alliance ¡ª how would such ghosts look upon this?


    ''They feel betrayed,'' Silverfox said beside her. ''I will answer them, Mother.'' She reached out to take the Mhybe''s hand as they walked. ''This is a time for memories. Ancient memories, and recent memories ¡­''


    ''And you, daughter,'' the Mhybe asked in a low, febrile tone, ''are you the bridge between the two?''


    ''You are wise, Mother, despite your own lack of faith in yourself. The hidden is slowly revealed. Look on these once-enemies. You fight in your mind, raising up all the differences between us, you struggle to hold on to your dislike, your hatred of them, for that is what is familiar. Memories are the foundations of such hatred. But, Mother, memories hold another truth, a secret one, and that is all that we have experienced, yes?''


    The Mhybe nodded. ''So our elders tell us, daughter,'' she said, biting back a faint irritation.


    ''Experiences. They are what we share. From opposite sides, perhaps, but they are the same. The same.''


    ''I know this, Silverfox. Blame is meaningless. We are all pulled, as tides are pulled by an unseen, implacable will-''


    The girl''s hand tightened in the Mhybe''s hand. ''Then ask Korlat, Mother, what her memories tell her.''


    Glancing over at the Tiste Andii, the Rhivi woman raised her brows and said, ''You have been listening, yet saying nothing. What reply does my daughter expect from you?''


    Korlat''s smile was wistful. ''Experiences are the same. Between your two armies, indeed. But also ¡­ across the breadth of time. Among all who possess memories, whether an individual or a people, life''s lessons are ever the same lessons.'' The Tiste Andii''s now-violet eyes rested on Silverfox. ''Even among the T''lan Imass ¡ª is this what you are telling us, child?''


    She shrugged. ''In all that is to come, think on forgiveness. Hold to it, but know too that it must not always be freely given.'' Silverfox swung her sleepy gaze to Korlat and the dark eyes suddenly hardened. ''Sometimes forgiveness must be denied.''


    Silence followed. Dear spirits, guide us. This child frightens me. Indeed, I can understand Kallor. and that is more worrying than anything else.


    They came to a halt far to one side of the place of parley just beyond the pickets of Brood''s encampment.


    Moments later, the Malazans reached the rise. There were four of them. The Mhybe had no difficulty in recognizing Dujek, the now-renegade High Fist. The onearmed man was older than she had expected, however, and he sat in the saddle of his roan gelding as would a man pained with old aches and stiff bones. He was thin, of average height, wearing plain armour and an undecorated standard-issue shortsword strapped to his belt. His narrow, hatchet face was beardless, displaying a lifetime of battle scars. He wore no helmet, the only indication of rank being his long grey cape and its silver-wrought fastening.


    At Dujek''s left side rode another officer, grey-bearded and solidly built. A visored helm with a chain camail disguised much of his features, but the Mhybe sensed in him an immeasurable strength of will. He sat straight in his saddle, though she noted that his left leg was held awkwardly, the boot not in the stirrup. The chain of his calf-length hauberk was battered and ribboned with leather stitches. That he sat on Dujek''s unprotected left side was not lost on the Mhybe.


    To the renegade High Fist''s right sat a young man, evidently an aide of some sort. He was nondescript, yet she saw that his eyes roved ceaselessly, taking in details of all that he saw. It was this man who held the outlawry pennon in one leather-gloved hand.


    The fourth rider was a Black Moranth, entirely encased in chitinous armour, and that armour was badly damaged. The warrior had lost all four fingers of his right hand, yet he continued to wear what was left of its gauntlet. Countless sword-slashes marred the gleaming black armour.


    Korlat grunted softly beside her. ''That''s a hard-bitten lot, wouldn''t you say?''


    The Mhybe nodded. ''Who is that on Dujek Onearm''s left?''


    ''Whiskeyjack, I would imagine,'' the Tiste Andii replied with a wry smile. ''Cuts quite a figure, doesn''t he?''


    For a moment the Mhybe felt like the young woman that she was in truth. She wrinkled her nose. ''Rhivi aren''t that hairy, thank the spirits.''


    ''Even so ¡­''


    ''Aye, even so.''


    Silverfox spoke. ''I would like him for an uncle.''


    The two women looked down at her in surprise.


    ''An uncle?'' the Mhybe asked.


    The girl nodded. ''You can trust him. While the onearmed old man is hiding something ¡ª well, no, they both are and it''s the same secret, yet I trust the bearded one any-way. The Moranth ¡ª he laughs inside. Always laughs, and no-one knows this. Not a cruel laugh, but one filled with sorrow. And the one with the banner ¡­'' Silverfox frowned. ''I am uncertain of him. I think I always have been ¡­''

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    The Mhybe met Korlat''s eyes over the girl''s head.


    ''I suggest,'' the Tiste Andii said, ''we move closer.''


    As they approached the rise two figures emerged from the picket line, followed by an outrider bearing a pennon-less standard, all on foot. Seeing them, the Mhybe wondered what the Malazans would make of the two warriors in the lead. There was Barghast blood in Caladan Brood, reflected in his tall, hulking form and his wide, flat face; and something else besides, something not quite human. The man was huge, well matched to the iron hammer strapped to his back. He and Dujek had been duelling on this continent for over twelve years, a clash of wills that had seen more than a score pitched battles and as many sieges. Both soldiers had faced dire odds more than once, yet had come through, bloodied but alive. They had long since taken the measure of the other on fields of battle, but now, finally, they were about to come face to face.


    At Brood''s side strode Kallor, tall, gaunt and grey. His full-length surcoat of chain glittered in the morning''s diffuse light. A plain bastard sword hung from the iron rings of his harness, swinging in time with his heavy steps. If any player in this deadly game had remained a mystery to the Mhybe, it was the self-named High King. Indeed, all the Rhivi woman could be certain of was Kallor''s hatred for Silverfox, a hatred bred of fear, and perhaps a knowledge that the man alone possessed ¡ª a knowledge he was unwilling to share with anyone. Kallor claimed to have lived through millennia, claimed to have once ruled an empire that he himself had finally destroyed, for reasons he would not reveal. Yet he was not an ascendant ¡ª his longevity probably came from alchemies, and was anything but perfect, for his face and body were as ravaged as those of a mortal man who was nearing a century of life.


    Brood made use of Kallor''s knowledge of tactics, what seemed an instinctive mastery of the sweep and shift of vast campaigns, but for the High King it was clear to all that such contests were but passing games, attended to with distraction and barely veiled disinterest. Kallor commanded no loyalty among the soldiers. Grudging respect was all the man achieved, and, the Mhybe suspected, all he ever had achieved, or ever would.


    His expression now, as he and Brood reached the rise, revealed disdain and contempt as he regarded Dujek, Whiskeyjack, and the Moranth commander. It would be a struggle not to take offence, yet all three Malazans seemed to be ignoring the High King as they dismounted, their attention fixed unwaveringly on Caladan Brood.


    Dujek Onearm stepped forward. ''Greetings, Warlord. Permit me to introduce my modest contingent. Second-in-command Whiskeyjack. Artanthos, my present standard-bearer. And the leader of the Black Moranth, whose title translates into something like Achievant, and whose name is entirely unpronounceable.'' The renegade High Fist grinned over at the armoured figure. ''Since he shook hands with a Rhivi spirit up in Blackdog Forest, we''ve taken to calling him Twist.''


    ''Artanthos ¡­'' Silverfox quietly murmured. ''He''s not used that name in a long time. Nor is he as he appears.''


    ''If an illusion,'' Korlat whispered, ''then it is masterful. I sense nothing untowards.''


    The child nodded. ''The prairie air''s ¡­ rejuvenated him.''


    ''Who is he, daughter?'' the Mhybe asked.


    ''A chimera, in truth.''


    Following Dujek''s words, Brood grunted and said, ''At my side is Kallor, my second-in-command. On behalf of the Tiste Andii is Korlat. Of the Rhivi, the Mhybe and her young charge. Bearing what''s left of my standard is Outrider Hurlochel.''


    Dujek was frowning. ''Where is the Crimson Guard?''


    ''Prince K''azz D''Avore and his forces are attending to internal matters, for the moment, High Fist. They will not be joining our efforts against the Pannion Domin.''


    ''Too bad,'' Dujek muttered.


    Brood shrugged. ''Auxiliary units have been assembled to replace them. A Saltoan Horse Regiment, four clans of the Barghast, a mercenary company from One Eye Cat, and another from Mott-''


    Whiskeyjack seemed to choke. He coughed, then shook his head. ''That wouldn''t be the Mott Irregulars, Warlord, would it?''


    Brood''s smile revealed filed teeth. ''Aye, you''ve some experience with them, haven''t you, Commander? When you soldiered among the Bridgeburners.''


    ''They were a handful,'' Whiskeyjack agreed, ''though not just in a fight ¡ª they spent most of their time stealing our supplies then running away, as I recall.''


    ''A talent for logistics, we called it,'' Kallor commented.


    ''I trust,'' Brood said to Dujek, ''that the arrangements with Darujhistan''s Council have proved satisfactory.''

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    ''They have, Warlord. Their ¡­ donations ¡­ have allowed us to fulfil our resupply needs.''


    ''I believe a delegation is on its way from Darujhistan and should be here in a short while,'' Brood added. ''Should you require additional assistance. ''


    ''Generous of them,'' the High Fist said, nodding.


    ''The command tent awaits us,'' the warlord said. ''There are details that need to be discussed.''


    ''As you say,'' Dujek agreed. ''Warlord, we have battled one another for a long time ¡ª I look forward to fighting side by side for a change. Let us hope the Pannion Domin proves a worthy foe.''


    Brood grimaced. ''But not too worthy.''


    ''Granted,'' Dujek said, grinning.


    Still standing slightly apart with the Tiste Andii and the Mhybe, Silverfox smiled and spoke quietly. ''So we have it. They have locked gazes. Taken the measure of the other¡­ and both are pleased.''


    ''A remarkable alliance, this,'' Korlat muttered with a faint shake of her head. ''To so easily relinquish so much¡­''


    ''Pragmatic soldiers,'' the Mhybe said, ''are the most frightening among the people whom I have known in my short life.''


    Silverfox laughed low in her throat. ''And you doubt your own wisdom, Mother ¡­''


    Caladan Brood''s command tent was situated in the centre of the Tiste Andii encampment. Though she had visited it many times and had acquired some familiarity with the Tiste Andii, the Mhybe was once again struck by the sense of strangeness as she strode with the others into their midst. Antiquity and pathos were twin breaths filling the aisles and pathways between the high-peaked narrow tents. There was little in the way of conversation among the few tall, dark-clothed figures they passed, nor was any particular attention accorded Brood and his entourage ¡ª even Korlat, Anomander Rake''s second-in-command, received but scant notice.


    It was difficult for the Mhybe to understand ¡ª a people plagued by indifference, an apathy that made even the efforts of civil discourse too much to contemplate. There were secret tragedies in the long, tortured past of the Tiste Andii. Wounds that would never heal. Even suffering, the Rhivi had come to realize, was capable of becoming a way of life. To then extend such an existence from decades into centuries, then into millennia, still brought home to the Mhybe a dull shock of horror.


    These narrow, arcane tents might be home to ghosts, a restless, roving necropolis haunted with lost spirits. The strangely stained, ragged ribbons tied to the iron tent poles added a votive touch to the scene, as did the gaunt, spectral figures of the Tiste Andii themselves. They seemed to be waiting, an eternal expectation that never failed to send shivers through the Mhybe. And worse, she knew their capabilities ¡ª she had seen them draw blades in anger, then wield them with appalling efficiency. And she had seen their sorcery.


    Among humans, cold indifference was often manifested in acts of brutal cruelty, was often the true visage of evil ¡ª if such a thing existed ¡ª but the Tiste Andii had yet to reveal such wanton acts. They fought at Brood''s command, for a cause not their own, and those few of them who were killed on such occasions were simply left on the ground. It had fallen to the Rhivi to retrieve those bodies, to treat them in the Rhivi way and to mourn their passing. The Tiste Andii looked upon such efforts without expression, as if bemused by the attention accorded to a mere corpse.


    The command tent waited directly ahead, octagonal and wood-framed, the canvas a much-mended sun-faded orange that had once been red. It had once belonged to the Crimson Guard, and had been left on a rubbish heap before Outrider Hurlochel had come to rescue it for the warlord. As with the standard, Brood wasn''t much for proud accoutrements.


    The large flap at the entrance had been tied back. Atop the front support pole sat a Great Raven, head cocked towards the group, beak open as if in silent laughter. The Mhybe''s thin lips quirked into a half-smile upon seeing Crone. Anomander Rake''s favoured servant had taken to hounding Caladan Brood, offering incessant advice like a conscience twisted awry. The Great Raven had tested the warlord''s patience more than once ¡ª yet Brood tolerates her in the same way he tolerates Anomander Rake himself. Uneasy allies. the tales all agree that Brood and Rake have worked side by side for a log, long time, yet is there trust between them? That particular relationship is a hard one to understand, with layers upon layers of complexity and ambiguity, all the more confusing for Crone''s dubious role in providing the bridge between the two warriors.


    ''Dujek Onearm!'' Crone screamed, the outburst followed by a mad cackle. ''Whiskeyjack! I bring you greetings from one Baruk, an alchemist in Darujhistan. And, from my master, Anomander Rake, Lord of Moon''s Spawn, Knight of High House Darkness, son of Mother Dark herself, I convey to you his ¡­ no, not greeting as such¡­ not greeting ¡­ but amusement. Yes, amusement!''

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    Dujek frowned. ''And what so amuses your master, bird?''


    ''Bird?'' the Great Raven shrieked. ''I am Crone, the unchallenged matriarch of Moon''s Spawn''s cacophonous, vast murder of kin!''


    Whiskeyjack grunted. ''Matriarch to the Great Ravens? You speak for them all, do you? I''d accept that ¡ª Hood knows you''re loud enough.''


    ''Upstart! Dujek Onearm, my master''s amusement is beyond explanation-''


    ''Meaning you don''t know,'' the renegade High Fist interjected.


    ''Outrageous audacity ¡ª show respect, mortal, else I choose your carcass to feed on when the day comes!''


    ''You''d likely break your beak on my hide, Crone, but you''re welcome to it when that moment arrives.''


    Brood growled, ''Do you still have that beak-strap, Hurlochel?''


    ''I do, sir.''


    The Great Raven hissed, ducking her head and half raising her vast wings. ''Don''t you dare, ox! Repeat that affront at your peril!''


    ''Then hold your tongue.'' Brood faced the others and waved them to the entrance. Crone, perched over everyone, bobbed her head as each soldier strode beneath her. When it was the Mhybe''s turn the Great Raven chuckled. ''The child in your hand is about to surprise us all, old woman.''


    The Rhivi paused. ''What do you sense, old crow?''


    Crone laughed in silence before replying, ''Immanence, dearest clay pot, and naught else. Greetings, child Silverfox.''


    The girl studied the Great Raven for a moment, then said, ''Hello, Crone. I had not before realized that your kind were born in the rotting flesh of a-''


    ''Silence!'' Crone shrieked. ''Such knowledge should never be spoken! You must learn to remain silent, child ¡ª for your own safety-''


    ''For yours, you mean,'' Silverfox said, smiling.


    ''In this instance, aye, I''ll not deny it. Yet listen to this wise old creature before stepping into this tent, child. There are those waiting within who will view the extent of your awareness ¡ª should you be foolish enough to reveal it ¡ª as the deadliest threat. Revelations could mean your death. And know this: you are not yet able to protect yourself. Nor can the Mhybe, whom I cherish and love, hope to defend you ¡ª hers is not a violent power. You will both need protectors, do you understand?''


    Her smile unperturbed, Silverfox nodded.


    The Mhybe''s hand tightened instinctively around her daughter''s, even as a tumult of emotions assailed her. She was not blind to the threats to Silverfox and herself, nor was she unaware of the powers burgeoning within the child. But I sense no power within me, violent or otherwise. Though spoken with affection, Crone named me ''clay pot'' in truth, and all that it once protected is no longer within me, but standing here, exposed and vulnerable, at my side. She glanced up at the Great Raven one last time as Silverfox led her inside. She met Crone''s black, glittering eyes. Love and cherish me, do you, crow? Bless you for that.


    The command tent''s central chamber was dominated by a large map table of rough-hewn wood, warped and misshapen as if cobbled together by a drunken carpenter. As the Mhybe and Silverfox entered, the veteran Whiskeyjack ¡ª helmet unstrapped and under one arm ¡ª was laughing, his eyes fixed upon the table.


    ''You bastard, Warlord,'' he said, shaking his head.


    Brood was frowning at the object of Whiskeyjack''s attention. ''Aye, I''ll grant you it''s not pretty-''


    ''That''s because Fiddler and Hedge made the damned thing,'' the Malazan said. ''In Mott Wood-''


    ''Who are Fiddler and Hedge?''


    ''My two sappers, when I was commanding the Ninth Squad. They''d organized one of their notorious card games, using the Deck of Dragons, and needed a surface on which to play it. A hundred fellow Bridgeburners had gathered for the game, despite the fact that we were under constant attack, not to mention bogged down in the middle of a swamp. The game was interrupted by a pitched battle ¡ª we were overrun, then driven back, then we retook the position, all of which consumed maybe a bell ¡ª and lo, someone had walked off with a two hundred pound table in the meantime! You should have heard the sappers cursing¡­''


    Caladan Brood crossed his arms, still frowning at the table. After a few moments he grunted. ''A donation from the Mott Irregulars. It has served me well ¡ª my, uh, compliments to your sappers. I can have it returned-''


    ''No need, Warlord ¡­'' It seemed the Malazan was about to say something more, something important, but then he simply shook his head.


    A soft gasp from Silverfox startled the Mhybe. She looked down, brows raised questioningly, but the girl''s attention was swinging from the table to Whiskeyjack, then back again, a small smile on her lips. ''Uncle Whiskeyjack,'' she said suddenly.

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    All eyes turned to Silverfox, who blithely continued, ''Those sappers and their games ¡ª they cheat, don''t they?''


    The bearded Malazan scowled. ''Not an accusation I''d recommend you repeat, especially if there''s any Bridgeburners around, lass. A lot of coin''s gone one way and one way only in those games. Did Fid and Hedge cheat? They made their rules so complicated no-one could tell one way or the other. So, to answer you, I don''t know.'' His scowl was deepening as he studied Silverfox, as if the man was growing troubled by something.


    Something. like a sense of familiarity ¡­ Realization dawned within the Mhybe. Of course, he knows nothing about her ¡ª about what she is, what she was. It''s their first meeting, as far as he''s concerned, yet she called him uncle, and more, there''s that voice ¡ª throaty, knowing ¡­ He knows not the child, but the woman she once was.


    Everyone waited for Silverfox to say more, to offer explanation. Instead she simply walked up to the table and slowly ran her hand across its battered surface. A fleeting smile crossed her features. Then she pulled close one of the mismatched chairs and sat down.


    Brood sighed, gestured to Hurlochel. ''Find us that map of the Pannion Domin territories.''


    With the large map laid out, the others slowly gathered round the table. After a moment, Dujek grunted. ''None of our own maps are this detailed,'' he said. ''You''ve noted the locations of various Pannion armies ¡ª how recent is this?''


    ''Three days,'' Brood said. ''Crone''s cousins are there, tracking movements. The notes referring to the Pannions'' means of organization and past tactics have been culled from various sources. As you can see, they''re poised to take the city of Capustan. Maurik, Setta and Lest have all fallen within the past four months. The Pannion''s forces are still on the south side of the Catlin River, but preparations for the crossing have begun-''


    ''The Capustan army won''t contest that crossing?'' Dujek asked. ''If not, then they''re virtually inviting a siege. I take it no-one expects Capustan to put up much of a fight.''


    ''The situation in Capustan is a bit confused,'' the warlord explained. ''The city''s ruled by a prince and a coalition of High Priests, and the two factions are ever at odds with each other. Problems have been compounded by the prince''s hiring a mercenary company to augment his own minimal forces-''


    ''What company?'' Whiskeyjack asked.


    ''The Grey Swords. Have you heard of them, Commander?''


    ''No.''


    ''Nor have I,'' Brood said. ''It''s said they''re up from Elingarth ¡ª a decent complement: over seven thousand. Whether they''ll prove worthy of the usurious fees they''ve carved from the prince remains to be seen. Hood knows, their so-called standard contract is almost twice the coin of what the Crimson Guard demands.''


    ''Their commander read the situation,'' Kallor commented, his tone suggesting vast weariness, if not outright boredom. ''Prince Jelarkan has more coin than soldiers, and the Pannions won''t be bought off ¡ª it''s a holy war as far as the Seer''s concerned, after all. To worsen matters, the council of High Priests has the backing of each temple''s private company of highly trained, well-equipped soldiers. That''s almost three thousand of the city''s most able fighters, whilst the prince himself has been left with dregs for his own Capanthall ¡ª which he''s prevented from expanding beyond two thousand by law. For years the Mask Council ¡ª the coalition of temples ¡ª has been using the Capanthall as a recruiting ground for their own companies, bribing away the best-''


    Clearly the Mhybe wasn''t alone in suspecting that, given the opportunity, Kallor would have gone on all afternoon, for Whiskeyjack interrupted the man as he drew breath.


    ''So this Prince Jelarkan circumvented the law by hiring mercenaries.''


    ''Correct,'' was Brood''s swift reply. ''In any case, the Mask Council has managed to invoke yet another law, preventing the Grey Swords from active engagement beyond the city walls, so the crossing will not be contested-''


    ''Idiots,'' Dujek growled. ''Given this is a holy war, you''d think the temples would do all they could to effect a united front against the Pannions.''


    ''I imagine they believe they are,'' Kallor answered with a sneer that could have been meant for Dujek or the priests in Capustan, or both. ''While at the same time ensuring that the prince''s power remains held in check.''


    ''It''s more complicated than that,'' Brood countered. ''The ruler of Maurik capitulated with little bloodshed by arresting all the priests in her city and handing them over to the Pannions'' Tenescowri. In one move, she saved her city and its citizens, topped up her royal coffers with booty from the temples and got rid of an eternal thorn in her side. The Pannion Seer granted her a governorship which is better than being torn apart and devoured by the Tenescowri ¡ª which is what happened to the priests.''

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    The Mhybe hissed. ''Torn apart and devoured?''


    ''Aye,'' the warlord said. ''The Tenescowri are the Seer''s peasant army ¡ª they''re fanatics that the Seer doesn''t bother supplying. Indeed, he''s given them his holy blessing to do whatever is necessary to feed and arm themselves. If certain other rumours are true, then cannibalism is the least of the horrors-''


    ''We''ve heard similar rumours,'' Dujek muttered. ''So, Warlord, the question before us is, do we seek to save Capustan or let it fall? The Seer must know we''re coming ¡ª his followers have spread the cult far beyond his borders, in Darujhistan, in Pale, in Saltoan ¡ª meaning he knows we will be crossing Catlin River somewhere, somewhen. If he takes Capustan, then the river''s widest ford is in his hands. Which leaves us with naught but the old ford west of Saltoan where the stone bridge used to be. Granted, our engineers could float us a bridge there, provided we bring the wood with us. That''s the overland option, in any case. We''ve two others, of course ¡­''


    Crone, perched on one end of the table, cackled. ''Listen to him!''


    The Mhybe nodded, understanding the Great Raven and experiencing her own amused disbelief.


    Dujek scowled down the length of the table at Crone. ''You have a problem, bird?''


    ''You are the warlord''s match indeed! Word for word, you think aloud as he does! Oh, how can one not see the honed edge of poetry in your mutual war of the past twelve years?''


    ''Be quiet, Crone,'' Brood commanded. ''Capustan will be besieged. The Pannions'' forces are formidable ¡ª we''ve learned that Septarch Kulpath is commanding the expedition, and he''s the ablest of all the Seer''s septarchs. He has half the total number of Beklites with him ¡ª that''s fifty thousand regular infantry ¡ª and a division of Urdomen besides the usual support attachments and auxiliary units. Capustan is a small city, but the prince has worked hard on the walls, and the city''s layout itself is peculiarly suited to district by district defence. If the Grey Swords don''t pull out with the first skirmish, Capustan might hold for a time. None the less ¡­''


    ''My Black Moranth could land a few companies in the city,'' Dujek said, glancing over at the silent Twist, ''but without an explicit invitation to do so, tension could prove problematic.''


    Kallor snorted. ''Now that is an understatement. What city on Genabackis would welcome Malazan legions into their midst? More, you''d have to bring your own food ¡ª you can be sure of that, High Fist ¡ª not to mention face outright hostility if not actual betrayal from the Capan people.''


    ''It''s clear,'' Whiskeyjack ventured, ''that we need to establish preliminary contact with Capustan''s prince.''


    Silverfox giggled, startling everyone. ''All this orchestration, Uncle! You''ve already set in motion a plan to do so. You and the onearmed soldier have schemed this to the last detail. You plan on liberating Capustan, though of course not directly ¡ª you two never do anything directly, do you? You want to remain hidden behind the events, a classic Malazan tactic if ever there was one.''


    Like the master gamblers they were, the two men showed no expression at her words.


    Kallor''s chuckle was a soft rattle of bones.


    The Mhybe studied Whiskeyjack. The child''s so very alarming, isn''t she? By the spirits, she alarms even me, and I know so much more than you do, sir.


    ''Well,'' Brood rumbled after a moment, ''I''m delighted to hear we''re in agreement ¡ª Capustan mustn''t fall if we can help it, and an indirect means of relief is probably the best option, all things considered. On the surface, we must be seen ¡ª the majority of your forces as well as mine, Onearm ¡ª to be marching overland, at a predictable pace. That will establish Septarch Kulpath''s timetable for the siege, for both him and us. I take it we''re also agreed that Capustan must not be our sole focus.''


    Dujek slowly nodded. ''It may still fall, despite our efforts. If we''re to defeat the Pannion Domin, we must strike for its heart.''


    ''Agreed. Tell me, Onearm, which city have you targeted for this first season of the campaign?''


    ''Coral,'' Whiskeyjack replied immediately.


    All eyes returned to the map. Brood was grinning. ''It seems we do indeed think alike. Once we reach the north border of the Domin, we drive like a spear southward, a swift succession of liberated cities¡­ Setta, Lest, Maurik ¡ª won''t the governess be pleased ¡ª then to Coral itself. We undo in a single season the Seer''s gains over the past four years. I want that cult reeling, I want cracks sent right through the damned thing.''

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    ''Aye, Warlord. So we march overland, yes? No boats ¡ª that would hasten Kulpath''s hand, after all. There''s one more issue to clarify, however,'' Whiskeyjack continued, his grey eyes swinging to the one representative ¡ª apart from the Black Moranth commander ¡ª who''d yet to speak, ''and that is, what can we expect from Anomander Rake? Korlat? Will the Tiste Andii be with us?''


    The woman simply smiled.


    Brood cleared his throat. ''Like you,'' he said, ''we have initiated some moves of our own. As we speak, Moon''s Spawn travels towards the Domin. Before it reaches the Seer''s territory, it will. disappear.''


    Dujek raised his brows. ''An impressive feat.''


    Crone cackled.


    ''We know little of the sorcery behind the Seer''s power,'' the warlord said, ''only that it exists. Like your Black Moranth, Moon''s Spawn represents tactical opportunities we''d be fools not to exploit.'' Brood''s grin broadened. ''Like you, High Fist, we seek to avoid predictability.'' He nodded towards Korlat. ''The Tiste Andii possess formidable sorceries-''


    ''Not enough,'' Silverfox cut in.


    The Tiste Andii woman frowned down at the girl. ''That is quite an assertion, child.''


    Kallor hissed. ''Trust nothing of what she says. Indeed, as Brood well knows, I consider her presence at this meeting foolish ¡ª she is no ally of ours. She will betray us all, mark my words. Betrayal, it is her oldest friend. Hear me, all of you. This creature is an abomination.''


    ''Oh, Kallor,'' Silverfox sighed, ''must you always go on like that?''


    Dujek turned to Caladan Brood. ''Warlord, I admit to some confusion over the girl''s presence ¡ª who in Hood''s name is she? She seems in possession of preternatural knowledge. For what seems a ten-year-old child-''


    ''She is far more than that,'' Kallor snapped, staring at Silverfox with hard, hate-filled eyes. ''Look at the hag beside her,'' the High King growled. ''She''s barely seen twenty summers, High Fist, and this child was torn from her womb not six months ago. The abomination feeds on the life force of her mother ¡ª no, not mother, the unfortunate vessel that once hosted the child ¡ª you all shivered at the cannibalism of the Tenescowri, what think you of a creature that so devours the life-soul of the one who birthed it? And there is more-'' He stopped, visibly bit back what he was about to say, and sat back. ''She should be killed. Now. Before her power surpasses us all.''


    There was silence within the tent.


    Damn you, Kallor. Is this what you want to show our newfound allies? A camp divided. And. spirits below. damn you a second time, for she never knew. She never knew.


    Trembling, the Mhybe looked down at Silverfox. The girl''s eyes were wide, even now filling with tears as she stared up at her mother. ''Do I?'' she whispered. ''Do I feed on you?''


    The Mhybe closed her eyes, wishing she could hide the truth from Silverfox once again, and for ever more. Instead, she said, ''Not your choice, daughter ¡ª it is simply part of what you are, and I accept this'' ¡ª and yet rage at the foul cruelty of it ¡ª ''as must you. There is an urgency within you, Silverfox, a force ancient and undeniable ¡ª you know it as well, feel it-''


    ''Ancient and undeniable?'' Kallor rasped. ''You don''t know the half of it, woman.'' He jolted forward across the table and grasped Silverfox''s tunic, pulled her close. Their faces inches apart, the High King bared his teeth. ''You''re in there, aren''t you? I know it. I feel it. Come out, bitch-''


    ''Release her,'' Brood commanded in a low, soft voice.


    The High King''s sneer broadened. He relented his grip on the girl''s tunic, slowly leaned back.


    Heart pounding, the Mhybe raised a trembling hand to her face. Terror had ripped through her when Kallor had grasped her daughter, an icy flood that left her limbs without strength ¡ª vanquishing with ease her maternal instinct to defend ¡ª revealing to herself, and to everyone present, her own cowardice. She felt tears of shame well in her eyes, trickle down her lined cheeks.


    ''Touch her again,'' the warlord continued, ''and I will beat you senseless, Kallor.''


    ''As you like,'' the ancient warrior replied.


    Armour rustled as Whiskeyjack turned to Caladan Brood. The commander''s face was dark, his expression harsh. ''Had you not done so, Warlord, I would have voiced my own threat.'' He fixed iron eyes on the High King. ''Harm a child? I would not beat you senseless, Kallor, I would rip your heart out.''


    The High King grinned. ''Indeed. I shake with fear.''


    ''That will do,'' Whiskeyjack murmured. His gauntleted left hand lashed out in a backhanded slap, striking Kallor''s face. Blood sprayed across the table as the High King''s head snapped back. The force of the blow staggered him. The handle of his bastard sword was suddenly in his hands, the sword hissing ¡ª then halting, half drawn.

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    Kallor could not move his arms further, for Caladan Brood now gripped both wrists. The High King strained, blood vessels swelling on his neck and temple, achieving nothing. Brood must have tightened his huge hands then, for he gasped, the sword''s handle dropping from his grasp, the weapon thunking back into the scabbard. Brood stepped closer, but the Mhybe heard his soft words none the less. ''Accept what you have earned, Kallor. I have had quite enough of your contempt at this gathering. Any further test of my temper and it shall be my hammer striking your face. Understood?''


    After a long moment, the High King grunted.


    Brood released him.


    Silence filled the tent, no-one moving, all eyes on Kallor''s bleeding face.


    Dujek withdrew a cloth from his belt ¡ª crusted with dried shaving soap ¡ª and tossed it at the High King. ''Keep it,'' he growled.


    The Mhybe moved up behind a pale, wide-eyed Silverfox, and laid her hands on her daughter''s shoulders. ''No more,'' she whispered. ''Please.''


    Whiskeyjack faced Brood once again, ignoring Kallor as if the man had ceased to exist. ''Explain please, Warlord,'' he said in a calm voice. ''What in Hood''s name is this child?''


    Shrugging her mother''s hands from her shoulders, Silverfox stood, poised as if about to flee. Then she shook her head, wiped her eyes and drew a shuddering breath. ''No,'' she said, ''let none answer but me.'' She looked up at her mother ¡ª the briefest meeting of gazes ¡ª then surveyed the others once more. ''In all things,'' she whispered, ''let none answer but me.''


    The Mhybe reached out a hand, but could not touch. ''You must accept it, daughter,'' she said, hearing the brittle-ness of her own conviction, and knowing ¡ª with a renewed surge of shame ¡ª that the others heard it as well. You must forgive ¡­ forgive yourself. Oh, spirits below, I dare not speak such words ¡ª I have lost that right, I have surely lost it now ¡­


    Silverfox turned to Whiskeyjack. ''The truth, now, Uncle. I am born of two souls, one of whom you knew very well. The woman Tattersail. The other soul belonged to the discorporate, ravaged remnants of a High Mage named Nightchill ¡ª in truth, little more than her charred flesh and bones, though other fragments of her were preserved as a consequence of a sealing spell. Tattersail''s ¡­ death ¡­ occurred within the sphere of the Tellann warren ¡ª as projected by a T''lan Imass-''


    The Mhybe alone saw the standard-bearer Artanthos flinch. And what, sir, do you know of this? The question flitted briefly through her mind ¡ª conjecture and consideration were tasks too demanding to exercise.


    ''Within that influence, Uncle,'' Silverfox continued, ''something happened. Something unexpected. A Bonecaster from the distant past appeared, as did an Elder God, and a mortal soul-''


    Cloth held to his face, Kallor''s snort was muffled. '' "Nightchill",'' he murmured. ''Such a lack of imagination ¡­ Did K''rul even know? Ah, what irony. ''


    Silverfox resumed. ''It was these three who gathered to help my mother, this Rhivi woman who found herself with an impossible child. I was born in two places at once ¡ª among the Rhivi in this world, and into the hands of the Bonecaster in the Tellann warren.'' She hesitated, shuddering as if suddenly spent. ''My future,'' she whispered after a moment, her arms drawing around herself, ''belongs to the T''lan Imass.'' She spun suddenly to Korlat. ''They are gathering, and you will need their power in the war to come.''


    ''Unholy conjoining,'' Kallor rasped, hand and cloth falling away, eyes narrowed, his face white as parchment behind the smeared blood. ''As I had feared ¡ª oh, you fools. Every one of you. Fools-''


    ''Gathering,'' the Tiste Andii repeated, also ignoring the High King. ''Why? To what end, Silverfox?''


    ''That is for me to decide, for I exist to command them. To command them all. My birth proclaimed the Gathering ¡ª a demand that every T''lan Imass on this world has heard. And now, those who are able, are coming. They are coming.''


    In his mind, Whiskeyjack was reeling. Fissures in Brood''s contingent was alarming enough, but the child''s revelations ¡­ his thoughts spun, spiralled down ¡­ then arose in a new place. The command tent and its confines slipped away, and he found himself in a world of twisted schemes, dark betrayals and their fierce, unexpected consequences ¡ª a world he hated with a passion.


    Memories rose like spectres. The Enfilade at Pale, the decimation of the Bridgeburners, the assault on Moon''s Spawn. A plague of suspicions, a maelstrom of desperate schemes¡­


    A''Karonys, Bellurdan, Nightchill, Tattersail ¡­ The list of mages whose deaths could be laid at High Mage Tayschrenn''s sandalled feet was written in the blood of senseless paranoia. Whiskeyjack had not been sorry to see the High Mage take his leave, though the commander suspected he was not as far off as it seemed. Outlawry, Laseen''s proclamation cut us loose ¡­ but it''s all a lie. Only he and Dujek knew the truth of that ¡ª the remainder of the Host believed they had indeed been outlawed by the Empress. Their loyalty was to Dujek Onearm, and, perhaps, to me as well. And Hood knows, we''ll test that loyalty before we''re done.. .

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    Yet she knows. The girl knows. He had no doubt that she was Tattersail reborn ¡ª the sorceress was there, in the cast of the child''s features, in the way she stood and moved, in that sleepy, knowing gaze. The repercussions that tumbled from that truth overwhelmed Whiskeyjack ¡ª he needed time, time to think ¡­


    Tattersail reborn. damn you to Hood, Tayschrenn ¡ª in'' advertent or not ¡ª what have you done?


    Whiskeyjack had not known Nightchill ¡ª they''d never spoken and the breadth of his knowledge was based solely on the tales he''d heard. Mate to the Thelomen, Bellurdan, and a practitioner of High Rashan sorcery, she had been among the Emperor''s chosen. Ultimately betrayed, just as the Bridgeburners had been ¡­


    There had been an edge to her, it was said, a hint of jagged bloodstained iron. And, he could see, what remained of that woman had cast a shadow over the child ¡ª the soft gleam in Tattersail''s sleepy eyes had darkened, somehow, and seeing it frayed the commander''s already rattled nerves.


    Oh, Hood. One of those repercussions had just settled in his mind with a thunderous clang. Oh, the gods forgive us our foolish games ¡­


    Back in Pale waited Ganoes Paran. Tattersail''s lover. What will he make of Silverfox? From woman to a newborn babe in an instant, then from that newborn to a ten-year-old child in six months. And six months from now? A twenty-year-old woman? Paran ¡­ lad ¡­ is it grief that is burning holes in your gut? If so, then what will its answering do to you?


    As he struggled to comprehend the young girl''s words, and all that he saw in her face, his thoughts turned to the Mhybe standing beside Silverfox. Sorrow flooded him. The gods were cruel indeed. The old woman would likely be dead within the year, a brutal sacrifice to the child''s needs. A malign, nightmarish twist to the role of motherhood.


    The girl''s final words jarred the commander yet again. ''They are coming.'' The T''lan Imass ¡ª Hood''s breath, as if matters weren''t complicated enough. Where do I place my faith in all this? Kallor ¡ª a cold, uncanny bastard himself-calls her an abomination ¡ª he would kill her if he could. That much is plain. I''ll not abide harming a child. but is she a child?


    Yet. Hood''s breath! She''s Tattersail reborn, a woman of courage and integrity. And Nightchill, a High Mage who served the Emperor. And, now, strangest, most alarming fact of all, she is the new ruler of the T''lan Imass.


    Whiskeyjack blinked, the tent and its occupants coming into focus once again. Silence writhing with tumultuous thoughts. His gaze swung back to Silverfox ¡ª saw the paleness of her young, round face, noted with a pang of empathy the tremble in the child''s hands ¡ª then away again. The Tiste Andii, Korlat, was watching him. Their eyes locked. Such extraordinary beauty. while Dujek is dogface ugly, further proof I chose the wrong side all those years back. She''s hardly interested in me that way, no, she''s trying to say something else entirely . After a long moment, he nodded. Silverfox. she''s still a child, aye. A clay tablet scarcely etched. Aye, Tiste Andii, I understand you.


    Those who chose to stand close to Silverfox might well be able to influence what she was to become. Korlat sought a private conversation with him, and he''d just accepted the invitation. Whiskeyjack wished he had Quick Ben at his side right now ¡ª the Seven Cities mage was sharp when it came to situations like these. The commander already felt out of his depth. Paran, you poor bastard. What do I tell you? Should I arrange a meeting between you and Silverfox? Will I be able to prevent one once you''re told? Is it even any of my business?


    Crone''s beak gaped, but not in soundless laughter this time. Instead, unfamiliar terror raced through her. T''lan Imass! And K''rul, the Elder God! Holders of the truth of the Great Ravens, a truth no-one else knows ¡ª except for Silverfox, by the Abyss. Silverfox, who looked upon my soul and read all within it.


    Careless, careless child! Would you force us to defend our-selves from you? From those whom you claim to command? We Great Ravens have never fought our own wars ¡ª would you see us unleashed by your unmindful revelations?


    Should Rake learn. protestations of innocence will avail us naught. We were there at the Chaining, were we not? Yet. aye, we were there at Fall itself! The Great Ravens were born like maggots in the flesh of the Fallen One and that, oh, that will damn us! But wait! Have we not been honourable guardians of the Crippled God''s magic? And were we not the ones who delivered to one and all the news of the Pannion Domin, the threat it represents?


    A magic we can unleash, if forced to. Ah, child, you threaten so much with your careless words.


    Her black, glittering eyes sought out and fixed on Caladan Brood. Whatever thoughts the warlord possessed remained hidden behind the flat, bestial mask that was his face.

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    Rein in your panic, old hag. Return to the concerns before us. Think!


    The Malazan Empire had made use of the T''lan Imass in the Emperor''s time. The conquest of Seven Cities had been the result. Then, with Kellanved''s death, the alliance had dissolved, and so Genabackis was spared the devastating implacability of tens of thousands of undead warriors who could travel as dust in the wind. This alone had allowed Caladan Brood to meet the Malazan threat on an equal footing ¡­ ah, perhaps it only seemed that way. Has he ever truly unleashed the Tiste Andii? Has he ever let loose Anomander Rake? Has he ever shown his own true power? Brood''s an ascendant ¡ª one forgets that, in careless times. His warren is Tennes ¡ª the power of the land itself, the earth that is home to the eternal sleeping goddess, Burn. Caladan Brood has the power ¡ª there in his arms and in that formidable hammer on his back ¡ª to shatter mountains. An exaggeration? A low flight over the broken peaks east of the Laederon Plateau is proof enough of his younger, more precipitous days. Grandmother Crone, you should know better! Power draws power. It has always been thus, and now have come the T''lan Imass, and once again the balance shifts.


    My children spy upon the Pannion Domin ¡ª they can smell the power rising from those lands so thoroughly sanctified in blood, yet it remains faceless, as if hidden beneath layer after deceiving layer. What hides at the core of that empire of fanatics!


    The horrific child knows ¡ª I''d swear on the god''s bed of broken flesh to that, oh yes. And she will lead the T''lan Imass ¡­ to that very heart.


    Do you grasp this, Caladan Brood? I think you do. And, even as that hoary old tyrant Kallor utters his warnings with a bloodless will. even as you are rocked by the imminent arrival of undead allies, so you are jolted even more by the fact that they will be needed. Against what have we proclaimed war? What will be left of us when we are done?


    And, by the Abyss, what secret truth about Silverfox does Kallor possess?


    Defying her own overwhelming self-disgust, the Mhybe forced brutal clarity into her thoughts, listening to all that Silverfox said, to each word, to what lay between each word. She hugged herself beneath the barrage of her daughter''s pronouncements. The laying bare of secrets assailed her every instinct ¡ª such exposure was fraught with risks. Yet she finally understood something of the position in which Silverfox had found herself ¡ª the confessions were a call for help.


    She needs allies. She knows I am not enough ¡ª spirits below, she has been shown that here. More, she knows that these two camps ¡ª enemies for so long ¡ª need to be bridged. Born in one, she reaches out to the other. All that was Tattersail and Nightchill cries out to old comrades. Will they answer?


    She could discern nothing of Whiskeyjack''s emotions. His thoughts might well be echoing Kallor''s position. An abomination. She saw him meet Korlat''s eyes and wondered at what passed between them.


    Think! It is the nature of everyone here to treat every situation tactically, to push away personal feelings, to gauge, to weigh and balance. Silverfox has stepped to the fore; she has claimed a position of power to rival Brood, Anomander Rake and Kallor. Does Dujek Onearm now wonder with whom he should be dealing? Does he realize that we were all united because of him ¡ª that, for twelve years, the clans of Barghast and Rhivi, the disparate companies from a score or more cities, the Tiste Andii, the presence of Rake, Brood and Kallor, not to mention the Crimson Guard ¡ª all of us, we stood shoulder to shoulder because of the Malazan Empire? Because of the High Fist himself.


    But we have a new enemy now, and much of its nature remains unknown, and it has engendered a kind of fragility among us ¡ª oh, what an understatement ¡ª that Dujek Onearm now sees.


    Silverfox states that we shall have need of the T''lan Imass. Only the vicious old Emperor could have been comfortable with such creatures as allies ¡ª even Kallor recoils from what is being forced upon us. The fragile alliance now creaks and totters. You are too wise a man, High Fist, to not now possess grave doubts.


    The onearmed old man was the first to speak after Silverfox''s statement, and he addressed the child with slow, carefully measured words. ''The T''lan Imass with whom the Malazan Empire is familiar is the army commanded by Logros. By your words we must assume there are other armies, yet no knowledge of them has ever reached us. Why is that, child?''


    ''The last Gathering,'' Silverfox replied, ''was hundreds of thousands of years ago, at which was invoked the Ritual of Tellann ¡ª the binding of the Tellann warren to each and every Imass. The ritual made them immortal, High Fist. The life force of an entire people was bound in the name of a holy war destined to last for millennia-''

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    ''Against the Jaghut,'' Kallor rasped. His narrow, withered face twisted into a sneer behind the already-drying blood. ''Apart from a handful of Tyrants, the Jaghut were pacifists. Their only crime was to exist-''


    Silverfox rounded on the warrior. ''Do not hint at injustices, High King! I possess enough of Nightchill''s memories to recall the Imperial Warren ¡ª the place you once ruled, Kallor, before the Malazans made claim to it. You laid waste an entire realm ¡ª you stripped the life from it, left nothing but ash and charred bones. An entire realm!''


    The tall warrior''s blood-smeared grin was ghastly. ''Ah, you are there, aren''t you. But hiding, I think, twisting the truth into false memories. Hiding, you pathetic, cursed woman!'' His smile hardened. ''Then you should know not to test my temper, Bonecaster. Tattersail. Nightchill. dear child. .''


    The Mhybe saw her daughter pale. Between these two. the feel of a long enmity ¡ª why had I not seen that before? There are old memories here, a link between them. Between my daughter and Kallor ¡ª no, between Kallor and one of the souls within her.


    After a moment, Silverfox returned her attention to Dujek. ''To answer you, Logros and the clans under his command were entrusted with the task of defending the First Throne. The other armies departed to hunt down the last Jaghut strongholds ¡ª the Jaghut had raised barriers of ice. Omtose Phellack is a warren of ice, High Fist, a place deathly cold and almost lifeless. Jaghut sorceries threatened the world. sea levels dropped, whole species died out ¡ª every mountain range was a barrier. Ice flowed in white rivers down from the slopes. Ice formed a league deep in places. As mortals, the Imass were scattered, their unity lost. They could not cross such barriers. There was starvation-''


    ''The war against the Jaghut had begun long before then,'' Kallor snapped. ''They sought to defend themselves, and who would not?''


    Silverfox simply shrugged. ''As Tellann undead, our armies could cross such barriers. The efforts at eradication proved ¡­ costly. You have heard no whispers of those armies because many have been decimated, whilst others perhaps continue the war in distant, inhospitable places.''


    There was a pained expression on the High Fist''s face. ''The Logros themselves left the empire and disappeared into the Jhag Odhan for a time, and when they returned they were much diminished.''


    She nodded.


    ''Have the Logros answered your call?''


    Frowning, the girl said, ''I cannot be certain of that ¡ª of any of them. They have heard. All will come if they are able, and I sense the nearness of one army ¡ª at least I think I do.''


    There is so much you are not telling us, daughter. I can see it in your eyes. You fear your call for help will go unanswered if you reveal too much.


    Dujek sighed and faced the warlord. ''Caladan Brood, shall we resume our discussion of strategy?''


    The soldiers once again leaned over the map table, joined by a softly cackling Crone. After a moment, the Mhybe collected her daughter''s hand and guided her towards the entrance. Korlat joined them as they made their way out. To the Mhybe''s surprise, Whiskeyjack followed.


    The cool afternoon breeze was welcome after the close confines of the command tent. Without a word, the small group walked a short distance to a clearing between the Tiste Andii and Barghast encampments. Once they halted, the commander fixed his grey eyes on Silverfox.


    ''I see much of Tattersail in you, lass ¡ª how much of her life, her memories, do you recall?''


    ''Faces,'' she answered, with a tentative smile. ''And the feelings attached to them, Commander. You and I were allies for a time. We were, I think, friends ¡­''


    His nod was grave. ''Aye, we were. Do you remember Quick Ben? The rest of my squad? What of Hairlock? Tayschrenn? Do you recall Captain Paran?''


    ''Quick Ben,'' she whispered uncertainly. ''A mage? Seven Cities ¡­ a man of secrets ¡­ yes,'' she smiled again, ''Quick Ben. Hairlock ¡ª not a friend, a threat ¡ª he caused me pain. ''


    ''He''s dead, now.''


    ''I am relieved. Tayschrenn is a name I''ve heard recently ¡ª Laseen''s favoured High Mage ¡ª we sparred, he and I, when I was Tattersail, and, indeed, when I was Nightchill. No sense of loyalty, no sense of trust ¡ª thoughts of him confuse me.''


    ''And the captain?''


    Something in the commander''s tone brought the Mhybe alert.


    Silverfox glanced away from Whiskeyjack''s eyes. ''I look forward to seeing him again.''


    The commander cleared his throat. ''He''s in Pale right now. While it''s not my business, lass, you might want to consider the consequences of meeting him, of, uh, his finding out. '' His words trailed away in evident discomfort.

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    Spirits below! This Captain Paran was Tattersail''s lover ¡ª I should have anticipated something like this. The souls of two grown women. ''Silverfox ¡ª daughter-''


    ''We have met him, Mother,'' she said. ''When driving the bhederin north ¡ª do you recall? The soldier who defied our lances? I knew then ¡ª I knew him, who he was.'' She faced the commander again. ''Paran knows. Send him word that I am here. Please.''


    ''Very well, lass.'' Whiskeyjack raised his head and studied the Barghast encampment. ''The Bridgeburners will be ¡­ visiting ¡­ in any case. The captain now commands them. I am sure that Quick Ben and Mallet will be pleased to make your reacquaintance-''


    ''You wish them to examine me, you mean,'' Silverfox said, ''to help you decide whether I am worthy of your support. Fear not, Commander, the prospect does not concern me ¡ª in many ways I remain a mystery to myself, as well, and so I am curious as to what they will discover.''


    Whiskeyjack smiled wryly. ''You''ve the sorceress''s blunt honesty, lass ¡ª if not her occasional tact.''


    Korlat spoke. ''Commander Whiskeyjack, I believe we have things to discuss, you and I.''


    ''Aye,'' he said.


    The Tiste Andii turned to the Mhybe and Silverfox. ''We shall take our leave of you two, now.''


    ''Of course,'' the old woman replied, struggling to master her emotions. The soldier who defied our lances ¡ª oh yes, I recall, child. Old questions. finally answered. and a thousand more to plague this old woman¡­ ''Come along, Silverfox, it''s time to resume your schooling in the ways of the Rhivi.''


    ''Yes, Mother.''


    Whiskeyjack watched the two Rhivi walk away. ''She revealed far too much,'' he said after a moment. ''The parley was working, drawing the bindings closer¡­ then the child spoke¡­''


    ''Yes,'' Korlat murmured. ''She is in possession of secret knowledge ¡ª the knowledge of the T''lan Imass. Memories spanning millennia on this world. So much that those people witnessed ¡­ the Fall of the Crippled God, the arrival of the Tiste Andii, the last flight of the Dragons into Starvald Demelain. '' She fell silent, a veil descending over her eyes.


    Whiskeyjack studied her, then said, ''I''ve never seen a Great Raven become so obviously ¡­ flustered.''


    Korlat smiled. ''Crone believes the secret of her kind''s birth is not known to us. It is the shame of their origins, you see ¡ª or so they themselves view it. Rake is indifferent to its ¡­ moral context, as we all are.''


    ''What is so shameful?''


    ''The Great Ravens are unnatural creatures. The bringing down of the alien being who would come to be called the Crippled God was a ¡­ violent event. Parts of him were torn away, falling like balls of fire to shatter entire lands. Pieces of his flesh and bone lay rotting yet clinging to a kind of life in their massive craters. From that flesh the Great Ravens were born, carrying with them fragments of the Crippled God''s power. You have seen Crone and her kin ¡ª they devour sorcery, it is their true sustenance. To attack a Great Raven with magic serves only to make the creature stronger, to bolster its immunity. Crone is the First Born. Rake believes the potential within her is. appalling, and so he keeps her and ilk close.''


    She paused, then faced him. ''Commander Whiskeyjack, in Darujhistan, we clashed with a mage of yours¡­''


    ''Aye. Quick Ben. He''ll be here shortly, and I will have his thoughts on all this.''


    ''The man you mentioned earlier to the child.'' She nodded. ''I admit to a certain admiration for the wizard and so look forward to meeting him.'' Their gazes locked. ''And I am pleased to have met you as well. Silverfox spoke true words when she said she trusted you. And I believe I do as well.''


    He shifted uncomfortably. ''There has been scant contact between us that would earn such trust, Korlat. None the less, I will endeavour to earn it.''


    ''The child has Tattersail within her, a woman who knew you well. Though I never met the sorceress, I find that the woman she was ¡ª emerging further with each day in Silverfox ¡ª possessed admirable qualities.''


    Whiskeyjack slowly nodded. ''She was ¡­ a friend.''


    ''How much do you know of the events leading to this ¡­ rebirth?''


    ''Not enough, I am afraid,'' he replied. ''We learned of Tattersail''s death from Paran, who came upon her ¡­ remains. She died in the embrace of a Thelomen High Mage, Bellurdan, who had travelled out onto the plain with the corpse of his mate, Nightchill, presumably intending to bury the woman. Tattersail was already a fugitive, and it''s likely Bellurdan was instructed to retrieve her. It is as Silverfox says, as far as I can tell.''

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    Korlat looked away and said nothing for a long time. When she finally did, her question, so simple and logical, left Whiskeyjack with a pounding heart: ''Commander, we sense Tattersail and Nightchill within the child ¡ª and she herself admits to these two ¡ª but now I wonder, where then is this Thelomen, Bellurdan?''


    He could only draw a deep breath and shake his head. Gods, I don''t know ¡­


    CHAPTER FOUR


    Mark these three, they are all that give shape, all that lie beneath the surface of the world, these three, they are the bones of history. Sister of Cold Nights! Betrayal greets your dawn! You chose to trust the knife, even as it found your heart. Draconus, Blood of Tiam! Darkness was made to embrace your soul, and these chains that now hold you, they are of your own fashioning. K''rul, yours was the path the Sleeping Goddess chose, a thousand and more years ago, and she sleeps still, even as you awaken ¡ª the time has come, Ancient One, to once more walk among the mortals, and make of your grief, the sweetest gift.


    Anomandaris


    Fisher Kel Tath


    Covered from head to toe in mud, Harllo and Stonny Menackis emerged from behind the carriage as it rocked its way up the slope. Grinning at the sight, Gruntle leaned against the buckboard.


    ''Serves us right to lay wagers with you,'' Harllo muttered. ''You always win, you bastard.''


    Stonny was looking down at her smeared clothing with dismay. ''Callows leathers. They''ll never recover.'' She fixed hard blue eyes on Gruntle. ''Damn you ¡ª you''re the biggest of us all. Should have been you pushing, not sitting up there, and never mind winning any bet.''


    ''Hard lessons, that''s me,'' the man said, his grin broadening. Stonny''s fine green and black attire was covered in brown slime. Her thick black hair hung down over her face, dripping milky water. ''Anyway, we''re done for the day, so let''s pull this thing off to the side ¡ª looks like you two could do with a swim.''


    ''Hood take you,'' Harllo snapped, ''what do you think we was doing?''


    ''From the sounds, I''d say drowning. The clean water''s upstream, by the way'' Gruntle gathered the tresses again. The crossing had left the horses exhausted, reluctant to move, and it took some cajoling on the captain''s part to get them moving again. He halted the carriage a short distance off to one side of the ford. Other merchants had camped nearby, some having just managed the crossing and others preparing to do so on their way to Darujhistan. In the past few days, the situation had, if anything, become even more chaotic. Whatever had remained of the ford''s laid cobbles in the river bed had been pushed either askew or deeper into the mud.


    It had taken four bells to manage the crossing, and for a time there Gruntle had wondered if they would ever succeed. He climbed down and turned his attention to the horses. Harllo and Stonny, now bickering with each other, set off upstream.


    Gruntle threw an uneasy glance towards the massive carriage that had gone before them on the ford, now parked fifty paces away. It had been an unfair bet. The best kind. His two companions had been convinced that this day wouldn''t see the crossing of their master Keruli''s carriage. They''d been certain that the monstrous vehicle ahead of them would bog down, that it''d be days sitting there in midstream before other merchants got impatient enough to add the muscle of their own crews to moving it out of the way.


    Gruntle had suspected otherwise. Bauchelain and Korbal Broach were not the kind of people to stomach inconvenience. They''re damned sorcerers, anyway. Their servant, Emancipor Reese, had not even bothered to get down from the driver''s bench, and simple twitches of the tresses had led the train of oxen onwards. The huge contrivance seemed to glide across the ford, not even jolting as the wheels moved over what Gruntle knew to be churned, uneven footing. Unfair bet, aye. At least I''m dry and clean.


    There had been enough witnesses to the unnatural event to accord a certain privacy to the mages'' present encampment, so it was with considerable curiosity that Gruntle watched a caravan guard stride towards it. He knew the man well. A Daru, Buke worked the smaller caravanserai, signing with merchants just scraping by. He preferred working alone, and Gruntle knew why.


    Buke''s master had tried the crossing earlier in the day. The dilapidated wagon had fallen to pieces in midstream, bits of wood and precious bundles of produce floating away as the master wallowed helplessly. Buke had managed to save the merchant, but with the loss of goods the contract had ceased to exist. After making arrangements for the master to accompany a train back to Darujhistan, Buke was, with scant gratitude for his efforts, cut loose by the merchant.


    Gruntle had expected him to make his own way back to the city. Buke had a fine, healthy and well-equipped horse. A three days'' journey at the most.

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    Yet here he was, his tall, lean figure fully attired in a guard''s accoutrements, scale hauberk freshly oiled, crossbow strapped to back and longsword scabbarded at his hip, in quiet conversation with Emancipor Reese.


    Though out of earshot, Gruntle could follow the course of the conversation by the shifting postures of the two men. After a brief exchange, he saw Buke''s shoulders drop fractionally. The grey-bearded guard glanced away. Emancipor Reese shrugged and half turned in dismissal.


    Both men then swung about to face the carriage, and a moment later Bauchelain emerged, drawing his black leather cape around his broad shoulders. Buke straightened under the sorcerer''s attention, answered a few terse questions with equally terse replies, then gave a respectful nod. Bauchelain laid a hand on his servant''s shoulder and the old man came close to buckling under that light touch.


    Gruntle clucked softly in sympathy. Aye, that mage''s touch could fill an average man''s breeches, Queen knows. Beru fend, Buke''s just been hired. Pray he doesn''t come to regret it.


    Tenement fires were deadly in Darujhistan, especially when gas was involved. The conflagration that had killed Buke''s wife, mother and four children had been particularly ugly. That Buke himself had been lying drunk and dead to the world in an alley not a hundred paces from the house hadn''t helped in the man''s recovery. Like many of his fellow guards, Gruntle had assumed that Buke would turn to the bottle with serious intent after that. Instead, he''d done the opposite. Taking solitary contracts with poor, vulnerable merchants obviously offered to Buke a greater appeal than the wasting descent of a permanent drunk. Poor merchants were robbed far more often than rich ones. The man wants to die, all right. But swiftly, even honourably. He wants to go down fighting, as did his family, by all accounts. Alas, when sober ¡ª as he''s been ever since that night ¡ª Buke fights extremely well, and the ghosts of at least a dozen highwaymen would bitterly attest to that.


    The chill dread that seemed to infuse the air around Bauchelain and, especially, around Korbal Broach, would have deterred any sane guard. But a man eager to embrace death would see it differently, wouldn''t he?


    Ah, friend Buke, I hope you do not come to regret your choice. No doubt violence and horror swirls around your two new masters, but you''re more likely to be a witness to it than a victim yourself. Haven''t you been in suffering''s embrace long enough?


    Buke set off to collect his horse and gear. Gruntle had begun a cookfire by the time the old man returned. He watched Buke stow his equipment and exchange a few more words with Emancipor Reese, who had begun cooking a meal of their own, then the man glanced over and met Gruntle''s gaze.


    Buke strode over.


    ''A day of changes, friend Buke,'' Gruntle said from where he squatted beside the hearth. ''I''m brewing some tea for Harllo and Stonny who should be back any moment ¡ª care to join us in a mug?''


    ''That is kind of you, Gruntle. I will accept your offer.'' He approached the captain.


    ''Unfortunate, what happened to Murk''s wagon.''


    ''I warned him against the attempt. Alas, he did not appreciate my advice.''


    ''Even after you pulled him from the river and pumped the water out of his lungs?''


    Buke shrugged. ''Hood brushing his lips put him in bad mood, I would imagine.'' He glanced over at his new masters'' carriage, lines crinkling the corners of his sad eyes. ''You have had discourse with them, have you not?''


    Gruntle spat into the fire. Aye. Better had you sought my advice before taking the contract.''


    ''I respect your advice and always have, Gruntle, but you would not have swayed me.''


    ''I know that, so I''ll say no more of them.''


    ''The other one,'' Buke said, accepting a tin mug from Gruntle and cradling it in both hands as he blew on the steaming liquid. ''I caught a glimpse of him earlier.''


    ''Korbal Broach.''


    ''As you say. He''s the killer, you realize.''


    ''Between the two, I don''t see much difference, to be honest.''


    Buke was shaking his head. ''No, you misunderstand. In Darujhistan, recall? For two weeks running, horribly mangled bodies were found in the Gadrobi District, every night. Then the investigators called in a mage to help, and it was as if someone had kicked a hornet''s nest ¡ª that mage discovered something, and that knowledge had him terrified. It was quiet, grant you, but I chanced on the details that followed. Vorcan''s guild was enlisted. The Council itself set forth the contract to the assassins. Find the killer, they said, using every method at your disposal, legal or otherwise. Then the murders stopped-''

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    ''I vaguely recall a fuss,'' Gruntle said, frowning.


    ''You were in Quip''s, weren''t you? Blind for days on end.''


    Gruntle winced. ''Had my eye on Lethro, you know ¡ª went out on a contract and came back to find-''


    ''She''d gone and married someone else,'' Buke finished, nodding.


    ''Not just someone else.'' Gruntle scowled. ''That bloated crook, Parsemo-''


    ''An old master of yours, I seem to recall. Anyway. Who was the killer and why did the killings stop? Vorcan''s guild did not step forward to claim the Council''s coin. The murders stopped because the murderer had left the city.'' Buke nodded towards the massive carriage. ''He''s the one. Korbal Broach. The man with the round face and fat lips.''


    ''What makes you so certain, Buke?'' The air had gone cold. Gruntle poured himself a second cup.


    The man shrugged, eyes on the fire. ''I just know. Who can abide the murder of innocents?''


    Hood''s breath, Buke, I see both edges to that question well enough ¡ª do you? You mean to kill him, or at least die trying. ''Listen to me, friend. We may be out of the city''s jurisdiction, but if Darujhistan''s mages were in truth so thoroughly alarmed ¡ª and given that Vorcan''s guild might still have an interest ¡ª issues of jurisdiction are meaningless. We could send word back ¡ª assuming you''re right and you''ve proof of your certainty, Buke ¡ª and in the meantime you just keep your eye on the man. Nothing else. He''s a sorcerer ¡ª mark my words. You won''t stand a chance. Leave the execution to the assassins and mages.''


    Buke glanced up at the arrival of Harllo and Stonny Menackis. The two had come up quietly, each wrapped in blankets, with their clothing washed and bundled in their arms. Their troubled expressions told Gruntle they''d heard at the very least his last statement.


    ''Thought you''d be halfway back to Darujhistan,'' Harllo said.


    Buke studied the guard over the rim of the mug. ''You are so clean I barely recognize you, friend.''


    ''Ha ha.''


    ''I have found myself a new contract, to answer you, Harllo.''


    ''You idiot,'' Stonny snapped. ''When are you going to get some sense back into your head, Buke? It''s been years and years since you last cracked a smile or let any light into your eyes. How many bear traps are you going to stick your head in, man?''


    ''Until one snaps,'' Buke said, meeting Stonny''s dark, angry eyes. He rose, tossing to one side the dregs from the mug. ''Thank you for the tea ¡­ and advice, friend Gruntle.'' With a nod to Harllo, then Stonny, he headed back to Bauchelain''s carriage.


    Gruntle stared up at Stonny. ''Impressive tact, my dear.''


    She hissed. ''The man''s a fool. He needs a woman''s hand on his sword-grip, if you ask me. Needs it bad.''


    Harllo grunted. ''You volunteering?''


    Stonny Menackis shrugged. ''It''s not his appearance that one balks at, it''s his attitude. The very opposite of you, ape.''


    ''Sweet on my personality, are you?'' Harllo grinned over at Gruntle. ''Hey, you could break my nose again ¡ª then we could straighten it and I''d be good as new. What say you, Stonny? Would the iron petals of your heart unfold for me?''


    She sneered. ''Everyone knows that two-handed sword of yours is nothing but a pathetic attempt at compensation, Harllo.''


    ''He''s a nice turn at the poetic, though,'' Gruntle pointed out. ''Iron petals ¡ª you couldn''t get more precise than that.''


    ''There''s no such thing as iron petals,'' Stonny snorted. ''You don''t get iron flowers. And hearts aren''t flowers, they''re big red, messy things in your chest. What''s poetic about not making sense? You''re as big an idiot as Buke and Harllo, Gruntle. I''m surrounded by thick-skulled witless fools.''


    ''It''s your lot in life, alas,'' Gruntle said. ''Here, have some tea ¡ª you could do with ¡­ the warmth.''


    She accepted the mug, while Gruntle and Harllo avoided meeting each other''s eyes.


    After a few moments, Stonny cleared her throat. ''What was all that about leaving the execution to assassins, Gruntle? What kind of mess has Buke got himself into now?''


    Oh, Mowri, she truly cares for the man. He frowned into the fire and tossed in a few more lumps of dung before replying, ''He has some ¡­ suspicions. We were, uh, speaking hypothetically-''


    ''Togg''s tongue you were, ox-face. Out with it.''


    ''Buke chose to speak with me, not you, Stonny,'' Gruntle growled, irritated. ''If you''ve questions, ask them of him and leave me out of it.''

 Page 48

    ''I will, damn you.''


    ''I doubt you''ll get anywhere,'' Harllo threw in, somewhat unwisely, ''even if you do bat your eyes and pout those rosy lips of yours-''


    ''Those are the last things you''ll see when I push my knife through that tin tuber in your chest. Oh, and I''ll blow a kiss, too.''


    Harllo''s bushy brows rose. ''Tin tuber! Stonny, my dear ¡ª did I hear you right?''


    ''Shut up, I''m not in the mood.''


    ''You''re never in the mood, Stonny!''


    She answered him with a contemptuous smile.


    ''Don''t bother saying it, dear,'' Gruntle sighed.


    The shack leaned drunkenly against the city of Pale''s inner wall, a confused collection of wooden planks, stretched hides and wicker, its yard a threshold of white dust, gourd husks, bits of broken crockery and wood shavings. Fragments of lacquered wooden cards hung from twine above the narrow door, slowly twisting in the humid heat.


    Quick Ben paused, glanced up and down the littered alleyway, then stepped into the yard. A cackle sounded from within. The wizard rolled his eyes and, muttering under his breath, reached for the leather loop nailed to the door.


    ''Don''t push!'' a voice shrieked behind it. ''Pull, you snake of the desert!''


    Shrugging, Quick Ben tugged the door towards him.


    ''Only fools push!'' hissed the old woman from her cross-legged perch on a reed mat just within. ''Scrapes my knee! Bruises and worse plague me when fools come to visit. Ah, I sniffed Raraku, didn''t I?''


    The wizard peered into the shack''s interior. ''Hood''s breath, there''s only room for you in there!'' Vague objects cluttered the walls, dangled from the low ceiling. Shadows swallowed every corner, and the air still held the chill of the night just past.


    ''Just me!'' the woman cackled. Her face was little more than skin over bones, her pate hairless and blotched with moles. ''Show what you have, many-headed snake, the breaking of curses is my gift!'' She withdrew from the tattered folds of her robes a wooden card, held it up in trembling hands. ''Send your words into my warren and their shape shall be carved hereupon, burned true-''


    ''No curses, woman,'' Quick Ben said, crouching down until his eyes were level with hers. ''Only questions.''


    The card slipped beneath her robes. Scowling, the witch said, ''Answers cost plenty. Answers are worth more than the breaking of curses. Answers are not easily found-''


    ''All right all right, how much?''


    ''Colour the coin of your questions, twelve-souls.''


    ''Gold.''


    ''Then gold councils, one for each-''


    ''Provided you give worthy answer.''


    ''Agreed.''


    ''Burn''s Sleep.''


    ''What of it?''


    ''Why?''


    The old woman gaped toothlessly.


    ''Why does the goddess sleep, witch? Does anyone know? Do you?''


    ''You are a learned scoundrel-''


    ''All I''ve read has been speculation. No-one knows. Scholars don''t have the answer, but this world''s oldest witch of Tennes just might. Tell me, why does Burn sleep?''


    ''Some answers must be danced around. Give me another question, child of Raraku.''


    Sighing, Quick Ben lowered his head, studied the ground for a moment, then said, ''It''s said the earth shakes and molten rock pours out like blood when Burn stirs towards wakefulness.''


    ''So it is said.''


    ''And that destruction would be visited upon all life were she to awaken.''


    ''So it is said.''


    ''Well?''


    ''Well nothing. The land shakes, mountains explode, hot rivers flow. These are natural things of a world whose soul is white hot. Bound to their own laws of cause and effect. The world is shaped like a beetle''s ball of dung, and it travels through a chilling void around the sun. The surface floats in pieces, on a sea of molten rock. Sometimes the pieces grind together. Sometimes they pull apart. Pulled and pushed by tides as the seas are pulled and pushed.''


    ''And where is the goddess in such a scheme?''


    ''She was the egg within the dung. Hatched long ago. Her mind rides the hidden rivers beneath our feet. She is the pain of existence. The queen of the hive and we her workers and soldiers. And every now and then ¡­ we swarm .''


    ''Into the warrens?''


    The old woman shrugged. ''By whatever paths we find.''


    ''Burn is sick.''


    ''Aye.''


    Quick Ben saw a sudden intensity light the witch''s dark eyes. He thought for a long moment, then said, ''Why does Burn sleep?''


    ''It''s not yet time for that. Ask another question.''

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    The wizard frowned, looked away. ''Workers and soldiers ¡­ you make us sound like slaves.''


    ''She demands nothing, what you do you do for yourselves. You work to earn sustenance. You fight to protect it or to gain more. You work to confound rivals. You fight from fear and hatred and spite and honour and loyalty and whatever other causes you might fashion. Yet, all that you do serves her ¡­ no matter what you do. Not simply benign, Adaephon Delat, but amoral. We can thrive, or we can destroy ourselves, it matters not to her ¡ª she will simply birth another brood and it begins again.''


    ''You speak of the world as a physical thing, subject to natural laws. Is that all it is?''


    ''No, in the end the minds and senses of all that is alive define what is real ¡ª real for us, that is.''


    ''That''s a tautology.''


    ''So it is.''


    ''Is Burn the cause to our effect?''


    ''Ah, you wind sideways like the desert snake you are in truth! Ask your question!''


    ''Why does Burn sleep?''


    ''She sleeps ¡­ to dream.''


    Quick Ben said nothing for a long time. When he finally looked into the old woman''s eyes he saw confirmation of his greatest fears. ''She is sick,'' he said.


    The witch nodded. ''Fevered.''


    ''And her dreams. ''


    ''Delirium descends, lad. Dreams become nightmares.''


    ''I need to think of a way to excise that infection, because I don''t think Burn''s fever will be enough. If anything, that heat that''s meant to cleanse is achieving the opposite effect.''


    ''Think on it, then, dearest worker.''


    ''I may need help.''


    The witch held out a withered hand, palm up.


    Quick Ben fished beneath his shirt and withdrew a waterworn pebble. He dropped it into her hand.


    ''When the time comes, Adaephon Delat, call upon me.''


    ''I shall. Thank you, mistress.'' He set a small leather bag filled with gold councils on the ground between them. The witch cackled. Quick Ben backed away.


    ''Now shut that door ¡ª I prefer the cold!''


    As the wizard strode down the alley, his thoughts wandered loose, darted and whipped on gusts ¡ª most of the currents false and without significance. One, however, snagged in his mind and stayed with him, at first meaningless, a curiosity and nothing more: she prefers the cold. Strange. Most old people like heat and plenty of it¡­


    Captain Paran saw Quick Ben leaning against the pitted wall beside the headquarters entrance, arms wrapped tightly about himself and looking ill-tempered. The four soldiers stationed as guards were all gathered ten paces away from the mage, showing obvious unease.


    Paran led his horse forward by the reins, handed them to a stabler who appeared from the compound gateway, then strode towards Quick Ben.


    ''You look miserable, mage ¡ª and that makes me nervous.''


    The Seven Cities native scowled. ''You don''t want to know, Captain. Trust me in this.''


    ''If it concerns the Bridgeburners, I''d better hear it, Quick Ben.''


    ''The Bridgeburners?'' He barked a humourless laugh. ''This goes far beyond a handful of bellyaching soldiers, sir. At the moment, though, I haven''t worked out any possible solutions. When I do, I''ll lay it all out for you. In the meantime, you might want to requisition a fresh mount ¡ª we''re to join Dujek and Whiskeyjack at Brood''s camp. Immediately.''


    ''The whole company? I just got them settled!''


    ''No, sir. You, me, Mallet and Spindle. There''ve been some. unusual developments, I gather, but don''t ask me what because I don''t know.''


    Paran grimaced.


    ''I''ve sent for the other two already, sir.''


    ''Very well. I''ll go find myself another horse, then.'' The captain swung about and headed towards the compound, trying to ignore the fiery pain in his stomach. Everything was taking too long ¡ª the army had been sitting here in Pale for months now, and the city didn''t want it. With the outlawing, none of the expected imperial support had arrived, and without that administrative infrastructure, there had been no relief from the tense, unpleasant role of occupiers.


    The Malazan system of conquest followed a set of rules that was systematic and effective. The victorious army was never meant to remain in place beyond the peacekeeping transition and handover to a firmly entrenched and fully functioning civil government in the Malazan style. Civic control was not a burden the army had been trained for ¡ª it was best achieved through bureaucratic manipulation of the conquered city''s economy. ''Hold those strings and the people will dance for you,'' had been the core belief of the Emperor, and he''d proved the truth of it again and again ¡ª nor did the Empress venture any alterations to the method. Acquiring that control involved both the imposition of legal authority and a thorough infiltration of whatever black market happened to be operating at the time. ''Since you can never crush a black market the next best thing is to run it.'' And that task belonged to the Claw.

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    But there are no Claw agents, are there? No scroll scribblers, either. We don''t control the black market. We can''t even manage the above-board economy, much less run a civil administration. Yet we continue to proceed as if imperial support is imminent, when it most decidedly is not. I don''t understand this at all.


    Without the Darujhistan gold, Dujek''s army would be starving right now. Desertions would have begun, as soldier after soldier left with the hope of returning to the imperial embrace, or seeking to join mercenary companies or caravanserai. Onearm''s army would vanish before his very eyes. Loyalty never survives a pinched stomach.


    After some confusion, the stablers found Paran another mount. He wearily swung himself into the saddle and guided the animal out of the compound. The afternoon sun had begun to throw cooling shadows onto the city''s bleached streets. Pale''s denizens began emerging, though few lingered anywhere near the Malazan headquarters. The guards held a finely honed sense of suspicion for anyone who hovered overlong, and the assault-issue heavy crossbows cradled in their arms were kept locked back.


    Blood had been spilled at the headquarters entrance, and within the building itself. A Hound of Shadow had attacked, not so long ago, leaving a score dead. Paran''s memories of that event were still fragmentary. The beast had been driven off by Tattersail¡­ and the captain himself. For the soldiers on guard at the headquarters, however, a peaceful posting had turned into a nightmare. They''d been caught woefully unprepared, a carelessness that would not be repeated. Such a Hound would still scythe through them almost effortlessly, but at least they would go down fighting, not staring slack-jawed.


    Paran found Quick Ben, Mallet and Spindle awaiting him astride their own horses. Of the three, the captain knew Spindle the least. The short, bald man''s skills ranged from sorcery to sapping, or so he''d been told. His eternally sour disposition did not invite conversation, nor did the foul-smelling thigh-length black and grey hairshirt he wore ¡ª woven from his dead mother''s hair, if the rumour held any truth. As Paran pulled in alongside the man, he glanced at that shirt. Hood''s breath, that could be an old woman''s hair! The realization made him even more nauseous.


    ''Take point, Spindle.''


    ''Aye, Captain ¡ª we''ll have a real crush to push through when we hit North Market Round.''


    ''So find us a way round the place.''


    ''Them alleys ain''t safe, sir-''


    ''Access your warren, then, and let it bleed enough to make hairs stand on end. You can do that, can''t you?''


    Spindle glanced at Quick Ben. ''Uh, sir, my warren. triggers things.''


    ''Serious things?''


    ''Well, not really-''


    ''Proceed, soldier.''


    ''Aye, Captain.''


    Expressionless, Quick Ben took rear position, whilst an equally silent Mallet rode alongside Paran.


    ''Any idea what''s going on at Brood''s camp, Healer?'' the captain asked.


    ''Not specifically, sir,'' Mallet replied. ''Just¡­ sensations.'' He continued after an enquiring glance from Paran. ''A real brew of powers over there, sir. Not just Brood and the Tiste Andii ¡ª I''m familiar with those. And Kallor''s, too, for that matter. No, there''s something else. Another presence. Old, yet new. Hints of T''lan Imass, maybe ¡­''


    ''T''lan Imass?''


    ''Maybe ¡ª I''m just not sure, truth to tell, Captain. It''s overpowering everyone else, though.''


    Paran''s head turned at that.


    A cat yowled nearby, followed by a flash of grey as the creature darted along a garden wall then vanished from sight. More yowls sounded, this time from the other side of the narrow street.


    A shiver danced up Paran''s spine. He shook himself. ''The last thing we need is a new player. The situation''s tense enough as it is-''


    Two dogs locked in a vicious fight tumbled from an alley mouth just ahead. A panicked cat zigzagged around the snarling, snapping beasts. As one, the horses shied, ears flattening. In the drain gutter to their right the captain saw ¡ª with widening eyes ¡ª a score of rats scampering parallel to them.


    ''What in Hood''s name-''


    ''Spindle!'' Quick Ben called from behind them. The lead sorcerer twisted in his saddle, a miserable expression on his weathered face.


    ''Ease off some,'' Quick Ben instructed, not unkindly.


    Spindle nodded, turned back.


    Paran waved buzzing flies from his face. ''Mallet, what warren does Spindle call upon?'' he asked quietly.


    ''It''s not his warren that''s the problem, sir, it''s how he channels it. This has been mild so far, all things considered.''

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    ''Must be a nightmare for our cavalry-''


    ''We''re foot soldiers, sir,'' Mallet pointed out, with a dry grin. ''In any case, I''ve seen him break up an enemy charge all by himself. Needless to say, he''s useful to have around ¡­''


    Paran had never before seen a cat run head first into a wall. The dull thud was followed by a crazed scraping of claws as the animal bounced away in stunned surprise. Its antics were enough to attract the attention of the two dogs. A moment later they set off after the cat. All three vanished down another alley.


    The captain''s own nerves were jittering, adding to the discomfort in his belly. I could call Quick Ben to point and have him take over, but his is a power that would get noticed ¡ª sensed from afar, in fact ¡ª and I''d rather not risk that. Nor, I suspect, would he.


    Each neighbourhood they passed through rose in cacophony ¡ª the spitting of cats, the howling and barking of dogs and the braying of mules. Rats raced round the group on all sides, as mindless as lemmings.


    When Paran judged that they had circumvented the market round, he called forward to Spindle to yield his warren. The man did so with a sheepish nod.


    A short while later they reached North Gate and rode out onto what had once been a killing field. Vestiges of that siege remained, if one looked carefully amidst the tawny grasses. Rotting pieces of clothing, the glint of rivets and the bleached white of splintered bones. Midsummer flowers cloaked the flanks of the recent barrows two hundred paces to their left in swathes of brittle blue, the hue deepening as the sun sank lower behind the mounds.


    Paran was glad for the relative quiet of the plain, despite the heavy, turgid air of restless death that he felt seeping into his marrow as they crossed the scarred killing field. It seems I am ever riding through such places. Since that fated day in Itko Kan, with angry wasps stinging me for disturbing their blood-drenched feast, I have been stumbling along in Hood''s wake. I feel as if I''ve known naught but war and death all my life, though in truth it''s been but a scant few years. Queen of Dreams, it makes me feel old ¡­ He scowled. Self-pity could easily become a well-worn path in his thoughts, unless he remained mindful of its insipid allure.


    Habits inherited from my father and mother, alas. And whatever portion sister Tavore received she must have somehow shunted onto me. Cold and canny as a child, even more so as an adult. If anyone can protect our House during Laseen''s latest purge of the nobility, it will be her. No doubt I''d recoil from using whatever tactics she''s chosen, but she''s not the type to accept defeat. Thus, better her than me. None the less, unease continued to gnaw Paran''s thoughts. Since the outlawing, they''d heard virtually nothing of events occurring elsewhere in the empire. Rumours of a pending rebellion in Seven Cities persisted, though that was a promise oft whispered but yet to be unleashed. Paran had his doubts.


    No matter what, Tavore will take care of Felisin. That, at least, I can take comfort from ¡­


    Mallet interrupted his thoughts. ''I believe Brood''s command tent is in the Tiste Andii camp, Captain. Straight ahead.''


    ''Spindle agrees with you,'' Paran observed. The mage was leading them unerringly to that strange ¡ª even from a distance ¡ª and eerie encampment. No-one was visible mantaining vigil at the pickets. In fact, the captain saw no-one at all.


    ''Looks like the parley went off as planned,'' the healer commented. ''We haven''t been cut down by a sleet of quarrels yet.''


    ''I too take that as promising,'' Paran said.


    Spindle led them into a kind of main avenue between the tall, sombre tents of the Tiste Andii. Dusk had begun to fall; the tattered strips of cloth tied to the tent poles were losing their already-faded colours. A few shadowy, spectral figures appeared from the various side trackways, paying the group little heed.


    ''A place to drag the spirit low,'' Mallet muttered under his breath.


    The captain nodded. Like travelling a dark dream ¡­


    ''That must be Brood''s tent up ahead,'' the healer continued.


    Two figures waited outside the utilitarian command tent, their attention on Paran and his soldiers. Even in the gloom the captain had no trouble identifying them.


    The visitors drew their horses to a halt then dismounted and approached.


    Whiskeyjack wasted little time. ''Captain, I need to speak with your soldiers. Commander Dujek wishes to do the same with you. Perhaps we can all gather afterwards, if you''re so inclined.''


    The heightened propriety of Whiskeyjack''s words put Paran''s nerves on edge. He simply nodded in reply, then, as the bearded second-in-command marched off with Mallet, Quick Ben and Spindle following, the captain fixed his attention on Dujek.

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    The veteran studied Paran''s face for a moment, then sighed. ''We''ve received news from the empire, Captain.''


    ''How, sir?''


    Dujek shrugged. ''Nothing direct, of course, but our sources are reliable. Laseen''s cull of the nobility proved ¡­ efficient.'' He hesitated, then said, ''The Empress has a new Adjunct. ''


    Paran slowly nodded. There was nothing surprising in that. Lorn was dead. The position needed to be filled. ''Have you news of my family, sir?''


    ''Your sister Tavore salvaged what she could, lad. The Paran holdings in Unta, the outlying estates ¡­ most of the trade agreements. Even so ¡­ your father passed away, and, a short while later, your mother elected ¡­ to join him on the other side of Hood''s Gate. I am sorry, Ganoes ¡­''


    Yes, she would do that, wouldn''t she? Sorry? Aye, as am I. ''Thank you, sir. To be honest, I''m less shocked by that news than you might think.''


    ''There''s more, I''m afraid. Your, uh, outlawry left your House exposed. I don''t think your sister saw much in the way of options. The cull promised to be savage. Clearly, Tavore had been planning things for some time. She well knew what was coming. noble-born children were being. raped. Then murdered. The order to have every noble-born child under marrying age slain was never made official, perhaps indeed Laseen was unaware of what was going on-''


    ''I beg you sir, if Felisin is dead, tell me so and leave out the details.''


    Dujek shook his head. ''No, she was spared that, Captain. That is what I am trying to tell you.''


    ''And what did Tavore sell to achieve that ¡­ sir?''


    ''Even as the new Adjunct, Tavore''s powers were limited. She could not be seen to reveal any particular. favouritism ¡ª or so I choose to read her intentions¡­''


    Paran closed his eyes. Adjunct Tavore. Well, sister, you knew your own ambition. ''Felisin?''


    ''The Otataral Mines, Captain. Not a life sentence, you can be sure of that. Once the fires cool in Unta, she will no doubt be quietly retrieved-''


    ''Only if Tavore judges it to be without risk to her reputation-''


    Dujek''s eyes widened. ''Her rep-''


    ''I don''t mean among the nobility ¡ª they can call her a monster all they want, as I''m sure they are doing right now ¡ª she does not care. Never did. I mean her professional reputation, Commander. In the eyes of the Empress and her court. For Tavore, nothing else will matter. Thus, she is well suited to be the new Adjunct.'' Paran''s voice was tone'' less, the words measured and even. ''In any case, as you said, she was forced to make do with the situation, and as to that situation ¡­ I am to blame for all that''s happened, sir. The cull ¡ª the rapes, the murders, the deaths of my parents, and all that Felisin must now endure.''


    ''Captain-''


    ''It is all right, sir.'' Paran smiled. ''The children of my parents are, one and all, capable of virtually anything. We can survive the consequences. Perhaps we lack normal conscience, perhaps we are monsters in truth. Thank you for the news, Commander. How went the parley?'' Paran did all he could to ignore the quiet grief in Dujek''s eyes.


    ''It went well, Captain,'' the old man whispered. ''You will depart in two days, barring Quick Ben who will catch up later. No doubt your soldiers are ready for-''


    ''Yes, sir, they are.''


    ''Very good. That is all, Captain.''


    ''Sir.''


    Like the laying of a silent shroud, darkness arrived. Paran stood atop the vast barrow, his face caressed by the mildest of winds. He had managed to leave the encampment without running into Whiskeyjack and the Bridgeburners. Night had a way of inviting solitude, and he felt welcome on this mass grave with all its echoing memories of pain, anguish and despair. Among the dead beneath me, how many adult voices cried out for their mothers?


    Death and dying makes us into children once again, in truth, one last time, there in our final wailing cries. More than one philosopher has claimed that we ever remain children, far beneath the indurated layers that make up the armour of adulthood.


    Armour encumbers, restricts the body and soul within it. But it also protects. Blows are blunted. Feelings lose their edge, leaving us to suffer naught but a plague of bruises, and, after a time, bruises fade.


    Tilting his head back triggered sharp protests from the muscles of his neck and shoulders. He stared skyward, blinking against the pain, the tautness of his flesh wrapped around bones like a prisoner''s bindings.


    But there''s no escape, is there? Memories and revelations settle in like poisons, never to be expunged. He drew the cooling air deep into his lungs, as if seeking to capture in the breath of the stars their coldness of regard, their indifferent harshness. There are no gifts in suffering. Witness the Tiste Andii.

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    Well, at least the stomach''s gone quiet. building, I suspect, for another eye-watering bout.


    Bats flitted through the darkness overhead, wheeling and darting as they fed on the wing. The city of Pale flickered to the south, like a dying hearth. Far to the west rose the hulking peaks of the Moranth Mountains. Paran slowly realized that his folded arms now gripped his sides, struggling to hold all within. He was not a man of tears, nor did he rail at all about him. He''d been born to a carefully sculpted, cool detachment, an education his soldier''s training only enhanced. If such things are qualities, then she has humbled me. Tavore, you are indeed the master of such schooling. Oh, dearest Felisin, what life have you now found for yourself? Not the protective embrace of the nobility, that''s for certain.


    Boots sounded behind him.


    Paran closed his eyes. No more news, please. No more revelations.


    ''Captain.'' Whiskeyjack settled a hand on Paran''s shoulder.


    ''A quiet night,'' the captain observed.


    ''We looked for you, Paran, after your words with Dujek. It was Silverfox who quested outward, found you.'' The hand withdrew. Whiskeyjack stood alongside him, also studying the stars.


    ''Who is Silverfox?''


    ''I think,'' the bearded veteran rumbled, ''that''s for you to decide.''


    Frowning, Paran faced the commander. ''I''ve little patience for riddles at the moment, sir.''


    Whiskeyjack nodded, eyes still on the glittering sweep of the night sky. ''You will just have to suffer the indulgence, Captain. I can lead you forward a step at a time, or with a single shove from behind. There may be a time when you look back on this moment and come to appreciate which of the two I chose.''


    Paran bit back a retort, said nothing.


    ''They await us at the base of the barrow,'' Whiskeyjack continued. ''As private an occasion as I could manage. Just Mallet, Quick Ben, the Mhybe and Silverfox. Your squad members are here in case you have ¡­ doubts. They''ve both exhausted their warrens this night ¡ª to assure the veracity of what has occurred-''


    '' What ,'' Paran snapped, ''are you trying to say, sir?''


    Whiskeyjack met the captain''s eyes. ''The Rhivi child, Silverfox. She is Tattersail reborn.''


    Paran slowly turned, gaze travelling down to the foot of the barrow, where four figures waited in the darkness. And there stood the Rhivi child, a sunrise aura about her person, a penumbra of power that stirred the wilder blood that coursed within him. Yes. She is the one. Older now, revealing what she will become. Dammit, woman, you never could keep things simple. All that was trapped within him seemed to wash through his limbs, leaving him weak and suddenly shivering. He stared down at Silverfox. ''She is a child.'' But I knew that, didn''t I? I''ve known that for a while, I just didn''t want to think about it. And now, no choice.


    Whiskeyjack grunted. ''She grows swiftly ¡ª there are eager, impatient forces within her, too powerful for a child''s body to contain. You''ll not have long-''


    ''Before propriety arrives,'' Paran finished drily, not noticing Whiskeyjack''s start. ''Fine for then, what of now? Who will naught but see me as a monster should we even so much as hold hands? What can I say to her? What can I possibly say?'' He spun to Whiskeyjack. ''This is impossible ¡ª she is a child!''


    ''And within her is Tattersail. And Nightchill-''


    ''Nightchill! Hood''s breath! What has happened ¡ª how?''


    ''Questions not easily answered, lad. You''d do better to ask them of Mallet and Quick Ben ¡ª and of Silverfox herself.''


    Paran involuntarily took a step back. ''Speak with her? No. I cannot-''


    ''She wishes it, Paran. She awaits you now.''


    ''No.'' His eyes were once again pulled downslope. ''I see Tattersail, yes. But there''s more ¡ª not just this Nightchill woman ¡ª she''s a Soletaken, now, Whiskeyjack. The creature that gave her her Rhivi name ¡ª the power to change. ''


    The commander''s eyes narrowed. ''How do you know, Captain?''


    ''I just know-''


    ''Not good enough. It wasn''t easy for Quick Ben to glean that truth. Yet you know. How, Paran?''


    The captain grimaced. ''I''ve felt Quick Ben''s probings in my direction ¡ª when he thinks my attention is elsewhere. I''ve seen the wariness in his eyes. What has he found, Commander?''


    ''Oponn''s abandoned you, but something else has taken its place. Something savage. His hackles rise whenever you''re close-''


    ''Hackles.'' Paran smiled. ''An apt choice of word. Anomander Rake killed two Hounds of Shadow ¡ª I was there. I saw it. I felt the stain of a dying Hound''s blood ¡ª on my flesh, Whiskeyjack. Something of that blood now runs in my veins.''

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    The commander''s voice was deadpan. ''What else?''


    ''There has to be something else, sir?''


    ''Yes. Quick Ben caught hints ¡ª there''s much more than simply an ascendant''s blood to what you''ve become.'' Whiskeyjack hesitated, then said, ''Silverfox has fashioned for you a Rhivi name. Jen''isand Rul.''


    ''Jen''isand Rul.''


    ''It translates as "the Wanderer within the Sword". It means, she says, that you have done something no other creature has ever done ¡ª mortal or ascendant ¡ª and that something has set you apart. You have been marked, Ganoes Paran ¡ª yet no-one, not even Silverfox, knows what it portends. Tell me what happened.''


    Paran shrugged. ''Rake used that black sword of his. When he killed the Hounds. I followed them ¡­ into that sword. The spirits of the Hounds were trapped, chained with all the ¡­ all the others. I think I freed them, sir. I can''t be sure of that ¡ª all I know is that they ended up somewhere else. No longer chained.''


    ''And have they returned to this world?''


    ''I don''t know. Jen''isand Rul¡­ why should there be any significance to my having wandered within that sword?''


    Whiskeyjack grunted. ''You''re asking the wrong man, Captain. I''m only repeating what Silverfox has said. One thing, though, that has just occurred to me.'' He stepped closer. ''Not a word to the Tiste Andii ¡ª not Korlat, not Anomander Rake. The Son of Darkness is an unpredictable bastard, by all accounts. And if the legend of Dragnipur is true, the curse of that sword of his is that no-one escapes its nightmare prison ¡ª their souls are chained ¡­ for ever. You''ve cheated that, and perhaps the Hounds have as well. You''ve set an alarming ¡­ precedent.''


    Paran smiled bitterly in the darkness. ''Cheated. Yes, I have cheated many things, even death.'' But not pain. No, that escape still eludes me. ''You think Rake takes much comfort in the belief of his sword''s ¡­ finality.''


    ''Seems likely, Ganoes Paran, does it not?''


    The captain sighed. ''Aye.''


    ''Now, let us go down to meet Silverfox.''


    ''No.''


    ''Damn you, Paran,'' Whiskeyjack growled. ''This is about more than just you and her all starry-eyed. That child possesses power, and it''s vast and. and unknown. Kallor has murder in his eyes when he looks at her. Silverfox is in danger. The question is, do we protect her or stand aside? The High King calls her an abomination, Captain. Should Caladan Brood turn his back at the wrong moment-''


    ''He''ll kill her? Why?''


    ''He fears, I gather, the power within her.''


    ''Hood''s breath, she''s just a-'' He stopped, realizing the venality of the assertion. Just a child? Hardly. ''Protect her against Kallor, you said. That''s a risky position to assume, Commander. Who stands with us?''


    ''Korlat, and by extension, all of the Tiste Andii.''


    ''Anomander Rake?''


    ''That we don''t yet know. Korlat''s mistrust of Kallor, coupled with a friendship with the Mhybe, has guided her to her decision. She says she will speak with her master when he arrives-''


    ''Arrives?''


    ''Aye. Tomorrow, possibly early, and if so you''d best avoid him, if at all possible.''


    Paran nodded. One meeting was enough. ''And the warlord?''


    ''Undecided, we think. But Brood needs the Rhivi and their bhederin herds. For the moment, at least, he remains the girl''s chief protector.''


    ''And what does Dujek think of all this?'' the captain asked.


    ''He awaits your decision.''


    ''Mine? Beru fend, Commander ¡ª I''m no mage or priest. Nor can I glean the child''s future.''


    ''Tattersail resides within Silverfox, Paran. She must be drawn forth ¡­ to the fore.''


    ''Because Tattersail would never betray us. Yes, now I see.''


    ''You needn''t sound so miserable about it, Paran.''


    No? And if you stood in my place, Whiskeyjack? ''Very well, lead on.''


    ''It seems,'' Whiskeyjack said, striding to the edge of the barrow''s summit, ''we will have to promote you to a rank equal to mine, Captain, if only to circumvent your confusion as to who commands who around here.''


    Their arrival was a quiet, stealthy affair, leading their mounts into the encampment with the minimum of fuss. Few Tiste Andii remained outside their tents to take note. Sergeant Antsy led the main group of Bridgeburners towards the kraal to settle in the horses, whilst Corporal Picker, Detoran, Blend, Trotts and Hedge slipped away to find Brood''s command tent. Spindle awaited them at its entrance.

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    Picker gave him a nod and the mage, wrapped in his foul-smelling hairshirt with its equally foul hood thrown over his head, turned to face the tied-down entrance flap. He made a series of hand gestures, paused, then spat at the canvas. There was no sound as the spit struck the flap. He swung a grin to Picker, then bowed before the entrance in invitation.


    Hedge nudged the corporal and rolled his eyes.


    There were two rooms within, she knew, and the warlord was sleeping in the back one. Hopefully. Picker looked around for Blend ¡ª damn, where is she? Here a moment ago -


    Two fingers brushed her arm and she nearly leapt out of her leathers. Beside her, Blend smiled. Picker mouthed a silent stream of curses. Blend''s smile broadened, then she stepped past, up to the tent entrance, where she crouched down to untie the fastenings.


    Picker glanced over a shoulder. Detoran and Trotts stood side by side a few paces back, both hulking and monstrous.


    At the corporal''s side Hedge nudged her again, and she turned to see that Blend had drawn back the flap.


    All right, Jet''s get this done.


    Blend led the way, followed by Spindle, then Hedge. Picker waved the Napan and the Barghast forward, then followed them into the tent''s dark confines.


    Even with Trotts at one end and Detoran at the other, with Spindle and Hedge at the sides, the table had them staggering before they''d gone three paces. Blend moved ahead of them to pull the flap back as far as she could. Within the sorcerous silence, the four soldiers managed to manoeuvre the massive table outside. Picker watched, glancing back at the divider every few moments ¡ª but the warlord made no appearance. So far so good.


    The corporal and Blend added their muscles in carrying the table, and the six of them managed to take it fifty paces before exhaustion forced them to halt.


    ''Not much further,'' Spindle whispered.


    Detoran sniffed. ''They''ll find it.''


    ''That''s a wager I''ll call you on,'' Picker said. ''But first, let''s get it there.''


    ''Can''t you make this thing any lighter?'' Hedge whined at Spindle. ''What kind of mage are you, anyway?''


    Spindle scowled. ''A weak one, what of it? Look at you ¡ª you''re not even sweating!''


    ''Quiet, you two,'' Picker hissed. ''Come on, heave her up, now.''


    ''Speaking of heaving,'' Hedge muttered as, amid a chorus of grunts, the table once again rose from the ground, ''when are you gonna wash that disgusting shirt of yours, Spindle?''


    ''Wash it? Mother never washed her hair when she was alive ¡ª why should I start now? It''ll lose its lustre-''


    ''Lustre? Oh, you mean fifty years of sweat and rancid lard-''


    ''Wasn''t rancid when she was alive, though, was it?''


    ''Thank Hood I don''t know-''


    ''Will you two save your foul breath? Which way now, Spindle?''


    ''Right. Down that alley. Then left ¡ª the hide tent at the end-''


    ''Bet someone''s living in it,'' Detoran muttered.


    ''You''re on with that one, too,'' Picker said. ''It''s the one the Rhivi use to lay out Tiste Andii corpses before cremation. Ain''t been a killed Tiste since Darujhistan.''


    ''How''d you find it anyway?'' Hedge asked.


    ''Spindle sniffed it out-''


    ''Surprised he can sniff anything-''


    ''All right, set her down. Blend ¡ª the flap.''


    The table filled the entire room within, with only an arm''s length of space around it on all sides. The low cots that had been used for the corpses went beneath, folded and stacked. A shuttered lantern was lit and hung from the centre-pole hook. Picker watched Hedge crouch down, his eyes inches from the table''s scarred, pitted surface, and run his blunt, battered fingers lovingly along the wood''s grain. ''Beautiful,'' he whispered. He glanced up, met Picker''s eyes. ''Call in the crew, Corporal, the game''s about to start.''


    Grinning, Picker nodded. ''Go get ''em, Blend.''


    ''Even cuts,'' Hedge said, glaring at everyone. ''We''re a squad now-''


    ''Meaning you let us in on the secret,'' Spindle said, scowling. ''If we''d known you was cheating all that time-''


    ''Yeah, well, your fortunes are about to turn, ain''t they? So quit the complaining.''


    ''Aren''t you two a perfect match,'' Picker observed. ''So tell us, Hedge, how does this work?''


    ''Oppositions, Corporal. Both Decks are the real thing, you see. Fiddler had the better sensitivity, but Spindle should be able to pull it off.'' He faced the mage. ''You''ve done readings before, haven''t you? You said-''

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    ''Yeah yeah, squirt ¡ª no problem, I got the touch-''


    ''You''d better,'' the sapper warned. He caressed the tabletop again. ''Two layers, you see, with the fixed Deck in between ''em. Lay a card down and there''s a tension formed, and it tells ya which one the face-down one is. Never fails. Dealer knows every hand he plays out. Fiddler-''


    ''Ain''t here,'' Trotts growled, his arms crossed. He bared his teeth at Spindle.


    The mage sputtered. ''I can do it, you horse-brained savage! Watch me!''


    ''Shut up,'' Picker snapped. ''They''re coming.''


    It was near dawn when the other squads began filing back out of the tent, laughing and back-slapping as they jingled bulging purses. When the last of them had left, voices trailing away, Picker slumped wearily down on the table. Spindle, sweat dripping from his gleaming hairshirt, groaned and dropped his head, thumping against the thick wood.


    Stepping up behind him, Hedge raised a hand.


    ''At ease, soldier,'' Picker warned. ''Obviously, the whole damn thing''s been corrupted ¡ª probably never worked to start with-''


    ''It did! Me and Fid made damned sure-''


    ''But it was stolen before you could try it out for real, wasn''t it?''


    ''That doesn''t matter ¡ª I tell you-''


    ''Everybody shut up,'' Spindle said, slowly raising his head, his narrow forehead wrinkled in a frown as he scanned the tabletop. ''Corrupted. You may have something there, Picker.'' He sniffed the air as if seeking a scent, then crouched down. ''Yeah. Give me a hand, someone, with these here cots.''


    No-one moved.


    ''Help him, Hedge,'' Picker ordered.


    ''Help him crawl under the table? It''s too late to hide-''


    ''That''s an order, soldier.''


    Grumbling, the sapper lowered himself down. Together, the two men dragged the cots clear. Then Spindle edged beneath the table. A faint glow of sorcerous light slowly blossomed, then the mage hissed. ''It''s the underside all right!''


    ''Brilliant observation, Spindle. Bet there''s legs, too.''


    ''No, you fool. There''s an image painted onto the underside ¡­ one big card, it looks like ¡ª only I don''t recognize it.''


    Scowling, Hedge joined the mage. ''What are you talking about? We didn''t paint no image underneath ¡ª Hood''s mouldering moccasins, what is that?''


    ''Red ochre, is my guess. Like something a Barghast would paint-''


    ''Or a Rhivi,'' Hedge muttered. ''Who''s that figure in the middle ¡ª the one with the dog-head on his chest?''


    ''How should I know? Anyway, I''d say the whole thing is pretty fresh. Recent, I mean.''


    ''Well, rub it off, dammit.''


    Spindle crawled back out. ''Not a chance ¡ª the thing''s webbed with wards, and a whole lot else besides.'' He straightened, met Picker''s eyes, then shrugged. ''It''s a new card. Unaligned, without an aspect. I''d like to make a copy of it, Deck-sized, then try it out with a reading-''


    ''Whatever,'' Picker said.


    Hedge reappeared, suddenly energized. ''Good idea, Spin ¡ª you could charge for the readings, too. If this new Unaligned plays true, then you could work out the new tensions, the new relationships, and once you know them-''


    Spindle grinned. ''We could run another game. Yeah-''


    Detoran groaned. ''I have lost all my money.''


    ''We all have,'' Picker snapped, glaring at the two sappers.


    ''It''ll work next time,'' Hedge said. ''You''ll see.''


    Spindle was nodding vigorously.


    ''Sorry if we seem to lack enthusiasm,'' Blend drawled.


    Picker swung to the Barghast. Trotts, take a look at that drawing.''


    The warrior sniffed, then sank down to his hands and knees. Grunting, he made his way under the table. ''It''s gone dark,'' he said.


    Hedge turned to Spindle. ''Do that light trick again, you idiot.''


    The mage sneered at the sapper, then gestured. The glow beneath the table returned.


    Trotts was silent for a few moments, then he crawled back out and climbed upright.


    ''Well?'' Picker asked.


    The Barghast shook his head. ''Rhivi.''


    ''Rhivi don''t play with Decks,'' Spindle said.


    Trotts bared his teeth. ''Neither do Barghast.''


    ''I need some wood,'' Spindle said, scratching the stubble lining his narrow jaw. ''And a stylus,'' he went on, ignoring everyone else. ''And paints, and a brush¡­''


    They watched as he wandered out of the tent. Picker sighed, glared one last time at Hedge. ''Hardly an auspicious entry into the Seventh Squad, sapper. Antsy''s heart damn near stopped when he lost his whole column. Your sergeant is probably gutting black-livered wood pigeons and whispering your name right now ¡ª who knows, your luck might change and a demon won''t hear him.''

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    Hedge scowled. ''Ha ha.''


    ''I don''t think she''s kidding,'' Detoran said.


    ''Fine,'' Hedge snapped. ''I got a cusser waiting for it, and damned if I won''t make sure I take you all with me.''


    ''Team spirit,'' Trotts said, his smile broadening.


    Picker grunted. ''All right, soldiers, let''s get out of here.''


    Paran and Silverfox stood apart from the others, watching the eastern sky grow light with streaks of copper and bronze. The last of the stars were withdrawing overhead, a cold, indifferent scatter surrendering to the warmth of a blue, cloudless day.


    Through the awkwardness of the hours just past, stretching interminable as a succession of pain and discomfort in Paran''s mind, emotional exhaustion had arrived, and with it a febrile calm. He had fallen silent, fearful of shattering that inner peace, knowing it to be nothing but an illusion, a pensively drawn breath within a storm.


    ''Tattersail must be drawn forth.'' He had indeed done that. The first meeting of their eyes had unlocked every shared memory, and that unlocking was an explosive curse for Paran. A child. I face a child, and so recoil at the thought of intimacy ¡ª even if it had once been with a grown woman. The woman is no more. This is a child. But there was yet more to the anguish that boiled within the man. Another presence, entwined like wires of black iron through all that was Tattersail. Nightchill, the sorceress, once lover to Bellurdan ¡ª where she had led, the Thelomen had followed. Anything but an equal relationship, and now, with Nightchill, had come a bitter, demanding presence. Bitter, indeed. With Tayschrenn. with the Empress and the Malazan Empire and Hood knows what or who else. She knows she was betrayed at the Enfilade at Pale. Both her and, out there on the plain, Bellurdan. Her mate.


    Silverfox spoke. ''You need not fear the T''lan Imass.''


    He blinked, shook himself. ''So you have explained. Since you command them. We are all wondering, however, precisely what you plan with that undead army? What''s the significance of this Gathering?''


    She sighed. ''It is very simple, really. They gather for benediction. Mine.''


    He faced her. ''Why?''


    ''I am a flesh and blood Bonecaster ¡ª the first such in hundreds of thousands of years.'' Then her face hardened. ''But we shall need them first. In their fullest power. There are horrors awaiting us all¡­ in the Pannion Domin.''


    ''The others must know of this, this benediction ¡ª what it means, Silverfox ¡ª and more of the threat that awaits us in the Pannion Domin. Brood, Kallor-''


    She shook her head. ''My blessing is not their concern. Indeed, it is no-one''s concern but mine. And the T''lan Imass themselves. As for the Pannion ¡­ I myself must learn more before I dare speak. Paran, I have told you these things for what we were, and for what you ¡ª we ¡ª have become.''


    And what have we become? No, not a question for now. ''Jen''isand Rul.''


    She frowned. ''That is a side of you that I do not understand. But there is more, Paran.'' She hesitated, then said, ''Tell me, what do you know of the Deck of Dragons?''


    ''Almost nothing.'' But he smiled, for he heard Tattersail now, more clearly than at any other time since they''d first met.


    Silverfox drew a deep breath, held it a moment, then slowly released it, her veiled eyes once again on the rising sun. ''The Deck of Dragons. A kind of structure, imposed on power itself. Who created it? No-one knows. My belief ¡ª Tattersail''s belief ¡ª is that each card is a gate into a warren, and there were once many more cards than there are now. There may have been other Decks ¡ª there may well be other Decks ¡­''


    He studied her. ''You have another suspicion, don''t you?''


    ''Yes. I said no-one knows who created the Deck of Dragons. Yet there is another entity equally mysterious, also a kind of structure, focused upon power itself. Think of the terminology used with the Deck of Dragons. Houses ¡­ Houses of Dark, of Light, of Life and Death. '' She slowly faced him. ''Think of the word "Finnest". Its meaning, as the T''lan Imass know it, is "Hold of Ice". Long ago, among the Elder races, a Hold was synonymous with a House in its meaning and common usage, and indeed, synonymous with Warren. Where resides a Jaghut''s wellspring of power? In a Finnest.'' She paused again, searching Paran''s eyes. ''Tremorlor is Trellish for "House of Life".''


    Firmest. as in Firmest House, in Darujhistan ¡­ a House of the Azath. ''I''ve never heard of Tremorlor.''


    ''It is an Azath House in Seven Cities. In Malaz City in your own empire, there is the Deadhouse ¡ª the House of Death¡­''

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    ''You believe the Houses of the Azath and the Houses of the Deck are one and the same.''


    ''Yes. Or linked, somehow. Think on it!''


    Paran was doing just that. He had little knowledge of either, and could not think of any possible way in which he might be connected with them. His unease deepened, followed by a painful roil in his stomach. The captain scowled. He was too tired to think, yet think he must. ''It''s said that the old emperor, Kellanved, and Dancer found a way into Deadhouse. ''


    ''Kellanved and Dancer have since ascended and now hold the House of Shadow. Kellanved is Shadowthrone, and Dancer is Cotillion, the Rope, Patron of Assassins.''


    The captain stared at her. ''What?''


    Silverfox grinned. ''It''s obvious when you consider it, isn''t it? Who among the ascendants went after Laseen. with the aim of destroying her? Shadowthrone and Cotillion. Why would any ascendant care one way or another about a mortal woman? Unless they thirsted for vengeance.''


    Paran''s mind raced back, to a road on the coast of Itko Kan, to a dreadful slaughter, wounds made by huge, bestial jaws ¡ª Hounds. Hounds of Shadow ¡ª Shadowthrone''s pups¡­ From that day, the captain had begun a new path. On the trail of the young woman Cotillion had possessed. From that day, his life had begun its fated unravelling. ''Wait! Kellanved and Dancer went into Deadhouse ¡ª why didn''t they take that aspect ¡ª the aspect of the House of Death?''


    ''I''ve thought about that myself, and have arrived at one possibility. The realm of Death was already occupied, Paran. The King of High House Death is Hood. I believe now that each Azath is home to every gate, a way into every warren. Gain entry to the House, and you may ¡­ choose. Kellanved and Dancer found an empty House, an empty throne, and upon taking their places as Shadow''s rulers, the House of Shadow appeared, and became part of the Deck of Dragons. Do you see?''


    Paran slowly nodded, struggling to take it all in. Tremors of pain twisted his stomach ¡ª he pushed them away. But what has this to do with me?


    ''The House of Shadow was once a Hold,'' Silverfox went on. ''You can tell ¡ª it doesn''t share the hierarchical structure of the other Houses. It is bestial, a wilder place, and apart from the Hounds it knew no ruler for a long, long time.''


    ''What of the Deck''s Unaligned?''


    She shrugged. ''Failed aspects? The imposition of chance, of random forces? The Azath and the Deck are both impositions of order, but even order needs freedom, lest it solidify and become fragile.''


    ''And where do you think I fit in? I''m nothing, Silverfox. A stumble-footed mortal.'' Gods, leave me out of all this ¡ª all that you seem to be leading up to. Please.


    ''I have thought long and hard on this, Paran. Anomander Rake is Knight of the House of Dark,'' she said, ''yet where is the House itself? Before all else there was Dark, the Mother who birthed all. So it must be an ancient place, a Hold, or perhaps something that came before Holds themselves. A focus for the gate into Kurald Galain ¡­ undiscovered, hidden, the First Wound, with a soul trapped in its maw, thus sealing it.''


    ''A soul,'' Paran murmured, a chill clambering up his spine, ''or a legion of souls ¡­''


    The breath hissed from Silverfox.


    ''Before Houses there were Holds,'' Paran continued with remorseless logic. ''Both fixed, both stationary. Settled. Before settlement ¡­ there was wandering. House from Hold, Hold from ¡­ a gate in motion, ceaseless motion ¡­'' He squeezed shut his eyes. ''A wagon, burdened beneath the countless souls sealing the gate into Dark. '' And I sent two Hounds through that wound, I saw the seal punctured. by the Abyss ¡­


    ''Paran, something has happened ¡ª to the Deck of Dragons. A new card has arrived. Unaligned, yet, I think, dominant. The Deck has never possessed a ¡­ master.'' She faced him. ''I now believe it has one. You.''


    His eyes snapped open; he stared at her in disbelief, then scorn. ''Nonsense, Tatter- Silverfox. Not me. You are wrong. You must be-''


    ''I am not. My hand was guided in fashioning the card that is you-''


    ''What card?''


    She did not answer, continued as if she had not heard him. ''Was it the Azath that guided me? Or some other unknown force? I do not know. Jen''isand Rul, the Wanderer within the Sword.'' She met his eyes. ''You are a new Unaligned, Ganoes Paran. Birthed by accident or by some purpose the need of which only the Azath know. You must find the answer for your own creation, you must find the purpose behind what you have become.''


    His brows rose mockingly. ''You set for me a quest? Really, Silverfox. Aimless, purposeless men do not undertake quests. That''s for wall-eyed heroes in epic poems. I don''t believe in goals ¡ª not any more. They''re naught but self-delusions. You set for me this task and you shall be gravely disappointed. As shall the Azath.''

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    ''An unseen war has begun, Paran. The warrens themselves are under assault ¡ª I can feel the pressure within the Deck of Dragons, though I have yet to rest a hand upon one. An army is being ¡­ assembled, perhaps, and you ¡ª a soldier ¡ª are part of that army.''


    Oh yes, so speaks Tattersail. ''I have enough wars to fight, Silverfox¡­''


    Her eyes glistened as she looked up at him. ''Perhaps, Ganoes Paran, they are all one war.''


    ''I''m no Dujek, or Brood ¡ª I can''t manage all these ¡­ campaigns. It''s ¡ª it''s tearing me apart.''


    ''I know. You cannot hide your pain from me ¡ª I see it in your face, and it breaks my heart.''


    He looked away. ''I have dreams as well. a child within a wound. Screaming.''


    ''Do you run from that child?''


    ''Aye,'' he admitted shakily. ''Those screams are ¡­ terrible.''


    ''You must run towards the child, my love. Flight will close your heart.''


    He turned to her. ''My love'' ¡ª words to manipulate my heart? ''Who is that child?''


    She shook her head. ''I don''t know. A victim in the unseen war, perhaps.'' She attempted a smile. ''Your courage has been tested before, Paran, and it did not fail.''


    Grimacing, he muttered, ''There''s always a first time.''


    ''You are the Wanderer within the Sword. The card exists.''


    ''I don''t care.''


    ''Nor does it,'' she retorted. ''You don''t have any choice-''


    He rounded on her. ''Nothing new in that! Now ask Oponn how well I performed!'' His laugh was savage. ''I doubt the Twins will ever recover. The wrong choice, Tattersail, I am ever the wrong choice !''


    She stared up at him, then, infuriatingly, simply shrugged.


    Suddenly deflated, Paran turned away. His gaze fell on the Mhybe, Whiskeyjack, Mallet and Quick Ben. The four had not moved in all this time. Their patience ¡ª dammit, their faith ¡ª made the captain want to scream. You choose wrongly. Every damned one of you. But he knew they would not listen. ''I know nothing of the Deck of Dragons,'' he said dully.


    ''If we''ve the time, I will teach you. If not, you will find your own way.''


    Paran closed his eyes. The pain in his stomach was returning, rising, a slowly building wave he could no longer push back. Yes, of course. Tattersail could do no less than she has done. There you have it then, Whiskeyjack. She now leads, and the others follow. A good soldier, is Captain Ganoes Paran ¡­


    In his mind he returned to that fraught, nightmarish realm within the sword Dragnipur, the legions of chained souls ceaselessly dragging their impossible burden. and at the heart of the wagon, a cold, dark void, from whence came the chains. The wagon carries the gate, the gate into Kurald Galain, the warren of Darkness. The sword gathers souls to seal it. such a wound it must be, to demand so many souls . He grunted at a wave of pain. Silverfox''s small hand reached up to touch his arm.


    He almost flinched at the contact.


    I will fail you all.


    CHAPTER FIVE


    He rises bloodless from dust,


    with dead eyes that are pits


    twin reaches to eternal pain.


    He is the lodestone


    to the gathering clan,


    made anew and dream-racked.


    The standard a rotted hide,


    the throne a bone cage, the king


    a ghost from dark fields of battle.


    And now the horn moans


    on this grey clad dawn


    drawing the disparate host


    To war, to war,


    and the charging frenzy


    of unbidden memories of ice.


    Lay of the First Sword


    Irig Thann Delusa (b. 1091)


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


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


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


    ''I bow to your wisdom, Scout.''


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

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


    He studied her, bemused, and said nothing.


    She raised an eyebrow, then smiled.


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


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


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


    ''Indeed!''


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


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


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


    ''Not modesty, but deception, Toc''


    He winced at the edge to her tone.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    He looked up at her. ''Challenge?''


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


    ''Lady-''


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Won''t be the first time, either.


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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''You sound just like my father.''


    ''You should have heeded his wisdom.''


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


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


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


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


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


    ''What about this crescent-shaped one?''


    ''The bone-reed shafts must be trued.''


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


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


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

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


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


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


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


    ''Such as?''


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''She''s a mage.''


    ''The answer to that is before you.''


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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    ''You might ask the youngest, Toc.''


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


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


    ''Warrior,'' the T''lan Imass said.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Toc''s breath caught.


    Senu dipped his head again, said nothing.


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


    ''The decision pleased us,'' Senu grated.


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


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


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


    ''A delicious aroma ¡ª I am famished!''


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


    Wolf and dog barked, plunging after them.


    ''This is infuriating!'' Lady Envy snapped.


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


    More sparks rained through the night.


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


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


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


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


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

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


    They turned to see Mok facing them.


    ''That was centuries ago,'' Lady Envy said.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Thurule groaned.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    It was now Toc''s turn to groan.


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


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


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


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


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


    Mallet cleared his throat. ''Who starts?''


    The commander swung his head to the healer.


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

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


    ''The sicker he gets,'' Mallet finished.


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


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


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


    ''Troubling,'' Mallet replied.


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


    Whiskeyjack scowled at him. ''Why?''


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


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


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


    ''I don''t know.''


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


    ''And how do you propose we do that?''


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Mallet asked, ''What was her warren?''


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Wizard and healer said nothing.


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


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


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


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


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

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


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


    ''Aye. He has been expecting you.''


    Without another word the commander entered the tent.


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


    ''No.''


    ''Me neither. Let''s drink.''


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''Back to Silverfox, Whiskeyjack. Tattersail was a solid ally ¡ª a friend-''


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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


    ''Aye, we are. Kallor.''


    ''Kallor.''


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''Aye, we have. Stubborn.''


    ''When it matters.''


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


    Whiskeyjack laughed.


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


    ''What if Kallor''s right?''


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


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


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


    ''Your daughter is killing you ¡ª why?''


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


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


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


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


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

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


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


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


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


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


    ''A secret hovers between them,'' Korlat murmured.


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


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


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


    ''And Nightchill?'' Korlat asked.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''Have faith in me,'' Brood said.


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


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


    ''Let us go to meet them, then.''


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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Crone cackled a second time.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''Extraordinary coincidence, friend Murillio.''


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


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


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


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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''And you a dog!'' he shouted back.


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


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


    ''Ruffle? Ruffle!''


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


    ''A parrot!''


    ''Perfect!''


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''What in Hood''s name for?''


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


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


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


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


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


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

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


    ''Has your master specific suggestions?'' Brood asked.


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


    ''Gods forbid,'' Coll muttered.


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


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


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


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


    Both councillors frowned.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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


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


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


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


    ''Didn''t you just-''


    ''Shut up.''


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''Aye¡­''


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''Directions will suffice-''


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

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    ''I am glad for that, Mhybe.''


    ''What was the sorceress like, Captain?''


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


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


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


    ''Yet they had the Moranth ¡­''


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Paran shrugged.


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


    ''Far enough,'' the captain growled.


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


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


    ''Thank you, sir.''


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


    ''Yes sir.''


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


    ''Absolutely, sir.''


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


    Corporal Picker blinked. ''Sir?''


    ''Carrying the table, of course.''


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


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


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


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


    ''Spindle?''


    ''Idiot,'' the mage whispered.


    ''Soldier!''


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


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


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


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


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


    ''Spindle!''


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


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


    ''I have no idea,'' he replied levelly.


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

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    ''I imagine it does.''


    ''Yet you won''t provide them.''


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''Why then does the meeting continue, sir?''


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


    ''Not Kruppe-''


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


    ''Aye, he would be.''


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''I''d offer you Oponn''s luck-''


    ''No, thank you, sir.''


    Whiskeyjack nodded.


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


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


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


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


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


    ''Aye, sir!''


    ''Captain.''


    Paran turned to Whiskeyjack. ''Sir?''


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


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


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


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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Her eyes flashed. ''Does it now?''


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


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


    The High King halted.


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''It was ever thus.''


    Oh, a sharp reply, that.


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

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    Kallor simply nodded.


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


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


    ''I stand here,'' the commander growled.


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


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


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


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


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


    Grunting a savage curse, Brood unlimbered his hammer.


    Whiskeyjack shifted his stance, raising his own blade.


    Gods no, this is wrong -


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''Help!''


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


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


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


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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Where? What?


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    The wooden portals swung wide.


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


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


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


    The grin broadened. ''Follow me.''


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

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


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


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


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


    ''I have not tried.''


    ''Why not?''


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''I don''t want it!''


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


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


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


    ''And if I refuse?''


    ''Then I kill you.''


    ''Unforgiving bastard, this Azath,'' Paran muttered.


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


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


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


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


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


    Paran faced the darkness. ''And is there?''


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''They are all one.''


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


    ''Then don''t.''


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


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


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

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


    And this one?


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    He walked to it, looked down.


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


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


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


    Caladan Brood.


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


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


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


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


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


    ''And which do you choose to embrace?''


    ''I don''t know what you mean.''


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''Is anyone else hungry?''


    All eyes turned to Kruppe.


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


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

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


    The Rhivi spirits refused her, mocking, laughing.


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


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


    Grey hair dangling, the Mhybe raised her head.


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


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


    ''She is you more than the others ¡ª more than the woman Tattersail, and Nightchill, more than the T''lan Imass-''


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


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


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


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


    ''I cannot!''


    ''She must be made to understand-''


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


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


    ''Not this one, Crone.''


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


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


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


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


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


    ''No,'' Korlat said.


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


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


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


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


    Oh, Korlat, I am sorry for that ¡ª I would take it back, I swear -


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

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


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


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


    ''You would make our efforts worthless?''


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


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


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


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


    Self-pity. To this I have fallen ¡­


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


    ''Burn is dying.''


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


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


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


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


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


    ''And if she dies?''


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


    ''And with that, all sorcery.''


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


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


    ''So it seems.''


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''No.''


    Rake grunted. ''Best keep it that way.''


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


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


    ''We must now speak of the Pannion Domin.''


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

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


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


    ''Maybe.''


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''Tell me of her.''


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


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


    ''You are a fool.''


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


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


    Shrugging, Whiskeyjack turned to resume his walk.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''We must accept that risk, Wizard.''


    Whiskeyjack grunted. ''Why?''


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


    ''Can you explain that?''

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


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


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


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


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


    ''Not this time.''


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


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


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


    Silverfox gasped, eyes widening on Quick Ben.


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ''Agreed, lass.''


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


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


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


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


    ''Aye.''


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


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


    ''Has he attempted any further probing?''


    ''Not yet, but why tempt him?''


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


    ''They''re playing with it.''


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


    ''Yes, sir.''


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


    The mage blinked innocently. ''Sir?''


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


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

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


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


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


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


    ''Cleaned out?''


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


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


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


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


    ''Of course, sir.''


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


    Sacrificing a goat, for Hood''s sake!


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


    CHAPTER SIX


    Where they tread, blood follows ¡­


    Kulburat''s Vision


    Horal Thume (b.1134)


    Saltoan''s sunset gate was reached by a broad, arching causeway over the canal. Both the bridge and the canal itself were in serious need of repair, the mortar crumbling and webbed in wide, grass-tufted cracks where the foundations had settled. One of the Vision Plain''s oldest cities, Saltoan had once stood alongside the river Catlin, growing rich on the cross-continent trade, until the river changed its course in the span of a single, rain-drenched spring. Korselan''s Canal was built in an effort to re-establish the lucrative link with the river trade, as well as four deep lakes ¡ª two within the old river bed itself ¡ª for moorage and berths. The effort had seen only marginal success, and the four hundred years since that time had witnessed a slow, inexorable decline.


    Gruntle''s scowl as he guided his horse onto the causeway deepened upon seeing Saltoan''s low, thick walls ahead. Brown stains ran in streaks down their sloped sides. The caravan captain could already smell the raw sewage. There were plenty of figures lining the battlements, but few if any of them actual constabulary or soldiers. The city had sent its vaunted Horse Guard north to join Caladan Brood''s forces in the war against the Malazan Empire. What remained of its army wasn''t worth the polish on their boots.


    He glanced back as his master''s carriage clattered onto the causeway. Sitting on the driver''s bench, Harllo waved. At his side, Stonny held the traces and Gruntle could see her lips moving to a stream of curses and complaints. Harllo''s wave wilted after a moment.


    Gruntle returned his attention to Sunset Gate. There were no guards in sight, and little in the way of traffic. The two huge wooden doors hung ajar and looked not to have been closed in a long time. The captain''s mood soured even further. He slowed his horse until the carriage drew alongside him.


    ''We''re passing right through, right?'' Stonny asked. ''Straight through to Sunrise Gate, right?''


    ''So I have advised,'' Gruntle said.


    ''What''s the point of our long experience if the master won''t heed our advice? Answer me that, Gruntle!''


    The captain simply shrugged. No doubt Keruli could hear every word, and no doubt Stonny knew that.


    They approached the arched entrance. The avenue within quickly narrowed to a tortuous alley buried beneath the gloom of the flanking buildings'' upper levels, which projected outward until they almost touched overhead. Gruntle moved ahead of the carriage again. Mangy chickens scattered from their path, but the fat, black rats in the gutters only momentarily paused in their feasting on rotting rubbish to watch the carriage wheels slip past.


    ''We''ll be scraping sides in a moment,'' Harllo said.


    ''If we can manage Twistface Passage, we''ll be all right.''


    ''Aye, but that''s a big if, Gruntle. Mind you, there''s enough that passes for grease on these walls ¡­''


    The alley narrowed ahead to the chokepoint known as Twistface Passage. Countless trader wagons had gouged deep grooves in both walls. Broken spokes and torn fittings littered the cobbles. The neighbourhood had a wreckers'' mentality, Gruntle well knew. Any carriage trapped in the Passage was free salvage, and the locals weren''t averse to swinging swords if their claims were contested. Gruntle had only spilled blood here once, six, seven years back. A messy night, he recalled. He and his guards had depopulated half a tenement block of cut-throats and thugs in those dark, nightmarish hours before they''d managed to back the wagon out of the passage, remove the wheels, lay rollers and manhandle their way through.

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    He did not want a repetition.


    The hubs scraped a few times as they passed through the chokepoint, but then, with a swearing Stonny and a grinning Harllo ducking beneath sodden clothes hanging from a line, they were clear and into the square beyond.


    No deliberate intent created Wu''s Closet Square. The open space was born of the happenstance convergence of thirteen streets and alleys of various breadth. The inn to which they all once led no longer existed, having burned down a century or so ago, leaving a broad, uneven expanse of flagstones and cobbles that had, unaccountably, acquired the name of Wu''s Closet.


    ''Take Mucosin Street, Stonny,'' Gruntle directed, gesturing towards the wide avenue on the east side of the square.


    ''I remember well enough,'' she growled. ''Gods, the stink!''


    A score of urchins had discovered their arrival, and now trailed the carriage like flightless vultures, their dirty, pocked faces closed and all too serious. None spoke.


    Still in the lead, Gruntle walked his horse into Mucosin Street. He saw a few faces peer out from grimy windows, but there was no other traffic. Not here. not ahead. This isn''t good.


    ''Captain,'' Harllo called.


    Gruntle did not turn. ''Aye?''


    ''Them kids ¡­ they''ve just vanished.''


    ''Right.'' He loosened his Gadrobi cutlasses. ''Load your crossbow, Harllo.''


    ''Already done.''


    I know, but why not announce it anyway.


    Twenty paces ahead three figures stepped into the street. Gruntle squinted. He recognized the tall woman in the middle. ''Hello, Nektara. I see you''ve expanded your holdings.''


    The scar-faced woman smiled. ''Why, it''s Gruntle. And Harllo. And who else? Oh, would that be Stonny Menackis? No doubt as unpleasant as ever, my dear, though I still lay down my heart at your feet.''


    ''Unwise,'' Stonny drawled. ''I never step lightly.''


    Nektara''s smile broadened. ''And you do make that heart race, love. Every time.''


    ''What''s the toll?'' Gruntle asked, drawing his mount to a halt ten paces from the woman and her two silent bodyguards.


    Nektara''s plucked brows rose. ''Toll? Not this time, Gruntle. We''re still in Garno''s holdings ¡ª we''ve been granted passage. We''re simply here by way of escort.''


    ''Escort?''


    The sound of the carriage''s shutters clattering open made the captain turn. He saw his master''s hand appear, then languidly wave him over.


    Gruntle dismounted. He reached the carriage''s side door, peered in to see Keruli''s round, pale face.


    ''Captain, we are to meet with this city''s ¡­ rulers.''


    ''The king and his Council? Why-''


    A soft laugh interrupted him. ''No, no. Saltoan''s true rulers. At great expense, and through extraordinary negotiation, a gathering of all the hold-masters and mistresses has been convened, to whom I shall make address this night. You have leave to permit the escort just offered. I assure you, all is well.''


    ''Why didn''t you explain all this earlier?''


    ''I was not certain that the negotiations were successful. The matter is complex, for it is the masters and mistresses who have asked for ¡­ assistance. I, in turn, must endeavour to earn their confidence, to the effect that I represent the most efficacious agent to provide said assistance.''


    You? Then who in Hood''s name are you? ''I see. All right, then, trust these criminals if you like, but I''m afraid we''ll not be sharing your faith.''


    ''Understood, Captain.''


    Gruntle returned to his horse. Collecting the reins he faced Nektara. ''Lead on.''


    Saltoan was a city with two hearts, their chambers holding different hues of blood but both equally vile and corrupt. Seated with his back to the wall of the low-ceilinged, crowded tavern, Gruntle looked out with narrowed eyes on a motley collection of murderers, extortionists and thugs whose claim to power was measured in fear.


    Stonny leaned against the wall to the captain''s left, Harllo sharing the bench on his right. Nektara had dragged her chair and a small, round table close to Stonny. Thick coils of smoke rose from the hookah before the hold-mistress, wreathing her knife-kissed features in the cloying, tarry fumes. With the hookah''s mouthpiece in her left hand, her other hand was on Stonny''s leather-clad thigh.


    Keruli stood in the centre of the room, facing the majority of the crimelords and ladies. The short man''s hands were clasped above his plain grey silk belt, his cloak of black silk shimmering like molten obsidian. A strange, close-fitting cap covered his hairless pate, its style reminiscent of that worn by figures found among Darujhistan''s oldest sculptures and in equally ancient tapestries.

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    He had begun his speech in a voice soft and perfectly modulated. ''I am pleased to be present at this auspicious gathering. Every city has its secret veils, and I am honoured by this one''s select parting. Of course I realize that many of you might see me as cut from the same cloth as your avowed enemy, but I assure you this is not the case. You have expressed your concern as regards the influx of priests of the Pannion Domin into Saltoan. They speak of cities newly come under the divine protection of the Pannion Seer''s cult, and offer to the common people tales of laws applied impartially to all citizens, of rights and enscripted privileges, of the welcome imposition of order in defiance of local traditions and manners. They sow seeds of discord among your subjects ¡ª a dangerous precedent, indeed.''


    Murmurs of agreement followed from the masters and mistresses. Gruntle almost smiled at the mannered decorum among these street-bred killers. Glancing over, he saw, his brows rising, Nektara''s hand plunged beneath the leather folds of Stonny''s leggings at the crotch. Stonny''s face was flushed, a faint smile on her lips, her eyes almost closed. Queen of Dreams, no wonder nine-tenths of the men in this room are panting, not to mention drinking deep from their cups of wine. He himself reached for his tankard.


    ''A wholesale slaughter,'' one of the mistresses growled. ''Every damned one of them priests should be belly-smiling, that''s the only way to deal with this, I say.''


    ''Martyrs to the faith,'' Keruli responded. ''Such a direct attack is doomed to fail, as it has in other cities. This conflict is one of information, lords and ladies, or, rather, misinformation. The priests are conducting a campaign of deception. The Pannion Domin, for all its imposition of law and order, is a tyranny, characterized by extraordinary levels of cruelty to its people. No doubt you have heard tales of the Tenescowri, the Seer''s army of the dispossessed and the abandoned ¡ª all that you may have heard is without exaggeration. Cannibals, rapers of the dead-''


    ''Children of the Dead Seed.'' One man spoke up, leaning forward. ''It is true? Is it even possible? That women should descend onto battlefields and soldiers whose corpses are not yet cold ¡­''


    Keruli''s nod was sombre. ''Among the Tenescowri''s youngest generation of followers. aye, there are the Children of the Dead Seed. Singular proof of what is possible.'' He paused, then continued, ''The Domin possesses its sanctified faithful, the citizens of the original Pannion cities, to whom all the rights and privileges the priests speak of applies. No-one else can acquire that citizenship. Non-citizens are less than slaves, for they are the subjects ¡ª the objects ¡ª of every cruelty conceivable, without recourse to mercy or justice. The Tenescowri offers their only escape, the chance to match the inhumanity inflicted on them. The citizens of Saltoan, should the Domin subjugate this city, will be one and all cast from their homes, stripped of all possessions, denied food, denied clean water. Savagery will be their only possible path, as followers sworn into the Tenescowri.


    ''Masters and mistresses, we must fight this war with the weapon of truth, the laying bare of the lies of the Pannion priests. This demands a very specific kind of organization, of dissemination, of crafted rumours and counter-intelligence. Tasks at which you all excel, my friends. The city''s commonalty must themselves drive the priests from Saltoan. They must be guided to that decision, to that cause, not with fists and knouts, but with words.''


    ''What makes you so sure that will work?'' a master demanded.


    ''You have no choice but to make it work,'' Keruli replied. ''To fail is to see Saltoan fall to the Pannions.''


    Keruli continued, but Gruntle was no longer listening. His eyes, half shut, studied the man who had hired them. An intermediary had brokered the contract in Darujhistan. Gruntle''s first sight of the master was the morning outside Worry Gate, at the rendezvous, arriving on foot, robed as he was now. The carriage was delivered scant moments after him, of local hire. Keruli had quickly entered it and from then on Gruntle had seen and spoken with his master but twice on this long, wearying journey.


    A mage, I''d concluded. But now, I think, a priest. Kneeling before which god, I wonder? No obvious signs. That itself is telling enough, I suppose. There''s nothing obvious about Keruli, except maybe the bottomless coin-chest backing his generosity. Any new temples in Darujhistan lately? Can''t recall ¡ª oh, that one in Gadrobi District. Sanctified to Treach, though why anyone would be interested in worshipping the Tiger of Summer is beyond me -


    ''-killings.''


    ''Been quiet these two nights past, though.''


    The masters and mistresses were speaking amongst themselves. Keruli''s attention was nevertheless keen, though he said nothing.

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    Blinking, Gruntle eased slightly straighter on the bench. He leaned close to Harllo. ''What was that about killings?''


    ''Unexplained murders for four nights running, or something like that. A local problem, though I gather it''s past.''


    The captain grunted, then settled back once again, trying to ignore the cool sweat now prickling beneath his shirt. They made good time, well ahead of us ¡ª that carriage moved with preternatural speed. But it would never have managed Saltoan''s streets. Too wide, too high. Must have camped in Waytown. A score of paces from Sunrise Gate. Proof of your convictions, friend Buke?


    ''I was bored out of my mind, what do you think?'' Stonny poured herself another cup of wine. ''Nektara managed to alleviate that, and ¡ª if all those sweating hairy faces were any indication ¡ª not just for me. You''re all pigs.''


    ''Wasn''t us on such public display,'' Gruntle said.


    ''So what? You didn''t all have to watch, did you? What if it''d been a baby on my hip and my tit bared?''


    ''If that,'' Harllo said, ''I would have positively stared .''


    ''You''re disgusting.''


    ''You misunderstand me, dearest. Not your tit ¡ª though that would be a fine sight indeed ¡ª but you with a baby! Hah, a baby!''


    Stonny threw him a sneer.


    They were sitting in a back room in the tavern, the leavings of a meal on the table between them.


    ''In any case,'' Gruntle said, sighing, ''that meeting will last the rest of the night, and come the morning our master will be the only one among us privileged to catch up on his sleep ¡ª in the comfy confines of his carriage. We''ve got rooms upstairs with almost-clean beds and I suggest we make use of them.''


    ''That would be to actually sleep, dearest Stonny,'' Harllo explained.


    ''Rest assured I''ll bar the door, runt.''


    ''Nektara has a secret knock, presumably.''


    ''Wipe that grin off your face or I''ll do it for you, Harllo.''


    ''How come you get all the fun, anyway?''


    She grinned. ''Breeding, mongrel. What I got and you ain''t got.''


    ''Education, too, huh?''


    ''Precisely.''


    A moment later, the door swung open and Keruli entered.


    Gruntle leaned back in his chair and eyed the priest. ''So, have you succeeded in recruiting the city''s thugs, murderers and extortionists to your cause?''


    ''More or less,'' Keruli replied, striding over to pour himself some wine. ''War, alas,'' he sighed, ''must be fought on more than one kind of battlefield. The campaign will be a long one, I fear.''


    ''Is that why we''re headed to Capustan?''


    The priest''s gaze settled on Gruntle for a moment, then he turned away. ''I have other tasks awaiting me there, Captain. Our brief detour here in Saltoan is incidental, in the great scheme of things.''


    And which great scheme is that, Priest? Gruntle wanted to ask, but didn''t. His master was beginning to make him nervous, and he suspected that any answer to that question would only make matters worse. No, Keruli, you keep your secrets .


    The archway beneath Sunrise Gate was as dark as a tomb, the air chill and damp. Waytown''s shanty sprawl was visible just beyond, through a haze of smoke lit gold by the morning sun.


    Grainy-eyed and itching with flea bites, Gruntle nudged his horse into an easy trot as soon as he rode into the sunlight. He''d remained in Saltoan, lingering around the Gate for two bells, whilst Harllo and Stonny had driven the carriage and its occupant out of the city a bell before dawn. They would be at least two leagues along the river road, he judged.


    Most of the banditry on the first half of this stretch to Capustan was headquartered in Saltoan ¡ª the stretch''s second half, in Capan territory, was infinitely safer. Spotters hung around Sunrise Gate to mark the caravans heading east, much as he''d seen their counterparts on the west wall at Sunset Gate keeping an eye out for caravans bound for Darujhistan. Gruntle had waited to see if any local packs had made plans for Keruli''s party, but no-one had set out in pursuit, confirming the master''s assertion that safe passage had been guaranteed. It wasn''t in Gruntle''s nature to take thieves at their word, however.


    He worked his horse into a canter to escape Waytown''s clouds of flies and, flanked by half-wild, barking dogs, rode clear of the shanty-town and onto the open, rocky river road. Vision Plain''s gently rolling prairie reached out to the distant Barghast Range on his left. To his right was a rough bank of piled stones ¡ª mostly overgrown with grasses ¡ª and beyond it the reedy flats of the river''s floodplain.

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    The dogs abandoned him a few hundred paces beyond Waytown and the captain found himself alone on the road. The trader track would fade before long, he recalled, the dyke on his right dwindling, the road itself becoming a sandy swath humped with ant nests, bone-white driftwood and yellow knots of grass, with floods wiping the ruts away every spring. There was no chance of getting lost, of course, so long as one kept Catlin River within sight to the south.


    He came upon the corpses less than a league further on. The highwaymen had perfectly positioned their ambush, emerging from a deeply cut, seasonal stream bed and no doubt surrounding their victim''s carriage in moments. The precise planning hadn''t helped, it seemed. Two or three days old at the most, bloated and almost black under the sun, their bodies were scattered to both sides of the track. Swords, lance-heads, buckles and anything else that was metal had all melted under some ferocious heat, yet clothing and leather bindings were unmarked. A number of the bandits wore spurs, and indeed there would have been no way of getting out this far without horses, but of the beasts there was no sign.


    Dismounted and wandering among the dead, Gruntle noted that the tracks of Keruli''s carriage ¡ª they too had stopped to examine the scene ¡ª were overlying another set. A wider, heavier carriage, drawn by oxen.


    There were no visible wounds on the corpses.


    I doubt Buke had to even so much as draw his blade.


    The captain climbed back into his saddle and resumed his journey.


    He caught sight of his companions half a league further on, and rode up alongside the carriage a short while later.


    Harllo gave him a nod. ''A fine day, wouldn''t you say, Gruntle?''


    ''Not a cloud in the sky. Where''s Stonny?''


    ''Took one of the horses ahead. Should be back soon.''


    ''Why did she do that?''


    ''Just wanted to make certain the wayside camp was ¡­ uh, unoccupied. Ah, here she comes.''


    Gruntle greeted her with a scowl as she reined in before them. ''Damned stupid thing to do, woman.''


    ''This whole journey''s stupid if you ask me. There''s three Barghast at the wayside camp ¡ª and no, they ain''t roasted any bandits lately. Anyway, Capustan''s bare days away from a siege ¡ª maybe we make the walls in time, in which case we''ll be stuck there with the whole Pannion army between us and the open road, or we don''t make it in time and those damned Tenescowri have fun with us.''


    Gruntle''s scowl deepened. ''Where are those Barghast headed, then?''


    ''They came down from the north, but now they''re travelling the same as us ¡ª they want to take a look at things closer to Capustan and don''t ask me why ¡ª they''re Barghast, ain''t they? Brains the size of walnuts. We got to talk with the master, Gruntle.''


    The carriage door swung open and Keruli climbed out. ''No need, Stonny Menackis, my hearing is fine. Three Barghast, you said. Which clan?''


    ''White Face, if the paint''s any indication.''


    ''We shall invite them to travel with us, then.''


    ''Master-'' Gruntle began, but Keruli cut him off.


    ''We shall arrive in Capustan well before the siege, I believe. The Septarch responsible for the Pannion forces is known for a methodical approach. Once I am delivered, your duties will be discharged and you will be free to leave immediately for Darujhistan.'' His dark, uncanny eyes narrowed on Gruntle. ''You do not have a reputation for breaking contracts, else I would not have hired you.''


    ''No, sir, we''ve no intention of breaking our contract. None the less, it might be worth discussing our options ¡ª what if Capustan is besieged before we arrive?''


    ''Then I shall not see you lose your lives in any desperate venture, Captain. I need then only be dropped off outside the range of the enemy, and I shall make my own way into the city, and such subterfuge is best attempted alone.''


    ''You would attempt to pass through the Pannion cordon?''


    Keruli smiled. ''I have relevant skills for such an undertaking.''


    Do you now? ''What about these Barghast? What makes you think they can be trusted to travel in our company?''


    ''If untrustworthy, better they be in sight than out of it, wouldn''t you agree, Captain?''


    He grunted. ''You''ve a point there, master.'' He faced Harllo and Stonny, slowly nodded.


    Harllo offered him a resigned smile.


    Stonny was, predictably, not so nearly laconic. ''This is insanity!'' Then she tossed up her hands. ''Fine, then! We ride into the dragon''s maw, why not?'' She spun her horse round. ''Let''s go throw bones with the Barghast, shall we?''

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    Grimacing, Gruntle watched her ride off.


    ''She is a treasure, is she not?'' Harllo murmured with a sigh.


    ''Never seen you so lovestruck before,'' Gruntle said with a sidelong glance.


    ''It''s the unattainable, friend, that''s what''s done for me. I long helplessly, morosely maundering over unrequited adoration. I dream of her and Nektara ¡­ with me snug between ''em-''


    ''Please, Harllo, you''re making me sick.''


    ''Uhm,'' Keruli said, ''I believe I shall now return to the carriage.''


    The three Barghast were clearly siblings, with the woman the eldest. White paint had been smeared on their faces, giving them a skull-like appearance. Braids stained with red ochre hung down to their shoulders, knotted with bone fetishes. All three wore hauberks of holed coins ¡ª the currency ranging from copper to silver and no doubt from some looted hoard, as most of them looked ancient and unfamiliar to Gruntle''s eye. Coin-backed gauntlets covered their hands. A guardblock''s worth of weapons accompanied the trio ¡ª bundled lances, throwing axes and copper-sheathed long-hafted fighting axes, hook-bladed swords and assorted knives and daggers.


    They stood on the other side of a small stone-ringed firepit ¡ª burned down to faintly smouldering coals ¡ª with Stonny still seated on her horse to their left. A small heap of jackrabbit bones indicated a meal just completed.


    Gruntle''s gaze settled on the Barghast woman. ''Our master invites you to travel in our company. Do you accept?''


    The woman''s dark eyes flicked to the carriage as Harllo drove it to the camp''s edge. ''Few traders still journey to Capustan,'' she said after a moment. ''The trail has become ¡­ perilous.''


    Gruntle frowned. ''How so? Have the Pannions sent raiding parties across the river?''


    ''Not that we have heard. No, demons stalk the wild-lands. We have been sent to discover the truth of them.''


    Demons? Hood''s breath. ''When did you learn of these demons?''


    She shrugged. ''Two, three months past.''


    The captain sighed, slowly dismounted. ''Well, let us hope there''s nothing to such tales.''


    The woman grinned. ''We hope otherwise. I am Hetan, and these are my miserable brothers, Cafal and Netok. This is Netok''s first hunt since his Deathnight.''


    Gruntle glanced at the glowering, hulking youth. ''I can see his excitement.''


    Hetan turned, gaze narrowing on her brother. ''You must have sharp eyes.''


    By the Abyss, another humourless woman for company.


    Looping a leg over her saddle, Stonny Menackis dropped to the ground, raising a puff of dust. ''Our captain''s too obvious with his jokes, Hetan. They end up thudding like ox dung, and smelling just as foul. Pay him no mind, lass, unless you enjoy being confused.''


    ''I enjoy killing and riding men and little else,'' Hetan growled, crossing her muscled arms.


    Harllo quickly clambered down from the carriage and approached her with a broad smile. ''I am named Harllo and I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Hetan!''


    ''You can kill him any time you like,'' Stonny drawled.


    The two brothers were indeed miserable creatures, taciturn and, as far as Gruntle could determine, singularly thick. Harllo''s futile efforts with Hetan proved amusing enough whilst they sat around the rekindled hearth beneath a star-spattered sky. Keruli made a brief appearance shortly before everyone began bedding down, but only to share a bowl of herbal tea before once again retiring to his carriage. It fell to Gruntle ¡ª he and Hetan the last two lingering at the firepit ¡ª to pry loose more information from the Barghast.


    ''These demons,'' he began, ''how have they been described?''


    She leaned forward and ritually spat into the fire. ''Fast on two legs. Talons like an eagle''s, only much larger, at the ends of those legs. Their arms are blades-''


    ''Blades? What do you mean?''


    She shrugged. ''Bladed. Blood-iron. Their eyes are hollow pits. They stink of urns in the dark circle. They make no sound, no sound at all.''


    Urns in the dark circle? Cremation urns. in a chamber bar-row. Ah, they smell of death, then. Their arms are blades. how? What in Hood''s name does that mean? Blood-iron ¡ª that''s iron quenched in snow-chilled blood ¡­ a Barghast practice when shamans invest weapons. Thus, the wielder and the weapon are linked. Merged¡­ ''Has anyone in your clan seen one?''


    ''No, the demons have not journeyed north to our mountain fastnesses. They remain in these grasslands.''


    ''Who, then, delivered the tales?''


    ''Our shouldermen have seen them in their dreams. The spirits whisper to them and warn of the threat. The White Clan has chosen a warchief ¡ª our father ¡ª and await what is to come. But our father would know his enemy, so he has sent his children down onto the flatlands.''

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    Gruntle ruminated on this, his eyes watching the fire slowly ebb. ''Will your father the warchief of the White Faces lead the clans south? If Capustan is besieged, the Capan territories will be vulnerable to your raids, at least until the Pannions complete their conquest.''


    ''Our father has no plans to lead us south, Captain.'' She spat a second time into the fire. ''The Pannion war will come to us, in time. So the shouldermen have read in bhederin blades. Then, there shall be war.''


    ''If these demons are advance elements of the Pannion forces¡­''


    ''Then, when they first appear in our fastnesses, we will know that the time has come.''


    ''Fighting,'' Gruntle muttered. ''What you enjoy the most.''


    ''Yes, but for now, I would ride you.''


    Ride? More like batter me senseless. Ah, well . ''What man would say no to such an elegant offer?''


    Collecting her bedroll in both arms, Hetan rose. ''Follow me, and hurry.''


    ''Alas,'' he replied, slowly gaining his feet, ''I never hurry, as you''re about to discover.''


    ''Tomorrow night I shall ride your friend.''


    ''You''re doing so tonight, dear, in his dreams.''


    She nodded seriously. ''He has big hands.''


    ''Aye.''


    ''So do you.''


    ''I thought you were in a hurry, Hetan.''


    ''I am. Let''s go.''


    The Barghast Range crept down from the north as the day slowly passed, from distant mountains to worn, humped-back hills. Many of the hills edging the traders'' track to Capustan were sacred sites, their summits displaying the inverted tree trunks that were the Barghast custom of anchoring spirits ¡ª or so Hetan explained as she walked alongside Gruntle, who was leading his horse by the reins. While the captain had little interest in things religious, he admitted to some curiosity as to why the Barghast would bury trees upside-down in hills.


    ''Mortal souls are savage things,'' she explained, spitting to punctuate her words. ''Many must be held down to keep them from ill-wandering. Thus, the oaks are brought down from the north. The shouldermen carve magic into their trunks. The one to be buried is pinned beneath the tree. Spirits are drawn as well, as guardians, and other traps are placed along the edges of the dark circle. Even so, sometimes the souls escape ¡ª imprisoned by one of the traps, yet able to travel the land. Those who return to the clans where they once lived are quickly destroyed, so they have learned to stay away ¡ª here, in these lowlands. Sometimes, such a sticksnare retains a loyalty to its mortal kin, and will send dreams to our shouldermen, to tell us of danger.''


    ''A sticksnare, you called it. What does that mean?''


    ''You may well see for yourself,'' she replied with a shrug.


    ''Was it one of these sticksnares that sent the dreams of demons?''


    ''Yes, and other spirits besides. That so many sought to reach us¡­''


    Added veracity to the threat, aye, I understand. He scanned the empty land before them, wondering what was out there.


    Stormy rode fifty paces ahead. At the moment, Gruntle could not see her, as the trail leaned round a boulder-studded hill and vanished from sight thirty paces on. She had a frustrating knack for ignoring his orders ¡ª he''d wanted her to remain in sight at all times. The two Barghast brothers ranged to the sides, flanking the carriage from a distance that varied with the demands of the ground they covered. Cafal had taken the inland side and was jogging up the same hill''s rocky slope. Netok walked along the sandy bank of the river, surrounded by a cloud of midges that seemed to grow larger and thicker with every stride. Given the alarmingly thick and rancid greases with which the Barghast covered their bodies, Gruntle suspected those insects were suffering from frustration ¡ª drawn close by a warm body but unwilling or unable to alight.


    That grease had been something of a challenge the night just past, Gruntle reflected, but he''d managed none the less, sporting a formidable collection of bruises, scratches and bites as proof. Hetan had been ¡­ energetic-


    A shout from Cafal. At the same moment Stonny reappeared. The slow canter at which she approached eased the captain''s nerves somewhat, though it was clear that both she and the Barghast on the hill had spotted something ahead/He glanced over to see Cafal now crouched low, his attention fixed on something further up the trail, but he had not drawn his weapons.


    Stonny reined in, her expression closed. ''Bauchelain''s carriage ahead. It''s been ¡­ damaged. There''s been a fight of some kind. Messy.''


    ''See anyone still standing?''


    ''No, just the oxen, looking placid enough. No bodies either.''

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    Hetan faced her brother on the hill and caught his eye. She made a half-dozen hand gestures, and, drawing forth a lance, Cafal padded forward, dropping down from view.


    ''All right,'' Gruntle sighed. ''Weapons out ¡ª let''s go for a look.''


    ''Want me to keep back?'' Harllo asked from the driver''s bench.


    ''No.''


    Rounding the hill, they saw that the trail opened out again, the land flattening on both sides. Forty paces on was Bauchelain and Korbal Broach''s massive carriage, on its side, the rear spoke torn entirely off and lying shattered nearby. The four oxen stood a few paces away, grazing on the prairie grasses. Swathes of burned ground stretched out from the carriage, the air reeking of sorcery. A low mound just beyond had been blasted open, the inverted tree it had contained torn up and shattered as if it had been struck by lightning. Smoke still drifted from the gaping pit where the burial chamber had once been. Cafal was even now cautiously approaching it, his left hand scribing warding gestures in the air, the lance poised for a cast in his right.


    Netok jogged up from the river bank, a two-handed axe in his grip. He halted at his sister''s side. ''Something is loose,'' he growled, his small eyes darting.


    ''And still close,'' Hetan nodded. ''Flank your brother.''


    He padded off.


    Gruntle strode up to her. ''That barrow ¡­ you''re saying a spirit or ghost''s broken free.''


    ''Aye.''


    Drawing a hook-bladed sword, the Barghast woman walked slowly towards the carriage. The captain followed.


    Stonny trotted her horse back to take a defensive position beside Keruli''s contrivance.


    A savage hole had been torn into the carriage''s side, revealing on its jagged edges what looked to be sword-cuts, though larger than any blade Gruntle had ever seen. He clambered up to peer inside the compartment, half dreading what he might discover.


    It was empty ¡ª no bodies. The leather-padded walls had been shredded, the ornate furnishings scattered. Two huge trunks, once bolted to the floorboards, had been ripped loose. Their lids were open, contents spilled out. ''Hood take us,'' the captain whispered, his mouth suddenly dry. One of the trunks contained flat slabs of slate ¡ª now shattered ¡ª on which arcane symbols had been meticulously etched, but it was the other trunk whose contents had Gruntle close to gagging. A mass of blood-slick ¡­ organs. Livers, lungs, hearts, all joined together to form a shape all the more horrifying for its familiarity. When alive ¡ª as he sensed it must have been until recently ¡ª it had been human-shaped, though no more than knee-high when perched on its boneless, pod-like appendages. Eyeless and, as far as Gruntle could see in the compartment''s gloom, devoid of anything resembling a brain, the now-dead creature still leaked thin, watery blood.


    Necromancy, but not the demonic kind. These are the arts of those who delve into mortality, into resurrection and undeath. Those organs. they came from living people. People murdered by a madman. Damn you, Buke, why did you have to get involved with those bastards?


    ''Are they within?'' Hetan asked from below.


    He leaned back, shook his head. ''Just wreckage.''


    Harllo called out from the driver''s bench. ''Look uptrail, Gruntle! Party coming.''


    Four figures, two leather-cloaked and in black, one short and bandy-legged, the last one tall, thin. No losses, then. Still, something nasty hit them. Hard. ''That''s them,'' he muttered.


    Hetan squinted up at him. ''You know these men?''


    ''Aye, only one well, though. The guard ¡ª that grey-haired, tall one.''


    ''I don''t like them,'' the woman growled, her sword twitching as she adjusted her grip.


    ''Keep your distance,'' Gruntle advised. ''Tell your brothers. You don''t want to back-brush their hides ¡ª those cloaked two. Bauchelain ¡ª with the pointed beard ¡ª and Korbal Broach ¡ª the ¡­ the other one.''


    Cafal and Netok rejoined their sister. The older brother was scowling. ''It was taken yesterday,'' he said. ''The wards were unravelled. Slow. Before the hill was broken open.''


    Gruntle, still perched on top of the carriage, narrowed his gaze on the approaching men. Buke and the servant, Emancipor Reese, both looked exhausted, deeply shaken, whilst the sorcerers might well have simply been out on a stroll for all the discomfort in their composure. Yet they were armed. All-metal crossbows, stained black, were cradled on their vambraced forearms, quarrels set and locked. Squat black quivers at their hips showed but a few quarrels remaining in each.


    Climbing down from the carriage, Gruntle strode to meet them.


    ''Well met, Captain,'' Bauchelain said with a faint smile. ''Fortunate for you that we made better time since the river. Since Saltoan our peregrination has been anything but peaceful.''

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    ''So I''ve gathered, sir.'' Gruntle''s eyes strayed to Buke. His friend looked ten years older than when he''d last seen him. He would not meet the captain''s eyes.


    ''I see your entourage has grown since we last met,'' Bauchelain observed. ''Barghast, yes? Extraordinary, isn''t it, that such people can be found on other continents as well, calling themselves by the same name and practising, it seems, virtually identical customs. What vast history lies buried and now lost in their ignorance, I wonder?''


    ''Generally,'' Gruntle said quietly, ''that particular usage of the word "buried" is figurative. Yet you have taken it literally.''


    The black-clad man shrugged. ''Plagued by curiosity, alas. We could not pass by the opportunity. We never can, in fact. As it turned out, the spirit we gathered into our embrace ¡ª though once a shaman of some power ¡ª could tell us nothing other than what we had already surmised. The Barghast are an ancient people indeed, and were once far more numerous. Accomplished seafarers as well.'' His flat, grey eyes fixed on Hetan. A thin brow slowly lifted. ''Not a question of a fall from some civilized height into savagery, however. Simply an eternal ¡­ stagnation. The belief system, with all its ancestor worship, is anathema to progress, or so I have concluded given the evidence.''


    Hetan offered the sorcerer a silent snarl.


    Cafal spoke, his voice ragged with fury. ''What have you done with our soul-kin?''


    ''Very little, warrior. He had already eluded the inner bindings, yet had fallen prey to one of your shamanistic traps ¡ª a tied bundle of sticks, twine and cloth. Was it compassion that offered them the semblance of bodies with those traps? Misguided, if so-''


    ''Flesh,'' Korbal Broach said in a reedy, thin voice, ''would far better suit them.''


    Bauchelain smiled. ''My companion is skilled in such ¡­ assemblages, a discipline of lesser interest to me.''


    ''What happened here?'' Gruntle asked.


    ''That is plain,'' Hetan snapped. ''They broke into a dark circle. Then a demon attacked them ¡ª a demon such as the one my brothers and I hunt. And these ¡­ men ¡­ fled and somehow eluded it.''


    ''Not quite, my dear,'' Bauchelain said. ''Firstly, the creature that attacked us was not a demon ¡ª you can take my word on such matters for demons are entities I happen to know very well indeed. We were most viciously set upon, however, as you surmise. Whilst we were preoccupied with this barrow. Had not Buke alerted us, we might well have sustained even further damage to our accoutrements, not to mention our less capable companions.''


    ''So,'' Gruntle cut in, ''if not a demon, then what was it?''


    ''Ah, a question not easily answered, Captain. Undead, most certainly. Commanded by a distant master, and formidable in the extreme. Korbal and I were perforce required to unleash the full host of our servants to fend the apparition off, nor did the subsequent pursuit yield us any profit. Indeed, the loss of a good many of those servants was incurred, upon the appearance of two more of the undead hunters. And while the trio have been driven off, the relief is but temporary. They will attack again, and if they have gathered in greater numbers, we might well ¡ª all of us ¡ª be sorely tested.''


    ''If I may,'' Gruntle said, ''I would like to speak in private with my master, and with Hetan, here.''


    Bauchelain tilted his head. ''By all means. Come, Korbal and companions, let us survey the full damage to our hapless carriage.''


    Taking Hetan''s arm, Gruntle led her to where Harllo and Stonny waited beside Keruli''s carriage. Cafal and Netok followed.


    ''They have enslaved our soul-kin,'' Hetan hissed, her eyes like fanned coals. ''I will kill them ¡ª kill them all!''


    ''And die before you close a single step,'' Gruntle snapped. ''These are sorcerers, Hetan. Worse, they''re necromancers. Korbal practises the art of the undead. Bauchelain''s is demonic summoning. The two sides of the skull-faced coin. Hood-cursed and foul ¡­ and deadly. Do you understand me? Don''t even think of trying them.''


    Keruli''s voice emerged from the carriage, ''Even more poignantly, my friends, very soon, I fear, we will have need of those terrible men and their formidable powers.''


    Gruntle turned with a scowl. The door''s window shutter had been opened to a thin slit. ''What are these undead hunters, master? Do you know?''


    There was a long pause before Keruli responded. ''I have ¡­ suspicions. In any case, they are spinning threads of power across this land, like a web, from which they can sense any tremor. We cannot pass undetected-''

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    ''Then let us turn round,'' Stonny snapped. ''Now, before it''s too late.''


    ''But it already is,'' Keruli replied. ''These undead servants continue to cross the river from the southlands, all in service to the Pannion Seer. They range ever closer to Saltoan. Indeed, I believe there are now more of them behind us than between here and Capustan.''


    Hood-damned convenient, Master Keruli.


    ''We must,'' the man within the carriage continued, ''fashion a temporary alliance with these necromancers ¡ª until we reach Capustan.''


    ''Well,'' Gruntle said, '' they certainly view it as an obvious course to take.''


    ''They are practical men, for all their other ¡­ faults.''


    ''The Barghast will not travel with them,'' Hetan snarled.


    ''I don''t think we have any choice,'' Gruntle sighed. ''And that includes you and your brothers, Hetan. What''s the point of finding these undead hunters only to have them tear you to pieces?''


    ''You think we come unprepared for such battle? We stood long in the bone circle, Captain, whilst every shaman of the gathered clans danced the weft of power. Long in the bone circle.''


    ''Three days and three nights,'' Cafal growled.


    No wonder she damn near ripped my chest open last night.


    Keruli spoke. ''It may prove insufficient, should your efforts draw the full attention of the Pannion Seer. Captain, how many days of travel before we reach Capustan?''


    You know as well as I. ''Four, master.''


    ''Surely, Hetan, you and your brothers can achieve a certain stoicism for such a brief length of time? We well understand your outrage. The desecration of your sacred ancestors is an insult not easily accommodated. But, do not your own kind bow to a certain pragmatism in this regard as well? The inscribed wards, the sticksnares? Consider this an extension of such necessity ¡­''


    Hetan spat, turned away. ''It is as you say,'' she conceded after a moment. ''Necessary. Very well.''


    Gruntle returned to Bauchelain and the others. The two sorcerers were crouched down with the shattered axle between them. The stench of melted iron wafted up.


    ''Our repairs, Captain,'' Bauchelain murmured, ''will not take long.''


    ''Good. You said there''s three of these creatures out there ¡ª how far away?''


    ''Our small shaman friend keeps pace with the hunters. Less than a league, and I assure you, they can ¡ª if they so will it ¡ª cover that distance in a matter of a few hundred heartbeats. We will have little warning, but enough to muster a defence, I believe.''


    ''Why are you travelling to Capustan?''


    The sorcerer glanced up, an eyebrow lifting. ''No particular reason. By nature, we wander. Upon arriving on the west coast of this continent, we set our sights eastward. Capustan is as far as we can travel east, yes?''


    ''Close enough, I suppose. The land juts further east to the south, beyond Elingarth, but the kingdoms and city states down there are little more than pirate and bandit holdings. Besides, you''d have to pass through the Pannion Domin to get there.''


    ''And I gather that would be trying.''


    ''You''d never make it.''


    Bauchelain smiled, bent once more to concentrate on the axle.


    Looking up, Gruntle finally caught Buke''s eye. A slight head movement drew the man ¡ª reluctantly ¡ª off to one side.


    ''You''re in trouble, friend,'' the captain said in a low voice.


    Buke scowled, said nothing ¡ª but the truth was evident in his eyes.


    ''When we reach Capustan, take the closing coin and don''t look back. I know, Buke, you were right in your suspicions ¡ª I saw what was within the carriage. I saw. They''ll do worse than kill you if you try anything. Do you understand? Worse.''


    The man grinned wryly, squinted out to the east. ''You think we''ll make it that far, do you, Gruntle? Well, surprise ¡ª we won''t live to see the next dawn.'' He fixed wild eyes on the captain. ''You wouldn''t believe what my masters unleashed ¡ª such a nightmare menagerie of servants, guardians, spirit-slayers ¡ª and their own powers! Hood take us! Yet all of it barely managed to drive one of those beasts off, and when the other two arrived, we were the ones retreating. That menagerie is nothing but smouldering pieces scattered for leagues across the plain. Gruntle, I saw demons cut to shreds. Aye, these two look unshaken, but believe me, that''s of no account. None at all.'' He lowered his voice still further. ''They are insane, friend. Thoroughly, ice-blooded, lizard-eyed insane. And poor Mancy''s been with them for three years now and counting ¡ª the stories he''s told me ¡­'' The man shuddered.

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    ''Mancy? Oh, Emancipor Reese. Where''s the cat, by the way?''


    Buke barked a laugh. ''Ran off ¡ª just like all our horses and we had an even dozen of them after those stupid bandits attacked us. Ran off, once I''d done prying its claws from Mancy''s back, which was where it jumped when all the warrens broke loose.''


    Repairs completed and carriage righted, the journey resumed. A league or two of daylight remained. Stonny once again rode to point, Cafal and Netok taking their places ranging on the flanks. Emancipor guided the carriage, the two sorcerers having retired within.


    Buke and Gruntle walked a few paces ahead of Keruli''s carriage, saying little for a long while, until the captain sighed heavily and glanced at his friend. ''For what it''s worth, there''s people who don''t want to see you dead, Buke. They see you wasting away inside, and they care enough so that it pains them-''


    ''Guilt''s a good weapon, Gruntle, or at least it has been for a long time. Doesn''t cut any more, though. If you choose to care, then you better swallow the pain. I don''t give a damn, myself.''


    ''Stonny-''


    ''Is worth more than messing herself up with me. I''m not interested in being saved, anyway. Tell her that.''


    ''You tell her, Buke, and when she puts her fist in your face just remember that I warned you here and now. You tell her ¡ª I won''t deliver your messages of self-pity.''


    ''Back off, Gruntle. I''d hurt you bad before you finished using those cutlasses on me.''


    ''Oh, that''s sweet ¡ª get one of your few remaining friends to kill you. Seems I was wrong, it''s not just self-pity, is it? You''re not obsessed with the tragic deaths of your family, you''re obsessed with yourself, Buke. Your guilt''s an endlessly rising tide, and that ego of yours is a levee and all you do is keep slapping fresh bricks on it. The wall gets higher and higher, and you''re looking down on the world from a lofty height ¡ª with a Hood-damned sneer.''


    Buke was pale and trembling. ''If that''s the way you see it,'' he rasped, ''then why call me friend at all?''


    Beru knows, I''m beginning to wonder. He drew a deep breath, managed to calm himself down. ''We''ve known each other a long time. We''ve never crossed blades.'' And you were in the habit of getting drunk for days on end, a habit you broke. but one I haven''t. Took the deaths of everyone you loved to do that, and I''m terrified it might take the same for me.


    Thank Hood the lass married that fat merchant.


    ''Doesn''t sound like much, Gruntle.''


    We''re two of a kind, you bastard ¡ª cut past your own ego and you''d see that fast enough. But he said nothing.


    ''Sun''s almost down,'' Buke observed after a time. They''ll attack when it''s dark.''


    ''How do you defend against them?''


    ''You don''t. Can''t. Like chopping into wood, from what I''ve seen, and they''re fast. Gods, they''re fast! We''re all dead, Gruntle. Bauchelain and Korbal Broach ain''t got much left ¡ª did you see them sweat mending the carriage? They''re wrung dry, those two.''


    ''Keruli is a mage as well,'' Gruntle said. ''Well, more likely a priest.''


    ''Let''s hope his god''s cocked an eye on us, then.''


    And what are the chances of that?


    With the sun''s light pooling crimson on the horizon behind them, they made camp. Stonny guided the horses and oxen into a makeshift, rope-lined kraal to one side of the carriages ¡ª a position that would give them a chance to flee inland if it came to that.


    A kind of resignation descended within the growing gloom as a meal was prepared over a small fire, Harllo electing himself cook. Neither Keruli nor the two sorcerers emerged from their respective carriages to join the small group.


    Moths gathered around the smokeless flames. Sipping mulled wine, Gruntle watched their fluttering, mindless plunges into oblivion with a faintly bitter amusement.


    Darkness closed in, the scatter of stars overhead sharpening. With the supper done, Hetan rose. ''Harllo, come with me now. Quickly.''


    ''My lady?'' the man enquired.


    Gruntle sprayed a mouthful of wine. Choking, coughing, with Stonny pounding on his back, it was a while before he managed to recover. Through watering eyes, he grinned at Harllo. ''You heard the lady.''


    He watched his friend''s eyes slowly grow wide.


    Impatient, Hetan stepped forward and gripped Harllo by one arm. She pulled him to his feet, then dragged him out into the darkness.


    Staring after them, Stonny frowned. ''What''s all that about?''


    Not a single man spoke up.


    She swung a glare on Gruntle. After a moment, she hissed with understanding. ''What an outrage!''

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    ''My dear,'' the captain laughed, ''after Saltoan, that''s a little rich coming from you.''


    ''Don''t you "dear" me, Gruntle! What are the rest of us supposed to do ¡ª sit here and listen to gross grunting and groaning from that hump of grasses over there? Disgusting!''


    ''Really, Stonny. In the circumstances, it makes perfect sense-''


    ''It''s not that, you idiot! That woman chose Harllo ! Gods, I''m going to be sick! Harllo! Look around this fire ¡ª there''s you, and let''s face it, a certain type of uncultured, trashy woman couldn''t resist you. And Buke, tall and weathered with a tortured soul ¡ª surely worth a snakefight or three. But Harllo? That tangled-haired ape?''


    ''He''s got big hands,'' Gruntle murmured. ''So Hetan observed last¡­ uh, last night.''


    Stonny stared, then leaned forward. ''She had you last night! Didn''t she? That loose, grease-smeared savage had you! I can see the truth in your smug face, Gruntle, so don''t deny it!''


    ''Well, you just heard her ¡ª how could any warm-blooded man resist?''


    ''Fine, then!'' she snapped, rising. ''Buke, on your feet, damn you.''


    He flinched back. ''No ¡ª I couldn''t ¡ª I, uh, no, I''m sorry, Stonny-''


    Snarling, she whirled on the two silent Barghast.


    Cafal smiled. ''Choose Netok. He''s yet-''


    ''Fine!'' She gestured.


    The youth rose unsteadily.


    ''Big hands,'' Gruntle observed.


    ''Shut up, Gruntle.''


    ''Head in the other direction, please,'' he continued. ''You wouldn''t want to stumble over anything ¡­ unsightly.''


    ''Damn right in that. Let''s go, Netok.''


    They walked off, the Barghast trailing like a pup on a leash.


    The captain swung to Buke. ''You fool.''


    The man just shook his head, staring down at the fire.


    Emancipor Reese reached for the tin pot holding the spiced wine. ''Two more nights,'' he muttered. ''Typical.''


    Gruntle stared at the old man for a moment, then grinned. ''We ain''t dead yet ¡ª who knows, maybe Oponn''s smiling down on you.''


    ''That''d make a change,'' Reese grumbled.


    ''How in Hood''s name did you get tied up with your two masters, anyway?''


    ''Long story,'' he muttered, sipping at his wine. ''Too long to tell, really. My wife, you see ¡­ Well, the posting offered travel. ''


    ''Are you suggesting you chose the lesser of two evils?''


    ''Heavens forfend, sir.''


    ''Ah, you''ve regrets now, then.''


    ''I didn''t say that, neither.''


    A sudden yowl from the darkness startled everyone.


    ''Which one made that sound, I wonder?'' Gruntle mused.


    ''None,'' Reese said. ''My cat''s come back.''


    A carriage door opened. Moments later Bauchelain''s black-clad form appeared. ''Our sticksnare returns. hastily. I suggest you call in the others and prepare your weapons. Tactically, attempt to hamstring these hunters, and stay low when you close ¡ª they prefer horizontal cuts. Emancipor, if you would kindly join us. Captain Gruntle, perhaps you might inform your master, though no doubt he is already aware.''


    Suddenly chilled, Gruntle rose. ''We''ll be lucky to see anything, dammit.''


    ''That will not be an issue,'' Bauchelain replied. ''Korbal, dear friend,'' he called out behind him, ''a broad circle of light, if you please.''


    The area was suddenly bathed in a soft, golden glow, reaching out thirty or more paces on all sides.


    The cat yowled again and Gruntle caught sight of a tawny flash, darting back out into the darkness. Hetan and Harllo approached from one side, hastily tucking in clothing. Stonny and Netok arrived as well. The captain managed a strained grin. ''Not enough time, I take it,'' he said to her.


    Stonny grimaced. ''You should be more forgiving ¡ª it was the lad''s first try.''


    ''Oh, right.''


    ''A damned shame, too,'' she added, pulling on her duelling gloves. ''He had potental, despite the grease.''


    The three Barghast had gathered now, Cafal jabbing a row of lances into the stony earth whilst Hetan busied herself tying a thick cord to join the three of them. Fetishes of feather and bone hung from knots in the cord, and Gruntle judged that the span between each warrior would be five or six arm-lengths. When the other two were done, Netok handed them double-bladed axes. All three set the weapons down at their feet and collected a lance each. Hetan leading, they began a soft, rumbling chant.


    ''Captain.''

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    Gruntle pulled his gaze from the Barghast and found Master Keruli at his side. The man''s hands were folded on his lap, his silk cape shimmering like water. ''The protection I can offer is limited. Stay close to me, you and Harllo and Stonny. Do not allow yourselves to be drawn forward. Concentrate on defence.''


    Unsheathing his cutlasses, Gruntle nodded. Harllo moved to the captain''s left, his two-handed sword held steady before him. Stonny stood to Gruntle''s right, rapier and sticker readied.


    He feared for her the most. Her weapons were too light for what was coming ¡ª he recalled the chop-marks on Bauchelain''s carriage. This would be brutal strength at play here, not finesse. ''Stay back a step, Stonny,'' he said.


    ''Don''t be stupid.''


    ''I''m not talking chivalry, Stonny. Poking wire-thin holes won''t hurt an undead.''


    ''We''ll just see, won''t we?''


    ''Stay close to the master ¡ª guard him. That''s an order, Stonny.''


    ''I hear you,'' she growled.


    Gruntle faced Keruli again. ''Sir, who is your god? If you call upon him or her, what should we expect?''


    The round-faced man frowned slightly. ''Expect? I am afraid I have no idea, Captain. My ¡ª uh ¡ª god''s powers are newly awakened from thousands of years of sleep. My god is Elder .''


    Gruntle stared. Elder? Weren''t the Elder gods abandoned because of their ferocity? What might be unleashed here? Queen of Dreams defend us.


    He watched as Keruli drew forth a thin-bladed dagger and cut deep into his left palm. Blood dripped into the grass at his feet. The air suddenly smelled like a slaughterhouse.


    A small, man-shaped collection of sticks and twigs and twine scurried into the circle of light, trailing sorcery like smoke. The sticksnared shaman.


    Gruntle felt the earth shuddering to fast approaching steps, a low, relentless drumming like warhorses. No, more like giants. Upright, five pairs, maybe more. They were coming from the east.


    Ghostly shapes loomed into sight, then faded again. The tremors in the earth slowed, scattered, as the creatures spread out.


    The Barghast chant ended abruptly. Gruntle glanced in their direction. The three warriors faced east, lances ready. Coils of fog rose around their legs, thickening. In moments Hetan and her brothers would be completely enveloped.


    Silence.


    The familiar leather-bound grips of the heavy cutlasses felt slick in Gruntle''s hands. He could feel the thud of his heart in his chest. Sweat gathered, dripped from chin and lips. He strained to see into the darkness beyond the sphere of light. Nothing. The soldier''s moment, now, before the battle begins ¡ª who would choose such a life? You stand with others, all facing the same threat, all feeling so very alone. In the cold embrace of fear, that sense that all that you are might end in moments. Gods, I''ve no envy for a soldier''s life -


    Flat, wide, fang-bristling faces ¡ª sickly pale like snake bellies ¡ª emerged from the darkness. Eyes empty pits, the heads seemed to hover for a moment, as if suspended, at a height twice that of a man. Huge black-pocked iron swords slid into the light. The blades were fused to the creatures'' wrists ¡ª no hands were visible ¡ª and Gruntle knew that a single blow from one of those swords could cut through a man''s thigh effortlessly.


    Reptilian, striding on hind legs like giant wingless birds and leaning forward with the counterweight of long, tapering tails, the undead apparitions wore strangely mottled armour: across the shoulders, on the chest to either side of the jutting sternum, and high on the hips. Skull-cap helmets, low and long, protected head and nape, with sweeping cheek-guards meeting over the snout to join and bend sharply to form a bridge-guard.


    At Gruntle''s side Keruli hissed. ''K''Chain Che''Malle. K''ell Hunters, these ones. Firstborn of every brood. The Matron''s own children. Fading memories even to the Elder gods, this knowledge. Now, in my heart, I feel dismay.''


    ''What in Hood''s name are they waiting for?'' the captain growled.


    ''Uneasy ¡ª the swirling cloud that is Barghast sorcery. An unknown to their master.''


    Disbelieving, the captain asked, ''The Pannion Seer commands these-''


    The five hunters attacked. Heads darting forward, blades rising, they were a blur. Three struck for the Barghast, plunging towards that thick, twisting fog. The other two charged Bauchelain and Korbal Broach.


    Moments before reaching the cloud, three lances flashed out, all striking the lead hunter. Sorcery ripped through the beast''s withered, lifeless flesh with a sound like spikes driven into ¡ª then through ¡ª tree trunks. Dark grey muscle tissue, bronze-hued bone and swaths of burning hide flew in all directions. The hunter''s head wobbled atop a shattered neck. The K''Chain Che''Malle staggered, then collapsed, even as its two kin swept round it and vanished into the sorcerous cloud. Iron on iron rang explosively from within.

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    Before Bauchelain and Korbal Broach, the other two hunters were engulfed in roiling, black waves of sorcery before they had taken two strides. The magic lacerated their bodies, splashed rotting, acidic stains that devoured their hides. The beasts drove through without pause, to be met by the two mages ¡ª both wearing ankle-length coats of black chain, both wielding hand-and-a-half swords that trailed streamers of smoke.


    '' ''Ware behind us!'' Harllo suddenly screamed.


    Gruntle spun.


    To see a sixth hunter darting through screaming, bolting horses, charging directly for Keruli. Unlike the other K''Chain Che''Malle, this creature''s hide was covered in intricate markings, and bore a dorsal ridge of steel spikes running down its spine.


    Gruntle threw a shoulder against Keruli, sending the man sprawling. Ducking low, he threw up both cutlasses in time to catch a horizontal slash from one of the hunter''s massive blades. The Gadrobi steel rang deafeningly, the impact bolting like shocks up the captain''s arms. Gruntle heard more than felt his left wrist snap, the broken ends of the bones grinding and twisting impossibly before suddenly senseless hands released the cutlasses ¡ª wheeling, spinning away. The hunter''s second blade should have cut him in half. Instead, it clashed against Harllo''s two-handed sword. Both weapons shattered. Harllo lurched away, his chest and face spraying blood from a savage hail of iron shards.


    A taloned, three-toed foot struck Gruntle on an upward track. Grunting, the captain was thrown into the air. Pain exploded in his skull as he collided with the hunter''s jaw, snapping the creature''s head up with a bone-breaking, crunching sound.


    Stunned, the breath driven from his lungs, Gruntle fell to the ground in a heap. An enormous weight pinned him, talons puncturing armour to pierce flesh. The three toes clenched around his chest, snapping bones, and he felt himself dragged forward. The scales of his armour clicked and clattered, dropping away as he was pulled along through dust and gravel. Twisted buckles and clasps dug into the earth. Blind, limbs flopping, Gruntle felt the talons digging ever deeper. He coughed and his mouth filled with frothy blood. The world darkened.


    He felt the talons shudder, as if resonating from some massive blow. Another followed, then another. The claws spasmed. Then he was lifted into the air again, sent flying. Striking the ground, rolling, crashing up against the shattered spokes of a carriage wheel.


    He felt himself dying, knew himself dying. He forced his eyes open, desperate for one last look upon the world ¡ª something, anything to drive away this overwhelming sense of confused sadness. Could it not have been sudden? Instant? Why this lingering, bemused draining away? Gods, even the pain is gone ¡ª why not awareness itself? Why torture me with the knowing of what I am about to surrender?


    Someone was shrieking, the sound one of dying, and Gruntle understood it at once. Oh yes, scream your defiance, your terror and your rage ¡ª scream at that web even as it closes about you. Waves of sound out into the mortal world, one last time- The shrieks fell away, and now there was silence, save for the stuttering heart in Gruntle''s chest.


    He knew his eyes were open, yet he could see nothing. Either Korbal Broach''s spell of light had failed, or the captain had found his own darkness.


    Stumbling, that heart. Slowing, fading like a pale horse riding away down a road. Farther, fainter, fainter.


    BOOK TWO


    HEARTHSTONE


    Midnight comes often in the dusk of my life, when I look back upon all that I have survived. The deaths of so many for whom I cared and loved in my heart, have expunged all sense of glory from my thoughts. To have escaped those random fates has lost all triumph.


    I know you have seen me, friend, my lined face and silent regard, the cold calcretions that slow my embittered pace, as I walk down the last years, clothed in darkness as are all old men, haunted by memories.


    The Road Before You


    Jhorum of Capustan


    CHAPTER SEVEN


    And all who would walk the fields


    when the Boar of Summer strides


    in drum-beat hooves,


    and the Iron Forest converges


    to its fated, inevitable clash ¡ª all,


    all are as children, as children once more.


    Fener''s Reve


    Destriant Dellem (b?)


    Born on a sea dark as spiced wine, the wind moaned its way across the seaside killing ground, over and around the East Watch on its low, brick-strewn hill, where faint torchlight glimmered from the fortress''s battened shutters. The wind''s voice rose in pitch as it rolled up against the city''s mortarless walls, flinging salty spray against its rounded, weathered stone. Rising then, the night''s breath reached the battlements and swept between the merlons and along the platforms, then down into Capustan''s curving, undulating streets, where not a soul stirred.

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    From the corner tower parapet looming above the ancient barracks, Karnadas stood facing the storm, alone, his boar-maned cloak whipping in the savage gusts. Though the parapet''s killing arc guarded the southeast approach, from his position he could just make out, five hundred paces to the north along the wall, the object of his fiercest attention.


    The brooding, cliff-like palace of Prince Jelarkan was like no other building in Capustan. Windowless, the grey-stoned structure towered in a chaotic confusion of planes, angles, overhangs and seemingly pointless ledges. It rose well above the flanking coast-facing wall, and in his mind''s eye the mercenary watched huge boulders arcing towards it from the killing field beyond, crashing into its sides, sending the whole edifice down into ruin.


    Unworthy of you. Where resides the comforting knowledge of history''s vast, cyclical sweep, the ebb and flow of wars and of peace? Peace is the time of waiting for war. A time of preparation, or a time of wilful ignorance, blind, blinkered and prattling behind secure walls.


    Within the palace, the Mortal Sword Brukhalian was mired in yet another meeting with the prince and a half-dozen representatives of the Mask Council. The Grey Swords'' commander forbore such tangled marathons with what seemed to Karnadas superhuman patience. I would never have suffered this spider-bitten dance, not this long, not night after night, weeks on end. Still, it''s remarkable what can be achieved even as the debates rage on, and on. How many of the Mortal Sword''s ¡ª and Prince Jelarkan''s ¡ª proposals have already been implemented, whilst the wrangling continues unending and those masked bastards utter their lists of objections in all ignorance. It''s too late, you fools ¡ª we''ve already done what we could. to save your damned city.


    In his mind''s eye rose the fur-painted, articulated mask of the one priest on the Council he and the company should have been able to count on as an ally. Rath''Fener spoke for the Boar of Summer ¡ª the Grey Swords'' own patron god. But political ambition consumes you, as it does your rivals in the Council. You kneel before summer''s bloody tusk, yet. is it naught but a lie?


    The wind howled, the only answer to Karnadas''s silent question. Lightning lit the clouds churning over the distant bay. Rath''Fener was a priest of the Sceptred Rank, a veteran of temple politics and thus at the pinnacle of what a mortal could achieve within Fener''s sanctified walls. But the Boar of Summer is not a civilized god. Ranks and orders and ivory-clasped gowns. secular pomp, petty plays of arrogance in the pursuit of mundane power. No, I must not impugn Rath''Fener with questions of his faith ¡ª he serves our god in his own way.


    The Boar of Summer was the voice of war. Dark and grisly, as ancient as humanity itself. The song of battle ¡ª the screams of the dying and the vengeful, the discordant, hacking music of iron weapons, of shields resounding to blows, of hissing arrows and quarrels ¡­ And forgive us all, the voice grows to a roar. It is not the time to hide behind temple walls. Not the time for foolish politics. We serve Fener by striding the soaked, steaming earth, weapons bared in quicksilver promise. We are the clash and clangour, the bellows of rage, pain and terror ¡­


    Rath''Fener was not the only priest of the Boar in this city to have achieved a Sceptred Rank. The difference was this: while Rath''Fener possessed such an ambition ¡ª to kneel before the boar cloak and humbly assume the ancient title of Destriant, vacant for so long ¡ª Karnadas had already achieved it.


    Karnadas could put Rath''Fener in his place with a simple unveiling of his own position in the mortal hierarchy. In his place? I could depose the bastard with a gesture. But Brukhalian had forbidden him that sweet revelation. Nor could the Mortal Sword be swayed. The time for such a move was not propitious, he''d said, its yield as yet of too low a currency. Patience, Karnadas, that time will come.


    Not an easy thing to accept¡­


    ''Is this a welcome night, Destriant?''


    ''Ah, Itkovian, I did not see you there in the gloom. ''Tis the Boar''s storm, this night. So, how long have you stood there, Shield Anvil?'' How long, in your cold, closed-in fashion, have you stared upon your High Priest? Black-mannered Itkovian, will you ever unsheathe your true self?


    There was no way to read the man''s expression in the darkness. ''Moments only, Destriant.''


    ''Does sleep elude you, sir?''


    ''Not when I seek it.''


    Looking upon the Shield Anvil''s blue chain surcoat beneath the grey rain-cape, the wrist-length cuffed gauntlets now slick and black with rain, Karnadas slowly nodded. ''I had not realized it was so close to dawn. Do you anticipate being gone for long?''