The Malazan Empire, page 430
Brys said nothing. He waited, standing at the old man’s side, seeing the night sky reflected in the twin lenses in front of Kuru Qan’s eyes. Wondering what the Ceda was thinking.
Tehol Beddict smiled as she threaded her way through the crowd toward him. ‘Chief Investigator Rucket, I am delighted to see you again.’
‘No you’re not,’ she replied. ‘You’re just trying to put me on the defensive.’
‘How does my delight make you defensive?’
‘Because I get suspicious, that’s why. You’re not fooling me, with those absurd trousers and that idiotic insect on your shoulder.’
Tehol looked down in surprise. ‘Ezgara! I thought I left you on the roof.’
‘You’ve named him Ezgara? He doesn’t look a thing like our king. Oh, maybe if our king had two heads, then I might see the resemblance, but as it stands, that’s a stupid name.’
‘The three of us are deeply offended, as is my bodyguard here and, one must assume, his two brothers wherever they are. Thus, the six of us. Deeply offended.’
‘Where is Bugg?’
‘Somewhere in that crowd behind you, I suppose.’
‘Well, no. They’re all looking.’
‘Oh, he was there a moment ago.’
‘But he isn’t any longer, and the people are clamouring.’
‘No they aren’t, Rucket. They’re milling.’
‘Now you’re challenging my assessment. Concluding, no doubt, that contrariness is sexually attractive. Maybe for some women it is, the kind you prefer, I’d wager. But I take exception to your taking exception to everything I say.’
‘Now who’s being contrary?’
She scowled. ‘I was intending to invite you to a late night bite. There is a courtyard restaurant not far from here—’
‘The Trampled Peacock.’
‘Why, yes. I am dismayed that you are familiar with it. Suggesting to me, for obvious reasons, that clandestine trysts are common with you, further suggesting a certain cheapness and slatternly behaviour on your part. I don’t know why I am surprised that you’re so loose, actually. I should have expected it. Accordingly, I want nothing to do with you.’
‘I’ve never been there.’
‘You haven’t? Then how do you know of it?’
I own it. ‘Reputation, I imagine. I wish I could be more precise. Who said what and when and all that, but it’s late and even if it wasn’t I’d probably not recall such details.’
‘So, are you hungry?’
‘Always. Oh, here’s my manservant. Did you hear, Bugg? Chief Investigator Rucket has invited us to supper.’
‘Well, the cat can wait.’
Rucket glared at Tehol. ‘Who said anything about him?’
‘I go everywhere with my manservant, Rucket. And my bodyguard.’
‘Everywhere? Even on dates?’
‘Bugg,’ Tehol said, ‘have you done all you can here? Is it time to let these poor people sleep?’
‘Well past time, master.’
‘We’re off to the Trampled Peacock!’
‘Is that such a good idea, master?’
‘Well, it wasn’t mine, Bugg, but there it is. Please, Rucket, lead the way.’
‘Oh, wonderful. I look forward to a night of weathering attacks on my vanity. Come now, all of you, we’re wasting time.’
Tehol threw up his hands as soon as they entered the courtyard. ‘Extraordinary! Bugg, look who’s here! Why, it’s Shand and Rissarh and Hejun! Come, let us put two tables together and so make of this a festive gathering of co-conspirators!’
‘The coincidence leaves me awed,’ the manservant said.
‘Who in the Errant’s name are those women?’ Rucket demanded. ‘And why are they all so angry?’
‘That’s not anger,’ Tehol said, approaching, ‘that’s recognition. Dear women, how are you all? Faring well, I see. We’ve decided to join you.’
‘Who is this absurd creature at your side?’ Shand asked. ‘And what’s with the cape?’
‘Watch who you’re calling a creature, cobble-head,’ Rucket hissed.
‘Tehol’s found a woman,’ Rissarh said in a snarl. ‘Typical. He steals our man then gets himself a woman—’
Hejun grunted. ‘I was beginning to suspect him and the dead bitch.’
‘Dead bitch?’ Rucket’s eyes were wild as she looked round. ‘He makes love to a dead bitch?’
‘One freak accident—’ Tehol began.
‘If you shaved your head,’ Shand said to Rucket, sputtering with rage, ‘we’d all see how truly ugly you are!’
The guard was looking alarmed. People at other tables gestured madly at the serving staff.
‘Worked hard on that one, did you?’ Rucket asked. ‘Tehol, what’s all this about stealing their man? They were sharing one man? Is he still alive? Still sane? Did he volunteer at the Drownings?’
‘You want to see me work hard?’ Shand rose to her feet, reaching for the knife at her side.
‘Oh, how pathetic,’ Rucket said. ‘Here, compare that with my rapier here.’
‘Get her!’ This from Rissarh, as she launched herself across the table. It collapsed beneath her a moment later, but she had managed to wrap her arms about Rucket’s thighs. The Chief Investigator made a strange squealing sound as she was pulled over. The rapier sprang free and slapped hard against Shand’s out-thrust wrist, sending the knife spinning. Hejun then snagged Rucket’s sword-arm and twisted the weapon loose. A finely polished boot shot up to strike Hejun in the belly. She groaned and sagged.
Tehol pulled Bugg back a step. ‘I think you were right about this not being a good idea.’
Grunts, meaty thuds and flying fists. Fleeing patrons, the yowl of a cat in the kitchen.
Tehol sighed. ‘We should go. But first, arrange with the manager four bottles of fine wine, for when they’re finished beating on each other. I predict that by dawn they will all be fast friends.’
‘I’m not sure of that—’
‘Nonsense, Bugg, it’s the way of things. Come on, before they turn on us.’
Not surprisingly, the bodyguard led the way out of the courtyard.
Outside, Tehol brushed imaginary dust from his hands. ‘All in all, a fine evening, wouldn’t you say? Now, we should see if we can scrounge some firewood—or at least something that burns—on our way home. Roast cat beckons.’
The crashing sounds from the restaurant courtyard suddenly increased.
Tehol hesitated. ‘I’m tempted by the sounds of firewood production in there.’
‘Don’t be a fool, master.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. Lead us on, Bugg. Home.’
Chapter Eighteen
Expectancy stands alone
And crowds the vast emptiness
This locked chest of a chamber
With its false floor the illusory
Dais on which, four-legged
carpentry of stretcher-
bearers, crouches the throne
Of tomorrow’s glory when
The hunters come down
From the cut-wood gloom
Stung hard to pursuit
The shadows of potentates
And pretenders but he holds
Fast, the privileged indifference
That is fruitless patience
Expectancy stands ever
Alone before this eternally
Empty, so very empty throne.
HOLD OF THE EMPTY THRONE
KERRULICT
Ashes swirling on all sides, the river a snake of sludge spreading its stain into the dead bay, the Nerek youth squatted at the edge of the sacred land. Behind him, the others sat round their precious hearth and continued arguing. The youth knew enough to wait.
Consecrated ground. They had huddled on it whilst the sorcerous storms raged, destroying the village of the Hiroth, flattening the forests around them, and the fires that burned for days afterwards could not lash them with their heat. And now the cinders had cooled, no more sparks danced in the wind, and the bloated bodies of dead wild animals that had crowded the river mouth had broken loose some time in the night just past, drawn out to the sea and the waiting sharks.
His knife-sharer came to his side and crouched down. ‘Their fear holds them back,’ he said, ‘and yet it is that very fear that will force them to accept. They have no choice.’
‘I know.’
‘When you first spoke of your dreams, I believed you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Our people have not dreamed since the Letherii conquered us. Our nights were empty, and we believed they would be so for all time, until the last Nerek died and we were no more a people. But I saw the truth in your eyes. We have shared the knife, you and I. I did not doubt.’
‘I know, brother.’
The eldest of the Nerek called out behind them, a voice harsh with anger, ‘It is decided. The two of you will go. By the old paths, to make your travel swift.’
Youth and knife-brother both rose and swung round.
The eldest nodded. ‘Go. Find Hull Beddict.’
The two Nerek stepped out into the gritty ash, and began the journey south. The birth of dreams had revealed once more the old paths, the ways through and between worlds. It would not take long.
Fear Sengar led him into a secluded glade, the sounds of the readied army distant and muted. As soon as Trull took his first stride into the clearing, his brother spun round. Forearm hard against his throat, weight driving him back until he struck the bole of a tree, where Fear held him.
‘You will be silent! No more of your doubts, not to anyone else and not to me. You are my brother, and that alone is why I have not killed you outright. Are you hearing me, Trull?’
He was having trouble breathing, yet he remained motionless, his eyes fixed on Fear’s.
‘Why do you not answer?’
Still he said nothing.
With a snarl Fear drew his arm away and stepped back.
‘Kill me, would you?’ Trull continued to lean against the tree. He smiled. ‘From behind, then? A knife, catching me unawares. Otherwise, brother, you would be hard-pressed.’
Fear looked away. Then nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘A knife in the back.’
‘Yes.’
‘Because, if I have my spear, it’s equally likely that you would be killed, not me.’
Fear glared at him, then the anger slowly drained from his eyes. ‘It must stop, Trull. We are about to go into battle—’
‘And you doubt my ability?’
‘No, only your willingness.’
‘Well, yes, you are right to doubt that. But I will do as you command. I will kill Letherii for you.’
‘For the emperor. For our people—’
‘No. For you, Fear. Otherwise, you would be well advised to question my ability. Indeed, to remove me from command. From this entire, absurd war. Send me away, to the northernmost villages of the Den-Ratha where there are likely to be a few thousand Edur who chose to remain behind.’
‘There are none such.’
‘Of course there are.’
‘A handful.’
‘More than you think. And yes, I have been tempted to join them.’
‘Rhulad would not permit it. He would have to kill you.’
‘I know.’
Fear began pacing. ‘The K’risnan. They said Rhulad was killed yesterday. In Trate. Then he returned. There can be no doubt, now, brother. Our emperor cannot be stopped. His power does naught but grow—’
‘You are seeing this wrong, Fear.’
He paused, looked over. ‘What do you mean?’
‘“Our emperor cannot be stopped.” I do not see it that way.’
‘All right. How do you see it, Trull?’
‘Our brother is doomed to die countless deaths. Die, rise, and die again. Our brother, Fear, the youngest among us. That is how I see it. And now, I am to embrace the power that has done this to Rhulad? I am to serve it? Lend it my skills with the spear? I am to carve an empire for it? Are his deaths without pain? Without horror? Is he not scarred? How long, Fear, can his sanity hold on? There he stands, a young warrior bedecked in a gold nightmare, his flesh puckered and mangled, and weapons shall pierce him—he knows it, he knows he will be killed again and again.’
‘Stop, Trull.’ Like a child, Fear placed his hands over his ears and turned away. ‘Stop.’
‘Who is doing this to him?’
‘Stop!’
Trull subsided. Tell me, brother, do you feel as helpless as I do?
Fear faced him once more, his expression hardening anew. ‘Voice your doubts if you must, Trull, but only to me. In private.’
‘Very well.’
‘Now, a battle awaits us.’
‘It does.’
A herd of deer had been startled from the forest fringe south of Katter River, darting and leaping as they fled across the killing field. On the earthen ramparts outside High Fort’s walls, Moroch Nevath stood beside his queen and his prince. Before them in a motionless row were arrayed the four sorcerors of Janall’s cadre, wrapped in cloaks against the morning chill, while to either side and along the length of the fortified berm waited the heavy infantry companies of the queen’s battalion. Flanking each company were massive wagons, and on each squatted a Dresh ballista, its magazine loaded with a thirty-six-quarrel rack. Spare racks waited nearby on the ramped loader, the heavily armoured crew gathered round, nervously scanning the line of woods to the north.
‘The Edur are moving down,’ Prince Quillas said. ‘We should see them soon.’
The deer had settled on the killing field and were grazing.
Moroch glanced to the lesser berm to the east. Two more companies were positioned there. The gap between the two ramparts was narrow and steep-sided, and led directly to a corner bastion on the city’s wall, where ballistae and mangonels commanded the approach.
The prince’s own mage cadre, three lesser sorcerors, were positioned with a small guard on the rampart immediately south of the Dry Gully, tucked in the angular indentation of High Fort’s walls. The old drainage course wound a path down from the minor range of hills a thousand paces to the north. Three additional ramparts ran parallel to the Dry Gully, on which were positioned the forward elements of the Grass Jackets Brigade. The easternmost and largest of these ramparts also held a stone-walled fort, and it was there that the brigade commanders had placed their own mage cadre.
Additional ramparts were situated in a circle around the rest of High Fort, and on these waited reserve elements of the brigades and battalions, including elements of heavy cavalry. Lining the city’s walls and bastions was High Fort’s own garrison.
To Moroch’s thinking, this imminent battle would be decisive. The treachery of the Edur that had been revealed at Trate would not be repeated here, not with eleven sorcerors present among the Letherii forces.
‘Wraiths!’
The shout came from one of the queen’s officers, and Moroch Nevath returned his attention to the distant treeline.
The deer had lifted their heads, were staring fixedly at the forest edge. A moment later they bolted once more, this time in a southwest direction, reaching the loggers’ road, down which they bounded until lost in the mists.
On the other side of the killing field—pasture in peaceful times—shadows were flowing out from between the boles, vaguely man-shaped, drawing up into a thick mass that then stretched out into a rough line, three hundred paces long and scores deep. Behind them came huge, lumbering demons, near twice the height of a man, perhaps a hundred in all, that assembled into a wedge behind the line of wraiths. Finally, to either side, appeared warriors, Tiste Edur to the right of the wedge, and a horde of small, fur-clad savages on the far left.
‘Who are they?’ Prince Quillas asked. ‘Those on the far flank—they are not Edur.’
The queen shrugged. ‘Some lost band of Nerek, perhaps. I would judge a thousand, no more than that, and poorly armed and armoured.’
‘Fodder,’ Moroch said. ‘The Edur have learned much from us, it seems.’
A similar formation was assembling north of the lesser berm, although there both flanking forces were Tiste Edur.
‘The wraiths will charge first,’ Moroch predicted, ‘with the demons behind them seeking to break our lines. And there, signal flags from the Grass Jackets. They have no doubt sighted their own enemy ranks.’
‘Were you the Edur commander,’ Quillas said, ‘what would you do? The attack cannot be as straightforward as it now seems, can it?’
‘If the commander is a fool, it can,’ Janall said.
‘The sorcery will prove mutually negating, as it always does. Thus, the battle shall be blade against blade.’ Moroch thought for a moment, then said, ‘I would make use of the Dry Gully. And seek a sudden charge against your mage cadre, Prince.’
‘They would become visible—and vulnerable—for the last fifty or sixty paces of the charge, Finadd. The bastions will slaughter them, and if not them, then the westernmost company of the Grass Jackets can mount a downslope charge into their flank.’
‘Thus leaving their rampart under-defended. Use the Dry Gully as a feint, and a reserve force to then rush the rampart and seize it.’
‘That rampart crouches in the shadow of High Fort’s largest bastion tower, Finadd. The Edur would be slaughtered by the answering enfilade.’
After a moment, Moroch nodded. ‘It is as you say, Prince. I admit, I see nothing advantageous to the Tiste Edur.’
‘I agree,’ Prince Quillas said.
‘Strangely quiet,’ Moroch mused after a time as the enemy forces assembled.
‘It’s the wraiths and demons, Finadd. No soldiers like thinking of those.’
‘The mages will annihilate them,’ Janall pronounced. She was dressed in elaborate armour, her helm filigreed in silver and gold. Her sword was the finest Letherii steel, but the grip was bound gold wire and the pommel a cluster of pearls set in silver. Beadwork covered her tabard. Beneath, Moroch knew, was steel scale. He did not think she would find need to draw her sword. Even so…The Finadd swung about and gestured to an aide, whom he then drew to one side. ‘Ready the queen’s horses, in the south lee of the west bastion.’
