But she lives. He has lost his chance, and now they will kill him.
Sandalath screams at him-she has been screaming at him for some time, he realizes. She first screamed when he broke Phaed’s second wrist-awakened by Phaed’s own screams-oh, of course she had not stayed quiet. Snapping bones would never permit that, not even from a soulless creature as was Phaed. She had screamed, and he’d heard nothing, not even echoes-hands on the oar and squeeze!
Now what would happen? Now what would they do?
‘Nimander!’
He started, stared across at Sandalath, studied her face as if it were a stranger’s.
Withal held him, arms trapped against his sides, but Nimander was not interested in struggling. It was too late for that.
Phaed had thrown up and the stink of her vomit was thick in the air.
Someone was pounding on the door-which in his wisdom Nimander had locked behind him after following Phaed into the room.
Sandalath yelled that it was all right, everything was fine-an accident, but everything is fine now.
But poor Phaed’s wrists are broken. That will need seeing to.
Not now, Withal.
He stands limp in my arms, wife. Can I release him now?
Yes, but be wary-
I shall, no doubt of that.
And now Sandalath, positioned between Nimander and the still-coughing, gagging Phaed, took Nimander’s face in her hands and leaned closer to study his eyes.
What do you see, Sandalath Drukorlat? Gems bright with truths and wonders? Pits whispering at you that no bottom will ever be found, that the plunge into a soul never ends? Row, you fools! We’re sinking! Oh, don’t giggle, Nimander, don’t do that. Remain as you are, outwardly numb. Blank. What do you see? Why, nothing, of course.
‘Nimander.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You can kill me now.’
A strange look on her face. Something like horror. ‘Nimander, no. Listen to me. I need to know. What has happened here? Why were you in our room?’
‘Phaed.’
‘Why were you both in our room, Nimander?’
Why, I followed her. I stayed awake-I’ve been doing that a lot. I’ve been watching her for days and days, nights and nights. Watching her sleep, waiting for her to wake up, to take out her knife and smile a greeting to the dark. The dark that is our heritage, the dark of betrayal.
I don’t remember when last I slept, Sandalath Drukorlat.
I needed to stay awake, always awake. Because of Phaed.
Did he answer her then? Out loud, all those tumbling statements, those reasonable explanations. He wasn’t sure. ‘Kill me now, so I can sleep, I so want to sleep.’
‘No’One is going to kill you,’ Sandalath said. Her hands, pressed to the sides of his face, were slick with sweat. Or rain, perhaps. Not tears-leave that to the sky, to the night.
‘I am sorry,’ Nimander said.
‘I think that apology should be saved for Phaed, don’t you?’
‘I am sorry,’ he repeated to her, then added, ‘that she’s not dead.’
Her hands pulled away, leaving his cheeks suddenly cold.
‘Hold a moment,’ Withal said, stepping to the foot of the bed and bending down to pick up something. Gleaming, edged. Her knife. ‘Now,’ he said in a murmur, ‘which one does this toy belong to, I wonder?’
‘Nimander’s still wearing his,’ Sandalath said, and then she turned to stare down at Phaed.
A moment later, Withal grunted. ‘She’s been a hateful little snake around you, Sand. But this?’ He faced Nimander. ‘You just saved my wife’s life? I think you did.’ And then he moved closer, but there was nothing of the horror of Sandalath’s face in his own. No, this was a hard expression, that slowly softened. ‘Gods below, Nimander, you knew this was coming, didn’t you? How long? When did you last sleep?’ He stared a moment longer, then spun. ‘Move aside, Sand, I think I need to finish what Nimander started-’
‘No!’ his wife snapped.
‘She’ll try again.’
‘I understand that, you stupid oaf! Do you think I’ve not seen into that fanged maw that is Phaed’s soul? Listen, there is a solution-’
‘Aye, wringing her scrawny neck-’
‘We leave them here. On the island-we sail tomorrow without them. Withal-husband-’
‘And when she recovers-creatures like this one always do-she’ll take this damned knife and do to Nimander what she’s tried to do to you. He saved your life, and I will not abandon him-’
‘She won’t kill him,’ Sandalath said. ‘You don’t understand. She cannot-without him, she would be truly alone, and that she cannot abide-it would drive her mad-’
‘Mad, aye, mad enough to take a knife to Nimander, the one who betrayed her!’
‘No.’
‘Wife, are you so certain? Is your faith in understanding the mind of a sociopath so strong? That you would leave Nimander with her?’
‘Husband, her arms are broken.’
‘And broken bones can be healed. A knife in the eye cannot.’
‘She will not touch him.’
‘Sand-’
Nimander spoke. ‘She will not touch me.’
Withal’s eyes searched his. ‘You as well?’
You must leave us here,’ Nimander said, then winced at the sound of his own voice. So weak, so useless. He was no Anomander Rake. No Silchas Ruin. Andarist’s faith in choosing him to lead the others had been a mistake. ‘We cannot go with you. With Silanda. We cannot bear to see that ship any longer. Take it away, please, take them away!’
Oh, too many screams this night, in this room. More demands from outside, in growing alarm.
Sandalath turned and, drawing a robe about her-she had been, Nimander suddenly realized, naked-a woman of matronly gifts, the body of a woman who had birthed children, a body such as young men dream of. And might there be wives who might be mothers who might be lovers’…for one such as me? Stop, she is’dead-robe drawn, Sandalath walked to the door, quickly unlocked it and slipped outside, closing the door behind her. More voices in the corridor.
Withal was staring down at Phaed, who had ceased her coughing, her whimpers of pain, her fitful weeping. ‘This is not your crime, Nimander.’
What?
Withal reached down and grabbed Phaed by her upper arms. She shrieked.
‘Don’t,’ Nimander said.
‘Not your crime.’
‘She will leave you, Withal. If you do that. She will leave you.’
He stared across at Nimander, then pushed Phaed back down onto the floor. ‘You don’t know me, Nimander. Maybe she doesn’t, either-not when it comes to what I will do for her sake-and, I suppose,’ he added with a snarl, ‘for yours.’
Nimander had thought his words had drawn Withal back, had kept him from doing what he had intended to do, and so he was unprepared, and so he stood, watching, as Withal snatched Phaed up, surged across the room-carrying her as if she was no more than a sack of tubers-and threw her through the window.
A punching shatter of the thick, bubbled glass, and body, flopping arms and bared lower limbs-with dainty feet at the end-were gone, out into the night that howled, spraying the room with icy rain.
Withal stumbled back in the face of that wind, then he spun to face Nimander. ‘I am going to lie,’ he said in 9 growl. ‘The mad creature ran, flung herself through-do you hear me?’
The door opened and Sandalath charged into the room, behind her the Adjunct’s aide, Lostara Yil, and the priest, Banaschar-and, pushing close behind them, the other Tiste Andii-eyes wide with fear, confusion-and Nimander lurched towards them, one step, then another-
And was pulled round to face Sandalath.
Withal was speaking. A voice filled with disbelief. Expostulations.
But she was staring into his eyes. ‘Did she? Nimander! Did she?’
Did she what! Oh, yes, go through the window.
Shouts from the street below, muted by the wailing winds and lashing rain. Lostara Yil moved to stand at the sill, leaned out. A moment later she stepped back and turned, her expression grave. ‘Broken neck. I’m sorry, Sandalath. But I have questions…’