In his mind’s eye he saw another face, this one human, thin and pale, raindrops tracking runnels down the withered cheeks. Flat, grey eyes reaching up, finding Mappo’s own beyond the rim of elders. ‘Do you know us?’ The voice was a rasp of rough leather.

An elder had nodded. ‘We know you as the Nameless Ones.’

‘It is well,’ the man replied, eyes still fixed on Mappo’s own. ‘The Nameless Ones, who think not in years, but in centuries. Chosen warrior,’ he continued, addressing Mappo, ‘what can you learn of patience?’

Like rooks bursting from a copse, the memories fled. Staring at Icarium, Mappo managed a smile, revealing his gleaming canines. ‘Patient? I can be nothing else with you. Nonetheless, I do not trust Iskaral Pust.’

Servant began removing sopping clothes and bedding from the cauldron, using his bare hands as he squeezed steaming water from the bundles. Watching him, the Trell frowned. One of Servant’s arms was strangely pink, unweathered, almost youthful. The other more befitted the man’s evident age, thickly muscled, hairy and tanned.

‘Servant?’

The man did not look up.

‘Can you speak?’ Mappo continued.

‘It seems,’ Icarium said when Servant made no response, ‘that he’s turned a deaf ear to us, by his Master’s command, I’d warrant. Shall we explore this temple, Mappo? Bearing in mind that every shadow is likely to echo our words as a whisper in the High Priest’s ears.’

‘Well,’ the Trell growled as he rose, ‘it is of little concern to me that Iskaral knows of my distrust.’

‘He surely knows more of us than we do of him,’ Icarium said, also rising.

As they left, Servant was still twisting water from the cloth with something like savage joy, the veins thick on his massive forearms.

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

In a land where

Seven cities rose in gold,

Even the dust has eyes

Debrahl Saying

A crowd of dusty, sweat-smeared men gathered around as the last of the bodies were removed. The dust cloud hung unmoving over the mine entrance as it had for most of the morning, since the collapse of the reach at the far end of Deep Mine. Under Beneth’s command the slaves had worked frantically to retrieve the thirty-odd companions buried in the fall.

None had survived. Expressionless, Felisin watched with a dozen other slaves from the rest ramp at Twistings Mouth while they awaited the arrival of refilled water casks. The heat had turned even the deepest reaches of the mines into sweltering, dripping ovens. Slaves were collapsing by the score every hour below ground.

On the other side of the pit, Heboric tilled the parched earth of Deepsoil. It was his second week there and the cleaner air and the relief from pulling stone carts had improved his health. A shipment of limes delivered at Beneth’s command had helped as well.