Will he rise again?
Can he answer this final challenge?
What sort of man is this? This white-maned Tiste Andii whose hands remain stained with a brother’s blood, a people’s vast loss?
Ah, but look closely. The core burns still, hot and pure, and it gathers unto it-self, bound by indomitable will. He will take the wounds of the heart, for Anoman-der Rake is the sort of man who sees no other choice, who accepts no other choice.
Still. For the moment, grant him a few more moments of peace.
The round man rides out into Darujhistan.
There are temptations, and to some they can prove, ah, overwhelming. If need be, the round man can prove a most blunt barrier.
Just ask the man with the hammer.
As a warrior walked alone-in his wake a Toblakai and a witch, on the flanks three, now four Hounds of Shadow-an ox and cart drew to a halt outside an estate. The two men leading it separated, one heading to the back of the cart to set a trembling hand upon a chest-terrified that he might find it still, silent-and a, moment later a faint sob broke free, but it was one of relief. The other man hurried up to the postern gate and tugged on a braided cord.
He ducked upon hearing the heavy flap of feathered wings overhead, and glared upward, but saw nothing but a thick, impenetrable layer of smoke. He twitched as he waited, muttering under his breath.
The door creaked open.
‘Master Baruk! I am glad it’s you and not one of your damned servants-getting past them is impossible. Listen, we have a hurt man-bad hurt-who needs healing. We’ll pay-’
‘Sergeant-’
‘Just Antsy these days, sir.’
‘Antsy, I am so sorry, but I must refuse you-’
At that, Barathol came round the cart and marched up, his hands curling into fists for a moment, before loosening as he reached towards the huge axe slung across his back. But these gestures were instinctive-he was not even aware of them, and when he spoke it was in a tone of despairing fury. ‘His skull is fractured! He’ll die without healing- and I will not accept that!’
Baruk held up both hands. ‘I was about to leave-I cannot delay any longer. Certain matters demand my immediate attention-’
‘He needs-’
‘I am sorry, Barathol.’
And the alchemist was backing through the gate once more. The panel clicked shut,
Antsy snatched and tugged at his moustache in agitation, and then reached out to restrain Barathol, who seemed about to kick down that door. ‘Hold on, hold on-I got another idea. It’s desperate, but I can’t think of anything else. Come on, it’s not far.’
Barathol was too distraught to say anything-he would grasp any hope, no matter how forlorn. Face ashen, he went back to the ox, and when Antsy set out, he and the ox and the cart bearing the body of Chaur followed.
In the stricken man’s mind, few sparks remained. The black tide was very nearly done. Those flickers that knew themselves as Chaur had each lost touch with the others, and so wandered lost. But then, some of them had known only solitary ex-istences throughout their lives-crucial sparks indeed-for ever blind to pathways that might have awakened countless possibilities.
Until one, drifting untethered, so strangely freed, now edged forward along a darkened path it had never before explored, and the track it burned remained vi-brant in its wake. And then, in a sudden flaring, that spark found another of its kind.
Something stirred then, there in the midst of an inner world fast dying.
Awareness.
Recognition.
A tumbling complexity of thoughts, connections, relationships, meanings.
Flashing, stunned with its own existence, even as the blackness closed in on all sides.
Cutting down an alley away from Baruk’s estate, Antsy, ten paces in the lead, stumbled suddenly on something. Swearing, he glanced back at the small object lying on the cobbles, and then bent down to collect it, stuffing the limp thing into his cloak.
He swore again, something about a stink, but what’s a dead nose gonna know or care? And then he resumed walking.
They arrived at an estate that Barathol recognized. Coil’s. And Antsy returned to help lead the suddenly uneasy ox down the side track, to that primordial thicket behind the garden wall. Beneath the branches the gloom was thick with flying moths, their wings a chorus of dry whispering. Fog crawled between the boles of twisted trees. The air was rich with a steamy, earthy smell.
Tears ran down Barathol’s cheeks, soaked his beard. ‘I told him to stay on the ship,’ he said in a tight, distraught voice. ‘He usually listens to me. He’s not one to disobey, not Chaur. Was it Spite? Did she force him out?’