‘Of course,’ she replied.

The city of Pale wasn’t much, but at least the nights were warm. Picker was getting too old to be camping out night after night, sleeping on cold, hard ground. The past week waiting for the delivery had settled a dull ache into her bones. At least, with Darujhistan’s generous contribution, Dujek would be able to complete the army’s resupply.

With Oponn’s luck, they’d be on the march within a week. Off to another Hood-kissed war, as if we ain’t weary enough. Fener’s hoof, who or what is the Pannion Domin, anyway?

Since leaving Darujhistan eight weeks past, Quick Ben had been attached to Second-in-Command Whiskeyjack’s staff, with the task of assisting in the consolidation of Dujek’s rebel army. Bureaucracy and minor sorceries seemed strangely well suited to one another. The wizard had been busy weaving a network of communications through Pale and its outlying approaches. Tithes and tariffs, in answer to the army’s financial needs, and the imposition of control, easing the transition from occupation to possession. At least for the moment. Onearm’s Host and the Malazan Empire had parted ways, after all, yet the wizard had wondered, more than once, at the curiously imperial responsibilities he had been tasked to complete.

Outlaws, are we? Indeed, and Hood dreams of sheep gambolling in green pastures, too.

Dujek was ... waiting. Caladan Brood’s army had taken its time coming south, and had only the day before reached the plain north of Pale – Tiste Andii at its heart with mercenaries and Ilgres Barghast on one flank and the Rhivi and their massive bhederin herds on the other.

But there would be no war. Not this time.

No, by the Abyss, we’ve all decided to fight a new enemy, assuming the parley goes smoothly – and given that Darujhistan’s rulers are already negotiating with us, that seems likely. A new enemy. Some theocratic empire devouring city after city in a seemingly unstoppable wave of fanatic ferocity. The Pannion Domin – why do I have a bad feeling about this? Never mind, it’s time to find my wayward tracker . . .

Eyes closing, Quick Ben loosed his soul’s chains and slipped away from his body. For the moment, he could sense nothing of the innocuous waterworn pebble he’d dipped into his particular host of sorceries, so he had little choice but to fashion his search into an outward spiral, trusting in proximity to brush his senses sooner or later.

It meant proceeding blind, and if there was one thing the wizard hated—

Ah, found you!

Surprisingly close, as if he’d crossed some kind of hidden barrier. His vision showed him nothing but darkness – not a single star visible overhead – but beneath him the ground had levelled out. I’m into a warren, all right. What’s alarming is, I don’t quite recognize it. Familiar, but wrong.

He discerned a faint reddish glow ahead, rising from the ground. It coincided with the location of his tracker. The smell of sweet smoke was in the tepid air. Quick Ben’s unease deepened, but he approached the glow none the less.