The Errant grimaced. ‘Change of plans. You go in ahead of me. I will await the full awakening of this Deck.’
‘We agreed you would simply stop it before it can begin. That was all.’
‘I cannot. Not now.’
‘You assured me there would be no violence this night.’
‘And that would have been true,’ the god replied.
‘But now someone stands in your way. You have been outmanoeuvred, Errant.’
A flash of anger in the god’s lone eye. ‘Not for long.’
‘I will accept no innocent blood spilled-not my comrades’. Take down your enemy if you like, but no one else, do you understand me?’
The Errant bared his teeth. ‘Then just keep them out of my way.’
After a moment, Banaschar resumed his journey, emerging along one side of the building and then walking towards the entrance. Ten paces away he halted once more, for a final few mouthfuls of wine, before continuing on.
But that’s the problem with the Bonehunters, isn’t it?
Nobody can keep them out of anyone’s way.
Standing motionless in the shadows of the alley-after the ex-priest had gone inside-waited the Errant.
The thirteenth player in this night’s game.
Had he known that-had he been able to pierce the fog now thickening within that dread chamber and so make full count of those present-he would have turned round, discarding all his plans. No, he would have run for the hills.
Instead, the god waited, with murder in his heart.
As the city’s sand clocks and banded wicks-insensate and indifferent to aught but the inevitable progression of time-approached the sounding of the bells.
To announce the arrival of midnight.
Chapter Two
Do not come here old friend
If you bring bad weather
I was down where the river ran
Running no more
Recall that span of bridge?
Gone now the fragments grey
And scattered on the sand
Nothing to cross
You can walk the water’s flow
Wending slow into the basin
And find the last place where
Weather goes to die
If I see you hove into view
I’ll know your resurrection’s come
In tears rising to drown my feet
In darkening sky
You walk like a man burned blind
Groping hands out to the sides
I’d guide you but this river
Will not wait
Rushing me to the swallowing sea
Beneath fleeing birds of white
Do not come here old friend
If you bring bad weather
He stood amidst the rotted remnants of ship timbers, tall yet hunched, and if not for his tattered clothes and long, wind-tugged hair, he could have been a statue, a thing of bleached marble, toppled from the Meckros city behind him to land miraculously upright on the colourless loess. For as long as Udinaas had been watching, the distant figure had not moved.
A scrabble of pebbles announced the arrival of someone else coming up from the village, and a moment later Onrack T’emlava stepped up beside him. The warrior said nothing for a time, a silent, solid presence.
This was not a world to be rushed through, Udinaas had come to realize; not that he’d ever been particularly headlong in the course of his life. For a long time since his arrival here in the Refugium, he had felt as if he were dragging chains, or wading through water. The slow measure of time in this place resisted hectic presumptions, forcing humility, and, Udinaas well knew, humility always arrived uninvited, kicking down doors, shattering walls. It announced itself with a punch to the head, a knee in the groin. Not literally, of course, but the result was the same. Driven to one’s knees, struggling for breath, weak as a sickly child. With the world standing, looming over the fool, slowly wagging one finger.
There really should be more of that. Why, if I was the god of all gods, it’s the only lesson I would ever deliver, as many times as necessary.
Then again, that’d make me one busy bastard, wouldn’t it just.
The sun overhead was cool, presaging the winter to come. The shoulder-women said there would be deep snow in the months ahead. Desiccated leaves, caught in the tawny grasses of the hilltop, fluttered and trembled as if shivering in dread anticipation. He’d never much liked the cold-the slightest chill and his hands went numb.
‘What does he want?’ Onrack asked.
Udinaas shrugged.
‘Must we drive him off?’
‘No, Onrack, I doubt that will be necessary. For the moment, I think, there’s no fight left in him.’
‘You know more of this than me, Udinaas. Even so, did he not murder a child? Did he not seek to kill Trull Sengar?’
‘He crossed weapons with Trull?’ Udinaas asked. ‘My memories of that are vague. I was preoccupied getting smothered by a wraith at the time. Well, then, friend, I can understand how you might want to see the last of him. As for Kettle, I don’t think any of that was as simple as it looked. The girl was already dead, long dead, before the Azath seeded her. All Silchas Ruin did was crack the shell so the House could send down its roots. In the right place and at the right time, thus ensuring the survival of this realm.’
The Imass was studying him, his soft, brown eyes nested in lines of sorrow, in lines that proved that he felt things too deeply. This fierce warrior who had-apparently-once been naught but leathery skin and bones was now as vulnerable as a child. This trait seemed true of all the Imass. ‘You knew, then, all along, Udinaas? The fate awaiting Kettle?’
‘Knew? No. Guessed, mostly.’
Onrack grunted. ‘You rarely err in your guesses, Udinaas. Very well, go then. Speak with him.’
Udinaas smiled wryly. ‘Not bad at guessing yourself, Onrack. Will you wait here?’
‘Yes.’
He was glad of that, for despite his conviction that Silchas Ruin did not intend violence, with the White Crow there was no telling. If Udinaas ended up cut down by one of those keening swords, at least his death would be witnessed, and unlike his son, Rud Elalle, Onrack was not so foolish as to charge out seeking vengeance.
As he drew closer to the albino Tiste Andii, it became increasingly evident that Silchas Ruin had not fared well since his sudden departure from this realm. Most of his armour was shorn away, leaving his arms bare. Old blood stained the braided leather collar of his scorched gambeson. He bore new, barely healed gashes and cuts, and mottled bruises showed below skin like muddy water beneath ice.
His eyes, alas, remained hard, unyielding, red as fresh blood in their shadowed sockets.
‘Longing for that old Azath barrow?’ Udinaas asked as he halted ten paces from the gaunt warrior.
Silchas Ruin sighed. ‘Udinaas. I had forgotten your bright gift with words.’
‘I can’t recall anyone ever calling it a gift,’ he replied, deciding to let the sarcasm pass, as if his stay in this place had withered his natural acuity. ‘A curse, yes, all the time. It’s amazing I’m still breathing, in fact.’
‘Yes,’ the Tiste Andii agreed, ‘it is.’
‘What do you want, Silchas Ruin?’
‘We travelled together for a long time, Udinaas.’
‘Running in circles, yes. What of it?’
The Tiste Andii glanced away. ‘I was… misled. By all that I saw. An absence of sophistication. I imagined the rest of that world was no different from Lether… until that world arrived.’
‘The Letherii version of sophistication is rather narcissistic, granted. Comes with being the biggest lump of turd on the heap. Locally speaking.’
Ruin’s expression soured. ‘A turd thoroughly crushed under heel, now.’
Udinaas shrugged. ‘Comes to us all, sooner or later.’