The Malazan Empire, page 394
A child named Feather Witch. As if a witch from the distant past, awkwardly dressed, stiff and mannered as all outdated things appear to be, had stepped out from the histories. Womb-chosen caster of the tiles, who practised her arts of divination for the service of her community, rather than for the coins in a leather pouch. Perhaps the name had lost its meaning among these slaves. Perhaps there were no old tiles to be found, no solemn nights when fates gathered into a smudged, crack-laced path, the dread mosaic of destiny set out before one and all—with a hood-eyed woman-child overseeing the frightful ritual.
She heard the crunch of stones from near the river mouth and turned to see a male slave crouching down at the waterline. He thrust his hands into the cold, fresh water as if seeking absolution, or ice-numbing escape.
Curious, Seren Pedac walked over.
The glance he cast at her was guarded, diffident. ‘Acquitor,’ he said, ‘these are fraught hours among the Edur. Words are best left unspoken.’
‘We are not Edur, however,’ she replied, ‘are we?’
He withdrew his hands, and she saw that they were red and swollen. ‘Emurlahn bleeds from the ground in these lands, Acquitor.’
‘None the less, we are Letherii.’
His grin was wry. ‘Acquitor, I am a slave.’
‘I have been thinking on that. Slavery. And freedom from debt. How do you weigh the exchange?’
He settled back on his haunches, water dripping from his hands, and seemed to study the clear water swirling past. The rain had fallen off and mist was edging out from the forest. ‘The debt remains, Acquitor. It governs every Letherii slave among the Edur, yet it is a debt that can never be repaid.’
She stared down at him, shocked. ‘But that is madness!’
He smiled once more. ‘By such things we are all measured. Why did you imagine that mere slavery would change it?’
Seren was silent for a time, studying the man crouched at the edge of the flowing water. Not at all unhandsome, yet, now that she knew, she could see his indebtedness, the sure burden upon him, and the truth that, for him, for every child he might sire, there would be no absolving the stigma. It was brutal. It was…Letherii. ‘There is a slave,’ she said, ‘who is named Feather Witch.’
He seemed to wince. ‘Yes, our resident caster of the tiles.’
‘Ah. I had wondered. How many generations has that woman’s family dwelt as a slave among the Edur?’
‘A score, perhaps.’
‘Yet the talent persisted? Within this world of Kurald Emurlahn? That is extraordinary.’
‘Is it?’ He shrugged and rose. ‘When you and your companions are guest to Hannan Mosag this night, Feather Witch will cast.’
Sudden chill rippled through Seren Pedac. She drew a deep breath and released it slow and heavy. ‘There is…risk, doing such a thing.’
‘That is known, Acquitor.’
‘Yes, I see now that it would be.’
‘I must return to my tasks,’ he said, not meeting her eyes.
‘Of course. I hope my delaying you does not yield grief.’
He smiled yet again, but said nothing.
She watched him walk up the strand.
Buruk the Pale stood wrapped in his rain cape before the Nerek fire. Hull Beddict was nearby, positioned slightly behind the merchant, hooded and withdrawn.
Seren walked to Buruk’s side, studied the struggling flames from which smoke rose to hang smeared, stretched and motionless above them. The night’s chill had seeped into the Acquitor’s bones and the muscles of her neck had tightened in response. A headache was building behind her eyes.
‘Seren Pedac,’ Buruk sighed. ‘I am unwell.’
She heard as much in his weak, shaky voice. ‘You ran long and far,’ she said.
‘Only to find myself standing still, here before a sickly fire. I am not so foolish as to be unaware of my crimes.’
Hull grunted behind them. ‘Would those be crimes already committed, or those to come, Buruk the Pale?’
‘The distinction is without meaning,’ the merchant replied. ‘Tonight,’ he said, straightening himself, ‘we shall be made guests of Hannan Mosag. Are you both ready?’
‘The formality,’ Seren said, ‘is the least of what this meeting portends, Buruk. The Warlock King intends to make his position unambiguous. We will hear a warning, which we are expected to deliver to the delegation when it arrives.’
‘Intentions are similarly without relevance, Acquitor. I am without expectations, whereas one of us three is consumed by nothing else. Rehearsed statements, dire pronouncements, all await this fell visit.’ Buruk swung his head to regard Hull Beddict. ‘You still think like a child, don’t you? Clay figurines sunk to their ankles in the sand, one here, one there, standing just so. One says this, the other says that, then you reach down and rearrange them accordingly. Scenes, vistas, stark with certainty. Poor Hull Beddict, who took a knife to his heart so long ago that he twists daily to confirm it’s still there.’
‘If you would see me as a child,’ the huge man said in growl, ‘that is your error, not mine, Buruk.’
‘A gentle warning,’ the merchant replied, ‘that you are not among children.’
Buruk then gestured them to follow and made his way towards the citadel.
Falling in step beside Hull—with the merchant a half-dozen paces ahead, barely visible in the dark—Seren asked, ‘Have you met this Hannan Mosag?’
‘I have been guest here before, Seren.’
‘Of the Warlock King’s?’
‘No, of the Sengar household. Close to the royal blood, the eldest son, Fear Sengar, is Hannan Mosag’s Marshal of War—not his actual title, but it serves well as translation.’
Seren considered this for a moment, then frowned and said, ‘You anticipate, then, that friends will be present tonight.’
‘I had, but it is not to be. None of the Sengar barring the patriarch, Tomad, and his wife are in the village. The sons have left.’
‘Left? Where?’
Hull shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It is…odd. I have to assume Fear and his brothers will be back in time for the treaty meeting.’
‘Is the Warlock King aware of the blood-ties you have bound with Binadas Sengar?’
‘Of course.’
Buruk the Pale had reached the bridge leading to the inner ward. The mists had thickened into fog, obscuring the world surrounding the three Letherii. There was no-one else in sight, nor any sound beyond the crunch of their feet on the pebbled path. The massive bulk of the citadel rose before them.
The broad, arched entranceway was lurid with firelight.
‘He has no guards,’ Seren murmured.
‘None that can be seen,’ Hull Beddict replied.
Buruk climbed the two shallow steps to the landing, paused to release the clasps of his cape, then strode inside. A moment later Seren and Hull followed.
The long hall was virtually empty. The feast table was a much smaller version than what normally occupied the centre axis of the room, as evinced by the wear patterns on the vast rug covering the wood-slatted floor. And off to the right, Seren saw, stood that table, pushed flush against the tapestry-lined wall.
Near the far end of the chamber, the modest feast table had been positioned crossways, with three high-backed chairs awaiting the Letherii on this side. Opposite them sat the Warlock King, already well into his meal. Five Edur warriors stood in shadows behind Hannan Mosag, motionless.
They must be the K’risnan. Sorcerors…they look young.
The Warlock King waited until they had divested themselves of their outer clothing, then gestured them forward, and said in passable Letherii, ‘Join me, please. I dislike cold food, so here you see me, rudely filling my belly.’
Buruk the Pale bowed from the waist, then said, ‘I did not think we were late, sire—’
‘You’re not, but I am not one for formality. Indeed, I am often tried by mere courtesy. Forgive, if you will, this king’s impatience.’
‘Appetites care little for demands of decorum, sire,’ Buruk said, approaching.
‘I was confident a Letherii would understand. Now,’ he suddenly rose, the gesture halting the three in their tracks, ‘I proclaim as my guests Buruk the Pale, Acquitor Seren Pedac and Sentinel Hull Beddict. Seat yourselves, please. I only devour what my cooks prepare for me.’
His was a voice one could listen to, hours passing without notice, discomforts forgotten. Hannan Mosag was, Seren realized, a very dangerous king.
Buruk the Pale took the central seat, Seren moving to the one on the merchant’s left, Hull to the right. As they settled into the Blackwood chairs, the Warlock King sat down once more and reached for a goblet. ‘Wine from Trate,’ he said, ‘to honour my guests.’
‘Acquired through peaceful trade, one hopes,’ Buruk said.
‘Alas, I am afraid not,’ Hannan Mosag replied, glancing up almost diffidently into the merchant’s eyes, then away once more. ‘But we are all hardy folk here at this table, I’m sure.’
Buruk collected his goblet and sipped. He seemed to consider, then sighed, ‘Only slightly soured by provenance, sire.’
The Warlock King frowned. ‘I had assumed it was supposed to taste that way.’
‘Not surprising, sire, once one becomes used to it.’
‘The comfort that is familiarity, Buruk the Pale, proves a powerful arbiter once again.’
‘The Letherii often grow restless with familiarity, alas, and as a consequence often see it as a diminishment in quality.’
‘That is too complicated a notion, Buruk,’ Hannan Mosag said. ‘We’ve not yet drunk enough to dance with words, unless of course you eased your thirst back in your lodging, in which case I find myself at a disadvantage.’
Buruk reached for a sliver of smoked fish. ‘Horribly sober, I’m afraid. If disadvantage exists, then it belongs to us.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, sire, you honour us with blood-tainted wine, a most unbalancing gesture. More, we have received word of the slaughter of Letherii seal hunters. The blood has grown deep enough to drown us.’
It seemed Buruk the Pale was not interested in veiled exchanges. A curious tactic, Seren reflected, and one that, she suspected, King Ezgara Diskanar would not appreciate in the circumstances.
‘I am sure the few remaining kin of the butchered tusked seals would concur, tugged as they are in that fell tide,’ the Warlock King said in a musing sort of way.
‘Word has also reached us,’ Buruk continued, ‘of the ships’ return to Trate’s harbour. The holds that should have held the costly harvest were inexplicably empty.’
‘Empty? That was careless.’
Buruk leaned back in his chair, closing both hands about the goblet as he studied the dark contents.
Hull Beddict suddenly spoke. ‘Warlock King, I for one feel no displeasure in the resolution of that treacherous event. Those hunters defied long-established agreements, and so deserved their fate.’
‘Sentinel,’ Hannan Mosag said, a new seriousness to his tone, ‘I doubt their grieving kin would agree. Your words are cold. I am given to understand that the notion of debt is a pervasive force among your people. These hapless harvesters were likely Indebted, were they not? Their desperation preyed upon by masters as heartless in their sentiments as you have just been.’ He scanned the three Letherii before him. ‘Am I alone in my grief?’
‘The potential consequences of that slaughter promise yet more grief, sire,’ Buruk the Pale said.
‘And is that inevitable, merchant?’
Buruk blinked.
‘It is,’ Hull Beddict answered, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Warlock King, is there any doubt upon whom that grief should be visited? You spoke of cold masters, and yes, it is their blood that should have been spilled in this instance. Even so, they are masters only because the Indebted accept them as such. This is the poison of gold as the only measure of worth. Those harvesters are no less guilty for their desperation, sire. They are all participants in the same game.’
‘Hull Beddict,’ Buruk said, ‘speaks only for himself.’
‘Are we not all speaking only for ourselves?’ Hannan Mosag asked.
‘As desirable as that would be, sire, it would be a lie to make such claims—for myself, for you.’
The Warlock King pushed his plate away and leaned back. ‘And what of the Acquitor, then? She does not speak at all.’ Calm, soft eyes fixed on her. ‘You have escorted these men, Acquitor Seren Pedac.’
‘I have, sire,’ she replied, ‘and so my task is done.’
‘And in your silence you seek to absolve yourself of all to come of this meeting.’
‘Such is the role of Acquitor, sire.’
‘Unlike that of, say, Sentinel.’
Hull Beddict flinched, then said, ‘I ceased being Sentinel long ago, sire.’
‘Indeed? Then why, may I ask, are you here?’
‘He volunteered himself,’ Buruk answered. ‘It was not for me to turn him away.’
‘True. That responsibility, as I understand the matter, belonged to the Acquitor.’ Hannan Mosag studied her, waiting.
‘I did not feel compelled to deny Hull Beddict’s decision to accompany us, sire.’
‘Yes,’ the Warlock King replied. ‘Isn’t that curious?’
Sweat prickled beneath her damp clothes. ‘Permit me to correct myself, sire. I did not believe I would succeed, had I attempted to deny Hull Beddict. And so I decided to maintain the illusion of my authority.’
Hannan Mosag’s sudden smile was profoundly disarming. ‘An honest reply. Well done, Acquitor. You may now go.’
She rose shakily, bowed. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Warlock King.’
‘I reciprocate the sentiment, Acquitor. I would we speak later, you and I.’
‘I am at your call, sire.’
Not meeting the eyes of her fellow Letherii, Seren stepped round the chair, then made her way outside.
The Warlock King had denied her the burden of witnessing all that followed this night between himself, Hull and Buruk. On a personal level, it stung, but she knew that he might very well have just saved her life.
In any case, all that had needed to be said had been said. She wondered if Hull Beddict had understood that. There was no doubt that Buruk had.
We are sorely unbalanced, indeed. Hannan Mosag, the Warlock King, wants peace.
The rain had returned. She drew her cloak tighter about her shoulders.
Poor Hull.
Someone edged to his side. Udinaas glanced over to see Hulad, the familiar lined face drawn, troubled and wan. ‘Are you all right?’
Hulad shrugged. ‘I was remembering the last time she cast, Udinaas. My nerves are ruined this night.’
Udinaas said nothing. It was with some measure of surprise that he himself was not feeling something similar. Changes had come to him, that much was clear. Feather Witch, he’d heard, had felt the brunt of Mayen’s displeasure. It seemed Uruth’s fury with the Nerek blessing, while delivered with quiet brevity, had been harsh in its content. Subsequently, Mayen had taken a switch to her slave’s back.
Of course, when it came to dealing with slaves, justice was without meaning.
He watched her move to stand in the centre of the cleared area. There were more slaves crowding the vast barn than there had been the last time. Enticed by the fraught tales of the past casting, no doubt. Almost as good as the Drownings.
Feather Witch sat down on the hard-packed floor and everyone else quickly followed suit, moving with an alacrity that she herself was not able to match, bruised and battered as she was. Udinaas saw the strain in her movements, and wondered to what extent she blamed him for her suffering. Mayen was no harder a mistress than any other Edur. Beatings were mercifully uncommon—most egregious crimes committed by slaves were punished with swift death. If one was not going to kill a slave, what value incapacitating them?
The last casting had not proceeded so far as to the actual scattering of the tiles. The Wyval’s sudden arrival had torn Feather Witch from the realm of the manifest Holds. Udinaas felt the first tremors of anticipation in his chest.
Sudden silence as Feather Witch closed her eyes and lowered her head, her yellow hair closing over her face like twin curtains. She shuddered, then drew a deep, ragged breath, and looked up with empty eyes, in which the black smear of a starless night sky slowly grew, as from behind thinning fog, followed by spirals of luminous light.
The Beginnings swept upon her with its mask of terror, twisting her features into something primal and chilling. She was, Udinaas knew, gazing upon the Abyss, suspended in the vast oblivion of all that lay between the stars. There were no Makers yet, nor the worlds they would fashion.
And now the Fulcra. Fire, Dolmen and the Errant. The Errant, who gives shape to the Holds—
‘Walk with me to the Holds.’
The Letherii slaves loosed long-held breaths.
‘We stand upon Dolmen, and all is as it should be.’ Yet there was a strain to her voice. ‘To live is to wage war against the Abyss. In our growth we find conquest, in our stagnation we find ourselves under siege, and in our dying our last defences are assailed. These are the truths of the Beast Hold. Blade and Knuckles, the war we cannot escape. Age has clawed the face and gouged the eyes of the Elder. He is scarred and battle-ravaged. Crone cackles with bitter spit, and twitches with dreams of flight. Seer’s mouth moves yet there are none to hear. Shaman wails the weft of the dead in fields of bones, yet believes none of the patterns he fashions from those scattered remains. Tracker walks his steps assured and purposeful, to belie that he wanders lost.’
She fell silent.
Muttered voices from the crowd. This was a cold invitation into the Holds.
Errant guard us, we are in trouble. Dread trouble.
Hulad plucked at his arm, gestured to the far wall where shadows lay thick as muddy water. A figure stood there, back to the dirt-spattered plaster wall. The Acquitor. Seren Pedac.
