Gesler cleared his throat. ‘The Whirlwind Wall is sorcery, Tugg. The Adjunct’s sword is otataral. There will be a clash between the two. If the Adjunct’s sword fails, then we all go home… or back to Aren-’

‘Not what I heard,’ Moak said, pausing to spit before continuing. ‘We swing east then north if we can’t breach the wall. To G’danisban, or maybe Ehrlitan. To wait for Dujek Onearm and High Mage Tayschrenn. I’ve even heard that Greymane might be recalled from the Korelri campaign.’

Strings stared at the man. ‘Whose shadow have you been standing in, Moak?’

‘Well, it makes sense, don’t it?’

Sighing, Strings straightened. ‘It’s all a waste of breath, soldiers. Sooner or later, we’re all marching in wide-eyed stupid.’ He strode over to where his squad had set up the tents.

His soldiers, Cuttle included, were gathered around Bottle, who sat cross-legged and seemed to be playing with twigs and sticks.

Strings halted in his tracks, an uncanny chill creeping through him. Gods below, for a moment there I thought I was seeing Quick Ben, with Whiskeyjack’s squad crowding round some damned risky ritual… He could hear faint singing from somewhere in the desert beyond the camp, singing that sliced like a sword’s edge through the roar of the Whirlwind Wall. The sergeant shook his head and approached.

‘What are you doing, Bottle?’

The young man looked up guiltily. ‘Uh, not much, Sergeant-’

‘Trying a divination,’ Cuttle growled, ‘and as far as I can tell, getting nowhere.’

Strings slowly crouched down in the circle, opposite Bottle. ‘Interesting style there, lad. Sticks and twigs. Where did you pick that up?’

‘Grandmother,’ he muttered.

‘She was a witch?’

‘More or less. So was my mother.’

‘And your father? What was he?’

‘Don’t know. There were rumours…’ He ducked his head, clearly uncomfortable.

‘Never mind,’ Strings said. ‘That’s earth-aspected, the pattern you have there. You need more than just what anchors the power…’

All the others were staring at Strings now.

Bottle nodded, then drew out a small doll made of woven grasses, a dark, purple-bladed variety. Strips of black cloth were wrapped about it.

The sergeant’s eyes widened. ‘Who in Hood’s name is that supposed to be?’

‘Well, the hand of death, sort of, or so I wanted it to be. You know, where it’s going. But it’s not co-operating.’

‘You drawing from Hood’s warren?’

‘A little…’

Well, there’s more to this lad than I’d first thought. ‘Never mind Hood. He may hover, but won’t stride forward until after the fact, and even then, he’s an indiscriminate bastard. For that figure you’ve made, try the Patron of Assassins.’

Bottle flinched. ‘The Rope? That’s too, uh, close…’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Smiles demanded. ‘You said you knew Meanas. And now it turns out you know Hood, too. And witchery. I’m starting to think you’re just making it all up.’

The mage scowled. ‘Fine, then. Now stop flapping your lips. I’ve got to concentrate.’

The squad settled down once more. Strings fixed his gaze on the various sticks and twigs that had been thrust into the sand before Bottle. After a long moment, the mage slowly set the doll down in their midst, pushing the legs into the sand until the doll stood on its own, then carefully withdrew his hand.

The pattern of sticks on one side ran in a row. Strings assumed that was the Whirlwind Wall, since those sticks began waving, like reeds in the wind.

Bottle was mumbling under his breath, with a growing note of urgency, then frustration. After a moment the breath gusted from him and he sat back, eyes blinking open. ‘It’s no use-’

The sticks had ceased moving.

‘Is it safe to reach in there?’ Strings asked.

‘Aye, Sergeant.’

Strings reached out and picked up the doll. Then he set it back down… on the other side of the Whirlwind Wall. ‘Try it now.’

Bottle stared across at him for a moment, then leaned forward and closed his eyes once more.

The Whirlwind Wall began wavering again. Then a number of the sticks along that row toppled.

A gasp from the circle, but Bottle’s scowl deepened. ‘It’s not moving. The doll. I can feel the Rope… close, way too close. There’s power, pouring into or maybe out of that doll, only it’s not moving-’

‘You’re right,’ Strings said, a grin slowly spreading across his features. ‘It’s not moving. But its shadow is…’

Cuttle grunted. ‘Queen take me, he’s right. That’s a damn strange thing-I’ve seen enough.’ He rose suddenly, looking nervous and shaken. ‘Magic’s creepy. I’m going to bed.’

The divination ended abruptly. Bottle opened his eyes and looked around at the others, his face glistening with sweat. ‘Why didn’t he move? Why only his shadow?’

Strings stood. ‘Because, lad, he isn’t ready yet.’

Smiles glared up at the sergeant. ‘So, who is he? The Rope himself?’

‘No,’ Bottle answered. ‘No, I’m sure of that.’

Saying nothing, Strings strode from the circle. No, not the Rope. Someone even better, as far as I am concerned. As far as every Malazan is concerned, for that matter. He’s here. And he’s on the other side of the Whirlwind Wall. And I know precisely who he’s sharpened his knives for.

Now, if only that damned singing would stop…

He stood in the darkness, under siege. Voices assaulted him from all sides, pounding at his skull. It wasn’t enough that he had been responsible for the death of soldiers; now they would not leave him alone. Now their spirits screamed at him, ghostly hands reaching out through Hood’s Gate, fingers clawing through his brain.

Gamet wanted to die. He had been worse than useless. He had been a liability, joined now to the multitude of incompetent commanders who had left a river of blood in their wake, another name in that sullied, degrading history that fuelled the worst fears of the common soldier.

And it had driven him mad. He understood that now. The voices, the paralysing uncertainty, the way he was always cold, shivering, no matter how hot the daytime sun or how highly banked the nightly hearths. And the weakness, stealing through his limbs, thinning the blood in his veins, until it felt as if his heart was pumping muddy water. I have been broken. I failed the Adjunct with my very first test of mettle.

Keneb would be all right. Keneb was a good choice as the legion’s new Fist. He was not too old, and he had a family-people to fight for, to return to, people that mattered in his life. Those were important things. A necessary pressure, fire for the blood. None of which existed in Gamet’s life.

She has certainly never needed me, has she? The family tore itself apart, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was only a castellan, a glorified house guard. Taking orders. Even when a word from me could have changed Felisin’s fate, I just saluted and said, ‘Yes, mistress.’

But he had always known his own weakness of spirit. And there had been no shortage of opportunities in which he could demonstrate his flaws, his failures. No shortage at all, even if she saw those moments as ones displaying loyalty, as disciplined acceptance of orders no matter how horrendous their outcome.

‘Loud.’

A new voice. Blinking, he looked around, then down, to see Keneb’s adopted whelp, Grub. Half naked, sun-darkened skin smeared with dirt, his hair a wild tangle, his eyes glittering in the starlight.

‘Loud.’

‘Yes, they are.’ The child was feral. It was late, maybe even nearing dawn. What was he doing up? What was he doing out here, beyond the camp’s pickets, inviting butchery by a desert raider?

‘Not they. It.’

Gamet frowned down at him. ‘What are you talking about? What’s loud?’ All I hear is voices-you can’t hear them. Of course you can’t.