'We'll need a different warren for this,' the wizard finally said. 'The choice is this: Hood's own, or Aral Gamelon-'
'Aral what? I've never heard-'
'Demonic. Most conjurors who summon demons are opening a path to Gamelon — though they probably don't know it, not by its true name, anyway. Granted, one can find demons in other warrens — the Aptorians of Shadow, for example. But the Korvalahrai and the Galayn, the Empire's favoured, are both of Gamelon. Anyway, if my instincts are accurate, there's both kinds of necromancy present in that estate — you did say there were two of them, didn't you?'
'Aye, and two kinds of madness.'
'Sounds interesting.'
'This is a whim! Have you learned nothing from your multiple souls, Wizard? Whims are deadly. Do something for no reason but curiosity and it closes like a wolf's jaws on your throat. And even if you manage to escape, it haunts you. For ever.'
'You talk too much, Sticksnare. I've made my decision. Time to move.' He folded the warren of Rashan about himself, then stepped forward.
'Ashes in the urn!' Talamandas hissed.
'Aye, Hood's own. Comforted by the familiarity? It's the safer choice, since Hood himself has blessed you, right?'
'I am not comforted.'
That wasn't too surprising, as Quick Ben studied the transformation around him. Death ran riot in this city. Souls crowded the streets, trapped in cycles of their own last moments of life. The air was filled with shrieks, wailing, the chop of weapons, the crushing collapse of stone and the suffocating smoke. Layered beneath this were countless other deaths — those that were set down, like successive snowfalls, on any place where humans gathered. Generation upon generation.
Yet, Quick Ben slowly realized, this conflagration was naught but echoes, the souls themselves ghostly. 'Gods below,' he murmured in sudden understanding. 'This is but memory — what the stones of the streets and buildings hold, memories of the air itself. The souls — they've all gone through Hood's Gate …'
Talamandas was motionless on his shoulder. 'You speak true, Wizard,' he muttered. 'What has happened here? Who has taken all these dead?'
'Taken, aye, under wing. They've been blessed, one and all, their pain ended. Is this the work of the Mask Council?'