The Malazan Empire, page 428
‘How can you tell?’ Bugg asked.
‘Well, it’s reversed direction, hasn’t it? That must be startling, I would imagine.’
‘You know, master, it was a curio—I didn’t think you would make it a pet.’
‘That’s because you’re devoid of sentiment, Bugg. Whereas Ezgara here is doubly—’
‘Ovoid?’
‘Charmingly so.’ Tehol glanced over at the guard, who was staring back at him as was his wont. ‘And this man agrees. Or, if not him, then his brothers. Why, one let Ezgara crawl all over his face, and he didn’t even blink!’
‘How did Ezgara manage to get onto his face, master?’
‘And down the other’s jerkin, not a flinch. These are warm-hearted men, Bugg, look well upon them and learn.’
‘I shall, master.’
‘Now, did you enjoy your swim?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘A misstep, you say?’
‘I thought I heard someone whisper my name—’
‘Shurq Elalle?’
‘No.’
‘Harlest Eberict? Kettle? Chief Investigator Rucket? Champion Ormly?’
‘No.’
‘Might you have been imagining things?’
‘Quite possibly. For example, I believe I am being followed by rats.’
‘You probably are, Bugg. Maybe one of them whispered your name.’
‘An unpleasant notion, master.’
‘Yes it is. Do you think it pleases me that my manservant consorts with rats?’
‘Would you rather go hungry?’ Bugg reached under his shirt.
‘You haven’t!’
‘No, it’s cat,’ he said, withdrawing a small, skinned, headless and pawless carcass. ‘Canal flavoured, alas.’
‘Another gift from Rucket?’
‘No, oddly enough. The canal.’
‘Ugh.’
‘Smells fresh enough—’
‘What’s that wire trailing from it?’
The manservant lifted the carcass higher, then took the dangling wire between two fingers and followed it back until it vanished in the flesh. He tugged, then grunted.
‘What?’ Tehol asked.
‘The wire leads to a large, barbed hook.’
‘Oh.’
‘And the wire’s snapped at this end—I thought something broke my fall.’ He tore a small sliver of meat from one of the cat’s legs, broke it in two, then placed one piece at each end of the insect named Ezgara. It settled to feed. ‘Anyway, a quick rinse and we’re ahead by two, if not three meals. Quite a run of fortune, master, of late.’
‘Yes,’ Tehol mused. ‘Now I’m nervous. So, have you any news to tell me?’
‘Do you realize, master, that Gerun Eberict would have had to kill on average between ten and fifteen people a day in order to achieve his annual dividend? How does he find the time to do anything else?’
‘Perhaps he’s recruited thugs sharing his insane appetites.’
‘Indeed. Anyway, Shurq has disappeared—both Harlest and Ublala are distraught—’
‘Why Harlest?’
‘He had only Ublala to whom he could show off his new fangs and talons, and Ublala was less than impressed, so much so that he pushed Harlest into the sarcophagus and sealed him in.’
‘Poor Harlest.’
‘He adjusted quickly enough,’ said Bugg, ‘and now contemplates his dramatic resurrection—whenever it occurs.’
‘Disturbing news about Shurq Elalle.’
‘Why?’
‘It means she didn’t change her mind. It means she’s going to break into the Tolls Repository. Perhaps even this very night.’
Bugg glanced over at the guard. ‘Master…’
‘Oops, that was careless, wasn’t it?’ He rose and walked over. ‘He hears all, it’s true. My friend, we can at least agree on one thing, can’t we?’
The eyes flickered as the man stared at Tehol.
‘Any thief attempting the Repository is as good as dead, right?’ He smiled, then swung back to face his manservant.
Bugg began removing his wet clothes. ‘I believe I’ve caught a chill.’
‘The canal is notoriously noxious—’
‘No, from earlier, master. The Fifth Wing. I’ve managed to successfully shore up the foundations—’
‘Already? Why, that’s extraordinary.’
‘It is, isn’t it? In any case, it’s chilly in those tunnels…now.’
‘Dare I ask?’
Bugg stood naked, eyes on the faint stars overhead. ‘Best not, master.’
‘And what of the Fourth Wing?’
‘Well, that’s where my crews are working at the moment. A week, perhaps ten days. There’s an old drainage course beneath it. Rather than fight it, we’re installing a fired-clay conduit—’
‘A sewage pipe.’
‘In the trade, it’s a fired-clay conduit.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Which we’ll then pack with gravel. I don’t know why Grum didn’t do that in the first place, but it’s his loss and our gain.’
‘Are you dry yet, Bugg? Please say you’re dry. Look at our guard here, he’s horrified. Speechless.’
‘I can tell, and I apologize.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many scars on one person,’ Tehol said. ‘What do you do in your spare time, Bugg, wrestle angry cacti?’
‘I don’t understand. Why would they have to be angry?’
‘Wouldn’t you be if you attacked you for no reason? Hey, that’s a question I could ask our guard here, isn’t it?’
‘Only if he—or they—were similarly afflicted, master.’
‘Good point. And he’d have to take his clothes off for us to find out.’
‘Not likely.’
‘No. Now, Bugg, here’s my shirt. Put it on, and be thankful for the sacrifices I make on your behalf.’
‘Thank you, master.’
‘Good. Ready? It’s time to go.’
‘Where?’
‘Familiar territory for you, or so I was surprised to discover. You are a man of many mysteries, Bugg. Occasional priest, healer, the Waiting Man, consorter with demons and worse. Were I not so self-centred, I’d be intrigued.’
‘I am ever grateful for your self-centredness, master.’
‘That’s only right, Bugg. Now, presumably, our silent bodyguard will be accompanying us. Thus, we three. Marching purposefully off into the night. Shall we?’
Into the maze of shanties on the east side of Letheras. The night air was hot, redolent and turgid. Things skittered through the heaps of rotting rubbish, wild dogs slunk through shadows in ill-tempered packs looking for trouble—threatening enough to cause the bodyguard to draw his sword. Sight of the bared blade was enough to send the beasts scampering.
Those few homeless indigents brave or desperate enough to risk the dangers of the alleys and streets had used rubbish to build barricades and hovels. Others had begged for space on the sagging roofs of creaky huts and slept fitfully or not at all. Tehol could feel countless pairs of eyes looking down upon them, tracking their passage deeper into the heart of the ghetto.
As they walked, Tehol spoke. ‘…the assumption is the foundation stone of Letherii society, perhaps all societies the world over. The notion of inequity, my friends. For from inequity derives the concept of value, whether measured by money or the countless other means of gauging human worth. Simply put, there resides in all of us the unchallenged belief that the poor and the starving are in some way deserving of their fate. In other words, there will always be poor people. A truism to grant structure to the continual task of comparison, the establishment through observation of not our mutual similarities, but our essential differences.
‘I know what you’re thinking, to which I have no choice but to challenge you both. Like this. Imagine walking down this street, doling out coins by the thousands. Until everyone here is in possession of vast wealth. A solution? No, you say, because among these suddenly rich folk there will be perhaps a majority who will prove wasteful, profligate and foolish, and before long they will be poor once again. Besides, if wealth were distributed in such a fashion, the coins themselves would lose all value—they would cease being useful. And without such utility, the entire social structure we love so dearly would collapse.
‘Ah, but to that I say, so what? There are other ways of measuring self-worth. To which you both heatedly reply: with no value applicable to labour, all sense of worth vanishes! And in answer to that I simply smile and shake my head. Labour and its product become the negotiable commodities. But wait, you object, then value sneaks in after all! Because a man who makes bricks cannot be equated with, say, a man who paints portraits. Material is inherently value-laden, on the basis of our need to assert comparison—but ah, was I not challenging the very assumption that one must proceed with such intricate structures of value?
‘And so you ask, what’s your point, Tehol? To which I reply with a shrug. Did I say my discourse was a valuable means of using this time? I did not. No, you assumed it was. Thus proving my point!’
‘I’m sorry, master,’ Bugg said, ‘but what was that point again?’
‘I forget. But we’ve arrived. Behold, gentlemen, the poor.’
They stood at the edge of an old market round, now a mass of squalid shelters seething with humanity. A few communal hearths smouldered. The area was ringed in rubbish—mostly dog and cat bones—which was crawling with rats. Children wandered in the dazed, lost fashion of the malnourished. Newborns lay swaddled and virtually unattended. Voices rose in arguments and somewhere on the opposite side was a fight of some sort. Mixed-bloods, Nerek, Faraed, Tarthenal, even the odd Fent. A few Letherii as well, escapees from Indebtedness.
Bugg looked on in silence for a half-dozen heartbeats, then said, ‘Master, transporting them out to the Isles won’t solve anything.’
‘No?’
‘These are broken spirits.’
‘Beyond hope of recovery?’
‘Well, that depends on how paternalistic you intend to be, master. The rigours of past lifestyles are beyond these people. We’re a generation or more too late. They’ve not old skills to fall back on, and as a community this one is intrinsically flawed. It breeds violence and neglect and little else.’
‘I know what you’re saying, Bugg. You’re saying you’ve had better nights and the timing wasn’t good, not good at all. You’re miserable, you’ve got a chill, you should be in bed.’
‘Thank you, master. I was wondering myself.’
‘Your issue of paternalism has some merit, I admit,’ Tehol said, hands on hips as he studied the grubby shanty-town. ‘That is to say, you have a point. In any case, doom is about to sweep through this sad place. Lether is at war, Bugg. There will be…recruitment drives.’
‘Press-ganging,’ the manservant said, nodding morosely.
‘Yes, all that malignant violence put to good use. Of course, such poor soldiers will be employed as fodder. A harsh solution to this perennial problem, admittedly, but one with long precedent.’
‘So, what have you planned, master?’
‘The challenge facing myself and the sharp minds of the Rat Catchers’ Guild, was, as you have observed, how does one reshape an entire society? How does one convert this impressive example of the instinct to survive into a communally positive force? Clearly, we needed to follow a well-established, highly successful social structure as our inspiration—’
‘Rats.’
‘Well done, Bugg. I knew I could count on you. Thus, we began with recognizing the need for a leader. Powerful, dynamic, charismatic, dangerous.’
‘A criminal mastermind with plenty of thugs to enforce his or her will.’
Tehol frowned. ‘Your choice of words disappoints me, Bugg.’
‘You?’
‘Me? Of course not. Well, not directly, that is. A truly successful leader is a reluctant leader. Not one whose every word is greeted with frenzied cheering either—after all, what happens to the mind of such a leader, after such scenes are repeated again and again? A growing certainty, a belief in one’s own infallibility, and onward goes the march into disaster. No, Bugg, I won’t have anyone kissing my feet—’
‘I’m relieved to hear that, master, since those feet have not known soap in a long, long time.’
‘The body eventually resumes its own natural cleansing mechanisms, Bugg.’
‘Like shedding?’
‘Exactly. In any case, I was speaking of leadership in a general sort of way—’
‘Who, master?’
‘Why, the Waiting Man, of course. Occasional priest, healer, consorter with demons…’
‘That’s probably not such a good idea, master,’ Bugg said, rubbing his bristled jaw. ‘I am rather…busy at the moment.’
‘A leader should be busy. Distracted. Preoccupied. Prepared to delegate.’
‘Master, I really don’t think this is a good idea. Really.’
‘Perfectly reluctant, perfect! And look! You’ve been noticed! See those hopeful faces—’
‘That’s hunger, master.’
‘For salvation! Word’s gone out, you see. They’re ready for you, Bugg. They’ve been waiting…’
‘This is very bad, master.’
‘Your expression is perfect, Bugg. Sickly and wan with dismay, deeply troubled and nervous, yes indeed. I couldn’t have managed better myself.’
‘Master—’
‘Go out among your flock, Bugg. Tell them—they’re leaving. Tomorrow night. All of them. A better place, a better life awaits them. Go on, Bugg.’
‘As long as no-one worships me,’ the manservant replied. ‘I don’t like being worshipped.’
‘Just stay fallible,’ Tehol said.
Bugg cast him a strange look, then he walked into the shanty-town.
‘Thank you for coming, Brys.’
Kuru Qan was sitting in the thickly padded chair near the wall opposite the library’s entrance. Polished lenses and cloth in his hands, cleaning one lens then the other, then repeating the gesture, again and again. His eyes were fixed on nothing visible to Brys.
‘More news from Trate, Ceda?’
‘Something, yes, but we will discuss that later. In any case, we must consider the city lost.’
‘Occupied.’
‘Yes. Another battle is imminent, at High Fort.’
‘The queen and the prince have withdrawn their forces, then? I understood they were seeking the pass.’
‘Too late. The Edur had already made crossing.’
‘Will you contribute to the defence?’ Brys asked, striding into the small room and settling down on the bench to the Ceda’s left.
‘No.’
Surprised, Brys said nothing. He had been in the company of the king and Unnutal Hebaz for most of the evening, studying the detected movements of the enemy armies, immersed in the painful exercise of trying to predict the nature of his brother Hull’s advice to the Edur emperor. Clearly, Hull had anticipated the pre-emptive attack on the villages. To Brys’s mind, the rabid display of greed from the camps of the queen and the prince had tipped their hand. Janall, Quillas and their investors had already begun dividing up the potential spoils, which made clear their desire for a quick war, one that devastated the Tiste Edur, and that meant catching them unawares. Janall’s march for the pass had indicated no change in her thinking. Yet now she had retreated.
The Tiste Edur had stolen the initiative. The appearance above High Fort, the surrender of Fent Reach and the fall of Trate indicated at least two enemy armies, as well as two fleets, all moving fast.
‘Ceda, have you learned anything more of the demon that entered Trate harbour?’
‘The danger is not singular, but plural,’ Kuru Qan said. ‘I see before me the Cedance, and have learned, to my horror, that it is…incomplete.’
‘Incomplete? What do you mean?’
The Ceda continued cleaning the lenses in his hands. ‘I must needs conserve my power, until the appropriate time. The seas must be freed. It is as simple as that.’
Brys waited, then, when Kuru Qan said no more, he ventured, ‘Do you have a task for me, Ceda?’
‘I would counsel a withdrawal from High Fort, but the king would not agree to that, would he?’
Brys shook his head. ‘Your assessment is accurate. Even a disaster would be seen to have…benefits.’
‘The elimination of his wife and son, yes. A tragic state of affairs, wouldn’t you say, my young friend? The heart of the Cedance, I have come to realize, can be found in a systemic denial. And from that heart, all else is derived. Our very way of life and of seeing the world. We send soldiers to their deaths and how do we see those deaths? As glorious sacrifices. The enemy dead? As the victims of our honourable righteousness. Whilst in our cities, in the narrow, foul alleys, a life that ends is but tragic failure. What, then, is the denial whereof I speak?’
‘Death.’
Kuru Qan placed the lenses once more before his eyes and peered at Brys. ‘You see, then. I knew you would. Brys, there is no Hold of Death. Your task? Naught but keeping an old man company on this night.’
The King’s Champion rubbed at his face. His eyes felt full of grit, and he was unaccountably chilled. He was, he realized, exhausted.
‘Our manic accumulation of wealth,’ Kuru Qan went on. ‘Our headlong progress, as if motion was purpose and purpose inherently virtuous. Our lack of compassion, which we called being realistic. The extremity of our judgements, our self-righteousness—all a flight from death, Brys. All a vast denial smothered in semantics and euphemisms. Bravery and sacrifice, pathos and failure, as if life is a contest to be won or lost. As if death is the arbiter of meaning, the moment of final judgement, and above all else judgement is a thing to be delivered, not delivered unto.’
‘Would you rather we worship death, Ceda?’
‘Equally pointless. One needs no faith to die, one dies none the less. I spoke of systemic denial, and it is indeed and in every way systemic. The very fabric of our world, here in Lether and perhaps elsewhere, has been twisted round that…absence. There should be a Hold of Death, do you understand? Relevant? The only relevance. It must have existed, once. Perhaps even a god, some ghastly skeleton on a throne of bones, a spin and dance of cold-legged flies for a crown. Yet here we are, and we have given it no face, no shape, no position in our elaborate scheme of existence.’
