Yes, that was a better course. Reasonable and methodical, as justice should be. He was not deliberately avoiding such a journey.

Satisfied with these arguments, Seerdomin set out to begin his night of slaughter, and here, in this city, night was without end.

The rats watched him set off. They could smell the blood on him, and more than one had been witness to the slaughter far below, and certain of these now ambled away from the ruin, heading for the world of daylight beyond the shroud.

Summoned, yes, by their master, the one known as Monkrat, an amusing enough name, implicitly contemptuous and derisive. What none of the man's a.s.sociates truly understood was the truth underlying that name. Monkrat, yes. The Monk of Rats, priest and wizard, conjuror and binder of spirits. Laugh and snicker if you like . . . at your peril. Monkrat, yes. The Monk of Rats, priest and wizard, conjuror and binder of spirits. Laugh and snicker if you like . . . at your peril.

The liberators had found an enemy, and something would have to be done about that.

The city of Bastion crouched above the vast dying lake, its stolid, squat walls blackened and streaked with some kind of oil. The shanties and hovels surrounding the wall had been burned and then razed, the charred wreckage strewn down the slope leading to the cobbled road. Smoke hung above the battlements, thick and surly.

Cradling his battered hands the reins looped loose about them Nimander squinted up at the city and its yawning gates. No guards in sight, not a single figure on the walls. Except for the smoke the city looked lifeless, abandoned.

Riding at his side in the front of their modest column, Skintick said, 'A name like "Bastion" invites images of ferocious defenders, bristling with all manner of weapons, suspicious of every foreigner climbing towards the gates. So,' he added with a sigh, 'we must be witness here to the blessed indolence of saemankelyk, the Dying G.o.d's sweet blood.'

Memories of his time in the company of the giant mason still haunted Nimander. It seemed he was cursed with occurrences devoid of resolution, every life crossing his path leaving a swirling wake of mysteries in which he flailed about, half drowning. The Jaghut, Gothos, only worsened matters, a creature of vast antiquity seeking to make use of them, somehow, for reasons he had been too uninterested to explain.

Since we failed him.

The smell of rotting salt filled the air and they could see the bleached flats stretching out from the old sh.o.r.eline, stilted docks high and dry above struggling weeds, fisher boats lying on their sides farther out. Off to their left, inland, farmsteads were visible amidst rows of scarecrows, but it looked as if there was nothing still living out there the plants were black and withered, the hundreds of wrapped figures motionless.

They drew closer to the archway, and still there was no one in sight.

'We're being watched,' Skintick said.

Nimander nodded. He felt the same. Hidden eyes, avid eyes.

'As if we've done just what they wanted,' Skintick went on, his voice low, 'by delivering Clip, straight to their d.a.m.ned Abject Temple.'

That was certainly possible. 'I have no intention of surrendering him you know that.'

'So we prepare to wage war against an entire city? A fanatic priesthood and a G.o.d?'

'Yes.'

Grinning, Skintick loosened the sword at his side.

Nimander frowned at him. 'Cousin, I don't recall you possessing such bloodl.u.s.t.'

'Oh, I am as reluctant as you, Nimander. But I feel we've been pushed long enough. It's time to push back, that's all. Still, that damage to your hands worries me.'

'Aranatha did what she could I will be fine.' He did not explain how the wounding felt more spiritual than physical. Aranatha had indeed healed the crushed bones, the mangled flesh. Yet he still cradled them as if crippled, and in his dreams at night he found himself trapped in memories of that heavy block of obsidian sliding over his fingertips, the pain, the spurting blood and he'd awaken slick with sweat, hands throbbing.

The very same hands that had strangled Phaed almost taking her life. The pain felt like punishment, and now, in the city before them, he believed that once more they would know violence, delivering death with terrible grace.

They reined in before the gate's archway. Sigils crowded the wooden doors, painted in the same thick, black dye that marred the walls to either side.

Nenanda spoke from the wagon's bench. 'What are we waiting for? Nimander? Let's get this over with.'

Skintick twisted in the saddle and said, 'Patience, brother. We're waiting for the official welcoming party.

The killing will have to come later.'

Kallor climbed down from the back of the wagon and walked up to the gate. 'I hear singing,' he said.

Nimander nodded. The voices were distant, reaching them in faint waves rippling out from the city's heart. There were no other sounds, such as one would expect from a crowded, thriving settlement. And through the archway he could see naught but empty streets and the dull faces of blockish buildings, shutters closed on every window.

Kallor had continued on, into the shadow of the gate and then out to the wide street beyond, where he paused, his gaze fixed on something to his left.

'So much for the welcoming party,' Skintick said, sighing. 'Shall we enter, Nimander?'

From behind them came Aranatha's melodic voice. 'Be warned, cousins. This entire city is the Abject Temple.'

Nimander and Skintick both turned at that.

'Mother bless us,' Skintick whispered.

'What effect will that have on us?' Nimander asked her. 'Will it be the same as in the village that night?'

'No, nothing like that has awakened yet.' Then she shook her head. 'But it will come.'

'And can you defend us?' Nenanda asked.

'We will see.'

Skintick hissed under his breath and then said, 'Now that's rea.s.suring.'

'Never mind,' Nimander replied. Wincing, he tightened his grip on the reins and with a slight pressure of his legs he guided his horse into the city.

The others lurched into motion behind him.

Coming to Kallor's side Nimander followed the old man's gaze down the side street and saw what had so captured his attention. The ruin of an enormous mechanism filled the street a hundred paces down. It seemed to have come from the sky, or toppled down from the roof of the building nearest the outer wall taking most of the facing wall with it. Twisted iron filled its gaping belly, where flattened, riveted sheets had been torn away. Smaller pieces of the machine littered the cobbles, like fragments of armour, the iron strangely blue, almost gleaming.

'What in the Abyss is that?' Skintick asked.

'Looks K'Chain Che'Malle,' Kallor said. 'But they would offer up no G.o.ds, dying or otherwise. Now I am curious,' and so saying he bared his teeth in a smile not directed at anyone present which was, Nimander decided, a good thing.

'Aranatha says the entire city is sanctified.'

Kallor glanced over. 'I once attempted that for an entire empire.'

Skintick snorted. 'With you as the focus of worship?'

'Of course.'

'And it failed?'

Kallor shrugged. 'Everything fails, eventually.' And he set out for a closer examination of the ruined machine.

'Even conversation,' muttered Skintick. 'Should we follow him?'

Nimander shook his head. 'Leave him. If the city is a temple, then there must be an altar presumably somewhere in the middle.'

'Nimander, we could well be doing everything they want us to do, especially by bringing Clip to that altar. I think we should find an inn, somewhere to rest up. We can then reconnoitre and see what awaits us.'

He thought about that for a moment, and then nodded. 'Good idea. Lead the way, Skin, see what you can find.'

They continued on down the main street leading from the gate. The tenements looked lifeless, the shops on the ground level empty, abandoned. Glyphs covered every wall and door, spread out from every shuttered window to as far as a hand could reach if someone was leaning out. The writing seemed to record a frenzy of revelation, or madness, or both.

A half-dozen buildings along, Skintick found an inn, closed up like everything else, but he dismounted and approached the courtyard gates. A push swung them wide and Skintick looked back with a smile.

The wagon's hubs squealed in well-worn grooves in the frame of the gate as Nenanda guided it in. The compound beyond was barely large enough to accommodate a single carriage on its circular lane that went past, first, the stables, and then the front three-stepped entrance to the hostelry. A partly subterranean doorway to the left of the main doors probably led into the taproom. In the centre of the round was a stone-lined well stuffed solid with bloating corpses.

Skintick's smile faded upon seeing this detail. Dead maggots ringed the well. 'Let's hope,' he said to Nimander, 'there's another pump inside . . . drawing from a different source.'

Nenanda had set the brake and he now dropped down, eyeing the bodies. 'Previous guests?'

'It's what happens when you don't pay up.'

Nimander dismounted and shot Skintick a warning look, but his cousin did not notice or chose not to, for he then continued, 'Or all the beds were taken. Or some prohibition against drinking anything but kelyk it clearly doesn't pay to complain.'

'Enough,' said Nimander. 'Nenanda, can you check the stables see if there's feed and clean water. Skintick, let's you and I head inside.'

A s.p.a.cious, well-furnished foyer greeted them, with a booth immediately to the right, bridged by a polished counter. The narrow panel door set in its back wall was shut. To the left was a two-sided cloakroom and beside that the sunken entranceway into the taproom. A corridor was directly ahead, leading to rooms, and a steep staircase climbed to the next level where, presumably, more rooms could be found. Heaped on the floor at the foot of the stairs was bedding, most of it rather darkly stained.

'They stripped the rooms,' observed Skintick. 'That was considerate.'

'You suspect they've prepared this place for us?'

'With bodies in the well and ichor-stained sheets? Probably. It's reasonable that we would stay on the main street leading in, and this was the first inn we'd reach.' He paused, looking round. 'Obviously, there are many ways of readying for guests. Who can fathom human cultures, anyway?'

Outside, Nenanda and the others were unpacking the wagon.

Nimander walked to the taproom entrance and ducked to look inside. Dark, the air thick with the pungent, bittersweet scent of kelyk. He could hear Skintick making his way up the stairs, decided to leave him to it. One step down, on to the sawdust floor. The tables and chairs had all been pushed to one side in a haphazard pile. In the open s.p.a.ce left behind the floor was thick with stains and coagulated clumps that reminded Nimander of dung in a stall. Not dung, however; he knew that.

He explored behind the bar and found rows of dusty clay bottles and jugs, wine and ale. The beakers that had contained kelyk were scattered on the floor, some of them broken, others still weeping dark fluid.

The outer door swung open and Nenanda stepped inside, one hand on the grip of his sword. A quick look round, then he met Nimander's gaze and shrugged. 'Was you I heard, I guess.'

'The stables?'

'Well enough supplied, for a few days at least. There's a hand pump and spout over the troughs. The water smelled sour but otherwise fine the horses didn't hesitate, at any rate.' He strode in. 'I think those bodies in the well, Nimander dead of too much kelyk. I suspect that well was in fact dry. They just used it to dump the ones that died, as they died.'

Nimander walked back to the doorway leading into the foyer.

Desra and Kedeviss had carried Clip inside, setting him on the floor. Skintick was on the stairs, a few steps up from the mound of soiled bedding. He was leaning on one rail, watching as the two women attended to Clip. Seeing Nimander, he said, 'Nothing but c.o.c.kroaches and bedbugs in the rooms. Still, I don't think we should use them there's an odd smell up there, not at all pleasant.'

'This room should do,' Nimander said as he went over to look down at Clip. 'Any change?' he asked.

Desra glanced up. 'No. The same slight fever, the same shallow breathing.'

Aranatha entered, looked round, then went to the booth, lifted the hinged counter and stepped through. She tried the latch on the panel door and when it opened, she disappeared into the back room.

A grunt from Skintick. 'In need of the water closet?'

Nimander rubbed at his face, flexed his fingers to ease the ache, and then, as Nenanda arrived, he said, 'Skintick and I will head out now. The rest of you . . . well, we could run into trouble at any time. And if we do one of us will try to get back here-'

'If you run into trouble,' Aranatha said from the booth, 'we will know it.'

Oh? How? 'All right. We shouldn't be long.' 'All right. We shouldn't be long.'

They had brought all their gear into the room and Nimander now watched as first Desra and then the other women began unpacking their weapons, their fine chain hauberks and mail gauntlets. He watched as they readied for battle, and said nothing as anguish filled him. None of this was right. It had never been right. And he could do nothing about it.

Skintick edged his way round the bedding and, with a tug on Nimander's arm, led him back outside. 'They will be all right,' he said. 'It's us I'm worried about.'

'Us? Why?'

Skintick only smiled.

They pa.s.sed through the gate and came out on to the main street once more. The mid-afternoon heat made the air sluggish, enervating. The faint singing seemed to invite them into the city's heart. An exchanged glance; then, with a shrug from Skintick, they set out.

'That machine.'

'What about it, Skin?'

'Where do you think it came from? It looked as if it just . . . appeared, just above one of the buildings, and then dropped, smashing everything in its path, ending with itself. Do you recall those old pumps, the ones beneath Dreth Street in Malaz City? Withal found them in those tunnels he explored? Well, he took us on a tour-'

'I remember, Skin.'

'I'm reminded of those machines all the gears and rods, the way the metal components all meshed so cleverly, ingeniously I cannot imagine the mind that could think up such constructs.'

'What is all this about, Skin?'

'Nothing much. I just wonder if that thing is somehow connected with the arrival of the Dying G.o.d.'

'Connected how?'

'What if it was like a skykeep? A smaller version, obviously. What if the Dying G.o.d was inside inside it? Some accident brought it down, the locals pulled him out. What if that machine was a kind of throne?' it? Some accident brought it down, the locals pulled him out. What if that machine was a kind of throne?'

Nimander thought about that. A curious idea. Andarist had once explained that skykeeps such as the one Anomander Rake claimed as his own were not a creation of sorcery, and indeed the floating fortresses were held aloft through arcane manipulations of technology.

K'Chain Che'Malle, Kallor had said. Clearly, he had made the same connection as had Skintick.

'Why would a G.o.d need a machine?' Nimander asked.

'How should I know? Anyway, it's broken now.'

They came to a broad intersection. Public buildings commanded each corner, the architecture peculiarly utilitarian, as if the culture that had bred it was singularly devoid of creative flair. Glyphs made a mad scrawl on otherwise unadorned walls, some of the symbols now striking Nimander as resembling that destroyed mechanism.