Everywhere I looked I saw the signs of war upon the landscape. There the trees had crested the rise, despatching skirmishers down the slope to challenge the upstart low growth in the riverbed, which had been dry as bone until the breaking of the ice dams high in the mountains, where the savage sun had struck in unexpected ambush, a siege that breached the ancient barricades and unleashed torrents of water upon the lowlands.
And here, on this tuck and fold of bedrock, the old scars of glaciers were vanishing beneath advancing mosses, creeping and devouring colonies of lichen which were themselves locked in feuds with kin.
Ants flung bridges across cracks in the stone, the air above swirling with winged termites, dying in silence in the serrated jaws of rhinazan that swung and ducked as they evaded yet fiercer predators of the sky.
All these wars proclaim the truth of life, of existence itself. Now we must ask ourselves, are we to excuse all we do by citing such ancient and ubiquitous laws? Or can we proclaim our freedom of will by defying our natural urge to violence, domination and slaughter? Such were my thoughts-puerile and cynical-as I stood triumphant over the last man I had slain, his lifeblood a dwindling stream down the length of my sword-blade, whilst in my soul there surged such pleasure as to leave me trembling…
– King Kilanbas in the Valley of Slate, Third Letheras Tide-the Wars of Conquest
The ruins of a low wall encircled the glade, the | battered rough-cut basalt dividing swaths of green grasses. Just beyond rose a thin copse of young birch and aspen, spring leaves bright and fluttering. Behind this stand the forest thickened, darkened, grey-skinned boles of pine crowding out all else. Whatever the wall had enclosed had vanished beneath the soft loam of the glade, although depressions were visible here and there to mark out cellar pits and the like.
The sunlit air seemed to spin and swirl, so thick were the clouds of flying insects, and there was a taint of something in the warm, sultry air that left Sukul Ankhadu with a vague sense of unease, as if ghosts watched from the black knots on the trees surrounding them. She had quested out-! ward more than once, finding nothing but minute life-sparks-the natural denizens of any forest-and the low murmurings of earth spirits, too weak to do much more than stir restlessly in their eternal, dying sleep. Nothing to concern them, then, which was well.
Standing close to one of the shin-high walls, she glanced back at the makeshift shelter, repressing yet another surge of irritation and impatience.
Freeing her sister should have yielded nothing but gratitude from the bitch. Sheltatha Lore had not exactly fared well in that barrow-beaten senseless by Silchas Ruin and a damned Locqui Wyval, left near-drowned in a bottomless bog in some memory pocket realm of the Azath, where every moment stretched like centuries-so much so that Sheltatha had emerged indelibly stained by those dark waters, her hair a burnt red, her skin the hue of a betel nut, as waxy and seamed as that of a T’lan Imass. Wounds gaped bloodless. Taloned fingernails gleamed like elongated beetle carapaces-Sukul had found her eyes drawn to them again and again, as if waiting for them to split, revealing wings of exfoliated skin as they dragged the fingers loose to whirl skyward.
And her sister was fevered. Day after day, raving with madness. Dialogue-negotiation-had been hopeless thus far. It had been all Sukul had managed, just getting her from that infernal city out here to a place of relative quietude.
She now eyed the lean-to which, from this angle, hid the recumbent form of Sheltatha Lore, grimly amused by the sight. Hardly palatial, as far as residences were concerned, and especially given their royal blood-if the fiery draconean torrent in their veins could justify the appellation, and why wouldn’t it? Worthy ascendants were few and far between in this realm, after all. Barring a handful of dour Elder Gods-and these nameless spirits of stone and tree, spring and stream. No doubt Menandore has fashioned for herself a more stately abode-ripe for appropriation. Some mountain fastness, spired and impregnable, so high as to be for ever wreathed in clouds. I want to walk those airy halls and call them my own. Our own. Unless I have no choice but to lock Sheltatha in some crypt, where she can rave and shriek disturbing no-one-
‘I should tear your throat out.’
The croak, coming from beneath the boughed shelter, triggered a sigh from Sukul. She approached until she came round to the front and could look within. Her sister had sat up, although her head was bowed, that long, crimson hair obscuring her face. Her long nails at the end of her dangling hands glistened as if leaking oil. ‘Your fever has broken-that is well.’
Sheltatha Lore did not look up. ‘Is it? I called for you-when Ruin was clawing loose-when he turned upon me-that self-serving, heartless bastard! Turned on me! I called on you!’
‘I heard, sister. Alas, too far away to do much about it-that fight of yours. But I came at last, didn’t I? Came, and freed you.’
Silence for a long moment; then, her voice dark and brutal, ‘Where is she, then?’
‘Menandore?’
‘It was her, wasn’t it?’ Lore looked up suddenly, revealing amber eyes, the whites stained like rust. A ghastly gaze, yet wide and searching. ‘Striking me from behind-I suspected nothing-I thought you were there, I thought-you were there, weren’t you!’
‘As much a victim as you, Sheltatha. Menandore had prepared long for that betrayal, a score of rituals-to drive you down, to leave me helpless to intervene.’
‘She struck first, you mean.’ The statement was a half-snarl. ‘Were we not planning the same, Sukul?’
‘That detail is without much relevance now, isn’t it?’
‘And yet, dear sister, she didn’t bury you, did she?’
‘Not through any prowess on my part. Nor did I bargain for my freedom. No, it seemed Menandore was not interested in destroying me.’ Sukul could feel her own sneer of hatred twisting her features. ‘She never thought I was worth much. Sukul Ankhadu, Dapple, the Fickle. Well, she is about to learn otherwise, isn’t she?’
‘We must find an Azath,’ Sheltatha Lore said, baring brown teeth. ‘She must be made to suffer what I suffered.’
‘I agree, sister. Alas, there are no surviving Azath in this place-on this continent, I mean. Sheltatha Lore-will you trust me? I have something in mind-a means of trapping Menandore, of exacting our long-awaited revenge. Will you join me? As true allies-together, there are none here powerful enough to stop us-’
‘You fool, there is Silchas Ruin.’
‘I have an answer for him as well, sister. But I need your help. We must work together, and in so doing we will achieve the demise of both Menandore and Silchas Ruin. Do you trust me?’
Sheltatha Lore’s laugh was harsh. ‘Cast that word away, sister. It is meaningless. I demand vengeance. You have something to prove-to us all. Very well, we shall work together, and see what comes of it. Tell me your grand plan, then. Tell me how we shall crush Silchas Ruin who is without equal in this realm-’
‘You must conquer your fear of him,’ Sukul said, glancing away, studying the glade, noting how the shafts of sunlight had lengthened, and the ruined wall surrounding them now hunched like crumbling darkness. ‘He is not indomitable. Scabandari proved that well enough-’
‘Are you truly so stupid as to believe that?’ Sheltatha demanded, clambering free of the lean-to, straightening like some anthropomorphic tree. Her skin gleamed, polished and the colour of stained wood. ‘I shared the bastard’s barrow for a thousand eternities. I tasted his dreams, I sipped at the stream of his secretmost thoughts-he grew careless…’
Sukul scowled at her kin. ‘What are you saying?’
The terrible eyes fixed mockingly on her. ‘He stood on the field of battle. He stood, his back to Scabandari-whom he called Bloodeye and was that not hint enough? Stood, I tell you, and but waited for the knives.’
‘I do not believe you-that must be a lie, it must be!’
‘Why? Wounded, weaponless. Sensing the fast approach of this realm’s powers-powers that would not hesitate in destroying him and Bloodeye both. Destroying in the absolute sense-Silchas was in no condition to defend against them. Nor, he well knew, was Scabandari, for all that idiot’s pompous preening over the countless dead. So, join in Scabandari’s fate, or… escape7.’
‘Millennia within a barrow of an Azath-you call that an escape, Sheltatha?’
‘More than any of us-more even than Anomandaris,’ she said, her eyes suddenly veiled, ‘Silchas Ruin thinks… draconean. As cold, as calculating, as timeless. Abyss below, Sukul Ankhadu, you have no idea…’ A shudder took Sheltatha then and she turned away. ‘Be sure of your schemes, sister,’ she added in a guttural tone, ‘and, no matter how sure you make yourself, leave us a means of escape. For when we fail.’
Another faint groan, from the earth spirits on all sides, and Sukul Ankhadu shivered, assailed by uncertainty-and fear. ‘You must tell me more of him,’ she said. All you learned-’
‘Oh, I shall. Freedom has left you… arrogant, sister. We must strip that from you, we must free your gaze of that veil of confidence. And refashion your plans accordingly.’ A long pause, then Sheltatha Lore faced Sukul once again, an odd glint in her eyes. ‘Tell me, did you choose in deliberation?’
‘What?’
A gesture. ‘This place… for my recovery.’
Sukul shrugged. ‘Shunned by the local people. Private-I thought-’
‘Shunned, aye. With reason.’
And that would be?’
Sheltatha studied her for a long moment, then she simply turned away. ‘Matters not. I am ready to leave here now.’
As ami, I think. Agreed. North-’
Another sharp glance, then a nod.
Oh, 1 see your contempt, sister. 1 know you felt as Menandore did-I know you think little of me. And you thought 1 would step forward once she struck? Why? I spoke of trust, yes, but you did not understand. I do indeed trust you, Sheltatha. 1 trust you to lust for vengeance. And that is all I need. For ten thousand lifetimes of slight and disregard… it will be all I need.
His tattooed arms bared in the humid heat, Taxilian walked to the low table where sat Samar Dev, ignoring the curious regard from other patrons in the courtyard restaurant. Without a word he sat, reached for the jug of watered, chilled wine and poured himself a goblet, then leaned closer. ‘By the Seven Holies, witch, this damned city is a wonder-and a nightmare.’
Samar Dev shrugged. ‘The word is out-a score of champions now await the Emperor’s pleasure. You are bound to attract attention.’
He shook his head. ‘You misunderstand. I was once an architect, yes? It is one thing’-he waved carelessly-‘to stand agape at the extraordinary causeways and spans, the bridges and that dubious conceit that is the Eternal Domicile-even the canals with their locks, inflows and outflows, the aqueduct courses and the huge blockhouses with their massive pumps and the like.’ He paused for another mouthful of wine. ‘No, I speak of something else entirely. Did you know, an ancient temple of sorts collapsed the day we arrived-a temple devoted, it seems, to rats-’
‘Rats?’
‘Rats, not that I could glean any hint of a cult centred on such foul creatures.’
‘Karsa would find the notion amusing,’ Samar Dev said with a half-smile, ‘and acquire in such cultists yet another enemy, given his predilection for wringing the necks of rodents-’
Taxilian said in a low voice, ‘Not just rodents, I gather…’
‘Alas, but on that matter I would allow the Toblakai some steerage room-he warned them that no-one was to touch his sword. A dozen or more times, in fact. That guard should have known better.’
‘Dear witch,’ Taxilian sighed, ‘you’ve been careless or, worse, lazy. It’s to do with the Emperor, you see. The weapon destined to cross blades with Rhulad’s own. The touch signifies a blessing-did you not know? The loyal citizens of this empire want the champions to succeed. They want their damned tyrant obliterated. They pray for it; they dream of it-’
‘All right,’ Samar Dev hissed, ‘keep your voice down!’
Taxilian spread his hands, then he grimaced. ‘Yes, of course. After all, every shadow hides a Patriotist-’
‘Careful of whom you mock. That’s a capricious, bloodthirsty bunch, Taxilian, and you being a foreigner only adds to your vulnerability.’
‘You need to eavesdrop on more conversations, witch. The Emperor is unkillable. Karsa Orlong will join all the others in that cemetery of urns. Do not expect otherwise. And when that happens, why, all his… hangers-on, his companions-all who came with him will suffer the same fate. Such is the decree. Why would the Patriotists bother with us, given our inevitable demise?’ He drained the last wine from his goblet, then refilled it. ‘In any case, you distracted me. I was speaking of that collapsed temple, and what I saw of its underpinnings-the very proof for my growing suspicions.’
‘I didn’t know we’re destined for execution. Well, that changes things-although I am not sure how.’ She fell silent; then, considering Taxilian’s other words, she said, ‘Go on.’
Taxilian slowly leaned back, cradling the goblet in his hands. ‘Consider Ehrlitan, a city built on the bones of countless others. In that, little different from the majority of settlements across all Seven Cities. But this Letheras, it is nothing like that, Samar Dev. No. Here, the older city never collapsed, never disintegrated into rubble. It still stands, following street patterns not quite obscured. Here and there, the ancient buildings remain, like crooked teeth. I have never seen the like, witch-it seems no regard whatsoever was accorded those old streets. At least two canals cut right through them-you can see the bulge of stonework on the canal walls, like the sawed ends of long-bones.’
‘Peculiar indeed. Alas, a subject only an architect or a mason would find a source of excitement, Taxilian.’
‘You still don’t understand. That ancient pattern, that mostly hidden gridwork and the remaining structures adhering to it-witch, none of it is accidental.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I should probably not tell you this, but among masons and architects there are secrets of a mystical nature. Certain truths regarding numbers and geometry reveal hidden energies, lattices of power. Samar Dev, there are such courses of energy, like twisted wires in mortar, woven through this city. The collapse of Scale House revealed it to my eyes: a gaping wound, dripping ancient blood-nearly dead blood, I’ll grant you, but undeniable.’
‘Are you certain of this?’
‘I am, and furthermore, someone knows. Enough to ensure that the essential constructs, the buildings that form a network of fulcra-the fixing-points to the lattice of energy-they all remain standing-’
‘Barring this Scale House.’
A nod. ‘Not necessarily a bad thing-indeed, not necessarily accidental, that collapse.’
‘Now you have lost me. That temple fell down on purpose?’
‘I would not discount that. In fact, that accords precisely with my suspicions. We approach a momentous event, Samar Dev. For now, that is as far as I can take it. Something is going to happen. I only pray we are alive to witness it.’
‘You’ve done little to enliven my day,’ she said, eyeing her half-finished breakfast of bread, cheeses and unfamiliar fruit. ‘At the very least you can order us another carafe of wine for your sins.’
‘I think you should run,’ Taxilian said under his breath, not meeting her eyes. ‘I would, barring the event I believe is coming. But as you say, my interest is perhaps mostly professional. You, on the other hand, would do better to look to your own life-to maintaining it, that is.’
She frowned. ‘It’s not that I hold to an unreasoning faith in the martial prowess of Karsa Orlong. There have been enough hints that the Emperor has fought other great champions, other warriors of formidable skill, and none could defeat him. Nonetheless, I admit to a feeling of. well, loyalty.’
‘Enough to join him at Hood’s Gate?’
‘I am not sure. In any case, don’t you imagine that we’re being watched? Don’t you think that others have tried to flee their fate?’
‘No doubt. But Samar Dev, to not even try…’
‘I will think on it, Taxilian. Now, I’ve changed my mind-that second carafe of wine will have to wait. Let us walk this fair city. I am of a mind to see this ruined temple for myself. We can gawk like the foreigners we are, and the Patriotists will think nothing of it.’ She rose from her seat.
Taxilian followed suit. ‘I trust you’ve already paid the proprietor.’
‘No need. Imperial largesse.’
‘Generosity towards the condemned-that runs contrary to my sense of this fell empire.’
‘Things are always more complex than they first seem.’
Tracked by the eyes of a dozen patrons, the two left the restaurant.
The sun devoured the last shadows in the sand-floored compound, heat rising in streaming waves along the length of the rectangular, high-walled enclosure. The sands had been raked and smoothed by servants, and that surface would remain unmarred until late afternoon, when the challengers in waiting would troop out to spar with each other and gather-those who shared a language-to chew and gnaw on these odd, macabre circumstances. Yet, leaning against a wall just within the inner entranceway, Taralack Veed watched Icarium move slowly alongside the compound’s outer wall, one hand out to brush with fingertips the bleached, dusty stone and its faded frieze.
On that frieze, faded images of imperial heroes and glory-soaked kings, chipped and scarred now by the weapons of unmindful foreigners sparring with each other, each and every one of those foreigners intent upon the murder of the Emperor now commanding the throne.
Thus, a lone set of footprints now, tracking along that wall, a shadow diminished to almost nothing beneath the tall, olive-skinned warrior, who paused to look skyward as a flock of unfamiliar birds skittered across the blue gap, then continued on until he reached the far end, where a huge barred gate blocked the way into the street beyond. The figures of guards were just visible beyond the thick, rust-pitted bars. Icarium halted facing that gate, stood motionless, the sunlight bleaching him as if the Jhag had just stepped out from the frieze on his left, as faded and worn as any hero of antiquity.
But no, not a hero. Not in anyone’s eyes. Not ever. A weapon and nothing more. Yet… he lives, he breathes, and when something breathes, it is more than a weapon. Hot blood in the veins, the grace of motion, a cavort of thoughts and feelings in that skull, awareness like flames in the eyes. The Nameless Ones had knelt on the threshold of stone for too long. Worshipping a house, its heaved grounds, its echoing rooms-why not the living, breathing ones who might dwell within that house? Why not the immortal builders? A temple was hallowed ground not to its own existence but to the god it would honour. But the Nameless Ones did not see it that way. Worship taken to its absurd extreme… yet perhaps in truth as primitive as leaving an offering in a fold of rock, of blood-paint on that worn surface… oh, I am not the one for this, for thoughts that chill the marrow of my soul.
A Gral, cut and scarred by the betrayals. The ones that wait in every man’s shadow-for we are both house and dweller. Stone and earth. Blood and flesh. And so we will haunt the old rooms, walk the familiar corridors, until, turning a corner, we find ourselves facing a stranger, who can be none other than our most evil reflection.
And then the knives are drawn and a life’s battle is waged, year after year, deed after deed. Courage and vile treachery, cowardice and bright malice.
The stranger has driven me back, step by step. Until I no longer know myself-what sane man would dare recognize his own infamy? Who would draw pleasure from the sensation of evil, satisfaction from its all too bitter rewards? No, instead we run with our own lies-do 1 not utter my vows of vengeance each dawn? Do 1 not whisper my curses against all those who wronged me?
And now I dare judge the Nameless Ones, who would wield one evil against another. And what of my place in this dread scheme?
He stared across at Icarium, who still faced the gate, who stood like a statue, blurred behind ripples of heat. My stranger. Yet which one of us is the evil one?
His predecessor, Mappo-the Trell-had long ago left such struggles behind, Taralack suspected. Choosing to betray the Nameless Ones rather than this warrior before the gate. An evil choice? The Gral was no longer so sure of his answer.
Hissing under his breath, he pushed himself from the wall and walked the length of the compound, through waves of heat, to stand at the Jhag’s side. ‘If you leave your weapons,’ Taralack said, ‘you are free to wander the city.’
‘Free to change my mind?’ Icarium asked with a faint smile.
‘That would achieve little-except perhaps our immediate execution.’
‘There might be mercy in that.’
‘You do not believe your own words, Icarium. Instead, you speak to mock me.’
‘That may be true, Taralack Veed. As for this city,’ he shook his head, ‘I am not yet ready.’
‘The Emperor could decide at any moment-’
‘He will not. There is time.’
The Gral scowled up at the Jhag. ‘How are you certain?’
‘Because, Taralack Veed,’ Icarium said, quiet and measured as he turned to walk back, ‘he is afraid.’
Staring after him, the Gral was silent. Of you? What does he know? Seven Holies, who would know of this land’s history? Its legends? Are they forewarned of Icarium and all that waits within him?
Icarium vanished in the shadow beneath the building entranceway. After a dozen rapid heartbeats, Taralack followed, not to reclaim the Jhag’s dour companionship, but to find one who might give him the answers to the host of questions now assailing him.
Varat Taun, once second in command to Atri-Preda Yan Tovis, huddled in a corner of the unfurnished room. His only reaction to Yan Tovis’s arrival was a flinch. Curling yet lighter in that corner, he did not lift his head to look upon her. This man had, alone, led Taralack Veed and Icarium back through the warrens-a tunnel torn open by unknown magic, through every realm the expedition had traversed on their outward journey. The Atri-Preda herself had seen the blistering wound that had been the exit gate; she had heard its shrieking howl, a voice that seemed to reach into her chest and grip her heart; she had stared in disbelieving wonder at the three figures emerging from it, one dragged between two…
No other survivors. Not one. Neither Edur nor Letherii.
Varat Taun’s mind had already snapped. Incapable of coherent explanations, he had babbled, shrieking at anyone who drew too close to his person, yet unable or unwilling to tear his wide eyes from the unconscious form of Icarium.
Taralack Veed’s rasping words, then: All dead. Everyone. The First Throne is destroyed, every defender slaughtered-Icarium alone was left standing, and even he was grievously wounded. He is… he is worthy of your Emperor.
But so the Gral had been saying since the beginning. The truth was, no-one knew for certain. What had happened in the subterranean sepulchre where stood the First Throne?
The terrible claims did not end there. The Throne of Shadow had also been destroyed. Yan Tovis remembere the dismay and horror upon the features of the Tiste Edur when they comprehended Taralack Veed’s badly accented words.
Another expedition was necessary. That much had been obvious. To see the truth of such claims.
The gate had closed shortly after spitting out the survivors, the healing almost as violent and fraught as the first wounding, with a cacophony of screams-like the lost souls of the damned-erupting from that portal at the last moment, leaving witnesses with the terrible conviction that others had been racing to get out.
Swift into the wake of that suspicion came the news of failures-on ship after ship of the fleet-by the warlocks of the Edur when they sought to carve new paths into the warrens. The trauma created by that chaotic rent had somehow sealed every possible path to the place of the Throne of Shadow, and that of the T’lan Imass First Throne. Was this permanent? No-one knew. Even to reach out, as the warlocks had done, was to then recoil in savage pain. Hot, they said; the very flesh of existence rages like fire.
Yet in truth Yan Tovis had little interest in such matters. She had lost soldiers, and none stung more than her second in command, Varat Taun.
She stared now upon his huddled form. Is this what I will deliver to his wife and child in Bluerose? Letherii healers had tended to him, unsuccessfully-the wounds on his mind were beyond their powers to mend.
The sounds of boots in the corridor behind her. She stepped to one side as the guard arrived with his barefooted charge. Another ‘guest’. A monk from the archipelago theocracy of Cabal who had, oddly enough, volunteered to join the Edur fleet, following, it turned out, a tradition of delivering hostages to fend off potential enemies. The Edur fleet had been too damaged to pose much threat at that time, still licking its wounds after clashing with the denizens of Perish, but that had not seemed to matter much-the tradition announcing first contact with strangers was an official policy.
The Cabalhii monk standing now in the threshold of the doorway was no higher than Twilight’s shoulder, slight of build, bald, his round face painted into a comical mask with thick, solid pigments, bright and garish, exaggerating an expression of hilarity perfectly reflected in the glitter of the man’s eyes. Yan Tovis had not known what to expect, but certainly nothing like… this.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see him,’ she now said. ‘I understand that you possess talent as a healer.’
The monk seemed moments from bursting into laughter at her every word, and Twilight felt a flash of irritation.
‘Can you understand me?’ she demanded.
Beneath the face paint the features were flat, unresponsive, as he said in fluid Letherii, ‘I understand your every word. By the lilt of your accent, you come from the empire’s north, on the coast. You have also learned the necessary intonation that is part of the military’s own lexicon, which does not entirely amend the residue of your low birth, yet is of sufficient mediation to leave most of your comrades uncertain of your familial station.’ The eyes, a soft brown, were brimming with silent mirth with each statement. ‘This of course does not refer to the temporary taint that has come from long proximity among sailors, as well as the Tiste Edur. Which, you may be relieved to hear, is fast diminishing.’
Yan Tovis glanced at the guard standing behind the monk. A gesture sent her away.
‘If that was your idea of a joke,’ she said to the Cabalhii after the woman had left, ‘then even the paint does not help.’
The eyes flashed. ‘I assure you, no humour was intended. Now, I am told your own healers have had no success. Is this correct?’
Yes.’
‘And the Tiste Edur?’
‘They are… uninterested in Varat Taun’s fate.’
A nod, then the monk, drawing his loose silks closer, walked noiselessly towards the figure in the far corner.
Varat Taun squealed and began clawing at the walls.
The monk halted, cocking his head, then turned about and approached Yan Tovis. ‘Do you wish to hear my assessment?’
‘Go on.’
‘He is mad.’
She stared down into those dancing eyes, and felt a sudden desire to throttle this Cabalhii. ‘Is that all?’ Her question came out in a rasping tone, rough with threat.
‘All? It is considerable. Madness. Myriad causes, some the result of physical damage to the brain, others due to dysfunctioning organs which can be ascribed to traits of parentage-an inherited flaw, as it were. Other sources include an imbalance of the Ten Thousand Secretions of the flesh, a tainting of select fluids, the fever kiss of delusion. Such imbalances can be the result of aforementioned damage or dysfunction.’
‘Can you heal him?’
The monk blinked. ‘Is it necessary?’
‘Well, that is why I sent for you-excuse me, but what is your name?’
‘My name was discarded upon attaining my present rank within the Unified Sects of Cabal.’
‘I see, and what rank is that?’
‘Senior Assessor.’
Assessing what?’
The expression did not change. ‘All matters requiring assessment. Is more explanation required?’
Yan Tovis scowled. ‘I’m not sure,’ she muttered. ‘I think we are wasting our time.’
Another wild cavort in the monk’s eyes. ‘The appearance of a foreign fleet among our islands required assessment. The empire that despatched it required assessment. The demands of this Emperor require assessment. And now, as we see, the condition of this young soldier requires assessment. So I have assessed it.’
‘So where, precisely, does your talent for healing come in?’
‘Healing must needs precede assessing success or failure of the treatment.’
‘What treatment?’
‘These things follow a progression of requirements, each of which must be fully met before one is able to proceed to the next. Thus. I have assessed this soldier’s present condition. He is mad-I then, for your benefit, described the various conditions of madness and their possible causes. Thereafter we negotiated the issue of personal nomenclature-an aside with little relevance, as it turns out-and now I am ready to resume the task at hand.’
‘Forgive my interruption, then.’
‘There is no need. Now, to continue. This soldier has suffered a trauma sufficient to disrupt the normal balance of the Ten Thousand Secretions. Various organs within his brain are now trapped in a cycle of dysfunction beyond any measures of self-repair. The trauma has left a residue in the form of an infection of chaos-it is, I might add, never wise to sip the deadly waters between the warrens. Furthermore, this chaos is tainted with the presence of a false god.’
‘A false god-what is false about it?’
‘I am a monk of the Unified Sects of Cabal, and it now seems necessary that I explain the nature of my religion. Among the people of Cabal there are three thousand and twelve sects. These sects are devoted, one and all, to the One God. In the past, terrible civil wars plagued the islands of Cabal, as each sect fought for domination of both secular and spiritual matters. Not until the Grand Synod of New Year One was peace secured and formalized for every generation to come. Hence, the Unified Sects. The solution to the endless conflicts was, it turned out, brilliantly simple. “Belief in the One God occludes all other concerns.”‘
‘How could there be so many sects and only one god?’
‘Ah. Well, you must understand. The One God writes nothing down. The One God has gifted its children with language and thought in the expectation that the One God’s desires be recorded by mortal hands and interpreted by mortal minds. That there were three thousand and twelve sects at New Year One is only surprising in that there were once tens of thousands, resulting from a previous misguided policy of extensive education provided to every citizen of Cabal-a policy since amended in the interests of unification. There is now one college per sect, wherein doctrine is formalized. Accordingly, Cabal has known twenty-three months of uninterrupted peace.’
Yan Tovis studied the small man, the dancing eyes, the absurd mask of paint. ‘And which sect doctrine did you learn, Senior Assessor?’
‘Why, that of the Mockers.’
‘And their tenet?’
‘Only this: the One God, having written nothing down, having left all matters of interpretation of faith and worship to the unguided minds of over-educated mortals, is unequivocally insane.’
‘Which, I suppose, is why your mask shows wild laughter-’
‘Not at all. We of the Mockers are forbidden laughter, for that is an invitation to the hysteria afflicting the One God. In the Holy Expression adorning my face you are granted a true image of the One Behind the Grand Design, in so far as our sect determines such.’ The monk suddenly clasped his hands beneath his chin. ‘Now, our poor soldier has suffered overlong as it is, whilst we digressed yet again. I have assessed the taint of a false god in the beleaguered mind of this wounded man. Accordingly, that false god must be driven out. Once this is done, I shall remove the blockages in the brain preventing self-repair, and so all imbalances will be redressed. The effects of said treatment will be virtually immediate and readily obvious.’
Yan Tovis blinked. ‘You can truly heal him?’
‘Have I not said so?’
‘Senior Assessor.’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you aware of the purpose you are meant to serve here in Letheras?’
‘I believe I will be expected to meet the Emperor on a pitch, whereupon we shall endeavour to kill each other. Furthermore, I am led to understand that this Emperor cannot be slain with any measure of finality, cursed as he is by a false god-the very same false god who has afflicted this soldier here, by the way. Thus, it is my assessment that I will be killed in that contest, to the dismay of no-one and everyone.’
And your One God will not help you, a senior priest of its temple?’
The man’s eyes glittered. ‘The One God helps no-one. After all, should it help one then it must help all, and such potentially universal assistance would inevitably lead to irreconcilable conflict, which in turn would without question drive the One God mad. As indeed it did, long ago.’
And that imbalance can never be redressed?’
‘You lead me to reassess you, Atri-Preda Yan Tovis. You are rather clever, in an intuitive way. I judge that your Ten Thousand Secretions flow even and clear, probably the result of remorseless objectivity or some similar blasphemy of the spirit-for which, I assure you, I hold no particular resentment. So, we share this question, which enunciates the very core of the Mockers’ Doctrine. It is our belief that, should every mortal in this realm achieve clarity of thought and a cogent regard of morality, and so acquire a profound humility and respect for all others and for the world in which they live, then the imbalance will be redressed, and sanity will return once more to the One God.’
‘Ah… I see.’
‘I am sure you do. Now, I believe a healing was imminent. A conjoining of the warrens of High Mockra and High Denul. Physiological amendment achieved by the latter. Expurgation of the taint and elimination of the blockages, via the former. Of course, said warrens are faint in their manifestation here in this city, for a variety of reasons. Nonetheless, I do indeed possess substantial talents, some of which are directly applicable to the matter at hand.’
Feeling slightly numbed, Yan Tovis rubbed at her face. She closed her eyes-then, at a ragged sigh from Varat Taun, opened them again, to see her second in command’s limbs slowly unfold, the fierce clutch of muscles on his neck visibly ease as the man, blinking, slowly lifted his head.
And saw her.
‘Varat Taun.’
A faint smile, worn with sorrow-but a natural sorrow. Atri-Preda. We made it back, then…’
She frowned, then nodded. ‘You did. And since that time, Lieutenant, the fleet has come home.’ She gestured at the room. ‘You are in the Domicile’s Annexe, in Letheras.’
‘Letheras? What?’ He struggled to rise, pausing a moment to look wonderingly at the Cabalhii monk; then, using the wall behind him, he straightened and met Twilight’s eyes. ‘But that is impossible. We’d two entire oceans to cross, at the very least-’
‘Your escape proved a terrible ordeal, Lieutenant,’ Yan Tovis said. ‘You have lain in a coma for many, many months. I expect you are feeling weak-’
A grimace. ‘Exhausted, sir.’
‘What do you last recall, Lieutenant?’
Dread filled his wan features and his gaze fell away from hers. ‘Slaughter, sir.’
‘Yes. The barbarian known as Taralack Veed survived, as did the Jhag, Icarium-’
Varat Taun’s head snapped up. ‘Icarium! Yes-Atri-Preda, he-he is an abomination!’
‘A moment!’ cried the Senior Assessor, eyes now piercing as he stared at the lieutenant. ‘Icarium, the Jhag Warrior? Icarium, Lifestealer?’
Suddenly frightened, Yan Tovis said, ‘Yes, Cabalhii. He is here. Like you, he will challenge the Emperor-’ She stopped then, in shock, as the monk, eyes bulging, flung both hands to his face, streaking across the thick paint, and, teeth appearing to clench down hard on his lower lip, bit. Until blood spurted. The monk reeled back until he struck the wall beside the doorway-then, all at once, he whirled about and fled the room.
‘Errant take us,’ Varat Taun hissed, ‘what was all that about?’
Forbidden laughter? She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Lieutenant.’
‘Who… what…?’
A healer,’ she replied in a shaky voice, forcing herself to draw a steadying breath. ‘The one who awakened you, Varat. A guest of the Emperor’s-from Uruth’s fleet.’
Varat Taun licked chapped, broken lips. ‘Sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘Icarium… Errant save us, he must not be awakened. Taralack knows, he was there, he saw. The Jhag… have him sent away, sir-’
She approached him, boots hard on the floor. ‘The Gral’s claims are not exaggerated, then? He will bring destruction?’
A whisper: ‘Yes.’
She could not help herself then, and reached out, gloved hands grasping the front of Varat’s ragged shirt, dragging him close. ‘Tell me, damn you! Can he kill him? Can Icarium kill him?’
Horror swirled in the soldier’s eyes as he nodded.
Errant’s blessing, maybe this time… ‘Varat Taun. Listen to me. I am leading my company out in two days. Back to the north. You will ride with me, as far up the coast as necessary then you ride east-to Bluerose. I am assigning you to the Factor’s staff there, understood? Two days.’
‘Yes sir.’
She released him, suddenly embarrassed at her own outburst. Yet her legs were weak as reeds beneath her still. She wiped sweat from her eyes. ‘Welcome back, Lieutenant,’ she said in a rough voice, not meeting his gaze. ‘Are you strong enough to accompany me?’
‘Sir. Yes, I shall try.’
‘Good.’
Emerging from the room, they came face to face with the Gral barbarian. Breath hissed from Varat Taun.
Taralack Veed had halted in the corridor and was staring at the lieutenant. ‘You are… recovered. I did not think-’ He shook his head, then said, ‘I am pleased, soldier-’
‘You warned us again and again,’ Varat Taun said.
The Gral grimaced and seemed ready to spit, then decided otherwise. Gravely, he said, ‘I did. And yes, I was foolish enough to be an eager witness…’
‘And next time?’ The question from Varat Taun was a snarl.
‘You do not need to ask me that.’
The lieutenant stared hard at the savage, then he seemed to sag, and Yan Tovis was astonished to see Taralack Veed move forward to take Varat’s weight. Ah, it is what they have shared. It is that. That.
The Gral glared over at her. ‘He is half dead with exhaustion!’
‘Yes.’
‘I will help him now-where would you lead us, Atri-Preda?’
‘To more hospitable quarters. What are you doing here, Veed?’
‘A sudden fear,’ he said as he now struggled with Varat’s unconscious form.
She moved to help him. ‘What sort of fear?’
‘That he would be stopped.’
‘Who?’
‘Icarium. That you would stop him-now, especially, now that this man is sane once more. He will tell you-tell you everything-’
‘Taralack Veed,’ she said in a harsh tone, ‘the lieutenant and I leave this city in two days. We ride north. Between then and now, Varat Taun is under my care. No-one else’s.’
‘None but me, that is.’
‘If you insist.’
The lieutenant between them, the Gral studied her. ‘You know, don’t you. He told you-’
‘Yes.’.
‘And you mean to say nothing, to no-one. No warning-’
‘That is correct.’
‘Who else might suspect-your ancient histories of the First Empire. Your scholars-’
‘I don’t know about that. There is one, and if I am able lie will be coming with us.’ That damned monk. It should be simple enough. The Cabal priests misunderstood. Sent us an ambassador, not a champion. No value in killing him-the poor fool cannot fight-imagine Rhulad’s rage at wasting his time… yes, that should do it.
‘No scholars…’
She grimaced and said, ‘Dead, or in prison.’ She glared accross at the Gral. ‘What of you? Will you flee with us?’
You know I cannot-I am to share Icarium’s fate. More than any of them realize. No, Atri-Preda, I will not leave this city.’
‘Was this your task, Taralack Veed? To deliver Icarium here?’
He would not meet her eyes.
‘Who sent you?’ she demanded.
‘Does it matter? We are here. Listen to me, Twilight, your I • mperor is being sorely used. There is war among the gods, and we are as nothing-not you, not me, not Rhulad Sengar. So ride, yes, as far away as you can. And take this brave warrior with you. Do this, and I will die empty of sorrow-’
‘And what of regrets?’
He spat on the floor. His only answer, but she understoo him well enough.
Sealed by a massive, thick wall of cut limestone at the end of a long-abandoned corridor in a forgotten passage of the Old Palace, the ancient Temple of the Errant no longer existed in the collective memory of the citizens of Letheras. Its beehive-domed central chamber would have remained unlit, its air still and motionless, for over four centuries, and the spoked branches leading off to lesser rooms would have last echoed to footfalls almost a hundred years earlier.
The Errant had walked out into the world, after all. The altar stood cold and dead and probably destroyed. The last priests and priestesses-titles held in secret against the plague of pogroms-had taken their gnostic traditions to their graves, with no followers left to replace them.
The Master of the Holds has walked out into the world. He is now among us. There can he no worship now-no priests, no temples. The only blood the Errant will taste from now on is his own. He has betrayed us.
Betrayed us all.
And yet the whispers never went away. They echoed like ghost-winds in the god’s mind. With each utterance of his name, as prayer, as curse, he could feel that tremble of power-mocking all that he had once held in his hands, mocking the raging fires of blood sacrifice, of fervent fearful faith. There were times, he admitted, that he knew regret. For all that he had so willingly surrendered.
Master of the Tiles, the Walker Among the Holds. But the Holds have waned, their power forgotten, buried by the pass-ing of age upon age. And I too have faded, trapped in this fragment of land, this pathetic empire in a corner of a continent. I walked into the world… but the world has grown old.
He stood now facing the stone wall at the end of the corridor. Another half-dozen heartbeats of indecision, then he stepped through.
And found himself in darkness, the air stale and dry in his throat. Once, long ago, he had needed tiles to manage such a thing as walking through a solid stone wall. Once, his powers had seemed new, brimming with possibilities; once, it had seemed he could shape and reshape the world. Such arrogance. It had defied every assault of reality-for a time.
He still persisted in his conceit, he well knew-a curse among all gods. And he would amuse himself, a nudge here, a tug there, to then stand back and see how the skein of fates reconfigured itself, each strand humming with his intrusion. But it was getting harder. The world resisted him. Because I am the last, 1 am myself the last thread reaching back to the Holds. And if that thread was severed, the tension suddenly snapping, flinging him loose, stumbling forward into the day’s light… what then?
The Errant gestured, and flames rose once more from the clamshell niches low on the dome’s ring-wall, casting wavering shadows across the mosaic floor. A sledgehammer had been taken to the altar on its raised dais. The shattered stones seemed to bleed recrimination still in the Errant’s eyes. Who served whom, damn you? I went out, among you, to make a difference-so that 1 could deliver wisdom, whatever wisdom I possessed. I thought-I thought you would be grateful.
But you preferred shedding blood in my name. My words just got in your way, my cries for mercy for your fellow citizens-oh, how that enraged you.
His thoughts fell silent. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. What is this? I am not alone.
A soft laugh from one of the passageways. He slowly turned.
The man crouched there was more ogre than human, broad shoulders covered in bristly black hair, a bullet head thrust forward on a short neck. The bottom half of the face was strangely pronounced beneath long, curling moustache and beard, and large yellowed tusks jutted from the lower jaw, pushing clear of lip and thick, ringleted hair. Stubby, battered hands hung down from long arms, the knuckles on the floor.
From the apparition came a bestial, rank stench.
The Errant squinted, seeking to pierce the gloom beneath the heavy brows, where small narrow-set eyes glittered dull as rough garnets. ‘This is my temple,’ he said. ‘I do not recall an open invitation to… guests.’
Another low laugh, but there was no humour in it, the Errant realized. Bitterness, as thick and pungent as the smell stinging the god’s nostrils.
‘I remember you,’ came the creature’s voice, low and rumbling. ‘And I knew this place. 1 knew what it had been. It was… safe. Who recalls the Holds, after all? Who knew enough to suspect? Oh, they can hunt me down all they want-yes, they will find me in the end-I know this. Soon, maybe. Sooner, now that you have found me, Master of the Tiles. He might have returned me, you know, along with other… gifts. But he has failed.’ Another laugh, this time harsh. ‘A common demise among mortals.’
Though he spoke, no words emerged from the ogre’s mouth. That heavy, awkward voice was in the Errant’s head, which was all for the best-those tusks would have brutalized every utterance into near incomprehensibility. ‘You are a god.’
More laughter. ‘I am.’
‘You walked into the world.’
‘Not by choice, Master of the Tiles. Not like you.’
Ah.’
‘And so my followers died-oh, how they have died. Across half the world, their blood soaked the earth. And I could do nothing. I can do nothing.’
‘It is something,’ the Errant observed, ‘to hold yourself to such a modest form. But how much longer will that control last? How soon before you burst the confines of this temple of mine? How long before you heave yourself into the view of all, shouldering aside the clouds, shaking mountains to dust-’
‘I will be long from here before then, Master of the Tiles.’
The Errant’s smile was wry. ‘That is a relief, god.’
‘You have survived,’ the god now said. ‘For so long. How?’
‘Alas,’ said the Errant, ‘my advice to you would be useless. My power quickly dissipated. It had already been terribly wounded-the Forkrul Assail’s pogroms against my faithful saw to that. The thought of another failure like that one was too much… so I willingly relinquished most of what remained to me. It made me ineffectual, beyond, perhaps, this city and a modest stretch of river. And so not a threat to anyone.’ Not even you, tusked one. ‘You, however, cannot make a similar choice. They will want the raw power within you-in your blood-and they will need it spilled before they can drink, before they can bathe in what’s left of you.’
‘Yes. One last battle awaits me. That much, at least, I do not regret.’
Lucky you. A battle. And… a war?’
Amusement in his thoughts, then, ‘Oh, indeed, Master of the Tiles. A war-enough to make my heart surge with life, with hunger. How could it not? I am the Boar of Summer, Lord of the Hosts on the Field of Battle. The chorus of the dying to come… ah, Master, be glad it will be nowhere close-’
‘I am not so sure of that.’
A shrug.
The Errant frowned, then asked, ‘How long do you intend to remain here, then?’
‘Why, as long as I can, before my control crumbles-or I am summoned to my battle, my death, I mean. Unless, of course, you choose to banish me.’
‘I would not risk the power revealed by that,’ the Errant said.
A rumbling laugh. ‘You think I would not go quietly?’
‘I know it, Boar of Summer.’
‘True enough.’ Hesitation, then the war god said, ‘Offer me sanctuary, Errant, and I will yield to you a gift.’
‘Very well.’
‘No bargaining?’
‘No. I’ve not the energy. What is this gift, then?’
‘This: the Hold of the Beasts is awakened. I was driven out, you see, and there was need, necessity, insistence that some inheritor arise to take my place-to assume the voices of war. Treach was too young, too weak. And so the Wolves awoke. They flank the throne now-no, they are the throne.’
The Errant could barely draw breath at this revelation. A Hold, awakened7. From a mouth gone dry as dust, he said, ‘Sanctuary is yours, Boar of Summer. And, for your trail here, my fullest efforts at… misdirection. None shall know, none shall even suspect.’
‘Please, then, block those who call on me still. Their cries fill my skull-it is too much-’
‘Yes, I know. I will do what I can. Your name-do they call upon the Boar of Summer?’
‘Not often,’ the god replied. ‘Fener. They call upon Fener.’
The Errant nodded, then bowed low.
He passed through the stone wall and once more found himself in the disused corridor of the Old Palace. Awakened? Abyss below… no wonder the Cedance whirls in chaos. Wolves? Could it be…
This is chaos! It makes no sense! Feather Witch stared down at the chipped tiles scattered on the stone floor before her. Axe, bound to both Saviour and Betrayer of the Empty Hold. Knuckles and the White Crow circle the Ice Throne like leaves in a whirlpool. Elder of Beast Hold stands at the Portal of the Azath Hold. Gate of the Dragon and Blood’Drinker converge on the Watcher of the Empty Hold-but no, this is all madness. The Dragon Hold was virtually dead. Everyone knew this, every Caster of the Tiles, every Dreamer of the Ages. Yet here it vied for dominance with the Empty Hold-and what of Ice? Timeless, unchanging, that throne had been dead for millennia. White Crow-yes, I have heard. Some bandit in the reaches of the Bluerose Mountains now claims that title. Hunted by Hannan Mosag-that tells me there is power to that bandit’s bold claim. I must speak again to the Warlock King, the bent, broken bastard.
She leaned back on her haunches, wiped chilled sweat from her brow. Udinaas had claimed to see a white crow, centuries ago it seemed now, there on the strand beside the village. A white crow in the dusk. And she had called upon the Wyval, her lust for power overwhelming all caution. Udinaas-he had stolen so much from her. She dreamed of the day he was finally captured, alive, helpless in chains.
The fool thought he loved me-I could have used that. I should have. My own set of chains to snap shut on his ankles and wrists, to drag him down. Together, we could have destroyed Rhulad long before he came to his power. She stared down at the tiles, at the ones that had fallen face up-none of the others were in play, as the fates had decreed. Yet the Errant is nowhere to be seen-how can that be? She reached down to one of the face-down tiles and picked it up, looked at its hidden side. Shapefinder. See, even here, the Errant does not show his hand. She squinted at the tile. Fiery Dawn, these hints are new… Menandore. And I was thinking about Udinaas-yes, 1 see now. You waited for me to pick you up from this field. You are the secret link to all of this.
She recalled the scene, the terrible vision of her dream, that horrendous witch taking Udinaas and… Maybe the chains on him now belong to her. 1 did not think of that. True, he was raped, but men sometimes find pleasure in being such a victim. What if she is protecting him now? An immortal… rival. The Wyval chose him, didn’t it? That must mean something-it’s why she took him, after all. It must be.
In a sudden gesture she swept up the tiles, replacing them in their wooden box, then wrapping the box in strips of hide before pushing the package beneath her cot. She then drew from a niche in one wall a leather-bound volume, easing back its stained, mouldy cover. Her trembling fingers worked through a dozen brittle vellum pages before she reached the place where she had previously left off memorizing the names listed within-names that filled the entire volume.
Compendium of the Gods.
The brush of cool air. Feather Witch looked up, glared about. Nothing. No-one at the entrance, no unwelcome shadows in the corners-lanterns burned on all sides. There had been a taint to that unseemly breath, something like wax…
She shut the book and slid it back onto its shelf, then, heartbeat rapid in her chest, she hurried over to a single pavestone in the room’s centre, wherein she had earlier inscribed, with an iron stylus, an intricate pattern. Capture. ‘The Holds are before me,’ she whispered, closing her eyes. ‘I see Tracker of the Beasts, footfalls padding on the trail of the one who hides, who thinks to flee. But no escape is possible. The quarry circles and circles, yet is drawn ever closer to the trap. It pulls, it drags-the creature screams, but no succour is possible-none but my mercy-and that is never free!’ She opened her eyes, and saw a smudge of mist bound within the confines of the inscribed pattern. ‘I have you! Ghost, spy-show yourself!’
Soft laughter.
The mist spun, wavered, then settled once more, tendrils reaching out tentatively-beyond the carved borders.
Feather Witch gasped. ‘You mock me with your power-yet, coward that you are, you dare not show yourself.’
‘Dear girl, this game will eat you alive.’ The words, the faintest whisper-the touch of breath along both ears. She started, glared about, sensed a presence behind her and spun round-no-one.
‘Who is here?’ she demanded.
‘Beware the gathering of names… it is… premature…’
‘Name yourself, ghost! I command it.’
‘Oh, compulsion is ever the weapon of the undeserving. Let us instead bargain in faith. That severed finger you keep round your neck, Caster, what do you intend with it?’
She clutched at the object. ‘I will not tell you-’
‘Then I in turn will reveal to you the same-nothing.’
She hesitated. ‘Can you not guess?’
‘Ah, and have I guessed correctly?’
‘Yes.’
‘Premature.’
‘I am biding my time, ghost-I am no fool.’
‘No indeed,’ the ghost replied. ‘Even so, let us extend the bargain-’
‘Why? You have revealed nothing of yourself-’
‘Patience. Caster of the Tiles, await my… encouragement. Before you do what you intend. Await me, and I will assist you.’
She snorted. ‘You are a ghost. You have no power-’
‘I am a ghost, and that is precisely why I have power. For what you seek, that is.’
‘Why should I believe you? Why should I agree to anything you suggest?’
‘Very well, my part of the bargain. You speak now with Kuru Qan, once Ceda to King Ezgara Diskanar.’
‘Slain by Trull Sengar…’
Something like a chuckle. ‘Well, someone needed to thrust the spear…’
‘You knew it was coming?’
‘Knowing and being able to do something about it are two different matters, Caster of the Tiles. In any case, lay the true blame at the Errant’s feet. And I admit, I am of a mind to call him out on that, eventually. But like you, I understand the necessity of biding one’s time. Have we a bargain?’
She licked her lips, then nodded. ‘We have.’
‘Then I shall leave you to your education. Be careful when casting your tiles-you risk much by so revealing your talents as a seer.’
‘But I must know-’
‘Knowing and being able to do something about it-’
‘Yes,’ she snapped, ‘I heard you the first time.’
‘You lack respect, girl.’
‘And be glad of it.’
‘You may have a point there. Worth some consideration, I think.’
‘Do you now intend to spy on me my every moment down here?’
‘No, that would be cruel, not to mention dull. When I come here, you shall be warned-the wind, the mist, yes? Now, witness its vanishing.’
She stared down at the swirling cloud, watched as it faded, then was gone.
Silence in the chamber, the air still beyond her own breath. Kuru Qan, the Cedal See how I gather allies. Oh, this shall be sweet vengeance indeed!
The waning sun’s shafts of dusty light cut across the space where the old temple had stood, although the wreckage filling the lower half of that gap was swallowed in gloom. Fragments of facade were scattered on the street-pieces of rats in dismaying profusion. Edging closer, Samar Dev kicked at the rubble, frowning down at the disarticulated stone rodents. ‘This is most… alarming,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ Taxilian said, smiling, ‘now the witch speaks. Tell me, what do you sense in this fell place?’
‘Too many spirits to count,’ she murmured. And all of them… rats.’
‘There was a D’ivers once, wasn’t there? A terrible demonic thing that travelled the merchant roads across Seven Cities-’
‘Gryllen.’
‘Yes, that was its name! So, do we have here another such… Gryllen?’
She shook her head. ‘No, this feels older, by far.’
And what of that bleeding? Of power?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Glancing around, she saw a tall, cloaked man leaning against a wall on the other side of the street, watching them. ‘Some things, long ago grinding to a halt, should never be reawakened. Alas…’
Taxilian sighed. ‘You use that word a lot. “Alas”. You are too resigned, Samar Dev. You flee from your own curiosity-I do not think you were always like this.’
She squinted at him. ‘Oh, my curiosity remains. It’s my belief in my own efficacy that has taken a beating.’
‘We spin and swirl on the currents of fate, do we?’
‘If you like.’ She sighed. ‘Very well, I’ve seen enough. Besides, it will be curfew soon, and I gather guards kill lawbreakers on sight.’
‘You have seen-but you explain nothing!’
‘Sorry, Taxilian. All of this requires… some thought. If I reach any spectacular conclusions any time soon.I will be sure to let you know.’
‘Do I deserve such irony?’
‘No, you don’t. Alas.’
Bugg finally made his way round the corner, emerging from the alley’s gloom then pausing in the sunlit street. He glanced over at Tehol, who stood leaning against a wall, arms crossed beneath his blanket, which he had wrapped about him like a robe. ‘Master,’ he said, ‘why do you hesitate now?’
‘Me? Why, this only appears to be hesitation. You know, you could have let me help you carry that.’
Bugg set the heavy sack down. ‘You never offered.’
‘Well, that would be unseemly. You should have insisted.’ Are you sure you have that right, Master?’
‘Not in the least, but some graciousness on your part would have helped us move past this awkward moment.’ From the bag came soft clucking sounds. Tehol blinked down at it. ‘Bugg, you said retired hens, Correct?’
‘I did. In exchange for some modest repairs to a water trough.’
‘But… they’re not dead.’
‘No, Master.’
‘But… that means one of us has to kill them. Wring their necks. See the light of life dim in their beady eyes. You are a hard man, Bugg.’
‘Me?’
‘Retired-their egg-laying days over. Isn’t there some kind of pasture awaiting them? Some well-strewn pecking ground?’
‘Only the one in the sky, Master. But I see your point. About killing them, I mean.’
‘Blood on your hands, Bugg-I’m glad I’m not you.’
‘This is ridiculous. We’ll figure something out when we get back home.’
‘We could build us a coop on the roof, as mad folk do for pigeons. That way the birds could fly in and out, back and forth, and see something of this fine city.’
‘Chickens can’t fly, Master.’
‘Beats wringing their necks, though, don’t you think?’
‘Seeing the city?’
‘Well, momentarily.’
Clearly satisfied with his solution, Tehol adjusted his blanket then walked out onto the street. Sighing, Bugg collected the sack with its dozen hens and followed at a somewhat slower pace.
‘Well,’ he said as he joined Tehol in front of the ruin, ‘at least that foreign witch is gone.’
‘She was a foreign witch? Rather pretty, in a stolid, earthy way. All right, handsome, then, although I assure you I would never say that to her face, knowing how women are so easily offended.’
‘By a compliment?’
‘Absolutely. If it is the wrong compliment. You have been… inactive far too long, dear Bugg.’
‘Possibly. I am also reticent when it comes to compliments. They have a way of coming after you.’
Tehol glanced over at him, brows lifted. ‘Sounds like you’ve been married once or twice.’
‘Once or twice,’ Bugg replied, grimacing. Glancing up at the ruined Scale House, he went very still. ‘Ah, I see now what she no doubt saw.’
‘If what you are seeing is the source for making the hairs of my neck stand on end every time I come here, then I would be pleased if you explained.’
‘For someone to step inside,’ Bugg said, ‘of necessity there must be a door. And if one does not exist, one must be made.’
‘How can a collapsed building be a door, Bugg?’
‘I begin to comprehend what is coming.’
‘Sufficient to suggest a course of action?’
‘In this matter, Master, the best course is to do nothing.’
‘Hold on, Bugg, that particular conclusion seems to crop up rather often with you.’
‘We’d best get home before curfew, Master. Care to take a turn with this sack?’
‘Errant’s blessing, have you lost your mind?’
‘I thought as much.’
There was little in Sirryn Kanar’s thoughts that reached down to the depths of his soul-he had a sense of that, sufficient to make him recognize that he was blessed with a virtually untroubled life. He possessed a wife frightened enough to do whatever he told her to do. His three children held him in the proper mixture of respect and terror, and he had seen in his eldest son the development of similar traits of dominance and certainty. His position as a lieutenant in the Palace Cell of the Patriotists did not, as far as he was concerned, conflict with his official title of Sergeant of the Guard-protection of the powerful demanded both overt and covert diligence, after all.
The emotions commanding him were similarly simple and straightforward. He feared what he could not understand, and he despised what he feared. But acknowledging fear did not make him a coward-for he had proclaimed for himself an eternal war against all that threatened him, be it a devious wife who had raised walls round her soul, or conspirators against the empire of Lether. His enemies, he well understood, were the true cowards. They thought within clouds that obscured all the harsh truths of the world. Their struggles to ‘understand’ led, inevitably, to seditious positions against authority. Even as they forgave the empire’s enemies, they condemned the weaknesses of their own homeland-not recognizing that they themselves personified such weaknesses.
An empire such as Lether was ever under siege. This had been the first statement uttered by Karos Invictad during the recruitment and training process, and Sirryn Kanar had understood the truth of that with barely a moment’s thought. A siege, inside and out, yes-the very privileges the empire granted were exploited by those who would see the empire destroyed. And there could be no room for ‘understanding’ such people-they were evil, and evil must be expurgated.
The vision of Karos Invictad had struck him with the force of revelation, yielding such perfect clarity and, indeed, peace in what had been, at times, a soul in turmoil-battered and assailed on occasion by a world blurry with confusion and uncertainty-that all that raged within him settled out as certainty arrived, blazing and blinding in its wondrous gift of release.
He now lived an untroubled life, and so set an example to his fellow agents in the palace. In their eyes he had seen, again and again, the glimmer of awe and fear, or, equally satisfying, a perfect reflection of his own-flat, remorseless, as impervious to every deceit the enemy might attempt as he himself was.
Untroubled, then, he gestured to two burly Patriotists who stepped forward and kicked in the door. It virtually flew off its flimsy hinges, crashing down into the opulent chamber beyond. A scream, then another, from the gloom to the left-where the handmaidens slept-but already the lead agents were crossing the room to the door opposite. More violence, wood splintering beneath heavy boots.
Sprawled in the hallway behind Sirryn was the corpse of a Tiste Edur-someone had set a guard. Curious, but of little consequence. Poisoned quarrels had proved both quick and virtually silent. Already two of his men were preparing to carry the corpse away-just one more Edur who mysteriously vanished.
Sirryn Kanar positioned himself in the centre of the first chamber, as another agent arrived with a hooded lantern to stand off to one side, shedding just enough light. Too much would not do-the shadows needed to be alive, writhing, confusion on all sides. Sirryn delighted in precision.
His men emerged from the inner room, a figure between them-half naked, hair tousled, a look of disbelief-No. Sirryn Kanar’s eyes narrowed. Not disbelief. Resignation. Good, the traitor knew her fate, knew she could never escape it. Saying nothing, he gestured for his agents to take her out.
Three handmaidens, weeping now, huddled against the wall, near their sleeping pallets. ‘Attend to them,’ Sirryn commanded, and four from his squad moved towards them. ‘The senior one will be questioned, the other two disposed of immediately.’
He looked around, pleased at the ease of this operation, barely noticing the death-cries of two women.
In a short while, he would deliver his two prisoners to the squad waiting at a side postern of the palace, who would move quickly through the night-alone on the streets this long after curfew-to the headquarters of the Patriotists. Deliver the two women into interrogation cells. And the work would begin, the only release from the ordeal full confession of their crimes against the empire.
A simple, straightforward procedure. Proven effective. Traitors were invariably weak of will.
And Sirryn Kanar did not think the First Concubine would be any different. If anything, even more flimsy of spirit than most.
Women delighted in their airs of mystery, but those airs vanished before the storm of a man’s will. True, whores hid things better than most-behind an endless succession of lies that never fooled him. He knew they were contemptU’ ous of him and men like him, believing him weak by simple virtue of his using them-as if that use came from actual, genuine need. But he had always known how to wipe the smirks from their painted faces.
He envied the interrogators. That bitch Nisall-she was no different from his wife, he suspected.
Our enemies are legion, Karos lnvictad had said, so you must understand, all of you-this war, it will last for ever. For ever.
Sirryn Kanar was content with that notion. Kept things simple.
And it is our task, the Master of the Patriotists had continued, to ensure that. So that we are never expendable.
Somewhat more confusing, that part, but Sirryn felt no real compulsion to pursue the notion. Karos was very clever, after all. Clever and on our side. The right side.
His thoughts shifting to the bed that awaited him, and the whore he’d have delivered to him there, the lieutenant marched down the empty palace corridor, his men falling in behind him.
Bruthen Trana stepped into the chamber. His eyes settled on the corpses of the two handmaidens. ‘How long ago?’ he asked the Arapay warlock who was crouched over the bodies. Two other Edur entered the First Concubine’s bedroom, emerged again a moment later.
The warlock muttered something inaudible under his breath, then said in a louder voice, ‘A bell, perhaps. Shortswords. The kind used by the Palace Guard.’
‘Gather ten more warriors,’ Bruthen Trana said. ‘We are marching to the headquarters of the Patriotists.’
The warlock slowly straightened. ‘Shall I inform Hannan Mosag?’
‘Not yet. We cannot delay here. Sixteen Edur warriors and a warlock should suffice.’
‘You mean to demand the release of the woman?’
‘There are two, yes?’
A nod.
‘They will begin interrogations immediately,’ Bruthen Trana said. ‘And that is not a pleasant procedure.’
‘And if they have wrung confessions from them?’
‘I understand your concern, K’ar Penath. Do you fear violence this night?’
The other warriors in the chamber had paused, eyes fixed on the Arapay warlock.
‘Fear? Not in the least. With confessions in hand, however, Karos Invictad and, by extension, Triban Gnol, will be able to assert righteous domain-’
‘We are wasting time,’ Bruthen Trana cut in. ‘My patience with Karos Invictad is at an end.’ Arui where is the guard I set in the hallway outside? As ifl cannot guess.
A new voice spoke from the outer doorway: ‘Personal enmity, Bruthen Trana, is a very dangerous guide to your actions.’
The Tiste Edur turned.
The Chancellor, with two bodyguards hovering in the corridor behind him, stood with hands folded. After a moment he took a step into the room and looked about. An expression of regret when he saw the two dead women. ‘Clearly, there was some resistance. They were most loyal servants to the First Concubine, probably innocent of all wrongdoing-this is tragic indeed. Blood on Nisall’s hands now.’
Bruthen Trana studied the tall, thin man for a long moment, then he walked past him and out into the hall.
Neither bodyguard was suspicious, and neither had time to draw their weapons before the Edur’s knives-one in each hand-slid up under their jaws, points driven deep into their brains. Leaving the weapons embedded, Bruthen Trana spun round, both hands snapping out to grasp the Chancellor’s heavy brocaded collar. The Letherii gasped as he was yanked from his feet, flung round to face Bruthen, then slammed hard against the corridor’s opposite wall.
‘My patience with you,’ the Edur said in a low voice, ‘is at an end as well. Tragic demise for your bodyguards. Blood on your hands, alas. And I am not of a mind, presently, to forgive you their deaths.’
Triban Gnol’s feet dangled, the stiff-tipped slippers kicking lightly against Bruthen Trana’s shins. The Letherii’s face was darkening, eyes bulging as they stared into the Edur’s hard, cold gaze.
I should kill him now. I should stand here and watch him suffocate in the drawn folds of his own robe. Better yet, retrieve a knife and slice open his guts-watch them tumble onto the floor.
Behind him, K’ar Penath said, ‘Commander, as you said, we’ve no time for this.’
Baring his teeth, Bruthen Trana flung the pathetic man aside. An awkward fall: Triban Gnol threw a hand down to break his descent, and the snap of finger bones-like iron nails driven into wood-was followed immediately by a gasp and squeal of pain.
Gesturing for his warriors to follow, Bruthen Trana stepped over the Chancellor and marched quickly down the corridor.
As the footfalls echoed away, Triban Gnol, clutching one hand against his torso, slowly climbed to his feet. He glared down the now empty corridor. Licked dry lips, then hissed, ‘You will die for that, Bruthen Trana. You and every other witness who stood back and did nothing. You will all die.’
Could he warn Karos Invictad in time? Not likely. Well, the Master of the Patriotists was a capable man. With more than just two incompetent, pathetic bodyguards. Perfunctory notes to their widows: Your husbands failed in their responsibilities. No death-pensions will be forthcoming.
Leave the family residences of the Palace Guard immediately-barring your eldest child who is now Indebted to the estate of the Chancellor.
He despised incompetence-and to be made to suffer its consequences… well, someone paid. Always. Two children, then, yes. Hopefully boys. And now he would need two new bodyguards. From among the married guard, of course. Someone to pay the debt should they fail me.
His broken fingers were growing numb, although a heavy ache throbbed in his wrist and forearm now.
The Chancellor set off for the residence of his private healer.
Her nightgown half torn, Nisall was pushed into a win-dowless room that was lit by a single candle positioned on a small table in the centre. The chill, damp air stank of old fear and human waste. Shivering from the night’s march through the streets, she stood unmoving for a moment, seeking to wrap the gauze-thin material closer about herself.
Two young innocent women were dead. Butchered like criminals. And Tissin is next-as close to a mother as I have ever had. She has done nothing-no, stop that. None of us have. But that doesn’t matter-I cannot think otherwise. 1 cannot pretend that anything 1 say will make a difference, will in any way change my fate. No, this is a death sentence. For me. For Tissin.
The Emperor would not hear of this. She was certain of that. Triban Gnol would announce that she was missing from the palace. That she had fled-just one more betrayal. Rhulad would flinch back in his throne, seeming to shrink in upon himself, as the Chancellor carefully, remorselessly fed the Emperor’s many insecurities, then stood back to observe how his poisoned words stole the life from Rhulad’s tortured eyes.
We cannot win against this. They are too clever, too ruthless. Their only desire is to destroy Rhulad-his mind-to leave him gibbering, beset by unseen terrors, unable to do anything, unwilling to see anyone. Anyone who might help him.
Errant save him-
The door was thrown open, swinging to slam hard against the wall, where old cracks showed that this violent announcement was part of the pattern. But she had noted those, and so did not start at the cracking crunch, but merely turned to face her tormentor.
None other than Karos Invictad himself. A swirl of crimson silks, onyx rings on his fingers, the sceptre of his office held in one hand and resting between right shoulder and clavicle. A look of faint dismay in the mundane features. ‘Dearest woman,’ he said in his high voice, ‘let us be quick about this, so that I can be merciful. I’ve no wish to damage you, lovely as you are. Thus, a signed statement outlining your treason against the empire, then a quick, private execution. Your handmaiden has already complied, and has been mercifully decapitated.’
Oh, well done, Tissin. Yet she herself struggled, seeking similar courage-to accept things as they were, to recognize that no other recourse was possible. ‘Decapitation is not damage?’
An empty smile. ‘The damage I was referring to, of course, concerned wresting from you your confession. Some advice: compose your features in the moment before the blade descends. It is an unfortunate fact that the head lives on a few moments after it has been severed from the neck. A few blinks, a roll or two of the eyes, and, if one is not… mindful, a rash of unpleasant expressions. Alas, your handmaiden was disinclined to heed such advice, too busy as she was with a pointless tirade of curses.’
‘Pray the Errant heard her,’ Nisall said. Her heart was thudding hard against her ribs.
‘Oh, she did not curse me in the Errant’s name, sweet whore. No, instead she revealed a faith long believed to be extinct. Did you know her ancestry was Shake? By the Holds, I cannot even recall the name of the god she uttered.’ He shrugged and smiled his empty smile once more. ‘No matter. Indeed, even had she called upon the Errant, I would have no cause to panic. Coddled as you are-or, rather, were-in the palace, you are probably unaware that the handful of temples in the city purportedly sanctified in the Errant’s name are in truth private and wholly secular-businesses, in fact, profiting from the ignorance of citizens. Their priests and priestesses are actors one and all. I sometimes wonder if Ezgara Diskanar even knew-he seemed oddly devoted to the Errant.’ He paused, then sighed. The sceptre began tapping in place. ‘You seek to delay the inevitable. Understandable, but I have no wish to remain here all night. I am sleepy and desire to retire at the earliest opportunity. You look chilled, Nisall. And this is a dreadful room, after all. Let us return to my office. I have a spare robe that is proof against any draught. And writing materials at hand.’ He gestured with the sceptre and turned about.
The door opened and Nisall saw two guards in the corridor.
Numbed, she followed Karos Invictad.
Up a flight of stairs, down a passageway, then into the man’s office. As promised, Karos Invictad found a cloak and set it carefully on Nisall’s shoulders.
She drew it tight.
He waved her to a chair in front of the huge desk, where waited a sheet of vellum, a horsehair brush and a pot of squid ink. Slightly off to one side of the ink pot was a small, strange box, opened at the top. Unable to help herself, Nisall leaned over for a look.
‘That is none of your concern.’ The words were a pitch higher than usual and she glanced over to see the man scowling.
‘You have a pet insect,’ Nisall said, wondering at the flush of colour in Karos Invictad’s face.
‘Hardly. As I said, not your concern.’
‘Do you seek a confession from it as well? You will have to decapitate it twice. With a very small blade.’
‘Are you amusing yourself, woman? Sit down.’
Shrugging, she did as he commanded. Stared down at the blank vellum, then reached over and collected the brush. Her hand trembled. ‘What is it you wish me to confess?’
‘You need not be specific. You, Nisall, admit to conspir-ing against the Emperor and the empire. You state this freely and with sound mind, and submit to the fate awaiting all traitors.’
She dipped the brush into the ink and began writing.
‘I am relieved you are taking this so well,’ Karos Invictad said.
‘My concern is not for me,’ she said as she completed the terse statement and signed it with a flourish that did not quite succeed in hiding the shakiness of her hand. ‘It is for Rhulad.’
‘He will spare you nothing but venom, Nisall.’
‘Again,’ she said, leaning back in the chair. ‘I do not care for myself.’
‘Your sympathy is admirable-’
‘It extends to you, Karos Invictad.’
He reached out and collected the vellum, waved it in the air to dry the ink. ‘Me? Woman, you insult me-’
‘Not intended. But when the Emperor learns that you executed the woman who carried his heir, well, Master of the Patriotists or not…’
The vellum dropped from the man’s fingers. The sceptre ceased its contented tapping. Then, a rasp: ‘You lie. Easily proved-’
‘Indeed. Call in a healer. Presumably you have at least one in attendance, lest the executioner be Stung by a sliver-or, more likely, a burst blister, busy as he is.’
‘When we discover your ruse, Nisall, well, the notion of mercy is dispensed with, regardless of this signed confession.’ He leaned over and collected the vellum. Then scowled. ‘You used too much ink-it has run and is now illegible.’
‘Most missives I pen are with stylus and wax,’ she said.
He slapped the sheet back down in front of her, the reverse side up. ‘Again. I will be back in a moment-with the healer.’
She heard the door open and shut behind her. Writing out her confession once more, she set the brush down and rose. Leaned over the odd little box with its pivoting two-headed insect. Round and round you go. Do you know dismay? Helplessness?
A commotion somewhere below. Voices, something crashing to the floor.
The door behind her was flung open.
She turned.
Karos Invictad walked in, straight for her.
She saw him twist the lower half of the sceptre, saw a short knife-blade emerge from the sceptre’s base.
Nisall looked up, met the man’s eyes.
And saw, in them, nothing human.
He thrust the blade into her chest, into her heart. Then twice more as she sagged, falling to strike the chair.
She saw the floor come up to meet her face, heard the crack of her forehead, felt the vague sting, then darkness closed in. Oh, Tissin-
Bruthen Trana shouldered a wounded guard aside and entered Invictad’s office.
The Master of the Patriotists was stepping back from the crumpled form of Nisall, die sceptre in his hand-the blade at its base-gleaming crimson. ‘Her confession demanded-’
The Tiste Edur walked to the desk, kicking aside the toppled chair. He picked up the sheet of vellum, squinted to make out the Letherii words. A single line. A statement. A confession indeed. For a moment, he felt as if his heart stut-tered.
In the corridor, Tiste Edur warriors. Bruthen Trana said without turning, ‘K’ar Penath, collect the body of the First Concubine-’
‘This is an outrage!’ Karos Invictad hissed. ‘Do not touch her!’
Snarling, Bruthen Trana took one stride closer to the man, then lashed out with the back of his left hand.
Blood sprayed as “Karos Invictad staggered, sceptre flying, his shoulder striking the wall-more blood, from mouth and nose, a look of horror in the man’s eyes as he stared down at the spatter on his hands.
From the corridor, a warrior spoke in the Edur language. ‘Commander. The other woman has been beheaded.’
Bruthen Trana carefully rolled the sheet of vellum and slipped it beneath his hauberk. Then he reached out and dragged Karos Invictad to his feet.
He struck the man again, then again. Gouts of blood, broken teeth, threads of crimson spit.
Again. Again.
The reek of urine.
Bruthen Trana took handfuls of the silk beneath the flaccid neck and shook the Letherii, hard, watching the head snap back and forth. He kept shaking him.
Until a hand closed on his wrist.
Through a red haze, Bruthen Trana looked over, met the calm eyes of K’ar Penath.
‘Commander, if you continue so with this unconscious man, you will break his neck.’
‘Your point, warlock?’
‘The First Concubine is dead, by his hand. Is it for you to exact this punishment?’
‘Sister take you,’ Bruthen Trana growled, then he flung Karos Invictad to the floor. ‘Both bodies come with us.’
‘Commander, the Chancellor-’
‘Never mind him, K’ar Penath. Wrap well the bodies. We return to the Eternal Domicile.’
‘What of the dead Letherii below?’
‘His guards? What of them? They chose to step into our path, warlock.’
‘As you say. But with their healer dead, some of them will bleed out unless we call upon-’
‘Not our concern,’ Bruthen Trana said. K’ar Penath bowed. ‘As you say, Commander.’
Half blind with terror, Tanal Yathvanar approached the entrance to the headquarters. She was gone. Gone, from that place, that most hidden place-her shackle snapped, the iron bent and twisted, the links of the chain parted as if they were nothing but damp clay.
Karos lnvictad, it was your work. Again. Yet another warn-ing to me-do as you command. You know all, you see all. For you, nothing but games, ones where you make certain you always win. But she was not a game. Not for me, you bastard. I loved her-where is she? What have you done with her?
Slowly, it registered upon him that something was amiss. Guards running in the compound. Shouts, wavering torchlight. The front entrance to the building yawned wide-he saw a pair of boots, attached to motionless legs, prone across the threshold.
Errant take us, we have been attacked!
He hurried forward.
A guard emerged, stepping over the body.
‘You!’ shouted Tanal. ‘What has happened here?’
A rough salute. The man’s face was pale. ‘We have called for healers, sir-’
‘What has happened, damn you?’
‘Edur-a vicious ambush-we did not expect-’
‘The Master?’
Alive. But beaten badly. Beaten, sir, by a Tiste Edur! The liaison-Trana-Bruthen Trana-’
Tanal Yathvanar pushed past the fool, into the hallway, to the stairs. More bodies, guards cut down without so much as their weapons drawn. What initiated this from the Edur? Did they catch word of our investigations? Bruthen Trana does his file remain? Damn him, why didn’t he just kill the bustard? Choke the life from him-make his face as red as those damned silks? Oh, I would run this differently indeed. Given the chance-
He reached the office, stumbled to a halt upon seeing the spattered blood on the walls, the pools of it on the floor. The reek of piss was heavy in the air. Looking small and broken, Karos Invictad sat hunched in his oversized chair, stained cloths held to his swollen, bruised face. In the man’s eyes, a rage as sharp as diamonds. Fixing now upon Tanal Yathvanar.
‘Master! Healers are on the way-’
From mashed lips, muffled words: ‘Where were you?’
‘What? Why, at home. In bed.’
‘We arrested Nisall tonight.’
Tanal looked about. ‘I was not informed, sir-’
‘No-no-one could find you! Not at your home-not anywhere!’
‘Sir, has Bruthen Trana retrieved the whore, then?’
A hacking, muffled laugh. ‘Oh yes. Her cold flesh-but not her spirit. But he carries her written confession-by the Holds, it hurts to speak! He broke my face!’
And how many times did your fist do the same to a prisoner? ‘Will you risk some wine, sir?’
A glare above the cloths, then a sharp nod.
Tanal went quickly to the cabinet. Found a clay jug containing undiluted wine. A better smell than-the piss of your terror, little man. He poured a goblet, then hesitated-and poured another for himself. Damn you, why not? ‘The healers will be here soon-I informed the guards that any delay risks their lives.’
‘Swift-thinking Tanal Yathvanar.’
He carried the goblet over to Karos Invictad, not sure if there was irony in that last statement, so distorted was the voice. ‘The guards were struck unawares-vicious betrayal-’
‘Those that aren’t yet dead will wish they were,’ the Master of the Patriotists said. ‘Why weren’t we warned? Chancellor or no, I will have his answer.’
‘I did not think we’d take the whore yet,’ Tanal said, retrieving his own wine. He watched over the rim of the goblet as Karos pulled the soaked cloth away, revealing the terrible assault done on his face as he gingerly sipped at the wine-wincing as the alcohol bit into gashes and cuts. ‘Perhaps the Edur should have been first. Bruthen Trana-he did not seem such a viper. He said not a word, revealed nothing-’
‘Of course not. Nor would I in his place. No. Wait, observe, then strike without warning. Yes, I underestimated him. Well, such a failing occurs but once. Tonight, Tanal Yathvanar, a war has begun. And this time the Letherii will not lose.’ Another sip. ‘I am relieved,’ he then said, ‘that you got rid of that academic-too bad you did not get Nisall to play with, but I needed to act quickly. Tell me how you disposed of her-the academic. I need some satisfying news for a change…’
Tanal stared at the man. If not you…
From the corridor, rushing feet. The healers had arrived.
‘Commander,’ K’ar Penath said as he hurried alongside Bruthen Trana, ‘do we seek audience with the Emperor?’
‘No. Not yet. We will watch all of this play out for a time.’
And the bodies?’
‘Hide them well, warlock. And inform Hannan Mosag that I wish to speak to him. As soon as possible.’
‘Sir, he is not in the Emperor’s favour at the moment-’
You misunderstand me, warlock. This has nothing to do with Rhulad. Not yet. We conquered this empire. It seems rhe Letherii have forgotten that. The time has come to stir the Tiste Edur awake once more. To deliver terror, to make our displeasure clear. This night, K’ar, the weapons are drawn.’
‘You speak of civil war, Commander.’
‘In a manner of speaking, although I expect nothing overt from the Chancellor or Invictad. A war, yes, but one waged behind the Emperor’s back. He will know nothing-’
‘Commander-’
‘Your shock at my words does not convince me. Hannan Mosag is no fool-nor are you or any of his other warlocks. Tell me now you anticipated nothing… ah, I thought as much.’
‘I fear we are not ready-’
‘We aren’t. But neither were they. This taking Nisall-this murder-tells me something gave them reason to panic. We need to find out what. Something has happened, or is happening even now, that forced matters to a head. And that is the trail Hannan Mosag must pursue-no, I do not presume to command him-’
‘I understand, Bruthen Trana. You speak as a Tiste Edur. I will support your advice to the Warlock King with all my zeal.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Tonight, Commander,’ K’ar Penath said, ‘in witnessing you… I was proud. We are… awakened, as you said. This civilization, it is a poison. A rot upon our souls. It must be excised.’
And now I hear Hannan Mosag speaking through you, warlock. Answering other… suspicions. So be it.
Nisall. First Concubine, I am sorry. But know this, 1 will avenge you in truth. As I will avenge my brave warrior-Sister take me, that was careless-
‘The Chancellor will speak to the Emperor-’
‘Only if he is stupid,’ Bruthen Trana said, ‘or inclined to panic. He is neither. No, he needs to be pushed, kept off balance-oh, we will deliver panic, yes, and sooner or later he will do as you say. Speak to Rhulad. And then we will have him. And Invictad. Two snakes in the same basket-a basket soaked in oil. And it will be Triban Gnol himself who strikes the spark.’
‘How?’
‘You will see.’
Tehol stared down through the roof hatch in unmitigated horror. ‘That was a mistake,’ he said.
Leaning beside him, also looking down, Bugg nodded. ‘It was an act of mercy, Master. Twelve hens in a sack, half crushing each other, jostled about in fetid darkness. There was the risk of suffocation.’
‘Precisely! Peaceful demise, remote, unseen. No wringing of necks required! But now look at them! They’ve taken over our room! My house. My abode, my very hearth-’
‘About that-seems one of them has caught fire, Master.’
‘It’s smouldering, and too brainless to care. If we wait we can dine on roast chicken for breakfast. And which one laid that egg?’
‘Hmm, a most gravid mystery indeed.’
‘You may find this amusing right now, Bugg, but you are the one who will be sleeping down there. They’ll peck your eyes out, you know. Evil has been bred into them, generation after generation, until their tiny black bean brains are condensed knots of malice-’
‘You display unexpected familiarity with hens, Master.’
‘I had a tutor who was a human version.’
Bugg leaned back and glanced over at the woman sleeping in Tehol’s bed.
‘Not her. Janath was only mildly vicious, as properly befits all instructors, plagued as they often are by mewling, lovestruck, pimply-faced students.’
‘Oh, Master, I am sorry.’
‘Be quiet. We’re not talking about that. No, instead, Bugg, my house has been invaded by rabid hens, because of your habit of taking in strays and the like.’
‘Strays? We’re going to eat those things.’
‘No wonder strays avoid you these days. Listen to them-how will we sleep with all that racket going on?’
‘I suppose they’re happy, Master. And in any case they are taking care of that cockroach infestation really fast.’
Creaking from the bed behind them drew their attention.
The scholar was sitting up, looking about in confusion.
Tehol hastily pushed Bugg towards her.
She frowned as the old man approached. ‘Where am I? Who are you? Are we on a roof?’
‘What do you last recall?’ Bugg asked.
‘Being alone. In the dark. He moved me… to a new place.’
‘You have been freed,’ he said.
Janath was examining her shapeless, rough tunic. ‘Freed,’ she said in a low voice.
‘That shift was all we could find at short notice,’ Bugg said. ‘Of course, we will endeavour to, uh, improve your apparel as soon as we are able.’
‘I have been healed.’
‘Your physical wounds, yes.’
Grimacing, she nodded. ‘The other kind is rather more elusive.’
‘You seem remarkably… sound, Janath.’
She glanced up at him. ‘You know me.’
‘My master was once a student of yours.’ He watched as she sought to look past him, first to one side, then the other. Bemused, Bugg turned, to see Tehol moving back and forth in an effort to keep the manservant between him-self and the woman on the bed. ‘Tehol? What are you doing?’
‘Tehol? Tehol Beddict?’
Bugg spun round again, to see Janath gathering her tunic and stretching it out here and there in an effort to cover as much of her body as she could.
‘That lecherous, pathetic worm? Is that you, Tehol? Hiding there behind this old man? Well, you certainly haven’t changed, have you? Get out here, front and centre!’
Tehol stepped into view. Then bridled. ‘Hold on, I am no longer your student, Janath! Besides, I’m well over you, I’ll have you know. I haven’t dreamt of you in… in… years! Months!’
Her brows rose. ‘Weeks?’
Tehol drew himself straighter. ‘It is well known that an adult man’s adolescent misapprehensions often insinuate themselves when said man is sleeping, in his dreams, I mean. Or, indeed, nightmares-’
‘I doubt I feature in your nightmares, Tehol,’ Janath said. ‘Although you do in mine.’
‘Oh, really. I was no more pathetic than any other pathetic, lovestruck student. Was I?’
To that she said nothing.
Bugg said to her, ‘You are indeed on a roof-’
‘Above a chicken coop?’
‘Well, as to that. Are you hungry?’
‘The fine aroma of roasting chicken is making my mouth water,’ she replied. ‘Oh, please, have you no other clothes? I have no doubt at all what is going on in my former student’s disgusting little brain right now.’
‘Come the morning,’ Bugg said, ‘I will pay a visit to Selush-her wardrobe, while somewhat abysmal in taste, is nonetheless extensive.’
‘Want my blanket?’ Tehol asked her.
‘Gods below, Master, you’re almost leering.’
‘Don’t be insane, Bugg. I was making light. Ha ha, we’re trapped in a dearth of attire. Ha ha. After all, what if that had been a child’s tunic?’
In a deadpan voice, Janath said, ‘What if it had.’
‘Errant’s blessing,’ Tehol said with a loud sigh, ‘these summer nights are hot, aren’t they?’
‘I know one hen that would agree with you,’ Bugg noted, walking back to the hatch, from which a column of smoke was now rising.
‘Tehol Beddict,’ said Janath, ‘I am glad you are here.’
‘You are?’ both Bugg and Tehol asked.
She nodded, not meeting their eyes. ‘I was going mad-I thought I had already done so. Yathvanar-he beat me, he raped me… and told me of his undying love all the while. So, Tehol, you are as his opposite-harmless in your infatuation. You remind me of better days.’ She was silent for a long moment. ‘Better days.’
Bugg and Tehol exchanged a look, then the manservant made his way down the ladder. From above he heard Tehol say, ‘Janath, are you not impressed with what I have done with my extensive education?’
‘It is a very fine roof, Tehol Beddict.’
Nodding to himself, Bugg went in search of roasted chicken through clouds of acrid smoke. Surrounded on all sides by mindless clucking. Abyss take me, I might as well be in a temple…
The morning sun pushed through the slats on the shutters, stretching ribbons of light across the long, heavy table dominating the council room. Wiping his hands with a cloth, Rautos Hivanar entered and moved to stand behind his chair at one end of the table. He set the cloth down and studied the arrayed faces turned towards him-and saw in more than one expressions of taut fear and anxiety.
‘My friends, welcome. Two matters on the agenda. We will first address the one that I suspect is foremost in your minds at the moment. We have reached a state of crisis-the dearth of hard coin, of silver, of gold, of cut gems and indeed of copper bars, is now acute. Someone is actively sabotaging our empire’s economy-’
‘We knew this was coming,’ interrupted Uster Taran. ‘Yet what measures were taken by the Consign? As far as I can see, none. Rautos Hivanar, as much on the minds of those assembled here is the question of your continued position as Master.’
‘I see. Very well, present to me your list of concerns in that regard.’
Uster’s craggy face reddened. ‘List? Concerns? Errant take us, Rautos, have you not even set the Patriotists on the trail of this mad creature? Or creatures? Could this not be an effort from the outside-from one of the border kingdoms-to destabilize us prior to invasion?
News of this Bolkando Conspiracy should have-’
‘A moment, please. One issue at a time, Uster. The Patriotists are indeed pursuing an investigation, without result to date. A general announcement to that effect, while potentially alleviating your anxieties, would have been, in my judgement, equally likely to trigger panic. Accordingly, I chose to keep the matter private. My own inquiries, in the meantime, have led me to eliminate external sources to this financial assault. The source, my friends, is here in Letheras-’
‘Then why haven’t we caught the bastard?’ demanded Druz Thennict, his head seeming to bob atop its long, thin neck.
‘The trails are most cleverly obscured, good Druz,’ said Rautos. ‘Quite simply, we are at war with a genius.’
From the far end of the table, Horul Rinnesict snorted, then said, ‘Why not just mint more coins and take the pressure off?’
‘We could,’ Rautos replied, ‘although it would not be easy. There is a fixed yield from the Imperial Mines and it is, of necessity, modest. And, unfortunately, rather inflexible. Beyond that concern, you might ask yourself: what would I do then, were I this saboteur? A sudden influx of new coin? If you sought to create chaos in the economy, what would you do?’
‘Release my hoard,’ Barrakta Ilk said in a growl, ‘setting off runaway inflation. We’d be drowning in worthless coin.’
Rautos Hivanar nodded. ‘It is my belief that our saboteur cannot hide much longer. He or she will need to become overt. The key will lie in observing which enterprise is the first to topple, for it is there that his or her trail will become readily discernible.’
‘At which point,’ said Barrakta, ‘the Patriotists will pounce.’
Ah, this leads me into the second subject. There has, I understand, been news from Drene-no, I have no specifics as yet, but it seems to have triggered something very much like panic among the Patriotists. Last night, here in Letheras, a number of unprecedented arrests occurred-’
Uster laughed. ‘What could be unprecedented about the Patriotists arresting people?’
‘Well, foremost among them was the First Concubine.’
Silence around the table.
Rautos Hivanar cleared his throat, working hard to keep the fury from his voice. ‘It seems Karos Invictad acted in haste, which, as I am sure you all know, is quite unlike him. As a result, things went awry. There was a clash, both inside and outside the Eternal Domicile, between the Patriotists and the Tiste Edur.’
‘That damned fool!’ bellowed Barrakta, one fist pounding on the tabletop.
‘The First Concubine is, I understand, dead. As are a number of guards-primarily those in the Patriotist compound, and at least two bodyguards to the Chancellor.’
‘Has that damned snake turned suicidal as well?’
‘It almost seems so, Barrakta,’ Rautos conceded. ‘All very troubling-especially Karos Invictad’s reluctance to be forthcoming on what exactly happened. The only hint I possess of just how extreme events were last night is a rumour that Karos was beaten, nearly to death. I cannot confirm that rumour, since he was seeing no-one, and besides, no doubt healers visited in the aftermath.’
‘Rautos,’ murmured Druz, ‘do we need to distance ourselves from the Patriotists?’
‘It is worth considering,’ Rautos replied. ‘You might wish to begin preparations in that regard. In the meantime, however, we need the Patriotists, but I admit to worry that they may prove lacking come the day we most need their services.’
‘Hire our own,’ Barrakta said.
‘I have done so.’
Sharp nods answered this quiet statement.
Uster Taran cleared his throat. ‘My apologies, Rautos. You proceed on matters with your usual assurance. I regret my doubt.’
‘As ever,’ Rautos said, reaching once more for the cloth and wiping his hands, ‘I welcome discourse. Indeed, even challenge. Lest I grow careless. Now, we need to assess the health of our own holdings, to give us all a better indication of our resilience…’
As the meeting continued, Rautos wiped at his hands again and again. A corpse had snagged on one of the mooring poles opposite the estate’s landing this morning. Bloated and rotting, crawling with crayfish and seething with eels.
An occasional occurrence, but one that each time struck him with greater force, especially in the last few years. This morning it had been particularly bad, and though he had approached no closer than the uppermost tier in his yard, still it was as if some residue had reached him, making his hands oddly sticky-a residue that he seemed unable to remove, no matter how hard he tried.
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