‘Hail the Sword,’ said a woman’s voice.

Surly stepped from the shadows, three Claws just behind her. Temper had rarely faced her this close. She wore her typical shirt, sash, pants, and her feet were bare. The woman’s plain face was flat and narrow, tight with concentration. Her hair was cropped short in the fashion common to the many women who served in the Malazan military, and her hands bore dark calluses. She struck Temper as all hard edges. As the third most powerful individual in the Empire, Temper supposed she had to be.

The three Claws with her Temper knew by name and reputation: second-in-command Topper in his signature green silks; Possum, as beady-eyed and narrow-faced as his namesake; and Jade, a dark-hued Dal Honese female, and one of the most vicious of the crew.

Ferrule and Temper ignored Surly and her aides, crossing to Dassem’s cot. Temper felt for a pulse, sensed nothing. ‘Is he alive?’

‘For the moment,’ Surly responded. ‘He flutters on the edge of his patron’s realm. One would think Hood should be eager to embrace him.’

Ferrule and he exchanged glances, turned on Surly. Temper saw Ferrule sizing up Possum. Balanced forward on the balls of her feet, Jade seemed ready to throw herself at Temper.

Surly raised a placating hand. ‘A change has been decided upon. Choss has been field promoted to High Fist and interim Commander of the Third.’

Ferrule scoffed but Temper let out a long thoughtful breath. Choss was a name that just might please the majority. The officer cadres respected him, and he was a skilled strategist. He was also unpatroned. Just a regular soldier – no threat to Surly.

Temper licked his lips. ‘But you still need Dassem. Choss is no champion.’

Surly frowned a negative, shook her head. ‘No, Temper, you still don’t understand. Things are different now. Even as we speak, Surgen succumbs to his wounds. It isn’t the most decisive victory, but it will be a victory. And disheartened, without time for a new ritual of Anointing, Y’Ghatan will fall. No more champions. They’re too expensive. Too . . . vulnerable.’

Snarling, Ferrule would have launched himself, but Temper gripped his shoulder. ‘And what of us?’

Surly raised her brows, surprised and impressed by Temper’s pragmatism. ‘What is it you wish? Rank? Titles? A regional governorship?’

Ferrule squeezed Temper’s wounded arm in a ferocious grip. Temper bit his lips to keep from shouting. Pressing his hand into Ferrule’s back, he arranged his fingers in a sign: wait.

Temper managed in a controlled voice, ‘Dassem’s life, for one thing.’

Surly nodded. ‘That might be arranged.’

Her response decided the night for Temper. It seemed neither of them had any intention of keeping their word. ‘No witnesses’ was almost Surly’s credo. The Claws never left anyone alive. It was part of their terror tactics. He also believed that she knew he wouldn’t sell out, or frankly didn’t care either way. Yet they had their roles to play, a charade to complete.