Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy #1)

Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy #1) Page 260

He sat on a stone near the old firepit and then glanced up at her. ‘Have you ever held a stoppered bottle under water? No? Yes, why should you? No matter. Pull the stopper and what happens?’

‘If the bottle held air, then the air bubbles out and is replaced with water. If it held liquid, then I imagine a certain slow admixture with the water. These are the experiments suited to a child in a tub. But, master, as you can see, I am not under water, nor am I as empty as you would think me.’

‘These disciplines, hostage, are for your own good in that they bring ease and comfort to my being. I have been too long in civilization to understand the mundane cogitations of its basic requirements.’

‘You are intent without capability and entirely lacking in will.’

‘Just so, and I would not be a teacher of worth, if in neglect I led you into a life similarly devoid of useful knowledge.’

She eyed him for a long moment and then made her way to the back of the tower. Instead of an overgrown garden, she found a massive hole in the ground. It was four or five paces across and when she ventured to its edge and peered down, she saw only blackness. Collecting up a rock, she held it out and dropped it. The stone struck something after a few heartbeats, and then bounced and clattered until the sounds faded away.

The wood was stacked up against the wall, enough for a dozen nights at the campfire. That thought left her despondent. She collected an armful and returned to where Haut sat expectantly. He had set his last remaining wine bottle on the ground beside him. Eyes on the bottle, Korya contemplated smashing it over Haut’s hairless pate. Instead, she crouched and set down the wood beside the firepit, and then went off in search of kindling.

A short time later, she had the fire lit and sat waiting for a decent bed of embers. The cookpot sat waiting, filled with water and a handful of dubious vegetables.

Haut rummaged in his pack and removed three goblets, which he set to polishing with a silk handkerchief she had never seen before. He lined up the goblets in a perfect row in front of the bottle.

A sound from the tower made her turn. A Jaghut was standing in the doorway. He was taller than Haut by more than a hand, broad across the shoulders and long-limbed. His tusks were stained almost black, except at the upthrust tips, where they faded to red-tinted amber. An old but savage scar seamed a ragged path diagonally across his face. He wore nothing but a colourless loincloth that failed to hide the lower half of his manhood. The vertical pupils of his eyes were thin as slits.

‘I kill trespassers,’ he said.

Haut nodded. ‘We shall warn any who come near. Korya Delath, this is Varandas. I thought he was dead.’

‘Hoped, I’m sure,’ said Varandas, stepping forward. ‘A wondrous fire,’ he observed. ‘I need only glance upon it to see the path to our demise. Well lit every stride we take, until sudden darkness falls. But then, to live is to stumble, and to stumble is to plunge headlong and ever forward. Is it any wonder death takes so many of us?’

‘But not you,’ Haut said. ‘Not yet, in any case. Sit then, if you must intrude upon our peace, and pour out the wine.’

‘She is too young to drink-’

‘She has known wine from her mother’s tit.’

‘-too young to drink to, I was going to say. As for broaching the bottle, are you still so useless with your hands, Haut, that you need help with so simple a task?’

Korya snorted.

Varandas glanced at her, as if judging her anew. ‘That’s a woman’s laugh.’

‘She is Tiste,’ explained Haut. ‘She might be a thousand years old and you’d know it not.’

‘Surely she isn’t.’

‘No, but that was not my point. Useless with my hands I might be, but I note the persistent inefficacy of your wits, Varandas, telling me that your affliction of stupidity is indeed eternal.’

‘I do claim stupidity as an illness,’ Varandas said with a nod, ‘and have written a fine treatise arguing my point. Badly, of course.’

‘I’ve not read it.’

‘No one has. I am satisfied to think of writing as a desire worth having, whereas its practical exercise is a turgid ordeal I leave to lesser folk, since I have better things to do with the sentient fragments of my brain.’

‘Thus the argument of a thousand useless geniuses, each one quick to venture an opinion, particularly a negative one, since by their own negativity they can justify doing nothing but complain.’

‘Good company one and all,’ said Varandas, taking up the bottle and inspecting its unmarked clay body. ‘I pronounce this singular in quality.’