‘No sense pursuin’ it, Captain. No sense at all. Can't be done, no way, never.’ Then Shaky raised both hands. ‘Well – maybe it could be done – if you worked real hard on it. Maybe then.’

‘That's Sergeant, Corporal.’

‘Right, Cap'n.’

Storo sighed, rubbed a palm over his brush-cut bristling hair. He looked to his two other saboteurs. ‘What have you two to say for yourselves? Hurl?’

Hurl screwed up her eyes, thinking. ‘With the full resources of the city behind us we could have it done in a year.’

‘Sunny?’

Sunny grimaced, tossed back the contents of his mug, coughed and wiped his mouth. ‘Useless project. No point. Wasn't a moat to begin with anyway.’

Storo glanced around the gloom of the low-roofed common room of the Rod and Sceptre. ‘The locals all say it was moat. Very proud of their ancient moat, these Hengans.’

Sunny snorted his scorn. ‘Weren't no moat.’

‘Then what was it?’

Sunny was called Sunny because of the awfulness of his smiles, which were less like smiles than agonized, toothy glowers. He gave one of these strained leers. ‘Firstly, sure you got your Idryn River cutting right through the city, but it's a muddy river comin’ a long way through a dry plain. Too uncertain to fill a moat – and would only silt it up anyway. Secondly, hey, Hurl – what's the easiest way to raise the walls?’

Hurl winked, and her smiled was much more pleasant. ‘Lower the ground.’

There you go. It was a ditch. A big-ass ditch. Not a pleasant moonlit froggy pool. A dusty rubbish-strewn bung-hole full of dead dogs ‘n’ shit.’

‘OK! I get it.’ Storo signalled to the landlord's wife, Estal, for another round. ‘You don't have to elaborate.’

Sunny frowned. ‘Weren't elaborating. Me ‘n’ Hurl and Shaky, we sank a pit to the bottom of the ditch. That's what we found down there. Dead dogs ‘n’ shit.’

While Estal thumped down a flagon of ale, Storo eyed his crew of saboteurs. He hadn't decided whether to be angered or relieved by the relentless maintenance of the games and habits that had seen them though years of combat in north Genabackis. If he shut his eyes, it was almost as if he were back in the campaigns and Sunny and Hurl were playing Stones with the Mott defenders, shouting their moves out to the night. He rubbed his forehead with a thumb and forefinger, took a long deep drink of the cheap Hengan ale. ‘So. We drop the moat – the ditch.’

Shaky shook his head. ‘No way. Ah, that is, maybe not. Hurl's got an idea.’

Hugging herself, Hurl leaned towards the table, lowered her voice. ‘Sinking that pit.’ She stopped herself, glanced around the room. Perplexed, Storo followed her gaze: the place was empty but for a few drunken caravan guards, and Estal. Hurl leaned forward once again. ‘The ditch is just a big dump fulla wood and litter and rags and has all kinds a gaps. Holes. I say we fill it. But not with water. What say you, Cap'n?’

Sunny smiled his ghastly smile.

Four flagons of ale later, while Shaky, Hurl and Sunny sat playing cards and Storo drank, three Malazan soldiers entered the common room. Two sat at an empty table midway between the door and Storo's table. The third, an officer, stalked up to the table and opened his arms wide. ‘Look who's here.’ He turned to his companions. ‘It is him. Just like Rheena said. OP Sergeant Storo back from Genabackis.’

Shaky, Hurl and Sunny did not look from their cards. Storo squinted blearily up at the man. ‘Do I know you?’

The officer used his boot to hook a chair from the table, sat. The pommels of twin duelling swords thrust forward under his armpits. His black hair hung curled in tight thin rat-tails tied off by bright twists of cloth; these he pushed back from his wide, tanned face. ‘No. Haven't had the pleasure. Allow me to introduce myself. Harmin, Captain Harmin Els D'Shil, of Fist Rheena's staff.’ He inclined his head in the ghost of a bow.

Shaky, Hurl and Sunny glanced sidelong. Storo grunted his recognition. ‘What can I do for you?’

Harmin's smile was as smooth as Sunny's was gnarled yet they seemed eerily akin. ‘Well, imagine my surprise – nay, my dismay – to learn that the hero of the north Genabackis campaigns had returned only to be digging dirt and piling rocks like a convicted criminal.’

Shaky, Hurl and Sunny lowered their cards. Storo growled, ‘Hero?’ He yanked Sunny's hand from the pouch at his side. ‘What do you mean, hero?’

The bright focus of Harmin's smile shifted to Sunny. ‘Surely your men have no doubt heard the story many times by now, yes?’ The smile returned like a bared blade to Storo. ‘How your Sergeant Storo here slew an Avowed of the Crimson Guard?’

Hurl blew her hair from her sweaty grimed forehead, brought her arms down under the table to rest her hands near her belted knives. ‘Yeah. We'd heard. An’ that's Captain, now, ah… Captain.’

Harmin inclined his head to Hurl. ‘I didn't believe it myself when I first heard it, of course. I thought it one of those wild stories you hear of from the front.’ He crossed his arms, leaving his hands near the pommels of his swords. His smile on Storo revealed even more teeth. ‘You know the sort… lies woven by fame hounds…’

Sunny lurched up from his chair only to be pulled down by Storo. Harmin, who had not moved, bestowed his smile once more on Sunny. Storo thumped his elbows to the table, rested his chin in his hands. ‘But you found out it was true.’

Nodding, Harmin slowly uncrossed his arms. He took the cup from in front of Shaky, sniffed at it and set it down untasted. ‘Yes. Needless to say I was astonished. But Fist Rheena assures me of its veracity.’

‘So you have come to get a look at me and to hear how it happened.’

‘Yes, that. And to deliver a message.’ He raised a hand. ‘But please, do not misunderstand. My interest is not merely that of the common dumb gawping foot soldier. I have something of a connection to the Guard. As you can tell from my family name. The D'Avore family are – were – cousins of mine.’

Storo topped up his cup and sat back with a long-suffering sigh. ‘All right. I'll tell you all about it.’ Shaky, Hurl and Sunny all shot their commander surprised looks. Shaky quickly dumped out his own cup on to the straw-heaped floor then refilled it. Storo took a long drink, cleared his throat.

‘It was just outside Owndos, during the siege. My squad was assigned the objective of a tower overlooking the sea of that same name. Take it, or, failing that, destroy it to deny it to the warlord Brood. We were lucky ‘cause we still had our cadre battle mage, Silk – who's still with me now.’ Storo raised his voice. ‘Ain't that so, Silk?’

Harmin glanced around and jerked, startled. A slim, pale man now sat at the next table. He wore a fine dark silk shirt, vest, and trousers now faded and worn. He offered a mocking smile to Harmin who returned it through clenched teeth.

Storo took another drink. ‘Silk scouted the tower, reported a sizeable enemy contingent occupied it: Free City soldiers, Barghast tribals and local townsmen militia. Seemed it offered a strategic view of surrounding forest and Owndos coastline. In any case, we weren't concerned about the locals. We even had Barghast allies of our own – those boys will fight anyone, anywhere. No, the Lad's push of things was that the tower was commanded by four of the Crimson Guard. Now, that was a pause. You know the old official policy – don't engage the Guard unless you outnumber them five to one. We didn't. So that night I sent in Silk and the boys to mine the tower. The next morning a patrol went out led by three of the Guard. That suited us. We sat pretty till they were long gone then we charged the compound. The plan was to hit fast and hard an’ drive them back into the tower then blow it. Sure enough, things sailed along fine. Once most of the defenders retreated to the tower, we blew it. The whole thing went up, came crashing down in a great blast of stone and dust. The remaining Free City soldiers an’ Barghast were just stupefied and we chased them off easily enough.