The healer grimaced. 'Aye, Silverfox is reaching out to the captain — but he's been pushing her away — so there hasn't been some kind of endless exchange of information going on. He knows she's alive, as he says, and I guess he can make out something of just how far away she is, but it goes no further than that. Damn you, Picker. You think you and the rest of us Bridgeburners have been singled out for yet another betrayal, just because Paran's not talking to you? He's not talking to anyone! And if you had as many holes burned through your guts as he does, you'd be pretty damned tight-lipped yourself! Now, all of you, just cut it! Look to yourselves and if that's shame you see it's damned well been earned!'

Picker fixed her gaze on the captain's back. The man had not moved. Would not face his company. Could not — not now. Mallet had a way of turning things right over. Paran was a sick man, and sick people don't think right. Gods, I had torcs biting my arm and I was losing it fast. Oh, ain't I just stepped in a pile of dung. Swearing someone else's to blame all the while, too. I guess Pale's burns are a far way from healing. Damn. Hood's heel on my rotted soul, please. Down and twist hard.

Paran barely heard the shouted exchanges behind him. He felt assailed by the pressure of Silverfox's presence, leading to a dark desire to be crushed lifeless beneath it — if such a thing was possible — rather than yield.

A sword between his shoulder-blades — no god to intervene this time. Or a final, torrential gush of blood into his stomach as its walls finally gave way — a painful option, but none the less as final as any other. Or a leap down into the mob below, to get torn apart, trampled underfoot. Futility whispering of freedom.

She was close indeed, as if she strode a bridge of bones stretching from her to where he now stood. No, not her. Her power, that was so much more than just Tattersail. Making its relentless desire to break through his defences much deadlier of purpose than a lover's simple affection; much more, even, than would be born of strategic necessity. Unless Dujek and Brood and their armies are under assault. and they're not. Gods, I don't know how I know, but I do. With certainty. This — this isn't Tattersail at all. It's Nightchill. Bellurdan. One or both. What do they want?

He was suddenly rocked by an image, triggering an almost audible snap within his mind. Away. Towards. Dry flagstones within a dark cavern, the deeply carved lines of a card of the Deck, stone-etched, the image seeming to writhe as if alive.

Obelisk. One of the Unaligned, a leaning monolith … now of green stone. Jade. Towering above wind-whipped waves — no, dunes of sand. Figures, in the monolith's shadow. Three, three in all. Ragged, broken, dying.

Then, beyond the strange scene, the sky tore.

And the furred hoof of a god stepped onto mortal ground.

Terror.

Savagely pulled into the world — oh, you didn't choose that, did you? Someone pulled you down, and now.

Fener was as good as dead. A god trapped in the mortal realm was like a babe on an altar. All that was required was a knife and a wilful hand.

As good as dead.

Bleak knowledge flowered like deadly nightshade in his mind. But he wanted none of it. Choices were being demanded of him, by forces ancient beyond imagining. The Deck of Dragons … Elder Gods were playing it … and now sought to play him.

And this is to be the role of the Master of the Deck, if that is what I've become? A possessor of fatal knowledge and, now, a Hood-damned mitigator? I see what you're telling me to do. One god falls, push another into its place? Mortals sworn to one, swear them now to another? Abyss below, are we to be shoved — flicked — around like pebbles on a board?

Rage and indignation fanned white hot in Paran's mind. Obliterating his pain. He felt himself mentally wheel round, to face that incessant, alien presence that had so hounded him. Felt himself open like an explosion.

All right, you wanted my attention. You've got it. Listen, and listen well, Nightchill — whoever — whatever you really are. Maybe there have been Masters of the Deck before, long ago, whom you could pluck and pull to do your bidding. Hood knows, maybe you're the one — you and your Elder friends — who selected me this time round. But if so, oh, you've made a mistake. A bad one.

I've been a god's puppet once before. But I cut those strings, and if you want details, then go ask Oponn. I walked into a cursed sword to do it, and I swear, I'll do it again — with far less mercy in my heart — if I get so much as a whiff of manipulation from you.

He sensed cold amusement in reply, and the bestial blood within Paran responded. Raised hackles. Teeth bared. A deep, deadly growl.