‘I am pleased,’ murmured the Errant, ‘for we have very little time.’
Lostara Yil sat on the edge of her cot, a bowl filled with sand on her lap. She dipped her knife’s blade into the topped gourd to her right, to coat the iron in the pulp’s oil, and then slid the blade into the sand, and resumed scouring the iron.
She had been working on this one weapon for two bells now, and there had been other sessions before this one. More than she could count. Others swore that the dagger’s iron could not be cleaner, could not be more flawless, but she could still see the stains.
Her fingers were rubbed raw, red and cracked. The bones of her hands ached. They felt heavier these days, as if the sand had imparted something to her skin, flesh and bones, beginning the process of turning them to stone. There might come a time when she lost all feeling in them, and they would hang from her wrists like mauls. But not useless, no. With them she could well batter down the world-if that would do any good.
The pommel of a weapon thumped on her door and a moment later it was pushed open. Faradan Sort leaned in, eyes searching until she found Lostara Yil. ‘Adjunct wants you,’ she said tonelessly.
So, it was time. Lostara collected a cloth and wiped down the knife-blade. The captain stood in the doorway, watching without expression.
She rose, sheathed the weapon, and then collected her cloak. ‘Are you my escort?’ she asked as she approached the door.
‘We’ve had one run away already this night,’ Faradan replied, falling in step beside Lostara as they made their way up the corridor.
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Not really, but I am to accompany you this evening.’
‘Why?’
Faradan Sort did not reply. They’d reached the pair of ornate, red-stained double doors that marked the end of the corridor, and the captain drew them open.
Lostara Yil strode into the chamber beyond. The ceiling of the Adjunct’s quarters-the command centre in addition to her residence-was a chaotic collection of corbels, vaults and curved beams. Consequently it was enwreathed in cobwebs from which shrivelled moths dangled down, mocking flight in the vague draughts. Beneath a central, oddly misshapen miniature dome stood a huge rectangular table with a dozen high-backed chairs. A series of high windows ran across the wall opposite the door, reached by a raised platform that was lined with a balustrade. In all, to Lostara’s eyes, one of the strangest rooms she had ever seen. The Letherii called it the Grand Lecture Medix, and it was the largest chamber in the college building that temporarily served as the officers’ quarters and HQ.
Adjunct Tavore stood on the raised walkway, intent on something beyond one of the thick-glassed windows.
‘You requested me, Adjunct.’
Tavore did not turn round as she said, ‘There is a tablet on the table, Captain. On it you will find the names of those who will attend the reading. As there may be some resistance from some of them, Captain Faradan Sort will accompany you to the barracks.’
‘Very well.’ Lostara walked over and collected the tablet, scanned the names scribed into the golden wax. Her brows rose. ‘Adjunct? This list-’
‘Refusals not permitted, Captain. Dismissed.’
Out in the corridor once again, the two women paused upon seeing a Letherii approaching. Plainly dressed, an unadorned long, thin-bladed sword scabbarded at his hip, Brys Beddict possessed no extraordinary physical qualities, and yet neither Lostara nor Faradan Sort could take their eyes off him. Even a casual glance would slide past only to draw inexorably back, captured by something ineffable but undeniable.
They parted to let him by.
He halted to deliver a deferential half-bow. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, addressing Lostara, ‘I would speak with the Adjunct, if that is possible.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, reaching to open one of the double doors. ‘Just step inside and announce yourself.’
‘Thank you.’ A brief smile, and then he entered the chamber, closing the door behind him.
Lostara sighed.
‘Yes,’ agreed Faradan Sort.
After a moment they set out once more.
As soon as the Adjunct turned to face him, Brys Beddict bowed, and then said, ‘Adjunct Tavore, greetings and salutations from the King.’
‘Be sure to return the sentiments, sir,’ she replied.
‘I shall. I have been instructed to deliver a caution, Adjunct, with respect to this session of divination you intend this night.’
‘What manner of caution, and from whom, if I may ask?’
‘There is an Elder God,’ said Brys. ‘One who traditionally chose to make the court of Letheras his temple, if you will, and did so for an unknown number of generations. He acted, more often than not, as consort to the Queen, and was known to most as Turudal Brizad. Generally, of course, his true identity was not known, but there can be no doubt that he is the Elder God known as the Errant, Master of the Tiles, which, as you know, is the Letherii corollary to your Deck of Dragons.’
‘Ah, I begin to comprehend.’
‘Indeed, Adjunct.’
‘The Errant would view the divination-and the Deck-as an imposition, a trespass.’
‘Adjunct, the response of an Elder God cannot be predicted, and this is especially true of the Errant, whose relationship with fate and chance is rather intense, as well as complicated.’
‘May I speak with this Turudal Brizad?’
‘The Elder God has not resumed that persona since before the Emperor’s reign; nor has he been seen in the palace. Yet I am assured that once more he has drawn close-probably stirred awake by your intentions.’
‘I am curious, who in the court of your king is capable of discerning such things?’
Brys shifted uneasily. ‘That would be Bugg, Adjunct.’
‘The Chancellor?’
‘If that is the capacity in which you know him, then yes, the Chancellor.’
Through all of this she had remained standing on the platform, but now she descended the four steps at one end and walked closer, colourless eyes searching Brys’s face. ‘Bugg. One of my High Mages finds him… how did he put it? Yes. “Adorable.” But then, Quick Ben is unusual and prone to peculiar, often sardonic assessments. Is the Chancellor a Ceda-if that is the proper term for High Mage?’
‘It would be best to view him as such, yes, Adjunct.’
She seemed to consider the matter for a time, and then she said, ‘While I am confident in the abilities of my mages to defend against most threats… that of an Elder God is likely well beyond their capacities. What of your Ceda?’
‘Bugg? Uh, no, I do not think he’s much frightened by the Errant. Alas, he intends to take refuge tonight should you proceed with the reading. As I stated earlier, I am here to give caution and convey King Tehol’s genuine concern for your safety.’
She seemed to find his words discomforting, for she turned away and walked slowly round to halt at one end of the rectangular table, whereupon she faced him once more. ‘Thank you, Brys Beddict,’ she said with stilted formality. ‘Unfortunately, I have delayed this reading too long as it is. Guidance is necessary and, indeed, pressing.’
He cocked his head. What were these Malazans up to? A question often voiced in the Royal Court, and no doubt everywhere else in the city, for that matter. ‘I understand, Adjunct. Is there any other way we can assist?’
She frowned. ‘I am not sure how, given your Ceda’s aversion to attending, even as a spectator.’
‘He does not wish his presence to deliver undue influence on the divination, I suspect.’
The Adjunct opened her mouth to say something, stopped, closed it again. And it was possible her eyes widened a fraction before she looked away. ‘What other form of assistance is possible, then?’
‘I am prepared to volunteer myself, as the King’s Sword.’
She shot him a glance, clearly startled. ‘The Errant would hesitate in crossing you, sir?’