‘Fine. But what’s that got to do—’

‘Don’t interrupt. Corporal said make a list. I’m making it. You’ve followed me so far? Good. Darujhistan eluded her once – but she’ll make certain next time. Assuming there is a next time.’

‘Well,’ Crokus was scowling, ‘why wouldn’t there be? You said she gets what she wants.’

‘And you’re loyal to your city, Crokus?’

‘Of course—’

‘So you’d do anything you could to prevent the Empress from conquering it?’

‘Well, yes but—’

‘Sir?’ Fiddler turned back to Kalam.

The burly black-skinned man looked out over the waves, sighed, then nodded to himself. He faced Crokus. ‘It’s this, lad. Time’s come. I’m going after her.’

The Daru boy’s expression was blank, but Fiddler saw Apsalar’s eyes widen, her face losing its colour. She sat back suddenly, then half-smiled – and Fiddler went cold upon seeing it.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Crokus said. ‘After who? The Empress? How?’

‘He means,’ Apsalar said, still smiling a smile that had belonged to her once, long ago, when she’d been ... someone else, ‘that he’s going to try and kill her.’

‘What?’ Crokus stood, almost pitching himself over the side. ‘You? You and a seasick sapper with a broken fiddle strapped to his back? Do you think we’re going to help you in this insane, suicidal—’

‘I remember,’ Apsalar said suddenly, her eyes narrowing on Kalam.

Crokus turned to her. ‘Remember what?’

‘Kalam. He was a Falah’dan’s Dagger, and the Claw gave him command of a Hand. Kalam’s a master assassin, Crokus. And Quick Ben—’

‘Is three thousand leagues away!’ Crokus shouted. ‘He’s a squad mage, for Hood’s sake! That’s it, a squalid little squad mage!’

‘Not quite,’ Fiddler said. ‘And being so far away doesn’t mean a thing, son. Quick Ben’s our shaved knuckle in the hole.’

‘Your what in the where?’

‘Shaved knuckle, as in the game of knuckles – a good gambler’s usually using a shaved knuckle, as in cheating in the casts, if you know what I mean. As for “hole”, that’d be Quick Ben’s Warren – the one that can put him at Kalam’s side in the space of a heartbeat, no matter how far away he happens to be. So, Crokus, there you have it: Kalam’s going to give it a try, but it’s going to take some planning, preparation. And that starts here, in Seven Cities. You want Darujhistan free for ever more? The Empress Laseen must die.’

Crokus slowly sat back down. ‘But why Seven Cities? Isn’t the Empress in Quon Tali?’

‘Because,’ Kalam said as he angled the fisherboat into the creek mouth and the oppressive heat of the land rose around them, ‘because, lad, Seven Cities is about to rise.’

‘What do you mean?’

The assassin bared his teeth. ‘Rebellion.’

Fiddler swung around and scanned the fetid undergrowth lining the banks. And that, he said to himself with a chill clutching his stomach, is the part of this plan that I hate the most. Chasing one of Quick Ben’s wild ideas with the whole countryside going up in flames.