‘Pause there, if you will,’ Brood interrupted. ‘Your questions assume ... much. I do not think we’ve advanced to point of discussing tactics. As far as we are concerned, Capustan is but a temporary stop in our march; its liberation by the Barghast was a strategic necessity, but only the first of what will doubtless be many in this war. Do you now suggest, High Priest, that you wish to contribute to the campaign in some direct fashion? It would seem that your primary concern at the moment is the rebuilding of your city.’

Keruli smiled. ‘Thus, questions are exchanged, but as yet, no answers.’

Brood frowned. ‘Anomander Rake and the majority of his Tiste Andii have returned to Moon’s Spawn. They – and it – shall have a role in this war, but there will be no further elaboration on that subject.’

‘Just as well Rake isn’t here,’ Rath’Shadowthrone said, his mask fixed in a sneer. ‘He’s hopelessly unpredictable and outright murderous company.’

‘To which your god can attest,’ Keruli smiled, then turned back to Brood. ‘Sufficient answers to warrant the like in return. As you point out, the Mask Council’s overriding concern is with the reparation of Capustan. None the less, my companions here are all – beyond impromptu governors – servants to their respective gods. No-one here can be entirely unaware of the tumultuous condition of the pantheon. You, Caladan Brood, carry Burn’s hammer, after all, and continue to struggle with the responsibilities that entails. Whilst the Grey Swords, bereft of one god, have chosen to kneel before two others – a mated, if riven, pair. My once-caravan captain, Gruntle, is reborn as a new god’s Mortal Sword. The Barghast gods have been rediscovered, and so represent an ancient horde of untested power and disposition. Indeed, in surveying those gathered here, the only truly unaspected agents at this table are High Fist Dujek and his second, Whiskeyjack. The Malazans.’

Itkovian saw the suddenly closed expression of the warlord, Caladan Brood, and wondered at the hammer’s responsibilities that Keruli had so blithely mentioned.

The standing, grey-haired warrior broke the ensuing silence with a barking laugh. ‘You conveniently forgot yourself, Priest. Of the Mask Council, yet unmasked. Indeed, unwelcome in their company, it seems. Your companions make their gods plain, but not you, and why is that?’

Keruli’s smile was benign, unperturbed. ‘Dear Kallor, how you’ve withered under your curse. Do you still cart that meaningless throne with you? Yes, I had guessed as much—’

‘I thought it was you,’ Kallor hissed. ‘Such a paltry disguise—’

‘Issues of physical manifestation have proved problematic.’

‘You’ve lost your power.’

‘Not entirely. It has ... evolved, and so I am forced to adjust, and learn.’

The warrior reached for his sword. ‘In other words, I could kill you now—’