Lying with lovers also belonged to night, and that made sense, for it was in the midst of true darkness that the first fire of life was born, flickering awake to drive back the unchanging absence of light.

To lie with a lover was to celebrate the creation of fire. From this in the flesh to the world beyond.

Here, in the chasm, night reigned eternal, and there was no fire in the soul, no heat of lovemaking. There was only the promise of death.

And Onrack was impatient with that. There was no glory in waiting for oblivion. No, in an existence bound with true meaning and purpose, oblivion should ever arrive unexpected, unanticipated and unseen. One moment racing full tilt, the next, gone.

As a T'lan Imass of Logros, Onrack had known the terrible cost borne in wars of attrition. The spirit exhausted beyond reason, with no salvation awaiting it, only more of the same. The kin falling to the wayside, shattered and motionless, eyes fixed on some skewed vista – a scene to be watched for eternity, the minute changes measuring the centuries of indifference. Some timid creature scampering through, a plant's exuberant green pushing up from the earth after a rain, birds pecking at seeds, insects building empires…

Trull Sengar came to his side where Onrack stood guarding the chokepoint. 'Monok Ochem says the Edur's presence has… contracted, away from us. For now. As if something made my kin retreat. I feel, my friend, that we have been granted a reprieve – one that is not welcome. I don't know how much longer I can fight.'

'When you can no longer fight in truth, Trull Sengar, the failure will cease to matter.'

'I did not think they would defy her, you know, but now, I see that it makes sense. She expected them to just abandon this, leaving the handful remaining here to their fate. Our fate, I mean.' He shrugged.

'Panek was not surprised.'

'The other children look to him,' Onrack said. 'They would not abandon him. Nor their mothers.'

'And, in staying, they will break the hearts of us all.'

'Yes.'

The Tiste Edur looked over. 'Have you come to regret the awakening of emotions within you, Onrack?'

'This awakening serves to remind me, Trull Sengar.'

'Of what?'

'Of why I am called "The Broken".'

'As broken as the rest of us.'

'Not Monok Ochem, nor Ibra Gholan.'

'No, not them.'

'Trull Sengar, when the attackers come, I would you know – I intend to leave your side.'

'Indeed?'

'Yes. I intend to challenge their leader. To slay him or be destroyed in the attempt. Perhaps, if I can deliver a truly frightful cost, they will reconsider their alliance with the Crippled God. At the very least, they may withdraw and not return for a long time.'

'I understand.' Trull then smiled in the gloom. 'I will miss your presence at my side in those final moments, my friend.'

'Should I succeed in what I intend, Trull Sengar, I shall return to your side.'

'Then you had better be quick killing that leader.'

'Such is my intention.'

'Onrack, I hear something new in your voice.'

'Yes.'

'What does it mean?'

'It means, Trull Sengar, that Onrack the Broken, in discovering impatience, has discovered something else.'

'What?'

'This: I am done with defending the indefensible. I am done with witnessing the fall of friends. In the battle to come, you shall see in me something terrible. Something neither Ibra Gholan nor Monok Ochem can achieve. Trull Sengar, you shall see a T'lan Imass, awakened to anger.'

Banaschar opened the door, wavered for a moment, leaning with one hand against the frame, then staggered into his decrepit room. The rank smell of sweat and unclean bedding, stale food left on the small table beneath the barred window. He paused, considering whether or not to light the lantern – but the oil was low and he'd forgotten to buy more. He rubbed at the bristle on his chin, more vigorously than normal since it seemed his face had gone numb.

A creak from the chair against the far wall, six paces distant.

Banaschar froze in place, seeking to pierce the darkness. 'Who's there?' he demanded.

'There are few things in this world,' said the figure seated in the chair, 'more pathetic than a once-Demidrek fallen into such disrepair, Banaschar. Stumbling drunk into this vermin-filled hovel every night – why are you here?'

Banaschar stepped to his right and sank heavily onto the cot. 'I don't know who you are,' he said, 'so I see no reason to answer you.'

A sigh, then, 'You send, one after another for a while there, cryptic messages. Pleading, with increasing desperation, to meet with the Imperial High Mage.'

'Then you must realize,' Banaschar said, struggling to force sobriety into his thoughts – the terror was helping – 'that the matter concerns only devotees of D'rek-'

'A description that no longer fits either you or Tayschrenn.'

'There are things,' Banaschar said, 'that cannot be left behind.

Tayschrenn knows this, as much as I-'

'Actually, the Imperial High Mage knows nothing.' A pause, accompanying a gesture that Banaschar interpreted as the man studying his fingernails, and something in his tone changed. 'Not yet, that is.

Perhaps not at all. You see, Banaschar, the decision is mine.'

'Who are you?'

'You are not ready yet to know that.'

'Why are you intercepting my missives to Tayschrenn?'

'Well, to be precise, I have said no such thing.'

Banaschar frowned. 'You just said the decision was yours.'

'Yes I did. That decision centres on whether I remain inactive in this matter, as I have been thus far, or – given sufficient cause – I elect to, um, intervene.'

'Then who is blocking my efforts?'

'You must understand, Banaschar, Tayschrenn is the Imperial High Mage first and foremost. Whatever else he once was is now irrelevant-'

'No, it isn't. Not given what I have discovered-'

'Tell me.'

'No.'

'Better yet, Banaschar, convince me.'

'I cannot,' he replied, hands clutching the grimy bedding to either side.

'An imperial matter?'

'No.'

'Well, that is a start. As you said, then, the subject pertains to once-followers of D'rek. A subject, one presumes, related to the succession of mysterious deaths within the cult of the Worm.

Succession? More like slaughter, yes? Tell me, is there anyone left?

Anyone at all?'

Banaschar said nothing.

'Except, of course,' the stranger added, 'those few who have, at some time in the past and for whatever reasons, fallen away from the cult.

From worship.'

'You know too much of this,' Banaschar said. He should never have stayed in this room. He should have been finding different hovels every night. He hadn't thought there'd be anyone, anyone left, who'd remember him. After all, those who might have were now all dead. And I know why. Gods below, how I wish I didn't.

'Tayschrenn,' said the man after a moment, 'is being isolated.

Thoroughly and most efficiently. In my professional standing, I admit to considerable admiration, in fact. Alas, in that same capacity, I am also experiencing considerable alarm.'

'You are a Claw.'

'Very good – at least some intelligence is sifting through that drunken haze, Banaschar. Yes, my name is Pearl.'

'How did you find me?'

'Does that make a difference?'

'It does. To me, it does, Pearl.'

Another sigh and a wave of one hand. 'Oh, I was bored. I followed someone, who, it turned out, was keeping track of you – with whom you spoke, where you went, you know, the usual things required.'

'Required? For what?'

'Why, preparatory, I imagine, to assassination, when that killer's master deems it expedient.'

Banaschar was suddenly shivering, the sweat cold and clammy beneath his clothes. 'There is nothing political,' he whispered, 'nothing that has anything to do with the empire. There is no reason-'