‘Use of your craft, good boatman, to take me across the harbour.’

‘Across? You mean to the spice and silk docks p'chance?’

‘No. I mean straight across. West.’

Olo sat up straighter, glanced over, shading his gaze. ‘But there's nothing there

‘My concern, do you not think?’ and the fellow produced a gold coin. Olo goggled at the coin then held out a hand. The man tossed it. It felt hefty enough, not that he'd held many gold Imperial Suns in his life. ‘Be my guest.’

Whoever he was, the man was at least familiar with the water as he smoothly eased himself down on to the light craft of hand-adzed planks. Olo readied the oars, pushed away from the dock. ‘Been quiet since the attack and the Empress leaving, hey?’

‘Yes.’

‘A course, she took all of Unta with her, didn't she!’ and he laughed.

Silence. Olo cast a quick glance to his passenger, found him moodily peering aside, a slight frown of puzzlement wrinkling his pale face. Olo squinted as well: the fellow appeared to be watching a shoal of clustered leaves bobbing in the waves. Old prayer offerings. Not a man for small talk, obviously. Olo rowed on, taking a moment to pull down his loose woollen hat. A bottle of Kanese red maybe, and that Talian girl – the one who was so full of herself. Or maybe rice-piss for as many days as he could stomach it. And thinking of that – Olo shot a quick look to his self-absorbed passenger, pulled out a gourd and took a quick nip.

‘What are you up to, Mael?’

Olo gasped, choking. ‘Me sir? Nothing, sir! Just a touch thirsty ‘s all.’

But the eunuch wasn't even looking his way; he was turned aside, looking out over the water. Olo squinted as well but saw only the smooth green swells of the harbour, the forest of berthed ships. The boat slowed.

Without so much as turning his head the man said, ‘Row on or jump out. Your decision.’ And he held his hands over the side.

Olo gaped at the fellow. What? Who was he to-

The water began to foam under the man's hands. It churned as if boiling, hissing and paling to a light olive green.

Olo almost fell over backwards as he heaved on the oars. Gods forgive me! Chem Bless me! Thousand-fold God favour me! What have I done to deserve this – other than all those things Vve done but never told anyone?

‘Those folded leaves. The flowers and garlands on the water. What are they?’

Pulling harder than he had in thirty years, Olo gasped a breath. ‘Offerings. Prayers.’

‘Offerings to whom?’

‘The God of the waters, sir. God of all the seas. God of a Thousand Moods, a Thousand Faces, a Thousand Names.’

‘No! Mael! You shall writhe in agony for this!’

Olo gaped at the man. Mael who? Then, remembering, he renewed his pulling. The skiff bucked, bobbing in suddenly rough waters.

‘Speak! I command you!’

Olo somehow knew that his passenger was not addressing him. The tiny skiff sped up, but not from any efforts on Olo's part. The water was swelling, climbing upwards, bulging beneath them like a blanket billowed by air, and his skiff was sliding down its slope. He abandoned his oars in futility, scooped up the gourd and emptied it over his face, gulping. And horribly, appallingly, he heard something speak: ‘Mallick. What is there for us to talk of?’

‘What have you been scheming!’ the passenger demanded.

‘I? Nothing. Your prohibitions forbid this. I have merely been here – awaiting your summons. Am I to be blamed that others have sensed me, sent their offerings? Their prayers? Is it my fault that somehow have been recalled the ancient titles and invocations?’

‘What are you babbling about!’ his passenger fairly howled, hands now fists at his temples.

The voice took on a harsh edge. ‘I am free of you now, Mallick. Your bindings upon me have frayed, unravelled by the plucking of countless thousands. We are done, you and I. Finished, We shall speak no more. I could crush you now – and I should for all the crimes you have committed. But I will withhold my anger. I have indulged it too much of late. My last gift to you is this passage. That, your life, and my mercy – may it gall you.’

The skiff suddenly spun like a top, whirling on foaming waters. Olo had the sickening sensation of falling, then water heaved over the sides, the boat rocking, settling. He scrambled to use his cupped hands to toss out the water. His passenger sat slumped in the stern, soaked in spray. Olo then grasped the oars, rowed for his life. The west shore was close now, though it looked too wild and steep. Had they drifted out into the bay? As his boat neared the rocky shore he looked around and gaped, stunned. Where in the Queen's Teasings was he? This was not Unta! There was a town to the north, but it was much too small. Though it too did look as if it had seen an attack. He steadied the craft at a rock, setting a sandalled foot out to hook it. Waves threatened to break the skiff on the shore but he pushed back, fighting the surge. Movement announced his passenger stirring.

‘We're lost, sir,’ he called over the waves.

A long pause, then, ‘Yes. I am. But perhaps not completely.’

The man was obviously one of those crazed mages he heard all about in songs and somehow his insanity had touched him – Gods, may it pass! ‘What I mean, sir, is I don't know where we are.’

The man edged his way forward, set a cold damp hand on Olo's shoulder. ‘We are in Cawn,’ he said, and he pushed off Olo to reach the rock.

Olo gaped up at him. ‘Really, sir? I mean, I've never been.’

The fat fellow pushed back his wet hair, clasped his hands across his broad stomach, his fingers weaving, and he regarded the town to the north through lowered eyelids. ‘Well, you have now.’ Something must have caught his eye then for he stooped, reaching down, and came up with a folded leaf votive offering. It held an old wilted geranium blossom. So, even here in Cawn too, Olo reflected. The fellow regarded it for a time, quite pensive, his fat lips turned down. ‘Patience, this lesson. Patience, and – acceptance of the unalterable. Will I finally learn, I wonder?’

‘Pardon, sir?’

But it was as if Olo had not spoken at all. The fellow tossed the offering back into the waves and turned away. Further up the shore, where a short cliff rose from a steep strand of gravel, driftwood and black, angular rocks, a group of men and women now waited where just before none had been. Olo recognized the dark-cloaked figures from stories and was now glad to have simply been left alive. He lifted his gourd for a drink but found it empty and threw it aside in disgust. Then he remembered the coin and fished around inside his shirt. He found it and shouted his glee then glanced hurriedly to the shore but the figures were gone, and his eerie passenger with them. May they fall into the Abyss!

He pushed off from the slippery algae-lined rock and back-oared. Now for Cawn. He hoped they were civilized enough here to boast a brothel or two. And what a tale he had to tell! It might even be good enough for one on the house.

Ullen picked up a fallen soldier's helmet only to find it heavy with gore. He dropped the wet thing. Four of Cowl's Avowed assassins. The reserves in turmoil. Some sort of flesh-bursting Warren magics only stopped by an end of bodies to feed it. He caught the eye of the healer treating High Fist Anand, bloodied and prone on a cloak, cocked a question.

The healer rose to put her face to his ear. ‘He may live.’

Ullen turned to the pale, shaken staff officers, Imperial and Talian. ‘Reorder the brigades.’ Relieved jerked nods all around. ‘The rest of you, follow me. From now on we'll keep moving.’

Salutes. ‘Aye, Commander.’

He headed south to the best vantage of the field he could find. Ahead, smoke draped the entire slope where fires rose raging only to suddenly whip out as if by invisible tornadoes. The heaving mass of irregulars still fired their withering flights of bolts into the hunched lines of Crimson Guard soldiery. So far the thrumming and singing of the crossbows was the main noise of battle. Behind the lines, the Blades waited, veterans and Avowed all. On the west, Urko's command of Talian heavies had broken through and now faced a number of coalesced Blades. Good luck, old friend. The tall standard of the Sword was still pressing in the centre, now facing the thickest of the lines. Ullen had to admire the man's bravery and martial spirit, even if it was accompanied by a rather appalling lack of imagination. He waved forward a messenger. ‘Ride to V'thell. Give him my compliments and have him break that east phalanx at all costs, then head west to the road to cut the main Guard elements from the bridge.’