he had been walking, an automaton in the midst of his comrades, all of whom glowed dully and appeared to float in an ethereal void, with the one named Clip a few paces ahead, striding with a purpose none of them could emulate. Nimander would then comprehend that, once more, he had lost himself.
Rediscovering where he was elicited no satisfaction. Rediscovering who he was proved even worse. The young man named Nimander Golit was little more than an accretion of memories, numbed by a concatenation of remembered sensations – a beautiful woman dying in his arms. Another woman dying beneath his hands, her face turning dark, like a storm cloud that could not burst, her eyes bulging, and still his hands squeezed. A flailing body flung through the air, crashing through a window, vanishing into the rain.
Chains could spin for eternity, rings glittering with some kind of life. Worn boots could swing forward, one after another like the blades of a pair of shears. Promises could be uttered, acquiescence forced like a swollen hand pushing into a tight glove. All could stand wearing their certainty. Or feeling it drive them forward like a wind that knew where it was going. All could wish for warmth within that embrace.
But these were empty things, bobbing before his eyes like puppets on tangled strings. As soon as he reached out, seeking to untangle those strings, to make sense out of it all, they would swing away, for ever beyond his reach.
Skintick, who seemed ready with a smile for everything, walked at his side yet half a step ahead. Nimander could not see enough of his cousin's face to know how Skintick had greeted the darkness that had stretched ever before them, but as that impenetrable abyss faded, and from the way ahead emerged the boles of pine trees, his cousin turned with a smile decidedly wry.
'That wasn't so bad,' he murmured, making every word a lie and clearly delighting in his own mockery.
Damp air swirled round them now, cool in its caress, and Clip's steps had slowed. When he turned they could see the extent of his exhaustion. The rings spun once round on the chain in his hand, then snapped taut. 'We will camp here,' he said in a hoarse voice.
Some previous battle had left Clip's armour and clothes in tatters, with old bloodstains on the dark leather. So many wounds that, if delivered all at once, they should probably have killed him. Little of this had been visible that night on the street in Second Maiden Fort, when he had first summoned them.
Nimander and Skintick watched their kin settle down on the soft loam of the forest floor wherever they happened to be standing, blank-eyed and looking lost. Yes, 'explanations are ephemeral. They are the sword and shield of the attack, and behind them hides motivation. Explanations strive to find weakness, and from the exploitation of weakness comes compliance and the potential of absolute surrender.' So Andarist had written, long ago, in a treatise entitled Combat and Negotiation.
Skintick, his long jester's face faintly pinched with weariness, plucked at Nimander's sleeve, gestured with a nod of his head then set out to one side, threading between trees. After a moment, Nimander followed.
His cousin halted some thirty paces from the makeshift camp, where he settled on to his haunches.
Across from him, Nimander did the same.
The sun was beginning to rise, bleeding light into the gloom of this forest. With it came the faint smell of the sea.
'Herald of Mother Dark,' Skintick said quietly, as if measuring the worth of the words. 'Mortal Sword. Bold titles, Nimander. Why, I've thought of one for each of us too – not much else to occupy my time on that endless walk. Skintick, the Blind Jester of House Dark. Do you like it?'
'You're not blind.'
'I'm not?'
'What is it you wished to talk about?' Nimander asked.
'Not silly titles, I should think.'
'That depends. This Clip proudly asserts his own, after all.'
'You do not believe him?'
A half-smile. 'Cousin, there is very little I truly believe.
Beyond the oxymoronic fact that supposedly intelligent people seem to revel in being stupid. For this, I blame the chaotic tumult of emotions that devour reason as water devours snow.'
'"Emotions are the spawn of true motivations, whether those motivations be conscious or otherwise",' said Nimander.
'The man remembers what he reads. Making him decidedly dangerous, not to mention occasionally tedious.'
'What are we to discuss?' Nimander asked, in some exasperation.
'He can claim any title he wishes – we