‘Excellent choice, Suzerain,’ said the Jaghut.

‘It should be, as it was my gift to you, the last time we met.’

‘Saved for your return. The Tiste have some worth in the world after all, given their talents in the making of wine.’

Draconus withdrew a pair of alabaster goblets and studied them. ‘Caladan Brood has a subtle hand, does he not?’

‘He does, when he so chooses. It is curious. Upon the heels of my proclamation, and in the midst of the dissolution that followed, I am showered with gifts. How can one fathom the minds of the Azathanai?’

‘Does Hood remain below?’ Draconus asked as he poured wine into the two goblets.

‘I cannot get rid of him, it’s true.’

His father offered Arathan one of the goblets. Startled, he accepted. Draconus then went to the desk, picked up the goblet there and sniffed at the wine. He flung the contents against the wall and refilled the goblet from the clay jug, then handed it across to the Jaghut.

‘Your son wishes to remain in the keeping of the Lord of Hate.’

Draconus nodded. ‘He would make of himself a gift to you.’

‘As what, a keepsake? An ornament? What function could he possibly serve?’

‘He is trained in letters well enough,’ Draconus mused, sipping at the wine. ‘How many volumes have you compiled thus far, Gothos?’

‘An even dozen stacks to match the one on the desk. Written in an execrable hand, every word, every line.’

Draconus frowned across at their host. ‘Not in Old Jaghut, I trust!’

‘Of course not! That would be … ridiculous. A language for the compilers of lists, a language for tax collectors with close-set eyes and sloping foreheads, a language for the unimaginative and the petty-minded, a language for the unintelligent and the obstinate – and how often do those two traits go hand in hand? Old Jaghut? Why, I would have killed myself after the first three words!’ He paused and then grunted. ‘If only I had. I confess, Suzerain, I have indeed written in Old Jaghut.’

‘Easily taught, that written script.’

‘And you charge me to subject your only son to such an ordeal? To what end?’

‘That he might transcribe your writings into a more suitable language.’

‘Tiste?’

Draconus nodded.

‘He will go blind. His hand will wither and fall off to lie on the floor like a dead bird. He will need more than chains to keep him here. Even the Lord of Hate has limits, Suzerain.’

‘Until such time as he awakens unto himself. This seems as safe a place as any, Gothos, and I trust you to be an even-handed master.’

‘I am to be the vault to your treasure? Dear me, Draconus, but I see hard weather ahead.’

‘The thought was his, not mine,’ Draconus said, and turned to Arathan. ‘If you still mean to stay.’

‘I will, Father.’

‘Why?’ barked Gothos. ‘Speak, Tiste-child!’

‘Because, sir, an unending suicide note cannot but be a proclamation on the worth of living.’