She crossed her thick arms across her wide chest. ‘Devaleth Omptol.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘It wouldn't mean anything to you.’

Ho rolled his eyes. ‘Gods, woman, there are over forty scholars, historians and archivists here.’

‘Mare. Ship's mage, out of Black City.’

‘You're from Fist, then.’

The woman's brows rose, surprised. ‘Yes. That name's not in common usage.’

Grief took the feet of the unconscious captain, began dragging him back to the barracks. ‘Ship's mage, hey? That'll be damned useful.’

‘If either of you think I'm going to summon my Warren with all this Otataral around you're the insane ones.’ She shouted after Grief, ‘How are we getting off this blasted island anyway?’

‘Treat's going to get the rest of our, ah, team, tonight. We have a ship.’

Devaleth snorted something that sounded like ‘Fine!’ and walked away.

‘Where are you going?’ Ho called after her.

She pointed to the dunes. ‘There's an ocean out there. I'm going to wash my clothes, scrub my skin with sand, scrub my hair, and then I'm going to do it all over again!’

Ho plucked at his threadbare, dirty jerkin, lifted a foot in its worn leather sandal. All impregnated with the ore. He looked to the barracks, his eyes widening, and he ran after Grief. ‘Wait a moment!’

Ghelel wanted to curry her own mount. It was an eager mare she'd grown quite fond of, but Molk had warned against it saying that the regulars took care of such things and that she, as a Prevost, ought not to lower herself. She personally saw nothing odd in an officer caring for his or her own horse; Molk, however, was insistent. And so she found herself facing another empty evening of waiting – waiting for intelligence from Li Heng on any development in the siege, which appeared to have settled into a sullen stalemate despite the early victories. Or waiting for intelligence from the east on the progress of the Empress's armada. Or of a new development: the coastal raids of a significant pirate navy that had coalesced to take advantage of the chaos, pillaging Unta and now Cawn. Just two days ago word reached them that these raiders had become so emboldened they were actually marching inland. The betting around the tents was on how far they dared go. Raids on Telo or Ipras were the odds-on favourites.

She therefore faced the same choice that wasn't really a choice this last week since General Urko's army had marched through: lie staring at the roof of her tent, sitting at the main campfire or visiting the command tent. Spending another useless evening at the campfire meant watching the Falaran cavalrymen led by their fat captain, Tonley, share barbs and boasts with the Seti while swilling enormous quantities of whatever alcohol his men had most recently ‘liberated’. Most often beer, though the occasional cask of distilled spirits appeared, and even skins of mead. Visiting the command tent meant, well, getting even closer to Commander Ullen. Something she found frighteningly easy to do.

What would the Marquis think? Or Choss? Would they approve? Ghelel pulled her gloves tighter against the chill night air, glanced to the east where the land fell away into the Idryn's flat, rich floodplain. Somewhere there just days away marched a ragged horde of pirate raiders. Idly, she wondered why Ullen didn't simply uproot his rearguard battalion together with the Falaran lancers, the Seti scouts and the Marshland cavalry and wipe the brigands from the face of the continent. Well, damn them anyway; they maintained she was the heir of the Talian Hegemony, the Tali of Quon Tali. Therefore she outranked the Marquis and Choss wasn't here. She headed to the command tent.

Reaching a main alley in the encampment, she saw ahead the torches and the posted guards, Malazan regulars of the Falaran brigades, and she slowed. If the League should win the coming confrontation and she were installed as the Tali of Quon Tali… how would her behaviour here now come to reflect upon her in the eyes of these regulars everywhere? The thought of their mockery burned upon her face.

The eyes of those guards had her now, glittering in the dark beneath their helmets, and she forced herself to keep moving. Well, damn them too; right now she was nothing more than a lowly cavalry captain, a Prevost. Lowly, and lonely.

As she approached, the guards inclined their heads in acknowledgement and one pushed aside the flap. Ghelel gave as courteous a response as she dared and ducked within. It was warm inside. The golden light of lanterns lit a cluttered table, a scattering of chairs and a low table littered with fruit, meats and carafes of wine. Commander Ullen straightened from pouring wine at the table and bowed. The Marquis Jhardin straightened and bowed as well, though more slowly and perfunctorily – a mere observance of aristocratic courtesy. For her part, Ghelel saluted two superior officers.

Ullen waved the salute aside. ‘Please, Alil. How many times must I ask?’

‘Every time, sir.’ Ghelel drew off her gloves and cloak, draped them over a chair.

‘We were just talking of this pirate army,’ the Marquis said, easing himself back down. ‘They say that at Unta they must have tried to rob the Imperial Arsenal. Blew up half the city and themselves for their trouble.’

‘There's enough of them left,’ Ullen growled into his cup, and sat, stretching out his legs. Ghelel liked the way he did that; and liked the way he watched her from the corner of his pale-blue eyes, almost shyly. She sat at the table, picked up a carafe. ‘I quite understand why we aren't swatting them. I mean, since they number so many…’

A smile from Ullen. One that held no mockery at all, only a bright amusement shared by his eyes. ‘How gigantic have they become now?’

‘I overheard one trooper swear them to be at least thirty thousand.’

The Marquis whistled. ‘Prodigious multiplying indeed. Forget them, Alil. They're just a mob of looters. We don't care about the vultures. We've come for a lioness.’

But Ullen frowned, the lines of care around his mouth deepening. Ghelel caught his eye, arched a questioning brow. ‘We aren't ignoring them, Alil. I have Seti scouts watching from a distance. There have been some rather disturbing, admittedly contrary, rumours about them. But they are – how shall I put it? Difficult to credit. And our mage with Urko, Bala, has sent the message that she is troubled. She suspects powerful mages shielding themselves from her questings.’

‘There must be one or two forceful personalities keeping the horde together,’ the Marquis opined. ‘We'll spot them and eliminate them and the mob will evaporate. They should not have come inland – they are obviously overconfident.’

‘Was Kellanved overconfident?’ Ullen mused aloud, eyeing his glass, ‘when he marched inland with his pirate raiders from Malaz? And Heng was one of his first conquests.’

Neither the Marquis nor Ghelel spoke for a time. The Marquis inclined his head to concede the point. ‘I suppose you could say he was the exception that proves the rule.’

Ghelel studied her wine glass. ‘Speaking of the Throne… why don't we go to meet her? Excuse me for asking, but as new to the command – could we not stop her in the narrow plains west of Cawn?’

Another smile from Ullen. ‘True.’ He stretched, ran both hands through his short blond hair. ‘But then she would simply withdraw to Cawn and wait for us. That we cannot have. As an advocate would say, the burden of proof lies with us. We have to beat her; she merely has to stand back and wait for our support to erode.’

For all Ghelel knew Ullen was patronizing her just as Choss and Amaron had, only his manners were smoother. But there was nothing in it that felt that way to her; they were merely talking through the options together and he was giving the benefit of his greater experience. She wondered again just how much the man knew of her, how much Urko or the Marquis had told him. It could mean a great deal to know that. ‘Why should our support be eroding – not hers?’