Duiker nodded to himself. He’d already guessed Kulp’s answer to that question. You’re busy reading the stones in the sand, Sormo. Aren’t you? While Coltaine hammers the Seventh into shape as guardians to Malazan refugees. ‘Mage,’ he said.

‘Aye?’

‘Dying a dozen times in mock battle is nothing. When it’s for real you die but once. Push the Seventh, Kulp. Any way you can. Show Coltaine what the Seventh’s capable of – talk it over with the squad leaders. Tonight. Come tomorrow, win your objectives, and I’ll talk to Coltaine about a day of rest. Show him, and he’ll give it.’

‘What makes you so certain?’

Because time’s running out and he needs you. He needs you sharp. ‘Win your objectives. Leave the Fist to me.’

‘Very well, I’ll see what I can do.’

Corporal List died within the first few minutes of the mock engagement. Bult, commanding a howling mob of Wickans rampaging down the ruin’s main avenue, had personally clouted the hapless Malazan on the side of his head, hard enough to leave the boy sprawled unconscious in the dust. The veteran warrior had then thrown List over one shoulder and carried him from the battle.

Grinning, Bult jogged up the dusty track to the rise from which the new Fist and a few of his officers observed the engagement, and dropped the corporal into the dust at Coltaine’s feet. Duiker sighed.

Coltaine glanced around. ‘Healer! Attend the boy!’

One of the Seventh’s cutters appeared, crouching at the corporal’s side.

Coltaine’s slitted eyes found Duiker. ‘I see no change in this day’s proceedings, Historian.’

‘It is early yet, Fist.’

The Wickan grunted, returning his attention to the dust-filled ruins. Soldiers were emerging from the chaos, fighters from the Seventh and Wickans, staggering with minor wounds and broken limbs.

Readying his cudgel, Bult scowled. ‘You spoke too soon, Coltaine,’ he said. ‘This one’s different.’

There were, Duiker saw, more Wickans among the victims than soldiers of the Seventh, and the ratio was widening with every passing moment. Somewhere in the chaotic clouds of dust, the tide had turned.

Coltaine called for his horse. He swung himself into the saddle and shot Bult a glare. ‘Stay here, Uncle. Where are my Lancers?’ He waited impatiently as forty horsemen rode onto the rise. Their lances were blunted with bundled strips of leather. For all that, Duiker knew, anything more than a glancing blow from them was likely to break bones.

Coltaine led them at a canter towards the ruins.

Bult spat dust. ‘It’s about time,’ he said.

‘What is?’ Duiker asked.

‘The Seventh’s finally earned Lancer support. It’s been a week overdue, Historian. Coltaine had expected a toughening, but all we got was a wilting. Who’s given them new spines, then? You? Careful or Coltaine’ll make you a captain.’