Thanks to amibaguette for talking with me about the Serpent Gates (and all the other stuff too)! Our conversation really helped me finish this. Set in chapter 32 of The Thousand Eyes.
Zinandour was not sure how long she just sat there. Csorwe had left her. It was not even a surprise, given that it was completely deserved. Csorwe should not have dared defy the Dragon of Qarsazh, but of course Csorwe had, because she was so perfectly, determinedly brave. Well, let Csorwe be disappointed. It was Shuthmili who cared about Csorwe and Shuthmili was dead, even if she was really bad at it.
And if only an echo was interested in Csorwe, Tal was even more irrelevant.
With that settled, Zinandour resolved to return to sorting and cataloguing her hoard. First off, Csorwe was gone, but Zinandour was not going to think about that. She was now also short one iron poker, because, Mother of Cities, Csorwe really had left to confront Belthandros armed with a poker.
LIKE ALL ATTEMPTS AT MERCY, THIS WAS FRUITLESS. I WILL USE YOUR BODY TO TAKE MY REVENGE ON THE WORLD AND YOU HAVE NOTHING TO SHOW FOR IT. Shuthmili was the one person she had planned not to betray, but she was Zinandour. Treachery was in her nature. Furthermore, if anyone, besides Belthandros, had earned betrayal, it was Shuthmili. That little parasite had been uncharacteristically silent ever since Csorwe had rebuffed her sacrifice. Perhaps this had killed her and Zinandour could finally have some peace, be herself. Be alone.
"Remember that I loved you." Past tense, just like Shuthmili. Just like Csorwe would be soon.
Squabbling with Shuthmili would be a good distraction right now. She tried again. CSORWE WILL DIE.
Except that was what she wanted distracting from.
The Devouring Fire did not cry. Nothing that she desired could escape her grasp. She stood up from her crate, less steadily than she would have liked.
o
It was a long way from the Pearl of Oblivion to Tlaanthothe, but Csorwe had found a rickety cutter. Zinandour followed from afar.
(if you're planning on using my body to take revenge on the world, Qarsazh is the other way.) So Shuthmili was not truly gone yet. This was technically a disappointment.
I AM ETERNAL. QARSAZH CAN WAIT.
Unable to bear watching the shipwreck waiting to happen any longer, Zinandour finally boarded when Csorwe stopped at tiny Hollowwind Station to refuel. Dispensing with her wings, she was able to squeeze herself unnoticed into the crawlspace under the alchemical engine. It was not a comfortable hiding place, but it was a good location for warding off catastrophic failures.
Being confined in the dark was nigh unbearable, but she would cope. The blackness had a different quality from that of the void, in that there was light somewhere, it just was not getting through. The timbers hemmed her in, but at least there was something there. If she wanted to scream, she could have and there would be sound. Sound which Csorwe would hear and question, so Zinandour kept quiet.
The nights were the worst. Csorwe was trying to make the best possible time, but was not completely neglecting rest, unlike some people. She would land the ship in a desolate place and sleep next to the engine, finding what comfort she could in its residual heat. Shuthmili's body yearned to crawl out and lie down beside her, but Zinandour did not.
She also did not feel at all hungry at the rustle of Csorwe unpacking ship biscuits.
Once they at last reached a more habitable stretch, Zinandour allowed the engine to die gracefully.
As always, Zinandour tried her hardest to still her breath when Csorwe entered the engine room. She could not see her from her hiding place, but could hear her boots on the timbers. Csorwe stopped in front of the engine. After looking it over, she tried kicking it, twice. Eventually, she knelt down next to the machine and sighed. "Shuthmili had a knack for these things."
She did. Zinandour had to restrain herself. Shuthmili was not here. Besides, the last thing she wanted was to fix the cutter. Not that mechanical failure was likely to deter Csorwe from her errand.
o
In the emptiness of the Maze of Echoes, trailing at a distance was easy. In the bustle of Grey Hook, letting Csorwe stray too far ahead risked losing her.
They both went in disguise. In Csorwe's case, the scarf was probably unnecessary. Her strong, graceful movements were not the God-Empress' stately stride, she had cut her hair, and she had none of the hateful regalia. Also, Zinandour had neglected to explain the business about her tusk, because why trouble with that detail? Zinandour's disguise was magical, but she still found herself ducking into doorways and behind boarded up stalls whenever Csorwe looked over her shoulder. It was almost like when they were on Peacock Station, except that she had been hiding with Csorwe then, not from her.
Csorwe stopped and looked around rather often. She would realise she was being followed. Even if she did not, this was where she had spent her teenage years, where she had first tasted freedom. (something she's been going a bit short on lately.) Now she would have to come to terms with Grey Hook no longer being the free city of her youth. The God-Empress had seen to that, as always with the assistance of her Hand. People here would consider Shuthmili a worse monster than Zinandour, even if they had heard of the goddess.
Zinandour frowned, angry at her shame. I COULD SHOW THEM THE TRUE MEANING OF MONSTROSITY.
(no. also, isn't sneaking around behind Csorwe like this embarrassing?)
It was too late to be embarrassed. I AM NOT SNEAKING. I AM STALKING.
The End