‘Do not presume, Mallick, to tell me how to do my work. I do not tell you how to manoeuvre behind the Assembly.’

Mallick allowed his voice to diminish almost to nothing. ‘But you do, cherished.’

She giggled. ‘A woman's prerogative, Mallick.’

He raised the glass, acknowledging such.

‘So, Councillor Imry… This will take a while.’

‘Soon.’

‘A while,’ Taya repeated, the sudden iron in her voice surprising from such a slip of a girl.

Mallick raised a placating hand. ‘Please, love. Listen. Time for subtlety and slyness is fast dissipating. Waters are rising and all indications tell it will soon be time to push our modest ship on to the current of events.’

Taya leaned back, plucked at the feather-like white cloth draped over one thigh. ‘I see. Very well. But it may be very messy. There may be… questions.’

Mallick set aside his glass, stood. ‘Such questions swept aside by the coming storm. Now, I shall leave you to your work.’

‘Am I to begin tonight, then? Dressed as I am?’ She spread her arms wide.

Mallick eyed her indifferently. ‘If you think it best. I would never presume to instruct you how to pursue your work.’

Taya's slapped the plush cloth of the armrests. ‘Damn you, Mallick, to the Chained One's own anguish. I don't know why I put up with you.’

He bowed. ‘Perhaps because together we have chance of achieving mutual ambitions.’

Taya waved him away. ‘Yes. Perhaps. Why, in the last month alone I have frustrated two assassination attempts against you.’ She peered up at him from under lowered eyelids. ‘You must be gaining influence.’

Mallick hesitated, unsure. A mere reminder, or veiled threat? He decided to bow again – discretion, ever discretion. He had in her, after all, an extraordinary asset. A talent undetected by anyone in the capital. ‘You are too kind. And remember, mention the Guard to the old woman again. And the firm hand needed. She must speak of it more often now.’

Taya nodded without interest. ‘Yes, Mallick. As ever.’

Outside, Mallick pulled his robes tight against the cooling evening air and pursed his fleshy lips. How dispiriting it was to have to stoop to cajoling and unctuous flattery to gain his way. Still, it had proved a worthy investment. No one, not even Laseen and her Claws who used to have this city tied in silk ribbons, could suspect who it was that had so successfully secreted herself within striking distance of the Imperial Palace. It was only his own peculiar talents that revealed her to him. Taya Radok of Darujhistan. Daughter of Vorcan Radok herself, premier assassin of that city. Trained by her own mother in the arts of covert death since before she could walk. Come to Unta to exact revenge against the Empire that slew her mother. And what a delicious vengeance together they would inflict – though not the sort the child might have in mind.

Stepping down into the loud, lantern-lit street, thoughts of assassins and eliminations turned Mallick's mind to his own safety. He glanced about, searching for his own minder but realized that of course he would never catch a glimpse of the man. He sensed him, however, nearby. Another of the orphans he seemed to have a talent for collecting: an old tattooed mage, long imprisoned in the gaol of Aren – how easy to effect his escape and gain his loyalty. And how valuable the man's – how shall he put it – unconventional talents have proven.

Slipping into the tide of citizens and servants crowding Diviner's Way, Mallick allowed himself a tight satisfied grin. Only two, dearest Taya? He had lost count of the number of sorcerous assaults Oryan had deflected with the strange Elder magic of his Warren delvings. Taya and Oryan: two powerful servants, of a kind. And of course, Mael, his God – and something else as well. It was almost as if the fates had woven the pattern for him to trace all the way to…

Mallick stopped suddenly, almost tripping himself and those next to him within the flow of bodies. He thought of the old woman's rantings. The Gods meddling? Him? No. It couldn't be. None would dare. He was his own man. No one led him.

A hand hard and knotted with arthritis took his elbow, eyes as dark and flat as wet stones close at his side studying him – Oryan. Mallick shook him off. It could not be. He would have a word with Mael. Soon.

The first inkling Ghelel had of trouble was when the family fencing-master, Quinn, raised his dagger hand for a pause. She took the opportunity to squeeze her side where the pain of exertion threatened to double her over. ‘Why stop?’ she panted, breathless. ‘You had me there.’

Ignoring her, the old man crossed to the closed doors of the stable and used the point of his parrying blade to open one a slit.

‘What is it? Father come to frown at you again for training me?’ The stamp of many hooves reached her and she straightened, rolling one shoulder, wincing. ‘Who is it? The Adal family early from Tali? I should change.’

‘Quiet – m'Lady.’

She sheathed her parrying gauche and slim longsword, pushed back the long black hair pasted to her face. The front of her laced leather jerkin was dark with sweat. She picked up a rag to wipe her face. How properly horrified they would be to see her all dishevelled like this. But then, in the final count, her reputation didn't really matter; she was only a ward of the Sellaths, not blood-related. She dropped the rag when raised voices sounded from the main house. Shouts? ‘What is it, Quinn?’

He turned from the main doors. Dust curled in the narrow shaft of light streaming into the stables. The horses nickered behind Ghelel, uneasy. He hadn't sheathed either his narrow Kanian fencing longsword or his parrying weapon. Beneath the man's mop of grey-shot hair his gaze darted about the stable, still ignoring her.

A crash of wood being kicked, hooves stamping, a clash of metal – swordplay! She started for the doors. Through the gap she glimpsed soldiers of the Malazan garrison. Damned Malazans! What could they want here? She took breath to yell but Quinn dropped his dagger and slapped a hand to her mouth.

How dare the man! What was this? Was he in league with them? She fought to force an elbow beneath his chin.

Somehow he twisted her around, lifted her at the waist and began backing down the length of the stable. All the while he was murmuring, ‘Quiet lass, m'Lady. Quiet now.’

Kidnapping! Was this all some kind of Malazan plot? But why her? What could they possibly want with her? Struggling, she managed to free a hand and drew her dagger. The man did something at her elbow – a pinch or thrust of his thumb – and the blade fell from her numb hand. How did he do that? He snapped up the blade and kept going.

He carried her to a stall, gently shushed the mare within, then kicked aside the straw and manure. Both her wrists in one hand he began feeling about the wood slats of the floor. ‘We have to hide,’ he whispered. ‘Hide from them. Do you understand?’

‘Hide? We have to help! Are you some kind of coward?’

He winced at her tone. ‘Lower your voice, Burn curse you! Or I'll use this on you.’ He raised her dagger, pommel first.

‘I don't have to hide. I'm not important.’

The sturdy blade of the gauche caught at an edge. A hidden trapdoor, no wider than a man's shoulders, swung up. ‘Yes you are.’

Ghelel stared, bewildered. What? In that instant Quinn pushed her headfirst into the darkness.

She landed face down into piled damp rags that stank of rot. ‘Aw, Gods! Hood take you, you blasted oaf! Help! Anyone!’

Darkness as the trapdoor shut, a thump of Quinn jumping down. ‘Yell again and I'll knock you out,’ he hissed, his voice low. ‘Your choice.’

‘Knock me out? Neither of us can see a thing!’