'So it shouldn't matter, then, if Darkness succumbs.'

'Don't be a fool. Losses and gains accumulate, shift the tide, but not always in ways that redress the balance. We are in an imbalance, Ganoes Paran, that approaches a threshold. This war, which has seemed eternal to us trapped within it, may come to an end. What awaits us all, should that happen. well, mortal, you have felt its breath, there in our wake.'

'I need to speak with Rake.'

'Then find him. Assuming, of course, he still carries the sword.'

Easier said than done, it seems - 'Hold on — what do you mean by that? About still carrying the sword?'

'Just that, Ganoes Paran.'

But why wouldn't he be? What in Hood's name are you hinting at, Draconus? This is Anomander Rake we're talking about, damn it! If we were living in one of those bad fables with some dimwitted farmboy stumbling on a magical sword, well, then losing the weapon might be possible. But. Anomander Rake? Son of Darkness? Lord of Moon's Spawn?

A grunt from Draconus drew his attention. Directly in their path, tangled in chains gone slack, lay a huge, demonic figure. 'Byrys. I myself killed him, so long ago. I did not think…' He came up to the black-skinned creature, reached down and — to Paran's astonishment — heaved it over a shoulder. 'To the wagon,' Draconus said, 'my old nemesis …'

'Who summoned me,' the demon rumbled, 'to do battle with you?'

'Ever the same question, Byrys. I do not know. I have never known.'

'Who summoned me, Draconus, to die by the sword?'

'Someone long dead, no doubt.'

'Who summoned …'

As Draconus and the demon draped across his shoulders continued their pointless conversation, Paran felt himelf drawing away, the words growing indistinct, the image dimming … until he stood once more on flagstones, far beneath the Finnest House.

'Anomander Rake. Knight of Dark, High House Dark …' His eyes strained to see the rise of the image he had summoned, out among the endless sprawl of etched flagstones.

But nothing came.

Feeling a sudden chill in the pit of his stomach, Paran mentally reached out, questing into High House Dark, seeking the place, the figure with his black sword trailing ethereal chains-

He had no comprehension of what rushed up to meet him, blinding, hammering into his skull — a flash-

— then oblivion.

He opened his eyes to dappled sunlight. Water traced cool rivulets down his temples. A shadow slipped over him, then a familiar, round face with small, sharp eyes.

'Mallet,' Paran croaked.

'We were wondering if you'd ever return, Captain.' He held up a dripping cloth. 'You'd run a fever for a while there, sir, but I think it's broke-'

'Where?'

'Mouth of River Eryn. Ortnal's Cut. It's midday — Quick Ben had to go find you last night, Captain — the risk of getting caught out in the open before dawn — we just strapped you to your quorl and rode hard those winds.'

'Quick Ben,' Paran muttered. 'Get him here. Fast.'

'Easily done, sir.' Mallet leaned back, gestured to one side.

The wizard appeared. 'Captain. We've had four of those condors pass nearby since sunrise — if they're looking for us-'

Paran shook his head. 'Not us. Moon's Spawn.'

'You might be right — but that would mean they haven't sighted it yet, and that seems damned unlikely. How do you hide a floating mountain? More likely-'

'Anomander Rake.'

'What?'

Paran closed his eyes. 'I sought him out — through the Deck, the Knight of Dark. Wizard, I think we've lost him. And Moon's Spawn. We've lost the Tiste Andii, Quick Ben. Anomander Rake is gone.'

'Gruesome city! Ghastly! Ghoulish! Grimy! Kruppe regrets said witnessing of said settlement-'

'So you've said,' Whiskeyjack murmured.

'It bodes ill, those ill abodes. Cause for dread, such ghostly streets and such enormous vultures roosting and winging about ever so freely in yon sky over Kruppe's noble head. When, oh when will darkness come? When will merciful darkness fall, Kruppe reiterates, so that blessed blindness enwreathes proper selves, thus permitting inspiration to flash and thus reveal the deceit of deceits, the sleightest of sleight of hands, the non-illusion of illusions, the-'

'Two days,' Hetan growled from Whiskeyjack's other side. 'I stole his voice … for two days — I had been expecting longer, since the man's heart damn near gave out.'