《Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #8)》 Page 1 Prologue Speak truth, grow still, until the water is clear between us. -Meditations Of The Tiste Andii ¡®I have no name for this town,¡¯ the ragged man said, hands plucking at the frayed hems of what had once been an opulent cloak. Coiled and tucked into his braided belt was a length of leather leash, rotting and tattered. ¡®It needs a name, I think,¡¯ he continued, voice raised to be heard above the vicious fighting of the dogs, ¡®yet I find a certain failing of imagination, and no one seems much interested.¡¯ The woman standing now at his side, to whom he companionably addressed these remarks, had but newly arrived. Of her life in the time before, very little re?mained. She had not owned a dog, yet she had found herself staggering down the high street of this decrepit, strange town clutching a leash against which a foul-tempered brute tugged and lunged at every passerby. The rotted leather had finally parted, freeing the beast to bolt forward, launching an attack upon this man¡¯s own dog. The two animals were now trying to kill each other in the middle of the street, their audience none but their presumed owners. Dust had given way to blood and tufts of hide. ¡®There was a garrison, once, three soldiers who didn¡¯t know each other,¡¯ the man said. ¡®But one by one they left.¡¯ ¡®I never owned a dog before,¡¯ she replied, and it was with a start that she realized that these were the first words she had uttered since¡­ well, since the time before. ¡®Nor I,¡¯ admitted the man. ¡®And until now, mine was the only dog in town. Oddly enough, I never grew fond of the wretched beast.¡¯ ¡®How long have you¡­ er, been here?¡¯ ¡®I have no idea, but it seems like for ever.¡¯ She looked round, then nodded. ¡®Me too.¡¯ ¡®Alas, I believe your pet has died.¡¯ ¡®Oh! So it has.¡¯ She frowned down at the broken leash in her hand. ¡®I suppose I won¡¯t be needing a new one, then.¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t be too certain of that,¡¯ the man said. ¡®We seem to repeat things here. Day after day. But listen, you can have mine-I never use it, as you can see.¡¯ She accepted the coiled leash. ¡®Thank you.¡¯ She took it out to where her dead dog was lying, more or less torn to pieces. The victor was crawling back towards its master leaving a trail of blood. Everything seemed knocked strangely askew, including, she realized, her own impulses. She crouched down and gently lifted her dead dog¡¯s mangled head, working the loop over until it encircled the torn neck. Then she lowered the bloody, spit-lathered head back to the ground and straightened, holding the leash loose in her right hand. The man joined her. ¡®Aye, it¡¯s all rather confusing, isn¡¯t it?¡¯ ¡®Yes.¡¯ ¡®And we thought life was confusing.¡¯ She shot him a glance. ¡®So we am dead, are we?¡¯ ¡®I think so.¡¯ ¡®Then I don¡¯t understand. I was to have been interred in a crypt. A fine, solid crypt-I saw it myself. Richly appointed and proof against thieves, with casks of wine and seasoned meats and fruit for the journey-¡¯ She gestured down at the rags she was wearing. ¡®I was to be dressed in my finest clothes, wearing all my jewellery.¡¯ He was watching her. ¡®Wealthy, then.¡¯ ¡®Yes.¡¯ She looked back down at the dead dog on the end of the leash. ¡®Not any more.¡¯ She glared across at him, then realized that such anger was, well, pointless. ¡®I have never seen this town before. It looks to be falling apart.¡¯ Aye, it¡¯s all falling apart. You have that right.¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t know where I live-oh, that sounds odd, doesn¡¯t it?¡¯ She looked round again. ¡®It¡¯s all dust and rot, and is that a storm coming?¡¯ She pointed down the main street towards the horizon, where heavy, strangely luminous clouds now gathered above denuded hills. They stared at them for a time. The clouds seemed to be raining tears of jade. ¡®I was once a priest,¡¯ the man said, as his dog edged up against his feet and lay there, gasping, with blood dripping from its mouth. ¡®Every time we saw a storm coming, we closed our eyes and sang all the louder.¡¯ She regarded him in some surprise. ¡®You were a priest? Then¡­ why are you not with your god?¡¯ The man shrugged. ¡®If I knew the answer to that, the delusion I once possessed of enlightenment-would in truth be mine.¡¯ He suddenly straightened. ¡®Oh, we have a visitor.¡¯ Approaching with a hitched gait was a tall figure, so desiccated that its limbs seemed little more than tree roots, its face naught but rotted, weathered skin stretched over bone. Long grey hair drifted out unbound from a pallid, peeling scalp. Page 2 ¡®I suppose,¡¯ the woman muttered, ¡®I need to get used to such sights.¡¯ Her companion said nothing, and they both watched as the gaunt, limping creature staggered past, and as they turned to follow its progress they saw another stranger, cloaked in frayed dark grey, hooded, of a height to match the other. Neither seemed to take note of their audience as the hooded one said, ¡®Edge- walker.¡¯ ¡®You have called me hero,¡¯ said the one named Edgewalker, ¡®to¡­ mitigate.¡¯ ¡®I have.¡¯ ¡®This has been a long time in coming.¡¯ ¡®You might think that way, Edgewalker.¡¯ ¡®The grey-haired man-who was clearly long dead-cocked his head and asked, ¡®Why now?¡¯ The hooded figure turned slightly, and the woman thought he might be looking down on the dead dog. ¡®Disgust,¡¯ he replied. A soft rasping laugh from Edgewalker. ¡®What ghastly place is this?¡¯ hissed a new voice, and the woman saw a shape-no more than a smeared blur of shadows-whisper out from an alley in flowing silence, though he seemed to be hobbling on a cane, and all at once there were huge beasts, two, four, five, padding out around the newcomer. A grunt from the priest beside the woman. ¡®Hounds of Shadow. Could my god but witness this!¡¯ ¡®Perhaps it does, through your eyes.¡¯ ¡®Oh, I doubt that.¡¯ Edgewalker and his hooded companion watched the shadowy form approach. Short; wavering, then growing more solid. Black-stick cane thumping on the dirt street, raising puffs of dust. The Hounds wandered away, heads lowered as they sniffed the ground. None approached the carcass of the woman¡¯s dog, nor the gasping beast at the feet of her newfound friend. The hooded one said, ¡®Ghastly? I suppose it is. A necropolis of sorts, Shadow-throne. A village of the discarded. Both timeless and, yes, useless. Such places,¡¯ he continued, ¡®are ubiquitous.¡¯ ¡®Speak for yourself,¡¯ said Shadowthrone. ¡®Look at us, waiting. Waiting. Oh, if I were one for decorum and propriety!¡¯ A sudden giggle. ¡®If any of us were!¡¯ All at once the Hounds returned, hackles raised, gazes keen on something far up the main street. ¡®One more,¡¯ whispered the priest. ¡®One more and the last, yes.¡¯ ¡®Will all this happen again?¡¯ the woman asked him, as sudden fear ripped through her. Someone is coming. Oh, gods, someone is coming. ¡®Tomorrow? Tell me!¡¯ ¡®I would imagine not,¡¯ the priest said after a moment. He swung his gaze to the dog carcass lying in the dust. ¡®No,¡¯ he said again, ¡®I imagine not.¡¯ From the hills, thunder and jade rain slashing down like the arrows from ten thousand battles. From down the street, the sudden rumble of carriage wheels. She turned at that latter sound and smiled. ¡®Oh,¡¯ she said in relief, ¡®here comes my ride.¡¯ He had once been a wizard of Pale, driven by desperation into betrayal. But Anomander Rake had not been interested in desperation, or any other excuse Ditch and his comrades might have proffered. Betrayers of the Son of Darkness kissed the sword Dragnipur, and somewhere among this legion toiling in the perpetual gloom there were faces he would recognize, eyes that could meet his own, And what would he see in them? Only what he gave back. Desperation was not enough. These were rare thoughts, no more or less unwelcome than any others, mocking him as in their freedom they drifted in and out; and when nowhere close, why, they perhaps floated through alien skies, riding warm winds soft as laughter. What could not escape was Ditch himself and that which he could see on all sides. This oily mud and its sharp black stones that cut through the rotted soles of his boots; the deathly damp air that layered a grimy film upon the skin, as if the world itself was fevered and slick with sweat. The faint cries-strangely ever distant to Ditch¡¯s ears-and, much nearer, the groan and crunch of the massive engine of wood and bronze, the muted squeal of chains. Onward, onward, even as the storm behind them drew closer, cloud piling on cloud, silver and roiling and shot through with twisting spears of iron. Ash had begun to rain down on them, unceasing now, each flake cold as snow, yet this was a sludge that did not melt, instead churning into the mud until it seemed they walked through a field of slag and tailings. Although a wizard, Ditch was neither small nor frail. There was a roughness to him that had made others think of thugs and alley-pouncers, back in the life that had been before. His features were heavy, angular and, indeed, brutish. He had been a strong man, but this was no reward, not here, not chained to the Burden. Not within the dark soul of Dragnipur. Page 3 The strain was unbearable, yet bear it he did. The way ahead was infinite, screaming of madness, yet he held on to his own sanity as a drowning man might cling to a frayed rope, and he dragged himself onward, step by step. Iron shackles made his limbs weep blood, with no hope of surcease. Figures caked in mud plod?ded to either side, and beyond them, vague in the gloom, countless others. Was there comfort in shared fate? The question alone invited hysterical laughter, a plunge into insanity¡¯s precious oblivion. No, surely there was no such comfort, beyond the mutual recognition of folly, ill luck and obstinate stupidity, and these traits could not serve camaraderie. Besides, one¡¯s companions to either side were in the habit of changing at a moment¡¯s notice, one hapless fool replacing another in a grainy, blurred swirl. Heaving on the chains, to keep the Burden in motion, this nightmarish flight left no energy, no time, for conversation. And so Ditch ignored the hand buffeting his shoulder the first time, the second time. The third time, however, was hard enough to send the wizard staggering to one side. Swearing, he twisted round to glare at the one now walking at his side. Once, long ago, he might have flinched back upon seeing such an apparition. His heart would have lurched in terror. The demon was huge, hulking. Its once royal blood availed it no privilege here in Dragnipur. Ditch saw that the creature was carrying the fallen, the failed, gathering to itself a score or more bodies and the chains attached to them. Mus-eles strained, bunched and twisted as the demon pulled itself forward. Scrawny bodies, hanging limp, crowded like cordwood under each arm. One, still conscious though her head lolled, rode its broad back like a newborn ape, glazed eyes sliding acroii the wizard¡¯s face. ¡®You fool,¡¯ Ditch snarled. ¡®Throw ¡¯em into the bed!¡¯ ¡®No room,¡¯ piped the demon in a high, childish voice. But the wizard had used up his sympathy. For the demon¡¯s sake, it should have left the fallen behind, but then, of course, they would all feel the added weight, the pathetic drag on the chains. Still, what if this one fell? What if that extraordinary strength and will gave way? ¡®Curse the fool!¡¯ Ditch growled. ¡®Why doesn¡¯t he kill a few more dragons, damn him!¡¯ ¡®We fail,¡¯ said the demon. Ditch wanted to howl at that. Was it not obvious to them all? But that quavering voice was both bemused and forlorn, and it struck through to his heart. ¡®I know, friend. Not long now.¡¯ ¡®And then?¡¯ Ditch shook his head. ¡®I don¡¯t know.¡¯ ¡®Who does?¡¯ Again the wizard had no answer. The demon persisted. ¡®We must find one who does. I am going now. But I will return. Do not pity me, please.¡¯ A sudden swirl, grey and black, and now some bear-like beast was beside him, too weary, too mindless, to even lunge at him-as some creatures still did. ¡®You¡¯ve been here too long, friend,¡¯ Ditch said to it. Who does? An interesting question. Did anyone know what would happen when the chaos caught them? Anyone here in Dragnipur? In his first moments following his kissing the sword, in between his frenzied attempts at escape, his shrieks of despair, he had flung questions at everyone-why, he¡¯d even sought to accost a Hound, but it had been too busy lunging at its own chains, froth fizzing from its massive jaws, and had very nearly trampled him, and he¡¯d never seen it again. But someone had replied, someone had spoken to him. About something¡­ oh, he could not recall much more than a name. A single name. Draconus. She had witnessed many things in this interminable interlude in her career, but none more frustrating than the escape of two Hounds of Shadow. It was not for one such as Apsal¡¯ara, Lady of Thieves, to besmirch her existence with the laborious indignity of tugging on a chain for all eternity. Shackles were to be escaped, burdens deftly avoided. From the moment of her first stumbling arrival, she had set upon herself the task of breaking the chains binding her in this dread realm, but this task was virtually impossible if one were cursed to ever pull the damned wagon. And she had no desire to witness again the horrible train at the very end of the chains, the abraded lumps of still living meat dragging across the gouged muddy ground, the flash of an open eye, a flopping nub of a limb straining towards her, a terrible army of the failed, the ones who surrendered and the ones whose strength gave out. No, Apsal¡¯ara had worked her way closer to the enormous wagon, eventually finding herself trudging beside one of the huge wooden wheels. Then she had lagged in her pace until just behind that wheel. From there, she moved inward, slipping beneath the creaking bed with its incessant rain of brown water, blood and the wastes that came of rotting but still living flesh. Dragging the chain behind her she had worked her way on to a shelf of the undercarriage, just above the front axle, wedging herself in tight, legs drawn up, her back against slimy wood. Page 4 Fire had been the gift, the stolen gift, but there could be no flame in this sodden underworld. Failing that, there was¡­ friction. She had begun working one length of chain across another. How many years had it been? She had no idea. There was no hunger, no thirst. The chain sawed back and forth. There was a hint of heat, climbing link by link and into her hands. Had the iron softened? Was the metal worn with new, silvery grooves? She had long since stopped checking. The effort was enough. For so long, it had been enough. Until those damned Hounds. That, and the inescapable truth that the wagon had slowed, that now there were as many lying on its bed as there were still out in the gloom beyond, heaving desperate on their chains. She could hear the piteous groans, seeping down from the bed directly above her, of those trapped beneath the weight of countless others. The Hounds had thundered against the sides of the wagon. The Hounds had plunged into the maw of darkness at the very centre. There had been a stranger, an unchained stranger. Taunting the Hounds-the Hounds! She remembered his face, oh yes, his face. Even after he had vanished¡­ In the wake of all that, Apsal¡¯ara had attempted to follow the beasts, only to be driven back by the immense cold of that portal-cold so fierce it destroyed flesh, colder even than Omtose Phellack. The cold of negation. Denial. No greater curse than hope. A lesser creature would have wept then, would have surrendered, throwing herself beneath one of the wheels to be left dragging in the wagon¡¯s wake, nothing more than one more piece of wreckage, of crushed bone and mangled flesh, scraping and tumbling in the stony mud. Instead, she had returned to her private perch, resumed working the chains. She had stolen the moon once. She had stolen fire. She had padded the silent arching halls of the city within Moon¡¯s Spawn. She was the Lady of Thieves. And a sword had stolen her life This will not do, This will not do. Lying in its usual place on the flat rock beside the stream, the mangy dog lifted its head, the motion stirring insects into buzzing flight. A moment later, the beast rose. Scars covered its back, some deep enough to twist the muscles beneath. The dog lived in the village but was not of it. Nor was the animal one among the village¡¯s pack. It did not sleep outside the entrance to any hut; it allowed no one to Come close. Even the tribe¡¯s horses would not draw near it. There was, it was agreed, a deep bitterness in its eyes, and an even deeper sorrow. God-touched, the Uryd elders said, and this claim ensured that the dog would never starve and would never be driven away. It would be tolerated, in the manner of all things god-touched. Surprisingly lithe despite its mangled hip, the dog now trotted through the village, down the length of the main avenue. When it came to the south end, it kept on going, downslope, wending through the moss-backed boulders and the bone-piles that marked the refuse of the Uryd. Its departure was noted by two girls still a year or more from their nights of passage into adulthood. There was a similarity to their features, and in their ages they were a close match, the times of their births mere days apart. Neither could be said to be loquacious. They shared the silent language common among twins, although they were not twins, and it seemed that, for them, this language was enough. And so, upon seeing the three-legged dog leave the village, they exchanged a glance, set about gathering what supplies and weapons were near at hand, and then set out, on the dog¡¯s trail. Their departure was noted, but that was all. South, down from the great mountains of home, where condors wheeled between the peaks and wolves howled when the winter winds came. South, towards the lands of the hated children of the Nathii, where dwelt the bringers of war and pestilence, the slayers and enslavers of the Teblor. Where the Nathii bred like lemmings until it seemed there would be no place left in the world for anyone or anything but them. Like the dog, the two girls were fearless and resolute. Though they did not know it, such traits came from their father, whom they had never met. The dog did not look back, and when the girls caught up to it the beast maintained its indifference. It was, as the elders had said, god-touched. Back in the village, a mother and daughter were told of the flight of their children. The daughter wept. The mother did not. Instead, there was heat in a low place of her body, and, for a time, she was lost in remembrances. ¡®Oh frail city, where strangers arrive¡­¡¯ An empty plain beneath an empty night sky. A lone fire, so weak as to be nearly swallowed by the blackened, cracked stones encircling it. Seated on one of the two flat stones close to the hearth, a short, round man with sparse, greasy hair. Faded red waistcoat, over a linen shirt with stained once-white blousy cuffs erupting around the pudgy hands. The round face was flushed, reflecting the flickering flames. From the small knuckled chin dangled long black hairs-not enough to braid, alas-a new affectation he had taken to twirling and stroking when deep in thought, or even shallowly so. Indeed, when not thinking at all, but wishing to convey an impression of serious cogitation, should anyone regard him thoughtfully. Page 5 He stroked and twirled now as he frowned down into the fire before him. What had that grey-haired bard sung? There on the modest stage in K¡¯rul¡¯s Bar earlier in the night, when he had watched on, content with his place in the glorious city he had saved more than once? ¡®Oh frail city, where strangers arrive¡­¡¯ ¡®I need to tell you something, Kruppe.¡¯ The round man glanced up to find a shrouded figure seated on the other flat stone, reaching thin pale hands out to the flames. Kruppe cleared his throat, then said, ¡®It has been a long time since Kruppe last found himself perched as you see him now. Accordingly, Kruppe had long since concluded that you wished to tell him something of such vast import that none but Kruppe is worthy to hear.¡¯ A faint glitter from the darkness within the hood. ¡®I am not in this war.¡¯ Kruppe stroked the rattails of his beard, delighting himself by saying nothing. ¡®This surprises you?¡¯ the Elder God asked. ¡®Kruppe ever expects the unexpected, old friend. Why, could you ever expect otherwise? Kruppe is shocked. Yet, a thought arrives, launched brainward by a tug on this handsome beard. K¡¯rul states he is not in the war. Yet, Kruppe suspects, he is nevertheless its prize.¡¯ ¡®Only you understand this, my friend,¡¯ the Elder God said, sighing. Then cocked its head. ¡®I had not noticed before, but you seem sad.¡¯ ¡®Sadness has many flavours, and it seems Kruppe has tasted them all.¡¯ ¡®Will you speak now of such matters? I am, I believe, a good listener.¡¯ ¡®Kruppe sees that you are sorely beset. Perhaps now is not the time.¡¯ ¡®That is no matter.¡¯ ¡®It is to Kruppe.¡¯ K¡¯rul glanced to one side, and saw a figure approaching, grey-haired, gaunt. Kruppe sang,¡¯¡±Oh frail city, where strangers arrive¡±¡­ and the rest?¡¯ The newcomer answered in a deep voice, ¡®¡°¡­ pushing into cracks, there to abide.¡±¡® And the Elder God sighed. ¡®Join us, friend,¡¯ said Kruppe. ¡®Sit here by this fire: this scene paints the history of our kind, as you well know. A night, a hearth, and a tale to spin. Dear K¡¯rul, dearest friend of Kruppe, hast thou ever seen Kruppe dance?¡¯ The stranger sat. A wan face, an expression of sorrow and pain. ¡®No,¡¯ said K¡¯rul. ¡®I think not. Not by limb, not by word.¡¯ Kruppe¡¯s smile was muted, and something glistened in his eyes. ¡®Then, my friends, settle yourselves for this night. And witness.¡¯ Book One. Vow to the Sun This creature of words cuts To the quick and gasp, dart away The spray of red rain Beneath a clear blue sky Shock at all that is revealed What use now this armour When words so easy slant between? This god of promises laughs At the wrong things, wrongly timed Unmaking all these sacrifices In deliberate malice Recoil like a soldier routed Even as retreat is denied Before corpses heaped high in walls You knew this would come At last and feign nothing, no surprise To find this cup filled With someone else¡¯s pain It¡¯s never as bad as it seems The taste sweeter than expected When you squat in a fool¡¯s dream So take this belligerence Where you will, the dogged cur Is the charge of my soul To the centre of the street Spinning round all fangs bared Snapping at thirsty spears Thrust cold and purged of your hands ¨C Hunting Words, Brathos Of Black Coral Chapter One Oh frail city! Where strangers arrive Pushing into cracks There to abide Oh blue city! Old friends gather sighs At the foot of docks After the tide Uncrowned city! Where sparrows alight In spider tracks On sills well high Doomed city! Closing comes the night History awakens Here to abide ¨C Frail Age, Fisher Kel That Surrounded in a city of blue fire, she stood alone on the balcony. The sky¡¯s darkness was pushed away, an unwelcome guest on this the first night of the Gedderone Fete. Throngs filled the streets of Darujhistan, happily riotous, good-natured in the calamity of one year¡¯s ending and another¡¯s beginning. The night air was humid and pungent with countless scents. There had been banquets. There had been unveilings of eligible young men and maidens. Tables laden with exotic foods, ladies wrapped in silks, men and women in preposterous uniforms all glittering gilt-a city with no standing army bred a plethora of private militias and a chaotic proliferation of high ranks held, more or less exclusively, by the nobility. Page 6 Among the celebrations she had attended this evening, on the arm of her hus?band, she had not once seen a real officer of Darujhistan¡¯s City Watch, not one genuine soldier with a dusty cloak-hem, with polished boots bearing scars, with a sword-grip of plain leather and a pommel gouged and burnished by wear. Yet she had seen, bound high on soft, well-fed arms, torcs in the manner of decorated sol?diers among the Malazan army-soldiers from an empire that had, not so long ago, provided for Darujhistan mothers chilling threats to belligerent children. ¡®Malazans, child! Skulking in the night to steal foolish children! To make you slaves for their terrible Empress-yes! Here in this very city!¡¯ But the torcs she had seen this night were not the plain bronze or faintly etched silver of genuine Malazan decorations and signifiers of rank, such as appeared like relics from some long-dead cult in the city¡¯s market stalls. No, these had been gold, studded with gems, the blue of sapphire being the commonest hue even among the coloured glass, blue like the blue fire for which the city was fa?mous, blue to proclaim some great and brave service to Darujhistan itself. Her fingers had pressed upon one such torc, there on her husband¡¯s arm, al?though there was real muscle beneath it, a hardness to match the contemptuous look in his eyes as he surveyed the clusters of nobility in the vast humming hall, with the proprietary air he had acquired since attaining the Council. The contempt had been there long before and if anything had grown since his latest and most triumphant victory. Daru gestures of congratulation and respect had swirled round them in their stately passage through the crowds, and with each acknowledgement her husband¡¯s face had grown yet harder, the arm beneath her fingers drawing ever tauter, the knuckles of his hands whitening above his sword-belt where the thumbs were tucked into braided loops in the latest fashion among duellists. Oh, he revelled in being among them now; indeed, in being above many of them. But for Gorlas Vidikas, this did not mean he had to like any of them. The more they fawned, the deeper his contempt, and that he would have been offended without their obsequy was a contradiction, she suspected, that a man like her husband was not wont to entertain. The nobles had eaten and drunk, and stood and posed and wandered and paraded and danced themselves into swift exhaustion, and now the banquet halls and staterooms echoed with naught but the desultory ministrations of servants. Beyond the high walls of the estates, however, the common folk rollicked still in the streets. Masked and half naked, they danced on the cobbles-the riotous whirling steps of the Flaying of Fander-as if dawn would never come, as if the hazy moon itself would stand motionless in the abyss in astonished witness to their revelry. City Watch patrols simply stood back and observed, drawing dusty cloaks about their bodies, gauntlets rustling as they rested hands on truncheons and swords. On the balcony where she stood, the fountain of the unlit garden directly be?low chirped and gurgled to itself, buffered by the estate¡¯s high, solid walls from the raucous festivities they had witnessed during the tortured carriage ride back home. Smeared moonlight struggled in the softly swirling pool surrounding the fountain. The blue fire was too strong this night, too strong even for the mournful moon. Darujhistan itself was a sapphire, blazing in the torc of the world. And yet its beauty, and all its delighted pride and its multitudinous voice, could not reach her tonight, This night, Lady Vidikas had seen her future. Each and every year of it. There on her husband¡¯s hard arm, And the moon, well, it looked like a thing of the past, a memory dimmed by time, yet it had taken her back. To a balcony much like this one in a time that now seemed very long ago. Lady Vidikas, who had once been Challice Estraysian, had just seen her future. And was discovering, here in this night and standing against this rail, that the past was a better place to be. Talk about the worst night yet to run out of Rhivi flatbread. Swearing under her breath, Picker pushed her way through the crowds of the Lakefront market, the mobs of ferociously hungry, drunk revellers, using her elbows when she needed to and glowering at every delirious smile swung her way, and came out eventu?ally at the mouth of a dingy alley heaped ankle-deep in rubbish. Somewhere just to the south of Borthen Park. Not quite the route back to the bar she would have preferred, but the fete was in full frenzy. Wrapped package of flatbread tucked under her left arm, she paused to tug loose the tangles of her heavy cloak, scowled on seeing a fresh stain from a care?less passer-by-some grotesque Gadrobi sweetcake-tried wiping it off which only made it worse, then, her mood even fouler, set out through the detritus. Page 7 With the Lady¡¯s pull, Bluepearl and Antsy had fared better in finding Saltoan wine and were even now back at K¡¯rul¡¯s. And here she was, twelve streets and two wall passages away with twenty or thirty thousand mad fools in between. Would her companions wait for her? Not a chance. Damn Blend and her addiction to Rhivi flatbread! That and her sprained ankle had conspired to force Picker out here on the first night of the fete-if that ankle truly was sprained, and she had her doubts since Mallet had just squinted down at the offending appendage, then shrugged. Mind you, that was about as much as anyone had come to expect from Mallet. He¡¯d been miserable since the retirement, and the chance of the sun¡¯s rising any time in the healer¡¯s future was about as likely as Hood¡¯s forgetting to tally the count. And it wasn¡¯t as if he was alone in his misery, was it? But where was the value in feeding her ill temper with all these well-chewed thoughts? Well, it made her feel better, that¡¯s what. Dester Thrin, wrapped tight in black cloak and hood, watched the big-arsed woman kicking her way through the rubbish at the other end of the alley. He¡¯d picked her up coming out of the back door of K¡¯rul¡¯s Bar, the culmination of four nights positioned in the carefully chosen, darkness-shrouded vantage point from which he could observe that narrow postern. His clan-master had warned that the targets were all ex-soldiers, but Dester Thrill had seen little to suggest that any of them had kept fit and trim. They were old, sagging, rarely sober, and this one, well, she wore that huge, thick woollen cloak because she was getting heavy and it clearly made her self-conscious. Following her through the crowds had been relatively easy-she was a head taller than the average Gadrobi, and the route she took to this decrepit Rhivi market in Lakefront seemed to deliberately avoid the Daru streets, some strange affectation that would, in a very short time, prove fatal. Dester¡¯s own Daru blood had permitted him a clear view of his target, pushing purposefully through the heaving press of celebrants. He set out to traverse the alley once his target exited at the far end. Swiftly padding at a hunter¡¯s pace, he reached the alley mouth and edged out, in time to see the woman move into the passageway through Second Tier Wall, with the tunnel through Third just beyond. The Guild¡¯s succession wars; following the disappearance of Vorcan, had finally been settled, with only a minimum amount of spilled blood. And Dester was more or less pleased with the new Grand Master, who was both vicious and clever where most of the other aspirants had been simply vicious. At last, an as?sassin of the Guild did not have to be a fool to feel some optimism regarding the future. This contract was a case in point. Straightforward, yet one sure to earn Dester and the others of his clan considerable prestige upon its summary completion. He brushed his gloved hands across the pommels of his daggers, the weapons slung on baldrics beneath his arms. Ever reassuring, those twin blades of Daru steel with their ferules filled with the thick, pasty poison of Moranth tralb. Poison was now the preferred insurance for a majority of the Guild¡¯s street killers, and indeed for more than a few who scuttled Thieves¡¯ Road across the rooftops. There¡¯d been an assassin, close to Vorcan herself, who had, on a night of betrayal against his own clan, demonstrated the deadliness of fighting without magic. Using poison, the assassin had proved the superiority of such mundane substances in a single, now legendary night of blood. Dester had heard that some initiates in some clans had raised hidden shrines to honour Rallick Nom, creating a kind of cult whose adherents employed secret gestures of mutual recognition within the Guild. Of course, Seba Krafar, the new Grand Master, had in one of his very first pronouncements outlawed the cult, and there had been a cull of sorts, with five suspected cult leaders greeting the dawn with smiling throats. Still, Dester had since heard enough hints to suggest that the cult was far from dead. It had just burrowed deeper. In truth, no one knew which poisons Rallick Nom had used, but Dester believed it was Moranth tralb, since even the smallest amount in the bloodstream brought unconsciousness, then a deeper coma that usually led to death. Larger quantities simply speeded up the process and were a sure path through Hood¡¯s Gate. The big-arsed woman lumbered on. Four streets from K¡¯rul¡¯s Bar-if she was taking the route he believed she was TAKING-there¡¯ll he a long, narrow alley to walk up, the inside luce of Third Tier Wall Armoury on the left, and on the right the high wall of the bath-house thick and solid with but a few scattered, small windows on upper floors, making the unlit passage dark. Page 8 He would kill her there. Perched on a corner post¡¯s finial at one end of the high wall, Chillbais stared with stony eyes on the tattered wilds beyond. Behind him was an overgrown garden with a shallow pond recently rebuilt but already unkempt, and toppled columns scattered about, bearded in moss. Before him, twisted trees and straggly branches with crumpled dark leaves dangling like insect carcasses, the ground beneath rumpled and matted with greasy grasses; a snaking path of tilted pavestones leading up to a squat, brooding house bearing no architectural similarity to any other edifice in all of Darujhistan. Light was rare from the cracks between those knotted shutters, and when it did show it was dull, desultory. The door never opened. Among his kin, Chillbais was a giant. Heavy as a badger, with sculpted muscles beneath the prickly hide. His folded wings were very nearly too small to lift him skyward, and each sweep of those leathery fans forced a grunt from the demon¡¯s throat. This time would be worse than most. It had been months since he¡¯d last moved, hidden as he was from prying eyes in the gloom of an overhanging branch from the ash tree in the estate garden at his back. But when he saw that flash of movement before him, that whispering flow of motion, out from the gnarled, black house and across the path, even as earth erupted in its wake to open a suc?cession of hungry pits, even as roots writhed out seeking to ensnare this fugitive, Chillbais knew his vigil was at an end. The shadow slid out to crouch against the low wall of the Azath House, seemed to watch those roots snaking closer for a long moment, then rose and, flowing like liquid night over the stone wall, was gone. Grunting, Chillbais spread his creaking wings, shook the creases loose from the sheets of membrane between the rib-like fingers, then leapt forward, out from beneath the branch, catching what air he could, then flapping frenziedly-his grunts growing savage-until he slammed hard into the mulched ground. Spitting twigs and leaves, the demon scrambled back for the estate wall, hear?ing how those roots spun round, lashing out for him. Claws digging into mortar, Chillbais scrabbled back on to his original perch. Of course, there had been no real reason to fear. The roots never reached beyond the Azath¡¯s own wall, and a glance back assured him- Squealing, Chillbais launched back into the air, this time out over the estate garden. Oh, no one ever liked demons! Cool air above the overgrown fountain, then, wings thudding hard, heaving up ward, up into the night. A word, yes, for his master. A most extraordinary word. So unexpected, so incendiary, so fraught! Chillbais thumped his wings as hard as he could, an obese demon in the dark?ness above the blue, blue city. Zechan Throw and Giddyn the Quick had found the perfect place for the ambush. Twenty paces down a narrow street two recessed doorways faced each other. Four drunks had staggered past a few moments earlier, and none had seen the assassins standing motionless in the inky darkness. And now that they were past and the way was clear¡­ a simple step forward and blood would flow. The two targets approached. Both carried clay jugs and were weaving slightly. They seemed to be arguing, but not in a language Zechan understood. Malazan, likely. A quick glance to the left. The four drunks were just leaving the far end, plunging into a motley crowd of revellers. Zechan and Giddyn had followed the two out from K¡¯rul¡¯s Bar, watching on as they found a wine merchant, haggled over what the woman demanded for the jugs of wine, settled on a price, then set out on their return leg of the journey. Somewhere along the way they must have pulled the stoppers on the jugs, for now they were loud in their argument, the slightly taller one, who walked pigeon-toed and was blue-skinned-Zechan could just make him out from where he stood-pausing to lean against a wall as if moments from losing his supper. He soon righted himself, and it seemed the argument was suddenly over. Straightening, the taller one joined the other and, from the sounds of their boots in the rubbish, set out by his side. Simply perfect. Nothing messy, nothing at all messy. Zechan lived for nights like this. Dester moved quickly, his moccasins noiseless on the cobbles, rushing for the woman striding oblivious ahead of him. Twelve paces, eight, four- She spun, cloak whirling out. A blurred sliver of blued steel, flickering a slashing arc. Dester skidded, seek?ing to pull back from the path of that weapon-a longsword, Beru fend!-and something clipped his throat. He twisted and ducked down to his left, both dag?gers thrust out to damn her should she seek to close. A longsword! Heat was spilling down his neck, down his chest beneath his deerhide shirt. The alley seemed to waver before his eyes, darkness curling in. Dester Thrin staggered, flailing with his daggers. A boot or mailed fist slammed into the side of his head and there was more splashing on to the cobbles. He could no longer grip the daggers. He heard them skitter on stone. Page 9 Blind, stunned, lying on the hard ground. It was cold. A strange lassitude filled his thoughts, spreding out, rising up, taking him away, Picker stood over the corpse, The red smear on the tip of her sword glistened, drawing her gaze, and she was reminded, oddly enough, of poppies after a rain. She grunted. The bastard had been quick, almost quick enough to evade her slash. Had he done so, she might have had some work to do. Still, unless the fool was skilled in throwing those puny daggers, she would have cut him down eventually. Pushing through Gadrobi crowds risked little more than cutpurses. As a people they were singularly gentle. In any case, it made such things as picking up someone trailing her that much easier-when that someone wasn¡¯t Gadrobi, of course. The man dead at her feet was Daru. Might as well have worn a lantern on his hooded head, the way it bobbed above the crowd in her wake. Even so¡­ she frowned down at him. You wasn¡¯t no thug. Not with daggers like those. Hound¡¯s Breath. Sheathing her sword and pulling her cloak about her once more, ensuring that it well hid the scabbarded weapon which, if discovered by a Watch, would see her in a cell with a damned huge fine to pay, Picker pushed the wrapped stack of flat-bread tighter under her left arm, then set out once more. Blend, she decided, was in a lot of trouble. Zechan and Giddyn, in perfect unison, launched themselves out from the alcoves, daggers raised then thrusting down. A yelp from the taller one as Giddyn¡¯s blades plunged deep. The Malazan¡¯s knees buckled and vomit sprayed from his mouth as he sank down, the jug crash?ing to a rush of wine. Zechan¡¯s own weapons punched through leather, edges grating along ribs. One for each lung. Tearing the daggers loose, the assassin stepped back to watch the red-haired one fall. A short sword plunged into the side of Zechan¡¯s neck. He was dead before he hit the cobbles. Giddyn, looming over the kneeling Malazan, looked up. Two hands closed round his head. One clamped tight over his mouth, and all at once his lungs were full of water. He was drowning. The hand tightened, fingers pinching his nostrils shut. Darkness rose within him, and the world slowly went away. Antsy snorted as he tugged his weapon free, then added a kick to the assassin¡¯s face to punctuate its frozen expression of surprise. Bluepearl grinned across at him. ¡®See the way I made the puke spray out? If that ain¡¯t genius I don¡¯t know what-¡¯ ¡®Shut up,¡¯ Antsy snapped. ¡®These weren¡¯t muggers looking for a iree drink, In case you hadn¡¯t noticed.¡¯ Frowning, Bluepearl looked down at the body before him with the water leaking from its mouth and nose. The Napan ran a hand over his shaved pate. ¡®Aye. But they was amateurs anyway. Hood, we saw those breath plumes from halfway down the street. Which stopped when those drunks crossed, telling us they wasn¡¯t the target. Meaning-¡¯ ¡®We were. Aye, and that¡¯s my point.¡¯ ¡®Let¡¯s get back,¡¯ Bluepearl said, suddenly nervous. Antsy tugged at his moustache, then nodded. ¡®Work up that illusion again, Bluepearl. Us ten paces ahead.¡¯ ¡®Easy, Sergeant-¡¯ ¡®I ain¡¯t no sergeant no more.¡¯ ¡®Yeah? Then why you still barking orders?¡¯ By the time Picker arrived within sight of the front entrance to K¡¯rul¡¯s Bar, her rage was incandescent. She paused, scanned the area. Spotted someone leaning in shadows across from the bar¡¯s door. Hood drawn up, hands hidden. Picker set off towards the figure. She was noticed with ten paces between them, and she saw the man straighten, saw the growing unease betrayed by a shift of those covered arms, the cloak rip?pling. A half-dozen celebrants careened between them, and as they passed, Picker took the last stride needed to reach the man. Whatever he had been expecting-perhaps her accosting him with some loud accusation-it was clear that he was unprepared for the savage kick she delivered between his legs. As he was going down she stepped closer and slapped her right hand against the back of his head, adding momentum to the man¡¯s collapse. When his forehead cracked against the cobbles there was a sickly crunch. The body began to spasm where it lay. A passerby paused, peered down at the twitching body. ¡®You!¡¯ Picker snarled. ¡®What¡¯s your damned problem?¡¯ Surprise, then a shrug. ¡®Nothing, sweetie. Served ¡¯im right, standin¡¯ there like that. Say, would you marry me?¡¯ ¡®Go away.¡¯ As the stranger ambled on, bemoaning his failure at love, Picker looked around, waiting to see if there was someone else¡­ bolting from some hidden place nearby. If it had already happened, then she had missed it. More likely, the unseen eyes watching all of this were peering down from a rooftop somewhere. Page 10 The man on the ground had stopped twitching. Spinning round, she headed for the entrance to K¡¯rul¡¯s Bar. ¡®Pick!¡¯ Two strides from the battered door, she turned, and saw Antsy and Bluepearl-lugging jugs of Saltoan wine-hurrying up to join her. Antsy¡¯s expression was fierce. Bluepearl lagged half a step behind, eyes on the motionless body on the other side of the street, where a Gadrobi urchin was now busy stealing whatever she could find. ¡®Get over here,¡¯ Picker snapped, ¡®both of you! Keep your eyes open.¡¯ ¡®Shopping¡¯s gettin¡¯ murderous,¡¯ Antsy said, ¡®Bluepearl had us illusioned most of the way hack, alter we snilled out an ambush-¡¯ With one last glare back out on to the street, Picker took them both by their arms and pulled them unceremoniously towards the door. ¡®Inside, idiots.¡¯ Unbelievable, a night like this, making me so foul of temper I went and turned down the first decent marriage proposal I¡¯ve had in twenty years. Blend was sitting in the place she sat in whenever she smelled trouble. A small table in shadows right beside the door, doing her blending thing, except this time her legs were stretched out, just enough to force a stumble from anyone coming inside. Stepping through the doorway, Picker gave those black boots a solid kick. ¡¯Ow, my ankle!¡¯ Picker dropped the stack of flatbread on to Blend¡¯s lap. ¡®Oof!¡¯ Antsy and Bluepearl pushed past. The ex-sergeant snorted. ¡®Now there¡¯s our scary minder at the door. ¡°Ow, oof!¡± she says.¡¯ But Blend had already recovered and was unwrapping the flatbread. ¡®You know, Blend,¡¯ Picker said as she settled at the bar, ¡®the old Rhivi hags who make those spit on the pan before they slap down the dough. Some ancient spirit blessing-¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s not that,¡¯ Blend cut in, folding back the flaps of the wrapper. ¡®The sizzle tells them the pan¡¯s hot enough.¡¯ ¡®Ain¡¯t it just,¡¯ Bluepearl muttered. Picker scowled, then nodded. ¡®Aye. Let¡¯s all head to our office, all of us-Blend, go find Mallet, too.¡¯ ¡®Bad timing,¡¯ Blend observed. ¡®What?¡¯ ¡®Spindle taking that pilgrimage.¡¯ ¡®Lucky for him.¡¯ Blend slowly rose and said round a mouthful of flatbread, ¡®Duiker?¡¯ Picker hesitated, then said, ¡®Ask him. If he wants, aye.¡¯ Blend slowly blinked. ¡®You kill somebody tonight, Pick?¡¯ No answer was a good enough answer. Picker peered suspiciously at the small crowd in the bar, those too drunk to have reeled out into the street at the twelfth bell, as was the custom. Regulars one and all. That¡¯ll do. Waving for the others to follow, Picker set out for the stairs. At the far end of the main room, that damned bard was bleating on with one of the more obscure verses of Anomandaris, but nobody was listening. The three of them saw themselves as the new breed on Darujhistan¡¯s Council. Shardan Lim was the thinnest and tallest, with a parched face and washed-out blue eyes. Hook-nosed, u lipless slash of a mouth perpetually turned down an II he could not restrain his contempt for the world. The muscles of his left wrist were twice the size of those of the right, criss-crossed with proudly displayed scars. He met Challice¡¯s eyes like a man about to ask her husband if his own turn with her was imminent, and she felt that regard like the cold hand of possession round her throat. A moment later his bleached eyes slid away and there was the flicker of a half-smile as he reached for his goblet where it rested on the mantel. Standing opposite Shardan Lim, on the other side of the nearly dead fire, with long fingers caressing the ancient ground hammerstones mortared into the fire?place, was Hanut Orr. Plaything to half the noble women in the city, so long as they were married or otherwise divested of maidenhood, he did indeed present that most enticing combination of dangerous charm and dominating arrogance-traits that seduced otherwise intelligent women-and it was well known how he delighted in seeing his lovers crawl on their knees towards him, begging a morsel of his attention. Challice¡¯s husband was sprawled in his favourite chair to Hanut Orr¡¯s left, legs stretched out, looking thoughtfully into his goblet, the wine with its hue of blue blood slowly swirling as he tilted his hand in lazy circles. ¡®Dear wife,¡¯ he now said in his usual drawl, ¡®has the balcony air revived you?¡¯ ¡®Wine?¡¯ asked Shardan Lim, brows lifting as if serving her was his life¡¯s calling. Page 11 Should a husband take umbrage with such barely constrained leering from his so-called friends? Gorlas seemed indifferent. ¡®No thank you, Councillor Lim. I have just come to wish you all a good night. Gorlas, will you be much longer here?¡¯ He did not look up from his wine, though his mouth moved as if he was tasting his last sip all over again, finding the remnants faintly sour on his palate. ¡®There is no need to wait for me, wife.¡¯ An involuntary glance over at Shardan revealed both amusement and the clear statement that he would not be so dismissive of her. And, with sudden, dark perverseness, she found herself meeting his eyes and smiling in answer. If it could be said, without uncertainty, that Gorlas Vidikas did not witness this exchange, Hanut Orr did, although his amusement was of the more savage, contemptuous kind. Feeling sullied, Challice turned away. Her handmaid trailed her out and up the broad flight of stairs, the only witness to the stiffness of her back as she made her way to the bedroom. Once the door was closed she threw off her half-cloak. ¡®Lay out my jewellery,¡¯ she said. ¡®Mistress?¡¯ She spun to the old woman. ¡®I wish to see my jewellery!¡¯ Ducking, the woman hurried off to do her bidding. ¡®The old pieces,¡¯ Challice called after her. From the time before all this. When she had been little more than a child, marvelling over the gifts of suitors, all the bribes for her affection still clammy from sweaty hands. Oh, there hud been so many possibilities then. Her eyes narrowed as she stood before her vanity. Well, perhaps not only then, Did it mean anything? Did it even matter any more? Her husband had what he wanted now. Three duellists, three hard men with hard voices in the Council. One of the three now, yes, all he wanted. Well, what about what she wanted? But¡­ what is it that I want? She didn¡¯t know. ¡®Mistress.¡¯ Challice turned. Laid out on the vanity¡¯s worn surface, the treasure of her maidenhood looked¡­ cheap. Gaudy. The very sight of those baubles made her sick in the pit of her stomach. ¡®Put them in a box,¡¯ she said to her servant. ¡®Tomorrow we sell them.¡¯ He should never have lingered in the garden. His amorous host, the widow Sepharla, had fallen into a drunken slumber on the marble bench, one hand still holding her goblet as, head tilted back and mouth hanging open, loud snores groaned out into the sultry night air. The failed enterprise had amused Murillio, and he had stood for a time, sipping at his own wine and smelling the fragrant scents of the blossoms, until a sound alerted him to someone¡¯s quiet arrival. Turning, he found himself looking upon the widow¡¯s daughter. He should never have done that, either. Half his age, but that delineation no longer distinguished unseemly from otherwise. She was past her rite of passage by three, perhaps four years, just nearing that age among young women when it was impossible for a man to tell whether she was twenty or thirty. And by that point, all such judgement was born of wilful self-delusion and hardly mattered anyway. He¡¯d had, perhaps, too much wine. Enough to weaken a certain resolve, the one having to do with recognizing his own maturity, that host of years behind him of which he was constantly reminded by the dwindling number of covetous glances flung his way. True, one might call it experience, settling for those women who knew enough to appreciate such traits. But a man¡¯s mind was quick to flit from how things were to how he wanted them to be, or, even worse, to how they used to be. As the saying went, when it came to the truth, every man was a duellist sheathed in the blood of ten thousand cuts. None of this passed through Murillio¡¯s mind in the moment his eyes locked gazes with Delish, the unwed daughter of widow Sepharla. The wine, he would later conclude. The heat and steam of the fete, the sweet blossom scents on the moist, warm air. The fact that she was virtually naked, wearing but a shift of thin silk. Her light brown hair was cut incredibly short in the latest fashion among maidens. Face pale as cream, with full lips and the faintest slope to her nose. Liquid brown eyes big as a waif¡¯s, but there was no cracked bowl begging alms in her hands. This urchin¡¯s need belonged elsewhere. Reassured by the snoring from the marble bench-and horrified by own relief Murillio bowed low before her. ¡®Well timed, my dear,¡¯ he said, straightening. ¡®I was considering how best to assist your mother to her bed. Suggestions?¡¯ A shake of that perfectly shaped head. ¡®She sleeps there most nights. Just like that.¡¯ The voice was young yet neither nasal nor high-pitched as seemed the style among so many maidens these days, and so it failed in reminding him of that vast chasm of years between them. Page 12 Oh, in retrospect, so many regrets this night! ¡®She never thought you¡¯d accept her invitation,¡¯ Delish went on, glancing down to where she had kicked off one of her sandals and was now prodding it with a delicate toe. ¡®Desirable as you are. In demand, I mean, on this night espe?cially.¡¯ Too clever by far, this stroking of his vaguely creped and nearly flaccid ego. ¡®But dear, why are you here? Your list of suitors must be legion, and among them-¡¯ ¡®Among them, not a single one worth calling a man.¡¯ Did a thousand hormone-soaked hearts break with that dismissive utterance? Did beds lurch in the night, feet kicking clear of sweaty sheets? He could almost believe it. ¡®And that includes Prelick.¡¯ ¡®Excuse me, who?¡¯ ¡®The drunk, useless fool now passed out in the foyer. Tripping over his sword all night. It was execrable.¡¯ Execrable. Yes, now I see. ¡®The young are prone to excessive enthusiasm,¡¯ Murillio observed. ¡®I have no doubt poor Prelick has been anticipating this night for weeks, if not months. Naturally, he succumbed to nervous agitation, brought on by proximity to your lovely self. Pity such young men, Delish; they deserve that much at least.¡¯ ¡®I¡¯m not interested in pity, Murillio.¡¯ She should never have said his name in just that way. He should never have listened to her say anything at all. ¡®Delish, can you stomach advice on this night, from one such as myself?¡¯ Her expression was one of barely maintained forbearance, but she nodded. ¡®Seek out the quiet ones. Not the ones who preen, or display undue arrogance. The quiet ones, Delish, prone to watchfulness.¡¯ ¡®You describe no one I know.¡¯ ¡®Oh, they are there. It just takes a second glance to notice them.¡¯ She had both sandals off now, and she dismissed his words with a wave of one pale hand that somehow brought her a step closer. Looking up as if suddenly shy, yet holding his gaze too long for there to be any real temerity. ¡®Not quiet ones. Not ones to pity. No¡­ children! Not tonight, Murillio. Not under this moon.¡¯ And he found her in his arms, a soft body all too eager with naught but filmy silk covering It and seemed to be sliding over him, a sylph, and he thought: Under this moon? Her last gesture at the poetic, alas, since she was already tearing at his clothes, her mouth with those full lips wet and parted and a tongue flickering as she bit at hii own lips, And here he was with one hand on one of her breasts, his other hand slippiiig round to her behind, hitching her up as she spread her legs and climbed to anchor herself on his hips, and he heard his belt buckle clack on the pavestone between his boots. She was not a large woman. Not at all heavy, but surprisingly athletic, and she rode him with such violence that he felt his lower spine creak with every frenzied plunge. He sank into his usual detachment at this point, the kind that assured impressive endurance, and took a moment to confirm that the snoring continued behind him. All at once that sonorous sound struck him with a sense of prophetic dissolution, surrender to the years of struggle that was life¡¯s own chorus-and so we shall all end our days-a momentary pang that, had he permitted it to linger, would have unmanned him utterly. Delish, meanwhile, was wearing herself out, her gasps harsher, quicker, as shudders rose through her, and so he surrendered-not a moment too soon-to sensation. And joined her in one final, helpless gasp. She held on to him and he could feel her pounding heart as he slowly lowered her back on to her feet, gently pulling away. It was, all things considered, the worst moment to witness the blur of an iron blade flashing before his eyes. Burning agony as the sword thrust into his chest, the point pushing entirely through, making the drunken fool wielding it stumble forward, almost into the arms of Murillio. Who was then falling back, the sword sliding out with a reluctant sob. Delish screamed, and the look on Prelick¡¯s face was triumphant. ¡®Hah! The rapist dies!¡¯ More footsteps, then, rushing out from the house. Voices clamouring. Be mused, Murillio picked himself back up, tugging at his pantaloons, cinching tight his belt. His lime green silk shirt was turning purple in blotches. There was blood on his chin, frothing up in soft, rattling coughs. Hands pulled at him and he pushed them all away, staggering for the gate.,. Regrets, yes, jostling with the oblivious crowds on the street. Moments of lucidity, unknown periods of dim, red haze, standing with one hand on a stone wall, spitting down streams of blood. Oh, plenty of regrets. Fortunately, he did not think they would hound him for much longer. Page 13 Was it habit or some peculiar twist in family traits that gave Scorch his expression of perpetual surprise? There was no telling, since every word the man ut?tered was delivered in tones of bewildered disbelief, as if Scorch could never be sure of what his senses told him of the outside world, and was even less certain of whatever thoughts clamoured in his head. He stared now at Leff, eyes wide and mouth gaping in between nervous licks of his lips, while Leff in turn squinted at Scorch as if chronically suspicious of his friend¡¯s apparent idiocy. ¡®All them ain¡¯t gonna wait for ever, Left! We should never have signed on to this. I say we hitch on the next trader shippin¡¯ out. Down to Dhavran, maybe till the way t¡¯the coast! Ain¡¯t you got a cousin in Mengal?¡¯ Leff slowly blinked. ¡®Aye, Scorch. They let ¡¯im furnish his cell himself, he¡¯s in there so much. You want us go up there and take on his mess too? Besides, then we¡¯d end up on the list.¡¯ Astonishment and dread filled Scorch¡¯s face. He looked away, whispered, ¡®It¡¯s the list that¡¯s done us in. The list¡­¡¯ ¡®We knew it wouldn¡¯t be easy,¡¯ Leff said in a possible attempt at mollification. ¡®Things like that never are.¡¯ ¡®But we ain¡¯t gotten nowhere!¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s only been a week, Scorch.¡¯ The time had come for a modest clearing of the throat, a dab of the silk handkerchief on oily brow, a musing tug on the mouse-tail beard. ¡®Gentlemen!¡¯ Ah, now he had their attention. ¡®Witness the Skirmishers on the field and yon Mercenary¡¯s Coin, glinting ever as golden lures are wont to glint¡­ everywhere. But here especially, and the knuckles still reside in the sweaty hand of surprised Scorch, too long clutched and uncast. Interminable has this game grown, with Kruppe patient as he perches on very edge of glorious victory!¡¯ Leff scowled. ¡®You ain¡¯t winning nothing, Kruppe! You¡¯re losing, and bad, Coin or no Coin! And what use is it anyway-I don¡¯t see no mercenary anywhere on the field, so who¡¯s it paying for? Nobody!¡¯ Smiling, Kruppe leaned back. The crowd was noisome this night at the Phoenix Inn, as more and more drunks stumbled back in after their pleasing foray in the dusty, grimy streets. Kruppe, of course, felt magnanimous towards them all, as suited his naturally magnanimous nature. Scorch cast the knuckles, then stared at the half-dozen etched bones as if they spelled out his doom. And so they had. Kruppe leaned forward once again. ¡®Ho, the Straight Road reveals itself, and see how these six Mercenaries march on to the field! Slaying left and right! One cast of the knuckles, and the universe changes! Behold this grim lesson, dear companions of Kruppe. When the Coin is revealed, how long before a hand reaches for it?¡¯ Virtually no cast in the Riposte Round could save the two hapless Kings and their equally hapless players, Scorch and Leff. Snarling, Leff swept an arm through the field, scattering pieces everywhere. As he did so he palmed the Coin and would have slipped it into his waistband if not for a wag of Kruppe¡¯s head and the pudgy hand reaching out palm up. Cursing under his breath, Leff dropped the Coin into that hand. ¡®To the spoiler, the victory,¡¯ Kruppe said, smiling. ¡®Alas for poor Scorch and Leff, this single coin is but a fraction of riches now belonging to triumphant Kruppe. Two councils each, yes?¡¯ ¡®That¡¯s a week¡¯s wages for a week that ain¡¯t come yet,¡¯ Leff said. ¡®We¡¯ll have to owe you, friend.¡¯ ¡®Egregious precedent! Kruppe, however, understands I how such reversals can catch one unawares, which makes perfect sense, since they are reversals. Accordingly, given the necessity for a week¡¯s noble labour, Kruppe is happy to extend deadline for said payment to one week from today.¡¯ Groaning, Scorch sat hack, ¡®The list, Leff. We¡¯re back to that damned list.¡¯ ¡®Many are the defaulters,¡¯ Kruppe said, sighing. ¡®And eager those demanding recompense, so much so that they assemble a dread list, and upon diminishment of names therein remit handsomely to those who would enforce collection, yes?¡¯ The two men stared. Scorch¡¯s expression suggested that he had just taken a sharp blow to the head and was yet to find his wits. Leff simply scowled. ¡®Aye, that list, Kruppe. We took the job on since we didn¡¯t have nothing else to do since Hoe¡¯s sudden¡­ demise. And now it looks like our names might end up on it!¡¯ ¡®Nonsense! Or, rather, Kruppe elaborates, not if such a threat looms as a result of some future defaultment on monies owed Kruppe. Lists of that nature are indeed pernicious and probably counterproductive and Kruppe finds their very existence reprehensible. Wise advice is to relax somewhat on that matter. Unless, of course, one finds the deadline fast approaching with naught but lint in one¡¯s pouch. Further advice, achieve a victory on the list, receive due reward, repair immediately to Kruppe and clear the modest debt. The alternative, alas, is that we proceed with an entirely different solution.¡¯ Page 14 Leff licked his lips. ¡®What solution would that be?¡¯ ¡®Why, Kruppe¡¯s modest assistance regarding said list, of course. For a minuscule percentage.¡¯ ¡®For a cut you¡¯d help us hunt down them that¡¯s on the list?¡¯ ¡®To do so would be in Kruppe¡¯s best interests, given this debt between him and you two.¡¯ ¡®What¡¯s the percentage?¡¯ ¡®Why, thirty-three, of course.¡¯ ¡®And you call that modest?¡¯ ¡®No, I called it minuscule. Dearest partners, have you found any of the people on that list?¡¯ Miserable silence answered him, although Scorch was still looking rather confused. ¡®There is,¡¯ Kruppe said with an expansive swell of his chest that threatened the two stalwart buttons of his vest, ¡®no one in Darujhistan that Kruppe cannot find.¡¯ He settled back, and the brave buttons gleamed with victory. Shouting, a commotion at the door, then Meese crying out Kruppe¡¯s name. Startled, Kruppe rose, but could not see over the heads of all these peculiarly tall patrons-how annoying-and so he edged round his table and pushed his grunting, gasping way through to the bar, where Irilta was half dragging a blood-drenched Murillio on to the counter, knocking aside tankards and goblets. Oh my. Kruppe met Meese¡¯s eyes, noted the fear and alarm. ¡®Meese, go to Coll at once.¡¯ Pale, she nodded. The crowd parted before her. Because, as the Gadrobi are wont to say, even a drunk known a fool, and, drunk or not, no one was fool enough to gct in that woman¡¯s way. Picker¡¯s sword lay on the table, its tip smeared in drying blood. Antsy had added his short sword, its blade far messier. Together, mute testaments to this im?promptu meeting¡¯s agenda. Bluepearl sat at one end of the long table, nursing his headache with a tankard of ale; Blend was by the door, arms folded as she leaned against the frame. Mallet sat in a chair to Bluepearl¡¯s left, with all his nerves pushed into one jumpy leg, the thigh and knee jittering, while his face remained closed as he refused to meet anyone¡¯s eyes. Near the ratty tapestry dating back from the time when this place was still a temple stood Duiker, once Imperial Historian, now a broken old man. In fact, Picker was mildly surprised that he¡¯d accepted the invitation to join them. Perhaps some remnant of curiosity flickered still in the ashes of Duiker¡¯s soul, although he seemed more interested in the faded scene on the tapestry with its aerial flotilla of dragons approaching a temple much like the one they were in. Nobody seemed ready to start talking. Typical. The task always fell at her feet, like some wounded dove. ¡®Assassins¡¯ Guild¡¯s taken on a contract,¡¯ she said, deliberately harsh. ¡®Target? At the very least, me, Antsy and Bluepearl. More likely, all us partners.¡¯ She paused, waiting to hear some objection. Nothing. ¡®Antsy, we turn down any offers on this place?¡¯ ¡®Picker,¡¯ the Falari said in an identical tone, ¡®ain¡¯t nobody¡¯s ever made an offer on this place.¡¯ ¡®Fine,¡¯ she replied. ¡®So, anyone catch a rumour that the old K¡¯rul cult has been resurrected? Some High Priest somewhere in the city wanting the old temple back?¡¯ Bluepearl snorted. ¡®What¡¯s that supposed to tell us?¡¯ Picker demanded, glaring at him. ¡®Nothing,¡¯ the Napan mage muttered. ¡®I ain¡¯t heard nothing like that, Pick. Now if Ganoes Paran ever comes back from wherever he¡¯s gone, we could get ourselves a sure answer. Still, I don¡¯t think there¡¯s any cult trying to move back in.¡¯ ¡®How do you know?¡¯ Antsy demanded. ¡®Can you smell ¡¯em or something?¡¯ ¡®Oh, not now,¡¯ Bluepearl complained. ¡®No more questions tonight. That Mockra¡¯s chewed everything in my skull to pulp. I hate Mockra.¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s the ghosts,¡¯ said Mallet in that odd, gentle voice of his. He glanced across at Bluepearl. ¡®Right? They¡¯re not whispering anything they haven¡¯t been whispering since we moved in. fust the usual moans and begging for blood.¡¯ His gaze shifted to the swords on the table before him. ¡®Blood spilled here, that is. Stuff brought in from outside doesn¡¯t count. Luckily.¡¯ Blend said, ¡®So try not cutting yourself shaving, Antsy.¡¯ ¡®There¡¯s been the odd scrap downstairs,¡¯ Picker said, frowning at Mallet. ¡®Are you saying that¡¯s been feeding the damned ghosts?¡¯ The healer shrugged. ¡®Never enough to make a difference.¡¯ Page 15 ¡®We need us a necromancer,¡¯ Bluepearl announced. We¡¯re getting off track,¡¯ Pieker said. ¡®It¡¯s the damned contract we got to worry about, Ws need to find out who¡¯s behind It. We find out who, we throw a cusser through his bedroom window and that¡¯s that. So,¡¯ she continued, looking at the others, ¡®we need to conic up with a plan of attack. Information to start. Let¡¯s hear some ideas on that.¡¯ More silence. Blend stepped away from the door. ¡®Someone¡¯s coming/ she said. Now they could all hear the boots thumping up the stairs, hissed protestations in their wake. Antsy collected his sword and Bluepearl slowly rose and Picker could smell the sudden awakening of sorcery. She held up a hand. ¡®Wait, for Hood¡¯s sake.¡¯ The door was flung open. In strode a large, well-dressed man, out of breath, his light blue eyes scanning laces until they alighted on Mallet, who rose. ¡®Councillor Coll. What is wrong?¡¯ ¡®I need your help/ the Daru noble said, and Picker could hear the distress in t he man¡¯s voice. ¡®High Denul. I need you, now.¡¯ ? Before Mallet could reply, Picker stepped forward. ¡®Councillor Coll, did you come here alone?¡¯ The man frowned. Then a vague gesture behind him. ¡®A modest escort. Two guards.¡¯ Only then did he note the sword on the table. ¡®What is happening here?¡¯ ¡®Picker,¡¯ said Mallet, ¡®I¡¯ll take Bluepearl.¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t like-¡¯ But the healer cut her off. ¡®We need information, don¡¯t we? Coll can help us. Besides, they wouldn¡¯t have set more than one clan on us to start and you took care of that one. The Guild needs to recover, reassess-we¡¯ve got a day at least.¡¯ Picker looked across at the councillor, who, if he didn¡¯t quite grasp what was going on, now had enough for a fair guess. Sighing, she said to him, ¡®Seems there¡¯s someone wants us dead. You might not want to get involved with us right now-¡¯ But he shook his head, fixed his gaze once more on Mallet. ¡®Healer, please.¡¯ Mallet nodded to a scowling Bluepearl. ¡®Lead on, Councillor. We¡¯re with ya.¡¯ ¡®¡­ came upon Osserick, stalwart ally, broken and with blood on his face, struck into unconsciousness. And Anomander fell to his knees and called upon the Thousand Gods who looked down upon Osserick and saw the blood on his face. With mercy they struck him awakened and so he stood. And so stood Anomander and they faced one another, Light upon Dark, Dark upon Light. ¡®Now there was rage in Anomander. ¡°Where is Draconnusl¡± he demanded of his stalwart ally. For when Anomander had departed, the evil tyrant Draconnus, Slayer of Eleint, had been by Anomander¡¯s own hand struck into unconsciousness and there was blood on his face. Osserick, who had taken the charge of guarding Draconnus, fell to his knees and called upon the Thousand Gods, seeking their mercy before Anomander¡¯s fury.¡¯ ¡®I was bested!¡¯ cried Osserick in answer. ¡®Caught by Sister Spite unawares! Oh, the Thousand Clods were turned away, and so was I struck into unconsciousness and see there is blood on my face!¡¯ ¡°One day,¡± vowed Anomander, and he was then the darkness of a terrible storm, and Osserick quailed like a sun behind a cloud, ¡°this alliance of ours shall end. Our enmity shall be renewed, O Son of Light, Child of Light. We shall contest every span of ground, every reach of sky, every spring of sweet water. We shall battle a thousand times and there shall be no mercy between us. I shall send misery upon your kin, your daughters. I shall blight their minds with Unknowing Dark. I shall scatter them confused on realms unknown and there shall be no mercy in their hearts, for between them and the Thousand Gods there shall ever be a cloud of darkness.¡± ¡®Such was Anomander¡¯s fury, and though he stood alone, Dark upon Light, there was sweetness hngering in the palm of one hand, from the deceiving touch of Lady Envy. Light upon Dark, Dark upon Light, two men, wielded as weapons by two sisters, children of Draconnus. Who stood unseen by any and were pleased by what they saw and all that they heard. ¡®It was decided then that Anomander would set out once more, to hunt down the evil tyrant. To destroy him and his cursed sword which is an abomination in the eyes of the Thousand Gods and all who kneel to them. Osserick, it was decided, would set out to hunt Spite and exact righteous vengeance. ¡®Of the vow spoken by Anomander, Osserick knew the rage from which it was spawned, and in silence he made vow to answer it in his own time. To spar, to duel, to contest every span of ground, every reach of sky, and every spring of sweet water. But such matters must needs lie upon calm earth, a seed awaiting life. Page 16 ¡®This issue with Draconnus remained before them, after all, and now Spite as well. Did not the Children of Tiam demand punishment! There was blood on the faces of too many Eleint, and so Anomander and so Osserick had taken on themselves this fated hunt. ¡®Could the Eleint have known all that would come of this, they would have withdrawn their storm-breath, from both Anomander and Osserick. But these fates were not to be known then, and this is why the Thousand Gods wept Rubbing his eyes, High Alchemist Baruk leaned back. The original version of this, he suspected, was not the mannered shambles he had just read through. Those quaint but overused phrases belonged to an interim age when the style among historians sought to resurrect some oral legacy in an effort to reinforce the veracity of eyewitnesses to the events described. The result had given him a headache. He had never heard of the Thousand Gods, and this pantheon could not be found in any other compendium but Dillat¡¯s Dark and Light. Baruk suspected Dillat had simply made them up, which prompted the question: how much else did she invent? Leaning forward once more, he adjusted the lantern¡¯s wick, then lenfed through the brittle sheets until another section caught his interest. ¡®In this day there was war among the dragons. The First Born had all but one bowed necks to K¡¯rul¡¯s bargain. Their children, bereft of all that they would have inherited, htust skyward from the towers in great flurry yet even these were not uuited beyond rejecting the First Born. Factions arose and red rain descended upon all the Realms. Jaws fastened upon necks. Talons opened bellies. The breath of chaos melted flesh from bones. ¡®Anomander, Osserick and others had already tasted the blood of Tiam, and now there came more with raging thirst and many a demonic abomination was spawned of this crimson nectar. So long as the Gates of Starvald Demelain remained open, unguarded and held by none, the war would not end, and so the red rain descended upon all the Realms. ¡®Kurald Liosan was the first Realm to seal the portal between itself and Starvald Demelain, and the tale that follows recounts the slaughter committed by Osserick in cleansing his world of all the pretenders and rivals, the Soletaken and feral purebloods, even unto driving the very first D¡¯ivers from his land. ¡®This begins at the time when Osserick fought Anomander for the sixteenth time and both had blood on their faces before Kilmandaros, she who speaks with her fists, took upon herself the task of driving them apart. Baruk looked up, then twisted in his chair to regard his guest, who was busy preening herself on his map-table. ¡®Crone, the inconsistencies in this text are infuriating.¡¯ The Great Raven cocked her head, beak gaping for a moment in laughter, then said, ¡®So what? Show me a written history that makes sense, and I will show you true fiction. If that is all you want, then look elsewhere! My master concluded that Dillat¡¯s nonsense would make a fine gift for your collection. If you are truly displeased, there are plenty of other idiocies in his library, those that he bothered to extract from Moon¡¯s Spawn, that is. He left whole rooms crammed with the rubbish, you know.¡¯ Baruk blinked slowly, struggling to keep his horror from his voice as he said, ¡®No, I did not know that.¡¯ Undeceived, Crone cackled. Then she said, ¡®My master was most amused at the notion of falling to his knees and crying out to the Hundred Gods-¡¯ ¡®Thousand. The Thousand Gods.¡¯ ¡®Whatever.¡¯ A duck of the head and the wings half spread. ¡®Or even making a vow to battle Osserc. Their alliance fell apart because of a growing mutual dis?like. The disaster with Draconus probably delivered the death-blow. Imagine, falling for a woman¡¯s wiles-and a daughter of Draconus at that! Was Osserc not even remotely suspicious of her motives? Hah! The males among every species in existence are so¡­ predictable!¡¯ Baruk smiled. ¡®If I recall Fisher¡¯s Anomanaris, Lady Envy managed pretty much the same with your master, Crone.¡¯ ¡®Nothing he was unaware of at the time,¡¯ the Great Raven said with a strange clucking sound to punctuate the statement. ¡®My master has always understood the necessity of certain sacrifices.¡¯ She fluffed up her onyx feathers. ¡®Consider the outcome, after all!¡¯ Baruk grimaced. ¡®I¡¯m hungry!¡¯ Crone announced. ¡®I didn¡¯t finish my supper,¡¯ Baruk said. ¡®On that plate-¡¯ ¡®I know, I know! What do you think made me hungry in the first place? Sit in wonder at my patience, High Alchemist! Even as you read on interminably!¡¯ ¡®Eat now and quickly, old friend,¡¯ Baruk said, ¡®lest you die of malnutrition.¡¯ Page 17 ¡®You were never such a careless host before,¡¯ the Great Raven observed, hop?ping over to the plate and spearing a sliver of meat. ¡®You are troubled, High Al?chemist.¡¯ ¡®By many things, yes. The Rhivi claim that the White Face Barghast have disappeared. Utterly.¡¯ ¡®Indeed,¡¯ Crone replied. ¡®Almost immediately after the fall of Coral and the Tiste Andii investiture.¡¯ ¡®Crone, you are a Great Raven. Your children ride the winds and see all.¡¯ ¡®Perhaps.¡¯ ¡®Why then will you not tell me where they went?¡¯ ¡®Well, the Grey Swords as you know marched south, down to Elingarth,¡¯ Crone said, circling the plate in short hops. ¡®And there they purchased ships.¡¯ A pause and cock of the head. ¡®Could they see the wake before them? Did they know to follow? Or is there perhaps a great hole in the world¡¯s ocean, drawing every ship into its deadly maw?¡¯ ¡®The White Face took to the seas? Extraordinary. And the Grey Swords followed them.¡¯ ¡®None of this is relevant, High Alchemist.¡¯ ¡®Relevant to what?¡¯ ¡®Your unease, of course. You fling queries at your poor bedraggled guest in order to distract yourself.¡¯ It had been months since Crone¡¯s previous visit, and Baruk had come to believe, with some regret, that his cordial relations with the Son of Darkness were drawing to a close, not out of any dispute, simply the chronic ennui of the Tiste Andii. It was said the permanent gloom that was Black Coral well suited the city¡¯s denizens, both Andii and human. ¡®Crone, please extend to your master my sincerest thanks for this gift. It was most unexpected and generous. But I would ask him, if it is not too forward of me, if he is reconsidering the Council¡¯s official request to open diplomatic relations between our two cities. Delegates but await your master¡¯s invitation, and a suitable site has been set aside for the construction of an embassy-not far from here, in fact.¡¯ ¡®The estate crushed by a Soletaken demon¡¯s inglorious descent,¡¯ Crone said, pausing to laugh before spearing another chunk of food, ¡®Aagh, this is vegetable! Disgusting!¡¯ ¡®Indeed, Crone, the very same estate. As I said, not far from here.¡¯ ¡®Master is considering said request, and will continue considering it, I suspect¡¯ ¡®For how much longer?¡¯ ¡®I have no idea.¡¯ ¡®Does he have concerns?¡¯ The Great Raven, leaning over the plate, tilted her head and regarded Baruk for a long moment. Baruk felt vaguely sickened and he looked away. ¡®So, I have reason to be¡­ troubled.¡¯ ¡®Master asks: when will it begin?¡¯ The High Alchemist eyed the stack of loosely bound parchment that was Anomander¡¯s gift, and nodded. But he did not answer. ¡®Master asks: do you wish for assistance?¡¯ Baruk winced. ¡®Master asks,¡¯ Crone went on, relentless, ¡®would said assistance better serve you if it was covert, rather than official?¡¯ Gods below. ¡®Master asks: should sweet Crone stay the night as Barak¡¯s guest, awaiting answers to these queries?¡¯ Clattering at the window. Barak swiftly rose and approached it. ¡®A demon!¡¯ cried Crone, half spreading her enormous wings. ¡®One of mine,¡¯ said Baruk, unlatching the iron frame and then stepping back as Chillbais clambered awkwardly into view, grunting as he squeezed through. ¡®Master Barak!¡¯ he squealed. ¡®Out! Out! Out!¡¯ Barak had felt ill a moment earlier. Now he was suddenly chilled in his very bones. He slowly shut the window, then faced the Great Raven. ¡®Crone, it has be?gun.¡¯ The demon saw her and bared needle fangs as he hissed, ¡®Grotesque monstrosiy!¡¯ Crone made stabbing motions with her beak. ¡®Bloated toad!¡¯ ¡®Be quiet, both of you!¡¯ Barak snapped. ¡®Crone, you will indeed stay the night as my guest. Chillbais, find somewhere to be. I have more work for you and I will collect you when it¡¯s time.¡¯ Flickering a forked tongue out at Crone, the squat demon waddled towards the fireplace. It clambered on to the glowing coals, then disappeared up the chimney. Black clouds of soot rained down, billowing out from the hearth. Crone coughed. ¡®Ill-mannered servants you have, High Alchemist.¡¯ But Baruk was not listening. Out. Out! That lone word rang through his mind, loud as a temple bell, drowning out everything else, although he caught a fast-fading echo¡­ Page 18 ¡®¡­ stalwart ally, broken and with blood on his face¡­¡¯ Chapter Two Anomander would tell no lie, nor live one, and would that deafness could bless him in the days and nights beyond the black rains of Black Coral. Alas, this was not to be. And so we choose to hear nothing ¡® Of the dreaded creak, the slip and snap Of wooden wheels, the shudder on stone And the chiding rattle of chains, as if Upon some other world is where darkness Beats out from a cursedly ethereal forge And no sun rises above horizon¡¯s rippled Cant-some other world not ours indeed- Yes bless us so, Anomander, with this Sanctimony, this lie and soft comfort, And the slaves are not us, this weight But an illusion, these shackles could break With a thought, and all these cries and Moans are less than the murmurs Of a quiescent heart-it¡¯s all but a tale, My friends, this tall denier of worship And the sword he carries holds nothing, No memory at all, and if there be a place In the cosy scheme for lost souls Pulling onward an uprooted temple It but resides in an imagination flawed And unaligned with sober intricacy- Nothing is as messy as that messy world And that comfort leaves us abiding Deaf and blind and senseless in peace Within our imagined place, this precious order¡­ ¨C Anomandaris , Book IV, Soliloquy, Fisher Kel That Dragon Tower stood like a torch above Black Coral. The spire, rising from the northwest corner of the New Andiian Palace, was solid black basalt, dressed in fractured,faceted obsidian that glistened in the eter-tlrtl gloom enshrouding the eily. Atop its flat roof crouched a crimson-scaled dragon, wings folded, its wedge bead banging over one side so that it seemed to stare down on the crazed shadowy patchwork of buildings, alleys and streets far below, There were citizens still in Black Coral-among the humans-who believed thai the ferocious sentinel was the stone creation of some master artisan among the ruling Tiste Andii, and this notion left Endest Silann sourly amused. True, he understood how wilful such ignorance could be. The thought of a real, live dragon cast ing its baleful regard down on the city and its multitude of scurrying lives was to most truly terrifying, and indeed, had they been close enough to see the gleaming hunger in Silannah¡¯s multifaceted eyes, they would have long fled Black Coral in blind panic. For the Eleint to remain so, virtually motionless, day and night, weeks into months and now very nearly an entire year, was not unusual. And Endest Silann knew this better than most. The Tiste Andii, once a formidable, if aged, sorcerer in Moon¡¯s Spawn, now a barely competent castellan to the New Andiian Palace, slowly walked Sword Street as it bent south of the treeless park known as Grey Hill. He had left the fiercely lit district of Fish, where the Outwater Market so crowded every avenue and lane that those who brought two-wheeled carts in which to load purchases were forced to leave them in a square just north of Grey Hill. The endless streams of porters for hire-who gathered every dawn near the Cart Square-always added to the chaos between the stalls, pushing through with wrapped bundles towards the carts and slipping, dodging and sliding like eels back into the press. Although the Outwater Market acquired its name because the preponderance of fish sold there came from the seas beyond Night-the perpetual darkness cloaking the city and the surround?ing area for almost a third of a league-there could also be found the pale, gem-eyed creatures of Coral Bay¡¯s Nightwater. Endest Silann had arranged the next week¡¯s order of cadaver eels from a new supplier, since the last one¡¯s trawler had been pulled down by something too big for its net, with the loss of all hands. Nightwater was not simply an unlit span of sea in the bay, unfortunately. It was Kurald Galain, a true manifestation of the warren, quite possibly depthless, and on occasion untoward beasts loomed into the waters of Coral Bay. Something was down there now, forcing the fishers to use hooks and lines rather than nets, a method possible only because the eels foamed just beneath the surface in the tens of thousands, driven there by terror. Most of the eels pulled aboard were snags. South of Grey Hill, the street lanterns grew scarcer as Endest Silann made his way into the Andiian district. Typically, there were few Tiste Andii on the streets. Nowhere could be seen figures seated on tenement steps, or in stalls lean?ing on countertops to call out their wares or simply watch passers-by. Instead, the rare figures crossing Endest¡¯s path were one and all on their way somewhere, probably the home of some friend or relation, there to participate in the few re?maining rituals of society. Or returning home from such ordeals, as tenuous us smoke from a dying fire. Page 19 No fellow Tiste Andii met Endest Silann¡¯s eyes as they slipped ghostly past. This, of course, was more than the usual indifference, but he had grown used to it. An old man must need a thick skin, and was he not the oldest by far? Excepting Anomander Dragnipurake. Yet Endest could recall his youth, a vision of himself vaguely blurred by time, setting foot upon this world on a wild night with storms ravaging the sky. Oh, the storms of that night, the cold water on the face¡­ that moment, I see it still. They stood facing a new world. His lord¡¯s rage ebbing, but slowly, trickling down like the rain. Blood leaked from a sword wound in Anomander¡¯s left shoul?der. And there had been a look in his eyes¡­, Endest sighed as he worked his way up the street¡¯s slope, but it was an uneven, harsh sigh. Off to his left was the heaped rubble of the old palace. A few jagged walls rose here and there, and crews had carved paths into the mass of wreckage, salvaging stone and the occasional timber that had not burned. The deafening col?lapse of that edifice still shivered in Endest¡¯s bones, and he slowed in his climb, one hand reaching Out to lean against a wall. The pressure was returning, making his jaw creak as he clenched his teeth, and pain shot through his skull. Not again, please. No, this would not do. That time was done, over with. He had survived. He had done as his lord had commanded and he had not failed. No, this would not do at all. Endest Silann stood, sweat now on his face, with his eyes squeezed shut. No one ever met his gaze, and this was why. This¡­ weakness. Anomander Dragnipurake had led his score of surviving followers on to the strand of a new world. Behind the flaring rage in his eyes there had been triumph. This, Endest Silann told himself, was worth remembering. Was worth holding on to. We assume the burden as we must. We win through. And life goes on. A more recent memory, heaving into his mind. The unbearable pressure of the deep, the water pushing in on all sides. ¡®You are my last High Mage, Endest Silann. Can you do this for me?¡¯ The sea, my lord? Beneath the sea? ¡®Can you do this, old friend?¡¯ My lord, I shall try. But the sea had wanted Moon¡¯s Spawn, oh, yes, wanted it with savage, relentless hunger. It had railed against the stone, it had besieged the sky keep with its crushing embrace, and in the end there was no throwing back its dark swirling legions. Oh, Endest Silann had kept them alive for just long enough, but the walls were collapsing even as his lord had summoned the sky keep¡¯s last reserves of power, to raise it up from the depths, raise it up, yes, back into the sky. So heavy, the weight, so vast injured beyond recovery, Moon¡¯s Spawn was already dead, undead as Endcst Silann¡¯s own power. We both drawned that day. We both died. Raging falls¡¯ black water thudering down, a rain of tears from stone, oh, how Moon¡¯s Spawn wept. Cracks widening, the internal thunder of beauty¡¯s collapse¡­ I should have gone with Moon¡¯s Spawn when at last he sent it drifting away, yes, I should have. Squatting among the interred dead. My lord honours me for His sacrifice, but his every word is like ashes drifting down on my face. Abyss below, I fell the sundering of every room! The fissures bursting through were sword ¡®dashes in my soul, and how we bled, how we groaned, how we fell inward with our mortal wounds! The pressure would not relent. It was within him now. The sea sought vengeance, and now could assail him no matter where he stood. Hubris had delivered a curse, searing a brand on his soul. A brand that had grown septic. He was too broken to fight it off any more. I am Moon¡¯s Spawn, now. Crushed in the deep, unable to reach the surface. I descend, and the pressure builds. How it builds! No, this would not do. Breath hissing, he pushed himself from the wall, staggered onward. He was a High Mage no longer. He was nothing. A mere castellan, fretting over kitchen supplies and foodstuffs, watch schedules and cords of wood lor the hearths. Wax for the yellow-eyed candlemakers. Squid ink for the stained scribes¡­ Now, when he stood before his lord, he spoke of paltry things, and this was his legacy, all that remained. Yet did I not stand with him on that strand! Am I not the last one left to share with my lord that memory! The pressure slowly eased. And once again, he had survived the embrace. And the next time? There was no telling, but he did not believe he could last much longer. The pain clutching his chest, the thunder in his skull. We have found a new supply of cadaver eels. That is what I will tell him. And he will smile and nod, and perhaps settle one hand on my shoulder. A gentle, cautious squeeze, light enough to ensure that nothing breaks. He will speak his gratitude. Page 20 For the eels. It was a measure of his courage and fortitude that the man had never once denied that he had been a Seerdomin of the Pannion Domin; that, indeed, he had served the mad tyrant in the very keep now reduced to rubble barely a stone¡¯s throw behind the Scour Tavern. That he held on to the title was not evidence of some misplaced sense of manic loyalty. The man with the expressive eyes understood irony, and if on occasion some fellow human in the city took umbrage upon hearing him identify himself thus, well, the Seerdomin could take care of himself and that was one legacy that was no cause for shame. This much and little more was what Spinnock Durav knew of the man, beyond his impressive talent in the game they now played: an ancient game of ehe Tiste Andii, known as Kef Tanar, that had spread throughout the population of Black Coral and indeed, so he had heard, to cities far beyond-even Darujhistan itself. As many kings or queens as there were players. A field of battle that expanded with each round and was never twice the same. Soldiers and mercenaries and mages, assassins, spies. Spinnock Durav knew that the original inspiration for Kef Tanar could be found in the succession wars among the First Children of Mother Dark, and indeed one of the king figures bore a slash of silver paint on its mane, whilst another was of bleached bonewood. There was a queen of white fire, opal-crowned; and others Spinnock could, if he bothered, have named, assuming anyone was remotely interested, which he suspected they were not. Most held that the white mane was a recent affectation, like some mocking salute to Black Coral¡¯s remote ruler. The tiles of the field themselves were all flavoured in aspects of Dark, Light and Shadow. The Grand City and Keep tiles were seen as corresponding to Black Coral, although Spinnock Durav knew that the field¡¯s ever-expanding Grand City (there were over fifty tiles for the City alone and a player could make more, if desired) was in fact Kharkanas, the First City of Dark. But no matter. It was the game that counted. The lone Tiste Andii in all of the Scour, Spinnock Durav sat with four other players, with a crowd now gathered round to watch this titanic battle which had gone on for five bells. Smoke hung in wreaths just overhead, obscuring the low rafters of the tavern¡¯s main room, blunting the light of the torches and candles. Rough pillars here and there held up the ceiling, constructed from fragments of the old palace and Moon¡¯s Spawn itself, all inexpertly fitted together, some leaning ominously and displaying cracks in the mortar. Spilled ale puddled the uneven flagstones of the floor, where hard-backed salamanders slithered about, drunkenly attempting to mate with people¡¯s feet and needing to be kicked off again and again. The Seerdomin sat across the table from Spinnock. Two of the other players had succumbed to vassal roles, both now subject to Seerdomin¡¯s opal-crowned queen. The third player¡¯s forces had been backed into one corner of the field, and he was contemplating throwing in his lot with either Seerdomin or Spinnock Durav. If the former, then Spinnock was in trouble, although by no means finished. He was, after all, a veteran player whose experience spanned nearly twenty thousand years. Spinnock was large for a Tiste Andii, wide-shouldered and strangely bearish. There was a faint reddish tinge to his long, unbound hair. His eyes were set wide apart on a broad, somewhat flat face, the cheekbones prominent and flaring. The slash that was his¡¯mouth was fixed in a grin, an expression that rarely wavered. ¡®Seerdomin,¡¯ he now said, whilst the cornered player prevaricated, besieged by advice from friends crowded behind his chair, ¡®you have a singular talent for Kef Tanar.¡¯ The man simply smiled In the previous round a cast of the knuckles had delivered a Mercenary¡¯s Coin into the Seerdomin¡¯s royal vaults. Spinnock was expecting a flanking foray with the four remaining mercenary figures, either to bring pressure on the third king if he elected to remain independent or threw in his lot with Spinnock, or to drive them deep into Spinnock¡¯s own territory. However, with but a handful of field tiles remaining and the Gate not yet selected, Seerdomin would be wiser to hold hack. Breaths were held as the third king reached into the pouch to collect a field tile. He drew out his hand closed in a fist, then met Spinnock¡¯s eyes. Nerves and avarice. ¡®Three coins, Tiste, and I¡¯m your vassal.¡¯ Spinnock¡¯s grin hardened, and he shook his head. ¡®I don¡¯t buy vassals, Garsten.¡¯ ¡®Then you will lose.¡¯ ¡®I doubt Seerdomin will buy your allegiance either.¡¯ ¡®Come to me now,¡¯ Seerdomin said to the man, ¡®and do so on your hands and knees.¡¯ Page 21 Garsten¡¯s eyes flicked back and forth, gauging which viper was likely to carry the least painful bite. After a moment he snarled under his breath and revealed the tile. ¡®Gate!¡¯ ¡®Delighted to find you sitting on my right,¡¯ Spinnock said. ¡® I retreat through!¡¯ Cowardly, but predictable. This was the only path left to Garsten that allowed him to hold on to the coins in his vault. Spinnock and Seerdomin watched as Garsten marched his pieces from the field. And then it was Spinnock¡¯s turn. With the Gate in play he could summon the five dragons he had amassed. They sailed high over Seerdomin¡¯s elaborate ground defences, weathering them with but the loss of one from the frantic sorcery of the two High Mages atop the towers of Seerdomin¡¯s High Keep. The assault struck down two-thirds of Seerdomin¡¯s Inner Court, virtually isolating his queen. With the ground defences in sudden disarray on the collapse of command, Spinnock advanced a spearhead of his own mercenaries as well as his regiment of Elite Cavalry, neatly bisecting the enemy forces. Both vassals subsequently broke in uprising, each remaining on the field long enough to further savage Seerdomin¡¯s beleaguered forces before retreating through the Gate. By the time the game¡¯s round reached him, Seerdomin had no choice but to reach out one hand and topple his queen. Voices rose on all sides, as wagers were settled. Spinnock Durav leaned forward to collect his winnings. ¡®Resto! A pitcher of ale for the table here!¡¯ ¡®You are ever generous with my money,¡¯ Seerdomin said in sour amusement. ¡®The secret of generosity, friend.¡¯ ¡®I appreciate the salve.¡¯ ¡®1 know.¡¯ As was customary, the other three players, having retreated, could not par-take of any gesture of celebration by the game¡¯s victor. Accordingly, Spinnock and Seerdomin were free to share the pitcher of ale between them, and this seemed a most satisfying conclusion to such a skilfully waged campaign. The crowd had moved off, fragmenting on all sides, and the servers were suddenly busy once more. ¡®The problem with us night owls,¡¯ said Seerdomin, hunching down over his flagon. When it seemed he would say no more he added, ¡®Not once does a glance to yon smudged pane over there reveal the poppy-kiss of dawn.¡¯ ¡®Dawn? Ah, to announce night¡¯s closure,¡¯ Spinnock said, nodding. ¡®It is a con?stant source of surprise among us Tiste Andii that so many humans have re?mained. Such unrelieved darkness is a weight upon your souls, or so I have heard.¡¯ ¡®If there is no escape, aye, it can twist a mind into madness. But a short ride beyond the north gate, out to the Barrow, and bright day beckons. Same for the fishers sailing Outwater. Without such options, Spinnock, you Andii would indeed be alone in Black Coral. Moon¡¯s Spawn casts a shadow long after its death, or so the poets sing. But I tell you this,¡¯ Seerdomin leaned forward to refill his flagon, ¡®I welcome this eternal darkness.¡¯ Spinnock knew as much, for the man seated opposite him carried a sorrow heavier than any shadow, and far darker; and in this he was perhaps more Tiste Andii than human, but for one thing, and it was this one thing that made it easy for Spinnock Durav to call the man friend. Seerdomin, for all his grief, was somehow holding despair back, defying the siege that had long ago defeated the Tiste Andii. A human trait, to be sure. More than a trait, a quality profound in its resilience, a virtue that, although Spinnock could not find it within himself-nor, it was true, among any fellow Tiste Andii-he could draw a kind of sustenance from none the less. At times, he felt like a parasite, so vital had this vicarious feeding become, and he sometimes feared that it was the only thing keeping him alive. Seerdomin had enough burdens, and Spinnock was determined that his friend should never comprehend the necessity he had become-these games, these nights among the eternal Night, this squalid tavern and the pitchers of cheap, gassy ale. ¡®This one has worn me out,¡¯ the man now said, setting down his empty flagon. ¡®I thought I had you-aye, I knew the Gate tile was still unplayed. Two tiles to get past you, though, and everything would have been mine.¡¯ There wasn¡¯t much to say to that. Both understood how that single gamble had decided the game. What was unusual was Seerdomin¡¯s uncharacteristic need to explain himself. ¡®Get some sleep,¡¯ Spinnock said. Seerdomin¡¯s smile was wry. He hesitated, as if undecided whether or not to say something, or simply follow Spinnock¡¯s advice and stumble off to his home. Speak not to me of weakness. Please. Page 22 ¡®I have acquired the habit,¡¯ the man said, squinting as he followed some minor ruckus near the bar, ¡®of ascending the ruins. To look out over the Nightwater. Remebering the old cat-men and their families-aye, It seems they are breed- ing anew, but of course It will not be the same, not at all the same.¡¯ He fell silent for a moment, then shot Spinnock a quick, uneasy glance. ¡®I see your lord.¡¯ The Tiste Andii¡¯s brows lilted. ¡®Anomander Rake?¡¯ A nod. ¡®First time was a couple of weeks ago. And now¡­ every time, at about the twelfth bell. He stands on the wall of the new keep. And, like me, he stares out to sea.¡¯ ¡®He favours¡­ solitude,¡¯ Spinnock said. ¡®1 am always suspicious of that statement,¡¯ Seerdomin said. Yes, 1 can see how you might be. ¡®It is what comes from lordship, from rule. Most of his original court is gone. Korlat, Orfantal, Sorrit, Pra¡¯iran. Vanished or dead. That doesn¡¯t make it any easier. Still, there are some who remain. Endest Silann, for one.¡¯ ¡®When I see him, standing alone like that¡­¡¯ Seerdomin looked away. ¡®It unnerves me.¡¯ ¡®It is my understanding,¡¯ observed Spinnock, ¡®that we all manage to do that, for you humans. The way we seem to haunt this city.¡¯ ¡®Sentinels with nothing to guard.¡¯ Spinnock thought about that, then asked, ¡®And so too the Son of Darkness? Do you people chafe under his indifferent rule?¡¯ Seerdomin grimaced. ¡®Would that all rulers were as indifferent. No, ¡°indifferent¡± is not quite the right word. He is there where it matters. The administration and the authority-neither can be challenged, nor is there any reason to do so. The Son of Darkness is¡­ benign.¡¯ Spinnock thought of the sword strapped to his lord¡¯s back, adding the tart flavour of inadvertent irony to his friend¡¯s words. And then he thought of the dead cities to the north. Maurik, Setta, Lest. ¡®It¡¯s not as if any neighbouring kingdoms are eyeing the prize that is Black Coral. They¡¯re either dead or, as in the south, in complete disarray. Thus, the threat of war is absent. Accordingly, what¡¯s left for a ruler? As you say, administration and authority.¡¯ ¡®You do not convince me, friend,¡¯ Seerdomin said, his eyes narrowing. ¡®The Son of Darkness, now that is a title for a bureaucrat? Hardly. Knight of Darkness to keep the thugs off the streets?¡¯ ¡®It is the curse of a long life,¡¯ Spinnock said, ¡®that in eminence one both rises and falls, again and again. Before this, there was a vast and costly war against the Pannion Domin. Before that, an even deadlier and far longer feud with the Malazan Empire. Before that, Jacuruku. Seerdomin, Anomander Rake has earned his rest. This peace.¡¯ ¡®Then perhaps he is the one who chafes. Staring out upon the harsh waters of the Cut, the twelfth bell tolling like a dirge in the gloom.¡¯ ¡®Poetic,¡¯ Spinnock said, smiling, but there was something cold in his heart, as if the image conjured by his friend¡¯s words was somehow too poignant. The notion sobered him. ¡®I do not know if my lord chafes. I have never been that important; little more than one warrior among thousands. I do not think we have spoken in centuries.¡¯ Seerdomin¡¯s look was incredulous. ¡®But that is absurd!¡¯ ¡®Is it? See me, Seerdomin, I am too capricious. It is my eternal curse. I wan never one for command, not even a squad. I got lost in Mott Wood, five days stumbling through briar and brush.¡¯ Spinnock laughed, waved one hand. ¡®A hopeless cause long ago, friend.¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s commonly held, Spinnock, that all you remaining Tiste Andii-survivors from all those wars-are perforce the elite, the most formidable of all.¡¯ ¡®You were a soldier, so you know better than that. Oh, there are heroes aplenty among the Andii ranks. But just as many of us who were simply lucky. It¡¯s the way of things. We lost many great heroes in our battles against the Malazans.¡¯ ¡®A hopeless cause, you claim to be.¡¯ Seerdomin grimaced. ¡®Yet a master campaigner in Kef Tanar.¡¯ ¡®With soldiers of carved wood, I am most formidable. Living ones are another matter entirely.¡¯ The man grunted, and seemed content to leave that one alone. They sat in companionable silence for a time, as Resto delivered another pitcher of ale, and Spinnock was relieved, as the ale flowed from pitcher to flagon to mouth, that no more talk of past deeds in distant fields of battle arose that might unhinge the half-truths and outright lies he had just uttered. Page 23 And when the moment came when dawn unfurled its poppy blush upon the far eastern horizon, a moment unseen by any within the city of Black Coral, Spinnock Durav nodded, but mostly to himself. Eternal darkness or not, a Tiste Andii knew when light arrived. Another irony, then, that only the humans within Night were oblivious of the day¡¯s beginning, of the passage of the unseen sun beyond the gloom, of its endless journey across the sky. Before they both got too drunk, they agreed upon the time for a new game. And when Seerdomin finally rose unsteadily to his feet, flinging a careless wave in Spinnock¡¯s direction before weaving out through the tavern door, Spinnock found himself wishing the man a safe journey home. A most generous send-off, then, even if delivered in silence. Anomander Rake would be setting out for the throne room by now, where he would steel himself to face the brutal demands of the day, the allocation of stipends, the merchant grievances to be adjudicated, reports on the status of supplies, one or two emissaries from distant free cities seeking trade agreements and mutual protection pacts (yes, plenty of those). Oh, the Knight of Darkness fought all manner of beasts and demons, did he not? Darkness surrendered. But then, it always did. There was no telling how long the journey took in that time within Kurald Galain, nor the vast distances covered, stride by stride by stride. All was in discord, all was unrelieved and unrelieving. Again and again, Nimander Golit seemed to startle awake, realizing with a shiver that he had been walking, an automaton in the midst of his comrades, all of whom glowed dully and appeared to float in an ethereal void, with the one named Clip a few paces ahead, striding with a purpose none of them could emulate, Ni-mander would then comprehend that, once more, he had Lost himself. Rediscovering where he was elicited no satisfaction. Rediscovering who he was proved even worse, The young man named Nimander Golit was little more than an accretion of memories, numbed by a concatenation of remembered sensations a beautiful woman dying in his arms. Another woman dying beneath his hands, her face turning dark, like a storm cloud that could not burst, her eyes bulging, and still his hands squeezed. A flailing body flung through the air, crashing through a window, vanishing into the rain. Chains could spin for eternity, rings glittering with some kind of life. Worn boots could swing forward, one after another like the blades of a pair of shears. Promises could be uttered, acquiescence forced like a swollen hand pushing into a tight glove. All could stand wearing their certainty. Or feeling it drive them forward like a wind that knew where it was going. All could wish for warmth within that embrace. Hut these were empty things, bobbing before his eyes like puppets on tangled strings. As soon as he reached out, seeking to untangle those strings, to make sense out of it all, they would swing away, for ever beyond his reach. Skintick, who seemed ready with a smile for everything, walked at his side yet half a step ahead. Nimander could not see enough of his cousin¡¯s face to know how Skintick had greeted the darkness that had stretched ever before them, but as that impenetrable abyss faded, and from the way ahead emerged the boles of pine trees, his cousin turned with a smile decidedly wry. ¡®That wasn¡¯t so bad,¡¯ he murmured, making every word a lie and clearly delighting in his own mockery. Damp air swirled round them now, cool in its caress, and Clip¡¯s steps had slowed. When he turned they could see the extent of his exhaustion. The rings spun once round on the chain in his hand, then snapped taut. ¡®We will camp here,¡¯ he said in a hoarse voice. Some previous battle had left Clip¡¯s armour and clothes in tatters, with old bloodstains on the dark leather. So many wounds that, if delivered all at once, they should probably have killed him. Little of this had been visible that night on the street in Second Maiden Fort, when he had first summoned them. Nimander and Skintick watched their kin settle down on the soft loam of the forest floor wherever they happened to be standing, blank-eyed and looking lost. Yes, ¡®explanations are ephemeral. They are the sword and shield of the attack, and behind them hides motivation. Explanations strive to find weakness, and from the exploitation of weakness comes compliance and the potential of absolute surrender.¡¯ So Andarist had written, long ago, in a treatise entitled Combat and Negotiation. Skintick, his long jester¡¯s face faintly pinched with weariness, plucked at Ni-mander¡¯s sleeve, gestured with a nod of his head then set out to one side, threading between trees. After a moment, Nimander followed. His cousin halted some thirty paces from the makeshift camp, where he settled on to his haunches. Page 24 Across from him, Nimandcr did the same. The sun was beginning to rise, bleeding light into the gloom of this forest. With it came the faint smell of the sea. ¡®Herald of Mother Dark,¡¯ Skintick said quietly, as if measuring the worth of the words. ¡®Mortal Sword. Bold titles, Nimander. Why, I¡¯ve thought of one for each of us too-not much else to occupy my time on that endless walk. Skintick, the Blind Jester of House Dark. Do you like it?¡¯ ¡®You¡¯re not blind.¡¯ ¡®I¡¯m not?¡¯ ¡®What is it you wished to talk about?¡¯ Nimander asked. ¡®Not silly titles, I should think.¡¯ ¡®That depends. This Clip proudly asserts his own, after all.¡¯ ¡®You do not believe him?¡¯ A half-smile. ¡®Cousin, there is very little I truly believe. Beyond the oxy-moronic fact that supposedly intelligent people seem to revel in being stupid. For this, I blame the chaotic tumult of emotions that devour reason as water devours snow.¡¯ ¡® ¡°Emotions are the spawn of true motivations, whether those motivations be conscious or otherwise,¡±¡® said Nimander. ¡®The man remembers what he reads. Making him decidedly dangerous, not to mention occasionally tedious.¡¯ ¡®What are we to discuss?¡¯ Nimander asked, in some exasperation. ¡®He can claim any title he wishes-we can do nothing about it, can we?¡¯ ¡®Well, we can choose to follow, or not follow.¡¯ ¡®Even that is too late. We have followed. Into Kurald Galain, and now here. And in the time ahead, to the journey¡¯s very end.¡¯ ¡®To stand before Anomander Rake, yes.¡¯ Skintick gestured at the surrounding forest. ¡®Or we could just walk away. Leave Clip to his dramatic accounting with the Son of Darkness.¡¯ ¡®Where would we go, then, Skintick? We don¡¯t even know where we are. What realm is this? What world lies beyond this forest? Cousin, we have nowhere else to go.¡¯ ¡®Nowhere, and anywhere. In the circumstances, Nimander, the former leads to the latter, like reaching a door everyone believes barred, locked tight, and lo, it opens wide at the touch. Nowhere and anywhere are states of mind. See this for?est around us? Is it a barrier, or ten thousand paths leading into mystery and won?der? Whichever you decide, the forest itself remains unchanged. It does not transform to suit your decision.¡¯ ¡®And where is the joke in that, cousin?¡¯ ¡®Laugh or cry, simple states of mind.¡¯ ¡®And?¡¯ Skintick glanced away, back towards the camp. ¡®I find Clip¡­ amusing.¡¯ ¡®Why does that not surprise me?¡¯ ¡®He has created a vast, portentous moment, the moment when he finally stands face to face with the Son of Darkness. He hears martial music, the thunder of drums, or howl of horns sweepingt round the high, swaying lower where this fated metting no doubt will occur. He sees few in Anomander Rake¡¯s eyes, in answer to his own fury.¡¯ ¡®Then he is a fool.¡¯ ¡®Us young folk eommonly are. We should tell him.¡¯ ¡®Tell him what? That he is a fool?¡¯ Skintick¡¯s smile broadened briefly, then he met Nimander¡¯s eyes once more. ¡®Something more subtle, I should think.¡¯ ¡®Such as?¡¯ ¡®The forest does not change.¡¯ Now it was Nimander¡¯s turn to glance away, to squint into the greyness of dawn, the misty wreaths shrouding the ankles of the trees. She died in my arms. Then Andarist died, bleeding out on to the cobbles. And Phaed was pulled from my hands. Thrown through a window, down to her death. I met the eyes of her killer, and saw that he had killed her¡­ for me. The forest does not change. ¡®There are,¡¯ Skintick said in a low voice, ¡®things worth considering, Nimander. We are seven Tiste Andii, and Clip. So, eight. Wherever we now are, it is not our world. Yet, I am certain, it is the same world we have come to know, to even think of, as our own. The world of Drift Avalii, our first island prison. The world of the Malazan Empire, Adjunct Tavore, and the Isle that was our second prison. The same world. Perhaps this here is the very land where waits Anomander Rake-why would Clip take us through Kurald Galain to some place far from the Son of Darkness? We might find him another league onward through this forest.¡¯ ¡®Why not to his front door?¡¯ Skintick grinned his pleased grin. ¡®Indeed, why not? In any case, Anomander Rake will not be alone. There will be other Tiste Andii with him. A community. Nimander, we have earned such a gift, haven¡¯t we?¡¯ Page 25 To that, Nimander wanted to weep. I have earned nothing. Beyond remon-stration. Condemnation. The contempt of every one of them. Of Anomander Rake himself. For all my failures, the community will judge me, and that will be that. Self-pity tugged at him yet further, but he shook it off. For these who followed him, for Skintick and Desra and Nenanda, Kedeviss and Aranatha, yes, he could give them this last gift. Which was not even his to give, but Clip¡¯s. Clip, my usurper. ¡®And so,¡¯ he finally said, ¡®we come back to the beginning. We will follow Clip, until he takes us to our people.¡¯ ¡®I suppose you are right,¡¯ Skintick said, as if satisfied with the circular nature of their conversation, as if something had indeed been achieved by the effort-though Nimander could not imagine what that might be. Birdsong to awaken the sky to light, a musty warmth hinted at in the soft breaths rising from the humus. The air smelled impossibly clean. Nimander rubbed at his face, then saw Skintick¡¯s almond-shaped eyes shift their gaze to over his shoulder, and so he turned, even as a fallen branch crackled underfoot to announce someone¡¯s arrival. Skintick raised his voice, ¡®Join us, cousin.¡¯ Aranatha moved like a lost child, ever tremulous, ever diffident. Eyes widening as they always did whenever she awakened to the outside world-she edged forward. ¡®I couldn¡¯t sleep,¡¯ she said. ¡®Nenanda was asking Clip about all sorts of things, until Desra told him to go away.¡¯ Skintick¡¯s brows lifted. ¡®Desra? Stalking Clip now, is she? Well, my only surprise is that it¡¯s taken this long-not that there was much chance within Kurald Galain.¡¯ Nimander asked her, ¡®Did Nenanda manage to get an explanation from Clip about where we are? And how far we still have to go?¡¯ She continued creeping forward. The muted dawn light made her seem a thing of obsidian and silver, her long black hair glistening, her black skin faintly dusted, her silver eyes hinting of iron that never appeared. Like some Goddess of Hope. But one whose only strength lay in an optimism immune to defeat. Immune to all reality, in fact. ¡®We have emerged somewhere south of where we were supposed to. There are, Clip explained, ¡°layers of resistance¡±.¡¯ She shrugged. ¡®I don¡¯t understand what that means, but those were his words.¡¯ Nimander briefly met Skintick¡¯s eyes, then smiled up at Aranatha. ¡®Did Clip say how much farther?¡¯ ¡®Farther than he¡¯d hoped. Tell me, do either of you smell the sea?¡¯ ¡®Yes,¡¯ Nimander replied. ¡®Can¡¯t be far, either. East, I think.¡¯ ¡®We should go there-perhaps there will be villages.¡¯ ¡®You possess impressive reserves, Aranatha,¡¯ said Skintick. ¡®If it¡¯s not far¡­¡¯ With a wry smile, Skintick straightened. Nimander did the same. It was simple enough to walk in the direction of the rising sun, clambering over tree-falls and skirting sinkholes. The only trails they crossed were those left by game-nothing taller than deer and so branches hung low over them-and none led to the sea. The air grew warmer, then, all at once, cooler, and ahead was the sound of wind singing through branches and leaves, and then the crashing of surf. Slanting bedrock pushed up between trees, forcing them to climb, scrambling up a sharply rising cant. They emerged to find themselves atop a cliff of wind-scoured rock and stunted, twisted trees. The sea was before them, glittering fierce in the sun. Enormous swells rolled in, pounding the jagged, unforgiving shoreline far below. The coast to the north and the south was virtually identical as far as could be seen. Well out from shore, explosions of spume betrayed the presence of submerged reefs and shallows. ¡®Won¡¯t find any villages here,¡¯ Skintick said. ¡®I doubt we¡¯d find much of anything, and as for skirting this coast, well, that looks to be virtually impossible. Unless, of course,¡¯ he added with a smile, ¡®our glorious leader can kick rock to rubble to make us a beach. Or summon winged demons to carry us over all this, Failing that, I suggest we return to our camp, burrow down Into the pine needles, and go to sleep,¡¯ No one objected, so they turned about in retrace their route. Seeing the rage ever bridling and boiling beneath the surface of the young warrior named Nenanda was a constant comfort to Clip. This one he could work with. This one he could shape. His confidence in Nimander, on the other hand, was vir-tually nonexistent. The man had been thrust into a leader¡¯s role and it clearly did no! suit him. Too sensitive by far, Nimander was of the type that the world and all its brutal realities usually destroyed, and it was something of a miracle that it had not yet done so. Clip had seen such pathetic creatures before; perhaps indeed it was a trait among the Tiste Andii. Centuries of life became a travail, an impossible burden. Such creatures burned out fast. Page 26 No, Nimander was not worth his time. And Nimander¡¯s closest companion, Skintick, was no better. Clip admitted he saw something of himself in Skintick-that wry mockery, the quick sarcasm-yes, other traits common among the Andii. What Skintick lacked, however, was the hard vicious core that he himself possessed in abundance. Necessities existed. Necessities had to be recognized, and in that recognition so too must be understood all the tasks required to achieve precisely what was necessary. Hard choices were the only choices that could be deemed virtuous, Clip was well familiar with hard choices, and with the acceptable burden that was virtue. He was prepared to carry such a burden for the rest of what he anticipated would be a very, very long life. Nenanda might well be worthy to stand at his side, through all that was to come. Among the young women in this entourage, only Desra seemed potentially useful. Ambitious and no doubt ruthless, she could be the knife in his hidden scabbard. Besides, an attractive woman¡¯s attentions delivered their own reward, did they not? Kedeviss was too frail, broken inside just like Nimander, and Clip could already see death in her shadow. Aranatha was still a child behind those startled eyes, and perhaps always would be. No, of this entire group he had recruited from the Isle, only Nenanda and Desra were of any use to him. He had hoped for better. After all, these were the survivors of Drift Avalii. They had stood at the side of Andarist himself, crossing blades with Tiste Edur warriors. With demons. They had tasted their share of blood, of triumph and grief. They should now be hardened veterans. Well, he had managed with worse. Alone for the moment, with Aranatha wandering off and probably already lost; with Nenanda, Desra and Kedeviss finally asleep; and with Nimander and Skintick somewhere in the woods-no doubt discussing portentous decisions on things relevant only to them-Clip loosened once again the chain and rings wrapped about his hand. There was a soft clink as the gleaming rings met at the ends of the dangling chain, each now spinning slowly, one counter to the other as proof of the power they held. Miniature portals appearing and disappearing, then reappearing once more, all bounded in cold metal. The fashioning of these items had devoured most of the powers of the Andii dwelling in the subterranean fastness that was-or had been-the Andara. Leaving his kin, as it turned out, fatally vulnerable to their Letherii hunters. The cacophony of souls residing within these rings was now all that remained of those people, his pathetic family of misfits. And his to control. Sometimes, it seemed, even when things didn¡¯t go as planned, Clip found himself reaping rewards. Proof, yes, that I am chosen. The chain swung, rings lifting up and out. Spun into a whine like the cries of a thousand trapped souls, and Clip smiled. The journey from the Scour Tavern back to the New Palace skirted the ruins of the great fortress, the collapse of which had brought to an end the Pannion Domin. Unlit and now perpetually shrouded in gloom, the heaped rubble of black stone still smelled of fire and death. The ragged edge of this shattered monument was on Spinnock Durav¡¯s left as he walked the street now called Fringe Stagger. Ahead and slightly to the right rose Dragon Tower, and he could feel Silanah¡¯s crimson eyes on him from atop its great height. The regard of an Eleint was never welcome, no matter how familiar Silanah¡¯s presence among Rake¡¯s Tiste Andii. Spinnock could well recall the last few times he had been witness to the dragon unleashed. Flames ripping through the forest that was Mott Wood, crashing down in a deluge, with a deafening concussion that drowned out every death-cry as countless unseen creatures died. Among them, perhaps a handful of Crimson Guard, a dozen or so Mott Irregulars. Like using an axe to kill ants. Then, from the very heart of that fiery maelstrom, virulent sorcery lashed out, striking Silanah in a coruscating wave. Thunder hammering the air, the dragon¡¯s scream of pain. The enormous beast writhing, slashing her way free, then, trailing ropes of blood, flying back towards Moon¡¯s Spawn. He recalled Anomander Rake¡¯s rage, and how he could hold it in his eyes like a demon chained to his will, even as he stood motionless, even as he spoke in a calm, almost bored tone. A single word, a name. Cowi. And with that name, oh, how the rage flared in those Draconean eyes. There had begun, then, a hunt. The kind only a fool would choose to join. Rake, seeking out the deadliest wizard among the Crimson Guard. At one point, Spinnock remembered standing on the high ledge on the face of Moon¡¯s Spawn, watching the mage-storms fill half the northern night sky. Flashes, the knight charge of thunder through a smoke-wreathed sky. He had wondered, then, if the world was on the very edge of being torn apart, and from the depths of his soul had risen a twisted, malignant thought. Again¡­ Page 27 When great powerrs strode on to the field of battle, things had a way of getting out of hand, Had it been Cowl who first blinked? Bowing out, yielding ground, fleeing? Of had it been the Son of Darkness Spinnock doubted be would ever find out. Such questions were not asked of Anomander Rake. Some time later, it was discovered by the Tiste Andii, Cowl had resurfaced, this time in Darujhistan. Causing more trouble. His stay there had been blessedly brief. Another vision of Silanah, laying the trap for the Jaghut Tyrant in the Gadrobi Hillss. More wounds, more ferocious magic. Wheeling over the ravaged plain. Five Soletaken Tiste Andii whirling round her like crows escorting an eagle. Perhaps he was alone,¡¯ Spinnock reflected, in his unease with the alliance between the Tiste Andii and the Eleint. There had been a time, after all, when Anomander Rake had warred against the pureblood dragons. When such crea?tures broke loose from their long-standing servitude to K¡¯rul; when they had sought to grasp power for themselves. The motivation for Rake¡¯s opposition to them was, typically, obscure. Silanah¡¯s arrival-much later-was yet another event shrouded in mystery. No, Spinnock Durav was far from thrilled by Silanah¡¯s bloodless regard. He approached the arched entrance to the New Palace, ascending the flagstone ramp. There were no guards standing outside. There never were. Pushing open one of the twin doors, he strode inside. Before him, a buttressed corridor that humans would find unnaturally narrow. Twenty paces in, another archway, opening out into a spacious domed chamber with a floor of polished blackwood inset with the twenty-eight spiralling teiondai of Mother Dark, all in black silver. The inside of the dome overhead was a mirror image. This homage to the goddess who had turned away was, to Spinnock¡¯s mind, extraordinary; appallingly out of place. Oh, sages might well debate who had done the turning away back then, but none would dismiss the terrible vastness of the schism. Was this some belated effort at healing the ancient wound? Spinnock found that notion unfathomable. And yet, Anomander Rake himself had commissioned the teiondai, the Invisible Sun and its whirling, wild rays of onyx flame. If Kurald Galain had a heart in this realm¡¯s manifestation of the warren, it was here, in this chamber. Yet he felt no presence, no ghostly breath of power, as he made his way across the floor to the curling bone-white staircase, fust beyond the turn above wavered a pool of lantern light. Two human servants were scrubbing the alabaster steps. At his arrival they ducked away. ¡®Mind the wet,¡¯ one muttered. ¡®I¡¯m surprised,¡¯ Spinnock said as he edged past, ¡®there¡¯s need to clean these at all. There are all of fifteen people living in this palace.¡¯ ¡®You¡¯ve that, sir,¡¯ the man replied, nodding. The Tiste Andii paused and glanced back. ¡®Then why are you bothering? I can hardly believe the castellan set you upon this task.¡¯ ¡®No sir, he never did. We was just, cr, bored.¡¯¡¯ After a bemused moment, Spinnock resumed his ascent. These short-lived creatures baffled him. The journey to the chambers where dwelt the Son of Darkness was a lengthy traverse made in solitude. Echoing corridors, unlocked, unguarded doors. The castellan¡¯s modest collection of scribes and sundry bureaucrats worked in offices on the main floor; kitchen staff, clothes-scrubbers and wringers, hearth-keepers and taper-lighters, all lived and worked in the lower levels. Here, on the higher floors, darkness ruled a realm virtually unoccupied. Reaching the elongated room that faced the Nightwater, Spinnock Durav found his lord. Facing the crystal window that ran the entire length of the Nightwater wall, his long silver-white hair faintly luminous in the muted, refracted light cast into the room by the faceted quartz. The sword Dragnipur was nowhere in sight. Three steps into the chamber and Spinnock halted. Without turning, Anomander Rake said, ¡®The game, Spinnock?¡¯ ¡®You won again, Lord. But it was close.¡¯ ¡®The Gate?¡¯ Spinnock smiled wryly. ¡®When all else seems lost¡­¡¯ Perhaps Anomander Rake nodded at that, or his gaze, fixed somewhere out on the waves of Nightwater, shifted downward to something closer by. A fisher boat, or the crest of some leviathan rising momentarily from the abyss. Either way, the sigh that followed was audible. ¡®Spinnock, old friend, it is good that you have returned.¡¯ ¡®Thank you, Lord. I, too, am pleased to see an end to my wandering.¡¯ ¡®Wandering? Yes, I imagine you might have seen it that way.¡¯ ¡®You sent me to a continent, Lord. Discovering the myriad truths upon it necessitated¡­ fair wandering.¡¯ Page 28 ¡®I have thought long on the details of your tale, Spinnock Durav.¡¯ Still Rake did not turn round. ¡®Yielding a single question. Must I journey there?¡¯ Spinnock frowned. ¡®Assail? Lord, the situation there¡­¡¯ ¡®Yes, I understand.¡¯ At last, the Son of Darkness slowly swung about, and it seemed his eyes had stolen something from the crystal window, flaring then dimming like a memory. ¡®Soon, then.¡¯ ¡®Lord, on my last day, a league from the sea¡­¡¯ ¡®Yes?¡¯ ¡®I lost count of those I killed to reach that desolate strand. Lord, by the time I waded into the deep, enough to vanish beneath the waves, the very bay was crimson. That I lived at all in the face of that is-¡¯ ¡®Unsurprising,¡¯ Anomander Rake cut in with a faint smile, ¡¯as far as your Lord is concerned.¡¯ The smile faded. ¡®Ah, but I have sorely abused your skills, friend.¡¯ Spinnock could not help but cock his head and say, ¡®And so, I am given leave to wield soldiers of wood and stone on a wine-stained table? Day after day, my muscles growing soft, the ambition draining away.¡¯ ¡®Is this what you call a well-earned rest?¡¯ ¡®Some nights are worse than others, Lord,¡¯ ¡®To hear you speak of ambition, Spinnock, recalls to my mind another place, long, long ago, You and I,,¡¯ ¡®Where I learned, at last,¡¯ Spinnock said, with no bitterness at all, ¡®my destiny.¡¯ ¡®Unseen by anyone. Deeds unwitnessed. Heroic efforts earning naught but one man¡¯s gratitude.¡¯ ¡®A weapon must be used, Lord, lest it rust.¡¯ ¡®A weapon overused, Spinnock, grows blunt, notched.¡¯ To that, the burly Tiste Andii bowed. ¡®Perhaps, then, Lord, such a weapon must be put away. A new one found.¡¯ ¡®That time is yet to arrive, Spinnock Durav.¡¯ Spinnock bowed again. ¡®There is, in my opinion, Lord, no time in the foreseeable future when you must journey to Assail. The madness there seems quite¡­ self-contained.¡¯ Anomander Rake studied Spinnock¡¯s face for a time, then nodded. ¡®Play on, my friend. See the king through. Until¡­¡¯ and he turned once more back to the crystal window. There was no need to voice the completion of that sentence, Spinnock well knew. He bowed a third time, then walked from the chamber, closing the door behind him. Endest Silann was slowly hobbling up the corridor. At Spinnock¡¯s appearance the old castellan glanced up. ¡®Ah,¡¯ he said, ¡¯is our Lord within?¡¯ ¡®He is.¡¯ The elder Tiste Andii¡¯s answering smile was no gift to Spinnock, so strained was it, a thing of sorrow and shame. And while perhaps Endest had earned the right to the first sentiment-a once powerful mage now broken-he had not to the second. Yet what could Spinnock say that might ease that burden? Nothing that would not sound trite. Perhaps something more¡­ acerbic, something to challenge that self-pity- ¡®I must speak to him,¡¯ Endest said, reaching for the door. ¡®He will welcome that,¡¯ Spinnock managed. Again the smile. ¡®I am sure.¡¯ A pause, a glance up into Spinnock¡¯s eyes. ¡®I have great news.¡¯ ¡®Yes?¡¯ Endest Silann lifted the latch. ¡®Yes. I have found a new supplier of cadaver eels.¡¯ ¡®Lord of this, Son of that, it¡¯s no matter, izzit?¡¯ The man peeled the last of the rind from the fruit with his thumb-knife, then flung it out on to the cobbles. ¡®Point is,¡¯ he continued to his companions, ¡®he ain¡¯t even human, is he? Just another of ¡¯em hoary black-skinned demons, as dead-eyed as all the rest.¡¯ ¡®Big on husking the world, aren¡¯t ya?¡¯ the second man at the table said, winking across at the third man, who¡¯d yet to say a thing. ¡®Big on lotsa things, you better believe it,¡¯ the first man muttered, now cutting slices of the fruit and lifting each one to his mouth balanced on the blade. The waiter drew close at that moment to edge up the wick in the lantern on the table, then vanished into the gloom once more. The three were seated at one of the new street-side restaurants, although ¡®restaurant¡¯ was perhaps too noble a word for this rough line of tables and unmatched wooden chairs. The kitchen was little more than a converted cart and a stretch of canvas roof beneath which a family laboured round a grill that had once been a horse trough. Of the four tables, three were occupied. All humans-the Tiste Andii were not wont to take meals in public, much less engage in idle chatter over steaming mugs of Bastion kelyk, a pungent brew growing in popularity in Black Coral. Page 29 ¡®You like to talk,¡¯ the second man prodded, reaching for his cup. ¡®But words never dug a ditch.¡¯ ¡®I ain¡¯t alone in being in the right about this,¡¯ the first man retorted. ¡®Ain¡¯t alone at all. It¡¯s plain that if the Lord Son was dead and gone, all this damned darkness would go away, an¡¯ we¡¯d be back to normal wi¡¯ day ¡®n¡¯ night again.¡¯, ¡®No guarantees of that,¡¯ the third man said, his tone that of someone half asleep. ¡®It¡¯s plain, I said. Plain, an¡¯ if you can¡¯t see that, it¡¯s your problem, not ours.¡¯ ¡®Ours?¡¯ ¡®Aye, just that.¡¯ ¡®Plan on sticking that rind-snicker through his heart, then?¡¯ The second man grunted a laugh. ¡®They may live long,¡¯ the first man said in a low grumble, ¡®but they bleed like anybody else.¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t tell me,¡¯ the third man said, fighting a yawn, ¡®you¡¯re the mastermind behind what you¡¯re talking about, Bucch.¡¯ ¡®Not me,¡¯ the first man, Bucch, allowed, ¡®but I was among the first t¡¯give my word an¡¯ swear on it.¡¯ ¡®So who is?¡¯ ¡®Can¡¯t say. Don¡¯t know. That¡¯s how they organize these things.¡¯ The second man was now scratching the stubble on his jaw. ¡®Y¡¯know,¡¯ he ventured, ¡®it¡¯s not like there¡¯s a million of ¡¯em, is it? Why, half the adults among us was soldiers in the Domin, or even before. And nobody took our weapons or armour, did they?¡¯ ¡®Bigger fools them,¡¯ Bucch said, nodding. ¡®Arrogance like that, they should pay for, I say.¡¯ ¡®When¡¯s the next meeting?¡¯ the second man asked. The third man stirred from his slouch on his chair. ¡®We were just off for that, Harak. You want to come along?¡¯ As the three men rose and walked off, Seerdomin finished the last of his kelyk, waited another half-dozen heartbeats, and then rose, drawing his cloak round him, even as he reached beneath it and loosened the sword in its scabbard. He paused, then, and formally faced north. Closing his eyes, he spoke a soft prayer. Then, walking with a careless stride he set off, more or less in the direction the three men were taking, High on the tower, a red-scaled dragon¡¯s eyes looked down upon all, facets reflecting scenes from every street, every alley, the flurry of activity in the markets, the women and children appearing on flat rooftops to hang laundry, figures wandering here and there between buildings. In those eyes, the city seethed. Somewhere, beyond Night, the sun unleashed a morning of brazen, heady heat. It gave form to the smoke of hearth fires in the makeshift camps alongside the beaten tracks wending down from the north, until the pilgrims emerged to form an unbroken line on the trails, and then it lit into bright gold a serpent of dust that rode the winds all the way to the Great Barrow. The destitute among them carried shiny shells collected from shoreline and tidal pools, or polished stones or nuggets of raw copper. The better off carried jewellery, gem-studded scabbards, strips of rare silk, Delantine linen, Daru councils of silver and gold, loot collected from corpses on battlefields, locks of hair from revered relatives and imagined heroes, or any of countless other items of value. Now within a day¡¯s march of the Great Barrow, the threat of bandits and thieves had vanished, and the pilgrims sang as they walked towards the vast, descended cloud of darkness to the south. Beneath that enormous barrow of treasure, they all knew, lay the mortal remains of the Redeemer. Protected for ever more by Night and its grim, silent sentinels. The serpent of dust journeyed, then, to a place of salvation. Among the Rhivi of North Genabackis, there was a saying. A man who stirs awake the serpent is a man without fear. A man without fear has forgotten the rules of life. Silanah heard their songs and prayers. And she watched. Sometimes mortals did indeed forget. Sometimes, mortals needed¡­ reminding. Chapter Three And he knew to stand there Would be a task unforgiving Relentless as sacrifices made And blood vows given He knew enough to wait alone Before the charge of fury¡¯s heat The chants of vengeance Where swords will meet And where once were mortals Still remain dreams of home If but one gilded door Could be pried open Did he waste breath in bargain Or turn aside on the moment Did he smile in pleasure Seeking chastisement? Page 30 See him still, he stands there While you remain, unforgiving The poet damns you The artist cries out The one who weeps Turns his face away Your mind is crowded By the inconsequential Listing the details Of the minuscule And every measure Of what means nothing To anyone He takes from you every rage Every crime¡­ Whether you like it Or you do not¡­ Sacrifices made Vows given He stands alone Because none of you dare Stand with him ¨C Fisher¡¯s challenge to his listeners, breaking the telling of the Mane of Chaos On this morning, so fair and fresh with the warm breeze coming down off the lake, there were arrivals. Was a city a living thing? Did it possess eyes? Could its senses be lit awake by the touch of footsteps? Did Darujhistan, on that fine morning, look in turn upon those who set their gazes upon it? Arrivals, grand and modest, footsteps less than a whisper, whilst others trembled to the very bones of the Sleeping Goddess. Were such things the beat of the city¡¯s heart? But no, cities did not possess eyes, or any other senses. Cut stone and hardened plaster, wood beams and corniced facades, walled gardens and quiescent pools beneath trickling fountains, all was insensate to the weathering traffic of its denizens. A city could know no hunger, could not rise from sleep, nor even twist uneasy in it s grave. Leave such things, then, to a short rotund man, seated at a table at the back of the Phoenix Inn, in the midst of an expansive breakfast, to pause with a mouth crammed full of pastry and spiced apple, to suddenly choke. Eyes bulging, face flushing scarlet, then launching a spray of pie across the table, into the face of a regretfully hungover Meese, who, now wearing the very pie she had baked the day before, simply lifted her bleary gaze and settled a basilisk regard upon the hack-ing, wheezing man opposite her. If words were necessary, then, she would have used them. The man coughed on, tears streaming from his eyes. Sulty arrived with a cloth and began wiping, gently, the mess from a motionless, almost statuesque Meese. On the narrow, sloped street to the right of the entrance to Quip¡¯s Bar, the detritus of last night¡¯s revelry skirled into the air on a rush of wild wind. Where a moment before there had been no traffic of any sort on the cobbled track, now there were screaming, froth-streaked horses, hoofs cracking like iron mallets on the uneven stone. Horses-two, four, six-and behind them, in a half-sideways rattling skid, an enormous carriage, its back end crashing into the face of a building in a shattering explosion of plaster, awning and window casement. Figures flew from the careering monstrosity as it tilted, almost tipping, then righted itself with the sound of a house falling over. Bodies were thumping on to the street, rolling desperately to avoid the man-high wheels. The horses plunged on, dragging the contraption some further distance down the slope, trailing broken pieces, plaster fragments and other more unsightly things, before the animals managed to slow, then halt, the momentum, aided In no small part by a sudden clenching of wooden brakes upon all six wheels. Perched atop the carriage, the driver was thrown forward, sailing through the air well above the tossing heads of the horses, landing in a rubbish cart almost buried in the fete¡¯s leavings. This refuse probably saved his life, although, as all grew still once more, only the soles of his boots were visible, temporarily motionless as befitted an unconscious man. Strewn in the carriage¡¯s wake, amidst mundane detritus, were human remains in various stages of decay,-some plump with rotting flesh, others mere skin stretched over bone. A few of these still twitched or groped aimlessly on the cobbles, like the plucked limbs of insects. Jammed into the partly crushed wall of the shop the conveyance¡¯s rear right-side corner had clipped was a corpse¡¯s head, driven so deep as to leave visible but one eye, a cheek and one side of the jaw. The eye rolled ponderously. The mouth twitched, as if words were struggling to escape, then curled in an odd smile. Those more complete figures, who had been thrown in all directions, were now slowly picking themselves up, or, in the case of two of them, not moving at all-and by the twist of limbs and neck it was clear that never again would their unfortunate owners move of their own accord, not even to draw breath. From a window on the second level of a tenement, an old woman leaned out for a brief glance down on the carnage below, then retreated, hands snapping closed the wooden shutters. Clattering sounds came from within the partly ruined shop, then a muted shriek that was not repeated within the range of human hearing, although in the next street over a dog began howling. Page 31 The carriage door squealed open, swung once on its hinges, then fell off, landing with a rattle on the cobbles. On her hands and knees fifteen paces away, Shareholder Faint lifted her aching head and gingerly turned it towards the carriage, in time to see Master Quell lunge into view, tumbling like a Rhivi doll on to the street. Smoke drifted out in his wake. Closer to hand, Reccanto Ilk stood, reeling, blinking stupidly around before his eyes lit on the battered sign above the door to Quip¡¯s Bar. He staggered in that direction. Faint pushed herself upright, brushed dust from her meat-spattered clothes, and scowled as scales of armour clinked down like coins on to the stones. From one such breach in her hauberk she prised loose a taloned finger, which she peered at for a moment, then tossed aside as she set out after Reccanto. Before she reached the door she was joined by Sweetest Sufferance, the short, plump woman waddling but determined none the less as both her small hands reached out for the taproom¡¯s door. From the rubbish cart, Glanno Tarp was digging himself free. Master Quell, on his hands and knees, looked up, then said, ¡®This isn¡¯t our street.¡¯ Ducking into the gloom of Quip¡¯s Bar, Faint paused briefly until the heard a commotion at the far end, where Reccanto had collapsed Into a chair, one arm sweeping someone¡¯s leavings from the table, Sweetest Sufferance dragged up another chair and I humped down en it, The three drunks who were thr oilier customers watched Faint walk across the room, each of them earning a scowl from her. Quip Younger-whose father had opened this place in a fit of ambition and optimism that had lasted about a week-was shambling over from the bar the same way his old man used to, and reached the table the same time as Faint. No one spoke. The keep frowned, then turned round and made his way back to the bar. Master Quell arrived, along with Glanno Tarp, still stinking of refuse. Moments later, the four shareholders and one High Mage navigator of the Trygalle Trade Guild sat round the table. No exchange of glances. No words. Quip Younger-who had once loved Faint, long before anyone ever heard of the Trygalle Trade Guild and long before she hooked up with this mad lot-delivered five tankards and the first pitcher of ale. Five trembling hands reached for those tankards, gripping them tight. Quip hesitated; then, rolling his eyes, he lifted the pitcher and began pouring out the sour, cheap brew. Kruppe took a mouthful of the dark magenta wine-a council a bottle, no less-and swirled it in his mouth until all the various bits of pie were dislodged from the innumerable crevasses between his teeth, whereupon he leaned to one side and spat on to the floor. ¡®Ah.¡¯ He smiled across at Meese. ¡®Much better, yes?¡¯ ¡®I¡¯ll take payment for that bottle right now,¡¯ she said. ¡®That way I can leave before I have to witness one more abuse of such an exquisite vintage.¡¯ ¡®Why, has Kruppe¡¯s credit so swiftly vanished? Decided entirely upon an untoward breaking of fast this particular morning?¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s the insults, you fat pig, piled one on another until it feels I¡¯m drowning in offal.¡¯ She bared her teeth. ¡®Offal in a red waistcoat.¡¯ ¡®Aaii, vicious jab. Kruppe is struck to the heart¡­ and,¡¯ he added, reaching once more for the dusty bottle, ¡®has no choice but to loosen said constricture of the soul with yet another tender mouthful.¡¯ Meese leaned forward. ¡®If you spit that one out, Kruppe, I will wring your neck.¡¯ He hastily swallowed, then gasped. ¡®Kruppe very nearly choked once more. Such a morning! Portents and pastry, wails and wine!¡¯ Heavy steps descending from the upper floor. ¡®Ah, here comes yon Malazan saviour. Mallet, dear friend of Kruppe, will Murillio-sweet Prince of Disenchantment-recover to his fullest self? Come, join me in this passing ferment. Meese, sweet lass, will you not find Mallet a goblet?¡¯ Her eyes narrowed into thin slits. ¡®How about one for yourself, Kruppe?¡¯ ¡®Delightful suggestion.¡¯ Kruppe wiped at the bottle¡¯s mouth with one grimy sleeve, then beamed across at her. She rose, stalked off. The Malazan healer-sat down with a heavy sigh, closed his eyes and rubbed vigorously at his round, pallid face, then looked round the bar. ¡®Where is everyone?¡¯ ¡®Your companion of the night just past Kruppe has sent home, with the assurance that your self is safe from all harm. Tis dawn, friend, or rather morning¡¯s fresh stumping on dawn¡¯s gilt heels. Ships draw in alongside berths, gangplanks clatter and thump to form momentous bridges from one world to the next. Roads take sudden turns and out trundle macabre mechanisms scattering bits of flesh like dark seeds of doom! Hooded eyes scan strangers, shrikes cry out above the lake¡¯s steaming flats, dogs scratch vigorously behind the ears-ah, Meese has brought us her finest goblets! A moment, whilst Kruppe sweeps out cobwebs, insect husks and other assorted proofs of said goblets¡¯ treasured value-there, now, let us sit back and watch, with pleased eyes, as Meese fills our cups to brimming glory. Why-¡¯ Page 32 ¡®For Hood¡¯s sake,¡¯ Mallet cut in, ¡®it¡¯s too early for your company, Kruppe. Let me drink this wine and then escape with my sanity, I beg you.¡¯ ¡®Why, friend Mallet, we await your assessment of Murillio¡¯s physical state:¡¯ ¡®He¡¯ll live. But no dancing for a week or two.¡¯ He hesitated, frowning down into his goblet, as if surprised to find it suddenly empty once more. ¡®Assuming he comes out of his funk, that is. A mired mind can slow the body¡¯s recovery. Can reverse it, in fact.¡¯ ¡®Fret not over Murillio¡¯s small but precise mind, friend,¡¯ Kruppe said. ¡®Such matters ever find solution through Kruppe¡¯s wise ministrations. Does Coll remain at bedside?¡¯ Mallet nodded, set the goblet down and rose. ¡®I¡¯m going home.¡¯ He glowered across at Kruppe. ¡®And with Oponn¡¯s pull, I might even get there.¡¯ ¡®Nefarious nuisances thrive best in night¡¯s noisome chaos, dear healer. Kruppe confidently assures you a most uneventful return to your atypical abode.¡¯ Mallet grunted, then said, ¡®And how do you plan on assuring that?¡¯ ¡®Why, with worthy escort, of course!¡¯ He poured himself the last of the wine and smiled up at the Malazan. ¡®See yon door and illimitable Irilta positioned before it? Dastardly contracts seeking your sad deaths cannot indeed be permitted. Kruppe extends his formidable resources to guarantee your lives!¡¯ The healer continued staring down at him. ¡®Kruppe, do you know who offered this contract?¡¯ ¡®Ringing revelations are imminent, treasured friend. Kruppe promises.¡¯ Another grunt, then Mallet wheeled and walked towards the door and his escort, who stood smiling with brawny arms crossed. Kruppe watched them leave and weren¡¯t they just quite the pair. Meese slouched down in the chair Mallet had vacated. ¡®Guild contract,¡¯ she muttered. ¡®Could simply be some imperial cleaning up, you know. New embassy¡¯s now up and running after all. Could be somebody in it caught word of Malazan deserters running a damned bar. Desertion¡¯s a death sentence, ain¡¯t it?¡¯ ¡®Too great it risk, sweet Meese,¡¯ Kruppe, drawing out his silk handkerchief and blotting at his brow. ¡®The Malaz Empire, alas, but its own assassins, of which two are present in said embassy, Yet, by all accounts, ¡¯twas a Hand of Krafar¡¯s Guild that made the Attempt last night,¡¯ He raised a pudgy finger. ¡®A mys-tery, this one who so seeks the death of inoffensive Malazan deserters, but not a mystery for long, oh no! Kruppe will discover all that needs discovering!¡¯ ¡®Fine,¡¯ Meese said, ¡®now discover that council, Kruppe, for the bottle.¡¯ Sighing, Kruppe reached into the small purse strapped to his belt, probed within the leather pouch, then, brows lifted in sudden dismay: ¡®Dearest Meese, yet another discovery¡­¡¯ Grainy-eyed, Scorch scowled at the teeming quayside. ¡®It¡¯s the morning fisher bouts,¡¯ he said, ¡®comin¡¯ in right now. Ain¡¯t no point in hangin¡¯ round, Leff.¡¯ ¡®People on the run will be coming here early,¡¯ Leff pointed out, scooping out with his knife the freshwater conch he had purchased a moment ago. He slithered down a mouthful of white, gleaming meat. ¡®I¡¯be waitin¡¯ for the first ships in from Gredfallan. Midmorning, right? The new locks at Dhavran have made it all regular, predictable, I mean. A day through with a final scoot to Gredfallart, overnight there, then on with the dawn to here. Desperate folk line up first, Scorch, cause they¡¯re desperate.¡¯ ¡®I hate sitting anywhere my feet have to dangle,¡¯ Scorch complained, shifting uncomfortably on the stack of crates. ¡®Decent line of sight,¡¯ Leff said. ¡®I¡¯ll join ya up there anon.¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t know how you can eat that. Meat should have blood in it. Any meat without blood in it ain¡¯t meat.¡¯ ¡®Aye, it¡¯s conch.¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s a thing with eyes on the ends of its tentacles, watching as you cut its body apart-see how the stalks swivel, following up to your mouth, tracking every swallow? It¡¯s watching you eat it!¡¯ ¡®So what?¡¯ Seagulls shrieked in swarming clouds over the low jetties where the fishers were heaving baskets of sliverfish on to the slimy stone, children scurrying about in the hopes of being hired to slip the wriggling fish on to monger-strings in time for the morning market. Grey-backed Gadrobi cats, feral now for a thousand generations, leapt out in ambush to kill gulls. Frenzied battles ensued, feathers skirling, tufts of cat hair drifting on the breeze like thistle heads. Page 33 Below the inside docks old women wandered in the gloom between pylons, using long, thin, barbed pokers to collect up the small, hand¡¯s-length sliverfish that managed to slip through the baskets and fall in gleaming rain as the catch Was carried ashore. When the harvest was small, the old hags were wont to use those toothed pokers on each other. Scorch could see them from where he was perched, muffled forms moving this way and that, pokers darting in the perpetual shadows. ¡®I swore to never again eat anything this lake gave up,¡¯ he muttered. ¡®Gran above,¡¯ he added in a hoarse whisper, ¡®y¡¯see I remember them cuts an¡¯ holes in your scrawny, I remember ¡¯em, Gran, an¡¯ so I swore.¡¯ ¡®What¡¯s that?¡¯ Leff asked from below. ¡®Nothing, only we¡¯re wasting our time-¡¯ ¡®Patience, Scorch. We got us a list. We got us trouble. Didn¡¯t we hear that Brokul might be making a run?¡¯ ¡®The place is a damned mob, Leff.¡¯ ¡®We just need to concentrate on the lines forming up.¡¯ ¡®Ain¡¯t no lines, Leff.¡¯ Leff tossed the shell over the end of the lake wall, where it clattered down below on to ten thousand others. ¡®Not yet,¡¯ he said. ¡®Soon.¡¯ fust past the fork at Urs, the battered remnants of the caravan headed up towards South Worrytown. Herders and quarry workers on their way out to the Ravens edged to the sides of the road, then stopped and stared at the four charred and smoke-streaked trader-wagons rocking past. A single horse struggled in a makeshift yoke before each wain. Of the usual assortment of guards that might be expected, even for a caravan as small as this one seemed to be, only one was visible, slouched down in a Gadrobi saddle and almost entirely hidden beneath a dusty, hooded cloak. From seamed slits in the faded brown cape, just above the man¡¯s shoulder blades, jutted the worn grips and pommels of twin cutlasses. The leather gauntlets covering his hands where they rested on the high saddle horn were stained and mostly in shreds, revealing to those close enough to see skin tattooed to very nearly solid black. From the shadow of the hood, strangely feline eyes held fixed on the road ahead. The first decrepit shanties of South Worrytown emerged from the morning mist like the dishevelled nests of some oversized carrion bird, lining the dirt track to either side. From cracks and holes in the leaning walls, liquid eyes peered out as the guard led his clattering train past. Before long, they were well and truly within the maze and its crowds of fife¡¯s refugees, rising like ghosts from the shadows, raising faint voices to beg for coin and food. Few caravans coming up from the south chose this route into Darujhis-tan, since the track through the city¡¯s shabby outskirts was both narrow and twisting. And those that proved insufficiently defended could become victims of the raw, desperate need drawing ever closer on all sides. A hundred paces still south of the main road known as Jatem¡¯s Worry, it seemed that such a fate would befall this hapless caravan and its guardian of one. As grasping, grimy hands reached out to close round spokes in wagon wheels, and others snatched at the traces of the horses, the hooded man glanced back at the growing boldness and reined in. As he did so he seemed to suddenly fill out as he straightened in his saddle. Eyes fixed on him, furtive and wary and with fading diffidence. One rag clad man swung up beside the first wagon¡¯s driver who, like the guard, was hooded yanked him round, the hood fell back. Revealing a dead man¡¯s withered face. Themostly hairless head turned, hol-low sockets settling on the man crouched on the bench. Even as the the Worrier shrieked, twisting to fling himself from the wagon, the lone caravan guard drew his cutlasses, revealing broad iron blades stained in a pattern of flaring barbs of black and pale orange. The hood dropped back to unveil a broad face tattooed in an identical fashion, the mouth opening to reveal long canines as the guard smiled. There was no humour in that smile, just the promise of mayhem. That was enough for the crowd. Screaming, flinching back, they fled. Moments later, the four wagons and their lone guard resumed their journey. On to Jatem¡¯s Worry, edging into the traffic slowly working towards the city gate, where the lone, tattooed guard resheathed his weapons. The unhooded corpse guiding the lead wagon seemed disinclined to readjust its head covering, and before too long the lifeless driver acquired a flapping, squawking escort of three crows, each fighting to find purchase on the grey, tattered pate. By the time the caravan reached the gate, the driver sported one crow on its head and one on each shoulder, all busy tearing strips of desiccated meat from its face. Page 34 A gate-watcher stepped out to squint up at the barbed, bestial guard as he drew rein beneath the arch. ¡®Gruntle, ain¡¯t it? You been in a fight, man. Is this Sirik¡¯s caravan-gods below!¡¯ This last cry announced the watcher¡¯s discovery of the first wagon driver. ¡®Best just let us past,¡¯ Gruntle said in a low, rasping voice. ¡®I¡¯m in no mood for more than one conversation, and that one belongs to Sirik. I take it he¡¯s done his move into his new estate?¡¯ The man nodded, his face pale and his eyes a little wild. Stepping back, he waved Gruntle on. The journey to Sirik¡¯s estate was blessedly brief. Past Despot¡¯s Barbican, then left, skirting High Gallows Hill before reaching the freshly plastered wall and broad, high-arched gate leading into the merchant¡¯s compound. Word must have gone in advance for Sirik himself stood waiting, shaded from the morning sun by a servant with a parasol. A half-dozen armoured men from his private bodyguard were clustered round him. The merchant¡¯s expression descended in swift collapse upon seeing a mere four wagons roll into the compound. Curses rode the dusty air from the guards when they spied the first driver, whose centre crow at that moment decided to half spread its wings to regain balance as the withered hands twitched the traces, halting the wagon. Gruntle reined in and slowly dismounted. Sirik waved his hands in a helpless gesture. ¡®But-but-¡¯ Drawing off his cloak revealed the damage on Gruntle¡¯s chain hauberk, the slashes through the black iron links, the gouges and punctures, the crusted blood. ¡®Dwell raiders,¡¯ he said in a rumble, grinning once more. ¡®But-¡¯ ¡®We gave good account,¡¯ Gruntle resumed, squinting at the guards behind the merchant. ¡®And if you¡¯d let loose a few more of your precious preeners there, we might ha¡¯done better still. The raiding party was a big one, a hundred shrieking savages. The fools torched the other wagons even as they looted ¡¯em.¡¯ One of the bodyguard, Sirik¡¯s sear-faced captain, stepped forward, scowling at the wagons. ¡®A hundred, was it? Against what, eight guards under your command, Gruntle? Do you take us for idiots? A hundred Dwell and you¡¯d not be here.¡¯ ¡®No, Kest, you¡¯re not an idiot,¡¯ Gruntle allowed. ¡®Thick-skulled and a bully, but not an idiot.¡¯ As the captain and his men bridled, Sirik held up a trembling hand. ¡®Gruntle, Gisp sits that wagon but he¡¯s dead.¡¯ ¡®He is. So are the other three.¡¯ ¡®But-but how?¡¯ Gruntle¡¯s shrug was an ominous roll of his massive shoulders. ¡®Not sure,¡¯ he admitted, ¡®but they took my orders anyway-granted, I was desperate and yelling things I normally wouldn¡¯t, but by then I was the last one left, and with four surviving wagons and as many horses¡­¡¯ He shrugged again, then said, ¡®I¡¯ll take my pay now, Sirik. You¡¯ve got half the Bastion kelyk you wanted and that¡¯s better than none.¡¯ ¡®And what am I to do with four undead drivers?¡¯ Sirik shrieked. Gruntle turned, glared up at Gisp. ¡®Go to Hood, you four. Now.¡¯ The drivers promptly slumped, sliding or tottering from their perches. The three crows picking at Gisp¡¯s shredded face set up an indignant squall, then flapped down to resume their meal once the body settled on the dust of the compound. Sirik had recovered enough to show irritation. ¡®As for payment-¡¯ ¡®In full,¡¯ Gruntle cut in. ¡®I warned you we didn¡¯t have enough. Kest may not be an idiot, but you are, Sirik. And sixteen people died for it, not to mention a hundred Dwell. I¡¯m about to visit the Guild, as required. I get my pay in full and I¡¯ll keep my opinions to myself. Otherwise¡­¡¯ Gruntle shook his head, ¡®you won¡¯t be hiring any more caravan guards. Ever again.¡¯ Sirik¡¯s sweat-sheathed face worked for a time, until his eyes found a look of resignation. ¡®Captain Kist, pay the man.¡¯ A short time later, Gruntle stepped out on to the street. Pausing, he glanced up at the morning sky, then set out for home. Despite the heat, he donned his cloak and drew up the hood once more. The damned markings on his skin rose flush with battle, and took weeks to fade back into a ghostly tint. In the meantime, the less conspicuous he could make himself the better. He suspected that the hovel he called home was already barricaded by a murder of acolytes awaiting his return. The tiger-skinned woman who proclaimed herself High Priestess of the local temple would have heard the fierce battle cry of Trake¡¯s Mortal Sword, even at a distance of thirty or so leagues out on the Dwelling Plain. And she would be in a frenzy¡­ again, desperate as ever for his attention. Page 35 But Gruntle didn¡¯t give a damn about her and the mangy losers she¡¯d gathered to her temple. Killing those raiders had not been a task he had welcomed. No pleasure in spilling blond, no deligkt in his own savage rage, He¡¯d lost friends that day, including the last pair who had been with him ever since Capustan. Such wounds were fur deeper than those his flesh still carried, and they would take much longer to heal. Mood foul despite the bulging purse of councils at his belt, he was disinclined to suffer the normal jostling necessary to navigate the city¡¯s major avenues and streets one push or snarl too many and he¡¯d be likely to draw blades and set Shout carving a path through the crowds, and then he¡¯d have no choice but to flee Darujhistan or risk dangling from High Gallows Hill-and so once through the Estates Gate just south of Borthen Park, and down the ramp into Lakefront Dis-t rict, Gruntle took a roundabout route, along narrow, twisting alleys and rubbish-lllled wends between buildings. The few figures he met as he walked were quick to edge aside, as if struck meek by some instinct of self-preservation. He turned on to one slightly wider track only to find it blocked by a tall carriage that looked as if it had been through a riot-reminding Gruntle that the fete was still on-although, as he drew closer and found himself stepping over with?ered, dismembered limbs and streaks of slowly drying blood, and when he saw t he gaping hole in the carriage where a door should have been, with the dark interior still and grey with motionless haze, and the horses standing with hides crusted in dried sweat and froth-the entire mess unattended and seemingly im?mune to looting-he recognized that this was one of those damned Trygalle Guild carriages, well and truly infamous for sudden, inexplicable and invariably violent arrivals. fust as irritating, the Trygalle was a clear rival to the city¡¯s own Caravanserai Guild, with its unprecedented shareholding system. Something the Caravanserai should have thought of long ago, although if what Gruntle had heard was anywhere near the truth, then the attrition rate among the Trygalle¡¯s shareholders was appallingly high-higher than any sane guard would accept. Then again, he reconsidered, here he was, the lone survivor of Sirik¡¯s caravan, and despite the councils he now carried his financial return was virtually nothing compared to the profits Sirik would harvest from the kelyk, especially now that he didn¡¯t have to pay his drivers. Of course, he¡¯d need to purchase new wagons and repair the ones Gruntle had delivered, but there was insurance to offset some of that. As he edged round the carriage in the street, he was afforded a closer look, concluding, sourly, that the Trygalle built the bastards to weather just about anything. Scorched, gouged as if by the talons of plains bears, bitten and chopped at, gaudy paint peeled away as if splashed with acid. As battered as a war wagon. He walked past the horses. Then, five strides onward, Gruntle turned about in surprise. That close and the beasts should have panicked-they always panicked. Even ones he had broken to his scent shivered uncontrollably beneath him until sheer nervous exhaustion dulled their fright. But here¡­ he scowled, meeting the eyes of one of the leaders and seeing naught but jaded disinterest. Shaking his head, Gruntle resumed his journey. Damned curious. Then again, he could do with a horse like one of those. Better yet, how about a dead one, dead as Gisp? The thought brought him back to certain unpleasantries he didn¡¯t much want to think about at the moment. Like my being able to command the dead. He was, he considered, too old to be discovering new talents. The walrus-skin coracle bobbed perilously in the chop between two trader barges, at risk of being crushed between them before a frantic scull by the lone occupant squirted the craft through, to draw up moments later alongside a mud-smeared landing crowded with crayfish traps. The man who clambered up from the coracle was soaked from the hips down, and the knapsack he slung on to one shoulder sloshed, then began to drain incontinently as he worked his way up the dock to the worn stone steps that climbed to the quayside. He was unkempt, his beard two or three days old, and the leathers he wore seemed a strange mix of those normally worn beneath armour and those a Nathii fisher might wear in a squall. The floppy sealskin hat covering his head was misshapen, sun-faded and salt-rimed. In addition to his knapsack he carried an odd-looking scimitar in a split scabbard bound together by frayed strips of leather. The serpent-head pommel revealed empty sockets where gems had once resided for eyes, fangs and collar. Tall, wiry, he moved with a vaguely furtive haste once he reached the quay, cutting through the crowds towards one of the feeder alleys on the other side of Front Street. Page 36 From the landing down on the water, someone was yelling, demanding to know who had left a half-awash coracle beside his cages. Reaching the alley mouth, the man walked in a few paces, then paused in the shadow between the high-walled warehouses. He drew off his floppy hat and wiped the grime from his brow. His black hair, while thinning from the front, hung in a long ponytail that had been tucked up beneath the hat but now fell to the small of his back. His forehead and face were seamed in scars, and most of his left ear was missing, slashed away some time past. Scratching a moment at his beard, he settled the hat back on, and headed off down the alley. He was set upon less than ten paces later, as two figures closed on him from alcoves, one to either side. The one on his left jammed the point of a dagger against his ribs, while the other waved a short sword in front of his eyes, using it to direct the man against a grimy wall. Mute, the man complied. In the gloom he squinted at the one with the sword, then scowled. ¡®Leff.¡¯ A stained grin. ¡®Hey, old partner, fancy you showing up.¡¯ The one with the knife snorted. ¡®Thought we¡¯d never spy you out wi¡¯ that stupid hat, did you?¡¯ ¡®Scorch! Why, I can¡¯t tell you how glad I am to see you both. Gods below, I would¡¯ve thought you two would have met grisly ends long ago. But this is a great discovery, friends! Had I any coin-any at all-why, I¡¯d buy you both a drink-¡¯ ¡®Enough of that,¡¯ Leff said in a growl, still waving the sword in from of the man¡¯s frits, ¡®You¡¯re¡¯ on our list, Torvald Nom, Aye, way down on it since most people figured you were long gone and almost as long dead. But you ran out on a debt-a big one and bigger now, aye-not to mention running out on me and Scorch-¡¯ ¡®Hardly, I seem to recall we formally absolved our partnership, after that night whim-¡¯ Scorch hissed, ¡®Quiet, damn you! Nobody knows nothing about none of that!¡¯ ¡®My point was,¡¯ Torvald hastily explained, ¡®I never ran out on you two.¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t matter,¡¯ Leff said, ¡®since that ain¡¯t why you¡¯re on the list now, is it?¡¯ ¡®You two must be desperate, to take on one of those-¡¯ ¡®Maybe we are,¡¯ said Scorch, ¡®and maybe we ain¡¯t. Now, you saying you¡¯re bloke is bad news, Torvald. For you more¡¯n us, since we now got to deliver you. And my, won¡¯t Lender Gareb be pleased.¡¯ ¡®Wait! I can get that money-I can clear that debt. But I need time-¡¯ ¡®No time to give ya,¡¯ Leff said, shaking his head. ¡®Sorry, old friend.¡¯ ¡®One night, that¡¯s all I¡¯m asking.¡¯ ¡®One night, for you to run as far as you can.¡¯ ¡®No, l swear it. Gods, I¡¯ve just returned! Here to honour all my debts!¡¯ ¡®Really, and how are you planning to do that?¡¯ ¡®Best leave the details to me, Scorch, just to keep you and Leff innocent. Now, I¡¯m way down on that list-I¡¯d have to be, since it¡¯s been years. That means nobody¡¯s expecting you to come up with me, right? Give me a night, just one, that¡¯s all I¡¯m asking. We can meet again right here, this time tomorrow. I won¡¯t run out on you two, I promise.¡¯ ¡®You must think we¡¯re idiots,¡¯ Leff said. ¡®Listen, once I¡¯ve cleared Gareb¡¯s debt, I can help you. With that list. Who¡¯s better than me at that kind of stuff?¡¯ Scorch¡¯s disbelieving expression stretched his face until it seemed his eyes would fall out of their sockets. He licked his lips, shot Leff a glance. Torvald Nom saw all this and nodded. ¡®Aye, you two are in trouble, all right. Those lists chew up whoever takes ¡¯em on. I must tell you, I¡¯m amazed and, well, deeply disappointed to find that you two have sunk that far since I left. Gods, if I¡¯d known, well, I might¡¯ve considered staying-¡¯ Leff snorted. ¡®Now that¡¯s a damned lie.¡¯ ¡®All right, perhaps an exaggeration. So-what is Gareb saying I¡¯m owing him now?¡¯ ¡®A thousand silver councils.¡¯ Torvald Nom gaped, the colour leaving his face. ¡®For Hood¡¯s sake, he just bought me a supper and a pitcher or two! And even then, I figured he was simply being generous. Wanted me to do some work for him or something. I was insulted when he sent me a bill for that night-¡¯ ¡®Interest, Torvald,¡¯ said Leff. ¡®You know how it is.¡¯ ¡®Besides,¡¯ added Scorch, ¡®you just up and ran. Where ya been all this time?¡¯ Page 37 ¡®You¡¯d never believe me.¡¯ ¡®Is that shackle scars on your wrists?¡¯ ¡®Aye, and worse. Nathii slave pens. Malazan slavers-all the way to Seven Cities. Beru fend, my friends, none of it was pretty. And as for the long journey back, why, if I was a bard I¡¯d make a fortune spinning that tale!¡¯ The sword hovering in front of his face had wavered, dipped, and now finally fell away, while the knife point jabbing his ribs eased back. Torvald looked quickly into both faces before him, and said, ¡®One night, old friends, and all this will be cleared up. And I can start helping you with that list.¡¯ ¡®We already got us help,¡¯ Leff said, although he didn¡¯t seem pleased by that admission. ¡®Oh? Who?¡¯ ¡®Kruppe. Remember him?¡¯ ¡®That oily, fat fence always hanging out at the Phoenix Inn? Are you two mad?¡¯ Scorch said, ¡®It¡¯s our new taproom, Torvald, ever since Bormen threw us out for-¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t tell him stuff like that, Scorch!¡¯ ¡®One night,¡¯ Torvald said, nodding. ¡®Agreed? Good, you won¡¯t regret it.¡¯ Stepping back, Leff sheathed his short sword. ¡®I already do. Listen, Torvald. You run and we¡¯ll chase you, no matter where you go. You can jump straight back into the Nathii slave pens and we¡¯ll be there right beside you. You understanding me?¡¯ Torvald frowned at the man for a moment, then nodded. ¡®That I do, Leff. But I¡¯m back, now, and I¡¯m not going anywhere, not ever again.¡¯ ¡®One night.¡¯ ¡®Aye. Now, you two better head back to watching the quay-who knows who might be readying to flee on the next outbound ship.¡¯ Both men suddenly looked nervous. Leff gave Torvald a push as he worked past, Scorch on his heels. Torvald watched them scurry to the alley mouth, then plunge into the crowd on Front Street. ¡®How is it,¡¯ he asked under his breath, of no one, ¡®that complete idiots just live on, and on? And on?¡¯ He adjusted his Moranth raincape, making certain that none of the items secreted in the underside pockets had been jostled loose or, gods forbid, broken. ¡® Nothing dripping. No burning sensations, no slithering presence of¡­ whatever. Good. Tugging down his floppy hat, he set off once more. This thing with Gareb was damned irritating. Well, he¡¯d just have to do something about it, wouldn¡¯t he? One night. Fine. So be it. The rest can wait. I hope. Born in the city of One Eye Cat twenty-seven years ago, Humble Measure was of mixed blood. A Rhivi woman, sold to a local merchant in exchange for a dozen bars of quenched iron, gave birth to a bastard son a year later. Adopted into his father¡¯s household eight years on, the boy was apprenticed in the profession of iron?mongery and would have inherited the enterprise if not for one terrible night when his sheltered, stable world ended. A foreign army had arrived, investing the city in a siege. Days and nights of high excitement from the young man, then, with the streets aflame with rumours of the glory promised by the city¡¯s membership in the great, rich Malazan Empire-if only the fools in the palace would capitulate. His father¡¯s eyes had glowed with that Imagined promise, and no doubt it was on the rising tide of such visions that the elderly trader conspired with agents of the Empire to open the city gates one night-an attempt that ended in Catastrophic failure, with the merchant suffering arrest and then execution, and his estate invaded by city garrison soldiers with swords drawn. That assault had left nightmare memories that would never leave Humble Measure. Witnessing his mother¡¯s rape and murder, and that of his half-sisters. Screams, smoke and blood, everywhere blood, like the bitter gift of some dark god-oh, he would remember that blood. Beaten and in chains, he had been dragged into the st reet and would have suffered the same fate as the others if not for the presence of a mercenary company allied with the city. Its commander, a tall, fierce warrior named lorrick Sharplance, had taken command of the handful of surviving prisoners. That company was subsequently driven from One Eye Cat by the city¡¯s paranoid rulers, sailing out on ships across Old King Lake, shortly before yet another act of treachery proved more successful than the first attempt. Another night of slaughter, this time at the bloodied hands of Claw assassins, and One Eye Cat fell to the Malazan Empire. Jorrick Sharplance had taken his prisoners with him, setting them free on the wild south shore of the lake, at the very feet of One Eye Range, with sufficient supplies to take them through the mountain passes on to the Old King Plateau. From there, Humble Measure had led his household¡¯s survivors, slaves and free citizens alike, down the trader tracks to the city of Bear. A brief stay there, then southward to Patch and on to the Rhivi Trail. Page 38 A short stay in Pale, until, fleeing yet another Malazan siege, down to Darujhistan in the midst of a decrepit column of refugees. Whereupon Humble Measure had settled in the last surviving office of his father¡¯s business, there to begin a long, careful rebuilding process that honed his tactical skills and, indeed, his fortitude. Such a long, fraught journey had ensured the loyalty of his staff. The slaves were rewarded with emancipation, and not one refused his offer of employment. His trade in iron burgeoned. For a time, it seemed that the curse that was the Malazan Empire might well track him down once more, but there had been a gift, a gift of blood that he well understood now, and the city¡¯s life had been spared. For how long? Humble Measure was well acquainted with how the Empire got things done. Infiltration, clever acts of destabilization, assassinations, the formenting of panic and the dissolution of order. That they now had an embassy in the city was no more than a means of bringing their deadly agents into Darujhis-tan. Well, he was done running. His father¡¯s ancestors had traded in iron for twelve generations. Here in the office in the Gadrobi District of Darujhistan, in the vaults far below street level, he had found written records reaching back almost six hundred years. And among the most ancient of those vellum scrolls, Humble Measure had made a discovery. Darujhistan would not fall to the Malazan Empire-he had found the means to ensure that. To ensure, indeed, that no foreign power could ever again threaten the city he now called home, ever again endanger his family, his loved ones. To achieve this, Humble Measure well understood that he would need all his acumen in bringing complicated plans to fruition. He would need vast sums of coin, which he now had at his disposal. And, alas, he would need to be ruthless. Unpleasant, yes, but a necessary sacrifice. The central office of Eldra Iron Mongers was a sprawling collection of buildings, warehouses and work yards just north of Two-Ox Gate. The entire complex was walled and virtually self-contained. Three sets of forges fronted an elongated, single-storey foundry resting against the west wall. Beneath it ran a subterranean stream that provided outflow into the Maiten River, the effluent and wastes issuing from that stream giving the bay beyond its name of Brownrun, and most days the stain spread out far on to Lake Azure, an unfortunate consequence of working iron, as he said often to city officials when the complaints of the Gadrobi fishers grew too strident to ignore. Offers of recompense usually sufficed to silence such objections, and as for the faintly bitter irony Humble Measure felt when paying out these sums-an irony founded on the cold fact that iron was needed by all, the demand unending, from fishhooks to gaffs to armour and swords-well, he wisely kept that to himself. The administration building rose against the south wall of the compound, both office and residence. Staff quarters dominated the wing nearest the south end of the foundry. The central block housed the records and clerical chambers. The final wing was the oldest part of the structure, its foundations dating back to an age when bronze was the primary metal, and civilization was still a raw promise. Far beneath the ground level of this wing, ancient stairs wound down through layers of limestone, opening out on to a succession of.rough-hewn vaults that had been used as storage rooms for generations. Long before such mundane usage, Humble Measure suspected, these crypts had held a darker purpose. He had recently converted one such chamber into a secret office, wherein he could work alone, protected by a skein of long-dormant wards, and here he would remain for most of each night, strangely tireless, as if the very nobility of his cause blessed him with inhuman reserves-further proof to his mind that his efforts had begun to yield gifts, a recognition of sorts, from powers few even suspected still existed. His thoughts were on such matters even during the day, and this day in particular, when his most loyal servant-the only man who knew of the secret crypts and, indeed, of Humble Measure¡¯s master plan-entered his office and placed a small wax book on his desk, then departed. A sudden quickening of anticipation, quickly crushed once he opened the book and read the message scribed into the wax. Most unfortunate. Four assassins, all failing. The Guild assured him that such failure would not be repeated. So, the targets had proved themselves to be truly as dangerous as Humble Measure had suspected, Sour consoltation,alas. He set the book down and reached for the roller on its heated plate. Carfully melted away the message. The Guild would have to do better. Lest he lose faith and seek¡­ other means. In the yards beyond, bars of iron clanged as they were rolled from pallets on to the rail-beds leading to the warehouse, like the sudden clash of armies on a field of buttle. The sound made Humble Measure wince. Page 39 Whatever was necessary. Whatever was necessary. In a very short time the foreign ship edging ever closer to the Lowstone Pier cap-tured the attention of the crowds on the quayside, sufficient to dampen the constant roar of the hawkers, stevedores, fortunetellers, prostitutes, carters, and fisherfolk. Eyes widened. Conversations died as lungs snatched air and held it taut in numbed shock. A sudden laugh yelped, swiftly followed by others. Standing at the bow of the low-slung ship, one pale, perfect hand resting on the carved neck of the horse-head prow, was a woman. If not for her stunning, ethereal beauty, her poise was so regal, so haughty, that it would have verged on caricature. She was swathed in a diaphanous blouse of emerald green that glowed like water in a glacial stream. She wore a broad black leather belt in which were thrust three naked-bladed daggers, and beneath that, tight-fitting, tanned leather breeches down to rawhide leggings. Behind her, on the deck and in the rigging, swarmed a score of bhokarala, while three more fought over the steering oar. All harbours the world over possessed tales of outrageously strange arrivals, but none matched this, or so it would be claimed by the witnesses in homes and bars for years to come. As the ship glided closer to the pier, disaster seemed imminent. Bhokarala were mere apes, after all, perhaps as smart as the average dog. Crewing a ship? Ridiculous. Drawing into berth with deft precision? Impossible. Yet, at the last moment, the three creatures struggling for control of the steering oar miraculously heeled the ship over. The straw bumpers barely squeezed between hull and stone as the craft nudged the pier. Lines sailed out in chaotic profusion, only a few within reach of the dockside handlers-but enough to make the ship fast. High on the main mast, the topsail luffed and snapped, then the yard loosened and the canvas folded as it dropped down, temporarily trapping a bhokaral within it, where the creature squawked and struggled mightily to free itself. Down on the main deck, bhokarala rushed from all directions to fight over the gangplank, and all on the quayside watched as the grey, warped board jutted and jerked on its way down to clatter on the pier¡¯s stones, a task that resulted in three or four of the black, winged beasts falling into the water with piteous squeals. A dozen paces away stood a clerk of the harbour master¡¯s office, hesitating overlong on his approach to demand moorage fees. The dunked bhokarala clambered back on to the deck, one with a large fish in its mouth, causing others to rush in to fight over the prize. The woman had stepped back from her perch alongside the prow, but instead of crossing the main deck to disembark, she instead vanished down through the cabin hatch. The clerk edged forward then quickly retreated as a half-dozen bhokarala crowding the rail near the gangplank bared their fangs at him. Common among all crowds, fascination at novelty was short-lived, and before too long, as nothing else of note occurred beyond the futile attempts by the clerk to extract moorage fees from a score of winged apes that did little more than snarl and make faces at him-one going so far as to pelt him with a fresh fishhead-fixed regard wavered and drifted away, back to whatever tasks and whatever demands had required attention before the ship¡¯s appearance. Word of the glorious woman and her absurd crew raced outward to infest the city, swift as starlings swirling from street to street, as the afternoon stretched on. In the captain¡¯s cabin aboard the ship, Scillara watched as Sister Spite, a faint smile on her full lips, poured out goblets of wine and set them down before her guests seated round the map-table. That smile collapsed into a sad frown-only slightly exaggerated-when Cutter twisted in his chair, too frustrated to accept the peaceable gesture. ¡®Oh, really,¡¯ Spite said, ¡®some maturity from you would be a relief right now. Our journey has been long, yes, but I do reiterate that delaying our disembarkation until dusk remains the wisest course.¡¯ ¡®I have no enemies here,¡¯ Cutter said in a belligerent growl. ¡®Only friends.¡¯ ¡®Perhaps that is true,¡¯ Spite conceded, ¡®but I assure you, young assassin, Darujhistan is not the city you left behind years past. Fraught, poised on the very edge of great danger-¡¯ ¡®I know that! I feel it-I felt it before I ever came aboard your cursed ship! Why do you think just sitting here, doing nothing, strikes me as the worst decision possible? I need to see people, I need to warn-¡¯ ¡®Oh dear,¡¯ Spite cut in, ¡®do you truly believe that you alone are aware of the danger? That all hangs in the balance right there at your fingertips? The arrogance of youth!¡¯f Scillara filled her pipe with rustleaf and spent a moment sparking it alight. Heavy, brooding emotions filled the cabin. Nothing new in that, of course. This entire journey had been chaotic and contrary from the moment she, Cutter, Barathol and Chaur had been fished from the seas even as the sky flung giant goblets of fire down on all sides. Worshipful bhokarala, a miserable mule, an old hag who collapsed into a heap of spiders if one so much as looked askance in her direction. A scrawny, entirely mad High Priest of Shadow, and a brokenhearted Trell. And while Spite comported herself with all the airs of a coddled princess, she was in truth a soletaken sorceress, dreadfully powerfu and dangerously fey as some Elder Goddess. No, amore motley shipload of passengers and crew Scillara could not imagine. Page 40 And now here we are. Poor Darujhistan! ¡®Won¡¯t be long now,¡¯ she said to Cutter. ¡®We¡¯re better off trying to stay as far beneath notice as possible.¡¯ Iskara Pust, seated on hit chair with his legs drawn up so that his toadlike face was between his knees, seemed to choke on that comment; then, reddening and even bulging, be scowled at the table. ¡®We have a crew of mad apes!¡¯ His head tilted and he stared agog at Scillara. ¡®We could smoke dried fish with her-just hang ¡¯em in her hair! Of course, the fish¡¯d end up poisoning us all, which might be her plan all along! Keep her away from food and drink-oh yes, I have figured her out. No High Priest of Shadow can be fooled so easily! Oh, no. Now, where was I?¡¯ His brows knitted, then suddenly rose threateningly as he glared at her. ¡®Beneath notice! Why not just sneak out in that cloud of yours, woman?¡¯ She blew him a smoky kiss. Spite set her goblet down. ¡®The dispositions facing us now are probably worth discussing, don¡¯t you think?¡¯ This question, addressed to everyone, yielded only blank stares. Spite sighed. ¡®Mappo Runt, the one you seek is not on this continent. Even so, I would advise you cross overland here, perhaps as far as Lamatath, where you should be able to procure passage to the fell empire of Lether.¡¯ The Trell studied her from beneath his heavy brows. ¡®Then I shall not linger.¡¯ ¡®Oh, he mustn¡¯t linger,¡¯ Iskaral Pust whispered. ¡®No no no. Too much rage, too much grief. The giant oaf cannot linger, or worse malinger. Malingering would be terrible, and probably against the law anyway. Yes, perhaps I could get him arrested. Locked up, forgotten in some nefarious dungeon. Oh, I must cogitate on this possibility, all the while smiling benignly!¡¯ And he smiled. Mogora snorted. ¡®Husband,¡¯ she said sweetly, ¡®I have divined your fate. In Darujhistan you shall find your nemesis, a catastrophic clash. Devastation, misery for all, the unleashing of horrible curses and ferocious powers. Ruin, such ruin that I dream each night of blessed peace, assured that the universe is in balance once more.¡¯ ¡®I can hardly imagine,¡¯ Spite said, ¡®Shadow imposing balance of any sort. This husband of yours serves a diabolical god, a most unpleasant god. As for your divination, Mogora, I happen to know that you possess no such talents-¡¯ ¡®But I can hope, can¡¯t I?¡¯ ¡®This is not the world for wishful thinking, dear.¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t you ¡°dear¡± me! You¡¯re the worst kind of witch, a good looking one! Proof that charm is naught but a glamour-¡¯ ¡®Oh, wife,¡¯ Iskaral Pust crooned, ¡®would that you could glamour yourself. Why, an end to my nausea-¡¯ With a snarl Mogora veered into a seething mass of spiders, spilling down over the chair and on to the plank floor, then scattering in all directions. Iskaral Pust snickered at the others. ¡®That¡¯s why I sit like this, you fools. She¡¯ll bite you all, at every chance¡¯ He jabbed a gnarled finger at Scillara, ¡®Except! you, of course, because you make her sick!¡¯ ¡®Good,¡¯ she replied, then glanced across at Barathol. The huge black-skinned man was half smiling as he observed the others. Behind him stood Chaur, his foolish grin unwavering even as he tried stamping on spiders. ¡®And what of you, blacksmith? Eager to explore this grand city of blue fire?¡¯ Barathol shrugged. ¡®I believe I am, although it has been some time since I last found myself among crowds. I imagine I might even enjoy the anonymity.¡¯ He seemed to take note of his hands where they rested on the table before him, and saw something in their skein of scars that made him frown, then slowly withdraw them from view. His dark eyes shifted from hers, almost shyly. Not one for grand confessions, Scillara well knew. A single regret could crush a thousand proud deeds, and Barathol Mekhar had more regrets than most mortals could stomach. Nor was he young enough to brazen his way through them, assuming, of course, that youth was indeed a time of bold fearlessness, that precious disregard for the future that permitted, well, almost anything, so long as it served an immediate need. ¡®I admit,¡¯ said Spite, ¡®to a certain melancholy when visiting vibrant cities, as is this Darujhistan. A long life teaches one just how ephemeral is such thriving glory. Why, I have come again upon cities I knew well in the age of their greatness, only to find crumbled walls, dust and desolation.¡¯ Cutter bared his teeth and said, ¡®Darujhistan has stood for two thousand years and it will stand for another two thousand-even longer.¡¯ Page 41 Spite nodded.¡¯Precisely.¡¯ ¡®Well, we hardly have the leisure of living for millennia, Spite-¡¯ ¡®You clearly weren¡¯t listening,¡¯ she cut in. ¡®Leisure is not a relevant notion. Consider the weariness that often afflicts your kind, late in their lives. Then multiply that countless times. This is the burden of being long-lived.¡¯ ¡®A moment, then, while I weep for you,¡¯ Cutter said. ¡®Such ingratitude! Very well, young man, please do leave us now, and if this be the last I see of you then I will indeed know the reward of leisurely comportment!¡¯ Cutter rubbed at his face and seemed but moments from pulling at his own hair. He drew a deep breath, slowly released it. ¡®I¡¯ll wait,¡¯ he muttered. ¡®Really?¡¯ Spite¡¯s thin, perfect brows rose. ¡®Then perhaps an apology is forthcoming?¡¯ ¡®Sorry,¡¯ Cutter said in a mumble. ¡®It¡¯s just that, with what I fear is about to happen to my city, then wasting time-any time at all-well, it¡¯s not easy.¡¯ He shrugged. ¡®Apologies with caveats are worthless, you know,¡¯ Spite said, rising. ¡®Is it dusk yet? Can¡¯t you all crawl off to your bunks for a time? Or wander the hold or something? For all that rude Cutter frets over things he cannot control, I myself sense the presence of¡­ personages, residing in Darujhistan, of a nature to alarm even me. Accordingly, I must think for a time¡­ preferably alone.¡¯ Scillara rose. ¡®Let¡¯s go, Cutter,¡¯ she said, taking his arm. Trailed by Chaur, Barathol folloed the Trell warrior down into tbe bold. There were no berths aboard large enough ro accommodate Mappo, so he had fashioned an abode of sorts amidst bales of supplies. Barathol saw that the Trell had already packed his kit, hammock, armour and weapons all stuffed into a lone sack knotted at the month by a rawhide cord, and now he sat on a crate, glancing up to regard the blacksmith. ¡®Yon wish to speak of something, Barathol?¡¯ ¡®Spite tells me that the Trell were driven from this continent long ago.¡¯ ¡®My people have been assailed for thousands of years.¡¯ He shrugged his massive shoulders. ¡®Perhaps we are so ugly to others that our very existence is unaccept-able.¡¯ ¡®You have a long journey ahead,¡¯ Barathol said. ¡®My thought is-¡¯ But Mappo raised a hand. ¡®No, my friend. I must do this alone.¡¯ ¡®To cross an entire continent, in the face of hostility-possibly on all sides-Mappo, someone must guard your back.¡¯ The Trell¡¯s dark, deep-set eyes studied him for a half-dozen heartbeats. ¡®Barathol Mekhar, we have come to know each other well on this journey. I could not imagine anyone better to guard my back than you.¡¯ He shook his head. ¡®I do not intend to cross the continent. There are¡­ other paths. Perhaps indeed more perilous, but I assure you I am not easy to kill. The failure was mine and to make it right, well, the responsibility is mine and mine alone. I will not-1 cannot-accept that others risk their lives on my behalf. Not you, friend. Not blessed Chaur. Please, leave me to this.¡¯ Barathol sighed. ¡®You force upon me an even more terrible choice, then.¡¯ ¡®Oh?¡¯ A wry grin. ¡®Aye. What to do with my life.¡¯ Mappo grunted a laugh. ¡®I would not call that terrible, at least from my own point of view.¡¯ ¡®I understand what it is to be driven,¡¯ Barathol said. ¡®I think that is all that I understand. Back in Seven Cities, well, I¡¯d almost convinced myself that what I¡¯d found was all I needed, but I was lying to myself. Some people, I now believe, cannot just¡­ retire. It feels too much like surrender.¡¯ ¡®You were a blacksmith-¡¯ ¡®By default. I was a soldier, Mappo. A Red Blade.¡¯ ¡®Even so, to work iron is a worthy profession. Perhaps you were a soldier, once, but to set down your weapons and find another profession is not surrender. Yet if it feels so to you, well, this city is no doubt crowded with estates, many of which would welcome a guard of your experience. And there will be merchants, operating caravans. Indeed, the city must have its own garrison-no warrior ever fears unemployment, for their skills are ever in demand.¡¯ ¡®A sad admission, Mappo.¡¯ The Trell shrugged again. ¡®I would think, now, Barathol, that if anyone needs his back guarded, it is Cutter.¡¯ Barathol sighed in frustration. ¡®He says little of what he plans to do. In any case, this is his city. He will find those who know enough to protect him. Besides, I must admit, having seen Cutter practise with those knives of his, well, perhaps it is Darujhistan that must fear his return.¡¯ Page 42 ¡®He is too precipitous.¡¯ ¡®I trust Scillara to rein him in.¡¯ ¡®Barathol, let us now make our farewells. I intend to depart soon.¡¯ ¡®And had I not followed you down here?¡¯ ¡®I do poorly saying goodbye.¡¯ His gaze shied away. ¡®Then I will convey such to the others, on your behalf. Cutter will be¡­ upset. For he has known you the longest among us all.¡¯ ¡®I know, and I am sorry-in so many ways I am a coward.¡¯ But Barathol well understood. This was not cowardice. It was some sort of shame, twisted past any possible reason, any conceivable justification. The loss of Icarium was a wound so raw, so irreconcilable, that its spreading stain swept all from its path. Friends, loyalties, lives and histories. And Mappo could not fight against that onrushing tide and the fate he sought at its very end. There would be grief at that conclusion, Barathol suspected, of incalculable measure. If Icarium Lifestealer was not yet unleashed, he would be soon. Mappo would be too late to prevent that. It was difficult, then, to leave the Trell to all that awaited him, to simply turn away, yet what else could he do, when Mappo¡¯s own desires were so clear? ¡®I will leave you to your¡­ paths, then, Mappo. And I wish you the best; a peaceful journey, its satisfactory conclusion.¡¯ ¡®Thank you, my friend. I hope you will find Darujhistan a worthy home.¡¯ He rose to clasp the blacksmith¡¯s hand, then moved past to embrace Chaur, who laughed in delight and tried to begin a dance with the Trell. Grimacing, Mappo stepped back. ¡®Goodbye, Chaur. Take care of Barathol here.¡¯ When Chaur finally understood that he would not see Mappo again, there would be tears. There was a simple beauty to such open, child-like responses. Perhaps, Barathol considered, Chaur alone walked the truest path in life. Settling a hand on Chaur¡¯s muscled shoulder, he smiled at Mappo. ¡®He is a gift I do not deserve.¡¯ The Trell nodded. ¡®A gift this world does not deserve. Now, I would be alone, in these final moments.¡¯ Barathol bowed, then guided Chaur back to the ladder leading up to the hatch. Iskaral Pust clambered on to his bunk, the middle of three stacked against the curving hull. He scraped his head against the underside of the top one and cursed under his breath, then cursed some more as he had to fish out a handful of disgusting offerings left beneath his pillow by the bhokarala. Rotting fish-heads, clumps of scaly faeces, baubles stolen from Spite and a cracked kaolin pipe filched from Scillara. Flung off, they clumped and clattered on the two-plank-wide walkway at the very hoofs of his mule, which had taken to standing beside his berth at random intervals-each one proving succinctly inconvenient, as befitted a thoroughly brainless but quaintly loyal animal¡­ from the bunk above came a ratting snort. ¡®The hatch is too small, you know,¡¯ said Mogora, ¡®You make it too obvious, husband,¡¯ ¡®Maybe obvious is my middle name, did you think that? No, of course not. She never thinks at all. She had ten thousand eyes and not one of them can see past her nose hairs. Listen well, woman. Everyone knows mules are superior to horses in every way. Including the navigation of hatches. Why, my blessed servant here prefers using outhouses over just plopping any which where along the roadside. She possesses decorum, which can hardly be said for you now, can it?¡¯ ¡®Shouldn¡¯t you be picking your nose or something? Your worshippers are praying for a sign, you know.¡¯ ¡®At least I have worshippers. You just scare ¡¯em. You scare everybody.¡¯ ¡®Even you?¡¯ ¡®Of course not. Gods below, she terrifies me! Better not let her know, though. That would be bad. I need to do something soon. Twist off her legs, maybe! Yes, that would do it. Leave her lying on her back scratching at the air and making pathetic mewling sounds. Oh, the imagination is a wonderful thing, is it not?¡¯ ¡®When it¡¯s all you have.¡¯ ¡®When what¡¯s all I have? What idiocy are you blabbering about now? That was uncanny. Almost as if she can read my mind. Good thing she can¡¯t, though.¡¯ ¡®Hold on,¡¯ hissed Mogora. ¡®That mule was male! I¡¯d swear it!¡¯ ¡®Checking him out, were you?¡¯ ¡®One more step on that track, husband, and I will kill you with my own hands.¡¯ ¡®Hee hee. What a terrible, disgusting mind you have, wife.¡¯ ¡®No, you won¡¯t distract me this time. Your mule has just changed sex and knowing you I might be looking at a rival, but you know what? She can have you. With my blessing she can, oh yes!¡¯ Page 43 ¡®Popularity is a curse,¡¯ Iskaral said, stretching out with his hands behind his head and staring up at the taut ropes of the mattress above him. ¡®Not that she¡¯d know anything about that. I¡¯d better visit the local temple, assert my tyrannical dominance over all the local acolytes and fakir priests and priestesses. Priestesses! Might be a pretty one or two. As High Priest, I could have my pick as is my right. Make offerings in the shadow between her legs, yes-¡¯ ¡®I¡¯d know, Iskaral Pust,¡¯ Mogora snapped, moving about on the bed above. ¡®I¡¯d just know, and then I¡¯d take my knife, one night when you¡¯re sleeping, and I¡¯d snick snick and you¡¯d be singing like a child and squatting t¡¯piss and what woman or mule would want you then?¡¯ ¡®Get out of my head, woman!¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s not hard to know what you¡¯re thinking.¡¯ ¡®That¡¯s what you think! She¡¯s getting more dangerous, we need a divorce. But isn¡¯t it why most mates break up? When the woman gets too dangerous? Must be. I¡¯m sure of it. Well, I¡¯d be free then, wouldn¡¯t I? Free!¡¯ The mule brayed. Mogora laughed so hard she wet herself, if the rank dribbles from above were any indication. Scillara and Cutter had taken the berths closest to the stern in an effort to achieve some sort of privacy, and had rigged a section of spare canvas across the walkway, Despite this, Mogora¡¯s half-mad laughter reached through, triggering yet another scowl from Cutter. ¡®If those two just realized how perfect they are for each other, we¡¯d finally get some peace.¡¯ Scillara smiled. ¡®I¡¯m sure they do. Most marriages involve mutual thoughts of murder on occasion.¡¯ He glanced over at her. ¡®You¡¯ve some strange ideas, Scillara. About all sorts of things.¡¯ ¡®I was wondering, when you head out tonight, will you want my company? Or would you rather go on your own?¡¯ He could not hold her gaze and made a show of stretching his back before reclining on his bunk. ¡®Of course not,¡¯ he said. ¡®You¡¯ll like the Phoenix Inn. Meese, Irilta, Murillio, Coll and Kruppe. Well, maybe not Kruppe, who rubs some people the wrong way, but he¡¯s harmless enough¡­ I suppose.¡¯ He rummaged in the pouch at his belt for a moment, then drew out a single coin. A Blue Moranth silver sceptre, which he began deftly working through his fingers. ¡®Won¡¯t they be surprised to see me.¡¯ She managed a smile. ¡®Cutter¡¯s belated return.¡¯ ¡®Well, ¡°Cutter¡± isn¡¯t the name they know me by. I was Crokus Younghand back then.¡¯ ¡®And where is he now? This Crokus Younghand.¡¯ He spent a moment squinting at the coin before replying, ¡®Dead. Long dead.¡¯ ¡®And what will your friends make of that?¡¯ He sat up, suddenly restless and still unwilling to meet her eyes. ¡®I don¡¯t know. They won¡¯t be happy.¡¯ ¡®I think I will leave you to it, Cutter,¡¯ Scillara said. ¡®I¡¯ll join Barathol and Chaur wandering the night markets and such-there¡¯s a fete going on, yes? That sounds inviting. As for my meeting your friends, best it wait a day or two.¡¯ He glanced at her. ¡®Are you sure? You don¡¯t-¡¯ ¡®I¡¯m sure,¡¯ she cut in. ¡®You need this night to yourself. You¡¯ll have enough questions to answer without my presence confusing things even more.¡¯ ¡®All right,¡¯ and despite his efforts his relief was palpable. ¡®But come tomorrow-everyone knows where the Phoenix is, so all you need do is ask.¡¯ ¡®Of course,¡¯ she replied, rising from where she sat on the edge of her own berth. ¡®I¡¯d best hunt Barathol down, so he doesn¡¯t leave without me.¡¯ ¡®Must be nearing dusk.¡¯ ¡®So it is, Cutter. Lady¡¯s pull on you this night.¡¯ ¡®Thanks.¡¯ But it was a distracted response. As she made her way forward, forced to shoving the damned mule to one side, Scillara told herself that the hurt she was feeling was unwarranted. He¡¯d found comfort in her arms, because there was no one else. No love was involved. Not once mentioned, not even whispered nor murmured in the thick, sleepy moments after lovemaking. Little more than mutual satisfaction, comfort and convenience. And now, well, that time had passed. Reunion with friends beckoned Cutter that old world In which he hid known his place. Difficult enough that he might no longer fit-explaining the overwight, pipe-sucking ex-whore at his side would only embarrass him. He had changed her, she realised, pausing just inside the hatch. As if she¡¯d absorbed some essence of bin uncertainty, his lack of confidence. She no longer felt her usual brazen, bridling self. No longer ready with a sneer, no longer armoured against the vagaries of this damned world. Here, a dozen strides from the largest eity she had ever seen, was neither the time nor the place for such weakness. Page 44 Well, Barathol¡¯s solid presence could answer her need. For a time, anyway. Emerging on to the main deck, she found herself in the midst of a growing storm. The bhokarala crowded the dockside rail and scampered back and forth along its length, while at the other end of the gangplank stood an agent of the harbour master along with a half-dozen city guards even now drawing their batons, readying to assault the ship. Barathol and Chaur had just climbed up from the hold and the blacksmith began pushing his way through the screeching, spitting apes. She well understood his desire to prevent an escalation of the situation. Spite was not the most evenly tempered woman Scillara had known. An argument gone awry could well result in an enraged dragon¡¯s devastating the quayside and half the city beyond. All for a misunderstanding on moorage fees. So much for a quiet arrival. Scillara hurried forward, kicking aside bhokarala and pulling loose her coin-pouch. A blow to the side of his head and he rolled, suddenly awake, both knives coming Into his hands and blades scraping across the gritty flagstoned floor beneath him. His shoulder struck a wall and he blinked in the gloom. A tall figure stood over him, black leather and banded iron in tatters, the dull gleam of snapped ribs showing through torn, green skin. A face in shadows, pitted eye-sockets, a broad slash of mouth hinting at up-thrust tusks. Rallick Nom studied the apparition, the knives feeling useless in his gloved hands. The side of his head still rang. His gaze dropped to the stiffened leather toes of the demon¡¯s half-rotted moccasins. ¡®You kicked me.¡¯ ¡®Yes,¡¯ came the rasping reply. ¡®Why?¡¯ The demon hesitated, then said, ¡®It seemed the thing to do.¡¯ They were in a narrow corridor. A solid door of black wood and bronze fittings was to Rallick¡¯s left. To his right, just beyond the demon, there was a T-intersection and double doors facing on to the conjunction. The light cast by the lantern the creature held in one withered, long-fingered hand seemed both pale and cold, casting diffused, indifferent shadows against the stone walls. Overhead, the ceiling was roughly arched, the stones thinner and smaller towards the peak, seemingly fitted without mortar. The air smelled of dust and decay, lifeless and dry. ¡®It seems¡­ I remember nothing,¡¯ Rallick said. ¡®In time.¡¯ Every joint was stiff; even sitting up with his back against the wall left Rallick¡¯s muscles trembling. His head ached with more than just the echoes of that damned kick. ¡®I¡¯m thirsty-if you¡¯re not going to beat me to death, demon, then find me something to drink.¡¯ ¡®I am not a demon.¡¯ ¡®Such things are never easy to tell,¡¯ Rallick replied in a growl. ¡®I am Jaghut. Raest, once a tyrant, now a prisoner. ¡°He who rises shall fall. He who falls shall be forgotten.¡± So said Gothos, although, alas, it seems we must all wait for ever before his name fades into oblivion.¡¯ Some strength was returning to his limbs. ¡®I recall something¡­ a night of blood, the Gedderone Fete. Malazans in the city¡­¡¯ ¡®Portentous events as bereft of meaning now as they were then. You have slept, assassin, for some time. Even the poison on your weapons has lost all potency. Although the otataral within your veins courses unabated by time-few would have done as you did, which is, I suppose, just as well.¡¯ Rallick sheathed his knives and slowly pushed himself upright. The scene spun sickeningly and he closed his eyes until the vertigo passed. Raest continued, ¡®I wander in this house¡­ rarely. Perhaps some time had passed before I realized that she was missing.¡¯ Rallick squinted at the tall, hunched Jaghut. ¡®She? Who?¡¯ ¡®A demon in truth. Vorcan is her name now, I believe. You lay beside her, immune to the passage of time. But now she has awakened. She has, indeed, escaped. One might consider this¡­ perturbing. If one cared, that is.¡¯ Vorcan, Mistress of the Assassins¡¯ Guild, yes, now he remembered. She was wounded, dying, and he struggled to carry her, not knowing why, not knowing what he sought. To the house, the house that had grown from the very earth. The house the Malazans called an Azath. Born of the tyrant¡¯s Finnest-Rallick frowned at Raest. ¡®The house,¡¯ he said, ¡¯it is your prison, too.¡¯ A desiccated shrug that made bones squeak. ¡®The stresses of owning property.¡¯ ¡®So you have been here since then. Alone, not even wandering about. With two near-corpses cluttering your hallway. How long, Raest?¡¯ ¡®I am not the one to ask. Does the sun lift into the sky outside then collapse once more? Do bells sound to proclaim a control where none truly exists? Do mortal fools still measure the increments leading to their deaths, wagering pleas?ures against costs, persisting in the delusion that deeds have value, that the world and all the gods sit in judgement over every decision made or not made? Do-¡¯ Page 45 ¡®Enough,¡¯ interrupted Rallick, straightening with only one hand against the wall. ¡®I asked ¡°how long?¡± not ¡°why?¡± or ¡°what point?¡± If you don¡¯t know the answer just say so.¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t know the answer. But I should correct one of your assumptions. I did not dwell in here alone, although I do so now, excepting you, of course, but your company I do not expect to last. That legion of headlong fools you call your people no doubt pine for your return. Blood awaits your daggers, your pouch thirsts for the coins that will fill ii with *viry lite you steal. And so on.¡¯ ¡®If you weren¡¯t alone before, Raest¡­¡¯ ¡®Ah, yes, I distracted myself with notions of human futility. The Master of the Deck of Dragons was, in the common language, a squatter here in the house, for a time.¡¯ ¡®And then?¡¯ ¡®He left.¡¯ ¡®Not a prisoner, then, this Master.¡¯ ¡®No. Like you, indifferent to my miserable fate. Will you now exploit your privilege, assassin?¡¯ ¡®What do you mean?¡¯ ¡®Will you now leave, never to return? Abandoning me to eternal solitude, with naught but cobwebs in my bed and bare cupboards in the kitchen, with mocking draughts and the occasional faint clatter of dead branches against shutters? And the odd scream or two as something unpleasant is devoured by earth and root in the yard. Will you simply leave me to this world, assassin?¡¯ Rallick Nom stared at the Jaghut. ¡®I had no idea my unconscious presence so eased your loneliness, Raest.¡¯ ¡®Such insensitivity on your part should not surprise me.¡¯ ¡®My answer is yes, I will indeed leave you to your world.¡¯ ¡® You lack gratitude.¡¯ Rallick drew his cloak round his shoulders and checked his gear. There was old blood but it simply flaked off like black snow. ¡®Forgive me. Thank you, Raest, for the kick in the head.¡¯ ¡®You are welcome. Now leave-I grow bored.¡¯ The door opened with a loud, groaning creak. Beyond was night, yet darkness was driven back, pushed skyward, by the defiant blue fires of Darujhistan. Somewhere out of sight from where he stood at the landing, streets seethed and churned with drunken revelry. Another fete, another half-mindless celebration of survival. The thought stirred some anticipation in Rallick Nom¡¯s soul, blowing aside the last dust of what he suspected had been a long, long sleep. Before the door behind him was closed he turned about and could just make out Raest¡¯s elongated form, still standing in the corridor. ¡®Why did you wake me?¡¯ he asked. In answer, the Jaghut stepped forward and shut the door with a thunderous slam that woke birds to panic and sent them bolting into the night. Rallick turned back to the path, saw roots writhing like serpents in the mulch to either side. Checking his knives once more, he drew yet tighter his cloak, then set out to rediscover his city. And so the denizens of Darujhistan grew raucous, enough to give the city itself a kind of life. Headlong indeed, with nary a thought for the future, be that the next moment or a year hence. Gas hissed into blue flame, acrobats and mummers whirled through crowds, a hundred thousand musical instruments waged war on the plains of song, and if it was said by some scholars that sound itself was undy-ing, that it rode unending currents that struck no fatal shore, neither in space nor through time, then life itself could be measured by its cry. In the times of free, blue clarity, and in the times of gathering clouds, in the chorus of pronouncements that sang out¡­ arrivals, worlds lived on, as immortal as a dream. On the rooftop of a bastion tower, on this night, there stood a woman all in black. Eyes cold as a raptor¡¯s looked down upon the sprawl of rooftops, spark-lit chimneys in the distant slums of the Gadrobi District, and, drifting silent over all, this woman thought long and thought hard of the future. On a street close to Coll¡¯s estate, a cloaked man paused, stood rooted like a stone whilst the fete swirled round him, and even as he concluded that a public return, such as had first occurred to him, might prove unwise, so walked another man-younger but with the same look in his hardened eyes-on his way to the Phoenix Inn. Far in this one¡¯s wake, down at the quayside, a blacksmith, his halfwit servant, and a woman whose generous curves drew admiring glances from all sides, ambled their way towards the night markets of the Gadrobi, seeing all with the wonder and pleasure only foreigners could achieve when coming for the first time upon one of the greatest cities in the world. Closer to the ship from which they had disembarked, a High Priest of Shadow scurried for the nearest shadows, pursued mostly unseen by spiders drifting on the lake breeze, and on the trail of both scampered a score of bhokarala-many burdened with new offerings and whatever baubles they claimed as rightful possessions-a fang-bearing squall that flowed through crowds accompanied by shouts of surprise, terror and curses (as their collection of possessions burgeoned with every pouch, purse and jewel within reach of their clawed hands). Page 46 Aboard the ship itself, the captain remained. Now she was wearing loose, flowing robes of black and crimson silks, her face white as moonlight as she frowned at the city before her. A scent on the air, some lingering perfume redolent with memories¡­ oh, of all places, but was this truly an accident? Spite did not believe in accidents. And so she hesitated, knowing what her first step on to solid stone would reveal-perhaps, she decided, it would do to wait for a time. Not long. Just long enough In another part of Darujhistan, a merchant of iron dispatched yet another message to the Master of the Assassins¡¯ Guild, then retired to his secret library to pore once more over ancient, fraught literature. Whilst not too far away sat a merchant guard with fading barbed tattoos, frowning down at a cup of spiced, hot wine in his huge, scarred hands; and from the next room came a child¡¯s laughter, and this sound made him wince. Down among the new estates of certain once-criminal moneylenders who had since purchased respectability, a destitute Torvald Nom stealthily approached the high, spike-topped wall of one such estate. Debts, was it? Well, fine easily solved. Had he lost any of his skills? Of course not. If anything¡­ such talents had been honed by the rigours of a legendary journey across half the damned world. His glorius return to Darujhistan still awaited him. Come the morning, aye, come the morning¡­ At this moment, in a small chamber above the taproom of the Phoenix Inn, a man was lying on his back on a bed, still weak from blood loss, and in his thoughts he walked the cemetery of his past, fingers brushing the tops of weathered tombstones and grave markers, seeing the knots of tangled grass climbing the sides of dusty urns, while stretching away in his wake was the shadow of his youth-fainter, longer, fraying now at the very edges. He would not lift his hand yet to feel his own face, to feel the wrinkles and creases that wrote out in tired glyphs his age, his waning life. Oh, flesh could be healed, yes¡­ Below, amidst a mob of bellowing, reeling drunks and screeching whores of both sexes, a small round man, seated as ever at his private table, paused with his mouth stuffed full of honeyed bread, and, upon hearing the tenth bell sound through the city, cocked his head and settled his tiny, beady eyes upon the door to Phoenix Inn. Arrivals. Glory and portent, delightful reunion and terrible imminence, winged this and winged that and escapes and releases and pending clashes and nefarious demands for recompense over a single mouthful of spat wine, such a night! Such a night! Chapter Four We were drowning amidst petals and leaves On the Plain of Sethangar Where dreams jostled like armies on the flatland And to sing of the beauty of all these blossoms Was to forget the blood that fed every root On the Plain of Sethangar We cried out for shelter from this fecund storm The thrust and heave of life on the scouring winds Was dry as a priest¡¯s voice in fiery torment On the Plain of Sethangar And no wise words could be heard in the roar Of the laughing flowers reaching out to the horizon As the pungent breath left us drunk and stagger¡¯d On the Plain of Sethangar Must we ever die in the riches of our profligacy Succumbing to the earth cold and dark each time Only to burst free wide-eyed in innocent birth On the Plain of Sethangar? Which god strides this field scythe in hand To sever the grandiose mime with edged judgement Taking from our souls all will in bundled sheaves On the Plain of Sethangar To feed as befits all burdensome beasts? Flowers will worship the tree¡¯s fickle blessing of light Forests reach into the sweetness of a sky beyond touch Even as streams make pilgrimage to the sea And the rain seeks union with all flesh and blood Hills will hold fast over every plain, even Sethangar And so we dream of inequity¡¯s end As if it lay within our power There in the plainness of our regard So poorly blinded to beauty¡­ ¨C Declamation (fragment) (?), Keneviss Brot, first century, Burn¡¯s Sleep Groaning like a beast in its death throes, the ship seemed to clamber up on to the black rocks before the keel snapped and the hull split with a splintering cry. Cut and bloodless corpses rolled and slid from the deck, spilling into the thrashing foam where pale limbs flopped and waved in the tumult before the riptide dragged ibem tumbling over the broken sea floor, out and down Into the depths. The lone living figure, who had tied himself to the tiller, wag now tangled in frayed ropes at the stern, scrabbling to reach his knife before the next huge wave exploded over the wreck. A salt-bleached hand-the skin of the palm banging in blighted strips-tugged the broad-bladed weapon free. He slashed at the ropes binding him to the upthrust tiller as the hull thundered to the impact of another wave and white spume cascaded over him. Page 47 As the last strand parted he fell on to his side and slid to the crushed rail, the collision driving the air from his lungs as he pitched across the encrusted rock, then sagged, limp as any corpse, into the churning water. Another wave descended on to the wreck like an enormous fist, crushing the deck beneath its senseless power, then dragging the entire hull back into the deeper water, leaving a wave of splintered wood, lines and tattered sail. Where the man had vanished, the inrushing seas swirled round the black rock, find nothing emerged from that thrashing current. In the sky overhead dark clouds clashed, spun sickly arms into a mutual embrace, and though on this coast no trees rose from the ravaged ground, and naught but wind-stripped grasses emerged from pockets here and there among the rock atul gravel and sand, from the wounded sky dried, autumnal leaves skirled down like rain. Closer to the shore heaved a stretch of water, mostly sheltered from the raging seas beyond the reef. Its bottom was a sweep of coral sand, agitated enough to cloud the shallows. The man rose into view, water streaming. He rolled his shoulders, spat out a mouthful thick with grit and blood, then waded on to the strand. He no longer carried his knife, but in his left hand was a sword in a scabbard. Made from two long strips of pale wood reinforced with blackened iron, the scabbard revealed that it was riven through with cracks, as water drained out from a score of fissures. Leaves raining on all sides, he walked up beyond the tide line, crunched down on to a heap of broken shells and sat, forearms on his knees, head hung down. The bizarre deluge thickened into flurries of rotting vegetation, like black sleet. The massive beast that slammed into him would have been thrice his weight if it was not starved. Nor would it have attacked at all, ever shy of humans, but it had become lost in a dust storm, and was then driven from the grasslands leagues inland on to this barren, lifeless coast. Had any of the corpses from the ship reached the beach, the plains bear would have elected to scavenge its meal. Alas, its plague of misfortunes was unending. Enormous jaws snapped close round the back of the man¡¯s head, canines tearing through scalp and gouging into skull, yet the man was already ducking, twisting, his sodden hair and the sudden welter of blood proving slick enough to enable him to wrest free of the bear¡¯s bite. The sword was lying, still in its cracked scabbard, two paces away, and even as he lunged towards it the bear¡¯s enormous weight crashed down on to him. Claws raked against his chain hauberk, rings snapping away like torn scales. He half twisted round, hammering his right elbow into the side of the bear¡¯s head, hard enough to foul its second attempt to bite into the back of his neck. The blow sprayed blood from the beast¡¯s torn lip along the side of its jaw. The man drove his elbow again, this time into the bear¡¯s right eye. A bleat of pain and the animal lunged to the left. Continuing his twist, the man drew up both legs, then drove them heels first into its ribs. Bones snapped. Another cry of agony. Frothing blood sprayed out from its mouth. Kicking himself away, the man reached his sword. His motions a blur of speed, he drew the weapon, alighted on his feet in a crouch, and slashed the sword into the side of the bear¡¯s neck. The ancient watermarked blade slid through thick muscle, then bit into bone, and through, bursting free on the opposite side. Blood and bile gushed as the bear¡¯s severed head thumped on to the sand. The body sat down on its haunches, still spewing liquid, then toppled to one side, legs twitching. Blazing heat seethed at the back of the man¡¯s head, his ears filled with a strange buzzing sound, and the braids of his black, kinked hair dripped thick threads of bloody saliva as he staggered upright. On the sword¡¯s blade, blood boiled, turned black, then shed in flakes. Still the sky rained dead leaves. He staggered back down to the sea, fell on to his knees in the shallows and plunged his head into the vaguely warm water. Numbness flowed out along the back of his skull. When he straightened once more, he saw the bloom of blood in the water, a smear stretching into some draw of current-an appalling amount. He could feel more, streaming down his back now. He quickly tugged off the chain hauberk, then the filthy, saltrimed shirt beneath. He tore loose the shirt¡¯s left-sleeve, folded it into a broad bandanna and bound it tight round his head, as much against the torn skin and flesh as he could manage by feel. The buzzing sound was fading. A dreadful ache filled the muscles of his neck and shoulders, and in his head there now pounded a drum, each beat pulsating until the bones of his skull seemed to reverberate. He attempted to spit again, but his parched throat yielded nothing-almost three days now without water. A juddering effect assailed his vision, as if he stood in the midst of an earthquake. Stumbling, he made his way back up the beach, collecting his sword on the way. Page 48 On to his knees once more, this time at the headless carcass. Using his sword to carve into the torso, then reaching in to grasp the bear¡¯s warm heart. He tore and cut it loose, raised it in one hand and held it over his mouth, then squeezed it as if it was a sponge. From the largest of the arteries blood gushed into his mouth. He drunk deep, finally closing his lips round the artery and sucking the last drop of blood from the organ. Where that was done he bit into the mustand began to eat it. Slowly, his vision steadied, and he noticed for the first time the raining leaves, the torrent only now diminishing, as the heavy, warring clouds edged away, out over the tea. Finished eating the heart, he licked his fingers. Rose once more and retrieved the scabbard, sheathing the sword. The drumbeat was fading, although pain still tormented his neck, shoulders and back-muscles and tendons that had only begun their complaint at the savage abuse they had suffered. He washed the one-sleeved shirt then wrung it-tenderly, since it was threadbare and liable to fall apart under too rigorous a ministration. Slipping it on, he then rinsed out the ehuin hauberk before rolling it up and settling it down over one shoulder. Then he set out, inland. Above the crest of the shoreline, he found before him a wasteland. Rock, scrub, drifts of ash and, in the distance, ravines and outcrops of broken bedrock, a dimpling of the landscape into chaotic folds that lifted into raw, jagged hills. Far to his left-northward-a grainy, diffuse haze marred the sky above or beyond more hills. He squinted, studied that haze for thirty heartbeats. Patches of dusty blue above him now, as the storm rolled westward over the sea, its downpour of leaves trailing like claw marks in the air, staining the white-tups beyond the reef. The wind lost some of its chill bite as the sun finally broke through, promising its own assault on mortal flesh. The man¡¯s skin was dark, for he had been born on a savannah. His was a war-riot¡¯s build, the muscles lean and sharply defined on his frame. His height was average, though something in his posture made him seem taller. His even features were ravaged by depredation, but already the rich meat of the bear¡¯s heart had begun to fill that expression with stolid, indomitable strength. Still, the wounds blazed with ferocious heat. And he knew, then, that fever was not far off. He could see nothing nearby in which to take shelter, to hole up out of the sun. Among the ravines, perhaps, the chance of caves, overhangs. Yet¡­ fifteen hundred paces away, if not more. Could he make it that far? He would have to. Dying was unthinkable, and that was no exaggeration. When a man has forsaken Hood, the final gate is closed. Oblivion or the torment of a journey without end-there was no telling what fate awaited such a man. In any case, Traveller was in no hurry to discover an answer. No, he would invite Hood to find it himself. It was the least he could do. Slinging the scabbard¡¯s rope belt over his left shoulder, checking that the sword named Vengeance was snug within it, its plain grip within easy reach, he set out across the barren plain. In his wake, stripped branches spun and twisted down from the heaving clouds, plunging into the waves, as it torn from the moon itself. The clearing bore the unmistakable furrows of ploughs beneath the waist-high marsh grasses, each ribbon catching at their feet as they pushed through the thick stalks. The wreckage of a grain shed rose from brush at the far end, its roof collapsed with a sapling rising from the floor, as exuberant as any conqueror. Yet such signs were, thus far, all that remained of whatever tribe had once dwelt in this forest. Fragments of deliberate will gouged into the wilderness, but the will had failed. In another hundred years, Nimander knew, all evidence would be entirely erased. Was the ephemeral visage of civilization reason for fear? Or, perhaps, relief? That all victories were ultimately transitory in the face of patient nature might well be cause for optimism. No wound was too deep to heal. No outrage too horrendous to one day be irrelevant. Nimander wondered if he had discovered the face of the one true god. Naught else but time, this ever changing and yet changeless tyrant against whom no crea?ure could win. Before whom even trees, stone and air must one day bow. There would be a last dawn, a last sunset, each kneeling in final surrender. Yes, time was indeed god, playing the same games with lowly insects as it did with mountains and the fools who would carve fastnesses into them. At peace with every scale, pleased by the rapid patter of a rat¡¯s heart and the slow sighing of devouring wind against stone. Content with a star¡¯s burgeoning light and the swift death of a raindrop on a desert floor. ¡®What has earned the smile, cousin?¡¯ Page 49 He glanced over at Skintick. ¡®Blessed with revelation, I think.¡¯ ¡®A miracle, then. I think that I too am converted.¡¯ ¡®You might want to change your mind-I do not believe my newfound god cares for worship, or answers any prayers no matter how fervent.¡¯ ¡®What¡¯s so unique about that?¡¯ Nimander grunted. ¡®Perhaps I deserved that.¡¯ ¡®Oh, you are too quick to jump into the path of what might wound-even when wounding was never the intention. I am still open to tossing in with your worship of your newfound god, Nimander. Why not?¡¯ Behind them, Desra snorted. ¡®I will tell you two what to worship. Power. When it is of such magnitude as to leave you free to do as you will.¡¯ ¡®Such freedom is ever a delusion, sister,¡¯ Skintick said. ¡®It is the only freedom that is not a delusion, fool.¡¯ Grimacing, Nimander said, ¡®I don¡¯t recall Andarist being very free.¡¯ ¡®Because his brother was more powerful, Nimander. Anomander was free to leave us, was he not? Which life would you choose?¡¯ ¡®How about neither?¡¯ Skintick said. Although she walked behind them, Nimander could see in his mind¡¯s eye his sister¡¯s face, and the contempt in it as she no doubt sneered at Skintick. Clip walked somewhere ahead, visible only occasionally; whenever they strode into another half-overgrown clearing, they would see him waiting at the far end, as if impatient with lagging, wayward children. Behind Nimander, Skintick and Desra walked the others, Nenanda electing to guard the rear as if this was some sort of raid into enemy territory. Surrounded by suspicious songbirds, nervous indents, irritated insects, Nenanda padded along with one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, a glower for every shadow. He would be like that all day, Nimander knew, storing up his disgust and anger for when tbey all sat by the fire at night, a fire Nenanda deemed careless and dangerous and would only tolerate because Clip said nothing, Clip with his half-smile and spinning rings who fed Nenanda morsels of approval until the young warrior was consumed by an addict¡¯s need, desperate for the next paltry feeding. Without it, he might crumble, collapse inward like a deflated bladder. Or lash out, yes, at every one of his kin. At Desra, who had been his lover. At Kedeviss and Aranatha who were useless. At Skintick who mocked to hide his cowardice. And at Nimander, who was to blame for-well, no need to go into that, was there? ¡®Do not fret, beloved. I wait for you. For ever. Be strong and know this: you are stronger than you know. Think-¡¯ And all at once another voice sounded in his mind, harder, sour with venom, ¡®She knows nothing. She lies to you.¡¯ Phaed. ¡®Yes, you cannot be rid of me, brother. Not when your hands still burn. Still feel the heat of my throat. Not when my bulging eyes stay fixed on you, like nails, yes? The iron tips slowly pushing into your own eyes, so cold, such pain, and you cannot pull loose, can never escape.¡¯ Do I deny my guilt? Do I even flinch from such truths? ¡®That is not courage, brother. That is despair. Pathetic surrender. Remember Withal? How he took upon himself what needed doing! He picked me up like a rag doll-impressive strength, yes! The memory heats me, Nimander! Would you lick my lips!¡¯ and she laughed. ¡®Withal, yes, he knew what to do, because you left htm no choice. Because you failed. So weak you could not murder your sister. I saw as much in your eyes; at that last moment, I saw it!¡¯ Some sound must have riseri from Nimander, for Skintick turned with brows raised. ¡®What is wrong?¡¯ Nimander shook his head. They walked round pale-barked trees, on soft loam between splayed roots. Dappled sunlight and the chattering alarm of a flying squirrel on a bony branch overhead. Leaves making voices-yes, that was all it was, whispering leaves and his overwrought imagination- Phaed snorted. ¡® ¡°Sometimes being bad feels good. Sometimes dark lust burns like parched wood. Sometimes, my love, you awaken desire in someone else¡¯s pain.¡± Recall that poet, Nimander! That woman of Kharkanas! Andarist was reluctant to speak of her, but I found in the Old Scrolls all her writings. ¡°And with the tips of your fingers, all this you can train.¡± Hah! She knew! And they all feared her, and now they will not speak her name, a name forbidden, but I know it-shall-¡¯ No! And Nimander¡¯s hands clutched, as if once more crushing Phaed¡¯s throat. And he saw her eyes, yes, round and swollen huge and ready to burst. In his mind, yes, once more he choked the life from her. And from the leaves came the whisper of dark pleasure. Page 50 Suddenly cold, suddenly terrified, he heard Phaed¡¯s knowing laugh. ¡®You look ill,¡¯ Skintick said. ¡®Should we halt for a rest?¡¯ Nimander shook his head. ¡®No, let Clip¡¯s impatience drag us ever onward, Skintick. The sooner we are done¡­¡¯ But he could not go on, would not finish that thought. ¡®See ahead,¡¯ Desra said. ¡®Clip has reached the forest edge, and not a moment too soon.¡¯ There was no cause for her impatience, merely a distorted, murky reflection of Clip¡¯s own. This was how she seduced men, by giving back to them versions of themselves, promising her protean self like a precious gift to feed their narcissistic pleasures. She seemed able to steal hearts almost without effort, but Nimander suspected that Clip¡¯s self-obsession would prove too powerful, too well armoured against any incursions. He would not let her into his places of weakness. No, he would simply use her, as she had so often used men, and from this would be born a most deadly venom. Nimander had no thought to warn Clip. Leave them their games, and all the wounds to come. ¡®Yes, leave them to it, brother. We have our own, after all.¡¯ Must I choke you silent once more, Phaed? ¡®If it pleases you.¡¯ The clearing ahead stretched out, rolling downward towards a distant river or stream. The fields on the opposite bank had been planted with rows of some strange, purplish, broad-leafed crop. Scarecrows hung from crosses in such profusion that it seemed they stood like a cohort of soldiers in ranks. Motionless, rag-bound figures in each row, only a few paces apart. The effect was chilling. Clip¡¯s eyes thinned as he studied the distant field and its tattered sentinels. Chain snapped out, rings spun in a gleaming blur. ¡®There¡¯s a track, I think,¡¯ Skintick said, ¡®up and over the far side.¡¯ ¡®What plants are those?¡¯ Aranatha asked. No one had an answer. ¡®Why are there so many scarecrows?¡¯ Again, no suggestions were forthcoming. Clip once more in the lead, they set out. The water of the stream was dark green, almost black, so sickly in appearance that none stopped for a drink, and each found stones to step on rather than simply splash across the shallow span. They ascended towards the field where clouds of insects hovered round the centre stalk of each plant, swarming the pale green flowers before rising in a gust to plunge down on to the next. As they drew closer, their steps slowed. Even Clip finally halted. The scarecrows had once been living people. The rags were bound tightly, cov-ering the entire bodies, arms, legs, necks, faces, all swathed in rough cloth that seemed to drip black fluids, soaking the earth. As the wrapped heads were forward slung, threads of the thick dark substance stretched down from the gauze covering the victims¡¯ noses. ¡®Feeding the plants, I think,¡¯ Skintick said quietly. ¡®Blood?¡¯ Nimander asked. ¡®Doesn¡¯t look like blood, although there maybe blood in it.¡¯ ¡®Then they¡¯re still alive.¡¯ Yet that seemed unlikely. None of the forms moved, none lifted a bound head at the sound of their voices. The air itself stank of death. ¡®They are not still alive,¡¯ Clip said. He had stopped spinning the chain. ¡®Then what leaks from them?¡¯ Clip moved on to the narrow track running up through the field. Nimander forced himself to follow, and heard the others fall in behind him. Once they were in the field, surrounded by the corpses and the man-high plants, the pungent air was suddenly thick with the tiny, Wrinkle-winged insects, slithering wet and cool against their faces. They hurried forward, gagging, coughing. The furrows were sodden underfoot, black mud clinging to their moccasins, a growing weight that made them stumble and slip as they scrambled upslope. Reaching the ridge at last, out from the rows, down into a ditch and then on to a road. Beyond it, more fields to either side of a track, and, rising from them like an army, more corpses. A thousand hung heads, a ceaseless flow of black tears. ¡®Mother bless us,¡¯ Kedeviss whispered, ¡®who could do such a thing?¡¯ ¡®¡°All possible cruelties are inevitable,¡¯¡± Nimander said, ¡®¡°every conceivable crime has been committed.¡±¡® Quoting Andarist yet again. ¡®Try thinking your own thoughts on occasion,¡¯ Desra said drily. ¡®He saw truly-¡¯ ¡®Andarist surrendered his soul and thought it earned him wisdom,¡¯ Clip cut in, punctuating his statement with a snap of rings. ¡®In this case, though, he probably struck true. Even so, this has the flavour of¡­ necessity.¡¯ Page 51 Skintick snorted. ¡®Necessity, now there¡¯s a word to feed every outrage on decency.¡¯ Beyond the ghastly army and the ghoulish purple-leaved plants squatted a town, quaint and idyllic against a backdrop of low, forested hills. Smoke rose above thatched roofs. A few figures were visible on the high street. ¡®I think we should avoid meeting anyone,¡¯ Nimander said. ¡®I do not relish the notion of ending up staked above a plant.¡¯ ¡®That will not occur,¡¯ said Clip. ¡®We need supplies and we can pay for them. In any case, we have already been seen. Come, with luck there will be a hostel or inn.¡¯ A man in a burgundy robe was approaching up the track that met the raised road. Below the tattered hem of the robe his legs were bare and pale, but his feet were stained black. Long grey hair floated out from his head, unkempt and tan-gled. His hands were almost comically oversized, and these too were dyed black. The face was lined, the pale blue eyes wide as they took in the Tiste Andii on the road. Hands waving, he began shouting, in a language Nimander had never heard before. After a moment, he clearly cursed, then said in broken Andii, ¡®Traders of Black Coral ever welcome! Morsko town happy of guests and kin of Son of Darkness! Come!¡¯ Clip gestured for his troupe to follow. The robed man, still smiling like a crazed fool, whirled and hurried back down-the track. Townsfolk were gathering on the high street, watching in silence as they drew nearer. The score or so parted when they reached the edge of the town. Nimander saw in their faces a bleak lifelessness, in their eyes the wastelands of scorched souls, so exposed, so unguarded, that he had to look away. Hands and feet were stained, and on more than a few the blackness rimmed their gaping mouths, making the hole in their faces too large, too seemingly empty and far too depthless. The robed man was talking. ¡®A new age, traders. Wealth! Bastion. Heath. Even Outlook rises from ash and bones. Saemankelyk, glory of the Dying God. Many the sacrifices. Of the willing, oh yes, the willing. And such thirst!¡¯ They came to a broad square with a bricked well on a centre platform of water-worn limestone slabs. On all sides stood racks from which harvested plants hung drying upside down, their skull-sized rootballs lined like rows of children¡¯s heads, faces deformed by the sun. Old women were at the well, drawing water in a chain that wended between racks to a low, squat temple, empty buckets returning. The robed man pointed at the temple-probably the only stone building in the town-and said, ¡®Once sanctified in name of Pannion. No more! The Dying God now, whose body, yes, lies in Bastion. I have looked upon it. Into its eyes. Will you taste the Dying God¡¯s tears, my friends? Such demand!¡¯ ¡®What horrid nightmare rules here?¡¯ Skin tick asked in a whisper. Nimander shook his head. ¡®Tell me, do we look like traders?¡¯ ¡®How should I know?¡¯ ¡®Black Coral, Nimander. Son of Darkness-our kinfolk have become merchants!¡¯ ¡®Yes, but merchants of what?¡¯ The robed man-a priest of some sort-now led them to an inn to the left of the temple that looked half dilapidated. ¡®Few traders this far east, you see. But roof is sound. I will send for maids, cook. There is tavern. Opens of midnight.¡¯ The ground floor of the inn was layered in dust, the planks underfoot creaking and strewn with pellets of mouse droppings. The priest stood beside the front door, large hands entwined, head bobbing as he held his smile. Clip faced the man. ¡®This will do,¡¯ he said. ¡®No need for maids, but find a cook.¡¯ ¡®Yes, a cook. Come midnight to tavern!¡¯ ¡®Very well.¡¯ Tht priest left, Nenanda began pacing, kicking detritus away from his path. ¡®I do not like this, Herald. There aren¡¯t enough people for this town-you must have seen that.¡¯ ¡®Enough,¡¯ muttered Skintick as he set his pack down on a dusty tabletop, ¡®for plant ing and harvesting,¡¯ ¡®Saemankelyk,¡¯ said Nlmander. ¡®Is that the name of this dying god?¡¯ ¡®1 would like to see it,¡¯ Clip said, chain spinning once more as he looked out through the smeared lead-paned window. ¡®This dying god.¡¯ ¡®IN this place called Bastion on the way to Black Coral?¡¯ Clip glanced across at Nimander, disdain heavy in his eyes. ¡®I said I wish to see this dying god. That is enough.¡¯ ¡®I thought-¡¯ began Nenanda, but Clip turned on him sharply. ¡°That is your mistake, warrior. Thinking. There is time. There is always time.¡¯ Page 52 Nimander glanced across at Skintick. His cousin shrugged; then, eyes narrowing, he suddenly smiled. ¡®Your god, Nimander?¡¯ ¡®Yes.¡¯ ¡®Not likely to die any time soon, then.¡¯ ¡®No, never that.¡¯ ¡®What are you two talking about?¡¯ Clip demanded, then, dismissing any possible reply, he faced the window once more. ¡®A dying god needs to die sometime.¡¯ ¡®Notions of mercy, Great One?¡¯ Skintick asked. ¡®Not where you are concerned.¡¯ ¡®Just as well, since I could never suffer the gratitude.¡¯ Nimander watched as Desra glided up to stand beside Clip. They stood looking out through the pane, like husband and wife, like allies against the world. Her left arm almost touching him, up near her elbow, but she would not draw any closer. The spinning rings prevented that, whirling a metal barrier. ¡®Tonight,¡¯ Clip said loudly, ¡®no one drinks.¡¯ Nimander thought back to those black-stained mouths and the ravaged eyes above them, and he shivered. Mist drifted down from the parklike forest north of the Great Barrow, merging with the smoke of cookfires from the pilgrims encamped like an army around the enormous, circular mound. Dawn was paling the sky, seeming to push against the unnatural darkness to the south, but this was a war the sun could not win. From the city gate the cobbled road ran between lesser barrows where hundreds of corpses had been interred following the conquest. Malazans, Grey Swords, Rhivi, Tiste Andii and K¡¯Chain Che¡¯Malle. Farther to the west rose longer barrows, final home to the fallen citizens and soldiers of the city. Seerdomin walked the road through the gloom. A path through ghosts-too many to even comprehend-but he thought he could hear the echoes of their death-cries, their voices of pain, their desperate pleas for mothers and loved ones. Once he was past this place, who was there to hear those echoes? No one, and it was this truth that struck him the hardest. They would entwine with naught hut themselves, falling unheeded to the dew-flattened grass. He emerged into morning light, like passing through a curtain, suddenly brushed with warmth, and made his way up the slope towards the sprawled encampment. For this, he wore his old uniform, a kind of penance, a kind of self-flagellation. There was need, in his mind, to bear his guilt openly, brazenly, to leave himself undefended and indefensible. This was how he saw his daily pilgrimage to the Great Barrow, although he well knew that some things could never be purged, and that redemption was a dream of the deluded. Eyes fixed on him from the camps to either side as he continued on towards that massive heap of treasure-wealth of such measure that it could only belong to a dead man, who could not cast covetous eyes upon his hoard, who would not feel its immense weight night and day, who would not suffer beneath its terrible curse. He was tracked, then, by no doubt hardening eyes, the fixation of hatred, contempt, perhaps even the desire of murder. No matter. He understood such sentiments, the purity of such desires. Armour clanking, chain rustling across the fronts of his thighs as he drew ever closer. ? The greater vastness of wealth now lay buried beneath more mundane trinkets, yet it was these meagre offerings that seemed most potent in their significance to Seerdomin. Their comparative value was so much greater, after all. Sacrifice must be weighed by the pain of what is surrendered, and this alone was the true measure of a virtue¡¯s worth. He saw now the glitter of sunlight in the dew clinging to copper coins, the slick glimmer on sea-polished stones in an array of muted colours and patterns. The fragments of glazed ceramics from some past golden age of high culture. Feathers now bedraggled, knotted strips of leather from which dangled fetishes, gourd rattles to bless newborn babes and sick children. And now, here and there, the picked-clean skulls of the recent dead-a subcult, he had learned, centred on the T¡¯lan Imass, who knelt before the Redeemer and so made themselves his immortal servants. Seerdomin knew that the truth was more profound than that, more breathtaking, and that servitude was not a vow T¡¯lan Imass could make, not to anyone but the woman known as Silverfox. No, they had knelt in gratitude. ¡® That notion could still leave him chilled, wonder awakened in his heart like a gust of surprised breath. Still, these staring skulls seemed almost profane. He stepped into the slightly rutted avenue and drew closer. Other pilgrims were placing their offerings ahead, then turning about and making their way back, edging round him with furtive glances. Seerdomin heard more in his wake, a susurration of whispered prayers and low chanting that seemed like a gentle wave carrying him forward. Page 53 Reaching the barrow¡¯s ragged, cluttered edge, he moved to one side, off the main approach, then settled down into a kneeling position before the shrine, lowering his head and closing his eyes. He heard someone move up alongside him, heard the soft breathing but nothing else, Seerdomin prayer in silence. The same prayer, every day, every time, always the same. Redeemer. I do not seek your blessing. Redemption will never be mine, nor should It, not by your touch, nor that of anyone else. Redeemer, I bring no gift to set upon your barrow. I bring to you naught but myself. Worshippers and pilgrims will hear nothing of your loneliness. They armour you against all that is human, for that is how they make you into a god. But you were once a mortal soul. And so I come, my only gift my company. It is paltry, I know, but it is all I have and all I would offer. Redeemer, bless these pilgrims around me. Bless them with peace in their need. He opened his eyes, then slowly climbed to his feet. Beside him spoke a woman. ¡®Benighted.¡¯ He started, but did not face her. ¡®I have no such title,¡¯ he said. There was faint amusement in her reply, ¡®Seerdomin, then. We speak of you often, at night, from fire to fire.¡¯ ¡®I do not flee your venom, and should it one day take my life, so it will be.¡¯ All humour vanished from her voice as she seemed to draw a gasp, then said, ¡®We speak of you, yes, but not with venom. Redeemer bless us, not that.¡¯ Bemused, he finally glanced her way. Was surprised to see a young, unlined face-the voice had seemed older, deep of timbre, almost husky-framed in glistening black hair, chopped short and angled downward to her shoulders. Her large eyes were of darkest brown, the outer corners creased in lines that did not belong to one of her few years. She wore a woollen robe of russet in which green strands threaded down, but the robe hung open, unbelted, revealing a pale green linen blouse cut short enough to expose a faintly bulging belly. From her undersized breasts he judged that she was not with child, simply not yet past the rounded softness of adolescence. She met his eyes in a shy manner that once again startled him. ¡®We call you the Benighted, out of respect. And all who arrive are told of you, and by this means we ensure that there is no theft, no rape, no crime at all. The Redeemer has chosen you to guard his children.¡¯ ¡®That is untrue.¡¯ ¡®Perhaps.¡¯ ¡®I had heard that no harm befell the pilgrims this close to the Great Barrow.¡¯ ¡®Now you know why.¡¯ Seerdomin was dumbfounded. He could think of nothing to say to such a no?tion. It was madness. It was, yes, unfair. ¡®Is it not the Redeemer who shows us,¡¯ said the,woman, ¡®that burdens are the lot of us all? That we must embrace such demands upon our souls, yet stand fearless, open and welcoming?¡¯ ¡®I do not know what the Redeemer shows-to anyone.¡¯ His tone was harsher than he¡¯d intended. ¡®I have enough burdens of my own. I will not accept yours ¨C I will not be responsible for your safety, or that of any other pilgrim, This ¨C this¡­¡¯ This is not why I am here,¡¯ Yet, much as be wanted to shout that out loud. Instead he turned away, marched back to the avenue. Pilgrims flinched from his path, deepening his anger. Through the camp, eyes set on the darkness ahead, wanting to be once more within its chill embrace, and the city, too. The damp grey walls, the gritty cobbles of the streets, the musty cave of a tavern with its surround of pale, miserable faces-yes, back to his own world. Where nothing was asked of him, nothing demanded, not a single expectation beyond that of sitting at a table with the game arrayed before him, the twist and dance of a pointless contest. On to the road, into the swirl of lost voices from countless useless ghosts, his boots ringing on the stones. Damned fools! Down at the causeway spanning the Citadel¡¯s moat, blood leaked out from bodies sprawled along its length, and in the north sky something terrible was happening. Lurid slashes like a rainbow gone mad, spreading in waves that devoured darkness. Was it pain that strangled the very air? Was it something else burgeoning to life, shattering the universe itself? Endest Silann, a simple acolyte in the Temple of Mother Dark, wove drunkenly round the bodies towards the Outer Gate, skidding on pools of gore. Through the gate¡¯s peaked arch he could see the city, the roofs like the gears of countless mechanisms, gears that could lock with the sky itself, with all creation. Such was Kharkanas, First Born of all cities. But the sky had changed. The perfect machine of existence was broken-see the sky! Page 54 The city trembled, the roofs now raggededged. A wind had begun to howl, the voice Of the multihued light-storm as it lashed out, flared with thunderous fire. Forsaken. We are forsaken! He reached the gate, fell against one pillar and clawed at the tears streaming from his eyes. The High Priestess, cruel poet, was shrieking in the nave of the Temple, shrieking like a woman being raped. Others-women all-were writhing on the marble floor, convulsing in unison, a prostrate dance of macabre sensuality. The priests and male acolytes had sought to still the thrashing limbs, to ease the ravaged cries erupting from tortured throats with empty assurances, but then, one by one, they began to recoil as the tiles grew slick beneath the women, the so-called Nectar of Ecstasy-and no, no man could now pretend otherwise, could not but see this the way it was, the truth of it. They fled. Crazed with horror, yes, but driven away by something else, and was it not envy? ¡® Civil war had ignited, deadly as that storm in the sky. Families were being torn asunder, from the Citadel itself down to the meanest homes of the commonry. Andii blood painted Kharkanas and there was nowhere to run. Through the gate, and then, even as despair choked all life from Endest Silann, he saw him approaching. From the city below. His forearms sheathed in black glistening scales, his bared chest made a thing of natural armour, The blood of Tiam ran riot through him, fired to life hv the conflation of chaotic.sorcery, and his eyes glowed with ferocious will Endest tell to his knees in Anomander¡¯s path. ¡®Lord! The world falls!¡¯ ¡®Rise, priest,¡¯ he replied. ¡®The world docs not fall. It but changes. I need you. Conic,¡¯ And so he walked past, and Endest found himself on his feet, as Lord Anoman-der¡¯s will closed about his heart like an iron gauntlet, pulling him round and into the great warrior¡¯s wake. He wiped at his eyes. ¡®Lord, where are we going?¡¯ ¡®The Temple.¡¯ ¡®We cannot! They have gone mad-the women! They are-¡¯ ¡®I know what assails them, priest.¡¯ ¡®The High Priestess-¡¯ ¡®Is of no interest to me.¡¯ Anomander paused, glanced back at him. ¡®Tell me your name.¡¯ ¡®Endest Silann, Third Level Acolyte. Lord, please-¡¯ But the warrior continued on, silencing Endest with a gesture from one scaled, taloned hand. ¡®The crime of this day, Endest Silann, rests with Mother Dark herself.¡¯ And then, at that precise moment, the young acolyte understood what the Lord intended. And yes, Anomander would indeed need him. His very soul-Mother forgive me-to open the way, to lead the Lord on to the Unseen Road. And he will stand before her, yes. Tall, unyielding, a son who is not afraid. Not of her. Not of his own anger. The storm, oh, the storm is just beginning. Endest Silann sat alone in his room, the bare stone walls as solid and cold as those of a tomb. A small oil lamp sat on the lone table, testament to his failing eyes, to the stain of Light upon his soul, a stain so old now, so deeply embedded in the scar tissue of his heart, that it felt like tough leather within him¡­ Being old, it was his privilege to relive ancient memories, to resurrect in his flesh and his bones the recollection of youth-the time before the aches seeped into joints, before brittle truths weakened his frame to leave him bent and tottering. ¡®Hold the way open, Endest Silann. She will rage against you. She will seek to drive me away, to close herself to me. Hold. Do not relent.¡¯ ¡®But Lord, I have sworn my life to her.¡¯ ¡®What value is that if she will not be held to account for her deedsV ¡®She is the creator of us all, Lord!¡¯ ¡®Yes, and she will answer for it¡¯ Youth was a time for harsh judgement. Such fires ebbed with age. Certainty itself withered. Dreams of salvation died on the vine and who could challenge that blighted truth? They had walked through a citadel peopled by the dead, the broken open, the spilled out. Like the violent opening of bodies, the tensions, rivalries and feuds could no longer be contained. Chaos delivered In a raw and bloody birth, arid now the child squatted amidst Its mangled playthings, with eyes that burned. The fool fell into line. The fool always did. The fool followed the first who called. The fool gave away-with cowardly relief-all rights to think, to choose, to find his own path. And so Endest Silann walked the crimson corridors, the stench-filled hallways, there but two strides behind Anomander. ¡®Will you do as I ask, Endest Silann?¡¯ ¡®Yes, Lord.¡¯ ¡®Will you hold?¡¯ ¡®I shall hold.¡¯ Page 55 ¡®Will you await me the day?¡¯ ¡®Which day, Lord?¡¯ ¡®The day at the very end, Endest Silann. Will you await me on that day?¡¯ ¡®I said I would hold, Lord, and so I shall.¡¯ ¡®Hold, old friend, until then. Until then. Until the moment when you must betray me. No-no protestations, Endest. You will know the time, you will know it and know it well.¡¯ It was what kept him alive, he suspected. This fraught waiting, so long all was encrusted, stiff and made almost shapeless by the accretion of centuries. ¡®Tell me, Endest, what stirs in the Great Barrow?¡¯ ¡®Lord?¡¯ ¡®Is it Itkovian? Do we witness in truth the birth of a new god?¡¯ ¡®I do not know, Lord. I am closed to such things.¡¯ As I have been since that day in the Temple. ¡®Ah, yes, I have forgotten. I apologize, old friend. Mayhap I will speak to Spin-nock, then. Certain quiet enquiries, perhaps.¡¯ ¡®He will serve you as always, Lord.¡¯ ¡®Yes, one of my burdens.¡¯ ¡®Lord, you bear them well.¡¯ ¡®Endest, you lie poorly.¡¯ ¡®Yes, Lord.¡¯ ¡®Spinnock it shall be, then. When you leave, please send for him-not with haste, when he has the time.¡¯ ¡®Lord, expect him at once.¡¯ And so Anomander sighed, because no other response was possible, was it? And I, too, am your burden, Lord. But we best not speak of that. See me, Lord, see how I still wait. Incandescent light was spilling from the half-open doors of the temple, rolling in waves out over the concourse like the wash of a flood, sufficient in strength to shift corpses about, milky eyes staring as the heads pitched and lolled. As they set out across the expanse, that light flowed up round their shins, startlingly cold. Endest Silann recognized the nearest dead Andii. Priests who had lingered too long, caught in the conflagration that Endest had felt but not seen as he rushed though the Citadel¡¯s corridors. Among them, followers from various factions. Silchas Ruin¡¯s. Andarist¡¯s, and Anomander¡¯s own, Drethdenan¡¯s, Hish Tuilla¡¯s Vanut Degalla¡¯s oh, thirt had been waves ol fighting on this concourse, these sanctified flagstones, In birth there shall be blood. In death there shall be light. Yes, this was the day for both birth and death, for both blood and light. They drew closer to the doors of the temple, slowed to observe the waves of light tumbling down the broad steps. Their hue had deepened, as if smeared with old Wood, but the power was waning. Yet Endest Silann sensed a presence within, something contained, someone waiting. For us. The High Priestess? No. Of her, the acolyte sensed nothing. Anomander took his first step on to the stone stairs. And was held there, as her voice filled them. No. Be warned, Anomander, dear son, from Andii blood is born a new world. Understand me. You and your kin are no longer alone, no longer free to play your vicious games. There are now¡­ others. Anomander spoke. ¡®Mother, did you imagine I would be surprised? Horrified? It could never be enough, to be naught but a mother, to create with hands closed upon no one. To yield so much of yourself, only to find us your only reward-us slayers, us betrayers.¡¯ There is new blood within you. ¡®Yes.¡¯ My son, what have you done? ¡®Like you, Mother, I have chosen to embrace change. Yes, there are others now. I sense them. There will be wars between us, and so I shall unite the Andii. Resistance is ending. Andarist, Drethdenan, Vanut Degalla. Silchas is fleeing, and so too Hish Tulla and Manalle. Civil strife is now over, Mother.¡¯ You have killed Tiam. My son, do you realize what you have beguni Silchas flees, yes, and where do you think he goesl And the newborn, the others, what scent will draw them now, what taste of chaotic power? Anomander, in murder you seek peace, and now the blood flows and there shall be no peace, not ever again. I forsake you, Anomander Blood of Tiam, Dragnipurake. I deny my first children all. You shall wander the realms, bereft of purpose. Your deeds shall avail you nothing. Your lives shall spawn death unending. The Dark-my heart-is closed to you, to you all. And, as Anomander stood unmoving, Endest Silann cried out behind him, falling to his knees in bruising collapse. A hand of power reached into him, tore something loose, then was gone-something, yes, that he would one day call by its name: Hope. He sat staring at the flickering flame of the lamp. Wondering what it was, that loyalty should so simply take the place of despair, as if to set such despair upon another, a chosen leader, wan to absolve oneself of all that might cause pain, Loy. alty, aye, the exchange that was surrender in both directions. From one, all will, from the other, all freedom. Page 56 From one, all will. From the other¡­ The sword, an arm¡¯s length of copper-hued iron, had been forged in Darkness, in Kharkanas itself. Sole heirloom of House Durav, the weapon had known three wielders since the day of quenching at the Hust Forge, but of those kin who held the weapon before Spinnock Durav, nothing remained-no ill-fitting, worn ridges in the horn grip, no added twists of wire at the neck of the pommel adjusting weight or balance; no quirk of honing on the edges. The sword seemed to have been made, by a master weaponsmith, specifically for Spinnock, for his every habit, his every peculiarity of style and preference. So in his kin, therefore, he saw versions of himself, and like the weapon he was but one in a continuum, unchanging, even as he knew that he would be the last. And that one day, perhaps not far off, some stranger would bend down and tug the sword from senseless fingers, would lift it for a closer examination. The water-etched blade, the almost-crimson edges with the back-edge sharply angled and the down-edge more tapering. Would squint, then, and see the faint glyphs nested in the ferrule along the entire blade¡¯s length. And might wonder at the foreign marks. Or not. The weapon would be kept, as a trophy, as booty to sell in some smoky market, or it would rest once more in a scabbard at the hip or slung from a baldric, resuming its purpose which was to take life, to spill blood, to tear the breath from mortal souls. And generations of wielders might curse the ill-fitting horn grip, the strange ridges of wear and the once-perfect honing that no local smith could match. Inconceivable, for Spinnock, was the image of the sword lying lost, woven out of sight by grasses, the iron¡¯s sheath of oil fading and dull with dust, and then the rust blotting the blade like open sores; until, like the nearby mouldering, rotting bones of its last wielder, the sword sank into the ground, crumbling, decaying into a black, encrusted and shapeless mass. Seated on his bed with the weapon across his thighs, Spinnock Durav rubbed the last of the oil into the iron, watched the glyphs glisten as if alive, as ancient, minor sorcery awakened, armouring the blade against corrosion. Old magic, slowly losing its efficacy. Just like me. Smiling, he rose and slid the sword into the scabbard, then hung the leather baldric on a hook by the door. ¡®Clothes do you no justice, Spin.¡¯ He turned, eyed the sleek woman sprawled atop the blanket, her arms out to the sides, her legs still spread wide. ¡®You¡¯re back.¡¯ She grunted. ¡®Such arrogance. My temporary¡­ absence had nothing to do with you, as you well know.¡¯ ¡®Nothing?¡¯ ¡®Well, little, then, You know I walk in Darknenss, and when it takes me, I travel far indeed,¡¯ He eyed her for a half-dozen heartbeats. ¡®More often of late,¡¯ he said. ¡®Yes,¡¯ The High Priestess sat up, wincing at some pain in her lower back and rubbing at the spot. ¡®Do you remember, Spin, how all of this was so easy, once? Our young bodies seemed made for just that one thing, beauty woven round a knot of need. How we displayed our readiness, how we preened, like the flowers of carnivorous plants? How it made each of us, to ourselves, the most important thing in the world, such was the seduction of that knot of need, seducing first ourselves and then others, so many others-¡¯ ¡®Speak for yourself,¡¯ Spinnock said, laughing, even as her words prodded something deep inside him, a hint of pain there was no point paying attention to, or so he told himself, still holding his easy smile as he drew closer to the bed. ¡®Those journeys into Kurald Galain were denied you for so long, until the rituals of opening seemed devoid of purpose. Beyond the raw pleasure of sex.¡¯ She studied him a moment from beneath heavy lids. ¡®Yes.¡¯ ¡®Has she forgiven us, then?¡¯ Her laugh was bitter. ¡®You ask it so plain, as if enquiring after a miffed relative! How can you do such things, Spin? It should have taken you half the night to broach that question.¡¯ ¡®Perhaps age has made me impatient.¡¯ ¡®After the torture you just put me through? You have the patience of lichen.¡¯ ¡®But rather more interesting, I hope.¡¯ She moved to the edge of the bed, set her bare feet on the floor and hissed at the stone¡¯s chill. ¡®Where are my clothes?¡¯, ¡®They burned to ash in the heat of your desire.¡¯ ¡®There-bring them over, if you please.¡¯ ¡®Now who is impatient?¡¯ But he collected up her priestly robes. ¡®The visions are growing more¡­ fraught.¡¯ Nodding, he held out her robe. She rose, turned round and slipped her arms into the sleeves, then settled back into his embrace. ¡®Thank you, Spinnock Durav, for acceding to my¡­ need.¡¯ Page 57 ¡®The ritual cannot be denied,¡¯ he replied, stroking her cut-short, midnight-black hair. ¡®Besides, did you think I would refuse such a request from you?¡¯ ¡®I grow tired of the priests. Their ennui is such that most of them must imbibe foul herbs to awaken them to life. More often, of late, we have them simply service us, while they lie there, limp as rotting bananas.¡¯ He laughed, stepping away to find his own clothes. ¡®Bananas, yes, a most wondrous fruit to reward us in this strange world. That and kelyk. In any case, the image you describe is unfairly unappetizing.¡¯ ¡®I agree, and so, thank you again, Spinnock Durav.¡¯ ¡®No more gratitude, please. Unless you would have me voice my own and so overwhelm you with the pathos of my plight.¡¯ To that, she but smiled, ¡®Stay miked, Spin, until I leave.¡¯ Another part of the ritual?¡¯ he asked. ¡®Would I have so humbly asked if it was?¡¯ When she was gone, Spinnock Durav drew on his clothing once more, thinking back to his own ritual, servicing his sword with a lover¡¯s touch, as if to remind the weapon that the woman he had just made love to was but a diversion, a temporary distraction, and that there was place for but one love in his heart, as befitted a warrior. True, an absurd ritual, a conceit that was indeed pathetic. But with so little to hold on to, well, Tiste Andii clung tight and fierce to anything with meaning, no matter how dubious or ultimately nonsensical. Dressed once more, he set out. The game awaited him. The haunted gaze of Seerdomin, there across from him, with artfully carved but essentially inert lumps of wood, antler and bone on the table between them. Ghostly, irrelevant players to each side. And when it was done, when victory and defeat had been played out, they would sit for a time, drinking from the pitcher, and Seerdomin might again speak of something without quite saying what it was, might slide round what bothered him with every word, with every ambiguous comment and observation. And all Spinnock would glean was that it had something to do with the Great Barrow north of Black Coral. With his recent refusal to journey out there, ending his own pilgrimage, leaving Spinnock to wonder at the man¡¯s crisis of faith, to dread the arrival of true despair, when all that Spinnock needed from his friend might wither, even die. And where then would he find hope? He walked the gloomy streets, closing in on the tavern, and wondered if there was something he could do for Seerdomin. The thought slowed his steps and made him alter his course. Down an alley, out on to another street, this one the side of a modest hill, with the buildings stepping down level by level on each side, a cascade of once brightly painted doors-but who bothered with such things now in this eternal Night? ¡® He came to one door on his left, its flaked surface gouged with a rough sigil, the outline of the Great Barrow in profile, beneath it the ragged imprint of an open hand. Where worship was born, priests and priestesses appeared with the spontaneity of mould on bread. Spinnock pounded on the door. After a moment it opened a crack and he looked down to see a single eye peering up at him. ¡®I would speak to her,¡¯ he said. The door creaked back. A young girl in a threadbare tunic stood in the narrow hallway, now curtseying repeatedly. ¡®L-lord,¡¯ she stammered, ¡®she is up the stairs-it is late-¡¯ ¡®Is it? And I am not a ¡°lord¡±, is she awake?¡¯ A hesitant nod, ¡®I will not take much of her time Tell her it is the Tiste Andii warrior she once met in the ruins. She was collecting wood. I was¡­ doing very little. Go, I will wait,¡¯ Uptt he stairs the girl raced, two steps at a time, the dirty soles of her feet flashing with each upward leap. He heard a door open, close, then open again, and the girl reappeared at the top of the stairs. ¡®Come!¡¯ she hissed. The wood creaked beneath him as he climbed to the next level. The priestess-ancient, immensely obese-had positioned herself on a once plush chair before an altar of heaped trinkets. Braziers bled orange light to either side, shedding tendrils of smoke that hung thick and acrid beneath the ceiling. The old woman¡¯s eyes reflected that muted glow, murky with cataracts. As soon as Spinnock entered the small room, the girl left, closing the door behind her. ¡®You do not come,¡¯ said the priestess, ¡®to embrace the new faith, Spinnock Durav.¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t recall ever giving you my name, Priestess.¡¯ ¡®We all know the one who alone among all the Tiste Andii consorts with us lowly humans. Beyond the old one who bargains for goods in the markets and you are not Endest Silann, who would have struggled on the stairs, and bowed each one near to breaking with his weight.¡¯ Page 58 ¡®Notoriety makes me uneasy.¡¯ ¡®Of course it does. What do you want with me, warrior?¡¯ ¡®I would ask you something. Is there a crisis among the faithful?¡¯ ¡®Ah. You speak of Seerdomin, who now denies us in our need.¡¯ ¡®He does? How? What need?¡¯ ¡®It is not your concern. Not that of the Tiste Andii, nor the Son of Darkness.¡¯ ¡®Anomander Rake rules Black Coral, Priestess, and we Tiste Andii serve him.¡¯ ¡®The Great Barrow lies outside Night. The Redeemer does not kneel before the Son of Darkness.¡¯ ¡®I am worried for my friend, Priestess. That is all.¡¯ ¡®You cannot help him. Nor, it is now clear, can he help us.¡¯ ¡®Why do you need help?¡¯ ¡®We await the Redeemer, to end that which afflicts his followers.¡¯ ¡®And how will the Redeemer achieve such a thing, except through chosen mortals?¡¯ She cocked her head, as if startled by his question, then she smiled. ¡®Ask that question of your friend, Spinnock Durav. When the game is done and your Lord is victorious yet again, and you call out for beer, and the two of you-so much more alike than you might imagine-drink and take ease in each other¡¯s company.¡¯ ¡®Your knowledge dismays me.¡¯ ¡®The Redeemer is not afraid of the Dark.¡¯ Spinnock started, his eyes widening. ¡®Embracing the grief of the T¡¯lan Imass is one thing, Priestess. That of the Tiste Andii no, there may be no fear In the Redeemer, but his soul had best awaken to wisdom. Priestess, make this plain in your prayers. The Tiste Andii are not for the Redeemer. God or no, such an embrace will destroy him. Utterly.¡¯ And, by Mother¡¯s own breath, it would destroy us as well. ¡®Seerdomin awaits you,¡¯ she said, ¡®and wonders, since you are ever punctual.¡¯ Spinnock Durav hesitated, then nodded. Hoping that this woman¡¯s god had more wisdom than she did; hoping, too, that the power of prayer could not bend the Redeemer into ill-conceived desires to reach too far, to seek what could only destroy him, all in that fervent fever of gushing generosity so common to new believers. ¡®Priestess, your claim that the Great Barrow lies beyond my Lord¡¯s responsibilities is in error. If the pilgrims are in need, the Son of Darkness will give answer-¡¯ ¡®And so lay claim to what is not his.¡¯ ¡®You do not know Anomander Rake.¡¯ ¡®We need nothing from your Lord.¡¯ ¡®Then perhaps I can help.¡¯ ¡®No. Leave now, Tiste Andii.¡¯ Well, he had tried, hadn¡¯t he? Nor did he expect to gain more ground with Seerdomin. Perhaps something more extreme was required. No, Seerdomin is a private man. Let him. be. Remain watchful, yes, as any friend would. And wait. If he had walked from the nearest coast, the lone figure crossing the grasslands of north Lamatath had travelled a hundred leagues of unsettled prairie. Nowhere to find food beyond hunting the sparse game, all of it notoriously fleet of foot and hoof. He was gaunt, but then, he had always been gaunt. His thin, grey hair was unkempt, drifting out long in his wake. His beard was matted, knotted with filth. His eyes, icy blue, were as feral as any beast of the plain. A long coat of chain rustled, swinging clear of his shins with each stride. The shadow he cast was narrow as a sword. In the cloudless sky wheeled vultures or ravens, or both, so high as to be nothing but specks, yet they tracked the solitary figure far below. Or perhaps they but skirled in the blue emptiness scanning the wastes for some dying, weakening creature. But this man was neither dying nor weak. He walked with the stiff purpose characteristic of the mad, the deranged. Madness, he would have noted, does not belong to the soul engaged with the world, with every hummock and tuft of grass, with the old beach ridges with their cobbles of limestone pushing through the thin, patched skin of lichen and brittle moss. With the mocking stab of shadow that slowly wheeled as the sun dragged itself across the sky. With the sounds of his own breath that were proof that he remained alive, that the world had yet to take him, pull him down, steal the warmth from his ancient flesh. Madness stalked only an inner torment, and Kallor, the High King, supreme emperor of a dozen terrible empires, was, in his heart, a man at peace. For the moment. But what mattered beyond just that? This single moment, pitching headlong into the next one over and over again, as firm and true as each step he took, the haul ground reverberating up through the worn heels of his boots, The tactile affirmed reality, and nothing else mattered and never would. Page 59 A man ol peace, yes indeed. And that he had once ruled the lives of hundreds of thousands, ruled over their useless, petty existences; that he had once, with a single gesture, condemned a surrendered army of fifteen thousand to their deaths; that he had sat a throne of gold, silver and onyx, like a glutton stuffed to over-flowing with such material wealth that it had lost all meaning, all value¡­ ah well, all that remained of such times, such glory, was the man himself, his sword, his armour, and a handful of antiquated coins in his pouch. Endless betrayals, a sea of faces made blurry and vague by centuries, with naught but the avaricious, envious glitter of their eyes remaining sharp in his mind; the sweep of smoke and lire and faint screams as empires toppled, one after another; the chaos of brutal nights fleeing a palace in flames, fleeing such a tide of vengeful fools that even Kallor could not kill them all-much as he wanted to, oh, yes-none of these things awakened bitter ire in his soul. Here in this wasteland that no one wanted, he was a man at peace. Such truth could not be challenged, and were someone to rise up from the very earth now and stand in such challenge, why, he would cut him to pieces. Smiling all the while to evince his calm repose. Too much weight was given to history, as far as Kallor was concerned. One¡¯s own history; that of peoples, cultures, landscapes. What value peering at past errors in judgement, at mischance and carelessness, when the only reward after all that effort was regret? Bah! Regret was the refuge of fools, and Kallor was no fool. He had lived out his every ambition, after all, lived each one out until all colour was drained away, leaving a bleached, wan knowledge that there wasn¡¯t much in life truly worth the effort to achieve it. That the rewards proved ephemeral; nay, worthless. Every emperor in every realm, through all of time itself, soon found that the lofty title and all its power was an existence devoid of humour. Even excess and indulgences palled, eventually. And the faces of the dying, the tortured, well, they were all the same, and not one of those twisted expressions vouchsafed a glimmer of revelation, the discovery of some profound, last-breath secret that answered all the great questions. No, every face simply pulled into itself, shrank and recoiled even as agony tugged and stretched, and whatever the bulging eyes saw at the last moment was, Kallor now understood, something utterly¡­ banal. Now there was an enemy-banality. The demesne of the witless, the proud tower of the stupid. One did not need to be an emperor to witness it-scan the faces of people encircling an overturned carriage, the gleam of their eyes as they strain and stretch to catch a glimpse of blood, of broken limbs, relishing some pointless tragedy that tops up their murky inkwells of life. Watch, yes, those vultures of grief, and then speak of noble humanity, so wise and so virtuous. Unseen by the ravens or condors, Kallor had now bared his teeth in a bleak smile, as if seeking to emulate the face of that tragically fallen idiot, pinned there beneath the carriage wheel,.seeing the last thing he would see, and finding it in the faces of the gawkers, and thinking, Oh, look at you all. So banal. So.,, banal. He startled a hare from some scrub, twenty paces away, and his left hand flashed out, underhand, and a knife sped in a blur, catching the hare in mid-leap, flipping it round in the air before it fell. A slight tack, and he halted to stand over the small, motionless body, looking down at the tiny droplets of spilled blood. The knife sunk to the hilt, driven right through just in front of the hips-the gut, then, not good. Sloppy. He crouched, pulled loose the knife then quickly sliced open the belly and tugged and tore out the hare¡¯s warm intestines. He held the glistening ropes up in one hand, studied them and whispered, ¡®Banal.¡¯ An eye of the hare stared up sightlessly, everything behind it closed up, gone away. But he¡¯d seen all that before. More times than he could count. Hares, people, all the same. In that last moment, yes, there was nothing to see, so what else to do but go away? He flung the guts to one side, picked up the carcass by its elongated hind limbs and resumed his journey. The hare was coming with him. Not that it cared. Later, they¡¯d sit down for dinner. High in the sky overhead, the black specks began a descent. Their equally empty eyes had spied the entrails, spread in lumpy grey ropes on the yellow grasses, now in the lone man¡¯s wake. Empty eyes, but a different kind of emptiness. Not that of death¡¯s banality, no, but that of life¡¯s banality. The same kind of eyes as Kallor¡¯s own. And this was the mercy in the hare¡¯s swift death, for unlike countless hundreds of thousands of humans, the creature¡¯s last glimpse was not of Kallor¡¯s profoundly empty eyes-a sight that brought terror into the faces of every victim. Page 60 The world, someone once said, gives back what is given. In abundance. But then, as Kallor would point out, someone was always saying something. Until he got fed up and had them executed. Chapter Five Pray, do not speak to me of weather Not sun, not cloud, not of the places Where storms are born I would not know of wind shivering the heather Nor sleet, nor rain, nor of ancient traces On stone grey and worn Pray, do not regale the troubles of ill health Not self, not kin, not of the old woman At the road¡¯s end I will spare no time nor in mercy yield wealth Nor thought, nor feeling, nor shrouds woven To tempt luck¡¯s end Pray, tell me of deep chasms crossed Not left, not turned, not of the betrayals Breeding like worms I would you cry out your rage ¡®gainst what is lost Now strong, now to weep, now to make fist and rail On earth so firm Pray, sing loud the wretched glories of love Now pain, now drunken, now torn from all reason In laughter and tears I would you bargain with the fey gods above Nor care, nor cost, nor turn of season To wintry fears Sing to me this and I will face you unflinching Now knowing, now seeing, now in the face Of the howling storm Sing your life as if a life without ending And your love, sun¡¯s bright fire, on its celestial pace To where truth is born ¨C Pray, an end to inconsequential things, Baedisk of Nathilog Darujhistan. Glories unending! Who could call a single deed inconsequential? This scurrying youth with his arms full of vegetables, the shouts from the stall in his wake, the gauging eye of a guard thirty paces away, assessing the poor likelihood of catching the urchin. Insignificant? Nonsense! Hungry mouths fed, glowing pride, some fewer coins for the hawker, perhaps, but it seemed all profit did was fill a drunken husband¡¯s tankard anyway so the bastard could die of thirst for all she cared! A guard¡¯s congenitally flawed heart beat on, not yet pushed to bursting by hard pursuit through the crowded market, and so he lives a few weeks longer, enough to complete his full twenty years¡¯ service and so guarantee his wife and children a pension. And of course the one last kiss was yet to come, the kiss that whispered volumes of devotion and all the rest. The pot-thrower in the hut behind the shop, hands and forearms slick with clay, dreaming, yes, of the years in which a life took shape, when each press of a fingertip sent a deep track across a once smooth surface, changing the future, reshaping the past, and was this not as much chance as design? For all that intent could score a path, that the ripples sent up and down and outward could be surmised by decades of experience, was the outcome ever truly predictable? Oh, of course she wasn¡¯t thinking any such thing. An ache in her left wrist obliterated all thoughts beyond the persistent ache itself, and what it might portend and what herbs she would need to brew to ease her discomfort-and how could such concerns be inconsequential? What of the child sitting staring into the doleful eye of a yoked ox outside Corb¡¯s Womanly Charms where her mother was inside and had been for near a bell now, though of course Mother had Uncle-Doruth-who-was-a-secret for company which was better than an ox that did nothing but moan? The giant, soft, dark-so-dark brown eye stared back and to think in both directions was obvious but what was the ox thinking except that the yoke was heavy and the cart even heavier and it¡¯d be nice to lie down and what could the child be thinking about but beef stew and so no little philosopher was born, although in years to come, why, she¡¯d have her own uncle-who-was-a-seeret and thus like her mother enjoy all the fruits of marriage with few of the niggling pits. And what of the sun high overhead, bursting with joyous light to bathe the wondrous city like a benediction of all things consequential? Great is the need, so sudden, so pressing, to reach up, close fingers about the fiery orb, to drag it back-and back!-into night and its sprawled darkness, where all manner of things of import have trembled the heavens and the very roots of the earth, or nearly so. Back, then, the short round man demands, for this is his telling, his knowing, his cry of Witness! echoing still, and still. The night of arrivals, the deeds of the arrived, even as night arrives! Let nothing of consequence be forgot. Let nothing of inconsequence be deemed so and who now could even imagine such things to exist, recalling with wise nod the urchin thief, the hawker, the guard. The thrower of pots and the child and the ox and Uncle Doruth with his face between the legs of another man¡¯s wife, all to came (excuse!) in the day ahead. Page 61 Murk, too, this teller of the tale, with his sage wink. We are in the midst! Night, shadows overlapping, a most indifferent blur that would attract no one¡¯s notice, barring that nuisance of a cat on the sill of the estate, amber eyes tracking now as one shadow moves out from its place of temporary concealment. Out goes this errant shadow, across the courtyard, into deeper shadows against the estate¡¯s wall. Crouching, Torvald Nom looked up to see the cat¡¯s head and those damned eyes, peering down at him. A moment later the head withdrew, taking its wide gaze with it. He made his stealthy way to the back corner, paused once more. He could hear the gate guards, a pair of them, arguing over something, tones of suspicion leading to accusation answered by protestations of denial but Damn you, Doruth, I just don¡¯t trust you- ¨C No reason not to, Milok. I ever give you one? No- ¨C To Hood you ain¡¯t. My first wife- ¨C Wouldn¡¯t leave me alone, I swear! She stalked me like a cat a rat- ¨C A rat! Aye, that¡¯s about right- ¨C / swear, Milok, she very nearly raped me- ¨C The first time! I know, she told me all about it, with eyes so bright!- ¨C Heard it made you horny as Hood¡¯s black sceptre- ¨C That ain¡¯t any of your business, Doruth- And something soft brushed against Torvald¡¯s leg. The cat, purring like soft gravel, back bowed, tail writhing. He lifted his foot, held it hovering over the creature. Hesitated, then settled it back down. By Apsalar¡¯s sweet kiss, the kit¡¯s eyes and ears might be a boon, come to think of it. Assuming it had the nerve to follow him. Torvald eyed the wall, the cornices, the scrollwork metopes, the braided false columns. He wiped sweat from his hands, dusted them with the grit at the wall¡¯s base, then reached up for handholds, and began to climb. He gained the sill of the window on the upper floor, pulled himself on to it/ balanced on his knees. True, never wise, but the fall wouldn¡¯t kill him, wouldn¡¯t even sprain an ankle, would it? Drawing a dagger he slipped the blade in between the shutters, carefully felt for the latch. The cat, alighting beside him, nearly pitched him from the sill, but he managed to recover, swearing softly under his breath as he resumed working the lock. ¨C She still loves you, you know-What- ¡®-She does, She just likes some variety. I tell you, Milok, this last one of yours was no easy conquest- ¨C You swore!- ¨C You¡¯re my bestest, oldest friend. No more secrets between us! And when I swear to that, as I¡¯m doing now, I mean it true. She¡¯s got an appetite so shut ing shouldn¡¯t be a problem. I ain¡¯t better than you, just different, that¡¯s all Different.- ¨C How many times a week, Durothl Tell me true!- ¨C Oh, every second day or so- ¨C But I¡¯m every second day, too!- ¨C Odd, even, I guess. Like I said, an appetite.- ¨C I¡¯ll say.- ¨C After shift, let¡¯s go get drunk- ¨C Aye, we can compare and contrast- ¨C I love it. fust that, hah!¡­ Hey, Milok¡­- ¨C Aye?- ¨C How old¡¯s your daughter?- The latch clicked, springing free the shutters just as a sword hissed from a scabbard and, amidst wild shouting, a fight was underway at the gate. ¨C A joke! Honest! fust a joke, Milok!- Voices now from the front of the house, as Torvald slid his dagger blade between the lead windows and lifted the inside latch. He quickly edged into the dark room, as boots rapped on the compound and more shouting erupted at the front gate. A lantern crashed and someone¡¯s sword went flying to skitter away on the cobbles. Torvald quickly closed the shutters, then the window. The infernal purring was beside him, a soft jaw rubbing against a knee. He reached for the cat, fingers twitching, hesitated, then withdrew his hand. Pay attention to the damned thing, right, so when it hears what can¡¯t be heard and when it sees what can¡¯t be seen, yes¡­ Pivoting in his crouch, he scanned the room. Some sort of study, though most of the shelves were bare. Overreaching ambition, this room, a sudden lurch towards culture and sophistication, but of course it was doomed to failure. Money wasn¡¯t enough. Intelligence helped. Taste, an inquisitive mind, an interest in other stuff-stuff out of immediate sight, stuff having nothing to do with whatever. Wasn¡¯t enough to simply send some servant to scour some scrollmonger¡¯s shop and say ¡®I¡¯ll take that shelf¡¯s worth, and that one, too.¡¯ Master¡¯s not too discriminating, yes. Master probably can¡¯t even read so what difference does it make? Page 62 He crept over to the one shelf on which were heaped a score or so scrolls, along with one leather-bound book. Each scroll was rolled tight, tied with some seller¡¯s label-just as he had suspected. Torvald began reading through them. Treatise on Drainage Grooves in Stone Gutters of Gadrobi District, Nine?teenth Report in the Year of the Shrew, Extraordinary Subjects, Guild of Quarry Engineering. Author: Member 322. Tales of Pamby Doughty and the World Inside the Trunk (with Illustrations by some dead man). The Lost Verses of Anomandaris, with annotation. Torvald¡¯s brows rose, since this one might actually be worth something. He quickly slipped the string off and unfurled the scroll. The vellum was blank, barring a short annotation at the bottom that read: No scholarly erudition is possible at the moment. And a publisher¡¯s mark denoting this scroll as part of a series of Lost Works, published by the Vellum Makers¡¯ Guild of Pale. He rolled the useless thing back up, plucked out one more. An Illustrated Guide to Headgear of Cobblers of Genabaris in the fourth century, Burn¡¯s Sleep, by Cracktooth Filcher, self-avowed serial collector and scourge of cobblers, imprisoned for life. A publication of Prisoner¡¯s Pit Library, Nathilog. He had no doubt the illustrations were lavish and meticulous, detailed to excess, but somehow his curiosity was not up to the challenge of perusal. By now the commotion at the gate had been settled. Various members of the guard had returned from the fracas, with much muttering and cursing that fell away abruptly as soon as they entered the main house on their way to their rooms, telling Torvald that the master was indeed home and probably asleep. Which was something of a problem, given just how paranoid the bastard was and the likely hiding place of his trove was somewhere in his damned bedroom. Well, the world presented its challenges, and without challenges life was worthless and pointless and, most crucially, devoid of interest. He moved to the door leading to the hallway, pausing to wrap a cloth about his face, leaving only his eyes free. The cat watched intently. Lifting the latch he tugged the door open and peered out into the corridor. Left, the outer, back wall not three paces away. Right, the aisle reaching all the way through the house. Doors and a central landing for the staircase. And a guard, seated facing that landing. Black hair, red, bulbous nose, protruding lower lip, and enough muscles slabbed on to a gigantic frame to fill out two or three Torvald Noms. The fool was knitting, his mouth moving and brow knotting as he counted stitches. And there was the horrid cat, padding straight for him. Torvald quietly closed the door. He should have strangled the thing. From the corridor he heard a grunting curse, then boots thumping down the stairs. Opening the door once more he looked out. The guard was gone, the knitting lying on the floor with one strand leading off down the stairs. Hah! Brilliant cat! Why, if he met it again he¡¯d kiss it-but nowhere near where it licked itself because there were limits, after all, and anywhere a cat could lick itself was nowhere he¡¯d kiss. Torvald quickly closed the door behind him and tiptoed up the corridor. A cautious glance down the wide, central staircase. Wherever the cat had run off with the ball of wool, it was out of sight, and so too the guard. He faced the ornate double doors directly behind the vacated wooden chair. Locked? Yes. He drew his dagger and slid the thin blade between the doors. Ornate decoration was often accompanied by neglect of the necessary mechanisms, and this lock followed the rule, as he felt the latch lift away. Hoots sounded downstairs. He tugged open the door and quickly slipped inside, crouching once more. A front room, an office of sorts, with a single lantern on a short wick casting faint light across the desk and its strewn heap of papyrus sheets. A second door, smaller, narrow, behind the desk¡¯s high-backed plush chair. Torvald Nom tiptoed towards it. Pausing at the desk to douse the lantern, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, crouching yet lower to squint at the crack beneath the bedroom door, pleased to find no thread of light. Drawing up against the panelled wood with its gold-leaf insets now dull in the gloom. No lock this time. Hinges feeling well oiled. He slowly worked the door open. Inside, quietly shutting the door behind him. Soft breathing from the huge four-poster bed. Then a sigh. ¡®Sweet sliverfishy, is that you?¡¯ A woman¡¯s husky, whispering voice, and now stirring sounds from the bed. ¡®The night stalker this time? Ooh, that one¡¯s fun-I¡¯ll keep my eyes closed and whimper lots when you threaten me to stay quiet. Hurry, I¡¯m lying here, petrified. Someone¡¯s in my room!¡¯ Page 63 Torvald Nom hesitated, truly torn between necessity and¡­ well, necessity. He untied his rope belt. And, in a hissing voice, demanded, ¡®First, the treasure. Where is it, woman?¡¯ She gasped. ¡®That¡¯s a good voice! A new one! The treasure, ah! You know where it is, you horrible creature! Right here between my legs!¡¯ Torvald rolled his eyes. ¡®Not that one. The other one.¡¯ ¡®If I don¡¯t tell you?¡¯ ¡®Then I will have my way with you.¡¯ ¡®Oh! Isay nothing! Please!¡¯ Damn, he sure messed that one up. There was no way she¡¯d not know he wasn¡¯t who he was pretending to be, even when that someone was pretending to be someone else. How to solve this? ¡®Get on your stomach. Now, on your hands and knees. Yes, like that.¡¯ ¡®You¡¯re worse than an animal!¡¯ Torvald paused at the foot of the bed. Worse than an animal? What did that mean? Shaking his head, he climbed on to the bed. Well, here goes nothing. A short time later: ¡®Sliverfishy! The new elixir? Gods, it¡¯s spectacular! Why, I can¡¯t call you sliverfishy any more, can I? More like¡­ a salmon! Charging upstream! Oh!¡¯ ¡®The treasure, or I¡¯ll use this knife.¡¯ And he pressed the cold blade of the dagger against the outside of her right thigh. She gasped again. ¡®Under the bed! Don¡¯t hurt me! Keep pushing, damn you! Harder! This one¡¯s going to make a baby-I know it! This time, a baby!¡¯ Well, he did his part anyway, feeding his coins into the temple¡¯s cup and all that, and may her prayers guide her true into motherhood¡¯s blissful heaven. She collapsed on to the bed, groaning, while he backed off, knelt on the cold wooden floor and reached under the bed, knuckles skinning against a large, low longbox. Groping, he found one handle unci dragged it out. She moaned. ¡®Oh, don¡¯t start counting again, darling. Please. You ruin everything when you do that!¡¯ ¡®Not counting, woman. Stealing. Stay where you are. Eyes closed. Don¡¯t move.¡¯ ¡®It just sounds silly now, you know that.¡¯ ¡®Shut up, or I¡¯ll do you again.¡¯ ¡®Ah! What was that elixir again?¡¯ He prised open the lock with the tip of the dagger. Inside, conveniently stored in burlap sacks tagged with precise amounts, a fortune of gems, jewels and high councils. He quickly collected the loot. ¡®You are counting!¡¯ ¡®I warned you.¡¯ He climbed back on to the bed. Looked down and saw that promises weren¡¯t quite enough. Gods below, if you only were. ¡®Listen,¡¯ he said, ¡®I need more elixir. In the office. Don¡¯t move.¡¯ ¡®I won¡¯t. I promise.¡¯ He hurried out, crept across the outer room and paused at the doors to the corridor to press his ear against the panel. Softly, the slither-click of bamboo knitting needles. Torvald slid the dagger into its scabbard, reversed grip, opened the door, looked down at the top of the guard¡¯s hairy head, and swung hard. The pommel crunched. The man sagged in his chair, then folded into a heap at the foot of the chair. The cat was waiting by the library door. Uncle One, Uncle Two, Father None. Aunt One, Aunt Two, Mother None. Present and on duty, Uncle One, Aunt One and Cousins One, Two, Three. Cousin One edging closer, almost close enough for another hard, sharp jab with an elbow as One made to collect another onion from the heap on the table. But he knew One¡¯s games, had a year¡¯s list of bruises to prove it, and so, just as accidentally, he took a half-step away, keeping on his face a beaming smile as Aunt One cooed her delight at this sudden bounty, and Uncle One sat opposite, ready to deliver his wink as soon as he glanced over-which he wouldn¡¯t do yet because timing, as Uncle Two always told him, was everything. Besides, he needed to be aware of Cousin One especially now that the first plan had been thwarted. One, whose name was Snell, would have to work harder in his head, work that cunning which seemed to come from nowhere and wasn¡¯t part of the dull stupidity that, was One¡¯s actual brain, so maybe it was demons after all, clattering and chittering all their cruel ideas. Snell wouldn¡¯t let this rest, he knew. No, he¡¯d remember and start planning. And the hurt would be all the worse for that. But right now he didn¡¯t care, not about Cousin One, not about anything that might come later tonight or tomorrow. He¡¯d brought food home, after all, an armload of food, delivering his treasure to joyous cries of relief. And the man whose name he¡¯d been given, the man long dead who was neither Uncle One nor Uncle Two but had been Uncle Three and not, of course, Father One, well, that man would be proud that the boy with his name was doing what was needed to keep the family together. Page 64 Collecting his own onion, the child named Harllo made his way to a safe corner of the single room, and, moments before taking a bite, glanced up to meet Uncle One¡¯s eyes, to catch the wink and then nod in answer. Just like Uncle Two always said, timing was how a man measured the world, and his place in it. Timing wasn¡¯t a maybe world, it was a world of yes and no, this, not that. Now, not later. Timing belonged to all the beasts of nature that hunted other creatures. It belonged to the tiger and its fixed, watching eyes. It belonged, too, to the prey, when the hunter became hunted, like with Cousin One, each moment a contest, a battle, a duel. But Harllo was learning the tiger¡¯s way, thanks to Uncle Two, whose very skin could change into that of a tiger, when anger awakened cold and deadly. Who had a tiger¡¯s eyes and was the bravest, wisest man in all of Darujhistan. And the only one, apart from young Harllo himself, who knew the truth of Aunt Two, who wasn¡¯t Aunt Two at all, but Mother One. Even if she wouldn¡¯t admit it, wouldn¡¯t ever say it, and wouldn¡¯t have hardly nothing to do with her only child, her son of Rape. Once, Harllo had thought that Rape was his father¡¯s name, but now he knew it was a thing people did to other people, as mean as an elbow in the ribs, maybe meaner. And that was why Mother One stayed Aunt Two, and why on those rare occasions she visited she wouldn¡¯t meet Harllo¡¯s eyes no matter how he tried, and why she wouldn¡¯t say anything about nothing except with a voice that was all anger. ¡®Aunt Stonny hates words, Harllo,¡¯ Gruntle had explained, ¡®but only when those words creep too close to her, to where she hides, you see.¡¯ Yes, he saw. He saw plenty. Snell caught his eye and made a wicked face, mouthing vicious promises. His little sister, Cousin Two, whose name was Mew, was watching from where she held on to the table edge, seeing but not understanding because how could she, being only three years old; while Cousin Three, another girl but this one named Hinty, was all swathed in the cradle and safe in there, safe from everything, which was how it should be for the littlest ones. Harllo was five, maybe close to six, but already tall-stretched, laughed Gruntle, stretched and scrawny because that¡¯s how boys grow. Aunt Myrla had the rest of the vegetables in a steaming pot over the hearth, and Harllo saw her flick a knowing look at her husband, who nodded, not pausing in massaging the stumps below his knees, where most people had shins and ankles and then feet, but Uncle Bedek had had an accident which was something like Rape only not on purpose-and so he couldn¡¯t walk any more which made life hard for them all, and meant Harllo had to do what needed since Snell didn¡¯t seem Interested In doing anything. Except torment Harllo, of course. The air in the cramped room was smelling earlhy and.sweet now, as Myrla fed more dung on to the small health beneath the pot. Harllo knew he¡¯d have to go out and collect more come the morrow and that might mean right out of the city, Up along the West Shore of the lake, which was an adventure. Snell finished his onion and crept closer to Harllo, hands tightening into fists. But Harllo had already heard the boots in the alley outside, crackling on the dead fronds from the collapsed roof opposite, and a moment later Uncle Two swept the hanging aside and leaned into the room, the barbs of his face looking freshly painted, so stark were they, and his eyes glowed like candle flames. His smile revealed fangs. Bedek waved. ¡®Gruntle! Do come in, old friend! See how Myrla readies a feast!¡¯ ¡®Well timed, then,¡¯ the huge man replied, entering the room, ¡®for I have brought smoked horse.¡¯ Seeing Harllo, he waved the boy over. ¡®Need to put some muscle on this one.¡¯ ¡®Oh,¡¯ said Myrla, ¡®he never sits still, that¡¯s his problem. Not for a moment!¡¯ Snell was scowling, scuttling in retreat and looking upon Gruntle with hatred and fear. Gruntle picked up Harllo, then held him squirming under one arm as he took the two steps to the hearth to hand Myrla a burlap-wrapped package. Bedek was eyeing Gruntle. ¡®Glad you made it back,¡¯ he said in a low voice. ¡®Heard about you at the gate and that moment in Worrytown-damn, but I wish I wasn¡¯t so¡­ useless.¡¯ Setting Harllo down, Gruntle sighed. ¡®Maybe your days of riding with caravans are done, but that doesn¡¯t make you useless. You¡¯re raising a fine family, Bedek, a fine family.¡¯ ¡®I ain¡¯t raising nothing,¡¯ Bedek muttered, and Harllo knew that tone, knew it all too well, and it might be days, maybe even a week, before Uncle One climbed back up from the dark, deep hole he was now in. The problem was, Bedek liked that place, liked the way Myrla closed round him, all caresses and embraces and soft murmurings, and it¡¯d go on like that until the night came when they made noises in their bed, and come the next morning, why, Bedek would be smiling. Page 65 When Myrla was like that, though, when she was all for her husband and nothing else, it fell to Harllo to tend to the girls arid do everything that was needed, and worst of all, it meant no one was holding back Snell. The beatings would get bad, then. Myrla couldn¡¯t work much, not since the last baby, when she¡¯d hurt something in her belly and now she got tired too easy, and even this glorious supper she was creating would leave her exhausted and weak with a headache. When able, she¡¯d mend clothes, but that wasn¡¯t happening much of late, which made Harllo¡¯s raiding the local markets all the more important. He stayed close to Gruntle, who now sat opposite Uncle Bedek and had produced a jar of wine, and this kept Snell away for now, which of course only made things worse later but that was all right. You couldn¡¯t choose your family, after all, not your cousins, not anyone. They were there and that was that. Besides, he could leave early tomorrow morning, so early Snell wouldn¡¯t even he awake, and he¡¯d make his way out of the city, out along the lake shore where the world stretched away, where beyond the shanties there were hills with nothing but goats and shepherds and beyond even them there was nothing but empty land. That such a thing could exist whispered to Harllo of possibilities, ones that he couldn¡¯t hope to name or put into words, but were all out in the future life that seemed blurry, ghostly, but a promise even so. As bright as Gruntle¡¯s eyes, that promise, and it was that promise that Harllo held on to, when Snell¡¯s fists were coming down. Bedek and Gruntle talked about the old days, when they¡¯d both worked the same caravans, and it seemed to Harllo that the past-a world he¡¯d never seen because it was before the Rape-was a place of great deeds, a place thick with life where the sun was brighter, the sunsets were deeper, the stars blazed in a black sky and the moon was free of mists, and men stood taller and prouder and nobody had to talk about the past back then, because it was happening right now. Maybe that was how he would find the future, a new time in which to stand tall. A time he could stretch into. Across from Harllo, Snell crouched in a gloomy corner, his eyes filled with their own promise as he grinned at Harllo. Myrla brought them plates heaped with food. The papyrus sheets, torn into shreds, lit quickly, sending black flakes upward in the chimney¡¯s draught, and Duiker watched them go, seeing crows, thousands of crows. Thieves of memory, stealing everything else he might have thought about, might have resurrected to ease the uselessness of his present life. All the struggles to recall faces had been surrendered, and his every effort to write down this dread history had failed. Words flat and lifeless, scenes described in the voice of the dead. Who were those comrades at his side back then? Who were those Wickans and Malazans, those warlocks and warriors, those soldiers and sacrificial victims who perched above the road, like sentinels of futility, staring down at their own marching shadows? Bult. Lull. Sormo Enath. Coltaine. Names, then, but no faces. The chaos and terror of lighting, of reeling in exhaustion, of wounds slashed open and bleeding, of dust and the reek of spilled wastes-no, he could not write of that, could not relate t he truth of it, any of it. Memory fails. For ever doomed as we seek to fashion scenes, framed, each act described, reasoned and reasonable, irrational and mad, bn(somewhere beneath there must be the thick, solid sludge of motivation, of significance, of meaning-there must be. The alternative is¡­ unacceptable. But this was where his attempts delivered him, again and again. The unacceptable truths, the ones no sane person could ever face, could ever meet eye to eye. ¡®That nothing was worth revering, not even the simple fact of survival, and certainly not that endless cascade of failures, of deaths beyond counting. Even here, in this city of peace, he watched the citizens in all their daily dances, and with each moment that passed, his disdain deepened. He disliked the way his thoughts grew ever more uncharitable, ever more baffled by the endless scenes of seemingly mindless, pointless existence, but there seemed no way out of that progression as his observations unveiled the pettiness of life, the battles silent and otherwise with wives, husbands, friends, children, parents; with the very crush on a crowded street, each life closed round itself, righteous and uncaring of strangers-people fully inside their own lives. Yet should he not revel in such things? In their profound freedom, in their extraordinary luxury of imagining themselves in control of their own lives? Of course, they weren¡¯t. In freedom, such as each might possess, they raised their own barriers, carried shackles fashioned by their own hands. Rattling the chains of emotions, of fears and worries, of need and spite, of the belligerence that railed against the essential anonymity that gripped a person. Aye, a most unac?ceptable truth. Page 66 Was this the driving force behind the quest for power? To tear away anonymity, to raise fame and infamy up like a blazing shield and shining sword? To voice a cry that would be heard beyond the gates of one¡¯s own life? But oh, Duiker had heard enough such cries. He had stood, cowering, in the midst of howls of defiance and triumph, all turning sour with despair, with senseless rage. The echoes of power were uniform, yes, in their essential emptiness. Any historian worthy of the title could see that. No, there was no value in writing. No more effect than a babe¡¯s fists battering at the silence that ignored every cry. History meant nothing, because the only continuity was human stupidity. Oh, there were moments of greatness, of bright deeds, but how long did the light of such glory last? From one breath to the next, aye, and no more than that. No more than that. As for the rest, kick through the bones and wreckage for they are what remain, what lasts until all turns to dust. ¡®You are looking thoughtful,¡¯ Mallet observed, leaning forward with a grunt to top up Duiker¡¯s tankard. ¡®Which, I suppose, should not come as a surprise, since you just burned the efforts of most of a year, not to mention a high council¡¯s worth of papyrus.¡¯ ¡®I will reimburse you the cost,¡¯ Duiker said. ¡®Don¡¯t be ridiculous,¡¯ the healer said, leaning back. ¡®I only said you looked thoughtful.¡¯ ¡®Appearances deceive, Mallet. I am not interested in thinking any more. About anything.¡¯ ¡®Good, then this is a true meeting of minds.¡¯ Duiker continued studying the fire, continued watching the black crows wing up the chimney. ¡®For you, unwise,¡¯ he said. ¡®You have assassins to consider.¡¯ Mallet snorted. ¡®Assassins. Antsy¡¯s already talking about digging up a dozen cussers. Blend¡¯s out hunting down the Guild¡¯s headquarters, while Picker and Bluepearl work with Councillor Coll to sniff out the source of the contract. Cive it all a week and the problem will cease being a problem. Permanently.¡¯ Duiker half smiled. ¡®Don¡¯t mess with Malazan marines, retired or otherwise.¡¯ ¡®You¡¯d think people would know by now, wouldn¡¯t you?¡¯ ¡®People are stupid, Mallet.¡¯ The healer winced. ¡®Not all of us.¡¯ ¡®True. But Hood waits for everyone, stupid, smart, witty, witless. Waits with the same knowing smile.¡¯ ¡®No wonder you burned your book, Duiker.¡¯ ¡®Yes.¡¯ ¡®So, since you¡¯re no longer writing history, what will you do?¡¯ ¡®Do? Why, nothing.¡¯ ¡®Now that¡¯s something I know all about-oh, don¡¯t even try to object. Aye, I heal someone every now and then, but I was a soldier, once. And now I¡¯m not. Now I sit around getting fat, and it¡¯s fat poisoned through and through with some kind of cynical bile. I lost all my friends, Duiker. No different from you. Lost ¡¯em all, and for what? Damned if I know, damned and damned again, but no, I don¡¯t know the why of it, the why of anything.¡¯ ¡®A meeting of minds, indeed,¡¯ Duiker said. ¡®Then again, Mallet, it seems you are at war once more. Against the usual implacable, deadly enemy.¡¯ ¡®The Guild? I suppose you¡¯re right. But it won¡¯t last long, will it? I don¡¯t like being retired. It¡¯s like announcing an end to your worth, whatever that worth was, and the longer you go on, the more you realize that that worth wasn¡¯t worth anything like you once thought it was, and that just makes it worse.¡¯ Duiker set down his tankard and rose. ¡®The High Alchemist has invited me to lunch on the morrow. I¡¯d best go to bed and get some sleep. Watch your back, healer. Sometimes the lad pushes and the lady¡¯s nowhere in sight.¡¯ Mallet simply nodded, having assumed the burden of staring at the fire now that Duiker was leaving. The historian walked away from the warmth, passing through draughts and layers of chill air on his way to his room. Colder and colder, with every step. Somewhere above this foul temple, crows danced with sparks above the mouth of a chimney, virtually unseen in the darkness. Each one carried a word, but the sparks were deaf. Too busy with the ecstasy of their own bright, blinding fire. At least, until they went out. Gaz stormed out early, as soon as he realized he wasn¡¯t going to get enough coin from the day¡¯s take to buy a worthwhile night of drinking. Thordy watched her husband go, that pathetic forward tilt of the man¡¯s walk which always came when he was enraged, the jerky strides as he marched out into the night. Where he went she had no idea, nor, truth be told, did she even cure. Page 67 Twice now in the past week that skinny mite of an urchin had raided her vegetable stand. Gods, what were parents up to these days? The runt was probably five years old, no older that¡¯s for sure, and already fast us an eel in the shallows ¨C and why wasn¡¯t he leashed as a child should be? Especially at that age when there were plenty of people who¡¯d snach him, use him or sell him quick as can be. And if they used him in that bad way, then they¡¯d wring his neck afterwards, which Thordy might not mind so much except that it was a cruel thought and a cruel picture and more like something her husband would think than her. Though he¡¯d only be thinking in terms of how much money she might make without the thieving going on. And maybe what he might do if he ever got his hands on the runt. She shivered at that thought, then was distracted by Nou the watchdog in the garden next to hers, an unusual eruption of barking-but then she remembered her husband and his walk and how Nou hated Gaz especially when he walked like that. When Gaz stumbled back home, drunk and useless, the mangy dog never made a sound, ignored Gaz straight out, in fact. Dogs, she knew, could smell bad intentions. Other animals too, but especially dogs. Gaz never touched Thordy, not even a shove or a slap, because without her and the garden she tended he was in trouble, and he knew that well enough. He¡¯d been tempted, many times, oh, yes, but there¡¯d be, all of a sudden, a glint in his eyes, a surprise, flickering alight. And he¡¯d smile and turn away, saving that fist and all that was behind it for someone else. Gaz liked a good fight, in some alley behind a tavern. Liked kicking faces in, so long as the victim was smaller than he was, and more drunk. And without any friends who might step in or come up from behind. It was how he dealt with the misery of his life, or so he said often enough. Thordy wasn¡¯t sure what all that misery was about, though she had some ideas. Her, for one. The pathetic patch of ground she had for her vegetables. Her barren womb. The way age and hard work was wearing her down, stealing the glow she¡¯d once had. Oh, there was plenty about her that made him miserable. And, all things considered, she¡¯d been lucky to have him for so long, especially when he¡¯d worked the nets on that fisher boat, the nets that, alas, had taken all his fingers that night when something big had waited down below, motionless and so unnoticed as the crew hauled the net aboard. Then it exploded in savage power, making for the river like a battering ram. Gaz¡¯s fingers, all entwined, sprang like topped carrots, and now he had thumbs and rows of knuckles and nothing else. Fists made for fighting, he¡¯d say with an unconscious baring of his teeth. That and nothing moie. And that was true enough and good reason, she supposed, for getting drunk every chance he could. Lately, however, she¡¯d been feeling a little less generous-no, she¡¯d been feeling not much of anything at all. Even pity had dwindled, whispered away like a dry leaf on the autumn wind. And it was as if he had changed, right in front of her eyes, though she now understood that what had changed was behind her eyes-not the one looked at, but the one doing the looking. She no longer recoiled in the face of his fury. No longer shied from that marching tilt and all its useless anger, and would now study it, seeing its futility, seeing the self-pity in that wounded pitch. She was empty, then, and she had first thought she would remain so, probably for the rest of her life. Instead, something had begun to fill the void. At first, it arrived with a start, a twinge of guilt, but not any more. Now, when thoughts oi murder filled her head, it was like immersing herself in a scented bath. Gaz was miserable. He said so. He¡¯d be happier if he were dead. And, truth be told, so would she. All this love, all this desperate need, and he was useless. She should have driven him out of her life long ago, and he knew it. Holding on to him the way she was doing was torture. He¡¯d told her he only fought weaklings. Fools and worse. He told her he did it to keep his arms strong, to harden his knuckles, to hold on to (hah, that was a good one) some kind of reason for staying alive. A man needs a skill, aye, and no matter if it was good or bad, no matter at all. But the truth was, he chose the meanest, biggest bastards he could find. Proving he could, proving those knuckles and their killing ways. Killing, aye. Four so far, that he was sure of. Sooner or later, Gaz knew, the coin would flip, and it would be his cold corpse lying face down in some alley. Well enough. When you pay out more than you¡¯re worth, again and again, eventually somebody comes to collect. She¡¯d not mourn him, he knew. A man in love could see when the one he loved stopped loving him back. He did not blame her, and did not love her any less; no, his need just got worse. Page 68 The Blue Ball Tavern occupied one corner of a massive, decrepit heap of tenements that stank of urine and rotting rubbish. In the midst of the fete, the nightly anarchy on these back streets up from the docks reached new heights, and Gaz was not alone in hunting the alleys for trouble. It occurred to him that maybe he wasn¡¯t as unusual as he might have once believed. That maybe he was just one among thousands of useless thugs in this city, all of them hating themselves and out sniffing trails like so many mangy dogs. Those who knew him gave him space, slinking back from his path as he stalked towards his chosen fighting grounds, behind the Blue Ball. That brief thought-about other people, about the shadowed faces he saw around him-was shortlived, flitting away with the first smell of blood in the damp, sultry air. Someone had beaten him to it, and might even now be swaggering out the opposite end of the alley. Well, maybe the fool might circle hack, and he could deliver to the bastard what he¡¯d done to somebody else-and there was the body, the huddled, motionless shape. Walking up, Gaz nudged it with one boot. Heard a blood-frothed wheeze. Slammed his heel down on the riboage, just to hear the snap and crunch. A cough, spraying blood, a low groan, then a final exhalation. Done, easy as that. ¡®Are you pleased, Gaz?¡¯ He spun round at the soft, deep voice, forearms lifting Into a guard he expected to fail-but the fist he thought was coming never arrived, and, swearing, he stepped back until his shoulders thudded against the wall, glared in growing fear at the tall, shrouded figure standing before him, ¡®I ain¡¯t afraid,¡¯ he said In a bellingerent growl, Amusement washed up against him like a wave. ¡®Open yourself, Gaz. Your soul, Welcome your god,¡¯ Gaz could feel the air on his teeth, could feel his lips stretching until cracks split to ooze blood. His heart hammered at his chest. ¡®I ain¡¯t got no god. I¡¯m nothing but curses, and I don¡¯t know you. Not at all.¡¯ ¡®Of course you do, Gaz. You have made sacrifice to me, six times now. And counting.¡¯ Gaz could not see the face within the hood, but the air between them was suddenly thick with some pungent, cloying scent. Like cold mud, the kind that ran in turgid streams behind slaughterhouses. He thought he heard the buzz of flies, but the sound was coming from somewhere inside his own head. ¡®I don¡¯t kill for you,¡¯ he said, his voice thin and weak. ¡®You don¡¯t have to. I do not demand sacrifices. There is¡­ no need. You mortals consecrate any ground you choose, even this alley. You drain a life on to it. Nothing more is required. Not intent, not prayer, nor invocation. I am summoned, without end.¡¯ ¡®What do you want from me?¡¯ ¡®For now, only that you continue harvesting souls. When the time comes for more than that, Gaz of the Gadrobi, you will be shown what must be done.¡¯ ¡®And if I don¡¯t want-¡¯ ¡®Your wants are not relevant.¡¯ He couldn¡¯t get that infernal buzzing out of his skull. He shook his head, squeezed shut his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again the god was gone. The flies. The flies axe in my head. Gods, get out! Someone had wandered into the alley, weaving, mumbling, one hand held out to fend off any obstacles. I can get them out. Yes! And, all at once, he knew the truth of that, knew that killing would silence those cursed flies. Swinging round, he pitched forward, hands lifting, and fast-marched towards the drunken fool. Who looked up at the last moment, in time to meet those terrible knuckles. Krute of Talient slowed as he approached the recessed entrance to the tenement where he now lived. Someone was standing in the shadows, blocking the door. He halted ten paces away. ¡®That was good work,¡¯ he said. ¡®You was behind me most of the way, making me think you wasn¡¯t good at all, but now here you are.¡¯ ¡®Hello, Krute.¡¯ At that voice Krute started, then leaned forward, trying to pierce the gloom. Nothing but a shape, but it was, he concluded, the right shape. ¡®Gods below, I never thought you¡¯d come back. Do you have any idea what¡¯s happened since you vanished?¡¯ ¡®No. Why don¡¯t you tell me?¡¯ Krute grinned. ¡®I can do that, but not out here.¡¯ ¡®You once lived in a better neighbourhood, Krute.¡¯ He watched Rallick Nom step out from the alcove and his grin broadened. ¡®You ain¡¯t changed at all. And yes, I¡¯ve known better times-and I hate to say it, but you¡¯re to blame, Rallick.¡¯ The tall, gaunt assassin turned to study the tenement building. ¡®You live here? And it¡¯s my fault?¡¯ Page 69 ¡®Come on,¡¯ Krute said, ¡®let¡¯s get inside. Top floor, of course, an alley corner-easy to the roof, dark as Hood¡¯s armpit. You¡¯ll love it.¡¯ A short time later they sat in the larger of the two rooms, a scarred table between them on which sat a stubby candle with a badly smoking wick, and a clay jug of sour ale. The two assassins held tin cups, both of which leaked. Since pouring the ale, Krute had said nothing, but now he grunted in amused surprise. ¡®I just thought of something. You showing up, alive and hale, has just done what Krafar couldn¡¯t do. We had a cult, Rallick Nom, worshipping the memory of you. Krafar outlawed it in the Guild, then tried to eradicate it-forced us deeper. Not deep enough for me-I¡¯m under suspicion and they¡¯ve gone and isolated me, like I was already dead. Old contacts¡­ look right through me, Rallick. It¡¯s been damned hard.¡¯ ¡®Krafar?¡¯ ¡®Seba, Talo¡¯s brood. In the squabble over who was gonna take over after Vorcan, he¡¯s the one got¡¯through unscathed-still breathing, I mean. The Guild¡¯s decimated, Rallick. Infighting, lots of good killers getting disgusted and just up and leaving. Down to Elingarth, mostly, with a few to Black Coral, if you can believe that. Even heard rumours that some went to Pale, to join the Malazan Claws.¡¯ Rallick held up a red-stained hand. ¡®A moment, damn you. What idiot decided on a cult?¡¯ Krute shrugged. ¡®Just sort of happened, Rallick. Not really worship-that was the wrong word. It¡¯s more like a¡­ a philosophy. A philosophy of assassination. No magic, for one. Poisons, lots of poisons. And otataral dust if we can get it. But Seba Krafar wants to take us back to all that magic, even though you made it obvious which way was the better one, the surer one. The man¡¯s stubborn-it¡¯s in the blood with them, eh?¡¯ Krute slapped the table, momentarily knocking over the candle, which he hastened to right before the paltry flame went out. ¡®Can¡¯t wait to see Krafar¡¯s face when you walk in-¡¯ ¡®You will have to,¡¯ Rallick replied. ¡®Something else, friend. You don¡¯t say a word, to anyone.¡¯ Krute smiled knowingly. ¡®You plan on an ambush, don¡¯t you? You, stepping over Krafar¡¯s body, to take mastery of the Guild. And you need to make plans-and I can help you there, tell you the ones sure to be loyal to you, sure to back you-¡¯ ¡®Be quiet,¡¯ Rallick said. ¡®There¡¯s something you need to know.¡¯ ¡®What?¡¯ ¡®The night I disappeared, recall it?¡¯ ¡®Of course.¡¯ ¡®Someone else vanished that night too.¡¯ Krute blinked.¡¯Well, yes-¡¯ ¡®And now I am back,¡¯ ¡®You are¡¯ Rollick drank down a mouthful of ale. Then another. Krute stared, then swore, ¡®Her, too?¡¯ ¡®Yes.¡¯ Draining his cup, Krute quickly refilled it, then leaned back. ¡®Gods below. Poor Krafar. You working with her on this, Rallick?¡¯ ¡®No.¡¯ ¡®Not that she¡¯d need help-¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t know where she is, Krute. I don¡¯t know what she¡¯s planning. If anything. I don¡¯t know, and can¡¯t guess, and neither can you.¡¯ ¡®So, what do we do, Rallick?¡¯ ¡®You change nothing, stay with your routine.¡¯ Krute snorted. ¡®What routine? Slow starvation?¡¯ ¡®I have coin, enough for both of us. Hidden here and there.¡¯ Rallick rose. ¡®I assume the rooftops are quiet these nights.¡¯ ¡®Except for thieves, coming out like mice with not an owl to be seen-like I said, the Guild¡¯s on its knees.¡¯ ¡®All right. I will return before dawn. For now, Krute, we do nothing.¡¯ ¡®I¡¯m good at that.¡¯ Rallick grimaced, but said nothing as he turned to the window and unlocked the shutters. He didn¡¯t need to say anything, as far as Krute was concerned. True enough, Krute was good at doing nothing. But Rallick Nom wasn¡¯t. He wasn¡¯t good at that at all. Oh, this is going to be fun, isn¡¯t itl The murmurings chased him down the alley, guttural noises issuing from a score of fanged mouths, tongues wiggling, black lips lifting clear. The glimmer and flash of rolling eyes in the gloom. Looking back over one shoulder, Iskaral Pust, Magus and High Priest of Shadow, bhokaral god, made faces at his worshippers. He cursed them in twitters. He waggled his tongue. He bared his teeth and bulged his eyes. And did this frighten them off? Why, no! The very opposite, if such madness could be believed. They scrabbled ever closer, still clutching their loot from hapless victims in the markets, their faces writhing in constipated anguish or something equally dire. Infuriating! Page 70 ¡®Never mind, never mind them. I have tasks, missions, deeds of great import. I have stuff to do.¡¯ And so he hurried on, kicking through rubbish, listening to the creatures behind him kicking through the same rubbish. He paused at each alley mouth, shot quick glances up and down the streets, then darted across to the next opening. In his wake, the bhokarala gathered in a clump at the alley mouths, looked one way, looked the other, and then tore off in pursuit. A short time later he skidded to a halt, the sound of his heels echoed a moment later by countless claws gouging cobblestones. Iskaral Pust pulled at his hair and whirled. The crouching bhokarala all had their knobby fists up to either side of their tiny skulls. ¡®Leave me be!¡¯ he hissed. They hissed back at him. He spat. And was sprayed with gobs of foul saliva. He beat at his head. They pounded their own heads with fistfuls of jewellery and globes of fruit. Eyes narrowing (eyes narrowing), Iskaral Pust slowly stood on one leg. Watched the bhokarala stand tottering on single legs. ¡®Gods below,¡¯ he muttered, ¡®they¡¯ve all gone entirely insane.¡¯ Spinning round once more, he glared across at the squat, octagonal temple fifty paces down the street to his right. Its walls were a chaotic collection of niches and misshapen angles, a veritable plethora of shadows. Iskaral Pust sighed. ¡®My new abode. A modest hovel, but it suits my needs. I plan to do it up, of course, when there¡¯s time. Oh, you like the gold place settings and silk napkins? Just something I threw together, mind, but it pleases me well enough. Spiders? No, no spiders round here, oh, no. Simply not allowed. Ghastly creatures, yes, disgusting. Never bathe, don¡¯t you know. Ghastly.¡¯ Wordless singsong at his back. ¡®Oh, don¡¯t mind them. My ex-wife¡¯s relations-if I¡¯d have known, well of course I¡¯d never have taken the leap, if you know what I mean. But that¡¯s how it is-get married and you end up saddled with the whole family menagerie. And even though she¡¯s gone now, nothing but a dried-out husk with her legs sticking up in the air, well, I admit to feeling responsible for her hapless kin. No, no, she looked nothing like them. Worse, actually. I confess to a momentary insanity. The curse of being young, I suppose. When did we get married? Why, four, five years ago now, yes. Only seems like a lifetime and I¡¯m glad, so glad, to be done with it now. More wine, sweetness?¡¯ Smiling, Iskaral Pust set out for the temple. Shadowed steps, leading to a shadowed landing beneath a pitted lintel stone; oh, this was all very well done. The twin doors were huge, very nearly gates, panelled in polished bronze moulded into an enormous image of charging Hounds. Delicious touch! Lovingly rendered, all that snarling terror. ¡®Yes, the doors were my idea, by my own hand in fact-I dabble. Sculpture, tapestry, portraiture, caricature, potterature-pottery, I mean, I was simply using the technical term. See this funerary urn, exquisite, yes. She¡¯s inside. Yes, my beloved departed, my belovedly departed, my blessedly departed, hee hee-oh, folding up her limbs was no easy task, let me tell you, quite a tight fit. I know, hard to believe she¡¯s in there, in an urn barely larger than a jar of wine. I have many skills, yes, as befits the most glorious mortal servant of High House Shadow. But I¡¯ll tell you this, she fought hard all the way in!¡¯. He crouched in front of the bronse doors, glowering into the gaping jaws of the Hounds Reached up one knuckled hand, and rapped Baran¡¯s nose, A Irtim, hollow reverberation. ¡®I knew it,¡¯ he said, nodding. The bhokarala fidgeted on the steps, knocking each other on their snouts, then sagely nodding. The door to the left opened a crack. A hood-shrouded head poked out at about chest height, the face peering up vague and blurry. ¡®We don¡¯t want any,¡¯ said a thin, whispery woman¡¯s voice. ¡®You don¡¯t want any what?¡¯ ¡®They¡¯ll soil the furniture.¡¯ Iskaral Pust scowled. ¡®She¡¯s insane. Why is everyone I meet insane? Listen, wretched acolyte, step aside. Scrape your pimply forehead on the tiles and kiss my precious feet. I am none other than Iskaral Pust.¡¯ ¡®Who?¡¯ ¡®Iskaral Pust! High Priest of Shadow. Magus of the High House. Our god¡¯s most trusted, favoured, valued servant! Now, move aside, let me in! I claim this temple by right of seniority, by right of rightful hierarchy, by right of natural superiority! I will speak with the High Priestess immediately! Wake her up, clean her up, prop her up-whatever you need to do to get her ready for me.¡¯ The door creaked back and all at once the acolyte straightened, revealing herself to be ridiculously tall. She swept her hood back to display an exquisitely moulded face surrounded by long, straight, rust-red hair. In a deep, melodic voice she said, ¡®I am High Priestess Sordiko Qualm of the Darujhistan Temple of Shadow.¡¯ Page 71 ¡®Ah, a master of disguise. Just like me.¡¯ ¡®Yes, I can see that.¡¯ ¡®You can?¡¯ ¡®Yes.¡¯ ¡®Oh, isn¡¯t that funny.¡¯ He tilted his head. ¡®Not funny at all.¡¯ Then smiled winningly up at her. ¡®And what do you think I am, dear?¡¯ ¡®Some sort of sunburned toad, I believe.¡¯ ¡®Just what I want you to think. Now, invite me in, before I lose my temperature.¡¯ ¡®Temper, you mean.¡¯ ¡®No, temperature. It¡¯s getting chilly.¡¯ Her amber eyes shifted to the steps behind him. ¡®What of your offspring?¡¯ ¡®Ha ha. Offspring they are not. Never mind them. They can weep, they can whimper, they can grovel, they can-¡¯ ¡®Right now they are all waving their hands about in perfect mimicry of you, Iskaral Pust. Why would they do that?¡¯ ¡®Forget them, I said.¡¯ Shrugging, she stepped back. Iskaral Pust scrambled inside. Sordiko Qualm shut the door and locked it. ¡®Now, you claim to be a High Priest. From where?¡¯ ¡®Seven Cities, the secret monastery.¡¯ ¡®What monastery?¡¯ ¡®The one that¡¯s a secret, of course. You don¡¯t need to know and I don¡¯t need to tell you. Show me to my chambers, I¡¯m tired. And hungry. I want a seven-course supper, plenty of expensive, suitably delicate wine, and nubile female servants eager to appease my delighted whim.¡¯ ¡®I cannot, alas, think of a single servant here who would touch your whim, as you so quaintly call it. As for the rest, let it not be said I am remiss in according fellow seneschals every courtesy as befits a guest of my temple.¡¯ ¡®Your temple, is it?¡¯ Iskaral Pust sniggered. ¡®Not for long, but say nothing at the moment. Leave her such pathetic delusions. Smile, yes, and nod-and how in the Abyss did they get inside?¡¯ The bhokarala were now crowding behind the High Priestess, heads bobbing. She swung about. ¡®I don¡¯t know. There are wards¡­ should be impossible. Most disturbing indeed.¡¯ ¡®Never mind,¡¯ Iskaral Pust said. ¡®Lead on, underling.¡¯ One fine eyebrow lifted. ¡®You claim to be the Magus of High House Shadow-that is quite an assertion. Have you proof?¡¯ ¡®Proof? I am what I am and that is that. Pray, pray. Pray, I mean, do pray and perchance all manner of revelation will afflict you, humble you, reduce you to wondering adoration. Oh,¡¯ he added, ¡®wait until she does just that! Oh, the song will change then, won¡¯t it just! Never mind servants servicing my whim, it will be this glorious woman!¡¯ She stared at him a moment longer, then, in a whirl of robes, swung about and gestured that he follow. The grace she no doubt sought was fouled almost immediately as she had to kick and stumble her way through the squall of bhokaral, each of which bared teeth in rollicking but silent laughter. She shot a glance back at Iskaral Pust, but not, he was certain, in time to see his noiseless laugh. Into the sanctum they went. ¡®Not long,¡¯ Iskaral Pust whispered. ¡®Those doors need paint, yes. Not long now at all¡­¡¯ ¡®Gods below,¡¯ the guard gasped, ¡®you¡¯re bigger than a Barghast!¡¯ Mappo Runt ducked his head, embarrassed that he had so shocked this passing watchman. The guard had staggered back, clutching momentarily at his chest-yes, he was past his prime, but it seemed that the gesture had been just that, a gesture, and the Trell¡¯s sudden dread that he had inadvertently sent the first citizen he met stumbling through Hood¡¯s Gate slowly gave way to shame. ¡®I am sorry, sir,¡¯ he now said. ¡®I thought to ask you a question-nothing more.¡¯ The guard lifted his lantern higher between them. ¡®Are you a demon, then?¡¯ ¡®You regularly encounter demons on your patrols? A truly extraordinary city.¡¯ ¡®Of course not. I mean, it¡¯s rare.¡¯ ¡®Ah I am a Trell, from the plains and hills east of Nemil, which lies west of the Jhag Odhan in Sevent Cities,¡¯ ¡®What, then, was your question?¡¯ ¡®I seek the Temple of Burn, sir,¡¯ ¡®I think it best that I escort you there, Trell. You have been keeping to the alleys thin night, haven¡¯t you?¡¯ ¡®I thought it best.¡¯ ¡®Rightly so. And you and I shall do the same. In any case, you are in the Gadrobi Distirct, while the temple you want is in the Daru District. We have some way to go.¡¯ ¡®You are very generous with your time, sir.¡¯ Page 72 The guard smiled. ¡®Trell, you plunging into any crowded street is likely to cause a riot. By taking charge of you, I hope to prevent that. Thus, not generous. Simply doing my duty.¡¯ Mappo bowed again. ¡®I thank you even so.¡¯ ¡®A moment, while I douse this light, then follow me-closely, please.¡¯ The fete¡¯s celebrants in this quarter seemed to be concentrated in the main streets, bathed in the blue glow of the gas lamps. It was not difficult to avoid such places with the watchman guiding him down narrow, twisting and turning alleys and lanes. And those few figures they encountered quickly slunk away upon seeing the guard¡¯s uniform (and, perhaps, Mappo¡¯s massive bulk). Until, behind a decrepit tavern of some sort, they came upon two corpses. Swearing under his breath, the guard crouched down beside one, fumbling to relight his lantern. ¡®This is becoming a problem,¡¯ he muttered, as he cranked the wick high and a golden glow filled the area, revealing filth-smeared cobblestones and the gleam of pooled blood. Mappo watched as he rolled over the first body. ¡®This one¡¯s a plain beating. Fists and boots-I knew him, poor man. Losing a battle with spirits¡­ well, the battle¡¯s over now, Beru bless his soul.¡¯ He moved on to the next one. ¡®Ah, yes. Hood take the one that did this-four others just the same. That we know of. We still cannot fathom the weapon he uses¡­ perhaps a shove!handle. Gods, but it¡¯s brutal.¡¯ ¡®Sir,¡¯ ventured Mappo, ¡¯it seems you have more pressing tasks this night. Directions-¡¯ ¡®No, I will take you, Trell. Both have been dead for a couple of bells now-a little longer won¡¯t matter. I think it¡¯s time,¡¯ he added, straightening, ¡®for a mage or a priest to be brought into this.¡¯ ¡®I wish you success,¡¯ Mappo said. ¡®I can never figure it,¡¯ the guard said as he led the Trell onward. ¡®It¡¯s as if peace is not good enough-someone needs to crawl out of the pit with blood dripping from his hands. Delivering strife. Misery.¡¯ He shook his head. ¡®Could I but shake reason into such abominations. There¡¯s no need. No one wants them and no one wants what they do. What¡¯s needed? That¡¯s what I wish I knew. For them, I mean. What do they need, what do they want? Is it just that sweet sip of power? Domination? The sense of control over who lives and who dies? Gods, I wish I knew what fills their brains.¡¯ ¡®No, sir,¡¯ said Mappo, ¡®be glad you do not. Even the beasts succumb to such aggression. Killers among your kind, among my kind, are just that-the savagery of beasts mated with intelligence, or what passes for intelligence. They dwell in a murky world, sir, confused and fearful, stained dark with envy and malice. And in the end, they die as they lived. Frightened and alone, with every memory of power revealed as illusion, as farce.¡¯ The guard had halted, had turned to regard the Trell as he spoke. Just beyond the alley¡¯s mouth was a wall and, to the left, the unlit cave of a tunnel or a gate. After a moment the man grunted, then led Mappo on, into the reeking passageway through the wall, where the Trell warrior was forced to duck. ¡®You must be a formidable tribe back in your homeland,¡¯ the guard observed, ¡®if your kin are as big and broad as you are.¡¯ ¡®Alas, we are, generally, not killers, sir. If we had been, perhaps we would have fared better. As it is, the glory of my people has waned.¡¯ Mappo then halted and looked back at the gate they had just passed through. He could see that the wall was but a fragment, a stretch no more than fifty paces in length. At both ends leaning buildings thrust into the spaces where it should have continued on. The guard laughed. ¡®Aye, not much left of the Gadrobi Wall. Just this one gate, and it¡¯s used mostly by thieves and the like. Come, not much further.¡¯ The Temple of Burn had seen better days. Graffiti covered the plain limestone walls, some the blockish list of prayers, others elliptical sigils and obscure local symbols. A few raw curses, or so Mappo suspected from the efforts made to deface the messages. Rubbish clogged the gutter surrounding the foundations, through which rats ambled. The guard led him along the wall and to the right, where they came out on to a slightly wider thoroughfare. The temple¡¯s formal entrance was a descending set of stairs, down to a landing that looked ankle deep in rainwater. Mappo regarded it in some dismay. The guard seemed to notice. ¡®Yes, the cult is fading. She had slept too long, I suppose. I know I have no business asking, but what do you seek here?¡¯ ¡®I am not sure,¡¯ Mappo admitted. ¡®Ah. Well, Burn¡¯s blessings on you, then.¡¯ Page 73 ¡®Thank you, sir.¡¯ The guard set out to retrace his route, no doubt returning to the alley with the corpses. The memory of them remained with Mappo, leaving him with a gnawing disquiet. He had glimpsed something of the mysterious wounds on the second body. Brutal indeed. Would there could be an end to such things, yes. A true bless-, ing of peace. He made his way down the steps. Splashed through the pool to the doors. They opened before he could knock. A gaunt, sad-faced man stood before him. ¡®You had to know, Mappo Runt of the Trell, that it could not last. You stand before me like a severed limb, and all that you bleed stains the ether, a flow seeming without end.¡¯ ¡®There will be an end,¡¯ Mappo replied. ¡®When I have found him once more.¡¯ ¡®He is not here.¡¯ ¡®I know,¡¯ ¡®Would you walk the veins of the earth, Mappo Runt? to that why you have come to this temple?¡¯ ¡®Yes.¡¯ ¡®You choose a most perilous path. There is poison. There is bitter cold. Ice, stained with foreign blood. There to are that blinds those who wield it. There is wind that cries out an eternal death cry. There is darkness and it is crowded. There is grief, more than even you can withstand. There is yielding and that which will not yield. Pressures too vast even for one such as you. Will you still walk Hum¡¯s Path, Mappo Runt?¡¯ ¡®I must.¡¯ The sad face looked even sadder. ¡®I thought as much. I could have made my list of warnings even longer, you know. We could have stood in our places for the rest of the night, you in that sodden pool, me standing here uttering dire details. And still, at long last, you would say ¡°I must¡± and we would have wasted all that time. Me hoarse and you asleep on your feet.¡¯ ¡®You sound almost regretful, Priest.¡¯ ¡®Perhaps I am at that. It was a most poetic list.¡¯ ¡®Then by all means record it in full when you write your log of this fell night.¡¯ ¡®I like that notion. Thank you. Now, come inside, and wipe your feet. But hurry-we have been preparing the ritual since your ship docked.¡¯ ¡®The breadth of your knowledge is impressive,¡¯ Mappo said as, ducking, he stepped inside. ¡®Yes, it is. Now, follow me.¡¯ A short corridor, ceiling dripping, into a broader transept, across a dingy mosaic floor, down a second corridor, this one lined with niches, each home to a holy object-misshapen chunks of raw ore, crystals of white, rose and purple quartz and amethyst, starstones, amber, copper, flint and petrified wood and bones. At the end of this passage the corridor opened out into a wider colonnaded main chamber, and here, arrayed in two rows, waited acolytes, each wearing brown robes and holding aloft a torch. The acolytes chanted in some arcane tongue as the High Priest led Mappo down between the rows. Where an altar should have been, at the far end, there was instead a crevasse in the floor, as if the very earth had opened up beneath the altar, swallowing it and the dais it stood on. From the fissure rose bitter, hot smoke. The sad-faced High Priest walked up to its very, edge then turned to face Mappo. ¡®Burn¡¯s Gate awaits you, Trell.¡¯ Mappo approached and looked down. To see molten rock twenty spans below, a seething river sweeping past. ¡®Of course,¡¯ the High Priest said, ¡®what you see is not in this realm. Were it so, Darujhistan would now be a ball of fire bright as a newborn sun. The caverns of gas and all that.¡¯ if I jump down there,¡¯ Mappo said, ¡®I will be roasted to a crisp.¡¯ ¡®Yes. I know what you must be thinking.¡¯ ¡®Oh?¡¯ ¡®Some gate.¡¯ ¡®Ah, yes. Accurate enough.¡¯ ¡®You must be armoured against such forces. This is the ritual I mentioned ear?lier. Are you ready, Mappo Runt?¡¯ ¡®You wish to cast some sort of protective spell on me?¡¯ ¡®No,¡¯ he replied, with an expression near to weeping, ¡®we wish to bathe you in blood.¡¯ Barathol Mekhar could see the pain in Scillara¡¯s eyes, when they turned inward in a private moment, and he saw how Chaur held himself close to her, protective in some instinctive fashion as might be a dog with a wounded master. When she caught Barathol studying her, she was quick with a broad smile, and each time he felt as if something struck his heart, like a fist against a closed door. She was indeed a most beautiful woman, the kind of beauty that emerged after a second look, or even a third, unfolding like a dark flower in jungle shadows. The pain in those eyes only deepened his anguish. Page 74 Cutter was a damned fool. Yes, there had been another woman-his first love, most likely-but she was gone. Time had come to cut the anchor chain. No one could drown for ever. This was what came of being so young, and deftness with knives was a poor replacement for the skill of surviving everything the world could throw in the way. Longing for what could never be found was pointless, a waste of time. Barathol had left his longing behind, somewhere in the sands of Seven Cities. A sprawl of motionless bodies, mocking laughter disguised as unceasing wind, a lizard perched like a gift on a senseless black-crusted hand. Moments of madness-oh, long before the madness of the T¡¯lan Imass in Aren-when he had railed at remorseless time, at how too late was something that could not be changed-not with blood spilled at the foot of a god, not with a knife poised to carve out his own heart. Too late simply grinned at him, lifeless, too poignant for sanity. Those two words had begun a chant, then stride by stride a gleeful echo, and they had lifted to a roar in the raiders¡¯ camp, amidst screams and the clash of iron; lifted, yes, into a deafening maelstrom that crashed inside Barathol¡¯s skull, a surging tide with nowhere to go. Too late cannot be escaped. It crooned with every failed parry, every failed dodge from a scything weapon. It exploded in eyes as death hammered home, exploded along with blood and fluids. It lunged in the wake of toppling bodies. It scrawled messages (ever the same message) in the sands dying men crawled across. He could have chanted for ever, but he had left no one alive. Oh, a dozen horses that he gave away to a caravan some days later, a gift for taking in the half-dead warrior, for treating his raging fever, for cleaning his wounds and burning out infection. They would accept no payment for their efforts-they could do nothing for the bleak anguish in his soul, they explained, and so to ask for anything would be dishonourable. Now a gift, well, that was different. In the desert nothing disguised time¡¯s cruel face. Its skin was stretched to the bone, its lone eye burned the sky and its gaping mouth was cold and airless as a mountain peak. The traders understood this. They were as much a tribe of the desert as anyone, after all. They gave htm bladders of water-enough to take him to the nearest garrison outpost ¡®Ave. give the Mezla that-they know how to build waystations and equip them well. They turn no one away, friend.¡¯ They gave him the strongest of the raiders¡¯ horses, a fine saddle, jerked meat and dried fruit. They gave him feed for the mount to last four days and, finally, they showed him the track he would take, the path that cheated death and yes, it was the only one. Death stalked him, they said. Waited, for now, out beyond the glare of the dung-fires, but when Barathol finally rode out the reaper with the long legs would set out after him, singing of time, singing of the hunger that never ended, never slowed, never did anything but devour all in its path. ¡®When longing comes to you, friend, step not into its snare, for longing is the fatal bait-find yourself in its snare and you will be dragged, dragged through all the time allotted you, Barathol Mekhar, and nothing you grasp will remain, all torn from your fingers. All that you see will race past in a blur. All that you taste will be less than a droplet, quickly stripped away. Longing will drag you into the stalker¡¯s bony arms, and you will have but a single, last look back, on to your life-a moment of clarity that can only be some unknown god¡¯s most bitter gift-and you will understand, all at once, all that you have wasted, all that you let escape, all that you might have had. ¡®Now ride, friend. And ¡®ware the traps of your mind.¡¯ Too late. Those two words haunted him, would perhaps for ever haunt him. The cruel chant had filled his head when he¡¯d looked down upon Chaur¡¯s drowned face. Too late! But he¡¯d spat into that gleeful cry. That time, yes, he had. He had said no and he had won. Such victories were without measure. Enough to hold a man up for a while longer. Enough to give him the courage to meet a woman¡¯s eyes, to meet unflinching what he saw there¡­ In cavorting, clashing light, faces smeared past as they walked through the crowd. Rollicking songs in the local tongue, jars and flasks thrust at them in drunken generosity. Shouted greetings, strangers in clutches by walls, hands groping beneath disordered clothing. The smell of sex everywhere-Barathol slowed and half turned Scillara was laughing. ¡®You lead us into most unusual places, Barathol. This street called out to you, did it?¡¯ Chaur was staring at the nearest pair, mouth hanging open as his head unconsciously began bobbing in time with their rhythmic thrusts. ¡®Gods below,¡¯ Barathol muttered. ¡®I wasn¡¯t paying much attention.¡¯ Page 75 ¡®So you say. Of course, you were on that boat for a long time, pretty much alone, I¡¯d wager-unless Spite decided-¡¯ ¡®No,¡¯ he cut in firmly. ¡®Spite decided nothing of the sort.¡¯ ¡®Well then, the city beckons with all its carnal delights! This very street, in fact-¡¯ ¡®Enough of that, please.¡¯ ¡®You can¡¯t think I¡¯ll ease up on you, Barathol?¡¯ Grimacing, he squinted at Chaur. ¡®This is disturbing him-¡¯ ¡®It is not! It¡¯s exciting him, and why wouldn¡¯t it?¡¯ ¡®Scillara, he may have a man¡¯s body, but his is a child¡¯s mind.¡¯ Her smile went away and she nodded thoughtfully. ¡®I know. Awkward.¡¯ ¡®Best we leave this,¡¯ Barathol said. ¡®Right. Let us find somewhere to eat supper-we can make plans there. But the issue won¡¯t go away, I suspect-he¡¯s caught the scent, after all.¡¯ Moving to either side of Chaur, they turned him about and began guiding him away. He resisted briefly, but then fell in step, joining in a nearby chorus of singers with loud, wordless sounds not quite matching their somewhat better efforts. ¡®We really are the lost ones, aren¡¯t we?¡¯ Scillara said. ¡®We need to find ourselves a purpose¡­ in life. Aye, let¡¯s grasp our biggest, most glaring flaw, shall we? Never mind what to do tomorrow or the day after. What to do with the rest of our lives, now there¡¯s a worthy question.¡¯ He groaned. ¡®Seriously. If you could have anything, anything at all, Barathol, what would it be?¡¯ A second chance. ¡®There¡¯s no point in that question, Scillara. I¡¯ll settle for a smithy and a good day¡¯s work, each and every day. I¡¯ll settle for an honest life.¡¯ ¡®Then that¡¯s where we¡¯ll start. A list of necessary tasks. Equipment, location, Guild fees and all that.¡¯ She was trying hard, he could see. Trying hard to keep her own feelings away from this moment, and each moment to come, for as long as she could. I accept no payment, Scillara, but I will take your gift. And give you one in turn. ¡®Very well. I can certainly use your help in all that.¡¯ ¡®Good. Look, there¡¯s a crowded courtyard with tables and I see food and people eating. We can stand over a table until the poor fool sitting at it leaves. Shouldn¡¯t take long.¡¯ Blend withdrew her bared foot from Picker¡¯s crotch and slowly sat straight. ¡®Be subtle,¡¯ she murmured, ¡®but take a look at the trio that just showed up.¡¯ Picker scowled. ¡®Do you always have to make me uncomfortable in public, Blend?¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t be silly. You¡¯re positively glowing-¡¯ ¡®With embarrassment, yes! And look at Antsy-his face is like a sun-baked crabshell.¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s always like that,¡¯ Blend said. ¡®I don¡¯t mind,¡¯ Antsy said, licking his lips. ¡®I don¡¯t mind at all what you two get up to, in public or in that favourite room you use, the one with the thin walls and creaking floor and ill-fitting door-¡¯ ¡®A door you were supposed to fix,¡¯ snapped Pieker, only now half turning to take in the newcomers. She flinched, then huddled down over the table. ¡®Gods below. Now, don¡¯t that grizzed one look familiar¡¯.¡¯ ¡®I been trying to fix it, honest. I work on it all the time-¡¯ ¡®You work all right, with one eye pressed to the crack,¡¯ Blend said. ¡®You think we don¡¯t know you¡¯re there, sweating and grunting as you-¡¯ ¡®Be quiet!¡¯ Picker hissed. ¡®Didn¡¯t you two hear me? I said-¡¯ ¡®He looks just like Kalam Mekhar, aye,¡¯ Antsy said, poking with his knife at the chicken carcass on the platter in the centre of the table. ¡®But he¡¯s not Kalam, is he? Too tall, too big, too friendly-looking.¡¯ He frowned and tugged at his moustache. ¡®Who was it said we should eat here tonight?¡¯ ¡®That bard,¡¯ said Picker. ¡®Our bard?¡¯ ¡®For the rest of the week, aye.¡¯ ¡®He recommended it?¡¯ ¡®He said we should eat here tonight, is what he said. Is that a recommendation? Might be. But maybe not. He¡¯s an odd one. Anyway, he said it would be open till dawn.¡¯ ¡®The chicken was too scrawny. And I don¡¯t know who they got to pluck the damned thing, but I¡¯m still chewing on feathers.¡¯ ¡®You were supposed to avoid the feet, Antsy. They didn¡¯t even wash those.¡¯ ¡®Of course they did!¡¯ Antsy protested. ¡®That was sauce-¡¯ Page 76 ¡®The sauce was red. The stuff on the feet was dark brown. Want something to get embarrassed about, Picker, just drag Antsy along to supper.¡¯ ¡®The feet was the best part,¡¯ the Falari said. ¡®He¡¯s Seven Cities for sure,¡¯ Picker noted. ¡®All three of them, I¡¯d wager.¡¯ ¡®The fat one likes her rustleaf.¡¯ ¡®If she¡¯s fat, Antsy, then so am I.¡¯ Antsy looked away. Picker cuffed him on the side of the head. ¡¯Ow, what was that for?¡¯ ¡®I wear armour and quilted underpadding, remember?¡¯ ¡®Well, she¡¯s not, is she?¡¯ ¡®She¡¯s delicious,¡¯ Blend observed. ¡®And I bet she don¡¯t get embarrassed by anything much.¡¯ Picker offered her a sweet smile. ¡®Why not go stick your foot in and see?¡¯ ¡®Ooh, jealous.¡¯ Antsy sat up, suddenly excited. ¡®If your legs was long enough, Blend, you could do both! And I could-¡¯ Two knives slammed point first into the table in front of the ex-sergeant. His bushy brows shot upward, eyes bulging. ¡®Just an idea,¡¯ he muttered. ¡®No reason to get all uppity, you two.¡¯ ¡®Could be he¡¯s another Kalam,¡¯ Picker said. ¡®A Claw.¡¯ Antsy choked on something, coughed, hacked, then managed a breath. He leaned forward until he was very nearly lying on the table from the chest up. He chewed on his moustache for a moment, eyes darting between Picker and Blend. ¡®Listen, if he is, then we should kill him.¡¯ ¡®Why?¡¯ ¡®Could be he¡¯s hunting us, Picker. Could be he¡¯s come to finish off the Bridgeburners once and for all.¡¯ ¡®Why would any of them care?¡¯ Picker asked. ¡®Maybe the bard set us up, did you think of that?¡¯ Blend sighed and rose. ¡®How about I just go up and ask him?¡¯ ¡®You want to take a grab at a tit,¡¯ Picker said, smiling again. ¡®So, go ahead, Blend. Go on. See if she blows you a kiss.¡¯ Shrugging, Blend set out to where the three newcomers had just acquired a table. Antsy choked again, plucked at Picker¡¯s sleeve and gasped, ¡®She¡¯s heading straight over!¡¯ Picker licked her lips. ¡®I didn¡¯t really mean-¡¯ ¡®She¡¯s almost there-they seen her-don¡¯t turn round!¡¯ Barathol saw the Malazan threading her way to where they now sat. By hue of skin, by cast of features, by any obvious measure one might find, there was nothing that differentiated the woman from any local Daru or Genabarii; yet he knew, instantly. A Malazan, and a veteran. A damned marine. Scillara noted his attention and half turned in her chair. ¡®Good taste, Barathol-and it seems she likes-¡¯ ¡®Quiet,¡¯ Barathol muttered. The slim woman came up, soft brown eyes fixed on Barathol. And in Malazan, she said, ¡®I knew Kalam.¡¯ He snorted. ¡®Yes, he¡¯s a popular man.¡¯ ¡®Cousin?¡¯ He shrugged. ¡®That will do. Are you with the embassy?¡¯ ¡®No. Are you?¡¯ Barathol¡¯s eyes narrowed. Then he shook his head. ¡®We arrived today. I never directly served in your empire.¡¯ She seemed to think about that. Then she nodded. ¡®We¡¯re retired. Causing no trouble to anyone.¡¯ ¡®Sounds retired indeed.¡¯ ¡®We run a bar. K¡¯rul¡¯s, in the Estates District, near Worry Gate.¡¯ ¡®And how does it fare?¡¯ ¡®Slow to start, but we¡¯re settled in now. Getting by.¡¯ ¡®That¡¯s good.¡¯ ¡®Come by, I¡¯ll set you the first round.¡¯ ¡®We just might.¡¯ She glanced down at Scillara then, and winked. Then turned away and walked back to her table. ¡®What just happened?¡¯ Scillara asked after a moment. Barathol smiled. ¡®Do you mean the wink or all the rest?¡¯ ¡®I figured out the wink, thank you¡­ The rest.¡¯ ¡®They¡¯re deserters, I¡¯d wager. Worried that we might be imperial. That I might be a Claw, come to deliver a message from the Empress-the usual message to deserters. They knew Kalam Mekhar, a relation of mine, who was once a Claw, and then a Bridgeburner.¡¯ ¡®A Bridgeburner. I¡¯ve heard about them. The nastiest company ever. Started in Seven Cities and then left with Dujek.¡¯ ¡®The same.¡¯ ¡®So they thought you were here to kill them.¡¯ ¡®Yes.¡¯ Page 77 ¡®So one of them just decided to walk up and talk to you. That seems either incredibly brave or profoundly stupid.¡¯ ¡®The former,¡¯ said Barathol. ¡®About what you¡¯d expect from a Bridgeburner, deserter or otherwise.¡¯ Scillara twisted round, quite deliberately, to study the two women and the red-bearded man at the table on the other side of the plaza. And did not flinch from the steady regard they then fixed on her. Amused, Barathol waited until Scillara slowly swung back and reached for her jar of wine, before saying, ¡®Speaking of brave¡­¡¯ ¡® ¡®Oh, I just don¡¯t go for that kowtowing stuff.¡¯ ¡®I know.¡¯ ¡®So do they, now.¡¯ ¡®Right. Shall we join them, then?¡¯ Scillara suddenly grinned. ¡®Tell you what, let¡¯s buy them a pitcher, then watch and see if they drink from it.¡¯ ¡®Gods, woman, you play sharp games.¡¯ ¡®Nah, it¡¯s just flirting.¡¯ ¡®With what?¡¯ Her smile broadened, and she gestured over a nearby server. ¡®Now what?¡¯ Antsy demanded. ¡®Guess they¡¯re thirsty,¡¯ Picker said. ¡®It¡¯s that quiet one who worries me,¡¯ Antsy continued. ¡®He¡¯s got that blank look, like the worst kinda killer.¡¯ ¡®He¡¯s a simpleton, Antsy,¡¯ said Blend. ¡®Worst kinda killer there is.¡¯ ¡®Oh, really. He¡¯s addled, a child¡¯s brain-look how he looks round at everything. Look at that silly grin.¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s probably an act, Blend. Tell her, Pick, it¡¯s an act. That¡¯s your Claw, right there, the one that¡¯s gonna kill us starting with me, since I ain¡¯t never had no luck, except the pushin¡¯ kind. My skin¡¯s all clammy already, like I was practising being a corpse. It¡¯s no fun, being a corpse-take it from me.¡¯ ¡®That explains the fingernails,¡¯ Blend said. Antsy frowned at her. The server who had just been at the other table now arrived, delivering a large clay jar. ¡®Wine,¡¯ she said. ¡®Compliments of them three o¡¯er there.¡¯ Picker snorted. ¡®Oh, that¡¯s cute. And now they want to see if we drink from it. Get that wench back here, Blend. Buy them a bottle of white apricot nectar. Returning the favour, like.¡¯ Blend rolled her eyes. ¡®This could get expensive,¡¯ she said as she rose. ¡®I ain¡¯t drinkin¡¯ from nothing I didn¡¯t buy myself,¡¯ Antsy said. ¡®We shoulda brought Bluepearl, he could¡¯ve sniffed out whatever. Or Mallet. They got poisons so secret here there¡¯s no taste, no smell, the one drop that kills ya don¡¯t even feel wet. Why, all you need to do is look in its direction!¡¯ ¡®What in Hood¡¯s name are you going on about, Antsy?¡¯ ¡®You heard me, Pick-¡¯ ¡®Pour me some of this wine, then. Let¡¯s see if they got good taste.¡¯ ¡®I ain¡¯t touching that jar, could be powdered with something-¡¯ ¡®Only if the wench was in on it. If she wasn¡¯t and there was, she¡¯d be dead, right?¡¯ ¡®She don¡¯t look too healthy to me.¡¯ ¡®You¡¯d look pretty rough too with all the cysts she¡¯s got on her head and neck.¡¯ ¡®Some Daru poisons show up as knobby lumps-¡¯ ¡®Gods below, Antsy!¡¯ Picker reached across and collected the jar, filled her goblet. Drank down a mouthful of the amber liquid. ¡®There.¡¯Not half bad. We got better in our cellar, I¡¯m pleased to say.¡¯ Antsy was studying her with slightly bulging eyes. Blend returned, sank into a slouch in her chair. ¡®On its way,¡¯ she said. ¡®How was the wine, Pick?¡¯ ¡®Passing. Wants some?¡¯ ¡®All this trudging back and forth has worked up a fierce thirst, so fill it up, darling.¡¯ ¡®You¡¯re both suicidal,¡¯ Antsy said. ¡®We¡¯re not the ones feeling clammy, are we?¡¯ ¡®There are some poisons,¡¯ Picker said, ¡®that kill the person next to the one who took it.¡¯ The ex-sergeant lurched back in his chair. ¡®Damn you-I heard of those-you killed me!¡¯ ¡®Calm down,¡¯ Blend interjected. ¡®She was teasing you, Antsy. Honest. Right, Picker?¡¯ ¡®Well ¡®If you don¡¯t want his knife in your throat, Pick, tell him quick.¡¯ ¡®Aye, a jibe. A jest. Teasing, nothing more. Besides, if you¡¯re naturally clammy, you¡¯re immune.¡¯ Page 78 ¡®You must think me an idiot, Pick. Both of you!¡¯ When neither objected to that assertion the Falari snarled and took the jar from Blend, raised it defiantly to his mouth and downed the rest of the contents in a cascade of gulps, his oversized Adam¡¯s apple bobbing as if he was trying to swallow a cork. A fearless idiot,¡¯ Blend said, shaking her head. Antsy sucked on his moustache ends for moment, then thumped the empty jar on to the tabletop He belched, They watched as the wench delivered the bottle of white apricot nectar. A brief conversation with the woman ensued, whereupon she flounced off with a toss of her knobby head. The pleasantly plump woman and the Mekhar both poured a healthy measure of the liquor. With a bold toast in the Malazans¡¯ direction, they sipped. ¡®Look at that,¡¯ Blend said, smiling, ¡®such handsome shades of green.¡¯ And the woman was on her feet, was marching over. Antsy set a hand oh the grip of his short sword. In Malazan tainted with the accent of Seven Cities, the woman-with a hard frown-said, ¡®You trying to kill us or something? That was awful!¡¯ ¡®It gets better,¡¯ Blend said with an innocent blink. ¡®Really? And when would that be?¡¯ ¡®Well, embalmers swear by it.¡¯ The woman snorted. ¡®Damned Mezla. This is war, you know.¡¯ And she spun about and walked, a little unsteadily, back to her table. The server was simply waiting in the wings, it turned out, as she arrived at the table moments after the Seven Cities woman sank down into her chair. More conversation. Another toss of the head, and off she trundled. The bottle she showed up with was of exquisite multihued glass, shaped like some giant insect. ¡®This is for you!¡¯ the server snapped. ¡®And I ain¡¯t playing no more no matter how much you tip me. Think I can¡¯t work this out? Two women and a man here, one woman and two men o¡¯er there! You are all disgusting and when I tell the manager, well, banning the likes of you won¡¯t hurt us none, will it?¡¯ A whirl, nose in the air, and a most impressive stalk to the restaurant¡¯s nether regions or wherever it was managers squatted in the nervous gloom common to their kind. The three Malazans said nothing for a long time, each with eyes fixed upon that misshapen bottle. Then Picker, licking dry lips, asked, ¡®Male or female?¡¯ ¡®Female,¡¯ Antsy said in a thin, grating voice, as if being squeezed from below. ¡®Should smell¡­ sweet.¡¯ Clearing her throat, Blend said, ¡®They just won the war, didn¡¯t they?¡¯ Picker looked at her. ¡®A damned slaughter, too.¡¯ Antsy moaned. ¡®We got to drink it, don¡¯t we?¡¯ The two women nodded. ¡®Well,¡¯ he said, ¡®I once plunged straight into a squad of Crimson Guard-¡¯ ¡®You fell out of the tree-¡¯ ¡®-and made it out alive. And I once stood down a charging wild boar-¡¯ ¡®Wasn¡¯t wild, Antsy. It was Trotts¡¯s pet, and you made a grunt that sounded just like a sow.¡¯ ¡®-and at the last moment I jumped right over it-¡¯ ¡®It threw you into a wall.¡¯ ¡®-so if anyone here¡¯s got the guts to start, it¡¯s me.¡¯ And with that he reached for the bottle of Quorl Milk. Paused to study the sigil on the stopper, ¡®Green Moranth. The cheap brand. Figures.¡¯ The normal dosage was a thimbleful. Sold exclusively to women who wanted to get pregnant. Maybe it worked, maybe it didn¡¯t. Maybe all it did was shock the body into pregnancy-anything to avoid another taste of that stuff. Picker drew out a pale handkerchief and waved it over her head. They¡¯d have to offer them rooms now, at least a week¡¯s stay, she judged. Us Mezla just got trounced. Gods, it¡¯s about time we met folk worth meeting. Makes it almost worth drinking Quorl Milk. Antsy drank down a mouthful then set the bottle down. And promptly passed out. Crumpling like a man without bones, except for his head which crunched audibly on the cobbles. Almost worth it. Sighing, she reached for the bottle. To Blend she said, ¡®Good thing your foot¡¯s been neutered, love.¡¯ ¡®Don¡¯t you mean sterile?¡¯ ¡®I ain¡¯t that delusional,¡¯ Picker replied. ¡®Be sure they promise to hire us all a carriage, before you drink, Blend.¡¯ ¡®I will. See you tomorrow, sweetie.¡¯ ¡®Aye.¡¯ Crone circled the edge, fixing one eye then the other on the strange apparition swirling above the enchanted dais. The power of the High Alchemist¡¯s sorcery was as sweet and intoxicating as the pollen of d¡¯bayang poppies, but that which came from the demon was foul, alien-yet, the Great Raven knew, not quite as alien as it should be. Not to her and her kind, that is. Page 79 ¡®You are bold,¡¯ she said to Baruk, who stood facing the dais with hands folded. ¡®Arid the reach of your power, and will, is most impressive.¡¯ ¡®Thank you,¡¯ replied the High Alchemist, squinting at the demon he had conjured and then trapped. ¡®Our conversations have been¡­ most enlightening. Of course, what we see here is not a true physical manifestation. A soul, I believe, disconnected from its corporeal self.¡¯ ¡®With eyes of jade/ Crone noted, beak opening in silent laughter. She hesitated, then asked, ¡®What has it told you?¡¯ Baruk smiled. From the mantel above the fireplace Chillbais wheezed derisively and made insulting gestures with its stubby hands. ¡®You should spike that thing to a wall,¡¯ Crone hissed. ¡®At the very least send it back up the chimney and thus out of my sight.¡¯ Baruk spoke as if he had not heard Crone¡¯s complaining: ¡®Its flesh is very far away indeed. I was granted an image of the flesh-a human, as far as I could tell, which is in itself rather extraordinary. I was able to capture the soul due to its heightened meditative state, one in which the detachment is very nearly absolute. ¡®I doubt the original body draws breath ten times a bell. A most spiritual individual, Crone.¡¯ The Great Raven retured her attention to the apparition. Studied its jade eyes, its jagged traceries of crackling filaments, pulsing like a slowed heart. ¡®And you know, then,¡¯she said. ¡®Yes. The demon is from the realm of the Fallen One. His birthplace.¡¯ ¡®Meditating, you say. Seeking its god?¡¯ ¡®That seems likely,¡¯ Baruk murmured. ¡®Reaching, touching¡­ recoiling.¡¯ ¡®From the agony, from the ferocious fires of pain.¡¯ ¡®I will send it home, soon.¡¯ Crone half spread her wings and hopped down on to the tiles. Cocking her head, she fixed an eye upon the High Alchemist. ¡®This is not simple curiosity.¡¯ Baruk blinked, then turned away. ¡®I had a guest, not so long ago.¡¯ ¡®In truth?¡¯ The High Alchemist paused, then shook his head. ¡®Half-truth.¡¯ ¡®Did he sit in a chair?¡¯ ¡®Well now, that would hardly be appropriate, Crone.¡¯ She laughed. ¡®Shadowthrone.¡¯ ¡®Please, do not act surprised,¡¯ Baruk said. ¡®Your master is well aware of such matters. Tell me, where are the rest of them?¡¯ ¡®Them?¡¯ ¡®The gods and goddesses. The ones cringing every time the Crippled God clears his throat. So eager for this war, as long as someone else does the fighting. None of this should be set at your Lord¡¯s feet. I don¡¯t know what Shadowthrone has offered Anomander Rake, but you would do well to warn your master, Crone. With Shadow, nothing is as it seems. Nothing.¡¯ The Great Raven cackled, then said, ¡®So true, so true.¡¯ And now it was his turn, she noted, to regard her with growing suspicion. ¡®Oh, Baruk, people raise standing stones, one after another, only to topple them down one by one. Is it not always the way? They dig holes only to.fill them in again. As for us Great Ravens, why, we build nests only to tear them apart next season, all because the mad lizard in our skulls demands it. See your demon on the dais. It pays nothing to be spiritual, when it is the flesh that ever clamours for attention. So send him back, yes, that he can begin to repair all the severed tendons-whilst his comrades witness the distance of his gaze, and wonder, and yearn to find the same otherworldliness for themselves, fools that they all are. ¡®Have you exhorted him to pray all the harder, Baruk? I thought as much, but it¡¯s no use, I tell you, and who better to make such judgement? And consider¡¯this: my master is not bhnd. He has never been blind. He stands before a towering stone, yes, and would see it toppled. So, old friend, be sure to stay a safe distance.¡¯ ¡®How can I?¡¯ the High Alchemist retorted. ¡®Send the soul home,¡¯ Crone said again. ¡®Look to the threat that even now creeps closer in the night, that is but moments from plucking the strands of your highest wards-to announce her arrival, yes, to evince her¡­ desperation.¡¯ She hopped towards the nearest window sill. ¡®For myself, I must now depart, yes, winging away most quickly.¡¯ ¡®A moment. You have lingered, Crone, in search of something. And it seems you have found it.¡¯ ¡®I have,¡¯ she replied, cackling again. ¡®Well?¡¯ ¡®Only confirmation, to ease my master¡¯s mind.¡¯ ¡®Confirmation? Ah, that Shadowthrone spoke true.¡¯ Page 80 A third cackle from the sill-as threes were ever preferable to pairs, not that Crone was superstitious of course-but if but two, then a third would sound somewhere, and might that one not be at her own expense? Not to be, oh no, not to be! ¡®Farewell, Baruk!¡¯ Moments after he closed the window in the wake of that oily black-tarred hen, Chillbais lifted his head and cried out: ¡®She comes! She comes!¡¯ ¡®Yes,¡¯ Baruk sighed. ¡®Deadly woman!¡¯ ¡®Not this time, little one. Fly to Derudan, and quickly. Tell her, from me, that the one who once hunted us has returned. To discuss matters. Further, Chillbais, invite Derudan to join us as soon as she is able. She will understand, I am sure, the need.¡¯ Chillbais flapped (well, mostly fell) to the floor in front of the fireplace, then scrambled into the embers and vanished up the chimney. Baruk frowned at the conjured demon spinning above the dais; then, with a single gesture, he released the spirit, watching as the swirling energy dwindled, then winked out. Go home, lost one. With my blessing. And then he stood, facing the wall she would come through. Stood, awaiting Vorcan. No longer afraid of her. No, the terror he was feeling belonged instead to her reason for coming. As for the Mistress of Assassins herself, damn but he had harsh words awaiting her. You killed the others, woman. All but myself and Derudan. Yes, only the three of us left. Only three. To stop, if we can, the return of the Tyrant. Oh, Vorcan, you toppled far too many stones that night. Should he have asked Anomander Rake for help? Gods below, it had been as close to offered him as it could have been, if he understood Crone and he was sure that he did-at least in that matter. And if he chose to accept that offer, should he tell Derudan and Vorcan? How could he not? Neither would be pleased, he was sure. Especially Vorcan. And their fragile (and yes, it would be most fragile) alliance might die in the very moments of its birth. Oh, Baruk, be open, be honest with them both. Ask them. Simple as that. Yet, even as he saw the wall before him blurring, seeming to melt, a figure slowly, cautiously stepping through, he knew he would not. Could not. There were but three left, now. Not enough to stop the Tyrant¡¯s return. Even with Rake¡¯s help not enough. Which means one of us will choose to betray the others. Currying favour for when He returns. Favour, well. Bargaining to stay alive would be more accurate. One of us will betray the others. Maybe Derudan. Maybe this one here. Gods, maybe me. He stood thirty paces up the street. Beneath the hood his eyes held unwavering on the ill-lit entrance to the Phoenix Inn. On the old steps, on the tattered sign still hanging misaligned above the inset door. For a hundred heartbeats he had watched, as figures entered, others left-no one as yet familiar to him, as if in his absence all that he had known had vanished, melted away, and now strangers sat where he had once sat. Held tankards he had once held. Smiled at the servers and flung out over-familiar suggestions as they swayed past. Cutter imagined himself inside, imagined the resentment there on his face as he looked upon a score or more intruders, invaders into his own memories, each one crowding him, trying to push him out. And on, to whatever new life he had found, which was not in the Phoenix Inn. Not even in Darujhistan. There was no returning. He had known that all along, at least intellectually, but only now, as he stood here, did the full realization descend upon him, a burden of such emotion that he felt crushed by it. And was it not equally true that the man behind the eyes was not the same man from those years past? How could he not see it differently, with all that he had been through, with all that he had seen and felt? His heart thundered in his chest. Each drumming thud, he now understood, was, once done, never to return. Even the repetition was in truth nothing but an illusion, a sleight of similitude. It might be a comfort to pretend that the machinery never changed, that each pulse and swirl was identical, that a man could leap back and then forward in his mind and no matter where he ended up all that he saw would remain the same. Fixed like certainty. The rough stones of the dank walls. The quality of the yellow light bleeding from the pitted glass window. Even the susurration of sound, the voices, the clank of pewter and fired clay, the very laughter spilling out as the door was opened, spilling out sour as bile as far as Cutter was concerned. Who was left in there that he might recognize? The faces tugged a little older, shoulders a fraction more hunched, eyes framed in the wrinkled map of the weary. Would they light upon seeing him? Would they even know him? And even then, after the slapped backs and embraces, would he see something gauging come into their eyes, painting colourless their words, a certain, distance widening with every drawn-out moment that followed? Page 81 The faintest scrape of a boot two paces behind him. Spinning round, ducking low as he did so, daggers flashing in both hands. Left blade half raised, point downward, into a guard position. Right blade darting out in a stop-thrust- ¨C and the figure leaned back with a soft grunt of surprise, tjaluk knife snapping out from beneath a cloak to block the dagger- Cutter twisted his wrist to fold into that parry, flicking his blade¡¯s edge into a deep slice across the base of the attacker¡¯s gloved palm, even as he lunged forward-staying low-and slashed his left-hand dagger for the indent beneath his foe¡¯s right kneecap. Avoiding that attack very nearly toppled the man straight into Cutter¡¯s arms, but Cutter had already slipped past, slicing both blades for thigh, then hip, as he darted by on the man¡¯s left. Amazingly, that heavy tjaluk caught every slash-and another of the oversized, hooked knives now appeared in the man¡¯s other hand, straightening in a back-flung stop-thrust in case Cutter pivoted round to take him from behind. Cutter was forced to pitch hard to evade that damned fend, and, balanced on one leg, he threw the dagger in his left hand, side-arm, launching the weapon straight for the man¡¯s shadowed face- Sparks as-impossibly-the man batted the flying weapon aside. A new knife already in that hand, Cutter made to launch yet another attack-then he skidded on his heels and leaned back into an all-out defence as the man came forward, his heavy knives whirling a skein before him. Two of those! Two! ¡®Wait!¡¯ Cutter cried out. ¡®Wait! Rallick? Rallick!¡¯ The tjaluks withdrew. Blood spattered down from the one in the right hand-where the palm had been laid open. Dark eyes glittered from beneath the hood. ¡®Rallick-it¡¯s me. Cut-Crokus! Crokus Younghand!¡¯ ¡®As I¡¯d first thought,¡¯ came the rumbling reply, ¡®only to change my mind, in a hurry. But now, yes, it is you. Older-gods, I have indeed been away a long time.¡¯ ¡®I cut your hand-I¡¯m sorry-¡¯ ¡®Not half as sorry as me, Crokus. You are in the Guild now, aren¡¯t you? Who has trained you? Not Seba Krafar, that¡¯s for sure. I don¡¯t recognize the style at all-¡¯ ¡®What? No, no Guild. Not anything like that, Rallick. I¡¯ve been-wait, you said you¡¯ve been gone? From Darujhistan? Where? How long? Not since that night behind Coil¡¯s? But-¡¯ ¡®Aye,¡¯ Rallick cut in, ¡®it¡¯s you all right.¡¯ ¡®Gods below,¡¯ Cutter said, ¡®but it¡¯s so good to see you, Rallick Nom. I mean, if I¡¯d known it was you at first-you shouldn¡¯t come up on a man from behind like that. I could¡¯ve killed you!¡¯ The assassin stood studying him. Suddenly trembling, Cutter sheathed his knives, then began looking around for the one he¡¯d thrown. ¡¯Two of those pig-choppers-who else would use those? I should¡¯ve realized when I saw the first one. I¡¯m so sorry, Rallick. Instincts took over. They just¡­ took over.¡¯ ¡®You did not heed my warning, then.¡¯ Years ago, those dark, angry words, but Cutter did not need to ask what warning? He remembered it all too well. ¡®I would have,¡¯ he said, pausing in his search. ¡®Trully, Rallick, I went with the Malazans, you see and Apsalar, Fiddler, Kalam, the four of us, to Seven Cities. Where everything,,. changed,¡¯ ¡®When did you return, Crokus?¡¯ ¡®Today. Tonight.¡¯ He glanced ruefully at the entrance to the Phoenix Inn. ¡®I¡¯ve not even gone inside yet, It¡¯s,,. changed-aye, that word is already starting to haunt me.¡¯ He resumed his hunt. ¡®I suppose I should have expected it-where in Hood¡¯s name did that knife go, dammit?; Rallick leaned back against a wall. ¡®The one you aimed at my throat?¡¯ ¡®Yes-I¡¯m so-¡¯ ¡®Yes, you¡¯re sorry. Well, you won¡¯t find it down there. Try my left shoulder.¡¯ ¡®Oh, the thickness of blood! Darujhistan and her hundred thousand hearts and each and every one beats for none other than this hale, most generous resident of the Phoenix Inn! Seated here at this most grand of tables-although surely Meese should attend to this wobbly leg-nay, not mine, though that would be delicious indeed and well beyond common service in said establishment-with-where was Kruppe? Oh yes, with nary fell company to jiggle awake the night! Tell prescient Kruppe, yon friends, why the glowing faces belied by fretful eyes? Did Kruppe not promise boons galore? Pressures eased? Panics prevented? Purses packed with precious baubles all aglitter? Drink up-oh, humble apologies, we shall order more anon, ¡¯tis a promise most pertinent should one elect to toast this, that and, perchance, t¡¯other!¡¯ Page 82 ¡®We got news,¡¯ Scorch said, looking surprised by his own words, ¡®and if you¡¯d just shut your trap, you¡¯d hear about it too.¡¯ ¡®News! Why, Kruppe is news personified. Details, analysis, reactions from common folk in the street, all in the blink of an eye and the puff of a single breath, who needs more? This new madness we must witness now weekly and all the bolts of burlap wasted on which some purple fool blathers all manner of foul gossip, why, ¡¯tis nothing but rags for the ragman, or wipes for the arse-wipes or indeed blots for the blotters bless their feminine wiles-Kruppe rails at this elevation of circumstance and incidence! A profession, the fops now claim, as if baying hounds need certification to justify their slavering barks and snarls! Whatever happened to common decency? To decent commonry? What¡¯s decent is rarely common-that is true enough, while the obverse is perverse in all prickly irony, would you not agree? Kruppe would, being such an agreeable sort-¡¯ ¡®We found Torvald Norn!¡¯ Kruppe blinked at Leff, then at Scorch, then-seeing perhaps the disbelief mirrored in the face of the latter-back to Leff. ¡®Extraordinary! And did you horribly hand him over to hirsute Gareb the Lender?¡¯ Scorch growled under his breath. ¡®We worked out a better deal,¡¯ said Leff, licking his lips. ¡®Torvald will pay Gareb back, in full, and, you see, to do so he had to pay us for the privilege, right? So, Torvald pays us, Gareb pays us. We get paid twice!¡¯ Kruppe lifted one pudgy finger-on which, he saw with momentary dismay, there was a smear of something unrecognizable ¡®A moment, please. Torvald has both returned and bought you off? Then why is it Kruppe buying the drinks this night? Ah, allow Kruppe to answer his own question! Why, because Torvald in yet to pay off trusting Leff and Scorch, yes? He begged, yes, for one night. One night! And all would be well and such!¡¯ ¡®How¡¯d you guess?¡¯ Kruppe smiled. ¡®Dear foolish friends, should Gareb hear of this any time soon-should he, yes, learn that you had the notorious Torvald Nom in your very grasp, why, you will find your names on the very list you hold, thus forcing you to turn in yourselves to great reward, which will avail you nothing when Gareb hides and quarters poor Scorch and Leff. Ah, calamities await!¡¯ ¡®Torvald Nom was once our partner,¡¯ said Leff, though now sweating in earnest. ¡®He gave us his word, he did. And if he goes back on it, well, doing wrong to Scorch and Leff is never a good idea, for anybody. So you keep that in mind, too, Kruppe, if you go blabbing to Gareb or some such thing.¡¯ ¡®Bern forbid. Kruppe would do no such thing, dearest temperamental friends! Nay, Kruppe¡¯s fear relates back to those new rags abounding in the grubby hands of urchins at every street corner these days, such a plague upon Darujhistan! Said rags are nefariously quick and diabolical with their gossip, and who can know the multitude of dubious sources? Kruppe worries what the morrow¡¯s rag.will proclaim!¡¯ ¡®Damned well better proclaim nothing,¡¯ snarled Scorch, looking terrified and belligerent all at once. ¡®Now, blessed friends,¡¯ Kruppe said with a perfunctory but flourished wave of his hands, ¡®we must end this debacle for tonight! Dread circumstance hovers. Kruppe senses stupendous events imminently¡­ imminent. A taste upon the air, a flutter in the wind, a flicker in the lantern light, a waver in watery pools of ale, a thump upon the stairs¡­ a rattling exposure of front doors-ho! Noms and flowers! Knives and bleeders! Faces most ashen and dismayed! Begone from Kruppe¡¯s table, recent wumplings of desultory concourse! Reunion most precious awaits!¡¯ Rallick was leaning heavily against Cutter by the time they reached the entrance to the Phoenix Inn. Gods, if I¡¯ve killed him-my friend-gods, no- Pushing open the door he half dragged Rallick inside. And saw, behind the counter, Meese. Beyond her, Irilta. And there, to his left, frozen in mid-step and staring with wide eyes- ¡®Sulty! Rallick¡¯s hurt-we need a room-and help-¡¯ All at once Meese was pulling the assassin from Cutter¡¯s arms. ¡®Hood¡¯s breath, he¡¯s cut to pieces!¡¯ ¡®I¡¯m sorry-¡¯ Cutter began. But Irilta was now there, taking his face between hands that smelled of ale and chopped garlic. Lips suddenly looming large as she planted a full kiss on his mouth, tongue briefly writhing in like a worm down a hole. Cutter reeled back, then found Sulty in his arms, grasping him tight ¨C tight with arms astonishingly strong after a dozen or so years of trays and pitchers-so light all the air was pushed from his lungs, Page 83 ¡®He¡¯ll live,¡¯ pronounced Meese from where she crouched over Rallick, who was lying on the floor behind the counteri. Once we stop the bleeding. He musta been lumped by three or four, by the looks.¡¯ Straightening, she dropped the bloody dagger on the counter. A crowd was gathering, and heads now tilted in for a closer look at that foreign-made weapon. ¡®Malazan!¡¯ hissed someone. Pulling himself from Sulty¡¯s arms, Cutter pushed through. ¡®Give me room! Don¡¯t touch that knife! It¡¯s mine.¡¯ ¡®Yours?¡¯ demanded Irilta. ¡®What¡¯s that supposed t¡¯mean, Crokus?¡¯ ¡®He came up on me from behind-all quiet-like a killer. I thought I was defending myself-it was all a mistake-you sure he¡¯s going to be all right, Meese?¡¯ ¡®You was that scrawny thief years back!¡¯ said a man with a vaguely familiar face, his expression flitting between disbelief and accusation. ¡®Crokus, Irilta said,¡¯ added the man beside him.-¡®Did something the night the Moon came down, I heard. Knocked over a pillar or something. You remember, Scorch, don¡¯t you?¡¯ ¡®I make a point of remembering only what I need to, Leff. Though sometimes other stuff sticks, too. Anyway, he was a pickpocket, one of Kruppe¡¯s lads.¡¯ ¡®Well he ain¡¯t any more, is he?¡¯ Scorch said in a half-snarl. ¡®Now he¡¯s a Guild assassin!¡¯ ¡®No I¡¯m not!¡¯ shouted Cutter-all at once feeling like the ungainly youth he had been years ago. Furious at his own burning face he swung to Meese. ¡®Where¡¯s everybody else? I mean-¡¯ Meese held up a hand-on which there was some of Rallick¡¯s blood-and said, ¡®He¡¯s waiting, Crokus. At his usual table-go on. Hey,¡¯ she shouted to the crowd, ¡®give him a way through! Go back t¡¯your tables!¡¯ Just like that, Cutter reflected, he had made things a shambles. His grand return. Everything. Reaching out as he passed, he retrieved his knife-not meeting Meese¡¯s eyes as he did so. Then, as bodies pulled back, he saw- There, at his usual table, the small round man with greasy hair and beaming, cherubic smile. Filthy frilly cuffs, a faded and stained red waistcoat. A glistening pitcher on the puddled tabletop, two tankards. fust a thief. A pickpocket. A raider of girls¡¯ bedrooms. Wasn¡¯t I the breathless oriel A wide-eyed fool. Oh, Kruppe, look at you. If anybody wasn¡¯t going to change, it¡¯s you. Cutter found himself at the table, collapsing into the waiting chair, reaching for the tankard. ¡®I gave up on my old name, Kruppe. It¡¯s now Cutter. Better suited, don¡¯t you think?¡¯ Then why do I feel like weeping? ¡®Especially after what I did to I Rallick just now.¡¯ Kruppe¡¯s brows lifted. ¡®Kruppe sympathizes, oh yes he does. Life stumbles on-although the exception is none other than Kruppe himself, for whom life dances. Extraordinary, how such truth rubs so many so wrongly; why, can one¡¯s very existence prove sufficient for such inimical outrage? Seems it can, oh yes, most certainly. There are always those, clear friend, for whom a wink is an insult, a smile a taunt. For whom humour alone is cause for suspicion, as if laughter was sly contempt. Tell Kruppe, dear Cutter, do you believe that we are all equal?¡¯ ¡®Equal? Well-¡¯ ¡®A laudable notion, we can both agree, yes? Yet¡¯-and he raised one rather unclean finger-¡¯is it not true that, from one year to the next, we each ourselves are capable of changes so fundamental that our present selves can in no reasonable way be considered equal to our past selves? If the rule does not apply even within our own individual lives, how can one dare hope to believe that it pertains collectively?¡¯ ¡®Kruppe, what has all this-¡¯ ¡®Years past, Cutter who was once named Crokus, we would not have a discussion such as this, yes? Kruppe sees and sees very well. He sees sorrow and wisdom both. Pain and still open wounds. Love found and love lost. A certain desperation that still spins like a coin-which way will it fall? Question as yet unanswered, a future as yet undecided. So, old friend now returned, let us drink, thus yielding the next few moments to companionable silence.¡¯ And with that Kruppe collected his tankard and lifted it high. Sighing, Cutter did the same. ¡®The spinning coin!¡¯ And he blanched. ¡®Gods below, Kruppe!¡¯ ¡®Drink, friend! Drink deep the unknown and unknowable future!¡¯ And so he did. The wheel had stopped spinning, milky water dripping down its sides to gather in the gutter surrounding it. The bright lanterns had been turned well down, sinking the room into soft light, and she now walked towards her bed, drying her hands with a towel. Page 84 In a day or two she would fire up the kiln. It was late and this was no time to be thinking the heavy, turgid thoughts that now threatened to reach up and take hold of her weary mind. Regret has a flavour and it is stale, and all the cups of tea in the world could do nothing to wash it away. The scratching at the door brought her round-some drunk at the wrong house, no doubt. She was in no mood to answer. Now knuckles, tapping with muted urgency. Tiserra tossed the towel down, rubbed absently at her aching wrist, then collected one of the heavier stirring sticks from the glaze table and approached the door. ¡®Wrong house,¡¯ she said loudly. ¡®Go on, now!¡¯ A fist thumped. Raising the stick, Tiserra unlatched the door and swung it back. The man stepping into the threshold was wearing a stupid grin. One she knew well, had known for years, although it had been some time since she had last seen it. Lowering the stick, she sighed. ¡®Torvald Nom. You¡¯re late.¡¯ ¡®Sorry, love,¡¯ he replied. ¡®I got waylaid. Slavers. Ocean voyages, Toblakal, dhenrabi, torture and crucifixion, a sinking ship ¡® ¡®I had no idea going out for a loaf of bread could be so dangerous.¡¯ ¡®Well,¡¯ he said, ¡®the whole mess started with me hearing about a debt. One I didn¡¯t know I had. That bastard Gareb set me up, said I owed him when I didn¡¯t, but that¡¯s not something one can argue, not without an advocate-which we couldn¡¯t afford-¡¯ ¡®I know all about Gareb,¡¯ Tiserra replied. ¡®His thugs visited here often enough once you disappeared, and yes, I did need an advocate-to get Gareb to back off.¡¯ ¡®He was threatening you?¡¯ ¡®He claimed that your debt was my debt, dear husband. Of course that¡¯s nonsense. Even after I won that challenge, he had me followed around. For months. Suspected you were in hiding somewhere and I was delivering food and the like, I suppose. I can¡¯t tell you how much fun that was. Why can¡¯t I, Torvald? Because it wasn¡¯t. Fun, that is. Not fun at all.¡¯ ¡®I¡¯m home now,¡¯ Torvald said, trying the smile again. ¡®Wealthy, too. No more debt-I¡¯m clearing that in the morning, straight away. And no more low-grade temper for your clay either. And a complete replenishment of your herbs, tinctures and such-speaking of which, just to be safe we should probably put together a ritual or two-¡¯ ¡®Oh, really? You¡¯ve been stealing again, haven¡¯t you? Tripped a few wards, did you? Got a bag of coins all glowing with magic, have you?¡¯ ¡®And gems and diamonds. It was only proper, love, honest. A wrongful debt dealt with wrongfully, the two happily cancelling each other out, leaving everything rightful!¡¯ She snorted, then stepped back and let him inside. ¡®I don¡¯t believe I¡¯m buying all this.¡¯ ¡®You know I never lie to you, Tis. Never.¡¯ ¡®So who did you rob tonight?¡¯ ¡®Why, Gareb, of course. Cleaned him out, in fact.¡¯ Tiserra stared at him. ¡®Oh, husband.¡¯ ¡®I know, I¡¯m a genius. Now, about those wards-as soon as he can, he¡¯ll bring in some mages to sniff out the whereabouts of his loot.¡¯ ¡®Yes, Torvald, I grasp the situation well enough. You know where the secret hole is-drop the bag in there, if you please, while I get started on the rest.¡¯ But he had not moved. ¡®Still love me?¡¯ he asked. Tiserra turned and met his eyes. ¡®Always, y¡¯damned fool. Now hurry.¡¯ Glories unending this night in Darujhistan! And now the dawn stirs awake, a light to sweep aside the blue glow of the unsleeping city. See the revellers stumbling towards their beds or the beds of newfound friends or even a stranger¡¯s bed, what matter the provenance of love? What matter the tangled threads of friendship so stretched and knotted? What matter the burdens of life, when the sun blazes into the sky and the gulls stir from their posts in the bay, when crabs scuttle for deep and dark waters? Not every path is well trod, dearest friends, not every path is set out witli even pave-stones and unambiguous signs. Rest eyes in the manner of a thief who is a thief no longer, as he looks with deepest compassion down upon the sleeping face of an old friend, there in a small room on the upper floor of the Phoenix Inn; and sees too a noble councilman snoring slouched in yon chair. While in the very next room sits an assassin who is, perhaps, an assassin no longer, dull-eyed with pain as he ponders all manner of things, in fashions sure to be mysterious and startling, were any able to peek into his dark mind. Page 85 Elsewhere, a child long ago abandoned by his mother frets in his sleep, pursued by a nightmare face with the absurd name of Snell attached to it. And two guards run, hearts pounding, from the gate to the estate as alarms ring loud and urgent, for an evil man has lost all his ill-won wealth-a fact as sure to pluck his talons as a torturer¡¯s pliers, since evil only thrives in a well of power, and when the coin of cruelty is stolen away, why, so too vanishes the power. A fingerless man stumbles home, god-blessed and blood oozing from battered knuckles, while his wife sleeps without dreams, her expression so peaceful even the most unsentimental sculptor could do naught but weep. And, in a street unworthy of any particular notice, stands an ox, thinking about breakfast. What else is there, after all, when love and friendship and power, and regret and loss and reunion fierce enough to tear away all that might have been bittersweet, when all-all-is gone and done with, what else is there, but the needs of the stomach? Eat! Dine on pleasures and taste sweet life! Inconsequential? Bah! As Kruppe ever says, it is a wise ox that gets the yoke. Chapter Six ¡®The miracle of hindsight is how it transforms great military geniuses of the past into incompetent idiots, and incompetent idiots of the present into great military geniuses. There is the door, and be¡¯ sure to take all your pompous second-guessing delusions with you¡­¡¯ EMPEROR KELLANVED ON THE OCCASION OF THE CONQUEST OF FALARI¡¯S GRAND COUNCIL (THE TRIAL OF CRUST) There had been an earthquake. A spine of rock nearly a league long had simply dropped away, opening an inlet to the sea. There were no silts churned up by this cataclysm, for the spine was a lifeless conglomeration of obsidian and pumice, legacy of past eruptions. At its apex, the inlet was sharply angled, the sides sheer rock. That angle widened on its way out to the sea, flanked at the mouth by twin upthrusts of rock a quarter-league apart. The inlet¡¯s floor was inclined. The water at the apex was no more than fifteen spans deep, crystal clear, revealing a jumble of blockish stones and white bones cluttering the bottom-remnants of tholos tombs and the K¡¯Chain Che¡¯Malle that had been interred within them. Ruins were visible on both sides of the cut, including a mostly toppled Jaghut tower. In the sky above a tortured rack of hills, just to the north, hovered the stain of a gate, a mottled scar in the air itself. All that bled from it now was pain, a sour, unyielding stench that seemed as thirsty as the ravaged landscape stretching out on all sides. Traveller stood staring up at the gate for a long time. Two days now from the spot where he had washed up and he had yet to find fresh water. The blood of the bear that had attacked him had sustained him for a time, but that had been salty nectar, and now he suffered. There had been enough conspiracies intent on achieving his death, over the course of his life thus far, to have made a lesser man long since despair, tumbling into madness or suicide in one last surrender to the hunger of gods and mortals. It would be, perhaps, rather just if he was to fail now for lack of the most basic staples needed to keep one alive. But he would not surrender, for he could hear a god¡¯s laughter, as ironic as a loving whisper In his ear. Somewhere inland, he was sure, this blasted waste would crumble into sweeps of dusty earth, and then grasses, a wind-stirred prairie and steppes. If only he could hold on long enough to reach it. He had skinned the bear and now carried the hide in a wrapped bundle slung from one shoulder. Although not particularly attractive, it provided a scent disguising his own, and one that would send most carnivores scurrying. Conversely, he would need to stalk game-assuming he ever found any-from upwind, but that would have been true even without the skin. He was on the coast of Morn. Far from where he had intended to make landfall here on the Genabackan continent. A long walk awaited him, but there was nothing new in that prospect. Nor, he had to admit, in the threat of failure. Facing inland, Traveller set out, boots crunching on black, bubbled glass. The morning sun reflected from the mottled surface in blinding flashes, and the heat swirled up around him until he was sheathed in sweat. He could see the far end, a few thousand paces distant-or thought he could, knowing well how the eyes could be deceived-a darker stretch, like a raised beach of black sand drawn across the horizon, with nothing visible beyond. Some time later he was certain that the ridge was not an illusion. A wind-banked, undulating heap of crushed obsidian, a diamond glitter that cut into his eyes. As he drew closer, he thought he could hear faint moaning, as of some as yet unfelt wind. And now he could see beyond, another vast stretch of featureless plain, with no end visible through the shimmering heat. Page 86 Ascending the rise, boots sinking deep into the sand, Traveller heard the moaning wind once more, and he looked up to see that something had appeared on the plain directly ahead. A high-backed throne, the figure seated upon it a blurred cast of shadows. Standing perhaps ten paces to the right was a second figure, this one wrapped in a dark grey cloak, the hood pulled back to reveal a wind-burned profile and a shock of black hair cut short. From behind the throne now emerged Hounds, padding forward, their paws kicking up puffs of dust that drifted in their wake. Baran, Gear, Blind. Shan and Rood and two others Traveller had never seen before. Bone-white, both of them, with onyx eyes. Leaner than the others, longer-necked, and covered in scars that displayed a startling dark blue skin beneath the short white hair. Moving as a pair, they ranged out to the far right-inland-and lifted noses to the air. The other Hounds came straight for Traveller. He walked down to meet them. Shan was the first to arrive, pulling up along one side, then slinking like a cat around his back to come up on the other. He settled his left hand on her sleek black neck. Ancient Baran was next, and Traveller reached out to set his other hand against one muscled cheek, feeling the skein of seamed scars from centuries of savage combat, the hint of crushing molars beneath the ragged but soft skin. Looking into the beast¡¯s light brown eyes, he found he could not hold the gaze for long-too much sorrow, too much longing for peace for which he could give no benison. Baran leaned his head into that caress, and then rasped a thick tongue against Traveller¡¯s forearm. With tht huge beasts all round him now excepting the two white ones-traveller approached the throne. As he drew nearer, Cotillion finally faced him. ¡®You look terrible, old friend.¡¯ Traveller smiled, not bothering to respond in kind. Cotillion¡¯s face betrayed exhaustion, beyond anything he had ever seen when the man had been mortal, when he had been named I Dancer, when he had shared the rule of an empire. Where were the gifts of godhood? What was their value, when to grasp each one was to flinch in pain and leak blood from the hands? ¡®You two,¡¯ Traveller said, eyes settling now on Shadowthrone, ¡®banish my every regret.¡¯ ¡®That won¡¯t last, I¡¯m sure,¡¯ hissed the god on his throne. ¡®Where is your army, First Sword? I see only dust in your wake.¡¯ ¡®While you sit here, claiming dominion over a wasteland.¡¯ ¡®Enough of the mutual appreciation. You are beset, old friend-hee hee, how often do I use those words, eh? Old friends, oh, where are they now? How far fallen? Scattered to the winds, stumbling hopelessly unguided and blind-¡¯ ¡®You never had that many friends, Kellanved.¡¯ ¡®Beset, I was saying. By nightfall you will be dead of dehydration-it is four days or more to the first spring on the Lamatath Plain.¡¯ ¡®I see.¡¯ ¡®Of course, no matter where you happen to be when you finally die, your old friend is bound to come find you.¡¯ ¡®Yes, I am sure he will.¡¯ ¡®To gloat in victory.¡¯ ¡®Hood does not gloat.¡¯ ¡®Well, that¡¯s a disappointing notion. So, he will come to not gloat, then. No matter. The point is, you will have lost.¡¯ ¡®And my success or lack thereof matters to you, Kellanved?¡¯ Cotillion replied. ¡®Surprisingly, yes it does.¡¯ ¡®Why?¡¯ That blunt question seemed to take both gods aback for a moment. Then Shadowthrone snorted. ¡®Does it matter? Hardly. Not at all, in fact. We are here to help you, you damned oaf. You stubborn, obstinate, belligerent fool. Why I ever considered you an old friend entirely escapes me! You are too stupid to have been one, ever! Look, even Cotillion is exasperated by your dimwittedness.¡¯ ¡®Mostly amused, actually,¡¯ Cotillion corrected, now grinning at Traveller. ¡®I was just reminded of our, ah, discussions in the command tent when on campaign. Perhaps the most telling truth of old friendships is in how their dynamics never change.¡¯ ¡®Including your smarmy postulations,¡¯ said Shadowthrone drily. ¡®Listen, you, Traveller or however you call yourself now. My Hounds will guide you to your salvation-hah, how often has that been said? In the meantime, we will give you skins of water, dried fruit and the like-the myriad irritating needs of mortality, I seem to recall. Vaguely. Whatever.¡¯ ¡®And what do you seek in return for this gift?¡¯ A dozen heartbeats passed with no reply forthcoming, Traveller¡¯s face slowly descended into a dangerous frown. ¡®I will not be swayed from my task. Not even delayed-¡¯ Page 87 ¡®No, of course not.¡¯ Shadowthrone waved an ephemeral hand. ¡®The very opposite, in fact. We urge you. We exhort you. Make haste, set true your course, seek out your confrontation. Let nothing and no one stand in your way.¡¯ Traveller¡¯s frown deepened. A soft laugh from Cotillion. ¡®No need. He speaks true, First Sword. It is our pleasure to enable you, in this particular matter.¡¯ ¡®I will not bargain with him.¡¯ ¡®We know.¡¯ ¡®I am not sure you fully understand-¡¯ ¡®We do.¡¯ ¡®I mean to kill Hood. I mean to kill the God of Death.¡¯ ¡®Best of luck to you!¡¯ said Shadowthrone. More silence. Cotillion then came forward, carrying supplies that had not been there a moment ago. He set them down. ¡®Shan will lead the way,¡¯ he said quietly, stepping back. Traveller glanced over at the two new Hounds. ¡®And those ones?¡¯ Cotillion followed his gaze, looking momentarily troubled before he shrugged. ¡®Hard to say. They just sort¡¯ve¡­ showed up-¡¯ ¡®I summoned them, of course!¡¯ said Shadowthrone. ¡®The white one is named Pallid. The whiter one is named Lock. Seven is the desired number, the necessary number.¡¯ ¡®Shadowthrone,¡¯ Cotillion said, ¡®you did not summon them.¡¯ ¡®I must have! Why else would they be here? I¡¯m sure I did, at some point. A wish, perhaps, whilst staring upward at the stars. Or a desire, yes, of such overwhelming power that even the Abyss could not deny me!¡¯ ¡®The others seem to have accepted them,¡¯ Cotillion noted, shrugging again. ¡®Has it occurred to you,¡¯ said Traveller, softly, to the god standing before him, ¡®that they might be the fabled Hounds of Light?¡¯ ¡®Really? Why would you think that?¡¯ And in that moment, when Cotillion met his eyes and winked, all the exhaustion-the very immortality of ascendancy itself-vanished, and Traveller saw once more-after what seemed a lifetime the man he had once called his friend. Yet he could not bring himself to smile, to yield any response at all to that gesture and the invitation it offered. He could not afford such¡­ weakness. Not now, perhaps never again. Certainly, not with what these two old friends had become. They are gods, and gods are not to be trusted. Reaching down, he collected the skins and the knapsack. ¡®Which one drove the bear to the coast?¡¯ he asked. ¡®Gear. You needed food, or you would not have got even this far.¡¯ ¡®I was very nearly its supper, Cotillion.¡¯ ¡®We have always had faith in you, First Sword.¡¯ The next-and probably last-question Traveller had for the god was the most difficult one to voice.¡¯ And which of you wrecked my ship and killed my crew?¡¯ Cotillion¡¯s brows lifted, ¡®Not us. Dassem, we would not do that.¡¯ Traveller studied the god¡¯s eyes-always softer than one might have expected, but he had long since grown used to that and then he turned away. ¡®All right.¡¯ Pallid and Lock fell in as reluctant, desultory rearguard as the Hounds escorted Traveller inland. Shadowthrone had managed to turn his throne round so that he could watch the First Sword and his entourage slowly dwindle into the northeast. Standing nearby, Cotillion lifted his hands and looked down upon the palms, seeing the glistening sweat pooling there. ¡®That was close.¡¯ ¡®Eh? What was?¡¯ ¡®If he had decided we were behind the shipwreck, well, I don¡¯t like to think what would have happened here.¡¯ ¡®Simple, Cotillion. He would have killed us.¡¯ ¡®And the Hounds would not have interceded.¡¯ ¡®Except perhaps my newest pets! No old loyalties there! Hee hee!¡¯ ¡®Close,¡¯ said Cotillion again. ¡®You could have just told him the truth. That Mael wanted him and wanted him badly. That we had to reach in and drag him out-he would have been far more thankful with all that.¡¯ ¡®Gratitude is a useless luxury in this instance, Shadowthrone. No distractions, remember? Nothing and no one to turn Traveller from his fated destiny. Leave Mael for another time.¡¯ ¡®Yes, very good. A detail we can offer Traveller when our need for him is immediate and, er, pressing. We delved, following the suggestion he set us this day, in this place, and lo! Why, none other than the Elder God of the Seas was to blame! Now get over here and draw that damned sword and hack these enemies to pieces!¡¯ ¡®That is not the delving we need to do right now,¡¯ Cotillion said. Page 88 ¡®Well, of course not. We already know! What need delving?¡¯ Cotillion faced Shadowthrone. ¡®Mael could have killed him easily enough, don¡¯t you think? Instead, he set out to delay Traveller. We need to think on that. We need to figure out why.¡¯ ¡®Yes, I am beginning to see. Suspicions awakened-I was momentarily careless, unmindful. Delay, yes, why? What value?¡¯ ¡®I just realized something.¡¯ ¡®What? Quick, tell me!¡¯ ¡®It doesn¡¯t matter what Mael had in mind. It won¡¯t work.¡¯ ¡®Explain!¡¯ ¡®Mael assumes a quarry on the run, after all¡­¡¯ ¡®Yes, he must, of course, no other possibility. Mael doesn¡¯t get it! The idiot! Hee hee! Now, let¡¯s get out of this ash-heap, my throat¡¯s getting sore.¡¯ Cotillion stared after the Hounds and their charge, squinting against the bright sunlight. ¡®Timing, Shadowthrone¡­¡¯ ¡®Perfection.¡¯ ¡®So far.¡¯ ¡®We will not fail.¡¯ ¡®We¡¯d better not.¡¯ ¡®Which among our newfound allies do you imagine the weak link?¡¯ Cotillion glanced back at Shadowthrone. ¡®Well, you, of course.¡¯ ¡®Apart from me, I mean.¡¯ Cotillion stared. Shadowthrone waited. Fidgeting on his throne. Midnight at the lone tavern of Morsko provided Nimander with memories he would never lose. Slack-eyed, black-mouthed villagers staggering forward, colliding with him and the others. Stained bottles thrust into their faces. Eyes smeared with something murky and yellowed. The drink was potent enough to numb tongues, if the exhorting moans were in truth invitations to imbibe. Even without Clip¡¯s earlier warning, Nimander was not inclined to accept such hospitality; nor, he saw with some relief, were any of his kin. They stood, still crowded at the entrance, bemused and uneasy. The pungent air of the low-ceilinged chamber was sweet, overlaying strains of acrid sweat and something like living decay. Skintick moved up alongside Nimander and they both watched as Clip-Desra at his side-made his way to the counter. ¡®A simple jug of wine? Anywhere in this place? Not likely.¡¯ Nimander suspected Skintick was right. All he could see, at every table, in every hand, was the same long-necked flask with its blackened mouth. The moans were louder now, cacophonous like the lowing of beasts in an abattoir. Nimander saw one man-an ancient, bent, emaciated creature-topple face first on to the wood-slatted floor, audibly smashing his nose. Someone close by stepped back, crushing the hapless man¡¯s fingers under a heel. ¡®So, where is the priest?¡¯ Nenanda asked from behind Nimander and Skintick. ¡®It was his invitation, after all.¡¯ ¡®For once, Nenanda,¡¯ Skintick said without turning, ¡®I am pleased to have you standing here, hand on sword. I don¡¯t like this.¡¯ ¡®None here can hurt us,¡¯ Nenanda pronounced, yet his tone made it plain he was pleased by Skintick¡¯s words. ¡®Listen to me,¡¯ he said, ¡®while Clip is not close by-he holds us all in contempt.¡¯ Nimander slowly turned round, as Skintick said, ¡®We¡¯d noticed. What do you make of that, brother?¡¯ ¡®He sees what he chooses to see.¡¯ Nimander saw that Kedeviss and Aranatha were listening, and the faint doe like expression on the latter¡¯s face was suddenly gone, replaced by a chilling emptiness that Nimander knew well. ¡®It is no matter,¡¯ Nimander said, sudden sweat prickling awake beneath his clothes. ¡®Leave it, Nenanda. It is no matter.¡¯ ¡®But it is,¡¯ Nenanda retorted. ¡®He needs to know. Why we survived our battles, when all the others fell. He needs to understand.¡¯ ¡®That¡¯s over with, now,¡¯ Nimander insisted, ¡®No,¡¯ said Skintick, ¡®Nenanda is right this time, Nimander, He in right. Clip wants to take us to this dying god, after all, Whatever he plans disregards us, as if we did not exist. Voiceless ¡® ¡®Useless,¡¯cut in Nenandn, Nimander looked away, More villagers were collapsing, and those on the floor-hoards had begun twitching, writhing in pools of their own waste. Sightless eyes rolled ecstatically in sunken sockets. ¡®If I have made us¡­ voiceless, I am sorry.¡¯ ¡®Enough of that rubbish,¡¯ Skintick said conversationally. ¡®I agree,¡¯ said Nenanda said. ¡®I didn¡¯t before ¨C I was angry with you, Nimander, for not telling this so-called Mortal Sword of Darkness. Telling him about us, who we were. What we¡¯ve been through. So I tried to do it myself, but it¡¯s no use. Clip doesn¡¯t listen. Not to anyone but himself.¡¯ Page 89 ¡®What of Desra?¡¯ Nimander asked. Nenanda snorted. ¡®She covets her own mystery.¡¯ That was a sharp observation from Nenanda, surprising Nimander. But it was not an answer to what he had meant with his question. Skintick, however, understood. ¡®She remains one of us, Nimander. When the need arrives, you need not doubt her loyalty.¡¯ Kedeviss spoke then, with dry contempt. ¡®Loyalty is not one of Desra¡¯s virtues, brothers. Set no weight upon it.¡¯ Skintick sounded amused when he asked, ¡®Which of Desra¡¯s virtues should we set weight upon, then, Kedeviss?¡¯ ¡®When it comes to self-preservation,¡¯ she replied, ¡®Desra¡¯s judgement is precise. Never wrong, in fact. She makes surviving the result of profound clarity-Desra sees better and sharper than any of us. That is her virtue.¡¯ Clip was on his way back, Desra now clinging to his left arm as might a woman struggling against terror. ¡®The Dying God is about to arrive,¡¯ Clip said. He had put away his chain and rings, and from his palpable unease there now rose, like a dark cloud, the promise of violence. ¡®You should all leave. I don¡¯t want to have to cover you, if this turns bad. I won¡¯t have the time, nor will I accept blame if you start dying. So, for all our sakes, get out of here.¡¯ It was, Nimander would recall later, the moment when he could have stepped forward, could have looked into Clip¡¯s eyes, unwavering, revealing his own defiance and the promise behind it. Instead, he turned to the others. ¡®Let¡¯s go,¡¯ he said. Nenanda¡¯s eyes widened, a muscle twitching one cheek. Then he spun about and marched out of the tavern. With an expression that might have been shame, Skintick reached out to prise Desra away from Clip, then guided her out. Aranatha met Nimander¡¯s eyes and nodded-but the meaning of the gesture eluded him, given the vast emptiness in her eyes-then she and Kedeviss exited the taproom. Leaving Nimander and Clip. ¡®It pleases me,¡¯ said Clip, ¡®that you take orders as well as you do, Nimander. And that the others still choose to listen to you. Not,¡¯ he added, ¡®that I think that will last much longer.¡¯ ¡®Do not confront this dying god,¡¯ Nimander said. ¡®Not here, not now.¡¯ ¡®Excellent advice-I have no intention of doing so. I simply would see it.¡¯ ¡®And if it is not pleased by being seen by one such as you, Clip?¡¯ He grinned. ¡®Why do you think I sent you to safety? Now, go, Nimander. Back to our rooms. Comfort your frightened rabbits.¡¯ Outside, beneath a glorious sweep of bright stars, Nimander found his kin in a tight huddle in the centre of the main street. Rabbits! Yes, it might look that way. From the tavern they could hear the frenzied moaning reach a fierce pitch, and the sound was now echoing, seeming to roll back in from the hills and fields surrounding the village. ¡®Do you hear that?¡¯ Skintick asked. ¡®Nimander? Do you hear it? The scarecrows-they are singing.¡¯ ¡®Mother Dark,¡¯ breathed Kedeviss in horror. ¡®I want to see one of those fields,¡¯ Skintick suddenly said. ¡®Now. Who is with me?¡¯ When no one spoke, Nimander said, ¡®You and me, Skintick. The rest to our rooms-Nenanda, stand vigil until we return.¡¯ Nimander and Skintick watched as Nenanda purposefully led the others away. Then they set out into a side alley, feet thumping on the dusty, hard-packed ground. Another voice had joined all the others, emerging from the temple, a cry of escalating pain, a cry of such suffering that Nimander staggered, his legs like water beneath him. He saw Skintick stumble, fall on to his knees, then push himself upright once more. Tears squeezed from his eyes, Nimander forced himself to follow. Old house gardens to either side, filled with abandoned yokes, ploughs and other tools, the furrows overgrown with weeds like bleached hair in the starlight. Gods, they¡¯ve stopped eating. All is in the drink. It feeds them even as it kills them. That sepulchral wail was dwindling now, but it would rise again, he knew, with the next breath. Midnight in the tavern, the foul nectar was drunk down, and the god in terrible pain was summoned-the gate to his tormented soul forced open. Fed by immortal pain, the prostrate worshippers spasmed in ecstasy-he could see their blackened mouths, the writhing black tongues, the eyes in their smudge-pits,-he could see that old man with the smashed nose and the broken fingers- And Clip remained inside. Witness to the madness, to its twisted face, and when the eyes opened and fixed on his own- ¡®Hurry,¡¯ groaned Nimander as he came up against Skintick, but as he moved past his cousin reached out and grasped hold of his tunic, drawing Nimander to a halt. Page 90 They were at the edge of a field. Before them, in the cold silver light, the rows of scarecrows were all in motion, limbs writhing like gauze-wrapped serpents or blind worms. Black blood was streaming down the flowers of the horrid plants had opened, exuding clouds of pollen that flashed like phosphorescence, riding the currents of night air. And Nimander wanted to rush into that field, into the midst of the crucified victims. He wanted to taste that pollen on his tongue, on the back of his throat. He wanted to dance in the god¡¯s pain. Skint iek, weeping, was dragging him back-though it seemed he was fighting his own battle, so taut were his muscles, so contradictory their efforts that they fell against one another. On to the ground. Clawing on their bellies now, back down the dirt track. The pollen-the pollen is in the air. We have breathed it, and now-gods below-now we hunger for more. Another terrible shriek, the voice a physical thing, trying to climb into the sky-but there was nothing to grasp, no handholds, no footholds, and so it shot out to the sides, closing icy cold grips upon throats. And a voice, screaming into their faces. You dance! You drink deep my agony! What manner of vermin are you? Cease! Leave me! Release me! A thousand footsteps charging through Nimander¡¯s brain, dancers unending, unable to stop even had they wanted to, which they did not, no, let it go on, and on-gods, for ever! There, in the trap of his mind, he saw the old man and his blood-and nectar-smeared face, saw the joy in the eyes, saw the suppleness of his limbs, his straightened back-every crippling knob and protuberance gone. Tumours vanished. He danced in the crowd, one with all the others, exalted and lost in that exaltation. Nimander realized that he and Skintick had reached the main street. As the god¡¯s second cry died away, some sanity crept back into his mind. He pushed himself on to his feet, dragging Skintick up with him. Together, they ran, staggering, headlong for the inn-did salvation beckon? Or had Nenanda and the others fallen as well? Were they now dancing in the fields, selves torn away, flung into that black, turgid river? A third cry, yet more powerful, more demanding. Nimander fell, pulled down by Skintick¡¯s weight. Too late-they would turn about, rise, set out for the field-the pain held him in its deadly, delicious embrace-too late, now- He heard the inn¡¯s door slam open behind them. Then Aranatha was there, blank-eyed, dark skin almost blue, reaching down to grasp them both by their cloaks. The strength she kept hidden was unveiled suddenly, and they were being dragged towards the door-where more hands took them, tugged them inside- And all at once the compulsion vanished. Gasping, Nimander found himself lying on his back, staring up at Kedeviss¡¯s face, wondering at her calculating, thoughtful expression. A cough from Skintick at his side. ¡®Mother Dark save us!¡¯ ¡®Not her,¡¯ said Kedeviss. ¡®Just Aranatha.¡¯ Aranatha, who flinches at shadows, ducks beneath the cry of a hunting hawk. She hides her other self behind a wall no power can surmount. Hides it. Until it¡¯s needed. Yes, he could feel her now, an emanation of will filling the entire chamber. Assailed, but holding. As it would. As it must. Another cough from Skintick. ¡®Oh, dear¡­¡¯ And Nimander understood. Clip was out there. Clip, face to face with the Dying God. Unprotected. Mortal Sword of Darkness. Is that protection enough? But he feared it was not. Feared it, because he did not believe Clip was the Mortal Sword of anything. He faced Skintick. ¡®What do we do?¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t know. He may already be¡­ lost.¡¯ Nimander glanced over at Aranatha. ¡®Can we make it to the tavern?¡¯ She shook her head. ¡®We should never have left him,¡¯ announced Nenanda. ¡®Don¡¯t be an idiot,¡¯ Kedeviss snapped. Skintick still sat on the floor, clawing periodically at his face, wracked with shivers. ¡®What manner of sorcery afflicts this place? How can a god¡¯s blood do this?¡¯ Nimander shook his head. ¡®I have never heard of anything like what is happening here, Skintick. The Dying God. It bleeds poison.¡¯ He struggled to keep from weeping. Everything seemed stretched thin, moments from tearing to pieces, a reality all at once in tatters, whipped away on mad winds. Skintick¡¯s sigh was ragged. ¡®Poison. Then why do I thirst for more?¡¯ There was no answer for that. Is this a truth made manifest? Do we all feed on the pain of others? Do we laugh and dance upon suffering, simply because it is not our own? Can such a thing become addictive? An insatiable need? Page 91 All at once the distant moaning changed pitch, became screams. Terrible, raw-the sounds of slaughter. Nenanda was suddenly at the door, his sword out. ¡®Wait!¡¯ cried Kedeviss. ¡®Listen! That¡¯s not him. That¡¯s them! He¡¯s murdering them all-do you want to help, Nenanda? Do you?¡¯ Nenanda seemed to slump. He stepped back, shaken, lost. The shrieks did not last long. And when the last one wavered, sank into silence, even the Dying God¡¯s cries had stilled. Beyond the door of the inn, there was nothing, as if the village-the entire outside world-had been torn away. Inside, none slept. Each had pulled away from the others, coveting naught but their own thoughts, listening only to the all too familiar voice that was a soul¡¯s conversation with itself. On the faces of his kin, Nimander saw, there was dull shock, a bleakness to the staring, unseeing eyes. He felt the surrender of Aranatha¡¯s will, her power, as the threat passed, as she withdrew once more so far inward that her expression grew slack, almost lifeless, the shy, skittering look not ready to awaken once more. Desra stood at the window, the inside shutters pulled to either side, staring out upon an empty main street as the night crawled on, leaving Nimander to wonder at the nature of her internal dialogue. if such a thing existed, If she wus not just a creature of of sensation, riding currents of Instinct, every choice reframed into simple demands of neccessity. ¡®Their is cruelty in your thoughts¡¯ Phaed. leave me alone, ghost. ¡®Don¡¯t get me wrong. I approve. Desra is a slut. She has a slut¡¯s brain, the kind that confuses giving with taking, gift with loss, invitation with surrender. She is power¡¯s whore, Nimander, and so she stands there, waiting to see him, waiting to see this strutting murderer that she would take to her bed. Confusions, yes. Death with life. Desperation with celebration. Fear with need and lust with love.¡¯ Go away. ¡®But you don¡¯t really want that, because then it would leave you vulnerable to that other voice in your head. The sweet woman murmuring all those endearing words-do I recall ever hearing such when she was alive?¡¯ Stop. ¡®In the cage of your imagination, blissfully immune to all that was real-the cruel indifferences, yes-you make so much of so little, Nimander. A chance smile. A look. In your cage she lies in your arms, and this is the purest love, isn¡¯t it? Unsullied, eternal-¡¯ Stop, Phaed. You know nothing. You were too young, too self-obsessed, to see anything of anyone else, unless it threatened you. And she was not a threat!¡¯ You never wanted me that way-don¡¯t be absurd, ghost. Don¡¯t invent- ¡®I invent nothing! You were just too blinded to see what was right in front of you! And did she die at the spear of a Tiste Edur? Did she truly? Where was I at that moment, Nimander? Do you recall seeing me at all?¡¯ No, this was too much. But she would not relent. ¡®Why do you think the idea of killing Sandalath was so easy for me? My hands were already stained- Stop! Laughter, ringing through his head. He willed himself to say nothing, waited for those chilling peals of mirth to dwindle, grow ever fainter. When she spoke again in his mind there was no humour at all in her tone. ¡®Nenanda wants to replace you. He wants the command you possess, the respect-the others hold for you. He will take it, when he sees his chance. Do not trust him, Nimander. Strike first. A knife in the back-just as you acted to stop me, so you must do again, and this time you cannot fail. There will be no Withal there to finish the task. You will have to do it yourself.¡¯ Nimander lifted his gaze, looked upon Nenanda, the straight back, the hand resting on pommel. No, you are lying. ¡®Delude yourself if you must-but not for much longer. The luxury must be short-lived. You will need to show your¡­ decisiveness, and soon.¡¯ And how many more kin do you want lo sec dead. Phaed? ¡®My games are done with. You ended them once and for all. You and the swordsmith. Hate me if you will, but I have talents, and I gift them to yon. Nimander-you were the only one to ever listen to me, the only one to whom I opened my heart-¡¯ Heart! That vile pool of spite you so loved to swim in-that was your heart I ¡®You need me. I give strength where you are weakest. Oh, make the bitch murmur of love, fill her mouth with all the right words. If it helps. But she cannot help you with the hard choices a leader must make. Nenanda believes he can do better-see it in his eyes, so quick to challenge.¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s growing light,¡¯ Desra said from the window. She turned. ¡®I think we should go out. To the tavern. It may be he is wounded. It may be he needs our help.¡¯ Page 92 ¡®I recall him not asking for it,¡¯ growled Nenanda. ¡®He is not all powerful,¡¯ said Desra, ¡®though he might affect such-it comes with being so young.¡¯ Nimander stared across at her. Where did that insight come from? ¡®Clip is vulnerable?¡¯ Kedeviss asked in mock surprise. ¡®Be quick to take advantage of that, Desra.¡¯ ¡®The endless siege that is your envy grows wearisome, Kedeviss.¡¯ Kedeviss paled at that and said nothing. Oh, we are a vicious bunch, are we not? Nimander rubbed at his face, then said, ¡®Let¡¯s go, then, and see for ourselves what has become of him.¡¯ Desra was first through the door. Out into pale silvery light, a cerulean sky devoid of clouds, looking somehow speckled with grit. The harvested plants drooped in their racks, sodden with dew, the bulbs like swollen heads lined up in rows above the latticework. Nimander saw, as he paused out on the street, that the temple¡¯s doors were ajar. Clip was lying on the wooden sidewalk in front of the tavern, curled up, so covered in dried blood that he might have been a figure moulded in black mud. They set out towards him. Clip¡¯s eyes were open, staring-Nimander wondered, if he was dead, until he saw the slow rise and fall of his chest-but showing no awareness of anything, even as they closed round him, even as Nimander knelt in front of him. Skintick moved up to the tavern doors, pushed them open and stepped inside. He staggered out a moment later, both hands covering his face as he stumbled out into the middle of the street and stood there, back to the others. Slaughter. He slaughtered them all. Clip¡¯s sword was lying nearby, thick with gore, as if the entire weapon had been dragged through some enormous beast. ¡®They took something from him,¡¯ Aranatha said. ¡®Gone. Gone away.¡¯ Nenanda broke into a jog, straight for the temple opposite. ¡®Gone for good?¡¯ Nimander asked Aranatha. ¡®I don¡¯t know.¡¯ ¡®How long can he live this way?¡¯ Shi shank her head, Force food and water into him, keep his wounds clean¡­¡¯ Long moments when no one spoke, when it seemed not a single question could be found, could be cleaned off and uttered in the name of normality. Nenanda returned, ¡®They¡¯ve fled, the priests, all fled. Where was the Dying Cod supposed to be?¡¯ ¡®A place named Bastion,¡¯ said Kedeviss. ¡®West of here, I think.¡¯ ¡®We need to go there,¡¯ Nimander said, straightening to face the others. Nenanda bared his teeth. ¡®To avenge him.¡¯ ¡®To get him back,¡¯ Nimander retorted. ¡®To get back to him whatever they took.¡¯ Aranatha sighed. ¡®Nimander¡­¡¯ ¡®No, we go to Bastion. Nenanda, see if there¡¯re any horses, or better yet, an ox and wagon-there was a large stable behind the inn.¡¯ He looked down at Clip. ¡®I don¡¯t think we have the time to walk.¡¯ As the three women set out to collect the party¡¯s gear, followed for the moment by Nenanda, Nimander turned to study the tavern¡¯s entrance. He hesitated-even from here he could see something: dark sprawled shapes, toppled chairs; and now the buzz of flies spun out from the gloom within. ¡®Don¡¯t,¡¯ said Skintick behind him. ¡®Nimander. Don¡¯t.¡¯ ¡®I have seen dead people before.¡¯ ¡®Not like these.¡¯ ¡®Why?¡¯ ¡®They are all smiling.¡¯ Nimander faced his closest friend, studied his ravaged face, and then nodded. After a moment he asked, ¡®What made the priests flee?¡¯ ¡®Aranatha, I think,¡¯ answered Skintick. Nimander nodded, believing the same. They had taken Clip-even with all the dead villagers, the priests had taken Clip, perhaps his very soul, as a gift to the Dying God. But they could do nothing against the rest of them-not while Aranatha resisted. Fearing retribution, they fled in the night-away, probably to Bastion, to the protection of their god. ¡®Nimander,¡¯ said Skintick in a low, hollow voice, ¡®we are forced.¡¯ ¡®Yes.¡¯ ¡®Awakened once more.¡¯ ¡®Yes.¡¯ ¡®I had hoped¡­ never again.¡¯ I know, Skintick. You would lather smile and jest, as befits your blessed nature. Instead, the face you will turn towards what is to come¡­ it will be no different from ours, and have we not all looked upon one another in those times? Have we not seen the mirrors we became to each other? Have we not recoiled? Awakened. Page 93 What lay in the tavern was only the beginning. Merely Clip and his momentary, failing frenzy. From this point on, what comes belongs to us. To that, even Phaed was silent. While somewhere in the mists of his mind, so faint as to be almost lost, a woman wept. It was a quirk of blind optimism that held that someone broken could, in lime, heal, could reassemble all the pieces and emerge whole, perhaps even stronger for the ordeal. Certainly wiser, for what else could be the reward for suffering? Tht notion that did not sit well, with anyone, was that one so broken might remain that way-neither dying (and so removing the egregious example of failure from all mortal eyes) nor improving. A ruined soul should not be stubborn, should not cling to what was clearly a miserable existence. Friends recoil. Acquaintances drift away. And the one who fell finds a solitary world, a place where no refuge could be found from loneliness when loneliness was the true reward of surviving for ever maimed, for ever weakened. Yet who would not choose that fate, when the alternative was pity? Of course, pity was a virtually extinct sentiment among the Tiste Andii, and this Endest Silann saw as a rare blessing among his kind. He could not have suffered such regard for very long. As for the torment of his memories, well, it was truly extraordinary how long one could weather that assault. Yet he knew he was not unique in this matter-it was the burden of his entire people, after all. Sufficient to mitigate his loneliness? Perhaps. Darkness had been silent for so long now, his dreams of hearing the whisper of his realm-of his birthplace-were less than ashes. It was no wonder, then, was it, that he now sat in the gloom of his chamber, sheathed in sweat, each trickle seeming to drink all warmth from his flesh. Yes, they had manifested Kurald Galain here in this city, an act of collective will. Yet it was a faceless power-Mother Dark had left them, and no amount of desire on their part could change that. So, then, what is this? Who speaks with such power? Not a whisper but a shout, a cry that bristled with¡­ what? With affront. Indignation. Outrage. Who is this? He knew that he was not alone in sensing this assault-others must be feeling it, throughout Black Coral. Every Tiste Andii probably sat or stood motionless at this moment, heart pounding, eyes wide with fear and wonder. And, perhaps,hope. Could it be? He thought to visit the temple, to hear from the High Priestess herself¡­ something, a pronouncement, a recognition proclaimed. Instead, he found himself staggering out of his room, hurrying up the corridor, and then ascending the stairs, round and round as if caught in a swirling fever. Out into his Lord¡¯s south-facing demesne-stumbling in to find Anomander Rake seated in his high-backed chair, facing the elongated window and, far below, crashing seas painted black and silver as deep, unknown currents thrashed. ¡®My Lord,¡¯ Endest gasped. ¡®Did I have a choice?¡¯ Anomander Rake asked, gaze still on the distant tumult. ¡®My lord?¡¯ Kharkanas. Did you agree with her., assessment? Endest Silann? Did I not see true what was to come? Before Light¡¯s arrival,, we were in a civil war. Vulnerable to the forces soon to be born. Without the blood of Tiamatha, I could never have enforced¡­ peace, unification.¡¯ ¡®Sire,¡¯ said Endest Silann, then found he could not go on. Rake seemed to understand, for he sighed and said, ¡®Yes, a most dubious peace. For so many, the peace of death. As for unification, well, that proved woefully short-lived, did it not? Still, I wonder, if I had succeeded-truly succeeded-would that have changed her mind?¡¯ ¡®My Lord-something is happening.¡¯ ¡®Yes.¡¯ ¡®What must we do?¡¯ ¡®Ah, my friend, you are right to ask that. Never mind the High Priestess and her answer-always the same one with her, yes? Who cries the war cry of Kurald Galain? Let us seek the answer between her legs. Even that can grow tiresome, eventually. Although do not repeat my words to Spinnock Durav-I would not disaffect his occasional pleasure.¡¯ Endest Silann wanted to shriek, wanted to lunge against his Lord, grasp him by the neck, and force out-force out what? He did not know. The Son of Darkness was, to his mind, the smartest creature-mortal, immortal, it mattered not-that he had ever met. His thoughts travelled a thousand tracks simultaneously, and no conversation with him could be predicted, no path deemed certain. ¡®I cannot give answer this time,¡¯ Anomander Rake then said. ¡®Nor, I am afraid, can Spinnock. He will be needed¡­ elsewhere.¡¯ And now his head turned, and his eyes fixed upon Endest Silann. ¡®It must fall to you, again. Once more.¡¯ Page 94 Endest felt his soul recoil in horror, shrink back into whatever cave it had clawed out for itself somewhere down in the mined-out pit of his heart. ¡®Sire, I cannot.¡¯ Anomander seemed to consider that for a time, ten thousand tracks danced across, on to something new that triggered faint surprise on his features. And he smiled. ¡®I understand. I will not ask again, then.¡¯ ¡®Then¡­ then what-who? Sire-I do not-¡¯ The wryness of Anomander Rake¡¯s tone jarred terribly with his words, ¡®Reborn into fury, oh, would that I could see that.¡¯ Then his voice grew sober. ¡®You were right-you cannot stand in my stead. Do not intercede in any way, Endest Silann. Do not set yourself between two forces, neither of which you can withstand. You may well feel the need, but defy it with all your will. You must not be lost.¡¯ ¡®Sire, I do not understand.¡¯ But Anomander Rake raised one hand. And yes, the emanation was gone. Darkness was silent once more. Whatever had come into their world had vanished. Endest found he was trembling. ¡®Will-will it return, my Lord?¡¯ The Son of Darkness studied him with strangely veiled eyes, then rose and walked over to the window. ¡®Look, the seas grow calm once more. A most worthy lesson, I think. Nothing lasts for ever. Not violence, not peace, Not sorrow, old friend, nor rage. Look well upon this black sea, Endest Silann, in the nights ahead, To calm your fears. To offer you guidance.¡¯ And, just like that, he knew he was dismissed. Bemused, frightened of a future he knew he was not intelligent enough to yet comprehend, he bowed, then departed. Corridors and stairs, and not so much at an echo remained. He recalled an old prayer, the one whispered before battle. Let Darkness receive my every breath With her own. Let our lives speak in answer unto death Never alone. But now, at this moment, he had never felt more alone. The warriors no longer voiced that prayer, he well knew. Darkness did not wait to receive a breath, nor the last breath that bridged life and death. A Tiste Andii warrior fought in silence, and when he or she fell, they fell alone. More profoundly alone than anyone who was not Tiste Andii could comprehend. A new vision entered his head then, jarring him, halting him halfway down the stairs. The High Priestess, back arching, crying out in ecstasy-or despera?tion, was there truly a difference? Her search. Her answer that was no answer at all. Yes, she speaks for us, does she not? ¡®He is troubled,¡¯ Salind murmured, only now shaking off the violent cold that had gripped her. ¡®The Redeemer stirred awake then, for some reason unknown and, to ¡® us, unknowable. But I felt him. He is most troubled¡­¡¯ The half-dozen pilgrims gathered round the fire all nodded, although none possessed her percipience in these matters, too bound up still in the confused obstinacy of mortality¡¯s incessant demands, and, of course, there was the dread, now, the one that had stalked them every moment since the Benighted¡¯s abandonment, an abandonment they saw as a turning away, which was deemed just, because none there had proved worthy of Seerdomin and the protection he offered. Yes, he was right in denying them. They had all failed him. In some way as yet undetermined. Salind understood all these notions, and even, to some extent-this alone surprising given her few years-comprehended the nature of self-abnegation that could give rise to them. People in great need were quick to find blame in themselves, quick to assume the burden of guilt for things they in truth had no control over and could not hope to change. It was, she had begun to understand, integral to the very nature of belief, of faith. A need that could not be answered by the self¡¯ was then given over to someone or something greater than oneself, and this form of surrender was a lifting of a vast, terrible weight. In faith could be found release. Relief. And to this enormous contradiction is laid bare. The believers yield all, into the arms of the Redeemer-who by his very nature can release nothing, can find nothing In tlw way of relief,,and so can never surrender. Where then the Redeemer¡¯s reward? Such questions were not for her, Perhaps indeed they were beyond answering. For now, there was before her a mundane concern, of the most sordid kind. A dozen ex-soldiers, probably from the Pannion Tenebrii, now terrorized the pil?grim encampment. Robbing the new arrivals before they could set their treasures upon the barrow. There had been beatings, and now a rape. This informal gathering, presumably the camp¡¯s representatives, had sought her out, pleading for help, but what could she say to them? We were wrong to believe in the Benighted. I am soiry. He was not what we thought he was. He looked into my eyes and he refused. I am sorry. I cannot help you. Page 95 ¡®You say the Redeemer is troubled, Priestess,¡¯ said the spokesman, a wiry-middle-aged man who had once been a merchant in Capustan-fleeing west before the siege, a refugee in Saltoan who had seen with his own eyes the Expulsion, the night when the advance agents of the Pannion Domin were driven out of that city. He had been among the first of the pilgrims to arrive at the Great Barrow and now it seemed he would stay, perhaps for the rest of his life. Whatever wealth he had once possessed was now part of the barrow, now a gift to a god who had been a man, a man he had once seen with his own eyes. ¡®Surely this is because of Gra-dithan and his thugs. The Redeemer was a soldier in his life. Will he not reach out and smite those who prey upon his followers?¡¯ Salind held out her hands, palms up. ¡®Friend, we do not converse. My only gift is this¡­ sensitivity. But I do not believe that the source of the Redeemer¡¯s disquiet lies in the deeds of Gradithan and his cohorts. There was a burgeoning of¡­ something. Not close at hand, yet of such power to make the ether tremble.¡¯ She hesitated, then said, ¡®It had the flavour of Kurald Galain-the warren of the Tiste Andii. And,¡¯ she frowned, ¡®something else that I have felt before. Many times, in fact. As if a storm raged far to the south, one that returns again and again.¡¯ Blank faces stared at her. Salind sighed. ¡®See the clouds roll in from the sea-can we halt their progress? Can we-any of us-drive back the winds and rain, the hail? No. Such forces are far above us, far beyond our reach, and they rage as they will, fighting wars in the heavens. This, my friends, is what I am feeling-when something ripples through the ether, when a storm awakens to the south, when the Redeemer shifts uneasy and is troubled.¡¯ ¡®Then we are nothing to him,¡¯ said the merchant, sorrow brimming in his eyes. ¡®I surrendered everything, all my wealth, for yet-another indifferent god. If he cannot protect us, What is the point?¡¯ She wished that she had an answer to such questions. Were these not the very grist of priestly endeavours? To grind out palatable answers, to hint of promising paths to true salvation? To show a benign countenance gifted by god-given wis?dom, glowing as if fanned by sacred breath? ¡®It is my feeling,¡¯ she said, haltingly, ¡®that a faith that delivers perfect answers to every question is not a true faith, lot its only purpose is to satisfy, to ease the mind and so end its questing.¡¯ She held up a hand to still the objections she saw awakened among these six honest, serious believers. ¡®Is it for faith to deliver peace, when on all sides inequity thrives for it shall indeed thrive, when the blessed walk past blissfully blind, content in their own moral purity, in the peace filling their souls? Oh, you might then reach out a hand to the wretched by the roadside, offering them your own footprints, and you may see the blessed burgeon in number, grow into a multitude, until you are as an army. But there will be, will ever be, those who turn away from your hand. The ones who quest because it is in their nature to quest, who fear the seduction of self-satisfaction, who mistrust easy answers. Are these bnes then to be your enemy? Does the army grow angered now? Does it strike out at the unbelievers? Does it crush them underfoot? ¡®My friends, is this not describing the terror this land has just survived?¡¯ Her eyes fixed on the merchant. ¡®Is this not what destroyed Capustan? Is this not what the rulers of Saltoan so violently rejected when they drove out the Pannion monks? Is this not what the Redeemer died fighting against?¡¯ ¡®None.of this,¡¯ growled a woman, ¡®eases my daughter¡¯s pain. She was raped, and now there is nothing to be seen in her eyes. She has fled herself and may never return. Gradithan took her and destroyed her. Will he escape all punishment for such a thing? He laughed at me, when I picked up my daughter. When I stood before him with her limp in my arms, he laughed at me.¡¯ ¡®The Benighted must return,¡¯ said the merchant. ¡®He must defend us. He must explain to us how we failed him.¡¯ Salind studied the faces before her, seeing the fear and the anger, the pain and the growing despair. It was not in her to turn them away, yet what could she do? She did not ask to become a priestess-she was not quite sure how it even happened. And what of her own pain? Her own broken history? What of the flesh she had once taken into her mouth? Not the bloody meat of a stranger, no. The First Born of the Tenescowri, Children of the Dead Seed, ah, they were to be special, yes, so special-willing to eat their own kin, and was that not proof of how special they were? What, then, of the terrible need that had brought hei here? ¡®You must go to him,¡¯ said the merchant. ¡®We know where to find him, in Black Coral-I can lead you to him, Priestess. Together, we will demand his help-he was a Seerdomin, a chosen sword of the tyrant. He owes us! He owes us all!¡¯ Page 96 ¡®I have tried-¡¯ ¡®I will help you,¡¯ insisted the merchant. ¡®I will show him our desire to mend our ways. To accord the Benighted the proper respect.¡¯ Others nodded, and the merchant took this in and went on, ¡®We will help. All of us here, we will stand with you, Priestess. Once he is made to understand what is happening, once we confront him-there in that damned tavern with that damned Tiste Andii he games with-how can he turn away from us yet again?¡¯ But what of fairness! What of Seerdomin and his own wounds! See the zeal in your fellows-see it in yourself, then ask: where is my compassion when I stand before him, shouting my demands! Why will none of you defend yourse ¡®Priestess ¡®Very well.¡¯ And she rose, drawing her woollen robe tight about herself. ¡®Lead on, then, merchant, to where he may be found.¡¯ A man huddled against the counter, sneezing fiercely enough to loosen his teeth, and while this barrage went on none at the table attempted to speak. Hands reached for tankards, kelyk glistened on lips and eyes shone murky and fixed with intent upon the field of battle. Spinnock Durav waited for Seerdomin to make a move, to attempt something unexpected in the shoring up of his buckling defences-the man was always good for a surprise or two, a flash of tactical genius that could well halt Spinnock in his tracks, even make him stagger. And was this not the very heart of the contest, its bright hint of glory? The sneezing fit ended-something that, evidently, came of too much kelyk. A sudden flux of the sinuses, followed by an alarmingly dark discharge-he¡¯d begun to see stains, on walls and pavestones and cobbles, all over the city now. This foreign drink was outselling even ale and wine. And among the drinkers there were now emerging abusers, stumbling glaze-eyed, mouths hanging, tongues like black worms. As yet, Spinnock had not seen such among the Tiste Andii, but perhaps it was only a matter of time. He sipped at his cup of wine, pleased to note that the trembling in his fingers had finally ceased. The eruption of power from Kurald Galain that had taken him so unawares had vanished, leaving little more than a vague unease that only slightly soured the taste of the wine. Strange disturbances these nights,-who could say their portent? The High Priestess might have an idea or two, he suspected, although the punctuation of every statement from her never changed, now, did it? Half smiling, he sipped again at his drink. Seerdomin frowned and sat back. ¡®This is an assault I cannot survive,¡¯ he pronounced. ¡®The Jester¡¯s deceit was well played, Spinnock. There was no anticipating that.¡¯ ¡®Truly?¡¯ Spinnock asked. ¡®With these allies here?¡¯ Seerdomin grimaced at the other two players, then grunted a sour laugh. ¡®Ah, yes, I see your point. That kelyk takes their minds, I think.¡¯ ¡®Sharpens, just so you know,¡¯ said Garsten, licking his stained lips. ¡®Although I¡¯d swear, some nights it¡¯s more potent than other times, wouldn¡¯t you say so, Fuldit?¡¯ ¡®Eh? Yah, s¡¯pose so. When you gonna move den, Seerdomin? Eh? Resto, bring us another bottle!¡¯ ¡®Perhaps,¡¯ muttered Seerdomin, ¡®it¡¯s my mind that¡¯s not sharp. I believe I must surrender.¡¯ Spinnock said nothing, although he was disappointed-no, he was shaken. He could see a decent counter, had been assuming his opponent had seen it immediately, but had been busy seeking something better, SOmething wilder, Other nights, Seerdomin¡¯s talent would burst through at moments like these-a fearless gambit that seemed to pivot the world on this very tabletop. Perhaps if I wait a little longer- ¡®I yield,¡¯ said Seerdomin. Words uttered, a crisis pronounced. ¡®Resto, bring us a pitcher, if you¡¯d be so-¡¯ Seerdomin got no further. He seemed to jolt back into his chair, as if an invisible hand had just slammed into his chest. His eyes were on the tavern door. Spinnock twisted in his seat to see that strangers had arrived at the Scour. A young woman wearing a rough-woven russet robe, her hair cut short-shorter even than the High Priestess¡¯s-yet the same midnight black. A pale face both soft and exquisite, eyes of deep brown, now searching through the gloom, finding at last the one she sought: Seerdomin. Behind her crowded others, all wearing little more than rags, their wan faces tight with something like panic. The woman in the lead walked over. Seerdomin sat like a man nailed to his chair. All colour had left his face a moment earlier, but now it was darkening, his eyes flaring with hard anger. ¡®Benighted-¡¯ ¡®This is my refuge,¡¯ he said. ¡®Leave. Now.¡¯ Page 97 ¡®We-¡¯ ¡°We¡±? Look at your followers, Priestess.¡¯ She turned, in time to see the last of them rush out of the tavern door. Seerdomin snorted. Impressively, the young woman held her ground. The robe fell open-lacking a belt-and Spinnock Durav judged she was barely adolescent. A priestess? Ah, the Great Barrow, the Redeemer. ¡®Benighted,¡¯ she resumed, in a voice that few would find hard to listen to, indeed, at length, ¡®I am not here for myself. Those who were with me insisted, and even if their courage failed them at the end, this makes their need no less valid.¡¯ ¡®They came with demands,¡¯ Seerdomin said. ¡®They have no right, and they re?alized the truth of that as soon as they saw me. You should now do the same, and leave as they have.¡¯ ¡®I must try-¡¯ Seerdomin surged to his feet, suddenly enough to startle Garsten and Fuldit despite their addled senses, and both stared up wide-eyed and frightened. The priestess did not even flinch. ¡®I must try,¡¯ she repeated, ¡®for their sake, and for my own. We are beset in the camp-¡¯ ¡®No,¡¯ cut in Seerdomin. ¡®You have no right.¡¯ ¡®Please, will you just listen?¡¯ The hard edge of those words clearly surprised Seerdomin. Garsten and Fuldit, collecting their tankards and bottles, quickly left the table. Spinnock Durav rose, bowed slightly to both, and made for the exit. As he passed Resto-who stood motionless with a pitcher in his hand-he said under his breath, ¡®On my tab, please-this entire night, Seerdomin will have no thought of you when he leaves,¡¯ Resto blinked up at him, then nodded, In the darkness opposite the Scour¡¯s door, Spinnock Durav waited. He had half expected to see the pilgrims waiting outside, but the street was empty-they had fled Indeed, at a run, probably all the way back to the camp. There was little spine in the followers of the Redeemer. With at least one exception, he corrected himself as the priestess stepped outside. Even from ten paces away, he saw her sag slightly, as if finding herself on suddenly watery legs. Tugging the robe tight round herself, she set off, three, four strides, then slowed and finally halted to turnand face Spinnock Durav. Who came forward. ¡®My pardon, Priestess,¡¯ he said. ¡®Your friend took that pitcher for himself,¡¯ she said. ¡®Expect a long night. If you have a care you can collect him in a few bells-I¡¯d rather he not spend a senseless night lying on that filthy floor.¡¯ ¡®I would have thought the possibility might please you,¡¯ Spinnock said. She frowned. ¡®No. He is the Benighted.¡¯ ¡®And what does that mean?¡¯ She hesitated, then said, ¡®Each day, until recently, he came to the Great Bar?row and knelt before it. Not to pray, not to deliver a trinket.¡¯ Confused, Spinnock Durav asked, ¡®What, then?¡¯ ¡®He would rather that remain a secret, I suspect.¡¯ ¡®Priestess, he is my friend. I see well his distress-¡¯ ¡®And why does that bother you so? More than a friend might feel-I can sense that. Most friends might offer sympathy, even more, but within them remains the stone thought that they are thankful that they themselves do not share their friend¡¯s plight. But that is not within you, not with this Seerdomin. No,¡¯ she drew a step closer, eyes searching, ¡®he answers a need, and so wounded as he now is, you begin to bleed.¡¯ ¡®Mother Dark, woman!¡¯ She retreated at his outburst and looked away. ¡®I am sorry. Sir, the Benighted kneels before the Great Barrow and delivers unto the Redeemer the most precious gift of all. Company. Asking for nothing. He comes to relieve the Redeemer¡¯s loneliness.¡¯ She ran a hand back through her short hair. ¡®I sought to tell him something, buthe would not hear me.¡¯ ¡®Can I-¡¯ ¡®I doubt it. I tried to tell him what I am sensing from the Redeemer. Sir, your friend is missed.¡¯ She sighed, turning away. ¡®If all who worship did so without need. If all came to their saviour unmindful of that title and its burden, if they came as friends-¡¯ she glanced back at him, ¡®what would happen then, do you think? I wonder¡­¡¯ He watched her walk away, feeling humbled, too shaken to pursue, to root out the answers-the details-he needed most. To find out what he could do, for Seerdomin. For her. For her? Now, why should she matter? By the Abyss, what has she done to met And how in the Mother¡¯s name can Seerdomin resist her? How many women had there been? He had lost count. It would have been better, perhaps, if he¡¯d at least once elected to share his gift of longevity. Better, yes, than watching those few who¡¯d remained with him for any length of time lose all their beauty, surrendering their youth, until there was no choice but for Kallor to discard them, to lock them away, one by one, in some tower on some windswept knoll. What else could he have done? They hobbled into lives of misery, and that misery was an affront to his sensibilities. Too much bitterness, too much malice in those hot, ageing eyes ever fixing upon him. Did he not age as well? True, a year for them was but a heartbeat for Kallor, but see the lines of his face, see the slow wasting of muscle, the iron hue of his hair¡­ Page 98 It was not just a matter of choosing the slowest burning wood, after all, was it? And with that thought he kicked at the coals of the fire, watched sparks roil nightward. Sometimes, the urgent flames of the quick and the short-lived delivered their own kind of heat. Hard wood and slow burn, soft wood and smoulder?ing reluctance before ashen collapse. Resinous wood and oh how she flared! Blinding, yes, a glory no man could turn from. Too bad he¡¯d had to kill every child he begat. No doubt that left most of his wives and lovers somewhat disaffected. But he had not been so cruel as to hesi?tate, had he? No. Why, he¡¯d tear those ghastly babes from their mothers¡¯ arms not moments after they¡¯d tumbled free of the womb, and was that not a true sign of mercy? No one grows attached to dead things, not even mothers. Attachments, yes, now they were indeed a waste of time and, more relevantly, a weakness. To rule an empire-to rule a hundred empires-one needed a certain objectivity. All was to be used, to be remade howsoever he pleased. Why, he had launched vast construction projects to glorify his rule, but few understood that it was not the completion that mattered, but the work itself and all that it implied-his command over their lives, their loyalty, their labour. Why, he could work them for decades, see generations of the fools pass one by one, all working each and every day of their lives, and still they did not understand what it meant for them to give to him-to Kallor-so many years of their mortal existence, so much of it, truly, that any rational soul would howl at the cruel injustice of such a life. This was, as far as he was concerned, the real mystery of civilization-and for all that he exploited it he was, by the end, no closer to understanding it. This willingness of otherwise intelligent (well, reasonably intelligent) people to parcel up and then bargain away appalling percentages of their very limited lives, all in service to someone else. And the rewards? Ah, some security, perhaps. The cement that is stability A sound roof, something on the plate, the beloved offspring each one destines to repeat the whole travail And was that an even exchange? It would not have been no, for him, He knew that, had known it from the very first. He would bargain away nothing of his life. He would serve no one, yield none of his labour to the edification and ever-expanding wealth of some fool who imagined that his or her own part of the bargain was profound in its generosity, was indeed the most precious of gifts. That to work for him or her was a privilege-gods! The conceit of that! The lie, so bristling and charged in its brazen display! Just how many rules of civil behaviour were designed to perpetuate such egregious schemes of power and control of the few over the many? Rules defended to the death (usually the death of the many, rarely that of the few) with laws and wars, with threats and brutal repression-ah, those were the days, were they not? How he had gloried in that outrage! He would never be one of the multitude. And he had proved it, again and again, and again. And he would continue to prove it. A crown was within reach. A kingship waited to be claimed. Mastery not over something as mundane as an empire-that game had grown stale long ago-but over a realm. An entity consisting of all the possible forces of existence. The power of earthly flesh, every element unbound, the coruscating will of belief, the skein of politics, religion, social accord, sensibilities, woven from the usual tragic roots of past ages golden and free of pain and new ages bright with absurd promise. While through it all fell the rains of oblivion, the cascading torrent of failure and death, suffering and misery, a god broken and for ever doomed to remain so-oh, Kallor knew he could usurp such a creature, leave it as powerless as his most abject subject. All-all of it-within his reach. He kicked again at the embers, the too-small branches that had made up this shortlived fire, saw countless twigs fall into white ash. A few picked bones were visible amidst the coals, all that remained of the pathetic creature he had devoured earlier this night. A smear of clouds cut a swath across the face of the stars and the dust-veiled moon had yet to rise. Somewhere out on the plain coyotes bickered with the night. He had found trader tracks this past day, angling northwest-southeast. Well-worn wagon ruts, the tramping of yoked oxen. Garbage strewn to either side. Rather dis?appointing, all things considered; he had grown used to solitude, where the only sign of human activity had been the occasional grassfire on the western horizon-plains nomads and their mysterious ways-something to do with the bhederin herds and the needs for various grasses, he suspected. If they spied him they wisely kept their distance. His passing through places had a way of agitating ancient spirits, a detail he had once found irritating enough to hunt the things down and kill them, but no longer. Let them whine and twitch, thrash and moan in the grip of timorous nightmares, and all that. Let their mortal children cower in the high grasses until he was well and gone. Page 99 The High King had other concerns. Ami other matters with which he could occupy his mind. He sat straighter, every sense stung awake by a burgeoning of power to the north. Slowly rising to his feet, Kallor stared into the darkness. Yes, something foaming awake, what might it be? And¡­ yes, another force, and that one he well recognized-Tiste Andii. Breath hissed between worn teeth. Of course, if he continued on this path he would have come full circle, back to that horrid place-what was its name? Yes, Coral. The whole mess with the Pannion Domin, oh, the stupidity! The pathetic, squalid idiocy of that day! Could this be those two accursed hunters? Had they somehow swept round him? Were they now striking south to finally face him? Well, he might welcome that. He¡¯d killed his share of dragons, both pure and Soletaken. One at a time, of course. Two at once¡­ that could be a challenge. For all this time, their pursuit had been a clumsy, witless thing. So easily. fooled, led astray-he could have ambushed them countless times, and perhaps he should have done just that. At the very least, he might have come to understand the source of their persistent-yes, pathological-relentlessness. Had he truly angered Rake that much? It seemed ridiculous. The Son of Darkness was not one to become so obsessed; indeed, none of the Tiste Andii were, and was that not their fundamental weakness? This failing of will? How he had so angered Korlat and Orfantal? Was it because he did not stay, did not elect to fight alongside all the doomed fools on that day? Let the Malazans bleed! They were our enemies! Let the T¡¯lan Imass betray Silverfox-she deserved it! It was not our war, Brood. Not our war, Rake. Why didn¡¯t you listen to me? Bah, come and face me, then, Korlat. Orfantal. Come, let us be done with this rubbish! The twin flaring of powers ebbed suddenly. Somewhere far to the east the coyotes resumed their frantic cries. He looked skyward, saw the gleam of the rising moon, its ravaged scowl of reflected sunlight and the blighted dust of its stirred slumber. Look at you. Your face is my face, let us be truthful about that. Beaten and boxed about, yet we climb upright time and again, to resume our trek. The sky cares nothing for you, dear one. The stars don¡¯t even see you. But you will march on, because it is what you do. A final kick at the coals. Let the grasses burn to scar his wake, he cared not. No, he would not come full circle-he never did, which was what had kept him alive for this long. No point in changing anything, was there? Kallor set out. Northward. There were, if he recalled, settlements, and roads, and a main trader track skirling west and north, out across the Cinnamon Wastes, all the way to Darujhistan. Where he had an appointment to keep. A destiny to claim by right of sword and indomitable will. The union¡¯s light took hold of his shadow and made a mess of it. Kallor walked on, oblivious of such details Three scrawny horses, one neglected ox and a wagon with a bent axle and a cracked brake: the amassed inherited wealth of the village of Morsko comprised only these. Bodies left to rot on the tavern floor-they should have set fire to the place, Nimander realized. Too late now, too hard the shove away from that horrid scene. And what of the victims on their crosses, wrapped and leaking black ichors into the muddy earth? They had left them as well. Motionless beneath a blanket in the bed of the wagon, Clip stared sightlessly at the sideboards. Flecks of the porridge they had forced down his throat that morning studded his chin. Flies crawled and buzzed round his mouth. Every now and then, faint trembling rippled through his body. Stolen away. Noon, the third day now on this well-made cobbled, guttered road. They had just passed south of the town of Heath, which had once been a larger settlement, perhaps a city, and might weUreturn to such past glory, this time on the riches of kelyk, a dilute form of saemankelyk, the Blood of the Dying God. These details and more they had learned from the merchant trains rolling up and down this road, scores of wagons setting out virtually empty to villages and towns east of Bastion-to Outlook itself-then returning loaded with amphorae of the foul drink, wagons groaning beneath the weight, back to some form of central distri?bution hub in Bastion. The road itself ran south of these settlements-all of which nested above the shoreline of Pilgrim Lake. When it came opposite a village there would be a junction, with a track or wend leading north. A more substantial crossroads marked the intersection of levelled roads to the reviving cities of Heath, Kel Tor and, somewhere still ahead, Sarn. Nimander and his group did not travel disguised, did not pretend to be other than what they were, and it was clear that the priests, fleeing ahead of them, had delivered word to all their ken on the road and, from there, presumably into the towns and villages. At the junctions, in the ramshackle waystations and storage sheds, food and water and forage for the animals awaited them. Page 100 The Dying God-or his priests-had blessed them, apparently, and now awaited their pleasure in Bastion. The one who had sacrificed his soul to the Dying God was doubly blessed, and some final consummation was anticipated, prob?ably leading to Clip¡¯s soul¡¯s being thoroughly devoured by an entity who was cursed to suffer for eternity. Thus accursed, it was little wonder the creature welcomed company. All things considered, it was well that their journey had been one of ease and accommodation. Nimander suspected that his troupe would have been rather more pleased to carve their way through hordes of frenzied fanatics, assuming they could manage such a thing. Having confirmed that Clip¡¯s comatose condition was unchanged, he climbed down from the wagon and returned to the scruffy mare he had been riding suite Morsko. The poor beast¡¯s ribs had been like the bars of a cage under tattered vellum, its eyes listless and the tan coat patchy and dull. In the three days since, despite the steady riding, the animal had recovered somewhat under Nimandcr¡¯i ministrations. He was not particularly enamoured of horses in general, but no creature deserved to suffer. As he climbed into the worn saddle he saw Skintick standing, stepping up on to the wagon¡¯s bench where Nenanda sat holding the reins, and shading his eyes to look southward across the empty plain. ¡®See something?¡¯ A moment, then, ¡®Yes. Someone¡­ walking.¡¯ Up from the south? ¡®But there¡¯s nothing out there¡¯ Kedeviss and Aranatha rose in their stirrups. ¡®Let¡¯s get going,¡¯ Desra said from the wagon bed. ¡®It¡¯s too hot to be just sitting here.¡¯ Nimander could see the figure now, tall for a human. Unkempt straggly grey hair fanned out round his head like an aura. He seemed to be wearing a long coat of chain, down to halfway between his knees and ankles, slitted in front. The hand-and-a-half grip of a greatsword rose above his left shoulder. ¡®An old bastard,¡¯ muttered Skintick, ¡®to be walking like that.¡¯ ¡®Could be he lost his horse,¡¯ said Nenanda disinterestedly. ¡®Desra is right-we should be going.¡¯ Striding like one fevered under the sun, the stranger came ever closer. Something about him compelled Nimander¡¯s attention, a kind of dark fascination-for what, he couldn¡¯t quite name. A cascade of images tumbled through his mind. As if he was watching an apparition bludgeoning its way out from some hoary legend, from a time when gods struggled, hands about each other¡¯s throats, when blood fell as rain and the sky itself rolled and crashed against the shores of the Abyss. All this, riding across the dusty air between them as the old man came up to the road. All this, written in the deep lines of his gaunt visage, in the bleak wastelands of his grey eyes. ¡®He is as winter,¡¯ murmured Skintick. Yes, and something¡­ colder. ¡®What city lies beyond?¡¯ the man asked. A startled moment when Nimander realized that the stranger had spoken Tiste Andii. ¡®Heath.¡¯ The man turned, faced west. ¡®This way, then, lies Bastion and the Cinnamon Track.¡¯ Nimander shrugged. ¡®You are from Coral?¡¯ the stranger asked, scanning the group. ¡®Is he still camped there, then? But no, I recognize none of you, and that would not be possible. Even so, tell me why I should not kill you all.¡¯ That got Nenanda¡¯s attention, and he twisted in his seat to sneer down at the old man. But Nimander¡¯s blood has turned to ice. ¡®Because, sir, you do not know US.¡¯¡¯ Pale eyes settled o him. ¡®You have a point, actually. Very well, instead, I would travel with you, Ride, yes, in your wagon I have worn my boots through crossing this wretched plain Tell me, have you water, decent food?¡¯ Nenanda twisted futher to glare at Nimander. ¡®Turn this fool away. He can drink our dust.¡¯ The old man regarded Neiianda for a moment, then came back to Nimander. ¡®Tie a leash on this one and we should be fine.¡¯ And he stepped up to the wagon and, setting a foot on a spoke of the rear wheel, pulled himself up. Where he paused, frowning as he studied the prostrate form of Clip. ¡®Is he ill?¡¯ he asked Desra. ¡®Are you caught with plague? No, not that-your kind rarely succumb to such things. Stop staring, child, and tell me what is wrong with this one.¡¯ ¡®None of your business,¡¯ she snapped, as Nimander had known she would. ¡®If you¡¯re going to crowd in then sit there, to give him some shade.¡¯ Thin brows lifted, then a faint smile flickered across his withered, cracked lips. And without another word he moved to where Desra had indicated and settled down, stretching out his legs. ¡®Some water, darling, if you please.¡¯