Somewhere far to the east the coyotes resumed their frantic cries.
He looked skyward, saw the gleam of the rising moon, its ravaged scowl of reflected sunlight and the blighted dust of its stirred slumber. Look at you. Your face is my face, let us be truthful about that. Beaten and boxed about, yet we climb upright time and again, to resume our trek.
The sky cares nothing for you, dear one. The stars don’t even see you.
But you will march on, because it is what you do.
A final kick at the coals. Let the grasses burn to scar his wake, he cared not. No, he would not come full circle-he never did, which was what had kept him alive for this long. No point in changing anything, was there?
Kallor set out. Northward. There were, if he recalled, settlements, and roads, and a main trader track skirling west and north, out across the Cinnamon Wastes, all the way to Darujhistan.
Where he had an appointment to keep. A destiny to claim by right of sword and indomitable will.
The union’s light took hold of his shadow and made a mess of it. Kallor walked on, oblivious of such details
Three scrawny horses, one neglected ox and a wagon with a bent axle and a cracked brake: the amassed inherited wealth of the village of Morsko comprised only these. Bodies left to rot on the tavern floor-they should have set fire to the place, Nimander realized. Too late now, too hard the shove away from that horrid scene. And what of the victims on their crosses, wrapped and leaking black ichors into the muddy earth? They had left them as well.
Motionless beneath a blanket in the bed of the wagon, Clip stared sightlessly at the sideboards. Flecks of the porridge they had forced down his throat that morning studded his chin. Flies crawled and buzzed round his mouth. Every now and then, faint trembling rippled through his body.
Stolen away.
Noon, the third day now on this well-made cobbled, guttered road. They had just passed south of the town of Heath, which had once been a larger settlement, perhaps a city, and might weUreturn to such past glory, this time on the riches of kelyk, a dilute form of saemankelyk, the Blood of the Dying God. These details and more they had learned from the merchant trains rolling up and down this road, scores of wagons setting out virtually empty to villages and towns east of Bastion-to Outlook itself-then returning loaded with amphorae of the foul drink, wagons groaning beneath the weight, back to some form of central distri¬bution hub in Bastion.
The road itself ran south of these settlements-all of which nested above the shoreline of Pilgrim Lake. When it came opposite a village there would be a junction, with a track or wend leading north. A more substantial crossroads marked the intersection of levelled roads to the reviving cities of Heath, Kel Tor and, somewhere still ahead, Sarn.
Nimander and his group did not travel disguised, did not pretend to be other than what they were, and it was clear that the priests, fleeing ahead of them, had delivered word to all their ken on the road and, from there, presumably into the towns and villages. At the junctions, in the ramshackle waystations and storage sheds, food and water and forage for the animals awaited them.
The Dying God-or his priests-had blessed them, apparently, and now awaited their pleasure in Bastion. The one who had sacrificed his soul to the Dying God was doubly blessed, and some final consummation was anticipated, prob¬ably leading to Clip’s soul’s being thoroughly devoured by an entity who was cursed to suffer for eternity. Thus accursed, it was little wonder the creature welcomed company.
All things considered, it was well that their journey had been one of ease and accommodation. Nimander suspected that his troupe would have been rather more pleased to carve their way through hordes of frenzied fanatics, assuming they could manage such a thing.
Having confirmed that Clip’s comatose condition was unchanged, he climbed down from the wagon and returned to the scruffy mare he had been riding suite Morsko. The poor beast’s ribs had been like the bars of a cage under tattered vellum, its eyes listless and the tan coat patchy and dull. In the three days since, despite the steady riding, the animal had recovered somewhat under Nimandcr’i ministrations. He was not particularly enamoured of horses in general, but no creature deserved to suffer.
As he climbed into the worn saddle he saw Skintick standing, stepping up on to the wagon’s bench where Nenanda sat holding the reins, and shading his eyes to look southward across the empty plain.
‘See something?’
A moment, then, ‘Yes. Someone… walking.’
Up from the south? ‘But there’s nothing out there’
Kedeviss and Aranatha rose in their stirrups.
‘Let’s get going,’ Desra said from the wagon bed. ‘It’s too hot to be just sitting here.’
Nimander could see the figure now, tall for a human. Unkempt straggly grey hair fanned out round his head like an aura. He seemed to be wearing a long coat of chain, down to halfway between his knees and ankles, slitted in front. The hand-and-a-half grip of a greatsword rose above his left shoulder.
‘An old bastard,’ muttered Skintick, ‘to be walking like that.’
‘Could be he lost his horse,’ said Nenanda disinterestedly. ‘Desra is right-we should be going.’
Striding like one fevered under the sun, the stranger came ever closer. Something about him compelled Nimander’s attention, a kind of dark fascination-for what, he couldn’t quite name. A cascade of images tumbled through his mind. As if he was watching an apparition bludgeoning its way out from some hoary legend, from a time when gods struggled, hands about each other’s throats, when blood fell as rain and the sky itself rolled and crashed against the shores of the Abyss. All this, riding across the dusty air between them as the old man came up to the road. All this, written in the deep lines of his gaunt visage, in the bleak wastelands of his grey eyes.
‘He is as winter,’ murmured Skintick.
Yes, and something… colder.
‘What city lies beyond?’ the man asked.
A startled moment when Nimander realized that the stranger had spoken Tiste Andii. ‘Heath.’
The man turned, faced west. ‘This way, then, lies Bastion and the Cinnamon Track.’
Nimander shrugged.
‘You are from Coral?’ the stranger asked, scanning the group. ‘Is he still camped there, then? But no, I recognize none of you, and that would not be possible. Even so, tell me why I should not kill you all.’
That got Nenanda’s attention, and he twisted in his seat to sneer down at the old man.
But Nimander’s blood has turned to ice. ‘Because, sir, you do not know US.’’
Pale eyes settled o him. ‘You have a point, actually. Very well, instead, I would travel with you, Ride, yes, in your wagon I have worn my boots through crossing this wretched plain Tell me, have you water, decent food?’
Nenanda twisted futher to glare at Nimander. ‘Turn this fool away. He can drink our dust.’
The old man regarded Neiianda for a moment, then came back to Nimander. ‘Tie a leash on this one and we should be fine.’ And he stepped up to the wagon and, setting a foot on a spoke of the rear wheel, pulled himself up. Where he paused, frowning as he studied the prostrate form of Clip. ‘Is he ill?’ he asked Desra. ‘Are you caught with plague? No, not that-your kind rarely succumb to such things. Stop staring, child, and tell me what is wrong with this one.’
‘None of your business,’ she snapped, as Nimander had known she would. ‘If you’re going to crowd in then sit there, to give him some shade.’
Thin brows lifted, then a faint smile flickered across his withered, cracked lips. And without another word he moved to where Desra had indicated and settled down, stretching out his legs. ‘Some water, darling, if you please.’
She stared at him for a moment, then pulled loose a skin and slid it over. ‘That one’s not water,’ she said with a sweet smile. ‘It’s called kelyk. A local brew. Very popular.’
Nimander sat motionless, watching all this. He saw that Skintick and Nenanda were both doing the same.
To Desra’s words, the old man grimaced. ‘I’d rather water,’ he said, but reached for the skin anyway. Tugged free the stopper, then sniffed.
And recoiled. ‘Imperial dust!’ he said in a growl. He replaced the stopper and flung the skin to the back of the wagon. ‘If you won’t spare water then never mind, bitch. We can settle your inhospitality later.’
‘Desra,’ said Nimander as he gathered his reins, ‘give the man some water.’
‘After he called me a bitch?’
‘After you tried poisoning him with kelyk, yes.’
