‘He killed her, didn’t he?’
At Skintick’s question Nimander forced himself to lock gazes with his cousin, but he said nothing.
Nenanda gave a sudden hiss and whirled to glare at Aranatha, who stood nearby. ‘You must have sensed something!’
Her brows arched. ‘Why do you say that?’
He seemed moments from closing on her with a hand upraised, but she too did not flinch, and after a moment a look a sheer helplessness crumpled Nenanda’s face and he turned from them all.
‘He’s not what he was,’ said Desra. ‘I’ve felt it-he’s… uninterested.’
Of course she was speaking of Clip. Indeed they were not fools, none of them. Still Nimander said nothing. Still he waited.
Skintick could no longer hold Nimander’s gaze. He glanced briefly at Desra and then stepped back. ‘Fools, you said. We must play at being fools.’
Nenanda faced them once more. ‘What does he want with us? What did he ever want? Dragging us along as if we were but his pets.’ His eyes fixed on Desra. ‘Flinging you on your back every now and then to keep the boredom away-and now you’re saying what? Only that he’s become bored by the distraction. Well.’
She gave no sign that his words wounded her. ‘Ever since he awakened,’ she said. ‘I don’t think boredom is a problem for him, not any more. And that doesn’t make sense.’
‘Because,’ added Skintick, ‘he’s still contemptuous of us. Yes, I see your point, Desra.’
‘Then what does he want with us?’ Nenanda demanded again. ‘Why does he still need us at all?’
‘Maybe he doesn’t,’ said Skintick.
Silence.
Nimander finally spoke. ‘She made a mistake.’
‘Confronted him.’
‘Yes.’ He stepped away from Skintick, setting his gaze upon the descent awaiting them. ‘My authority holds no weight,’ he said. ‘I told her to stay away-to leave it alone.’
‘Leave it to Anomander Rake, you mean.’
He faced Skintick again. ‘No. That is too much of an unknown. We-we don’t know the situation in Black Coral. If they’re… vulnerable. We don’t know any-thing of that. It’d be dangerous to assume someone else can fix all this.’
They were all watching him now.
‘Nothing has changed,’ he said. ‘If he gets even so much as a hint-it rnust be us to act first. We choose the ground, the right moment. Nothing has changed-do you all understand me?’
Nods. And odd, disquieting expressions on every face but Aranatha’s-he could not read them. ‘Am I not clear enough?’
Skintick blinked, as if surprised. ‘You are perfectly clear, Nimander. We should get moving, don’t you think?’
What-what has jusi happened here? But he had no answers. Uneasy, he moved out on to the trail.
The rest fell in behind him.
Nenanda drew Skintick back, slowing their progress, and hissed, ‘How, Skin? How did he do that? We were there, about to-I don’t know-and then, all of a sudden, he just, he just-’
‘Took us into his hands once more, yes.’
‘How?’
Skintick simply shook his head. He did not think he could find the right words-not for Nenanda, not for the others. He leads. In the ways of leading, the ways the rest of us cannot-and can never-understand.
I looked into his eyes, and I saw such resolve that I could not speak.
Absence of doubt? No, nothing so egotistic as that. Nimander has plenty of doubts, so many that he’s lost his fear of them. He accepts them as easily as any-lliing else. Is that the secret? Is that the very definition of greatness?
He leads. We follow-he took us into his hands, again, and each one of us stood, silent, finding in ourselves what he had just given us-that resolve, the will to go on-and it left us humbled.
Oh, do I make too much of this! Are we all no more than children, and these the silly, meaningless games of children!
‘He killed Kedeviss,’ muttered Nenanda.
‘Yes.’
‘And Nimander will give answer to that.’
Yes.
Monkrat squatted in the mud and watched the line of new pilgrims edge closer to the camp. Most of their attention, at least to begin with, had been on the barrow itself-on that emperor’s ransom of wasted wealth-but now, as they approached the decrepit ruin, he could see how they hesitated, as something of the wrongness whispered through. Most were rain-soaked, senses dulled by long, miserable jour-neys. It would take a lot to stir their unease.