The Cabalhii shrugged. ‘The Nameless Ones are fools for the most part. Said proof to be found in your presence here, with your Jhag companion. Even so, we share certain understandings, which is not too surprising, since we both came from the same civilization. From the First Empire of Dessimbelackis.’
‘It was a common joke in Seven Cities,’ the Gral said, sneering. ‘One day the sun will die and one day there will be no civil war in the Cabal Isles.’
‘Peace has at long last been won,’ Senior Assessor replied, folding his hands together on his lap.
‘Then why does every conversation I have with you of late make me want to throttle you?’
The Cabalhii sighed. ‘Perhaps I have been away from home too long.’
Grimacing, Taralack Veed slammed the scimitar back in its scabbard.
From the corridor beyond a door thumped open and the two men in the room stiffened, their gazes meeting.
Soft footsteps, passing the door.
With a curse Taralack began strapping on his weapons. Senior Assessor rose, adjusting his robe before heading to the door and opening it just enough to peer outside. Then he ducked back in. ‘He is on his way,’ he said in a whisper.
Nodding, Taralack joined the monk who opened the door a second time. They went out into the corridor, even as they heard the sound of a momentary scuffle, then a grunt, after which something crunched on the stone floor.
Taralack Veed in the lead, they padded quickly down the corridor.
At the threshold of the practice yard’s door was a crumpled heap-the guard. From the compound beyond there was a startled shout, a scuffle, then the sound of the outer gate opening.
Taralack Veed hurried out into the darkness. His mouth was dry. His heart pounded heavy in his chest. Senior Assessor had said that Icarium would not wait. That Icarium was a god and no-one could hold back a god, when it had set out to do what it would do. They will find him gone. Will they search the city? No, they do not even dare unbar the palace gate.
Icarium? Lifestealer, what do you seek?
Will you return to stand before the Emperor and his cursed sword?
The monk had told Taralack to be ready, to not sleep this night. And this is why.
They reached the gate, stepped over the bodies of two guards, then edged outside.
And saw him, standing motionless forty paces down the street, in its very centre. A group of four figures, wielding clubs, were converging on him. At ten paces away they halted, then began backing away. Then they whirled about and ran, one of the clubs clattering on the cobbles.
Icarium stared up at the night sky.
Somewhere to the north, three buildings were burning, reflecting lurid crimson on the bellies of the clouds of smoke seething overhead. Distant screams lifted into the air. Taralack Veed, his breath coming in gasps, drew out his sword. Thugs and murderers might run from Icarium, but that was no assurance that they would do the same for himself and the monk.
Icarium lowered his gaze, then looked about, as if only now discovering where he was. Another moment’s pause, then he set out.
Silent, the Gral and the Cabalhii followed.
Samar Dev licked dry lips. He was lying on his bed, apparently asleep. And come the dawn, he would take his flint sword, strap on his armour, and walk in the midst of Letherii soldiers to the Imperial Arena. And he would walk, alone, out onto the sand, the few hundred onlookers on the marble benches raising desultory hooting and catcalls. There would be no bet-takers, no frenzied shouting of odds. Because this game always ended the same. And now, did anyone even care?
In her mind she watched him stride to the centre of the arena. Would he be looking at the Emperor? Studying Rhulad Sengar as he emerged from the far gate? The lightness of his step, the unconscious patterns the sword made at the end of his hands, patterns that whispered of all that muscles and bones had learned and were wont to do?
No, he will be as he always is. He will be Karsa Orlong. He’ll not even look at the Emperor, until Rhulad draws closer, until the two of them begin.
Not overconfident. Not indifferent. Not even contemptuous. No easy explanations for this Toblakai warrior. He would be within himself, entirely within himself, until it was time… to witness.
But nothing would turn out right, Samar Dev knew. Not all of Karsa Orlong’s prowess, nor that ever-flooding, ever-cascading torrent that was the Toblakai’s will; nor even this host of spirits trapped in the knife she now held, and those others who trailed the Toblakai’s shadow-souls of the slain, desert godlings and ancient demons of the sands and rock-spirits that might well burst forth, enwreathing their champion god (and was he truly that? A god? She did not know) with all their power. No, none of it would matter in the end.
Kill Rhulad Sengar. Kill him thrice. Kill him a dozen times. In the end he will stand, sword bloodied, and then will come lcarium, the very last.
To begin it all again.
Karsa Orlong, reduced to a mere name among the list of the slain. Nothing more than that. For this extraordinary warrior. And this is what you whisper, Fallen One, as your holy credo. Grandness and potential and promise, they all break in the end.
Even your great champion, this terrible, tortured Tiste Edur-you see him broken again and again. You fling him back each time less than what he was, yet with ever more power in his hands. He is there, yes, for us all. The power and its broken wielder broken by his power.
Karsa Orlong sat up. ‘Someone has left,’ he said.
Samar Dev blinked. ‘What?’
He bared his teeth. ‘lcarium. He is gone.’
‘What do you mean, gone? He’s left? To go where?’
‘It does not matter,’ the Toblakai replied, swinging round to settle his feet on the floor. He stared across at her. ‘He knows.’
‘Knows what, Karsa Orlong?’
The warrior stood, his smile broadening, twisting the crazed tattoos on his face. ‘That he will not be needed.’
‘Karsa-’
‘You will know when, woman. You will know.’
Know what, damn you? ‘They wouldn’t have just let him go,’ she said. ‘So he must have taken down all the guards. Karsa, this is our last chance. To head out into the city. Leave all this-’
‘You do not understand. The Emperor is nothing. The Emperor, Samar Dev, is not the one he wants.’
Who? Icarium? No-‘Karsa Orlong, what secret do you hold? What do you know about the Crippled God?’
The Toblakai rose. ‘It is nearly dawn,’ he said. ‘Nearly time.’
‘Karsa, please-’
‘Will you witness?’
‘Do I have to?’
He studied her for a moment, and then his next words shocked her to the core of her souclass="underline" ‘I need you, woman.’
Why?’ she demanded, suddenly close to tears.
‘To witness. To do what needs doing when the time comes.’ He drew a deep, satisfied breath, looking away, his chest swelling until she thought his ribs would creak. ‘I live for days like these,’ he said.
And now she did weep.
Grandness, promise, potential. Fallen One, must you so share out your pain?
‘Women always get weak once a month, don’t they?’
‘Go to Hood, bastard.’
‘And quick to anger, too.’
She was on her feet. Pounding a fist into his solid chest.
Five times, six-he caught her wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but stopping those swings as if a manacle had snapped tight.
She glared up at him.
And he was, for his sake, not smiling.
Her fist opened and she found herself almost physically pulled up and into his eyes-seeing them, it seemed, for the first time. Their immeasurable depth, their bright ferocity and joy.
Karsa Orlong nodded. ‘Better, Samar Dev.’
‘You patronizing shit.’
He released her arm. ‘I learn more each day about women. Because of you.’
‘You still have a lot to learn, Karsa Orlong,’ she said, turning away and wiping at her cheeks.