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‘Those who hate need little cause, Seerdomin.’

The man nodded-Spinnock caught the motion peripherally.

There was a silence. The tale had been told, Spinnock recalled, more than once. How the Bridgeburner named Whiskeyjack-a man Anomander Rake called friend-had intervened in the slaughter of the Pannion witches, the mad mothers of Children of the Dead Seed. Whiskeyjack, a human, had sought to grant the Son of Darkness a gift, taking away the burden of the act. A gesture that had shaken his Lord to the core. It is not in our nature to permit others to share our burden.

Yet we will, unhesitatingly, take on theirs.

‘I wonder if we blazed his trail.’

‘What?’

Spinnock rubbed at his face, feeling slightly drunk. ‘Itkovian’s.’

‘Of course you didn’t. The Grey Swords-’

‘Possessed a Shield Anvil, yes, but they were not unique in that. It’s an ancient title. Are we the dark mirror to such people?’ Then he shook his head. ‘Probably not. That would be a grand conceit.’

‘I agree,’ Seerdomin said in a slurred growl.

‘I love her.’

‘So you claimed. And presumably she will not have you.’

‘Very true.’

‘So here you sit, getting drunk.’

‘Yes.’

‘Once I myself am drunk enough, Spinnock Durav, I will do what’s needed.’

‘What’s needed?’

‘Why, I will go and tell her she’s a damned fool.’

‘You’d fail.’

‘I would?’

Spinnock nodded. ‘She’s faced you down before. Unflinchingly.’ Another stretch of silence. That stretched on, and on.

He was drunk enough now to finally shift his gaze, to fix his attention on Seer-domin’s face.

It was a death mask, white as dust. ‘Where is she?’ the man asked in a raw, strained voice.

‘On her way back out to the barrow, I should think. Seerdomin, I am sorry. I did not lie when I said I was a fool-’

‘You were,’ and he rose, weaving slightly before, steadying himself with both hands on the back of his chair. ‘But not in the way you think.’

‘She didn’t want my help,’ Spinnock Durav said.

‘And I would not give her mine.’

‘Your choice-’

‘You should not have listened, my friend. To her. You should not have lis-tened to her!’

Spinnock stood as Seerdomin spun round and marched for the door. He was suddenly without words, numbed, stunned into confusion. What have I done? What have I not done!? But his friend was gone.

In her irritation, Samar Dev discovered traits in herself that did not please. There was no reason to resent the manner in which her two companions found so much pleasure in each other’s company. The way they spoke freely, unconstrained by decorum, unaffected even by the fact that they barely knew one another, and the way the subjects flowed in any and every direction, flung on whims of mood, swirling round heady topics like eddies round jagged rocks. Most infuriating of all, they struck on moments of laughter, and she well knew-damn the gods, she was certain-that neither man possessed such ease of humour, that they were so far removed from that characterization that she could only look on in stunned disbelief.

They spoke of their respective tribes, traded tales of sexual conquests. They spoke of weapons and neither hesitated in handing over his sword for the other to examine and, indeed, try a few experimental swings and passes with. Traveller told of a friend of old named Ereko, a Tartheno of such pure, ancient blood that he would have towered over Karsa Orlong had the two been standing side by side. And in that story Samar Dev sensed deep sorrow, wounds of such severity that it was soon apparent that Traveller himself could not venture too close, and so his tale of Ereko reached no conclusion. And Karsa Orlong did not press, revealing his clear understanding that a soul could bleed from unseen places and often all that kept a mortal going depended on avoiding such places.

He reciprocated in his speaking of the two companions who had accompanied him on an ill-fated raid into the settled lands of humans, Bairoth Gild and Delum Thord. Whose souls, Karsa blithely explained, now dwelt within the stone of his sword.

Traveller simply grunted at that detail, and then said, ‘That is a worthy place.’ By the second day of this, Samar Dev was ready to scream. Tear her hair from her head, spit blood and curses and teeth and maybe her entire stomach by the time she was done. And so she held her silence, and held on to her fury, like a rabid beast chained to the ground. It was absurd. Pathetic and ridiculous, this crass envy she was feeling. Besides, had she not learned more about both men since their fateful meeting than she had ever known before? Like a tickbird flit-ting between two bull bhederin, her attention was drawn to first one, then the other. While the peace lasted it would do to say nothing, to make no commotion no matter how infuriated she happened to be.

They rode on, across the vast plain, along a worn caravan track angling into the Cinnamon Wastes. Those few merchant trains they met or overtook were singularly taciturn, the guards edgy, the traders unwelcoming. Just before dusk lastnight, four horsemen had passed close by their camp, and, after a long look, had ridden on without a word ventured.

Karsa had sneered and said, ‘See that, Samar Dev? As my grandfather used to say, “The wolf does not smell the bear’s anus.”‘

‘Your grandfather,’ Traveller had replied, ‘was an observant man.’

‘Mostly he was a fool, hut even fools could spout tribal wisdom.’ And he turned to Samar Dev again. ‘You are safe, Witch.’

‘From other people, yes,’ she had growled in reply.

And the bastard had laughed.

The Cinnamon Wastes were well named. One species of deep-rooted grass quickly predominated, rust-red and hip-high, with serrated edges and thorny seed-pods on thin wavering stalks. Small red-banded lizards swarmed these grasses, tails whipping and rustling as they scattered from their path. The land levelled until not a single rise or hill was in sight.

Amidst this monotony, Traveller and Karsa Orlong seemed intent on wearing out their vocal cords.

‘Few recall,’ Traveller was saying, ‘the chaos of the Malazan Empire in those early days. The madness only began with Kellanved, the Emperor. His first cadre of lieutenants were all Napan, each one secretly sworn to a young woman named Surly, who was heiress to the crown of the Nap Isles-in hiding ever since the Untan conquest.’ He paused. ‘Or so goes the tale. Was it true? Was Surly truly the last of the Napan royal line? Who can say, but it came in handy when she changed her name to Laseen and attained the throne of the Empire. In any case, those lieutenants were crocked, every one of them. Urko, Crust, Nok, all of them. Quick to fanaticism, willing to do anything and everything to advance the Empire.’

‘The Empire, or Surly?’ asked Karsa Orlong. ‘Does it not seem just as likely that they were simply using Kellanved?’

‘A fair suspicion, except that only Nok remained once Laseen became Empress. The others each… drowned.’

‘Drowned?’

‘Officially. That cause of death quickly became euphemistic. Put it this way. They disappeared.’

‘There was someone else,’ Samar Dev said. ‘Dancer-’

‘Not him, Traveller. There was the First Sword. There was Dassem Ultor, commander of all the Emperor’s armies. He was not Napan. He was Dal Honese.’

Traveller glanced across at her. ‘He fell in Seven Cities, shortly before Laseen took power.’

‘Surly had him assassinated,’ said Samar Dev.

Karsa Orlong grunted. ‘Eliminating potential rivals-she needed to clear the path. That, Witch, is neither savage nor civilized. You will see such things in dirt-nosed tribes and in empires both. This truth belongs to power.’

‘I would not dispute your words, Toblakai. Do you want to know what hap-pened after you killed Emperor Rhulad?’

‘The Tiste Eclur quit the Umpire.’