Gamet was not deaf to the criticisms and doubt hidden beneath Keneb’s words, and he wished he could say something to encourage the man, to bolster faith in Tavore’s ability to formulate and progress sound tactics. But even the Fist was unsure. There had been no sudden revelation of genius during the march from Aren. They had, in truth, walked straight as a lance northward. Suggesting what, exactly? A singlemindedness worthy of imitation, or a failure of imagination? Are the two so different, or merely alternate approaches to the same thing? And now they were being arrayed, as stolid as ever, to advance – probably at dawn the next day – towards the enemy and their entrenched fortifications. An enemy clever enough to create singular and difficult approaches to their positions.

‘Those ramps will see the death of us all,’ Keneb muttered. ‘Korbolo Dom’s prepared for this, as any competent, Malazan-trained commander would. He wants us crowded and struggling uphill, beneath an endless hail of arrows, quarrels and ballista, not to mention sorcery. Look at how smooth he’s made those ramp surfaces, Fist. The cobbles, when slick with streaming blood, will be like grease underfoot. We’ll find no purchase—’

‘I am not blind,’ Gamet growled. ‘Nor, we must assume, is the Adjunct.’

Keneb shot the older man a look. ‘It would help to have some reassurance of that, Fist.’

‘There shall be a meeting of officers tonight,’ Gamet replied. ‘And again a bell before dawn.’

‘She’s already decided the disposition of our legion,’ Keneb grated, leaning on his saddle and spitting in the local fashion.

‘Aye, she has, Captain.’ They were to guard avenues of retreat, not for their own forces, but those the enemy might employ. A premature assumption of victory that whispered of madness. They were outnumbered. Every advantage was with Sha’ik, yet almost one-third of the Adjunct’s army would not participate in the battle. ‘And the Adjunct expects us to comply with professional competence,’ Gamet added.

‘As she commands,’ Keneb growled.

Dust was rising as the sappers and engineers worked on the fortifications and ramps. The day was blisteringly hot, the wind barely a desultory breath. The Khundryl, Seti and Wickan horse warriors remained south of the coral islands, awaiting the construction of a road that would give them egress to the basin. Even then, there would be scant room to manoeuvre. Gamet suspected that Tavore would hold most of them back – the basin was not large enough for massed cavalry charges, for either side. Sha’ik’s own desert warriors would most likely be held in reserve, a fresh force to pursue the Malazans should they be broken. And, in turn, the Khundryl can cover such a retreat . . . or rout. A rather ignoble conclusion, the remnants of the Malazan army riding double on Khundryl horses – the Fist grimaced at the image and angrily swept it from his mind. ‘The Adjunct knows what she is doing,’ he asserted.

Keneb said nothing.