Apsalar and her father approached side by side.
Mappo had wondered at this reunion, but no expectations he'd envisioned would match the reality. Crokus had yet to notice them, and was instead drawing his daggers and preparing to close in on the sound of the High Priest's voice. Icarium stood behind the Daru, a moment from disarming him. The scene was almost comic, for Crokus could see nothing, and Iskaral Pust began throwing his voice so that it emerged from a dozen places at once, while he continued his capering dance.
Fiddler, cursing under his breath, had removed a battered lantern from his pack and was now hunting for a flint.
'Do you dare tread the path?' Iskaral Pust sang out. 'Do you dare? Do you dare?'
Apsalar halted before Mappo. 'I knew you would win through,' she said. She swung her head. 'Crokus! I am here-'
He whirled, sheathed his daggers and closed.
Sparks flashed and bounced from where Fiddler crouched.
The Trell watched as the Daru's reaching arms were captured by Apsalar and guided around her in a tight embrace. Oh, lad, you do not know how poignant your blindness is. .
An aura that was an echo of a god clung to her, yet it had become wholly her own. The Trell's sense of it did not leave him at ease.
Icarium came close to Mappo. Tremorlor,' he said.
'Aye.'
'There are some who claim the Azath are in truth benign, a force to keep power in check, that they arise where and when there is need. My friend, I am beginning to see much truth in those claims.'
The Trell nodded. This torn warren possesses such pain. If it could wander, drift, it would deliver horror and chaos. Tremorlor holds it here — Iskaral Pust speaks the truth — but even so, how Raraku has twisted on all sides. .
'I sense Soletaken and D'ivers within,' Icarium said. 'Closing, seeking to find the House-'
'Believing it to be a gate.'
The lantern glowed into light, a lurid yellow that reached no more than a few paces in any direction. Fiddler rose from his crouch, eyes on Mappo. 'There is a gate there, just not the one the shapeshifters seek. Nor will they get to it — the grounds of the Azath will take them.'
'As it might all of us,' spoke a new voice.
They turned to see Apsalar's father standing nearby. 'Now,' he grated, 'I'd be obliged if you could bend your efforts into talkin' my daughter out of going any farther — we can't try the gate, 'cause it's inside the House …'
'Yet you led her here,' Fiddler said. 'Granted, we were looking for Tremorlor in any case, but whatever reasons you have are Iskaral Pust's, aren't they?'
Mappo spoke, 'Do you have a name, Servant?'
The old man grimaced. 'Rellock.' Glancing back to Fiddler, he shook his head. 'I can't guess the High Priest's motives. I only did what I was told. A final task for the High Priest, one to clear the debt and I always clears my debt, even to gods.'
'They gave you back the arm you'd lost,' the sapper said.
'And spared me and the life of my daughter, the day the Hounds came. No-one else survived, you know …'
Fiddler grunted. 'It was their Hounds, Rellock.'
'Even so, even so. It's the false trail, you see, the one that leads the shapeshifters astray, leads them-'
'Away from the true gate,' Icarium said, nodding. 'The one beneath Pust's temple.'
Rellock nodded. 'We had to finish the false trail, is all, me and my daughter. Plantin' signs, leaving trails and the like. Now that's done. We hid in shadow while the shapeshifters rushed in. If I'm fated to die in bed in my village in Itko Kan, then it don't matter how long's the walk.'
'Rellock wants to go back to fishing, hee hee!' Iskaral Pust sang. 'But the place you left is not what you return to, oh no. From one day to the next, never mind years. Rellock's done work guided by the hands of gods, yet he dreams of dragging nets, with the sun on his face and lines between his toes! He is the heart of the Empire — Laseen should take note! Take note!'
Fiddler returned to his horse, drew out the crossbow and set the crank, then locked it. 'The rest of you can choose as you like; I've got to go in.' He paused, glancing back at the horses. 'And we should let the beasts go.' He walked over to his mount and began loosening the girth straps. He sighed, patting the Gral gelding on the neck. 'You've done me proud, but you'll do better out here — lead the others, friend, to Sha'ik's camp …'
After a moment, the others strode to their own mounts.
Icarium turned to the Trell. 'I too must go.'
Mappo closed his eyes, willing a stillness to his inner turmoil. Gods, I am a coward. In all ways imaginable, a coward.
'Friend?'
The Trell nodded.
'Oh, you will all go!' the High Priest of Shadow crooned, still dancing. 'Seeking answers and yet more answers! But in my silent thoughts I snigger and warn you all with words that you will not hear — beware sleight of hand. Compared to the Azath, my immortal lords are but fumbling children!'
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tremorlor, the Throne of Sand
is said to lie within Raraku.
A House of the Azath, it
stands alone on uprooted soil
where all tracks are ghosts
and every ghost leads to
Tremorlor's door.
Patterns in the Azath
The Nameless Ones
For as far as Duiker could see, stretching west and east, the cedar forest was filled with butterflies. The dusty green of the trees was barely visible through a restless canopy of pale yellow. Along Vathar's gutted verge, bracken rose amidst skeletal branches, forming a solid barrier but for the trader track that carved its way towards the river.
The historian had ridden out from the column and halted his horse on a low hilltop that rose from the studded plain. The Chain of Dogs was stretched, exhaustion straining its links. Dust rode the air above it like a ghostly cape, grasped by the wind and pulled northward.
Duiker drew his eyes from the distant scenes and scanned the hilltop beneath him. Large, angular boulders had been placed in roughly concentric rings: the summit's crown. He had seen such formations before, but could not recall where. A pervasive unease hung in the air over the hilltop.
A rider approached at a trot from the train, showing obvious discomfort with each rise in the stirrups. Duiker scowled. Corporal List was anything but hale. The young man was risking a permanent limp with all this premature activity, but there was no swaying him.
'Historian,' List said as he reined in.
'Corporal, you're a fool.'
'Yes, sir. Word's come from the rearguard's western flank. Korbolo Dom's lead elements have been sighted.'
'West? He plans to reach the river before us then, as Coltaine predicted.'
List nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. 'Aye. Cavalry, at least thirty companies.'
'If we have to push through thirty companies of soldiers to gain the ford, we'll be held up-'
'And Korbolo's main force will close jaws on our tail, aye. That's why the Fist is sending the Foolish Dog ahead. He asks that you join them. It'll be a hard ride, sir, but your mare's fit — fitter than most, anyway.'
Two notches up on her girth straps, the bones of her shoulders hard against my knees, yet fitter than most. 'Six leagues?'
'Closer to seven, sir.'
An easy afternoon's ride, under normal circumstances. 'We might well arrive only to wheel mounts and meet a charge.'
'They'll be as weary as we will, sir.'
Not by half, Corporal, and we both know it. Worse, we'll be outnumbered by more than three to one. 'Likely to be a memorable ride, then.'