‘Pon-lor!’ she called.
He did not respond. She came up behind him. Still he did not move. Close now, above and behind him, she believed she saw why. The entire left side of his head was a misshapen mess of weeping fluids caked and crusted in blood and dusted in ash.
Slowly, she came round him to stand before him. His eyes were open but no recognition lit them. Indeed, nothing inhabited them. They stared sightlessly, inanimate, like painted orbs on a statue. Tentatively, she reached out to touch his chest. He breathed still, and his heart beat. But he was no longer present. She had seen such things before in her village. Severe fevers had left their victims like this. Then, the only answer had been the mercy of a swift gentle death.
Something she could not bring herself to do. Yet what could she do? She couldn’t just walk away. She sat down next to him, took his cold unresponsive hand in hers, and thought about it.
She looked to the west as well. What had drawn him here? Some atavistic memory or urge? What had he been searching for, or looking at?
Far off, the dense black clouds had dispersed. Only much higher, thinner clouds remained. The light pale ash was falling from these. It was late afternoon; the sun was now on its way down into the west. Its heat passed through the intervening high cloud cover to press against her face. The Visitor was still present, of course. But diminishing now. On its way back to wherever it had come from. Its baleful glow was nowhere as strong as it had been just days ago. Close by rode the moon as well. A pale smear hardly visible through the thin clouds. Soon, things would return to normal and it would be the brightest object in the night-time sky once again.
And then she knew just what she could do.
She stood in the archway and raised a hand. She formed a circle with her fingers and thumb that she held up to the moon where it hung in the sky. She raised her power and it came smoothly now, naturally, as if somehow melded with her as it had never been before.
And she sent a summons, casting it afar, urging: ‘Come.’
* * *
A poke to his shoulder awoke Murk. The first thing he noted was the worst headache in recent memory. He squeezed his head in his arms and groaned. Through slit eyes he peered about: he was lying against a tree, a light dusting of ash covering him and everything. Peering down at him was Sweetly. The twig stood straight out from his clamped shut mouth. The scout jerked his head to indicate he was wanted and in what direction.
Some things, it seemed, remained just the same.
Stretching and rubbing his brow, Murk walked across a litter of fallen branches. Aside, a confab of some sort was shaping up. Yusen together with Burastan faced the mercenary leader K’azz and his second, a short wiry woman he knew by reputation as Shimmer.
How similar yet utterly dissimilar the men were. Both pretending to be mercenaries, yet remaining far from it. Allies, they remained a mere sword’s edge from sworn blood enemies: Malazans versus Crimson Guard.
Yusen nodded a greeting to Murk. K’azz eyed him guardedly.
‘We’ve decided on a reconnoitre,’ Yusen said. ‘Are you and your partner up for it?’
‘Yes, sir. We’re good.’
‘Okay. Have a look see and report back.’
Murk jerked his assent, gave a shallow nod to K’azz, and went to find Sour.
Together, they headed out of camp. Sour, it appeared, was in no better shape than he. The remnants of dried blood caked his face and he winced whenever the sunlight reached him.
‘Why us?’ he complained, his voice low. ‘Why not one o’ them fancy-pants Crimson Guard mages? Why should we be the ones to have to stick our necks out?’
Murk shrugged as he walked along. ‘Musta been some kind of negotiation. A gesture of trust from K’azz, maybe. I don’t know exactly.’
His partner slouched along next to him with his awkward crab-like gait. ‘Oh, we’re the famous Crimson Guard,’ he minced. ‘We’re too fancy to do any work.’
Murk burst out laughing and had to stop walking. Sour’s brows clenched together in puzzlement. ‘Wazzat?’
Still chuckling, Murk waved it aside. ‘Nothing. C’mon. It’s just nice to know that things have returned to normal round here.’
Clear of the mound, they came across a broad squat tree that offered good cover from the sun. Murk picked a spot in the deepest shadow. Sour sat down with his back to a root. Murk crossed his legs and pressed his fingers together on his lap. ‘So,’ he said. ‘That was one amazing blowup.’
‘Sure was,’ his partner agreed, his bulging eyes edging aside.
‘Gonna ’fess up?’
‘ ’Fess up to what?’
‘You knew who that was all along — didn’t you?’
Sour blushed furiously, clearing his throat. ‘Wasn’t for me to say. She wanted to be all ’nonymous. So I played along.’
‘Well … you could have told your partner.’
‘Sorry. I was afraid she’d turn me into something.’
‘You already are something, Sour.’
‘Hunh?’ His partner scrunched up his wrinkled face in puzzlement.
Murk sighed. ‘Never mind. Let’s have a look.’
Murk gently raised his Warren while tensed for an overt objection, or counter-gesture, from any other quarter. Sensing nothing, he slipped his awareness off a distance to the nearest deep shadow. Here he waited until he felt Sour’s awareness keeping watch on him. Then he set off searching the grounds of Jakal Viharn.
The blast had knocked down many trees, but not all. The thinner, younger ones remained standing, albeit stripped of most of their branches. As for the many ruins dotting the grounds, well, to Murk they all looked pretty much the same: ruined.
He searched for some time, finding nothing. The place was empty, abandoned. The blast had driven off all the wildlife: the birds, the monkeys, even the deer he’d spotted foraging among the brush here and there. As for those half-creatures, call them what you would, none remained that he could find.
His poking about brought him down to the river where a number of ruins lay as little more than foundation lines, canted stupas and sturdy bell-shaped hollow cells or sculptures. Here he spotted someone he’d never seen before: a big hefty-looking fellow with long hair tied back with a clasp. He was sitting on the ground, legs crossed, thick arms draped over his knees. His gaze was resting aside and upwards, regarding someone or something. Murk shifted his point of view among the shadows until he could see what the man was studying.
It was a woman seated on a step before a broken heap of stones that might’ve been an altar at one time. She wore long loose white robes, her limbs were long and slim, and her black hair was cut quite short. As he saw her, so too did her gaze move to sharpen on him. She waved him forward and his heart lurched as a panicked tightening across his chest crushed it. Shit! One’s still here. But which?
She waved again — yet not so imperiously as he imagined Ardata might have. He emerged from the shadows to start across the open grounds between. The giant fellow surged to his feet.
‘It is all right, Nagal,’ the woman said. Murk could not identify her by her voice; she sounded like neither of the Azathanai. The man, Nagal, edged protectively closer to the woman.
Murk halted a few paces distant and bowed. ‘Whom do I have the honour of addressing?’
‘Your manners should be a lesson to your master, mage of Meanas. But I am afraid there is little hope in that arena.’
Murk remained bowed, his eyes downcast, waiting.
A sigh escaped the woman. ‘Very well.’ Her robes brushed as she leaned forward. ‘Shall I let you into a secret, Murken Warrow, mage of Shadow?’
Murk swallowed with difficulty. He wanted no secrets of the Azathanai. ‘I seek no boon,’ he answered softly.
‘That is good. I see these last few lessons have not been lost upon you. No, no boon. Just a confession.’ She lowered her voice even further. ‘The truth is … not even I know for certain.’