A hundred paces ahead someone had set four torches on high poles where four paths met, creating a square with the flaring firelight centred on the crossroads. There were no buildings in sight, nothing to give reason for such a construction. Frowning, he resumed walking.

As he drew closer, he saw someone sitting on a marker stone, just beneath one of the torches. Hooded, motionless, forearms resting on thighs, gauntleted hands draped down over the knees.

Kallor felt a moment of unease. He scraped through gravel with one boot and saw the hood slowly lift, the figure straightening and then rising to its feet.

Shit.

The stranger reached up and tugged back the hood, then walked to position himself in the centre of the crossroads.

In the wake of recognition, dismay flooded through Kallor. ‘No, Spinnock Durav, not this.’

The Tiste Andii unsheathed his sword. ‘High King, I cannot let you pass.’

‘Let him fight his own battles!’

‘This need not be a battle,’ Spinnock replied. ‘I am camped just off this road. We can go there now, sit at a fire and drink mulled wine. And, come the morning, you can turn round, go back the other way. Darujhistan, High King, is not for you.’

‘You damned fool. You know you cannot best me.’ He glared at the warrior, struggling. A part of him wanted to… gods … a part of him wanted to weep. ‘How many of his loyal, brave followers will he see die? And for what? Listen to me, Spinnock. I have no real enmity against you. Nor Rake.’ He waved one chain-clad hand in the air behind him. ‘Not even those who pursue me. Heed me, please. I have always respected you, Spinnock-by the Abyss, I railed at how Rake used you-’

‘You do not understand,’ the Tiste Andii said. ‘You never did, Kallor.’

‘You’re wrong. I have nothing against any of you!’

‘Korlat-’

‘Did you think it was my intention to murder Whiskeyjack? Do you think I just cut down honourable men and loyal soldiers out of spite? You weren’t even there! It was Silverfox who needed to die, and that is a failure we shall all one day come to rue. Mark my words. Ah, gods, Spinnock. They got in my way, damn you! Just as you’re doing now!’

Spinnock sighed. ‘It seems there will be no mulled wine this night.’

‘Don’t.’

‘I am here, High King, to stand in your way.’

‘You will die. I cannot stay my hand-everything will be beyond control by then. Spinnock Durav, please! This does not need to happen.’

The Tiste Andii’s faint smile nearly broke Kallor’s heart. No, he understands. All too well. This will be his last battle, in Rake’s name, in anyone’s name.

Kallor drew out his sword. ‘Does it occur, to any of you, what these things do to me? No, of course not. The High King is cursed to fail, but never to fall. The High King is but… what? Oh, the physical manifestation of ambition. Walking proof of its inevitable price. Fine.’ He readied his two-handed weapon. ‘Fuck you, too.’

With a roar that ripped like fire from his throat, Kallor charged forward, and swung his sword.

Iron rang on iron.

Four torches lit the crossroads. Four torches painted two warriors locked in battle. Would these be the only witnesses? Blind and miserably indifferent with their gift of light?

For now, the answer must be yes.

The black water looked cold. Depthless, the blood of darkness. It breathed power in chill mists that clambered ashore to swallow jagged, broken rocks, fallen trees. Night itself seemed to be raining down into this sea.

Glittering rings spun and clicked, and Clip slowly turned face Nimander and the others. ‘I can use this,’ he said. ‘The power rising from this water, it is filled with currents of pure Kurald Galain. I can use this.’

‘A Gate?’

‘Well, at least one of you is thinking. A Gate, yes, Nimander. A Gate. To take us to Black Coral.’

‘How close?’ Skintick asked.

Clip shrugged. ‘Close enough. We will see. At the very least, within sight of the city walls.’

‘So get on with it,’ said Nenanda, his words very nearly a snarl.

Smiling, Clip faced the Cut once more. ‘Do not speak, any of you. I must work hard at this.’

Nimander rubbed at his face. He felt numb, haunted by exhaustion. He moved off to sit on a boulder. Just up from the steep shoreline, thick moss blunted every-thing, the stumps of rotted trees, the upended roots, the tumbled black stones. The night air clung to him, cold and damp, reaching in to his bones, closing tight about his heart. He listened to the soft lap of the water, the suck and gurgle among the rocks. The smell was rich with decay, the mists sweet with brine.

He could feel the cold of the boulder seeping through, and his hands ached.

Clip spun his chain, whirled the two rings, one gold, one silver, and round and round they went. Apart from that he stood motionless, his back to them all.

Skintick settled down beside Nimander. Their eyes met and Skintick shrugged a silent question, to which Nimander replied with a faint shake of his head.

He’d thought he’d have a few more days. To decide things. The when. The how. The options if they should fail. Tactics. Fall-back plans. So much to think about, but he could speak to no one, could not even hint of what he thought must be done. Clip had stayed too close to them on this descent, as if suspicious, as if deliberately forcing Nimander to say nothing.

There was so much he needed to tell them, and so much that he needed to hear. Discussions, arguments, the weighing of risks and contingencies and coordination. All the things demanded of one who would lead; but his inability to give voice to his intentions, to deliver orders at the end of a long debate, had made him next to useless.

By his presence alone, Clip had stopped Nimander in his tracks.

In this game of move and countermove, Clip had outwitted him, and that galled. The moment the charade was shattered, there would be chaos, and in that scene Clip held the advantage. He had only himself to worry about, alter all,

No, Nimander had no choice but to act alone, to trust in the others to follow.

He knew they were watching him, his every move, studying his face for any telltale expression, for every silent message, and this meant he had to hold himself in check. He had to guard himself against revealing anything, lest one of them misunderstand and so make a fatal mistake, and all of this was wearing him down.

Something lifted noisily from the black water. A span of darkness, vertical, its upper edges dripping, fast dissolving.

‘Follow me,’Clip gasped.’Quickly!’

Nimander rose and tugged Skintick back-‘Everyone, stay behind me’-and, seeing Clip lunge forward and vanish within the Gate, he hurried forward.

But Nenanda reached the portal before him, rushing in even as he drew his sword.

Cursing under his breath, Nimander darted after him.

The Gate was collapsing. Someone shrieked in his wake.

Nimander staggered on slippery, uneven bedrock, half blinded by streaks of lu-minescence that scattered like cut webs. He heard a gasping sound, almost at his feet, and a moment later stumbled against something that groaned.

Nimander reached down, felt a body lying prone. Felt something hot and welling under one palm-the slit of a wound, the leaking of blood. ‘Nenanda?’

Another gasp, and then, ‘I’m sorry, Nimander-I saw-I saw him reaching for his dagger, even as he stepped through-I saw-he knew, he knew you were following, you see-he-’

From somewhere ahead there came a hollow laugh. ‘Do you imagine me an id-iot, Nimander? Too bad it wasn’t you. It should have been you. But then, this way it’s just one more death for you to carry along.’

Nimander stared but could see nothing. ‘You still need us!’

‘Maybe, but it’s too risky to have you so close. When I see a viper, I don’t invite it into my belt-pouch. So, wander lost in here… for ever, Nimander. It won’t feel very different from your life before this, I expect.’