Amused and curious from where he sat with his back to a rail on the foredeck, Banaschar, the last Demidrek of the Worm of Autumn, continued watching. And was nevertheless caught entirely by surprise when the nachts swarmed over the side and a moment later there followed three distinct splashes.
He rose and went to the rail, looking down. Three vague heads bobbed on their way to the shore.
‘Almost time,’ he whispered.
Rautos Hivanar stared down at the crowded array of objects on the tabletop, trying once more to make sense of them.
He had rearranged them dozens of times, sensing that there was indeed a pattern, somewhere, and could he but place the objects in their proper position, he would finally understand.
The artifacts had been cleaned, the bronze polished and gleaming. He had assembled lists of characteristics, seeking a typology, groupings based on certain details-angles of curvature, weight, proximity of where they had been found, even the various depths at which they had been buried.
For they had indeed been buried. Not tossed away, not thrown into a pit. No, each one had been set down in a hole sculpted into the clays-he had managed to create moulds of those depressions, which had helped him establish each object’s cant and orientation.
The array before him now was positioned on the basis of spatial location, each set precisely in proper relation to the others-at least he believed so, based on his map. The only exception was with the second and third artifacts. The dig at that time-when the first three had been recovered-had not been methodical, and so the removal of the objects had destroyed any chance of precisely specifying their placement. And so it was two of these three that he now moved, again and again. Regarding the third one-the very first object found-he well knew where it belonged.
Meanwhile, outside the estate’s high, well-guarded walls, the city of Letheras descended into anarchy.
Muttering under his breath, Rautos Hivanar picked up that first artifact. Studied its now familiar right angle bend, feeling its sure weight in his hands, and wondering anew at the warmth of the metal. Had it grown hotter in the last few days? He wasn’t sure and had no real way of measuring such a thing.
Faint on the air in the room was the smell of smoke. Not woodsmoke, as might come from a hundred thousand cook-fires, but the more acrid reek of burnt cloth and varnished furniture, along with-so very subtle-the sweet tang of scorched human flesh.
He had sent his servants to their beds, irritated with their endless reports, the fear in their meek eyes. Was neither hungry nor thirsty, and it seemed a new clarity was taking hold of his vision, his mind. The most intriguing detail of all was that he had now found twelve full-scale counterparts throughout the city; and each of these corresponded perfectly with the layout before him-excepting the two, of course. So, what he had on this table was a miniature map, and this, he knew, was important.
Perhaps the most important detail of all.
If he only knew why.
Yes, the object was growing warmer. Was it the same with its much larger companion, there in the back yard of his new inn?
He rose. No matter how late it was, he needed to find out. Carefully replacing the artifact onto the tabletop map, matching the position of the inn, he then made his way to his wardrobe.
The sounds of rioting in the city beyond had moved away, back into the poorer districts to the north. Donning a heavy cloak and collecting his walking stick-one that saw little use under normal circumstances, but there was now the possible need for self-protection-Rautos Hivanar left the room. Made his way through the silent house. Then outside, turning left, to the outer wall.
The guards standing at the side postern gate saluted.
‘Any nearby trouble?’ Rautos asked.
‘Not of late, sir.’
‘I wish to go out.’
The guard hesitated, then said, ‘I will assemble an escort-’
‘No no. I intend to be circumspect.’
‘Sir-’
‘Open the door.’
The guard complied.
Passing through, he paused in the narrow avenue, listening to the guard lock the door behind him. The smell of smoke was stronger here, a haze forming haloes round those few lamps still lit atop their iron poles. Rubbish lined the gutters, a most unpleasant detail evincing just how far all order and civil conduct had descended. Failure to keep the streets clean was symbolic of a moribund culture, a culture that had, despite loud and public exhortations to the contrary, lost its sense of pride, and its belief in itself.
When had this happene,d? The Tiste Edur conquest? No, that defeat had been but a symptom. The promise of anarchy, of collapse, had been whispered long before then. But so soft was that whisper that none heard it. Ah, that is a lie. We were just unwilling to listen.