The old man tilted his head back and laughed. ‘If they were all honourable, friend, you would be more deserving of this robe than I. Forgive me my bold request, then.’

Captain Turqa returned, carrying a small chest of weathered wood the colour of sand. He set it down on the table before his master, who raised the lid and reached inside. ‘Raraku was once a sea,’ the Tano said. He withdrew a bleached white conch shell. ‘Such remnants can be found in the Holy Desert, provided you know the location of the ancient shores. In addition to the memory song contained within it, of that inland sea, other songs have been invested.’ He glanced up, meeting Fiddler’s eyes. ‘My own songs of power. Please accept this gift, in gratitude for saving the lives and honour of my granddaughters.’

Fiddler bowed as the old priest set the conch shell into his hands. ‘Thank you, Tano Spiritwalker. Your gift offers protection, then?’

‘Of a sort,’ the priest said, smiling. After a moment he rose from his seat. ‘We shall not keep you any longer, Bridgeburner.’

Fiddler quickly stood.

‘Captain Turqa will see you out.’ He stepped close and laid a hand on Fiddler’s shoulder. ‘Kimloc Spiritwalker thanks you.’

The conch shell in his hands, the sapper was ushered from the priest’s presence. Outside in the garden the water-cooled air plucked at the sweat on Fiddler’s brow. ‘Kimloc,’ he muttered under his breath.

Turqa grunted beside him as they walked the path to the back gate. ‘His first guest in eleven years. Do you comprehend the honour bestowed upon you, Bridgeburner?’

‘Clearly,’ Fiddler said dryly, ‘he values his granddaughters. Eleven years, you say? Then his last guest would have been ...’

‘High Fist Dujek Onearm, of the Malazan Empire.’

‘Negotiating the peaceful surrender of Karakarang, the Holy City of the Tano cult. Kimloc claimed he could destroy the Malazan armies. Utterly. Yet he capitulated and his name is now legendary for empty threats.’

Turqa snorted. ‘He opened the gates of his city because he values life above all things. He took the measure of your Empire and realized that the death of thousands meant nothing to it. Malaz would have what it desired, and what it desired was Karakarang.’

Fiddler grimaced. With heavy sarcasm he said, ‘And if that meant bringing the T’lan Imass to the Holy City – to do to it what they did to Aren – then we would have done just that. I doubt even Kimloc’s sorcery could hold back the T’lan Imass.’

They stood at the gate. Turqa swung it open, old pain in his dark eyes. ‘As did Kimloc,’ he said. ‘The slaughter at Aren revealed the Empire’s madness—’

‘What happened during the Aren Rebellion was a mistake,’ Fiddler snapped. ‘No command was ever given to the Logros T’lan Imass.’

Turqa’s only reply was a sour, bitter grin as he gestured to the street beyond. ‘Go in peace, Bridgeburner.’

Irritated, Fiddler left.

Moby squealed in delight, launching itself across the narrow room to collide with Fiddler’s chest in a frenzied flap of wings and clutching limbs. Swearing and pushing the familiar away as it attempted a throat-crushing embrace, the sapper crossed the threshold, closing the door behind him.