derived. Our very way of life and of seeing the world. We send soldiers to their deaths and how do we see those deaths? As glorious sacrifices. The enemy dead? As the victims of our honourable righteousness. Whilst in our cities, in the narrow, foul alleys, a life that ends is but tragic failure. What, then, is the denial whereof I speak?’
‘Death.’
Kuru Qan placed the lenses once more before his eyes and peered at Brys. ‘You see, then. I knew you would. Brys,
The King’s Champion rubbed at his face. His eyes felt full of grit, and he was unaccountably chilled. He was, he realized, exhausted.
‘Our manic accumulation of wealth,’ Kuru Qan went on. ‘Our headlong progress, as if motion was purpose and purpose inherently virtuous. Our lack of compassion, which we called being realistic. The extremity of our judgements, our self-righteousness – all a flight from death, Brys. All a vast denial smothered in semantics and euphemisms. Bravery and sacrifice, pathos and failure, as if life is a contest to be won or lost. As if death is the arbiter of meaning, the moment of final judgement, and above all else judgement is a thing to be delivered, not delivered unto.’
‘Would you rather we worship death, Ceda?’
‘Equally pointless. One needs no faith to die, one dies none the less. I spoke of systemic denial, and it is indeed and in every way systemic. The very fabric of our world, here in Lether and perhaps elsewhere, has been twisted round that… absence.
‘Perhaps because it is the very opposite of existence-’
‘But it isn’t, Brys, it isn’t. Errant take us, death is all around us. We stride over it, we breathe it, we soak its essence into our lungs, our blood. We feed upon it daily. We thrive in the midst of decay and dissolution.’
Brys studied the Ceda. ‘It occurs to me,’ he said slowly, ‘that life itself is a celebration of denial. The denial of which you speak, Kuru Qan. Our flight – well, to flee is to lift oneself clear of the bones, the ashes, the fallen away.’
‘Flee – to where?’
‘Granted. Nowhere but elsewhere. I wonder if what you’ve said is being manifested, in creatures such as Kettle and that thief, Shurq Elalle-’
The Ceda’s head snapped up, eyes suddenly alert behind the thick lenses. ‘I’m sorry? What did you say?’
‘Well, I was speaking of those who are denied death in truth, Ceda. The child, Kettle-’
‘The guardian of the Azath? She is undead?’
‘Yes. I’m sure I mentioned-’
Kuru Qan was on his feet. ‘Are you certain of this? Brys Beddict, she is an undead?’
‘She is. But I don’t understand-’
‘Stand up, Brys. We’re going. Now.’
‘It’s all the fallen people,’ Kettle said. ‘They want answers. They won’t go until they get answers.’
Shurq Elalle kicked away an insect that had crawled onto her boot. ‘Answers about what?’
‘Why they died.’
‘There are no answers,’ Shurq replied. ‘It’s what people do. Die. They die. They always die.’
‘We didn’t.’
‘Yes we did.’
‘Well, we didn’t go away.’
‘From the sound of it, Kettle, neither did they.’
‘That’s true. I wonder why I didn’t think of that.’
‘Because you were about ten years old when you died.’
‘Well, what do I do now?’
Shurq studied the overgrown, ground-heaved yard. ‘You gave me the idea, and that’s why I am here. You said the dead were gathering. Gathering round this place, hovering just outside the walls. Can you talk to them?’
‘Why would I want to? They never say anything interesting.’
‘But you could if you had to.’ Kettle shrugged. ‘I guess.’
‘Good. Ask for volunteers.’
‘For what?’
‘I want them to come with me. On an outing. Tonight and again tomorrow night.’
‘Why would they want to, Mother?’
‘Tell them they will see more gold than they can imagine. They will learn secrets few in this kingdom possess. Tell them I am going to lead them on a tour of the Tolls Repository and the royal vaults. Tell them, the time’s come to have fun. Terrifying the living.’
‘Why would ghosts want to scare the living?’
‘I know, it’s a strange notion, but I predict they will discover they’re very good at it. Further, I predict they will enjoy the endeavour.’
‘But, how will they do that? They’re ghosts. The living can’t even see them.’
Shurq Elalle swung about and stared out on the milling crowds. ‘Kettle, they look pretty solid to us, don’t they?’
‘But we’re dead-’
‘Then why couldn’t we see them a week ago? They were just flits, on the edge of our vision back then, weren’t they? If that, even. So what has changed? Where has their power come from? Why is it growing?’
‘I don’t know.’
Shurq smiled. ‘I do.’
Kettle walked over to one of the low walls.
The thief watched her speaking to the ghosts.
After a moment the child returned, pulling her fingers through her hair to loosen the snarls. ‘You are smart, Mother,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re my mother and that’s why.’
‘I have some volunteers?’
‘They’ll all go. They want to see the gold. They want to scare people.’
‘I need some who can read and some who can count.’
‘That’s okay. So tell me, Mother, why are they growing more powerful? What’s changed?’
Shurq looked back at the square, squalid tower of stone. ‘That, Kettle.’
‘The Azath?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh,’ the child said. ‘I understand now. It died.’
‘Yes,’ Shurq said, nodding. ‘It died.’
After Mother had left, thousands of ghosts following, Kettle walked to the tower’s entrance. She studied the flagstones set before the door, then selected one and knelt before it. Her fingernails broke prying it loose, and she was surprised at the sting of pain and the welling of blood.
She had not told Shurq how hard it had been speaking to those ghosts. Their endless voices had been fading the last day or two, as if she was becoming deaf. Although other sounds – the wind, the dead leaves scurrying about, the crunch and munch of the insects in the yard, and the sounds of the city itself – all were as clear as ever. Something was happening to her. That beating vibration in her chest had quickened. Five, six eights a day, now. The places where her skin had broken long ago were closing up with new, pink skin, and earlier today she had been thirsty. It had taken some time to realize – to remember, perhaps – what thirst was, what it signified, but the stagnant water she had found at the base of one of the pits in the yard had tasted wonderful. So many things were changing, it seemed, confusing her.
She dragged the flagstone to one side, then sat beside it. She wiped the dust from its blank, polished surface. There were funny patterns in it. Shells, the imprint of plants – reeds with their onion-like root-balls – and the
