Deadhouse Gates

Heboric stepped into the cabin behind him. Kulp did not turn from his study of the chart. 'Give them a close look,' the mage said.

The old man moved past Kulp, crouching down to frown at the captain's face. The high cheekbones and angular eye sockets looked Tiste Andii, as did the man's evident height. Heboric reached out tentatively-

'Wait,' Kulp growled. 'Be careful what you touch. And which arm you use.'

Heboric hissed in exasperation and dropped his arm. After a moment, he straightened. 'I can only think of one thing. Tiste Edur.'

'Who?'

'Gothos's Folly. There's mention of three Tiste peoples arriving from another realm. Of course the only one that's known to us is the Tiste Andii, and Gothos only names one of the other groups — Tiste Edur. Grey-skinned, not black. Children of the unwelcome union of Mother Dark with the Light.'

'Unwelcome?'

Heboric grimaced. 'The Tiste Andii considered it a degradation of pure Dark, and the source of all their subsequent ills. Anyway, Gothos's Folly is the only tome where you'll find mention of them. It also happens to be the oldest.'

'Gothos was Jaghut, correct?'

'Aye, and as sour-tempered a writer as I've ever had the displeasure of reading. Tell me, Kulp, what does your warren reveal?'

'Nothing.'

Heboric glanced over in surprise. 'Nothing at all?'

'No.'

'But they look to be in stasis — this blood's still wet.'

'I know.'

Heboric gestured at something around the captain's neck. 'There's your whistle, assuming we're going to make use of what's below decks.'

'Either that or we sit here and starve.' Kulp stepped closer to the captain's corpse. A long bone whistle hung from a leather thong, resting alongside the spear's shaft. 'I sense nothing from that bone tube either. It may not even work.'

Heboric shrugged. 'I'm going back up for what passes for fresh air. That spear's Barghast, by the way.'

'It's too damned big,' Kulp countered.

'I know, but that's what it looks like to me.'

'It's too big.'

Heboric made no reply, disappearing up the walkway. Kulp glared at the spear. It's too big. After a moment he reached out and gingerly removed the whistle from around the corpse's neck.

Emerging onto the main deck, the mage glanced again at the whistle. He grunted. It was alive with sorcery now. The breath of Otataral's in that cabin. No wonder their sorcery couldn't defend them. He looked around. Stormy had positioned himself at the prow, his ever-present crossbow strapped to his back. Baudin stood near him, cradling his bandaged hand. Felisin leaned against the railing near the main mast, arms crossed, appallingly cool with a pyramid of severed heads almost at her feet. Heboric was nowhere to be seen.

Gesler approached. 'Truth is heading up to the crow's nest,' he said. 'You got the whistle?'

Kulp tossed it over. 'Chosen a course yet?'

'Truth will see what he sees, then we'll decide.'

The mage craned his head, eyes narrowing on the lad as he lithely scrambled up the rigging. Five breaths later Truth clambered into the crow's nest and vanished from sight.

'Fener's hoof!' The curse drifted down, snared everyone's attention.

'Truth!'

'Three pegs to port! Storm sails!'

Gesler and Kulp rushed to the starboard railing. A smudge marred the formless horizon, flickering with lightning. Kulp hissed. 'That Hood-damned wizard's followed us!'

The corporal spun around. 'Stormy! Check what's left of these sails.' Without pause he put the whistle to his lips and blew. The sound was a chorus of voices, keening tonelessly. It chilled the air, the wail of souls twisted past torture, transforming pain into sound, fading with reluctance as Gesler pulled the whistle away.

Wood thumped on either side as oars were readied. Heboric stumbled from the hold hatch, his tattoos glowing like phosphor, his eyes wide as he swung to Gesler. 'You've got your crew, Corporal.'

'Awake,' Felisin muttered, stepping away from the main mast.

Kulp saw what she had seen. The severed heads had opened their eyes, swiveling to fix on Gesler as if driven by a single ghastly mechanism.

The corporal seemed to flinch, then he shook it off. 'Could've used one of these when I was a drill sergeant,' he said with a tight grin.

'Your drummer's ready down below,' Heboric said from where he stood peering down into the rowers' pit.

'Forget the sails,' Stormy said. 'Rotted through.'

'Man the steering oar,' Gesler ordered him. 'Three pegs to port — we can't do nothing but run.' He raised the whistle again and blew a rapid sequence. The drum started booming in time. The oars swung, blades flipping from horizontal to vertical, then dipped down into the sluggish water and pulled.

The ship groaned, crunching through the meniscus of crust that had clung to the hull. The Silanda lurched into motion and slowly eased round until the rapidly approaching storm cloud was directly astern. The oars pushed slimy water with relentless precision.

Gesler looped the whistle's thong around his neck. 'Wouldn't the old Emperor have loved this old lady, Kulp, eh?'

'Your excitement's nauseating, Corporal.'

The man barked a laugh.

The twin banks of oars lifted the Silanda into a ramming pace and stayed there. The cadence of the drum was a too swift heartbeat. It reverberated in Kulp's bones with a resonance that etched his nerves with pain. He did not need to descend into the pit to affirm his vision of that thick-muscled, headless corpse pounding the gourds against the skin, the relentless heave and pull of the rowers, the searing play of Hood-bound sorcery in the stifling atmosphere. His eyes went in search of Gesler, and found him standing at the sterncastle alongside Stormy. These were hard men, harder than he could fathom. They'd taken the grim black humour of the soldier further than he'd thought possible, cold as the sunless core of a glacier. Bloody-minded confidence. . or fatalism? Never knew Fener's bristles could be so black.

The mad sorcerer's storm still gained on them, slower than before, yet an undeniable threat nonetheless. The mage strode to Heboric's side.

'Is this your god's warren?'

The old man scowled. 'Not my god. Not his warren. Hood knows where in the Abyss we are, and it seems there's no easy wakening from this nightmare.'

'You drove the god-touched hand into Stormy's wound.'

'Aye. Nothing but chance. Could have as easily been the other one.'

'What did you feel?'

Heboric shrugged. 'Something passing through. You'd guessed as much, didn't you?'

Kulp nodded.

'Was it Fener himself?'

'I don't know. I don't think so. I'm not an expert in matters religious. Doesn't seem to have affected Stormy … apart from the healing. I didn't know Fener granted such boons.'

'He doesn't,' the ex-priest muttered, eyes clouding as he looked back at the two marines. 'Not without a price, anyway.'

Felisin sat apart from the others, her closest company the pyramid of staring heads. They didn't bother her much, since their attention remained on Gesler, on the man with the siren whistle of bone dangling on his chest. She thought back to the round in Unta, to the priest of flies. That had been the first time sorcery had been visited upon her. For all the stories of magic and wild wizards, of sorcerous conflagrations engulfing cities in wars at the very edges of the Empire, Felisin had never before witnessed such forces. It was never as common as the tales purported it to be. And the witnessing of magic left scars, a feeling of overwhelming vulnerability in the face of something beyond one's control. It made the world suddenly fey, deadly, frightening and bleak. That day in Unta had shifted her place in the world, or at least her sense of it. And she'd felt off-balance ever since.