The Crippled God

corrected. ‘The language of the First Empire.’
    ‘First Empire,’ the woman repeated, matching perfectly Brys’s intonation. ‘Slums – er, lowborn stig— dialect. Ehrlitan.’
    The plump woman snapped, ‘ Turul berys? Turul berys? ’
    The first woman sighed. ‘Please. Water?’
    Brys gestured to the preda commanding the lancers. ‘Give them something to drink. They’re in a bad way.’
    ‘Commander, our own supplies—’
    ‘Do it, Preda. Three more in our army won’t make much difference either way. And find a cutter – the sun has roasted them.’ He nodded to the first woman. ‘I am Commander Brys Beddict. We march to war, I’m afraid. You are welcome to travel with us for as long as you desire, but once we enter enemy territory, unless you remain with us, I cannot guarantee your safety.’
    Of course he didn’t call himself a prince. Just a commander. Noble titles still sat uneasily with him .
    The woman was slowly nodding. ‘You march south.’
    ‘For now,’ he replied.
    ‘And then?’
    ‘East.’
    She turned to the other woman. ‘ Gesra ilit .’
    ‘ Ilit? Korl mestr al’ahamd .’
    The woman faced Brys. ‘I named Faint. We go with you, tu — please. Ilit . East.’
    Aranict cleared her throat. The inside of her mouth was stinging, had been for days. She was itchy beneath her soiled garments. She spent a moment lighting a stick of rustleaf, knowing that Brys had twisted in his saddle and was now observing her. Through a brief veil of smokeshe met his eyes and said, ‘The younger one’s a mage. The man – there’s something odd about him, as if he’s only in the guise of a human, but it’s a guise that is partly torn away. Behind it …’ She shrugged, drew on her stick. ‘Like a wolf pretending to sleep. He has iron in his hands.’
    Brys glanced over, frowned.
    ‘In the bones,’ she amended. ‘He could probably punch his way through a keep wall.’
    ‘ Iron , Atri-Ceda? Are you sure? How can that be?’
    ‘I don’t know. I might even be wrong. But you can see, he carries no weapons, and those knuckles are badly scarred. There’s a taint of the demonic about him—’ She cut herself off, as Faint was now speaking quickly to the young mage.
    ‘ Hed henap vil nen? Ul stig “Atri-Ceda”. Ceda ges kerallu. Ust kellan varad harada unan y? Thekel edu .’
    Eyes fixed on Aranict and everyone was silent for a moment.
    With narrowed gaze the young sorceress addressed Faint. ‘ Kellan varad. V’ap gerule y mest .’
    Whatever she’d said did not seem to warrant a reply from Faint, who now spoke to Aranict. ‘We are lost. Seek Holds. Way home. Darujhistan. Do you kerall — er, are you, ah, caster magic? Kellan Varad? High Mage?’
    Aranict glanced at Brys, who now answered her earlier shrug with one of his own. She was silent for a moment, thinking, and then she said, ‘Yes, Faint. Atri-Ceda. High Mage. I am named Aranict.’ She cocked her head and asked, ‘The Letherii you speak, it is high diction, is it not? Where did you learn it?’
    Faint shook her head. ‘City. Seven Cities. Ehrlitan. Lowborn tongue, in slums. You speak like whore.’
    Aranict pulled hard on her rustleaf, and then smiled. ‘This should be fun.’
    The ghost of Sweetest Sufferance held up her clay pipe, squinted at the curls of smoke rising from it. ‘ See that, Faint? That’s the perfect breath of every life-giving god there ever was. Holier than incense. Why, if priests filled their braziers with rustleaf, the temples would be packed, worshippers like salted fish in a barrel —’
    ‘Worshippers?’ Faint snorted. ‘Addicts, you mean.’
    ‘ Variations on a theme, darling. You’ve stopped wincing with every breath, I see .’
    Faint leaned back on the heap of blankets. ‘You heard Precious. That Aranict is tapping Elder magic—’
    ‘ And something else, too, she said. Newborn, she called it – what in Hood’s name is that supposed to mean? ’
    ‘I don’t care. All I know is I’ve stopped aching everywhere.’
    ‘ Me too .’
    Sweetest puffed contentedly for a time, and then said, ‘ They were nervous round Amby though, weren’t they? ’ She glanced over at the silent man where he sat close to the tent’s entrance. ‘ Like they never seen a Bole before, right, Amby? ’
    The man gave no sign of having heard her, which Faint found something of a relief. He must think I’ve gone mad, having a one-way conversation like this. Then again, he might be right. Something