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‘I'll get a healer,’ said Amaron.

‘Not yet,’ Choss called after him. ‘No, now I think is a good time to let Ghelel know our plans for her.’ He grinned as he wrapped a cloth around his hand.

Ghelel actually felt the short hairs of her neck bristling. ‘Oh yes, do please inform me. Perhaps it involves a royal barge and a hundred slaves rowing?’

Amaron smiled – the first real smile Ghelel could recall from him. ‘Don't worry, m'Lady. The dress and the wagon and the bodyguard are all for show.’ He hooked his hands once more at his taut belt. ‘We have only one real mage worth the name, Lass. That's a joke compared to how things used to be. Our one advantage with you is that no one, absolutely no one, can reliably identify you. We're keeping watch on your old stepfamily, of course, but outside of them there's only a handful who can be used by any mage to get a handle on you – such as Quinn. Thus, the facade of the palanquin,’ he pointed to her white surcoat, ‘and the costume. We plan for you to slip away from all that during the river trip. A new identity has been pulled together for you.’

She eyed the two men – so obviously pleased with themselves. Schemers. She saw it now. These men loved schemes. Who else could have endured to rise as part of the old emperor's staff? ‘A new identity. I see. Pray tell as what…?’

‘An officer,’ Amaron replied. ‘A cavalry leader. Prevost, I believe, is the old rank. In the Marchland Sentries.’

The Marchland Sentries! Under the Marquis Jhardin? They're all veterans – the raiding is constant on the Nom Purge frontier. They'll never accept me.’

‘They accept new recruits all the time. And the Marquis does command.’

‘What does he know?’

‘Only what he needs to know. I leave the rest up to your discretion. I suggest something close to the truth of your upbringing. Such as being of a minor noble family that spent its last coin purchasing your commission.’

She nodded reluctantly – anything was better than the damned painted carriage and this ridiculous costume. ‘When?’

‘Molk will have all the details. He will be posing as your servant.’

Ghelel raised a hand. ‘I'm sorry. Did you say servant?’

Amaron nodded, serious. ‘Oh yes.’

‘Not like I've been hearing about? All these adjuncts and aides and seconds in the Talian forces?’

Choss and Amaron exchanged wry glances. ‘Oh, yes, Duchess. The Talian army has elected to follow the old ways of doing things. Pre-Malazan. Any self-respecting officer must have a servant, even two, or three: a groom for his or her mounts, an aide-de-camp or adjutant for his or her daily duties, even an attendant to go with them into battle. You being poor can only afford one.’

Queen of Mysteries, no. The man's slouched, he stinks and he's wall-eyed to boot. ‘No, not him. Anyone but him!’

Amaron's grin did not waver; he was obviously very pleased with his arrangements. ‘Oh yes, m'Lady. He's perfect.’

* * *

In the light of the flames from the burning west palisade wall Lieutenant Rillish could make out figures struggling atop the east. He stood behind the piled sacks and lumber of a last redoubt abutting the stone barracks at the centre of the fort. Already the wounded filled the barracks. The Wickans, Sergeant Chord had informed him, had withdrawn to the large dugout storage vault beneath. Somehow this intelligence disheartened him. But he did not have the energy to think about it; instead, it took all he could muster to stay erect. A javelin lanced out of the dark from the north wall and he threw up both swords to deflect it. The parry staggered him. The two guards Chord had posted with him steadied his back, their large shields raised. Arrows followed, thumping into the shields’ layered wood, leather, and copper sheeting. Damn them, they had the advantage now. Rillish gestured for Sergeant Chord.

The sergeant came jogging across the no-man's-land of the central mustering grounds, whisked by arrows and tossed flaming brands.

‘Not much longer now,’ he bellowed over the inferno of the tarred east timbers, the clashing of swords and the roar of the besiegers. His idiot grin of delight in battle was fixed at his bearded mouth.

Rillish shouted: ‘Send the word. Torch the rest and withdraw.’

‘Aye, aye.’

Rillish tapped the guards. ‘Remain here. Everyone holds to cover the retreat.’

The marine guards saluted. ‘Aye, sir.’ They rested their shields against the piled timbers, took up their crossbows. Rillish backed away, limping and bent, for the barracks door, and it occurred to him that with men like that he could win any battle – provided he had enough.

Within, in the gloom, the stink of rotting flesh and old blood made him wince and press a hand to his face. His vision slowly adjusted, revealing a madman's image of Hood's realm. Blood and fluids glistened on the timbered floor, draining from a pile beside that door that slowly resolved itself into a heap of naked amputated arms and legs. Men sat hunched at the slit windows, bows and crossbows raised – those with two able arms. The rest supported them, holding pikes and arrow sheaths. A man struggled one-handed to crank his crossbow. Appalled, Rillish took it from him and wound it. ‘Fessel?’ he bellowed. ‘Where are you, man! What is the meaning of this?’

‘Healer's dead, sir,’ said the crossbowman.

‘Dead?’

‘Aye.’

‘What happened?’

‘Old Fessel refused to use his Denul all night, sir. He was cryin’ an mumblin’ and then he just fell dead. His heart, sir. Seemed to just give out.’

‘What was it – was he sick?’

‘Don't know. He was bawlin’ like a baby at the end there, savin’, “Please stop. No. You have to stop. Soliel's Mercy, please no,” while he was fixin’ us up best he could. Strangest thing, sir.’

The Wickans?’

‘Downstairs, sir. Quiet as mice.’

‘Very good.’

Rillish crossed to the open trap door and dark earthen passage leading down flagged in flat river stones – a construction someone had put a lot of effort into since he'd last seen the subterranean vault. ‘Udep? Trake himself is on his way! This is it, man!’

Darkness. The flickering of what might be a single torch somewhere in a far corner of the cellar. Staring down into that dark a shapeless dread tightened the lieutenant's throat. The stink of old blood seemed even stronger here. He thought of the hetman's and the shaman's strange manner during their last meeting. How Udep seemed to be attempting to warn him of something – Clearwater's bruised, almost crazed gaze.

No. They couldn't have. Their own children. Yet was not slavery a worse fate for any Wickan? He backed away from the dirt passage and the horror that it promised. Perhaps they were all to meet their end this night – they in their way, and he and his command in theirs.

‘They’re fallin’ back, sir!’ someone called from a slit window.

‘Yes.’ The lieutenant shook himself, cursed the fools beneath his feet. Damn them! Too impatient to meet Hood, they were. There's hundreds without more than happy to lend a hand for that. Why not go down with your iron warm? Rillish took a deep breath, ‘Aye! Cover them. Show them how a soldier fights!’

‘For the Fourth!’ a woman shouted.

‘For the Empire!’ Rillish countered.

A great shout went up from the men and women lining the walls, ‘The Empire!’

A thunderous roar and a blinding gout of flames announced the eruption of the flammables gathered at the base of the remaining palisade walls. For moments the screams of the besiegers stranded upon them rose even above that conflagration. The churning gold light illuminated the passage and in its bright glare Rillish forced himself to descend.

At the bottom his boots sank into yielding damp earth. Kneeling, he felt about with one gloved hand and brought up a fistful of the loam. He squeezed and the flame-light revealed a dark stream dripping from his fingers – earth soaked in blood.