‘You speak treachery. Heresy. There is scarcely a place west of the Veil which is not walled off. No standard of creatures in the world withholds a tithe of young to be adapted to our service.’
The smaller figure seemed to writhe within its robes. There is much telling and listening among places thought sealed. There are black robes vanishing. There are things … that happen. Like Murgin.’
The other voice answered with icy contempt. ‘You are forbidden to speak of that. Would you be valued by that if it knew you spoke so?’
Any of the travellers would have recognized the voice. They had heard it from a rooftop in Byssa, as they prepared to flee that city. Any one of the Sisterhood would nave recognized it. They had heard it outside the Hill, speaking to Sybil. Doh-ti had not heard it before, but he would not forget it.
The other took long to answer, staring for endless moments into the fire. ‘Does not that rely upon us, Lithos, to know what happens in the west? Does not that rely upon us to tell of reality?’
‘There is only one reality,’ hissed the cold voice. ‘There is only the reality that speaks of. There is only one goal, the bringing of all creatures to that reality. There is filth in the world. From that filth we salvage some. That is what you were, filth, salvage. The salvaged may become acolytes, or keepers, pursuivants, may even become Protectors, servants of that, as I am. There is only that reality, nothing else.
‘By your own words you convict yourself of not being. You are not. You never were.’
Doh-ti blinked, blinked again. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the place across the fire. Below him, one figure drank deep from a steaming mug. Across the fire another mug lay on the ground. Tracks led to that place. None led away. In the grove of trees two strange beasts hissed and clicked their teeth. From the remaining figure came a whispered chant.
‘I am Lithos, true agent of that which is, unmaker of all which is not, which may not be. I am Lithos, destroyer of myth, unmaker of lies.’
The figure rose and went away, riding on one beast, leading the other. Doh-ti, half frozen, crept down the tree and went to the place where he had seen the second figure. It seemed to him that a rolling mist gathered around the place, thin as gossamer, but he could not be sure. Shivering uncontrollably, he ran through the woods to find Thewson and the others, crying thin tears as he went, without knowing why.
It says much for a stout heart in a small body that when he found Thewson at last, he did not forget to tell him of the burdened figure moving at the edge of the plain.
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE DOG KING
Days 26-28, Month of Thaw
She had been gagged while still half asleep, wakened too late to make an outcry, hauled away with her stomach bouncing upon a bony shoulder, uncertain who it was that had her until she heard his voice. That began soon as he told her why he had taken her, and she heard the whispered obscenities with despair. He paeaned a libidinous hymn, wrapped her in licentious garlands of words. It was time, he said, to beget a successor to his rule, a new king for his people. The females among the warty men did not move him. Jasmine did.
When they had come a sufficient distance, he took the gag from her mouth and nuzzled her face while she choked on bile. As soon as she could speak she told him that Thewson would come after them, that Thewson would skewer him on the great spear like a sausage. The dog king only lolloped his tongue from his mouth and looked sideways at her, running his hand paws along her bound arms. ‘You will become accustomed,’ he whined. ‘Oh, yes, you have not so long to live to become bored as we are bored. You will not live long enough to hate it much.’
Jasmine rolled away from him and retched into the grass. Then there was an endless time of carrying and harrying, of climbing and clambering, and finally a cleft between two rocks to make a hidden place on a stony slope with him ripping at her clothing. Jasmine thrust his importunate figure away with all her strength, hissing at him.
‘It will do you no good, I say. I carry Thewson’s child.’
For the first time since he had taken her, the dog king became quiet. He had not ceased in his lewd talk, but now he panted, scratched at his ear, his groin. ‘Well, well, then I will wait until it comes. One bite, then no more Thewson’s child.’
Jasmine was silent, full of sick fury. The creature had untied her arms, but one ankle was still leashed. He stood over her even on her personal errands in the bushes. She wept. It did no good, for his obscene, whining talk went on. He would do this and this, she would feel that and that. At last she drew a deep, sobbing breath and began to talk, just to drown out his words. But she found that as long as she spoke, the creature was silent. That was reason enough for speaking.
She spoke of her father. ‘A lovely, lovely man. He was not large. Not nearly so large as many who lived around Lak Island, but neither was he so small as to have no dignity. He was brown as oiled wood, with a round belly which stuck out of his shirt in the summer sun like a melon, hard and shiny. When we were very small we rubbed his tummy for luck, as we had seen people do with the old stone gods along the swamp road, and he said it was
