'Do you see? It is empty!'
'Sire—'
'Like my father's chair in our house! Our house in the village! Empty!'
'The village is no longer there, Emperor—'
'But the chair remains! I see it! With my own eyes – my father's chair! The paint fades in the sun. The wood joins split in the rain. Crows perch on the weathered arms! I see it! '
The shout echoed in silence then. Not a guard stirring.
The Chancellor with bowed head, and who knew what thoughts flickered behind the serpent's eyes?
Surrender. Conditional. Rhulad Sengar remains. Rhulad Sengar and, oh yes, Chancellor Triban Gnol. And the Patriotists. 'We cannot be conquered. We are for ever. Step into our world and it devours you.'
Rhulad's broad shoulders slowly sagged. Then he walked up to the throne, turned about and sat down. Looked out with bleak eyes. In a croaking voice he asked, 'Who remains?'
The Chancellor bowed. 'But one, Emperor.'
'One? There should be two.'
'The challenger known as Icarium has fled, Emperor. Into the city. We are hunting him down.'
Liar.
But Rhulad Sengar seemed indifferent, his head turning to one side, eyes lowering until they fixed on the gore-spattered sword. 'The Toblakai.'
'Yes, Emperor.'
'Who murdered Binadas. My brother.'
'Indeed, sire.'
The head slowly lifted. 'Is it dawn?'
'It is.'
Rhulad's command was soft as a breath. 'Bring him.'
They let the poor fool go once he had shown them the recessed door leading under the city wall. It was, of course, locked, and while the rest of the squads waited in the slowly fading darkness – seeking whatever cover they could find and it wasn't much – Fiddler and Cuttle went down into the depression to examine the door.
'Made to be broken down,' Cuttle muttered, 'so it's like the lad said – we go in and then the floodgates open and we drown. Fid, I don't see a way to do this, not quietly enough so as no-one hears and figures out we've taken the trap.'
Fiddler scratched at his white beard. 'Maybe we could dismantle the entire door, frame and all.'
'We ain't got the time.'
'No. We pull back and hide out for the day, then do it tomorrow night.'
'The Adjunct should be showing up by then. Keneb wants us first in and he's right, we've earned it.'
At that moment they heard a thump from behind the door, then the low scrape of the bar being lifted.
The two Malazans moved to either side, quickly cocking their crossbows.
A grinding sound, then the door was pushed open.
The figure that climbed into view was no Letherii soldier. It was wearing plain leather armour that revealed, without question, that it was a woman, and on her face an enamel mask with a modest array of painted sigils. Two swords strapped across her back. One stride, then two. A glance to Fiddler on her right, then to Cuttle on her left. Pausing, brushing dirt from her armour, then setting out. Onto the killing field, and away.
Bathed in sweat, Fiddler settled back into a sitting position, the crossbow trembling in his hands.
Cuttle made a warding gesture, then sat down as well. 'Hood's breath was on my neck, Fid. Right there, right then. I know, she didn't even reach for those weapons, didn't even twitch . . .'
'Aye,' Fid answered, the word whispered like a blessing. A Hood-damned Seguleh. High ranked, too. We'd never have got our shots off – no way. Our heads would have rolled like a pair of oversized snowballs.
'I looked away, Fid. I looked right down at the ground when she turned my way.'
'Me too.'
'And that's why we're still alive.'
'Aye.'
Cuttle turned and peered down into the dark tunnel. 'We don't have to wait till tomorrow night after all.'
'Go back to the others, Cuttle. Get Keneb to draw 'em up. I'm heading in to check the other end. If it's unguarded and quiet, well and good. If not . . .'
'Aye, Fid.'
The sergeant dropped down into the tunnel.
He moved through the dark as fast as he could without making too much noise. The wall overhead was damned thick and he'd gone thirty paces before he saw the grey blur of the exit at the end of a sharp slope. Crossbow in hands, Fiddler edged forward.
He need not have worried.
The tunnel opened into a cramped blockhouse with no ceiling. One bench lined the wall to his right. Three bodies were sprawled on the dusty stone floor, bleeding out from vicious wounds. Should've averted your eyes, soldiers. Assuming she even gave them the time to decide either way – she'd wanted out, after all.
The door opposite