Moss had always thought these ritual challenges raucous, chaotic mob scenes but an eerie silence now took the crowd, as of a collective holding of breath. The two combatants crouched, arms reaching out to one another. Moss straightened in his saddle, more than a little anxious since the target of his mission might just be eviscerated before his eyes.

Blades slashed, hands grasped, a grunt, crunch of a solid blow, then the youth spun away, hand at his face where bright blood smeared his chin. Many in the crowd let out breaths in a knowing exhalation. The old man straightened, made a throwing gesture as if to say, ‘we're finished,’ and turned to go.

But the youth angrily slapped aside the hands of his friends and advanced to the centre of the oval. Warnings brought the old man about. Turning, he called something; the youth's answer was a growl and a ready stance. With a shrug, the old man complied, advancing. This time he held his arms out wide, his hands empty. The surrounding crowd tensed, shocked, edged back a step to offer up more room. The two circled warily, the youth shouting – perhaps demanding that his opponent arm himself. The old man just smiled his feral toothy fighting grin. After two circuits the youth gave up, yelled something to the crowd – probably asking they witness that he'd given the old fool every chance to defend himself – and pressed the attack.

This time the exchange lasted longer. The youth slashed, hunting an opening while the old man gave ground, dodging. Moss could only shake his head; it was so damned obvious to him. A swing from the youth and the old man seemed to casually step inside and twist, throwing his opponent yet keeping a grip on the arm. That arm forced backwards farther and farther. A shriek from the youth. A sickening bend and wet snap of that elbow. And the old man straightened leaving the youth hugging his arm, rocking it like a crippled infant.

The Seti woman at Moss's side murmured something and Moss gave her a questioning look. ‘He should consider himself lucky,’ she explained. ‘The Boar showed great patience with him.’

The Boar?’

‘Some call him the Boar. Many elders swear he reminds him of the Boar of their youth.’

‘Who was he?’ Moss noted that from across the oval the Boar was now watching him steadily.

‘He was our last great champion from a generation ago. No one could defeat him.’

‘What happened to him?’

The female Seti warrior gave Moss a strange penetrating look. ‘Your Dassem Ultor came to us.’

The Wildman, or Boar, was now coming straight to Moss's horse. The crowd parted before him, some reverently reaching out to touch him as he passed. ‘You, Captain,’ he called in the Talian dialect. Moss moved to dismount. ‘Stay up there!’ Shrugging, Moss complied.

He stopped beside Moss's mount. Small brown eyes well hidden within ledges of bone studied Moss, roved about his figure. He sniffed, wrinkling his flattened nose. ‘I'm smelling a stink I haven't smelled in a long time, Captain. And I don't like it. You can stay the night. But don't you step outside your camp.’

Moss bowed his head. ‘Warlord Toc sends his regards and extends his invitation.’

‘He can keep both.’

‘You may bring an escort, perhaps fifty of your most loyal-’

‘I'm not interested in reminiscing. I'm looking to the future. One without any of you foreigners.’

‘Wouldn't a future without Heng help in that regard?’

‘Heng?’ the old man snorted. ‘Heng?’ He smiled his unnerving, hungry, bestial smile. ‘You've been on the trail for some time now, haven't you, Captain? Well, word's come. Heng's a sideshow now. She's left Unta. Coming by sea.’

Moss stared. So, she's coming. Now his choice would matter even more. He bowed as best he could while mounted. ‘My thanks. This is welcome news. I hadn't heard.’

The old man, Wildman, Boar, now scowled ferociously. ‘Yeah. It's welcome all right. I have a few things to pick over with her, I'll tell you, if I could be bothered.’

He waved Moss off. ‘Now go. We're finished.’ He marched off without waiting for a reply.

After a minute Moss dismounted. Seti warriors pointed him to an empty field; he waved his command over. While his men led their mounts to the bivouac, Moss watched where the Wildman now crouched shoulder to shoulder within a circle of elders, sharing a pipe and a platter of food. Who was he? Such men do not simply appear out of nowhere; he must have a history. A Malazan veteran, that much was obvious; he knew Moss's rank. Fought abroad and learned much of the world. A Seti officer returned from overseas. How many of them could there be? Toc and the atamans would have the resources to find out. Once he returned the mystery would be solved. Then he would also know whether this man might prove a factor in his mission – or not. He pulled his mount's reins to urge it on after his men.

CHAPTER IV

Battle is for an army to win or lose; war is for civilization to win or lose. Wisdom of Irymkhaza

(The Seven Holy Books)

NEVALL OD’ ORR, CHIEF FACTOR OF CAWN, WAS BREAKING fast with tea and a green melon on his terrace overlooking the Street of Virtuous Discretion when his worthless nephew shouted up from below, ‘Another fleet, Uncle! A fleet!’ Nevall gagged, scalding the inside of his mouth – and spat the offending liquid over the terrace. ‘What? Already?’ He stood at the railing and sure enough a cloud of sails was closing on the harbour mouth. His perfidious nephew had taken off down the street to the waterfront carried in his new sky-blue palanquin. Gods, even the village idiot travelled in style these days.

So. Already she had arrived. Must have killed all her oar-slaves or squeezed the life from a mage of Ruse. All as his sources had told: and why not, he paid them a fortune. Yet another expeditionary force to be milked. Hood's infertile member: after they've squeezed all the gold from this one even the dogs will go about on silk cushions. He tossed down his half-melon to the mud and shit-smeared cobbles below for the beggars to fight over and called for his robes of office to be readied. His last thought on the terrace was that he would have to get a much bigger palanquin.

The wharf was heaving with onlookers but his bodyguards beat a passage. ‘Make way for your elected representative!’ Groten bellowed as he kicked the citizens of Cawn aside.

‘What is it? What do you see?’ Nevall called through the hangings.

Groten stuck his glistening bullet-head through the cloths. He wiped a hand across his slick brow. ‘Small for an Imperial fleet, sir.’

‘That's Chief Factor. And what do you expect? It must be the lead element.’

‘If you say so, sir.’ He batted aside the filmy hangings.

‘Groten! You're getting the cloth all sweaty!’

‘Sorry.’ Ducking his head he glanced out. ‘Pretty damned shabby too, sir.’

‘Well, she was probably forced to commandeer the scows and bay-boats left behind in Unta harbour. I heard that attack from mercenary raiders had cost her dear.’

‘So you say, sir.’

Nevall waved him away. ‘Just take me to whoever docks.’

‘Yes, sir.’

As the labourers tied the ropes to bollards and the gangway was readied, Nevall had his carriers set him down. He waved a hand to demand help in straightening from his palanquin. A representative stepped down the gangway – a commander or captain. Nevall rearranged his thick velvet robes of office and peered nearsightedly up at the fellow. To the Chief Factor's surprise, the man wore a long set of mail that dragged along the gangway, a tall full helm and scaled, articulated iron gauntlets. And the equipage was not new either. It was blackened and scoured, as if having been thrown into a smith's furnace.

‘Cawn welcomes – welcomes…’ Nevall searched the masts, the lines, for flagging or any heraldry at all, ‘… your forces. Consider yourself among friends.’