‘Talking too much.’

‘Well, with that one we’re getting into very grey, very murky shades, don’t you think? It’s a matter of cultural distinctions-’

‘I believe Darujhistan shall be the first city I conquer-’

‘I’ve a feeling the Malazans will get there first, I’m afraid. Mind you, my beloved city has never been conquered, despite its being too cheap to hire a standing army. The gods not only look down on Darujhistan with a protective eye, they probably drink in its taverns. In any case-oh, shhh, someone’s coming.’

Bootsteps neared, then, as Karsa watched through slitted eyes, Sergeant Cord clambered up into view and glared for a long moment at Torvald Nom. ‘You sure don’t look like a Claw…’ he finally said. ‘But maybe that’s the whole point.’

‘Perhaps it is.’

Cord’s head began turning towards Karsa and the Teblor closed his eyes completely. ‘He come around yet?’

‘Twice. Doing nothing but drooling and making animal sounds. I think you went and damaged his brain, assuming he has one.’

Cord grunted. ‘Might prove a good thing, so long as he doesn’t die on us. Now, where was I?’

‘Torvald Nom, the Claw.’

‘Right. OK. Even so, we’re still treating you as a bandit-until you prove to us you’re something otherwise-and so you’re off to the otataral mines with everyone else. Meaning, if you are a Claw, you’d better announce it before we leave Genabaris.’

‘Assuming, of course,’ Torvald smiled, ‘my assignment does not require me to assume the disguise of a prisoner in the otataral mines.’

Cord frowned, then, hissing a curse, he dropped down from the side of the wagon.

They heard him shout, ‘Get this damned wagon on that ferry! Now!’

The wheels creaked into sudden motion, the oxen lowing.

Torvald Nom sighed, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes.

‘You play a deadly game,’ Karsa muttered.

The Daru propped one eye open. ‘A game, Teblor? Indeed, but maybe not the game you think.’

Karsa grunted his disgust.

‘Be not so quick to dismiss-’

‘I am,’ the warrior replied, as the oxen dragged the wagon onto a ramp of wooden boards. ‘My causes shall be “attempted murder, betrayal, mockery, and being one of these Claws”.’

‘And talking too much?’

‘It seems I shall have to suffer that curse.’

Torvald slowly cocked his head, then he grinned. ‘Agreed.’

In a strange way, the discipline of maintaining the illusion of mindlessness proved Karsa’s greatest ally in remaining sane. Days, then weeks lying supine, spread-eagled and chained down to the bed of a wagon was a torture unlike anything the Teblor could have imagined possible. Vermin crawled all over his body, covering him in bites that itched incessantly. He knew of large animals of the deep forest being driven mad by blackflies and midges, and now he understood how such an event could occur.

He was washed down with buckets of icy water at the end of each day, and was fed by the drover guiding the wagon, an ancient foul-smelling Nathii who would crouch down beside his head with a smoke-blackened iron pot filled with some kind of thick, seed-filled stew. He used a large wooden spoon to pour the scalding, malty cereal and stringy meat into Karsa’s mouth-the Teblor’s lips, tongue and the insides of his cheeks were terribly blistered, the feedings coming too often to allow for healing.

Meals became an ordeal, which was alleviated only when Torvald Nom talked the drover into permitting the Daru to take over the task, ensuring that the stew had cooled sufficiently before it was poured into Karsa’s mouth. The blisters were gone within a few days.

The Teblor endeavoured to keep his muscles fit through sessions, late at night, of flexing and unflexing, but all his joints ached from immobility, and for this he could do nothing.

At times, his discipline wavered, his thoughts travelling back to the demon he and his comrades had freed. That woman, the Forkassal, had spent an unimaginable length of time pinned beneath that massive stone. She had managed to achieve some movement, had no doubt clung to some protracted sense of progress as she clawed and scratched against the stone. Even so, Karsa could not comprehend her ability to withstand madness and the eventual death that was its conclusion.

Thoughts of her left him humbled, his spirit weakened by his own growing frailty in these chains, in the wagon bed’s rough-hewn planks that had rubbed his skin raw, in the shame of his soiled clothes, and the simple, unbearable torment of the lice and fleas.