“Are you so certain? You're saying it isn't over yet. Your hatred of our High Mage is fierce enough to let you slip Hood's cold grasp, is that it? Vengeance from beyond the grave?”

“You must know me by now. I always arrange a back door.”

“You can't even crawl. How do you plan on getting to it?”

The wizard licked his cracked lips. “Part of the deal,” he said softly. “The door comes to me. Comes even as we speak.”

Unease coiled around her insides. Behind her, Tattersail heard the crunch of armour and the rattle of iron, the sound arriving like a cold wind. She turned to see the four soldiers appear on the summit. Three men, one woman, mud-smeared and crimson-streaked, their faces almost bone-white. The sorceress found her eyes drawn to the woman, who hung back like an unwelcome afterthought as the three men approached.

The girl was young, pretty as an icicle and looking as warm to the touch.

Something wrong there. Careful.

The man in the lead-a sergeant by the torque on his arm-came up to Tattersail. Set deep in a lined, exhausted face, his dark grey eyes searched hers dispassionately. “This one?” he asked, turning to the tall, thin black-skinned man who came up beside him.

This man shook his head. “No, the one we want is over there,” he said.

Though he spoke Malazan, his harsh accent was Seven Cities.

The third and last man, also black, slipped past on the sergeant's left and for all his girth seemed to glide forward, his eyes on Hairlock. His ignoring Tattersail made her feel somehow slighted. She considered a well-chosen word or two as he stepped around her, but the effort seemed suddenly too much.

“Well,” she said to the sergeant, “if you're the burial detail, you're early. He's not dead yet. Of course,” she continued, “you're not the burial detail. I know that. Hairlock's made some kind of deal-he's thinking he can survive with half a body.”

The sergeant's lips grew taut beneath his grizzled, wiry beard. “What's your point, Sorceress?”

The black man beside the sergeant glanced back at the young girl still standing a dozen paces behind them. He seemed to shiver, but his lean face was expressionless as he turned back and offered Tattersail an enigmatic shrug before moving past her.

She shuddered involuntarily as power buffeted her senses. She drew a sharp breath. He's a mage. Tattersail tracked the man as he joined his comrade at Hairlock's side, striving to see through the muck and blood covering his uniform. “Who are you people?”

“Ninth squad, the Second.”

“Ninth?” The breath hissed from her teeth. “You're Bridgeburners.” Her eyes narrowed on the battered sergeant. “The Ninth. That makes you Whiskeyjack.”

He seemed to flinch.

Tattersail found her mouth dry. She cleared her throat. “I've heard of you, of course. I've heard the.”

“Doesn't matter,” he interrupted, his voice grating. “Old stories grow like weeds.”

She rubbed at her face, feeling grime gather under her nails.

Bridgeburners. They'd been the old Emperor's elite, his favourites, but since Laseen's bloody coup nine years ago they'd been pushed hard into every rat's nest in sight. Almost a decade of this had cut them down to a single, under-manned division. Among them, names had emerged. The survivors, mostly squad sergeants, names that pushed their way into the Malazan armies on Genabackis, and beyond. Names, spicing the already sweeping legend of Onearm's Host. Detoran, Antsy, Spindle, Whiskeyjack. Names heavy with glory and bitter with the cynicism that every army feeds on. They carried with them like an emblazoned standard the madness of this unending campaign.

Sergeant Whiskeyjack was studying the wreckage on the hill. Tattersail watched him piece together what had happened. A muscle in his cheek twitched. He looked at her with new understanding, a hint of softening behind his grey eyes that almost broke Tattersail then and there. “Are you the last left in the cadre?” he asked.

She looked away, feeling brittle. “The last left standing. It wasn't skill, either. just lucky.”

If he heard her bitterness he gave no sign, falling silent as he watched his two Seven Cities soldiers crouching low over Hairlock.

Tattersail licked her lips, shifted uneasily. She glanced over to the two soldiers. A quiet conversation was under way. She heard Hairlock laugh, the sound a soft jolt that made her wince. “The tall one,” she said. “He's a mage, isn't he?”

Whiskeyjack grunted, then said, “His name's Quick Ben.”