Sandalath yelled that it was all right, everything was fine – an accident, but everything is fine now.
But poor Phaed’s wrists are broken. That will need seeing to.
Not now, Withal.
He stands limp in my arms, wife. Can I release him now?
Yes, but be wary—
I shall, no doubt of that.
And now Sandalath, positioned between Nimander and the still-coughing, gagging Phaed, took Nimander’s face in her hands and leaned closer to study his eyes.
What do you see, Sandalath Drukorlat? Gems bright with truths and wonders? Pits whispering at you that no bottom will ever be found, that the plunge into a soul never ends? Row, you fools! We’re sinking! Oh, don’t giggle, Nimander, don’t do that. Remain as you are, outwardly numb. Blank. What do you see? Why, nothing, of course.
‘Nimander.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You can kill me now.’
A strange look on her face. Something like horror. ‘Nimander, no. Listen to me. I need to know. What has happened here? Why were you in our room?’
‘Phaed.’
‘Why were you both in our room, Nimander?’
Why, I followed her. I stayed awake – I’ve been doing that a lot. I’ve been watching her for days and days, nights and nights. Watching her sleep, waiting for her to wake up, to take out her knife and smile a greeting to the dark. The dark that is our heritage, the dark of betrayal.
I don’t remember when last I slept, Sandalath Drukorlat. I needed to stay awake, always awake. Because of Phaed.
Did he answer her then? Out loud, all those tumbling statements, those reasonable explanations. He wasn’t sure. ‘Kill me now, so I can sleep, I so want to sleep.’
‘No-one is going to kill you,’ Sandalath said. Her hands, pressed to the sides of his face, were slick with sweat. Or rain, perhaps. Not tears – leave that to the sky, to the night.
‘I am sorry,’ Nimander said.
‘I think that apology should be saved for Phaed, don’t you?’
‘I am sorry,’ he repeated to her, then added, ‘that she’s not dead.’
Her hands pulled away, leaving his cheeks suddenly cold.
‘Hold a moment,’ Withal said, stepping to the foot of the bed and bending down to pick up something. Gleaming, edged. Her knife. ‘Now,’ he said in a murmur, ‘which one does this toy belong to, I wonder?’
‘Nimander’s still wearing his,’ Sandalath said, and then she turned to stare down at Phaed.
A moment later, Withal grunted. ‘She’s been a hateful little snake around you, Sand. But this?’ He faced Nimander. ‘You just saved my wife’s life? I think you did.’ And then he moved closer, but there was nothing of the horror of Sandalath’s face in his own. No, this was a hard expression, that slowly softened. ‘Gods below, Nimander, you knew this was coming, didn’t you? How long? When did you last sleep?’ He stared a moment longer, then spun. ‘Move aside, Sand, I think I need to finish what Nimander started—’
‘No!’ his wife snapped.
‘She’ll try again.’
‘I understand that, you stupid oaf ! Do you think I’ve not seen into that fanged maw that is Phaed’s soul? Listen, there is a solution—’
‘Aye, wringing her scrawny neck—’
‘We leave them here. On the island – we sail tomorrow without them. Withal – husband—’
‘And when she recovers – creatures like this one always do – she’ll take this damned knife and do to Nimander what she’s tried to do to you. He saved your life, and I will not abandon him—’
‘She won’t kill him,’ Sandalath said. ‘You don’t understand. She cannot – without him, she would be truly alone, and that she cannot abide – it would drive her mad—’
‘Mad, aye, mad enough to take a knife to Nimander, the one who betrayed her!’
‘No.’
‘Wife, are you so certain? Is your faith in understanding the mind of a sociopath so strong? That you would leave Nimander with her?’
‘Husband, her arms are broken.’
‘And broken bones can be healed. A knife in the eye cannot.’
‘She will not touch him.’
‘Sand—’
Nimander spoke. ‘She will not touch me.’
Withal’s eyes searched his. ‘You as well?’
‘You must leave us here,’ Nimander said, then winced at the sound of his own voice. So weak, so useless. He was no Anomander Rake. No Silchas Ruin. Andarist’s faith in choosing him to lead the others had been a mistake. ‘We cannot go with you. With Silanda. We cannot bear to see that ship any longer. Take it away, please, take them away!’
Oh, too many screams this night, in this room. More demands from outside, in growing alarm.
Sandalath turned and, drawing a robe about her – she had been, Nimander suddenly realized, naked – a woman of matronly gifts, the body of a woman who had birthed children, a body such as young men dream of. And might there be wives who might be mothers who might be lovers . . . for one such as me? Stop, she is dead – robe drawn, Sandalath walked to the door, quickly unlocked it and slipped outside, closing the door behind her. More voices in the corridor.
Withal was staring down at Phaed, who had ceased her coughing, her whimpers of pain, her fitful weeping. ‘This is not your crime, Nimander.’
What?
Withal reached down and grabbed Phaed by her upper arms. She shrieked.
‘Don’t,’ Nimander said.
‘Not your crime.’
‘She will leave you, Withal. If you do that. She will leave you.’
He stared across at Nimander, then pushed Phaed back down onto the floor. ‘You don’t know me, Nimander. Maybe she doesn’t, either – not when it comes to what I will do for her sake – and, I suppose,’ he added with a snarl, ‘for yours.’
Nimander had thought his words had drawn Withal back, had kept him from doing what he had intended to do, and so he was unprepared, and so he stood, watching, as Withal snatched Phaed up, surged across the room – carrying her as if she was no more than a sack of tubers – and threw her through the window.
A punching shatter of the thick, bubbled glass, and body, flopping arms and bared lower limbs – with dainty feet at the end – were gone, out into the night that howled, spraying the room with icy rain.
Withal stumbled back in the face of that wind, then he spun to face Nimander. ‘I am going to lie,’ he said in a growl. ‘The mad creature ran, flung herself through – do you hear me?’
The door opened and Sandalath charged into the room, behind her the Adjunct’s aide, Lostara Yil, and the priest, Banaschar – and, pushing close behind them, the other Tiste Andii – eyes wide with fear, confusion – and Nimander lurched towards them, one step, then another—
And was pulled round to face Sandalath.
Withal was speaking. A voice filled with disbelief. Expostulations.
But she was staring into his eyes. ‘Did she? Nimander! Did she?’
Did she what? Oh, yes, go through the window.
Shouts from the street below, muted by the wailing winds and lashing rain. Lostara Yil moved to stand at the sill, leaned out. A moment later she stepped back and turned, her expression grave. ‘Broken neck. I’m sorry, Sandalath. But I have questions . . .’
Mother, wife, Withal’s lover, was still staring into Nimander’s eyes – a look that said loss was rearing from the dark, frightened places in her mind, rearing, yes, to devour the love she held for her husband – for the man with the innocent face; that told him, with the answer he might give to her question, two more lives might be destroyed. Did she? Through the window? Did she . . . die?
Nimander nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.
Another dead woman screamed in his skull and he almost reeled. Dead eyes, devouring all love. ‘You have lied, Nimander!’
Yes. To save Withal. To save Sandalath Drukorlat—
‘To save yourself!’
Yes.
 
; ‘My love, what has happened to you?’
I heard a spinning sound. A whispering promise – we must stay here, you see. We must. Andarist chose me. He knew he was going to die. He knew that there would be no Anomander Rake, no Silchas Ruin, no great kin of our age of glory – no-one to come to save us, take care of us. There was only me.
My love, to lead is to carry burdens. As did the heroes of old, with clear eyes.
So look at my eyes, my love. See my burden? Just like a hero of old—
Sandalath reached up again, those two long-fingered hands. Not to take his face, but to wipe away the rain streaming down his cheeks.
My clear eyes.
We will stay here, on this island – we will look to the Shake, and see in them the faint threads of Tiste Andii blood, and we will turn them away from the barbarity that has taken them and so twisted their memories.
We will show them the shore. The true shore.
Burdens, my love. This is what it is to live, while your loved ones die.
Sandalath, still ignoring Lostara Yil’s questioning, now stepped back and turned to settle into her husband’s arms.
And Withal looked across at Nimander.
Outside, the wind screamed.
Yes, my love, see it in his eyes. Look what I have done to Withal. All because I failed.
Last night’s storm had washed the town clean, giving it a scoured appearance that made it very nearly palatable. Yan Tovis, Twilight, stood on the pier watching the foreign ships pull out of the harbour. At her side was her half-brother, Yedan Derryg, the Watch.
‘Glad to see them go,’ he said.
‘You are not alone in that,’ she replied.
‘Brullyg’s still dead to the world – but was that celebration or self-pity?’
Yan Tovis shrugged.
‘At dawn,’ Yedan Derryg said after a long moment of silence between them, ‘our black-skinned cousins set out to build the tomb.’ His bearded jaw bunched, molars grinding, then he said, ‘Only met the girl once. Sour-faced, shy eyes.’
‘Those broken arms did not come from the fall,’ Yan Tovis said. ‘Too bruised – the tracks of fingers. Besides, she landed on her head, bit through her tongue clean as a knife cut.’
‘Something happened in that room. Something sordid.’
‘I am pleased we did not inherit such traits.’
He grunted, said nothing.
Yan Tovis sighed. ‘Pully and Skwish seem to have decided their sole purpose in living these days is to harry me at every turn.’
‘The rest of the witches have elected them as their representatives. You begin your rule as Queen in a storm of ill-feeling.’
‘It’s worse than that,’ she said. ‘This town is crowded with ex-prisoners. Debt-runners and murderers. Brullyg managed to control them because he could back his claim to being the nastiest adder in the pit. They look at me and see an Atri-Preda of the Imperial Army – just another warden – and you, Derryg, well, you’re my strong-arm Finadd. They don’t care a whit about the Shake and their damned queen.’
‘Which is precisely why you need the witches, Twilight.’
‘I know. And if that’s not misery enough, they know it, too.’
‘You need clout,’ he said.
‘Clever man.’
‘Even as a child, you were prone to sarcasm.’
‘Sorry.’
‘The answer, I think, will be found with these Tiste Andii.’
She looked across at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Who knows more of our past than even the witches? Who knows it as a clean thing? A thing not all twisted by generations of corruption, of half-remembrances and convenient lies?’
‘Your tongue runs away with you, Yedan.’
‘More sarcasm.’
‘No, I find myself somewhat impressed.’
The jaw bunched as he studied her.
She laughed. Could not help it. ‘Oh, brother, come – the foreigners are gone and probably won’t be back – ever.’
‘They sail to their annihilation?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I’m not sure, Twilight. That child mage, Sinn . . .’
‘You may be right. News of her imminent departure had Pully and Skwish dancing.’
‘She destroyed a solid wall of ice half as long as Fent Reach. I would not discount these Malazans.’
‘The Adjunct did not impress me,’ Yan Tovis said.
‘Maybe because she didn’t need to.’
Twilight thought about that, then thought about it some more.
Neither spoke as they turned away from the glittering bay and the now-distant foreign ships.
The morning sun was actually beginning to feel warm – the final, most poignant proof that the ice was dead, the threat past. The Isle would live on.
On the street ahead the first bucket of night-soil slopped down onto the clean cobbles from a second-storey window, forcing passers-by to dance aside.
‘The people greet you, Queen.’
‘Oh, be quiet, Yedan.’
Captain Kindly stood by the port rail, staring across the choppy waves to the Silanda. Soldiers from both of the squads on that haunted ship were visible on the deck, a handful gathered about a game of bones or some such nefarious activity, whilst the sweeps churned the water in steady rhythm. Masan Gilani was up near the steering oar, keeping Sergeant Cord company.
Lucky bastard, that Cord. Lieutenant Pores, positioned on Kindly’s right, leaned his forearms on the rail, eyes fixed on Masan Gilani – as were, in all likelihood, the eyes of most of the sailors on this escort, those not busy readying the sails at any rate.
‘Lieutenant.’
‘Sir?’
‘What do you think you are doing?’
‘Uh, nothing, sir.’
‘You’re leaning on the gunnel. At ease. Did I at any time say “at ease”, Lieutenant?’
Pores straightened. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘That woman should be put up on report.’
‘Aye, she’s not wearing much, is she?’
‘Out of uniform.’
‘Damned distracting, isn’t it, sir?’
‘Disappointing, you mean, surely, Lieutenant.’
‘Ah, that’s the word I was looking for, all right. Thank you, sir.’
‘The Shake make the most extraordinary combs,’ Kindly said. ‘Turtleshell.’
‘Impressive, sir.’
‘Expensive purchases, but well worth it, I should judge.’
‘Yes sir. Tried them yet?’
‘Lieutenant, do you imagine that to be amusing?’
‘Sir? No, of course not!’
‘Because, as is readily apparent, Lieutenant, your commanding officer has very little hair.’
‘If by that you mean on your head, then yes sir, that is, uh, apparent indeed.’
‘Am I infested with lice, then, that I might need to use a comb elsewhere on my body, Lieutenant?’
‘I wouldn’t know, sir. I mean, of course not.’
‘Lieutenant, I want you to go to my cabin and prepare the disciplinary report on that soldier over there.’
‘But sir, she’s a marine.’
‘Said report to be forwarded to Fist Keneb when such communication is practicable. Well, why are you still standing here? Get out of my sight, and no limping!’
‘Limp’s long gone, sir!’
Pores saluted then hurried away, trying not to limp. The problem was, it had become something of a habit when he was around Captain Kindly. Granted, a most pathetic attempt at eliciting some sympathy. Kindly had no sympathy. He had no friends, either. Except for his combs. ‘And they’re all teeth and no bite,’ he murmured as he descended to Kindly’s cabin. ‘Turtleshell, ooh!’
Behind him, Kindly spoke, ‘I have decided to accompany you, Lieutenant. To oversee your penmanship.’
Pores cringed, hitched a sudden limp then rubbed at his hip before opening the cabin hatch. ‘Yes sir,’ he said weakly.
‘And when you are done, Lieutenant, my new turtleshell combs will need a thorough cleansing. Shake are not the most fastidious of peoples.’
‘Nor are turtles.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I will be most diligent, sir.’
‘And careful.’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
‘In fact, I think I had better oversee that activity as well.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘That wasn’t a limp I saw, was it?’
‘No sir, I’m much better now.’
‘Otherwise we would have to find a good reason for your limping, Lieutenant. For example, my finding a billy club and shattering your legs into pieces. Would that do, do you think? No need to answer, I see. Now, best find the ink box, yes?’
‘I’m telling you, Masan, that was Kindly himself over there. Drooling over you.’
‘You damned fool,’ she said, then added, ‘Sergeant.’
Cord just grinned. ‘Even at that distance, your charms are, uh, unmistakable.’
‘Sergeant, Kindly has probably not lain with a woman since the night of his coming of age, and that time was probably with a whore his father or uncle bought for the occasion. Women can tell these things. The man’s repressed, in all the worst ways.’
‘Oh, and what are the good ways of being repressed?’
‘For a man? Well, decorum for one, as in not taking advantage of your rank. Listen closely now, if you dare. All real acts of chivalry are forms of repressed behaviour.’
‘Where in Hood’s name did you get that? Hardly back on the savannas of Dal Hon!’
‘You’d be surprised what the women in the huts talk about, Sergeant.’
‘Well, soldier, I happen to be steering this damned ship, so it was you who walked up here to stand with me, not the other way round!’
‘I was just getting away from Balm’s squad – not to mention that sapper of yours, Crump, who’s decided I’m worthy of worship. Says I’ve got the tail of some salamander god.’
‘You’ve what?’
‘Aye. And if he grabs it it’s liable to come off. I think he means he thinks I’m too perfect for the likes of him. Which is something of a relief. Doesn’t stop him ogling me, though.’
‘You get the ogles because you want the ogles, Masan Gilani. Keep your armour on and we’ll all forget about you quick enough.’