Beyond Caravan Gate the coastal road stretched southward, level despite the gentle rise and fall of the sandstone cliffs that overlooked the bay on the west side. On their left and a league inland ran the Arifal Hills. The jagged serrations of Arifal would follow them all the way to the Eb River, thirty-six leagues to the south. Barely tamed tribes dwelt in those hills, pre-eminent among them the Gral. Fiddler's greatest worry was running into a real Gral tribesman. The chance of that was diminished somewhat given the season, for the Gral would be driving their goats deep into the range, where both shade and water could be found.
They nudged their mounts into a canter and rode past a merchant's train to avoid the trailing dust clouds, then Fiddler settled them back into a slow trot. The day's heat was already building. Their destination was a small village called Salik, a little over eight leagues distant, where they would stop to eat the midday meal and wait out the hottest hours before continuing on to the Trob River.
If all went well, they would reach G'danisban in a week's time. Fiddler expected Kalam to be two, maybe even three days ahead of them by then. Beyond G'danisban was the Pan'potsun Odhan, a sparsely populated wasteland of desiccated hills, the skeletal ruins of long-dead cities, poisonous snakes, biting flies and – he recalled the Spiritwalker Kimloc's words – the potential of something far deadlier. A convergence. Togg's feet, I don't like that thought at all. He thought about the conch shell in his leather pack. Carrying an item of power was never a wise thing. Probably more trouble than it's worth. What if some Soletaken sniffs it out, decides it wants it for its collection? He scowled. A collection easily built on with one conch shell and three shiny skulls.
The more he thought on it, the more uneasy he became. Better to sell it to some merchant in G'danisban. The extra coin could prove useful. The thought settled him. He would sell the conch, be rid of it. While no-one would deny a Spiritwalker's power, it was likely dangerous to lean too heavily on it. The Tano priests gave up their lives in the name of peace. Or worse. Kimloc surrendered his honour. Better to rely on the Moranth incendiaries in my pack than on any mysterious shell. A Flamer will bum a Soletaken as easily as anyone else.
Crokus rode up alongside the sapper. 'What are you thinking, Fiddler?'
'Nothing. Where's that bhok'aral of yours?'
The young man frowned. 'I don't know. I guess he was just a pet after all. Went off last night and never came back.' He wiped the back of his hand across his face and Fiddler saw smeared tears on his cheeks. 'I sort of felt Mammot was with me, with Moby.'
'Was your uncle a good man, before the Jaghut Tyrant took him?'
Crokus nodded.
Fiddler grunted. 'Then he's with you still. Moby probably sniffed kin in the air. More than a few highborn keep bhok'arala as pets in the city. Just a pet after all.'
'I suppose you're right. For most of my life I thought of Mammot as just a scholar, an old man always scribbling on scrolls. My uncle. But then I found out he was a High Priest. Important, with powerful friends like Baruk. But before I could even come to terms with that, he was dead. Destroyed by your squad—'
'Hold on there, lad! What we killed wasn't your uncle. Not any more.'
'I know. In killing him you saved Darujhistan. I know, Fiddler...'
'It's done, Crokus. And you should realize, an uncle who took care of you and loved you is more important than his being a High Priest. And he would have told you the same, I imagine, if he'd had the chance.'
'But don't you see? He had power, Fiddler, but he didn't do a damn thing with it! Just hid in his tiny room in a crumbling tenement! He could have owned an estate, sat on the Council, made a difference ...'
Fiddler wasn't ready to take on that argument. He'd never had any skill with counsel. Got no advice worth giving anyway. 'Did she kick you up here for being so moody, lad?'
Crokus's face darkened, then he spurred forward, taking point position.
Sighing, Fiddler twisted in the saddle and eyed Apsalar, riding a few paces behind. 'Lovers' spat, is it?'
She blinked owlishly.
Fiddler swung back, settling in the saddle. 'Hood's balls,' he muttered under his breath.
Iskaral Pust poked the broom farther up the chimney and frantically scrubbed. Black clouds descended onto the hearthstone and settled on the High Priest's grey robes.
'You have wood?' Mappo asked from the raised stone platform he had been using as a bed and was now sitting on.
Iskaral paused. 'Wood? Wood's better than a broom?'