‘So long as you don’t poke my eye out.’

‘Don’t make me – oh, right. I’ll be careful. I promise.’

‘Just so long as you understand, Shurq, I normally don’t do this with my employees. Especially dead ones.’

‘I don’t see why you had to bring that up. It’s not like I can help it.’

‘I know. But it’s, uh, well

‘Creepy?’

‘You’re lovely and all that, I mean, Selush was brilliant – the best work she’s ever done.’

‘Think how I feel, Tehol? Errant knows, you’re no Ublala.’

‘Why, thank you.’

‘Now, take your clothes off. I’m sure it won’t take long anyway.’

The street was mostly unobstructed, allowing Moroch Nevath to make good time on his approach to the old palace. His horse would probably never fully recover from the journey down from High Fort. There was a Bluerose trainer in the palace, he had heard – although he had never seen the man – who was said to heal horses. If he found the time, he might hunt him down.

A figure stepped into the street ahead.

Recognizing the man, Moroch reined in. ‘Turudal Brizad.’

‘Finadd. I barely recognized you.’

‘You’re not alone in that, First Consort. Now, I am off to report to the Preda.’

‘You will find her in the throne room. Finadd, I may have need of you shortly.’

Moroch scowled. ‘For what?’

The man smiled. ‘Specifically, your skill with the sword.’

‘Who do you want me to kill, Brizad? Some irate husband, an outraged wife? I think Gerun Eberict would better suit your requirements in such matters.’

‘I wish it were that simple, Finadd. Ideally, I would seek out Brys oeddict, but he has other tasks before him-’

‘So do I.’

‘The Preda will assign you to protection of the Royal Household, such as it is-’

‘That is the task of the King’s Champion.’

‘Yes. Meaning you will find yourself with some time on your hands.’

Moroch’s scowl deepened. ‘I intend to accompany the Preda when she marches, First Consort.’

Turudal sighed. ‘You are no longer trusted, Finadd. You failed both the prince and the queen. It would have been preferable had you diec in the endeavour at High Fort.’

‘I was injured. Separated from my charges. I could not even find ther once the battle commenced-’

‘Tragic, Finadd, but such stones make no splash on a frozen lake. What I offer you is an opportunity for redemption, for your name to be hailed in history. I am certain, Moroch Nevath, that you will receive no comparable offer from anyone else.’

The Finadd studied the man standing before him. He’d always made Moroch’s skin crawl. Too slick, too perfumed. Too smug. Now more than ever. ‘There is nothing you can offer me-’

‘Finadd, I want you to kill a god.’

Moroch sneered, said nothing.

Turudal Brizad smiled, then said, ‘The god of the Jheck. And where can you find this god? Why, here in the city. Waiting for the arrival of its savage worshippers.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘Kill the god, Moroch Nevath, and the Tiste Edur will lose their allies.’

‘We will speak more on this,’ the Finadd said in a growl. ‘But for now, I must go.’

‘Of course. You have my sympathies, by the way. I know you could have done nothing to save Quillas or Janall-’

‘Save your breath, First Consort.’ Moroch snapped the reins, sending his horse forward, forcing Turudal Brizad to step aside hastily to avoid being knocked down.

Bugg found Kettle hunched against the door of the tower. She was shivering, knees drawn up, her head down.

‘Child?’

A muffled reply. ‘Go away.’

He crouched beside her. ‘How bad is it?’

‘I’m hungry. My stomach hurts. The bites itch.’

‘You’re alive, then.’ He saw her head nod. ‘And you’d rather be dead.’ Another nod. ‘We need to get you some new clothes. Some food, and water. We need to find you shelter – you can’t stay here any longer.’

‘But I have to! He needs my help!’

Bugg rose. ‘I think I’ll walk the grounds.’

‘Don’t. It’s too dangerous.’

‘I’ll be all right, lass. No need to worry about Grandfather Bugg. And then I’ll come back here, and you and I will head to the Downs Market.’

She looked up then, regarded him with red-rimmed eyes that looked far older than the rest of her face. ‘I have no money.’

‘Me neither,’ Bugg said, smiling. ‘But a lot of people owe me.’

He headed into the grounds. The earth was hot beneath his worn sandals. Most of the insects had died or moulted, their bodies crunching underfoot. Withered roots had been pushed to the surface, split and peeling. Stained fragments of bone were visible, pieces of skull and fractured long-bones, the occasional oversized vertebra. The crumpled remains of barrows were on all sides.

So much history had been lost, destroyed beneath this steaming earth. A good thing, too, since most of it was unpleasant. Unfortunately, a few hoary nightmares remained. The meanest of the lot, in fact.

And one of them had sworn to help. Against the others.

All in all, Bugg decided, not a promising situation.

‘A stranger among us.’

He halted, frowning. ‘Who speaks?’

‘My brothers welcome you. I welcome you. Come closer. Hold out your hand, draw us forth. Your rewards will be endless.’

‘So will my regret. No, I’m afraid I cannot oblige you, Toblakai.’

‘You have taken one step too many, stranger. It is too late. You we shall use-’

A surge of power, rushing into Bugg’s mind, seeking domination – then gone.

‘No. Not you. Come no closer.’

‘I am sorry you found me so unpalatable.’

‘Go away.’

‘You and your brothers are in for a fight,’ Bugg said. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

‘We cannot be defeated.’

‘Oh, how often those words are spoken. How many of your fellow Prisoners said much the same, at one time or another? Always the conceit of the moment.’

‘Hone of this is your concern.’

‘You are right, none of it is. But you should be warned, the child, Kettle, is not to be harmed.’

‘She is nothing to us.’

‘Good. Make sure it stays that way.’

‘Be careful with your threats, stranger.’

‘Ah. You don’t understand, do you? Attack the child, and the one hiding within her will awaken. And that one will annihilate you, and probably everyone else just for good measure.’

‘Who is it that hides within the child?’

‘Its name? I don’t know. But it is Forkrul Assail.’

‘You are lying.’

The manservant shrugged, swung about and made his way back to where Kettle waited. There was time still, he decided, to go shopping.

King Ezgara Diskanar sat on his throne, motionless, pale as dusted marble, the lids of his eyes half lowered as he regarded First Eunuch Nifadas. The scene belonged to an artist, Brys decided. Heavy with gravitas, the colours dark and saturated, a great fall imminent. All here, in this frozen moment. The Eve before the Seventh Closure, the painter might call it, with quiet pleasure at the multitude of meanings hidden in the title.

But there was no artist, no vulture to sit on the wings of civilization’s tottering construct, red-eyed and clucking. The audience consisted of Brys, First Concubine Nisall, Preda Unnutal Hebaz and four of the King’s Guard.

The sun had dropped low enough outside to send shafts of lurid light through the stained glass panels set in the dome, brushing the motes with ugly hues. The air smelled of sweat and lantern smoke.

‘And this,’ King Ezgara finally said, ‘is what awaits my people.’

The First Eunuch’s small eyes blinked. ‘Sire, the soldiers do not welcome the notion of new overlords. They will fight to defend you.’

‘I have seen scant evidence of that thus far, Nifadas.’

The Preda spoke to that. ‘Sire, it quickly became evident that we could not match the enemy in the traditional manner, given the sorcery available to them. It was tactically incumbent that we withdraw, avoiding engagement-’