She has no reason to see me, to visit, to take my hand and offer me comfort. My purpose is done, over. And here I lie, a discarded thing. Forgotten. A mhybe.
A hand settled gently on her shoulder.
Murillio spoke. 'I think she sleeps once more.'
'For the best,' Coll murmured.
'I remember my own youth,' the Daru went on in a quiet, introspective tone.
'I remember your own youth, too, Murillio.'
'Wild and wasteful-'
'A different widow every night, as I recall.'
'I was a lodestone indeed, and, you know, it was all so effortless-'
'We'd noticed.'
The man sighed. 'But no longer. I've aged, paid the price for my younger days-'
'Nights, you mean.'
'Whatever. New rivals have arrived. Young bloods. Marak of Paxto, tall and lithe and turning heads wherever he saunters. The smug bastard. Then there's Perryl of M'necrae-'
'Oh, really, Murillio, spare me all this.'
'The point is, it was all a stretch of years. Full years. Pleasurable ones. And, for all that I'm on the wane, at least I can look back and recall my days — all right, my nights — of glory. But here, with this poor woman…'
'Aye, I hear you. Ever notice those copper ornaments she's wearing — there, you can see the pair on her wrist. Kruppe's gifts, from Darujhistan.'
'What about them?'
'Well, as I was saying. Ever noticed them? It's a strange thing. They get brighter, shinier, when she's sleeping.'
'Do they?'
'I'd swear it on a stack of Kruppe's handkerchiefs.'
'How odd.'
'They're kind of dull right now, though…'
There was silence from the two men crouched above her. After a long moment the hand resting on her shoulder squeezed slightly.
'Ah, my dear,' Murillio whispered, 'would that I could take back my words …'
Why? They were truth. Words from your heart, and it is a generous one for all your irresponsible youth. You've given voice to my curse. That changes nothing. Am I to be pitied? Only when I'm asleep, it seems. To my face, you say nothing, and consider your silence a kindness. But it mocks me, for it arrives as indifference.
And this silence of mine? To these two kind men looking down on me right now? Which of my countless flaws does this reveal?
Your pity, it seems, is no match for my own.
Her thoughts trailed away, then. The treeless, ochre wasteland of her dreamworld appeared. And she within it.
She began running.
Dujek flung his gauntlets against the tent wall as he entered, his face dark with fury.
Whiskeyjack unstoppered the jug of ale and filled the two goblets waiting on the small camp table before him. Both men were smeared in sweaty dust.
'What madness is this?' the High Fist rasped, pausing only long enough to snatch up one of the goblets before beginning to pace.
Whiskeyjack stretched his battered legs out, the chair creaking beneath him. He swallowed a long draught of ale, sighed and said, 'Which madness are you referring to, Dujek?'
'Aye, the list is getting damned long. The Crippled God! The ugliest legends belong to that broken bastard-'
'Fisher Kel Tath's poem on the Chaining-'
'I'm not one for reading poetry, but Hood knows, I've heard bits of it spoken by tavern bards and the like. Fener's balls, this isn't the war I signed on to fight.'
Whiskeyjack's eyes narrowed on the High Fist. 'Then don't.'
Dujek stopped pacing, faced his second. 'Go on,' he said after a moment.
'Brood already knew,' he replied with a shrug that made him wince. As did Korlat. 'With him, you could reasonably include Anomander Rake. And Kallor — though I liked not the avid glint in that man's eye. So, two ascendants and one would-be ascendant. The Crippled God is too powerful for people like you and me to deal with, High Fist. Leave it to them, and to the gods. Both Rake and Brood were there at the Chaining, after all.'
'Meaning it's their mess.'
'Bluntly, yes it is.'
'For which we're all paying, and might well pay the ultimate price before too long. I'll not see my army used as fodder in that particular game, Whiskeyjack. We were marching to crush the Pannion Domin, a mortal empire — as far as we could determine.'
'Manipulation seems to be going on on both sides, Dujek.'
'And I am to be comforted by that?' The High Fist's glare was fierce. He held it on his second for another moment, then quaffed his ale. He thrust the empty goblet out.
