‘She could have left us Aranatha.’
‘Aranatha was not Aranatha for some time — perhaps you don’t remember when she was younger. Nimander, our sister was a simpleton. Barely a child in her mind, no matter that she grew into a woman.’
‘I always saw it as. . innocence.’
‘There again, your generosity of spirit.’
‘My inability to discriminate, you mean.’
They were silent for a time. Nimander glanced up at the spire. ‘There was a dragon up there.’
‘Silanah. Er, very close to Anomander Rake, I’m told.’
‘I wonder where she went?’
‘You could always awaken T’iam’s blood within you, and find out, Nimander.’
‘Ah, no thank you.’
Spinnock Durav had moved out past Night and had reached the razed stretch that had been a squalid encampment, where a monastery was now under con shy;struction, although for the moment a military tent was the temple wherein dwelt Salind, the High Priestess of the Redeemer.
Would she accept him?
At the Great Barrow there were other workers, pilgrims for the most part, raising a lesser burial mound, to hold the bones of someone named Seerdomin, who had been chosen to stand eternal vigilance at the foot of the Redeemer. It was odd and mysterious, how such notions came to pass. Nimander reminded himself that he would have to send a crew out there, to see if they needed any help.
‘What are you thinking, Lord Nimander?’
Nimander winced at the title. ‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘about prayers. How they feel. . cleaner when one says them not for oneself, but on behalf of someone else.’ He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘I was praying for Spinnock. Anyway, that’s what I was thinking. Well, the High Priestess says there are things we need to talk about. I’d best be off.’
As he turned, Skintick said, ‘It’s said that Anomander Rake would stand facing the sea.’
‘Oh, and?’
‘Nothing. It’s just that I’ve noticed that you’ve taken to staring out over land, out to that Great Barrow. Is there something about the Redeemer that interests you?’
And Nimander just smiled, and then he went inside, leaving Skintick staring after him.
In a chamber devoted to the most arcane rituals, forty-seven steps beneath the ground floor of the High Alchemist’s estate, two iron anvils had been placed within an inscribed circle. The torches lining the walls struggled to lift flames above their blackened mouths.
Sitting at a table off to one side was the witch, Derudan, a hookah at her side, smoke rising from her as if she steamed in the chilly air. At the edge of the circle stood Vorcan, who now called herself Lady Varada, wrapped tight inside a dark grey woollen cloak. The Great Raven, Crone, walked as if pacing out the chamber’s dimensions, her head crooking again and again to regard the anvils.
Baruk was by the door, eyeing Vorcan and Derudan. The last of the T’orrud Cabal. The taste in his mouth was of ashes.
There were servants hidden in the city, and they were even now at work. To bring about a fell return, to awaken one of the Tyrants of old. Neither woman in this room was unaware of this, and the fear was palpable in its persistent distrac shy;tion.
The fate of Darujhistan — and of the T’orrud Cabal — was not their reason for being here, however.
The door swung open with a creak and in strode Caladan Brood, carrying in one hand the sword Dragnipur. He paused just inside and glowered across at Vorcan, and then Derudan. ‘This has nothing to do with you,’ he told them.
Vorcan bowed. ‘Forgive us, Warlord, but we will stay.’
Clearing his throat, Baruk said, ‘My fault, Warlord. It seems they do not trust me — not in such close proximity to that weapon.’
Brood bared his teeth. ‘Am I not guardian enough?’
Seeing Vorcan’s faint smile, Baruk said, ‘The lack of trust is mutual, I am afraid. I am more at ease with these two here in front of us, rather than, um, my starting at every shadow.’
The warlord continued staring at Vorcan. ‘You’d try for me, Assassin?’
Crone cackled at the suggestion.
‘I assume,’ Vorcan said, ‘there will be no need.’
Brood glanced at Baruk. ‘What a miserable nest you live in, High Alchemist. Never mind, it’s time.’
They watched him walk into the circle. They watched him set Dragnipur down, bridging the two anvils. He took a single step back, then, and grew still as he stared down at the sword.
‘It is beautiful,’ he said. ‘Fine craftsmanship.’
‘May you one day be able to compliment its maker in person,’ Vorcan said, ‘Just don’t expect me to make the introduction. I don’t know where they will all spill out, so long as it isn’t in my city.’
Brood shrugged. ‘I am the wrong one from whom to seek reassurance, Assassin.’ He drew the huge hammer from his back and readied the weapon. ‘I’m just here to break the damned thing.’
