When stone is water, time is ice.
When all is frozen in place
fates rain down in fell torrent.
My face revealed, in this stone that is water.
The ripples locked hard to its shape
a countenance passing strange.
Ages will hide when stone is water.
Cycles bound in these depths
are flawed illusions breaking the stream.
When stone is water, time is ice.
When all is frozen in place
our lives are stones in the torrent.
And we rain down, rain down
like water on stone
with every strike of the hand.
– Water and Stone, Elder Fent
The Realm of Shadow was home to brutal places, yet not one could match the brutality of shadows upon the soul. Such thoughts haunted Cotillion these days. He stood on a rise, before him a gentle, elongated slope reaching down to a lake’s placid waters. A makeshift camp was visible on a level terrace forty paces to his left, a single longhouse flanked by half-buried outbuildings, including stable and coop. The entire arrangement-fortunately unoccupied at the time, excepting a dozen hens and a rooster, one irritated rook with a gimp leg and two milk cows-had been stolen from another realm, captured by some vagary of happenstance, or, more likely, the consequence of the breaking of mysterious laws, as seemed to occur sporadically during Shadow Realm’s endless migration.
However it had arrived, Shadowthrone learned of it in time to despatch a flurry of wraiths to lay claim to the buildings and livestock, saving them from predation by roving demons or, indeed, one of the Hounds.
Following the disaster at the First Throne, the score of survivors had been delivered to this place, to wander and wonder at the strange artifacts left by the previous inhabitants: the curved wooden prows surmounting the peaks of the longhouse with their intricate, serpentine carvings; the mysterious totemic jewellery, mostly of silver although amber seemed common as well; the bolts of cloth, wool both coarse and fine; wooden bowls and cups of hammered bronze. Wandering through it all, dazed, a blankness in their eyes…
Recovering.
As if such a thing is possible.
Off to his right, a lone cape-shrouded figure stood at the water’s edge, motionless, seeming to stare out on the unmarred expanse of the lake. There was nothing normal to this lake, Cotillion knew, although the scene it presented from this section of the shore was deceptively serene. Barring the lack of birds. And the absence of molluscs, crustaceans or even insects.
Every scrap of food to feed the livestock-and the miserable rook-was brought in by the wraiths Shadowthrone had assigned to the task. For all of that, the rooster had died mere days after arriving. Died from grief, I expect. Not a single dawn to crow awake.
He could hear voices from somewhere just beyond the longhouse. Panek, Aystar and the other surviving children-well, hardly children any more. They’d seen battle, they’d seen their friends die, they knew the world-every world-was an unpleasant place where a human’s life was not worth much. They knew, too, what it meant to be used.
Further down the beach, well past the lone hooded figure, walked Trull Sengar and the T’lan Imass, Onrack the Broken. Like an artist with his deathless muse, or; perhaps at his shoulder a critic of ghastly mien. An odd friendship, that one. But then, T’lan Imass were full of surprises.
Sighing, Cotillion set off down the slope.
The hooded head half turned at his approach. A face the hue of burnished leather, eyes dark beneath the felted wool rim of the hood. ‘Have you come with the key, Cotillion?’
‘Quick Ben, it is good to see that you have recovered.’
‘More or less.’
‘What key?’
The flash of a humourless smile. ‘The one that sets me free.’
Cotillion stood beside the wizard and studied the murky expanse of water. ‘I would imagine that you could leave here at any time. You are a High Mage, with more than one warren at your disposal. Force a gate, then walk through it.’
‘Do you take me for a fool?’ Quick Ben asked in a quiet voice. ‘This damned realm is wandering. There’s no telling where I would come out, although if I guess correctly, I would be in for a long swim.’
‘Ah. Well, I’m afraid I pay little attention to such things these days. We are crossing an ocean, then?’
‘So I suspect.’
‘Then indeed, to journey anywhere you require our help.’
The wizard shot him a glance. ‘As I thought. You have created pathways, gates with fixed exits. How did you manage that, Cotillion?’
‘Oh, not our doing, I assure you. We simply stumbled onto them, in a manner of speaking.’
‘The Azath.’
‘Very good. You always were sharp, Ben Delat.’
A grunt. ‘I’ve not used that version of my name in a long time.’
‘Oh? When was the last time-do you recall?’
‘These Azath,’ Quick Ben said, clearly ignoring the question. ‘The House of Shadow itself, here in this realm, correct? Somehow, it has usurped the gate, the original gate. Kurald Emurlahn. The House exists both as a cast shadow and as its true physical manifestation. No distinction can be made between the two. A nexus… but that is not unusual for Azath constructs, is it? What is, however, is that the gate to Kurald Emurlahn was vulnerable in the first place, to such a usurpation.’
‘Necessity, I expect,’ said Cotillion, frowning at seeing a slow sweep of broad ripples approach the shore, their source somewhere further out. Not at all what it seems…
‘What do you mean?’
The god shrugged. ‘The realm was shattered. Dying.’
‘The Azath participated in healing the fragments? Intentional? By design, by intellect? Or in the manner that blood dries to create a scab? Is the Azath nothing more than some kind of natural immune system, such as our bodies unleash to fight illness?’
‘The breadth of your scholarly knowledge is impressive, Quick Ben.’
‘Never mind that. The warrens were K’rul’s supreme sacrifice-his own flesh, his own blood. But not the Elder Warrens-or so we are to believe. Whose veins were opened to create those, Cotillion?’
‘I wish I knew. No, rather, I don’t. I doubt it is relevant, in any case. Does the Azath simply respond to damage, or is there a guiding intelligence behind its actions? I cannot answer you. I doubt anyone can. Does it even matter?’
‘I don’t know, to be honest. But not knowing makes me nervous.’
‘I have a key for youf’ Cotillion said after a moment. Trull Sengar and Onrack were now walking towards them. ‘For the three of you, in fact. If you want it.’
‘There’s a choice?’
‘Not for them,’ Cotillion said, nodding in the direction of Trull and the T’lan Imass. ‘And they could use your I help.’
‘The same was true of Kalam Mekhar,’ Quick Ben said. ‘Not to mention Adjunct Tavore.’
‘They survived,’ Cotillion replied.
‘You cannot be sure, though-not with Kalam. You can’t be entirely sure, can you?’
‘He was alive when the Deadhouse took him.’
‘So Shadowthrone claims.’
‘He would not lie.’
The wizard barked a bitter laugh.
‘Kalam still lives, Quick Ben. The Deadhouse has him, beyond the reach of time itself. Yet he will heal. The poison will degrade, become inert. Shadowthrone saved the assassin’s life-’
‘Why?’
‘Now that is a harder question to answer,’ Cotillion admitted. ‘Perhaps simply to defy Laseen, and you should not be surprised if that is his only reason. Believe me, for Shadowthrone, it suffices.’ Be glad, Ben Adaephon Debt, that 1 do not tell you his real reason.
Trull Sengar and Onrack drew close, then halted. The Tiste Edur’s new stone-tipped spear was strapped to his back; he was wearing a long cape against the chill, the wool dyed deep burgundy-one of the more useful treasures found in the longhouse. It was held in place by an exquisite silver brooch depicting some sort of stylized hammer. At his side, Onrack the Broken’s skeletal frame was so battered, dented and fractured it was a wonder that the warrior was still in one piece.
The T’lan Imass spoke. ‘This lake, god. The shore opposite…’
‘What of it?’
‘It does not exist.’
Cotillion nodded.
Trull Sengar asked, ‘How can that be? Onrack says it’s not a gate, on the other side. It’s not anything at all.’
Cotillion ran a hand through his hair, then scratched his chin-realizing he needed to shave-and squinted out on the water. ‘The other side is… unresolved.’
‘What does that mean?’ Quick Ben demanded.
‘To fully understand, you will have to go there, wizard. The three of you-that is the path of your journey. And you must leave soon.’
‘Forgive us for being unimpressed,’ the Tiste Edur said drily. ‘The last nightmare you sent us into has made us rather reluctant adventurers. We need a better reason, Cotillion.’
‘I imagine you do.’
‘We’re waiting,’ Quick Ben said, crossing his arms.
‘Alas, I cannot help you. Any explanation I attempt will affect your perception of what you will find, at your journey’s end. And that must not be allowed to happen, because the manner in which you perceive will shape and indeed define the reality that awaits you.’ He sighed again. ‘I know, that’s not very helpful.’
‘Then summon Shadowthrone,’ Trull Sengar said. ‘Maybe he can do better.’
Cotillion shrugged, then nodded.
A dozen heartbeats later a mostly formless shadow rose in ‘ their midst, from which emerged a knobby cane at the end of a skinny, gnarled arm. The god glanced about, then down, to find itself ankle-deep in water. Hissing, Shadowthrone picked up the tattered ends of his cloak then pranced onto dry land.
‘Oh, wasn’t that amusing?’ he sang. ‘Wretches, all of. you. What do you want? I’m busy. Do you understand? Busy.’
Onrack pointed one skeletal arm out towards the lake. ‘Cotillion would send us across this water, on a mission he will not explain, to achieve goals he refuses to define, in a place he cannot describe. We therefore call upon you, formless one, to deliver what he will not.’
Shadowthrone giggled.
Cotillion glanced away, suspecting what was coming.
‘Delighted to, bony one. I respond in this manner. It is as Cotillion believes. The rooster died of grief.’
A curse from Quick Ben as Shadowthrone then swirled into nothingness.
Cotillion turned away. ‘Supplies await you outside the longhouse. When you return down here, a boat will have been readied. Make your goodbyes to Minala and the children as brief as possible. The way ahead is long and arduous, and we are running out of time.’
The Undying Gratitude heeled hard to starboard, the gale bitter with the cold reek of ice. Pulling and half climbing his way across the aft deck as the crew struggled against the sudden onslaught, First Mate Skorgen Kaban reached the pilot station where Shurq Elalle, held in place by a leather harness, stood with legs planted wide.
She seemed impervious to the plunging temperature, with not even a hint of colour slapped to her cheeks by the buffeting wind. An uncanny woman indeed. Uncanny, insatiable, unearthly, she was like a sea goddess of old, a glamoured succubus luring them all to their doom-but no, that was not a good thought, not now, not ever. Or at least for as long as he sailed with her.
‘Captain! It’s going to be close-them mountains of ice are closin’ on the cut, maybe faster than we are! Where in the Errant’s name did they come from?’
‘We’ll make it,’ Shurq Elalle asserted. ‘Come round into the lee of the island-it’s the northwest shore that’s going to get hammered. I’d be amazed if the citadel’s walls on that side survive what’s coming. Look at the Reach, Pretty, it’s nothing but fangs of ice-wherever all this has come from, it’s devouring the entire coast.’
‘Damned cold, is what it is,’ Skorgen said in a growl. ‘Maybe we should turn round, Captain. That fleet never came after us anyway-we could head for Lether Mouth-’
‘And starve before we’re halfway there. No, Pretty, Second Maiden Fort’s an independent state now, and I’m finding that rather appealing. Besides, I’m curious. Aren’t you?’
‘Not enough to risk getting crushed by them white jaws, Captain.’
‘We’ll make it.’
The foment that was the crest of the heaving bergs was the colour of old leather, shredded by the churning fragments of ice, tree roots, shattered trunks and huge broken rocks that seemed to defy the pull to the deep-at least for long enough to appear atop the water, like the leading edge of a slide, rolling on across the surface of the tumult before reluctantly vanishing into the depths.
Tumbling out from this surge like rotted curtains was fog, plucked and torn by the ferocious winds, and Shurq Elalle, facing astern, watched as the maelstrom heaved in their wake. It was gaining, but not fast enough; they were moments from rounding the isle’s rocky headland, which looked to be formidable enough to shunt the ice aside, down its length.
At least, she hoped so. If not, then Second Maiden’s harbour was doomed. Ami so is my ship and crew. As for herself, well, if she managed to avoid being crushed or frozen in place, she could probably work her way clear, maybe even clamber aboard for the long ride to the mainland’s coast.
It won’t come to that. Islands don’t get pushed around. Buried, possibly, but then Vent Reach is where it’s all piling up
– what’s chasing us here is just an outer arm, and before long it’ll be fighting the tide. Errant fend, imagine what happened to the Edur homeland-that entire coast must have been chewed to pieces-or swallowed up entire. So what broke up the dam, that’s what I want to know:
Groaning, the Undying Gratitude rounded the point, the wind quickly dropping off as the ship settled and began its crawl into the high-walled harbour. A prison island indeed
– all the evidence remained: the massive fortifications, the towers with lines of sight and fire arcs facing both to sea and inland. Huge ballistae, mangonels and scorpions mounted on every available space, and in the harbour itself rock-pile islands held miniature forts festooned with signal flags, fast ten-man pursuit galleys moored alongside.
A dozen ships rode at anchor in the choppy waters. Along the docks, she saw, tiny figures were racing in every direction, like ants on a kicked nest. ‘Pretty, have us drop anchor other side of that odd-looking dromon. Seems like nobody’s going to pay us much attention-hear that roar? That’s the northwest shore getting hit.’
‘The whole damned island could go under, Captain.’
‘That’s why we’re staying aboard-to see what happens. If we have to run east, I want us ready to do so.’
‘Look, there’s a harbour scow comin’ our way.’
Damn. ‘Typical. World’s falling in but that don’t stop the fee-takers. All right, prepare to receive them.’
The anchor had rattled down by the time the scow fought its way alongside. Two officious-looking women climbed aboard, one tall, the other short. The latter spoke first. ‘Who’s the captain here and where d’you hail from?’
‘I am Captain Shurq Elalle. We’ve come up from Letheras. Twenty months at sea with a hold full of goods.’
The tall woman, thin, pale, with stringy blonde hair, smiled. ‘Very accommodating of you, dear. Now, if you’ll be so kind, Brevity here will head down into the hold to inspect the cargo.’
The short dark-haired woman, Brevity, then said, ‘And Pithy here will collect the anchoring fee.’
‘Fifteen docks a day.’
‘That’s a little steep!’
‘Well,’ Pithy said with a lopsided shrug, ‘it’s looking like the harbour’s days are numbered. We’d best get what we can.’
Brevity was frowning at Shurq’s first mate. ‘You wouldn’t be Skorgen Kaban the Pretty, would you?’
‘Aye, that’s me.’
‘I happen to have your lost eye, Skorgen. In a jar.’
The man scowled across at Shurq Elalle, then said, ‘You and about fifty other people.’
‘What? But I paid good money for that! How many people lose an eye sneezing? By the Errant, you’re famous!’
‘Sneeze is it? That’s what you heard? And you believed it? Spirits of the deep, lass, and you paid the crook how much?’
Shurq said to Pithy, ‘You and your friend here are welcome to inspect the cargo-but if we’re not offloading that’s as far as it goes, and whether we offload or not depends on the kinds of prices your buyers are prepared to offer.’
‘I’ll prove it to you,’ Brevity said, advancing on Skorgen Kaban. ‘It’s a match all right-I can tell from here.’
‘Can’t be a match,’ the first mate replied. ‘The eye I lost was a different colour from this one.’
You had different-coloured eyes?’
‘That’s right.’
‘That’s a curse among sailors.’
‘Maybe that’s why it ain’t there no more.’ Skorgen nodded towards the nearby dromon. ‘Where’s that hailing from? I never seen lines like those before-looks like it’s seen a scrap or two, asides.’
Brevity shrugged. ‘Foreigners. We get a few-’
‘No more of that,’ Pithy cut in. ‘Check the cargo, dearie. Time’s a-wasting.’
Shurq Elalle turned and examined the foreign ship with more intensity after that peculiar exchange. The dromon looked damned weather-beaten, she decided, but her first mate’s lone eye had been sharp-the ship had been in a battle, one involving sorcery. Black, charred streaks latticed the hull like a painted web. A whole lot of sorcery. That ship should be kindling.
‘Listen,’ Pithy said, facing inland. ‘They beat it back, like they said they would.’
The cataclysm in the making seemed to be dying a rapid death, there on the other side of the island where clouds of ice crystals billowed skyward. Shurq Elalle twisted round to look out to the sea to the south, past the promontory. Ice, looking like a massive frozen lake, was piling up in the wake of the violent vanguard that had come so close to wrecking the Undying Gratitude. But its energy was fast dissipating. A gust of warm wind backed across the deck.
Skorgen Kaban grunted. ‘And how many sacrifices did they fling off the cliff to earn this appeasement?’ He laughed. ‘Then again, you probably got no shortage of prisoners!’
‘There are no prisoners on this island,’ Pithy said, assuming a lofty expression as she crossed her arms. ‘In any case, you ignorant oaf, blood sacrifices wouldn’t have helped-it’s just ice, after all. The vast sheets up north went and broke to pieces-why, just a week past and we was sweating uncommon here, and that’s not something we ever get on Second Maiden. I should know, I was born here.’
‘Born to prisoners?’
‘You didn’t hear me, Skorgen Kaban? No prisoners on this island-’
‘Not since you ousted your jailers, you mean.’
‘Enough of that,’ Shurq Elalle said, seeing the woman’s umbrage ratchet up a few more notches on the old hoist pole-and it was plenty high enough already. ‘Second Maiden is now independent, and for that I have boundless admiration. Tell me, how many Edur ships assailed your island in the invasion?’
Pithy snorted. ‘They took one look at the fortifications, and one sniff at the mages we’d let loose on the walls, and went right round us.’
The captain’s brows rose a fraction. ‘I had heard there was a fight.’
‘There was, when our glorious liberation was declared. Following the terrible accidents befalling the warden and her cronies.’
‘Accidents, hah! That’s a good one.’
Shurq Elalle glared across at her first mate, but like most men he was impervious to such non-verbal warnings.
‘I will take that fifteen docks now,’ Pithy said, her tone cold. ‘Plus the five docks disembarking fee, assuming you intend to come ashore to take on supplies or sell your cargo, or both.’
‘You ain’t never mentioned five-’
‘Pretty,’ Shurq Elalle interrupted, ‘head below and check on Brevity-she may have questions regarding our goods.’
‘Aye, Captain.’ With a final glower at Pithy he stumped off for the hatch.
Pithy squinted at Shurq Elalle for a moment, then scanned the various sailors in sight. ‘You’re pirates.’
‘Don’t be absurd. We’re independent traders. You have no prisoners on your island, I have no pirates on my ship.’
‘What are you suggesting by that statement?’
‘Clearly, if I had been suggesting anything, it was lost on you. I take it you are not the harbour master, just a toll-taker.’ She turned as first Skorgen then Brevity emerged onto the deck. The short woman’s eyes were bright.
‘Pithy, they got stuff!’
‘Now there’s a succinct report,’ Shurq Elalle said. ‘Brevity, be sure to inform the harbour master that we wish a berth at one of the stone piers, to better effect unloading our cargo. A messenger out to potential buyers might also prove… rewarding.’ She glanced at Pithy, then away, as she added, ‘As for mooring and landing fees, I will settle up with the harbour master directly, once I have negotiated the master’s commission.’
‘You think you’re smart,’ Pithy snapped. ‘I should have brought a squad with me-how would you have liked that, Captain? Poking in here and there, giving things a real look. How would you like that?’
‘Brevity, who rules Second Maiden?’ Shurq Elalle asked.
‘Shake Brullyg, Captain. He’s Grand Master of the Putative Assembly.’
‘The Putative Assembly? Are you sure you have the right word there, lass? Putative?’
‘That’s what I said. That’s right, isn’t it, Pithy?’
‘The captain thinks she’s smart, but she’s not so smart, is i she? Wait until she meets Shake Brullyg, then won’t she be surprised-’
‘Not really,’ Shurq said. ‘I happen to know Shake Brullyg. I even know the crime for which he was sent away. The only surprise is that he’s still alive.’
‘Nobody kills Shake Brullyg easily,’ Pithy said.
One of the crew burst into a laugh that he quickly converted into a cough.
‘We’ll await the harbour master’s response,’ Shurq Elalle said.
Pithy and Brevity returned to their scow, the former taking the oars.
‘Strange women,’ Skorgen Kaban muttered as they watched the wallowing craft pull away.
‘An island full of inbred prisoners,’ Shurq replied in a murmur. ‘Are you at all surprised, Pretty? And if that’s not enough, a full-blooded Shake-who just happens to be I completely mad-is ruling the roost. I tell you this, our stay should be interesting.’
‘I hate interesting.’
‘And probably profitable.’
‘Oh, good. I like profitable. I can swallow interesting so long as it’s profitable.’
‘Get the hands ready to ship the anchor. I doubt we’ll have to wait overlong for the harbour master’s signal flag.’
‘Aye, Captain.’
Udinaas sat watching her clean and oil her sword. An Edur sword, set into her hands by a Tiste Edur warrior. All she needed now was a house so she could bury the damned thing. Oh yes, and the future husband’s fateful return. Now, maybe nothing was meant by it; just a helpful gesture by one of Fear’s brothers-the only Sengar brother Udinaas actually respected. Maybe, but maybe not.
The interminable chanting droned through the stone walls, a sound even grimmer than the blunt grunting of Edur women at mourning. The Onyx Wizards were in consultation. If such an assertion held any truth then the priestly version of their language was incomprehensible and devoid of the rhythm normally found in both song and speech. And if it was nothing but chanting, then the old fools could not even agree on the tempo.
And he had thought the Tiste Edur strange. They were nothing compared to these Tiste Andii, who had carried dour regard to unhuman extremes.
It was no wonder, though. The Andara was a crumbling blackstone edifice at the base of a refuse-cluttered gorge. As isolated as a prison. The cliff walls were honeycombed with caves, pocked with irregular chambers, like giant burst bubbles along the course of winding tunnels. There were bottomless pits, dead ends, passages so steep they could not be traversed without rope ladders. Hollowed-out towers rose like inverted spires through solid bedrock; while over subterranean chasms arched narrow bridges of white pumice, carved into amorphous shapes and set without mortar. In one place there was a lake of hardened lava, smoother than wind-polished ice, the obsidian streaked with red, and this was the Amass Chamber, where the entire population could gather-barefooted-to witness the endless wrangling of the Reve Masters, otherwise known as the Onyx Wizards.
Master of the Rock, of the Air, of the Root, of the Dark Water, of the Night. Five wizards in all, squabbling over orders of procession, hierarchies of propitiation, proper hem-length of the Onyx robes and Errant knew what else. With these half-mad neurotics any burr in the cloth became a mass of wrinkles and creases.
From what Udinaas had come to understand, no more than fourteen of the half-thousand or so denizens-beyond the wizards themselves-were pure Tiste Andii, and of] those, only three had ever seen daylight-which they quaintly called the blinded stars-only three had ever climbed to the world above.
No wonder they’d all lost their minds.
‘Why is it,’ Udinaas said, ‘when some people laugh it sounds more like crying?’
Seren Pedac glanced up from the sword bridging her knees, the oil-stained cloth in her long-fingered hands. ‘I don’t hear anyone laughing. Or crying.’
‘I didn’t necessarily mean out loud,’ he replied.
A snort from Fear Sengar, where he sat on a stone bench near the portal way. ‘Boredom is stealing the last fragments of sanity in your mind, slave. I for one will not miss them.’
‘The wizards and Silchas are probably arguing the manner of your execution, Fear Sengar,’ Udinaas said. ‘You are their most hated enemy, after all. Child of the Betrayer, spawn of lies and all that. It suits your grand quest, for the moment at least, doesn’t it? Into the viper’s den-every hero needs to do that, right? And moments before your doom arrives, out hisses your enchanted sword and evil minions die by the score. Ever wondered what the aftermath of such slaughter must be? Dread depopulation, shattered families, wailing babes-and should that crucial threshold be crossed, then inevitable extinction is assured, hovering before them like a grisly spectre. Oh yes, I heard my share when I was a child, of epic tales and poems and all the rest. But I always started worrying… about those evil minions, the victims of those bright heroes and their intractable righteousness. I mean, someone invades your hide-out, your cherished home, and of course you try to kill and eat them. Who wouldn’t? There they were, nominally ugly and shifty-looking, busy with their own little lives, plaiting nooses or some such thing. Then shock! The alarms are raised! The intruders have somehow slipped their chains and death is a whirlwind in every corridor!’
Seren Pedac sheathed the sword. ‘I think I would like to hear your version of such stories, Udinaas. How you would like them to turn out. At the very least, it will pass the time.’
‘I’d rather not singe Kettle’s innocent ears-’
‘She’s asleep. Something she does a lot of these days.’
‘Perhaps she’s ill.’
‘Perhaps she knows how to wait things out,’ the Acquitor responded. ‘Go on, Udinaas, how does the heroic epic of yours, your revised version, turn out?’
‘Well, first, the hidden lair of the evil ones. There’s a crisis brewing. Their priorities got all mixed up-some past evil ruler with no management skills or something. So, they’ve got dungeons and ingenious but ultimately ineffective torture devices. They have steaming chambers with huge cauldrons, awaiting human flesh to sweeten the pot-but alas, nobody’s been by of late. After all, the lair is reputedly cursed, a place whence no adventurer ever returns-all dubious propaganda, of course. In fact, the lair’s a good market for the local woodcutters and the pitch-sloppers-huge hearths and torches and murky oil lamps-that’s the problem with underground lairs-they’re dark. Worse than that, everyone’s been sharing a cold for the past eight hundred years. Anyway, even an evil lair needs the necessities of reasonable existence. Vegetables, bushels of berries, spices and medicines, cloth and pottery, hides and well-gnawed leather, evil-looking hats. Of course I’ve not even mentioned all the weapons and intimidating uniforms.’
‘You have stumbled from your narrative trail, Udinaas,’ Seren Pedac observed.
‘So I have, and that too is an essential point. Life is like that. We stumble astray. Just like those evil minions. A crisis-no new prisoners, no fresh meat. Children are starving. It’s an unmitigated disaster.’
‘What’s the solution?’
‘Why, they invent a story. A magical item in their possession, something to lure fools into the lair. It’s reasonable, if you consider it. Every hook needs a wriggling worm. And then they choose one among them to play the role of the Insane Master, the one seeking to unlock the dire powers of that magical item and so bring about a utopia of animated corpses stumbling through a realm of ash and rejected tailings. Now, if this doesn’t bring heroes in by the drove, nothing will.’
‘Do they succeed?’
‘For a time, but recall those ill-conceived torture implements. Invariably, some enterprising and lucky fool gets free, then crushes the skull of a dozing guard or three, and mayhem is let loose. Endless slaughter-hundreds, then thousands of untrained evil warriors who forgot to sharpen their swords and never mind the birch-bark shields that woodcutter with the hump sold them.’
Even Fear Sengar grunted a laugh at that. ‘All right, Udinaas, you win. I think I prefer your version after all.’
Udinaas, surprised into silence, stared across at Seren Pedac, who smiled and said, ‘You have revealed your true talent, Udinaas. So the hero wins free. Then what?’
‘The hero does nothing of the sort. Instead, the hero catches a chill down in those dank tunnels. Makes it out alive, however, and retreats to a nearby city, where the plague he carries spreads and kills everyone. And for thousands of years thereafter, that hero’s name is a curse to both people living above ground and those below.’
After a moment, Fear spoke. ‘Ah, even your version has an implicit warning, slave. And this is what you would have me heed, but that leads me to wonder-what do you care for my fate? You call me your enemy, your lifelong foe, for all the injustices my people have delivered upon you. Do you truly wish me to take note of your message?’
‘As you like, Edur,’ Udinaas replied, ‘but my faith runs deeper than you imagine, and on an entirely different course from what you clearly think. I said the hero wins clear, at least momentarily, but I mentioned nothing of his hapless followers, his brave companions.’
‘All of whom died in the lair.’
‘Not at all. In the aftermath there was dire need for new blood. They were one and all adopted by the evil ones, who were only evil in a relative sense, being sickly and miserable and hungry and not too bright. In any case, there was a great renaissance in the lair’s culture, producing the finest art and treasures the world had ever seen.’
‘And what happened then?’ Seren asked.
‘It lasted until a new hero arrived, but that’s another tale for another time. I have talked myself hoarse.’
‘Among the women of the Tiste Edur,’ Fear Sengar said then, ‘is told the tale that Father Shadow, Scabandari Bloodeye, chose of his own free will to die, freeing his soul to journey down the Grey Road, a journey in search of absolution, for such was the guilt of what he had done on the plains of the Kechra.’
‘Now that is a convenient version.’
‘Now it is you who lack subtlety, Udinaas. This alternative interpretation is itself, allegorical, for what it truly represents is our guilt. For Scabandari’s crime. We cannot take back the deeds of Father Shadow; nor were we in any position, ever, to gainsay him. He led, the Edur followed. Could we have defied him? Possibly. But not likely. As such, we are left with a guilt that cannot be appeased, except in an allegorical sense. And so we hold to legends of redemption.’
Seren Pedac rose and walked over to set her scabbarded sword down beside the food pack. ‘Yet this was a tale held in private by the women of your tribes, Fear. Setting aside for the moment the curious fact that you know of it, how is it the promise of redemption belongs only to the women?’
‘The warriors follow another path,’ Fear replied. ‘That I know of the story-and the truth of Scabandari-is due to my mother, who rejected the tradition of secrecy. Uruth does not flee knowledge, and she would her sons do not either-’
‘Then how do you explain Rhulad?’ Udinaas asked.
‘Do not bait him,’ Seren Pedac said to the slave. ‘Rhulad is accursed. By the sword in his hand, by the god who made that sword.’
‘Rhulad was young,’ Fear said, unconsciously wringing his hands as he stared at the chamber’s worn floor. ‘There was so much still to teach him. He sought to become a great warrior, a heroic warrior. He was discomfited in the shadows of his three older brothers, and this made him precipitate.’
‘I think the god chose him… over Hannan Mosag,’ said Udinaas. ‘Rhulad had no choice.’
Fear studied Udinaas for a long moment, then he nodded. ‘If that is your belief, then you are far more generous towards Rhulad than any Tiste Edur. Again and again, Udinaas, you leave me unbalanced.’
Udinaas closed his eyes as he leaned back against the rough wall. ‘He spoke to me, Fear, because I listened. Something the rest of you never bothered doing-which isn’t that surprising, since your vaunted family order had just been shattered. Your precious hierarchy was in disarray. Shocking. Terrible. So, while he could not speak to you, you in turn were unwilling to hear him. He was silent and you were deaf to that silence. A typical mess-I don’t regret having no family.’
‘You lay all the blame at the foot of the chaotic god.’
Udinaas opened his eyes, blinked for a moment, then smiled. ‘Too convenient by far. Now, if I was seeking redemption, I’d leap on the back of that one, and ride the beast all the way-to the cliff’s edge, then right over, amen.’
‘Then… what?’
‘What to blame? Well, how should I know? I’m just a worn-out slave. But if I had to guess, I’d look first at that rigid hierarchy I mentioned earlier. It traps everyone, and everyone makes sure it traps everyone else. Until none of you can move, not side to side, not up either. You can move down, of course-just do something no-one else likes. Disapproval kicks out every rung of the ladder, and down you go.’
‘So it is the way of living among the Tiste Edur.’ Fear snorted, looked away.
‘All right,’ Udinaas said, sighing, ‘let me ask you this. Why wasn’t that sword offered to some Letherii-a brilliant officer of an army, a cold-blooded merchant prince? Why not Ezgara himself? Or better still, his son, Quillas? Now there was ambition and stupidity in perfect balance. And if not a Letherii, then why not a Nerek shaman? Or a Fent or a Tarthenal? Of course, all those others, well, those tribes were mostly obliterated-at least, all the taboos, traditions and rules of every sort that kept people in line-all gone, thanks to the Letherii.’
‘Very well,’ Seren Pedac said, ‘why not a Letherii?’
Udinaas shrugged. ‘The wrong fatal flaws, obviously. The Chained One recognized the absolute perfection of the Tiste Edur-their politics, their history, their culture and their political situation.’
‘Now I understand,’ Fear murmured, his arms crossed.
‘Understand what?’
‘Why Rhulad so valued you, Udinaas. You were wasted scraping fish scales all day when by the measure of your intelligence and your vision, you could sit tall on any kingdom’s throne.’
The slave’s grin was hard with malice. ‘Damn you, Fear Sengar.’
‘How did that offend you?’
‘You just stated the central argument-both for and against the institution of slavery. I was wasted, was I? Or of necessity kept under firm heel. Too many people like me on the loose and no ruler, tyrant or otherwise, could sit assured on a throne. We would stir things up, again and again. We would challenge, we would protest, we would defy. By being enlightened, we would cause utter mayhem. So, Fear, kick another basket of fish over here, it’s better for everyone.’
‘Except you.’
‘No, even me. This way, all my brilliance remains ineffectual, harmless to anyone and therefore especially to myself, lest my lofty ideas loose a torrent of blood.’
Seren Pedac grunted, ‘You are frightened by your own ideas, Udinaas?’
‘All the time, Acquitor. Aren’t you?’
She said nothing.
‘Listen,’ Fear said. ‘The chanting has stopped.’
As usual, the debate ended with everyone losing. The clash of intractable views produced no harmony, just exhaustion and an ache in the back of the skull. Clip, seated with his legs propped up on the back of the next lower bench, in the gloom of the uppermost tier overlooking the absurdly named Disc of Concordance on which stood five glowering Onyx Wizards, struggled to awaken his mind as the wizards turned as one to face Silchas Ruin.
Ordant Brid, Reve of the Rock, who had sent Clip to retrieve these fell wanderers, was the first to speak. ‘Silchas Ruin, brother of blood to our Black-Winged Lord, we know what you seek.’
‘Then you also know not to get in my way.’
At these cold words, Clip sat straighter.
‘It is as I warned!’ cried Rin Varalath, Reve of the Night, in his high-pitched, grating voice. ‘He arrives like a leviathan of destruction! Which of the brothers was gifted the greater share of deliberation and wisdom? Well, the answer is clear!’
‘Calm down,’ said Penith Vinandas.
Clip smiled to himself, wondering yet again if the Reve aspects created the personalities of their masters-or, in the case of Penith, mistress-or was it the other way round? Of course the Mistress of the Root would advise calm, a settling of wild wills, for she was so assuredly… rooted.
‘I am calm!’ snarled Rin Varalath. He jabbed a finger at Silchas Ruin. ‘We must not yield to this one, else all that we have achieved will be brought down upon our very heads. The balance is all that keeps us alive, and each of you knows that. And if you do not, then you are more lost than I ever imagined.’
Draxos Hulch, Reve of the Dark Water, spoke in his depthless baritone. ‘The issue, my fellow wizards, is less open to debate than you would hope. Unless, of course, we can explain to this warrior the nature of our struggle and the uneasy balance we have but recently won.’
‘Why should he be interested?’ Rin Varalath asked. ‘If this all collapses it is nothing to him. He will move on, uncaring-our deaths will be meaningless as far as he is concerned.’
Silchas Ruin sighed. ‘I am not insensitive to the battle you have waged here, wizards. But your success is due entirely to the inevitable disintegration of the Jaghut’s ritual’ He scanned the faces before him. ‘You are no match for Omtose Phellack, when its wielder was none other than Gothos. In any case, the balance you believe you have achieved is illusory. The ritual fails. Ice, which had been held in check, held timeless, has begun to move once more. It falters in the warmth of this age, yet its volume is so vast that, even melted, it will effect vast change. As for the glaciers bound in the highest reaches of the mountains of Bluerose-those to the north-well, they have already begun their migration. Unmindful of the distant ocean’s assault, they draw power from a wayward flow of cold air. These glaciers, wizards, still hold the spear of the ritual, and soon it will drive for your heart. The Andara is doomed.’
‘We care nothing for the Andara,’ said Gestallin Aros, Reve of the Air. ‘The balance you speak of is not the one that matters to us. Silchas Ruin, the Jaghut’s ritual was of ice only in the manner that fire is of wood-it was the means of achieving a specific goal, and that goal was the freezing in place of time. Of life, and of death.’
Clip’s gaze narrowed on Silchas Ruin, as the albino Andii slowly cocked his head, then said, ‘You speak of a different failing, yet the two are linked-’
‘We are aware of that,’ cut in Ordant Brid. Then, with a faint smile, ‘Perhaps more so than you. You speak of a spear of ice, of Omtose Phellack’s very core, still living, still powerful. That spear, Silchas Ruin, casts a shadow, and it is within that shadow that you will find what you seek. Although not, I think, in the way you desire.’
‘Explain.’
‘We will not,’ snapped Rin Varalath. ‘If you wish to understand, then look to your kin.’
‘My kin? Are you then able to summon Anomander?’
‘Not him,’ replied Ordant Brid. He hesitated, then continued. ‘We were visited, not so long ago, by an ascendant. Menandore. Sister Dawn-’
If anything, Ruin’s voice grew even colder as he demanded, ‘What has she to do with this?’
‘Balance, you ignorant fool!’ Rin Varalath’s shriek echoed in the chamber.
‘Where is she now?’ Silchas Ruin asked.
Alas,’ replied Draxos Hulch, ‘we do not know. But she is close, for reasons that are entirely her own. She will, I fear, oppose you, should you decide to force your way past us.’
‘I seek the soul of Scabandari Bloodeye. I do not understand that you would object to such a goal.’
‘We see the truth of that,’ said Ordant Brid.
A long moment of silence. The five Onyx Wizards faced a nonplussed Silchas Ruin, who seemed at a loss for words.
‘It is,’ said Penith Vinandas, ‘a question of… compassion.’
‘We are not fools,’ said Ordant Brid. ‘We cannot oppose you. Perhaps, however, we can guide you. The journey to the place you seek is arduous-the path is not straight. Silchas Ruin, it is with some astonishment that I tell you that we have reached something of a consensus on this. You have no idea how rare such a thing is-granted, I speak of a compromise, one which sits uneasier with some of us than with others. Nonetheless, we have agreed to offer you a guide.’
‘A guide? To lead me on this crooked path, or tug me ever astray from it?’
‘Such deceit would not work for very long.’
‘True; nor would I be merciful upon its discovery.’
‘Of course.’
Silchas Ruin crossed his arms. ‘You will provide us with a guide. Very well. Which of you has volunteered?’
‘Why, none of us,’ said Ordant Brid. ‘The need for us here prevents such a thing. As you said, a spear of ice is directed at us, and while we cannot shatter it, perhaps we can… redirect it. Silchas Ruin, your guide shall be the Mortal Sword of the Black-Winged Lord.’ At that, the wizard gestured.
Clip rose to his feet, then began his descent to the Disc of Concordance. The chain and its rings appeared in his hand, whirring, then snapping, then whirring out again.
‘He is Anomander’s Mortal Sword?’ Silchas Ruin asked in obvious disbelief as he stared up at this meeting’s audience of one.
Clip smiled. ‘Do you think he would be displeased?’
After a moment, the brother of Rake grimaced, then shook his head. ‘Probably not.’
‘Come the morrow,’ Ordant Brid said, ‘we will begin preparing the way for the continuation of your journey.’
Reaching the edge of the lowest tier, Clip dropped lightly onto the polished stone of the Disc, then approached Silchas Ruin, the chain in his hand spinning and clacking.
‘Must you always do that?’ Silchas Ruin demanded. ‘Do what?’
Silchas Ruin walked into the chamber, followed a moment later by the Tiste Andii, Clip.
Seren Pedac felt a sudden chill, although she could not determine its source. Clip was smiling, but it was a cynical smile, and it seemed his eyes held steady on Fear Sengar, as if awaiting some kind of challenge.
‘Acquitor,’ said Silchas Ruin, releasing the clasp of his cloak as he walked over to the stone table against a far wall, where waited wine and food, ‘at least one mystery has been answered.’
‘Oh?’
‘The preponderance of wraiths here in the Andara, the countless ghosts of dead Tiste Andii-I know why they are here.’
‘I am sorry, I did not know this place was crowded with wraiths. I’ve not even seen Wither lately.’
He glanced across at her, then poured himself a goblet of wine. ‘It is extraordinary,’ he murmured, ‘how something as basic as the absence of a taste on the tongue can prove the most excruciating torture… when one is buried for thousands of years.’
She watched him take a mouthful of the watery wine, watched him savour it. Then he said, ‘Time, Acquitor. The Omtose Phellack ritual, which froze all in place, defied Hood himself-apologies, Hood is the Lord of Death. The ghosts-they had nowhere to go. Easily captured and enslaved by the Tiste Edur, but many others managed to evade that fate, and they are here, among their mortal kin. The Onyx Wizards speak of compassion and balance, you see…’
No, 1 do not, but I think that is of no matter. ‘Will the wizards help us?’
A wry grimace from Silchas Ruin, then he shrugged. ‘Our fell party now has a new member, Acquitor, who is charged with guiding us to what we seek.’ Fear Sengar, suddenly tense, stepped close to Clip. Tiste Andii,’ he said, ‘know this, please. I possess no enmity towards you or your people. If indeed you will lead us to where the soul of Scabandari is bound, I will be in your debt
– indeed, all of the Edur will be in your debt.’
Clip grinned. ‘Oh, you don’t want that, warrior.’
Fear seemed taken aback.
‘You,’ said Silchas Ruin to the Tiste Edur, ‘pose the gravest threat to these Andii. Your kind has good reason to hunt down every last one of them; nor are the Letherii well disposed to them, given their resistance to the annexation
– a resistance that continues to this day. Bluerose does not appreciate being occupied; nor do the humans who lived in peace alongside those possessing Andii blood in their veins hold any loyalty to the Letherii conquerors. When the Onyx
Order ruled, it was a distant sort of rule, reluctant to interfere in daily activities and making few demands on the populace.
And now, Fear Sengar, your kind rule the Letherii, com
pounding the resentment seething in Bluerose.’
‘I cannot speak for the empire,’ Fear said. ‘Only for myself. Yet I believe that, should events transpire in the manner I desire, then true liberation may be the reward granted by the Edur for their assistance-to the entire province of Bluerose and all its inhabitants. Certainly, I would argue for that.’
Clip’s laugh was sardonic.
The chain spun to wrap tight around his right hand, yet that served as his only comment to these grave pronouncements and bold promises.
Seren Pedac felt sick inside. Clip, this maddening pup with his chain and rings, his ever-mocking expression…
Oh, Fear Sengar, do not trust this one. Do not trust him at all.
‘Are you certain you want to do this, Overseer?’
Brohl Handar glanced across at the Atri-Preda. ‘This expedition is to be punitive, Bivatt. No formal proclamation of war has been made-the missive from Letheras is very clear on this. Apparently, it falls under my duties as Overseer to ensure that the engagement does not exceed its parameters. You march to hunt down and destroy those who slaughtered the settlers.’
Her eyes remained on the columns of Letherii and Edur troops marching along the road. Dust hung in the air, staining the sky’s bright blue. The sound from the army reminded Brohl Handar of broken ice groaning and crunching its way down a river. Bivatt spoke. ‘That is precisely my intention, Overseer. That and nothing more, as I have been commanded.’
He studied her for a moment longer, then shifted on the saddle to ease the strain on his lower back-he preferred admiring horses from afar to perching atop the damned things. It seemed they understood his distaste and reciprocated in kind, and this one was in the habit of tossing its head as it drew up from every canter, clearly seeking to crack Brohl’s chin. The Atri-Preda told him he leaned too far forward, and the horse knew it and saw the error as an opportunity to inflict damage. The Tiste Edur was not looking forward to this journey. ‘Nonetheless,’ he finally said, ‘I will accompany you.’
He knew she was unhappy with the prospect. Yet he had his own bodyguards, from his own tribe. His own carriage and driver and team of oxen. More than enough supplies to ensure they were not a burden on the military train.
‘I remain concerned for your safety,’ she said.
‘No need. I have every confidence in my Arapay-’
‘Forgive me, Overseer, but hunting seals is not the same as-’
‘Atri-Preda,’ Brohl Handar interrupted in turn, ‘my warriors faced crack Letherii soldiers in the conquest, and it was your Letherii who broke. Seals? Indeed, some of them weighing as much as an ox, with tusks longer than a short-sword. And white-furred bears, and cave-dwelling bears.
Short-legged wolves and pack wolves. And, one should not forget, Jheck shape-shifters. Did you imagine the white wastes of the north are empty lands? Against what an Arapay must face every day, the Letherii were no great threat. As for protecting me from the Awl, presumably such a need would only arise following the rout of your forces. We shall have a K’risnan of the Den-Ratha, as well as your mage cadre. In short,’ he concluded, ‘your concerns ring false. Tell me, Atri-Preda, what was the substance of your secret meeting with Factor Letur Anict?’
The question, voiced as an afterthought, seemed to strike her like a blow, and the eyes she fixed on him were wide, alarmed, until something darker swirled to life. ‘Financial discussions, Overseer,’ she said in a cold tone. ‘An army needs to eat.’
‘The financing of this punitive expedition is provided by the Imperial Treasury.’
‘Said funds managed by the Factor. After all, that is the function of being a factor, sir.’
‘Not in this instance,’ Brohl Handar replied. ‘Disbursement is being managed by my office. In fact, it is Edur coin that is sponsoring this expedition. Atri-Preda, you should in the future be certain of the facts before you contrive to lie. Now, it would seem that you are to proceed under the burden of two sets of orders. I do hope for the sake of your peace of mind that the two do not prove conflicting.’
‘I should imagine not,’ she said tightly.
‘Are you confident of that, Atri-Preda?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘Overseer, a number of the settlers killed originated from within the Factor’s own household.’
Brohl’s brows lifted. ‘The desire for a most bloody vengeance must be overwhelming, then, for poor Letur Anict.’
‘At that meeting, sir, I simply reiterated my intent to exact the necessary punishment against the murderers. The Factor sought reassurance, which I was pleased to give him under the circumstances.’
‘In other words, Letur Anict was somewhat alarmed that his control over the management of the expedition had been taken away, for such a decision was unprecedented. One must assume he is intelligent enough to recognize-once he has calmed down somewhat-that the move indicates disapproval of his recent excesses.’
‘I would not know, sir.’
‘I shall be interested to gauge his humility upon our triumphant return, Atri-Preda.’
She said nothing.
Of course, he added to himself, there would probably be much more to Letur Anict’s response at that time, given that there was, in fact, nothing truly official in any of this. The Factor’s cronies in the palace-the Letherii servants of, it was likely, the Chancellor-would be outraged upon discovering this circumvention; but this time it was the Edur who had organized this minor usurpation, a working of the tribes, the linkage established via the K’risnan and the Edur staffs of various overseers. There was vast risk in all this-the Emperor himself knew nothing of it, after all.
Letur Anict needed to be reined in. No, more than that, the man needed hobbling. Permanently. If Brohl had his way, there would be a new Factor of Drene within a year, and as for Letur Anict’s holdings, well, the crime for high treason and corruption at the scale he had managed would without doubt result in their confiscation, with all familial rights stripped away, and restitution at such high level that the Anict line would be Indebted for generations to come.
He is corrupt. And he has spun a deadly web here, from Drene out into every bordering nation. He seeks war with all of our neighbours. Unnecessary war. Pointless beyond the covetous greed of one man. Such corruption needed excision, for there were plenty of Letur Anicts in this empire, thriving under the protection of the Liberty Consign and, quite possibly, the Patriotists. This man here would be the example and the warning.
You Letherii think us fools. You laugh behind our backs. Mock us in our ignorance of your sophisticated deceptions. Well, there is more than one kind of sophistication, as you shall discover.
Finally, Brohl Handar no longer felt helpless.
Atri-Preda Bivatt fumed in silence. The damned fool at her side was going to get himself killed, and she would be made responsible for that failure to protect him. K’risnan and Arapay bodyguards would achieve nothing. The Factor’s agents infected every Letherii legion on this march, and among those agents… Errant-damned assassins. Masters of the Poison.
She liked this warrior at her side, dour as he was-which seemed a trait of the Tiste Edur in any case. And though clearly intelligent, he was also… naive.
It was clear that Letur Anict had penetrated the pathetic unofficial efforts of Brohl Handar and a half-dozen other overseers, and the Factor intended to eliminate this nascent threat here and now. On this very expedition.
‘We have a problem with Brohl Handar,’ the Factor had said, his pale round face looking like dusty stone in the habitual gloom of his inner sanctum.
‘Sir?’
‘Unsanctioned, he seeks to exceed his responsibilities, and in so doing undermine the traditional functions of a factor in a border province. His ambitions have drawn others into his web, which could, alas, have fatal repercussions.’
‘Fatal? How?’
‘Atri-Preda, I must tell you. No longer are the Patriotists focusing exclusively on the Letherii in the empire. There has come to light evidence of an emerging conspiracy among the Tiste Edur-against the state, possibly against the Emperor himself.’