‘You already know enough. She refused Lord Anomander’s desire to march on Urusander. She commanded him to keep sheathed his sword.’

‘Am I to be commanded to do nothing as well? If so, then let her speak such words to me.’

‘And if I told you that we did not speak with Mother Dark? That our journey ended abruptly, and that we were guided out from that realm by Lord Draconus?’

‘Then you further undermine your authority to advise me on her behalf.’

A surge of anger silenced Rise Herat. He turned back to study the Azathanai bronze, breathing deeply as he mastered his emotions. ‘Authority? Oh how we all strain to see into the darkness, pleading for its heavy but sure hand. Settled well upon one shoulder, guiding us on to the true path.’

‘I will be the seneschal,’ said Cedorpul. ‘I will be the authority when it comes to the collective sorcerous capabilities of the Citadel, of the Tiste Andii.’

‘And whose authority supersedes your own?’

‘Mother Dark’s, of course. I but await her guidance—’

‘Knowing that it will not come. Cedorpul, am I witness to a usurpation of power?’

‘When Lord Anomander returns to Kharkanas, historian, I will announce to him that I stand at his side, and that it is the express wish of the seneschal that he draw his blade. That he fight in the name of Mother Dark. And upon the field of battle, why, there I will stand, with my cadre, to lend magic to his might.’

Rise Herat focused anew on ‘The Savaging of the Hound’. He could almost hear its howls. Not many, but one. And no end to this violence but death’s sure promise. That merchant. She said that she’d paid nothing for it. That the unknown sculptor among the Azathanai offered it as a gift to the Tiste.

Ideals are like a bitch hound. What she spawns might prove vicious. What she spawns might, in time, turn upon her. Is this what this work announces? No, but I will read into it what I choose, and by that choice, the language of art can never die. All it takes is a little effort.

But then, whenever has that exhortation convinced anyone?

After a long moment, Cedorpul said, ‘Report back to the High Priestess. Ensure that she understands.’

‘Of course.’

He listened to the man walk away, the echoes of his footfalls filling the unlit spaces between marble and bronze.

Chambers that came to house forgotten works of art, Rise Herat reflected, were little more than repositories of sorrow, and all the more heartbreaking if this was where innocence was lost. He decided that he would not return.

* * *