'Does he talk with you much?'

Felisin shook her head. 'Not much. Except when I wake up at night, after my bad dreams. Then he sings to me.'

'Sings?'

'Yes, in his people's language. Songs for children. He says he needs to practise them.'

Scillara shot her a glance. 'Really? Did he say why?'

'No.'

'How old were you, Felisin, when your mother sold you off?'

Another shrug. 'I don't remember.'

That might have been a lie, but Scillara did not pursue it.

Felisin stepped closer. 'Will you take care of me, Scillara?'

'What?'

'I feel as if I am going backwards. I felt… older. Back in Raraku.

Now, with every day, I feel more and more like a child. Smaller, ever smaller.'

Uneasy, Scillara said, 'I have never been much good at taking care of people.'

'I don't think Sha'ik was, either. She had… obsessions…'

'She did fine by you.'

'No, it was mostly Leoman. Even Toblakai. And Heboric, before Treach claimed him. She didn't take care of me, and that's why Bidithal…'

'Bidithal is dead. He got his own balls shoved down his scrawny throat.'

'Yes,' a whisper. 'If what Heboric says really happened. Toblakai…'

Scillara snorted. 'Think on that, Felisin. If Heboric had said that L' oric had done it, or Sha'ik, or even Leoman, well, you might have some reason to doubt. But Toblakai? No, you can believe it. Gods below, how can you not?'

The question forced a faint smile from Felisin and she nodded. 'You are right. Only Toblakai would have done that. Only Toblakai would have killed him… in that way. Tell me, Scillara, do you have a spare pipe?'

'A spare pipe? How about a dozen? Want to smoke them all at once?'

Felisin laughed. 'No, just one. So, you'll take care of me, won't you?'

'I will try.' And maybe she would. Like Greyfrog. Practice. She went looking for that pipe.

Cutter lifted the bucket clear and peered at the water. It looked clean, smelling of nothing in particular. Nonetheless, he hesitated.

Footsteps behind him. 'I found feed,' Heboric said. 'More than we can carry.'

'Think this water is all right? What killed those priests?'

'It's fine. I told you what killed them.'

You did? 'Should we look in the temple?'

'Greyfrog's already in there. I told him to find money, gems, food that hasn't spoiled yet. He wasn't happy about it, so I expect he'll be quick.'

'All right.' Cutter walked to a trough and dumped the water into it, then returned to the well. 'Think we can coax the horses in here?'

'I'll try.' But Heboric made no move to do so.

Cutter glanced over at him, saw the old man's strange eyes fixed on him. 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing, I think. I was noticing something. You have certain qualities, Cutter. Leadership, for one.'

The Daru scowled. 'If you want to be in charge, fine, go ahead.'

'I wasn't twisting a knife, lad. I meant what I said. You have taken command, and that's good. It's what we need. I have never been a leader. I've always followed. It's my curse. But that's not what they want to hear. Not from me. No, they want me to lead them out. Into freedom. I keep telling them, I know nothing of freedom.'

'Them? Who? Scillara and Felisin?'

'I'll get the horses,' Heboric said, turning about and walking off in his odd, toad-like gait.

Cutter refilled the bucket and poured the water into the trough. They would feed the horses here with what they couldn't take with them.

Load up on water. And, even now, loot the temple. Well, he had been a thief once, long ago. Besides, the dead cared nothing for wealth, did they?

A splitting, tearing sound from the centre of the compound behind him.

The sound of a portal opening. Cutter spun round, knives in his hands.

A rider emerged from the magical gate at full gallop. Reining in hard, hoofs skidding in clouds of dust, the dark grey horse a monstrous apparition, the hide worn away in places, exposing tendons, dried muscle and ligaments. Its eyes were empty pits, its mane long and greasy, whipping as the beast tossed its head. Seated in a high-backed saddle, the rider was, if anything, even more alarming in appearance.

Black, ornate armour, patched with verdigris, a dented, gouged helm, open-faced to reveal mostly bone, a few strips of flesh hanging from the cheek ridges, tendons binding the lower jaw, and a row of blackened, filed teeth. In the brief moment as the horse reared, dust exploding outward, Cutter saw more weapons on the rider than he could count. Swords at his back, throwing axes, sheathed handles jutting upward from the saddle, something like a boar-spitter, the bronze point as long as a short sword, gripped in the gauntleted left hand. A long bow, a short bow, knives'Where is he!?' The voice was a savage, enraged roar. Pieces of armour bounced on the ground as the figure twisted round, searching the compound. 'Damn you, Hood! I was on the trail!' He saw Cutter and was suddenly silent, motionless. 'She left one alive? I doubt it. You're no whelp of D'rek. Drink deep that water, mortal, it matters not. You' re dead anyway. You and every damned blood-swishing living thing in this realm and every other!'

He pulled his horse around to face the temple, where Greyfrog had appeared, arms heaped with silks, boxes, foodstuffs and cooking utensils. 'A toad who likes to cook in comfort! The madness of the Grand Ending is upon us! Come any closer, demon, and I'll spit your legs and roast them over a fire – do you think I no longer eat? You are right, but I will roast you in vicious spite, drooling with irony – ah! You liked that, didn't you?' He faced Cutter once more. 'Is this what he wanted me to see? He pulled me from the trail… for this?'

Cutter sheathed his knives. Through the gates beyond came Heboric Ghost Hands, leading the horses. The old man paused upon seeing the rider, head cocking, then he continued on. 'Too late, Soldier,' he said. 'Or too early!' He laughed.

The rider lifted the spear high. 'Treach made a mistake, I see, but I must salute you nonetheless.'

Heboric halted. 'A mistake, Soldier? Yes, I agree, but there is little I can do about it. I acknowledge your reluctant salute. What brings you here?'

'Ask Hood if you want the answer to that!' He upended the spear and drove it point first into the ground, then swung down from the saddle, more fragments of the rotting armour falling away. 'I expect I must look around, as if I cannot already see all there is to see. The pantheon is riven asunder, what of it?'

Heboric pulled the nervous horses towards the trough, giving the warrior a wide berth. As he approached Cutter he shrugged. 'The Soldier of Hood, High House Death. He'll not trouble us, I think.'

'He spoke to me in Daru,' Cutter said. 'At first. And Malazan with you.'

'Yes.'

The Soldier was tall, and Cutter now saw something hanging from a knife-studded belt. An enamel mask, cracked, smudged, with a single streak of red paint along one cheek. The Daru's eyes widened. 'Beru fend,' he whispered. 'A Seguleh!'

At that the Soldier turned, then walked closer. 'Daru, you are far from home! Tell me, do the Tyrant's children still rule Darujhistan?'

Cutter shook his head.

'You look crazed, mortal, what ails you?'

'I – I'd heard, I mean – Seguleh usually say nothing – to anyone. Yet you…'

'The fever zeal still grips my mortal kin, does it? Idiots! The Tyrant's army still holds sway in the city, then?'

'Who? What? Darujhistan is ruled by a council. We have no army-'

'Brilliant insanity! No Seguleh in the city?'

'No! Just… stories. Legends, I mean.'

'So where are my masked stick-pivoting compatriots hiding?'

'An island, it's said, far to the south, off the coast, beyond Morn-'

'Morn! Now the sense of it comes to me. They are being held in readiness. Darujhistan's council – mages one and all, yes? Undying, secretive, paranoid mages! Crouching low, lest the Tyrant returns, as one day he must! Returns, looking for his army! Hah, a council!'