‘I will. Death is a curiosity. Even, perhaps, a hobby of mine. I confess to some fascination, admittedly lurid. This notion of flesh that passes, soft shells that decay once the spirit has fled, and how such an affliction haunts you all.’

‘Us mortals, you mean?’ Varandas asked. ‘I’ll have you know, Azathanai, that those Jaghut who by chance escape premature death invariably welcome an end when at last it arrives. The flesh is a weary vessel, and that which crumbles soon becomes a prison to the soul. Death, accordingly, is a relief. Indeed, an escape.’

She frowned. ‘But why confound a soul with the uncertainty of its immortality?’

‘Perhaps,’ ventured Hood, ‘to awaken in us the value of faith.’

‘And what value has faith, Hood?’

‘Belief exists in order to humble the mundane world of proofs. If mortal flesh is a prison, so too is a world too well known. Within and without, we desire – and perhaps need – a means of escape.’

‘An escape you name faith. Thank you, Hood. You have enlightened me.’

‘Not too much, one hopes,’ Varandas said in a growl. ‘Lest all wonder die in your lavender eyes.’

‘Beauty desires admiration, Varandas, until it tires of it.’

‘And does it now pall in your regard, Spingalle?’

‘Probably. Besides, too much flattery and the subject begins to doubt its veracity, or at the very least, its worth. And besides, what worth is it, Varandas, to be the object of aesthetic admiration? I but give shape to your imagination.’

‘A rare gift,’ Varandas replied.

‘Not as rare as you think.’

‘Your Jaghut guise has soured you, Azathanai. Our misery is infectious.’

‘This too is probable. Hood, the Azath House in your abandoned city has won a reprieve. Even the guardian ghost knows invigoration. Still, that was a risky endeavour.’

Hood shrugged where he sat before his cold flames. ‘Do me a favour, Spingalle, and spread the word. It will be very soon now.’

‘Very well. Varandas, I should never have slept with you.’

‘True, as I remain eternally smitten.’

‘Somewhat pathetic of you, and therefore decidedly unattractive.’

‘Such is the curse of one who loses. But seed this ground between us with hope, and see me flower anew, bearing the sweet scent of delight and anticipation.’

‘Varandas, we are about to war with the dead.’

‘Yes, well, bad timing is another curse of mine, one not so easily discarded.’

She nodded to them both, and walked away.

Varandas stared after her, and then sighed again. A moment later he said, ‘More guests are imminent, Hood. Led by none other than Gothos’s brother.’

‘Don’t be ridic— Ah, well, that was a possibility, wasn’t it? What does he want with me, I wonder?’

‘A fist to your nose, I should expect.’

Hood grunted. ‘Beats a long conversation. In any case, it wasn’t really my fault.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Varandas, ‘be sure to tell him that.’

* * *