'Oh, but you have made it so, Banaschar. Do you forget? Tayschrenn is being isolated. You are seeking to break that, to awaken the Imperial High Mage-'

'Why is he permitting it?' Banaschar demanded. 'He's no fool-'

A soft laugh. 'Oh no, Tayschrenn is no fool. And in that, you may well have your answer.'

Banaschar blinked in the gloom. 'I must meet with him, Pearl.'

'You have not yet convinced me.'

A long silence, in which Banaschar closed his eyes, then placed his hands over them, as if that would achieve some kind of absolution. But only words could do that. Words, uttered now, to this man. Oh, how he wanted to believe it would… suffice. A Claw, who would be my ally.

Why? Because the Claw has… rivals. A new organization that has deemed it expedient to raise impenetrable walls around the Imperial High Mage. What does that reveal of that new organization? They see Tayschrenn as an enemy, or they would so exclude him as to make his inaction desirable, even to himself. They know he knows, and wait to see if he finally objects. But he has not yet done so, leading them to believe that he might not – during whatever is coming. Abyss take me, what are we dealing with here?

Banaschar spoke from behind his hands. 'I would ask you something, Pearl.'

'Very well.'

'Consider the most grand of schemes,' he said. 'Consider time measured in millennia. Consider the ageing faces of gods, goddesses, beliefs and civilizations…'

'Go on. What is it you would ask?'

Still he hesitated. Then he slowly lowered his hands, and looked across, to that grey, ghostly face opposite him. 'Which is the greater crime, Pearl, a god betraying its followers, or its followers betraying their god? Followers who then choose to commit atrocities in that god's name. Which, Pearl? Tell me, please.'

The Claw was silent for a dozen heartbeats, then he shrugged. 'You ask a man without faith, Banaschar.'

'Who better to judge?'

'Gods betray their followers all the time, as far as I can tell. Every unanswered prayer, every unmet plea for salvation. The very things that define faith, I might add.'

'Failure, silence and indifference? These are the definitions of faith, Pearl?'

'As I said, I am not the man for this discussion.'

'But are those things true betrayal?'

'That depends, I suppose. On whether the god worshipped is, by virtue of being worshipped, in turn beholden to the worshipper. If that god isn't – if there is no moral compact – then your answer is "no", it's not betrayal.'

'To whom – for whom – does a god act?' Banaschar asked.

'If we proceed on the aforementioned assertion, the god acts and answers only to him or herself.'

'After all,' Banaschar said, his voice rasping as he leaned forward, ' who are we to judge?'

'As you say.'

'Yes.'

'If,' Pearl said, 'on the other hand, a moral compact does exist between god and worshipper, then each and every denial represents a betrayal-'

'Assuming that which is asked of that god is in itself bound to a certain morality.'

'True. A husband praying his wife dies in some terrible accident so that he can marry his mistress, for example, is hardly something any self-respecting god would acquiesce to, or assist in.'

Banaschar heard the mockery in the man's voice, but chose to ignore it. 'And if the wife is a tyrant who beats their children?'

'Then a truly just god would act without the necessity for prayer.'

'Meaning the prayer itself, voiced by that husband, is also implicitly evil, regardless of his motive?'

'Well, Banaschar, in my scenario, his motive is made suspect by the presence of the mistress.'

'And if that mistress would be a most loving and adoring stepmother?'

Pearl snarled, chopping with one hand. 'Enough of this, damn you – you can wallow in this moral quandary all you want. I don't see the relevance…' His voice fell away.

His heart smothered in a bed of ashes, Banaschar waited, willing himself not to sob aloud, not to cry out.

'They prayed but did not ask, nor beseech, nor plead,' Pearl said. '

Their prayers were a demand. The betrayal… was theirs, wasn't it?'

The Claw sat forward. 'Banaschar. Are you telling me that D'rek killed them all? Her entire priesthood? They betrayed her! In what way? What did they demand?'

'There is war,' he said in a dull voice.

'Yes. War among the gods, yes – gods below – those worshippers chose the wrong side!'

'She heard them,' Banaschar said, forcing the words out. 'She heard them choose. The Crippled God. And the power they demanded was the power of blood. Well, she decided, if they so lusted for blood… she would give them all they wanted.' His voice dropped to a whisper. 'All they wanted.'

'Banaschar… hold on a moment… why would D'rek's followers choose blood, the power of blood? That is an Elder way. What you are saying makes no sense.'

'The Cult of the Worm is ancient, Pearl. Even we cannot determine just how old. There is mention of a goddess, the Matron of Decay, the Mistress of Worms – a half-dozen titles – in Gothos's Folly – in the fragments possessed by the temple. Or at least, once in the temple's possession – those scrolls disappeared-'

'When?'

Banaschar managed a bitter smile. 'On the night of Tayschrenn's flight from the Grand Temple in Kartool. He has them. He must have them. Don' t you see? Something is wrong! With all of this! The knowledge that I hold, and the knowledge that Tayschrenn must possess – with his access to Gothos's Folly – we must speak, we must make sense of what has happened, and what it means. This goes beyond the Imperium – yet this war among the gods – tell me, whose blood do you think will be spilled? What happened in the cult of D'rek, that is but the beginning!'

'The gods will betray us?' Pearl asked, leaning back. 'Us… mortals.

Whether we worship or not, it is mortal blood that will soak the earth.' He paused, then said, 'Perhaps, given the opportunity, you will be able to persuade Tayschrenn. But what of the other priesthoods – do you truly believe you can convince them – and what will you say to them? Will you plead for some kind of reformation, Banaschar? Some revolution among believers? They will laugh in your face.'

Banaschar looked away. 'In my face, perhaps. But… Tayschrenn…'

The man opposite him said nothing for a time. A graininess filled the gloom – dawn was coming, and with it a dull chill. Finally, Pearl rose, the motion fluid and silent. 'This is a matter for the Empress-'

'Her? Don't be a fool-'

'Careful,' the Claw warned in a soft voice.

Banaschar thought quickly, in desperation. 'She only comes into play with regard to releasing Tayschrenn from his position as High Mage, in freeing him to act. And besides, if the rumours are true about the Grey Mistress stalking Seven Cities, then it is clear that the pantheonic war has already begun in its myriad manipulations of the mortal realm. She would be wise to heed that threat.'

'Banaschar,' Pearl said, 'the rumours do not even come close to the truth. Hundreds of thousands have died. Perhaps millions.'

Millions? 'I shall speak with the Empress,' Pearl repeated.

'When do you leave?' Banaschar asked. And what of those who are isolating Tayschrenn? What of those who contemplate killing me? 'There will be no need for that,' the Claw said, walking to the door.

'She is coming here.'

'Here? When?'

'Soon.'

Why? But he did not voice that question, for the man had gone.

Saying it needed the exercise, Iskaral Pust was sitting atop his mule, struggling to guide it in circles on the mid deck. From the looks of it, he was working far harder than the strange beast as it was cajoled into a step every fifty heartbeats or so.

Red-eyed and sickly, Mappo sat with his back to the cabin wall. Each night, in his dreams, he wept, and would awaken to find that what had plagued his dreams had pushed through the barrier of sleep, and he would lie beneath the furs, shivering with something like a fever. A sickness in truth, born of dread, guilt and shame. Too many failures, too many bad judgements; he had been stumbling, blind, for so long.