‘He won’t,’ Dujek countered. ‘If he tries, Brood will go for him.’ The one-armed man leaned forward with his tankard and Whiskeyjack refilled it. Settling back, the High Fist studied the commander, then said, ‘Caladan Brood is the real shaved knuckle in the hole, old friend. I’ve read of his times up around Laederon, in the Nathilog Histories. Hood’s breath, you don’t want to get him riled – whether you’re an ally or an enemy makes no difference to Brood when his rage is unleashed. At least with Anomander Rake, it’s a cold, taut power. Not so with the warlord. That hammer of his ... it’s said that it’s the only thing that can awaken Burn. Swing it against the ground, hard enough, and the goddess will open her eyes. And the truth is, if Brood didn’t have the strength to do so, he wouldn’t be carrying the hammer in the first place.’

Whiskeyjack mused on this for a while, then said, ‘We have to hope that Brood remains as the child’s protector.’

‘Kallor will work to sway the warlord,’ Dujek asserted, ‘with argument rather than with his sword. He may well seek Rake’s support, as well...’

The commander eyed the High Fist. ‘Kallor’s paid you a visit.’

‘Aye, and he’s a persuasive bastard. Even to the point of dispelling his enmity towards you – he’s not been physically struck in centuries, or so he said. He also said he deserved it.’

‘Generous of him,’ Whiskeyjack drawled. When it’s politically expedient. ‘I’ll not stand to one side in the butchering of a child,’ the commander added in a cold voice. ‘No matter what power or potential is within her.’

Dujek glanced up. ‘In defiance of my command, should I give it?’

‘We’ve known each other a long time, Dujek.’

‘Aye, we have. Stubborn.’

‘When it matters.’

The two men said nothing for a time, then the High Fist looked away and sighed. ‘I should bust you back down to sergeant.’

Whiskeyjack laughed.

‘Pour me another,’ Dujek growled. ‘We’ve got an emissary from Darujhistan on the way and I want to be properly cheerful when he arrives.’

‘What if Kallor’s right?’

The Mhybe’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then, Warlord, you had best give him leave to cut me down the same time he kills my daughter.’

Caladan Brood’s wide, flat brow furrowed as he scowled down at her. ‘I remember you, you know. Among the tribes when we campaigned in the north. Young, fiery, beautiful. Seeing you – seeing what the child has done to you – causes pain within me, woman.’

‘Mine is greater, I assure you, Warlord, yet I choose to accept it—’

‘Your daughter is killing you – why?’