those hidden pathways. And in so doing, he would doom this creature to eternity here. This child, this mason.
And that I cannot do. I am not like Gothos. I am not that cruel.
He heard laughter in his head. Phaed, shrieking with laughter. Then she said, 'Don't be an idiot. Take the way out. Leave this fool to his building blocks! He's pathetic!'
'I will set the last stone,' Nimander said. 'Just make sure it's small enough for me to lift and push into place.' And he looked up, and he saw that the giant was smiling, and no, it no longer looked like a child, and in its eyes something shone and its light flowed down, bathed Nimander.
'I am different,' the Elder said in a deep, warm voice, 'when I build.'
'Get him out,' Desra said.
'I cannot.'
'Why?'
The Jaghut blinked like a lizard. 'I don't know how. The gate is Omtose Phellack, but the realm beyond is something else, something I want nothing to do with.'
'But you made this gate – and gates open from both sides.'
'I doubt he could ever find it,' the Jaghut said. 'Even assuming anyone lets him get close.'
'Anyone? Who's in there with him?'
'A few million miserable wretches.'
Desra glared at Skintick. 'How could you let this happen?'
He was weeping and could only shake his head.
'Do not blame this one,' the Jaghut said. 'Do not blame anyone. Accidents happen.'
'You drugged us,' Skintick suddenly accused him, his voice harsh with grief.
'Alas, I did. And I had my reasons for doing so . . . which seem to have failed. Therefore I must be more . . . direct, and oh how I dislike being direct. When next you see Anomander, tell him this from me: he chose wisely. Each time, he chose wisely. Tell him, then, that of all whom I ever met, there is but one who has earned my respect, and he is that one.'
A sudden sob from Skintick.
Desra felt strangely shaken by the Jaghut's words.
'And,' the Jaghut then added, 'for you. Do not trust Kallor.'
Feeling helpless, useless, she stepped closer to the wall of ice, squinted into its dark depths.
'Careful, woman. That blood pulls hard on you Tiste.'
And yes, she could feel that, but it was nothing to trust, nothing to even pay attention to – it was the lie she had always known, the lie of something better just ahead, of all the questions answered, just ahead. Another step, one more. One more. Time's dialogue with the living, and time was a deceitful creature, a liar. Time promised everything and delivered nothing.
She stared into the darkness, and thought she saw movement, deep, deep within.
'No Jaghut is to be trusted,' Kallor said, glaring at the lowering sun. 'Especially not Gothos.'
Aranatha studied the ancient warrior with an unwavering gaze, and though he would not meet her sister's eyes, it was clear to Kedeviss that Kallor felt himself under siege. A woman's attention, devastating barrage of inexorable calculation – even a warrior flinched back.
But these were momentary distractions, she knew. Something had happened. Desra had rushed into the ruin and not returned. Nenanda stood fidgeting, eyes on the crumbled edifice.
'Some gods are born to suffer,' Kallor said. 'You'd be better off heading straight to Coral. Unleash Anomander Rake against that Dying God, if getting this Clip back is so important to you. At the very least you'll have your vengeance.'
'And is vengeance so important?' Kedeviss asked.
'Often it's all there is,' Kallor replied, still squinting westward.
'Is that why they're after you?'
He turned, studied her. 'And who would be after me?'
'Someone. That much seems obvious. Am I wrong?'
Aranatha spoke from the wagon, 'You are not, sister. But then, he has always been hunted. You can see it in his eyes.'
'Be glad that you remain marginally useful to me,' Kallor said, turning away once more.
Kedeviss saw Nenanda glaring at the warrior's back.
How much time had passed? Days, perhaps weeks. Nimander stood, watching the mason build his tower. Shaping stone with fists, with round hammerstones found somewhere, with leather-wrapped wooden mallets to edge the pumice facing he had decided to add to 'lighten the walls'.
To accommodate the giant, the tower needed to be huge, four storeys or more to the ceiling. 'Made with the blood of dragons, the glass of what flowed, the pumice of what foamed with dying breaths. A tower, yes, but also a monument, a grave marker. What will come of this? I know not. You were clever, Nimander, with this idea. Too clever to stay here. You must leave, when