Toll the Hounds

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Bliss on a sun-warmed sandy beach, on a remote island, proves tedious to souls habituated to stimulation and excitement. The smaller the island, the faster the scene palls. So Gruntle concluded after completing his thirtieth circle round the white rim of the shore, finding himself fascinated by his own footprints, especially when a new set arrived to track his path. Dulled and insensate as he had become, it was a moment before it occurred to him to halt and turn round, to see the one who now followed.

Master Quell was sweating, gasping, fighting through the soft sand as he prob shy;ably fought through all of life, one wheezing step at a time. He was sunburned on one side of his body, face and neck, bared forearm, ankle and foot, the result of falling asleep in an unwise position. That he had been pursuing Gruntle for some time was clear in that his footprints completed an entire circumlocution, leaving Gruntle to wonder why the man had not simply called out to capture his atten shy;tion. Indeed, if Gruntle had not noticed the new trail upon his own, they might well have gone round all day, one pursuing, the other simply walking at a pace the pursuer could not achieve.

‘A simple shout,’ he said as the man drew closer.

‘I did not, uh, want, uh, to call undue attention, uh, upon us.’

‘You do not sound well.’

‘I need to pee.’

‘Then-’

‘I can’t. Well, I can, but intermittently. Generally when I’m not, er, thinking about it.’

‘Ah. A healer could-’

‘Yes, yes, I know. Never mind that. Listen-’

‘Master Quell,’ said Gruntle, ‘this was not the way to avoid undue attention — everyone else is sitting right there in the shade of the carriage, and they have been watching us for some time. Me, at least. Why, the Bole brothers wave to me with every pass I make.’

They both glanced over and, sure enough, Jula and Amby waved.

Master Quell rubbed at his bicolour red and pasty face. ‘I need an escort.’

‘For what? To where?’

‘Back to the realm of the dead. No, not in the carriage. Just you and me, Gruntle. I need to get a sense of what’s going on. We need to just, er, slip in. A quick look round, then back out.’

‘And then?’

Quell’s brows lifted. ‘Then? Well, we resume our journey, of course.’

‘You want me to escort you into Hood’s realm, as what, your bodyguard?’

The man bristled slightly. ‘The shareholder agreement you have made with the Guild includes discretionary tasks as assigned by the Pilot.’

Gruntle shrugged. ‘I was but wondering, Master Quell, what possible use I could be, given that the realm is awash with rabid masses of miserable corpses.’

‘I said we’d go in quiet!’

‘We could ask the passenger we picked up back there.’

‘What? Oh, is he still here?’

‘Under the palm trees.’

‘Under them? Only a dead man could be so stupid. Fine, let’s see what we can find out — but I still need to see some things for myself.’

The rest of the crew, along with Mappo, watched them walk over to the twin palm trees, edging into their shade to stand — nervously — before the gaunt, with shy;ered undead who was piling up coconuts into pyramids like catapult ammuni shy;tion. Even as he worked, unmindful of his new guests, another nut thumped heavily on the sand nearby, making both Gruntle and Quell flinch.

‘You,’ said Quell.

The ghastly face peered up with shrunken eyes. ‘Do you like these? Patterns. I like patterns.’

‘Happy for you,’ Quell muttered. ‘How long have you been dead?’

‘How long is a taproot?’

‘What? Well, show it to me and I’ll guess.’

‘It’s three times the length of the aboveground stalk. In the baraka shrub, anyway. Does the ratio hold for other plants? Should we find out?’

‘No. Later, I mean. Look, you were marching with all the rest in Hood’s realm. Why? Where were you all going? Or coming from? Was it Hood himself who sum shy;moned you? Does he command all the dead now?’

‘Hood never commands.’

‘That’s what I thought, but-’

‘Yet now he has.’

Quell’s eyes widened. ‘He has?’

‘How wide is the sky? How deep is the ocean? I think about these things, all the time.’

Gruntle noted the Master gaping, like a beached fish, and so he asked, ‘What was your name when you were alive, sir?’

‘My name? I don’t recall. Being alive, I mean. But I must have been, once. My name is Cartographer.’

‘That sounds more like a profession.’

The corpse scratched his forehead, flakes of skin fluttering down. ‘It does. An extraordinary coincidence. What were my parents thinking?’

‘Perhaps you are but confused. Perhaps you were a cartographer, trained in the making of maps and such.’

‘Then it was wise that they named me so, wasn’t it? Clever parents.’

‘What did Hood command of you, Cartographer?’

‘Well, he said “Come” and nothing more. It wasn’t a command to create confusion, or arguments regarding interpretation. A simple command. Even dogs understand it, I believe. Dogs and sharks. I have found seventeen species of shellfish on this beach. Proof that the world is round.’

Another nut thudded in the sand.

‘We are perturbing this island with our presence,’ said the cartographer. ‘The trees are so angry they’re trying to kill us. Of course, I am already dead.’ He climbed to his feet, bits falling away here and there, and brushed sand and skin from his hands. ‘Can we go now?’

‘Yes,’ said Master Quell, though his eyes were still a little wild. ‘We’re going back to Hood’s realm and we’re happy to take you with us.’

‘Oh, no, I’m not going back there. It’s not time.’

‘Yes it is and yes you are,’ said Master Quell.

‘No it isn’t and no I’m not. Hood issued a second command, one just to me. He said “Go” and so I did. It’s not time. Until it is, I’m staying with you.’

‘Everyone who rides the carriage,’ Quell said in a growl, ‘has to work for the privilege.’

‘Yes, and I have begun.’ And he gestured down at the coconut pyramids. ‘You have netting bundled to the sides of the carriage, presumably to hold people on board. If we are to cross water, then we should place these nuts within said net shy;ting. As flotation devices, in case someone is washed overboard.’ He made a heav shy;ing motion with his emaciated arms. ‘With a line attached for retrieval.’

‘That might work,’ said Gruntle.

‘Gods below,’ Master Quell muttered. ‘Fine, I’m not arguing with a dead man. Gruntle, draw your weapons. We’re going now.’

‘My weapons?’

‘Just in case. And now, no more damned talking back!’

Quell fashioned a portal into Hood’s warren that was but a thin, elongated slice, like a parting of curtains, from which cool lifeless breath gusted out, sweep shy;ing the sand into the air. Eyes stinging, Gruntle glanced back just before follow shy;ing the mage into the rent. And saw Amby and Jula wave.

They emerged on the summit of a hill, one of a long spine of hills, each one so similar to the next that they might he enormous barrows although why there would he barrows in the realm of death Gruntle could not imagine.

In the valley before them the broad basin was a solid river of grey figures, tens of thousands on the march. Ragged pennons hung from standards as if impervious to the moaning wind. Weapons glinted in muted flashes.

‘Gods below,’ muttered Quell. ‘He’s assembling the entire host.’

‘Looks that way,’ agreed Gruntle, feeling like an idiot with his cutlasses in his hands. He slid them back into the underslung scabbards. ‘Do we make our way down?’

‘I’d rather not.’

‘Good. Seen enough? Can we go now, Master Quell?’

‘Look, a rider approaches.’

The horse was clearly as dead as the man who rode it, gaunt and withered, mot shy;tled where hair had worn off. Both wore armour, boiled leather tarnished and cracked, flapping on frayed leather thongs as they climbed the slope. A ragged cape lifted like a tattered wing behind the warrior. As they drew closer, Gruntle swore under his breath. ‘He’s wearing a mask — he’s a damned Seguleh!’ And he reached for his weapons-

‘Gods’ breath, Gruntle, don’t do that!’

It was a struggle to lower his arms. Gruntle’s blood felt hot as fire in his veins — the beast within him wanted to awaken, to show hackles lifted and fangs bared. The beast wanted to challenge this. . thing. Trembling, he made no move as the rider drove his horse over the crest a dozen paces to their right, sawing the reins and wheeling the beast round to face them.

‘Now this is living!’ the Seguleh roared, tilting his head back to loose a manic laugh. Then he leaned forward on the saddle and cocked his head, long filthy hair swinging like ropes. ‘Well,’ he amended in an amused rumble, ‘not quite. But close enough. Close enough. Tell me, mortals, do you like my army? I do. Did you know the one thing a commander must battle against — more than any enemy across the plain, more than any personal crisis of will or confidence, more than unkind weather, broken supply chains, plague and all the rest? Do you know what a commander wages eternal war with, my friends? I will tell you. The true enemy is fear. The fear that haunts every soldier, that haunts even the beasts they ride.’ He lifted a gauntleted hand and waved to the valley below. ‘But not with this army! Oh, no. Fear belongs to the living, after all.’

‘As with the T’lan Imass,’ said Gruntle.

The darkness within the mask’s elongated eye-holes seemed to glitter as the Seguleh fixed his attention on Gruntle. ‘Trake’s cub. Now, wouldn’t you like to cross blades with me?’ A low laugh. ‘Yes, as with the T’lan Imass. Is it any won shy;der the Jaghut recoiled?’

Master Quell cleared his throat. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘what need has Hood for an army? Will he now wage war against the living?’

‘If only,’ the Seguleh replied in a grunt. ‘You don’t belong here — and if you drag that infernal carriage of yours back here any time soon, I will seek you out myself. And then Trake’s spitting kitten here can fulfil his desperate desire, hah!’ He twisted in his saddle. Other riders were approaching. ‘Look at them. My watchdogs. “Be reasonable”, indeed. Have I chopped these two interlopers to pieces? I have not. Restraint has been shown.’ He faced Gruntle and Quell once more. ‘You will confirm this, yes?’

‘Beyond you goading Gruntle here,’ Quell said, ‘yes, I suppose we can.’

‘It was a jest!’ the Seguleh shouted.

‘It was a threat,’ Quell corrected, and Gruntle was impressed by the man’s sud shy;den courage.

The Seguleh tilted his head, as if he too was casting new measure upon the mage. ‘Oh, trundle your wagon wherever you like, then, see if I care.’

Three riders mounted the summit and, slowing their horses to a walk, drew up to where waited the Seguleh, who now sat slumped like a browbeaten bully.

Gruntle started, took an involuntary step forward. ‘Toc Anaster?’

The one-eyed soldier’s smile was strained. ‘Hello, old friend. I am sorry. There may come a time for this, but it is not now.’

Gruntle edged back, blunted by Toc Anaster’s cold — even harsh — tone. ‘I–I did not know.’

‘It was a messy death. My memories remain all too sharp. Gruntle, deliver this message to your god: not long now.’

Gruntle scowled. ‘Too cryptic. If you want me to pass on your words, you will have to do better than that.’

Toc Anaster’s single eye — terrifying in its lifelessness — shifted away.

‘He cannot,’ said the middle horseman, and there was something familiar about the face behind the helm’s cheekguards. ‘I remember you from Capustan. Gruntle, chosen servant of Treach. Your god is confused, but it must choose, and soon.’

Gruntle shrugged. ‘There is no point in bringing all this to me. Trake and me, we’re not really on speaking terms. I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t even want it-’

‘Hah!’ barked the Seguleh, twisting round to face the middle rider. ‘Hear that, Iskar Jarak? Let me kill him!’

Iskar Jarak? I seem to recall he had a different name. One of those odd ones, common to the Malazan soldiery — what was it now?

‘Save your wrath for Skinner,’ Iskar Jarak calmly replied.

‘Skinner!’ roared the Seguleh, savagely wheeling his horse round. ‘Where is he, then? I’d forgotten! Hood, you bastard — you made me forget! Where is he?’ He faced the three riders. ‘Does Toc know? Brukhalian, you? Someone tell me where he’s hiding!’

‘Who knows?’ said Iskar Jarak. ‘But there is one thing for certain.’

‘What?’ demanded the Seguleh.

‘Skinner is not here on this hill.’

‘Bah!’ The Seguleh drove spurs into his horse’s senseless flanks. The animal surged forward anyway, plunging off the hilltop and raging downslope like an av shy;alanche.

Soft laughter from Brukhalian, and Gruntle saw that even Toc was grinning — though he still would not meet his eyes. That death must have been terrible indeed, as if the world had but one answer, one way of ending things, and whatever lessons could be gleaned from that did not ease the spirit. The notion left him feeling morose.

It was a common curse to feel unclean, but that curse would be unbearable if no cleansing awaited one, if not at the moment of dying, then afterwards. Look shy;ing upon these animated corpses, Gruntle saw nothing of redemption, nothing purged — guilt, shame, regrets and grief, they all swirled about these figures like a noxious cloud.

‘If getting killed lands me with you lot,’ he said, ‘I’d rather do without.’

The one named Iskar Jarak leaned wearily over the large Seven Cities saddle horn. ‘I sympathize, truly. Tell me, do you think we’ve all earned our rest?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘You have lost all your followers.’

‘I have.’ Gruntle saw that Toc Anaster was now watching him, fixed, sharp as a dagger point.

‘They are not here.’

He frowned at Iskar Jarak. ‘And they should be, I suppose?’

Brukhalian finally spoke, ‘It is just that. We are no longer so sure.’

‘Stay out of Hood’s realm,’ said Toc Anaster. ‘The gate is. . closed.’

Master Quell started. ‘Closed? But that’s ridiculous! Does Hood now turn the dead away?’

Toc’s single eye held on Gruntle. ‘The borders are sealed to the living. There will be sentinels. Patrols. Intrusions will not be tolerated. Where we march you can’t go. Not now, perhaps never. Stay away, until the choice is taken from you. Stay away.’

And Gruntle saw then, finally, the anguish that gripped Toc Anaster, the bone-deep fear and dread. He saw how the man’s warning was in truth a cry to a friend, from one already lost, already doomed. Save yourself. Just do that, and it will all be worth it — all we must do, the war we must seek. Damn you, Gruntle, give all this meaning.

Quell must have sensed something of these fierce undercurrents, for he then bowed to the three riders. ‘I shall deliver your message. To all the pilots of the Trygalle Trade Guild.’

The ground seemed to shift uneasily beneath Gruntle’s boots.

‘And now you had better leave,’ said Brukhalian.

The hill groaned — and what Gruntle had imagined as some internal vertigo was now revealed as a real quaking of the earth.

Master Quell’s eyes were wide and he held his hands out to the sides to stay balanced.

At the far end of the range of hills, a massive eruption thundered, lifting earth and stones skyward. From the ruptured mound something rose, clawing free, sin shy;uous neck and gaping, snapping jaws, wings spreading wide-

The hill shivered beneath them.

The three riders had wheeled their horses and were now barrelling down the slope.

‘Quell!’

‘A moment, damn you!’

Another hill exploded.

Damned barrows all right! Holding dead dragons! ‘Hurry-’

‘Be quiet!’

The portal that split open was ragged, edges rippling as if caught in a storm.

The hill to their right burst its flanks. A massive wedge-shaped head scythed in their direction, gleaming bone and shreds of desiccated skin-

‘Quell!’

‘Go! I need to-’

The dragon heaved up from cascading earth, forelimbs tearing into the ground. The leviathan was coming for them.

No — it’s coming for the portal — Gruntle grasped Master Quell and dragged him towards the rent. The mage struggled, shrieking — but whatever he sought to say was lost in the deafening hiss from the dragon as it lurched forward. The head snapped closer, jaws wide — and Gruntle, with Quell in his arms, threw himself back, plunging into the portal-

They emerged at twice the height of a man above the sandy beach, plummet shy;ing downward to thump heavily in a tangle of limbs.

Shouts from the others-

As the undead dragon tore through the rent with a piercing cry of triumph, head, neck, forelimbs and shoulders, then one wing cracked out, spreading wide in an enormous torn sail shedding dirt. The second wing whipped into view-

Master Quell was screaming, weaving frantic words of power, panic driving his voice ever higher.

The monstrosity shivered out like an unholy birth, lunged skyward above the island. Stones rained down in clouds. As the tattered tip of its long tail slithered free, the rent snapped shut.

Lying half in the water, half on hard-packed sand, Gruntle stared up as the creature winged away, still shedding dust.

Shareholder Faint arrived, falling to her knees beside them. She was glaring at Master Quell who was slowly sitting up, a stunned look on his face.

‘You damned fool,’ she snarled, ‘why didn’t you throw a damned harness on that thing? We just lost our way off this damned island!’

Gruntle stared at her. Insane. They are all insane.

There was a tension in his stance that she had not seen before. He faced east, across the vast sweeping landscape of the Dwelling Plain. Samar Dev gave the tea another stir then hooked the pot off the coals and set it to one side. She shot Karsa Orlong a look, but the Toblakai was busy retying the leather strings of one of his moccasins, aided in some mysterious way by his tongue which had curled into view from the corner of his mouth — the gesture was so childlike she wondered if he wasn’t mocking her, aware as always that she was studying him.

Havok cantered into view from a nearby basin, his dawn hunt at an end. The other horses shifted nervously as the huge beast drew closer with head held high as if to show off the blood glistening on his muzzle.

‘We need to find water today,’ Samar Dev said, pouring out the tea.

‘So we will,’ Karsa replied, standing now to test the tightness of the moccasin. Then he reached beneath his trousers to make some adjustments.

‘Reminding yourself it’s there?’ she asked. ‘Here’s your tea. Don’t gulp.’

He took the cup from her. ‘I know it’s there,’ he said. ‘I was just reminding you.’

‘Hood’s breath,’ she said, and then stopped as Traveller seemed to flinch.

He turned to face them, his eyes clouded, far away. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Spitting something out.’

Samar Dev frowned. ‘Yes what?’

His gaze cleared, flitted briefly to her and then away again. ‘Something is hap shy;pening,’ he said, walking over to pick up the tin cup. He looked down into the brew for a moment, then sipped.

‘Something is always happening,’ Karsa said easily. ‘It’s why misery gets no rest. ‘The witch says we need water — we can follow yon valley, at least for a time, since it wends northerly.’

‘The river that made it has been dead ten thousand years, Toblakai. But yes, the direction suits us well enough.’

‘The valley remembers.’

Samar Dev scowled at Karsa. The warrior was getting more cryptic by the day, as if he was being overtaken by something of this land’s ambivalence. For the Dwelling Plain was ill named. Vast stretches of. . nothing. Animal tracks but no animals. The only birds in the sky were those vultures that daily tracked them, wheeling specks of patience. Yet Havok had found prey.

The Dwelling Plain was a living secret, its language obscure and wont to drift like waves of heat. Even Traveller seemed uneasy with this place.

She drained the last of her tea and rose. ‘I believe this land was cursed once, long ago.’

‘Curses are immortal,’ said Karsa in a dismissive grunt.

‘Will you stop that?’

‘What? I am telling you what I sense. The curse does not die. It persists.’

Traveller said, ‘I do not think it was a curse. What we are feeling is the land’s memory.’

‘A grim memory, then.’

‘Yes, Samar Dev,’ agreed Traveller. ‘Here, life comes to fail. Beasts too few to breed. Outcasts from villages and cities. Even the caravan tracks seem to wander half lost — none are used with any consistency, because the sources of water are infrequent, elusive.’

‘Or they want to keep bandits guessing.’

‘I have seen no old camps,’ Traveller pointed out. ‘There are no bandits here, I think.’

‘We need to find water.’

‘So you said,’ Karsa said, with an infuriating grin.

‘Why not clean up the breakfast leavings, Toblakai. Astonish me by being use shy;ful.’ She walked over to her horse, collecting the saddle on the way. She could draw a dagger, she could let slip some of her lifeblood, could reach down into this dry earth and see what was there to be seen. Or she could keep her back turned, her self closed in. The two notions warred with each other. Curiosity and trepi shy;dation.

She swung the saddle on to the horse’s broad back, adjusted the girth straps and then waited for the animal to release its held breath. Nothing likes to be bound. Not the living, perhaps not the dead. Once, she might have asked Karsa about that, if only to confirm what she already knew — but he had divested him shy;self of that mass of souls trailing in his wake. Somehow, the day he killed the Em shy;peror. Oh, two remained, there in that horrid sword of his.

And perhaps that was what was different about him, she realized. Liberation. But then, has he not already begun collecting more? She cinched the strap then half turned to regard the giant warrior, who was using sand to scrub the black shy;ened pan on which she’d cooked knee-root, challenging the pernicious crust with a belligerent scowl. No, she could sense nothing — not as drawn in as she’d made herself. Thus, sensing nothing didn’t mean anything, did it? Perhaps he had grown at ease with those victims dragged behind him everywhere he went.

A man like that should not smile. Should never smile, or laugh. He should be haunted.

But he was too damned arrogant to suffer haunting, a detail that invariably ir shy;ritated her, even as she was drawn to it (and was that not irritating in itself?).

‘You chew on him,’ said Traveller, who had come unseen to her side and now spoke quietly, ‘as a jackal does an antler. Not out of hunger so much as habit. He is not as complicated as you think, Samar Dev.’

‘Oh yes he is. More so, in fact.’

The man grimaced as he set about saddling his own horse. ‘A child dragged into the adult world, but no strength was lost. No weakening of purpose. He re shy;mains young enough,’ Traveller said, ‘to still be certain. Of his vision, of his be shy;liefs, of the way he thinks the world works.’

‘Oh, so precisely when will the world get round to kicking him good and hard between the legs?’

‘For some, it never does.’

She eyed him. ‘You are saying it does no good to rail against injustice.’

‘I am saying do not expect justice, Samar Dev. Not in this world. And not in the one to come.’

‘Then what drives you so, Traveller? What forces your every step, ever closer to whatever destiny waits for you?’

He was some time in answering, although she did not deceive herself into thinking that her words had struck something vulnerable. These men here with her, they were armoured in every way. He cinched the girth straps and dropped the sturrups. ‘We have an escort, Samar Dev.’

‘We do? The vultures?’

‘Well, yes, there are those, too. Great Ravens.’

At that she squinted skyward. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, but I was speaking of another escort.’

‘Oh, then who? And why doesn’t it show itself?’

Traveller swung himself astride his horse and gathered the reins. Karsa had completed packing the camp gear and was now bridling Havok. ‘I have no an shy;swers to those questions, Samar Dev. I do not presume to know the minds of Hounds of Shadow.’

She saw Karsa Orlong glance over at that, but there was nothing revealed in his expression beyond simple curiosity.

Gods, he drives me mad!

‘Do they hunt us?’ Karsa asked.

‘No,’ Traveller replied. ‘At least, not me, nor, I imagine, our witch here.’

Karsa mounted his Jhag horse. ‘Today,’ he announced, ‘I shall not ride with you. Instead, I shall find these Hounds of Shadow, for I wish to see them for myself. And if they in turn see me alone, then they may choose to make plain their desires.’

‘Now what is the point of that?’ demanded Samar Dev.

‘I have faced Hounds before,’ he said. ‘I am happy to invite them close, so they can smell the truth of that.’

‘There is no need,’ said Traveller. ‘Karsa Orlong, the Hounds began as my escort — one in truth — granted me by Shadowthrone. They are not interested in you, I am sure of it.’

Samar Dev rounded on him. ‘Then why did you suggest otherwise?’

He met her eyes and she saw him gritting his teeth, the muscles of his jaws binding. ‘You were right, Witch,’ he said, ‘you know this warrior better than I.’

Karsa snorted a laugh. ‘I will see you later.’

They watched him ride off.

Samar Dev wanted to spit — the tea had left her mouth dry, bitter. ‘He probably will at that,’ she muttered, ‘whether the Hounds like it or not.’

Traveller simply nodded.

Skintick knew precisely the day he died. The, final terrible battle waged on Drift Avalii, with four of his closest companions falling, each just beyond his reach, be shy;yond his own life which he would have sacrificed to take their place. And into the midst of the crumbling defence, Andarist had stepped forward, making of himself a lodestone to the attacking Tiste Edur.

The death of the man whom Skintick thought of as his father remained in his mind, like a scene painted by some chronicler of abject, pathetic moments. And in that sad, regretful face, he had seen all the kin who had fallen before, killed for no cause worth thinking about — or so it seemed at the time. The grey-skinned barbarians desired the throne — perhaps they were collecting such things, as if possession conferred a right, but what did it matter? These games were stupidity, every trophy an absurd icon symbolizing precisely nothing beyond the raging ego of the players.

Honourable souls had died for this, and, once the grief washed away, what was left but this building contempt for all of it? Defending this, fighting for that, win shy;ning in one moment only to lose in the next. Raw magic blistering flesh, javelins winging to thud into bodies, everything of value spilling out on to dusty cobbles and the ribbons of grass growing exuberant between them.

The things that died in him on that day would be deemed virtues by most. Duty had revealed its lie, shattering the sanctity of loyalty and honour. They’d fought for nothing. They could have retreated, holed up at the decrepit temple entrance, and simply waited for the arrival of the humans, first the assassins and then the one named Traveller and his followers. Traveller, who murdered everyone foolish enough to step into his path. Whose arrival made Andarist’s death — and the deaths of his friends — meaningless.

How Skintick hated that man. Competence was no gift when it arrived too late.

He no longer believed in honesty either. To be told the truth was to feel the shackles snap shut on one’s ankle. Truth was delivered with the expectation that it would force a single course of action — after all, how could one honourably turn away? Truth was used as a weapon, and all one could do in defence against such an assault was to throw up a wall of lies. Lies of acceptance, capitulation. Lies to oneself, too. That things mattered. That ideas had currency and symbols deserved the servitude of courageous fools. And that it all had meaning.

Nor was he a believer in courage. People relied on the bravery of others to reap whatever profits they imagined they had earned or deserved, but the blood spilled was never theirs, was it? No, it was clear now to Skintick. Virtues were lauded to ensure compliance, to wrap round raw, reprehensible servitude. To proclaim the sacrifice of others — each of whom stood in for those reaping the rewards and so were paid in suffering and pain.

So much for the majesty of patriotism.

He was having none of it, not any more, never again. And this was what made him dead now. And like anyone for whom nothing matters, he now found much of what he saw around him profoundly amusing. Snide commentary, derisive re shy;gard and an eye for the horror of true irony, these were the things he would now pursue.

Did Anomander Rake grieve for his dead brother? For Andarist, who had stood in his place? Did he spare a thought for his wretched spawn, so many of whom were now dead? Or was he now lolling fat and dissolute on whatever mockery he called his throne, reaping all the rewards of his brother’s final sacrifice? And that of my cousins? My closest friends, who each died to defend a possession so valu shy;able to you that it rots in an empty temple? Remind me to ask you that question when we finally meet.

Though he loved Nimander — indeed, loved them all in this pathetic band (save Clip, of course) — Skintick could not help but observe with silent hilarity the des shy;perate expectations of this journey’s fated end. They all sought safety and, no doubt, a pat on the head for services rendered. They all wanted to be told that their sacrifices had meaning, value, were worthy of pride. And Skintick knew that he alone would be able to see the disdain veiled in the eyes of the Son of Darkness, even as he spouted all the necessary platitudes, before sending them off to their small rooms in some forgotten wing of whatever palace Rake now occupied.

And then what, my dearest kin? Shunted out on to the streets to wander in the dusk, as the presence of others slowly prises our band apart, until all we once were become memories thick with dust, barely worthy of the occasional remi shy;niscence, some annual gathering in some tavern with a leaking roof, where we will see how we each have sagged with the years, and we’ll get drunk swapping tales we all know by heart, even as the edges grow blunt and all the colours bleed out.

Desra lying on her back, her legs spread wide, but the numbness inside can’t be pierced that way and she probably knows but habits never die, they just wear dis shy;guises. Nenanda will polish his weapons and armour every morning — we’ll see him clanking round guarding everything and nothing, his eyes mottled with verdi shy;gris and rust. Aranatha sits in an overgrown garden, mesmerized for ten years and counting by a lone blossom beneath a tree; do we not envy the bliss in her empty eyes? Kedeviss? Well, she will chronicle our despair, our sordid demise. Rounding us up for the night in the tavern will be her one task with any meaning — at least to her — and she will silently rail at our turgid, insipid uninterest.

Nimander, ah, Nimander, what waits for you? One night, your vision will clear. One deadly, devastating night. You will see the blood on your hands, dear vicious Phaed’s blood. And that of so many others, since you were the one we victimized by proclaiming you as our leader. And on that night, my friend, you will see that it was all for naught, and you will take your own life. A tower, a window ledge and a plummet down through the dark to achieve the incumbent poetic futility.

Skintick could not find himself in that future. He did not expect to complete this journey. He was not sure he even wanted to. The same chronicler who painted past scenes would paint the future ones, too. The same damned theme, reworked with all the obsessiveness of a visionary throttling the blind.

One thing was certain. He would permit no one to ever again abuse his virtues — even those few that remained, in their dishevelled state. They were not currency, not things to be measured, weighed against gold, gems, property or power. If the bastards wanted all that, they could sweat their own sweat and bleed their own blood to get it.

Take me as a knife and I will turn in your hand. I swear it.

‘You are smiling,’ Nimander observed. ‘It pleases me to see that alive and well.’

Skintick glanced at him. The legacy of Bastion remained in the stains of old blood beneath the salt that now caked moccasins and leggings. No one had both shy;ered cleaning their gear, so desperate was the need to leave that city. Something had changed in Nimander, however, beyond the horrors of saemenkelyk and the Dying God’s altar. As if his sense of purpose had taken a fresh beating, like a new seedling trampled underfoot. How many times, Skintick wondered, could Nimander suffer that, before some fundamental poison altered his very nature? The vision he had of Nimander’s final demise was dependent upon a certain sanctity of spirit remaining, something precious and rare that would drive him to that last act of despair. If it was already dead, or twisted malign, then Nimander’s fate would become truly unknown.

Has he found ambition? Is the poison of cynicism awakening in his belea shy;guered soul? This could change things, Skintick realized. He might become someone I could choose to follow — yes, down that nasty path and why not? Let someone else suffer for our gains, for a change. Topple them into the dirt and see how they like the sweet reversal.

Is he hard enough to play that game?

Am I hard enough to make use of him?

They had found a horse for Clip, but retained the wagon, at least for this jour shy;ney northward along the edge of the dying salt lake. Nenanda was seated once more on the raised bench, reins in one hand, switch in the other. Aranatha sat with her legs dangling off the end of the wagon, eyes on the row of broken teeth that was Bastion’s dwindling skyline, hazy and shimmering above the heat waves. Desra lounged in the wagon’s bed, dozing among the casks of water and bundles of dried goods. Kedeviss rode flank off to the right, almost thirty paces away now, her horse picking its way along the old beach with its withered drift shy;wood.

Clip rode far ahead, emphasizing his impatience. He’d not been much inter shy;ested in hearing the tale of their doings since his collapse at the village — a failing on his part (as he evidently saw the suggestion) that he refused to entertain, al shy;though this clearly left a mysterious and no doubt troubling gap in his memory. He was, if anything, even more evasive than he had been before, and more than once Skintick had caught suspicion in the warrior’s eyes when observing the rest of them. As if they had conspired to steal something from him, and had succeeded.

Skintick’s distrust of the bastard was growing. It wasn’t hard to hate Clip — absurdly easy, in fact — and such sentiments could well cloud his sense of the warrior with his endlessly spinning rings. Clip was, he now believed, one of those eager to abuse the virtues of others to achieve whatever private and entirely per shy;sonal victory he sought. And if the effort left a half-dozen contemptible youths dead in his wake, what of it?

He could not but see the bloodstains they now wore; could not but have no shy;ticed the notched and nicked weapons they took files to during rest stops. Their damaged armour. And dazed and groggy as he had been upon awakening in the al shy;tar chamber, he could not have been blind to the scores of dead — the veritable slaughterhouse they had left behind. And yet still Clip saw them as barely worth his regard, beyond that malicious suspicion as it slowly flowered into paranoia, and what might that lead him to do?

To us?

Yes, one more fear to stalk me now, though I am dead.

‘We will need to find a way through those mountains,’ Nimander said, squinting ahead.

‘God’s Walk, Clip called them. An astounding fount of unexpected knowledge, our grateful friend.’

‘Grateful? Ah, I see. Well, he wasn’t there in spirit, was he?’

‘No, too busy dancing from the spider’s bite.’

‘It does little good to try describing what happened,’ Nimander said. ‘To one who remains closed, words are thinner than webs, easily swept aside.’

‘We should have lied.’

Nimander looked over, brows lifting.

Skintick grinned. ‘Some wild tale of godly possession and insane fanatics eager to splash the world with their own blood. Us stumbling on to a path to paradise only to find we’re not welcome. Double-crossing a simpleton god who misunder shy;stood the notion of puppets — that they be made of followers, not himself. A tale of poisoned wine that was blood that was wine that was blood. Oh, and let’s not forget our glorious slaughter, that improbable collection of lucky swings and pokes and the infernal bad luck of our attackers. And then-’

‘Enough, Skin, please.’

‘Why did we bother, Nimander? Bother saving him?’

Nimander’s eyes remained on the distant mountains. ‘Aranatha says he is needed. Necessary.’

‘For what? And what would she know about it anyway?’

‘I wish I could answer those questions, Skin.’

‘I feel as if I am drowning in blood.’

Nimander nodded. ‘Yes. I feel the same. I think we all do.’

‘I don’t think Anomander Rake has it in him to throw us a rope.’

‘Probably not.’

This admission, so wise, shook Skintick. His fear was accurate — their leader had changed. Does he even now see clearly? Yet, if that is so, where is his de shy;spair? I do not understand-

‘It feels like,’ Nimander said, ‘dying inside. That’s what it feels like.’

‘Don’t say that, brother. Don’t.’

‘Why not?’

Only one of us can feel that way. Only one. I got there first, damn you! It’s mine! Abruptly, he barked a laugh. ‘No reason, in truth. No reason at all.’

‘You are acting strangely, Skin, did you know that?’

He shrugged. ‘We need to wash this blood off, Nimander.’

They rode on across the bleached salt flat. The day grew hotter.

Directly beneath the floor of the terondai, where blazed the black sun, a vast chamber had been carved out of the bedrock. When Anomander Rake, Lord of Black Coral and Son of Darkness, wearied of the view from the keep’s tower and other high vantage points, he descended into this womb in the rock, where dark shy;ness remained absolute.

Such moments were rare, and even rarer that the Lord should summon Endest Silann to meet him in the subterranean cavern. His legs still stiff from the long trek back to the city, the castellan made his way down the steep, winding stairs, until at last he reached the base. Enormous doors sealed the cave, scaled in beaten silver in patterns suggesting the skin of dragons. Tarnished black, barring the gleam of the scales’ edges, the barrier was barely visible to Endest Silann’s failing eyes, and when he reached for the heavy latch he was forced to grope for a mo shy;ment before his hand settled on the silver bar.

Cold air gusted around him as he pulled one of the doors open. A smell of raw stone, acrid and damp, the sound of trickling water. He saw his Lord standing near the centre, where an obelisk rose like a stalagmite from the floor. This basalt edifice was carved square at the base, tapering to an apex at twice the height of a Tiste Andii. On the side facing Rake there was an indent, moulded to match the sword he carried on his back.

‘It is not often,’ said Anomander as Endest approached, ‘that I feel the need to ease the burden of Dragnipur.’

‘Sire.’

He watched as Anomander unsheathed the dread sword and set it into the indentation. At once the obelisk began sweating, thick, glistening beads studding the smoothed surface, then racing down the sides. Something like thunder groaned through the stone underfoot.

Endest Silann sighed, leaned on his walking stick. ‘The stone, Lord, cannot long withstand that burden.’ Yet you can, and this so few understand, so few comprehend at all.

‘A few moments more,’ Anomander Rake murmured.

‘Sire, that was not a chastisement.’

A brief smile. ‘But it was, old friend, and a wise one. Stone knows its own weight, and the limits of what it can sustain. Be assured, I will not long abuse its generosity.’

Endest Silann looked round, drawing in the sweet darkness, so pure, so perfect. It is almost as we once knew. Kharkanas, before she embraced Light, before the ones born of ashes lifted themselves up and took swords in hand. Scabandari. Ilgast Rend, Halyd Bahann. Esthala who dreamed of peace. Kagamandra Tulas Shorn, who did not.

‘I have sent Spinnock Durav away.’

‘Yes, I heard. Sire, I cannot-’

‘I am afraid you have no choice, Endest.’

‘The High Priestess-’

‘Understands, and she will do all she can.’

So long ago now. Lord, your patience beggars that of gods.

‘There was no purpose worthy enough to breathe life into our people, was there? It is not history that so assialled us, although many see it that way. The less shy;sons of futility can be gathered by anyone with a mind so inclined. Every triumph hollow, every glory revealed at last to be ephemeral. But none of that gives cause to wither the spirit. Damage it, perhaps, yes, but the road we have walked down stands high above such things. Do you understand that, Endest?’

‘I think I do, sire.’

‘We were murdered by compromises. No, not those that followed the arrival of Light. Not those born of Shadow. These things were inevitable. They were, by their very nature, necessary.’

‘Yes.’

‘The day we accepted her turning away, Endest, was the day we ran the knives across our own throats.’ Anomander Rake paused, and then said, ‘We are an ancient, stubborn people.’ He faced Endest Silann. ‘See how long it has taken to bleed out?’

And then, to complete the unruly triumvirate, there was the brood of Osserc. Menandore, and that mess of mixed bloods to follow: Sheltatha Lore, Sukul Ankhadu, Brevith Dreda. The others, the ones outside all of that, how they watched on, bemused, brows darkening with anger. Draconus, you thought you could give answer to all of us. You were wrong.

Were you wrong? He found himself staring at Dragnipur, catching the faintest echo of rumbling wheels, the muted cries of the suffering, and there, yes, that seething storm of chaos drawing every closer.

‘Without the blood of dragons,’ Anomander Rake went on, ‘we would all be dust, scattered on the winds, drifting between the stars themselves. Yes, others might see it differently, but that cold fever, so sudden in our veins, so fierce in our minds — the chaos, Endest — gave us the strength to persist, to cease fearing change, to accept all that was unknown and unknowable. And this is why you chose to follow us, each in our time, our place.’

The chaos in you, yes, a fire on the promontory, a beacon piercing the pro shy;found entropy we saw all around us. And yet, so few of you proved worthy of our allegiance. So few, Lord, and fewer with each generation, until now here you stand, virtually alone.

Tears were streaming from his eyes now, weeping as did the obelisk, as did the stone on all sides. The one who was worth it. The only one.

‘You will find the strength within you, Endest Silann. Of that I have no doubt.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘As shall I.’ And with that the Son of Darkness reached out, reclaimed the sword Dragnipur. With familiar ease he slid the weapon into the scabbard on his back. He faced Endest and smiled as if the burden he had just accepted yet again could not drive others to their knees — gods, ascendants, the proud and the arrogant, all to their knees. Rake’s legs did not buckle, did not even so much as tremble. He stood tall, unbowed, and in the smile he offered Endest Silann there was a certainty of purpose, so silent, so indomitable, so utterly appalling that Endest felt his heart clench, as if moments from rupturing.

And his Lord stepped close then, and with one hand brushed the wetness from one check.

He could see her dancing out there, amidst dust devils and shards of frost-skinned rock, through shafts of blistering sunlight and hazy swirls of spinning snow. Blood still streamed from his wounds and it seemed that would never cease — that this crimson flow debouched from some eternal river, and the blood was no longer his own, but that of the god standing beside him. It was an odd notion, yet it felt truthful even though he dared not ask the Redeemer, dared not hear the confirmation from the god’s mouth.

The crazed weather whirled on out on that plain, and she moved through it ef shy;fortlessly, round and round, this way and that, but not yet drawing closer, not yet coming for him once more.

‘Why does she wait?’ he asked. ‘She must see that I cannot withstand another assault, that I will surely fall.’

‘She would if she could,’ the Redeemer replied.

‘What holds her back?’

‘Wounds must heal, memories of pain fade.’

Seerdomin rubbed at the grit on his face. There had been dirty rain, gusting up to where they stood, but it had since wandered back down into the basin, a rotted brown curtain dragged aimlessly away.

‘Sometimes,’ said the Redeemer, ‘things leak through.’

Seerdomin grunted, then asked, ‘From where?’

‘Lives of the T’lan. So much was unleashed, so much forgotten only to be lived once again. There was anguish. There was. . glory.’

He had not been there to witness that moment. The kneeling of the T’lan Imass. Such a thing was hard to imagine, yet it sent shivers through him none the less. A moment to shake every belief, when the world drew breath and. . held it.

‘Did you know what to expect?’

‘They humbled me,’ said the Redeemer.

I suspect it was you who humbled them, Itkovian — yes, a mortal back then, just a mortal. No, they were the ones struck mute, filled with awe and wonder. I do not know how I know that, but I do.

. . things leak through.

‘The madness of the weather comes from the memories of the T’lan Imass? Can you not summon them? Draw them up in ranks before you? Do you not think they would proudly accept such a thing? A way to pay you back for what you did? Redeemer, summon the spirits of the T’lan Imass — and that woman be shy;low will never reach you.’

‘I cannot. I will not. Yes, they would accept that notion. Reciprocity. But I will not. What I gave I gave freely, a gift, not an exchange. Oh, they forced one upon me, at the end, but it was modest enough — or I was weak enough then not to re shy;sist it.’

‘If you will not accept service,’ Speerdomin then said, ‘why do you seek it from me?’

‘You are free to choose,’ the Redeemer replied. ‘Defend me, or step aside and see me fall.’

‘That’s hardly a choice!’

‘True. Such things rarely are. I would send you back, but your body no longer functions. It lies on a heap of rubbish behind the pilgrim camp. Scavengers have fed, for your flesh is not poisoned as is that of the others thus disposed.’

Seerdomin grimaced, fixing eyes once more upon the High Priestess dancing on the plain. ‘Thank you for the grisly details. If I stand aside — if I watch you die — then what will happen to me? To my spirit?’

‘I do not know. If I am able, I will grieve for you then, as much as I do for the souls of all those I now hold within me.’

Seerdomin slowly turned and studied the god. ‘If she takes you — all those T’lan Imass-’

‘Will be helpless. They will succumb. All who are within me will succumb.’

‘So much for standing aside.’

‘Seerdomin. Segda Travos, you are not responsible for their fate. I am. This er shy;ror is mine. I will not judge you harshly should you choose to yield.’

‘Error. What error?’

‘I am. . defenceless. You sensed that from the very beginning — when you came to the barrow and there knelt, honouring me with your companionship. I possess no provision for judgement. My embrace is refused no one.’

‘Then change that, damn you!’

‘I am trying.’

Seerdomin glared at the god, who now offered a faint smile. After a moment, Seerdomin hissed and stepped back. ‘You ask this of me? Are you mad? I am not one of your pilgrims! Not one of your mob of would-be priests and priestesses! I do not worship you!’

‘Precisely, Segda Travos. It is the curse of believers that they seek to second-guess the one they claim to worship.’

‘In your silence what choice do they have?’

The Redeemer’s smile broadened. ‘Every choice in the world, my friend.’

Countless paths, a single place sought by all. If she could be bothered, she could think on the innumerable generations — all that rose to stand with thoughts reach shy;ing into the night sky, or plunging into the mesmerizing flames of the campfire — the hunger did not change. The soul lunged, the soul crawled, the soul scraped and dragged and pitched headlong, and in the place it desired — needed — there was this: the bliss of certainty.

Conviction like armour, eyes shining like swords; oh, the bright glory that was the end to every question, every doubt. Shadows vanished, the world raged sudden white and black. Evil dripped with slime and the virtuous stood tall as giants. Compassion could be partitioned, meted out only to the truly deserving — the innocent and the blessed. As for all the rest, they could burn, for they deserved no less.

She danced like truth unleashed. The beauty of simplicity flowed pure and sweet through her limbs, rode the ebb and sweep of her sighing breath. All those agonizing uncertainties were gone, every doubt obliterated by the gift of saemenkelyk.

She had found the shape of the world, every edge clear and sharp and undeniable. Her thoughts could dance through it almost effortlessly, evading snags and tears, not once touching raw surfaces that might scrape, that might make her flinch.

The bliss of certainty delivered another gift. She saw before her a universe transformed, one where contradictions could be rightfully ignored, where hypocrisy did not exist, where to serve the truth in oneself permitted easy denial of any shy;thing that did not fit.

The minuscule mote of awareness that hid within her, like a snail flinching into its shell, was able to give shape to this transformation, well recognizing it as gen shy;uine revelation, the thing she had been seeking all along — yet in the wrong place.

Salind understood now that the Redeemer was a child god, innocent, yes, but not in a good way. The Redeemer possessed no certainty in himself. He was not all-seeing, but blind. From a distance the two might appear identical, there in that wide embrace, the waiting arms, the undefended openness. He forgave all because he could not see difference, could not even sense who was deserving and who was not.

Saemenkelyk brought an end to ambiguity. It divided the world cleanly, ab shy;solutely.

She must give that to him. It would be her gift — the greatest gift imaginable — to her beloved god. An end to his ambivalence, his ignorance, his helplessness.

Soon, the time would come when she would once again seek him. The pa shy;thetic mortal soul standing in her way would not frustrate her the next time she found her weapons — no, her righteous blades would cut and slash him to pieces.

The thought made her fling her arms into the air as she whirled. Such joy!

She had a gift. It was her duty to deliver it.

Whether you like it or not.

No, he could not refuse. If he did, why, she would have to kill him.

Bone white, the enormous beasts stood on the ridge, side on, their heads turned to watch Karsa Orlong as he cantered Havok ever closer. He sensed his horse tensing beneath him, saw the ears flick a moment before he became aware that he was being flanked by more Hounds — these ones darker, heavier, short-haired except shy;ing one that reminded him of the wolves of his homeland, that tracked him with amber eyes.

‘So,’ Karsa murmured, ‘these are the Hounds of Shadow. You would play games with me, then? Try for me, and when we’re done few of you will leave this place, and none will be free of wounds, this I promise you. Havok, see the black one in the high grasses? Thinks to hide from us.’ He grunted a laugh. ‘The others will feint, but that black one will lead the true charge. My sword shall tap her nose first.’

The two white beasts parted, one trotting a dozen or so paces along the ridge the other turning round and doing the same in the opposite direction in the gap now between them, shadows swirled like a dust-devil.

Karsa could feel a surge of battle lust within him, his skin prickling beneath the fixed attention of seven savage beasts, yet he held his gaze on that smudge of gloom, where two figures were now visible. Men, one bare-headed and the other hooded and leaning crooked over a knobby cane.

The Hounds to either side maintained their distance, close enough for a swift charge but not so close as to drive Havok into a rage. Karsa reined in six paces from the strangers and eyed them speculatively.

The bare-headed one was plainly featured, pale as if unfamiliar with sunlight, his dark hair straight and loose, almost ragged. His eyes shifted colour in the sunlight, blue to grey, to green and perhaps even brown, a cascade of indecision that matched his expression as he in turn studied the Toblakai.

The first gesture came from the hooded one with the hidden face, a lifting of the cane in a half-hearted waver. ‘Nice horse,’ he said.

‘Easier to ride than a dog,’ Karsa replied.

A snort from the dark-haired man.

‘This one,’ said the hooded man, ‘resists sorcery, Cotillion. Though his blood is old, I wonder, will all mortals one day be like him? An end to miracles. Noth shy;ing but dull, banal existence, nothing but mundane absence of wonder.’ The cane jabbed. ‘A world of bureaucrats. Mealy-minded, sour-faced and miserable as a re shy;union of clerks. In such a world, Cotillion, not even the gods will visit. Except in pilgrimage to depression.’

‘Quaintly philosophical of you, Shadowthrone,’ replied the one named Cotil shy;lion. ‘But is this one really the right audience? I can almost smell the bear grease from here.’

‘That’s Lock,’ said Shadowthrone. ‘He was rolling in something a while ago.’

Karsa leaned forward on the strange saddle that Samar Dev had had fitted for Havok back in Letherii. ‘If I am a clerk, then one prophecy will prove true.’

‘Oh, and which one would that be?’ Cotillion asked, seemingly amused that Karsa was capable of speech.

‘The tyranny of the number counters will be a bloody one.’

Shadowthrone wheezed laughter, then coughed into the silence of the others and said, ‘Hmmm.’

Cotillion’s eyes had narrowed. ‘In Darujihstan, a temple awaits you, Toblakai. A crown and a throne for the taking.’

Karsa scowled. ‘Not more of that shit. I told the Crippled God I wasn’t inter shy;ested. I’m still not. My destiny belongs to me and none other.’

‘Oh,’ said Shadowthrone, cane wavering about once again, like a headless snake, ‘we’re not encouraging you to take it. Far from it. You on that throne would be. . distressing. But he will drive you, Toblakai, the way hunters drive a man-eating lion. Straight into the spike-filled pit.’

‘A smart lion knows when to turn,’ Karsa said. ‘Watch as the hunters scatter.’

‘It is because we understand you, Toblakai, that we do not set the Hounds upon you. You bear your destiny like a standard, a grisly one, true, but then, its only distinction is in being obvious. Did you know that we too left civilization behind? The scribblers were closing in on all sides, you see. The clerks with their purple tongues and darting eyes, their shuffling feet and sloped shoulders, their bloodless lists. Oh, measure it all out! Acceptable levels of misery and suffering!’ The cane swung down, thumped hard on the ground. ‘Acceptable? Who the fuck says any level is acceptable? What sort of mind thinks that?’

Karsa grinned. ‘Why, a civilized one.’

‘Indeed!’ Shadowthrone turned to Cotillion. ‘And you doubted this one!’

Cotillion grimaced. ‘I stand corrected, Shadowthrone. If the Crippled God has not yet learned his lesson with this warrior, more lessons are bound to follow. We can leave him to them. And leave this Toblakai, too.’

‘Barring one detail,’ Shadowthrone said in a rasp. ‘Toblakai, heed this warning, if you value that destiny you would seek for yourself. Do not stand in Traveller’s path. Ever.’

Karsa’s grin broadened. ‘We are agreed, he and I.’

‘You are?’

‘I will not stand in his path, and he will not stand in mine.’

Shadowthrone and Cotillion were silent then, considering.

Leaning back, Karsa collected the lone rein. Havok lifted his head, nostrils flar shy;ing. I killed two Deragoth,’ Karsa said.

‘We know,’ said Cotillion.

‘Their arrogance was their soft underbelly. Easy to reach. Easy to plunge in my hands. I killed them because they thought me weak.’

Cotillion’s expression grew mocking. ‘Speaking of arrogance. .’

I was speaking,’ said Karsa as he swung Havok round, ‘of lessons.’ Then he twisted in the saddle. ‘You laugh at those coming to the Crippled God. Perhaps one day I will laugh at those coming to you.’

Cotillion and Shadowthrone, with the Hounds gathering close, watched the To shy;blakai ride away on his Jhag horse.

A thump of the cane. ‘Did you sense the ones in his sword?’

Cotillion nodded.

‘They were. .’ Shadowthrone seemed to struggle with the next word, ‘. . proud.’

And again, Cotillion could do little more than nod.

Abruptly, Shadowthrone giggled, the sound making the two new Hounds flinch — a detail he seemed not to notice. ‘Oh,’ he crooned, ‘all those poor clerks!’

‘Is that a cloud on the horizon?’

At Reccanto Ilk’s query, Mappo glanced up and followed the man’s squinting gaze. He rose suddenly. ‘That’s more than a cloud,’ he said.

Sweetest Sufferance, sitting nearby, grunted and wheezed herself upright, brushing sand from her ample behind. ‘Master Qu — ellll!’ she sang.

Mappo watched as the crew started scrabbling, checking the leather straps and fastening rings and clasps dangling from the carriage. The horses shifted about, sud shy;denly restless, eyes rolling and ears flattening. Gruntle came up to stand beside the Troll. “That’s one ugly storm,’ he said, ‘and it looks to be bearing down right on us,’

‘These people baffle me,’ Mappo admitted. ‘We are about to get obliterated, and they look. . excited.’

‘They are mad, Mappo.’ He eyed the Trell for a long moment, then said, ‘You must be desperate to have hired this mob.’

‘Why is it,’ Mappo asked, ‘that Master Quell seemed indifferent to unleashing an undead dragon into this world?’

‘Well, hardly indifferent. He said oops! At least, I think that’s what I heard, but perhaps that was but my imagination. This Trygalle Guild. . these carriages, they must be dragging things across realms all the time Look at yon walking corpse.’

They did so, observing in silence as the desiccated figure, holding a collection of cast-off straps and rope, stood speculatively eyeing one of the carriage’s spoked wheels.

The wind freshened suddenly, cooler, strangely charged.

One of the horses shrilled and began stamping the sand. After a moment the others caught the same feverish anxiety. The carriage rocked, edged forward. Master Quell was helping Precious Thimble through the door, hastening things at the end with a hard shove to her backside. He then looked round, eyes slightly wild, until he spied Mappo.

‘Inside you go, good sir! We’re about to leave!’

‘Not a moment too soon,’ Gruntle said.

Mappo set out for the carriage, then paused and turned to Gruntle. ‘Please, be careful.’

‘I will, as soon as I figure out what’s about to happen. Quell! What warren are we using now? And hadn’t you better get the way through opened?’

Quell stared at him. ‘Get on the damned carriage!’

‘Fine, but tell me-’

‘You idiot!’ shouted Faint from where she sat on the roof. ‘Don’t you get it?’ And she jabbed a finger at the churning black cloud now almost towering over them. ‘That’s our ride!’

‘But — wait — how-’

‘Climb aboard, you oaf, or drown!’

‘Climb aboard,’ shrieked Sweetest Sufferance, ‘and maybe drown anyway!’

Gruntle saw that the corpse had tied itself to the wheel.

Gods below, what am I doing here?

A roar exploded on the reef and Gruntle whirled round to see the gust front’s devastating arrival, a wall of thrashing, spume-crested water, rising, charging, lift shy;ing high to devour the entire island.

He lunged for the carriage. As he scrambled up the side of the carriage and fumbled for the lashing, Reccanto Ilk, squinting, asked, ‘Is it here yet?’

The horses began screaming in earnest.

And all at once, the shortsighted idiot had his answer.