‘The Malazan professional soldier is the deadliest weapon I know. Had Coltaine three armies instead of only three-fifths of one, he would end this rebellion before year’s end. And with such finality that Seven Cities would never rise again. We could shatter Kamist Reloe now – if not for the refugees whom we are sworn to protect.’

Duiker nodded. There was truth enough in that.

The sounds of the camp were a muffled illusion of normality, an embrace from all sides that the historian found unsettling. He was losing the ability to relax, he bleakly realized. He picked up a small twig and tossed it towards the fire.

Nil’s hand snapped it out of the air. ‘Not this one,’ he said.

Another young warlock arrived, his thin, bony arms ridged in hatch-marked scars from wrist to shoulder. He squatted down beside Nil and spat once into the fire.

There was no answering sizzle.

Nil straightened, tossing aside the cord of leather, and glanced over at Lull and his soldiers. They stood ready.

‘Time?’ Duiker asked.

‘Yes.’

Nil and his fellow warlock led the group through the camp. Few of their clan kin looked their way, and it was a few minutes before Duiker realized that their seemingly casual indifference was deliberate, possibly some kind of culturally prescribed display of respect. Or something else entirely. To look is to ghost-touch, after all.

They reached the encampment’s north edge. Fog wafted on the plain beyond the wicker barriers. Duiker frowned. ‘They’ll know it isn’t natural,’ he muttered.

Lull grunted. ‘We’ve a diversion planned, of course. Three squads of sappers are out there right now with sacks full of fun—’

He was interrupted by a detonation off to the northeast, followed by a pause in which faint screams wailed in the shrouded darkness. Then a rapid succession of explosions shattered the night air.

The fog swallowed the flashes, but Duiker recognized the distinctive crack of sharpers and thumping whoosh of flamers. More screams, then the swift thudding of horse hooves converging to the northeast.

‘Now we let things settle,’ Lull said.

Minutes passed, the distant screams fading. ‘Has Bult finally managed to track down that captain of the sappers?’ the historian eventually asked.

‘Ain’t seen his face at any of the jaw sessions, if that’s what you mean. But he’s around. Somewhere. Coltaine’s finally accepted that the man’s shy.’

‘Shy?’

Lull shrugged. ‘A joke, Historian. Remember those?’

Nil finally turned to face them.

‘That’s it,’ the captain said. ‘No more talking.’

Half a dozen Wickan guards pulled up the spikes anchoring one of the wicker barriers, then quietly lowered it flat. A thick hide was unrolled over it to mask the inevitable creaking of the party’s passage.

The mist beyond was dissipating into patches. One such cloud drifted over, then settled around the group, keeping pace as they struck out onto the plain.