The Azathanai looked up and then away again, now studying the walls. ‘This light is pretty,’ she said. ‘I saw a fountain in the courtyard, but it seemed shallow. There is a dryness here that ill fits a mother’s home.’
Breath hissed from Resh’s nostrils in a rush, but a twitch from Sheccanto stilled the warlock, and then she said, ‘If you will not be a guest among us, Born of the Vitr, then we shall not delay you longer. It is your desire to speak with Mother Dark? We shall provide you a suitable escort.’
‘Your faith is empty,’ said T’riss. ‘But I expect you already know that. There was a spirit once, a god of sorts. From the river near here. It reached through the earth, pulsed in the well you bored in the courtyard. But now even the fountain is lifeless. In chaining and harnessing the power of the water, you bound the spirit and stole from it its life. The free shall live but prisoners shall die.’
‘It would seem,’ said Sheccanto — and now her trembling was beyond disguising — ‘that you lack the usual Azathanai tact.’
‘Tact?’ Still her eyes cast about in the chamber, more wandering than restless. ‘Mother, I am sure you mean amused condescension. Azathanai are amused by many things, and our superiority is not in question. Tell me, do we visit often? I imagine not, since the power that now grows from this realm called Kurald Galain is cause for consternation.’ She had slipped her feet from the odd grass moccasins she had been wearing, and now dug the toes of one foot into the deep plush of the wool rug. ‘Someone will come, soon, I expect.’
‘Is that someone not you, then?’ Sheccanto asked.
‘You are dying.’
‘Of course I am dying!’
‘No god sustains you.’
‘No god sustains any of us!’
‘This is wool. It is the hair of animals. You keep these animals for their hair, although some you slay — the newborn and the very old. There is a smell to the meat when it is old, but the meat of the young is most succulent. Mother, the bandit mothers opened the throats of their children — they would give you nothing. Many of your monks are old. Your cult is dying.’
Sheccanto sagged back in her chair. ‘Get her out of here.’
‘I accept your offer,’ T’riss said then. ‘I will be your guest, for this night and the next. Then we shall depart for Kharkanas. It is my belief now that Mother Dark has made a grave error in judgement.’ She turned back to the entrance. ‘Now, I will bathe in the fountain.’
‘Warlock Resh,’ said Sheccanto, ‘escort our guest to the fountain. Lieutenant, remain a moment.’
T’riss left her odd moccasins on the rug where she had kicked them off, and followed Resh from the chamber. As soon as the heavy curtains settled once more, Sheccanto rose from her chair. ‘They murdered their own children? Next time, employ stealth. Attack at night. Kill the mothers first. Your failure here is a grievous wound.’
‘We lost a generation to the wars,’ said Caplo, ‘and this cannot be replaced in a single day, nor from a single camp of wayfarers. Mother, they fought with the ferocity of wolves. We shall travel further afield next time, and employ the tactics you describe.’
Sheccanto was standing on the dais, tall and gaunt, a figure of wrinkled skin and prominent bones beneath her robes. Below the wattle of her neck, he could see the lines of her ribs, and the hollows beneath her jutting clavicles looked impossibly deep. Of course I am dying! This confession had shocked him. There was more to the Mother’s frailty than her two thousand years of life. It was said that there were great healers among the Azathanai. Caplo wondered if some desperate hope had been blunted in this meeting with T’riss.
‘I am not dead yet,’ Sheccanto said, and Caplo saw how her eyes were fixed on him, sharp as knife points.
‘Mother, it is my thought that T’riss is a damaged Azathanai. The Vitr has stolen much of her mind.’
‘All the more cause for concern, lieutenant. Mad she may be, but her power remains, and it is unmitigated by the restraint of reason. She seeks an audience with Mother Dark? You shall be the Azathanai’s escort. Keep your skills close to hand.’
‘Mother, for all my skills, I do not think it possible to assassinate an Azathanai.’
‘Perhaps not, and you may well die in the attempt. So be it.’
‘Is Mother Dark so dear to us?’ Caplo asked. ‘Besides, it would astonish me to discover that one who would assume the title of Mother of Night is incapable of defending herself.’
‘By darkness alone, she defends,’ Sheccanto replied. ‘By darkness alone, she preserves herself. And in that darkness she trusts but one man and that man does not belong to us. Indeed, I am told that he has left Kurald Galain. Westward, into the lands of the Azathanai. Old suspicions are awakened within me.’
Caplo studied her, the face now in profile, hawkish and sharp. ‘Suspicions you have not shared with your chosen assassin, Mother.’
‘Nor shall I, as no proof is possible. I will risk you, lieutenant, even unto losing you, for the sake of defending Mother Dark. It is not that we need her. We don’t. What we do need from her, however, is her gratitude — and her certainty of our allegiance.’
‘Paid in my blood.’
‘Paid in your blood.’
‘Not even the Azathanai can pierce the darkness enveloping Mother Dark.’
Ancient eyes fixed on his. ‘You cannot be certain of that. Does not her gift steal among her closest children? It is said Anomander has no need for light in his private chambers — servants report candles filmed with dust, their wicks not even blackened. Yet books are left lying opened on the map table, along with scrolls bearing his own handwriting. We have no path into this sorcery of hers, but this is not to say it is an obstacle to others.’
‘I am made uneasy, Mother, by this assignment. There are too many unknowns. Would it not be more prudent that I kill her here, in the monastery? Before she can pose any greater threat to our realm?’
‘Her presence here is known, lieutenant. The Wardens have given her into our care.’
Caplo nodded. ‘To persuade them to do so, we also made guarantee of the Azathanai’s safety. But these matters are all contingent. There is sufficient precedent for the unpredictability of our guest to make believable a tale of her initiating violence. Perhaps upon you, or among the monks. Yes, we may weather a period of indignation and accusation, but in the absence of details our word would stand, and prevail. As you taught me many years ago, an assassin seeks to control as much as possible the moment of assassination. I fear that very loss of control when in the Chamber of Night, in audience with Mother Dark and who knows how many other advisers in attendance.’
‘Those others, lieutenant,’ Sheccanto said, ‘will have uppermost in their minds the protection of Mother Dark, not the Azathanai.’
Caplo cocked his head. ‘It has been many years since you last left the monastery, Mother. I have seen Anomander fight, and even in a chamber the size of Mother Dark’s, it is my judgement that he would reach me before I could kill the Azathanai. If not him, then Silchas Ruin.’ At her steady glare he shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is a gift of Mother Dark’s sorcery that has earned them such skills. Or perhaps their talent is entirely natural. Either way, I wager my chances at success as very low; in which case, if I understand you, my life is to be sacrificed as a symbol of Shake loyalty.’
‘We were speaking of this T’riss posing a threat to Mother Dark. I ask that you hold yourself in readiness for such a possibility.’
‘Of course I shall.’
‘And I trust you will understand, should the moment come, that your sacrifice is entirely necessary. After all, we will be the ones delivering the Azathanai into an audience with Mother Dark.’
Caplo lifted his brows. ‘Absolution of consequences? And if no one survives the battle but T’riss?’
‘Then few would argue, lieutenant, that we are all lost. Now then, you will have other responsibilities when in Kharkanas. Hold still your thoughts while I explain.’