'Oh,' Bottle whispered, 'this is bad.'

Fiddler clutched at his sleeve, pulled him close. 'Do you understand this?' the sergeant demanded in a harsh whisper.

Bottle shook his head.

'Is this – is this another Crippled God?'

Bottle stared at Fiddler, eyes widening. Another? 'Gods below!'

'Is it?'

'I don't know!'

Swearing, Fiddler pushed him away. Bottle staggered back, shouldering into Sergeant Balm – who barely reacted – then he twisted through the press, stumbling as he made his way clear, looked across the waters.

To the south, the Nemil ships – war biremes and supply transports – had every sheet to the wind as they raced back towards their homeland, the former swiftly outdistancing the latter, many of the transports still half-filled with cargo – the resupply abandoned.

Aye, it's every fool for himself now. But when those things hit, that shock wave will roll fast. It will smash us all into kindling. Poor bastards, you'll never make it. Not even those ugly biremes.

The unceasing wind seemed to pause, as if gathering breath, then returned with redoubled force, sending everyone on deck staggering.

Sailcloth bucked, mast and spars creaking – the Silanda groaned beneath them.

Quick Ben? Best make your escape now, and take whoever you can with you. Against what's coming… there is no illusion that will dissuade it. As for those Tiste Edur, well, they're as finished as we are. I will accept that as consolation.

Well, Grandma, you always said the sea will be the death of me.

Sergeant Hellian wandered across the deck, marvelling at the green world she had found. This Nemil brandy packed a punch, didn't it just?

People were screaming, or just standing, as if frozen in place, but that's how things usually were, those times she accidentally – oops – slipped over that blurry line of not-quite drunk. Still, this green was making her a little sick.

Hood-damned Nemil brandy – what idiots drank this rubbish? Well, she could trade it for some Falari sailor's rum. There were enough idiots on this ship who didn't know better, she just had to find one. A sailor, like that one there.

'Hey. Look, I got N'm'l brandy, but I'm thirsty for rum, right? Paid ten crescents for this, I know, it's a lot, but my squad, they love me y'see. Took up a c'lection. So's, I'm thinking, how 'bout we trade.

Straight across, baw'll for baw'll. Sure, I drunk most a this, but it' s worth more, right. Which, as you can see, e'ens thingzup.' Then she waited.

The man was a tall bastard. Kind of severe looking. Other people were staring – what was their problem, anyway?

Then the man took the bottle, swished it back and forth and frowned.

He drank it down, three quick swallows.

'Hey-'

And reached beneath his fancy cloak, drawing out a flask, which he passed across to her. 'Here, soldier,' he said. 'Now get below and drink until you pass out.'

She collected the flask with both hands, marvelling at its polished silver surface, even the gouge that ran diagonally across one side, and the sigils stamped into it, very nice. The Imperial Sceptre, and four old ones – the ones that used to identify flagships – she'd seen those before. There, that was Cartheron Crust's, and that one was Urko's, and that one she didn't know, but the last one was the same as on the flag up top of this ship she was on. That's a coincidence now, ain't it? She blinked at the man. 'Can't,' she said. 'I got orders-'

'I am countermanding those orders, Sergeant.'

'You can do that?'

'Under these circumstances, yes.'

'Well then, I'll never forget you, sailor. Promise. Now, where's the hatch…?'

He guided her, with one firm hand on her shoulder, in the right direction. Clutching the beautiful and beautifully swishing flask against her chest, Hellian made her way along, through the green murk, and all the staring faces. She stuck out her tongue.

They can get their own.

Apsalar turned at the sigh from the Adjunct.

Tavore's expression was… philosophic, as she stared at the eastern horizon. 'Humbling, is it not?'

'Yes, Adjunct, I suppose it is.'

'All of our plans… our conceits… as if the sheer force of our wills, each of us, can somehow ensure that all else remains unchanged around us, awaiting naught but what we do, what we say.'

'The gods-'

'Yes, I know. But that' – she nodded eastward – 'does not belong to them.'

'No?'

'It is too devastating, soldier. Neither side is that desperate… yet. And now,' she shrugged, 'even their games dwindle into insignificance.'

'Adjunct,' Apsalar said, 'you lack confidence.'

'Do I? In what?'

'Our resilience.'

'Perhaps.'

But Apsalar could feel her own confidence crumbling, clinging to a single thought – and the resolve behind that thought was itself weakening. Even so. A single thought. This – this was anticipated. By someone. It had to be.

Someone saw this coming.

Most people were blind, wilfully or otherwise. But, there were some who weren't.

So now, my prescient friend, you had better do something about it. And quick.

Ormulogun, trailed by his toad, stumbled into view, an overflowing leather satchel in his arms. The toad was bleating something about delusional artists and the brutal world in a tone of pessimistic satisfaction. Ormulogun tripped and fell almost at Paran's feet, the satchel tipping and spilling its contents – including scores of wooden cards, most of them blank.

'You've barely started! You damned fool!'

'Perfection!' Ormulogun shrieked. 'You said-'

'Never mind,' Paran snarled. He looked back at the eastern sky. Spears of fire were descending like rain. 'Mainland? Into the sea?' he wondered aloud. 'Or Otataral Island?'

'Maybe all three,' Noto Boil said, licking his lips.

'Well,' Paran said, crouching down and clearing a space in the sand before him, 'sea's worse. That means…' He began drawing with his index finger.

'I have some!' Ormulogun whimpered, fumbling through the cards.

Mael. I hope you're paying attention – I hope you're ready to do what needs doing. He studied the streaks he had etched in the sand. Enough?

It has to be. Closing his eyes, he focused his will. The Gate is before me'I have this one!'

The shout was loud in Paran's right ear, and even as the force of his will was unleashed, he opened his eyes – and saw, hovering before him, another cardAnd all of his power rushed into itOnto his knees, skidding on clay that deformed beneath him, hands thrusting out to catch himself. Grey air, a charnel stench, and Paran lifted his head. Before him stood a gate, a mass of twisted bones and pale, bruised flesh, dangling strands of hair, innumerable staring eyes, and beyond it was grey, murky oblivion.

'Oh, Hood.'

He was at the very threshold. He had damned near flung himself right throughA figure appeared in the portal, black-cloaked, cowled, tall. This isn't one of his servants. This is the hoary old bastard himself'Is there time for such unpleasant thoughts, mortal?' The voice was mild, only faintly rasping. 'With what is about to happen… well, Ganoes Paran, Master of the Deck of Dragons, you have positioned yourself in a most unfortunate place, unless you wish to be trampled by the multitudes who shall momentarily find themselves on this path.'

'Oh, be quiet, Hood,' Paran hissed, trying to climb to his feet, then stopping when he realized that doing so would not be a good idea. '

Help me. Us. Stop what's coming – it'll destroy-'

'Far too much, yes. Too many plans. I can do little, however. You have sought out the wrong god.'

'I know. I was trying for Mael.'

'Pointless…' Yet, even as Hood spoke that word, Paran detected a certain… hesitation.