* * *
Lurin, Amagin and Shurll were out throwing stones at the Deadhouse. That was what everyone in Malaz city called the old abandoned building in its creepy grounds of trees that never grew leaves in any season. They'd always thrown stones at it, and their mothers and fathers before them had tossed their share as well. This night the streets gleamed from a cold rain that had swept in from the south. Lurin, barefoot, felt the chill so he put an extra effort into his arm to warm himself up.
‘Did you see that?’ he called to Amagin and Shurll. ‘Went right in that window – I swear.’
‘Didn't,’ Amagin sniffed.
‘Did too!’ He looked to Shurll for support but the older girl was just hugging herself, staring off down the street where it descended to the waterfront, the wharf and the sea glimmering beyond. She'd been doing that more often these days. ‘It did too, Shurll,’ he called. She shrugged her bony shoulders.
Amagin held out a stone, grinning, his nose wet and running. ‘No way you can hit that window.’
Lurin snatched it from him. ‘You'll see.’
He held the stone out before himself to sight on the window – heavier than he'd have chosen – Amagin always picked poor throwing stones which was why he couldn't hit any target to save his life. Tongue tucked firmly between his teeth, he drew back, raised one foot and threw.
The instant he released something changed on the grounds. A man now stood where Lurin couldn't recall ever having seen anyone walk. The man's hand snapped up then held something to his pale face. While they gaped, dumbfounded, he walked up to the wall near them.
Amagin was already sobbing. Shurll stared, immobile. Lurin flinched, tensed to run but unable. The man's clothes hung open in sliced folds. Dark wetness gleamed beneath down his torso and arms. Scars gleamed also at his neck like lines of pearl. He held up Lurin's stone between thumb and forefinger, leaned over the wall.
‘Run.’
Blubbering, Amagin ran. Lurin threw himself at Shurll. She had not moved, perhaps not even blinked. He wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her chest, too terrified to look. They were dead. It was a spirit come to drag them away to the Abyss. He waited for that bony touch that was Hood's beckon.
But after a time, heart in a frenzy, nothing happened. Shurll made quiet soothing sounds while her hands brushed his shoulders.
‘Welcome, Topper!’ Lurin heard the spirit call, his voice distant.
He dared a glance: the spirit, or man, had moved away and now faced the low front wall.
‘Don't be a fool, Cowl,’ another voice answered.
Lurin turned completely, pressed his back to Shurll, glanced up to her; she watched, avid, her eyes huge.
Cowl, the one within the grounds of the Deadhouse, gestured an invitation to the other with his blades. ‘Come in – let us finish our debate here. Who will have the last word, do you think?’
The other, Topper, stepped into view: long tangled white hair, dark-faced, clothes hanging rags. But his eyes! Angular and bright like lamps. He shrugged. ‘By my hand or the House's … is of no matter to me.’
Cowl spread his arms wide. ‘I choose my own fate, Topper. I remain undefeated. You lack the will to challenge me? So be it – the defeat is yours.’
‘Dancer took you.’
Cowl's eyes rolled as he made a show of considering. He pointed a blade to his neck. ‘I call this a draw.’
‘You are mistaking desperation for defiance. You only fool yourself.’
‘And you are a coward.’
Topper motioned to the grounds. ‘Time is short. Flee while you can.’
Lurin glanced across the yard and jerked, terrified. The tree branches were moving. Never had he seen those black limbs shiver or bend, even in the strongest of storms. Steam as of freshly turned earth climbed from the heaps that littered the grounds. The heavy mist gathered to carpet the yard.
Cold like a winter morning bit at Lurin. He shivered uncontrollably.
‘Fool!’ Topper called. ‘It will have you! Flee, now!’
Cowl stumbled as if something had yanked upon him. But his smile was fixed, his teeth bright and sharp. ‘I choose defiance!’ he yelled, wild fever in his voice.
‘You choose despair.’
Falling, the one called Cowl went on one knee. He laughed, low at first, but climbing in pitch and volume until it rang so loud it drowned out a comment from Topper. And then Lurin's skin crawled in horror as the one named Cowl appeared to sink – yes, sink straight down into the steaming earth as if pulled. ‘Come join me!’ he shouted, laughing mockingly.
Topper lunged forward to grip the top of the stone wall. ‘Fool! You are Avowed! You will never die!’ The man sounded genuinely horrified.
Cowl's answer to that was to burst forth with even greater fevered, ardent laughter – exulting, darkly triumphant – the mirth of a man gone truly mad. Lurin buried his face once more in Shurll's chest. Eventually, the peals choked off, fell to silence. When Lurin looked back the grounds were empty.
His gaze caught the one called Topper staring directly at them. Lurin's breath caught and he froze. The eyes burned in the night as he'd heard some jewels do. Then the man bowed, an arm across his stomach, the other held out. Stepping back he disappeared into darkness.
Eventually, Lurin found he could breathe again. He peered up at Shurll, whispered: ‘What happened?’
And she, looking off into the night, her gaze so distant, stroking his head, murmured repeatedly, ‘Nothing. It's all right. Nothing happened. It was nothing.’