'They feared each other almost as much as they feared the T'lan Imass, sir.'
Duiker glanced over at the Wickan youth. The lad was fast asleep. We're doing a lot of that these days. Just dropping off. 'How old?' he asked the corporal.
'Not sure. A hundred, two, maybe even three.'
'Not years.'
'No. Millennia.'
'So, this is where the Jaghut lived.'
'The first tower. From here, pushed back, then again, then again. The final stand—the last tower—is in the heart of the plain beyond the forest.'
'Pushed back,' the historian repeated.
List nodded. 'Each siege lasted centuries, the losses among the T'lan Imass staggering. Jaghut were anything but wanderers. When they chose a place…' His voice fell off. He shrugged.
'Was this a typical war, Corporal?'
The young man hesitated, then shook his head. 'A strange bond, unique among the Jaghut. When the mother was in peril, the children returned, joined the battle. Then the father. Things… escalated.'
Duiker nodded, looked around. 'She must have been… special.'
Tight-lipped and pale, List pulled off his helm, ran a hand through his sweaty hair. 'Aye,' he finally whispered.
'Is she your guide?'
'No. Her mate.'
Something made the historian turn, as if in answer to a barely felt shiver of air. North, through the trees, then above them. His mind struggled to encompass what he saw: a column, a spear lit gold, rising… rising.
'Hood's breath!' List muttered. 'What is that?'
A lone word thundered through Duiker, flooding his mind, driving out every thought, and he knew with utter certainty the truth of it, the single word that was answer to List's question. 'Sha'ik.'
Kalam sat in his gloomy cabin, inundated with the sound of hammering waves and shrieking wind. Ragstopper shuddered with every remorseless crash of the raging seas, the room around the assassin pitching in, it seemed, a dozen directions at once.
Somewhere in their wake, a fast trader battled the same storm, and her presence—announced by the lookout only minutes before the green and strangely luminescent cloud rolled over them—gnawed at Kalam, refusing to go away. The same fast trader we'd seen before. Was the answer a simple one? While we squatted in that shithole of a home port, she'd been calmly shouldering the Imperial pier at Polar, no special rush in resupplying when you have a shore leave worth the name.
But that did not explain the host of other details that plagued the assassin—details that, each on their own, rang a minor note of discord, yet together they created a cacophony of alarm in Kalam. Blurred passages of time, perhaps born of the man's driving aspiration to complete this voyage, at war with the interminable reality of day upon day, night upon night, the very sameness of such a journey.
But no, there's more than just a conflict of perspective. The hour-glasses, the dwindled stores of food and fresh water, the captain's tortured hints of a world amiss aboard this damned ship.
And that fast trader, it should have sailed past us long ago… Salk Elan. A mage—he stinks of it. Yet a sorcerer who could twist an entire crew's mind so thoroughly… that sorcerer would have to be a High Mage. Not impossible. Just highly unlikely among Mebra's covert circle of spies and agents.
There was no doubt in Kalam's mind that Elan had woven about himself a web of deceit, inasmuch as it was in such a man's nature to do so, whether necessary or not. Yet which strand should the assassin follow in his quest for the truth?
Time. How long has this journey been? Tradewinds where none should be, now a storm, driving us ever southeastward, a storm that had therefore not come from the ocean wastes—as the immutable laws of the sea would demand—but from the Falari Isles. In its dry season—a season of unbroken calm.
So, who plays with us here? And what role does Salk Elan have in this game, if any?
Growling, the assassin rose from his bunk, grabbing in mid-swing his satchel from its hook, then made his rocking way to the door.
The hold was like a siege tower under a ceaseless barrage of rocks. Mist filled the salty, close air and the keel was awash in shin-deep water. There was no-one about, every hand committed to the daunting task of holding Ragstopper together. Kalam cleared a space and dragged a chest free. He rummaged in his satchel until his hand found and closed on a small, misshapen lump of stone. He drew it out and set it on the chest-top.
It did not roll off; indeed, it did not move at all.
The assassin unsheathed a dagger, reversed his grip, then drove the iron pommel down on the stone. It shattered. A gust of hot, dry air washed over Kalam. He crouched lower.
'Quick! Quick Ben, you bastard, now's the time!'
No voice reached him through the storm's incessant roar.
I'm beginning to hate mages. 'Quick Ben, damn you!'
The air seemed to waver, like streams of heat rising from a desert floor. A familiar voice tickled the assassin's ears. 'Any idea the last time I've had a chance to sleep? It's all gone to Hood's shithole over here, Kalam—where are you and what do you want? And hurry up with it—this is killing me!'
'I thought you were my shaved knuckle in the hole, damn you!'
'You in Unta? The palace? I never figured—'
'Thanks for the vote of confidence,' the assassin cut in. 'No, I'm not in the Hood-cursed palace, you idiot. I'm at sea—'
'Aren't we all. You've just messed up, Kalam—I can't do this more than once.'
'I know. So I'm on my own when I get there. Fine, nothing new in that. Listen, what can you sense of where I am at this moment? Something's gone seriously awry on this ship, and I want to know what, and who's responsible.'
'Is that all? OK, OK, give me a minute…" Kalam waited. The hair rose on his neck as he felt his friend's presence fill the air on all sides, a probing emanation that the assassin knew well. Then it was gone. 'Uh.'
'What does that mean, Quick?'
'You're in trouble, friend.'
'Laseen?'
'Not sure. Not directly—that ship stinks of a warren, Kalam, one of the rarest among mortals. Been confused lately, friend?'
'I was right, then! Who?'
'Someone, maybe on board, maybe not. Maybe sailing a craft within that warren, right alongside you, only you'll never see it. Anything valuable aboard?'
'You mean apart from my hide?'
'Yes, apart from your hide, of course.' 'Only a despot's ransom.'
'Ah, and someone wants it getting somewhere fast, and when it gets there that someone wants every damned person on board to forget where that place is. That's my guess, Kalam. I could be very wrong, though.'
That's a comfort. You said you're in trouble over there? Whiskeyjack? Dujek, the squad?'
'Scraping through so far. How's Fiddler?'
'No idea. We decided on separate ways…'
'Oh no, Kalam!'
'Aye, Tremorlor. Hood's breath, it was your idea, Quick!'
'Assuming the House was… at peace. Sure, it should've worked. Absolutely. I think. But something's gone bad there—every warren's lit up, Kalam. Chanced on a Deck of Dragons lately?'
'No.'
'Lucky you.'
Realization struck the assassin with a sharply drawn breath. 'The Path of Hands…'
'The Path… oh.' The mage's voice rose, 'Kalam! If you knew—'
'We didn't know a damned thing, Quick!'
'They might have a chance,' Quick Ben muttered a moment later. 'With Sorry—'
'Apsalar, you mean.'
'Whatever. Let me think, damn you.'
'Oh, terrific,' Kalam growled. 'More schemes…'
'I'm losing hold here, friend. Too tired… lost too much blood yesterday, I think. Mallet says…'
The voice trailed away. Cool mist seeped back in around the assassin. Quick Ben was gone. And that's that. On my own in truth, now. Fiddler … oh, you bastard, we should have guessed, figured it out. Ancient gates… Tremorlor.
He did not move for a long time. Finally
he sighed, wiped the top of the chest, removing the last of the crushed rock from its damp surface, and rose.
The captain was awake, and he had company. Salk Elan grinned as Kalam entered the cramped room. 'We were just talking about you, partner,' Elan said. 'Knowing how set you get in your mind, and wondering how you'd take the news…'
'All right, I'll bite. What news?'
'This storm—we're being blown off course. A long way.'
'Meaning?'
'Seems we'll be making for a different port once it's spent."
'Not Unta.'
'Oh, eventually, of course.'
The assassin's gaze fell to the captain. He looked unhappy, but resigned. Kalam conjured a map of Quon Tali in his mind, studied it a moment, then sighed. 'Malaz City. The island.'
'Never seen that legendary cesspool before,' Elan said. 'I can't wait. I trust you'll be generous enough to show me all the sights, friend.'
Kalam stared at the man, then smiled. 'Count on it, Salk Elan.'
They had paused for a rest, almost inured to the curdling cries and screams rising from other paths of the maze. Mappo lowered Icarium to the ground and knelt beside his unconscious friend. Tremorlor's desire for the Jhag was palpable. The Trell closed his eyes. The Nameless Ones have guided us here, delivering Icarium to the Azath as they would a goat to a hill god. Yet it is not their hands that will be bloodied by the deed. I am the one who will be stained by this.
He struggled to conjure the image of the destroyed town—his birthplace—but it was now haunted by shadows. Doubt had replaced conviction. He no longer believed his own memories. Foolish! Icarium has taken countless lives. Whatever the truth behind my town's death…
His hands clenched.
My tribe—the shoulder-women—would not betray me. What weight can be placed on Icarium's dreams? The Jhag remembers nothing. Nothing real. His equanimity softens truth, blurs the edges… smears every colour, until the memory is daubed anew. Thus. It is Icarium's kindness that has snared me…
Mappo's fists ached. He looked down at his companion, studied the expression of peaceful repose on the Jhag's blood-smeared face.
Tremorlor shall not have you. I am not to be so used. If the Nameless Ones would deliver you, then they shall have to come for you themselves, and through me first.
He looked up, glared into the heart of the maze. Tremorlor. Reach for him with your roots, and they shall feel the rage of a Trell warrior, his battle dream unleashed, ancient spirits riding his flesh in a dance of murder. This I promise, and so you are warned.
'It's said,' Fiddler murmured beside him, 'that the Azath have taken gods.'
Mappo fixed the soldier with hooded eyes.
Fiddler squinted as he studied the riotous walls on all sides. 'What Elder gods—their names forgotten for millennia—are caged here? When did they last see light? When were they last able to move their limbs? Can you imagine an eternity thus endured?' He shifted the weight of the crossbow in his hands. 'If Tremorlor dies… imagine the madness unleashed upon the world.'
The Trell was silent for a moment, then he whispered, 'What are these darts that you fling at me?'
Fiddler's brows rose. 'Darts? None intended. This place sits on me like a cloak of vipers, that is all.'
'Tremorlor has no hunger for you, soldier.'
Fiddler's grin was crooked. 'Sometimes it pays being a nobody.'
'Now you mock in truth.'
The sapper's grin fell away. 'Widen your senses, Trell. Tremorlor's is not the only hunger here. Every prisoner in these walls of wood feels our passage. They might well flinch from you and Icarium, but no such fear constrains their regard for the rest of us.'
Mappo looked away. 'Forgive me. I've spared little thought for anyone else, as you have noted. Still, do not think I would hesitate in defending you if the need arose. I am not one to diminish the honour that is your companionship.'
Fiddler gave a sharp nod, straightened. 'A soldier's pragmatism. I had to know one way or the other."
'I understand.'
'Sorry if I offended you.'
'Naught but a knife-tip's prod—you've stirred me to wakefulness.'
Iskaral Pust, squatting a few paces away, sputtered. 'Muddy the puddle, oh yes! Yank his loyalties this way and that—excellent! Witness the strategy of silence—while the intended victims unravel each other in pointless, divisive discourse. Oh yes, I have learned much from Tremorlor, and so assume a like strategy. Silence, a faint mocking smile suggesting I know more than I do, an air of mystery, yes, and fell knowledge. None could guess my confusion, my host of deluded illusions and elusive delusions! A mantle of marble hiding a crumbling core of sandstone. See how they stare at me, wondering—all wondering—at my secret wellspring of wisdom…'
'Let's kill him,' Crokus muttered, 'if only to put him out of our misery.'
'And sacrifice such entertainment?' Fiddler growled. He resumed his place at point. 'Time to go.'
'The blathering of secrets,' the High Priest of Shadow uttered in a wholly different voice, 'so they judge me ineffectual.'
The others spun to face him. Iskaral Pust offered a beatific smile.
A swarm of wasps rose above the tangled root wall, sped over their heads and past—paying them no heed. Fiddler felt his heart thud back into place. He drew a shuddering breath. There were some D'ivers that he feared more than others. Beasts are one thing, but insects…
He glanced back at the others. Icarium hung limp in Mappo's arms. The Jhag's head was stained with blood. The Trell's gaze reached beyond the sapper to the edifice that awaited them. Mappo's expression was twisted with anguish, so thoroughly unmasked and vulnerable that the Trell's face was a child's face, with an attendant need that was all the more demanding for being wholly unconscious. A mute appeal that was difficult to resist.
Fiddler shook himself, pushing his attention past Mappo and his burden. Apsalar, her father and Crokus stood ranged behind the Trell in a protective cordon while beyond them were the Hounds and Iskaral Pust. Five pairs of bestial eyes and one human burned with intent—dubious allies, our rearguard. Talk about a badly timed schism—and that intent was fixed on the unconscious body in Mappo's arms.
Icarium himself wished it, and in so saying rendered the Trell's heart. The price of acquiescence is as nothing to the pain of refusal. Yet Mappo will surrender his life to this, and we're likely to do the same. None of us—not even Apsalar—is cold-hearted enough to stand back, to see the Jhag taken. Hood's breath, we are fools, and Mappo the greatest fool of us all…
'What's on your mind, Fid?' Crokus asked, his tone suggesting he had a pretty good idea.
'Sappers got a saying,' he muttered. 'Wide-eyed stupid.'
The Daru slowly nodded.
In other paths of the maze, the taking had begun. Shapeshifters—the most powerful of them, the survivors who'd made it this far—had begun their assault on the House of the Azath. A cacophony of screams echoed in the air, battering their senses. Tremorlor defended itself the only way it could, by devouring, by imprisoning—but there are too many, coming too quickly—wood snapped, woven cages shattered, the sound was of a forest being destroyed, branch by branch, tree by tree, an inexorable progression, closer, ever closer to the House itself.
'We're running out of time!' hissed Iskaral Pust, the Hounds moving in agitation around him. 'Things are coming up behind us. Things! How much clearer can I be?'
'We may still need him,' Fiddler said.
'Oh, aye!' the High Priest responded. 'The Trell can throw him like a sack of grain!'
'I can bring him around quickly enough," Mappo growled. 'I still carry some of those Denul elixirs from your temple, Iskaral Pust.'
'Let's get moving,' the sapper said. Something was indeed coming up behind them, making the air redolent with sickly spice. The Hounds had pulled their attention from Mappo and Icarium and now faced the other way, revealing restless nerves as they shifted position. The trail made a sharp bend twenty paces from where the hu
ge beasts stood.
A piercing scream ripped the air, coming from just beyond that bend, followed by the explosive sounds of battle. It ended abruptly.
'We've waited too long!' Pust hissed, cowering behind his god's Hounds. 'Now it comes!'
Fiddler swung his crossbow around, eyes fixed on the place where their pursuer would appear.
Instead, a small, nut-brown creature half flapped, half scampered into view. Tendrils of smoke drifted from it.
'Ai!' Pust shrieked. They plague me!'
Crokus bolted forward, pushing his way between Shan and Gear as if they were no more than a pair of mules. 'Moby?'
The familiar raced towards the Daru and leapt at the last moment to land in the lad's arms. Where it clung tenaciously, wings twitching. Crokus's head snapped back. 'Ugh, you stink like the Abyss!'
Moby, that damned familiar… Fiddler's gaze flicked to Mappo. The Trell was frowning.
'Bhok'aral!' The word came from Iskaral Pust as a curse. 'A pet? A pet! Madness!'
'My uncle's familiar,' Crokus said, approaching.
The Hounds shrank from his path.
Oh, lad, much more than that, it seems.
'An ally, then,' Mappo said.
Crokus nodded, though with obvious uncertainty. 'Hood knows how he found us. How he survived…'
'Dissembler!' Pust accused, creeping towards the Daru. 'A familiar? Shall we ask the opinion of that dead shapeshifter back there? Oh no, we can't, can we? It's been torn to pieces!' Crokus said nothing.
'Never mind,' Apsalar said. 'We're wasting time. To the House—'
The High Priest wheeled on her. 'Never mind? What conniving deceit has arrived among us? What foul betrayal hangs over us? There, hanging from the lad's shirt—'
'Enough!' Fiddler snapped. 'Stay here then, Pust. You and your Hounds.' The sapper faced the House again. 'What do you think, Mappo? Nothing's got close to it yet—if we make a run for it…'
'We can but try.'
'Do you think the door will open for us?'
'I do not know.'
'Let's find out, then.' The Trell nodded.
They had a clear view of Tremorlor. A low wall surrounded it, made of what appeared to be volcanic rock, jagged and sharp. The only visible break in that wall was a narrow gate, over which arched a weave of vines. The House itself was tawny in colour, probably built of limestone, its entrance recessed between a pair of squat, asymmetrical two-storey towers, neither of which possessed windows. A winding path of flagstones connected the gate with the shadow-swallowed door. Low, gnarled trees occupied the yard, each surmounting a hump.