Cutter answered, ‘His brother, of course. Anomander Rake.’

It had been a guess, but Darist’s expression was all the affirmation needed. Anomander Rake’s younger brother. In his veins, nothing of the Son of Darkness’s Draconian blood. And in his hands, a sword that its maker had judged insufficient, when compared to Dragnipur. But this knowledge alone was barely a whisper – the twisted, dark storm of all that existed between the two siblings was an epic neither man was ever likely to orate, or so Cutter suspected.

And the skein of bitter grievances proved even more knotted than the Daru had first imagined, for it was then revealed that the youths were, one and all, close kin to Anomander – grandchildren. Their parents had one and all succumbed to their sire’s flaw, the hunger for wandering, for vanishing into the mists, for shaping private worlds in forgotten, isolated places. ‘The search for loyalty and honour’, Darist had said, with a sneer, whilst Phaed – the young woman who had shown mercy to Apsalar’s victims – bound his wounds.

A task not done quickly. Darist – Andarist – had been slashed at least a dozen times, each time the heavy scimitar parting chain then flesh down to the bone, in various places on his body. How he had managed to stand upright, much less continue fighting, belied his earlier claim that his will was not of sufficient purity to match the sword, Grief. Now that the skirmish had been suspended, however, the force that had fired the old warrior fast dissipated. His right arm was incapacitated; the wound on his hip dragged him onto the flagstones – and he could not rise again without help.

There were nine dead Tiste Edur. Their retreat had probably been triggered by a desire to regroup rather than being hard-pressed.

Worse, they were but an advance party. The two ships just off the shore were massive: each could easily hold two hundred warriors. Or so Apsalar judged, having scouted the inlet where they were moored.

‘There is plenty of wreckage in the water,’ she added, ‘and both Edur ships have the look of having been in a fight—’

‘Three Malazan war dromons,’ Cutter said. ‘A chance encounter. Darist says the Malazans gave a good account of themselves.’

They were seated on some tumbled rubble a dozen paces from the Tiste Andii, watching the youths hover and fuss over Darist. Cutter’s left side ached, and though he did not look beneath his clothes he knew that bruises were spreading. He struggled to ignore the discomfort and continued eyeing the Tiste Andii.

‘They are not what I expected,’ he said quietly. ‘Not even schooled in the art of fighting—’

‘True. Darist’s desire to protect them could prove a fatal one.’

‘Now that the Edur know they exist. Not a part of Darist’s plan.’

Apsalar shrugged. ‘They were given a task.’