Fall of Light (The Kharkanas Trilogy 2)

He leaned back. ‘Have you seen this happen?’ he asked.

‘Haut explained it. And their yards are hungry.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Just what I said. Their yards are hungry. Haut’s own words. I have a good memory, you know. Better than most people.’

‘So you don’t know what it means either. Hungry yards. Sounds … ominous.’ Abruptly he began cleaning his stylus, and then he stoppered the bottle of ink.

‘What are you doing? I thought you were busy.’

‘There is an Azath House at the western edge of the ruins. When Omtose Phellack was a thousand years old, it sprang up one night, upsetting the Jaghut no end. But as none could get inside, and it was proof against all magic, they decided to ignore it.’ He collected up his cloak. ‘I think I’ll go take a look.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘Ifayle’s freckles won’t like that.’

‘You do know that they won’t let you go, Arathan. The Jaghut. You’re hiding, anyway. From what? Probably a woman. It was a woman, wasn’t it? People have said things.’

‘Who? Never mind. No one here knows anything about it. You’re just making all this up.’

‘Who was she? What did she do to you?’

‘I’m going now,’ he said, stepping past her and yanking the curtain aside.

Korya followed, feeling unaccountably pleased with herself. They emerged from the small hovel that had once been some sort of store. The breeze was cool but not cold, and an unseasonal thaw softened the air. As they set out, she saw how many of the long-abandoned buildings were now occupied once more. Blue-skinned Ilnap had formed enclaves, although there was nothing festive in their efforts to establish some sort of community, and more often than not they found themselves glowering across at bands of Dog-Runners encamped on the other side of the street, who were in the habit of treating abodes as if they were caves, the rubbish piling up in front of the gaping doorways.

Before long, however, she and Arathan left the inhabited reaches of the dead city behind, making their way down barren, silent streets. Here and there a squat tower had tumbled and the broken stone spilled out into passageways, blocking their progress and forcing them to seek out the narrower alleys threading through overgrown gardens.

‘Imagine,’ said Arathan, ‘just abandoning all of this. Imagine, a simple argument from one Jaghut, from Gothos, bringing down an entire civilization. One wouldn’t think such things possible. Could the same happen to us Tiste? Could someone just step forward and argue us out of existence?’

‘Of course not,’ Korya replied. ‘We prefer our arguments messy, ugly, with plenty of spilled blood.’

He glanced sharply across at her. ‘More news of the civil war?’

‘Deniers came into the camp yesterday. Hunters who’d come home to their forest camps to find their mates slaughtered. The children too. Those hunters have lost their black skin. They’re now grey, as grey as the Dog-Runners when they smear themselves in ash.’ She shrugged. ‘Rituals of mourning, only with the Deniers, it’s permanent.’

Arathan fell silent, as if considering her words, as they worked their way through the ruins. They had moved past the squatters now, and the solemnity of a discarded city hung heavy in the still air.

‘I have to go back,’ Korya said.

‘Back? To what? You were made a hostage. You’re not yet of the proper age to be released.’

‘Haut’s going with Hood, whatever that means. He’s been looking to hand me off to some other master, or tutor, or whatever title fits. But I won’t go. I’m not interested in listening to old men or, even worse, old women, and all their tired, worn-out ideas.’

‘You’re quick to reject the wisdom of your elders, Korya.’

‘And you waste your life away scribbling useless confessions from a suicidal Jaghut too weak-kneed to actually go through with it. In case you haven’t been paying attention, sorcery is now among us, wild currents of magic. All you need to do is reach for it.’

‘And have you?’

She frowned. ‘Haut tells me my aspect awaits elsewhere. It’s why he made me a Mahybe.’

‘Oh? And what is your, uh, aspect?’

‘Kurald Galain. Darkness. The sorcery of Mother Dark herself.’

Ahead, seemingly standing alone, oddly distinct from all the hovels surrounding it, was a stone house with a peaked roof and a squat corner tower. A low wall marked the yard and a gaping gateway the entrance on to the path. ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ said Arathan. ‘She doesn’t grant anyone the gift of sorcery.’