‘I’ve heard legends otherwise—’

‘Oh, you’ll find magic embedded in jewels and such – sorcerers make up dozens of them, all cursed in some way or other. Most of them are a kind of magical spying device – the sorcerer can track them, sometimes even see through them. Claws use that intelligence-gathering method all the time.’ He tossed the rock in the air, caught it, then suddenly sobered. ‘This was intended to be used as a last resort...’ In the palace at Unta, actually.

‘What does it do?’

The assassin grimaced. I haven’t a clue. Quick Ben’s not the expansive type, the bastard. ‘It’s your shaved knuckle in the hole, Kalam. With this you can stride right into the throne room. I guarantee it.’ He glanced around, saw a low, flat rock nearby. ‘Get everyone ready to move.’

The assassin crouched down before the flat rock, set the stone on it, then found a fist-sized cobble. He hefted it thoughtfully before bringing it crashing down on the stone.

He was shocked as it splattered like wet clay.

Darkness swept over them. Kalam looked up, slowly straightened. Damn, I should’ve guessed.

‘Where are we?’ Selv demanded in a high, taut voice.

‘Mother!’

The assassin turned to see Kesen and Vaneb stumbling in knee-deep ash. Ash that was filled with charred bones. The horses were shying, tossing their heads as grey dust rose like smoke.

Hood’s breath, we’re in the Imperial Warren.’ Kalam found himself standing on a broad, raised disc of grey basalt. Sky merged with land in a formless, colourless haze. I could wring your neck, Quick Ben! The assassin had heard rumours that such a warren had been created and the description matched, but the tales he’d picked up on Genabackis suggested that it was barely nascent, extending no more than a few hundred leagues – if leagues mean much here – in a ring around Unta. Instead, it reaches all the way into Seven Cities. And Genabackis? Why not? Quick Ben, there could be a Claw riding your shoulder right now...

The children had settled their horses and were now in the saddles, well away from the grisly scorched mound. Kalam glanced over to see Minala and Selv tying Keneb onto his saddle.

The assassin approached his own stallion. The beast snorted disdainfully as he swung himself up and gathered the reins.

‘We’re in a warren, aren’t we?’ Minala asked. ‘I’d always believed all those tales of other realms were nothing but elaborate inventions wizards and priests used to prop up all the fumbling around they did.’

Kalam grunted. He’d been run through enough warrens and plunged into enough chaotic maelstroms of sorcery to take it for granted. Minala had just reminded him that for most people such a reality was remote, viewed with scepticism if acknowledged at all. Is such ignorance a comfort or a source of blind fear?