Kyle turned to eye the mage. ‘Just power – is that the only difference?’

‘Yes. There should be more but it's not something any of them seem willing to accept.’

‘What's that?’

‘The connection.’

The next day a small boat entered the bay. An old man rowed it. He tied it up at the least decrepit dock. The men of the blade watched from cover. ‘Alive,’ Trench whispered, raising a warning finger to Grere who bared his teeth in answer. Stalker, Kyle and Grere spread out among the empty huts.

Kyle allowed the old man to walk past his hiding place then stepped out on to the overgrown lane behind. The man had been whistling but stopped now that Grere suddenly faced him. He shot a glimpse to his rear, saw Kyle and his shoulders slumped. He drew a long-knife from his waist and dropped it. Grere waved him up the hill with a flick of his hand.

‘Thought you were ghosts,’ the man said to Trench in what Kyle heard as oddly accented Talian.

‘Ghosts?’ Grere answered, sneering. ‘We're flesh and blood.’

‘Funny that.’

‘Why's that funny?’

‘That's what they say too.’

Grere clouted the man across his face and Kyle fought down an urge to do the same to the Barghast tribesman. ‘What settlement is north of here, old man?’ Trench asked.

‘Thikton.’

‘How many men and women there?’

‘A lot. Many hundreds.’

‘How long have the Malazans run the place?’

The old man peered at them all. ‘Malazans? Ain't no Malazans here. Just traders, if that's what you mean.’

‘No? Then who runs the place?’

The old man scratched his head. ‘Well, no one, I s'pose. We just mind our own business.’

Trench's mouth hardened. ‘You sayin’ there's no ruler? No authority?’

‘Oh, well. There's the factor upriver at Quillon. I s'pose you could say he runs things.’

‘The factor? A trader?’

‘Yes.’

‘What if you were attacked? Pirates or raiders?’

The old man nodded eagerly. ‘Oh, yes. That used to happen all the time. Korelan raiders from up north. Even invaders from Mare landed south of here.’

‘And? What happened?’

The old man swallowed, hunched his shoulders. ‘Ah. Well. The ghosts, y'see. They run them all off.’

Trench raised a gauntleted hand to cuff the man but turned away in disgust. ‘This is useless.’

‘Kill him?’ Grere asked.

‘Kill him? You Genabackan recruits are a bloodthirsty lot.’

‘I think we can manage one fisherman,’ Stoop drawled.

‘I'll keep watch on him,’ said Kyle.

‘So will I,’ Twisty added.

Trench waved to take the old man away. ‘Fine. He goes missing, I'll take the skin off your backs.’

That night Kyle sat on the steps with Stoop who smoked his pipe. High broken clouds moved raggedly across the face of the moon. A weak wind stirred the limbs of the birch and spruce. ‘What of the ship?’ Kyle asked.

‘They'll wait while we scout out this town upriver.’

‘Then what?’

‘Well, we'll see, won't we? If there's no Malazan garrisons like the man says, then we'll just move right in.’

‘But this isn't Quon Tali.’

‘No.’ Stoop took the pipe from his mouth, knocked the embers in a shower of sparks to the wet ground and gave Kyle a wink. ‘But we're real close now, lad. We just have to reach out, and it's ours.’

Somehow Kyle didn't think it would be so easy.

Stoop slipped the pipe into a pocket. ‘I'm off for sleep. These old bones don't take to cold bivouacs no more. Did you know that not one of these roofs don't leak?’

‘Try the one across the way.’

The old saboteur eyed the canted, sunken-roofed ruin. ‘Thanks a lot.’

Kyle sat for a time in the dark. These last few nights he'd hardly slept at all. That feeling of being watched that Twisty blamed on spirits wouldn't leave him. Sometimes he thought he'd heard voices whispering in the night. He even felt as if he'd heard his name called once or twice.

A walk might do him good. Too little action recently; too much waiting. First the agonizing ocean crossing and now this strange non-event of an arrival. Where was everyone? It was an unnerving land. As his feet took him on to a forest path he realized that, for all its foreignness, it was also eerily familiar. He'd felt something just like this land's haunted presence when his clan had ventured on to the northernmost high plateau of their territory. His uncle had gestured to the misty lowlands north of them saying that there they never ventured: those were Assail lands. Just studying them from the distance Kyle had sensed their eerie alienness.

When his feet brushed cut stones, he stopped. A set of stairs overgrown by vines and layered in moss led up to the clifftop fortress, Haven. More of a tower, really, than a full-sized fort. Since it was plain by now that there was no one but his blade around, he decided to climb.

The steps brought him to a dark humid tunnel that opened on to a central court. Saplings had pushed up through the flags and vines gripped the mottled walls. Kyle studied the grounds and it was clear that no one ever came up here. He crossed to another set of stairs along one wall that led up to the battlements. On his way the pale smear of aged ivory caught his eye and he knelt. A skull grinned up at him, helmet fused to it with age and green verdigris. Nearby lay a corroded sword overgrown by moss. Small animals had foraged the carcass, but no larger beasts. Not even humans had scavenged here it seemed, unless swords and armour used to be as common as weeds. No, this soldier still lay where he fell, arms and all. Question was: which army? Was this a fallen brother? Or one of those Malazans? There was no telling now; time and the gnawing teeth of scavengers had rendered them akin.

Straightening from the remains, Kyle wondered at the meanderings of his strange thoughts. Never before had he given a body a second thought. Was this lofty perspective taught by travel? He started up the stairs. Halfway, he paused as the steps ahead seemed to shimmer in the tatters of moonlight. Empty night appeared to be gliding down towards him, engulfing the steps one by one in some dark tide. Then the clouds passed and the shadows dispersed. Kyle felt at the stairs and his hand came away dust dry. An omen? But of what?

From the battlements ragged moonlight painted the Sea of Chimes a mottled blue and silver. Not one light was visible along all the shore. Was this the land the Guard had fled so long ago? Where was everyone? He leant against the gritty stones and let the evening breeze cool him. It was surprisingly quiet but for the wind hissing through the trees and the flutter of night insects. But standing there Kyle slowly became aware of another noise – that hushed whispering called from the night once again and he slowly turned. The patchy shadows of the derelict courtyard seemed to flicker and shift. He thought he could almost see shapes within them – was this why no one was supposed to come up here? Some kind of haunting? He wished Trench had been more plain about the dangers. He wondered if he was now stuck up there all night. It might just be the murmuring of the surf far below, but he imagined he could almost hear a multitude of soft voices down there.

A fresh wind brushed his cheek, this one crossways to the sea-breeze. It was hot and thick and smelled not of the sea but of some other place. From a corner turret came a whirlwind of leaves and with them something iridescent in the moonlight. Puzzled, he knelt. A scattering of gold and pink flower petals. Soft and fresh. The wind out of the turret picked up and the stink of rot filled Kyle's nostrils. He backed away. The whispering from the courtyard rose to an eager susurration louder than the wind through the trees then abruptly cut off as if swept away.

A heavy step sounded from the turret, the stamp of iron on stone. Kyle's hand went to his tulwar. Another heavy step and a figure emerged. Layered iron armour that glittered darkly in the silver light encased it head to toe. A tall closed helm accented the man's great height and his hands in articulated gauntlets rested on the grip of a greatsword belted at his waist. Kyle dreaded that he faced one of those nightmares from his people's legends, a Jhag. It waved an arm, seeming to dismiss him.