‘Sorry, was that actually a question? For me?’

‘Of course not, Hedge. It was rhetorical.’

‘That’s a relief. Go on, then.’

‘Seems more likely she’s set herself against the Crippled God.’

‘Oh yeah? What’s this Lether Empire got to do with the Crippled God?’

‘A whole lot, that’s what.’

‘Meaning me and Fiddler are back fighting the same damned war.’

‘As if you didn’t already know that, Hedge-and no, wipe that innocent look off your face. It’s not dark enough and you know that so that look is for me and it’s a damned lie so get rid of it.’

‘Ouch, the wizard’s nerves are singing!’

‘This is why I liked you least of all, Hedge.’

‘I remember once you being scared witless of a recruit named Sorry, because she was possessed by a god. And now here you are, working for that god. Amazing, how things can turn right round in ways you’d never expect nor even predict.’

The wizard stared long and hard at the sapper. Then he said, ‘Now hold on, Hedge.’

‘You really think Sorry was there to get at the Empress, Quick? Some sordid plan for vengeance against Laseen? Why, that would be… insane.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘Just wondering if you should be as sure of the ones you’re working for as you think you are. Because, and it only seems this way to me, all this confusion you’re feeling about the Adjunct might just be coming from some wrong-footed, uh, misapprehensions about the two gods crouching in your shadow.’

‘Is all this just another one of your feelings?’

‘I ain’t Fiddler.’

‘No, but you’ve been so close to him-in his damned shadow-you’re picking up all his uncanny, whispered suspicions, and don’t even try to deny it, Hedge. So now I better hear it straight from you. You and me, are we fighting on the same side, or not?’

Hedge grinned up at him. ‘Maybe not. But, just maybe, more than you know, wizard.’

Quick Ben had selected out a half-dozen water-worn pebbles. Now he flung the rest away. ‘That answer was supposed to make me feel better?’

‘How do you think I feel?’ Hedge demanded. ‘Been at your damned side, Quick, since Raraku! And I still don’t know who or even what you are!’

‘What’s your point?’

‘It’s this. I’m beginning to suspect that even Cotillion-and Shadowthrone-don’t know you half as well as they might think. Which is why they’re now keeping you close. And which is why, too, they maybe made sure you ended up without Kalam right there guarding your back.’

‘If you’re right-about Kalam-there’s going to be trouble.’

Hedge shrugged. ‘All I’m saying is, maybe the plan was for Sorry to be right there, right now, beside Fiddler.’

‘The Adjunct didn’t even have an army then, Hedge. What you’re suggesting is impossible.’

‘Depends on how much Kellanved and Dancer saw-and came to understand-when they left their empire and went in search of ascendancy.’ The sapper paused, then said, ‘They walked the paths of the Azath, didn’t they?’

‘Almost no-one knows that, Hedge. You sure didn’t… before you died. Which brings us back to the path you ended up walking, after you’d gone and blown yourself up in Black Coral.’

‘You mean, after I did my own ascending?’

‘Yes.’

‘I already told you most of it. The Bridgeburners ascended. Blame some Spiritwalker.’

‘And now there’s more of you damned fools wandering around. Hood take you all, Hedge, there were some real nasty people in the Bridgebumers. Brutal and vicious and outright evil-’

‘Rubbish. And I’ll tell you a secret and maybe one day it’ll do you good, too. Dying humbles ya.’

‘I don’t need any humbling, Hedge, which is fine since I don’t plan on dying any time soon.’

‘Best stay light on your toes, then.’

‘You guarding my back, Hedge?’

‘I ain’t no Kalam, but aye, I am.’

‘For now.’

‘For now.’

‘That will have to do, I suppose-’

‘Mind you, only if you’re guarding mine, Quick.’

‘Of course. Loyalty to the old squad and all that.’

‘So what are damned pebbles for? As if I couldn’t guess.’

‘We’re heading into an ugly scrap, Hedge.’ He rounded on the sapper. ‘And listen, about those damned cussers-if you blow me into tiny pieces I will come back for you, Hedge. That’s a vow, sworn by every damned soul in me.’

‘Now that raises a question, don’t it? Just how long do all of those souls plan on hiding in there, Ben Adaephon Delat?’

The wizard eyed him, and, predictably, said nothing.

Trull Sengar stood at the very edge of the fire’s light, beyond the gathered Imass. The women’s song had sunk into a series of sounds that a mother might make to her babe, soft sounds of comfort, and Onrack had explained how this Eres’al song was in fact a kind of traverse, back into the roots of language, beginning with the bizarre yet clearly complex adult Eres language with its odd clicks and stops and all the gestures that provided punctuation, then working backward and growing ever more simplified even as it became more musical. The effect was eerie and strangely disturbing to the Tiste Edur.

Music and song among his people was a static thing, fixated within ritual. If the ancient tales were true, there had once been a plethora of instruments in use among the Tiste Edur, but most of diese were now unknown, beyond the names given them. Voice now stood in their stead and Trull began to sense that, perhaps, something had been lost.

The gestures among the women had transformed into dance, sinuous and swaying and now, suddenly, sexual.

A low voice beside him said, ‘Before the child, there is passion.’

Trull glanced over and was surprised to see one of the T’lan, the clan chief, Hostille Rator.

An array of calcified bones were knotted in the filthy long hair dangling from the warrior’s mottled, scarred pate. His brow ridge dominated the entire face, burying the eyes in darkness. Even clothed in the flesh of life, Hostille Rator seemed deathly.

‘Passion begets the child, Tiste Edur. Do you see?’

Trull nodded. ‘Yes. I think so.’

‘So it was, long ago, at the Ritual.’

Ah.

‘The child, alas,’ the clan chief continued, ‘grows up. And what was once passion is now…’

Nothing.

Hostille Rator resumed. ‘There was a Bonecaster here, among these clans. She saw, clearly, the illusion of this realm. And saw, too, that it was dying. She sought to halt the bleeding away, by sacrificing herself. But she is failing-her spirit and her will, they are failing.’

Trull frowned at Hostille Rator. ‘How did you come to know of this place?’

‘She gave voice to her pain, her anguish.’ The T’lan was silent a moment, then he added, ‘It was our intention to answer the call of the Gathering-but the need in her voice was undeniable. We could not turn aside, even when what we surrendered was-possibly-our final rest.’

‘So now you are here, Hostille Rator. Onrack believes you would usurp Ulshun Pral, but for Rud Elalle’s presence-the threat he poses you.’

A glitter from the darkness beneath those brow ridges. ‘You do not even whisper these things, Edur. Would you see weapons drawn this night, even after the gift of the First Song?’

‘No. Yet, perhaps, better now than later.’

Trull now saw that the two T’lan Bonecasters had moved up behind Hostille Rator. The singing from the women had ceased-had it been an abrupt end? Trull could not recall. In any case, it was clear that all those present were now listening to this conversation. He saw Onrack emerge from the crowd, saw his friend’s stone sword gripped in both hands.

Trull addressed Hostille Rator once more, his tone even and calm. ‘You three have stood witness to all that you once were-’

‘It will not survive,’ the clan chief cut in. ‘How can we embrace this illusion when, upon its fading, we must return to what we truly are?’

From the crowd Rud Elalle spoke, ‘No harm shall befall my people-not by your hand, Hostille Rator, nor that of your Bonecasters. Nor,’ he added, ‘that of those who are coming here. I intend to lead the clans away-to safety.’