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Her eyes widened and she leaned back as he moved down over her. In a small voice, she asked, ‘Do you not wish to know my name?’ ‘No,’ he growled. ‘I will call you Dayliss.’ And he saw nothing of the shame that filled her young, beautiful face. Nor did he sense the darkness his words clawed into her soul.
It was not, Strings had come to believe, a question of right and wrong. Some cultures were inward-looking. Others were aggressive. The former were rarely capable of mustering a defence against the latter, not without metamorphosing into some other thing, a thing twisted by the exigencies of desperation and violence.
The two murderers had died indeed—at the hands of the man named Cutter. Not Crokus, not the Daru youth, the cut-purse—who had vanished. Vanished, probably never to be seen again. The delusion held a certain comfort, as cavernous at its core as Apsalar’s embrace at night, but welcome all the same. Cutter would walk her path.
A single blow shattered the chains. With his free right hand, Onrack reached down and clutched one of the Edur’s ankles. He dragged the man after him along the top of the wall. ‘I would rail at the indignity of this,’ the Tiste Edur said as he was pulled onward, step by scuffing step, ‘had I the strength to do so.’ Onrack made no reply.
As Gamet made to leave, Tene Baralta touched his shoulder. ‘Fist,’ he said, ‘what is the situation with this…this T’amber? Do you know? Why is the Adjunct being so…cagey? Women who take women for lovers—the only crime is the loss to men, and so it has always been.’
Damn it, Cutter—Crokus would’ve had questions! Mowri knows, he would’ve hesitated a lot longer before accepting Cotillion’s bargain. If he accepted at all! This new persona was imposing a certain sense of stricture—he’d thought it would bring him more freedom. But now it was beginning to appear that the truly free one had been Crokus.
‘What do you make of that night sky, Pearl? I do not recognize the constellations…nor have I ever before seen those glowing swirls in any night sky I’ve looked at.’ He grunted. ‘That’s a foreign sky—as foreign as can be. A hole leading into alien realms, countless strange worlds filled with creatures unimaginable—’ ‘You really don’t know, do you?’ ‘Of course I don’t!’ he snapped. ‘Then why didn’t you just say so?’ ‘It was more fun conjecturing creatively, of course. How can a man be the object of a woman’s interest if he’s always confessing his ignorance?’ ‘You want me to be interested in you?
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‘Although,’ she added, with a faint smile, ‘you have done well to hide your Liosan traits.’ ‘We are skilled in such things, Queen of Dreams.’ She nodded, still not meeting his eyes. ‘As are all the Tiste. Anomander once spent almost two centuries in the guise of a royal bodyguard…human, in the manner you have achieved.’
The rage that burned in him had contracted down to a white-hot core. He struggled to control it, his resolve sporadically weakened by doubts that he was doing the right thing. This was…monstrous. There would be an answer to it. There would have to be an answer to it. Even more monstrous, he realized with a chill, they had all known the risk. We knew he wanted her. Yet we did nothing.
legion of the wounded, the bereft. And they will be eager to share out their loss of pleasure. They are human, after all, and it is human nature to transform loss into a virtue. So that it might be lived with, so that it might be justified.
‘Serve us,’ Ber’ok murmured, ‘and we in turn shall serve you. Give us your answer quickly—someone comes.’ She noted the wavering lantern light on the trail. L’oric. ‘How?’ she asked the gods. ‘How will you serve me?’ ‘We shall ensure that Bidithal’s death is in a manner to match his crimes, and that it shall be…timely.’ ‘And how am I to be the knife?’ ‘Child,’ the god calmly replied, ‘you already are.’
Gesler followed the procedure, seeking the added opinions of both Tavos Pond and Sands during his protracted examination of Joyful Union, whilst Fiddler leaned back with a slight smile on his bearded face, waiting patiently until, with a snarl, Gesler swore his vow. ‘I, Sergeant Gesler of the 5th squad in the 9th Company of the 8th Legion, swear by the two Lords of Summer, Fener and Treach, that the creature before me is a natural, unaltered Birdshit scorpion—even though I know there’s something about it I’m not seeing and I’m about to lose my life’s savings on the Sergeants’ Wager.’
‘We are, sir. Pella! Down here, help me with the Fist.’ Another marine arrived, this one much younger—oh, no, too young for this. I will ask the Adjunct to send him home. To his mother and father, yes. He should not have to die—‘You should not have to die.’ ‘Sir?’ ‘Only his horse between him and a cusser blast,’ Gesler said. ‘He’s addled, Pella. Now, take his arms…’ Addled? No, my mind is clear. Perfectly clear, now. Finally. They’re all too young for this. It’s Laseen’s war—let her fight it. Tavore—she was a child, once. But then the Empress murdered that child. Murdered her. I must tell the
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Osric studied his son. ‘So like your mother,’ he sighed. ‘And is it any wonder we could not stand each other’s company? The third day, always by the third day. We could make a lifetime of those three days. Exaltation, then comfort, then mutual contempt. One, two, three.’ L’oric looked away. ‘And for your only son?’ Osric grunted. ‘More like three bells.’
She was not comforted by company within her prison. His love was for the wrong woman, the wrong Apsalar. And hers was for Crokus, not Cutter. And so they were together, yet apart, intimate yet strangers, and it seemed there was nothing they could do about it.
Ganoes laughing and gently instructing her—there was joy and comfort to her brother, the way he made teaching subservient to the game’s natural pleasures. But she’d never had the chance for that. No chance, in fact, for much of anything that could now return to her, memories warm and trusting and reassuring.
Blood. Of course. This is how you break an unbreakable chain. By dying. I just wanted to know, Tavore, why you did it. And why you did not love me, when I loved you. I—I think that’s what I wanted to know. The boot lifted from her chest. But she could still feel its weight. Heavy. So very heavy… Oh, Mother, look at us now.
A short while later there was a startled shout from Smiles, and Fiddler turned, in time to see two figures stride out from a warren. Despite everything, he found himself grinning. Old friends, he realized, were getting harder to find. Still, he knew them, and they were his brothers. Mortal souls of Raraku. Raraku, the land that had bound them together. Bound them all, as was now clear, beyond even death. Fiddler was unmindful of how it looked, of what the others thought, upon seeing the three men close to a single embrace.
‘This path. It will do.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘Cotillion. This notion of…balance. Something has occurred to me—’ Cotillion’s eyes silenced him, shocked him with their unveiling of sorrow…of remorse. The patron of assassins nodded. ‘From her…to you. Aye.’ ‘Did she see that, do you think?’ ‘All too clearly, I’m afraid.’ Cutter stared out the window. ‘I loved her, you know. I still do.’ ‘So you do not wonder why she has left.’ He shook his head, unable to fight back the tears any more. ‘No, Cotillion,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t.’
