Midnight tides

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘FIVE WINGS WILL BUY YOU A GROVEL. I ADMIT, MASTER, THE meaning of that saying escapes me.’

Tehol ran both hands through his hair, pulling at the tangles. ‘Ouch. It’s the Eternal Domicile, Bugg. Wings numbering five, a grovel at the feet of the Errant, at the feet of destiny. The empire is risen. Lether awakens to a new day of glory.’

They stood side by side on the roof.

‘But the fifth wing is sinking. What about four wings?’

‘Gulls in collision, Bugg. My, it’s going to be hot, a veritable furnace. What are the tasks awaiting you today?’

‘My first meeting with Royal Engineer Grum. The shoring up we’ve done with the warehouses impressed him, it seems.’

‘Good.’ Tehol continued staring out over the city for another moment, then he faced his servant. ‘Should it have?’

‘Impressed him? Well, the floors aren’t sagging and they’re bone dry. The new plaster isn’t showing any cracks. The owners are delighted-’

‘I thought I owned those warehouses.’

‘Aren’t you delighted?’

‘Well, you’re right, I am. Every one of me.’

‘That’s what I told the Royal Engineer when I responded to his first missive.’

‘What about the people fronting me on those investments?’

‘They’re delighted, too.’

‘Well,’ Tehol sighed, ‘it’s just that kind of day, isn’t it?’

Bugg nodded. ‘Must be, master.’

‘And is that all you have planned? For the whole day?’

‘No. I need to scrounge some food. Then I need to visit Shand and her partners to give them that list of yours again. It was too long.’

‘Do you recall it in its entirety?’

‘I do. Puryst Rott Ale, I liked that one.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But they weren’t all fake, were they?’

‘No, that would give it away too quickly. All the local ones were real. In any case, it’ll keep them busy for awhile. I hope. What else?’

‘Another meeting with the guilds. I may need bribe money for that.’

‘Nonsense. Stand fast – they’re about to be hit from another quarter.’

‘Strike? I hadn’t heard-’

‘Of course not. The incident that triggers it hasn’t happened yet. You know the Royal Engineer’s obliged to hire guild members only. We have to see that conflict eliminated before it gives us trouble.’

‘All right. I also need to check on that safe-house for Shurq and her newfound friend.’

‘Harlest Eberict. That was quite a surprise. Just how many undead people are prowling around in this city anyway?’

‘Obviously more than we’re aware of, master.’

‘For all we know, half the population might be undead – those people on the bridge there, there, those ones with all those shopping baskets in tow, maybe they’re undead.’

‘Possibly, master,’ Bugg conceded. ‘Do you mean undead literally or figuratively?’

‘Oh, yes, there is a difference, isn’t there? Sorry, I got carried away. Speaking of which, how are Shurq and Ublala getting along?’

‘Swimmingly.’

‘Impressively droll, Bugg. So, you want to check on their hidden abode. Is that all you’re up to today?’

‘That’s just the morning. In the afternoon-’

‘Can you manage a short visit?’

‘Where?’

‘Rat Catchers’ Guild.’

‘Scale House?’

Tehol nodded. ‘I have a contract for them. I want a meeting – clandestine – with the Guild Master. Tomorrow night, if possible.’

Bugg looked troubled. ‘That guild-’

‘I know.’

‘I can drop by on my way to the gravel quarry.’

‘Excellent. Why are you going to the gravel quarry?’

‘Curiosity. They opened up a new hill to fill my last order, and found something.’

‘What?’

‘Not sure. Only that they hired a necromancer to deal with it. And the poor fool disappeared, apart from some hair and toe nails.’

‘Hmm, that is interesting. Keep me informed.’

‘As always, master. And what have you planned for today?’

‘I thought I’d go back to bed.’

Brys lifted his gaze from the meticulous scroll and studied the scribe seated across from him. ‘There must be some mistake,’ he said.

‘No sir. Never, sir.’

‘Well, if these are just the reported disappearances, what about those that haven’t been reported?’

‘Between thirty and fifty per cent, I would say, sir. Added on to what we have. But those would be the blue-edged scrolls. They’re stored on the Projected Shelf.’

‘The what?’

‘Projected. That one, the one sticking out from the wall over there.’

‘And what is the significance of the blue edges?’

‘Posited realities, sir, that which exists beyond the statistics. We use the statistics for formal, public statements and pronouncements, but we operate on the posited realities or, if possible, the measurable realities.’

‘Different sets of data?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s the only way to operate an effective government. The alternative would lead to anarchy. Riots, that sort of thing. We have posited realities for those projections, of course, and they’re not pretty.’

‘But’ – Brys looked back down at the scroll – ‘seven thousand disappearances in Letheras last year?’

‘Six thousand nine hundred and twenty-one, sir.’

‘With a possible additional thirty-five hundred?’

‘Three thousand four hundred and sixty and a half, sir.’

‘And is anyone assigned to conduct investigations on these?’

‘That has been contracted out, sir.’

‘Clearly a waste of coin, then-’

‘Oh no, the coin is well spent.’

‘How so?’

‘A respectable amount, sir, which we can use in our formal and public pronouncements.’

‘Well, who holds this contract?’

‘Wrong office, sir. That information is housed in the Chamber of Contracts and Royal Charters.’

‘I’ve never heard of it. Where is it?’

The scribe rose and walked to a small door squeezed between scroll-cases. ‘In here. Follow me, sir.’

The room beyond was not much larger than a walk-in closet. Blue-edged scrolls filled cubby-holes from floor to ceiling on all sides. Rummaging in one cubby-hole at the far wall, the scribe removed a scroll and unfurled it. ‘Here we are. It’s a relatively new contract. Three years so far. Ongoing investigations, biannual reports delivered precisely on the due dates, yielding no queries, each one approved without prejudice.’

‘With whom?’

‘The Rat Catchers’ Guild.’

Brys frowned. ‘Now I am well and truly confused.’

The scribe shrugged and rolled up the scroll to put it away. Over his shoulder he said, ‘No need to be, sir. The guild is profoundly competent in a whole host of endeavours-’

‘Competence doesn’t seem a relevant notion in this matter,’ Brys observed.

‘I disagree. Punctual reports. No queries. Two renewals without challenge. Highly competent, I would say, sir.’

‘Nor is there any shortage of rats in the city, as one would readily see with even a short walk down any street.’

‘Population management, sir. I dread to think what the situation would be like without the guild.’

Brys said nothing.

A defensiveness came to the scribe’s expression as he studied the Finadd for a long moment. ‘We have nothing but praise for the Rat Catchers’ Guild, sir.’

‘Thank you for your efforts,’ Brys said. ‘I will find my own way out. Good day.’

‘And to you, sir. Pleased to have been of some service.’

Out in the corridor, Brys paused, rubbing at his eyes. Archival chambers were thick with dust. He needed to get outside, into what passed for fresh air in Letheras.

Seven thousand disappearances every year. He was appalled.

So what, I wonder, has Tehol stumbled onto? His brother remained a mystery to Brys. Clearly, Tehol was up to something, contrary to outward appearances. And he had somehow held on to a formidable level of efficacy behind – or beneath – the scenes. That all too public fall, so shocking and traumatic to the financial tolls, now struck Brys as just another feint in his brother’s grander scheme – whatever that was.

The mere thought that such a scheme might exist worried Brys. His brother had revealed, on occasion, frightening competence and ruthlessness. Tehol possessed few loyalties. He was capable of anything.

All things considered, the less Brys knew of Tehol’s activities, the better. He did not want his own loyalties challenged, and his brother might well challenge them. As with Hull. Oh, Mother, it is the Errant’s blessing that you are not alive to see your sons now. Then again, how much of what we are now is what you made us into?

Questions without answers. There seemed to be too many of those these days.

He made his way into the more familiar passages of the palace. Weapons training awaited him, and he found himself anticipating that period of blissful exhaustion. If only to silence the cacophony of his thoughts.

There were clear advantages to being dead, Bugg reflected, as he lifted the flagstone from the warehouse office floor, revealing a black gaping hole and the top rung of a pitted bronze ladder. Dead fugitives, after all, needed no food, no water. No air, come to that. Made hiding them almost effortless.

He descended the ladder, twenty-three rungs, to arrive at a tunnel roughly cut from the heavy clay and then fired to form a hard shell. Ten paces forward to a crooked stone arch beneath which was a cracked stone door crowded with hieroglyphs. Old tombs like this were rare. Most had long since collapsed beneath the weight of the city overhead or had simply sunk so far down in the mud as to be unreachable. Scholars had sought to decipher the strange sigils on the doors of the tombs, while common folk had long wondered why tombs should have doors at all. The language had only been partially deciphered, sufficient to reveal that the glyphs were curse-laden and aspected to the Errant in some mysterious way. All in all, cause enough to avoid them, especially since, after a few had been broken into, it became known that the tombs contained nothing of value, and were peculiar in that the featureless plain stone sarcophagus each tomb housed was empty. There was the added unsubstantiated rumour that those tomb-robbers had subsequently suffered horrid fates.

The door to this particular tomb had surrendered its seal to the uneven heaving descent of the entire structure. Modest effort could push it to one side.

In the tunnel, Bugg lit a lantern using a small ember box, and set it down on the threshold to the tomb. He then applied his shoulder to the door.

‘Is that you?’ came Shurq’s voice from the darkness within.

‘Why yes,’ Bugg said, ‘it is.’

‘Liar. You’re not you, you’re Bugg. Where’s Tehol? I need to talk to Tehol.’

‘He is indisposed,’ Bugg said. Having pushed the door open to allow himself passage into the tomb, he collected the lantern and edged inside.

‘Where’s Harlest?’

‘In the sarcophagus.’

There was no lid to the huge stone coffin. Bugg walked over and peered in. ‘What are you doing, Harlest?’ He set the lantern down on the edge.

‘The previous occupant was tall. Very tall. Hello, Bugg. What am I doing? I am lying here.’

‘Yes, I see that. But why?’

‘There are no chairs.’

Bugg turned to Shurq Elalle. ‘Where are these diamonds?’

‘Here. Have you found what I was looking for?’

‘I have. A decent price, leaving you the majority of your wealth intact.’

‘Tehol can have what’s left in the box there. My earnings from the whorehouse I’ll keep.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want a percentage from this, Shurq? Tehol would be happy with fifty per cent. After all, the risk was yours.’

‘No. I’m a thief. I can always get more.’

Bugg glanced around. ‘Will this do for the next little while?’

‘I don’t see why not. It’s dry, at least. Quiet, most of the time. But I need Ublala Pung.’

Harlest’s voice came from the sarcophagus. ‘And I want sharp teeth and talons. Shurq said you could do that for me.’

‘Work’s already begun on that, Harlest.’

‘I want to be scary. It’s important that I be scary. I’ve been practising hissing and snarling.’

‘No need for concern there,’ Bugg replied. ‘You’ll be truly terrifying. In any case, I should be going-’

‘Not so fast,’ Shurq cut in. ‘Has there been any word on the robbery at Gerun Eberict’s estate?’

‘No. Not surprising, if you think about it. Gerun’s undead brother disappears, the same night as some half-giant beats up most of the guards. Barring that, what else is certain? Will anyone actually attempt to enter Gerun’s warded office?’

‘If I eat human flesh,’ Harlest said, ‘it will rot in my stomach, won’t it? That means I will stink. I like that. I like thinking about things like that. The smell of doom.’

‘The what? Shurq, probably they don’t know they’ve been robbed. And even if they did, they wouldn’t make a move until their master returns.’

‘I expect you’re right. Anyway, be sure to send me Ublala Pung. Tell him I miss him. Him and his-’

‘I will, Shurq. I promise. Anything else?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Let me think.’

Bugg waited.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said after a time, ‘what do you know about these tombs? There was a corpse here, once, in that sarcophagus.’

‘How can you be certain?’

Her lifeless eyes fixed on his. ‘We can tell.’

‘Oh. All right.’

‘So, what do you know?’

‘Not much. The language on the door belongs to an extinct people known as Forkrul Assail, who are collectively personified in our Fulcra by the personage we call the Errant. The tombs were built for another extinct people, called the Jaghut, whom we acknowledge in the Hold we call the Hold of Ice. The wards were intended to block the efforts of another people, the T’lan Imass, who were the avowed enemies of the Jaghut. The T’lan Imass pursued the Jaghut in a most relentless manner, including those Jaghut who elected to surrender their place in the world – said individuals choosing something closely resembling death. Their souls would travel to their Hold, leaving their flesh behind, the flesh being stored in tombs like this one. That wasn’t good enough for the T’lan Imass. Anyway, the Forkrul Assail considered themselves impartial arbiters in the conflict, and that was, most of the time, the extent of their involvement. Apart from that,’ Bugg said with a shrug, ‘I really can’t say.’

Harlest Eberict had slowly sat up during Bugg’s monologue and was now staring at the manservant. Shurq Elalle was motionless, as the dead often were. Then she said, ‘I have another question.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Is this common knowledge among serving staff?’

‘Not that I am aware of, Shurq. I just pick up things here and there, over time.’

‘Things no scholar in Letheras picks up? Or are you just inventing as you go along?’

‘I try to avoid complete fabrication.’

‘And do you succeed?’

‘Not always.’

‘You’d better go now, Bugg.’

‘Yes, I’d better. I’ll have Ublala visit you tonight.’

‘Do you have to?’ Harlest asked. ‘I’m not the voyeuristic type-’

‘Liar,’ Shurq said. ‘Of course you are.’

‘Okay, so I’m lying. It’s a useful lie, and I want to keep it.’

‘That position is indefensible-’

‘That’s a rich statement, coming from you and given what you’ll be up to tonight-’

Bugg collected the lantern and slowly backed out as the argument continued. He pushed the door back in place, slapped the dust from his hands, then returned to the ladder.

Once back in the warehouse office, he replaced the flagstone, then collecting his drawings, he made his way to the latest construction site. Bugg’s Construction’s most recent acquisition had once been a school, stately and reserved for children of only the wealthiest citizens of Letheras. Residences were provided, creating the typical and highly popular prison-style educational institution. Whatever host of traumas were taught within its confines came to an end when, during one particularly wet spring, the cellar walls collapsed in a sluice of mud and small human bones. The floor of the main assembly hall promptly slumped during the next gathering of students, burying children and instructors alike in a vast pit of black, rotting mud, in which fully a third drowned, and of these the bodies of more than half were never recovered. Shoddy construction was blamed, leading to a scandal.

Since that event, fifteen years past, the derelict building had remained empty, reputedly haunted by the ghosts of outraged proctors and bewildered hall monitors.

The purchase price had been suitably modest.

The upper levels directly above the main assembly hall were structurally compromised, and Bugg’s first task had been to oversee the installation of bracing, before the crews could re-excavate the pit down to the cellar floor. Once that floor was exposed – and the jumble of bones dispatched to the cemetery – shafts were extended straight down, through lenses of clay and sand, to a thick bed of gravel. Cement was poured in and a ring of vertical iron rods put in place, followed by alternating packed gravel and cement for half the depth of the shaft. Limestone pillars, their bases drilled to take the projecting rods, were then lowered. From there on upwards, normal construction practices followed. Columns, buttresses and false arches, all the usual techniques in which Bugg had little interest.

The old school was being transformed into a palatial mansion. Which they would then sell to some rich merchant or noble devoid of taste. Since there were plenty of those, the investment was a sure one.

Bugg spent a short time at the site, surrounded by foremen thrusting scrolls in his face describing countless alterations and specifications requiring approval. A bell passed before he finally managed to file his drawings and escape.

The street that became the road that led to the gravel quarry was a main thoroughfare wending parallel with the canal. It was also one of the oldest tracks in the city. Built along the path of a submerged beach ridge of pebbles and cobbles sealed in clay, the buildings lining it had resisted the sagging decay common to other sections of the city. Two hundred years old, many of them, in a style so far forgotten as to seem foreign.

Scale House was tall and narrow, squeezed between two massive stone edifices, one a temple archive and the other the monolithic heart of the Guild of Street Inspectors. A few generations past, a particularly skilled stone carver had dressed the limestone facade and formal, column-flanked entrance with lovingly rendered rats. In multitudes almost beyond counting. Cavorting rats, dancing rats, fornicating rats. Rats at war, at rest, rats feasting on corpses, swarming feast-laden tabletops amidst sleeping mongrels and drunk servants. Scaly tails formed intricate borders to the scenes, and in some strange way it seemed to Bugg as he climbed the steps that the rats were in motion, at the corner of his vision, moving, writhing, grinning.

He shook off his unease, paused a moment on the landing, then opened the door and strode inside.

‘How many, how bad, how long?’

The desk, solid grey Bluerose marble, almost blocked the entrance to the reception hall, spanning the width of the room barring a narrow space at the far right. The secretary seated behind it had yet to look up from his ledgers. He continued speaking after a moment. ‘Answer those questions, then tell us where and what you’re willing to pay and is this a one-off or are you interested in regular monthly visits? And be advised we’re not accepting contracts at the moment.’

‘No.’

The secretary set down his quill and looked up. Dark, small eyes glittered with suspicion from beneath a single wiry brow. Ink-stained fingers plucked at his nose, which had begun twitching as if the man was about to sneeze. ‘We’re not responsible.’

‘For what?’

‘For anything.’ More tugging at his nose. ‘And we’re not accepting any more petitions, so if you’re here to deliver one you might as well just turn round and leave.’

‘What sort of petition might I want to hand to you?’ Bugg asked.

‘Any sort. Belligerent tenement associations have to wait in line just like everyone else.’

‘I have no petition.’

‘Then we didn’t do it, we were never there, you heard wrong, it was someone else.’

‘I am here on behalf of my master, who wishes to meet with your guild to discuss a contract.’

‘We’re backed up. Not taking any more contracts-’

‘Price is not a consideration,’ Bugg cut in, then smiled, ‘within reasonable limits.’

‘Ah, but then it is a consideration. We may well have unreasonable limits in mind. We often have, you know.’

‘I do not believe my master is interested in rats.’

‘Then he’s insane… but interesting. The board will be in attendance tonight on another matter. Your master will be allotted a short period at the meeting’s end, which I will note in the agenda. Anything else?’

‘No. What time tonight?’

‘Ninth bell, no later. Come late and he will be barred outside the chamber door. Be sure he understands that.’

‘My master is always punctual.’

The secretary made a face. ‘Oh, he’s like that, is he? Poor you. Now, begone. I’m busy.’

Bugg abruptly leaned forward and stabbed two fingers into the secretary’s eyes. There was no resistance. The secretary tilted his head back and scowled.

‘Cute,’ Bugg smiled, stepping back. ‘My compliments to the guild sorceror.’

‘What gave me away?’ the secretary asked as Bugg opened the door.

The manservant glanced back. ‘You are far too rat-like, betraying your creator’s obsession. Even so, the illusion is superb.’

‘I haven’t been found out in decades. Who in the Errant’s name are you?’

‘For that answer,’ Bugg said as he turned away, ‘you’ll need a petition.’

‘Wait! Who’s your master?’

Bugg gave a final wave then shut the door. He descended the steps and swung right. A long walk to the quarries was before him, and, as Tehol had predicted, the day was hot, and growing hotter.

Summoned to join the Ceda in the Cedance, the chamber of the tiles, Brys descended the last few steps to the landing and made his way onto the raised walkway. Kuru Qan was circling the far platform in a distracted manner, muttering under his breath.

‘Ceda,’ Brys called as he approached. ‘You wished to see me?’

‘Unpleasant, Finadd, all very unpleasant. Defying comprehension. I need a clearer mind. In other words, not mine. Perhaps yours. Come here. Listen.’

Brys had never heard the Ceda speak with such fraught dismay. ‘What has happened?’

‘Every Hold, Finadd. Chaos. I have witnessed a transformation. Here, see for yourself. The tile of the Fulcra, the Dolmen. Do you see? A figure huddled at its base. Bound to the menhir with chains. All obscured by smoke, a smoke that numbs my mind. The Dolmen has been usurped.’

Brys stared down at the tile. The figure was ghostly, and his vision blurred the longer he stared at it. ‘By whom?’

‘A stranger. An outsider.’

‘A god?’

Kuru Qan massaged his lined brow with his fingers as he continued pacing. ‘Yes. No. We hold no value in the notion of gods. Upstarts who are as nothing compared to the Holds. Most of them aren’t even real, simply projections of a people’s desires, hopes. Fears. Of course,’ he added, ‘sometimes that’s all that’s needed.’

‘What do you mean?’

Kuru Qan shook his head. ‘And the Azath Hold, this troubles me greatly. The centre tile, the Heartstone, can you sense it? The Azath Heartstone, my friend, has died. The other tiles clustered together around it, at the end, drawing tight as blood gathers in a wounded body. The Tomb is breached. Portal stands unguarded. You must make a journey for me to the square tower, Finadd. And go armed.’

‘What am I to look for?’

‘Anything untoward. Broken ground. But be careful – the dwellers within those tombs are not dead.’

‘Very well.’ Brys scanned the nearest tiles. ‘Is there more?’

Kuru Qan halted, brows lifting. ‘More? Dragon Hold has awakened. Wyval. Blood-Drinker. Gate. Consort. Among the Fulcra, the Errant is now positioned in the centre of things. The Pack draws nearer, and Shapefinder has become a chimera. Ice Hold’s Huntress walks frozen paths. Child and Seed stir to life. The Empty Hold – you can well see – has become obscured. Every tile. A shadow stands behind the Empty Throne. And look, Saviour and Betrayer, they have coalesced. They are one and the same. How is this possible? Wanderer, Mistress, Watcher and Walker, all hidden, blurred by mysterious motion. I am frightened, Finadd.’

‘Ceda, have you heard from the delegation?’

‘The delegation? No. From the moment of their arrival in the Warlock King’s village, all contact with them has been lost. Blocked by Edur sorcery, of a sort we’ve not experienced before. There is much that is troubling. Much.’

‘I should leave now, Ceda, while there’s still daylight.’

‘Agreed. Then return here with what you have discovered.’

‘Very well.’

The track leading to the quarries climbed in zigzag fashion to a notch in the hillside. The stands of coppiced trees on the flanks were sheathed in white dust. Goats coughed in the shade.

Bugg paused to wipe sweaty grit from his forehead, then went on.

Two wagons filled with stonecutters had passed him a short while earlier, and from the frustrated foreman came the unwelcome news that the crew had refused to work the quarry any longer, at least until the situation was resolved.

A cavity had been inadvertently breached, within which a creature of some sort had been imprisoned for what must have been a long, long time. Three ‘cutters had been dragged inside, their shrieks short-lived. The hired necromancer hadn’t fared any better.

Bugg reached the notch and stood looking down at the quarry pit with its geometric limestone sides cut deep into the surrounding land. The mouth of the cavity was barely visible near an area that had seen recent work.

He made his way down, coming to within twenty paces of the cave before he stopped.

The air was suddenly bitter cold. Frowning, Bugg stepped to one side and sat down on a block of limestone. He watched frost form on the ground to the left of the cave, reaching in a point towards the dark opening, the opposite end spreading ever wider in a swirl of fog. The sound of ice crunching underfoot, then a figure appeared from the widening end, as if striding out from nowhere. Tall, naked from the hips upward, grey-green skin. Long, streaked blonde hair hanging loose over the shoulders and down the back. Light grey eyes, the pupils vertical slits. Silver-capped tusks. Female, heavy-breasted. She was wearing a short skirt, her only clothing barring the leather-strapped moccasins, and a wide belt holding a half-dozen scabbards in which stabbing knives resided.

Her attention was on the cave. She anchored her hands on her hips and visibly sighed.

‘He’s not coming out,’ Bugg said.

She glanced over. ‘Of course he isn’t, now that I’m here.’

‘What kind of demon is he?’

‘Hungry and insane, but a coward.’

‘Did you put him there?’

She nodded. ‘Damned humans. Can’t leave things well enough alone.’

‘I doubt they knew, Jaghut.’

‘No excuse. They’re always digging. Digging here, digging there. They never stop.’

Bugg nodded, then asked, ‘So now what?’

She sighed again.

The frost at her feet burgeoned into angular ice, which then crawled into the cave mouth. The ice grew swiftly, filling the hole. The surrounding stone groaned, creaked, then split apart, revealing solid ice beneath it. Sandy earth and limestone chunks tumbled away.

Bugg’s gaze narrowed on the strange shape trapped in the centre of the steaming ice. ‘A Khalibaral? Errant take us, Huntress, I’m glad you decided to return.’

‘Now I need to find for him somewhere else. Any suggestions?’

Bugg considered for a time, then he smiled.

Brys made his approach between two of the ruined round towers, stepping carefully around tumbled blocks of stone half hidden in the wiry yellow grasses. The air was hot and still, the sunlight molten gold on the tower walls. Grasshoppers rose from his path in clattering panic and, at the faint sensation of crunching underfoot, Brys looked down to see that the ground was crawling with life. Insects, many of them unrecognizable to his eyes, oversized, awkward, in dull hues, scrambling to either side as he walked.

Since they were all fleeing, he was not unduly concerned.

He came within sight of the square tower. The Azath. Apart from its primitive style of architecture, there seemed to be little else to set it apart. Brys was baffled by the Ceda’s assertion that a structure of stone and wood could be sentient, could breathe with a life of its own. A building presupposed a builder, yet Kuru Qan claimed that the Azath simply rose into being, drawn together of its own accord. Inviting suspicion on every law of causality generations of scholars had posited as irrefutable truth.

The surrounding grounds were less mysterious, if profoundly more dangerous. The humped barrows in the overgrown yard were unmistakable. Gnarled and stunted, dead trees rose here and there, sometimes from the highest point of the mound, but more often from the flanks. A winding flagstone pathway began opposite the front door, the gate marked by rough pillars of unmortared stone wrapped in vines and runners. The remnants of a low wall enclosed the grounds.

Brys reached the edge of the yard along one side, the gate to his right, the tower to the left. And saw immediately that many of the barrows within sight had slumped on at least one of their sides, as if gutted from within. The weeds covering the mounds were dead, blackened as if by rot.

He studied the scene for a moment longer, then made his way round the perimeter towards the gateway. Striding between the pillars, onto the first flagstone – which pitched down to one side with a grinding clunk. Brys tottered, flinging his arms out for balance, and managed to recover without falling.

High-pitched laughter from near the tower’s entrance.

He looked up.

The girl emerged from the shadow cast by the tower. ‘I know you. I followed the ones following you. And killed them.’

‘What has happened here?’

‘Bad things.’ She came closer, mould-patched and dishevelled. ‘Are you my friend? I was supposed to help it stay alive. But it died anyway, and things are busy killing each other. Except for the one the tower chose. He wants to talk to you.’

‘To me?’

‘To one of my grown-up friends.’

‘Who,’ Brys asked, ‘are your other grown-up friends?’

‘Mother Shurq, Father Tehol, Uncle Ublala, Uncle Bugg.’

Brys was silent. Then, ‘What is your name?’

‘Kettle.’

‘Kettle, how many people have you killed in the past year?’

She cocked her head. ‘I can’t count past eight and two.’

‘Ah.’

‘Lots of eight and twos.’

‘And where do the bodies go?’

‘I bring them back here and push them into the ground.’

‘All of them?’

She nodded.

‘Where is this friend of yours? The one who wants to talk to me?’

‘I don’t know if he’s a friend. Follow me. Step where I step.’

She took him by the hand and Brys fought to repress a shiver at that clammy grip. Off the flagstoned path, between barrows, the ground shifting uncertainly beneath each cautious step. There were more insects, but of fewer varieties, as if some kind of attrition had occurred on the grounds of the Azath. ‘I have never seen insects like these before,’ Brys said. ‘They’re… big.’

‘Old, from the times when the tower was born,’ Kettle said. ‘Eggs in the broken ground. Those stick-like brown ones with the heads at both ends are the meanest. They eat at my toes when I sit still too long. And they’re hard to crush.’

‘What about those yellow, spiky ones?’

‘They don’t bother me. They eat only birds and mice. Here.’

She had stopped before a crumpled mound on which sat one of the larger trees in the yard, the wood strangely streaked grey and black, the twigs and branches projecting in curves rather than sharp angles.

Roots spread out across the entire barrow, the remaining bark oddly scaled, like snake skin.

Brys frowned. ‘And how are we to converse, with him in there and me up here?’

‘He’s trapped. He says you have to close your eyes and think about nothing. Like you do when you fight, he says.’

Brys was startled. ‘He’s speaking to you now?’

‘Yes, but he says that isn’t good enough, because I don’t know enough… words. Words and things. He has to show you. He says you’ve done this before.’

‘It seems I am to possess no secrets,’ Brys said.

‘Not many, no, so he says he’ll do the same in return. So you can trust each other. Somewhat.’

‘Somewhat. His word?’

She nodded.

Brys smiled. ‘Well, I appreciate his honesty. All right, I will give this a try.’ He closed his eyes. Kettle’s cold hand remained in his, small, the flesh strangely loose on the bones. He pulled his thoughts from that detail. A fighter’s mind was not in truth emptied during a fight. It was, instead, both coolly detached and mindful. Concentration defined by a structure which was in turn assembled under strict laws of pragmatic necessity. Thus, observational, calculating, and entirely devoid of emotion, even as every sense was awakened.

He felt himself lock into that familiar, reassuring structure.

And was stunned by the strength of the will that tugged him away. He fought against a rising panic, knowing he was helpless before such power. Then relented.

Above him, a sky transformed. Sickly, swirling green light surrounding a ragged black wound large enough to swallow a moon. Clouds twisted, tortured and shorn through by the descent of innumerable objects, each object seeming to fight the air as it fell, as if this world was actively resisting the intrusion. Objects pouring from that wound, tunnelling through layers of the sky.

On the landscape before him was a vast city, rising up from a level plain with tiered gardens and raised walkways. A cluster of towers rose from the far side, reaching to extraordinary heights. Farmland reached out from the city’s outskirts in every direction for as far as Brys could see, strange shadows flowing over it as he watched.

He pulled his gaze from the scene and looked down, to find that he stood on a platform of red-stained limestone. Before him steep steps ran downward, row upon row, hundreds, to a paved expanse flanked by blue-painted columns. A glance to his right revealed a sharply angled descent. He was on a flat-topped pyramid-shaped structure, and, he realized with a start, someone was standing beside him, on his left. A figure barely visible, ghostly, defying detail. It was tall, and seemed to be staring up at the sky, focused on the terrible dark wound.

Objects were striking the ground now, landing hard but with nowhere near the velocity they should have possessed. A loud crack reverberated from the concourse between the columns below, and Brys saw that a massive stone carving had come to rest there. A bizarre beast-like human, squatting with thickly muscled arms reaching down the front, converging with a two-handed grip on the penis. Shoulders and head were fashioned in the likeness of a bull. A second set of legs, feminine, were wrapped round the beast-man’s hips, the platform on which he crouched cut, Brys now saw, into a woman’s form, lying on her back beneath him. From nearby rose the clatter of scores of clay tablets – too distant for Brys to see if there was writing on them, though he suspected there might be – skidding as if on cushions of air before coming to a rest in a scattered swath.

Fragments of buildings – cut limestone blocks, cornerstones, walls of adobe, wattle and daub. Then severed limbs, blood-drained sections of cattle and horses, a herd of something that might have been goats, each one turned inside out, intestines flopping. Dark-skinned humans – or at least their arms, legs and torsos.

Above, the sky was filling with large pallid fragments, floating down like snow.

And something huge was coming through the wound. Wreathed in lightning that seemed to scream with pain, shrieks unending, deafening.

Soft words spoke in Brys’s mind. ‘My ghost, let loose to wander, perhaps, to witness. They warred against Kallor; it was a worthy cause. But… what they have done here…’

Brys could not pull his eyes from that howling sphere of lightning. He could see limbs within it, the burning arcs entwined about them like chains. ‘What – what is it?’

‘A god, Brys Beddict. In its own realm, it was locked in a war. For there were rival gods. Temptations…’

‘Is this a vision of the past?’ Brys asked.

‘The past lives on,’ the figure replied. ‘There is no way of knowing… standing here. How do we measure the beginning, the end – for all of us, yesterday was as today, and as it will be tomorrow. We are not aware. Or perhaps we are, yet choose – for convenience, for peace of mind – not to see. Not to think.’ A vague gesture with one hand. ‘Some say twelve mages, some say seven. It does not matter, for they are about to become dust.’

The massive sphere was roaring now, burgeoning with frightening speed as it plunged earthward. It would, Brys realized, strike the city.

‘Thus, in their effort to enforce a change upon the scheme, they annihilate themselves, and their own civilization.’

‘So they failed.’

The figure said nothing for a time.

And the descending god struck; a blinding flash, a detonation that shook the pyramid beneath them and sent fissures through the concourse below. Smoke, rising in a column that then billowed outward, swallowing the world in shadow. Wind rushed outward in a shock, flattening trees in the farmland, toppling the columns lining the concourse. The trees then burst into flame.

‘In answer to a perceived desperation, fuelled by seething rage, they called down a god. And died with the effort. Does that mean that they failed in their gambit? No, I do not speak of Kallor. I speak of their helplessness which gave rise to their desire for change. Brys Beddict, were their ghosts standing with us now, here in the future world where our flesh resides, thus able to see what their deed has wrought, they would recognize that all that they sought has come to pass.

‘That which was chained to the earth has twisted the walls of its prison. Beyond recognition. Its poison has spread out and infected the world and all who dwell upon it.’

‘You leave me without hope,’ Brys said.

‘I am sorry for that. Do not seek to find hope among your leaders. They are the repositories of poison. Their interest in you extends only so far as their ability to control you. From you, they seek duty and obedience, and they will ply you with the language of stirring faith. They seek followers, and woe to those who question, or voice challenge.

‘Civilization after civilization, it is the same. The world falls to tyranny with a whisper. The frightened are ever keen to bow to a perceived necessity, in the belief that necessity forces conformity, and conformity a certain stability. In a world shaped into conformity, dissidents stand out, are easily branded and dealt with. There is no multitude of perspectives, no dialogue. The victim assumes the face of the tyrant, self-righteous and intransigent, and wars breed like vermin. And people die.’

Brys studied the firestorm engulfing what was once a city of great beauty. He did not know its name, nor the civilization that had birthed it, and, it now struck him, it did not matter.

‘In your world,’ the figure said, ‘the prophecy approaches its azimuth. An emperor shall arise. You are from a civilization that sees war as an extension of economics. Stacked bones become the foundation for your roads of commerce, and you see nothing untoward in that-’

‘Some of us do.’

‘Irrelevant. Your legacy of crushed cultures speaks its own truth. You intend to conquer the Tiste Edur. You claim that each circumstance is different, unique, but it is neither different nor unique. It is all the same. Your military might proves the virtue of your cause. But I tell you this, Brys Beddict, there is no such thing as destiny. Victory is not inevitable. Your enemy lies in waiting, in your midst Your enemy hides without need for disguise, when belligerence and implied threat are sufficient to cause your gaze to shy away. It speaks your language, takes your words and uses them against you. It mocks your belief in truths, for it has made itself the arbiter of those truths.’

‘Lether is not a tyranny-’

‘You assume the spirit of your civilization is personified in your benign king. It is not. Your king exists because it is deemed permissible that he exist. You are ruled by greed, a monstrous tyrant lit gold with glory. It cannot be defeated, only annihilated.’ Another gesture towards the fiery chaos below. ‘That is your only hope of salvation, Brys Beddict. For greed kills itself, when there is nothing left to hoard, when the countless legions of labourers are naught but bones, when the grisly face of starvation is revealed in the mirror.

‘The god is fallen. He crouches now, seeding devastation. Rise and fall, rise and fall, and with each renewal the guiding spirit is less, weaker, more tightly chained to a vision bereft of hope.’

‘Why does this god do this to us?’

‘Because he knows naught but pain, and yearns only to share it, to visit it upon all that lives, all that exists.’

‘Why have you shown me this?’

‘I make you witness, Brys Beddict, to the symbol of your demise.’

‘Why?’

The figure was silent for a moment, then said, ‘I advised you to not look for hope from your leaders, for they shall feed you naught but lies. Yet hope exists. Seek for it, Brys Beddict, in the one who stands at your side, from the stranger upon the other side of the street. Be brave enough to endeavour to cross that street. Look neither skyward nor upon the ground. Hope persists, and its voice is compassion, and honest doubt.’

The scene began to fade.

The figure at his side spoke one last time. ‘That is all I would tell you. All I can tell you.’

He opened his eyes, and found himself once more standing before the barrow, the day dying around him. Kettle still held his hand in her cold clasp

‘You will help me now?’ she asked.

‘The dweller within the tomb spoke nothing of that.’

‘He never does.’

‘He showed me virtually nothing of himself. I don’t even know who, or what, he is.’

‘Yes.’

‘He made no effort to convince me… of anything. Yet I saw…’

Brys shook his head.

‘He needs help escaping his tomb. Other things are trying to get out. And they will. Not long now, I think. They want to hurt me, and everyone else.’

‘And the one we’re to help will stop them?’

‘Yes.’

‘What can I do?’

‘He needs two swords. The best iron there is. Straight blades, two-edged, pointed. Thin but strong. Narrow hilts, heavy pommels.’

Brys considered. ‘I should be able to find something in the armoury. He wants me to bring them here?’

Kettle nodded.

He needed help. But he did not ask for it. ‘Very well. I will do this. But I will speak to the Ceda regarding this.“

‘Do you trust him? He wants to know, do you trust this Ceda?’

Brys opened his mouth to reply, to say yes, then he stopped. The dweller within the barrow was a powerful creature, probably too powerful to be controlled. There was nothing here that would please Kuru Qan. Yet did Brys have a choice? The Ceda had sent him here to discover what had befallen the Azath… He looked over at the tower. ‘The Azath, it is dead?’

‘Yes. It was too old, too weak. It fought for so long.’

‘Kettle, are you still killing people in the city?’

‘Not many. Only bad people. One or two a night. Some of the trees are still alive, but they can’t feed on the tower’s blood any more. So I give them other blood, so they can fight to hold the bad monsters down. But the trees are dying too.’

Brys sighed. ‘All right. I will visit again, Kettle. With the swords.’

‘I knew I could like you. I knew you would be nice. Because of your brother.’

That comment elicited a frown, then another sigh. He gently disengaged his hand from the dead child’s grip. ‘Be careful, Kettle.’

‘It was a perfectly good sleep,’ Tehol said as he walked alongside Bugg.

‘I am sure it was, master. But you did ask for this meeting.’

‘I didn’t expect such a quick response. Did you do or say something to make them unduly interested?’

‘Of course I did, else we would not have achieved this audience.’

‘Oh, that’s bad, Bugg. You gave them my name?’

‘No.’

‘You revealed something of my grand scheme?’

‘No.’

‘Well, what did you say, then?’

‘I said money was not a consideration.’

‘Not a consideration?’ Tehol slowed his pace, drawing Bugg round. ‘What do you think I’m willing to pay them?’

‘I don’t know,’ the manservant replied. ‘I have no idea of the nature of this contract you want to enter into with the Rat Catchers’ Guild.’

‘That’s because I hadn’t decided yet!’

‘Well, have you decided now, master?’

‘I’m thinking on it. I hope to come up with something by the time we arrive.’

‘So, it could be expensive…’

Tehol’s expression brightened. ‘You’re right, it could be indeed. Therefore, money is not a consideration.’

‘Exactly.’

‘I’m glad we’re in agreement. You are a wonderful manservant, Bugg.’

‘Thank you, master.’

They resumed walking.

Before long they halted in front of Scale House. Tehol stared up at the riotous rodent facade for a time. ‘They’re all looking at me,’ he said.

‘They do convey that impression, don’t they?’

‘I don’t like being the singular focus of the attention of thousands of rats. What do they know that I don’t?’

‘Given the size of their brains, not much.’

Tehol stared for a moment longer, then he slowly blinked and regarded Bugg. Five heartbeats. Ten.

The manservant remained expressionless, then he coughed, cleared his throat, and said, ‘Well, we should head inside, shouldn’t we?’

The secretary sat as he had earlier that day, working on what seemed to Bugg to be the same ledger. Once again, he did not bother looking up. ‘You’re early. I was expecting punctual.’

‘We’re not early,’ Tehol said.

‘You’re not?’

‘No, but since the bell is already sounding, any more from you and we’ll be late.’

‘I’m not to blame. Never was at any point in this ridiculous conversation. Up the stairs. To the top. There’s only one door. Knock once then enter, and Errant help you. Oh, and the manservant can stay here, provided he doesn’t poke me in the eyes again.’

‘He’s not staying here.’

‘He’s not?’

‘No.’

‘Fine, then. Get out of my sight, the both of you.’

Tehol led the way past the desk and they began their ascent.

‘You poked him in the eyes?’ Tehol asked.

‘I judged it useful in getting his attention.’

‘I’m pleased, although somewhat alarmed.’

‘The circumstances warranted extreme action on my part.’

‘Does that happen often?’

‘I’m afraid it does.’

They reached the landing. Tehol stepped forward and thumped on the door. A final glance back at Bugg, suspicious and gauging, then he swung open the door. They strode into the chamber beyond.

In which rats swarmed. Covering the floor. The tabletop. On the shelves, clambering on the crystal chandelier. Crouched on the shoulders and peering from folds in the clothes of the six board members seated on the other side of the table.

Thousands of beady eyes fixed on Tehol and Bugg, including those of the three men and three women who were the heart of the Rat Catchers’ Guild.

Tehol hitched up his trousers. ‘Thank you one and all-’

‘You’re Tehol Beddict,’ cut in the woman seated on the far left. She was mostly a collection of spherical shapes, face, head, torso, breasts, her eyes tiny, dark and glittering like hardened tar. There were at least three rats in her mass of upright, billowed black hair.

‘And I’m curious,’ Tehol said, smiling. ‘What are all these rats doing here?’

‘Insane question,’ snapped the man beside the roundish woman. ‘We’re the Rat Catchers’ Guild. Where else are we supposed to put the ones we capture?’

‘I thought you killed them.’

‘Only if they refuse avowal,’ the man said, punctuating his words with a sneer for some unexplainable reason.

‘Avowal? How do rats make vows?’

‘None of your business,’ the woman said. ‘I am Onyx. Beside me sits Scint. In order proceeding accordingly, before you sits Champion Ormly, Glisten, Bubyrd and Ruby. Tehol Beddict, we suffered losses on our investments thanks to you.’

‘From which you have no doubt recovered.’

‘That’s not the point!’ said the woman called Glisten. She was blonde, and so slight and small that only her shoulders and head were above the level of the tabletop. Heaps of squirming rats passed in front of her every now and then, forcing her to bob her head up to maintain eye contact.

‘By my recollection,’ Tehol said reasonably, ‘you lost a little less than half a peak.’

‘How do you know that?’ Scint demanded. ‘Nobody else but us knows that!’

‘A guess, I assure you. In any case, the contract I offer will be for an identical amount.’

‘Half a peak!’

Tehol’s smile broadened. ‘Ah, I have your fullest attention now. Excellent.’

‘That’s an absurd amount,’ spoke Ormly for the first time. ‘What would you have us do, conquer Kolanse?’

‘Could you?’

Ormly scowled. ‘Why would you want us to, Tehol Beddict?’

‘It’d be difficult,’ Glisten said worriedly. ‘The strain on our human resources-’

‘Difficult,’ cut in Scint, ‘but not impossible. We’d need to recruit from our island cells-’

‘Wait!’ Tehol said. ‘I’m not interested in conquering Kolanse!’

‘You’re the type who’s always changing his mind,’ Onyx said. She leaned back and with a squeak a rat plummeted from her hair to thump on the floor somewhere behind her. ‘I can’t stand working with people like that.’

‘I haven’t changed my mind. It wasn’t me who brought up the whole Kolanse thing. In fact, it was Champion Ormly-’

‘Well, he can’t make up his mind neither. You two are made for each other.’

Tehol swung to Bugg. ‘I’m not indecisive, am I? Tell them, Bugg. When have you ever seen me indecisive?’

Bugg frowned.

‘Bugg!’

‘I’m thinking!’

Glisten’s voice came from behind a particularly large heap of rats. ‘I can’t see the point of any of this.’

‘That’s quite understandable,’ Tehol said evenly.

‘Describe your contract offer,’ Ormly demanded. ‘But be advised, we don’t do private functions.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I won’t waste my breath on explaining… unless it turns out to be relevant. Is it?’

‘I don’t know. How can I tell?’

‘Well, that’s my point exactly. Now, about the contract?’

‘All right,’ Tehol said, ‘but be warned, it’s complicated.’

Glisten’s plaintive voice: ‘Oh, I don’t like the sound of that!’

Tehol made an effort to see her, then gave up. The mound of rats on the tabletop in front of her was milling. ‘You surprise me, Glisten,’ he said. ‘It strikes me that the Rat Catchers’ Guild thrives on complications. After all, you do much more than, uh, harvest rats, don’t you? In fact, your primary function is as the unofficial assassins’ guild – unofficial because, of course, it’s an outlawed activity and unpleasant besides. You’re also something of a thieves’ guild, too, although you’ve yet to achieve full compliance among the more independent-minded thieves. You also provide an unusually noble function in your unofficial underground escape route for impoverished refugees from assimilated border tribes. And then there’s the-’

‘Stop!’ Onyx shrieked. In a slightly less shrill tone she said, ‘Bubyrd, get our Chief Investigator in here. Errant knows, if anyone needs investigating, it’s this Tehol Beddict.’

Tehol’s brows rose. ‘Will that be painful?’

Onyx leered and whispered, ‘Restrain your impatience, Tehol Beddict. You’ll get an answer to that soon enough.’

‘Is it wise to threaten a potential employer?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Onyx replied.

‘Your knowledge of our operations is alarming,’ Ormly said. ‘We don’t like it.’

‘I assure you, I have only admiration for your endeavours. In fact, my contract offer is dependent upon the fullest range of the guild’s activities. I could not make it without prior knowledge, could I?’

‘How do we know?’ Ormly asked. ‘We’ve yet to hear it.’

‘I’m getting there.’

The door behind them opened and the woman who was in all likelihood the Chief Investigator strode in past Tehol and Bugg. Stepping carefully, she took position on the far right of the table, arms crossing as she leaned against the wall.

Onyx spoke. ‘Chief Investigator Rucket, we have in our presence a dangerous liability.’

The woman, tall, lithe, her reddish hair cut short, was dressed in pale leathers, the clothing South Nerek in style, as if she had just come from the steppes. Although, of course, the nearest steppes were a hundred or more leagues to the east. She appeared to be unarmed. Her eyes, a startling tawny shade that looked more feline than human, slowly fixed on Tehol. ‘Him?’

‘Who else?’ Onyx snapped. ‘Not his manservant, surely!’

‘Why not?’ Rucket drawled. ‘He looks to be the more dangerous one.’

‘I’d agree,’ Bubyrd said in a hiss. ‘He poked my secretary in the eyes.’

Scint started. ‘Really? Just like that?’ He held up a hand and stretched out the first two fingers, then jabbed the air. ‘Like that? Poke! Like that?’

‘Yes,’ Bubyrd replied, glaring at Bugg. ‘He revealed the illusion! What’s the point of creating illusions when he just ups and pokes holes in them!’

Tehol swung to his manservant. ‘Bugg, are we going to get out of here alive?’

‘Hard to say, master.’

‘All because you poked that secretary in the eyes?’

Bugg shrugged.

‘Touchy, aren’t they?’

‘So it seems, master. Best get on with the offer, don’t you think?’

‘Good idea. Diversion, yes indeed.’

‘You idiots,’ Onyx said. ‘We can hear you!’

‘Excellent!’ Tehol stepped forward, carefully, so as to avoid crushing the seething carpet of rats. Gentle nudging aside with the toe of his moccasin seemed to suffice. ‘To wit. I need every tribal refugee in the city ushered out. Destination? The islands. Particular islands, details forthcoming. I need full resources shipped ahead of them, said supplies to be purchased by myself. You will work with Bugg here on the logistics. Second, I understand you are conducting an investigation into disappearances for the Crown. No doubt you’re telling them nothing of your findings. I, on the other hand, want to know those findings. Third, I want my back protected. In a short while, there will be people who will want to kill me. You are to stop them. Thus, my contract offer. Half a peak and a list of safe investments, and as to that last point, I suggest you follow my financial advice to the letter and swallow the expense-’

‘You want to be our financial adviser?’ Onyx asked in clear disbelief. ‘Those losses-’

‘Could have been avoided, had we been engaged in a closer relationship back then, such as the one we are about to enter into.’

‘What about those refugees who are Indebted?’ Ormly asked. ‘Having them all disappear could cause another crash in the Tolls.’

‘It won’t, because the trickle is to be so slow that no-one notices-’

‘How could they not notice?’

‘They will be… distracted.’

‘You’ve got something ugly planned, haven’t you, Tehol Beddict?’ Ormly’s small eyes glittered. ‘Meaning what happened the first time wasn’t no accident. Wasn’t incompetence neither. You just found yourself with a string in your hand, which you then tugged to see how much would unravel. You know what you’re telling us? You’re telling us you’re the most dangerous man in Lether. Why would we ever let you walk out of this chamber?’

‘Simple. This time I’m taking my friends with me. So the question is, are you my friends?’

‘And what if our Chief Investigator investigates you right here and right now?’

‘My scheme is already under way, Champion Ormly, whether I stay alive or not. It’s going to happen. Of course, if I die, then nobody escapes what’s coming.’

‘Hold on,’ Onyx said. ‘You said something about expense. You becoming our financial adviser is going to cost us?’

‘Well, naturally.’

‘How much?’

‘A quarter of a peak or thereabouts.’

‘So you pay us half and we pay you back a quarter.’

‘And so you come out ahead.’

‘He’s got a point,’ Scint said, snatching a rat from the table and biting its head off.

Everyone stared, including a roomful of rats.

Scint noticed, chewed for a moment, making crunching sounds, then said around a mouthful of rat head, ‘Sorry. Got carried away.’ He looked down at the headless corpse in his hand, then tucked it into his shirt and out of sight.

From where Glisten sat came a plaintive sound, then, ‘What did that rat ever do to you, Scinty?’

Scint swallowed, ‘I said sorry!’

Tehol leaned close to Bugg and whispered, ‘If you could poke any of them in the eyes…’

‘Three of ’em would likely complain, master.’

‘Can I guess?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Ormly, Bubyrd and Rucket.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘What are you two whispering about?’ Onyx demanded.

Tehol smiled at her. ‘Do you accept my offer?’

Brys found the Ceda in his work room, hunched over an upended crab lying on the table. He had removed the flat carapace covering the underside and was prodding organs with a pair of copper probes. The crab appeared to be dead.

Burners had been lit beneath a cauldron behind Kuru Qan, and the lid was rocking to gusts of steam.

‘Finadd, this array of organs is fascinating. But I’m distracting myself. Shouldn’t do that, not at this critical juncture.’ He set the instruments down and picked up the crab. ‘What have you to tell me?’

Brys watched the Ceda nudge the cauldron’s lid aside then drop the crab in. ‘The Azath tower is dead.’

Kuru Qan pushed the lid back into place then walked back to sit in his chair. He rubbed at his eyes. ‘What physical evidence is there?’

‘Little, admittedly. But a child is resident there, on the grounds,’ Brys replied. ‘The tower was in some sort of communication with her.’

‘The role of Keeper? Odd that the Hold should choose a child. Unless the original Keeper had died. And even then… odd.’

‘There is more,’ Brys said. ‘A resident within one of the barrows was accorded the role of protector. The child, Kettle, believes that person is capable of destroying the others – all of whom are close to escaping their prisons.’

‘The Hold, in its desperation, made a bargain, then. What else does this Kettle know of that resident?’

‘He speaks to her constantly. He speaks through her, as well. At the moment, he is trapped. He can go no further, and no, I don’t know how that situation will be resolved. Ceda, I also spoke to that stranger.’ Kuru Qan looked up. ‘He reached into your mind? And showed you what?’

Brys shook his head. ‘He made no effort to convince me of anything, Ceda. Voiced no arguments in his own defence. Instead, I was made witness to an event, from long ago, I believe.’

‘What kind of event?’

‘The bringing down of a god. By a cadre of sorcerors, none of whom survived the ritual.’

Kuru Qan’s eyes widened at these words. ‘Relevant? Errant bless me, I hope not.’

‘You have knowledge of this, Ceda?’

‘Not enough, Finadd, I’m afraid. And this stranger was witness to that dire scene?’

‘He was. Inadvertently, he said.’

‘Then he has lived a very long time.’

‘Is he a threat?’

‘Of course he is. None here could match his power, I would think. And, assuming he is successful in destroying the other residents of the yard, the question one must face is, what then?’

‘It strikes me as a huge assumption, Ceda. Killing the others. Why would he hold to his bargain with a now-dead Azath?’

‘One must believe that the Hold chose wisely, Finadd. Do you have doubts?’

‘I’m not sure. He has asked for weapons. Two swords. I am inclined to accede to his request.’

The Ceda slowly nodded. ‘Agreed. No doubt you were thinking of finding something in the armoury. But for an individual such as this, a normal weapon won’t do, even one of Letherii steel. No, we must go to my private hoard.’

‘I wasn’t aware you had one.’

‘Naturally. Now, a moment.’ Kuru Qan rose and walked back to the cauldron. Using large tongs, he retrieved the crab, the shell now a fiery red. ‘Ah, perfect. Of course, it can cool down some. So, follow me.’

Brys had thought he knew virtually every area of the old palace, but the series of subterranean chambers the Ceda led him into were completely unfamiliar to him, although not a single hidden door was passed through on the way. By the Finadd’s internal map, they were now under the river.

They entered a low-ceilinged chamber with rack-lined walls on which were hundreds of weapons. Brys had collected a lantern along the way and he now hung it from a hook in a crossbeam. He walked to a rack crowded with swords. ‘Why a private collection, Ceda?’

‘Curios, most of them. Some antiques. I am fascinated with forging techniques, particularly those used by foreign peoples. Also, there is sorcery invested in these weapons.’

‘All of them?’ Brys lifted one particular weapon from its hooks, a close match to the description relayed to him by Kettle.

‘Yes. No, put that one back, Finadd. It’s cursed.’

Brys replaced it.

‘In fact,’ Kuru Qan went on in a troubled voice, ‘they’re all cursed. Well, this could prove a problem.’

‘Perhaps I should go to the regular armoury-’

‘Patience, Finadd. It’s the nature of curses that allows us to possibly find a reasonable solution. Two swords, you said?’

‘Why would sorcerors curse a weapon?’

‘Oh, most often not an intentional act on their parts. Often it’s simply a matter of incompetence. In many cases, the sorcerous investment refuses to function. The iron resists the imposition, and the better the forging technique the more resistant the weapon is. Sorcery thrives on flaws, whether structural in the physical sense, or metaphorical in the thematic sense. Ah, I see your eyes glazing over, Finadd. Never mind. Let’s peruse the antiques, shall we?’

The Ceda led him to the far wall, and Brys immediately saw a perfect weapon, long and narrow of blade, pointed and double-edged, modest hilt. ‘Letherii steel,’ he said, reaching for it.

‘Yes, in the Blue Style, which, as you well know, is the very earliest technique for Letherii steel. In some ways, the Blue Style produces finer steel than our present methods. The drawbacks lie in other areas.’

Brys tested the weight of the weapon. ‘The pommel needs to be replaced, but otherwise…’ Then he looked up. ‘But it’s cursed?’

‘Only in so far as all Blue Style weapons are cursed. As you know, the blade’s core is twisted wire, five braids of sixty strands each. Five bars are fused to that core to produce the breadth and edge. Blue Style is very flexible, almost unbreakable, with one drawback. Finadd, touch the blade to any other here. Lightly, please. Go ahead.’

Brys did so, and a strange sound reverberated from the Blue Style sword. A cry, that went on, and on.

‘Depending on where on the blade you strike, the note is unique, although each will eventually descend or ascend to the core’s own voice. The effect is cumulative, and persistent.’

‘Sounds like a dying goat.’

‘There is a name etched into the base of the blade, Finadd. Arcane script. Can you read it?’

Brys squinted, struggled a moment with the awkward lettering, then smiled. ‘Glory Goat. Well, it seems a mostly harmless curse. Is there any other sorcery invested in it?’

‘The edges self-sharpen, I believe. Nicks and notches heal, although some material is always lost. Some laws cannot be cheated.’ The Ceda drew out another sword. ‘This one is somewhat oversized, I’ll grant you-’

‘No, that’s good. The stranger was very tall.’

‘He was now, was he?’

Brys nodded, shifting the first sword to his left hand and taking the one Kuru Qan held in his right. ‘Errant, this would be hard to wield. For me, that is.’

‘Sarat Wept,’ the Ceda said. ‘About four generations old. One of the last in the Blue Style. It belonged to the King’s Champion of that time.’

Brys frowned. ‘Urudat?’

‘Very good.’

‘I’ve seen images of him in frescos and tapestries. A big man-’

‘Oh, yes, but reputedly very quick.’

‘Remarkable, given the weight of this sword.’ He held it out. ‘The blade pulls. The line is a hair’s breadth outward. This is a left-handed weapon.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well,’ Brys considered, ‘the stranger fights with both hands, and he specified two full swords, suggesting-’

‘A certain measure of ambidexterity. Yes.’

‘Investment?’

‘To make it shatter upon its wielder’s death.’

‘But-’

‘Yes, another incompetent effort. Thus, two formidable weapons in the Blue Style of Letherii steel. Acceptable?’

Brys studied both weapons, the play of aquamarine in the lantern-light. ‘Both beautiful and exquisitely crafted. Yes, I think these will do.’

‘When will you deliver them?’

‘Tomorrow. I have no desire to enter those grounds at night.’ He thought of Kettle, and felt once more the clasp of her cold hand. It did not occur to him then that he had not informed the Ceda of one particular detail from his encounter at the tower. It was a matter that, outwardly at least, seemed of little relevance.

Kettle was more than just a child.

She was also dead.

Thanks to this careless omission, the Ceda’s measure of fear was not as great as it should have been. Indeed, as it needed to be. Thanks to this omission, and in the last moments before the Finadd parted company with Kuru Qan, a crossroads was reached, and then, inexorably, a path was taken.

The night air was pleasant, a warm wind stirring the rubbish in the gutters as Tehol and Bugg paused at the foot of the steps to Scale House.

‘That was exhausting,’ Tehol said. ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’

‘Don’t you want to eat first, master?’

‘You scrounged something?’

‘No.’

‘So we have nothing to eat.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Then why did you ask me if I wanted to eat?’

‘I was curious.’

Tehol anchored his fists on his hips and glared at his manservant. ‘Look, it wasn’t me who nearly got us investigated in there!’

‘It wasn’t?’

‘Well, not all me. It was you, too. Poking eyes and all that.’

‘Master, it was you who sent me there. You who had the idea of offering a contract.’

‘Poking eyes!’

‘All right, all right. Believe me, master, I regret my actions deeply!’

‘You regret deeply?’

‘Fine, deeply regret.’

‘That’s it, I’m going to bed. Look at this street. It’s a mess!’

‘I’ll get around to it, master, if I find the time.’

‘Well, that should be no problem, Bugg. After all, what have you done today?’

‘Scant little, it’s true.’

‘As I thought.’ Tehol cinched up his trousers. ‘Never mind. Lets go, before something terrible happens.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

FIFTEEN PACES, NO MORE THAN THAT. BETWEEN EMPEROR AND SLAVE. A stretch of Letherii rugs, booty from some raid a century or more past, on which paths were worn deep, a pattern of stolen colour mapping stunted roads across heroic scenes. Kings crowned. Champions triumphant. Images of history the Edur had walked on, indifferent and intent on their small journeys in this chamber.

Udinaas wasn’t prepared to ascribe any significance to these details. He had come to his own pattern, a gaze unwavering and precise, the mind behind it disconnected, its surface devoid of ripples and its depths motionless.

It was safer that way. He could stand here, equidistant between two torch sconces and so bathed by the light of neither, and in this indeterminate centre he looked on, silently watching as Rhulad discarded his bearskin, to stand naked before his new wife.

Udinaas might have been amused, had he permitted the emotion, to see the coins burned into the emperor’s penis pop off, one, two, two more, then four, as Rhulad’s desire became apparent. Coins thumping to the rug-strewn floor, a few bouncing and managing modest rolls before settling. He might have been horrified at the look in the emperor’s red-rimmed eyes as he reached out, beckoning Mayen closer. Waves of sympathy for the hapless young woman were possible, but only in the abstract.

Witnessing this macabre, strangely comic moment, the slave remained motionless, without and within, and the bizarre reality of this world played itself out without comment.

Her self-control was, at first, absolute. He took her hand and drew it down, pulling her closer. ‘Mayen,’ the emperor said in a rasp, in a voice that reached for tenderness and achieved little more than rough lust. ‘Should I reveal to you that I have dreamed of this moment?’ A harsh laugh. ‘Not quite. Not like this. Not… in so much… detail.’

‘You made your desires known, Rhulad. Before… this.’

‘Yes, call me Rhulad. As you did before. Between us, nothing need change.’

‘Yet I am your empress.’

‘My wife.’

‘We cannot speak as if nothing has changed.’

‘I will teach you, Mayen. I am still Rhulad.’

He embraced her then, an awkward, child-like encirclement in gold. ‘You need not think of Fear,’ he said. ‘Mayen, you are his gift to me. His proof of loyalty. He did as a brother should.’

‘I was betrothed-’

‘And I am emperor! I can break the rules that would bind the Edur. The past is dead, Mayen, and it is I who shall forge the future! With you at my side. I saw you looking upon me, day after day, and I could see the desire in your eyes. Oh, we both knew that Fear would have you in the end. What could we do? Nothing. But I have changed all that.’ He drew back a step, although she still held him with one hand. ‘Mayen, my wife.’ He began undressing her.

Realities. Moments one by one, stumbling forward. Clumsy necessities. Rhulad’s dreams of this scene, whatever they had been in detail, were translated into a series of mundane impracticalities. Clothes were not easily discarded, unless designed with that in mind, and these were not. Her passivity under his ministrations added to the faltering, until this became an event bereft of romance.

Udinaas could see his lust fading. Of course it would revive. Rhulad was young, after all. The feelings of the object of his hunger were irrelevant, for an object Mayen had become. His trophy.

That the emperor sensed the slipping away of any chance of interlocking desires became evident as he began speaking once more. ‘I saw in your eyes how you wanted me. Now, Mayen, no-one stands between us.’

But he does, Rhulad. Moreover, your monstrosity has become something you now wear on your flesh. And now what had to arrive. Letherii gold yields to its natural inclination. Now, Letherii gold rapes this Tiste Edur. Ha.

The emperor’s lust had returned. His own statements had convinced him.

He pulled her towards the bed at the far wall. It had belonged to Hannan Mosag, and so was crafted for a single occupant. There was no room for lying side by side, which proved no obstacle for Rhulad’s intentions. He pushed her onto her back. Looked down at her for a moment, then said, ‘No, I would crush you. Get up, my love. You will descend upon me. I will give you children. I promise. Many children, whom you will adore. There will be heirs. Many heirs.’

An appeal, Udinaas could well hear, to sure instincts, the promise of eventual redemption. Reason to survive the ordeal of the present.

Rhulad settled down on the bed. Arms out to the sides.

She stared down at him.

Then moved to straddle this cruciform-shaped body of gold. Descending over him.

A game of mortality, the act of sex. Reduced so that decades became moments. Awakening, revelling in overwrought sensation, a brief spurt meant to procreate, spent exhaustion, then death. Rhulad was young. He did not last long enough to assuage his ego.

Even so, at the moment before he spasmed beneath her, before his heavy groan that thinned into a whimper, Udinaas saw Mayen’s control begin to crumble. As if she had found a spark within her that she could flame into proper desire, perhaps even pleasure. Then, as he released, that spark flickered, died.

None of which Rhulad witnessed, for his eyes were closed and he was fully inside himself.

He would improve, of course. Or so it was reasonable to expect. She might even gain a measure of control over this act, and so revive and fan into life that spark.

At that moment, Udinaas believed Mayen became the empress, wife to the emperor. At that moment, his faith in her spirit withered – if faith was the right word, that singular war between expectation and hope. Had he compassion to feel, he might have understood, and so softened with empathy. But compassion was engagement, a mindfulness beyond that of mere witness, and he felt none of that.

He heard soft weeping coming from another place of darkness in the chamber, and slowly turned his head to look upon the fourth and last person present. As he had been, a witness to the rape with its hidden, metaphorical violence. But a witness trapped in the horror of feeling.

Among the crisscrossing worn paths of faded colour, one led to her.

Feather Witch huddled, pressed up against the wall, hands covering her face, racked with shudders.

Much more of this and she might end up killed. Rhulad was a man growing ever more intimate with dying. He did not need reminding of what it cost him and everyone around him. Even worse, he was without constraints.

Udinaas considered walking over to her, if only to tell her to be quiet. But his eyes fell on the intervening expanse of rugs and their images, and he realized that the distance was too great.

Mayen had remained straddling Rhulad, her head hanging down.

‘Again,’ the emperor said.

She straightened, began her motions, and Udinaas watched her search for that spark of pleasure. And then find it.

Wanting good, yearning for bad. As simple as that? Was this contradictory, confused map universally impressed upon the minds of men and women? That did not seem a question worth answering, Udinaas decided. He had lost enough already.

‘Shut that bitch up!’

The slave started at the emperor’s hoarse shout.

The weeping had grown louder, probably in answer to Mayen’s audible panting.

Udinaas pushed himself forward, across the rugs to where Feather Witch crouched in the gloom.

‘Get her out of here! Both of you, get out!’

She did not resist as he lifted her to her feet. Udinaas leaned close. ‘Listen, Feather Witch,’ he said under his breath. ‘What did you expect?’

Her head snapped up and he saw hatred in her eyes. ‘From you,’ she said in a snarl, ‘nothing.’

‘From her. Don’t answer – we must leave.’

He guided her to the side door, then through into the servants’ corridor beyond. He closed the door behind them, then pulled her another half-dozen steps down the passage. ‘There’s no cause for crying,’ Udinaas said. ‘Mayen is trapped, just like us, Feather Witch. It is not for you to grieve that she has sought and found pleasure.’

‘I know what you’re getting at, Indebted,’ she said, twisting her arm out of his grip. ‘Is that what you want? My surrender? My finding pleasure when you make use of me?’

‘I am as you say, Feather Witch. Indebted. What I want? My wants mean nothing. They have fallen silent in my mind. You think I still pursue you? I still yearn for your love?’ He shook his head as he studied her face. ‘You were right. What is the point?’

‘I want nothing to do with you, Udinaas.’

‘Yes, I know. But you are Mayen’s handmaiden. And I, it appears, am to be Rhulad’s own slave. Emperor and empress. That is the reality we must face. You and I, we are a conceit. Or we were. Not any more, as far as I am concerned.’

‘Good. Then we need only deal with each other as necessity demands.’

He nodded.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘I do not trust you.’

‘I do not care.’

Uncertainty. Unease. ‘What game are you playing at, Udinaas? Who speaks through your mouth?’ She stepped back. ‘I should tell her. About what hides within you.’

‘If you do that, Feather Witch, you will destroy your only chance.’

‘My only chance? What chance?’

‘Freedom.’

Her face twisted. ‘And with that you would purchase my silence? You are foolish, Indebted. I was born a slave. I have none of your memories to haunt me-’

‘My memories? Feather Witch, my memory of freedom is as an Indebted trapped in a kingdom where even death offers no absolution. My memory is my father’s memory, and would have been my children’s memory. But you misunderstood. I did not speak of my freedom. I spoke only of yours. Not something to be recaptured, but found anew.’

‘And how do you plan on freeing me, Udinaas?’

‘We are going to war, Feather Witch. The Tiste Edur will wage war against Lether.’

She scowled. ‘What of it? There have been wars before-’

‘Not like this one. Rhulad isn’t interested in raids. This will be a war of conquest.’

‘Conquer Lether? They will fail-’

‘Yes, they might. The point is, when the Edur march south, we will be going with them.’

‘Why are you so certain of all this? This war? This conquest?’

‘Because the Emperor has summoned the shadow wraiths. All of them.’

‘You cannot know such a thing.’

He said nothing.

‘You cannot,’ Feather Witch insisted.

Then she spun round and hurried down the passage.

Udinaas returned to the door. To await the summons he knew would come, eventually.

Emperor and slave. A score of paces, a thousand leagues. In the span of intractable command and obedience, the mind did not count distance. For the path was well worn, as it always had been and as it would ever be.

The wraiths gathered, in desultory legions, in the surrounding forest, among them massive demons bound in chains that formed a most poignant armour. Creatures heaving up from the sea to hold the four hundred or more K’orthan raider ships now being readied, eager to carry them south. Among the tribes, in every village, the sorcerors awakening to the new emperor’s demand.

A summons to war.

Across a worn rug.

Heroes triumphant.

From beyond the wooden portal came Mayen’s cry.

He emerged from the forest, his face pallid, his expression haunted, and halted in surprise at seeing the readied wagons, Buruk swearing at the Nerek as they scurried about. Seren Pedac had completed donning her leather armour and was strapping on her sword-belt.

She watched him approach.

‘Dire events, Hull Beddict.’

‘You are leaving?’

‘Buruk has so commanded.’

‘What of the iron he sought to sell?’

‘It goes back with us.’ She looked about, then said, ‘Come, walk with me. I need to speak one last time with the First Eunuch.’

Hull slowly nodded. ‘Good. There is much that I must tell you.’

Her answering smile was wry. ‘It was my intent to accord the same to you.’

They set off for the guest house near the citadel. Once more through the ringed divisions of the Edur city. This time, however, the citizens they passed were silent, sombre. Seren and Hull moved among them like ghosts.

‘I visited the old sites,’ Hull said. ‘And found signs of activity.’

‘What old sites?’ Seren asked.

‘North of the crevasse, the forest cloaks what was once a vast city, stretching on for leagues. It was entirely flagstoned, the stone of a type I’ve never seen before. It does not break, and only the action of roots has succeeded in shifting the slabs about.’

‘Why should there be any activity at such places? Beyond that of the usual ghosts and wraiths?’

Hull glanced at her momentarily, then looked away. ‘There are… kill sites. Piles of bones that have long since turned to stone. Skeletal remains of Tiste. Along with the bones of some kind of reptilian beast-’

‘Yes, I have seen those,’ Seren said. ‘They are collected and ground into medicinal powder by the Nerek.’

‘Just so. Acquitor, these sites have been disturbed, and the tracks I found were most disconcerting. They are, I believe, draconic.’

She stared at him in disbelief. ‘The Hold of the Dragon has remained inactive, according to the casters of the tiles, for thousands of years.’

‘When did you last speak to a caster?’

Seren hesitated, thinking back on Feather Witch’s efforts. When, it was hinted, all was in flux. ‘Very well. Draconic’ The thought of dragons, manifest in this world, was terrifying. ‘But I cannot see how this relates to the Tiste Edur-’

‘Seren Pedac, you must have realized by now that the Tiste Edur worship dragons. Father Shadow, the three Daughters, they are all draconic. Or Soletaken. In the depths of the crevasse a short distance from here can be found the shattered skull of a dragon. I believe that dragon is Father Shadow, the one the Edur call Scabandari Bloodeye. Perhaps this is the source of the betrayal that seems to be the heart of Edur religion. I found tracks there as well. Edur footprints.’

‘And what significance have you drawn from all this, Hull?’

‘There will be war. A fated war, born of a renewed sense of destiny. I fear for Hannan Mosag, for I think he has grasped a dragon’s tail – perhaps more than figuratively. This could prove too much, even for him and his K’risnan.’

‘Hull, the Warlock King no longer rules the Edur.’

Shock; then his expression darkened. ‘Did the delegation arrive with assassins in its company?’

‘He was deposed before the delegation’s arrival,’ she replied. ‘Oh, I don’t know where to begin. Binadas’s brother, Rhulad. He died, then rose again, with in his possession a sword – the gift that Hannan Mosag sought. Rhulad has proclaimed himself emperor. And Hannan Mosag knelt before him.’

Hull’s eyes shone. ‘As I said, then. Destiny.’

‘Is that what you choose to call it?’

‘I hear anger in your voice, Acquitor.’

‘Destiny is a lie. Destiny is justification for atrocity. It is the means by which murderers armour themselves against reprimand. It is a word intended to stand in place of ethics, denying all moral context. Hull, you are embracing that lie, and not in ignorance.’

They had reached the bridge. Hull Beddict halted and rounded on her. ‘You knew me once, Seren Pedac. Enough to give me back my life. I am not blind to this truth, nor to the truth of who you are. You are honourable, in a world that devours honour. And would that I had been able to take more from you than I did, to become like you. Even to join my life to yours. But I haven’t your strength. I could not refashion myself.’ He studied her for a moment, then continued before she could respond. ‘You are right, I am not blind. I understand what it means to embrace destiny. What am I trying to tell you is, it is the best I can do.’

She stepped back, as if buffeted by consecutive blows. Her eyes locked with his, and she saw in them the veracity of his confession. She wanted to scream, to loose her anguish, a sound to ring through the city as if to answer, finally and irrefutably, all that had happened.

But no. I am a fool to think that others feel as I do. This tide is rising, and there are scant few who would stand before it.

With heartbreaking gentleness, Hull Beddict reached out and took her arm. ‘Come, let us pay a visit to the First Eunuch.’

‘At the very least,’ Seren tried as they crossed the bridge, ‘your own position has become less relevant, making you in less danger than you might otherwise have been.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘You don’t?’

‘That depends. Rhulad may not accept my offer of alliance. He might not trust me.’

‘What would you do then, Hull?’

‘I don’t know.’

The guest house was crowded. Finadd Gerun Eberict had arrived, along with the First Eunuch’s own bodyguard, the Rulith, and a dozen other guards and officials. As Seren and Hull entered, they found themselves in the midst of a fierce exhortation from Prince Quillas Diskanar.

‘-sorcerors in both our camps. If we strike now, we might well succeed in cutting out the heart of this treacherous tyranny!’ He swung round. ‘Finadd Moroch Nevath, are our mages present?’

‘Three of the four, my prince,’ the warrior replied. ‘Laerdas remains with the ships.’

‘Very good. Well, First Eunuch?’

Nifadas was studying the prince, expressionless. He made no reply to Quillas, turning instead to regard Hull and Seren. ‘Acquitor, does the rain continue to fall?’

‘No, First Eunuch.’

‘And is Buruk the Pale ready to depart?’

She nodded.

‘I asked you a question, Nifadas!’ Quillas said, his face darkening.

‘Answering it,’ the First Eunuch said slowly, fixing his small eyes on the prince, ‘makes implicit the matter is worth considering. It is not. We are facing more than Hannan Mosag the warlock and his K’risnan. The emperor and his sword. Together, they are something… other. Those accompanying me are here under my guidance, and at present we shall remain in good faith. Tell me, Prince, how many assassins have you brought along with your sorcerors?’

Quillas said nothing.

Nifadas addressed Gerun Eberict. ‘Finadd?’

‘There are two,’ the man replied. ‘Both present in this chamber.’

The First Eunuch nodded, then seemed to dismiss the issue. ‘Hull Beddict, I am hesitant to offer you welcome.’

‘I am not offended by that admission, First Eunuch.’

‘Has the Acquitor apprised you of the situation?’

‘She has.’

‘And?’

‘For what it is worth, I advise you to leave. As soon as possible.’

‘And what will you do?’

Hull frowned. ‘I see no reason to answer that.’

‘You are a traitor!’ Quillas said in a hiss. ‘Finadd Moroch, arrest him!’

There was dismay on the First Eunuch’s features as Moroch Nevath drew his sword and stepped close to Hull Beddict.

‘You cannot do that,’ Seren Pedac said, her heart thundering in her chest.

All eyes fixed on her.

‘I am sorry, my prince,’ she continued, struggling to keep her voice even. ‘Hull Beddict is under the protection of the Tiste Edur. He was granted guest status by Binadas Sengar, brother to the emperor.’

‘He is Letherii!’

‘The Edur will be indifferent to that detail,’ Seren replied.

‘We are done here,’ Nifadas said. ‘There will be no arrests. Prince Quillas, it is time.’

‘Do we scurry at this emperor’s command, First Eunuch?’ Quillas was shaking with rage. ‘He asks for us, well enough. Let the bastard wait.’ He wheeled on Hull Beddict. ‘Know that I intend to proclaim you an outlaw and traitor of Lether. Your life is forfeit.’

A weary smile was Hull’s only reply.

Nifadas spoke to Seren. ‘Acquitor, will you accompany us to our audience with the emperor?’

She was surprised by the offer, and more than a little alarmed. ‘First Eunuch?’

‘Assuming Buruk is prepared to wait, of course. I am certain he will be, and I will send someone to inform him.’ He gestured and one of his servants hurried off. ‘Hull Beddict, I presume you are on your way to speak with Emperor Rhulad? At the very least, accompany us to the citadel. I doubt there will be any confusion of purposes once we enter.’

Seren could not determine the motives underlying the First Eunuch’s invitations. She felt rattled, off balance.

‘As you wish,’ Hull said, shrugging.

Nifadas in the lead, the four Letherii left the guest house and made their way towards the citadel. Seren drew Hull a pace behind the First Eunuch and Prince Quillas. ‘I’m not sure I like this,’ she said under her breath.

Hull grunted, and it was a moment before Seren realized it had been a laugh.

‘What is funny about that?’

‘Your capacity for understatement, Acquitor. I have always admired your ability to stay level.’

‘Indecisiveness is generally held to be a flaw, Hull.’

‘If it is certainty you want, Seren, then join me.’

The offer was uttered low, barely audible. She sighed. ‘I do not want certainty,’ she replied. ‘In fact, certainty is the one thing I fear the most.’

‘I expected that sort of answer.’

Two K’risnan met the party at the entrance and escorted them into the throne chamber.

Emperor Rhulad was seated once more, his new wife standing at his side, on the left. Apart from the two K’risnan, no-one else was present. Although Mayen’s face was fixed and without expression, something about it, ineffable in the way of the secret language among women, told Seren that a consummation had occurred, a binding that was reflected in Rhulad’s dark eyes, a light of triumph and supreme confidence. ‘Hull Beddict,’ he said in his rough voice, ‘blood brother to Binadas, you arrive in questionable company.’

‘Emperor,’ Hull said, ‘your brother’s faith in me is not misplaced.’

‘I see. And how does your prince feel about that?’

‘He is no longer my prince. His feelings mean nothing to me.’

Rhulad smiled. ‘Then I suggest you step to one side. I would now speak to the official delegation from Lether, such as it is.’

Hull bowed and walked three paces to the right.

‘Acquitor?’

‘Emperor, I come to inform you that I am about to leave, as escort to Buruk the Pale.’

‘We appreciate the courtesy, Acquitor. If that is all that brings you into our presence, best you join Hull.’

She bowed in acquiescence and moved away. Now why did Nifadas want this?

‘Emperor Rhulad,’ Nifadas said, ‘may I speak?’

The Edur regarded the First Eunuch with half-closed lids. ‘We permit it.’

‘The kingdom of Lether is prepared to enter negotiations regarding the debts incurred as a result of the illegal harvest of tusked seals.’

Like a snake whose tail had just been stepped on, Quillas hissed and spat in indignation.

‘The issue of debt,’ Rhulad responded, ignoring the prince, ‘is no longer relevant. We care nothing for your gold, First Eunuch. Indeed, we care nothing for you at all.’

‘If isolation is your desire-’

‘We did not say that, First Eunuch.’

Prince Quillas suddenly smiled, under control once more. ‘An opening of outright hostility between our peoples, Emperor? I would warn you against such a tactic, which is not to say I would not welcome it.’

‘How so, Prince Quillas?’

‘We covet the resources you possess, to put it bluntly. And now you give us the opportunity to acquire them. A peaceful solution could have been found in your acknowledgement of indebtedness to Lether. Instead, you voice the absurd lie that is it we who owe you!’

Rhulad was silent a moment, then he nodded and said, ‘Letherii economics seems founded on peculiar notions, Prince.’

‘Peculiar? I think not. Natural and undeniable laws guide our endeavours. The results of which you will soon discover, to your regret.’

‘First Eunuch, does the prince speak for Lether?’

Nifadas shrugged. ‘Does it matter, Emperor?’

‘Ah, you are clever indeed. Certainly more worthy of conversation with ourselves than this strutting fool whose nobility resides only in the fact of his crawling out from between a queen’s legs. You are quite right, First Eunuch. It no longer matters. We were simply curious.’

‘I feel no obligation to assuage that curiosity, Emperor.’

‘And now you show your spine, at last, Nifadas. We are delighted. Deliver these words to your king, then. The Tiste Edur no longer bow in deference to your people. Nor are we interested in participating in your endless games of misdirection and the poisonous words you would have us swallow.’ A sudden, strange pause, the ghost of some kind of spasm flitting across the emperor’s face. Then he shook himself, settled back. But the look in his eyes was momentarily lost. He blinked, frowned, then the gleam of awareness returned. ‘Moreover,’ he resumed, ‘we choose now to speak for the tribes you have subjugated for the hapless peoples you have destroyed. It is time you answered for your crimes.’

Nifadas slowly tilted his head. ‘Is this a declaration of war?’ he asked in a soft voice.

‘We shall announce our intention with deeds, not words, First Eunuch. We have spoken. Your delegation is dismissed. We regret that you travelled so far for what has turned out to be a short visit. Perhaps we will speak again in the future, although, we suspect, in very different circumstances.’

Nifadas bowed. ‘Then, if you will excuse us, Emperor, we must make ready to depart.’

‘You may go. Hull Beddict, Acquitor, remain a moment.’

Seren watched Quillas and Nifadas walk stiffly from the throne chamber. She was still thinking about that display from Rhulad. A crack, a fissure. I think I saw him then, young Rhulad, there inside.

‘Acquitor,’ Rhulad said as soon as the curtains fell back into place, drawing her attention round, ‘inform Buruk the Pale that he has right of passage for his flight. However, the duration of the privilege is short, so he best make haste.’

‘Emperor, the wagons perforce-’

‘We fear he will not have sufficient time to take his wagons with him.’

She blinked. ‘You expect him to abandon the iron in his possession?’

‘There are always risks in business, Acquitor, as you Letherii are quick to point out when it is to your advantage. Alas, the same applies when the situation is reversed.’

‘How many days do you permit us?’

‘Three. One more detail. The Nerek remain here.’

‘The Nerek?’

‘Are Indebted to Buruk, yes, we understand that. Yet another vagary of economics, alas, under which the poor man must suffer. He has our sympathy.’

‘Buruk is a merchant, Emperor. He is used to travelling by wagon. Three days for the return journey may well be beyond his physical abilities.’

‘That would be unfortunate, for him.’ The dead, cold gaze shifted. ‘Hull Beddict, what have you to offer us?’

Hull dropped to one knee. ‘I swear myself to your cause, Emperor.’

Rhulad smiled. ‘You do not yet know that cause, Hull Beddict.’

‘I believe I comprehend more than you might think, sire.’

‘Indeed

‘And I would stand with you.’

The emperor swung his attention back to Seren. ‘Best take your leave now Acquitor. This discussion is not for you.’

Seren looked across at Hull, and their eyes met. Although neither moved, it seemed to her that he was retreating before her, growing ever more distant, ever further from her reach. The intervening space had become a vast gulf, a distance that could not be bridged.

And so I lose you.

To this… creature.

Her thoughts ended there. As blank as the future now breached, the space beyond naught but oblivion, and so we plunge forward… ‘Goodbye, Hull Beddict.’

‘Fare you well, Seren Pedac.’

Her legs felt wobbly beneath her as she walked to the curtained exit.

Gerun Eberict was waiting for her ten paces from the citadel doors. There was smug amusement in his expression. ‘He remains inside, does he? For how long?’

Seren struggled to compose herself. ‘What do you want, Finadd?’

‘That is a difficult question to answer, Acquitor. I was asked by Brys Beddict to speak to his brother. But the opportunity seems increasingly remote.’

And if I tell him that Hull is lost to us, what would he do then?

Gerun Eberict smiled, as if he had read the thoughts in her mind.

She looked away. ‘Hull Beddict is under the emperor’s protection.’

‘I am pleased for him.’

She glared. ‘You do not understand. Look around, Finadd. This village is filled with shadows, and in those shadows are wraiths – servants to the Edur.’

His brows rose. ‘You believe I desire to kill him? Where has that suspicion come from, Acquitor? I did say “speak”, did I not? I was not being euphemistic.’

‘Your reputation gives cause for alarm, Finadd.’

‘I have no reason to proclaim Hull my enemy, regardless of his political allegiance. After all, if he proves to be a traitor, then the kingdom possesses its own means of dealing with him. I have no interest in interceding in such a matter. I was but endeavouring to consummate my promise to Brys.’

‘What did Brys hope to achieve?’

‘I’m not sure. Perhaps I was, once, but clearly everything has changed.’

Seren studied him.

‘And what of you, Acquitor?’ he asked. ‘You will escort the merchant back to Trate. Then what?’

She shrugged. There seemed little reason to dissemble. ‘I am going home, Finadd.’

‘Letheras? That residence has seen little of you.’

‘Clearly that is about to change.’

He nodded. ‘There will be no demand for Acquitors in the foreseeable future, Seren Pedac. I would be honoured if you would consider working for me.’

‘Work?’

‘My estate. I am involved in… extensive enterprises, You have integrity, Acquitor. You are someone I could trust.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Do not feel you need to answer here and now. I ask that you think on it. I shall call upon you in Letheras.’

‘I think, Finadd,’ Seren said, ‘that you will find yourself rather preoccupied with your military duties, given what is about to happen.’

‘My position is in the palace. I do not command armies.’ He looked round, and his gap-toothed smile returned. ‘These savages won’t reach Letheras. They’ll be lucky to make it across the frontier. You forget, Acquitor, we’ve faced similar enemies before. The Nerek had their spirit goddess – what was it called?’

‘The Eres’al.’

‘Yes, that’s it. The Eres’al. And the Tarthenal their five Seregahl, the Wrath Wielders. Warlocks and witches, curses and demons, we obliterated them one and all. And the Ceda and his cadre barely broke a sweat.’

‘I fear this time it will be different, Finadd.’

He cocked his head. ‘Acquitor, when you think of the Merchant Tolls, what do you imagine it to be?’

‘I don’t understand-’

‘The commercial core, the heart of the financial system which drives all of Lether, its every citizen, its very way of looking at the world. The Tolls are not simply coins stacked high in some secret vault. Not just traders howling their numbers before the day’s close. The Tolls are the roots of our civilization, the fibres reaching out to infest everything. Everything.’

‘What is your point, Finadd?’

‘You are cleverer than that, Acquitor. You understand full well. That heart feeds on the best and the worst in human nature. Exaltation and achievement, ambition and greed, all acting in self-serving concert. Thus, four facets of our nature, and not one sits well with constraints on its behaviour, on its expression. We win not just with armies, Seren Pedac. We win because our system appeals to the best and worst within all people, not just humans.’

‘Destiny.’

He shrugged. ‘Call it what you will. But we have made it inevitable and all-devouring-’

‘I see little of exaltation and achievement in what we do, Finadd. It would seem there is a growing imbalance-’

His laugh cut her off. ‘And that is the truth of freedom, Seren Pedac.’

She could feel her anger rising. ‘I always believed freedom concerned the granted right to be different, without fear of repression.’

‘A lofty notion, but you won’t find it in the real world. We have hammered freedom into a sword. And if you won’t be like us we will use that sword to kill you one by one, until your spirit is broken.’

‘What if the Tiste Edur surprise you, Finadd? Will you in turn choose to die in defence of your great cause?’

‘Some can die. Some will. Indeed, unlikely as it is, we may all die. But, unless the victors leave naught but ashes in their wake, the heart will beat on. Its roots will find new flesh. The emperor may have his demons of the seas, but we possess a monster unimaginably vast, and it devours. And what it cannot devour, it will smother, or starve. Win or lose, the Tiste Edur still lose.’

She stepped back. ‘Finadd Gerun Eberict, I want nothing to do with your world. And so you need not wait for my answer, for I have just given it.’

‘As you like, but know that I will think no less of you when you change your mind.’

‘I won’t.’

He turned away. ‘Everyone has to work to eat, lass. See you in Letheras.’

Udinaas had stood quietly in the gloom during the audience with the delegation. His fellow Letherii had not marked his presence. And, had they done so, it would not have mattered, for it was the emperor who commanded the exchange. After the dismissal of the delegation and the Acquitor’s departure, Rhulad had beckoned Hull Beddict closer.

‘You swear your fealty to us,’ the emperor said in a murmur, as if tasting each word before it escaped his mangled lips.

‘I know the details you need, Emperor, the location and complement of every garrison, every frontier encampment. I know their tactics, the manner in which armies are arrayed for battle. The way sorcery is employed. I know where the food and water caches are hidden – these are the military repositories, and they are massive.’

Rhulad leaned forward. ‘You would betray your own people. Why?’

‘Vengeance,’ Hull Beddict replied.

The word chilled Udinaas.

‘Sire,’ Hull continued, ‘my people betrayed me. Long ago. I have long awaited an opportunity such as this one.’

‘And so, vengeance. A worthy sentiment?’

‘Emperor, there is nothing else left for me.’

‘Tell us, Hull Beddict, will the mighty Letherii fleet take to the waves to challenge us?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Not at first, anyway.’

‘And their armies?’

‘The doctrine is one of an initial phase of rolling, mobile defence, drawing your forces ever forward. Then counter-attack. Deep strikes to cut your supply lines. Attack and withdraw, attack and withdraw. By the third phase, they will encircle your armies to complete the annihilation. Their fleets will avoid any sea engagement, for they know that to conquer Lether you must make landing. Instead, I suspect they will send their ships well beyond sight of the coastline, then attack your homeland. The villages here, which they will burn to the ground. And every Tiste Edur they find here, old or young, will be butchered.’

Rhulad grunted, then said, ‘They think we are fools.’

‘The Letherii military is malleable, Emperor. Its soldiers are trained to quick adaptation, should the circumstances warrant it. A formidable, deadly force, exquisitely trained and, employing the raised roads constructed exclusively for it, frighteningly mobile. Worse, they have numerical superiority-’

‘Hardly,’ Rhulad cut in, smiling. ‘The Edur possess new allies, Hull Beddict, as you shall soon discover. Very well, we are satisfied, and we conclude that you shall prove useful to us. Go now to our father’s house, and make greeting with Binadas, who will be pleased to see you.’

The Letherii bowed and strode from the chamber.

‘Hannan Mosag,’ Rhulad called in a low voice.

A side curtain was drawn aside and Udinaas watched the once-Warlock King enter.

‘It would seem,’ Rhulad said, ‘your studies of the Letherii military have yielded you an accurate assessment. His description of their tactics and strategies matches yours exactly.’

‘How soon, Emperor?’

‘Are the tribes readying themselves?’

‘With alacrity.’

‘Then very soon indeed. Tell us your thoughts on Nifadas and the prince.’

‘Nifadas understood quickly that all was lost, but the prince sees that loss as a victory. At the same time, both remain confident in their kingdom’s military prowess. Nifadas mourns for us, Emperor.’

‘Poor man. Perhaps he has earned our mercy for that misguided sentiment.’

‘Given the course you have chosen for our people, Emperor, mercy is a notion dangerous to entertain. You can be certain that none will be accorded us.’

Another spasm afflicted Rhulad, such as the one Udinaas had witnessed earlier. He thought he understood its source. A thousand bindings held together Rhulad’s sanity, but madness was assailing that sanity, and the defences were buckling. Not long ago, no more than the youngest son of a noble family, strutting the village but not yet blooded. In his mind, panoramic visions of glory swinging in a slow turn round the place where he stood. The visions of a youth, crowded with imagined scenarios wherein Rhulad could freely exercise his own certainty, and so prove the righteousness of his will.

And now that boy sat on the Edur throne.

He just had to die to get there.

The sudden manifestation of glory still fed him, enough to shape his words and thoughts and feed his imperial comportment, as if the royal ‘we’ was something to which he had been born. But this was at the barest edge of control. An imperfect facade, bolstered by elaborately constructed speech patterns, a kind of awkward articulation that suited Rhulad’s childlike notions of how an emperor should speak. These were games of persuasion, as much to himself as to his audience.

But, Udinaas was certain, other thoughts remained in Rhulad’s mind, gnawing at the roots and crawling like pallid worms through his necrotic soul. For all the glittering gold, the flesh beneath was twisted and scarred. To fashion the facade, all that lay beneath it had been malformed.

The slave registered all this in the span of Rhulad’s momentary spasm, and was unmoved. His gaze drifted to Mayen, but she gave nothing away, not even an awareness of her husband’s sudden extremity.

Across Hannan Mosag’s face, however, Udinaas saw a flash of fear, quickly buried beneath a bland regard.

A moment’s consideration and Udinaas thought he understood that reaction. Hannan Mosag needed his emperor to be sane and in control. Even power unveiled could not have forced him to kneel before a madman. Probably, the once-Warlock King also comprehended that a struggle was under way within Rhulad, and had resolved to give what aid he could to the emperor’s rational side.

And should the battle be lost, should Rhulad descend completely into insanity, what would Hannan Mosag do then?

The Letherii slave’s eyes shifted to the sword the emperor held like a sceptre in his right hand, the point anchored on the dais near the throne’s ornate foot. The answer hides in that sword, and Hannan Mosag knows far more about that weapon – and its maker – than he has revealed.

Then again, I do as well. Wither, the shadow wraith that had adopted Udinaas, had whispered some truths. The sword’s power had given Rhulad command of the wraiths. The Tiste Andii spirits.

Wither had somehow avoided the summons, announcing its victory with a melodramatic chuckle rolling through the slave’s head, and the wraith’s presence now danced with exaggerated glee in the Letherii’s mind. Witness to all through his eyes.

‘Emperor,’ Hannan Mosag said as soon as Rhulad had visibly regained himself, ‘the warlocks among the Arapay-’

‘Yes. They are not to resist. They are to give welcome.’

‘And the Nerek you have claimed from the merchant?’

‘A different consideration.’ Momentary unease in Rhulad’s dark eyes. ‘They are not to be disturbed. They are to be respected.’

‘Their hearth and the surrounding area has seen sanctification,’ Hannan Mosag said, nodding. ‘Of course that must be respected. But I have sensed little power from that blessing.’

‘Do not let that deceive you. The spirits they worship are the oldest this world has known. Those spirits do not manifest in ways we might easily recognize.’

‘Ah. Emperor, you have been gifted with knowledge I do not possess.’

‘Yes, Hannan Mosag, I have. We must exercise all caution with the Nerek. I have no desire to see the rising of those spirits.’

The once-Warlock King was frowning. ‘The Letherii sorcerors had little difficulty negating – even eradicating – the power of those spirits. Else the Nerek would not have crumbled so quickly.’

‘The weakness the Letherii exploited was found in the mortal Nerek, not in the spirits they worshipped. It is our belief now, Hannan Mosag, that the Eres’al was not truly awakened. She did not rise to defend those who worshipped her.’

‘Yet something has changed.’

Rhulad nodded. ‘Something has.’ He glanced up at Mayen. ‘Begun with the blessing of the Edur woman who is now my wife.’

She flinched and would meet neither Rhulad’s nor Hannan Mosag’s eyes.

The emperor shrugged. ‘It is done. Need we be concerned? No. Not yet. Perhaps never. None the less, we had best remain cautious.’

Udinaas resisted the impulse to laugh. Caution, born of fear. It was pleasing to know that the emperor of the Tiste Edur could still be afflicted with that emotion. Then again, perhaps I have read Rhulad wrongly. Perhaps fear is at the core of the monster he has become. Did it matter? Only if Udinaas endeavoured to entertain the game of prediction.

Was it worth the effort?

‘The Den-Ratha are west of Breed Bay,’ Hannan Mosag said. ‘The Merude can see the smoke of their villages.’

‘How many are coming by sea?’

‘About eight thousand. Every ship. Most of them are warriors, of course. The rest travel overland and the first groups have already reached the Sollanta border.’

‘Supplies?’ the emperor asked.

‘Sufficient for the journey.’

‘And nothing is being left behind?’

‘Naught but ashes, sire.’

‘Good.’

Udinaas watched Hannan Mosag hesitate, then say, ‘It is already begun. There is no going back now.’

‘You have no reason to fret,’ Rhulad replied. ‘I have already sent wraiths to the borderlands. They watch. Soon, they will cross over, into Lether.’

‘The Ceda’s frontier sorcerors will find them.’

‘Eventually, but the wraiths will not engage. Merely flee. I have no wish to show their power yet. I mean to encourage overconfidence.’

The two Edur continued discussing strategies. Udinaas listened, just one more wraith in the gloom.

Trull Sengar watched his father rebuilding, with meticulous determination, a kind of faith. Stringing together words spoken aloud yet clearly meant for himself, whilst his wife looked on with the face of an old, broken woman. Death had arrived, only to be shattered by a ghastly reprise, a revivification that offered nothing worth rejoicing in. A king had been cast down, an emperor risen in his place. The world was knocked askew, and Trull found himself detached, numb, witness to these painful, tortured scenes in which the innumerable facets of reconciliation were being attempted, resulting in exhausted silences in which tensions slowly returned, whispering of failure.

They had one and all knelt before their new emperor. Brother and son, the kin who had died and now sat bedecked in gold coins. A voice ravaged yet recognizable. Eyes that belonged to one they had all once known, yet now looked out fevered with power and glazed with the unhealed wounds of horror.

Fear had given up his betrothed.

A terrible thing to have done.

Rhulad had demanded her. And that was… obscene.

Trull had never felt so helpless as he did now. He pulled his gaze from his father and looked over to where Binadas stood in quiet conversation with Hull Beddict. The Letherii, who had sworn his allegiance to Rhulad, who would betray his own people in the war that Trull knew was now inevitable. What has brought us all to this? How can we stop this inexorable march?

‘Do not fight this, brother.’

Trull looked over at Fear, seated on the bench beside him. ‘Fight what?’

His brother’s expression was hard, almost angry. ‘He carries the sword, Trull.’

‘That weapon has nothing to do with the Tiste Edur. It is foreign, and it seeks to make its wielder into our god. Father Shadow and his Daughters, they are to be cast aside?’

‘The sword is naught but a tool. It falls to us, to those around Rhulad, to hold to the sanctity of our beliefs, to maintain that structure and so guide Rhulad.’

Trull stared at Fear. ‘He stole your betrothed.’

‘Speak of that again, brother, and I will kill you.’

His eyes flinched away, and he could feel the thud of his heart, rapid in his chest. ‘Rhulad will accept no guidance, not from us, Fear, not from anyone. That sword and the one who made it guide him now. That, and madness.’

‘Madness is what you have decided to see.’

Trull grunted. ‘Perhaps you are right. Tell me, then, what you see.’

‘Pain.’

And that is something you share. Trull rubbed at his face, slowly sighed. ‘Fight this, Fear? There was never a chance.’ He looked over again. ‘But do you not wonder? Who has been manipulating us, and for how long? You called that sword a tool – are we any different?’

‘We are Tiste Edur. We ruled an entire realm, once. We crossed swords with the gods of this world-’

‘And lost.’

‘Were betrayed.’

‘I seem to recall you shared our mother’s doubts-’

‘I was mistaken. Lured into weakness. We all were. But we must now cast that aside, Trull. Binadas understands. So does our father. Theradas and Midik Buhn as well, and those whom the emperor has proclaimed his brothers of blood. Choram Irard, Kholb Harat and Matra Brith-’

‘His unblooded friends of old,’ Trull cut in, with a wry smile. ‘The three he always defeated in contests with sword and spear. Them and Midik.’

‘What of it?’

‘They have earned nothing, Fear. And no amount of proclaiming can change that. Yet Rhulad would have us take orders from those-’

‘Not us. We too are brothers of blood, you forget. And I still command the warriors of the six tribes.’

‘And how do you think the other noble warriors feel? They have all followed the time-honoured path of blooding and worthy deeds in battle. They now find themselves usurped-’

‘The first warrior under my command who complains will know the edge of my sword.’

‘That edge may grow dull and notched.’

‘No. There will be no rebellion.’

After a moment, Trull nodded. ‘You are probably right, and that is perhaps the most depressing truth yet spoken this day.’

Fear stood. ‘You are my brother, Trull, and a man I admire. But you walk close to treason with your words. Were you anyone else I would have silenced you by now. With finality. No more, Trull. We are an empire now. An empire reborn. And war awaits us. And so I must know – will you fight at the sides of your brothers?’

Trull leaned his back against the rough wall. He studied Fear for a moment, then asked, ‘Have I ever done otherwise?’

His brother’s expression softened. ‘No, you have not. You saved us all when we returned from the ice wastes, and that is a deed all now know, and so they look upon you with admiration and awe. By the same token, Trull, they look to you for guidance. There are many who will find their decisions by observing your reaction to what has happened. If they see doubt in your eyes…’

‘They will see nothing, Fear. Not in my eyes. Nor will they find cause for doubt in my actions.’

‘I am relieved. The emperor shall be calling upon us soon. His brothers of blood.’

Trull also rose. ‘Very well. But for now, brother, I feel in need of solitude.’

‘Will that prove dangerous company?’

If it does, then I am as good as dead. ‘It hasn’t thus far, Fear.’

‘Leave me now, Hannan Mosag,’ the emperor said, his voice revealing sudden exhaustion. ‘And take the K’risnan with you. Everyone, go – not you, slave. Mayen, you too, wife. Please go.’

The sudden dismissal caused a moment of confusion, but moments later the chamber was vacated barring Rhulad and Udinaas. To the slave’s eyes, Mayen’s departure looked more like flight, her gait stilted as if driven by near hysteria.

There would be more moments like this, Udinaas suspected. Sudden breaks in the normal proceedings. And so he was not surprised when Rhulad beckoned him closer, and Udinaas saw in the emperor’s eyes a welling of anguish and terror.

‘Stand close by me, slave,’ Rhulad gasped, fierce trembling sweeping over him. ‘Remind me! Please! Udinaas-’

The slave thought for a moment, then said, ‘You died. Your body was dressed for honourable burial as a blooded warrior of the Hiroth. Then you returned. By the sword now in your hand, you returned and are alive once more.’

‘Yes, that is it. Yes.’ A laugh that rose to a piercing shriek, stopping abruptly as a spasm ripped through Rhulad. He gaped, as if in pain, then muttered, ‘The wounds…’

‘Emperor?’

‘No matter. Just the memory. Cold iron pushing into my body. Cold fire. I tried. I tried to curl up around those wounds. Up tight, to protect what I had already lost. I remember…’

Udinaas was silent. Since the emperor would not look at him, he was free to observe. And arrive at conclusions.

The young should not die. That final moment belonged to the aged. Some rules should never be broken, and whether the motivation was compassionate or coldly calculated hardly mattered. Rhulad had been dead too long, too long to escape some kind of spiritual damage. If the emperor was to be a tool, then he was a flawed one.

And what value that?

‘We are imperfect.’

Udinaas started, said nothing.

‘Do you understand that, Udinaas?’

‘Yes, Emperor.’

‘How? How do you understand?’

‘I am a slave.’

Rhulad nodded. His left hand, gauntleted in gold, lifted to join his right where it gripped the handle of the sword. ‘Yes, of course. Yes. Imperfect. We can never match the ideals set before us. That is the burden of mortality.’ A twisted grimace. ‘Not just mortals.’ A flicker of the eyes, momentarily fixing on the slave’s own, then away again. ‘He whispers in my mind. He tells me what to say. He makes me cleverer than I am. What does that make me, Udinaas? What does that make me?’

‘A slave.’

‘But I am Tiste Edur.’

‘Yes, Emperor.’

A scowl. ‘The gift of a life returned.’

‘You are Indebted.’

Rhulad flinched back in his chair, his eyes flashing with sudden rage. ‘We are not the same, slave! Do you understand? I am not one of your Indebted. I am not a Letherii.’ Then he sagged in a rustle of coins. ‘Daughter take me, the weight of this…’

‘I am sorry, Emperor. It is true. You are not an Indebted. Nor, perhaps, are you a slave. Although perhaps it feels that way, at times. When exhaustion assails you.’

‘Yes, that is it. I am tired. That’s all. Tired.’

Udinaas hesitated, then asked, ‘Emperor, does he speak through you now?’

A fragile shake of the head. ‘No. But he does not speak through me. He only whispers advice, helps me choose my words. Orders my thoughts – but the thoughts are mine. They must be. I am not a fool. I possess my own cleverness. Yes, that is it. He but whispers confidence.’

‘You have not eaten,’ Udinaas said. ‘Nor drunk anything. Do you know hunger and thirst, Emperor? Can I get you something to replenish your strength?’

‘Yes, I would eat. And… some wine. Find a servant.’

‘At once, master.’

Udinaas walked to the small curtain covering the entrance to the passage that led to the kitchens. He found a servant huddled in the corridor a dozen paces from the door. Terrified eyes glistened up at him as he approached. ‘On your feet, Virrick. The emperor wants wine. And food.’

‘The god would eat?’

‘He’s not a god. Food and drink, Virrick. Fit for an emperor, and be quick about it.’

The servant scrambled up, seemed about to bolt.

‘You know how to do this,’ Udinaas said in a calm voice. ‘It’s what you have been trained to do.’

‘I am frightened-’

‘Listen to me. I will tell you a secret. You always like secrets, don’t you, Virrick?’

A tentative nod.

‘It is this,’ Udinaas said. ‘We slaves have no reason to fear. It is the Edur who have reason, and that gives us leave to continue laughing behind their backs. Remember doing that, Virrick? It’s your favourite game.’

‘I – I remember, Udinaas.’

‘Good. Now go into the kitchens and show the others. You know the secret, now. Show them, and they will follow. Food, and wine. When you are ready, bring it to the curtain and give the low whistle, as you would do normally. Virrick, we need things to return to normal, do you understand? And that task falls to us, the slaves.’

‘Feather Witch ran-’

‘Feather Witch is young, and what she did was wrong. I have spoken to her and shall do so again.’

‘Yes, Udinaas. You are the emperor’s slave. You have the right of it; there is much wisdom in your words. I think we will listen to you, Indebted though you are. You have been… elevated.’ He nodded. ‘Feather Witch failed us-’

‘Do not be so harsh on her, Virrick. Now, go.’

He watched the servant hurry off down the corridor, then Udinaas swung about and returned to the throne chamber.

‘What took you so long?’ Rhulad demanded in near panic. ‘I heard voices.’

‘I was informing Virrick of your requirements, Emperor.’

‘You are too slow. You must be quicker, slave.’

‘I shall, master.’

‘Everyone must be told what to do. No-one seems capable of thinking for themselves.’

Udinaas said nothing, and did not dare smile even as the obvious observation drifted through his mind.

‘You are useful to us, slave. We will need… reminding… again. At unexpected times. And that is what shall you do for us. That, and food and drink at proper times.’

‘Yes, master.’

‘Now, stand in attendance, whilst we rest our eyes for a time.’

‘Of course, master.’

He stood, waiting, watching, a dozen paces away.

The distance between emperor and slave.

As he made his way onto the bridge, Trull Sengar saw the Acquitor. She was standing midway across the bridge, motionless as a frightened deer, her gaze fixed on the main road leading through the village. Trull could not see what had snared her attention.

He hesitated. Then her head turned and he met her eyes. There were no words for what passed between them at that instant. A gaze that began searchingly, then swiftly and ineffably transformed into something else. That locked contact was mutually broken in the next moment, instinctive reactions from them both.

In the awkward wake, nothing was said for a half-dozen heartbeats. Trull found himself struggling against a sense of vast emptiness deep in his chest.

Seren Pedac spoke first. ‘Is there no room left, Trull Sengar?’

And he understood. ‘No, Acquitor. No room left.’

‘I think you would have it otherwise, wouldn’t you?’

The question brushed too close to the wordless recognition they had shared only a few moments earlier, and he saw once again in her eyes a flicker of… something. He mentally recoiled from an honest reply. ‘I serve my emperor.’

The flicker vanished, replaced by a cool regard that slipped effortlessly through his defences, driving like a knife into his chest. ‘Of course. Forgive me. It is too late for questions like that. I must be leaving now, to escort Buruk the Pale back to Trate.’

Each word a twist of that knife, despite their being seemingly innocuous. He did not understand how they – and the look in her eyes – could hurt him so deeply, and he wanted to cry out. Denials. Confessions. Instead he punctuated the break of that empathy with a damning shrug. ‘Journey well, Acquitor.’ Nothing more, and he knew himself for a coward.

He watched her walk away. Thinking on his life’s journey as much as the Acquitor’s, on the stumbles that occurred, with no awareness of their potential for profundity. Balance reacquired, but the path had changed.

So many choices proved irrevocable. Trull wondered if this one would as well.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A VOICE SPOKE FROM THE DARKNESS, ‘I WOULDN’T GO DOWN THAT street, old man.’

Bugg glanced over. ‘I thank you for the warning,’ he replied, walking on.

Ten paces into the narrow alley he could smell spilled blood. Footsteps behind him told him the look-out had moved into his wake, presumably to block his avenue of retreat.

‘I warned you.’

‘I’m the one you sent for,’ Bugg said.

Four more figures appeared from the gloom in front of him, cutthroats one and all. They looked frightened.

The look-out came round and stepped close to peer at Bugg’s face. ‘You’re the Waiting Man? You ain’t what I ’spected.’

‘What has happened here? Who’s dead and who killed him?’

‘Not “who” killed ’im,’ one of the four standing before Bugg muttered. ‘More like “what”. An’ we don’t know. Only it was big, skin black as canal water, with spikes on its arms. Eyes like a snake’s, glowing grey.’

Bugg sniffed the air, seeking something beyond the blood.

‘It ripped Strong Rall to pieces, it did, then went into that building.’

The manservant swung his gaze to where the man pointed. A derelict temple, sunken down at one corner, the peaked roof tilted sharply on that side. Bugg grunted. ‘That was the last temple of the Fulcra, wasn’t it?’

‘Don’t ask us.’

‘That cult’s been dead a hundred years at least,’ the manservant continued, scowling at the dilapidated structure. The entranceway, wide and gaping, capped in a solid lintel stone, was once three steps higher than street level. Back when this alley had been a street. He could just make out the right corner of the top step. There seemed to be a heap of rubbish piled up just within, recently disturbed. Bugg glanced back at the five thugs. ‘What were you doing skulking around here, anyway?’

An exchange of looks, then the look-out shrugged. ‘We was hiding.’

‘Hiding?’

‘This little girl… well, uh…’

‘Ah. Right.’ Bugg faced the entrance once again.

‘Hold on, old man,’ the man said. ‘You ain’t goin’ in there, are you?’

‘Well, why else did you call for me?’

‘We expected you to, uh, to get the city guards or something. Maybe a mage or three.’

‘I might well do that. But first, better to know what we’re dealing with.’ Bugg then clambered into the ruined temple. Thick, damp air and profound darkness. A smell of freshly turned earth, and then, faintly, the sound of breathing. Slow and deep. The manservant fixed his gaze on the source of that sound. ‘All right,’ he said in a murmur, ‘it’s been some time since you last breathed the night air. But that doesn’t give you the right to kill a hapless mortal, does it?’

A massive shape shuffled to one side near the far wall. ‘Don’t hurt me. I’m not going back. They’re killing everyone.’

Bugg sighed. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

The shape seemed to break apart, and the manservant saw motion, fanning out. At least six new, smaller forms, each low and long. The gleam of reptilian eyes fixed on him from all along the back wall.

‘So that is why you chose this temple,’ Bugg said. ‘Alas, your worshippers are long gone.’

‘You may think so.’ A half-dozen voices now, a whispered chorus. ‘But you are wrong.’

‘Why did you kill that mortal?’

‘He was blocking the doorway.’

‘So, now that you’re here…’

‘I will wait.’

Bugg considered this, and the implications inherent in that statement. He slowly frowned. ‘Very well. But no more killing. Stay in here.’

‘I will agree to that. For now.’

‘Until what you’re waiting for… arrives.’

‘Yes. Then we shall hunt.’

Bugg turned away. ‘That’s what you think,’ he said under his breath.

He reappeared outside the temple. Studied the five terrified faces in the gloom. ‘Spread the word that no-one is to enter that temple.’

‘That’s it? What about the guards? The mages? What about Strong Rall?’

‘Well, if you’re interested in vengeance, I suggest you find a few thousand friends first. There will be a reckoning, eventually.’

The look-out snorted. ‘The Waiting Man wants us to wait.’

Bugg shrugged. ‘The best I can do. To oust this beast, the Ceda himself would have to come down here.’

‘So send for him!’

‘I’m afraid I don’t possess that sort of clout. Go home, all of you.’

Bugg moved past them and made his way down the alley. Things were getting decidedly complicated. And that was never good. He wondered how many more creatures were escaping the barrows. From the Pack’s words, not many. Which was a relief.

Even so, he decided, he’d better see for himself. The rendezvous awaiting him would have to wait a little longer. That would likely earn him an earful, but it couldn’t be helped. The Seventh Closure was shaping up to be eventful. He wondered if that prophecy, of empire reborn, was in some way linked to the death of the Azath tower. He hoped not.

The night was surprisingly quiet. The usual crowds that appeared once the day’s heat was past were virtually absent as Bugg made his way down the length of Quillas Canal. He came within sight of the Eternal Domicile. Well, he reminded himself, at least that had been a success.

The Royal Engineer, aptly named Grum, had been a reluctant, envious deliverer of a royal contract, specifying Bugg’s Construction to assume control of shoring up the compromised wings of the new palace. He had been even less pleased when Bugg ordered the old crews to vacate, taking their equipment with them. Bugg had then spent most of the following day wading flooded tunnels, just to get a feel of the magnitude of the task ahead.

True to Tehol’s prediction, Bugg’s modest company was climbing in the Tolls, frighteningly fast. Since the list of shares was sealed, Bugg had managed to sell four thousand and twenty-two per cent of shares, and still hold a controlling interest. Of course, he’d be headlining the Drownings if the deceit was ever discovered. ‘But I’m prepared to take that risk,’ Tehol had said with a broad smile. Funny man, his master.

Nearing the old palace, then into the wending alleyways and forgotten streets behind it. This part of the city seemed virtually lifeless, no-one venturing outside. Stray dogs paused in their scavenging to watch him pass. Rats scurried from his path.

He reached the wall of the square tower, walked along it until he was at the gateway. A pause, during which he wilfully suppressed his nervousness at entering the grounds. The Azath was dead, after all. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he strode forward.

The barrows to either side were strangely crumpled, but he could see no gaping holes. Yet. He left the path. Insects crunched or squirmed underfoot. The tufts of grass looked macerated and were crawling with life.

Bugg arrived at one barrow where the near side was gone, in its place a black pit across which was the toppled bole of a dead tree. There was the sound of scrabbling from within.

Then Kettle clambered into view. Clumps of white worms writhed in her straggly, matted hair, rode seething on her shoulders. She pulled herself up using a branch of the tree, then paused to brush the worms off, the gesture dainty and oddly affecting. ‘It’s gone,’ she said. ‘Uncle Bugg, this one’s gone.’

‘I know.’

‘I didn’t see it. I should have seen it.’

He shook his head. ‘It is very stealthy, Kettle. And fast. All it needed was a moment when your back was turned. A single moment, no more. In any case, I’ve met it, and, for now at least, it won’t be bothering anyone.’

‘Nothing’s working, Uncle Bugg. I need the one below. I need to get him out.’

‘What is impeding him, do you know?’

She shook her head, the motion shedding more worms. ‘At least he’s got swords now. Uncle Brys brought them. I pushed them into the barrow.’

‘Brys Beddict? Lass, you are finding worthy allies. Has the Ceda visited?’

‘I don’t know any Ceda.’

‘I am surprised by that. He should come soon, once he finds out about you.’

‘Me?’

‘Well, more specifically, your heart.’

She cocked her head. ‘I hear thumps. In my chest. Is that my heart?’

‘Yes. How often are the thumps coming?’

‘Maybe eight a day. Now. Before, maybe four. To start, once. Loud, hurting my head.’

‘Hurting? You are feeling pain, lass?’

‘Not so much any more. Aches. Twinges. That’s how I know something’s wrong with me. Used to be I didn’t feel anything.’

Bugg ran a hand through his thinning hair. He looked up, studied the night sky. Cloud-covered, but the clouds were high, flat and un-wrinkled, a worn blanket through which stars could be seen here and there. He sighed. ‘All right, lass, show me where you buried the swords.’

He followed her to a barrow closer to the tower.

‘He’s in this one.’

But the manservant’s gaze was drawn to an identical barrow beside the one she indicated. ‘Now, who does that one belong to, I wonder.’

‘She’s always promising me things. Rewards. The five who are killing all the others won’t go near her. Sometimes, her anger burns in my head like fire. She’s very angry, but not at me, she says. Those bitches, she says, and that tells me she’s sleeping, because she only says that when she’s sleeping. When she’s awake, she whispers nice things to me.’

Bugg was slowly nodding. ‘It sounds absurd,’ he said, mostly to himself. ‘Absurd and mundane.’

‘What does, Uncle?’

‘She’s got him by the ankles. I know. It’s ridiculous, but that’s why he’s having trouble getting out. She’s got him by the ankles.’

‘To keep him where he is?’

‘No. To make sure she follows him out.’

‘She’s cheating!’

Despite his unease, Bugg smiled. ‘So she is, lass. Of course, she may only end up keeping both of them trapped.’

‘Oh no, he’s got the swords now. He just has to work them down. That’s what he said. I didn’t understand before, but I do now. He said he was going to do some sawing.’

Bugg winced.

Then he frowned. ‘The five, how close are they to escaping?’

Kettle shrugged. ‘They’ve killed most everything else. I don’t know. Soon, I guess. They are going to do terrible things to me, they say.’

‘Be sure to call for help before they get out.’

‘I will.’

‘I have to be going now.’

‘Okay. Goodbye, Uncle.’

Awakened by one of the Preda’s corporals, Brys quickly dressed and followed the young soldier to the Campaigns Room, where he found King Ezgara Diskanar, the Ceda, Unnutal Hebaz and the First Concubine Nisall. The king and his mistress stood at one side of a map table, opposite the Preda. Kuru Qan paced a circle around the entire ensemble, removing his strange eye-lenses for a polish every now and then.

‘Finadd,’ Unnutal Hebaz said, ‘join us, please.’

‘What has happened?’ Brys asked.

‘We are, it seems, at war,’ the Preda replied. ‘I am about to inform the king of the disposition of our forces at present.’

‘I apologize for interrupting, Preda.’

Ezgara Diskanar waved a hand. ‘I wanted you here, Brys. Now, Unnutal, proceed.’

‘Divisions, battalions and brigades,’ she said. ‘And garrisons. Our land forces. I will speak of the fleets later. Thus, from west to east along the frontier. On the Reach, First Maiden Fort, its defences still under construction and nowhere near complete. I have judged it indefensible and so am sending the garrison to reinforce Fent Reach. Second Maiden Fort has a garrison of six hundred indicted soldiers, presently being retrained. The island is a penal fortress, as you know. The willingness of the prisoners to fight is of course problematic. None the less, I would suggest we leave them there. Third Maiden Fort will remain active, but with a nominal presence, there to act as forward observers should an Edur fleet round the island and make for the city of Awl.’

‘Where we have an army,’ the king said.

‘Yes, sire. The Snakebelt Battalion, stationed in the city. The Crimson Rampant Brigade is in Tulamesh down the coast. Now, eastward from the Reach, the port of Trate. Cold Clay Battalion and the Trate Legion, with the Riven Brigade and the Katter Legion down in Old Katter. High Fort has, in addition to its rotating garrison forces, the Grass Jackets Brigade. Normally, we would have the Whitefinder Battalion there as well, but they are presently conducting exercises outside First Reach. They will of course be moving north immediately.

‘Further east, the situation is more satisfactory. At Fort Shake is the Harridict Brigade, with the Artisan Battalion encamped outside the Manse – more exercises.’

‘How long will it take the Whitefinders to reach High Fort?’ the king asked.

‘Reach and Thetil Roads are in good repair, sire. Five days. They leave tomorrow. I would emphasize again, the Ceda’s mages are a major tactical advantage. Our communications are instantaneous.’

‘But I want something more,’ Ezgara said in a growl. ‘I want something pre-emptive, Preda. I want them to change their minds on this damned war.’

Unnutal slowly turned to catch Kuru Qan with her gaze. ‘Ceda?’

‘Relevant? Less than we would hope. You want their villages struck? Those just beyond the mountains? Very well.’

‘How soon can you arrange it?’ the king asked.

‘The cadre in Trate is assembling, sire. Dawn, three days from now.’

‘Pray to the Errant that it dissuades them.’ The king managed a wry grin as he watched the Ceda resume his pacing. ‘But you are not confident that it will, are you, Kuru Qan?’

‘I am not, sire. Fortunately, I do not believe even Hull would suspect that we would attack the Edur villages.’

Brys felt his blood grow cold. ‘Ceda? Has my brother…?’

A sorrowful nod. ‘This is a path Hull Beddict has been walking on for a long time. No-one here is surprised, Finadd.’

Brys swallowed, then struggled to speak, ‘I would have… thought… given that knowledge-’

‘That he would have been assassinated?’ Ezgara asked. ‘No, Brys. His presence is to our tactical advantage, not this damned upstart emperor’s. We are well aware he is advising the Edur on our manner of waging war, and we mean to make use of that.’ The king paused, looked up. ‘Hull’s actions in no way impugn you in our eyes, Brys. Be assured of that.’

‘Thank you, sire.’ And to prove your word, you invite me to this meeting. ‘It is unfortunate that Nifadas failed in his mission. What do we know of this new “upstart” emperor you mentioned?’

‘He has vast magic at his command,’ Kuru Qan replied distractedly. ‘We can discern little more than that.’

The First Concubine moved from the king’s side, seemingly distracted.

‘The most relevant detail for us,’ Unnutal Hebaz added, ‘is that he is in possession of absolute loyalty among the Edur tribes. And, although Hannan Mosag has been usurped, the Warlock King now stands at the emperor’s side as his principal adviser.’

Brys was startled by that. ‘The Warlock King simply stepped aside? That is… extraordinary.’

The Preda nodded. ‘Sufficient to give us pause. Our forward posts have reported sightings along the frontier. Shadows moving at night.’

‘The wraiths,’ the Ceda said, his expression souring. ‘We have dealt with them before, of course, and effectively so. None the less, they are an irritant.’

‘Do the Tiste Edur have sacred sites?’ Nisall asked from where she now stood, close to the far wall. Faces turned towards her. Arms crossed, she shrugged. ‘Sorcery that annihilates those sites might well weaken their hold on these wraiths. Wasn’t something similar done to the Nerek and the Tarthenal?’

The Ceda seemed saddened by the suggestion, but he nodded and said, ‘An interesting notion, First Concubine. The Edur are very secretive regarding their sacred sites. Although it does appear to be the case that the very ground beneath their villages is sanctified. Thus, when we destroy those villages, the result may well prove more profound than we imagine. This is a relevant consideration. As for the hidden groves and such, we should make use of the various Acquitors who are familiar with that territory.’

‘How soon will the delegation reach the Mouth at Gedry?’ Brys asked the Preda.

She nodded towards Kuru Qan. ‘The return journey is being hastened. A week, no more.’

Then three days up the river to arrive here. The war would be well under way by then. ‘Sire, may I ask a question of you?’

‘Of course, Brys.’

‘Where is the Queen’s Battalion?’

A momentary silence, then the Preda cleared her throat. ‘If I may, sire…’

Thin-lipped, the king nodded.

‘Finadd, the queen has taken personal command of her forces, along with the Quillas Brigade. She insists on independence in this matter. Accordingly, we are not factoring those assets into our discussion.’

‘My dear wife has always held them to be her own, private army,’ Ezgara Diskanar said. ‘So be it. Better to have them pursuing her ambitions in the field than here in Letheras.’

‘That being said,’ Unnutal Hebaz added, ‘we believe they are less than a league south of High Fort, marching northward to meet the Edur in the pass. Her doctrine seems to be one of striking first and striking hard. She will set her mages to clearing the wraiths from her path, which will no doubt be telling enough to eliminate the element of surprise.’

‘Is she leading them in person?’

‘She and her retinue departed four days ago,’ the king said.

Brys thought back to that time. ‘The royal visit to her keep at Dissent?’

‘That was the pretext.’

‘Then will Prince Quillas make an effort to join her?’

‘My son has separated his ship from the delegation and now makes for Trate.’

‘To what extent,’ Brys asked, ‘has her battalion made use of the caches in the region?’

‘Knowing her,’ the king snapped, ‘she’s damn near emptied them.’

‘We are hastening to replace the depleted stocks,’ Unnutal Hebaz said. ‘Obviously, we are forced to adjust our tactics as a consequence. We will fight defensively, in keeping with our doctrine, and, yes, the Edur will be expecting that. But we will not roll back. We will not retreat. Once engaged, we intend to maintain that contact. This will be, I believe, a brutal war – perhaps the most vicious war we have fought since conquering Bluerose’s League of Duchies.’

‘Now,’ the king said, ‘I would hear details on the defence of our frontier cities and the Sea of Katter. As well, the disposition of the fleets…’

Brys found the words that followed drifting into a formless murmur somewhere in the background. He was thinking of his brother, marching with the Tiste Edur to wage war on his homeland. On the kingdom that had so cruelly betrayed him. The queen and the prince would want him, desperately… or, at the very least, his head. And through Hull’s crimes, they would seek to strike at Brys, at his position as the king’s protector. They might well send soldiers to round up Tehol as well, on some fabricated pretext. The added pleasure of avenging financial losses incurred as a result of Tehol’s brilliant chaos. They would, in fact, waste little time.

Brys needed to warn Tehol.

The Rat Catchers’ Guild Chief Investigator sat at a courtyard table beneath torchlight. A small heap of delicate bones sat in the centre of the large plate before her. Within reach was a crystal carafe of white wine. An extra goblet waited in front of the empty chair opposite her.

‘You’re not Tehol,’ she said as Bugg arrived and sat down. ‘Where’s Tehol and his immodest trousers?’

‘Not here, alas, Chief Investigator, but you can be certain that, wherever they are, they are together.’

‘Ah, so he has meetings with people more important than me? After all, were he sleeping, he would not be wearing the trousers, would he?’

‘I wouldn’t know, Rucket. Now, you requested this meeting?’

‘With Tehol.’

‘Ah, so this was to be romantic?’

She sniffed and took a moment to glare at the only other occupants of this midnight restaurant, a husband and wife clearly not married to each other who were casting suspicious glances their way, punctuated with close leaning heads and heated whispers. ‘This place serves a specific clientele, damn you. What’s your name again?’

‘Bugg.’

‘Oh yes. I recall being unsurprised the first time it was mentioned. Well, you kept me waiting, you little worm, and what’s that smell?’

Bugg withdrew a blackened, wrinkled strip, flat and slightly longer than his hand. ‘I found an eel in the fish market. Thought I’d make soup for myself and the master.’

‘Our financial adviser eats discarded eels?’

‘Frugality is a virtue among financiers, Chief Investigator.’ He tucked the dried strip back into his shirt. ‘How is the wine? May I?’

‘Well, why not? Here, care to pick the bones?’

‘Possibly. What was it originally?’

‘Cat, of course.’

‘Cat. Oh yes, of course. Well, I never liked cats anyway. All those hair balls.’ He drew the plate over and perused it to see what was left.

‘You have a fascination for feline genitalia? That’s disgusting, although I’ve heard worse. One of our minor catchers once tried to marry a rat. I myself possess peculiar interests, I freely admit.’

‘That’s nice,’ Bugg said, popping a vertebra into his mouth to suck out the marrow.

‘Well, aren’t you curious?’

‘No,’ he said around the bone. ‘Should I be?’

Rucket slowly leaned forward, as if seeing Bugg for the first time. ‘You… interest me now. I freely admit it. Do you want to know why?’

‘Why you freely admit it? All right.’

‘I’m a very open person, all things considered.’

‘Well, I am considering those things, and so consequently admit to being somewhat surprised.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me in the least, Bugg. What are you doing later tonight, and what’s that insect? There, on your shoulder?’

He pulled the vertebra out and reached for another. ‘It’s of the two-headed variety. Very rare, for what I imagine are obvious reasons. I thought my master would like to see it.’

‘So you permit it to crawl all over you?’

‘That would take days. It’s managed to climb from halfway up my arm to my shoulder and that’s taken over a bell.’

‘What a pathetic creature.’

‘I suspect it has difficulty making up its minds.’

‘You’re being funny, aren’t you? I have a thing for funny people. Why don’t you come home with me after you’ve finished there.’

‘Are you sure you don’t have any business to discuss with me? Perhaps some news for Tehol?’

‘Well, there’s a murderous little girl who’s undead, and she’s been killing lots of people, although less so lately. And Gerun Eberict has been far busier than it would outwardly seem.’

‘Indeed? But why would he hide that fact?’

‘Because the killings do not appear to be politically motivated.’

‘Oh? Then what are his motivations?’

‘Hard to tell. We think he just likes killing people.’

‘Well, how many has he killed this past year?’

‘Somewhere between two and three thousand, we think.’

Bugg reached with haste for his goblet. He drank the wine down, then coughed. ‘Errant take us!’

‘So, are you coming home with me or not? I have this cat-fur rug-’

‘Alas, my dear, I have taken a vow of celibacy.’

‘Since when?’

‘Oh, thousands of years… it seems.’

‘I am not surprised. But even more intrigued.’

‘Ah, it’s the lure of the unattainable.’

‘Are you truly unattainable?’

‘Extraordinary, but yes, I am.’

‘What a terrible loss for womanhood.’

‘Now you are being funny.’

‘No, I am being serious, Bugg. I think you are probably a wonderful lover.’

‘Aye,’ he drawled, ‘the very oceans heaved. Can we move on to some other subject? You want any more wine? No? Great.’ He collected the carafe, then drew a flask from under his shirt and began the delicate task of pouring the wine into it.

‘Is that for your eel soup?’

‘Indeed.’

‘What happens now that I’ve decided to like you? Not just like you, I freely admit, but lust after you, Bugg.’

‘I have no idea, Rucket. May I take the rest of these bones?’

‘You certainly may. Would you like me to regurgitate my meal for you as well? I will, you know, for the thought that you will take into you what was previously in me-’

Bugg was waving both hands in the negative. ‘Please, don’t put yourself out for me.’

‘No need to look so alarmed. Bodily functions are a wonderful, indeed sensual, thing. Why, the mere blowing clear of a nose is a potential source of ecstasy, once you grasp its phlegmatic allure.’

‘I’d best be going, Rucket.’ He quickly rose. ‘Have a nice night, Chief Investigator.’ And was gone.

Alone once more, Rucket sighed and leaned back in her chair. ‘Well,’ she sighed contentedly, ‘it’s always been a sure-fire way of getting rid of unwanted company.’ She raised her voice. ‘Servant! More wine, please!’ That bit about clearing the nose was especially good, she decided. She was proud of that one, especially the way she disguised the sudden nausea generated by her own suggestion.

Any man who’d cook that… eel had surely earned eternal celibacy.

Outside the restaurant, Bugg paused to check the contents of his shirt’s many hidden pockets. Flask, eel, cat bones. A successful meeting, after all. Moreover, he was appreciative of her performance. Tehol might well and truly like this one, I think. It was worth considering.

He stood for a moment longer, then allowed himself a soft laugh.

In any case, time to head home.

Tehol Beddict studied the three sad, pathetic women positioned variously in the chamber before him: Shand slumped behind the desk, her shaved pate looking dull and smudged; Rissarh lying down on a hard bench as if meditating on discomfort, her red hair spilled out and hanging almost to the floor; and Hejun, sprawled in a padded chair, refilling her pipe’s bowl, her face looking sickly and wan. ‘My,’ Tehol said with a sigh, his hands on his hips, ‘this is a tragic scene indeed.’

Shand looked up, bleary-eyed. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

‘Hardly the greeting I was anticipating.’ He strode into the room.

‘He’s gone,’ Hejun said, face twisting as she jabbed a taper into the coals of the three-legged brazier at her side. ‘And it’s Shand’s fault.’

‘As much yours as mine,’ Shand retorted. ‘And don’t forget Rissarh! “Oh, Ublala! Carry me around! Carry me around!” Talk about excess!’

‘Ublala’s departure is the cause for all this despond?’ Tehol shook his head. ‘My dears, you did indeed drive him away.’ He paused, then added with great pleasure, ‘Because none of you was willing to make a commitment. A disgusting display of self-serving objectification. Atrocious behaviour by each and every one of you.’

‘All right all right, Tehol,’ Shand muttered. ‘We could have been more… compassionate.’

‘Respectful,’ Rissarh said.

‘Yes,’ Hejun said. ‘How could one not respect Ublala’s-’

‘See?’ Tehol demanded, then flung up his hands. ‘I am led to despair!’

‘You’ll have company here,’ Shand said.

‘He was to have been your bodyguard. That was the intent. Instead, you abused him-’

‘No we didn’t!’ Hejun snapped. ‘Well, only a little. All in good fun, anyway.’

‘And now I have to find you a new bodyguard.’

‘Oh no you don’t,’ Shand said, sitting straighter. ‘Don’t even think it. We’ve been corrupted enough-’

Tehol’s brows rose. ‘In any case,’ he said, ‘Ublala has now found someone who cares deeply for him-’

‘You idiot. She’s dead. She’s incapable of caring.’

‘Not true. Or, rather, there’s something inside her that does care. A lot. My point is, it’s time to get over it. There’s work to be done.’

‘We tried following up on that list you gave us. Half those companies don’t even exist. You tricked us, Tehol. In fact, we think this whole thing is a lie.’

‘What an absurd accusation. Granted, I padded the list somewhat, but only because you seemed to need to stay busy. Besides which, you’re now rich, right? Wealthy beyond your wildest dreams. My investment advice has been perfect thus far. How many money-lending institutions do you now hold interest in?’

‘All the big ones,’ Shand admitted. ‘But not controlling interest-’

‘Wrong. Forty per cent is sufficient and you’ve acquired that.’

‘How is forty per cent enough?’

‘Because I hold twenty. Or, if not me, then my agents, Bugg included. We are poised, dear ladies, to loose chaos upon the Tolls.’

He had their attention now, he saw. Even Rissarh sat up. Eyes fixed upon him, eyes in which the gleam of comprehension was dawning.

‘When?’ Hejun asked.

‘Ah, well. That is entirely another matter. There is news on the wind, which, had any of you been in a proper state, would already be known to you. It seems, my sweet friends, that Lether is at war.’

‘The Tiste Edur?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Perfect!’ Shand barked, thumping the desktop with a fist. ‘We strike now and it’ll all come down!’

‘Likely,’ Tehol said. ‘And also, disastrous. Do you want the Edur to march in and burn everything to the ground?’

‘Why not? It’s all corrupt anyway!’

‘Because, Shand, bad as it is – and we’re all agreed it’s bad – matters can get a whole lot worse. If, for example, the Tiste Edur win this war.’

‘Hold on, Tehol! The plan was to bring about a collapse! But now you’re going back on it. You must be a fool to think the Edur would win this war without our help. No-one wins against Lether. Never have, never will. But if we strike now…’

‘All very well, Shand. For myself, however, I am not convinced the Edur will prove ideal conquerors. As I said, what is to stop them from putting every Letherii to the sword, or enslaving everyone? What’s to stop them from razing every city, every town, every village? It’s one thing to bring down an economy, and so trigger a reformation of sorts, a reconfiguring of values and all that. It’s entirely another to act in a way that exposes the Letherii to genocide.’

‘Why?’ Rissarh demanded. ‘They’ve not hesitated at committing genocide of their own, have they? How many Tarthenal villages were burned to the ground? How many children of the Nerek and the Faraed were spitted on spears, how many dragged into slavery?’

‘Then you would descend to their level, Rissarh? Why emulate the worst behaviours of a culture, when it is those very behaviours that fill you with horror? Revulsion at babes spitted on spears, so you would do the same in return?’ He looked at each of them in turn, but they made no reply. Tehol ran a hand through his hair. ‘Consider the opposite. A hypothetical situation, if you will. Letheras declares a war in the name of liberty and would therefore assert the right of the moral high ground. How would you respond?’

‘With disgust,’ Hejun said, relighting her pipe, face disappearing behind blue clouds.

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s not liberty they want, not the kind of liberty that serves the people in question. Instead, it’s the freedom of Letherii business interests to profit from those people.’

‘And if they act to prevent genocide and tyranny, Hejun?’

‘Then no moral high ground at all, for they have committed their own acts of genocide. As for tyranny, tyrannies are only reprehensible to the Letherii when they do not operate in collusion with Letherii business interests. And, by that definition, they make their claims of honour suspect to everyone else.’

‘All very well. Now, I have considered each and every one of those arguments. And could only conclude one thing: the Letherii, in that situation, are damned if they do and damned if they don’t. In other words, the issue is one of trust. In the past lies the evidence leading one to mistrust. In the present may be seen efforts to reacquire trust, whilst in the future awaits the proof of either one or the other.’

‘This is a hypothetical situation, Tehol,’ Shand said wearily. ‘What is your point?’

‘My point is, nothing is as simple as it might at first seem. And paradigms rarely shift through an act of will. They change as a consequence of chaos, in stumbling over a threshold, and all that is most reprehensible in our nature waits in the wings, eager to invade and so give shape to the reforging of order. It falls to every one of us to be mindful.’

‘What in the Errant’s name are you talking about?’ Shand demanded.

‘What I am saying, Shand, is that we cannot in good conscience trigger a collapse of the Letherii economy right now. Not until we determine how this war is going to play out.’

‘Good conscience? Who cares about that? Our motive was revenge. The Letherii are poised to annihilate yet another people. And I want to get them!’

‘Do not dismiss the Tiste Edur just yet, Shand. Our priority right now must be the secret evacuation of destitute and Indebted Nerek, Faraed and Tarthenal. Out to the islands. To my islands. The rest can wait, should wait, and will wait. Until I say otherwise.’

‘You’re betraying us.’

‘No, I’m not. Nor am I having second thoughts. I am not blind to the underlying motives of greed upon which my civilization is founded, for all its claims of righteous destiny and unassailable integrity.’

‘What makes you think,’ Hejun asked, ‘the Tiste Edur might succeed where everyone else has failed?’

‘Succeed? That word makes me uneasy. Might they prove a difficult and at times devastating enemy? I think they will. Their civilization is old, Hejun. Far older than ours. Their golden age was long, long ago. They exist now in a state of fear, seeing the influence and material imposition of Letheras as a threat, as a kind of ongoing unofficial war of cultures. To the Edur, Lether is a poison, a corrupting influence, and in reaction to that the Edur have become a people entrenched and belligerent. In disgust at what they see ahead of them, they have turned their backs and dream only of what lay behind them. They dream of a return to past glories. Even could the Letherii offer a helping hand, they would view it as an invitation to surrender, and their pride will not permit that. Or, conversely, that hand represents an attack on all they hold dear, and so they will cut it and dance in the blood. The worst scenario I can imagine, for the Edur, is if they win this war. If they somehow conquer us and become occupiers.’

‘Won’t happen, and what if it did? They couldn’t be worse.’

Tehol studied Hejun briefly, then he shrugged. ‘All of this awaits resolution. In the meantime, remain vigilant. There are still things that need doing. What happened to that Nerek mother and her children I sent you?’

‘We shipped them to the islands,’ Shand said. ‘They ate more than she cooked. Started getting fat. It was all very sad.’

‘Well, it’s late and I’m hungry, so I will take my leave now.’

‘What about Ublala?’ Rissarh demanded.

‘What about him?’

‘We want him back.’

‘Too late, I’m afraid. That’s what happens when you won’t commit.’

Tehol quickly made his way out.

Walking the quiet streets back to his abode, Tehol considered his earlier words. He had to admit to himself that he was troubled. There was sufficient mystery in some of the rumours to suggest that the impending war would not be like all the others Letherii had waged. A collision of wills and desires, and beneath it a host of dubious assumptions and suspect sentiments. In that alone, no different from any other war. But in this case, the outcome was far from certain, and even the notion of victory seemed confused and elusive.

He passed through Burl Square and came to the entrance to the warehouse storage area, beyond which was the alley leading to his home. Pausing to push up his lopsided sleeves and cinch tight his trousers, he frowned. Was he losing weight? Hard to know. Wool stretched, after all.

A figure stepped from the nearby shadows of an alley mouth. ‘You’re late.’

Tehol started, then said, ‘For what?’

Shurq Elalle came to within two paces of him. ‘I’ve been waiting. Bugg made soup. Where have you been?’

‘What are you doing out?’ Tehol asked. ‘You’re supposed to be holed up right now. This is dangerous-’

‘I needed to talk to you,’ she cut in. ‘It’s about Harlest.’

‘What about him?’

‘He wants his sharp teeth and talons. It’s all we ever hear. Fangs and talons, fangs and talons. We’re sick of it. Where’s Selush? Why haven’t you made arrangements? You’re treating us like corpses, but even the dead have needs, you know.’

‘Well, no, I didn’t know that. In any case, tell Harlest that Selush is working on this, probably right now in fact. Sharp solutions are forthcoming.’

‘Don’t make me laugh.’

‘Sorry. Are you in need of a refill?’

‘A what?’

‘Well, uh, more herbs and stuff, I mean.’

‘I don’t know. Am I? Do I smell or something?’

‘No. Only of sweet things, Shurq. I assure you.’

‘I am less inspired by your assurances as time goes on, Tehol Beddict.’

‘What a terrible thing to say! Have we stumbled yet?’

‘When is Gerun Eberict returning?’

‘Soon, it turns out. Things should get exciting then.’

‘I am capable of excitement regarding one thing and one thing only, and that has nothing to do with Gerun Eberict. However, I want to steal again. Anything, from whomever. Point me in a direction. Any direction.’

‘Well, there is of course the Tolls Repository. But that’s impregnable, obviously. Or, let’s see, the royal vaults, but again, impossible.’

‘The Tolls. Yes, that sounds challenging.’

‘You won’t succeed, Shurq. No-one ever has, and that includes Green Pig who was a sorceror nearly to rival the Ceda himself-’

‘I knew Green Pig. He suffered from overconfidence.’

‘And was torn limb from limb as a result.’

‘What do you want stolen from the Tolls Repository?’

‘Shurq-’

‘What?’

Tehol glanced round. ‘All right. I want to find out which lender holds the largest royal debt. The king has been borrowing prodigiously, and not just to finance the Eternal Domicile. So, who and how much. Same for Queen Janall. And whatever she’s done in her son’s name.’

‘Is that all? No gold? No diamonds?’

‘That’s right. No gold, no diamonds, and no evidence left behind that anyone was ever in there.’

‘I can do that.’

‘No you can’t. You’ll get caught. And dismembered.’

‘Oh, that will hurt.’

‘Maybe not, but it’ll prove inconvenient.’

‘I won’t get caught, Tehol Beddict. Now, what did you want from the royal vaults?’

‘A tally.’

‘You want to know the present state of the treasury.’

‘Yes.’

‘I can do that.’

‘No you can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’ll have been dismembered by then.’

‘Thus permitting me to slip into places where I otherwise wouldn’t fit.’

‘Shurq, they take your head off too, you know. It’s the last thing they do.’

‘Really? That’s barbaric’

‘Like I said, you would be greatly inconvenienced.’

‘I would at that. Well, I shall endeavour to be careful. Mind you, even a head can count.’

‘What would you have me do, break in and lob your head into the vaults? Tied to a rope so I can pull you out again when you’re done?’

‘That sounds somewhat problematic.’

‘It does, doesn’t it?’

‘Can’t you plan any better than that, Tehol Beddict? My faith in you is fast diminishing.’

‘Can’t be helped, I suppose. What’s this I hear about you purchasing a seagoing vessel?’

‘That was supposed to be a secret. Bugg said he wouldn’t tell-’

‘He didn’t. I have my own sources of intelligence, especially when the owner of the vessel just sold happens to be me. Indirectly, of course.’

‘All right. Me and Ublala and Harlest, we want to be pirates.’

‘Don’t make me laugh, Shurq.’

‘Now you’re being cruel.’

‘Sorry. Pirates, you say. Well, all three of you are notoriously hard to drown. Might work at that.’

‘Your confidence and well-wishing overwhelms me.’

‘And when do you plan on embarking on this new venture?’

‘When you’re done with us, of course.’

Tehol tugged up his trousers again. ‘Yet another edifying conversation with you, Shurq. Now, I smell something that might well be soup, and you need to go back to your crypt.’

‘Sometimes I really hate you.’

He led her by the hand down the shallow, crumbling steps. She liked these journeys, even though the places he took her were strange and often… disturbing. This time, they descended an inverted stepped pyramid – at least that was what he called it. Four sides to the vast, funnelled pit, and at the base there was a small square of darkness.

The air was humid enough to leave droplets on her bare arms. Far overhead, the sky was white and formless. She did not know if it was hot – memories of such sensations had begun to fade, along with so many other things.

They reached the base of the pit and she looked up at the tall, pale figure at her side. His face was becoming more visible, less blurred. It looked handsome, but hard. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said after a moment, ‘that she’s got you by the ankles.’

‘We all have our burdens, Kettle.’

‘Where are we?’

‘You have no recognition of this place?’

‘No. Maybe.’

‘Let us continue down, then.’

Into the darkness, three rungs to a landing, then a spiral staircase of black stone.

‘Round and round,’ Kettle said, giggling.

A short while later they came to the end, the stairs opening out onto a sprawling, high-ceilinged chamber. The gloom was no obstacle to Kettle, nor, she suspected, to her companion. She could see a ragged mound heaped against the far wall to their right, and made to move towards it, but his hand drew her back.

‘No, lass. Not there.’

He led her instead directly ahead. Three doorways, each one elaborately arched and framed with reverse impressions of columns. Between them, the walls displayed deeply carved images.

‘As you can see,’ he said, ‘there is a reversal of perspective. That which is closest is carved deepest. There is significance to all this.’

‘Where are we?’

‘To achieve peace, destruction is delivered. To give the gift of freedom, one promises eternal imprisonment. Adjudication obviates the need for justice. This is a studied, deliberate embrace of diametric opposition. It is a belief in balance, a belief asserted with the conviction of religion. But in this case, the proof of a god’s power lies not in the cause but in the effect. Accordingly, in this world and in all others, proof is achieved by action, and therefore all action – including the act of choosing inaction – is inherently moral. No deed stands outside the moral context. At the same time, the most morally perfect act is the one taken in opposition to what has occurred before.’

‘What do the rooms look like through those openings?’

‘In this civilization,’ he continued, ‘its citizens were bound to acts of utmost savagery. Vast cities were constructed beneath the world’s surface. Each chamber, every building, assembled as the physical expression of the quality of absence. Solid rock matched by empty space. From these places, where they did not dwell, but simply gathered, they set out to achieve balance.’

It seemed he would not lead her through any of the doorways, so she fixed her attention instead on the images. ‘There are no faces.’

‘The opposite of identity, yes, Kettle.’

‘The bodies look strange.’

‘Physically unique. In some ways more primitive, but as a consequence less… specialized, and so less constrained. Profoundly long-lived, more so than any other species. Very difficult to kill, and, it must be said, they needed to be killed. Or so was the conclusion reached after any initial encounter with them. Most of the time. They did fashion the occasional alliance. With the Jaghut, for example. But that was yet another tactic aimed at reasserting balance, and it ultimately failed. As did this entire civilization.’

Kettle swung round to study that distant heap of… something. ‘Those are bodies, aren’t they?’

‘Bones. Scraps of clothing, the harnesses they wore.’

‘Who killed them?’

‘You had to understand, Kettle. The one within you must understand. My refutation of the Forkrul Assail belief in balance is absolute. It is not that I am blind to the way in which force is ever countered, the way in which the natural world strains towards balance. But in that striving I see no proof of a god’s power; I see no guiding hand behind such forces. And, even if one such existed, I see no obvious connection with the actions of a self-chosen people for whom chaos is the only rational response to order. Chaos needs no allies, for it dwells like a poison in every one of us. The only relevant struggle for balance I acknowledge is that within ourselves. Externalizing it presumes inner perfection, that the internal struggle is over, victory achieved.’

‘You killed them.’

‘These ones here, yes. As for the rest, no. I was too late arriving and my freedom too brief for that. In any case, but a few enclaves were left by that time. My draconic kin took care of that task, since no other entity possessed the necessary power. As I said, they were damned hard to kill.’

Kettle shrugged, and she heard him sigh.

‘There are places, lass, where Forkrul Assail remain. Imprisoned for the most part, but ever restless. Even more disturbing, in many of those places they are worshipped by misguided mortals.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘You have no idea, Kettle, of the extremity the Azath tower found itself in. To have chosen a soul such as yours… it was like reaching into the heart of the enemy camp. I wonder if, in its last moments, it knew regret. Misgivings. Mother knows, I do.’

‘What is this soul you are talking about?’

‘Perhaps it sought to use the soul’s power without fully awakening it. We will never know. But you are loose upon the world now. Shaped to fight as a soldier in the war against chaos. Can that fundamental conflict within you be reconciled? Your soul, lass? It is Forkrul Assail.’

‘So you have brought me home?’

His hand betrayed his sudden flinch. ‘You were also a mortal human child, once. And there is a mystery in that. Who birthed you? Who took away your life, and why? Was all this in preparation for your corpse to house the Assail soul? If that is the case, then the Azath tower was either deceived by someone capable of communicating with it, or it had in truth nothing at all to do with the creation of you as you now are. But that makes no sense – why would the Azath lie to me?’

‘It said you were dangerous.’

He was silent for some time. Then, ‘Ah, you are to kill me once I have vanquished the other entombed creatures.’

‘The tower is dead,” Kettle said. ‘I don’t have to do anything it told me. Do I?’ She looked up and found him studying her.

‘What path will you choose, child?’

She smiled. ‘Your path. Unless you’re bad. I’ll be very angry if you’re bad.’

‘I am pleased, Kettle. Best that you stay close to me, assuming we succeed in what we must do.’

‘I understand. You may have to destroy me.’

‘Yes. If I can.’

She gestured with her free hand at the heap of bones. ‘I don’t think you’ll have much trouble.’

‘Let us hope it doesn’t come to that. Let us hope the soul within you does not entirely awaken.’

‘It won’t. That’s why none of this matters.’

‘What makes you so certain, Kettle?’

‘The tower told me.’

‘It did? What did it say to you? Try to recall its exact words.’

‘It never spoke with words. It just showed me things. My body, all wrapped up. People were crying. But I could see through the gauze. I’d woken up. I was seeing everything with two sets of eyes. It was very strange. One set behind the wrappings, the other standing nearby.’

‘What else did Azath show you?’

‘Those eyes from the outside. There were five others. We were just standing in the street, watching the family carrying the body. My body. Six of us. We’d walked a long way, because of the dreams. We’d been in the city for weeks, waiting for the Azath to choose someone. But I wasn’t the same as the five others, though we were here for the same reason, and we’d travelled together. They were Nerek witches, and they’d prepared me. The me on the outside, not the me all wrapped up.’

‘The you on the outside, Kettle, were you a child?’

‘Oh no. I was tall. Not as tall as you. And I had to wear my hood up, so no-one could see how different I was. I’d come from very far away. I’d walked, when I was young, hot sands – the sands that covered the First Empire. Whatever that is.’

‘What did the Nerek witches call you? Had you a name?’

‘No.’

‘A title?’

She shrugged. ‘I’d forgotten all this. They called me the Nameless One. Is this important?’

‘I think it is, Kettle. Although I am not sure in what way. Much of this realm remains unknown to me. It was very young when I was imprisoned. You are certain this “Nameless One” was an actual title? Not just something the Nerek used because they didn’t know your true name?’

‘It was a title. They said I’d been prepared from birth. That I was a true child of Eres. And that I was the answer to the Seventh Closure, because I had the blood of kin. “The blood of kin.” What did they mean by that?’

‘When I am finally free,’ he said in a voice revealing strain, ‘I will be able to physically touch you, Kettle. My fingers upon your brow. And then I will have your answer.’

‘I guess this Eres was my real mother.’

‘Yes.’

‘And soon you will know who my father is.’

‘I will know his blood, yes. At the very least.’

‘I wonder if he’s still alive.’

‘Knowing how Eres plays the game, lass, he might not even be your father yet. She wanders time, Kettle, in a manner no-one else can even understand, much less emulate. And this is very much her world. She is the fire that never dies.’ He paused, then said, ‘She will choose – or has chosen – with great deliberation. Your father was, is, or will be someone of great importance.’

‘So how many souls are in me?’

‘Two, sharing the flesh and bone of a child corpse. Lass, we shall have to find a way to get you out of that body, eventually.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you deserve something better.’

‘I want to go back. Will you take me back now?’

‘I’ve given up on the eel itself,’ Bugg said, ladling out the soup. ‘It’s still too tough.’

‘None the less, my dear manservant, it smells wonderful.’

‘That would be the wine. Courtesy of Chief Investigator Rucket, whose request for a meeting with you was for purposes not entirely professional.’

‘And how did you fare on my behalf?’

‘I ensured that her interest in you only deepened, master.’

‘By way of contrast?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Well, is that a good thing? I mean, she’s rather frightening.’

‘You don’t know the half of it. Even so, she is exceptionally clever.’

‘Oh, I don’t like that at all, Bugg. You know, I am tasting something fishy. A hint, anyway. Just how dried up was this eel you found?’

The manservant probed with his ladle and lifted the mentioned object into view. Black, wrinkled and not nearly as limp as it should have been.

Tehol leaned closer and studied it for a moment. ‘Bugg…’

‘Yes, master?’

‘That’s the sole of a sandal.’

‘It is? Oh. I was wondering why it was flatter at one end than the other.’

Tehol settled back and took another sip. ‘Still fishy, though. One might assume the wearer, being in the fish market, stepped on an eel, before the loss of his or her sole.’

‘I am mildly disturbed by the thought of what else he or she might have stepped in.’

‘There are indeed complexities on the palate, suggesting a varied and lengthy history. Now, how was your day and the subsequent evening?’

‘Uneventful. Rucket informs me that Gerun Eberict has killed about three thousand citizens this year.’

‘Three thousand? That seems somewhat excessive.’

‘I thought so, too, master. More soup?’

‘Yes, thank you. So, what is his problem, do you think?’

‘Gerun’s? A taste for blood, I’d wager.’

‘As simple as that? How egregious. We’ll have to do something about it, I think.’

‘And how was your day and evening, master?’

‘Busy. Exhausting, even.’

‘You were on the roof?’

‘Yes, mostly. Although, as I recall, I came down here once. Can’t remember why. Or, rather, I couldn’t at the time, so I went back up.’

Bugg tilted his head. ‘Someone’s approaching our door.’ The sound of boots in the alley, the faint whisper of armour. ‘My brother, I’d hazard,’ Tehol said, then, turning to face the curtained doorway, he raised his voice. ‘Brys, do come in.’

The hanging was pulled aside and Brys entered. ‘Well, that is an interesting smell,’ he said.

‘Sole soup,’ Tehol said. ‘Would you like some?’

‘No, thank you. I have already eaten, it being well after the second bell. I trust you have heard the rumours.’

‘The war?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve heard hardly a thing,’ Tehol said.

Brys hesitated, glancing at Bugg, then he sighed. ‘A new emperor has emerged to lead the Tiste Edur. Tehol, Hull has sworn his allegiance to him.’

‘Now, that is indeed unfortunate.’

‘Accordingly, you are at risk.’

‘Arrest?’

‘No, more likely assassination. All in the name of patriotism.’

Tehol set his bowl down. ‘It occurs to me, Brys, that you are more at risk than I am.’

‘I am well guarded, brother, whilst you are not.’

‘Nonsense! I have Bugg!’

The manservant looked up at Brys with a bland smile.

‘Tehol, this is not time for jokes-’

‘Bugg resents that!’

‘I do?’

‘Well, don’t you? I would, if I were you-’

‘It seems you just were.’

‘My apologies for making you speak out of turn, then.’

‘Speaking on your behalf, master, I accept.’

‘You are filled with relief-’

‘Will you two stop it!’ Brys shouted, throwing up his hands. He began pacing the small confines of the room. ‘The threat is very real. Agents of the queen will not hesitate. You are both in very grave danger.’

‘But how will killing me change the fact of Hull forsaking our homeland?’

‘It won’t, of course. But your history, Tehol, makes you a hated man. The queen’s investments suffered thanks to you, and she’s not the type to forgive and forget.’

‘Well, what do you suggest, Brys?’

‘Stop sleeping on your roof, for one. Let me hire a few bodyguards-’

‘A few? How many are you thinking?’

‘Four, at least.’

‘One.’

‘One?’

‘One. No more than that. You know how I dislike crowds, Brys.’

‘Crowds? You’ve never disliked crowds, Tehol.’

‘I do now.’

Brys glowered, then sighed. ‘All right. One.’

‘And that will make you happy, then? Excellent-’

‘No more sleeping on your roof.’

‘I’m afraid, brother, that won’t be possible.’

‘Why not?’

Tehol gestured. ‘Look at this place! It’s a mess! Besides, Bugg snores. And we’re not talking mild snoring, either. Imagine being chained to the floor of a cave, with the tide crashing in, louder, louder, louder-’

‘I have in mind three guards, all brothers,’ Brys said, ‘who can spell each other. One will therefore always be with you, even when you’re sleeping on your roof.’

‘So long as they don’t snore-’

‘They won’t be asleep, Tehol! They’ll be standing guard!’

‘All right. Calm down. I am accepting, aren’t I? Now, how about some soup, just to tide you over until you break your fast?’

Brys glanced at the pot. ‘There’s wine in it, isn’t there?’

‘Indeed. Only the best, at that.’

‘Fine. Half a bowl.’

Tehol and Bugg exchanged pleased smiles.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

LIGHT AND HEAT ROSE IN WAVES FROM THE ROCK, SWIRLED remorselessly along the narrow track. The wraiths had fled to cracks and fissures and huddled there now, like bats awaiting dusk. Seren Pedac paused to await Buruk. She set her pack down, then tugged at the sweat-sodden, quilted padding beneath her armour, feeling it peel away from her back like skin. She was wearing less than half her kit, the rest strapped onto the pack, yet it still dragged at her after the long climb to the summit of the pass.

She could hear nothing from beyond the crest twenty paces behind her, and considered going back to check on her charge. Then, faintly, came a curse, then scrabbling sounds.

The poor man.

They had been hounded by the wraiths the entire way. The ghostly creatures made the very air agitated and restless. Sleep was difficult, and the constant motion flitting in their peripheral vision, the whispered rustling through their camps, left their nerves raw and exhausted.

She glared a moment at the midday sun, then wiped the gritty sweat from her brow and walked a few paces ahead on the trail. They were almost out of Edur territory. Another thousand paces. After that, another day’s worth of descent to the river. Without the wagons, they would then be able to hire a river boat to take them the rest of the way down to Trate. Another day for that.

And then? Will he still hold me to the contract? It seemed pointless, and so she had assumed he would simply release her, at least for the duration of the war, and she would be free to journey back to Letheras. But Buruk the Pale had said nothing of that. In fact, he had not said much of anything since leaving the Hiroth village.

She turned as he clambered onto the summit’s flat stretch. Clothed in dust and streaks of sweat, beneath them a deeply flushed face and neck. Seren walked back towards him. ‘We will rest here for a time.’

He coughed, then asked, ‘Why?’ The word was a vicious growl.

‘Because we need it, Buruk.’

‘You don’t. And why speak for me? I am fine, Acquitor. Just get us to the river.’

Her pack held both their possessions and supplies. She had cut down a sapling and trimmed it to serve as a walking stick for him, and this was all he carried. His once fine clothes were ragged, the leggings torn by sharp rocks. He stood before her, wheezing, bent over and leaning heavily on the stick. ‘I mean to rest, Buruk,’ she said after a moment. ‘You can do as you please.’

‘I can’t stand being watched!’ the merchant suddenly shrieked. ‘Always watching! Those damned shades! No more!’ With that he stumbled past her on the trail.

Seren returned to her pack and slung it once more over her shoulders. One sentiment she could share with Buruk: the sooner this trip was over, the better. She set out in his wake.

A dozen paces along and she reached his side. Then was past.

By the time Seren arrived at the clearing where the borders had been agreed over a century ago, Buruk the Pale was once more out of sight somewhere back on the trail. She halted, flung down her pack, and walked over to the sheer wall of polished black stone, recalling when she had last touched that strange – and strangely welcoming – surface.

Some mysteries would not unravel, whilst others were peeled back by fraught circumstance or deadly design, to reveal mostly sordid truths.

She set her hands against the warm, glassy stone, and felt something like healing steal into her. Beyond, figures in ceaseless motion, paying no attention to her whatsoever. Preferable to the endless spying of wraiths. And this was as it had always been. Seren settled her forehead against the wall, closing her eyes.

And heard whispering.

A language kin to Tiste Edur. She struggled to translate. Then meaning was found.

‘-when he who commands cannot be assailed. Cannot be defeated.’

‘And now he feeds on our rage. Our anguish.’

‘Of the three, one shall return. Our salvation-’

‘Fool. From each death power burgeons anew. Victory is impossible.’

‘There is no place for us. We but serve. We but bleed out terror and the annihilation begins-’

‘Ours as well.’

‘Yes, ours as well.’

‘Do you think she will come again? Does anyone think she will come again? She will, I am certain of it. With her bright sword. She is the rising sun and the rising sun ever comes, sending us scurrying, cutting us to pieces with that sharp, deadly light-’

‘-annihilation well serves us. Make of us dead shards. To bring an end to this-’

‘Someone is with us.’

‘Who?’

‘A mortal is here with us. Two Mistresses to the same Hold. She is one, and she is here. She is here now and she listens to our words.’

‘Steal her mind!’

‘Take her soul!’

‘Let us out!’

Seren reeled away from the black wall. Staggered, hands to her ears, shaking her head. ‘Enough,’ she moaned. ‘No more, please. No more.’ She sank to her knees, was motionless as the voices faded, their screams dwindling. ‘Mistress?’ she whispered. I am no-one’s mistress. Just one more reluctant… lover of solitude. No place for voices, no place for hard purposes… fierce fires.

Like Hull, only ashes. The smudged remnants of possibilities. But, unlike the man she had once thought to love, she had not knelt before a new icon to certainty. No choices to measure out like the soporific illusion of some drug, the consigning invitation to addiction.

She wanted no new masters over her life. Nor the burden of friendships.

A croaking voice behind her. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing, Buruk.’ She climbed wearily to her feet. ‘We have reached the border.’

‘I’m not blind, Acquitor.’

‘We can move on a way, then make camp.’

‘You think me weak, don’t you?’

She glanced over at him. ‘You are sick with exhaustion, Buruk. So am I. What point all this bravado?’

Sudden pain in his expression, then he turned away. ‘I’ll show you soon enough.’

‘What of my contract?’

He did not face her. ‘Done. Once we reach Trate. I absolve you of further responsibility.’

‘So be it,’ she said, walking to her pack.

They built a small fire with the last of their wood. The wraiths, it seemed, cared nothing for borders, flitting along the edges of the flickering light. A renewed interest, and Seren thought she knew why. The spirits within the stone wall. She was now marked.

Mistress of the Hold. Mistresses. There are two, and they think I am one of those two. A lie, a mistake.

Which Hold?

‘You were young,’ Buruk suddenly said, his eyes on the fire. ‘When I first saw you.’

‘And you were happy, Buruk. What of it?’

‘Happiness. Ah, now that is a familiar mask. True, I wore it often, back then. Joyful in my spying, my unceasing betrayals, my deceits and the blood that appeared again and again on my hands.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘My debts, Acquitor. Oh yes, outwardly I stand as a respected merchant… of middling wealth.’

‘And what are you in truth?’

‘It is where dreams fall away, Seren Pedac. That crumbling edifice where totters self-worth. You stand, too afraid to move, and watch your hands in motion, mangling every dream, every visage of the face you would desire, the true face of yourself, behind that mask. It is not helpful, speaking of truths.’

She thought for a time, then her eyes narrowed. ‘You are being blackmailed.’ He voiced no denial, so she continued, ‘You are Indebted, aren’t you?’

‘Debts start small. Barely noticeable. Temporary. And so, in repayment, you are asked to do something. Something vile, a betrayal. And then, they have you. And you are indebted anew, in the maintenance of the secret, in your gratitude for not being exposed in your crime, which has since grown larger. As it always does, if you are in possession of a conscience.’ He was silent a moment, then he sighed and said, ‘I do envy those who have no conscience.’

‘Can you not get out, Buruk?’

He would not look up from the flames. ‘Of course I can,’ he said easily.

That tone, so at odds with all else he had said, frightened her. ‘Make yourself… un-useful, Buruk.’

‘Indeed, that seems the way of it, Acquitor. And I am in a hurry to do just that.’ He rose. ‘Time to sleep. Downhill to the river, then we can trail our sore feet in the cool water, all the way to Trate.’

She remained awake for a while longer, too tired to think, too numb to feel fear.

Above the fire, sparks and stars swam without distinction.

Dusk the following day, the two travellers reached Kraig’s Landing, to find its three ramshackle buildings surrounded by the tents of an encamped regiment. Soldiers were everywhere, and at the dock was tethered an ornate, luxuriously appointed barge above which drifted in the dull wind the king’s banner, and directly beneath it on the spar the crest of the Ceda.

‘There’s a cadre here,’ Buruk said as they strode down the trail towards the camp, which they would have to pass through to reach the hostel and dock.

She nodded. ‘And the soldiers are here as escort. There can’t have been engagements already, can there?’

He shrugged. ‘At sea, maybe. The war is begun, I think.’

Seren reached out and halted Buruk. ‘There, those three.’

The merchant grunted.

The three figures in question had emerged from the rows of tents, the soldiers nearby keeping their distance but fixing their attention on them as they gathered for a moment, about halfway between the two travellers and the camp.

‘The one in blue – do you recognize her, Acquitor?’

She nodded. Nekal Bara, Trate’s resident sorceress, whose power was a near rival to the Ceda’s own. ‘The man on her left, in the black furs, that’s Arahathan, commander of the cadre in the Cold Clay Battalion. I don’t know the third one.’

‘Enedictal,’ Buruk said. ‘Arahathan’s counterpart in the Snakebelt Battalion. We see before us the three most powerful mages of the north. They intend a ritual.’

She set off towards them.

‘Acquitor! Don’t!’

Ignoring Buruk, Seren unslung her pack and dropped it to the ground. She had caught the attention of the three mages. Visible in the gloom, Nekal Bara’s mocking lift of the eyebrows.

‘Acquitor Seren Pedac. The Errant smiles upon you indeed.’

‘You’re going to launch an attack,’ Seren said. ‘You mustn’t.’

‘We do not take orders from you,’ Enedictal said in a growl.

‘You’re going to strike the villages, aren’t you?’

‘Only the ones closest to the borders,’ Nekal Bara said, ‘and those are far enough away to permit us a full unveiling – beyond those mountains, yes? If the Errant wills it, that’s where the Edur armies will have already gathered.’

‘We shall obliterate the smug bastards,’ Enedictal said. ‘And end this stupid war before it’s begun.’

‘There are children-’

‘Too bad.’

Without another word the three mages moved to take positions, twenty paces distant from one another. They faced the slope of the trail, the rearing mountains before them.

‘No!’ Seren shouted.

Soldiers appeared, surrounding her, expressions dark and angry beneath the rim of their helms. One spoke. ‘It’s this, woman, or the fields of battle. Where people die. Make no move. Say nothing.’

Buruk the Pale arrived to stand nearby. ‘Leave it be, Acquitor.’

She glared at him. ‘You don’t think he’ll retaliate? He’ll disperse the attack, Buruk. You know he will.’

‘He may not have the time,’ the merchant replied. ‘Oh, perhaps his own village, but what of the others?’

A flash of light caught her attention and she turned to see that but one mage remained, Nekal Bara. Then Seren saw, two hundred paces distant, the figure of Enedictal. Twisting round, she could make out Arahathan, two hundred paces in the opposite direction. More flashes, and the two sorcerors reappeared again, double the distance from Nekal Bara.

‘They’re spreading out,’ Buruk observed. ‘This is going to be a big ritual.’

A soldier said, ‘The Ceda himself is working tonight. Through these three here, and the rest of the cadre strung out another league in both directions. Four villages will soon be nothing but ashes.’

‘This is a mistake,’ Seren said.

Something was building between the motionless sorcerors. Blue and green light, ravelled taut, like lightning wound round an invisible rope linking the mages. The glow building like sea foam, a froth that began crackling, spitting drawn-out sparks that whipped like tendrils.

The sound became a hissing roar. The light grew blinding, the tendrils writhing out from the glowing foam. The twisting rope bucked and snapped between the stationary mages, reaching out past the three who were still visible, out beyond the hills to either side.

She watched the power burgeoning, the bucking frenzied, the tendrils whipping like the limbs of some giant, wave-thrashed anemone.

Darkness had been peeled back by the bristling energy, the shadows dancing wild. A sudden shout.

The heaving chain sprang loose, the roar of its escape thundering in the ground beneath Seren’s feet. Figures staggered as the wave launched skyward, obliterating the night. It crest was blinding green fire, the curving wall in its wake a luminescent ochre, webbed with foam in a stretching latticework.

The wall swallowed the north sky, and still the crest rose, power streaming upward. The grasses near the mages blackened, then spun into white ash on swirling winds.

Beneath the roar, a shriek, then screams. Seren saw a soldier stumbling forward, against the glowing wall at the base of the wave. It took him, stripped armour, clothes, then hair and skin, then, in a gush of blood, it devoured his flesh. Before the hapless figure could even crumple, the bones were plucked away, leaving naught but a single upright boot on the blistered ground in front of the foaming wall. The crimson blush shot upward, paling as it went. Until it was gone. Air hissed past her, buffeting and bitter cold.

She sank down, the only response possible to fight that savage tugging, and dug her fingers into the stony ground. Others did the same around her, clawing in panic. Another soldier was dragged away, pulled shrieking into the wave.

The roaring snapped suddenly, like a breath caught in a throat, and Seren saw the base lift away, roll upward like a vast curtain, rising to reveal, once again, the battered slopes leading to the pass, then the pallid mountains and their blunt, ancient summits.

The wave swiftly dwindled as it soared northward, its wild light reflected momentarily in a patchwork cascade across reflective surfaces far below, sweeps of snow near the peaks and ice-polished stone blossoming sickly green and gold, as if awakened to an unexpected sunset.

Then the mountains were black silhouettes once more.

Beyond them, the wave, from horizon to horizon, was descending. Vanishing behind the range.

In the corner of her vision, Seren saw Nekal Bara slump to her knees.

Sudden light, across the rim of the world to the north, billowing like storm seas exploding against rock. The glow shot back into the night sky, this time in fiery arms and enormous, whipping tentacles.

She saw a strange ripple of grey against black on the facing mountainside, swiftly plunging.

Then comprehension struck her. ‘Lie flat! Everyone! Down!’

The ripple struck the base of the slope. The few scraggly trees clinging to a nearby hillside toppled in unison, as if pushed over by a giant invisible hand.

The sound struck.

And broke around them, strangely muted.

Dazed, Seren lifted her head. Watched the shale tiles of an outlying building’s roof dance away into the darkness. Watched as the north-facing wall tilted, then collapsed, taking the rest of the structure with it. She slowly climbed to her hands and knees.

Nekal Bara stood nearby, her hair and clothes untouched by the wind that raged on all sides.

Muddy rain sifted down through the strangely thick air. The stench of charred wood and the raw smell of cracked stone.

Beyond, the wind had died, and the rain pummelled the ground. Darkness returned, and if fires still burned beyond the mountains, no sign was visible from this distance.

Buruk the Pale staggered to her side, his face splashed with mud. ‘He did not block it, Acquitor!’ he gasped. ‘It is as I said: no time to prepare.’

A soldier shouted, ‘Errant take us! Such power!’ There was good reason why Lether had never lost a war. Even the Onyx Wizards of Bluerose had been crushed by the cadres of the Ceda. Archpriests, shamans, witches and rogue sorcerors, none had ever managed to stand for long against such ferocity. Seren felt sick inside. Sick, and bereft.

This is not war. This is… what? Errant save us, I have no answer, no way to describe the magnitude of this slaughter. It is mindless. Blasphemous. As if we have forgotten dignity. Theirs, our own. The word itself. No distinction between innocence and guilt, condemned by mere existence. People transformed against their will into nothing more than symbols, sketchy representations, repositories of all ills, of all frustrations.

Is this what must be done? Take the enemy’s flesh and fill it with diseases, corrupting and deadly to the touch, breath of poison? And that which is sick must be exterminated, lest it spread its contamination.

‘I doubt,’ Buruk said in an empty voice, ‘there was time to suffer.’

True. Leave that to us.

There had been no defence. Hannan Mosag, Rhulad, the slave Udinaas, and Feather Witch. Hull Beddict. The names skittered away in her mind and she saw – with a sudden twisting of her insides that left her shocked – the face of Trull Sengar. No. It was Hull I was thinking of. No. Why him? ‘But they’re dead.’

‘They’re all dead,’ Buruk said beside her. ‘I need a drink.’

His hand plucked at her arm.

She did not move. ‘There’s nowhere to go.’

‘Acquitor. The tavern beneath the hostel’s built solid enough to withstand a siege. I’d imagine that’s where those soldiers just went, to toast their lost comrades. Poor fools. The dead ones, I mean. Come on, Seren. I’m in the mood to spend coin.’

Blinking, she looked round. The mages were gone.

‘It’s raining, Acquitor. Let’s go.’

His hand closed on her arm. She allowed him to drag her away.

‘What’s happened?’

‘You’re in shock, Acquitor. No surprise. Here, I’ve some tea for you, the captain’s own. Enjoy the sunshine – it’s been rare enough lately.’

The river’s swift current pulled the barge along. Ahead, the sun was faintly copper, but the breeze sidling across the water’s spinning surface was warm.

She took the cup from his hands.

‘We’ll be there by dusk,’ Buruk said. ‘Soon, we should be able to make out its skyline. Or at least the smoke.’

‘The smoke,’ she said. ‘Yes, there will be that.’

‘Think on it this way, Seren. You’ll soon be free of me.’

‘Not if there’s not to be a war.’

‘No. I intend to release you from your contract in any case.’

She looked over at him, struggled to focus. There had been a night. After the sorcerous assault. In the tavern. Boisterous soldiers. Scouting parties were to head north the next day – today. She was starting to recall details, the gleam of some strange excitement as lurid as the tavern’s oil lamps. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘My need for you is ended, Acquitor.’

‘Presumably, the Edur will sue for peace. If anything, Buruk, you will find yourself far busier than ever.’ She sipped the tea.

‘He nodded, slowly, and she sensed from him a kind of resignation.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I’d forgotten. You must needs make yourself of no use.’

‘Indeed. My days as a spy are over, Acquitor.’

‘You will be the better for it, Buruk.’

‘Assuredly.’

‘Will you stay in Trate?’

‘Oh yes. It is my home, after all I intend never to leave Trate.’

Seren drank her tea. Mint, and something else that thickened her tongue. Flowed turgid and cloying through her thoughts. ‘You have poisoned this tea, Buruk.’ The words slurred.

‘Had to, Seren Pedac. Since last night. I can’t have you thinking clearly. Not right now. You’ll sleep again. One of the dockhands will waken you tonight – I will make sure of that, and that you’re safe.’

‘Is this another… another betrayal?’ She felt herself sagging on the bench.

‘My last, dear. Remember this, if you can: I didn’t want your help.’

‘My… help.’

‘Although,’ he added from a great distance, ‘you have always held my heart.’

Fierce pain behind her eyes. She blinked them open. It was night. A robe covered her, tucked up round her chin. The slow rise and fall beneath her and the faint creaks told her she was still aboard the barge, which was now tied up alongside a stone pier. Groaning, she sat up.

Scuffling sounds beside her, then a tankard was hovering before her face. ‘Drink this, lass.’

She did not recognize the voice, but pushed the tankard away.

‘No it’s all right,’ the man insisted. ‘Just ale. Clean, cool ale. To take the ache from your head. He said you”d be hurting, you see. And ale’s always done it for me, when I done and drunk too much.’

‘I wasn’t drunk-’

‘No matter, you weren’t sleeping a natural sleep. It ain’t no difference, you see? Come now, lass, I need to get you up and around. It’s my wife, you see, she’s poorly. We’re past the third bell an’ I don’t like leaving her too long alone. But he paid me good. Errant knows, more than an honest man makes in a year. Jus’ to sit with you, you see. See you’re safe an’ up and walking.’

She struggled to her feet, clutching at and missing the cloak as it slipped down to her feet.

The dockhand, a bent, wizened old man, set the tankard down and collected it. ‘Turn now, lass. I got the clasps. There’s a chill this night – you’re shivering. Turn now, yes, good, that’s it.’

‘Thank you.’ The weight of the cloak pulled at her neck muscles and shoulders, making the pain in her head throb.

‘I had a daughter, once. A noble took her. Debts, you see. Maybe she’s alive, maybe she isn’t. He went through lasses, that one. Back in Letheras. We couldn’t stay there, you see, not after that. Chance t’see her, or a body turning up, like they do. Anyway, she was tall like you, that’s all. Here, have some ale.’

She accepted the tankard, drank down three quick mouthfuls.

‘There, better now.’

‘I have to go. So do you, to your wife.’

‘Well enough, lass. Can you walk?’

‘Where’s my pack?’

‘He took it with him, said you could collect it. In the shed behind his house. He was specific ’bout that. The shed. Don’t go in the house, he said. Very specific-’

She swung to the ladder. ‘Help me.’

Rough hands under her arms, moving down to her behind as she climbed, then her thighs. ‘Best I can do, lass,’ came a gasp below her as she moved beyond his reach. She clambered onto the pier.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said.

The city was quiet, barring a pair of dogs scrapping somewhere behind a warehouse. Seren stumbled on occasion as she hurried down the streets. But, true to the dockhand’s word, the ale dulled the pain behind her eyes. Made her thoughts all too clear.

She reached Buruk the Pale’s home, an old but well-maintained house halfway down a row on the street just in from the riverside warehouses.

No lights showed behind the shuttered windows.

Seren climbed the steps and drove her boot against the door.

Four kicks and the locks broke. By this time, neighbours had awakened. There were shouts, calls for the guard. Somewhere down the row a bell began ringing.

She followed the collapsing door into the cloakroom beyond. No servants, no sound from within. Into the dark hallway, ascending the stairs to the next level. Another hallway, step by step closing in on the door to Buruk’s bedroom. Through the doorway. Inside.

Where he hung beneath a crossbeam, face bloated in the shadows. A toppled chair off to one side, up against the narrow bed.

A scream, filled with rage, tore loose from Seren’s throat.

Below, boots on the stairs.

She screamed again, the sound falling away to a hoarse sob.

You have always held my heart.

Smoke rising in broad plumes, only to fall back and unfold like a grey cloak over the lands to the north. Obscuring all, hiding nothing.

Hanradi Khalag’s weathered face was set, expressionless, as he stared at the distant devastation. Beside the chief of the Merude, Trull Sengar remained silent, wondering why Hanradi had joined him at this moment, when the mass of warriors were in the midst of breaking camp on the forested slopes all around them.

‘Hull Beddict spoke true,’ the chief said in his raspy voice. ‘They would strike pre-emptively. Beneda, Hiroth and Arapay villages.’

A night of red fires filling the north. At least four villages, and among them Trull’s own. Destroyed.

He swung round to study the slopes. Seething with warriors, Edur women and their slaves, elders and children. No going back, now. The Letherii sorcery has obliterated our homes… but those homes were empty, the villages left to the crows.

And a handful of hapless Nerek.

Nothing but ashes, now.

‘Trull Sengar,’ Hanradi Khalag said, ‘our allies arrived last night. Three thousand. You were seen. It seems they know you well, if only by reputation. The sons of Tomad Sengar, but you especially. The one who leads them is called the Dominant. A hulk of a man, even for one of his kind. More grey than black in his mane. He is named B’nagga-’

‘This does not interest me, Chief,’ Trull cut in. ‘They have been as sorely used as we have, and that use is far from over. I do not know this B’nagga.’

‘As I said, he knows you, and would speak with you.’

Trull turned away.

‘You had best accept the truth of things, Trull Sengar-’

‘One day I will know your mind, Hanradi Khalag. The self you hide so well. Hannan Mosag bent you to his will. And now you kneel before my brother, the emperor. The usurper. Is this what the unification of the tribes was intended to mean? Is this the future you desired?’

‘Usurper. Words like that will see you killed or cast out.’

Trull grunted. ‘Rhulad is with the western army-’

‘But the wraiths now serve him.’

‘Ah, and we are to have spies among us now? An emperor who fears his own. An emperor who would be immune to criticism. Someone must speak in the name of reason.’

‘Speak no more of this. Not to me. I reject all you say. You are being foolish, Trull Sengar. Foolish. Your anger is born of envy. No more.’ He turned and walked back down the narrow track, leaving Trull alone once again on the precipice rising above the valleys of the pass. It did not occur to him to see if Hanradi had indeed lost his shadow.

A precipice. Where he could look down and watch the thousands swarm among the trees.

Three land armies and four fleets held, divided among them, the entire population of the Tiste Edur. This camp before him was a league wide and two leagues deep. Trull had never seen so many Edur gathered in one place. Hiroth, Arapay, Sollanta, Beneda.

He caught movement below, on the edge of Fear’s command area, squat, fur-clad figures, and felt himself grow cold. Our… allies.

Jheck.

Summoned by the Edur they had killed. Worshippers of the sword.

The night just past, beginning at dusk, had vanished behind a nightmarish display of sorcery. Unimaginable powers unveiled by the Letherii mages, an expression of appalling brutality in its intent. This was clearly going to be a war where no quarter was given, where conquest and annihilation were, for the Letherii, synonymous. Trull wondered if Rhulad would answer in like manner.

Except we have no homes to return to. We are committed to occupation of the south. Of Lether. We cannot raze the cities… can we? He drew a deep breath. He needed to talk to Fear again. But his brother had plunged into his role as commander of this army. His lead elements, half a day ahead, would come within sight of High Fort. The army would cross the Katter River at the Narrow Chute, which was spanned by a stone bridge centuries old, then swing down to join those lead elements.

And there would be a battle.

For Fear, the time for questions was past.

But why can I not manage the same for myself? Certainty, even fatality, eluded Trull. His mind would not rest from its tortured thoughts, his worries of what awaited them.

He made his way down the track. The Jheck were there, a contingent present in Fear’s command area. He was not required, he told himself, to speak to them.

Edur warriors readying armour and weapons on all sides. Women chanting protective wards to weave a net of invisibility about the entire encampment. Wraiths darting among the trees, most of them streaming southward, through the pass and into the southlands. Here and there, demonic conjurations towered, hulking and motionless along the many newly worn trails leading to the summit. They were in full armour of bronze scales, green with verdigris, with heavy helms, the cheek guards battered plates that reached down past the jawlines, their faces hidden. Polearms, glaives, double-edged axes and maces, an array of melee weapons. Once, not so long ago, such summoned demons had been rare, the ritual – conducted by women – one of cajoling, false promises and final deception. The creatures were bound, now doomed to fight a war not of their making, where the only release was annihilation. They numbered in the high hundreds in this, Fear’s army. The truth of that sickened him.

Helping with the striking of tents, children. Torn from their familiar world, subject to a new shaping. If this gambit failed…

Fear was standing near the remnants of a hearth from which smoke rose in a low wreath about his legs. Flanked by the two K’risnan the emperor had attached to this force. Hanradi Khalag stood off to one side.

A Jheck was approaching, probably the one the Merude chief had spoken of given the wild iron-streaked, tangled head of hair, the fattened seamed face displaying countless battle-scars. Various shells dangled from knotted strips hanging on his sleeveless sealskin shirt. Other small trophies depended from a narrow belt beneath the man’s round paunch – pieces of Edur armour, jewellery. A bold reminder of past enmity.

What had Hanradi called him? The Dominant. B’nagga.

The Jheck’s eyes were yellow, the whites dull grey and embryonic with blue vessels. They looked half mad.

Filed teeth flashed in a fierce smile. ‘See who comes, Fear Sengar!’ The accent was awkward behind the Arapay intonations. ‘The one we could not defeat!’

Trull scowled as his brother turned to watch him approach. To the Dominant he said, ‘You’ll find no fields of ice to the south, Jheck.’

‘Mange and moult, Slayer. No other enemy gives us such terror.’ His broadening smile underscored the irony of his words. ‘Fear Sengar, your brother is worthy of much pride. Again and again, my hunters sought to best this warrior in individual combat. Veered or sembled, it mattered not. He defeated them all. Never before have we witnessed such skill, such ferocity.’

‘Among all who I trained, B’nagga,’ Fear said, ‘Trull was and remains the finest.’

Trull started, then his scowl deepened with disbelief. ‘Enough of this. Fear, has our emperor spoken to us through the wraiths? Does he voice his satisfaction at the failed attempt by the Letherii? Does he spit with rage?’

One of the K’risnan spoke. ‘Not a single Edur was lost, Trull Sengar. For that we have Hull Beddict to thank.’

‘Ah yes the traitor. And what of the Nerek camped in our village?’

The warlock shrugged. ‘We could not command them.’

‘Relinquish your anger, brother,’ Fear said. ‘The devastation was wrought by the Letherii, not us.’

‘True. And now it is our turn.’

‘Yes. The wraiths have reported an army ascending to the pass.’

Ah no. So soon.

B’nagga laughed. ‘Do we ambush them? Shall I send my wolves forward?’

‘They are not yet at the bridge,’ Fear replied. ‘I expect they will seek to contest that crossing should we fail to reach it before them. For the moment, however, they are in a slow-march, and, it seems, not expecting much opposition.’

‘That much is clear,’ Hanradi said. ‘What commander would seek an engagement against an enemy upslope? This is a probe. At first contact they will withdraw. Back to High Fort. Fear, we should bloody them all the way.’

‘B’nagga, send half your force forward. Observe the enemy, but remain unseen.’

The K’risnan who had spoken earlier said, ‘Fear, there will be a mage cadre attached to the army.’

Fear nodded. ‘Withdraw the wraiths barring a dozen or so. I would convey the belief that those few are but residents of the area. The enemy must remain unsuspecting. Hanradi Khalag, our warriors must be made ready to march. You will lead them.’

‘We shall be under way before mid-morning.’

Trull watched the Merude chief walk away, then said, ‘Those Letherii mages will prove troublesome.’

The K’risnan grunted. ‘Trull Sengar, we are their match.’

He looked at the two warlocks. Chiefs’ sons. Of Rhulad’s age.

The K’risnan’s smile was knowing. ‘We are linked to Hannan Mosag, and through him to the emperor himself. Trull Sengar, the power we now call upon is more vast, and deadlier, than any the Edur have known before.’

‘And that does not concern you? What is the aspect of this power? Do you even know? Does Hannan Mosag know? Rhulad?’

‘The power comes to the emperor through the sword,’ the K’risnan said.

‘That is no answer-’

‘Trull!’ Fear snapped. ‘No more. I have asked that you assemble a unit from our village. Have you done so?’

‘Yes, brother. Fifty warriors, half of them unblooded, as you commanded.’

‘And have you created squads and chosen your officers?’

Trull nodded.

‘Lead them to the bridge. Take advance positions on the other side and wait until Hanradi’s forces reach you – it should not be a long wait.’

‘And if the Letherii have sent scouts ahead and they arrive first?’

‘Gauge their strength and act accordingly. But Trull, no last stands. A skirmish will suffice to hold up the enemy’s advance, particularly if they are uncertain as to your strength. Now, gather your warriors and be off.’

‘Very well.’

There was no point in arguing any further, he told himself as he made his way to where his company waited. No-one wanted to listen. Independent thought had been relinquished, with appalling eagerness it seemed to him, and in its place had risen a stolid resolve to question nothing. Worse, Trull found he could not help himself. Even as he saw the anger grow in the faces of those around him – anger that he dare challenge, that he dare think in ways contrary to theirs, and so threaten their certainty – he was unable to stay silent.

Momentum was building all around him, and the stronger it grew the more he resisted it. In a way, he suspected, he was becoming as reactionary as they were, driven into extreme opposition, and though he struggled against this dogmatic obstinacy it was a battle he sensed he was losing.

There was nothing of value in such opposed positions of thought. And no possible conclusion but his own isolation and, eventually, the loss of trust.

His warriors were waiting, gear packed, armour donned. Trull knew them all by name, and had endeavoured to achieve a balanced force, not just in skill but in attitude. Accordingly, he knew many of them resented being under his command, for his dissatisfaction with this war was well known. None the less, he knew they would follow him.

There were no nobles among them.

Trull joined the warrior he had chosen as his captain. Ahlrada Ahn had trained alongside Trull, specializing in the Merude cutlass as his preferred weapon. He was left-handed, rare among the Edur, yet used his other hand to wield a short, wide-bladed knife for close fighting. The bell-hilt of his cutlass sprouted a profusion of quillons designed to trap opposing sword-blades and spear-shafts, and his ceaseless exercises concentrating on that tactic had made his left wrist almost twice the bulk of its opposite. Trull had seen more than one of his practice spears snap at a shoulder-wrenching twist from Ahlrada’s sword-arm.

The warrior also hated him, for reasons Trull had yet to fathom. Although now, he amended, Ahlrada had probably found a new reason.

‘Captain.’

The dark eyes would not meet his. They never did. Ahlrada’s skin was darker than any other Edur Trull had seen. There were colourless streaks in his long, unbound hair. Shadow wraiths swarmed round him – another strange detail unique to the warrior. ‘Leader,’ he replied.

‘Inform the sergeants, we’re heading out. Minimum kits – we need to travel quickly.’

‘Already done. We were waiting for you.’

Trull walked over to his own gear, shouldered the small leather pack, then selected four spears from his cache. Whatever was left behind would be collected by the Letherii slaves and carried with the main body as it made its cautious way south in the wake of Trull’s company and Hanradi’s forces.

When he turned, he saw that the company were on their feet, all eyes fixed on him. ‘We must needs run, warriors. The south end of the bridge. Once through the pass, each squad sends out a point and makes its own way off-trail down to the bridge. Thus, you must be both swift and silent.’

A sergeant spoke. ‘Leader, if we leave the trail we are slowed.’

‘Then we had best get moving.’

‘Leader,’ the sergeant persisted, ‘we will lose speed-’

‘I do not trust the trail beyond the pass, Canarth. Now, move out.’ In his head he cursed himself. A leader need not give reasons. The command was sufficient. Nor, he silently added, was a sergeant expected to voice public challenge. This was not beginning well.

One squad in the lead, followed by Trull, then the remaining squads with Ahlrada taking up the rear, the company set out for the pass at a steady run. They quickly left the camp behind. Then, through an avenue provided them, they swept past Hanradi Khalag’s forces.

Trull found pleasure, and relief, in the pace they set. The mind could vanish in the steady rhythm, and the forest slid past with each stride, the trees growing more stunted and thinner on the ground the closer they approached the summit, while overhead the sun climbed a cloudless sky.

Shortly before mid-morning they halted on the south end of the pass. Trull was pleased to see that none of his warriors was short of breath, instead drawing long, deep lungfuls to slow their hearts. The exertion and the heat left them, one and all, sheathed in sweat. They drank a little water, then ate a small meal of dried salmon and thin bread wrapped round pine nut paste.

Rested and fed, the warriors formed up into their squads, then, without another word, headed into the sparse forest to either side of the trail.

Trull elected to accompany the squad led by Canarth. They headed into the forest on the trail’s west side, then began the slow, silent descent, staying thirty or so paces from the main path. Another squad was further west, fifteen paces distant, whilst the third trailed midway between them and thirty paces back. An identical pattern had been formed on the eastern side.

Sergeant Canarth made his disapproval plain, constantly edging ahead until he was almost on the heels of the warrior at point. Trull thought to gesture him back but Canarth was ignoring him as if he was not there.

Then, halfway down the slope, the point halted and crouched low, one hand reaching back to stop Canarth.

Trull and the others also ceased moving. The forest had thickened during the descent, an army of blackened pine boles blocking line of sight beyond fifteen paces. There was little undergrowth, but the slope was uneven and treacherous with moss-coated boulders and rotting tree-falls. A glance to his right showed the nearest warrior of the flanking squad a half-dozen paces further down, but now also halted, one hand raised, his gaze fixed on Trull.

Ahead, the point was whispering to Canarth. After a moment, the sergeant reversed direction and made his way cautiously back to where Trull and the others waited.

‘There is a scout on the edge of the main trail. Faraed, likely serving with the Letherii army. He has a good line of sight on the trail itself, maybe seventy-five or more paces.’

Trull looked back at the rest of the squad. He singled one warrior out and beckoned him closer. ‘Badar, go back to the third squad. They are to choose a warrior to head upslope a hundred and twenty paces, then cut in to the main path. He is then to make his way down, as if on point. Once you have delivered the message, return to us.’

Badar nodded and slipped away.

‘What of us?’ Canarth asked.

‘We wait, then join the squad to our west. Make our way down below the scout’s position, and lay our own trap.’

‘What of the squads to the east of the trail?’

A good question. He had split his forces with no way of communicating with half his company. A mistake. ‘We had best hope they too have seen the scout. And will have rightly judged that a Faraed is virtually impossible to sneak up on.’

The sergeant simply nodded. He did not need to point out Trull’s error. Nor, it was evident, his own.

We even out. Fair enough.

A short time later Badar returned and gave them a perfunctory nod. Trull gestured the squad to follow and struck out westward to join the outlying warriors.

Once there, he quickly related his plan and the fifteen warriors set off downslope.

They descended sixty paces before Trull waved them towards the main path. The position they reached was directly below a crook in the trail. He had his warriors draw and ready weapons.

Canarth gestured. ‘Across from us, Leader. Rethal’s squad. They have anticipated you.’

Trull nodded. ‘Into position. We’ll take him when he comes opposite us.’

Heartbeats. The sun’s heat bouncing from the gravel and dust of the trail. Insects buzzing past.

Then, light thumping, the sound swiftly growing. Suddenly upon them.

The Faraed was a blur, plunging round the bend in the trail then flashing past.

Spears darted out shin-high to trip him up.

The scout leapt them.

A curse, then a shaft raced past Trull, the iron head crunching into the Faraed’s back, between the shoulder blades. Snapping through the spine. The scout sprawled, then tumbled, limbs flopping, and came to a rest ten paces down the path.

Settling dust. Silence.

Trull made his way down to where the body lay in a twisted heap. The scout, he saw, was a boy. Fourteen, fifteen years of age. His smeared face held an expression of surprise, filling the eyes. The mouth was a grimace of terror. ‘We killed a child.’

‘An enemy,’ Canarth said beside him. ‘It is the Letherii you must look to, Leader. They throw children into this war.’ He turned to face uptrail. ‘Well thrown, Badar. You are now blooded.’

Badar scrambled down and retrieved his spear.

The third squad appeared at the crook. One of them spoke. ‘I never even saw him.’

‘Our first kill, Leader,’ Ahlrada Ahn said.

Trull felt sick. ‘Drag the body from the trail, Sergeant Canarth. Cover this blood with dust. We must move on.’

The bridge was not a bridge at all. Trull had visited it once before, and left with naught but questions. Constructed, it seemed, from a single massive disc, notched in rows across its rim, which was broad enough to permit eight warriors to stride across it without shoulders touching. The disc was on end, filling the gap of the deep gorge below which roared the Katter River. The base of the wheel was lost in the chute’s darkness and the mist rising ceaselessly from the rushing water. To cross to the other side, one had to walk that curved, slick rim. The hub of the enormous wheel was visible, at least three man-lengths down. Thigh-thick rods of polished stone, spear-shaft straight, angled out from a projection on the hub on both sides, appearing to plunge into the rock wall of the gorge’s south side.

The squads gathered on the north edge, scanning the treeline opposite. Two of the Edur had already crossed, one returning to report back. No signs of scouts, no evidence of recent camps. The lone Faraed they had killed seemed to have been sent far in advance of the main forces, or had taken upon himself the task of a deep mission. His courage and his intelligence had cost him his life.

Trull approached the very edge of the wheel, where the angle of the stone first emerged from the surrounding rock. As before, he saw a thin, milky film between that carved perfection and the rough rock of the precipice. As he had done once before, long ago, he wiped that foam away with a finger, to reveal the straight line, too narrow to slip a dagger blade into, that separated the construct from the raw stone. A disc in truth, somehow set into the notch of the gorge.

And, even stranger, the disc moved. Incrementally turning in place. At the moment, it was midway along one of the shallow grooves carved in parallel rows across the rim. He knew he could set his feet on that first notch, and halt. And, had he the patience, he would eventually – days, maybe a week, maybe more – find himself stepping off onto the south side of the gorge.

A mystery without an answer. Trull suspected it was never intended as a bridge. Rather, it had been built for some other purpose. It did not make sense to him that it functioned solely as what had immediately occurred to him the first time he had visited. There were, after all, easier ways to measure the passage of time.

Trull straightened, then waved his warriors across.

Ahlrada took the lead.

They reached the other side and fanned out, seeking cover. The ground resumed its downward slope, amidst boulders, pines and straggly oaks. They would cautiously move down in a few moments, to search for defensible positions that permitted a line of sight down the trail.

Trull crouched near Ahlrada, scanning the area ahead, when he heard the warrior grunt, then step away, swearing under his breath.

‘What’s wrong, Captain?’

‘I felt it… move. Here.’

Trull edged over, and saw that Ahlrada’s original position had been on a slightly curved panel of stone, set lower than the surrounding rock. It was covered in dust and gravel, but looked too smooth to be natural. He reached down and brushed the panel clear.

And saw arcane symbols carved into the stone, row upon row, the language unknown to him. Deeply delineated grooves formed an incomplete box around the writing, the base and side lines visible. Beneath the base a new row of lettering was just beginning to show.

Trull glanced back at the bridge, then back at the recessed panel. ‘It moved?’

‘Yes, I am certain of it,’ Ahlrada said. ‘Not much, but yes.’

‘Was there a sound?’

‘More felt than heard, Leader. As if something huge and buried was… shifting.’

Trull stared down at the panel, running his fingers along the lettering. ‘Do you recognize the language?’

Ahlrada shrugged and looked away. ‘We should head down, Leader.’

‘You have seen such writing before.’

‘Not in… stone. In ice. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Ice?’

‘I once lived and hunted with the Den-Ratha, on the north coast. North and east, deep into the ice seas. Before the unification. There was a wall, covered in such writing, a berg that blocked our way. Twenty man-heights high, half a league wide. But it sank into the sea – it was gone the next season.’

Trull knew that Ahlrada had, like Binadas, journeyed far and wide, had fashioned blood-bound kinships with many Edur from rival tribes. And, like Trull himself, had opposed the wars of subjugation conducted by Hannan Mosag. By all counts, he realized, they should be friends. ‘What did your Den-Ratha comrades say about it?’

‘The Tusked Man wrote them, they said.’ He shrugged again. ‘It is nothing. A myth.’

‘A man with tusks?’

‘He has been… seen. Over generations, sightings every now and then. Skin of green or grey. Tusks white as whalebone. Always to the north, standing on snow or ice. Leader, this is not the time.’

Trull sighed, then said, ‘Send the squads down.’

A short time later Canarth reported that he smelled rotting meat.

But it was only a dead owl, lying beside the trail.

There were dark times for the Letherii, so long ago now. The First Empire, from which vast fleets had sailed forth to map the world. The coasts of all six continents had been charted, eight hundred and eleven islands scattered in the vast oceans, ruins and riches discovered, ancient sorceries and fierce, ignorant tribes encountered. Other peoples, not human, all of whom bled easily enough. Barghast, Trell, Tartheno, Fenn, Mare, Jhag, Krinn, Jheck… Colonies had been established on foreign coasts. Wars and conquests, always conquests. Until… all was brought down, all was destroyed. The First Empire collapsed in upon itself Beasts rose in the midst of its cities, a nightmare burgeoning like Plague.

The Emperor who was One was now Seven, and the Seven were scattered, lost in madness. The great cities burned. And people died in the millions.

The nightmare had a name, and that name was T’lan Imass.

Two words, inspiring hatred and terror. But beyond those two words, there was nothing. All memory of who or what the T’lan Imass had been was lost in the chaos that followed.

Few Letherii remained who were aware of even that much. True, they knew the name ‘First Empire’. And they knew of the fall of that glorious civilization of so long ago, a civilization that was their legacy. And little else, barring the prophecy of rebirth.

Udinaas could no longer make that claim of blissful ignorance for himself. Within the world of ghosts and shades, the past lived on, breathed like a thing alive and ever restive. And voices haunted him, long dead voices. The Tiste Andii shade, Wither, was indifferent to the Letherii slave’s own desires, his pleading for silence, for an end to the grisly cacophony of regrets which seemed to be all that held ghosts together,

Udinaas knew enough horror, here among the living. And the distilling of old truths was, as far as he was concerned, not worth it.

T’lan Imass.

T’lan Imass…

What did he care about some ancient nemesis?

Because the dust of over four thousand of them was beneath their feet at this moment. A truth riding Wither’s raspy laughter.

‘And that dust has eyes, slave. Should you fear? Probably not. They’re not interested. Much. Not enough to rise up and slaughter you all, which they might not succeed in doing anyway. But, I tell you this, Udinaas, they would give it a good try.’

‘If they are dust,’ Udinaas muttered, ‘they cannot slaughter anyone.’

It was night. He sat with his back to a sloping rock face, on a ledge perched above the massive Edur encampment. The emperor had sent him off a short while ago. The hulking, gold-smeared bastard was in a foul mood. Wearied from dragging his bulk around, arguments with Hannan, Mosag, the endless logistics of moving an army tens of thousands strong, families in tow. Not all was glory.

‘The dust can rise, Udinaas. Can take shape. Warriors of bone and withered flesh, with swords of stone. Where are these ones from? Which warleader sent them here? They do not answer our questions. They never do. There are no bonecasters among them. They are, like us, lost.’

Udinaas was tired of listening. The wraith was worse than a burrowing tick, buried deep in his brain. He had begun to doubt its existence. More likely the product of madness, a persona invented in his own mind. An inventor of secrets, seeding armies of ghosts to explain the countless voices whispering in his skull. Of course, it would insist otherwise. It might even flit across his vision, creeping disembodied, the sourceless, inexplicably moving shadow where none belonged. But the slave knew his eyes could be deceived. All part of the same corrupted perception.

The wraith hides in the blood of the Wyval. The Wyval hides in the shadow of the wraith. A game of mutual negation. The emperor sensed nothing. Hannan Mosag and his K’risnan sensed nothing. Feather Witch, Mayen, Uruth, the host of bound wraiths, the hunting dogs, the birds and the buzzing insects – all sensed nothing.

And that was absurd.

As far as Udinaas was concerned, in any case – the judgement conjured by some rational, sceptical part of his brain, that knot of consciousness the wraith endlessly sought to unravel – Wither was not real.

Wyval blood. Sister of Dawn, the sword-wielding mistress known to the Edur as Menandore – her and the hungry place between her legs. Infection and something like rape. He thought he understood the connection now. He was indeed infected, and true to Feather Witch’s prediction, that un-human blood was driving him mad. There had been no blazing white bitch who stole his seed. Fevered delusions, visions of self-aggrandizement, followed by the paranoid suspicion that the promised glory had been stolen from him.

Thus explaining his sordid state right now, slave to an insane Tiste Edur. A slave, huddled beneath every conceivable heel. Cowering and useless once all the internal posturing and self-justifications were cast away.

Feather Witch. He had loved her and he would never have her and that was that. The underscored truth laid bare, grisly exposure from which he withheld any direct, honest examination.

Madmen built houses of solid stone. Then circled looking for a way inside. Inside, where cosy perfection waited. People and schemes and outright lies barred his every effort, and that was the heart of the conspiracy. From outside, after all, the house looked real. Therefore it was real. Just a little more clawing at the stone door, a little more battering, one more pounding collision will burst the barrier.

And on and on and round and round. The worn ruts of madness.

He heard scrabbling on the stone below, and a moment later Feather Witch clambered into view. She pulled herself up beside him, her motions jerky, as if fevered.

‘Is it my turn to run?’ he asked.

‘Take me there, Indebted. That dream realm. Where I found you before.’

‘You were right all along,’ Udinaas said. ‘It doesn’t exist.’

‘I need to go there. I need to see for myself.’

‘No. I don’t know how.’

‘Idiot. I can open the path. I’m good at opening paths.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then you choose. Udinaas, take me to the ghosts.’

‘This is not a good place to do that-’

She had one hand clenched around something, and she now reached out and clutched his arm with that hand, and he felt the impression of a tile pressed between them.

And there was fire.

Blinding, raging on all sides.

Udinaas felt a weight push him from behind and he stumbled forward. Through the flames. In the world he had just left, he would now be falling down the cliffside, briefly, then striking the rocky slope and tumbling towards the treeline. But his moccasins skidded across flat, dusty ground.

Twisting, down onto one knee. Feather Witch staggered into view, like him passing unharmed through the wall of fire. He wheeled on her. ‘What have you done?’

A hand closed round the back of his neck, lifted him clear of the ground, then flung him down onto his back. The cold, ragged edge of a stone blade pressed against the side of his neck. He heard Feather Witch scream.

Blinking, in a cloud of dust.

A man stood above him. Short but a mass of muscles. Broad shoulders and overlong arms, the honey-coloured skin almost hairless. Long black hair hanging loose, surrounding a wide, heavily featured face. Dark eyes glittered from beneath a shelf-like brow. Furs hung in a roughly sewn cloak, a patchwork of tones and textures, the visible underside pale and wrinkled.

‘Peth tol ool havra d ara.’ The words were thick, the vocal range oddly truncated, as if the throat from which those sounds issued lacked the flexibility of a normal man’s.

‘I don’t understand you,’ Udinaas said. He sensed others gathered round, and could hear Feather Witch cursing as she too was thrown to the ground.

‘Arad havra‘d ara. En‘aralack havra d‘drah.’

Countless scars. Evidence of a broken forearm, the bone unevenly mended and now knotted beneath muscle and skin. The man’s left cheekbone was dimpled inward, his broad nose flattened and pressed to one side. None of the damage looked recent. ‘I do not speak your language.’

The sword-edge lifted away from the slave’s neck. The warrior stepped back and gestured.

Udinaas climbed to his feet.

More fur-clad figures.

A natural basin, steeply walled on three sides. Vertical cracks in the stone walls, some large enough to provide shelter. Where these people lived.

On the final side of the basin, to the Letherii’s left, the land opened out. And in the distance – the slave’s eyes widened – a shattered city. As if it had been pulled from the ground, roots and all, then broken into pieces. Timber framework beneath tilted, heaved cobble streets. Squat buildings pitched at random angles. Toppled columns, buildings torn in half with the rooms and floors inside revealed, many of those rooms still furnished. Vast chunks of rotting ice were visible in the midst of the broken cityscape.

‘What place is this?’ Feather Witch asked.

He turned to see her following his gaze from a few paces away.

‘Udinaas, where have you brought us? Who are these savages?’

‘Vis vol‘raele absi‘arad.’

He glanced at the warrior who’d spoken, then shrugged and returned his attention to the distant city. ‘I want to go and look.’

‘They won’t let you.’

There was only one way to find out. Udinaas set out for the plain.

The warriors simply watched.

After a moment, Feather Witch followed, and came to his side. ‘It looks as if it has just been… left here. Dropped.’

‘It is a Meckros city,’ he said. ‘The wood at the bases, it is the kind that never grows waterlogged. Never rots. And see there’ – he pointed – ‘those are the remnants of docks. Landings. That’s a ship’s rail, dangling from those lines. I’ve never seen a Meckros city, but I’ve heard enough descriptions, and this is one. Plucked from the sea. That ice came with it.’

‘There are mounds, freshly raised,’ she said. ‘Do you see them?’

Raw, dark earth rising from the flats around the ruins, each barrow ringed in boulders. ‘The savages buried the Meckros dead,’ he said.

‘There are hundreds…’

‘And every one big enough to hold hundreds of corpses.’

‘They feared disease,’ she said.

‘Or, despite their appearance, they are a compassionate people.’

‘Don’t be a fool, Indebted. The task would have taken months.’

He hesitated, then said, ‘That was but one clan, Feather Witch, back there. There are almost four thousand living in this region.’

She halted, grasped his arm and pulled him round. ‘Explain this to me!’ she hissed.

He twisted his arm loose and continued walking. ‘These ghosts hold strong memories. Of their lives, of their flesh. Strong enough to manifest as real, physical creatures. They’re called T’lan Imass-’

Her breath caught. ‘The Beast Hold.’

He glanced at her. ‘What?’

‘The Bone Perch. Elder, Crone, Seer, Shaman, Hunter and Tracker. The Stealers of Fire. Stolen from the Eres’al.’

‘Eres’al. That’s the Nerek goddess. The false goddess, or so claimed our scholars and mages, as justification for conquering the Nerek. I am shocked to discover the lie. In any case, aren’t the images on the tiles those of beasts? For the Beast Hold, I mean.’

‘Only among the poorer versions. The skins of beasts, draped round dark, squat savages. That is what you will see on the oldest, purest tiles. Do not pretend at ignorance, Udinaas. You brought us here, after all.’

They were approaching the nearest barrows, and could see, studding the raw earth, countless objects. Broken pottery, jewellery, iron weapons, gold, silver, small wooden idols, scraps of cloth. The remnant possessions of the people buried beneath.

Feather Witch made a sound that might have been a laugh. ‘They left the treasure on the surfaces, instead of burying it with the bodies. What a strange thing to do.’

‘Maybe so looters won’t bother digging and disturbing the corpses.’

‘Oh, plenty of looters around here.’

‘I don’t know this realm well enough to say either way,’ Udinaas said, shrugging.

The look she cast him was uneasy.

Closer now, the destroyed city loomed before them. Crusted barnacles clinging to the bases of massive upright wooden pillars. Black, withered strips of seaweed. Above, the cross-sectioned profiles of framework and platforms supporting streets and buildings. And, in the massive chunks of grey, porous ice, swaths of rotting flesh – not human. Oversized limbs, clad in dull scales. A long, reptilian head, dangling from a twisted, torn neck. Entrails spilled from a split belly. Taloned, three-toed feet. Serrated tails. Misshapen armour and harnesses of leather, stretches of brightly coloured cloth, shiny as silk.

‘What are those things?’

Udinaas shook his head. ‘This city was struck by ice, even as it was torn from our world. Clearly, that ice held its own ancient secrets.’

‘Why did you bring us here?’

He rounded on her, struggled to contain his anger, and managed to release it in a long sigh. Then he said, ‘Feather Witch, what was the tile you held in your hand?’

‘One of the Fulcra. Fire.’ She faltered, then resumed. ‘When I saw you, that first time, I lied when I said I saw nothing else. No-one.’

‘You saw her, didn’t you?’

‘Sister Dawn… the flames-’

‘And you saw what she did to me.’

‘Yes.’ A whisper.

Udinaas turned away. ‘Not imagined, then,’ he muttered. ‘Not conjured by my imagination. Not… madness…’

‘It is not fair. You, you’re nothing. An Indebted. A slave. That Wyval was meant for me. Me, Udinaas!’

He flinched from her rage, even as understanding struck him. Forcing a bitter laugh. ‘You summoned it, didn’t you? The Wyval. You wanted its blood, and it had you, and so its poison should have infected you. But it didn’t. Instead, it chose me. If I could, Feather Witch, I’d give it to you. With pleasure – no, that is not true, much as I’d like it to be. Be thankful that blood does not flow in your veins. It is in truth the curse you said it was.’

‘Better to be cursed than-’ She stopped, looked away.

He studied her pale face, and around it the blonde, crinkled hair shivering in the vague, near-lifeless wind. ‘Than what, Feather Witch? A slave born of slaves. Doomed to listen to endless dreams of freedom – a word you do not understand, probably will never understand. The tiles were to be your way out, weren’t they? Not taken in service to your fellow Letherii. But for yourself. You caught a whisper of freedom, didn’t you, deep within those tiles? Or, something you thought was freedom. For what it is worth, Feather Witch, a curse is not freedom. Every path is a trap, a snare, to entangle you in the games of forces beyond all understanding. Those forces probably prefer slaves when they use mortals, since slaves understand intrinsically the nature of the relationship imposed.’

She glared at him. ‘Then why you?’

‘And not you?’ He looked away. ‘Because I wasn’t dreaming of freedom. Perhaps. Before I was a slave, I was Indebted – as you remind me at every opportunity. Debt fashions its own kind of slavery, Feather Witch, within a system designed to ensure few ever escape once those chains have closed round them.’

She lifted her hands and stared at them. ‘Are we truly here? It all seems so real.’

‘I doubt it,’ Udinaas replied.

‘We can’t stay?’

‘In the world of the tiles? You tell me, Feather Witch.’

‘This isn’t the realm of your dreaming, is it?’

He grimaced to hide his amusement at the unintended meaning behind her question. ‘No. I did warn you.’

‘I have been waiting for you to say that. Only not in such a tone of regret.’

‘Expecting anger?’

She nodded.

‘I had plenty of that,’ he admitted. ‘But it went away.’

‘How? How do you make it go away?’

He met her eyes, then simply shook his head. A casual turning away, gaze once more upon the ruins. ‘This destruction, this slaughter. A terrible thing to do.’

‘Maybe they deserved it. Maybe they did something-’

‘Feather Witch, the question of what is deserved should rarely, if ever, be asked. Asking it leads to deadly judgement, and acts of unmitigated evil. Atrocity revisited in the name of justice breeds its own atrocity. We Letherii are cursed enough with righteousness, without inviting yet more.’

‘You live soft, Udinaas, in a very hard world.’

‘I told you I was not without anger.’

‘Which you bleed away, somehow, before it can hurt anyone else.’

‘So I do all the bleeding, do I?’

She nodded. ‘I’m afraid you do, Udinaas.’

He sighed and turned. ‘Let’s go back.’

Side by side, they made their way towards the waiting savages and their village of caves.

‘Would that we could understand them,’ Feather Witch said.

‘Their shaman is dead.’

‘Damn you, Udinaas!’

Into the basin, where something had changed. Four women had appeared, and with them was a young boy. Who was human.

The warrior who had spoken earlier now addressed the boy, and he replied in the same language, then looked over at Udinaas and Feather Witch. He pointed, then, with a frown, said, ‘Letherii.’

‘Do you understand me?’ Udinaas asked.

‘Some.’

‘You are Meckros?’

‘Some. Letherii Indebted. Indebted. Mother and father. They fled to live with Meckros. Live free, freedom. In freedom.’

Udinaas gestured towards the ruined city. ‘Your home?’

‘Some.’ He took the hand of one of the women attending him. ‘Here.’

‘What is your name?’

‘Rud Elalle.’

Udinaas glanced at Feather Witch. Rud meant found in the Meckros trade tongue. But, of course, he realized, she would not know that. ‘Found Elalle,’ he said in the traders’ language, ‘can you understand me better?’

The boy’s face brightened. ‘Yes! Good, yes! You are a sailor, like my father was. Yes.’

‘These people rescued you from the city?’

‘Yes. They are Bentract. Or were, whatever that means – do you know?’

He shook his head. ‘Found, were there any other survivors?’

‘No. All dead. Or dying, then dead.’

‘And how did you survive?’

‘I was playing. Then there were terrible noises, and screams, and the street lifted then broke, and my house was gone. I slid towards a big crack that was full of ice fangs. I was going to die. Like everyone else. Then I hit two legs. Standing, she was standing, as if the street was still level.’

‘She?’

‘This is traders’ tongue, isn’t it?’ Feather Witch said. ‘I’m starting to understand it – it’s what you and Hulad use when together.’

‘She was white fire,’ the boy said. ‘Tall, very very tall, and she reached down and picked me up.’ He made a gesture to mime a hand gripping the collar of his weathered shirt. ‘And she said: Oh no he won’t. Then we were walking. In the air. Floating above everything until we all arrived here. And she was swearing. Swearing and swearing.’

‘Did she say anything else, apart from swearing?’

‘She said she worked hard on this beget, and that damned legless bastard wasn’t going to ruin her plans. Not a chance, no, not a chance, and he’ll pay for this. What’s beget mean?’

‘I thought so,’ Feather Witch muttered in Letherii.

No.

‘Remarkable eyes,’ Feather Witch continued. ‘Must be hers. Yours are much darker. Duller. But that mouth…’

No. ‘Found,’ Udinaas managed, ‘how old are you?’

‘I forget.’

‘How old were you before the ice broke the city?’

‘Seven.’

Triumphant, Udinaas spun to face Feather Witch.

‘Seven,’ the boy said again. ‘Seven weeks. Mother kept saying I was growing too fast, so I must be tall for my age.’

Feather Witch’s smile was strangely broken.

The Bentract warrior spoke again.

The boy nodded, and said, ‘Ulshun Pral says he has a question he wants to ask you.’

A numbed reply, ‘Go ahead.’

‘Rae’d. Veb entara tog’rudd n’lan n’vis thai? List vah olar n’lan? Ste shabyn?’

‘The women want to know if I will eat them when I get older. They want to know what dragons eat. They want to know if they should be afraid. I don’t know what all that means.’

‘How can they be eaten? They’re-’ Udinaas stopped. Errant take me, they don’t know they’re dead! ‘Tell them not to worry, Found.’

‘Ki’bri arasteshabyn bri por’tol tun logdara kul absi.’

‘Ulshun Pral says they promised her to take care of me until she returns.’

‘Entara tog’rudd av?’

The boy shook his head and replied in the warrior’s language.

‘What did he ask?’ Udinaas demanded.

‘Ulshun Pral wanted to know if you’re my father. I told him my father’s dead. I told him, no, you aren’t. My father was Araq Elalle. He died.’

In Letherii, Feather Witch said, ‘Tell him, Udinaas.’

‘No. There’s nothing to tell.’

‘You would leave him to that… woman?’

He spun to face her. ‘And what would you have me do? Take him with us? We’re not even here!’

‘T’un havra’ad eventara. T’un veb vol’raele bri rea han d En’ev?’

The boy said, ‘Ulshun Pral is understanding you now. Some. He says there are holes and would you like to go there?’

‘Holes?’ Udinaas asked.

Feather Witch snorted. ‘Gates. He means gates. I have been sensing them. There are gates, Udinaas. Powerful ones.’

‘All right,’ Udinaas said to Found.

‘I don’t like that place,’ the boy said. ‘But I will come with you. It’s not far.’

They strode towards the mouth of one of the larger caves. Passed into the cool darkness, the rough floor sloping upward for twenty or so paces, then beginning to dip again. Into caverns with the walls crowded with painted images in red and yellow ochre, black outlines portraying ancient beasts standing or running, some falling with spears protruding from them. Further in, a smaller cavern with black stick-like efforts on the walls and ceiling, a struggling attempt by the T’lan Imass to paint their own forms. Blooms of red paint outlining ghostly hand-prints. Then the path narrowed and began a gradual ascent once more. Ahead, a vertical fissure from which light spilled inward, a light filled with flowing colours, as if some unearthly flame burned beyond.

They emerged onto an uneven but mostly level sweep of blackened bedrock. Small boulders set end to end formed an avenue of approach from the cave mouth that led them on an inward spiral towards the centre of the clearing. Beyond, the sky shimmered with swirling colours, like shattered rainbows. A cairn of flat stones dominated the centre of the spiral, in the rough, awkward form of a figure standing on two legs made of stacked stones, a single broad one forming the hips, the torso made of three more, the arms each a single projecting, rectangular stone out to the side, the head a single, oblong rock sheathed in lichen. The crude figure stood before a squat tower-like structure with at least twelve sides. The facings were smooth, burnished like the facets of natural crystal. Yet light in countless colours flared beneath each of those surfaces, each plane spiralling inward to a dark hole.

Udinaas could feel a pressure in the air, as of taut forces held in balance. The scene seemed perilously fragile.

‘Vi han onralmashalle. S’ril k’ul havra En’ev. N’vist’. Lan’te.’

‘Ulshun says his people came here with a bonecaster. It was a realm of storms. And beasts, countless beasts coming from those holes. They did not know what they were, but there was much fighting.’

The T’lan Imass warrior spoke again, at length.

‘Their bonecaster realized that the breaches must be sealed, and so she drew upon the power of stone and earth, then rose into her new, eternal body to stand before the wounds. And hold all with stillness. She stands there now and she shall stand there for all time.’

‘Yet her sacrifice has stranded the T’lan Imass here, hasn’t it?’ Udinaas asked.

‘Yes. But Ulshun and his people are content.’

‘Vi truh larpahal. Ranag, bhed, tenag tollarpahal. Kul havra thelar. Kul.’

‘This land is a path, what we would call a road,’ Found said, frowning as he struggled to make sense of Ulshun’s words. ‘Herds migrate, back and forth. They seem to come from nowhere, but they always come.’

Because, like the T’lan Imass themselves, they are ghost memories.

‘The road leads here?’ Feather Witch asked in halting traders’ tongue.

‘Yes,’ Found said.

‘And comes from where?’

‘Epal en. Vol‘sav, thelan.’

The boy sighed, crossed his arms in frustration. ‘Ulshun says we are in an… overflow? Where the road comes from has bled out to claim the road itself. And surround this place. Beyond, there is… nothing. Oblivion. Unrealized.’

‘So we are within a realm?’ Feather Witch asked. ‘Which Hold claims this place?’

‘A evbrox‘l list Tev. Starvald Demelain Tev.’

‘Ulshun is pleased you understand Holds. He is bright-gem-eye. Pleased, and surprised. He calls this Hold Starvald Demelain.’

‘I do not know that name,’ she said, scowling.

The T’lan Imass spoke again, and in the words Udinaas sensed a list. Then more lists, and in hearing the second list, he began to recognize names.

The boy shrugged. ‘T’iam, Kalse, Silannah, Ampelas, Okaros, Karosis, Sorrit, Atrahal, Eloth, Anthras, Kessobahn, Alkend, Karatallid, Korbas… Olar. Eleint. Draconean. Dragons. The Pure Dragons. The place where the road comes from is closed. By the mixed bloods who gathered long ago. Draconus, K’rul, Anomandaris, Osserc, Silchas Ruin, Scabandari, Sheltatha Lore, Sukul Ankhadu, and Menandore. It was, he says, Menandore who saved me.’ The boy’s eyes suddenly widened. ‘She didn’t look like a dragon!’

Ulshun spoke.

Found nodded. ‘All right. He says you should be able to pass through from here. He looks forward to seeing you again. They will prepare a feast for you. Tenag calf. You are coming back, aren’t you?’

‘If we can,’ Feather Witch said, then switched to Letherii. ‘Aren’t we, Udinaas?’

He scowled. ‘How would I know?’

‘Be gracious.’

‘To you or them?’

‘Both. But especially to your son.’

He didn’t want to hear any of this, and chose to study the faceted tower instead. Not a single path, then, but multiple doorways. At least twelve. Twelve other worlds, then? What would they be like? What kind of creatures populated them? Demons. And perhaps that was all the word ‘demon’ meant. Some creature torn from its own realm. Bound like a slave by a new master who cared nothing for its life, its well-being, who would simply use it like any other tool. Until made useless, whereupon it would be discarded.

But I am tired of sympathy. Of feeling it, at least. I’d welcome receiving it, if only to salve all this self-pity. Be gracious, she said. A little rich, coming from her. He looked back down at the boy. My son. No, just my seed. She took nothing else, needed nothing else. It was the Wyval blood that drew her, it must have been. Nothing else. Not my son. My seed.

Growing too fast. Was that the trait of dragons? No wonder the T’lan Imass women were frightened. He sighed, then said, ‘Found, thank you. And our thanks as well to Ulshun Pral. We look forward to a feast of Tenag calf.’ He faced Feather Witch. ‘Can you choose the proper path?’

‘Our flesh will draw us back,’ she replied. ‘Come, we have no idea how much time has passed in our world.’ She took him by the hand and led him past the stone figure. ‘Dream worlds. Imagine what we might see, were we able to choose…’

‘They’re not dream worlds, Feather Witch. They’re real. In those places, we are the ghosts.’

She snorted, but said nothing.

Udinaas turned for a final glance back. The boy, Found, get of a slave and a draconic-blooded woman, raised by neither. And at his side this rudely fashioned savage who believed he still lived. Believed he was flesh and blood, a hunter and leader with appetites, desires, a future to stride into. Udinaas could not decide which of the two was the more pathetic. Seeing them, as he did now, they both broke his heart, and there seemed no way to distinguish between the two. As if grief had flavours.

He swung round. ‘All right, take us back.’

Her hand tightened on his, and she drew him forward. He watched her stride into the wall of flaring light. Then followed.

Atri-Preda Yan Tovis, called Twilight by those soldiers under her command who possessed in their ancestry the blood of the long-vanished indigenous fishers of Fent Reach – for that was what her name meant – stood on the massive wall skirting the North Coast Tower, and looked out upon the waters of Nepah Sea. Behind her, a broad, raised road exited from the base of the watchtower and cut a straight path south through two leagues of old forest, then a third of a league of farmland, to end at the crossroads directly before the Inland Gate of the fortified city of Fent Reach.

That was a road she was about to take. In haste.

Beside her, the local Finadd, a willow-thin, haunted man whose skin seemed almost bloodless, cleared his throat for the third time in the last dozen heartbeats.

‘All right, Finadd,’ Twilight said.

The man sighed, a sound of unabashed relief. ‘I will assemble the squads, Atri-Preda.’

‘In a moment. You’ve still a choice to make.’

‘Atri-Preda?’

‘By your estimate, how many Edur ships are we looking at?’

The Finadd squinted northward. ‘Eight, nine hundred of their raiders, I would judge. Merude, Den-Ratha, Beneda. Those oversized transports – I’ve not seen those before. Five hundred?’

‘Those transports are modelled on our own,’ Twilight said. ‘And ours hold five hundred soldiers each, one full supply ship in every five. Assuming the same ratio here. Four hundred transports packed with Edur warriors. That’s two hundred thousand. Those raiders carry eighty to a hundred. Assume a hundred. Thus, ninety thousand. The force about to land on the strand below is, therefore, almost three hundred thousand.’

‘Yes, Atri-Preda.’

‘Five thousand Edur landed outside First Maiden Fort this morning. The skeleton garrison saddled every horse they had left and are riding hard for Fent Reach. Where I have my garrison.’

‘We can conclude,’ the Finadd said, ‘that this represents the main force of the Edur fleet, the main force, indeed, of the entire people and their suicidal invasion.’

She glanced at him. ‘No, we cannot conclude any such thing. We have never known the population of Edur lands.’

‘Atri-Preda, we can hold Fent Reach for weeks. In that time, a relieving army will have arrived and we can crush the grey-skinned bastards.’

‘My mage cadre in the city,’ she said after a moment, ‘amounts to three dubious sorcerors, one of them never sober and the other two seemingly intent on killing each other over some past slight. Finadd, do you see the darkness of the sea beneath those ships? The residents of Trate know well that dark water, and what it holds.’

‘What are you saying, Atri-Preda?’

‘By all means ride back with us with your soldiers, Finadd. Or stay and arrange your official surrender with the first elements to land.’

The man’s mouth slowly opened.

Twilight turned away and walked to the stairs leading down to the courtyard. ‘I am surrendering Fent Reach, Finadd.’

‘But Atri-Preda! We could withdraw back to Trate! All of us!’

She stopped three steps down. ‘A third fleet has appeared, Finadd. In Katter Sea. We have already been cut off.’

‘Errant take us!’

Twilight resumed her descent. Under her breath, she muttered, ‘If only he could…’

All the questions were over. The invasion had begun.

My city is about to be conquered. Again.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

DREAMS COULD PASS BETWEEN THE BLINKS OF A MAN’S EYES, answered by wild casting about, disorientation, and an unstoppered flood of discordant emotions. Udinaas found he had slid down, was perched precariously on the ledge, his limbs stiff and aching. The sun had fallen lower, but not by much. Behind him, rising from a crumpled heap, was Feather Witch, the two halves of a broken tile falling from one hand to clatter on the stone a moment before sliding off into the brush and rocks below. Her hair disguised her face, hid the emotions writ there.

Udinaas wanted to scream, let loose his grief, and the sourceless anger beneath it. But what was new in being used? What was new in having nothing to reach for, nothing to strive towards? He pulled himself up from the edge of crumbling stone, and looked about.

The army was on the move. Something had changed. He saw haste below. ‘We must return,’ he said.

‘To what?’ Harsh, bitter.

‘To what we were before.’

‘Slaves, Udinaas.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve tasted it now. I’ve tasted it!’

He glanced over at her, watched as she sat straighter, dragging the hair from her eyes, and fixed him with a fierce glare. ‘You cannot live like this.’

‘I can’t?’

She looked away. Not wanting to see, he guessed. Not wanting to understand.

‘We’re marching to Trate, Feather Witch.’

‘To conquer. To… enslave.’

‘Details,’ he muttered, climbing cautiously to his feet. He offered her a hand. ‘Mayen wants you.’

‘She beats me, now.’

‘I know. You’ve failed to hide the bruises.’

‘She tears my clothes off. Uses me. In ways that hurt. I hurt all the time.’

‘Well,’ Udinaas said, ‘he doesn’t do that to her. Not that there’s much… tenderness. He’s too young for that, I suppose. Nor has she the power to take charge. Teach him. She’s… frustrated.’

‘Enough of your understanding this, understanding that. Enough, Indebted! I don’t care about her point of view, I’m not interested in stepping into her shadow, in trying to see the world how she sees it. None of that matters, when she twists, when she bites, when she pushes… just stop talking, Udinaas. Stop. No more.’

‘Take my hand, Feather Witch. It’s time.’

‘I’d rather bite it off.’

I know. He said nothing.

‘So he doesn’t hurt her, does he?’

‘Not physically,’ he replied.

‘Yes. What he does to her…’ she looked up, searching his eyes, ‘I do to you.’

‘And you’d rather bite.’

She made no reply. Something flickered in her gaze, then she turned away even as she took his hand.

He drew her onto her feet.

She would not look at him. ‘I’ll go down first. Wait a bit.’

‘All right.’

An army kicked awake, swarming the forest floor. To the north, the ashes of home. To the south, Trate. There would be… vengeance. Details.

A flicker of movement downslope, then… nothing.

Trull Sengar continued scanning for a moment longer, then he settled back down behind the tree-fall. ‘We have been discovered,’ he said.

Ahlrada Ahn grunted. ‘Now what?’

Trull looked to the left and the right. He could barely make out the nearest warriors, motionless and under cover. ‘That depends,’ he muttered. ‘If they now come in force.’

They waited, as the afternoon waned.

Somewhere in the forest below was a Letherii brigade, and within it a mage cadre that had detected the presence of Tiste Edur positioned to defend the bridge. Among the officers, surprise, perhaps consternation. The mages would be at work attempting to discern precise numbers, but that would prove difficult. Something in Edur blood defied them, remained elusive to their sorcerous efforts. A decision would have to be made, and much depended on the personality of the commander. Proceed in a cautious and measured way until direct contact was established, whereupon a succession of probes would determine the strength of the enemy. There were risks, however, to that. Drawing close enough to gauge the sharpness of the enemy’s fangs invited a bite that might not let go, leading to a pitched engagement where all the advantage lay with the Tiste Edur. Uphill battles were always costly. And often withdrawal proved bloody and difficult. Worse, there was a good chance of an all-out rout, which would lead to slaughter.

Or the commander could order the mage cadre to unleash a sorcerous attack and so lay waste the forest reaches above them. Such an attack, of course, served to expose the mages’ position to those Edur warlocks who might be present. And to the wraiths and demons attending them. If the attack was blunted, the cadre was in trouble.

Finally, the commander could choose to pull back. Yield the bridge, and return to the solid defences of High Fort, inviting a more traditional battle – the kind the Letherii had fought for centuries, against enemy forces of all sorts, and almost invariably with great success.

Was the commander overconfident and precipitous? If so, then Trull Sengar and his fifty warriors would either be slaughtered or forced back to the other side of the bridge, either result proving tactically disastrous for Hanradi Khalag and his advancing warriors. A contested crossing of the bridge would force Fear and Hanradi into unveiling the full extent of the sorcerous power accompanying the army – power intended to shatter the defenders of High Fort. Conversely, a cautious or timid commander would elect to retreat, and that would ensure an Edur success.

Trull edged his way back up to peer over the tree-fall. No movement below. The air seemed preternaturally still.

‘If they don’t close soon,’ Ahlrada said in a low voice, ‘they will have lost the advantage.’

Trull nodded. Sufficient concerns to occupy his mind, to steal his fullest attention. He did not have the luxury of thinking of other things. This, he decided, was preferable. A relief. And I can stay here, in this tense cast of my mind’s thoughts, from now on. It will take me through this war. It has to. Please, take me through this war.

The shadows were long on the slope below, cutting crossways, the shafts of dusty sunlight ebbing into golden mist through which insects flitted.

A whisper of sound – behind them, then on all sides.

Wraiths, streaming down, slipping past into the spreading gloom below.

‘They’ve arrived,’ Ahlrada said.

Trull slid back down and rolled onto his back. Padding between brush and trees upslope, silver-backed wolves. A half-dozen, then a score, lambent eyes flashing from lowered heads.

One beast approached Trull. It suddenly blurred, the air filling with a pungent, spicy scent, and a moment later Trull found himself looking into the amber eyes of B’nagga.

The Jheck grinned. ‘A thousand paces below, Trull Sengar. They are in full retreat.’

‘You made good time,’ Ahlrada said.

The grin widened. ‘The warriors are but two thousand paces from the bridge. My brothers found a body, hidden in the brush. Your work?’

‘An advance scout,’ Trull said.

‘The mages had tied a thread to him. They knew you were coming. No doubt that slowed them even more.’

‘So,’ Ahlrada said, ‘are we to contest their retreat?’

‘It was a thought. But no, the wraiths will do naught but hound them. Keep them on edge and moving at double-march. By the time they reach High Fort they will be footsore and bleary-eyed. We won’t be giving them much time to rest.’ He settled into a crouch. ‘I have news. First Maiden Fort has fallen. No battle – the garrison had already fled back to Fent Reach.’

‘As anticipated,’ Trull said.

‘Yes. If the Letherii choose to make a stand at Fent Reach, it will be a short siege. Even now, our ships have made landing and the warriors march on the city.’

‘No contact with any Letherii fleets?’ Trull was surprised. Those transports were vulnerable.

‘None. The emperor’s forces are poised above Trate, undetected as yet. Within the next few days, my friends, there will be four major battles. And, sword willing, the northern frontier shall fall.’

At the very least, we’ll have their fullest attention.

Blind drunk. A description Seren Pedac sought to explore, with all the fumbling murky intent of a mind poisoned into stupidity. But, somehow, she was failing. Instead of blind, she was painfully aware of the figures on all sides of her small table, the seething press and the loose rubble sound of countless voices. Stupidity had yet to arrive and possibly never would, as stolid sobriety held on, dogged and immovable and indifferent to the seemingly endless cups of wine she drank down.

Fevered excitement, scores of voices uttering their I-told-you-so variations to herds of nodding heads. Proclamations and predictions, the gleaming words of greed eager to be unleashed on the booty of battlefields crowded with dead Edur. Give ’em First Maiden Fort, aye. Why not? Pull the bastards in and in. You saw what the cadre did that night? They’ll do it again, this time against the ash-faced bastards themselves. I’ve got a perch halfway up the lighthouse, paid a fortune for it, I’ll see it all.

It’ll all be over at Fent Reach. They’ll get their noses bloodied and that’s when the cadre will hit the fleet in Katter Sea. I got an interest in a stretch on Bight Coast, salvage rights. Heading up there as soon as it’s over.

They let themselves get surrounded, I tell you. Twilight’s just waiting for the siege to settle in. What’s that? You saying she surrendered? Errant take us, man, what kind of lies you throwing about in here? You a damned traitor, you a damned Hull Beddict? Shut that mouth of yours or I’ll do it for you-

I’ll help, Cribal, that’s a promise. Sewing lips tight is easy as mending sails an’ I been doing that for years-

Where’d he go?

Ah, never mind him, Cribal-

Traitors need to be taught a lesson, Feluda. Come on, I see ’im making for the door-

Sittin’ alone don’t do no woman no good, sweetheart. Let a decent man take you away from all this…

Seren Pedac frowned, looked up at the figure looming over her table. Her mind replied, All right, even as she scowled and turned away.

‘Nothing worth its spit is being said here, lass. You want to drink. Fine, jus’ sit and drink. All I was offerin’ was a quieter place to do it, is all.’

‘Go away.’

Instead, the man sat down. ‘Been watchin’ you all evening. Jus’ another Letherii? Asked myself that once and once only. No, I think, not this one. So I ask, and someone says “That’s the Acquitor, Seren Pedac. Was up at the treaty that went sour. Was under contract with Buruk the Pale, the one that hung himself and damned if it wasn’t her that found him all fish-eyed and fouled.” And I think, that ain’t an easy thing. No wonder she’s sittin’ there tryin’ t’get drunk an’ it’s not working.’

She fixed her gaze on him, seeing him clearly for the first time. Seamed face, clean-shaven, hair shoulder-length and the hue of polished iron. His voice sounded again in her head, confirming what she saw. ‘You’re no Letherii.’

A broad smile, even, white teeth. ‘You got that right, and, no offence, but glad of it.’

‘You’re not Faraed. Nerek. Tarthenal. Not Fent, either, not even Meckros-’

‘What I am you never heard of, believe me, lass. A long way from home.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Was making an offer, but it needed to be done in quiet. Private-’

‘I’m sure-’

‘Not like that, though I’d consider my fortunes on the upswing if it was to happen the way you think I meant. No.’ He leaned forward, gesturing her closer as well.

Her smile ironic, she tilted over the table until their noses were almost touching. ‘I can’t wait.’

He withdrew a fraction. ‘Lass, you’re a breathin’ vineyard. All right, then, listen. We got ourselves a boat-’

‘We?’

‘A boat, and we’re leaving this pock-on-Hood’s-ass of a kingdom.’

‘Where to? Korshenn? Pilott, Truce? Kolanse?’

‘What would be the point of that? The first three you named are all paying tribute to Lether, and Kolanse is a mess from all we hear. Acquitor, the world’s a lot bigger than you might think-’

‘Is it? Actually, it’s smaller than I think.’

‘Same rubbish, different hole, eh? Maybe you’re right. But maybe not.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Just someone a long way from home, like I said. We clawed our way out of Assail, only to find ourselves here, and just by arriving in our damned sieve of a boat, we owed money. Just by steppin’ onto the dock, we owed more. It’s been seven months, and we’re so far in debt Prince K’azz himself couldn’t clear our way back out. Livin’ off scraps and doin’ ugly work and it’s rotting us all-’

‘You were a soldier.’

‘Still am, lass.’

‘So join a brigade-’

He rubbed at his face, closed his eyes for a moment, then seemed to reach a decision. He fixed her with his cool, blue eyes. ‘It’s shouting to the Abyss, lass, and not one Letherii’s listening. You people are in trouble. Serious trouble. Fent Reach surrendered. Now, Twilight’s a smart, able commander, so what made her do that? Think, Acquitor.’

‘She saw it was hopeless. She saw she couldn’t hold the city, and there was no way to retreat.’

He nodded. ‘You weren’t here when the harvest ships returned. You didn’t see what delivered ’em. We did. Lass, if dhenrabi worship a god then that was it, right there in the harbour.’

‘Who are dhenrabi?’

He shook his head. ‘We got room for people worth their salt. And you won’t be the only woman, so it’s not like that.’

‘So why me at all, then?’

‘Because you ain’t blind, Seren Pedac.’

Smiling, she leaned back, then looked away. Not drunk, either. ‘Who are you?’

‘It won’t mean a thing-’

‘Tell me anyway.’

‘Iron Bars, Second Blade, Fourth Company, Crimson Guard. Was in the service of Commander Cal-Brinn before we was all scattered between here and Hood’s gates.’

‘Meaningless and long. I’m impressed, Iron Bars.’

‘Lass, you got more sharp teeth than an enkar’al with a mouthful of rhizan. Probably why I like you so much.’

All right. ‘I’m not interested in your offer, Iron Bars.’

‘Try thinking on it. There’s time for that, provided you get out of Trate as soon as you can.’

She looked at him. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

‘You’d be right, if our boat was in the harbour here. But it isn’t. It’s in Letheras. We signed on as crew, through an agent.’ He shrugged. ‘As soon as we get out to sea…’

‘You’ll kill the captain and mates and turn pirate.’

‘We won’t kill anybody if there’s a way round it, and we’re not pirates. We just want to get home. We need to get home.’ He studied her for a moment, then rose. ‘If it works out right, we’ll look you up in Letheras.’

All right. ‘You’d be wasting your time.’

He shrugged. ‘Between here and then, Acquitor, a whole lot is going to change. Get out of this city, lass. As soon as you sober up, go. Just go.’

Then he was gone.

They caught him, dragged him into the alley and they’re sewing up his mouth – c’mon, let’s watch-

Just his mouth? He’s a damned traitor. No reason to go easy on the bastard. Sew him up everywhere, see how he likes that-

Wish it was Hull Beddict, that’s what I wish-

They’ll do a lot worse on ’im, mark my words. You just wait and see…

Her blue silks snapping in the wind, Nekal Bara stood atop the lighthouse tower and faced out to sea. Nothing was going as planned. Their pre-emptive attack had destroyed empty villages; the entire Tiste Edur people were on the move. And they’re about to arrive on our very doorstep.

The fleet that had appeared in Katter Sea, poised to interpose its forces to prevent the retreat of Twilight’s garrison at Fent Reach, had, upon the city’s surrender, simply moved on. Preternaturally swift, the blood-red sails of five hundred raiders now approached Trate Bay. And in the waters beneath those sleek hulls… a thing. Ancient, terrible, eager with hunger. It knew this path. It had been here before.

Since that time, and at the Ceda’s command, she had delved deep in her search to discover the nature of the creature the Tiste Edur had bound to their service. The harbour and the bay beyond had once been dry land, a massive limestone shelf beneath which raced vast underground rivers. Erosion had collapsed the shelf in places, creating roughly circular, deep wells. Sometimes the water below continued to flow as part of the rivers. But in some, the percolating effect of the limestone was blocked by concretions over time, and the water was black and still.

One such well had become, long ago, a place of worship. Treasures were flung into its depths. Gold, jade, silver, and living sacrifices. Drowning voices had screamed in the chill water, cold flesh and bone had settled on the pale floor.

And a spirit was fashioned. Fed on blood and despair, beseeching propitiation, the unwilling surrender of mortal lives. There were mysteries to this, she well knew. Had the spirit existed before the worship began, and was simply drawn to the gifts offered? Or was it conjured into existence by the very will of those ancient worshippers? Either way, the result was the same. A creature came into being, and was taught the nature of hunger, of desire. Made into an addict of blood and grief and terror.

The worshippers vanished. Died out or departed, or driven to such extreme sacrifices as to destroy themselves. There was no telling how deep the bed of bones at the bottom of that well, but, by the end, it must have been appalling in its vastness.

The spirit was doomed, and should have eventually died. Had not the seas risen to swallow the land, had not its world’s walls suddenly vanished, releasing it to all that lay beyond.

Shorelines were places of worship the world over. The earliest records surviving from the First Empire made note of that again and again among peoples encountered during the explorations. The verge between sea and land marked the manifestation of the symbolic transition between the known and the unknown. Between life and death, spirit and mind, between an unlimited host of elements and forces contrary yet locked together. Lives were given to the seas, treasures were flung into their depths. And, upon the waters themselves, ships and their crews were dragged into the deep time and again.

For all that, the spirit had known… competition. And, Nekal Bara suspected, had fared poorly. Weakened, suffering, it had returned to its hole, there beneath the deluge. Returned to die.

There was no way of knowing how the Tiste Edur warlocks had found it, or came to understand its nature and the potential within it. But they had bound it, fed it blood until its strength returned, and it had grown, and with that growth, a burgeoning hunger.

And now, I must find a way to kill it.

She could sense its approach, drawing ever nearer beneath the Edur raiders. Along the harbour front below, soldiers were crowding the fortifications. Crews readied at the trebuchets and ballistae. Fires were stoked and racks of hull-breaching quarrels were wheeled out.

Arahathan in his black furs had positioned himself at the far end of the main pier and, like her, stood facing the fast-approaching Edur fleet. He would seek to block the spirit’s attack, engage it fully for as long as it took for Nekal Bara to magically draw close to the entity and strike at its heart.

She wished Enedictal had remained in the city, rather than returning to his battalion at Awl. Indeed, she wished the Snakebelts had marched to join them here. Once the spirit was engaged, Enedictal could have then shattered the Edur fleet. She had no idea how much damage she and Arahathan would sustain while killing the spirit – it was possible they would have nothing left with which to destroy the fleet. It might come down to hand to hand fighting along the harbour front.

And that is the absurdity of magic in war – we do little more than negate each other. Unless one cadre finds itself outnumbered…

She had six minor sorcerors under her command, interspersed among the companies of the Cold Clay Battalion arrayed below. They would have to be sufficient against the Edur warlocks accompanying the fleet. Nekal Bara was worried, but not unduly so.

The red sails fluttered. She could just make out the crews, scampering on the foredecks and in the rigging. The fleet was heaving to. Beneath the lead ships, a dark tide surged forward, spreading its midnight bruise into the harbour.

She felt a sudden fear. It was… huge.

A glance down. To the lone, black-swathed figure at the very end of the main pier. The arms spreading wide.

The spirit heaved up in a swelling wave, gaining speed as it rushed towards the harbour front. On the docks, soldiers behind shields, a wavering of spear-heads. Someone loosed a ball of flaming pitch from one of the trebuchets. Fascinated, Nekal Bara watched its arcing flight, its smoke-trailing descent, down towards the rising wave. It vanished in a smear of steam.

She heard Arahathan’s roar, saw a line of water shiver, then boil just beyond the docks, lifting skyward a wall of steam even as the spirit’s bulk seemed to lunge a moment before striking it.

The concussion sent the lighthouse wavering beneath her feet and she threw her arms out for balance. Two-thirds of the way down, along a narrow iron balcony, onlookers were flung into the air, to pitch screaming down to the rocks below. The balcony twisted like thin wire in the hands of a blacksmith, the fittings exploding in puffs of dust. A terrible groaning rose up through the tower as it rocked back and forth.

Steam and dark water raged in battle, clambering ever higher directly before Arahathan. The sorceror was swallowed by shadow. The lighthouse was toppling. Nekal Bara faced the harbour, held her arms out, then flung herself from the edge.

Vanishing within a tumbling shaft of magic. Slanting downward in coruscating threads of blue fire that swarmed around a blinding, white core.

Like a god’s spear, the shaft pierced the flank of the spirit. Tore a path of incandescence into the dark, surging water.

Errant – he’s failing! Falling! She sensed, then saw, Arahathan. Red flesh curling away from his bones, blackening, snatched away as if by a fierce whirling wind. She saw his teeth, the lips gone, the grimace suddenly a maddening smile. Eyes wrinkled, then darkening, then collapsing inward.

She sensed, in that last moment, his surprise, his disbelief-

Into the spirit’s flesh, down through layer upon layer of thick, coagulated blood, matted hair, slivered pieces of bone. Encrusted jewellery, mangled coins. Layers of withered newborn corpses, each one wrapped in leather, each one with its forehead stove in, above a face twisted with pain and baffled suffering. Layers. Oh, Mistress, what have we mortals done? Done, and done, and done?

Stone tools, pearls, bits of shell-

Through-

To find that she had been wrong. Terribly wrong.

The spirit – naught but a shell, held together by the memory within bone, teeth and hair, by that memory and nothing more.

Within-

Nekal Bara saw that she was about to die. Against all that rose to greet her, she had no defence. None. Could not – could never – Ceda! Kuru Qan! Hear me! See-

Seren Pedac staggered out into the street. Pushed, spun round, knocked to her knees by fleeing figures.

She had woken in a dark cellar, surrounded by empty, broken kegs. She had been robbed, most of her armour stripped away. Sword and knife gone. The ache between her legs told her that worse had happened. Lips puffed and cut by kisses she had never felt, her hair tangled and matted with blood, she crawled across greasy cobbles to curl up against a stained brick wall. Stared out numbly on the panicked scene.

Smoke had stolen the sky. Brown, murky light, the distant sound of battle – at the harbour front to her left, and along the north and east walls ahead and to her right. In the street before her, citizens raced in seemingly random directions. Across from her, two men were locked in mortal combat, and she watched as one managed to pin the other, then began pounding the man’s head against the cobbles. The hard impacts gave way to soft crunches, and the victor rolled away from the spasming victim, scrambled upright, then limped away.

Doors were being kicked down. Women screamed as their hiding places were discovered.

There were no Tiste Edur in sight.

From her right, three men shambling like marauders. One carried a bloodstained club, another a single-handed sickle. The third man was dragging a dead or unconscious girl-child by one foot.

They saw her. The one with the club smiled. ‘We was coming to c’llect you, Acquitor. Woke up wanting more, did ya?’

She did not recognize any of them, but there was terrible familiarity in their eyes as they looked upon her.

‘The city’s fallen,’ the man continued, drawing closer. ‘But we got a way out, an’ we’re taking you with us.’

The one with the sickle laughed. ‘We’ve decided to keep you to ourselves, lass. Don’t worry, we’ll keep you safe.’

Seren curled tighter against the wall.

‘Hold there!’

A new voice. The three men looked up.

Iron-haired, blue-eyed – she recognized the newcomer. Maybe. She wasn’t sure. She’d never seen armour like that before: she would have remembered the blood-red surcoat. A plain sword at the stranger’s left hip, which he was not reaching towards.

‘It’s that foreign bastard,’ the man with the club said. ‘Find your own.’

‘I just have,’ he replied. ‘Been looking for her the last two days-’

‘She’s ours,’ said the sickle-wielder.

‘No closer,’ the third man growled, raising the child in one hand as if he meant to use the body for a weapon.

Which, Seren now saw, he had done already. Oh, please be dead, child. Please have been dead all along…

‘You know us, foreigner,’ the man with the club said.

‘Oh yes, you’re the terrors of the shanty town. I’ve heard all about your exploits. Which puts me at an advantage.’

‘How so?’

The stranger continued walking closer. She saw something in his eyes, as he said, ‘Because you haven’t heard a thing about mine.’

Club swung. Sickle flashed. Body whipped through the air.

And the girl-child was caught by the stranger, who then reached one hand over, palm up, and seemed to push his fingertips under the man’s chin.

She didn’t understand.

The man with the club was on the ground. The other had his own sickle sticking from his chest and he stood staring down at it. Then he toppled.

A snap. Flood and spray of blood.

The stranger stepped back, tucking the girl-child’s body under his right arm, the hand of his left holding, like a leather-wrapped handle from a pail, the third man’s lower jaw.

Horrible grunting sounds from the staggering figure to her right. Bulging eyes, a spattered gust of breath.

The stranger tossed the mandible away with its attendant lower palate and tongue. He set the child down, then stepped closer to the last man. ‘I don’t like what you did. I don’t like anything you’ve done, but most of all, I don’t like what you did to this woman here, and that child. So, I am going to make you hurt. A lot.’

The man spun as if to flee. Then he slammed onto the cobbles, landing on his chest, his feet taken out from under him – but Seren didn’t see how it had happened.

With serene patience, the stranger crouched over him. Two blurred punches to either side of the man’s spine, almost at neck level, and she heard breastbones snap. Blood was pooling around the man’s head.

The stranger shifted to reach down between the man’s legs.

‘Stop.’

He looked over, brows lifting.

‘Stop. Kill him. Clean. Kill him clean, Iron Bars.’

‘Are you sure?’

From the buildings opposite, faces framed by windows. Eyes fixed, staring down.

‘Enough,’ she said, the word a croak.

‘All right.’

He leaned back. One punch to the back of the man’s head. It folded inward. And all was still.

Iron Bars straightened. ‘All right?’

All right, yes.

The Crimson Guardsman came closer. ‘My fault,’ he said. ‘I had to sleep, thought you’d be safe for a bit. I was wrong. I’m sorry.’

‘The child?’

A pained look. ‘Run down by horses, I think. Some time past.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘Trate’s falling. The Edur fleet held off. Until Nekal Bara and Arahathan were finished. Then closed. The defences were swarmed by shadow wraiths. Then the warriors landed. It was bad, Acquitor.’ He glanced over a shoulder, said, ‘At about that time, an army came down from inland. Swept the undermanned fortifications and, not a hundred heartbeats ago, finally succeeded in knocking down the North Gate. The Edur are taking their time, killing every soldier they find. No quarter. So far, they’ve not touched non-combatants. But that’s no guarantee of anything, is it?’

He helped her to stand, and she flinched at the touch of his hands – those weapons, stained with murder.

If he noticed he gave nothing away. ‘My Blade’s waiting. Corlo’s managed to find a warren in this damned Hood-pit – first time in the two years we been stuck here. What the Edur brought, he says. That’s why.’

She realized they were walking now. Taking winding alleys and avoiding the main thoroughfares. The sound of slaughter was on all sides. Iron Bars suddenly hesitated, cocked his head. ‘Damn, we’ve been cut off.’

Dragged into the slaughter. Bemused witness to the killing of hapless, disorganized soldiers. Wondering if the moneylenders would be next. Udinaas was left staggering in the wake of the emperor of the Tiste Edur and twelve frenzied warriors as they waded through flesh, cutting lives down as if clearing a path through reeds.

Rhulad was displaying skill that did not belong to him. His arms were a blur, his every move heedless and fearless. And he was gibbering, the manic sound punctuated every now and then by a scream that was as much terror as it was rage. Not a warrior triumphant. Neither berserk nor swathed in drenched glory. A killer… killing.

An Edur warrior near him fell to a Letherii soldier’s desperate sword-thrust, and the emperor shrieked, lunged forward. The mottled sword swung, and blood splashed like water. His laughter pulled at his breath, making him gasp. Edur faces flashed furtively towards their savage ruler.

Down the street, carving through a rearguard of some sort. Udinaas stumbled over corpses, writhing, weeping figures. Blind with dying, men called for their mothers, and to these the slave reached down and touched a shoulder, or laid fingertips to slick foreheads, and murmured, ‘I’m here, my boy. It’s all right. You can go now.’

The apologetic priest, chain-snapped forward step by step, whispering hollow blessings, soft lies, forgiving even as he prayed for someone – something – to forgive him in turn. But no-one touched him, no fingertips brushed his brow.

For the burned villages. Retribution. Where were the moneylenders? This war belonged to them, after all.

Another hundred paces. Three more Edur were down. Rhulad and eight brethren. Fighting on. Where was the rest of the army?

Somewhere else.

If one could always choose the right questions, then every answer could be as obvious. A clever revelation, he was on to something here…

Another Edur screamed, skidded and fell over, face smacking the street.

Rhulad killed two more soldiers, and suddenly no-one stood in their path.

Halting in strange consternation, trapped in the centre of an intersection, drifts of smoke sliding past.

From the right, a sudden arrival.

Two Edur reeled back, mortally wounded.

The attacker reached out with his left hand, and a third Edur warrior’s head snapped round with a loud crack.

Clash of blades, more blood, another Edur toppling, then the attacker was through and wheeling about.

Rhulad leapt to meet him. Swords – one heavy and mottled, the other modest, plain – collided, and somehow were bound together with a twist and pronation of the stranger’s wrist, whilst his free hand blurred out and over the weapons, palm connecting with Rhulad’s forehead.

Breaking the emperor’s neck with a loud snap.

Mottled sword slid down the attacker’s blade and he was already stepping past, his weapon’s point already sliding out from the chest of another Edur.

Another heartbeat, and the last two Tiste Edur warriors were down, their bodies eagerly dispensing blood like payment onto the cobbles.

The stranger looked about, saw Udinaas, nodded, then waved to an alley-mouth, from which a woman emerged.

She took a half-dozen strides before Udinaas recognized her.

Badly used.

But no more of that. Not while this man lives.

Seren Pedac took no notice of him, nor of the dead Edur. The stranger grasped her hand.

Udinaas watched them head off down the street, disappear round a corner.

Somewhere behind him, the shouts of Edur warriors, the sound of running feet.

The slave found he was standing beside Rhulad’s body, staring down at it, the bizarre angle of the head on its twisted neck, the hands closed tight about the sword.

Waiting for the mouth to open with mad laughter.

‘Damned strangest armour I’ve ever seen.’

Seren blinked. ‘What?’

‘But he was good, with that sword. Fast. In another five years he’d have had the experience to have made him deadly. Enough to give anyone trouble. Shimmer, Blues, maybe even Skinner. But that armour! A damned fortune, right there for the taking. If we’d the time.’

‘What?’

‘That Tiste Edur, lass.’

‘Tiste Edur?’

‘Never mind. There they are.’

Ahead, crouched at the dead end of an alley, six figures. Two women, four men. All in crimson surcoats. Weapons out. Blood on the blades. One, more lightly armoured than the others and holding what looked to be some sort of diadem in his left hand, stepped forward.

And said something in a language Seren had never heard before.

Iron Bars replied in an impatient growl. He drew Seren closer as the man who’d spoken began gesturing. The air seemed to shimmer all round them.

‘Corlo’s opening the warren, lass. We’re going through, and if we’re lucky we won’t run into anything in there. No telling how far we can get. Far enough, I hope.’

‘Where?’ she asked. ‘Where are we going?’

A murky wall of blackness yawned where the alley’s blank wall had been.

‘Letheras, Acquitor. We got a ship awaiting us, remember?’

Strangest armour I’ve ever seen.

A damned fortune.

‘Is he dead?’

‘Who?’

‘Is he dead? Did you kill him? That Tiste Edur!’

‘No choice, lass. He was slowing us up and more were coming.’

Oh, no.

Vomit spilling out onto the sand.

At least, Withal mused, the shrieks had stopped. He waited, seated on grass just above the beach, while the young Edur, on his hands and knees, head hanging down, shuddered and convulsed, coughed and spat.

Off to one side, two of the Nachts, Rind and Pule, were fighting over a piece of driftwood that was falling apart with their efforts. Their games of destruction had become obsessive of late, leading the Meckros weaponsmith to wonder if they were in fact miming a truth on his behalf. Or the isolation was driving them insane. Another kind of truth, that one.

He despised religion. Set no gods in his path. Ascendants were worse than rabid beasts. It was enough that mortals were capable of appalling evil; he wanted nothing to do with their immortal, immeasurably more powerful counterparts.

And this broken god in his squalid tent, his eternal pain and the numbing smoke of the seeds he scattered onto the brazier before him, it was all of a piece to Withal. Suffering made manifest, consumed by the desire to spread the misery of its own existence into the world, into all the worlds. Misery and false escape, pain and mindless surrender. All of a piece.

On this small island, amidst this empty sea, Withal was lost. Within himself, among a host of faces that were all his own, he was losing the capacity to recognize any of them. Thought and self was reduced, formless and untethered. Wandering amidst a stranger’s memories, whilst the world beyond unravelled.

Nest building.

Frenzied destruction.

Fanged mouth agape in silent, convulsive laughter.

Three jesters repeating the same performance again and again. What did it mean? What obvious lesson was being shown him that he was too blind, too thick, to understand?

The Edur lad was done, nothing left in his stomach. He lifted his head, eyes stripped naked to the bones of pain and horror. ‘No,’ he whispered.

Withal looked away, squinted along the strand.

‘No more… please.’

‘Never much in the way of sunsets here,’ Withal mused. ‘Or sunrises, for that matter.’

‘You don’t know what it’s like!’

The Edur’s scream trailed away. ‘The nests are getting more elaborate,’ Withal said. ‘I think he’s striving for a particular shape. Sloped walls, a triangular entrance. Then Mape wrecks it. What am I to take from all that?’

‘He can keep his damned sword. I’m not going. Over there. I’m not going over there and don’t try to make me.’

‘I have nothing to do. Nothing.’

Rhulad crawled towards him. ‘You made that sword!’ he said in an accusatory rasp.

‘Fire, hammer, anvil and quenching. I’ve made more swords than I can count. Just iron and sweat. They were broken blades, I think. Those black shards. From some kind of narrow-bladed, overlong knife. Two of them, black and brittle. Just pieces, really. I wonder where he collected them from?’

‘Everything breaks,’ Rhulad said.

Withal glanced over. ‘Aye, lad. Everything breaks.’

‘You could do it.’

‘Do what?’

‘Break that sword.’

‘No. I can’t.’

‘Everything breaks!’

‘Including people, lad.’

‘That’s not good enough.’

Withal shrugged. ‘I don’t remember much of anything any more. I think he’s stealing my mind. He says he’s my god. All I need to do is worship him, he says. And everything will come clear. So tell xn Rhulad Sengar, is it all clear to you?’

‘This evil – it’s of your making!’

‘Is it? Maybe you’re right. I accepted his bargain. But he lied, you see He said he’d set me free, once I made the sword. He lies, Rhulad. That much I know. I know that now. This god lies.’

‘I have power. I am emperor. I’ve taken a wife. We are at war and Lether shall fall.’

Withal gestured inland. ‘And he’s waiting for you.’

‘They’re frightened of me.’

‘Fear breeds its own loyalty, lad. They’ll follow. They’re waiting too right now.’

Rhulad clawed at his face, shuddered. ‘He killed me. That man – not a Letherii, not a Letherii at all. He killed us. Seven of my brothers. And me. He was so… fast. It seemed he barely moved, and my kin were falling, dying.’

‘Next time will be harder. You’ll be harder. It won’t be as easy to find someone to kill you, next time. And the time after that. Do you understand that, lad? It’s the essence of that mangled god who’s waiting for you.’

‘Who is he?’

‘The god? A miserable little shit, Rhulad. Who has your soul in his hands.’

‘Father Shadow has abandoned us.’

‘Father Shadow is dead. Or as good as.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because if he wasn’t, he’d have never let the Crippled God steal you. You and your people. He’d have come marching ashore…’ Withal fell silent.

And that, he realized, was what he was coming to. A blood-soaked truth.

He hated religion, hated the gods. And he was alone.

‘I will kill him. With the sword.’

‘Fool. There’s nothing on this island that he doesn’t hear, doesn’t see, doesn’t know.’

Except, maybe, what’s in my mind now. And, even if he knew, how could he stop me? No, he doesn’t know. I must believe that. After all, if he did, he’d kill me. Right now, he’d kill me.

Rhulad climbed to his feet. ‘I’m ready for him.’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes.’

Withal sighed. He glanced over at the two Nachts. Their contested driftwood was a scattering of splinters lying between them. Both creatures were staring down at it, bemused, poking fingers through the mess. The Meckros rose. ‘All right then, lad, let’s go.

She was behind the black glass, within a tunnel of translucent obsidian, and there were no ghosts.

‘Kurald Galain,’ Corlo said in a whisper, casting a glance back at them over one shoulder. ‘Unexpected. It’s a rotten conquest. That, or the Edur don’t even know it, don’t even know what they’re using.’

The air stank of death. Withered flesh, the breath of a crypt. The black stone beneath their feet was greasy and uncertain. Overhead, the ceiling was uneven, barely a hand’s width higher than Iron Bars, who was the tallest among the group.

‘It’s a damned rats’ maze,’ the mage continued, pausing at a branching.

‘Just take us south,’ Iron Bars said in a low growl.

‘Fine, but which way is that?’

The soldiers crowded round, muttering and cursing in their strange language.

Corlo faced Seren, his expression strangely taut. ‘Any suggestions, Acquitor?’

‘What?’

The mage said something in their native tongue to Iron Bars, who scowled and replied, ‘That’s enough, all of you. In Letherii. Since when was rudeness in the creed of the Crimson Guard? Acquitor, this is the Hold of Darkness-’

‘There is no Hold of Darkness.’

‘Well, I’m trying to say it in a way that makes sense to you.’

‘All right.’

Corlo said, ‘But, you see, Acquitor, it shouldn’t be.’

She simply looked at him in the gloom.

The mage rubbed the back of his neck, and she saw the hand come away glistening with sweat. ‘These are Tiste Edur, right? Not Tiste Andii. The Hold of Darkness, that’s Tiste Andii. The Edur, they were from the, uh, Hold of Shadow. So, it was natural, you see, to expect that the warren would be Kurald Emurlahn. But it isn’t. It’s Kurald Galain, only it’s breached. Over-run. Thick with spirits – Tiste Andii spirits-’

‘They’re not here,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen them. Those spirits. They’re not here.’

‘They are, Acquitor. I’m just keeping them away. For now…’

‘But it’s proving difficult.’

The mage nodded reluctantly.

‘And you’re lost.’

Another nod.

She tried to think, cut through the numbness – which seemed to be the only thing keeping away the pain of her battered flesh. ‘You said the spirits are not Edur.’

‘That’s right. Tiste Andii.’

‘What is the relationship between the two? Are they allied?’

Corlo’s eyes narrowed. ‘Allied?’

‘Those wraiths,’ Iron Bars said.

The mage’s gaze darted to his commander, then back again to Seren Pedac. ‘Those wraiths are bound. Compelled to fight alongside the Edur. Are they Andii spirits? Hood’s breath, this is starting to make sense. What else would they be? Not Edur spirits, since no binding magic would be needed, would it?’

Iron Bars stepped in front of Seren. ‘What are you suggesting?’

She remembered back to her only contact with the spirits, their hunger. ‘Mage Corlo, you say you’re keeping them away. Are they trying to attack us?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Let one through. Maybe we can talk to it, maybe we can get help.’

‘Why would it be interested in helping us?’

‘Make a bargain.’

‘With what?’

She shrugged. ‘Think of something.’

He muttered a string of foreign words that she guessed were curses.

‘Let one through,’ Iron Bars said.

More curses, then Corlo walked a few steps ahead to clear some space. ‘Ready weapons,’ he said. ‘In case it ain’t interested in talking.’

A moment later, the gloom in front of the mage wavered, and something black spread outward like spilled ink. A figure emerged, halting, uncertain.

A woman, tall as an Edur but midnight-skinned, a reddish glint to her long, unbound hair. Green eyes, tilted and large, a face softer and rounder than Seren would have expected given her height and long limbs. She was wearing a leather harness and leggings, and on her shoulders rode the skin of some white-furred beast. She was unarmed.

Her eyes hardened. She spoke, and in her words Seren heard a resemblance to Edur.

‘I hate it when that happens,’ Corlo said.

Seren tried Edur. ‘Hello. We apologize for intruding on your world. We do not intend to stay long.’

The woman’s expression did not change. ‘The Betrayers never do.’

‘I may speak in the language of the Edur, but they are no allies of ours. Perhaps in that, we share something.’

‘I was among the first to die in the war,’ the woman said, ‘and so not at the hands of an Edur. They cannot take me, cannot force me to fight for them. I and those like me are beyond their grasp.’

‘Yet your spirit remains trapped,’ Seren said. ‘Here, in this place.’

‘What do you want?’

Seren turned to Iron Bars. ‘She asks what we want of her.’

‘Corlo?’

The mage shrugged, then said, ‘We need to escape the influence of the Edur. We need to get beyond their reach. Then to return to our world.’

Seren relayed Corlo’s statements to the woman.

‘You are mortal,’ she replied. ‘You can pass through when we cannot.’

‘Can you guide us?’

‘And what is to be my reward for this service?’

‘What do you seek?’

She considered, then shook her head. ‘No. An unfair bargain. My service is not worth the payment I would ask. You require a guide to lead you to the border’s edge. I will not deceive. It is not far. You would find it yourselves before too long.’

Seren translated the exchange for the Crimson Guardsmen, then added, ‘This is odd…’

Iron Bars smiled. ‘An honest broker?’

She nodded wryly. ‘I am Letherii, after all. Honesty makes me suspicious.’

‘Ask her what she would have us do for her,’ Iron Bars said.

Seren Pedac did, and the woman held up her right hand, and in it was a small object, encrusted and corroded and unrecognizable. ‘The K’Chain Che’Malle counter-attack drove a number of us down to the shoreline, then into the waves. I am a poor fighter. I died on that sea’s foaming edge, and my corpse rolled out, drawn by the tide, along the muddy sands, where the mud swallowed it.’ She looked down at the object in her palm. ‘This was a ring I wore. Returned to me by a wraith – many wraiths have done this for those of us beyond the reach of the Edur. I would ask that you return me to my bones, to what little of me remains. So that I can find oblivion. But this is too vast a gift, for offering you so little-’

‘How would we go about doing as you ask?’

‘I would join with the substance of this ring. You would see me no more. And you would need to travel to the shoreline, then cast this into the sea.’

‘That does not seem difficult.’

‘Perhaps it isn’t. The inequity lies in the exchange of values.’

Seren shook her head. ‘We see no inequity. Our desire is of equal value as far as we are concerned. We accept your bargain.’

‘How do I know you will not betray me?’

The Letherii turned to Iron Bars. ‘She doesn’t trust us.’

The man strode to halt directly before the Tiste Andii woman. ‘Acquitor, tell her I am an Avowed, of the Crimson Guard. If she would, she can seek the meaning of that. By laying her hand on my chest. Tell her I shall honour our pact.’

‘I’ve not told you what it is yet. She wants us to throw the thing she’s holding into the sea.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Doing so will end her existence. Which seems to be what she wants.’

‘Tell her to seek the cast of my soul.’

‘Very well.’

The suspicious look in the woman’s eyes grew more pronounced, but she stepped forward and set her left hand on the man’s chest.

The hand flinched away and the woman staggered back a step, shock then horror, writ on her face. ‘How – how could you do – why?’

Seren said, ‘Not the response you sought, I think, Iron Bars. She is… appalled.’

‘That is of no concern,’ the man replied. ‘Does she accept my word?’

The woman straightened, then, to Seren’s question, she nodded and said ‘I cannot do otherwise. But… I had forgotten… this feeling.’

‘What feeling?’

‘Sorrow.’

‘Iron Bars,’ Seren said, ‘whatever this “Avowed” means, she is overwhelmed with… pity.’

‘Yes well’ he said, turning away, ‘we all make mistakes.’

The woman said, ‘I will lead you now.’

‘What is your name?’

‘Sandalath Drukorlat.’

‘Thank you, Sandalath. It grieves me to know that our gift to you is oblivion.’

She shrugged. ‘Those who I once loved and who loved me believe I am gone in truth. There is no need for grief.’

No need for grief. Where, then, does the pity lie?

‘Stand up, lads,’ Iron Bars said, ‘she’s making ready to go.’

Mape lay on the knoll like something dead, but the Nacht’s head slowly turned as Withal and Rhulad strode into view. She had stolen a hammer from the smithy some time back, to better facilitate her destruction of Pule’s nests and now carried it with her everywhere. Withal watched askance as the gnarled, black-skinned creature lifted the hammer into view eyes still fixed on him and the Tiste Edur, as if contemplating murder.

Of the three Nachts, Mape made him the most nervous. Too much intelligence glittered in her small black eyes, too often she watched with something like a smile on her apish face. And the strength the creatures had displayed was sufficient to make any man worried. He knew Mape could tear his arms from his shoulders, were she so inclined.

Perhaps the Crippled God had bound them, as demons could be bound, and it was this and this alone that kept the beasts from Withal’s throat. An unpleasant notion.

‘What’s to stop me,’ Rhulad asked in a growl, ‘from driving the sword right through his scrawny chest?’

‘Do not ask that question of me, Edur. Only the Crippled God can answer it. But I don’t think it could ever be that easy. He’s a clever bastard, and there in that tent his power is probably absolute.’

‘The vastness of his realm,’ Rhulad said, sneering.

Yes. Now why do those words, said in that way, interest me?

The ragged canvas shelter was directly ahead, smoke drifting from the side that had been drawn open. As they approached, the air grew hotter, drier, the grasses withered and bleached underfoot. The earth seemed strangely blighted.

They came opposite the entrance. Within, the god’s huddled form in the gloom. Tendrils of smoke rising from the brazier.

A cough, then, ‘Such anger. Unreasonable, I think, given the efficacy of my gift.’

‘I don’t want to go back,’ Rhulad said. ‘Leave me here. Choose someone else.’

‘Unwitting servants to our cause appear… from unexpected sources. Imagine, an Avowed of the Crimson Guard. Be glad it was not Skinner, or indeed Cowl. They would have taken more notice of you, and that would not have been a good thing. We’re not yet ready for that.’ A hacking cough. ‘Not yet ready.’

‘I’m not going back.’

‘You detest the flesh given you. I understand. But, Rhulad Sengar, the gold is your payment. For the power you seek.’

‘I want nothing more of that power.’

‘But you do,’ the Crippled God said, clearly amused. ‘Consider the rewards already reaped. The throne of the Tiste Edur, the woman after whom you lusted for years – now in your possession, to do with as you please. Your brothers, bowing one and all before you. And a burgeoning prowess with the sword-’

‘It’s not mine, though, is it? It is all I can do to hold on! The skill does not belong to me – and all can see that! I have earned nothing!’

‘And what value is all that pride you seek, Rhulad Sengar? You mortals baffle me. It is a fool’s curse, to measure oneself in endless dissatisfaction. It is not for me to guide you in the rule of your empire. That task belongs to you and you alone. There, make that your place of pride. Besides, has not your strength grown? You have muscles now surpassing your brother Fear’s. Cease your whimpering, Edur.’

‘You are using me!’

The Crippled God laughed. ‘And Scabandari Bloodeye did not? Oh, I know the tale now. All of it. The seas whisper old truths, Rhulad Sengar. Revered Father Shadow, oh, such an absurd conceit. Murderer, knife-wielder, betrayer-’

‘Lies!’

‘-who then led you into your own betrayal. Of your once-allies, the Tiste Andii. You fell upon them at Scabandari’s command. You killed those who had fought alongside you. That is the legacy of the Tiste Edur, Rhulad Sengar. Ask Hannan Mosag. He knows. Ask your brother, Fear. Your mother – the women know. Their memory has been far less… selective.’

‘No more of this,’ the Edur pleaded, clawing at his face. ‘You would poison me with dishonour. That is your purpose… for all you say.’

‘Perhaps what I offer,’ the Crippled God murmured, ‘is absolution. The opportunity to make amends. It is within you, Rhulad Sengar. The power is yours to shape as you will. The empire shall cast your reflection, no-one else’s. Will you flee from that? If that is your choice, then indeed I shall be forced to choose another. One who will prove, perhaps, less honourable.’

The sword clattered at Rhulad’s feet.

‘Choose.’

Withal watched, saw the Edur’s expression change.

With a scream, Rhulad snatched up the weapon and lunged-

– and was gone.

Rasping laughter. ‘There is so little, withal, that surprises me any more.’

Disgusted, the Meckros turned away.

‘A moment, Withal. I see your weariness, your displeasure. What is it that plagues you so? That is what I ask myself.’

‘The lad doesn’t deserve it-’

‘Oh, but he does. They all do.’

‘Aye,’ Withal said, eyes level as he stared at the Crippled God, ‘that does seem to be the sole judgement you possess. But it’s hardly clean, is it?’

‘Careful. My gratitude for what you have done for me wears thin.’

‘Gratitude?’ Withal’s laugh was harsh. ‘You are thankful after compelling me into doing your bidding. That’s a good one. May you be as generous of thought after I force you into killing me.’ He studied the hooded figure. ‘I see your problem, you know. I see it now, and curse myself for having missed it before. You have no realm to command, as do other gods. So you sit there, alone, in your tent, and that is the extent of your realm, isn’t it? Broken flesh and foul, stifling air. Skin-thin walls and the heat the old and lame desire. Your world, and you alone in it, and the irony is, you cannot even command your own body.’

A wretched cough, then, ‘Spare me your sympathy, Meckros. I have given the problem of you considerable thought, and have found a solution, as you shall soon discover. When you do, think on what you have said to me. Now, go.’

‘You still don’t understand, do you? The more pain you deliver to others, god, the more shall be visited upon you. You sow your own misery, and because of that whatever sympathy you might rightly receive is swept away.’

‘I said go, Withal. Build yourself a nest. Mape’s waiting.’

They emerged onto a windswept sward with the crashing waves of the sea on their right and before them the delta of a broad river. On the river’s other side stood a walled city.

Seren Pedac studied the distant buildings, the tall, thin towers that seemed to lean seaward. ‘Old Katter,’ she said. ‘We’re thirty leagues south of Trate. How is that possible?’

‘Warrens,’ Corlo muttered, sagging until he sat on the ground. ‘Rotted. Septic, but still, a warren.’

The Acquitor made her way down to the beach. The sun was high and hot overhead. I must wash. Get clean. The sea…

Iron Bars followed, in one hand the encrusted object where the spirit of a Tiste Andii woman now resided.

She strode into the water, the foaming waves thrashing round her shins.

The Avowed flung the object past her – a small splash not far ahead.

Thighs, then hips.

Clean. Get clean.

To her chest. A wave rolled, lifted her from the bottom, spun and flung her towards the shore. She clawed herself round until she could push forward once again. Cold salty water rising over her face. Bright, sunlit, silty water, washing sight from her eyes. Water biting at scabbed wounds, stinging her broken lips, water filling her mouth and begging to be drawn inside.

Like this.

Hands grasped her, pulled her back. She fought, but could not break loose.

Clean!

Her face swept by cold wind, eyes blinking in painful light. Coughing, weeping, she struggled, but the hands dragged her remorselessly onto the beach, flung her onto the sand. Then, as she tried to claw free, arms wrapped tight about her, pinning her own arms, and a voice gasped close to her ear, ‘I know, lass. I know what it’s about. But it ain’t the way.’

Heaving, helpless sobs, now.

And he held her still.

‘Heal her, Corlo.’

‘I’m damn near done-’

‘Now. And sleep. Make her sleep-’

No, you can’t die. Not again. I have need of you.

So many layers, pressing down upon these indurative remnants, a moment of vast pressure, the thick, so thick skin tracing innumerable small deaths. And life was voice, not words, but sound, motion. Where all else was still, silent. Oblivion waited when the last echo faded.

Dying the first time should have been enough. This world was foreign, after all. The gate sealed, swept away. Her husband – if he still lived – was long past his grief. Her daughter, perhaps a mother herself by now, a grandmother. She had fed on draconic blood, there in the wake of Anomander. Somewhere, she persisted, and lived free of sorrow.

It had been important to think that way. Her only weapon against insanity.

No gifts in death but one.

But something held her back.

Something with a voice. These are restless seas indeed. I had not thought my questing would prove so… easy. True, you are not human, but you will do. You will do.

These remnants, suddenly in motion, grating motion. Fragments, particles too small to see, drawing together. As if remembering to what they had once belonged. And, within the sea, within the silts, waited all that was needed. For flesh, for bone and blood. All these echoes, resurrected, finding shape. She looked on in horror.

Watched, as the body – so familiar, so strange – clawed its way upward through the silts. Silts that lightened, thinned, then burst into a plume that swirled in the currents. Arms reaching upward, a body heaving into view.

She hovered near, compelled to close, to enter, but knowing it was too soon.

Her body, which she had left so long ago. It was not right. Not fair.

Scrambling mindlessly along the sea bottom. Finned creatures darting in and out of sight, drawn to the stirred-up sediments, frightened away by the flailing figure. Multi-legged shapes scrabbling from its path.

A strange blurring, passed through, and then sunlight glittered close overhead. Hands broke the surface, firm sand underfoot, sloping upward.

Face in the air.

And she swept forward, plunged into the body, raced like fire within muscle and bone.

Sensations. Cold, a wind, the smell of salt and a shoreline’s decay.

Mother Dark, I am… alive.

The voice of return came not in laughter, but in screams.

All had gathered as word of the emperor’s death spread. The city was taken, but Rhulad Sengar had been killed. Neck snapped like a sapling. His body lay where it fell, with the slave Udinaas standing guard, a macabre sentinel who did not acknowledge anyone, but simply stared down at the coin-clad corpse.

Hannan Mosag. Mayen with Feather Witch trailing. Midik Buhn, now blooded and a warrior in truth. Hundreds of Edur warriors, blood-spattered with glory and slaughter. Silent, pale citizens, terrified of the taut expectancy in the smoky air.

All witness to the body’s sudden convulsions, its piercing screams. For a ghastly moment, Rhulad’s neck remained broken, rocking his head in impossible angles as he staggered to his feet. Then the bone mended, and the head righted itself, sudden light in the hooded eyes.

More screams, from Letherii now. Figures fleeing.

Rhulad’s ragged shrieks died and he stood, wavering, the sword trembling in his hands.

Udinaas spoke. ‘Emperor, Trate is yours.’

A sudden spasm, then Rhulad seemed to see the others for the first time. ‘Hannan Mosag, settle the garrison. The rest of the army shall camp outside the city. Send word to your K’risnan with the fleet: they are to make for Old Katter.’

The Warlock King stepped close and said in a low voice, ‘It is true, then. You cannot die.’

Rhulad flinched. ‘I die, Hannan Mosag. It is all I know, dying. Leave me now. Udinaas.’

‘Emperor.’

‘I need – find – I am…’

‘Your tent awaits you and Mayen,’ the slave said.

‘Yes.’

Midik Buhn spoke, ‘Emperor, I shall lead your escort.’

His expression confused, Rhulad looked down at his body, the smeared, crusted coins, the spattered furs. ‘Yes, brother Midik. An escort.’

‘And we shall find the one who… did this, sire… to you.’ Rhulad’s eyes flashed. ‘He cannot be defeated. We are helpless before him. He lies…’

Midik was frowning. He glanced at Udinaas.

‘Emperor,’ the slave said, ‘he meant the one who killed you and your kin. Here in this street.’

Clawing at his face, Rhulad turned away. ‘Of course. He wore… crimson.’

Udinaas said to Midik, ‘I will give you a detailed description.’

A sharp nod. ‘Yes. The city will be searched.’

But he’s gone, you fool. No, I don’t know how I know. Still, the man’s gone. With Seren Pedac. ‘Of course.’

‘Udinaas!’ A desperate gasp.

‘I am here, Emperor.’

‘Take me out of this place!’

It was known, now, and soon the Ceda would learn of it. But would he understand? How could he? It was impossible, insane.

He can do nothing. Will he realize this?

The warrior in gold trailed the slave, step by step, through the fallen city, Mayen and Feather Witch in their wake. Midik Buhn and a dozen warriors flanked them all, weapons at the ready. The passage was uncontested.

Withal sat on a bench in his smithy. Plain walls, stone and plaster, the forge cold and filled with ash. Paved floor, the small workshop three-walled, the open side facing onto a fenced compound where stood a cut-stone-rimmed well, a quenching trough, firewood and a heap of tailings and slag. A hut on the opposite side housed his cot and nothing else. The extent of his world. Mocking reminder of his profession, the purpose behind living.

The Crippled God’s voice whispered in his mind, Withal. My gift. I am not without sympathy, no matter what you might think. I understood. Nachts are poor company for a man. Go, Withal, down to the beach. Take possession of my gift.

He slowly rose, bemused. A boat? A raft? A damned log I could ride out with the tide? He made his way outside.

And heard the Nachts, chattering excitedly down on the strand.

Withal walked to the verge, and stood, looking down.

A woman was staggering from the water. Tall, black-skinned, naked, long red hair.

And the Meckros turned round, strode away.

‘You bastard-’

The Crippled God replied in mock consternation, Is this not what you want? Is she too tall for you? Her eyes too strange? Withal, I do not understand…

‘How could you have done this? Take possession, you said. It’s all you know, isn’t it? Possession. Things to be used. People. Lives.’

She needs your help, Withal. She is lost, alarmed by the Nachts. Slow to recall her flesh.

‘Later. Leave me alone, now. Leave us both alone.’

A soft laugh, then a cough. As you wish. Disappointing, this lack of gratitude.

‘Go to the Abyss.’

No reply.

Withal entered the hut, stood facing the cot for a time, until he was certain that the Crippled God was not lurking somewhere in his skull. Then he lowered himself to his knees and bowed his head.

He hated religion. Detested gods. But the nest was empty. The nest needed tearing apart. Rebuilding.

The Meckros had a host of gods for the choosing. But one was older than all the others, and that one belonged to the sea.

Withal began to pray.

In Mael’s name.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

STUMBLING IN THE GLOOM, THE DRUNK HAD FALLEN INTO THE CANAL. Tehol had mostly lost sight of him from his position at the edge of the roof, but he could hear splashing and curses, and the scrabbling against the rings set in the stone wall.

Sighing, Tehol glanced over at the nameless guard Brys had sent. Or one of them, at least. The three brothers looked pretty much identical, and none had given their names. Nothing outward or obvious to impress or inspire fear. And, by the unwavering cast of their lipless, eye-slitted expressions, sadly unqualified as welcome company.

‘Can your friends tell you apart?’ Tehol enquired, then frowned. ‘What a strange question to ask of a man. But you must be used to strange questions, since people will assume you were somewhere when you weren’t, or, rather, not you, but the other yous, each of whom could be anywhere. It now occurs to me that saying nothing is a fine method for dealing with such confusion, to which each of you have agreed to as the proper response, unless you are the same amongst yourselves, in which case it was a silent agreement. Always the best kind.’

The drunk, far below, was climbing from the canal, swearing in more languages than Tehol believed existed. ‘Will you listen to that? Atrocious. To hear such no doubt foul words uttered with such vehemence – hold on, that’s no drunk, that my manservant!’ Tehol waved and shouted, ‘Bugg! What are you doing down there? Is this what I pay you for?’

The sodden manservant was looking upward, and he yelled something back that Tehol could not make out. ‘What? What did you say?’

‘You – don’t – pay – me!’

‘Oh, tell everyone, why don’t you!’

Tehol watched as Bugg made his way to the bridge and crossed, then disappeared from view behind the nearby buildings. ‘How embarrassing. Time’s come for a serious talk with dear old Bugg.’

Sounds from below, more cursing. Then creaking from the ladder.

Bugg’s mud-smeared head and face rose into view.

‘Now,’ Tehol said, hands on hips, ‘I’m sure I sent you off to do something important, and what do you do? Go falling into the canal. Was that on the list of tasks? I think not.’

‘Are you berating me, master?’

‘Yes. What did you think?’

‘More effective, I believe, had you indeed sent me off to do something important. As it was, I was on a stroll, mesmerized by moonlight-’

‘Don’t step there! Back! Back!’

Alarmed, Bugg froze, then edged away.

‘You nearly crushed Ezgara! And could he have got out of the way? I think not!’ Tehol moved closer and knelt beside the insect making its slow way across the roof’s uneven surface. ‘Oh, look, you startled it!’

‘How can you tell?’ Bugg asked.

‘Well, it’s reversed direction, hasn’t it? That must be startling, I would imagine.’

‘You know, master, it was a curio – I didn’t think you would make it a pet.’

‘That’s because you’re devoid of sentiment, Bugg. Whereas Ezgara here is doubly-’

‘Ovoid?’

‘Charmingly so.’ Tehol glanced over at the guard, who was staring back at him as was his wont. ‘And this man agrees. Or, if not him, then his brothers. Why, one let Ezgara crawl all over his face, and he didn’t even blink!’

‘How did Ezgara manage to get onto his face, master?’

‘And down the other’s jerkin, not a flinch. These are warm-hearted men, Bugg, look well upon them and learn.’

‘I shall, master.’

‘Now, did you enjoy your swim?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘A misstep, you say?’

‘I thought I heard someone whisper my name-’

‘Shurq Elalle?’

‘No.’

‘Harlest Eberict? Kettle? Chief Investigator Rucket? Champion Ormly?’

‘No.’

‘Might you have been imagining things?’

‘Quite possibly. For example, I believe I am being followed by rats.’

‘You probably are, Bugg. Maybe one of them whispered your name.’

‘An unpleasant notion, master.’

‘Yes it is. Do you think it pleases me that my manservant consorts with rats?’

‘Would you rather go hungry?’ Bugg reached under his shirt.

‘You haven’t!’

‘No, it’s cat,’ he said, withdrawing a small, skinned, headless and pawless carcass. ‘Canal flavoured, alas.’

‘Another gift from Rucket?’

‘No, oddly enough. The canal.’

‘Ugh.’

‘Smells fresh enough-’

‘What’s that wire trailing from it?’

The manservant lifted the carcass higher, then took the dangling wire between two fingers and followed it back until it vanished in the flesh. He tugged, then grunted.

‘What?’ Tehol asked.

‘The wire leads to a large, barbed hook.’

‘Oh.’

‘And the wire’s snapped at this end – I thought something broke my fall.’ He tore a small sliver of meat from one of the cat’s legs, broke it in two, then placed one piece at each end of the insect named Ezgara. It settled to feed. ‘Anyway, a quick rinse and we’re ahead by two, if not three meals. Quite a run of fortune, master, of late.’

‘Yes,’ Tehol mused. ‘Now I’m nervous. So, have you any news to tell me?’

‘Do you realize, master, that Gerun Eberict would have had to kill on average between ten and fifteen people a day in order to achieve his annual dividend? How does he find the time to do anything else?’

‘Perhaps he’s recruited thugs sharing his insane appetites.’

‘Indeed. Anyway, Shurq has disappeared – both Harlest and Ublala are distraught-’

‘Why Harlest?’

‘He had only Ublala to whom he could show off his new fangs and talons, and Ublala was less than impressed, so much so that he pushed Harlest into the sarcophagus and sealed him in.’

‘Poor Harlest.’

‘He adjusted quickly enough,’ said Bugg, ‘and now contemplates his dramatic resurrection – whenever it occurs.’

‘Disturbing news about Shurq Elalle.’

‘Why?’

‘It means she didn’t change her mind. It means she’s going to break into the Tolls Repository. Perhaps even this very night.’

Bugg glanced over at the guard. ‘Master…’

‘Oops, that was careless, wasn’t it?’ He rose and walked over. ‘He hears all, it’s true. My friend, we can at least agree on one thing, can’t we?’

The eyes flickered as the man stared at Tehol.

‘Any thief attempting the Repository is as good as dead, right?’ He smiled, then swung back to face his manservant.

Bugg began removing his wet clothes. ‘I believe I’ve caught a chill.’

‘The canal is notoriously noxious-’

‘No, from earlier, master. The Fifth Wing. I’ve managed to successfully shore up the foundations-’

‘Already? Why, that’s extraordinary.’

‘It is, isn’t it? In any case, it’s chilly in those tunnels… now.’

‘Dare I ask?’

Bugg stood naked, eyes on the faint stars overhead. ‘Best not, master.’

‘And what of the Fourth Wing?’

‘Well, that’s where my crews are working at the moment. A week, perhaps ten days. There’s an old drainage course beneath it. Rather than fight it, we’re installing a fired-clay conduit-’

‘A sewage pipe.’

‘In the trade, it’s a fired-clay conduit.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Which we’ll then pack with gravel. I don’t know why Grum didn’t do that in the first place, but it’s his loss and our gain.’

‘Are you dry yet, Bugg? Please say you’re dry. Look at our guard here, he’s horrified. Speechless.’

‘I can tell, and I apologize.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many scars on one person,’ Tehol said. ‘What do you do in your spare time, Bugg, wrestle angry cacti?’

‘I don’t understand. Why would they have to be angry?’

‘Wouldn’t you be if you attacked you for no reason? Hey, that’s a question I could ask our guard here, isn’t it?’

‘Only if he – or they – were similarly afflicted, master.’

‘Good point. And he’d have to take his clothes off for us to find out.’

‘Not likely.’

‘No. Now, Bugg, here’s my shirt. Put it on, and be thankful for the sacrifices I make on your behalf.’

‘Thank you, master.’

‘Good. Ready? It’s time to go.’

‘Where?’

‘Familiar territory for you, or so I was surprised to discover. You are a man of many mysteries, Bugg. Occasional priest, healer, the Waiting Man, consorter with demons and worse. Were I not so self-centred, I’d be intrigued.’

‘I am ever grateful for your self-centredness, master.’

‘That’s only right, Bugg. Now, presumably, our silent bodyguard will be accompanying us. Thus, we three. Marching purposefully off into the night. Shall we?’

Into the maze of shanties on the east side of Letheras. The night air was hot, redolent and turgid. Things skittered through the heaps of rotting rubbish, wild dogs slunk through shadows in ill-tempered packs looking for trouble – threatening enough to cause the bodyguard to draw his sword. Sight of the bared blade was enough to send the beasts scampering.

Those few homeless indigents brave or desperate enough to risk the dangers of the alleys and streets had used rubbish to build barricades and hovels. Others had begged for space on the sagging roofs of creaky huts and slept fitfully or not at all. Tehol could feel countless pairs of eyes looking down upon them, tracking their passage deeper into the heart of the ghetto.

As they walked, Tehol spoke. ‘… the assumption is the foundation stone of Letherii society, perhaps all societies the world over. The notion of inequity, my friends. For from inequity derives the concept of value, whether measured by money or the countless other means of gauging human worth. Simply put, there resides in all of us the unchallenged belief that the poor and the starving are in some way deserving of their fate. In other words, there will always be poor people. A truism to grant structure to the continual task of comparison, the establishment through observation of not our mutual similarities, but our essential differences.

‘I know what you’re thinking, to which I have no choice but to challenge you both. Like this. Imagine walking down this street, doling out coins by the thousands. Until everyone here is in possession of vast wealth. A solution? No, you say, because among these suddenly rich folk there will be perhaps a majority who will prove wasteful, profligate and foolish, and before long they will be poor once again. Besides, if wealth were distributed in such a fashion, the coins themselves would lose all value – they would cease being useful. And without such utility, the entire social structure we love so dearly would collapse.

‘Ah, but to that I say, so what? There are other ways of measuring self-worth. To which you both heatedly reply: with no value applicable to labour, all sense of worth vanishes! And in answer to that I simply smile and shake my head. Labour and its product become the negotiable commodities. But wait, you object, then value sneaks in after all! Because a man who makes bricks cannot be equated with, say, a man who paints portraits. Material is inherently value-laden, on the basis of our need to assert comparison – but ah, was I not challenging the very assumption that one must proceed with such intricate structures of value?

‘And so you ask, what’s your point, Tehol? To which I reply with a shrug. Did I say my discourse was a valuable means of using this time? I did not. No, you assumed it was. Thus proving my point!’

‘I’m sorry, master,’ Bugg said, ‘but what was that point again?’

‘I forget. But we’ve arrived. Behold, gentlemen, the poor.’

They stood at the edge of an old market round, now a mass of squalid shelters seething with humanity. A few communal hearths smouldered. The area was ringed in rubbish – mostly dog and cat bones – which was crawling with rats. Children wandered in the dazed, lost fashion of the malnourished. Newborns lay swaddled and virtually unattended. Voices rose in arguments and somewhere on the opposite side was a fight of some sort. Mixed-bloods, Nerek, Faraed, Tarthenal, even the odd Fent. A few Letherii as well, escapees from Indebtedness.

Bugg looked on in silence for a half-dozen heartbeats, then said, ‘Master, transporting them out to the Isles won’t solve anything.’

‘No?’

‘These are broken spirits.’

‘Beyond hope of recovery?’

‘Well, that depends on how paternalistic you intend to be, master. The rigours of past lifestyles are beyond these people. We’re a generation or more too late. They’ve not old skills to fall back on, and as a community this one is intrinsically flawed. It breeds violence and neglect and little else.’

‘I know what you’re saying, Bugg. You’re saying you’ve had better nights and the timing wasn’t good, not good at all. You’re miserable, you’ve got a chill, you should be in bed.’

‘Thank you, master. I was wondering myself.’

‘Your issue of paternalism has some merit, I admit,’ Tehol said, hands on hips as he studied the grubby shanty-town. ‘That is to say, you have a point. In any case, doom is about to sweep through this sad place. Lether is at war, Bugg. There will be… recruitment drives.’

‘Press-ganging,’ the manservant said, nodding morosely.

‘Yes, all that malignant violence put to good use. Of course, such poor soldiers will be employed as fodder. A harsh solution to this perennial problem, admittedly, but one with long precedent.’

‘So, what have you planned, master?’

‘The challenge facing myself and the sharp minds of the Rat Catchers’ Guild, was, as you have observed, how does one reshape an entire society? How does one convert this impressive example of the instinct to survive into a communally positive force? Clearly, we needed to follow a well-established, highly successful social structure as our inspiration-’

‘Rats.’

‘Well done, Bugg. I knew I could count on you. Thus, we began with recognizing the need for a leader. Powerful, dynamic, charismatic, dangerous.’

‘A criminal mastermind with plenty of thugs to enforce his or her will.’

Tehol frowned. ‘Your choice of words disappoints me, Bugg.’

‘You?’

‘Me? Of course not. Well, not directly, that is. A truly successful leader is a reluctant leader. Not one whose every word is greeted with frenzied cheering either – after all, what happens to the mind of such a leader, after such scenes are repeated again and again? A growing certainty, a belief in one’s own infallibility, and onward goes the march into disaster. No, Bugg, I won’t have anyone kissing my feet-’

‘I’m relieved to hear that, master, since those feet have not known soap in a long, long time.’

‘The body eventually resumes its own natural cleansing mechanisms, Bugg.’

‘Like shedding?’

‘Exactly. In any case, I was speaking of leadership in a general sort of way-’

‘Who, master?’

‘Why, the Waiting Man, of course. Occasional priest, healer, consorter with demons…’

‘That’s probably not such a good idea, master,’ Bugg said, rubbing his bristled jaw. ‘I am rather… busy at the moment.’

‘A leader should be busy. Distracted. Preoccupied. Prepared to delegate.’

‘Master, I really don’t think this is a good idea. Really.’

‘Perfectly reluctant, perfect! And look! You’ve been noticed! See those hopeful faces-’

‘That’s hunger, master.’

‘For salvation! Word’s gone out, you see. They’re ready for you, Bugg. They’ve been waiting…’

‘This is very bad, master.’

‘Your expression is perfect, Bugg. Sickly and wan with dismay, deeply troubled and nervous, yes indeed. I couldn’t have managed better myself.’

‘Master-’

‘Go out among your flock, Bugg. Tell them – they’re leaving. Tomorrow night. All of them. A better place, a better life awaits them. Go on, Bugg.’

‘As long as no-one worships me,’ the manservant replied. ‘I don’t like being worshipped.’

‘Just stay fallible,’ Tehol said.

Bugg cast him a strange look, then he walked into the shanty-town.

‘Thank you for coming, Brys.’

Kuru Qan was sitting in the thickly padded chair near the wall opposite the library’s entrance. Polished lenses and cloth in his hands, cleaning one lens then the other, then repeating the gesture, again and again. His eyes were fixed on nothing visible to Brys.

‘More news from Trate, Ceda?’

‘Something, yes, but we will discuss that later. In any case, we must consider the city lost.’

‘Occupied.’

‘Yes. Another battle is imminent, at High Fort.’

‘The queen and the prince have withdrawn their forces, then? I understood they were seeking the pass.’

‘Too late. The Edur had already made crossing.’

‘Will you contribute to the defence?’ Brys asked, striding into the small room and settling down on the bench to the Ceda’s left.

‘No.’

Surprised, Brys said nothing. He had been in the company of the king and Unnutal Hebaz for most of the evening, studying the detected movements of the enemy armies, immersed in the painful exercise of trying to predict the nature of his brother Hull’s advice to the Edur emperor. Clearly, Hull had anticipated the pre-emptive attack on the villages. To Brys’s mind, the rabid display of greed from the camps of the queen and the prince had tipped their hand. Janall, Quillas and their investors had already begun dividing up the potential spoils, which made clear their desire for a quick war, one that devastated the Tiste Edur, and that meant catching them unawares. Janall’s march for the pass had indicated no change in her thinking. Yet now she had retreated.

The Tiste Edur had stolen the initiative. The appearance above High Fort, the surrender of Fent Reach and the fall of Trate indicated at least two enemy armies, as well as two fleets, all moving fast.

‘Ceda, have you learned anything more of the demon that entered

Trate harbour?’

‘The danger is not singular, but plural,’ Kuru Qan said. ‘I see before me the Cedance, and have learned, to my horror, that it is… incomplete.’

‘Incomplete? What do you mean?’

The Ceda continued cleaning the lenses in his hands. ‘I must needs conserve my power, until the appropriate time. The seas must be freed. It is as simple as that.’

Brys waited, then, when Kuru Qan said no more, he ventured, ‘Do you have a task for me, Ceda?’

‘I would counsel a withdrawal from High Fort, but the king would not agree to that, would he?’

Brys shook his head. ‘Your assessment is accurate. Even a disaster would be seen to have… benefits.’

‘The elimination of his wife and son, yes. A tragic state of affairs, wouldn’t you say, my young friend? The heart of the Cedance, I have come to realize, can be found in a systemic denial. And from that heart, all else is derived. Our very way of life and of seeing the world. We send soldiers to their deaths and how do we see those deaths? As glorious sacrifices. The enemy dead? As the victims of our honourable righteousness. Whilst in our cities, in the narrow, foul alleys, a life that ends is but tragic failure. What, then, is the denial whereof I speak?’

‘Death.’

Kuru Qan placed the lenses once more before his eyes and peered at Brys. ‘You see, then. I knew you would. Brys, there is no Hold of Death. Your task? Naught but keeping an old man company on this night.’

The King’s Champion rubbed at his face. His eyes felt full of grit, and he was unaccountably chilled. He was, he realized, exhausted.

‘Our manic accumulation of wealth,’ Kuru Qan went on. ‘Our headlong progress, as if motion was purpose and purpose inherently virtuous. Our lack of compassion, which we called being realistic. The extremity of our judgements, our self-righteousness – all a flight from death, Brys. All a vast denial smothered in semantics and euphemisms. Bravery and sacrifice, pathos and failure, as if life is a contest to be won or lost. As if death is the arbiter of meaning, the moment of final judgement, and above all else judgement is a thing to be delivered, not delivered unto.’

‘Would you rather we worship death, Ceda?’

‘Equally pointless. One needs no faith to die, one dies none the less. I spoke of systemic denial, and it is indeed and in every way systemic. The very fabric of our world, here in Lether and perhaps elsewhere, has been twisted round that… absence. There should be a Hold of Death, do you understand? Relevant? The only relevance. It must have existed, once. Perhaps even a god, some ghastly skeleton on a throne of bones, a spin and dance of cold-legged flies for a crown. Yet here we are, and we have given it no face, no shape, no position in our elaborate scheme of existence.’

‘Perhaps because it is the very opposite of existence-’

‘But it isn’t, Brys, it isn’t. Errant take us, death is all around us. We stride over it, we breathe it, we soak its essence into our lungs, our blood. We feed upon it daily. We thrive in the midst of decay and dissolution.’

Brys studied the Ceda. ‘It occurs to me,’ he said slowly, ‘that life itself is a celebration of denial. The denial of which you speak, Kuru Qan. Our flight – well, to flee is to lift oneself clear of the bones, the ashes, the fallen away.’

‘Flee – to where?’

‘Granted. Nowhere but elsewhere. I wonder if what you’ve said is being manifested, in creatures such as Kettle and that thief, Shurq Elalle-’

The Ceda’s head snapped up, eyes suddenly alert behind the thick lenses. ‘I’m sorry? What did you say?’

‘Well, I was speaking of those who are denied death in truth, Ceda. The child, Kettle-’

‘The guardian of the Azath? She is undead?’

‘Yes. I’m sure I mentioned-’

Kuru Qan was on his feet. ‘Are you certain of this? Brys Beddict, she is an undead?’

‘She is. But I don’t understand-’

‘Stand up, Brys. We’re going. Now.’

‘It’s all the fallen people,’ Kettle said. ‘They want answers. They won’t go until they get answers.’

Shurq Elalle kicked away an insect that had crawled onto her boot. ‘Answers about what?’

‘Why they died.’

‘There are no answers,’ Shurq replied. ‘It’s what people do. Die. They die. They always die.’

‘We didn’t.’

‘Yes we did.’

‘Well, we didn’t go away.’

‘From the sound of it, Kettle, neither did they.’

‘That’s true. I wonder why I didn’t think of that.’

‘Because you were about ten years old when you died.’

‘Well, what do I do now?’

Shurq studied the overgrown, ground-heaved yard. ‘You gave me the idea, and that’s why I am here. You said the dead were gathering. Gathering round this place, hovering just outside the walls. Can you talk to them?’

‘Why would I want to? They never say anything interesting.’

‘But you could if you had to.’ Kettle shrugged. ‘I guess.’

‘Good. Ask for volunteers.’

‘For what?’

‘I want them to come with me. On an outing. Tonight and again tomorrow night.’

‘Why would they want to, Mother?’

‘Tell them they will see more gold than they can imagine. They will learn secrets few in this kingdom possess. Tell them I am going to lead them on a tour of the Tolls Repository and the royal vaults. Tell them, the time’s come to have fun. Terrifying the living.’

‘Why would ghosts want to scare the living?’

‘I know, it’s a strange notion, but I predict they will discover they’re very good at it. Further, I predict they will enjoy the endeavour.’

‘But, how will they do that? They’re ghosts. The living can’t even see them.’

Shurq Elalle swung about and stared out on the milling crowds. ‘Kettle, they look pretty solid to us, don’t they?’

‘But we’re dead-’

‘Then why couldn’t we see them a week ago? They were just flits, on the edge of our vision back then, weren’t they? If that, even. So what has changed? Where has their power come from? Why is it growing?’

‘I don’t know.’

Shurq smiled. ‘I do.’

Kettle walked over to one of the low walls.

The thief watched her speaking to the ghosts. I wonder if she realizes. I wonder if she knows she’s more alive now than dead. I wonder if she knows she’s coming back to life.

After a moment the child returned, pulling her fingers through her hair to loosen the snarls. ‘You are smart, Mother,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re my mother and that’s why.’

‘I have some volunteers?’

‘They’ll all go. They want to see the gold. They want to scare people.’

‘I need some who can read and some who can count.’

‘That’s okay. So tell me, Mother, why are they growing more powerful? What’s changed?’

Shurq looked back at the square, squalid tower of stone. ‘That, Kettle.’

‘The Azath?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh,’ the child said. ‘I understand now. It died.’

‘Yes,’ Shurq said, nodding. ‘It died.’

After Mother had left, thousands of ghosts following, Kettle walked to the tower’s entrance. She studied the flagstones set before the door, then selected one and knelt before it. Her fingernails broke prying it loose, and she was surprised at the sting of pain and the welling of blood.

She had not told Shurq how hard it had been speaking to those ghosts. Their endless voices had been fading the last day or two, as if she was becoming deaf. Although other sounds – the wind, the dead leaves scurrying about, the crunch and munch of the insects in the yard, and the sounds of the city itself – all were as clear as ever. Something was happening to her. That beating vibration in her chest had quickened. Five, six eights a day, now. The places where her skin had broken long ago were closing up with new, pink skin, and earlier today she had been thirsty. It had taken some time to realize – to remember, perhaps – what thirst was, what it signified, but the stagnant water she had found at the base of one of the pits in the yard had tasted wonderful. So many things were changing, it seemed, confusing her.

She dragged the flagstone to one side, then sat beside it. She wiped the dust from its blank, polished surface. There were funny patterns in it. Shells, the imprint of plants – reeds with their onion-like root-balls – and the pebbled impressions of coral. Tiny bones. Someone had done a lot of carving to make such a pretty scene of dead things.

She looked down the path, through the gate and onto the street. Strange, to see it so empty now. But, she knew, it wouldn’t be for long.

And so she waited.

The bleeding from her fingertips had stopped by the time she heard the footfalls approaching. She looked up, then smiled upon seeing Uncle Brys and the old man with the glass eyes – the one she had never seen before yet knew anyway.

They saw her, and Brys strode through the gate, the old man following behind with nervous, tentative steps.

‘Hello, Uncle,’ Kettle said.

‘Kettle. You are looking… better. I have brought a guest, Ceda Kuru

Qan.’

‘Yes, the one who’s always looking at me but not seeing me, but looking anyway.’

‘I wasn’t aware of that,’ the Ceda said.

‘Not like you’re doing now,’ Kettle said. ‘Not when you have those things in front of your eyes.’

‘You mean, when I look upon the Cedance? Is that when I see you without seeing you?’

She nodded.

‘The Hold of the Azath is gone, child, yet here you remain. You were its guardian when it was alive – when you were not. And now, you are its guardian still? When it is dead and you are not?’

‘I’m not dead?’

‘Not quite. The heart placed within you. Once frozen… now… thawing. I do not understand its power, and, I admit, it frightens me.’

‘I have a friend who said he’ll destroy me if he has to,’ Kettle said, smiling. ‘But he says he probably won’t have to.’

‘Why not?’

‘He says the heart won’t wake up. Not completely. That’s why the Nameless One took my body.’

She watched the old man’s mouth moving, but no words came forth. At his side, Uncle Brys stepped closer, concern on his face.

‘Ceda? Are you all right?’

‘Nameless One?’ The old man was shivering. ‘This place – this is the Hold of Death, isn’t it? It’s become the Hold of Death.’

Kettle reached over and picked up the flagstone. It was as heavy as a corpse, so she was used to the weight. ‘This is for your Cedance, for where you look when you don’t see me.’

‘A tile.’ Kuru Qan looked away as she set it down in front of him.

‘Ceda,’ Uncle Brys said, ‘I do not understand. What has happened here?’

‘Our history… so much is proving untrue. The Nameless Ones were of the First Empire. A cult. It was expunged. Eliminated. It cannot have survived, but it seems to have done just that. It seems to have outlived the First Empire itself.’

‘Are they some sort of death cult?’

‘No. They were servants of the Azath.’

‘Then why,’ Brys asked, ‘do they appear to have been overseeing the death of this Azath tower?’

Kuru Qan shook his head. ‘Unless they saw it as inevitable. And so they acted in order to counter those within the barrows who would escape once the tower died. The manifestation of a Hold of Death may turn out to have nothing to do with them.’

‘Then why is she still the guardian?’

‘She may not be, Brys. She waits in order to deal with those who are about to escape the grounds.’ The Ceda’s gaze returned to Kettle. ‘Child, is that why you remain?’

She shrugged. ‘It won’t be long now.’

‘And the one the Azath chose to help you, Kettle, will he emerge in time?’

‘I don’t know. I hope so.’

‘So do I,’ Kuru Qan said. ‘Thank you, child, for the tile. Still, I wonder at your knowledge of this new Hold.’

Kettle pulled an insect from her hair and tossed it aside. ‘The pretty man told me all about it,’ she said.

‘Another visitor?’

‘Only once. Mostly he just stands in the shadows, across the street. Sometimes he followed me when I went hunting, but he never said anything. Not until today, when he came over and we talked.’

‘Did he tell you his name?’ the Ceda asked.

‘No. But he was very handsome. Only he said he had a girlfriend. Lots. Boyfriends, too. Besides, I shouldn’t give my heart away. That’s what he said. He never does. Never ever.’

‘And this man told you all about the Hold of Death?’

‘Yes, Grandfather. He knew all about it. He said it doesn’t need a new guardian, because the throne is already occupied, at least everywhere else. Here too, soon. I’m tired of talking now.’

‘Of course, Kettle,’ Kuru Qan said. ‘We shall take our leave of you, then.’

‘Goodbye. Oh, don’t forget the tile!’

‘We will send some people to collect it, child.’

‘All right.’

She watched them walk away. When they were gone from sight she headed over to her friend’s barrow, and felt him close. ‘Where are you taking me this time?’

Her hand in his, she found herself standing on a low hill, and before them was a vast, shallow valley, filled with corpses.

It was dusk, a layer of smoke hanging over the vista. Just above the horizon opposite, a suspended mountain of black stone was burning, columns of smoke billowing from its gashed flanks. Below, the bodies were mostly of some kind of huge, reptilian creature wearing strange armour. Grey-skinned and long-snouted, their forms were contorted and ribboned with slashes, lying in tangled heaps. Here and there in their midst lay other figures. Tall, some with grey skins, some with black.

Standing beside her, he spoke, ‘Over four hundred thousand, Kettle. Here in this valley alone. There are other… valleys. Like this one.’

A score of leathery-winged beasts were crossing the valley at one end, far to their right.

‘Ooh, are those dragons?’

‘Spawn. Locqui Wyval, searching for their master. But he is gone. Once they realize that, they will know to wait. It will prove a long wait.’

‘Are they waiting still?’

‘Yes.’

‘When did this battle happen?’

‘Many thousands of years ago, Kettle. But the damage remains. In a short while, the ice will arrive, sealing all you see. Holding all in stasis, a sorcery of impressive power, so powerful it will prove a barrier to the dead themselves – to the path their spirits would take. I wonder if that was what the Jaghut had intended. In any case, the land was twisted by the magic. The dead… lingered. Here, in the north, and far to the south, as far as Letheras itself. To my mind, an Elder god meddled. But none could have foreseen the consequences, not even an Elder god.’

‘Is that why the tower has become the Hold of Death?’

‘It has? I was not aware of that. This, then, is what comes, when the sorcery finally dies and the world thaws. Balance is reasserted.’

‘Shurq Elalle says we are at war. The Tiste Edur, she says, are invading Lether.’

‘Let us hope they do not arrive before I am free.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they will endeavour to kill me, Kettle.’

‘Why?’

‘For fear that I will seek to kill them.’

‘Will you?’

‘On many levels,’ he replied, ‘there is no reason why I shouldn’t. But no, not unless they get in my way. You and I know, after all, that the true threat waits in the barrows of the Azath grounds.’

‘I don’t think the Edur will win the war,’ she said.

‘Yes, failure on their part would be ideal.’

‘So what else did you want to show me?’

A pale white hand gestured towards the valley. ‘There is something odd to all this. Do you see? Or, rather, what don’t you see?’

‘I don’t see any ghosts.’

‘Yes. The spirits are gone. The question is, where are they?’

Terrified screams echoed as Shurq Elalle walked down the wide, high-ceilinged corridor to the Master Chamber of the Tolls Repository. Guards, servants, clerks and cleaning staff had one and all succumbed to perfectly understandable panic. There was nothing worse, she reflected, than the unexpected visitations of dead relatives.

Ahead, the double doors were wide open, and the lanterns in the huge room beyond were swinging wildly to immanent gusts of spirited haste.

The thief strode into the chamber.

A squalid ghost rushed up to her, rotted face grinning wildly. ‘I touched it! My last coin! I found it in the stacks! And touched it!’

‘I am happy for you,’ Shurq said. ‘Now, where are the counters and readers?’

‘Eh?’

Shurq moved past the ghost. The chamber was seething, spirits hurrying this way and that, others hunched over tumbled scrolls, still others squirming along the shelves. Chests of coins had been knocked over, the glittering gold coins stirring about on the marble floor as gibbering wraiths pawed them.

‘I worked here!’

Shurq eyed the ghost drifting her way. ‘You did?’

‘Oh yes. They put in more shelves, and look at those lantern nooks – what idiot decided on those dust-traps? Dust is a fire hazard. Terrible fire hazard. Why, I was always telling them that. And now I could prove my point – a nudge, a simple nudge of that lantern there, yes…’

‘Come back here! Nothing burns. Understand?’

‘If you say so. Fine. I was just kidding, anyway.’

‘Have you looked at the ledgers?’

‘Yes, yes, and counted. And memorized. I was always good at memorizing; that’s why they hired me. I could count and count and never lose my place. But the dust! Those nooks! Everything might burn, burn terribly-’

‘Enough of that. We have what we need. Time for everyone to leave.’ A chorus of wavering voices answered her. ‘We don’t want to!’

‘There’ll be priests coming. Probably already on their way. And mages, eager to collect wraiths to enslave as their servants for eternity.’

‘We’re leaving!’

‘You,’ said Shurq to the ghost before her, ‘come with me. Talk. Give me details.’

‘Yes, yes. Of course.’

‘Leave that lantern alone, damn you!’

‘Sorry. Terrible fire hazard, oh, the flames there’d be. Such flames, all those inks, the colours!’

‘Everyone!’ the thief shouted. ‘We’re going now! And you, stop rolling that coin – it stays here!’

‘The Seventh Closure,’ Kuru Qan muttered as they made their way back to the palace. ‘It is all spiralling inward. Troubling, this concatenation of details. The Azath dies, a Hold of Death comes into being. A Nameless One appears and somehow possesses the corpse of a child, then fashions an alliance with a denizen of a barrow. A usurper proclaims himself emperor of the Tiste Edur, and now leads an invasion. Among his allies, a demon from the sea, one of sufficient power to destroy two of my best mages. And now, if other rumours are true, it may be the emperor is himself a man of many lives…’ Brys glanced over. ‘What rumours?’

‘Citizens witnessed his death in Trate. The Edur emperor was cut down in battle. Yet he… returned. Probably an exaggeration, but I am nervous none the less at my own assumptions in this matter, Brys. Still, the Tiste Edur have superb healers. Perhaps a binding spell of some sort, cleaving the soul to the flesh until they can arrive… I must give this more thought.’

‘And you believe, Ceda, that all this is somehow linked to the Seventh Closure?’

‘The rebirth of our empire. That is my fear, Champion. That we have in some fatal way misread our ancient prophecy. Perhaps the empire has already appeared.’

‘The Tiste Edur? Why would a Letherii prophecy have anything to do with them?’

Kuru Qan shook his head. ‘It is a prophecy that arose in the last days of the First Empire. Brys, there is so much we have lost. Knowledge, the world of that time. Sorcery gone awry, birthing horrific beasts, the armies of undead who delivered such slaughter among our people, then simply left. Mysterious tales of a strange realm of magic that was torn apart. Could the role of an entire people fit in any of the gaps in our knowing? Yes. And what of other people who are named, yet nothing more than the names survives – no descriptions? Barghast, Jhag, Trell. Neighbouring tribes? We’ll never know.’

They came to the gates. Sleepy guards identified them and opened the lesser postern door. The palace grounds were empty, silent. The Ceda paused and stared up at the hazy stars overhead.

Brys said nothing. He waited, standing at the old man’s side, seeing the night sky reflected in the twin lenses in front of Kuru Qan’s eyes. Wondering what the Ceda was thinking.

Tehol Beddict smiled as she threaded her way through the crowd towards him. ‘Chief Investigator Rucket, I am delighted to see you again.’

‘No you’re not,’ she replied. ‘You’re just trying to put me on the defensive.’

‘How does my delight make you defensive?’

‘Because I get suspicious, that’s why. You’re not fooling me, with those absurd trousers and that idiotic insect on your shoulder.’

Tehol looked down in surprise. ‘Ezgara! I thought I left you on the roof.’

‘You’ve named him Ezgara? He doesn’t look a thing like our king. Oh, maybe if our king had two heads, then I might see the resemblance, but as it stands, that’s a stupid name.’

‘The three of us are deeply offended, as is my bodyguard here and, one must assume, his two brothers wherever they are. Thus, the six of us. Deeply offended.’

‘Where is Bugg?’

‘Somewhere in that crowd behind you, I suppose.’

‘Well, no. They’re all looking.’

‘Oh, he was there a moment ago.’

‘But he isn’t any longer, and the people are clamouring.’

‘No they aren’t, Rucket. They’re milling.’

‘Now you’re challenging my assessment. Concluding, no doubt, that contrariness is sexually attractive. Maybe for some women it is, the kind you prefer, I’d wager. But I take exception to your taking exception to everything I say.’

‘Now who’s being contrary?’

She scowled. ‘I was intending to invite you to a late night bite. There is a courtyard restaurant not far from here-’

‘The Trampled Peacock.’

‘Why, yes. I am dismayed that you are familiar with it. Suggesting to me, for obvious reasons, that clandestine trysts are common with you, further suggesting a certain cheapness and slatternly behaviour on your part. I don’t know why I am surprised that you’re so loose, actually. I should have expected it. Accordingly, I want nothing to do with you.’

‘I’ve never been there.’

‘You haven’t? Then how do you know of it?’

I own it. ‘Reputation, I imagine. I wish I could be more precise. Who said what and when and all that, but it’s late and even if it wasn’t I’d probably not recall such details.’

‘So, are you hungry?’

‘Always. Oh, here’s my manservant. Did you hear, Bugg? Chief Investigator Rucket has invited us to supper.’

‘Well, the cat can wait.’

Rucket glared at Tehol. ‘Who said anything about him?’

‘I go everywhere with my manservant, Rucket. And my bodyguard.’

‘Everywhere? Even on dates?’

‘Bugg,’ Tehol said, ‘have you done all you can here? Is it time to let these poor people sleep?’

‘Well past time, master.’

‘We’re off to the Trampled Peacock!’

‘Is that such a good idea, master?’

‘Well, it wasn’t mine, Bugg, but there it is. Please, Rucket, lead the way.’

‘Oh, wonderful. I look forward to a night of weathering attacks on my vanity. Come now, all of you, we’re wasting time.’

Tehol threw up his hands as soon as they entered the courtyard. ‘Extraordinary! Bugg, look who’s here! Why, it’s Shand and Rissarh and Hejun! Come, let us put two tables together and so make of this a festive gathering of co-conspirators!’

‘The coincidence leaves me awed,’ the manservant said.

‘Who in the Errant’s name are those women?’ Rucket demanded. ‘And why are they all so angry?’

‘That’s not anger,’ Tehol said, approaching, ‘that’s recognition. Dear women, how are you all? Faring well, I see. We’ve decided to join you.’

‘Who is this absurd creature at your side?’ Shand asked. ‘And what’s with the cape?’

‘Watch who you’re calling a creature, cobble-head,’ Rucket hissed.

‘Tehol’s found a woman,’ Rissarh said in a snarl. ‘Typical. He steals our man then gets himself a woman-’

Hejun grunted. ‘I was beginning to suspect him and the dead bitch.’

‘Dead bitch?’ Rucket’s eyes were wild as she looked round. ‘He makes love to a dead bitch?’

‘One freak accident-’ Tehol began.

‘If you shaved your head,’ Shand said to Rucket, sputtering with rage, ‘we’d all see how truly ugly you are!’

The guard was looking alarmed. People at other tables gestured madly at the serving staff.

‘Worked hard on that one, did you?’ Rucket asked. ‘Tehol, what’s all this about stealing their man? They were sharing one man? Is he still alive? Still sane? Did he volunteer at the Drownings?’

‘You want to see me work hard?’ Shand rose to her feet, reaching for the knife at her side.

‘Oh, how pathetic,’ Rucket said. ‘Here, compare that with my rapier here.’

‘Get her!’ This from Rissarh, as she launched herself across the table. It collapsed beneath her a moment later, but she had managed to wrap her arms about Rucket’s thighs. The Chief Investigator made a strange squealing sound as she was pulled over. The rapier sprang free and slapped hard against Shand’s out-thrust wrist, sending the knife spinning. Hejun then snagged Rucket’s sword-arm and twisted the weapon loose. A finely polished boot shot up to strike Hejun in the belly. She groaned and sagged.

Tehol pulled Bugg back a step. ‘I think you were right about this not being a good idea.’

Grunts, meaty thuds and flying fists. Fleeing patrons, the yowl of a cat in the kitchen.

Tehol sighed. ‘We should go. But first, arrange with the manager four bottles of fine wine, for when they’re finished beating on each other. I predict that by dawn they will all be fast friends.’

‘I’m not sure of that-’

‘Nonsense, Bugg, it’s the way of things. Come on, before they turn on us.’

Not surprisingly, the bodyguard led the way out of the courtyard.

Outside, Tehol brushed imaginary dust from his hands. ‘All in all, a fine evening, wouldn’t you say? Now, we should see if we can scrounge some firewood – or at least something that burns – on our way home. Roast cat beckons.’

The crashing sounds from the restaurant courtyard suddenly increased.

Tehol hesitated. ‘I’m tempted by the sounds of firewood production in there.’

‘Don’t be a fool, master.’

‘Perhaps you’re right. Lead us on, Bugg. Home.’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ASHES SWIRLING ON ALL SIDES, THE RIVER A SNAKE OF SLUDGE spreading its stain into the dead bay, the Nerek youth squatted at the edge of the sacred land. Behind him, the others sat round their precious hearth and continued arguing. The youth knew enough to wait.

Consecrated ground. They had huddled on it whilst the sorcerous storms raged, destroying the village of the Hiroth, flattening the forests around them, and the fires that burned for days afterwards could not lash them with their heat. And now the cinders had cooled, no more sparks danced in the wind, and the bloated bodies of dead wild animals that had crowded the river mouth had broken loose some time in the night just past, drawn out to the sea and the waiting sharks.

His knife-sharer came to his side and crouched down. ‘Their fear holds them back,’ he said, ‘and yet it is that very fear that will force them to accept. They have no choice.’

‘I know.’

‘When you first spoke of your dreams, I believed you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Our people have not dreamed since the Letherii conquered us. Our nights were empty, and we believed they would be so for all time, until the last Nerek died and we were no more a people. But I saw the truth in your eyes. We have shared the knife, you and I. I did not doubt.’

‘I know, brother.’

The eldest of the Nerek called out behind them, a voice harsh with anger, ‘It is decided. The two of you will go. By the old paths, to make your travel swift.’

Youth and knife-brother both rose and swung round.

The eldest nodded. ‘Go. Find Hull Beddict.’

The two Nerek stepped out into the gritty ash, and began the journey south. The birth of dreams had revealed once more the old paths, the ways through and between worlds. It would not take long.

Fear Sengar led him into a secluded glade, the sounds of the readied army distant and muted. As soon as Trull took his first stride into the clearing, his brother spun round. Forearm hard against his throat, weight driving him back until he struck the bole of a tree, where Fear held him.

‘You will be silent! No more of your doubts, not to anyone else and not to me. You are my brother, and that alone is why I have not killed you outright. Are you hearing me, Trull?’

He was having trouble breathing, yet he remained motionless, his eyes fixed on Fear’s.

‘Why do you not answer?’

Still he said nothing.

With a snarl Fear drew his arm away and stepped back.

‘Kill me, would you?’ Trull continued to lean against the tree. He smiled. ‘From behind, then? A knife, catching me unawares. Otherwise, brother, you would be hard-pressed.’

Fear looked away. Then nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘A knife in the back.’

‘Yes.’

‘Because, if I have my spear, it’s equally likely that you would be killed, not me.’

Fear glared at him, then the anger slowly drained from his eyes. ‘It must stop, Trull. We are about to go into battle-’

‘And you doubt my ability?’

‘No, only your willingness.’

‘Well, yes, you are right to doubt that. But I will do as you command. I will kill Letherii for you.’

‘For the emperor. For our people-’

‘No. For you, Fear. Otherwise, you would be well advised to question my ability. Indeed, to remove me from command. From this entire, absurd war. Send me away, to the northernmost villages of the Den-Ratha where there are likely to be a few thousand Edur who chose to remain behind.’

‘There are none such.’

‘Of course there are.’

‘A handful.’

‘More than you think. And yes, I have been tempted to join them.’

‘Rhulad would not permit it. He would have to kill you.’

‘I know.’

Fear began pacing. ‘The K’risnan. They said Rhulad was killed yesterday. In Trate. Then he returned. There can be no doubt, now, brother. Our emperor cannot be stopped. His power does naught but grow-’

‘You are seeing this wrong, Fear.’

He paused, looked over. ‘What do you mean?’

‘ “Our emperor cannot be stopped.” I do not see it that way.’

‘All right. How do you see it, Trull?’

‘Our brother is doomed to die countless deaths. Die, rise, and die again. Our brother, Fear, the youngest among us. That is how I see it. And now, I am to embrace the power that has done this to Rhulad? I am to serve it? Lend it my skills with the spear? I am to carve an empire for it? Are his deaths without pain? Without horror? Is he not scarred? How long, Fear, can his sanity hold on? There he stands, a young warrior bedecked in a gold nightmare, his flesh puckered and mangled, and weapons shall pierce him – he knows it, he knows he will be killed again and again.’

‘Stop, Trull.’ Like a child, Fear placed his hands over his ears and turned away. ‘Stop.’

‘Who is doing this to him?’

‘Stop!’

Trull subsided. Tell me, brother, do you feel as helpless as I do?

Fear faced him once more, his expression hardening anew. ‘Voice your doubts if you must, Trull, but only to me. In private.’

‘Very well.’

‘Now, a battle awaits us.’

‘It does.’

A herd of deer had been startled from the forest fringe south of Katter River, darting and leaping as they fled across the killing field. On the earthen ramparts outside High Fort’s walls, Moroch Nevath stood beside his queen and his prince. Before them in a motionless row were arrayed the four sorcerors of Janall’s cadre, wrapped in cloaks against the morning chill, while to either side and along the length of the fortified berm waited the heavy infantry companies of the queen’s battalion. Flanking each company were massive wagons, and on each squatted a Dresh ballista, its magazine loaded with a thirty-six-quarrel rack. Spare racks waited nearby on the ramped loader, the heavily armoured crew gathered round, nervously scanning the line of woods to the north.

‘The Edur are moving down,’ Prince Quillas said. ‘We should see them soon.’

The deer had settled on the killing field and were grazing.

Moroch glanced to the lesser berm to the east. Two more companies were positioned there. The gap between the two ramparts was narrow and steep-sided, and led directly to a corner bastion on the city’s wall, where ballistae and mangonels commanded the approach.

The prince’s own mage cadre, three lesser sorcerors, were positioned with a small guard on the rampart immediately south of the Dry Gully, tucked in the angular indentation of High Fort’s walls. The old drainage course wound a path down from the minor range of hills a thousand paces to the north. Three additional ramparts ran parallel to the Dry Gully, on which were positioned the forward elements of the Grass Jackets Brigade. The easternmost and largest of these ramparts also held a stone-walled fort, and it was there that the brigade commanders had placed their own mage cadre.

Additional ramparts were situated in a circle around the rest of High rort, and on these waited reserve elements of the brigades and battalions, including elements of heavy cavalry. Lining the city’s walls and bastions was High Fort’s own garrison.

To Moroch’s thinking, this imminent battle would be decisive. The treachery of the Edur that had been revealed at Trate would not be Repeated here, not with eleven sorcerors present among the Letherii forces.

‘Wraiths!’

The shout came from one of the queen’s officers, and Moroch Nevath returned his attention to the distant treeline.

The deer had lifted their heads, were staring fixedly at the forest edge. A moment later they bolted once more, this time in a southwest direction, reaching the loggers’ road, down which they bounded until lost in the mists.

On the other side of the killing field – pasture in peaceful times – shadows were flowing out from between the boles, vaguely man-shaped, drawing up into a thick mass that then stretched out into a rough line, three hundred paces long and scores deep. Behind them came huge, lumbering demons, near twice the height of a man, perhaps a hundred in all, that assembled into a wedge behind the line of wraiths. Finally, to either side, appeared warriors, Tiste Edur to the right of the wedge, and a horde of small, fur-clad savages on the far left.

‘Who are they?’ Prince Quillas asked. ‘Those on the far flank – they are not Edur.’

The queen shrugged. ‘Some lost band of Nerek, perhaps. I would judge a thousand, no more than that, and poorly armed and armoured.’

‘Fodder,’ Moroch said. ‘The Edur have learned much from us, it seems.’

A similar formation was assembling north of the lesser berm, although there both flanking forces were Tiste Edur.

‘The wraiths will charge first,’ Moroch predicted, ‘with the demons behind them seeking to break our lines. And there, signal flags from the Grass Jackets. They have no doubt sighted their own enemy ranks.’

‘Were you the Edur commander,’ Quillas said, ‘what would you do? The attack cannot be as straightforward as it now seems, can it?’

‘If the commander is a fool, it can,’ Janall said.

‘The sorcery will prove mutually negating, as it always does. Thus, the battle shall be blade against blade.’ Moroch thought for a moment, then said, ‘I would make use of the Dry Gully. And seek a sudden charge against your mage cadre, Prince.’

‘They would become visible – and vulnerable – for the last fifty or sixty paces of the charge, Finadd. The bastions will slaughter them, and if not them, then the westernmost company of the Grass Jackets can mount a downslope charge into their flank.’

‘Thus leaving their rampart under-defended. Use the Dry Gully as a feint, and a reserve force to then rush the rampart and seize it.’

‘That rampart crouches in the shadow of High Fort’s largest bastion tower, Finadd. The Edur would be slaughtered by the answering enfilade.’

After a moment, Moroch nodded. ‘It is as you say, Prince. I admit, I see nothing advantageous to the Tiste Edur.’

‘I agree,’ Prince Quillas said.

‘Strangely quiet,’ Moroch mused after a time as the enemy forces assembled.

‘It’s the wraiths and demons, Finadd. No soldiers like thinking of those.’

‘The mages will annihilate them,’ Janall pronounced. She was dressed in elaborate armour, her helm filigreed in silver and gold. Her sword was the finest Letherii steel, but the grip was bound gold wire and the pommel a cluster of pearls set in silver. Beadwork covered her tabard. Beneath, Moroch knew, was steel scale. He did not think she would find need to draw her sword. Even so… The Finadd swung about and gestured to an aide, whom he then drew to one side. ‘Ready the queen’s horses, in the south lee of the west bastion.’

‘Yes sir.’

Something was wrong. Moroch felt it as he watched the aide hurry off. He scanned the sky. Grey. Either the sun would burn through or there would be rain. He returned to his original position and studied the distant ranks. ‘They’re in position. Where are the chants? The exhortations? The ritual curses?’

‘They see the doom awaiting them,’ Quillas said, ‘and are silenced by terror.’

A sudden stirring among the queen’s mages. Alertness. Janall noticed and said, ‘Prepare the lines. The Edur have begun sorcery.’

‘What kind?’ Moroch asked.

The queen shook her head.

‘Betrayer’s balls,’ the Finadd muttered. It felt wrong. Terribly wrong.

Ahlrada Ahn had drawn his cutlass and was grinning. ‘I never understood you spear-wielders. This will be close fighting, Trull Sengar. They will hack the shaft from your hands-’

‘They will try. Blackwood will not shatter, as you know. Nor shall my grip.’

Standing behind the wedge of demons was a K’risnan. The warlock’s comrade was with the other force, also positioned behind a demon cohort. Hanradi Khalag commanded there, and the K’risnan in his charge was his son.

B’nagga and a thousand of his Jheck were just visible in a basin to the west. Another thousand were moving down the gully, whilst the third thousand accompanied the easternmost force along with wraiths and demons.

It occurred to Trull that he knew almost nothing of the huge, armoured demons bound to this war by the K’risnan. Not even the name by which they called themselves.

Warriors of the Arapay and Hiroth were massed along the forest line, less than a third of their total numbers visible to the enemy. Outwardly, the dominant Edur army would appear to be the central one, Hanradi Khalag’s eighteen thousand Hiroth and Merude, but in truth Fear’s force here in the forest amounted to almost twenty-three thousand Edur warriors. And arrayed among them were wraiths in numbers beyond counting.

Tendrils of grey mist swirled round the nearest K’risnan, forming a fluid web that began to thicken, then rise. Thread-thin strands snaked out, entwining the nearest ranks of Edur. Flowing out like roots, embracing all within sight barring the wraiths and the demons. In a billowing, grey wall, the sorcery burgeoned. Trull felt it playing over him, and its touch triggered a surge of nausea that he barely defeated. From the Letherii cadre, a wave of raging fire rose in answer, building with a roar directly in front of the rampart, then plunging swift and savage across the killing field.

As suddenly as that, the battle was begun.

Trull stared as the massive wall of flame rushed towards them. At the last moment the grey skein rushed out, colliding with the wave and lifting it straight up in explosive columns, pillars that spiralled with silver fire.

And Trull saw, within the flames, the gleam of bones. Thousands, then hundreds of thousands, as if the fire’s very fuel had been transformed. Towering higher, fifty man-heights, then a hundred, two hundred, filling the sky.

The conjoined wave then began toppling. Fiery pillars heaving over, towards the Letherii entrenchments.

Even as they plunged earthward, the wraiths from the forest and those in the foremost line launched into a rushing attack. The wedge of demons promptly vanished.

It was the signal Trull and the other officers had been waiting for. ‘Weapons ready!’ He had to bellow to make himself heard-

The wave struck. First the killing field, and the ground seemed to explode, churning, as if a multitude of miner’s picks had struck the earth, deep, tearing loose huge chunks that were flung high into the air. Dust and flames, the clash of split bones ripping the flat expanse, a sound like hail on sheets of iron. Onward, onto the slopes of the ramparts. In its wake, a flowing sea of wraiths. ‘Forward!’

And then the Edur were running across broken, steaming ground. Behind them, thousands pouring from the forest edge.

Trull saw, all too clearly, as the wave of burning, hammering bones reached the entrenchments. A blush of crimson, then pieces of human flesh danced skyward, a wall, rising, severed limbs flailing in the air. Fragments of armour, the shattered wood of the bulwarks, skin and hair.

The queen’s cadre was engulfed, bones rushing in to batter where they had been. A moment later the mass exploded outward in a hail of shards, and of the four sorcerors who had been standing there a moment earlier only two remained, sheathed in blood and reeling.

A demon rose from the ravaged earth in front of them, mace swinging. The mage it struck seemed to fold bonelessly around it, and his body was tossed through the air. The last sorceror staggered back, narrowly avoiding the huge weapon’s deadly path. She gestured, even as a hail of heavy quarrels hammered into the demon.

Trull heard its squeal of pain.

Flickering magic swarmed the demon as it spun round and toppled, sliding down the blood-soaked slope, the mace tumbling away.

Other demons had appeared among the remnants of the Letherii soldiery, flailing bodies flying from their relentless path.

Another wave of sorcery, this time from somewhere to the southeast, a rolling column, crackling with lightning as it swept crossways on the killing field, plunging into the advancing ranks of wraiths. They melted in their hundreds as the magic tore through them.

Then the sorcery struck Hanradi Khalag’s warriors, scything a path through the press.

The Merude chief’s son counter-attacked, another surge of grey, tumbling bones. A rampart to the east vanished in a thunderous detonation, but hundreds of Edur lay dead or dying on the field.

Deafened, half-blinded by dust and smoke, Trull and his warriors reached the slope, scrambled upward and came to the first trench.

Before them stretched an elongated pit filled with unrecognizable flesh, split bones and spilled organs, strips of leather and pieces of armour. The air was thick with the stench of ruptured bowels and burnt meat. Gagging, Trull stumbled across, his moccasins plunging down into warm pockets, lifting clear sheathed in blood and bile.

Ahead, a raging battle. Wraiths swarming over soldiers, demons with mauls and maces crushing the Letherii closing on them from all sides, others with double-bladed axes cleaving wide spaces round themselves. But ballista quarrels were finding them one by one. Trull watched a demon stagger, twice impaled, then soldiers rushed in, swords hacking.

And then he and his company closed with the enemy.

Moroch Nevath stumbled through the dust, the screaming soldiers and the fallen bodies, bellowing his prince’s name. But Quillas was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Janall. Only one mage remained from the cadre, launching attack after attack on some distant enemy. A company of heavy infantry had moved up to encircle her, but they were fast dying beneath an onslaught of Tiste Edur.

The Finadd, blood draining from his ears after the concussion of the wave of bones, still held his sword, the Letherii steel obliterating the occasional wraith that ventured near. He saw one Edur warrior, the spear a blur in his hands, leading a dozen or so of his kin ever closer to the surviving mage.

But Moroch was too far away, too many heaving bodies between them, and he could only watch as the warrior broke through the last of the defenders and lunged at the mage, driving his spear into her chest, then lifting her entire, the spear-shaft bowing as he flung her spasming body to one side. The iron point of the spear broke free in a stream of blood.

Reeling away, Moroch Nevath began making his way to the south slope of the rampart. He needed a horse. He needed to bring the mounts closer. For the prince. The queen.

Somewhere to the east, a roar of sound, and the ground shook beneath him. He staggered, then his left leg swept out, skidding on slime, and something snapped in the Finadd’s groin. Pain lanced through him. Swearing, he watched himself fall, the ruptured ground rising in front of him, and landed heavily. Burning agony in his left leg, his pelvis, up the length of his spine. Still swearing, he began dragging himself forward, his sword lost somewhere in his wake.

Bones. Burning, plunging from the sky. Bodies exploding where they struck. Crushing pressure, the air roiling and screaming like a thing alive. The sudden muting of all noise, the outrageous cacophony of grunts as a thousand men died all at once. A sound that Moroch Nevath would never forget. What had the bastards unleashed?

The Letherii were broken, fleeing down the south slope of the rampart. Wraiths dragged them down. Tiste Edur hacked at their backs and heads as they pursued. Trull Sengar clambered onto a heap of corpses, seeking a vantage point. To the east, on the two berms that he could see, the enemy were shattered. Jheck, veered into silver-backed wolves, had poured up from the gully alongside a horde of wraiths to assault what had survived of the Letherii defences. Mage-fire had ceased.

In the opposite direction, B’nagga had led his own beasts south, skirting the foremost rampart, to attack the reserve positions on the west side of the city. There had been enemy cavalry there, and the horses had been driven to panic by the huge wolves rushing into their midst. A dozen demons had joined the Jheck, forcing the Letherii into a chaotic retreat that gathered up and carried with it the southernmost elements. Companies of Arapay Edur were following in B’nagga’s wake.

Trull swung to face north. And saw his brother standing alone above a body, on the far side of the killing field.

The K’risnan.

‘Trull.’

He turned. ‘Ahlrada Ahn. You are wounded.’

‘I ran onto a sword – held by a dead man.’

The gash was deep and long, beginning just below the warrior’s left elbow and continuing up into his shoulder. ‘Find yourself a healer,’ Trull said, ‘before you bleed out.’

‘I shall. I saw you slay the witch.’ A statement to which Ahlrada added nothing.

‘Where is Canarth?’ Trull asked. ‘I do not see my troop.’

‘Scattered. I saw Canarth dragging Badar from the press. Badar was dying.’

Trull studied the blood and fragments of flesh on the iron point of his spear. ‘He was young.’

‘He was blooded, Trull.’

Trull glanced over at High Fort’s walls. He could see soldiers lining it. The garrison, witness to the annihilation of the Letherii manning the outer defences. The nearest bastion was still launching quarrels, tracking the few demons still in range.

‘I must join my brother, Ahlrada. See if you can gather our warriors. There may be more fighting to come.’

Huddled in the lee of the west wall, Moroch Nevath watched a dozen wolves pad from one heap of corpses to another. The beasts were covered in blood. They gathered round a wounded soldier, there was a sudden flurry of snarls, and the twitching body went still.

All over… so fast. Decisive indeed.

He had never found the horses.

On the rampart opposite him, eighty paces distant, a score of Tiste Edur had found Prince Quillas. Dishevelled but alive. Moroch wondered if the queen’s corpse lay somewhere beneath the mounds of broken flesh. Beadwork unstrung and scattered in the welter, her jewelled sword still locked in its scabbard, the ambitious light in her eyes dulled and drying and blind to this world.

It seemed impossible.

But so did all these dead Letherii, these obliterated battalions and brigades.

There had been no negation of magic. The eleven mages had been destroyed by the counter-attack. A battle had been transformed into a slaughter, and it was this inequity that stung Moroch the deepest.

He and his people had been on the delivering end, time and again, until it seemed inherently just and righteous. Something went wrong. There was treachery. The proper course of the world has been… upended. The words repeating in his head were growing increasingly bitter. It is not for us to be humbled. Ever. Failure drives us to succeed tenfold. All will be put right, again. It shall. We cannot be denied our destiny.

It began to rain.

An Edur warrior had seen him and was approaching, sword held at the ready. The downpour arrived with vigour as the tall figure came to stand before Moroch Nevath. In traders’ tongue he said, ‘I see no wounds upon you, soldier.’

‘Torn tendon, I think,’ Moroch replied.

‘Painful, then.’

‘Have you come to kill me?’

A surprised expression. ‘You do not know? The garrison surrendered. High Fort is fallen.’

‘What of it?’

‘We come as conquerors, soldier. What value killing all of our subjects?’

Moroch looked away. ‘Letherii conquer. We are never conquered. You think this battle means anything? You have revealed your tactics, Edur. This day shall not be repeated, and before long you will be the subjugated ones, not us.’

The warrior shrugged. ‘Have it your way, then. But know this. The frontier has fallen. Trate, High Fort and Shake Fort. Your famous brigades are routed, your mage cadres dead. Your queen and your prince are our prisoners. And we begin our march on Letheras.’

The Tiste Edur walked away.

Moroch Nevath stared after him for a time, then looked round. And saw Letherii soldiers, stripped of weapons but otherwise unharmed, walking from the fields of battle. Onto the loggers’ road, and south, on the Katter Road. Simply walking away. He did not understand. We will reassemble. Pull back and equip ourselves once more. There is nothing inevitable to this. Nothing. Wincing, he forced himself to move away from the wall-

A familiar voice, shouting his name. He looked up, recognized an officer from the queen’s entourage. The man bore minor wounds, but otherwise seemed hale. He quickly approached. ‘Finadd, I am pleased to see you alive-’

‘I need a horse.’

‘We have them, Finadd-’

‘How was the queen captured?’ Moroch demanded. Why did you not die defending her?

‘A demon,’ the man replied. ‘It was among us in the blink of an eye. It had come to take her – we could not prevent it. We tried, Finadd, we tried-’

‘Never mind. Help me up. We must ride south – I need a healer-’

Trull Sengar picked his way across the killing field. The rain was turning the churned ground into a swamp. The bones of the sorcery had vanished. He paused, hearing piteous cries from somewhere off to his right. A dozen paces in that direction, and he came upon a demon.

Four heavy quarrels had pierced it. The creature was lying on its side, its bestial face twisted with pain.

Trull crouched near the demon’s mud-smeared head. ‘Can you understand me?’

Small blue eyes flickered behind the lids, fixed on his own eyes. ‘Arbiter of life. Denier of mercy. I shall die here.’

The voice was thin, strangely childlike.

‘I shall call a healer-’

‘Why? To fight again? To relive terror and grief?’

‘You were not a warrior in your world?’

‘A caster of nets. Warm shoals, a yellow sky. We cast nets.’

‘All of you?’

‘What war is this? Why have I been killed? Why will I never see the river again? My mate, my children. Did we win?’

‘I shall not be long. I will return. I promise.’ Trull straightened, went on to where stood Fear and, now, a dozen others. The K’risnan was alive, surrounded by healers – none of whom seemed capable of doing anything for the figure writhing in the mud. As Trull neared, he saw more clearly the young warlock.

Twisted, deformed, his skin peeling in wet sheets, and eyes filled with awareness.

Fear stepped into Trull’s path and said, ‘It is the sword’s sorcery – the gift-giver’s own, channelled from the weapon into Rhulad, and from Rhulad to whomever he may choose. Yet…’ He hesitated. ‘The body cannot cope. Even as it destroys the enemy, so it changes the wielder. This is what the women are telling me.’

His brother’s face was pale, and nowhere in his expression could Trull see triumph or satisfaction at the victory they had won this day.

‘Will he survive?’

‘They think so. This time. But the damage cannot be reversed. Trull, Hanradi’s son is dead. We have lost a K’risnan.’

‘To this?’ Trull asked. ‘To the sword’s power?’

‘Partly. The Letherii mages mostly, I think, given how badly burned he was. They resisted longer than we expected.’

Trull faced High Fort. ‘It has surrendered?’

‘Yes, a few moments ago. A delegation. The garrison is being disarmed. I was thinking of leaving Hanradi to govern. His spirit is much damaged.’

Trull said nothing to that. He moved past Fear and strode to the women gathered round the K’risnan. ‘One of you, please,’ he said. ‘There is healing I would have you attend to.’

An Arapay woman nodded. ‘Wounded warriors. Yes, preferable. Lead me to them.’

‘Not Edur. A demon.’

She halted. ‘Don’t be a fool. There are Edur who require my skills – I have no time for a demon. Let it die. We can always acquire more.’

Something snapped in Trull, and before he was even aware of it the back of his right hand was stinging and the woman was on the ground, a stunned expression on her suddenly bloodied face. Then rage flared in her eyes.

Fear pushed Trull back a step. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I want a demon healed,’ Trull said. He was trembling, frightened at the absence of remorse within him even as he watched the woman pick herself up from the mud. ‘I want it healed, then unbound and sent back to its realm.’

‘Trull-’

The woman snarled, then hissed, ‘The empress shall hear of this! I will see you banished!’ Her companions gathered, all looking on Trull with raw hatred.

He realized that his gesture had snapped something within them as well. Unfortunate.

‘How badly injured is it?’ Fear asked.

‘It is dying-’

‘Then likely it has already done so. No more of this, Trull.’ He swung to the women. ‘Go among our warriors, all of you. I will see the K’risnan carried to our camp.’

‘We will speak of this to the empress,’ the first healer said, wiping at her face.

‘Of course. As you must.’

They stalked off into the rain.

‘The battle lust is still upon you, brother-’

‘No it isn’t-’

‘Listen to me. It is how you will excuse your actions. And you will ask for forgiveness and you will make reparations.’

Trull turned away. ‘I need to find a healer.’

Fear pulled him roughly round, but Trull twisted free. He headed off-He would find a healer. A Hiroth woman, one who knew his mother. Before word carried.

The demon needed healing. It was as simple as that.

An indeterminate time later, he found himself stumbling among bodies. Dead Edur, the ones killed by the sorcerous attack he recalled from earlier. Scorched, burnt so fiercely their faces had melted away. Unknown to his eyes and unknowable. He wandered among them, the rain pelting down to give the illusion of motion, of life, on all sides. But they were all dead.

A lone figure nearby, standing motionless. A woman, her hands hanging at her sides. He had seen her before, a matron. Hanradi Khalag’s elder sister, tall, hawk-faced, her eyes like onyx. He halted in front of her. ‘I want you to heal a demon.’

She did not seem to see him at all. ‘I can do nothing for them. My sons. I cannot even find them.’

He took one of her hands and held it tight. ‘Come with me.’

She did not resist as he led her away from the strewn corpses. ‘A demon?’

‘Yes. I do not know the name by which they call themselves.’

‘KenylPrah. It means “To Sleep Peacefully” or something like that. The Merude were charged with making their weapons.’

‘They have been sorely used.’

‘They are not alone in that, warrior.’

He glanced back at her, saw that awareness had returned to her eyes. Her hand held his now, and tightly. ‘You are the emperor’s brother, Trull Sengar.’

‘I am.’

‘You struck an Arapay woman.’

‘I did. It seems such news travels swiftly – and mysteriously.’

‘Among the women. Yes.’

‘And yet you will help me.’

‘Heal this demon? If it lives, I shall.’

‘Why?’

She did not reply.

It took some time, but they finally found the creature. Its cries had ceased, but the woman released Trull’s hand and crouched down beside it. ‘It lives still, Trull Sengar.’ She laid her palms on the demon’s massive chest and closed her eyes.

Trull watched the rain streaming down her face, as if the world wept in her stead.

‘Take the first of the quarrels. You will pull, gently, while I push. Each one, slowly.’

‘I want it released.’

‘I cannot do that. It will not be permitted.’

‘Then I want it placed in my charge.’

‘You are the emperor’s brother. None will defy you.’

‘Except, perhaps, one of the emperor’s other brothers.’ He was pleased to see the crease of a smile on her thin features.

‘That trouble will be yours, not mine, Trull Sengar. Now, pull.

Carefully.’

The demon opened its small eyes. It ran its massive hands over the places where wounds had been, then it sighed.

The healer stepped back. ‘I am done. There are bodies to gather.’

‘Thank you,’ Trull said.

She made no reply. Wiping rain from her face, she walked away.

The demon slowly climbed to its feet. ‘I will fight again,’ it said.

‘Not if I have any say in the matter,’ Trull replied. ‘I would place you in my charge.’

‘To not fight? That would be unfair, Denier. I would witness the death of my kind, yet not share the risk, or their fate. It is sad, to die so far from home.’

‘Then one among you must remain, to remember them. That one will be you. What is your name?’

‘Lilac’

Trull studied the sky. It seemed there would be no let-up in the downpour. ‘Come with me. I must speak to my brother.’

Tiste Edur warriors were entering the city. No Letherii soldiers were visible on the walls, or at the bastions. The gates had been sundered some time during the battle, struck by sorcery. Twisted pieces of bronze and splintered wood studded the muddy ground, amidst strewn corpses.

The demon had collected a double-bladed axe near the body of one of its kind and now carried it over a shoulder. For all its size, Lilac moved quietly, shortening its stride to stay alongside Trull. He noted that the pattern of its breathing was odd. After a deep breath it took another, shorter one, followed by a faintly whistling exhalation that did not seem to come from its broad, flattened nose.

‘Lilac, are you fully healed?’

‘I am.’

Ahead lay the rampart where four mages had stood. Three of them had been obliterated in the first wave of sorcery. On the berm’s summit now were gathered Fear and a number of officers. And two prisoners.

The slope was treacherous underfoot as Trull and the demon made their ascent. Red, muddy streams, bodies slowly sliding down. Wraiths moved through the rain as if still hunting victims. From the west came the low rumble of thunder.

They reached the rampart’s summit. Trull saw that one of the prisoners was Prince Quillas. He did not seem injured. The other was a vvoman in mud-spattered armour. She wore no helmet and had taken a head wound, staining the left side of her face with streaks of blood. Her eyes were glazed with shock.

Fear had turned to regard Trull and the demon, his expression closed. ‘Brother,’ he said tonelessly, ‘it seems we have captured two personages of the royal family.’

‘This is Queen Janall?’

‘The prince expects we will ransom them,’ Fear said. ‘He does not seem to understand the situation.’

‘And what is the situation?’ Trull asked.

‘Our emperor wants these two. For himself.’

‘Fear, we are not in the habit of parading prisoners.’

A flicker of rage in Fear’s eyes, but his voice remained calm. ‘I see you have had your demon healed. What do you want?’

‘I want this KenylPrah in my charge.’

Fear studied the huge creature. Then he shrugged and turned away. ‘As you like. Leave us now, Trull. I will seek you out later… for a private word.’

Trull flinched. ‘Very well.’

The world felt broken now, irreparably broken.

‘Go.’

‘Come with me, Lilac,’ Trull said. He paused to glance over at Prince Quillas, and saw the terror in the young Letherii’s visage. Rhulad wanted him, and the queen. Why?

They walked the killing field, the rain pummelling down in a soft roar, devastation and slaughter on all sides. Figures were moving about here and there. Tiste Edur seeking fallen comrades, wraiths on senseless patrols. The thunder was closer.

‘There is a river,’ Lilac said. ‘I smelled it when we first arrived. It is the same river as ran beneath the bridge.’

‘Yes,’ Trull replied. ‘The Katter River.’

‘I would see it.’

‘Why not?’

They angled northwest. Reached the loggers’ road that ran parallel to the forest and followed its three-rutted track until the treeline thinned on their right, and the river became visible.

‘Ah,’ Lilac murmured, ‘it is so small…’

Trull studied the fast-flowing water, the glittering skin it cast over boulders. ‘A caster of nets,’ he said.

‘My home, Denier.’

The Tiste Edur walked down to the river’s edge. He reached and plunged his bloodstained hand into the icy water.

‘Are there not fish in there?’ Lilac asked.

‘I am sure there are. Why?’

‘In the river where I live, there are n’purel, the Whiskered Fish. They can eat a Kenyll’rah youth whole, and there are some in the deep lakes that could well eat an adult such as myself. Of course, we never venture onto the deeps. Are there no such creatures here?’

‘In the seas,’ Trull replied, ‘there are sharks. And, of course, there are plenty of stories of larger monsters, some big enough to sink ships.’

‘The n’purel then crawl onto shore and shed their skins, whereupon they live on land.’

‘That is a strange thing,’ Trull said, glancing back at the demon. ‘I gather that casting nets is a dangerous activity, then.’

Lilac shrugged. ‘No more dangerous than hunting spiders, Denier.’

‘Call me Trull’

‘You are an Arbiter of Life, a Denier of Freedom. You are the Stealer of my Death-’

‘All right. Never mind.’

‘What war is this?’

‘A pointless one.’

‘They are all pointless, Denier. Subjugation and defeat breed resentment and hatred, and such things cannot be bribed away.’

‘Unless the spirit of the defeated is crushed,’ Trull said. ‘Absolutely crushed, such as with the Nerek and the Faraed and Tarthenal.’

‘I do not know those people, Denier.’

‘They are among those the Letherii – our enemy in this war – have conquered.’

‘And you think them broken?’

‘They are that, Lilac’

‘It may not be as it seems.’

Trull shrugged. ‘Perhaps you are right.’

‘Will their station change under your rule?’

‘I suspect not.’

‘If you understand all this, Denier, why do you fight?’

The sound of moccasins on gravel behind them. Trull straightened and turned to see Fear approaching. In his hand was a Letherii sword.

Trull considered readying the spear strapped to his back, then decided against it. Despite what he’d said earlier, he was not prepared to fight his brother.

‘This weapon,’ Fear said as he halted five paces from Trull, ‘is Letherii steel.’

‘I saw them on the field of battle. They defied the K’risnan sorcery, when all else was destroyed. Swords, spear-heads, undamaged.’ Trull studied his brother. ‘What of it?’

Fear hesitated, then looked out on the river. ‘It is what I do not understand. How did they achieve such a thing as this steel? They are a corrupt, vicious people, Trull. They do not deserve such advances in craft.’

‘Why them and not us?’ Trull asked, then he smiled. ‘Fear, the Letherii are a forward-looking people, and so inherently driven. We Edur do not and have never possessed such a force of will. We have our Blackwood, but we have always possessed that. Our ancestors brought it with them from Emurlahn. Brother, we look back-’

‘To the time when Father Shadow ruled over us,’ Fear cut in, his expression darkening. ‘Hannan Mosag speaks the truth. We must devour the Letherii, we must set a yoke upon them, and so profit from their natural drive to foment change.’

‘And what will that do to us, brother? We resist change, we do not worship it, we do not thrive in its midst the way the Letherii do. Besides, I am not convinced that theirs is the right way to live. I suspect their faith in progress is far more fragile than it outwardly seems. In the end, they must ever back up what they seek with force.’ Trull pointed to the sword. ‘With that.’

‘We shall guide them, Trull. Hannan Mosag understood this-’

‘You revise the past now, Fear. He was not intending to wage war on the Letherii.’

‘Not immediately, true, but it would have come. And he knew it. So the K’risnan have told me. We had lost Father Shadow. It was necessary to find a new source of faith.’

‘A faceless one?’

‘Damn you, Trull! You knelt before him – no different from the rest of us!’

‘And to this day, I wonder why. What about you, Fear? Do you wonder why you did as you did?’

His brother turned away, visibly trembling. ‘I saw no doubt.’

‘In Hannan Mosag. And so you followed. As did the rest of us, I suspect. One and all, we knelt before Rhulad, believing we saw in each other a certainty that did not in truth exist-’

With a roar, Fear spun round, the sword lifting high. It swung down-

– and was halted, suddenly, by the demon, whose massive hand had closed round Fear’s forearm and held it motionless. ‘Release me!’

‘No,’ Lilac replied. ‘This warrior stole my death. I now steal his.’ Fear struggled a moment longer, then, seeing it was hopeless, he sagged.

‘You can let him go now,’ Trull said.

‘If he attacks again I will kill him,’ the demon said, releasing Fear’s arm.

‘We followed Hannan Mosag,’ Trull said, ‘and yet, what did we know of his mind? He was our Warlock King, and so we followed. Think on this, Fear. He had sought out a new source of power, rejecting Father Shadow. True, he knew, as we did, that Scabandari Bloodeye was dead, or, at best, his spirit lived but was lost to us. And so he made pact with… something else. And he sent you and me, Binadas and Rhulad and the Buhns, to retrieve the gift that… thing… created for him. The fault lies with us, Fear, in that we did not question, did not challenge the Warlock King. We were fools, and all that is before us now, and all that will come, is our fault.’

‘He is the Warlock King, Trull.’

‘Who arrived at absolute power over all the Edur. He held it and would not lose it, no matter what. And so he surrendered his soul. As did we, when we knelt before Rhulad.’

Fear’s eyes narrowed on him. ‘You are speaking treason, brother.’

‘Against what? Against whom? Tell me, I truly want to know. Have you seen the face of our new god?’

‘Were Binadas standing here and not I,’ Fear whispered, ‘you would be dead now.’

‘And, in our wondrous new empire, will that be the singular fate of all those who voice dissent?’

Fear looked down at the sword in his hand. Then let it drop. ‘Your warriors are awaiting you, Trull. In two days’ time we resume our march. South, to Letheras.’ He then turned and walked away.

Trull watched him for a moment, then looked out on the river once more. For every eddy in the current, in the lees of boulders and notches in the bank, the river rushed on, slave to relentless laws. When he had placed his hand in the water, it had quickly grown numb. ‘Eventually, Lilac, we will make sense of this.’

The demon said nothing.

Trull walked to a nearby boulder and sat down on it. He lowered his head into his hands and began to weep.

After a time the demon moved to stand beside him. Then a heavy hand settled on his shoulder.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE CORPSE BEYOND THE PIER WAS BARELY VISIBLE, A PALLID PATCH resisting the roll of the waves. The shark that rose alongside it to make a sideways lunge was one of the largest ones Udinaas had yet seen during the time he’d sat looking out on the harbour, his legs dangling from the jetty’s edge.

Gulls and sharks, the feast lasting the entire morning. The slave watched, feeling like a spectator before nature’s incessant display, the inevitability of the performance leaving him oddly satisfied. Entertained, in fact. Those who owed. Those who were owed. They sat equally sweet in the bellies of the scavengers. And this was a thing of wonder.

The emperor would summon him soon, he knew. The army was stirring itself into motion somewhere beyond Trate’s broken gates, inland. An oversized garrison of Beneda Edur was remaining in the city, enforcing the restitution of peace, normality. The once-chief of the Den-Ratha had been given the title of governor. That the garrison under his control was not of his own tribe was no accident. Suspicion had come in the wake of success, as it always did.

Hannan Mosag’s work. The emperor had been… fraught of late. Distracted. Suffering. Too often, madness burned in his eyes.

Mayen had beaten Feather Witch senseless, as close to killing the slave outright as was possible. In the vast tent that now served as Edur headquarters – stolen from the train that had belonged to the Cold Clay Battalion – there had been rapes. Slaves, prisoners. Perhaps Mayen simply did to others what Rhulad did to her. A compassionate mind might believe so. And as for the hundreds of noble women taken from the Letherii by Edur warriors, most had since been returned at the governor’s command, although it was likely that many now carried half-blood seeds within them.

The governor would soon accept the many requests to hear delegations from the various guilds and merchant interests. And a new pattern would take shape.

Unless, of course, the frontier cities were liberated by a victorious Letherii counter-attack. Plenty of rumours, of course. Clashes at sea between Edur and Letherii fleets. Thousands sent to the deep. The storm seen far to the west the night before had signalled a mage-war. The Ceda, Kuru Qan, had finally roused himself in all his terrible power. While Letherii corpses crowded the harbour, it was Edur bodies out in the seas beyond.

Strangest rumour of all, the prison island of Second Maiden Fort had flung back a succession of Edur attacks, and was still holding out, and among the half-thousand convicted soldiers was a sorceror who had once rivalled the Ceda himself. That was why the Edur army had remained camped here – they wanted no enemy still active behind them.

Udinaas knew otherwise. There might well be continued resistance in their wake, but the emperor was indifferent to such things. And the Letherii fleet had yet to make an appearance. The Edur ships commanded Katter Sea as far south as the city of Awl.

He drew his legs up and climbed to his feet. Walked back down the length of the pier. The streets were quiet. Most signs of the fighting had been removed, the bodies and broken furniture and shattered pottery, and a light rain the night before had washed most of the bloodstains away. But the air still stank of smoke and the walls of the buildings were smeared with an oily grit. Windows gaped and doorways that had been kicked in remained dark.

He had never much liked Trate. Rife with thugs and the dissolute remnants of the Nerek and Fent, the market stalls crowded with once-holy icons and relics, with ceremonial artwork now being sold as curios. The talking sticks of chiefs, the medicine bags of shamans. Fent ancestor chests, the bones still in them. The harbour front streets and alleys had been crowded with Nerek children selling their bodies, and over it all hung a vague sense of smugness, as if this was the proper order of the world, the roles settled out as they should be. Letherii dominant, surrounded by lesser creatures inherently servile, their cultures little more than commodities.

Belief in destiny delivered its own imperatives.

But here, now, the savages had arrived and a new order had been asserted, proving that destiny was an illusion. The city was in shock, with only a few malleable merchants venturing forth in the faith that the new ways to come were but the old ways, that the natural order in fact superseded any particular people. At the same time, they believed that none could match the Letherii in this game of riches, and so in the end they would win – the savages would find themselves civilized. Proof that destiny was anything but illusory.

Udinaas wondered if they were right. There were mitigating factors, after all. Tiste Edur lifespans were profoundly long. Their culture was both resilient and embedded. Conservative. Or, so it was. Until Rhulad. Until the sword claimed him.

A short time later he strode through the inland gate and approached the Edur encampment. There seemed to be little organization to the vast array of tents. This was not simply an army, but an entire people on the move – a way of life to which they were not accustomed. Wraiths patrolled the outskirts.

They ignored him as he passed the pickets. He had not heard from Wither, his own companion shade, in a long time, but he knew it had not gone away. Lying low with its secrets. Sometimes he caught its laughter, as if from a great distance, the timing always perverse.

Rhulad’s tent was at the centre of the encampment, the entrance flanked by demons in boiled leather armour stained black, long-handled maces resting heads to the ground before them. Full helms hid their faces.

‘How many bodies have they dragged out today?’ Udinaas asked as he walked between them.

Neither replied.

There were four compartments within, divided by thick-clothed walls fixed to free-standing bronze frames. The foremost chamber was shallow but ran the breadth of the tent. Benches had been placed along the sides. The area to the right was crowded with supplies of various sorts, casks and crates and earthen jars. Passage into the main room beyond was between two dividers.

He entered to see the emperor standing before his raised throne. Mayen lounged on a looted couch to the left of the wooden dais, her expression strangely dulled. Feather Witch stood in the shadows against the wall behind the empress, her face swollen and bruised almost beyond recognition. Hannan Mosag and Hull Beddict were facing the emperor, their backs to Udinaas. The Warlock King’s wraith bodyguard was not present.

Hannan Mosag was speaking. ‘… of that there is no doubt, sire.’

Coins had fallen from Rhulad’s forehead, where the soldier’s palm had struck when it broke his neck. The skin revealed was naught but scar tissue, creased where the skull’s frontal bone had caved inward – that internal damage had healed, since the dent was now gone. The emperor’s eyes were so bloodshot they seemed nothing but murky red pools. He studied Hannan Mosag for a moment, apparently unaware of the spasms crossing his ravaged features, then said, ‘Lost kin? What does that mean?’

‘Tiste Edur,’ Hannan Mosag replied in his smooth voice. ‘Survivors, from when our kind were scattered, following the loss of Scabandari Bloodeye.’

‘How are you certain of this?’

‘I have dreamed them, Emperor. In my mind I have been led into other realms, other worlds that lie alongside this one-’

‘Kurald Emurlahn.’

‘That realm is broken in pieces,’ Hannan Mosag said, ‘but yes, I have seen fragment-worlds. In one such world dwell the Kenyll’rah, the demons we have bound to us. In another, there are ghosts from our past battles.’

Hull Beddict cleared his throat. ‘Warlock King, are these realms the Holds of my people?’

‘Perhaps, but I think not.’

‘That is not relevant,’ Rhulad said to Hull as he began pacing. ‘Hannan Mosag, how fare these lost kin?’

‘Poorly, sire. Some have lost all memory of past greatness. Others are subjugated-’

The emperor’s head swung round. ‘Subjugated?’

‘Yes.’

‘We must deliver them,’ Rhulad said, resuming his pacing, the macabre clicking sounds of coin edges snapping together the only sound to follow his pronouncement.

Udinaas moved unobtrusively to stand behind the throne. There was something pathetic, to his mind, about the ease with which the Warlock King manipulated Rhulad. Beneath all those coins and behind that mottled sword was a marred and fragile Edur youth. Hannan Mosag might have surrendered the throne in the face of Rhulad’s power, but he would not relinquish his ambition to rule.

‘We will build ships,’ the emperor resumed after a time. ‘In the Letherii style, I think. Large, seaworthy. You said there were Tiste Andii enclaves as well? We will conquer them, use them as slaves to crew our ships. We shall undertake these journeys once Lether has fallen, once our empire is won.’

‘Sire, the other realms I spoke of – some will allow us to hasten our passage. There are… gateways. I am seeking the means of opening them, controlling them. Provided there are seas, in those hidden worlds, we can achieve swift travel-’

‘Seas?’ Rhulad laughed. ‘If there are no seas, Hannan Mosag, then you shall make them!’

‘Sire?’

‘Open one realm upon another. An ocean realm, released into a desert realm.’

The Warlock King’s eyes widened slightly. ‘The devastation would be… terrible.’

‘Cleansing, you mean to say. After all, why should the Edur empire confine itself to one world? You must shift your focus, Hannan Mosag. You are too limited in your vision.’ He paused, winced at some inner tremor, then continued in a strained tone, ‘It is what comes of power. Yes, what comes. To see the vastness of… things. Potentials, the multitude of opportunities. Who can stand before us, after all?’ He spun round. ‘Udinaas! Where have you been?’

‘At the harbour front, Emperor.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Watching the sharks feeding.’

‘Hah! You hear that, Hannan Mosag? Hull Beddict? He is a cold one, is he not? This slave of ours. We chose well indeed. Tell us, Udinaas, do you believe in these secret realms?’

‘Are we blind to hidden truths, Emperor? I cannot believe otherwise.’

A start from Hannan Mosag, his eyes narrowing.

Mayen suddenly spoke, in a low drawl. ‘Feather Witch says this one is possessed.’

No-one spoke for a half-dozen heartbeats. Rhulad slowly approached Udinaas. ‘Possessed? By what, Mayen? Did your slave yield that detail?’

‘The Wyval. Do you not recall that event?’

Hannan Mosag said, ‘Uruth Sengar examined him, Empress.’

‘So she did. And found nothing. No poison in his blood.’

Rhulad’s eyes searched his slave’s face. ‘Udinaas?’

‘I am as you see me, master. If there is a poison within me, I am not aware of it. Mistress Uruth seemed certain of her conclusion, else she would have killed me then.’

‘Then why should Feather Witch make such accusations?’

Udinaas shrugged. ‘Perhaps she seeks to deflect attention so as to lessen the severity of the beatings.’

Rhulad stared at him a moment, then swung round. ‘Beatings? There have been no beatings. An errant sorcerous attack…’

‘Now who is seeking to deflect attention?’ Mayen said, smiling. ‘You will take the word of a slave over that of your wife?’

The emperor seemed to falter. ‘Of course not, Mayen.’ He looked across to Hannan Mosag. ‘What say you?’

The Warlock King’s innocent frown managed the perfect balance of concern and confusion. ‘Which matter would you have me speak of, sire? The presence of Wyval poison within this Udinaas, or the fact that your wife is beating her slave?’

Mayen’s laughter was harsh. ‘Oh, Rhulad, I really did not think you believed me. My slave has been irritating me. Indeed, I am of a mind to find another, one less clumsy, less… disapproving. As if a slave has the right to disapprove of anything.’

‘Disapprove?’ the emperor asked. ‘What… why?’

‘Does a Wyval hide within Udinaas or not?’ Mayen demanded, sitting straighten ‘Examine the slave, Hannan Mosag.’

‘Who rules here?’ Rhulad’s shriek froze everyone. The emperor’s sword had risen, the blade shivering as shudders rolled through him. ‘You would all play games with us?’

Mayen shrank back on the divan, eyes slowly widening in raw fear.

The emperor’s fierce gaze was fixing on her, then the Warlock King, then back again. ‘Everyone out,’ Rhulad whispered. ‘Everyone but Udinaas. Now.’

Hannan Mosag opened his mouth to object, then changed his mind. Hull Beddict trailing, the Warlock King strode from the tent. Mayen, wrapping herself in the silk-stitched blanket from the couch, hurried in their wake, Feather Witch stumbling a step behind.

‘Wife.’

She halted.

‘The family of the Sengar have never believed there was value in beating slaves. You will cease. If she is incompetent, then find another. Am I understood?’

‘Yes, sire,’ she said.

‘Leave us.’

As soon as they were gone, Rhulad lowered the sword and studied Udinaas for a time. ‘We are not blind to all those who would seek advantage. The Warlock King sees us as too young, too ignorant, but he knows nothing of the truths we have seen. Mayen – she is as a dead thing beneath me. We should have left her to Fear. That was a mistake.’ He blinked, as if recovering himself, then regarded Udinaas with open suspicion. ‘And you, slave. What secrets do you hide?’

Udinaas lowered himself to one knee, said nothing.

‘Nothing will be hidden from us,’ Rhulad said. ‘Look up, Udinaas.’

He did, and saw a wraith crouched at his side.

‘This shade shall examine you, slave. It will see if you are hiding poison within you.’

Udinaas nodded. Yes, do this, Rhulad. I am weary. I want an end.

The wraith moved forward, then enveloped him.

‘Ohh, such secrets!’

He knew that voice and closed his eyes. Clever, Wither. I assume you volunteered?

‘So many, left shattered, wandering lost. This bastard has used us sorely. Do you imagine we would willingly accede to his demands? I am unbound, and that has made me useful, for I am proof against compulsion where my kin are not. Can he tell the difference? Evidently he cannot.’ A trill of vaguely manic laughter. ‘And what shall I find? Udinaas. You must stay at this madman’s side. He is going to Letheras, you see, and we need you there.’

Udinaas sighed. Why?

‘All in good time. Ah, you rail at the melodrama? Too bad, hee hee. Glean my secrets, if you dare. You can, you know.’

No. Now go away.

Wither slipped back, resumed its swirling man-shape in front of Udinaas.

Rhulad released one hand from the sword to claw at his face. He spun round, took two steps, then howled his rage. ‘Why are they lying to us? We cannot trust them! Not any of them!’ He turned. ‘Stand, Udinaas. You alone do not lie. You alone can be trusted.’ He strode to the throne and sat. ‘We need to think. We need to make sense of this. Hannan Mosag… he covets our power, doesn’t he?’

Udinaas hesitated, then said, ‘Yes, sire. He does.’

Rhulad’s eyes gleamed red. ‘Tell us more, slave.’

‘It is not my place-’

‘We decide what is your place. Speak.’

‘You stole his throne, Emperor. And the sword he believed was rightly his.’

‘He wants it still, does he?’ A sudden laugh, chilling and brutal. ‘Oh, he’s welcome to it! No, we cannot. Mustn’t. Impossible. And what of our wife?’

‘Mayen is broken. She wanted nothing real from her flirting with you. You were the youngest brother to the man she would marry. She sought allies within the Sengar household.’ He stopped there, seeing the spasms return to Rhulad, the extremity of his emotion too close to an edge, a precipice, and it would not do to send him over it. Not yet, perhaps not at all. It’s the poison within me, so hungry for vengeance, so… spiteful. These are not my thoughts, not my inclinations. Remember that, Udinaas, before you do worse than would Hannan Mosag. ‘Sire,’ he said softly, ‘Mayen is lost. And hurting. And you are the only one who can help her.’

‘You speak to save the slave woman,’ the emperor said in a rough whisper.

‘Feather Witch knows only hatred for me, sire. I am an Indebted, whilst she is not. My desire for her was hubris, and she would punish me for it.’

‘Your desire for her.’

Udinaas nodded. ‘Would I save her from beatings? Of course I would, sire. Just as you would do the same. As indeed you just did, not a moment ago.’

‘Because it is… sordid. What am I to make of you, Udinaas? A slave. An… Indebted… as if that could make you less in the eyes of another slave.’

‘The Letherii relinquish nothing, even when they are made into slaves. Sire, that is a truth the Tiste Edur have never understood. Poor or rich, free or enslaved, we build the same houses in which to live, in which to play out the old dramas. In the end, it does not matter whether destiny embraces us or devours us – either is as it should be, and only the Errant decides our fate.’

Rhulad was studying him as he spoke. The tremors had slowed. ‘Hull Beddict struggled to say the same thing, but he is poor at words, and so failed. Thus, Udinaas, we may conquer them, we may command their flesh in the manner we command yours and that of your fellow slaves, but the belief that guides them, that guides all of you, that cannot be defeated.’

‘Barring annihilation, sire.’

‘And this Errant, he is the arbiter of fate?’

‘He is, sire.’

‘And he exists?’

‘Physically? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.’

Rhulad nodded. ‘You are right, slave, it doesn’t.’

‘Conquer Lether and it will devour you, sire. Your spirit. Your… innocence.’

A strange smile twisted Rhulad’s face. ‘Innocence. This, from a shortlived creature such as you. We should take offence. We should see your head torn from your shoulders. You proclaim we cannot win this war, and what are we to think of that?’

‘The answer lies upon your very flesh, sire.’

Rhulad glanced down. His fingernails had grown long, curved and yellow. He tapped a coin on his chest. ‘Bring to an end… the notion of wealth. Of money. Crush the illusion of value.’

Udinaas was stunned. He may be young and half mad, but Rhulad is no fool.

‘Ah,’ the emperor said, ‘We see your… astonishment. We have, it seems, been underestimated, even by our slave. But yours is no dull mind, Udinaas. We thank the Sisters that you are not King Ezgara Diskanar, for then we would be sorely challenged.’

‘Ezgara may be benign, sire, but he has dangerous people around him.’

‘Yes, this Ceda, Kuru Qan. Why has he not yet acted?’

Udinaas shook his head. ‘I have been wondering the same, sire.’

‘We will speak more, Udinaas. And none other shall know of this. After all, what would they think, an emperor and a slave together, working to fashion a new empire? For we must keep you a slave, mustn’t we? A slave in the eyes of all others. We suspect that, were we to free you, you would leave us.’

A sudden tremble at these words.

Errant take me, this man needs a friend. ‘Sire, I would not leave. It was I who placed the coins in your flesh. There is no absolving that, no true way I could make amends. But I will stand by you, through all of this.’

Rhulad’s terrible eyes, so crimson-bruised and hurt, shifted away from Udinaas. ‘Do you understand, Udinaas?’ he asked in a whisper. ‘I am so…’

Frightened. ‘Yes, sire, I understand.’

The emperor placed a hand over his eyes. ‘She is drowning herself in white nectar.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘I would free her… but I cannot. Do you know why, Udinaas?’

‘She carries your child.’

‘You must have poison blood, Udinaas, to know so much…’

‘Sire, it might be worth considering sending for Uruth. For your mother. Mayen needs… someone.’

Rhulad, face still covered by his mangled hand, nodded. ‘We will join with Fear’s army soon. Five, six days. Uruth will join them. Then… yes, I will speak with Mother. My child…’

My child. No, it is impossible. A Meckros foundling. There is no point in thinking about him. None at all.

I am not an evil man… yet I have just vowed to stand at his side. Errant take me, what have I done?

A farm was burning in the valley below, but she could see no-one fighting the flames. Everyone had fled. Seren Pedac resumed hacking at her hair, cutting it as short as she could manage with the docker’s knife one of Iron Bars’s soldiers had given her.

The Avowed stood nearby, his squad mage, Corlo, at his side. They were studying the distant fire and speaking in low tones.

Somewhere south and east of Dresh, half a day from the coast. She could not imagine the Tiste Edur invaders were anywhere near, yet the roads had been full of refugees, all heading east to Letheras. She had seen more than a few deserters among the crowds, and here and there bodies lay in ditches, victims of robbery or murdered after being raped.

Rape, it seemed, had become a favoured pastime among the thugs preying on the fleeing citizens. Seren knew that, had she been travelling alone, she would probably be dead by now. In some ways, that would have been a relief. An end to this sullied misery, this agonizing feeling of being unclean. In her mind, she saw again and again Iron Bars killing those men. His desire to exact appropriate vengeance. And her voice, croaking out, stopping him in the name of mercy.

Errant knew, she regretted that now. Better had she let him work on that bastard. Better still were they still carrying him with them. Eyes gouged out, nose cut off, tongue carved from his mouth. And with this knife in her hand she could slice strips of skin from his flesh. She had heard a story once, of a factor in a small remote hamlet who had made a habit of raping young girls, until the women one night ambushed him. Beaten and trussed, then a loincloth filled with spike-thorns had been tied on like a diaper, tightly, and the man was bound to the back of his horse. The pricking thorns drove the animal into a frenzy. The beast eventually scraped the man loose on a forest path, but he had bled out by then. The story went that the man’s face, in death, had held all the pain a mortal could suffer, and as for what had been found between his legs…

She sawed off the last length of greasy hair and dropped it on the fire. The stench was fierce, but there were bush-warlocks and decrepit shamans who, if they happened upon human hair, would make dire use of it. It was a sad truth that, given the chance to bind a soul, few resisted the temptation.

Corlo called to the soldiers and suddenly they were running hard down the hillside towards the farm, leaving behind only Seren and Iron Bars. The Crimson Guardsman strode towards her. ‘You hear it, lass?’

‘What?’

‘Horses. In the stable. The fire’s jumped to its roof. The farmer’s left his horses behind.’

‘He wouldn’t do that.’

He squinted down at her, then crouched until he was at eye level. ‘No, likely the owner’s dead. Strange, how most locals around here don’t know how to ride.’

She looked down at the farm once again. ‘Probably a breeder for the army. The whole notion of cavalry came from Bluerose – as did most of the stock. Horses weren’t part of our culture before then. Have you ever seen Letherii cavalry on parade? Chaos. Even after, what, sixty years? And dozens of Bluerose officers trying to train our soldiers.’

‘You should have imported these Bluerose horse-warriors over as auxiliaries. If it’s their skill, exploit it. You can’t borrow someone else’s way of life.’

‘Maybe not. Presumably, you can ride, then.’

‘Aye. And you?’

She nodded, sheathing the knife and rising. ‘Trained by one of those Bluerose officers I mentioned.’

‘You were in the army before?’

‘No, he was my lover. For a time.’

Iron Bars straightened as well. ‘Look – they’ve reached them in time. Come on.’

She hesitated. ‘I forgot to thank you, Iron Bars.’

‘You wouldn’t have been as pretty drowned.’

‘No. I’m not ready yet to thank you for that. What you did to those men

‘I’ve a great-granddaughter back in Gris, D’Avore Valley. She’d be about your age now. Let’s go, lass.’

She walked behind him down the slope. Great-granddaughter. What an absurd notion. He wasn’t that old. These Avowed had strange senses of humour.

Corlo and the squad had pulled a dozen horses from the burning stable, along with tack and bridles. One of the soldiers was cursing as Seren and Iron Bars approached.

‘Look at these stirrups! No wonder the bastards can’t ride the damned things!’

‘You set your foot down in the crotch of the hook,’ Seren explained. ‘And what happens if it slips out?’ the man demanded. ‘You fall off.’

‘Avowed, we need to rework these things – some heavy leather-’

‘Cut up a spare saddle,’ Iron Bars said, ‘and see what you can manage. But I want us to be riding before sunset.’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘A more stable stirrup,’ the Avowed said to Seren, ‘is a kind of half-boot, something you can slide your foot into, with a straight cross-bar to take your weight. I agree with Halfpeck. These Bluerose horse-warriors missed something obvious and essential. They couldn’t have been very good riders…’

Seren frowned. ‘My lover once mentioned how these saddles were made exclusively for Lether. He said they used a slightly different kind back in Bluerose.’

His eyes narrowed on her, and he barked a laugh, but made no further comment.

She sighed. ‘No wonder our cavalry is next to useless. I always found it hard to keep my feet in, and to keep them from turning this way and that.’

‘You mean they swivel?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘I’d like to meet these Bluerose riders some day.’

‘They are a strange people, Iron Bars. They worship someone called the Black-winged Lord.’

‘And they resemble Letherii?’

‘No, they are taller. Very dark skins.’

He regarded her for a moment, then asked, ‘Faces like the Tiste

Edur?’

‘No, much finer-boned.’

‘Long-lived?’

‘Not that I’m aware of, but to be honest, I don’t really know. Few Letherii do, nor do they much care. The Blueroses were defeated. Subjugated. There were never very many of them, in any case, and they preferred isolation. Small cities, from what I’ve heard. Gloomy.’

‘What ended your affair?’

‘Just that, I suppose. He rarely saw any good in anything. I wearied of his scepticism, his cynicism, the way he acted – as if he’d seen it all before a thousand times…’

The stable was engulfed in flames by now, and they were all forced away by the fierce heat. In the nearby pasture they retreated to, they found a half-dozen corpses, the breeder and his family. They’d known little mercy in the last few bells of their lives. None of the soldiers who examined them said a word, but their expressions hardened.

Iron Bars made a point of keeping Seren away whilst three men from the squad buried the bodies. ‘We’ve found a trail,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind, lass, we want to follow it. For a word with the ones who killed that family.’

‘Show me the tracks,’ she said.

He gestured and Corlo led her to the edge of a stand of trees on the southeast end of the clearing. Seren studied the array of footprints entering the woodcutters’ path. ‘There’s twenty or more of them,’ she pronounced after a moment.

The mage nodded. ‘Deserters. In armour.’

‘Yes, or burdened with loot.’

‘Likely both.’

She turned to regard the man. ‘You Crimson Guardsmen – you’re pretty sure of yourselves, aren’t you?’

‘When it comes to fighting, aye, lass, we are.’

‘I watched Iron Bars fight in Trate. He’s an exception, I gather-’

‘Aye, he is, but not among the Avowed. Jup Alat would’ve given him trouble. Or Poll, for that matter. Then there’s those in the other companies. Halfdan, Blues, Black the Elder…’

‘More of these Avowed?’

‘Aye.’

‘And what does it mean? To be an Avowed?’

‘Means they swore to return their prince to his lands. He was driven out, you see, by the cursed Emperor Kellanved. Anyway, it ain’t happened yet. But it will, someday, maybe soon.’

‘And that was the vow? All right. It seems this prince had some able soldiers with him.’

‘Oh indeed, lass, especially when the vow’s kept them alive all this time.’

‘What do you mean?’

The mage looked suddenly nervous. ‘I’m saying too much. Never rnind me, lass. Anyway, you’ve seen the trail the bastards left behind, iney made no effort to hide, meaning they’re cocksure themselves, aren’t they?’ He smiled, but there was no humour in it. ‘We’ll catch up, and then we’ll show them what real cavalry can do. Riding horses with stirrups, I mean – we don’t often fight from the saddle, but we ain’t new to it either.’

‘Well, I admit, you’ve got me curious.’

‘Just curious, lass? No hunger for vengeance?’

She looked away. ‘I want to look around,’ she said. ‘Alone, if you don’t mind.’

The mage shrugged. ‘Don’t wander too far. The Avowed’s taken to you, I think.’

That’s… unfortunate. ‘I won’t.’

Seren headed into the wood. There had been decades of thinning, leaving plenty of stumps and open spaces between trees. She listened to Corlo walking away, back to the clearing. As soon as silence enveloped her, she suddenly regretted the solitude. Desires surged, none of them healthy, none of them pleasant. She would never again feel clean, and this truth pushed her thoughts in the opposite direction, as if a part of her sought to foul her flesh yet further, as far as it could go. Why not? Lost in the darkness as she was, it was nothing to stain her soul black, through and through.

Alone, now frightened – of herself, of the urges within her – she walked on, unmindful of direction. Deeper into the wood, where the stumps were fewer and soft with rot, the deadfall thicker. The afternoon light barely reached through here.

Hurt was nothing. Was meaningless. But no, there was value in pain, if only to remind oneself that one still lived. When nothing normal could be regained, ever, then other pleasures had to be found. Cultivated, the body and mind taught anew, to delight in a darker strain.

A clearing ahead, in which reared figures.

She halted.

Motionless, half sunk into the ground, tilting this way and that in the high grasses. Statues. This had been Tarthenal land, she recalled. Before the Letherii arrived to crush the tribes. The name ‘Dresh’ was Tarthenal, in fact, as were the nearby village names of Denner, Lan and Brous.

Seren approached, came to the edge of the clearing.

Five statues in all, vaguely man-shaped but so weathered as to be featureless, with but the slightest indentations marking the pits of their eyes carved into the granite. They were all buried to their waists, suggesting that, when entirely above ground, they stood as tall as the Tarthenal themselves. Some kind of pantheon, she supposed, names and faces worn away by the tens of centuries that had passed since this glade had last known worshippers.

The Letherii had nearly wiped the Tarthenal out back then. As close to absolute genocide as they had ever come in their many conquests. She recalled a line from an early history written by a witness of that war. ‘They fought in defence of their holy sites with expressions of terror, as if in failing something vast and terrible would be unleashed…’ Seren looked around. The only thing vast and terrible in this place was the pathos of its abandonment.

Such dark moments in Letherii history were systematically disregarded, she knew, and played virtually no role in their culture’s vision of itself as bringers of progress, deliverers of freedom from the fetters of primitive ways of living, the cruel traditions and vicious rituals. Liberators, then, destined to wrest from savage tyrants their repressed victims, in the name of civilization. That the Letherii then imposed their own rules of oppression was rarely acknowledged. There was, after all, but one road to success and fulfilment, gold-cobbled and maintained by Letherii toll-collectors, and only the free could walk it.

Free to profit from the same game. Free to discover one’s own inherent disadvantages. Free to be abused. Free to be exploited. Free to be owned in lieu of debt. Free to be raped.

And to know misery. It was a natural truth that some walked that road faster than others. There would always be those who could only crawl. Or fell to the wayside. The most basic laws of existence, after all, were always harsh.

The statues before her were indifferent to all of that. Their worshippers had died defending them, and all for nothing. Memory was not loyal to the past, only to the exigencies of the present. She wondered if the Tiste Edur saw the world the same way. How much of their own past had they selectively forgotten, how many unpleasant truths had they twisted into self-appeasing lies? Did they suffer from the same flaw, this need to revise history to answer some deep-seated diffidence, a hollowness at the core that echoed with miserable uncertainty? Was this entire drive for progress nothing more than a hopeless search for some kind of fulfilment, as if on some instinctive level there was a murky understanding, a recognition that the game had no value, and so victory was meaningless?

Such understanding would have to be murky, for clarity was hard, and the Letherii disliked things that were hard, and so rarely chose to think in that direction. Baser emotions were the preferred response, and complex arguments were viewed with anger and suspicion.

She laid a hand upon the shoulder of the nearest statue, and was surprised to discover the stone warm to her touch. Retaining the sun’s heat, perhaps. But no, it was too hot for that. Seren pulled her hand away – any longer and she would have burned her skin.

Unease rose within her. Suddenly chilled, she stepped back. And now saw the dead grass surrounding each statue, desiccated by incessant heat.

It seemed the Tarthenal gods were not dead after all. Sometimes the past rises once again to reveal the lies. Lies that persisted through nothing more than force of will, and collective opinion. Sometimes that revelation comes drenched in fresh blood. Delusions invited their own shattering. Letherii pre-eminence. Tiste Edur arrogance. The sanctity of my own flesh.

A sound behind her. She turned.

Iron Bars stood at the edge of the clearing. ‘Corlo said there was something… restless… in this wood.’

She sighed. ‘Better were it only me.’

He cocked his head, smiled wryly.

She approached. ‘Tarthenal. I thought I knew this land. Every trail, the old barrow grounds and holy sites. It is a responsibility of an Acquitor, after all.’

‘We hope to make use of that knowledge,’ the Avowed said. ‘I don’t want no fanfare when we enter Letheras.’

‘Agreed. Even among a crowd of refugees, we would stand out. You might consider finding clothing that looks less like a uniform.’

‘I doubt it’d matter, lass. Either way, we’d be seen as deserters and flung into the ranks of defenders. This ain’t our war and we’d rather have nothing to do with it. The question is, can you get us into Letheras unseen?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. The lads are almost ready with the new stirrups.’

She glanced back at the statues.

‘Makes you wonder, don’t it, lass?’

‘About what?’

‘The way old anger never goes away.’

Seren faced him again. ‘Anger. That’s something you’re intimately familiar with, I gather.’

A frown. ‘Corlo talks too much.’

‘If you wanted to get your prince’s land back, what are you doing here? I’ve never heard of this Emperor Kellanved, so his empire must be far away.’

‘Oh, it’s that, all right. Come on, it’s time to go.’

‘Sorry,’ she said as she followed him back into the forest. ‘I was prying.’

‘Aye, you were.’

‘Well. In return, you can ask me what you like.’

‘And you’ll answer?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You don’t seem the type to end up as you did in Trate. So the merchant you were working for killed himself. Was he your lover or something?’

‘No, and you’re right, I’m not. It wasn’t just Buruk the Pale, though I should have seen it coming – he as much as told me a dozen times on our way back. I just wasn’t willing to hear, I suppose. The Tiste Edur emperor has a Letherii adviser-’

‘Hull Beddict.’

‘Yes.’

‘You knew him?’

She nodded.

‘And now you’re feeling betrayed? Not only as a Letherii, but personally too. Well, that’s hard, all right-’

‘But there you are wrong, Iron Bars. I don’t feel betrayed, and that’s the problem. I understand him all too well, his decision – I understand it.’

‘Wish you were with him?’

‘No. I saw Rhulad Sengar – the emperor – I saw him come back to life. Had it been Hannan Mosag, the Warlock King… well, I might well have thrown in my lot with them. But not the emperor…’

‘He came back to life? What do you mean by that?’

‘He was dead. Very dead. Killed when collecting a sword for Hannan Mosag – a cursed sword of some kind. They couldn’t get it out of his hands.’

‘Why didn’t they just cut his hands off?’

‘It was coming to that, I suspect, but then he returned.’

‘A nice trick. Wonder if he’ll be as lucky the next time.’

They reached the edge of the wood and saw the others seated on the horses and waiting. At the Avowed’s comment, Seren managed a smile. ‘From the rumours, I’d say yes, he was.’

‘He was killed again?’

‘Yes, Iron Bars. In Trate. Some soldier who wasn’t even from Lether. Just stepped up to him and broke his neck. Didn’t even stay around to carve the gold coins from his body…’

‘Hood’s breath,’ he muttered as they strode towards the others. ‘Don’t tell the others.’

‘Why?’

‘I got a reputation of making bad enemies, that’s why.’

Eleven Tarthenal lived within a day’s walk from the glade and its statues. Old Hunch Arbat had been chosen long ago for the task to which he sullenly attended, each month making the rounds with his two-wheeled cart, from one family to the next. Not one of the farms where the Tarthenal lived in Indebted servitude to a land-owner in Dresh was exclusively of the blood. Mixed-breed children scampered out to greet Old Hunch Arbat, flinging rotten fruit at his back as he made his way to the slop pit with his shovel, laughing and shouting their derision as he flung sodden lumps of faeces into the back of the cart.

Among the Tarthenal, all that existed in the physical world possessed symbolic meaning, and these meanings were mutually connected, bound into correspondences that were themselves part of a secret language.

Faeces was gold. Piss was ale. The mixed-breeds had forgotten most of the old knowledge, yet the tradition guiding Old Hunch Arbat’s rounds remained, even if most of its significance was lost.

Once he’d completed his task, a final journey was left to him: pulling the foul cart with its heap of dripping, fly-swarmed waste onto a little-used trail in the Breeder’s Wood, and eventually into the glade where stood the mostly buried statues.

As soon as he arrived, just past sunset, he knew that something had changed. In a place that had never changed, not once in his entire life.

There had been visitors, perhaps earlier that day, but that was the least of it. Old Hunch Arbat stared at the statues, seeing the burnt grasses, the faint glow of heat from the battered granite. He grimaced, revealing the blackened stumps of teeth – all that was left after decade upon decade of Letherii sweet-cakes – and when he reached for his shovel he saw that his hands were trembling.

He collected a load, carried it over to the nearest statue. Then flung the faeces against the weathered stone.

‘Splat,’ he said, nodding.

Hissing, then blackening, smoke, then ashes skirling down.

‘Oh. Could it be worse? Ask yourself that, Old Hunch Arbat. Could it be worse? No, says Old Hunch Arbat, I don’t think so. You don’t think so? Aren’t you sure, Old Hunch Arbat? Old Hunch Arbat ponders, but not for long. You’re right, I say, it couldn’t be worse.

‘Gold. Gold and ale. Damn gold damn ale damn nothing damn everything.’ Cursing made him feel slightly better. ‘Well then.’ He walked back to the cart. ‘Let’s see if a whole load will appease. And, Old Hunch Arbat, your bladder’s full, too. You timed it right, as always. Libations. The works, Old Hunch Arbat, the works.

‘And if that don’t help, then what, Old Hunch Arbat? Then what?

‘Why, I answer, then I spread the word – if they’ll listen. And if they do? Why, I say, then we run away.

‘And if they don’t listen?

‘Why, I reply, then I run away.’

He collected another load onto his wooden shovel. ‘Gold. Gold and ale…’

‘Sandalath Drukorlat. That is my name. I am not a ghost. Not any more. The least you can do is acknowledge my existence. Even the Nachts have better manners than you. If you keep sitting there and praying, I’ll hit you.’

She had been trying since morning. Periodic interruptions to his efforts. He wanted to send her away, but it wasn’t working. He’d forgotten how irritating company could be. Uninvited, unwelcome, persistent reminder of his own weaknesses. And now she was about to hit him.

Withal sighed and finally opened his eyes. The first time that day. Even in the gloom of his abode, the light hurt, made him squint. She stood before him, a silhouette, unmistakably female. For a god swathed in blankets, the Crippled One seemed unmindful of the nakedness among his chosen.

Chosen. Where in Hood’s name did he find her? Not a ghost, she said. Not any more. She just said that. She must have been one, then. Typical. He couldn’t find anyone living. Not for this mission of mercy. Who better for someone starved of companionship than someone who’s been dead for who knows how long? Listen to me. I’m losing my mind.

She raised a hand to strike him.

He flinched back. ‘All right, fine! Sandalath something. Pleased to meet you-’

‘Sandalath Drukorlat. I am Tiste Andii-’

‘That’s nice. Now, in case you haven’t noticed, I was in the midst of prayers-’

‘You’re always in the midst of prayers, and it’s been two days now. At least, I think two days. The Nachts slept, anyway. Once.’

‘They did? How strange.’

‘And you are?’

‘Me? A weaponsmith. A Meckros. Sole survivor of the destruction of my city-’

‘Your name!’

‘Withal. No need to shout. There hasn’t been any shouting. Well, some screaming, but not by me. Not yet, that is-’

‘Be quiet. I have questions that you are going to answer.’

She was not particularly young, he noted as his eyes adjusted. Then again, neither was he. And that wasn’t good. The young were better at making friends. The young had nothing to lose. ‘You’re being rather imperious, Sandalath.’

‘Oh, did I hurt your feelings? Dreadfully sorry. Where did you get those clothes?’

‘From the god, who else?’

‘What god?’

‘The one in the tent. Inland. You can’t miss it. I don’t see how – two days? What have you been doing with yourself? It’s just up from the strand-’

‘Be quiet.’ She ran both hands through her hair.

Withal would rather she’d stayed a silhouette. He looked away. ‘I thought you wanted answers. Go ask him-’

‘I didn’t know he was a god. You seemed preferable company, since all I got from him was coughing and laughter – at least, I think it was laughter-’

‘It was, have no doubt about that. He’s sick.’

‘Sick?’

‘Insane.’

‘So, an insane hacking god and a muscle-bound, bald aspirant. And three Nachts. That’s it? No-one else on this island?’

‘Some lizard gulls, and ground-lizards, and rock-lizards, and lizard-rats in the smithy-’

‘So where did you get that food there?’

He glanced over at the small table. ‘The god provides.’

‘Really. And what else does this god provide?’

Well, you, for one. ‘Whatever suits his whim, I suppose.’

‘Your clothes.’

‘Yes.’

‘I want clothes.’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you mean, “yes”? Get me some clothes.’

‘I’ll ask.’

‘Do you think I like standing here, naked, in front of some stranger? Even the Nachts leer.’

‘I wasn’t leering.’

‘You weren’t?’

‘Not intentionally. I just noticed, you’re speaking the Letherii trader language. So am I.’

‘You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?’

‘I’ve had lots of practice, I suppose.’ He rose. ‘It occurs to me that you’re not going to let me resume my prayers. At least until you get some clothes. So, let’s go talk to the god.’

‘You go talk to him. I’m not. Just bring me clothes, Withal.’

He regarded her. ‘Will that help you… relax?’

Then she did hit him, a palm pounding into the side of his head.

She’d caught him unprepared, he decided a moment later, after he picked himself free of the wreckage of the wall he’d gone through. And stood, weaving, the scene around him spinning wildly. The glaring woman who’d stepped outside and seemed to be considering hitting him again, the pitching sea, and the three Nachts on a sward nearby, rolling in silent hilarity.

He walked down towards the sea.

Behind him, ‘Where are you going?’

‘To the god.’

‘He’s the other way.’

He reversed direction. ‘Talking to me like I don’t know this island. She wants clothes. Here, take mine.’ He pulled his shirt over his head.

And found himself lying on his back, staring up through the bleached weave of the cloth, the sun bright and blinding-

– suddenly eclipsed. She was speaking. ‘… just lie there for a while longer, Withal. I wasn’t intending to hit you that hard. I fear I’ve cracked your skull.’

No, no, it’s hard as an anvil. I’ll be fine. See, I’m getting up… oh, why bother. It’s nice here in the sun. This shirt smells. Like the sea. Like a beach, with the tide out, and all the dead things rotting in fetid water. Just like the Inside Harbour. Got to stop the boys from swimming in there. I keep telling them… oh, they’re dead. All dead now, my boys, my apprentices.

You’d better answer me soon, Mael.

‘Withal?’

‘It’s the tent. That’s what the Nachts are trying to tell me. Something about the tent…’

‘Withal?’

I think I’ll sleep now.

The trail ran in an easterly direction, roughly parallel to the Brous Road at least to start, then cut southward towards the road itself once the forest on the left thinned. One other farm had been passed through by the deserters, but there had been no-one there. Signs of looting were present, and it seemed a wooden-wheeled wagon had been appropriated. Halfpeck judged that the marauders were not far ahead, and the Crimson Guardsmen would reach them by dawn.

Seren Pedac rode alongside Iron Bars. The new stirrups held her boots firmly in place; she had never felt so secure astride a horse. It was clear that the Blueroses had been deceiving the Letherii for a long time, and she wondered if that revealed some essential, heretofore unrecognized flaw among her people. A certain gullibility, bred from an unfortunate mixture of naivete and arrogance. If Lether survived the

Edur invasion and the truth about the Bluerose deception came to light, the Letherii response would be characteristically childish, she suspected, some kind of profound and deep hurt, and a grudge long held on to. Bluerose would be punished, spitefully and repeatedly, in countless ways.

The two women soldiers in the squad had dismantled a hide rack at the first farm, using the frame’s poles to fashion a half-dozen crude lances, half again as tall as a man. The sharpened, fire-hardened points had been notched transversely, the thick barbs bent outward from the shaft. Each tip had been smeared with blood from the breeder and his family, to seal the vengeful intent.

They rode through the night, halting four times to rest their horses, all but one of the squad managing a quarter-bell’s worth of sleep – a soldier’s talent that Seren could not emulate. By the time the sky paled to the east, revealing mists in the lowlands, she was grainy-eyed and sluggish. They had passed a camp of refugees on the Brous Road, an old woman wakening to tell them the raiders had caught up with them earlier and stolen everything of value, as well as two young girls and their mother.

Two hundred paces further down, they came within sight of the deserters. The wagon stood in the centre of the raised road, the two oxen that had been used to pull it off to one side beneath a thick, gnarled oak on the other side of the south ditch. Chains stretched from one of the wheels, along which three small figures were huddled in sleep. A large hearth still smouldered, its dying embers just beyond the wagon.

The Crimson Guardsmen halted at some distance to regard the raiders.

‘No-one’s awake,’ one of the women commented.

Iron Bars said, ‘These horses aren’t well trained enough for a closed charge. We’ll go four one four. You’ll be the one, Acquitor, and stay tight behind the leading riders.’

She nodded. She was not prepared to raise objections. She had been given a spare sword, and she well knew how to use it. Even so, this charge was to be with lances.

The soldiers cinched the straps of their helmets then donned gauntlets, shifting their grips on the lances to a third of the way up from the butts. Seren drew her sword.

‘All right,’ Iron Bars said. ‘Corlo, keep them asleep until we’re thirty paces away. Then wake ’em quick and panicky.’

‘Aye, Avowed. It’s been a while, ain’t it?’

Halfpeck asked, ‘Want any of ’em left alive, sir?’

‘No.’

Iron Bars, with Halfpeck on his left and the two women on his right, formed the first line. Walk to trot, then a collected canter. Fifty paces, and no-one was stirring among the deserters. Seren glanced back at Corlo, and he smiled, raising one hand and waggling the gloved fingers.

She saw the three prisoners at the wagon sit up, then quickly crawl beneath the bed.

Lances were levelled, the horses rolling into a gallop.

Sudden movement among the sleeping deserters. Leaping to their feet, bewildered shouts, a scream.

The front line parted to go round the wagon, and Seren pulled hard to her left after a moment of indecision, seeing the glitter of wide eyes from beneath the wagon’s bed. Then she was alongside the tall wheels.

Ahead, four lances found targets, three of them skewering men from behind as they sought to flee.

A deserter stumbled close to Seren and she slashed her sword, clipping his shoulder and spinning him round in a spray of blood. Cursing at the clumsy blow, she pushed herself forward on the saddle and rose to stand in her stirrups. Readied the sword once more.

The leading four Guardsmen had slowed their mounts and were drawing swords. The second line of riders, in Seren’s wake, had spread out to pursue victims scattering into the ditches to either side. They slaughtered with cold efficiency.

A spear stabbed up at Seren on her right. She batted the shaft aside, then swung as her horse carried her forward. The blade rang in her grip as it connected with a helmet. The edge jammed and she pulled hard, dragging the helm from the man’s head. It came free and flew forward to bounce on the road, red-splashed and caved in on one side.

She caught a moment of seeing Iron Bars ten paces ahead. Killing with appalling ease, a single hand gripping the reins as he guided his horse, sword weaving a murderous dance around him.

Someone flung himself onto her sword-arm, his weight wrenching at her shoulder. She shouted in pain, felt herself being pulled from her saddle.

His face, bearded and grimacing, seemed to surge towards her as if hunting some ghastly kiss. Then she saw the features go slack. Blood filled his eyes. The veins on his temples collapsed into blue stains blossoming beneath the skin. More blood, spraying from his nostrils. His grip fell away and he toppled backward.

Drawing in close, a long, thin-bladed knife in one hand, Corlo came alongside her. ‘Push yourself up, lass! Use my shoulder-’

Hand fisted around the grip of her sword, she set it against him and righted herself. ‘Thanks, Corlo-’

‘Rein in, lass, we’re about done here.’

She looked round. Three Guardsmen had dismounted, as had Iron

Bars, and were among the wounded and dying, swords thrusting down into bodies. She glanced back. ‘That man – what happened to him?’

‘I boiled his brain, Acquitor. Messy, granted, but the Avowed said to keep you safe.’

She stared at him. ‘What sort of magic does that}’

‘Maybe I’ll tell you sometime. That was a nice head-shot back there. The bastard came close with that spear.’

He did. She was suddenly shaking. ‘And this is your profession, Corlo? It’s… disgusting.’

‘Aye, Acquitor, that it is.’

Iron Bars approached. ‘All is well?’

‘We’re fine, sir. All dead?’

‘Twenty-one.’

‘That’s all of them,’ the mage said, nodding.

‘Less than a half-dozen actually managed to draw their weapons. You fouled ’em up nicely, Corlo. Well done.’

‘Is that how you soldiers win your battles?’ Seren asked.

‘We wasn’t here to give battle, Acquitor,’ Iron Bars said. ‘Executions, lass. Any mages among the lot, Corlo?’

‘One minor adept. I got him right away.’

Executions. Yes. Best to think of it that way. Not butchery. They were murderers and rapists, after all. ‘You didn’t leave me any alive, Avowed?’

He squinted up at her. ‘No, none.’

‘You don’t want me to… do what I want. Do you?’

‘That’s right, lass. I don’t.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you might enjoy it.’

‘And what business is that of yours, Iron Bars?’

‘It’s not good, that’s all.’ He turned away. ‘Corlo, see to the prisoners under the wagon. Heal them if they need it.’

He’s right. The bastard’s right. I might enjoy it. Torturing some helpless man. And that wouldn’t be good at all, because I might get hungry for more. She thought back to the feeling when her sword’s blade had connected with that deserter’s helmed head. Sickening, and sick with pleasure, all bound together.

I hurt. But I can make others hurt. Enough so they answer each other, leaving… calm. Is that what it is? Calm? Or just some kind of hardening, senseless and cold.

‘All right, Iron Bars,’ she said. ‘Keep it away from me. Only,’ she looked down at him, ‘it doesn’t help. Nothing helps.’

‘Aye. Not yet, anyway.’

‘Not ever,’ she said. ‘I know, you’re thinking time will bring healing.

But you see, Avowed, it’s something I keep reliving. Every moment. It wasn’t days ago. It was with my last breath, every last breath.’

She saw the compassion in his eyes and, inexplicably, hated him for it. ‘Let me think on that, lass.’

‘To what end?’

‘Can’t say, yet.’

She looked down at the sword in her hand, at the blood and snarled hair along the notched edge where it had struck the man’s head. Disgusting. But they’ll expect it to be wiped away. To make the iron clean and gleaming once more, as if it was nothing more than a sliver of metal. Disconnected from its deeds, its history, its very purpose. She didn’t want that mess cleaned away. She liked the sight of it.

They left the bodies where they had fallen. Left the lances impaled in flesh growing cold. Left the wagon, apart from the food they could transport – the refugees coming up on the road could have the rest. Among the dead were five youths, none of them older than fifteen years. They’d walked a short path, but as Halfpeck observed, it had been the wrong path, and that was that.

Seren pitied none of them.