A dance of mystery.

The carriage of bone clattered its way down the trader road, Emancipor flicking the traces across the broad, midnight backs of the oxen.

Gruntle, halfway across the road, stopped, waited.

The manservant scowled, reluctantly halted the carriage. He thumped one fist on the wall behind him, the reptilian skin reverberating like a war drum.

A door opened and Bauchelain climbed out, followed by Korbal Broach.

Bauchelain strode to stand opposite Gruntle, but his flat grey eyes were focused on the dark city beyond. ‘Extraordinary,’ he breathed. ‘This – this is a place I could call home.’

Gruntle’s laugh was harsh. ‘You think so? There are Tiste Andii there, now. More, it is now a part of the Malazan Empire. Do you believe that either will tolerate your friend’s hobbies?’

‘He’s right,’ Korbal Broach whined from beside the carriage. ‘I won’t have any fun there.’

Bauchelain smiled. ‘Ah, but Korbal, think of all the fresh corpses. And look to this field below. K’Chain Che’Malle, already conveniently dismembered – manageable portions, if you will. Enough material, dear colleague, to build an entire estate.’

Gruntle watched Korbal Broach suddenly smile.

Gods, spare me the sight of that – never again, please.

‘Now, barbed Captain,’ Bauchelain said, ‘kindly remove yourself from our path. But first, if you would be so kind, a question for you.’

‘What?’

‘I have but recently received a note. Terrible penmanship, and worse, written on bark. It would seem that a certain Jib Bole and his brothers wish to pay me a visit. Are you, by any chance, knowledgeable of these good sirs? If so, perhaps some advice on the proper etiquette of hosting them ...’

Gruntle smiled. ‘Wear your best, Bauchelain.’

‘Ah. Thank you, Captain. And now, if you would ...’

With a wave, Gruntle resumed crossing the road.

The Grey Swords had established a temporary encampment fifty paces east of the massive, glittering barrow that had already acquired the name of Itkovian’s Gift. Ragged bands of Tenescowri, emaciated and sickly, had emerged from Black Coral, and from the woodlands, and were all congregating around the camp. Word of Anaster’s . . . rebirth had spread, and with it the promise of salvation.

Recruitment. Those Tenescowri could never go back to what they had once been. They, too, need to be reborn. The stranger within Anaster – this new Mortal Sword of Togg and Fanderay – has much to do . . .

Time had come for Gruntle to take the man’s measure. He’ll likely prove a better Mortal Sword than I am. Likely smug, sanctimonious up there on that damned ugly horse. Aye, I’m ready to hate the bastard, I admit it.

Gruntle approached Anaster, who was guiding his horse through the decrepit camp of Tenescowri. Stick-limbed figures were reaching up on all sides, touching him, his horse. Trailing a half-dozen paces behind walked the Destriant, and Gruntle could feel healing sorcery swirling out from her – the embrace of the Wolf’s Reve had begun.