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‘Korya, we’ve explored every room. The outer door unlocked by itself, because the house wanted us inside.’
‘And why would it do that?’ she asked. ‘You said the Jaghut couldn’t get in. You said they spent centuries trying.’
‘To keep us safe, from what you did outside, with that acorn.’
‘It was an old god. Forgotten. The Ilnap mages didn’t know what they were doing. But why should an Azath House care about us?’
They both turned at a strange shuffling sound from the doorway that led to the main inner corridor. A ghostly figure loomed suddenly in the entranceway. A Dog-Runner, his hair so blond as to be almost colourless, his tawny beard tangled and looking like a tuft of dead grass growing from his chinless jaw. The eye sockets beneath the heavy ridge of his brow were empty pits. A hole had been carved into his broad chest, where his heart should have been. What remained was withered and dry, ribs snapped and jutting from the wound.
‘Apparition,’ whispered Korya, ‘forgive us this intrusion.’
‘The dead are unforgiving,’ the ghost replied in a thin voice. ‘Which is, I suppose, why we are known to be such miserable company. Beg no pardon, plead no indulgence, pray no favour and seek no blessing. Take pleasure in my noticing you, if you must, or let loose a blood-curdling scream. I care neither way.’
Arathan sighed, and then straightened. ‘What do you want of us, Dog-Runner?’
‘What all old men want, living or dead. An audience for our life’s story. Sharp interest we can dull, curiosity we can deplete. An opportunity to dismember your very will to live, if possible. Hearken then to this wisdom, if you would hold to the conceit of being worthy of it.’
Arathan glanced at Korya. ‘And you willingly sat around the campfire in company like this?’
She scowled. ‘Well, the ones outside aren’t dead yet. I’d think dying changes how you think.’
‘Or simply exaggerates what was already there.’
‘I am now being ignored,’ observed the Dog-Runner ghost. ‘This, too, is typical. I was once a Bonecaster, a foolish man among chattering women, defenceless against their barbs until respect was earned in the manner they expected. Namely, a man’s legendary stubbornness. Although, between you and me, I was more addled than stubborn. What is perceived is rarely the truth, and what is true is only rarely perceived. Between the two, upon which is one best advised to rely? Some delusions, after all, are comforting. While truths, alas, are mostly unpleasant.’
‘How came you to this Azath House?’ Arathan asked.
‘By the front door.’
‘Who killed you?’
‘Jaghut. In the manner of fatal exploration, as they sought to determine all that was magical within me. Of course, there was nothing magical within me, barring life’s spark, which all mortals possess. Said exploration quenched that spark, an outcome I predicted at the top of my lungs to no avail, even as the knife descended. When next you see Jaghut, tell them this from Guardian Cadig Aval: “I told you so.” If brave, you may add “idiots” to my message.’
‘Oh,’ said Arathan, ‘I’ll do that for you. It would be my pleasure, in fact. Nor do I think Gothos would—’
‘Gothos? I’ve been looking for him, here in the realms of the dead, since he said he was going to kill himself. Yet still he lives? Typical. You can’t depend on anyone.’
‘He’s composing a suicide note.’
‘I got there first, as you would have discovered had you accepted my invitation to hear me confess my life’s story. For are not all such tales nothing more than suicide notes? A list of deeds, crimes and regrets, loves and still more regrets – in fact an endless litany of regrets, come to think on it. Never mind. It has been some time since I last had anyone else with whom to converse. In the interval, I find that I am a poor audience to my own thoughts. Too much catcalling and derision.’
Arathan stepped closer. ‘A moment ago, sir, you spoke of realms of the dead. They’re what we’re looking for, you see, with Hood and his legion—’
‘What now? Is there no refuge left you living won’t despoil? I happen to be quite fond of the realms of the dead. None have reason to argue there, or pose or preen. No one is obsessed with saving face, or stung to stupidity by brainless pride. No grudges to hold. Nothing left worth the gleeful gush of spite. Even vengeance proves laughable. Imagine that, friends. Laughable. Ha ha ha.’
‘Mother save us,’ muttered Korya, turning back to the fire.
‘One lost,
’ the ghost observed smugly. ‘And one still to go. Now then, young man, do offer me another mortal conceit I can happily dismantle. There is no end to what I can prove to be pointless in this miserable thing you call your life.’
‘Why bother?’ Arathan asked the ghost.
Cadig Aval tilted his head. ‘Well, you have a point there. Excuse me.’ With that, he vanished.
After a moment, Arathan turned to Korya. ‘It’s said that Azath Houses possess guardians. This Bonecaster was one such guardian, until the Jaghut killed him. But did you hear what he said about realms of the dead? Proof that such places exist! I will speak to Hood about this.’
Korya sneered at him. ‘Don’t expect that ghost to hold open the gate for you and the rest. Seems the dead prefer their realms to be empty of life.’
