the gold is your payment. For the power you seek.'
'I want nothing more of that power.'
'But you do,' the Crippled God said, clearly amused. 'Consider the rewards already reaped. The throne of the Tiste Edur, the woman after whom you lusted for years – now in your possession, to do with as you please. Your brothers, bowing one and all before you. And a burgeoning prowess with the sword—'
'It's not mine, though, is it? It is all I can do to hold on! The skill does not belong to me – and all can see that! I have earned nothing!'
'And what value is all that pride you seek, Rhulad Sengar? You mortals baffle me. It is a fool's curse, to measure oneself in endless dissatisfaction. It is not for me to guide you in the rule of your empire. That task belongs to you and you alone. There, make that your place of pride. Besides, has not your strength grown? You have muscles now surpassing your brother Fear's. Cease your whimpering, Edur.'
'You are using me!'
The Crippled God laughed. 'And Scabandari Bloodeye did not? Oh, I know the tale now. All of it. The seas whisper old truths, Rhulad Sengar. Revered Father Shadow, oh, such an absurd conceit. Murderer, knife-wielder, betrayer—'
'Lies!'
'—who then led you into your own betrayal. Of your once-allies, the Tiste Andii. You fell upon them at Scabandari's command. You killed those who had fought alongside you. That is the legacy of the Tiste Edur, Rhulad Sengar. Ask Hannan Mosag. He knows. Ask your brother, Fear. Your mother – the women know. Their memory has been far less ... selective.'
'No more of this,' the Edur pleaded, clawing at his face. 'You would poison me with dishonour. That is your purpose ... for all you say.'
'Perhaps what I offer,' the Crippled God murmured, 'is absolution. The opportunity to make amends. It is within you, Rhulad Sengar. The power is yours to shape as you will. The empire shall cast your reflection, no-one else's. Will you flee from that? If that is your choice, then indeed I shall be forced to choose another. One who will prove, perhaps, less honourable.'
The sword clattered at Rhulad's feet.
'Choose.'
Withal watched, saw the Edur's expression change.
With a scream, Rhulad snatched up the weapon and lunged—
—and was gone.
Rasping laughter. 'There is so little, Withal, that surprises me any more.'
Disgusted, the Meckros turned away.
'A moment, Withal. I see your weariness, your displeasure. What is it that plagues you so? That is what I ask myself.'
'The lad doesn't deserve it—'
'Oh, but he does. They all do.'
'Aye,' Withal said, eyes level as he stared at the Crippled God, 'that does seem to be the sole judgement you possess. But it's hardly clean, is it?'
'Careful. My gratitude for what you have done for me wears thin.'
'Gratitude?' Withal's laugh was harsh. 'You are thankful after compelling me into doing your bidding. That's a good one. May you be as generous of thought after I force you into killing me.' He studied the hooded figure. 'I see your problem, you know. I see it now, and curse myself for having missed it before. You have no realm to command, as do other gods. So you sit there, alone, in your tent, and that is the extent of your realm, isn't it? Broken flesh and foul, stifling air. Skin-thin walls and the heat the old and lame desire. Your world, and you alone in it, and the irony is, you cannot even command your own body.'
A wretched cough, then, 'Spare me your sympathy, Meckros. I have given the problem of you considerable thought, and have found a solution, as you shall soon discover. When you do, think on what you have said to me. Now, go.'
'You still don't understand, do you? The more pain you deliver to others, god, the more shall be visited upon you. You sow your own misery, and because of that whatever sympathy you might rightly receive is swept away.' 'I said go, Withal. Build yourself a nest. Mape's waiting.'
They emerged onto a windswept sward with the crashing waves of the sea on their right and before them the delta of a broad river. On the river's other side stood a walled city.
Seren Pedac studied the distant buildings, the tall, thin towers that seemed to lean seaward. 'Old Katter,' she said. 'We're thirty leagues south of Trate. How is that possible?'
'Warrens,' Corlo muttered, sagging until he sat on the ground. 'Rotted. Septic, but still, a warren.'
The Acquitor made her way