A man had stepped from the archway. He was naked like the other four, and like them strangely crouched and shuffling. He darted back through the gate before Bolutu could call to him.
Bolutu rushed along the track, no longer able to hide his concern. Fiffengurt shouted after him: 'Wait for us, damn it, don't you dare-'
Bolutu did not wait. He broke into a run, sandals slapping along the dusty track. The others followed him in some confusion, not certain whether more haste or less was called for. Hercol drew Ildraquin from its sheath.
A sudden shout came from their left, echoing off the stones. It was a man's voice, but it uttered no words. It was simply a hoot, challenging and somehow derisive.
'Where are you, blast it?' cried Fiffengurt, turning in place.
'There, sir!' said a Turach, pointing upwards. A child's face, wild of hair and eye, ducked quickly behind the sea-wall.
'We should double back,' said Alyash. 'I don't fancy walkin' alongside that wall. They could rain stones down on us, or worse.'
While the others stood undecided, Thasha pulled Pazel forwards, towards the gate. There was an urgency in the way she tugged him, as though she both needed and feared what lay ahead. Hercol came after them. Despite the others' protests the three were soon running after Bolutu, who was by now a good distance ahead.
Long before they could reach him he gained the archway. There he paused, and spread his hands as if in delight. He turned and flashed them a smile, the white teeth very bright in the black face, and then he vanished through the archway.
They were a hundred yards from the opening when they heard him scream. It was a sound of horror, or of pain. Hercol redoubled his speed, his black sword held aloft. Pazel and Thasha followed as fast as their legs would carry them.
An ambush, thought Pazel. Aya Rin, we're probably too late.
They reached the archway and skidded to a halt. They were not too late: there at twenty paces stood Bolutu, in a little square formed by dilapidated structures of stone. There was a round stone basin at the centre — a basin with water, Pazel saw with a flash of pure longing. And before Bolutu stood two of his own kind — two dlomu, blacker than black, their eyes four bright silver coins. An old man and a young. They wore tattered work clothes, wool caps pulled low over their silver hair, boots of sunbleached leather. They held no weapons, and showed no sign of threat.
Bolutu stood by the basin, gazing at them. His mouth was open, and his face was clenched like that of a man told something so ghastly that he was struggling to spit it from his mind. The other two were speaking to him gently, insisting that there was nothing to fear. 'Don't worry,' they said, again and again. 'Don't worry, they obey us, they're tame.'
'Tame?' cried Bolutu, his voice almost unrecognisable.
'Of course,' said the younger dlomu. 'We knew they could be-'
He broke off with a frightened shout. He had spotted the three newcomers in the archway. 'Gods unseen!' he shouted. 'Look at them, Father, look!'
Bolutu gestured desperately: Don't come in here, stay back. But Hercol marched boldly through the gate and into the village, and Pazel and Thasha followed. The dlomu backed away from them.
'A miracle,' said the old man, trembling. 'A miracle. Or a curse.'
'Bolutu,' said Pazel, 'for Rin's sake tell them we're friends.'
Bolutu looked at his hands.
The father and son glanced behind them, as though tempted to run. The younger man pointed at Pazel. 'Did you hear it, Father?' he cried, his voice breaking with excitement.
'Don't… say it,' murmured the old man.
'Belesar,' said Hercol to Bolutu, 'speak to us this instant! Why are they so afraid? Why are you?'
Bolutu turned to face them. He clutched at the amulet around his neck. He was shaking uncontrollably. 'No,' he said, his voice little more than a whisper. 'No. Rin. No.'
Pazel felt Thasha grope for his hand. She stepped forwards, towards the three motionless figures, and Pazel walked beside her.
The younger dlomu was steadying his father, but his eyes never left the newcomers. He struggled to speak again.
'It's just that we've never — I mean, Father has, as a child, but I've never seen-'
'What?' said Pazel, 'A human? But we just saw them — we saw six of them.'
The young dlomu shook his head. Then he locked eyes with Thasha, who had drawn nearer still. Releasing Pazel, she put out the hand that had touched the Nilstone. Slowly, cautiously. A blind girl groping for his face.
'Say it,' she told him. 'You've never seen-'
'A woken human,' said the other, softly.
Thasha's face paled, and her eyes went wide and cold. Pazel reached for her arm, even as he grappled with the horror of what he'd just heard. She was trying to speak but could only gasp. He thought suddenly of Felthrup's terror on the quarterdeck, and knew that something like it was stirring in his mind.
Hercol gave a warning shout: across the little square, between two crumbling structures, a small human crowd was gathering. Some were dressed, after a fashion — scraps of leggings, torn and filthy shirts — but most wore nothing at all. They stood bunched together, or bent low, staring at the newcomers, obviously afraid. One man was biting his finger. Two or three uttered wordless moans.
Thasha clutched desperately at Pazel's arm. 'I didn't mean to,' she said. 'It was never supposed to happen. You believe me, don't you?'
He pressed her head against his chest. I love her, he thought. And then: Who is she? What is this thing I love?
The older dlomu stepped towards the crowd of men. He whistled and clapped his hands. At the sound, the whole group shuffled forwards, slow and fearful and close together. When they reached the old man they pawed at him, clung to his shirt. One by one their eyes returned to Pazel and Thasha and Hercol, and there was no human light in those eyes, no consciousness but the animal sort, that fearful otherness, that measureless sea.
