The spokesman, tall and hulking, bone-white black-barbed cutlasses in his mailed hands, cocked his head. 'It's not paint, Malazan.'

Silence.

Then the man gestured with a blade. 'Come up, if you like.'

Ladders appeared from the rooftop, slid down its edge.

Trotts hesitated. Paran stepped close. 'I think we should. There's something about that man and his followers-'

The Barghast snorted. 'Really?' He waved the Bridgeburners to the ladders.

Paran watched the ascent, deciding he would be the last to go. He saw Picker hanging back. 'Problem, Corporal?'

She flinched, massaging her right arm.

'You're in pain,' the captain said, moving to her side, studying her pinched face. 'Did you take a wound? Let's go to Mallet.'

'He can't help me, Captain. Never mind about it.'

I know precisely how you feel. 'Climb, then.'

As if approaching gallows, the corporal made her way to the nearest ladder.

Paran glanced back down the ramp. Spectral figures moved in the gloom at its far base. Well out of any kind of missile range. Unwilling, perhaps, to ascend the slope. The captain wasn't surprised at that.

Fighting twinges, he began climbing.

The tenement's flat roof had the look of a small shanty-town. Tarps and tents, hearths smouldering on overturned shields. Food packs, caskets of water and wine. A row of blanket-wrapped figures — the fallen, seven in all. Paran could see others in some of the tents, most likely wounded.

A standard had been raised near the roof's trapdoor, the yellow flag nothing more than a dark-streaked child's tunic.

The warriors stood silent, watchful as Trotts sent squads out to each corner of the roof, where they checked on whatever lay both below and opposite the building.

Their spokesman turned suddenly, a fluid, frighteningly graceful motion, and faced Corporal Picker. 'You have something for me,' he rumbled.

Her eyes widened. 'What?'

He sheathed one of his cutlasses and stepped up to her.

Paran and the others nearby watched as the man reached out to Picker's right arm. He gripped her chain-sleeved bicep. A muted clatter sounded.

Picker gasped.

After a moment she dropped her sword to clunk on the tarred rooftop, and began stripping off her chain surcoat with quick, jerky motions. In a flood of relief, she spoke. 'Bern's blessing! I don't know who in Hood's name you are, sir, but they've been killing me. Getting tighter and tighter. Gods, the pain! He said they'd never come off. He said they'd be on me for good. Even Quick Ben said that — can't make a deal with Treach. The Tiger of Summer's mad, insane-'

'Dead,' the Daru cut in.

Half out of her surcoat, Picker froze. 'What?' she whispered. 'Dead? Treach is dead?'

'The Tiger of Summer has ascended, woman. Treach — Trake — now strides with the gods. I will have them now, and I thank you for delivering them to my hand.'

She pulled her right arm clear of the chain sleeve. Three ivory arm-torcs clattered down to her hand. 'Here! Yes, please! Glad to oblige-'

'Hood take your tongue, Picker,' Antsy snapped. 'You're embarrassing us! Just give him the damned things!'

The corporal stared about. 'Blend! Where in the Abyss you hiding, woman?'

'Here,' a voice murmured beside Paran.

Startled, he stepped back. Damn her!

'Hah!' Picker crowed. 'You hear me, Blend? Hah!'

The squads were converging once more.

The Daru rolled up a tattered sleeve. The striped pattern covered the large, well-defined muscles of his arm. He slid the three torcs up past the elbow. The ivory clicked. Something flashed amber in the darkness beneath the rim of his helmet.

Paran studied the man. A beast resides within him, an ancient spirit, reawakened. Power swirled around the Daru, but the captain sensed that it was born as much from a natural air of command as from the beast hiding within him — for that beast preferred solitude. Its massive strength had, somehow, been almost subsumed by that quality of leadership. Together, a formidable union. There's no mistaking, this one's important. Something's about to happen here, and my presence is no accident. 'I am Captain Paran, of Onearm's Host.'

'Took your time, didn't you, Malazan?'

Paran blinked. 'We did the best we could, sir. In any case, your relief this night and tomorrow will come from the White Face clans.'

'Hetan and Cafal's father, Humbrall Taur. Good. Time's come to turn the tide.'

'Turn the tide?' Antsy sputtered. 'Looks like you didn't need no help to turn the tide, man!'