‘Jula, Amby-let go of her-’

‘We will, once you cut her head off!’

‘Do it now, Boles, or I will cut your heads off.’

‘Do Amby first!’

‘No, Jula first!’

‘I’ve got two cutlasses here, boys, so I’ll do it at the same time. How does that suit you?’

The Boles half lifted themselves up and glared across at each other.

‘We don’t like it,’ said Amby.

‘So leave off her, then.’

They rolled to the sides, away from the Jaghut woman; and she pulled her arms loose and clambered to her feet. The penumbra of sorcery dimmed, winked out. Breathing hard, she spun to face the Bole brothers, who’d rolled in converging arcs until they collided and were now crouched side by side in the mud, eyeing her like a pair of wolves.

Clutching his head, Master Quell stumbled up to them. ‘You idiots,’ he gasped. ‘Jaghut, your husband’s cursed this village. Tralka Vonan. Can you do anything about that?’

She was trying to wipe the mud from her rotted clothes. ‘You’re not from around here,’ she said. ‘Who are you people?’

‘Just passing through,’ Quell said. ‘But our carriage needs repairs-and we got wounded-’

‘I am about to destroy this village and everyone in it-does that bother you?’

Quell licked his muddy lips, made a face, and then said, ‘That depends if you’re including us in your plans of slaughter.’

‘Are you pirates?’

‘No.’

‘Wreckers?’

‘No.’

‘Necromancers?’

‘No.’

Then,’ she said, with another glare at the Boles, ‘I suppose you can live.’

‘Your husband says even if he dies, the curse will persist.’

She bared stained tusks. ‘He’s lying.’

Quell glanced at Gruntle, who shrugged in return and said, ‘I’m not happy with the idea of pointless slaughter, but then, wreckers are the scum of humanity.’

The Jaghut woman walked towards the stone wall. They watched her.

‘Master Quell,’ said Glanno Tarp, ‘got any splints?’

Quell shot Gruntle another look. ‘Told you, the cheap bastard.’

At last the sun rose, lifting a rim of fire above the horizon on this the last day of the wrecker village on the Reach of Woe.

From a window of the tower, Bedusk Pall Kovuss Agape stood watching his wife approaching up the street. ‘Oh,’ he murmured, ‘I’m in trouble now.’

In the moments before dawn, Kedeviss rose from her blankets and walked out into the darkness. She could make out the shape of him, sitting on a large boulder and staring northward. Rings spun on chains, glittering like snared-stars.

Her moccasins on the gravel scree gave her away and she saw him twist round to watch her approach.

‘You no longer sleep,’ she said.

To this observation, Clip said nothing.

‘Something has happened to you,’ she continued. ‘When you awoke in Bastion, you were… changed. I thought it was some sort of residue from the possession. Now, I am not so sure.’

He put away the chain and rings and then slid down from the boulder, landing lightly and taking a moment to straighten his cloak. ‘Of them all,’ he said in a low voice, ‘you, Kedeviss, are the sharpest. You see what the others do not.’

‘I make a point of paying attention. You’ve hidden yourself well, Clip-or whoever you now are.’

‘Not well enough, it seems.’

‘What do you plan to do?’ she asked him. ‘Anomander Rake will see clearly, the moment he sets his eyes upon you. And no doubt there will be others.’

‘I was Herald of Dark,’ he said.

‘I doubt it,’ she said.

‘I was Mortal Sword to the Black-Winged Lord, to Rake himself.’

‘He didn’t choose you, though, did he? You worshipped a god who never an-swered, not a single prayer. A god who, in all likelihood, never even knew you existed.’

‘And for that,’ whispered Clip, ‘he will answer.’

Her brows rose. ‘Is this a quest for vengeance? If we had known-’

‘What you knew or didn’t know is irrelevant.’

‘A Mortal Sword serves.’

‘I said, Kedeviss, I was a Mortal Sword.’

‘No longer, then. Very well, Clip, what are you now?’

In the grainy half-light she saw him smile, and something dark veiled his eyes. ‘One day, in the sky over Bastion, a warren opened. A machine tumbled out, and down-’

She nodded. ‘Yes, we saw that machine.’

‘The one within brought with him a child god-oh, not deliberately. No, the mechanism of his sky carriage, in creating gates, in travelling from realm to realm, by its very nature cast a net, a net that captured this child god. And draped it here,’

‘And this traveller-what happened to him?’

Clip shrugged.

She studied him, head cocked to one side. ‘We failed, didn’t we?’

He eyed her, as if faintly amused.

‘We thought we’d driven the Dying God from you-instead, we drove him deeper. By destroying the cavern realm where he dwelt.’

‘You ended his pain, Kedeviss,’ said Clip. ‘Leaving only his… hunger.’

‘Rake will destroy you. Nor,’ she added, ‘will we accompany you to Black Coral. Go your own way, godling. We shall find our own way there-’

He was smiling. ‘Before me? Shall we race, Kedeviss-me with my hunger and you with your warning? Rake does not frighten me-the Tiste Andii do not frighten me. When they see me, they will see naught but kin-until it is too late.’

‘Godling, if in poring through Clip’s mind you now feel you understand the Tiste Andii, I must tell you, you are wrong. Clip was a barbarian. Ignorant. A fool. He knew nothing.’

‘I am not interested in the Tiste Andii-oh, I will kill Rake, because that is what he deserves. I will feed upon him and take his power into me. No, the one I seek is not in Black Coral, but within a barrow outside the city. Another young god-so young, so helpless, so naive.’ His smile returned. ‘And he knows I am coming for him.’

‘Must we then stop you ourselves?’

‘You? Nimander, Nenanda, all you pups? Now really, Kedeviss.’

‘If you-’

His attack was a blur-one hand closing about her throat, the other covering her mouth. She felt her throat being crushed and scrabbled for the knife at her belt.

He spun her round and flung her down to the ground, so hard that the back of her head crunched on the rocks. Dazed, her struggles weakened, flailed, fell away.

Something was pouring out from his hand where it covered her mouth, some-thing that numbed her lips, her jaws, then forced its way into her mouth and down her throat. Thick as tree sap. She stared up at him, saw the muddy gleam of the Dying God’s eyes-dying no longer, now freed-and thought: what have we done?

He was whispering. ‘I could stop now, and you’d be mine. It’s tempting.’

Instead, whatever oozed from his hand seemed to burgeon, sliding like a fat, sleek serpent down her throat, coiling in her gut.

‘But you might break loose-just a moment’s worth, but enough to warn the others, and I can’t have that.’

Where the poison touched, there was a moment of ecstatic need, sweeping through her, but that was followed almost instantly by numbness, and then something… darker. She could smell her own rot, pooling like vapours in her brain.

he is killing me. Even that knowledge could not awaken any strength within her.

‘I need the rest of them, you see,’ he was saying. ‘So we can walk in, right in, without anyone suspecting anything. I need my way in, that’s all. Look at Nimander.’ He snorted. ‘There is no guile in him, none at all. He will be my shield. My shield.’

He was no longer gripping her neck. It was no longer necessary.

Kedeviss stared up at him as she died, and her final, fading thought was: Nimander… guileless? Oh, but you don’t… And then there were nothing.

The nothing that no priest dared speak of, that no holy scripture described, that no seer or prophet set forth in ringing proclamation. The nothing, this nothing, it is the soul in waiting.

Comes death, and now the soul waits.