'Be quiet,' the wizard said, closing his eyes. 'Me and Shadowthrone,' he whispered, 'we're old friends.' Then he smiled.
In the clearing, Kalam fixed his gaze on the doll that was now the only link between Quick Ben and his soul. 'He's gone, Fid. Don't say nothing, I need to concentrate. Those strings could go tight at any time, slow, so slow you can't even see it happen, but suddenly…'
'He should've waited,' Fiddler said. 'I wasn't finished saying what I was planning on saying, and he just goes. Kal, I got a bad feeling.
Tell me Quick and Shadowthrone really are old friends. Kalam? Tell me Quick wasn't being sarcastic.''
The assassin flicked a momentary look up at the sapper, then licked his lips, returning to his study of the threads. Had they moved? No, not much anyway. 'He wasn't being sarcastic, Fid.'
'Good.'
'No, more sardonic, I think.'
'Not good. Listen, can you pull him out right now? I think you should-'
'Quiet, damn you! I need to watch. I need to concentrate.' Fid's got a bad feeling. Shit.
Paran and Noto Boil rode up and halted in the shadow cast by the city wall. The captain dismounted and stepped up to the battered facade.
With his dagger he etched a broad, arched line, beginning on his left at the wall's base, then up, over – taking two paces – and down again, ending at the right-side base. In the centre he slashed a pattern, then stepped back, slipping the knife into its scabbard.
Remounting the horse, he gathered the reins and said, 'Follow me.'
And he rode forward. His horse tossed its head and stamped its forelegs a moment before plunging into, and through, the wall. They emerged moments later onto a litter-strewn street. The faces of empty, lifeless buildings, windows stove in. A place of devastation, a place where civilization had crumbled, revealing at last its appallingly weak foundations. Picked white bones lay scattered here and there. A glutted rat wobbled its way along the wall's gutter.
After a long moment, the healer appeared, leading his mount by the reins. 'My horse,' he said, 'is not nearly as stupid as yours, Captain. Alas.'
'Just less experienced,' Paran said, looking round. 'Get back in the saddle. We may be alone for the moment, but that will not last.'
'Gods below,' Noto Boil hissed, scrambling back onto his horse. 'What has happened here?'
'You did not accompany the first group?'
They rode slowly onto the gate avenue, then in towards the heart of G' danisban.
'Dujek's foray? No, of course not. And how I wish the High Fist was still in command.'
Me too. 'The Grand Temple is near the central square – where is Soliel's Temple?'
'Soliel? Captain Kindly, I cannot enter that place – not ever again.'
'How did you come to be disavowed, Boil?'
'Noto Boil, sir. There was a disagreement… of a political nature. It may be that the nefarious, incestuous, nepotistic quagmire of a priest's life well suits the majority of its adherents. Unfortunately, I discovered too late that I could not adapt to such an existence. You must understand, actual worship was the least among daily priorities.
I made the error of objecting to this unnatural, nay, unholy inversion.'
'Very noble of you,' Paran remarked. 'Oddly enough, I heard a different tale about your priestly demise. More specifically, you lost a power struggle at the temple in Kartool. Something about the disposition of the treasury.'
'Clearly, such events are open to interpretation. Tell me, Captain, since you can walk through walls thicker than a man is tall, do you possess magical sensitivities as well? Can you feel the foul hunger in the air? It is hateful. It wants us, our flesh, where it can take root and suck from us every essence of health. This is Poliel's breath, and even now it, begins to claim us.'
'We are not alone, cutter.'
'No. I would be surprised if we were. She will spare her followers, her carriers. She will-'
'Quiet,' Paran said, reining in. 'I meant, we are not alone right now.'
Eyes darting, Noto Boil scanned the immediate area. 'There,' he whispered, pointing towards an alley mouth.
They watched as a young woman stepped out from the shadows of the alley. She was naked, frighteningly thin, her eyes dark, large and luminous. Her lips were cracked and split, her hair wild and braided in filth. An urchin who had survived in the streets, a harvester of the discarded, and yet…
'Not a carrier,' Paran said in a murmur. 'I see about her… purest health.'
