Midnight tides

‘Did she cast the tiles, Hulad? Did she?’

‘She tried.’

‘Tried?’

‘It failed, Udinaas. The Holds were closed; she was blind to them. She was frightened. I’ve never seen her so frightened.’

‘What else has happened?’

‘I don’t know. The Edur are still in the citadel.’

‘They can’t all be there.’

‘No, only the nobility. The others are in their homes. They have banished their slaves for now. Most of them had nowhere to go. They’re just huddled in the forest. Soaked through. There seems no end in sight.’ He reached down and helped Udinaas to stand. ‘Let’s go to the longhouse. Get dry and warm.’

He let Hulad guide him back to the Sengar longhouse. ‘Did you see the ships, Hulad?’ he asked as they walked. ‘Did you see them?’

‘Yes. They’re lowering boats, but no welcome seems forthcoming.’

‘I wonder what they’ll think of that?’

Hulad did not reply.

They entered. Sudden warmth, the crackle of flames the only sound. Hulad helped him remove the rain cloak. As he did so, he gasped and pulled at Udinaas’s shirt.

‘Where did you get those?’

Udinaas frowned down at the almost-black bruises where the Wyval’s talons had been. ‘I don’t know.’

‘They remind me of Feather Witch’s wounds, from that demon. Just the same. Udinaas, what is happening to you?’

‘Nothing. I’m going to sleep.’

Hulad said nothing more as Udinaas walked down the length of the main chamber towards his sleeping pallet.

Fighting the outflow, the three scows edged closer to the bank on the south side of the river. Each craft held about a dozen Letherii, most of them bodyguards in full armour, the visors closed on their helms.

Four steps behind Buruk the Pale, Seren followed the merchant down to the strand. It seemed they would be the sole welcoming committee, at least to begin with. ‘What do you intend to tell them?’ she asked.

Buruk glanced back at her, rain dripping from the rim of his hood. ‘I was hoping you would say something.’

She did not believe him, but appreciated the effort. ‘I’m not even certain of the protocol. Nifadas is leading the delegation, but the prince is here as well. Who do I acknowledge first?’

Buruk shrugged. ‘The one most likely to be offended if you bow to other one first.’

‘Assuming,’ she replied, ‘I do not intend a calculated insult.’

‘Well, there is that. Mind you, Acquitor, you are supposed to be neutral.’

‘Perhaps I should direct my bow to a space directly between them.’

‘Whereupon they will both conclude that you have lost your mind.’

‘Which is at least even-handed.’

‘Ah, humour. That is much better, Acquitor. Despair gives way to anticipation.’

They reached the strand and stood side by side, watching the scows approach. The rain elected that moment to fall harder, a growing downpour prattling on the stones and hissing on the current- and tide-twisted water. The scows blurred behind a grey wall, almost vanished entirely, then reappeared suddenly, the first one crunching and lurching as it grounded. Sweeps rose and then descended as the crew stored them. Guards splashed down and clambered onto the strand. One made his way to Buruk and Seren. His expression below the visor and nose-bar was grim.

‘I am Finadd Moroch Nevath, of the Prince’s Guard. Where are the Edur?’

Moroch seemed to be facing Seren, so she spoke in reply, ‘In the citadel, Finadd. There has been an… event.’

‘What in the Errant’s name does that mean?’

Behind the Finadd and his guards, Prince Quillas Diskanar was being carried by servants over the waves. The First Eunuch Nifadas had eschewed any such assistance and was wading onto the strand.

‘It’s rather complicated,’ Seren said. ‘Buruk’s guest camp is just on the other side of the bridge. We can get under cover from the rain-’

‘Never mind the rain,’ Moroch snapped. Then he swung about and saluted as Quillas Diskanar, sheltered beneath a four-point umbrella held aloft by two servants, strode to halt before Buruk and Seren. ‘My prince,’ the Finadd said in a growl, ‘it would appear the Tiste Edur have chosen this moment to be preoccupied.’

‘Hardly an auspicious beginning,’ Quillas snapped, turning a sneer on Seren Pedac. ‘Acquitor. Has Hull Beddict elected the wise course and departed this village?’

She blinked, struggling to disguise her alarm at the pre-eminence the question of Hull had assumed. Do they fear him that much? ‘He is nearby, my prince.’

‘I intend to forbid his attendance, Acquitor.’

‘I believe an invitation has been extended to him,’ she said slowly, ‘by the Warlock King.’

‘Oh? And will Hull speak for the Edur now?’

Buruk spoke for the first time, ‘My prince, that is a question we would all like answered.’

Quillas shifted his attention. ‘You are the merchant from Trate.’

‘Buruk the Pale.’ With a deep bow from which Buruk had difficulty recovering.

‘A drunk merchant at that.’

Seren cleared her throat. ‘Your arrival was sudden, my prince. The Edur have been sequestered in the citadel for a day and a half. We’ve had little to do but wait.’

The First Eunuch was standing a pace back, seemingly uninterested in the conversation, his small, glittering eyes fixed on the citadel. He appeared equally indifferent to the rain pummelling his hood and cape-clad shoulders. It occurred to Seren that here was a different kind of power, and in silence the weight was being stolen from Prince Quillas Diskanar.

Proof of that was sudden, as the prince swung round to Nifadas and said, ‘What do you make of all this, then, First Eunuch?’

Expressionless eyes settled on Quillas. ‘My prince, we have arrived at a moment of crisis. The Acquitor and the merchant know something of it, and so we must needs await their explanation.’

‘Indeed,’ Quillas said. ‘Acquitor, inform us of this crisis.’

Whilst you stand beneath that umbrella and we get soaked and chilled to the bone. ‘Of course, my prince. The Warlock King despatched a party of warriors into the ice wastes to retrieve what turned out to be a sword. They were, however, set upon by Jheck Soletaken. One of the warriors, who was wielding that sword, was slain. The others brought his body back for burial, but the corpse would not release its grip upon the sword. The Warlock King was greatly animated by this detail, and made his demand for the weapon plain and unequivocal. There was a public clash between him and the dead warrior’s father.’

‘Why not just cut off the body’s fingers?’ Quillas Diskanar demanded, his brows lifted in contemptuous disbelief.

‘Because,’ Nifadas replied, laconic and overly patient, ‘there is traditional sanctity accorded a fallen warrior among the Edur. Please, Acquitor, go on. It is hard to believe this impasse is yet to be resolved.’

She nodded. ‘It was but the beginning, and indeed it became something of a moot point. For the corpse returned to life.’

Quillas snorted. ‘What manner of jest is this, woman?’

‘No jest,’ Buruk the Pale answered. ‘My prince, we saw him with our own eyes. He was alive. The truth was announced by his screams, such terrible screams, for he had been dressed-’

‘Dressed?’ the prince asked, looking around.

The First Eunuch’s eyes had widened. ‘How far along, Merchant Buruk?’

‘The coins, First Eunuch. And the wax.’

‘Errant defend,’ Nifadas whispered. ‘And this sword – he will not yield it?’

Seren shook her head. ‘We don’t know, First Eunuch.’