‘Indeed you have.’ He cocked his head, tugging at one of the few wisps of hair that remained on his pate. ‘I’m done and he can go, yes? I should be kindly, open, scattering gold dust to mark his path out into the waiting world. He’ll suspect nothing. He’ll believe he leaves of his own free will. Precisely as it should be.’ Iskaral Pust suddenly smiled, then held out the sack. ‘Here, a few diamonds for you. Spend them here and there, spend them everywhere! But remember, you must breach the Whirlwind – into the heart of Raraku, yes?’

‘That is my intent,’ Kalam growled, accepting the sack and stuffing it into his own backpack. ‘We do not proceed at cross-purposes, Priest, although I realize you’d rather we did, given your perverse mind. Even so ... breach the Whirlwind ... without being detected. How will I manage that?’

‘With the help of Shadowthrone’s chosen mortal. Iskaral Pust, High Priest and Master of Rashan and Meanas and Thyr! The Whirlwind is a goddess, and her eyes cannot be everywhere. Now, quickly collect your belongings. We must leave! She’s coming back, and I’ve made another mess in the kitchen! Hurry!’

They emerged from the warren of shadow beneath a large outcropping, in daylight, less than a hundred paces from the raging wall of the Whirlwind. After three strides forward Kalam reached out and grabbed the priest by the arm and spun him round.

‘That singing? Where in Hood’s name is that singing coming from, Iskaral? I’d heard it in the monastery and thought it was Mogora—’

‘Mogora can’t sing, you fool! I hear nothing, nothing but the wild winds and the hiss of sands! You are mad! Is he mad? Yes, possibly. No, likely. The sun broiled his brain in that thick skull. A gradual dissolution – but of course not, of course not. It’s the Tanno song, that’s what it is. Even so, he’s probably still mad. Two entirely separate issues. The song. And his madness. Distinct, unrelated, both equally confounding of all that my masters plan. Or potentially so. Potentially. There is no certainty, not in this damned land, especially not here. Restless Raraku. Restless!’

With a snarl, Kalam pushed the man away, began walking towards the wall of the Whirlwind. After a moment, Iskaral Pust followed.

‘Tell me how we’re going to manage this, Priest.’

‘It’s simple, really. She’ll know the breach. Like a knife stab. That cannot be avoided. Thus, misdirection! And there is none better at misdirection than Iskaral Pust!’

They arrived to within twenty paces of the seething wall of sand. Swirling clouds of dust engulfed them. Iskaral Pust moved close, revealing a grin filled with grit. ‘Hold tight, Kalam Mekhar!’ Then he vanished.

A massive shape loomed over the assassin, and he was suddenly gathered up in a swarm of arms.

The azalan.