Deadhouse Gates

'The Azath has worked towards this taking for a long time, mortals.' The man turned then. Huge tusks framed his thin mouth, jutting from his lower lip. The greenish cast of his weathered skin made him look ghostly, despite the hearth's warm light. Eyes the colour of dirty ice regarded them.



Fiddler stared, seeing what he could not believe – the resemblance was unmistakeable, every feature an echo. His mind reeled.



'My son must be stopped – his rage is a poison,' the Jaghut said. 'Some responsibilities surpass friendship, surpass even blood.'



'We are sorry,' Apsalar said quietly after a long moment, 'but the task was ever beyond us, beyond those you see here.'



The cold, unhuman eyes studied her. 'Perhaps you are right. It is my turn to apologize. I had such ... hopes.'



'Why?' Fiddler whispered. 'Why is Icarium so cursed?'



The Jaghut cocked his head, then abruptly swung back to the fire. 'Wounded warrens are a dangerous thing. Wounding one is far more so. My son sought a way to free me from the Azath. He failed. And was ... damaged. He did not understand – and now he never will – that I am content here. There are few places in all the realms that offer a Jaghut peace, or, rather, such peace as we are capable of achieving. Unlike your kind, we yearn for solitude, for that is our only safety.'



He faced them again. 'For Icarium, of course, there is another irony. Without memory, he knows nothing of what once motivated him. He knows nothing of wounded warrens or the secrets of the Azath.' The Jaghut's sudden smile was a thing of pain. 'He knows nothing of me, either.'



Apsalar lifted her head suddenly, 'You are Gothos, aren't you?'



He did not answer.



Fiddler's gaze was drawn to a bench against the near wall. He hobbled to it and sat down. Leaning his head against the warm stone wall, he closed his eyes. Gods, our struggles are as nothing, our inner scars naught but scratches. Bless you, Hood, for your gift of mortality. I could not live as these Ascendants do – I could not so torture my soul. . .



'It is time for you to leave,' the Jaghut rumbled. 'If you are ailing with wounds, you shall find a bucket of water near the front door – the water has healing properties. This night is rife with unpleasantries in the streets beyond, so tread with care.'



Apsalar turned, meeting Fiddler's eyes as he blinked them open and struggled to focus through his tears. Oh, Mappo, Icarium . . . so entwined . . .



'We must go,' she said.



He nodded, pushed himself to his feet. 'I could do with a drink of water,' he muttered.



Crokus was taking a last look around, at the faded tapestries, the ornate bench, the pieces of stone and wood placed on ledges, finally at the numerous scrolls stacked on a desktop against the wall opposite the double doors. With a sigh he backed away. Apsalar's father followed.



They returned to the hall and approached the entranceway. The bucket stood to one side, a wooden ladle hanging from a hook above it.



Apsalar took the ladle, dipped it into the water, offered it to Fiddler.



He drank deep, then barked in pain as an appallingly swift mending gripped his ankle. A moment later it passed. He sagged, suddenly covered in sweat. The others eyed him. 'For Hood's sake,' the sapper panted, 'don't drink unless you truly need it.'



Apsalar replaced the ladle.



The door opened at a touch, revealing a night sky and a shambles of a yard. A flagstone path wound its way to an arched gate. The entire grounds were enclosed by a low stone wall. Tenement houses rose beyond, every shutter closed.



'Well?' Crokus asked, turning to Fiddler.



'Aye. Malaz City.'



'Damned ugly.'



'Indeed.'



Testing his ankle and finding not a single tremor of pain, Fiddler walked down the path to the arched gate. In the dark pool of its shadow, he looked out onto the street.



No movement. No sound.



'I don't like this at all.'



'Sorcery has touched this city,' Apsalar pronounced. 'And I know its taste.'



Fiddler eyes narrowed on her. 'Claw?'



She nodded.



The sapper swung his pack around to reach beneath the flap. 'That means close-up scuffles, maybe.'



'If we're unlucky.'



He withdrew two sharpers. 'Yeah.'



'Where to?' Crokus whispered.



Damned if I know. 'Let's try Smiley's – it's a tavern both Kalam and I know well...'



They stepped out from the gate.



A huge shadow unfolded before them, revealing a hulking, ungainly shape.



Apsalar's hand shot out and stilled Fiddler's arm even as he prepared to throw. 'No, wait.'