If these were our last days
If all whose eyes can look inward
Now passed from ken
Who would remain to grieve?
As we hang our heads
Beset by the failure of ambition
Eyes see and are indifferent
Eyes witness and they are uncaring.
The stone regard of the statues
Guarding the perfected square
Is carved as warm
As history’s soft surrender,
And the dancing creatures
In and out of our gaping mouths
Alone hear the wind moaning
Its hollow, hallowed voice.
So in these our last days
The end of what we see is inside
Where it all began and begins never again
A moment’s reprieve, then darkness falls.
– The Unwitnessed Dance, Fisher kel Tath
Beak’s barrow began with a few bones tossed into the ash and charred, splintered skeleton that was all that remained of the young mage. Before long, other objects joined the heap. Buckles, clasps, fetishes, coins, broken weapons. By the time Fist Keneb was ready to give the command to march, the mound was nearly the height of a man. When Captain Faradan Sort asked Bottle for a blessing, the squad mage had shaken his head, explaining that the entire killing field that had been enclosed by Bottle’s sorcery was now magically dead. Probably permanently. At this news the captain had turned away, although Keneb thought he heard her say: ‘Not a candle left to light, then.’
As the marines set out for the city of Letheras, they could hear the rumble of detonations from the south, where the Adjunct had landed with the rest of the Bonehunters and was now engaging the Letherii armies. That thunder, Keneb knew, did not belong to sorcery.
He should be leading his troops to that battle, to hammer the Letherii rearguard, and then link up with Tavore and the main force. But Keneb agreed with the captain and with Fiddler and Gesler. He and his damned marines had earned this, had earned the right to be the first to assail this empire’s capital city.
‘Might be another army waiting on the walls,’ Sergeant Thorn Tissy had said, making his face twist in his singular expression of disapproval, like a man who’d just swallowed a nacht turd.
‘It’s possible there is,’ the Fist had conceded. And that particular conversation went no further.
Up onto the imperial road with its well-set cobbles and breadth sufficient to accommodate a column ten soldiers wide. Marching amidst discarded accoutrements and the rubbish left by the Letherii legions as the day drew to a close and the shadows lengthened.
Dusk was not far off and the last sleep had been some time past, yet his soldiers, Keneb saw, carried themselves-and their gear-as if fresh from a week’s rest.
A few hundred paces along, the column ran into the first refugees.
Smudged, frightened faces. Sacks and baskets of meagre provisions, wide-eyed babies peering from bundles. Burdened mules and two-wheeled carts creaking and groaning beneath possessions. No command was given, yet the Letherii shuffled to the roadsides, pulling whatever gear they had with them, as the column continued on. Eyes downcast, children held tight. Saying nothing at all.
Faradan Sort moved alongside Keneb. ‘This is odd,’ she said.
The Fist nodded. ‘They have the look of people fleeing something that’s already happened. Find one, Captain, and get some answers.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Studying the refugees he passed, Keneb wondered what was behind the glances a few of them furtively cast on these marching soldiers, these white-haired foreigners in their gleaming armour. Do they see saviours? Not a chance. Yet, where is the hostility? They are more frightened of what they’ve just left behind in Letheras than they are of us. What in Hood’s name is happening there?
And where are the Tiste Edur?
The crowds got thicker, more reluctant to move aside. Fiddler adjusted the pack on his shoulder and settled a hand on the grip of his shortsword. The column’s pace had slowed, and the sergeant could feel the growing impatience among his troops.
They could see the end-Hood’s breath-it was behind that white wall to the northeast, now a league or less distant. The imperial road stretching down towards them from a main gate was, in the red glare of sunset, a seething serpent. Pouring out by the thousands.
And why?
Riots, apparently. An economy in ruins, people facing starvation.
‘Never knew we could cause such trouble, eh Fid?’
‘Can’t be us, Cuttle. Not just us, I mean. Haven’t you noticed? There are no Tiste Edur in this crowd. Now, either they’ve retreated behind their estate walls, or to the palace keep or whatever it is where the Emperor lives, or they were the first to run.’
‘Like those behind us, then. Heading back to their homelands in the north.’
‘Maybe.’
‘So, if this damned empire is already finished, why are we bothering with the capital?’
Fiddler shrugged. ‘Bottle might have hidden one of his rats in the Adjunct’s hair-why not ask him?’
‘Adjunct ain’t got enough hair for that,’ Cuttle muttered, though he did glance back at the squad mage. Bottle did not deign to reply. ‘See anybody on those walls, Fid? My eyes are bad in bad light.’
‘If there are, they’re not holding torches,’ Fiddler replied.
There had been so little time to think. About anything, beyond just staying alive. Ever since the damned coast. But now, as he walked on this road, Fiddler found his thoughts wandering dusty paths. They had set out on this invasion in the name of vengeance. And, maybe, to eradicate a tyrannical Emperor who viewed anyone not his subject as meat for the butcher’s cleaver. All very well, as far as it goes. Besides, that hardly makes this Emperor unique.
So why is this our battle? And where in Hood’s name do we go from here? He so wanted to believe the Adjunct knew what she was doing. And that, whatever came and however it ended, there would be some meaning to what they did.
‘We must be our own witness.’ To what, dammit?
‘Soldiers on the wall,’ Koryk called out. ‘Not many, but they see us clear enough.’
Fiddler sighed. First to arrive, and maybe that’s as far as we’ll get. An army of eight hundred camped outside one gate. They must be pissing in their boots. He drew another deep breath, then shook himself. ‘Fair enough. We finally got an appreciative audience.’
Smiles didn’t much like the look of these refugees. The pathetic faces, the shuffling gaits, they reminded her too much of… home. Oh, there’d been nothing in the way of hopeless flight back then, so it wasn’t that, exactly. Just the dumb animal look in these eyes. The uncomprehending children dragged along by one hand, or clinging to mother’s ratty tunic.
The Bonehunters marched to Letheras-why weren’t these fools screaming and wailing in terror? They’re like slaves, pushed into freedom like sheep into the wilds, and all they expect ahead is more slavery. That, or dying in the tangles of empty forests. They’ve been beaten down. All their lives.
That’s what’s so familiar. Isn’t it?
She turned her head and spat onto the road. Hood take all empires. Hood take all the prod and pull. I/I get to you, dear Emperor of Lether-if 1 get to you first, I’m going to slice you into slivers. Slow, with lots of pain. For every one of these wretched citizens on this stinking road.
Now, the sooner all these fools get out of our way, the sooner I can torture their Emperor.
‘We head for the palace,’ Koryk said to Tarr. ‘And let nothing get in our way.’
‘You’re smoke-dreaming, Koryk,’ the corporal replied. ‘We’d have to cut through a few thousand stubborn Letherii to do that. And maybe even more Edur. And if that’s not enough, what about that wall there? Plan on jumping it? We haven’t got enough munitions to-’
‘Rubbish-’
‘I mean, there’s no way Keneb’s going to allow the sappers to use up all their stuff, not when all we have to do is wait for the Adjunct, then do a siege all proper.’
Koryk snorted. ‘Proper like Y’Ghatan? Oh, I can’t wait.’
There’s no Leoman of the Flails in Letheras,’ Tarr said, tugging at his chin strap. ‘Just some Edur on the throne. Probably drunk. Insane. Drooling and singing lullabies. So, why bother with the palace? Won’t be anything of interest there. I say we loot some estates, Koryk.’
‘Malazan soldiers don’t loot.’
‘But we’re not any more, are we? I mean, soldiers of the Malazan Empire.’
Koryk sneered at his corporal. ‘So that means you just sink back down to some frothing barbarian, Tarr? Why am I not surprised? I never believed all those civilized airs you’re always putting on.’
‘
‘What airs?’
‘Well, all right, maybe it’s just how everybody sees you. But now I’m seeing you different. A damned thug, Tarr, just waiting to get nasty on us.’
‘I was just thinking out loud,’ Tarr said. ‘It’s not like Fid’s gonna let us do whatever we want, is it?’
‘I’m not gonna let you do whatever you want, Tarr.’
‘Just making conversation, Koryk. That’s all it was.’
Koryk grunted.
‘You being insolent with your corporal, Koryk?’
‘I’m thinking of pushing all your armour-and your shield-right up your bung hole, Corporal. Is that insolent?’
‘Once I’m used to telling the difference, I’ll let you know.’
‘Listen, Corabb,’ Bottle said, ‘you can stop looking out for me now, all right?’
The round-shouldered warrior at his side shook his head. ‘Sergeant Fiddler says-’
‘Never mind that. We’re in column. Hundreds of marines on all sides, right? And I’m almost rested up, ready to make trouble in case we get ambushed or whatever. I’m safe here, Corabb. Besides, you keep hitting me with that scabbard-my leg’s all bruised.’
‘Better a bruise than a chopped-off head,’ Corabb said.
‘Well, that’s a fact.’
Corabb nodded, as if the issue was now closed.
Bottle rubbed at his face. The memory of Beak’s sacrifice haunted him. He’d not known the mage very well. Just a face with a gawking expression or a wide smile, a pleasant enough man not much older than Bottle himself. For some-for the rarest few-the paths to power were smooth, uncluttered, and yet the danger was always there. Too easy to draw too much, to let it just pour through you.
Until you’re nothing but ashes.
Yet Beak had won their lives. The problem was, Bottle wondered if it had been worth it. That maybe the lives of eight hundred marines weren’t worth the life of a natural High Mage. Whatever was coming, at the very end of this journey, was going to be trouble. The Adjunct had Sinn and that was it. Another natural talent-but I think she’s mad.
Adjunct, your High Mage is insane. Will that be a problem?
He snorted.
Corabb took that sound as an invitation to talk. ‘See the fear in these people, Bottle? The Bonehunters turn their hearts to ice. When we reach the gate, it will swing wide open for us. The Letherii soldiers will throw down their arms. The people shall deliver to us the Emperor’s head on a copper plate, and roses will be flung into our path-’
‘For Hood’s sake, Corabb, enough. You keep looking for glory in war. But there is no glory. And heroes, like Beak back there, they end up dead. Earning what? A barrow of rubbish, that’s what.’
But Corabb was shaking his head. ‘When I die-’
‘It won’t be in battle,’ Bottle finished.
‘You wound me with your words.’
‘You’ve got the Lady in your shadow, Corabb. You’ll keep scraping through. You’ll break weapons or they’ll fly from your hand. Your horse will flip end over end and land right side up, with you still in the saddle. In fact, I’d wager all my back pay that you’ll be the last one of us standing at the very end.’
‘You believe there will be a fight in this city?’
‘Of course there will, you idiot. In fact, I’d be surprised if we even get inside the walls, until the Adjunct arrives. But then, aye, we’re in for a messy street-by-street battle, and the only thing certain about that is a lot of us are going to get killed.’
Corabb spat on his hands, rubbed them together.
Bottle stared. The fool was actually smiling.
‘You need fear nothing,’ Corabb assured him, ‘for I will guard you.’
‘Wonderful.’
Hellian scowled. Damned crowded road, was it always like this? Must be a busy city, and everybody going on about things like there wasn’t a column of foreign invaders pushing through them. She was still feeling the heat of shame-she’d fallen asleep back on that killing field. Supposed to be ready to fight and if not fight, then die horribly in a conflagration of piss-reeking magic, and what does she do?
Fall asleep. And dream of white light, and fires that don’t burn, and because everybody had known she was dreaming they’d all decided to pull out their hidden supplies of aeb root paste and bleach their hair, and then polish all their gear. Well. Ha ha. Damned near the most elaborate joke ever pulled on her. But she wasn’t going to let on about any of it. Pretend, aye, that nothing looked any different, and when her soldiers went over to where that one marine had died-the only casualty in the entire battle and there must have been some kind of battle since the evil Letherii army had run away-well, she’d done the same. Left on the mound an empty flask and if that wasn’t honouring the idiot then what was?
But it was getting dark, and all these moon faces peering at them from the roadsides was getting eerie. She’d seen one baby, in an old woman’s scrawny arms, stick out its tongue at her, and it had taken all her self-control to keep from pulling her sword and lopping off the tyke’s little round head or maybe just twisting its ears or even tickling it to death, and so it was a good thing that nobody else could listen in on her thoughts because then they’d know she’d been rattled bad by that joke and her falling asleep when she should have been sergeant.
My polished sword at that. Which I can use to cut off all my white hair if 1 want to. Oh yes, they did it all to me and mine, too.
Someone stumbled on the back of her heel and she half turned. ‘Get back, Corpor-’ But it wasn’t Touchbreath. It was that sultry dark-eyed lad, the one she’d already had fantasies about and maybe they weren’t fantasies at all, the way he licked his lips when their eyes met. Scupperskull. No, Skulldeath. ‘You in my squad now?’ she asked.
A broad delicious smile answered her.
‘The fool’s besotted,’ her corporal said from behind Skulldeath. ‘Might as well adopt him, Sergeant,’ he added in a different voice. ‘Or marry him. Or both.’
‘You ain’t gonna confuse me, Corporal, talking back and forth like that. Just so you know.’
All at once the crowds thinned on the road, and there, directly ahead, the road was clear, rising to the huge double gates of the city. The gates were barred. ‘Oh,’ Hellian said, ‘that’s just terrific. We gotta pay a toll now.’
The commander of the Letherii forces died with a quarrel in his heart, one of the last to fall at the final rally point four hundred paces in from the river. Shattered, the remaining soldiers flung away their weapons and fled the battle. The enemy had few mounted troops, so the pursuit was a dragged-out affair, chaotic and mad as the day’s light ebbed, and the slaughter pulled foreign soldiers well inland as they hunted down their exhausted, panic-stricken foes.
Twice, Sirryn Kanar had barely eluded the ruthless squads of the enemy, and when he heard the unfamiliar horns moan through the dusk, he knew the recall had been sounded. Stumbling, all his armour discarded, he scrabbled through brush and found himself among the levelled ruins of one of the shanty-towns outside the city wall. All these preparations for a siege, and now it was coming. He needed to get back inside, he needed to get to the palace.
Disbelief and shock raced on the currents of his pounding heart. He was smeared in sweat and the blood of fallen comrades, and uncontrollable shivers rattled through him as if he was plagued with a fever. He had never before felt such terror. The thought of his life ending, of some cowardly bastard driving a blade into his precious body. The thought of all his dreams and ambitions gushing away in a red torrent to soak the ground. These had pushed him from the front lines, had sent him running as fast as his legs could carry him. There was no honour in dying alongside one’s comrades-he’d not known any of them anyway. Strangers, and strangers could die in droves for all he cared. No, only one life mattered: his own.
And, Errant be praised, Sirryn had lived. Escaping that dark slaughter.
The Chancellor would have an answer to all of this. The Emperor-his Tiste Edur-Hannan Mosag-they would all give answer to these foreign curs. And in a year, maybe less, the world would be right once more, Sirryn ranking high in the Chancellor’s staff, and higher still in the Patriotists. Richer than he’d ever been before. A score of soft-eyed whores within his reach. He could grow fat if he liked.
Reaching the wall, he made his way along its length. There were sunken posterns, tunnels that invited breaching yet were designed to flood with the pull of a single lever. He knew the thick wooden doors would be manned on the inside. Working his way along the foot of the massive wall, Sirryn continued his search.
He finally found one, the recessed door angled like a coal trap, thick grasses snarled on all sides. Muttering his thanks to the Errant, Sirryn slipped down into the depression, and leaned against the wood for a long moment, his eyes shut, his breathing slowing.
Then he drew out his one remaining weapon, a dagger, and began tapping the pommel against the wood.
And thought he heard a sound on the other side.
Sirryn pressed his cheek against the door. ‘Tap if you can hear me!’ His own rasp sounded frighteningly loud in his ears.
After a half-dozen heartbeats, he heard a faint tap.
‘I’m Finadd Sirryn Kanar, an agent of the Chancellor’s. There’s no-one else about. Let me through in the name of the Empire!’
Again, another long wait. Then he heard the sound of the bar scraping clear, and then a weight pushed against him and he scrabbled back to let the door open.
The young face of a soldier peered up at him. ‘Finadd?’
Very young. Sirryn edged down into the entranceway, forcing the soldier back. So young I could kiss him, take him right here, by the Errant! ‘Close this door, quickly!’
‘What has happened?’ the soldier asked, hastening to shut the portal, then, in the sudden darkness, struggling with the heavy bar. ‘Where is the army, sir?’
As the bar clunked back in place, Sirryn allowed himself, at last, to feel safe. Back to his old form. He reached out, grasped a fistful of tunic, and dragged the soldier close. ‘You damned fool! Anybody calling himself a Finadd and you open the damned door? I should have you flailed alive, soldier! In fact, I think I will!’
‘P-please, sir, I just-’
‘Be quiet! You’re going to need to convince me another way, I think.’
‘Sir?’
There was still time. That foreign army was a day away, maybe more. And he was feeling so very alive at this moment. He reached up and stroked the lad’s cheek. And heard a sudden intake of breath. Ah, a quick-witted lad, then. It would be easy to-
A knife-tip pricked just under his right eye, and all at once the soldier’s young voice hardened. ‘Finadd, you want to live to climb out the other end of this tunnel, then you’ll leave off right here. Sir.’
‘I’ll have your name-’
‘You’re welcome to it, Finadd, and may the Errant bless your eternal search-because I wasn’t behind this door as a guard, sir. I was readying to make my escape.’
‘Your what?’
‘The mob rules the streets, Finadd. All we hold right now are the walls and gate houses. Oh, and the Eternal Domicile, where our insane Emperor keeps killing champions like it was a civic holiday. Nobody’s much inter-ested in besieging that place. Besides, the Edur left yesterday. All of them. Gone. So, Finadd, you want to get to your lover Chancellor, well, you’re welcome to try.’
The knife pressed down, punctured skin and drew out a tear of blood. ‘Now, sir. You can make for the dagger at your belt, and die. Or you can let go of my shirt.’
Insolence and cowardice were hardly attractive qualities., ‘Happy to oblige, soldier,’ Sirryn said, releasing his hold on the man. ‘Now, if you’re going out, then I had better remain here and lock the door behind you, yes?’
‘Finadd, you can do whatever you please once I’m gone. So back away, sir. No, farther. That’s good.’
Sirryn waited for the soldier to escape. He could still feel that knife-tip and the wound stung as sweat seeped into it. It was not cowardice, he told himself, that had forced him back, away from this hot-headed bastard busy disgracing his uniform. Simple expedience. He needed to get to the Chancellor, didn’t he? That was paramount.
And now, absurdly, he would have to face making his way, unescorted, through the very city where he had been born, in fear for his life. The world had turned on its end. I could just wait here, yes, in this tunnel, in the dark-no, the foreigners are coming. The Eternal Domicile-where, if surrender is demanded, Triban Gnol can do the negotiating, can oversee the handing over of the Emperor. And the Chancellor will want his loyal guards at his side. He’ll want Finadd Sirryn Kanar, the last survivor of the battle at the river-Sirryn Kanar, who broke through the enemy lines to rush back to his Chancellor, bearer, yes, of grim news. Yet he won through, did he not?
The soldier lowered the door back down from the other side. Sirryn moved up to it, found the bar and lifted it into place. He could reach the Eternal Domicile, even if it meant swimming the damned canals.
I still live. I can win through all of this.
There’s not enough of these foreigners to rule the empire.
They’ll need help, yes.
He set out along the tunnel.
The young soldier was twenty paces from the hidden door when dark figures rose on all sides and he saw those terrifying crossbows aimed at him. He froze, slowly raised his hands.
One figure spoke, then, in a language the soldier did not understand, and he flinched as someone stepped round him from behind-a woman, grinning, daggers in her gloved hands. She met his eyes and winked, then mimed a kiss.
‘We not yet decide let you live,’ the first one then said in rough Letherii. ‘You spy?’
‘No,’ the soldier replied. ‘Deserter.’
‘Honest man, good. You answer all our questions? These doors, tunnels, why do sappers’ work for us? Explain.’
‘Yes, I will explain everything. I don’t want to die.’
Corporal Tarr sighed, then turned from the prisoner to face Koryk. ‘Better get Fid and the captain, Koryk. Looks like maybe we won’t have to knock down any walls after all’
Smiles snorted, sheathing her knives. ‘No elegant back stab. And no torture. This isn’t any fun at all.’ She paused, then added, ‘Good thing we didn’t take down the first one, though, isn’t it? Led us right to this.’
Their horses had not been exercised nearly enough, and were now huffing, heads lifting and falling as Sergeant Balm led his small troop inland. Too dark now to hunt Letherii and besides, the fun had grown sour awfully fast. Sure, slaughter made sense when on the enemy’s own soil, since every soldier who got away was likely to fight again, and so they’d chased down the miserable wretches. But it was tiring work.
When magic wasn’t around in a battle, Moranth munitions took its place, and the fit was very nice indeed. As far as we’re concerned, anyway. Gods, just seeing those bodies-and pieces of bodies-flying up into the air-and 1 was getting all confused, at the beginning there. Bits of Letherii everywhere and all that ringing in my ears.
He’d come around sharp enough when he saw Cord’s idiot sapper, Crump, running up the slope straight at the enemy line, with a Hood-damned cusser in each hand. If it hadn’t been for all those blown-up Letherii absorbing so much of the twin blasts then Crump would still be standing there. His feet, anyway. The rest of him would be red haze drifting into the sunset. As it was, Crump was flattened beneath an avalanche of body parts, eventually clambering free like one of Hood’s own revenants. Although Balm was pretty sure revenants didn’t smile.
Not witless smiles, anyway.
Where the cussers had not obliterated entire companies of the enemy, the main attack-wedges of advancing heavies and medium infantry with a thin scattering of skirmishers and sappers out front-had closed with a hail of sharpers, virtually disintegrating the Letherii front ranks. And then it was just the killing thrust with those human wedges, ripping apart the enemy’s formations, driving the Letherii soldiers back until they were packed tight and unable to do anything but die.
The Adjunct’s Fourteenth Army, the Bonehunters, had shown, at long last, that they knew how to fight. She’d gotten her straight-in shield to shield dragged-out battle, and hadn’t it been just grand?
Riding ahead as point was Masan Gilani. Made sense, using her. First off, she was the best rider by far, and secondly, there wasn’t a soldier, man or woman, who could drag their eyes off her delicious round behind in that saddle, which made following her easy. Even in the gathering dark, aye. Not that it actually glows. I don’t think. But… amazing how we can all see it just fine. Why, could be a night without any other moon and no stars and nothing but the Abyss on all sides, and we’d follow that glorious, jiggling-
Balm sawed his reins, pulling off to one side, just missing Masan Gilani’s horse-which was standing still, and Masan suddenly nowhere in sight.
Cursing, he dragged his weary horse to a halt, raising a hand to command those behind him to draw up.
‘Masan?’
‘Over here,’ came the luscious, heavenly voice, and a moment later she emerged out of the gloom ahead. ‘We’re on the killing field.’
‘Not a chance,’ Throatslitter said from behind Balm. ‘No bodies, Masan, no nothing.’
Deadsmell rode a few paces ahead, then stopped and dismounted. He looked round in the gloom. ‘No, she’s right,’ he said. ‘This was where Keneb’s marines closed ranks.’
They’d all seen the strange glow to the north-seen it from the ships, in fact, when the transports did their neat turn and surged for the shoreline. And before that, well, they’d seen the Letherii sorcery, that terrifying wave climbing into the sky and it was then that everyone knew the marines were finished. No Quick Ben to beat it all back, even if he could have, and Balm agreed with most everyone else that, good as he was, he wasn’t that good. No Quick Ben, and no Sinn-aye, there she was, perched on the bow of the Froth Wolf with Grub at her side, staring at that dreadful conjuration.
When the thing rolled forward and then crashed down, well, curses rang in the air, curses or prayers and sometimes both, and this, soldiers said, was worse even than Y’Ghatan, and those poor damned marines, always getting their teeth kicked in, only this time nobody was coming out. The only thing that’d be pushing up from the ground in a few days’ time would be slivers of burnt bone.
So the Bonehunters on the transports had been a mean-spirited bunch by the time they emptied the water out of their boots and picked up their weapons. Mean, aye, as that Letherii army could attest to, oh yes.
After the Letherii magic had faded, crashed away as if to nothing in the distance, there had been a cry from Sinn, and Balm had seen with his own eyes Grub dancing about on the foredeck. And then everyone else had seen that blue-white dome of swirling light, rising up from where the Letherii magic had come down.
What did it mean?
Cord and Shard had gone up to Sinn, but she wasn’t talking which was a shock to them all. And all Grub said was something that nobody afterwards could even agree on, and since Balm hadn’t heard it himself he concluded that Grub probably hadn’t said anything at all, except maybe ‘I got to pee’ which explained all that dancing.
‘Could it be that Letherii magic turned them all into dust?’ Throatslitter wondered now as he walked on the dew-laden field.
‘And left the grasses growing wild?’ Masan Gilani countered.
‘Something over here,’ Deadsmell said from ten or so paces on.
Balm and Throatslitter dismounted and joined Masan Gilani-slightly behind her to either side. And the three of them set off after Deadsmell, who was now fast disappearing in the gloom.
‘Slow up there, Corporal!’ It’s not like the Universal Lodestone is bouncing up there with you, is it?
They saw that Deadsmell had finally halted, standing before a grey heap of something.
‘What did you find?’ Balm asked.
‘Looks like a shell midden,’ Throatslitter muttered.
‘Hah, always figured you for a fisher’s spawn.’
‘Spawn, ha ha, that’s so funny, Sergeant.’
‘Yeah? Then why ain’t you laughing? On second thought, don’t-they’ll hear it in the city and get scared. Well, scareder than they already are.’
They joined Deadsmell.
‘It’s a damned barrow,’ said Throatslitter. ‘And look, all kinds of Malazan stuff on it. Gods, Sergeant, you don’t think all that’s left of all those marines is under this mound?’
Balm shrugged. ‘We don’t even know how many made it this far. Could be six of ‘em. In fact, it’s a damned miracle any of ‘em did in the first place.’
‘No no,’ Deadsmell said. ‘There’s only one in there, but that’s about all I can say, Sergeant. There’s not a whisper of magic left here and probably never will be. It’s all been sucked dry.’
‘By the Letherii?’
The corporal shrugged. ‘Could be. That ritual was a bristling pig of a spell. Old magic, rougher than what comes from warrens.’
Masan Gilani crouched down and touched a badly notched Malazan shortsword. ‘Looks like someone did a lot of hacking with this thing, and if they made it this far doing just that, well, beat-up or not, a soldier doesn’t just toss it away like this.’
‘Unless the dead one inside earned the honour,’ Deadsmell said, nodding.
‘So,’ Masan concluded, ‘a Malazan. But just one.’
‘Aye, just the one.’
She straightened. ‘So where are the rest of them?’
‘Start looking for a trail or something,’ Balm said to Masan Gilani.
They all watched her head off into the gloom.
Then smiled at each other.
Lostara Yil walked up to where stood the Adjunct. ‘Most of the squads are back,’ she reported. ‘Pickets are being set now.’
‘Has Sergeant Balm returned?’
‘Not yet, Adjunct.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘Fist Keneb would have sent a runner.’
Tavore turned slightly to regard her. ‘Would he?’
Lostara Yil blinked. ‘Of course. Even at full strength-which we know would be impossible-he doesn’t have the soldiers to take Letheras. Adjunct, having heard nothing, we have to anticipate the worst.’
During the battle, Lostara Yil had remained close to her commander, although at no point was the Adjunct in any danger from the Letherii. The landing had been quick, professional. As for the battle, classic Malazan, even without the usual contingent of marines to augment the advance from the shoreline. Perfect, and brutal.
The Letherii were already in poor shape, she saw. Not from any fight, but from a fast march from well inland-probably where the wave of sorcery had erupted. Disordered in their exhaustion, and in some other, unaccountable way, profoundly rattled.
Or so had been the Adjunct’s assessment, after watching the enemy troops form ranks.
And she had been proved right. The Letherii had shattered like thin ice on a puddle. And what had happened to their mages? Nowhere in sight, leading Lostara to believe that those mages had used themselves up with that terrible conflagration they’d unleashed earlier.
Moranth munitions broke the Letherii apart-the Letherii commander had sent archers down the slope and the Bonehunters had had to wither a hail of sleeting arrows on their advance. There had been three hundred or so killed or wounded but there should have been more. Malazan armour, it turned out, was superior to the local armour; and once the skirmishers drew within range of their crossbows and sharpers, the enemy archers took heavy losses before fleeing back up the slope.
The Malazans simply followed them.
Sharpers, a few cussers sailing over the heads of the front Letherii ranks. Burners along the slope of the far left flank to ward off a modest cavalry charge. Smokers into the press to sow confusion. And then the wedges struck home.
Even then, had the Letherii stiffened their defence along the ridge, they could have bloodied the Malazans. Instead, they melted back, the lines collapsing, writhing like a wounded snake, and all at once the rout began. And with it, unmitigated slaughter.
The Adjunct had let her soldiers go, and Lostara Yil understood that decision. So much held down, for so long-and the growing belief that Fist Keneb and all his marines were dead. Murdered by sorcery. Such things can only be answered one sword-swing at a time, until the arm grows leaden, until the breaths are gulped down ragged and desperate.
And now, into the camp, the last of the soldiers were returning from their slaughter of Letherii. Faces,drawn, expressions numbed-as if each soldier had but just awakened from a nightmare, one in which he or she-surprise-was the monster.
She hardens them, for that is what she needs.
The Adjunct spoke, ‘Grub does not behave like a child who has lost his father.’
Lostara Yil snorted. ‘The lad is addled, Adjunct. You saw him dance. You heard him singing about candles.’
‘Addled. Yes, perhaps.’
‘In any case,’ Lostara persisted, ‘unlike Sinn, Grub has no talents, no way of knowing the fate of Fist Keneb. As for Sinn, well, as you know, I have little faith in her. Not because I believe her without power. She has that, Dryjhna knows.’ Then she shrugged. ‘Adjunct, they were on their own-entirely on their own-for so long. Under strength to conduct a full-scale invasion.’ She stopped then, realizing how critical all of this sounded. And isn’t it just that? A
criticism of this, and of you, Adjunct. Didn’t we abandon them?
‘I am aware of the views among the soldiers,’ Tavore said, inflectionless.
‘Adjunct,’ Lostara said, ‘we cannot conduct much of a siege, unless we use what sappers we have and most of our heavier munitions-I sense you’re in something of a hurry and have no interest in settling in. When will the rest of the Perish and the Khundryl be joining us?’
‘They shall not be joining us,’ Tavore replied. ‘We shall be joining them. To the east.’
The other half of this campaign. Another invasion, then. Damn you, Adjunct, 1 wish you shared your strategies. With me. Hood, with anyone! ‘I have wondered,’ she said, ‘at the disordered response from the Tiste Edur and the Letherii.’
The Adjunct sighed, so low, so drawn out that Lostara Yil barely caught it. Then Tavore said, ‘This empire is unwell. Our original assessment that the Tiste Edur were unpopular overseers was accurate. Where we erred, with respect to Fist Keneb’s landing, was in not sufficiently comprehending the complexities of that relationship. The split has occurred, Captain. It just took longer.’
At the expense of over a thousand marines.
‘Fist Keneb would not send a runner,’ Tavore said. ‘He would, in fact, lead his marines straight for Letheras. “First in, last out,” as Sergeant Fiddler might say.’
‘Last in, looking around,’ Lostara said without thinking, then winced. ‘Sorry, Adjunct-’
‘The Bonehunters’ motto, Captain?’
She would not meet her commander’s eyes. ‘Not a serious one, Adjunct. Coined by some heavy infantry soldier, I am told-’
‘Who?’
She thought desperately. ‘Nefarrias Bredd, I think.’
And caught, from the corner of her eye, a faint smile twitch Tavore’s thin lips. Then it was gone and, in truth, might never have been.
‘It may prove,’ the Adjunct said, ‘that Fist Keneb will earn us that ironic motto-those of us here, that is, in this camp.’
A handful of marines to conquer an imperial capital? ‘Adjunct-’
‘Enough. You will command for this night, Captain, as my representative. We march at dawn.’ She turned. ‘I must return to the Froth Wolf.’
‘Adjunct?’
Tavore grimaced. ‘Another argument with a certain weaponsmith and his belligerent wife.’ Then she paused, ‘Oh, when or if Sergeant Balm returns, I would hear his report.’
‘Of course,’ Lostara Yil replied. If?
She watched the Adjunct walk away, down towards the shore.
Aboard the Froth Wolf, Shurq Elalle leaned against the mainmast, her arms crossed, watching the three black, hairless, winged ape-like demons fighting over a shortsword. The scrap, a tumbling flurry of biting, scratching and countless inadvertent cuts and slices from the weapon itself, had migrated from the stern end of the mid-deck and was now climbing up onto the foredeck.
Sailors stood here and there, keeping well clear, and trading wagers on which demon would win out-an issue of some dispute since it was hard to tell the three beasts apart.
‘-with the cut across the nose-wait, Mael’s salty slick! Now another one’s got the same cut! Okay, the one without-’
‘-which one just lost that ear? Cut nose and missing ear, then!’
Close beside Shurq Elalle, a voice said*, ‘None of it’s real, you know.’
She turned. ‘Thought she had you chained below.’
‘Who, the Adjunct? Why-’
‘No. Your wife, Withal.’
The man frowned. ‘That’s how it looks, is it?’
‘Only of late,’ Shurq replied. ‘She’s frightened for you, I think.’
To that he made no response.
‘A launch is returning,’ Shurq observed, then straightened. ‘I hope it’s the Adjunct-I’m ready to leave your blessed company. No offence, Withal, but I’m nervous about my first mate and what he might be doing with the Undying Gratitude.’
The Meckros weaponsmith turned to squint out into the darkness of the main channel. ‘Last I saw, he’d yet to drop anchor and was just sailing back and forth.’
‘Yes,’ Shurq said. ‘Sane people pace in their cabin. Skorgen paces with the whole damned ship.’
‘Why so impatient?’
‘I expect he wants to tie up in Letheras well before this army arrives. And take on panicky nobles with all their worldly goods. Then we head back out before the Malazan storm, dump the nobles over the side and share out the spoils.’
‘As any proper pirate would do.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Do you enjoy your profession, Captain? Does it not get stale after a time?’
‘No, that’s me who gets stale after a time. As for the profession, why yes, I do enjoy it, Withal.’
‘Even throwing nobles overboard?’
‘With all that money they should have paid for swimming lessons.’
‘Belated financial advice.’
‘Don’t make me laugh.’
A sudden outcry from the sailors. On the foredeck, the demons had somehow managed to skewer themselves on the sword. The weapon pinned all three of them to the deck. The creatures writhed. Blood poured from their mouths, even as the bottom-most one began strangling from behind the one in the middle, who followed suit with the one on top. The demon in the middle began cracking the back of its head into the bottom demon’s face, smashing its already cut nose.
Shurq Elalle turned away. ‘Errant take me,’ she muttered. ‘I nearly lost it there.’
‘Lost what?’
‘You do not want to know.’
The launch arrived, thumping up against the hull, and moments later the Adjunct climbed into view. She cast a single glance over at the pinned demons, then nodded greeting to Shurq Elalle as she walked up to Withal.
‘Is it time?’ he asked.
‘Almost,’ she replied. ‘Come with me.’
Shurq watched the two head below.
Withal, you poor man. Now I’m frightened for you as well.
Damn, forgot to ask permission to leave. She thought to follow them, then decided not to. Sorry, Skorgen, but don’t worry. We can always outsail a marching army. Those nobles aren’t going anywhere, after all, are they?
A short time later, while the sailors argued over who’d won what, the three nachts-who had been lying motionless as if dead-stirred and deftly extricated themselves from the shortsword. One of them kicked the weapon into the river, held its hands over its ears at the soft splash.
The three then exchanged hugs and caresses.
Amused and curious from where he sat with his back to a rail on the foredeck, Banaschar, the last Demidrek of the Worm of Autumn, continued watching. And was nevertheless caught entirely by surprise when the nachts swarmed over the side and a moment later there followed three distinct splashes.
He rose and went to the rail, looking down. Three vague heads bobbed on their way to the shore.
‘Almost time,’ he whispered.
Rautos Hivanar stared down at the crowded array of objects on the tabletop, trying once more to make sense of them.
He had rearranged them dozens of times, sensing that there was indeed a pattern, somewhere, and could he but place the objects in their proper position, he would finally understand.
The artifacts had been cleaned, the bronze polished and gleaming. He had assembled lists of characteristics, seeking a typology, groupings based on certain details-angles of curvature, weight, proximity of where they had been found, even the various depths at which they had been buried.
For they had indeed been buried. Not tossed away, not thrown into a pit. No, each one had been set down in a hole sculpted into the clays-he had managed to create moulds of those depressions, which had helped him establish each object’s cant and orientation.
The array before him now was positioned on the basis of spatial location, each set precisely in proper relation to the others-at least he believed so, based on his map. The only exception was with the second and third artifacts. The dig at that time-when the first three had been recovered-had not been methodical, and so the removal of the objects had destroyed any chance of precisely specifying their placement. And so it was two of these three that he now moved, again and again. Regarding the third one-the very first object found-he well knew where it belonged.
Meanwhile, outside the estate’s high, well-guarded walls, the city of Letheras descended into anarchy.
Muttering under his breath, Rautos Hivanar picked up that first artifact. Studied its now familiar right angle bend, feeling its sure weight in his hands, and wondering anew at the warmth of the metal. Had it grown hotter in the last few days? He wasn’t sure and had no real way of measuring such a thing.
Faint on the air in the room was the smell of smoke. Not woodsmoke, as might come from a hundred thousand cook-fires, but the more acrid reek of burnt cloth and varnished furniture, along with-so very subtle-the sweet tang of scorched human flesh.
He had sent his servants to their beds, irritated with their endless reports, the fear in their meek eyes. Was neither hungry nor thirsty, and it seemed a new clarity was taking hold of his vision, his mind. The most intriguing detail of all was that he had now found twelve full-scale counterparts throughout the city; and each of these corresponded perfectly with the layout before him-excepting the two, of course. So, what he had on this table was a miniature map, and this, he knew, was important.
Perhaps the most important detail of all.
If he only knew why.
Yes, the object was growing warmer. Was it the same with its much larger companion, there in the back yard of his new inn?
He rose. No matter how late it was, he needed to find out. Carefully replacing the artifact onto the tabletop map, matching the position of the inn, he then made his way to his wardrobe.
The sounds of rioting in the city beyond had moved away, back into the poorer districts to the north. Donning a heavy cloak and collecting his walking stick-one that saw little use under normal circumstances, but there was now the possible need for self-protection-Rautos Hivanar left the room. Made his way through the silent house. Then outside, turning left, to the outer wall.
The guards standing at the side postern gate saluted.
‘Any nearby trouble?’ Rautos asked.
‘Not of late, sir.’
‘I wish to go out.’
The guard hesitated, then said, ‘I will assemble an escort-’
‘No no. I intend to be circumspect.’
‘Sir-’
‘Open the door.’
The guard complied.
Passing through, he paused in the narrow avenue, listening to the guard lock the door behind him. The smell of smoke was stronger here, a haze forming haloes round those few lamps still lit atop their iron poles. Rubbish lined the gutters, a most unpleasant detail evincing just how far all order and civil conduct had descended. Failure to keep the streets clean was symbolic of a moribund culture, a culture that had, despite loud and public exhortations to the contrary, lost its sense of pride, and its belief in itself.
When had this happene,d? The Tiste Edur conquest? No, that defeat had been but a symptom. The promise of anarchy, of collapse, had been whispered long before then. But so soft was that whisper that none heard it. Ah, that is a lie. We were just unwilling to listen.
He continued looking round, feeling a heavy lassitude settle on his shoulders.
As with Letheras, so with empire.
Rautos Hivanar set out, to walk a dying city.
Five men meaning no good were camped out in the old Tarthenal cemetery. Frowning, Ublala Pung strode out of the darkness and into their midst. His fists flew. A few moments later he was standing amidst five motionless bodies. He picked up the first one and carried it to the pit left behind by a huge fallen tree, threw it in the sodden hole. Then went back for the others.
A short time later he stamped out the small fire and began clearing a space, pulling grass, tossing stones. He went down on his knees to tug loose the smaller weeds, and slowly crawled in an expanding spiral.
Overhead, the hazy moon was still on the rise, and somewhere to the north buildings burned. He needed to be done by dawn. The ground cleared, a wide, circular space of nothing but bared earth. It could be lumpy. That was all right, and it was good that it was all right since cemeteries were lumpy places.
Hearing a moan from the hole where the tree had been, Ublala rose, brushed the dirt from his knees and then his hands, and walked over. Edging down into the pit, he stared at the grey forms until he figured out which one was coming round. Then he crouched and punched the man in the head a few more times, until the moaning stopped. Satisfied, he returned to his clearing.
By dawn, yes.
Because at dawn, Ublala Pung knew, the Emperor would lift his cursed sword, and standing across from him, on that arena floor, would be Karsa Orlong.
In a secret chamber-what had once been a tomb of some kind-Ormly, the Champion Rat Catcher, sat down opposite an enormously fat woman. He scowled. ‘You don’t need that down here, Rucket.’
‘True,’ she replied, ‘but I’ve grown used to it. You would not believe the power being huge engenders. The intimidation. You know, when things finally get better and there’s plenty of food to be had again, I’m thinking of doing this for real.’
‘But that’s just my point,’ Ormly replied, leaning forward. ‘It’s all padding and padding don’t weigh anything like the real thing. You’ll get tired walking across a room. Your knees will hurt. Your breaths will get shorter because the lungs can’t expand enough. You’ll get stretch marks even though you’ve never had a baby-’
‘So if I get pregnant too then it’ll be all right?’
‘Except for all that other stuff, why yes, I suppose it would. Not that anybody could tell.’
‘Ormly, you are a complete idiot.’
‘But good at my job.’
To that, Rucket nodded. ‘And so? How did it go?’
Ormly squinted across at her, then scratched his stubbly jaw. ‘It’s a problem.’
‘Serious?’
‘Serious.’
‘How serious?’
‘About as serious as it can get.’
‘Hmmm. No word from Selush?’
‘Not yet. And you’re right, we’ll have to wait for that.’
‘But our people are in the right place, yes? No trouble with all the riots and such?’
‘We’re good on that count, Rucket. Hardly popular sites, are they?’
‘So has there been any change in the time of execution?’
Ormly shrugged. ‘We’ll see come dawn, assuming any criers are still working. I sure hope not, Rucket. Even as it is, we may fail. You do know that, don’t you?’
She sighed. ‘That would be tragic. No, heartbreaking.’
‘You actually love him?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Hard not to, really. I’d have competition, though.’
‘That scholar? Well, unless they’re in the same cell, I don’t think you need worry.’
‘Like I said, you’re an idiot. Of course I’m worrying, but not about competition. I’m worried for him. I’m worried for her. I’m worried that all this will go wrong and Karos Invictad will have his triumph. We’re running out of time.’
Ormly nodded.
‘So, do you have any good news?’ she asked.
‘Not sure if it’s good but it’s interesting.’
‘What?’
‘Ublala Pung’s gone insane.’
Rucket shook her head. ‘Not possible. He hasn’t enough brains to go insane.’
‘Well, he beat up five scribers hiding out from the riots in the Tarthenal cemetery, and now he’s crawling around on his hands and knees and pinching weeds.’
‘So what’s all that about?’
‘No idea, Rucket.’
‘He’s gone insane.’
‘Impossible.’
‘I know,’ she replied.
They sat in silence for a time, then Rucket said, ‘Maybe I’ll just keep the padding. That way I can have it without all the costs.’
‘Is it real padding?’
‘Illusions and some real stuff, kind of a patchwork thing.’
‘And you think he’ll fall in love with you looking like that? I mean, compared to Janath who’s probably getting skinnier by the moment which, as you know, some men like since it makes their women look like children or some other ghastly secret truth nobody ever admits out loud-’
‘He’s not one of those.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am.’
‘Well, I suppose you would know.’
‘I would,’ she replied. ‘Anyway, what you’re talking about is making me feel kind of ill.’
‘Manly truths will do that,’ Ormly said.
They sat. They waited.
Ursto Hoobutt and his wife and sometime lover Pinosel clambered onto the muddy bank. In Ursto’s gnarled hands was a huge clay jug. They paused to study the frozen pond that had once been Settle Lake, the ice gleaming in the diffuse moonlight.
‘It’s melting, Cherrytart,’ he said.
‘Well you’re just getting smarter day by day, dearie. We knowed it was melting. We knowed that a long time coming. We knowed it sober and we knowed it drunk.’ She lifted her hamper. ‘Now, we looking at a late supper or are we looking at an early breakfast?’
‘Let’s stretch it out and make it both.’
‘Can’t make it both. One or the other and if we stretch it out it’ll be neither so make up your mind.’
‘What’s got you so touchy, love?’
‘It’s melting, dammit, and that means ants at the picnic’
‘We knew it was coming-’
‘So what? Ants is ants.’
They settled down onto the bank, waving at mosquitoes.
Ursto unstoppered the jug as Pinosel unwrapped the hamper. He reached for a tidbit and she slapped his hand away. He offered her the jug and she scowled, then accepted it. With her hands full, he snatched the tidbit then leaned back, content as he popped the morsel into his mouth.
Then gagged. ‘Errant’s ear, what is this?’
‘That was a clay ball, love. For the scribing. And now, we’re going to have to dig us up some more. Or, you are, since it was you who ate the one we had.’
‘Well, it wasn’t all bad, really. Here, give me that jug so’s I can wash it down.’
A pleasant evening, Ursto reflected somewhat blearily, to just sit and watch a pond melt.
At least until the giant demon trapped in the ice broke loose. At that disquieting thought, he shot his wife and sometime lover a glance, remembering the day long ago when they’d been sitting here, all peaceful and the like, and she’d been on at him to get married and he’d said-oh well, he’d said it and now here they were and that might’ve been the Errant’s nudge but he didn’t think so.
No matter what the Errant thought.
‘I seen that nostalgic look in your eyes, hubby-bubby. What say we have a baby?’
Ursto choked a second time, but on nothing so prosaic as a ball of clay.
The central compound of the Patriotists, the Lether Empire’s knotted core of fear and intimidation, was under siege. Periodically, mobs heaved against the walls, rocks and jugs of oil with burning rag wicks sailing over to crash down in the compound. Flames had taken the stables and four other outbuildings three nights past, and the terrible sound of screaming horses had filled the smoky air. It had been all the trapped Patriotists could do to keep the main block from catching fire.
Twice the main gate had been breached, and a dozen agents had died pushing the frenzied citizens back. Now an enormous barricade of rubble, charred beams and furniture blocked the passage. Through the stench and sooty puddles of the compound, figures walked, armoured as soldiers might be and awkward in the heavy gear. Few spoke, few met the eyes of others, in dread of seeing revealed the haunted, stunned disbelief that resided in their own souls.
The world did not work like this. The people could always be cowed, the ringleaders isolated and betrayed with a purse of coin or, failing that, quietly removed. But the agents could not set out into the streets to twist the dark deals. There were watchers, and gangs of thugs nearby who delighted in beating hapless agents to death, then flinging their heads back over the wall. And whatever operatives remained at large in the city had ceased all efforts at communicating-either had gone into hiding or were dead.
The vast network had been torn apart.
If it had been simple, Tanal Yathvanar knew, if it had been as easy as negotiating the release of prisoners according to the demands of the mob, then order could be restored. But those people beyond the compound wall were not friends and relatives of the scores of scholars, intellectuals and artists still locked up in the cells below. They didn’t care a whit about the prisoners and would be just as happy to see them all burn along with the main block. So there was no noble cause to all of this. It was, he now understood, nothing but bloodlust.
Is it any wonder we were needed? To control them. To control their baser instincts. Now look what has happened.
He stood near the front door, watching the pike-wielding agents patrolling the filthy compound. A number of times, in fact, they’d heard shouted demands for Tehol Beddict. The mob wanted him for themselves. They wanted to tear him to pieces. The Grand Drowning at dusk on the morrow was not enough to appease their savage need.
But there would be no releasing Tehol Beddict. Not as long as Karos Invictad remained in charge.
Yet, if we gave him up, they might all calm down and go away. And we could begin again. Yes. Were I in charge, they could have Tehol Beddict, with my blessing.
But not]anath. Oh no, she is mine. For ever now. He had been shocked to discover that she had few memories of her previous incarceration, but he had taken great pleasure in re-educating her. Ha, re-educating the teacher. I like that one. At least Karos Invictad had been generous there, giving her to him. And now she resided in a private cell, chained to a bed, and he made use of her day and night. Even when the crowds raged against the walls and agents were dying keeping them out, he would lie atop her and have his way. And she’d fast learned to say all the right things, how to beg for more, whispering her undying desire (no, he would not force her to speak of love, because that word was dead now between them. For ever dead) until those words of desire became real for her.
The attention. The end to loneliness. She had even cried out the last time, cried out his name as her back arched and her limbs thrashed against the manacles.
Cried out for him: Tanal Yathvanar, who even as a child had known he was destined for greatness-for was that not what they all told him, over and over again? Yes, he had found his perfect world, at last. And what had happened? The whole damned city had collapsed, threatening all he now possessed.
All because of Karos Invictad. Because he refused to hand over Tehol Beddict and spent all his waking time staring into a small wooden box at a two-headed insect that had-hah-outwitted him in its dim, obstinate stupidity. There is a truth hidden in that, isn’t there! I’m certain of it. Karos and his two-headed insect, going round and round and round and so it will go until it dies. And when it does, the great Invigilator will go mad.
But he now suspected he would not be able to wait for that. The mob was too hungry.
Beyond the walls there was quiet, for the moment, but something vast and thousand-headed was seething on the other side of Creeper Canal, and would soon cross over from Far Reaches and make its way down to North Tiers. He could hear its heavy susurration, a tide in the darkness pouring down streets, gushing into and out of alleys, spreading bloody and black into avenues and lanes. He could smell its hunger in the bitter smoke.
And it comes for us, and it will not wait. Not even for Karos Invictad, the Invigilator of the Patriotists, the wealthiest man in all the empire.
He allowed himself a soft laugh, then he turned about and entered the main block. Down the dusty corridor, walking unmindful over crusted streaks left behind when the wounded and dying had been dragged inside. The smell of stale sweat, spilled urine and faeces-as bad as the cells below-and yes, are we not prisoners now, too? With bare scraps for food and well water fouled with ashes and blood. Trapped here with a death sentence hanging round our necks with the weight of ten thousand docks, and nothing but deep water on all sides.
Another thought to amuse him; another thought to record in his private books.
Up the stairs now, his boots echoing on the cut limestone, and into the corridor leading to the Invigilator’s office, Karos Invictad’s sanctum. His own private cell. No guards in the passage-Karos no longer trusted them. In fact, he no longer trusted anyone. Except me. And that will prove his greatest error.
Reaching the door he pushed it open without knocking and stepped inside, then halted.
The room stank, and its source was sprawled in the chair opposite the Invigilator and his desk.
Tehol Beddict. Smeared in filth, cut and scabbed and bruised-Karos Invictad’s prohibition against such treatment was over, it seemed.
‘I have a guest,’ the Invigilator snapped. ‘You were not invited, Tanal Yathvanar. Furthermore, I did not hear you knock, yet another sign of your growing insolence.’
‘The mob will attack again,’ Tanal said, eyes flicking to Tehol. ‘Before dawn. I thought it best to inform you of our weakened defences. We have but fourteen agents remaining still able to defend us. This time, I fear, they will break through.’
‘Fame is murderous,’ Tehol Beddict said through split lips. ‘I hesitate in recommending it.’
Karos Invictad continued glaring at Tanal for a moment longer, then he said, ‘In the hidden room-yes, you know of it, I’m aware, so I need not provide any more details-in the hidden room, then, Tanal, you will find a large chest filled with coins. Stacked beside it are a few hundred small cloth bags. Gather the wounded and have them fill sacks with coins. Then deliver them to the agents at the walls. They will be their weapons tonight.’
‘That could turn on you,’ Tehol observed, beating Tanal Yathvanar to the thought, ‘if they conclude there’s more still inside.’
‘They’ll be too busy fighting each other to conclude anything,’ Karos said dismissively. ‘Now, Tanal, if there is nothing else, go back to your sweet victim, who will no doubt plead desperately for your sordid attention.’
Tanal licked his lips. Was it time? Was he ready?
And then he saw, in the Invigilator’s eyes, an absolute awareness, chilling Tanal’s bones. He read my mind. He knows my thoughts.
Tanal quickly saluted, then hurried from the room. How can 1 defeat such a man? He is ever ten steps ahead of me. Perhaps 1 should wait, until the troubles have passed, then make my move when he relaxes, when he feels most secure.
He had gone to Invictad’s office to confirm that the man remained alone with his puzzle. Whereupon he had planned to head down to the cells and collect Tehol Beddict. Bound, gagged and hooded, up and out into the compound. To appease the mob, to see them away and so save his own life. Instead, the Invigilator had Tehol in his very office.
For what? A conversation? An extended gloat? Oh, each time 1 think I know that man…
He found an agent and quickly conveyed Invictad’s instruction, as well as directions to the once-hidden room. Then he continued on, only faintly aware of the irony in following the Invigilator’s orders to the letter.
Onto a lower level, down another corridor, this one thicker with dust than most of the others, barring where his own boots had scraped an eager path. To the door, where he drew a key and unlocked the latch. Stepping inside.
‘I knew you’d be lonely,’ he said.
The lantern’s wick had almost burned down and he went over to the table where it sat. ‘Thirsty? I’m sure you are.’ He glanced over his shoulder and saw her watching him, saw the desire in her eyes. ‘There’s more trouble in the city, Janath. But I will protect you. I will always protect you. You are safe. You do understand that, yes? For ever safe.’
She nodded, and he saw her spread her legs wider on the bed, then invite him with a thrust of her pelvis.
And Tanal Yathvanar smiled. He had his perfect woman.
Karos Invictad regarded Tehol Beddict from above steepled fingers. ‘Very close,’ he said after a time.
Tehol, who had been staring dazedly at the puzzle box on the desk, stirred slightly then looked up with his mismatched eyes.
‘Very close,’ Karos repeated. ‘The measure of your intelligence, compared with mine. You are, I believe, the closest to my equal of any man I have met.’
‘Really? Thank you.’
‘I normally do not express my admiration for intelligence in others. Primarily because I am surrounded by idiots and fools-’
‘Even idiots and fools need supreme leaders,’ Tehol cut in, then smiled, then winced as cuts opened on his lips, then smiled more broadly than before.
‘Attempts at humour, alas,’ Karos said with a sigh, ‘poorly disguise the deficiencies of one’s intelligence. Perhaps that alone is what distinguishes the two of us.’
Tehol’s smile faded and suddenly he looked dismayed. ‘You never attempt humour, Invigilator?’
‘The mind is capable of playing countless games, Tehol Beddict. Some are useful. Others are worthless, a waste of time. Humour is a prime example of the latter.’
‘Funny.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Oh, sorry, I was just thinking. Funny.’
‘What is?’
‘You wouldn’t get it, alas.’
‘You actually imagine yourself brighter than me?’
‘I have no idea regarding that. But, since you abjure all aspects of humour, anything I might consider and then observe with the word “funny” is obviously something you would not understand.’ Tehol then leaned slightly forward. ‘But wait, that’s just it!’
‘What nonsense are you-’
‘It’s why I am, after all, much smarter than you.’
Karos Invictad smiled. ‘Indeed. Please, do explain yourself.’
‘Why, without a sense of humour, you are blind to so much in this world. To human nature. To the absurdity of so much that we say and do. Consider this, a most poignant example: a mob approaches, seeking my head because I stole all their money, and what do you do to appease them? Why, throw them all the money you’ve stolen from them! And yet, it’s clear that you were completely unaware of just how hilarious that really is-you made your decision unmindful of what, eighty per cent of its delicious nuances. Ninety per cent! Ninety-three per cent! And a half or just shy of a half, but more than a third but less than… oh, somewhere close to a half, then.’
Karos Invictad waggled a finger. ‘Incorrect, I’m afraid. It is not that I was unmindful. It is that I was indifferent to such nuances, as you call them. They are, in fact, entirely meaningless.’
‘Well, you may have a point there, since you seem capable of being appreciative of your own brilliance despite your ignorance. But let’s see, perhaps I can come up with another example.’
‘You are wasting your time, Tehol Beddict. And mine.’
‘I am? It didn’t seem you were very busy. What is so occupying you, Invigilator? Apart from anarchy in the streets, economic collapse, invading armies, dead agents and burning horses, 1 mean.’
The answer was involuntary, as Karos Invictad’s eyes flicked down to the puzzle box. He corrected himself-but too late, for he saw a dawning realization in Tehol’s bruised face, and the man leaned yet farther forward in his chair.
‘What’s this, then? Some magic receptacle? In which will be found all the solutions to this troubled world? Must be, to so demand all of your formidable genius. Wait, is something moving in there?’
‘The puzzle is nothing,’ Karos Invictad said, waving one bejewelled hand. ‘We were speaking of your failings.’
Tehol Beddict leaned back, grimacing. ‘Oh, my failings. Was that the topic of this sizzling discourse? I’m afraid I got confused.’
‘Some puzzles have no solution,’ Karos said, and he could hear how his own voice had grown higher-pitched. He forced himself to draw a deep breath, then said in a lower tone, ‘Someone sought to confound me. Suggesting that a solution was possible. But I see now that no solution was ever possible. The fool did not play fair, and I so dislike such creatures and could I find him or her I would make an immediate arrest, and this entire building would echo with the fool’s screams and shrieks.’
Karos paused when he saw Tehol frowning at him. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. Funny, though.’
The Invigilator reached for his sceptre and lifted it from the desktop, pleased as ever with the solid weight of the symbol, how it felt in his hand.
‘Okay, not funny. Sorry I said anything. Don’t hit me with that thing again. Please. Although,’ Tehol added, ‘considering it’s the symbol of your office, hitting me with it, while somewhat heavy-handed, is nevertheless somewhat… funny.’
‘I am thinking of giving you over to the citizens of Letheras,’ Karos said, glancing up to gauge how the man would react to that statement. And was surprised to see the fool smiling again. ‘You think I jest?’
‘Never. Obviously.’
‘Then you would enjoy being torn apart by the mob?’
‘I doubt it. But then, I wouldn’t be, would I? Torn apart, I mean.’
‘Oh, and why not?’
‘Because, not only do I have more money than you, Invigilator, I am-unlike you-entirely indifferent regarding who ends up owning it. Hand me over, by all means, sir. And watch me buy my life.’
Karos Invictad stared at the man.
Tehol wagged a broken finger. ‘People with no sense or appreciation of humour, Invigilator, always take money too seriously. Its possession, anyway. Which is why they spend all their time stacking coins, counting this and that, gazing lovingly over their hoards and so on. They’re compensating for the abject penury everywhere else in their lives. Nice rings, by the way.’
Karos forced himself to remain calm in the face of such overt insults. ‘I said I was thinking of handing you over. Alas, you have just given me reason not to. So, you assure your own Drowning come the morrow. Satisfied?’
‘Well, if my satisfaction is essential, then might I suggest-’
‘Enough, Tehol Beddict. You no longer interest me.’
‘Good, can I go now?’
‘Yes.’ Karos rose, tapping the sceptre onto one shoulder. ‘And I, alas, must needs escort you.’
‘Good help is hard to keep alive these days.’
‘Stand up, Tehol Beddict.’
The man had some difficulty following that instruction, but the Invigilator waited, having learned to be patient with such things.
As soon as Tehol fully straightened, however, a look of astonishment lit his features. ‘Why, it’s a two-headed insect! Going round and round!’
‘To the door now,’ Karos said.
‘What’s the challenge?’
‘It is pointless-’
‘Oh now, really, Invigilator. You claim to be smarter than me, and I’m about to die-1 like puzzles. I design them, in fact. Very difficult puzzles.’
‘You are lying. I know all the designers and you do not number among them.’
‘Well, all right. I designed just one.’
‘Too bad, then, you will be unable to offer it to me, for my momentary pleasure, since you are now returning to your cell.’
‘That’s all right,’ Tehol replied. ‘It was more of a joke than a puzzle, anyway.’
Karos Invictad grimaced, then waved Tehol towards the door with the sceptre.
As he slowly shuffled over, Tehol said, ‘I figured out the challenge, anyway. It’s to make the bug stop going round and round.’
The Invigilator blocked him with the sceptre. ‘I told you, there is no solution.’
‘I think there is. I think I know it, in fact. Tell you what, sir. I solve that puzzle there on your desk and you postpone my Drowning. Say, by forty years or so.’
‘Agreed. Because you cannot.’ He watched Tehol Beddict walk like an old man over to the desk. Then lean over. ‘You cannot touch the insect!’
‘Of course,’ Tehol replied. And leaned yet farther over, lowering his face towards the box.
Karos Invictad hurried forward to stand beside him. ‘Do not touch!’
‘I won’t.’
‘The tiles can be rearranged, but I assure you-’
‘No need to rearrange the tiles.’
Karos Invictad found his heart pounding hard in his chest. ‘You are wasting more of my time.’
‘No, I’m putting an end to your wasting your time, sir.’ He paused, cocked his head. ‘Probably a mistake. Oh well.’
And lowered his face down directly over the box, then gusted a sharp breath against one of the tiles. Momentarily clouding it. And the insect, with one of its heads facing that suddenly opaque, suddenly non-reflective surface, simply stopped. Reached up a leg and scratched its abdomen. As the mist cleared on the tile, it scratched once more, then resumed its circling.
Tehol straightened. ‘I’m free! Free!’
Karos Invictad could not speak for ten, fifteen heartbeats. His chest was suddenly tight, sweat beading on his skin, then he said in a rasp, ‘Don’t be a fool.’
‘You lied? Oh, I can’t believe how you lied to me! Well then, piss on you and your pissy stupid puzzle, too!’
The Invigilator’s sceptre swept in an arc, intersecting with that box on the desk, shattering it, sending its wreckage flying across the room. The insect struck a wall and stayed there, then it began climbing towards the ceiling.
‘Run!’ whispered Tehol Beddict. ‘Run!’
The sceptre swung next into Tehol’s chest, snapping ribs.
‘Pull the chain tighter on my ankles,’ Janath said. ‘Force my legs wider.’
‘You enjoy being helpless, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes!’
Smiling, Tanal Yathvanar knelt at the side of the bed.
The chain beneath ran through holes in the bed frame at each corner. Pins held the lengths in place. To tighten the ones snaring her ankles all he needed to do was pull a pin on each side at the foot of the bed, drawing the chain down as far as he could, and, as he listened to her moans, replace the pins.
Then he rose and sat down on the edge of the bed. Stared down at her. Naked, most of the bruises fading since he no longer liked hurting her. A beautiful body indeed, getting thinner which he preferred in his women. He reached out, then drew his hand away again. He didn’t like any touching until he was ready. She moaned a second time, arching her back.
Tanal Yathvanar undressed. Then he crawled up onto the bed, loomed over her with his knees between her legs, his hands pressing down on the mattress to either side of her chest.
He saw how the manacles had torn at her wrists. He would need to treat that-those wounds were looking much worse.
Slowly, Tanal settled onto her body, felt her shiver beneath him as he slid smoothly inside. So easy, so welcoming. She groaned, and, studying her face, he said, ‘Do you want me to kiss you now?’
‘Yes!’
And he brought his head down as he made his first deep thrust.
Janath, once eminent scholar, had found in herself a beast, prodded awake as if from a slumber of centuries, perhaps millennia. A beast that understood captivity, that understood that, sometimes, what needed doing entailed excruciating pain.
Beneath the manacles on her wrists, mostly hidden by scabs, blood and torn shreds of skin, the very bones had been worn down, chipped, cracked. By constant, savage tugging. Animal rhythm, blind to all else, deaf to every scream of her nerves. Tugging, and tugging.
Until the pins beneath the frame began to bend. Ever so slowly, bending, the wood holes chewed into, the pins bending, gouging through the holes.
And now, with the extra length of chain that came when Tanal Yathvanar had reset the pins at the foot of the bed frame, she had enough slack.
To reach with her left hand and grasp a clutch of his hair. To push his head to the right, where she had, in a clattering blur, brought most of the length of the chain through the hole, enough to wrap round his neck and then twist her hand down under and then over; and in sudden, excruciating determination, she pulled her left arm up, higher and higher with that arm-the manacle and her right wrist pinned to the frame, tugged down as far as it could go.
He thrashed, sought to dig his fingers under the chain, and she reached ever harder, her face brushing his own, her eyes seeing the sudden blue hue of his skin, his bulging eyes and jutting tongue.
He could have beaten against her. He could have driven his thumbs into her eyes. He could probably have killed her in time to survive all of this. But she had waited for his breath to release, which ever came at the moment he pushed in his first thrust. That breath, that she had heard a hundred times now, close to her ear, as he made use of her body, that breath is what killed him.
He needed air. He had none. Nothing else mattered. He tore at his own throat to get his fingers under the chain. She pushed her left arm straight, elbow locking, and loosed her own scream as the manacle round her right wrist shifted as a bolt slipped down into the hole.
That blue, bulging face, that flooding burst from his penis, followed by the hot gush of urine.
Staring eyes, veins blossoming red, then purple until the whites were completely filled.
She looked right into them. Looked into, seeking his soul, seeking to lock her gaze with that pathetic, vile, dying soul.
I kill you. I kill you. 1 kill you! The beast’s silent words.
The beast’s gleeful, savage assertion. Her eyes shouted it at him, shouted it into his soul. Tonal Yathvanar. 1 kill you!
Taralack Veed spat into his hands, rubbed them together to spread out the phlegm, then raised them and swept his hair back. ‘I smell more smoke,’ he said.
Senior Assessor, who sat opposite him at the small table, raised his thin brows. ‘It surprises me that you can smell anything, Taralack Veed.’
‘I have lived in the wild, Cabalhii. I can follow an antelope’s spore that’s a day old. This city is crumbling. The Tiste Edur have left. And suddenly the Emperor changes his mind and slaughters all the challengers until but two remain. And does anyone even care?’ He rose suddenly and walked to the bed, on which he had laid out his weapons. He unsheathed his scimitar and peered down at the edge once again.
‘You could trim your eyelashes with that sword by now.’
‘Why would I do that?’ Taralack asked distractedly.
‘Just a suggestion, Gral.’
‘I was a servant of the Nameless Ones.’
‘I know,’ Senior Assessor replied.
Taralack turned, studied with narrowed eyes the soft little man with his painted face. ‘You do?’
‘The Nameless Ones are known in my homeland. Do you know why they are called that? I will tell you as I see that you do not. The Initiated must surrender their names, in the belief that to know oneself by one’s own name is to give it too much power. The name becomes the identity, becomes the face, becomes the self. Remove the name and power returns.’
‘They made no such demands of me.’
‘Because you are little more than a tool, no different from that sword in your hands. Needless to say, the Nameless Ones do not give names to their tools. And in a very short time you will have outlived your usefulness-’
‘And I will be free once more. To return home.’
‘Home,’ mused Senior Assessor. ‘Your tribe, there to right all your wrongs, to mend all the wounds you delivered in your zealous youth. You will come to them with wizened eyes, with slowed heart and a gentling hand. And one night, as you lie sleeping in your furs in the hut where you were born, someone will slip in and slide a blade across your throat. Because the world within your mind is not the world beyond. You are named Taralack Veed and they have taken of its power. From the name, the face. From the name, the self, and with it all the history, and so by your own power-so freely given away long, long ago-you are slain.’
Taralack Veed stared, the scimitar trembling in his hands. ‘And this, then, is why you are known only as Senior Assessor.’
The Cabalhii shrugged. ‘The Nameless Ones are fools for the most part. Said proof to be found in your presence here, with your Jhag companion. Even so, we share certain understandings, which is not too surprising, since we both came from the same civilization. From the First Empire of Dessimbelackis.’
‘It was a common joke in Seven Cities,’ the Gral said, sneering. ‘One day the sun will die and one day there will be no civil war in the Cabal Isles.’
‘Peace has at long last been won,’ Senior Assessor replied, folding his hands together on his lap.
‘Then why does every conversation I have with you of late make me want to throttle you?’
The Cabalhii sighed. ‘Perhaps I have been away from home too long.’
Grimacing, Taralack Veed slammed the scimitar back in its scabbard.
From the corridor beyond a door thumped open and the two men in the room stiffened, their gazes meeting.
Soft footsteps, passing the door.
With a curse Taralack began strapping on his weapons. Senior Assessor rose, adjusting his robe before heading to the door and opening it just enough to peer outside. Then he ducked back in. ‘He is on his way,’ he said in a whisper.
Nodding, Taralack joined the monk who opened the door a second time. They went out into the corridor, even as they heard the sound of a momentary scuffle, then a grunt, after which something crunched on the stone floor.
Taralack Veed in the lead, they padded quickly down the corridor.
At the threshold of the practice yard’s door was a crumpled heap-the guard. From the compound beyond there was a startled shout, a scuffle, then the sound of the outer gate opening.
Taralack Veed hurried out into the darkness. His mouth was dry. His heart pounded heavy in his chest. Senior Assessor had said that Icarium would not wait. That Icarium was a god and no-one could hold back a god, when it had set out to do what it would do. They will find him gone. Will they search the city? No, they do not even dare unbar the palace gate.
Icarium? Lifestealer, what do you seek?
Will you return to stand before the Emperor and his cursed sword?
The monk had told Taralack to be ready, to not sleep this night. And this is why.
They reached the gate, stepped over the bodies of two guards, then edged outside.
And saw him, standing motionless forty paces down the street, in its very centre. A group of four figures, wielding clubs, were converging on him. At ten paces away they halted, then began backing away. Then they whirled about and ran, one of the clubs clattering on the cobbles.
Icarium stared up at the night sky.
Somewhere to the north, three buildings were burning, reflecting lurid crimson on the bellies of the clouds of smoke seething overhead. Distant screams lifted into the air. Taralack Veed, his breath coming in gasps, drew out his sword. Thugs and murderers might run from Icarium, but that was no assurance that they would do the same for himself and the monk.
Icarium lowered his gaze, then looked about, as if only now discovering where he was. Another moment’s pause, then he set out.
Silent, the Gral and the Cabalhii followed.
Samar Dev licked dry lips. He was lying on his bed, apparently asleep. And come the dawn, he would take his flint sword, strap on his armour, and walk in the midst of Letherii soldiers to the Imperial Arena. And he would walk, alone, out onto the sand, the few hundred onlookers on the marble benches raising desultory hooting and catcalls. There would be no bet-takers, no frenzied shouting of odds. Because this game always ended the same. And now, did anyone even care?
In her mind she watched him stride to the centre of the arena. Would he be looking at the Emperor? Studying Rhulad Sengar as he emerged from the far gate? The lightness of his step, the unconscious patterns the sword made at the end of his hands, patterns that whispered of all that muscles and bones had learned and were wont to do?
No, he will be as he always is. He will be Karsa Orlong. He’ll not even look at the Emperor, until Rhulad draws closer, until the two of them begin.
Not overconfident. Not indifferent. Not even contemptuous. No easy explanations for this Toblakai warrior. He would be within himself, entirely within himself, until it was time… to witness.
But nothing would turn out right, Samar Dev knew. Not all of Karsa Orlong’s prowess, nor that ever-flooding, ever-cascading torrent that was the Toblakai’s will; nor even this host of spirits trapped in the knife she now held, and those others who trailed the Toblakai’s shadow-souls of the slain, desert godlings and ancient demons of the sands and rock-spirits that might well burst forth, enwreathing their champion god (and was he truly that? A god? She did not know) with all their power. No, none of it would matter in the end.
Kill Rhulad Sengar. Kill him thrice. Kill him a dozen times. In the end he will stand, sword bloodied, and then will come lcarium, the very last.
To begin it all again.
Karsa Orlong, reduced to a mere name among the list of the slain. Nothing more than that. For this extraordinary warrior. And this is what you whisper, Fallen One, as your holy credo. Grandness and potential and promise, they all break in the end.
Even your great champion, this terrible, tortured Tiste Edur-you see him broken again and again. You fling him back each time less than what he was, yet with ever more power in his hands. He is there, yes, for us all. The power and its broken wielder broken by his power.
Karsa Orlong sat up. ‘Someone has left,’ he said.
Samar Dev blinked. ‘What?’
He bared his teeth. ‘lcarium. He is gone.’
‘What do you mean, gone? He’s left? To go where?’
‘It does not matter,’ the Toblakai replied, swinging round to settle his feet on the floor. He stared across at her. ‘He knows.’
‘Knows what, Karsa Orlong?’
The warrior stood, his smile broadening, twisting the crazed tattoos on his face. ‘That he will not be needed.’
‘Karsa-’
‘You will know when, woman. You will know.’
Know what, damn you? ‘They wouldn’t have just let him go,’ she said. ‘So he must have taken down all the guards. Karsa, this is our last chance. To head out into the city. Leave all this-’
‘You do not understand. The Emperor is nothing. The Emperor, Samar Dev, is not the one he wants.’
Who? Icarium? No-‘Karsa Orlong, what secret do you hold? What do you know about the Crippled God?’
The Toblakai rose. ‘It is nearly dawn,’ he said. ‘Nearly time.’
‘Karsa, please-’
‘Will you witness?’
‘Do I have to?’
He studied her for a moment, and then his next words shocked her to the core of her soul: ‘I need you, woman.’
Why?’ she demanded, suddenly close to tears.
‘To witness. To do what needs doing when the time comes.’ He drew a deep, satisfied breath, looking away, his chest swelling until she thought his ribs would creak. ‘I live for days like these,’ he said.
And now she did weep.
Grandness, promise, potential. Fallen One, must you so share out your pain?
‘Women always get weak once a month, don’t they?’
‘Go to Hood, bastard.’
‘And quick to anger, too.’
She was on her feet. Pounding a fist into his solid chest.
Five times, six-he caught her wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but stopping those swings as if a manacle had snapped tight.
She glared up at him.
And he was, for his sake, not smiling.
Her fist opened and she found herself almost physically pulled up and into his eyes-seeing them, it seemed, for the first time. Their immeasurable depth, their bright ferocity and joy.
Karsa Orlong nodded. ‘Better, Samar Dev.’
‘You patronizing shit.’
He released her arm. ‘I learn more each day about women. Because of you.’
‘You still have a lot to learn, Karsa Orlong,’ she said, turning away and wiping at her cheeks.
‘Yes, and that is a journey I will enjoy.’