Had she not seen to his transfer, Heboric would now be dead, his body crushed under tons of rock. He owed her his life.

The realization brought Felisin little satisfaction. They rarely spoke to each other any more. Head clouded with durhang smoke, it was all Felisin could do to drag herself home from Bula’s each night. She slept long hours but gained no rest. The days working in Twistings passed in a long, numb haze. Even Beneth had complained that her lovemaking had become ... torpid.

The thuds and grunts of the water carts on the pitted work road grew louder, but Felisin could not pull her gaze from the rescuers as they laid out the mangled corpses to await the body wagon. A faint residue of pity clung to what she could see of the scene, but even that seemed too much of an effort, never mind pulling away her eyes.

For all her dulled responses, she went to Beneth, wanting to be used, more and more often. She sought him out when he was drunk, weaving and generous, when he offered her to his friends, to Bula and to other women.

You’re numb, girl, Heboric had said one of the few times he’d addressed her. Yet your thirst for feeling grows, until even pain will do. But you’re looking in the wrong places.

Wrong places. What did he know of wrong places? The far reach of Deep Mine was a wrong place. The Shaft, where the bodies would be dumped, that was a wrong place. Everywhere else is just a shade of good enough.

She was ready to move in with Beneth, punctuating the choices she’d made. In a few days, perhaps. Next week. Soon. She’d made such an issue of her own independence, but it was proving not so great a task to surrender it after all.

‘Lass.’

Blinking, Felisin looked up. It was the young Malazan guard, the one who’d warned Beneth once ... long ago.

The soldier grinned. ‘Find the quote yet?’

‘What?’

‘From Kellanved’s writings, girl.’ The boy was frowning now. ‘I suggested you find someone who knew the rest of the passage I quoted.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He reached down, the calluses ridging the index finger and thumb of his sword hand scraping her chin and jawline as he raised her face. She winced in the bright light when he pushed her hair back. ‘Durhang,’ he whispered. ‘Queen’s heart, girl, you look ten years older than the last time I saw you, and when was that? Two weeks back.’

‘Ask Beneth,’ she mumbled, pulling her head away from his touch.

‘Ask him what?’

‘For me. In your bed. He’ll say yes, but only if he’s drunk. He’ll be drunk tonight. He grieves for the dead with a jug. Or two. Touch me then.’

He straightened. ‘Where’s Heboric?’