‘Well, of course not. We already know! What need delving?’
Cotillion faced Shadowthrone. ‘Mael could have killed him easily enough, don’t you think? Instead, he set out to delay Traveller. We need to think on that. We need to figure out why.’
‘Yes, I am beginning to see. Suspicions awakened-I was momentarily careless, unmindful. Delay, yes, why? What value?’
‘I just realized something.’
‘What? Quick, tell me!’
‘It doesn’t matter what Mael had in mind. It won’t work.’
‘Explain!’
‘Mael assumes a quarry on the run, after all…’
‘Yes, he must, of course, no other possibility. Mael doesn’t get it! The idiot! Hee hee! Now, let’s get out of this ash-heap, my throat’s getting sore.’
Cotillion stared after the Hounds and their charge, squinting against the bright sunlight. ‘Timing, Shadowthrone…’
‘Perfection.’
‘So far.’
‘We will not fail.’
‘We’d better not.’
‘Which among our newfound allies do you imagine the weak link?’
Cotillion glanced back at Shadowthrone. ‘Well, you, of course.’
‘Apart from me, I mean.’
Cotillion stared. Shadowthrone waited. Fidgeting on his throne.
Midnight at the lone tavern of Morsko provided Nimander with memories he would never lose. Slack-eyed, black-mouthed villagers staggering forward, colliding with him and the others. Stained bottles thrust into their faces. Eyes smeared with something murky and yellowed. The drink was potent enough to numb tongues, if the exhorting moans were in truth invitations to imbibe.
Even without Clip’s earlier warning, Nimander was not inclined to accept such hospitality; nor, he saw with some relief, were any of his kin. They stood, still crowded at the entrance, bemused and uneasy. The pungent air of the low-ceilinged chamber was sweet, overlaying strains of acrid sweat and something like living decay.
Skintick moved up alongside Nimander and they both watched as Clip-Desra at his side-made his way to the counter. ‘A simple jug of wine? Anywhere in this place? Not likely.’
Nimander suspected Skintick was right. All he could see, at every table, in every hand, was the same long-necked flask with its blackened mouth.
The moans were louder now, cacophonous like the lowing of beasts in an abattoir. Nimander saw one man-an ancient, bent, emaciated creature-topple face first on to the wood-slatted floor, audibly smashing his nose. Someone close by stepped back, crushing the hapless man’s fingers under a heel.
‘So, where is the priest?’ Nenanda asked from behind Nimander and Skintick. ‘It was his invitation, after all.’
‘For once, Nenanda,’ Skintick said without turning, ‘I am pleased to have you standing here, hand on sword. I don’t like this.’
‘None here can hurt us,’ Nenanda pronounced, yet his tone made it plain he was pleased by Skintick’s words. ‘Listen to me,’ he said, ‘while Clip is not close by-he holds us all in contempt.’
Nimander slowly turned round, as Skintick said, ‘We’d noticed. What do you make of that, brother?’
‘He sees what he chooses to see.’
Nimander saw that Kedeviss and Aranatha were listening, and the faint doe like expression on the latter’s face was suddenly gone, replaced by a chilling emptiness that Nimander knew well. ‘It is no matter,’ Nimander said, sudden sweat prickling awake beneath his clothes. ‘Leave it, Nenanda. It is no matter.’
‘But it is,’ Nenanda retorted. ‘He needs to know. Why we survived our battles, when all the others fell. He needs to understand.’
‘That’s over with, now,’ Nimander insisted,
‘No,’ said Skintick, ‘Nenanda is right this time, Nimander, He in right. Clip wants to take us to this dying god, after all, Whatever he plans disregards us, as if we did not exist. Voiceless ‘
‘Useless,’cut in Nenandn,
Nimander looked away, More villagers were collapsing, and those on the floor-hoards had begun twitching, writhing in pools of their own waste. Sightless eyes rolled ecstatically in sunken sockets. ‘If I have made us… voiceless, I am sorry.’
‘Enough of that rubbish,’ Skintick said conversationally.
‘I agree,’ said Nenanda said. ‘I didn’t before – I was angry with you, Nimander, for not telling this so-called Mortal Sword of Darkness. Telling him about us, who we were. What we’ve been through. So I tried to do it myself, but it’s no use. Clip doesn’t listen. Not to anyone but himself.’