‘ ZAMANATHRAS, WHAT ARE THEY?’

‘ MESRI! WHERE’S MESRI?’

And for every scream, a war cry answered.

‘ AKH ZEKH LAKH!’

‘ EVISCERATE! DECAPITATE! ANNIHILATE!’

‘ WHERE IS IT? WHERE IS THE RELIC, SCUM?’

Mesri did not have to ask what was happening. The sounds of fire, of pain, of death filled his ears. He did not have to ask who was invading. He did not care. And he did not have time to.

He turned. The Mouth had vanished, fled into some dark recess of the temple and of his own thoughts. He cursed, sparing only a moment to look at the pool. It was still there. Still untainted. Still holding its prisoner.

A muttered prayer was all he could spare for the Mouth as he turned and rushed into the city.

In the temple behind, fate lay in the hands of a troubled servant of demons.

In the city ahead, fate lay in the reek of smoke and the screams of the dying.

Thirty-Six

Dreadaeleon had begun to consider the theories behind the purifying quality of fire lately.

Of course, he didn’t believe any of the nonsense of fire burning away sins. Rather, he suspected the appeal was something far more practical in nature. Theoretically, any problem could be solved by fire. If two friends fought over, say, a piece of property, setting it on fire would immediately diminish its desirability. If they still fought afterwards, setting each other on fire would quickly take their minds off of their dispute.

People are only upset, he mused, until they can burn something. Then everything’s fine.

A shaky theory, he recognised, but if the sight of Togu’s hut licking a smoke-stained sky with orange tongues was any indication, his companions would serve as excellent evidence.

‘Explain to me the reasoning behind this again,’ Bralston said, watching the burning hut with intent.

‘It’s typically referred to as “Gevrauch’s Debt”,’ Dreadaeleon replied.

‘Named for the theoretical divine entity that governs the dead.’

‘Exactly. As you can probably deduce, it’s never anything pleasant. Adventurers typically use it as a means of drawing payment from employers who cannot or will not pay them for their services. Looting is frequently involved.’

‘And if the employer does not have anything of value?’

‘Burning.’

There was a loud cracking sound as the hut’s roof collapsed, sending embers flying into the air. Bralston sniffed, the faintest sign of a disapproving sneer on his face.

‘Barbaric.’

‘He deserves worse.’

Asper’s voice was barely audible over the crackling fire. She did not look at the two wizards, her expression blank as she stared into the flames.

‘He betrayed us,’ she said softly. ‘He should be in that hut.’

Perhaps you should ask her, he thought to himself. She hasn’t said anything about what happened, true, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she won’t. Is she simply waiting for someone to do so? Maybe that’s why she’s so moody and dark since she got back. No, wait, maybe you shouldn’t ask. Maybe she needs something more physical. Put your arm around her. Or kiss her? Probably not in front of the Librarian … then again, he might take one look at that and-

‘I’ve seen what the longface is capable of,’ Bralston said to her. ‘I’ve seen what he does.’

‘I don’t care what he does to your laws or your magic,’ she replied without looking at him.

‘The Venarium is concerned with the Laws only as they affect people. The longface was a deviant in more ways than one. His death was warranted.’

‘You said he might not be dead, though,’ Dreadaeleon put in.

Bralston whirled a glare upon him. The boy returned a baffled shrug.

‘Well, I mean, you did.’

‘Do you think he’s dead, Librarian?’ Asper asked.

‘Certainty with any kind of magic is difficult,’ he replied. ‘With renegade magic, especially.’

‘Well,’ Dreadaeleon interjected. ‘We brought down the ship. We sent it to the bottom with all his warriors. There’s at least a strong chance that he’s-’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he wasn’t,’ she interrupted.

‘Well … I mean, he was quite powerful,’ Dreadaeleon replied, ‘and he cheated! He didn’t obey the-’

‘Nothing ever works out as it should, does it, Dread?’ she asked, her tone cold. ‘If gods can fail, so can everyone else.’

‘Well, yeah,’ Dreadaeleon said, ‘because they don’t exist.’

He had said such before to her. He anticipated righteous indignation, possibly a stern backhand, as he had received before. He hadn’t expected her to remain silent, merely staring into the fire without so much as blinking.

Huh, he thought, fighting back a grin. Got off easy there. Nice work, old man.

The smile became decidedly easier to beat down once Bralston shot him a sidelong glare. The Librarian said nothing more, though, his attention suddenly turning back to the fire with a rapt interest that hadn’t been present in his stare before. Asper’s gaze, too, became a little more intent at the tall figure emerging from behind the burning building.

He wasn’t quite sure what about Denaos either of them found so fascinating, but Dreadaeleon instantly decided he was against whatever it was.

The tall man paused, tilting the remnants of a bottle of whisky, pilfered from the hut, into his mouth and then tossing the liquor-stained vessel over his shoulder, ignoring the ensuing sputter of flame. His smile was long and liquid as he approached them, smacking his lips.

‘And with that,’ he said, ‘his debt is paid in full.’

‘He betrayed us,’ Dreadaeleon replied. ‘Violated our trust. There is no price to be put on that.’

Denaos shot the pyre an appraising glance. ‘I took a quick estimate when we went rifling through his stuff. I think trust is worth about a hundred and twelve gold coins. Maybe eighty-two in eastern nations.’

Dreadaeleon’s glance flitted down to the man’s wrist and the wrapped leather gauntlet that hadn’t been there before. He caught a glimpse of Bralston’s eyes, narrowed to irate scrutiny, upon the glove.

‘The spoils?’ he asked.

‘This?’ Denaos held it up, admiring it. ‘I prefer to call it an honest day’s pay for an honest night’s work.’

‘Hardly anything honest about it,’ Dreadaeleon said. ‘You never once stepped out to help us on the deck. You didn’t even give us the signal that you were safe.’

‘And you sank the ship without making certain we were safe,’ Denaos said, shrugging. ‘I figure we’re even. Everyone made it out unscathed, anyway.’

‘Not Lenk,’ Asper pointed out.

They fell silent at that.

It was only when they had returned to the shore, the ship long since sank, that anyone noticed the absence of their silver-haired companion. Bralston and Dreadaeleon had met up with Denaos standing over a blanket-wrapped Asper. Togu, having been picked up by Hongwe, stood beside the Gonwa nearby. Gariath and Kataria came to join them, without a word from either of them, only a few moments later. They collected their clothes from the offering to Sheraptus and left in silence.

Lenk hadn’t emerged until early the following morning.

No one had searched for him.

Dreadaeleon told himself now, as he had then, that it was not his fault. Searching for Lenk would have been pointless in dark water, if it was even an option. It was only when they had all stood upon the beach that he realised he had left Lenk behind. He suspected, if their sunken expressions were any indication, the others also shared similar guilts.

Yet, he didn’t ask. Nor did anyone ask him. There had been no words exchanged between them. Each companion’s expression suggested that even the meagerest of sounds would be agony. And so they had parted, the sight of each other suddenly too much to bear, without even asking about their lost companion.