‘My father seeks out some chairs,’ Arathan said. ‘He will be back shortly.’

‘You bear the trappings of a Tiste. No one doubts the power of the Suzerain of Night, yet many doubt his will, but it is not his will that so endangers everyone. It is his temper. Tell them that, Tiste-child, before it is too late.’

Arathan shook his head. ‘I will not return to my people,’ he said. ‘I mean to stay here.’

‘Here?’

‘In the Tower of Hate,’ he answered.

‘And where might that tower be?’

‘The tall one, of white marble, where dwells the Lord of Hate.’

‘Have you visited that tower yet, Tiste-child? No? A secret awaits you, then. A secret most delicious. But I see your impatience. If one must build an edifice of hate, what manner of stone should be selected in its construction?’

‘Something pure?’

‘Very good. And to build a tower for all to see, it should shine bright, yes?’

Arathan nodded.

‘Thus. White marble, or, in the case of the tower you mentioned, opal. Of course, no Jaghut could build such a thing. We’ve not the talent to squeeze opal from rubble and dust. No, for such a miracle, one needs an Azathanai mason. One with an appropriate sense of humour. Why, you ask? Well, because humour is necessary, once the secret is made known. So tell me, how many floors should this tower have? Name for me the levels of Hate.’

‘I cannot, sir,’ said Arathan. ‘Is hatred not a thing that blinds?’

‘Hmm. What make you of a suicide note that never ends?’

‘A joke,’ he replied.

‘Ah, and do you appreciate it?’

Arathan shrugged, wondering where his father had gone to. ‘I appreciate the irony, I suppose.’

‘Just that? Well, you’re young still. Hate will blind, yes. There are no levels to it at all. You spoke of purity, and now we have discussed the matter of singularity. What of windows? What manner of door should be cut into this pure, singular thing?’

‘Windows are not needed, because all that lies outside hate matters not to the one within.’

‘And the door?’

Arathan studied the Jaghut for a moment, and then he sighed. ‘The tower is solid stone, isn’t it? But that’s not right. There must be a way in.’

‘But no way out.’

‘Until you bring it down in … in conflagration. But if it is solid then none can live within it.’

‘None do. Not what any sane person would calling living, anyway.’

Draconus appeared in the doorway. ‘You’ve gone and burned all the furnishings in every home nearby,’ he said, striding into the chamber.

‘The winters are cold, Suzerain. We were just discussing Gothos’s Folly, your son and I. See the trunk beside the doorway? In there you will find wine of passing quality. And Thel Akai ale, if you would invite insensibility.’

‘I would speak with Hood,’ said Draconus, walking over to the trunk. The lid creaked as he lifted it. He peered within for a moment and then withdrew a clay jug.