‘No. Who are you?’

‘There is another way, then, of seeing this. K’rul realized he could not do this alone. The sacrifice, the opening of his veins and arteries, would mean nothing, would indeed fail. Without living flesh, without organized functionality.

‘Ah, the warrens, Seren Pedac, they are a dialogue. Do you see now?’

‘No!’

Her frustrated cry echoed through the ruins. She saw Silchas and Clip halt and turn about.

Behind her, Fear Sengar called out, ‘Acquitor? What is it you deny?’

Knowing laughter from Udinaas.

‘Disregard the vicious crowd now, the torrent of sound overwhelming the warrens, the users, the guardians, the parasites and the hunters, the complicit gods elder and young. Shut them away, as Corlos taught you. To remember rape is to fold details into sensation, and so relive each time its terrible truth. He told you this could become habit, an addiction, until even despair became a welcome taste on your tongue. Understand, then-as only you can here-that to take one’s own life is the final expression of despair. You saw that. Buruk the Pale. You felt that, at the sea’s edge. Seren Pedac, K’rul could not act alone in this sacrifice, lest he fill every warren with despair.

‘Dialogue. Presupposition, yes, of the plural. One with another. Or succession of others, for this dialogue must be ongoing, indeed, eternal.

‘Do I speak of the Master of the Holds? The Master of the Deck? Perhaps-the face of the other is ever turned away-to all but K’rul himself. This is how it must be. The dialogue, then, is the feeding of power. Power unimaginable, power virtually omnipotent, unassailable… so long as that other’s face remains… turned away.

‘From you. From me. From all of us.’

She stared wildly about then, at these tilted ruins, this endless scree of destruction.

‘The dialogue, however, can be sensed if not heard-such is its power. The construction of language, the agreement in principle of meaning and intent, the rules of grammar-Seren

Pedac, what did you think Mockra was? If not a game of grammar? Twisting semantics, turning inference, inviting suggestion, reshaping a mind’s internal language to deceive its own senses?

‘Who am I?

‘Why, Seren Pedac, 1 am Mockra.’

The others were gathered round her now. She found herself on her knees, driven there by revelation-there would be bruises, an appalling softness in the tissue where it pressed against hard pavestone. She registered this, as she stared up at the others. Reproachful communication, between damaged flesh and her mind, between her senses and her brain.

She shunted those words aside, then settled into a sweet, painless calm.

As easy as that.

‘Beware, there is a deadly risk in deceiving oneself. You can blind youself to your own damage. You can die quickly in that particular game, Seren Pedac. No, if you must… experiment… then choose another.

‘Corlos would have showed you that, had he the time with you.’

‘So-so he knows you?’’

‘Not as intimately as you. There are few so… blessed.’

‘But you are not a god, are you?’

‘You need not ask that, Seren Pedac.’

‘You are right. But still, you are alive.’

She heard amusement in the reply. ‘Unless my greatest deceit is the announcement of my own existence! There are rules in language, and language is needed for the stating of the rules. As K’rul understood, the blood flows out, and then it returns. Weak, then enlivened. Round and round. Who then, ask your-self, who then is the enemy?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Not yet, perhaps. You will need to find out, however, Seren Pedac. Before we are through.’

She smiled. ‘You give me a purpose?’

‘Dialogue, my love, must not end.’

‘Ours? Or the other one?’

‘Your companions think you fevered now. Tell me, before we part, which you would choose. For your experiments?’

She blinked up at the half-circle of faces. Expressions of concern, mockery, curiosity, indifference. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It seems… cruel.’

‘Power ever is, Seren Pedac.’

‘I won’t decide, then. Not yet.’

‘So be it.’

‘Seren?’ Kettle asked. ‘What is wrong with you?’

She smiled, then pushed herself to her feet, Udinaas-to her astonishment-reaching out to help her regain her balance.

Seeing her wince, he half smiled. ‘You landed hard, Acquitor. Can you walk?’ His smile broadened. ‘Perhaps no faster than the rest of us laggards, now?’

‘You, Udinaas? No, I think not.’

He frowned. ‘Just the two of us right now,’ he said.

Her eyes flickered up to meet his, shied away, then returned again-hard. ‘You heard?’

‘Didn’t need to,’ he replied under his breath as he set the Imass walking stick into her hands. ‘Had Wither sniffing at my heels long before I left the north.’ He shrugged.

Silchas Ruin and Clip had already resumed the journey.

Leaning on the Imass spear, Seren Pedac walked alongside the ex-slave, struggling with a sudden flood of emotion for this broken man. Perhaps, true comrades after all. He and I.

‘Seren Pedac’

‘Yes?’

‘Stop shifting the pain in your knees into mine, will you?’

Stop-what? Oh.

‘Either that or give me that damned stick back.’

‘If I say “sorry” then, well…’

‘You give it away. Well, say it if you mean it, and either way we’ll leave it at that.’

‘Sorry.’

His surprised glance delighted her.

The rising sea level had saturated the ground beneath the village. Anyone with half their wits would have moved to the stony, treed terrace bordering the flood plain, but the sordid remnants of the Shake dwelling here had simply levered their homes onto stilts and raised the slatted walkways, living above fetid, salty bog crawling with the white-backed crabs known as skullcaps.

Yan Tovis, Yedan Derryg and the troop of lancers reined in at Road’s End, the ferry landing and its assorted buildings on their left, a mass of felled trees rotting into the ground on their right. The air was chill, colder than it should have been this late into spring, and tendrils of low-lying fog hid most of the salt marsh beneath the stilts and bridged walkways.

Among the outbuildings of the landing-all situated on higher ground-there was a stone-walled stable fronted by a courtyard of planed logs, and beyond that, facing the village, an inn without a name.

Dismounting, Yan Tovis stood beside her horse for a long moment, her eyes closing. We have been invaded. I should be riding to every garrison on this coast-Errant fend, they must know by now. Truth delivered the hard way. The empire is at war.

But she was now Queen of the Last Blood, Queen of the Shake. Opening her weary eyes she looked upon the decrepit fishing village. My people, Errant help me. Running away had made sense back then. It made even more sense now.

Beside her, Yedan Derryg, her half-brother, loosened the strap of his visored helm, then said, ‘Twilight, what now?’

She glanced over at him, watched the rhythmic bunching of his bearded jaw. She understood the question in all its ramifications. What now? Do the Shake proclaim their independence, rising eager in the chaos of a Malazan-Letherii war? Do we gather our arms, our young whom we would call soldiers? The Shake cry out their liberty, and the sound is devoured by the shore’s rolling surf.

She sighed. ‘I was in command on the Reach, when the Edur came in their ships. We surrendered. I surrendered.’

To do otherwise would have been suicidal. Yedan should have said those words, then. For he knew the truth of them. Instead, he seemed to chew again for a moment, before turning to squint at the flat, broad ferry. ‘That’s not slipped its mooring in some time, I think. The coast north of Awl must be flooded.’

He gives me nothing. ‘We shall make use of it, all the way out to Third Maiden Fort.’

A nod.