A half-bell later he decided, reluctantly, that now was as good a time as any. He called to a flagman, ‘Signal for the larger vessels, the Blues, and the dromonds, to begin exiting the anchorage.’ The Dal Hon witch now had her sleepy-eyed attention on the captain's cabin containing Urko. The man was probably staying in there solely to avoid her. ‘What can you do to speed our passage?’ he asked her. ‘Events are moving faster than we.’

‘I? I am no Chem priestess. And the Warren of Mael is a mystery to me, thank Thesorma.’

Ullen rubbed his eyes. Why have the Gods cursed him so? ‘Do you know anyone who can be of help? Any of our associates or sympathizers?’

The fan slid open and resumed fluttering. ‘I will make inquiries.’

‘Thank you.’

As the day's light faded Ullen kept in communication with the fleet through the flag signalmen for as long as he could. Lanterns appeared more and more often, flashing their coded responses. All the while Bala's fan fluttered as a blur. Sometimes she seemed to whisper into it while at other times she wafted its wind over the side of her face. Ullen shaded his gaze to take in the distant huge Blue transports far out to sea. Impatient, that Gold commander, V'thell.

At one point Bala jerked as if pinched, biting back a gasp, and Ullen swung on her. ‘Yes?’

The fan resumed its blurred flashing. The puffed lazy eyes slid to the darkening horizon. ‘Strange scents from Stratem. Something there. Something very powerful. I smell it; even this far across the world.’

Stratem? Who gave a damn about Stratem? ‘Any word on who could help us with the crossing?’

She nodded. ‘A hint. A sympathizer in Unta. His representatives are open to the possibility. I think they want gold or political influence in return.’

Tell them that if they speed our passage they will get whatever they ask for.’

The Dal Hon witch appeared doubtful; she pursed her full lips. ‘I shall. But a dangerous promise. Who knows what they might ask for?’

‘I don't care if they ask for Hood himself. We've dawdled here assembling long enough. We must move.’

‘Very well. I will negotiate with this mage of Ruse.’

The refugees came streaming into Heng like drips of blood leaking down from the Seti plains. Atop the wall next to the Northern Plains Gate, the Gate of Doleful Regards, Captain Storo Matash, now Interim-Fist of the Malazan Garrison, watched the dusty knots of men, women and families while a sour ulcerous pain ate at his stomach. More mouths to feed. More souls to house. More voices to complain. And more potential traitors to watch. How many among this latest train of displaced settlers and traders were Seti agents and spies? Too many, no doubt. As if that new tribal warlord they've got out there needed any more spies in this leaking tub of a city.

A scrape of boots on stone and Silk stood next to him. ‘You should still be in bed recuperating,’ the mage told him.

‘I have no reason to complain. How's Rell doing?’

Silk grimaced in sympathetic pain. ‘Recovering. It's a miracle he's alive at all, let alone healing. I've requisitioned and pressed every skilled healer in the city into helping out. But even if he does recover completely there's nothing to be done for the scarring. The man lost most of the skin of his arms and face. High Denul can do only so much. For all that, though, he actually doesn't seem to mind. He's even practising to keep limber as he heals.’ Silk raised his hands in wonderment. ‘Simply amazing.’

‘Well, you move my bed up here and I'll lie down in it. In any case,’ Storo eyed the pale, sunken-eyed mage, ‘you look worse off than me.’

Silk shrugged, leant his weight against the stone crenellations. ‘Up all night with the saboteurs, helping to hide their work. They're making miracles all up and down the walls. Shaky's actually working. I don't think I've ever seen him work before.’

‘You too. Back in Genabackis, I always had the feeling you had one hand behind your back. That you weren't committed.’

A dry wind off the prairie tousled the mage's long blond hair. He pushed it back from his face. ‘Not my battle. This is.’

‘You proved that last week. Going to finally tell me what you did? I was out of it by then. Sunny claims the sun shone out of your arse and you farted everyone away.’

Silk could not keep a grin away. ‘Colourful. And not too inaccurate. No, all I did was summon the power of the old city temple and it responded with one last glow of its old reflected glory. That's all.’

‘And I'm Dessembrae the Lord of Tragedy.’

The mage shaded his gaze and studied the plain and distant dun-brown hills along the horizon. Storo shifted his own hard stare to share the view. ‘All right,’ he sighed. ‘There's the real worry.’ He rubbed his chest beneath his shirts, grimaced his pain. ‘Truth is I'm blind, Silk. I've no idea what's going on out there. Don't know how many men they have. Even where they are. There might be fifty thousand Seti tribesmen just over those damned hills and I haven't the faintest idea of it. Or at Unta. What's going on at the capital? Are reinforcements on their way? How much support can I expect?’ He spat over the wall. ‘It's a mess. A Hood-spawned bitch's-whelp of a mess.’

The mage gave a slow shrug of commiseration. ‘I'm sorry. I wish I could be more of a help. But that sort of scrying and communication over great distances is not my forte.’

‘Well, who in Utter Night can help? Isn't there another battle mage in the city? Have they found the garrison cadre mages yet?’

‘No. One was thought to have joined Orlat. The other disappeared that night, fled or killed by them. That leaves me.’ Silk paused; his gaze flicked to Storo. ‘There is one other who could be of help – if you'd accept.’

‘Who? Gods, I hope you don't mean that hag you got to help us before.’

‘Her name is Liss, Captain.’

‘Ah. Sorry, Silk.’ Wincing, Storo squeezed his side, drew an experimental breath. ‘How can she help?’

Silk raised his chin to the distant undulations of the Seti prairie. ‘She knows them, Fist. Knows them well. She was once one of their shamanesses – a Seer. I gather that they're actually rather frightened of her.’

‘So am I.’

A voice called from far along the wall, ‘Sergeant Storo!’ Silk and Storo turned. Magistrate Ehrlann approached, the servant at his side struggling to keep him within the shade of a wide umbrella.

‘Sergeant?’ Silk replied. ‘This man is senior officer of this Malazan command-’

Storo raised a hand to quiet Silk.

‘Yes, yes. All very well,’ allowed Ehrlann, waving negligently. ‘However, a ruling body recognized by the Throne really cannot afford to acknowledge a field-promotion until it is approved by military high command.’

‘And just when might that be?’ Silk asked, not even bothering to lighten his tone.

‘Why, when the paperwork comes through, of course,’ Ehrlann smiled.

Silk pointed to the prairie. ‘You do understand that the Imperial Warren is now closed to all. That no mage dare risk travelling any of the Warrens now that civil war is upon us. That the Kingdom of Cawn lies between us and Unta and that it has arisen in rebellion against the Imperial Throne!’

Magistrate Ehrlann frowned. ‘Well, then, it may take some time for the paperwork to reach us here.’

Storo clamped a hand on Silk's shoulder and squeezed hard. ‘Quite right, magistrate. The City High Court should call an emergency meeting to discuss its course of action. You must settle the positioning of troops, the strategy of the defences, the organization of the civilian population. You must commission a detailed inventory of all logistical necessities and the requisition of the funds to purchase them. And all that is just a beginning.’