‘Indeed not,’ Errastas agreed. ‘I think … beyond his realm, even.’

‘The High Kingdom? Those borders are closed to the Azathanai.’

‘Then we must bargain our way into the demesne, friend. There must be good reason why the King is so beloved among his people. Let us make this our next adventure, and discover all the hidden truths of the High Kingdom and its perfect liege.’

Sechul Lath looked down at his friend. Blood painted red the man’s hands, but upon the soaked tiles the same blood had etched arcane symbols. No two tiles were alike. The rank smell of outrage was thick in the air. ‘Errastas, I was wondering, where did all that earth and rock come from?’

Errastas shrugged. ‘No idea. Why?’

‘I don’t know. Nothing, I suppose.’

* * *

Korya could hear rain rushing down stone in a steady torrent. She opened her eyes. It was dark. She was lying on a floor of cold pavestones that felt greasy to the touch. There was a heavy animal smell to the air, reminding her of the Jheleck. Bewildered, struggling to find her memory, she sat up.

Varandas was seated at a table, hunched over something he was working on. The tower’s interior was a single chamber, with an old wooden ladder rising from the centre of the room, leading to the roof. Haut was nowhere to be seen.

She coughed, and then coughed again, and all at once she recalled sitting at the fire, setting an ember to the pipe bowl as Haut had instructed, and then drawing hot smoke into her mouth, and then down into her lungs. Beyond that moment, there was a void. She glared over at Varandas. ‘Where is he?’

The Jaghut glanced over. ‘Out. Why?’

‘I will kill him.’

‘There is a queue for that, mahybe. But he meant you little harm and the cause was just and indeed agreeable to all present—’

‘Not to me!’

‘Well, you excused yourself forthwith, as I recall. We had a passably benign evening. I even boiled up that pot of wrinkled things you imagined to be vegetables. While we did not partake of the broth, the exercise made work for my restless hands.’

She felt rested, virulently awake. ‘I will allow,’ she said, ‘it was a good night’s sleep.’

‘And a day,’ said Varandas. ‘In oblivion, time is stolen, never to be returned. Imagine, some people actually welcome the losses. They measure them out as victories against what, boredom? The banal consideration of their own mental paucity? The wretched uselessness of their lives? The sheer pall of their dyspeptic thoughts? I am considering a thesis. On the Seduction of Oblivion. My arguments will be senseless, as befits the subject.’

‘I did not think it possible,’ Korya said.

‘What?’

‘I now believe Haut to be exceptional among you Jaghut.’

Varandas seemed to consider the observation for a moment, and then he grunted. ‘I do not disagree, although I find the notion disagreeable. Tell me, has he explained why the Lord of Hate is so called?’