A moment later he realized someone was walking behind him-a pilgrim, per-haps, smart enough to elect to avoid the camp, someone now looking for an inn, all thoughts of salvation riding the tide out in waves, of revulsion.

‘No believer should arrive willing.’ So said that High Priestess, Salind, before Gradithan destroyed her. Monkrat recalled being confused by that statement back then. Now, he wasn’t. Now, he understood precisely what she’d meant.

Worship born of need could not but be suspect, fashioned from self-serving mo-

lives as it was. ‘Someone wanting their bowl filled will take whatever is poured into it.’ No, revelation could not be sought, not through willing deprivation or meditation. It needed to arrive unexpected, even undesired. ‘Do not trust an easy believer,’ Aye, she’d been a strange High Priestess, all right.

He remembered one night, when-

A knife edge pressed cold against his throat.

‘Not a move,’ hissed a voice behind him, and it was a moment before Monkrat realized that the words had been spoken in Malazan.

‘Figured I wouldn’t recognize you, soldier?’

Cold sweat cut through the steamy heat beneath his woollen clothes. His breath came in gasps. ‘Hood’s breath, if you’re gonna kill me just get it done with!’

‘I’m sore tempted, I am.’

‘Fine, do it then-I’ve got a curse ready for you-’

The Malazan snorted, and dogs started barking. ‘That’d be a real mistake.’

Monkrat’s headache had redoubled. He felt something trickling down from his nostrils. The air was rank with a stench he struggled to identity. Bestial, like an animal’s soaked pelt. ‘Gods below,’ he groaned. ‘Spindle.’

‘Aye, my fame precedes me. Sorry I can’t recall your name, or your squad, even. But you were a Bridgeburner-that much I do remember. Vanished up north, listed as dead-but no, you deserted, ran out on your squadmates.’

‘What squadmates? They were all killed. My friends, all killed. I’d had enough, Spindle. We were getting chewed to pieces in that swamp. Aye, I walked. Would it have been better if I’d stayed, only to die here in Black Coral?’

‘Not everyone died here, soldier-’

‘That’s not what I heard. The Bridgeburners are done, finished.’

After a moment the knife fell away.

Monkrat spun round, stared at the short, bald man, wearing that infamous hairshirt-and Hood’s breath, it stank. ‘Which has me wondering-what are you doing here? Alive? Out of uniform?’

‘Dujek looked at us-a handful left-and just went and added our names to the list. He sent us on our way.’

‘And you-’

‘I decided on the pilgrimage. The Redeemer-I saw Itkovian myself, you see. And I saw Capustan. I was here when the barrow went up-there’s a sharper of mine in that heap, in fact.’

‘A sharper!’

Spindle scowled. ‘You had to have been there, soldier.’

‘Monkrat. That’s my name now.’

‘Wipe the blood from your nose, Monkrat.’

‘Listen, Spindle-hear me well-you want nothing to do with the Redeemer. Not now. You didn’t kill me, so I give you that-my warning. Run, run fast. As far away from here as you can.’ He paused. ‘Where’d you come from anyway?’

‘Darujhistan. It’s where we settled. Me and Antsy, Bluepearl, Picker, Blend, Captain Paran. Oh, and Duiker.’

‘Duiker?’

‘The Imperial Historian-’

‘I know who he is-was-whatever. It’s just, that don’t fit, him being there, I mean.’

‘Aye, he didn’t fit well at all. He was on the Chain of Dogs.’

Monkrat made a gesture. Fener’s blessing.

Spindle’s eyes widened. He sheathed his knife. ‘I’ve worked up a thirst, Monkrat.’

‘Not for kelyk, I hope.’

‘That shit they tried to force on me back there? Smelled like puke. No, I want beer. Ale. Wine.’

‘We can find that in Black Coral.’

‘And you can tell me what’s happened-to the Redeemer.’

Monkrat rubbed at the bristle on his chin, and then nodded. ‘Aye, I will.’ He paused. ‘Hey, you remember the red dragon? From Blackdog?’

‘Aye.’

‘She’s here-and when it gets bad enough with the Redeemer, well, she’ll spread her wings.’

‘No wonder I got so edgy when I arrived. Where’s she hiding, then?’

Monkrat grimaced. ‘In plain sight. Come on, see for yourself.’

The two ex-soldiers set out for Black Coral.

The clouds closed in, thick as curtains of sodden sand. In the camp, new dancers spun and whirled through the detritus, while a handful of terrified pilgrims fled back up the trail.

Rain arrived in a torrent, the water rushing down the flanks of the barrow, making it glisten and gleam until it seemed it was in motion. Shivering, moments from splitting wide open. From the clouds, thunder rattled like iron-shod spears, a strange, startling sound that drew denizens of Black Coral out into the streets, to stare upward in wonder.

The water in the black bowls surrounding the High Priestess trembled in answer to that reverberation. She frowned as a wave of trepidation rolled through her. The time was coming, she realized. She was not ready, but then, for some things, one could never be ready. The mind worked possibilities, countless variations, in a procession that did nothing but measure the time wasted in waiting. And leave one exhausted, even less prepared than would have been the case if, for example, she had spent that period in an orgy of hedonistic abandon.

Well, too late for regrets-she shook her head. Oh, it’s never too late for re-grets. That’s what regrets are all about, you silly woman. She rose from the cush-ion and spent a moment shaking out the creases in her robe. Should she track down Endest Silann?

Another heavy clatter of thunder.

Of course he felt it, too, that old priest, the deathly charge growing ever tauter-he didn’t need her to remind him, rushing in all hysterical foam to gush round the poor man’s ankles, The absurd image made her smile, but it was a wry smile, almost bitter. She had worked hard at affecting the cool repose so essential to the role of High Priestess, a repose easily mistaken for wisdom. But how could a woman in her position truly possess wisdom, when the very goddess she served had rejected her and all that she stood for? Not wisdom, but futility. Persistent, stubborn futility. If anything, what she represented was a failure of the intellect, and an even graver one of the spirit. Her worship was founded on denial, and in the absence of a true relationship with her goddess, she-like all those who had come before her-was free to invent every detail of that mock relationship.

The lie of wisdom is best hidden in monologue. Dialogue exposes it. Most people purporting to wisdom dare not engage in dialogue, lest they reveal the paucity of their assumptions and the frailty of their convictions. Better to say nothing, to nod and look thoughtful.

Was that notion worth a treatise? Yet another self-indulgent meander for the hall of scrolls? How many thoughts could one explore? Discuss, weigh, cast and count? All indulgences. The woman looking for the next meal for her child has no time for such things. The warrior shoulder to shoulder in a line facing an enemy can only curse the so-called wisdom that led him to that place. The flurry of kings and their avaricious terrors. The brutal solidity of slights and insults, grievances and disputes. Does it come down to who will eat and who will not! Or does it come down to who will control the option? The king’s privilege in deciding who cats and who starves, privilege that is the taste of power, its very essence, in fact!

Are gods and goddesses any different!

To that question, she knew Anomander Rake would but smile. He would speak of Mother Dark and the necessity of every decision she made-even down to the last one of turning away from her children. And he would not even blink when stating that his betrayal had forced upon her that final necessity.