‘They remain together,’ the guide rumbled. ‘I would have thought they’d split . . . and force you to do the same. Or to choose among them, Commander. The trail leads out, sir, out into Raraku’s heart.’

‘How far ahead?’ Whiskeyjack asked.

‘Half a day, no more. And on foot.’

The commander squinted out into the desert’s ochre haze. Seventy soldiers rode at his back, a cobbled-together collection of marines, engineers, infantry and cavalry; each from squads that had effectively ceased to exist. Three years of sieges, set battles and pursuits for most of them. They were what Dassem Ultor judged could be spared, and, if necessary, sacrificed.

‘Sir,’ Kalam said, cutting into his thoughts. ‘Raraku is a holy desert. A place of power . . .’

‘Lead on,’ Whiskeyjack growled.

Dust-devils swirled random paths across the barren, wasted plain. The troop rode at a trot with brief intervals of walking. The sun climbed higher in the sky. Somewhere behind them, a city still burned, yet before them they saw an entire landscape that seemed lit by fire.

The first corpse was discovered early in the afternoon. Curled, a ragged, scorched telaba fluttering in the hot wind, and beneath it a withered figure, head tilted skyward, eye sockets hollowed pits. Kalam dismounted and was long in examining the body. Finally, he rose and faced Whiskeyjack. ‘Kebharla, I think. She was more a scholar than a mage, a delver of mysteries. Sir, there’s something odd—’

‘Indeed?’ the commander drawled. He leaned forward in his saddle, studied the corpse. ‘Apart from the fact that she looks like she died a hundred years ago, what do you find odd, Kalam?’

The man’s face twisted in a scowl.

A soldier chuckled behind Whiskeyjack.

‘Will that funny man come forward, please,’ the commander called out without turning.

A rider joined him. Thin, young, an ornate, oversized Seven Cities helmet on his head. ‘Sir!’ the soldier said.

Whiskeyjack stared at him. ‘Gods, man, lose that helm – you’ll cook your brains. And the fiddle – the damned thing’s broken anyway.’

‘The helmet’s lined with cold-sand, sir.’

‘With what?’

‘Cold-sand. Looks like shaved filings, sir, but you could throw a handful into a fire and it won’t get hot. Strangest thing, sir.’

The commander’s eyes narrowed on the helmet. ‘By the Abyss, the Holy Protector wore that!’

The man nodded solemnly. ‘And when Dassem’s sword clipped it, it went flying, sir. Right into my arms.’

‘And the fiddle followed?’

The soldier’s eyes thinned suspiciously. ‘No, sir. The fiddle’s mine. Bought it in Malaz City, planned on learning how to play it.’

‘So who put a fist through it, soldier?’

‘That would be Hedge, sir – that man over there beside Picker.’

‘He can’t play the damn thing!’ the soldier in question shouted over.

‘Well I can’t now, can I? It’s broke. But once the war’s done I’ll get it fixed, won’t I?’