Spires’ war against the Cishaurim, another for the Holy War’s reconquest of Shimeh, and so on. Ink lines for relations. A thin skeleton of black.
But where did Kellhus fit? Where?
Achamian suddenly cackled, resisted the urge to throw the parchment into the fire. Smoke. Wasn’t that what relations were in truth? Not ink, but smoke. Hard to see and impossible to grasp. And wasn’t that the problem? The problem with everything?
The thought of smoke brought Achamian to his feet. He swayed for a moment, then bent to retrieve his satchel. Again he debated tossing the map into the flames, but thought better of it—he was a veteran of many drunken blunders—and stuffed the parchment back with his things.
With his satchel and Xinemus’s wineskin slung over opposite shoulders, he stumbled off into the darkness, laughing to himself and thinking, Yes, smoke … I need smoke . Hashish.
Why not? The world was about to end.
As the sun set behind the Unaras Spur, each point of firelight became a circle of illumination, until the encampment became gold coins scattered across black cloth. Among the first to arrive, the Conriyans had pitched their pavilions on the heights immediately below Asgilioch and its ready supply of water. As a result Achamian travelled down, always down, into what seemed an ever darker and more raucous underworld.
He walked and stumbled, exploring the shadowy arteries between pavilions. He passed many others: groups carousing from camp to camp, drunks searching for latrines, slaves on errands, even a Gilgallic priest chanting and swinging the carcass of a hawk from a leather string. From time to time he slowed, stared at the ruddy faces crowded about each fire, laughed at their antics or pondered their scowls. He watched them strut and posture, beat their breasts and bellow at the mountains. Soon they would descend upon the heathen. Soon they would close with their hated foe. “The God has burned our ships!” Achamian heard one bare-chested Galeoth roar, first in Sheyic, then in his native tongue. “Wossen het Votta grefearsa!”
Periodically he paused to search the darkness behind him. Old habit.
After a time he found himself weary and nearly out of wine. He’d trusted Fate, Anagkë, to take him to the camp-followers; she was, after all, called “the Whore.” But as with everything else, she’d led him astray—the fucking whore. He began daring the light to find directions.
“Wrong way, friend,” an older man missing his front teeth told him at one camp. “Only mules rutting here. Oxen and mules.”
“Good …” Achamian said, clutching his groin in the familiar Tydonni manner, “at least the proportions will be right.” The old man and his comrades burst into laughter. Achamian winked and tipped back his wineskin.
“Then that way,” some wit called from the fire, pointing to the darkness beyond. “I hope your ass has deep pockets!”
Achamian coughed wine from his nose, then spent several moments bent over, hacking. The general merriment this caused won him a place by their fire. An inveterate traveller, Achamian was accustomed to the company of warlike strangers, and for a time he enjoyed their companionship, their wine, and his own anonymity. But when their questions became too pointed, he thanked them and took his leave.
Drawn by the throb of drums, Achamian crossed a portion of the camp that seemed deserted, then quite without warning found himself in the precincts of the camp-followers. Suddenly all the activity seemed concentrated between the fires. With every step he bumped some shoulder, pressed some back. In some places, he pressed through crowds in almost total darkness, with only heads, shoulders, and the odd face frosted by the Nail of Heaven’s pale light. In others, torches had been hammered into the earth, either for musicians, merchants, or leather-panelled brothels. Several avenues even boasted hanging lanterns. He saw young Men of the Tusk—no more than
But where did Kellhus fit? Where?
Achamian suddenly cackled, resisted the urge to throw the parchment into the fire. Smoke. Wasn’t that what relations were in truth? Not ink, but smoke. Hard to see and impossible to grasp. And wasn’t that the problem? The problem with everything?
The thought of smoke brought Achamian to his feet. He swayed for a moment, then bent to retrieve his satchel. Again he debated tossing the map into the flames, but thought better of it—he was a veteran of many drunken blunders—and stuffed the parchment back with his things.
With his satchel and Xinemus’s wineskin slung over opposite shoulders, he stumbled off into the darkness, laughing to himself and thinking, Yes, smoke … I need smoke . Hashish.
Why not? The world was about to end.
As the sun set behind the Unaras Spur, each point of firelight became a circle of illumination, until the encampment became gold coins scattered across black cloth. Among the first to arrive, the Conriyans had pitched their pavilions on the heights immediately below Asgilioch and its ready supply of water. As a result Achamian travelled down, always down, into what seemed an ever darker and more raucous underworld.
He walked and stumbled, exploring the shadowy arteries between pavilions. He passed many others: groups carousing from camp to camp, drunks searching for latrines, slaves on errands, even a Gilgallic priest chanting and swinging the carcass of a hawk from a leather string. From time to time he slowed, stared at the ruddy faces crowded about each fire, laughed at their antics or pondered their scowls. He watched them strut and posture, beat their breasts and bellow at the mountains. Soon they would descend upon the heathen. Soon they would close with their hated foe. “The God has burned our ships!” Achamian heard one bare-chested Galeoth roar, first in Sheyic, then in his native tongue. “Wossen het Votta grefearsa!”
Periodically he paused to search the darkness behind him. Old habit.
After a time he found himself weary and nearly out of wine. He’d trusted Fate, Anagkë, to take him to the camp-followers; she was, after all, called “the Whore.” But as with everything else, she’d led him astray—the fucking whore. He began daring the light to find directions.
“Wrong way, friend,” an older man missing his front teeth told him at one camp. “Only mules rutting here. Oxen and mules.”
“Good …” Achamian said, clutching his groin in the familiar Tydonni manner, “at least the proportions will be right.” The old man and his comrades burst into laughter. Achamian winked and tipped back his wineskin.
“Then that way,” some wit called from the fire, pointing to the darkness beyond. “I hope your ass has deep pockets!”
Achamian coughed wine from his nose, then spent several moments bent over, hacking. The general merriment this caused won him a place by their fire. An inveterate traveller, Achamian was accustomed to the company of warlike strangers, and for a time he enjoyed their companionship, their wine, and his own anonymity. But when their questions became too pointed, he thanked them and took his leave.
Drawn by the throb of drums, Achamian crossed a portion of the camp that seemed deserted, then quite without warning found himself in the precincts of the camp-followers. Suddenly all the activity seemed concentrated between the fires. With every step he bumped some shoulder, pressed some back. In some places, he pressed through crowds in almost total darkness, with only heads, shoulders, and the odd face frosted by the Nail of Heaven’s pale light. In others, torches had been hammered into the earth, either for musicians, merchants, or leather-panelled brothels. Several avenues even boasted hanging lanterns. He saw young Men of the Tusk—no more than
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