With dusk an hour away, a lone Khundryl war chief rode up to them at a slow canter, and as he neared they saw that it was the spokesman. He’d been in a scrap and was smeared in blood, at least half of it his own, yet he rode straight in his saddle.

He reined in ten paces from Coltaine.

The Fist spoke. ‘You have your answer, it seems.’

‘We have it, Blackwing.’

‘The Khundryl.’

Surprise flitted on the warrior’s battered face. ‘You honour us, but no. We strove to break the one named Korbolo Dom, but failed. The answer is not the Khundryl.’

‘Then you do honour to Korbolo Dom?’

The war chief spat at that, growled his disbelief. ‘Spirits below! You cannot be such a fool! The answer this day ...’ The war chief yanked free his tulwar from its leather sheath, revealing a blade snapped ten inches above the hilt. He raised it over his head and bellowed, ‘The Wickans! The Wickans! The Wickans!’

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY

This path’s a dire thing,

the gate it leads to

is like a corpse

over which ten thousand

nightmares bicker

their fruitless claims.

The Path

Trout Sen’al’ Bhok’arala

Seagulls wheeled above them, the first they’d seen in a long while. The horizon ahead, on their course bearing of south by southeast, revealed an uneven smudge that grew steadily even as the day prepared for its swift demise.

Not a single cloud marred the sky and the wind was brisk and steady.

Salk Elan joined Kalam on the forecastle. Both of them were wrapped in cloaks against the rhythmic spray kicked up by Ragstopper’s headlong plunge into the troughs. To the sailors manning stations on the main deck and aft, the sight of them standing there at the bow like a pair of Great Ravens was black-wrought with omens.

Oblivious to all this, Kalam’s gaze held on the island that awaited them.

‘By midnight,’ Salk Elan said with a loud sigh. ‘Ancient birthplace of the Malazan Empire—’

The assassin snorted. ‘Ancient? How old do you think the Empire is? Hood’s breath!’

‘All right, too romantic by far. I was but seeking a mood—’

‘Why?’ Kalam barked.

Elan shrugged. ‘No particular reason, except perhaps this brooding atmosphere of anticipation, nay, impatience, even.’

‘What’s to brood about?’

‘You tell me, friend.’

Kalam grimaced, said nothing.

‘Malaz City,’ Elan resumed. ‘What should I expect?’

‘Imagine a pigsty by the sea and that’ll do. A rotten, festering bug-ridden swamp—’

‘All right, all right! Sorry I asked!’

‘The captain?’

‘No change, alas.’

Why am I not surprised? Sorcery – gods, how I hate sorcery!

Salk Elan rested long-fingered hands on the rail, revealing once again his love of green-hued gems set in gaudy rings. ‘A fast ship could take us across to Unta in a day and a half...’

‘And how would you know that?’