Besides, there is now a champion…’ Triban Gnol fell silent, then shook his head and slowly rose. ‘Come, Sirryn, it is time to tell the Emperor of the war we are now in.’
Outside in the corridor waited seven Letherii mages, called in from the four armies massing just west of Letheras. The Chancellor experienced a moment of regret that Kuru Qan was gone. And Enedictal and Nekal Bara, mages of impressive prowess. These new ones were but pale shadows, mostly supplanted by Hannan Mosag’s Cedance of Tiste Edur. Yet they would be needed, because there weren’t enough K’risnan left. And soon, the Chancellor suspected as he set out for the throne room, the others falling in behind him, soon there would be still fewer K’risnan.
The foreign enemy was deadly. They killed mages as a matter of course. Using explosive incendiaries, grenados. Able to somehow hide from the sorcery seeking them, they sprang deadly ambushes that rarely left behind a corpse of their own.
But the most important detail was one that Triban Gnol would keep from the Emperor. These foreigners were making a point of killing Tiste Edur. So, although Letherii soldiers were assembling to march west against the invaders, the Chancellor had prepared secret instructions to the commanders. He could see a way through all of this. For the Letherii, that is.
‘Have you readied your gear, Sirryn?’ he asked as they approached the throne room doors.
‘Yes,’ the soldier said bemusedly.
‘I need someone I can rely on with the armies, Sirryn, and that someone is you.’
‘Yes, Chancellor!’
Just convey my words to the letter, idiot. ‘Fail me, Sirryn, and do not bother coming back.’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘Get the doors.’
Sirryn rushed ahead.
Inside the throne room was an unexpected, unwelcome surprise. Crouched in a desultory heap of twisted bone and mangled flesh was Hannan Mosag and four of his K’risnan. As emblems of the foul sorcery feeding these Edur, there could be no better image to burn its bitter way into the Chancellor’s brain. His father would have appreciated the scene, would indeed have gathered huge chunks of marble from which he would hack out life-sized likenesses, as if in mimicking reality he could somehow discover what lay beneath it, the turgid currents of soul. A waste of time, as far as Triban Gnol was concerned. Besides, some things should never be revealed.
Hannan Mosag’s deformed face seemed to leer at the Chancellor as he strode past the Ceda and his four Tiste Edur warlocks, but there was fear in the Ceda’s eyes.
Sword-tip skittering on the cracked, scarred and gouged tiles, the Emperor of a Thousand Deaths shifted uneasily on his throne. ‘Chancellor,’ Rhulad rasped, ‘how good of you to come. And Letherii mages, a most impressive if useless gathering.’
Triban Gnol bowed, then said, ‘Allied with Hannan Mosag’s formidable Cedance, sire, our sorcerous prowess should be more than sufficient to rid ourselves of these foreign interlopers.’
Coins clicked on Rhulad’s face as he grimaced. ‘And the mages of the Borthen Brigade, were they sufficient? What of the Brigade itself, Chancellor? They have been mauled! Letherii mages, Letherii soldiers! Tiste Edur! Your foreign interlopers are carving through a damned army!’
‘Unanticipated,’ Triban Gnol murmured, eyes downcast, ‘that the imperial fleets in their search for champions should have so riled a distant empire. As to that empire’s belligerence, well, it seems almost unmatched; indeed, virtually insane, given the distances spanned to prosecute vengeance. Odd, as well, that no formal declaration of war was received-although, of course, it is doubtful our fleets ventured the same preceding the slaughter of that empire’s citizens. Perhaps,’ he added, glancing up, ‘negotiation remains possible. Some form of financial compensation, should we prove able to arrange a truce-’
Hacking laughter from Hannan Mosag. ‘You provincial fool, Gnol. Would that you were even capable of expanding that puny, melodramatic theatre of your mind, then mayhap humility would still that flapping tongue of yours.’
Brows raised, the Chancellor half turned to regard the Ceda. ‘And what secret knowledge of this enemy do you possess? And would you care to enlighten myself and your Emperor?’
‘This is not punitive,’ Hannan Mosag said. ‘Although it might seem that way. Empires get their noses bloodied all the time, and there were enough clashes at sea to deliver the message that this Malazan Empire was not to be trifled with. Our fleets were sent scurrying from their waters-Hanradi Khalag was brutally honest in his assessment. Malazan mages are more than a match for us, and for the Letherii.’
‘If not punitive,’ Triban Gnol asked, ‘then what?’
Hannan Mosag faced the Emperor. ‘Sire, my answer is best reserved for you alone.’
Rhulad bared his teeth. ‘I am not deceived by your games, Ceda. Speak.’
‘Sire-’
‘Answer him!’
‘I must not!’
Silence, in which Triban Gnol could hear naught but his own heart, thudding hard against his ribs. Hannan Mosag had made a terrible mistake here, victim of his own self-importance. Seeking to use this information of his as a means to crawl back to the Emperor’s side. But the effort… so clumsy!
‘Tell me,’ Rhulad said in a whisper, ‘why this must be our secret.’
‘Sire, this matter belongs among the Tiste Edur.’
‘Why?’
Ah. Because, dear Emperor, these Mahxzans, they are coining for you. Triban Gnol cleared his throat and clasped his hands together above his robe’s belt. ‘This is unnecessary,’ he said in his smoothest voice. ‘I am not so provincial as Hannan Mosag would like to believe. Emperor, your fleets set out across the world in search of champions, and so indeed they have gathered the best, most capable fighters from a host of peoples. What they could not have anticipated is that an entire empire would proclaim itself a champion. And set itself against you, sire. Our reports have made it clear,’ he added, ‘that the enemy is converging on Letheras, on this very city.’ He regarded Hannan Mosag as he added, ‘They are-and yes, Ceda, I see the truth plain on your face-they are coming for the Emperor of a Thousand Deaths. Alas, I do not expect they will elect to challenge him one soldier at a time.’
Rhulad seemed to have shrunk back into the throne. His red-shot eyes were wide with terror. ‘They must be stopped,’ he said in a trembling hiss. ‘You will stop them. You, Hannan Mosag! And you, Chancellor! Our armies must stop them!’
‘And so we shall,’ Triban Gnol said, bowing again, before straightening and glancing across at the Ceda. ‘Hannan Mosag, for all of our… disputes, do not for a moment fear that we Letherii will abandon our Emperor to these foreign dogs. We must unite, you and I, and bring all that we have together, and so annihilate these Malazans. Such audacity must be punished, thoroughly. Truly united, the Tiste Edur and the Letherii cannot be defeated.’
‘Yes,’ said Rhulad. ‘That is true. Array the armies in an unbroken line outside the city-it is clear, isn’t it, that they do not have the numbers to challenge such a thing?’
‘Sire,’ Triban Gnol ventured, ‘perhaps it would be best to advance a little distance nonetheless. Westward. In that way we can, if need be, assemble our reserves in case there is a breach. Two lines of defence, sire, to make certain.’
‘Yes,’ Rhulad said, ‘those tactics are sound. How far away are these Malazans? How long do we have?’
‘Weeks,’ Triban Gnol said.
‘Good. That is well. Yes, we must do that. All of that, as you say. Ceda! You will second yourself and your K’risnan to the Chancellor-’
‘Sire, he is no military commander-’
‘Quiet! You have heard my will, Hannan Mosag. Defy me again and I will have you flailed.’
Hannan Mosag did not quail at the threat. Why would he in that destroyed body? Clearly, the Ceda,.once Warlock King, was familiar with agony; indeed, at times it seemed the deadly magic that poured through him transformed pain into ecstasy, lighting Hannan Mosag’s eyes with fervent fire.
Triban Gnol said to the Emperor, ‘Sire, we shall protect you.’ He hesitated, just long enough, then half raised a hand as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘Emperor, I wonder, perhaps it would be best to begin the Challenges? Soon? Their presence is a distraction, an irritant for my guards. There have been incidents of violence, a growing impatience.’ He paused again, two heartbeats, then said in a lower tone: ‘Speculation, sire, that you fear to face them…’
Hannan Mosag’s sneer produced a bestial growl. ‘You pathetic creature, Gnol-’
‘Not another word, Ceda!’ Rhulad hissed. Spasms rippled across the Emperor’s mottled face. The sword skittered again.
Yes, Rhulad, you understand what it is to fear death more than any of us. Perhaps more than any mortal creature this world has seen. But you flinch not from some vague notion of oblivion, do you? No, for you, dear Emperor, death is something different. Never an end, only that which precedes yet another pain-filled rebirth. Even in death you cannot lose yourself, cannot escape-does anyone else here, apart from me, truly grasp the sheer horror of that?
‘The Challenges,’ said the Emperor, ‘will begin in four days. Chancellor, have your assessors agreed on an order?’
‘Yes, sire. Three of the least skilled to begin. It is likely you will kill all three in a single day. They will tax you, of that we can be sure, but not unduly so. The second day is reserved for one champion. A masked woman. Exceptional speed but perhaps lacking imagination. Yet she will be difficult.’
‘Good.’
‘Sire…’
‘Yes? What is it?’
‘There are the two we have spoken of before. The Tarthenal with the flint sword. Undefeated by any other champion-in fact, no-one dares spar with him any more. He has the habit of breaking bones.’
‘Yes. The arrogant one.’ Rhulad smiled. ‘But I have faced Tarthenal before.’
‘But not one with Karsa Orlong’s prowess, sire.’
‘No matter, that.’
‘He may succeed in killing you, sire. Perhaps more than once. Not seven. Such days are long past. But, perhaps, three or four. We have allotted three days.’
‘Following the masked woman?’
‘No, there are six others to span two days.’
Hannan Mosag was staring at the Chancellor now. ‘Three days for this Tarthenal? No champion has yet been accorded three days.’
‘Nonetheless, my assessors were unanimous, Ceda. This one is… unique.’
Rhulad was trembling once more. Slain by Karsa Orlong three, four times. Yes, sire, the sheer horror of that…
‘There remains one more,’ the Emperor said.
‘Yes. The one named Icarium. He will be the last. If not the eighth day, then the ninth.’
‘And the number of days with him, Chancellor?’
‘Unknown, sire. He does not spar.’
‘Then how do we know he can fight?’
Triban Gnol bowed again. ‘Sire, we have discussed this before. The report of Varat Taun, corroborated by Icarium’s companion, Taralack Veed. And now, I learned today, something new. Something most extraordinary.’
‘What? Tell me!’
‘Among the rejected champions, sire, a monk from a distant archipelago. It would appear, sire, that this monk-and indeed all of his people-worship a single god. And this god is none other than Icarium.’
Rhulad flinched as if struck across the face. The sword’s point leapt up from the floor, then cracked down again. Marble chips clattered down the dais step. ‘I am to cross blades with a god?’
The Chancellor shrugged. ‘Do such claims hold veracity, sire? A primitive, ignorant people, these Cabalhii. No doubt seeing in dhenrabi the soul of sea-storms and in crab carapaces the faces of the drowned. I should add, Emperor, that this monk believes his god to be insane, to which the only answer is a painted mask denoting laughter. Savages possess the strangest notions.’
‘A god…’
Triban Gnol risked a glance at Hannan Mosag. The Warlock King’s expression was closed as he studied Rhulad. Something about that awakened a worm of unease in the Chancellor’s gut.
‘I shall slay a god…’
‘There is no reason to believe otherwise,’ Triban Gnol said in a calm, confident voice. ‘It will serve timely, sire, in pronouncing your own godhood.’
Rhulad’s eyes widened.
‘Immortality,’ the Chancellor murmured, ‘already well established. Worshipped? Oh yes, by every citizen of this empire. Too modest, oh yes, to make the pronouncement of what is obvious to us all. But, when you stand over Icarium’s destroyed corpse, well, that will be pronouncement enough, I should imagine.’
‘Godhood. A god.’
‘Yes, sire. Most assuredly. I have instructed the guild of sculptors, and their finest artists have already begun work.
We shall announce the end of the Challenge in a most appropriate, a most glorious, manner.’
‘You are wise indeed,’ Rhulad said, slowly leaning back. ‘Yes, wise.’
Triban Gnol bowed, ignoring the sour grunt from Hannan Mosag. Oh, Ceda, you are mine now, and I shall use you. You and your foul Edur. Oh yes. His eyes focused on his hands, folded so serenely where they rested on the clasp of his belt. ‘Sire, orders must be delivered to our armies. The Ceda and I must discuss the disposition, of mages and K’risnan.’
‘Yes, of course. Leave me, all of you. Attend to your tasks.’
Gesturing behind him, Triban Gnol backed away, head still lowered, eyes now on the floor with its chips of marble and streaks of dust.
He could hear Hannan Mosag and his collection of freaks dragging their way towards the doors, like gigantic migrating toads. The simile brought a faint smile to his lips.,
Out in the corridor, the doors shutting behind them, Triban Gnol turned to study Hannan Mosag. But the Ceda was continuing on, toads crowding his wake.
‘Hannan Mosag,’ the Chancellor called out. ‘You and I have-’
‘Save your crap for Rhulad,’ the Ceda snapped.
‘He will be displeased to hear of your lack of co-operation.’
‘Flap away with that tongue of yours, Gnol. The displeasures yet to come will overwhelm your pathetic bleatings, 1 am sure.’
‘What do you mean?’
But Hannan Mosag did not answer.
Triban Gnol watched as they plunged into a side passage and were gone from sight. Yes, I will deal with you, Ceda, with great satisfaction. ‘Sirryn, assemble your entourage in the compound and be on your way within the bell. And take these mages with you.’
‘Yes sir.’
The Chancellor remained where he was until they too were gone, then he set off for his office, well pleased. That worm of unease was, however, reluctant to cease its gnawing deep inside him. He would have to think on that-too dangerous to just ignore such instincts, after all. But not right now. It was important to reward oneself, promptly, and so he released that flow of satisfaction. Everything was proceeding nicely-that detail about the Emperor himself being the final target of these foreigners simply sweetened the scenario. The Tiste Edur would of course stand to defend their Emperor-they would, certainly.
Yet, Rhulad’s own brothers, the day of the accession. The worm writhed, forcing a twitch to his face, and he quickened his pace, eager for the sanctuary of his office.
Only to discover it occupied.
Triban Gnol stood in the doorway, surprised and discomfited by the sight of the man standing to one side of the huge desk. The crimson silks, the onyx rings, that damned sceptre of office tapping rhythmically on one rounded shoulder. ‘What in the Errant’s name are you doing here, Invigilator?’
Karos Invictad sighed. ‘I share your displeasure, Chancellor.’
Triban Gnol entered the room, walked round his desk and sat. ‘I am in the habit of assuming that your control of the city is well in hand-’
‘Where is Bruthen Trana?’
The Chancellor pursed his lips. ‘I haven’t the time for this. Put your panic to rest-Bruthen Trana is no longer in Letheras.’
‘Then where has he gone? What road? How long ago? What is the size of his escort?’
Sighing, Triban Gnol leaned back, eyes settling on his hands where they rested palms down on the desktop. ‘Your need for vengeance, Invigilator, is compromising your responsibilities in maintaining order. You must step back, draw a few deep breaths-’
The sceptre cracked down on the desktop, directly between the Chancellor’s hands. Triban Gnol lurched back in alarm.
Karos Invictad leaned far forward, seeking an imposing, threatening posture that, alas, failed. The man was, simply put, too small. Sweat glistened on his brow, beads glinting from his nose and to either side of that too-full mouth. ‘You patronizing piece of shit,’ the Invigilator whispered. ‘I was given leave to hunt down Tiste Edur. I was given leave to make arrests. I wanted that K’risnan who accompanied Bruthen Trana, only to find him beyond my reach because of Hannan Mosag and this damned invasion from the west, Fine. He can wait until the trouble passes. But Bruthen Trana… no, I will not put that aside. I want him. I want him!’
‘He has been whisked away, Invigilator, and no, we have no information on when, or which road or ship he set out on. He is gone. Will he return? I imagine he will, and when that time comes, of course he is yours. In the meantime, Karos, we are faced with far more important concerns. I have four armies massing west of the city for which wages are now two weeks overdue. Why? Because the treasury is experiencing a shortage of coin. Even as you and your favourite agents line the walls of your new estates with stolen loot, even as you assume control of one confiscated enterprise after another. Tell me, Invigilator, how fares the treasury of the Patriotists these days? Minus the loot?’ The Chancellor then rose from his chair, making full use of his superior height and seeing with grim pleasure the small man step back. It was now Triban Gnol’s turn to lean across the desk. ‘We have a crisis! The threat of financial ruin looms over us all-and you stand here fretting over one Tiste Edur barbarian!’ He made a show of struggling to master his fury, then added, ‘I have received increasingly desperate missives from the Liberty Consign, from Rautos Hivanar himself-the wealthiest man in the empire. Missives, Invigilator, imploring me to summon you-so be it, here you are, and you will answer my questions! And if those answers do not satisfy me, I assure you they will not satisfy Rautos Hivanar!’
Karos Invictad sneered. ‘Hivanar. The old fool has gone senile. Obsessing over a handful of artifacts dug up from the river bank. Have you seen him of late? He has lost so much weight his skin hangs like drapery on his bones.’
‘Perhaps you are the source of his stress, Invigilator-’
‘Hardly.’
‘Rautos has indicated you have been… excessive, in your use of his resources. He begins to suspect you are using his coin for the payroll of the entire Patriotist organization.’
‘I am and will continue to do so. In pursuit of the conspirators.’ Karos smiled. ‘Chancellor, your opinion that Rautos Hivanar is the wealthiest man in the empire is, alas, in error. At least, if it was once so, it is no longer.’
Triban Gnol stared at the man. At his flushed, triumphant expression. ‘Explain yourself, Karos Invictad.’
At the beginning of this investigation, Chancellor, I perceived the essential weakness in our position. Rautos Hivanar himself. As leader of the Liberty Consign. And, by extension, the Consign itself was, as an organization, inherently flawed. We were faced with a looming collision, one that I could not will myself blind to, and accordingly it was incumbent on me to rectify the situation as quickly as possible. You see, the power lay with me, but the wealth resided in the clutches of Hivanar and his Consign. This was unacceptable. In order to meet the threat of the conspirators-or, as I now see, conspirator-yes, there is but one-in order to meet his threat, I needed to attack from a consolidated position.’
Triban Gnol stared, disbelieving even as he began to comprehend the direction of the Invigilator’s pompous, megalomaniacal monologue.
‘The sweetest irony is,’ Karos Invictad continued, sceptre once more tapping a beat on his shoulder, ‘that lone criminal and his pathetically simplistic efforts at financial sabotage provided me with the greatest inspiration. It was not difficult, for one of my intelligence, to advance and indeed to elaborate on that theme of seeming destabiliz’ ation. Of course, the only people being destabilized were Rautos Hivanar and his fellow bloated blue-bloods, and was I supposed to be sympathetic? I, Karos Invictad, born to a] family crushed by murderous debt? I, who struggled, using every talent I possessed to finally rid myself of that inherited misery-no,’ he laughed softly, ‘there was no sympathy in my heart. Only bright revelation, brilliant inspiration-do you know who was my greatest idol when I fought my war against Indebtedness? Tehol Beddict. Recall him? Who could not lose, whose wealth shot skyward with such stunning speed, achieving such extraordinary height, before flashing out like a spent star in the night sky. Oh, he liked his games, didn’t he? Yet, a lesson there, and one I heeded well. Such genius, sparking too hot, too soon, left; him a gutted shell. And that, Chancellor, I would not emulate.’
‘You,’ Triban Gnol said, ‘are the true source of this empire-wide sabotage.’
‘Who better positioned? Oh, I will grant you, my fellow conspirator has displayed increasingly impressive devious-ness of late. And there is no doubt that I could not have achieved quite the level of success as I have without him or her. Triban Gnol, standing before you at this moment is the wealthiest man ever to have lived in Lether. Yes, appalling stacks of coin have indeed vanished. Yes, the strain has sent fatal fissures through every merchant house in the empire. And yes, many great families are about to fall and nothing can save them, even were I so inclined. Which I am not. Thus.’ The sceptre settled motionless onto that shoulder. ‘I am both the power and the wealth, and I am poised to save this empire from financial ruin-should I so choose.’
The Chancellor’s hands, there on the desktop, had gone white, the veins and arteries prominent in their sickly blue and green hues. The hands-his hands-felt cold as death. ‘What do you want, Karos Invictad?’
‘Oh, I mostly have it already, Chancellor. Including, I am pleased to see, your fullest understanding of the situation. As it stands now. As it will stand in the future.’
‘You seem to forget there is a war on.’
‘There always is. Opportunities for yet more profit and power. In the next week or two, Chancellor, I will become more famous, more beloved, more powerful than even you could imagine, or, should I say, fear.’ His smile broadened. ‘I assume it’s fear, but relax, Chancellor, I do not have you next on my list. Your position is secure, and, once these damned Tiste Edur are taken care of, including the Emperor, it shall be you and I in control of this empire. No, you will see plain enough, as will everyone else. The saboteur arrested. The coins recovered. The invaders bought off. The Liberty Consign obliterated and the Patriotists dominant. You see, my agents will control the internal matters, while you will possess the armies-well-paid armies, I assure you-and absolute mastery of the palace.’
‘What?’ Triban Gnol asked dryly. ‘You do not seek the throne for yourself?’
The sceptre waved dismissively. ‘Not in the least. Throw a fop on it if you feel the need. Or better still, salute the legend and leave it empty.’
Triban Gnol folded his hands together. ‘You are about to arrest your conspirator?’
‘I am.’
‘And my armies?’
‘They will be paid. At once.’
The Chancellor nodded. ‘Invigilator,’ he then said, with a slight frown as he studied his hands, ‘I have heard disturbing reports…’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. It seems that, in a manner distressingly similar to Rautos Hivanar, you too have succumbed to a peculiar obsession.’ He glanced up searchingly, innocently. ‘Something about a puzzle?’
‘Who has told you that?’
The Chancellor shrugged.
After a moment the flush in Invictad’s round face faded to blotches on the cheeks, and the man shrugged. ‘An idle pursuit. Amusing. A quaint challenge which I will solve in a few days. Unlike Rautos Hivanar, you see, I have found that this puzzle has in fact sharpened my mind. The world has never been clearer to my eyes. Never as clean, as precise, as perfect. That puzzle, Chancellor, has become my inspiration.’
‘Indeed. Yet it haunts you-you cry out in your sleep-’
‘Lies! Someone mocks you with such untruths, Triban Gnol! I have come here, have I not, to inform you of the impending triumph of my plans. Every detail coming to fullest fruition. This effort of yours now, pathetically trans-parent as it is, is entirely unnecessary. As I told you, your position is secure. You are, and will remain, entirely essential.’
‘As you say, Invigilator.’
Karos Invictad turned to leave. ‘As soon as you learn of Bruthen Trana’s return…’
‘You shall be informed at once.’
‘Excellent. I am pleased.’ He paused at the door but did not turn round. ‘Regarding that K’risnan under the Ceda’s protection…’
‘I am sure something can be arranged.’
‘I am doubly pleased, Chancellor. Now, fare you well.’
The door closed. The odious, insane creature was gone.
Odious and insane, yes, but… now the wealthiest man in the empire. He would have to play this carefully, very carefully indeed. Yet Karos Invictad has revealed his own flaw. Too eager to gloat and too ready to give in to that eagerness. All too soon.
The Emperor of a Thousand Deaths remains on the throne.
A foreign army uninterested in negotiation approaches.
A champion who is a god will soon draw his sword.
Karos Invictad has the hands of a child. A vicious child, crooning as he watches them pull out the entrails of his still-alive pet cat. Or dog. Or abject prisoner in one of his cells. A child, yes, but one unleashed, free to do and be as he pleases.
By the Errant, children are such monsters.
Tonight, the Chancellor realized, he would summon a child for himself. For his own pleasure. And he would destroy that child, as only an adult with beautiful hands could. Destroy it utterly.
It was the only thing one could do with monsters.
The one-eyed god standing unseen in the throne room was furious. Ignorance was ever the enemy, and the Errant understood that he was under assault. By Chancellor Triban Gnol. By Hannan Mosag. The clash of these two forces of the empire was something that the Emperor on his throne barely sensed-the Errant was sure of that. Rhulad was trapped in his own cage of emotions, terror wielding all its instruments of torture, poking, jabbing, twisting deep. Yet the Errant had witnessed with clear eyes-no, a clear eye-in the fraught audience now past, just how vicious this battle was becoming.
But 1 cannot fathom their secrets. Neither Triban Gnol’s nor Hannan Mosag’s. This is my realm. Mine!
He might renew one old path. The one leading into the Chancellor’s bedroom. But even then, when that relationship had been in fullest bloom, Triban Gnol held to his secrets. Sinking into his various personas of innocent victim and wide-eyed child, he had become little more than a simpleton when with the Errant-with Turudal Brizad, the Consort to the Queen, who never grew old-and would not be moved from the games he so needed. No, that would not work, because it never had.
Was there any other way to the Chancellor?
Even now, Triban Gnol was a godless creature. Not one to bend knee to the Errant. So that path, too, was closed. I could simply follow him. Everywhere. Piece together his scheme by listening to the orders he delivers, by reading the missives he despatches. By hoping he talks in his sleep. Abyss below!
Furious, indeed. At his own growing panic as the convergence drew ever closer. His knowledge was no better when it came to Hannan Mosag, although some details were beyond dissembling. The power of the Crippled God, for one. Yet even there, the Warlock King was no simple servant, no mindless slave to that chaotic promise. He had sought the sword now in Rhulad’s hands, after all. As with any other god, the Fallen One played no favourites. First to arrive at the altar… No, Hannan Mosag would hold to no delusions there.
The Errant glanced once more at Rhulad, this Emperor of a Thousand Deaths. The fool, for all his bulk, now sat on that throne in painful insignificance-so obvious it hurt to just look at him. Alone in this vast domed chamber, the thousand deaths refracted into ten thousand flinches in those glittering eyes.
The Chancellor and his retinue were gone. The Ceda away with his broken handful as well. Not a guard in sight, yet Rhulad remained. Sitting, burnished coins gleaming. And on his face all that had been private, unrevealed, was now loosed in expressive array. All the pathos, the abject hauntings-the Errant had seen, had always seen, in face after face spanning too many years to count, the divide of the soul, the difference between the face that knew it was being watched, and the face that believed in its solitude. Bifurcation. And he had witnessed when inside crawled outside to a seemingly unseeing world.
Divided soul. Yours, Rhulad, has been cut in two. By that sword, by the spilled blood between you and each of your brothers, between you and your parents. Between you and your kind. What would you give me, Rhulad Sengar of the Hiroth Tiste Edur, to be healed?
Assuming I could manage such a thing, of course. Which I cannot.
But it was clear to the Errant now that Rhulad had begun to understand one thing at least. The fast approach of convergence, the dread gathering and inevitable clash of powers. Perhaps the Crippled God had been whispering in his sword-bearer’s ear. Or perhaps Rhulad was not quite the fool most believed him to be. Even me, on occasion-and who am I to sneer in contempt? A damned Letherii witch swallowed one of my eyes!
The growing fear was undisguised in the Emperor’s face. Coins bedded in burnt skin. Mottled pocking where the coins were gone. Brutal wealth and wounded penury, two sides of yet another curse to plague this modern age. Yes, divide humanity’s soul. Into the haves, the have’nots. Rhulad, you are in truth a living symbol. But that is a weight no-one can bear for very long. You see the end coming. Or, many endings, and yes, one of them is yours.
Shall it be this foreign army that has, in Triban Gnol’s clever words, proclaimed itself a champion?
Shall it be Icarium, Stealer of Life? The Wanderer through Time?
Or something far more sordid-some perfect ambush by Hannan Mosag; or one final betrayal to annihilate you utterly, as would one committed by your Chancellor?
And why do I believe the answer will be none of those? Not one. Not a single thing so… so direct. So obvious.
And when will this blood stop seeping from this socket? When will these crimson tears end?
The Errant melted into the wall behind him. He’d had enough of Rhulad’s private face. Too much, he suspected, like his own. Imagined unwatched-but am I too being watched? Whose cold gaze is fixed on me, calculating meanings, measuring weaknesses?
Yes, see where I weep, see what I weep.
And yes, this was all by a mortal’s hand.
He moved quickly, unmindful of barriers of mortar and stone, of tapestry and wardrobe, of tiled floors and ceiling beams. Through darkness and light and shadows in all their flavours, into the sunken tunnels, where he walked through ankle-deep water without parting its murky surface.
Into her cherished room.
She had brought stones to build platforms and walkways, creating a series of bridges and islands over the shallow lake that now flooded the chamber. Oil lamps painted ripples and the Errant stood, taking form once more opposite the misshapen altar she had erected, its battered top crowded with bizarre votive offerings, items of binding and investiture, reliquaries assembled to give new shape to the god’s worship. To the worship of me. The gnostic chthonic nightmare might have amused the Errant once, long ago. But now he could feel his face twisting in disdain.
She spoke from the gloomy corner to his left. ‘Everything is perfect, Immortal One.’
Solitude and insanity, most natural bedmates. ‘Nothing is perfect, Feather Witch. Look, all around you in this place-is it not obvious? We are in the throes of dissolution-’
‘The river is high,’ she said dismissively. ‘A third of the tunnels I used to wander are now under water. But I saved all the old books and scrolls and tablets. I saved them all.’
Under water. Something about that disturbed him-not the obvious thing, the dissolution he had spoken of, but… something else.
‘The names,’ she said. ‘To release. To bind. Oh, we shall have many servants, Immortal One. Many.’
‘I have seen,’ the god said, ‘the fissures in the ice. The meltwater. The failing prison of that vast demon of the sea. We cannot hope to enslave such a creature. When it breaks free, there will be devastation. Unless, of course, the Jaghut returns-to effect repairs on her ritual. In any case-and fortunately for everyone-I do not believe that Mael will permit it to get even that far-to escape.’
‘You must stop him!’ Feather Witch said in a hiss.
‘Why?’
‘Because I want that demon!’
‘I told you, we cannot hope to-’
‘I can! I know the names! All of the names!’
He stared across at her. ‘You seek an entire pantheon, Feather Witch? Is one god under your heel not enough?’
She laughed, and he heard something splash in the water near her. ‘The sea remembers. In every wave, every current. The sea, Immortal One, remembers the shore.’
‘What-what does that mean?’
Feather Witch laughed again. ‘Everything is perfect. Tonight, I will visit Udinaas. In his dreams. By morning he will be mine. Ours.’
‘This web you cast,’ the Errant said, ‘it is too thin, too weak. You have stretched it beyond all resilience, and it will snap, Feather Witch.’
‘I know how to use your power,’ she replied. ‘Better than you do. Because us mortals understand certain things far better than you and your kind.’
‘Such as?’ the Errant asked, amused.
‘The fact that worship is a weapon, for one.’
At those dry words, chill seeped through the god.
Ah, poor Udinaas.
‘Now go,’ she said. ‘You know what must be done.’
Did he? Well… yes. A nudge. What I do best.
The sceptre cracked hard against the side of Tanal Yathvanar’s head, exploding stars behind his eyes, and he staggered, then sank down onto one knee, as the blood began flowing. Above him, Karos Invictad said in a conversational tone: ‘I advise you, next time you are tempted to inform on my activities to one of the Chancellor’s agents, to reconsider. Because the next time, Tanal, I will see you killed. In a most unpleasant fashion.’
Tanal watched the blood fall in elongated droplets, spattering on the dusty floor. His temple throbbed, and his probing fingers found a flap of mangled skin hanging down almost to his cheek. His eye on that side ebbed in and out of focus in time with the throbbing. He felt exposed, vulnerable. He felt like a child among cold-faced adults. Invigilator,’ he said in a shaky voice, ‘I have told no-one anything.’
‘Lie again and I will dispense with mercy. Lie again and the breath you use to utter it will be your last.’
Tanal licked his lips. What could he do? ‘I’m sorry, Invigilator. Never again. I swear it.’
‘Get out, and send for a servant to clean up the mess you’ve left in my office.’
Nauseated, his throat tightening against an eager upswell of vomit, Tanal Yathvanar hurried out in a half-crouch.
I’ve done nothing. Nothing to deserve this. Invictad’s paranoia has driven him into the abyss of madness. Even as his power grows. Imagine, threatening to sweep away the Chancellor’s own life, in Trihan Gnol’s own office! Of course, that had been but the Invigilator’s version of what had transpired. But Tanal had seen the bright gleam in Invictad’s eyes, fresh from the glory of his visit to the Eternal Domicile.
It had all gone too far. All of it.
Head spinning, Tanal set out to find a healer. There was much still to do this day. An arrest to be made, and, split-open skull or no, Karos Invictad’s precise schedule had to be kept. This was to be a triumphant day. For the Patriotists. For the great Letherii Empire.
It would ease the pressure, the ever-tightening straits that gripped the people-and not just here in Letheras, but across the entire empire. Too many fraught rumours, of battles and defeats suffered. The strictures of not enough hard coin, the strange disappearance of unskilled labour, the tales of once-secure families falling into Indebtedness. The whisper of huge financial holdings tottering like trees with rotted roots. Heroic victories were needed, and this day would mark one. Karos Invictad had found the greatest traitor ever, and he, Tanal Yathvanar, would make the arrest. And they will hear that detail. My name, central to all that will happen this day. I intend to make certain of it.
Karos Invictad was not the only man skilled at reaping glory.
Ancient cities possessed many secrets. The average citizen was born, lived, and died in the fugue of vast ignorance. The Errant knew he had well learned his contempt for humanity, for the dross of mortal existence that called blindness vision, ignorance comprehension, and delusion faith. He had seen often enough the wilful truncation people undertook upon leaving childhood (and the wonder of its endless possibilities), as if to exist demanded the sacrifice of both unfettered dreams and the fearless ambition needed to achieve them. As if those self-imposed limitations used to justify failure were virtues, to add to those of pious self-righteousness and the condescension of the flagellant.
Oh, but look at himself, here and now, look at what he was about to do. The city’s ancient secrets made into things to be used, and used to achieve cruel ends. Yet was he not a god? Was this not his realm? If all that existed was not open to use and, indeed, abuse, then what was its purpose?
He walked through the ghostly walls, the submerged levels, acknowledging a vague awareness of hidden, mostly obscured patterns, structures, the array of things that held significance, although such comprehension was not for him, not for his cast of mind, but something alien, something long lost to the dead ages of the distant past.
No end to manifestations, however, few of which captured the awareness of the mortals he now walked among-walked unseen, less than a chill draught against the neck-and the Errant continued on, observing such details as snared his attention.
Finding the place he sought, he halted. Before him stood the walls of an estate. None other than the one that had belonged to the late Gerun Eberict. It stood abandoned, ownership mired in a legal tangle of claims that had stretched on and on. Gerun Eberict had, it seemed, taken all his wealth with him, a detail that amused the Errant no end.
The huge main building’s footprint cut across the unremarked lines of an older structure that had once stood bordered on three sides by open water: two cut channels and a stream born of deep artesian wells filled with cold black water beneath a vast shelf of limestone that itself lay below a thick layer of silts, sand lenses and beds of clay. There had been significance to these channels, and to the fact that the fourth side had possessed, beneath what passed for a street seven thousand years ago, a buried tunnel of fire-hardened clay. In this tunnel, kept distinct from all other local sources, there had flowed water from the depths of the river. Thus, all four sides, the precious lifeblood of the Elder God who had been worshipped in the temple that had once squatted in this place.
Eberict should have been mindful of that detail, in which a hired seer might well have discerned Gerun’s eventual demise at the blunt hands of a half-breed giant. It was no accident, after all, that those of Tarthenal blood were so drawn to Mael, even now-some whispering of instinct of that first alliance, forged on the water, between Imass and Tarthenal-or Toblakai, to use their true name. Before the Great Landings that brought the last of the giants who had chosen to remain pure of blood to this and other shores, where the first founders would become the vicious, spiteful gods of the Tarthenal.
But it was not just Gerun Eberict and the countless other citizens of Letheras who dwelt here who were unmindful-or, perhaps, forgetful-of the ancient significance of all that had been swept clean from the surface in this city.
The Errant moved forward. Through the estate’s outer wall. Then down, through the cobbles of the compound, sliding ghostly past the rubble and sand of fill, down into the foul, motionless air of the clay-lined tunnel. Knee-deep in thick, soupy water.
He faced the inner sloping wall of the tunnel, gauging his position relative to whatever remnants of the old temple remained beyond. And strode forward.
Shattered stone, jammed and packed tight, stained black by the thick, airless clays now filling every space. Evidence of fire in the burst cracks of foundation blocks. Remnants of ore-laden paints still clinging to fragments of plaster. Ubiquitous pieces of pottery, shapeless clumps of green copper, the mangled black knuckles of silver, the defiant gleam of red-tinged gold-all that remained of past complexities of mortal life, reminders of hands that had once touched, shaped, pressed tips to indent and nails to incise, brushed glaze and paint and dust from chipped rims; hands that left nothing behind but these objects poignant with failure.
Disgusted, nauseated, the god pushed his way through the detritus, and clawed his way clear: a steeply angled space, created by the partially collapsed inner wall. Blue tesserae to paint an image of unbroken sea, but various pieces had fallen away, revealing grey plaster still bearing the grooved patterns left by the undersides of the minute cut tiles. In this cramped space the Errant crouched, gasping. Time told no bright tales. No, time delivered its mute message of dissolution with unrelieved monotony.
By the Abyss, such crushing weight!
The Errant drew a deep breath of the stale, dead air. Then another.
And sensed, not far away, the faint whisper of power. Residual, so meagre as to be meaningless, yet it started the god’s heart pounding hard in his chest. The sanctification remained. No desecration, making what he sought that much simpler. Relieved at the thought of being quickly done with this ghastly place, the Errant set out towards that power.
The altar was beneath a mass of rubble, the limestone wreckage so packed down that it must have come from a collapsing ceiling, the huge weight slamming down hard enough to shatter the stones of the floor beneath that runnelled block of sacred stone. Even better. And… yes, bone dry. He could murmur a thousand nudges into that surrounding matrix. Ten thousand.
Edging closer, the Errant reached down and settled one hand on the altar. He could not feel those runnels, could not feel the water-worn basalt, could not feel the deep-cut channels that had once vented living blood into the salty streams filling the runnels. Ah, we were thirsty in those days, weren’t we?
He awakened his own power-as much as she would give him, and for this task it was more than enough.
The Errant began weaving a ritual.
Advocate Sleem was a tallj thin man. Covering most of his forehead and spreading down onto his left cheek, reaching the line of the jaw, was a skin ailment that created a cracked scale pattern reminiscent of the bellies of newly hatched alligators. There were ointments that could heal this condition, but it was clear that the legendary advocate of Letherii law in fact cultivated this reptilian dermatosis, which so cleverly complemented both his reputation and his cold, lifeless eyes.
He stood now in Bugg’s office, hunched at the shoulders as if to make himself even narrower, and the high collar of his dark green cloak flared out like a snake’s hood behind his elongated, small-eared and hairless head. His regard was languid in that lifeless way of his as he studied Bugg. ‘Did I hear you correctly?’ the advocate asked in a voice that he tried hard to make sibilant, but which instead came out awkward and wavering. The effect, Bugg realized with a faint start, precisely matched what he would imagine a snake would sound like with words emerging from a lip-less mouth. Although, he added to himself, the specific question hardly seemed one he would expect a snake to utter. Snakes don’t ask for clarification.
Do they?
‘You wear a most odd expression,’ Sleem said after a moment. ‘Did my inability to understand you leave you confused, Master Bugg?’
‘Did you truly misunderstand?’
‘That is why I sought reiteration.’
‘Ah. Well, what did you think you heard?’
The eyes blinked. ‘Have we truly uttered all these words to return to my original query?’
‘I invite you to use some more, Sleem.’
‘Rather than simply repeating yourself.’
‘I hate repeating myself.’
Advocate Sleem, Bugg knew, despised discombobu-lation, although that was in all probability not even a word.
‘Master Bugg, as you know, I despise discombobulation.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘You should be, since I charge by the word.’
‘Both our words, or just yours?’
‘It is a little late to ask that now, isn’t it?’ Sleem’s folded hands did something sinuous and vaguely disreputable. ‘You have instructed me, if I understand you correctly-and correct me if I am in error-you have instructed me, then, to approach your financier to request yet another loan with the stated intention to use it to pay a portion of the interest on the previous loan, which if I recall accurately, and I do, was intended to address in part the interest on yet another loan. This leads me to wonder, since I am not your only advocate, just how many loans you have arranged to pay interest on yet other loans?’
‘Well, that was expensive.’
‘I become loquacious when I get nervous, Master Bugg.’
‘Dealing with you gets more costly when you’re nervous? That, Sleem, is really quite clever.’
‘Yes, I am. Will you now answer my question?’
‘Since you insist. There are perhaps forty loans outstanding with respect to addressing interest payments on still other loans.’
The advocate licked suitably dry lips. ‘It was reasons of courtesy and respect, Master Bugg-and, I now see, certain misapprehensions as to your solvency-that encouraged me to refrain from asking for payment up front-for my services, that is, which have been substantial. Although not as substantial, proportionately, as I was led to believe.’
‘I don’t recall leading you into any such assumptions, Sleem.’
‘Of course you don’t. They were assumptions.’
‘As an advocate, you might have been expected to make very few assumptions indeed. About anything.’
‘Permit me to be blunt, Master Bugg. Where in this financial scheme of yours is the money you owe me?’
‘Nowhere as of yet, Sleem. Perhaps we should arrange another loan.’
‘This is most distressing,’
‘I am sure it is, but how do you think I feel?’
‘I am resisting asking myself that question, because I fear the answer will be something like: “He feels fine.” Now, were I to cling with great faith to those particular assumptions we spoke of earlier, I would now insist that this next loan be devoted exclusively to addressing my fees. No matter what lies I deliver to your financier. Which returns us, alas, to my original utterance, which was voiced in a tone of abject disbelief. You see, your financiers’ present state of panic is what has brought me here, for they have reached a level of harassment of my office with respect to you, Master Bugg, that has reached absurd proportions. I have had to hire bodyguards, in fact-at your expense. Dare I ask you then, how much money is in your possession?’
‘Right now?’
‘Yes.’
Bugg drew out his tattered leather purse, prised it open and peered inside. Then he looked up. ‘Two docks.’
‘I see. Surely you exaggerate.’
‘Well, I cut a sliver off one of them, to pay for a haircut.’
‘You have no hair.’
‘That’s why it was just a sliver. Nose hairs. Ear hairs, a trim of the eyebrows. It’s important to be presentable.’
‘At your Drowning?’
Bugg laughed. ‘That would be fun.’ Then he grew sober and leaned forward across his desk. ‘You don’t think it will come to that, surely. As your client, I expect a most diligent defence at my trial.’
‘As your advocate, Master Bugg, I will be first in line demanding your blood.’
‘Oh, that’s not very loyal of you.’
‘You have not paid for my loyalty.’
‘But loyalty is not something one pays for, Advocate Sleem.’
‘Had I known that delusions accompanied your now-apparent incompetence, Master Bugg, I would never have agreed to represent you in any matter whatsoever.’
Bugg leaned back. ‘That makes no sense,’ he said. ‘As Tehol Beddict has observed on countless occasions, delusions lie at the very heart of our economic system. Indenture as ethical virtue. Pieces of otherwise useless metal-beyond decoration-as wealth. Servitude as freedom. Debt as ownership. And so on.’
‘Ah, but those stated delusions are essential to my well-being, Master Bugg. Without them my profession would not exist. All of civilization is, in essence, a collection of contracts. Why, the very nature of society is founded upon mutually agreed measures of value.’ He stopped then, and slowly shook his head-a motion alarmingly sinuous. ‘Why am I even discussing this with you? You are clearly insane, and your insanity is about to trigger an avalanche of financial devastation.’
‘I don’t see why, Master Sleem. Unless, of course, your faith in the notion of social contract is nothing more than cynical self-interest.’
‘Of course it is, you fool!’
So much for awkward sibilance.
Sleem’s fingers wriggled like snared, blind and groping worms. ‘Without cynicism,’ he said in a strangled voice, ‘one becomes the system’s victim rather than its master, and I am too clever to be a victim!’
‘Which you must prove to yourself repeatedly in the measuring by your wealth, your ease of life, of the necessary contrast with the victims-a contrast that you must surround yourself with at every moment, as represented by your material excesses.’
‘Wordy, Master Bugg. Smug ostentation will suffice.’
‘Brevity from you, Advocate Sleem?’
‘You get what you pay for.’
‘By that token,’ Bugg observed, ‘I am surprised you’re saying anything at all.’
‘What follows is my gift. I will set forth immediately to inform your financiers that you are in fact broke, and I will in turn offer my services in the feeding frenzy over your material assets.’
‘Generous of you.’
Sleem’s lips disappeared into a bony grimace. One eye twitched. The worms at the ends of his hands had gone white and deathly. ‘In the meantime, I will take those two docks.’
‘Not quite two.’
‘Nonetheless.’
‘I can owe you that missing sliver.’
‘Be certain that I will have it, eventually.’
‘All right.’ Bugg reached into the purse and fished out the two coins. ‘This is a loan, yes?’
‘Against my fees?’
‘Naturally.’
‘I sense you are no longer playing the game, Master Bugg.’
‘Which game would that be?’
‘The one where winners win and losers lose.’
‘Oh, that game. No, I suppose not. Assuming, of course, I ever did.’
‘I have a sudden suspicion-this very real truth behind all the rumours of impending market collapse-it is all your doing, isn’t it?’
‘Hardly. Countless winners jumped in, I assure you. Believing, naturally, that they would win in the end. That’s how these things work. Until they stop working.’ Bugg snapped his fingers. ‘Poof!’
‘Without those contracts, Master Bugg, there will be chaos.’
‘You mean the winners will panic and the losers will launch themselves into their own feeding frenzy. Yes. Chaos.’
‘You are truly insane.’
‘No, just tired. I’ve looked into the eyes of too many losers, Sleem. Far too many.’
‘And your answer is to make losers of us all. To level the playing field? But it won’t do that, you know. You must know that, Bugg. It won’t. Instead, the thugs will find the top of every heap, and instead of debt you will have true slavery; instead of contracts you will have tyranny.’
‘All the masks torn off, yes.’
‘Where is the virtue in that?’
The Elder God shrugged. ‘The perils of unfettered expansion, Advocate Sleem, are revealed in the dust and ashes left behind. Assume the species’ immortality since it suits the game. Every game. But that assumption will not save you in the end. No, in fact, it will probably kill you. That one self-serving, pious, pretentious, arrogant assumption.’
‘The bitter old man speaks.’
‘You have no idea.’
‘Would that I carried a knife. For I would kill you with it, here and now.’
‘Yes. The game always ends at some point, doesn’t it?’
‘And you dare call me the cynical one.’
‘Your cynicism lies in your willing abuse of others to consolidate your superiority over them. My cynicism is in regard to humanity’s wilful blindness with respect to its own extinction.’
‘Without that wilful blindness there is naught but despair.’
‘Oh, I am not that cynical. In fact, I do not agree at all. Maybe when the wilful blindness runs its inevitable course, there will be born wilful wisdom, the revelation of seeing things as they are.’
‘Things? To which things are you referring, old man?’
‘Why, that everything of true value is, in fact, free.’
Sleem placed the coins in his own bulging purse and walked to the door. ‘A very quaint notion. Alas, I will not wish you a good day.’
‘Don’t bother.’
Sleem turned at the hard edge in Bugg’s voice. His brows lifted in curiosity.
Bugg smiled. ‘The sentiment wouldn’t be free now, would it?’
‘No, it would not.’
As soon as die hapless advocate was gone, Bugg rose. Well, it’s begun. Almost to the day when Tehol said it would. The man’s uncanny. And maybe in that, there lies some hope for humanity. All those things that cannot be measured, cannot be quantified in any way at all.
Maybe.
Bugg would have to disappear now. Lest he get torn limb from limb by a murder of advocates, never mind the financiers. And that would be a most unpleasant experience. But first, he needed to warn Tehol.
The Elder God glanced around his office with something like affectionate regret, almost nostalgia. It had been fun, after all. This game. Like most games. He wondered why Tehol had stopped short the first time. But no, perhaps that wasn’t at all baffling. Come face to face with a brutal truth-with any brutal truth-and it was understandable to back away.
As Sleem said, there is no value in despair.
But plenty of despair in value, once the illusion is revealed. Ah, I am indeed tired.;
He set out from his office, to which he would never return.
‘How can there be only four hens left? Yes, Ublala Pung, I am looking directly at you.’
‘For the Errant’s sake,’ Janath sighed, ‘leave the poor man alone. What did you expect to happen, Tehol? They’re hens that no longer lay eggs, making them as scrawny and dry and useless as the gaggle of matronly scholars at my old school. What Ublala did was an act of profound bravery.’
‘Eat my hens? Raw?’
‘At least he plucked their feathers.’
‘Were they dead by that point?’
‘Let’s not discuss those particular details, Tehol. Everyone is permitted one mistake.’
‘My poor pets,’ Tehol moaned, eyeing Ublala Pung’s overstuffed pillow at one end of the reed mat that served as the half-blood Tarthenal’s bed.
‘They were not pets.’
He fixed a narrow gaze on his ex-tutor. ‘I seem to recall you going on and on about the terrors of pragmatism, all through history. Yet what do I now hear from you, Janath? “They were not pets.” A declarative statement uttered in most pragmatic tones. Why, as if by words alone you could cleanse what must have been an incident of brutal avian murder.’
‘Ublala Pung has more stomachs than both you and me combined. They need filling, Tehol.’
‘Oh?’ He placed his hands on his hips-actually to make certain that the pin was holding the blanket in place, recalling with another pang his most public display a week past. ‘Oh?’ he asked again, and then added, And what, precisely and pragmatically, was wrong with my famous Grit Soup?’
‘It was gritty.’
‘Hinting of most subtle flavours as can only be cultivated from diligent collection of floor scrapings, especially a floor pranced upon by hungry hens.’
She stared up at him. ‘You are not serious, are you? That really was grit from the floor? This floor?’
‘Hardly reason for such a shocked expression, Janath. Of course,’ he threw in offhandedly as he walked over to stand next to the blood-splotched pillow, ‘creative cuisine demands a certain delicacy of the palate, a culture of appreciation-’ He kicked at the pillow and it squawked.
Tehol spun round and glared at Ublala Pung, who sat, back to a wall, and now hung his head.
‘I was saving one for later,’ the giant mumbled.
‘Plucked or unplucked?’
‘Well, it’s in there to stay warm.’
Tehol looked over at Janath and nodded, ‘See? Do you see, Janath? Finally see?’
‘See what?’ «
‘The deadly slope of pragmatism, Mistress. The very proof of your arguments all those years ago. Ublala Pung’s history of insensitive rationalizations-if you could call anything going on in that skull rational-leading him-and, dare I add, innumerable unsuspecting hens-into the inevitable, egregious extreme of… of abject nakedness inside a pillow!’
Her brows lifted. ‘Well, that scene last week really scarred you, didn’t it?’
‘Don’t be absurd, Janath.’
Ublala had stuck out his tongue-a huge, pebbled slab of meat-and was trying to study it, his eyes crossing with the effort.
‘What are you doing now?’ Tehol demanded.
The tongue retreated and Ublala blinked a few times to right his eyes. ‘Got cut by a beak,’ he said.
‘You ate their beaks?’
‘Easier to start with the head. They ain’t so restless with no heads.’
‘Really?’
Ublala Pung nodded.
‘And I suppose you consider that merciful?’
‘What?’
‘Of course not,’ Tehol snapped. ‘It’s just pragmatic. “Oh, I’m being eaten. But that’s all right. I have no head!”‘
Ublala frowned at him. ‘Nobody’s eating you, Tehol. And your head’s still there-I can see it.’
‘I was speaking for the hens.’
‘But they don’t speak Letherii.’
‘You are not eating my last four hens.’
‘What about the one in the pillow, Tehol? Do you want it back? Its feathers might grow back, though it might catch a cold or something. I can give it back if you like.’
‘Generous of you, Ublala, but no. Put it out of its misery, but mind the beak. In the meantime, however, I think you need to get yourself organized-you were supposed to leave days ago, after all, weren’t you?’
‘I don’t want to go to the islands,’ Ublala said, dragging a chipped nail through the grit on the floor. ‘I sent word. That’s good enough, isn’t it? I sent word.’
Tehol shrugged. ‘If it’s good enough, it’s good enough. Right, Janath? By all means, stay with us, but you have to set out now to find food. For all of us. A hunting expedition and it won’t be easy, Ublala. Not at all easy. There’s not been a supply ship on the river for days now, and people have started hoarding things, as if some terrible disaster were imminent. So, as I said, Ublala, it won’t be easy. And I hate to admit it, but there are people out there who don’t think you can succeed.’
Ublala Pung’s head snapped up, fire in his eyes. ‘Who? Who?’
The four hens paused in their scratchings and cocked heads in unison.
‘I better not say,’ Tehol said. ‘Anyway, we need food.’
The Tarthenal was on his feet, head crunching on the ceiling before he assumed his normal hunched posture when indoors. Plaster dust sprinkled his hair, drifted down to settle on the floor. The hens pounced, crowding his feet.
‘If you fail,’ Tehol said, ‘we’ll have to start eating, uh, plaster.’
‘Lime is poisonous,’ Janath said.
And hen guano isn’t? Did I hear you complain when you were slurping down my soup?’
‘You had your hands over your ears, Tehol, and I wasn’t slurping anything down, I was spewing it back up.’
‘I can do it,’ Ublala said, hands bunching into fists. ‘I can get us food. I’ll show you.’ And with that he pushed through the doorway, out into the narrow alley, and was gone.
‘How did you do that, Tehol?’
‘I won’t take credit. It’s how Shurq Elalle manages him. Ublala Pung has an eagerness to show what he can do.’
‘You prey on his low self-esteem, you mean.’
‘Now that’s rather hypocritical coming from a tutor, isn’t it?’
‘Ooh, all the old wounds still smarting, are they?’
‘Never mind old wounds, Janath. You need to leave.’
‘What? Are there rumours I’m incapable of something?’
‘No, I’m serious. Any day now, there is going to be trouble. Here.’
‘Where am I supposed to go?’
‘You need to contact who’s left of your scholarly friends-find one you can trust-’
‘Tehol Beddict, really now. I have no friends among my fellow scholars, and certainly not one I can trust. You clearly know nothing of my profession. We crush beaks between our teeth as a matter of course. In any case, what kind of trouble are you talking about? This economic sabotage of yours?’
‘Bugg should really learn to keep quiet.’
She was studying him in a most discomforting way. ‘You know, Tehol Beddict, I never imagined you for an agent of evil.’
Tehol smoothed back his hair and swelled his chest.
‘Very impressive, but I’m not convinced. Why are you doing all this? Is there some wound from the past that overwhelms all the others? Some terrible need for vengeance to answer some horrendous trauma of your youth? No, I am truly curious.’
‘It was all Bugg’s idea, of course.’
She shook her head. ‘Try again.’
‘There are all kinds of evil, Janath.’
‘Yes, but yours will see blood spilled. Plenty of it.’
‘Is there a difference between spilled blood and blood squeezed out slowly, excruciatingly, over the course of a foreshortened lifetime of stress, misery, anguish and despair-all in the name of some amorphous god that no-one dares call holy? Even as they bend knee and repeat the litany of sacred duty?’
‘Oh my,’ she said. ‘Well, that is an interesting question. Is there a difference? Perhaps not, perhaps only as a matter of degree. But that hardly puts you on a moral high ground, does it?’
‘I have never claimed a moral high ground,’ Tehol said, ‘which in itself sets me apart from my enemy.’
‘Yes, I see that. And of course you are poised to destroy that enemy with its own tools, using its own holy scripture; using it, in short, to kill itself. You are at the very end of the slope on which perches your enemy. Or should I say “clings”. Now, that you are diabolical comes as no surprise, Tehol. I saw that trait in you long ago. Even so, this blood-thirstiness? I still cannot see it.’
‘Probably something to do with your lessons on pragmatism.’
‘Oh now, don’t you dare point a finger at me! True pragmatism, in this instance, would guide you to vast wealth and the reward of indolence, to the fullest exploitation of the system. The perfect parasite, and be damned to all those lesser folk, the destitute and the witless, the discarded failures squatting in every alley. You certainly possess the necessary talent and genius and indeed, were you now the wealthiest citizen of this empire, living in some enormous estate surrounded by an army of bodyguards and fifty concubines in your stable, I would not in the least be surprised.’
‘Not surprised,’ Tehol said, ‘but, perhaps, disappointed nonetheless?’
She pursed her lips and glanced away. ‘Well, that is another issue, Tehol Beddict. One we are not discussing here.’
‘If you say so, Janath. In any case, the truth is, I am the wealthiest citizen in this empire. Thanks to Bugg, of course, my front man.’
‘Yet you live in a hovel.’
‘Disparaging my abode? You, an un-paying guest! 1 am deeply hurt, Janath.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘Well, the hens are-and since they do not speak Letherii…’
‘Wealthiest citizen or not, Tehol Beddict, your goal is not the ostentatious expression of that wealth, not the fullest exploitation of the power it grants you. No, you intend the collapse of this empire’s fundamental economic structure. And 1 still cannot fathom why.’
Tehol shrugged. ‘Power always destroys itself in the end, Janath. Would you contest that assertion?’
‘No. So, are you telling me that all of this is an exercise in power? An exercise culminating in a lesson no-one could not recognize for what it is? A metaphor made real?’
‘But Janath, when I spoke of power destroying itself I was not speaking in terms of metaphor. I meant it literally. So, how many generations of Indebted need to suffer-even as the civilized trappings multiply and abound on all sides, with an ever-increasing proportion of those material follies out of their financial reach? How many, before we all collectively stop and say, “Aaii! That’s enough! No more suffering, please! No more hunger, no more war, no more inequity!” Well, as far as I can see, there are never enough generations. We just scrabble on, and on, devouring all within reach, including our own kind, as if it was nothing more than the undeniable expression of some natural law, and as such subject to no moral context, no ethical constraint-despite the ubiquitous and disingenuous blathering over-invocation of those two grand notions.’
‘Too much emotion in your speechifying, Tehol Beddict. Marks deducted.’
‘Retreating to dry humour, janath?’
‘Ouch. All right, I begin to comprehend your motivations. You will trigger chaos and death, for the good of everyone.’
‘If I were the self-pitying kind, I might now moan that no-one will thank me for it, either.’
‘So you accept responsibility for the consequences.’
‘Somebody has to.’
She was silent for a dozen heartbeats, and Tehol watched her eyes-lovely eyes indeed-slowly widen. ‘You are the metaphor made real.’
Tehol smiled. ‘Don’t like me? But that makes no sense! How can I not be likeable? Admirable, even? I am become the epitome of triumphant acquisitiveness, the very icon of this great unnamed god! And if I do nothing with all my vast wealth, why, I have earned the right. By every rule voiced in the sacred litany, I have earned it!’
‘But where is the virtue in then destroying all that wealth? In destroying the very system you used to create it in the first place?’
‘Janath, where is the virtue in any of it? Is possession a virtue? Is a lifetime of working for some rich toad a virtue? Is loyal employment in some merchant house a virtue? Loyal to what? To whom? Oh, have they paid for that loyalty with a hundred docks a week? Like any other commodity? But then, which version is truer-the virtue of self-serving acquisitiveness or the virtue of loyalty to one’s employer? Are the merchants at the top of their treasure heaps not ruthless and cut-throat as befits those privileges they have purportedly earned? And if it’s good enough for them, why not the same for the lowest worker in their house? Where is the virtue in two sets of rules at odds with each other, and why are those fancy words like “moral” and “ethical” the first ones to bleat out from the mouths of those who lost sight of both in their climb to the top? Since when did ethics and morality become weapons of submission?’
She was staring up at him, her expression unreadable.
Tehol thought to toss up his hands to punctuate his; harangue, but he shrugged instead. ‘Yet my heart breaks for a naked hen.’
‘I’m sure it does,’ she whispered.
‘You should have left,’ Tehol said.
‘What?’
Boots clumping in the alley, rushing up to the doorway. The flimsy broken shutter-newly installed by Bugg in the name of Janath’s modesty-torn aside. Armoured figures pushing in.
A soft cry from Janath.
Tanal Yathvanar stared, disbelieving. His guards pushed in around him until he was forced to hold his arms out to the sides to block still more crowding into this absurd room with its clucking, frightened chickens and two wide-eyed citizens.
Well, she at least was wide-eyed. The man, who had to be the infamous Tehol Beddict, simply watched, ridiculous in his pinned blanket, as Tanal fixed his gaze on Janath and smiled. ‘Unexpected, this.’
‘I-1 know you, don’t I?’
Tehol asked in a calm voice, ‘Can I help you?’
Confused by Janath’s question, it was a moment before Tanal registered Tehol’s words. Then he sneered at the man. ‘I am here to arrest your manservant. The one named Bugg.’
‘Oh, now really, his cooking isn’t that bad.’
As it turns out, it seems I have stumbled upon another crime in progress.’
Tehol sighed, then bent to retrieve a pillow. Into which he reached, dragging out a live chicken. Mostly plucked, only a few tufts remaining here and there. The creature tried flapping flabby pink wings, its head bobbing this way and that atop a scrawny neck. Tehol held the chicken out. ‘Here, then. We never really expected the ransom in any case.’
Behind Tanal a guard grunted a quickly choked-off laugh.
Tanal scowled, reminding himself to find out who had made that noise. On report and a week of disciplinary duty should serve notice that such unprofessionalism was costly in Tanal Yathvanar’s presence. ‘You are both under arrest. Janath, for having escaped the custody of the Patriotists. And Tehol Beddict, for harbouring said fugitive.’
‘Ah, well,’ Tehol said, ‘if you were to check the Advocacy Accounts for the past month, sir, you will find the official pardon granted Janath Anar, in absentia. The kind of pardon your people always issue when someone has thoroughly and, usually, permanently disappeared. So, the scholar here is under full pardon, which in turn means I am not harbouring a fugitive. As for Bugg, why, when you track him down, tell him he’s fired. I will brook no criminals in my household. Speaking of which, you may leave now, sir.’
Oh no, she will not escape me a second time. ‘If said pardon exists,’ Tanal said to Tehol Beddict, ‘then of course you will both be released, with apologies. For the moment, however, you are now in my custody.’ He gestured to one of his guards. ‘Shackle them.’
‘Yes sir.’
Bugg turned the corner leading into the narrow lane only to find it blocked by a freshly killed steer, legs akimbo, white tongue lolling as Ublala Pung-an arm wrapped about the beast’s broken neck-grunted and pulled, his face red and the veins on his temples purple and bulging. The odd multiple pulsing of his hearts visibly throbbed on both sides of the Tarthenal’s thick neck as he endeavoured to drag the steer to Tehol’s door.
His small eyes lit up on seeing Bugg. ‘Oh good. Help.’
‘Where did you get this? Never mind. It will never fit in through the door, Ublala. You’ll have to dismember it out here.’
‘Oh.’ The giant waved one hand. ‘I’m always forgetting things.’
‘Ublala, is Tehol home?’
‘No. Nobody is.’
‘Not even Janath?’
The Tarthenal shook his head, eyeing the steer, which was now thoroughly jammed in the lane. ‘I’ll have to rip its legs off,’ he said. ‘Oh, the hens are home, Bugg.’
Bugg had been growing ever more nervous with each step that had brought him closer to their house, and now he understood why. But he should have been more than just nervous. He should have known. My mind-1 have been distracted. Distant worshippers, something closer to hand…
Bugg clambered over the carcass, pushing past Ublala Pung, which, given the sweat lathering the huge man, proved virtually effortless, then hurried to the doorway.
The shutter was broken, torn from its flimsy hinges. Inside, four hens marched about on the floor like aimless soldiers. Ublala Pung’s pillow was trying to do the same.
Shit. They’ve got them.
There would be a scene at the headquarters of the Patriotists. Couldn’t be helped. Wholesale destruction, an Elder God’s rage unleashed-oh, this was too soon. Too many heads would look up, eyes narrowing, hunger bursting like juices under the tongue. Just stay where you are. Stay where you are, lcarium. Lifestealer. Do not reach for your sword, do not let your brow knit. No furrows of anger to mar your unhuman face. Stay, lcarium!
He entered the room, found a large sack.
Ublala Pung filled the doorway. ‘What is happening?’
Bugg began throwing their few possessions into the sack.
‘Bugg?’
He snatched up a hen and stuffed it in, then another.
‘Bugg?’
The mobile pillow went last. Knotting the sack, Bugg turned about and gave it to Ublala Pung. ‘Find somewhere else to hide out,’ Bugg said. ‘Here, it’s all yours-’
‘But what about the cow?’
‘It’s a steer.’
‘I tried but it’s jammed.’
‘Ublala-all right, stay here, then, but you’re on your own. Understand?’
‘Where are you going? Where is everyone?’
Had Bugg told him then, in clear terms that Ublala Pung would comprehend, all might well have turned out differently. The Elder God would look back on this one moment, over all others, during his extended time of retrospection that followed. Had he spoken true-‘They’re just gone, friend, and none of us will be back. Not for a long time. Maybe never. Take care of yourself, Ublala Pung, and ‘ware your new god-he is much more than he seems.’
With that, Bugg was outside, climbing over the carcass once more and to the mouth of the alley. Where he halted.
They would be looking for him. On the streets. Did he want a running battle? No, just one single strike, one scene of unveiled power to send Patriotist body parts flying. Fast, then done. Before I awaken the whole damned menagerie.
No, I need to move unseen now.
And quickly.
The Elder God stirred power to life, power enough to pluck at his material being, disassembling it. No longer corporeal, he slipped down through the grimy cobbles of the street, into the veins of seepwater threading the entire city.
Yes, much swifter here, movement as fast as thought-
He tripped the snare before he was even aware that he had been pulled off course, drawn like an iron filing to a lodestone. Pulled, hard and then as if in a whirlpool, down to a block of stone buried in darkness. A stone of power-of Mael’s very own power-a damned altar!
Eagerly claiming him, chaining him as all altars sought to do to their chosen gods. Nothing of sentience or malice, of course, but a certain proclivity of structure. The flavour of ancient blood fused particle by particle into the stone’s crystalline latticework.
Mael resisted, loosing a roar that shivered through the foundations of Letheras, even as he sought to reassert his physical form, to focus his strength-
And the trap was so sprung-by that very act of regaining his body. The altar, buried beneath rubble, the rubble grinding and shifting, a thousand minute adjustments ensnaring Mael-he could not move, could no longer even so much as cry out.
Errant! You bastard!
Why?
Why have you done this to me?
But the Errant had never shown much interest in lingering over his triumphs. He was nowhere close, and even if he had been, he would not have answered.
A player had been removed from the game.
But the game played on.
In the throne room of the Eternal Domicile, Rhulad Sengar, Emperor of a Thousand Deaths, sat alone, sword in one hand. In wavering torchlight he stared at nothing.
Inside his mind was another throne room, and in that place he was not alone. His brothers stood before him; and behind them, his father, Tomad, and his mother, Uruth. In the shadows along the walls stood Udinaas, Nisall, and the woman Rhulad would not name who had once been Fear’s wife. And, close to the locked doors, one more figure, too lost in the dimness to make out. Too lost by far.
Binadas bowed his head. ‘I have failed, Emperor,’ he said. ‘I have failed, my brother.’ He gestured downward and Rhulad saw the spear transfixing Binadas’s chest. ‘A Toblakai, ghost of our ancient wars after the fall of the Kechra. Our wars on the seas. He returned to slay me. He is Karsa Orlong, a Teblor, a Tartheno Toblakai, Tarthenal, Fenn-oh, they have many names now, yes. I am slain, brother, yet I did not die for you.’ Binadas looked up then and smiled a dead man’s smile. ‘Karsa waits for you. He waits.’
Fear took a single step forward and bowed. Straightening, he fixed his heavy gaze on Rhulad-who whimpered and shrank back into his throne. ‘Emperor. Brother. You are not the child I nurtured. You are no child I have nurtured. You betrayed us at the Spar of Ice. You betrayed me when you stole my betrothed, my love, when you made her with child, when you delivered unto her such despair that she took her own life.’ As he spoke his dead wife walked forward to join him, their hands clasping. Fear said, ‘I stand with Father Shadow now, brother, and I wait for you.’
Rhulad cried out, a piteous sound that echoed in the empty chamber.
Trull, his pate pale where his hair had once been, his eyes the eyes of the Shorn-empty, unseen by any, eyes that could not be met by those of any other Tiste Edur. Eyes of alone. He raised the spear in his hands, and Rhulad saw the crimson gleam on that shaft, on the broad iron blade. ‘I led warriors in your name, brother, and they are now all dead. All dead.
‘I returned to you, brother, when Fear and Binadas could not. To beg for your soul, your soul of old, Rhulad, for the child, the brother you had once been.’ He lowered the spear, leaned on it. ‘You drowned me, chained to stone, while the Rhulad I sought hid in the darkness of your mind. But he will hide no longer.’
From the gloom of the doors, the vague figure moved forward, and Rhulad on his throne saw himself. A youth, weaponless, unblooded, his skin free of coins, his skin smooth and clear.
‘We stand in the river of Sengar blood,’ Trull said. ‘And we wait for you.’
‘Stop!’ Rhulad shrieked. ‘Stop!’
‘Truth,’ said Udinaas, striding closer, ‘is remorseless, Master. Friend?’ The slave laughed. ‘You were never my friend, Rhulad. You held my life in your hand-either hand, the empty one or the one with the sword, makes no difference. My life was yours, and you thought I had opened my heart to you. Errant take me, why would I do that? Look at my face, Rhulad. This is a slave’s face. No more memorable than a clay mask. This flesh on my bones? It works limbs that are naught but tools. I held my hands in the sea, Rhulad, until all feeling went away. All life, gone. From my once-defiant grasp.’ Udinaas smiled. ‘And now, Rhulad Sengar, who is the slave?
‘I stand at the end of the chains. The end but one. One set of shackles. Here, do you see? I stand, and I wait for you.’
Nisall spoke, gliding forward naked, motion like a serpent’s in candle-light. ‘I spied on you, Rhulad. Found out your every secret and I have them with me now, like seeds in my womb, and soon my belly will swell, and the monsters will emerge, one after another. Spawn of your seed, Rhulad Sengar. Abominations one and all. And you imagined this to be love? I was your whore. The coin you dropped in my hand paid for my life, but it wasn’t enough.
‘I stand where you will never find me. I, Rhulad, do not wait for you.’
Remaining silent, then, at the last, his father, his mother.
He could remember when last he saw them, the day he had sent them to dwell chained in the belly of this city. Oh, that had been so clever, hadn’t it?
But moments earlier one of the Chancellor’s guards had begged audience. A terrible event to relate. The Letherii’s voice had quavered like a badly strung lyre. Tragedy. An error in rotation among the jailers, a week passing without anyone descending to their cells. No food, but, alas, plenty of water.
A rising flood, in fact.
‘My Emperor. They were drowned. The cells, chest-deep, sire. Their chains… not long enough. Not long enough. The palace weeps. The palace cries out. The entire empire, sire, hangs its head.
‘Chancellor Triban Gnol is stricken, sire. Taken to bed, unable to give voice to his grief.’
Rhulad could stare down at the trembling man, stare down, yes, with the blank regard of a man who has known death again and again, known past all feeling. And listen to these empty words, these proper expressions of horror and sorrow.
And in the Emperor’s mind there could be these words: I sent them down to be drowned. With not a single wager laid down.
The rising waters, this melting, this sinking palace. This Eternal Domicile. I have drowned my father. My mother. He could see those cells, the black flood, the gouges in the walls where they had clawed at the very ends of those chains. He could see it all.
And so they stood. Silent. Flesh rotted and bloated with gases, puddles of slime spreading round their white, wrinkled feet. A father on whose shoulders Rhulad had ridden, shrieking with laughter, a child atop his god as it ran down the strand with limitless power and strength, with the promise of surety like a gentle kiss on the child’s brow.
A mother-no, enough. I die and die. More deaths, yes, than anyone can imagine. 1 die and I die, and 1 die.
But where is my peace?
See what awaits me? See them!
Rhulad Sengar, Emperor of a Thousand Deaths, sat alone on his throne, dreaming peace. But even death could not offer that.
At that moment his brother, Trull’ Sengar, stood near Onrack, the emlava cubs squalling in the dirt behind them, and watched with wonder as Ben Adaephon Delat, a High Mage of the Malazan Empire, walked out across the shallow river. Unmindful of the glacial cold of that stream that threatened to leave numb his flesh, his bones, the very sentiments of his mind-nothing could deter him from this.
Upon seeing the lone figure appear from the brush on the other side, Quick Ben had halted. And, after a long moment, he had smiled, and under his breath he had said something like: ‘Where else but here? Who else but him?’ Then, with a laugh, the High Mage had set out.
To meet an old friend who himself strode without pause into that broad river.
Another Malazan.
Beside Trull, Onrack settled a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘You, my friend, weep too easily.’
‘I know,’ Trull sighed. ‘It’s because, well, it’s because I dream of such things. For myself; My brothers, my family. My people. The gifts of peace, Onrack-this is what breaks me, again and again.’
‘I think,’ said Onrack, ‘you evade a deeper truth.’
‘I do?’
‘Yes. There is one other, is there not? Not a brother, not kin, not even Tiste Edur. One who offers another kind of peace, for you, a new kind. And this is what you yearn for, and see the echo of, even in the meeting of two friends such as we witness here.
‘You weep when I speak of my ancient love.
‘You weep for this, Trull Sengar, because your love has not been answered, and there is no greater anguish than that.’
‘Please, friend. Enough. Look. I wonder what they are saying to each other?’
‘The river’s flow takes their words away, as it does us all.’ Onrack’s hand tightened on Trull’s shoulder. ‘Now, my friend, tell me of her.’
Trull Sengar wiped at his eyes, then he smiled. ‘There was, yes, a most beautiful woman…’