The Paths of the Dead (Viscount of Adrilankha) by Steven Brust Page A

considered the matter. Arra waited patiently while he did so. At length he said, “Arra, a thought has occurred to me.”
    “Well, and it is?”
    “That band of raiders, would they have heard of us, too?”
    “It is possible, yes.”
    “Are there very many of them?”
    “Oh, yes, certainly. They come from considerably less than a hundred miles away. They are from a region called Sylavya, around thirty-five or forty miles around the lake, and, whenever they have a bad harvest—which happens often, as the god they worship does little to give them good harvests—they plunder those around them.”
    “Yes, I see. Well—”
    “My lord?”
    “It has come to my thoughts that if we should continue warning their victims of impending raids, they may take it ill.”
    “That is possible, my lord. As I consider it, I think it is very possible.”
    “So I had thought.”
    “Do you think, well—do you think we ought to stop giving these warnings?”
    “Oh, no!” said Morrolan. “I certainly would suggest nothing so drastic as that!”
    “That is well. For a moment, I was afraid—”
    “Yes?”
    “I was afraid that you were beginning to show your age.”

Chapter the Sixth
     
     
    How the Author Returns
To Blackchapel After a Year
And Morrolan Becomes Annoyed
     
     
     
    W e will advance in time by something like a year from the time of our previous chapter, though remaining in the same geographical position—that is, in the village of Blackchapel. As we look upon the village (or, perhaps we should say, the town), now in full summer of the 244th year of the Interregnum, the astute observer might notice a few changes since we were last there: The public house where Morrolan met Miska is entirely gone, except for its brick chimney, which stands as a monument. Of the place where he spent his first night, not even a chimney stands, although there are a few scattered stones about to show where it once stood. The cottages that had been built to house those of the Circle are vanished, save for smoking ruins. Indeed, there is scarcely a house or building remaining at all on what was once the main street of the village. Nor, in fact, are there people in evidence; the street would appear to be entirely deserted, save for a small number of rats scurrying about looking for anything edible, and a smaller number of dogs sniffing about after the rats.
    After a close inspection, the observer might conclude that some sort of disaster had occurred in and around Blackchapel, and, in this, the observer would be entirely correct.
    To find the cause of this catastrophe, let us journey to the chapel itself, which, although showing signs of damage—a
few stones have been pried out, and there are some indications that an attempt was made to burn it—is still standing, and is, moreover, occupied: Morrolan and Arra stand at the altar, conversing with one another, which conversation we will take the liberty to intrude upon, at very nearly the point where matters of interest to us are being discussed. At the moment we have chosen, Arra is just saying, “Everyone is in hiding now.”
    “That is best,” said Morrolan.
    Arra nodded. “They will reappear soon.”
    “It happened quickly?”
    “While you were in your trance.”
    Morrolan said, “It seems that I only spent two or three hours in my attempt at astral traveling.”
    “How was the effort?”
    “There was a point when I felt that I was very close to achieving something.”
    “Well, that is good.”
    “But they came and went during that time?”
    “Yes,” said Arra. “They were very fast. Indeed, they were gone in less than an hour. I came to get you, but it was over already.”
    “They killed many people, didn’t they?”
    “Nine were killed, twenty or thirty more hurt, and, as I have said, the entire village has been razed.”
    “And did they steal as well?”
    “No. They burned and killed, that is all.”
    “Indiscriminately?”
    “So it seemed.”
    “Were any of