A plain of ashen dust surrounded him; rounded hills rose in the distance. The sky was clear – oddly so. Stars ought to be visible in this seeming evening dusk.
A man stood in front of him, short, in fine dark clothes that appeared to have seen better days. He rocked back and forth on the heels of new shoes, a short walking stick planted before him. He was Dal Hon, and projected the appearance of a wizened oldster, but Tayschrenn could see through this affectation to the features of a young skinny lad.
He frowned, sensing around himself. ‘Meanas?’ he offered.
The Dal Hon lad waggled his head in an ‘almost’ gesture. ‘Close.’
‘My body remains. This buys me no time.’
The lad tilted his head again, as if weighing the matter. ‘Eventually. In the meantime … let’s have a chat.’
Tayschrenn rose, stretching. He studied the fellow more closely, and the more he examined him, the more confused he became. The skein of his Warren manipulation was different from any he’d encountered before. Somehow … altered. It was as if the fellow was annealed with a multiplicity of commingled influences and sources of power. There was even a tinge of the Elder about him. It was clear to Tayschrenn that he had endured some sort of transformational experience.
‘I know of all the High Sorcerers of our age,’ he said, walking a circuit of the strange fellow. ‘I have made it my research. The Ascendants, the Enchantress, the Tiste, and the Jaghut. But you … I do not know you.’
The little fellow looked very pleased. ‘Good. Now, time is short…’
Tayschrenn shook his head. He looked away, studying his surroundings. ‘No. There is nothing you can offer. There is nowhere to hide. Not even here. And this is new – not young, obviously. No, this shard, or fragment, is very old. Ancient, even. New to be accessed, I mean.’
The Dal Hon lad appeared vexed. ‘Yes, yes. Fine. You are well versed in Warren thaumaturgy, I’m sure.’ He drew a breath as if calming himself. ‘Kellanved,’ he said, tipping his head.
‘Tayschrenn.’
‘Good. Now,’ and he raised his walking stick, brushed dirt from its silver-capped tip. ‘What if I told you there was a place where you could hide from your pursuers?’
‘As I said – there is no Warren or Realm that can escape D’rek.’
The Dal Hon mage raised a hand for silence. ‘Indulge me. What choice do you have?’
Indeed. What choice did he have? He was quite certain he wouldn’t last out the night. He sighed, still studying the plain of wind-blown ash. There was sadness here. Lingering ancient curses of inhuman power … Elders had forged this. He shook his head. ‘What of it?’
‘Do you vow to serve me?’
Tayschrenn turned to regard him directly. ‘Serve?’
The hunched mage, with his false projected thinning hair, fat little paunch, and age-twisted arms, shrugged, almost wincing. ‘Well … work for me.’
‘Work…’ Tayschrenn nodded thoughtfully. Clearly, there were insights to be gained here. What lay behind this one’s strange powers? Then he remembered his position and snorted. ‘If you can save my life then I will work for you.’
‘Very good. We have a deal. Now, the hard part is that you’re rather far from where you have to be. You’re going to have to move.’
‘Move?’ he echoed. ‘I do not think I have the strength.’
‘I will help.’
He looked the scrawny fellow up and down. ‘Pardon my scepticism.’
‘We shall just have to do our best, shan’t we?’
Tayschrenn shrugged. He considered himself as good as dead anyway.
*
Cartheron became conscious at the base of the stairs. He flailed, coughing and wincing, and thought, Shit, passed out. Must’ve been the slide down the stairs.
He edged his elbows underneath him and pulled, one over the other, until his vision darkened and he had to take a breather … or two …
He next came to on the common room floor. The door to Smiley’s was banging in the wind. Tables were overturned and broken glass and shards of stoneware littered the floor. Of Sureth or Shrift there was no sign.
He took another deep breath and started for the door. Somehow, though, he couldn’t bring his elbows up underneath himself any more and so he clawed at the floorboards, pulling. He heaved until his vision darkened once more, then eased off. No more strength. Gonna die on this damned beer-soaked floor. What a wretched comedown in the world. Always hoped to sink with my command in some damn-fool brave hopeless action.
Footsteps sounded and he blinked, focusing his vision to see two bare feet before his face – Napan blue. Bare? He peered up at a bloodied Lady Sureth; the sleeve and flesh of one arm was slashed open, and another gash bled across her stomach.
She lifted one of his arms and picked him up. ‘How … what…?’ he managed, sounding delirious to himself.
‘Shrift was smart,’ Sureth said as she half-dragged him out of the door. ‘She was patient, wasn’t she? She killed Amiss, she told me so. Amiss became suspicious of her so she staged her murder to start a blood-feud with Geffen – hoped to thin our numbers even more.’
Out on the street, Sureth dragged him to the nearest shop and banged on the door. ‘But she made one mistake, yes, Cartheron? Cartheron.’
He blinked heavily, nodded, or lolled his head. ‘Yes? A mistake?’ he said – or thought he did. He couldn’t be sure, there was such a loud roaring in his ears.
‘That’s right,’ Sureth said. ‘She was newest to my service, wasn’t she? She thought I’d be the easiest part.’
At this Cartheron laughed. The pain was excruciating, but he laughed anyway. Gods! Sureth easy? No, lass, you are the hardest of us all …
And he heard talk then. Sureth demanding to see a healer, or medicer, or churgeon, and he sank into the roaring dark winds that had been pulling at him so insistently.
*
Nedurian watched the mage-battle raging just to the north over Malaz City and was awed by the scale of it. Astounding. At least a hundred versus one – and that one not even answering the constant withering assault. He wondered what the man or woman could possibly have done. Spat on D’rek’s altar? For he knew the identity of the attackers. All shared the same aspect: that of the priest-mages of D’rek.
Watching also were Agayla and the eerie Nightchill. None had raised their Warrens, or powers, or whatever it may be that they could call upon should they wish to. Even this far from the clash they did not wish to risk attracting any attention.
Behind him, the sea still surged against the rocks and the thin strand of the south coast. The sky was clear and full of stars and it was quite cold. It was as if nothing untoward at all were happening just leagues off.