Pushing, pushing away all that pain'How? How did you do that?' he demanded.
'Are you blind, Mappo Runt?' she asked. 'Look – look at them, Trell.
Chaur, his fear is gone, now. He believes Barathol, he believes him.
Utterly, without question. You cannot be blind to this, to what it means.
'You are looking upon joy, Mappo Runt. In the face of this, I will not obsess on my own pain, my own suffering, do you understand? I will not.'
Ah, spirits below, you break my heart, woman. He looked back at the two men, then across to where Scillara held Crokus in her arms, stroking the man's hair as he came round. Broken, by all this. Again.
I had… forgotten.
Iskaral Pust was dancing round Mogora, who watched him with a sour expression, her face contracting until it resembled a dried-up prune.
Then, in a moment when the High Priest drew too close, she lashed out with a kick that swept his feet out from beneath him. He thumped hard onto the deck, then began swearing. 'Despicable woman! Woman, did I say woman? Hah! You're what a shedding snake leaves behind! A sickly snake! With scabs and pustules and weals and bunions-'
'I heard you lusting after me, you disgusting creep!'
'I tried to, you mean! In desperation, but even imminent death was not enough! Do you understand? Not enough!'
Mogora advanced on him.
Iskaral Pust squealed, then slithered his way beneath the mule. 'Come any closer, hag, and my servant will kick you! Do you know how many fools die each year from a mule kick? You'd be surprised.'
The Dal Honese witch hissed at him, then promptly collapsed into a swarm of spiders – that raced everywhere, and moments later not one remained in sight.
The High Priest, his eyes wide, looked about frantically, then began scratching beneath his clothes. 'Oh! You awful creature!'
Mappo's bemused attention was drawn away by Crokus, who had moved towards Barathol and Chaur.
'Barathol,' the Daru said. 'There was no chance?'
The man looked over, then shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Cutter. But, he saved Chaur's life. Even dead, he saved Chaur.'
'What do you mean?'
'The body was glowing,' Barathol said. 'Bright green. It's how I saw them. Chaur was snagged in the bolt cloth – I had to cut him free. I could not carry both of them to the surface – I barely made it-'
'It's all right,' Crokus said.
'He sank, down and down, and the glow ebbed. The darkness swallowed him. But listen, you got him close enough – do you understand? Not all the way, but close enough. Whatever happened, whatever saved us all, it came from him.'
Mappo spoke: 'Crokus – it is Cutter, now, yes? Cutter, who are you speaking about? Did someone else drown?'
'No, Mappo. I mean, not really. A friend, he died – I, well, I was trying to take his body to the island – it's where he wanted to go, you see. To give something back.'
Something. 'I believe your friend here is right, then,' the Trell said. 'You brought him close enough. To make a difference, to do what even death could not prevent him doing.'
'He was named Heboric Ghost Hands.'
'I will remember that name, then,' Mappo said. 'With gratitude.'
'You… you look different.' Cutter was frowning. 'Those tattoos.'
Then his eyes widened, and he asked what Mappo feared he would ask. '
Where? Where is he?'
Doors within the Trell that had cracked open suddenly slammed shut once more. He looked away. 'I lost him.'
'You lost him?'
'Gone.' Yes, I failed him. I failed us all. He could not look at the Daru. He could not bear it. My shame…
'Oh, Mappo, I am sorry.'
You are… what?
A hand settled on his shoulder, and that was too much. He could feel the tears, the grief flooding his eyes, running down. He flinched away. 'My fault… my fault…'
Spite stood watching for a moment longer. Mappo, the Trell. Who walked with Icarium. Ah, he now blames himself. I understand. My… that is… unfortunate. But such was our intent, after all. And, there is the chance – the one chance I most cherish. Icarium, he may well encounter my sister, before all of this is done. Yes, that would be sweet, delicious, a taste I could savour for a long, long time. Are you close enough, Envy, to sense my thoughts? My… desire? I hope so.
But no, this was not the time for such notions, alluring as they were.
Aching still with wounds, she turned and studied the wild, roiling clouds above Otataral Island. Blooms of colour, as if flames ravaged the land, tongues of fire flickering up those gargantuan jade arms, spinning from the fingers. Above the seething dome, night was dimming the penumbra of dust and smoke, where slashes of falling matter still cut through every now and then.