He righted a man, waved to the wharf and the sweeps. Then the ship shuddered again. He spun; men pointed to the deck – there gaped a smoking hole that hadn't existed a moment ago. Burn's Mercy – and how many leagues away was that explosion? A moment later a sailor came up from below carrying a pot. It held a piece of rock still hot to the touch. A shard of scorched building stone. Greymane waved the staring men to the sweeps. There must be some survivors, but he feared the worst.

They passed only one other vessel underway – an old scow merchantman, alarmingly low in the water, sails hanging in shreds, deck a mess of tossed gear, with its wiry, grey-haired Napan captain bellowing scalding invective at his scrambling crew. Greymane was surprised by the name gouged in the rotting wood of the bow; he didn't think anyone would've dared use the name Ragstopper after the career of its predecessor, pirate admiral, lieutenant of Laseen then known as Surly, and brother of Urko – Cartharon Crust.

But the mystery of the Ragstopper had to wait, for crewmen pointed to the wharf, shouting their amazement. There, massed like an army of shades, waited the surviving Guardsmen. Even as the ship closed more came marching down thoroughfares, surrounded by citizens, weapons held ready, though none attacked. Rather, an unofficial truce seemed to have been agreed upon – perhaps so long as it was obvious that the Guard wanted nothing more than to get away, and the citizens were more than happy to prod them along. All appeared shocked numb by the monumental explosion, while the unearthly white ash that rained down rendered all alike: uniformly pale ghosts, and everyone uniformly eerily silent.

Greymane supervised the loading of the survivors and there found Shimmer, carried on a tabletop serving as a litter, attended by Avowed mages Smoky, Lor-sinn and Shell. ‘Take us west,’ she gasped, pale with lost blood, long hair sweat-matted to her face.

‘Skinner?’

She waved him on. ‘He'll find us.’

The last Guardsman to step from the stone wharf was an Avowed named Black. Water dripped from him as he stood scanning the gathering crowd of Untan citizenry that edged ever closer, yelling obscenities. A few pieces of broken litter flew.

‘We have to go!’ Greymane shouted.

Reluctantly, limping, the man abandoned the wharf. Rocks, broken tiles, offal and vegetables now pelted down upon them as the crowd roared, some even jeering their scorn. Greymane ordered double-time on the sweeps, called to Black, ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing. You didn't happen – there the bastards are!’ Pointing, the Avowed threw himself to the railing, almost falling out of the ship.

There, low in the water under a pier, a small crew in a launch waved farewell. Greymane recognized the harbour guard. One of them, a skinny pox-faced fellow, stood and bared his arse to them until the heavyset woman in armour next to him kicked him into the water. The crowd howled their appreciation.

‘I swear to Hood I'll find you!’ Black was yelling as the open water grew between them. ‘I swear!’

When the ship came alongside the harbour mole they found it lined by fist-waving youths. The Guard oared from the harbour accompanied by distant taunts and thrown trash. At the side of the trailing vessel Greymane watched the gesturing youths. His thoughts turned to the Guard and its vow. How could they hope to free a citizenry from their rulers when they so obviously did not wish to be freed? The Guard seemed to have outlived its relevance. Though it did seem from the intelligence they'd gleaned so far that elsewhere the move to end Imperial rule had come very far indeed. From Shimmer's orders to go west he assumed the Avowed intended to link up with that movement. Yet he was troubled. His experience with political power told him that no vacuum would long endure. With what, he wondered, did this secessionist movement – or the Avowed for that matter – intend to replace Imperial rule?

The next day, escorted by a guard of fifty Malazan regulars, Empress Laseen surveyed the damage of the eruption of the Imperial Arsenal. She picked her way through the still smoking scoured bare dirt of the blast crater, greater than a stone's throw across, where once the Arsenal and surrounding buildings had stood. Havva Gulen paced at her side. ‘Could have been worse,’ the mage said, hands clasped at the front of her broad stomach.

Laseen shook her head. ‘I'm thinking that it should have been much worse.’

‘Oh?’

The Empress continued on ahead of the High Mage, kicked at the pulverized ground. ‘It was impressive, yes. But more of the city should've been destroyed. The Arsenal couldn't have been half-full.’

‘Really? The Guard, you think?’

‘Possibly. This whole incident could've been nothing more than a raid to collect munitions – or to simply deplete ours.’

‘Alarming strategic thinking on their part, if that be the case.’

‘Yes. And no sign of K'azz?’

‘No. Skinner seemed to be in charge.’

Laseen took up a handful of the blackened, burnt soil, sifted it through her fingers. ‘Skinner. Not known for his subtlety.’

‘No. However,’ and Havva paused, as if unsure whether to continue.

Facing away, Laseen asked, tiredly, ‘Yes?’

‘They say Greymane was seen with them at the harbour.’

‘Greymane?’ She straightened. ‘Really? Greymane…’ She scanned the wreckage but her mind was obviously far away. She nodded to herself.

‘Yes,’ Havva said. ‘The one place he must've thought himself safe from everyone.’ She gave a deep belly-laugh. ‘Imagine his dismay to find the Guard actually returning! Now he might face his own officers-’

Laseen regarded her silently then glanced away.

Havva decided she'd said quite enough. Further intelligence would have to wait, perhaps for ever. Oh, my Empress! You are alone; the walls you have raised have driven all from your side. Was it arrogance? Contempt? Failure to understand anything beyond your own drive to rule? Yet you say nothing and so we who could help you cannot know for certain. And there is too much to lose in that uncertainty. Now you stand apart. All alone but perhaps for poor blind Possum. Perhaps that is the cruel logic of your silence. Laseen, if I chose this private moment together to tell you all I know perhaps we would have a chance – a slim chance – of victory against the conspiracy that has closed itself around us. I have been doing all I can. But I dare not speak openly. I dare not take the chance. I am ashamed and so sorry, my Empress. I too have failed you. All because my time in the Archives was not wasted. I know the name Jhistal. And I fear I do not have the power to oppose it.

The ranks of surrounding guard parted to admit the spear-slim form of High Fist Anand followed by a waddling, sweaty Mallick Rel fanning himself and grimacing at the stink of stale smouldering fires and burnt flesh. A white cloth encircled his head. ‘Congratulations, Empress! A great victory!’ the councilman called.

‘Victory?’ Laseen repeated flatly. ‘A few hundred of the Crimson Guard visit us for less than a day and half the capital is blown up and burnt to the ground?’

‘An invasion grandly repulsed!’

‘They left because they saw there was nothing here for them,’ Havva said.

Anand shook his head. ‘I have to admit that it was the volunteer citizen militia that drove them off.’ He sounded as if he were still surprised by the fact. ‘And for that I apologize, Empress. I hadn't thought them a force worth considering before. They have no formal command structure or professional officer corps.’

‘A mere mob,’ Mallick sneered.

‘Mobs rule urban warfare,’ Anand said. ‘Bring enough numbers to bear from all directions and you smother any opponent.’