‘Has it occurred to you,’ said Traveller, softly, to the god standing before him, ‘that they might be the fabled Hounds of Light?’
‘Really? Why would you think that?’ And in that moment, when Cotillion met his eyes and winked, all the exhaustion — the very immortality of ascendancy itself — vanished, and Traveller saw once more — after what seemed a lifetime — the man he had once called his friend.
Yet he could not bring himself to smile, to yield any response at all to that gesture and the invitation it offered. He could not afford such. . weakness. Not now, perhaps never again. Certainly, not with what these two old friends had become.
Reaching down, he collected the skins and the knapsack. ‘Which one drove the bear to the coast?’ he asked.
‘Gear. You needed food, or you would not have got even this far.’
‘I was very nearly its supper, Cotillion.’
‘We have always had faith in you, First Sword.’
The next — and probably last — question Traveller had for the god was the most difficult one to voice. ‘And which of you wrecked my ship and killed my crew?’
Cotillion’s brows lifted, ‘Not us. Dassem, we would not do that.’
Traveller studied the god’s eyes — always softer than one might have expected, but he had long since grown used to that and then he turned away. ‘All right.’
Pallid and Lock fell in as reluctant, desultory rearguard as the Hounds escorted Traveller inland. Shadowthrone had managed to turn his throne round so that he could watch the First Sword and his entourage slowly dwindle into the northeast.
Standing nearby, Cotillion lifted his hands and looked down upon the palms, seeing the glistening sweat pooling there. ‘That was close.’
‘Eh? What was?’
‘If he had decided we were behind the shipwreck, well, I don’t like to think what would have happened here.’
‘Simple, Cotillion. He would have killed us.’
‘And the Hounds would not have interceded.’
‘Except perhaps my newest pets! No old loyalties there! Hee hee!’
‘Close,’ said Cotillion again.
‘You could have just told him the truth. That Mael wanted him and wanted him badly. That we had to reach in and drag him out — he would have been far more thankful with all that.’
‘Gratitude is a useless luxury in this instance, Shadowthrone. No distractions, remember? Nothing and no one to turn Traveller from his fated destiny. Leave Mael for another time.’
‘Yes, very good. A detail we can offer Traveller when our need for him is immediate and, er, pressing. We delved, following the suggestion he set us this day, in this place, and lo! Why, none other than the Elder God of the Seas was to blame! Now get over here and draw that damned sword and hack these enemies to pieces!’
‘That is not the delving we need to do right now,’ Cotillion said.
‘Well, of course not. We already know! What need delving?’
Cotillion faced Shadowthrone. ‘Mael could have killed him easily enough, don’t you think? Instead, he set out to
‘Yes, I am beginning to see. Suspicions awakened — I was momentarily careless, unmindful. Delay, yes, why? What value?’
‘I just realized something.’
‘What? Quick, tell me!’
‘It doesn’t matter what Mael had in mind. It won’t work.’
‘Explain!’
‘Mael assumes a quarry on the run, after all. .’
‘Yes, he must, of course, no other possibility. Mael doesn’t get it! The idiot! Hee hee! Now, let’s get out of this ash-heap, my throat’s getting sore.’
Cotillion stared after the Hounds and their charge, squinting against the bright sunlight. ‘Timing, Shadowthrone. .’
‘Perfection.’
‘So far.’
‘We will not fail.’
‘We’d better not.’
‘Which among our newfound allies do you imagine the weak link?’
Cotillion glanced back at Shadowthrone. ‘Well,
‘Apart from me, I mean.’
Cotillion stared. Shadowthrone waited. Fidgeting on his throne.
Midnight at the lone tavern of Morsko provided Nimander with memories he would never lose. Slack-eyed, black-mouthed villagers staggering forward, colliding with him and the others. Stained bottles thrust into their faces. Eyes smeared with something murky and yellowed. The drink was potent enough to numb tongues, if the exhorting moans were in truth invitations to imbibe.
Even without Clip’s earlier warning, Nimander was not inclined to accept such hospitality; nor, he saw with some relief, were any of his kin. They stood, still crowded at the entrance, bemused and uneasy. The pungent air of the low-ceilinged chamber was sweet, overlaying strains of acrid sweat and something like living decay.
Skintick moved up alongside Nimander and they both watched as Clip — Desra at his side — made his way to the counter. ‘A simple jug of wine? Anywhere in this place? Not likely.’
Nimander suspected Skintick was right. All he could see, at every table, in every hand, was the same long-necked flask with its blackened mouth.
