The murmur of many voices, however, reached them from the round mine-head. A milling mass of what appeared to be the entire Pit's population, all talking, mixing, exchanging opinions and rumours. Ho caught the eye of the nearest. ‘What's going on?’

‘Two of the newcomers climbed the wall.’

Ho's brows rose. ‘Really.’ Just as they'd said. ‘But everyone's tried that.’

A helpless wave. ‘Apparently one had two short sticks that he jabbed into the wall, climbing like that, one then the other. The second followed along his path, punching and kicking the holes deeper.’ Ho thought of the short batons he'd seen Grief whittling. So not weapons after all.

‘Since then?’ Su asked.

‘Nothing. Silence. Yath says they've run off.’

‘He would say that.’ There was something pathological about that man's hatred. If they did get out he'd have to keep an eye on him. Who knew what he might try; he'd already attempted murder.

Grating and ratcheting above announced the hanging platform moving. All talking stopped. A number of inmates fled the mine-head, perhaps afraid it was the guards on their way to bash heads. Ho thought it possible, but unlikely. Why come down here to dirty their hands when they could just withhold food?

As the platform descended it became obvious that it held only one occupant, Grief. After it touched down, rather clumsily, he unclipped a safety rope and waved an invitation. ‘Five at a time, please.’

No one spoke, or moved. Faces turned to examine one another in wonderment as if searching for some clue as to what next to do. Grief frowned his disappointment. ‘Well, aren't you all an eager lot. Don't trample anyone.’

Taking a steadying breath, Ho stepped forward. ‘What happened up there, Grief?’

‘C'mon up. Take a look around.’

‘I'll come,’ said a female inmate, stepping up. Ho recognized her as another of the latest newcomers who had arrived with Grief and Treat. Three other inmates joined them. On the platform, Ho asked the woman, ‘You know each other?’

She looked Grief up and down. ‘No.’

Grief pulled a cord strung among the fat hemp rope suspending the platform and shortly afterwards the mechanism jerked upwards, climbing. Ho saw that two mismatched swords now hung at the man's belt.

The grey, yellow and gold sedimentary layers of the excavated rock edged past as they rose. The rope creaked alarmingly. Ho glanced down, thinking, how many decades kicking through that dust? Six? Seven? Had he simply lost count? Somehow the future now alarmed him. What would he do? Where would he go? He'd gone too long now without even having to consider such questions. He eyed Grief; not a mark on the man and how many guards? Twenty-five, or thereabouts. How had the two accomplished this? All without any Warren magics either. The achievement irked Ho in a way – he felt as if he'd been rendered obsolete. What need for mages if they can manage this?

The platform bumped to a stop, swinging. With a screeching of wood on wood, the cantilevered solid tree-trunk supporting them began turning aside, carrying the platform over to rest on the dirt beside the opening. Grief unhitched the safety rope. Ho blinked in the unaccustomed dawn light, shaded his eyes. The Pit's infrastructure had not changed much since he'd last seen it. A long clapboard house looking like a guard barracks stood where, when Ho had been processed, had only been a tent. A lean-to blacksmith's shop, a corral for donkeys, a dusty heap of open piled barrels and a squat officer's house completed the penal station. Broken barrels and rusted pieces of metal littered the landscape. Beyond, dunes tufted by brittle grasses led off in all directions. Curtains of wind-blown dust obscured the distances. Treat was busy watering the four donkeys hooked to the spokes of the broad, circular lifting mechanism. ‘Where is everyone?’

Grief raised his chin to the barracks. ‘Inside.’

Ho wet his lips, forced himself to ask, ‘Alive?’

‘See for yourself.’

Ho decided that, yes, he would. But he could not bring himself to step from the platform. The others had walked off immediately. He looked down, edged a sandalled foot forward, brought it down on the surface, shifted some weight on to it, bounced slightly up and down as if testing its soundness. Only after this could he bring his other foot from the wood slats.

Grief watched all this without comment, his lips pursed. ‘I'm sorry,’ he finally said as they walked along to the barracks.

‘For what?’

‘I hadn't thought about just how hard this might be for some of you.’

‘For most of us, I think you'll find.’ Then Ho stopped. Something had been bothering him about the installation. He glanced around again, thinking. ‘Where are the wagons? Where's the track to the coast to deliver the ore?’ He pointed to the haphazardly piled barrels. ‘Those are empty. Where are all the full ones?’

Grief was looking away, squinting into the distance, the wrinkles around his eyes almost hiding them. ‘I'm sorry.’

‘Sorry? You're sorry? What do you mean, Hood take you!’

‘He means they've been dumping them,’ said the woman. Ho spun; she'd followed along.

‘Dumping them? They dump them!’ Ho raised his dirty, broken-nailed hands to Grief. ‘Seventy years of scraping and gouging – halved rations when we missed our quotas – and they… they just…’ Ho lurched off for the barracks.

Grief hurried to catch up. ‘Not at first, I understand. Only the last few, ah, decades. It was all played out, not worth refining. I'm sorry, Ho.’

The door wouldn't open. When Ho turned his shoulder to it as if he would batter it down, Grief stepped in front, pulled out two wedges. Ho pushed it open. He found the guards on the floor, lying down and sitting. Seeing Ho, those who could, stood. Seeing Grief they flinched. Almost all carried bloody head wounds, bruising blossoming deep black and purple. Ho thought again of the short batons Grief had whittled. So, yes, weapons after all. ‘Who is the senior officer?’

A short, broad fellow with a blond beard stood forward. He straightened his linen shirt. ‘I am Captain Galith. Who in the Abyss are you?’

‘Am I to understand that you have been dumping the ore that we have been sending up?’

A smile of understanding crept up the man's mouth. ‘Yes, it was policy when I arrived five years ago. We tested each delivery and dumped anything below refinable traces.’

Ho ran a hand through his short hair and found drops of sweat running down his temples. ‘And tell me when… how often were these standards met?’

The smile turned down into mocking defiance. ‘Never.’

Ho grasped a handful of the man's shirt. ‘Come with me.’ He walked the man out towards the gaping ledge.

Grief followed along. ‘What are you going to do, Ho? Toss him in? I can't allow that.’

‘You can't-’ Ho stopped, faced the short, muscular Napan. ‘Who do you think you are? You hang around for a few months and you know everything? This goes way back.’

‘These men surrendered to me. Not you. They're under my protection.’

Facing the Malazan officer, Ho took a deep steadying breath then forced his fist open; Captain Galith pulled his bunched shirt free. ‘You didn't have the guts anyway,’ he grated.

Ho swung a backhanded slap that caught the man across the side of his head, sending him off his feet to lie motionless. Grief leapt backwards clasping the grip of one sword. ‘How did you do that!’ he demanded, eyes slitted.

‘How did you have Treat defeat some twenty guards?’

Grief straightened, inclining his head in acknowledgement of the point. He smiled in a wicked humour. ‘We surprised them.’

‘If you two have finished your pissing contest then perhaps we can discuss how we're getting off this island?’

Grief and Ho turned to the dumpy, grey-haired female inmate. ‘Listen,’ Ho said impatiently, ‘what in the Lady's Favour is your name anyway?’