‘Oh, so you have. How sweet. In that case,’ Raest edged back, ‘do come in.’
Barathol hesitated. ‘What will this achieve, Antsy?’
‘He won’t die,’ the ex-sergeant replied. ‘It’s like time doesn’t exist in there. Trust me. We can find us a proper healer tomorrow, or a month from now-it don’t matter. S’long as he’s breathing when we carry him across the threshold. So, come on, help me.’ He then realized he was still clutching the dead cat, and so he went up to the Jaghut and thrust the ghastly thing into most welcoming arms.
‘I shall call it Tufty,’ said Raest.
The black tide ceased its seemingly inexorable crawl. A slow, shallow breath held half drawn. A struggling heart hovered in mid-beat. And yet that spark of aware-ness, suddenly emboldened, set out on a journey of exploration and discovery. So many long-dark pathways…
Dragnipur has drunk deep, so deep.
Dragnipur, sword of the father and slayer of the same. Sword of Chains, Gate of Darkness, wheeled burden of life and life ever flees dissolution and so it must! Weapon of edges, caring naught who wields it. Cut indifferent, cut blind, cut when to do so is its very purpose, its perfect function.
Dragnipur.
Dread sisterly feuds dwindled in significance-something was proffered, some-lliing was almost within reach. Matters of final possession could be worked out later, at leisure in some wrought-iron, oversized bathtub filled to the brim with hot blood.
Temporary pact. Expedience personified, Spite quelled, Envy in abeyance.
In their wake a crater slowly sagged, edges toppling inward, heat fast dissipat-ing. The melted faces of buildings turned glassy in rainbow hues. For now the brilliance of these colours was but hinted at in this moon-glow. But that reflected light had begun a thousand new games, hinting at something far deadlier. Still to come, still to come.
Everywhere in the city, fires ebbed.
The pressure of Dragnipur Unsheathed starves the flames of destruction. Dark-ness is anathema to such forces, after all.
Yes, salvation found, in a weapon let loose. \
The sisters were mad, but not so mad as to fail to grasp the pleasing irony of such things.
Quell the violence.
Invite murder.
He was in no condition to resist them-not both of them-extraordinary that such an alliance had not occurred long before this night. But sibling wounds are the festering kind, and natures at war are normally blind to every pacifying gesture. What was needed was the proper incentive.
Alas, it did not occur to either twin that their father understood all too well the potential danger of his daughters forged together in alliance. And in shaping them-as carefully, as perfectly as he shaped Dragnipur itself-he had done what he could to mitigate the risk.
And so, as they walked side by side up the street, in Spite’s mind she had already begun scheming her fateful stab into her sister’s back. While Envy amused herself with virtually identical thoughts, roles reversed, naturally.
First things first, however.
They would kill Anomander Rake.
For Dragnipur has drunk deep, so very deep…
‘Karsa, please.’
Ashes drifted in the air, amidst foul smoke. Distant screams announced tragic scenes. The last night of the Gedderone Fete was sinking into misery and suffering.
‘There is nothing to be done, Samar Dev. But we will do this-we will witness. We will withstand the cost of that, if we can.’
She had not expected such uncertainty in the Toblakai. Always a stranger to humility, or so he seemed to her. He had not even drawn his flint sword.
They were twenty-five paces behind Traveller. They could see an angled gate arching over the broad street as it sloped upward, a hundred paces ahead. But the warrior they tracked had slowed his steps. There was something-someone-in the centre of the street in front of Traveller, And silent crowds on both sides-crowds that flinched back as the Hounds lumbered into view; flinched, but did not flee.
Something held them in place, something stronger than fear.
Samar Dev sensed the pressure sliding past, like a wind sweeping round her, drawing inward once more-straight into that huddled figure, who now, at last, stirred.
Traveller stood, six or so paces away from the stranger, and watched in silence as the man slowly straightened.
Tiste Andii.
Silver-haired. In his hands, a sword trailing ghostly chains … oh… spirits below, oh, no -
Traveller spoke. ‘He said you would stand in my way.’ That voice carried, strong as waves surging against a dark shore.
Samar Dev’s heart stuttered.
When Anomander Rake replied, his words were cold, solid and unyielding, ‘What else did he tell you?’