‘Yet there is power here, Mappo,’ Icarium said in a low voice.

‘Aye,’ the Trell agreed as he approached the rope. ‘A warren opened in the cave when the mule entered.’

‘Then why does the High Priest not use it?’

‘I doubt we’ll find easy answers to Iskaral Pust, friend.’

‘Best hold tight, Mappo.’

‘Aye.’

Icarium reached out suddenly, rested a hand on Mappo’s shoulder. ‘Friend.’

‘Aye?’

The Jhag was frowning. ‘I am missing an arrow, Mappo. More, there is blood on my sword, and I see upon you dreadful wounds. Tell me, did we fight? I recall... nothing.’

The Trell was silent a long moment, then he said, ‘I was beset by a leopard while you slept, Icarium. Made some use of your weapons. I did not think it worthy of mention.’

Icarium’s frown deepened. ‘Once again,’ he slowly whispered, ‘I have lost time.’

‘Nothing of worth, friend.’

‘You would tell me otherwise?’ There was a look of desperate pleading in the Jhag’s grey eyes.

‘Why would I not, Icarium?’

CHAPTER THREE

The Red Blades were, at this time, pre-eminent among those pro-Malazan organizations that arose in occupied territories. Viewing themselves as progressive in their embrace of the values of imperial unification, this quasi-military cult became infamous with their brutal pragmatism when dealing with dissenting kin ...

Lives of the Conquered

Hem Trauth

Felisin lay unmoving beneath Beneth until, with a final shudder, he was done. He pushed himself off and grabbed a handful of her hair. His face was flushed under the grime and his eyes gleamed in the lamp glow. ‘You’ll learn to like it, girl,’ he said.

The edge of something savage always rose closer to the surface immediately after he’d lain with her. She knew it would pass. ‘I will,’ she said. ‘Does he get a day of rest?’

Beneth’s grip tightened momentarily, then relaxed. ‘Aye, he does.’ He moved away, began tying up his breeches. ‘Though I don’t much see the point. The old man won’t last another month.’ He paused, his breath harsh as he studied her. ‘Hood’s breath, girl, but you’re beautiful. Show me some life next time. I’ll treat you right. Get you soap, a new comb, lousebane. You’ll work here in Twistings, that’s a promise. Show pleasure, girl, that’s all I ask.’

‘Soon,’ she said. ‘Once it stops hurting.’

The day’s eleventh bell had sounded. They were in the third reach off Twistings Far shaft. The reach had been gouged out by the Rotlegs and was barely high enough to crawl for most of its quarter-mile length. The air was close and stank of Otataral dust and sweating rock.

Virtually everyone else would have reached Nearlight by now, but Beneth moved in Captain Sawark’s shadow and could do as he pleased. He had claimed the abandoned reach as his own. It was Felisin’s third visit. The first time had been the hardest. Beneth had picked her within hours of her arrival at Skullcup, the mining camp in the Dosin Pit. He was a big man, bigger than Baudin and though a slave himself he was master of every other slave, the guards’ inside man, cruel and dangerous. He was also astonishingly handsome.