Heboric had asked Felisin to keep an eye on Sinker Lake’s water level in any case, now that the dry season had come, and as they walked Work Road, she studied the far side as best she could in the dim light. A line of crust was visible a hand’s span above the surface. The news would please him, though she had no idea why. The notion of escape was absurd. Beyond the pit was lifeless desert and withered rock, with no drinkable water in any direction for days. Those slaves who somehow made it up to the pit edge, and then eluded the patrols on Beetle Road, the track that surrounded the pit, had left their bones in the desert’s red sands. Few got that far, and the spikes named Salvation Row on the sheer wall of the Tower at Rust Ramp displayed their failure for all to see. Not a week went past without a new victim appearing on the Tower wall. Most died before the first day was through, but some lingered longer.

Work Road ran its worn cobbles past Bula’s Inn on the right and the row of brothels on the left before opening out into Rathole Round. In the round’s centre rose Sawark’s Keep, a hexagonal tower of cut limestone three storeys high. Only Beneth among all the slaves had ever been inside.

Twelve thousand slaves lived in Skullcup, the vast mining pit thirty leagues north of the island’s lone city on the south coast, Dosin Pali. In addition to them and the three hundred guards there were locals: prostitutes for the brothels, serving staff for Bula’s Inn and the gambling halls, a caste of servants who had bound their lives and the lives of their families to the Malazan soldiery, hawkers for the struggling market that filled Rathole Round on Rest Day, and a scattering of the banished, the destitute and the lost who’d chosen a pit town over the rotting alleyways of Dosin Pali.

‘The stew will be cold,’ Beneth muttered as they approached Bula’s Inn.

Felisin wiped sweat from her brow. ‘That will be a relief.’

‘You’re not yet used to the heat. In a month or two you’ll feel the chill of night just like everyone else.’

‘These early hours still hold the day’s memory. I feel the cold of midnight and the hours beyond, Beneth.’

‘Move in with me, girl. I’ll keep you warm enough.’

He was already on the edge of one of his sudden dark moods. She said nothing, hoping he would let it go for the moment.

‘Be careful of what you refuse,’ Beneth rumbled.

‘Bula would take me to her bed,’ she said. ‘You could watch, perhaps join in. She’d be sure to warm the bowls for us. Even second helpings.’

‘She’s old enough to be your mother,’ Beneth growled.

And you my father. But she heard his breathing change. ‘She’s round and soft and warm, Beneth. Think on that.’

She knew he would, and the subject of moving in with him would drift away. For this night, at least. Heboric’s wrong. There’s no point in thinking about tomorrow. ]ust the next hour, each hour. Stay alive, Felisin, and live well if you can. One day you’ll find yourself face to face with your sister, and an ocean of blood pouring from Tavore’s veins won’t be enough, though all they hold will suffice. Stay alive, girl, that’s all you must do. Survive each hour, the next hour . . .