'The High Priest – he's of the Shadow Cult, Fiddler. Don't you see – Apsalar ...'
Something cold slithered along the sapper's bones. 'Oh, damn,' he whispered. 'I see your point.' He looked up as the young woman stepped to the foot of the bed, and spoke in a low tone. 'Your mind still your own, lass?'
'The little man treats me well,' she said, shrugging.
'Well?' Crokus spluttered. 'Like the prodigal returned, you mean! What's to stop Cotillion from possessing you all over again?'
'You need only ask his servant,' a new voice said from the doorway. Icarium stood leaning, arms crossed, against the frame. His slitted grey eyes were fixed on the room's far corner.
From the gloom of the shadows there a figure took shape. Iskaral Pust, seated on a strangely wrought chair, squirmed and flung a glare at the Jhag. 'I was to remain unseen, fool! What gift shadows when you so clearly divine what they hide? Pah! I am undone!'
Icarium's thin lips quirked slightly. 'Why not give them answer, Iskaral Pust? Put them at ease.'
'Put them at ease?' The High Priest seemed to find the words awkward. 'What value that? I must think. At ease. Relaxed. Unmindful of restraint. Careless. Yes, of course! Excellent idea.' He paused, swung his head to Fiddler.
The sapper watched a smile slide aboard the wizened man's face, oiled and smooth and pathetically insincere.
'Everything's fine, my friends,' he purred. 'Be calm. Cotillion is done with possessing the lass. The bane of Anomander Rake's threat remains. Who wants that crude conveyor of uncivilized mayhem crashing through the temple door? Not Shadowthrone. Not the Patron of Assassins. She is protected still. Besides which, Cotillion finds no further value in using her, and indeed the residue of his talents still within her gives cause for secret concern—' His face twisted on itself. 'No, better keep that thought unspoken!' He smiled again. 'Cultured conversation has been rediscovered and used with guile and grace. Look upon them, Iskaral Pust, they are won over one and all.'
There was a long silence.
Mappo cleared his throat. 'The High Priest rarely has company,' he said.
Fiddler sighed, suddenly exhausted. He leaned back, closed his eyes. 'My horse? Did it live?'
'Yes,' Crokus said. 'It's been taken care of, as have the others – those that Mappo had time to tend to, that is. And there's a servant here, somewhere. We haven't seen him, but he does good work.'
Apsalar spoke. 'Fiddler, tell us about Tremorlor.'
A new tension filled the air. The sapper sensed it even as sleep pulled at him, alluring with its promise of temporary escape. After a moment he pushed it away with another sigh and opened his eyes. 'Quick Ben's knowledge of the Holy Desert is, uh, vast. When we last rode the Holy Desert – as we rode out, in fact – he spoke of the Vanished Roads. Like the one we found, an ancient road that sleeps beneath the sands and appears only occasionally – if the winds are right, that is. Well, one of those roads leads to Tremorlor—'
Crokus cut in, 'Which is?'
'A House of the Azath.'
'Like the one that arose in Darujhistan?'
'Aye. Such buildings exist – or are rumoured to exist – on virtually every continent. No-one knows their purpose, though it does seem that they are a lodestone to power. There's the old story that the Emperor and Dancer ...' Oh, Hood, Kellanved and Dancer, Ammanas and Cotillion, the possible linkage with Shadow . . . this temple . . . Fiddler shot Iskaral Pust a sharp look. The High Priest sported an avid grin, his eyes glittering. 'Uh, the legend goes that Kellanved and Dancer once occupied one such House, in Malaz City—'
'Deadhouse,' Icarium said from the doorway. 'The legend is true.'
'Aye,' Fiddler muttered, then shook himself. 'Well enough. In any case, it's Quick Ben's belief that such Houses are all linked to one another, via gates of some sort. And that travel between them is possible – virtually instantaneous travel—'
'Excuse me,' Icarium said, stepping into the room with an air of sudden attentiveness. 'I have not heard the name Quick Ben. Who is this man purporting to possess such arcane knowledge of the Azath?'
The sapper fidgeted under the Jhag's intent gaze, then scowled at himself and straightened slightly. 'A squad mage,' he answered, making it clear he did not intend to elaborate.
Icarium's eyes went oddly heavy. 'You put much weight on a squad mage's opinions.'
'Aye, I do.'
