The waking moment awaits us all upon a threshold or where the road turns if life is pulled, sparks like moths inward to this single sliver of time gleaming like sunlight on water, we will accrete into a mass made small, veined with fears and shot through with all that’s suddenly precious, and the now is swallowed, the weight of self a crushing immediacy, on this day, where the road turns, comes the waking moment.
– Winter Reflections, Corara of Drene
The ascent to the summit began where the Letherii-built road ended. With the river voicing its ceaseless roar fifteen paces to their left, the roughly shaped pavestones vanished beneath a black-stoned slide at the base of a moraine. Uprooted trees reached bent and twisted arms up through the rubble, jutting limbs from which hung root tendrils, dripping water. Swaths of forest climbed the mountainside to the north, on the other side of the river, and the ragged cliffs edging the tumbling wateron that side Were verdant with moss. The opposite mountain, flanking the trail, was a stark contrast, latticed with fissures, broken, gouged and mostly treeless. In the midst of this shattered facade shadows marked out odd regularities, of line and angle; and upon the trail itself, here and there, broad worn steps had been carved, eroded by flowing water and Centuries of footfalls.
Seren Pedac believed that a city had once occupied the entire mountainside, a vertical fortress carved into living stone. She could make out what she thought were large gaping windows, and possibly the fragmented ledges of balconies high up, hazy in the mists. Yet something-some-thing huge, terrible in its monstrosity-had impacted the entire side of the mountain, obliterating most of the city in a single blow. She could almost discern the outline of that collision, yet among the screes of rubble tracking down the sundered slopes the only visible stone belonged to the mountain itself.
They stood at the base of the trail. Seren watched the lifeless eyes of the Tiste Andii slowly scan upward.
‘Well?’ she asked.
Silchas Ruin shook his head. ‘Not from my people. K ‘Chain Che’Malle.’
‘A victim of your war?’
He glanced across at her, as if gauging the emotion behind her question, then said, ‘Most of the mountains from which the K’Chain Che’Malle carved their sky keeps are now beneath the waves, inundated following the collapse of Omtose Phellack. The cities are cut into the stone, although only in the very earliest versions are they us you see here-open to the air rather than buried within shapeless rock.’
‘An elaboration suggesting a sudden need for self-defence.’
He nodded.
Fear Sengar had moved past them and was beginning the ascent. After a moment Udinaas and Kettle followed.
Seren had prevailed in her insistence to leave the horses behind. In a clearing off to their right sat four wagons covered with tarps. It was clear that no such contrivance could manage this climb, and all transport from here on was by foot. As for the mass of weapons and armour the slavers had been conveying, either it would have been stashed here, awaiting a hauling crew, or the slaves would have been burdened like mules.
I have never made this particular crossing,’ Seren said, ‘although I have viewed this mountainside from a distance Even then, I thought I could see evidence of reshaping. I once asked Hull Beddict about it, but he would tell me nothing. At some point, however, I think our trail takes us inside.’
‘The sorcery that destroyed this city was formidable,’ Silchas Ruin said.
‘Perhaps some natural force-’
‘No, Acquitor. Starvald Demelain. The destruction was the work of dragons. Eleint of the pure blood. At least a dozen, working in concert, a combined unleashing of their warrens. Unusual,’ he added.
‘Which part?’
‘Such a large alliance, for one. Also, the extent of thei: rage. I wonder what crime the K’Chaih Che’Malle committed to warrant such retaliation.’
‘I know the answer to that,’ came a sibilant whisper from behind them, and Seren turned, squinted down at the insubstantial wraith crouched there.
‘Wither. I was wondering where you had gone to.’
‘Journeys into the heart of the stone, Seren Pedac. Into the frozen blood. What was their crime, you wonder, Silchas Ruin? Why, nothing less than the assured annihilation of all existence. If extinction awaited them, then so too would all else die. Desperation, or evil spite? Perhaps neither, perhaps a terrible accident, that wounding at the centre of it all. But what do we care? We shall all be dust by then. Indifferent. Insensate.’
Silchas Ruin said, without turning, ‘Beware the frozen blood, Wither. It can still take you.’
The wraith hissed a laugh. ‘Like an ant to sap, yes. Oh, but it is so seductive, Master.’
‘You have been warned. If you are snared, I cannot free you.’
The wraith slithered past them, flowed up the ragged steps.
Seren adjusted the leather satchel on her shoulders. ‘The Fent carried supplies balanced on their heads. Would that I could do the same.’
‘The vertebrae become compacted,’ Silchas Ruin said, ‘resulting in chronic pain.’
‘Well, mine are feeling rather crunched right now, so I’m alraid I don’t see much difference.’ She began the climb. ‘You know, as a Soletaken, you could just-’
‘No,’ he said as he followed, ‘there is too much bloodlust In the veering. The draconean hunger within me is where lives my anger, and that anger is not easily contained.’
She snorted, unable to help herself.
‘You are amused, Acquitor?’
‘Scabandari is dead. Fear has seen his shattered skull. You were stabbed and then imprisoned, and now that you are free, all that consumes you is the desire for vengeance-against what? Some incorporeal soul? Something less than a wraith? What will be left of Scabandari by now? Silchas Ruin, yours is a pathetic obsession. At least Fear Sengar seeks something positive-not that he’ll find it since you will probably annihilate what’s left of Scabandari before he gets a chance to talk to it, assuming that’s even possible.’ When he said nothing, she continued, ‘It seems I am now fated to guiding such quests. Just like my last journey, the one that took me to the lands of the Tiste Edur. Everyone at odds, motives hidden and in conflict. My task was singular, of course: deliver the fools, then stand well back as the knives are drawn.’
‘Acquitor, my anger is more complicated than you believe.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘The future you set before us is too simple, too confined. I suspect that when we arrive at our destination, nothing will proceed as you anticipate.’
She grunted. ‘I will accept that, since it was without doubt the case in the village of the Warlock King. After all, the fallout was the conquest of the Letherii Empire.’
‘Do you take responsibility for that; Acquitor?’
‘I take responsibility for very little, Silchas Ruin. That much must be obvious.’
The steps were steep, the edges worn and treacherous. As they climbed, the air thinned, mists swirling in from the tumbling falls on their left, the sound a roar that clambered among the stones in a tumult of echoes. Where the ancient stairs vanished entirely, wooden trestles had been constructed, forming something between a ladder and steps against the sheer, angled rock.
They found a ledge a third of the way up where they could gather to rest. Among the scatter of rubble on the shelf were remnants of metopes, cornices and friezes bearing carvings too fragmented to be identifiable-suggesting that an entire facade had once existed directly above them. The scaffolding became a true ladder here, and off to the right, three man-heights up, gaped the mouth of a cave, rectangular, almost door-shaped.
Udinaas stood regarding that dark portal for a long time, before he turned to the others. ‘I suggest we try it.’
‘There is no need, slave,’ replied Fear Sengar. ‘This trail is straightforward, reliable-’
‘And getting icier the higher we go.’ The Indebted grimaced, then laughed. ‘Oh, there’re songs to be sung, are! there, Fear? The perils and tribulations, the glories of suffering, all to win your heroic triumph. You want the! elders who were once your grandchildren to gather the clan round the fire, for the telling of your tale, a lone warrior’s quest for his god. I can almost hear them now, describing the formidable Fear Sengar of the Hiroth, brother to the Emperor, with his train of followers-the lost child, the inveterate Letherii guide, a ghost, a slave and of course the white-skinned nemesis. The White Crow with his silver-tongued lies. Oh, we have here the gamut of archetypes, yes?’ He reached into the satchel beside him and drew out a waterskin, took a long drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘But imagine all of it going for naught, when you pitch from a slippery rung and plunge five hundred man-heights to your ignominious death. Not how the story goes, alas, but then, life isn’t a story now, is it?’ He replaced the skin and shouldered his pack. ‘The embittered slave chooses a different route to the summit, the fool. But then,’ he paused to grin back at Fear, ‘somebody has to be the moral lesson in this epic, right?’
Seren watched the man climbing the rungs. When he came opposite the cave mouth, he reached out until one hand gripped the edge of stone, then followed with a foot, stretching until the probing tip of his moccasin settled on the ledge. Then, in a swift shifting of weight, combined with a push away from the ladder, he fluidly spun on one leg, the other swinging over empty air. Then stepping inward, pulled by the weight of the satchel on his back, into the gloom, of the entrance.
‘Nicely done,’ Silchas Ruin commented, and there was something like amusement in his tone, as if he had enjoyed the slave’s poking at Fear Sengar’s sententious self-importance, thus revealing two edges to his observation. ‘I urn of a mind to follow him.’
‘Me, too,’ said Kettle.
Seren Pedac sighed. ‘Very well, but I suggest we use ropes between us, and leave the showing off to Udinaas.’
The mouth of the cave revealed that it had been a corridor, probably leading out onto a balcony before the facade had sheared off. Massive sections of the walls, riven through with cracks, had shifted, settled at conflicting angles. And every crevasse, every fissure on all sides that Seren could see, seethed with the squirming furred bodies of bats, awakened now to their presence, chittering and moments from panic. As Seren set her pack down, Udinaas moved beside her.
‘Here,’ he said, his breath pluming, ‘light this lantern, Acquitor-when the temperature drops my hands start going numb.’ At her look he glanced over at Fear Sengar, then said, ‘Too many years reaching down into icy water. A slave among the Edur knows little comfort.’
‘You were fed,’ Fear Sengar said.
‘When a bloodwood tree toppled in the forest,’ Udinaas said, ‘we’d be sent out to drag it back to the village. Do you remember those times, Fear? Sometimes the trunk would shift unexpectedly, slide in mud or whatever, and crush a slave. One of them was from our own household-you don’t recall him, do you? What’s one more dead slave? You Edur would shout out when that happened, saying the bloodwood spirit was thirsty for Letherii blood.’
‘Enough, Udinaas,’ Seren said, finally succeeding in lighting the lantern. As the illumination burgeoned, the bats exploded from the cracks and suddenly the air was filled with frantic, beating wings. A dozen heartbeats later the creatures were gone.
She straightened, raising the lantern.
They stood on a thick mouldy paste-guano, crawling with grubs and beetles-from which rose a foul stench.
‘We’d better move in,’ Seren said, ‘and get clear of this. There are fevers…’
The man was screaming as the guards dragged him by his chains, across the courtyard to the ring-wall. His crushed feet left bloody smears on the pavestones. Screams of accusation wailed from him, shrill outrage at the shaping of the world-the Letherii world.
Tanal Yathvanar snorted softly. ‘Hear him. Such naivety.’
Karos Invictad, standing beside him on the balcony, gave him a sharp look. ‘You foolish man, Tanal Yathvanar.’
‘Invigilator?’
Karos Invictad leaned his forearms on the railing and squinted down at the prisoner. Fingers like bloated river-worms slowly entwined. From somewhere overhead a gull was laughing. ‘Who poses the greatest threat to the empire, Yathvanar?’
‘Fanatics,’ Tanal replied after a moment. ‘Like that one below.’
‘Incorrect. Listen to his words. He is possessed of certainty. He holds to a secure vision of the world, a man with the correct answers-that the prerequisite questions were themselves the correct ones goes without saying. A citizen with certainty, Yathvanar, can be swayed, turned, can be made into a most diligent ally. All one needs to do is find what threatens them the most. Ignite their fear, burn to cinders the foundations of their certainty, then offer an equally certain alternate way of thinking, of seeing the world. They will reach across, no matter how wide the gulf, and grasp and hold on to you with all their strength. No, the certain are not our enemies. Presently misguided, as in the case of the man below, but always most vulnerable to lean Take away the comfort of their convictions, then coax them with seemingly cogent and reasonable convictions of our own making. Their eventual embrace is assured.’
‘I see.’
‘Tanal Yathvanar, our greatest enemies are those who are without certainty. The ones with questions, the ones who regard our tidy answers with unquenchable scepticism. Those questions assail us, undermine us. They… agitate.
Understand, these dangerous citizens understand that nothing is simple; their stance is the very opposite of naivety. They are humbled by the ambivalence to which they are witness, and they defy our simple, comforting assertions of clarity, of a black and white world. Yathvanar, when you wish to deliver the gravest insult to such a citizen, call them naive. You will leave them incensed indeed, virtually speechless… until you watch their minds back-tracking, revealed by a cascade of expressions, as they ask themselves: who is it that would call me naive? Well, comes the answer, clearly a person possessing certainty with all the arrogance and pretension that position entails; a confidence, then, that permits the offhand judge ment, the derisive dismissal uttered from a most lofty height. And from all this, into your victim’s eyes will come the light of recognition-in you he faces his enemy, his truest enemy. And he will know fear. Indeed, terror.’
‘You invite the question, then, Invigilator…’
Karos Invictad smiled. ‘Do I possess certainty? Or am I in fact plagued by questions, doubts, do I flounder in the wild currents of complexity?’ He was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘I hold to but one certainty. Power shapes the face of the world. In itself, it is neither benign nor malicious, it is simply the tool by which its wielder reshapes all that is around him or herself, reshapes it to suit his or her own… comforts. Of course, to express power is to enact tyranny, which can be most subtle and soft, or cruel and hard. Implicit in power-political, familial, as you like-is the threat of coercion. Against all who choose to resist. And know this: if coercion is available, it will be used.’ He gestured. ‘Listen to that man. He does my work for me. Down in the dungeons, his cellmates hear his ravings, and some among them join in chorus-the guards take note of who, and that is a list of names I peruse daily, for they are the ones I can win over. The ones who say nothing, or turn away, now that is the list of those who must die.’
‘So,’ said Tanal, ‘we let him scream.’
‘Yes. The irony is, he truly is naive, although not of course as you originally meant. It is his very certainty that reveals his blithe ignorance. It is a further irony that both extremes of the political spectrum reveal a convergence or the means and methods and indeed the very attitudes of the believers-their ferocity against naysayers, the blood they willingly spill for their cause, defending their version of reality. The hatred they reveal for those who voice doubts. Scepticism disguises contempt, after all, and to be held in contempt by one who holds to nothing is to feel the ieepest, most cutting wound. And so we who hold to certainty, Yathvanar, soon find it our mission to root out and annihilate the questioners. And my, the pleasure we drrive from that…’
Tanal Yathvanar said nothing, inundated with a storm of suspicions, none of which he could isolate, chase down.
Karos Invictad said, ‘You were so quick to judge, weren’t you? Ah, you revealed so much with that contemptuous Utterance. And I admit to being amused at my own in-stinctive response to your words. Naive. Errant take me, I wnnted to rip your head from your body, like decapitating a swamp-fly. I wanted to show you true contempt. Mine. For you and your kind. I wanted to take that dismissive expression on your face and push it through an offal grinder. You think you have all the answers? You must, given the ease of your voiced judgement. Well, you pathetic little creature, one day Uncertainty will come to your door, will clamber down your throat, and it will be a race to see which arrives first, humility Of death. Either way, I will spare you a moment’s compassion, which is what sets you and me apart, isn’t it? A package arrived today, yes?’
I anal blinked. See how we all possess a bloodlust. Then he nodded. ‘Yes, Invigilator. A new puzzle for you.’
‘Excellent. From whom?’
‘Anonymous.’
‘Most curious. Is that part of the mystery, or fear of ridicule when I solve it after a mere moment’s thought? Well, how can you possibly answer that question? Where is It now?’
‘It should have been delivered to your office, sir.’
‘Good. Permit the man below to scream for the rest of the afternoon, then have him sent below again.’
Tanal bowed as Karos left the balcony. He waited for a hundred heartbeats, then he too departed.
A short time later he descended to the lowest level of the ancient dungeons, down spiralling stone steps to corridors and cells that had not seen regular use in centuries. The recent floods had inundated both this level and the one above it, although the waters had since drained, leaving behind thick silts and the stench of stagnant, filthy water. Carrying a lantern, Tanal Yathvanar made his way down a sloping channel until he came to what had once been the primary inquisition chamber. Arcane, rust-seized mechanisms squatted on the pavestoned floor, or were affixed to walls, with one bedframe-like cage suspended from the ceiling by thick chains.
Directly opposite the entrance was a wedge-shaped con-traption, replete with manacles and chains that could be drawn tight via a wall-mounted ratchet to one side. The inclined bed faced onto the chamber, and shackled to it was the woman he had been instructed to release.
She was awake, turning her face away from the sudden light.
Tanal set the lantern down on a table cluttered with instruments of torture. ‘Time for a feeding,’ he said.
She said nothing.
A well-respected academic. Look at her now. All those lofty words of yours,’ Tanal said. ‘In the end, they prove less substantial than dust on the wind.’
Her voice was ragged, croaking. ‘May you one day choke on that dust, little man.’
Tanal smiled. ‘“Little”. You seek to wound me. pathetic effort.’ He walked over to a chest against the wall to his right. It had contained vise-helms, but Tan; had removed the skull-crushers, filling the chest witi flasks of water and dried foodstuffs. ‘I shall need to bring down buckets with soap-water,’ he said, drawing out the makings of her supper. ‘Unavoidable as your defecation is, the smell and the stains are most unpleasant.’
‘Oh, I offend you, do I?’
He glanced over at her and smiled. ‘Janath Anar, a senior lecturer in the Academy of Imperial Learning. Alas, you appear to have learned nothing of imperial ways. Although, one might argue, that has changed since your arrival here.’
She studied him, a strangely heavy look to her bruised eyes. ‘From the First Empire until this day, little man, there have been times of outright tyranny. That the present oppressors are Tiste Edur is scarely worth noting. After all, the true oppression comes from you. Letherii against Letherii. Furthermore-’
‘Furthermore,’ Tanal said, mocking her, ‘the Patriotists are the Letherii gift of mercy against their own. Better us than the Edur. We do not make indisctiminate arrests; we do not punish out of ignorance; we are not random.’
‘A gift? Do you truly believe that?’ she asked, still studying him. ‘The Edur don’t give a damn, one way or the other. Their leader is unkillable, and that makes their mastery ahsolute.’
A high-ranking Tiste Edur liaises with us almost daily-’
‘To keep you in rein. You, Tanal Yathvanar, not your prisoners. You and that madman, Karos Invictad.’ She cocked her head. ‘Why is it, I wonder, that organizations such as yours are invariably run by pitiful human failures? By small-minded psychotics and perverts. All bullied as children, of course. Or abused by twisted parents-I’m sure you have terrible tales to confess, of your miserable youth. And now the powet is in your hands, and oh how the test of us suffer.’
Tanal walked over with the food and the flask of water.
‘For Errant’s sake,’ she said, ‘loosen at least one of my arms, so I can feed myself.’
He came up beside her. ‘No, I prefer it this way. Are you humiliated, being fed like a babe?’
‘What do you want with me?’ janath asked, as he unstoppered the flask.
He set it to her cracked lips, watched her drink. ‘I don’t recall saying I wanted anything,’ he replied.
She twisted her head away, coughing, water spilling onto her chest. ‘I’ve confessed everything,’ she said after a moment. ‘You have all my notes, my treasonous lectures on personal responsibility and the necessity for compassion-’
‘Yes, your moral relativism.’
‘I refute any notion of relativism, little man-which you’d know had you bothered reading those notes. The structures of a culture do not circumvent nor excuse self-evident injustice or inequity. The status quo is not sacred, not an altar to paint in rivers of blood. Tradition and habit are not sound arguments-’
‘White Crow, woman, you are most certainly a lecturer. I liked you better unconscious.’
‘Best beat me senseless again,’ she said.
‘Alas, I cannot. After all, I am supposed to free you.’
Her eyes narrowed on his, then shied away again ‘Careless of me,’ she muttered.
‘In what way?’ he asked.
‘I was almost seduced. The lure of hope. If you are supposed to free me, you would never have brought me down here. No, I’m to be your private victim, and you my private nightmare. In the end, the chains upon you will be a match to mine.’
‘The psychology of the human mind,’ Tanal said, push-ing some fat-soaked bread into her mouth. ‘Your speciality. So, you can read my life as easily as you read a scroll. Is that supposed to frighten me?’
She chewed, then, with a struggle, swallowed. ‘I wield a far deadlier weapon, little man.’
‘And that would be?’
‘I slip into your head. I see through your eyes. Swim the streams of your thought. I stand there, looking at the soiled creature chained to this rape-bed. And eventually, I begin to understand you. It’s more intimate than making love, little man, because all your secrets vanish. And, in case you
. were wondering, yes, I am doing it even now. Listening to my own words as you listen, feeling the tightness gripping your chest, that odd chill beneath your skin despite the fresh sweat. The sudden fear, as you realize the extent of your vulnerability-’
He struck her. Hard enough to snap her head to one side. Blood gushed from her mouth. She coughed, spat, then spat again, her breath coming in ragged, liquid gasps. ‘We can resume this meal later,’ he said, struggling to keep his words toneless. ‘I expect you’ll do your share of screaming in the days and weeks to come, Janath, but I assure you, your cries will reach no-one.’
A peculiar hacking sound came from her.
After a moment, Tanal realized she was laughing.
‘Impressive bravado,’ he said, with sincerity. ‘Eventually, I may in truth free you. For now, I remain undecided. I’m lure you understand.’
She nodded.
‘You arrogant bitch,’ he said.
She laughed again.
He backed away. ‘Do not think I will leave the lantern,’ he snarled.
Her laughter followed him out, cutting like broken glass.
The ornate carriage, trimmed in gleaming bloodwood, was motionless, drawn up to one side of the main thoroughfare of Drene, its tall wheels straddling the open sewer. The four bone-white horses stood listless in the unseasonal heat, heads hanging down over their collars. Directly ahead of them the street was framed in an arching open gate, and beyond it was the sprawling maze of the High Market, a vast concourse crowded with stalls, carts, livestock and throngs of people.
The flow of wealth, the cacophony of voices and the multitude of proffering or grasping hands seemed to culminate in a force, battering at Brohl Handar’s senses even from where he sat, protected within the plush confines of the carriage. The heaving sounds from the market, the chaotic back and forth flow of people beneath the gate, and the crowds on the street itself, all made the Overseer think of religious fervour, as if he was witness to a frenzied version of a Tiste Edur funeral. In place of the women voicing their rhythmic grunts of constrained grief, drovers bullied braying beasts through the press. Instead of unblooded youths wading through blood-frothed surf pounding paddles against the waves, there was the clatter of cartwheels and the high, piping cries of hawkers. The woodsmoke of the pyres and offerings enwreathing an Edur village was, here, a thick, dusty river tainted with a thousand scents. Dung, horse piss, roasting meat, vege-tables and fish, uncured myrid hides and tanned rodara skins; rotting wastes and the cloying smells of intoxicating drugs.
Here, among the Letherii, no precious offerings were thrown into the sea. Tusked seal ivory leaned against shelves like fang-rows from some wooden mechanisms of torture. In other stalls, that ivory reappeared, this time carved into a thousand shapes, many of them mimicking religious objects from the Edur, the Jheck and the Fent, or as playing pieces for a game. Polished amber was adornment, not the sacred tears of captured dusk, and bloodwood itself had been carved into bowls, cups and cooking utensils.
Or to trim an ostentatious carriage.
Through a slit in the shutters, the Overseer watched the surging to and fro on the street. An occasional Tiste Edur appeared in the crowds, a head taller than most Letherii, and Brohl thought he could read something of bemusement behind their haughty, remote expressions; and once, in the face of an overdressed, ring-speared Elder whom Brohl knew personally, he saw the glint of avarice in the Edur’s eyes.
Change was rarely chosen, and its common arrival was slow, subtle. Granted, the Letherii had experienced the shock of defeated armies, a slain king, and a new ruling class, but even then such sudden reversals had proved not Hourly as catastrophic as one might have expected. The skein that held Lether together was resilient and, Brohl now knew, far stronger than it appeared. What disturbed him the most, however, was the ease with which that skein entwined all who found themselves in its midst.
Poison in that touch, yet not fatal, just intoxicating. Sweet, yet perhaps, ultimately, deadly. This is what comes of… fomfort. Yet, he could well see, the reward of comfort was not available to all; indeed, it seemed disturbingly rare. While those who possessed wealth clearly exulted in its dis-play, that very ostentation underscored the fact that they were a distinct minority. But that imbalance was, he now understood, entirely necessary. Not everyone could be rich the system would not permit such equity, for the power and privilege it offered was dependent on the very opposite. Inequity, else how can power be assessed, how can the gifts of privilege be valued? For there to be rich, there must be poor, and more of the latter than the former.
Simple rules, easily arrived at through simple obser-vation. Brohl Handar was not a sophisticated man, a shortcoming he was reminded of every day since his arrival as Overseer of Drene. He had no particular experience with governing, and few of the skills in his possession were proving applicable to his new responsibilities.
The Factor, Letur Anict, was conducting an unofficial war against the tribes beyond the borderlands, using Imperial troops to steal land and consolidate his new-found holdings. There was no real justification for this bloodshed; the goal was personal wealth. As yet, however, Brohl Handar did not know what he was going to do about it, if Indeed he was going to do anything. He had prepared a long report to the Emperor, providing well-documented details describing the situation here in Drene. That report remained in Brohl’s possession, for he had begun to suspect that, should he send it off to Letheras, it would not reach the Emperor, or any of his Edur advisors. The Letherii Chancellor, Triban Gnol, appeared to be complicit and possibly even in league with Letur Anict-hinting at a vast web of power, hidden beneath the surface and seeminghly thriving unaffected by Edur rule. At the moment, all Brohl Handar had were suspicions, hints of that insidious web of power. One link was certain, and that was with this Letherii association of wealthy families, the Liberty Consign. Possibly, this organization was at the very heart of the hidden power. But he could not be sure.
Brohl Handar, a minor noble among the Tiste Edur, and newly appointed Overseer to a small city in a remote corner of the empire, well knew that he could not challenge such a thing as the Liberty Consign. He was, indeed, beginning to believe that the Tiste Edur tribes, scattered as they had become across this vast land, were little more than flotsam riding the indifferent currents of a turgid, deep river.
Yet, there is the Emperor.
Who is quite probably insane.
He did not know to whom to turn; nor even if what he was witnessing was, in truth, as dangerous as it seemed.
Brohl was startled by a commotion near the gate and he leaned forward to set an eye against the slit between the shutters.
An arrest. People were quickly moving away from the scene as two nondescript Letherii, one to each side, pushed their victim face-first against one of the gate’s uprights. There were no shouted accusations, no frightened denials. The silence shared by the Patriotist agents and their prisoner left the Overseer strangely shaken. As if the details did not matter to any of them.
One of the agents was searching for weapons, finding none, and then, as his fellow agent held the man against the ornate upright, he removed the leather hip-satchel from the man’s belt and began rummaging through it.’ The prisoner’s face was pressed sideways against the bas-relief carvings on the broad, squared column, and those carvings depicted some past glory of the Letherii Empire. Brohl iliiiiihu suspected the irony was lost on all concerned. Sedition would be the charge. It was always the charge. But against what? Not the presence of the Tiste Edur-that would be pointless, after all, and certainly there had been virtually no attempts at reprisal, at least none that Brohl Handar had heard about. So… what, precisely? Against whom? The Indebted always existed, and some fled their debts, but most did not. There were sects formulated around political or social disquiet, many of them drawing membership from the disenfranchised remnants of sub-jugated tribes-the Fent, the Nerek, Tarthenal and others. But since the conquest, most of these sects had either dissolved or fled the empire. Sedition. A charge to silence debate. Somewhere, therefore, there must exist a list of the accepted beliefs, the host of convictions and faiths that composed the proper doctrine. Or was something more insidious at work?
There was a scratch at the carriage door, and a moment later it opened.
Brohl Handar studied the figure stepping onto the runner, the carriage tilting with his weight. ‘By all means, Orbyn,’ he said, ‘enter.’
Muscle softened by years of inactivity, fleshy face, the Jowls heavy and slack, Orbyn ‘Truthfinder’ seemed to sweat incessantly, regardless of ambient temperature, as if some internal pressure forced the toxins of his mind to the surface of his skin. The local head of the Patriotists was, to Brohl Handar’s eye, the most despicable, malicious creature he had ever met.
‘Your arrival is well timed,’ the Tiste Edur said as Orbyn entered the carriage and settled down on the bench opposite, the acrid smell of his sweat wafting across. ‘Although I was not aware that you personally oversee the daily activities of your agents.’
()rbyn’s thin lips creased in a smile. ‘We have stumbled
ON some information that might be of interest to you, Overseer.’
‘Another one of your non-existent conspiracies?’
The smile widened momentarily, a flicker. ‘If you are referring to the Bolkando Conspiracy, alas, that one belongs to the Liberty Consign. The information we have acquired concerns your people.’
My people. ‘Very well.’ Brohl Handar waited. Outside, the two agents were dragging their prisoner away, and around them the flow of humanity resumed, furtive in their avoidance.
‘A party was sighted, west of Bluerose. Two Tiste Edur, one of them white-skinned. This latter one, I believe, has become known as the White Crow-a most disturbing title for us Letherii, by the way.’ He blinked, the lids heavy. ‘Accompanying them were three Letherii, two female and one an escaped slave with the ownership tattoos of the Hiroth tribe.’
Brohl forced himself to remain expressionless, although a tightness gripped his chest. This is none of your business. ‘Do you have more details as to their precise location?’
‘They were heading east, to the mountains. There are three passes, only two open this early in the season.’
Brohl Handar slowly nodded. ‘The Emperor’s K’risnan are also capable of determining their general whereabouts. Those passes are blocked.’ He paused, then said, ‘It is as Hannan Mosag predicted.’
Orbyn’s dark eyes studied him from between folds of fat ‘I am reminded of Edur efficiency.’
Yes.
The man known as Truthfinder went on, ‘The Patriotists have questions regarding this white-skinned Tiste Edur, this White Crow. From which tribe does he hail?’
‘None. He is not Tiste Edur.’
‘Ah. I am surprised. The description…’
Brohl Handar said nothing.
‘Overseer, can we assist?’
‘Unnecessary at this time,’ Brohl replied.
‘I am most curious as to why you have not already closed in on this party and effected a capture. My sources indicate that the Tiste Edur is none other than Fear Sengar, the Emperor’s brother.’
‘As I said, the passes are blocked.’
‘Ah, then you are tightening the net even as we speak.’
Brohl Handar smiled. ‘Orbyn, you said earlier the Bolkando Conspiracy is under the purview of the Liberty Consign. By that, are you truly telling me that the Patriotists are without interest in that matter?’
‘Not at all. The Consign makes use of our network on a regular basis-’
‘For which you are no doubt rewarded.’
‘Of course.’
‘I find myself-’
Orbyn raised a hand, head cocking. ‘You will have to excuse me, Overseer. I hear alarms.’ He rose with a grunt, pushing open the carriage door.
Bemused, Brohl said nothing, watching as the Letherii left. Once the door was closed he reached to a small compartment and withdrew a woven ball filled with scented grasses, then held it to his face. A tug on a cord stirred the driver to collect up the traces. The carriage lurched as it rolled forward. Brohl could hear the alarms now, a frantic cacophony. Leaning forward, he spoke into the voice-tube. ‘Take us to those bells, driver.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘No hurry.’
The Drene Garrison commanded a full dozen stone buildings situated on a low hill north of the city centre. Armoury, stables, barracks and command headquarters were all heavily fortified, although the complex was not walled. Drene had been a city-state once, centuries past, and after a protracted war with the Awl the beleaguered king had invited Letherii troops to effect victory against the nomads. Decades later, evidence had come out that the conflict itself had been the result of Letherii manipulations. In any case, the Letherii troops had never left; the king accepted the title of vizier and in a succession of tragic accidents he and his entire line were wiped out. But that was history, now, the kind that was met with indifference.
Four principal avenues extended out from the garrison’*s parade grounds, the one leading northward converging with the Gate Road that led to the city wall and the North Coast track-the least frequented of the three landward routes to and from the city.
In the shadows beneath the gabled balcony of a palatial estate just beyond the armoury, on the north avenue, a clear line of sight was available for the short, lithe figure standing in the cool gloom. A rough-woven hood hid the features, although had anyone bothered to pause in passing, squinting hard, they would have been startled to see the glint of crimson scales where the face should have been and eyes hidden in black-rimmed slits. But there was some-thing about the figure that encouraged inattention. Gazes slid past, rarely comprehending that, indeed, someone stood in those shadows.
He had positioned himself there just before dawn and it was now late afternoon. Eyes fixed on the garrison the messengers entering and exiting the headquarters, the visitation of a half-dozen noble merchants, the purchasing of horses, scrap metal, saddles and other sundry materiel He studied the skin hides on the round-shields of the lancers-flattened faces, the skin darkened to somewhere between purple and ochre, making the tattooing subtle and strangely beautiful.
Late afternoon, the shadows lengthening, and the figure made note of two Letherii men, passing across his field of vision for the second time. Their lack of attention seemed… conspicuous, and some instinct told the cowled figure that it was time to leave.
As soon as they had passed by, heading up the street westward, the figure stepped out from the shadows, walked swiftly and silently after the two men. He sensed their sudden, heightened awareness-and perhaps something like alarm. Moments before catching up to them, he turned right, into an alley leading north.
Fifteen paces in, he found a dark recess in which he could bide. He drew back his cloak and cinched it, freeing his and hands.
A dozen heartbeats passed before he heard their footfalls.
He watched them walk past, cautious, both with drawn knives. One whispered something to the other and they hesitated.
The figure allowed his right foot to scrape as he stepped forward.
They spun round.
The Awl’dan cadaran whip was a whisper as it snaked out, the leather-studded with coin-sized, dagger-sharp, overlapping half-moon blades-flickering out in a gleam-ing arc that licked both men across their throats. Blood sprayed.
He watched them crumple. The blood flowed freely, more from the man who had been on the left, spreading across the greasy cobbles. Stepping close to the other victim, he unsheathed a knife and plunged it point-first into his throat; then, with practised familiarity, he cut off the man’s face, taking skin, muscle and hair. He repeated the ghastly task with the other man.
Two fewer agents of the Patriotists to contend with.
Of course, they worked in threes, one always at a distance, following the first two.
Prom the garrison, the first alarms sounded, a shrill collection of bells that trilled out through the dusty air about the buildings.
Folding up his grisly trophies and pushing them beneath a fold in the loose rodara wool shirt that covered his scaled hauberk, the figure set off along the alley, making for the north gate.
A squad of the city guard appeared at the far mouth, five armoured, helmed Letherii with shortswords and shields.
Upon seeing them, the figure sprinted forward, freeing the cadaran whip in his left hand, while in his right hand he shook free the rygtha crescent axe from the over-under strips of rawhide that had held it against his hip. A thick haft, as long as a grown man’s thigh bone, to which each end was affixed a three-quarter-moon iron blade, their planes perpendicular to each other. Cadaran and rygtha ancient weapons of the Awl’dan, their mastery virtually unknown among the tribes for at least a century.
The constabulary had, accordingly, never before faced such weapons…
At ten paces from the first three guardsmen, the whip lashed out, a blurred sideways figure-eight that spawned screams and gouts of blood that spilled almost black in the alley’s gloom. Two of the Letherii reeled back.
The lithe, wiry figure closed on the last man in the from row. Right hand slid along the haft to run up against flange beneath the left-side crescent blade, the haf** slapping parallel to the underside of his forearm as he brought the weapon up-blocking a desperate slash from the guard’s shortsword. Then, as the Awl threw his elbow forward, the right-side blade flashed out, cutting at the man’s face, connecting just below the helm’s rim, chopping through the nasal ridge and frontal bone before dipping into the soft matter of his brain. The tapered, sharp crescent blade slid back out with ease, as the Awl slipped past the falling guard, whip returning from an over-the head gather to hiss out, wrapping round the neck of the fourth Letherii-who shrieked, dropping his sword as he scrabbled at the deadly blades-as the Awl dropped into crouch, his right hand sliding the length of the rygtha haf** to abut the flanged base of the right-blade, then slashing out. The fifth guard jerked his shield upward to block, but too late-the blade caught him across the eyes.
A tug on the whip decapitated the fourth guard.
The Awl released his hold on the cadaran’s handle and gripping the rygtha at both ends, stepped close to slam the haft into the last guard’s throat, crushing the windpipe.
Collecting the whip, he moved on.
A street, the sound of lancers off to the right. The gate, fifty paces to the left, now knotted with guards-heads turning his way.
He raced straight for them.
Atri-Preda Bivatt took personal command of a troop of lancers. Twenty riders at her back, she led her horse at a Canter, following the trail of a bloodbath.
The two Patriotist agents midway down the alley. Five city guardsmen at the far end.
Hiding out onto the street, she angled her mount to the left, drawing her longsword as she neared the gate.
Bodies everywhere, twenty or more, and only two Seemed to be still alive. Bivatt stared from beneath the rim of her helm, cold sweat prickling awake beneath her armour. Blood everywhere. On the cobbles, splashed high on the walls and the gate itself. Dismembered limbs. The stench of vacated bowels, spilled intestines. One of the survivors was screaming, head whipping back and forth. Both his hands had been sliced off.
lust beyond the gate, Bivatt saw as she reined in, four horses were down, their riders sprawled out on the road. Drifting dust indicated that the others from the first troop to arrive were riding in pursuit.
The other survivor stumbled up to her. He had taken a Mow to the head, the helm dented on one side and blood flowing down that side of his face and neck. In his eyes as he stared up at her, a look of horror. He opened his mouth, but no words came forth.
Bivatt scanned the area once more, then turned to her Finadd. ‘Take the troop through, go after them. Get your weapons out, damn you!’ She glared back down at the guardsman. ‘How many were there?’
He gaped.
More guardsmen were arriving. A cutter hurried to the screaming man who had lost his hands.
‘Did you hear my question?’ Bivatt hissed.
He nodded, then said. ‘One. One man, Atri-Preda.’
One? Ridiculous. ‘Describe him!’
‘Scales-his face was scales. Red as blood!’
A rider from her troop returned from the road. ‘The first troop of lancers are all dead, Atri-Preda,’ he said, his tone high and pinched. ‘Further down the road. All the horse but one-sir, should we follow?’
‘Should you follow? You damned fool-of course you should follow! Stay on his trail!’
A voice spoke behind her. ‘That description, Atri-Preda
She twisted round in her saddle.
Orbyn Truthfinder, sheathed in sweat, stood amidst the carnage, his small eyes fixed on her.
Bivatt bared her teeth in a half-snarl. ‘Yes,’ she snappe Redmask. None other.
The commander of the Patriotists in Drene pursed his lips, glanced down to scan the corpses on all sides. ‘It seems,’ he said, ‘his exile from the tribes is at an end.’
Yes.
Errant save us.
Brohl Handar stepped down from the carriage and surveyed the scene of battle. He could not imagine what sort of weapons the attackers had used, to achieve the sort of damage he saw before him. The Atri-Preda had taken charge, as more soldiery appeared, while Orbyn Truthfinder stood in the shade of the gate blockhouse entrance, silent and watching.
The Overseer approached Bivatt. ‘Atri-Preda,’ he said, ‘I see none but your own dead here.’
She glared at him, yet it was a look containing mora than simple anger. He saw fear in her eyes. ‘The city was infiltrated,’ she said, ‘by an Awl warrior.’
‘This is the work of one man?’
‘It is the least of his talents.’
‘Ah, then you know who this man is.’
‘Overseer, I am rather busy-’
‘Tell me of him.’
Grimacing, she gestured him to one side of the gate. They both had to step carefully over corpses sprawled on the slick cobblestones. ‘I think I have sent a troop of lancers out to their deaths, Overseer. My mood is not conducive to lengthy conversation.’
‘Oblige me. If a war-party of Awl’dan warriors is at the very edge of this city, there must be an organized response one,’ he added, seeing her offended look, ‘involving the Tisle Edur as well as your units.’
After a moment, she nodded. ‘Redmask. The only name by which we know him. Even the Awl’dan have but legends of his origins-’
‘And they are?’
‘Letur Anict-’
Brohl Handar hissed in anger and glared across at Orbyn, who had moved within hearing range. ‘Why is it that every disaster begins with that man’s name?’
Bivatt resumed. ‘There was skirmishing, years ago now, between a rich Awl tribe and the Factor. Simply, Letur Anict coveted the tribe’s vast herds. He despatched agents who, one night, entered an Awl camp and succeeded in kidnapping a,young woman-one of the clan leader’s daughters. The Awl, you see, were in the habit of stealing Letherii children. In any case, that daughter had a brother.’
‘Redmask.’
She nodded. ‘A younger brother. Anyway, the Factor adopted the girl into his household, and before too long she waS Indebted to him-’
‘No doubt without even being aware of that. Yes, I Understand. And so, in order to purchase that debt, and her own freedom, Letur demanded her father’s herds.’
‘Yes, more or less. And the clan leader agreed. Alas, even as the Factor’s forces approached the Awl camp with their precious cargo, the girl plunged a knife into her own heart. Thereafter, things got rather confused. Letur Anict’s soldiers attacked the Awl camp, killing everyone-’
‘The Factor decided he would take the herds anyway.’
‘Yes. It turned out, however, that there was one survivor. A few years later, as the skirmishes grew fiercer, the Factor’s troops found themselves losing engagement after engagement. Ambushes were turned. And the name of Redmask was first heard-a new war chief. Now, what follows is even less precise than what I have described thus far. It seems there was a gathering of the clans, and Redmask spoke-argued, that is, with the Elders. He sought to unify the clans against the Letherii threat, but the Elders could not be convinced. In his rage, Redmask spoke unwise words. The Elders demanded he retract them. He refused, and so was exiled. It is said he travelled east, into the wildlands between here and Kolanse.’
‘What is the significance of the mask?’
Bivatt shook her head. ‘I don’t know. There is a legend that he killed a dragon, in the time immediately following the slaughter of his family. No more than a child-which makes the tale unlikely.’ She shrugged.
‘And so he has returned,’ Brohl Handar said, ‘or some’ other Awl warrior has adopted the mask and so seeks to drive fear into your hearts.’
‘No, it was him. He uses a bladed whip and a two-headedi axe. The weapons themselves are virtually mythical.’
The Overseer frowned at her. ‘Mythical?’
‘Awl legends hold that their people once fought a war, far to the east, when the Awl dwelt in the wildlands. The cadaran and rygtha were weapons designed to deal with that enemy. I have no more details than what I have just given you, except that it appears that whatever that enemy was, it wasn’t human.’
‘Every tribe has tales of past wars, an age of heroes-’
‘Overseer, the Awl’dan legends are not like that.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. First of all, the Awl lost that war. That is why they fled west.’
‘I lave there been no Letherii expeditions into the wildlands?’
‘Not in decades, Overseer. After all, we are clashing with the various territories and kingdoms along that border. The last expedition was virtually wiped out, a single survivor driven mad by what she had seen. She spoke of something called the Hissing Night. The voice of death, apparently. In any case, her madness could not be healed and so she was put to death.’
Brohl Handar considered that for a time. An officer had arrived and was waiting to speak with the Atri-Preda. ‘Thank you,’ he said to Bivatt, then turned away.
‘Overseer.’
He faced her again. ‘Yes?’
‘If Redmask succeeds this time… with the tribes, I mean, well, we shall indeed have need of the Tiste Edur.’
His brows rose. ‘Of course, Atri-Preda.’ And maybe this way, / can reach the ear of the Emperor and Hannan Mosag. Damn this Letur Anict. What has he brought down upon us now?
He rode the Letherii horse hard, leaving the north road and cutting east, across freshly tilled fields that had once been Awl’dlan grazing land. His passage drew the attention of farmers, and from the last hamlet he skirted three stationed soldiers had saddled horses and set off in pursuit.
In a dip of the valley Redmask had just left, they met their deaths in a chorus of animal and human screams, piercing but short-lived.
A bluster of rhinazan spun in a raucous cloud over the Awl warrior’s head, driven away from their favoured hosts by the violence, their wings beating like tiny drums and their long serrated tails hissing in the air as they tracked Redmask. He had long since grown used to their ubiquitous presence. Residents of the wildlands, the weasel-sized flying reptiles were far from home, unless their hosts-in the valley behind him and probably preparing another ambush-could be called home.
He slowed his horse, shifting in discomfort at the awkward Letherii saddle. No-one would reach him now, he knew, and there was no point in running this beast into the ground. The enemy had been confident in their city garrison, brazen with their trophies, and Redmask had learned much in the night and the day he had spent watching them. Bluerose lancers, properly stirruped and nimble on their mounts. Far more formidable than the foot soldiers of years before.
And thus far, since his return, he had seen of his own people only abandoned camps, drover tracks from smallish herds and disused tipi rings. It was as if his home had been decimated, and all the survivors had fled. And at the only scene of battle he had come upon, there had been naught but the corpses of foreigners.
The sun was low on the horizon behind him, dusk closing in, when he came upon the first burned Awl’dan j encampment. A year old, maybe more. White bones jutting from the grasses, blackened stumps from the hut frames, a dusty smell of desolation. No-one had come to retrieve the fallen, to lift the butchered bodies onto lashed platforms, freeing the souls to dance with the carrion birds. The scene raised grim memories.
He rode on. As the darkness gathered, the rhinazan j slowly drifted away, and Redmask could hear the double-thump, one set to either side, as his two companions, their bloody work done, moved up into flanking positions, barely visible in the gloom.
The rhinazan settled onto the horizontal, scaled backs, to lick splashed gore and pluck ticks, to lift their heads in snapping motions, inhaling sharply to draw in the biting insects that buzzed too close.
Redmask allowed his eyes to half close-he had beer awake for most of two days. With Sag’Churok, the hulking male, gliding over the ground to his right; and Gunth Mach, the young drone that was even now growing into a female, on his left, he could not be more secure.
Like the rhinazan, the two K’Chain Che’Malle seemed content, even in this strange land and so far away from their kin.
Content to follow Redmask, to protect him, to kill
Letherii.
And he had no idea why.
Silchas Ruin’s eyes were reptilian in the lantern light, no more appropriate a sight possible given the chamber they now found themselves in, as far as Seren Pedac was concerned. The stone walls, curving upward to a dome, were carved in overlapping scales. The unbroken pattern left her feeling disoriented, slightly nauseous. She settled onto the floor, blinked the grit from her eyes.
It must be near morning, she judged. They had been walking tunnels, ascending inclines and spiralling ramps for most of an entire night. The air was stale, despite the steady downward flow of currents, as if it was gathering ghosts with every chamber and down every corridor it traversed.
She glanced away from her regard of Silchas Ruin, irritated at her own fascination with the savage, unearthly warrior, the way he could hold himself so perfectly still, even the rise and fall of his chest barely discernible. Buried for millennia, yet he did indeed live. Blood flowed in his veins, thoughts rose grimed with the dust of disuse. When he spoke, she could hear the weight of barrowstones. It was unimaginable to her how a person could so suffer without going mad.
Then again, perhaps he was mad, something hidden deep within him, either constrained by exigencies, or simply awaiting release. As a killer-for that surely was what he was-he was both thorough and dispassionate. As if mortal lives could be reduced in meaning, reduced to surgical judgement: obstacle or ally. Nothing else mattered.
She understood the comfort of seeing the world in that manner. The ease of its simplicity was inviting. But for her, impossible. One could not will oneself blind to the complexities of the world. Yet, for Silchas Ruin, such seeming complexities were without relevance. He had found a kind of certainty, and it was unassailable.
Alas, Fear Sengar was not prepared to accept the hopelessness of his constant assaults upon Silchas Ruin. The Tiste Edur stood near the triangular portal they would soon pass through, as if impatient with this rest stop. ‘You think,’ he now said to Silchas Ruin, ‘that I know virtually nothini of that ancient war, the invasion of this realm.’
The albino Tiste Andii’s eyes shifted, fixed on Fear Sengar, but Silchas Ruin made no reply.
‘The women remembered,’ Fear said. ‘They passed thr tales to their daughters. Generation after generation. Yes, I know that Scabandari drove a knife into your back, there on that hill overlooking the field of battle. Yet, was this the first betrayal?’
If he was expecting a reaction, he was disappointed.
Udinaas loosed a low laugh from where he sat with hiis back to the scaled wall. ‘You two are so pointless,’ he said ‘Who betrayed whom. What does it matter? It’s not as if we’re relying on trust to keep us together. Tell me, Fear Sengar-once-master of mine-does your brother have any idea of who Ruin is? Where he came from? I would suggest not. Else he would have come after us personally, with ten thousand warriors at his back. Instead, they toy with us. Aren’t you even curious why?’
No-one spoke for a half-dozen heartbeats, then Kettle giggled, drawing all eyes to her. Her blink was owlish. ‘They want us to find what we’re looking for first, of course.’
‘Then why block our attempts to travel inland?’ Seren demanded.
‘Because they know it’s the wrong direction.’
‘How could they know that?’
Kettle’s small, dust-stained hands fluttered like bats in the gloom. ‘The Crippled God told them, that’s how. The Crippled God said it’s not yet time to travel east. He’s not ready for open war, yet. He doesn’t want us to go into the wildlands, where all the secrets are waiting.’
Seren Pedac stared at the child. ‘Who in Errant’s name is the Crippled God?’
‘The one who gave Rhulad his sword, Acquitor. The true power behind the Tiste Edur.’ Kettle threw up her hands. ‘Scabandari’s dead. The bargain was Hannan Mosag’s, and the coin was Rhulad Sengar.’
Fear stood with bared teeth, staring at Kettle with something like terror in his eyes. ‘How do you know this?’ he demanded.
‘The dead told me. They told me lots of things. So did the ones under the trees, the trapped ones. And they said something else too. They said the vast wheel is about to turn, one last time, before it closes. It closes, because it has to, because that’s how he made it. To tell him all he needs to know. To tell him the truth.’
‘Tell who?’ Seren asked, scowling in confusion.
‘Him, the one who’s coming. You’ll see.’ She ran over to where Fear stood, took him by one hand and started tugging. ‘We need to hurry, or they’ll get us. And if they get us, Silchas Ruin will have to kill everyone.’
I could strangle that child. But she pushed herself to her feet once more.
Udinaas was laughing.
She was inclined to strangle him as well.
‘Silchas,’ she said as she moved close, ‘do you have any idea what Kettle was talking about?’
‘No, Acquitor. But,’ he added, ‘I intend to keep listening.’