The voice trailed away. Cool mist seeped back in around the assassin. Quick Ben was gone. And that’s that. On my own in truth, now. Fiddler . . .oh, you bastard, we should have guessed, figured it out. Ancient gates . . . Tremorlor.

He did not move for a long time. Finally he sighed, wiped the top of the chest, removing the last of the crushed rock from its damp surface, and rose.

The captain was awake, and he had company. Salk Elan grinned as Kalam entered the cramped room. ‘We were just talking about you, partner,’ Elan said. ‘Knowing how set you get in your mind, and wondering how you’d take the news ...’

‘All right, I’ll bite. What news?’

‘This storm – we’re being blown off course. A long way.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Seems we’ll be making for a different port once it’s spent.’

‘Not Unta.’

‘Oh, eventually, of course.’

The assassin’s gaze fell to the captain. He looked unhappy, but resigned. Kalam conjured a map of Quon Tali in his mind, studied it a moment, then sighed. ‘Malaz City. The island.’

‘Never seen that legendary cesspool before,’ Elan said. ‘I can’t wait. I trust you’ll be generous enough to show me all the sights, friend.’

Kalam stared at the man, then smiled. ‘Count on it, Salk Elan.’

They had paused for a rest, almost inured to the curdling cries and screams rising from other paths of the maze. Mappo lowered Icarium to the ground and knelt beside his unconscious friend. Tremorlor’s desire for the Jhag was palpable. The Trell closed his eyes. The Nameless Ones have guided us here, delivering Icarium to the Azath as they would a goat to a hill god. Yet it is not their hands that will be bloodied by the deed. I am the one who will be stained by this.

He struggled to conjure the image of the destroyed town – his birthplace – but it was now haunted by shadows. Doubt had replaced conviction. He no longer believed his own memories. Foolish! Icarium has taken countless lives. Whatever the truth behind my town’s death . . .

His hands clenched.

My tribe – the shoulder-women – would not betray me. What weight can be placed on Icarium’s dreams? The Jhag remembers nothing. Nothing real. His equanimity softens truth, blurs the edges . . . smears every colour, until the memory is daubed anew. Thus. It is lcarium’s kindness that has snared me . . .

Mappo’s fists ached. He looked down at his companion, studied the expression of peaceful repose on the Jhag’s blood-smeared face.

Tremorlor shall not have you. I am not to be so used. If the Nameless Ones would deliver you, then they shall have to come for you themselves, and through me first.