Denigration afflicted our vaunted ideals long ago, but such inflictions are difficult to measure, to rise up and point a finger to this place, this moment, and say: here, my friends, this was where our honour, our integrity died.
The affliction was too insipid, too much a product of our surrendering mindful regard and diligence. The meanings of words lost their precision-and no-one bothered taking to task those who cynically abused those words to serve their own ambitions, their own evasion of personal responsibility. Lies went unchallenged, lawful pursuit became a sham, vulnerable to graft, and justice itself became a commodity, mutable in imbalance. Truth was lost, a chimera reshaped to match agenda, prejudices, thus consigning the entire political process to a mummer’s charade of false indignation, hypocritical posturing and a pervasive contempt for the commonry.
Once subsumed, ideals and the honour created by their avowal can never be regained, except, alas, by outright, unconstrained rejection, invariably instigated by the commonry, at the juncture of one particular moment, one single event, of such brazen injustice that revolution becomes the only reasonable response.
Consider this then a warning. Liars will lie, and continue to do so, even beyond being caught out. They will lie, and in time, such liars will convince themselves, will in all self-righteousness divest the liars of culpability. Until comes a time when one final lie is voiced, the one that can only be answered by rage, by cold murder, and on that day, blood shall rain down every wall of this vaunted, weaning society.
– Impeached Guild Master’s Speech, Semel Fural of the Guild of Sandal-Clasp Makers
Of the turtles known as vinik the females dwelt for the most part in the uppermost reaches of the innumerable sources of the Lether River, in the pooled basins and high-ground bogs found in the coniferous forests crowding the base of the Bluerose Mountains. The mountain runoff, stemmed and backed by the dams built by flat-tailed river-rats, descended in modest steps towards the broader, conjoined tributaries feeding the vast river. Vinik turtles were long-shelled and dorsal-ridged, and their strong forelimbs ended in taloned hands bearing opposable thumbs. In the egg-laying season, the females-smaller by far than their male kin of the deep rivers and the seas-prowled the ponds seeking the nests of waterfowl. Finding one large enough and properly accessible, the female vinik would appropriate it. Prior to laying her own eggs, the turtle exuded a slime that coated the bird eggs, the slime possessing properties that suspended the development of those young birds. Once the vinik’s clutch was in place, the turtle then dislodged the entire nest, leaving it free to float, drawn by the current. At each barrier juvenile male vinik were gathered, to drag the nests over dry ground so that they could continue their passive migration down to the Lether River.
Many sank, or encountered some fatal obstacle on their long, arduous journey to the sea. Others were raided by adult vinik dwelling in the depths of the main river. Of those nests that made it to sea, the eggs hatched, the hatchlings fed on the bird embryos, then slipped out into the salty water. Only upon reaching juvenile age-sixty or seventy years-would the new generation of vinik begin the years-long journey back up the river, to those distant, murky ponds of the Bluerose boreal forest.
Nests bobbed in the waters of the Lether River as it flowed past the Imperial City, Letheras, seat of the Emperor. Local fisher boats avoided them, since large vinik males sometimes tracked the nests just beneath the surface-and provided they weren’t hungry enough to raid the nest, they would defend it. Few fisher folk willingly challenged a creature that could weigh as much as a river galley and was capable of tearing such a galley to pieces with its beak and its clawed forearms.
The arrival of the nests announced the beginning of summer, as did the clouds of midges swarming over the river, the settling of the water level and the reek of exposed silts along the banks.
On the faint rise behind the Old Palace, the dishevelled expanse where stood the foundations of ancient towers, and one in particular constructed of black stone with a low-walled yard, a hunched, hooded figure dragged himself towards the gateway step by aching, awkward step. His spine was twisted, pushed by past ravages of unconstrained power until the ridge of each vertebra was visible beneath the threadbare cloak, the angle forcing his shoulders far forward so that the unkempt ground before him was within reach of his arms, which he used to pull his broken body along.
He came searching for a nest. A mound of ragged earth and dying grasses, a worm-chewed hole into a now dead realm. Questing with preternatural senses, he moved through the yard from one barrow to the next. Empty… empty… empty.
Strange insects edged away from his path. Midges spun in cavorting swirls over him, but would not alight to feed, for the searcher’s blood was rotted with chaos. The day’s dying light plucked at his misshapen shadow, as if seeking sense of a stain so malign on the yard’s battered ground.
Empty…
But this one was not. He allowed himself a small moment of glee. Suspicions confirmed, at last. The place that was dead… was not entirely dead. Oh, the Azath was now nothing more than lifeless stone, all power and all will drained away. Yet some sorcery lingered, here, beneath this oversized mound ringed in shattered trees. Kurald for certain. Probably Galain-the stink of Tiste Andii was very nearly palpable. Binding rituals, a thick, interwoven skein to keep something… someone… down.
Crouched, the figure reached with his senses, then suddenly recoiled, breath hissing from between mangled lips.
It has begun unravelling! Someone has been here-before me! Not long. Sorcery, working the release of this imprisoned creature. Father of Shadows, I must think!
Hannan Mosag remained motionless, hunched at the very edge of this mound, his mind racing.
Beyond the ruined grounds, the river flowed on, down to the distant sea. Carried on its current, vinik nests spun lazily; milky green eggs, still warm with the day’s heat, enclosed vague shapes that squirmed about, eager for the birth of light.
She lifted her head with a sharp motion, blood and fragments of human lung smearing her mouth and chin, sliding then dripping down into the split-open ribcage of her victim-a fool who, consumed by delusions of domination and tyranny no doubt, had chosen to stalk her all the way from Up Markets. It had become a simple enough thing, a lone, seemingly lost woman of high birth, wander-ing through crowds unaware of the hooded looks and expressions of avarice tracking her. She was like the bait the fisher folk used to snare brainless fish in the river. True, while she remained hooded, her arms covered in shimmering silk the hue of raw ox-heart, wearing elegant calf-leather gloves, as well as close-wrapped leggings of black linen, there was no way anyone could see the cast of her skin, nor her unusual features. And, despite the Tiste Edur blood coursing diluted in her veins, she was not. uncommonly tall, which well suited her apparent vulnerability, for it was clear that these Edur occupiers in this city were far too dangerous to be hunted by the common Letherii rapist.
She had led him into an alley, whereupon she drove one hand into his chest, tearing out his heart. But it was the lungs she enjoyed the most, the pulpy meat rich with oxygen and not yet soured by the rank juices of violent death.
The mortal realm was a delightful place. She had forgotten that.
But now, her feeding had been interrupted. Someone had come to the Azath grounds. Someone had probed her rituals, which had been dissolving the binding wards set by Silchas Ruin. There could be trouble there, and she was not inclined to suffer interference in her plans.
Probably the Errant, that meddling bastard. Or, even more alarming, that Elder God, Mael. A miserably crowded city, this Letheras-she had no intention of tarrying over-long here, lest her presence be discovered, her schemes knocked awry.
Wiping her mouth and chin with the back of one sleeved forearm, she straightened from her feast, then set off.
Rautos Hivanar, head of the Liberty Consign, squatted on the muddy bank of the river, the work crews finishing the day’s excavation directly behind him, the pump crews already washing down, the sounds from the estate’s back kitchen rising with the approaching demands of supper. He was making a point of feeding his diggers well, as much to ease their bemusement as to keep them working. They were now excavating way below the river level, after all, and if not for the constantly manned pumps, they would be working chest-deep in muddy water. As it was, the shoring on the walls needed continual attention, prone as they were to sag inward.
Eyes tracking a half-dozen vinik nests rafting down the river, Rautos Hivanar was lost in thought. There had been more mysterious objects, buried deep and disconnected, but he had begun to suspect that they all belonged together; that in an as yet inconceivable way they could be assembled into a kind of mechanism. Some central piece remained undiscovered, he believed. Perhaps tomorrow…
He heard slippered feet on the plank walkway leading down to the river, and a moment later came Venitt Sathad’s voice. ‘Master.’
‘Venitt, you have allotted yourself two house guards for the journey. Take two more. And, accordingly, two more packhorses. You will travel without a supply wagon, as agreed, but that need not be a reason to reduce your level of comfort.’
‘Very well, Master.’
And remember, Venitt. Letur Anict is in every way the de facto ruler of Drene, regardless of the Edur governor’s official status. I am informed that you will find Orbyn Truthfinder, the Invigilator’s agent, a reliable ally. As to Letur Anict… the evidence points to the Factor’s having lost… perspective. His ambition seems without restraint, no longer harnessed to reason or, for that matter, common sense.’
‘I shall be diligent in my investigation, Master.’
Rautos Hivanar rose and faced his servant. ‘If needs must, Venitt, err on the side of caution. I would not lose you.’
A flicker of something like surprise in the Indebted’s lined face, then the man bowed. ‘I will remain circumspect, Master.’
‘One last thing,’ Rautos said as he moved past Venitt on his way up to the estate. ‘Do not embarrass me.’
The Indebted’s eyes tracked his master for a moment, his expression once more closed.
Unseen behind them on the river, a huge shape lifted beneath one vinik nest, and breaking the water as the nest overturned was the prow ridge of an enormous shell, and below that a sinewy neck and a vast, gaping beak. Swallowing the nest entire.
The currents then carried the disturbance away, until no sign of it remained.
‘You know, witnessing something is one thing. Understanding it another.’
Bugg turned away from his study of the distant river, where the setting sun’s light turned the water into a rippled sheet of beaten gold, and frowned at Tehol Beddict. ‘Very pondering of you, Master.’
‘It was, wasn’t it? I have decided that it is my normal eye that witnesses, while it is my blue eye that understands. Does that make sense to you?’
‘No.’
‘Good, I’m glad.’
‘The night promises to be both heavy and hot, Master. And I suggest the mosquito netting.’
Agreed. Can you get to it? I can’t reach.’
‘You could if you stretched an arm.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Nothing. I admit to some… distraction.’
‘Just now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you over it yet?’
Almost. Alas, certain individuals are stirring in the city this evening.’
‘Well, are you going to do something about it or do I have to do everything around here?’
Bugg walked across the roof to stand beside the bed. He studied the reposed form of Tehol Beddict for a moment, then he collected the netting and draped it over his master.
Eyes, one brown, the other blue, blinked up at him. ‘Shouldn’t there be a frame or something? I feel I am being readied for my own funeral here.’
‘We used the frame for this morning’s fire.’
‘Ah. Well, is this going to keep me from being bitten?’
‘Probably not, but it looks rather fetching.’
Tehol closed his blue eye. ‘I see…’
Bugg sighed. ‘Gallows humour, Master.’
‘My, you are in a state, aren’t you?’
‘I am undecided,’ Bugg said, nodding. ‘Yes I know, one of my eternal flaws.’
‘What you require, old friend, is a mortal’s perspective on things. So let’s hear it. Lay out the dilemma for me, Bugg, so that I might provide you with a properly pithy solution.’
‘The Errant follows the Warlock King, to see what he plans. The Warlock King meddles with nefarious rituals set in place by another ascendant, who in turn leaves off eating a freshly killed corpse and makes for an unexpected rendezvous with said Warlock King, where they will prpb-ably make each other’s acquaintance then bargain to mutual benefit over the crumbling chains binding another ascendant-one soon to be freed, which will perturb some-one far to the north, although that one is probably not yet ready to act. In the meantime, the long-departed Edur fleet skirts the Draconean Sea and shall soon enter the river mouth on its fated return to our fair city, and with it are two fell champions, neither of whom is likely to do what is expected of them. Now, to add spice to all of that, the secret that is the soul of one Scabandari Bloodeye will, in a depressingly short time, cease to be a secret, and consequently and in addition to and concomitant with, we are in for an interesting summer.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Not in the least, but one mouthful at a time, I always say.’
‘No you don’t. Shurq Elalle is the one always saying that.’
‘Your penchant for disgusting images, Master, is as ever poorly timed and thoroughly inappropriate. Now, about that pithy solution of yours…’
‘Well, I admit to disappointment. You didn’t even mention my grand scheme to bankrupt the empire.’
‘The Invigilator now hunts for you in earnest.’
‘Karos Invictad? No wonder you put me under a shroud. I shall endeavour to be close to the roof’s edge the day he clambers into view with his drooling henchmen, so that I can fling myself over the side, which, you’ll agree, is far preferable to even one bell’s worth of his infamous, ghastly inquisition. In the meantime, what’s for supper?’
‘Vinik eggs-I found a somewhat broken nest washed up under a dock.’
‘But vinik eggs are poisonous, hence the clouds of complaining gulls constantly circling over every nasty little floating island.’
‘It’s a matter of proper cooking, Master, and the addition of a few essential herbs that serve to negate most of the ill effects.’
‘Most?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you have in your possession those life-sustaining herbs?’
‘Well, no, but I thought I’d improvise.’
‘There you have it.’
‘There I have what, Master?’
‘Why, my pithy reply, of course.’
Bugg squinted at Tehol Beddict, who winked, this time closing his brown eye. The Elder God scowled, then said, ‘Thank you, Master. What would I ever do without you?’
‘Scant little, I’d wager.’
Tanal Yathvanar set the package down on the Invigilator’s desk. ‘Delivered by a rat-faced urchin this morning. Sir, I expect it will prove no particular challenge. In any case,’ he continued as he began unwrapping the package, ‘I was instructed to treat it delicately, and to keep it upright. And you will, in moments, see why.’
Karos Invictad watched with heavy-lidded eyes as the grease-stained, poor quality ragweed wrapping was delicately pulled away, revealing a small, open-topped wooden box that seemed to possess layered sides. The Invigilator leaned forward to peer inside.
And saw a two-headed insect, such as were now appearing down by the river. Its legs were moving precisely, carrying it round… and round. The insides of the box were each of coloured, polished tiles, and it appeared that the tiles could be slid free, or rearranged, if one so chose.
‘What were the instructions, Tanal?’
‘The challenge is to halt the insect’s motion. It will, apparently, continue walking in a circle, in the same place, until it dies of starvation-which, incidentally, is the fail point for the puzzle… approximately four months. While the creature rotates in place, it will not eat. As for water, a small clump of soaked moss will suffice. As you can see, the tiles on the inside can be rearranged, and presumably, once the proper order or sequence is discovered, the insect will stop. And you will have defeated the puzzle. The restrictions are these: no object may be placed inside the container; nor can you physically touch or make contact with the insect.’
Karos Invictad grunted. ‘Seems direct enough. What is the record for the solution?’
‘There is none. You are the first and only player, apparently.’
‘Indeed. Curious. Tanal, three prisoners died in their cells last night-some contagion is loose down there. Have the corpses burned in the Receiving Ground west of the city. Thoroughly. And have the rest washed down with disinfectant.’
‘At once, Invigilator.’
The ruins were far more extensive than is commonly imagined. In fact, most historians of the early period of the colony have paid little or no attention to the reports of the Royal Engineer, specifically those of Keden Qan, who served from the founding until the sixth decade. During the formulation of the settlement building plan, a most thorough survey was conducted. The three extant Jhag towers behind the Old Palace were in fact part of a far larger complex, which of course runs contrary to what is known of]hag civilization. For this reason, it may be safe to assume that the Jhag complex on the bank of the Lether River represents a pre-dispersion site. That is, before the culture disintegrated in its sudden, violent diaspora. An alternative interpretation would be that the three main towers, four sub’ terranean vaults, and what Qan called the Lined Moat all belonged to a single, unusually loyal family.
In either case, the point I am making here is this: beyond the Jhag-or more correctly, Jaghut-complex, there were other ruins. Of course, one need not point out the most obvious and still existing Azath structure-that lecture will have to wait another day. Rather, in an area covering almost the entire expanse of present-day Lether as could be found foundation walls, plazas or concourses, shaped wells, drainage ditches and, indeed, some form of cemetery or mortuary, and-listen carefully now-all of it not of human design. Nor Jaghut, nor even Tarthenal.
Now, what were the details of this unknown complex? Well, for one, it was self-contained, walled, entirely covered by multilevel roofing-even the plazas, alleys and streets. As a fortress, it was virtually impregnable. Beneath the intricately paved floors and streets, there was a second even more defensible city, the corridors and tunnels of which can now be found as an integral part of our sewer outflow.
In short, Letheras, the colony of the First Empire, was founded upon the ruins of an earlier city, one whose layout seemed to disregard the presence of the]aghut towers and the Azath, suggesting that it pre-dates both.
Even the first engineer, Keden Qan, was unable or unwilling to attempt an identification of these early builders. Virtually no artifacts were found-no potsherds, no sculptures, no remnants of metal’Working. One last interesting detail. It appeared that in the final stages of occupation, the dwellers set about frantic alterations to their city. Qan’s analysis of these efforts led him to conclude that a catastrophic climate change had occurred, for the efforts indicated a desperate attempt to add insulation.
Presumably, that effort failed-
Her interior monologue ceased abruptly as she heard the faint scuff of someone approaching. Lifting her head was a struggle, but Janath Anar managed, just as the chamber’s heavy door creaked open and light flooded in from a lantern-dull and low yet blinding her nonetheless.
Tanal Yathvanar stepped into view-it would be none other but him, she knew-and a moment later he spoke. ‘I pray you’ve yet to drive yourself mad.’
Through cracked, blistered lips, she smiled, then said in a croaking voice, ‘Lectures. I am halfway into the term. Early history. Mad? Oh yes, without question.’
She heard him come closer. ‘I have been gone from you too long-you are suffering. That was careless of me.’
‘Careless is keeping me alive, you miserable little wretch,’ she said.
‘Ah, perhaps I deserved that. Come, you must drink.’
‘What if I refuse?’
‘Then, with your inevitable death, you are defeated. By me. Are you sure you want that, Scholar?’
‘You urge me to stubborn resistance. I understand. The sadist needs his victim alive, after all. For as long as humanly possible.’
‘Dehydration is a most unpleasant way to die, Janath Anar.’
He lifted the spigot of a waterskin to her mouth. She drank.
‘Not too quickly,’ Tanal said, stepping back. ‘You will just make yourself sick. Which wouldn’t, I see, be the first time for you.’
‘When you see maggots crawl out of your own wastes, Yathvanar… Next time,’ she added, ‘take your damned candle with you.’
‘If I do that,’ he replied, ‘you will go blind-’
‘And that matters?’
He stepped close once again and poured more water into her mouth.
Then he set about washing her down. Sores had opened where stomach fluids had burned desiccated skin, and, he could see, she had been pulling on her bindings, seeking to squeeze her hands through the shackles. ‘You are looking much worse for wear,’ he said as he dabbed ointment on the wounds. ‘You cannot get your hands through, Janath-’
‘Panic cares nothing for what can and can’t be done, Tanal Yathvanar. One day you will discover that. There was a priest once, in the second century, who created a cult founded on the premise that every victim tallied in one’s mortal life awaits that one beyond death. From the slightest of wounds to the most grievous, every victim preceding you into death… waits. For you.
‘A mortal conducts spiritual economics in his or her life, amassing credit and debt. Tell me, Patriotist, how indebted are you by now? How vast the imbalance between good deeds and your endless acts of malice?’
‘A bizarre, insane cult,’ he muttered, moving away. ‘No wonder it failed.’
‘In this empire, yes, it’s no wonder at all. The priest was set upon in the street and torn limb from limb. Still, it’s said adherents remain, among the defeated peoples-the Tarthenal, the Fent and Nerek, the victims, as it were, of Letherii cruelty-and before those people virtually disappeared from the city, there were rumours that the cult was reviving.’
Tanal Yathvanar sneered. ‘The ones who fail ever need a crutch, a justification-they fashion virtue out of misery. Karos Invictad has identified that weakness, in one of his treatises-’
Janath’s laugh broke into ragged coughing. When she recovered, she spat and said, ‘Karos Invictad. Do you know why he so despises academics? He is a failed one himself.’ She bared her stained teeth. ‘He calls them treatises, does he? Errant fend, how pathetic. Karos Invictad couldn’t fashion a decent argument, much less a treatise.’
‘You are wrong in that, woman,’ Tanal said. ‘He has even explained why he did so poorly as a young scholar-oh yes, he would not refute your assessment of his career as a student. Driven by emotions, back then. Incapable of a cogent position, leaving him rife with anger-but at himself, at his own failings. But, years later, he learned that all emotion had to be scoured from him; only then would his inner vision become clear.’
‘Ah, he needed wounding, then. What was it? A betrayal of sorts, I expect. Some woman? A protege, a patron? Does it even matter? Karos Invictad makes sense to me, now. Why he is what he has become.’ She laughed again, this rime without coughing, then said, ‘Delicious irony. Karos Invictad became a victim.’
‘Don’t be-’
A victim, Yathvanar! And he didn’t like it, oh no, not at all. It hurt-the world hurt him, so now he’s hurting it back. And yet, he has still to even the score. But you see, he never will, because in his mind, he’s still that victim, still lashing out. And as you said earlier, the victim and his crutch, his virtue of misery-one feeds the other, without cessation. No wonder he bridles with self-righteousness for all his claims to emotionless intellect-’
He struck her, hard, her head snapping to one side, spittle and blood threading out.
Breathing fast, chest strangely tight, Tanal hissed, ‘Rail at me all you will, Scholar. I expect that. But not at Karos Invictad. He is the empire’s last true hope. Only Karos Invictad will guide us into glory, into a new age, an age without the Edur, without the mixed-bloods, without even the failed peoples. No, just the Letherii, an empire expanding outward with sword and fire, all the way back to the homeland of the First Empire. He has seen our future! Our destiny!’
She stared at him in the dull light. ‘Of course. But first, he needs to kill every Letherii worthy of the name. Karos Invictad, the Great Scholar, and his empire of thugs-’
He struck her again, harder than before, then lurched back, raising his hand-it was trembling, skin torn and battered, a shard of one broken tooth jutting from one knuckle.
She was unconscious.
Well, she asked for it. She wouldn’t stop. That means she wanted it, deep inside, she wanted me to beat her. I’ve heard about this-Karos has told me-they come to like it, eventually. They like the… attention.
So, I must not neglect her. Not again. Plenty of water, keep her clean and fed.
And beat her anyway.
But she was not unconscious, for she then spoke in a mumble. He could not make it out and edged closer.
‘… on the other side… I will wait for you… on the other side…’
Tanal Yathvanar felt a slither deep in his gut. And fled from it. No god waits to pass judgement. No-one marks the imbalance of deeds-no god is beyond its own imbalances-for its own deeds are as subject to judgement as any other. So who then fashions this afterlife? Some natural imposition? Ridiculous-there is no balance in nature. Besides, nature exists in this world and this world alone-its rules mean nothing once the bridge is crossed…
Tanal Yathvanar found himself walking up the corridor, that horrid woman and her cell far behind him now-he had no recollection of actually leaving.
Karos has said again and again, justice is a conceit. It does not exist in nature. ‘Retribution seen in natural catastrophes is manufactured by all too eager and all too pious people, each one convinced the world will end but spare them and them alone. But we all know, the world is inherited by the obnoxious, not the righteous.’ -
Unless, came the thought in Janath’s voice, the two are one and the same.
He snarled as he hurried up the worn stone stairs. She was far below. Chained. A prisoner in her solitary cell. There was no escape for her.
I have left her down there, far below. Far behind. She can’t escape.
Yet, in his mind, he heard her laughter.
And was no longer so sure.
Two entire wings of the Eternal Domicile were empty, long, vacated corridors and never-occupied chambers, storage rooms, administration vaults, servant quarters and kitchens. Guards patrolling these sections once a day carried their own lanterns, and left unrelieved darkness in their wake. In the growing damp of these unoccupied places, dust had become mould, mould had become rot, and the rot in turn leaked rank fluids that ran down plastered walls and pooled in dips in the floors.
Abandonment and neglect would soon defeat the ingenious innovations of Bugg’s Construction, as they defeated most things raised by hands out of the earth, and Turudal Brizad, the Errant, considered himself almost unique in his fullest recognition of such sordid truths, indeed, there were other elders persisting in their nominal existence, but they one and all fought still against the ravages of inevitable dissolution. Whereas the Errant could not be bothered.
Most of the time.
The Jaghut had come to comprehend the nature of futility, inspiring the Errant to a certain modicum of empathy for those most tragic of people. Where was Gothos now, he wondered. Probably long dead, all things considered. He had written a multiple-volumed suicide note-his Folly-that presumably concluded at some point, although the Errant had neither seen nor heard that such a conclusion existed. Perhaps, he considered with sudden suspicion, there was some hidden message in a suicidal testimonial without end, but if so, such meaning was too obscure for the mind of anyone but a Jaghut.
He had followed the Warlock King to the dead Azath, remained there long enough to discern Hannan Mosag’s intentions, and had now returned to the Eternal Domicile, where he could walk these empty corridors in peace. Contemplating, among other things, stepping once again into the fray. To battle, one more time, the ravages of dissolution.
He thought he could hear Gothos laughing, somewhere. But no doubt that was only his imagination, ever eager to mock his carefully reasoned impulses.
Finding himself in a stretch of corridor awash with slime-laden water, the Errant paused. ‘Well,’ he said with a soft sigh, ‘to bring a journey to a close, one must first begin it. Best I act whilst the will remains.’
His next step took him into a glade, thick verdant grasses underfoot, a ring of dazzling flowers at the very edges of the black-boled trees encircling the clearing. Butterflies danced from one bloom of colour to the next. The patch of sky visible overhead was faintly tinted vermilion and the air seemed strangely thin.
A voice spoke behind him. ‘I do not welcome company here.’
The Errant turned. He slowly cocked his head. ‘It’s not often the sight of a woman inspires fear in my soul.’
She scowled. ‘Am I that ugly, Elder?’
‘To the contrary, Menandore. Rather… formidable.’
‘You have trespassed into my place of refuge.’ She paused, then asked, ‘Does it so surprise you, that one such as myself needs refuge?’
‘I do not know how to answer that,’ he replied.
‘You’re a careful one, Errant.’
‘I suspect you want a reason to kill me.’
She walked past him, long black sarong flowing from frayed ends and ragged tears. ‘Abyss below,’ she murmured, ‘am I so transparent? Who but you could have guessed that 1 require justification for killing?’
‘So your sense of sarcasm has survived your solitude, Menandore. It is what I am ever accused of, isn’t it? My… random acts.’
‘Oh, I know they’re not random. They only seem that way. You delight in tragic failure, which leads me to wonder what you want with me? We are not well suited, you and I.’
‘What have you been up to lately?’ he asked.
‘Why should I tell you?’
‘Because I have information to impart, which you will find… well suited to your nature. And I seek recompense.’
‘If I deny it you will have made this fraught journey for nothing.’
‘It will only be fraught if you attempt something untoward, Menandore.’
‘Precisely.’
Her unhuman eyes regarded him steadily.
He waited.
‘Sky keeps,’ she said.
‘Ah, I see. Has it begun, then?’
‘No, but soon.’
‘Well, you are not one to act without long preparation, so I am not that surprised. And which side will we, eventually, find you on, Menandore?’
‘Why, mine of course.’
‘You will be opposed.’
One thin brow arched.
The Errant glanced around. ‘A pleasant place. What warren are we in?’
‘You would not believe me if I told you.’
‘Ah,’ he nodded, ‘that one. Very well, your sisters conspire.’
‘Not against me, Errant.’
‘Not directly, or, rather, not immediately. Rest assured, however, that the severing of your head from your shoulders is the eventual goal.’
‘Has she been freed, then?’
‘Imminent.’
‘And you will do nothing? What of the others in that fell city?’
Others? ‘Mael is being… Mael. Who else hides in Letheras, barring your two sisters?’
‘Sisters,’ she said, then sneered as she turned away, walked to one edge of the glade, where she crouched and plucked a flower. Facing him once more, she lifted the flower to draw deep its scent.
From the snapped stem, thick red blood dripped steadily.
I’ve indeed heard it said that beauty is the thinnest skin.
She suddenly smiled. ‘Why, no-one. I misspoke.’
‘You invite me to a frantic and no doubt time-devouring search to prove your ingenuousness, Menandore. What possible reason could you have to set me on such a trail?’
She shrugged. ‘Serves you right for infringing upon my place of refuge, Errant. Are we done here?’
‘Your flower is bled out,’ he said, as he stepped back, and found himself once more in the empty, flooded corridor of the Eternal Domicile’s fifth wing.
Others. The bitch.
As soon as the Errant vanished from the glade, Menandore flung the wilted flower to one side, and two figures emerged from the forest, one from her left, the other from her right.
Menandore arched her back as she ran both hands through her thick red hair.
Both figures paused to watch.
She had known they would. ‘You heard?’ she asked, not caring which one answered.
Neither did. Menandore dropped her pose and scowled over to the scrawny, shadow-swarmed god to her left. ‘That cane is an absurd affectation, you know.’
‘Never mind my absurd affectations, woman. Blood dripping from a flower, for Hood’s sake-oops-’ The god known as Shadowthrone tilted a head towards the tall, cowled figure opposite. ‘Humblest apologies, Reaper.’
Hood, Lord of Death, seemed to cock his head as if surprised. ‘Yours?’
‘Apologies? Naturally not. I but made a declarative statement. Was there a subject attached to it? No. We three fell creatures have met, have spoken, have agreed on scant little, and have concluded that our previous impressions of each other proved far too… generous. Nonetheless, it seems we are agreed, more or less, on the one matter you, Hood, wanted to address. It’s no wonder you’re so ecstatic’
Menandore frowned at the Lord of Death, seeking evidence of ecstasy. Finding none, she eyed Shadowthrone once more. ‘Know that I have never accepted your claim.’
‘I’m crushed. So your sisters are after you. What a dread-ful family you have. Want help?’
‘You too? Recall my dismissal of the Errant.’
Shadowthrone shrugged. ‘Elders think too slowly. My offer is of another magnitude. Think carefully before you reject it.’
‘And what doyou ask in return?’
‘Use of a gate.’
Which gate?’
Shadowthrone giggled, then the eerie sound abruptly stopped, and in a serious tone he said, ‘Starvald Demelain.’
‘To what end?’
‘Why, providing you with assistance, of course.’
‘You want my sisters out of the way, too-perhaps more than I do. Squirming on that throne of yours, are you?’
‘Convenient convergence of desires, Menandore. Ask Hood about such things, especially now’
‘If I give you access to Starvald Demelain, you will use it more than once.’
‘Not I.’
‘Do you so vow?’
‘Why not?’
‘Foolish,’ Hood said in a rasp.
‘I hold you to that vow, Shadowthrone,’ Menandore said.
‘Then you accept my help?’
‘As you do mine in this matter. Convergence of desires,. you said.’
‘You’re right,’ Shadowthrone said. ‘I retract all notions of “help”. We are mutually assisting one another, as fits said convergence; and once finished with the task at hand, no other obligations exist between us.’
‘That is agreeable.’
‘You two,’ Hood said, turning away, ‘are worse than advocates. And you don’t want to know what I do with the souls of advocates.’ A heartbeat later and the Lord of Death was gone.
Menandore frowned. ‘Shadowthrone, what are advocates?’
‘A profession devoted to the subversion of laws for profit,’ he replied, his cane inexplicably tapping as he shuffled back into the woods. ‘When I was Emperor, I considered butchering them all.’
‘So why didn’t you?’ she asked as he began to fade into a miasma of gloom beneath the trees.
Faintly came the reply, ‘The Royal Advocate said it’d be a terrible mistake.’
Menandore was alone once again. She looked around, then grunted. ‘Gods, I hate this place.’ A moment later she too vanished.
Janall, once Empress of the Lether Empire, was now barely recognizable as a human. Brutally used as a conduit of the chaotic power of the Crippled God, her body had been twisted into a malign nightmare, bones bent, muscles stretched and bunched, and now, huge bulges of fat hung in folds from her malformed body. She could not walk, could not even lift her left arm, and the sorcery had broken her mind, the madness burning from eyes that glittered malevolently in the gloom as Nisall, carrying a lantern, paused in the doorway.
The chamber was rank with sweat, urine and other suppurations from the countless oozing sores on Jamil’s skin; the sweet reek of spoiled food, and another odour, pungent, that reminded the Emperor’s Concubine of rotting teeth.
Janall dragged herself forward with a strange, asymmetrical shift of her hips, pivoting on her right arm. The motion made a sodden sound beneath her, and Nisall saw the streams of saliva easing out from the once-beautiful woman’s misshapen mouth. The floor was pooled in the mucus and it was this, she realized, that was the source of the pungent smell.
Fighting back nausea, the Concubine stepped forward. ‘Empress.’
‘No longer!’ The voice was ragged, squeezed out from a deformed throat, and drool spattered with every jerk of her misshapen jaw. ‘I am Queen! Of his House, his honeyed House-oh, we are a contented family, oh yes, and one day, one day soon, you’ll see, that pup on the throne will come here. For me, his Queen. You, whore, you’re nothing-the House is not for you. You blind Rhulad to the truth, but his vision will clear, once,’ her voice dropped to a whisper and she leaned forward, ‘we are rid of you.’
‘I came,’ Nisall said, ‘to see if you needed anything-’
‘Liar. You came in search of allies. You think to steal him away. From me. From our true master. You will fail! Where’s my son? Where is he?’
Nisall shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t even know if he’s still alive-there are those in the court who claim he is, whilst others tell me he is long dead. But, Empress, I will seek to find out. And when I do, I will return. With the truth.’
‘I don’t believe you. You were never my ally. You were Ezgara’s whore, not mine.’
‘Has Turudal Brizad visited you, Empress?’
For a moment it seemed she would not answer. Then she managed something like a shrug. ‘He does not dare. Master sees through my eyes-tell Rhulad that, and he will understand what must be. Through my eyes-look closer, if you would know a god. The god. The only god that matters now. The rest of them are blind, as blind as you’ve made Rhulad, but they’re all in for a surprise, oh yes. The House is big-bigger than you imagine. The House is all of us, whore, and one day that truth will be proclaimed, so that all will hear. See me? I am on my knees, and that is no accident. Every human shall be on their knees, one day, and they will know me for their Queen. As for the King in Chains,’ she laughed, a sound thick with phlegm, ‘well, the crown is indifferent to whose skull it binds. The pup is failing, you know. Failing. There is… dissatisfaction. I should kill you, now, here. Come closer, whore.’
Instead, Nisall backed away a step, then two, until she was once more in the doorway. ‘Empress, the Chancellor is the source of Rhulad’s… failings. Your god should know that, lest it make a mistake. If you would kill anyone, it should be Triban Gnol, and, perhaps, Karos Invictad-they plot to usurp the Edur.’
‘The Edur?’ She spat. ‘Master’s almost done with them. Almost done.’
‘I will send servants down,’ Nisall said. ‘To clean your chamber, Empress.’
‘Spies.’
‘No, from your own entourage.’
‘Turned.’
‘Empress, they will take care of you, for their loyalty remains.’
‘But I don’t want them!’ Janall hunched lower. ‘I don’t want them… to see me like this.’
‘A bed will be sent down. Canopied. You can draw the shroud when they arrive. Pass out the soiled bedding through a part in the curtain.’
‘You would do this? I wanted you dead.’
‘The past is nothing,’ Nisall said. ‘Not any more.’
‘Get out,’ Janall rasped, looking away. ‘Master is disgusted with you. Suffering is our natural state. A truth to proclaim, and so I shall, when I win my new throne. Get out, whore, or come closer.’
‘Expect your servants within the bell,’ Nisall said, turning and walking from the grisly chamber.
As the echo of the whore’s footsteps faded, Janall, Queen of the House of Chains, curled up into a ball on the slick, befouled floor. Madness flickered in her eyes, there, then gone, then there once more. Over and over again. She spoke, one voice thick, the other rasping.
‘Vulnerable.’
‘Until the final war. Watch the army, as it pivots round, entirely round. These sordid games here, the times are almost past, past us all. Oh, when the pain at last ends, then you shall see the truth of me. Dear Queen, my power was once the sweetest kiss. A love that broke nothing.’
‘Give me my throne. You promised.’
‘Is it worth it?’
‘I beg you-’
‘They all beg me, and call it prayer. What sour benediction must I swallow from this eternal fount of dread and spite and bald greed? Will you never see? Never understand? I must find the broken ones, just do not expect my reach, my touch. No-one understands, how the gods fear freedom. No-one.’
‘You have lied to me.’
You have lied to yourself. You all do, and call it faith. I am your god. I am what you made me. You all decry my indifference, but I assure you, you would greater decry my attention. No, make no proclamations otherwise. I know what you claim to do in my name. I know your greatest fear is that I will one day call you on it-and that is the real game here, this knuckles of the soul. Watch me, mortal, watch me call you on it. Every one of you.’
‘My god is mad.’
‘As you would have me, so I am.’
‘I want my throne.’
‘You always want.’
‘Why won’t you give it to me?’
‘I answer as a god: if I give you what you want, we all die. Hah, I know-you don’t care! Oh, you humans, you are something else. You make my every breath agony. And my every convulsion is your ecstasy. Very well, mortal, I will answer your prayers. I promise. Just do not ever say I didn’t warn you. Do not. Ever.’
Janall laughed, spraying spit. ‘We are mad,’ she whispered. ‘Oh yes, quite mad. And we’re climbing into the light…’
For all the scurrying servants and the motionless, helmed guards at various entrances, Nisall found the more populated areas of the Eternal Domicile in some ways more depressing than the abandoned corridors she’d left behind a third of a bell past. Suspicion soured the air, fear stalked like shadows underfoot between the stanchions of torchlight. The palace’s name had acquired a taint of irony, rife as the Eternal Domicile was with paranoia, intrigue and incipient betrayal. As if humans could manage no better, and were doomed to such sordid existence for all time.
Clearly, there was nothing satisfying in peace, beyond the freedom it provided to get up to no good. She had been shaken by her visit to the supposedly insane once-empress, Janall. This Crippled God indeed lurked in the woman’s eyes-Nisall had seen it, felt that chilling, unhuman attention fixing on her, calculating, pondering her potential use. She did not want to be part of a god’s plans, especially that god’s. Even more frightening, Janall’s ambitions remained, engorged with visions of supreme power, her tortured, brutalized body notwithstanding. The god was using her as well.
There were rumours of war hissing like wind in the palace, tales of a belligerent conspiracy of border kingdoms and tribes to the east. The Chancellor’s reports to Rhulad had been anything but simple in their exhortations to raise the stakes. A formal declaration of war, the marching of massed troops over the borders in a pre-emptive campaign of conquest. Far better to spill blood on their lands than on Letherii soil, after all. ‘If the Bolhmdo-led alliance wants war, we should give it to them.’’ The Chancellor’s glittering eyes belied the cool, almost toneless enunciation of those words.
Rhulad had fidgeted on his throne, muttering his unease the Edur were too spread out, the K’risnan were overworked. Why did the Bolkandans so dislike him? There had been no list of grievances. He had done nothing to spark this fire to life.
Triban Gnol had pointed out, quietly, that four agents of the conspiracy had been captured entering Letheras only the other day. Disguised as merchants seeking ivory. Karos Invictad had sent by courier their confessions and would the Emperor like to see them?
Shaking his head in denial, Rhulad had said nothing, his pain-racked eyes fixed on the tiles of the dais beyond his slippered feet.
So lost, this terrible Emperor.
As she turned onto the corridor leading to her private chambers, she saw a tall figure standing near her door. A Tiste Edur, one of the few who were resident in the palace. She vaguely recalled the warrior’s having something to do with security.
He tilted his head in greeting as she approached. ‘First Concubine Nisall.’
‘Has the Emperor sent you?’ she asked, stepping past and waving him behind her into the chambers. Few men could intimidate her-she knew too well their minds. She was less at ease in the company of women, and the virtually neutered men such as Triban Gnol.
‘Alas,’ the warrior said, ‘I am not permitted to speak to my Emperor.’
She paused and glanced back at him. ‘Are you out of favour?’
‘I have no idea.’
Intrigued now, Nisall regarded the Edur for a moment, then asked, ‘Would you like some wine?’
‘No, thank you. Were you aware that a directive has been issued by Invigilator Karos Invictad to compile evidence leading to your arrest for sedition?’
She grew very still. Sudden heat flashed through her, then she felt cold, beads of sweat like ice against her skin. ‘Are you here,’ she whispered, ‘to arrest me?’
His brows rose. ‘No, nothing of the sort. The very opposite, in fact.’
‘You wish, then, to join in my treason?’
‘First Concubine, I do not believe you are engaged in any seditious acts. And if you are, I doubt they are directed against Emperor Rhulad.’
She frowned. ‘If not the Emperor, then whom? And how could it be considered treasonous if they are not aimed at Rhulad? Do you think I resent the Tiste Edur hegemony? Precisely whom am I conspiring against?’
‘If I was forced to hazard a guess… Chancellor Triban Gnol.’
She said nothing for a moment, then, ‘What do you want?’
‘Forgive me. My name is Bruthen Trana. I was appointed to oversee the operations of the Patriotists, although it is likely that the Emperor has since forgotten that detail.’
‘l am not surprised. You’ve yet to report to him.’
He grimaced. ‘True. The Chancellor has made certain of that.’
‘He insists you report to him instead, yes? I’m beginning to understand, Bruthen Trana.’
‘Presumably, Triban Gnol’s assurances that he has conveyed said reports to Rhulad are false.’
‘The only reports the Emperor receives regarding the Patriotists are those from the Invigilator, as vetted through the Chancellor.’
He sighed. ‘As I suspected. First Concubine, it is said your relationship with the Emperor has gone somewhat beyond that of ruler and chosen whore-forgive me for the use of that term. Rhulad is being isolated-from his own people. Daily he receives petitions, but they are all from Letherii, and those are carefully selected by Triban Gnol and his staff. This situation had worsened since the fleets sailed, for with them went Tomad Sengar and Uruth, and many other Hiroth, including Rhulad’s brother, Binadas. All who might have effectively opposed the Chancellor’s machinations were removed from the scene. Even Hanradi Khalag…’ His words fell away and he stared at her, then shrugged. ‘I must speak to the Emperor, Nisall. Privately.’
‘I may not be able to help you, if I am to be arrested,’ she said.
‘Only Rhulad himself can prevent that from occurring,’ Bruthen Trana said. ‘In the meantime, I can afford you some protection.’
She cocked her head. ‘How?’
‘I will assign you two Edur bodyguards.’
‘Ah, so you are not entirely alone, Bruthen.’
‘The only Edur truly alone here is the Emperor. And, perhaps, Hannan Mosag, although he still has his K’risnan-but it is anything but certain that the once-Warlock King is loyal to Rhulad.’
Nisall smiled without much humour. ‘And so it turns out,’ she said, ‘that the Tiste Edur are no different from the Letherii after all. Do you know, Rhulad would have it… otherwise.’
‘Perhaps, then, First Concubine, we can work together to help him realize his vision.’
‘Your bodyguards had best be subtle, Bruthen. The Chancellor’s spies watch me constantly.’
The Edur smiled. ‘Nisall, we are children of Shadow…’
Once, long ago, she had walked for a time through Hood’s Realm. In the language of the Eleint, the warren that was neither new nor Elder was known as Festal’rythan, the Layers of the Dead. She had found proof of that when traversing the winding cut of a gorge, the raw walls of which revealed innumerable strata evincing the truth of extinction. Every species that ever existed was trapped in the sediments of Festal’rythan, not in the same manner of similar formations of geology as could be found in any world; no, in Hood’s Realm, the soul sparks persisted, and what she was witness to was their ‘lives’, abandoned here, crushed into immobility. The stone itself was, in the peculiar oxymoron that plagued the language of death, alive.
In the broken grounds surrounding the lifeless Azath of Letheras, many of those long-extinct creatures had crawled back through the gate, as insidious as any vermin. True, it was not a gate as such, just… rents, fissures, as if some terrible demon had slashed from both sides, talons the size of two-handed swords tearing through the fabric between the warrens. There had been battles here, the spilling of ascendant blood, the uttering of vows that could not be kept. She could still smell the death of the Tarthenal gods, could almost hear their outrage and disbelief, as one fell, then another, and another… until all were gone, delivered unto Festal’rythan. She did not pity them. It was too easy to be arrogant upon arriving in this world, to think that none could challenge the unleashing of ancient power.
She had long since discovered a host of truths in time’s irresistible progression. Raw became refined, and with refinement, power grew ever deadlier. All that was simple would, in time and under sufficient pressure-and if random chance proved benign rather than malignant-
acquire greater complexity. And yet, at some point, a threshold was crossed, and complexity crumbled into dissolution. There was nothing fixed in this; some forms rose and fell with astonishing rapidity, while others could persist for extraordinarily long periods in seeming stasis.
Thus, she believed she comprehended more than most, yet found that she could do little with that knowledge. Standing in the overgrown, battered yard, her cold un-human eyes fixed on the malformed shape squatting at the edge of the largest sundered barrow, she could see through to the chaos inside him, could see how it urged dissolution within that complex matrix of flesh, blood and bone. Pain radiated from his hunched, twisted back as she continued studying him.
He had grown aware of her presence, and fear whispered through him, the sorcery of the Crippled God building. Yet he was uncertain if she presented a threat. In the mean-time, ambition rose and fell like crashing waves around the island of his soul.
She could, she decided, make use of this one.
‘I am Hannan Mosag,’ the figure said without turning. ‘You… you are Soletaken. The cruellest of the Sisters, accursed among the Edur pantheon. Your heart is betrayal. I greet you, Sukul Ankhadu.’
She approached. ‘Betrayal belongs to the one buried beneath, Hannan Mosag, to the Sister you once worshipped. How much, Edur, did that shape your destiny, I wonder? Any betrayals plaguing your people of late? Ah, I saw that flinch. Well, then, neither of us should be surprised.’
You work to free her.’
‘I always worked better with Sheltatha Lore than I did with Menandore… although that may not be the case now. The buried one has her… obsessions.’
The Tiste Edur grunted. ‘Don’t we all.’
‘How long have you known your most cherished protectress was entombed here?’
‘Suspicions. For years. I had thought-hoped-that I would discover what remained of Scabandari Bloodeye here as well.’
‘Wrong ascendant,’ Sukul Ankhadu said, her tone droll. ‘Had you got it right as to who betrayed whom back then, you would have known that.’
‘I hear the contempt in your voice.’
‘Why are you here? So impatient as to add your power to the rituals I unleashed below?’
‘It may be,’ Hannan Mosag said, ‘that we could work together… for a time.’
‘What would be the value in that?’
The Tiste Edur shifted to look up at her. ‘It seems obvious. Even now, Silchas Ruin hunts for the one I’d thought here. I doubt that either you or Sheltatha Lore would be pleased should he succeed. I can guide you onto his trail. I can also lend you… support, at the moment of confrontation.’
‘And in return?’
‘For one, we can see an end to your killing and eating citizens in the city. For another, we can destroy Silchas Ruin.’
She grunted. ‘I have heard that determination voiced before, Hannan Mosag. Is the Crippled God truly prepared to challenge him?’
‘With allies… yes.’
She considered his proposal. There would be treachery, but it would probably not occur until after Ruin was disposed of-the game would turn over the disposition of the Finnest. She well knew that Scabandari Bloodeye’s power was not as it once was, and what remained would be profoundly vulnerable. ‘Tell me, does Silchas Ruin travel alone?’
‘No. He has a handful of followers, but of them, only one is cause for concern. A Tiste Edur, the eldest brother of the Sengar, once commander of the Edur Warriors.’
‘A surprising alliance.’
‘Shaky is a better way of describing it. He too seeks the Finnest, and will, I believe, do all he can to prevent its falling into Ruin’s hands.’
‘Ah, expedience plagues us all.’ Sukul Ankhadu smiled. ‘Very well, Hannan Mosag. We are agreed, but tell your Crippled God this: fleeing at the moment of attack, abandoning Sheltatha Lore and myself to Silchas Ruin and, say, making off with the Finnest during the fight, will prove a fatal error. With our dying breaths, we will tell Silchas Ruin all he needs to know, and he will come after the Crippled God, and he will not relent.’
‘You will hot be abandoned, Sukul Ankhadu. As for the Finnest itself, do you wish to claim it for yourselves?’
She laughed. ‘To fight over it between us? No, we’d rather see it destroyed.’
‘I see. Would you object, then, to the Crippled God’s making use of its power?’
‘Will such use achieve eventual destruction?’
‘Oh yes, Sukul Ankhadu.’
She shrugged. As you like.’ You must truly think me a fool, Hannan Mosag. ‘Your god marches to war-he will need all the help he can get.’
Hannan Mosag managed his own smile, a twisted, feral thing. ‘He is incapable of marching. He does not even crawl. The war comes to him, Sister.’
If there was hidden significance to that distinction, Sukul Ankhadu was unable to discern it. Her gaze lifted, fixed on the river to the south. Wheeling gulls, strange islands of sticks and grasses spinning on the currents. And, she could sense, beneath the swirling surface, enormous, belligerent leviathans, using the islands as bait. Whatever came close enough…
She was drawn to a rumble of power from the broken barrow and looked down once more. ‘She’s coming, Hannan Mosag.’
‘Shall I leave? Or will she be amenable to our arrangement?’
‘On that, Edur, I cannot speak for her. Best you depart-she will, after all, be very hungry. Besides, she and I have much to discuss… old wounds to mend between us.’
She watched as the malformed warlock dragged himself away. After all, you are much more her child than you are mine, and I’d rather she was, for the moment, without allies.
It was all Menandore’s doing, anyway.