Blood and Bone

CHAPTER V

Golan did not mention to his superiors that the great meandering beast that was the invasion force, with all its supporting trains of baggage pulled by oxen and carried on the backs of groaning labourers, together with the wagons of the field surgeries, the smithies, the various messes, and the well-ordered miscellaneous supplies of tents and shovels and whatnot, was well behind schedule. The landscape they were entering descended away from the broken jagged peaks of rock and caves and deadly sinkholes of the Gangrek Mounts into a soggy maze of dense brush and tangled vines overtopped by a layered canopy that blocked out nearly all light and enclosed everything beneath in a choking miasma of air so thick one could hardly push oneself through it. Nor did it help at all that these conditions were of course faithfully recorded in the memoirs and field diaries from prior expeditions in his possession — those few who returned alive, of course — as it was one thing to read of such an environment and quite another to wake up to it one choking steamy morning after another.

It was, in a word, all so very enervating. And not just physically, though quite sufficiently so. Golan also felt a strange sort of creeping mental and spiritual malaise. Even the most mundane and fundamental of tasks became tiresome, even somehow unnecessary. Some days ago, for example, he had run a hand over his normally cleanly shaven pate and cheeks to find an unseemly stubble. A rather shocking slip of standards that he could not quite recall having allowed.

Yet such outward fleshly betrayals were as nothing compared to the disturbing dreaminess he sometimes found himself slipping into while enduring the mind-numbing monotony of the march, bobbing from side to side in his litter. Odd musings came to him as his mind drifted unmoored, as it were, within this ocean of green. Why all these strivings, he wondered? To what end? Surely his masters could do nothing with so unpromising a wasteland. Even if it were all burned to the ground it would take generations to squeeze even the least profit from it. And even if they succeeded in ousting Ardata and replacing her with a tame figurehead, either drawn from among these foreigners, or another, what then? The character of this land had escaped them for generations. What were they trying to accomplish?

Come to think of it, he could not recall one single instance of the Queen of Monsters invading their territory. It was not as if she was an inimical neighbour. It was just that this huge expanse ought to be ruled by someone who would do something productive with it instead of leaving it to run wild, home to sports and oddities that never amounted to anything.

Golan’s wandering thoughts latched on to this familiar line of logic out of his days at the Academy. He could even remember the circumstances: he and his fellow apprentices walking the carefully manicured gardens of the school following the lean stick-figure of Master Legem as he held forth. Utility. Order. Service. Following such a rationale one could argue that these jungle leagues were in truth without any prior claim whatsoever. This so-called ‘Queen’, in her negligence and inattention, hardly counted as in possession in any practical sense at all. These lands lay unspoken for, virgin, open to seizure by responsible conscientious stewards.

‘And make no mistake,’ ferocious Master Legem announced, turning upon them one crooked accusing finger. ‘We are this responsible party. And not through any self-serving myth of divine ordination or selection. We are this party because we alone are conscientious enough to reach out and act in this capacity. We have stemmed countless threats to the wider order. All without recognition or reward! For such frivolities are not our goal. Our goal is order. The ordering of the world. And the taming of the threats to that order. That is our calling.’

Rocking in his litter, Golan pulled his sodden shirt from his sweaty chest and sighed. Yes, all very laudable and noble. Why then these misgivings? His mission was, in a sense, heroic. Bringing order, light and rationalism to where only darkness, ignorance and superstition ruled. Really, if there was any justice in the world he ought to be given a medal when all this was over and done.

Snorting, Golan hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat it to the ground. But of course, as Master Legem constantly reminded him and his fellow aspirants, anything so juvenile as honours or rewards were beneath them. The Circle of Masters strove not for personal gain but for the betterment of the human condition. Their work was for the common good. These doubts and odd misgivings that came wafting in this sickly miasma were therefore unworthy; an insult to generations of selfless labour.

He must work harder to find the proper state of right-thinking.

Chief of Staff U-Pre appeared next to his litter, saluted with fingertips pressed to forehead then swept down. Golan nodded in answer to the salute. ‘Yes, Second in Command?’

The man’s face shone with sweat; it ran in streams from under his stained leather helmet. His face was ghostly pale as well, as if he were struggling against exhaustion, or constant pain. ‘Trouble at the van, Master. I’ve ordered a temporary halt.’

Golan cocked his head to listen but heard nothing beyond the surrounding crash of the march. Shortly, however, the litter swayed as his yakshaka bearers stopped. The noise lessened, but only slightly as bearers coughed and hawked, oxen lowed, and overseers shouted orders. ‘What sort of trouble?’ he enquired mildly.

U-Pre gestured, inviting him onward. Golan ordered his bearers forward once again. They carried him alongside the main column.

‘We have come to a wide clearing, Master,’ U-Pre explained as he walked. ‘A meadow, I imagine you might call it. Full of rather pretty white flowers. I ordered a party ahead to scout. They did not return. I then ordered a second group … they too have not returned.’

Golan nodded his approval. ‘I see. Your caution is commendable. However, must I remind you that we are behind schedule?’

U-Pre bowed his head at this rebuke. ‘I understand, Master.’

His bearers brought him to the front where soldiers had formed line facing the startlingly bright opening in the canopy. Golan shaded his gaze to squint between the last screen of trees to the expanse of a huge clearing floored, as his second reported, by a seeming ocean of creamy-white blossoms.

‘Were they attacked?’ he asked U-Pre. ‘Did you see anything?’

‘We saw nothing. Both parties advanced out of sight. The meadow climbs, as you see. It appears to be higher ground. Excellent position for an encampment.’

‘Perhaps.’ Golan tapped the blackwood baton to his chin. ‘You were right to order the halt, Second in Command. Something is not right. I shall have a look.’

‘Master, you mustn’t …’

‘Down!’ The yakshaka knelt. Golan stepped out only to wince and knead his numb legs. ‘You presume to tell me what I may or may not do, Second?’

U-Pre appeared stricken. ‘No, Master! Not at all … We merely daren’t risk losing you.’

‘Ah! I see.’ He extended the Rod of Execution to U-Pre, who stared at it in disbelief before reluctantly raising a hand to take it. ‘Is it not for such strange manifestations that I was sent? Should I not return, report my failure.’

‘Yes, Master. That is, no, Master. You shall return.’

‘We shall see. Now, you are keeping up with your journal of the campaign?’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Very good. You will see to it that my fall shall be glorious, yes?’

U-Pre struggled to keep his face straight. He appeared torn between anxiety and mirth. ‘Yes, Master. Should you fall it shall be most glorious. Yet you will not fall. You shall succeed — gloriously.’

Golan allowed himself a look of bright surprise. ‘Well, then. It would appear we can turn round now as I am assured of glory in either case.’ He cuffed U-Pre’s shoulder. ‘Remember this — the truth of what really happens anywhere at any time can never be retrieved or known. All that matters are the reviews.’ And he walked off, hands clasped behind his back, leaving behind a rather perplexed U-Pre rubbing a thumb over the smooth night-black wood of the Thaumaturg Rod of Execution.

Forward of the ordered ranks of troops, Golan found a thin skirmish line of their allied Isturé. He approached the nearest, a female in layered leathers, stained crimson, that descended to her muddy armoured feet. Each engraved leather scale was edged in bronze and studded in blackened iron. Her long strikingly red hair was piled high upon her head and pinned there by a series of gleaming opalescent shell clasps. He would have thought her quite beautiful but for the many inevitable scars of a lifetime of campaigning that marred her face. That, her unseemly muscular build, and the two longswords hanging from her belts. ‘You are …?’ he asked.

The woman inclined her head in only the most minimal acknowledgement. ‘They call me Jacinth.’ And she added, after a long pause, ‘M’lord.’

‘And where is your commander?’

‘Still absent.’

‘I see. Dare we expect the privilege of his attendance any time soon?’

The foreign woman blinked her utter disinterest. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Perhaps he has fallen to one of these creatures.’

An amused half-smile lifted an edge of the woman’s lips and she turned her gaze to the field of bobbing white flowers. ‘If you think that, then you know nothing of him. There is nothing that walks this world that can defeat him.’

Absurd claim. Yet the reasons behind such a delusion might be mildly interesting. ‘So he fears nothing?’

‘Oh, he fears plenty. There was one blade he was wary of — but it has since been destroyed.’

Ah, well. All creation feared that sword. Golan tilted his head to the field beyond. ‘What think you of this manifestation?’

‘I’m … suspicious.’

‘Commendable. You and your fellow Isturé shall maintain this cordon. I have elected to have a look.’

‘Of course you will.’

Golan frowned; he was not used to such a disrespectful tone. ‘What do you mean — of course I will?’

The woman’s smile deepened as if she were actually enjoying his discomfiture. Eyes still studying the field, she explained: ‘You are a trained Thaumaturg of the highest rank. Where I am from your title would be High Mage and it would be your job to investigate such things to make certain they are safe for the soldiers to advance.’

Golan cocked a brow. How curious. ‘Well, Isturé. We are civilized here. And that is completely backwards.’ Giving the woman an ironic bow of farewell, he started forward.

‘Yet here you are,’ she called after him.

He did not pause. ‘In case you have not yet noticed — time is pressing.’ Ignorant foreigner.

The glade, he found, was a welcome change from the dark gloom of the surrounding jungle. It was in fact quite pleasant. As pleasant as it is possible for any unwelcome delay to be. If he was not mistaken, a slight breath of air actually touched him here in the open. The fat carpet of creamy blossoms bobbed and nodded heavily, brushing his shins. A dusting of their golden pollen now coated his sandals and feet. As he climbed the slight rise he saw that what appeared a mere glade was in fact the minor bay of a far larger sea. A veritable pocket prairie, extending in all directions. Ancient lost gods! It would take days to cross this! Still he could see no sign of the advance parties. A broad flat-topped hill covered in the white blossoms beckoned from the distance and he made for it, hoping for a view.

The hilltop commanded a vista proving that, if quite large, the meadow was in truth nothing more than a brief interruption in an eternity of surrounding dark verdant jungle. Here a coughing fit struck and he hacked up a wad of phlegm that he spat aside. Some sort of irritant. The pollen, perhaps. A tiny smear in the undifferentiated creamy fields caught his eye. Just one last check, then return. The parties must have continued on.

Something turned under his foot — the ground had been quite uneven — and he paused to brush aside the obscuring flowers. It took a moment for him to apprehend what he had stood on and when the realization did snap into place Golan flinched backwards as if stabbed. An animal corpse. He stood on the skeletal corpse of some sort of beast. Yet all he could smell was the sickly-sweet scent of the flowers.

And they grew so thick he could see nothing of the ground …

A terrible suspicion took hold of Golan’s stomach. He kicked at the ground, pushing aside the surface layer to reveal yet more bones. Each dusted in a furry layer of … tiny white flowers. Almost frantic now, he knelt, digging. His sweep threw up animal vertebrae and skulls, rotting hides that might have been clothes, a worked stone knife blade, on and on, ever descending.

He sat back, hands on thighs, panting. This entire mound … a heap of unsuspecting victims … a feast for the white flowers …

A phrase came to him then. A mysterious reference from one of the expedition accounts: the White Plague.

He jerked to his feet and the move raised a cloud of the golden pollen that watered his eyes and convulsed him in a fit of coughing. Straightening, wiping the streaming tears, he studied his smeared yellowed hands and sleeves with wonder. And yet I live … His Thaumaturg treatments, of course. Years of small dosings against countless poisons and drugs. His many wards and protections. The surgeries and complete mastery of his metabolism. Somewhere in all that resided the inoculation against these spores or fungus.

Still coughing, he headed down the hillside. Here he found the body of one of the advance scouting parties. The man lay outstretched. Had fallen running, or perhaps staggering. He’d been headed back to the main column. Golan knelt next to the body. The last to fall, perhaps: running to bring the news. Already a dusting of tiny white blossoms covered the corpse, leather armour and all.

Imagine if they’d marched on through. Countless hundreds falling before realization struck. Perhaps a good thousand or more lost here alone. He headed back to the column, rubbing a thumb over the short beard now covering his chin. What were they heading into? This was just the first of who knew how many deadly turns and traps. Was this to be one enormous killing ground?

Short of the jungle’s verge he halted. There in the shade awaited U-Pre, his guards, and several of the Isturé. ‘Come no further!’ he called. He summoned his power. Blue flame burst to life all about him. Golan scorched himself until the pain made him flinch and the mage-fire flickered away. He brushed the burnt stubble from his head and cheeks then slapped the blackened threads and ash from his robes.

This done, he joined U-Pre. The second in command respectfully proffered the baton in both hands. ‘What now?’ he asked.

Golan negligently took the baton then inclined his head back to the clearing. ‘Burn it all …’

* * *

It might be an island they walked; Mara wasn’t certain. In any case, the priest of the Shattered God led them along a coastline of black volcanic rock where young translucent green plants clung to crevasses and depressions. Each appeared suddenly before Mara like an emerald emerging from gritty stone. A rough iron-blue sea pounded the shore in white crests and spray. The sky held drifting tatters of dark clouds, as of the slow angry dispersal of a storm.

Petal brought up the rear. Though distant, she could still hear his wet gasping breaths and wheezing. The man was not one for long hikes. Skinner walked with the priest; or rather, the priest capered alongside their commander. The bent rat-like fellow urged him on, beckoning and waving his arms, hopping and jumping in his unnerving demented gait.

These errands, or missions, or favours, call them what you will, taken up at the behest of the Crippled God, troubled her. What need had her commander for this position, King of the House of Chains? Its benefits, if any, seemed dubious at best. Was it protection he sought? A safeguard against powerful enemies? The time for any such patronage was now past. Surely, it would be their enemies who needed protection now. Surely it was time he set aside this unseemly role of errand boy. She could see how it galled him. What was the man waiting for?

If he would not rouse himself to end this relationship then perhaps the onus would fall upon her to act on his behalf. It would be for his own good — and she could imagine that he would most likely not take it well.

As they neared a tall headland of spray-soaked rock, Mara granted that he had moved against Ardata … eventually. Just as he had moved against K’azz. It seemed his nature not to endure standing next to power — when he himself could hold it. As before, then, she would have to give him more time and hold fast to the proof that, so far at least, he’d always followed his nature.

Musing, she came abreast of Skinner and their antic priest guide where the rock spit ended, offering a view of a lagoon and a distant line of reef. There, hung up on the far coral rocks, a bizarre vision presented itself. Mara had the impression of a mass of shattered ship hulls and broad raft-like platforms all jumbled and smashed together. The entire collection appeared as large as the tumbled remains of a broken fortress.

‘What’s this?’ she asked the priest.

The man licked his lips, twitching and shuddering as if in the grip of an ague. ‘You have heard of the Meckros, yes?’

She raised her chin in acknowledgement. ‘Ah.’

‘A fragment of one of their great floating cities. Washed up here on this desolate shore. Within is what we seek.’

Yes. The Meckros. Seafolk. Worshippers of the ancient sea-god. Mechanicians and artificers of renown. Somewhere on this wreck lay a fragment of the Shattered God? Doubtful. More likely it resided now on the bottom of the sea. She motioned to Skinner. ‘This is a waste of time. Let us return.’

‘We will investigate.’

Mara let out a heavy breath.

‘Can you get us out there?’ he asked her.

‘No.’

‘Petal?’

‘I regret not,’ he answered, short of breath.

Skinner drew off his blackened full helm, tucked it under an arm, and mussed his great mass of sweaty burnt-blond hair. ‘Well, no matter.’ He gestured to the rocky shore where bleached logs and other wrack lay in great jumbled heaps. ‘There’s plenty of wood. We’ll build a raft.’

Mara looked to the sky. Oh, unreliable gods! Must they?

Skinner did all the work. The priest tried to help; he scampered about fumbling with the logs and generally getting underfoot. Her commander impatiently thrust the man away from time to time, dunking him in the wash once. She and Petal sat among the rocks, watching: she, hunched, arms tucked into her layered robes; he, legs out, back to a rock, pulling on his prominent lower lip.

‘I do not like this,’ he opined after eyeing the wreckage for the majority of the afternoon.

‘Oh? What’s possibly not to like?

He shifted his gaze, shaded and guarded beneath the shelf of his deep wide brow, to her. ‘You are making unhelpful caustic observations at my expense?’

‘At all our expense, Petal.’

‘This is true. I sense a danger out there amid those ruins.’

‘A shard is there.’

‘This is also true.’

‘What can you do about it?’

‘Myself? Not much, I am thinking. Though I shall remain as readied as possible.’

Her gaze found Skinner standing in thigh-high water, still in his armour, lashing the scavenged driftwood together. ‘Why are we here, Petal?’ she asked, then, remembering the man’s obtuse pedantic nature, she added, ‘Here, collecting these pieces?’

He clasped his thick fingers across one knee. ‘Well, it has occurred to me that with every shard or fragment returned to the Shattered God, he is strengthened. And therefore his enemies, our enemies, are correspondingly hampered.’

Mara nodded thoughtfully to herself. Well, there is that …

Let us hope that every piece we’ve retrieved so far translates into many more dead Malazans …

She blinked, seeing Skinner watching them; he snapped an impatient wave. Stirring, she muttered aside to Petal: ‘I do believe he’s done.’

‘At last. It certainly took long enough.’

Mara clambered down to examine the lashed logs and timber planks. ‘This will just fall to pieces.’

‘Then hang on to a piece and kick,’ Skinner answered, completely untroubled.

‘My robes will get wet.’

‘Then take them off.’

‘Fine!’

Before stepping into the water she pulled her robes over her head and heaped all but one aside on a dry rock. This left her in nothing more than a loincloth wrap and a thin silk shirt. She folded the one robe to hold above her head. When she climbed aboard the assemblage of logs Petal’s wide jowls took on a flush of deep crimson and he turned away. The priest, on the other hand, displayed no shame in looking her up and down. His stained tongue emerged to wet his lips and his loincloth wrap bulged, straining. These two reactions to her Dal Hon beauty she knew well, and so she ignored them both. Skinner, however, acted as if nothing had changed and this irked her more than she’d imagined it would.

Damn you, man! Perhaps it is true, as they say, that only the prospect of power will get you out of that armour. Always, it seemed, there’d been someone else. First Shimmer held his eye — perhaps not incidentally as she was a rival lieutenant of the Guard. Then Ardata. And now … plain power itself? She knew how to counter the first two — but this last? How does one compete against a fascination such as that? The truth is one cannot. It seemed long-nurtured hopes were no closer to their realization. Despite her support in the coup against Ardata, her unquestioning loyalty during the attempted usurpation of the Guard, and now her continued faithfulness.

Crouched on the logs, the waves slapping coldly against her bare thighs, the equally chilling suspicion came to her that perhaps it was this very dog-like obedience that brought its only due reward in his eyes: contempt.

Her hands pressed to her thighs clenched into fists.

The sheltered waters of the lagoon allowed them to paddle out to the reef where ocean breakers pounded their spray far into the air. The jagged canted fragments of the Meckros city reared above in cliffs of timber. Wreckage littered the exposed coral rocks: tatters of sun-faded cloth, broken furniture, clothes reduced to rags. Heavier objects cluttered the sands of the lagoon: broken pots, chains, and general household goods such as utensils, plates and candlesticks. Mixed among this corroding metal lay the bones of the Meckros citizens. Mara noted the sleek silhouettes of sharks drifting past beneath them.

‘Where do we start?’ she called to Skinner over the crash of the waves.

By way of answer he turned to the priest, who pointed up. Mara grunted her understanding. Skinner kicked the raft along while he searched for an easy route up into the wreck. Soon they came to a broken hull that offered entrance. Skinner climbed up. The priest motioned for Mara to go ahead of him, his gaze fixed on her naked flank. She cuffed him forward. Petal came last. This vessel appeared to have been used as a granary. Shattered amphorae had spilled their cargo of precious grain in great heaps. Damp and rotting, it was now a banquet for insects and mice. A ladder led up to a deck of living quarters where hammocks hung empty. Chests of personal goods lay overturned, their contents of clothes and knives and cheap trinkets everywhere. Whatever it had been had happened quickly: no time to pack at all. A storm? Perhaps a typhoon? Certainly not pirates, anyway. Above decks rigging hung from broken spars and masts in a nearly impenetrable maze.

Skinner turned to the priest who scanned the wreckage, then pointed to one side. Mara took the opportunity to throw on her one robe and tie it off at a shoulder. She pushed back her mass of hair. Petal cleared his throat in a signal for attention. She and Skinner turned quickly; the mage indicated a heap at the gunwale. It was a desiccated corpse. Some ferocious blow had slain the Meckros citizen. The wound had shattered the bones of the forearm and swung on, cleaving ribs to sever the spine. Few men could have delivered such a blow. The viscera were gone now, a feast for seabirds, but the sinew and dried muscle of the carcass remained, heaving with maggots.

Mara straightened from her examination of the corpse. So, not just a natural disaster …

She and Petal shared a significant look and both readied their Warrens. Skinner rested a hand on his sword grip. The priest scampered out on to the broken slats of some sort of platform that crossed to the next vessel. Here gnawed human bones and the stains of spilled fluids offered further testimony to the violence that had taken the city. Skinner knelt to pick up a bone that he examined before holding it out to Mara: it was the upper portion of a femur, still bearing a mess of sinew. Something had crushed the bone, splitting it. Something possessing extraordinarily strong jaws. It reminded her of a large predator or scavenger such as a Dal Hon plains hyena or a Fenn mountain bear. Yet out here away from the shore?

The priest led them on, scampering over fallen rigging and splintered timber. The light of the day waned, but slowly, lingering in a long twilight tinged by green from the arc of the lurid glowing Banner, the Visitor, foretelling whatever apocalypse one preferred. Considering the nature of their own errands, it was now hard for her to continue to dismiss these dire predictions as nonsense.

As she climbed over the ruins of the Meckros city — just the first of many calamities to come? — she wondered whether it was their own actions that were in fact calling the Banner down upon them. After all, it was said that the Shattered God had fallen from the sky ages ago, drawn down by humanity’s hubris and blindness. Could they not be somehow contributing to a second Great Destruction and the annihilation that was said to have followed?

She paused on a canted platform of decking. In fact, why should I believe I would even survive such a world-shattering impact and conflagration? Disavowed or no?

Petal arrived at her side, panting, his shirt stained dark with sweat. ‘You are troubled?’ he asked, studying her.

‘Yes. I am quite troubled …’

‘I feel it too. Many eyes upon us. But I cannot get a grip upon them — their minds are strange.’

‘Tell Skinner.’

‘Very good.’ The big fellow moved on awkwardly, using handholds to steady himself.

Mara watched him go without really seeing him. Could their actions be ensuring this Banner’s impact? Could she be complicit in a second Great Fall?

And why by all the gods had she not considered this before?

She realized she’d fallen behind and hurried to catch up.

She found Skinner confronting a cringing anxious priest: the man was wringing his hands and peering about for escape like a cornered dog. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked Petal.

Skinner raised an armoured finger. ‘This man has been leading us in circles for hours.’

‘It’s moved, I tell you!’ the priest shrieked. ‘It’s moving.’ He thrust out a hand. ‘It’s behind us now!’

‘Moving …’ Skinner mused within his helm. He swung a gauntleted hand, smashing the priest to the decking. ‘You fool! You’ve allowed it to lead us exactly where it wants us!’ The priest lay mewling, wiping at the blood streaming from his squashed nose. Skinner’s blade slid soundlessly from its wood sheath.

Mara and Petal put their backs to his, forming a rough triangle.

‘How many?’ Skinner asked Petal.

‘Many.’

‘Mara?’

‘What can I do on this unsure footing? Everything’s split already!’

Their commander growled his displeasure. ‘Well … let us see what we’ve walked into.’

Mara eyed the surrounding canted huts, heaps of fallen equipment, and platforms and decks all of differing levels and angles. From among this maze shapes emerged. The deepening purple of twilight lent them an even greater horror. Malformed humans they were; shambling, so distorted as to be near caricatures of the human form. Many possessed huge curving crab-like claws as long as swords and now she understood the many cracked bones scattered across the wreckage. ‘What are they …?’ she breathed, speaking her thoughts aloud.

‘The influence of the shard, no doubt,’ Petal answered, as literal-minded as ever.

‘Can you affect them?’

‘Barely, I suspect.’

Damn. I dare not let loose myself — this wreckage would fly apart beneath us.

The creatures shambled forward and she saw now that she was wrong in her first suspicion that these were the poor unfortunates of the Meckros city now transformed by the Crippled God’s contamination into monstrosities of claw and shell carapace. No human form could endure such fundamental deformities. Six limbs? Backward-bending joints? Gaping mouths full of worm-like appendages? Surely these must be local denizens of the reef, crab, lobster, prawn and other crustaceans, warped now into mockeries of the human form. Such a conceit must have amused the Shattered God — what mattered the shape of the flesh when all was alien and strange?

It also explained why Petal’s Mockra-based magics would have so little effect: these minds were not human to be clouded, confused or broken.

The creatures were however still flesh and blood, and Mara gestured, drawing as lightly as she could upon D’riss. A bare few of them staggered backwards. The priest, she noted peripherally, was nowhere to be seen.

Skinner stepped up. His mottled black and magenta blade blurred. Limbs fell away in gushes of clear fluids. Carapaces sheared off, cut through entirely. The mob of anatomical impossibilities swerved before him and she and Petal ducked away to give him room to lay about himself fully. She climbed up what might have once been a deckhouse while Petal heaved himself into the rigging of a tilted mast.

Skinner wrought havoc among the creatures but more and more came dragging themselves up, many still wet from the lagoon. Enormous crab claws grated across his glistening scaled coat, unable to catch any purchase or penetrate its invested metal. A great pincer as hefty as a bastard sword closed on the man’s thigh and he snarled his agony, slicing through the shell exoskeleton. The jagged-toothed pincer fell away as it too was not powerful enough to break through Ardata’s sorceries. Yet Skinner limped now, the leg perhaps numb.

A sharp whistle sounded, cracking like a whip across the decking. It was followed by a strange series of poppings and cracklings. The creatures all backed away. Some new figure came pushing its way through the monstrosities. So strange was this thing that it took some time for Mara to understand just what she was looking at. It was a jerking, walking mechanism of rusted metal bands and wire. Its creaking and whirring reached her like the sounds water clocks and other such automata make as they run and turn. Yet this was not the most eerie thing about this manifestation: what was ghastly was the fact that it wore over its metal torso, like a cape or a robe, the flayed skin of a human being. And stuck on a metal rod jutting above the body lolled a rotting severed head.

‘Greetings!’ boomed a hollow metallic voice.

Now Mara knew they faced magery as well, for the creature seemed to have spoken in Dal Hon, which she knew was a virtual impossibility. So, not just an automaton wearing a cloak of flayed human skin …

‘I sense the one I name Kasminod has sent you. I believe I saw one of his rats!’

‘Who are you?’ Skinner called. He still held his blade ready — though Mara wondered what the weapon could possibly do to a creature without flesh.

Iron and bronze screeched and grated as the thing described a shallow bow. Through gaps in the tattered skin Mara glimpsed within its torso coils of rusted metal tightening then expanding like the workings of a showpiece clock she saw once in Tali. ‘I am Veng. King Veng. Welcome to my kingdom.’

Skinner made a show of peering about. ‘Your kingdom, Veng, is sinking.’

More high-pitched scraping of metal as Veng shrugged the rods and wire and bent straps that made up its arms — arms that ended in jagged rusted iron blades. ‘What of it? A mere change in the weather. One must make the best of change.’

‘What are you?’ Petal shouted from the rigging, and Mara almost smiled, thinking how the man would let no circumstance interfere with his curiosity.

‘Excellent question!’ the thing boomed once more. ‘What am I indeed … I have been hailed as a masterpiece of the venerated Meckros mechanicians. For generations I guarded this floating city — Ambajenad, it was called.’ Veng bowed again, yet jerkily, as if miming a marionette. ‘Ahh … but then the Meckros smiths sought to perfect their creation. Their deep sea nets brought up an item from the ocean’s floor. A unique item of inexhaustible power. This they placed within me and — by the gods! — I lived! No more winding or moments of darkness during which I sensed nothing. I lived … no differently from you creatures of flesh. Yet I will not die. Being of metal I am immortal and am thus far superior to you.’

Skinner motioned with his blade. ‘Why then the skin and the head?’

‘Ah, yes. Well, since I live among you I thought I ought to look the part. Convincing, yes?’

‘Extraordinarily.’ This from Petal.

Skinner nodded his helmed head as if in understanding and then he shouted, pointing: ‘I order you to stand down! Your job is finished.’

A spine-grating screech of metal scraping sounded then from the creature and Mara realized this was its laughter. The head rocked obscenely as Veng edged closer. ‘Too late for orders — but a worthy gambit. No. No more orders for Veng now. Veng is king and King Veng gives the orders now. And Veng’s order is …’ it raised its two jagged blades, ‘death.’

The creature charged. Yet so too did Skinner. They met in a blacksmith’s ring of clashing metal. The automaton’s blades of toothed and notched iron caught and snagged at Skinner’s weapon. The guardian swung with inhuman power, his blows like battering rams that Skinner slipped or barely edged aside. Their commander thrust through the creature’s guard easily. His blade pierced the workings of the torso and Mara heard wires pinging like plucked instruments and metal bands grating. None of these strikes appeared to trouble the automaton.

One thrust from the monster, as deadly quick as a released crossbow, struck her commander only to rebound from the black scales of the man’s coat. Such a blow would have penetrated any other armour but this unique scale seemed true to its reputation: utterly impenetrable.

Yet the power of the thrust had been immense — like the release of a siege engine — and Skinner now clutched his side, parrying one-handed. Ribs broken, probably.

Veng pressed its advantage. Its weirdly articulated limbs spun and lashed with even greater speed. It appeared to Mara that no swordsman could hope to continue to deflect such a storm of blows. No doubt Skinner understood this too as at that instant he closed, dropping his blade, to hug the creature.

The two slid and scraped together in a grating of iron as the creature’s metalwork scoured Skinner’s coat of scale. Veng’s blades slashed his back in blows like the hammering of mattocks.

Skinner thrust a gauntleted hand into the innards of Veng’s torso. Wire popped and rang, metal screeched. The creature let out a shriek like iron pushed past its endurance. Skinner twisted bands and wires and cylinders of wound metal strips. What sounded like a panicked shriek of tearing bronze escaped Veng. It lurched as if attempting to escape, dragging Skinner with it. The two fell in a tangle of limbs and rolled to a break in the fractured decking to slip from sight. Mara heard a great splash as they struck the surf below.

At first she could not believe what she’d just witnessed. Never had Skinner been bested. The surrounding monstrosities, however, did not take heart from what they saw; they squealed and chattered and clicked in what appeared to be a wave of panic. It seemed that Veng — or the thing within it — might have held some sort of compelling control over them. Summoning her Warren, Mara cast a wave of pressure in a swath across the decking, sending them and all the wrack of loose abandoned equipment tumbling backwards. This broke the creatures and they scattered in a lurching rush for the sides. In moments the deck was clear of them. Mara climbed down to cross to the break in the timbers.

Waves surged below, crashing among the black rocks of the reef. It seemed to her that the force of those breakers might simply dash Skinner to pieces.

Petal joined her. ‘I do not see him,’ he murmured. ‘What should we do? Lower a rope?’

She peered around. ‘Where’s the damned priest?’

‘Fled. Perhaps eaten.’

‘Let’s hope he poisons them.’

Petal heaved a sigh. ‘So? What now? Shall we search?’

‘No. If he’s alive he’ll make for shore. If he’s dead — he’s dead.’

‘And the fragment?’

Rising, she brushed off her robe. ‘I really do not give a damn.’

Petal released his lower lip. ‘Very good. We return to shore then.’

They found the raft unmolested where they’d left it. Veng seemed to have been quite certain of itself. Heaving off they made little progress towards shore until Mara tapped her Warren to provide a force that allowed the raft to push through the breakers and advance to the distant line of surf that marked the strand.

On the beach they found the priest awaiting them, bouncing and twitching, his hair a dripping greasy mass of tangles. ‘Well?’ the man demanded. ‘Do you have it? Give it to me.’

Mara brushed him aside but he would not be put off. He hopped from foot to foot before her. ‘Ha! You do not fool me. You would keep it. Use it. Fool! Go ahead — it will consume you!’

‘Shut up.’

‘I will start a fire,’ Petal said.

‘And find us something to eat.’

The big man nodded ponderously. ‘Yes, yes. Always it is me sent to lure in a hare or two. Or …’ he raised a thick sausage-like finger, ‘lobster, perhaps?’

Mara stared at the man. ‘Enchantress forgive us, Petal. Did you just try a joke?’

‘I judged it potentially amusing — given the recent unappetizing display of-’

‘Yes, yes,’ Mara interrupted before he could go on and describe the entire spectacle. She waved him off. ‘And a fire.’

All this time the priest’s fevered gaze had been flicking between them. Now the bloodshot orbs narrowed and the man pointed. ‘I surmise you do not have it. You have failed! Return and retrieve it!’

Mara waved him to the wreck. ‘Be our guest.’

‘That is not the agreement. You do the retrieving. Otherwise our master will be displeased.’

Mara had been searching for her robes and she found them now and pulled them on. ‘What of it?’

The priest jerked as if slapped. ‘What of it? You should ask such a question given what we have just witnessed?’

Mara sat heavily in the sand. ‘We would not be of much use to your master twisted in such a fashion.’

‘That would be your problem,’ the man returned so smugly that Mara considered killing him on the spot. But, exhausted, she could only be bothered to again wave vaguely to the wreck.

‘We shall see.’

Stymied for the moment, the priest edged from foot to foot, all the while mouthing complaints under his breath. Petal arrived carrying an armload of driftwood, then set to lighting a handful of dry grass with flint and steel. This drove the priest to snipe: ‘Some magi you two are. Can’t you even start a fire?’

‘Certainly I can,’ Petal answered, then continued striking, tongue clenched between his lips as he concentrated.

‘I favour taking a lit stick from one fire and touching it to another,’ said Mara.

Petal sat back with a satisfied sigh to fan a thin plume of white smoke. ‘That can be known to work also,’ he allowed, squinting.

The priest stormed off, hopping and twitching as if the sands were white-hot embers beneath his feet.

Mara brushed the grit from her hands. ‘Well, at least we’re rid of him. So, what do you think now?’

Petal tossed twigs on the gathering fire. ‘By morning, I should think.’

‘Agreed.’

‘And for the meantime,’ he sighed, ‘I should like some privacy to dry my clothes. If you do not mind.’

‘Shouldn’t I remain in case a lovesick whale should lunge on to the beach …’

Pausing at his shirt-ties Petal let his head hang. ‘Again the caustic humour. I have warned you it hurts my feelings.’

Mara rolled her eyes to the darkening sky. ‘My apologies. I’ll go have a look around.’

‘Very good.’

It was full night when Mara returned to the fire. Petal sat in his undershirt. His wide pantaloons and outer robes hung over sticks next to the fire. The priest had returned as well and now sat glum and quiet, staring out to the glowing surf. ‘Anything?’ she asked.

Petal shook his head. ‘I’ll take first watch,’ he added.

Mara grunted her acknowledgement and promptly rolled up in her robes to sleep. This she found difficult as not only was the Banner high as usual, so too was the moon. The light was almost bright enough to read by. She threw a fold of cloth over her head.

It seemed as if immediately someone tapped her shoulder and she jerked, yanking down the cloth. ‘What?’

‘Something,’ Petal said.

She sat up. The priest was already down amid the surf frantically waving his arms and jumping. Further out, in the lagoon, a dark shape was making its slow laborious way towards them. ‘Go help him,’ she told Petal.

‘Only now have I just dried …’

‘Go on!’

The man winced as if hurt. ‘Well … if it so be that I must …’ and he lumbered down to push awkwardly into the surf, leaning forward to advance through the waves out to the figure, which was now plainly Skinner, still in his black armour, but missing his full helm, his blond hair and beard sodden and streaming with water.

He was dragging what looked like some sort of box or chest but Mara knew it must be the remains of Veng’s body. Just up from the surf he dropped it one-handed to the sands. Petal dragged it the rest of the way while the priest tore at it as if worrying a corpse — just like a dog, she thought.

She went to Skinner who stood weaving unsteadily, looking far more pale than usual, his helm in his other hand. ‘Sit at the fire,’ she told him. ‘The leg?’

‘The ribs,’ he ground out. She helped him to the fire where he slumped like a sack of grain and hissed his pain.

‘Your armour …’ She ran a hand down the back, searching for catches or ties. Strangely, the individual scales of the coat seemed to shift beneath her fingers.

He shrugged her away. ‘No! Just … just get me to Gwynn-Red.’

Red was their best bonesetter and surgeon now that Gwynn had deserted them to rejoin K’azz. Mara looked to the priest. ‘We have to leave! Now!’

The man had literally thrust his head into Veng’s torso. He was tearing at the wreck, which, horrifically, still jerked and writhed like the crippled wind-up automaton that it was. The metal bands of its arms still flexed and the remains of its torn legs twitched. The priest flinched away, yelping, ‘Aya!’ He studied a hand that he then thrust into his mouth. He kicked the shuddering beetle-like body and yelped again, hopping on one foot.

‘I cannot get it out!’ he wailed. ‘All is lost! I will be refused my lord’s reward!’

Skinner lifted his chin to the wreck. ‘Mara …’

She let out a snarled breath. Stupid useless fool … She shoved the priest aside and studied the mangled torso. Something did reside there wrapped in bands of bronze in the middle of the chest. The heart. How … poetic.

She focused her Warren and envisioned those bands parting. Metal stretched and deformed. The thrashing of the creature became frantic, as if it sensed the end. Reports of metal parting sounded like the popping of small munitions. The torso spasmed the way anyone might, were you in the process of tearing out their heart.

Bronze parted shrieking and something fell to the sands. The body slumped, suddenly quiescent. The priest dived upon the object, cackling and chuckling, and wrapped it round and round with rags.

Mara released her Warren, suddenly exhausted. Petal stepped up next to her. Pulling on his lower lip he asked, ‘Did you see it?’

‘Just a glimpse. It looked like a black rock.’

The man grunted thoughtfully, still plucking at his lip.

Mara blinked, remembering Skinner. ‘We must go now!’

The priest was hugging his prize to his chest. He seemed to be crooning to it. ‘Yes, yes,’ he answered without even glancing up.

‘Return us to the column.’

‘Of course! Just four more to go.’

‘Four? There’s four pieces left?’

‘That we know of!’ the priest snapped, and he slid the object behind his back as if Mara had made a lunge for it.

She raised a finger to his face. ‘Now.’

The priest backed away. His bloodshot eyes darted about as if seeking escape. ‘Get your commander then! We must all be together.’

‘Fine.’ She marched off. The fine sands squeaked and slid under her boots. Back at the fire Skinner had somehow managed to lever himself to his feet. She saw that his sheath hung empty at his side and she remembered that when he emerged from the waters he carried only the automaton and his helm.

Skinner, it seemed, had lost his sword.

* * *

The sky might be partially overcast, but there was no respite from the heat. Their local guide led them past intermittent jungle now. They climbed a rising slope bringing them to the first of the naked stone cliffs of the Gangrek Mounts, known to some as the Fangs, or the Dragon’s Fangs.

They had lost a man yesterday. He’d disappeared down a crack hardly large enough for anyone to slip through. Pon-lor sent a fellow after him on a rope. The man reported that no one answered his calls and that the torch he dropped fell a great distance before it dashed itself out on rocks. Pressed for time, Pon-lor was forced to call off the search and they’d continued on.

That concern for time also forced them to march on into the night. Their captured bandit guide, Jak, led carrying a torch while two of Pon-lor’s soldiers followed. Even the sun sliding down behind the steaming ocean of jungle behind them to the west did little for the heat. Though Pon-lor had grown up knowing such heat it felt different here — perhaps because the air was so humid that streamers of water seemed to hang within it. In the middle of the column he pulled his sweat-soaked shirt from his chest and paused for a moment to catch his breath. His guards halted about him.

He’d known such claustrophobic heat before, and the memory did not sit well with him — his childhood quarters in the Academy at the capital, Anditi Pura. They were taken as children. They were always taken as children. All would-be Aspirants. He did not know what supposedly guided that choice: some demonstrated predilection or talent? In his case he remembered being taken into a hot overcrowded room and led to a low cloth-covered table. There lay an assemblage of trinkets, some bright and rich-looking, others plain and worn: rings, cups, necklaces of beads or of gems (fake no doubt), combs, knives, and assorted other mundane possessions. He remembered his confusion, not knowing what was expected of him, facing these gathered fierce-looking old men and women in that hot smelly room. He’d searched their gazes hoping for some sign, some hint, of what he must do. And thankfully he found it. While a number of them kept their eyes on him, a few kept darting their gazes to the table and those glances kept returning to one area in particular among the proffered bits and pieces. Experimentally, he extended his hand in that direction and was rewarded by an almost imperceptible tension gathering within the tiny room. He moved his hand closer, passing over several of the offerings, a silver wristlet among them: one of the most attractive trinkets, gleaming brightly in the lamplight. The breathing of all those gathered slowed in expectation. A few breaths even caught. Emboldened, he edged his hand further across the table towards the edge. The atmosphere subtly changed. It was as if the room had suddenly expanded, the ancients now distant and withdrawn.

By then he’d identified it. The object, the thing they seemed to want him to pick but wouldn’t, or couldn’t, say. A silly game. All to get him to pick a plain wooden stick — the least interesting item laid out on the table.

And so he chose it. And they chose him.

And now, standing in the dark and the rain, the sweet cloying scent that permeated the jungle slipping from his nostrils, Pon-lor wondered, had it been just that all along: a test of awareness, of a kind of native intelligence? Or were those old Thaumaturgs of the testing board blithely unaware of their own subverting of the entire selection process? If so, so much for the organization’s conviction of its privileged superiority — held by virtue of having passed the test!

A tautology affirming only the most appalling self-delusion …

But no. Those of the selection board must be briefed in how to run the test. Acuity of mind, awareness and perception must be the desired traits, and the test designed appropriately. And yet — what of certain youths from certain influential families selected despite any demonstrated virtues or abilities that he could see? What of that? And their quick promotions to positions far above his — one and all! Again, no. He was simply of too low a rank to know the reasons behind such choices. He mustn’t question the sagacity or plans of his superiors.

His sodden robes now sucked out his warmth and he shivered. He focused upon warming himself and was rewarded by the sensation of heat flowing outwards from his core. Mist began to rise from his clinging robes.

Torches approached from the van and their youthful guide appeared, though not that much younger than he, Pon-lor had to remind himself. His guards flanked the fellow. Some sort of worry rode the youth’s brows and in his eyes Pon-lor read open hatred and, oddly enough, a kind of prideful contempt for all he viewed.

‘You have stopped?’ the youth asked, delivering the question more as a challenge. As if to imply: had enough walking? Too weak? Frightened?

And now Pon-lor had to come up with a justifiable reason for why he’d stopped. ‘Our destination is close?’ he asked, his tone one of lofty scepticism.

Insulted, Jak drew himself up tall. ‘Not far. We can camp at the Gates of Chanar.’

Pon-lor arched a brow. ‘The Gates of Chanar …?’

The local hunched slightly, lowering his chin. ‘A stone arch. It marks the beginning of the path to the fortress, and the pass.’

‘I see. Very good.’ Pon-lor waved him onward. The youth sketched a perfunctory bow. The burning pitch of his torch hissed and spluttered, dripping now and then. He headed back to the van. Soon all that could be seen of him was the floating yellow globe bobbing between the black tree trunks and obscuring leaves. Pon-lor followed, walking slowly. The rain intensified, slashing down to erase all distances and all other noises of the jungle. As Pon-lor was not of sufficient rank to be allowed to hold a parasol — it was the symbol of a master of the order — he gestured to a nearby guard and this man unfurled one to hold above him while he walked.

And so do we find our ways around rules and prohibitions, he mused, stepping over moss-covered fallen logs, loose talus sliding sometimes beneath his sandals. Was this not the case even among the Thaumaturgs? The thought left him uncomfortable. Though he wished he could forget, he remembered his days — and nights — in the dormitory of the Aspirants. Certain teachers arriving in the dark to take boys off alone for special attention. Including himself. He remembered the fate of the boys who complained to the masters of their treatment. How they were assured steps would be taken — though none ever were. And later, how it was these boys, among the entire class, who failed to advance in the courses, and they who fell behind and came to be relegated to menial positions. Yet the Thaumaturgs prided themselves on an organization based on skill and merit alone. Perhaps it is the case that no organization or hierarchy can withstand the closest of scrutiny. Not even a smugly self-touted meritocracy. The success and persistence of utter fools everywhere is sad testament to that.

The roar of falling water soon overcame all other sounds and they came abreast of a stream of water splashing down a sheer black cliff. Vines hung like groping limbs sent down by the great rearing prominence itself. Bright dashes of white, pink and orange dotted the wall where flowers clung: parasitic orchids whose flesh, curves and coloration he found … disturbing.

I hear they bear more than a slight similarity to the sex of women — though fortunately, or unfortunately, I would not know.

His guards showed him the way around slick rocks and over rushing narrow channels, all the while scanning the surrounding jungle, hands on sword grips.

Jak stood ahead, awaiting him, his torch extinguished. Behind him rose a natural stone arch, an uneven vault eroded from the rock of the prominence itself. Beneath, steps hacked from the rock led upwards. In places streams of run-off writhed across the wide black ledges. ‘The Gates of Chanar,’ Jak announced with the smallest of bows.

Pon-lor gave no response to the impudent sketch of a bow. He studied the lad while his eyes were downcast. Black hair plastered flat, a widow’s peak, sharp nose and sharp chin. A mouth always tight as if it must hold back so much. The lad hates us. Why? Some past injustice? Or simply that we represent the fist of rulership? Probably that. The Circle rules through fear, and that does not cultivate devotion among those ruled.

Then he noted the discoloration of the arch to the left and right. Chalk markings ran dissolving in the rain. A dense overlay of new glyphs over old. He recognized the old magic in their appeals: calls for blessings, calls to turn away, curses and damning. And laid out on the stones before the arch, a litter of offerings: clay cups that probably once held rice or plum wine for propitiations; shallow dishes that no doubt would have held blood for curses; prayer flags faded to grey; twists of rotting fibre paper that once held appeals; clay lamps, candle stubs; chips of broken pottery inscribed with names — death wishes, those.

He turned a raised brow on Jak.

The young man waved his contempt. ‘Peasants. You know them. Ignorant and superstitious.’

Superstitious of what? But he did not challenge him. He gestured to his guards. ‘We’ll camp here.’

Overseer Tun bowed. ‘As you order.’

‘Oh, and Overseer,’ Pon-lor added. ‘Tie up our friend here.’

The man’s fat lips pulled back over greying rotten teeth. ‘Yes, Magister.’

Their guide said nothing; if anything, his mouth hardened to flint against all that he could have said.

He is enraged yet he voices no complaint? Interesting …

Wrapping his soaked robes more tightly about himself, Pon-lor moved to where a rock overhang offered shelter. Here bone-dry leaves crackled beneath his sandals and swirled about him. He crossed his legs, rested his hands palms upward on his knees, and turned inward.

Up until now his pitiful lack of results had caused him to neglect his obligations. But he could put it off no longer. It was long past time to contact Master Golan.

It took longer than usual to achieve the necessary centring and no-mind inner calm before he found himself looking down upon himself seated cross-legged, his long black hair draped like an unruly mane down the back of his robes. Having separated his self from that which was the mere flesh, this accidental temporary vessel, he turned away and sought the strong glowing vitality that would be Master Golan.

So strong in fact was his master’s essence that he found himself drawn as inexorably as a stone down a steep slope. He followed the man’s trail with ease until he reached a point where it suddenly thinned. Here the normally crystal-clear plane of the élan vital, that which inhabits and thus animates the corporal and profane flesh, clouded. Entities swirled ahead. Creatures of energy and essence that could feed upon him. All moved within a larger influence, a permeating misty radiance that appeared to pulse outwards from some central hidden presence.

Ardata herself. The Queen of the Ancient Kind.

He was too late. Master Golan had already entered her demesnes.

He turned about and willed his return to his vessel.

Under the rock shelf Pon-lor’s chest rose in a shuddering intake of breath and his eyelids fluttered. As always came the agony of ghost-knife jabbings and pricklings tormenting him as he returned to his body. The flesh was chilled in the damp as well, dangerously so. He began the meditative course that would raise his body temperature. Soon tendrils of steam began wafting into the chill night air.

Overseer Tun knelt awkwardly before him. ‘Orders, Magister?’

‘We continue on, Overseer.’

‘Very good, lord.’

Pon-lor eased his effort of focusing his energy and began on a course of muscle relaxation. Dimly, he became aware of the heat of a steady hard stare. Without shifting his gaze he identified the narrowed glittering eyes of their guide out amid the darkness. The usual expected hostility filled them. Yet he was also surprised — and amused — to detect a ferocious pride coupled with an equally ferocious contempt held for him. It seems our village raider all-in-patches harbours a very high opinion of himself. Well, who doesn’t? Yet it is obvious that it has brought him nothing but torment. Pon-lor closed his eyes. No matter. Tomorrow we will be rid of him.

In the morning he broke his fast on a pinch of rice, some smoked fish, and tea. Even as he squatted to take care of the needs of his body, his robes hiked up, two guardsmen kept watch, as it was the philosophy of the Thaumaturgs that such values as modesty and squeamishness no longer pertain once all ties to the profane flesh have been cast aside.

Overseer Tun determined the order of march. Their guide led, followed immediately by the overseer and two guards. A second unit of four guards followed this group, then Pon-lor and the rest of the detachment. The cliffs of the prominence steamed in the early morning sun. As they climbed, more and more of the jungle expanse to the west came into view. Great streamers of mist clung to the canopy and it seemed to Pon-lor as if suspended rivers were meandering through the treetops.

The stone ledges also steamed, and were slick with the last of the run-off that came crashing down out of the unseen heights. His guards hacked at the fat hanging leaves and the tangles of roots and vines, or held the worst aside for his passage. Birds startled everyone as they burst screeching and shrieking from the foliage in explosions of brilliant colour. Each time, Pon-lor’s hands clenched. It was the suddenness of it that always shocked him.

Monkeys scampering through the hanging forest scolded them with their chatter. And once, from far above, came the roar of a jungle cat. That, Pon-lor noted, gave his men pause. While all were armed with swords, shields and knives, they carried very few spears or bows.

A regrettable oversight, that. Have to let Principal Scribe Thorn know of it when I return.

What would he do, should such a beast attack the column? Not that any living Thaumaturg had any personal experience in the matter: all such wild animals, the great fanged cat, the lesser fire cat, the man-hunting leopard, the tusk-boar, the titanic cave bear, the two-horned rhinoceros, and all the great river beasts, had all been eradicated from their lands generations ago. Still, a hunting cat shouldn’t attack any large body of men, armed or not. At least that was his learning on the subject. Unless of course the old folk tales were true and all the many fanged and toothed denizens of the jungle obeyed the commands of the Ancient Queen herself; to say nothing of every spirit, demon, shape-changer, ghost, elemental, and all such supernatural entities.

He wiped his sleeve across his sweaty face. Not a thought to dwell upon as we approach her demesnes …

The path continued up the side of the rock outcropping, or mount. At times it was no wider than a goat trail. In many places rockslides had ploughed across the trail and only the most rudimentary track had been cleared. He scrambled with his hands over the sharp broken rock.

This path has not seen much commerce! There must be other ways up.

On his right, empty sky gaped as the route wound round the vertical cliff. The sun was near its highest — and these days the arching glow of the Banner, or Fallen God’s Chariot, as some cults would have it, still marred the sky — when a scream froze them all where they edged along.

It had come from the rear. Pon-lor began shuffling backwards to investigate. Voices called from the van but the wind rendered them unintelligible. His guards gathered behind him, hands on sword grips. A lone guard came round the nearest curve of the overhanging cliff. He set his hands to his mouth to yell: ‘The last man fell!’

‘What happened?’ Pon-lor called.

‘I did not see it!’

Damn. ‘Was there blood? Sign?’

‘No, m’lord!’

He tightened his robes about himself against the rising wind. ‘Very well!’ To his men, ‘Close up. No one walks alone.’

‘Aye, m’lord.’

Past a rockfall Tun waited with the van guards, together with their guide. ‘What happened, Magister?’ the overseer asked, his slit gaze on Jak.

‘A man fell. The last.’

Tun’s eyes almost disappeared in their pockets of fat. His hands tightened in their studded leather wraps. ‘Odd that it should be the very last.’

‘No one saw what happened. I do not want to lose anyone else so we will tighten up the order of march.’

Tun bowed. ‘Very good, Magister.’

Progress slowed to a hesitant crawl. Now the greatest danger came from each other as rocks turned underfoot and tumbled down the path, threatening those behind. Who are these people? Pon-lor found himself wondering. Mountain goats?

Late in the day the ground levelled. They had reached the top, or at least a level portion of the heights. He was exhausted. His shirting beneath his robes stuck to him and his calves felt as if they had seized. Here, they re-entered dense jungle of tall fat kapok trees draped in vines. Pink and gold orchids hung in the vines as if snared in the act of climbing. A layer of rotting leaves and other fallen litter carpeted the rocky ground. It was as if they had climbed nothing at all. Except, that was, for the wind; strong gusts now brushed the branches overhead and stirred the hanging parasitical creepers, sending them rustling and whispering.

Still their guide led them on, though no trail or path was visible through the underbrush.

No one has come this way in some time. Yet we are heading east, and the Pass of Seven Peaks is supposed to be an easy descent. Perhaps we are coming up behind the fortress.

Yet something troubled him and he pushed ahead, his guards keeping pace, to reach their guide. The young man bowed his head — slightly. ‘It must be difficult bringing up supplies …’ Pon-lor offered as they walked along.

Jak glanced back the way they had come. ‘There are other paths,’ he answered off-handedly. ‘M’lord.’

‘And are we close?’

The lad frowned, thinking. ‘We won’t make it before nightfall.’

‘No?’ Pon-lor felt a touch of irritation. ‘Then we should camp for the night. We’ve just come off a hard climb.’ It seemed to him that the raider youth actually sneered before quickly turning away.

‘That?’ He waved aside the suggestion. ‘That was nothing — I used to run up and down that path all day as a child.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Pon-lor answered, icily. ‘Find us a suitable site.’

Jak stopped and bowed. ‘Pardon … m’lord. But the rains are gathering. Wouldn’t you rather sleep in warm quarters tonight?’

The suggestion did have its attractions. Yet what of this fellow’s insolence? He seemed to suggest that Pon-lor was not up to such exertion. Obviously he knew nothing of Thaumaturg training and arts and what they could extract from the human body … He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. Whatever should he care regarding the opinions of such a wretched specimen? He waved the ever-hovering overseer closer. ‘A break in the march, Tun. For a rest and a short meal.’

‘Very good, Magister.’

The guide merely bowed as well.

Pon-lor sat at the base of a huge bo tree. Its limbs arched all around, creating something of a natural temple. He allowed himself a pinch of rice, water and fresh fruit gathered during the day. The men took turns resting, eating and standing guard. Tun called an end to the break, and the men were forming up when a second scream — this one of agony — froze them all.

The men’s wide eyes scanned the bobbing leaves and shadowed aisles between the trees. Then Tun grunted an order and they jumped to encircle Pon-lor while two went with the overseer to investigate. As an afterthought, Tun waved Jak to accompany them.

Waiting, Pon-lor also eyed the impenetrable tangle of vines and draping leaves. Another fall? Surely not. What, then? Had a servant of the Demon-Queen found them already? He wished it would show itself. Thaumaturg training did not lend itself to such real-time scrying, sensing or detection. The leaves shook and Overseer Tun emerged. He walked straight up to Pon-lor and bowed to one knee.

‘We have lost another, m’lord.’

‘What was it?’

‘There was no sign of the man. But there was plenty of blood. And a trail. We did not follow.’

‘No? Why not?’

‘The guide says it was a hunting cat. One of the great fanged ones.’

Pon-lor could not suppress a shiver of atavistic fear. A fanged cat! Nearly a horse’s weight of muscle, tooth and claw. As tall as nine hands at the shoulder, some claimed. Long eradicated from Thaumaturg lands. No wonder they did not pursue.

Their guide was the last to emerge, and he came walking backwards, his gaze fixed on the undergrowth. ‘Jak,’ Pon-lor called. ‘You will take us to the fortress — now.’

The young man bowed. ‘Of course … m’lord.’

Tun clapped his wrapped hands and the column formed immediately and they set out at once.

The evening’s rain began soon after. A guard offered Pon-lor his parasol but he waved it off; the undergrowth was too pressing. Often he had to duck under thick creepers, or swing a leg over the fat roots that writhed all over the hard stony ground. With the rains arrived the evening: a darkness even greater than a densely overcast night as they struggled beneath an impenetrable canopy. He could make out shafts from the Visitor lancing down here and there through breaks in the tangled branches. A strong wind tossed those branches, making the green radiance dance and flicker. Ahead, the men of the column would appear and disappear in the wavering light as if shifting from one Realm to another.

After a long sodden march the column halted and Tun emerged from the drifting mist of rain to invite Pon-lor forward. He was led to where their guide waited and when he arrived Jak gestured in the dark.

‘Fortress Chanar.’

Pon-lor squinted into the gloom. Eventually a much denser black emerged from the murk to resolve into a rearing heap of stone. A golden glow shone here and there from what he presumed to be windows. At ground level a whipping flame revealed where a torch might be set at a doorway.

‘Very good, Jak.’ He urged the guide onward.

Overgrown stone heaps lay to either side. They appeared to be walking an ancient road, or ceremonial way. The heaps proved to be squat plinths supporting equally squat monolithic heads as big as huts. Roots gripped these enormous heads and most sported tall trees like fanciful hats, but all were identical. Portraits, they were, of a man in an armoured helm. Savage hard staring eyes, a long straight nose, and a slit mouth that looked as if not one word of mercy had ever passed its lips.

And Pon-lor knew that face, that man. And his breath left him in one gust. A cold slither of something gouged a nail up his spine.

That face. Always the same face. He’d seen it before on the coins and funerary statues that littered the tables in Master Varman’s study — his hobby of collecting pre-catastrophe artefacts — where, spurred by curiosity, half knowing the answer already, he’d asked: this ancient likeness, is it a man or a god?

And Master Varman had studied him for some time in silence, his head lowered, eyeing him from under his thick brows, until finally he cleared his throat to say, ‘Strange that you should put it that way, Pon-lor. As you no doubt suspect, that is the face of the greatest evil of his day, the self-proclaimed God-King, the High King. These days the ignorant name him the Fallen One or the Demon-King, the infernal Kell-Vor. But that in truth is not his real name — that I shall never speak aloud. For it carries with it a curse. A terrible ageless curse.’

Pon-lor blinked now in the rain, suddenly more chilled than he had been in days. Was Chanar merely built on these ancient pre-Fall ruins? Or was this building one of the few surviving structures from that age? In any case, the scholar within Pon-lor was roused. What an unlooked-for opportunity! Here in the wilds of the border region. Yet, where else? Was he not approaching the lands of the Ancient Queen? And were there not legends that claimed King and Queen ruled together and that the catastrophe of the long ago Fall slew the King while the Queen survived? A twisted shadow-play of the truth, no doubt. But still, both figures could be traced back to those hoary dawn ages of humanity.

‘Magister …?’ a voice called from the dark. Their guide.

He’d been standing in the rain for some time, his guards encircling him. He nodded. ‘Yes, coming.’

A single guard in plain leathers awaited them at the gate. A young man of his age, spear in hand, a bow at his side. ‘Welcome,’ this one murmured. ‘The lord will see you in the Great Hall.’

Jak invited Pon-lor forward. ‘I know the way.’

Overseer Tun blocked the narrow stone entranceway. ‘I will walk with you, little guide.’ He waved for two guards to remain at the gaping stone portal, then signed for the rest to attend on Pon-lor.

Jak shrugged, and lit a torch. ‘This way.’

The halls were dark. Pon-lor’s wet sandalled feet kicked through a wind-blown litter of leaves. In side corridors tiny animals scampered from the light, and cobwebs choked the ceilings and corners.

‘These halls are abandoned?’ Pon-lor asked Jak.

‘Khun-Sen is an old man. He has few remaining servants or followers. And each year they are fewer.’

‘Ah. I see.’ So, soon this great brooding edifice overlooking the Pass of Seven Peaks would once more lie empty. As it had for thousands of years. For with its cyclopean stone construction, its dark sandstone blocks, its flat squared lintels and mottling of lichen growth, Pon-lor recognized it for what it was — the colossal and overbearing architecture of the self-glorying God-King.

They exited on to a narrow inner bailey that was nothing more than a miniature jungle of tall trees. Across the way, stairs climbed to a higher inner structure and faint light glowed from high windows. Pon-lor had no training in military readiness but even he was appalled by the neglect and dilapidation. ‘Was no effort made to clear the overgrowth?’ he asked Jak.

The young man gave an unconcerned shrug. ‘No. It was no priority of Khun-Sen’s.’

‘I see.’ When he returned he would have much to report regarding the activities, or rather the lack of activities, of this self-styled general on their borders.

Within, the overall neglect continued with trash and wind-blown litter hastily brushed aside, and a minimum of torches and lamps lit. Chambers to either side lay dark and empty. In one, a long low table held the remains of a meal, plates and goblets in place. In the unlit gloom Pon-lor thought he glimpsed cobwebs on the table. ‘Where is everyone?’ he asked.

‘Readying themselves to greet you, perhaps,’ Jak answered, his voice tight with some emotion. Fear, was it? Was he also unnerved? Somehow Pon-lor found this reassuring.

They entered a large room. A bonfire burned in a central fire-pit. A second-storey viewing terrace encircled the walls. Pon-lor assumed this was the main hall. He turned to Jak. ‘A rather subdued reception …’

The young man wet his lips, his dark eyes glittering as he scanned the viewing terrace. ‘There must be some problem,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps the lord is ill. I will go and see.’ He turned to leave.

‘Halt!’ Tun snapped. He signed to two guards. ‘Accompany our guide. We would not want him to get lost.’

One of the guards gathered up a handful of cloth at Jak’s shoulder and the three marched up a passageway. The glow of their torch slowly faded. Tun edged close to Pon-lor to whisper: ‘I do not like this, Magister. This is an ill-omened place at best. We should go.’

‘Ill-omened?’

‘Yes. Tales of travellers disappearing. Of a midnight court of the dead.’

Pon-lor arched a brow. ‘Really? I’m not familiar with such folk tales. However, I agree. Perhaps we were better off with the fanged cat after all. Call the men. We will withdraw.’

‘Very good, Magister.’ Tun paced to the passage entrance and bellowed: ‘Harun! Vayach! Recall!’

Something like a weak shout echoed down the corridor.

‘Did you hear that?’ Pon-lor asked.

‘Yes, Magister. A cry. But distant. Should we advance?’

‘No. I’m beginning to believe we have come much further than we should have. We will withdraw. We know the way.’

Tun snapped a sign and the men surrounded Pon-lor. My remaining men! By the ancient false gods, I’ve already lost a quarter of my command. If this is an ambush then it has been masterfully played.

Tun led the withdrawal. At a sign from him the men drew their blades and raised their shields. From his place at the centre of the column Pon-lor spied a figure ahead in the darkness blocking the exit to the inner court. Shifting moonlight behind revealed it to be someone new. One of Khun-Sen’s men? ‘What is going on here?’ he called. ‘I am a representative of the Circle of Rulership.’

The armoured figure did not answer. Tun waved him aside, bellowing, ‘Make way for a magister of the Thaumaturgs!’

In answer the newcomer thrust forward and a spearhead burst from the back of Tun’s studded leather hauberk. The overseer dropped his torch, which snuffed out in the damp. The lead men loosed yells of shock and rage and hacked at the figure. Despite taking a number of solid blows it calmly yanked its spear free.

Those strikes sounded strange to Pon-lor. It was as if his men were hacking stone. And that reminded him of something. Something alarming. ‘Retreat!’ he yelled. ‘Back up, now!’

Even as he shouted one of the lead men fell to the spear. ‘Damn you!’ he roared. ‘Do as I say!’ The troops began edging backwards. The figure advanced with them, but slowly, a black silhouette against the night beyond. It was too dark to see much, so Pon-lor could not be sure of his guess, but the man’s slow shuffling walk fitted in with what he suspected. Back in the main hall, he ordered men to scout the other exits. In moments all reported back that the ways were blocked by other figures. He ordered a defensive circle close to the hearth bonfire. At least now they did not lack for light, anyway!

Then a laugh of scorn echoed through the chamber. It came from the second-storey terrace. Pon-lor raised his gaze, knowing just whom he would see. It was their raider-in-tatters, Jak. The young man held a bow. ‘How does it feel to be the hunted one now?’ the lad shouted down.

‘What is this?’ Pon-lor asked, his voice mild.

‘What is this? What does it look like? Revenge, fool! Justice.’

Dragging steps sounded from all around. His guards shifted, fearful, hunched with swords ready. ‘Revenge?’ Pon-lor asked. ‘Justice? Whatever for? What have I done to you?’

The question seemed to enrage the youth. ‘Done? What have you done!’ He snapped a quick shot, which Pon-lor sidestepped. ‘Rich pampered bastard! Look at you! Your family probably bought you your rank!’

‘I have no memory of my parents. I was taken from them when I was very young.’

Jak fired another shot that a guard caught on his shield. The former guide appeared almost maniacal in rage and coiled eagerness. He lifted his gaze across the hall and gave a fierce nod.

Pon-lor felt his shoulders fall. Damn. Allowed myself to be distracted. ‘Ware!’ a guard shouted the instant something hammered into Pon-lor’s back, punching out all his breath. Only his years of Thaumaturg training allowed him to stop the shock from dominating his mind.

Isolate the pain. Breathe. Constrict the vessels.

His diaphragm expanded and breath rushed into him once again. Too low for a lung. Thank the ancestors!

‘Protect the magister!’ a guard yelled, his voice oddly distant. Men crowded, shields raised.

A part of Pon-lor calmly studied the many side portals. Figures now emerged all around. Their gait was unnaturally stiff. They were a mix of male and female, armoured soldiers and clothed civilians. They held spears and tarnished swords in awkward, unswerving grips. There was something familiar in their rigidity; it plucked at a thread from his training. He just could not be certain … yet.

A number of his men bellowed war cries and charged, either battle-maddened or unable to endure the wait. Pon-lor clutched at one fellow to keep himself erect. ‘No,’ he snarled through teeth clenched against the pain. ‘Disengage!’

‘Aye,’ the man answered. He yelled: ‘Fall back, dogs! Withdraw!’

The majority could not hear — or chose not to. Iron rang from iron or bit into wood and armour. The encircling figures hardly defended themselves. They moved in a sort of dreamy slow motion, but with deadly power. Leather armour hung in rotting strips. A few wore chain or banded coats half fallen away or flapping uselessly in rusting sections. Some wore plain clothes now in rags. Immobile faces held a strange grey pallor, the eyes empty pits. That, and the ring of metal on stone when a guard smashed the face of one, confirmed what Pon-lor had suspected.

Oh, poor fool! Stupid fool! He lures us here to die at the hands of these cursed souls, little knowing just where their curse came from! ‘Jak!’ he called, having now mastered the agony of the wound. ‘Why do they not attack you?’

The young man was squinting down the length of a nocked arrow, searching for an opening through the guards’ raised shields. ‘I did not lie, you bastard! I am from here. They attack no one of their blood.’

Yes. They retain at least that much sense of their past lives, imprisoned as they are in flesh that has betrayed them. Thank you, Jak.

These pathetic shuffling figures were the cursed soldiers, civilians and court of Chanar Keep.

Still advancing, they clutched at the limbs and armour of Pon-lor’s guards to grapple with unbreakable grips or thrust or choke with fingers as strong as stone — for stone they were, flesh accursed to harden into petrification.

The dismissal, man! Think! How does it begin? Pon-lor fell to his knees and covered his eyes to blot out the sight of his men falling before him, screaming and gagging, throats torn. Then he had it, the opening invocation, and it all flowed from there with ease, the sequence hammered into his mind through countless repetitions sitting legs crossed in the ritual centre, chanting from sunrise to sunset, sometimes all through the night until he slumped forward unconscious.

‘Magister …’ a guard breathed above him, awed.

He dared open his eyes, his lips moving soundlessly.

Stone hands were reaching for him not an arm’s length away. Frozen now in the act of stretching. And as he watched an invisible wind gnawed at those fingers and the expressionless mask-like faces behind. Grain by grain the petrified flesh fell away like dust in a sandstorm. The clouds of dust swirled, wind-driven, obscuring the chamber. Even the bones of the hands disappeared, scoured away into blunt stubs, the arms following.

‘What?’ he heard Jak yell through the churning ashen clouds. ‘What is this?’

‘Who did you think lowered this curse upon Khun-Sen?’ Pon-lor shouted.

‘All know this as the work of the Demon-Queen!’

Pon-lor straightened to his feet. The invocation had centred him fully. Pain could not touch him now, nor could hunger nor fatigue, until he should ease out of the state, or eventually fall unconscious, or dead. He had closed off the bleeding. Clenched muscles and flesh against the wound. As he could now suppress any or all physical damage unless instantly fatal. ‘No, Jak,’ he began, his voice calm and strong. ‘An understandable assumption, but no. The Ruling Circle sent this curse against Khun-Sen — why I do not know. But it is our curse … and I am dismissing it now.’

‘I will see you dead!’ the young man howled.

‘He has run, Magister,’ a guard said, his gaze shaded against the swirling dust.

Metal clattered to the stone flagging as limbs cracked or hissed away into nothing. Faces had been gouged away into flat discs, bone and all. A head snapped off as the thinned neck gave way with a crack. Which of these, if any, was cursed Khun-Sen himself Pon-lor could not bring himself to care. One cursed figure, an elderly soldier, perhaps Khun-Sen, toppled over to burst into fragments.

‘Shall we pursue, m’lord?’ a guard asked, his tone now far more respectful.

‘No. They know this labyrinth. We’ll never track them. Let’s find the eastern path.’

‘Yes, m’lord.’

The dense iron-grey cloud of dust was dissipating. Pon-lor could now see across the chamber. A good finger’s thickness covered every surface. He tilted his head to brush the fine powdered stone from his hair. Armour and weapons littered the floor, along with the corpses of his dead. As the last of the grit sifted away Pon-lor faced a mere four standing guards, all wrapped in shrouds of grey, like the ghosts of Chanar Keep themselves. The four stood blinking at one another through the smeared masks of pulverized stone as if shocked to find themselves alive.

‘Magister …’ murmured one, gesturing to his side.

Pon-lor peered down to see the bloodied, now dust-caked arrowhead and a good hand’s width of haft standing from his torso. He’d almost forgotten about it. ‘Break it off and pull it out,’ he told the guards.

They exchanged uneasy glances but nodded their acquiescence.

‘This will hurt, Magister …’ one told him, reaching for the haft.

Pon-lor took hold of the man’s sash to steady himself. ‘No, Melesh — it is Melesh? Yes? I quite assure you it will not.’

* * *

If any ships witnessed the storm that arose upon the great empty tract of ocean between Quon Tali and the shores of Jacuruku, none survived to tell the wonders of the sight. No natural tempest was this. The sea clashed as if driven to war against itself. Mountainous waves swelled as current surged against current. Deep troughs the size of valleys opened as if to reveal the infinite depths. The winds battled and slashed each other into shreds of cloud and sleet.

Through these howling squalls a single vessel did push south by southwest. Long and low it was, of black wood lacquered in countless layers. It possessed no masts. Its deck was fully enclosed but for a single small hatch. Single banks of twenty oars to a side fought the contrary winds and slam of waves in a steady inhumanly powerful stroke.

As if in defiance of the storm a woman stood open to the elements upon the deck. Her clothes hung from her, utterly soaked. Water ran in rivulets from her hacked short hair and slid wind-driven across her face. She stood with arms crossed beneath her outer robes, her gaze slit against the cutting sleet. Twice a day another woman emerged from the small hatch. This one wore light leather armour, belted and studded. A pale mask hid half her face. Though the deck was featureless polished wood and the wind raged in gusting contrary blows her footing was sure as she crossed to the first woman. Here she offered a meagre ball of food or a skin of water that the first always refused, and then she would withdraw, bowing.

Who would it be? T’riss, the Enchantress, Queen of Dreams, and one-time companion to Anomandaris, wondered. Which of them shall be first? She sensed them all far to the west, all gathered for the potential transfiguration. And who shall it be, and into which state? And will they be pleased with the results? Too many futures now beckoned for any to see the clear path. Even she.

And it is the mortals who will choose.

There it was. The unwelcome truth — her forte. As ash-dry in her mouth as in anyone’s.

After all these ages … the choice was no longer hers. Indeed, she saw now that it never was. That what she had taken as control, the subtle manipulation, all the light plucking of such diverse threads, had been no more than the kicking of stones down a hill. They do end up at the bottom where you want them, but how they got there … well … one can hardly take the credit.

And speaking of tumbling stones … she sensed them, then, her first visitors.

Get of the Errant. The vindictive two-faced Twins.

It was the Lad who faced her. The rain slashed through his wavering translucent image. His pointed ferret face twitched in something resembling a wink.

‘What do you want?’ she said and he heard her though the raging winds annihilated her words.

He took on an expression of anxious concern. ‘I have come to warn you.’

‘Warn me of what?’

He wavered closer as if to impart some secret news. ‘Have you not seen there is a strong chance that this gambit of yours will bring you to your end?’

I have seen that and infinitely more than you can conceive of, you capering fool. ‘Yes.’

The Lady swung round from her rear. The wind did not touch her long brushed hair. Her pale face pulled down in a sad moue. She sighed: ‘How desperately you must have loved him from afar …’

For a moment T’riss lost her footing and stumbled backwards. She righted herself, her brows crimped in puzzlement. ‘What nonsense is this?’

The Lady sighed once more, as if in empathy. But malice glittered in her black eyes. ‘Unrequited love is the cruellest, they say. And now he is gone.’

The Queen of Dreams’ brows rose as understanding came. ‘No …’

The Twins circled her now. ‘Do not throw your life away in some mad plan,’ the Lad urged.

‘You were as nothing to him, in any case,’ the Lady said with a flick of her hand.

Why do they seek to dissuade me? I wonder which of all the possible outcomes it is that they fear. And how could I ever know for certain? She offered an easy shrug. ‘You presume too much.’

The Lady stopped before her. Her mouth tightened into a cruel knowing slash. ‘She will destroy you.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘She has barred you from her lands,’ said the Lad.

‘So she has.’

‘She’s tried to kill you already,’ the Lady added.

T’riss stood deathly still for a time. When she spoke her voice was frigid: ‘You presume far too much … That is enough from you.’

The Twins bowed — yet mockingly. ‘No,’ said the Lady, ‘that is enough from you …’

‘… as there shall be no more from you,’ finished the Lad.

And the two faded from sight leaving the glistening black deck empty, rain-slashed and awash in spray.

T’riss sensed the approach of her Seguleh bodyguard, Ina. The woman stopped next to her. She was crouched, her bent legs leaning with the drunken yaw and pitch of the deck. In the tilt of her masked head T’riss read a question.

‘It was nothing, Ina. Just a chance encounter.’