Withal sighed and finally opened his eyes. The first time that day. Even in the gloom of his abode, the light hurt, made him squint. She stood before him, a silhouette, unmistakably female. For a god swathed in blankets, the Crippled One seemed unmindful of the nakedness among his chosen.
She raised a hand to strike him.
He flinched back. ‘All right, fine! Sandalath something. Pleased to meet you-’
‘Sandalath Drukorlat. I am Tiste Andii-’
‘That’s nice. Now, in case you haven’t noticed, I was in the midst of prayers-’
‘You’re always in the midst of prayers, and it’s been two days now. At least, I think two days. The Nachts slept, anyway. Once.’
‘They did? How strange.’
‘And you are?’
‘Me? A weaponsmith. A Meckros. Sole survivor of the destruction of my city-’
‘Your name!’
‘Withal. No need to shout. There hasn’t been any shouting. Well, some screaming, but not by me. Not yet, that is-’
‘Be quiet. I have questions that you are going to answer.’
She was not particularly young, he noted as his eyes adjusted. Then again, neither was he. And that wasn’t good. The young were better at making friends. The young had nothing to lose. ‘You’re being rather imperious, Sandalath.’
‘Oh, did I hurt your feelings? Dreadfully sorry. Where did you get those clothes?’
‘From the god, who else?’
‘What god?’
‘The one in the tent. Inland. You can’t miss it. I don’t see how – two days? What have you been doing with yourself? It’s just up from the strand-’
‘Be quiet.’ She ran both hands through her hair.
Withal would rather she’d stayed a silhouette. He looked away. ‘I thought you wanted answers. Go ask him-’
‘I didn’t know he was a god. You seemed preferable company, since all I got from him was coughing and laughter – at least, I think it was laughter-’
‘It was, have no doubt about that. He’s sick.’
‘Sick?’
‘Insane.’
‘So, an insane hacking god and a muscle-bound, bald aspirant. And three Nachts. That’s it? No-one else on this island?’
‘Some lizard gulls, and ground-lizards, and rock-lizards, and lizard-rats in the smithy-’
‘So where did you get that food there?’
He glanced over at the small table. ‘The god provides.’
‘Really. And what else does this god provide?’
‘Your clothes.’
‘Yes.’
‘I want clothes.’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you mean, “yes”? Get me some clothes.’
‘I’ll ask.’
‘Do you think I like standing here, naked, in front of some stranger? Even the Nachts leer.’
‘I wasn’t leering.’
‘You weren’t?’
‘Not intentionally. I just noticed, you’re speaking the Letherii trader language. So am I.’
‘You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?’
‘I’ve had lots of practice, I suppose.’ He rose. ‘It occurs to me that you’re not going to let me resume my prayers. At least until you get some clothes. So, let’s go talk to the god.’
‘You go talk to him. I’m not. Just bring me clothes, Withal.’
He regarded her. ‘Will that help you… relax?’
Then she did hit him, a palm pounding into the side of his head.
She’d caught him unprepared, he decided a moment later, after he picked himself free of the wreckage of the wall he’d gone through. And stood, weaving, the scene around him spinning wildly. The glaring woman who’d stepped outside and seemed to be considering hitting him again, the pitching sea, and the three Nachts on a sward nearby, rolling in silent hilarity.
He walked down towards the sea.
Behind him, ‘Where are you going?’
‘To the god.’
‘He’s the other way.’
He reversed direction. ‘Talking to me like I don’t know this island. She wants clothes. Here, take mine.’ He pulled his shirt over his head.
And found himself lying on his back, staring up through the bleached weave of the cloth, the sun bright and blinding-
– suddenly eclipsed. She was speaking. ‘… just lie there for a while longer, Withal. I wasn’t intending to hit you that hard. I fear I’ve cracked your skull.’
‘Withal?’
‘It’s the tent. That’s what the Nachts are trying to tell me. Something about the tent…’
‘Withal?’
The trail ran in an easterly direction, roughly parallel to the Brous Road at least to start, then cut southward towards the road itself once the forest on the left thinned. One other farm had been passed through by the deserters, but there had been no-one there. Signs of looting were present, and it seemed a wooden-wheeled wagon had been appropriated. Halfpeck judged that the marauders were not far ahead, and the Crimson Guardsmen would reach them by dawn.
Seren Pedac rode alongside Iron Bars. The new stirrups held her boots firmly in place; she had never felt so secure astride a horse. It was clear that the Blueroses had been deceiving the Letherii for a long time, and she wondered if that revealed some essential, heretofore unrecognized flaw among her people. A certain gullibility, bred from an unfortunate mixture of naivete and arrogance. If Lether survived the
Edur invasion and the truth about the Bluerose deception came to light, the Letherii response would be characteristically childish, she suspected, some kind of profound and deep hurt, and a grudge long held on to. Bluerose would be punished, spitefully and repeatedly, in countless ways.
The two women soldiers in the squad had dismantled a hide rack at the first farm, using the frame’s poles to fashion a half-dozen crude lances, half again as tall as a man. The sharpened, fire-hardened points had been notched transversely, the thick barbs bent outward from the shaft. Each tip had been smeared with blood from the breeder and his family, to seal the vengeful intent.
They rode through the night, halting four times to rest their horses, all but one of the squad managing a
