But not even that mattered much. Bruthen Trana did not like the man, a dislike that seemed reason enough to kill the bastard. Karos Invictad took pleasure in cruelty, making him both pathetic and dangerous. If he were permitted to continue, there was the very real risk that the Letherii people would rise up in true rebellion, and the gutters in every city of the empire would run crimson. No matter. I do not like him. For years I was witness to his contempt for me, there in his eyes. I will brook the affront no longer.

This, more than anything else, dismayed Bruthen Trana. Hannan Mosag’s insisting he leave immediately-for some place where the sun dies. West. But no, not west. The Warlock King misunderstood his own vision-

A sudden thought, slowing his steps as he made his way down into the subterranean corridors and chambers beneath the Old Palace. Who answered his prayers? Who showed him this path? He suggested it was not this Crippled God. Father Shadow? Has Scabandari Bloodeye returned to us?

No, he has not. Then… who?

A moment later, Bruthen Trana scowled, then cursed under his breath and resumed his journey. I am given hope and what do I do? Seek to kill it with my own hands. No, I understand the path-better than Hannan Mosag himself.

Where the sun dies is not to the west.

It is beneath the waves. In the depths.

Did not a demon of the seas retrieve his body? No, Hannan Mosag, you dare not name him. He is not even Tiste Edur. Yet he must be our salvation.

He reached the sloping tunnel that would take him to the slave’s supposedly secret abode. These Letherii were indeed pathetic.

We each carry a whisper of Emurlahn within us-each and every Tiste Edur. This is why no slave among the tribes could escape us.

Except for one, he corrected himself. Udinaas. But then, the K’risnan knew where he was-or so Bruthen Trana suspected. They knew, yet chose to do nothing.

It was no wonder Rhulad did not trust them.

Nor do I.

He could smell the stench of bitter magic as he drew nearer, and he heard her muttering in her chamber, and knew that something had changed. In the one named Feather Witch. In the power she possessed.

Well, he would give her no time to prepare.

Feather Witch looked up in fear and alarm as the Tiste Edur warrior strode in. Squealing, she backed away until brought short by a wall, then sank down and covered her face.

The stark intent in the warrior’s face was fierce.

He grasped her by the hair and yanked her to her feet, then higher, the pain forcing a shriek from her.

With his other hand he grasped the small leather pouch between her breasts. When he tore it loose, the thong cut like wire across the back of her neck and behind one ear. She could feel blood. She thought that her ear had very nearly been cut loose, that it hung by a strand of-

He flung her back down. Her head cracked against the stone of the wall. She slumped onto the floor, ragged sobbing erupting from her heaving chest.

And listened-beyond the close roar of blood in her skull-to his dwindling footsteps.

He had taken the severed finger.

He goes to find the soul of Brys Beddict.

Tehol staggered into the single room, collapsed down near the hearth. Sheathed in sweat, gasping to gain his breath.

Bugg, seated with his back to a wall and sipping tea, slowly raised his brows. ‘Afflicted with the delusion of competence, I see.’

‘That-that’s what you said-to Ublala? You cruel, heartless-’

‘The observation was made regarding all mortals, actually.’

‘He didn’t take it that way!’

Janath spoke from where she sat sipping from her own chipped clay cup. ‘All those alarms ringing through the city are because of you, Tehol Beddict?’

‘They will be on the lookout now,’ Bugg observed, ‘for a man wearing a blanket.’

‘Well,’ Tehol retorted, ‘there must be plenty of those, right?’

There was no immediate reply.

‘There must be,’ Tehol insisted, a little wildly even to his iown ears. He hastened on in a more reasonable tone. ‘The ever growing divide between the rich and the poor and all that. Why, blankets are the new fashion among the destitute. I’m sure of it.’

Neither listener said anything, then both sipped from their cups.

Scowling, Tehol said, ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’

‘Hen tea,’ Bugg said.

‘Soup, you mean.’

‘No,’ said Janath. ‘Tea.’

‘Wait, where are all the chickens?’

‘On the roof,’ Bugg said.

‘Won’t they fall off?’

‘One or two might. We do regular rounds. So far, they have displayed uncharacteristic cleverness. Rather unique for this household.’

‘Oh right, kick the exhausted fugitive why don’t you? They probably caught poor old Ublala.’

‘Maybe. He did have a diversion in mind.’

Tehol’s eyes narrowed on his manservant. ‘Those wisps above your ears need trimming. Janath, find me a knife, will you?’.

‘No.’

‘You would side with him, wouldn’t you?’

‘Bugg is actually a very capable man, Tehol. You don’t deserve him, you know.’

‘I assure you, Scholar, the undeservedness is mutual.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You know, from the smell I think I could make a strong argument that hen tea is no different from watery chicken soup, or, at the very least, broth.’

‘You never could grasp semantics, Tehol Beddict.’

‘I couldn’t grasp much of anything, I seem to recall. Yet I will defend my diligence, my single-minded lust for seductive knowledge, the purity of true academic… uh, pursuit-why, I could go on and on-’

‘Ever your flaw, Tehol.’

‘-but I won’t, cursed as I am with an unappreciative audience. So tell me, Bugg, why was Ublala so eager to talk to this true blood Tarthenal?’

‘He wishes to discover, I imagine, if the warrior is a god.’

‘A what?’

‘A new god, I mean. Or an ascendant, to be more precise. I doubt there are worshippers involved. Yet.’

‘Well, Tarthenal only worship what terrifies them, right? This is just some warrior doomed to die by the Emperor’s sword. Hardly the subject to inspire poor Ublala Pung.’

To that Bugg simply shrugged.

Tehol wiped sweat from his brow. ‘Give me some of that hen tea, will you?’

‘With or without?’

‘With or without what?’

‘Feathers.’

‘That depends. Are they clean feathers?’

‘They are now,’ Bugg replied.

All right, then, since I can’t think of anything more absurd. With.’

Bugg reached for a clay cup. ‘I knew I could count on you, Master.’

She woke to a metallic clang out in the corridor.

Sitting up, Samar Dev stared into the darkness of her room.

She thought she could hear breathing, just outside her door, then, distinctly, a muted whimper.

She rose, wrapping the blanket about her, and padded to the doorway. Lifted the latch and swung the flimsy barrier aside.

‘Karsa?’

The huge figure spun to face her.

‘No,’ she then said. ‘Not Karsa. Who are you?’

‘Where is he?’

‘Who?’

‘The one like me. Which room?’

Samar Dev edged out into the corridor. She looked to the left and saw the motionless forms of the two palace guards normally stationed to either side of the corridor’s entranceway. Their helmed heads were conspicuously close together, and those iron pots were both severely dented. ‘You killed them?’

The huge man glanced over, then grunted. ‘They were looking the wrong way.’

‘You mean they didn’t see you.’

‘Maybe my hands.’

The nonsensical yet oddly satisfying exchange had been in whispers. Samar Dev gestured that he follow and set off up the corridor until she came to the door to Karsa Orlong’s room. ‘He’s in here.’

‘Knock,’ the giant ordered. ‘Then walk in ahead of me.’

‘Or else?’

‘Or else I knock your head… together.’

Sighing, she reached towards the door with one fist.