‘I will help you,’ he said, and he brushed his hands clean.

Ereko stared, astonished. What unforeseen turn does the Lady send now?

‘Yes, yes,’ the old man repeated. ‘Yes. Thank you, honoured sir. We can never-’

‘Help us build our boat.’

‘Yes. Of course. Whatever you need.’

As they walked Traveller asked over the loud susurrus of the waves, ‘You are expecting them soon, aren't you?’

The old man flinched, startled again. ‘Yes. Soon. They come this season. The grey raiders from the sea.’

A patrol of Malazan regulars posted to the Wickan frontier spotted the smoke in the distance and altered their route to investigate. They found a burnt camp of the Crow Clan. The Wickan dead lay where they had fallen. The patrol sergeant, Chord, took in the Crow bodies: elders wrapped in prayer blankets, three obvious cripples and an assortment of youths. He studied the trampled wreckage of pennants, flag-staves, a covered cart and painted yurts. All hinted at some sort of a Wickan religious pilgrimage or ceremonial procession. Seated around a roaring fire, a gang of invaders, more of the tide of self-styled ‘settlers’, feasted on slaughtered Crow horses in front of bound Wickan captives. As they gorged themselves on horseflesh they ignored the regulars.

‘Ran out of supplies on your long march, hey?’ Chord called to the closest man.

This one smiled, continued to eat. A felt blanket flew back and a man straightened from one squat dwelling, cinching up his pants. Chord glimpsed a small pale figure curling beneath blankets.

‘Greetings, brother Malazans,’ this one called.

‘We ain't your brothers.’

‘Well, thank you for coming by, but we're safe now from these barbarians.’

‘You're safe.’

‘They attacked us.’

‘You invaded their lands.’

‘Malazan lands, as the Empress has reminded us all. In any case, they refused to sell even one of their horses – and us starving!’

‘Wickans regard their horses like members of their own family. They'd no more sell one of them than their own son or daughter.’

‘We offered fair price. They refused us out of plain obstinacy.’

Chord leaned to one side, spat a brown stream of rustleaf juice. ‘So you helped yourself.’

The man gestured his confusion. ‘We set down a fair price in coin and took the worst of the herd. Lame, useless to anyone. And they attacked! All of them. Children! Crones! Like rabid beasts they are. Less than human.’

The sergeant looked to the bound youths, pushed a handful of leaves into his mouth. ‘And these?’

‘Ours. Captives of war. We'll sell them.’

‘Hey? What's that you say? Captives of war?’

‘Aye. A war of cleansing. These Wickan riff-raff have squatted on the plains long enough. All this good land uncultivated. Wasted.’

Adjusting his crossbow, the sergeant pressed a hand to his side, fingers splayed. As one, the men of the patrol levelled their crossbows on the gang of settlers.

The men gaped, strips of flesh in their hands. Their spokesman paused but then calmly resumed straightening his clothes. ‘What's this? We've broken no laws. The Empress has promised this land to all who would come to farmstead. Put up your weapons and go.’

‘We will, once we've taken what's ours.’

‘Yours? What's that?’

‘Just so happens I'm also a student of Imperial law, an’ those laws say that any captives of war are the property of the Throne. An’ as a duly sanctioned representative of the Throne I will now take possession of the captives.’

‘You'll what? Whoever heard of such a law!’

‘I have, an’ that's good enough. Now stand aside.’

A skinny shape exploded from the tent, a waif in an oversized torn shirt. She yelled a torrent of Wickan at the sergeant, who cocked a brow. ‘Well, well. Seems everyone's a damned lawyer these days.’

‘What's she on about?’ the spokesman asked.

‘This lass here has invoked Wickan law ‘gainst you. A blood cleansing.’

‘What in the name of Burn does that mean?’

‘Knives. Usually to the death.’

The man gaped at Chord. ‘What? Her?’

The men at the bonfire slowly climbed to their feet. ‘Cover them, Junior,’ Chord said aside.

‘Aye.’ The patrol spread out, crossbows still levelled.

‘You can't be serious. You're listening to this Wickan brat?’

‘I am.’

‘She's just a child!’

The sergeant stilled, his eyes hard on the spokesman. ‘Seein’ as she's old enough for you to rape, maybe she's old enough to hold you accountable for it, don't you think?’

The man eased back into a fighting stance, shrugging. He drew a knife from his belt sheath. ‘Fine. I'll just have to kill her too.’

Chord tossed the girl his own knife. She took it, screamed a Wickan curse and leapt.

It was over even more swiftly than Chord had assumed. In the end he had to pull the girl off the hacked body. The patrol lined up the youths and marched them off to the fort. As they went the men swore that word of this would spread and that they'd see the fort burnt to the ground. Part of Chord hoped they'd try; the other part worried that maybe he'd just bought his lieutenant more trouble than their garrison of one undersized company could handle.

Kyle lay in his bunk on board the Kestral, his eyes clenched closed. Seasick, his stomach roiling, he tensed his body against the juddering of the ship as it rolled alarmingly once more. Nearly a month at sea, their last landfall along the west coast of Bael lands, and now for these last five days the Kestral had ridden the leading edge of a storm driving them north-west – a direction the superstitious sailors would not even look.

The tag-end of his dream eluded his efforts to grasp it and he groaned, giving in to wakefulness. For the fleetest moment the sweet scent of perfume had seemed to tease his nose and the soft warmth of a hand seemed to linger at his brow. But now he was still in his bunk aboard the Kestral, weeks at sea and the Gods alone knew how close to, or how far from, its destination: Stratem. The adopted homeland of the Crimson Guard.

A land that meant nothing to Kyle.

Tarred wood shivered and creaked two hand-widths from his nose. Beaded condensation edged down the curved wall of planking to further soak the clammy burlap and straw padding he lay upon. The wood shivered visibly, pounded by the storm that threatened to shake the vessel into wreckage. His eyes watered in the smoke of rustleaf and D'bayang poppy that drifted in layers in the narrow companionway. The stink of old vomit, oil, sweat and stagnant sea-water all combined to make his stomach clench even tighter. Below him, Guardsmen talked, gambled and studied the Dragons deck.

He rolled on to his side. The curved plainsman's knife that he kept on a thong around his neck gouged into his shoulder. Blocking the narrow passage, the men were gathered in a knot around a small wood board on which the Dragon cards lay arranged. Slate was the Talent for this reading – everyone agreed Slate was one of the most accurate in the Guard.

Stoop's grizzled face appeared; he'd climbed the four berths to Kyle's topmost slot. He hooked the stump of his elbow over the cot's lip and winked, motioning down to the reading.

‘Slate's angry as Hood. Says the Queen of the House of Life dominates. Says that's damned odd and the reading's about as useful as a D'rek priest in a whorehouse.’

Kyle sighed and lay back on his berth. ‘Hood's bones, it's just a bunch of cards.’ Since joining the Guard he'd been confronted by more superstitions and gods than he'd ever imagined could exist, let alone keep straight or even believe.