Fall of Light (68 page)

‘Oh, I doubt he’ll have words for us, since that last unfortunate incident.’ Her broad, flaring cheekbones bore an unnatural flush amidst powdered white, and the kohl surrounding her deep blue eyes and fading up to her eyebrows glistened metallic green. ‘Are there not those among us, no matter what cast or credence, for whom mishap circles with persistent perfidy? So I see Skillen Droe, forever abuzz with ill chance.’

As if in reply, Skillen Droe settled lower in the craft, hooking his wings to offer himself shade, and then tilted his snouted head forward, opaque lids rising up to cover his eyes.

K’rul sighed. ‘Well, he has been flying us for some time.’

‘Then you have satisfied his need to feel useful,’ Cera replied. ‘Always the considerate one, you.’

‘I am sure,’ said K’rul, ‘once he has rested, he will be happy to dislodge your craft.’

‘Oh, Vix can do that any time. He’s just being stubborn.’

‘Not half as stubborn as you,’ Vix growled.

‘We shall see about that, won’t we?’

‘You have left spawn among the mortals,’ K’rul said to Vix. ‘They name themselves Trell, and make war with the Thelomen.’

Vix reached up to straighten his thin, wispy moustache, ensuring that the long black braids properly flanked his broad, tusked mouth. ‘I am profligate, to be sure. As for war, well, of course, why ever not?’

‘But you claim the Thelomen as your spawn as well,’ K’rul pointed out.

‘Just so. They actually share the same god. Me. And yet in my name they unleash hate and venom upon each other. Is that not amusing? Mortals are petty and vicious, unthinking and spiteful, inclined to stupidity and wilfully ignorant. I do so love them.’ He then made the habitual gesture K’rul had seen countless times before: reaching up to lightly brush the stitches sealing shut the lids of his left eye. ‘I contemplate a third breed, an admixture of Thelomen, Trell and Dog-Runner, whom I shall name Barghast. I expect they will war against everyone.’

‘Dog-Runner? I would think Olar Ethil might object to that, Vix.’

‘I piss in her fire. See how she objects to that.’

Sighing again, K’rul settled into a cross-legged position, facing Cera Planto once more. ‘And what have you been up to, my dear?’

‘We thought to explore an Azath House.’

‘In a boat?’

‘Unsuccessfully. But no matter. Eventually, Vix will lose this war of obstinacy and send us on our way once more. I foresee innumerable adventures in the offing.’ She collected up a small wooden carrying case, setting it on her lap before unclasping the lid and opening it. ‘In the meantime, I found a most iridescent breed of beetle on a tropical island, and had Vix collect as many of them as possible.’ She drew out a mortar and pestle, and then a bronze jar. ‘The wings, when finely ground and mixed with a drop of beeswax and olive oil, make for a most delightful kohl, don’t you think?’

‘Very enticing,’ K’rul said.

‘But you look pale. Decidedly too masculine, too, but never mind that. Almost bloodless, one might say. Have you been up to no good again?’

‘I have given freely of my power, Cera, not to any breed of mortal, but to all breeds of mortal. My blood swirls in the cosmos, swims to unmindful currents.’

Her deep blue eyes had narrowed and she now regarded him with vague disappointment. ‘Did you hear that, Vix? And you boasted of profligacy.’

Behind K’rul, Vix said, ‘Beware the Thelomen finding potent magic. Hmm. I shall have to pay them a visit, assuming once more the role of vengeful god.’

‘Do not wait too long,’ K’rul said to the tusked Azathanai behind him, ‘lest they do the swatting down.’

‘What a mess you’ve made,’ Vix said.

Shrugging, K’rul said, ‘It’s done. But now, with Skillen at my side, we set out to force some order upon the maelstrom.’

‘How?’ Cera Planto asked.

‘Dragons.’

‘Oh,’ said Cera. ‘Poor Skillen Droe!’

  *   *   *

At last the mountains were behind Hanako and Lasa Rook, and ahead lay a level plain where even the forest dwindled, giving way to tufts of wiry grasses that looked sickly clinging to the salty clay. Hanako staggered woodenly beneath Erelan Kreed’s slack weight, while at his side Lasa Rook hummed a children’s song the words of which Hanako barely remembered, only that it was a tale of some orphan – and how many of those were there, anyway? – stealing fruit from some orchard, and some old witch who lived in an apple tree. One night the lad reached up and plucked the wrong fruit.
Don’t mess with witches!
ran the refrain,
They’re rotten to the core!

Lasa Rook stopped humming abruptly, and then said, ‘Hanako of the Scars, your burden is exhausting you, leaving you little energy or attention to lavish upon me, and you well know how I enjoy being lavished. The situation, darling, is unsupportable.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Hanako, ‘if you could carry your own bedroll, and this cooking gear—’

‘Really? You would ask that of me? Why, if you were one of my husbands … but no, this time, in your ignorance, I shall forgive you. There is a force in the world – in all worlds, no doubt – like invisible fingers, ever plucking and pulling us down. Thus, as the years draw on, the face sags, the breasts too, and the belly and all places where the flesh bulges. It follows, sweet boy, that one must endeavour to diminish such burdens as best as one can. See this youthful visage? It remains so precisely because I have husbands to carry everything. Now, here you are, in their stead. If misery attends you, it is because you are yet to claim your reward. I am not to blame if you flatly refuse my appreciation!’

Hanako mumbled a mostly inarticulate apology.

They continued on, in uncomfortable silence, until they almost stumbled upon a lone figure before them. The man was seated cross-legged on the hard-packed clay, his back to them. An empty wooden bowl was at his side. He was gaunt, wizened and mostly hairless, and as Hanako and Lasa drew up to either side of him, he spoke without opening his eyes or shifting his head. ‘I believe the universe is expanding.’

The two Thel Akai halted, Hanako groaning as he let the body of Erelan Kreed slip down from his shoulder and into his arms, and then, as he crouched, on to the ground.

‘There is a manner,’ the stranger continued, ‘in which the soul can free itself of the flesh, and so wing swift as thought into the reaches of space. I have been contemplating this, as I dined. As one does. And it has occurred to me that the expanding universe is nothing more and nothing less than mortal souls in eternal flight. And that, should you somehow appear at the very edge of this ever-expanding creation, you would find the very first soul, impossibly ancient, so far along on its journey from its mortal flesh that not even dust remains of that body. We must be grateful to that soul, don’t you think? For … all of this.’

A moment later, the old man tilted slightly for a brief moment of flatulence, and then settled back once more. ‘Beans, but no rice.’

Hanako and Lasa exchanged a look, and then Hanako bent down and collected up Erelan Kreed once more. They walked past the old man, leaving him to his contemplation.

Some time later, Lasa Rook hissed and shook her head. ‘Azathanai.’

THIRTEEN

‘H
E HAS FRECKLES,’ KORYA SAID. ‘ON HIS ARMS.’

Arathan looked up from the vellum. ‘Do you see this? What I’m scribing on, Korya Delath? It’s vellum. I don’t know where he gets it from, but it must be rare. And expensive, and should I be startled into making an error—’

She stepped inside, letting the old goat-skin curtain fall back to fill the doorway. ‘Why aren’t you in the Tower of Hate?’

Sighing, Arathan set down the stylus. ‘I needed somewhere without interruptions. Gothos was getting too many visitors. Everyone’s complaining. Though it has nothing to do with Gothos, they all seem to think he has some influence with Hood. But he doesn’t. Who has freckles?’

She strolled closer, eyeing the decrepit furnishings, the arcane symbols scratched into the plastered walls. ‘Young, sweet Ifayle. A Dog-Runner. He wants to sleep with me.’

Arathan returned to his transcribing. ‘That’s nice. I hear they have lice and ticks and fleas. Maybe those weren’t freckles at all, just welts from all the bites and things.’

‘They were freckles. And he’s clean enough. They use oils on their bodies. Drowns everything, and highlights the red in the hairs on his arms – they glisten like gold.’

‘You really like his arms, don’t you?’

‘They’re strong, too.’

‘So go roll in the grass with him, then!’

‘Maybe I will!’

‘Better do it now, since presumably this Ifayle’s here to march with Hood.’

‘March? Where? When? There’s a reason Hood’s not packed up his tent – he can’t figure out where to go!’

Arathan scowled down at the vellum, resumed his work. ‘Don’t be absurd. He’s just waiting.’

‘For what?’

‘More people are still coming in—’

‘A mere trickle, and most of them are undecided. More curious than anything else. People like spectacle, and that’s all this is. Vapid, useless, pointless spectacle! Hood’s joke, and it’s on all of you.’ She walked over to the etched wall. ‘What’s all this about?’

Arathan shrugged. ‘It’s not Jaghut script. Gothos said something about a mad Builder.’

‘Builder?’

‘The ones who make Azath Houses.’

‘No one makes Azath Houses, you fool. That’s the whole point, the whole mystery of them. They just appear.’

‘What’s that in your hand?’

‘This? An acorn. Why? Do you have a problem with it?’

‘Well, there are no oaks here.’

‘So? Anyway, the Azath Houses just grow up out of the ground.’

He leaned back. ‘Have you seen this happen?’ he asked.

‘Haut explained it. And their yards are hungry.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Just what I said. Their yards are hungry. Haut’s own words. I have a good memory, you know. Better than most people.’

‘So you don’t know what it means either. Hungry yards. Sounds … ominous.’ Abruptly he began cleaning his stylus, and then he stoppered the bottle of ink.

‘What are you doing? I thought you were busy.’

‘There is an Azath House at the western edge of the ruins. When Omtose Phellack was a thousand years old, it sprang up one night, upsetting the Jaghut no end. But as none could get inside, and it was proof against all magic, they decided to ignore it.’ He collected up his cloak. ‘I think I’ll go take a look.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘Ifayle’s freckles won’t like that.’

‘You do know that they won’t let you go, Arathan. The Jaghut. You’re hiding, anyway. From what? Probably a woman. It was a woman, wasn’t it? People have said things.’

‘Who? Never mind. No one here knows anything about it. You’re just making all this up.’

‘Who was she? What did she do to you?’

‘I’m going now,’ he said, stepping past her and yanking the curtain aside.

Korya followed, feeling unaccountably pleased with herself. They emerged from the small hovel that had once been some sort of store. The breeze was cool but not cold, and an unseasonal thaw softened the air. As they set out, she saw how many of the long-abandoned buildings were now occupied once more. Blue-skinned Ilnap had formed enclaves, although there was nothing festive in their efforts to establish some sort of community, and more often than not they found themselves glowering across at bands of Dog-Runners encamped on the other side of the street, who were in the habit of treating abodes as if they were caves, the rubbish piling up in front of the gaping doorways.

Before long, however, she and Arathan left the inhabited reaches of the dead city behind, making their way down barren, silent streets. Here and there a squat tower had tumbled and the broken stone spilled out into passageways, blocking their progress and forcing them to seek out the narrower alleys threading through overgrown gardens.

‘Imagine,’ said Arathan, ‘just abandoning all of this. Imagine, a simple argument from one Jaghut, from Gothos, bringing down an entire civilization. One wouldn’t think such things possible. Could the same happen to us Tiste? Could someone just step forward and argue us out of existence?’

‘Of course not,’ Korya replied. ‘We prefer our arguments messy, ugly, with plenty of spilled blood.’

He glanced sharply across at her. ‘More news of the civil war?’

‘Deniers came into the camp yesterday. Hunters who’d come home to their forest camps to find their mates slaughtered. The children too. Those hunters have lost their black skin. They’re now grey, as grey as the Dog-Runners when they smear themselves in ash.’ She shrugged. ‘Rituals of mourning, only with the Deniers, it’s permanent.’

Arathan fell silent, as if considering her words, as they worked their way through the ruins. They had moved past the squatters now, and the solemnity of a discarded city hung heavy in the still air.

‘I have to go back,’ Korya said.

‘Back? To what? You were made a hostage. You’re not yet of the proper age to be released.’

‘Haut’s going with Hood, whatever that means. He’s been looking to hand me off to some other master, or tutor, or whatever title fits. But I won’t go. I’m not interested in listening to old men or, even worse, old women, and all their tired, worn-out ideas.’