Picker stumbled into the midst of her soldiers, spitting blood, coughing. Around them, a room littered with dead Beklites, another door, opposite, that looked to have been shattered with a single punch. A lone lantern swung wildly from a hook above them.

‘Look!’ someone grunted. ‘A dog’s been chewing on the lieutenant’s chin!’

Not even a jest – simply the absurd madness of battle. Shaking her head to a spatter of blood, Picker spat again and surveyed her troops through stinging, streaming eyes.

‘Blend?’ The name came out mangled but understandable.

Silence.

‘Bucklund – back into the corridor! Find her!’

The Twelfth Squad’s sergeant was back a moment later, dragging a blood-drenched body through the doorway. ‘She’s breathing – Hood knows how! Her back’s full of stones and shards!’

Picker dropped to her knees beside her friend. ‘You damned idiot,’ she mumbled.

‘We should’ve had Mallet with us,’ Bucklund grumbled beside her.

Aye, not the only mistake in this fouled-up game.

‘Oh!’ a woman’s voice cried. ‘You are not Pannions!’

Weapons swung to the doorway.

A woman in a blindingly white telaba stood there, her long black hair shimmering, impossibly clean, perfectly combed. Veiled, stunningly beautiful eyes studied them. ‘Have you, by any chance, seen three masked warriors? They should have passed this way, looking for the throne room, assuming there is one, that is. You might have heard some fighting—’

‘No,’ Bucklund growled. ‘I mean, yes, we’ve heard fighting. Everywhere, ma’am. That is—’

‘Shut up,’ Picker sighed. ‘No,’ she said to the woman, ‘we ain’t seen no three masked warriors—’

‘What of a T’lan Imass?’

‘As a matter of fact, yeah—’

‘Excellent! Tell me, does she still have all those swords impaling her? I can’t imagine she’d leave—’

‘What swords?’ Picker demanded. ‘Besides, it was male. I think.’

‘It was,’ another soldier piped up, then reddened as her comrades swung to her with broad grins.

‘A male T’lan Imass?’ The white-robed woman raised a finger to her full lips, then smiled, ‘Why, that would be Tool! Excellent!’ The smile vanished. ‘Unless, of course, Mok finds him ...’

‘Who are you?’ Picker demanded.

‘You know, dear, it’s growing increasingly difficult to understand what you are saying through all that blood and such. I believe you’re Malazans, yes? Unwitting allies, but you are all so terribly injured. I have an idea, a wonderful idea – as are all my ideas, of course. Wonderful, that is. We are here, you see, to effect the rescue of one Toc the Younger, a soldier of—’

‘Toc the Younger?’ Picker repeated. ‘Toc? But he’s—’

‘A prisoner of the Seer, alas. A distressing fact, and I dislike being distressed. It irritates me. Immeasurably. Now, as I was saying, I have an idea. Assist me in this rescue, and I will heal those of you who need healing – which seems to be all of you.’

Picker gestured down at Blend. ‘Deal. Start with her.’