Blood and Bone

CHAPTER IV

The Adwami cavalry now made steady progress across the great flat plain that was the Ghetan Plateau. This was Jatal’s fifth raid and as before he was very impressed by the land’s immensity and fertility. Broad fields stretched one after the other, each cut by a maze of irrigation canals, ditches and spillways. Interspersed between these stood copses of timber, trimmed orchards, and ruled-straight windbreaks. It all seemed to go on for ever, as if continuously unrolling before them. And when the heat of the baking sun left him swimming in his robes and the constant roll of his mount eased him into a sort of undulating daydream of passing leagues, each indistinguishable from the many before, sometimes he fancied he’d never come to see the end of it all.

Of any armed resistance, there had been little so far. This was of no surprise to the Adwami. Generations of raiding had taught them the miserliness of the Thaumaturgs. It seemed they would rather endure the nuisance losses of raids than suffer the painful outlay of maintaining any adequate garrison. A strategy that would serve them ill — now that the Adwami were set upon a sudden near invasion. And yet again it struck Jatal as odd that this Warleader, a foreigner to their lands, could have foreseen this weakness; unless perhaps he had met or interrogated escapees or fugitives from these regions and such information had suggested the idea in the first place. Indeed, why stop there among the sea of possibilities? The man talked and carried himself as one quite educated and cultured. Perhaps he was familiar with that ancient Seven Cities traveller Ular Takeq, and his Customs of Ancient Jakal-Uku. Or the castaway mariner Whelhen and his account of ten years among the villagers of the jungles in his Narrative of a Shipwreck and Captivity within a Mythical Land. These sources alone could perhaps have served to germinate a strategy.

Perhaps he should be more forceful in his efforts to sit down with the man to get to know him better. So far, however, the Warleader had been quite forceful in his habit of retiring early to his tent. Where, it was rumoured, he inhaled the fumes of various burning substances, thereby smoking himself into stupefaction every night.

Jatal adjusted his headscarf against the glaring sun and eased himself up in his saddle for a moment, stretching his sore thighs. He peered up and down the column as they advanced at a quick walking pace. Speaking of stupefaction — he was drifting into his own reverie. What had he been considering? Oh yes, resistance. It wouldn’t remain so thin. For a time they would manage to stay ahead of word of their advance, but eventually the enemy would be ready for them. Probably at Isana Pura.

Until then, encounters would remain merely a matter of entering the small farming hamlets and depots, disarming the bewildered guards, and sorting through the plunder, including captives, who were sent back in gangs under minimum escort.

What in truth concerned Jatal was the state of the knife-thin accord between the Adwami tribes themselves. Only two blood-feud killings so far — a tribute to the new restraint requested by the Warleader, and the anticipation of the size of the future rewards to accrue from such cooperation. This line of musing brought Jatal to the subject of Princess Andanii and her Vehajarwi. So far, the public face of mutual tolerance between their two tribes, the two largest and most intractable traditional enemies, served to anchor this unaccustomed peace. And what of the princess in all her most seductively alluring flesh? What was he to make of her?

Jatal cleared his throat against the kicked-up dust of the road. From the folds of his robes over his armour he drew out his travel copy of Shivanara’s Songs of the Perfumed Lands and opened it with his thumb.

Jatal shut the tiny booklet and squeezed it in his fist. He rubbed his eyes, dry and gritty from scanning the endless horizons day after day. Yes, what was he to make of her? The heat of lingering sidelong glances from above her veil as she rode by with her guard of lancers. Their brief exchanges at chance encounters, during which she was in turns mocking or mildly provoking. All a pose? And what of his behaviour? Resolutely formal and courtly: the very model of the traditional Adwami aristocrat.

That, too, no more than a pose?

And how much of a provocation was that, given her proposal? And all the oh-so-much-more it implied?

Yet how could he be certain? Was he a coward not to have attempted to sneak into her private tents already? Yet think of the absurd image of himself caught by Vehajarwi guards and paraded about as some honourless prurient seducer. Such humiliation could not be endured. Indeed, there was a summation of the male quandary: so much suppressed by the terror of being humiliated …

‘My lord Hafinaj …’ A gravelly voice spoke from nearby and Jatal glanced down, blinking, to see the Warleader’s lieutenant, Scarza, walking along in lazy loping strides next to his mount. He eased back Ash’s pace and edged aside of the column.

‘Yes, Lieutenant?’

The giant’s tangled dark brows climbed his lined forehead. ‘Lieutenant? Nay. Just Scarza I am and Scarza I remain. I hold to none of these absurd pomposities of rank — my prince.’

Jatal crooked a smile at the man’s slanting irreverence and reined Ash in. ‘Speaking only for yourself, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘What news then? Any further sightings of our damned Agon friends?’

A hand the size of a shovel rose to rub wide unshaven jowls. ‘None at all. Keeping as low as the scorpions, them.’

‘How appropriate too.’

‘I thought so.’

Jatal regarded the man for a time. Of Thelomen blood? Or the ones named Toblakai? ‘And where are you from, Scarza?’

‘From my mother, m’lord. Bless her bounteous bosom. In the meantime, sir, the Warleader requests your presence in an insignificant fleabite of a village east of here, if you would. There is something there he believes may be of interest to you, as a scholar and such.’

‘I see. Thank you, Scarza-who-eschews-all-rank.’

The man flashed his formidable canines. ‘Eschews? Too fancy a word by far for this lowly Scarza. I’ll show you the way, m’lord.’

Village was far too generous a description for the wretched cluster of rundown shabby huts. They passed Thaumaturg chattels who merely paused in their field labours, heads bowed and shoulders stooped, before returning to their tasks. The Warleader awaited them amid his honour-guard of twenty Adwami knights selected from the various tribes. Bowing, the bodyguards eased their mounts aside to make room for Jatal. The Warleader sat leaning forward on the horn of his saddle. He directed Jatal’s attention to the simple mechanism of a muscle-powered grain mill. Only, this being Thaumaturg land, the mechanism was not so simple. Instead of a mule or an ox providing the muscle powering the arm that turned the stone to grind the seed, it was the massive legs, broad back, and trunk-like arms of a man, who, had he lived in any other land, would no doubt be a champion wrestler or fighter.

The Warleader gestured to the figure as it continued its endless round fettered to the wooden arm of the mill, strangely unconcerned despite the troop of foreign cavalry crowded around. ‘The work of the Thaumaturgs,’ the Warleader said. ‘Know you of their … creations?’

The unease coiling in Jatal’s stomach tightened. He had in fact grown up hearing the stories brought back by the generations of his forebears’ raids into these lands. Tales of humans bred or distorted by the Thaumaturgs to serve certain … needs. Most of his brethren, he knew, laughed at such accounts, dismissing them as mere bedtime stories meant to scare children. Jatal, however, had read written narratives penned by travellers from disparate regions and times, all of which mentioned such research — and universally condemned the practice and its products.

The sight of the broad back of the unfortunate as he continued his eternal labouring circle raised a fluttering unease within Jatal. Vague recollections of some of the descriptions he’d read returned as half-glimpsed horrors — many too dreadful to believe. Meanwhile, the human dray animal paced on, his head hanging, his long hair filthy and crawling with vermin — just like any neglected mule or ox. Jatal swallowed his disquiet, murmuring, ‘I have read first-hand accounts …’

The Warlord grunted his satisfaction and waved Scarza forward. ‘Bring him to us.’

The half-Thelomen or Trell sized the man up — fully as massive as he — and his hand went to his shortsword.

‘Unnecessary, good Scarza, I assure you. You’ll find the fellow fully as gentle as any cow or sheep.’

The giant cocked a sceptical eye to the Warleader then shrugged his compliance. He stepped on to the beaten circular track to stand in the way of the fellow as he came around on yet another pass. The wooden arm swung around and struck him in the stomach, bouncing, then paused as the chattel stopped his pacing. The constant background grumbling of the mortar stones stilled.

‘You’ll come with me now,’ Scarza said gently. ‘No one intends you any harm.’

The man didn’t answer. Nor did he even raise his head. He was filthy, unwashed, his simple rag loinwrap rotting off him. Scarza looked to the Warleader for guidance.

‘Untie him.’

Scarza unwrapped the leather straps that secured the man’s hands to the wooden arm. It occurred to Jatal that those straps and that arm, no more than a tree branch, were in no way adequate to imprison such a brute. The lieutenant led him by those straps to the Warleader.

‘Lift his head,’ the Warleader said.

Even the half-breed betrayed a hesitation born of unease, yet he obeyed, using his hand to push the man’s chin up.

Jatal winced and the bodyguards cursed their surprise and disgust. The poor fellow’s eyes were no more than empty pits where the ends of tendons and muscles writhed.

‘Open his mouth,’ the Warleader ordered in a strange sort of calm detachment, as if he were examining some curious insect or piece of artwork and not a man at all. Scarza’s great expanse of chest lifted as he took a steadying breath, but he did comply. He squeezed the man’s cheeks, forcing his jaws apart.

Jatal glimpsed within the emptiness of the cavity of his mouth then quickly averted his gaze. The poor unfortunate’s tongue also had been carved away.

‘Now lift his hair from his forehead, Scarza. Push it back.’

‘That is quite enough,’ Jatal breathed shakily.

The Warleader somehow trapped Jatal’s averted gaze. His stare was strangely compelling, his dark eyes almost hidden within the tight folds of his tanned features, his mouth bracketed by severe lines. For a moment, the image of a mask occurred to Jatal. He fancied that the flesh of the Warleader’s face was itself a mask and that what lay beneath was not human. ‘That is certainly not enough, young prince. This is only the beginning. Turn and look upon the handiwork of the Thaumaturgs. This is what they would intend for you.’ He nodded curtly to Scarza, who thrust back the slave’s hair.

Beginning near the temples lay twin pearly scars. Each traced lines up the sides of the man’s forehead to disappear up amid his hairline. Jatal squinted his puzzlement. ‘What is this?’

‘You have heard, no doubt,’ said the Warleader, ‘of those who have endured head wounds that have left them behaving oddly? Forgetful? Even mindless?’

His gaze still on the disfigured face of the slave, Jatal nodded. ‘Yes. I have read treatises from chirurgeons and mediciners speculating upon the head as the seat of some aspects of personality.’

‘Just so, my prince. This man still has a sort of intelligence — he can stand, probably eat what is given him. And no doubt follow simple orders. But his essence, his identity as an individual capable of initiative and self-awareness, has been taken from him. Our Thaumaturgs view flesh as you view clay or wood — to be shaped as required. And what we see here is a mild example of the true depths of their … research.’

Something more than disgust churned acid in Jatal’s stomach. He knew these things intellectually of course … but to be confronted with the reality — in the flesh, as they say — made him feel threatened on a level far more intimate than any mundane enemy. It felt as if what these Thaumaturgs practised somehow endangered his own distinctiveness, his claim to uniqueness as a human being. It made him shiver to his core. And we are riding into this asylum?

He pulled his gaze away with a shudder.

‘What should we do with him?’ the Warleader asked, again his neutral tone suggesting that what they discussed was no more than the fate of a sack of grain or a hog.

Jatal wanted to draw his sword and hack the perverted thing to pieces. He forced himself to take a calming breath. This unfortunate, abhorrent though he might be, was in fact the victim. Destroying him would solve nothing. It was the inhuman authors of his suffering who ought to be eliminated: these Thaumaturgs — but that was not their mission. Jatal shifted his attention to the Warleader to find the man studying him with a steady gaze, as if he were the true subject of all this. ‘Killing him would be pointless. But we cannot let him be seen.’ Jatal paused, searching for the right words. ‘It would cause … unease … within the ranks.’

The Warleader nodded curtly. ‘I concur. He should be disposed of — even though such things will become ever more common as we advance. Regardless, better to delay such discoveries for as long as possible.’ He waved to Scarza. ‘Get rid of it.’

The giant rubbed his wide jaws. ‘Perchance we could simply let him go …’

‘He’d merely sit down somewhere and starve to death. No, it is a mercy.’

Still the lieutenant hesitated, frowning. He tapped a thumb to one curving canine. ‘ ’Tis no fault of his own …’

The Warleader’s voice hardened: ‘Then perhaps we should track down his father who sold him into it!’ And in a single blur he drew the heavy bastard sword at his side, swung it up, and brought it cleaving down atop the creature’s head, chopping the skull clear down past its ears.

Jatal and the surrounding bodyguards flinched in their saddles. The huge carcass twitched, still standing though quite dead. The severed tendons of the eye pits squirmed, the mouth fell open, and as the body tottered to its side, the blade grated its path clear of the skull.

‘Now get rid of it, Lieutenant,’ the Warleader announced into the silence, his voice low. ‘If you would be so good.’

Scarza wiped away the spattering of fresh droplets that dotted his chest, then saluted. ‘Aye, Warleader.’ He grasped an ankle and dragged the body off.

The Warleader wiped the blade on a scrap of cloth then resheathed it. He crossed his arms on the horn of the saddle and regarded Jatal through half-slit eyes. ‘Still … these Thaumaturgs and their horrors ought to be wiped from the earth, yes?’

‘That is not our goal, Warleader. But yes, if it could be done.’

The man gave a slow thoughtful nod. ‘Yes. If it could be done.’

Jatal inclined his head a fraction and then urged his mount aside. ‘Until later.’

The Warleader bowed. ‘Aye, prince of the Hafinaj.’

As he walked Ash back to the column, something urged Jatal to glance behind; he found the Warleader’s gaze yet remained upon him, steady and unblinking. Under that hot stabbing stare he rode on feeling a new foreboding.

That evening in his tent, reclining on the unrolled carpets and bedding, Jatal attempted yet again to ease his mind by treating himself to selections from Shivanara. But the magic of the words eluded him — his mind wandered elsewhere, flirting with the stories of the Thaumaturgs he’d heard whispered at wayside inns and round the hearthfires late at night. Of harems of playthings drugged into unending desire, or their bodies altered to heighten their master’s ecstasy — the manner of said refinements usually varying with the teller. Privately, he’d scoffed at such heated prurient imaginings. It seemed to him that these theurgists were far too keenly preoccupied with matters of life and death to waste time and resources on such debauchery. Yet the low class labourers, soldiers and servants did enjoy the titillation of such fantasies.

Sighing, he pressed the slim volume to his forehead, murmuring, ‘Apologies, O Poet.’

The heavy cloth flap lifted and a female servant entered, bowing, a tray in her arms. ‘An evening repast, my prince?’

He waved to the low table and shut his eyes, attempting to steady his thoughts. What awaited them at Isana Pura? How large a garrison? They needed better intelligence. Perhaps he should investigate …’

Jatal frowned and opened his eyes: the servant yet remained, head bowed. ‘Yes?’

The woman raised her head and Jatal stared, stunned. Princess Andanii regarded him, one expressive brow cocked. He sprang to his feet. ‘Princess! By the ancestors-’ He clamped his mouth shut, hunching, terrified he’d been overheard.

She covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. ‘If only you could have seen your face, Jatal.’

He crossed to her side, hissing, ‘What are you doing here?’

Her teasing smile hardened. ‘Really, Prince. What sort of question is that?’

Jatal flinched, bowing. ‘Apologies, Princess. I mean — what if you are discovered? Your reputation …’

‘If I am discovered?’ She pressed a hand to her chest, ‘All will sigh … Ah, young love!’

Jatal forced himself to a low table to pour himself a tumbler of wine from one of the decanters. He sat, rather heavily, and set down the leather-bound volume. ‘Of course, my princess …’

She reclined opposite, regarded him, chin in fist. ‘Is that why you have not come to me?’

Jatal hurriedly swallowed his drink. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘My reputation. You feared compromising my reputation.’

‘Of course!’

‘Ah, yes. Of course …’

She lay back, stretching. Her breasts rose beneath the thin servant’s shift. Jatal looked away. ‘Have you given more thought to our union?’ she asked.

Jatal coughed on his drink. He gestured to the glass, which he hurriedly set down. He cleared his throat. ‘Yes, my princess. I have. I believe we should keep it secret. Only the master of your horse, and mine, need know. Publicly, our uneasy accord stands. Privately, we have agreed to a — temporary — formal cessation of hostilities.’

Andanii sat up. She affected a frown and tugged at the string tying the front of her plain servant’s blouse. ‘A cessation of hostilities only … my prince? Not an intimate … partnership? A union of our … resources?’

Prince Jatal found he could not speak. His pulse was now a pounding roar; his throat as parched as the worst quarter of their Quar-el emptiness. He could only watch fascinated as Andanii glided towards him on all fours.

‘In some lands,’ she began, her voice low, ‘a woman who is not afraid of power is denounced as a shameless seductress. A slut and a whore. While a man from that same culture who reaches out and takes what he wants is lauded as justly virile, a daring hero.’ She pushed him back upon the bedding and straddled him. ‘What think you of that inconsistency, O learned prince?’

Jatal slid his hands over her thighs, up under her skirt, found them hot and slick with sweat. He forced a swallow to wet his throat, almost dizzy with need. ‘I think that any man who denounces a woman merely for acting as he would …’ he hissed as Andanii clenched her thighs, ‘is a very small and frightened little man.’

Andanii began untying his belt. ‘And you, Jatal? Are you frightened?’

‘No, my princess. I am not frightened.’ Not of you. It is your ambition that terrifies me. Are you here with me now because you see a worthy alliance … or a weak partner easily dominated? This uncertainty tortures me. That, and the truth that I do not know what I would do … if either should prove true.

A line from Shivanara came to him then:

And — oh, gods — what does it mean that amid fields of rotting corpses

The most fragrant blossoms grow?

* * *

The moment the solid canopy of tall trees closed over him, Murk knew he didn’t want to be where he was. The column of Malazan regulars, however, plunged on without pause, as if some enraged Ascendant were on their tails — which, frankly, was as close to the truth as Murk wished to tiptoe. He and Sour followed the chest strapped in its litter, bouncing and being knocked about as Dee and Ostler stumbled over exposed roots, banged into trees, and ducked branches. And with each knock and judder of the chest Sour, at his side, would grab his arm, or gasp, or whine, until sick of it Murk shook him off, growling, ‘It ain’t made of glass, damn it!’

Sour released his arm, hunching like a browbeaten child. Sighing, Murk jerked a thumb to the rear. ‘Cover our tracks.’

The crab-like fellow straightened, his brows shooting up. ‘Oh! Right.’

Murk watched, sidelong, as his partner’s gaze got that absent look and turned inward. He walked now avoiding roots and branches, but without actually looking directly at anything. Behind them Murk knew a distracting maze of misdirection, erasures and blind paths was now uncoiling, all springing from the muddled mind at his side. A frustrating addled mess that would drive any sane person who tried to order it into despair. How Sour did it was a mystery to him: a personal twisted melding of Thyr and Mockra, or simply a path demarking the borderlands between. Either way, it helped immensely that the fellow wasn’t quite sane in the conventional sense.

As for himself, it was time for him to do his part. If Sour was deflecting any effort to trace them, then he would see to it they weren’t really here at all. He summoned his Warren and with his next step he not only trod the jungle around them but simultaneously walked the paths of Meanas.

He found that he now walked two jungles. One was of Jacuruku; the other was a shadow-forest of dark trees. The discovery almost made him trip over his own feet. He knew this shadow-forest: it was a feature, a hazard, of the Shadow Realm that all avoided. A wide impenetrable wood from which none ever returned. So this was what it hid. Or mirrored. Jacuruku. Or, perhaps more accurately, a Shadow of Ardata’s realm.

In any case, bad news for him. There was little he could do here. He would have to limit himself to manipulations from outside the Warren proper. In fact, I’ve lingered long enough as it is …

He was about to drop his access when he glimpsed a bright light off to one side.

Now, a light in the woods might not be too unusual. But this was Shadow, where a bright glow was as natural as a pool of water in the coals of a blacksmith’s forge. He knew it was stupid, and he shouldn’t, but he was curious — what could possibly be generating such a radiance here in the very home of Shadow? He picked his way onward, threading between the brittle black branches.

It was the glowing image of child, a young girl, perhaps six or so. Yet the image was not really a child as it was sculpted of a pale greenish luminosity. She was peering about as if fascinated, displaying no fear at all, just curiosity — rather like himself.

Murk stepped into the glade. ‘Who are you, child?’

She turned to face him and he flinched from eyes of pure jade brilliance. ‘Who am I?’ she echoed in a high piping voice. ‘I do not know. No one here really knows.’

Alarms of all sorts clanged in Murk’s awareness, loud enough to drown out the surrounding creaking and complaining of the forest of trees. The hairs on his forearms rose tingling from his skin and he found it difficult to talk. ‘Have you a name, child?’ he managed, clearing his throat.

Her gaze became distant as she tilted her head. ‘For the longest time I did not know I needed one. Why distinguish one’s self from the other when there is no other? Then someone spoke to me and I knew the need. I asked for a name and he gave me one.’

‘And … what name was that, child?’

‘Celeste.’

Murk blew out a breath as if gut-punched. Not without a certain grim sense of humour, whoever that was. ‘And what are you doing here, Celeste?’

‘I do not know. I thought you’d know since you brought me here.’

Murk discovered he was sitting. He blinked up at the child who was now uncomfortably close, hands on knees, peering down at him. ‘You were dreaming for a time,’ she said. ‘Is that normal?’

‘It is when you’ve been hit over the head by a mattock,’ he grumbled under his breath.

She giggled, a hand covering her mouth. ‘I like you.’

‘That’s just dandy.’ Then he froze, listening. The surrounding woods had become quiet, almost breathless. ‘How long was I dreaming?’

She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘I do not know your measure of time.’

‘Listen, we have to get out of here. It isn’t safe for … for you.’

‘But I rather like it here.’

‘That is good,’ said a new voice, a deep reverberating one. ‘For you will be imprisoned here for ever.’

Murk slowly turned his head. It was a demon — one of the shadowkind, a great hulking Artorallah, all covered in bristly black hair. ‘I wouldn’t mess with this child if I were you,’ he warned. ‘I really wouldn’t.’

The demon pressed a taloned hand to its broad chest. ‘I? It is not I who will act. These woods are here to keep you trespassers out. It is they who will act.’

Celeste was frowning as she regarded the demon. ‘I don’t know if I like you,’ she said.

Murk reached out to her. ‘Celeste-’ He broke off because he discovered he could not move. Knotted roots had grown up over his legs. Black fresh earth was now climbing his thighs. With enormous effort he managed to contain his panic, and he raised his eyes to the Artorallah. ‘You are making a mistake. Edgewalker would not countenance this.’

The demon’s fangs grated as it sneered. ‘What do you know of He Who Guards The Realm?’

Roots now clenched Murk’s waist, crushing the breath from him. ‘I know he banishes! He doesn’t …’ he grunted his pain, ‘imprison.’

‘Stop this,’ Celeste demanded of the Artorallah.

‘I am sorry, little mage,’ the demon answered Murk, sounding genuinely regretful. ‘But you have entered the forest of the Azathanai. There will be no escape for you.’

‘I told you to stop this!’ Celeste repeated, and she stamped her foot.

In answer to that tiny gesture, the ground shook as if wrenched by an earthquake. The nearest trees juddered from root to tip, branches whipping and snapping. The eruption travelled onward through the woods in an ever-widening circle. Murk was thrown free. The Artorallah steadied itself against a trunk. What must have been stunned disbelief played across its alien face. The ground beneath Celeste’s feet steamed and glowed as if molten.

‘Please, child!’ Murk shouted from where he lay. ‘Let us just go!’

She tossed her head high, her short hair flicking. ‘Well … if you wish. Very well.’ She waved a hand.

Blinking, Murk now peered up at the looming, concerned, lopsided face of Sour. He flinched from the warm stink of the man’s breath.

‘You was gone a long time there, Murk.’

He rubbed his face with both damp cold hands, let out a long hissed breath. He glanced about: it was evening, a light rain was falling, camp had been made. Someone had sat him down under a tree. Unfortunately in a damp spot and now the seat of his pants was sodden. Unless he was responsible for that damp spot — the moment he realized whom he’d met.

His gaze snapped to the nearby pack where it lay tied to its litter. So, no manifestation here. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Could it — she — hear, see, what was going on around it? Could he communicate with her? Did he want the responsibility?

Captain Yusen emerged from the mist as Sour wandered off on some errand of his own. He squatted to study Murk through his narrowed slit gaze. ‘You find something?’

Murk inclined his head to the litter. ‘It’s aware, Captain.’

The gaze shifted to the pack, narrowed almost closed amid all the wrinkles and folds from a lifetime of such tightening. Decades of squinting across fields for the tiniest betraying details of threats or deployments. ‘What do you mean, “aware”?’

‘I mean aware. We met. Calls herself Celeste. Might be listening right now.’

Now the mouth pursed tight. The hatchet lines bracketing it deepened and lengthened. A worrier, this one, always thinking. ‘I see …’

‘Might be best to let the lads know. Watch their mouths. Act respectfully.’

A brief nod. ‘I understand. I’ll have a word with them. A way off.’ He straightened, cast one lingering glance to the litter, then offered Murk a nod. ‘Later.’

Murk fought the urge to salute. ‘Cap’n.’

Sour returned carrying a bowl of something steaming. He offered it and a fist of hardbread. ‘Reminds me too much of Blackdog.’

Murk winced. ‘I don’t want to hear about Blackdog.’ Gods, that mess! It still made him shiver. Just a lad then, fresh from his ’prenticeship with old blind Eghen. The man never did forgive him for joining the enemy …

‘ ’Cept it’s a lot warmer,’ Sour continued, musing. ‘An’ there’s way more rain. An’ it’s a jungle and not a forest or a bog.’ He wriggled down into a nook of dry roots close to Murk under the protection of the tall tree. ‘What’s the difference anyway? ’Tween a jungle and a forest?’

Murk edged away from him. ‘Damned if I know. Just words.’ He sucked on the bread, held the bowl between his knees, which were drawn up close to his chest. ‘I guess they mean places people feel threatened, where they don’t feel in charge or in control. Makes ’em want to hack it all down, that fear.’

‘What about the people living here?’

‘Hunh. Good question. ’Cause we’re foreigners to these lands we might think they feel the same fearful way about it, hey? But I don’t think they do. I think they call it home.’

Dusk came quickly beneath the cloud cover and the thick canopy. Sour’s eyes glistened in the dark and they shifted to the litter, and its burden, under guard of five soldiers. ‘And our guest? Somethin’ to fear? We don’t control it, neither …’

Murk chewed on the bread and winced as he bit down on a stone. He felt about for it then spat aside. ‘No. Not just now, anyway. It — she’s — curious right now. It’s as if …’ He swallowed any further speculation. It seemed premature. His partner’s attention swung briefly to him, then away. He tucked his hands up under his armpits and let his chin fall to his chest. Almost immediately the rise and fall of the fellow’s chest steadied and to all appearances he was asleep. But Murk knew he wasn’t; Sour had cast his awareness outwards and was watching the surroundings for anyone’s approach. Halfway into the night it would be his turn and so he wrapped his arms around his knees, set his chin on to his knees and let his eyes close.

What he hadn’t said was that this shard, or sliver, or whatever it was, seemed to have acted as if it had never met anyone before. As if it had always been alone, or imprisoned, or lost, or whatever. Innocent of everything. Naïve. An ignorant god. Laughable idea, wasn’t it? But there it was.

So, question was — what was he to do about it? Teach the thing the ways of the world? Him? A failed cadre mage and thief? No. Not for him. Way too much responsibility, that. Not in the job description. Still … there were others around this region who’d jump at the chance, weren’t there, Murk me boy? Would you want these Thaumaturgs teaching it what to believe? Or this Ardata and her menagerie? Who else was there? Maybe this Yusen fellow? Gods — did he want to be the one to offer someone such a dangerous choice? To be responsible for — well, for the disaster that could follow? Dare he do that to the man? Or anyone, for that matter?

A stick poked him and Murk cracked open one eye. Sweetly stood peering down at him; the scout looked to have been dragged through a mud pit. ‘Way?’ the man asked, hardly moving his lips, his hair plastered down by the rain.

Murk blinked up at him. ‘Way? You mean … which way? To go?’ The scout just stared, his jaws bunching as he chewed on something. ‘You mean tomorrow? Which way to go tomorrow?’ More silent chewing, the eyes flat and devoid of any emotion. Murk held up his open hands. ‘Look, Sweetly … this mysterious man of few words act is really getting up my nose. I’ve seen the act a thousand times and frankly, I’m tired of it. Okay? So … what do you say to that, hey?’

The eyes slid aside to squint into the dark for a time then returned to him. The scout chewed, thoughtful, then he ventured, ‘South?’

Murk let his head fall until his forehead pressed against his knees. ‘Yes. South. For now — south.’ He heard nothing but knew the man was gone. May the gods learn wisdom! What choice did he have? It would have to be him.

No one else around here seemed sane enough.

* * *

It was perhaps the constant unchanging drone of the insects that did it. That insistent buzzing that grated on one’s consciousness, sleeping and waking. The only defence was to block it out. To raise walls. If only to protect one’s mind. So would Shimmer sometimes come to herself, blinking and twitching, like a sleeper breaching the surface of a deep slumber. During these moments she often found she was standing at the rail staring at the murky river’s surface where branches and other wrack drifted past — even the occasional fat and gorgeously bright flower blossom. Sometimes it would be day, the sun blurred as if seen through air like a thick sticky soup; other times it would be night, the Scimitar glowing deep jade behind the cloud cover of the seasonal rains. It did not seem to matter. In any case, the scenery never changed: thick impenetrable jungle choked the shores. Occasionally she glimpsed what might have been the decaying remains of a dugout canoe lying on the muddy shore, or an overgrown clearing of cultivated land, or the rotted woven walls of what might have once been a collection of huts.

But all this was merely the mundane scenery. Bizarre visions also assaulted her. Storms of gaudy multicoloured birds would gyre past the vessel. Immense creatures resembling giant bats — wyverns? — glided through the night. Sometimes it seemed that faces appeared beneath the river, met her gaze, then drifted away. And she would catch glimpses of the oddest silhouettes of creatures she had no name for stalking the shores to either side: creatures half human and half beast. D’ivers? Soletaken? Or something completely unknown to her?

All the while some nagging irksome worry plucked and tugged at her. Something was wrong. Something … Blinking, she glanced about to see her fellow Avowed standing silent and immobile, as if dead, or enchanted. Broken branches cluttered the deck along with leaves and fallen equipment; the masts and yardarms hung draped in shreds of rotten sailcloth; vines the ship had scraped from trees dragged in the weak wash behind the vessel.

Shimmer blinked again then jerked, wrenching her hands from the rail. No! K’azz! Where was he? Must find him. In an immense lurch of mental effort she forced herself to turn to her nearest companion: Cole. She prodded the man, but he failed to respond. Drawing back her hand she slapped him across the face.

He rocked, his sandy hair flying. Then he touched at his jaw and frowned. ‘Shimmer?’

‘Where’s K’azz? Find him.’

‘Yes … right.’

Shimmer moved off, stepping carefully over the litter choking the deck. She found him near the bow, leaning on the railing. Rutana stood with him; she seemed to be studying him. ‘K’azz!’ He did not respond. She leaned close, trying to catch his gaze. ‘K’azz!’

His attention slowly rose to her. His pale hazel eyes focused. ‘Yes?’

‘We haven’t eaten in days. We need to put in. We’re all weakening.’

He cocked his head as if trying to recall something, then nodded thoughtfully. ‘Ah, yes.’ He turned to Rutana. ‘We must put in.’

Leaning on the railing, hands clenching her upper arms, the woman crooked her maddening half-smile. ‘You can try …’

‘I demand it,’ said K’azz and he moved to the unmanned tiller.

Shimmer glanced ahead and pointed. ‘There! A clearing.’

K’azz slewed the tiller arm over. At first nothing happened. Perhaps it was K’azz’s will, or a grudging acquiescence on the part of whatever drove the vessel, but gradually the bowsprit, draped in its hanging creepers and branches, edged over towards the shore.

The servant of Ardata pursed her wrinkled lips, as if determined to appear indifferent.

‘Wake everyone,’ K’azz told Shimmer. She went to obey.

When the vessel neared the shore Cole and Amatt dived in, swam to the root-choked slope and dragged themselves up. The best ropes that could be found were tossed, and they tied them off where they could. A tiny dory was lowered. All this, Rutana and her compatriot Nagal watched from the rail, arms crossed, their expressions set in mild disapproval.

Turgal, Amatt and Cole set off into the dense woods as a hunting party. Shimmer and the two mages walked about the shore, relieved to be free of the river for a time. Like everyone, Shimmer had long since abandoned her metal armour and now wore only her long padded gambeson, metal-studded, and hung with straps and buckles. She carried her long whipsword on her back, a knife belted at her side. Her hair hung loose, sticking to the back of her neck. She knew it stank of old sweat.

Here, between deluges of the rainy season, the ground was dry, the undergrowth long dead. Perhaps new shoots were soon to arise. The humidity in the close confines of the jungle, the rankness of rotting vegetation, all oppressed her. Exploring, she found the remains of an old village, perhaps even the layered remains of many such. Decaying bamboo poles stood from the ground. Stones lay half buried: for grinding? For building? She picked up one worked into a haft or long handle. A pestle? What could they have been grinding here? She’d seen only small gardens.

The snap of branches brought her attention round; her absent-minded wandering had brought her far from the others, and much farther from the riverside than she’d intended. Shapes moved through the woods around her. Hunched forward they were, gangly, with long arms and long heads. They closed now from all sides. Shimmer turned in place, reaching back to draw her whipsword.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

One of the creatures stilled, rising back on its rear legs. ‘Impertinence!’ it coughed, as if barking. ‘That you should demand such of us!’

‘We who live here,’ said another, from close behind, making Shimmer spin about.

Closer now, they resembled Soletaken, yet not. A great deal of the man-jackal Ryllandaras looked to be in them as they resembled half men, half dogs, with long dark muzzles, and coats of hair striped tawny and black across their backs. She even glimpsed multiple teats on one — females, too?

‘What do you want?’ she demanded, striking a ready stance. It surprised her that though it was distorted and slurred by their canine mouths, they were speaking an accented Talian.

‘You should ask that of us!’ the first growled again. ‘You who invade our lands!’

‘Your lands?’

The creature threw its taloned hands wide as if enraged. Grey hair lined its stomach. ‘Who else? Stupid trespasser.’

‘You speak Talian …’

‘We speak your Isturé tongue, yes. You brothers and sisters of betrayers and turncoats.’

‘You mean Skinner …’

Many about her hunched, hissing and growling at the name. ‘Yes. Now, get back in your thing that floats and go away. We do not want you here. You are not welcome. Go away.’

‘Ardata invited us.’

The creatures snarled anew, hands spasming as if eager to tear at her. Long carmine tongues lolled as they panted. ‘Speak not her name! You are unworthy. You are betrayers and untrue.’

‘Betrayers? So Skinner-’

Enraged, they closed all at once. Shimmer spun, the keen blade of her whipsword flashing in the light. The nearest lurched away clutching at slashed forearms, muzzles, throats. In the pause of surprise that followed, she warned, ‘I mean you no harm!’

Something struck her from behind and she fell, twisting, to look up at another. ‘Eat the bitch!’ this one howled and threw its maw wide, teeth reaching for her.

Flames lanced over Shimmer, roaring like an opened furnace. The creatures yowled their agony. She clenched her eyes, holding her breath, and turned her face into the hot dry earth. A great rushing wind pulled at her and the heat dissipated. She lifted her face to dare a glance. The dry brush was aflame all about her. Smoking blackened carcasses lay amid the ash, seeping boiling juices. She straightened, gingerly, whipsword ready.

To one side stood a figure as familiar as it was impossible that he should be here: her dead fellow Avowed, Smoky. He appeared just as stunned as she. He studied his hands, obviously quite bewildered.

‘How …’ she began, amazed.

‘Got no damned idea,’ he said before he dissipated into blown dust that drifted away on the anaemic wind.

Someone approached, steps crackling in the burnt grass. Shimmer turned to see the Jacuruku witch Rutana. She was kneading the many leather straps that encircled her arms as she studied the seared earth. She lifted her chin. ‘I told you not to leave the ship.’

‘Foreigner …’ a voice grated, weak and wet.

Shimmer glanced about searching for the source of the faint call. She found that one of the blackened shapes still breathed. ‘Yes?’

The dog-creature licked its lips. It breathed in quick short pants. ‘Leave,’ it grated. ‘You do not deserve her. You will never — you will never … love her …’

‘Love her?’

The creature’s short breaths slowed. The light in its brown eyes dimmed and they took on a fixed stare. Shimmer turned her puzzled gaze to Rutana. ‘Love her? Ardata?’

The witch watched her silently for a time while reaching some sort of decision, then scorn twisted her slash of a lipless mouth. ‘We do not want you here. Nor do we need you.’

Shimmer brushed past the woman. ‘Funny — that’s exactly how I feel.’

On her way back to the vessel, Shimmer shouted a recall. She found Lor and ordered her to spread the word. K’azz she found exactly where he’d been earlier. Something in her anger must have communicated itself through the stamp of her booted feet because he turned at her approach, one brow raised.

‘Yes, Shimmer?’

‘Why in the Abyss are we here?’ she demanded.

He crossed his arms, sighing, and seeing these old familiar mannerisms worn by this old man made Shimmer wince yet again. What has happened to him? Is the power of the Vow doing this to him? Eating him alive? Should I feel pity? All I feel is revulsion.

‘We are here to deal with Skinner.’

‘You have already disavowed him.’

‘It seems that is not enough.’

‘You mean he is still bound?’

He gave a slow reluctant nod. ‘Yes. It appears so.’

‘Then we will never be rid of him!’

A sad smile crossed his aged face. ‘Like family, Shimmer.’

She slumped against the rail. ‘Damn it to Hood!’

Gwynn and Lor joined them. ‘What has happened?’ Gwynn asked. ‘There’s a familiar smell in the air …’

Shimmer nodded. ‘I was attacked. The locals don’t want us here.’

‘I could have told you that,’ Lor murmured, peering down to where Cole, Turgal and Amatt struggled in the mud to push the vessel from the shore.

‘I was rescued by an Avowed — but a dead one. Smoky.’ She tried to catch K’azz’s gaze. ‘How could that be?’

The man would not meet her eye. Head lowered, he began, ‘The locals call this region Himatan. They claim it is half of the real world and half of the spirit realm. Perhaps the Brethren are closer to us here …’

Ahh, K’azz! So smooth a liar to others. Yet so poor a liar to us! What are you hiding? She turned her attention to the mages and found them just as uneasy as she. ‘Perhaps,’ she allowed. Her gaze promised the two words later. ‘Yet for now we-’

The vessel’s lurching interrupted her. Everyone righted themselves as the ship ground free of the shore. Shimmer glanced down to see the three Avowed all standing in the waist-high waters and staring their bemusement at a grinning Nagal as the big man brushed his hands together, appearing quite self-satisfied.

Shimmer frowned, thinking, Did that fellow alone just …?

She broke off as K’azz walked away. ‘What about Smoky?’ she called after him.

‘In time, Shimmer,’ he answered without turning. ‘We’ll see — in time.’

* * *

Saeng had never before dared enter the Gangrek Mounts that marked the formal border between Thaumaturg holdings and Ardata’s lands. Some named them the Fangs, or the Dragon’s Fangs, for their similarity to jutting teeth as they shot so suddenly from the flat jungle to rise sheer for hundreds of feet. They seemed to have grown so swiftly they brought the jungle with them; it hung down their black rock faces in vines, creepers and roots. Verdant greenery topped them like mussed shaggy pelts.

Hanu led, hacking his way through the denser brush and carrying her over the deeper sinks and the mires of choked pools. A troop of monkeys shadowed them, hooting and shaking the leaves amid the high canopy. Brightly coloured birds shot from branches in explosions of flame crimson and sapphire blue. They shrieked and chattered their irritation. Some flew on to roost high in the vegetation hanging from the rearing mountains. Closer now, she knew that mountains was something of a misnomer. Mountains, she understood, could be as big as countries. They took days, sometimes weeks, to climb or cross. These features were in no way as gigantic.

What these mounts did possess that made them potentially just as dangerous, however, were sudden sheer drops into seemingly bottomless sinkholes. Some of these were immense, containing entire lakes that she and Hanu were forced to detour around. The pits and openings dotted the ground, making it impossible to move after dark. And so come the evening, as the clouds thickened for the nightly rain, they would seek shelter amid these caves and sit out the rains, awaiting the dawn.

And it was into one of these pits one dark twilight that Hanu disappeared.

He was there one moment, cutting the brush from their path, and then he was gone. So sudden and silent was his disappearance it was as if the jungle had snatched him away. Saeng froze. ‘Hanu?’ she called, still not believing he was gone. ‘Hanu?’

Silence answered her, but not true silence: the ringing cacophony of the jungle — full of the brushing of broad heavy leaves, the creaking of trunks, the constant keen whirring of an infinity of insects, the piercing songs of unseen birds, and the distant rush of falling water.

‘Hanu!’

She edged forward one step, then another, parted the leafed vines. The path ended at a sheer drop into darkness. Water streamed down in a thin sheen and the hanging vines swung weakly as if slowing from a disturbance. ‘Hanu!’

She waited but no answer emerged from the dark. The evening’s warm deluge now pattered down, slapping her shoulders and hair.

‘Dammit to the Dark King …’ She took hold of the vines and yanked on them to test their strength. The hand-hold seemed solid enough. ‘I’m coming!’ She swung out over the abyss, fought to entwine her legs, and began letting herself down.

She descended into darkness. Immediately, her arms began to ache, her hands to numb. Her vision adjusted until she could make out an immense cavern. What little light remained beamed down as a thin glow illuminating the centre of a heaped pile of overgrown debris. The vines she clung to hung as a curtain halfway out over the gulf. Water streamed all about, hissing as it sliced into hidden pools. Suddenly dizzy, she turned her face away from the height to press it to the waxy leaves of the vines and their sweet stink. She descended by alternately easing the grip of each hand. The woody bark cut her palms and sliced the skin of her fingers but she held on for her life.

Eventually, after the pain became more than she believed she could take, she stumbled down on to uneven rocks. She had to force her hands open to free them from the bunched tangled vine she gripped. ‘Hanu?’ she called, panting. ‘Hanu?’

Where could he … By the restless dead, girl, are you some sort of mage or not? Saeng willed herself to see. In a swirl of colours the dark took on shades of deep crimson and bright yellow. She could see, but not normally: it seemed to depend upon what areas had been in the light — these glowed the brightest — while the depths of the cavern held a deep, almost black carmine. She set out searching among the jumble of fallen rock.

She splashed through pools of standing water. The sheets of falling rain obscured her vision. A sort of slime of rotting vegetation and mud covered the rocks, making her footing treacherous. While she searched through the grotto the crashing of the many streaming waterfalls swelled into a commingled roar.

It occurred to her that the pool she splashed through was rising. She slogged her way to the cavern’s centre, where the last of the light streamed down, and gave one last yell: ‘Hanu!’

Her voice returned to her, echoing. Panic rose choking her as the thought came: We’ll drown! Somehow the thought of imminent death calmed her, perhaps because it was something she was so very familiar with. Yes, death. Just two more ghosts, he and I. And thinking of that — aren’t you a damned witch? Saeng pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. Gods, girl! Use these damned magics they showed you!

She took three slow breaths before reaching out with her awareness, trying to sense him. She came up with nothing, which she thought odd. She ought to be able to sense him. Then she remembered all the countless protections and investments she’d layered upon him the many nights he’d accompanied her into the jungle. She reordered her thoughts so that she was reaching out to her brother, Hanu himself, from before he’d been taken from them. And now she sensed him. She sloshed through the rising waters and found him lying insensate, or dead, entangled in a heap of fallen vines.

She tried shaking him. ‘Hanu. Wake up!’ She felt over his stone-like armoured body, his enclosed helm, found no obvious wound, crack, or blood. Water now thundered down from all sides. A current began to push her as the waters flowed past. She had to raise Hanu’s head to keep it out of the rush.

An outlet. There must be some sort of an outlet, an underground stream, or river.

Something bashed into her and she clutched at the vines to support herself: a branch pushed past, carried along by the current. I’m standing in the bed of an underground stream!

The flow deepened and strengthened. She fought it, one arm entwined around a handful of the hanging vines, the other under the armoured chin of her brother. But it pulled at his limp heavy body. And he was far more massive than she. As time passed the cold water drained the strength from her. She came to understand that she would have to choose: it would have to be either the vines or him. But not both.

She held on for as long as she could in the swelling current. Her feet were swept out from beneath her. She locked her elbow under her brother’s chin, wrapped her other arm around the vines, but the water now sometimes overtopped her, choking her. What could she possibly do? What magery could save them? She couldn’t fly! Couldn’t breathe water! One thing only occurred to her, one last possibility should she lose her grip in what was now almost utter darkness.

The time finally came when the pull of the current upon her brother’s body was simply too much for her chilled bones and flagging strength. Screaming her frustration, she let go of the vines to hug the armoured body, striving to keep it on the surface. At the same instant she summoned her powers to work upon the form to keep it afloat, even buoyant, so that she could cling to it to save herself.

The roaring churning flow swept them out from under the cavern’s opening, and glancing ahead, Saeng now realized true blackness awaited them. It sucked them in like a swallowing throat. She took one panicked breath, considered using her magery to give herself some sort of further vision, dismissed the thought as there was nothing she could do, vision or not, and relaxed to allow the swift charging flow to drag her along.

Hanu in his armour crashed into unseen obstacles, scraping in a dragging of his stone armour against rock, and Saeng hoped he wasn’t enduring too much damage, while at the same time she was grateful that he was saving her from these same jagged hazards. At times her vision returned as the flow swept them along beneath similar openings. Through the gaps she glimpsed clouds and sheets of falling rain. They passed beneath a waterfall that pounded them, briefly submerging her. Saeng emerged spluttering and hiked up Hanu’s helm where she gripped his neck. She thought she felt him spasm then, perhaps coughing, and a new fear assaulted her: what if he should truly awake? Wouldn’t his first unthinking reaction be to strike out? To free himself?

‘It’s me,’ she whispered then, next to his helmed head, ‘Saeng.’

But he did not answer; nor did he move again.

A much louder roaring was gathering ahead. It sounded exactly like what she feared it would be: the course was nearing a massive waterfall. She could see no options, no way out. They were being swept along, helpless. Yet her power remained. It seemed to be working in keeping Hanu afloat. She would use it again — somehow — to keep them alive.

Still in complete and utter dark, which was perhaps a mercy in that she could not see the true horror that awaited them, they careered along in the grip of the rushing waters until the thundering engulfed them and, falling, they were airborne for a time. In her moment of greatest panic Saeng threw all her remaining strength and energy into one last effort to protect them, holding back nothing for herself.

Whatever it was she summoned pulled everything from her and the darkness of unconsciousness took her before she knew what their fate would be.

Birdsong awoke her. High sharp calls. She opened her eyes, wincing and blinking, into bright daylight. The crash of a waterfall rumbled nearby — the same one? Probably not. This one coursed in open daylight. She was sodden, chilled, aching all over from countless bruises and bumps, but otherwise seemed whole. She lay in the fall’s shallow rocky pond, perhaps deposited by the weakening current.

In a sudden panic she pushed herself erect and peered about, her wet hair whipping.

‘He’s over there,’ a child’s voice piped.

Saeng jerked, turning: a boy sat on the rocks nearby. He wore only a cotton wrap about his waist and his head was shaved in the manner of only the most backward and traditional villages. He held a stick in both hands, which he brought to his mouth and blew upon, piping the high birdsong that had woken her. He motioned with the crude handmade flute, pointing.

Gritting her teeth against her exhaustion, she struggled to her feet to limp over to where the lad indicated. Some distance off lay Hanu. He was on his side, immobile. She slumped to her knees next to him and shook him, water dripping from her clothes. ‘Hanu! Wake up. Can you hear me?’

‘So there’s someone in there?’ the lad said. ‘Is that one of those living statues that are the slaves of the mages?’

‘It’s just fancy armour,’ Saeng answered dully. She was so very tired. Was he dead? How could she even tell?

‘Is it?’ the lad answered in an oddly knowing tone that brought her gaze to him, squinting. ‘I’ve called Moon,’ the boy said, and he blew another piercing blast on the flute.

Saeng blinked, studying him. She must be more worn out than she’d thought. ‘I’m sorry? Did you say you called the moon?’

The boy made a great show of his scorn. ‘Not the Moon. Old Man Moon. He’s coming. But he’s slow. Not what he used to be, is Old Man Moon.’ And he blew a jaunty little tune.

Saeng just blinked anew, her brow clenching. What was going on? Something was, she was sure. She pressed a cold hand to her ringing head. ‘Where are we?’

‘In the jungle.’

‘Thank you.’ Saeng squinted up to the canopy of high branches where the sun glared through. It looked to her as if … ‘Are we east of the mountains?’

‘East. West. What is that to those who live their lives in the shadows of the jungle?’

She bit down on her exasperation — she suspected that she wasn’t really dealing with a young boy. She ventured: ‘Does the sun set behind the mountains?’

‘Of course it does. Why shouldn’t it? For a grown-up you don’t seem to know very much.’

‘Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.’ So, they’d made it. Passed through to the other side. Entered Himatan, where, she’d always heard, one walked half in the realm of spirits. A realm ruled by the most powerful spirit of all, Ardata, its Queen.

The lad blew a quick series of notes. ‘Ah! Here’s Moon.’

An old man emerged from among the tangled undergrowth. At least, he had the skinny hunched shape of an old man, but he appeared to be covered in black fur.

‘What’s this?’ he called. ‘Strangers in the jungle?’

Walking carefully, he edged his way down to the pond, his limbs stiff and stick-thin. Closer, Saeng could make out that what resembled a thick black pelt was in fact a dense matting of inked tattoos that covered him from head to toe. He studied her, peering down with tiny black eyes under greying tangled brows and surrounded by spidery glyphs. A lively humour seemed to dance in those eyes. ‘And what is your name, child?’

‘Saeng.’

‘And who is this unfortunate?’

‘My brother Hanu. Is he — can you tell, is he alive?’

The man’s brows rose in surprise. ‘You, of anyone, ought to know who is alive and who is not. But … he is your brother and so emotion intervenes. Try to see — calm your mind. See through your fears.’

Saeng nodded at the old man’s words. Yes, of course she should be able to sense this. It was just … she so dreaded the answer … Yet she had to know, and so she closed her eyes, still nodding, and reached out.

She found a slow steady heartbeat.

A half-gasp half-laugh of relief escaped her and she covered her mouth. Thank the Ancient Cult!

‘There!’ the old man announced. ‘That wasn’t so hard. Yes, he lives. But he dreams — he has taken a blow to the head, perhaps? I will have to examine him.’

‘Examine him? How can you? He’s — do you know how to remove the armour?’

A wave dismissed the difficulty. ‘I could if I had to, I suppose. But I needn’t. Now, let’s get him back to my house.’

Saeng looked the frail old man up and down. ‘You’ll send the boy for help, I imagine.’

Another wave of a hand completely covered in a web of hieroglyphs and symbols of power — even down to the fingertips. ‘I live alone but for my young offspring.’ He clambered down to Hanu’s side. ‘Now, the sooner we start the better … I am not as swift as I used to be.’

Saeng knew two hale men couldn’t lift her brother, encased as he was in his stone armour. It would be like attempting to lift an ox. ‘You can’t possibly …’ Her objection died away as the old man picked up Hanu’s arm and hiked her brother on to his back so that his armoured limbs hung down over the skinny shoulders that jutted no more than bare bone under tattooed skin.

Bent practically double, his head no higher than his waist, the old man pronounced: ‘There! Not so bad. Follow me, yes?’

Saeng stared, astounded, then quickly shuffled backwards out of the fellow’s way. ‘Yes. Yes … of course.’

‘Ripan! Lead the way.’

‘Must I, Moon?’ the youth sighed.

‘Ripan …’

The youth rose, sullen, rolling his eyes. Kicking at the stones and spinning his flute, he wandered into the jungle. The old man followed. His pace seemed no slower than when he emerged. Saeng brought up the rear.

As they went, Saeng heard the youth, Ripan, unseen ahead through the dense leafed underbrush, begin singing: ‘Poor Old Man Moon! How he has waned! Forgot his powers and learnin’. Now he is no more than a beast of burden!’

‘Ripan …’ the old man warned once again, his voice quite unstrained beneath his enormous burden. ‘We have guests.’

In answer the youth blew a blast upon his flute. Then he started up once more: ‘Poor Hanu stone soldier! Banged his head. Now I wonder … is their blood red?’

‘Ripan! Manners …’

A raw piercing blast from the flute answered that. Silent throughout this exchange, Saeng found it oddly reassuring that no matter where you were, or who, or what, it seemed that family relations were the same everywhere. After a time Ripan contented himself with playing quick irreverent tunes upon the flute, as if in sly counterpoint to Moon’s ponderous progress.

They came to a small clearing and at its centre a hut on tall poles, its walls and roof built of woven leaves. A rickety ladder of lashed branches led up to the slouched dwelling. It reminded Saeng of the poorest and most wretched huts of any village she’d ever visited. It frankly wasn’t at all what she’d been expecting.

To her gathering horror Moon started up the ladder, her brother draped over his back like a great sack of rice far larger than its bearer. She rushed forward. ‘Perhaps we could remain outside …’

‘No, no. No problem at all.’ He climbed a rung. The wood creaked and bent, but held. ‘You are my guests! You must stay within.’

‘What — both of us?’

‘Most assuredly. I insist.’

Grunting, he reached the top of the ladder, and in a great heave deposited her brother inside, his arms scraping the sides of the entrance, his legs sticking out. Moon pushed him in further then crawled in behind. A tattooed arm emerged to beckon: ‘Come, come!’

Fearing the entire structure would collapse at any moment, Saeng set one tentative foot on the ladder. The lad, Ripan, now leaned with his back to a post. He sighed his boredom while studying his flute. Gritting her teeth, she climbed. Within, there was only enough room for her to sit cross-legged next to the opening. Moon knelt at Hanu’s side, studying him. Her brother lay on bedding of grass and rough woven blankets, all tattered and moth-eaten. Other than this, the hut was empty: utterly without any other feature, possession, or item. No bowl, no pots, no utensils or any other personal touch.

This fact made Saeng the most uneasy. After watching Moon hunched over her brother for a time, she opened her mouth to ask how he was but noticed something that stilled the words in her throat. The dense forest of tattooed symbols and glyphs that covered Moon’s back in band after band were actually moving. Each pulsed, individually, almost imperceptibly. Waxing and waning, they revolved in their separate bands while the entire panoply appeared to be edging ever so slowly across the curve of his bent back.

Like the arch of the night sky turning came the thought, unbidden.

She swallowed and steadied herself against the pole of the opening. ‘How is he?’ she managed, her voice weak.

‘He has suffered a severe blow to the head. His mind has become unmoored and wanders now in a deep fugue.’ Grunting, the old man shifted, facing her. ‘He may never awaken again.’

‘Can you — is it in your power — to heal him?’

The man’s gaze flashed again with humour. ‘It just so happens that such matters are my particular area of specialty. You are lucky to have met me.’

And what does luck have to do with anything here in Himatan? was Saeng’s first thought, but she smiled her gratitude, letting out her breath. ‘I am so very relieved. Would you … please?’

His tangled salt and pepper brows rose. ‘Ah … as to that. We must strike a bargain, you and I.’

‘I would give anything to have him healed.’

Now those brows lowered in disapproval. ‘Do not be so quick to give everything away, child. There are those in these wilds who would take advantage of such an offer.’ Then he barked, loudly, ‘Ripan!’

The ladder swayed, then the youth’s comely head appeared. ‘Yes?’ he sighed.

‘Bring food for our guests.’

Ripan eyed Saeng up and down, almost grimacing his distaste. ‘Food?’

‘Yes.’

‘Such as …?’

‘Fowl, I would suggest. Cooked over a fire on a stick.’

Disgust twisted the youth’s angelic face. ‘That’s a vile thing to do to a bird.’

‘Do so in any case.’ He waved the youth away. ‘Go on.’

Ripan rolled his eyes again and heaved a sigh. ‘If I must.’ He slid out of sight.

Moon faced Saeng. ‘Now. As to our bargain. Over many years I have struck countless such. A favour for a favour. And with each bargain I have always asked just one service in particular.’

It was difficult for Saeng to find her voice but eventually she managed to ask, hoarsely, ‘And that is …?’

In a silent yet eloquent gesture the old man swept a hand down his bony ribcage and the round pot of his stomach, over the tangled maze of tattoos that covered every exposed wrinkle and bulge of skin.

Saeng drew a shuddering breath. Her palms suddenly pricked with sweat and her heart lurched from beat to beat. ‘Ah. I see …’

* * *

It was now only in passing that Osserc noted how the gathering glow of daylight outside the House’s grimed glazing dimmed into night and the watery green wash of the Visitor rippled across the table and Gothos opposite, only to give way to the bronze of dawn, and again, and once more, until he ignored the count of the changing light.

What does this creature want? More than all else, this troubled him. Jaghut! How they troubled everyone. He’d never been satisfied with his understanding of them. He studied the figure, as immobile as if carved from stone. What cast was that he saw in the line of the lips, the crinkle of the lined flesh at the corner of the amber eyes? Sublime amused condescension? More of their typical assumed superiority? Or was that just what he saw within them? If only he could know for certain.

Finally, he could no longer fight the rising strength of his resentment and he cleared his dust-dry throat to demand, loudly and harshly, ‘And why are you here? What do you believe will accrue to you?’

The bright golden eyes slit by their vertical pupils blinked. Gothos stirred, brushed cobwebs from his gnarled hands. ‘Nothing, I assure you. In this I am the mere messenger. The disinterested observer. As always.’

‘Why am I not assured?’

Gothos plucked another cobweb from his elbow. ‘Yes, why are you not? It would seem that otherwise this effort is entirely futile. Yes?’

‘Assure me.’

The glowing eyes narrowed almost dangerously. A long hissed breath escaped the Jaghut. Then, his lips drawing down in obvious distaste, he began, ‘For how long have I been accused of scheming, conniving, or otherwise plotting dark plots? Ages of machination …’ He lifted his hands to gesture about the empty room. ‘And look where I am …’

‘I propose you are just where you choose to be.’

‘It is true that my choices have brought me to where I am.’ Gothos tilted his head, his long grimed hair swinging. ‘The same is true for everyone.’

‘Events and the agency of others always intervene …’

‘True. One exists in the world. Categorically speaking, things will always happen. The test, then, is the choices one makes in response.’

Osserc noted a cobweb on his own shoulder. He brushed it away. ‘Can we set aside the mountain ascetic philosophizing?’

‘Yes, can we? I find it tiresome.’

Now Osserc glared. He clenched his teeth until they grated. Through clamped jaws he ground out: ‘So … why are you here?’

The Jaghut touched his fingertips together. ‘I do not know for certain. Nothing was said, of course. I merely found myself here. For a time I wondered — why me? Why of all those the Azath have at their disposal should I find myself here? And of course the obvious answer came that it is something of me, a quality or character, that is desired. Therefore, I am merely being me. That is all that is required. I am here to be your goad. Your adversary. A spur.’ He bared his scarred yellowed tusks in a mocking grin. ‘In short, I am to act as a prick.’

Osserc could not resist throwing his head back to bark a laugh. Even if the Jaghut’s expression displayed his awareness of the many layers he commented upon. Osserc’s answering smile was just as frosty. ‘Well … it is as if you were born to the role.’

Nothing more was said, as nothing more need be said. Osserc stared out the opaque window glazing, layered in grime and dirt, that cast a dim limpid glow within, the source of which he could not be certain was day or night. So. What was he to make of the fellow’s words? Jaghut. So many lies had they woven over the millennia. Yet false claims had been made on all sides. No one was innocent — they were always the first to die, the first to be trampled in others’ ruthless scramble for power and Ascension.

Yet Anomandaris … Cursing beneath his breath, Osserc broke off his musing to blink and refocus upon the room. Someone, or thing, had entered. He heard the pad and shush of light footsteps, yet saw nothing. Then the one other chair at the table, empty, scraped backwards as if of its own volition. A head appeared, brown and knobbly, shaped rather like the stone ammunition of an onager. Dark sly eyes slid side to side to regard him and Gothos, then the mouth parted in the wide expanse of a red yawn.

Osserc regarded the monkey-like creature that seemed to have the run of the House. While he watched, the beast arranged its wrinkled features into something resembling fixed concentration. Yet even as Osserc’s own gaze narrowed in annoyance, the creature began to nod, its head sinking, jerking, catching itself, glaring about panicked. Only to blink heavily yet again, its eyelids falling once more.

Osserc raised his gaze to the murk disguising the ceiling. Ancient Primordial Entities. Why had the Azath chosen to torture him in this fashion? They would have their revenge, wouldn’t they? And of course this — pricking — stung so much worse than any slap to the face.