hope of order left to this world. But this is useless talk. Some, like you, can never be enlightened. For them the darkness is best.'
'You're not enlightened, Ott,' said Isiq. 'You're enthralled. It's not remotely the same.'
'Syrarys understood,' said Ott through his teeth. 'Every kiss she gave you was necessary. Like Thasha's death. Like the death of your wife — I sawed through that balcony rail myself, Isiq — which allowed Syrarys to take her place at your side.
'I leave nothing to chance, you see. That is a way in which we are not alike.'
7
8 Teala 941
87th day from Etherhorde
Uthrol, Sarabin, Elegortak, Ingod-Ire of the Killing Dream. Nelu in the lightless depths, and Droth the Master of Masters, Despoiler of Worlds. From a circle of ash within a circle of salt within a circle of tomb earth I call thee, old powers never equalled, ye Lords of the Houses of Night.'
The sorcerer's chant was sibilant and low. He sat on the floor of his cabin; the room was closed, airless; musky smells of bile and camphor and cured meat hung about it. Midnight had come and gone; a blustery wind rattled the glass on the porthole. The white dog slept beneath the bed. From a shelf, a walrus-oil lamp cast its failing light on Arunis, hunched inside the three circles like a dark, thick-bellied spider at the centre of a web.
'Shamid, Woedenon, dread Varag in the Ice…'
Now and then, from a crack in the wall over the mage's shoulder, the light also illuminated a tiny, copper- coloured spark: the gleam of an ixchel eye.
'A demon,' said Ludunte. 'He is a demon in human form.'
'Perhaps,' said Diadrelu. 'And perhaps he is something worse.'
They were inside the wall, supporting themselves with their legs, feet pressed to the planks of Arunis' cabin and backs against those of the adjoining room. They looked down on the sorcerer through a gap in the planking no wider than a needle. They had made the gap themselves, with a spyjack: a mechanical wedge that could be hammered between two boards and widened with a crank. For the ixchel it was a survival tool.
'Is he summoning those beings?' whispered Ludunte fearfully.
Diadrelu shook her head. 'If he could bring the Night Gods among us to do his will he would have little need of the Shaggat Ness, or perhaps even the Nilstone. Yet no doubt he seeks their aid. Those circles are a magic quietus: through them he seeks to cleanse himself of any spells placed on this cabin that might prove distasteful to the gods he flatters. And possibly to protect himself. From what I cannot say.'
'You are very learned, Mistress.'
'Call me Dri.'
'As you will, m'lady. Did you not say he must be weakened, after all his black sorcery of recent days?'
'So Ramachni believed,' said Diadrelu. 'And if nothing else we have learned one thing tonight: he still fears Ramachni, unless there is another mage aboard to cast the spells he is fighting.'
'Where did Ramachni go? When will he return?'
'Far off — and not for a long time,' said Dri gravely. 'We must stand alone through many dangers, I fear. And speaking of which, why were you alone? Did my brother's order of two men per watch expire with his death?'
Ludunte dropped his eyes, suddenly uneasy.
'Ah,' said Diadrelu, in a changed voice. 'Taliktrum has ordered you not to discuss matters of the clan with me. Am I right?'
Ludunte gazed at her, in plain distress, but he said not a word.
'This was to be expected,' said Diadrelu, turning away. 'Well, well. Keep your silence, of course.'
She spoke as if of something trivial, but could not quite hide her displeasure. Ludunte was Diadrelu's sophister, her apprentice. Ixchel swore seven-year vows of obedience to their mentors, with only one chance — on the day they completed their second year — to rescind the vow without disgrace. Ludunte's second-year confirmation had come and gone as they lay in port at Ormael. Dri had missed it, and the ceremony she conducted on her return was perhaps less than Ludunte had hoped for: she had simply gathered his friends and the clan elders, described his progress without exaggeration, and passed the House Cup full of spiced wine from hand to hand. That was her way: she did not fuss and flatter. To be one of just five sophisters she had accepted in thirty years should be honour enough.
Of those five, two had completed their studies and moved on. Another, Nytikyn, had been killed before the start of the voyage, by a tarboy on the pier in Sorrophran. Nytikyn had been engaged to marry Ensyl, the youngest of Dri's sophisters. Dri had refused Ensyl at first, fearing that her sympathy for the grieving girl might cloud her judgement. But Ensyl had proven herself brave and thoughtful on the voyage to Simja, and shortly before their arrival Dri had accepted her vow.
Now Ensyl and Ludunte alone were left to her. By immutable law they must obey her every command, yet if she ordered them to disobey Taliktrum, the clan leader, she would be condemning them to join her in disgrace.
She looked at Ludunte, and thought for the first time what a terrible burden she had placed on the two of them. Mother Sky, she thought, I've ruined everything.
Since the arrival of Pazel, the tarboy who could speak their language and hear their natural voices — and Dri's terribly unpopular decision not to kill him — her reputation for wisdom had been thrown into doubt. Over the course of the summer, as the Chathrand ploughed west towards Simja, she had fought for the life of the boy with her brother, Lord Talag, with whom she had shared the rule of Ixphir House for decades. It was an ancient house and a proud family. Their direct ancestors had founded it, abandoning the nomad practice of living in ships for the first time since her race was stolen, in cages and specimen jars, from across the Ruling Sea.
The whole of that House was now aboard the Chathrand: six hundred ixchel men, women and children, following a dream of escape that had come to Talag in childhood and pursued him to his death.
There, again: the blunt blow to the heart. A vision of her brother in the mouth of Sniraga, as the huge cat leaped away down a passage. His limbs were scarlet; he flopped like a dead thing in her jaws. They had never recovered his body.
'Feel that thunder,' said Ludunte, pressing a hand to the wall. 'A storm will be here by morning.'
Diadrelu had had no time to grieve for Talag; with his death she had become sole leader of the clan. Talag had been about to recognise his son, Taliktrum, as a full Lord of Ixphir. That task had fallen to Diadrelu — but she had not done so. Taliktrum was of age, and had passed every test of strength and courage. But what of judgement? Dri could not see herself standing before the clan. Here is your liege, your shield and protector, trust him with your lives. Ritual words, some would say. But for Diadrelu they contained a promise she could not give lightly.
For with Talag dead, his son would have joined her as co-commander the instant his title was conferred. And he was not ready. Talag had been a genius, if angry and vain. Taliktrum was merely ambitious. Like his father he distrusted the very air humans breathed, but never realised that Talag's anger, however blinding, was born of a careful study of history. If Taliktrum actually believed in the same dream as his father — to lead their people to safety on Sanctuary-Beyond-the-Sea, the island from whence they'd come — he did so without the least curiosity as to what they might find when they got there.
When Taliktrum was a child Dri had loved him as best she could. But she doubted that he had ever looked at her and seen a loving aunt. For his tenth birthday she took him on a daring expedition: an ice-skate by moonlight on the frozen River Ool. He had been cross to learn that skates could be worn and used by anyone, not just ruling elites. 'Why do we bother with them, then?' he asked, bewildered.
'There's the rain now,' said Ludunte.
No, Taliktrum had seen only the Lady, the office, the power in her hands. It had taught her a lesson, that cold appraisal. It had made her distrustful of titles for ever.
