‘Why, I answer, then I spread the word – if they’ll listen. And if they do? Why, I say, then we run away.
‘And if they don’t listen?
‘Why, I reply, then I run away.’
He collected another load onto his wooden shovel. ‘Gold. Gold and ale…’
‘Sandalath Drukorlat. That is my name. I am not a ghost. Not any more. The least you can do is acknowledge my existence. Even the Nachts have better manners than you. If you keep sitting there and praying, I’ll hit you.’
She had been trying since morning. Periodic interruptions to his efforts. He wanted to send her away, but it wasn’t working. He’d forgotten how irritating company could be. Uninvited, unwelcome, persistent reminder of his own weaknesses. And now she was about to hit him.
Withal sighed and finally opened his eyes. The first time that day. Even in the gloom of his abode, the light hurt, made him squint. She stood before him, a silhouette, unmistakably female. For a god swathed in blankets, the Crippled One seemed unmindful of the nakedness among his chosen.
Chosen. Where in Hood’s name did he find her? Not a ghost, she said. Not any more. She just said that. She must have been one, then. Typical. He couldn’t find anyone living. Not for this mission of mercy. Who better for someone starved of companionship than someone who’s been dead for who knows how long? Listen to me. I’m losing my mind.
She raised a hand to strike him.
He flinched back. ‘All right, fine! Sandalath something. Pleased to meet you-’
‘Sandalath Drukorlat. I am Tiste Andii-’
‘That’s nice. Now, in case you haven’t noticed, I was in the midst of prayers-’
‘You’re always in the midst of prayers, and it’s been two days now. At least, I think two days. The Nachts slept, anyway. Once.’
‘They did? How strange.’
‘And you are?’
‘Me? A weaponsmith. A Meckros. Sole survivor of the destruction of my city-’
‘Your name!’
‘Withal. No need to shout. There hasn’t been any shouting. Well, some screaming, but not by me. Not yet, that is-’
‘Be quiet. I have questions that you are going to answer.’
She was not particularly young, he noted as his eyes adjusted. Then again, neither was he. And that wasn’t good. The young were better at making friends. The young had nothing to lose. ‘You’re being rather imperious, Sandalath.’
‘Oh, did I hurt your feelings? Dreadfully sorry. Where did you get those clothes?’
‘From the god, who else?’
‘What god?’