‘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.’

‘Is it, now? I will argue against you, Tiste-child. Night upon night, page upon page, I will attack your belief, your faith, your certainty. I will assail you without pause for breath, and seek to crush you under the heel of my hard-won wisdom. What have you that dares to claim the strength to withstand me?’

‘Lord,’ said Arathan, ‘I have youth.’

Gothos slowly leaned forward, his eyes glittering. ‘You will lose it.’

‘Eventually, yes.’

The Lord of Hate slowly leaned back. ‘Draconus, your son does you proud.’

‘He does,’ his father whispered.

Gothos then held up a large, ornate key. ‘You will need this, Suzerain.’

Nodding, Draconus set down his empty goblet and took up the key. Then he went below.

The Lord of Hate continued eyeing Arathan. ‘Never doubt your father’s courage.’

‘I never have, sir.’

‘How has he named you?’

‘Arathan.’

Gothos grunted. ‘And do you?’

‘What?’

‘Walk on water, for such is the Azathanai meaning of your name.’

‘No sir. Even upon ice, I broke through, and came near to drowning.’

‘Do you now fear it?’

‘Fear what, sir?’

‘Water? Ice?’

Arathan shook his head.

‘Your father means to free Hood. What do you imagine he desires from such a perilous act?’

‘I would think, sir, some form of redemption.’