Sea without water spreads white bones crumbled flat and bleached like parchment where I walked.
But this scrawl scratching my wake is without history bereft of raiment to clothe my fate.
Sky has lost its clouds to some ragged wind that never runs aground these shoals revealed on paths untrod.
Wind heaves waves unseen in the shell a cup of promise unfulfilled the rank lie of salt that bites my tongue.
I dwelt by a sea, once etching histories along the endless strand in rolling scrolls of flotsam and weed.
– Rumours of the Sea Fisher kel Tath
There had been rain in the afternoon, which was just as well since there wasn’t much value in burning the entire forest down and besides, he wasn’t popular at the best of times. They had mocked his antics, and they had said he stank, too, so much so that no-one ever came within reach of his huge, gnarled hands. Of course, had any of his neighbours done so, he might well have torn their limbs off to answer years of scorn and abuse.
Old Hunch Arbat no longer pulled his cart from farm to farm, from shack to shack, collecting the excrement with which he buried the idols of the Tarthenal gods that had commanded a mostly forgotten glade deep in the woods. The need had passed, after all. The damned hoary nightmares were dead.
His neighbours had not appreciated Arbat’s sudden retirement, since now the stink of their wastes had begun to foul their own homes. Lazy wastrels that they were, they weren’t of a mind to deepen their cesspits-didn’t Old Hunch empty them out on a regular basis? Well, not any more.
That alone might have been reason enough to light out. And Arbat would have liked nothing better than to just vanish into the forest gloom, never to be seen again. Walk far, yes, until he came to a hamlet or village where none knew him, where none even knew of him. Rainwashed of all odour, just some kindly, harmless old mixed-blood Tarthenal who could, for a coin or two, mend broken things, including flesh and bone.
Walk, then. Leaving behind the old Tarthenal territories, away from the weed-snagged statues in the overgrown glades. And maybe, even, away from the ancient blood of his heritage. Not all healers were shamans, were they? They’d not ask any awkward questions, so long as he treated them right, and he could do that, easy.
Old bastards like him deserved their rest. A lifetime of service. Propitiations, the Masks of Dreaming, the leering faces of stone, the solitary rituals-all done, now. He could walk his last walk, into the unknown. A hamlet, a village, a sun-warmed boulder beside a trickling stream, where he could settle back and ease his tortured frame and not move, until the final mask was pulled away…
Instead, he had woken in darkness, in the moments before false dawn, shaking as if afflicted with ague, and before his eyes had hovered the slowly shredding fragments of a most unexpected Dream Mask. One he had never seen before, yet a visage of terrifying power. A mask crazed with cracks, a mask moments from shattering explosively-
Lying on his cot, the wood frame creaking beneath him as he trembled from head to foot, he waited for revelation.
The sun was high overhead when he finally emerged from his shack. Banks of clouds climbed the sky to the west-an almost-spent storm coming in from the sea-and he set about his preparations, ignoring the rain when it arrived.
Now, with dusk fast approaching, Arbat collected a bundled cane of rushes and set one end aflame from the hearth. He fired his shack, then the woodshed, and finally the old barn wherein resided his two-wheeled cart. Then, satisfied that each building was truly alight, he shouldered the sack containing those possessions and supplies he would need, and set out onto the trail leading down to the road.
A grunt of surprise a short time later, on the road, as he ran into a score of villagers hurrying in a mob towards him. In their lead, the Factor, who cried out in relief upon seeing Arbat.
‘Thank the Errant you’re alive, Hunch!’
Scowling, Arbat studied the man’s horsey face for a moment, then scanned the pale smudges of the other faces, hovering behind the Factor. ‘What is all this?’ he demanded.
‘A troop of Edur are staying at the inn tonight, Arbat. When word of the fires reached them they insisted we head up to help-in case the wood goes up, you see-’
‘The wood, right. So where are the meddlers now, then?’
‘They remained behind, of course. But I was ordered-’ the Factor paused, then leaned closer to peer up at Arbat. ‘Was it Vrager, then? The fool likes his fires, and is no friend of yours.’
‘Vrager? Could be. He’s been in the habit of sneaking in at night and pissing on my door. Doesn’t accept me being retired and all. Says I got a duty to cart away his shit.’
‘And so you do!’ someone growled from the mob behind the Factor. ‘Why else do we let you live here anyway?’
‘Well that’s a problem solved now, ain’t it?’ Arbat said grinning. ‘Vrager burned me out, so I’m leaving.’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘What business was this of the Edur. It’s just done rained-the chances of the blaze moving much ain’t worth the worry. Didn’t you tell them my place is cleared back eighty, a hundred paces on all sides? And there’s the old settling pools-good as a moat.’
The Factor shrugged, then said, ‘They asked about you, then decided maybe someone had torched you out of spite-and that’s breaking the law and the Edur don’t like it when that happens-’
‘And they told you to do your job, did they?’ Arbat laughed at the man. ‘That’d be a first!’
‘Vrager, you said- is that a formal accusation, Arbat? If it is, you gotta dictate and make your mark and stay round for the convening and if Vrager hires an advocate-’
‘Vrager’s got a cousin in Letheras who’s just that,’ someone said.
The Factor nodded. ‘All this could take a damned while, Arbat, and ain’t none of us obliged to give you a roof overhead, neither-’
‘So best I don’t cause trouble, right? You can tell the Edur I wasn’t making no formal complaint, so that’s that. And what with the shacks pretty much burnt down by now and the chill seeping into your bones and no sign the fire’s jumped anywhere…’ Arbat slapped the Factor on the shoulder-a gesture that nearly drove the man to his knees-then stepped past. ‘Make way, the rest of you-could be I’m still contagious with all the sick you been dumping in my cart.’
That worked readily enough, and Arbat’s way was suddenly clear. And on he walked.
They’d give Vrager some trouble-not good calling down the Edur’s regard, after all-but it’d be nothing fatal. Pissing against a door don’t forfeit the fool’s life, now did it? Anyway, the Edur would ride on, to wherever it was they were going, and he’d leave them-
What now? Horses on the road, riders coming at the canter. Grumbling under his breath, Old Hunch Arbat worked his way to one verge, then waited.
Another damned troop. Letherii this time.
The lead rider, an officer, slowed her mount upon seeing Arbat, and the troop behind her did the same at her command. As she trotted her horse closer, she called out, ‘You, sir-is there a village ahead?’
‘There is,’ Arbat replied, ‘though you might have to fight for room at the inn.’
And why’s that?’ she asked as she rode opposite.
‘Some Edur staying the night there.’
At that the officer reined in, gesturing the rest to a halt. twisting in her saddle, she eyed him from beneath the ridge of her iron helm. ‘Tiste Edur?’
‘That’s them all right.’
‘What are they doing there?’
Before he could answer, one of her soldiers said, Atri-Preda, something’s blazing ahead-y’can see the glow and smell it.’
‘That’d be my homestead,’ Arbat replied. ‘Accident. It won’t spread, I’m sure of that as can be. Got nothing to do,’ he added, ‘with them Edur. They’re just passing through.’
The Atri-Preda swore under her breath. ‘Tarthenal, yes?’
‘Mostly.’
‘Can you think of anywhere we can camp for the night, then? Close by, but well off the trail.’
Arbat squinted at her. ‘Off the trail, eh? Far enough off so’s your privacy ain’t disturbed, you mean?’
She nodded.
Arbat rubbed at the bristly hair covering his prognathous jaw. ‘Forty or so paces up there’s a trail, right side of the road. Leads through a thicket, then an old orchard, and beyond that there’s an abandoned homestead-barn’s still got a roof, though I doubt it’s weatherproof. There’s a well too, which should be serviceable enough.’
‘This close by, and no-one’s occupied it or stripped it down?’
Arbat grinned. ‘Oh, they’ll get to that before long. It was downwind of my place, you see.’
‘No, I don’t.’
His grin broadened into a smile. ‘Local colour kinda pales when told to outsiders. It’s no matter, really. All you’ll be smelling is woodsmoke this night, and that’ll keep the bugs away.’
He watched as she thought about pressing the matter; then, as her horse tossed its head, she gathered the reins once more. ‘Thank you, Tarthenal. Be safe in your journey.’
‘And you, Atri-Preda.’
They rode on, and Arbat waited on the verge for the troop to pass.
Safe in my journey. Yes, safe enough, 1 suppose. Nothing on the road I can’t handle.
No, it’s the destination that’s got my knees knocking together like two skulls in a sack.
Lying on his stomach, edging up to the trapdoor, peering down. A menagerie in the room below, yet comforting in its odd domesticity nonetheless. Why, he knew artists who would pay for such a scene. Ten hens wandering about, occasionally squawking from the path of a clumsily swung foot from Ublala Pung as the huge man paced back and forth. The scholar Janath sitting with her back to one wall, rolling chicken down or whatever it was called between the palms of her hands, prior to stuffing it into a burlap sack that was intended to serve as a pillow at some point-proving beyond all doubt that academics knew nothing about anything worth knowing about. Not to mention inserting a sliver of fear that Bugg’s healing of her mind had not been quite up to scratch. And finally, Bugg himself, crouched by the hearth, using a clawed hen foot to stir the steaming pot of chicken soup, a detail which, Tehol admitted, had a certain macabre undercurrent. As did the toneless humming coming from his stalwart manservant.
True enough, the household was blessed with food aplenty, marking the continuation of their good run of luck. Huge capabara fish beside the canal a couple of weeks back, and now retired hens being retired one by one, as inexorable as the growl of a stomach. Or two or three. Or four, assuming Ublala Pung had but one stomach which was not in any way certain. Selush might know, having dressed enough bodies from the inside out. Tarthenal had more organs in those enormous bodies than regular folk, after all. Alas, this trait did not extend to brains.
Yet another formless, ineffable worry was afflicting Ublala Pung. Could be lovestruck again, or struck to fear by love. The half-blood lived in a world of worry, which, all things considered, was rather surprising. Then again, that undeniable virtue between his legs garnered its share of worshippers, lighting feminine eyes with the gleam of possession, avarice, malicious competition-in short, all those traits most common to priesthoods. But it was worship for all the wrong reasons, as poor Ublala’s fretful state of mind made plain. His paltry brain wanted to be loved for itself.
Making him, alas, a complete idiot.
‘Ublala,’ Bugg said from where he hovered over the soup pot, ‘glance upward for me if you will to confirm that those beady eyes studying us belong to my master. If so, please be so kind as to invite him down for supper.’
Tall as he was, Ublala’s face, lifting into view to squint upwards at Tehol, was within reach. Smiling and patting him on the head, Tehol said, ‘My friend, if you could, step back from what serves as a ladder here-and given my manservant’s lacklustre efforts at repair I am using the description advisedly-so that I may descend in a manner befitting my station.’
‘What?’
‘Get out of the way, you oaf!’
Ducking, edging away, Ublala grunted. ‘Why is he so miserable?’ he asked, jerking a thumb up at Tehol. ‘The world is about to end but does he care about that? No. He doesn’t. Care about that. The world ending. Does he?’
Tehol shifted round to lead with his feet on the uppermost rung of the ladder. ‘Loquacious Ublala Pung, how ever will we follow the track of your thoughts? I despair.’ He wiggled over the edge then groped with his feet.
Bugg spoke. ‘Given the view you are presently providing us, master, despair is indeed the word. Best look away, Janath.’
‘Too late,’ she replied. ‘To my horror.’
‘I live in the company of voyeurs!’ Tehol managed to find the rung with one foot and began making his way down.
‘I thought they were chickens,’ Ublala said.
A piercing avian cry, ending in a mangled crunch.
‘Oh.’
Cursing from Bugg. ‘Damn you, Pung! You’re eating that one! All by yourself! And you can cook it yourself, too!’
‘It just got in the way! If you built some more rooms, Bugg, it wouldn’t have happened.’
And if you did your damned pacing in the alley outside-better yet, if you just stopped worrying about things-or bringing those worries here-or always showing up around supper time-or-’
‘Now now,’ Tehol interjected, stepping free of the last rung and adjusting his blanket. ‘Nerves are frayed and quarters are cramped and Ublala’s cramped brain is fraying our nerves without quarter, so it would be best if we all-’
‘Master, he just flattened a hen!’
A voyeur,’ Ublala insisted.
‘-got along,’ Tehol finished.
‘Time, I think,’ said Janath, ‘for some mitigation, Tehol. I seem to recall you having some talent for that, especially working your way around the many attempts at expelling you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ublala, ‘where do we do that?’
‘Do what?’ Janath asked.
‘I gotta go.’
‘Over to the warehouse,’ Tehol said, pushing Ublala towards the door-without much success. ‘Ublala, do your expelling back of the warehouse, near the drain spout. Use the comfrey bush poking out of the rubbish heap then wash your hands in the tilted trough.’
Looking relieved, the huge man ducked his way out into the alley.
Turning, Tehol regarded Bugg. All right, a moment of silence, then, for the retired hen.’
Rubbing his brow, Bugg leaned back and sighed. ‘Sorry. I’m not used to these… crowds.’
‘What amazes me,’ Tehol said, now studying the surviving hens, ‘is their eerie indifference. They just walk around their crushed sister-’
‘Wait a moment and they’ll start ripping it apart,’ Bugg said, shambling over to collect the carcass. ‘Between the two, I prefer indifference.’ He picked the limp form up, frowned at the dangling neck. ‘Quiet in death, as with all things. Almost all things, I mean…’ Abruptly he shook his head and tossed the dead creature onto the floor in front of Janath. ‘More feathers for you, Scholar.’
A most appropriate task,’ Tehol murmured, ‘plucking lovely plumage to reveal the pimpled nightmare beneath.’
‘Sort of like inadvertently looking up your tunic, Tehol Beddict.’
‘You are a cruel woman.’
She paused and looked up at him. Assuming those were just pimples.’
‘Most cruel, leading me to suspect that you in fact fancy me.’
Janath shot Bugg a glance. ‘What kind of healing did you do on me, Bugg? My world seems… smaller.’ She tapped one temple. ‘In here. My thoughts travel any distance-any distance at all-and they vanish in a… in a white nothing. Blissful oblivion. So, I do remember what happened, but not even a whisper of emotion reaches me.’
‘Janath, most of those protections are of your own making. Things will… expand. But it will take time. In any case, it is not too surprising that you are developing an attachment to Tehol, seeing him as your protector-’
‘Now hold on, old man! Attachment? To Tehol? To an ex-student? That is, in every way imaginable, disgusting.’
‘I thought it was a common occurrence,’ Tehol said. ‘Why, some of the stories I’ve heard-’
‘Common for those fools who confuse love with worship-all to feed their paltry egos, I might add. Usually men, too. Married men. It’s pathetic-’
‘Janath, did-No, never mind.’ Rubbing his hands together, Tehol faced Bugg. ‘My, that soup smells wonderful.’
Ublala Pung returned, shouldering his way through the doorway. ‘That comfrey tasted awful,’ he said.
The three stared at him for a long moment.
Then Bugg spoke. ‘See those half-gourds, Ublala? Bring them over and get your voyeur soup.’
‘I could eat a whole one all by myself, I’m so hungry.’
Tehol pointed. ‘There’s one right there, Ublala.’
The huge man paused, glanced over at the bedraggled carcass. Then pushed the gourds into Tehol’s hands and said, ‘Okay.’
‘Leave me some feathers?’ Janath asked.
‘Okay.’
Tehol said, ‘Do you mind, Ublala, if the rest of us eat… uh, up on the roof?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘After supper,’ Tehol continued as the half-blood lowered himself into a cross-legged position, reached for the carcass and tore off a leg. ‘After, I mean, Ublala, we can talk about what’s worrying you, all right?’
‘No point talking,’ Ublala said around a mouthful of feathers, skin and meat. ‘I got to take you to him.’
‘Who?’
‘A champion. The Toblakai.’
Tehol met Bugg’s eyes, and saw in them unfeigned alarm.
‘We got to break into the compound,’ Ublala continued.
‘Uh, right.’
‘Then make sure he doesn’t kill us.’
‘I thought you said there was no point in talking!’
‘I did. There isn’t.’
Janath collected her gourd of soup. ‘So we have to climb one-handed up that ladder? And I expect you want me to go first? Do you think me an idiot?’
Tehol scowled at her, then brightened. ‘You have a choice, Janath. You follow me and Bugg, at the risk of your appetite, or we follow you, lifting you skyward with our sighs of admiration.’
‘How about neither?’ With that, she headed out into the alley.
Horrible crunching sounds came from where Ublala sat.
After a moment, both Tehol and Bugg followed in Janath’s wake.
Ormly, once Champion Rat Catcher, sat down opposite Rucket.
After a nod of greeting, she returned to her meal. ‘I’d offer you some of these crisped hog ears, but as you can see, there’s not many left and they are one of my favourites.’
‘You do it on purpose, don’t you?’
‘Men always assume beautiful women think of nothing but sex, or, rather, are obsessed with the potential thereof, at any and every moment. But I assure you, food poses a sensuality rarely achieved in clumsy gropings on some flea-bitten mattress with errant draughts sending chills through you at every change of position.’
Ormly’s withered face twisted into a scowl. ‘Change of position? What does that mean?’
‘Something tells me there is no legion of beleaguered women bemoaning the loss of one Ormly.’
‘I wouldn’t know nothing about that. Listen, I’m nervous.’
‘How do you think I feel? Care for some wine? Oh, I was hoping you’d decline. You know, hiding in this burial crypt has put a strain on select vintages. It’s all very well for you, skulking in the shadows every night, but as the new commander of our insurgent organization, I have to hide down here, receiving and despatching all day, doing endless paperwork-’
‘What paperwork?’
‘Well, the paperwork I do to convince the minions how busy I am, so they don’t come running to me every damned moment.’
‘Yes, but what are you writing down, Rucket?’
‘I record snatches of overheard conversations-the acoustics down here are impressive if a tad wayward. One can achieve sheer poetry on occasion, with judicial use of juxtaposition.’
‘If it’s random then it ain’t poetry,’ Ormly said, still scowling.
‘Clearly you don’t keep up with modern movements, then.’
‘Just one, Rucket, and that’s what I’m nervous about. It’s Tehol Beddict, you see.’
‘A most extraordinary juxtaposition there,’ she replied, reaching for another hog’s ear. ‘Idiocy and genius. In particular, his genius for creating idiotic moments. Why, the last time we made love-’
‘Rucket, please! Don’t you see what’s going on out there? Oh, sorry, I guess you don’t. But listen to me, then. He’s too successful! It’s going too fast! The Patriotists are stirred up something awful, and you can be sure the Liberty Consign is backing them with every resource at its disposal. In the Low Markets they’re starting to barter because there’s no coin.’
‘Well, that was the plan-’
‘But we’re not ready!’
‘Ormly, Scale House collapsed, didn’t it?’
He glared at her suspiciously, then grunted and looked away. ‘All right, so we knew that was coming. We’ve been ready for that, yes. True enough. Even though we’re no closer to knowing what’ll happen when whatever it is happens, assuming we’ll even know it’s happening when it does. Anyway, you’re just trying to confuse me, because you’ve lost all objectivity when it comes to Tehol.’
‘Oh now really, do you take me for a fool?’
‘Yes. Love, lust, whatever, it’s affected your ability to think straight when it comes to that madman.’
‘You’re the one not thinking straight. Tehol’s not the mystery here. Tehol’s easy-no, not that kind of-oh, very well, that kind, too. Anyway, like I said. Easy. The true mystery before us, Ormly, is his damned manservant.’
‘Bugg?’
‘Bugg.’
‘But he’s just the front man-’
‘You sure it’s not the. other way round? What does he do with all that coin they’ve leveraged into their hands? Bury it in the back yard? They don’t even have a back yard. Ormly, we’re talking tons of coinage here.’ She waved a-hand about. ‘Could fill this crypt twenty times over. Now, sure, there’re other crypts under the city, but we know them all. I’ve sent runners to every one of them, but they’re empty, the dust underfoot not disturbed in years. We’ve sent rats into every fissure, every crevasse, every crack. Nothing.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Gone. As if into thin air. And not just in this city, either.’
‘So maybe Tehol’s found a hiding place we ain’t looked at yet. Something both clever and idiotic, like you said.’
‘I thought of that, Ormly. Trust me when I tell you, it’s all gone.’
His scowl suddenly cleared and he reached for a refill of the wine. ‘I figured it out. It’s all dumped into the river. Simple. Easy.’
‘Except that Tehol insists it can be recovered-to flood the market, if the Consign financiers panic and start minting more than the usual quota. And even that quota is proving inflationary, since there’s no recycling of old coins taking place. There’s no return for recasting. I hear even the Imperial Treasury is hurting. Tehol says he can dump it all back onto the streets, at a moment’s notice.’
‘Maybe he’s lying.’
‘Maybe he isn’t.’
‘Maybe I’ll have that last hog ear.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Fine. We got another problem. Tensions are high between the Edur and the Patriotists-and the Chancellor and his army of thugs and spies. Blood was spilled.’
‘Not surprising,’ Rucket replied. ‘It was bound to happen. And don’t think the financial strain has nothing to do with it.’
‘If it does it’s only indirectly,’ Ormly said. ‘No, this clash was, I think, personal.’
‘Can we make use of it?’
‘Ah, finally we can discuss something and actually get somewhere.’
‘You’re just jealous of Tehol Beddict.’
‘So what if I am. Forget it. Let’s make plans.’
Sighing, Rucket gestured to one of her servants. ‘Bring us another bottle, Unn.’
Ormly’s brow lifted, and, as the huge man shambled off into a side chamber, he leaned closer. ‘Unn? The one who…?’
‘Murdered Gerun Eberict? Indeed, the very man. With his own two hands, Ormly. His own two hands.’ Then she smiled. ‘And those hands, well, murdering isn’t the only thing they’re good at.’
‘I knew it! It is all you ever think about!’
She settled back in her chair. Make them feel clever. The only sure way to keep the peace.
Beneath the city of Letheras was a massive core of ice. A fist of Omtose Phellack, clutching in its implacable grip an ancient spirit. Lured, then trapped by a startling alliance of Ceda Kuru Qan, a Jaghut sorceress and an Elder God. For the Errant, it was a struggle to appreciate that conjoining, no matter how advantageous the consequence. A spirit imprisoned, until such time as that hoary ritual weakened-or, more likely, was shattered in wilful malice. So, though temporary-and what truly wasn’t?-it had prevented death and destruction on a colossal scale. All very well.
Kuru Qan treating with a Jaghut sorceress-surprising but not disturbing. No, it was Mael’s involvement that gnawed ceaselessly in the Errant’s thoughts.
An Elder God. But not K’rul, not Draconus, not Kilmandaros. No, this was the one Elder God who never got involved. Mael’s curse was everyone else’s blessing. So what changed? What forced the old bastard’s hand, enough so that he forged alliances, that he unleashed his power in the streets of the city, that he emerged onto a remote island and battered a broken god senseless?
Friendship towards a pathetic, mortal?
And what, dear Mael, do you now plan to do about all those worshippers? The ones so abusing your indifference? They are legion and their hands drip blood in your name. Does this please you? From them, after all, you acquire power. Enough to drown this entire realm.
War among the gods, but was the battle line so simply drawn as it seemed? The Errant was no longer sure.
He stood in solid rock, within reach of the enormous knot of ice. He could smell it, that gelid ancient sorcery that belonged to another era. The spirit imprisoned within it, frozen in the act of rising through a fetid lake, was a seething storm of helpless rage, blurred and indistinct at its centre. One of Mael’s own kin, the Errant suspected, like a piece torn free only to suffer a geas of the Crippled God. Entirely unaware-so far-of the terrible fissures spread like crazed webs through that ice, fissures even now working their way inwards.
Shattered indeed. With intent? No, not this time, but in imagining a place of permanence they chose in error. And no, they could not have known. This… nudge… not mine. Just… dread circumstance.
Does Mael know? Abyss take me, 1 need to speak to him-ah, how 1 recoil at the notion! How much longer can I delay? What rotted commodity would my silence purchase? What meagre reward my warning?
Perhaps another word with that war god, Fener. But no, that poor creature probably knew even less than he did. Cowering, virtually usurped… usurped, now there’s an interesting notion. Gods at war… yes, possibly.
The Errant withdrew, passing ghostly through rock. Sudden desire, impatience, pushed him onward. He would need a mortal’s hand for what he planned. A mortal’s blood.
He emerged onto a floor of mouldy, uneven pavestones.
How far had he travelled? How much time had passed? Darkness and the muted sound of dripping water. He sniffed the air, caught the scent of life. Tainted acrid by delving into old magic. And knew where he was. Not far, then. Not long. Never hide in the same place, child. Mouth dry-something like anticipation-he hurried down the crooked corridor.
I can do nothing, weak as I am. Edging askew the course of fates-1 was once far more. Master of the Tiles. All that power in those scribed images, the near-words from a time when no written words existed. They would have starved without my blessing. Withered. Does this mean nothing? Am I past bargaining?
He could feel now, within him, flaring to life, a once-dull ember of… of… of what? Ah, yes, I see it clear. I see it.
Ambition.
The Errant reached the secret chamber, could discern trickling heat at the entrance.
Crouched over a brazier, she spun round when he stepped into the room. The heady, damp air, thick with spices, made him feel half drunk. He saw her eyes widen.
‘Turudal Brizad-’
The Errant staggered forward. ‘It’s this, you see. A bargain-’
He saw her hand edge out, hovering over the coals of the brazier. ‘They all want to bargain. With me-’
‘The Holds, witch. They clash, clumsy as crones. Against the young ones-the Warrens. Only a fool would call it a dance of equals. Power was robust, once. Now it is…’ he smiled, taking another step closer, ‘gracile. Do you understand? What I offer you, witch?’
She was scowling to hide her fear. ‘No. You stink like a refuse pit, Consort-you are not welcome here-’
‘The tiles so want to play, don’t they? Yet they clatter down in broken patterns, ever broken. There is no flow. They are outmoded, witch. Outmoded.’
A gesture with the hovering hand, and Feather Witch’s eyes flicked past the Errant.
A faint voice behind him. ‘Do not do this.’
The Errant turned. ‘Kuru Qan. She summoned youV He laughed. ‘I could banish you with the blink of an eye, ghost.’
‘She was not to know that. Heed my warning, Errant; you are driven to desperation. And the illusion of glory-do you not understand what has so afflicted you? You stood too close to the ice. Assailed by a storm of desire from the trapped demon. Its ambition. Its lust.’
A sliver of doubt, stinging, then the Errant shook his head. ‘I am the Master of the Tiles, Elder. No pathetic well-spring spirit could so infect me. My thoughts are clear. My purpose-’ He turned again, dismissing the ghost behind him. And reeled slightly, needing a step to right himself.
The ghost of the Ceda spoke. ‘Errant, you think to challenge the Warrens? Do you not realize that, as the Tiles once had a Master, so too the Warrens?’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ the Errant said. ‘There are no tiles describing these warrens-^’
‘Not Tiles. Cards. A Deck. And yes, there is a Master. Do you now choose to set yourself against him? To achieve what?’
The Errant made no reply, although his answer whispered in his skull. Usurpation. As a child before one such as myself. 1 might even pity him, as I wrest from him all power, every drop of blood, his very life.
1 shall retreat from this world no longer.
Kuru Qan continued, ‘If you set the Holds to battle against the Warrens, Errant, you will shatter alliances-’
The Errant snorted. ‘They are already shattered, Ceda. What began as yet another march on the Crippled God to exact brutal punishment-as if the Fallen One commits a crime by virtue of his very existence-well, it is that no more. The Elders are awakened, awakened to themselves-the memory of what they once were, what they could be again. Besides,’ he added as he took another step towards the now trembling Letherii witch, ‘the enemy is divided, confused-’
‘All strangers to you. To us. Are you so certain that what you sense is true? Not simply what your enemy wants you to believe?’
‘Now you play games, Kuru Qan. Ever your flaw.’
‘This is not our war, Errant.’
‘Oh, but it is. My war. Rhulad’s war. The Crippled God’s. After all, it is not the Elder Gods who so hunger to destroy the Fallen One.’
‘They would if they but understood, Errant. But they are blinded by the lure of resurrection-as blinded as you, here, now. All but one, and that is the maker of the Warrens. K’rul himself. Errant, listen to me! To. set the Holds against the Warrens, you declare war upon K’rul-’
‘No. Just his children. Children who will kill him if they can. They don’t want him. He was gone, but now he walks the realms again, and drags with him the Tiles, the Holds, the ancient places he knew so well-there is the real war, Ceda!’
‘True, and K’ruls idiotic nostalgia is proving a most virulent poison-although he is yet to realize that. 1 am dead, Errant-the paths I have wandered-’
‘Do not interest me.’
‘Do not do this. This is all the Crippled God’s game!’
Smiling, the Errant reached out, the motion a blur. Grasped the Letherii witch round the throat. Lifted her clear of the floor.
In his other hand, a knife appeared.
Blood. Mortal’s gift to the Elder-
She held something in one hand. Thrashing, struggling against his life-stealing grip, her eyes bulging, face darkening, she lashed out with that hand.
And stabbed a severed finger into his left eye.
The Errant bellowed in shock, a spear of incandescence lancing into his brain.
His knife bit into the woman’s body. He flung her away, then lurched, flailing at his own face-where blood streamed down, where something dangled at the end of a thread against his cheek. Got her, never mind what she did to me-got her, that foul creature-her blood-my blood-Abyss take me, the pain!
Then she was back. Clawed hands gouging against his face-grasping something, tearing it away-pain! And her vicious snarl, close-‘I’m collecting.’ Twisting away, even as he slashed again with the knife, cutting into flesh, the edge rippling along bones.
She had torn away an eye. Gone. Crushed in one bloody hand.
But her blood gleamed on his knife. Enough. More than enough.
The Errant, one hand outstretched, lone eye struggling to make sense of a battered, broken perspective, staggered towards the doorway.
AH I need.
Trailing blood, Feather Witch dragged herself to the far wall, where she curled up, in one stained hand the eye of a god, in the other the severed finger of Brys Beddict-it felt swollen now, as if it absorbed the Errant’s blood. Warm, no, hot.
‘Collecting,’ she whispered.
The ghost of the Ceda drew close. ‘You are dying, child. You need a healer.’
She spat. ‘Then find me one.’
The brazier’s coals pulsed, but all she could feel was cold, deep in her body, spreading outward to steal all life from her limbs.
‘Hurry,’ she said in a mumble.
But no-one replied.
The Errant stumbled down the bridge. To either side, the tiles of the Cedance spun in confused mayhem. He barked out a laugh, holding the slick knife before him as if it was a torch-he could feel the heat searing his face, drying the blood and other fluids weeping down from his left socket.
Someone had been here. Not long past.
Hannan Mosag. Delving the mysteries of ancient power.
But he was Tiste Edur. A stranger to these forces.
No, they are mine. They were always mine. And now I come.
To reclaim them.
And 1 challenge you, Master of the Deck, whoever, whatever you are. Face me here, if you’ve the courage. I challenge you!
The Errant reached the centre dais, held the knife high, then flung it down onto the tiles.
The point sank deep into painted stone.
He stared down. One eye. Widening.
The knife had pierced the centre of a tile, nailing it in place. The others now began swirling round it, as if drawn into a vortex.
The centre of a tile.
His own. The blade buried in the chest of the image. My chest. What does that mean? No matter. What other tile could it possibly choose?
The world trembled-he could feel it, deep in its core, spreading in ripples, those ripples rising, devouring energy, lifting into waves. The waves heaving higher, gaining speed, lifting…
The Errant laughed as power burgeoned within him. ‘Mortal blood!’
Was she dead now? He’d struck her twice. Driven the weapon deep. She would have spilled out by now. A corpse huddled in that cursed chamber. Until the rats found her. And this was well. She could not be allowed to survive-he wanted no High Priestess, no mortal bound to his resurrected godhood. The other prayers I can swallow. Ignore. They all know 1 never answer. Never give a thing away. Expecting nothing, so they receive nothing, and I am not bound to them.
But a High Priestess…
He would have to make sure. Go back. And make sure. The Errant spun round, began walking.
‘Bastard,’ Feather Witch said, her mouth filled with the taste of blood. Running from her nostrils, bubbling at the back of her throat. Immense pressures crushing her chest on the right side.
She could wait no longer. The ghost was too late.
‘I am dying.’
No. Errant, bastard god, forgotten god, hungry god.
Well, you are not the only hungry one around here.
She bared her teeth in a red smile, then pushed the mangled eyeball into her mouth.
And swallowed.
The Errant staggered, rebounded from a corridor wall, as something reached into his chest and tore free a welter of power. Stole it away. Leaving a cavern of agony.
‘The bitch!’
The roar echoed against cold stone.
And he heard her voice, filling his skull: ‘lam yours now. You are mine. Worshipper and worshipped, locked together in mutual hate. Oh, won’t that twist things, yes?
‘You should have found someone else, Errant. I have read the histories. Destrai Anant, God Chosen, the Well of the Spirit. Feather Witch. You are mine. I am yours. And listen to my prayer-listen! Your Destrai demands it! In my hand, now, waits our Mortal Sword. He too has tasted your blood. Your power can heal him as it has done me. Do you not still feel his’-malicious delight-‘touch?’
Her laughter rasped in his head, rebounding bitter with his stolen power.
‘Summon him, Errant. We need him.’
‘No.’
‘We need him! And a Shield Anvil-a T’orrud Segul in the language of the First Empire. Which of us shall choose? Oh, of course, you would claim that right for yourself. But I have a candidate. Another wrapped tight in webs of spite-I utter his name and so find a face to my deepest hatred-is that not well suited?
‘And yes, he still lives. Udinaas. Let us make of this priesthood a company of betrayers. Let us claim the Empty Throne-it was ever rightfully ours, Errant-beloved.
‘Udinaas. Claim him! Choose him! We can devour each other’s souls across the span of a thousand years. Ten thousand!’
‘Leave me, damn you!’
‘Leave you? God of mine, 1 compel you!’
The Errant fell to his knees, tilted his head back, and screamed his rage.
And the world trembled anew.
He had forgotten. The chains. The wills locked in an eternal tug of war. The flood waters of fierce emotion rising again and again. The deathless drowning. 1 am in the world again. 1 surrendered my weakness, and am imprisoned by power. ‘Only the weak and useless are truly free,’ he whispered.
She heard him. ‘No need to be so maudlin, Errant. Go back to the Cedance and see for yourself. Blood now flows between the Tiles. Between them all. The Warrens. The Cedance, at last, maps the truth of things. The truth of things. To use your words, the Tiles now… flow.
‘Can you not taste them? These new Warrens? Come, let us explore them, you and 1, and choose our aspect. There are flavours… light and dark, shadow and death, life and…oh, what is this? The jesters of Chance, an Unaligned, Oponn? Oponn-dear Errant, you have upstarts standing in your stead. These Twins play your game, Errant.
‘What will we do about that?’
‘Abyss take me,’ the god groaned, sinking down onto the cold, clammy pavestones.
‘Summon him, Errant. He is needed. Now. Summon our Mortal Sword.’
‘I cannot. You damned fool. He is lost to us.’
‘I possess-’
‘I know what you possess. Do you truly think it enough? To wrest him from Mael’s grasp? You stupid, pathetic bitch. Now, cease this damned prayer, Destrai. Your every demand weakens me-and that is not smart. Not now. Too soon. I am… vulnerable. The Edur-’
‘The Edur warlocks tremble and start at shadows now-they do not know what has happened. All they know is blind terror-’
‘Silence!’ the god bellowed. ‘Who can reach through those warlocks, you blubbering capabara? Leave me alone! Now!’
He was answered with.,… nothing. Sudden absence, a presence recoiling.
‘Better,’ he snarled.
Yet he remained, slumped onto the cold floor, surrounded in darkness. Thinking. But even thoughts did not come free, without a price.
Abyss below, 1 think 1 have made a mistake. And now 1 must live with it.
And make plans.
Gadalanak stepped in behind and under his round-shield. A huge hand grasped his arm, wrapping round it just below his shoulder, and a moment later he was flying across the compound, landing hard, skidding then rolling until he crashed up against the wall.
The Meckros warrior groaned, shook his head, then released his short-handled double-bladed axe and reached up to tug clear his helm. ‘Not fair,’ he said, wincing as he sat up. He glared across at Karsa Orlong. ‘The Emperor couldn’t have done that.’
‘Too bad for him,’ the Toblakai rumbled in reply.
‘I think you tore something in my arm.’
Samar Dev spoke from where she sat on a chair in the shade, ‘Best find a healer, then, Gadalanak.’
‘Who else will dare face me?’ Karsa demanded, eyeing the half-dozen other warriors as he leaned on his sword. All eyes turned to the masked woman, who stood silent and motionless, worn and weathered like a forgotten statue in some ruin. She seemed indifferent to the attention. And she had yet to draw her two swords.
Karsa snorted. ‘Cowards.’
‘Hold on,’ the one named Puddy said, his scarred face twisting. ‘It ain’t that, y’damned bhederin bull. It’s your style of fighting. No point in learning to deal with it, since this Edur Emperor don’t fight that way. He couldn’t. I mean, he ain’t got the strength. Nor the reach. Besides, he’s civilized-you fight like an animal, Karsa, and you just might take the bastard down-only you won’t have to, ‘cause I’ll do it before you.’ He hefted the short javelin in one hand. ‘I’ll skewer him first-then let’s see him fight with a shaft of wood impaling him. I skewer him from six paces, right? Then I close with my cutlass and chop him into pieces.’
Samar Dev stopped listening, since she had heard Puddy’s boasts before, and held her gaze on the woman the Meckros warrior had called a Seguleh. First Empire word, that. The Anvil. Strange name for a people-probably some remnant clan from the colonial period of Dessimbelackis’s empire. A fragment of an army, settled on some pleasant island as their reward for some great victory-those armies were each named, and ‘the Anvil’ was but a variation on a theme common among the First Empire military. The mask, however, was a unique affectation. Gadalanak said all Seguleh were so attired, and something in the glyphs and scratches on those enamel masks indicated rank. But if those marks are writing, it’s not First Empire. Not even close. Curious. Too bad she never says anything.
Cradling his shield arm, Gadalanak used the wall to lever himself upright, then set off in search of a healer.
There had been events in the palace, sending tremors far enough to reach the challengers’ compound. Perhaps the List had been formalized, the order of the battles decided. A rumour to please the idiotic warriors gathered here-although Karsa’s only response to the possibility was a sour grunt. Samar Dev was inclined to agree with him-she was not convinced that the rumour was accurate. No, something else had happened, something messy. Factions sniping like mongrels at a feast all could share had they any brains. But that’s always the way, isn’t it! Enough is never enough.
She felt something then, a shivering along the strands-the bones-buried beneath the flesh of this realm. This realm… and every other one. Gods below… The witch found she was on her feet. Blinking. And in the compound’s centre she saw Karsa now facing her, a fierce regard in his bestial eyes. The Toblakai bared his teeth.
Shaking her gaze free of the terrible warrior, she walked quickly into the colonnaded hallway, then through to the passage lined by the cells where the champions were quartered. Down the corridor.
Into her modest room.
She closed the door behind her, already muttering the ritual of sealing. Trouble out there, blood spilled and sizzling like acid. Dreadful events, something old beyond belief, exulting in new power-
Her heart stuttered in her chest. An apparition was rising from the floor in the centre of the room. Shouldering through her wards.
She drew her knife.
A damned ghost. The ghost of a damned mage, in fact.
Luminous but faint eyes fixed on her. ‘Witch,’ it whispered, ‘do not resist, I beg you.’
‘You are not invited,’ she said. ‘Why would I not resist?’
‘I need your help.’
‘Seems a little late for that.’
‘I am Ceda Kuru Qan.’
She frowned, then nodded. ‘I have heard that name. You fell at the Edur conquest.’
‘Fell? A notion worth consideration. Alas, not now. You must heal someone. Please. I can lead you to her.’
‘Who?’
A Letherii. She is named Feather Witch-’
Samar Dev hissed, then said, ‘You chose the wrong person, Ceda Kuru Qan. Heal that blonde rhinazan? If she’s dying, I am happy to help her along. That woman gives witches a bad name.’
Another tremor rumbled through the unseen web binding the world.
She saw Kuru Qan’s ghost flinch, saw the sudden terror in its eyes.
And Samar Dev spat on her knife blade, darted forward and slashed the weapon through the ghost.
The Ceda’s shriek was short-lived, as the iron weapon snared the ghost, drew it inward, trapped it. In her hand the knife’s hilt was suddenly cold as ice. Steam slithered from the blade.
She quickly added a few words under her breath, tightening the binding.
Then staggered back until her legs bumped against her cot. She sank down, shivering in the aftermath of the capture. Her eyes fell to the weapon in her hand. ‘Gods below,’ she mumbled. ‘Got another one.’
Moments later the door swung open. Ducking, Karsa Orlong entered.
Samar Dev cursed at him, then said, ‘Must you do that?’
‘This room stinks, witch.’
‘You walk through my wards as if they were cobwebs. Toblakai, it would take a damned god to do what you just did-yet you are no god. I would swear to that on the bones of every poor fool you’ve killed.’
‘I care nothing for your damned wards,’ the huge warrior replied, leaning his sword against a wall then taking a single step that placed him in the centre of the room. ‘I know that smell. Ghosts, spirits, it’s the stink of forgetting.’
‘Forgetting?’
‘When the dead forget they’re dead, witch.’
‘Like your friends in that stone sword of yours?’
The eyes that fixed on her were cold as ashes. ‘They have cheated death, Samar Dev. Such was my gift. Such was theirs, to turn away from peace. From oblivion. They live because the sword lives.’
‘Yes, a warren within a weapon. Don’t imagine that as unique as you might want it to be.’
He bared his teeth. ‘No. After all, you have that knife.’
She started. ‘Hardly a warren in this blade, Karsa Orlong. It’s just folded iron. Folded in a very specific way-’
‘To fashion a prison. You civilized people are so eager to blunt the meaning of your words. Probably because you have so many of them, which you use too often and for no reason.’ He looked round. ‘So you have bound a ghost. That is not like you.’
‘I could not argue that,’ she admitted, ‘since I am no longer sure who I am. What I’m supposed to be like.’
‘You once told me you did not compel, you did not bind. You bargained.’
‘Ah, that. Well, yes, given the choice. Seems that being in your company crushes under heel the privilege of choice, Toblakai.’
‘You blame me for your greed?’
‘Not greed. More like an overwhelming need for power.’
,’To oppose me?’
‘You? No, I don’t think so. To stay alive, I think. You are dangerous, Karsa Orlong. Your will, your strength, your… disregard. You present the quaint and appalling argument that through wilful ignorance of the laws and rules of the universe you cannot suffer their influence. As you might imagine, your very success poses evidence of that tenet, and it is one I cannot reconcile, since it runs contrary to a lifetime of observation.’
‘Too many words again, Samar Dev. State it plain.’
‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘Everything about you terrifies me.’
He nodded. ‘And fascinates as well.’
‘Arrogant bastard. Believe what you like!’
He turned back to the doorway. Collecting his sword, he said over one shoulder, ‘The Seguleh has unsheathed her swords for me, witch.’
Then he was gone.
Samar Dev remained on her cot for another dozen heartbeats, then, ‘Damn him!’ And she rose, hurrying to arrive before the bout began. Damn him!
The sun had crawled far enough to one side of the sky to leave the compound in shadow. As she emerged from the covered colonnade Samar Dev saw the Seguleh standing in the middle of the exercise area, a thin-bladed longsword in each gloved hand. Her dark hair hung in greasy strands down her shoulders, and through the eye-holes of the mask her midnight gaze tracked Karsa Orlong as he strode to join her in the sand-floored clearing.
A full score of champions looked on, indicating that word had travelled, and Samar Dev saw-with shock-the Gral, Taralack Veed, and, behind him, Icarium. Gods below, the name, the Jhag… all that I know, all that 1 have heard. Icarium is here. A champion.
He will leave this city a heap of rubble. He will leave its citizens a mountain of shattered bones. Gods, look at him! Standing calm, so deep in shadow as to be almost invisible-Karsa does not see him, no. The Toblakai’s focus rests on the Seguleh, as he circles her at a distance. And she moves like a cat to ever face him.
Oh, she is a fighter all right.
And Karsa will throw her over the damned wall.
If she dares close. As she must. Get inside that huge flint sword.
Over the wall. Or through it.
Her heart pounded, the beat rapid, disturbingly erratic.
She sensed someone at her side and saw, with a jolt of alarm, a Tiste Edur-and she then recognized him. Preda… Tomad. Tomad Sengar.
The Emperor’s father.
Karsa, you don’t want this audience-
An explosion of motion as the two contestants closed-afterwards, none could agree on who moved first, as if some instinctive agreement was reached between the Seguleh and Karsa, and acted upon faster than thought itself.
And, as iron rang on stone-or stone on iron-Karsa Orlong did something unexpected.
Pounded down with one foot. Hard onto the packed sand.
In the midst of the Seguleh’s lithe dance.
Pounded down, hard enough to stagger onlookers as the entire compound floor thundered.
The Seguleh’s perfect balance… vanished.
No doubt it was but a fraction, the dislodging so minor few would even register it, and no doubt her recovery was as instantaneous-but she was already reeling back to a savage blow with the flat of Karsa’s blade, both wrists broken by the impact.
Yet, as she toppled, she twisted, one foot lashing upward towards the Toblakai’s crotch.
He caught her kick with one hand, blocking the blow, then boldly lifted her into the air.
She swung the other foot.
And the Toblakai, laughing, released his sword and snagged that leg as well.
And held her there.
Dangling.
Behind Taralack Veed, there was a soft sigh, and the Gral, blinking, turned round.
Icarium smiled. Then said in a low voice, ‘We have met, I think. He and I. Perhaps long ago. A duel that was interrupted.’
By Mappo. Has to be. Mappo, who saw a storm coming between these two. Oh, Trell…
Taralack licked dry lips. ‘Would you resume that duel, Icarium?’
The Jhag’s brows lifted fractionally. Then he shook his head, leaving that as his answer. Thank the spirits.
From Preda Tomad Sengar, a grunt.
‘These games,’ Samar Dev ventured, drawing his attention, ‘they are intended to entertain, yes? Each contest more challenging than the last.’
The Tiste Edur eyed her, expressionless, then he said, ‘Among the audience, there are those who are entertained.’
‘Yes.’
After a moment, he added, ‘Yes, this Tarthenal will come last. The decision was unanimous among our observers.’ Then he shrugged and said, ‘I came to see for myself. Although my judgement has no relevance.’
‘That Seguleh was very good,’ Samar Dev said.
‘Perhaps. But she has sparred with no others.’
‘They hold her in great respect.’
‘Even now? When will he set her down?’
She shook her head.
Tomad Sengar turned away. ‘The Tarthenal is superb.’
‘And yet your son is better.’
This halted him once more and he stared back at her with narrowed eyes. ‘Your Tarthenal is superb,’ he repeated. ‘But he will die anyway.’
The Tiste Edur walked away.
Finally responding to shouts and entreaties from the onlookers, Karsa Orlong set the woman down onto the ground.
Three Letherii healers rushed in to tend to her.
Collecting his sword, Karsa straightened, then looked round.
Oh, thought Samar Dev, oh no.
But Icarium was gone. As was his Gral keeper.
The Toblakai walked towards her.
‘I didn’t need to know,’ she said.
‘No, you knew already.’
Oh, gods!
Then he drew closer and stared down at her. ‘The Jhag fled. The Trell who was with him is gone. Probably dead. Now there is a desert warrior I could break with one hand. There would have been none to stop us, this Icarium and me. He knew that. So he fled.’
‘You damned fool, Karsa. Icarium is not the kind of warrior who spars. Do you understand me?’
‘We would not have sparred, Samar Dev.’
‘So why spend yourself against him? Is it not these Edur and their Letherii slaves you seek vengeance against?’
‘When I am finished with their Emperor, I will seek out Icarium. We will finish what we began.’
‘Beware gathering the men before the battering ram, Karsa Orlong.’
‘A foolish saying,’ he pronounced after a moment.
‘Oh, and why is that?’
‘Among the Teblor, men are the battering ram. Look upon me, Samar Dev. I have fought and won. See the sweat on my muscles? Come lie with me.’
‘No, I feel sick.’
‘I will make you feel better. I will split you in two.’
‘That sounds fun. Go away.’
‘Must I hunt down another whore?’
‘They all run when they see you now, Karsa Orlong. In the opposite direction, I mean.’
He snorted, then looked round. ‘Perhaps the Seguleh.’
‘Oh, really! You just broke her arms!’
‘She won’t need them. Besides, the healers are mending her.’
‘Gods below, I’m leaving.’
As she strode away, she heard his rumbling laugh. Oh, I
know you make sport of me.l know and yet I fall into your traps every time. You are too clever, barbarian. Where is that thick’
skulled savage? The one to match your pose? * * *
Dragging mangled legs, every lurch stabbing pain along the length of his bent, twisted spine, Hannan Mosag squinted ahead, and could just make out the scree of river-polished stones rising like a road between the cliffs of the gorge. He did not know if what he was seeing was real.
Yet it felt right.
Like home.
Kurald Emurlahn, the Realm of Shadow. Not a fragment, not a torn smear riven through with impurities. Home, as it once was, before all the betrayals ripped it asunder. Paradise awaits us. In our minds. Ghost images, all perfection assembled by will and will alone. Believe what you see, Hannan Mosag. This is home.
And yet it resisted. Seeking to reject him, his broken body, his chaos-stained mind.
Mother Dark. Father Light. Look upon your crippled children. Upon me. Upon Emurlahn. Heal us. Do you not see the world fashioned in my mind? All as it once was. I hold still to this purity, to all that I sought to create in the mortal realm, among the tribes I brought to heel-the peace I demanded, and won.
None could have guessed my deepest desire. The Throne of Shadow-it was for me. And by my rule, Kurald Emurlahn would grow strong once again. Whole. Rightfully in its place.
Yes, there was chaos-the raw unbound power coursing like impassable rivers, isolating every island of Shadow. But 1 would have used that chaos-to heal.
Chains. Chains to draw the fragments together, to bind them together.
The Fallen God was a tool, nothing more.
But Rhulad Sengar had destroyed all that. In the reach of a child’s hand. And now, everything was dying. Poisoned. Crumbling into dissolution.
He reached the base of the scree, smooth round pebbles clacking beneath his clawed fingers. Coarse sand under his nails, wet, biting. My world.
Rain falling in wisps of mist, the pungent smell of moss and rotting wood. And on the wind… the sea.
Surmounting the steep slope of stones, the boles of Blackwood trees stood arrayed like sentinels.
There were no invasive demons here. This world was the world of the Tiste Edur.
The shadow of a gliding owl slipped over the glistening slide, crossing his intended path, and Hannan Mosag froze.
No. It cannot be. There is no-one alive to claim that title.
He is dead.
He was not even Tiste Edur!
And yet, who stood alone before Rhulad Sengar? Yes, she has his severed finger. The owl-most ancient of omens-the owl, to mark the coming of the one.
Yet anger surged within him.
It is for me to choose. Me! Mother Dark! Father Light! Guide me to the Throne of Shadow. Emurlahn reborn! It is this, I tell you both, this or the King in Chains, and behind him the Crippled God! Hear my offer!
‘Andii, Liosan, Edur, the Armies of the Tiste. No betrayal. The betrayals are done-bind us to our words as you have bound each other. Light, Dark and Shadow, the first elements of existence. Energy and void and the ceaseless motion of the ebb and flow between them. These three forces-the first, the greatest, the purest. Hear me. I would so pledge the Edur to this alliance! Send to me those who would speak for the Andii. The Liosan. Send them-bring your children together!
‘Mother Dark. Father Light. I await your word. I await…’
He could go no further.
Weeping, Hannan Mosag rested his head on the stones. As you say,’ he muttered. ‘I will not deny the omen. Very well, it is not for me to choose.
‘He shall be our Mortal Sword of Emurlahn-no, not the old title. The new one, to suit this age. Mortal Sword.’ Madness-why would he even agree? Letherii…
‘So be it.’
Dusk had arrived. Yet he felt a sliver of warmth against one cheek, and he lifted his head. The clouds had broken, there, to the east-a welling band of darkness.
And, to the west, another slash parting the overcast.
The lurid glow of the sun.
‘So be it,’ he whispered.
Bruthen Trana stepped back as the prostrate Warlock King flinched, Hannan Mosag’s legs drawing up like an insect in death.
A moment later, the warlock’s bloodshot eyes prised open. And seemed to see nothing for a moment. Then they flicked upward. ‘Warrior,’ he said thickly, then grimaced and spat a throatful of phlegm onto the grimy pavestones. ‘Bruthen Trana. K’ar Penath speaks boldly of your loyalty, your honour. You are Tiste Edur-as we all once were. Before-before Rhulad.’ He coughed, then pushed himself into a sitting position, raising his head with obvious effort to glower up at Bruthen Trana. ‘And so, I must send you away.’
‘Warlock King, I serve this empire-’
‘Errant take this damned empire! You serve the Tiste Edur!’
Bruthen Trana regarded the broken creature below, said nothing.
‘I know,’ Hannan Mosag said, ‘you would lead our warriors-through the palace above us. Room by room, cutting down every one of the Chancellor’s pernicious spies. Cutting Rhulad free of the snaring web spun about him-but that fool on his throne could not recognize freedom if it sprouted wings on his shoulders. He will see it as an attack, a rebellion. Listen to me! Leave the Chancellor to us!’
‘And Karos Invictad?’
‘All of them, Bruthen Trana. So I vow before you.’
‘Where do you wish me to go, Warlock King? After Fear Sengar?’
Hannan Mosag started, then shook his head. ‘No. But I
dare not speak the name of the one you must find. Here, in this realm, the Crippled God courses in my veins-where I travelled a few moments ago, I was free then. To understand. To… pray.’
‘How will I know where to look? How will I know when I find the one you seek?’
The Warlock King hesitated. He licked his lips, then said, ‘He is dead. But not dead. Distant, yet is summoned. His tomb lies empty, yet was never occupied. He is never spoken of, though his touch haunts us all again and again.’
Bruthen Trana raised a hand-not surprised to see that it trembled. ‘No more. Where shall I find the beginning of the path?’
‘Where the sun dies. I think.’
The warrior scowled. ‘West? But you are not sure?’
‘I am not. I dare not.’
‘Am I to travel alone?’
‘For you to decide, Bruthen Trana. But before all else, you must get something-an item-from the Letherii slave. Feather Witch-she hides beneath the Old Palace-’
‘I know those tunnels, Warlock King. What is this item?’
Hannan Mosag told him.
He studied the twisted warlock for a moment longer-the avid gleam in Hannan Mosag’s eyes bright as fever-then spun round and strode from the chamber.
Bearing lanterns, the squad of guards formed a pool of lurid yellow light that glimmered along the waters of Quillas Canal as they trudged, amidst clanking weapons and desultory muttering, across the bridge. Once on the other side, the squad turned right to follow the main avenue towards the Creeper district.
As soon as the glow trundled away, Tehol nudged Ublala and they hurried onto the bridge. Glancing back at the half-blood, Tehol scowled, then hissed, ‘Watch me, you fool! See? I’m skulking. No-hunch down, look about suspiciously, skitter this way and that. Duck down, Ublala!’
‘But then I can’t see.’
‘Quiet!’
‘Sorry. Can we get off this bridge?’
‘First, let me see you skulk. Go on, you need to practise.’
Grumbling, Ublala Pung hunched low, his beetled brow rippling as he looked first one way, then the other.
‘Nice,’ Tehol said. ‘Now, hurry up and skulk after me.’
‘All right, Tehol. It’s just that there’s the curfew, and I don’t want trouble.’
They reached the other side and Tehol led the way, thirty paces into the wake of the guards, then an abrupt cut to the left, coming within sight of the Tolls Repository. Into an alley, where he crouched, then gestured frantically for Ublala to do the same.
‘All right,’ he whispered, ‘do you know which wing?’
Ublala blinked in the gloom. ‘What?’
‘Do you know where this Tarthenal is quartered?’
‘Yes. With all the other champions.’
‘Good. Where is that?’
‘Well, it must be somewhere.’
‘Good thinking, Ublala. Now, stay close to me. I am, after all, a master of this thieving skulduggery.’
‘Really? But Bugg said-’
‘What? What did my miserable manservant say? About me? Behind my back?’
Ublala shrugged. ‘Lots of things. I mean, nothing. Oh, you misheard me, Tehol. I didn’t say anything. You’re not a clumsy oaf with a head full of grander delusions, or anything. Like that.’ He brightened. ‘You want me to box him about the ears again?’
‘Later. Here’s what I think. Near the Imperial Barracks, but a wing of the Eternal Domicile. Or between the Eternal Domicile and the Old Palace.’
Ublala was nodding.
‘So,’ Tehol continued, ‘shall we get going?’
‘Where?’
‘Somehow I don’t think this night is going to go well. Never mind, just stay with me.’
A quick peek into the street, up one way, down the other, then Tehol moved out, keeping low against the near wall. As they drew closer to the Eternal Domicile, the shadows diminished-lantern poles at intersections, broader streets, and there soldiers positioned at postern gates, outside corner blockhouses, soldiers, in fact, everywhere.
Tehol tugged Ublala into the last usable alley, where they crouched once more in gloom. ‘This looks bad,’ he whispered. ‘There’s people, Ublala. Well, listen, it was a good try. But we’ve been bested by superior security and that’s that.’
‘They’re all standing in their own light,’ Ublala said. ‘They can’t see nothing, Tehol. Besides, 1 got in mind a diversion.’
‘A diversion like your usual diversions, Ublala? Forget it. Shurq Elalle’s told me about that last time-’
‘Yes, like that. It worked, didn’t it?’
‘But that was to get her inside the Gerrun Estate-her, not you. Aren’t you the one who wants to talk to this champion?’
‘That’s why you’re doing the diversion, Tehol.’
‘Me? Are you mad?’
‘It’s the only way.’
They heard the scuff of boots from the street, then a loud voice: ‘There! Who’s skulking in that alley?’
Ublala flinched down. ‘How did he know?’
‘We better run!’
They bolted, as a spear of lantern-light lanced across the alley mouth; then, pursued by shouting soldiers, the two fugitives reached the far end of the alley.
Where Tehol went left.
And Ublala went right.
Alarms resounded in the night.
The answering of his prayers was nothing like Bruthen Trana had imagined. Not through the grotesque creature that was Hannan Mosag, the Warlock King. The very man who had started the Edur down this path of dissolution. Ambition, greed and betrayal-it was all Bruthen could manage to stand still before Hannan Mosag, rather than strangle the life from the Warlock King.
Yet from that twisted mouth had come… hope. It seemed impossible. Macabre. Mocking Bruthen Trana’s visions of heroic salvation. Rhidad falls-the whole Sengar bloodline obliterated-and then… Hannan Mosag. For his crimes. Honour can be won-1 will see to that.
This is how it must be.
He was not unduly worried over the Letherii. The Chancellor would not live much longer. The palace would be purged. The Patriotists would be crushed, their agents slain, and those poor prisoners whose only crime, as far as he could tell, was to disagree with the practices of the Patriotists-those prisoners, Letherii one and all, could be freed. There was no real sedition at work here. No treason. Karos Invictad used such accusations as if they encompassed a guilt that needed no proof, as if they justified any treatment of the accused he desired. Ironically, in so doing he subverted humanity itself, making him the most profound traitor of all.
But not even that mattered much. Bruthen Trana did not like the man, a dislike that seemed reason enough to kill the bastard. Karos Invictad took pleasure in cruelty, making him both pathetic and dangerous. If he were permitted to continue, there was the very real risk that the Letherii people would rise up in true rebellion, and the gutters in every city of the empire would run crimson. No matter. I do not like him. For years I was witness to his contempt for me, there in his eyes. I will brook the affront no longer.
This, more than anything else, dismayed Bruthen Trana. Hannan Mosag’s insisting he leave immediately-for some place where the sun dies. West. But no, not west. The Warlock King misunderstood his own vision-
A sudden thought, slowing his steps as he made his way down into the subterranean corridors and chambers beneath the Old Palace. Who answered his prayers? Who showed him this path? He suggested it was not this Crippled God. Father Shadow? Has Scabandari Bloodeye returned to us?
No, he has not. Then… who?
A moment later, Bruthen Trana scowled, then cursed under his breath and resumed his journey. I am given hope and what do I do? Seek to kill it with my own hands. No, I understand the path-better than Hannan Mosag himself.
Where the sun dies is not to the west.
It is beneath the waves. In the depths.
Did not a demon of the seas retrieve his body? No, Hannan Mosag, you dare not name him. He is not even Tiste Edur. Yet he must be our salvation.
He reached the sloping tunnel that would take him to the slave’s supposedly secret abode. These Letherii were indeed pathetic.
We each carry a whisper of Emurlahn within us-each and every Tiste Edur. This is why no slave among the tribes could escape us.
Except for one, he corrected himself. Udinaas. But then, the K’risnan knew where he was-or so Bruthen Trana suspected. They knew, yet chose to do nothing.
It was no wonder Rhulad did not trust them.
Nor do I.
He could smell the stench of bitter magic as he drew nearer, and he heard her muttering in her chamber, and knew that something had changed. In the one named Feather Witch. In the power she possessed.
Well, he would give her no time to prepare.
Feather Witch looked up in fear and alarm as the Tiste Edur warrior strode in. Squealing, she backed away until brought short by a wall, then sank down and covered her face.
The stark intent in the warrior’s face was fierce.
He grasped her by the hair and yanked her to her feet, then higher, the pain forcing a shriek from her.
With his other hand he grasped the small leather pouch between her breasts. When he tore it loose, the thong cut like wire across the back of her neck and behind one ear. She could feel blood. She thought that her ear had very nearly been cut loose, that it hung by a strand of-
He flung her back down. Her head cracked against the stone of the wall. She slumped onto the floor, ragged sobbing erupting from her heaving chest.
And listened-beyond the close roar of blood in her skull-to his dwindling footsteps.
He had taken the severed finger.
He goes to find the soul of Brys Beddict.
Tehol staggered into the single room, collapsed down near the hearth. Sheathed in sweat, gasping to gain his breath.
Bugg, seated with his back to a wall and sipping tea, slowly raised his brows. ‘Afflicted with the delusion of competence, I see.’
‘That-that’s what you said-to Ublala? You cruel, heartless-’
‘The observation was made regarding all mortals, actually.’
‘He didn’t take it that way!’
Janath spoke from where she sat sipping from her own chipped clay cup. ‘All those alarms ringing through the city are because of you, Tehol Beddict?’
‘They will be on the lookout now,’ Bugg observed, ‘for a man wearing a blanket.’
‘Well,’ Tehol retorted, ‘there must be plenty of those, right?’
There was no immediate reply.
‘There must be,’ Tehol insisted, a little wildly even to his iown ears. He hastened on in a more reasonable tone. ‘The ever growing divide between the rich and the poor and all that. Why, blankets are the new fashion among the destitute. I’m sure of it.’
Neither listener said anything, then both sipped from their cups.
Scowling, Tehol said, ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’
‘Hen tea,’ Bugg said.
‘Soup, you mean.’
‘No,’ said Janath. ‘Tea.’
‘Wait, where are all the chickens?’
‘On the roof,’ Bugg said.
‘Won’t they fall off?’
‘One or two might. We do regular rounds. So far, they have displayed uncharacteristic cleverness. Rather unique for this household.’
‘Oh right, kick the exhausted fugitive why don’t you? They probably caught poor old Ublala.’
‘Maybe. He did have a diversion in mind.’
Tehol’s eyes narrowed on his manservant. ‘Those wisps above your ears need trimming. Janath, find me a knife, will you?’.
‘No.’
‘You would side with him, wouldn’t you?’
‘Bugg is actually a very capable man, Tehol. You don’t deserve him, you know.’
‘I assure you, Scholar, the undeservedness is mutual.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You know, from the smell I think I could make a strong argument that hen tea is no different from watery chicken soup, or, at the very least, broth.’
‘You never could grasp semantics, Tehol Beddict.’
‘I couldn’t grasp much of anything, I seem to recall. Yet I will defend my diligence, my single-minded lust for seductive knowledge, the purity of true academic… uh, pursuit-why, I could go on and on-’
‘Ever your flaw, Tehol.’
‘-but I won’t, cursed as I am with an unappreciative audience. So tell me, Bugg, why was Ublala so eager to talk to this true blood Tarthenal?’
‘He wishes to discover, I imagine, if the warrior is a god.’
‘A what?’
‘A new god, I mean. Or an ascendant, to be more precise. I doubt there are worshippers involved. Yet.’
‘Well, Tarthenal only worship what terrifies them, right? This is just some warrior doomed to die by the Emperor’s sword. Hardly the subject to inspire poor Ublala Pung.’
To that Bugg simply shrugged.
Tehol wiped sweat from his brow. ‘Give me some of that hen tea, will you?’
‘With or without?’
‘With or without what?’
‘Feathers.’
‘That depends. Are they clean feathers?’
‘They are now,’ Bugg replied.
All right, then, since I can’t think of anything more absurd. With.’
Bugg reached for a clay cup. ‘I knew I could count on you, Master.’
She woke to a metallic clang out in the corridor.
Sitting up, Samar Dev stared into the darkness of her room.
She thought she could hear breathing, just outside her door, then, distinctly, a muted whimper.
She rose, wrapping the blanket about her, and padded to the doorway. Lifted the latch and swung the flimsy barrier aside.
‘Karsa?’
The huge figure spun to face her.
‘No,’ she then said. ‘Not Karsa. Who are you?’
‘Where is he?’
‘Who?’
‘The one like me. Which room?’
Samar Dev edged out into the corridor. She looked to the left and saw the motionless forms of the two palace guards normally stationed to either side of the corridor’s entranceway. Their helmed heads were conspicuously close together, and those iron pots were both severely dented. ‘You killed them?’
The huge man glanced over, then grunted. ‘They were looking the wrong way.’
‘You mean they didn’t see you.’
‘Maybe my hands.’
The nonsensical yet oddly satisfying exchange had been in whispers. Samar Dev gestured that he follow and set off up the corridor until she came to the door to Karsa Orlong’s room. ‘He’s in here.’
‘Knock,’ the giant ordered. ‘Then walk in ahead of me.’
‘Or else?’
‘Or else I knock your head… together.’
Sighing, she reached towards the door with one fist.
It opened and the point of a stone sword suddenly hovered in the hollow of her throat.
‘Who is that behind you, witch?’
‘You have a visitor,’ she replied. ‘From… outside.’
Karsa Orlong, naked above the waist, his escaped slave tattoos a crazed web reaching down to his shoulders and chest, withdrew the sword and stepped back.
The stranger pushed Samar Dev to one side and entered the small room.
Whereupon he sank down to his knees, head bowing. ‘Pure one,’ he said, the words like a prayer.
Samar Dev edged in and shut the door behind her, as Karsa Orlong tossed his sword on the cot, then reached down with one hand-and hammered the stranger in the side of the head.
Rocking the man. Blood started from his nostrils and he blinked stupidly up at Karsa.
Who said, ‘There is Toblakai blood in you. Toblakai kneel to no-one.’
Samar Dev crossed her arms and leaned back against the door. ‘First lesson when dealing with Karsa Orlong,’ she murmured. ‘Expect the unexpected.’
The huge man struggled back to his feet, wiping at the blood on his face. He was not as tall as Karsa, but almost as wide. ‘I am Ublala Pung, of the Tarthenal-’
‘Tarthenal.’
Samar Dev said, ‘A mixed-blood remnant of some local Toblakai population. Used to be more in the city-I certainly have not seen any others out in the markets and such. But they’ve virtually vanished, just like most of the other tribes the Letherii subjugated.’
Ublala half turned to glower at her. ‘Not vanished. Defeated. And now those who are left live on islands in the Draconean Sea.’
At the word ‘defeated’, Samar Dev saw Karsa scowl.
Ublala faced the Toblakai once more, then said, with strange awkwardness, ‘Lead us, War Leader.’
Sudden fire in Karsa’s eyes and he met Samar Dev’s gaze. ‘I told you once, witch, that I would lead an army of my kind. It has begun.’
‘They’re not Toblakai-’
‘If but one drop of Toblakai blood burns in their veins, witch, then they are Toblakai.’
‘Decimated by Letherii sorcery-’
A sneer. ‘Letherii sorcery? I care naught.’
Ublala Pung, however, was shaking his head. ‘Even with our greatest shamans, Pure One, we could not defeat it. Why, Arbanat himself-’
This time it was Samar Dev who interrupted. ‘Ublala, I have seen Karsa Orlong push his way through that sorcery.’
The mixed-blood stared at her, mouth agape. ‘Push?’ The word was mostly mouthed, the barest of whispers.
Despite herself, she nodded. ‘I wish I could tell you otherwise, you poor bastard. I wish I could tell you to run away and hide with your kin on those islands, because this one here makes empty promises. Alas, I cannot. He does not make empty promises. Not so far, anyway. Of course,’
she added with a shrug that belied the bitterness she felt, ‘this Edur Emperor will kill him.’
To that, Ublala Pung shook his head.
Denial? Dismay?
Karsa Orlong addressed Ublala: ‘You must leave when this is done, warrior. You must travel to your islands and gather our people, then bring them here. You are now my army. I am Karsa Orlong, Toblakai and Teblor. I am your war leader.’
‘The marks on your face,’ Ublala whispered.
‘What of them?’
‘As shattered as the Tarthenal. As the Toblakai-broken, driven apart. So the oldest legends say-scattered, by ice, by betrayal…’
An icy draught seemed to flow up around Samar Dev, like a cold wave engulfing a rock, and she shivered. Oh, I dislike the sound of that, since it echoes the truth of things. Too clearly.
‘Yet see my face behind it,’ Karsa said. ‘Two truths. What was and what will be. Do you deny this, Ublala of the Tarthenal?’
A mute shake of the head. Then the warrior shot another glance at Samar Dev, before saying, ‘War Leader, I have words. Of… of Rhulad Sengar, the Edur Emperor. Words… of his secret.’
‘Leave us, witch,’ Karsa said.
She started. ‘What? Not a chance-’
‘Leave us or I will instruct my warrior to knock your head together.’
‘Oh, so now it’s idiocy that inspires you?’
‘Samar Dev,’ Karsa said. ‘This warrior has defeated every barrier surrounding this compound. I am not interested in his words. Did you not hear the alarms? He fights as would a Toblakai.’
‘They tried Drowning me too, once,’ Ublala said.
Samar Dev snorted. ‘With him around, it truly is a struggle to remain solemn, never mind dignified. A cure for pomposity, Karsa Orlong-be sure to keep this one at your side.’
‘Go.’
She gestured with sudden contempt. ‘Oh, fine, on with you two, then. Later, Karsa, I will remind you of one thing.’
‘What?’
She opened the door behind her. ‘This oaf couldn’t even find your room.’
Out in the corridor, Samar Dev heard a stirring from one of the guards, then a groan and then, distinctly: ‘What are all those lights?’