Crawl down sun this is not your time
Black waves slide under the sheathed moon
upon the shore a silent storm
a will untamed heaves up from the red-skirled foam
Scud to your mountain nests you iron clouds
to leave the sea its dancing refuse of stars
on this host of salty midnight tides
Gather drawn and swell tight your tempest
lift like scaled heads from the blind depths
all your effulgent might in restless roving eyes
Reel back you tottering forests
this night the black waves crash on the black shore
to steal the flesh from your bony roots
death comes, shouldering aside in cold legion
in a marching wind this dread this blood this reaper’s gale
– The Coming Storm, Reffer
The fist slammed down at the far end of the table. Food-crusted cutlery danced, plates thumped then skidded. The reverberation- heavy as thunder-rattled the goblets and shook all that sat down the length of the long table’s crowded world.
Fist shivering, pain lancing through the numb shock, Tomad Sengar slowly sat back.
Candle flames steadied, seeming eager to please with their regained calm, the pellucid warmth of their yellow light an affront nonetheless to the Edur’s bitter anger.
Across from him, his wife lifted a silk napkin to her lips, daubed once, then set it down and regarded her husband. ‘Coward.’
Tomad flinched, his gaze shifting away to scan the plastered wall to his right. Lifting past the discordant object hanging there to some place less… painful. Damp stains painted mottled maps near the ceiling. Plaster had lifted, buckled, undermined by that incessant leakage. Cracks zigzagged down like the after-image of lightning.
‘You will not see him,’ Uruth said.
‘He will not see me,’ Tomad replied, and this was not in agreement. It was, in fact, a retort.
‘A disgusting, scrawny Letherii who sleeps with young boys has defeated you, husband. He stands in your path and your bowels grow weak. Do not refute my words-you will not even meet my eyes. You have surrendered our last son.’
Tomad’s lips twisted in a snarl. ‘To whom, Uruth? Tell me. Chancellor Triban Gnol, who wounds children and calls it love?’ He looked at her then, unwilling to admit, even to himself, the effort that gesture demanded of him. ‘Shall I break his neck for you, wife? Easier than snapping a dead branch. What do you think his bodyguards will do? Stand aside?’
‘Find allies. Our kin-’
‘Are fools. Grown soft with indolence, blind with un-certainty. They are more lost than is Rhulad.’
‘I had a visitor today,’ Uruth said, refilling her goblet with the carafe of wine that had nearly toppled from the table with Tomad’s sudden violence.
‘I am pleased for you.’
‘Perhaps you are. A K’risnan. He came to tell me that
.
Bruthen Trana has disappeared. He suspects that Karos Invictad-or the Chancellor-have exacted their revenge. They have murdered Bruthen Trana. A Tiste Edur’s blood is on their hands.’
‘Can your K’risnan prove this?’
‘He has begun on that path, but admits to little optimism. But none of that is, truth be told, what I would tell you.’
‘Ah, so you think me indifferent to the spilling of Edur blood by Letherii hands?’
‘Indifferent? No, husband. Helpless. Will you interrupt me yet again?’
Tomad said nothing, not in acquiescence, but because he had run out of things to say. To her. To anyone.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I would tell you this. I believe the K’risnan was lying.’
‘About what?’
‘I believe he knows what has happened to Bruthen Trana, and that he came to me to reach the women’s council, and to reach you, husband. First, to gauge my reaction to the news at the time of its telling, then to gauge our more measured reaction in the days to come. Second, by voicing his suspicion, false though it is, he sought to encourage our growing hatred for the Letherii. And our hunger for vengeance, thus continuing this feud behind curtains, which, presumably, will distract Karos and Gnol.’
‘And, so distracted, they perchance will miss comprehension of some greater threat-which has to do with wherever Bruthen Trana has gone.’
‘Very good, husband. Coward you may be, but you are not stupid.’ She paused to sip, then said, ‘That is something.’
‘How far will you push me, wife?’
‘As far as is necessary.’
‘We were not here. We were sailing half this damned world. We returned to find the conspiracy triumphant, dominant and well entrenched. We returned, to find that we have lost our last son.’
‘Then we must win him back.’
‘There is no-one left to win, Uruth. Rhulad is mad. Nisall’s betrayal has broken him.’
‘The bitch is better gone than still in our way. Rhulad repeats his errors. With her, so he had already done with that slave, Udinaas. He failed to learn.’
Tomad allowed himself a bitter smile. ‘Failed to learn. So have we all, Uruth. We saw for ourselves the poison that was Lether. We perceived well the threat, and so marched down to conquer, thus annihilating that threat for ever more. Or so we’d thought:’
‘It devoured us.’
He looked again to the wall on the right, where, hanging from an iron hook, there was a bundle of fetishes. Feathers, strips of sealskin, necklaces of strung shells, shark teeth. The bedraggled remnants of three children-all that remained to remind them of their lives.
Some did not belong, for the son who had owned certain of those items had been banished, his life swept away as if it had never been. Had Rhulad seen these, even the binding of filial blood would not spare the lives of Tomad and Uruth. Trull Sengar-the name itself was anathema, a crime, and the punishment of its utterance was death.
Neither cared.
‘A most insipid poison indeed,’ Uruth continued, eyeing her goblet. ‘We grow fat. The warriors get drunk and sleep in the beds of Letherii whores. Or lie unconscious in the durhang dens. Others simply… disappear.’
‘They return home,’ Tomad said, repressing a pang at the thought. Home. Before all this.
‘Are you certain?’
He met her eyes once more. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Karos Invictad and his Patriotists never cease their vigilant tyranny of the people. They make arrests every day. Who is to say they have not arrested Tiste Edur?’
‘He could not hide that, wife.’
‘Why not? Now that Bruthen Trana is gone, Karos Invictad does as he pleases. No-one stands at his shoulder now.’
‘He did as he pleased before.’
‘You cannot know that, husband. Can you? What constraints did Invictad perceive-real or imagined, it matters not-when he knew Bruthen Trana was watching him?’
‘I know what you want,’ Tomad said in a low growl. ‘But who is to blame for all of this?’
‘That no longer matters,’ she replied, watching him carefully-fearing what, he wondered. Another uncontrolled burst of violence? Or the far more insipid display revealing his despair?
‘I don’t know how you can say that,’ he said. ‘He sent our sons to retrieve the sword. That decision doomed them all. Us all. And look, we now sit in the palace of the Lether Empire, rotting in the filth of Letherii excess. We have no defence against indolence and apathy, against greed and decadence. These enemies do not fall to the sword, do not skid away from a raised shield.’
‘Hannan Mosag, husband, is our only hope. You must go to him.’
‘To conspire against our son?’
‘Who is, as you have said, insane. Blood is one thing,’ Uruth said, slowly leaning forward, ‘but we now speak of the survival of the Tiste Edur. Tomad, the women are ready-we have been ready for a long time.’
He stared at her, wondering who this woman was, this cold, cold creature. Perhaps he was a coward, after all. When Rhulad had sent Trull away, he had said nothing. But then, neither had Uruth. And what of his own conspiracy? With Binadas? Find Trull. Please. Find the bravest among us. Recall the Sengar bloodline, son. Our first strides onto this world. Leading a legion onto its stony ground, loyal officers of Scabandari. Who drew the first Andii blood on the day of betrayal? That is our blood. That not this.
So, Tomad had sent Binadas away. Had sent a son to his death. Because I had not the will to do it myself.
Coward.
Watching him still, Uruth carefully refilled her goblet.
Binadas, my son, your slayer awaits Rhulad’s pleasure. Is that enough?
Like any old fool who had once wagered mortal lives, the Errant wandered the corridors of enlivened power, muttering his litany of lost opportunities and bad choices. Exhalation of sorcery averted the eyes of those who strode past, the guards at various doorways and intersections, the scurrying servants who fought their losing battle with the crumbling residence known-now with irony-as the Eternal Domicile. They saw but did not see, and no after-image remained in their minds upon passing.
More than any ghost, the Elder God was forgettable. But not as forgettable as he would have liked. He had worshippers now, at the cost of an eye binding him and his power, warring with his will in the guise of faith. Of course, every god knew of that war-such subversion seemed the primary purpose of every priest. Reduction of the sacred into the mundane world of mortal rivalries, politics and the games of control and manipulation of as many people as there were adherents. Oh, and yes, the acquisition of wealth, be it land or coin, be it the adjudication of fate or the gathering of souls.
With such thoughts haunting him, the Errant stepped into the throne room, moving silently to one side to take his usual place against a wall between two vast tapestries, as unnoticed as the grandiose scenes woven into those frames-images in which could be found some figure in the background very closely resembling the Errant.
The Chancellor Triban Gnol-with whom the Errant had shared a bed when expedience demanded it-stood before Rhulad who slouched like some sated monstrosity, poignant with wealth and madness. One of the Chancellor’s bodyguards hovered a few paces back from Gnol, looking bored as his master recited numbers. Detailing, once more, the growing dissolution of the treasury.
These sessions, the Errant understood, with some admiration, were deliberate travails intended to further exhaust the Emperor. Revenues and losses, expenses and the sudden peak in defaulted debts, piled up in droning cadence like the gathering of forces preparing to lay siege. An assault against which Rhulad had no defence.
He would surrender, as he always did. Relinquishing all management to the Chancellor. A ritual as enervating to witness as it was to withstand, yet the Errant felt no pity. The Edur were barbarians. Like children in the face of civilized sophistication.
Why do 1 come here, day after day? What am 1 waiting to witness here? Rhulad’s final collapse? Will that please me? Entertain me? How sordid have my tastes become?
He held his gaze on the Emperor. Dulled coins luridly gleaming, a rhythm of smudged reflection rising and settling with Rhulad’s breathing; the black sanguine promise of the sword’s long, straight blade, tip dug into the marble dais, the grey bony hand gripping the wire-wrapped handle. Sprawled there on his throne, Rhulad was indeed a metaphor made real. Armoured in riches and armed with a weapon that promised both immortality and annihilation, he was impervious to everything but his own growing madness. When Rhulad fell, the Errant believed, it would be from the inside out.
The ravaged face revealed this truth in a cascade of details, from the seamed scars of past failures to which, by virtue of his having survived them, he was indifferent, to whatever lessons they might hold. Pocked flesh to mock the possession of wealth long lost. Sunken eyes wherein resided the despairing penury of his spirit, a spirit that at times pushed close to those glittering dark prisms and let loose its silent howl.
Twitches tracked this brutal mien. Random ripples beneath the mottled skin, a migration of expressions attempting to escape the remote imperial mask.
One could understand, upon looking at Rhulad on his throne, the lie of simplicity that power whispered in the beholder’s ear. The seductive voice urging pleasurable and satisfying reduction, from life’s confusion to death’s clarity. This, murmured power, is how I am revealed. Stepping naked through all the disguises. I am threat and if threat does not suffice, then I act. Like a reaper’s scythe.
The lie of simplicity. Rhulad still believed it. In that he was no different from every other ruler, through every age, in every place where people gathered to fashion a common, the weal of community with its necessity for organization and division. Power is violence, its promise, its deed. Power cares nothing for reason, nothing for justice, nothing for compassion. It is, in fact, the singular abnegation of these things-once the cloak of deceits is stripped away, this one truth is revealed.
And the Errant was tired of it. All of it.
Mael once said there was no answer. For any of this. He said it was the way of things and always would be, and the only redemption that could be found was that all power, no matter how vast, how centralized, no matter how dominant, will destroy itself in the end. What entertained then was witnessing all those expressions of surprise on the faces of the wielders.
This seemed a far too bitter reward, as far as the Errant was concerned. I have naught of Mael’s capacity for cold, depthless regard. Nor his legendary patience. Nor, for that matter, his temper.
No Elder God was blind to the folly of those who would reign in the many worlds. Assuming it was able to think at all, of course, and for some that was in no way a certain thing. Anomander Rake saw it clearly enough, and so he turned away from its vastness, instead choosing to concentrate on specific, minor conflicts. And he denied his worshippers, a crime so profound to them that they simply rejected it out of hand. Osserc, on the other hand, voiced his own refusal-of the hopeless truth-and so tried again and again and failed every time. For Osserc, Anomander Rake’s very existence became an unconscionable insult.
Draconus-ah, now he was no fool. He would have wearied of his tyranny-had he lived long enough. I still wonder if he did not in fact welcome his annihilation. To die beneath the sword made by his own hands, to see his most cherished daughter standing to one side, witness, wilfully blind to his need… Draconus, how could you not despair of all you once dreamed?
And then there was Kilmandaros. Now she liked the notion of… simplicity. The solid righteousness of her fist was good enough for her. But then, see where it took her!
And what of K’rul? Why, he was-
‘Stop!’ Rhulad shrieked, visibly jolting on the throne, the upper half of his body suddenly leaning forward, the eyes black with sudden threat. ‘What did you just say?’
The Chancellor frowned, then licked his withered lips. ‘Emperor, I was recounting the costs of disposing the corpses from the trench-pens-’
‘Corpses, yes.’ Rhulad’s hand twitched where it folded over the throne’s ornate arm. He stared fixedly at Triban Gnol, then, with a strange smile, he asked, ‘What corpses?’
‘From the fleets, sire. The slaves rescued from the island of Sepik, the northernmost protectorate of the Malazan Empire.’
‘Slaves. Rescued. Slaves.’
The Errant could see Triban Gnol’s confusion, a momentary flicker, then… comprehension.
Oh now, let us witness this!
‘Your fallen kin, sire. Those of Tiste Edur blood who had suffered beneath the tyranny of the Malazans.’
‘Rescued.’ Rhulad paused as if to taste that word. ‘Edur blood.’
‘Diluted-’
‘Edur blood!’
‘Indeed, Emperor.’
‘Then why are they in the trench’pens?’
‘They were deemed fallen, sire.’
Rhulad twisted on the throne, as if assailed from within. His head snapped back. His limbs were seized with trembling. He spoke as one lost. ‘Fallen? But they are our kin. In this entire damned world, our only kin!’
‘That is true, Emperor. I admit, I was somewhat dismayed at the decision to consign them to those most terrible cells-’
‘Whose decision, Gnol? Answer me!’
A bow, which the Errant knew hid a satisfied gleam in the Chancellor’s eyes-quickly disguised as he looked up once more. ‘The disposition of the fallen Sepik Edur was the responsibility of Tomad Sengar, Emperor.’
Rhulad slowly settled back. ‘And they are dying.’
‘In droves, sire. Alas.’
‘We rescued them to deliver our own torment. Rescued them to kill them.’
‘It is, I would suggest, a somewhat unjust fate-’
‘Unjust? You scrawny snake-why did you not tell me of this before?’
‘Emperor, you indicated no interest in the financial details-’
Oh, a mistake there, Gnol.
“The what?’
Beads of sweat on the back of the Chancellor’s neck now. “The varied expenses associated with their imprisonment, sire.’
‘They are Tiste Edur!’
Another bow.
Rhulad suddenly clawed at his face and looked away. ‘Edur blood,’ he murmured. ‘Rescued from slavery. Trench-pens is their reward.’
Triban Gnol cleared his throat. ‘Many died in the holds of the ships, sire. As I understand it, their maltreatment began upon leaving Sepik Island. What is it you would have me do, Emperor?’
And so deftly you regain ground, Triban Gnol.
‘Bring me Tomad Sengar. And Uruth. Bring to me my father and mother.’
‘Now?’
The sword scraped free, point lifting to centre on Triban Gnol. ‘Yes, Chancellor. Now.’
Triban Gnol and his bodyguard quickly departed.
Rhulad was alone in his throne room, now holding his sword out on nothing.
‘How? How could they do this? These poor people-they are of our own blood. I need to think.’ The Emperor lowered the sword then shifted about on the throne, drawing his coin-clad legs up. ‘How? Nisall? Explain this to me-no, you cannot, can you. You have fled me. Where are you, Nisall? Some claim you are dead. Yet where is your body? Are you just another bloated corpse in the canal-the ones I see from the tower-were you one of those, drifting past? They tell me you were a traitor. They tell me you were not a traitor. They all lie to me. I know that, I can see that. Hear that. They all lie to me-’ He sobbed then, his free hand covering his mouth, his eyes darting about the empty room.
The Errant saw that gaze slide right over him. He thought to step forward then, to relinquish the sorcery hiding him, to say to the Emperor: Yes, sire. They all lie to you. But I will not. Do you dare hear the truth, Emperor Rhukd? All of it?
‘Slaves. This-this is wrong. Tomad-Father-where did this cruelty come from?’
Oh, dear Rhulad…
‘Father, we will talk. You and me. Alone. And Mother, yes, you too. The three of us. It has been so long since we did that. Yes, that is what we will do. And you must… you must not lie to me. No, that I will not accept.
‘Father, where is Nisall?
‘Where is Trull?’
Could an Elder God’s heart break? The Errant almost sagged then, as Rhulad’s plaintive query echoed momentarily in the chamber, then quickly died, leaving only the sound of the Emperor’s laboured breathing.
Then, a harder voice emerging from the Emperor: ‘Hannan Mosag, this is all your fault. You did this. To us. To me. You twisted me, made me send them all away. To find champions. But no, that was my idea, wasn’t it? I can’t-can’t remember-so many lies here, so many voices, all lying. Nisall, you left me. Udinaas-I will find you both. I will see the skin flayed fr6m your writhing bodies, I will listen to your screams-’
The sound of boots in the hallway beyond.
Rhulad looked up guiltily, then settled into the throne. Righting the weapon. Licking his lips. Then, as the doors creaked open, he sat with a fixed grin, a baring of his teeth to greet his parents.
Dessert arrived at the point of a sword. A full dozen Letherii guards, led by Sirryn Kanar, burst into the private chambers of Tomad and Uruth Sengar. Weapons drawn, they entered the dining room to find the two Edur seated each at one end of the long table.
Neither had moved. Neither seemed surprised.
‘On your feet,’ Sirryn growled, unable to hide his satisfaction, his delicious pleasure at this moment. ‘The Emperor demands your presence. Now.’
The tight smile on Tomad’s face seemed to flicker a moment, before the old warrior rose to his feet.
Sneering, Uruth had not moved. ‘The Emperor would see his mother? Very well, he may ask.’
Sirryn looked down at her. ‘This is a command, woman.’
‘And I am a High Priestess of Shadow, you pathetic thug.’
‘Sent here by the Emperor’s will. You will stand, or-’
‘Or what? Will you dare lay hands on me, Letherii? Recall your place.’
The guard reached out.
‘Stop!’ Tomad shouted. ‘Unless, Letherii, you wish your flesh torn from your bones. My wife has awakened Shadow, and she will not suffer your touch.’
Sirryn Kanar found he was trembling. With rage. ‘Then advise her, Tomad Serigar, of her son’s impatience.’
Uruth slowly drained her goblet of wine, set it carefully down, then rose. ‘Sheathe your weapons, Letherii. My husband and I can walk to the throne room in your company, or alone. My preference is for the latter, but I permit you this single warning. Sheathe your swords, or I will kill you all.’
Sirryn gestured to his soldiers and weapons slid back into scabbards. After a moment, his did the same. I will have an answer for this, Uruth Sengar. Recall my place? Of course, if the lie suits you, as it does me…for now.
‘Finally,’ Uruth said to Tomad, ‘we shall have an opportunity to tell our son all that needs to be told. An audience. Such privilege.’
‘It may be you shall await his pleasure,’ Sirryn said.
‘Indeed? How long?’
The Letherii smiled at her. ‘That is not for me to say.’
‘This game is not Rhulad’s. It is yours. You and your Chancellor.’
‘Not this time,’Sirryn replied.
‘I have killed Tiste Edur before.’
Samar Dev watched Karsa Orlong as the Toblakai examined the tattered clamshell armour shirt he had laid out on the cot. The pearlescent scales were tarnished and chipped, and large patches of the thick leather under-panels-hinged with rawhide-were visible. He had gathered a few hundred holed coins-made of tin and virtually worthless-and was clearly planning to use them to amend the armour.
Was this a gesture of mockery, she wondered. A visible sneer in Rhulad’s face? Barbarian or not, she would not put it past Karsa Orlong.
‘I cleared the deck of the fools,’ he continued, then glanced over at her. ‘And what of those in the forest of the Anibar? As for the Letherii, they’re even more pathetic-see how they cower, even now? I will explore this city, with my sword strapped to my back, and none shall stop me.’
She rubbed at her face. ‘There is a rumour that the first roll of champions will be called. Soon. Raise the ire of these people, Karsa, and you will not have to wait long to face the Emperor.’
‘Good,’ he grunted. ‘Then I shall walk Letheras as its new emperor.’
‘Is that what you seek?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing on him in surprise.
‘If that is what is needed for them to leave me be.’
She snorted. ‘Then the last thing you want is to be emperor.’
He straightened, frowning down at the gaudy if bedraggled armour shirt. ‘I am not interested in fleeing, witch. There is no reason for them to forbid me,’
‘You can step outside this compound and wander where you will… just leave your sword behind.’
‘That I will not do.’
‘Then here you remain, slowly going mad at the Emperor’s pleasure.’
‘Perhaps I shall fight my way through.’
‘Karsa, they just don’t want you killing citizens. Given that you are so, uh, easily offended, it’s not an unusual request.’
‘What offends me is their lack of faith.’
‘Right,’ she snapped, ‘which you have well earned by killing Edur and Letherii at every turn. Including a Preda-’
‘I did not know he was that.’
‘Would it have made a difference? No, I thought not. How about the fact that he was a brother to the Emperor?’
‘I did not know that either.’
‘And?’
‘And what, Samar Dev?’
‘Murdered him with a spear, wasn’t it?’
‘He assailed me with magic-’
‘You have told me this tale, Karsa Orlong. You had just slaughtered his crew. Then kicked in the door to his cabin. Then crushed the skulls of his bodyguards. I tell you, in his place I too would have drawn upon my warren-assuming I had one, which I don’t. And I would have thrown everything I had at you.’
‘There is no point to this conversation,’ the Toblakai said in a growl.
‘Fine,’ she said, rising from her chair. ‘I am off to find Taxilian. At least his obdurate obsessions are less infuriating.’
‘Is he your lover now?’
She halted at the doorway. ‘And if he was?’
‘Just as well,’ Karsa said, now glowering down at his patchy armour. ‘1 would break you in two.’
Jealousy to join the host of other madnesses? Spirits below! She turned back to the door. ‘I’d be more inclined towards Senior Assessor. Alas, he has taken vows of celibacy.’
‘The fawning monk is still here?’
‘He is.’
‘You have sordid tastes, witch.’
‘Well,’ she said after a moment, ‘I see no possible way of responding to that comment.’
‘Of course not.’
Lips pressed tight together, Samar Dev left the room.
Karsa Orlong’s mood was foul, but it did not occur to him that it in any way flavoured his conversation with Samar Dev. She was a woman and any exchange of words with a woman was fraught with her torturer’s array of deadly implements, each one hovering at the very edge of a man’s comprehension. Swords were simpler. Even the harried disaster of all-out war was simpler than the briefest, lightest touch of a woman’s attention. What infuriated him was how much he missed that touch. True, there were whores aplenty for the champions awaiting the Emperor. But there was nothing subtle-nothing real-in that.
There must be a middle ground, Karsa told himself. Where the exchange exulted in all the sparks and feints that made things interesting, without putting his dignity at risk. Yet he was realistic enough to hold little hope of ever finding it.
The world was filled with weapons and combat was a way of life. Perhaps the only way of life. He’d bled to whips and words, to punches and glances. He’d been bludgeoned by invisible shields, blindsided by unseen clubs, and had laboured under the chains of his own vows. And as Samar Dev would say, one survives by withstanding this onslaught, this history of the then and the now. To fail was to fall, but falling was not always synonymous with a quick, merciful death. Rather, one could fall into the slow dissolution, losses heaped high, that dragged a mortal to his or her knees. That made them slow slayers of themselves.
He had come to understand his own traps, and, in that sense, he was probably not yet ready to encounter someone else’s, to step awry and discover the shock of pain. Still, the hunger never went away. And this tumult in his soul was wearisome and so a most sordid invitation to a disgruntled mood.
Easily solved by mayhem.
Lacking love, the warrior seeks violence.
Karsa Orlong sneered as he slung the stone sword over his left shoulder and strode out into the corridor. ‘I hear you, Bairoth Gild. You would be my conscience?’ He grunted a laugh. ‘You, who stole my woman.’
Perhaps you have found another, Karsa Orlong.
‘I would break her in two.’
That has not stopped you before.
But no, this was a game. Bairoth Gild’s soul was bound within a sword. These sly words filling Karsa’s skull were his own. Lacking someone else’s attention, he was now digging his own pitfalls. ‘I think I need to kill someone.’
From the corridor to a broader hallway, then on to the colonnaded transept, into a side passage and on to the compound’s north postern gate. Meeting no-one on the way, further befouling Karsa’s mood. The gate was inset with a small guardhouse to its left where the heavy latch release could be found.
The Letherii seated within had time to glance up before the Toblakai’s fist connected solidly with his face. Blood sprayed from a shattered nose and the hapless man sank down into his chair, then slid like a sack of onions to the floor. Stepping over him, Karsa lifted the latch and slid the bronze bar to his left, until its right-hand end cleared the gate itself. The bar dropped down into a wheeled recess with a clunk. Emerging outside once more, Karsa pushed the gate open and, ducking to clear the lintel, stepped out into the street beyond.
There was a flash as some sort of magical ward ignited the moment he crossed the threshold. Fires burgeoned, a whisper of vague pain, then the flames dwindled and vanished. Shaking his head to clear the spell’s metallic reverberation from his mind, he continued on.
A few citizens here and there; only one noted his appearance and that one-eyes widening-quickened his pace and moments later turned a corner and was lost from sight.
Karsa drew a deep breath, then set off for the canal he had seen from the roof of the barracks.
Vast as a river barge, the enormous black-haired woman in mauve silks filled the entrance to the courtyard restaurant, fixed her eyes on Tehol Beddict, then surged forward with the singular intent of a hungry leviathan.
Beside him, Bugg seemed to cringe back in his chair. ‘By the Abyss, Master-’
‘Now now,’ Tehol murmured as the woman drew closer. ‘Pragmatism, dear Bugg, must now be uppermost among your, uh, considerations. Find Huldo and get his lads to drag over that oversized couch from the back of the kitchen. Quick now, Bugg!’
The manservant’s departure was an uncharacteristic bolt.
The woman-sudden centre of attention with most conversations falling away-seemed for all her impressive girth to glide as she moved between the blessedly widely spaced tables, and in her dark violet eyes there gleamed a sultry confidence so at odds with her ungainly proportions that Tehol felt an alarming stir in his groin and sweat prickled in enough manly places to make him shift uneasily in his chair, all thoughts of the meal on the plate before him torn away like so many clothes.
He did not believe it possible that flesh could move in as many directions all at once, every swell beneath the silk seemingly possessed of corporeal independence, yet advancing in a singular chorus of overt sexuality. Her shadow engulfing him, Tehol loosed a small whimper, struggling to drag his eyes up, past the stacked folds of her belly, past the impossibly high, bulging, grainsack-sized breasts-lost for a moment in that depthless cleavage-then, with heroic will, yet higher to the smooth udder beneath her chin; higher still, neck straining, to that so round face with its broad, painted, purple lips-higher-Errant help me-to those delicious, knowing eyes.
‘You disgust me, Tehol.’
‘I-what?’
‘Where’s Bugg with that damned couch?’
Tehol leaned forward, then recoiled again with instinctive self-preservation. ‘Rucket? Is that you?’
‘Quiet, you fool. Do you have any idea how long it took us to perfect this illusion?’
‘B-but-’
‘The best disguise is misdirection.’
‘Misdirection? Oh, why… oh, well of course, when you put it that way. I mean, all the way. Sorry, that just tumbled out. Came out wrong, I mean-’
‘Stop staring at my tits.’
‘I’d be the only one in here not staring,’ he retorted, ‘which would be very suspicious. Besides, who decided on that particular… defiance of the earth’s eternal pull? Probably Ormly-it’s those piggy eyes of his, hinting at perverse fantasies.’
Bugg had arrived with two of Huldo’s servers carrying the couch between them. They set it down then hastily retreated.
Bugg returned to his seat. ‘Rucket,’ he said under his breath, shaking his head, ‘do you not imagine that a woman of your stature would not already be infamous in Letheras?’
‘Not if I never went out, would I? As it turns out, there are plenty of recluses in this city-’
‘Because most of them were the Guild’s illusions-false personalities you could assume when necessity demanded it.’
‘Precisely,’ she said, as if settling the matter.
Which she then did with consummate grace, easing down fluidly into the huge couch, her massive alabaster arms spreading out along the back, which had the effect of hitching her breasts up still further then spreading them like the Gates of the Damned.
Tehol glanced at Bugg. ‘There are certain laws regarding the properties of physical entities, yes? There must be. I’m sure of it.’
‘She is a defiant woman, Master. And please, if you will, adjust your blanket. Yes, there, beneath this blessed table.’
‘Stop that.’
‘Whom or what are you addressing?’ Rucket asked with a leer big enough for two women.
‘Damn you, Rucket, we’d just ordered, you know. Bugg’s purse, or his company’s, that is. And now my appetite… well… it’s-’
‘Shifted?’ she asked, thin perfect brows lifting above those knowing eyes. ‘The problem with men elucidated right there: your inability to indulge in more than one pleasure at any one time.’
‘Which you presently personify with terrible perfection. So, how precise is this illusion of yours? I mean, the couch creaked and everything.’
‘No doubt you’re most eager to explore that weighty question. But first, where’s Huldo with my lunch?’
‘He took one look at you and then went out to hire more cooks.’
She leaned forward and pulled Tehol’s plate closer. ‘This will do. Especially after that cruel attempt at humour, Tehol.’ She began eating with absurd delicacy.
‘There’s no real way in there, is there?’
Morsel of food halted halfway to her open mouth.
Bugg seemed to choke on something.
Tehol wiped sweat from his brow. ‘Errant take me, I’m losing my mind.’
‘You force me,’ Rucket said, ‘to prove to you otherwise.’ The dainty popped into her mouth.
‘You expect me to succumb to an illusion?’
‘Why not? Men do that a thousand times a day.’
‘Without that, the world would grind to a halt.’
‘Yours, maybe.’
‘Speaking of which,’ Bugg interjected hastily, ‘your Guild, Rucket, is about to become bankrupt.’
‘Nonsense. We have more wealth hidden away than the Liberty Consign.’
‘That’s good, because they’re about to discover that most of their unadvertised holdings have been so thoroughly undermined that they’re not only worthless, but fatal liabilities.’
‘We transferred ours beyond the empire, Bugg. Months ago. Once we fully understood what you and Tehol were doing.’
‘Where?’ Bugg asked.
‘Should I tell you?’
‘We’re not going after it,’ Tehol said. ‘Right, Bugg?’
‘Of course not. I just want to be sure it’s, uh, far enough removed.’
Rucket’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you that close?’
Neither man replied.
She looked down at the plate for a moment, then settled back like a human canal lock, her belly re-emerging from the shadows in silky waves. ‘Very well, gentlemen. South Pilott. Far enough away, Bugg?’
‘Just.’
‘That answer makes me nervous.’
‘I am about to default on everything 1 owe,’ Bugg said. ‘This will cause a massive financial cascade that will not spare a single sector of industry, and not just here in Letheras, but across the entire empire and beyond. Once I do it, there will be chaos. Anarchy. People may actually die.’
‘Bugg’s Construction is that big?’
‘Not at all. If it was, we’d have been rounded up long ago. No, there are about two thousand seemingly independent small-and middling-sized holdings, each one perfectly positioned according to Tehol’s diabolical planning to ensure that dread cascade. Bugg’s Construction is but the first gravestone to tip-and it’s a very crowded cemetery.’
‘Your analogy makes me even more nervous.’
‘Your glamour fades a touch when you’re nervous,’ Tehol observed. ‘Please, regain your confidence, Rucket.’
‘Shut your mouth, Tehol.’
‘In any case,’ Bugg resumed, ‘this meeting was to deliver to you and the Guild the final warning before the collapse. Needless to say, I will be hard to track down once it happens.’
Her eyes settled on Tehol. ‘And you, Tehol? Planning on crawling into a hole as well?’
‘I thought we weren’t talking about that any more.’
‘By the Abyss, Master,’ Bugg muttered.
Tehol blinked, first at Bugg, then at Rucket. Then, ‘Oh, Sorry. You meant, um, was I planning on going into hiding, right? Well, I’m undecided. Part of the satisfaction, you see, is in witnessing the mess. Because, regardless of how we’ve