And into the camp.

Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas rode at his commander’s side, a long-hafted weapon that was half sword, half axe, in his right hand. Leoman was the centre of a curved sweep of attackers, protecting a knot of additional horse warriors from which a steady whirring sound rose. Corabb knew what that sound signified-his commander had invented his own answer to Moranth munitions, employing a pair of clay balls filled with oil and connected by a thin chain. Lit like lamps, they were swung and thrown in the manner of bolas.

The desert warriors were among the huge supply wagons now, and Corabb heard the first of those bolas whip outward, the sound followed by a whooshing roar of fire. The darkness vanished in a red glare.

And then Corabb saw a figure running from his horse’s path. He swung his long-bladed axe. The impact, as it struck the back of the fleeing Malazan’s helmed head, nearly dislocated Corabb’s shoulder. A spray of blood spattered hard against his forearm as he dragged the weapon free-it was suddenly heavier, and he glanced down at it, to see that the blade had taken the helm with it, having cut fully half through.

Brains and bits of bone and scalp were spilling from the bronze bowl.

Swearing, he slowed his mount’s wild charge and tried to shake the axe clear. There was fighting on all sides, now, as well as raging flames engulfing at least a dozen wagons-and squad-tents. And soldiers appearing, more and more of them. He could hear barked orders in the Malazan tongue, and crossbow quarrels had begun flitting through the air towards the horse warriors.

A horn sounded, high and wavering. His curses growing fiercer, Corabb wheeled his horse round. He had already lost contact with Leoman, although a few of his comrades were in sight. All of them responding to the call to withdraw. As he must, as well.

The axe dragged at his aching shoulder, still burdened with that damned helm. He drove his horse back up the broad track between the mess-tents. Smoke tumbled, obscuring the view before him, stinging his eyes and harsh in his lungs.

Sudden burning agony slashed across his cheek, snapping his head around. A quarrel clattered against the ground fifteen paces ahead and to one side. Corabb ducked low, twisting in search of where it had come from.

And saw a squad of Malazans, all with crossbows-all but one cocked and trained on the desert warrior, with a sergeant berating the soldier who had fired too early. A scene taken in, in its entirety, between heartbeats. The bastards were less then ten paces distant.

Corabb flung his axe away. With a scream, he pitched his horse sideways, directly into the wall of one of the mess-tents. Ropes tautened and snapped heavy stakes skyward, poles splintering. Amidst this stumbling chaos, the warrior heard the crossbows loose-but his horse was going down, onto its side-and Corabb was already leaping clear of the saddle, his moccasined feet slipping out from the stirrups as he dived.

Into the collapsing tent wall, a moment before his horse, rolling with a scream, followed.

The pressure of that waxed fabric vanished suddenly and Corabb tumbled into a somersault, once, twice, then skidded onto his feet, spinning round-

– in time to see his horse roll back upright.

Corabb leapt alongside his mount and vaulted up into the saddle and they were off.

And in the desert warrior’s mind: numb disbelief.

On the opposite side of the avenue, seven Malazan marines stood or crouched with spent crossbows, staring as the rider thundered off into the smoke.

‘Did you see that?’ one asked.

Another frozen moment, shattered at last when the soldier named Lutes flung his weapon down in disgust.

‘Pick that up,’ Sergeant Borduke growled.

‘If Maybe hadn’t fired early-’

‘I wasn’t sure!’ Maybe replied.

‘Load up, idiots-there might be a few left.’

‘Hey, Sergeant, maybe that horse killed the cook.’

Borduke spat. ‘The gods smiling down on us this night, Hubb?’

‘Well…’

‘Right. The truth remains, then. We’ll have to kill him ourselves. Before he kills us. But never mind that for now. Let’s move…’

The sun had just begun to rise when Leoman drew rein and halted his raiders. Corabb was late in arriving-among the last, in fact-and that earned a pleased nod from his commander. As if he’d assumed that Corabb had been taking up the rear out of a sense of duty. He did not notice that his lieutenant had lost his main weapon.

Behind them, they could see the columns of smoke rising into sunlit sky, and the distant sound of shouts reached them, followed moments later by the thunder of horse hoofs.

Leoman bared his teeth. ‘And now comes the real objective of our attack. Well done thus far, my soldiers. Hear those horses? Seti, Wickans and Khundryl-and that will be the precise order of the pursuit. The Khundryl, whom we must be wary of, will be burdened by their armour. The Wickans will range cautiously. But the Seti, once they sight us, will be headlong in their pursuit.’ He then raised the flail in his right hand, and all could see the bloody, matted hair on the spike ball. ‘And where shall we lead them?’

‘To death!’ came the roaring reply.

The rising sun had turned the distant wall of spinning, whirling sand gold, a pleasing colour to Febryl’s old, watery eyes. He sat facing east, cross-legged atop what had once been a gate tower but was now a shapeless heap of rubble softened by windblown sand.

The city reborn lay to his back, slow to awaken on this day for reasons of which only a scant few were aware, and Febryl was one of those. The goddess devoured. Consuming life’s forces, absorbing the ferocious will to survive from her hapless, misguided mortal servants.

The effect was gradual, yet, day after day, moment by moment, it deadened. Unless one was cognizant of that hunger, of course. And was able to take preventative measures to evade her incessant demands.

Long ago, Sha’ik Reborn had claimed to know him, to have plumbed his every secret, to have discerned the hue of his soul. And indeed, she had shown an alarming ability to speak in his mind-almost as if she was always present, and only spoke to occasionally remind him of that terrifying truth. But such moments had diminished in frequency-perhaps as a result of his renewed efforts to mask himself-until, now, he was certain that she could no longer breach his defences.

Perhaps, however, the truth was far less flattering to his own proficiencies. Perhaps the influence of the goddess had lured Sha’ik Reborn into… indifference. Aye, it may be that I am already dead and am yet to know it. That all I have planned is known to the woman and goddess both. Am I alone in having spies? No. Korbolo has hinted of his own agents, and indeed, nothing of what I seek will come to pass without the efforts of the Napan’s hidden cadre of killers.

It was, he reflected with bitter humour, the nature of everyone in this game to hide as much of themselves from others as they could, from allies as well as enemies, since such appellations were in the habit of reversing without warning.

None the less, Febryl had faith in Kamist Reloe. The High Mage had every reason to remain loyal to the broader scheme-the scheme that was betrayal most prodigious-since the path it offered was the only one that ensured Reloe’s survival in what was to come. And as for the more subtle nuances concerning Febryl himself, well, those were not Kamist Reloe’s business. Were they?

Even if their fruition should prove fatal… to everyone but me.

They all thought themselves too clever, and that was a flaw inviting exploitation.

And what of me? Eh, dear Febryl? Do you think yourself clever? He smiled at the distant wall of sand. Cleverness was not essential, provided one insisted on keeping things simple. Complexity beckoned error, like a whore a soldier on leave. The lure of visceral rewards that proved never quite as straightforward as one would have imagined from the start. But I will avoid that trap. I will not suffer deadly lapses, such as has happened to Bidithal, since they lead to complications-although his failings will lead him into my hands, so I suppose I should not complain too much.