What bad luck for the young men, she says. Is there no defence against these vicious creatures?

You can stick spears into them, or mash them to a pulp with rocks. But there are so many of them—it’s like fighting off an octopus, they’re all over a fellow before he knows it. Anyway, they hypnotize you—they ruin your willpower. It’s the first thing they do. As soon as you catch sight of one, you’re rooted to the spot.

I can imagine. More scotch?

I think I could stand it. Thanks. The girl—what do you think her name should be?

I don’t know. You choose. You know the territory.

I’ll think about it. Anyway, there she lies on the Bed of One Night, a prey to anticipation. She doesn’t know which will be worse, having her throat cut or the next few hours. It’s one of the open secrets of the Temple that the Lord of the Underworld isn’t real, but merely one of the courtiers in disguise. Like everything else in Sakiel-Norn this position, is for sale, and large amounts are said to change hands for the privilege—under the table, of course. The recipient of the payoffs is the High Priestess, who is as venal as they come, and known to be partial to sapphires. She excuses herself by vowing to use the money for charitable purposes, and she does use some of it for that, when she remembers. The girls can hardly complain about this part of their ordeal, being without tongues or even writing materials, and anyway they’re all dead the next day. Pennies from heaven, says the High Priestess to herself as she totes up the cash.

Meanwhile, off in the distance a large, ragged horde of barbarians is on the march, intent on capturing the far-famed city of Sakiel-Norn, then looting it and burning it to the ground. They’ve already done this very same thing to several other cities farther west. No one—no one among the civilized nations, that is—can account for their success. They are neither well clothed nor well armed, they can’t read, and they possess no ingenious metal contraptions.

Not only that, they have no king, only a leader. This leader has no name as such; he gave up his name when he became the leader, and was given a tide instead. His title is the Servant of Rejoicing. His followers refer to him also as the Scourge of the All-Powerful, the Right Fist of the Invincible, the Purger of Iniquities, and the Defender of Virtue and Justice. The barbarians’ original homeland is unknown, but it is agreed that they come from the northwest, where the ill winds also originate. By their enemies they’re called the People of Desolation, but they term themselves the People of Joy.

Their current leader bears the marks of divine favour: he was born with a caul, is wounded in the foot, and has a star-shaped mark on his forehead. He falls into trances and communes with the other world whenever he is at a loss as to what to do next. He’s on his way to destroy Sakiel-Norn because of an order brought to him by a messenger of the Gods.

This messenger appeared to him in the guise of a flame, with numerous eyes and wings of fire shooting out. Such messengers are known to speak in torturous parables and to take many forms: burning thulks or stones that can speak, or walking flowers, or bird-headed creatures with human bodies. Or else they might look like anyone at all. Travellers in ones or twos, men rumoured to be thieves or magicians, foreigners who speak several languages, and beggars by the side of the road are the most likely to be such messengers, say the People of Desolation: therefore all of these need to be handled with great circumspection, at least until their true nature can be discovered.

If they turn out to be divine emissaries, it’s best to give them food and wine and the use of a woman if required, to listen respectfully to their messages, and then to let them go on their way. Otherwise, they should be stoned to death and their possessions confiscated. You may be sure that all travellers, magicians, strangers or beggars who find themselves in the vicinity of the People of Desolation take care to provide themselves with a stash of obscure parables—cloud words, they’re called, or knotted silk —enigmatic enough to be useful on various occasions, as circumstances may dictate. To travel among the People of Joy without a riddle or a puzzling rhyme would be to court certain death.

According to the words of the flame with eyes, the city of Sakiel-Norn has been marked out for destruction on account of its luxury, its worship of false gods, and in especial its abhorrent child sacrifices. Because of this practice, all the people in the city, including the slaves and the children and maidens destined for sacrifice, are to be put to the sword. To kill even those whose proposed deaths are the reason for this killing may not seem just, but for the People of Joy it isn’t guilt or innocence that determines such things, it’s whether or not you’ve been tainted, and as far as the People of Joy are concerned everyone in a tainted city is as tainted as everyone else.

The horde rolls forward, raising a dark dust cloud as it moves; this cloud flies over it like a flag. It is not however close enough to have been spotted by the sentries posted on the walls of Sakiel-Norn. Others who might give warning—outlying herdsmen, merchants in transit, and so forth—are relentlessly run down and hacked to pieces, with the exception of any who might possibly be divine messengers.

The Servant of Rejoicing rides ahead, his heart pure, his brow furrowed, his eyes burning. Over his shoulders is a rough leather cloak, on his head is his badge of office, a red conical hat. Behind him are his followers, eyeteeth bared. Herbivores flee before them, scavengers follow, wolves lope alongside.

Meanwhile, in the unsuspecting city, there’s a plot underway to topple the King. This has been set in motion (as is customary) by several highly trusted courtiers. They’ve employed the most skilful of the blind assassins, a youth who was once a weaver of rugs and then a child prostitute, but who since his escape has become renowned for his soundlessness, his stealth, and his pitiless hand with a knife. His name is X.

Why X?

Men like that are always called X. Names are no use to them, names only pin them down. Anyway, X is for X-ray—if you’re X, you can pass through solid walls and see through women’s clothing.

But X is blind, she says.

All the better. He sees through women’s clothing with the inner eye that is the bliss of solitude.

Poor Wordsworth! Don’t be blasphemous! she says, delighted.

I can’t help it, I was blasphemous from a child.

X is to make his way into the compound of the Temple of the Five Moons, find the door to the chamber where the next day’s maiden sacrifice is being kept, and slit the throat of the sentry. He must then kill the girl herself, hide the body beneath the fabled Bed of One Night, and dress himself in the girl’s ceremonial veils. He’s supposed to wait until the courtier playing the Lord of the Underworld—who is, in fact, none other than the leader of the impending palace coup—has come, taken what he has paid for, and gone away again. The courtier has paid good coin and wants his money’s worth, which doesn’t mean a dead girl, however freshly killed. He wants the heart still beating.

But there’s been a foul-up in the arrangements. The timing has been misunderstood: as things stand, the blind assassin will be first past the post.

This is too gruesome, she says. You have a twisted mind.

He runs his finger along her bare arm. You want me to continue? As a rule I do this for money. You re getting it for nothing, you should be grateful. Anyway, you don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m only just thickening the plot.

I’d say it was pretty thick already.

Thick plots are my specialty. If you want a thinner kind, look elsewhere.