Draconus grunted. ‘I’ve listened since the moment of your arrival, D’ivers. My weakness, my incompleteness … these hands’ – he lifted them – ‘you deem less than weapons.’
‘I care nothing for her. The power here is yours and yours alone.’
‘Not any more. Such was my gift to the woman I love.’
‘And who are you to give it?’
Draconus shrugged. ‘Here, I am named the Suzerain of Night.’
‘The Tiste House of Dracons is a deceit. Old scents, known to the Old Blood within me. You are an Azathanai.’
Reaching down, Draconus collected up a length of chain. ‘If it’s me you want, assassin, come along then. You can collect your coin from Urusander later – or is it Hunn Raal? I would not imagine Sheccanto or even Skelenal have given this deed their blessing.’
‘Now you speak plain, Draconus. No highborn poetry to ride your last breaths.’
The Azathanai shrugged. ‘I can’t be bothered.’
The twelve panthers now surrounded Draconus, giving Caplo a view of the huge man from every angle. Somehow, this did not confuse him, and the flood of senses was a delicious roar in his mind, rising like flames.
The Old Blood was not interested in subtlety. Caplo attacked at once, from all sides. Twelve panthers, converging upon a single enemy.
The chain lashed out, wrapping tight upon a leaping form, and Draconus yanked it close even as the remaining beasts slammed into him. Caplo felt his many fangs sink deep into the man’s flesh. He felt his claws score deep furrows upon the muscles of the Azathanai’s broad back – down to scrape along ribs and shoulder blades. More talons plunged into the man’s stomach. The muscles there clenched suddenly to trap those claws, defying every effort at evisceration, but Caplo held on. Jaws from another beast ground tight around the back of Draconus’s thick neck, seeking the windpipe.
Through all of this, somehow the Azathanai remained standing. The panther he had snared with the chain came within reach of his hands, and, releasing the chain, Draconus drove thumbs deep into the beast’s throat. Blood sprayed and the cat screamed.
Caplo felt its sudden death in a wave of agony.
Flinging the carcass away, Draconus reached round to tear loose the animal clinging to his back and neck, and the Azathanai’s strength was appalling. Unmindful of his own torn flesh, he pulled the writhing breast around, and then broke its spine with a savage twist of his wrists.
Caplo howled.
Fangs and claws tore flesh to shreds, ripped through muscles, yet still Draconus remained upright, his wide-legged stance unyielding.
A third panther – the one with its foreclaws sunk deep into the Azathanai’s gut – died beneath the skull-shattering blow of a single fist.
Caplo released his sense of all but one cat – leaving them to fight on by instinct – and flung his strength into that single creature, which had locked its jaws about the man’s left thigh, and now, writhing and spinning round with a surge of unnatural strength, he toppled Draconus. The remaining panthers closed in to finish him.
Another died, neck broken, its head suddenly loose in the grip of the man’s hands.
But the panthers savaged the writhing, kicking, blood-soaked figure.
Caplo shrieked when a lone hand stabbed into the gut of the beast he rode, and in a welter of blood and fluids his guts were pulled out from their cavity. The assassin fled the dying cat, found another.
But Draconus found that one immediately, rolling to pin it beneath him, even as he began punching, each blow of his fist shattering ribs, flensing the lungs beneath them.
The death of so many beasts broke something in Caplo. Howling, he tore himself free of the Azathanai. The six surviving panthers reeled in retreat, flanks heaving, ears flat, fangs bared. They halted a half-dozen paces from the prone man.
Who then laughed from where he lay on his back. ‘Come, let us finish it.’
‘Why won’t you die!’
‘I should have,’ Draconus replied, shifting on to his side to spit out a gout of blood. ‘Or you would have, since I summoned my Finnest.’ He coughed, spat again. ‘But it seems to have gone astray …’ He groaned and pushed himself to his hands and knees. Blood poured from his wounds, making thick puddles beneath him. ‘And that’s not good.’ He glanced over with dull red eyes. ‘Still, I’ll leave one of you. For the chains. Though I doubt you’d deem them a mercy.’
Hissing, Caplo backed away.
‘You all thought me unmindful,’ Draconus said. ‘An impediment to your newfound powers. You, Syntara, Raal, even my beloved. But things have been unleashed. Indeed,’ he paused to cough again, ‘it’s all becoming something of a mess.’ He waved one hand back towards the massive wagon. ‘But I’m working on it. Take some faith in that. Tell your Higher Graces this: I will see it all through, and by that alone, you will one day find a throne awaiting you.’
‘We have no need of a throne! We have no realm to rule!’
Draconus showed red-stained teeth in a cruel grin. ‘Heed your fucking leopard instincts, Caplo, and find some patience. Restraint, even. I’m working as fast as I can.’
Caplo crouched his forms low, studied the ravaged Azathanai. ‘You promise us a realm?’
‘And a throne. Do they seem gifts? Remind yourself of that the day you need to defend them both.’
‘Where will we find these … gifts?’
Draconus grunted a bitter laugh. ‘Not in your precious monasteries.’ He pushed himself to his feet, stood tottering, his dripping hands held out slightly for balance. ‘You have a choice here. Leave, and seek those already upon the shore. Or try me again. But should you prevail against me, ruin will haunt you all – with my blessing.’ And he offered Caplo another crimson smile, this one faintly sad.
The six panthers turned to depart.
Behind them, Draconus raised his voice. ‘That way, Caplo? Are you sure?’
Snarling, the assassin padded to the gate. Moments before passing through the shattered doorway, he sembled into his Tiste form, and then staggered to the massive wounds upon his naked body.
I should have thought of that.
Gasping, blinded by pain, he stumbled through the portal.
* * *
Since seeing High Priestess Emral Lanear, Orfantal had struggled with an overwhelming desire to curl into her lap. She seemed a mother of bad habits, and this intrigued him. He was not interested in making sense of it – thinking too much about things hadn’t done him much good, thus far. There was something clean and pure in his sense of the guardian wolves he had on occasion conjured into being, and what he could feel of their minds told him that there were creatures in the world – in all the worlds – that lived simpler lives. He wanted to emulate such ways of living.
And so he haunted her, keeping his eyes hidden within the wreaths of smoke drifting around her as she sat, unmoving apart from the steady rise and fall of the water-pipe’s mouthpiece in one hand and the swell and ebb of her chest. So many things were possible now. He could drift unseen through the Citadel, wandering its corridors, sliding beneath doors and into chambers that had once been forbidden him. His body, small as it was, could of course achieve none of this. So he had left it behind, in the cell where he slept, with Ribs lying against the door.
He rode the currents of Kurald Galain, but for all their enticements, from the fascinating patterns and sly invitations of the Terondai to the red tears of Mother Dark’s eyes – unable to look away in the palms of the priest, Endest Silann – Orfantal found himself drawn back to the High Priestess, who still sat alone in her chamber, gaze heavy upon the slightly open door, as if awaiting someone.
But for the moment, none in the Citadel had thought to seek her out, despite the two strangers who had unlocked the pattern of passage in the Terondai – one of its many wondrous gifts – and disappeared from sight. The discovery of a murdered guard in the corridor leading to the Chamber of Night had sent alarm winging among the Houseblades and their officers,
only to somehow deftly avoid – by choice or chance – the many acolytes of the priesthood.
She sat unknowing, then, her right leg folded over the left, like a queen upon a throne.
Distant agitations in the sorcerous darkness brushed Orfantal’s awareness, and a moment’s focus made out, in his mind’s eye, the figures of Silchas Ruin, Captain Kellaras, and a woman Houseblade, hurrying towards the Chamber of Night.
Orfantal hesitated. Seeing too much made things complicated all over again. His spirit, wandering in this way, possessed no voice, and what it heard was thin and muted, as if every sound came through walls. He could draw as close as he liked to Emral Lanear, but make nothing known of his presence.
That was probably just as well. Some things had a way of frightening people. Even so, he groped for a means of warning her that things were happening, and that blood had been spilled outside the Chamber of Night.
So intent was his focus upon her now, he was caught unawares by the sudden arrival of Endest Silann.
But she looked up and seemed to sag in her throne. ‘If only we could all find someone else to carry our anguish,’ she said.
The priest, looking ashen and drained, tilted his head slightly. ‘Or send it out and away in white streams of smoke.’
‘If she regrets her lack of success,’ Lanear replied, ‘at last we find common ground.’
‘There has been violence in the Chamber of Night.’
The High Priestess drew hard on the mouthpiece, then spoke with held breath. ‘The realm beyond those doors is a fraught place.’
‘A Shake assassin reached that realm.’
She let out a slow, lengthy sigh of smoke. ‘Caplo Dreem returned, then. To finish whatever he intended the first time.’
‘You seem unconcerned.’
‘Was she?’
‘Lord Draconus defeated the assassin. Apparently. Terribly wounded and naked, Caplo re-emerged, too weak to resist arrest by Lord Silchas Ruin. A few words were exchanged before the assassin fell unconscious. There is talk of summary execution. And a pronouncement of war upon the Shake.’
‘Tell me of her concern.’
Silann’s gaze fell. ‘I cannot. But Lord Draconus did not escape unharmed from the encounter. She attends him with … solicitude.’
‘Where is Cedorpul?’
‘High Priestess, I unleashed magic in the city. I sought to bless the citizens of Kharkanas, in ways she might desire – if only she would tell us. Instead …’ His voice caught then, and it was a moment before he could continue. ‘Anger proves a poor fuel for forgiveness.’
‘Cedorpul?’
‘It fell to an Eleint, descending from the sky, to halt my … my largesse.’
‘All on this day?’ Abruptly, Lanear laughed, only to stifle the sound. ‘Forgive me, Endest. I was, for some time here, musing on the span of a single bowl’s pleasure. The world is a place of many rooms indeed, but in this one, I knew the luxury of peace.’ She slowly set the mouthpiece down on to its silver tray. ‘Where, I ask a third time, is Cedorpul?’
‘I am informed, High Priestess, that with grievous outrage and indignation, Cedorpul has set out upon the trail of Warlock Resh and the Warden officer who accompanied him through the Gate of Darkness.’
‘Alone?’
‘So I understand. I knew a fever following my audience with the dragon. All I can report is what I was subsequently told.’
‘A fever. Yours or hers?’
He shrugged.
‘Will you lead me to where Silchas Ruin has taken the assassin?’
‘Of course, High Priestess. But one other matter awaits us.’
‘And that is?’
‘The child upon your lap,’ Endest replied.
Startled, Orfantal fled the chamber.
* * *
Kellaras had not participated in the rough handling of Caplo Dreem. Instead, he and the other Houseblade had but followed Silchas Ruin as the lord dragged the unconscious assassin by one ankle down stairs and along corridors, to a wing of the old palace where waited scores of empty cells. For all Ruin’s outrage, the traverse had seemed cruel, but cruelty was gathering in this last remaining brother.
Selecting a cell, Silchas pulled Caplo inside, and then ordered the Houseblade to affix shackles to the man’s ankles and wrists. This action stirred Caplo to consciousness and he blinked up at the young woman, watching as the thick iron rings clicked shut one by one. His dark eyes tracked her retreat when she was done.
Silchas Ruin faced the prisoner, and made to speak, but Caplo lifted a hand with a weak gesture that rattled the links, and said, ‘My apologies, milord, for the slain guard. Impatience is a twitching blade and no thought slowed my hand. For what it is worth, it is the only crime for which I accept your purview.’
Silchas grunted. ‘An assault upon the sacred precincts of Mother Dark?’
‘She claims less of it than you think.’
‘And Draconus?’
Caplo glanced away. ‘A hard man to kill. Did I not say as much before passing out? My mumbled … confession. Let it not be said I shied from the truth.’
‘He will not demand your head, assassin?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s busy.’
Silchas scowled, crossing his arms. After a moment, he cast Kellaras a beleaguered look. ‘Step forward, captain, I beg you. Convince me against persisting in wasting everyone’s time. Better yet, separate this man’s head from the rest of him.’
‘Forgive me, milord, but I don’t understand any of this. Have the Shake declared war? Is this man here at Sheccanto’s behest? True, a god died, but the blame for that must surely belong to the Azathanai, T’riss.’ Kellaras eyed the prisoner. ‘Caplo Dreem, who sent you?’
‘No one.’
Kellaras mused on that reply, and found no falsity in it. ‘Where did Warlock Resh go, when he and that Warden vanished at the Terondai?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then neither had knowledge of your intentions?’
Caplo grinned, moving to sit up with his back against the wall. ‘I had a suspicion. They knew that much.’
‘A suspicion? Regarding what?’
‘Oddly enough, though I found the truth of it, I find myself subsequently reluctant to pronounce it. I have,’ he added, closing his eyes as he rested his head against the wall, ‘made revision.’
‘Please explain what that means,’ Kellaras said.
‘I was in error. Not every truth is a crime. Though,’ he blinked open his eyes and smiled up at Kellaras, ‘too many of them are. Still, not this time. Foolish me, but then, ignorance is a poor excuse for anything, and I’ll not hide behind it.’
‘Do you expect to live, Caplo Dreem?’
The man shrugged, and then winced at his wounds.
Silchas Ruin growled under his breath. ‘A slain Houseblade of House Purake. Confound the rest, but this crime stands unchallenged.’
‘With regret.’
The lord settled one white hand upon his grip of the sword at his side. Iron began sliding from the scabbard, then halted at a sound from the doorway behind them.
‘Belay that, lord,’ said Emral Lanear, stepping into the now crowded cell. Kellaras saw the priest, Endest Silann, edge in behind her, his hands devoid of cloth or bandage, the wounds dripping freely to paint his fingers. His face belonged to that of an aged man.
‘House Purake claims the right of punishment,’ Silchas Ruin said to the High Priestess.
‘No doubt,’ she replied, eyeing Caplo Dreem. ‘But I would question him first.’
‘You waste your time,’ Silchas replied. ‘He is all riddles.’
‘I have no interest in Mother Dark,’ said Caplo Dreem to Lanear. ‘I have never represented a threat to her.’
‘And yet, you trespass.’
‘My argument was with Lord Draconus. We had it out, and now we are done with each other.’
‘With at least one corpse in your
wake,’ she pointed out.
‘Release him,’ said Endest Silann.
All turned to face the priest. The command seemed to have momentarily left Silchas Ruin speechless. Emral Lanear glanced back at her companion. ‘By your command, Endest?’
‘No,’ he replied.
‘She makes her wishes known to you? You had led me to believe that Mother Dark’s attendance upon you yielded nothing of her will. Has that changed?’
‘Draconus is wounded, and this angers her,’ Endest replied. ‘Nonetheless, Caplo Dreem is to be banished from Kharkanas. That is all.’
‘What of justice for the House of Purake?’ Silchas Ruin demanded. ‘Is that not a virtue to be defended by our goddess? We, who are sworn to her service? Will she deny us this as well?’
No response came from Endest Silann. He turned to leave, and Kellaras distinctly heard the priest mutter, ‘Come along now, boy, this was not for you.’
Even the High Priestess seemed at a loss. ‘Lord Silchas, I am sorry,’ she said.
He glared at her, and then made a sharp gesture with one hand. ‘No matter.’ He shot her a look and added, ‘How does it sit with you, High Priestess? Being … superfluous?’
Her expression tightened, but she said nothing.
‘Oh, Kellaras,’ sighed Silchas Ruin, ‘free the man.’
* * *
Rise Herat stood in the unlit corridor, staring at a tapestry. The absence of light proved no obstacle to his study of the dragons woven into the scene. He had been atop the tower when the Eleint sank down from the heavy clouds in a spiralling descent that took it into the heart of Kharkanas. It was well, he reflected yet again, that he was not a believer in omens.
Still, even I must lend credence to the notion of harbingers. We are in difficult times to be sure, but our disputes seem petty in the face of such powers loose once again in the world. There are forces at work far beyond our frail borders.
But anger and fear make an enemy of humility, and of all the emotions within reach of a desperate mind, they loom closest.
If only desperation was not a plague among mortals. If only our lives were not spent rushing from one breach to the next.
There had been word of Endest Silann’s blessing of peace in the Winter Market, and the anguish left in its wake. But how many now denied the simple truth of that aftermath, its rattling lesson of despair? Peace haunts us like a dream, an echo half forgotten, but still whispering its perfect promise.
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