Deadhouse Gates

'Seer?'



'The Apocalypse has but one commander, Korbolo Dom. Do as I say.'



And silence once again tells its tale.



'Of course, Seer,' the renegade Fist finally grated.



'Leoman.'



'Seer?'



'Encamp our own people. Have them bury the dead on the plain.'



Korbolo Dom cleared his throat. 'And once we've regrouped – what do you propose to do then?'



Propose? 'We shall meet Tavore. But the time and place shall be of my choosing, not hers.' She paused, then said, 'We return to Raraku.'



She ignored the shouts of surprise and dismay, ignored the questions flung at her, even as they rose into demands. Raraku – the heart of my newfound power. I shall need that embrace . . . if I am to defeat this fear – this terror – of my sister. Oh, Goddess, guide me now . . .



The protests, eliciting no responses, slowly died away. A wind had picked up, moaned through the gate behind them.



Heboric's voice rose above it. 'Who is this? I can see nothing – can sense nothing. Who is this man?'



The corpulent, silk-clad priest finally spoke. 'An old man, Unhanded One. A soldier, no more than that. One among ten thousand.'



'Do – do you...' Heboric slowly turned, his milky eyes glistening. 'Do you hear a god's laughter? Does anyone hear a god's laughter?'



The Jhistal priest cocked his head. 'Alas, I hear only the wind.'



Sha'ik frowned at Heboric. He looked suddenly so ... small.



After a moment she wheeled her horse around. 'It is time to leave. You have your orders.'



Heboric was the last, sitting helpless on his horse, staring up at a corpse that told him nothing. There was no end to the laughter in his head, the laughter that rode the wind sweeping through Aren Gate at his back.



What am I not meant to see? Is it you who have truly blinded me now, Fener? Or is it that stranger of jade who flows silent within me? Is this a cruel joke . . . or some land of mercy?



See what has become of your wayward son, Fener, and know – most assuredly know – that I wish to come home.



I wish to come home.



Commander Blistig stood at the parapet, watching the Adjunct and her retinue ascend the broad limestone steps that led to the palace gate directly beneath him. She was not as old as he would have liked, but even at this distance he sensed something of the rumoured hardness in her. An attractive younger woman walked at her side – Tavore's aide and lover, it was said – but Blistig could not recall if he'd ever heard her name. On the Adjunct's other flank strode the captain of her family's own house guard, a man named Gimlet. He had the look of a veteran, and that was reassuring.



Captain Keneb arrived. 'No luck, Commander.'



Blistig frowned, then sighed. The scorched ship's crew had disappeared almost immediately after docking and offloading the wounded soldiers from Coltaine's Seventh. The garrison commander had wanted them present for the Adjunct's arrival – he suspected Tavore would desire to question them – and Hood knows, those irreverent bastards could do with a blistering...



'The Seventh's survivors have been assembled for her inspection, sir,' Keneb said.



'Including the Wickans?'



'Aye, and both warlocks among them.'



Blistig shivered despite the sultry heat. They were a frightening pair. So cold, so silent. Two children who are not.



And Squint was still missing – the commander well knew that it was unlikely he would ever see that man again. Heroism and murder in a single gesture would be a hard thing for any person to live with. He only hoped that they wouldn't find the old bowman floating face down in the harbour.



Keneb cleared his throat. 'Those survivors, sir .. .'



'I know, Keneb, I know.' They're broken. Queen's mercy, so broken. Mended flesh can do only so much. Mind you, I've got my own troubles with the garrison – I've never seen a company so . . . brittle.



'We should make our way below, sir – she's almost at the gate.'



Blistig sighed. 'Aye, let's go meet this Adjunct Tavore.'



Mappo gently laid Icarium down in the soft sand of the sinkhole. He'd rigged a tarp over his unconscious friend, sufficient for shade, but there was little he could do about the stench of putrefaction that hung heavy in the motionless air. It was not the best of smells for the Jhag to awaken to .. .



The ruined village was behind them now, the black gate's shadow unable to reach to where Mappo had laid out the camp beside the road and its ghastly sentinels. The Azath warren had spat them out ten leagues to the north, days ago now. The Trell had carried Icarium in his arms all that way, seeking a place free of death – he'd hoped to have found it by now. Instead, the horror had worsened.