They both turned at a strange shuffling sound from the doorway that led to the main inner corridor. A ghostly figure loomed suddenly in the entranceway. A Dog-Runner, his hair so blond as to be almost colourless, his tawny beard tangled and looking like a tuft of dead grass growing from his chinless jaw. The eye sockets beneath the heavy ridge of his brow were empty pits. A hole had been carved into his broad chest, where his heart should have been. What remained was withered and dry, ribs snapped and jutting from the wound.

‘Apparition,’ whispered Korya, ‘forgive us this intrusion.’

‘The dead are unforgiving,’ the ghost replied in a thin voice. ‘Which is, I suppose, why we are known to be such miserable company. Beg no pardon, plead no indulgence, pray no favour and seek no blessing. Take pleasure in my noticing you, if you must, or let loose a blood-curdling scream. I care neither way.’

Arathan sighed, and then straightened. ‘What do you want of us, Dog-Runner?’

‘What all old men want, living or dead. An audience for our life’s story. Sharp interest we can dull, curiosity we can deplete. An opportunity to dismember your very will to live, if possible. Hearken then to this wisdom, if you would hold to the conceit of being worthy of it.’

Arathan glanced at Korya. ‘And you willingly sat around the campfire in company like this?’

She scowled. ‘Well, the ones outside aren’t dead yet. I’d think dying changes how you think.’

‘Or simply exaggerates what was already there.’

‘I am now being ignored,’ observed the Dog-Runner ghost. ‘This, too, is typical. I was once a Bonecaster, a foolish man among chattering women, defenceless against their barbs until respect was earned in the manner they expected. Namely, a man’s legendary stubbornness. Although, between you and me, I was more addled than stubborn. What is perceived is rarely the truth, and what is true is only rarely perceived. Between the two, upon which is one best advised to rely? Some delusions, after all, are comforting. While truths, alas, are mostly unpleasant.’

‘How came you to this Azath House?’ Arathan asked.

‘By the front door.’

‘Who killed you?’

‘Jaghut. In the manner of fatal exploration, as they sought to determine all that was magical within me. Of course, there was nothing magical within me, barring life’s spark, which all mortals possess. Said exploration quenched that spark, an outcome I predicted at the top of my lungs to no avail, even as the knife descended. When next you see Jaghut, tell them this from Guardian Cadig Aval: “I told you so.” If brave, you may add “idiots” to my message.’

‘Oh,’ said Arathan, ‘I’ll do that for you. It would be my pleasure, in fact. Nor do I think Gothos would—’

‘Gothos? I’ve been looking for him, here in the realms of the dead, since he said he was going to kill himself. Yet still he lives? Typical. You can’t depend on anyone.’