‘So it is said,’ Karsa rumbled. ‘Yet her memories remain. And it is those memories that chain her so. She is trapped by fear, and that fear is born of a secret which she will not share. The only other person who knows that secret is Ghost Hands.’

Leoman stared at Karsa for a long moment, then slowly settled into a crouch. The two men were surrounded by snakes, the sound of slithering on sand a muted undercurrent. Lowering one hand, Leoman watched as a flare-neck began entwining itself up his arm. ‘Your words, Toblakai, whisper of defeat.’

Shrugging, Karsa strode to where his tool kit waited at the base of a tree. ‘These years have served me well. Your company, Leoman. Sha’ik Elder. I once vowed that the Malazans were my enemies. Yet, from what I have seen of the world since that time, I now understand that they are no crueller than any other lowlander. Indeed, they alone seem to profess a sense of justice. The people of Seven Cities, who so despise them and wish them gone – they seek nothing more than the power that the Malazans took from them. Power that they used to terrorize their own people. Leoman, you and your kind make war against justice, and it is not my war.’

‘Justice?’ Leoman bared his teeth. ‘You expect me to challenge your words, Toblakai? I will not. Sha’ik Reborn says there is no loyalty within me. Perhaps she is right. I have seen too much. Yet here I remain – have you ever wondered why?’

Karsa drew out a chisel and mallet. ‘The light fades – and that makes the shadows deeper. It is the light, I now realize. That is what is different about them.’

‘The Apocalyptic, Toblakai. Disintegration. Annihilation. Everything. Every human ... lowlander. With our twisted horrors – all that we commit upon each other. The depredations, the cruelties. For every gesture of kindness and compassion, there are ten thousand acts of brutality. Loyalty? Aye, I have none. Not for my kind, and the sooner we obliterate ourselves the better this world will be.’

‘The light,’ Karsa said, ‘makes them look almost human.’

Distracted as he was, the Toblakai did not notice Leoman’s narrowing eyes, nor the struggle to remain silent.

One does not step between a man and his gods.

The snake’s head lifted in front of Leoman’s face and hovered there, tongue flicking.

‘The House of Chains,’ Heboric muttered, his expression souring at the words.

Bidithal shivered, though it was hard to tell whether from fear or pleasure. ‘Reaver. Consort. The Unbound – these are interesting, yes? For all the world like shattered—’

‘From whence came these images?’ Heboric demanded. Simply looking upon the wooden cards with their lacquered paintings – blurred as they were – was filling the ex-priest’s throat with bile. I sense . . . flaws. In each and every one. That is no accident, no failing of the hand that brushed them into being.