‘Did they discover it?’

The artisan smiled down at the dirty rushes of the tent floor. ‘No. They searched my pack, as I knew they would, but not my person.’

The god coughed again, and Munug heard a scrape as the brazier was drawn across the floor. Seeds popped on its coals, and the smoke thickened. ‘Show me.’

The artisan reached into the folds of his threadbare tunic and drew forth a thick, book-sized package. He unwrapped it to reveal a stack of wooden cards. Head still lowered and working blind, Munug pushed the cards towards the god, splaying them out as he did so.

He heard the god’s breath catch, then a soft rustle. When it spoke again the voice was closer. ‘Flaws?’

‘Aye, master. One for each card, as you instructed.’

‘Ah, this pleases me. Mortal, your skill is unsurpassed. Truly, these are images of pain and imperfection. They are tortured, fraught with anguish. They assault the eye and bleed the heart. More, I see chronic loneliness in such faces as you have fashioned within the scenes.’ Dry amusement entered its tone. ‘You have painted your own soul, mortal.’

‘I have known little happiness, mast—’

The god hissed. ‘Nor should you expect it! Not in this life, not in the thousand others you are doomed to endure before you attain salvation – assuming you have suffered enough to have earned it!’

‘I beg that there be no release in my suffering, master,’ Munug mumbled.

‘Lies. You dream of comfort and contentment. You carry the gold that you believe will achieve it, and you mean to prostitute your talent to achieve yet more – do not deny this, mortal. I know your soul – I see its avidness and yearning here in these images. Fear not, such emotions amuse me, for they are the paths to despair.’

‘Yes, master.’

‘Now, Munug of Darujhistan, your payment...’

The old man screamed as fire blossomed within the tumours between his legs. Twisting with agony, he curled up tight on the filthy rushes.

The god laughed, the horrible sound breaking into lung-ravaging coughs that were long in passing.

The pain, Munug realized after a while, was fading.

‘You are healed, mortal. You are granted more years of your miserable life. Alas, as perfection is anathema to me, so it must be among my cherished children.’

‘M-master, I cannot feel my legs!’

‘They are dead, I am afraid. Such was the price of curing. It seems, artisan, that you will have a long, wearying crawl to wherever it is you seek to go. Bear in mind, child, that the value lies in the journey, not in the goal achieved.’ The god laughed again, triggering yet another fit of coughing.

Knowing he was dismissed, Munug pulled himself around, dragged the dead weight of his lower limbs through the tent entrance, then lay gasping. The pain he now felt came from his own soul. He pulled his pack up alongside him, rested his head on it. The columns of stacked coins were hard against his sweat-runnelled forehead. ‘My rewards,’ he whispered. ‘Blessed is the touch of the Fallen One. Lead me, dear master, down the paths of despair, for I deserve this world’s pain in unending bounty ...’