Forge of Darkness

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.’



A short time later, Caplo emerged into the courtyard and made his way towards the fountain. Warlock Resh was standing at a respectable distance from T’riss, who wandered naked through the knee-deep water, droplets glistening on her burnished skin. There were signs of sunburn upon her shoulders, the patches of peeling skin reminding Caplo of shedding snakes. Apart from the warlock and the Azathanai, no one else was within sight anywhere in the courtyard.



Children either flee the baring of flesh, or gawk. But it is unseemly to gawk. For me, I but admire.



He came up to stand beside Resh. ‘It is said that we are ever students, no matter our age.’



Resh grunted. ‘Lessons oft repeated, never quite learned. I see before me a new treatise on life.’



‘The critics will savage you.’



‘They shall be as midges upon my hide. Frenzied in scale, but the scale is small.’



‘Then I shall look with delight upon your pocked and wealed self.’



‘It is your secret admiration of savages, Caplo, which your words now betray.’



‘All betrayal will begin, or end, with words.’



‘Savage ones?’



‘I imagine so, Resh.’



T’riss had made her way to the far side of the fountain and now sat upon the broad ledge, face upturned to the sun and eyes closed.



‘If Mother Dark had rejected the element of Night and taken the element of Silence instead,’ mused Resh, ‘there would be peace everlasting.’



‘You suggest then,’ Caplo asked, ‘that all instances of violence involve some manner of betrayal?’



‘I do, and it shall be first and pre-eminent in my list of lessons never learned.’



‘The hawk betrays the hare? The swift betrays the fly?’



‘In a manner of speaking, most certainly, my sickly friend.’



‘Then we are all doomed to betray, since it seems implicit in the very act of survival.’



Resh faced him. ‘Have you not witnessed for yourself the anguish of philosophers? The glee of their guilt, the eager admonition of their selves and all kin? We have all betrayed the promise of everlasting peace, and was there not an age, long ago, when death was unknown? When sustenance itself was without cost or sacrifice?’



That notion was an old joke between them. ‘Warlock Resh,’ Caplo now replied, ‘all the philosophers I have seen are either drunk or insensate.’



‘’Tis the sorrows of loss, friend, and the wallows of recognition.’



‘’Tis weakness of will, I wager the more likely.’



‘A will crumbled helpless to the assault of revelation. When we are driven to our knees, the world shrinks.’