Before Rhulad Sengar, standing motionless, was the Chancellor.

Thrice, the Emperor paused to glare at Triban Gnol. Thrice he made as if to speak, only to resume his pacing, the sword-tip dragging across the tiles.

His own people had abandoned him. He had inadvertently drowned his own mother and father. Killed all of his brothers. Driven the wife he had stolen to suicide. Been betrayed by the First and only Concubine he had possessed, Nisall.

An economy in ruins, all order crumbling, and armies invading.

And his only answer was to force hapless foreigners onto the sands of the arena and butcher them.

Pathos or grand comedy?

It will not do, Emperor. All that blood and guts covering you will not do. When you are but the hands holding the sword, the sword rules, and the sword knows nothing but what it was made for. It can achieve no resolutions, can manage no subtle diplomacy, can solve none of the problems afflicting people in their tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands.

Leave a sword to rule an empire and the empire falls. Amidst war, amidst anarchy, amidst a torrent of blood and a sea of misery.

Coin-clad, the wielder of the sword paced out the true extent of his domain, here in this throne room.

Halting, facing the Chancellor once more. ‘What has happened?’

A child’s question. A child’s voice. Varat Taun felt his heart give slightly, felt its hardness suddenly soften. A child.

The Chancellor’s reply was measured, so reassuring that Varat Taun very nearly laughed at the absurdity of that tone. ‘We are never truly conquered, Emperor. You will stand, because none can remove you. The invaders will see that, understand that. They will have done with their retribution. Will they occupy? Unknown. If not them, then the coalition coming from the eastern kingdoms will-and such coalitions inevitably break apart, devour themselves. They too will be able to do nothing to you, Emperor.’

Rhulad Sengar stared at Triban Gnol, his mouth working but no sounds coming forth.

‘I have begun,’ the Chancellor resumed, ‘preparing our conditional surrender. To the Malazans. At the very least, they will enforce peace in the city, an end to the riots. Likely working in consort with the Patriotists. Once order is restored, we can begin the task of resurrecting the economy, minting-’

‘Where are my people?’ Rhulad Sengar asked.

‘They will return, Emperor. I am sure of it.’

Rhulad turned to face the throne. And suddenly went perfectly still. ‘It is empty,’ he whispered. ‘Look!’ He spun round, pointing his sword back at the throne. ‘Do you see? It is empty!’

‘Sire-’

‘Like my father’s chair in our house! Our house in the village! Empty!’

‘The village is no longer there, Emperor-’

‘But the chair remains! I see it! With my own eyes-my father’s chair! The paint fades in the sun. The wood joins split in the rain. Crows perch on the weathered arms! I see it!’

The shout echoed in silence then. Not a guard stirring. The Chancellor with bowed head, and who knew what thoughts flickered behind the serpent’s eyes?

Surrender. Conditional. Rhulad Sengar remains. Rhulad Sengar and, oh yes, Chancellor Triban Gnol. And the Patriotists. ‘We cannot be conquered. We are for ever. Step into our world and it devours you.’

Rhulad’s broad shoulders slowly sagged. Then he walked up to the throne, turned about and sat down. Looked out with bleak eyes. In a croaking voice he asked, ‘Who remains?’

The Chancellor bowed. ‘But one, Emperor.’

‘One? There should be two.’

‘The challenger known as Icarium has fled, Emperor. Into the city. We are hunting him down.’

Liar.

But Rhulad Sengar seemed indifferent, his head turning to one side, eyes lowering until they fixed on the gore-spattered sword. ‘The Toblakai.’

‘Yes, Emperor.’

‘Who murdered Binadas. My brother.’

‘Indeed, sire.’

The head slowly lifted. ‘Is it dawn?’

‘It is.’

Rhulad’s command was soft as a breath. ‘Bring him.’

They let the poor fool go once he had shown them the recessed door leading under the city wall. It was, of course, locked, and while the rest of the squads waited in the slowly fading darkness-seeking whatever cover they could find and it wasn’t much-Fiddler and Cuttle went down into the depression to examine the door.

‘Made to be broken down,’ Cuttle muttered, ‘so it’s like the lad said-we go in and then the floodgates open and we drown. Fid, I don’t see a way to do this, not quietly enough-so as no-one hears and figures out we’ve taken the trap.’

Fiddler scratched at his white beard. ‘Maybe we could dismantle the entire door, frame and all.’

‘We ain’t got the time.’

‘No. We pull back and hide out for the day, then do it tomorrow night.’

‘The Adjunct should be showing up by then. Keneb wants us first in and he’s right, we’ve earned it.’

At that moment they heard a thump from behind the door, then the low scrape of the bar being lifted.

The two Malazans moved to either side, quickly cocking their crossbows.

A grinding sound, then the door was pushed open.

The figure that climbed into view was no Letherii soldier. It was wearing plain leather armour that revealed, without question, that it was a woman, and on her face an enamel mask with a modest array of painted sigils. Two swords strapped across her back. One stride, then two. A glance to Fiddler on her right, then to Cuttle on her left. Pausing, brushing dirt from her armour, then setting out. Onto the killing field, and away.

Bathed in sweat, Fiddler settled back into a sitting position, the crossbow trembling in his hands.

Cuttle made a warding gesture, then sat down as well. ‘Hood’s breath was on my neck, Fid. Right there, right then. I know, she didn’t even reach for those weapons, didn’t even twitch…’

‘Aye,’ Fid answered, the word whispered like a blessing. A Hood-damned Seguleh. High ranked, too. We’d never have got our shots off-no way. Our heads would have rolled like a pair of oversized snowballs.

‘I looked away, Fid. I looked right down at the ground when she turned my way.’

‘Me too.’

‘And that’s why we’re still alive.’

‘Aye.’

Cuttle turned and peered down into the dark tunnel. ‘We don’t have to wait till tomorrow night after all.’

‘Go back to the others, Cuttle. Get Keneb to draw ‘em up. I’m heading in to check the other end. If it’s unguarded and quiet, well and good, If not…’

‘Aye, Fid.’

The sergeant dropped down into the tunnel.

He moved through the dark as fast as he could without making too much noise. The wall overhead was damned thick and he’d gone thirty paces before he saw the grey blur of the exit at the end of a sharp slope. Crossbow in hands, Fiddler edged forward.

He need not have worried.

The tunnel opened into a cramped blockhouse with no ceiling. One bench lined the wall to his right. Three bodies were sprawled on the dusty stone floor, bleeding out from vicious wounds. Should’ve averted your eyes, soldiers. Assuming she even gave them the time to decide either way-she’d wanted out, after all.

The door opposite him was ajar and Fiddler crept to it, looked out through the crack. A wide street, littered with rubbish.

They’d been listening to the riots half the night, and it was clear that mobs had swept through here, if not this night then other nights. The garrison blocks opposite were gutted, the windows soot-stained. Better and better.

He turned round and hastened back down the tunnel.

At the other end he found Cuttle, Faradan Sort and Fist Keneb, all standing a few paces in from the door.

Fiddler explained to them what he had found. Then said, ‘We got to go through right away, I think. Eight hundred marines to come through and that’ll take a while.’

Keneb nodded. ‘Captain Faradan Sort.’