It mewled pathetically and looked up at him with huge, liquid eyes.
‘Don’t even try,’ the assassin muttered, slipping free of the furs and rising. Flecks of mouldy skin covered his midriff, and the thin woollen shirt was sodden from the pup’s runny nose. Kalam removed the shirt and flung it into a corner of the small chamber.
He’d not seen Iskaral Pust in over a week. Apart from occasional tingling sensations at the tips of his fingers and toes, he was more or less recovered from the enkar’al demon’s attack. Kalam had delivered the diamonds and was now chafing to leave.
Faint singing echoed from the hallway. The assassin shook his head. Maybe one day Mogora will get it right, but in the meantime… gods below, it grates! He strode to his tattered backpack and rummaged inside until he found a spare shirt.
Sudden thumping sounded outside his door, and he turned in time to see it flung open. Mogora stood framed in the doorway, a wooden bucket in one hand, a mop in the other. ‘Was he here? Just now? Was he here? Tell me!’
‘I haven’t seen him in days,’ Kalam replied.
‘He has to clean the kitchen!’
‘Is this all you do, Mogora? Chase after Iskaral Fust’s shadow?’
‘All!’ The word was a shriek. She stormed up to him, mop thrust forward like a weapon. ‘Am I the only one using the kitchen! No!’
Kalam stepped back, wiping spittle from his face, but the Dal Honese woman advanced.
‘And you! Do you think your suppers arrive all by themselves? Do you think the shadow gods simply conjure them out of thin air? Did I invite you here? Are you my guest? Am I your serving wench?’
‘Gods forbid-’
‘Be quiet! I’m talking, not you!’ She thrust the mop and bucket into Kalam’s hands, then, spying the bhok’aral pup curled up on the cot, dropped into a predatory crouch and edged closer, fingers hooked. ‘There you are,’ she murmured. ‘Leave your skin everywhere, will you? Not for much longer!’
Kalam stepped into her path. ‘Enough, Mogora. Get out of here.’
‘Not without my pet.’
‘Pet? You’re intending to wring its neck, Mogora!’
‘So?’
He set the mop and bucket down. I can’t believe this. I’m defending a mangy bhok’aral… from a D’ivers witch.
There was movement in the doorway. Kalam gestured. ‘Look behind you, Mogora. Harm this pup and you’ll have to face them.’
She spun, then hissed. ‘Scum! Iskaral’s beget-always spying! That’s how he hides-using them!’
With a ululating scream she charged into the doorway. The bhok’arala massed there shrieked in answer and scattered, although Kalam saw one dart between her legs and leap onto the cot. It scooped the pup up under one arm then bolted for the corridor.
Mogora’s wailing cries dwindled as she continued her pursuit.
‘Hee hee.’
Kalam turned.
Iskaral Pust emerged from the shadows in the far corner. He was covered in dust, a sack draped over one bony shoulder.
The assassin scowled. ‘I’ve waited long enough in this madhouse, Priest.’
‘Indeed you have.’ He cocked his head, tugging at one of the few wisps of hair that remained on his pate. ‘I’m done and he can go, yes? I should be kindly, open, scattering gold dust to mark his path out into the waiting world. He’ll suspect nothing. He’ll believe he leaves of his own free will. Precisely as it should be.’ Iskaral Pust suddenly smiled, then held out the sack. ‘Here, a few diamonds for you. Spend them here and there, spend them everywhere! But remember, you must breach the Whirlwind-into the heart of Raraku, yes?’
‘That is my intent,’ Kalam growled, accepting the sack and stuffing it into his own backpack. ‘We do not proceed at cross-purposes, Priest, although I realize you’d rather we did, given your perverse mind. Even so… breach the Whirlwind… without being detected. How will I manage that?’
‘With the help of Shadowthrone’s chosen mortal. Iskaral Pust, High Priest and Master of Rashan and Meanas and Thyr! The Whirlwind is a goddess, and her eyes cannot be everywhere. Now, quickly collect your belongings. We must leave! She’s coming back, and I’ve made another mess in the kitchen! Hurry!’
They emerged from the warren of shadow beneath a large outcropping, in daylight, less than a hundred paces from the raging wall of the Whirlwind. After three strides forward Kalam reached out and grabbed the priest by the arm and spun him round.
‘That singing? Where in Hood’s name is that singing coming from, Iskaral? I’d heard it in the monastery and thought it was Mogora-’
‘Mogora can’t sing, you fool! I hear nothing, nothing but the wild winds and the hiss of sands! You are mad! Is he mad? Yes, possibly. No, likely. The sun broiled his brain in that thick skull. A gradual dissolution-but of course not, of course not. It’s the Tanno song, that’s what it is. Even so, he’s probably still mad. Two entirely separate issues. The song. And his madness. Distinct, unrelated, both equally confounding of all that my masters plan. Or potentially so. Potentially. There is no certainty, not in this damned land, especially not here. Restless Raraku. Restless!’
With a snarl, Kalam pushed the man away, began walking towards the wall of the Whirlwind. After a moment, Iskaral Pust followed.
‘Tell me how we’re going to manage this, Priest.’
‘It’s simple, really. She’ll know the breach. Like a knife stab. That cannot be avoided. Thus, misdirection! And there is none better at misdirection than Iskaral Pust!’
They arrived to within twenty paces of the seething wall of sand. Swirling clouds of dust engulfed them. Iskaral Pust moved close, revealing a grin filled with grit. ‘Hold tight, Kalam Mekhar!’ Then he vanished.
A massive shape loomed over the assassin, and he was suddenly gathered up in a swarm of arms.
The azalan.
Running, now, flowing faster than any horse along the edge of the Whirlwind Wall. The demon tucked Kalam close under its torso-then plunged through.
A thundering roar filled the assassin’s ears, sand flailing against his skin. He squeezed shut his eyes.
Multiple thuds, and the azalan was racing across packed sand. Ahead lay the ruins of a city.
Fire flared beneath the demon, a path of flames raging in its wake.
The raised tel of the dead city rose before them. The azalan did not even slow, swarming up the ragged wall. A fissure loomed, not large enough for the demon-but sufficient for Kalam.
He was flung into the crack as the azalan flowed over it. Landing heavily amidst rubble and potsherds. Deep in the fissure’s shadow.
Sudden thunder overhead, shaking the rock. Then again and again, seeming to stitch a path back towards the wall of sand. The detonations then ceased, and only the roar of the Whirlwind remained.
I think he made it back out. Fast bastard.
The assassin remained motionless for a time, wondering if the ruse had succeeded. Either way, he would wait for night before venturing out.
He could no longer hear the song. Something to be grateful for.
The walls of the fissure revealed layer upon layer of potsherds on one side, a sunken and heaved section of cobblestone street on another, and the flank of a building’s interior wall-the plaster chipped and scarred-on the last. The rubble beneath him was loose and felt deep.
Checking his weapons, Kalam settled down to wait.
Apsalar in his arms, Cutter emerged from the gateway. The woman’s weight sent waves of pain through his bruised shoulder, and he did not think he would be able to carry her for long.
Thirty paces ahead, at the edge of the clearing where the two trails converged, lay scores of corpses. And in their midst stood Cotillion.