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‘Don’t talk,’ Cartheron murmured, though it was clear from the many thrusts the man had taken that it would make no difference.

Then tears came to the man’s eyes and he clamped a blood-smeared hand on Cartheron’s arm. ‘I’m sorry!’ he gasped, suddenly panicked. ‘I’m so sorry she fell. I failed her. Do you forgive me?’

It was fairly clear to Jute that, like so many in dying, the man was now rambling of his past.

‘We all failed her,’ Cartheron answered, and Jute was surprised by the strength of emotion in his voice. ‘Only after she was gone did I see how much we needed her.’

The man clenched savagely at Cartheron’s arm as if he would pull himself erect. He left bright bloody smears down the Malazan’s sleeve. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he barely breathed.

Cartheron gently pressed shut his eyes and, with an effort, pushed himself erect. Peering down, he murmured so low Jute hardly heard: ‘I can forgive you …’

‘Who was he?’ Jute asked. ‘What’s going on?’

‘There’s a light flashing from above,’ Giana observed, scanning the heights.

‘What does it say?’ Cartheron asked. He was still regarding the strange fallen fellow, who Jute gathered must have been more than a passing acquaintance. The old captain now suddenly appeared much older, much more beaten down by his years. He raised his gaze to blink at Jute as if only now recognizing his presence. ‘As I said. He once was a Claw. Bodyguard to Empress Laseen, in fact. They used to call him Possum.’

Laseen! The slain empress! So … this broken man … One slip, one mistake, and his entire world ended. How he now regretted his earlier harshness. ‘He was a friend, then?’

‘No. Couldn’t stand him myself.’

Giana came to the commander’s side, murmured low and respectfully: ‘It says we can come up.’

Cartheron gave a tired nod. ‘Very good, Lieutenant.’ He turned to study Tyvar. ‘You have your invitation to the party, Mortal Sword of Togg.’

*

Jute joined the file to climb even though on the Dawn, Ieleen had made clear with her silence that she did not approve of his choice to go. They went in small groups. Tyvar’s Genabackans were by far the majority. Cartheron joined the file even though he’d sworn he’d never climb the damned stairs again. With the old commander went Lady Orosenn followed by her servant, Velman or — mar, Jute couldn’t remember. Lieutenant Jalaz led the contingent of every Malazan veteran from both ships.

As they gathered awaiting their turn upon the stairs, the Genabackan captain Enguf appeared. He swore the ships would all be safe with him and his crew remaining behind to guard them. He wished them all the best of luck then hurried back to his ship.

Jute found the night climb easier than his first ascent. It was either that he couldn’t see his actual height clearly, or he’d done it already and so had lost his fear of it. In either case, it was over far more quickly than the first climb. The structure groaned and shifted alarmingly, but he found he could put that out of mind more easily by concentrating on his handholds on the dried grey slats of the scaffolding.

It was dark at the top, though moving torches and lanterns glowed beyond the outer curtain wall where it arced in a broad semicircle from cliff edge to cliff edge. Tyvar was there, whispering commands to his officers. Cartheron and Lady Orosenn stood aside, scanning the crowded grounds. The old Malazan looked very much worse for having made the climb. He was pale, pressing a hand to his chest, apparently in some measure of pain.

Giana Jalaz gained the top and nodded to Cartheron, awaiting orders. The old captain waved for her to take to the walls. She bowed and jogged off with her command.

A knot of the locals, spears in hand, came marching up. Almost invisible in their midst was the short and wiry shape, all in black, of Malle of Gris.

The company halted before Cartheron and stamped their spear-butts to the ground. Malle stepped forth and indicated one of the party: a youth, and like these locals tall and slim with a great mane of brown curls. He was studying Cartheron and did not appear to be impressed by what he saw.

‘This is Voti,’ Malle began, ‘nephew of King Ronal who now lies upon his bier, cut down by an outlander assassin sent by the besiegers …’ her voice quite hardened at that last part as she eyed Cartheron. She bowed to the lad, Voti. ‘May I present Cartheron Crust — a great veteran commander of the Empire.’

The lad, the king presumptive, Jute assumed, gave the merest nod. ‘Malle tells us you know these outlander ways. You may advise during the coming battle.’

Cartheron was experienced enough not to even blink as he inclined his head. ‘My thanks.’

The lad next turned to the figure of Lady Orosenn, dressed now in her tanned hunting leathers, a long-knife at her side. Tall she was, even in this company, her auburn hair unbound in a great wild mane. Jute was suddenly struck by the resemblance between her and these people in their features and general build.

He remembered then her saying that she was returning home.

‘You look familiar …’ the lad said, addressing her, frowning as if trying to recall just where he’d seen her.

She inclined her head. ‘I do not believe so. My name is Orosenn. I have been a long time away. It is merely the family resemblance.’

The lad grunted at this, satisfied. ‘Very well.’ Then, as if suddenly remembering his duties, he added, gruffly, ‘You are welcome.’ He strode off followed by his bodyguard of spearmen.

Malle, however, remained. Her glare, fixed upon Cartheron, could’ve melted iron. The commander, still pale and haggard from the climb, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I know, I know.’

‘I thought I made it clear,’ she hissed, her lips tight, ‘the old ways of doing things are over.’

‘I’m all old school, Malle.’

She snorted her agreement, but then a new light came into her eyes: something like grudging admiration. She gestured to the nearest section of wall to invite Cartheron, Jute, and Lady Orosenn forward. ‘Well, by now you’ve guessed the Empire saw its chance for a toehold on this continent and we were sent to establish relations. What I didn’t expect was to find myself in the middle of a full-scale invasion.’

‘There is far more at stake here than a mere change in rulership,’ came the deep contralto of Lady Orosenn.

Malle stopped short and turned to peer up at the woman. She did not flinch, and Jute realized just how apposite Cartheron’s warning about not getting in the woman’s way had been. She appeared wrought entirely of iron, from her iron-grey hair to her thin arms of twisted iron bar. ‘I know your heritage, sorceress. I know the name of the cold winds blowing down from these mountains. I know we sit at the feet of a Jaghut refugium.’

‘But do you know that your being here is no accident?’ the sorceress countered, her voice hardening as well. ‘That we should be here at all is entirely your fault?’

Malle was clearly rocked by the accusation. Her mouth drew down into a sour scowl. ‘Explain yourself, sorceress …’ Even Jute heard the cold menace in the old woman’s words.

‘You Malazans,’ Lady Orosenn continued. ‘Your being here is no accident. I knew this the moment I encountered Cartheron here on his way to these lands. And so I enrolled Tyvar and his Blue Shields in helping escort him north.’

Cartheron almost jumped at that. ‘What the …?’ He coughed, utterly shocked. ‘I’m just making a delivery.’

Orosenn nodded. ‘Yes, for this woman to use to back up a Malazan client state here in the north — conveniently near a goldfield.’

Now Malle’s gaze narrowed; her hands disappeared among the long black lace trimmings at her wrists. ‘You are too well informed, sorceress.’

Cartheron raised a hand in warning. ‘Malle … don’t.’