Mallick sipped the wine. ‘Dissolving – how appropriate. My friend, you are a poet.’

Korbolo stared down at the repulsive squat figure at his feet. The strong urge took hold of him to push the man's head beneath the waters, to throttle this monstrous lurking curse that had so taken over his life. But then, for all he knew, that could prove impossible; this creature seemed born of a swamp. ‘Meanwhile,’ he continued, struggling to regain his thoughts, ‘neither you nor she do a thing. Kingdoms continue to rise in revolt against the Imperial Throne and we do nothing!’

Mallick sighed. ‘But my dear High Fist, First Sword. That is precisely what we have been encouraging them to do.’

Korbolo ground his teeth – mockery! One day this toad would push him too far. ‘Riot and dissent against her, yes. But secession? This is chaos. Nothing less than civil war. It is out of everyone's control!’

Mallick's bulging eyes blinked up at him. ‘Again you amaze me, First Sword. Pure poetry – chaos and loss of control. Amazing.’ He sipped his wine. ‘In the first place it is not a civil war, it is devolution to the rather monotonous old-fashioned warfare of a century ago. City state ‘gainst city state. Neighbour versus neighbour. I understand that is something of a tradition here on Quon.’

‘Yes, before the emperor.’

‘Exactly. Before the strong hand of the emperor…’

Korbolo stood motionless, breathless, as the implications of Mallick's hints blossomed. And who would the populace accept at the head of the legions restoring peace and order to their smoking, war-ravaged countryside? Surely not this bloated travesty of a man. No, not him. He let out a long shuddering breath, swallowed to wet his suddenly tight throat. ‘Very well, Mallick. However, this does not explain your or her utter inaction.’

‘But, High Fist, just what would you have her do?’

‘March! We have, what, some eight thousand regulars here in the capital? We should march on Gris or Bloor before they ally against us.’

‘And leave Unta undefended?’

‘Against who? There is no one to threaten her.’

‘Not at the moment. But should we leave… perhaps our friend Nira and his brother nobles who are so, ah, coerced in their support, might put their resources together and decide they could do a better job of defending Imperial interests, hmm, Korbolo?’

The High Fist saw it then – deadlock. Three jackals circling a wounded bhederin. Who dared strike first and risk attack from the rear? Yet how could any of the three walk away to leave such a prize for any other? Laseen, who ruled in name only? Or he and Mallick who ruled in fact? Or the nobles and Assemblymen who also may?

Yet, the thought troubled Korbolo, the beast was dying while they chased one another. Perhaps it didn't matter to this creature Mallick, for whom a dead beast would serve just the same. But it certainly mattered to him. It must then be his duty to be sure to act before Mallick allowed things to degenerate too far. The High Fist nodded to himself, yes, that obviously was to be his responsibility. He looked down; Mallick was watching him expectantly. ‘Yes?’

‘Is that all, High Fist?’

‘Yes, Mallick. That is all.’

‘Very good. Then we are in agreement?’

‘Yes. Full agreement.’

‘Excellent.’ Mallick finished his wine.

Korbolo turned away from the sight of the man's nauseating pallid flesh. He straightened his shirt. ‘You presume much, priest. Too often in the past you've promised everything but delivered nothing. The rebellion of Seven Cities – failure. Laseen's fall in Malaz city – failure. If you fail this time you will not live to promise anew. Do I make myself clear?’

‘You do, First Sword of the Empire.’

Korbolo loosened his fists, forced himself to breathe out. How did the man manage to make even that title an insult? ‘When I wish to speak to you again I will summon you, Mallick.’

As he went to collect his cloak he heard the man's soft voice responding, ‘So you command, Sword of the Empire.’

Some time later Mallick set his goblet on the marble border of his pool. Oryan padded silently forward to collect it. He stood over Mallick for a time, looking to the door. ‘Yes, Oryan?’

‘Why is that man still alive, master?’

‘I have always found it convenient to keep someone around upon whom everything can be blamed. Also, armour gives me hives.’

The old man sneered his disgust. ‘Any fool can wave a sword and order men to their deaths.’

‘As all of these military commanders prove again and again. Yes, Oryan. But this one is our fool.’

The morning of the second week of siege Lieutenant Rillish stood staring into a polished copper-fronted shield attempting to dry-shave himself. His hand shook so abominably it was his third attempt. He told himself it must be from having just stood command through the entire night; at least he hoped that was the case. A knock at his barracks door allowed him an excuse to abandon the effort. ‘Yes?’

‘Sergeant, sir.’

‘It's not the Hood-damned south wall again, is it?’

‘No, sir. Not that,’ Sergeant Chord called through the door. ‘Given up on that they have sir, as a bad job.’

‘Then pray what is it, Sergeant?’

‘It's the elders, sir. Another delegation. Like a word.’

Again? Hadn't he made it plain enough? Rillish eased himself down into a camp stool. He massaged his thigh where a leaf-bladed spearhead had slid straight in. ‘Very well, Sergeant, let them in.’

The door opened and in shuffled five Wickan elders of those trapped with them within the fort. Rillish knew the names of two, the hetman, Udep, and a shaman held in high regard, Clearwater. It struck him how beaten down they looked. Eyes downcast, shoulders slumped. Trousers of tattered cloth and torn thin leather. Even their amulets and wristlets of beaten copper looked tarnished and cheap. These were the feared warriors the Empire could not tame? But then, a Wickan without a horse was a sad sight no matter the circumstances; and these were the worst.

‘Pardon, Commander,’ Udep began, ‘we would speak again.’

‘Yes, hetman. You are aways welcome. And you, shaman.’

The grey-haired shaggy mage managed a jerked nod. It seemed to Rillish that the man was dead on his feet: hands twitching with exhaustion, face pale as if drained of blood. A haunted look in his sunken eyes. Was the man expending himself sending curses out among the besiegers? If so, he'd heard nothing of it. He'd have to question Chord.

‘We again ask that we be allowed the dignity of defending that which is ours.’

‘We've been through this before, hetman. Malazan soldiery will defend this installation.’

The man's scarred hands clenched and unclenched on his belt as if at the throat of an enemy. ‘What is it you wish, Malazan? Would you have us beg?’

‘Beg?

Barked Wickan from the three old women with Udep made the man wince. He took a great shuddering breath. ‘My pardon, Commander. That was unworthy. Even now you spill your own blood in defence in our land.’ The hetman looked down.

Rillish saw that his leg wound had re-opened. The packed dirt under his chair was damp with blood. He took hold of his leg. One of the old women said something that sounded suspiciously like idiot and slapped his hands aside. She began rebinding the wound.

‘You need every hand you can get, Commander,’ continued Udep.

‘We've been over that already.’

‘At least we would die fighting.’

‘Don't be impatient. There's every chance of it yet.’

The hetman crossed his arms, hugging himself. He seemed to be struggling with something; he and Clearwater exchanged tight glances. ‘You leave us very little choice. We still have our pride.’