Silgar unleashed magic once more, a wave that descended on the Teblor like a blanket – that he tore off with unthinking ease, his shrieks slicing into the night air, echoing back from nearby buildings, ringing out across the crowded harbour.

‘You there!’ Malazan words, a bellow, then the swiftly approaching clash and clatter of armoured soldiers.

‘An escaped slave, sirs!’ Silgar said hastily. ‘We have – as you can see – just recaptured him—’

‘Escaped slave? Let’s see his brand—’

The last words Karsa registered, as the pain in his hands and feet sent him plummeting into oblivion.

He awoke to Malazan words being spoken directly above him. ‘... extraordinary. I’ve never seen natural healing such as this. His hands and feet – those shackles were on for some time, Sergeant. On a normal man I’d be cutting them off right now.’

Another voice spoke, ‘Are all Fenn such as this one?’

‘Not that I’ve ever heard. Assuming he’s Fenn.’

‘Well, what else would he be? He’s as tall as two Dal Honese put together.’

‘I wouldn’t know, Sergeant. Before I was posted here, the only place I knew well was six twisting streets in Li Heng. Even the Fenn was just a name and some vague description about them being giants. Giants no-one’s seen for decades at that. The point is, this slave was in bad shape when you first brought him in. Beaten pretty fierce, and someone punched him in the ribs hard enough to crack bones – wouldn’t want to cross whoever that was. For all that, the swelling’s already down on his face – despite what I’ve just done to it – and the bruises are damned near fading in front of our eyes.’

Continuing to feign unconsciousness, Karsa listened to the speaker stepping back, then the sergeant asking, ‘So the bastard’s not in danger of dying, then.’

‘Not that I can see.’

‘Good enough, Healer. You can return to the barracks.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Various movement, boots on flagstones, the clang of an iron-barred door; then, as these echoes dwindled, the Teblor heard, closer by, the sound of breathing.

In the distance there was some shouting, faint and muted by intervening walls of stone, yet Karsa thought he recognized the voice as belonging to the slavemaster, Silgar. The Teblor opened his eyes. A low, smoke-stained ceiling – not high enough to permit him to stand upright. He was lying on a straw-littered, greasy floor. There was virtually no light, apart from a dim glow reaching in from the walkway beyond the barred door.

His face hurt, a strange stinging sensation prickling on his cheeks, forehead and along his jaw.

Karsa sat up.

There was someone else in the small, windowless cell, hunched in a dark corner. The figure grunted and said something in one of the languages of the Seven Cities.