‘And my success or lack thereof matters to you, Kellanved?’

Cotillion replied. ‘Surprisingly, yes it does.’

‘Why?’

That blunt question seemed to take both gods aback for a moment. Then Shadowthrone snorted. ‘Does it matter? Hardly. Not at all, in fact. We are here to help you, you damned oaf. You stubborn, obstinate, belligerent fool. Why I ever considered you an old friend entirely escapes me! You are too stupid to have been one, ever! Look, even Cotillion is exasperated by your dimwittedness.’

‘Mostly amused, actually,’ Cotillion corrected, now grinning at Traveller. ‘I was just reminded of our, ah, discussions in the command tent when on campaign. Perhaps the most telling truth of old friendships is in how their dynamics never change.’

‘Including your smarmy postulations,’ said Shadowthrone drily. ‘Listen, you, Traveller or however you call yourself now. My Hounds will guide you to your salvation-hah, how often has that been said? In the meantime, we will give you skins of water, dried fruit and the like-the myriad irritating needs of mortality, I seem to recall. Vaguely. Whatever.’

‘And what do you seek in return for this gift?’

A dozen heartbeats passed with no reply forthcoming,

Traveller’s face slowly descended into a dangerous frown. ‘I will not be swayed from my task. Not even delayed-’

‘No, of course not.’ Shadowthrone waved an ephemeral hand. ‘The very opposite, in fact. We urge you. We exhort you. Make haste, set true your course, seek out your confrontation. Let nothing and no one stand in your way.’

Traveller’s frown deepened.

A soft laugh from Cotillion. ‘No need. He speaks true, First Sword. It is our pleasure to enable you, in this particular matter.’

‘I will not bargain with him.’

‘We know.’

‘I am not sure you fully understand-’

‘We do.’

‘I mean to kill Hood. I mean to kill the God of Death.’

‘Best of luck to you!’ said Shadowthrone.

More silence.

Cotillion then came forward, carrying supplies that had not been there a moment ago. He set them down. ‘Shan will lead the way,’ he said quietly, stepping back.

Traveller glanced over at the two new Hounds. ‘And those ones?’

Cotillion followed his gaze, looking momentarily troubled before he shrugged. ‘Hard to say. They just sort’ve… showed up-’

‘I summoned them, of course!’ said Shadowthrone. ‘The white one is named Pallid. The whiter one is named Lock. Seven is the desired number, the necessary number.’

‘Shadowthrone,’ Cotillion said, ‘you did not summon them.’

‘I must have! Why else would they be here? I’m sure I did, at some point. A wish, perhaps, whilst staring upward at the stars. Or a desire, yes, of such overwhelming power that even the Abyss could not deny me!’

‘The others seem to have accepted them,’ Cotillion noted, shrugging again.

‘Has it occurred to you,’ said Traveller, softly, to the god standing before him, ‘that they might be the fabled Hounds of Light?’

‘Really? Why would you think that?’ And in that moment, when Cotillion met his eyes and winked, all the exhaustion-the very immortality of ascendancy itself-vanished, and Traveller saw once more-after what seemed a lifetime the man he had once called his friend.

Yet he could not bring himself to smile, to yield any response at all to that gesture and the invitation it offered. He could not afford such… weakness. Not now, perhaps never again. Certainly, not with what these two old friends had become. They are gods, and gods are not to be trusted.

Reaching down, he collected the skins and the knapsack. ‘Which one drove the bear to the coast?’ he asked.

‘Gear. You needed food, or you would not have got even this far.’

‘I was very nearly its supper, Cotillion.’

‘We have always had faith in you, First Sword.’

The next-and probably last-question Traveller had for the god was the most difficult one to voice.’ And which of you wrecked my ship and killed my crew?’ Cotillion’s brows lifted, ‘Not us. Dassem, we would not do that.’ Traveller studied the god’s eyes-always softer than one might have expected, but he had long since grown used to that and then he turned away. ‘All right.’

Pallid and Lock fell in as reluctant, desultory rearguard as the Hounds escorted Traveller inland. Shadowthrone had managed to turn his throne round so that he could watch the First Sword and his entourage slowly dwindle into the northeast.

Standing nearby, Cotillion lifted his hands and looked down upon the palms, seeing the glistening sweat pooling there. ‘That was close.’

‘Eh? What was?’

‘If he had decided we were behind the shipwreck, well, I don’t like to think what would have happened here.’

‘Simple, Cotillion. He would have killed us.’

‘And the Hounds would not have interceded.’

‘Except perhaps my newest pets! No old loyalties there! Hee hee!’

‘Close,’ said Cotillion again.

‘You could have just told him the truth. That Mael wanted him and wanted him badly. That we had to reach in and drag him out-he would have been far more thankful with all that.’

‘Gratitude is a useless luxury in this instance, Shadowthrone. No distractions, remember? Nothing and no one to turn Traveller from his fated destiny. Leave Mael for another time.’

‘Yes, very good. A detail we can offer Traveller when our need for him is immediate and, er, pressing. We delved, following the suggestion he set us this day, in this place, and lo! Why, none other than the Elder God of the Seas was to blame! Now get over here and draw that damned sword and hack these enemies to pieces!’

‘That is not the delving we need to do right now,’ Cotillion said.

‘Well, of course not. We already know! What need delving?’

Cotillion faced Shadowthrone. ‘Mael could have killed him easily enough, don’t you think? Instead, he set out to delay Traveller. We need to think on that. We need to figure out why.’

‘Yes, I am beginning to see. Suspicions awakened-I was momentarily careless, unmindful. Delay, yes, why? What value?’

‘I just realized something.’

‘What? Quick, tell me!’

‘It doesn’t matter what Mael had in mind. It won’t work.’

‘Explain!’

‘Mael assumes a quarry on the run, after all…’

‘Yes, he must, of course, no other possibility. Mael doesn’t get it! The idiot! Hee hee! Now, let’s get out of this ash-heap, my throat’s getting sore.’

Cotillion stared after the Hounds and their charge, squinting against the bright sunlight. ‘Timing, Shadowthrone…’

‘Perfection.’

‘So far.’

‘We will not fail.’

‘We’d better not.’

‘Which among our newfound allies do you imagine the weak link?’

Cotillion glanced back at Shadowthrone. ‘Well, you, of course.’

‘Apart from me, I mean.’

Cotillion stared. Shadowthrone waited. Fidgeting on his throne.

Midnight at the lone tavern of Morsko provided Nimander with memories he would never lose. Slack-eyed, black-mouthed villagers staggering forward, colliding with him and the others. Stained bottles thrust into their faces. Eyes smeared with something murky and yellowed. The drink was potent enough to numb tongues, if the exhorting moans were in truth invitations to imbibe.

Even without Clip’s earlier warning, Nimander was not inclined to accept such hospitality; nor, he saw with some relief, were any of his kin. They stood, still crowded at the entrance, bemused and uneasy. The pungent air of the low-ceilinged chamber was sweet, overlaying strains of acrid sweat and something like living decay.

Skintick moved up alongside Nimander and they both watched as Clip-Desra at his side-made his way to the counter. ‘A simple jug of wine? Anywhere in this place? Not likely.’

Nimander suspected Skintick was right. All he could see, at every table, in every hand, was the same long-necked flask with its blackened mouth.