'Well,' the wizard replied, eyes on the captain, 'humour from you makes for a change.'

'Plenty of changes,' Paran agreed, 'of late. If you're looking to rejoin the company they're in the Gidrath barracks.'

'Actually, I bring word from Whiskeyjack.'

Paran sat straighter. 'You've managed to contact him? Despite the poisoned warrens? Impressive, Wizard. Now you have my utmost attention. Has he new orders for me?'

'Another parley has been requested by Brood,' Quick Ben said. 'With all the commanders, including Gruntle here, and Humbrall Taur and whomever's left of the Grey Swords. Can you make the request known to the other principals here in Capustan?'

'Aye, I suppose so. Is that it?'

'If you've a report to make to Whiskeyjack, I can convey it.'

'No thank you. I'll save that for when we meet in person.'

Quick Ben scowled. Be that way, then. 'Regarding the rest, best we speak in private, Captain.'

Gruntle made to rise but Paran reached out and halted the motion.

'I can probably anticipate your questions right here and now, Quick Ben.'

'Maybe you can but I'd rather you didn't.'

'Too bad for you, then. I'll make it plain. I have not yet decided whether or not to sanction the House of Chains. In fact, I haven't decided anything about anything, and it might be some time before that changes. Don't bother trying to pressure me, either.'

Quick Ben raised both hands. 'Please, Captain. I have no intention of pressuring you, since I was the victim of such an effort only a short while ago, by Hood himself, and it's left me riled. When someone warns me to follow one course of action, my instinct is to do the very opposite. You're not the only one inclined to stir the manure.'

Gruntle barked a laugh. 'Such droll understatement! Seems I've found perfect company this night. Do go on, Wizard.'

'Only one more thing to add,' Quick Ben continued, studying Paran. 'An observation. Might be a wrong one, but I don't think so. You got sick, Captain, not from resisting the power forced upon you, but from resisting yourself. Whatever your instincts are demanding, listen to them. Follow them, and Abyss take the rest. That's all.'

'Is that your advice,' Paran quietly asked, 'or Whiskeyjack's?'

Quick Ben shrugged. 'If he was here, he'd say no different, Captain.'

'You've known him a long time, haven't you?'

'Aye, I have.'

After a moment, Paran nodded. 'I'd just about reached the same conclusion myself, this night, with Gruntle's help, that is. Seems the three of us are about to make some very powerful beings very angry.'

'Let 'em squeal,' the Mortal Sword growled. 'Hood knows, we've done more than our share, while they sat back and laughed. Time's come to pull the gauntlet onto the other hand.'

Quick Ben sighed under his breath. All right, Hood, so I didn't really try, but only because it was clear that Paran wasn't inclined to heed you. And maybe I see why, now that I think on it. So, for what it's worth, consider this advice: there will be a House of Chains. Accept it, and prepare for it. You've ample time. more or less.

Oh, one more thing, Hood. You and your fellow gods have been calling out the rules uncontested for far too long. Step back, now, and see how us mortals fare … I think you're in for a surprise or two.

Wan, dirt-smeared, but alive. The survivors of Capustan emerged from the last pit mouth as the sky paled to the east, blanched dwellers from the city's roots, shying from the torchlight as they stumbled onto the concourse, where they milled, as if lost in the place they had once known as home.

Shield Anvil Itkovian sat once more astride his warhorse, even though any quick movement made him sway, head spinning with exhaustion and the pain of his wounds. His task now was to be visible, his sole purpose was his presence. Familiar, recognizable, reassuring.

Come the new day, the priests of the Mask Council would begin a procession through the city, to add their own reassurance — that authority remained, that someone was in control, that things — life — could now begin again. But here, in the still darkness — a time Itkovian had chosen to ease the shock of the surrounding ruination — with the priests sleeping soundly in the Thrall, the Grey Swords, numbering three hundred and nineteen in all when including those from the tunnels, were positioned at every tunnel mouth and at every place of convergence.

They were there to ensure martial law and impart a sombre order to the proceedings, but their greatest value, as Itkovian well knew, was psychological.