He shook his head, slowly sat back. ‘Bloodfly bites ... the deadening poison kills the flesh. You’ll heal, but there will be pockmarks. I’m so sorry, lass. It’s bad around your eyes. It’s bad.. .’

She almost laughed, her head reeling. Another shiver rippled through her and she hugged herself. ‘I’ve seen those. Locals. Slaves. Here and there—’

‘Aye. Normally, bloodflies don’t swarm. It must have been the flames. Now listen, a good enough healer – someone with High Denul – can remove the scarring. We’ll find ourselves such a healer, Felisin. I swear it, by Fener’s tusks, I swear it.’

‘I feel sick.’

‘That’s the tincture. Rapid heart, chills, nausea. It’s the juice of a plant native to Seven Cities. If you drank down what’s left in that tiny bottle you’d be dead in minutes.’

This time she did laugh, the sound shaky and brittle. ‘I might welcome Hood’s Gates, Heboric’ She squinted at him. The blue glow was fading. ‘Fener must be very forgiving.’

He frowned at that. ‘I can make no sense of it, to be honest. I can think of more than one High Priest to Fener who’d choke at the suggestion that the boar god was ... forgiving.’ He sighed. ‘But it seems you’re right.’

‘You might want to offer thanks. A sacrifice.’

‘I might,’ he growled, looking away.

‘It must have been a great offence that drove you from your god, Heboric.’

He did not reply. After a moment he rose, eyes on the flame-wracked town. ‘Riders coming.’

She sat up straighter, still too dizzy to stand. ‘Beneth?’

He shook his head.

Moments later a troop of Malazans rode up, halting directly opposite Heboric and Felisin. At the head was Captain Sawark. A Dosii blade had laid open one cheek. His uniform was wet and dark with blood. Felisin involuntarily shrank back from his cold lizard eyes as they fixed on her.

He finally spoke, ‘When you’re up on the rim . . . look south.’

Heboric cursed softly in surprise. ‘You’re letting us go? Thank you, Captain.’

His face darkened. ‘Not for you, old man. It’s seditious bastards like you that are the cause of all this. I’d rather spit you on a spear right now.’ He made as if to say something more, his eyes finding Felisin once again, but instead he simply reined his mount around.

The two fugitives watched the troop ride back into Skullcup. They were heading for a battle. Felisin knew this instinctively. Another sourceless certainty told her, in a whisper, that they would all die. Captain Sawark. Pella. Every Malazan. She glanced over at Heboric. The man looked thoughtful as he watched the troop reach the edge of town, then vanish into the smoke.

A moment later Baudin rose from a bed of reeds nearby.

Felisin clambered to her feet and stepped towards him. ‘Where’s Beneth?’

‘Dead, lass.’