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Draconus drew off his leather gloves and tucked them behind his sword belt. He looked around, and then said, ‘Wait here. I will go and find us some chairs.’
‘Do we seek an audience, Father? Are we in the gatekeeper’s tower?’
‘No,’ he replied, and made his way outside.
There was a scuffing sound from the trap and a moment later a figure climbed into view. Arathan had never before seen a Jaghut, as he knew this creature to be. Tall, gaunt, with skin the hue of olives, bearing creases and seams similar to those on lizard hide. The tusks curled as they swept up from the lower jaw to either side of a wide, slit mouth. Heavy brow ridges hid the eyes. The Jaghut was wearing a frayed robe of wool, unevenly dyed a watery purple. In one hand he held an ink bottle. His fingers were stained black.
Ignoring Arathan, the Jaghut walked to the desk and set the ink bottle down, and then, as if exhausted by the chore, he sat in the cushioned chair and leaned back to rest his head.
A flicker of dull gold marked his eyes as he studied the desktop. When he spoke, his voice was deep but rough. ‘Some write in wine. But others write in blood. As for me, why, I prefer ink. Less painful that way. I invite no excesses but moderation, but some would view even moderation to be a vice. What think you?’
Arathan cleared his throat. ‘We seek audience with the Lord of Hate.’
The Jaghut snorted. ‘That fool? He bleeds ink like a drunk pissing in the alley. His very meat is sodden with the bile of his dubious wit. He chews arguments like broken glass, and he bathes all too infrequently. What business would you have with him? None of any worth, I imagine. They come seeking a sage, and what do they find? Look at that heap of writing there, on the desk. He writes a suicide note, and it is interminable. His audience blinks, too filled with self-importance to choke out a laugh. Death, he tells them, is the gift of silence. One day we will all roll into that crypt, where the painted walls hide in darkness and even the dust will not stir. Tell me, do you long for peace?’
‘My father seeks out some chairs,’ Arathan said. ‘He will be back shortly.’
‘You bear the trappings of a Tiste. No one doubts the power of the Suzerain of Night, yet many doubt his will, but it is not his will that so endangers everyone. It is his temper. Tell them that, Tiste-child, before it is too late.’
Arathan shook his head. ‘I will not return to my people,’ he said. ‘I mean to stay here.’
‘Here?’
‘In the Tower of Hate,’ he answered.
‘And where might that tower be?’
‘The tall one, of white marble, where dwells the Lord of Hate.’
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Draconus drew off his leather gloves and tucked them behind his sword belt. He looked around, and then said, ‘Wait here. I will go and find us some chairs.’
‘Do we seek an audience, Father? Are we in the gatekeeper’s tower?’
‘No,’ he replied, and made his way outside.
There was a scuffing sound from the trap and a moment later a figure climbed into view. Arathan had never before seen a Jaghut, as he knew this creature to be. Tall, gaunt, with skin the hue of olives, bearing creases and seams similar to those on lizard hide. The tusks curled as they swept up from the lower jaw to either side of a wide, slit mouth. Heavy brow ridges hid the eyes. The Jaghut was wearing a frayed robe of wool, unevenly dyed a watery purple. In one hand he held an ink bottle. His fingers were stained black.
Ignoring Arathan, the Jaghut walked to the desk and set the ink bottle down, and then, as if exhausted by the chore, he sat in the cushioned chair and leaned back to rest his head.
A flicker of dull gold marked his eyes as he studied the desktop. When he spoke, his voice was deep but rough. ‘Some write in wine. But others write in blood. As for me, why, I prefer ink. Less painful that way. I invite no excesses but moderation, but some would view even moderation to be a vice. What think you?’
Arathan cleared his throat. ‘We seek audience with the Lord of Hate.’
The Jaghut snorted. ‘That fool? He bleeds ink like a drunk pissing in the alley. His very meat is sodden with the bile of his dubious wit. He chews arguments like broken glass, and he bathes all too infrequently. What business would you have with him? None of any worth, I imagine. They come seeking a sage, and what do they find? Look at that heap of writing there, on the desk. He writes a suicide note, and it is interminable. His audience blinks, too filled with self-importance to choke out a laugh. Death, he tells them, is the gift of silence. One day we will all roll into that crypt, where the painted walls hide in darkness and even the dust will not stir. Tell me, do you long for peace?’
‘My father seeks out some chairs,’ Arathan said. ‘He will be back shortly.’
‘You bear the trappings of a Tiste. No one doubts the power of the Suzerain of Night, yet many doubt his will, but it is not his will that so endangers everyone. It is his temper. Tell them that, Tiste-child, before it is too late.’
Arathan shook his head. ‘I will not return to my people,’ he said. ‘I mean to stay here.’
‘Here?’
‘In the Tower of Hate,’ he answered.
‘And where might that tower be?’
‘The tall one, of white marble, where dwells the Lord of Hate.’
‘Have you visited that tower yet, Tiste-child? No? A secret awaits you, then. A secret most delicious. But I see your impatience. If one must build an edifice of hate, what manner of stone should be selected in its construction?’
‘Something pure?’
‘Very good. And to build a tower for all to see, it should shine bright, yes?’
Arathan nodded.
‘Thus. White marble, or, in the case of the tower you mentioned, opal. Of course, no Jaghut could build such a thing. We’ve not the talent to squeeze opal from rubble and dust. No, for such a miracle, one needs an Azathanai mason. One with an appropriate sense of humour. Why, you ask? Well, because humour is necessary, once the secret is made known. So tell me, how many floors should this tower have? Name for me the levels of Hate.’
‘I cannot, sir,’ said Arathan. ‘Is hatred not a thing that blinds?’
‘Hmm. What make you of a suicide note that never ends?’
‘A joke,’ he replied.
‘Ah, and do you appreciate it?’
Arathan shrugged, wondering where his father had gone to. ‘I appreciate the irony, I suppose.’
‘Just that? Well, you’re young still. Hate will blind, yes. There are no levels to it at all. You spoke of purity, and now we have discussed the matter of singularity. What of windows? What manner of door should be cut into this pure, singular thing?’
‘Windows are not needed, because all that lies outside hate matters not to the one within.’
‘And the door?’
Arathan studied the Jaghut for a moment, and then he sighed. ‘The tower is solid stone, isn’t it? But that’s not right. There must be a way in.’
‘But no way out.’
‘Until you bring it down in… in conflagration. But if it is solid then none can live within it.’
‘None do. Not what any sane person would calling living, anyway.’
