‘Identify yourselves,’ the Marquis demanded again. ‘Are you part of a legitimate army or mere brigands?’

‘Questionable distinction,’ the woman said, a dark brow arching.

‘It's just a matter of scale, really,’ the man said to her.

‘Or success,’ Ghelel added.

Both looked up, surprised. ‘Hello,’ the man said. ‘I am Cole, this is Lean.’

‘Prevost Alil, the Marquis Jhardin of the Marchland Sentries.’ While they had been talking, Ghelel's sight had been adjusting to the light and she could now see that the cloth wrapped around the helmets and the jupons as well was of a very dark, almost black, crimson.

‘Prevost, Marquis, greetings,’ the man said. ‘That you have chosen not to charge down here with your cavalry to overrun us means that you already know who we are. I congratulate you on your intelligence services. We've tried to keep as low a profile as possible.’

‘Obliterating half of Unta?’ the Marquis snapped. ‘Burning Cawn to the ground?’

The man smiled, baring sharp teeth. ‘As I said – a low profile.’

Ghelel leaned forward, crossing her arms on the tall pommel of her saddle. ‘Cole, we formally request passage south for our detachment.’

Waving an invitation, Cole bowed. ‘Granted, Prevost. All, ah, combatants wishing to withdraw south are invited to do so. But none may come north. Spread the word if you would, please.’

The Marquis glared his disgust. ‘Expecting a flow of desertions, are you?’

‘In the near future, to be brief… yes.’

With a curt nod the Marquis sent a man back with word to advance. ‘I suppose we should thank you for our passage.’

Cole and Lean stood aside. ‘Just doing our job.’

Hurl found Storo on the parapet of the Inner Round wall, chin on hands, staring north. Talian soldiers in the cover of a tower in the lower Outer Round wall were taking pot-shots at him and the nearby soldiers manning the wall. ‘Collect those bolts,’ Storo called to the men as Hurl came to his side and ducked behind a merlon.

‘What are you doing up here?’ Hurl demanded.

‘Being useful.’

‘You'll be pincushioned!’

Occupational hazard of straw targets.’

‘You're in a mood.’

Storo lay his chin on his hands once more. ‘How're you feeling now?’

Hurl couldn't help rubbing her side. ‘Better. Thanks.’

‘Thank Liss. Where is she now anyway?’

‘Watching the east. Won't turn from it for an instant.’

Storo frowned, tilting his head. A crossbow bolt ricocheted from the merlon next to him, spraying stone dust. ‘We know she's coming. Just a matter of time.’

‘No, not that. She says something else is out there, a blank spot where there shouldn't be.’

‘A blank spot, hunh? We have bigger worries.’ He swept his arm to encompass the broad arc of the army camp that spilled out beyond the Outer Round. ‘It's now official – they have enough men.’

‘Why don't they attack?’

‘They will. In the next few days. Escalade all around the north curtain wall, I imagine.’

‘Sir?’ A soldier further along the wall pointed. Hurl glanced through a crenel, saw double ranks of crossbowmen standing atop a nearby tower, all aiming in their direction. She yanked Storo down as a fusillade of bolts staccatoed into the parapet around Storo. Mocking shouts sounded from across the way requesting more target practice. Storo set his forearms on his knees, brushed the dust from his stubbled pate. ‘So, how's our leveller coming along?’

Hurl could only shake her head. Was the man mad, or determined not to survive the siege? She decided then that however it went she'd have everyone keep a close eye on him. ‘That's the news. Silk says they're ready.’

He faced her, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken, but still hard. ‘Ready? Well, it's about bloody time. They can go ahead with it.’

‘Says you should be there, you want it done.’

The eyes rolled to the sky. ‘Tell him I'm busy.’

‘Getting yourself killed, I know.’ She tilted her head to the nearest soldier, lowered her voice, ‘Not exactly what you'd call confidence inspiring.’

The Fist stood once again in full view of the besiegers. ‘The men like a commander with endearing eccentricities.’

Hurl grabbed his arm to pull him along while crossbow bolts ricocheted from the parapets with sharp metallic tings.

Silk met them at the central city temple. Rell was with him, as were Sunny and Jalor. Hurl realized that they hadn't all been together like this since the beginning of the siege. She felt a pang of loss for Shaky – unreliable son of a bitch that he'd been.

The city mage looked worse than he had after the attack. His worn silk finery hung from him in lank sweaty folds. His greasy hair gripped his skull like a cap, and his hand, when he gestured for them to follow, shook with a palsy. ‘Follow me,’ he croaked.

Storo fell into step with Silk, Hurl with Rell. She'd spent little time with the Genabackan lately. The man was ever on the move around the city leading a company of some twenty elite. Wherever he went morale soared – the Hengans thought him some kind of champion. As far as Hurl was concerned, they didn't know the half of it. ‘How are you doing?’ she asked.

‘Well.’ His voice was different now, distorted by his burnt lips. He wore a helmet complete with a faceguard of gilded bronze and a long camail that hung to his shoulders. She still wondered if all that was for protection or to cover up the scarring. A cuirass of iron banding, mail sleeves and greaves completed his serious accoutrement. She doubted the man had ever worn that much iron in all his life. But the same twinned, single-edged, slightly curved swords hung at his sides.

She nodded to Sunny who now commanded a party of emergency response sappers pulled together out of city masons, glassblowers and builders. They'd already blocked a number of attempts upon the Inner Round north gates and had countersunk two tunnels dug by Talian sappers. Jalor, for his part, had somehow fallen even further into a sort of worship of Rell and had elected himself chief bodyguard, accompanying him everywhere.

And what of her? Somehow she had fallen into a role as well. For some reason everyone seemed to consider her second in command after Storo.

Silk led them through the city temple, which Hurl noted had been cleared of all the new shrines to the various Quon Talian gods and spirits that the conquering Malazans had forced upon the Hengans: Burn, Osserc, Hood, Oponn, Soliel, Fener, Togg, Fanderay, even the brand new gold incense bowl dedicated to Trake. Hurl came to Silk's side. ‘House cleaning?’

A tired glance aside and weak smile. ‘Re-consecrated, Hurl.’

‘To who?’

‘Not who, what. The city itself.’

‘The city worships itself? Sounds incestuous.’

‘Just old-fashioned.’

‘That's what my uncle said.’

‘What happened to him?’

Hurl cocked her head to study the ceiling as they walked along. ‘Come to think of it, nothing happened to him. He lived a long life in a rule of terror over a huge family of idiots. Choked to death on a bird bone.’

Silk gave a long thoughtful nod to that. ‘There you go.’

‘Yup. There you go.’

He opened the door of the Inner Sanctum that they'd first entered through during the night of the insurrection. ‘This way.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Sunny growled, stopping. ‘This leads to the shit.’

‘Indeed it does – more than you would know.’

‘Well, I'm not going back down there to get all covered in crap again.’

‘Came off, did it?’ Hurl said.

Sunny bared his jagged teeth. Sighing his impatience, Storo waved a forward.

True to Sunny's forebodings they ended up ducking back out by the gigantic stone jackal head. It slowly ground shut behind them, closing with a boom that shook the floor and leaving them in darkness but for the shielded candle Silk carried. It was gloomy, but it looked to Hurl as if someone had cleaned most of the excrement from the chamber leaving only a dry flaking layer of scum on the limestone floor and a quarter of the way up the walls. ‘Now what?’ Sunny asked in what Hurl thought forced bravado.