‘Never heard of any Raest,’ said Harllo. ‘Bainisk rules Chuffs and Workmaster rules the mine and in the city there’s a council of nobles and in faraway lands there’re kings and queens and emperors and empresses.’

‘And T’lan Imass who kneel.’

Harllo glanced up the shaft-he could hear faint voices, echoing down. ‘They want to pull me back up. What should I tell them about this place?’

‘The wrong rock, the white grit that sickens people. Foul air.’

‘So no one else comes down here.’

‘Yes.’

‘But then you’ll be alone again.’

‘Yes. Tell them, too, that a ghost haunts this place. Show them the ghost’s magical tools.’

‘I will. Listen, could be I might sneak back down here, if you like.’

‘Cub, that would be most welcome.’

‘Can I bring you anything?’

‘Yes.’

‘What?’

‘Splints.’

And now Harllo was making his way back to daylight, and in his extra-heavy bag there clunked the tools of the corpse. Antler and bone hardened into stone, tines jabbing at his hip.

If Venaz found out about them he might take them, so Harllo knew he had to be careful. He had to hide them somewhere. Where nobody went or looked or picked through things. Plenty to think about, he had.

And he needed to find something called “splints”. Whatever they were.

She insisted on taking his arm as they walked towards the Phoenix Inn, down from the Estate District, through Third Tier Wall, and into the Daru District. ‘So many people,’ she was saying. ‘This is by far the biggest city I’ve ever been in. 1 think what strikes me is how many familiar faces I see-not people I actually know, just people who look like people I’ve known.’

Duiker thought about that, and then nodded. ‘The world is like that, aye.’

‘Is it now? Why?’

‘I have no idea, Scillara.’

‘Is this all the wisdom you can offer?’

‘I even struggled with that one,’ he replied.

‘All right. Let’s try something else. I take it you see no point in history.’

He grunted. ‘If by that you mean that there is no progress, that even the notion of progress is a delusion, and that history is nothing more than a host of lessons nobody wants to pay attention to, then yes, there is no point. Not in writing it down, not in teaching it.’

‘Never mind, then. You choose.’

‘Choose what?’

‘Something to talk about.’

‘I don’t think I can-nothing comes to mind, Scillara. Well, I suppose I’d like to know about Heboric.’

‘He was losing his mind. We were trying to get to Otataral Island, where he wanted to give something back, something he once stole. But we never made it. Ambushed by T’lan Imass. They were going after him and the rest of us just got in the way. Me, Cutter, Greyfrog. Well, they also stole Felisin Younger-that seemed to be part of the plan, too.’

‘Felisin Younger.’

‘That’s the name Sha’ik gave her.’

‘Do you know why?’

She shook her head. ‘I liked her, though.’

‘Sha’ik?’

‘Felisin Younger. I was training her to be just like me, so it’s no wonder I liked her.’ And she gave him a wide smile.

Duiker answered with a faint one of his own-hard indeed to be miserable around this woman. Better if he avoided her company in the future. ‘Why the Phoenix Inn, Scillara?’

‘As I said earlier, I want to embarrass someone. Cutter, in fact. I had to listen to him for months and months, about how wonderful Darujhistan is, and how he would show me this and that. Then as soon as we arrive he ducks away, wanting nothing to do with us. Back to his old friends, I suppose.’

She was being offhand, but Duiker sensed the underlying hurt. Perhaps she and Cutter had been more than just companions. ‘Instead,’ he said, ‘you found us Malazans.’

‘Oh, we could have done much worse.’

‘Barathol had kin,’ said Duiker. ‘In the Bridgeburners. An assassin. Seeing your friend was like seeing a ghost. For Picker, Antsy… Blend. Bluepearl. The old marines.’

‘One of those familiar faces belonging to someone you don’t know.’He smiled again. ‘Yes,’ Oh, yes, Scillara, you art clever indeed, ‘And before you know it, some old marine healer is out doing whatever he can to help Barathol Mekhar. Only there’s this history-the stuff that doesn’t matter with our blacksmith friend. Having to do with Aren and the-’

‘Red Blades, aye.’

She shot him a look. ‘You knew?’

‘We all know. The poor bastard. Getting such a raw deal in his own homeland.

Things like that, well, we can sympathize with, because we have our histories.

The kind that can’t be ignored because they’ve put us right where we are, right here, a continent away from our home.’

‘Progress?’

‘That remains to be seen. And here we are Phoenix Inn.’ She stood studying the decrepit sign for a long moment. ‘That’s it? It’s a dump.’

‘If the story is accurate, Kalam Mekhar himself went in there once or twice. So did Sorry, who later took the name of Apsalar, and that was where young Crokus met her-who is now known as Cutter, right? Putting it all together isn’t easy. Mallet was there for most of that. In there,’ he added, ‘you might even find a man named Kruppe.’

She snorted. ‘Cutter talked about him. Some oily fence and ex-thief.’

‘Ambassador at large during the Pannion War. The man who stood down Caladan Brood. Single-handedly confounding most of the great leaders on the continent.’

Her eyes had widened slightly. ‘Really? All that? Cutter never mentioned any of that.’

‘He wouldn’t have known, Scillara. He went off with Fiddler, Kalam and Apsalar.’

‘That’s a tale I’m slowly putting together myself,’ she said. ‘Apsalar. The woman Cutter loves.’ Ah.

‘Let’s go, then.’

And they set out across the street.

‘The kid’s been snatched, is my guess,’ Murillio concluded, settling back in his chair. ‘I know, Kruppe, it’s one of those things that just happens. Tanners grab children, trader ships, fishing crews, pimps and temples, they all do given the chance. So I know, there may not be much hope-’

‘Nonsense, Murillio loyal friend of Kruppe. In appealing to this round self you have displayed utmost wisdom. Moreover, Kruppe applauds this new profession of yours. Instructor yes, in all fine points of fine pointiness the art of duelling is writ bold in blood, yes? Bold too is this Stonny Menackis, old partner to none other than Gruntle of the Barbs, and was there not a third? A long-armed man who did not return from Capustan? And was his name not Harllo? Kruppe must plumb deeper depths of memory to be certain of such details, yet his instinct cries out true! And how can such a voice be denied?’Cutter rubbed at the bristle on his chin. ‘I could head back down to the ship I came in on, Murillio. Talk to the dock waifs and the old women under the piers.’

‘I’d appreciate that, Cutter.’

‘Kruppe suspects a whispery warming of heart in dear Murillio for his new employer-ah, does Kruppe flinch at vehement expostulation? Does he wince at savage denial? Why, the answer is no to both!’

‘Leave off that, Kruppe,’ Murillio said. ‘The lad’s her son.’

‘Left in the care of others-is she so cold of heart, then? Do you rise to ex-traordinary challenge, mayhap? The best kind, of course, ever the best kind.’

‘There’s a story there,’ Murillio said. ‘Not all women make good mothers, true enough. But she doesn’t seem that kind. I mean, well, she struck me as someone with fierce loyalties. Maybe. Oh, I don’t know. It’d be nice to find the runt, that’s all.’

‘We understand, Murillio,’ Cutter said.

‘Rely upon Kruppe, dearest friend. All truths will yield themselves in the fullness of revelatory revelation, anon. But wait, fortuitous reunion of another sort beckons,’ and he leaned forward, small eyes fixing upon Cutter. Eyebrows waggled.

‘You’re scaring me-’

‘Terror shall burgeon imminently for poor Cutter.’

‘What are you-’