‘No,’ Lull said, frowning. ‘Wants you, Historian. We’ve run into a tribe of the Sanith Odhan – so far they’re just watching.’

‘Seems the rebellion’s a less certain thing down here,’ Duiker muttered.

Sounds of battle along the flanking line diminished. Another pause, a few heartbeats in which to recover, to repair armour, quench bleeding.

The captain gestured and they began walking alongside the refugees.

‘What tribe, then?’ the historian asked after a moment. ‘And, more importantly, what’s it got to do with me?’

‘The Fist has reached a decision,’ Lull said.

Something in those words chilled Duiker. He thought to probe for more, yet dismissed the notion. The details of that decision belonged to Coltaine. The man leads an army that refuses to die. We’ve not lost a refugee to enemy action in thirty hours. Five thousand soldiers . . . spitting in the face of every god. . .

‘What do you know of the tribes this close to the city?’ Lull asked as they continued on.

‘They’ve no love of Aren,’ Duiker said.

‘Worse for them under the Empire?’

The historian grunted, seeing the direction the captain pursued in his questions. ‘No, better. The Malazan Empire understands borderlands, the different needs of those living in the countryside – vast territories in the Empire, after all, remain nomadic, and the tribute demanded is never exorbitant. More, payment for passage across tribal lands is always generous and prompt. Coltaine should know this well enough, Captain.’

‘I imagine he does – I’m the one that needs convincing.’

Duiker glanced at the refugees on their left, scanning the row upon row of faces, young and old, within the ever-present shroud of dust. Thoughts pushed past weariness, and Duiker felt himself tottering on an edge, beyond which – he could now clearly see – waited Coltaine’s desperate gamble.

The Fist has reached a decision.

And his officers balk, flinch back overwhelmed with uncertainty. Has Coltaine succumbed to despair? Or does he see all too well?

Five thousand soldiers . . .

‘What can I say to you, Lull?’ Duiker asked.

‘That there’s no choice left.’

‘You can answer that yourself.’

‘I dare not.’ The man grimaced, his scarred face twisting, his lone eye narrowing amidst a nest of wrinkles. ‘It’s the children, you see. It’s what they have left – the last thing they have left. Duiker—’

The historian’s abrupt nod cut out the need to say anything more – a swiftly granted mercy. He’d seen those faces, had come close to studying them – as if, he’d thought at the time, seeking to find the youth that belonged there, the freedom and innocence – but that was not what he sought, nor what he found. Lull had led him to the word itself. Simple, immutable, thus far still sacrosanct.