'Aye.'
'There are some who claim the Azath are in truth benign, a force to keep power in check, that they arise where and when there is need. My friend, I am beginning to see much truth in those claims.'
The Trell nodded. This torn warren possesses such pain. If it could wander, drift, it would deliver horror and chaos. Tremorlor holds it here – Iskaral Pust speaks the truth – but even so, how Raraku has twisted on all sides . . .
'I sense Soletaken and D'ivers within,' Icarium said. 'Closing, seeking to find the House—'
'Believing it to be a gate.'
The lantern glowed into light, a lurid yellow that reached no more than a few paces in any direction. Fiddler rose from his crouch, eyes on Mappo. 'There is a gate there, just not the one the shapeshifters seek. Nor will they get to it – the grounds of the Azath will take them.'
'As it might all of us,' spoke a new voice.
They turned to see Apsalar's father standing nearby. 'Now,' he grated, 'I'd be obliged if you could bend your efforts into talkin' my daughter out of going any farther – we can't try the gate, 'cause it's inside the House ...'
'Yet you led her here,' Fiddler said. 'Granted, we were looking for Tremorlor in any case, but whatever reasons you have are Iskaral Pust's, aren't they?'
Mappo spoke, 'Do you have a name, Servant?'
The old man grimaced. 'Rellock.' Glancing back to Fiddler, he shook his head. 'I can't guess the High Priest's motives. I only did what I was told. A final task for the High Priest, one to clear the debt and I always clears my debt, even to gods.'
'They gave you back the arm you'd lost,' the sapper said.
'And spared me and the life of my daughter, the day the Hounds came. No-one else survived, you know ...'
Fiddler grunted. 'It was their Hounds, Rellock.'
'Even so, even so. It's the false trail, you see, the one that leads the shapeshifters astray, leads them—'
'Away from the true gate,' Icarium said, nodding. 'The one beneath Pust's temple.'
Rellock nodded. 'We had to finish the false trail, is all, me and my daughter. Plantin' signs, leaving trails and the like. Now that's done. We hid in shadow while the shapeshifters rushed in. If I'm fated to die in bed in my village in Itko Kan, then it don't matter how long's the walk.'
'Rellock wants to go back to fishing, hee hee!' Iskaral Pust sang. 'But the place you left is not what you return to, oh no. From one day to the next, never mind years. Rellock's done work guided by the hands of gods, yet he dreams of dragging nets, with the sun on his face and lines between his toes! He is the heart of the Empire – Laseen should take note! Take note!'
Fiddler returned to his horse, drew out the crossbow and set the crank, then locked it. 'The rest of you can choose as you like; I've got to go in.' He paused, glancing back at the horses. 'And we should let the beasts go.' He walked over to his mount and began loosening the girth straps. He sighed, patting the Gral gelding on the neck. 'You've done me proud, but you'll do better out here – lead the others, friend, to Sha'ik's camp ...'
After a moment, the others strode to their own mounts.
Icarium turned to the Trell. 'I too must go.'
Mappo closed his eyes, willing a stillness to his inner turmoil. Gods, I am a coward. In all ways imaginable, a coward.
'Friend?'
The Trell nodded.
'Oh, you will all go!' the High Priest of Shadow crooned, still dancing. 'Seeking answers and yet more answers! But in my silent thoughts I snigger and warn you all with words that you will not hear – beware sleight of hand. Compared to the Azath, my immortal lords are but fumbling children!'
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tremorlor, the Throne of Sand
is said to lie within Raraku.
A House of the Azath, it
stands alone on uprooted soil
where all tracks are ghosts
and every ghost leads to
Tremorlor's door.
Patterns in the Azath
The Nameless Ones
For as far as Duiker could see, stretching west and east, the cedar forest was filled with butterflies. The dusty green of the trees was barely visible through a restless canopy of pale yellow. Along Vathar's gutted verge, bracken rose amidst skeletal branches, forming a solid barrier but for the trader track that carved its way towards the river.
The historian had ridden out from the column and halted his horse on a low hilltop that rose from the studded plain. The Chain of Dogs was stretched, exhaustion straining its links. Dust rode the air above it like a ghostly cape, grasped by the wind and pulled northward.
