# missing rotcg pages

‘A half-silver! Tell the hag I'd look through the anus of a mole for half a silver. No, wait, let me guess what she'd see looking through the eyes of a bird – fish! Fish and water! What else would a blasted bird look at!’

Groten flinched away, hurt. ‘It was just a suggestion. Anyway—’ he looked out, spoke with someone, glanced in again. ‘Tali. They're flying the blue of Tali.’

Nevall hissed a breath while pulling at his beard. Tali. The old hegemonic power itself. So much for these rumours of a return to independent states. Looked like they'd merely be changing one hat for another. So be it. The Cawnese were famous for their pragmatism. They would join – until fortunes changed.

‘Very well. Groten, take me to whoever's in charge down there when they arrive.’

‘Yes, ah, Chief Factor.’
___
Even as the sullen dockworkers kicked at the mooring ropes thrown from the Keth's Loss, a palanquin carried by six extraordinarily tall men and escorted by ten cudgel- and whip-wielding bodyguards bulled its way down to the dockside. At the railing, Ullen clenched his teeth, knowing who that would be: the current Chief Grasper and Extorter of Cawn, whoever that was this year. While he watched, members of the bodyguard stood on the gangway planking where the dockworkers were lazily sifting, and name-calling led to pushing which led to punching and soon a gorgeous, indiscriminate row erupted between labourers, dockhands, general onlookers and the bodyguards. Caught in the brawl the yellow-clothed palanquin pitched about like a ship in a storm while its occupant screeched, ‘Cawn welcomes … its liberators! Long … live the Talian forces! We open our doors … to your noble … warriors!’

Ullen could only hang his head. Gods, Cawn, how he hated the city.
___
That night Urko rode west with a force on all the horses that had survived the crossing in serviceable health. He claimed to be scouting the trader road to Heng, but Ullen knew he was fleeing any dealings with the Cawnese authorities. He also knew why – Urko would have throttled the lot of them. The warehouses Ullen leased were falling-down ruins awash with a fetid sludge of rotted fish. The wagons he rented fell apart even as they were loaded. The horses were either diseased or broken or both, not one animal among them fit even for light scouting. Meanwhile, the fees, tithes and bills piled up in the wallets of his secretaries, exaggerated, inflated and outright false. He had bills for material and labour for repair of ships he didn't even recognize.

Meanwhile, V'thell had formed his Moranth Gold into columns and marched off without speaking to anyone and Bala had somehow claimed a fine carriage – probably threatening to curse a family – and attached herself to that brigade. By the time Ullen was organizing the rearguard and supply trains Urko's entire campaign chest was emptied. Toward the end of his stay Ullen was handing out scrip and referring bills to Tali's ruling Troika. Nevall Od’ Orr and Seega Vull, the richest factors in Cawn, sent him on his way with a sneer and the fluttering of handfuls of his scrip to the wind.

It surprised him that he kept his humour through the entire ordeal. Standing with the rearguard, hands at the reins of the scrawny and bruised ex-carthorse he'd purchased for the price of a Grisan war-mount, he bowed an ironic farewell to Cawn – may it rot in the effluvium of its own sour rapaciousness. For what seemed not to have occurred to these factors in their myopic focus on the immediate gain was that once the League had taken Heng, the road to Unta led back this way.

* * *

Shaky had been motionless at an arrow-loop of the westernmost tower of Heng's north wall for some time now. Hurl was glad; she didn't want him bothering her while she worked her calculations.

‘Would you look at that…’ he said, amazement in his voice.

‘What?’ Hurl did not look up from her scratches on the slate board resting on her crossed legs.

‘They're attacking.’

‘I don't hear anything.’

‘Take a look. They're prepping.’

Sighing her annoyance, Hurl pushed her piece of chalk into a pouch and cautiously uncrossed her numb legs. ‘It's almost bloody dark, for Fanderay's sake!’

‘Guess they think they need all the help they can get.’

She looked out, studied the Talian entrenchments, and was displeased to have to admit that Shaky was right. ‘Well, so do we,’ she said absently as she watched the fires lighting down the lines, moveable shield platforms being raised and buckets of water being tossed on hides hung over every piece of wooden siege equipment. The increasing activity of the besiegers extended as far as she could see east around the curve of the outer wall. ‘Looks like a general assault,’ she said, amazed.

‘It's ridiculous. They don't have the men to take the walls.’

‘And they know we don't have the men to defend them.’

That silenced Shaky. He glanced up and down the top of the curtain wall. ‘You think maybe they've got a chance?’

‘There's always a chance.’

‘Yeah. Well, maybe someone ought to do something.’ He was looking straight at her. Hurl stared back until she realized that that someone was her. She stepped into the tower archway, leaned out. ‘Ready fires! Prepare for assault!’

‘Aye, Captain!’

Hurl fought the urge to look behind her whenever anyone called ‘Captain’ her way. She heard her orders repeated down the curve of the defences. She adjusted the rank tore at her arm – the damned thing just didn't seem to fit right. ‘Get up top and ready the Beast,’ she told Shaky.

The old saboteur winked, bellowing, ‘Oh, aye, Captain!’

‘Just get up there.’

Laughing at her discomfort, Shaky climbed a ladder affixed to the stone wall and pushed open the roof trap. ‘Stoke the fire!’ he yelled, pulling himself up.

The squat, broad figure of Sergeant Banath entered the stair tower, saluted crisply. ‘Sergeant,’ Hurl greeted him.

‘Orders?’

Hurl eyed the Malazan regular, a red-haired Falaran veteran of the Genabackan campaigns, tanned, always looking as if he needed a shave, even at the morning muster. She'd yet to detect any definite sign either way of his attitude to this new command structure. A careful career soldier, she was coming to think. She said nothing at first. Orders should be blasted obvious, she thought. ‘How do the urban levies look?’ The levies were the majority of their forces: citizens hired, cajoled and plain coerced into the apparently distasteful duty of actually defending their city. She'd been given four hundred to hold this section of the wall. Banath led the three garrison squads that formed the backbone of her command.

The sergeant frowned the usual professional's distaste for amateurs. ‘Nervous and clumsy. Not pissing their pants, yet.’

‘Keep an eye on them.’

‘Aye.’

‘And hold fire until I give the word. Dismissed.’

Another crisp salute, a regimental turn, and exit. Maybe, the thought occurred to her, the exaggerated parade-ground manner was one long extended finger for her to spin on. Well, that was just too bad. His buddy isn't the Fist. She peered out of the loop to gauge the activity. Metal screeched and ratcheted overhead, vibrating the stones of the tower. The Beast was being wound. Hurl could hear Shaky gleefully cursing the lads he had helping him and she couldn't keep down a smile; Gods, Shaky was never so happy as when he had a machine to pour destruction down on someone. And the Beast was his own special design. A winch had been installed at the rear of the stair-tower to bring up the enormous clay pots, big enough for a kid to bathe in, that were its ammunition. Only you wouldn't want to bathe in these. Sealed they were, and filled with oil. World's biggest munition.

Hurl watched while flagmen signalled out at the lines. Sappers took hold of the broad-wheeled shield platforms, and bowmen were forming up behind their cover. A lot of bowmen. Narrowing her eyes, Hurl tried to penetrate the gathering dusk. They looked like Seti tribals. Dismounted horse bowmen? What in the name of Dessembrae were they up to? Horns sounded in the night, and Talian siege engines, medium-sized catapults and onagers, fired. Burning bundles of oil-soaked rags arched overhead streaking smoke and flames in their wake. Stones cracked from the walls. Hurl ignored it all: the Talians had yet to field a single engine capable of damaging Heng's walls. It was just nuisance fire meant to keep everyone's heads down. A flight of arrows darkened the sky, climbed, then fell full of deadly grace. Though she had cover, Hurl winced at the havoc such salvos would cause along the walkway. While she watched, a staccato of answering fire darted from the lines. Hurl ran to the archway, yelling, ‘Who fired? Hold, I said!’

She returned to the loop. The besiegers could waste all the arrows they wanted; they had something Heng would never get: resupply. She squinted again far out to the small hill behind the Talian investments. It was an inviting hill with a view of the river, and a good chance of a steady breeze to keep the midges away. She and Sunny and Shaky knew all this because weeks ago they'd spent a few nights clearing away rocks to make it even more attractive. And sure enough, their work had paid off because the first thing whoever it was commanding this flank had done was obligingly raise his, or her, command tent right on the spot. Hurl couldn't keep from shifting from foot to foot. C'mon, man, fire! Now. It was all calibrated and set! What was Shaky waiting for?

The mantlets were close now, the bow fire more targeted on the parapets. Hurl leaned out the archway, Tire! ‘Fire at will!’ She watched the exchange of salvos with a critical eye – wrong, it was still going all wrong. No matter how many times you had them practise … She returned to the portal. ‘Aim up, for Hood's sake! Up, dammit!’

Banath stalked the walkway, bellowing, ‘Into the sky! Rain it down on them, damn you dogs!’

Something strange caught her eye on the darkening field of burnt stubble and flattened burned hovels. Something low but moving. She stretched to stick her head out through a crenel. Arrows pattered from the stones around her, the iron heads sounding high-pitched tings. A catapulted rock exploded against the wall of the stair-tower above sending shards raining down. Everyone hunched, cursing. A nearby Heng levy raised a tower shield over Hurl. Leaning forward once more she could see that the object was some kind of low rectangular platform covered in sod and grass stubble. It was edging up toward the base of the wall and there were more of them all up and down the lines. ‘Cats!’ she yelled. ‘Sergeant, we have cats! Bring up the stones – I want them broken!’

‘Aye, Captain.’

‘Come with me,’ she said to the soldier who had raised the shield.

At the loop she leaned forward to try to get a look straight down. Not that mining the wall would do the poor bastards any good – the foundations went down a good three man-heights – she should know as she and Sunny had spent most of their time lately digging around down there.

The tower shuddered then as if it had taken a terrible blow from a stone as big as a horse thrown by a monstrous trebuchet such as those Hurl had seen rotting and broken after the siege of the island fortress of Nathilog. Dust and stones sifted down and she coughed, waving a hand. The Urban Levy had instinctively crouched. Hurl darted to the loop. At first she saw nothing, the brightly lit white command tent remained. Shadows moved against the canvas, messengers came and went. Then she flinched away as a blossom of orange and yellow flame suddenly lit the night. The eruption reached her as a shuddering boom echoing along the curtain wall. Hurl jumped up and down, yelled to the roof, ‘You nailed it, Shaky! Beautiful. Just beautiful!’ War whoops reached her from above. She could imagine the old saboteur doing his war dance. ‘Reload,’ she yelled, and went to the portal. The soldier joined her, a portly older fellow, probably a shop-owner. ‘What's your name, soldier?’

‘Ah, Jekurathenaw, Captain.’

‘Jeck-your-what? Never mind. Cover me, Jeck.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hurl stepped out on to the walkway; Jeck held the tower shield between her and the parapets. Soldiers knelt among the litter loading and aiming. Arrows pelted around them. She stepped over the wounded and fallen alike. The sergeant, Banath, ran to meet her. ‘How's it going?’ she yelled.

They should just pack it up and go home, sir.’

‘I agree.’

Hurl studied the too-empty curve of the walkway. ‘Stones, sergeant? Where are the stones?’

Banath spat. ‘Ran out. Trouble at the winch. Some kind of mess up.’

‘Hood's bony arse! All right. You stay on the levies – I'll check it out.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Hurl edged further along. Jeck followed, shield extended. She jumped a section of walkway burning with oil where levies beat soaked cloth at the flames. The main winch was idle, and a team of three men and one woman sat next to it, staring down. ‘What in the name of Gedderone is the problem here?’

One fellow rubbed a greasy rag over his neck. ‘Don't know. Maybe flames spooked the oxen. Or a broken block.’

Hurl leant far out past the inner edge of the wall, grasped the thick hemp rope. ‘What's going on down there!’ she bellowed as loud as she could.

Catapulted fire-bombs arching over the walls lit for Hurl a milling chaos of soldiers and citizens below. Growing fires dotted the crowded buildings of the Outer Round. For as far as she could see torches danced up and down the roads around their curve where men and women surged in seeming headless panic. Ranks were forming up around the base of her section of wall from the West River Gate to half-way to the North Gate. More Urban Levy? Reinforcements? Who had sent them? Storo?

Down at the base of the winch a fellow holding a torch was yelling something back up to her. ‘What?’ The fellow waved his torch, gesturing to the platform. Snarling her disgust, Hurl pushed herself upright. ‘Oh, to Hood with this.’ She pointed to the crew, ‘Get this thing working or I'll toss you over the side!’ She waved Jeck to her. ‘Let's go.’ She went to find Banath.

She found him with two Malazan regulars next to the wall of the stair-tower assembling a cache of casks, flasks and skins of oil. Hurl took in the supplies, the rags, the torches, and nodded her approval. ‘Good. How soon?’

‘Working double-time, sir,’ said Banath without pause in tying together the fat goatskin bladders.

‘How much do we have?’ Hurl asked. She crouched and lent a hand.

Banath spat again, scowling. ‘This is it.’

‘Not nearly enough.’

‘No.’

‘Did you send word for reinforcements?’

Banath looked up, blinking. ‘Reinforcements? No, sir.’

‘There's more Urban Levy below, waiting.’

‘Maybe someone's on to the Talians.’

Hurl thought of Silk and returned to work soaking rags. ‘Maybe.’

The regulars lifted a cask and set off. Banath shouldered the bombs of oil-skins. ‘Good hunting,’ Hurl called. The ginger-haired veteran straightened his helmet and cracked an evil smile. ‘Aye, sir.’

Hurl returned to the parapets. She wiped her hands, looking out. Jeck raised his shield over her. Below, more cats were inching their way to the walls. So many … And the archers seemed mainly Seti tribals …

Cheers brought Hurl's attention around; the men were waving to Urban Levy ranks now climbing the open stairs lining the walls. Hurl gaped – who in the Abyss ordered that? She retreated to the stair-tower for a better look. Inside, stamping sandals echoed up the circular stairwell.

A strange silence then descended all along the wall. Hurl was momentarily frozen when suddenly the cries of the wounded dominated the night. Voices pleaded for water, for relief. From the darkness a woman cursed the besiegers in a string of obscenities worthy of any Jakatakan pirate. Hurl stood still, straining to listen, and a shiver ran down her arms. The bow-fire had ceased; the catapults had stopped. Up and down the wall the men were straightening, looking to one another in wonder. Had the attack been called? Had they beat them off?

Hurl stood motionless but her thoughts gyred the same circle. They've stopped firing – new cohorts she didn't request – they've stopped firing – Gods Below! She bolted to the archway and there across the inner curve of the curtain wall she caught a glimpse of the unmistakable tall slim form of Captain Harmin Els D'Shil, Smiley himself, leading a column of urban levies charging up the stairs. She pointed, bellowing, ‘Don't let them—’

An arm at her neck yanked her back. Pain lanced her side. She was thrown to the stone floor where she curled around a wound that felt as if it passed entirely through her. Blinking back a veil of pain she saw Jeck over her, his face expressionless. He sheathed his dagger and drew his shortsword. He raised it in both hands above her, paused. ‘Amaron,’ he said, ‘sends his regrets.’

Hurl could only stare up dumbly. Oh Storo, I'm so sorry. Out-generalled from the start.

Then the man was gone. Hurl blinked her confusion, peered around. Jeck lay now all crumpled up, bloody vomit at his mouth. Arms straightened her, leaned her up against the wall. She looked up at the dirty torn robes of a chubby ugly fellow with a slack mouth and one drooping eye. ‘… situation?’ he said, slurring the word.

Hurl stared at the man blankly. Who in Soliel's Mercy was this? Yet had she any choice? She took a deep breath, fought her dizziness and nausea. ‘Urban Levy turned. Working with the attack.’ The man closed his eyes, cocked his head as if listening to someone or something Hurl could not hear. Then he nodded and opened his eyes.

‘Retreat. Defend River Gate.’

‘Says who?’

‘Your commander.’

‘Storo? Help me up.’

Showing astonishing strength, the man lifted her, held her erect with an arm under hers. Pain blackened Hurl's vision but she fought it back. ‘Who are you?’

‘City mage … old friend of Silk's.’

She gestured to the archway. The mage dragged her over. What confronted her was like a vision out of Hood's Paths: waving torches lit figures seething, locked in hand-to-hand fighting, some panicked, even leaping, or pushed, from the walkway. Grapnels now lined the parapets and some Urban Levy chopped at them while others defended them. Two Malazan regulars were crouched behind shields facing the tower entrance, ready to stop any further enemy. Upon seeing her their eyes widened within the visors of their helmets.

‘Soldiers,’ she tried to bark, but could only gasp. They straightened, saluting. ‘Spread the word – retreat to the River Gate.’

‘Aye, sir.’

The mage turned round, taking her with him, and Hurl now saw that the circular stairway had been reduced to broken rubble. She craned her neck to face the man directly. ‘Who are you?’

‘… Ahl …’

‘Well, Ahl, my thanks, I—’ But the mage kept walking, taking Hurl out through the westerly tower arch. ‘What are you doing?’ she snarled, her side biting at her with teeth of acid.

‘Retreating.’

‘No, I have to see to—’

But Ahl kept going. They passed Urban Levy who stared and gabbled questions. Hurl just shook her head. ‘Defend. Defend the wall here.’ They came to a grapnel that had yet to be cut. As they passed Ahl reached out one hand, and, grunting his effort, yanked it free of where the iron tines had dug into the stone, held it out beyond the lip of the parapet and released it. Screams accompanied its fall. Hurl stared at the man. Who in
‘Your commander.’

‘Storo? Help me up.’

Showing astonishing strength, the man lifted her, held her erect with an arm under hers. Pain blackened Hurl's vision but she fought it back. ‘Who are you?’

‘City mage … old friend of Silk's.’

She gestured to the archway. The mage dragged her over. What confronted her was like a vision out of Hood's Paths: waving torches lit figures seething, locked in hand-to-hand fighting, some panicked, even leaping, or pushed, from the walkway. Grapnels now lined the parapets and some Urban Levy chopped at them while others defended them. Two Malazan regulars were crouched behind shields facing the tower entrance, ready to stop any further enemy. Upon seeing her their eyes widened within the visors of their helmets.

‘Soldiers,’ she tried to bark, but could only gasp. They straightened, saluting. ‘Spread the word – retreat to the River Gate.’

‘Aye, sir.’

The mage turned round, taking her with him, and Hurl now saw that the circular stairway had been reduced to broken rubble. She craned her neck to face the man directly. ‘Who are you?’

‘… Ahl …’

‘Well, Ahl, my thanks, I—’ But the mage kept walking, taking Hurl out through the westerly tower arch. ‘What are you doing?’ she snarled, her side biting at her with teeth of acid.

‘Retreating.’

‘No, I have to see to—’

But Ahl kept going. They passed Urban Levy who stared and gabbled questions. Hurl just shook her head. ‘Defend. Defend the wall here.’ They came to a grapnel that had yet to be cut. As they passed Ahl reached out one hand, and, grunting his effort, yanked it free of where the iron tines had dug into the stone, held it out beyond the lip of the parapet and released it. Screams accompanied its fall. Hurl stared at the man. Who in Serc's regard was this? A scent now wafted up from the fellow as well: the sharp bite of spice.

At Hurl's stare, Ahl smiled lopsidedly, the one side of his mouth edging up, and he winked his good eye. ‘We could've held off any besiegers. But not those damned undead Imass of the emperor's.’

Queen preserve her! One of the old city mages who defended Heng so long ago. And, a friend of Silk? So, he, too … But of course he as much as confessed such to her. Yet it was one thing to hear of it abstractly. Another to see it in action. ‘Set me down here.’ Ahl shot her a questioning look. ‘We have to hold this section for the retreat.’ He grunted his understanding. She waved an Urban Levy to her as Ahl gently sat her against the parapet. ‘Any regulars here?’ A frightened nod. ‘Good. Go get one.’ She asked Ahl, ‘Can you do anything for me?’

He shook his head. ‘Not my … speciality.’

‘Well, bind it, would you?’

The mage began undoing the lacings and buckles of her armour. A Malazan regular, a woman, arrived to kneel next her. Hurl waved her close. ‘Forces should be retreating to us,’ she said, her voice falling. ‘We must hold this section.’

‘Aye, Captain.’ She squinted aside, smiling, ‘I think I see them.’ Another regular arrived.

‘Who're you?’ Hurl slurred.

‘Fallow,’ he said, and brushed aside Ahl's hands. ‘Squad healer.’

Hurl laughed, almost vomiting in pain from the convulsion. Fallow held something, a vial, under her nose. She jerked up a hand to slap it away. ‘Don't dope me!’

‘Then stop bloody moving!’ Fallow pulled up Hurl's undershirt, began wrapping her middle. He jerked his head to Ahl, asked low, ‘Who's the civilian?’

‘Mage,’ she whispered. ‘Maybe Soletaken.’

‘Hood's dead breath …’

‘What's going on? Have to know.’

The man's hands were warm on her stomach and side. Hurl felt the pain retreating. He was looking away. ‘They're close now. A slow retreat in ranks. Banath is organizing crossbowmen …’

A terrible thought struck Hurl. ‘Close?’

‘Yes.’

‘Past the stair-tower?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good Burn, no!’ She struggled to rise. Fallow's hands pressed her down.

‘Don't you dare ruin my work! What is it?’

‘Shaky! In the stair-tower. We have to—’

‘It's lost. The Talians have it.’

All the strength fled from Hurl. ‘Oh shit, Shaky …’

They lifted her, set her on a rough litter made from two shields over spears. Ahl retreated at her side. She caught his eye. ‘Where's Silk? Where's Storo, Jalor, Rell? We've lost the wall!’

‘You think … you're alone? The Inner Round Gate … as well. It was … priority. Rell broke them there … fighting now … to take the Outer. Troop rafts on the Idryn. The River Gate … must hold.’

Great Fanderay, it was worse than she imagined. She let her head fall back on the litter. So, now they knew what it was like to face the Old Malazans. Terrifying. They charge over you like a flashflood. What a gambit. And it may yet succeed.

They reached the short tower that secured the most westerly reach of the wall together with the north arch of the bridge supporting the River Gate. Hurl planned to hold the Talians here. She ordered barricades assembled. Banath's slow methodical retreat fell back to them. He gathered what levies he could as he went. The salute he offered Hurl was as crisp as his earlier ones despite a round shield hacked to kindling, a bloody slash across his mouth exposing both upper and lower teeth, and two missing fingers. Hurl decided that maybe it hadn't been an act after all. ‘Well done, Sergeant.’

Banath nodded, saluted, and turned to the soldiers, pointing and shoving men. Hurl realized that with a wound like that the man could no longer make himself understood. She gestured Fallow to see to him. Arrows sang into the tower over the barricade. A tossed incendiary burst flaming oil over the piled table, barrels and chairs. Everyone flinched, then quickly straightened to return fire through the flames. More Malazan regulars, crossbows rattling on their backs, climbed the ladder to the trap in the tower roof to pour fire down on the walkway. After a time it became quiet out on the curve of the curtain wall beyond the knot of mixed Talian troopers and Heng levies besieging the barricade. But now sharp yells reached them: shouts full of sudden panic and open fear.

‘What is it? What's going on out there?’ Hurl demanded, hoarse.

The female Malazan soldier came to her side. ‘Don't know. It's dark. All the torches have been thrown aside. There's no light.’

‘I smell oil,’ a soldier called from the barricade. ‘Lots.’

‘What is that?’ another said.

‘What's going on?’ Hurl snarled. ‘Look!’

The female regular stood tall, peering. ‘Something's pouring down the walls from the walkway. Water?’

Hood's Laughter! Shaky! ‘Get down!’ Hurl shouted. ‘Everyone! Take cover!’

Ahl turned to her, his good eye narrowed. ‘Why?’

Brilliance suddenly silhouetted the man. A yellow-white chiaroscuro of blinding light and shadow seared Hurl's vision. A roar such as that of a landslide slammed into the barricade, pushing it backwards. Soldiers rolled away slapping at themselves, clothes aflame. Screams quavered an undertone of hopeless pain beneath the furnace roar. A howling thing of flame crashed through the fallen barrels and furniture and thrashed about until soldiers stabbed it repeatedly. Ahl, a hand raised to shield his eye, turned to look down to Hurl once more. ‘You saboteurs … you fight dirty,’ and he frowned his distaste.

Likewise I'm sure, friend.
___
In the morning orders arrived to withdraw to the southern Inner Round Gate. Talk was they were abandoning the entire Outer Round. Too many rods of wall and not enough men. Hurl grated at the news; all those men dead, Shaky's sacrifice, and for what? All to hand the wall over to the Talians?

A dishevelled, hollow-eyed Storo met her as she was being carried to the gate. He took hold of her shoulder. ‘I heard you took one in the side.’

‘A gift from Amaron.’

He winced, looking away. ‘Yeah. Well, I guess we've all got one coming. Listen, don't take it bad. It was chance. You just happened to have that section last night. That's all. Could've been anyone. Don't take it personal.’

She laughed hoarsely. ‘I'll try not to.’ She eyed the man, gauging his strength. He was exhausted and had taken a slash across the arm – he'd been in the fighting – but he didn't have the look of a man sliding down into despair. ‘We lost Shaky.’

‘Yeah. I heard.’

‘We were betrayed. The Urban Levy …’

He raised a hand. ‘I know. We'll get to the bottom of it.’

‘And don't you take it personal. There was nothing you could do about it. Betrayal's always the way sieges end.’

The man smiled his rueful agreement and his eyes brightened for a moment. He rubbed the back of his neck then pulled down his mail hood to scratch his head. ‘Yeah. I understand. Who could beat Choss and Toc, eh? But listen.’ He waved her bearers on, walked alongside the litter. ‘They did us a favour. We were stretched too thin out there on the Outer anyway. And they tipped their hand too early with that move. To gain what, the Outer Round?’ He waved the success aside. ‘They should've held out for the Inner. Now we know.’

‘We should've suspected …’

‘We did.’

Hurl raised her head to eye Storo directly. ‘What do you mean? Do you mean that city mage, Ahl? What's his story? Do you trust him?’

Storo would not meet her eye. ‘You'll have to ask Silk.’

‘I will … What happened, anyway?’

A shrug. ‘Cohorts isolated your section at the Outer Round while a second group secured the North Gate. Shaky took care of the gang who took the wall but the other groups opened the gate. They overran the north ring of the Outer Round but we stopped them at the Inner Gate. Rell earned his pay there; he held the gate. Everyone's full of what he did there.’

‘On that subject, my sergeant, Banath, he deserves a commendation.’

A nod. ‘Good. I'm glad.’ He offered a big smile. ‘These noncoms, they're only as good as their officers,’ and he squeezed her shoulder.

It's OK, Storo. I ain't broke yet.

* * *

Seti warriors whooped and sang their war-chants through the next day, riding circles around Toc's command tent where he reclined together with Choss and the Assembly leaders. Occasionally a warrior would ride past the opened flaps and Toc would glimpse a piece of booty held high, a sword, silver plate, silk cloth, a severed human head. His gaze shifted to Choss who lay back, an arm over one knee, his mouth sour behind his dirty-blond beard, eyes downcast. Sorry, Choss. Things did not go as hoped. We were stopped on two counts by acts eerily reminiscent of Old Empire tactics. Toc shifted his numb elbow, straightening it and wincing. It was as if they faced themselves – and he supposed in fact they were. Malazan-trained military engineers, masters of siegecraft. Poor Captain Leen, blasted from the face of the earth by what was probably the largest mangonel ever constructed on the continent. Then that same engineer dumps his ammunition to immolate the curtain wall. It cost almost an entire battle group. But they took the Outer Round. Yes, the Outer. When we'd planned to have the Inner. Plan was … Toc let his gaze slide up to the bright canvas roof of the tent. Well, plan was to be nearing Unta by now.

‘Why so grim, Malazans?’ Imotan called across the tent.

Toc forced a smile. ‘We'd hoped for more.’

‘Yes, yes. That is plain. But you should rejoice for what you have accomplished! Never before have the walls of Heng been breached! We have entered! Soon the rest will fall like a tree wounded and tottering.’

Toc raised a tumbler of tea to that, which Imotan answered. The walls weren't breached, you fool. Can't you see this was but the first blooding in what would surely prove to be a fight to the death for the both of them? And they'd shot their best bolt first. All to bind you lot to the siege. Now this Fist, Storo, will be wary It won't work a second time. But then you can rejoice, can't you, Imotan, and your lackey, Hipal? Heng wounded all without your warriors hardly spilling a drop? It's our war, Malazan versus Malazan while you watch us bloody each other – no wonder you're grinning!

Raising the tumbler a second time, Toc held Imotan's gaze. That's the deal, shaman. We'll remove this thorn from your side, which you have failed to reach for so long. In return, you will accompany us east with every living soul able to mount a horse to burn, harass, worry and harry, harry, harry any force she might field against us.

Imotan answered with his tumbler. His smile behind his grey beard was savage, and his glittering black eyes held the knowing promise of bloodshed – for Malazans.

* * *

Riding with her commander, the Marquis Jhardin, and her Sentry of a hundred horse, Ghelel had her first good look at Heng since the attack. They travelled the trader road north-east to the old stone bridge over the Idryn. To the west, the orange morning light coloured the distant walls ochre. Smoke rose from fires still burning throughout the city. She couldn't see the north wall where a horrific firestorm had incinerated so many of her men but she'd heard stories of that amoral, almost petulant, act. How destructively childish! They'd lost the battle and so they should have shown the proper grace and simply bowed out. What were they going to do, burn down the entire city out of plain spite? It was – she searched for the right word – uncivilized,

‘So, a rendezvous?’ she said to the Marquis, who rode beside her.

He gave an assent, drawing on his pipe. ‘Yes, Prevost. Reinforcements.’

‘From the east, sir?’

‘Yes. Landings at Cawn. Recruits from Falar and abroad. Commanded by no less than Urko Crust himself.’

‘Urko? I thought he was dead.’

The Marquis showed stained teeth in a broad smile. ‘He's been reported drowned more times than a cat.’

Ghelel thought about all the names now assembled against Laseen in this ‘Talian League’. So many old lieutenants and companions. How must it feel to be so betrayed? So alone? But then, she'd brought it all upon herself, hadn't she? Yet that was the question – hadn't she? Ghelel also thought of herself as alone. How much more might the two of them have in common? Anything at all? Perhaps only this condition of isolation. It seemed to her that while she was the leader-in-waiting of the Talian League, in truth she controlled nothing. And, she wondered, how much alike might the two of them truly be in this regard as well?

A plume of dust ahead announced another party on the road. An outrider stormed up, pulled her mount to a halt, saluted the Marquis and Ghelel. ‘A religious procession,’ she reported to Ghelel.

‘Oh?’

‘Common here,’ the Marquis said. ‘This road passes over the bridge to meet the east-west trader road. A major monastery sits at the crossroads—’

‘The Great Sanctuary of Burn!’ Ghelel said in wonder.

‘Yes.’ If the Marquis was offended by the interruption he did not show it. ‘You've heard of it, then.’

‘Of course. But wasn't it ruined long ago?’

‘Yes. Struck by an earthquake.’ A wry smile. ‘Make of that what you will. Yet the devout still gather. They squat among its fallen walls. Persistent in their faith they are. This road was lain over the old pilgrim trail. The first bridge was built ages ago to simply bowed out. What were they going to do, burn down the entire city out of plain spite? It was – she searched for the right word – uncivilized,

‘So, a rendezvous?’ she said to the Marquis, who rode beside her.

He gave an assent, drawing on his pipe. ‘Yes, Prevost. Reinforcements.’

‘From the east, sir?’

‘Yes. Landings at Cawn. Recruits from Falar and abroad. Commanded by no less than Urko Crust himself.’

‘Urko? I thought he was dead.’

The Marquis showed stained teeth in a broad smile. ‘He's been reported drowned more times than a cat.’

Ghelel thought about all the names now assembled against Laseen in this ‘Talian League’. So many old lieutenants and companions. How must it feel to be so betrayed? So alone? But then, she'd brought it all upon herself, hadn't she? Yet that was the question – hadn't she? Ghelel also thought of herself as alone. How much more might the two of them have in common? Anything at all? Perhaps only this condition of isolation. It seemed to her that while she was the leader-in-waiting of the Talian League, in truth she controlled nothing. And, she wondered, how much alike might the two of them truly be in this regard as well?

A plume of dust ahead announced another party on the road. An outrider stormed up, pulled her mount to a halt, saluted the Marquis and Ghelel. ‘A religious procession,’ she reported to Ghelel.

‘Oh?’

‘Common here,’ the Marquis said. ‘This road passes over the bridge to meet the east-west trader road. A major monastery sits at the crossroads—’

‘The Great Sanctuary of Burn!’ Ghelel said in wonder.

‘Yes.’ If the Marquis was offended by the interruption he did not show it. ‘You've heard of it, then.’

‘Of course. But wasn't it ruined long ago?’

‘Yes. Struck by an earthquake.’ A wry smile. ‘Make of that what you will. Yet the devout still gather. They squat among its fallen walls. Persistent in their faith they are. This road was lain over the old pilgrim trail. The first bridge was built ages ago to accommodate the traffic’

As the Marquis spoke they came abreast of the procession: old men and women on foot, some carrying long banners proclaiming their status under the protection of Burn.

All bowed as the Sentry rode past, even the ones already on their hands and knees genuflecting in the dust every foot of their pilgrimage, all to the great increase of their merit. As she passed, Ghelel had an impression of brown and grey unkempt dusty hair, tattered rags, emaciated limbs showing bruising and sores. From their darker complexion they looked to have originated from the Kan Confederacy, though it may just have been the grime.

They descended the southern flank of a broad shallow valley, the old flood plain of the Idryn. Upriver, intermittent copses of trees thickened to a solid line screening the river. Ahead in the distance the old stone bridge lay like the grey blade of a sword, long and low over the water. A great number of dark birds circled over the river and harried the shores. A gust of warm air greeted Ghelel, a current drawn up the valley. It carried the aroma of wood smoke from Heng, plus the stink of things not normally burned. As they neared the muddy shores a much worse, nauseating reek assaulted Ghelel and she flinched, covering her nose. ‘Gods, what is that?’

The Marquis turned to her, pipe firmly clenched between teeth, his broad face unreadable. He exchanged a glance with Sergeant Shepherd riding behind, and took the pipe from his mouth. ‘Heng uses the Idryn as a sewer, of course. So there's always that downriver from any city. But now, with the siege, it's much worse …’ Riding closer, Ghelel saw that the garbage and broken wreckage of war littered the shore. Among the shattered wood and flotsam lay tangled bodies: a stiff arm upraised like a macabre greeting; a pale bloated torso, obscene. And roving from corpse to corpse went contented dogs, stomachs distended. They flushed clouds of angry crows and kites with their bounding. ‘Because, you see, in the city, there's no room to bury the dead – it's just easiest to …’

‘It's criminal!’ Ghelel exploded. ‘What of the proper observances?’ ‘Who knows? Perhaps some basic gestures were made …’ Ghelel was in no mood to share the Marquis's forbearance. For her this was the final outrage from these Loyalist forces, the convincing proof that whoever these men or women were, they truly deserved to be wiped from the face of the earth. They had no common decency such as any reasonable man or woman. They seemed no better than animals.

The horses’ hooves clattered on the worn granite stones of the bridge. The Marquis raised his chin to indicate the far shore. ‘See there – the caves?’

Past the north shore, the ascent from the valley was much steeper; the road switched back and forth up cliffs of some soft layered sedimentary rock. Dark mouths of caves crowded the cliffs, forming a sort of abject settlement.

‘Hermits and ascetics squat in them. Purifying themselves for better communion with Burn, I suppose, or Soliel, or Oponn, or whoever.’

Figures that seemed no more than sticks wrapped in rags squatted in some of the dark openings. Beards and ragged clothes wafted with the wind. Children played in the dust with frisky grinning dogs. Beside the road an old man wearing only a loincloth despite the chill air leaned on a dead branch torn from a tree. As they passed he shouted, ‘Why struggle against our universal fate, brothers and sisters? Every step you take brings you closer to the oblivion that awaits us all. Repent this life that is a delusion for the blind!’

Ghelel twisted in her saddle. ‘That is blasphemy!’

‘Ignore him—’ the Marquis began.

‘May the Gods forgive you,’ she shouted.

‘The Gods forgive nothing,’ came the man's dark answer.

She stared back at the tall lean figure until a twist in the road took him from sight. ‘As I said,’ the Marquis began again, ‘hermits and mad ascetics infest these hills. Here you'll find all kinds of profanation and heterodoxies. Like the babbling of a thousand voices. You might as well yell for the wind to stop.’

‘Still, I wonder what he meant …’

‘Perhaps he meant that what we name as Gods have no concern for us.’

Ghelel and the Marquis turned to face Molk, who rode behind. He shifted in his saddle, shrugging. ‘Perhaps.’

Both turned away. Ghelel did not know what the Marquis made of the pronouncements, but they crawled on her like some sort of contagion. She felt an irresistible urge to wash. Just words, she told herself. Nothing more than words.