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them in there, bringing to a satisfying conclusion this stupid assignment. A giant, ten-thousand-year-old foot, stomping down, once, twice. Splat, splot, like stinkberries, Grub a smear, Sinn a stain.
    Gods no, I’d get blamed!
Growling under his breath, he set out after them.
    In retrospect, he supposed he should have remembered that damned wasp nest. At the very least, it should have caught his attention as he leapt for the doorway. Instead, it caught his forehead.
    Sudden flurry of enraged buzzing, as the nest rocked out and then back, butting his head a second time.
    Recognition, comprehension, and then, appropriately enough, blind panic.
    Pores whirled and ran.
    A thousand or so angry black wasps provided escort.
    Six stings could drop a horse. He shrieked as a fire ignited on the back of his neck. And then again, as another stinger stabbed, this time on his right ear.
    He whirled his arms. There was a canal somewhere ahead—they’d crossed a bridge, he recalled, off to the left.
    Another explosion of agony, this time on the back of his right hand.
    Never mind the canal! I need a healer—fast!
    He could no longer hear any buzzing, but the scene before him had begun to tilt, darkness bleeding out from the shadows, and the lights of lanterns through windows blurred, lurid and painful in his eyes. His legs weren’t working too well, either.
    There, the Malazan Barracks.
    Deadsmell. Or Ebron.
    Staggering now, struggling to fix his gaze on the compound gate—trying to shout to the two soldiers standing guard, but his tongue was swelling up, filling his mouth. He was having trouble breathing. Running . . .
    Running out of time—
     
    ‘Who was that?’
    Grub came back from the hallway and shook his head. ‘Someone. Woke up the wasps.’
    ‘Glad they didn’t come in here.’
    They were standing in a main chamber of some sort, a stone fireplace dominating one wall, framed by two deep-cushioned chairs. Trunks and chests squatted against two other walls, and in front of the last one, opposite the cold hearth, there was an ornate couch, above it a large faded tapestry. All were little more than vague, grainy shapes in the gloom.
    ‘We need a candle or a lantern,’ said Sinn. ‘Since,’ she added with an edge to her tone, ‘I can’t use sorcery—’
    ‘You probably can,’ said Grub, ‘now that we’re nowhere near the yard. There’s no one here, no, um, presence, I mean. It really is dead.’
    With a triumphant gesture Sinn awakened the coals in the fireplace, although the flames flaring to life there were strangely lurid, spun through with green and blue tendrils.
    ‘That’s too easy for you,’ Grub said. ‘I didn’t even feel a warren.’
    She said nothing, walking up to study the tapestry.
    Grub followed.
    A battle scene was depicted, which for such things was typical enough. It seemed heroes only existed in the midst of death. Barely discernible in the faded weave, armoured reptiles of some sort warred with Tiste Edur and Tiste Andii. The smoke-shrouded sky overhead was crowded with both floating mountains—most of them burning—and dragons, and some of these dragons seemed enormous, five, six times the size of the others even though they were clearly more distant. Fire wreathed the scene, as fragments of the aerial fortresses broke apart and plunged down into the midst of the warring factions. Everywhere was slaughter and harrowing destruction.
    ‘Pretty,’ murmured Sinn.
    ‘Let’s check the tower,’ said Grub. All the fires in the scene reminded him of Y’Ghatan, and his vision of Sinn, marching through the flames—she could have walked into this ancient battle. He feared that if he looked closely enough he’d see her, among the hundreds of seething figures, a contented expression on her round-cheeked face, her dark eyes satiated and shining.
    They set off for the square tower.
    Into the gloom of the corridor once more, where Grub paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust. A moment later