They studied it some more.
‘The worship of stone,’ said Errastas, ‘is a plea to longevity, but that’s a secret stone never yields.’
Sechul Lath continued pulling rocks from the rubble, swearing as his fingers brushed the occasional stone that was still blistering hot. Steaming earth sifted down as the mound continued to settle. The air was rank with a smell he could not identify, but which he imagined to be outrage.
Nearby, Errastas crouched at a heap of broken slate tiles, rummaging through them and setting aside certain ones, arranging even stacks as if counting coins. ‘They claim,’ he went on, ‘that the buildings simply grew from the ground. At first they were little more than piles of rock, but still they rose from the earth, and soon new ones found the shape of hovels. Here and there, a wall or line. Others made circles. And then, as if all these pathetic efforts somehow merged and found each other, houses were born. Well, not just houses as we now know. But towers to match those of the Jaghut. And others that bore the semblance of wood, as you might imagine a Tiste would make. While yet others took to earth itself, in Thel Akai fashion, or hides like the huts of the Dog-Runners.’
Sechul adjusted his grip on a particularly large boulder and pulled on it. It came away with a grinding lurch. He rolled it to one side and studied the hole where the stone had been. And then twisted round to look at his companion.
‘But this is the struggle towards order,’ Errastas continued, frowning at a shattered tile. ‘The imperative of organization, which is both laudable and pathetic. We have all resisted dissolution, in our own ways, and thus make of our lives bold assertions to purpose and meaning.’ He flung the tile away, and then picked up another one. ‘This pose we insist upon, Setch, is substance constructed as argument. Our flesh, our blood, our bone, our selves. I for one am not impressed.’
Sechul returned to the mound of rubble. He tugged loose rocks and swept up handfuls of earth. He made the hole bigger.
‘You can argue with nature and of course you will lose. You can argue with someone else and unless the wager is one of life or death, then the exercise is meaningless. Nature awaits us all, with emphatic solidity. All that is won is an illusion. All that is lost, you were doomed to lose anyway, eventually. They call the houses the Azath, and from this the Tiste name us, but we are not all worshippers of stone, are we, Setch?’
br />
They studied it some more.
‘The worship of stone,’ said Errastas, ‘is a plea to longevity, but that’s a secret stone never yields.’
Sechul Lath continued pulling rocks from the rubble, swearing as his fingers brushed the occasional stone that was still blistering hot. Steaming earth sifted down as the mound continued to settle. The air was rank with a smell he could not identify, but which he imagined to be outrage.
Nearby, Errastas crouched at a heap of broken slate tiles, rummaging through them and setting aside certain ones, arranging even stacks as if counting coins. ‘They claim,’ he went on, ‘that the buildings simply grew from the ground. At first they were little more than piles of rock, but still they rose from the earth, and soon new ones found the shape of hovels. Here and there, a wall or line. Others made circles. And then, as if all these pathetic efforts somehow merged and found each other, houses were born. Well, not just houses as we now know. But towers to match those of the Jaghut. And others that bore the semblance of wood, as you might imagine a Tiste would make. While yet others took to earth itself, in Thel Akai fashion, or hides like the huts of the Dog-Runners.’
Sechul adjusted his grip on a particularly large boulder and pulled on it. It came away with a grinding lurch. He rolled it to one side and studied the hole where the stone had been. And then twisted round to look at his companion.
‘But this is the struggle towards order,’ Errastas continued, frowning at a shattered tile. ‘The imperative of organization, which is both laudable and pathetic. We have all resisted dissolution, in our own ways, and thus make of our lives bold assertions to purpose and meaning.’ He flung the tile away, and then picked up another one. ‘This pose we insist upon, Setch, is substance constructed as argument. Our flesh, our blood, our bone, our selves. I for one am not impressed.’
Sechul returned to the mound of rubble. He tugged loose rocks and swept up handfuls of earth. He made the hole bigger.
‘You can argue with nature and of course you will lose. You can argue with someone else and unless the wager is one of life or death, then the exercise is meaningless. Nature awaits us all, with emphatic solidity. All that is won is an illusion. All that is lost, you were doomed to lose anyway, eventually. They call the houses the Azath, and from this the Tiste name us, but we are not all worshippers of stone, are we, Setch?’
‘It seems,’ said Sechul, leaning back and wiping dirt from his battered hands, ‘that you have won this particular argument, Errastas.’
Grunting as he rose, Errastas made his way over. ‘I knew as much,’ he said. ‘Not even a Jaghut tower could withstand half a hill of earth and rock descending on it.’
Sechul Lath thought back to the power of his companion’s conjuration. The sorcery was brutal, and the sound it had made — like a clap of thunder inside the skull — still reverberated through his bones. ‘This could begin a war,’ he said.
‘I have purpose,’ Errastas replied, dropping into a crouch to peer into the small cave dug into the mound. ‘This may seem madness — murder often does. But this table I set will see multitudes gathering to the feast, dear brother of mine.’
‘Half-brother,’ corrected Sechul Lath, feeling the need to assert the distinction. ‘Will they thank you?’
Errastas shrugged. ‘They will gorge, friend, and grow fat and think not once upon the farmer, or the herder, or the one crushing the grapes. Nor will they muse on the maker of the utensils they wield, or the hand that hammered out their pewter plates. They will sit upon chairs that creak to their weight, and give no thought to the carpenter, or indeed the tree. They will listen to the rain upon the roof, and give no thanks to the mason. I do not seek notoriety, friend. I do not yearn for adulation. But I will remain the bringer of feasts.’
Sechul Lath rose, arching to work out the aches in his body, and then stepped back as Errastas crawled partway into the hole. His companion emerged dragging out the crushed corpse of the unknown Jaghut who had lived in the tower. The splintered ends of bones jutted from bruised and bloody flesh, making the broken body and its limbs look like shredded sacks. Some falling chunk of masonry had crushed the skull almost flat.
Errastas pulled the corpse into full view and then straightened, anchoring his hands on his hips. ‘I felt his death,’ he said, face flushed, ‘like a hand on my cock.’
Turning, half in disgust, Sechul Lath scanned the sky. It looked wrong to his eyes, but in a way he could not fathom. ‘I see no searchers,’ he said.
‘We have time,’ Errastas agreed. ‘K’rul gropes. He has not yet seen our faces. He does not yet know his quarry.’