Traveller studied the G.o.d's eyes always softer than one might have expected, but he had long since grown used to that and then he turned away. 'All right.'

Pallid and Lock fell in as reluctant, desultory rearguard as the Hounds escorted Traveller inland. Shadowthrone had managed to turn his throne round so that he could watch the First Sword and his entourage slowly dwindle into the northeast.

Standing nearby, Cotillion lifted his hands and looked down upon the palms, seeing the glistening sweat pooling there. 'That was close.'

'Eh? What was?'

'If he had decided we were behind the shipwreck, well, I don't like to think what would have happened here.'

'Simple, Cotillion. He would have killed us.'

'And the Hounds would not have interceded.'

'Except perhaps my newest pets! No old loyalties there! Hee hee!'

'Close,' said Cotillion again.

'You could have just told him the truth. That Mael wanted him and wanted him badly. That we had to reach in and drag him out he would have been far more thankful with all that.'

'Grat.i.tude is a useless luxury in this instance, Shadowthrone. No distractions, remember? Nothing and no one to turn Traveller from his fated destiny. Leave Mael for another time.'

'Yes, very good. A detail we can offer Traveller when our need for him is immediate and, er, pressing. We delved, following the suggestion he set us this day, in this place, and lo! Why, none other than the Elder G.o.d of the Seas was to blame! Now get over here and draw that d.a.m.ned sword and hack these enemies to pieces!'

'That is not the delving we need to do right now,' Cotillion said.

'Well, of course not. We already know! What need delving?'

Cotillion faced Shadowthrone. 'Mael could have killed him easily enough, don't you think? Instead, he set out to delay delay Traveller. We need to think on that. We need to figure out why.' Traveller. We need to think on that. We need to figure out why.'

'Yes, I am beginning to see. Suspicions awakened I was momentarily careless, unmindful. Delay, yes, why? What value?'

'I just realized something.'

'What? Quick, tell me!'

'It doesn't matter what Mael had in mind. It won't work.'

'Explain!'

'Mael a.s.sumes a quarry on the run, after all . . .'

'Yes, he must, of course, no other possibility. Mael doesn't get it! The idiot! Hee hee! Now, let's get out of this ash-heap, my throat's getting sore.'

Cotillion stared after the Hounds and their charge, squinting against the bright sunlight. 'Timing, Shadowthrone . . .'

'Perfection.'

'So far.'

'We will not fail.'

'We'd better not.'

'Which among our newfound allies do you imagine the weak link?'

Cotillion glanced back at Shadowthrone. 'Well, you, of course.'

'Apart from me, I mean.'

Cotillion stared. Shadowthrone waited. Fidgeting on his throne.

Midnight at the lone tavern of Morsko provided Nimander with memories he would never lose. Slack-eyed, black-mouthed villagers staggering forward, colliding with him and the others. Stained bottles thrust into their faces. Eyes smeared with something murky and yellowed. The drink was potent enough to numb tongues, if the exhorting moans were in truth invitations to imbibe.

Even without Clip's earlier warning, Nimander was not inclined to accept such hospitality; nor, he saw with some relief, were any of his kin. They stood, still crowded at the entrance, bemused and uneasy. The pungent air of the low-ceilinged chamber was sweet, overlying strains of acrid sweat and something like living decay.

Skintick moved up alongside Nimander and they both watched as Clip Desra at his side made his way to the counter. 'A simple jug of wine? Anywhere in this place? Not likely.'

Nimander suspected Skintick was right. All he could see, at every table, in every hand, was the same long-necked flask with its blackened mouth.

The moans were louder now, cacophonous like the lowing of beasts in an abattoir. Nimander saw one man an ancient, bent, emaciated creature topple face first on to the wood-slatted floor, audibly smashing his nose. Someone close by stepped back, crushing the hapless man's fingers under a heel.

'So, where is the priest?' Nenanda asked from behind Nimander and Skintick. 'It was his invitation, after all.'

'For once, Nenanda,' Skintick said without turning, 'I am pleased to have you standing here, hand on sword. I don't like this.'

'None here can hurt us,' Nenanda p.r.o.nounced, yet his tone made it plain he was pleased by Skintick's words. 'Listen to me,' he said, 'while Clip is not close by he holds us all in contempt.'

Nimander slowly turned round, as Skintick said, 'We'd noticed. What do you make of that, brother?'

'He sees what he chooses to see.'

Nimander saw that Kedeviss and Aranatha were listening, and the faint doe-like expression on the latter's face was suddenly gone, replaced by a chilling emptiness that Nimander knew well. 'It is no matter,' Nimander said, sudden sweat p.r.i.c.kling awake beneath his clothes. 'Leave it, Nenanda. It is no matter.'

'But it is,' Nenanda retorted. 'He needs to know. Why we survived our battles, when all the others fell. He needs to understand.' understand.'

'That's over with, now,' Nimander insisted.

'No,' said Skintick, 'Nenanda is right this time, Nimander. He is right. Clip wants to take us to this dying G.o.d, after all. Whatever he plans disregards us, as if we did not exist. Voiceless-'

'Useless,' cut in Nenanda.

Nimander looked away. More villagers were collapsing, and those on the floorboards had begun twitching, writhing in pools of their own waste. Sightless eyes rolled ecstatically in sunken sockets. 'If I have made us . . . voiceless, I am sorry.'

'Enough of that rubbish,' Skintick said conversationally.

'I agree,' said Nenanda. 'I didn't before I was angry with you, Nimander, for not telling this so-called Mortal Sword of Darkness. Telling him about us, who we were. What we've been through. So I tried to do it myself, but it's no use. Clip doesn't listen. Not to anyone but himself.'

'What of Desra?' Nimander asked.

Nenanda snorted. 'She covets her own mystery.'

That was a sharp observation from Nenanda, surprising Nimander. But it was not an answer to what he had meant with his question.

Skintick, however, understood. 'She remains one of us, Nimander. When the need arrives, you need not doubt her loyalty.'

Kedeviss spoke then, with dry contempt. 'Loyalty is not one of Desra's virtues, brothers. Set no weight upon it.'

Skintick sounded amused when he asked, 'Which of Desra's virtues should should we set weight upon, then, Kedeviss?' we set weight upon, then, Kedeviss?'

'When it comes to self-preservation,' she replied, 'Desra's judgement is precise. Never wrong, in fact. She makes surviving the result of profound clarity Desra sees better and sharper than any of us. That That is her virtue.' is her virtue.'

Clip was on his way back, Desra now clinging to his left arm as might a woman struggling against terror.

'The Dying G.o.d is about to arrive,' Clip said. He had put away his chain and rings, and from his palpable unease there now rose, like a dark cloud, the promise of violence. 'You should all leave. I don't want to have to cover you, if this turns bad. I won't have the time, nor will I accept blame if you start dying. So, for all our sakes, get out of here.'

It was, Nimander would recall later, the moment when he could have stepped forward, could have looked into Clip's eyes, unwavering, revealing his own defiance and the promise behind it. Instead, he turned to the others. 'Let's go,' he said.

Nenanda's eyes widened, a muscle twitching one cheek. Then he spun about and marched out of the tavern.

With an expression that might have been shame, Skintick reached out to prise Desra away from Clip, then guided her out. Aranatha met Nimander's eyes and nodded but the meaning of the gesture eluded him, given the vast emptiness in her eyes then she and Kedeviss exited the taproom.

Leaving Nimander and Clip.

'It pleases me,' said Clip, 'that you take orders as well as you do, Nimander. And that the others still choose to listen to you. Not,' he added, 'that I think that will last much longer.'

'Do not confront this dying G.o.d,' Nimander said. 'Not here, not now.'

'Excellent advice. I have no intention of doing so. I simply would see it.'

'And if it is not pleased at being seen by one such as you, Clip?'

He grinned. 'Why do you think I sent you to safety? Now, go, Nimander. Back to our rooms. Comfort your frightened rabbits.'

Outside, beneath a glorious sweep of bright stars, Nimander found his kin in a tight huddle in the centre of the main street. Rabbits? Yes, it might look that way. Rabbits? Yes, it might look that way. From the tavern they could hear the frenzied moaning reach a fierce pitch, and the sound was now echoing, seeming to roll back in from the hills and fields surrounding the village. From the tavern they could hear the frenzied moaning reach a fierce pitch, and the sound was now echoing, seeming to roll back in from the hills and fields surrounding the village.

'Do you hear that?' Skintick asked. 'Nimander? Do you hear it? The scarecrows they are singing.'

'Mother Dark,' breathed Kedeviss in horror.

'I want to see one of those fields,' Skintick suddenly said. 'Now. Who is with me?'

When no one spoke, Nimander said, 'You and me, Skintick. The rest to our rooms Nenanda, stand vigil until we return.'

Nimander and Skintick watched as Nenanda purposefully led the others away.

Then they set out into a side alley, feet thumping on the dusty, hard-packed ground. Another voice had joined all the others, emerging from the temple, a cry of escalating pain, a cry of such suffering that Nimander staggered, his legs like water beneath him. He saw Skintick stumble, fall on to his knees, then push himself upright once more.

Tears squeezed from his eyes, Nimander forced himself to follow.

Old house gardens to either side, filled with abandoned yokes, ploughs and other tools, the furrows overgrown with weeds like bleached hair in the starlight. G.o.ds, they've stopped eating. All is in the drink. It feeds them even as it kills them. G.o.ds, they've stopped eating. All is in the drink. It feeds them even as it kills them.

That sepulchral wail was dwindling now, but it would rise again, he knew, with the next breath. Midnight in the tavern, the foul nectar was drunk down, and the G.o.d in terrible pain was summoned the gate to his tormented soul forced open. Fed by immortal pain, the prostrate worshippers spasmed in ecstasy he could see their blackened mouths, the writhing black tongues, the eyes in their smudge-pits; he could see that old man with the smashed nose and the broken fingers- And Clip remained inside. Witness to the madness, to its twisted face, and when the eyes opened and fixed on his own- 'Hurry,' groaned Nimander as he came up against Skintick, but as he moved past his cousin reached out and grasped hold of his tunic, drawing Nimander to a halt.

They were at the edge of a field.

Before them, in the cold silver light, the rows of scarecrows were all in motion, limbs writhing like gauze-wrapped serpents or blind worms. Black blood was streaming down. The flowers of the horrid plants had opened, exuding clouds of pollen that flashed like phosph.o.r.escence, riding the currents of night air.

And Nimander wanted to rush into that field, into the midst of the crucified victims. He wanted to taste that pollen on his tongue, on the back of his throat. He wanted to dance in the G.o.d's pain. He wanted to dance in the G.o.d's pain.

Skintick, weeping, was dragging him back though it seemed he was fighting his own battle, so taut were his muscles, so contradictory their efforts that they fell against one another. On to the ground.

Clawing on their bellies now, back down the dirt track.

The pollen the pollen is in the air. We have breathed it, and now G.o.ds below now we hunger for more. the pollen is in the air. We have breathed it, and now G.o.ds below now we hunger for more. Another terrible shriek, the voice a physical thing, trying to climb into the sky but there was nothing to grasp, no handholds, no footholds, and so it shot out to the sides, closing icy cold grips upon throats. And a voice, screaming into their faces. Another terrible shriek, the voice a physical thing, trying to climb into the sky but there was nothing to grasp, no handholds, no footholds, and so it shot out to the sides, closing icy cold grips upon throats. And a voice, screaming into their faces.

You dance! You drink deep my agony! What manner of vermin are you? Cease! Leave me! Release me!

A thousand footsteps charging through Nimander's brain, dancers unending, unable to stop even had they wanted to, which they did not, no, let it go on, and on G.o.ds, for ever!

There, in the trap of his mind, he saw the old man and his blood- and nectar-smeared face, saw the joy in the eyes, saw the suppleness of his limbs, his straightened back every crippling k.n.o.b and protuberance gone. Tumours vanished. He danced in the crowd, one with all the others, exalted and lost in that exaltation.

Nimander realized that he and Skintick had reached the main street. As the G.o.d's second cry died away, some sanity crept back into his mind. He pushed himself on to his feet, dragging Skintick up with him. Together, they ran, staggering, headlong for the inn did salvation beckon? Or had Nenanda and the others fallen as well? Were they now dancing in the fields, selves torn away, flung into that black, turgid river?

A third cry, yet more powerful, more demanding.

Nimander fell, pulled down by Skintick's weight. Too late they would turn about, rise, set out for the field the pain held him in its deadly, delicious embrace too late, now- He heard the inn's door slam open behind them.

Then Aranatha was there, blank-eyed, dark skin almost blue, reaching down to grasp them both by their cloaks. The strength she kept hidden was unveiled suddenly, and they were being dragged towards the door where more hands took them, tugged them inside- And all at once the compulsion vanished.

Gasping, Nimander found himself lying on his back, staring up at Kedeviss's face, wondering at her calculating, thoughtful expression.

A cough from Skintick at his side. 'Mother Dark save us!' 'Mother Dark save us!'

'Not her,' said Kedeviss. 'Just Aranatha.'

Aranatha, who flinches at shadows, ducks beneath the cry of a hunting hawk. She hides her other self behind a wall no power can surmount. Hides it. Until it's needed.

Yes, he could feel her now, an emanation of will filling the entire chamber. a.s.sailed, but holding. As it would.

As it must.

Another cough from Skintick. 'Oh, dear . . .'

And Nimander understood. Clip was out there. Clip, face to face with the Dying G.o.d. Unprotected.

Mortal Sword of Darkness. Is that protection enough? But he feared it was not. Feared it, because he did not believe Clip was the Mortal Sword of anything. He faced Skintick. 'What do we do?' But he feared it was not. Feared it, because he did not believe Clip was the Mortal Sword of anything. He faced Skintick. 'What do we do?'

'I don't know. He may already be . . . lost.'