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  ‘The distinction is moot,’ his wife retorted. She gathered up her reins. ‘Ride on, then. We but build upon our charge of outrage, and must hold to the faith that a day will come when we can unleash it. Captain Kellaras.’

  ‘Milady?’

  ‘Be certain that Lord Anomander understands. I will unite the highborn to this cause. I will see the matter of the Consort set aside, to wait for a later time. Now, we must unmask our enemy, and see the way before us clear and without compromise. Tell him, captain, that I swear to this: no political machination will stifle my distemper. There will be retribution and it will be just.’

  They set out once again. Behind Kellaras, Hish Tulla continued. ‘Hunn Raal will hang. As for Urusander, let him plead his innocence before knowing eyes, beneath public regard. Upon that stage, he will fail to dissemble. Captain, was it not your lord who said that justice must be seen?’

  ‘He did, milady.’

  ‘Just so. Let it be seen.’

  Kellaras remained alongside Pelk, even as she quickened her pace to draw some distance from Hish and Gripp Galas, as husband and wife had fallen to a low exchange of words. The captain glanced across at her. ‘They were tempted,’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘Stone-tipped, the arrows they chose for us.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Uncommon pain, I’m told, when there is a sharp stone lodged deep in your body, cutting this way and that with your every breath. I would think,’ she added in dry tones, ‘that even a soldier could not fight on, through such pain. As weapons of war, it’s my thought, captain, that arrows will make warfare a thing not of honour, but of dishonour.’

  He grunted sourly, thinking back to his own hunger for violence. ‘Perhaps, then, war’s true horror will be revealed for all to see, and make us one and all recoil.’

  Her answering smile was guarded. ‘Shocking us into eternal peace? Captain Kellaras, you have the dreams of a child.’

  Stung, he said nothing.

  She shot him a look, her eyes widening. ‘Abyss take me, Kellaras – you thought that an insult?’

  ‘I – well—’

  ‘Discount the gifts in your heart if you must,’ she said, ‘but leave them free for me to hold, and hold I will, tighter than you could ever imagine.’

  Her words set an ache in his chest. Blinking against the glare of sunlight on snow and ice, he rode on in silence.

  Behind them, husband and wife bickered.

  * * *

  There was a time, long before Grizzin Farl had taken for himself the title of Protector, when he had made the blade of his war-axe the voice of his temper. He had been like a drunkard, with fury his wine. Youth had a way of carving everything into sharp relief, making divisive every world and every moment within it. Anger was his only answer to the revelation of injustice, and injustice was everywhere. In those times when exhaustion took him – when the ongoing battle against authority, tradition, and the churning cycles of habit made him stumble, stagger into some emptiness – he fostered for himself a façade of cynicism. The zeal of the axe-blade was quickly blunted, and the weapon proved heavy in his aching arms. With that cynical regard, he saw awaiting him a future of unrelenting failure.

  Youth made rage and world-weariness into lovers, with all the passion and private heat that one would expect, when the blood was still fresh. Desire fed lust, and lust promised satiation, but it whispered clumsy words. Vengeance, a matching in kind between crime and punishment, as if justice could bring down the hands of a god, to make clear and certain every divide, and, by so doing, reduce the complexities of the mortal world into something simpler, easier to stomach.

  He had soon found himself among the Forulkan, to see with his own eyes how such justice was meted, and in this time he began to awaken in unexpected ways. Perhaps it was nothing more than nostalgia that could lead one to yearn for some imagined simplicity, a world shaped in childhood, and then reshaped by remembrance into something idyllic. It was, indeed, all too easy to forget the confusion of a child’s world, where what was known was minimal, and therefore seemed but a simple and possibly more truthful representation of reality. Sufficient to serve that child and so give comfort to the child’s mind. But nostalgia was a dubious foundation to something as vital as a culture’s system of justice. Grizzin had seen quickly the flaws in this nostalgic genesis, as it proved to be the core of the Forulkan court.

  Still young, he had revelled in the theme of vengeance within the Forulkan system. But before long his cynical regard saw too clearly the abuses, the subtle ways of undermining the very notion that the blade of justice hung over everyone. Instead, he saw how, among the privileged, escaping that shadow of retribution and responsibility had become a game. He had seen the evasions, the semantic twisting of truth, the deliberate obscuring of meaning, and the endless proclamations of innocence, each and all delivered with the same knowing glint in the eye.

  The lovers of his youth grew strained.

  One day, in the Great Court where sat the Seven Magistrates and the Seven Governors, and all the assemblies of guild and craft, and the commanders among the Deliverers, and the Company of Deliberators, Grizzin Farl had drawn his double-bladed axe, shaking it free of its blade-sheath.

  The wine flowed sweet on that day, in torrents upon the tiled floor, gushing round the artfully carved legs of the benches and pews. It splashed high against precious tapestries, and into the niches housing the marble busts of famous adjudicators and philosophers. The Great Court was transformed into a drunkard’s paradise.

  Rivers of wine, as red and deep as the throats slashed open, as the stumps of severed limbs, as flesh sliced away. Rage itself had recoiled from its lover’s sudden, inexplicable fury, as if in an instant a mirror had been thrown up between them, and rage saw itself truly for the first time. Whilst, behind the barrier, the cynic stalked the halls, wielding a dripping axe, and with a dry laugh announced a terrible freedom.

  The Azathanai who would years later become the Protector, Defender of Nothing, was born in the wake of that slaughter. He had stepped out from the Great Court as a child from a bloodied womb, painted in all the hues of justice, gasping at the shock of cold air as it swept in from shattered windows, with stained glass crunching under his feet and distant cries from the streets below.

  Play me with words, my friends, and see what comes of it. Mock my ideals, whisper of the fool before you, who came with such hopes. Behold this summoned tantrum, this child’s incandescence. Surely, by your wilful arts, your clever dismemberment of once lofty ideals, and by your own brand of cynicism, so filled with contempt, you gave birth to me, your new child, your Innocent. And should I bring flame to your world, be not surprised.

  I walk as a lover spurned.

  Until the moment of this vow, which I hold still. Never again will my heart arrive in innocence. Never again will I make the foolish loves of youth into a man’s ideal, and so suffer a longing for something that never was. Speak not to me of the balance of possessions, the imperatives of restitution, the lie of retribution and the hollow lust of vengeance.

  In this denial, I pose no imposition. Do what you will. Ashes await us all. This lover of the world has set aside his love, for now and for ever more. See me as your protector, but one who values nothing, who yields with this eternal smile, and leaves you to glory in everything but justice. For justice you do not own.

  When you brought down the hands of a god, I drenched them in mortal blood.

  Pray the god found the wine bitter.

  He had heard that in the decades since that time a cult had risen among the Forulkan, worshipping Grizzin Farl as a vengeful god. Indeed, as a god of justice. There would always be, he now understood, those for whom violence was righteous.

  Sudden motion before him made the Azathanai lift up his head, though it seemed to weigh too heavy for this world. He saw Lord Silchas, sinking down into a chair the Tiste had drawn close. The pallid face seemed thin as paper, the red eyes like ebbing coals. ‘Are you drunk,
Azathanai?’

  ‘Naught but memories, lord, to set a man’s mind afire.’

  ‘I imagine,’ said Silchas as he poured a tankard full from the pitcher on the table, ‘you have a surfeit of those. Memories.’

  Grizzin Farl leaned back, only now hearing the muddy noise of the tavern crowd surrounding them. ‘My humour is plucked on this night, lord,’ he said. ‘A flower’s bud, wingless and without colour.’

  ‘Then you suit my demeanour well enough, Azathanai. The historian, Rise Herat, is looking for you.’

  ‘To the past I have nothing to say.’

  ‘Then you should find him equitable company. He awaits you in your quarters, I believe.’

  Grizzin Farl studied the highborn. ‘There is a fever in this city.’

  ‘Kharkanas was never easy with winter,’ Silchas replied. ‘Even in the time before the darkness, the air would feel harsh, making our bones seem brittle. Alas,’ he added, pausing to drink, ‘I fared worse than most. I still do. Each winter I spend yearning for summer’s heat.’

  ‘Not all welcome the season of contemplation,’ Grizzin agreed.

  Silchas snorted. ‘Contemplation? It gives rise, as you say, to fevered thoughts.’ Then he shook his head. ‘Azathanai, there is more to it. I would shake loose my limbs, and take hold of sword or lance. A lightness to come to my steps. Pale I may be, but my soul is drenched in summer’s flame.’

  Grizzin glanced across, catching the blood-gleam in the warrior’s eyes. ‘It is said that Lord Urusander is expected to march before the thaw.’

  ‘Then I will raise my own heat, Azathanai.’ After a moment, in which he seemed to contemplate the prospect with avid anticipation, Silchas shrugged, as if dismissing the notion. ‘But I come here to you,’ he said, ‘with more purpose than just announcing the historian’s desire to speak to you. On this day I have witnessed sorcery, an unfurling of magical power. It seemed … unearned.’

  Grizzin Farl collected up the jug and refilled his tankard. ‘Unearned?’

  ‘Need I explain that? Power too easily come by.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Grizzin, ‘you are a highborn. Noble in title, within an aristocracy of privilege in which the premise of what is earned or unearned matters not. Chosen by birth is no choice at all. Yet your kind cleave the child, by rules unquestioned, to cast one into privilege and the other deprivation. This civil war of yours, Silchas Ruin, poses a challenge to all of that. And now … sorcery, at the hands of anyone, provided they apply discipline and a diligence in its mastery … why, I see Urusander’s cause bolstered, at the expense of your own.’

  Baring his teeth, Silchas said, ‘I am not blind to the imbalance! This magic will undermine us, perhaps fatally so. There is order in hierarchy, after all, and it is a necessary order, lest all fall into chaos.’

  ‘Agreed, chaos is most unwelcome,’ said Grizzin Farl. ‘Surely a new hierarchy will emerge, but by its own rules. You will see your old aristocracy shattered, sir. Will Lord Urusander take the magic into his own embrace, or simply seek out those adepts most likely to become masters? Will the new age see the rule of sorcerer kings and queens? If so, then any commoner can take the throne. Kurald Galain, my friend, totters upon a precipitous brink, yes?’

  ‘I still await words that comfort, Azathanai.’ Silchas drank from his tankard, and then, as a server arrived with a new pitcher, the lord reached across to drag it near. ‘You perturb the waters for your own amusement, I suspect.’

  Grizzin Farl let his gaze slide away from the warrior opposite him, out into the tavern’s sullen crowd, the layers of pipe- and woodsmoke. Conversations were rarely worth listening to, when people were in the habit of repeating themselves, as if by each utterance they sought a different response. Find a truth and make it into a chant. Find a falsehood and do the same. Assemble truths and lies and name it faith. Taverns and temples, see the libations flow, and all the sacrifices made. Here is a truth. Wherever mortals gather, ritual will rise, and in each place of ritual, habit and gesture invoke a hidden comfort. In these patterns, we would map our world.

  ‘You do not deny it, then?’

  Grizzin started, and then sighed. ‘My friend, forgive me for mocking your noble pretensions. I see them too clearly to do otherwise.’

  ‘Why do you call me friend? Why, more to the point, do I consider you the same?’

  ‘My words anger you, Silchas, and yet you indulge that anger for but a moment before you see through the red haze, and must accept the truth of what I say, no matter how bleak or uncomplimentary it proves. I do admire this in you, sir.’

  ‘When we converse, I feel the strain of my temper.’

  ‘It will not snap,’ Grizzin said.

  ‘If it did? You clearly do not fear it.’

  ‘I gave up on fear long ago.’

  At that, Silchas leaned forward, eyes narrow. ‘Now that is an admission! Tell me, pray, how you managed it?’

  A brief flash clouded Grizzin’s mind as he saw himself reflected in broken glass, staggering from a place of slaughter. ‘When we lash out,’ he said, ‘we do so from fear. Recall, if you will, your every breaking of temper, the shock of it once you have struck, once you have done damage. In a sane mind, the act makes one recoil, dousing the fires inside. And with it, the first fear dies, only to have a new one take its place – the fear of the consequences of your violence. Two arguments, but only one voice. Two causes, but only one response. When you at last understand this, my friend, then the voice that is fear grows most tiresome. It repeats itself and so proves its own stupidity, and if by its stupid words you are led into violence, a relinquishing of all control, then you can only be a fool. A fool,’ Grizzin Farl repeated, ‘gullible and not very bright. When you match the stupidity of your fear, you insult your own intelligence, and with it all belief in yourself.’

  Silchas was studying him. ‘Azathanai, you must understand, an entire people can be consumed by such fear.’

  ‘And so it lashes out, often against itself – against kin, against neighbour. Fear, in such a time, becomes a wild fever, burning all that it touches. And yes, it is utterly stupid.’

  ‘Imagine, Azathanai, that fear when given the power possible in magic. You invite a world in flames.’

  ‘Where you will, perhaps, thrive?’

  With a troubled expression now on his pale face, Silchas sat back once more. ‘You have swung me about, Azathanai, to winter’s worship. May the season never end.’

  ‘When will you summon the Hust Legion?’

  Silchas blinked, and then shrugged. ‘Soon, I think. It is absurd. We assemble a rabble armed with insane iron, to fling against the realm’s finest army.’

  ‘And the Houseblades of the Great Houses?’

  ‘I am surprised this interests you.’

  ‘The Houseblades do not, to be honest,’ admitted Grizzin Farl. ‘But I see something awaiting the Hust Legion – too vague to be certain. Only a sense of foreboding, as if a fate is taking shape, a future as yet unimaginable.’

  ‘They may well be cursed now,’ Silchas said. ‘A legion made into our realm’s madness. There is no glory to be found walking from graves, Grizzin Farl. Nor from mining pits, or freshly dug barrows. Whatever spirit Hust Henarald imbued into the iron from his forges, the murder of three thousand men and women now taints it. So, you wonder why I still hesitate in summoning such an army?’

  ‘The fate awaiting them is beyond you, Lord Silchas.’

  ‘Indeed? Then who will deliver it?’

  ‘I am poor at prophecy,’ Grizzin Farl said. ‘Still, though I see nothing but a blur, I hear a voice, and words spoken in the tone of command.’

  ‘But not mine.’

  ‘No. The voice I hear belongs to Anomander.’

  Silchas let out a sudden sigh. ‘Then he returns. Good. I am truly done with this. Tell me, Azathanai, are there any quicker paths to sorcery?’

  The question ran like ice through Grizzin Farl. He dropped his gaze to the tankard in his hands, seeing the
lurid play of lamplight upon the surface of the ale within. ‘None,’ he said, ‘you would welcome.’

  ‘I would hear them nonetheless.’

  Grizzin Farl shook his head, and rose. ‘I have kept the historian waiting too long. My friend, discount my last words. They were ill advised. The days ahead will prove desperate enough, I wager, without the lure of such recourse.’ Bowing to the lord, the Azathanai left the table.

  Protector of nothing, not this path, not any path. When next you find me, Silchas Ruin, I will of course yield to your demands, seeing in you the ambition which you will name necessity. The easier path is not one to welcome – I said as much – but in the slaying of fear, my warning will not stop you, will it?

  Draconus. Caladan Brood. Unknown sister T’riss. See what we begin here. The wolves are awake, and we drip words in a trail of blood.

  Let them find their own hunger, as they must.

  But oh, see what we begin here.

  Outside the tavern, in the street surrounded by the brittle city, the sky above looked strangely shattered, with dark and light and colours splaying out like shards, as if made of stained glass cast awry. Grizzin Farl studied it with watery eyes.

  Cynicism and rage, both drunk upon the other. It’s enough to make one feel young again.

  He set off for the Citadel. It was time to speak to the historian.

  * * *

  Orfantal halted in the doorway. He saw the historian, Rise Herat, seated in a chair that had been positioned near the hearth, which was only now flickering into life. The room was chilly, unlit except for the lapping flames rising around the wood.

  ‘He’s here,’ said the historian, gesturing to the floor beyond his boots. ‘Do come in, Orfantal. Ribs arrived in such a pant I believe you have worn the beast out.’

  Still clutching his wooden sword, Orfantal walked over. The dog lying before the hearthstone was fast asleep.

  ‘Too many battles for one day, Orfantal. He’s not as young as he once was.’