‘The answer lies upon your very flesh, sire.’
Rhulad glanced down. His fingernails had grown long, curved and yellow. He tapped a coin on his chest. ‘Bring to an end… the notion of wealth. Of money. Crush the illusion of value.’
Udinaas was stunned. He may be young and half mad, but Rhulad is no fool .
‘Ah,’ the emperor said, ‘We see your… astonishment. We have, it seems, been underestimated, even by our slave. But yours is no dull mind, Udinaas. We thank the Sisters that you are not King Ezgara Diskanar, for then we would be sorely challenged.’
‘Ezgara may be benign, sire, but he has dangerous people around him.’
‘Yes, this Ceda, Kuru Qan. Why has he not yet acted?’
Udinaas shook his head. ‘I have been wondering the same, sire.’
‘We will speak more, Udinaas. And none other shall know of this. After all, what would they think, an emperor and a slave together, working to fashion a new empire? For we must keep you a slave, mustn’t we? A slave in the eyes of all others. We suspect that, were we to free you, you would leave us.’
A sudden tremble at these words.
Errant take me, this man needs a friend . ‘Sire, I would not leave. It was I who placed the coins in your flesh. There is no absolving that, no true way I could make amends. But I will stand by you, through all of this.’
Rhulad’s terrible eyes, so crimson-bruised and hurt, shifted away from Udinaas. ‘Do you understand, Udinaas?’ he asked in a whisper. ‘I am so…’
Frightened . ‘Yes, sire, I understand.’
The emperor placed a hand over his eyes. ‘She is drowning herself in white nectar.’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘I would free her… but I cannot. Do you know why, Udinaas?’
‘She carries your child.’
‘You must have poison blood, Udinaas, to know so much…’
‘Sire, it might be worth considering sending for Uruth. For your mother. Mayen needs… someone.’
Rhulad, face still covered by his mangled hand, nodded. ‘We will join with Fear’s army soon. Five, six days. Uruth will join them. Then… yes, I will speak with Mother. My child…’
My child. No, it is impossible. A Meckros foundling. There is no point in thinking about him. None at all.
I am not an evil man… yet I have just vowed to stand at his side. Errant take me, what have I done?
A farm was burning in the valley below, but she could see no-one fighting the flames. Everyone had fled. Seren Pedac resumed hacking at her hair, cutting it as short as she could manage with the docker’s knife one of Iron Bars’s soldiers had given her.
The Avowed stood nearby, his squad mage, Corlo, at his side. They were studying the distant fire and speaking in low tones.
Somewhere south and east of Dresh, half a day from the coast. She could not imagine the Tiste Edur invaders were anywhere near, yet the roads had been full of refugees, all heading east to Letheras. She had seen more than a few deserters among the crowds, and here and there bodies lay in ditches, victims of robbery or murdered after being raped.
Rape, it seemed, had become a favoured pastime among the thugs preying on the fleeing citizens. Seren knew that, had she been travelling alone, she would probably be dead by now. In some ways, that would have been a relief. An end to this sullied misery, this agonizing feeling of being unclean. In her mind, she saw again and again Iron Bars killing those men. His desire to exact appropriate vengeance. And her voice, croaking out, stopping him in the name of mercy.
Errant knew, she regretted that now. Better had she let him work on that bastard. Better still were they still carrying him with them. Eyes gouged out, nose cut off, tongue carved from his mouth. And with this knife in her hand she could slice strips of skin from his flesh. She had heard a story once, of a factor in a small remote hamlet who had made a habit of raping young girls, until the women one night ambushed him. Beaten and trussed, then a loincloth filled with spike-thorns had been tied on like a diaper, tightly, and the man was bound to the back of his horse. The pricking thorns drove the animal into a frenzy. The beast eventually scraped the man loose on a forest path, but he had bled out by then. The story went that the man’s face, in death, had held all the pain a mortal could suffer, and as for what had been found between his legs…
She sawed off the last length of greasy hair and dropped it on the fire. The stench was fierce, but there were bush-warlocks and decrepit shamans who, if they happened upon human hair, would make dire use of it. It was a sad truth that, given the chance to bind a soul, few resisted the temptation.