The Letherii nodded. ‘As you wish, master. Only… I am tired. I – I keep blacking out, only to awaken at the sound of my own voice.’ He shook his head helplessly. ‘I don’t even know what I have said to your brother-’
‘It matters not,’ Fear cut in. ‘What you have done…’ His words trailed away, and for a moment it seemed his face would crumple. Trull saw the muscles of his brother’s neck tauten, then Fear’s eyes closed tight, he drew a deep breath and was himself once more. He shook his head, unable to speak.
Trull crouched beside Udinaas and Rhulad. ‘Udinaas, I understand. You need rest. But stay for a few moments longer, if you can.’
The slave nodded.
Trull shifted his gaze, studied Rhulad’s ravaged face, the eyes still shut – but there was movement behind them. ‘Rhulad. It is Trull. Listen to me, my brother. Keep your eyes closed, for now. We must get this – this armour – off you-’
At that Rhulad shook his head.
‘They are funereal coins, Rhulad-’
‘Y-yes. I… know.’
Words raw and heavy, the breath pushed out from a constricted chest.
Trull hesitated, then said, ‘Udinaas has been with you, alone, preparing you-’
‘Yes.’
‘He is used up, brother.’
‘Yes. Tell Mother. I want. I want him.’
‘Of course. But let him go now, please-’
The hand dropped away from the slave’s arm, clunking hard and seemingly insensate on the floor. The other hand, still holding the sword, suddenly twitched.
And a ghastly smile emerged on Rhulad’s face. ‘Yes. I hold it still. This. This is what he meant.’
Trull edged back slightly.
Udinaas crawled off a short distance, leaned up against the chest of coins. He drew himself up into a shape echoing that of Rhulad, and, in the moment before he turned his face away, Trull saw the visage fill with anguish.
Exhaustion or no, for Udinaas peace and rest was ten thousand paces away – Trull could see that, could understand that brutal truth. Rhulad had had the slave, but whom did Udinaas have?
Not a typical Edur thought.
But nothing – nothing – was as it was. Trull rose and moved close to Fear. He thought for a moment, then swung round to the entranceway. Mayen was still standing there, at her side the Letherii, Feather Witch. Trull gestured at the slave, then pointed to where Udinaas crouched.
He saw her face stretch in horror. Saw her shake her head.
Then she ran from the building.
Trull grimaced.
A commotion at the entrance, and Mayen withdrew from sight.
Tomad and Uruth appeared.
And behind them, as they slowly edged forward, came Hannan Mosag.
Oh. Oh no. The sword. The damned sword-
CHAPTER TEN
White petals spin and curl on their way down to the depthless sea. The woman and her basket, her hand flashing red in quick soft motion scattering these pure wings, to ride a moment on the wind. She stands, a forlorn goddess birthing flight that fails and falls on the river’s broad breast. A basket of birds destined to drown. See her weep in the city’s drawn shadow her hand a thing disembodied, carrion-clawed and ceaseless in repetition, she delivers death and in her eyes is seen the horror of living.
Lady Elassara of Trate Cormor Fural
THE ROLL OF THUNDER, THE HEAVY TRAMMELLING OF RAIN ON THE roof. The storm was following the course of the river, drawn northward and dragging one edge of its heaving clouds across Letheras. Unseasonal, unwelcome, making the single room of Tehol’s abode close and steamy. There were two more stools than there had been, retrieved by Bugg from a rubbish heap. On one of them, in the far corner, sat Ublala Pung, weeping.
As he had been without pause for over a bell, his huge frame racked with a shuddering that made the stool creak alarmingly. In the centre of the small room, Tehol paced.
A splashing of feet outside, then the curtain in the doorway was tugged to one side and Bugg stamped in, water streaming from him. He coughed. ‘What’s burning in the hearth?’
Tehol shrugged. ‘Whatever was piled up beside it, of course.’
‘But that was your rain hat. I wove it myself, with my own two hands.’
‘A rain hat? Those reeds had wrapped rotting fish-’
‘That’s the stink, all right.’ Bugg nodded, wiping at his eyes. ‘Anyway, rotting is a relative term, master.’
‘It is?’
‘The Faraed consider it a delicacy.’
‘You just wanted me to smell like fish.’
‘Better you than the whole house,’ Bugg said, glancing over at Ublala. ‘What’s wrong with him?’