Toll the Hounds

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The soul knows no greater anguish than to take a breath that begins in love and ends with grief.

Time unravels now. Event clashes upon event. So much to recount, pray this sad-eyed round man does not falter, does not grow too breathless. History has its moments. To dwell within one is to understand nothing. We are rocked in the tumult, and the awareness of one’s own ignorance is a smothering cloak that proves poor armour. You will flinch with the wounds. We shall all flinch.

As might a crow or an owl, or indeed a winged eel, hover now a moment above this fair city, its smoke haze, the scurrying figures in the streets and lanes, the im shy;penetrable dark cracks of narrow alleyways. Thieves’ Road spreads a tangled web between buildings. Animals bawl and wives berate husbands and husbands bellow back, night buckets gush from windows down into the guttered alleys and — in some poorer areas of the Gadrobi District — into streets where pedestrians duck and dodge in the morning ritual of their treacherous journeys to work, or home. Clouds of flies are stirred awake with the dawn’s light. Pigeons revive their hopeless struggle to walk straight lines. Rats creep back into their closed-in refuges after yet another night of seeing far too much. The night’s damp smells are burned off and new stinks arise in pungent vapours.

And on the road, where it passes through the leper colony west of the city, a weary ox and a tired old man escort a burdened cart on which lies a canvas-wrapped figure, worn riding boots visible.

Ahead awaits Two-Ox Gate.

Hover no longer. Plummet both wings and spirit down to the buzzing flies, the animal heat sweet and acrid, the musty closeness of the stained burlap. The old man pausing to wipe sweat from his lined brow with its array of warts and moles, and his knees ache and there is dull pain in his chest.

Of late, he has been carting corpses round day and night, or so it seems. Each one made him feel older, and the glances he has been casting at the ox are tainted with an irrational dislike, wavering in its intensity, as if the beast was to blame for. . for something, though he knows not what.

The two guards at the gate were leaning against a wall, staying cool in the shade that would dwindle as the day rolled on overhead. Upon seeing the jutting boots one of the men stepped forward. ‘Hold, there. You’ll find plenty of cemeteries and pits outside the walls — we don’t need more-’

‘A citizen of the city,’ said the old man. ‘Killt in a duel. By Councillor Vidikas, who said to send him back to his friends — the dead man’s friends, I mean.’

‘Oh, right. On your way, then.’

Crowded as a city can be, an ox drawing a corpse-laden cart will find its path clear, for reasons involving a host of instinctive aversions, few of which made much sense. To see a dead body was to recoil, mind spinning a dust-devil of thoughts — that is not me — see the difference between us? That is not me, that is not me. No one I know, no one I have ever known. That is not me. . but. . it could be.

So easily, it could be.

Remonstrance of mortality is a slap in the face, a stinging shock. It is a struggle for one to overcome this moment, to tighten the armour about one’s soul, to see bodies as nothing but objects, unpleasant, to be disposed of quickly. Soldiers and undertakers fashion macabre humour to deflect the simple, raw horror of what they must see, of that to which they are witness. It rarely works. Instead, the soul crawls away, scabbed, wounded, at peace with nothing.

A soldier goes to war. A soldier carries it back home. Could leaders truly com shy;prehend the damage they do to their citizens, they would never send them to war. And if, in knowing, they did so anyway — to appease their hunger for power — then may they choke on the spoils for ever more.

Ah, but the round man digresses. Forgive this raw spasm of rage. A friend lies wrapped in canvas on the bed of a cart. Death is on its way home. Forgive.

Wending through Gadrobi District, life parted its stream, voices dimmed, and it was some time after the passing through of death that those voices arose once more in its wake. Curtains of flies repeatedly billowed open and closed again, until it seemed the ox pulled a stage of a thousand acts, each one the same, and the chorus was a bow wave of silence.

Journey on, comes the prayer of all, journey on.

At last, the old man finds his destination and draws the ox up opposite the doors, halting the beast with a tug on its yoke. He spends a moment brushing dust from his clothes, and then heads inside the Phoenix Inn.

It has been a long night. He hobbles to a table and catches the eye of one of the servers. He orders a tankard of strong ale and a breakfast. Stomach before business. The body’s not going anywhere, is it?

He did not know if it was love; he suspected he did not understand that word. But there was something inside Cutter that felt. . sated. Was it just physical, these tangled pitches and rolls and the oil of sweat, breaths hot in his face with the scent of wine and rustleaf? Was it just the taste of the forbidden, upon which he fed as might a bat on nectar? If so, then he should have felt the same when with Scillara, perhaps even more so, since without question Scillara’s skills in that area far eclipsed those of Challice, whose hunger whispered of insatiable needs, transform shy;ing her lovemaking into a frantic search that found no appeasement, no matter how many times she convulsed in orgasm.

No, something was indeed different. Still, he was troubled, wondering if this strange flavour came from the betrayal they committed time and again. A married woman, the sordid man’s conquest. Had he become such a man? Well, he supposed that he had, but not in the manner of those men who made a career of seducing and stealing the wives of other men. And yet, there was a sense, an extraordinary sense, he admitted, of dark pleasure, savage delight, and he could see just how addictive such living could become.

Even so, he was not about to pursue the headlong pitch of promiscuity. There remained a part of him that thirsted for an end — or, rather, a continuation: love and life made stable, forces of reassurance and comfort. He was not about to toss Challice aside and seek out a new lover. He was, he told himself, not Murillio, who could travel with practised ease from bedroom to bedroom — and see where it had got him, damn near murdered by some drunken suitor.

Oh, there was a lesson there, yes. At least it seemed that Murillio had heeded it, if the rumours of his “retirement” were accurate. And what about me? Have I taken note? It seems not. I still go to her, I still plunge into this betrayal. I go to her, so hungry, so desperate, it is as if we have remade ourselves into perfect reflections. Me and Challice. Hand in hand in our descent.

Because it makes the fall easier, doesn’t it?

There was nothing to stop Gorlas Vidikas from exacting vengeance. He would be entirely within his rights to hunt them both down and murder them, and a part of Cutter would not blame him if he did just that.

He was thinking such thoughts as he walked to the annexe warehouse, but they did little to assail his anticipation. Into each other’s arms again, desire hot as a fever in their mouths, their hands, their groins. Proof, to Cutter’s mind, of the claims of some scholars that humans were but animals — clever ones, but animals none the less. There was no room for thinking, no space for rationality. Consequences thinned to ethereal ghosts, snatched in with the first gasp and flung away in the next. Only the moment mattered.

He made no effort to disguise himself, no effort to mask the destination of his journey, and he well knew how the locals around the warehouse watched him, with that glittering regard that was envy and disgust and amusement in equal parts; much as they had watched Challice perhaps only moments earlier, although in her case lust probably warred with all the other emotions. No, this af shy;fair was a brazen thing, and that in itself somehow made it all the more erotic,

There was heat in his mind as he used his key to open the office door, and when he stepped within he could smell her perfume in the dusty air. Through the office and into the cavernous warehouse interior, and then to the wooden steps leading to the loft.

She must have heard his ascent, for she was standing facing the door when he arrived.

Something in her eyes stopped him.

‘You have to save me,’ she said.

‘What has happened?’

‘Promise you’ll save me, my love. Promise!’

He managed a step forward. ‘Of course. What’s-’

‘He knows.’

The heat of desire evaporated. He was suddenly cold inside.

Challice drew closer and in her face he saw an expression he struggled to iden shy;tify, and when he did the cold turned into ice. She is. . excited.

‘He will kill you. And me. He’ll kill us both, Crokus!’

‘As is his right-’

In her eyes a sudden fear, and she fixed him with it for a long moment before turning round. ‘Maybe you have no problem with dying,’ she hissed as she walked to the bed, where she faced him again. ‘But I have!’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘You know what to do.’

‘What we should do,’ he said, ‘is run. Take what you can and let’s just run. Find some other city-’

‘No! I don’t want to leave here! I like it here! I like the way I live, Crokus!’

‘It was just a day or two ago, Challice, that you were lying in my arms and talking about escaping-’

‘Just dreams — that wasn’t real. I mean, the dream wasn’t real. Wasn’t realistic — just a stupid dream. You can’t take any notice of what I say after we’ve. . been together. I just come out with any old thing. Crokus, we’re in trouble. We have to do something — we have to do it now.’

You just come out with any old thing, do you, Challice? But it’s only after we’ve been together that you say you love me.

‘He’ll kill me,’ she whispered.

‘That doesn’t sound like the Gorlas you’ve been describing.’

She sat down on the bed. ‘He confronted me. Yesterday.’

‘You didn’t mention-’

She shook her head. ‘It seemed, well, it seemed it was just the usual game. He said he wanted to know about you, and I said I’d tell him when he got back — he’s at the mines right now. And then, and then, walking here just now — O gods! I suddenly understood! Don’t you see? He was asking about the man he planned to kill!’

‘So he plans to kill me. What of it, Challice?’

She bared her teeth, and it was an expression so brutal, so ugly, that Cutter was shocked. ‘I said I understood. First you. Then he’ll come back to me, so he can tell me what he did to you. In every detail. He will use every word like a knife — until he pulls out the real one. And then he’ll cut my throat.’ She looked up at him. ‘Is that what you want? Does his killing me matter to you, Crokus?’

‘He won’t kill you-’

‘You don’t know him!’

‘It sounds as if you don’t, either.’ At her glare, he added, ‘Look, assume he’ll take pleasure in killing me, and he will. And then, even more pleasure in telling you all about it — yes? We’re agreed on that?’

She nodded, a single motion, tight.

‘But if he then kills you, what has he got? Nothing. No, he’ll want you to do it again, with someone else. Over and over again, and each time it’ll turn out the same — he kills your lover, he tells you about it. He doesn’t want all that to end. The man’s a duellist, right, one who likes killing his opponents. This way, he can lawfully do it to as many men as you care to collect, Challice. He wins, you win-’

‘How can you say I win!

‘-because,’ he finished, ‘neither of you gets bored.’

She stared at him as if he had just kicked in some invisible door hidden inside her. And then recovered. ‘I don’t want you to die, Crokus. Cutter — I keep forgetting. It’s Cutter now. A dangerous name. An assassin’s name. Careful, or someone might think there’s something real behind it.’

‘Which is it, Challice? You don’t want me to die. Or am I the man I pretend to be? What is it, exactly, you’re trying to appeal to?’

‘But I love you!’

And there was that word again. And whatever it meant to her probably was not what it meant to him — not that he knew what it meant to him, of course. He moved to one side, as if intent on circling the bed even it if took him through the outer wall, then halted and ran his hands through his hair. ‘Have you been leading me to this moment all along?’

‘What?’

He shook his head. ‘Just wondering out loud. It’s not important.’

‘I want my life as it is, Cutter, only without him. I want you instead of him. That’s how I want it.’

What would Murillio say in this situation? But no, I’m not Murillio.

Still. .

He’d be out through this window in a heartbeat. Duels with wronged husbands! Hood’s breath! He faced her. ‘Is that what you want?’

‘I just told you it was!’

‘No, that’s not what I meant. I meant. . oh, never mind.’

‘You have to do it. For me. For us.’

‘He’s at the mines west of the city? For how much longer?’

‘Two days at least. You can go out there.’

And suddenly she was standing in front of him, hands on the sides of his face, her body pressing hard, and he stared down into her dilated eyes.

Excitement.

I used to think. . that look — this look. . I used to think. .

‘My love,’ she whispered. ‘It has to be done. You see that, don’t you?’

But it was always this, just this. Leading up to this moment. Where she was taking me — or have I got it all wrong?

‘Challice-’

But her mouth was on his now, and she swallowed down all his words, until none were left.

Spin round and rush back. Murillio still lies in the dust, a crowd mechanically cheering in the pit below. The day draws to a close, and a youth named Venaz gathers his gang of followers and sets out for the tunnel called Steep.

Not much need be said about Venaz. But let us give him this. Sold to the mine by his stepfather — dear Ma too drunk to even lift her head when the collectors showed up and if she heard the clinking of coins, well, her thoughts would have crawled the short distance to the moment when she could buy another bottle, and no further. That had been four years ago.

The lesson that a child is not loved, not even by the one who bore it, delivers a most cruel wound. One that never heals, but instead stretches scar tissue over the mind’s eye, so that for that orphan’s entire life the world beyond is tainted, and it sees what others do not, and is blinded by perpetual mistrust to all that the heart feels. Such was Venaz, but to know is not to excuse, and we shall leave it there.

Venaz’s pack consisted of boys a year or so younger than him. They vied with each other for position in the pecking order and were as vicious individually as they were in a group. They were just versions of him, variations only on the surface. They followed and would do anything he told them to, at least until he stumbled, made a mistake. And then they would close in like half-starved wolves.

Venaz walked emboldened, excited, delighted at this amazing turn of events. The Big Man wanted Harllo and not to pat him on the head either. No, there would be even more blood spilled on this day, and if Venaz could work it right, why, he might be the one to spill it — at the Big Man’s nod, that’s all it would take, and maybe the Big Man would see how good Venaz could be. Good enough, maybe, to recruit him into his own household. Every noble needed people like Venaz, to do the ugly stuff, the bad stuff.

They reached the slope leading to the mouth of the tunnel. Three grown-ups were trying to fix the axle of a cart and they looked up when Venaz arrived.

‘Where’s Bainisk?’ Venaz asked.

‘New vein,’ one of them replied. ‘He in trouble again?’

‘He got his moles with him?’ It felt good being so important he didn’t have to answer the man’s question.

Shrugs all round.

Venaz scowled. ‘Has he got his moles with him?’

The one who’d spoken slowly straightened. His backhanded slap caught Venaz by surprise, and was hard enough to knock the boy back. He was then grabbed and thrown on to the stony ground. The man stood over him. ‘Watch your mouth.’

Venaz sat up, glaring. ‘You ain’t seen what just happened? Up on the ridge?’

Another grunted. ‘We heard ’bout something.’

‘A duel — the Big Man killed someone!’

‘So what?’

‘And then he called for Harllo! He wants Harllo! And I come to get him and you’re stopping me and when he hears-’

He got no further as the man who had struck him now grasped him by the throat and dragged him to his feet. ‘He won’t hear nothing, Venaz. You think we give a fuck about Vidikas having a fuckin’ duel? Killin’ some poor bastard for what? Our entertainment?’

‘He’s turnin’ blue, Haid. Better loosen yer grip some.’

Venaz gasped an agonizing lungful of air.

‘Get it right, lad,’ Haid went on, ‘Vidikas owns us. We’re pieces of meat to him, right? So he puts out a call for one of us and for what? Why, to chew it up, that poor piece of meat. And what, you think that’s a fuckin’ good idea? Get outa my sight, Venaz, but you can count on me rememberin’ this.’

The pack was huddled together now, white-faced, but among some of them there was something rather more calculating. Was this the moment to usurp Venaz?

The three men went back to working on the axle. Venaz, his colour returning to normal, dusted himself off and then set out in a stiff-legged march towards the tunnel mouth. His pack fell in behind him.

As they plunged into the cool gloom Venaz wheeled. ‘That was Haid and Favo and Dule, right? Remember them names. They’re on my list now, all three of them. They’re on my list.’

Faces nodded.

And those who had been weighing their chances each realized that the moment had passed. They’d been too slow. Venaz had a way of recovering, and fast, scary fast. He was, they reminded themselves yet again, going places, without a doubt.

Harllo slid along the vein, feeling with his bared stomach the purity of the black silver and, yes, it was silver and where had it come from when all they’d been working for so long was copper up on the skins and iron down deep? But it felt so beautiful, this silver. Better than gold, better than anything.

Wait till he told Bainisk and Bainisk told the foreman! They’d be heroes, They might even get extra portions at supper, or a cup of watered wine!

The chute was narrow, so small they’d need moles for weeks before it got worked out big enough to take the pickers, so there was a good chance that Har shy;llo would be seeing — and feeling — a lot more of this silver, every day, maybe.

And all that trouble from before would go away, just like that — he knew it would-

‘Harllo!’

The voice whispered up from somewhere behind his feet, reminding him that he was still head down and that could be dangerous. He might pass out and not even know it. ‘I’m all right, Bainisk! I found-’

‘Harllo! Get back here right now!’

A shiver ran through Harllo. Bainisk’s voice didn’t sound right. It sounded. . scared.

But that wouldn’t last, would it? Not with the silver-

‘Hurry!’

Moving backwards was never easy. He pushed with his hands, squirmed and pressed his toes against the hard stone and then extended his heels. There were leather pads tied to his feet for this purpose, but it still hurt. Like a caterpillar, gathering up and then pushing, bit by bit, working his way back up the chute.

All at once hands grasped his ankles and he was being roughly dragged.

Harllo cried out as his chin struck an obstruction and when he lifted his head up the top crunched on rock, scraping away skin and hair. ‘Bainisk! What-’

He fell free of the chute, thumping down. The hands released his ankles and now grasped his upper arms, lifting him to his feet.

‘Bainisk-’

‘Shhh! Word’s come down — someone came to find you — from the city.’

‘What?’

‘Vidikas killed him — in a duel — and now he’s called for you to be brought to him. It’s bad, Harllo. I think he’s going to kill you!’

But this was too much to hear, too much all at once — someone had come — who? Gruntle! And Vidikas had. . had killed him. No. He couldn’t have — he didn’t- ‘Who was he?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. Listen, we’re going to escape, you and me, Harllo — do you un shy;derstand?’

‘But how can we-’

‘We’re going deeper in, to the Settle-’

‘But that’s not safe-’

‘There are huge cracks on that side — some of them, they got to go right up and out, lakeside. We get there, and then along the shoreline, all the way back to the city!’

They had been hissing back and forth, and now they heard shouts echoing down from the main passage.

‘Venaz — that figures, doesn’t it? Come on, Harllo, we got to go now!’

They set out, each with a lantern, Bainisk taking a coil of rope as well, down through the fresh workings — there was no one there yet, as first the air had been bad and then there’d been flooding and only the shift before the last of the hoses was snaked out to see how much more water was seeping back in. After fifty or so paces they were ankle-deep in icy water and flows slicked the side walls and drops rained down from the ceiling. The farther in they went, the more cracks they saw — everywhere, all sides, above and below — proof that they were reaching the Settle, where half a cliff was sinking towards the lake. The rumours were that it was only days from collapse.

The tunnel descended in irregular shelves, and now the water was at Harllo’s thighs, numbingly cold. Both were gasping.

‘Bainisk — will this go back up?’

‘It will, if the water’s not too deep, it will, I promise.’

‘Why — why are you doing this? You should’ve just handed me over.’

Bainisk was some time before answering. ‘I want to see it, Harllo.’

‘You want to see what?’

‘The city. I–I just want to see it, that’s all. When I heard, well, it was as if every shy;thing fell into place. This was the time — our best chance — this close to the Settle.’

‘You’d been thinking about this.’

‘Yes. Harllo, I never stop thinking about this.’

‘The city.’

‘The city.’

Something clanged somewhere behind them — still distant, but closer than ex shy;pected.

‘Venaz! They’re after us — shit — come on, Harllo, we got to hurry.’

The water reached Harllo’s hips. He was having trouble working his legs. He kept stumbling. Twice he almost let his lantern sink down too far. Their desperate gasping echoed on all sides, along with sloshing water.

‘Bainisk, I can’t-’

‘Drop your light — just take hold of my shirt — I’ll pull you. Don’t let go.’

Groaning, Harllo let the lantern sink into the water. A sudden hiss, something cracking. When he released the handle the lantern vanished into the blackness. He took hold of Bainisk’s ragged shirt.

They continued on, Harllo feeling his legs trailing behind him but only from the hips — below that there was nothing. A strange lassitude flowed into him, taking away the icy cold. Bainisk was chest-deep now, whimpering as he sought to keep the lantern held high.

They stopped.

‘The tunnel goes under,’ said Bainisk.

‘Issallright, Bainisk. We gan stop now.’

‘No, hold on to this ledge. I’m going under. I won’t be long. I promise.’

He set the lantern on a narrow ledge. And then he sank down and was gone.

Harllo was alone. It would be much easier to let go, to relax his aching hands. Venaz was coming, he’d be here soon. And then it would be over. The water was warm now — that might be one way to escape them. Do what Bainisk had just done. Just sink away, vanish,

He wasn’t wanted, he knew. Not by his mother, not by anyone. And the one who’d come to find him, well, that man had died for that. And that wasn’t right. Nobody should go and die for Harllo. Not Gruntle, not Bainisk, not anybody. So, no more of any of that — he could let go-

Foaming water, thrashing, gasps and coughs. An icy hand clutched at Harllo.

‘We can get through! Harllo — the tunnel on the other side — it slopes upward!’

‘I can’t-’

‘You have to! The city, Harllo, you have to show it to me — I’d be lost. I need you, Harllo. I need you.’

‘All right, but. .’ He was about to tell Bainisk the truth. About the city. That it wasn’t the paradise he’d made it out to be. That people starved there. That people did bad things to each other. But no, that could wait. It’d be bad to talk about those things right now. ‘All right, Bainisk.’

They left the lantern. Bainisk uncoiled some of the rope and tied the end about Harllo’s waist, fumbling with numbed hands on the knot. ‘Take a few deep breaths first,’ he said. ‘And then one more, deep as you can.’

The plunge into the dark left Harllo instantly disoriented. The rope round his waist pulled him down and then into the face of the current. He opened his eyes and felt the thrill of shock from the icy flow. Strange glowing streaks flashed past, possibly from the rock itself, or perhaps they were but ghosts lurking behind his eyes. At first he sought to help Bainisk, flailing with his arms and trying to kick, but after a moment he simply went limp.

Either Bainisk would pull them both through, or he wouldn’t. Either way was fine.

His mind began to drift, and he so wanted to take a breath — he couldn’t hold back much longer. His lungs were burning. The water would be cool, cool enough to quench that fire for ever more. Yes, he could do that.

Cold bit into his right hand — what? And then his head was lifted above the surface. And he was sucking in icy lungfuls of air.

Darkness, the rush and gurgle of water flowing past, seeking to pull him back, back and down. But Bainisk was tugging him along, and it was getting shallower as the tunnel widened. The black, dripping ceiling seemed to be sagging, forming a crooked spine overhead. Harllo stared up at it, wondering how he could see at all.

And then he was being dragged across broken stone.

They halted, lying side by side.

Before too long, the shivering began. Racing into Harllo like demonic posses shy;sion, a spirit that shook through him with rabid glee. His teeth chattered uncon shy;trollably.

Bainisk was plucking at him. Through clacking teeth he said, ‘Venaz won’t stop. He’ll see the lantern — he’ll know. We got to keep going, Harllo. It’s the only way to get warm again, the only way to get away.’

But it was so hard to climb to his feet. His legs still didn’t work properly. Bainisk had to help him and he leaned heavily on the bigger boy as they staggered skidding upslope along the scree-scattered path.

It seemed to Harllo that they walked for ever, into and out of faint light. Sometimes the slope pitched downward, only to slowly climb yet again. Pain throbbed in Harllo’s legs now, but it was welcome — life was returning, filled with its stubborn fire, and now he wanted to live, now it mattered more than anything else.

‘Look!’ Bainisk gasped. ‘At what we’re walking on — Harllo, look!’

Phosphorescent mould limned the walls, and in the faint glow Harllo could make out the vague shapes of the rubble underfoot. Broken pottery. Small fragments of burned bone.

‘It’s got to lead up,’ Bainisk said. ‘To some cave. The Gadrobi used them to bury their ancestors. A cave overlooking the lake. We’re almost there.’

Instead, they reached a cliff ledge.

And stood, silent.

A vertical section of rock had simply plummeted away, leaving a broad gap. The bottom of the fissure was swallowed in black, from which warm air rose in dry gusts. Opposite them, ten or more paces across, a slash of diffuse light revealed the continuation of the tunnel they had been climbing.

‘We’ll climb down,’ said Bainisk, uncoiling the rope and starting to tie a knot at one end. ‘And then back up. We can do this, you’ll see.’

‘What if the rope’s not long enough? I can’t see the bottom, Bainisk.’

‘We’ll just find more handholds.’ Now he was tying a loop at the other end which he then set round a knoblike projection. ‘I’ll throw a snake back up to dislodge this, so we can take the rope with us for the climb up the other side. Now, you go first.’ He tossed the rest of the rope over the edge. They heard it snap out to its full length. Bainisk grunted. ‘Like I said, we can find handholds.’

Harllo worked his way over the side, gripping hard the wet rope — it wanted to slide through, but if that happened he knew he was dead, so he held tight. His feet scrambled, found shallow ledges running at an angle across the cliff-face. Not much, but they eased the strain. He began working his way down.

He was perhaps three body-lengths down when Bainisk began following. The rope began swaying unpredictably, and Harllo found his feet slipping from their scant purchases again and again, each time resulting in a savage tug on his arms.

‘Bainisk!’ he hissed. ‘Wait! Let me go a little farther down first — you’re throwing me about.’

‘Okay. Go on.’

Harllo found purchase again and resumed the descent.

If Bainisk started up again he no longer felt the sways and tugs. The rope was getting wetter, which meant that he was reaching its end — the water was soaking its way down. And then he reached the sodden knot. Sudden panic as he sought to find projections in the wall for his feet. There were very few — the stone was almost sheer.

‘Bainisk! I’m at the knot!’ He craned his neck to look down. Blackness, unrelieved, depthless. ‘Bainisk! Where are you?’

Since Harllo’s first call, Bainisk had not moved. The last thing he wanted to do was accidentally dislodge the boy, not after they’d made it this far. And, truth be told, he was experiencing a growing fear. This wall was too even — no cracks, the strata he could feel little more than ripples at a steeply canted angle. They would never be able to hold on once past the rope — and there was nothing he could use to slip the loop round.

They were, he realized, in trouble.

Upon hearing Harllo’s last call — the boy reaching the knot — he readied himself to resume his descent.

And there was a sharp upward tug on the rope.

He looked up. Vague faces peering over, hands and more hands reaching to close on the rope. Venaz — yes, there he was, grinning.

‘Got you,’ he murmured, low and savage. ‘Got you both, Bainisk.’

Another tug upward.

Bainisk drew his knife one-handed. He reached down to cut the rope beneath him, and then hesitated, looking up once more at Venaz’s face.

Maybe that had been his own, only a few years ago. That face, so eager to take over, to rule the moles. Well, Venaz could have them. He could have it all.

Bainisk reached up with the knife, just above his fist where it held tight. And he sliced through.

Dig heels in, it will not help. We must wing back to the present. For everything to be understood, every facet must flash alight at least once. Earlier, the round man begged forgiveness. Now, he pleads for trust. His is a sure hand, even if it trembles. Trust.

A bard sits opposite an historian. At a nearby table in K’rul’s Bar, Blend watches Scillara unfolding coils of smoke from her mouth. There is something avid in that gaze, but every now and then a war erupts in her eyes, when she thinks of the woman lying in a coma upstairs. When she thinks of her, yes. Blend has taken to sleeping in the bed with Picker, has taken to trying all she could think of to awaken sensation once more in her lover. But nothing has worked. Picker’s soul is lost, wandering far from the cool, flaccid flesh.

Blend hates herself now, as she senses her soul ready to move on, to seek the blessing of a new life, a new body to explore and caress, new lips to press upon her own.

But this is silly. Scillara’s amiability was ever casual. She was a woman who preferred a man’s charms, such as they were. And truth be told, Blend had played in that crib more than once herself. So why now has this lust awakened? What made it so wild, so needy?

Loss, my dear. Loss is like a goad, a stinging shove that sets one lunging forward seeking handholds, seeking ecstasy, delicious surrender, even the lure of self destruction. The bud cut at the stem throws its last energy into one final flowering, one glorious exclamation. The flower defies, to quote in entirety an ancient Tiste Andii poem. Life runs from death. It must, it cannot help it. Life runs, to quote a round man’s epitome of poetic brevity.

Slip into Blend’s mind, ease in behind her eyes, and watch as she watches, feel as she feels, if you dare.

Or try Antsy, there at the counter on which are arrayed seven crossbows, twelve flatpacks of quarrels amounting to one hundred and twenty darts, six shortswords, three throwing axes of Falari design, a Genabarii broadsword and buckler, two local rapiers with fancy quillons — so fancy the weapons were snagged together and Antsy had spent an entire morning trying to separate them, with no luck — and a small sack containing three sharpers. He is trying to decide what to wear.

But the mission they were about to set out on was meant to be peaceful, so he should just wear his shortsword as usual, peace-strapped as usual, everything as usual, in fact. But then there were assassins out there who wanted Antsy’s head on a dagger point, so maybe keeping things usual was in fact suicidal. So he should strap on at least two shortswords, throw a couple of crossbows over his shoulders and hold the broadsword in his right hand and the twin rapiers in his left, with a flatpack tied to each hip, the sharper sack at his belt, and a throwing axe between his teeth — no, that’s ridiculous, he’d break his jaw trying that. Maybe an extra shortsword, but then he might cut his own tongue out the first time he tried saying anything and he was sure to try saying something eventually, wasn’t he?

But he could run the scabbards for all six shortswords through his belt, and end up wearing a skirt of shortswords, but that’d be all right, wouldn’t it? But then, where would he carry the sharpers? One knock against a pommel or hilt and he’d be an expanding cloud of whiskers and weapon bits. And what about the crossbows? He’d need to load them all up but keep everything away from the releases, unless he wanted to end up skewering all his friends with the first stumble.

What if-

What’s that? Back to Blend, please? Flesh against flesh, the weight of full breasts in hands, one knee pushing up between parted thighs, sweat a blending of sweet oils, soft lips trying to merge, tongues dancing eager and slick as-

‘I can’t wear alla this!’

Scillara glanced over. ‘Really, Antsy? Didn’t Blend say that about a bell ago?’

‘What? Who? Her? What does she know?’

To that entirely unselfconscious display of irony, Blend could only raise her brows when she caught Scillara’s eye.

Scillara smiled in response, then drew again on her pipe.

Blend glanced over at the bard, and then said to Antsy, ‘We’re safe out there now, anyway.’

Eyes bulging, Antsy stared at her in disbelief. ‘You’d take the word of some damned minstrel? What does he know?’

‘You keep asking what does anyone know, when it’s obvious that whatever they know you’re not listening to anyway.’

‘What?’

‘Sorry, that so confused me I doubt I could repeat it. The contract’s cancelled — Fisher said so.’

Antsy wagged his head from side to side. ‘Fisher said so!’ He jabbed a finger at the bard. ‘He’s not Fisher — not the famous one, anyway. He’s just stolen the name! If he was famous he wouldn’t be just sittin’ there, would he? Famous people don’t do that.’

‘Really?’ the bard who called himself Fisher asked. ‘What are we supposed to do, Antsy?’

‘Famous people do famous things, alla time. Everybody knows that!’

‘The contract has been bought out,’ the bard said. ‘But if you want to dress as if preparing for a single-handed assault on Moon’s Spawn, you go right ahead.’

‘Rope! Do I need rope? Let me think!’ And to aid in this process Antsy began pacing, moustache twitching.

Blend wanted to pull a boot off and push her foot between Scillara’s thighs. No, she wanted to crawl right in there. Staking a claim. With a hiss of frustration she stood, hesitated, and then went to sit down at the bard’s table. She fixed him with an intense stare, to which he responded with a raised brow.

‘There’re more songs supposedly composed by Fisher than anyone else I’d ever heard of.’

The man shrugged.

‘Some of them are a hundred years old.’

‘I was a prodigy.’

‘Were you now?’

Duiker spoke. ‘The poet is immortal.’

She turned to face him. ‘Is that some kind of general, ideological statement, Historian? Or are you talking about the man sharing this table with you?’

Antsy cursed suddenly and then said, ‘I don’t need any rope! Who put that into my head? Let’s get going — I’m taking this shortsword and a sharper and anybody gets too close to me or looks suspicious they can eat the sharper for breakfast!’

‘We’ll stay here,’ Duiker said when Blend hesitated. ‘The bard and me. I’ll look in on Picker.’

‘All right. Thanks.’

Antsy, Blend and Scillara set out.

The journey took them from the Estates District and into Daru District, along the Second Tier Wall. The city had fully awakened now, and in places the crowds were thick with the endless machinery of living. Voices and smells and needs and wants, hungers and thirsts, laughter and irritation, misery and joy, and the sunlight fell on everything it could reach and shadows retreated wherever they could.

Temporary barriers blocked the three foreigners here and there — a cart jammed sideways in a narrow street, a cart-horse dropped dead with its legs sticking up, half a family pinned under the upended cart. A swarm of people round a small collapsed building, stealing every dislodged brick and shard of lumber, and if anyone had been trapped in it, alas, no one was looking for them.

Scillara walked like a woman bred to be admired. And oh, yes, people noticed. In other circumstances, Blend — being another woman — might have resented that, but then she’d made a career out of not being noticed; and besides, she counted herself among the admirers.

‘Friendly people, these Darujhistanii,’ said Scillara as they finally swung south from the wall, heading for the southwest corner of the district.

‘They’re smiling,’ said Blend, ‘because they want a roll with you. And clearly you haven’t noticed the wives and such, all looking as if they swallowed something sour.’

‘Maybe they did.’

‘Oh they did, all right. The truth that men are men, that’s what they’ve swal shy;lowed.’

Antsy snorted. ‘What else would men be but men? Your problem, Blend, is you see too much, even when it’s not there.’

‘Oh, and what have you been noticing, Antsy?’

‘Suspicious people, that’s what.’

‘What suspicious people?’

‘The ones who keep staring at us, of course.’

‘That’s because of Scillara — what do you think we’ve just been talking about?’

‘Maybe they are, maybe they ain’t. Maybe they’re assassins, lookin’ to jump us.’

‘That old man back there who got his ear boxed by his wife was an assassin? What kind of Guild are they running here?’

‘You don’t know she was his wife,’ Antsy retorted. ‘And you don’t know but that was a signal to somebody on a roof. We could be walking right into an ambush!’

‘Of course,’ agreed Blend, ‘that woman was his mother, because Guild rules state that Ma’s got to come along to make sure he’s got the hand signals down, and that he eats all his lunch and his knives are sharp and he’s tied up his moccasins right so he doesn’t trip in the middle of his murderous lunge at Sergeant Antsy.’

‘I ain’t so lucky he trips,’ Antsy said in a growl. ‘In case you ain’t noticed, Blend, it’s been a run of the Lord’s push for us. Oponn’s got it in for me, especially.’

‘Why?’ Scillara asked.

‘Because I don’t believe in the Twins, that’s why. Luck — it’s all bad. Oponn only pulls now to push later. If you’ve been pulled, it don’t end there. Never does. No, you can expect the push to come any time and all you know for sure is it’s gonna come, that push. Every time. In fact, we’re all as good as dead.’

‘Well,’ said Scillara, ‘I can’t argue with that. Sooner or later, Hood takes us all, and that’s the only certainty there is.’

‘Aren’t you two cheerful this morning,’ Blend observed. ‘Look, here we are.’

They had arrived at the Warden Barracks, suitably sombre and foreboding.

Blend saw an annexe fronting the blockish building with the barred windows and set out towards it, the other two following.

A guard lounging outside the door watched them approach, and then said, ‘Check your weapons at the front desk, You here to visit someone?’

‘No,’ snorted Antsy, ‘we’ve come to break ’im out!’ And then he laughed. ‘Haha.’

No one found the joke at all amusing, especially after the sharper was found and correctly identified. Antsy then made the mistake of getting belligerent, in the midst of five or six stern-visaged constabulary, which led to a scuffle and then an arrest.

When all was said and done, Antsy found himself in a lock-up with three drunks, only one of whom was conscious — singing some old Fisher classic in a broken-hearted voice — and a fourth man who seemed to be entirely mad, convinced as he was that everyone he saw was wearing a mask, which was hiding something demonic, horrible, bloodthirsty. He’d been arrested for trying to tear off a merchant’s face and he eyed Antsy speculatively before evidently deciding that the red-whiskered foreigner looked too tough to take on, at least while he was still awake.

The sentence was three days long, provided Antsy proved a model prisoner. Any trouble and it could stretch out some more.

As a result of all this, it was some time before Scillara and Blend managed to gain permission to see Barathol Mekhar. They met him in a holding cell while two guards stood flanking the single door, shortswords drawn.

Noting this, Scillara said, ‘Making friends in here, are you?’

The blacksmith looked somewhat shamefaced as he shrugged. ‘I had no intention of resisting the arrest, Scillara. My apprentice, alas, decided otherwise.’ Anxiety tightened his features as he asked, ‘Any news of him? Has he been captured? Is he hurt?’

Scillara shrugged. ‘We’ve not seen or heard anything like that, Barathol.’

‘I keep telling them here, he’s only a child in his head. It was my responsibility, all of it. But he went and broke some bones and noses, and they’re pretty annoyed about that.’

Blend cleared her throat. Something was going back and forth between Barathol and Scillara and it made her uneasy. ‘Barathol, we can pay the fine to the Guild, but that scrap you had, that one’s more serious.’

He nodded morosely. ‘Hard labour, yes. Six months or so.’ There was the twitch of a grin. ‘And guess who I will be working for?’

‘Who?’

‘Eldra Foundry. And in six months I’ll earn my ticket as a smith, since that’s allowed. Some kind of rehabilitation programme.’

Scillara’s throaty laugh straightened up both guards. ‘Well, that’s one way to get there, I suppose.’

He nodded. ‘I went about it all wrong, it seems.’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Scillara. ‘Is the Guild happy with that? I mean, it’s sort of a way round them, isn’t it?’

‘They’ve no choice. Every Guild in the city has to comply, barring, I suppose, the Assassins’ Guild. Obviously, for most prisoners six months working in a trade might earn them an apprentice grade of some sort — but there’s no limit to how fast you can advance. Just pass the exams and that’s that.’

Scillara looked ready to burst out laughing. Even Barathol was struggling.

Blend sighed and then said, ‘I’ll go settle the fine. Consider it a loan.’

‘Much appreciated, Blend, and thank you.’

‘Remembering Kalam,’ she replied, heading out. Neither guard paid her any at shy;tention. But she was used to that.

A bhokaral answered the door. High Alchemist Baruk stared down at it for a long moment before concluding that this was nothing more than a bhokaral. Not a demon, not Soletaken. Just a bhokaral, its little wizened face scrunched up in belligerent regard, spiky ears twitching. When it made to close the postern door again Baruk stepped forward and held it open.

Sudden outrage and indignation. Hissing, spitting, making faces, the bhokaral shook a fist at Baruk and then fled down the corridor.

The High Alchemist closed the door behind him and made his way along the corridor. He could now hear other bhokarala, a cacophony of bestial voices joining in with the first one, raising an alarm that echoed through the temple. At a branching of the passageway he came upon an old Dal Honese woman tearing apart a straw broom. She glared up at Baruk and snapped something in some tribal tongue, then made squiggly gestures with the fingers of her left hand.

The High Alchemist scowled. ‘Retract that curse, witch. Now.’

‘You’ll not be so bold when the spiders come for you.’

‘Now,’ he repeated, ‘before I lose my temper.’

‘Bah! You’re not worth the effort anyway!’ And all at once she collapsed into a heap of spiders that scurried in all directions.

Baruk blinked, and then quickly stepped back. But none of the creatures skit shy;tered his way. Moments later they had inexplicably vanished, although not a single crack or seam was visible.

‘High Alchemist.’

He looked up. ‘Ah, High Priestess. I did knock-’

‘And a bhokaral let you in, yes. They’re in the habit of doing that, having chased away most of my acolytes.’

‘I wasn’t aware bhokarala were in the habit of infestation.’

‘Yes, well. Have you come to speak to me or the chosen. . mouthpiece of Shadowthrone?’

‘I do not believe you have been entirely usurped, High Priestess.’

‘Your generosity is noted.’

‘Why is there a witch of Ardatha in your temple?’

‘Yes, why? Come with me.’

The Magus of Shadow — gods below — was sitting on the floor in the altar chamber, sharpening knives. A dozen such weapons were scattered round him, each one of a different design. ‘. . tonight,’ he was muttering, ‘they all die! Cut throats, cleaved hearts, pierced eyeballs, pared-back fingernails. Mayhem and slaughter, Clip shy;pings-’ and then he glanced up, started guiltily, licked his lips once and suddenly smiled. ‘Welcome, High Barukness. Isn’t it a lovely day?’

‘High Alchemist Baruk, Magus. And no, it is not a lovely day. What are you doing?’

His eyes darted. ‘Doing? Nothing, can’t you see that?’ He paused. ‘Can’t he smell them? Close, oh so close! It’s going to be a mess and whose fault will that be? A real mess — nothing to do with Iskaral Pust, though! I am perfect.’ He attempted an ex shy;pression of innocence. ‘I am perfect. . ly — perfectly — fine.’

Baruk could not help himself, turning to Sordiko Qualm. ‘What was Shad shy;owthrone thinking?’

The question clearly depressed her. ‘I admit to a crisis of faith, High Alchemist.’

Iskaral Pust leapt to his feet. ‘Then you must pray, my love. To me, since Shadowthrone sees through my eyes, hears through my ears, smells through my nose.’ His crossed his eyes and added in a different tone, ‘Farts through my bung-hole, too, but that would be too offensive to mention.’ He struggled to correct his gaze and smiled again. ‘Sordiko, my sweetness, there are very special, very secret prayers. And, er, rituals. See me after this man has left, there’s no time to waste!’

Bhokarala were creeping into the chamber. A score of them, moving with pointless stealth, all converging on Iskaral Pust — who seemed entirely unaware of them as he winked at Sordiko Qualm.

‘High Priestess,’ said Baruk, ‘you have my sympathy.’

‘I have news from Shadowthrone,’ Iskaral Pust said. ‘This is why I have sum shy;moned you, Baruchemist.’

‘You did not summon me.’

‘I didn’t? But I must have. At least, I was supposed to.’ He tilted his head. ‘He’s another idiot, nothing but idiots on all sides. There’s just me and Sordiko darling, against the world. Well, we shall triumph!’

‘Shadowthrone?’ Baruk prompted.

‘What? Who? Oh, him.’

‘Through your mouth.’

‘Brilliance shall pass, yes yes. Let me think, let me think. What was that mes shy;sage again? I forget. Wait! Wait, hold on. It was. . what was it? Set a watch on the Urs Gate. That’s it, yes. Urs Gate Or was it Foss Gate? Raven Gate? Worry Gate? Cutter Gate? Two-Ox?’

‘Yes,’ said Baruk, ‘that’s all of them.’

‘Urs, yes, it must have been. Urs.’

Sordiko Qualm looked ready to weep.

Baruk rubbed at his eyes, and then nodded. ‘Very well. I shall take my leave then.’ He bowed to the High Priestess.

The bhokarala rushed in. Each stole a knife and then, with shrieks, they raced away clutching their prizes.

Iskaral Pust stared agape, and then pulled at the two snarls of hair above his ears. ‘Evil!’ he screamed. ‘They knew! They knew all my plans! How? How?’

‘Now, what shall I do with you?’

Chaur watched her with doleful eyes. He had been crying again, his eyes puffy, two runnels of snot streaking down to his reddened, chapped lips.

‘We must assume,’ Spite continued, ‘that Barathol is unavoidably indisposed — of course, at the moment all we can do is assume, since in truth we have no idea what’s happened to him. One thing is obvious, and that is that he cannot come here. If he could he would have, right? Come to collect you, Chaur.’

He was moments from bawling again. The simple mention of Barathol threat shy;ened to set him off.

Spite tapped her full lips with one long, perfectly manicured finger. ‘Unfortu shy;nately, I will need to leave here soon. Can I trust you to stay here, Chaur? Can I?’

He nodded.

‘Are you sure?’

He nodded again, and then wiped his nose, rather messily.

She frowned. ‘Dear me, you’re a sight. Do you realize it is nothing more than certain pathways in your brain that are in disarray? A practitioner of High Denul could work wonders for you, Chaur. It’s a thought, isn’t it? Oh, I know, you don’t have “thoughts” as such. You have. . impulses, and confusion, and these two make up the man known as Chaur. And, barring times such as this one, you are mostly happy, and perhaps that is not something to be fiddled with. The gods know, happiness is a precious and rare commodity, and indeed it seems that the more intelligent and perceptive the individual, the less happy they generally are. The cost of seeing things as they are, I expect.

‘Then, of course, there is my sister. My smiling murderess sibling. My vicious, ice-cold, treacherous kin. She happens to be almost as intelligent as me, and yet she is immune to unhappiness. A quality, I suspect, of her particular insanity.

‘Anyway, Chaur, you will need to remain here, staying out of sight. For I must pay my sister a visit. For a word or two. Soon, yes?’

He nodded.

‘Now, let’s get you cleaned up. I wouldn’t want to upset Barathol and neither would you, I’m sure.’

Now, Chaur was good at understanding people most of the time. He was good at nodding, too. But on occasion understanding and nodding did not quite match. This was such a time.

But more of that later.

The carter failed to complete his breakfast, as it did not take long for someone to take note of the wrapped corpse, and then to bring word in to Meese that some fool had left a body in the bed of the cart outside the inn — hardly the kind of positive advertisement any inn might welcome, even the Phoenix. Swearing, Meese went out to see for herself, and something about those boots looked familiar, With a suddenly cold heart, she pulled the canvas back from Murillio’s face.

Things happened quickly then: wretched comprehension, word’s swift rush, and finally, the dusty, lifeless place in the soul that was grief. Abject sense of use shy;lessness, the pummelling assault that is shock. The carter was cornered by Irilta and, seeing the strait he’d found himself in, the old man was quick to tell everyone all he knew.

The short, round man at the back of the room rose then with a sober expression and quietly took charge. He told Irilta and Meese to carry the body to a spare room upstairs, which they did with heartrending tenderness. Word was sent out to Coll. As for the others, well, everyone returned to the Phoenix Inn eventually, and so the ordeal of relaying the bad news would not end soon, and each time the emotions would well up once more. The living felt this new burden and they could see that the next few days would be without pleasure, without ease, and already everyone felt exhausted, and not even Kruppe was immune.

A dear friend is dead, and there is nothing just in death. When the moment ar shy;rives, it is always too soon. The curse of incompletion, the loss that can never be filled. Before too long, rising like jagged rocks from the flood, there was anger.

The carter was made to explain again about the visit to a mining camp, the duel over some boy, and the victor’s instructions that the body be returned to the Phoenix Inn. That was all he knew, he swore it, and for the moment none but Kruppe — wise Kruppe, clever Kruppe — comprehended who that boy must have been.

Must he now visit a certain duelling school? Possibly.

The ordeal of the burden, the dread weight of terrible news — the witnessing of another crushed spirit, oh, this was a fell day indeed. A most sad, fell day.

And on this night, widows will weep, and so shall we.

Two men are converging on the Phoenix Inn. Which one arrives first changes everything. If the redressing of balance truly existed beyond nature — in the realm of humanity, that is — then Rallick Nom would have been the first to hear of his friend’s death; and he would have set out, hard-eyed, to take upon himself a new burden, for although vengeance salved certain spiritual needs, cold murder deliv shy;ered terrible damage to the soul. Of course, he had done this once before, in the name of another friend, and so in his mind he felt he could be no more lost than he already was.

Alas, that particular flavour of redress was not to be.

Troubled by a host of thoughts, Cutter approached the entrance to the Phoenix Inn. He noted an old carter leading an ox away, but had no reason to give it any further consideration. As soon as he walked inside, he sensed that something was wrong. Irilta was behind the bar with a bottle in her hand — not, he saw, to pour dunks for customers, but to lift it to her mouth, tilt it back and take punishing mouthfuls. Her eyes were red, startling in a pallid face.

Few people were speaking, and those who were did so in muted tones.

Meese was nowhere to be seen, but Cutter noticed Kruppe, sitting at his table with his back to the room — something he had never before seen him do. A dusty bottle of expensive wine was before him, four goblets set out. Kruppe was slowly filling the one opposite the chair on his right.

His unease deepening, Cutter walked over. He pulled out that chair and sat down.

There was no sign of Kruppe’s usual affability in his visage. Grave, colourless, bleak. In his eyes, raw anguish. ‘Drink, my young friend,’ he said.

Cutter saw that the remaining two goblets were empty. He reached out. ‘This is the expensive stuff, isn’t it? What’s happened, Kruppe?’

‘Honourable Murillio is dead.’

The statement felt like a body blow, punching the breath from Cutter’s chest. He could not move. Pain surged up through the numbness, sank down again only to return once more. Over and over again.

‘A duel,’ said Kruppe. ‘He went to retrieve a lost child. The Eldra Mines west of the city.’

Something jerked inside Cutter, but he could make no sense of it. A recognition? Of what? ‘I thought — I thought he’d given all that up.’

‘Given what up, my friend? The desire to do right?’

Cutter shook his head. ‘Duelling. I meant. . duelling.’

‘To effect the release of young Harllo. The mine’s owner was there, or one of them at least. History comes round, as it is known to do.’ Kruppe sighed. ‘He was too old for such things.’

And now came the question, and it was asked in a dull tone, a voice emptied of everything. ‘Who killed him, Kruppe?’

And the round man flinched, and hesitated.

‘Kruppe.’

‘This will not do-’

‘Kruppe!’

‘Ah, can such forces be resisted? Gorlas Vidikas.’

And that was that. He’d known, yes, Cutter had known. The mine. . Eldra. . the history. He knows about me. He wanted to punish me. He killed Murillio to hurt me. He killed a fine. . a fine and noble man. This — this must stop.

‘Sit down, Cutter.’

I mean to stop this. Now. It’s what she wants, anyway.

‘Coll is coming,’ Kruppe said. ‘And Rallick Nom — Crokus, leave this to Rallick-’

But he was already moving, eyes on the door. Irilta stood watching and some shy;thing in her face caught his attention. There was dark hunger in her eyes — as if she knew where he was going, as if she knew — ‘Cutter,’ she said in a rasp, ‘get the bastard. Get him.’

And then he was outside. The day’s brilliance was like a slap, rocking his hand. He gasped, but breathing still wasn’t easy. Pressures assailed him, and rage rose in his mind, a nightmare leviathan with gaping mouth, and its howl filled his skull,

Deafening Cutter to the world.

The day is stripped down, time itself torn away, the present expanding, swallowing everything in sight. It is an instant and that instant feels eternal.

Recall this day’s beginning. A single breath, drawn in with love-

Bellam Nom took a length of braided hide, made loops at both ends. He crouched down in front of Mew. ‘See this loop, Mew? Take it in your hands — I’m going to hold on to the other end, all right? We’re going out. You just keep hold of the rope, all right?’

Round-eyed Mew nodded.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Bellam, ‘I’ll walk slowly.’ He then went to Hinty and picked the girl up, taking her weight in the crook of his left arm. Her thin arms wrapped about his neck and her wet nose brushed his cheek. Bellam smiled down at Mew. ‘Ready?’

Another nod.

They set out.

Snell was still with the old bodymonger, and Bellam had no interest in retrieving him just yet. He had no idea what had happened to Myrla and Bedek, but he left a message scrawled out with charcoal on the surface of the lone table, telling them where he’d taken Mew and Hinty.

Murillio should have been back by now. Bellam was getting worried. He couldn’t wait around any longer.

They walked slowly through the crowds. Twice Mew was inadvertently tugged loose from the rope, but both times Bellam was able to retrieve her. They left the unofficial neighbourhood slum known as the Trench and after some time they ar shy;rived at the duelling school.

Bellam set Hinty down in the warm-up area, instructed Mew to remain with her little sister, then set out to find Stonny Menackis.

She was sitting on a stone bench in the shade-swallowed colonnade running along the back end of the practice yard, her long legs stretched out, her eyes on noth shy;ing. When she heard him approach she glanced up. ‘Classes cancelled. Go away.’

‘I’m not here for any lessons,’ Bellam said, surprised at the harsh judgement in his own voice.

‘Get out,’ she said, ‘before I beat you senseless.’

‘Too many people, Stonny, are stepping in for you, doing what you’re supposed to be doing. It’s not fair.’

She scowled. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Murillio hasn’t come back?’

‘Everybody leaves.’

‘He found Harllo.’

‘What?’

He saw interest flaring to life in her dark eyes. ‘He found him, Stonny. Working in a mining camp. He went to get him back. But he hasn’t returned. Something’s happened, something bad — I can feel it.’

She stood. ‘Where is this camp? How did he end up there?’

‘Snell.’

She stared. ‘I’m going to kill that little bastard.’

‘No, you’re not. He’s taken care of. We’ve got a new problem.’

At that moment a small figured stepped into the corridor, stared at them.

Stonny frowned. ‘Mew? Where’s your ma and da? Where’s Hinty?’

Mew started crying, and then rushed towards Stonny who had no choice but to take the child into her arms.

‘They’ve gone missing,’ said Bellam. ‘I was taking care of them, waiting, but they never showed up. Stonny, I don’t know what to do with them. I need to get home — my own parents must be going crazy with worry.’

She spun round, still holding Mew, and her face was savage. ‘I need to get Har shy;llo! Take them to your home!’

‘No. Enough of this. Take responsibility for them, Stonny. Once I let my parents know I’m all right, I’ll go and find Murillio. Take responsibility. You owe it to Myrla and Bedek — they did it for you. For years.’

He thought she would strike him, saw the fury warring in her eyes. He stepped back. ‘Hinty’s in the warm-up, probably sleeping — she does that a lot. Oh, and they’re hungry.’

He left them then.

It took the words of a young man — no, a boy — to do what Gruntle could not do. It took a barrage of blunt, honest words, smashing through, against which she had no real defence.

She stood, Mew in her arms, feeling as if her soul had been blasted open, and all that was left was a hollow shell, slowly refilling. Refilling with. . something. ‘Oh,’ she whispered, ‘Harllo.’

Shardan Lim was waiting for Challice when she returned home. He rose from the ornate bench but did not approach, instead standing, watching her with an odd expression.

‘This,’ she said, ‘is unexpected.’

‘No doubt. Forgive me for intruding on your. . busy schedule.’

There was no genuine remorse to back his apology, however, and she felt a trembling of her nerves. ‘What do you want, Councillor?’

‘Are we not past titles, Challice?’

‘That depends.’

‘Perhaps you’re right. Even so, after we’re done here there’ll be no need for for shy;malities between us.’

Should she call for the guard? What would he do? Why, he’d laugh.

Shardan Lim walked closer. ‘Pour yourself some wine. Pour yourself a lot of wine, if you like. I must tell you, I am not at all pleased at having been so unceremoniously discarded. It seems you find adultery to your taste, and your appetite has grown. Out of control? I think, yes, out of control.’

‘You forced open the door,’ she said, ‘and now complain that I’ve left the room?’

His thin colourless lips curved in a smile. ‘Something like that. I’m not ready for you to leave just yet.’

‘And I am to have no say in the matter?’

His brows lifted. ‘Dear Challice. You surrendered such privileges long ago. You let your husband use you — not in any normal way, but still, you let him use you. You let me do the same, and now some lowborn thief, and who knows how many others. Make no protest now — it will sound hollow even to you, I’m sure.’

‘It’s still my life.’ But the words sounded thin, too brittle to stretch very far over the misshapen, ugly truth.

He did not bother with a response, but looked across to a divan.

‘You’ll have to drag me,’ she said, ‘so the reality will be plain, so plain you won’t be able to pretend this is anything but the rape it is.’

He looked disappointed. ‘Wrong again, Challice. You are going to walk over there and undress. You are going to the lie back and spread your legs. It should be easy now; you’ve done it often enough. Your lowborn lover is going to have to share you, I’m afraid. Before long, I expect you’ll not even be able to tell the dif shy;ference.’

How could he force her to do such things? She did not understand, although — without doubt — he did. Yes, Shardan Lim understood things far too well.

She walked to the divan.

She was still sore, achy, from the morning’s lovemaking. Before long, that ache would be deeper, more raw than it was now. Pain and pleasure, yes, entwined like lovers. She could feed them both again and again, for ever and again.

And so she would. Until the time came when she. . awakened.

Crokus, never mind my husband. There is no point. I will tell you that the next time. I promise.

I promise.

Shardan Lim used her then, but in the end it was he who did not understand, after all. And when she thanked him afterwards, he seemed taken aback. As he hurried to dress and depart, she remained lying on the divan, amused at his con shy;fusion, at peace with the way of things now.

And she thought of her glass globe with its trapped moon, that gift of a youth long lost, and she smiled.

In a near tropical city, the dead are quickly dressed. A distraught Coll, half-mad with grief, arrived in a carriage. Meese came down from the room where she had sat with the body, and Coll sent one of his aides to crack open the family crypt. There would be no delays permitted. Grief was transformed into fury when Coll discovered who had been responsible for Murillio’s death.

‘First blood drawn’s never enough for Vidikas. He likes killing — under any other circumstances he’d be on his way to the High Gallows. Damn these antiquated duelling laws. The time’s come to outlaw duels — I will address the Council-’

‘Such a thing will not pass,’ Kruppe said, shaking his head. ‘Coll knows this as well as does Kruppe.’

Coll stood like a man trapped, cornered. ‘Where’s Rallick?’ he asked in a growl.

Sighing, Kruppe poured the second to last goblet full and handed it to Coll. ‘He will be here soon, Kruppe believes. Such is this day, in no hurry to end, and will any of us sleep this night? Kruppe aleady dreads the impending solitude. Ah, here is Rallick.’

They watched as Irilta stumbled to the assassin, very nearly collapsing into Rallick’s arms. His expression of shock quickly darkened as she spoke, her voice muffled since her face was pressed against his shoulder — but not so muffled that he did not comprehend.

His gaze lifted, met Kruppe’s, and then Coll’s.

There was no one else left in the bar — the poisoned atmosphere had driven away even the most insensate drinkers. Sulty and Chud the new cook stood in the doorway leading to the kitchen, Sulty quietly weeping.

Kruppe poured the last goblet and then sat down, his back to the scene. Coll slumped down beside Kruppe, draining down the wine with the practised ease of an alcoholic reacquainting himself with his deadly passion, but Kruppe had chosen this wine with such risks in mind — its headiness was an illusion, the taste of alcohol a clever combination of spices and nothing more. This was, Kruppe understood, but a temporary solution. He knew Coll well, understood the self-serving cycle of self-pity that now loomed before the man, sauntering in wearing that familiar smirk, like an old, deadly lover. She would open wide her arms, now, to fold Coll in once more — the days and nights ahead would be difficult indeed.

After a long moment Rallick joined them, and although he remained standing he reached down for the goblet. ‘Crokus should be here,’ he said.

‘He was, but he has left.’

Coll started. ‘Left? Did Murillio mean so little to him that he’d just walk away?’

‘He left,’ said Kruppe, ‘to find Gorlas Vidikas.’

Coll swore and rose. ‘The fool — Vidikas will slice him to pieces! Rallick-’

And the assassin was already setting the goblet back down and turning away.

‘Wait!’ snapped Kruppe in a tone that neither man had ever heard before — not from Kruppe, at least. ‘Both of you! Take up that wine again, Rallick.’ And now he too rose. ‘There is the memory of a friend and we will drink to it. Here, now. Rallick, you will not catch Crokus, you will not make it in time. Listen well to Kruppe, both of you. Vengeance need not be rushed-’

‘So Rallick should just let Vidikas kill yet another friend of ours?’

Kruppe faced the assassin. ‘Do you lack faith as well, Rallick Nom?’

‘That is not the point,’ the man replied.

‘You cannot halt what has already happened. He has already walked this path. You discovered that, did you not? Outside this very inn.’

Coll rubbed at his face, as if waiting to find the numbness a bellyful of wine should have given him. ‘Is Crokus truly-’

‘He has a new name,’ Rallick interrupted, finally nodding. ‘One he has clearly earned the hard way.’

‘Cutter, yes,’ said Kruppe.

Coll looked back and forth between the two of them, and then thumped back down into his chair. All at once he looked a century old, shoulders folding in as he reached for the bottle and refilled his goblet. ‘There will be repercussions. Vidikas is. . not alone. Hanut Orr, Shardan Lim. Whatever happens is going to ripple outward — gods below, this could get messy.’

Rallick grunted. ‘Hanut Orr and Shardan Lim. I can get in their way when the time comes.’

Coll’s eyes flashed. ‘You’ve got Cutter’s back. Good. We can take care of this — you can, I mean. I’m useless — I always was.’ He sank back, the chair creaking, and looked away. ‘What’s with this wine? It’s doing nothing.’

‘Murillio,’ said Kruppe, ‘would not be pleased at you standing drunk when his body is carried into the crypt. Honour him, Coll, now and from now on.’

‘Fuck off,’ he replied.

The back of Rallick Nom’s gloved hand snapped hard against Coll’s face, rock shy;ing him back. He surged upright, outraged, reaching for the ornate knife at his belt. The two men stood glaring at each other.

‘Stop this!’

A bottle smashed against the floor, the contents spraying the feet of Coll and Rallick, and both turned as Meese snarled, ‘There you go, Coll, lap it up and choke to death! In the meantime, how ’bout the rest of us pay our respects and walk him to the crypt — the undertaker’s cart’s arrived. It’s time — not for any of you, but for him. For Murillio. You chew up this day and it’ll haunt you for ever. And Hood’s breath, so will I.’

Coll ducked his head and spat blood, and then said, ‘Let’s get this done, then. For Murillio.’

Rallick nodded.

Behind the bar, Irilta was suddenly sick. The sounds of her gagging and cough shy;ing silenced everyone else.

Coll looked shamefaced.

Kruppe rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. And all at once the councillor was weeping, so broken that to bear witness was to break deep within oneself. Rallick turned away then, both hands lifting to his face.

Survivors do not mourn together. They each mourn alone, even when in the same place. Grief is the most solitary of all feelings. Grief isolates, and every ritual, every gesture, every embrace, is a hopeless effort to break through that isolation.

None of it works. The forms crumble and dissolve.

To face death is to stand alone.

How far can a lost soul travel? Picker believed she had begun in some distant frozen world, struggling thigh-deep through drifts of snow, a bitter wind howling round her. Again and again she fell, crusted ice scraping her flesh raw — for she was naked, her fingers blackening from the tips as they froze into solid, dead things. Her toes and then her feet did the same, the skin splitting, the ankles swelling.

Two wolves were on her trail. She did not know how she knew this, but she did. Two wolves. God and Goddess of War, the Wolves of Winter. They scented her as they would a rival — but she was no ascendant, and certainly no goddess. She had worn torcs once, sworn to Treach, and this now marked her.

War could not exist without rivals, without enemies, and this was as true in the immortal realm as it was in the mortal one. The pantheon ever reflects the nature of its countless aspects. The facets deliver unerring truths. In winter, war was the lifeless chill of dead flesh. In summer, war rotted in fetid, flyblown clouds. In autumn, the battlefield was strewn with the dead. In spring, war arose anew in the same fields, the seeds well nurtured in rich soil.

She fought through a dark forest of black spruce and firs. Her fingers dropped off one by one. She stumbled on stumps. The winter assailed her, the winter was her enemy, and the wolves drew ever closer.

Through a mountain pass, then; brief flashes of awareness and each time they arrived, lifting her out of oblivion, she found the landscape transformed. Heaped boulders, eskers, ragged peaks towering overhead. A tortured, twisted trail, sud shy;denly pitching sharply downward, stunted pines and oaks to either side. Bestial howls voicing their rage high above, far behind her now.

A valley below, verdant and rank, a jungle nestled impossibly close to the high ranges and the whipping snow-sprayed winds — or perhaps she had traversed con shy;tinents. Her hands were whole, her bare feet sinking into warm, wet loam. Insects spun and whirred about her.

From the thicket came an animal cough, a cat’s heavy growl.

And another hunter had found her.

She hurried on, as if some other place awaited her, a sanctuary, a cave that she could enter, to emerge upon some other side, reborn. And now she saw, rising hap shy;hazardly from the moss and humus and mounds of rotted trunks, swords, blades encrusted, cross-hilts bedecked in moss, pommels green with verdigris. Swords of all styles, all so corroded and rusted that they would be useless as weapons.

She heard the cat’s cough again, closer this time.

Panic flitted through her.

She found a clearing of high swaying grasses, a sea of emerald green that she plunged into, pushing her way across.

Something thrashed into her wake, a swift, deadly rush.

She screamed, fell to the ground.

Snapping, barking voices surrounded her, answered by a snarl from somewhere close behind her. Picker rolled on to her back. Humanlike figures crowded her, baring their teeth and making stabbing gestures with fire-hardened spears towards a leopard crouched down not three paces from where she was lying. The beast’s ears were flattened back, its eyes blazing. Then, in a flash, it was gone.

Picker pushed herself to her feet, and found that she towered over these people, and yet they were one and all adults — even through the fine pelt of hair covering them she could see that. Five females, four males, and the females were the more robust between them, with wide hips and deep rib cages.

Luminous brown eyes fixed upon her with something like worship, and then the spears were brought around and she was being prodded along, on to a trail cutting across the path she had been taking. So much for worship. Those spears threatened, and she saw something black smeared on the points. I’m a prisoner. Terrific.

They hurried down the trail, a trail never meant for one as tall as Picker, and she found branches scraping across her face again and again. Before long they reached another clearing, this one at the foot of a cliff. A wide, low rock shelf projected over a sipping cave-mouth from which drifted woodsmoke. Two ancients were squatting at the entrance, both women, with a gaggle of children staring out behind them.

There was none of the expected squealing excitement from the children — indeed, no sounds were uttered at all, and Picker felt a sudden suspicion: these creatures were not the masters of their domain. No, they behaved as would prey. She saw stones to either side of the cave, heaped up to be used to make a barricade come the dusk.

Her captors drove her into the cave. She was forced to bend over to keep from scraping her head on the pitched, blackened ceiling. The children fled to either side. Beyond the flickering light from the lone hearth the cave continued on into darkness. Coughing in the smoke, she stumbled forward, round the fire, and into the depths. The shafts of the spears urged her on. The floor of packed earth beneath her feet was free of rubble, but the slope was getting ever steeper and she felt herself sliding, losing purchase.

Suddenly the shafts pressed hard against her and shoved.

Shouting in alarm, Picker pitched forward, slid on the damp floor as if it was layered in grease. She fought to grasp hold of something, but nothing touched her flailing hands — and then the floor vanished beneath her, and she was falling.

Harllo’s sudden unexpected plummet ended quickly amidst sharp-edged boulders. Gashes ripped across his back, one thigh and the ankle of the same leg. The impact left him stunned. He vaguely heard something strike the rocks nearby, a terrible snapping, crunching sound.

Eventually, he stirred. The pain from the wounds was fierce, and he could feel blood trickling down, but it seemed he’d broken no bones. He crawled slowly to where he’d heard Bainisk land, and heard ragged breathing.

When his probing hands touched warm flesh, he found it wet, broken. And at the brush of his fingertips it flinched away.

‘Bainisk!’

A low groan, and then a gasp.

‘Bainisk, it’s me. We made it down — we got away.’

‘Harllo?’ The voice was awful in its weakness, its pain. ‘Tell me. .’

He pulled himself up along Bainisk, his eyes making out a rough shape. He found Bainisk’s face, tilted towards him, and Harllo drew himself on to his knees, and then he eased up his friend’s head — feeling strange shards moving under his hands, beneath Bainisk’s blood-matted hair — and then, as gently as he could manage, he settled the head on to his lap.

‘Bainisk.’

The face was crushed along one side. It was a miracle that he could speak at all. ‘I dreamed,’ he whispered. ‘I dreamed of the city. Floating on the lake. . going wherever the waves go. Tell me, Harllo, tell me about the city.’

‘You’ll see it soon enough-’

‘Tell me.’

Harllo stroked his friend’s brow. ‘In the city. . Bainisk, oh, in the city, there’s shops and everybody has all the money they need and you can buy whatever you want. There’s gold and silver, beautiful silver, and the people are happy to give it away to anyone they like. No one ever argues about anything — why should they? There’s no hunger, no hurts, no hurts of any kind, Bainisk. In the city every child has a mother and a father. . and the mother loves her son for ever and ever and the father doesn’t rape her. And you can just pick them for yourself. A beautiful mother, a strong, handsome father — they’d be so happy to take care of you — you’ll see, you’ll see.

‘They’d see how good you are. They’d see right through to your heart, and see it pure and golden, because all you ever wanted to do was to help out, because you were a burden to them and you didn’t want that, and maybe if you helped enough they’d love you, and want you to be with them, to live with them. And when it didn’t work, well, it just means you have to work harder. Do more, do everything.

‘Oh, Bainisk, the city. . there are mothers. .’

He stopped then, for Bainisk had stopped breathing. He was perfectly still, his whole broken-up body folded over the sharp rocks, his head so heavy in Harllo’s lap.

Leave them there, now.

The city, ah, the city. As dusk closes in, the blue fires awaken. Figures stand in a cemetery surrounded by squat Daru crypts, and they are silent as they watch the workers sealing the door once more. Starlings flit overhead.

Down at the harbour a woman steps lithely on to the dock and breathes deep the squalid air, and then sets out to find her sister.

Scorch and Leff stand nervously at the gate of an estate. They’re not talking much these nights. Within the compound, Torvald Nom paces. He is not sure if he should go home. The night has begun orange, heavy, and his nerves are a mess. Madrun and Lazan Door are throwing knuckles against a wall, while Studious Lock stands on a balcony, watching.

Challice Vidikas sits in her bedroom, holding a glass globe and staring at the trapped moon within its crystal clear sphere.

In a room above a bar Blend sits beside the motionless form of her lover, and weeps.

Below, Duiker slowly looks up as Fisher, cradling a lute, begins a song.

In the Phoenix Inn, an old, worn-out woman, head pounding, shambles to her small cubicle and sinks down on to the bed. There were loves in the world that never found voice. There were secrets never unveiled, and what would have been the point of that? She was no languid beauty. She was no genius wit. Courage failed her again and again, but not this time, as she drew sharp blades lengthways up her wrists, at precise angles, and watched as life flowed away. In Irilta’s mind, this last gesture was but a formality.

Passing through Two-Ox Gate, Bellam Nom sets out on the road. From a hovel among the lepers he hears someone softly sobbing. The wind has died, the smell of rotting flesh hangs thick and motionless. He hurries on, as the young are wont to do.

Much farther down the road, Cutter rides on a horse stolen from Coll’s stable. His chest is filled with ashes, his heart a cold stone buried deep.

He drew a breath, sometime earlier that day, filled with love.

And then released it, black with grief.

Both seem to be gone now, vanished within him, perhaps never to return. And yet, hovering there before his mind’s eye, he sees a woman.

Ghostly, wrapped in black, dark eyes fixed upon his own.

Not this path, my love.

He shakes his head at her words. Shakes his head.

Not my path, my love.

But he rides on.

I will give you my breath, my love. To hold.

Hold it for me, as I hold yours. Turn back.

Cutter shakes his head again. ‘You left me.’

No, I gave you a choice, and the choice remains. My love, I gave you a place to come to, when you are ready. Find me. Come find me.

‘This first.’

Take my breath. But not this one, not this one.

‘Too late, Apsalar. It was always too late.’

The soul knows no greater anguish than to take a breath that begins with love and ends with grief. But there are other anguishes, many others. They unfold as they will, and to dwell within them is to understand nothing.

Except, perhaps, this. In love, grief is a promise. As sure as Hood’s nod. There will be many gardens, but this last one to visit is so very still. Not meant for lovers. Not meant for dreamers. Meant only for a single figure, there in the dark, standing alone.

Taking a single breath.