For her part, Shimmer saw the humour. She, Skinner and a handful of Avowed marching through the inner precincts, the majority of the force left behind in the marshalling grounds. What could they hope to accomplish, or more precisely, what did Cowl or Skinner have in mind? Surely Laseen would have fled by now, or carried on the ancient solution and taken poison – one could always hope. Perhaps they would end up joining the queue of petitioners hoping for their turn before the August Personage.

But no. Skinner did not stop on his relentless march to the Throne room. Functionaries and clerks pressed themselves against walls and gaped as they strode through colonnaded approaches, seating halls, and long reception chambers. All guards were notable by their absence – almost as if they'd been pulled for service elsewhere – and the where of that troubled Shimmer.

The final tall set of double doors crashed open under Skinner's armoured forearm and they faced the long sable carpet leading up to an empty throne. The throne of Malaz, assembled from bones. A not so subtle reminder of the true power behind it, the T'lan Imass. A cold grim seat, it seemed to Shimmer. Skinner set his gauntleted hands to his belt and nodded his head within his tall helm, as if confirming to himself what he'd been expecting all along.

‘Empty,’ Shimmer said, mostly because someone had to.

‘Almost,’ Skinner corrected, pointing aside.

A short chubby man in rich blue and green robes bowed where he waited next to a pillar. He gestured to a table holding carafes of clear water. ‘Refresh yourselves please, honoured ones. I see that your passage has been a particularly desiccating one.’

Skinner turned away, dismissing him. ‘Poison is useless against us.’

The man bowed again. ‘As I know. Which is why I would never make such an ill-advised attempt.’

Shimmer drew off her helmet, tucked it under one arm. ‘You are?’

‘Mallick Rel. Duly elected spokesman for the Assembly of regional governors and representatives.’ He smiled unctuously, bobbing his head.

Shimmer helped herself to the water, drank deeply and found it wonderfully refreshing. ‘Come to take the measure of your new masters?’

The man's lips drew back in a thin smile, revealing sickly green teeth. ‘If the Gods should will it so…’

It seemed to Shimmer that this man was not nearly as nervous as he should be. Skinner had turned at the man's words and now regarded him. ‘Perhaps I should kill you,’ he said, his voice bland.

The man's eyes fluttered as he blinked his confusion. ‘But wasn't the water cool and fresh?’

Shimmer laughed. ‘It was that. My thanks.’

‘Excellent. A job well done is its own reward.’

Now it was Shimmer's turn to stare, uncertain. This man's game was deep – was he angling to maintain his position, or was that actually… mockery?

But Skinner waved curt dismissal. ‘Leave us.’

The man bowed and backed out. Lazar pulled the doors shut.

This whole thing is a mistake, Skinner,‘ Smoky said – for the tenth time. ‘And that guy was the oddest of it.’ Shimmer had to agree. Why had he elected to be here to meet them? What was his purpose?

Skinner faced them. ‘Yes, enough of this foolish charade. Laseen has fled. What we have shown here is that no one dares face us. Shimmer, take the command back to the ships to withdraw down the coast to the west and link up with the rest of the forces when they arrive. Cowl and I will join you later.’

Shimmer bowed. ‘You are going on alone?’

‘Yes. There is are some… options… Cowl and I wish to look into.’

Shimmer bowed again. ‘As you order.’ She gestured Smoky behind her, faced Lazar, Black the Lesser, Shijel and Kalt. ‘Form up and have a care.’

They'd left behind the inner halls and were close to the marshalling grounds when the first ambush took them. A concerted toss of Moranth munitions blew Kalt into fragments. Withering volleys from crossbows and bows kept them pinned until Smoky drove the soldiers back with a liquid wall of flame that billowed down the hall. Shimmer stepped out among the still burning tapestries and furniture, waved the smoke aside, squinting ahead. She pointed Lazar back to get Skinner even though she was certain he was gone – if he'd been around he would have come. Smoky raised a hand for silence. ‘The Brethren clamour. Listen.’

The muted, distant murmur of battle; her command was under attack.

Possum strode beneath the fluttering awnings of Collunus Bourse, the second largest of the covered exchanges specializing in imported goods. Deserted, now, in the chaos and rioting of this evening. His guards flanked him and Claw runners came and went reporting developments among the splintered broadening front that, he had to admit, was rapidly gyring beyond his grip. Down narrow passing ways he glimpsed black smoke pluming from the worst of the engagements: burning barricades, the flames of which had surged out of control swallowing defenders, attackers and bystanders alike. Runners reported that the Guard had been held up in its efforts to push through to the harbour. Elements of the 4th had even managed to separate small bands of Guardsmen. He was on his way to one such engagement now, a chance to actually continue with the plan thrown together when the Guard entered the city – to take them out piece by piece.

A runner arrived from the engagement. ‘They have them pinned down in a tenement.’ He gestured to an alley.

Possum did not try to answer for now they had entered the clamour of the battle zone. Malazan regulars came and went, hustling equipment to the engagement: flammables, shields, sheaths of arrows and crossbow bolts. The disassembled components of a harbour siege weapon came dragged by. Possum thought that a damned good idea. But the regulars were few, vastly outnumbered by the Untan citizen volunteer militia that had arisen to the challenge with a will and a fury no one, certainly not Possum, had anticipated. He couldn't help reflecting with a dose of his old cynicism that it mustn't have hurt that the Claw had spread the offer of ten thousand Imperial gold discs for the head of each Avowed.

The runner led them to a sunken rear entrance then stairs up to a trap and the roof. Here, an individual Claw awaited them, the local Hand-commander. Scrabbling forward, they looked across and down at the target. Below them the militia kept up a ruthless barrage of crossbow fire into the front of the tenement. To Possum's experienced eye what the barrage lacked in accuracy it more than made up for in enthusiasm. Yet while the heads of the Guardsmen were being kept down, it was obvious no one on either side was eager for a rush. A standoff. But one that could break either way, depending on how it played out.

‘How many?’

‘A few – less than ten. Maybe a blade.’

Possum took the opportunity to look out over the city. The sky was taking on an orange glow, tinted by the flames; the afternoon was giving way to evening. Smoke plumes rose like a handful of tossed markers announcing a ragged line that ran practically half way across the city. Things would soon devolve far beyond any chance of intervention from him. Decisions would fall to the individual judgment of Hand-commanders, so he might as well enter the fray. ‘How many munitions do you have access to?’ he asked the commander.

‘Munitions?’

‘Yes.’

The man, his face marred by a severe youthful dose of the pox, glanced sidelong to the runner and Possum's own guards. ‘Shouldn't we wait before trying something like that?’

‘Wait?

‘Yes.’

‘Wait for what? For Gods or Ascendants to appear in the bloody streets? We don't have to wait for anything! I'm the Lady-damned Clawmaster!’