This fact made Saeng the most uneasy. After watching Moon hunched over her brother for a time, she opened her mouth to ask how he was but noticed something that stilled the words in her throat. The dense forest of tattooed symbols and glyphs that covered Moon’s back in band after band were actually moving. Each pulsed, individually, almost imperceptibly. Waxing and waning, they revolved in their separate bands while the entire panoply appeared to be edging ever so slowly across the curve of his bent back.
Like the arch of the night sky turning came the thought, unbidden.
She swallowed and steadied herself against the pole of the opening. ‘How is he?’ she managed, her voice weak.
‘He has suffered a severe blow to the head. His mind has become unmoored and wanders now in a deep fugue.’ Grunting, the old man shifted, facing her. ‘He may never awaken again.’
‘Can you — is it in your power — to heal him?’
The man’s gaze flashed again with humour. ‘It just so happens that such matters are my particular area of specialty. You are lucky to have met me.’
And what does luck have to do with anything here in Himatan? was Saeng’s first thought, but she smiled her gratitude, letting out her breath. ‘I am so very relieved. Would you … please?’
His tangled salt and pepper brows rose. ‘Ah … as to that. We must strike a bargain, you and I.’
‘I would give anything to have him healed.’
Now those brows lowered in disapproval. ‘Do not be so quick to give everything away, child. There are those in these wilds who would take advantage of such an offer.’ Then he barked, loudly, ‘Ripan!’
The ladder swayed, then the youth’s comely head appeared. ‘Yes?’ he sighed.
‘Bring food for our guests.’
Ripan eyed Saeng up and down, almost grimacing his distaste. ‘Food?’
‘Yes.’
‘Such as …?’
‘Fowl, I would suggest. Cooked over a fire on a stick.’
Disgust twisted the youth’s angelic face. ‘That’s a vile thing to do to a bird.’
‘Do so in any case.’ He waved the youth away. ‘Go on.’
Ripan rolled his eyes again and heaved a sigh. ‘If I must.’ He slid out of sight.
Moon faced Saeng. ‘Now. As to our bargain. Over many years I have struck countless such. A favour for a favour. And with each bargain I have always asked just one service in particular.’
It was difficult for Saeng to find her voice but eventually she managed to ask, hoarsely, ‘And that is …?’
In a silent yet eloquent gesture the old man swept a hand down his bony ribcage and the round pot of his stomach, over the tangled maze of tattoos that covered every exposed wrinkle and bulge of skin.
Saeng drew a shuddering breath. Her palms suddenly pricked with sweat and her heart lurched from beat to beat. ‘Ah. I see …’
* * *
It was now only in passing that Osserc noted how the gathering glow of daylight outside the House’s grimed glazing dimmed into night and the watery green wash of the Visitor rippled across the table and Gothos opposite, only to give way to the bronze of dawn, and again, and once more, until he ignored the count of the changing light.
What does this creature want? More than all else, this troubled him. Jaghut! How they troubled everyone. He’d never been satisfied with his understanding of them. He studied the figure, as immobile as if carved from stone. What cast was that he saw in the line of the lips, the crinkle of the lined flesh at the corner of the amber eyes? Sublime amused condescension? More of their typical assumed superiority? Or was that just what he saw within them? If only he could know for certain.
Finally, he could no longer fight the rising strength of his resentment and he cleared his dust-dry throat to demand, loudly and harshly, ‘And why are you here? What do you believe will accrue to you?’
The bright golden eyes slit by their vertical pupils blinked. Gothos stirred, brushed cobwebs from his gnarled hands. ‘Nothing, I assure you. In this I am the mere messenger. The disinterested observer. As always.’
‘Why am I not assured?’
Gothos plucked another cobweb from his elbow. ‘Yes, why are you not? It would seem that otherwise this effort is entirely futile. Yes?’
‘Assure me.’
The glowing eyes narrowed almost dangerously. A long hissed breath escaped the Jaghut. Then, his lips drawing down in obvious distaste, he began, ‘For how long have I been accused of scheming, conniving, or otherwise plotting dark plots? Ages of machination …’ He lifted his hands to gesture about the empty room. ‘And look where I am …’
‘I propose you are just where you choose to be.’
‘It is true that my choices have brought me to where I am.’ Gothos tilted his head, his long grimed hair swinging. ‘The same is true for everyone.’
‘Events and the agency of others always intervene …’
‘True. One exists in the world. Categorically speaking, things will always happen. The test, then, is the choices one makes in response.’
Osserc noted a cobweb on his own shoulder. He brushed it away. ‘Can we set aside the mountain ascetic philosophizing?’
‘Yes, can we? I find it tiresome.’
Now Osserc glared. He clenched his teeth until they grated. Through clamped jaws he ground out: ‘So … why are you here?’
The Jaghut touched his fingertips together. ‘I do not know for certain. Nothing was said, of course. I merely found myself here. For a time I wondered — why me? Why of all those the Azath have at their disposal should I find myself here? And of course the obvious answer came that it is something of me, a quality or character, that is desired. Therefore, I am merely being me. That is all that is required. I am here to be your goad. Your adversary. A spur.’ He bared his scarred yellowed tusks in a mocking grin. ‘In short, I am to act as a prick.’
Osserc could not resist throwing his head back to bark a laugh. Even if the Jaghut’s expression displayed his awareness of the many layers he commented upon. Osserc’s answering smile was just as frosty. ‘Well … it is as if you were born to the role.’
Nothing more was said, as nothing more need be said. Osserc stared out the opaque window glazing, layered in grime and dirt, that cast a dim limpid glow within, the source of which he could not be certain was day or night. So. What was he to make of the fellow’s words? Jaghut. So many lies had they woven over the millennia. Yet false claims had been made on all sides. No one was innocent — they were always the first to die, the first to be trampled in others’ ruthless scramble for power and Ascension.
Yet Anomandaris … Cursing beneath his breath, Osserc broke off his musing to blink and refocus upon the room. Someone, or thing, had entered. He heard the pad and shush of light footsteps, yet saw nothing. Then the one other chair at the table, empty, scraped backwards as if of its own volition. A head appeared, brown and knobbly, shaped rather like the stone ammunition of an onager. Dark sly eyes slid side to side to regard him and Gothos, then the mouth parted in the wide expanse of a red yawn.
Osserc regarded the monkey-like creature that seemed to have the run of the House. While he watched, the beast arranged its wrinkled features into something resembling fixed concentration. Yet even as Osserc’s own gaze narrowed in annoyance, the creature began to nod, its head sinking, jerking, catching itself, glaring about panicked. Only to blink heavily yet again, its eyelids falling once more.
Osserc raised his gaze to the murk disguising the ceiling. Ancient Primordial Entities. Why had the Azath chosen to torture him in this fashion? They would have their revenge, wouldn’t they? And of course this — pricking — stung so much worse than any slap to the face.