The Malazan Empire, page 389
‘What is it I am asked to do, First Eunuch?’
A faint shrug. ‘Awaken an Elder god.’
‘There is great flux in the composite. Is this relevant? I think not.’ Ceda Kuru Qan pushed his wire-bound lenses further up the bridge of his nose and peered at Brys. ‘This is a journey of the mind, King’s Champion, yet the risk to you is such that you might as well travel into the netherworld in truth. If your mind is slain, there is no return. Extreme necessity, alas; the king wills that you proceed.’
‘I did not imagine that there would be no danger, Ceda. Tell me, will my martial skills be applicable?’
‘Unknown. But you are young, quick-witted and resilient.’ He turned away and scanned the cluttered work-top behind him. ‘Great flux, alas. Leaving but one choice.’ He reached out and picked up a goblet. A pause, a dubious squint at its contents, then he took a cautious sip. ‘Ah! As suspected. The flux in the composite is due entirely to curdled milk. Brys Beddict, are you ready?’
The King’s Champion shrugged.
Kuru Qan nodded. ‘I was going to have you drink this.’
‘Curdled milk will not harm me,’ Brys said, taking the goblet from the Ceda. He quickly tossed it down, then set the silver cup on the table. ‘How long?’
‘For what?’
‘Until the potion takes effect.’
‘What potion? Come with me. We shall use the Cedance for this journey.’
Brys followed the old sorceror from the chamber. At the door he cast a glance back at the goblet. The mixture had tasted of citrus and sour goat’s milk; he could already feel it bubbling ominously in his stomach. ‘I must now assume there was no purpose to what I just drank.’
‘A repast. One of my experiments. I was hoping you’d enjoy it, but judging by your pallor it would seem that that was not the case.’
‘I’m afraid you are correct.’
‘Ah well, if it proves inimical you will no doubt bring it back up.’
‘That’s comforting knowledge, Ceda.’
The remainder of the journey to the palace depths was mercifully uneventful. Ceda Kuru Qan led Brys into the vast chamber where waited the tiles of the Holds. ‘We shall employ a tile of the Fulcra in this effort, King’s Champion. Dolmen.’
They walked out across the narrow causeway to the central disc. The massive tiles stretched out on all sides beneath them.
The roiling in Brys’s stomach had subsided somewhat. He waited for the Ceda to speak.
‘Some things are important. Others are not. Yet all would claim a mortal’s attention. It falls to each of us to remain ever mindful, and thus purchase wisdom in the threading of possibilities. It is our common failing, Brys Beddict, that we are guided by our indifference to eventualities. The moment pleases, the future can await consideration.
‘The old histories we brought with us from the First Empire recount similar failings. Rich ports at river mouths that were abandoned after three centuries, due to silting caused by the clearing of forests and poorly conceived irrigation methods. Ports that, were you to visit their ruins now, you would find a league or more inland of the present coast. The land crawls to the sea; it was ever thus. Even so, what we humans do can greatly accelerate the process.
‘Is all that relevant? Only partly, I admit. As I must perforce admit to many things, I admit to that. There are natural progressions that, when unveiled, are profoundly exemplary of the sheer vastness of antiquity. Beyond even the age of the existence of people, this world is very, very old, Brys Beddict.’ Kuru Qan gestured.
Brys looked down to where he had indicated, and saw the tile of the Dolmen. The carved and painted image depicted a single, tilted monolith half-buried in lifeless clay. The sky behind it was colourless and devoid of features.
‘Even seas are born only to one day die,’ Kuru Qan said. ‘Yet the land clings to its memory, and all that it has endured is clawed onto its visage. Conversely, at the very depths of the deepest ocean, you will find the traces of when it stood above the waves. It is this knowledge that we shall use, Brys.’
‘Nifadas was rather vague as to my task, Ceda. I am to awaken Mael, presumably to apprise the Elder god that it is being manipulated. But I am not a worshipper, nor is there a single Letherii who would claim otherwise for him or herself—why would Mael listen to me?’
‘I have no idea, Brys. You shall have to improvise.’
‘And if this god is truly and absolutely fallen, until it is little more than a mindless beast, then what?’
Kuru Qan blinked behind the lenses, and said nothing.
Brys shifted uneasily. ‘If my mind is all that shall make the journey, how will I appear to myself? Can I carry weapons?’
‘How you manifest your defences is entirely up to you, Finadd. Clearly, I anticipate you will find yourself as you are now. Armed and armoured. All conceit, of course, but that is not relevant. Shall we begin?’
‘Very well.’
Kuru Qan stepped forward, one arm snapping out to grasp Brys by his weapons harness. A savage, surprisingly powerful tug pitched him forward, headlong over the edge of the disc. Shouting in alarm, he flailed about, then plummeted down towards the tile of the Dolmen.
‘Even in the noblest of ventures, there’s the occasional stumble.’
Bugg’s eyes were flat, his lined face expressionless, as he stared steadily at Tehol without speaking.
‘Besides, it’s only a small failing, all things considered. As for myself, why, I am happy enough. Truly. Yours is the perfectly understandable disappointment and, dare I say it, a modest battering of confidence, that comes with an effort poorly conceived. No fault in the deed itself, I assure you.’ As proof he did a slow turn in front of his manservant. ‘See? The legs are indeed of matching length. I shall remain warm, no matter how cool the nights become. Granted, we don’t have cool nights. Sultry is best we can manage, I’ll grant you, but what’s a little sweat between…uh…the legs?’
‘That shade of grey and that tone of yellow are the worst combination I have ever attempted, master,’ Bugg said. ‘I grow nauseous just looking at you.’
‘But what has that to do with the trousers?’
‘Very little, admittedly. My concern is with principles, of course.’
‘Can’t argue with that. Now, tell me of the day’s doings, and hurry up, I’ve a midnight date with a dead woman.’
‘The extent of your desperation, master, never fails to astonish me.’
‘Did our favourite money-lender commit suicide as woefully anticipated?’
‘With nary a hitch.’
‘Barring the one by which he purportedly hung himself?’
‘As you say, but that was before fire tragically swept through his premises.’
‘And any word on Finadd Gerun Eberict’s reaction to all this?’
‘Decidedly despondent, master.’
‘But not unduly suspicious?’
‘Who can say? His agents have made inquiries, but more directly towards a search for a hidden cache of winnings, an attempt to recoup the loss and such. No such fortune, however, has surfaced.’
‘And it had better not. Eberict needs to swallow the loss entire, not that it was in truth a loss, only a denial of increased fortune. His primary investments remain intact, after all. Now, stop blathering, Bugg. I need to do some thinking.’ Tehol hitched up his trousers, wincing at Bugg’s sudden frown. ‘Must be losing weight,’ he muttered, then began pacing.
Four steps brought him to the roof’s edge. He wheeled and faced Bugg. ‘What’s that you’re wearing?’
‘It’s the latest fashion among masons and such.’
‘The Dusty Few.’
‘Exactly.’
‘A wide leather belt with plenty of loops and pouches.’
Bugg nodded.
‘Presumably,’ Tehol continued, ‘there are supposed to be tools and assorted instruments in those loops and pouches. Things a mason might use.’
‘Well, I run the company. I don’t use those things.’
‘But you need the belt.’
‘If I’m to be taken seriously, master, yes.’
‘Oh yes, that is important, isn’t it? Duly noted in expenses, I presume?’
‘Of course. That and the wooden hat.’
‘You mean one of those red bowl-shaped things?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So why aren’t you wearing it?’
‘I’m not working right now. Not as sole proprietor of Bugg’s Construction, anyway.’
‘Yet you’ve got the belt.’
‘It’s comforting, master. I suppose this must be what it’s like wearing a sword-belt. There’s something immensely reassuring about a solid weight on the hips.’
‘As if you were eternally duelling with your materials.’
‘Yes, master. Are you done with your thinking?’
‘I am.’
‘Good.’ Bugg unstrapped his belt and tossed it to the rooftop. ‘Makes my hips lopsided. I walk in circles.’
‘How about some herbal tea?’
‘I’d love some.’
‘Excellent.’
They stared at one another for a moment longer, then Bugg nodded and made his way to the ladder. As soon as his back was turned, Tehol tugged the trousers higher once more. Glancing down at the belt, he hesitated, then shook his head. That would be a presumption.
Bugg climbed down and out of sight. Tehol strode to his bed and settled down on the creaking frame. He stared up at the murky stars. A holiday festival was approaching, this one dedicated to the Errant, that eternally mysterious purveyor of chance, fateful circumstance and ill-chosen impulses. Or some such thing. Tehol was never certain. The Holds and their multitude of denizens were invented as dependable sources of blame for virtually anything, or so he suspected. Evading responsibility was a proclivity of the human species, it seemed.
There would be vast senseless celebration, in any case. Of something, perhaps nothing, and certainly involving everything. Frenzied wagers at the Special Drownings, in which the most notorious criminals would try to swim like swans. People who liked to be seen would make a point of being seen. Spectacle was an investment in worthy indolence, and indolence bespoke wealth. And meanwhile, housebound guards in empty estates would mutter and doze at their posts.
A scuffing sound from the gloom to his right. Tehol glanced over. ‘You’re early.’
Shurq Elalle stepped closer. ‘You said midnight.’
‘Which is at least two bells from now.’
‘Is it? Oh.’
Tehol sat up. ‘Well, you’re here. No point in sending you away. Even so, we’re not to visit Selush until a chime past midnight.’
‘We could go early.’
‘We could, although I’d rather not alarm her. She indicated she’d need lots of supplies, after all.’
‘What makes me worse than any other corpse?’
‘Other corpses don’t fight back, for one thing.’
The undead woman came closer. ‘Why would I feel compelled to resist? Is she not simply making me pretty?’
‘Of course. I was just making conversation. And how have you been, Shurq Elalle?’
‘The same.’
‘The same. Which is?’
‘I’ve been better. Still, many would call consistency a virtue. Those are extraordinary trousers.’
‘I agree. Not to everyone’s taste, alas—’
‘I have no taste.’
‘Ah. And is that a consequence of being dead, or a more generic self-admission?’
The flat, lifeless eyes, which had until now been evading direct contact, fixed on Tehol. ‘I was thinking…the night of Errant’s Festival.’
Tehol smiled. ‘You anticipate me, Shurq.’
‘There are sixteen guards on duty at all times, with an additional eight sleeping or gambling in the barracks, which is attached to the estate’s main house via a single covered walkway that is nineteen strides in length. All outer doors are double-barred. There are four guards stationed in cubbies at each corner of the roof, and wards skeined over every window. The estate walls are twice the height of a man.’
‘Sounds formidable.’
Shurq Elalle’s shrug elicited a wet-leather sound, though whether from her clothes or from somewhere else could not be determined.
Bugg reappeared, climbing one-handed, the other balancing a tray made from a crate lid. Two clay cups were on the tray, their contents steaming. He slowly edged onto the roof, then, glancing up and seeing the two of them, he halted in consternation. ‘My apologies. Shurq Elalle, greetings. Would you care for some tea?’
‘Don’t be absurd.’
‘Ah, yes. Thoughtless of me. Your pardon.’ Bugg walked over with the tray.
Tehol collected his cup and cautiously sniffed. Then he frowned at his manservant.
Who shrugged. ‘We don’t have no herbs, master. I had to improvise.’
‘With what? Sheep hide?’
Bugg’s brows rose. ‘Very close indeed. I had some leftover wool.’
‘The yellow or the grey?’
‘The grey.’
‘Well, that’s all right, then.’ He sipped. ‘Smooth.’
‘Yes, it would be.’
‘We’re not poisoning ourselves, are we?’
‘Only mildly, master.’
‘There are times,’ Shurq Elalle said, ‘when I regret being dead. This is not one of those times, however.’
The two men eyed her speculatively, sipping at their tea.
‘Ideally,’ she continued, ‘I would now clear my throat to cover this moment of awkwardness. But I am incapable of feeling any more awkward than is my normal state. Secondly, clearing my throat has unpleasant consequences.’
‘Ah, but Selush has devised a pump,’ Tehol said. ‘The operation will be, uh, not for the delicate. Even so, soon you shall exude the perfume of roses.’
‘And how will she manage that?’
‘With roses, I imagine.’
Shurq raised a thin brow. ‘I am to be stuffed with dried flowers?’
‘Well, not everywhere, of course.’
‘A practical question, Tehol Beddict. How am I to be stealthy if I crackle with every step I take?’
‘A good question. I suggest you bring that up with Selush.’
‘Along with everything else, it would seem. Shall I resume my account of the potential victim’s estate? I assume your manservant is trustworthy.’
‘Exceptionally so,’ Tehol replied. ‘Please continue.’
‘Finadd Gerun Eberict will be attending the Special Drownings, whereupon, at its conclusion, he will be a guest at an event hosted by Turudal Brizad—’
‘The Queen’s Consort?’
‘Yes. I once robbed him.’
‘Indeed! And what did you take?’
‘His virginity. We were very young—well, he was, anyway. This was long before he danced at the palace and so earned the interest of the queen.’
‘Now that’s an interesting detail. Were you his true love, if I may ask such a personal question?’
‘Turudal’s only love is for himself. As I said, he was younger and I the older. Of course, he’s now older than me, which is a curious fact. Somewhat curious, anyway. In any case, there was no shortage of men and women pursuing him even back then. I imagine he believed the conquest was his. Perhaps he still does. The measure of the perfect theft is when the victim remains blissfully unaware that he or she has been stolen from.’
‘I’d think,’ observed Bugg, ‘that Turudal Brizad did not regret his surrender.’
‘None the less,’ Shurq Elalle said. She was silent, then: ‘There is nothing in this world that cannot be stolen.’
‘And with that thought swirling like lanolin in our stomachs,’ Tehol said, setting his cup down, ‘you and I should take a walk, Shurq.’
‘How far to Selush’s?’
‘We can stretch it out. Thank you, dear Bugg, for the delightfully unique refreshment. Clean up around here, will you?’
‘If I’ve the time.’
Shurq hesitated. ‘Should I climb down the wall then shadow you unseen?’
Tehol frowned. ‘Only if you must. You could just draw that hood up and so achieve anonymity.’
‘Very well. I will meet you in the street, so that I am not seen exiting a house I never entered.’
‘There are still watchers spying on me?’
‘Probably not, but it pays to be cautious.’
‘Very good. I will see you in a moment, then.’
Tehol descended the ladder. The single room reeked of sheep sweat, and the heat from the hearth was fierce. He quickly made his way outside, turned right instead of left and came to what had once been a sort of unofficial mews, now cluttered with refuse and discarded building materials, the fronts facing onto it sealed by bricks or doors with their latches removed.
Shurq Elalle emerged from the shadows, her hood drawn about her face. ‘Tell me more about this Selush.’
They began walking, threading single file down a narrow lane to reach the street beyond. ‘A past associate of Bugg’s. Embalmers and other dealers of the dead are a kind of extended family, it seems. Constantly exchanging techniques and body parts. It’s quite an art, I gather. A body’s story can be unfurled from a vast host of details, to be read like a scroll.’
‘What value assembling a list of flaws when the subject is already dead?’
‘Morbid curiosity, I imagine. Or curious morbidity.’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘Never, Shurq Elalle. I have taken to heart your warnings on that.’
‘You, Tehol Beddict, are very dangerous to me. Yet I am drawn, as if you were intellectual white nectar. I thirst for the tension created by my struggle to avoid being too amused.’
‘Well, if Selush succeeds in what she intends, the risk associated with laughter will vanish, and you may chortle fearlessly.’
‘Even when I was alive, I never chortled. Nor do I expect to do so now that I am dead. But what you suggest invites…disappointment. A releasing of said tension, a dying of the sparks. I now fear getting depressed.’
‘The risk of achieving what you wish for,’ Tehol said, nodding as they reached Trench Canal and began to walk along its foul length. ‘I empathize, Shurq Elalle. It is a sore consequence to success.’
