Not precisely what they needed to hear, I think. Not yet, anyway. In time, 1 suspect, it may well return to them.

No, this-here and now-this demands another kind of leadership.

The guards had retreated, seeking another route.

The few citizens within sight were doing the same. No-one wanted to see this legacy.

Bugg pushed himself forward. He drew upon his power, felt it struggle at this unseemly purpose. Damn my worshippers-whoever, wherever you are. I will have my way here! Power, devoid of sympathy, cold as the sea, dark as the depths. I will have my way.

‘Close your eyes,’ he said to the mob. The words were little more than a whisper, yet all heard them, solid and undeniable in their minds. Close your eyes.

They did. Children, women, men. Motionless now. Eyes closed tight, breaths held in sudden tension, perhaps even fear-but Bugg suspected that these people were beyond fear. They waited for what would come next. And did not move.

I will have my way. ‘Hear me. There is a place of safety. Far from here. I will send you there. Now. Friends will find you. They will bring healing, and you will have food, clothing and shelter. When you feel the ground shift beneath you, open your eyes to your new home.’

The sea did not forgive. Its power was hunger and swelling rage. The sea warred with the shore, with the very sky. The sea wept for no-one.

Bugg did not care.

Like any tidal pool motionless under the hot sun, his blood had grown… heated. And the smallest pool was filled with the promise of an ocean, a score of oceans-all their power could be held in a single drop of water. Such was Denaeth Rusen, such was Ruse, the warren where life was first born. And there, in that promise of life itself, will I find what I need.

Of empathy.

Of warmth.

The power, when it came, was a true current. Angry, yes, yet true. Water had known life for so long it held no memory of purity. Power and gift had become one, and so it yielded to its god.

And he sent them away.

Bugg opened his eyes, and saw before him an empty street.

In his room once more, Karsa Oflong lifted free his shoulder scabbard, then, holding the weapon and its harness in his hands, he stared down at the long table, on which sat an oil lantern set on low burn. After a moment he laid the sword and rigging down. And grew still once more.

Many things to consider, a heaving of foam and froth from some struck well deep within him. The slaves. Cast out because their lives were meaningless. Both these Edur and the Letherii were heartless, yet cowards. Eager to turn away from witnessing the cost of their indifference. Content to strip fellowship from any whenever it suited them.

Yet they would call him the barbarian.

If so, then he was well pleased with the distinction.

And, true to his savagely clear vision of right and wrong, he would hold in his mind that scene-those starved faces, the liquid eyes that seemed to shine so bright he felt burned by their touch-hold to it when he faced Emperor Rhulad. When he then faced every Letherii and every Edur who chose to stand in his way.

So he had vowed, and so all would witness.

This cold thought held him motionless for another dozen heartbeats, then a second image returned to him. Icarium, the one they called Lifestealer.

He had been moments from breaking that Jhag’s neck.

And then he had seen in the ash-skinned face… something. And with it, recognition.

He would yield to Karsa. He had given his word, and Karsa now knew that would not be broken.

There was Jhag blood in this Icarium, but of that Karsa knew little. Father or mother a Jaghut; it hardly mattered which.

Yet the other parent. Father or mother. Well, he had seen enough in Icarium’s face to know that blood. To know it like the whisper of his very own.

Toblakai.

In his opulent office, Chancellor Triban Gnol slowly sat down with uncharacteristic caution. A dust-laden, sweat-and blood-stained Letherii soldier stood before him, Hanked on his right by Sirryn Kanar, whose return from the crypts had coincided with the arrival of this messenger.

Triban Gnol looked away from the exhausted soldier. He would call in the scrub-slaves afterwards, to wash down the floor where the man now stood; to scent the air once again with pine oil. Eyes on a lacquered box on the desktop before him, he asked, ‘How many did you come in with, (Corporal?’

‘Three others. And an Edur.’

Triban Gnol’s head snapped up. ‘Where is he now?’

‘Died not three steps into the Domicile’s grand entrance, sir.’

‘Indeed? Died?’

‘He was grievously wounded, sir. And I knew enough to prevent any healer reaching him in time. I moved close to help him as he staggered, and gave the arrow in his back a few twists, then a deeper push. He passed out with the pain of that, and as I caught him and lowered him to the floor, I closed my thumb upon the great artery in his neck. I was able to hold that grip for thirty or more heartbeats. That was more than the Edur could withstand.’

And you a mere corporal in my employ? I think not. Sirryn, after we are done here, draft a promotion for this man.’

‘Yes, Chancellor.’

And so,’ Triban Gnol resumed, ‘being of rank among the remaining Letherii, the responsibility for reporting fell to you.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘I need the names of the others.’

The corporal seemed to flinch. ‘Sir, without my soldiers, I would never have-’

‘I understand your loyalty, and I commend you. Alas, we must face this situation with a clear eye. We must recognize necessity. Those soldiers are not mine. Not like you.’

‘They are loyal, sir-’

‘To whom? To what? No, the risk is too great. I will grant you this gift, however.’ The Chancellor’s gaze flicked to Sirryn. ‘Quick and painless. No interrogation.’

Sirryn’s brows rose. ‘None?’

‘None.’

As you command, sir.’

The corporal licked his lips, and then, clearly forcing out the words, he said, ‘I thank you, sir.’

The Chancellor’s nod was distracted, his gaze once more on the gleaming box of Blackwood on his desk. ‘I would ask again,’ he said, ‘there was no indication of who they were? No formal declaration of war?’

‘Nothing like that at all, sir,’ the corporal replied. ‘Hundreds of burning ships-that was their declaration of war. And even then, they seemed… few. No army-no sign at all of the landing.’

‘Yet there was one.’

‘Errant fend, yes! Sir, I rode with twenty Letherii, veterans all, and six Tiste Edur of the Arapay. Edur magic or not, we were ambushed in a clearing behind an abandoned homestead. One moment-thinking to make our camp-we were reining in amidst the high grasses-alone

– and the next there was thunder and fire, and bodies fly

ing-flying, sir, through the air. Or just limbs. Pieces. And arrows hissing in the dusk.’

‘Yet your troop recovered.’

But the corporal shook his head. ‘The Edur commanding us-he knew that the news we were bringing to the capital

– that of the burning ships and the dead Tiste bodies on the roads-that news demanded that we disengage. As many of us as could fight clear. Sir, with the Edur in the lead, we bolted. Seven of us at first-they had killed the other five

Edur in the first breath of the attack-seven, then five.’

‘Did this enemy pursue?’ Triban Gnol asked in a quiet, thoughtful voice.

‘No sir. They had no horses-none that we saw in any case.’

The Chancellor simply nodded at that. Then asked, ‘Human?’

‘Yes sir. But not Letherii, not tribal either, from what we could see. Sir, they used crossbows, but not the small, weak fisher bows such as we use in the shallows during the carp run. No, these were weapons of blackened iron, with thick cords and quarrels that punched through armour and shield. I saw one of my soldiers knocked flat onto his back by one such quarrel, dead in the instant. And-’