There was silence. Paran studied the tent and its meagre scatter of contents, seeking clues as to the nature of the warrior who stood before him. The floor was covered in bhederin hides. A half-dozen spears lay to one side, one of them splintered. A lone wooden chest carved from a single tree trunk, big enough to hold a three-deep stack of stretched-out corpses, dominated the far wall. The lid was thrown back, revealing on its underside a huge, massively complex locking mechanism. An unruly tumble of blankets ran parallel to the chest where Taur evidently slept. Coins, stitched into the hide walls, glittered dully on all sides, and on the conical ceiling more coins hung like tassels – these ones blackened by years of smoke.

‘You have lost your command, Captain.’

Paran blinked, met the warchief’s dark eyes. ‘That is a relief,’ he said.

‘Never admit your unwillingness to rule, Malazan. What you fear in yourself will cloud your judgement of all that your successor does. Your fear will blind you to his wisdom and stupidity both. Trotts has never been a commander – I saw that in his eyes when he first stepped forward from your ranks. You must watch him, now. With clear vision.’ The man turned and walked to the chest. ‘I have mead. Drink with me.’

Gods, my stomach ... ‘Thank you, Warchief.’

Humbrall Taur withdrew from the chest a clay jug and two wooden mugs. He unstoppered the jug, sniffed tentatively, then nodded and poured. ‘We shall wait another day,’ he said. ‘Then I shall address the clans. Trotts will have leave to speak, he has earned his place among the chiefs. But I tell you this now, Captain.’ He handed Paran a mug. ‘We shall not march on Capustan. We owe those people nothing. Each year we lose more of our youths to that city, to their way of life. Their traders come among us with nothing of value, bold with claims and offers, and would strip my people naked if they could.’

Paran took a sip of the heady mead, felt it burn down his throat. ‘Capustan is not your true enemy, Warchief—’

‘The Pannion Domin will wage war on us. I know this, Malazan. They will take Capustan and use it to marshal their armies on our very borders. Then they will march.’

‘If you understand all that, then why—’

‘Twenty-seven tribes, Captain Paran.’ Humbrall Taur drained his mug, then wiped his mouth. ‘Of those, only eight chiefs will stand with me. Not enough. I need them all. Tell me, your new chief. Can he sway minds with his words?’

Paran grimaced. ‘I don’t know. He rarely uses them. Then again, up until now, he’s had little need. We shall see tomorrow, I suppose.’

‘Your Bridgeburners are still in danger.’

The captain stiffened, studied the thick honey wine in his mug. ‘Why?’ he asked after a moment.