‘I won’t. Now, can you tie those strings? But not too tightly. My muscles swell with swinging that mace.’

He turned again and crouched down. She looked at his broad back, the massive bulges of strange muscles, so uneven, like knots on a tree trunk. ‘Rancept,’ she asked as she stepped forward, ‘how old were you, when you were in the mines?’

‘Eleven. Left when I was sixteen.’

‘A lead rock-biter – is that what it was called? You were made that at eleven?’

‘No. Had to earn that, too. But I was a big lad even then.’

‘What did you steal?’

‘Food.’

‘Rancept.’ She pulled at the strings, tied a knot.

‘Milady.’

‘Ours is a cruel civilization, isn’t it?’

‘No crueller than most.’

She thought about that and then frowned. ‘That sounds… cynical.’

He said nothing.

They worked together in silence, getting Rancept readied for war. Through it all, Sukul Ankhadu waged a war of her own, against the despair that threatened to overwhelm her.

But when at last they were done, he reached to rest a finger against her cheek. ‘I think of you, milady, not as a hostage, but as a daughter. I know, I am presumptuous.’

Unable to speak, she shook her head, and felt, in a rush of emotion, the despair swept away, as if before a flood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

‘THE WAYS OF TISTE CONFUSE,’ SAID HATARAS RAZE, SLIPPING free of the heavy bhederin furs as the sun’s light clawed through the high clouds, leaving her naked from the hips upward.

Fighting his incessant chill, Listar looked away. He was leading all three horses, as the two Bonecasters refused to ride the animals, although they examined them often, running their red-painted hands across the sleek hides. It was, Listar had come to realize, a habit of theirs, this endless touching, caressing, palms resting firm upon flesh. Most nights, the two Dog-Runner women were busy doing that with each other. Even more disconcerting, they seemed indifferent to the cold.

In response to Hataras’s observation, Listar shrugged. ‘Crimes must be punished, Bonecaster.’

‘All that work,’ said the younger of the two women, Vastala Trembler. ‘Build fire in winter. Against the stone. Then cold water. Stone cracks, tools can be made.’

‘But you see these weapons I wear, Vastala? They are iron. The rock must be broken and then melted. I do not know the intricacies. I just hauled the rubble up from the pits.’

‘As punishment,’ said Hataras.

‘Yes.’

‘For iron, which all Tiste use.’

‘Yes.’

‘And find pleasure in.’

He sighed. ‘It’s just our way, Bonecaster. As yours are different from ours.’

Vastala Trembler had bundled up all her skins and furs, and was carrying them on one shoulder. She wore hide moccasins and nothing else, barring an obsidian knife bound to a leather thong around her neck. ‘The Ay get restless.’