Holy City patroned champion! Mage-abetted. Temple anointed. And you stonewalled him! I thought we’d had it, but you saved our hides. I even heard talk that maybe you had a patron up your sleeve—’
Temper laughed that off.
‘No. I mean it. You come out of this tent looking like the ugly block of granite you usually do and everyone’ll back off. I mean it.’ Ferrule waved to the corpses. ‘Don’t you think it was strange the way those two panicked? You, us, we impressed the shit out of some people today. People who thought we were sure to be dead.’
That had troubled him as well. It had been too easy. The Claws had acted as though they were facing opponents of unknown potential. They’d tried too hard to keep their distance. He nodded, squeezed Ferrule’s arm. ‘Very well. Hail the Sword.’
Ferrule gave a grin of savage glee. ‘Just the three of us now – but three times enough, I say.’
Outfitted and cleaned up, they pushed aside the tent flap and boldly set out across the infirmary quarters of the encampment. The night was warm and dry. The branches of a nearby olive orchard rustled in a weak wind and a sliver of moon shone down like a yellow scimitar blade. Torches burned at every major intersection of the tent city, but few soldiers moved about. They greeted each sentry and some, recognizing them, called out, ‘Hail the Sword!’ Ferrule raised a fist in answer.
‘They’ll know we’re coming,’ Temper complained.
‘The more witnesses the better.’
Temper grunted at the wisdom of that. Ferrule guided them to a private tent near the edge of the infirmary quarters. Lamps glowed within and two Claws stood at its closed flap. As they approached, the sight of open surprise and confusion cracking through the assassins’ legendary control warmed Temper’s heart.
Side by side, they walked right up to the Claws guarding the entrance. ‘We’ve come to see Dassem,’ announced Ferrule without slowing, and he waved to soldiers watching from nearby tents.
After the briefest hesitation, one Claw inclined his head and stood aside, opening the flap. Ferrule eyed the dark opening, perhaps not liking their cooperation. Temper felt a twinge of doubt; what if they’d simply moved Dassem again?
Inside, clay lamps gave a low, guttering light. Dassem lay on a cot as if dead, his torso wrapped in dressings. The amber light gave his dark skin a rich lustre, as if he were a statue of bronze. Temper paused, sensing someone else in the darkened recesses of the tent.
Fabric whispered in the dark.
‘Hail the Sword,’ said a woman’s voice.
Surly stepped from the shadows, three Claws just behind her. Temper had rarely faced her this close. She wore her typical shirt, sash, pants, and her feet were bare. The woman’s plain face was flat and narrow, tight with concentration. Her hair was cropped short in the fashion common to the many women who served in the Malazan military, and her hands bore dark calluses. She struck Temper as all hard edges. As the third most powerful individual in the Empire, Temper supposed she had to be.
The three Claws with her Temper knew by name and reputation: second-in-command Topper in his signature green silks; Possum, as beady-eyed and narrow-faced as his namesake; and Jade, a dark-hued Dal Honese female, and one of the most vicious of the crew.
Ferrule and Temper ignored Surly and her aides, crossing to Dassem’s cot. Temper felt for a pulse, sensed nothing. ‘Is he alive?’
‘For the moment,’ Surly responded. ‘He flutters on the edge of his patron’s realm. One would think Hood should be eager to embrace him.’
Ferrule and he exchanged glances, turned on Surly. Temper saw Ferrule sizing up Possum. Balanced forward on the balls of her feet, Jade seemed ready to throw herself at Temper.
Surly raised a placating hand. ‘A change has been decided upon. Choss has been field promoted to High Fist and interim Commander of the Third.’
Ferrule scoffed but Temper let out a long thoughtful breath. Choss was a name that just might please the majority. The officer cadres respected him, and he was a skilled strategist. He was also unpatroned. Just a regular soldier – no threat to Surly.
Temper licked his lips. ‘But you still need Dassem. Choss is no champion.’
Surly frowned a negative, shook her head. ‘No, Temper, you still don’t understand. Things are different now. Even as we speak, Surgen succumbs to his wounds. It isn’t the most decisive victory, but it will be a victory. And disheartened, without time for