The Tiste Andii wore their armour. They wore their gear for fighting, for killing. Nimander did not need a glance back to know the transformation and what it did to the expressions on all but one of the faces of those trailing behind him. Skintick, whose smile had vanished, yet his eyes glittered bright, as if fevered. Kedeviss, ever rational, now wore a mask of madness, beauty twisted into something terrible: Nenanda, for all his postures of ferocity, was now ashen, colourless, as if the truth of desire soured him with poison. Desra, flushed with something like excitement. Only Aranatha was unchanged. Placid, glassy-eyed with concentration, her features somehow softer, blurred.
Skintick and Kedeviss carried Clip between them. Nenanda held over one shoulder the man’s weapons, his bow and quiver, his sword and knife belt-all borne on a single leather strap that could be loosed in a moment should the need arise.
They had slipped past buildings in which worshippers danced, starved limbs waving about, distended bellies swaying-doors had been left open, shutters swung back to the night. Voices moaned in disjointed chorus. Even those faces that bychance turned towards the Tiste Andii as they moved ghostly past did not awaken with recognition, the eyes remaining dull, empty, unseeing.
The air was warm, smelling of rancid salt from the dying lake mixed with the heavier stench of putrefying corpses.
. They reached the edge of the central square, looked out across its empty expanse. The altar itself was dark, seemingly lifeless.
Nimander crouched down, uncertain. There must be watchers. It would he madness to think otherwise. Could they reach the altar before some hidden mob rushed forth to accost them? It did not seem likely. They had not seen Kallor since his march to the altar the previous day. Nenanda believed the old man was dead. He believed they would find his body, cold and pale, lying on the tiled floor somewhere within the building. For some reason, Nimander did not think that likely.
Skintick whispered behind him, ‘Well? It’s nearing dawn, Nimander.’
What awaited them? There was only one way to find out. ‘Let’s go.’
All at once, with their first strides out into the concourse, the air seemed to swirl, thick and heavy. Nimander found he had to push against it, a tightness forming in his throat and then his chest.
‘They’re burning the shit,’ Skintick hissed. ‘Can you smell it? The kelyk-’
‘Quiet.’