Mappo nodded. ‘For the moment, we ourselves walk the Path of Hands.’

And why is that, I wonder?

They resumed their journey. Fiddler mused on the half-dozen times he’d seen desert warriors in the past twelve hours. Desperate men and women in truth. Raraku was the centre of the Apocalypse, yet the rebellion was headless and had been for some time. What was going on beyond the Holy Desert’s ring of crags?

Anarchy, I’d wager. Slaughter and frenzy. Hearts of ice and the mercy of cold steel. Even if the illusion of Sha’ik is being maintained – her ranking followers now issuing commands – she’s not led her army out to make it the rebellion’s lodestone. Doesn’t sit well proclaiming an uprising, then not showing up to lead it...

Apsalar would have her hands full, should she accept the role. An assassin’s skills might keep her alive, but they offered nothing of the intangible magnetism necessary to lead armies. Commanding armies was easy enough – the traditional structures ensured that, as the barely competent Fists of the Malazan Empire clearly showed – but leading was another thing entirely.

Fiddler could think of only a handful of people possessing that magnetic quality. Dassem Ultor, Prince K’azz D’Avore of the Crimson Guard, Caladan Brood and Dujek Onearm. Tattersail if she’d had the ambition. Likely Sha’ik herself. And Whiskeyjack.

As alluring as Apsalar was, the sapper had seen nothing of such force of personality. Competence, without a doubt. Quiet confidence as well. But she clearly preferred observing over participating – at least until the time came to draw the sticker. Assassins don’t bother honing their powers to persuade – why bother? She’ll need the right people around her . . .

Fiddler scowled to himself. He’d already taken it as given that the lass would assume the guise, twined to the central thread of this goddess-woven tapestry. And here we are, racing through the Whirlwind . . . to arrive in time to witness the prophetic rebirth.

Eyes narrowed against the blowing grit, the sapper glanced at Crokus. The lad strode half a dozen paces ahead, a step behind Icarium. Even leaning as he did into the biting wind, he betrayed something fraught and fragile in his posture. She’d said nothing to him before leaving – she’d dismissed him and his concerns as easily as she did the rest of us. Pust offered her father to seal the pact. But sent him out here first. That suggested the old man was a willing player in the scheme, a co’conspirator. If I was that lass, I’d have some hard questions for ol’ Dadda...

On all sides, the Whirlwind seemed to howl with laughter.

The bruise was vaguely door-shaped and twice a man’s height. Pearl paced before it, muttering to himself, while Lostara Yil watched in weary patience.

Finally he turned, as if suddenly recalling her presence. ‘Complications, my dear. I am ... torn.’