[Apsalar]

I did not write this.

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DRAMATIS PERSONAE
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2nd ARMY

Fist Gamet
Fist Zakari
Fist Hairshirt

SPAMBURNERS

Lieutenant Monok
Sergeant Whiskeypale
Corporal Mappo
Fanderay – Cadre Sorceress
Fortrip – A sapper
Cyandor – Black Moranth
Falco – A sapper
Mithfanion – A wise man
Blues – A Bagel warrior
Apsalar – My favourite
Messremb – Soletaken Welsh Bear
MPBen – Mage
Talamandas – Little stick man thingy.

Cap’n Nakky – Imperial Historian
Spindle – Imperial Historian
Imperial Historian – Duh
Orfantal – Imperial Poet
Chaos – Imperial Poet

THE FAITHFUL (Readers of Imperial Histories)

Maynard
Brukhalian
Izz

Emperor Caldazar – Assassinated by Bavarel
Empress Bavarel
Timoklon – A Claw
Rhaenar – A Claw
Rodeo The Younger – Imperial Scout
Adjunct Molly Bloom
TheClaw – Self explanatory.

ON GENEBACKIS

Anomander Rake – Lord of P & P Spawn
High Fist Malarion – Rebel
Caladan Brood – Rane Longfox
Bottle – Rebel Mage
Shinrei – Piss’d Andii Soletaken
Korik – Piss’d Andii
Mulch – Piss’d Andii
Gear – Piss’d Andii Soletaken
Dacelonid – Piss’d Andii
Mort – Piss’d Andii

FOOLS

Snake
Stonesnake – His son
GOOD
Lorn
Jonzey
Fooler
Fool
Grey Area
Farad Orp’han
Karsa Orlong
Solitude – Karsa’a companion

OTHERS

Tremolo-of-the-flails – A warrior
Magnanimous One – A man of false modesty
Dessimbelackis – Ghost
Gothos – Jaghut
First Seguleh – Kicks ass
Lady Anvy – Rocks
Stone Monkey – The wise
Abyss – Because Abyss says so…
Iron Bars – Avowed of the Crimson Guard
Oponn – Twin Irish Jesters of Chance
Kettle – A strange girl
Rallick Nom – Missing assassin
Dark Daze
T’ooloose Cannon – Clanless T’Lan Imass
Cruz
Lord Gordonis – Ancient warlord
Soth – of the Earlgrey Swords
Pink Wolf of Winter
Scabandari Bloodeye – Not in this book.
Harlest Eberict – Nor is he.

THE NOOBS

WizofOz – Scarecrow
Altahn – Ignorant of spammers
Arithon
Efelle
Greyfrog – A demon
Cybr
Cottillion
Longhorn – Another cowboy
DufferFool – Been away
Fan 83 – After 82.
Thauglor
Calm – A Fokrul Assail
Zelphyr – Canuck
Bridgeburner 1375 – Canuck

HIGH HOUSE TEA

KETTLE – Cruz
POT – GOOD
STRAINER – Fool
SLEEPLESS – Snake
SLAYER (Of Coffee Drinkers) – Lorn
CUP – Karsa Orlong
BAG
LEAF

HIGH HOUSE LURKER

FISHER – Cap’n Nakky
ANGLER
BAIT – Rodeo The Younger
NETTER
WELCOMER – High Fist Malarion
CLUBBER
HOOK

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GARDENS OF THE TEA SPOON
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The Malazan Forum simmers with discontent, bled dry by interminable warfare, bitter infighting and bloody confrontations with the formidable Anomander Rake and Malarion, lords of P & P Spawn, and their Piss’d Andii. Even the imperial legions, long inured to the flame and spam, yearn for some respite. Yet, Empress Bavarel’s rule remains absolute, enforced by her dread Spam assassins.

For Sergeant Pale and his squad of Spamburners, and for Fanderay, surviving sorceress of the Second Legion, the aftermath of the Spamion Domin (yeah, the timeline is a bit different here) should have been a time to mourn the many dead (or banned). But, Discussionboardistan, last of the free forums, yet holds out and it is to this ancient citadel that Bavarel has turned her predatory gaze.

However, it would appear that the Empire is not alone in this great game. Sinister, shadowbound forces are gathering as the Mods themselves (and various characters from other books) prepare to play their hand…

The winds were contrary the day columns of smoke rose over the Phoenix Quarter of Malaz Forum. Gamet of the House of Paran gazed over the merlon. Behind him rose the Phoenix Inn, once the capital of the empire but now, since the rise of Discussionboardistan, relegated once more to a Fist’s holding – a virtual backwater.
For many, the ancient forum was too familiar to be of interest anymore. They had visited many hundreds of times, long ago exploring the Knoll Barrow, the Q & A, the book reviews, chat and sadly undervalued writer’s forum. Not for Gamet though, for this was home from home. This place, despite the still smouldering fires of long since passed spam and flame wars, was ever welcoming. To his old bones, it was like a comfortable chair by the fire in the Pride & Pisshead. Too many of the young folks these days, to his mind, spent too much time in pursuit of other ideas and places…anything, so long as it was…new.
Gamet’s attention was on the forum below him, and the embers of fighting that had run through it. He had been away at the time, returning to find such discontentment. There had been casualties, and of course, the first casualty in any war, was innocence.
Armour clanking, a soldier appeared on the battlements beside him.
“Glad of your pure Scots blood, eh?” Asked the soldier.
The Fist studied him. This man was one of Emperor Caldazar’s own. On his dark grey shoulder cloak was a silver brooch: a bridge of spam, lit by ruby flames. A Spamburner.
“What’s your name, Lieutenant?”
“Monok.”
“Is it true, then?” Gamet asked.
“Is what true?”
Gamet scowled, “Is what true, SIR?”
Lieutenant Monok chewed his lip, “Aye, sorry, Fist. Only I thought you wasn’t a Fist yet, thought that wasn’t ‘til a later book.”
“Well, I am not going to argue details, soldier, not here. Besides, this world of ours is somewhat ambiguous, wouldn’t you say?”
The soldier shrugged, “Could be, Fist. Depends on your interpretation and point of view, I reckon.”
“Precisely my point. Back to my question, then. I heard there’s been trouble on Genebackis, with the city of Discussionboardistan.”
“Aye well, being in the middle of an eight month ban for illegal drug use took me out of the loop somewhat.”
Gamet frowned, “A ban?”
Monok shrugged, “It’s an old joke, Fist, and not very funny anymore. Chances are my Sergeant, Falco, will be the only one that laughs. But, yes, there has been some trouble. The story goes that some assassin went off the rails, right out of the blue, and killed scores of threads, all in one horrible night. It was pretty gruesome, Fist, split hairs, torn string and mangled, tea-soaked knots everywhere.”
Gamet leaned on the crenels and spat over the wall.
“Bloody tea…not again.”
“Pardon me, Fist, but there’s more. Turns out that our once High Fist…”
“Malarion?”
“Aye, sir. Well he has joined with Rake and Brood and the Piss’d Andii, and they are all of them on their way to Discussioboardistan aboard that big floating mountain.”
“P & P Spawn? So who commands the 2nd Army now?”
Lieutenant Monok shifted slightly, resettling the weight of the armour on his shoulder.
“That’s why I am here, Fist.”

A new voice spoke behind them, a woman’s, imperious and cold. “Fist?”
Both men turned. She stood with two bodyguards, her dusky blue skin marked her as Polish, but she was otherwise plain, her mousy hair cut short, her features thin and unmemorable. It was her guards that sent shivers through Gamet. Tall, hands hidden in sleeves, faces swathed in shadows…Gamet had seen Spam Assassins before, and these two he recognised.
“Rhaenar. Timoklon.”
Neither Spam Assassin spoke.
“Guess we can all turn over a new leaf, then.”
“I would love to chat”, Bavarel drawled, “But you must be off to Genebackis…”
Fist Gamet shook his head, “This is not my mess, Bavarel…”
“Never-the-less, the Crippled Mod, it seems, has faith in you. Giving credence to the belief that she is drawn to what is old and broken.”
Monok grimaced at the jibe, but Gamet kept his face neutral.
“This empire, this is not what Caldazar envisioned.”
The Empress waved a hand, “The Emperor is gone, Fist, and nothing of what follows will make much sense at all, so get used to it.” Then she turned and was gone.
Gamet rubbed his eyes. The High Fist had defected, joined with the Son of Darkness and the Warlord and headed now for the defence of Discussionboardistan. Gamet would take the 2nd Army to that ancient place, weighed down by the feeling that other forces were at work, and everything would come to a head on the southern shores of Lake Azur…

“…A lot of this is down to the fact that there is only so many times you can discuss Unta, or Mott, Or Poland's claims to fame and infamy before it gets a little much...”
- Mort (Piss’d Andii)


Fist Gamet and Lieutenant Monok descended into the bowels of the stone fortress, where the air grew very cold.
“There are transports in the harbour?” Gamet asked.
The Spamburner officer grunted, “Not that we’ll be needing them, sir.”
A chill seeped through the Fist’s shirt, settling so deep in his bones he felt certain he would never be warm again.
“Then how does the Empress propose we reach Genebackis with anything resembling haste? Being Polish doesn’t make her a God.”
“I know a Jaghut that might disagree,” Monok muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, Fist. We are here.”
Gamet pushed open the door before them and stepped into a dimly lit chamber. A couple of battered iron sconces threw fitful light across the low-ceilinged room. Shadows wrapped around the tall, slender figure in the corner.
“Fist.”
Gamet narrowed his eyes, “Ah. I had forgotten about you.”
The man stepped forwards, “After our last encounter I would imagine you are less than enthusiastic about what must now be obvious. Bavarel can be…persuasive, don’t you think?”
Monok followed the Fist into the room and his eyes fell on the tall man, “Where is your companion?”
“She is…otherwise engaged. Ah, Shaman? An honoured and ancient position.”
Monok glared hard, a sideways glance at Gamet, “And no longer a secret one.”
The man smiled apologetically, “Forgive me. Might I suggest we make haste?”
A warren opened before them, the warm scent of coffee and chocolate cookies wafting into the small room.
“Are you coming with us?” Gamet asked of the man.
“Not this time, Fist. Perhaps we might meet again, sometime.”
Gamet sighed, glanced at Monok and stepped through…
…onto a beach.
The warren closed.


Cap’n Nakky groaned and rolled his neck, stretching and cracking muscles that had set in the long hours that he had sat there. Rod in hand, he returned his lazy gaze to the point where the line vanished into the black waters. The beach upon which he sat stretched to either horizon, a strip of sand fifty paces wide that cut a straight path through an endless ocean of flat, black water.
“How bloody long have I been sitting here?” He muttered to himself, and was startled when a voice answered him.
“Ah, good day, Fisher of High House Lurker.”
A ghostly apparition strolled along the beach towards him, barefoot and see-through.
“Urm, I prefer the term ‘Imperial Historian’ – I do spend considerable time and effort compiling my histories and correcting people.”
“A worthy past-time”, agreed the ghost, “Though I’ll wager it’s been a while since you felt a woman’s soft touch? Forgive me, I see your distress. I am here, in fact, because you are the historian. Tell me, what is this place?”
Cap’n Nakky relented, his anger fading, “This is the Ne’Member, and it is here that histories are born.”
The ghost sat next to him now, a strange seven-headed emblem stitched into the breast of his ghostly pyjama top.
“Histories are born here? How so? It seems to me that this is where Noobs first appear from other realms. Is this not so?”
“Aye, that’s true, but any one of those Noobs might one day shake the roots of our world. After all, I was once a Noob, as we all were.”
The ghost smiled, “And I believe you might one day shake the world indeed.”
Cap’n Nakky shook his head, “No, I am here for other reasons.”
“Have you caught anyone recently?”
“WizofOz. Zelphyr and Bridgeburner1375 – both Canucks unfortunately, tried to throw em back but RR wouldn’t have it – Altahn. Arithon. Efelle. Greyfrog – that was a bit scary – Cybr. Kettle. Cottillion…”
“Not the same…”
“No, different spelling. Who else? Oh yes, Longhorn, fan 83, the son of the Sleepless Priest of High House Tea. DufferFool, though he had just gotten lost for a while.”
The ghost nodded, impressed. “And you do this alone?”
“Oh no, further down the beach you will find Spindle and Imperial Historian, though they are more actual historians than I. No, there are others who visit the Ne’Member: Malarion, Stone Monkey and RR to name a few. If you wait a while you might meet the Imperial Poets and our three Faithful Readers of Histories.”
The ghost smiled wanly as he stood, “I am afraid I must be going, my time here is done.”
“Wait, who are you?”
The ghost wandered off, waving idly, “Can you hear the song, Fisher?”


“Prod and pull,” the old woman was saying, “Tis the way of the Empress, as like the Mods themselves.”
The fishergirl’s eyes shone as she watched the column of mounted soldiers thunder past, half-listening to the hag beside her. The fishergirl wiped the dust from her brow, her eyes darting among the soldiers passing before her. The women amongst them seemed even fiercer, sunlight flashing so bright from their helms it made her eyes water. She wondered about the concept of women serving as equals in fantasy warfare, but it was best left for another day…
“What you got in that basket, there?”
The fishergirl looked around, “What? Me? Oh, just twine, enough for three nets.”
The hag’s hand shot out and snarled in her hair, yanking her head down, hard. The hag’s fetid breath was warm against the fishergirl’s ear. “Mark this truth, lass, else the cloak of lies blinds you for ever. They will put a sword in your hand and send you to this new land across the sea. A shadow will embrace your soul, but look to the Lord spawned in drunkenness, for his is the hand to free you, though he will know it not…”
“Leave the pretty girl alone, hag,” A new voice warned, a man’s voice.
A casual backhand swipe from a mail-fisted soldier caught the hag on the side of the head. She crumpled to the dirt, sliding down the dirt bank, taking the girl with her. It was several moments before the girl struggled free, and by then the column of mounted soldiers had passed. She clambered back up to the roadside…a soft-gloved hand lit upon her shoulder.
“Easy, girl. Nothing to be done for it now. You must be Apsalar.”
“I have nets to tie,” she said dumbly, but her lips wouldn’t work properly.
The man was swathed in black robes, his face obscured beneath a cowl. “Nets, yes, though I suspect it is not of Houses that you speak.”
“I don’t understand.”
His hand trailed gently from her shoulder, “Of course not, I am rambling.”
Apsalar frowned, “You’d not be the first.”
It was then that she noticed the second man, shorter but also clothed in black. “Have you reached a decision, then, Caldazar, will she suffice?”
“Using my name means you have decided for me, we can hardly leave her now.”
Apsalar’s shoulders slumped, her voice trailing sadly, “Oh, Rodeo, where are you when I need you?”
“Come along now, lass, it’s no bad thing, to be the pawn of a Mod.”


The recruiting sergeant looked up from his desk, sweat trailing runnels through the dirt on his face. “What’s your name girl?”
“Sorry.”
“You will be, now what’s your name?”
“I said, Sorry.”
“Yeah, fine, been a long day, apology accepted. Just tell me your name.”
“I just did.”
“No you didn’t, lass. I’m not deaf yet.”
“What?”
“I said I’m not…oh, very funny.”
“Sorry…”
“Right! That’s it…”
“No, my name is Sorry.”
The sergeant clicked his teeth and relaxed, “Oh, right…Sorry.”
She smiled, “No need to apologise.”
“So where are you from?”
“Somewhere around here, listen, just send me to the Genebackan Campaign, 2nd Army.”
“All right, transports leave in three…”
“No need, sergeant, I have my own means.”


Fist Gamet and Lieutenant Monok walked single file along the length of the narrow beach, gentle tides lapping to either side of them, as though this single sandy path was all that divide two oceans.
“There are the historians,” the Spamburner said over his shoulder.
A ways down the beach, Cap’n Nakky, Spindle and Imperial Historian squatted in a large circle with five other men, all of them studying a multitude of books and scrolls and maps scattered between them.
“Ah, Fist, welcome, and to you also Shaman of the Hold…”
“Hood’s balls on a spit! Does everyone know?”
“Fear not, Lieutenant, not too many journey the same paths as these fine men. Their good work goes largely unappreciated.”
Gamet smiled weakly, “I know the feeling. This must be Orfantal and Chaos, then, the Imperial Poets.”
The two men nodded, wisened faces regarding the Fist.

“Hermit Crab

I scuttle across the ocean’s bed
accreting detritus
a welter of experience
in calciferous waves
sometimes
drawn by currents I can barely sense
I seek the shelter
of a kindred soul
and make of it my home” (Copyright – Orfantal)

“Imaginary consorts discuss disturbingly real dreams,
A frantic debate on the fate of the world.
The blurry road before them remains fustratingly translucent,
Hidden behind a shimmering veil of acidic dew.” (Copyright – Chaos)

“As I said, remarkable work.”
Gamet nodded, “And these three?”
Cap’n Nakky grinned, “May I introduce Maynard, Izz and Brukhalian.”
“Brukhalian?” Asked Gamet, “Of the Earlgrey Swords?”
“No”, the man answered, “A mere coincidence, Fist. Tell me, will the High Fist be around here shortly? Izz and I would dearly love to meet the man that gave life to Maldo, Fastan, Zarion and company.”
Izz nodded in agreement.
Gamet’s face darkened, “I hope not.”
Imperial Historian scowled, “Ah, yes, the High Fist’s rebellion. He has, of course, joined with Rake and the Warlord in the defence of Discussionboardistan.”
Maynard stood then, brushing the sand from his breeches, “Well, I would just like to say that it is an honour to meet you, Fist. I enjoyed your work.”
“Thank you, Maynard. There are more like you, folks that appreciate honest work, but too few, alas. I thank you all, none-the-less.”

A warren opened ten paces from them, and another of the famous Spamburner’s stepped through. At first glance, Gamet thought he saw a little stick man riding the soldier’s shoulder.
“Medium Paced Ben, it has been far too long, old friend.”
The mage grinned, “Fist. Lieutenant. If you will come with me, Genebackis awaits us.”

On the plains south of the ancient city of Pale, Fanderay, Cadre Sorceress of the 2nd Army waited. Her haunted eyes had narrowed on the distant flash that signalled the opening of a warren, and followed the four approaching figures. On the hill beside her, some few surviving soldiers of the Spamburners – The Emperor’s own. They had been hit hard these last few years: Empress Bavarel’s Spam Assassins, the Fooldom, the Spamion Domin, and endless flame wars, and now only legends survived. Two men stood with her, two others squatting a short distance off, and a fifth – a silent girl with dead eyes – waited behind them.
“Nothing good will come of this,” Sergeant Whiskeypale grunted.
His Corporal answered, “There must be resolution, Sergeant.”
His was a harsh, Seven Cities accent.
Whiskeypale grimaced, “Always the peacemaker, eh? Ah, but it stinks, Mappo. How can the disappearance of one damned assassin in Discussionboardistan ripple the fabric of the world half a continent away? Mods above, I could be doing with a seat by the fire in the Phoenix…”
“With a pint and a packet of crisps, eh?” Corporal Mappo grinned, “Yes, it would be, though I could eat a Subway myself – one of those ones that looks like a severed leg in a bap.”
Fanderay cleared her throat, “Wishing will not make it so.”
Whiskeypale and Mappo turned and studied her in silence, their eyes lingering a heartbeat too long on her supple curves and pink bodice. Fanderay kept her eyes on the distant group.
The other two Spamburners on the hill had been squatting together some fifteen paces from the sorceress – Sippers. They rose now, as the four approaching men grew near, and climbed lazily up to stand alongside Whiskeypale. One had a broken, fire-blackened fiddle strapped across his back. “Smashing,” he muttered.
The other frowned at him, “Fortrip, your grasp of language never ceases to amaze me.”
The Sipper called Fortrip smiled and took a bite of the pumpkin slice in his hand. “Smashing,” he said again, spitting bits of pumpkin. His companion, Falco, shook his head, muttering, “Strewth cobber, and I thought I was the quiet one.”

The two Spamburner sippers stood beside Sergeant Whiskeypale, Corporal Mappo and Fanderay as the four men reached the bottom of the hill. They turned their heads as one as the pretty, young girl with eyes like ice stepped up to the end of their line. A new recruit, a frightening one, but a Spamburner all the same.
“Such a gathering is unwise”, she said coldly, “Such things do not go un-noticed.” Her eyes lifted upwards, to the fading mountain in the sky, trailing southwards. “You warned us, didn’t you? Long ago.”
“The High Fist tied to warn us all, girl,” Fanderay offered, knowing instantly her efforts to ease the girl’s pain were hopeless. It was clear she was missing something…or someone.
“Only we didn’t listen close enough,” Whiskeypale said, “Sure enough we paid Fenris his dues, partook of some wine, codka or a fiddler’s elbow. We even helped ourselves on occasion, but the trouble was that we didn’t show enough…respect. But there’s enough failure to go around. None of us can afford regrets. The Empress has sent us a new Fist.”
“Smashing,” said Fortrip.
“I’m hungry,” said Corporal Mappo.
“I think things are about to get interesting,” Whiskeypale grunted.
Falco nodded and sighed, “Man, this place just keeps pulling you back in just when you thought it was getting dreary…”


“Sergeant. Sorceress.” Medium Paced Ben began, “Allow me to introduce Fist Gamet and Cap’n Nakky.”
Whiskeypale nodded at Ben and Lieutenant Monok before addressing the Fist.
“Welcome, Fist.”
Gamet frowned, “Sergeant Whiskeypale, Fanderay – nice bodice by the way – let’s not beat about the bush, tell me of the rebellion.”
Whiskeypale shrugged, “Simple, really. High Fist Malarion joined with the Son of Darkness in the P & P Spawn – there, that black smudge on the southern horizon – and they go now to the defence of Discussionboardistan.”
“Where the assassin disappeared,” the Fist muttered, “Hardly a coincidence. How does one man cause such a stir?”
“Just what I was asking Corporal Mappo before you arrived. It is all this ‘butterfly flaps its wings in Unta and there’s a hurricane in Letheras’ type thing.”
Gamet cocked an eyebrow, “Corporal? Were you demoted then?”
Mappo shrugged, “Well, you see, Fist, me and that Piss’d Andii, Mort, we was…”
“A story for another time”, Whiskeypale grunted, “If you’ll pardon me, Fist.”
“We could ask Bottle,” Cap’n Nakky suggested, rod in hand, “About the butterfly and hurricane thingy.”
Mappo, Fortrip and Falco looked uncomfortable at that. Nakky frowned, “What?”
The sorceress answered, “Only he rebelled with the High Fist. He was disillusioned. Another warning we did not heed.”
“Explain,” the Fist commanded.
“Since Discussionboardistan, he became more…detached, rarely seen here. He wasn’t the only one, mind, there were more than a few of the Piss’d Andii that used to visit more often too. It is my belief that the rise of DB and the fall of…well, the heart of the Empire…are connected somehow.”
Cap’n Nakky was concentrating hard, dredging his memories, “Yet, was it no so that the Empire was in decline before DB? I am uncertain.”
Fanderay smiled, “Perhaps you are right, it is hard to say.”

The girl with the deadly eyes stepped quietly closer, and everyone turned towards her. Silence.
“Right and wrong is grey; never black and white. Such things rise and fall with the tides of oceans, or turn as the wheels of an age.”
The sorceress finally gave in to her curiosity, “What is your name, girl?”
The girl smiled, “Sorry.”
“I said, what is your name?”
Whiskeypale groaned.

Fanderay’s hands were shaking as she reached for the Deck, the lacquered cards cold and smooth in her fingers. She turned the first card. Her breath caught.
“The Knight of Dark. Always the first card leads the way.”
The Knight was naked, behind the bar, chains of smoke trailing from the edge of the two-handed sword held above him in his right hand – Spamnipur. His left rested on the beer-tap. Son of Darkness. Keeper of Beer.
She turned the second card.
“Oponn. The Oirish trickster. Only a fool would count Oponn as an ally…”
The spinning in her head. A coin. The face of a big cartoon mouse. The words she had spoken given life of their own…power…a word cast out idly…double truths in her words.
“Sorceress?”
Fanderay gave a start, glancing up as the tent flap was pulled aside and Fist Zakari bent to enter. She was puzzled by the oddly blank expression on his face. The Fist of the 5th Army stepped aside to allow a figure to enter behind him. He was broad shouldered, and when he eased back his black cowl his square-set features – despite his over-large jaw – were easy to look upon. Fist Zakari stumbled back out.
“I have done him no permanent harm, sorceress.”
“Cauthon?”
“No.”
“Do I know you?”
“Yes, however, I would remain nameless for the moment. There are people who wish to find me, and I am not yet ready for them. You are reading the Deck? Please, continue, I would know what they say. May I sit?”
She indicated the space on the rug opposite her, “Do you read the Deck as well?”
The robed figure squatted easily, a thin smile on his face, “There is very little I do not read, sorceress. Enough of me, lest you guess my name.”
Fanderay returned to the cards, and turned the third…and gasped, the lacquered card slipping from her suddenly numbed fingers. The card seemed to fall slowly, blurring, spinning until it landed silently on the dark rug…face down.
The man looked from the card, to Fanderay, and back to the card. Shock held the sorceress’s expression, her eyes locked on the card.
“It cannot be…for a thing so rare, to be…”
“Usurped?” The man offered.
Her eyes locked with his, “How did you know that?”
He shrugged, reached down and flipped the card over. A faded image of a man, long-haired, a glorious smile, beige-robed…Buddy Christ.
“Ah,” the man began, “This image is fading, fast. Do you see? Like a watercolour painting, tilted so that the water runs down it, scrubbing the image away. There are words at the top, darkening, becoming bolder. Thus, the House of Fools is usurped…extraordinary.”
“Only”, Fanderay finally found her voice, “It is not water…what are the words? Can you read them?”
The man’s smiled vanished, his expression like stone.
“Please, tell me, what does it say?”
He lifted his eyes slowly, met hers.
“Do be do be do.”


Twilight had turned to full night swiftly, and the stars found the Spamburners together around their fire on the southern edge of the Rhivi Plains.
“It’s good to see you back, Lieutenant,” said Falco, grinning.
Monok shrugged, poking the fire with a long stick and sending sparks winging into the dark sky like fireflies. “Fire is life, life is fire. Fire is the war against the cold, the slayer of ice. Fire is our salvation.”
“Huh? What’s that now?”
“Sorry, mind wandered there. It’s good to be back, Falco. Why don’t you give us a tune on that fiddle of yours, then?”
The others laughed.
“I would, ‘cept it’s broken. Why don’t I just stick another rib on the barby?”
Blues, the giant Bagel warrior, laughed at that. Messremb was lounging back, one hand propped under his furry head, the fire warming his dark furry bear bits.
“How about it, Lieutenant, what’s the mission? We going to go find that Gollum-look-a-like or what?”
“The bear here just wants to know if he can bring along his bike and pic-a-nic basket,” Corporal Mappo laughed.
Messremb scowled, “Fat git!”
“Specky!”
“Yeah, Lieutenant”, Fortrip agreed, “What’s the deal? We gonna get to smash stuff?”
Monok raised a hand, “It’s simple, really. There’s some trouble to do with DB, and we are going to go an sort it out.”
Lo, softly, Mithfanion began to sing.
“That’s enough of that, you ain’t in the Grey Havens no more. Anyway, what happened to that little monkey of yours?”
“The stone one?” Mithfanion asked, “Oh, he is around, from time to time. Recent events have put him on edge, a bit, so he’s laying low. Saw him in the Ne’Member a while back, and he frequents the B’ookac’lub.”
Falco stood up, “Right, let’s play cards. Fortrip, get the cards.”
Groans answered him.
“No way”, said Blues, “you two cheat.”
“Nobody ever proved that, that’s not fair.”
“Only ‘cause we can’t figure out how you do it,” Mithfanion added.
Falco looked to Mappo for support, “Corporal, help me out here.”
Mappo grinned and raised his hands, “I don’t think so, you and Fortrip’s been rigging games for as long as I can remember.”
Falco looked around, saw the black-armoured shaped of the Black Moranth in the shadows. “Hey, Cyandor, how about it?”
The Black Moranth clicked.
Finally, Falco sat back down, “Never mind, Fortrip, ain’t none of them got the balls for it anymore…strewth.”
Fortrip sighed, “Not smashing,” he said, sadly.

Lieutenant Monok, bored of stirring the fire with a stick, lounged back. “Mappo, when I left you were a sergeant. What happened?”
“Well, sir, glad you asked. You see, we were on R & R back in Genabaris, and me and Medium Ben met this Piss’d Andii…”
“Look alive there!” A harsh voice shouted from the darkness.
“What is that smell?” Monok muttered, but before anyone cold answer, Fist Hairshirt strolled into view. He hocked up and spat something black into the fire.
“Listen up, ladies. We’re on the march in the morning. So to speak.”
“Where are we going, Fist?” Falco asked.
Fist Hairshirt smiled, “Wherever the new Fist wants.”

Fenris was gone. Retired. The High Fist missed the hound’s presence. Anomander had ease the pain somewhat, bringing in PUG. The beast was descended from criminals, like so many others of the Empire. Falco, Jonzey, Medium Ben…the High Fist remembered them all. PUG slept fitfully by the fire, and Gear, the Soletaken hound, cuddling into him.
“Yeah”, Malarion grumbled grumpily, “Real scary.”
The Inn was so very quiet these days, yet such things rolled through the months and years in cycles, did they not? He had to believe it. Rebellion. Perhaps it was not the answer, yet, what would a man do to force change. Whispers could be ignored, even ones worth listening to. But shout it from the rooftops…It was hard, then, to find fault, and so, he choose his path. Discussionboardistan.
The very thought made him miserable.
“And why do you look so miserable?” Anomander asked.
“I didn’t see you come in. I am miserable in anticipation of my next headache, Son of Darkness. Bottle and Mort alone make my head hurt, and I fear what I might find in DB. Some waters are too deep to be easily sailed.”
“Wisely spoken, General.”
Malarion grunted, “Too few people know that to be my real title.”
“Then it is their loss. Speaking of losses, how fares the P & P?”
“Takings are down. Strange, considering this is a place frequented by Ascendants and Mods.”
“Who would be the most frequent of those? Oponn, perchance?”
“Very droll, Ano, but yes, probably. Thus, I see your point.”
Anomander Rake, Wielder of Spamnipur, Son of Drunkenness, tied the grubby apron around his waist and set to wiping down the tables. “I see the pups are getting along,” he said with a glance at Gear and PUG.
Malarion grumped, “Aye, the original odd-couple.”
“Oh no”, Ano said, “That would be you and Gamet.”
“No, me and Tays, maybe. Besides there are plenty of old-timers out there who are rarely seen these days.”
“Ah, the bad old days. Speaking of bad things, we have a meeting to go to, with Caladan Brood.”
Malarion grinned, “He can wait, look outside, your Piss’d Andii are queuing up to get in here.”
Anomander sighed, “Ah, my children must sup, it seems. Very well, open the door if you will, friend.”
No sooner had Malarion unlocked the door than Shinrei, Korik, Mulch and Dacelonid rushed past him, near knocking him over in their desperation to get to the bar. Finally, Bottle, the wisened old warrior mage, and Mort strolled in at the rear. They were already engaged in deep conversation about the fine nuances of chaos mathematics.
Malarion groaned, “I feel a migraine coming on.”


“Are you ready, then?”
It was just their third day out from Pale, and Rodeo the younger already yearned for its walls. Safe and high, in a city crowded with inns and taverns and strip-joints. Nothing was going as planned these days, and this meeting with Adjunct Molly Bloom and the bloody undead warrior set his teeth on edge. The strange workings of this version of the world meant that he had already travelled with T’ooloose Cannon, the T’Lan Imass Canuck. Yet, on this journey, there was no Lady Anvy, nor First Seguleh, instead, he had Bavarel’s Adjunct.
“Yes, Adjunct, I believe we are ready.” Rodeo turned to T’ooloose, “You are ready, aren’t you?”
“Always, friend.”
“Good”, said the Adjunct, adjusting her swimming-cap, “because we need to be going.”
The bodies of barghast and jakatakan soldiers littered the surrounding hillside, and the Adjunct would have too were it not for the Claw and the T’Lan Imass.
“You are aware”, T’ooloose said when the Adjunct was out of ear-shot, “That you are to be bait, Rodeo the younger.”
Rodeo grinned, “I don’t care much, friend. Barkley is lost, and I am going to find him. Let me give you some advice, T’ooloose…”
“Perhaps another time, Rodeo the younger. I see you do not yet comprehend.”
“Well there’s nothing new in that, is there.”
“The Fisher will soon have need of you, Rodeo. ‘Ware the hooks that will snare and pull you in opposing ways. Prod and pull.”
Rodeo cocked an eyebrow, adjusted his helmet, pulled at his pants, “Aye, you’re an odd one, T’ooloose. Fishing and hooking and…great googa wooga, let’s be going before the Adjunct starts an argument about Dragons.”
“Elient. Arguing makes me tired, Rodeo the younger.”
“Me too.”
“I do not understand this Adjunct, Rodeo.”
“Of course not, she is a woman. Listen, let me give you some advice, if you want to understand women, think like a man, then take away reason and accountability.”
“That is sage advice, friend.”
Rodeo grinned sheepishly, adjusting his helmet, “Yeah, I just make them up as I go.”

They caught up with the Adjunct.
“So, where are we headed?” Rodeo enquired, “Only, a man can get thirsty real quick out here in the plains. Besides, I’ve a dog to find.”
“Discussionboardistan. Fanderay explained the situation to me, and she read the Deck. Many times before, the Mods have interfered in the Malazan Empire and come away bloodied. Yet, even though this time they may well be washing their hands of us, the Empress is not convinced. Therefore, I am not convinced.”
Rodeo was heart-sick. He knew he was not alone in his love of the 2nd Army. Years of drinking had done nothing to dull the sweet draw of the camaraderie and friendship that this place offered. Trouble lay ahead, but he would not let this place fall.
“You know, Adjunct, I am not supposed to be travelling with you. This doesn’t happen in the real book. I only want to find Barkley.”
To that, she merely nodded.
“All right, I will just plain out and ask then. Adjunct Bloom, why am I going to Discussionboardistan?”
“Did your undead friend not tell you?”
“He said something about hooks and fish, I think, or was it pants?”
“You, dear Rodeo, are universally loved. Is this not so? Thus, you are my…what is the soldiers expression? Shaved knuckle in the hole?”

In his dream, the small, round man found himself leaving the city of Discussionboardistan through the For’umlink Gate. He had no idea how far he had to walk. Already his feet ached. In times of conscience, he held the world’s views above his own, but fortunately such times were few and far between.
“Alas, this dream motivates these multiple-dactyl implements, ever onwards.”
He crossed the bridge, began uphill, past the gadrobi herder camps and towards the dwindling sunset.
“A dream, indeed, thinks poor Magnanimous One, yet one in which said dreamer finds exhaustion and pain! Aye! Indeed, burning no less, nay, savagesness of flesh! At the ends of this poor man’s articulatio genus, yet further still, descending beyond the articulatio talocruralis!”
The dirt road took him above the height of the city at his back, a warm breeze flowing across the serene waters of Lake Azur that ushered him ever onwards. A dusty, ramshackle building stood atop the hill, partnered by a single, bare-limbed tree. The sun was near set, the world bathed in a deep orange glow.
The sign above the door was a cracked wooden board, faded and worn.
A single bean, and a single leaf.
Magnanimous One sighed and entered.
A half-a-dozen shrouded figures squatted around a thick tallow candle on the earthen floor.
“Alas, tea is required, nay, it is imperative! Alas, custom would seem to have taken a turn for the worse. Tell me, wraiths, or ghostly reflections of days long gone – if that you be – what fate befell this place?”
“An assassin vanishes”, croaked the one nearest him, “an empire shakes.”
“The Mods stir in the pantheon.”
“The world changes.”
“New Houses arise to challenge the old.”
“The House of Fools drowns in tea.”
“He who fell at the hands of the wicked, is reshaped and reborn.”
“As the wicked is reformed.”
“And the Empress likes it naught.”
Magnanimous One raised his chubby hands, still struggling to catch his breath, “Ah! Such prognostication and foretelling aches this poor one’s encephalon! Shadowed words to befuddle this dreamer! Who speaks?”
The beggars fell silent. The one nearest turned his head, the cowl falling away to reveal a square-set jaw.
“One who reads.”
“Ah! One who lies with Fools and sires serpents of rock!”
The beggar’s face darkened, “How can you know this? Ah, indeed, you are more than you seem, oh fat one. I have witnessed the Reading of the Deck, and everything will come to this place, Magnanimous One.”
“A convergence? Such things are expected, nay, even desired.”
“Heed my words, then. This city is loved by many, and resented by many.”
“In such things no people are ever so polarised, thinks this old fool.”
“Indeed, there are those who would mediate an end, a peace, if you will. ‘Ware the Jaghut, then, for it is said that a Jaghut would rather destroy his own creation than see it be perverted and twisted beyond his ancient vision.”
Magnanimous One smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow, “Ah, even tyrants mellow in time.”

From the wharf sprawled along the shore of the lake, along the stepped tiers of the Religious and Political districts, among the controversial complexes and mathematical estates, to the summit of the hill, where gathers the City Council, the rooftops of Discussionboardistan presented flat roofs, arched cables, barbed comments, belfries and platforms for any subject crowded in chaotic confusion.
Across the street from the ramshackle Phoenix Inn, a hunter stood at the roof’s edge, his companions swathed in shadows behind him.
“Thiss isss sso cool”, whispered one of the men behind him, “It’sss jussst like Buffy, out in the dark, hunting bad guysss.”
“Quiet, GOOD,” he hissed.
Since Rallick’s disappearance, they had all of them had to tread that little bit more softly in the dark streets; Snake more than most.
“Snake”, said another of the men as he rose to stand beside him, “We used to be able to talk about cool things within boundaries in Forumustan, and it was interesting. Now you have to come to this city for interesting stuff, and it's so convoluted with people trying to be controversial that it's pure fluff, and I could get this kind of dialogue watching Springer or any show where the audience gets to stand up and say something controversial, just for the sake of saying something controversial.”
Snake nodded, “Very profound, Fooler. I dare say you are not the only one that thinks so. Many would agree that much of what transpires in these streets would be better served in other, older places. Unfortunately, we do not want the Empress’s Spam Assassins hunting us down, nor do we want the draw the attention of the Mods.”
Fooler squinted, “That doesn’t sound like you, Snake. Becoming a dad must have mellowed you. Where is Stonesnake?”
“He has left to find his other parent.”
GOOD came now to stand beside Snake and Fooler, “The crap thing about thisss city, isss people take thingsss you are sssaying the wrong way becaussse they don't "hear" the way in which you sssaid it or see your body language.”

They remained silent for a while, their thoughts drifting between the many cities they had visited in this world. On the dark rooftop behind them, more of the Fools were waiting, lounging in the shadows.
“I’m bored,” said Jonzey, I wanna go and have sex.”
“Aw”, said Lorn, “Someone needs a hug.”
Fooler laughed, “Not the kind of hug you’re thinking of, Lorn.”
GOOD’s eyes widened (even further), “Ssshut up, Fooler, I think Lorn and Jonzey ‘hugging’ isss a great idea. Okay, you two…go!”
Jonzey wavered until Lorn frowned at her then scowled at GOOD.
“Fine”, said GOOD, “come on then, Jonzey, I will have sssex with you.”
Jonzey cocked an eyebow, “Oh no you won’t”
Fooler and Snake laughed.
“Maybe we should follow Rallick’s example and go on a rampage?” Someone suggested.
“That’s a bad idea,” said Snake.
“Yesss, but I am reformed now.”
“Huh?”
“F*** it”, Fool muttered from the corner, “Don’t mean nothing.”
Lorn looked at him, “Yes, thanks for the support, Fool. Well, we can’t just sit about here bored, we need to go do something. Snake? Fooler? Anyone?”
“Fine”, said Snake, “I sent Grey Area and Farad Orp’han off to find that Toblokai and his little friend. We are to meet them in the Merchant’s Sodden March (MSM) Inn.”
“Okay”, said Lorn with finality, “We split up and meet back there. We have to find a way to change this city.”
“What will the our new king say?” Asked Fooler.
Snake shrugged, “Do be do be do, probably. Either that or whistle.”
“Okay”, said Lorn, raising her arms, “Come on, group hug.”
Jonzey leapt to her feet, unbuckling her belt, “Finally!”
GOOD’s eyes popped out, and his tongue lolled in his mouth.
“Sorry”, said Fooler again, “Not that kind of hug either.”

Caladan Brood sat forwards, resting his massive forearms on the table, shifting the weight of the ever-uncomfortable hammer strapped across his back. The smell of stale ale, sweat and dogs was thick in air of the old Inn.
“Well, it seems the defence of Discussionboardistan will be a vigorous one. Iron Bars of the Crimson Guard has joined us. With your Piss’d Andii, the High Fist and his mage, and the Mods seemingly undecided, the future is certain.”
Anomander tucked his cleaning cloth into his swordbelt, “Nothing will bring that city to an end, Warlord, but that is not the problem, is it?”
Malarion answered, “Lord of Drunkenness, I will not pretend to understand the undercurrents to this game, if they exist. I am here to bring peace to the empire. Not the Assail version of it, or even the Jaghut one, but one of harmony and equanimity.”
Korik narrowed his eyes, “You speak of peace. Harmony. Equanimity. These sound like Assail names to me.”
Shinrei laid a hand on the other Piss’d Andii’s arm, “Nay, brother we shall all of us survive this. The High Fist’s point, I believe, is how we reach the other side, so to speak.”

Bottle sat at another table in the P & P, and with him were Mort, Dacelonid and Mulch.
“You all know my feelings on this matter”, the warrior mage began, “I have become disillusioned with the empire, but there must remain a place in it for DB. One cannot please everyone all the time. The appeal of this empire is vast, and her citizens are a many and varied bunch. I agree that few places exist like this, yet, whilst our diversity is our strength, it is part of the problem. I find it highly unlikely we will all suddenly gain great understanding of the fine nuances of chaos mathematics and have a good yarn about it, nor do I expect this to turn out to be my neuroscience forum. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Childish tantrums will not change this.”
Malarion nodded, “At least I understood you that time.”
Bottle nodded sagely, “That’s because it’s an interpretation by the writer, and not wholly accurate.”
Malarion grinned, “yes, I know the writer, and it will be because he can’t understand you either. No doubt he is simply trying to move the plot along.”
“Hear! Hear!” Shinrei declared. “Speaking as perhaps the city’s staunchest supporter, I say balance can be achieved. A sort of ying and a yang, if you will. And I did know a girl called Yang, once. Googa wooga, she had the sweetest pair…”
“I think we get the picture, Shinrei,” Mulch interrupted, “Save the details for when we get to Discussionboardistan.”
“Aye”, Mort agreed, “That’s what it’s there for, after all.”
Dacelonid stood, motioned for silence by twirling his enormous moustaches, “Gentlemen, I suggest a double round of Fiddler’s Elbow, a round of Codka chasers and a box of crisps.”
The High Fist knew Whiskeypale would be sorely aggrieved but he and Anomander set to work after everyone agreed Dacelonid’s idea was quite wonderful. Dacelonid proposed the toast when everyone was ready.
“To alcohol, the cause of, and answer to, all of life’s problems!”
“And the most wonderful temporary solution!” Mulch echoed.
“Hear! Hear!”

The splayed tip of his right wing brushed the scarred black rocks as Cauthon climbed the whistling updraughts of P & P Spawn. He fixed his beady glass eyes on the city below, his enormous wings beating a thundering rhythm. Tonight he served the Lord of Drunk but Cauthon always thought Mods and Ascendants did a really good job, and he never had any complaints. His eyes narrowed as he approached the glittering jewel of Discussionboardistan, his unnatural vision finding the faint emanations of power and sorcery.
A fell gathering, indeed.
Crooking his wings, he sank towards the estate.

The Council of Discussionboardistan was unrecognisable to the discerning eye. Lord Gordonis, the ancient warrior with an ancient title stood in the shadows, his gingerbread face seemingly baked into a permanent scowl. Seated at the far end of the table was Soth, the Mortal (enormous) Sword of the Earlgrey Swords, contracted to the defence of the city (again). Several others were around the smoke-stained table with him: Tremolo-of-the-flails, a desert warrior with an easy smile; Abyss, the cat-faced tongue-twister that referred to himself in the third person; First Seguleh, the deadliest of them all, perhaps, with his cracked mask and calm poise. His presence was explained by the stunningly beautiful woman that chaired this strange meeting, for he was her protector; yet he was not her only guardian. In the shadows, two sets of narrow canine eyes glittered.
“Delighted”, began Lady Anvy, “To see you all here.”
“This is a truly awesome gathering of martial power, Lady Anvy,” said Lord Gordonis.
“And curious”, added Tremolo as he lounged back his chair, crossed his booted feet and rested them on the table, “That you have done so.”
Lady Anvy favoured him with a secret smile, and enjoyed the awkward swallowing it induced in the man.
“My dear, Tremolo. Just because I do not frequent this place or always agree with the nefarious activities that go on within its shadowy streets, do not presume that I am indifferent to it. We all have our vices, yes? Some of us like particular forms of wrestling, some not.”
The desert warrior shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. He took a long draught of his ale.
“Keeper of soles and seasquids, in answer to your query, you are all of you here in defence of the city. Tremolo will command the garrison, such as it is. The Mortal Sword speaks for the Earlgrey Swords, and though their numbers are much diminished, we would all like to read more of them. Abyss will give us wisdom, one hopes. As for yourself…well, I am sure you would rather I not reveal your purpose for being here.”
Lord Gordonis stepped forwards, “No, though for the purposes of the plot, you can reveal just a little of it.”
“Of course”, she said with her magnificent voice and glorious smile, “yet it is strange that the character you are based on is the very reason that my other character exists in this world. Odd. Also, the girl you seek is in this city, but really half a world away, and dead.”
“Enough”, First Seguleh said, “All these words hurt my head. Speak not in riddles, for they are the tools of cowards. Until now I did not even know this city was causing so much discontent.”
“Not many did”, Tremolo agreed, “Though apparently the Merchant’s Sodden March (MSM) is a veritable hive of perfidiousness and subversion.”
From the darkness, one of the dogs padded forwards and sat at Lady Anvy’s side, its snout arching up to nuzzle her hand.
“Ah, Barkley, good boy.” She returned her attention to the Council. “The Empress will send her Spam Assassins into the streets to cut all the endless, needless threads. If we give her free reign then DB might well be trimmed right back to its original concept.”
“Abyss thinks that might not be such a bad thing. Mwa. Ha. Hah. Abyss also thinks that a certain Jaghut might agree.”
“Perhaps, but not everyone agrees. After all, is it really so difficult to get into and out of this city to savour its delights?”
Tremolo frowned, “Unfortunately, in this city, discussions can get too deep too fast. Sometimes a man just likes to get drunk and talk of inconsequential nonsense without having to reason out or justify his words.”
“Spoken like a T’Lan Imass,” Lady Anvy sighed.
The Mortal (enormous) Sword agreed, “Drunk is good. Being totally drunk is like giving birth. First it hurts, but then all comes out in a rush and you're the happiest person in the world.”
“Ha!” First Seguleh exclaimed (remarkably), “My old companion, Rodeo The Younger, would enjoy your company.”
“Indeed”, Lady Anvy murmured, “Though I doubt the Mortal (enormous) Sword would enjoy that cowboy’s endless advice. I am sorry, Barkley”, she patted his head, “I meant no offence.”
Lady Anvy turned back to the Council, “Very well, this meeting is adjourned.”

When everyone had left, Cauthon padded forwards, the illusion fading. Faintly, as though from across a great ocean, he thought he could here the spinning of a coin.

The walls around her suddenly groaned, the incandescent globes of light suspended from the ceiling dimmed, flared and dimmed again. The roof creaked threateningly, wind picked up, buffeted the window, shaking it and pattering gravel against the glass. The lights went out. Then slowly came back. A tall, cloaked figure stood there, thin and sharp-featured. A mane of silver hair fell down across the black-cloaked shoulders. His eyes had vertical pupils. The silver dragon-skull pommel and ancient crossguard jutted from above his shoulder.
Lady Anvy put her hands on her hips, “You are still wearing your apron.”
Anomander cursed and fumbled with the strings, bundling the apron in his hands and tossing it aside. “I was trying to be really cool there, and dangerous.”
“Oh, you are certainly dangerous, Ano.”
“And mysterious, did you feel that? Did I seem mysterious?”
“Certainly, dear, your mind is indeed a mystery to me.”
Anomander blinked.
A few seconds passed.
“Where are all your Piss’d Andii? Lord of Drunkenness.”
“Drunk. Mort and Bottle talked so much they finally confused one another into unconsciousness. That has not happened to Mort since the last time he was in Genebaris. Oddly enough, it was with this Spamburner sergeant who had this theory about Toblokai and Barghast…”
“Yes, I am sure it is very interesting. Forgive me, but as much as I love intricate characterisation, wine-soaked men and hard-done-to girls that will one day change the world, we need to move the plot on.”
Anomander waved a hand, “Ah, you and your secret projects. Very well, I propose an alliance in the defence of Discussionboardistan. The Adjunct of the Empress is travelling in this direction with a T’Lan Imass and a Claw, both of whom you know.”
“Wonderful.”
“No, it is not. Do you think the Empress has sent them on a mission to meet with their old friends? No, the Empress has some personal interest here, some kin of hers, something buried in a barrow perhaps, I do not know. Added to that, the 2nd Army has a new Fist, and he is said to be more cunning, brilliant and handsome than the High Fist ever was.

He has despatched the Spamburners towards this city.”
“For what purpose? To destroy it?”
“No, to bring it into the Empire. Here the Malazans would create a city of sin, a city without limits or barriers, yet free of Spam. It is because of this, that I do not believe the old Emperor Caldazar is truly dead.”
“Interesting. Your alliance is accepted. I would ask, though, do you know what happened to the assassin known as Rallick?”
Lady Anvy could not help but glance at the massive sword on his back (which led to her to think he had ‘size’ issues).
“No,” Anomander answered.

Lolling in the thick mud of a rain-soaked alley was where he found her. GOOD’s excellent night vision had picked her out.
“Leave it alone”, said Fool, “Whoever it is they are probably dead.”
Somewhere in the distance, GOOD thought he heard the faint spinning of a coin. “Um, you lot go on, I will catch up, yesss, GOOD will catch up.”
Fool and Fooler waved at him, “Fine,” and hurried after the others.
In moments, the streets were empty. The rain drummed in the darkness.
“Yesss”, GOOD muttered, “In the ssshadowsss we mussst remain.”
He entered the alley, stepping carefully around the refuse. Ignored comments and bad jokes littered the mud. The figure groaned and moved, and GOOD found himself smiling down at a strange girl covered in dark mud, “What’sss your name?”
“Kettle,” she said, squinting up at him.
“Look at the messss of you, you’re black.”
She smiled, “You’re a fine one to talk.”
GOOD looked himself up and down; he was clean. A moment later, he understood. “Oh, I get it, though I doubt anyone elssse will. Too sssubtle by half. What are you doing here?”
Kettle shrugged.
“Better come with me, then.”
Kettle shrugged.

“She’s got ice in her veins, that one,” Whiskeypale muttered, his eyes on Sorry.
“She’s a killer”, Mappo offered, “It’s what comes from being a pawn of the Mods.”
Whiskeypale scowled, “Aye, but which Mod?”
“Hard to say, but whoever is behind it has the power to end all of us. Of that, I am certain.”
“The Emperor then.”
“Except he’s dead.”
“You saw the body did you?”
“No, but…I see your point, Sergeant.”
“Did you know that the Adjunct has a T’Lan Imass with her?”
Whiskeypale grunted, “Reckon he’s coming to kill all of us?”
Medium Paced Ben shrugged, “Hood-damned tough bastards. We might be in trouble if he is. Might be he is just going to kill Sorry.”
He did not sound as though he would regret that.
“The only thing that matters, mage, is that she is a Spamburner.”
Medium understood, “And she’s a friend of Rodeo…Aye, sir. I will keep an eye on her.”
Sergeant Whiskeypale squatted on a dome of bedrock above the pebble beach, gazing out over the misty blue surface of Lake Azur. He finished his breakfast of wine and crisps.
“Right, Ben, gather everyone together.”

A short time later, the Spamburners were arrayed in a small circle around the Sergeant. Whiskeypale looked to Monok, “Lieutenant, do you want to brief the men?”
“Think I will leave that to you, Sergeant.”
“Yeah, you do that,” Mappo muttered.
Monok cocked and eyebrow as Whiskeypale’s hand lashed out and cuffed the Corporal’s ear.
“That’s the kind of stupidity that got you demoted, Mappo. You want to be a private again?”
Mappo rubbed his ear, “No, sir, and my demotion wasn’t my fault, it was Mithfanion that bought the monkey…”
“Enough. Okay, we are going in on a boat. Anyone done any fishing?”
There was silence, then Sorry spoke up, “I have, a long time ago.”
“I am not sure if you call what I do ‘fishing’,” said Cap’n Nakky, “Unless we are trying to catch Lurkers.”
“We’re not, so no. All right, Sorry.”
Whiskeypale yanked his gaze from her and turned to his two Sippers.
“Fortrip, Falco, you got everything you need?”
They nodded, grinning ridiculously.
“Fine, here’s the plan then…”

A short time later, MPBen found a secluded glade where he poured white sand in a circle, squatted and closed his eyes. The tiny stick figure appeared on his shoulder, twiglet fingers grasping at his cloak as the acorn head loomed around his ear.
“Wizard”, Talamandas growled, “This is a dangerous game. There are Mods involved.”
“The Mods want no part in this, this is all about us now, the citizens of the Empire. Now be quiet, I am going to try something…”

…the interior of the P & P was just as he remembered it: stale, dark, polished, warm, growling… “Growling?”
Talamandas shrieked as Ben whipped around to find two immense Hounds rising from in front of the fire, hackles raised and lips peeling back from gleaming teeth.
“Aw, crap.”
“You there, what the!”
Ben whirled around as the man appeared behind the bar. The cloth fell from his hands.
“Ben?”
“High Fist?”
Malarion’s face twisted with grumpiness, “Get him!” He screamed at the Hounds.
Ben grabbed Talamandas from his shoulder.
“What are you doing!?” The little figure screeched.
Ben shrugged apologetically and tossed Talamandas across the Inn, “Fetch!”
The Hounds broke off, claws skittering on the floor, turned and raced after the stick man. MPBen faced the High Fist and summoned his warrens, sorcery crackling on his fingertips.
“Sorry, Mal, I actually like you.”

The streets of Discussionboardsitan were a warren of black holes, hidden pits and stone-slabbed courtyards imprisoned by high, dark walls. Beneath the broken arch of a long abandoned thread, a warren flickered open silently. The faint scent of ash and coffee drifted into the clammy night air as two black-robed figures slid out and vanished into the blackness.
“Remain close,” Rhaenar whispered.
“Lead on,” Timoklon answered.

A swirl of dust and maple leafs announced the presence of the T’Lan Imass.
“Adjunct”, he rasped, “We must make haste if we are to arrive in time.”
Rodeo looked up from polishing his helmet, narrowed his eyes. “In time for what?”
Adjunct Bloom looked from T’ooLoose to Rodeo then back again.
“Very well, immortal, we shall pick up the pace.”
Rodeo turned to the T’Lan Imass, “In time for what?”
“For the convergence, Rodeo the younger.”
The Adjunct scowled at T’ooLoose, “He does not need to know, Imass.”
“Need is of no concern to me, Adjunct, friendship is.”
She sneered, “Oh, how very touching.”
T’ooLoose ignored her, “Friend, Rodeo. We are going to release perhaps the only creature capable of resolving this empire.”
Rodeo slumped to the ground, dejected, “Great googa wooga. Friendship is as important to me as you, T’ooLoose, and whilst one of my friends is the pawn of a Mod, my best friend is missing somewhere in Discussionboardistan…I want to find him.”
Quite suddenly, tears spilled from the cowboy’s eyes, tracing little clean streaks through the dirt on his cheeks. The bones and joints of the T’Lan Imass creaked loudly as he knelt before Rodeo, ancient, flat eyes focused on him.
“I will help you find him, what is his name?”
“Barkley. He is my dog. I want to find my dog.”
Adjunct Bloom rolled her eyes and shook her head in disgust, “Until you do, I guess you will settle for having a T’Lan Imass as your bitch, eh?”

“Careful, Falco, remember what happened to Morneson.”
“That had nothing to do with my being busted down to private. It was all Mappo.”
The Corporal piped up, “Hold on, Morneson made his own choices, that stripper was half-Toblokai…”
“Oh, and I suppose now you’re going to blame Rodeo The Younger?”
“It was his idea! Get Jonzey on stage, he said, play the funky music, he said, touch my damned helmet, he said…”
“Yeah, right, Mappo. That old beer-sozzled Canuck was only trying to find the fishergirl and his dog. Still is, from what I heard.”
“Who are you talking about?”
Mappo and Falco forgot the ropes in their callused hands for a moment, their gazes fixed on the small girl with the dead eyes. The boat rolled gently beneath them, the cool breeze of the Lake flapping at the sails. Mappo swallowed hard, licking his lips nervously. Sorry’s expression never changed. She asked again. Falco glanced at Mappo who barely shrugged and neither man could hold her gaze.
“Just an old friends of ours, a crazy old cowboy.”
“What is his name?”
“Why would you…”
The barest hint of a frown from her.
“…I mean, Rodeo the younger.”
With no indication that the name meant anything to her, Sorry turned and headed fore.
“Damn it”, Falco cursed, “Who is she? Where is she from?”
Mappo shook his head, “I don’t know who she is, but I think she is from somewhere around here.”

Snake and Lorn stood at the front of the crowd, Fool, Fooler, Jonzey, Farad Orp’han, Grey Area and two others behind them.
From atop the raised stage at the rear of the newly refurbished Bean and Leaf Café, Cruz regarded them.
“Nay, I am the Kettle of Summer, Kettle of High House Tea, Patron of Tea Drinkers and part-owner of The Bean and Leaf Chain. Welcome, my worthy friends.”
The assembled fools nodded respectfully, sensing now, that the truth of it – Cruz had not died. He had Ascended, and a new House had been born.
“Pray, tell me, who are these two newcomers? I do not recognise them, and I believe if I had ever met this Toblokai I would remember.”
Grey Area cleared his throat, “This is Karsa Orlong.”
The massive Toblokai tugged open his cloak and winked, “Witness.” Within the folds of the cloak, many hundreds of maps and scrolls and coils of parchment were tied. He closed the cloak.
Cruz smiled, “I offer you the position of Cup of High House Tea. My Warlord.”
“Accepted.”
“And your friend”, Cruz said, “so very small by comparison.”
“This”, Farad Orp’han said, “is Solitude. He is a writer.”
“One should never be fooled by appearances”, Solitude drawled, “For nothing is ever as it seems.”
Cruz seemed to like that. “Sage advice, oh unappreciated one. Perhaps I can think of a position to suit your talents.”
Just then, GOOD wandered in, a small, strange and dirty girl clutching his hand.
“GOOD,” Cruz announced happily, “He-Who-Made-Me. Welcome, come in. Lorn, some Tea for my friend, please.”
GOOD came to stand before Cruz.
“Who is your new friend?” Asked the Kettle of Summer.
“Her name is Kettle.”
“Wonderful! How apt! How clever and fortunate. Tea for everyone!”
In moments, everyone had broken off to drink tea and eat cakes and biscuits. Everyone except Snake, who remained, his eyes flickering from Kettle to Cruz and back again. Moments passed in silence. Cruz looked at Snake and Kettle and so on…
“Why are you watching us?” Kettle asked.
“To see if it is true, little one, and to see who does it first,” Snake answered.
“Huh?”
“Boils.”

The Inn was empty, and Gear and PUG slept soundly by the dying embers of the fire. The ravaged and broken figure of Talamandas lay before them, one snapped leg under Gear’s paw, his tooth-scored acorn head staring up at PUG’s snout inches above him. Talamandas’ exhausted slumber was broken, though there was no noise. He forced open one badly swollen eye but could see little beyond the deep shadows…as it grew darker.

Shinrei had felt the calling, the silent, inexplicable urge to rise from his cot and effect entry into the Inn. The Hounds slept by the hearth, oblivious to his presence, and it was a moment before he realised that theirs was a sorcerous slumber. In the darkness, Shinrei eased his daggers into his palms, the hilts cool against his skin.
“You would kill me?” Asked the voice.
Shinrei froze, his muscles taught, eyes peering into the unnaturally dark shadows.
“That depends.”
A tall figure flowed smoothly out of the blackness in front of him, black-robed and features hidden beneath a cowl. When he spoke, he almost sounded amused.
“If I thought you were able to do so then I would have arranged your death long ago, Shinrei.”
“Caldazar?”
“Ah, so you do remember. Excellent. I require your services once more.”
“You will find my rates reasonable, as always.”
Caldazar laughed softly from the shadows, “I am glad you retained your sense of humour. I am not an unkind patron, as you know. If you do this thing for me, I will be…grateful. You are the Assassin of High House Shadow, are you not?”
Shinrei sighed, “Fine. How many?”
“Oh, no more than you can handle. Let us call it…a little house cleaning, shall we?”
“And just how many other vipers are in this nest you are sending me into?”
“A few, I should think. The Empress has played her hand, Fist Gamet his. Which reminds me, where is the High Fist?”
Shinrei knew that meant Spam Assassins and probably Corporal Mappo.
“Nobody knows, he just damn well vanished.”
“There were warrens unveiled in here, not too long ago. I can still smell them. Anyway, here are a few names, then…”

A few minutes later and Caldazar was gone. Shinrei went behind the bar and poured himself a large glass of wine, downed it and repeated the process. He stared grimly at the empty glass on the bar, his fist still wrapped around it.
“Hood’s balls, what’s the old saying? Do unto others before they do unto you.”

The little fat man with the flopping sleeves walked from the Inn’s door and turned left. Sergeant Whiskeypale wiped the sweat from his brow, squinting in the sunlight. He glanced at Monok but the Lieutenant seemed distracted.
“That’s the one, Sergeant,” said Sorry.
“You’re sure? What’s important about him?”
“I admit, I don’t know, but I am sure he’s the one we want.”
“Fine, go follow him.”
Sorry nodded and slipped into the crowd.
The Sergeant and the Lieutenant were resting against the wall. Messremb and Blues were swinging their picks as though they were in a battle. Fortrip and Falco ducked and cursed as stones flew across the street every time a pick struck the road. Mithfanion stood a short distance away, directing pedestrians to the other side of the street.
Mappo and Ben had been gone for hours now.
“This still feels strange”, Monok muttered, “planting these mines in plain sight.”
Whiskeypale agreed but Falco had assured him it would work. “I know, Lieutenant, but if we get it just right, when they go off we will take out every bit of spam, flame and unnecessary thread in the city.”
“And you think that’s what the Empress wants?”
“Who knows, how many Poles do you know that make sense? All right, perhaps I am being unfair. It’s this damned heat, that’s all.”
The Spamburners continued to rip up the cobbles, replacing them with Walkers Crisps encased in fire-hardened clay. Whiskeypale groaned.
“My beautiful crisps.”
Monok frowned, “Listen, Sergeant, should we not have heard from our friends by now?”
“Mappo and Ben will be fine, sir, and Cap’n Nakky knows what we need.”

Spindle wriggled his toes beneath the cool sand, lulled by the serene and gentle lapping of water on the twin shores. The sky remained uniform grey, the calm waters, black and unbroken. Lounging with his breeches rolled up to the knees and a large tome in his hands, he sighed and sipped his tea.
Across from him, Imperial Historian struck a similar, satisfied pose.
“It says here”, Spindle began, “That Discussionboardistan had been born on a rumour. Years ago, in the early days of this realm, many great people struggled for dominion. Some few still survive: Caldazar, Lady Anvy, Gothos, Rodeo the younger…there are others of whom I can find little, and I cannot even be sure of those I named. The legend is that somewhere in the hills around here there lies the barrow of a Jaghut containing many riches and treasures for they were very influential, creators of private messages and capable of furious tirades and savage comments.”
“It is said that this Jaghut built the first thread in Discussionboardistan, and such was his power that others were drawn to it. In those days it was kept quiet, secluded…the way the Jaghut liked it. Thus, it was born on a rumour.”
Imperial Historian was impressed, “That is surprisingly close to how the real GoTM is written! That’s spooky.”
Spindle nodded, “But few now even remember it was he that created it. It is rare, but Jaghut creations have fallen into human hands with disastrous results. The message is clear for all who would choose to see it.”
Imperial Historian considered, “Nostalgia just isn’t what it used to be.”
Spindle smiled, “Yes, to err is human, but to really screw things up…”
Imperial Historian laughed and finished for him, “You need a Mod.”

Corporal Mappo and Ben were at the back of the cramped, dark warehouse, the assassin watching patiently as Mappo paced slowly back and forth. In the centre of the little room, bound and gagged and seated on an old chair amongst the detritus, the High Fist remained defiant. Cap’n Nakky was squatting on a crate on front of him, elbows propped on his knees and hands cupped under his chin.
“You do know, Fist, that Fist Gamet was sorely tempted just to have Mappo here kill you off?” Nakky said. “The Empress has got plans for this place, and she don’t take kindly to you changing the colour of your cloak. You want to talk now?”
Malarion nodded.
“Hold on”, Mappo said as the Cap’n reached for the gag, “Are we sure we want him talking? I mean, I was kind of enjoying the silence.”
Ben glanced at Mappo, “Come on, Mappo, you and the High Fist are both Seven Cities, just like the Fist. I didn’t go to all the trouble of getting him just because he looks good.”
“But he doesn’t.”
“Exactly, I was nearly lunch for PUG and Gear, and I lost my little stick man in the process.”
Mappo relented, “Alright…I mean, all right. Don’t be complaining if he just shouts and moans and gets all grumpy.”
Cap’n Nakky pulled the gag from the High Fist’s mouth.
“You three are very brave with me tied and unarmed,” Malarion mocked.
“Come on, High Fist, you know the score. If we could all just turn away from this whole damn thing and walk then we would, but we can’t, can we?”
“So what does the Empress propose, Ben? A cull? Take everything that is interesting and controversial and destroy it all?”
Ben stepped closer, “Listen, this is all tied to that assassin that vanished. High House Tea means to finish his work and destroy this place completely, but that’s not what we want.”
Malarion laughed (honest), “And what is it you want, then?”
“Change. Compromise. To put a stop to High House Tea. The Fist would rather see everyone talk it out and come to an agreement. We all agree that this city cannot and must not be destroyed, but too many of the inhabitants were once regular contributors to the rest of the Empire.”
The High Fist narrowed his eyes, “And what would happen to those people, were they to return? Would Bavarel have us lining the road from here to Pale, nailed to crosses?”
“I doubt it, I think we just want you all to come back.”
“And if I did, would you all read my work?”
“I already did”, said Cap’n Nakky, “And it was very good, although, grammatically…”
“Yes, yes”, Malarion interrupted, scowling, “You made your damn point.”

The streets of Discussioboardistan were wrapped in shadows, shrouded in the dark of night. Two black-clad figures moved with lethal grace from one welcoming shadow the next, unseen.
“Out work begins tonight, Timoklon.”
“Very well, Rhaenar.”
“The Empress was right not to trust in the Fist. He is too soft, and speaks when he should act.”
“Thus, we shall act. As much as I will enjoy killing a Piss’d Andii, what is to become of the City Council?”
Rhaenar’s answering smile was cruel, “The Empress has recruited some old friends…one older than any other.”

Cruz regarded his followers.
“Our night has come, my friends. Too long has this city been corrupted in the hands of its inept Council and their mercenary soldiers. High House Tea has no time for empty words and endless discussions – that is the Imperial way, and we are free men, are we not?”
Jonzey, Lorn and Kettle glanced at one another and then Lorn raised her hand, “Technically speaking, no. We’re not.”
Cruz smiled amiably, “Then you are free women, are you not?”
GOOD’s eyes widened, “Free women? Where?”
Fooler laughed, “Not that kind of ‘free’.”
Cruz put his hands on hips and stamped his foot irritably, “Yes, thank you, Fooler. I was in the middle of a dramatic speech. Now, ah, yes, no more talking! High House Tea shall boil! Let this city feel our wrath this night! Death to the Council!”

Magnanimous One struggled uphill once more, the cloak of night falling upon the city at his back. Before long, the ramshackle café of his dreams loomed before him. Wheezing, and dabbing the sweat from his brow, he pushed open the door and entered.
There were no longer six beggars, but one, and in the dirt before the squatting figure, lay a statue of a snake.
“Unfortunate”, came the voice from within the Cowl, “That he chose to seek me out.”
“Alas! This poor woolgatherer should come upon such melancholy and uncheerfulness – and melancholy, you ask, is not the name of a sad dog – when his throat puts deserts to shame. Desert, says I, not dessert, which would please this poor man and soothe the ache of his flayed feet! Are you depressed, curious friend? Ah, but poor Magnanimous One reminds his friend that depression is just anger without enthusiasm!”
The beggar continued as though he had not heard (which was impossible) “This world was not ready for such a union.” He passed a hand over the stone snake and it vanished.
“And now”, he began, “our tale must digress. A convergence must come sooner than we expected. The Empress plays her games with too many cards…”
“No doubt she likes a rigged game, unlike honest Magnanimous One, whose fame for generosity invites invites to many card games.”
“But the Spamburners will not play her game. The Empress has ignored the history between them and the Son of Drunkenness and his allies. Nor is the Emperor dead, and now he calls on old debts. High House Tea will either triumph this night, or be destroyed.”
“Tea” Magnanimous One began, “must not be destroyed! Alas! What would ease this poor dreamer’s throat if there were no tea? How sad for the cakes and scones…”

A faint nimbus of energy surrounded Ben as he vanished, a black outline in the night. On the flat, weaving roofs of Discussionboardistan, Mappo frowned uneasily.
“You’ll stay close, right?”
“You know I will, now follow him.”
Mappo set off, stalking silently across the roofs, his dark robes wound tightly to his body, hands never far from the hilts of his knives. The assassin they followed was making it easy enough, but then, that was the point.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Ben’s voice whispered in the dark.
“I always do, quite now, this is it.”
The figure slipped into the black shadows of a courtyard and vanished.
“Damn”, Mappo said, “Where did he go?”
Mappo settled onto the edge of a roof, scanning the empty yard some way below.
“I think”, Ben whispered, “They expect us to go down and make contact.”
“I don’t bloody think so.”
The corner of another roof stabbed out beneath Mappo, and it was there that he finally saw the man they had been following. He too, lay face down, as if expecting Mappo and Ben to come wandering down the street the way he had.
“Hold on”, Ben murmured, “Something’s not right…”
Beads of sweat blossomed on Mappo’s forehead, despite the cold night air.
“Ben? Ben?”
Silence answered him.
“Oh, Hood’s balls on a pointy stick…”

Grey Area settled quietly into position, low to the roof, no outline visible against the sky.
“Farad?”
The answer came from the black below.
“Grey, are they coming, then?”
“Yes.”
“Good, everyone is ready, keep your head down.”

Korik drifted towards the city roofs, a black shape flickering against the stars. Two figures on the roof, one glowing with magery – a high mage at that. They were on a roof above another figure, and surrounding them all, a dozen shapes moved carefully inwards in a tightening circle upon the two.
Korik motioned to Mulch, Dacelonid and Mort and the four Piss’d Andii marked their targets.

Mappo’s only warning was a prickling of hairs in the back of his neck. Instinctively, he rolled, the bolt ripping down across his shoulder as he did so. Knives in hand, he was on his knees as the figure leapt towards him, arbalest dropped and knives whipping out. Mappo ducked the swipe, extended his arm and twisted, rolling and tugging the knife down into his attackers groin as he rolled free. The figure slumped with a grunt.
He scurried (as well as someone as fat as him could) to the side of the building and looked out across the rooftops. Black shapes raced about in the dark, vanishing down into the streets below. Some of them looked to be too tall to be humans, and one of them was heading his way.
“Crap”, said Ben’s voice suddenly beside him, “This is going to get too tough.” A small jewel left his hand, tumbled through the dark and disappeared.
“Mappo, follow me.”
“What happened?”
“High House Tea set us a nice little trap, and I think Anomander got wind of it. Let’s go.”
They slipped down into the streets.
Above, the jewel cracked and blue-black smoke spilled forth, resolving itself into a demon.
“So”, said the Demon as the Piss’d Andii stopped before him, “Why don’t we talk a while?”
“Out of my, demon”, Mort warned, “I have business to take care of.”
“Tell me, Mort, do you believe as the jaghuts do? That violence and corruption are inherent, if not necessary, in a capitalist society?”
Mort wanted to leave, but could not…he had to give answer.

Snake slipped down the wall, lost his footing momentarily as he thudded to the lower roof. Glancing snakily upwards, he paused and listened. There was no sound. Sure that he had escaped the Piss’d Andii, he set off. He had witnessed the deaths of Arithon, Altahn (who had been ignorant of spammers) and DufferFool at the hands of those immortal killers…
…A huge figure loomed before him. His features were hard to distinguish in the dark, but the long silver hair and the immense two-handed sword in his hands was unmistakable. Snake skidded to a halt.
“I have been waiting for this moment for a long time,” Anomander said, unable to hide the pleasure in his voice. “From Spamnipur there can be no release, you know this.”
Snake grinned meekly, “Come on, you know I have always admired and respected the Mods. I am no trouble maker, just a harmless guy having fun, eh? Ano? Come on. Imagine life without me…”
“I have been.”
“Ha!” Snake blurted nervously, “And they say Mods have no sense of humour.”
“Who says that?” Anomander asked calmly.
“Who? Oh, not me! I didn’t mean me…crap.”
“Mother Dark always told me to allow children to make their own mistakes, and to laugh at their stupidity to help them along. Your time has come, Snake.”
Anomader stepped forwards, and to Snake, it seemed that the night itself had come alive to take his soul. His legs wouldn’t work, his mouth went dry as Anomander raised Spamnipur…

As she neared the Gadrobi hills, Adjunct Molly Bloom began to sense an urgency to her task. Riding hard to stay on schedule, she had, reluctantly, been forced to give up on Rodeo The Younger and leave him behind. Two days past, the Canuck Cowboy had been delirious, claiming that a vision of Flaming Pants and a floating, fire-shrouded Helmet had come to him in the night. Unable to deter him from his path, she had considered killing him but was uncertain that T’ooLoose Cannon would stand by and allow it. Rodeo had ridden off in pursuit of a Caravan of Barghast Strippers and clowns headed for Discussionboardistan. They had departed with Rodeo’s advice ringing in her ears… If you work too hard, and keep your nose to the grindstone, you will eventually grind it off… Don't steal. The government hates competition… Never take life too seriously. Nobody gets out alive anyway.
The last had seemed oddly poignant.
“Are we there yet?” She asked of T’ooLoose as he walked alongside her.
“No.”
The day stretched on.
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“How will we find this barrow?”
The desiccated face regarded her, and un-nerved her. “I am born of an Elder time, Adjunct, as was this Jaghut. In a time before Omtose Foolack, High House Newbie, High House Tea, The Fooldom…all of them, in days long gone.”
“And so you will sense it?”
“I see you understand, Adjunct.”
“What was this Jaghut’s name? Do you know?”
“He has been known by many, Adjunct: Cap’n Sparrow, Charnel, Garret, G-Man…”
“Has he an original name?”
“Ah, but there in lies a truth unseen by mortals. Mods understand, as do we immortals. There are names, and then there are ‘names’.”
The Adjunct frowned once more.
“And what was his name?”
T’ooLoose stopped, raised his hand to point. “We are here.”
“Where? This hill of dirt?”
“I admit to some concern about our mission now.”
That chilled her to the bone. If T’ooLoose Cannon was concerned, it meant she should probably be terrified.
“”Adjunct, should we free this tyrant, and should he escape our control, he is capable of levelling this entire forum. He would enslave everyone, even us, and build power to rival the Mods.”
Adjunct Blooom glanced at her Otataral sword and felt suddenly very powerless.
“How, then, will we control it?”
“We cannot, for this is the gamble the Empress takes.”
“What?”
“The Lord of P & P Spawn, Son of Drunkenness, Keeper of Beer, Adjunct. He will have to intervene.”
“And he could defeat this jaghut?”
“Yes, though it will cost him dearly, and even if the jaghut prevails, Anomander would cost him dearly. Thus, the Empress wins either way.”
The T’Lan Imass dissolved to dust and swirled up and over the hill. The Adjunct waited for the best part of an hour until he returned.
“It is done, Adjunct. My mission is complete, and so, I will leave you now. I suggest you head back to Discussionboardistan with haste, for even now, Gothos stirs.”
The name chilled her blood.

Sorry moved easily from shadow to shadow in the dark streets and narrow alleys. The commotion on the rooftops had died away and the powerful beings she had sensed in the night sky were gone, which was lucky…for them. Her attention caught in the faintest glimmer from the centre of the street ahead. She arrived to find a silver coin, lying half-propped between the cobbles.
She picked it up, turned it over in her hands, set her thumb under one side and flipped it. A hand snapped out and closed around the coin. Sorry stumbled back. She had never been startled and caught unawares – it was a new and disturbing sensation. The man in the jester hat and floppy robes had not been there a moment before. Little bells jangled on his hat. He had a stuffed toy of some kind of cartoon mouse under one arm, his features were tanned, and his robes were adorned in four-leaf clovers.
“Beggora, lass! You’ll nat be wontin to toss sach a thing around so blithely, says I. A tassed coin, such as that which ye have, moight be all that’s required to distract an ascendant just long enough for a friend to escape. Such a coin moight land in a dark street and be found by a pretty lass.”
“Oponn.”
“Tis I, to be sure. You’ll forgive an oirish trickster a dramatic entrance, beggora. Returned, has I, from across a vast ocean, to sever the strings your shadowy mester has set upon thee. And now, sweet puppet, ye be free.”
Oponn flourished his arms and disappeared…and Apsalar fell to her knees and wept.

“Ah, such strange weather, Magnanimous One declares. Surprised? Indeed not, for this poor man is a veritable fountain of secrets, a gushing waterfall no less. Swirls of dust that moved contrary to the wishes of the wind speak not of dust-devils, unless said expression poses no insult to the withered individual?”
The dust coalesced.
“It does not”, said T’ooLoose, “Futility and indifference born of hundreds of thousands of years ensures we cannot be insulted.”
“Ah ha! As old as a jaghut, yet so unlike a jaghut. Oh dried and withered one, I call upon the ancient bindings, for your aid.”

Dark Daze cowered before Cruz, trying to make himself as small as possible, hoping, in vain, to avoid notice. How quickly he had gotten used to his new master’s terrible rages. Cruz flung a tea set across the room, smashing the crockery. Dark, hot liquid sprayed the wall, running down like tea-coloured blood. Dark Daze believed he would escape punishment this time, for the Kettle of Summer has his attention fixed upon the survivors of the roof-top debacle.
“So tell me, Fool, Fooler, GOOD, how did the ambush go so wrong? And where is Snake?”
“It was the Piss’d Andii, they came from above to kill everyone.”
“Grey Area, Farad, did you not lead the Spamburners as you were supposed to?”
“We did, but they never took the last step, maybe they are dead, like Snake.”
A voice from the back of the chamber, “Well, if I am dead, then I guess I am in the wrong book. Here, does my breath smell, then?”
Snake swaggered across the floor, “Well, don’t all rush to welcome me at once.”
“But I saw you…faced by Anomander himself. How did…”
“I escape? Well, I dazzled him with fancy words, edging ever closer, then used my ninja skills to strike like a cobra, knocking the sword away and drop-kicking him over the side before tumbling backwards, slaying another Piss’d Andii one the way.”
Silence.
Lots of silence.
“Fine!” He shrugged and grinned, “Someone hit him in the face with a coin, and he cursed just long enough for me to get away.”
Cruz arched an eyebrow, “That was lucky.”
The shadows behind Snake blurred, and there was flash of steel. Snake reeled suddenly, eyes wide in horror. There followed several short, sharp sounds, of flesh being sliced and torn. Snake fell to his knees, blood welling up in his throat. His companions stared as the shadows withdrew, a soft voice fading. “In all things, there must be balance.”
Jonzey was the first to move, stepping tentatively forwards. Snake was not moving, coiled on the floor. She nudged him with her toe.
“Now that”, she whistled, “was unlucky.”

It was an age of Flame, sweeping across grass plains beneath pewter skies, a Flame whose thirst assailed all life, mindless, unrelenting, like a beast that did not know itself. In his hunt for domination, Gothos saw the many ways of the Flame, the subtle sculpting of ideas and subversion through many hundreds of posts, and arguments that raged back and forth for days.
They had tried to change him, shape his nature and force him to comply, time and again, but Gothos defied definition. Unable to flex his might in this one realm, he had taken what power and influence he had and created a new realm, a place of rage and abandon and freedom. Just like in that movie, he had built it, and they had come. It should have lasted for millennia, this realm where he subjugate the mortals. Until the day he left for a well-earned vacation in a spot favoured by jaghut. There, in his idleness, they had imprisoned him beneath the barrow.
Now he was free.
Gothos knew what had become of his creation. It had been subverted beyond its original concept, and he felt anger. His realm had been given a name – Discussionboardistan – by mortals, and Gothos decreed that if he could not have it, then none would. It must be destroyed.

Anomander raised his eyes at the ring of bells from above the front door to the P & P. Surprised, he grinned. “High Fist. I had thought you were dead.”
“Not dead, married. On second thoughts…”
“Ah, it gladdens me to see you so grumpy.”
“Really? Is this the whole ‘misery loves company’ thing? What’s wrong with you?”
“No, I am fine, all things considered. I just mean that if you are grumpy then you must be well. It is your natural disposition, is it not?”
Malarion scowled, too tired to argue, “Damn it, Ano, just beer me, and fast.”
The two old friends settled down and drank heavily for a short time.
“So”, Ano said, “why did the Spamburners let you go then?”
“Because we are on the same side, Ano, us and them. We both want the same thing…what’s wrong?”
Anomander had straightened suddenly, looking as though he had caught the scent of prey…or a hunter.
“I must go.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
Anomander strode for the door, clearly troubled. “Gothos is coming.”

The jaghut tyrant looked into the sky above him, the massive, sliver-black dragon banking towards him.
“Harass me not, Rake. I cannot enslave you but I will destroy you.”
Anomander’s derision swept through his mind.
“So be it.”
Gothos spread his arms and unleashed his warren. He both felt and heard the hills crack all around him, snapping of stone and sundering of crags.
“Feel my power!”
The dragon veered, swept towards him and Gothos found himself staring into its dire maw. He shrieked, released his power and tumbled as the two warrens collided and detonated. Gothos lashed out, his sorcery scoring great gouges down the dragon’s flank. A massive claw crunched around him, lifting him high even as the huge talons crushed his chest, bones snapping like dried twigs. Gothos grabbed the leg, unleashed power to boil blood and bones. The claw spasmed and Gothos fell, tumbling to the ground, laughing.
Lurching to this feet, he realised the body was beyond repair, but it mattered not in this virtual world.
“Now”, he said, his eyes following the dragon as it banked high in the air, “I deliver death.”

The tyrant’s gaze swept round to find a mortal standing before him. He was oddly dressed, the man, in a faded, tattered coat with food-stained cuffs and pink pantaloons.
“Oh my”, said the mortal, “you have not aged well at all.”
“Have you come to grovel at my feet? My first acolyte eager for reward?”
“You would like that, Gothos, wouldn’t you? Alas, no, for weak, mortal, humble Magnanimous One bows to neither man, jaghut nor Mod. This poor man stands before you so that you may gaze upon his benign countenance in the last moments before your demise. Rather magnanimous of me, all things considered.”
The tyrant’s hand shot out, unleashed a torrent of sorcery that engulfed Magnanimous One. A voice spoke to Gothos’ left. “Rude. Disappointing.”
“What game is this?” Gothos flared.
A sound behind him alerted him too late as a massive flint sword crunched down through his shoulder, shattering the collarbone, ribs, sternum, and severing the spine. Gothos collapsed in two pieces.
“Forgive poor old Magnanimous One, how rude to answer rudeness in kind. I should have introduced my companion, alas! Poor tyrant, even mortals can kill you in this realm.”
Gothos gave a soft, hollow laugh, “Perhaps, but not yet.”
The battered, withered body collapsed.
Magnanimous One pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed his brow.
“Oh my.”

The High Fist gathered the Piss’d Andii before him in the beer garden.
“Right, here’s the plan. We are going down to the city to find and kill the remnants of High House Tea. I want their chain of cafés closed down.”
Gear growled and Mort raised his hand, “Excuse me, Mal, me ol’ cobber, but…that’s it? That’s the great plan?”
“If you had read about me, Mort, you would know that I am not a big one for revealing battle plans and strategies.”
“Ouch”, Dacelonid whistled, “That’s going to upset someone.”
Malarion smiled, “We shall see. Anyway, let’s go, this is the penultimate chapter of the story.”
Bottle frowned, “But how can it be? Will Rodeo find his Dog? Will be shut down HH Tea? Will Apsalar find Rodeo? Will we discover finally why Mappo was demoted? Will we reveal who killed Snake? Will GOOD finally nail Jonzey? Will anyone realise the identity of the shadowy man in the first chapter? WILL ANBODY REALLY CARE AT ALL?”

Rodeo staggered from the Phoenix Inn, instantly glad of the cool evening air. He regretted leaving the Barghast sisters behind, for even though they had nearly killed him, they would miss the awesome power of the legendary helmet. The air smelled of a cool summer night, of fresh grass and spices. He smiled, guessing by the vast array of bizarrely dressed folks in the streets, that there was some sort of carnival starting.
“A party! Great googa wooga! And Mod Bless the flaming pants! This is as near to heaven as a mortal comes!”
Crowds swept past him, laughing and singing as the wine flowed freely. A smallish man with a crooked smile paused before him. Dressed in crimson pantaloons tied off at the knee, a rainbow-coloured silk shirt with painted-on breasts and huge distasteful earrings, he grinned and looked Rodeo up and down.
“Great costume, friend! You should follow us to Lady A’s Estate!” He raised a mug in salute and plunged back into the crowd. Rodeo’s smile faded, and he looked confused.
“But, I’m not wearing a costume…”

Falco grabbed Fortrip by the scruff and yanked him closer. A surge of the crowd caused them to clatter together, and Fortrip pulled free, unaware of the ruby lipstick marks Falco had left on his forehead.
“Urm…”
“What?”
“Nothing, ‘Trip. Who were you talking to?”
“Didn’t you see? It was Rodeo the younger. I told him where we were going. Hope he understood.”
“Damn, that’s right, that fancy council woman’s got the mutt, hasn’t she? Nice one, ‘Trip. Right, let’s go get roaring drunk!”
“The Sergeant won’t like that.”
Falco waved a hand, “Whiskeypale? Mods below, ‘Trip, he’s the worst out the lot of us. That man used to drink toe-to-toe with Rodeo, back in the day. We have to get moving, Fist Gamet has the 2nd Army outside the east gate, and Brood and Iron Bars are near the west gate.”

The guards had denied him access, informing him that his name was not on the list. Rodeo had heard that particular line often, and knew he would have to affect a clandestine entry. A short wander later took him to the east wall, in the deep blue shadows of a Cyprus grove.
“Psst.”
Rodeo glanced up, startled by the small figure lying atop the wall. She smiled and reached down a hand.

Lady Anvy and Abyss stood on the marble balcony, looking down upon the proceedings in the gardens. Clever alchemy had turned the flames of the pole-torches lining the gravel paths between the bushes and flower gardens to blues and purples and pinks and even green. A sudden commotion directly below caught their attention. It was the followers of High House Tea.
Fool, Fooler, Lorn, Jonzey, GOOD, Grey Area and Farad stood in a circle around Cruz, a small odd-looking girl, and his manservant, weapons drawn and grinning in their bizarre (but eye-catching and well-made) costumes. Cruz, the Kettle of Summer, lost some of his powerful presence because of his Panda costume.
“Come down and kneel before me, Lady Anvy. The council is finished.”
From the archways beneath the balcony, Tremolo-of-the-flails strode out to confront them, Lord Gordonis and Soth of the Earlgrey Swords also. Cruz laughed evilly.
“Pathetic. I have a surprise of my own.” A warren opened and a small, wisened man strode out, coughing from the tea-scented smoke. Cruz frowned. The small man glanced around, aware of everyone looking at him. Comprehension dawned. “Oh, I see, HE was meant to come out first.”
A huge Toblokai warrior strode out, scores of severed tea-bags trophies tied to a thing around his thick neck. “Witness!” Lifting his massive sword (because he also had ‘size’ issues) he advanced on the three men. The crowds scattered, screams filled the air, servants cowed as the Karsa engaged them. His first swing shattered Tremolo’s sword, the reverse-stroke catching Lord Gordonis on the side of the head with the flat of the blade, knocking him out cold. Soth thrust, slicing down Karsa’s ribs, grating on bone. Karsa roared, punched Tremolo in the face, shattering teeth, then swept his blade down, cutting Soth in half, from right shoulder to left hip. Nearby, solitude giggled. Karsa threw back his head and roared. “WITNESS!”
“Witness this,” answered the quiet voice.
Karsa growled, looked down to find a man in a cracked, white mask staring at him.
“This discussion has raged on the forums.”
“Who would win between you and I?” First Seguleh asked softly, “I will totally kick your ass.”
Karsa grinned, “Man, I am gonna make you ma bitch!”
A score of men in the crowds now cast off their disguises and drew weapons. HH Tea turned to face them.
“Mods below!” Lorn shouted, “The Spamburners and the Piss’d Andii have joined forces!”
Adjunct Bloom, Monok, Whiskeypale, Mappo, MPBen, Mithfanion, Blues, Fortrip, Falco and Messremb were arrayed in a half-circle, and alongside them were Anomander, Malarion, Shinrei, Bottle, Mort, Korik, Shinrei, Dacelonid and the hound Gear.
They cried out and charged. HH Tea came to meet them, and the gardens descended into chaos…
The fighting raged: Timoklon and Rhaenar appeared from the shadows, striking at the Piss’d Andii. Fool fell to the swords of Messremb and Korik, with Korik then being mortally wounded by Cruz himself. Shinrei found himself alongside the High Fist, and they both stared in disbelief as Fool’s corpse rose again, crying out triumphantly (in a polish accent). Anomander stepped back, gritted his teeth.
“Gothos.”
“Indeed, alas, a dragon destroyed my other body.”
The Adjunct groaned, “Never meddle in the affairs of dragons…”
The jaghut lashed out with sorcery, rending the earth in deafening concussions. Screams filled the air. The boles of the trees exploded, shattered and caught fire. Messremb, Mappo, Blues, Bottle and Shinrei were down, dead or wounded. Karsa and the First Seguleh had both been thrown against a wall and knocked unconscious. Suddenly, Gear was leaping through the air, jaws opening, fangs flashing as Gothos turned, exposing his throat…

Rodeo and Apsalar reached the top of the stairs, casting their eyes around in the gloom. The fighting outside had reached a crescendo, explosions rocking the building violently. Off to his left, through an open door and on to the other side of the room, Rodeo saw Lady Anvy and Abyss, and beside them…
“Barkley.” His voice was a bare whisper, tears welling in his eyes.
Barkley tensed.

…Massive jaws crunched around the jaghut’s head, grinding bones and tearing flesh. Gothos punched Gear in the flank, driving sorcery into the hound that threw the soletaken ten feet into the air. Gear landed with a crunch…

Barkley coiled and leapt over the balcony.
“Noooooooo!” Rodeo was scrambling forwards, hands outreaching…

Gothos spared a glance for the mortal dog with the shaggy coat and evil eyes as it bounded towards him, growling furiously. Gothos flicked a finger, the earth beneath the dog exploded and it vanished in a hail of dirt and stone.
But the momentary diversion was all the Falco needed. A round shape flew through the air towards the jaghut, who watched it with growing curiosity as it thudded into the earth in front of him. Gothos laughed.
“You aim is poor, morta…”
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

When the dirt finally settled, only a deep, smoking crater marked where the jaghut had stood. The ragged survivors of the Spamburners and Piss’d Andii mourned the dead. Fool, Fooler and Grey Area were dead, the others had somehow vanished, as had Karsa, his argument with the First Seguleh unfinished. All eyes fell on the cowboy with the battered helmet and sadly smouldering pants, on his knees, bent over the body of a dog. He wept freely, in a manly fashion (not girly or gay). A soft hand on his shoulder made him turn. Lady Anvy smiled down at him.
“Old friend, Barkley has ascended.”
On his other side, a small, cold hand touched rested on his, and Rodeo found himself staring into the eyes of a strange little girl. She smiled through the dirt.
“Will you be my father, now?”

Mort tugged at Corporal Mappo’s sleeve and nodded, “How about we go find ourselves a monkey, some beers and a video camera? I hear there are some Barghast strippers in town.”
“Oh, no. Not that again!” cones…”

[caladanbrood]

Oh my lord. Such memories, thank you aps! Molly Bloom, Grey Area, where did you disappear to?

[RodeoRanch]

Ha, still brilliant.

[Fist Gamet]

YAY! You found it! I thought it was lost for all time! Right now I am doing the happy dance

[Shinrei]

Wow, if we ever have another "members lost in the warrens thread" again all the names are right there!

I'd forgotten all about that story. Gamet is legend.

[Tremolo]

Gamet, Legend be thy name!

[Tiste Simeon]

I have a bunch of these knocking around somewhere. I think I have Teahouse Gates and maybe another one. Will have to dig them out! Classic stuff!