‘I simply chose it. I had no name. Not as a child, not until just a few months ago. I had no name at all, Spinnock Durav. Do you know why I haven’t been raped yet? Most of the other women have. Most of the children, too. But not me. Am I so ugly? No, not in the flesh — even I know that. It’s because I was a Child of the Dead Seed do you know the meaning of that, Tiste Andii? My mother crawled half-mad on a battlefield, reaching beneath the jerkins of dead soldiers until she found a member solid and hard. Then she took it into herself and, if she were blessed, it would spill into her. A dead man’s seed. I had plenty of brothers and sisters, a family of aunts and a mother who in the end rotted to some terrible disease that ate her flesh — her brain was long gone by then. I have not been raped, because I am untouchable.’
He stared down at her, evidently shocked, horrified into dumb silence.
She coughed, wishing she did not get sick so often — but it had always been this way. ‘You can go now, Spinnock Durav.’
‘This place festers.’ And he moved forward to pick her up.
She recoiled. ‘You don’t understand! I’m sick because
He halted and she finally could make out his eyes, forest green and tilted at the corners, and far too much compassion gleamed in that regard. ‘The Redeemer? Yes, I imagine he is. Come,’ and he took her up, effortlessly, and she should have struggled — should have been free to choose — but she was too weak. Pushing him away with her hands was a gesture, a desire, transformed into clutching help shy;lessly at his cloak. Like a child.
‘When the rains stop,’ he murmured, his breath no doubt warm but scalding against her fevered cheek, ‘we shall rebuild. Make all this new. Dry, warm.’
‘Do not rape me.’
‘No more talk of rape. Fever will awaken many terrors. Rest now.’
Stepping outside with the now unconscious woman in his arms, Spinnock Durav looked round. Figures on all sides, both hooded and bareheaded in the rain, water streaming down.
‘She is sick,’ he said to them. ‘She needs healing.’
No one spoke in reply.
He hesitated, then said, ‘The Son of Darkness will be informed of your. . difficulties.’
They begun turning away, melting into the grey sheets. In moments Spinnock found himself alone.
He set out for the city.
‘
Boots uncertain in the slime and mud, he made his careful way back. Night awaited.
And, rising up from the depths of his memories, the fragment of some old poem, ‘
The words haunted him, mocked him with their ambiguity. He preferred things simple and straightforward. Solid like heroic sculpture — those marble and alabaster monuments to some great person who, if truth be known, was nowhere near as great as believed or proclaimed, and indeed looked nothing like the white polished face above the godlike body —
In the camp, in the wake of the Tiste Andii’s departure with the High Priestess half dead in his arms, the bald priest, short and bandy-legged and sodden under rain-soaked woollen robes, hobbled up to Gradithan. ‘You saw?’
The ex-soldier grunted. ‘I was tempted, you know. A sword point, right up back of his skull. Shit-spawned Tiste Andii bastard, what in Hood’s name did he think, comin’ here?’
The priest — a priest of some unknown god somewhere to the south, Bastion, perhaps — made tsk-tsking sounds, then said, ‘The point is, Urdo-’
