Yet everyone knew it was her. Perhaps it was the glance she cast over the waterfront and all assembled. Severe. Utterly assured. And frankly rather disappointed with what it saw. The nobles knelt followed by the citizens. The marines saluted.

She did receive the local factors of the Cawn trading houses: they were allowed to crawl forward on their knees like a gaggle of beggars on the street. She acknowledged their abject loyalty with a brief inclination of her head, then was assisted by a groom in mounting her horse. Everyone else then mounted, and the whole cavalcade set off, the screen of cavalry, the honour-guard, the Empress and her bodyguard accompanied by High Fist Anand and staff, the court retinue following along, Possum among them. The other High Fist, Korbolo Dom, also Sword of the Empire, was where he insisted upon being, leading the van, where everyone seemed content to leave him. For his part Possum was dressed in rich silks, Untan duelling sword at his side. He played the part of a minor noble whose job was to sneer haughtily at anyone gauche enough to ask him what position it was he actually filled.

As he rode along, he spotted operatives standing alongside the road. From signs from them he learned that Cawn had been secured, that spies left behind by Urko had been identified, and that the deal that Ranath, the region's old chief of intelligence, had proposed to Possum had been accepted. The deal was a sweet one and would double Laseen's forces – eventually – but its appearance out of seemingly nowhere troubled him. What had Ranath been up to lately? Where had the intelligence behind the deal come from? And yet, was it not the man's job? Why question him for being competent and resourceful? Was he, Possum, now the sort of leader who dreaded talent among his subordinates? Had he not in fact deliberately cultivated the opposite managerial style? Did he not signal in so many ways to his subordinates that ways and means were of no interest to him so long as the job got done? That they could count on him appearing only when things got botched up? He forced himself to ease back further into his role, flexed his neck and glanced – scornfully – around at the efforts the Cawnese were making in demolishing and rebuilding their city. His gaze fell on the rider next to him and he was startled to see there, dressed in the cream flowing robes and headscarf of a Seven Cities noblewoman, Coil, the most insolent of the five commanders who constituted his second echelon.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

An arched brow, a regal wave to the surroundings. ‘Is this not delicious? Is it not bracing to be out in the field once again?’

Glancing about, Possum smiled thinly. ‘Indeed it is. I am reminded of the old days, my more active times.’

The woman's painted lips could just be made out curling behind the sheer scarf. ‘It seems to me that you should have been getting out much more often all this time.’

It seems to me that both of us were damned lucky not to have been on Malaz just recently. But he inclined his head in assent to the point. Whatever it is she's getting at – yet more useless taunting, no doubt. ‘But we are not here on a pleasure outing.’

‘No. Sadly not. We have the Guard before us and the insurrectionists and their traitor ringleaders. A tall order for anyone, yes?’

What was the fool getting at? She knew as well as he that Laseen in no way intended to actually fight the Guard if she could avoid it. So, the ringleaders. He glanced away, touched a silk handkerchief to his nose. Yes, a tall order. And what order? Or orders? ‘Our primary concern is the safety of the Empress, of course.’

For a mounted rider, Coil performed an admirable curtsied bow, and reined to fall back. Possum turned away. So – has she just announced herself as the source of all these initiatives and unexplained actions on the part of so many of the Claw? All running through here? Sadly for her I cannot risk not acting. There cannot be a parallel command structure. I should strike now, but I cannot forget what lies ahead. After all that, woman, should you still be alive… I'll kill you myself.

Captain Tazal, career soldier, of no famous family, newly installed, marched up to the Throne room of Unta, helmet under one arm, hand on the grip of his sword, and sweat slick on his brow. Guards opened the doors and entering he bowed just within the threshold. Raising his head he saw the throne empty, draped in a white satin cloth – of course, fool! He glanced about. Aside, rinsing his hands in a washbowl, he saw the current authority in the absence of the Empress, Mallick Rel, spokesperson of the Assembly.

Mallick turned from the bowl, dried his hands in a white cloth. ‘You have news, Captain, of this barbarian stain offending our lands?’

Our lands? But Tazal carefully held all emotion from his bearded face. ‘Fortress Jurda has capitulated. Insufficient garrison to withstand an assault.’

The Assemblyman held out the cloth and a servant took it. He clasped his hands across his wide stomach. He glanced down as if studying them. ‘I see. And whose decision was this to make?’

The captain sought to disguise a frown. What was this? Retribution? ‘The commander, the current Lord Jurda.’

‘Competent?’

‘In my view? Yes.’

‘Unfortunate…’

How so unfortunate? Unfortunate that the fortress has capitulated? Or unfortunate for the commander that he capitulated without permission? Or unfortunate for you that thousands of Wickan were now storming down upon you howling for your blood? Or, to give the Assemblyman some credit, unfortunate that a competent military commander viewed the situation so hopeless he capitulated? The captain wiped a sleeve across his brow, striving to keep his face flat. The man did appear admirably calm given the hole he'd dug for himself. Made of strong stuff, this fat conniver.

Still lowered, the Assemblyman's gaze slanted aside to the unoccupied throne. His pale round face appeared even more bloated. The Sword of the Empire has left for the west, Captain. What advice would you offer us?’

Us? From all accounts the captain had heard of this self-proclaimed Sword it was damned lucky the man was in the west and not with them. Then the captain realized the enormity of what had just been requested. Good Soliel! Here he was, a mere garrison commander just raised to captain, never dreaming of seeing the inside of the throneroom, being asked for advice from the most powerful man in the Empire? Well, at least his wife will be pleased. Yet what on Burn's Earth should he, or could he, say to the man? Perhaps, as his father used to say, if you're going to get drunk, might as well throw in the whole deck. He coughed into a fist to clear his throat. One war at a time, sir. Their timing is exquisite. We can't beat them. We must negotiate. Buy them off. Deal with them later.’

Sallow eyes still on the throne, the Assemblyman's thick lips pursed. His fingers, entwined across his stomach, stirred restlessly, reminding the captain of some sort of pale undersea creature. The urge to lash out is almost overwhelming,‘ the man muttered almost as if he'd forgotten the captain's presence. ‘Exterminating these vermin from the face of the world my most dear wish…’ Tazal wondered if he ought to hear any of this yet he dared not say anything, or even breathe. Mallick announced more loudly: Tactical frankness is like a smooth clean cut in battle, captain – much appreciated. I cannot dispute the straight thrust of your thinking. Ruthless cold pragmatism. Refreshing.’ He nodded to himself as if what he'd heard confirmed his own thoughts. ‘Yes. We will send an envoy to open negotiations.’

Tazal clashed a fist to his newly fitted cuirass. The envoy, Assemblyman?’