Deadhouse Landing

He watched the crowd of passengers making their way down the pier. None appeared in any way remarkable. As he watched, however, the figure of a woman seemed to single itself out of all the surrounding people, or rather it was as if all the people faded into insignificance next to the weight and power of her presence – all others became somehow indistinct. Ghostly, even.

He’d never have given her another look had not Agayla forewarned him. Wearing old travel-stained leathers, she appeared middle-aged, with plain unhandsome features and her hair short and mussed. A rural farmer’s wife, or rustic trader, one might imagine her. Yet while she brushed shoulders with her fellow passengers, who passed her without notice, to his senses she appeared to be a lodestone of power.

The woman came before them and halted, a small bag of gear at one shoulder. Her dark gaze was all on Agayla, and for once Nedurian did not resent the exclusion. ‘And you are?’ she asked.

‘Agayla.’

The woman’s gaze moved past them and she nodded a greeting. ‘Obo.’

Nedurian glanced behind, startled. There stood a short, gangly, pale old man, bald, with a liver-spotted pate and a wild ring of grey hair about his ears. This was the fierce and terrible Obo? He could’ve passed him on the bench this morning.

The fellow, Obo, sent him a glare, as if to say, What’re you looking at? Nedurian quickly turned back.

‘And what name are you travelling under now?’ Agayla went on.

‘Nightchill.’

‘And what are your intentions? We want no provocations. The Riders have been quiescent of late.’

The woman’s thin lips quirked as if at some hidden joke. ‘Just research,’ she said.

Agayla appeared to have regained her confidence as she was scowling now as usual. ‘I hope so. You understand we’ll be keeping an eye on you while you’re here.’

‘Of course.’ The woman tilted her head in farewell and walked on.

Agayla turned to Obo. ‘What could bring her here?’ she hissed, sotto voce.

The fierce and terrible Obo shrugged his bony scarecrow shoulders. ‘Don’t know.’

‘There’s a fellow messing with Meanas here,’ Nedurian offered.

Obo gave him a scornful appraisal up and down. ‘And who’n the Abyss are you?’

*   *   *

Once he’d made up his mind, it took Dassem three nights of silent vigil at the altar before he mustered the necessary resolve and firmness of mind to clear his throat and speak. It was one of the most difficult decisions of his life to date, and in making it he felt that he’d betrayed everything he had come to believe about himself, and the world about him. Yet the girl was weakening daily; and his equivocation was solving nothing.

‘My lord,’ he began, sitting cross-legged, head bowed, his voice weak and hoarse, ‘it pains me beyond all endurance to say this … but I must ask a boon.’

A long silence in the darkness answered his words. The night seemed to have swallowed them. The air about him turned very cold indeed. Then, a stirring, and a presence, one sour with disapproval, and even a tinge of frustration.

‘Dassem Ultor,’ came the faint breath. ‘You too. And to think I had such great hopes for you.’

‘Please, master. She is an innocent.’

Frustration verging into exasperation. ‘You know that is irrelevant.’

Dassem bowed even further. ‘Yes. I’m sorry. It just slipped out.’

‘Then there is nothing more to discuss.’

He straightened, slightly. ‘Unfortunately – there is.’

The skull on the ancient corpse atop the sarcophagus shifted, turning his way. ‘Oh?’

Dassem straightened his back. ‘Take me.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘In her stead. Accept me. A life for a life.’

The skull turned away. ‘I make no deals.’

‘Then you have no Sword. I set it aside from here on.’

A dark laugh answered him. ‘You would not dare.’

He was on his feet in an instant. ‘It is done. In all these years I have made no requests, asked for nothing. Yet now that I ask for one boon you refuse me like a beggar at the door.’

The desiccated corpse edged itself up into a sitting position. ‘You mortals are all beggars before my door.’

Dassem was nodding to himself. ‘I know this. And so I go as a beggar.’

The skeleton hissed in a dry laugh, ‘A rather arrogant beggar – you are nothing without your precious title.’

Dassem turned his back. ‘We are done.’ He threw a few personal items into a shoulder bag, plus two bags of coins – offerings to Hood – then, kneeling, he scooped up the girl in his arms, blankets and all. He headed for the entrance. She nestled against his chest like a hot coal.

‘And where will you go?’ came a thin shout.

He turned. ‘The temple of the Enchantress. Perhaps she will honour my service.’

Sinew creaked as a withered hand gripped the edge of the sarcophagus. ‘Very well. Perhaps there is something…’

He turned at the entrance. ‘Yes?’

‘She is dying, and, as I have made clear, there is nothing I can ever do about that. Yet there is one possibility…’

‘Yes?’

‘There are places where she could be taken. Where she may be laid to await a cure. Places where time passes … differently.’

‘And the nearest?’