Sky has lost its clouds to some ragged wind that never runs aground these shoals revealed on paths untrod.
Wind heaves waves unseen in the shell a cup of promise unfulfilled the rank lie of salt that bites my tongue.
I dwelt by a sea, once etching histories along the endless strand in rolling scrolls of flotsam and weed.
There had been rain in the afternoon, which was just as well since there wasn’t much value in burning the entire forest down and besides, he wasn’t popular at the best of times. They had mocked his antics, and they had said he stank, too, so much so that no-one ever came within reach of his huge, gnarled hands. Of course, had any of his neighbours done so, he might well have torn their limbs off to answer years of scorn and abuse.
Old Hunch Arbat no longer pulled his cart from farm to farm, from shack to shack, collecting the excrement with which he buried the idols of the Tarthenal gods that had commanded a mostly forgotten glade deep in the woods. The need had passed, after all. The damned hoary nightmares were dead.
His neighbours had not appreciated Arbat’s sudden retirement, since now the stink of their wastes had begun to foul their own homes. Lazy wastrels that they were, they weren’t of a mind to deepen their cesspits-didn’t Old Hunch empty them out on a regular basis? Well, not any more.
That alone might have been reason enough to light out. And Arbat would have liked nothing better than to just vanish into the forest gloom, never to be seen again. Walk far, yes, until he came to a hamlet or village where none knew him, where none even knew of him. Rainwashed of all odour, just some kindly, harmless old mixed-blood Tarthenal who could, for a coin or two, mend broken things, including flesh and bone.
Walk, then. Leaving behind the old Tarthenal territories, away from the weed-snagged statues in the overgrown glades. And maybe, even, away from the ancient blood of his heritage. Not all healers were shamans, were they? They’d not ask any awkward questions, so long as he treated them right, and he could do that, easy.
Old bastards like him deserved their rest. A lifetime of service. Propitiations, the Masks of Dreaming, the leering faces of stone, the solitary rituals-all done, now. He could walk his last walk, into the unknown. A hamlet, a village, a sun-warmed boulder beside a trickling stream, where he could settle back and ease his tortured frame and not move, until the final mask was pulled away…
Instead, he had woken in darkness, in the moments before false dawn, shaking as if afflicted with ague, and before his eyes had hovered the slowly shredding fragments of a most unexpected Dream Mask. One he had never seen before, yet a visage of terrifying power. A mask crazed with cracks, a mask moments from shattering explosively-
Lying on his cot, the wood frame creaking beneath him as he trembled from head to foot, he waited for revelation.
The sun was high overhead when he finally emerged from his shack. Banks of clouds climbed the sky to the west-an almost-spent storm coming in from the sea-and he set about his preparations, ignoring the rain when it arrived.
Now, with dusk fast approaching, Arbat collected a bundled cane of rushes and set one end aflame from the hearth. He fired his shack, then the woodshed, and finally the old barn wherein resided his two-wheeled cart. Then, satisfied that each building was truly alight, he shouldered the sack containing those possessions and supplies he would need, and set out onto the trail leading down to the road.
A grunt of surprise a short time later, on the road, as he ran into a score of villagers hurrying in a mob towards him. In their lead, the Factor, who cried out in relief upon seeing Arbat.
‘Thank the Errant you’re alive, Hunch!’
Scowling, Arbat studied the man’s horsey face for a moment, then scanned the pale smudges of the other faces, hovering behind the Factor. ‘What is all this?’ he demanded.
‘A troop of Edur are staying at the inn tonight, Arbat. When word of the fires reached them they insisted we head up to help-in case the wood goes up, you see-’
‘The wood, right. So where are the meddlers now, then?’
‘They remained behind, of course. But I was ordered-’ the Factor paused, then leaned closer to peer up at Arbat. ‘Was it Vrager, then? The fool likes his fires, and is no friend of yours.’
‘Vrager? Could be. He’s been in the habit of sneaking in at night and pissing on my door. Doesn’t accept me being retired and all. Says I got a duty to cart away his shit.’
‘And so you do!’ someone growled from the mob behind the Factor. ‘Why else do we let you live here anyway?’
‘Well that’s a problem solved now, ain’t it?’ Arbat said grinning. ‘Vrager burned me out, so I’m leaving.’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘What business was this of the Edur. It’s just done rained-the chances of the blaze moving much ain’t worth the worry. Didn’t you tell them my place is cleared back eighty, a hundred paces on all sides? And there’s the old settling pools-good as a moat.’
The Factor shrugged, then said, ‘They asked about you, then decided maybe someone had torched you out of spite-and that’s breaking the law and the Edur don’t like it when that happens-’
‘And they told you to do your job, did they?’ Arbat laughed at the man. ‘That’d be a first!’
‘Vrager, you said- is that a formal accusation, Arbat? If it is, you gotta dictate and make your mark and stay round for the convening and if Vrager hires an advocate-’
‘Vrager’s got a cousin in Letheras who’s just that,’ someone said.
The Factor nodded. ‘All this could take a damned while, Arbat, and ain’t none of us obliged to give you a roof overhead, neither-’
‘So best I don’t cause trouble, right? You can tell the Edur I wasn’t making no formal complaint, so that’s that. And what with the shacks pretty much burnt down by now and the chill seeping into your bones and no sign the fire’s jumped anywhere…’ Arbat slapped the Factor on the shoulder-a gesture that nearly drove the man to his knees-then stepped past. ‘Make way, the rest of you-could be I’m still contagious with all the sick you been dumping in my cart.’
That worked readily enough, and Arbat’s way was suddenly clear. And on he walked.
They’d give Vrager some trouble-not good calling down the Edur’s regard, after all-but it’d be nothing fatal. Pissing against a door don’t forfeit the fool’s life, now did it? Anyway, the Edur would ride on, to wherever it was they were going, and he’d leave them-
What now? Horses on the road, riders coming at the canter. Grumbling under his breath, Old Hunch Arbat worked his way to one verge, then waited.
Another damned troop. Letherii this time.
The lead rider, an officer, slowed her mount upon seeing Arbat, and the troop behind her did the same at her command. As she trotted her horse closer, she called out, ‘You, sir-is there a village ahead?’
‘There is,’ Arbat replied, ‘though you might have to fight for room at the inn.’
And why’s that?’ she asked as she rode opposite.
‘Some Edur staying the night there.’
At that the officer reined in, gesturing the rest to a halt. twisting in her saddle, she eyed him from beneath the ridge of her iron helm. ‘Tiste Edur?’
‘That’s them all right.’
‘What are they doing there?’
Before he could answer, one of her soldiers said, Atri-Preda, something’s blazing ahead-y’can see the glow and smell it.’
‘That’d be my homestead,’ Arbat replied. ‘Accident. It won’t spread, I’m sure of that as can be. Got nothing to do,’ he added, ‘with them Edur. They’re just passing through.’
The Atri-Preda swore under her breath. ‘Tarthenal, yes?’
‘Mostly.’
‘Can you think of anywhere we can camp for the night, then? Close by, but well off the trail.’
Arbat squinted at her. ‘Off the trail, eh? Far enough off so’s your privacy ain’t disturbed, you mean?’