Utterly, without question. You cannot be blind to this, to what it means.

'You are looking upon joy, Mappo Runt. In the face of this, I will not obsess on my own pain, my own suffering, do you understand? I will not.'

Ah, spirits below, you break my heart, woman. He looked back at the two men, then across to where Scillara held Crokus in her arms, stroking the man's hair as he came round. Broken, by all this. Again.

I had… forgotten.

Iskaral Pust was dancing round Mogora, who watched him with a sour expression, her face contracting until it resembled a dried-up prune.

Then, in a moment when the High Priest drew too close, she lashed out with a kick that swept his feet out from beneath him. He thumped hard onto the deck, then began swearing. 'Despicable woman! Woman, did I say woman? Hah! You're what a shedding snake leaves behind! A sickly snake! With scabs and pustules and weals and bunions-'

'I heard you lusting after me, you disgusting creep!'

'I tried to, you mean! In desperation, but even imminent death was not enough! Do you understand? Not enough!'

Mogora advanced on him.

Iskaral Pust squealed, then slithered his way beneath the mule. 'Come any closer, hag, and my servant will kick you! Do you know how many fools die each year from a mule kick? You'd be surprised.'

The Dal Honese witch hissed at him, then promptly collapsed into a swarm of spiders – that raced everywhere, and moments later not one remained in sight.

The High Priest, his eyes wide, looked about frantically, then began scratching beneath his clothes. 'Oh! You awful creature!'

Mappo's bemused attention was drawn away by Crokus, who had moved towards Barathol and Chaur.

'Barathol,' the Daru said. 'There was no chance?'

The man looked over, then shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Cutter. But, he saved Chaur's life. Even dead, he saved Chaur.'

'What do you mean?'

'The body was glowing,' Barathol said. 'Bright green. It's how I saw them. Chaur was snagged in the bolt cloth – I had to cut him free. I could not carry both of them to the surface – I barely made it-'

'It's all right,' Crokus said.

'He sank, down and down, and the glow ebbed. The darkness swallowed him. But listen, you got him close enough – do you understand? Not all the way, but close enough. Whatever happened, whatever saved us all, it came from him.'

Mappo spoke: 'Crokus – it is Cutter, now, yes? Cutter, who are you speaking about? Did someone else drown?'

'No, Mappo. I mean, not really. A friend, he died – I, well, I was trying to take his body to the island – it's where he wanted to go, you see. To give something back.'

Something. 'I believe your friend here is right, then,' the Trell said. 'You brought him close enough. To make a difference, to do what even death could not prevent him doing.'

'He was named Heboric Ghost Hands.'

'I will remember that name, then,' Mappo said. 'With gratitude.'

'You… you look different.' Cutter was frowning. 'Those tattoos.'

Then his eyes widened, and he asked what Mappo feared he would ask. '

Where? Where is he?'

Doors within the Trell that had cracked open suddenly slammed shut once more. He looked away. 'I lost him.'

'You lost him?'

'Gone.' Yes, I failed him. I failed us all. He could not look at the Daru. He could not bear it. My shame…

'Oh, Mappo, I am sorry.'

You are… what?

A hand settled on his shoulder, and that was too much. He could feel the tears, the grief flooding his eyes, running down. He flinched away. 'My fault… my fault…'

Spite stood watching for a moment longer. Mappo, the Trell. Who walked with Icarium. Ah, he now blames himself. I understand. My… that is… unfortunate. But such was our intent, after all. And, there is the chance – the one chance I most cherish. Icarium, he may well encounter my sister, before all of this is done. Yes, that would be sweet, delicious, a taste I could savour for a long, long time. Are you close enough, Envy, to sense my thoughts? My… desire? I hope so.

But no, this was not the time for such notions, alluring as they were.

Aching still with wounds, she turned and studied the wild, roiling clouds above Otataral Island. Blooms of colour, as if flames ravaged the land, tongues of fire flickering up those gargantuan jade arms, spinning from the fingers. Above the seething dome, night was dimming the penumbra of dust and smoke, where slashes of falling matter still cut through every now and then.

Spite then faced the west, the mainland. Whoever you are… thank you.

With a gasp, Paran opened his eyes, to find himself pitching forward – sandy gravel rising fast – then he struck, grunting with the impact.

His arms felt like unravelled ropes as he slowly dragged them up, sufficiently to push himself onto his side, which let him roll onto his back.

Above him, a ring of faces, all looking down.

'High Fist,' Rythe Bude asked, 'did you just save the world?'

'And us with it?' Noto Boil added, then frowned. 'Never mind that one, sir. After all, in answering the Fist's query, the second is implicitly-'

'Be quiet,' Paran said. 'If I saved the world – and by no means would I make such a claim – I am already regretting it. Does anyone have some water? With where I've just come back from, I've got a rather unpleasant taste in my mouth.'

Skins sloshed into view.

But Paran held up a hand. 'The east – how bad does it look?'

'Should have been much, much worse, sir,' Fist Rythe Bude said. '

There's a real ruckus over there, but nothing's actually coming out, if you understand me.'

'Good.' Good.

Oh, Hood. Did you truly mean it?

Gods, me and my promises…

Night to the east was a lurid, silent storm. Standing near the Adjunct, with Nil and Nether a few strides off to one side, Fist Keneb shivered beneath his heavy cloak, despite the peculiar, dry sultriness of the steady wind. He could not comprehend what had happened beyond that eastern horizon, not before, not now. The descent of green-flamed suns, the raging maelstrom. And, for a time there, a pervasive malaise enshrouding everyone – from what was coming, it had seemed, there would be no reprieve, no escape, no hope of survival.

Such a notion had, oddly enough, calmed Keneb. When struggle was meaningless, all pressure simply drained away. It struck him, now, that there was something to be said for holding on to such sentiments.

After all, death was itself inevitable, wasn't it? Inescapable – what point scratching and clawing in a doomed effort to evade it?

The comfort of that was momentary, alas. Death took care of itself – it was in life, in living, that things mattered. Acts, desires, motives, fears, the gifts of joy and the bitter taste of failure – a feast we must all attend.

At least until we leave.

Stars wavered overhead, streaks of cloud clung to the north, the kind that made Keneb think of snow. And yet here I stand sweating, the sweat cooling, this chill fashioned not by night or the wind, but by exhaustion. Nether had said something about this wind, its urgency, the will behind it. Thus, not natural. A god, then, manipulating us yet again.

The fleets of Nemil patrolled a vast stretch of this coast. Their war biremes were primitive, awkward-looking, never straying far from the rocky shoreline. That shoreline traditionally belonged to the Trell, but there had been wars, generations of wars, and now Nemil settlements dotted the bays and inlets, and the Trell, who had never been seafarers, had been driven far inland, into the hills, a dwindling enclave surrounded by settlers. Keneb had seen mixed-bloods among the Nemil crews in the trader ships that sailed out with supplies.