‘Oh, really? You’ve been stealing again, haven’t you? Tripped a few wards, did you? Got a bag of coins all glowing with magic, have you?’
‘And gems and diamonds. It was only proper, love, honest. A wrongful debt dealt with wrongfully, the two happily cancelling each other out, leaving everything rightful!’
She snorted, then stepped back and let him inside. ‘I don’t believe I’m buying all this.’
‘You know I never lie to you, Tis. Never.’
‘So who did you rob tonight?’
‘Why, Gareb, of course. Cleaned him out, in fact.’
Tiserra stared at him. ‘Oh, husband.’
‘I know, I’m a genius. Now, about those wards – as soon as he can, he’ll bring in some mages to sniff out the whereabouts of his loot.’
‘Yes, Torvald, I grasp the situation well enough. You know where the secret hole is – drop the bag in there, if you please, while I get started on the rest.’
But he had not moved. ‘Still love me?’ he asked.
Tiserra turned and met his eyes. ‘Always, y’damned fool. Now hurry.’
Glories unending this night in Darujhistan! And now the dawn stirs awake, a light to sweep aside the blue glow of the unsleeping city. See the revellers stumbling towards their beds or the beds of newfound friends or even a stranger’s bed, what matter the provenance of love? What matter the tangled threads of friendship so stretched and knotted?
What matter the burdens of life, when the sun blazes into the sky and the gulls stir from their posts in the bay, when crabs scuttle for deep and dark waters? Not every path is well trod, dearest friends, not every path is set out with even pavestones and unambiguous signs.
Rest eyes in the manner of a thief who is a thief no longer, as he looks with deepest compassion down upon the sleeping face of an old friend, there in a small room on the upper floor of the Phoenix Inn; and sees too a noble councilman snoring slouched in yon chair. While in the very next room sits an assassin who is, perhaps, an assassin no longer, dull-eyed with pain as he ponders all manner of things, in fashions sure to be mysterious and startling, were any able to peek into his dark mind.
Elsewhere, a child long ago abandoned by his mother frets in his sleep, pursued by a nightmare face with the absurd name of Snell attached to it.
And two guards run, hearts pounding, from the gate to the estate as alarms ring loud and urgent, for an evil man has lost all his ill-won wealth – a fact as sure to pluck his talons as a torturer’s pliers, since evil only thrives in a well of power, and when the coin of cruelty is stolen away, why, so too vanishes the power.
A fingerless man stumbles home, god-blessed and blood oozing from battered knuckles, while his wife sleeps without dreams, her expression so peaceful even the most unsentimental sculptor could do naught but weep.
And, in a street unworthy of any particular notice, stands an ox, thinking about breakfast. What else is there, after all, when love and friendship and power, and regret and loss and reunion fierce enough to tear away all that might have been bittersweet, when all – all – is gone and done with, what else is there, but the needs of the stomach?
Eat! Dine on pleasures and taste sweet life!
Inconsequential? Bah!
As Kruppe ever says, it is a wise ox that gets the yoke.
CHAPTER SIX
‘The miracle of hindsight is how it transforms great military geniuses of the past into incompetent idiots, and incompetent idiots of the present into great military geniuses. There is the door, and be sure to take all your pompous second-guessing delusions with you . . .’
Emperor Kellanved
On the occasion of the conquest of
Falari’s Grand Council (the Trial of Crust)
There had been an earthquake. A spine of rock nearly a league long had simply dropped away, opening an inlet to the sea. There were no silts churned up by this cataclysm, for the spine was a lifeless conglomeration of obsidian and pumice, legacy of past eruptions. At its apex, the inlet was sharply angled, the sides sheer rock. That angle widened on its way out to the sea, flanked at the mouth by twin upthrusts of rock a quarter-league apart.
The inlet’s floor was inclined. The water at the apex was no more than fifteen spans deep, crystal clear, revealing a jumble of blockish stones and white bones cluttering the bottom – remnants of tholos tombs and the K’Chain Che’Malle that had been interred within them.
Ruins were visible on both sides of the cut, including a mostly toppled Jaghut tower. In the sky above a tortured rack of hills, just to the north, hovered the stain of a gate, a mottled scar in the air itself. All that bled from it now was pain, a sour, unyielding stench that seemed as thirsty as the ravaged landscape stretching out on all sides.
Traveller stood staring up at the gate for a long time. Two days now from the spot where he had washed up and he had yet to find fresh water. The blood of the bear that had attacked him had sustained him for a time, but that had been salty nectar, and now he suffered.
There had been enough conspiracies intent on achieving his death, over the course of his life thus far, to have made a lesser man long since despair, tumbling into madness or suicide in one last surrender to the hunger of gods and mortals. It would be, perhaps, rather just if he was to fail now for lack of the most basic staples needed to keep one alive.
But he would not surrender, for he could hear a god’s laughter, as ironic as a loving whisper in his ear. Somewhere inland, he was sure, this blasted waste would crumble into sweeps of dusty earth, and then grasses, a wind-stirred prairie and steppes. If only he could hold on long enough to reach it.
He had skinned the bear and now carried the hide in a wrapped bundle slung from one shoulder. Although not particularly attractive, it provided a scent disguising his own, and one that would send most carnivores scurrying. Conversely, he would need to stalk game – assuming he ever found any – from upwind, but that would have been true even without the skin.
He was on the coast of Morn. Far from where he had intended to make landfall here on the Genabackan continent. A long walk awaited him, but there was nothing new in that prospect. Nor, he had to admit, in the threat of failure.
Facing inland, Traveller set out, boots crunching on black, bubbled glass. The morning sun reflected from the mottled surface in blinding flashes, and the heat swirled up around him until he was sheathed in sweat. He could see the far end, a few thousand paces distant – or thought he could, knowing well how the eyes could be deceived – a darker stretch, like a raised beach of black sand drawn across the horizon, with nothing visible beyond.
Some time later he was certain that the ridge was not an illusion. A wind-banked, undulating heap of crushed obsidian, a diamond glitter that cut into his eyes. As he drew closer, he thought he could hear faint moaning, as of some as yet unfelt wind. And now he could see beyond, another vast stretch of featureless plain, with no end visible through the shimmering heat.
Ascending the rise, boots sinking deep into the sand, Traveller heard the moaning wind once more, and he looked up to see that something had appeared on the plain directly ahead. A high-backed throne, the figure seated upon it a blurred cast of shadows. Standing perhaps ten paces to the right was a second figure, this one wrapped in a dark grey cloak, the hood pulled back to reveal a wind-burned profile and a shock of black hair cut short.
From behind the throne now emerged Hounds, padding forward, their paws kicking up puffs of dust that drifted in their wake. Baran, Gear, Blind. Shan and Rood and two others Traveller had never seen before. Bone-white, both of them, with onyx eyes. Leaner than the others, longer-necked, and covered in scars that displayed a startling dark blue skin beneath the short white hair. Moving as a pair, they ranged out to the far right – inland – and lifted noses to the air. The other Hounds came straight for Traveller.
He walked down to meet them.
Shan was the first to arrive, pulling up along one side, then slinking like a cat around his back to come up on the
other. He settled his left hand on her sleek black neck.
Ancient Baran was next, and Traveller reached out to set his other hand against one muscled cheek, feeling the skein of seamed scars from centuries of savage combat, the hint of crushing molars beneath the ragged but soft skin. Looking into the beast’s light brown eyes, he found he could not hold the gaze for long – too much sorrow, too much longing for peace for which he could give no benison. Baran leaned his head into that caress, and then rasped a thick tongue against Traveller’s forearm.
With the huge beasts all round him now – excepting the two white ones – Traveller approached the throne. As he drew nearer, Cotillion finally faced him.
‘You look terrible, old friend.’
Traveller smiled, not bothering to respond in kind.
Cotillion’s face betrayed exhaustion, beyond anything he had ever seen when the man had been mortal, when he had been named Dancer, when he had shared the rule of an empire. Where were the gifts of godhood? What was their value, when to grasp each one was to flinch in pain and leak blood from the hands?
‘You two,’ Traveller said, eyes settling now on Shadowthrone, ‘banish my every regret.’
‘That won’t last, I’m sure,’ hissed the god on his throne.
‘Where is your army, First Sword? I see only dust in your wake.’
‘While you sit here, claiming dominion over a wasteland.’
‘Enough of the mutual appreciation. You are beset, old friend – hee hee, how often do I use those words, eh? Old friends, oh, where are they now? How far fallen? Scattered to the winds, stumbling hopelessly unguided and blind—’
‘You never had that many friends, Kellanved.’
‘Beset, I was saying. By nightfall you will be dead of dehydration – it is four days or more to the first spring on the Lamatath Plain.’
‘I see.’
‘Of course, no matter where you happen to be when you finally die, your old friend is bound to come find you.’
‘Yes, I am sure he will.’
‘To gloat in victory.’
‘Hood does not gloat.’
‘Well, that’s a disappointing notion. So, he will come to not gloat, then. No matter. The point is, you will have lost.’
‘And my success or lack thereof matters to you, Kellanved?’
Cotillion replied. ‘Surprisingly, yes it does.’
‘Why?’
That blunt question seemed to take both gods aback for a moment. Then Shadowthrone snorted. ‘Does it matter? Hardly. Not at all, in fact. We are here to help you, you damned oaf. You stubborn, obstinate, belligerent fool. Why I ever considered you an old friend entirely escapes me! You are too stupid to have been one, ever! Look, even Cotillion is exasperated by your dimwittedness.’
‘Mostly amused, actually,’ Cotillion corrected, now grinning at Traveller. ‘I was just reminded of our, ah, discussions in the command tent when on campaign. Perhaps the most telling truth of old friendships is in how their dynamics never change.’
‘Including your smarmy postulations,’ said Shadowthrone drily. ‘Listen, you, Traveller or however you call yourself now. My Hounds will guide you to your salvation – hah, how often has that been said? In the meantime, we will give you skins of water, dried fruit and the like – the myriad irritating needs of mortality, I seem to recall. Vaguely. Whatever.’
‘And what do you seek in return for this gift?’
A dozen heartbeats passed with no reply forthcoming.
Traveller’s face slowly descended into a dangerous frown. ‘I will not be swayed from my task. Not even delayed—’
‘No, of course not.’ Shadowthrone waved an ephemeral hand. ‘The very opposite, in fact. We urge you. We exhort you. Make haste, set true your course, seek out your confrontation. Let nothing and no one stand in your way.’
Traveller’s frown deepened.
A soft laugh from Cotillion. ‘No need. He speaks true, First Sword. It is our pleasure to enable you, in this particular matter.’
‘I will not bargain with him.’
‘We know.’
‘I am not sure you fully understand—’
‘We do.’
‘I mean to kill Hood. I mean to kill the God of Death.’
‘Best of luck to you!’ said Shadowthrone.
More silence.
Cotillion then came forward, carrying supplies that had not been there a moment ago. He set them down. ‘Shan will lead the way,’ he said quietly, stepping back.
Traveller glanced over at the two new Hounds. ‘And those ones?’
Cotillion followed his gaze, looking momentarily troubled before he shrugged. ‘Hard to say. They just sort’f . . . showed up—’
‘I summoned them, of course!’ said Shadowthrone. ‘The white one is named Pallid. The whiter one is named Lock. Seven is the desired number, the necessary number.’
‘Shadowthrone,’ Cotillion said, ‘you did not summon them.’
‘I must have! Why else would they be here? I’m sure I did, at some point. A wish, perhaps, whilst staring upward at the stars. Or a desire, yes, of such overwhelming power that even the Abyss could not deny me!’
‘The others seem to have accepted them,’ Cotillion noted, shrugging again.
‘Has it occurred to you,’ said Traveller, softly, to the god standing before him, ‘that they might be the fabled Hounds of Light?’
‘Really? Why would you think that?’ And in that moment, when Cotillion met his eyes and winked, all the exhaustion – the very immortality of ascendancy itself – vanished, and Traveller saw once more – after what seemed a lifetime – the man he had once called his friend.
Yet he could not bring himself to smile, to yield any response at all to that gesture and the invitation it offered. He could not afford such . . . weakness. Not now, perhaps never again. Certainly, not with what these two old friends had become. They are gods, and gods are not to be trusted.
Reaching down, he collected the skins and the knapsack. ‘Which one drove the bear to the coast?’ he asked.
‘Gear. You needed food, or you would not have got even this far.’
‘I was very nearly its supper, Cotillion.’
‘We have always had faith in you, First Sword.’
The next – and probably last – question Traveller had for the god was the most difficult one to voice. ‘And which of you wrecked my ship and killed my crew?’
Cotillion’s brows lifted. ‘Not us. Dassem, we would not do that.’
Traveller studied the god’s eyes – always softer than one might have expected, but he had long since grown used to that – and then he turned away. ‘All right.’
Pallid and Lock fell in as reluctant, desultory rearguard as the Hounds escorted Traveller inland. Shadowthrone had managed to turn his throne round so that he could watch the First Sword and his entourage slowly dwindle into the northeast.
Standing nearby, Cotillion lifted his hands and looked down upon the palms, seeing the glistening sweat pooling there. ‘That was close.’
‘Eh? What was?’
‘If he had decided we were behind the shipwreck, well, I don’t like to think what would have happened here.’
‘Simple, Cotillion. He would have killed us.’
‘And the Hounds would not have interceded.’
‘Except perhaps my newest pets! No old loyalties there! Hee hee!’
‘Close,’ said Cotillion again.
‘You could have just told him the truth. That Mael wanted him and wanted him badly. That we had to reach in and drag him out – he would have been far more thankful with all that.’
‘Gratitude is a useless luxury in this instance, Shadowthrone. No distractions, remember? Nothing and no one to turn Traveller from his fated destiny. Leave Mael for another time.’
‘Yes, very good. A detail we can offer Traveller when our need for him is immediate and, er, pressing. We delved, following the suggestion he set us this day, in this place, and lo! Why, none other
than the Elder God of the Seas was to blame! Now get over here and draw that damned sword and hack these enemies to pieces!’
‘That is not the delving we need to do right now,’ Cotillion said.
‘Well, of course not. We already know! What need delving?’
Cotillion faced Shadowthrone. ‘Mael could have killed him easily enough, don’t you think? Instead, he set out to delay Traveller. We need to think on that. We need to figure out why.’
‘Yes, I am beginning to see. Suspicions awakened – I was momentarily careless, unmindful. Delay, yes, why? What value?’
‘I just realized something.’
‘What? Quick, tell me!’
‘It doesn’t matter what Mael had in mind. It won’t work.’
‘Explain!’
‘Mael assumes a quarry on the run, after all . . .’
‘Yes, he must, of course, no other possibility. Mael doesn’t get it! The idiot! Hee hee! Now, let’s get out of this ash-heap, my throat’s getting sore.’
Cotillion stared after the Hounds and their charge, squinting against the bright sunlight. ‘Timing, Shadowthrone . . .’
‘Perfection.’
‘So far.’
‘We will not fail.’
‘We’d better not.’
‘Which among our newfound allies do you imagine the weak link?’
Cotillion glanced back at Shadowthrone. ‘Well, you, of course.’
‘Apart from me, I mean.’
Cotillion stared. Shadowthrone waited. Fidgeting on his throne.
Midnight at the lone tavern of Morsko provided Nimander with memories he would never lose. Slack-eyed, black-mouthed villagers staggering forward, colliding with him and the others. Stained bottles thrust into their faces. Eyes smeared with something murky and yellowed. The drink was potent enough to numb tongues, if the exhorting moans were in truth invitations to imbibe.