'Not like that you won't.
She tossed her head, regarding him with true aristocratic derision. 'You can achieve so much, Waterwalker. If Makkathran is to be remade as you would wish it, then it must change almost beyond recognition. I have no quarrel with that, for I would be atop that change. But radical change must come from within. You know how that has to happen now, your blood must spread wide, carrying with it your will.
'I can change things from where I am.
'No, she said harshly. 'Change imposed by an outsider is an external threat, the one thing that would pull all of Makkathran together. The families, the common man, even the gangs; they would unite to defeat you.
'Those groups, they want me to win, to get rid of the gangs and the corruption that allows them to thrive.
'They want you to get rid of the gangs, that's all. You can't do that, not without help from the established order, they're woven too tightly into our streets and canals for you to root out. The Councils and the Guilds won't help you unless you're committed wholeheartedly to supporting them. You don't have a choice. Your subconscious knows that. I saw your every feeble thought tonight.
'So you're the easy way?
Ranalee ran her gaze lecherously along his naked body. 'Lust for power wasn't the only craving you exposed. All men are the same in the end. I enjoyed that part as much as you did.
'I refuse to play this game with you.
'Idiot, she sighed in disgust, and held out an arm. Her third hand fished a long robe from the closet, which glided through the air to her. 'But then our children were never going to inherit their intelligence from you, were they?
Edeard clambered off the bed, feeling intolerably weary. He was also disgusted with himself, because he knew that part of the night had been true. Her insidious power had unleashed what lay within him.
'It might already be too late for you, she taunted.
He recovered his underwear. 'What do you mean?
She patted her stomach. 'I'm at the right time in my cycle, and you certainly delivered adequately. I'll be such a good mother. I'll even keep it if it's a boy. He can start breeding in a little over a decade. A rival to you. She smiled to deliver maximum hurt.
Edeard's heart fluttered. There was a phial of vinak juice in his luggage. He'd been so desperate to get her into the bedroom he'd never taken it. She hadn't given him time. All deliberate, he knew now.
Fool! She's right, you really are nothing but a backward peasant!
Ranalee caught his distress and laughed.
Edeard's third hand gripped her and shoved her up into the canopy above the bed. Her eyes bulged with shock as she found she couldn't breathe. Below her; Edeard pulled on his shirt, taking his time, not looking up. 'I lack your skill in killing unborns, he said calmly. 'So I'd have to eliminate you to make sure he was never born into the life you envisage for him, or her. He eased off a fraction, and Ranalee sucked down precious air. 'You're too weak, she hissed furiously.
'Sometimes you have to do what's wrong in order to do what's right. He let go of her.
Ranalee crashed down on to the big bed, bouncing hard on the mattress. She scrambled round, and found Edeard leaning over her. She shrank back in trepidation from the expression on his face and the timbre of his thoughts.
'You should never talk so casually about death and killing, he told her. 'Not to those of us who have killed, and will kill again.
'You'll die alone with your dreams broken, she cried defiantly.
'If you are pregnant you will inform me, and I will bring the child up myself. He pulled his boots on, and went out into tin-night, leaving his luggage (including socks) behind.
It had been a long miserable walk back to Makkathran. With only himself for company he was forced to face aspects of his psyche that he didn't much admire. Again and again he considered Ranalee's proposal. He suspected she might be right about how impossible it would be to rip the gangs out of Makkathran. Dear Lady, was this the proposal Finitan spoke of? li can't be. It can't.
How he longed for Akeem's wisdom. Just one last question for his old Master. When he pictured Akeem's kindly ancient face, his old Master was shaking his head in that amused dismay of his which had greeted so many apprentice follies, as if to say: you already know the answer.
When dawn did eventually break and Edeard begged a lift off a farmer driving his cart to market, he was resolved. He would take on Ivarl and the gangs on his own terms. That way he gave himself a victory over the darker nature resting in his soul.
Now, looking along the brightly lit tunnel that seemed to go on for ever beneath the city, Edeard knew he had another long, lonely trek home.
'I really am going to have to get help to deal with these bastards, he decided wearily. Neither the tunnel nor the city answered him. He shrugged and got to his feet again. It wasn't quite so painful as last time. He looked one way, then the other. There was absolutely no difference between them. Both ways saw the tunnel extend out to vanishing point. And the silence was starting to get to him. It was as profound as the time he'd used his third hand to defend himself against Ranalee's voice.
Talents, she'd said, useful little talents. Plural. Edeard had never heard of anything like the liquid light which Ivarl and Tannarl could manifest. And to think; when he'd hauled Arminel back to justice across the surface of Birmingham Pool he'd considered himself invincible. It made him wonder how many other nasty little surprises the aristocratic families kept among themselves.
He probed round with his farsight, trying to find exactly where he was. The tunnel was very deep. He examined the structure above him, searching for a clue of his fall, the direction he'd come from. Makkathran had altered itself again to let him though, but he couldn't detect any difference in the solid bulk overhead. When he focused, he thought he glimpsed something. His farsight swept back, and there he was. It was like an image of himself embedded in the city's substance. Falling, with his arms waving madly, his coat trailing smoke. As he studied the image, it moved slowly. If he focused on the substance above, it sinned to rise back, following, his own point of concentration.
When he changed direction, so did the image. Memory, he realized in delight. The city remembers me.
Edeard tracked the image of himself to the place where it dropped out of the tunnel roof. It was kind of funny to see himself landing splat on the floor, but it still didn't tell him which way to walk, just where the House of Blue Petals stood above. He reached out for the city's peaceful thoughts, and projected an image of Transal Street in Jeavons where he always used a disused cellar to go down into the canal tunnels. Do you have a memory of how to get there? he queried.
There were no images, which he'd only half expected anyway. Then he began to scrabble round for his footing because the tunnel was somehow tilting. The floor shifted down alarmingly fast, and Edeard slipped on to his back. He started sliding along the smooth surface, picking up speed as the angle kept increasing. It was already way past forty-five degrees, and building. The infinite line of red lights was flashing past. He instinctively knew what was going to happen next, even though it was utterly impossible. How can a tunnel possibly tilt?
There was never any answer. The only sound in the tunnel was Edeard's scream as he began to fall down the now vertical shaft.