Malaz City's harbour district was a tangle of narrow, twisting streets and alleys, seemingly impossible for a horse at full gallop, in the dead of night. The next few minutes marked the wildest ride Kalam had ever known. Minala's skill was breathtaking.
After a short while, Kalam leaned close to her. 'Where in Hood's name are you taking us? The whole city's crawling with Claws, woman-'
'I know, damn you!'
She guided the stallion across a wooden bridge. Looking up, the assassin saw the upper district and, beyond it, a looming black shape: the cliff-and Mock's Hold.
'Minala!'
'You wanted the Empress, right? Well, you bastard, she's right there — in Mock's Hold!'
The tiles gave way without a sound. Cold blackness swallowed the four travellers.
The drop ended abruptly, in a bone-jarring impact with smooth, polished flagstones.
Groaning, Fiddler sat up, the sack of munitions still strapped to his shoulders. He'd injured his barely healed ankle in the fall and the pain was excruciating. Teeth clenched, he looked around. The others were all in one piece, it seemed, slowly clambering to their feet.
They were in a round room, a perfect match to the one they had left in Tremorlor. For a moment, the sapper feared they had simply returned there, but then he smelled salt in the air.
'We're here,' he said. 'Deadhouse.'
'What makes you so sure?' Crokus demanded.
Fiddler crawled over to a wall and levered himself upright. He tested the leg, winced. 'I smell Malaz Bay — and feel how damp the air is. This ain't Tremorlor, lad.'
'But we might be in any House, in any place beside a bay-'
'We might,' the sapper conceded.
'It's simply a matter of finding out,' Apsalar said reasonably. 'You've hurt your ankle again, Fiddler.'
'Aye. I wish Mappo was here with his elixirs…'
'Can you walk?' Crokus asked.
'Not much choice.'
Apsalar's father approached the stair, looked down. 'Someone's home,' he said. 'I see lantern light.'
'Oh, that's just wonderful,' Crokus muttered, unsheathing his knives.
'Put 'em away,' Fiddler said. 'Either we're guests or we're dead. Let's go introduce ourselves, shall we?'
Descending to the main floor — with Fiddler leaning hard on the Daru — they passed through an open door into the hallway. Lanterns glowed in niches along its length, and the flicker of firelight issued from the open double doors opposite the entranceway.
As at Tremorlor, a massive suit of armour filled an alcove halfway down the hall's length, and this one had seen serious battle.
The group paused to regard it briefly, in silence, before continuing on to the opened doors.
Apsalar leading, they entered the main chamber. The flames in the stone fireplace seemed to be burning without fuel, and a strange blackness around its edges revealed it as a small portal, opened onto a warren of ceaseless fire.
A figure, its back to them, stood staring into those flames. Dressed in faded ochre robes, the man was solid, broad-shouldered and at least seven feet tall. A long, iron-hued ponytail swept down between his shoulders, bound just above the small of his back with a dull length of chain.
Without turning, the guardian spoke in a low, rumbling voice. 'Your failure in taking Icarium has been noted.'
Fiddler grunted. 'In the end, it was not up to us. Mappo-'
'Oh yes, Mappo,' the guardian cut in. 'The Trell. He has walked at Icarium's side too long, it seems. There are duties that surpass friendship. The Elders scarred him deep when they destroyed an entire settlement and laid the blame at Icarium's feet. They imagined that would suffice. A Watcher was needed, desperately. The one who had held that responsibility before had taken his own life. For months Icarium walked the land alone, and the threat was too great.'
The words reached into Fiddler, tore at his insides.
'The Azath has worked towards this taking for a long time, mortals.' The man turned then. Huge tusks framed his thin mouth, jutting from his lower lip. The greenish cast of his weathered skin made him look ghostly, despite the hearth's warm light. Eyes the colour of dirty ice regarded them.
Fiddler stared, seeing what he could not believe — the resemblance was unmistakeable, every feature an echo. His mind reeled.
'My son must be stopped — his rage is a poison,' the Jaghut said. 'Some responsibilities surpass friendship, surpass even blood.'
'We are sorry,' Apsalar said quietly after a long moment, 'but the task was ever beyond us, beyond those you see here.'
The cold, unhuman eyes studied her. 'Perhaps you are right. It is my turn to apologize. I had such … hopes.'
'Why?' Fiddler whispered. 'Why is Icarium so cursed?'
