‘Long enough. With the city retaken, the Thrall yielding the bones of our Founders, and the Pannions driven into the maw of Brood and your Malazan kin, well, you have missed most of the fun. For the moment, in any case. The tale’s far from done, after all.’

The wizard found his quilted tunic. ‘All of that,’ he muttered as he pulled the heavy garment on, ‘would have been nice to witness, but given my present lack of efficacy—’

‘Ah, as to that. . .’

Quick Ben glanced at the sticksnare. ‘Go on.’

‘You would best the Crippled God, yet you find yourself unable to use the powers you possess. How, then, will you manage?’

He reached for his leggings. ‘I’ll think of something, eventually. Of course, you think you have an answer for me, don’t you?’

‘I do.’

‘Well, let’s hear it, then.’

‘My gods are awakened, Wizard. Nose in the air, gleaning the scent of things, given to troubled thought and dour contemplation. You, Ben Adaephon Delat, pursue a worthy course. Sufficiently bold to snare their regard. Leading to certain conclusions. Sacrifices must be made. To your cause. Into the warrens, a necessary step. Thus, the need to supply you with ... suitable armour. So that you may be fended from the Crippled God’s poisons.’

Quick Ben massaged his brow. ‘Talamandas, if you and your gods have sewn together some kind of impervious cloak or baldric or something, just say so. Please.’

‘Nothing so ... bland, Wizard. No, your flesh itself must be immune to infection. Your mind must be implacable to fevers and other similar plagues. You must be imbued with protective powers that by nature defy all that the Crippled God attempts when he seeks to thwart you.’

‘Talamandas, what you describe is impossible.’

‘Precisely.’ The sticksnare untangled itself and rose. ‘Thus. Before you, stands the worthy sacrifice. Twigs and twine do not sicken. A soul that has known death cannot be made fevered. The protective powers binding me are ancient and vast, the highest of sorceries to trap me within myself—’

‘Yet you were taken. Once before. Torn from your barrow—’

‘By necromancers, rot their foul hearts. There shall be no repetition. My gods have seen to that, with the power of their own blood. I shall accompany you, Ben Adaephon Delat. Into the warrens. I am your shield. Use me. Take me where you will.’

Quick Ben’s dark eyes narrowed as he studied the stick-snare. ‘I don’t walk straight paths, Talamandas. And no matter how little sense my actions may make to you, I won’t waste time with explanations.’

‘My gods have given their trust in you, mortal.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they like you.’

‘Hood’s breath! What have I been raving about?’