He edged his elbows underneath him and pulled, one over the other, until his vision darkened and he had to take a breather … or two …
He next came to on the common room floor. The door to Smiley’s was banging in the wind. Tables were overturned and broken glass and shards of stoneware littered the floor. Of Sureth or Shrift there was no sign.
He took another deep breath and started for the door. Somehow, though, he couldn’t bring his elbows up underneath himself any more and so he clawed at the floorboards, pulling. He heaved until his vision darkened once more, then eased off. No more strength. Gonna die on this damned beer-soaked floor. What a wretched comedown in the world. Always hoped to sink with my command in some damn-fool brave hopeless action.
Footsteps sounded and he blinked, focusing his vision to see two bare feet before his face – Napan blue. Bare? He peered up at a bloodied Lady Sureth; the sleeve and flesh of one arm was slashed open, and another gash bled across her stomach.
She lifted one of his arms and picked him up. ‘How … what…?’ he managed, sounding delirious to himself.
‘Shrift was smart,’ Sureth said as she half-dragged him out of the door. ‘She was patient, wasn’t she? She killed Amiss, she told me so. Amiss became suspicious of her so she staged her murder to start a blood-feud with Geffen – hoped to thin our numbers even more.’
Out on the street, Sureth dragged him to the nearest shop and banged on the door. ‘But she made one mistake, yes, Cartheron? Cartheron.’
He blinked heavily, nodded, or lolled his head. ‘Yes? A mistake?’ he said – or thought he did. He couldn’t be sure, there was such a loud roaring in his ears.
‘That’s right,’ Sureth said. ‘She was newest to my service, wasn’t she? She thought I’d be the easiest part.’
At this Cartheron laughed. The pain was excruciating, but he laughed anyway. Gods! Sureth easy? No, lass, you are the hardest of us all …
And he heard talk then. Sureth demanding to see a healer, or medicer, or churgeon, and he sank into the roaring dark winds that had been pulling at him so insistently.
* * *
Nedurian watched the mage-battle raging just to the north over Malaz City and was awed by the scale of it. Astounding. At least a hundred versus one – and that one not even answering the constant withering assault. He wondered what the man or woman could possibly have done. Spat on D’rek’s altar? For he knew the identity of the attackers. All shared the same aspect: that of the priest-mages of D’rek.
Watching also were Agayla and the eerie Nightchill. None had raised their Warrens, or powers, or whatever it may be that they could call upon should they wish to. Even this far from the clash they did not wish to risk attracting any attention.
Behind him, the sea still surged against the rocks and the thin strand of the south coast. The sky was clear and full of stars and it was quite cold. It was as if nothing untoward at all were happening just leagues off.
He hugged himself against the chill. Neither of the sorceresses appeared to notice the wintry bite to the night air. Offshore, a vessel had dropped anchor in a nearby cove, perhaps putting in against the strange blow.
Agayla had assured him that this battle, or duel, would merely lash its way across the island and continue onward unmindful of its course. Yet none of this had happened. The quarry of the chase appeared to have gone to ground somewhere in the city itself. He was anxious about this, but at least the feud didn’t appear to be spilling over into any actual physical damage to the city. If all went well, it would end soon enough, and the inhabitants of Malaz would open their shutters to tomorrow’s dawn and marvel at the wrack left behind by the strange storm that had battered the island overnight.
And that would be that.
He rubbed his hands together and blew upon them. A fire would be a fine idea; he supposed it would be up to him to collect the firewood.
And why did he think of fire just now? He peered round, frowning, because he could’ve sworn he’d smelled smoke. But not just any smoke – a rare and strange scent. Like burned exotic herbs and woods. Like … incense?
* * *
Two fists yanked on Tayschrenn’s shirt front and he peered up, blinking. It was the Dal Hon mage here with him in the narrow alleyway.
‘Keep moving,’ the mage of Meanas said.
‘This is suicide, you realize,’ Tayshcrenn told him. Nevertheless, he struggled to rise to his feet once more. Distantly, he marvelled at the survival imperative of mortal flesh.
Once he was on his feet the diminutive mage took part of his weight and guided him forward, saying, ‘Good, good. Just walk. Ignore everything you might see.’
Tayschrenn arched a brow, rather curious about that command despite his bleariness.
A storm of shadows enmeshed them. They churned and flowed, almost like a constant coursing waterfall, on and on. Within them Tayschrenn glimpsed an almost infinite regression of himself and his guide all limping along – all in differing locales: following various streets, crossing various squares, and even tracing waterfront wharves.
He turned an eye on his rescuer. ‘Impressive…’
‘Shh. That’s just the opening.’
Their next steps yanked them into a narrow canyon of dry dusty slopes and he pressed a hand to his head, groaning at the searing pain grating there from the workings of this man’s Warren, or altered aspect. As if peering through a kaleidoscope of possibilities he glimpsed himself cowering at the feet of a D’rek priest who laughed his victory; himself stepping through a Warren portal into a cityscape he did not know; himself fleeing onward across a broad savanna of windswept grasses; himself on board a small skiff sailing westward; himself dead in more ways than he would rather have seen or cared to consider.
And it all seemed so very real to him. The headache of it all was almost more than he could bear – he even began to worry for his sanity. The next moment he became almost certain of his insanity when their path among the canyons brought them right before the muzzles of two gigantic hounds who perked up as if startled, heads tilting in disbelief. He glanced back to see them now padding along behind, ears low, eyes narrowed, on the hunt.
‘There’s—’
‘Shh,’ came a tense warning from the mage. ‘Almost there.’
All this time, the flurry and rush of D’rek probing had not relented. If anything, it seemed to be intensifying. ‘They’re coming,’ he panted.
‘You’re too damned potent to disguise,’ his guide complained.
A roar like that of a lion sounded then, followed by a scream and the crunch of bones and rending of flesh. Fearful, he tried to turn to look but the mage of Meanas urged him onward. He was, at that moment, experiencing a kind of sliding simultaneity of multiple selves that threatened to split his head in its impossibility. He felt as if his consciousness was being fragmented into pieces and was astounded that this odd little fellow could so easily endure such a storm of manipulation, let alone generate it.
Among these multiple concurrent possibilities was one strengthening version where they pushed through a tiny iron gate and up a narrow path of paving stones to tumble on to a broad slate landing before an iron-bound door.
The mage was yanking on his sweaty, dirt-smeared robes. ‘Hurry!’
But he had to hold his head just to be sure that it was still whole. And he wondered, Am I really here?
‘Run down at last!’ a voice called, and Tayschrenn peered over see a coterie of D’rek priests and priestesses at the gate and low wall of the property.
The mage of Meanas was struggling with the door. ‘Come on!’
He shook his head. ‘It’s no use…’
The D’rek adherents swung over the wall and came on across the wild unkempt garden.
The door swung open, almost brushing Tayschrenn aside. At that moment he became further certain of his insanity as the ground itself became alive with writhing vines and roots all lashing themselves about the priests and priestesses, who screamed their mortal terror. They cut and pulled and blasted at the bonds but to no benefit he could discern as each now began sinking, flailing and writhing in utter blind panic.