‘These are Tiste Andu, apart from a few-and those few look far too much like me.’
‘Who are these Tiste Andu?’
‘Just a people. There are some fighting in Caladan Brood’s liberation army on Genabackis. An ancient people, it’s said. In any case, they worship Darkness.’
Karsa, suddenly weary, sat down on the steps leading to the forecastle. ‘Darkness,’ he muttered. ‘A place where one is left blind-a strange thing to worship.’
‘Perhaps the most realistic worship of all,’ the Daru replied, wrapping another severed head. ‘How many of us bow before a god in the desperate hope that we can somehow shape our fate? Praying to that familiar face pushes away our terror of the unknown-the unknown being the future. Who knows, maybe these Tiste Andu are the only ones among us all who see the truth, the truth being oblivion.’ Keeping his eyes averted, he carefully gathered another black-skinned, long-haired head. ‘It’s a good thing these poor souls have no throats left to utter sounds, else we find ourselves in a ghastly debate.’
‘You doubt your own words, then.’
‘Always, Karsa. On a more mundane level, words are like gods-a means of keeping the terror at bay. I will likely have nightmares about this until my aged heart finally gives out. An endless succession of heads, with all-too-cognizant eyes, to wrap up in sealskin. And with each one I tie up, pop! Another appears.’
‘Your words are naught but foolishness.’
‘Oh, and how many souls have you delivered unto darkness, Karsa Orlong?’
The Teblor’s eyes narrowed. ‘I do not think it was darkness that they found,’ he replied quietly. After a moment, he looked away, struck silent by a sudden realization. A year ago he would have killed someone for saying what Torvald had just said, had he understood its intent to wound-which in itself was unlikely. A year ago, words had been blunt, awkward things, confined within a simple, if slightly mysterious world. But that flaw had been Karsa’s alone-not a characteristic of the Teblor in general-for Bairoth Gild had flung many-edged words at Karsa, a constant source of amusement for the clever warrior though probably dulled by Karsa’s own unawareness of their intent.
Torvald Nom’s endless words-but no, more than just that-all that Karsa had experienced since leaving his village-had served as instruction on the complexity of the world. Subtlety had been a venomed serpent slithering unseen through his life. Its fangs had sunk deep many times, yet not once had he become aware of their origin; not once had he even understood the source of the pain. The poison itself had coursed deep within him, and the only answer he gave-when he gave one at all-was of violence, often misdirected, a lashing out on all sides.
Darkness, and living blind. Karsa returned his gaze to the Daru kneeling and wrapping severed heads, there on the mizzen deck. And who has dragged the cloth from my eyes? Who has awakened Karsa Orlong, son of Synyg? Urugal? No, not Urugal. He knew that for certain, for the otherworldly rage he had felt in the cabin, that icy breath that had swept through him-that had belonged to his god. A fierce displeasure-to which Karsa had found himself oddly… indifferent.
The Seven Faces in the Rock never spoke of freedom. The Teblor were their servants. Their slaves.
‘You look unwell, Karsa,’ Torvald said, approaching. ‘I am sorry for my last words-’
‘There is no need, Torvald Nom,’ Karsa said, rising. ‘We should return to our-’
He stopped as the first splashes of rain struck him, then the deck on all sides. Milky, slimy rain.
‘Uh!’ Torvald grunted. ‘If this is a god’s spit, he’s decidedly unwell.’
The water smelled foul, rotten. It quickly coated the ship decks, the rigging and tattered sails overhead, in a thick, pale grease.
Swearing, the Daru began gathering foodstuffs and watercasks to load into their dory below. Karsa completed one last circuit of the decks, examining the weapons and armour he had pulled from the grey-skinned bodies. He found the rack of harpoons and gathered the six that remained.
The downpour thickened, creating murky, impenetrable walls on all sides of the ship. Slipping in the deepening muck, Karsa and Torvald quickly resupplied the dory, then pushed out from the ship’s hull, the Teblor at the oars. Within moments the ship was lost from sight, and around them the rain slackened. Five sweeps of the oars and they were out from beneath it entirely, once again on gently heaving seas under a pallid sky. The strange coastline was visible ahead, slowly drawing closer.
On the forecastle of the massive ship, moments after the dory with its two passengers slipped behind the screen of muddy rain, seven almost insubstantial figures rose from the slime. Shattered bones, gaping wounds bleeding nothing, the figures weaved uncertainly in the gloom, as if barely able to maintain their grip on the scene they had entered.
One of them hissed with anger. ‘Each time we seek to draw the knot tight-’
‘He cuts it,’ another finished in a wry, bitter tone.
A third one stepped down to the mizzen deck, kicked desultorily at a discarded sword. ‘The failure belonged to the Tiste Edur,’ this one pronounced in a rasping voice. ‘If punishment must be enacted, it should be in answer to their arrogance.’
‘Not for us to demand,’ the first speaker snapped. ‘We are not the masters in this scheme-’
‘Nor are the Tiste Edur!’
‘Even so, and we are each given particular tasks. Karsa Orlong survives still, and he must be our only concern-’
‘He begins to know doubts.’
‘None the less, his journey continues. It falls to us, now, with what little power we are able to extend, to direct his path onward.’
‘We’ve had scant success thus far!’
‘Untrue. The Shattered Warren stirs awake once more. The broken heart of the First Empire begins to bleed-less than a trickle at the moment, but soon it will become a flood. We need only set our chosen warrior upon the proper current…’
‘And is that within our power, limited as it still remains?’
‘Let us find out. Begin the preparations. Ber’ok, scatter that handful of otataral dust in the cabin-the Tiste Edur sorcerer’s warren remains open and, in this place, it will quickly become a wound… a growing wound. The time has not yet come for such unveilings.’
The speaker then lifted its mangled head and seemed to sniff the air. ‘We must work quickly,’ it announced after a moment. ‘I believe we are being hunted.’
The remaining six turned to face the speaker, who nodded in answer to their silent question. ‘Yes. There are kin upon our trail.’
The wreckage of an entire land had drawn up alongside the massive stone wall. Uprooted trees, rough-hewn logs, planks, shingles and pieces of wagons and carts were visible amidst the detritus. The verges were thick with matted grasses and rotted leaves, forming a broad plain that twisted, rose and fell on the waves. The wall was barely visible in places, so high was the flotsam, and the level of the water beneath it.
Torvald Nom was positioned at the bow whilst Karsa rowed. ‘I don’t know how we’ll get to that wall,’ the Daru said. ‘You’d better back the oars now, friend, lest we ground ourselves on that mess-there’s catfish about.’
Karsa slowed the dory. They drifted, the hull nudging the carpet of flotsam. After a few moments it became apparent that there was a current, pulling their craft along the edge.
‘Well,’ Torvald muttered, ‘that’s a first for this sea. Do you think this is some sort of tide?’
‘No,’ Karsa replied, his gaze tracking the strange shoreline in the direction of the current. ‘It is a breach in the wall.’
‘Oh. Can you see where?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
The current was tugging them along faster, now.
Karsa continued, ‘There is an indentation in the shoreline, and many trees and logs jammed where the wall should be-can you not hear the roar?’