Burrugast shook his head. ‘I’ll not divest myself of this chain, buckle and greaves. There are two armies assembled here. The one we have just left, and the one lounging at this table’s head. I am girded for war and will remain so.’
‘And will it serve you well on this day?’ Varandas asked. ‘Already you drip, Burrugast, to the drumming of
his ink-stained fingers. We have locked our shields and await his reason, knowing well how it cut through us the day he slew civilization. With wine I assemble myself – praying that the grape serves me better today than armour and shield did yesterday.’
‘The drunk answers every assault with smirking equanimity,’ observed Haut, pouring his cup full again. ‘All reasoned words thud like pebbles in the sand. Made immune, I imbibe the nectar of the gods.’
‘Death is at the heart of this scene,’ Varandas said, punctuating his assertion with a belch. ‘There is no road to its border, he will tell us. No high walls to hammer against. The raids are always done by the time we arrive, the looters long gone, the rapists’ gift of pain and horror fled the sightless eyes of every victim. We pursue a wake we can never hope to catch, much less breach, the echo of riders leaving only dust, fires only charcoal and ash.’
‘Hood seeks a direction,’ Burrugast said, ‘but none offers itself with a righteous claim. Might as well war against the night sky, Gothos will tell us. Or the rising sun.’
‘We are chained to time,’ added Haut, ‘and yet, death lies beyond time. The running sands are all stopped in that unknown place. Nothing moves, neither to advance nor retreat, and the absence shows us no face, no enemy arrayed before us. Are we to carve blades through indifferent waves? Cursing the seas so deftly defying our pretensions? He will say this to us, knowing we have no answer.’
‘It is cause for fury!’ Burrugast shouted, a fist thumping the tabletop. ‘We have faced reason, and have stared it down! We have withstood every argument and seen it off! This lord here spoke against all progress, all hope, all ambition – I now accuse him as death’s own agent! Seeking to turn us away, fugged by defeat, despondent and bemused and thoroughly disarmed before we march a single step! He is Hood’s sworn enemy! Love’s scarred foe! The face of misery cursing every claim to delight! I will not yield to this despiser!’ And with that, he thrust out his cup and Haut refilled it from the jug that never seemed to empty.
Arathan leaned his chair back, tilted against the beaded stone wall. His eyes were half closed as he regarded Gothos, who sat as if still alone, still waiting – or not waiting at all, despite those tapping talons on the old wood. Tension made the hot air brittle.
A sound to his right made him twist round slightly, to see a blue-skinned woman standing in the threshold. She was squatter than a Tiste, her limbs solid, her face round, with eyes of brown so deep as to be almost black. A curved knife was tucked into her thin leather belt, over which bulged a belly that had known plenty of ale. Her accent strange, she said, ‘There was word of a gathering. Hood’s officers, I am told.’
‘His officers?’ Haut looked around, frowning. ‘Why, of course. Here we sit, chosen and select, if only in our own minds. Yet observe this master of his own demise – and ours, too, if his will prevails. Friend from the sea, allow me to introduce the Lord of Hate, Gothos, who defies Hood in all things, and sets before us a fierce challenge against our solemn vow. Come in, friend; we fools will grasp with desperation your alliance in the face of this withering flood.’
Uncertainly, she ventured inside, and took a chair on the other side of the table, almost directly opposite Arathan. Her dark eyes fixed on him and she nodded a faint greeting.
‘Yes,’ said Varandas, as he offered the woman a cup of wine, ‘he is the child who will march with us. So young to challenge death. So bold and so careless with the long life promised him – the promise that belongs only to the young, of course. The rest of us, naturally, have since choked on its dregs and done our share of spitting out. Should we not talk him out of this? Well, if Gothos himself has failed in achieving that, what hope have we?’
‘If we tremble here,’ said Burrugast to the woman, ‘do add your shield to our line, but tell us your name and what of your story you would offer strangers.’
She looked down at her cup as she drank, and then said, ‘I see no value in my name, as I am already surrendered to my fate. I ask not to be remembered.’ Her eyes shifted to the Jaghut at the table’s head. ‘I never thought I would find myself in the company of the Lord of Hate. I am honoured, and more to the point, I welcome his indifference.’ She paused and looked round at the others, ending once more on Arathan. ‘You have already lost this battle against Gothos, and every reason he flings at you, to give proof to your madness. This sentiment is one you would do well getting used to, don’t you think? After all, death will answer us likewise.’
Haut sighed. ‘Pray someone step outside and intercept the Seregahl, and what agents of the Dog-Runners might be on their way to this assembly. Snare the Forulkan’s speaker, too, with knotted cords about her ankles, and leave her lying on the cold stones. Whip the Jheck into yelping retreat. I for one do not know how much more I can take. Here, Varandas, I will have the jug back.’
They drank. They said nothing, the silence stretching. The clawed fingers made notches in the time that passed.
‘He exhausts me,’ Varandas finally muttered. ‘Defeat has made me stupid, too stupid to heed his wisdom.’
‘It is the same for all of us here,’ said Haut. ‘Gothos has failed. Everyone, rejoice.’ He looked down at the tabletop, and added, ‘As you will.’
Burrugast was the first to rise, wobbling slightly. ‘I will return to Hood,’ he said, ‘and report his rival’s surrender. We have, my friends, withstood our first assault.’ He raised his empty cup. ‘See. I collect a trophy, this war’s spoil.’
Weaving, he made his way outside, clutching the pewter cup as if it was gold and studded with gems. A moment later, Varandas stood and followed him out.
Rubbing at his lined face, Haut nodded, as if to some unspoken thought, and then stood. ‘Gothos, once again you are too formidable to withstand. And so I retreat. No doubt Korya waits in ambush – is it any wonder I would run to death?’
As Haut strode from the chamber, the blue-skinned woman – who had been staring at Arathan with disconcerting intensity – now rose. She bowed towards Gothos, and then said to Arathan, ‘This last war should not be your first, boy. You miss the point.’
He shook his head, but said nothing. The surrender in his soul would remain private. Of all the vows breeding in this place, it was to his mind the only one worth keeping.
Scowling, she departed.
Alone with Gothos again, Arathan finally spoke. ‘I expected at least one Azathanai,’ he said. ‘They are in the camp, I’m told. A few. Keeping to themselves.’
The fingers drummed.
‘I thought I would hear your final arguments,’ Arathan said, squinting across at the Lord of Hate.
Abruptly, Gothos stood and turned back to face his desk close to the lead-paned window with its burst webs of frost. ‘Let it not be said,’ he muttered, ‘that I did not try my best. Now, Arathan, I need more ink, and another stack awaits you.’
Arathan bowed his head in seeming acknowledgement, but mostly to hide his smile.