But these were momentary distractions, she knew. Something had happened. Dersa had rushed into the ruin and not returned. Nenanda stood fidgeting, eyes on the crumbled edifice.

‘Some gods are born to suffer,’ Kallor said. ‘You’d be better off heading straight to Coral. Unleash Anomander Rake against that Dying God, if getting this Clip back, is so important to you. At the very least you’ll have your vengeance.’

‘And is vengeance so important?’ Kedeviss asked.

‘Often it’s all there is,’ Kallor replied, still squinting westward.

‘Is that why they’re after you?’

He turned, studied her. ‘And who would be after me?’

‘Someone. That much seems obvious. Am I wrong?’

Aranatha spoke from the wagon, ‘You are not, sister. But then, he has always been hunted. You can see it in his eyes.’

‘Be glad that you remain marginally useful to me,’ Kallor said, turning away once more.

Kedeviss saw Nenanda glaring at the warrior’s back.

How much time had passed? Days, perhaps weeks. Nimander stood, watching the mason build his tower. Shaping stone with fists, with round hammerstones found somewhere, with leather-wrapped wooden mallets to edge the pumice fac-ing he had decided to add to ‘lighten the walls’.

To accommodate the giant, the tower needed to be huge, four storeys or more to the ceiling. ‘Made with the blood of dragons, the glass of what flowed, the pumice of what foamed with dying breaths. A tower, yes, but also a monument, a grave marker. What will come of this? I know not. You were clever, Nimander, with this idea. Too clever to stay here. You must leave, when the tower vanishes, you must be within it. I will stay.’

They repeated that argument again and again, and each time Nimander prevailed, not through brilliant reasoning, not through appealing to the Elder’s selfish desires (because it turned out he didn’t have any), but only through his refusal to surrender.

He had nothing awaiting him, after all. Nenanda could lead the others through-he was finding his own kind of wisdom, his restraint, and with Skintick and Kede-viss to guide him, he would do well. Until such time as they reached Coral.

Nimander had lost too many battles-he could see that in himself. Could feel every scar, still fresh, still wounding. This place would give him time to heal, if such a thing were possible. How long? Why not eternity?

A chorus of wails surrounded them, an army of spirits grovelling in the ash and dust at the base of the volcanic cone. Bemoaning the end of the world-as if this world suited them just fine, when clearly it didn’t, when each one dreamed of reclaiming flesh and bone, blood and breath. They sought to assail the slope but somehow failed again and again. Nimander helped when he could, carrying tools here and there, but mostly he sat in the soft dust, seeing nothing, hearing only the cries from beyond the tower’s growing wall, feeling neither thirst nor hunger, slowly emptying of desire, ambition, everything that might once have mattered.

Around him the darkness deepened, until the only light came from some pre-ternatural glow from the pumice. The world closing in…

Until-

‘One stone remains. This stone. The base of this low window, Nimander, within your reach. I will help you climb outside-then push the stone through, like this-but tell me, please, why can we not both leave here? I am within the tower. So are you. If I set the stone-’

‘Elder,’ cut in Nimander. ‘You are almost done here. Where is Gothos?’

A look of surprise. ‘I don’t know.’

‘He does not dare this realm, I think.’

‘Perhaps that is true.’

‘I don’t even know if this will work-if it will create for you a way out.’

‘I understand, Nimander. Remain inside with me. Let me set this stone.’

‘I don’t know where this tower will take you,’ Nimander replied. ‘Back to your realm, wherever that is, perhaps-but not my home. Nothing I know. Besides, you carved this to be pushed into place from outside-the angles-’

‘I can reshape it, Nimander.’

I cannot go with you. ‘In finding out where you are, Elder, I become lost. You are the mason, the maker of the houses. It is your task. You do not belong here.’

‘Nor do you.’

‘Don’t I? There are Tiste Andii spirits out there. And Tiste Edur. Even Liosan. The ones who fell in the first wars, when dragons burst through every gate to slay, to die. Listen to them out there! They have made peace with one another-a miracle, and one I would be happy to share.’

‘You are not a ghost. They will take you. They will fight over you, a beginning of a new war, Nimander. They will tear you to pieces.’

‘No, I will reason with them-’

‘You cannot.’

Despair stirred awake in Nimander, as he saw the truth of the Elder’s words. Even here, he was not welcome. Even here he would bring destruction. Yet, when they tear me limb from limb, I will die. I will become just like them. A short war. ‘Help me through the window,’ he said, pulling himself up on to the rough ledge.

‘As you wish. I understand, Nimander.’

Yes, perhaps you do.

‘Nimander.’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you. For this gift of creation.’

‘Next time you meet Gothos,’ Nimander said as his friend pushed him through the portal, ‘punch him in the face for me, will you?’

‘Yes, another good idea. I will miss you. You and your good ideas.’He fell through on to a thick powdery slope, hastily reaching up to grip the window’s edge to keep from sliding. Behind and below voices cried out in sudden hunger. He could feel their will churning up to engulf him.

A heavy scrape from the window and out came the final stone, end first, grinding as it was forced through. Catching Nimander by surprise. The weight pushed against his fingers where he held tight and he swore in pain as the tips were crushed, pinned-tearing one hand free left nails behind, droplets of blood spattering. He scrabbled for another handhold, then, voicing a scream, he tore loose his other arm.

Gods, how was he going to manage this? With two mangled hands, with no firm footing, with a mob surging frantic up the slope behind him?

Inexorable, the stone ground its way out. He brought a shoulder beneath it, felt the massive weight settling. His arms began to tremble.

Far enough now, yes, and he reached with one hand, began pushing to one side the nearest end of the blood-slick chunk of obsidian. He could see the clever angles now, the planes and how everything would somehow, seemingly impossibly, slide into perfect position. Push, some more-not much-almost in place-

Thousands, hundreds of thousands-a storm of voices, screams of desperation, of dismay, of terrible horror-too much! Please, stop! Stop!

He was weakening-he would not make it-he could not hold on any longer-with a sob he released his grip and in the last moment, tottering, he pushed with both hands, setting the stone-and then he was falling back, down, swallowed in cascading ash, stones, scouring chunks of rough pumice. Down the slope he tumbled, buried beneath ever more rubble. Hot. Suffocating. Blind. Drowning and one flailing hand was grasped, hard, by one and then two hands-small a woman’s hands.

His shoulder flared in pain as that grip tightened, pulled him round. The collapsing hillside tugged at him, eager to take him-he understood its need, he sympathized, yes, and wanted to relent, to let go, to vanish in the crushing darkness.

The hands dragged him free. Dragged him by one bloody arm. The storm of voices raged anew, closer now and closing fast. Cold fingertips scrabbled against his boots, nails clawing at his ankles and oh he didn’t care, let them take him, let them-

He tumbled down on to damp earth. Gloom, silence but for harsh breaths, a surprised grunt from nearby.

Rolling on to his back, coughing through a mouth caked in ash. Eyes burning-