Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

‘Unnecessary,’ Faror said. ‘But thank you, T’riss-’

‘T’riss!’ grunted the warlock, eyes widening. ‘No gift from the Vitr, this woman!’

Faror Hend sighed, ‘And in your denial you reveal what?’ She faced Caplo again. ‘Lieutenant, in the message you received from the Wardens, was there word of Captain Finarra Stone?’

‘Yes. She will recover. But if there is cause for concern now, it must be for your betrothed, who rides with haste to the very shore of the Vitr itself.’

‘That is his decision.’ Even as she said it, she saw Caplo’s brows lift.

‘Be assured that he does not do so alone,’ the lieutenant continued, once again looking embarrassed. ‘A troop of Wardens accompany him, as does Sharenas Ankhadu.’

‘Sharenas Ankhadu?’

‘Your commander entertained guests — I am sure I mentioned that, did I not? No matter. We met Captain Hunn Raal upon the road, as he rode with three spare mounts for Kharkanas. Of his mission, alas, we know nothing.’ But now his innocent gaze settled upon T’riss, and then he smiled.

Abyss take all these games! ‘Was there word of Captain Finarra Stone’s companion?’

‘Safe and sound, I understand, though physically restrained from riding out in search of you.’

She thought she hid well her reaction to that, but then Resh said, ‘A cousin, yes? This thickness of blood so inspires.’ In his tone there was both amusement and faint derision.

Caplo cleared his throat. ‘In any case, do rest with us this night, Warden. I see you are near to collapse-’

‘I am well enough.’

‘Spare pity for your horse, then, who so quivers beneath you.’

She studied him, but his innocent expression did not waver, not for an instant. ‘I dislike sleeping in a place of close death.’

‘As do we all, but our warlock here will see to the quelling of despairing spirits. None of us will succumb to fevers of the soul-’

‘No matter how stained your hands,’ T’riss cut in, dismounting and, ignoring them all, walking towards the water. ‘It flows quiet,’ she murmured, ‘does it not?’ Throwing off her makeshift garments, she strode naked into the water.

Faror Hend asked, ‘Must you gape so, lieutenant?’

The shacks were torn down to provide firewood for the cookfires. Meals were prepared while monks went in twos and threes into the water, to bathe away the day’s slaughter. None seemed too concerned if there was blood in the water they then drank. With a young monk attending to her horse, Faror Hend accepted the offer of a spare tent and made her own camp a short distance from the others. She had not yet decided if she liked Caplo Dreem. Warlock Resh, on the other hand, was a man used to his size. There were people, men and women both, who lived awkwardly in their selves, whether timorous of the space they took, or imagining themselves other than what they were and so prone to colliding with or breaking things. In the manner of walking was revealed a host of truths.

In the outlier camps of the Wardens, where so many misfits found a home, Faror often took note of their diffident first arrival, carrying with them the wounds of isolation, ridicule or social neglect; only to see that frailty gradually fall away as each, in time, found welcome. Confidence was a seed that could grow in any soil, no matter how impoverished. She had seen as much again and again.

No such weaknesses attended Warlock Resh of the Yan Shake. Instead, in presence alone he bullied. In demeanour he challenged. She had felt herself bridling the moment she set eyes upon him, and was determined to stand fast against him. Years ago she would have quailed, retreated with eyes downcast. Now, as a Warden of the Outer Reaches, she had met the mocking in his eyes with flat resolve. Men like him crowded the gutters of the world.

She built her own modest fire, to make tea, and was not displeased when T’riss, still dripping from her extended stay in the water, joined her.

‘Faror Hend, are these men who sleep with men? Do they abjure women and so consort only with their brethren?’

Faror smiled. ‘Some are like that. Others are not. The Shake monasteries are two sects. These are the Yan, Sons of the Mother. There also exist the Yedan, Daughters of the Father. Many sons are lifebound to daughters — a kind of marriage although not in the manner one usually views marriage. The lifebound can choose to lie with whomever they please. They can live apart and never attend to one another. But upon their deaths, they share a single grave.’

‘What deity demands this of them?’

‘None.’ Faror Hend shrugged. ‘I am not the one to ask. They are peculiar to my eyes, but of their martial prowess I have no doubt.’

‘It seems that the ability to fight is important in this world, Faror Hend.’

‘It has been and always will be, T’riss. We are savages in disguise, and let no pomp or indolence deceive you. At any moment we can bare our teeth.’

T’riss sat down opposite the Warden, her expression thoughtful. ‘Is civilization nothing but an illusion, then?’

‘Crowd control.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘That’s all civilization is, T’riss. A means by which we manage the proliferation of our kind. It increases in complexity the more of us there are. Laws keep us muzzled and punishment delivers the necessary message when those laws are broken. Civilizations in decline are notable when certain of their members escape justice, and do so with impunity.’

‘Are these a soldier’s thoughts, Faror Hend?’

‘My mother and father lived scholarly lives. An aberration among the Duravs. Both were killed by a Jheleck raiding party, murdered in their home, which was then set aflame. The fate of my younger sisters was, alas, far worse.’

‘And to answer such cruelty, you took up the sword.’

‘I fled, if truth be known. What worth knowledge when the savage bares teeth? Thus, I fight to defend civilization, but know well the ephemeral nature of that which I defend. Against ignorance there is no front line. Against viciousness no border can hold. It breeds as readily behind your back as elsewhere.’

‘What of life’s pleasures? Its joys, its wonders?’

Faror Hend shrugged. ‘Equally ephemeral, but in the instance, drink deep. Ah, the tea is ready.’

The two-handed axe thumped to the ground and a moment later Warlock Resh joined it, grunting and taking a moment to crook his neck to each side. ‘Killing gives me a headache,’ he said in a low rumble.

‘But dying hurts more,’ Caplo replied. He twisted in his seat to regard the two women at the distant fire. ‘I am prone to pettiness.’

‘You are political.’

Caplo glanced back at Resh. ‘I just said that.’

‘Calat Hustain demands her immediate return? Utter rubbish.’

‘Not entirely. I’m sure he does. In any case, I see some value in our being the ones to deliver the Azathanai to Kharkanas. Besides, Mother Sheccanto felt this one’s arrival.’

‘Felt the twist of her sorcery, you mean. As did I. The ground convulses beneath her. This delivery may earn revile.’

‘That can prove useful, too.’

‘And this is the talent of your mind, Caplo: to stand firm on all sides of a matter.’

‘I accept the possibility, dear warlock, that we invite a viper into our nest. But then, we are hardly chicks waving stubby wings.’

‘Speak for yourself. I keep checking to see that I’m not sitting in my own shit.’

‘You’ve been doing that for years, Resh. This Azathanai — T’riss — is claimed as a spume-child of the Vitr, a most sordid birth for all her physical charms. What threat does she pose? What possible value the voicing of that threat? What portent her stated desire to travel to Kharkanas?’