‘Such material exchanges as you describe are meant to symbolize the virtues I mentioned. They are not the virtues in and of themselves.’

‘But is this not the meaning of all wealth, hostage?’

‘I think not. After all, greed is not a virtue.’

‘Greed is the language of power, the hoarding of symbols.’

She shook her head. ‘Virtues cannot be claimed; they are but shown.’

‘Shown. How are they shown?’

Korya scowled. ‘By the gifts you describe.’

Haut nodded. ‘Listen well. You are right to not conflate the symbol with the meaning; but you are wrong in thinking that to do so is uncommon.’

‘Then I would say, the Protector defends the distinction, and so to make his point, he must stand aside when thieves take away the material symbols of the virtues whose sanctity and purity he defends.’

Haut grunted. ‘A fine theory. I will consider—’

His abrupt stop made her look up. Haut was staring down at his feet. After a long moment he drew free his axe and then faced upslope once more.

‘Master?’

‘By what measure then, Azathanai wealth?’

‘Master? What is—’ Faint motion caught her eye, something glittering, and she looked down on the path. A thin, crooked stream was wending its way down through the twisted rings and cut gems. In the strange, colourless light it looked black as ink.

Haut set out, climbing once more with the axe readied in his hands.

Pushing herself upright and taking care to avoid the rivulet, Korya followed.

Another half-dozen strides upward and it became impossible to step around the draining liquid. Is this blood I see? She thought of gods and goddesses, the notions of sacrifice – so long ago abandoned by the Tiste – and this place at once seemed colder, crueller.

No more questions to ask Haut; this was not the time. She remained silent, but her mouth was dry and her heart beat fast in her chest.

The ascent ended just ahead in a broken tumble of stones that seemed to flatten, as if by weight alone they could force the trail level, but something was lying upon the verge – a corpse, sprawled and half naked, the limbs stretched as if the body had been dragged to the edge of the descent. From this contorted perch, blood ran down in thick ropes, drowning the last few scattered gems.

A Jaghut woman.

She could see the point of a long knife jutting from her chest, and her back was arched in a manner to suggest the handle protruding from between her shoulder blades.

‘Karish.’

The word, coming from Haut who now stood before the body, was half prayer, half plea. A moment later he wavered, as if about to fall – and she drew up close, thinking to take his weight though, of course, she could never manage that. Haut staggered ahead, stumbled past the body, lifting the axe.

‘Karish!’