‘It would seem, then,’ Karnadas said after a moment, ‘the tale of Trake is not yet done.’

Rath’Fener hissed, ‘Is this a true gambit to godhood? There is but one lord of war!’

‘Perhaps we’d be wise to look to our own, sir,’ the Destriant murmured.

The masked priest snorted, then whirled away and stalked off.

Itkovian watched him for a moment, then leaned towards Karnadas. ‘Are you immune to shock and dismay, sir? Did you know of this news?’

‘Trake’s death?’ The Destriant’s brows slowly rose, his eyes still on Rath’Fener. ‘Oh yes. My colleague travelled far to arrive at Fener’s cloven hooves. While I, sir, have never left that place.’ Karnadas turned to Brukhalian. ‘Mortal Sword, the time has surely come to unmask this pompous shrew and his claims to pre-eminence—’

‘No,’ Brukhalian rumbled.

‘He reeks of desperation, sir. We cannot trust such a creature among our flock—’

Brukhalian faced Karnadas. ‘And the consequences of such an act, sir? Would you take your place among the Mask Council?’

‘There would be value in that—’

‘This city is not our home, Karnadas. Becoming snared in its web risks far too much. My answer remains no.’

‘Very well.’

The pole-lanterns had been ignited, had begun a collectively cautious descent in the hands of Gidrath guards. All attention was suddenly fixed on what was revealed below.

The subterranean chamber’s earthen floor was less than a man’s height beneath the crossbeams. Filling the space between the two levels was the wooden prow of an open, seafaring craft, twisted with age and perhaps the one-time weight of soil and rocks, black-pitched and artfully carved. From where Itkovian stood he could see a web-like span of branches reaching out to an outrigger.

Three workers lowered themselves into the chamber, lanterns in hand. The Shield Anvil moved closer. The craft had been carved from a single tree, its entire length – more than ten paces – now flattened and corkscrewed in its resting place. Alongside it, Itkovian could now make out another craft, identical with the first, then another. The entire hidden floor of the Thrall’s Council Chamber was crowded with boats. He had not known what to expect, but it was certainly not this. The Barghast are not seafarers . . . not any more. Gods below, these craft must be thousands of years old.

‘Tens of thousands,’ the Destriant whispered at his side. ‘Even the sorcery that preserves them has begun to fail.’

Hetan dropped down to land lithely beside the first craft. Itkovian could see that she too was surprised, reaching out tentatively close to but not touching the gunnel, where her hand hovered in trembling uncertainty.

One of the guards moved his lantern pole directly over the boat.

Voices gasped.