#skintick

"I remember, Skin."

"I'm reminded of those machines – all the gears and rods, the way the metal components all meshed so cleverly, ingeniously – I cannot imagine the mind that could think up such constructs."

"What is all this about, Skin?"

"Nothing much. I just wonder if that thing is somehow connected with the arrival of the Dving God."

"Connected how?"

"What if it was like a skykeep? A smaller version, obviously. What if the Dying God was inside it? Some accident brought it down, the locals pulled him out. What if that machine was a kind of throne?"

Nimander thought about that. A curious idea. Andarist had once explained that skykeeps – such as the one Anomander Rake claimed as his own – were not a creation of sorcery, and indeed the floating fortresses were held aloft through arcane manipulations of technology.

K'Chain Che'Malle, Kallor had said. Clearly, he had made the same connection as had Skintick.

"Why would a god need a machine?" Nimander asked.

"How should I know? Anyway, it's broken now."

Wait. This is not how I see the world. This is not the game I choose to play – I will not believe in this abject . . . surrender.

It is what kelyk offers. The blood of the Dying God delivers escape – from everything that matters. The invitation is so alluring, the promise so entrancing.

Dance! All around you the world rots. Dance! Poison into your mouths and poison out from your mouths. Dance, damn you, in the dust of your dreams. I have looked into your eyes and I have seen that you are nothing. Empty.

Gods, such seductive invitation!

Aranatha moved like a lost child, ever tremulous, ever diffident. Eyes widening — as they always did whenever she awakened to the outside world — she edged forward. "I couldn't sleep," she said. "Nenanda was asking Clip about all sorts of things, until Desra told him to go away."

Skintick's brows lifted. "Desra? Stalking Clip now, is she? Well, my only surprise is that it's taken this long — not that there was much chance within Kurald Galain."

Nimander asked her, "Did Nenanda manage to get an explanation from Clip about where we are? And how far we still have to go?"

She continued creeping forward. The muted dawn light made her seem a thing of obsidian and silver, her long black hair glistening, her black skin faintly dusted, her silver eyes hinting of iron that never appeared. Like some Goddess of Hope. But one whose only strength lay in an optimism immune to defeat. Immune to all reality, in fact. "We have emerged somewhere south of where we were supposed to. There are, Clip explained, 'layers of resistance'." She shrugged. "I don't understand what that means, but those were his words."