‘My name is Surat,’ came his words, achingly faint – such potent yearning to cross an unbridgeable distance. Great must have been this one's power in life. They come,’ he intoned.

‘Who comes?’

‘The Diaspora ends. The Guard returns. The appointed time has come to us.’ He pointed to the hut. ‘This one shall be destroyed.’

‘What is he to you now?’

Silence, a coldness that bit even at Ereko. ‘Malazan.’

‘Whatever he once was he has given all that up now. He is Malazan no longer. Now, I do not even know what he is.’

The empty pits regarded Ereko and he believed he saw in their depths utter uninterest. ‘The Vow remains.’

A strange emotion stirred in Ereko's stomach then, roused the hairs upon his neck and forearms. It took him a time to recognize it, so long had it been. Anger. Fury at the plain uselessness of hatreds carried beyond life. Who were these Crimson Guardsmen to awaken such an emotion within him? ‘Then you are fools! Put aside your old rivalries, your precious feuds. But you cannot… You dare not release your desperate grip. Without them you would be nothing… They are all you have left. Not even Death awaits you now.’

Ghost hands shifted on the haft of the lifeless banner. ‘He waits for you. He is close now. Closer than you think.’

‘There are few walking the world today whom I fear.’ Ereko's words were trite but he was intrigued and, he must admit, tense with a new emotion, a touch of dread.

‘Such a one you will meet.’

The tension drained from him in a gust of exhalation. Nothing new. No revelations. No darkness dispelled. That meeting was foretold before humans walked these lands, Surat. You have nothing of interest to me.’

He waved the spectre away. It sank, reluctantly, into the windswept grasses. As it disappeared it raised a hand, accusing: ‘That one leads you to Him.’

Ereko nodded. ‘That was the promise made long ago.’

Late in the evening, leaning his chair back against the shack of the Untan harbour guard, Nait banged a knuckle on the clapboard slats.

‘What is it?’ Sergeant Tinsmith grumbled.

‘Ship just tied up. Looks like that tub, the Rag-what's it. The Ragstopper?

‘The Ragstopper sank. Could be his new one, the Ragstopper.’

Chair legs thumped to the dock. ‘New? You gotta be kidding me.’

‘All his new ships are old. He buys them new old. He says he likes them worn in; says they know what to do then.’

Nait shifted the bird's bone he chewed from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘Well, this one looks like it knows what to do, an’ that's sink.’

Sergeant Tinsmith came to the open doorway. His white moustache hung to either side of his turned-down mouth. Deep fissures framed the mouth, lancing beneath narrowed brown eyes. ‘All right then,’ he sighed. ‘Let's have a look. Get the boys rousted.’

Jogging, Nait crossed to a row of waterfront three-storey buildings housing poor merchants, flophouses, inns and a Custom House. The building he headed to featured a tall wooden figurehead cut from a man-o‘-war and subsequently vandalized by countless knives and fists until all semblance of its original build, paint and gilt were gone. All that remained were two clawed feet, perhaps of some demon or fantastic bird. This tavern, The Figurehead, the harbour guard had adopted as their billet. He found a band of the guard sitting around a table engrossed in a game of troughs. Corporal Hands had just thrown. Nait took the bird legbone from his mouth. ‘The old man says to get your gear.’ Hands snatched up the knucklebone dice. Yells burst from around the table.

‘Hey! That was a six,’ said Honey Boy. ‘Make the move.’

Hands slipped the dice into a pouch. ‘You heard the man – get your gear.’

The biggest man at the table, a Barghast warrior, straightened to his feet, banging the table in the process and sending the counters dancing. Yells of fresh outrage. A shaggy black bhederin cloak hung at his shoulders making them almost as wide as a horse. Twists of cloth and totems swung and clattered in his matted hair. ‘You count that throw or I'll use your head.’

‘No fighting, Least,’ said Hands.

Least frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Because I might get hurt.’ Hands picked up her weaponbelt from the back of her chair. ‘What's it about?’ she asked Nait.

‘How the fuck should I know?’

‘Hey! What'd I tell you about that swearing. No swearing.’

Nait walked away. ‘Hood on his bone throne! Who the fuck cares?’

Outside Nait stood studying the moonlit forest of masts crowding the harbour. A lot of traffic, even for this time of the season. War was always good for business. He hoped the harbourmaster was keeping his books in good order; their cut had better be up to date. The majority of the company on duty that night came shuffling out, pulling on their guard surcoats and rearranging belts and hauberks. Hands led the way up the dock to Tinsmith who waited, a leather vest over his shirt, long-knives at his waist.

‘Let's go.’

They walked down the pier to the newly berthed ship. It looked worse the closer they got. Nait wondered if it was the original Ragstopper drawn up from the bottom of whatever sea it was that took it. ‘Cap'n!’ Tinsmith called up to the apparently empty deck. A rat waddled along the gunwale.

‘Maybe that's him,’ suggested Honey Boy.

‘No, he's a bigger one,’ said Tinsmith, sounding tired by the whole thing.

A head popped up into view from the stern. Wild greasy hair framed a pale smear of a face, eyes bulging. ‘What in the Twins’ name do you want?’

‘Harbour guard. You carrying any contraband?’

The man straightened, lurched to the gunwale, clenched the stained wood in a white-knuckled grip. ‘Contraband? Contraband! I wish we were! Tons of it! D'bayang poppy! Moranth blood liquor! White nectar! Barrels of it! Anything! But no! I'll tell you what we're carrying – Nothing! Not a stitch! The full bounteous mercy of Hood we have in our hold! No! Off we go sailing from port to port – empty! It's a crime I'm telling you! A crime!’

Least tapped a blunt finger to his temple. Honey Boy nodded. ‘Back home among your people someone like that would be sacred or something, right?’

‘No. Back home we'd just kick the shit out of him.’

‘What in the infinite Abyss is all the yellin'?’ An old man, his face the pale blue cast of a Napan, came to the gunwale. He was wincing, scratching at a halo of white hair standing in all directions, and wore a white patchy beard to match.

‘’Evening, Cap'n,’ said Tinsmith.

‘Eh? Who's that?’ The man caught sight of Tinsmith, winced anew. ‘Oh, it's you.’ He waved to the squad. ‘Why the army? There's no need for all this between us old friends.’

‘These days I'm in charge of the peace down here along the waterfront, Cap'n. Passing strange you showing up here and now. There's those who'd like to know.’

The captain dragged his fingers through his beard. His tongue worked around his mouth like it was hunting down a bad taste. ‘But you wouldn't do that to an old comrade, now would you?’

‘No, I wouldn't. Unless there was trouble. Don't like trouble.’

The captain brightened. ‘No trouble at all, Smithy. No trouble at all. Just come to do some salvage work here in the harbour. Gettin’ a little low on funds these days, I am.’

‘Because the blasted hold is empty, that's why!’ the sailor screamed. ‘You damned senile-’

A wooden belaying pin ricocheted from the sailor's head; he disappeared behind the gunwale. The captain lowered his arm. ‘Quiet, Tillin. Won't have no insolence on board the Ragstopper.’

Sergeant Tinsmith gave a long slow shake of his head. ‘Haven't changed a bit I see, Cartharon.’

Captain Cartharon's smile was savage. ‘Caught you a few times, hey, Smithy? I never miss.’