Talibo's grip was so powerful that it did not slacken immediately even after she had pulled the second, smaller Yisti dagger out from underneath her and rammed it up under his jaw with all her might. Talibo straightened, shuddering and wriggling like an eel in the bottom of a fisherman's boat, so that for a moment it seemed his death throes might break her in half, then at last his hands fell away.

She lay where she was for a long time, fighting for breath, coughing and sputtering. When at last her throat seemed to be open again she stood up. Swaying, legs trembling, she bent over the merchant's nephew cautiously, in case he might be shamming, but he was dead: he did not even twitch when she pulled the blade out of his throat, freeing a gush of dark blood. She spat on his handsome, youthful face-a gob that was red with her own blood- and then turned and went to look for her other knife.

When she emerged from the stable Effir dan-Mozan's entire house was

in flames. Briony stared for long empty moments, as if she had turned to stone, then she limped across the open yard into the shadows by the wall. She found a place she could mount and climbed with quivering, exhausted muscles over the top, then she let herself drop into the cool, stinking dark¬ness of a refuse heap.

When morning came, Briony found a bucket of icy water and did her best to wash the blood from her throbbing, aching face, then pulled her robe tight around her boy's clothes-the clothes of the boy whom she had killed, she reflected with little emotion. She dragged her hood down low and joined the crowd that had gathered outside the smoldering remains of Effir dan Mozan's house. Some of the baron's soldiers were still standing guard over the ruins, so she did not dare go too close, and many of the crowd spoke Xandian languages, since this was the poorest part of Landers Port, but she heard enough to learn that the women of the house, at least, had managed to escape, and were sheltering with one of the other well-known Tuani families. She thought briefly of going to Idite, but knew it was a foolish idea: they had lost everything because of her already-why put them in danger again? Nobody seemed to know for certain exactly what had happened, but many had heard that some important criminal had been captured or killed, that Dan-Mozan had been harboring him and had died trying to defend his secret.

Only one male member of the household had lived to escape. For a mo¬ment, hearing that, Briony felt a rush of hope, but then someone pointed out the survivor-a small, bowed old servant that she recognized but whose name she did not remember. He stood apart from the others, staring at the smoking, blackened timbers of what had been his home. Alone in the crowd, he looked the way Briony imagined she did beneath her hood, shocked, confused, empty.

There was nothing here for her anymore except danger and quite pos¬sibly death. The baron's men did not seem to have tried very hard to take Shaso alive, and he had been nowhere near as dangerous to the Tollys as she was. Briony felt certain that Hendon Tolly's hand was somewhere in all this-why else would Iomer, a man who cared little for politics, have struck in such a swift and deadly way?

She screwed up her courage and joined the crowd of people walking out the city gates for the day and stared at the ground as she walked, meeting no one's eye. It seemed to work: she was not challenged, and within an hour

sne was alone on the cliff road below Landers Port, Briony walked until she reached a place where the woods were thick beside the road, then slaggered off into the trees. She found a hidden spot surrounded by undergrowth and curled herself up in the wet leaves at the base of a mostly naked oak, well out of sight of the road, and then wept until she fell asleep.

1 7 Bastard Gods

Zmeos, brother of Khors, knew that Zona's father and her uncles would

come against their clan, so he raised an army and lay in wait for them.

But Zosim the Clever flew to Perin in the form of a starling and told

the great god that Zmeos and Khors and Zuriyal had laid a trap, so

Perin and his brothers called out the loyal gods of heaven. Together they

descended upon the Moonlord's castle in a mighty host.

— from The Beginnings of Things The Book of the Trigon

FERRAS VANSEN AND HIS COMPANIONS were not the beak-faced Longskulls' only prisoners, as they discovered when they reached the creatures' camp after an exhausting trudge through the dark woods. The Longskulls seemed almost uninterested in them, despite the dozen or so of their number Vansen and the others had killed, most of them victims of the Storm Lantern's blade. If a prisoner strayed out of the line one of the snouted warders honked at him or even jabbed at exposed skin with a sharpened stick, but otherwise left them alone.

Despite being our ally, Gyir has shown more hatred toward me and the other mortals than these things do toward us, Vansen thought. Why did they take us if they care so little about us?

He quietly asked Barrick about it. The prince asked Gyir and passed on his words: "The Longskulls are more like animals than people, as we would see it. They are doing what they are trained to do, no more. If we hurt one

it may well Hurt us in return, but otherwise they are taught only to bring

us back to their master." Their master was Jikuyin, the one the raven had called Jack Chain-a disturbing name then, even more ominous now.

"What does this Chain want with us?"

Barrick paused, listening again, then shrugged. Gyir's eyes were red slits, "He says we will not know until they bring us to him," Barrick said. "But we will not like it."

The Longskulls' hunting camp looked like something out of an ancient Hierosoline temple-carving-the antechamber of the underworld, perhaps, or the midden heap of the gods. Certainly there seemed to be at least one of every misshapen creature Ferras Vansen could have imagined in his wildest night-terrors-squint-eyed, sharp-toothed goblins; apish Followers; and even tiny, misshapen men called Drows that looked like ill-made Fun-derlings. There was also an entire menagerie of animal-headed creatures with disturbingly manlike bodies, things that crawled and things that stood upright, even some that crouched in the shadows singing sad songs and weeping what looked to be tears of blood. Vansen could not help shiver¬ing, as much to see the misery of his fellow prisoners as their strangeness. Many had their arms or legs shackled, some their wings cruelly tied, a few with no more restraint than a leather sack over their heads, as though noth¬ing else was needed to keep them from escaping.

"Perin's great hammer!" he whispered hoarsely. "What are all these horrors?"

"Shadlowlanders," Barrick told him, then, after cocking his head toward Gyir for a moment, "Slaves."

"Slaves to what? Who is this Jack Chain?"

Gyir, who could understand Vansen even though he could not speak to him directly, bleakly spread his long-fingered hands as if trying to demon¬strate something of improbable size and power, but then shook his head and let his hands drop.

"A god, he calls him," said the prince. "No, a god's bastard. A bastard god." Barrick let his head droop. "I do not know-I can't remember every¬thing he said. I'm tired."

They were shoved off to a place in the center of the camp by themselves, for which Vansen was as grateful as he could be under the circumstances, and where they huddled under a sky the color of wet stone. Vansen and Barrick sat close to each other on the damp, leaf-carpeted ground, for the

warmth and-at least in Vansen's case-the human companionship. The weird army of prisoners that surrounded them, dozens and dozens all told, seemed strangely quiet: only an occasional bleating noise or a spatter of un¬familiar, clicking speech broke the silence. Vansen could not help noticing that they behaved like animals who sensed that the hour for slaughter had come round.