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sir.’
    The old soldier bit back any further argument; everyone knew he hadn’t ordered the drinks but the claim had to be made for the sake of appearances. It was the dance of the clip joint – free to enter, but damned expensive to leave. ‘All right,’ he growled, resigned. ‘How much is it then?’
    Akien raised his brows, figuring. ‘Four tankards of Elingarth ale, sir? That would be two Darujhistani gold councils.’
    An awed whistle sounded through the inn. Everyone looked to the young nobleman. He had an arm hooked over the rear of his chair, leaning back. ‘That, good innkeeper, is a ruinous price.’
    Akien hunched his fat rounded shoulders, glowering. ‘Cartage.’
    The nobleman eyed the veteran, cocked a brow.
    The soldier grasped a nearby chair to support himself. ‘I don’t have that kind of money!’
    Jallin touched his shoulder to indicate the bags. Akien nodded. ‘Then your bags, sir, in payment.’
    The soldier’s other hand went to the pannier. ‘No.’
    The two guards started forward, their truncheons ready. At that instant the soldier exploded into action: the chair flew into one guard while a boot hammered into the second. The veteran’s speed surprised Jallin but he knew he was faster. Akien’s bulk in the doorway caused the man to ease his rush and Jallin had him.
    A voice barked: ‘Your rear!’ and the veteran twisted aside. Jallin’s razor-honed friend missed the artery in a shallow slice. Then a blur at the edge of Jallin’s vision smacked his head backwards and he fell. The last he heard was Akien’s bellow of pain and outrage as the soldier dealt with him.
     

    ‘The Moranth attaché awaits you, Ambassador.’
    Ambassador Aragan of the Imperial Malazan delegation in Darujhistan held his head and groaned over his steaming infusion of koru nut. ‘Burn’s mercy, man. Can’t it wait?’
    His aide, Captain Dreshen Harad ’Ul, a younger son of one of the noble houses of Unta, stood spear-straight, his maroon and black Imperial dress uniform enviably crisp. ‘The attaché is most insistent.’
    Aragan tossed back the thimble of black liquid and winced.
Gods, I should never have tried to keep up with those visiting Barghast. They just don’t know when to quit
. He blinked gritty eyes at Dreshen, picked up a knife and oven-roasted flatbread. ‘Invite him to breakfast, then.’
    His aide saluted.
    He spread Rhivi honey on the bread.
Haven’t even found my footing yet and I’m supposed to negotiate with the Moranth? What do they expect in Unta – bouncing me all over? Damned cock-up is what it is. I’ll probably never even
meet
this new damned Emperor Mallick what’s-his-face
.
    The Moranth attaché was shown into Aragan’s chambers, the outer of which he chose to use as a meeting room and office. He liked the view from the terrace overlooking the estate’s rear gardens. The attaché was a Red veteran. His blood-hued chitinous armour bore a skein of scars and gouges from combat. Aragan rose, dabbed at his mouth. ‘Commander Torn.’
    The attaché bowed stiffly. ‘Ambassador.’
    Aragan sat, gesturing to the chair opposite. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’
    The attaché declined the invitation with a small wave of a gauntleted hand. He straightened and clasped those armoured gauntlets behind his back. ‘We of the Moranth delegation request a favour from our old allies.’
    Aragan’s brows rose.
Oho! Old allies is it now? When did this come about? They’ve been denying troop requests for the last year
. ‘Yes?’
    It was hard to tell with the man’s full helm and body-hugging armour, but the attaché appeared uncomfortable. He paced to the threshold of the double doors that opened on to the terrace, his back to Aragan. ‘We request that you press the Council into interdicting the burial grounds to the south of the city.’
    Aragan choked on his mouthful of toasted flatbread. The aide rushed forward to pour a glass of watered wine, which Aragan gulped down. ‘Gods,