‘No, that’s good. The stranger was very tall.’

‘He was now, was he?’

Brys nodded, shifting the first sword to his left hand and taking the one Kuru Qan held in his right. ‘Errant, this would be hard to wield. For me, that is.’

‘Sarat Wept,’ the Ceda said. ‘About four generations old. One of the last in the Blue Style. It belonged to the King’s Champion of that time.’

Brys frowned. ‘Urudat?’

‘Very good.’

‘I’ve seen images of him in frescos and tapestries. A big man-’

‘Oh, yes, but reputedly very quick.’

‘Remarkable, given the weight of this sword.’ He held it out. ‘The blade pulls. The line is a hair’s breadth outward. This is a left-handed weapon.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well,’ Brys considered, ‘the stranger fights with both hands, and he specified two full swords, suggesting-’

‘A certain measure of ambidexterity. Yes.’

‘Investment?’

‘To make it shatter upon its wielder’s death.’

‘But-’

‘Yes, another incompetent effort. Thus, two formidable weapons in the Blue Style of Letherii steel. Acceptable?’

Brys studied both weapons, the play of aquamarine in the lantern-light. ‘Both beautiful and exquisitely crafted. Yes, I think these will do.’

‘When will you deliver them?’

‘Tomorrow. I have no desire to enter those grounds at night.’ He thought of Kettle, and felt once more the clasp of her cold hand. It did not occur to him then that he had not informed the Ceda of one particular detail from his encounter at the tower. It was a matter that, outwardly at least, seemed of little relevance.

Kettle was more than just a child.

She was also dead.

Thanks to this careless omission, the Ceda’s measure of fear was not as great as it should have been. Indeed, as it needed to be. Thanks to this omission, and in the last moments before the Finadd parted company with Kuru Qan, a crossroads was reached, and then, inexorably, a path was taken.

The night air was pleasant, a warm wind stirring the rubbish in the gutters as Tehol and Bugg paused at the foot of the steps to Scale House.

‘That was exhausting,’ Tehol said. ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’

‘Don’t you want to eat first, master?’

‘You scrounged something?’

‘No.’

‘So we have nothing to eat.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Then why did you ask me if I wanted to eat?’

‘I was curious.’

Tehol anchored his fists on his hips and glared at his manservant. ‘Look, it wasn’t me who nearly got us investigated in there!’

‘It wasn’t?’

‘Well, not all me. It was you, too. Poking eyes and all that.’

‘Master, it was you who sent me there. You who had the idea of offering a contract.’

‘Poking eyes!’

‘All right, all right. Believe me, master, I regret my actions deeply!’

‘You regret deeply?’

‘Fine, deeply regret.’

‘That’s it, I’m going to bed. Look at this street. It’s a mess!’

‘I’ll get around to it, master, if I find the time.’

‘Well, that should be no problem, Bugg. After all, what have you done today?’

‘Scant little, it’s true.’

‘As I thought.’ Tehol cinched up his trousers. ‘Never mind. Lets go, before something terrible happens.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

FIFTEEN PACES, NO MORE THAN THAT. BETWEEN EMPEROR AND SLAVE. A stretch of Letherii rugs, booty from some raid a century or more past, on which paths were worn deep, a pattern of stolen colour mapping stunted roads across heroic scenes. Kings crowned. Champions triumphant. Images of history the Edur had walked on, indifferent and intent on their small journeys in this chamber.

Udinaas wasn’t prepared to ascribe any significance to these details. He had come to his own pattern, a gaze unwavering and precise, the mind behind it disconnected, its surface devoid of ripples and its depths motionless.

It was safer that way. He could stand here, equidistant between two torch sconces and so bathed by the light of neither, and in this indeterminate centre he looked on, silently watching as Rhulad discarded his bearskin, to stand naked before his new wife.

Udinaas might have been amused, had he permitted the emotion, to see the coins burned into the emperor’s penis pop off, one, two, two more, then four, as Rhulad’s desire became apparent. Coins thumping to the rug-strewn floor, a few bouncing and managing modest rolls before settling. He might have been horrified at the look in the emperor’s red-rimmed eyes as he reached out, beckoning Mayen closer. Waves of sympathy for the hapless young woman were possible, but only in the abstract.

Witnessing this macabre, strangely comic moment, the slave remained motionless, without and within, and the bizarre reality of this world played itself out without comment.

Her self-control was, at first, absolute. He took her hand and drew it down, pulling her closer. ‘Mayen,’ the emperor said in a rasp, in a voice that reached for tenderness and achieved little more than rough lust. ‘Should I reveal to you that I have dreamed of this moment?’ A harsh laugh. ‘Not quite. Not like this. Not… in so much… detail.’

‘You made your desires known, Rhulad. Before… this.’

‘Yes, call me Rhulad. As you did before. Between us, nothing need change.’

‘Yet I am your empress.’

‘My wife.’

‘We cannot speak as if nothing has changed.’

‘I will teach you, Mayen. I am still Rhulad.’

He embraced her then, an awkward, child-like encirclement in gold. ‘You need not think of Fear,’ he said. ‘Mayen, you are his gift to me. His proof of loyalty. He did as a brother should.’

‘I was betrothed-’

‘And I am emperor! I can break the rules that would bind the Edur. The past is dead, Mayen, and it is I who shall forge the future! With you at my side. I saw you looking upon me, day after day, and I could see the desire in your eyes. Oh, we both knew that Fear would have you in the end. What could we do? Nothing. But I have changed all that.’ He drew back a step, although she still held him with one hand. ‘Mayen, my wife.’ He began undressing her.

Realities. Moments one by one, stumbling forward. Clumsy necessities. Rhulad’s dreams of this scene, whatever they had been in detail, were translated into a series of mundane impracticalities. Clothes were not easily discarded, unless designed with that in mind, and these were not. Her passivity under his ministrations added to the faltering, until this became an event bereft of romance.

Udinaas could see his lust fading. Of course it would revive. Rhulad was young, after all. The feelings of the object of his hunger were irrelevant, for an object Mayen had become. His trophy.

That the emperor sensed the slipping away of any chance of interlocking desires became evident as he began speaking once more. ‘I saw in your eyes how you wanted me. Now, Mayen, no-one stands between us.’

But he does, Rhulad. Moreover, your monstrosity has become something you now wear on your flesh. And now what had to arrive. Letherii gold yields to its natural inclination. Now, Letherii gold rapes this Tiste Edur. Ha.

The emperor’s lust had returned. His own statements had convinced him.

He pulled her towards the bed at the far wall. It had belonged to Hannan Mosag, and so was crafted for a single occupant. There was no room for lying side by side, which proved no obstacle for Rhulad’s intentions. He pushed her onto her back. Looked down at her for a moment, then said, ‘No, I would crush you. Get up, my love. You will descend upon me. I will give you children. I promise. Many children, whom you will adore. There will be heirs. Many heirs.’