‘Of course. And you are coming with me.’

In the end, he followed, if only to avoid the indignity of being dragged by his belts. They found an opening leading to an empty ground floor and stairs up. All was built of the same clay bricks – all of which had equally bulged and sagged in the unrelenting kiln heat. Skinner led the way up. The brick stairway circled the tower three times before ending at an empty circular chamber, roofed and featuring one slit window that faced directly upon Kurald Liosan. They kept to one side, wary of the blade of brilliant light cutting across the chamber's middle. Cowl noted that the motes of dust that drifted into the blade puffed into wisps of smoke. Skinner crossed his arms. ‘Your evaluation?’

‘Some sort of a research, or observation or communication tower, I should think.’

A grunt from Skinner. ‘Very well. Let us then communicate.’

‘You're not going to…’

‘Yes. I am.’

‘We don't know what will happen!’

The mailed finger pointed once more. ‘Exactly, Cowl. And this is where you always fall short. You don't know what you can do – until you do it.’ And he stepped up before the slit window. Instantly his surcoat burst into flames. Grunting anew, this time in pain, he averted the vision slit of his full helm. So great was the force driving in that Skinner shifted a mailed foot back, leaning into the stream. ‘Do you see anything?’ he bellowed.

Cowl attempted to send his awareness out ahead but it was like trying to push a boat up a foaming set of rapids. Still, he could sense something… something very potent… approaching… ‘Something's coming!’

A shape, a presence, occluded the stream of power. It seemed to hover before the slit window. Through eyes shaded and narrowed Cowl had the impression first of a coiling, shifting serpent, then a winged entity, then a globe of roiling flame. Whatever it was it seemed entirely protean, without any set shape.

‘Who are you? came a thought so powerful as to ring the chamber like a bell.

‘Skinner. Avowed of the Crimson Guard. Who-’

‘These titles are meaningless. You are not he – that is plain.’

‘Who-’ Skinner began, then a blast struck the tower, which rocked. Raw, yammering power seared through the slit window throwing Cowl backwards to the floor. Dust as dry as death swirled in the desiccated air. The blade of light returned. Carefully Cowl straightened, coughing, peering into the shifting curtains of brick dust. A groan brought him to the rear of the chamber. Here, Skinner straightened from the wall. Behind him crushed and broken brick tumbled to the floor. He patted his chest, sending the black ash that was his surcoat floating out into the chamber. The helm shifted to Cowl. ‘You are going to say something. I can see it in your face.’

Cowl raised a hand to his neck. He struggled to keep his mouth straight. ‘If I were to say something, Skinner, I suppose it would be that what goes around comes around.’

The Avowed commander ground out a long, slow growl.

The entire trip to the Golden Hills Lieutenant Rillish spent surrounded by a moiling horde of Wickan cavalry. Mounts had been provided for all; recovering, he could ride now with major discomfort, but he could ride. A large cart, a kind of wheeled yurt, had been assembled for the youth and it now constituted the centre of the churning mass of yelling, chanting horsemen. Early on Rillish had leant to Sergeant Chord, asking, ‘What is that they're repeating?’

‘Well, sir, they seem to think the youth carries the spirit of Coltaine, reborn.’

The name impressed Rillish no end. Coltaine. Leader of the last Wickan challenge to Malazan rule. Through negotiation he had then become one of the Empire's most feared commanders, and had died battling a rebellion in Seven Cities – though some claimed he had actually led it himself. That news had come four days ago. Plenty of time to ruminate on the truth, or suspicious convenience, of the timing of such a manifestation. After mulling it over – Nil and Nether seemed to accept it explicitly – he decided that it wasn't a truth for him to judge. He wasn't a Wickan. Not that he would endorse just any culture's practices – slavery of women, for example. Sure, it was a tradition among many peoples not to allow women access to power. Fine, so long as the ‘tradition’ was recognized for what it was: just another form of slavery.

So he would go along with the story. Never mind, whispered that scoffing sceptic's voice within him, how convenient it might prove for him.

Five days of wending up and down steep defiles and crossing rocky rushing streams brought them to a high broad plateau dotted with encampments of yurts and surging herds of horses. A great exulting war call went up from the column followed by a ululation of singing from the many camps. Mounted youths charged back and forth, spears raised. Some climbed to stand on the bare backs of their mounts; others leapt side to side, running alongside their horses, hands wrapped in manes.

‘You'll have your hands full with this lot,’ Rillish said to Nether who happened to be at his side. Her answer was a long, amused look, then she kneed her mount ahead.

A bivouac was set aside for Rillish and his command. He set to its ordering along with Sergeant Chord. ‘Now what do you think, sir?’ Chord asked while they inspected the soldiers’ work, some raising tents, others assembling imitations of the yurts in blankets and cloaks over a framework of branches. Fires were going and water was heating in clay pots over the flames.

‘Don't know for certain, of course. Some kind of an army will be organized, I imagine. They obviously intend to swoop down and clear the invaders out.’ Rillish caught the eye of the soldier who had helped him escape from the fort and nodded his greeting. Smiling broadly, she saluted.

As they walked along, Rillish asked his sergeant, ‘What is her name, anyway, Chord?’

‘Ah, that would be Corporal Talia, sir. Designated instructor in swordsmanship. The lads, they don't care a fart for technique. They think a thick arm and a thick head will see them through. But the lasses, sir, they know it's their edge.’

‘True enough, Chord. Thank you.’

‘Perhaps we could arrange some training, sir. While we rest and regroup. You've been on your back for some time now.’

‘Thank you, Chord. But you know regulations. Only commissioned ranks can spar together.’ Rillish rubbed the side of his nose. ‘Too many officers found run through, if I remember correctly.’

‘As you say, sir. But it seems to me that command is far away now, and there's some as might question whether we're really even in the army now, sir, if you follow my thinking.’

Rillish stopped outside the yurt the Wickans had given for his use – though obviously desperately short of shelter themselves. ‘Thank you, Chord. But the day I follow your thinking is the day I tear off all my clothes and jump into the ice of the Cut.’

‘I blame the drink, sir.’

‘You wouldn't have any of it left, would you?’

‘Used it to poison the enemy, sir.’

‘And a sad waste it was too.’

‘The bottle got a promotion out of it though, sir.’

‘True enough – wait, don't tell me – it's now known as Korbottle Dom.’

Looking away, Chord grinned. ‘Heard that one before have you, sir?’

‘Many times. And about this yurt…’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Give it back to the Wickans tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Later that night Chord stopped beside Corporal Talia's bedroll. He tapped her awake with a foot. She opened an eye. He produced a bottle from under his cloak. ‘Why don't you go offer to share this with the lieutenant?’

‘Why isn't he here instead of sorry-arsed you?’