Reuth gave a shrug of his thin shoulders. ‘No worse than usual. No, they’re not so bad. Remember, Tulan’s the ship’s master.’

‘Not one to coddle you too closely, though.’

Reuth laughed without humour. ‘No. That’s for certain.’

Kyle set the linen line aside and turned to another, which appeared to be woven of hair. He inspected it more closely and was surprised, and a touch unnerved, to see that it was not horse hair, as he had presumed, but human hair.

‘Pay no attention to what these ragged sailors say, Reuth. Continue studying your maps. You could become a navigator, or a pilot. That’s a rare skill. One these hands can’t even imagine.’ He didn’t add that he himself was barely literate – it was only after joining the Guard that he learned to read and write, just.

‘No. It’s not them.’

Kyle pulled on the woven line – it was strong. Perhaps it was somehow special; that is, special beyond the sacrifice made by the women of Mare for the welfare of their husbands and sons. Perhaps it was employed in the ship’s rituals surrounding the invocations of Ruse. ‘Not them?’ he asked absently.

‘No. It’s you.’

He raised his gaze to the lad to find him casting quick concerned glances his way. He lowered the line. ‘Oh? Me? How so?’

The lad licked his lips then cleared his throat into a fist. ‘You are an outlander. You served with the Malazans, yet you are not of them. You have the look and bearing of what we would call a barbarian, an inhabitant of the Wastes – your sun- and wind-darkened hue, your black hair and moustache.’

Kyle eased himself back, straightening slightly. ‘Yes? So?’

Reuth hesitated, then pushed on: ‘You carry that sword with you at all times. You never leave it aside in a bunk or a chest. You keep it hidden from sight, wrapped and covered …’

‘Yes? So?’

‘Well …’ The lad peered warily about then lowered his voice. ‘There are those on board who say you might be Whiteblade.’

Whiteblade. So there it was. No longer the Whiteblade, but just Whiteblade itself. A title, or epithet. How things change and transform in the retelling as each speaker slips in one or two embellishments to make tales their own – or to move them in the direction they think they ought to go.

‘You’re doing it again,’ the lad said.

Kyle studied the lad: he appeared serious, worried even, hunched forward as he was, his eyes searching. ‘Doing what?’

Reuth pointed to his neck. Kyle lowered his gaze and jerked a touch ruefully. The lad was right: he’d gotten hold of the amber stone he kept round his neck and was rubbing it as he thought.

‘What is it?’

‘Just an old worn piece of amber. The gift of a friend long ago.’

‘So – are you him? Whiteblade?’