‘But… not entirely on our own.’
‘The fun would pall,’ Quick Ben said, as if irritated with the objection. ‘Shadowthrone has to realize that. Who would he have left to play with? And with K’rul a corpse, sorcery will rot, grow septic-it will kill whoever dares use it.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Tavore with a certain remorselessness, ‘it is not Shadowthrone’s intent to reshape anything. Rather, to end it once and for all. To wipe the world clean.’
‘I doubt that. Kallor tried it and the lesson wasn’t lost on anyone-how could it be? Gods know, Kellanved then went and claimed that destroyed warren for the empire, so he couldn’t be blind…’ His words fell away, but Lostara saw how his thoughts suddenly raced down a new, treacherous track, destination unknown.
Yes, they claimed Kallor’s legacy. But… what does that signify?
No one spoke for a time. Blistig stood rooted-he had not moved from the moment the Adjunct began speaking, and what should have been a confused expression was nowhere to be seen on his rough features. Instead, he was closed up with a kind of obstinate belligerence, as if everything he had heard thus far wasn’t relevant, could not rattle the cage-for even as the cage imprisoned him within it, so it kept everything else at a safe distance.
Sinn sat perched on the oversized chair, glowering at the tabletop, pretending not to listen to anything being said here, but she was paler than usual.
Keneb leaned forward on his elbows, his hands against the sides of his face: the pose of a man wishing to be elsewhere.
‘It comes down to gates,’ Quick Ben muttered. ‘I don’t know how, or even why, but my gut tells me it comes down to gates. Kurald Emurlahn, Kurald Galain, Starvald Demelain-the old ones-and the Azath. No one has plumbed the secrets of the Houses as they have, not even Gothos. Windows on to the past, into the future, paths leading to places no mortal has ever visited. They have crawled up and down the skeleton of existence, eager as bone-grubs-’
‘Too many assumptions,’ Tavore said. ‘Rein yourself in, High Mage. Tell me, have you seen the face of our enemy to the east?’
The look he shot her was bleak, wretched. ‘Justice is a sweet notion. Too bad its practice ends up awash in innocent blood. Honest judgement is cruel, Adjunct, so very cruel. And what makes it a disaster is the way it spreads outward, swallowing everything in its path. Allow me to quote Imperial Historian Duiker: “The object of justice is to drain the world of colour.” ’
‘Some would see it that way-’