An awkward conversation, progressing in leaps that left Heboric scrambling. Sha’ik was much the same. Perhaps, he reflected with a grimace, this talent for intuitive thinking was a woman’s alone – he admittedly had little experience upon which he could draw, despite his advanced years. Fener’s temple was predominantly male, when it came to the holy order itself, and Heboric’s life as a thief had, of necessity, included only a handful of close associations. He was, once more, out of his depth. ‘Felisin Younger has, I believe, little interest in commanding anyone. This is not an exchange of one cult for another, Scillara – not in the way you seem to think it is, at any rate. No-one will seek to manipulate you here.’

‘As you have explained, Destriant.’ She sighed heavily and sat straighter, setting down the hookah’s mouthpiece. ‘Very well, lead me into the darkness.’

His eyes narrowed on her. ‘I shall ... as soon as it arrives . . .’

The shadows were drawing long, sufficient to swallow the entire basin below their position. Sha’ik stood at the crest of the northernmost ramp, studying the distant masses of Malazan soldiery on the far rises as they continued digging in. Ever methodical, was her sister.

She glanced to her left and scanned Korbolo Dom’s positions. All was in readiness for the morrow’s battle, and she could see the Napan commander, surrounded by aides and guards, standing at the edge of the centre ramp, doing as she herself was doing: watching Tavore’s army.

We are all in place. Suddenly, the whole thing seemed so pointless. This game of murderous tyrants, pushing their armies forward into an inevitable clash. Coldly disregarding of the lives that would be lost in the appeasement of their brutal desires. What value this mindless hunger to rule? What do you want with us, Empress Laseen? Seven Cities will never rest easy beneath your yoke. You shall have to enslave, and what is gained by that? And what of her own goddess? Was she any different from Laseen? Every claw was outstretched, eager to grasp, to rend, to soak the sand red with gore.

But Raraku does not belong to you, dear Dryjhna, no matter how ferocious your claims. I see that now. This desert is holy unto itself. And now it rails – feel it, goddess! It rails! Against one and all.

Standing beside her, Mathok had been studying the Malazan positions in silence. But now he spoke. ‘The Adjunct has made an appearance, Chosen One.’

Sha’ik dragged her gaze from Korbolo Dom and looked to where the desert warchief pointed.

Astride a horse from the Paran stables. Of course. Two Wickans on foot nearby. Her sister was in full armour, her helm glinting crimson in the dying light.