‘You know my name,’ Kallor said. ‘But I have not yet heard yours.’

‘That is true.’

Something dangerous edged into Kallor’s voice as he said, ‘I would know the name of my host.’’Once, long ago, a wolf god came before me, Tell me, Kallor, do you understand the nature of beast gods? Of course not. You are only a beast in the unfairly pejo-rative sense-unfair to beasts, that is. How is it, then, that the most ancient gods of this world were, one and all, beasts?’

‘The question does not interest me, Jaghut.’

‘What of the answer?’

‘You possess one?’

The hands reached out and lifted the kettle from the hook as steam rushed up round the long fingers. ‘This must now steep for a time. Am I unusual in my penchant for evading such direct questions? A trait exclusive to Jaghut? Hardly. Knowledge may be free; my voice is not. I am a miser, alas, although I was not always this way.’

‘Since I see little value in this particular matter,’ said Kallor, ‘I would not bargain with you.’

‘Ah, and what of the Others with you? Might not they be interested?’ Clearing his throat, Skintick said, ‘Venerable one, we possess nothing of worth to one such as you.’

‘You are too modest, Tiste Andii.’

‘I am?’

‘Each creature is born from one not its kind. This is a wonder, a miracle forged in the fires of chaos, for chaos indeed whispers in our blood, no matter its particular hue. If I but scrape your skin, so lightly as to leave but a momentary streak, that which I take from you beneath my nail contains every truth of you, your life, even your death, assuming violence does not claim you. A code, if you will, seemingly precise and so very ordered. Yet chaos churns. For all your similarities to your father, neither you nor the one named Nimander-nor any of your brothers and sisters-is identical to Anomander Dragnipurake. Do you refute this?’

‘Of course not-’

‘For each kind of beast there is a first such beast, more different from its parents than the rest of its kin, from which a new breed in due course emerges. Is this firstborn then a god?’

‘You spoke of a wolf god,’ Skintick said. ‘You began to tell us a story.’

‘So I did. But you must be made to understand. It is a question of essences. To see a wolf and know it as pure, one must possess an image in oneself of a pure wolf, a perfect wolf.’

‘Ridiculous,’ Kallor grunted. ‘See a strange beast and someone tells you it is a wolf-and from this one memory, and perhaps a few more to follow, you have fashioned your image of a wolf. In my empires, philosophers spewed such rubbish for centuries, until, of course, I grew tired of them and had them tortured and executed.’

A strange muffled noise came from the hunched-over Jaghut. Nimander saw the shoulders shaking and realized the ancient was laughing.

‘I have killed a few Jaghut,’ Kallor said; not a boast, simply a statement. A warning.

‘The tea is ready,’ the Jaghut said, pouring dark liquid into four clay cups that Nimander had not noticed before. ‘You might wonder what I was doing when thewolf god found me, I was living. In disguise. We had gathered to imprison a tyrant, until our allies tumed upon us and resumed the slaughter. I believe I may be cursed to ever be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘T’lan Amass allies,’ Kallor said. ‘Too bad they never found you.’

‘Kron, the clan of Bek’athana Ilk who dwelt in the Cliffs Above the Angry Sea. forty-three hunters and a Bonecaster. They found me.’

Skintick squatted to pick up two of the cups, straightening to hand one to Nimander. The steam rising from the tea was heady, hinting of mint and cloves and something else. The taste numbed his tongue.

‘Where is mine?’ Kallor demanded. ‘If I must listen to this creature I will drink his tea.’

Smiling, Skintick pointed down to where the cups waited on the ground.

Another soft laugh from the Jaghut. ‘Raest was the name of the Tyrant we defeated. One of my more obnoxiously arrogant offspring. I did not mourn his fall. In any case, unlike Raest, I was never the strutting kind. It is a sign of weakness to shine blinding bright with one’s own power. Pathetic diffidence. A need that undermines. I was more… secure.’

He had Kallor’s attention now. ‘You killed forty-three T’lan Imass and a bonecaster?’

‘I killed them all.’ The Jaghut sipped from his own cup. ‘I have killed a few T’lan Imass,’ he said, the intonation a perfect mimicry of Kallor’s own claim a few moments past. ‘Tell me, then, do you like my abode? My garden?’

‘Solitude has driven you mad,’ Kallor said.

‘You would know all about that now, wouldn’t you, O Lord of Failures? Par-take of the tea, lest I take offence.’

Teeth bared, Kallor bent down to retrieve his cup.

The Jaghut’s left hand shot out, closing about Kallor’s wrist. ‘You wounded that wolf god,’ he said.

Nimander stared as he saw the old man struggle to twist free of that grip. Veins standing out on his temple, jaw muscles bunching beneath the beard. But there was no pulling loose. There was no movement at all from that withered, green hand.

‘When you laid waste to your realm,’ the Jaghut continued. ‘You wounded it terribly.’

‘Release me,’ Kallor said in a rasp. And with his other hand he reached back for the grip of his sword.

All at once the Jaghut’s hand fell away.

Kallor staggered back and Nimander saw a white impression of fingers encircling the old warrior’s wrist. ‘This is not how a host behaves. You force me to kill you.’

‘Oh, be quiet, Kallor. This tower was an Azath once. Shall I awaken it for you?’

Wondering, Nimander watched as Kallor backed towards the entrance, eyes wide in that weathered, pallid face, the look of raw recognition dawning. ‘Gothos, what are you doing here?’

‘Where else should I be? Now remain outside-these two Tiste Andii must go away for a while.’Heat was spreading fast, out from Nlmamdersi stomach. He cast a wild look at Skintick, saw his friend sinking slowly to his knees. The empty cup in his hand fell away, rolled briefly on the damp ground, Nimander stared at the Jaghut, ‘What have you done?’

‘Only what was necessary.’

With a snarl Kallor spun round and stalked from the chamber. Over his shoul-der he said, ‘I will not wait long.’

Nimander’s eyes were drawn once more to the walls of ice. Black depths, shapes moving within. He staggered, reached out his hands-

‘Oh, don’t step in there-’

And then he was falling forward, his hands passing into the wall before him, no resistance at all. ‘Nimander, do not-’ Blackness.

Desra wandered round the wagon, drawing up to halt beside the ox. She set a hand on its back, felt the beast’s heat, the rippling with every twitch shedding the biting flies. She looked down into the animal’s eye, saw with a start how delicate its lashes. ‘You must take the world as it is.’ Andarist’s last words to her, before the world took him.

It wasn’t hard. People either had strength or they didn’t. The weak ones left her disgusted, welling with dark contempt. If they chose at all it was ever the wrong choice. They let the world break them time and again, then wondered-dull-eyed as this ox-why it was so cruel. But it wasn’t the world that was the problem, was it? It was stepping into the stampede’s path over and over again. It was learning nothing from anything. Nothing.

There were more weak people than strong ones. The weak were legion. Some just weren’t smart enough to cope with anything beyond meeting immediate needs: the field to sow, the harvest to bring on to the threshing floor, the beasts of burden to feed. The child to raise, the coin for the next jug of ale, the next knuckle bag of d’bayang. They didn’t see beyond the horizon. They didn’t even see the next valley over. The world outside was where things came from, things that caused trouble, that jarred the proper order of life. They weren’t interested in thinking. Depths were frightening, long roads a journey without purpose where one could end up lost, curling up to die in the ditch.