Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

‘I don’t know. That’s a problem. We can’t stay here, anyway. Not for too long. Besides, look what Father’s done with Arathan. He took him away. For all we know, he’s killed him, cut open his throat and drunk all his blood. He’ll come back for us and do the same. Especially now.’

‘We should go to the temple, Envy. We should talk to him.’

‘No. He could reach through — you know he can!’

‘That’s not him,’ Spite said. ‘That’s only what he’s left behind. It wears his armour. It paces back and forth — we heard it!’

‘You can’t talk with that thing.’

‘How do you know? We’ve never tried.’

Envy’s eyes were wide. ‘Spite, if we let that thing out, we might never get it back inside. Let me think. Wait. Can you give it dreams?’

‘What?’

‘If I make it want something, can you make it like it?’

Spite hugged herself, as if suddenly chilled despite the oven’s dry heat. ‘Envy. This is Father’s power we’re talking about. Father’s.’

‘But he’s not here.’

‘He’ll know anyway.’

‘So what? You said we’re going to have to run no matter what.’

Spite sat back. She shot her sister a glare. ‘You said it would work, Envy. If she got close enough to death, the power would reach inside her and wake everything up.’

‘It’s awake in me.’

‘Me too. So, you had it the wrong way around.’

‘Maybe. You don’t look any more grown up.’

Spite shrugged. ‘I don’t need to. Maybe when I do, I’ll grow. Everything feels in reach. Do you know, I could take down all of Kurald Galain, if I wanted to.’

‘We might have to,’ said Envy, ‘to cover our trail.’

‘Daddy will know.’

‘Remember Ivis killing that rut-mad hunting dog? How he came up behind it and sliced through the tendons of its back legs, with one slash of his sword?’

‘Sure I remember. That dog howled and howled, until I thought the sky would crack.’

Envy nodded. ‘Father doesn’t scare me. We just need to give people a reason to be Ivis.’

‘Daddy’s the dog?’ Spite snorted. ‘Hardly. He’s got Mother Dark. No need to rut everything in sight, with her around.’

‘You don’t get my meaning, sister. You’re not subtle enough. You never were.’

‘Maybe you think that, but you don’t know anything about me.’

‘I know that you’re a murderer.’

‘Now, try saying it like you think it’s awful, Envy.’

‘You didn’t get my meaning, but what you said has given me an idea. But I need to work on it some more. First, though, there’s the people in the house to deal with.’

‘Tonight?’

Envy nodded. ‘It has to be, I think.’

Spite smiled knowingly. ‘You just want to know what it feels like.’

To that, Envy only shrugged.

A moment later and they were on their way, rushing down the hidden passages between the walls.

Accidents happened, and when accidents happened, the most important thing to do was cover them up, and fast — but not so fast as to make mistakes and so give it all away. Hiding the truth was Envy’s special talent — among many special talents, she reminded herself. Spite was good at the practical matters, the things that needed doing. But she needed guiding. She needed direction.

The night ahead was going to be glorious.

In the house of Draconus, there was war. Even in those rare moments when she was alone, when she no longer struggled on the battlements, Sandalath felt the title of hostage close about her, like clothes long outgrown, and their constriction was suffocating.

House-mistress Hilith stalked the corridors day and night. As far as Sandalath could tell, Hilith slept when demons slept, which was never. The hag cast a huge, devouring shadow upon this house, and even that shadow had claws. At night, Sandalath dreamed of death-struggles with the woman, all blood, spit and handfuls of hair. She dreamed of pushing knife blades deep into Hilith’s scrawny chest, hearing ribs pop, and seeing that horrid face stretched in a silent scream, the black tongue writhing like a salted leech. She woke from these dreams with a warm glow filling her being.

It was all ridiculous. Once Lord Draconus returned, Hilith’s empire would collapse in a heap of rubble and dust. In the meantime, Sandalath did her best to avoid the old woman, although certain daily rituals made contact inevitable. The worst of these were meals. Sandalath would sit at the end of the table opposite the unoccupied chair where Lord Draconus would have sat, had he been present. As hostage, she was head of the house, but only because the Lord’s three daughters were not yet of age. Sandalath rarely saw them. They lived like ghosts, or feral kittens. She had no idea what they did all day. For all that, however, she felt sorry for them, for the names Lord Draconus had given them.

It was the Lord’s practice to assemble most of his heads of staff for these repasts. When the household was intact, Ivis and Hilith would be joined by Gate Sergeant Raskan, Master of Horses Venth Direll, Armourer Setyl, Surgeon Atran and Keeper of Records Hidast. Among these notables only the surgeon was of any interest to Sandalath, although she’d yet to meet Raskan as he was riding with the Lord and his bastard son. Venth stank of the stables and often entered with horseshit under his boots and still wearing his stained leather apron. His hands were filthy and he rarely spoke, busy as he was shovelling food into his mouth. The few times he did say something, it was to complain to Captain Ivis about exhausted horses, listing the animals that went lame in accusing tones. Sandalath had heard from her maids that Venth slept in the stables. Setyl, the armourer, never spoke at all, for part of his tongue had been cut away by a sword thrust back in the wars. The scarring on his lower face was terrible to look at and he struggled to keep food in his mouth, and never met anyone’s eyes. The keeper of records, Hidast, was a small man with a sloping forehead and an oversized lower jaw, giving him a pronounced underbite. His obsession was with the household accounts, and the Lord’s vigorous expansion of Houseblades was a burden that he took personally, as if all of the Lord’s wealth in fact belonged to Hidast rather than Draconus. He looked on Captain Ivis with open hatred, but this was a siege he was losing. Most mealtimes Hidast complained of stomach pains, but every offer from the surgeon to treat his ailment was met with a rude shake of the head.

Atran was a clever woman, inclined to ignore Hilith while flirting with Ivis — to his obvious discomfort — and inviting Sandalath to join in the conspiracy of torturing the hapless master-at-arms. This had offered the only entertainment during these meals. In the captain’s absence, however, Atran seemed to sink into depression, taking to drinking to excess, in morose silence, and by the meal’s end she had trouble standing, much less walking.

Sandalath had mapped out these people and their places in the household. It was all too complicated and fraught and rather ridiculous. The boredom that assailed her was relentless. She did not know how things would change once Lord Draconus returned, but she knew that they would, and she longed for that day.

It was almost time for the evening meal. She sat alone in her room, waiting for her two maids to arrive. They were late and that was unusual but not unduly so. No doubt Hilith had found for them something that needed attention, and the timing was deliberate. Inconveniencing the hostage had become one of Hilith’s special pursuits.

The house was quiet. Rising, she went to the window that overlooked the courtyard. Captain Ivis had not yet returned. Supper promised to be dreadful, with the surgeon getting drunk and Hidast and Venth taking turns to slander the master-at-arms in his absence, subtly encouraged by Hilith, of course. Sandalath could almost see the gleam of approval and satisfaction in the hag’s eyes, as the knives clinked and scraped and the prongs jabbed into tender meat.