Gwenna suppressed a shudder. Despite Long Fist’s claims about his friendship with Sanlitun, about the purely defensive nature of his army, she didn’t trust him, didn’t like his collection of scars or the satisfaction he obviously derived from the suffering of his people. She had, however, considered him a relatively objective threat, a foe of the empire, perhaps, but not a particularly unusual one. For Long Fist to ally with Balendin, however, for him to join forces with a leach who had tried his best to murder two members of the Malkeenian line—that suggested something far darker.

“What does Long Fist want with you?” she asked.

Pyrre groaned ostentatiously. “Why,” she asked, arching her neck to get a better look at Balendin over the fire, “do we have to waste time on something so dull? Gwenna,” she added, flicking a dismissive hand. “Annick. Why don’t you two walk around the camp a few hundred times. Make some nice new friends.”

Gwenna stared. “Why don’t you fuck yourself, you Skullsworn bitch? You know he’s a leach, right? You know he tried to kill Kaden, who you were hired to protect.”

Pyrre made a silent, coquettish O with her mouth. “A leach. How exotic.” She didn’t take her eyes from Balendin. “As for fucking myself, Gwenna, it is sometimes a necessary expedient. Not, however, when there are promising alternatives.”

Balendin tossed the woman a vulpine, toothy smile in response, but then, to Gwenna’s surprise, shook his head.

“Unfortunately, those alternatives will have to wait. The Kwihna Saapi is about to begin.”

“What is that?” Annick asked.

“A ceremony,” Balendin replied. “Long Fist requests your presence.”

“And by requests,” Gwenna said, “you mean demands.”

Balendin grinned. “Yes. I mean demands.”

The Kwihna Saapi, whatever the fuck it turned out to be, was to take place in a narrow gully between low hills where a meager trickle of water had, over the centuries, worn through the gentle flesh of the earth to reveal the bones of the limestone beneath. Wind and rain had corrugated the rock, gouging out runnels and pockets in which generations of Urghul had set the bones of their slaughtered foes—a femur shattered just below the joint, a cracked skull, a pile of small bones that might once have been fingers or toes spilling from a low shelf—as though the pockmarked earth were disgorging its hoard, vomiting up shards so old it was difficult to tell if the bleached and pitted shapes were rock or bone.