'No they ain't. See the tallest one there, with the long white hair.

His name is Nimander Golit. And that pretty woman beside him, that's Phaed, his first daughter. All seven of 'em are cousins, sisters, brothers, but it's Nimander who leads, since he's the oldest. Nimander says he is the first son of the Son.'

'The what?'

'The Son of Darkness, Banaschar. Know who that is? That's Anomander Rake. Look at 'em, they're all Rake's brood – grandchildren mostly, except for Nimander, who's father to a lot of 'em, but not all. Now, maybe someone's got a hate on for foreigners – you really think that someone would be stupid enough to go after the whelps of Anomander Rake?'

Banaschar turned slightly, stared over at the figures. He slowly blinked, then shook his head. 'Not unless they're suicidal.'

'Right, and that's something you'd know all about, ain't it?'

'So, if Anomander Rake is Nimander's father, who was the mother?'

'Ah, you're not completely blind, then. You can see, can't you?

Different mothers, for some of 'em. And one of those mothers wasn't no Tiste Andii, was she? Look at Phaed-'

'I can only see the back of her head.'

'Whatever. I looked at her, and I asked her that very same question you just asked me.'

'What?'

' "Who was your mother?" '

'Mine?'

'And she smiled – and I nearly died, Banaschar, and I mean it. Nearly died. Bursting blood vessels in my brain, toppling over nearly died.

Anyway, she told me, and it wasn't no Tiste Andii kind of name, and from the looks of her I'd say the other half was human, but then again, can you really tell with these things? Not really.'

'No, really, what was the name?'

'Lady Envy, who used to know Anomander Rake himself, and got her revenge taking his son as a lover. Messy, eh? But if she was anything like that Phaed there, with that smile, well, envy's the only word – for every other woman in the world. Gods below… hey, Banaschar, what's wrong? You suddenly look real sick. The ale's not that bad, not like what we had last night, anyway. Look, if you're thinking of fillin' a plate on the tabletop, there ain't no plate, right? And the boards are warped, and that means it'll sluice onto my legs, and that' ll get me very annoyed – for Hood's sake, man, draw a damned breath!'

Leaning on the scarred, stained bartop fifteen paces away, the man Banaschar called Foreigner nursed a flagon of Malaz Dark, a brew for which he had acquired a taste, despite the expense. He heard the expriest and the Master Sergeant arguing back and forth at a table behind him, something they had been doing a lot of lately. On other nights, Foreigner reflected, he would have joined them, leaning back to enjoy what would be an entertaining – if occasionally sad – performance.

But not tonight.

Not with them, sitting back there.

He needed to think, now, and think hard. He needed to come to a decision, and he sensed, with a tremor of fear, that upon that decision rode his destiny.

'Coop, another Dark here, will you?'

The carrack Drowned Rat looked eager to pull away from the stone pier south of the rivermouth as the tide tugged fitfully on its way out.

Scrubbed hull, fresh paint, and a bizarre lateen rig and centre-stern steering oar had garnered the curious attention of more than a few sailors and fisher folk who'd wandered past in the last few days.

Irritating enough, the captain mused, but Oponn was still smiling nice twin smiles, and before long they'd be on their way, finally. Out of this damned city and the sooner the better.

First Mate Palet was lying curled up on the mid deck, still nursing the bruises and knocks he'd taken from a drunken mob the night before.

The captain's lizard gaze settled on him for a moment, before moving on. They were docked, trussed up neat, and Vole was perched in his oversized crow's nest – the man was mad as a squirrel with a broken tail – and everything seemed about right, so right, in fact, that the captain's nerves were a taut, tangled mess.

It wasn't just the fever of malice afflicting damned near everyone – with all those acid rumours of betrayal and murder in Seven Cities, and now the unofficial pogrom unleashed against the Wickans – there was, in addition, all that other stuff.

Scratching at the stubble on his scalp, Cartheron Crust turned and fixed narrow eyes on Mock's Hold. Mostly dark, of course. Faint glow from the gatehouse top of the Stairs – that would be Lubben, the old hunchback keeper, probably passed out by now as was his wont whenever the Hold had uninvited guests. Of course, all guests were uninvited, and even though a new Fist had arrived a month ago, that man Aragan had been posted here before and so he knew the way things worked best – and that was lying as low as you could, not once lifting your head above the parapet. Who knows? Aragan's probably sharing that bottle with Lubben.

Uninvited guests… like High Mage Tayschrenn. Long ago, now, Crust had found himself in that snake's company all too often, and he'd struggled hard not to do something somebody'd probably regret. Not me, though. The Emperor, maybe. Tayschrenn himself, definitely, but not me. He would dream of a moment alone, just the two of them. A moment, that was all he'd need. Both hands on that scrawny neck, squeeze and twist. Done. Simple. Problem solved.

What problem? That's what Kellanved would have asked, in his usual apoplectic way. And Crust had an answer waiting. No idea, Emperor, but I'm sure there was one, maybe two, maybe plenty. A good enough reply, he figured, although Kellanved might not have agreed. Dancer would've, though. Hah.

'Four dromons!' Vole called down suddenly.

Crust stared up at the idiot. 'We're in the harbour! What did you expect? That's it, Vole, no more sending your meals up there – haul your carcass down here!'

'Cutting in from the north, Captain. 'Top the masts… something glinting silver…'

Crust's scowl deepened. It was damned dark out there. But Vole was never wrong. Silver… that's not good. No, that's plain awful. He strode over to Palet and nudged the man. 'Get up. Send what's left of the crew back to those warehouses – I don't care who's guarding them, bribe the bastards. I want us low in the water and scuttling outa here like a three-legged crab.'

The man looked up at him with owlish eyes. 'Captain?'

'Did they knock all sense from your brain, Palet? Trouble's coming.'

Sitting up, the First Mate looked round. 'Guards?'

'No, a whole lot troubler.'

'Like what?'

'Like the Empress, you fool.'

Palet was suddenly on his feet. 'Supplies, aye, sir. We're on our way!'

Crust watched the fool scamper. The crew was drunk. Too bad for them.

They were sorely undermanned, too. It'd been a bad idea, diving into the bay when old Ragstopper went down, what with all those sharks.

Four good sailors had been lost that night. Good sailors, bad swimmers. Funny how that goes together.

He looked round once more. Damn, done forgot again, didn't I? No dinghies. Well, there's always something.

Four dromons, visible now, rounding into the bay, back-lit by one of the ugliest storms he'd ever seen. Well, not entirely true – he'd seen the like once before, hadn't he? And what had come of it? Not a whole lot… except, that is, a mountain of otataral…

The lead dromon – Laseen's flagship, The Surly. Three in her wake.

Three, that was a lot – who in Hood's name has she brought with her? A damned army?

Uninvited guests.

Poor Aragan.