'Nessarim warriors,' said the spymaster, nodding. 'True believers, to a soul. As the Shaggat was fleeing east into our navy's gunsights, these poor bastards were running south, packed into one groaning vessel, just hours ahead of the White Fleet. Somewhere east of Serpent's Head they foundered on a reef, and half their number drowned. But that reef was good fortune, for otherwise the Sizzies would have caught them on the open sea. They were no longer taking prisoners by that point in the war.
'We took them first to a camp on Opalt, where the sick perished and the strong fought their way back to health. But on Opalt they could do little more than hide, and worship their mad king in secret. That is why, five years ago, we brought them shipload by shipload to this place. Now they number over three thousand.'
'And fifty ships under construction,' said Drellarek. 'That's impressive. But hardly a threat to the White Fleet.'
'Of course not,' said Sandor Ott. 'The contest will be as lopsided as pitting a dog against a bear, as Captain Rose put it once. You're a hunting man yourself, Sergeant.'
Drellarek smiled. 'How did you know?'
'I'd be a poor spymaster if I didn't know that much about the Turach commander. And I'm sure you'll agree that dogs have a role in any bear hunt?'
'That's a certainty,' said Drellarek. 'A good pack can corner a bear, bleed it with nips, exhaust it, until at last it can only watch as the hunter raises his spear for the kill.'
'Of course you must bring enough dogs,' said Ott. 'The colony below is just one in our hunting-pack.'
'And what of the dogs themselves?' asked Chadfallow quietly.
'What of them?' said Ott.
Grinning suddenly, he turned to Alyash with a gesture and a nod. The bosun hobbled forward, and Pazel saw that he too had extracted something from the saddlebags. It was a hunting-horn, stout and well-used, more powerful than lovely. Alyash faced the window, planted his feet and drew an enormous breath. Raising the horn, he sounded one long, keening blast. The high note shook the chamber, and carried far over the valley below.
When it ended, the sounds of labour from the settlement had ceased. Men were coming out of the buildings to gaze in the tower's direction. After a moment there came the sound of an answering horn.
Saroo and Erthalon Ness returned, the latter wearing an ethereal smile. He had seen his monkeys, or believed he had. Alyash passed the horn to Ott and addressed the Shaggat's son in Mzithrini.
'Forget your monkeys,' he said. 'Don't you understand where we've brought you?'
The language-switch had an immediate effect on Erthalon Ness. His glance grew sharper, his face more stern. 'No, Warden, I don't. You tell me nothing. Where are you hiding my brother?'
Alyash swept his hand over the settlement. 'Those are the Nessarim, your father's worshippers. Keepers of your holy faith.'
'Not my faith,' said Erthalon Ness. 'The common faith of all mankind, only some have yet to see it. Some are afraid to cast the demons from their hearts, to burn unto purity, become new men. They will not always be afraid, however. Is not my father a god?'
'Assuredly, sir, and these men know it better than any. They have waited long for this day. Waited for you to appear, to take your father's place as they sail forth to join him. Come, let us greet them at the river's edge.' He gestured dismissively at the others. 'These people are of no more consequence.'
Alyash put out his hand. Erthalon Ness looked at it, hesitating. A clash of emotions shone in his face: suspicion, temptation, fear — and some darker, wilder gleam.
'Men are casting off from the docks in rowing boats,' said Saroo, looking down from the window. 'And in barges, and canoes.'
Then Pazel did something that surprised them all. He ran forwards and stood between Alyash and the Shaggat's son.
'Don't go with him,' he said in Mzithrini.
'Pathkendle,' said Ott, his voice an open threat. But Alyash smiled, and raised a hand to calm the spymaster.
'They're using you,' said Pazel. 'They laugh at you and your faith. They're sending you down to die among those people.'
'Lies,' said Alyash. 'You've said it yourself, Erthalon. The time of your death has not yet arrived.'
'I will know the hour,' said Erthalon Ness, looking at Pazel uncertainly, 'and before it strikes I will be with my father again.'
'No you won't,' said Pazel. 'He's a blary statue in the hold of the Chathrand.'
Soundlessly, Ott drew his sword. Chadfallow took a step forwards, as if he would intervene. But once more Alyash waved them off.
'Whose touch was it that turned your great father to stone?' he asked. 'You were there when it happened.'
'I was there,' echoed the other, turning accusingly to Pazel. 'I had almost forgotten. It was you!'
From the river below came the sound of singing. Erthalon Ness raised his head.
'They are calling you, child of the Divine,' said Alyash. 'And have no doubt: your father will live again, and just as the old tales promise, you shall sail out to meet him as he claims his kingdom.'
'You'll sail out and be killed!' shouted Pazel.
Alyash shook his head. 'Now who is laughing at the faith?'
Pazel was desperate. With every word he spoke he grew more certain that Ott or Drellarek would kill him. But he simply had to fight. If he didn't, these men would take everything — take Alifros itself — to say nothing of the life of this broken man.
'Listen to me,' he begged, taking the other's arm. 'You must know that they hate you. Didn't they lock you up all these years?'
'I think he is referring to your palace on Licherog, Excellency,' said the bosun. 'As for your father's people, how could any sane man think we wished them harm? After all, we rescued them from starvation, and built them this place of safety and hiding, when the five false Kings were slaughtering any man pledged to your father who strayed a league from Gurishal. Enough of this nonsense, Excellency. Your people are waiting.'
The Shaggat's son looked once more at Pazel. A scowl of hatred twisted his face, and he wrenched his arm away. But as soon as he had done so the hatred vanished, and the man looked simply lost. His lips trembled, and his eyes drifted miserably over the stones.
'My people,' he said, and there was more loneliness in those two words than Pazel had ever heard a voice express.
The man permitted Alyash to take his elbow, and together they descended the stair.
24
One by one they died. All of them, the vicious and the virtuous, the Drellareks and the Diadrelus, their lovers, their foes. The nations they bled for, killed for: those perished too. Some in extraordinary style, a conflagration of prejudice and greed, coupled to war machinery. Others were simply buried as the vast, unsound palaces they dwelt in collapsed, those houses of quarried contradiction.
They died, you see. What else could have happened? I witnessed a number of deaths, heard others related by those who were present; I even contributed some names to the tally — your editor is a murderer; it's not as rare as you think. Until quite recently I had comrades from that time, fellow survivors, people in whose eyes a certain light kindled when I said Chathrand or Nilstone or the honour of the clan. Never many. Today, none at all.
It was all so long ago, an age. How many of the young scholars around me today, in my incontinent dotage, believe that the world of Pazel and Thasha ever existed — that it was ever as cruel or as blessed or as ignorant as we found it? No one in this place even looks like a Pazel or a Thasha. Why should they believe in them? So long as I live I am proof of a sort — but I, who sailed on Chathrand to her last hour, resemble myself less and less each
