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 a new ritual of Anointing, Y’Ghatan will fall. No more champions. They’re too expensive. Too… vulnerable.’

Snarling, Ferrule would have launched himself, but Temper gripped his shoulder. ‘And what of us?’

Surly raised her brows, surprised and impressed by Temper’s pragmatism. ‘What is it you wish? Rank? Titles? A regional governorship?’

Ferrule squeezed Temper’s wounded arm in a ferocious grip. Temper bit his lips to keep from shouting. Pressing his hand into Ferrule’s back, he arranged his fingers in a sign: wait.

Temper managed in a controlled voice, ‘Dassem’s life, for one thing.’

Surly nodded. ‘That might be arranged.’

Her response decided the night for Temper. It seemed neither of them had any intention of keeping their word. ‘No witnesses’ was almost Surly’s credo. The Claws never left anyone alive. It was part of their terror tactics. He also believed that she knew he wouldn’t sell out, or frankly didn’t care either way. Yet they had their roles to play, a charade to complete.

‘Okay,’ he breathed out long and slow. ‘We’ll stay with him. For the meantime.’

Surly pursed her lips. Temper could almost see the plans and various options spinning through her thoughts as she eyed him and Ferrule. Her gaze lingered at his wounded arm and something changed in the set of her shoulders; she inclined her head a fraction. ‘Very well. You may discuss the particulars with these two representatives. Possum. Jade. Take care of these gentlemen. Topper, accompany me.’

The two Claws edged forward a half-step. Surly crossed to the entrance, the cloth of her pants brushing soundlessly. As she turned away, Temper glanced to his own arm: fresh blood soaked the new dressings. So. She figured her best should be enough to finish the job.

Topper held open the tent flap, with a half-bow of farewell Surly exited. Ferrule and he caught each other’s eyes. Ferrule, legs flexed, arms crooked, looked like a bear ready to pounce, and he winked, the same old supremely confident brawler. Temper couldn’t muster the same relish for this fray. His fears were confirmed when the two Claws guarding the opening stepped in as their commander left. Possum waved as if tossing something down and suddenly the camp sounds from beyond the tent walls ceased as if snatched away.

Shit, Temper fumed, that guaranteed privacy. He decided to pursue the one mad chance he’d thought of while Surly made her own evaluation of the situation.

‘Guard me,’ he snapped to Ferrule. In one motion he stepped, knelt, and raised his knife in both hands over Dassem’s chest. Fluttering at death’s door, Surly had said. He prayed that was an inadvertent truth, for Hood was the patron god Dassem has sworn his soul to-sworn then rejected.

He heard Ferrule parry the first attacks behind him as, in that same motion, he plunged the knife down with all his strength.

‘Stop him!’ Possum snarled.

Something smacked off Temper’s skull.

Dassem’s hand snapped up, grabbed Temper’s arm, and tossed him aside. Dassem sat up. Temper crashed through a cot and thumped to the beaten earth. Blood blinded one eye and warmed his face. He watched the rest of the melee on his side, stunned, fighting unconsciousness.

Foolishly, perhaps misled by their numerical advantage and Dassem’s weakened condition, the Claws chose to finish things here. Not that Temper could blame them. After all, they hadn’t fought side by side with Dassem as he and Ferrule had. They had never seen up close just what the First Sword was capable of. That, and Claws tended to overconfidence.

It all registered like slow deliberate dance steps to Temper’s fading vision. Ferrule spun aside, spurned by Possum. Blood arched from his wounds as he fell. The other three closed on Dassem who lunged at the nearest. In one motion he simply reached out and crushed the man’s throat then turned, holding the corpse before him.

Regardless, Jade and the other closed. Possum – wisely, if belatedly – backed off. Rather than use the body as a shield Dassem threw it as easily as a horseshoe at both lunging Claws. They fell in a heap. Temper could tell how angry Dassem was by the extravagance of that gesture and the way he scowled his disgust.

He kicked Jade across her head, tore a weapon from her hand and pulled it across her throat. The other Claw guard lay where he’d fallen, stunned.

Possum tried to access his Warren, but broke off to dodge the knife Dassem threw. The two closed and Possum met Dassem with daggers in either hand. They circled, Possum feinting, Dassem weaving, dodging. Temper had to admire Possum’s form; it was the best he’d seen, but the man had made a fatal mistake in not breaking off the instant Dassem revived. Arrogance, perhaps.

Dassem closed, yielding a cut across his side to grab one hand. They spun, pivoting on that fulcrum and again Temper was amazed by Possum’s moves. But Dassem’s skill, strength, and speed, though all sapped, still proved too great for Possum’s will and razor-honed training. Dassem broke the wrist, twisted the arm around, and jammed Possum’s own blade onto his chest. He collapsed, and camp sounds returned to the tent.