'Head injuries are like that. Get knocked wrong and you end up muttering marriage vows to your lapdog.'
'We'll see in Falar.'
'We'd be lucky to find a good healer in Bantra.'
'Bantra? Hood's breath, why Bantra when the main islands are but a few leagues farther along?'
Elan shrugged. 'Ragstopper's home berth, it seems. In case you haven't noticed, our acting First Mate lives in a tangle of superstition. He's a legion of neurotic sailors all rolled up in one, Kalam, and on this one you won't sway him – Hood knows I've tried.'
A shout from the lookout interrupted their conversation. 'Sails! Two pegs off the port bow! Six . .. seven ... ten – Bern's blessing, a fleet!'
Kalam and Elan stepped over to the forecastle's portside rail. As yet, they could see nothing but waves.
The First Mate called up from the main deck. 'What's their bearing, Vole?'
'North, sir! And westerly. They'll cut across our wake, sir!'
'In about twelve hours,' Elan muttered, 'hard-tacking all the way.'
'A fleet,' Kalam said.
'Imperial. The Adjunct Tavore, friend.' The man turned and offered the assassin a tight smile. 'If you thought the blood had run thick enough over your homeland ... well, thank the gods we're heading the other way.'
They could see the first of the sails now. Tavore's fleet. Horse and troop transports, the usual league-long wake of garbage, sewage and corpses human and animal, the sharks and dhenrabi thrashing the waves. Any long journey by sea delivers an army foul of temper and eager to get to business. No doubt enough tales of atrocities have reached them to scorch mercy from their souls.
'The serpent's head,' Elan said quietly, 'on that long, stretching Imperial neck. Tell me, Kalam, is there a part of you – an old soldier's – longing to be standing on a deck over there, noting with scant interest a lone, Falar-bound trader ship, while deep within you builds that quiet, deadly determination? On your way to deliver Laseen's punishment, what she's always delivered, as an Empress must; a vengeance tenfold. Are you tugged between two tides right now, Kalam?'
'My thoughts are not yours to pillage, Elan, no matter how rampant your imagination. You do not know me, nor shall you ever know me.'
The man sighed. 'We've fought side by side, Kalam. We proved ourselves a deadly team. Our mutual friend in Ehrlitan had suspicions of what you intend – think of how much greater your chances with me at your side ...'
Kalam slowly turned to face Elan. 'Chances of what?' he asked, his voice barely carrying.
Salk Elan's shrug was easy, careless. 'Whatever. You're not averse to partnerships, are you? There was Quick Ben and, before that, Porthal K'nastra – from your early pre-Imperial days in Karaschimesh. Hood knows, anyone looking at your history, Kalam, might well assert that you thrive on partnerships. Well, man, what do you say?'
The assassin responded with a slow blink of his lids. 'And what makes you think I am alone right now, Salk Elan?'
For the briefest yet most satisfying of moments, Kalam saw a flicker of uncertainty rattle Elan's face, before a smooth smile appeared. 'And where does he hide, up in the crow's nest with that dubiously named lookout?'
Kalam turned away. 'Where else?'
The assassin felt Salk Elan's eyes on his back as he strode away. You've the arrogance common to every mage, friend. You'll have to excuse my pleasure in spreading cracks through it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I stood in a place
where all shadows converged
the end of the Path of Hands
Soletaken and D'ivers
through the gates of truth
where from the darkness
all mysteries emerged.
The Path
Trout Sen'al'Bhok'arala
They came upon the four bodies at the edge of an upthrust of roots that seemed to mark the entrance to a vast maze. The figures were contorted, limbs shattered, their dark robes twisted and stiff with dried blood.
Recognition arrived dull and heavy in Mappo's mind, an answering of suspicions that came with little surprise. Nameless Ones . . . Priests of the Azath, if such entities can have priests. How many cold hands have guided us here? Myself . . . Icarium . . . these two twisted roots . . . journeying to Tremorlor—
With a grunt, Icarium stepped forward, his eyes on a broken staff lying beside one of the corpses. 'I have seen those before,' he said.
The Trell frowned at his friend. 'How? Where?'
'In a dream.'
