Brys reached the edge of the yard along one side, the gate to his right, the tower to the left. And saw immediately that many of the barrows within sight had slumped on at least one of their sides, as if gutted from within. The weeds covering the mounds were dead, blackened as if by rot.
He studied the scene for a moment longer, then made his way round the perimeter towards the gateway. Striding between the pillars, onto the first flagstone – which pitched down to one side with a grinding clunk. Brys tottered, flinging his arms out for balance, and managed to recover without falling.
High-pitched laughter from near the tower’s entrance.
He looked up.
The girl emerged from the shadow cast by the tower. ‘I know you. I followed the ones following you. And killed them.’
‘What has happened here?’
‘Bad things.’ She came closer, mould-patched and dishevelled. ‘Are you my friend? I was supposed to help it stay alive. But it died anyway, and things are busy killing each other. Except for the one the tower chose. He wants to talk to you.’
‘To me?’
‘To one of my grown-up friends.’
‘Who,’ Brys asked, ‘are your other grown-up friends?’
‘Mother Shurq, Father Tehol, Uncle Ublala, Uncle Bugg.’
Brys was silent. Then, ‘What is your name?’
‘Kettle.’
‘Kettle, how many people have you killed in the past year?’
She cocked her head. ‘I can’t count past eight and two.’
‘Ah.’
‘Lots of eight and twos.’
‘And where do the bodies go?’
‘I bring them back here and push them into the ground.’
‘All of them?’
She nodded.
‘Where is this friend of yours? The one who wants to talk to me?’
‘I don’t know if he’s a friend. Follow me. Step where I step.’
She took him by the hand and Brys fought to repress a shiver at that clammy grip. Off the flagstoned path, between barrows, the ground shifting uncertainly beneath each cautious step. There were more insects, but of fewer varieties, as if some kind of attrition had occurred on the grounds of the Azath. ‘I have never seen insects like these before,’ Brys said. ‘They’re… big.’
‘Old, from the times when the tower was born,’ Kettle said. ‘Eggs in the broken ground. Those stick-like brown ones with the heads at both ends are the meanest. They eat at my toes when I sit still too long. And they’re hard to crush.’
‘What about those yellow, spiky ones?’
‘They don’t bother me. They eat only birds and mice. Here.’
She had stopped before a crumpled mound on which sat one of the larger trees in the yard, the wood strangely streaked grey and black, the twigs and branches projecting in curves rather than sharp angles.
Roots spread out across the entire barrow, the remaining bark oddly scaled, like snake skin.
Brys frowned. ‘And how are we to converse, with him in there and me up here?’
‘He’s trapped. He says you have to close your eyes and think about nothing. Like you do when you fight, he says.’
Brys was startled. ‘He’s speaking to you now?’
‘Yes, but he says that isn’t good enough, because I don’t know enough… words. Words and things. He has to show you. He says you’ve done this before.’
‘It seems I am to possess no secrets,’ Brys said.
‘Not many, no, so he says he’ll do the same in return. So you can trust each other. Somewhat.’
‘Somewhat. His word?’
She nodded.
Brys smiled. ‘Well, I appreciate his honesty. All right, I will give this a try.’ He closed his eyes. Kettle’s cold hand remained in his, small, the flesh strangely loose on the bones. He pulled his thoughts from that detail. A fighter’s mind was not in truth emptied during a fight. It was, instead, both coolly detached and mindful. Concentration defined by a structure which was in turn assembled under strict laws of pragmatic necessity. Thus, observational, calculating, and entirely devoid of emotion, even as every sense was awakened.
He felt himself lock into that familiar, reassuring structure.
And was stunned by the strength of the will that tugged him away. He fought against a rising panic, knowing he was helpless before such power. Then relented.
Above him, a sky transformed. Sickly, swirling green light surrounding a ragged black wound large enough to swallow a moon. Clouds twisted, tortured and shorn through by the descent of innumerable objects, each object seeming to fight the air as it fell, as if this world was actively resisting the intrusion. Objects pouring from that wound, tunnelling through layers of the sky.
