Fall of Light (49 page)

Upon her left, Sorca was refilling her pipe. The rustleaf was mixed with something, perhaps sage, that made for a pungent but not unpleasant scent.

Sandalath noted, across from them, Surgeon Prok eyeing the woman. ‘Sweet Sorca,’ he said, ‘it is held by some of my profession that rustleaf is an inimical habit.’

For a time it did not seem that Sorca thought the comment worthy of a response, but then she stirred slightly, reaching out to collect her tankard. ‘Surgeon Prok,’ she said, her voice so quiet as to make the man opposite her lean closer to hear, ‘it is a scribe’s fate to end the day with a blackened tongue.’

Prok tilted his head to regard her, with a loose smile upon his features. ‘Often noted, yes.’

‘Is ink inimical?’

‘Drink down a bottle and you will surely die.’

‘Just so,’ she replied.

They waited, until Prok’s smile broadened. He leaned back. ‘Let us imagine, if you will indulge me, that future where healing is at hand for all things, or, to be more accurate, most things, for as Lady Sandalath noted earlier, death remains hungry and none can halt its feeding, but merely delay it for a time. Why, amidst such curative boon, should we not expect a society at ease with itself?’ He tipped his tankard towards Sorca. ‘She thinks not.’

‘I heard no such opinion from our keeper of records,’ Yalad said.

‘You didn’t? Then allow me to make it plain. Are we to live our lives in constant fear – present circumstances notwithstanding? Are we to flinch from all that we might touch, or ingest? From that cloud we must pass through should we cross, say, Sorca’s wake down a corridor? Or, in her instance, the ink with which she plies her trade? To what extent, one wonders, does equanimity confer health and well-being? A soul at ease with itself is surely healthier than one stressed with worry and dread. What of the overly judgemental among us? What ill humours are secreted internally by embittered comparisons of moral standing? What poisons attend to self-righteousness?’

‘Perhaps,’ ventured Yalad, ‘with sorcery making redundant the need for gods – with all their necessary configurations of sin and judgement – we will indeed turn to the mundane truths – or seeming truths – of health and well-being, upon which one might rest such notions as justice, blame and righteous punishment. In a way, is it not a simpler way of thinking?’

Prok stared at Yalad with undisguised delight. ‘Gate sergeant, I applaud you. After all, the mind of a god and the manner in which it assays judgement and punishment is by nature beyond our understanding, and in such a wayward world as ours, why yes, that surely serves as perversely comforting. But in contrast, as you say, we in a godless world are invited to judge one another, and by harsh rules indeed. Cast down your judgement! And if Sorca does not kneel to your reasoned distemper, why, pronounce banishment, and by this wetted cloth wash thy hands of her!’

‘In such a world,’ murmured Yalad, ‘I see the powers of healing withheld from those deemed undeserving.’

Prok’s eyes were suddenly keen. ‘Just so. The future, my friend, offers no respite for the unwell, the impure, the flawed and the peculiar. By its habits a society may well be judged, but more sure our assessment, I wager, when we judge its treatment of the habituated and the wilfully non-conforming.’ The surgeon refilled his tankard. ‘You are witness to my vow, then, by what powers Denul invests in me, and by what skills and learning I may possess, that I will heal without judgement. Until my dying day.’

‘Bless you,’ said Sorca, behind a cloud of smoke.

Nodding in acknowledgement, Prok continued. ‘On the field of battle, the surgeon has no regard for the allegiance of the soldier in dire need. It is, in fact, a point of pride among my ilk to dismiss the political world and its ambitions, and seek to heal all who can be healed, and, failing that, to mourn only the tragedy of the argument’s harvest. Few, after all, would appreciate a surgeon’s history of the world, wherein each successive chapter recounts ever the same litany of broken bodies and shallow triumphs.’ He waved dismissively, and then added, ‘But history teaches us nothing new. And should I choose to look ahead, to what is yet to come, why, I see a future made most toxic, born on the day society sets the value of wealth above that of lives.’

Sandalath started. ‘Surely, surgeon, that could never come to pass!’

‘Cruel judgement – the poor deserve to be poor, and in the failing of their spirit, why, illness is only just. Besides, who would want to invite a burgeoning of these un-worthies, who in their poverty fall to endless breeding? As for the misfits, so stubborn in their refusal to conform, let them suffer the consequences of their own misdeeds!’

‘If that awaits us,’ Sandalath said, ‘I’d rather be quit of it than witness such corruption. What you describe, surgeon, is simply horrible.’

‘Yes, it is. While I am content for payment of my services little more than the meeting of my needs, I do fear a time when we measure all services against a stack of coins.’

‘Prok,’ interjected Ivis, ‘do you know the tale of the Lord of Hate?’

The surgeon simply smiled. ‘Commander, tell us, please, for can we not but wonder at the naming of such a lord?’

‘I have it from Lord Draconus himself,’ Ivis began. ‘Told to me when we were on campaign. There was a Jaghut, named Gothos. Cursed with preternatural intelligence and a relentless nature, his eye was too sharp, his wit too keen. In this, Prok, he was perhaps much like you.’

The surgeon smiled and raised his tankard in salute.

Ivis eyed Prok with an expression of faint distaste. After a moment, he continued. ‘Gothos began an argument, and found himself unable to halt his pursuit of it. He spiralled down, and down. Was he seeking truth? Or did he desire something else? A gift of hope, or even redemption? Did he dream of finding, at the very end, a world unfolding with the natural beauty of a rose?’

‘What was the argument?’ Sandalath asked.

Ivis nodded. ‘In a moment, milady. For now, let us examine a more common need, perhaps even a counter-argument, and that is one of balance. In the act of observing, should one not seek its measure, if only to ease the soul? The good with the bad, the glorious with the craven? If only to even the weights upon each scale?’

Prok spoke in a heavy tone. ‘The weights, Ivis, are not equal.’

‘Gothos would agree with you, surgeon. Civilization is a war against injustice. In its steps it might stutter on occasion, or even at times bow to exhaustion, but it holds nevertheless to a certain purpose, and that is, most simply put, a desire to defend the helpless against those who would prey upon them. Rules breed more rules, laws abound. Comfort and safety, lives lived out in peace.’

Prok grunted and Ivis responded with a pointed finger, silencing him. The commander then resumed. ‘Complexity grows ever more complex, but there is a belief that civilization is a natural force, and, by extension, that justice itself is a natural force.’ He paused, and then half smiled, as if at a memory. ‘My lord Draconus was most explicit on this point. That night, he argued as if defending himself, so stern was his regard.’ Then he shook his head. ‘But at some point, civilization forgot its primary purpose: that of protection. The rules and laws twisted round to fashion constraints to dignity, to equality and liberty, and then to the primal needs of security and comfort. The task of living was hard, but civilization was intended to make the task easier, and in many ways it did – and does. But at what cost?’

‘Forgive me, commander,’ said Prok, ‘but you return us to the notion of dignity, yes?’

‘What value this “civilization”, surgeon, if it dispenses with the virtue of being
civil?’

Prok grunted. ‘There is nothing more savage than a savage civilization. No single man or woman, no band or tribe, could ever aspire to what a civilization is capable of committing, not just upon its enemies, but upon its own people.’

Ivis nodded. ‘Gothos plunged to the nadir and found those very truths in that dreadful place. How was it possible, he wondered, that justice made for an unjust world? How was it possible that love could breed such hatred? The weights, he saw, were as you said, Prok. No match to the other, not by any conceivable measure. We look to humanity in the face of inhumanity, our only armour frail hope, and how often – in a civilized setting or a barbaric one – does hope fail in protecting the helpless?’

‘The pits are filled with corpses,’ Prok muttered, reaching again for the wine, though it had long since gone cold. ‘Prisoners put to the sword, a conquered city put to the torch, and those who are to die are made to dig their own graves. ’Tis an orderly thing.’

Ivis was studying the surgeon. ‘You attended the sacking of Asatyl, in the far south, didn’t you?’

Prok would meet no one’s eye. ‘I walked away from the Legion on that day, commander.’

There was a long silence that was, perhaps, not as long as it felt for Sandalath, who had seen something pass between Ivis and Prok. She did not know the name of Asatyl, nor the event of its conquest, but the surgeon’s response left her chilled.

Ivis slowly pushed his own tankard away, the gesture strangely deliberate. ‘Gothos walked into the heart of his city, to where the Jaghut who ruled collectively were all gathered. Among them, to be sure, there were great minds, and many who still held to the ideal of civilization. But then Gothos ascended the central speaker’s dais. He began his oration, and when, at last, he was done, he was met with silence. On that day, the Jaghut civilization ended. And in the days that followed, Gothos was named the Lord of Hate.’

‘Then well named,’ commented Yalad.

But Ivis shook his head. ‘Clearly you misunderstand, gate sergeant. The hate was for the truth of Gothos’s words. The title was most bitter, but held no spite for Gothos himself. And even then, Lord Draconus was adamant in insisting that even for Gothos there was no hatred of civilization. It was, instead, a recognition of its doom – the inevitable loss of its original purpose.’

‘“Name it a prison / if only to see the bars,”’ quoted Prok.

Sorca cleared her throat and said, ‘“Then name each bar / and gather them round.”’

‘“In the name of friendship,”’ Prok finished, now meeting Sorca’s gaze.

‘Civilization will grow until it dies,’ Ivis said. ‘Even without purpose, or corrupted from the same, still it grows. And from its burgeoning complexity, Chaos is born, and in Chaos lies the seed of its own destruction.’ He shifted, as if suddenly embarrassed, and then said, ‘So Lord Draconus concluded. Then we stood, to walk the rows of tents, and gaze into the north, the sky of which glowed from the fires of the Jhelarkan horde.’

Shivering, Sandalath rose. ‘It is past late,’ she said apologetically. ‘I am afraid my mind has grown too weary to wrestle with such nuances as this conversation yields.’

Yalad rose and bowed to her. ‘Milady, I will escort you to your room, and check on the guards stationed there.’

‘Thank you, gate sergeant.’

As the others rose to bow to her, Sandalath caught the eyes of Ivis, and saw in them – unaccountably it seemed – nothing but pain. Dismayed, she left the chamber with Yalad at her side. He’d begun talking, but she barely heard a word.

You loved her that much? It is hopeless, then.

She thought of the bed awaiting her, and the dreams she would seek on this night.
I’ll have you find me there, commander. And must take some comfort in that.

Outside, the wind moaned like some beast pinned under stone.

  *   *   *

As the forest opened out, revealing rough hills pocked with the caves of old mine shafts, Wreneck saw two ravens by the side of the track, picking at the carcass of a third one. Their heads tilted round to fix gazes on the new arrivals, and one voiced a screeching caw.

Caladan Brood made a gesture. ‘We are invited to an unholy feast,’ he said.

‘The burning of the forests has left many creatures to starve,’ Lord Anomander replied.

‘Shall we stay the night at Dracons Keep, First Son?’

‘Perhaps. In my few visits, as the lord’s guest, I found it amenable enough … with the exception of the three daughters. Beware meeting their eyes, Caladan. Engage in the regard of a snake and you will find a warmer welcome.’

Caladan Brood glanced back at Wreneck, who trailed behind, already exhausted although barely half the day was done. ‘Children seek their own. Is this a wise choice?’ Then, to Wreneck, he said, ‘Not much further. We are almost there.’

‘They keep to themselves, I recall, holding in contempt even their half-brother, Arathan. In any case, I will be placing Wreneck in the care of Sandalath. And Ivis is a man I would trust with my life.’

‘I have never seen that before,’ Wreneck said as they walked, leaving behind the ravens. ‘Eating their own, I mean.’

‘Nor I,’ the Azathanai replied. ‘They are inclined to grief when one of their kin dies. There is something unpleasant in this air, and its power grows the nearer we get to Dracons Keep. It is possible,’ he continued, but now to Anomander, ‘that something has afflicted our destination.’

The First Son shrugged. ‘All your talk of sorcery reaches me as would words of a storm whose wind I cannot feel, nor hear. What you name mystery I receive with ignorance. You could well be speaking another language.’

‘And yet, First Son, you witnessed its work, when I first came among you, to set the hearthstone for your brother. And on that day, we made vows that bound together our souls.’

‘Ah, I wondered when the chains between us would begin to chafe you, Azathanai.’

‘I feel no strain, I assure you, Anomander Rake. But this journey, in search of Andarist, well, to my sense of things, I see a circle closing. But only for me. If I am to speak here as your shadow, I say we have strayed far from the necessary path.’

‘You counsel my hasty return to Kharkanas.’

‘If Kharkanas will sharpen your focus, First Son, upon your realm’s most pressing needs, then yes.’

Lord Anomander halted and turned to Caladan. ‘She has turned from me, the one she would call her First Son. She has made darkness her wall, her unrelieved keep. Where, then, is
her
focus? Upon her children? Evidently not. Let her indulge as she will in her lover’s arms – I will not step between them. But when she dares ask me to bring this conflict to an end, yet refuses the call to arms, what is a warrior to do with that charge?’ He swung round, resumed marching. ‘For now, I will serve my own needs, if only to match her reflection.’