The Errant bends fate, As unseen armour Lifting to blunt the blade On a field sudden With battle, and the crowd Jostles blind their eyes gouged out By the strait of these affairs Where dark fools dance on tiles And chance rides a spear With red bronze To spit worlds like skulls One upon the other Until the seas pour down To thicken metal-clad hands So this then is the Errant Who guides every fate Unerring Upon the breast of men.
The Casting of Tiles Ceda Ankaran Qan (1059 Burn’s Sleep)
THE TARANCEDE TOWER ROSE EROM THE SOUTH SIDE OF TRATE’S harbour. Hewn from raw basalt it was devoid of elegance or beauty, reaching like a gnarled arm seven storeys from an artificial island of jagged rocks. Waves hammered it from all sides, flinging spume into the air. There were no windows, no doors, yet a series of glossy obsidian plates ringed the uppermost level, each orie as tall as a man and almost as wide.
Nine similar towers rose above the borderlands, but the Tarancede was the only one to stand above the harsh seas of the north.
The sun’s light was a lurid glare against the obsidian plates, high above a harbour already swallowed by the day’s end. A dozen fisher-boats rode the choppy waters beyond the bay, plying the shelf of shallows to the south. They were well out of the sea-lanes and probably heedless of the three ships that appeared to the north, their full-bellied sails as they drove on down towards the harbour, the air around them crowded with squalling gulls.
They drew closer, and a ship’s pilot scow set out from the main pier to meet them.
The three harvest ships were reflected in the tower’s obsidian plates, sliding in strange ripples from one to the next, the gulls smudged white streaks around them.
The scow’s oars suddenly backed wildly, twisting the craft away.
Shapes swarmed across the rigging of the lead ship. The steady wind that had borne the sails fell, sudden as a drawn breath, and canvas billowed down. The figures flitting above the deck, only vaguely human-shaped, seemed to drift away, like black banners, across the deepening gloom. The gulls spun from their paths with shrill cries.
From the scow an alarm bell began clanging. Not steady. Discordant, a cacophony of panic.
No sailor who had lived or would ever live discounted the sea’s hungry depths. Ancient spirits rode the currents of darkness far from the sun’s light, stirring silts that swallowed history beneath endless layers of indifferent silence. Their powers were immense, their appetites insatiable. All that came down from the lit world above settled into their embrace.
The surface of the seas, every sailor knew, was ephemeral. Quaint sketchings across an ever-changing slate, and lives were but sparks, so easily quenched by the demon forces that could rise from far below to shake their beast hides and so up-end the world.
Propitiation was aversion, a prayer to pass unnoticed, to escape untaken. Blood before the bow, dolphins dancing to starboard and a gob of spit to ride blessed winds. The left hand scrubs, the right hand dries. Wind widdershins on the cleats, sun-bleached rags tied to the sea-anchor’s chain. A score of gestures, unquestioned and bound in tradition, all to slide the seas in peace.
None sought to call up the ravelled spirits from those water-crushed valleys that saw no light. They were not things to be bound, after all. Nor bargained with. Their hearts beat in the cycles of the moon, their voice was the heaving storm and their wings could spread from horizon to horizon, in towering white-veined sheets of water that swept all before them.
Beneath the waves of Trate Harbour, with three dead ships like fins on its back, the bound spirit clambered in a surge of cold currents towards shore. The last spears of sunlight slanted through its swirling flesh, and the easing of massive pressures made the creature grow in size, pushing onto the rocky coastlines ahead and to the sides the bay’s own warmer waters, so that the fish and crustaceans of the shallows tumbled up from the waves in mangled shreds of flesh and shattered shell, granting the gulls and land crabs a sudden feast of slaughter.
The spirit lifted the ships, careering wild now, on a single wave that rose high as it swelled shoreward. The docks, which had a few moments earlier been crowded with silent onlookers, became a swarm of fleeing figures, the streets leading inland filling with stampedes that slowed to choking, crushing masses of humanity.
The wave tumbled closer, then suddenly fell away. Hulls thundered at the swift plunge, spars snapped and, on the third ship, the main mast exploded in a cloud of splintered wood. Rocking, trailing wreckage, the harvesters coasted between the piers.
Pressures drawing inward, building once more, the spirit withdrew from the bay. In its wake, devastation.
Glimmering in its obsidian world, the first ship crunched and slid against a pier, and came to a gentle rest. The white flecks of the gulls plunged down to the deck, to begin at long last their feeding. The Tarancede Tower had witnessed all, the smooth tiles near its pinnacle absorbing every flickering detail of the event, despite the failing light.
And, in a chamber beneath the old palace in the city of Letheras, far to the southeast, Ceda Kuru Qan watched. Before him lay a tile that matched those of the distant tower above Trate’s harbour, and, as he stared at the enormous black shadow that had filled the bay and most of the inlet, and was now beginning its slow withdrawal, the sorceror blinked sweat from his eyes and forced his gaze back to those three harvest ships now lolling against the piers.
The gulls and the gathering darkness made it difficult to see much, barring the twisted corpses huddled on the deck, and the last few flickering wraiths.
But Kuru Qan had seen enough.
Five wings to the Eternal Domicile, of which only three were complete. Each of the latter consisted of wide hallways with arched ceilings sheathed in gold-leaf. Between elaborate flying buttresses to either side and running the entire length were doorways leading to chambers that would serve as offices and domiciles of the Royal Household’s administrative and maintenance staff. Towards the centre the adjoining rooms would house guards, armouries and trapdoors leading to private passages – beneath ground level – that encircled the entire palace that was the heart of the Eternal Domicile.
At the moment, however, those passages were chest-deep in muddy water, through which rats moved with no particular purpose barring that of, possibly, pleasure. Brys Beddict stood on a landing three steps from the silt-laden flood and watched the up-thrust heads swimming back and forth in the gloom. Beside him stood a palace engineer covered in drying mud.
‘The pumps are next to useless,’ the man was saying. ‘We went with big hoses, we went with small ones, made no difference. Once the pull got strong enough in went a rat, or ten, plugging things up. Besides, the seep’s as steady as ever. Though the Plumbs still swear we’re above the table here.’
‘I’m sure the Ceda will consent to attaching a mage to your crew.’
‘I’d appreciate it, Finadd. All we need is to hold the flow back for a time, so’s we can bucket the water out and the catchers can go down and collect the rats. We lost Ormly last night, the palace’s best catcher. Likely drowned – the fool couldn’t swim. If the Errant’s looking away, we might be spared finding much more than bones. Rats know when it’s a catcher they’ve found, you know.’
‘These tunnels are essential to maintaining the security of the king-’
‘Well, ain’t nobody likely to try using them if they’re flooded-’
‘Not as a means of ingress for assassins,’ Brys cut in. ‘They are to permit the swift passage of guards to any area above that is breached.’
‘Yes, yes. I was only making a joke, Finadd. Of course, you could choose fast swimmers among your guards… all right, never mind. Get us a mage to sniff round and tell us what’s going on and then to stop the water coming in and we’ll take care of the rest.’
‘Presumably,’ Brys said, ‘this is not indicative of subsidence-’
‘Like the other wings? No, nothing’s slumped – we’d be able to tell. Anyway, there’s rumours that those ones are going to get a fresh look at. A new construction company has been working down there, nearby. Some fool bought up the surrounding land. There’s whispers they’ve figured out how to shore up buildings.’
‘Really? I’ve heard nothing about it.’
‘The guilds aren’t happy about it, that’s for sure, since these upstarts are hiring the Unwelcomes – those malcontents who made the List. Paying ’em less than the usual rate, though, which is the only thing going for them, I suppose. The guilds can’t close them down so long as they do that.’ The engineer shrugged, began prying pieces of hardened clay from his forearms, wincing at the pulled hairs. ‘Of course, if the royal architects decide that Bugg’s shoring works, then that company’s roll is going sky-high.’
Brys slowly turned from his study of the rats and eyed the engineer. ‘Bugg?’
‘Damn, I need a bath. Look at my nails. Yeah, Bugg’s Construction. There must be a Bugg, then, right? Else why name it Bugg’s Construction?’
A shout from a crewman down on the lowest step, then a scream. Wild scrambling up to the landing, where the worker spun round and pointed.
A mass of rats, almost as wide as the passageway itself, had edged into view. Moving like a raft, it crept into the pool of lantern light towards the stairs. In its centre – the revelation eliciting yet another scream from the worker and a curse from the engineer – floated a human head. Yellow-tinted silver hair, a pallid, deeply lined face with a forehead high and broad above staring, narrow-set eyes.
Other rats raced away as the raft slipped to nudge against the lowest step.
The worker gasped, ‘Errant take us, it’s Ormly!’
The eyes flickered, then the head was rising, lifting the nearest rats in the raft with it, humped over shoulders, streaming glimmering water. ‘Who in the Hold else would it be?’ the apparition snapped, pausing to hawk up a mouthful of phlegm and spitting it into the swirling water. ‘Like my trophies?’ he asked, raising his arms beneath the vast cape of rats. ‘Strings and tails. Damned heavy when wet, though.’
‘We thought you were dead,’ the engineer muttered, in a tone suggesting that he would rather it were true.
‘You thought. You’re always thinking, ain’t ya, Grum? Maybe this, probably that, could be, might be, should be – hah! Think these rats scared me? Think I was just going to drown? Hold’s welcoming pit, I’m a catcher and not any old catcher. They know me, all right. Every rat in this damned city knows Ormly the Catcher! Who’s this?’
‘Finadd Brys Beddict.’ The King’s Champion introduced himself. ‘That is an impressive collection of trophies you’ve amassed there, Catcher.’
The man’s eyes brightened. ‘Isn’t it just! Better when it’s floating, though. Right now, damned heavy. Damned heavy.’
‘Best climb out from under it,’ Brys suggested. ‘Engineer Grum, I think a fine meal, plenty of wine and a night off is due Ormly the Catcher.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I will speak with the Ceda regarding your request.’
‘Thanks.’
Brys left them on the landing. It seemed increasingly unlikely that the Eternal Domicile would be ready for the birth of the Eighth Age.
Among the populace, there seemed to be less than faint enthusiasm for the coming celebration. The histories might well recount prophecies about the glorious empire destined to rise once more in less than a year from now, but in truth, there was little in this particular time that supported the notion of a renaissance, neither economically nor militarily. If anything, there was a slight uneasiness, centred on the impending treaty gathering with the tribes of the Tiste Edur. Risk and opportunity; the two were synonymous for the Letherii. Even so, war was never pleasant, although thus far always satisfactory in its conclusion. Thus risk led to opportunity, with few thoughts spared for the defeated.
Granted, the Edur tribes were now united. At the same time, other such alliances had formed in opposition to Letherii ambitions in the past, and not one had proved immune to divisive strategies. Gold bought betrayal again and again. Alliances crumbled and the enemy collapsed. What likelihood that it would be any different this time round?
Brys wondered at the implicit complacency of his own people. He was not, he was certain, misreading public sentiment. Nerves were on edge, but only slightly. Markets remained strong. And the day-in, day-out mindless yearnings of a people for whom possession was everything continued unabated.
Within the palace, however, emotions were more fraught. The Ceda’s divinations promised a fundamental alteration awaiting Lether. Kuru Qan spoke, in a meandering, bemused way, of some sort of Ascension. A transformation… from king to emperor, although how such a progression would manifest itself remained to be seen. The annexation of the Tiste Edur and their rich homelands would indeed initiate a renewed vigour, a frenzy of profit. Victory would carry its own affirmation of the righteousness of Lether and its ways.
Brys emerged from the Second Wing and made his way down towards Narrow Canal. It was late morning, almost noon. Earlier that day, he had exercised and sparred with the other off-duty palace guards in the compound backing the barracks, then had breakfasted at a courtyard restaurant alongside Quillas Canal, thankful for this brief time of solitude, although his separation from the palace – permitted only because the king was visiting the chambers of the First Concubine and would not emerge until mid-afternoon – was an invisible tether that gradually tightened, until he felt compelled to resume his duties by visiting the Eternal Domicile and checking on progress there. And then back to the old palace.
To find it, upon passing through the main gate and striding into the Grand Hall, in an uproar.
Heart thudding hard in his chest, Brys approached the nearest guard. ‘Corporal, what has happened?’
The soldier saluted. ‘Not sure, Finadd. News from Trate, I gather. The Edur have slaughtered some Letherii sailors. With foulest sorcery.’
‘The king?’
‘Has called a council in two bells’ time.’
‘Thank you, Corporal.’
Brys continued on into the palace.
He made his way into the inner chambers. Among the retainers and messengers rushing along the central corridor he saw Chancellor Triban Gnol standing with a handful of followers, a certain animation to his whispered conversation. The man’s dark eyes flicked to Brys as the Champion strode past, but his lips did not cease moving. Behind the Chancellor, Brys saw, was the Queen’s Consort, Turudal Brizad, leaning insouciantly against the wall, his soft, almost feminine features displaying a faint smirk.
Brys had always found the man strangely disturbing, and it had nothing to do with his singular function as consort to Janall. He was a silent presence, often at meetings dealing with the most sensitive issues of state, ever watchful despite his studied indifference. And it was well known that he shared his bed with more than just the queen, although whether Janall herself knew of that was the subject of conjecture in the court. Among his lovers, it was rumoured, was Chancellor Triban Gnol.
An untidy nest, all in all.
The door to the First Eunuch’s office was closed and guarded by two of Nifadas’s own Rulith, eunuch bodyguards, tall men with nothing of the common body-fat one might expect to see. Heavy kohl lined their eyes and red paint broadened their mouths into a perpetual down-turned grimace. Their only weapons were a brace of hooked daggers sheathed under their crossed arms, and if they wore any armour it was well disguised beneath long, crimson silk shirts and tan pantaloons. They were barefoot.
Both nodded and stepped aside to permit Brys to pass.
He tugged the braided tassel and could faintly hear the dull chime sound in the chamber beyond.
The door clicked open.
Nifadas was alone, standing behind his desk, the surface of which was crowded with scrolls and unfurled maps. His back was to the room, and he seemed to be staring at a wall. ‘King’s Champion. I have been expecting you.’
‘This seemed the first in order, First Eunuch.’
‘Just so.’ He was silent for a few heartbeats, then: ‘There are beliefs that constitute the official religion of a nation, but those beliefs and that religion are in truth little more than the thinnest gold hammered on far older bones. No nation is singular, or exclusive – rather, it should not be, for its own good. There is much danger in asserting for oneself a claim to purity, whether of blood or of origin. Few may acknowledge it, but Lether is far richer for its devouring minorities, provided that digestion remains eternally incomplete.
‘Be that as it may, Finadd, I confess to you a certain ignorance. The palace isolates those trapped within it, and its roots nurture poorly. I would know of the people’s private beliefs.’
Brys thought for a moment, then asked, ‘Can you be more specific, First Eunuch?’
Nifadas still did not turn to face him. ‘The seas. The denizens of the deep. Demons and old gods, Brys.’
‘The Tiste Edur call the dark waters the realm of Galain, which is said to belong to kin, for whom Darkness is home. The Tarthenal, I have heard, view the seas as a single beast with countless limbs – including those that reach inland as rivers and streams. The Nerek fear it as their netherworld, a place where drowning is eternal, a fate awaiting betrayers and murderers.’
‘And the Letherii?’
Brys shrugged. ‘Kuru Qan knows more of this than I, First Eunuch. Sailors fear but do not worship. They make sacrifices in the hopes of avoiding notice. On the seas, the arrogant suffer, whilst only the meek survive, although it’s said if abasement is carried too far, the hunger below grows irritated and spiteful. Tides and currents reveal the patterns one must follow, which in part explains the host of superstitions and rituals demanded of those who would travel by sea.’
‘And this… hunger below. It has no place among the Holds?’
‘Not that I know of, First Eunuch.’
Nifadas finally turned, regarded Brys with half-closed eyes. ‘Does that not strike you as odd, Finadd Beddict? Lether was born of colonists who came here from the First Empire. That First Empire was then destroyed, the paradise razed to lifeless desert. Yet it was the First Empire in which the Holds were first discovered. True, the Empty Hold proved a later manifestation, at least in so far as it related to ourselves. Thus, are we to imagine that yet older beliefs survived and were carried to this new land all those millennia ago? Or, conversely, does each land – and its adjoining seas – evoke an indigenous set of beliefs? If that is the case, then the argument supporting the presence of physical, undeniable gods is greatly supported.’
‘But even then,’ Brys said, ‘there is no evidence that such gods are remotely concerned with mortal affairs. I do not think sailors envisage the hunger I spoke of as a god. More as a demon, I think.’
‘To answer the unanswerable, a need from which we all suffer.’ Nifadas sighed. ‘Finadd, the independent seal harvesters were all slain. Three of their ships survived the return journey to Trate, crewed up to the very piers by Edur wraiths, yet carried on seas that were more than seas. A demon, such as the sailors swear upon… yet, it was something far more, or so our Ceda believes. Are you familiar with Faraed beliefs? Theirs is an oral tradition, and if the listing of generations is accurate and not mere poetic pretence, then the tradition is ancient indeed. The Faraed creation myths centre on Elder gods. Each named and aspected, a divisive pantheon of entirely unwholesome personalities. In any case, among them is the Elder Lord of the Seas, the Dweller Below. It is named Mael. Furthermore, the Faraed have singled out Mael in their oldest stories. It once walked this land, Finadd, as a physical manifestation, following the death of an Age.’
‘An Age? What kind of Age?’
‘Of the time before the Faraed, I think. There are… contradictions and obscurities.’
‘Ceda Kuru Qan believes the demon that carried the ships was this Mael?’
‘If it was, then Mael has suffered much degradation. Almost mindless, a turgid maelstrom of untethered emotions. But powerful none the less.’
‘Yet the Tiste Edur have chained it?’
Nifadas’s thin brows rose. ‘Clear a path through a forest and every beast will use it. Is this control? Of a sort, perhaps.’
‘Hannan Mosag sought to make a statement.’
‘Indeed, Finadd, and so he has. Yet is it a true statement or deceptive bravado?’
Brys shook his head. He had no answer to offer.
Nifadas swung away once more. ‘The king has deemed this of sufficient import. The Ceda even now prepares the… means. None the less, you deserve the right to be asked rather than commanded.’
‘What is it I am asked to do, First Eunuch?’
A faint shrug. ‘Awaken an Elder god.’
‘There is great flux in the composite. Is this relevant? I think not.’ Ceda Kuru Qan pushed his wire-bound lenses further up the bridge of his nose and peered at Brys. ‘This is a journey of the mind, King’s Champion, yet the risk to you is such that you might as well travel into the netherworld in truth. If your mind is slain, there is no return. Extreme necessity, alas; the king wills that you proceed.’
‘I did not imagine that there would be no danger, Ceda. Tell me will my martial skills be applicable?’
‘Unknown. But you are young, quick-witted and resilient.’ He turned away and scanned the cluttered worktop behind him. ‘Great flux, alas. Leaving but one choice.’ He reached out and picked up a goblet. A pause, a dubious squint at its contents, then he took a cautious sip. ‘Ah! As suspected. The flux in the composite is due entirely to curdled milk Brys Beddict, are you ready?’
The King’s Champion shrugged.
Kuru Qan nodded. ‘I was going to have you drink this.’
‘Curdled milk will not harm me,’ Brys said, taking the goblet from the Ceda. He quickly tossed it down, then set the silver cup on the table. ‘How long?’
‘For what?’
‘Until the potion takes effect.’
‘What potion? Come with me. We shall use the Cedance for this journey.’
Brys followed the old sorceror from the chamber. At the door he cast a glance back at the goblet. The mixture had tasted of citrus and sour goat’s milk; he could already feel it bubbling ominously in his stomach. ‘I must now assume there was no purpose to what I just drank.’
‘A repast. One of my experiments. I was hoping you’d enjoy it, but judging by your pallor it would seem that that was not the case.’
‘I’m afraid you are correct.’
‘Ah well, if it proves inimical you will no doubt bring it back up.’
‘That’s comforting knowledge, Ceda.’
The remainder of the journey to the palace depths was mercifully uneventful. Ceda Kuru Qan led Brys into the vast chamber where waited the tiles of the Holds. ‘We shall employ a tile of the Fulcra in this effort, King’s Champion. Dolmen.’
They walked out across the narrow causeway to the central disc. The massive tiles stretched out on all sides beneath them.
The roiling in Brys’s stomach had subsided somewhat. He waited for the Ceda to speak.
‘Some things are important. Others are not. Yet all would claim a mortal’s attention. It falls to each of us to remain ever mindful, and thus purchase wisdom in the threading of possibilities. It is our common failing, Brys Beddict, that we are guided by our indifference to eventualities. The moment pleases, the future can await consideration.
‘The old histories we brought with us from the First Empire recount similar failings. Rich ports at river mouths that were abandoned after three centuries, due to silting caused by the clearing of forests and poorly conceived irrigation methods. Ports that, were you to visit their ruins now, you would find a league or more inland of the present coast. The land crawls to the sea; it was ever thus. Even so, what we humans do can greatly accelerate the process.
‘Is all that relevant? Only partly, I admit. As I must perforce admit to many things, I admit to that. There are natural progressions that, when unveiled, are profoundly exemplary of the sheer vastness of antiquity. Beyond even the age of the existence of people, this world is very, very old, Brys Beddict.’ Kuru Qan gestured.
Brys looked down to where he had indicated, and saw the tile of the Dolmen. The carved and painted image depicted a single, tilted monolith half-buried in lifeless clay. The sky behind it was colourless and devoid of features.
‘Even seas are born only to one day die,’ Kuru Qan said. ‘Yet the land clings to its memory, and all that it has endured is clawed onto its visage. Conversely, at the very depths of the deepest ocean, you will find the traces of when it stood above the waves. It is this knowledge that we shall use, Brys.’
‘Nifadas was rather vague as to my task, Ceda. I am to awaken Mael, presumably to apprise the Elder god that it is being manipulated. But I am not a worshipper, nor is there a single Letherii who would claim otherwise for him or herself – why would Mael listen to me?’
‘I have no idea, Brys. You shall have to improvise.’
‘And if this god is truly and absolutely fallen, until it is little more than a mindless beast, then what?’
Kuru Qan blinked behind the lenses, and said nothing.
Brys shifted uneasily. ‘If my mind is all that shall make the journey, how will I appear to myself? Can I carry weapons?’
‘How you manifest your defences is entirely up to you, Finadd. Clearly, I anticipate you will find yourself as you are now. Armed and armoured. All conceit, of course, but that is not relevant. Shall we begin?’
‘Very well.’
Kuru Qan stepped forward, one arm snapping out to grasp Brys by his weapons harness. A savage, surprisingly powerful tug pitched him forward, headlong over the edge of the disc. Shouting in alarm, he flailed about, then plummeted down towards the tile of the Dolmen.
‘Even in the noblest of ventures, there’s the occasional stumble.’
Bugg’s eyes were flat, his lined face expressionless, as he stared steadily at Tehol without speaking.
‘Besides, it’s only a small failing, all things considered. As for myself, why, I am happy enough. Truly. Yours is the perfectly understandable disappointment and, dare I say it, a modest battering of confidence, that comes with an effort poorly conceived. No fault in the deed itself, I assure you.’ As proof he did a slow turn in front of his manservant. ‘See? The legs are indeed of matching length. I shall remain warm, no matter how cool the nights become. Granted, we don’t have cool nights. Sultry is best we can manage, I’ll grant you, but what’s a little sweat between… uh… the legs?’
‘That shade of grey and that tone of yellow are the worst combination I have ever attempted, master,’ Bugg said. ‘I grow nauseous just looking at you.’
‘But what has that to do with the trousers?’
‘Very little, admittedly. My concern is with principles, of course.’
‘Can’t argue with that. Now, tell me of the day’s doings, and hurry up, I’ve a midnight date with a dead woman.’
‘The extent of your desperation, master, never fails to astonish me.’
‘Did our favourite money-lender commit suicide as woefully anticipated?’
‘With nary a hitch.’
‘Barring the one by which he purportedly hung himself?’
‘As you say, but that was before fire tragically swept through his premises.’
‘And any word on Finadd Gerun Eberict’s reaction to all this?’
‘Decidedly despondent, master.’
‘But not unduly suspicious?’
‘Who can say? His agents have made inquiries, but more directly towards a search for a hidden cache of winnings, an attempt to recoup the loss and such. No such fortune, however, has surfaced.’
‘And it had better not. Eberict needs to swallow the loss entire, not that it was in truth a loss, only a denial of increased fortune. His primary investments remain intact, after all. Now, stop blathering, Bugg. I need to do some thinking.’ Tehol hitched up his trousers, wincing at Bugg’s sudden frown. ‘Must be losing weight,’ he muttered, then began pacing.
Four steps brought him to the roof’s edge. He wheeled and faced Bugg. ‘What’s that you’re wearing?’
‘It’s the latest fashion among masons and such.’
‘The Dusty Few.’
‘Exactly.’
‘A wide leather belt with plenty of loops and pouches.’
Bugg nodded.
‘Presumably,’ Tehol continued, ‘there are supposed to be tools and assorted instruments in those loops and pouches. Things a mason might use.’
‘Well, I run the company. I don’t use those things.’
‘But you need the belt.’
‘If I’m to be taken seriously, master, yes.’
‘Oh yes, that is important, isn’t it? Duly noted in expenses, I presume?’
‘Of course. That and the wooden hat.’
‘You mean one of those red bowl-shaped things?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So why aren’t you wearing it?’
‘I’m not working right now. Not as sole proprietor of Bugg’s Construction, anyway.’
‘Yet you’ve got the belt.’
‘It’s comforting, master. I suppose this must be what it’s like wearing a sword-belt. There’s something immensely reassuring about a solid weight on the hips.’
‘As if you were eternally duelling with your materials.’
‘Yes, master. Are you done with your thinking?’
‘I am.’
‘Good.’ Bugg unstrapped his belt and tossed it to the rooftop. ‘Makes my hips lopsided. I walk in circles.’
‘How about some herbal tea?’
‘I’d love some.’
‘Excellent.’
They stared at one another for a moment longer, then Bugg nodded and made his way to the ladder. As soon as his back was turned, Tehol tugged the trousers higher once more. Glancing down at the belt, he hesitated, then shook his head. That would be a presumption.
Bugg climbed down and out of sight. Tehol strode to his bed and settled down on the creaking frame. He stared up at the murky stars. A holiday festival was approaching, this one dedicated to the Errant, that eternally mysterious purveyor of chance, fateful circumstance and ill-chosen impulses. Or some such thing. Tehol was never certain. The Holds and their multitude of denizens were invented as dependable sources of blame for virtually anything, or so he suspected. Evading responsibility was a proclivity of the human species, it seemed.
There would be vast senseless celebration, in any case. Of something, perhaps nothing, and certainly involving everything. Frenzied wagers at the Special Drownings, in which the most notorious criminals would try to swim like swans. People who liked to be seen would make a point of being seen. Spectacle was an investment in worthy indolence, and indolence bespoke wealth. And meanwhile, housebound guards in empty estates would mutter and doze at their posts.
A scuffing sound from the gloom to his right. Tehol glanced over. ‘You’re early.’
Shurq Elalle stepped closer. ‘You said midnight.’
‘Which is at least two bells from now.’
‘Is it? Oh.’
Tehol sat up. ‘Well, you’re here. No point in sending you away. Even so, we’re not to visit Selush until a chime past midnight.’
‘We could go early.’
‘We could, although I’d rather not alarm her. She indicated she’d need lots of supplies, after all.’
‘What makes me worse than any other corpse?’
‘Other corpses don’t fight back, for one thing.’
The undead woman came closer. ‘Why would I feel compelled to resist? Is she not simply making me pretty?’
‘Of course. I was just making conversation. And how have you been, Shurq Elalle?’
‘The same.’
‘The same. Which is?’
‘I’ve been better. Still, many would call consistency a virtue. Those are extraordinary trousers.’
‘I agree. Not to everyone’s taste, alas-’
‘I have no taste.’
‘Ah. And is that a consequence of being dead, or a more generic self-admission?’
The flat, lifeless eyes, which had until now been evading direct contact, fixed on Tehol. ‘I was thinking… the night of Errant’s Festival.’
Tehol smiled. ‘You anticipate me, Shurq.’
‘There are sixteen guards on duty at all times, with an additional eight sleeping or gambling in the barracks, which is attached to the estate’s main house via a single covered walkway that is nineteen strides in length. All outer doors are double-barred. There are four guards stationed in cubbies at each corner of the roof, and wards skeined over every window. The estate walls are twice the height of a man.’
‘Sounds formidable.’
Shurq Elalle’s shrug elicited a wet-leather sound, though whether from her clothes or from somewhere else could not be determined.
Bugg reappeared, climbing one-handed, the other balancing a tray made from a crate lid. Two clay cups were on the tray, their contents steaming. He slowly edged onto the roof, then, glancing up and seeing the two of them, he halted in consternation. ‘My apologies. Shurq Elalle, greetings. Would you care for some tea?’
‘Don’t be absurd.’
‘Ah, yes. Thoughtless of me. Your pardon.’ Bugg walked over with the tray.
Tehol collected his cup and cautiously sniffed. Then he frowned at his manservant.
Who shrugged. ‘We don’t have no herbs, master. I had to improvise.’
‘With what? Sheep hide?’
Bugg’s brows rose. ‘Very close indeed. I had some leftover wool.’
‘The yellow or the grey?’
‘The grey.’
‘Well, that’s all right, then.’ He sipped. ‘Smooth.’
‘Yes, it would be.’
‘We’re not poisoning ourselves, are we?’
‘Only mildly, master.’
‘There are times,’ Shurq Elalle said, ‘when I regret being dead. This is not one of those times, however.’
The two men eyed her speculatively, sipping at their tea.
‘Ideally,’ she continued, ‘I would now clear my throat to cover this moment of awkwardness. But I am incapable of feeling any more awkward than is my normal state. Secondly, clearing my throat has unpleasant consequences.’
‘Ah, but Selush has devised a pump,’ Tehol said. ‘The operation will be, uh, not for the delicate. Even so, soon you shall exude the perfume of roses.’
‘And how will she manage that?’
‘With roses, I imagine.’
Shurq raised a thin brow. ‘I am to be stuffed with dried flowers?’
‘Well, not everywhere, of course.’
‘A practical question, Tehol Beddict. How am I to be stealthy if I crackle with every step I take?’
‘A good question. I suggest you bring that up with Selush.’
‘Along with everything else, it would seem. Shall I resume my account of the potential victim’s estate? I assume your manservant is trustworthy.’
‘Exceptionally so,’ Tehol replied. ‘Please continue.’
‘Finadd Gerun Eberict will be attending the Special Drownings, whereupon, at its conclusion, he will be a guest at an event hosted by Turudal Brizad-’
‘The Queen’s Consort?’
‘Yes. I once robbed him.’
‘Indeed! And what did you take?’
‘His virginity. We were very young – well, he was, anyway. This was long before he danced at the palace and so earned the interest of the queen.’
‘Now that’s an interesting detail. Were you his true love, if I may ask such a personal question?’
‘Turudal’s only love is for himself. As I said, he was younger and I the older. Of course, he’s now older than me, which is a curious fact. Somewhat curious, anyway. In any case, there was no shortage of men and women pursuing him even back then. I imagine he believed the conquest was his. Perhaps he still does. The measure of the perfect theft is when the victim remains blissfully unaware that he or she has been stolen from.’
‘I’d think,’ observed Bugg, ‘that Turudal Brizad did not regret his surrender.’
‘None the less,’ Shurq Elalle said. She was silent, then: ‘There is nothing in this world that cannot be stolen.’
‘And with that thought swirling like lanolin in our stomachs,’ Tehol said, setting his cup down, ‘you and I should take a walk, Shurq.’
‘How far to Selush’s?’
‘We can stretch it out. Thank you, dear Bugg, for the delightfully unique refreshment. Clean up around here, will you?’
‘If I’ve the time.’
Shurq hesitated. ‘Should I climb down the wall then shadow you unseen?’
Tehol frowned. ‘Only if you must. You could just draw that hood up and so achieve anonymity.’
‘Very well. I will meet you in the street, so that I am not seen exiting a house I never entered.’
‘There are still watchers spying on me?’
‘Probably not, but it pays to be cautious.’
‘Very good. I will see you in a moment, then.’
Tehol descended the ladder. The single room reeked of sheep sweat, and the heat from the hearth was fierce. He quickly made his way outside, turned right instead of left and came to what had once been a sort of unofficial mews, now cluttered with refuse and discarded building materials, the fronts facing onto it sealed by bricks or doors with their latches removed.
Shurq Elalle emerged from the shadows, her hood drawn about her face. ‘Tell me more about this Selush.’
They began walking, threading single file down a narrow lane to reach the street beyond. ‘A past associate of Bugg’s. Embalmers and other dealers of the dead are a kind of extended family, it seems. Constantly exchanging techniques and body parts. It’s quite an art, I gather. A body’s story can be unfurled from a vast host of details, to be read like a scroll.’
‘What value assembling a list of flaws when the subject is already dead?’
‘Morbid curiosity, I imagine. Or curious morbidity.’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘Never, Shurq Elalle. I have taken to heart your warnings on that.’
‘You, Tehol Beddict, are very dangerous to me. Yet I am drawn, as if you were intellectual white nectar. I thirst for the tension created by my struggle to avoid being too amused.’
‘Well, if Selush succeeds in what she intends, the risk associated with laughter will vanish, and you may chortle fearlessly.’
‘Even when I was alive, I never chortled. Nor do I expect to do so now that I am dead. But what you suggest invites… disappointment. A releasing of said tension, a dying of the sparks. I now fear getting depressed.’
‘The risk of achieving what you wish for,’ Tehol said, nodding as they reached Trench Canal and began to walk along its foul length. ‘I empathize, Shurq Elalle. It is a sore consequence to success.’
‘Tell me what you know of the old tower in the forbidden grounds behind the palace.’
‘Not much, except that your undead comrade resides in the vicinity. The girl.’
‘Yes, she does. I have named her Kettle.’
‘We cross here.’ Tehol indicated a footbridge. ‘She means something to you?’
‘That is difficult to answer. Perhaps. It may prove that she means something to all of us, Tehol Beddict.’
‘Ah. And can I be of some help in this matter?’
‘Your offer surprises me.’
‘I endeavour to remain ever surprising, Shurq Elalle.’
‘I am seeking to discover her… history. It is, I think, important. The old tower appears to be haunted in some way, and that haunting is in communication with Kettle. It poses desperate need.’
‘For what?’
‘Human flesh.’
‘Oh my.’
‘In any case, this is why Gerun Eberict is losing the spies he sets on you.’
Tehol halted. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Kettle kills them.’
Steeply sloped, the black wall of rock reached up into the light. The currents swept across its rippled face with unceasing ferocity, and all that clung to it to draw sustenance from that roiling stream was squat, hard-shelled and stubborn. Vast flats stretched out from the base of the trench wall, and these were scoured down to bedrock. Enormous tangled islands of detritus, crushed and bound together by unimaginable pressures, crawled across the surface, like migrating leviathans in the flow of dark water.
Brys stood on the plain, watching the nearest tumbling mass roll past. He knew he was witness to sights no mortal had ever seen, where natural eyes would see only darkness, where the pressures would have long since killed corporeal flesh descending from the surface far above. Yet here he stood, to his own senses as real, as physical, as he had been in the palace. Clothed, armoured, his sword hanging at his hip. He could feel the icy water and its wild torrent in a vague, remote fashion, but the currents could not challenge his balance, could not drag him off his feet. Nor did the cold steal the strength from his limbs.
He drew breath, and the air was cool and damp – it was, he realized, the air of the subterranean chamber of the Cedance.
That recognition calmed his heart, diminished his disorientation.
A god dwells in this place. It seemed well suited for such a thing. Primal, fraught with extremes, a realm of raw violence and immense, clashing forces of nature.
Another mass of wreckage shambled past, and Brys saw, amidst pale, skeletal branches and what seemed to be bundles of unravelled rope, flattened pieces of metal whose edges showed extruded white tendrils. By the Errant, that metal is armour, and those tendrils are…
The detritus tumbled away. As it did, Brys saw something beyond it. Stationary, blockish, vertical shapes rearing from the plain.
He walked towards them.
Dolmens.
This beggared comprehension. It seemed impossible that the plain before him had once known air, sunlight and dry winds.
And then he saw that the towering stones were of the same rock as the plain, and that they were indeed part of it, lifting as solid projections. As Brys drew nearer, he saw that their surfaces were carved, an unbroken skein of linked glyphs.
Six dolmens in all, forming a row that cut diagonally from the angle of the trench wall.
He halted before the nearest one.
The glyphs formed a silver latticework over the black stone, and in the uneven surface beneath the symbols he saw the hints of a figure. Multi-limbed, the head small, sloping and squat, a massive brow ridge projecting over a single eye socket. The broad mouth appeared to be a row of elongated tendrils, the end of each sporting long, thin fangs, and it was closed to form an interlocking, spiny row. Six segmented arms, two – possibly four – legs, barely suggested in the black stone’s undulations.
The glyphs shrouded the figure, and Brys suspected they formed a prison of sorts, a barrier that prevented the emergence of the creature.
The silver seemed to flow in its carved grooves.
Brys circled the dolmen, and saw other shapes on every side, no two alike, a host of nightmarish, demonic beasts. After a long moment’s regard, he moved on to the next standing stone. And found more.
The fourth dolmen was different. On one side the glyphs had unravelled, the silver bled away, and where a figure should have been there was a suggestive indentation, a massive, hulking creature, with snaking tentacles for limbs.
The mute absence was chilling. Something was loose, and Brys did not think it was a god.
Mael, where are you? Are these your servants?
Or your trophies?
He stared up at the indentation. The absence here was more profound than that which reared before him. His soul whispered… abandonment. Mael was gone. This world had been left to the dark, torrid currents and the herds of detritus.
‘Come for another one, have you?’
Brys whirled. Ten paces away stood a huge figure sheathed in armour. Black, patinated iron studded with rivets green with verdigris. A great helm with full cheek guards vertically slatted down to the jaw-line, reinforced along the bridge of the nose to the chin. The thin eye slits were caged in a grille mesh that extended down beneath the guards to hang ragged and stiff on shoulders and breastplate. Barnacles crusted the joints of arms and legs, and tendrils of brightly coloured plants clinging to joins in the armour streamed in the current. Gauntlets of overlapping plates of untarnished silver held on to a two-handed sword, the blade as wide as Brys’s hands were long. The sword’s blunt end rested on the bedrock. From those metal-clad hands, he now saw, blood streamed.
The Letherii drew his own longsword. The roiling currents suddenly tugged at him, as if whatever had held him immune to the ravages of this deep world had vanished. The blade was turned and twisted in his hand with every surge of water. To counter such a weapon as that wielded by the warrior, he would need speed, his primary tactic one of evasion. The Letherii steel of his longsword would not break clashing in hard parry, but his arms might.
And now, the currents buffeted him, battled with the sword in his hand. He had no hope of fighting this creature.
The words the warrior had spoken were in a language unknown to Brys, yet he understood it. ‘Come for another one? I am not here to free these demons from their sorcerous cages-’
The apparition stepped forward. ‘Demons? There are no demons here. Only gods. Forgotten gods. You think the skein of words is a prison?’
‘I do not know what to think. I do not know the words written-’
‘Power is remembrance. Power is evocation – a god dies when it becomes nameless. Thus did Mael offer this gift, this sanctuary. Without their names, the gods vanish. The crime committed here is beyond measure. The obliteration of the names, the binding of a new name, the making of a slave. Beyond measure, mortal. In answer I was made, to guard those that remain. It is my task.’ The sword lifted and the warrior took another step closer.
Some fighters delivered an unseen wound before weapons were even drawn. In them, raised like a penumbra, was the promise of mortality. It drew blood, weakened will and strength. Brys had faced men and women with this innate talent before. And he had answered it with… amusement.
The guardian before him promised such mortality, with palpable force.
Another heavy step. A force to match the roiling waters. In sudden understanding, Brys smiled.
The vicious current ceased its maelstrom. Speed and agility returned in a rush.
The huge sword slashed horizontally. Brys leapt back, the point of his sword darting out and up in a stop-thrust against the only target within reach.
Letherii steel slipped in between the silver plates of the left gauntlet, sank deep.
Behind them a dolmen exploded, the concussion thundering through the bedrock underfoot. The warrior staggered, then swung his sword in a downward chop. Brys threw himself backward, rolling over one shoulder to regain his feet in a crouch.
The warrior’s sword had driven into the basalt a quarter of its length.
And was stuck fast.
He darted to close. Planting his left leg behind the guardian, Brys set both hands against the armoured chest and shoved.
The effort failed as the guardian held himself upright by gripping the embedded sword.
Brys spun and hammered his right elbow into the iron-sheathed face. Pain exploded in his arm as the head was snapped back, and the Letherii pitched to one side, his left hand taking the longsword from his fast-numbing right.
The warrior tugged on his own sword, but it did not budge.
Brys leapt forward once again, driving his left boot down onto the side of the guardian’s nearest leg, low, a hand’s width above the ankle.
Ancient iron crumpled. Bones snapped.
The warrior sank down on that side, yet remained partly upright by leaning on the jammed sword.
Brys quickly backed away. ‘Enough. I have no desire to kill any more gods.’
The armoured face lifted to regard him. ‘I am defeated. We have failed.’
The Letherii studied the warrior for a long moment, then spoke. ‘The blood seeping from your hands – does it belong to the surviving gods here?’
‘Diminished, now.’
‘Can they heal you?’
‘No. We have nothing left.’
‘Why does the blood leak? What happens when it runs out?’
‘It is power. It steals courage – against you it failed. It was expected that the blood of slain enemies would… it does not matter now.’
‘What of Mael? Can you receive no help from him?’
‘He has not visited in thousands of years.’
Brys frowned. Kuru Qan had said to follow his instincts. He did not like what had come to pass here. ‘I would help. Thus, I would give you my own blood.’
The warrior was silent for a long time. Then, ‘You do not know what you offer, mortal.’
‘Well, I don’t mean to die. I intend to survive the ordeal. Will it suffice?’
‘Blood from a dying or dead foe has power. Compared to the blood from a mortal who lives, that power is minuscule. I say again, you do not know what you offer.’
‘I have more in mind, Guardian. May I approach?’
‘We are helpless before you.’
‘Your sword isn’t going anywhere, even with my help. I would give you mine. It cannot be broken, or so I am told. And indeed I have never seen Letherii steel break. Your two-handed weapon is only effective if your opponent quails and so is made slow and clumsy.’
‘So it would seem.’
Brys was pleased at the wry tone in the warrior’s voice. While there had been no self-pity in the admissions of failure, he had disliked hearing them. He reversed grip on his longsword and offered the pommel to the warrior. ‘Here.’
‘If I release my hands I will fall.’
‘One will do.’
The guardian prised a hand loose and grasped the longsword. ‘By the Abyss, it weighs as nothing!’
‘The forging is a secret art, known only to my people. It will not fail you.’
‘Do you treat all your defeated foes in this manner?’
‘No, only the ones I had no wish to harm in the first place.’
‘Tell me, mortal, are you considered a fine swordsman in your world?’
‘Passing.’ Brys tugged off the leather glove on his right hand, then drew his dagger. ‘This arm is still mostly numb-’
‘I am pleased. Although I wish I could say the same for my face.’
Brys cut his palm, watched as blood blossomed out to whip away on the current. He set the bleeding hand down on the warrior’s left, which was still closed about the grip of the embedded weapon. He felt his blood being drawn between the silver plates.
The warrior’s hand twisted round to grasp his own in a grip hard as stone. A clenching of muscles, and the guardian began straightening.
Brys glanced down and saw that the shattered leg was mending in painful-looking spasms, growing solid beneath the huge warrior’s weight.
Sudden weakness rushed through him.
‘Release my hand,’ the warrior said, ‘lest you die.’
Nodding, Brys pulled his hand free, and staggered back.
‘Will you live?’
‘I hope so,’ he gasped, his head spinning. ‘Now, before I go, tell me their names.’
‘What?’
‘I have a good memory, Guardian. There will be no more enslavement, so long as I remain alive. And beyond my life, I will ensure that those names are not forgotten-’
‘We are ancient gods, mortal. You risk-’
‘You have earned your peace, as far as I am concerned. Against the Tiste Edur – those who came before to chain one of your kin – you will be ready next time. My life can add to your strength, and hopefully it will be sufficient for you to resist.’
The guardian straightened to its full height. ‘It shall, mortal. Your sacrifice shall not be forgotten.’
‘The names! I feel – I am fading-’
Words filled his mind, a tumbling avalanche of names, each searing a brand in his memory. He screamed at the shock of the assault, of countless layers of grief, dreams, lives and deaths, of realms unimaginable, of civilizations crumbling to ruins, then dust.
Stories. So many stories – ah, Errant-
‘Errant save us, what have you done?’
Brys found himself lying on his back, beneath him a hard, enamelled floor. He blinked open his eyes and saw Kuru Qan’s wizened face hovering over him.
‘I could not find Mael,’ the King’s Champion said. He felt incredibly weak, barely able to lift a hand to his face.
‘You’ve scarcely a drop of blood left in you, Finadd. Tell me all that happened.’
The Holds forsake me, stories without end… ‘I discovered what the Tiste Edur have done, Ceda. An ancient god, stripped of its names, bound by a new one. It now serves the Edur.’
Kuru Qan’s eyes narrowed behind the thick lenses. ‘Stripped of its names. Relevant? Perhaps. Can one of those names be found? Will it serve to pry it loose from Hannan Mosag’s grasp?’
Brys closed his eyes. Of all the names now held within him… had any of the other gods known its kin’s identity? ‘I may have it, Ceda, but finding it will take time.’
‘You return with secrets, Finadd Brys Beddict.’
‘And barely a handful of answers.’
The Ceda leaned back. ‘You need time to recover, my young friend. Food, and wine, and plenty of both. Can you stand?’
‘I will try…’
The humble manservant Bugg walked through the darkness of Sherp’s Last Lane, so named because poor Sherp died there a few decades past. He had been a fixture in this neighbourhood, Bugg recalled. Old, half blind and muttering endlessly about a mysterious cracked altar long lost in the clay beneath the streets. Or, more specifically, beneath this particular lane.
His body had been found curled up within a scratched circle, amidst rubbish and a half-dozen neck-wrung rats. Peculiar as that had been, there were few who cared or were curious enough to seek explanations. People died in the alleys and streets all the time, after all.
Bugg missed old Sherp, even after all these years, but some things could not be undone.
He had been awakened by a rattling of the reed mat that now served as a door to Tehol’s modest residence. A dirt-smeared child delivering an urgent summons. She now scampered a few paces ahead, glancing back every now and then to make sure she was still being followed.
At the end of Sherp’s Last Lane was another alley, this one running perpendicular, to the left leading down to a sinkhole known as Errant’s Heel which had become a refuse pit, and to the right ceasing after fifteen paces in a ruined house with a mostly collapsed roof.
The child led Bugg to that ruin.
One section remained with sufficient headroom to stand, and in this chamber a family now resided. Nerek: six children and a grandmother who’d wandered down from the north after the children’s parents died of Truce Fever – which itself was a senseless injustice, since Truce Fever was easily cured by any Letherii healer, given sufficient coin.
Bugg did not know them, but he knew of them, and clearly they in turn had heard of the services he was prepared to offer, in certain circumstances, free of charge.
A tiny hand reached out to close about his own and the girl led him through the doorway into a corridor where he was forced to crouch beneath the sagging, sloping ceiling. Three paces along and the lower half of another doorway was revealed and, beyond it, a crowded room.
Smelling of death.
Murmured greetings and bowed heads as Bugg entered, his eyes settling on the motionless form lying on a bloody blanket in the room’s centre. After a moment’s study, he glanced up and sought out the gaze of the eldest of the children, a girl of about ten or eleven years of age – though possibly older and stunted by malnutrition, or younger and prematurely aged by the same. Large, hard eyes met his.
‘Where did you find her?’
‘She made it home,’ the girl replied, her tone wooden.
Bugg looked down at the dead grandmother once more. ‘From how far away?’
‘Buried Round, she said.’
‘She spoke, then, before life left her.’ Bugg’s jaw muscles bunched. Buried Round was two, three hundred paces distant. An extraordinary will, in the old woman, to have walked all that distance with two mortal sword-thrusts in her chest. ‘She knew great need, I think.’
‘To tell us who killed her, yes.’
And not to simply disappear, as so many of the destitute do, thus raising the spectre of abandonment – a scar these children could do without.
‘Who, then?’
‘She was crossing the Round, and found herself in the path of an entourage. Seven men and their master, all armed. The master was raging, something about all his spies disappearing. Our grandmother begged for coin. The master lost his mind with anger and ordered his guards to kill her. And so they did.’
‘And is the identity of this master known?’
‘You will find his face on newly minted docks.’
Ah.
Bugg knelt beside the old woman. He laid a hand on her cold, lined forehead, and sought the remnants of her life. ‘Urusan of the Clan known as the Owl. Her strength was born of love. For her grandchildren. She is gone, but she has not gone far.’ He raised his head and met the eyes of each of the six children. ‘I hear the shifting of vast stones, the grinding surrender of a long closed portal. There is cold clay, but it did not embrace her.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘I will prepare this flesh for Nerek interment-’
‘We would have your blessing,’ the girl said.
Bugg’s brows lifted. ‘Mine? I am not Nerek, nor even a priest-’
‘We would have your blessing.’
The manservant hesitated, then sighed. ‘As you will. But tell me, how will you live now?’
As if in answer there was a commotion at the doorway, then a huge figure lumbered into the small room, seeming to fill it entirely. He was young, his size and features evincing Tarthenal and Nerek blood both. Small eyes fixed upon Urusan’s corpse, and the whole face darkened.
‘And who is this?’ Bugg asked. A shifting of vast stones – now this… this shoving aside of entire mountains. What begins here?
‘Our cousin,’ the girl said, her eyes wide and adoring and full of pleading as she looked up at the young man. ‘He works on the harbour front. Unn is his name. Unn, this is the man known as Bugg. A dresser of the dead.’
Unn’s voice was so low-pitched it could barely be heard. ‘Who did this?’
Oh, Finadd Gerun Eberict, to your senseless feast of blood you shall have an uninvited guest, and something tells me you will come to regret it.
Selush of the Stinking House was tall and amply proportioned, yet her most notable feature was her hair. Twenty-seven short braids of the thick black hair, projecting in all directions, each wrapped round an antler tine, which meant that the braids curved and twisted in peculiar fashion. She was somewhere between thirty-five and fifty years of age, the obscurity the product of her formidable talent as a disguiser of flaws. Violet eyes, produced by an unusual ink collected from segmented worms that lived deep in the sand of the south island beaches, and lips kept full and red by a mildly toxic snake venom that she painted on every morning.
As she stood before Tehol and Shurq Elalle at the threshold of her modest and unfortunately named abode, she was dressed in skin-tight silks, inviting Tehol against his own sense of decorum to examine her nipples beneath the gilt sheen – and so it was a long moment before he looked up to see the alarm in her eyes.
‘You’re early! I wasn’t expecting you. Oh! Now I’m all nervous. Really, Tehol, you should know better than to do the unexpected! Is this the dead woman?’
‘If not,’ Shurq Elalle replied, ‘then I’m in even deeper trouble, wouldn’t you say?’
Selush stepped closer. ‘This is the worst embalming I’ve ever seen.’
‘I wasn’t embalmed.’
‘Oh! An outrage! How did you die?’
Shurq raised a lifeless brow. ‘I am curious. How often is that question answered by your clients?’
Selush blinked. ‘Enter, if you must. So early!’
‘My dear,’ Tehol said reasonably, ‘it’s less than a couple of hundred heartbeats from the midnight bell.’
‘Precisely! See how flustered you’ve made me? Quickly, inside, I must close the door. There! Oh, the dark streets are so frightening. Now, sweetie, let me look more closely at you. My servant was unusually reticent, I’m afraid.’ She abruptly leaned close until her nose was almost touching Shurq’s lips.
Tehol flinched, but luckily neither woman noticed.
‘You drowned.’
‘Really.’
‘In Quillas Canal. Just downstream of Windlow’s Meatgrinders on the last day of a summer month. Which one? Wanderer’s Month? Watcher’s?’
‘Betrayer’s.’
‘Oh! Windlow must have had unusually good business that month, then. Tell me, do people scream when they see you?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Me too.’
‘Do you,’ Shurq asked, ‘get compliments on your hair?’
‘Never.’
‘Well, that was pleasing small-talk,’ Tehol said hastily. ‘We haven’t got all night, alas-’
‘Why, yes we have, you silly man,’ Selush said.
‘Oh, right. Sorry. In any case. Shurq was a victim of the Drownings, and, it turned out, an abiding curse.’
‘Isn’t it always the way?’ Selush sighed, turning to walk to the long table along the back wall of the room.
‘Tehol mentioned roses,’ Shurq said, following.
‘Roses? Dear me, no. Cinnamon and patchouli, I would think. But first, we need to do something about all that mould, and the moss in your nostrils. And then there’s the ootooloo-’
‘The what?’ Shurq and Tehol asked in unison.
‘Lives in hot springs in the Bluerose Mountains.’ She swung about and regarded Shurq with raised brows. ‘A secret among women. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of them.’
‘It would seem my education is lacking.’
‘Well, an ootooloo is a small soft-bodied creature that feeds through a crevice, a sort of vertical slit for a mouth. Its skin is covered in cilia with the unusual quality of transmitting sensation. These cilia can take root in membranous flesh-’
‘Hold on a moment,’ Tehol said, aghast, ‘you’re not suggesting-’
‘Most men can’t tell the difference, but it enhances pleasure many times… or so I am led to believe. I have never invited one inside, since the emplacement of an ootooloo is permanent, and it needs, uhm, constant feeding.’
‘How often?’ Shurq demanded, and Tehol heard suitable alarm in her tone.
‘Daily.’
‘But Shurq’s nerves are dead – how can she feel what this ottoolie thing feels?’
‘Not dead, Tehol Beddict, simply unawakened. Besides, before too long, the ootooloo’s cilia will have permeated her entire body, and the healthier the organism the brighter and more vigorous her glowing flesh!’
‘I see. And what of my brain? Will these roots grow in it as well?’
‘Well, we can’t have that, can we, lest you live out the remainder of existence drooling in a hot bath. No, we shall infuse your brain with a poison – well, not a true poison, but the exudation of a small creature that shares those hot springs with the ootooloo. Said exudation is unpalatable to the ootooloo. Isn’t nature wonderful?’
Grainy-eyed, Bugg staggered inside his master’s home. It was less than an hour before dawn. He felt drained, more by the blessing he had given than by preparing the old woman’s corpse for burial. Two strides into the single room and he halted.
Seated on the floor and leaning against the wall opposite was Shand. ‘Where is the bastard, Bugg?’
‘Working, although I imagine you are sceptical. I’ve not slept this night and so am unequal to conversation, Shand-’
‘And I care? What kind of work? What’s he doing that has to be done when the rest of the world’s asleep?’
‘Shand, I-’
‘Answer me!’
Bugg walked over to the pot sitting on a grille above the now cool hearth. He dipped a cup into the tepid, stewed tea. ‘Twelve lines of investment, like unseen streams beneath foundations, eating away but yet to reveal a tremor. There are essential trusses to every economy, Shand, upon which all else rests.’
‘You can’t do business in the middle of the night.’
‘Not that kind of business, no. But there are dangers to all this, Shand. Threats. And they need to be met. Anyway, what are you doing out at night without your bodyguard?’
‘Ublala? That oaf? In Rissarh’s bed. Or Hejun’s. Not mine, not tonight, anyway. We take it in turns.’
Bugg stared at her through the gloom. He drank the last of the tea and set the cup down.
‘Is all that true?’ Shand asked after a moment. ‘Those investments?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why isn’t he telling us these things?’
‘Because your investments have to remain separate, disconnected. There can be no comparable pattern. Thus, follow his instructions with precision. It will all come clear eventually.’
‘I hate geniuses.’
‘Understandable. All he does seems to confound, it’s true. One gets used to it.’
‘And how is Bugg’s Construction doing?’
‘Well enough.’
‘What’s the purpose of it, anyway? Just to make money?’
‘No. The intention is to acquire the contract for the Eternal Domicile.’
Shand stared. ‘Why?’
Bugg smiled.
Disinfecting, bleaching, scraping, combing. Fragrant oils rubbed into clothing and skin. Preserving oils rubbed in everywhere else. Scouring flushes of eyes, nose, ears and mouth. Then it was time for the pump.
At which point Tehol staggered outside for some air.
The sky was paling to the east, the city’s less sane denizens already risen and venturing out onto the streets. Clattering carts on the cobbles. Somewhere a rooster crowed, only to have its exuberant cry cut off into strangled silence. A dog barked happily.
Footsteps, halting to Tehol’s right. ‘You still here?’
‘Ah, Selush’s assistant. And how are you this grisly morning, Padderunt?’
The old man’s expression was eternally sour, but at Tehol’s courteous enquiry it seemed to implode into a wrinkled mess. ‘How am I? Sleepless! That’s how I am, y’damned snake! They still in there? It’s a lost cause, I say. A lost cause. Just like you, Tehol Beddict. I knew your mother – what would she say seeing you now?’
‘You knew her corpse, you old fool. Before that we’d never met you.’
‘Think she didn’t tell me all about herself anyway? Think I can’t see what’s there to be seen? The soul inside shapes the flesh. Oh, she talked to me all right.’
Tehol’s brows rose. ‘The soul inside shapes the flesh?’ He stared down at the wrinkled prune face glaring up at him. ‘Oh my.’
‘Oh, that’s a cutting remark, is it? True enough, here’s what happens when a decent man gets no sleep!’
A small clay pot exploded on the cobbles between them, followed by a furious shout from a window in the building opposite.
‘There!’ Padderunt cried, hand to his head as he staggered in circles. ‘Make of our neighbours vicious enemies! You don’t live here, do you?’
‘Calm down,’ Tehol said. ‘I simply asked how you were this morning, in case you’ve forgotten. Your reply was supposed to be equally inane and nondescript. If I’d wanted a list of your ailments – well, I wouldn’t. Who would? Innocuous civility is what was expected, Padderunt. Not foul invective.’
‘Oh really? Well, how am I supposed to know that? Come on, there’s a place nearby makes great grain cakes. And rustleaf tea, which can wake the dead.’
The two made their way down the street.
‘Have you tried it?’ Tehol asked.
‘Tried what?’
‘Waking the dead with rustleaf tea.’
‘Should’ve worked.’
‘But, alas, it didn’t.’
‘Still should’ve. The stuff doubles your heart rate and makes you heave everything in your stomach.’
‘I can’t wait.’
‘Until you get used to it. Makes a fine insect killer, too. Just splash it on the floor and in cracks and such. I can’t recommend it highly enough.’
‘Most people smoke rustleaf, not drink it.’
‘Barbarians. Here we are. You’re buying, right?’
‘With what?’
‘Then it goes on Selush’s account, meaning you just have to pay later.’
‘Fine.’
Shurq Elalle stood in front of the long silver mirror. Instinct had her gauging the worth of all that silver for a moment before she finally focused on the reflected image. A healthy pallor to her skin, her cheeks glowing with vigour. Her hair was clean and had been cut for the first time in years, scented with a hint of patchouli oil. The whites of her eyes were clear, a wet gleam reflecting from her pupils.
The rotted leathers and linen of her clothing had been replaced with black silks beneath a short black calf-hide jacket. A new weapons belt, tanned leggings and high boots. Tight leather gloves. ‘I look like a whore.’
‘Not any old whore, though, right?’ Selush said.
‘True, I’ll take your coin then kill you. That’s how I look.’
‘There are plenty of men out there who’ll go for that, you know.’
‘Getting killed?’
‘Absolutely. In any case, I was led to believe that wasn’t your profession. Although I suppose you might feel inclined to try something new – how does the ootooloo feel, by the way?’
‘Hungry. Can’t I feed it, uh, something else?’
Selush’s eyes sparkled. ‘Experimentation, that’s the spirit!’
Some comments, the undead woman reflected, deserved no response.
Shurq Elalle flexed the muscles that would permit her to draw breath – they were long out of practice, and it was strange to feel the still vague and remote sense of air sliding down her throat and filling her chest. After the pump, there had been infusions. The breath she released smelled of cinnamon and myrrh. Better than river mud any day.
‘Your work is acceptable,’ she said.
‘Well, that’s a relief! It’s nearly dawn, and I’m starving. Shall we test you out, dear? I imagine my assistant and Tehol are at the local establishment, breaking their fast. Let us join them.’
‘I thought I wasn’t supposed to eat or drink.’
‘No, but you can preen and flirt, can’t you?’
Shurq stared at the woman.
Selush smiled. Then her eyelids fluttered and she turned away. ‘Where’s my shawl?’
Kuru Qan had left and returned with two assistants who carried Brys back to the Ceda’s chambers, where he was laid down on a bench and plied with various liquids and food. Even so, strength was slow to return and he was still lying supine, head propped up on a cushion, when the doors opened and First Eunuch Nifadas entered.
His small eyes glittered as he looked down on Brys. ‘King’s Champion, are you well enough to meet your king? He will be here in a moment.’
Brys struggled to sit straighter. ‘This is unfortunate. I am, for the moment, unequal to my responsibilities-’
‘Never mind that, Finadd. Your king seeks only to ensure you will recover from your ordeal. Genuine concern motivates Ezgara Diskanar in this instance. Please, remain where you are. I have never seen you so pale.’
‘Something has fed on his blood,’ Kuru Qan said, ‘but he will not tell me what it was.’
Nifadas pursed his lips as he regarded Brys. ‘I cannot imagine that a god would do such a thing.’
‘Mael was not there, First Eunuch,’ Brys said. ‘The Tiste Edur found something else, and have bound it to their service.’
‘Can you tell us what this thing is?’
‘A forgotten god, but that is the extent of my knowledge. I do not know its nature, nor the full breadth of its power. It is old, older than the ocean itself. Whatever worshipped it was not human.’
A voice spoke from the doorway, ‘I am ever careless with my assets, although the Errant has spared me the cruellest consequence thus far, for which I am thankful.’
Kuru Qan and Nifadas both bowed low as Ezgara Diskanar entered the chamber. In his sixth decade, the king’s features remained surprisingly youthful. He was of average height, slightly on the lean side, his gestures revealing a nervous energy that seemed tireless. The bones beneath his features were prominent and somewhat asymmetrical, the result of a childhood incident with a bad-tempered horse. Right cheekbone and orbital arch sat flatter and higher than their counterparts on the left side of the king’s face, making the eye on that side seem larger and rounder. It was a poorly functioning eye and had a tendency to wander independently when Ezgara was irritated or weary. Healers could have corrected the damage, but the king forbade it – even as a child, he had been obstinate and wilful, and not in the least concerned with outward appearance.
Further proof of that observation was evinced in his modest attire, more befitting a citizen in the markets than a king.
Brys managed a slight bow from his reclined position. ‘My apologies, your highness-’
‘None needed, Finadd,’ Ezgara Diskanar cut in, waving a hand. ‘Indeed, it is I who must apologize to you. Unpleasant tasks that take you from your official functions. I have sorely abused your loyalty, my young Champion. And you have suffered for it.’
‘I shall recover, sire,’ Brys said.
Ezgara smiled, then surveyed the others in the room. ‘Well, this is a fell gathering, isn’t it? We should be relieved that my dearest wife is at the moment senseless beneath an exhausted consort, so that even her most trusted spies dare not intrude to report on this meeting. Hopefully, when that finally occurs, it will be far too late.’
Nifadas spoke, ‘My king, I shall be the first to take my leave, if you will permit. The hour of my departure from the city fast approaches, and my preparations are far from complete.’
Ezgara’s lopsided smile broadened. ‘First Eunuch, your diligence in such matters is legendary, leaving me sceptical of your claims. None the less, you have my leave, if only that you might ensure your spies are made aware of precisely when her spies make their report, so that they in turn may report to you and you may then report to me. Although what I am to do with such knowledge will no doubt escape me, given that the event initiating these flurries of reporting is none other than the one occurring right now in this room.’
Nifadas bowed. ‘None can rest in this dance, sire, as you well know.’
The king’s smile tightened. ‘Well I do, indeed, First Eunuch. Be off with you, then.’
Brys watched Nifadas depart. As soon as the door was closed the king faced Kuru Qan. ‘Ceda, the Chancellor continues to petition against Finadd Gerun Eberict’s attachment to the delegation. His arguments are persuasive.’
‘He fears for the life of your son, your highness.’
Ezgara nodded. ‘And has the Finadd’s restraint so weakened that he might murder my heir?’
‘One would hope not, sire.’
‘Do you imagine that my son understands the risk and will therefore act with constraint and decorum?’
‘Prince Quillas has been advised of the dangers, sire,’ Kuru Qan carefully replied. ‘He has gathered about him his most trusted bodyguards, under the command of Moroch Nevath.’
‘Presumably, Moroch feels equal to the task of defending his prince’s life.’ At this Ezgara turned and fixed Brys with an inquisitive gaze.
‘Moroch is supremely skilled, sire,’ Brys Beddict said after a moment. ‘I would hazard he will have tasters in line before the prince, and mages replete with a host of wards.’
‘To the latter, your highness,’ Kuru Qan said, ‘I can attest. I have lost a number of skilled students to the queen’s command.’
‘Thus,’ Ezgara Diskanar said, ‘we seek balance in the threat, and rely upon the wisdom of the players. Should one party decide on preemptive action, however, the scenario fast unravels.’
‘True, sire.’
‘Finadd Brys Beddict, is Moroch Nevath capable of advising restraint?’
‘I believe so, sire.’
‘The question remaining, however,’ Ezgara said, ‘is whether my son is capable of receiving it.’
Neither the Ceda nor Brys made response to that.
Their king eyed them both for a long moment, then settled his attention on Brys. ‘I look forward to your return to duties, Champion, and am relieved that you are recovering from your adventures.’
Ezgara Diskanar strode from the chamber. At the doorway’s threshold he said – without turning or pausing – ‘Gerun Eberict will need to reduce his own entourage, I think…’
The door was closed by one of Kuru Qan’s servants, leaving the two men alone. The Ceda glanced over at Brys, then shrugged.
‘If wherewithal was an immortal virtue…’ Brys ventured.
‘Our king would be a god,’ Kuru Qan finished, nodding. ‘And upon that we now stake our lives.’ The lenses covering his eyes flashed with reflected light. ‘Curious observation to make at this time. Profoundly prescient, I think. Brys Beddict, will you tell me more of your journey?’
‘Only that I sought to right a wrong, and that, as a consequence, the Tiste Edur will be unable to bind any more forgotten gods.’
‘A worthwhile deed, then.’
‘Such is my hope.’
‘What do the old witches in the market always say? “The end of the world is announced with a kind word.” ’
Brys winced.
‘Of course,’ the Ceda continued distractedly, ‘they just use that as an excuse to be rude to inquisitive old men.’
‘They have another saying, Ceda,’ Brys said after a moment. ‘ “Truth hides in colourless clothes.” ’
‘Surely not the same witches? If so, then they’re all the greatest liars known to the mortal world!’
Brys smiled at the jest. But a taste of ashes had come to his mouth, and he inwardly quailed at the first whispers of dread.