‘It may prove,’ the Adjunct said, ‘that Fist Keneb will earn us that ironic motto-those of us here, that is, in this camp.’

A handful of marines to conquer an imperial capital? ‘Adjunct-’

‘Enough. You will command for this night, Captain, as my representative. We march at dawn.’ She turned. ‘I must return to the Froth Wolf.’

‘Adjunct?’

Tavore grimaced. ‘Another argument with a certain weaponsmith and his belligerent wife.’ Then she paused, ‘Oh, when or if Sergeant Balm returns, I would hear his report.’

‘Of course,’ Lostara Yil replied. If?

She watched the Adjunct walk away, down towards the shore.

Aboard the Froth Wolf, Shurq Elalle leaned against the mainmast, her arms crossed, watching the three black, hairless, winged ape-like demons fighting over a shortsword. The scrap, a tumbling flurry of biting, scratching and countless inadvertent cuts and slices from the weapon itself, had migrated from the stern end of the mid-deck and was now climbing up onto the foredeck.

Sailors stood here and there, keeping well clear, and trading wagers on which demon would win out-an issue of some dispute since it was hard to tell the three beasts apart.

‘-with the cut across the nose-wait, Mael’s salty slick! Now another one’s got the same cut! Okay, the one without-’

‘-which one just lost that ear? Cut nose and missing ear, then!’

Close beside Shurq Elalle, a voice said*, ‘None of it’s real, you know.’

She turned. ‘Thought she had you chained below.’

‘Who, the Adjunct? Why-’

‘No. Your wife, Withal.’

The man frowned. ‘That’s how it looks, is it?’

‘Only of late,’ Shurq replied. ‘She’s frightened for you, I think.’

To that he made no response.

‘A launch is returning,’ Shurq observed, then straightened. ‘I hope it’s the Adjunct-I’m ready to leave your blessed company. No offence, Withal, but I’m nervous about my first mate and what he might be doing with the Undying Gratitude.’

The Meckros weaponsmith turned to squint out into the darkness of the main channel. ‘Last I saw, he’d yet to drop anchor and was just sailing back and forth.’

‘Yes,’ Shurq said. ‘Sane people pace in their cabin. Skorgen paces with the whole damned ship.’

‘Why so impatient?’

‘I expect he wants to tie up in Letheras well before this army arrives. And take on panicky nobles with all their worldly goods. Then we head back out before the Malazan storm, dump the nobles over the side and share out the spoils.’

‘As any proper pirate would do.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Do you enjoy your profession, Captain? Does it not get stale after a time?’

‘No, that’s me who gets stale after a time. As for the profession, why yes, I do enjoy it, Withal.’

‘Even throwing nobles overboard?’

‘With all that money they should have paid for swimming lessons.’

‘Belated financial advice.’

‘Don’t make me laugh.’

A sudden outcry from the sailors. On the foredeck, the demons had somehow managed to skewer themselves on the sword. The weapon pinned all three of them to the deck. The creatures writhed. Blood poured from their mouths, even as the bottom-most one began strangling from behind the one in the middle, who followed suit with the one on top. The demon in the middle began cracking the back of its head into the bottom demon’s face, smashing its already cut nose.

Shurq Elalle turned away. ‘Errant take me,’ she muttered. ‘I nearly lost it there.’

‘Lost what?’

‘You do not want to know.’

The launch arrived, thumping up against the hull, and moments later the Adjunct climbed into view. She cast a single glance over at the pinned demons, then nodded greeting to Shurq Elalle as she walked up to Withal.

‘Is it time?’ he asked.

‘Almost,’ she replied. ‘Come with me.’

Shurq watched the two head below.

Withal, you poor man. Now I’m frightened for you as well.

Damn, forgot to ask permission to leave. She thought to follow them, then decided not to. Sorry, Skorgen, but don’t worry. We can always outsail a marching army. Those nobles aren’t going anywhere, after all, are they?

A short time later, while the sailors argued over who’d won what, the three nachts-who had been lying motionless as if dead-stirred and deftly extricated themselves from the shortsword. One of them kicked the weapon into the river, held its hands over its ears at the soft splash.

The three then exchanged hugs and caresses.

Amused and curious from where he sat with his back to a rail on the foredeck, Banaschar, the last Demidrek of the Worm of Autumn, continued watching. And was nevertheless caught entirely by surprise when the nachts swarmed over the side and a moment later there followed three distinct splashes.

He rose and went to the rail, looking down. Three vague heads bobbed on their way to the shore.

‘Almost time,’ he whispered.

Rautos Hivanar stared down at the crowded array of objects on the tabletop, trying once more to make sense of them.

He had rearranged them dozens of times, sensing that there was indeed a pattern, somewhere, and could he but place the objects in their proper position, he would finally understand.

The artifacts had been cleaned, the bronze polished and gleaming. He had assembled lists of characteristics, seeking a typology, groupings based on certain details-angles of curvature, weight, proximity of where they had been found, even the various depths at which they had been buried.

For they had indeed been buried. Not tossed away, not thrown into a pit. No, each one had been set down in a hole sculpted into the clays-he had managed to create moulds of those depressions, which had helped him establish each object’s cant and orientation.

The array before him now was positioned on the basis of spatial location, each set precisely in proper relation to the others-at least he believed so, based on his map. The only exception was with the second and third artifacts. The dig at that time-when the first three had been recovered-had not been methodical, and so the removal of the objects had destroyed any chance of precisely specifying their placement. And so it was two of these three that he now moved, again and again. Regarding the third one-the very first object found-he well knew where it belonged.

Meanwhile, outside the estate’s high, well-guarded walls, the city of Letheras descended into anarchy.

Muttering under his breath, Rautos Hivanar picked up that first artifact. Studied its now familiar right angle bend, feeling its sure weight in his hands, and wondering anew at the warmth of the metal. Had it grown hotter in the last few days? He wasn’t sure and had no real way of measuring such a thing.

Faint on the air in the room was the smell of smoke. Not woodsmoke, as might come from a hundred thousand cook-fires, but the more acrid reek of burnt cloth and varnished furniture, along with-so very subtle-the sweet tang of scorched human flesh.

He had sent his servants to their beds, irritated with their endless reports, the fear in their meek eyes. Was neither hungry nor thirsty, and it seemed a new clarity was taking hold of his vision, his mind. The most intriguing detail of all was that he had now found twelve full-scale counterparts throughout the city; and each of these corresponded perfectly with the layout before him-excepting the two, of course. So, what he had on this table was a miniature map, and this, he knew, was important.

Perhaps the most important detail of all.

If he only knew why.

Yes, the object was growing warmer. Was it the same with its much larger companion, there in the back yard of his new inn?

He rose. No matter how late it was, he needed to find out. Carefully replacing the artifact onto the tabletop map, matching the position of the inn, he then made his way to his wardrobe.

The sounds of rioting in the city beyond had moved away, back into the poorer districts to the north. Donning a heavy cloak and collecting his walking stick-one that saw little use under normal circumstances, but there was now the possible need for self-protection-Rautos Hivanar left the room. Made his way through the silent house. Then outside, turning left, to the outer wall.