The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 436
I hurt. But I can make others hurt. Enough so they answer each other, leaving…calm. Is that what it is? Calm? Or just some kind of hardening, senseless and cold.
‘All right, Iron Bars,’ she said. ‘Keep it away from me. Only,’ she looked down at him, ‘it doesn’t help. Nothing helps.’
‘Aye. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Not ever,’ she said. ‘I know, you’re thinking time will bring healing. But you see, Avowed, it’s something I keep reliving. Every moment. It wasn’t days ago. It was with my last breath, every last breath.’
She saw the compassion in his eyes and, inexplicably, hated him for it. ‘Let me think on that, lass.’
‘To what end?’
‘Can’t say, yet.’
She looked down at the sword in her hand, at the blood and snarled hair along the notched edge where it had struck the man’s head. Disgusting. But they’ll expect it to be wiped away. To make the iron clean and gleaming once more, as if it was nothing more than a sliver of metal. Disconnected from its deeds, its history, its very purpose. She didn’t want that mess cleaned away. She liked the sight of it.
They left the bodies where they had fallen. Left the lances impaled in flesh growing cold. Left the wagon, apart from the food they could transport—the refugees coming up on the road could have the rest. Among the dead were five youths, none of them older than fifteen years. They’d walked a short path, but as Halfpeck observed, it had been the wrong path, and that was that.
Seren pitied none of them.
Book Four
Midnight Tides
Kin mourn my passing, all love is dust
The pit is cut from the raw, stones piled to the side
Slabs are set upon the banks, the seamed grey wall rises
Possessions laid out to flank my place of rest
All from the village are drawn, beating hides
Keening their grief with streaks in ash
Clawed down their cheeks, wounds on their flesh
The memory of my life is surrendered
In fans of earth from wooden shovels
And were I ghostly here at the edge of the living
Witness to brothers and sisters unveiled by loss
Haunters of despair upon this rich sward
Where ancestors stand sentinel, wrapped in skins
I might settle motionless, eyes closed to dark’s rush
And embrace the spiral pull into indifference
Contemplating at the last, what it is to be pleased
Yet my flesh is warm, the blood neither still in my veins
Nor cold, my breathing joining this wind
That carries these false cries, I am banished
Alone among the crowd and no more to be seen
The stirrings of my life face their turned backs
The shudders of their will, and all love is dust
Where I now walk, to the pleasure of none
Cut raw, the stones piled, the grey wall rising.
BANISHED
KELLUN ADARA
Chapter Twenty
It seemed the night would never end during the war with the Sar Trell. Before the appearance of Our Great Emperor, Dessimbelackis, our legions were thrown back on the field of battle, again and again. Our sons and daughters wept blood on the green ground, and the wagon-drums of the enemy came forth in thunder. But no stains could hold upon our faith, and it shone ever fierce, ever defiant. We drew our ranks tall, overlapped shields polished and bright as the red sun, and the one among us who was needed, who was destined to grasp the splashed grip of the First Empire’s truthful sword, gave his voice and his strength to lead us in answer to the well-throated rumble of the Sar Trell warcries, the stone-tremble of their wagon-drums. Victory was destined, in the forge-lit eyes of He of the Seven Holy cities, the fever-charge of his will, and on that day, the Nineteenth in the Month of Leth-ara in the Year of Arenbal, the Sar Trell army was broken on the plain south of Yath-Ghatan, and with their bones was laid the foundation, and with their skulls the cobbles of Empire’s road…
THE DESSILAN
VILARA
Somewhere ahead, the Royal Colonnade of the Eternal Domicile. Arched, the hemispherical ceiling web-spun in gold on a midnight blue background, diamonds glittering like drops of dew in the streaming strands. The pillars flanking the aisle that led to the throne room were carved in a spiral pattern and painted sea-green, twenty to each side and three paces apart. The passageways between them and the wall were wide enough to permit an armoured palace guard to walk without fear of his scabbard scraping, while the approach down the centre aisle was ten men wide. At the outer end was a large chamber that served as a reception area. First Empire murals, copied so many times as to be stylized past meaning, had been painted on the walls. Traditional torch sconces held crystals imbued with sorcery that cast a faintly blue light. At the inward end stood two massive, bejewelled doors that led to a narrow, low passage, fifteen paces long, before opening out into the domed throne room proper.
The air smelled of marble dust and paint. The ceremonial investiture was three days away, when King Ezgara Diskanar in his robes of state would stride down the length of the Royal Colonnade and enter the throne room, his queen a step behind on his left, his son the prince two paces back and immediately behind his father. Or, rather, that was how it should have been.
A trail of servants and guards had led Brys here, following the seemingly random wanderings of Ceda Kuru Qan. The strange emptiness of the Eternal Domicile on this last stretch unnerved the Finadd, his boots echoing on the unadorned flagstones as he entered the reception chamber.
To find the Ceda on his hands and knees directly in front of him.
Kuru Qan was muttering to himself, tracing his fingertips along the joins in the floor. Beside him was a tattered, paint-spattered basket crowded with scribers, brushes and stoppered jars of pigments.
‘Ceda?’
The old man looked up, squinting over the tops of the lenses, the contraption having slid down to the end of his nose. ‘Brys Beddict? I’ve been wondering where you’ve been.’
‘In the throne room. The old throne room, where still resides our king. The surviving battalions and brigades are converging to the defence of Letheras. Things have been rather…hectic.’
‘No doubt. Relevant? Significantly so. Indeed, telling. Now, count the flagstones across this chamber. Width, then length, if you will.’
‘What? Ceda, the king is asking for you.’
But Kuru Qan had ceased listening. He had begun crawling about, mumbling, brushing away the grit left behind by the builders.
Brys was motionless for a moment, considering, then he began counting flagstones.
After he was done, he returned to the Ceda’s side. Kuru Qan was simply sitting now, appearing wholly consumed in the cleaning of his lenses. Without looking up, he began speaking. ‘Battalions and brigades. Yes, most certainly. Assembling in the hills surrounding Brans Keep. Useful? The last of my mages. Tell me the centre flagstone, Brys. Will Merchants’ Battalion remain in the city? I think not. It shall be cast upon those hills. All of it. The centre, Brys Beddict?’
‘The one before you, Ceda.’
‘Ah yes. Good. Very good. And what armies are left to us? How fare the fleets? Oh, the seas are unwelcoming, are they not? Best stay away. Dracons Sea, at the very least, although the protectorates are making noises. Korshenn, Pilott, Descent—they think they see their chance.’
Brys cleared his throat. ‘The Artisan Battalion has left the Manse and is marching to Five Points. Riven Brigade withdrew from Old Katter with minimal losses. Snakebelt Battalion has departed Awl, and the Crimson Rampant Brigade has left Tulamesh—the north coast cities have been yielded. Dresh was taken last night, the garrison slaughtered. Whitefinder Battalion are razing the ground on their retreat from First Reach and should be at Brans Keep soon. Preda Unnutal Hebaz will lead the Merchants’ Battalion from the city in three days’ time. It is anticipated, Ceda, that you will be accompanying her.’
‘Accompanying? Nonsense, I am far too busy. Too busy. So many things left to do. She shall have my mages. Yes, my mages.’
‘There are only fourteen remaining, Ceda.’
‘Fourteen? Relevant? I must needs think on that.’
Brys studied Kuru Qan, his old friend, and struggled against waves of pity. ‘How long, Ceda, do you plan on remaining here, on the floor?’
‘It is no easy thing, Finadd, not at all. I fear I have waited too long as it is. But we shall see.’
‘When can the king expect you?’
‘Alas, we do not know what to expect, do we? Barring a few salient truths so painfully gleaned from the chaos. The Seventh Closure, ah, there is nothing good to this turn of events. You must go, now. Care for your brother, Brys. Care for him.’
‘Which one?’
Kuru Qan was cleaning his lenses again, and made no reply.
Brys swung about and strode towards the doors.
The Ceda spoke behind him. ‘Finadd. Whatever you do, don’t kill him.’
He halted and glanced back. ‘Who?’
‘Don’t kill him. You must not kill him. Now, go. Go, Finadd.’
So many alleys in Letheras never knew the light of day. Narrow, with various balconies, ledges and projections forming makeshift roofs, the corridors beneath were twisted and choked with refuse, a realm of rats, slipper-beetles and spiders. And the occasional undead.
Shurq Elalle stood in the gloom, as she had stood most of the previous night. Waiting. The street beyond had wakened with the day, although the crowds were markedly more furtive and tense than was usual. There had been a riot near the West Gate two nights past, brutally quelled by soldiers of the Merchants’ Battalion. Curfews had been enforced, and it had been finally noted that the low castes seemed to have virtually vanished from the city, cause for confusion and a vague unease.
Almost directly across from her was a side postern gate leading into Gerun Eberict’s estate. The Finadd disliked ceremony upon his return. Modesty was not the issue. More relevant, however, were the innumerable positions from which to stage an attempted assassination near the estate’s formal entrance.
None the less, there was some commotion attending Gerun’s appearance. Bodyguards drifting into the street announced his imminent arrival. Shurq melted back into the darkness as they scanned the area. Taking defensive positions around the side postern, they waited. Their officer appeared next, striding past them to unlock the gate and push it back, revealing a narrow passage that opened out into the sunlit courtyard. All at once, there were fewer citizens in the area, thinning as if by some prearranged signal until only the guards remained within the range of Shurq’s vision.
‘Don’t make me laugh,’ she muttered under her breath.
Gerun Eberict then strode into view, one hand resting on the pommel of the sword scabbarded at his left hip. He did not pause, but continued on directly into the passage. The guards swept in after him, followed at last by the officer, who then slammed the gate shut behind him.
Shurq walked further into the alley until she came to a rusty ladder more or less fixed to the wall of the building on her right. She climbed, ignoring the protests of fittings and weakened metal, until she reached the roof. Clambered up the slope, testing the firmness of each slab of grey slate she set her weight upon, then over the edge. Sidling along until she could look down upon the front entrance of Gerun’s house and part of the courtyard. She lowered herself as far as she could on the opposite side, until only her fingers, eyes and top of her head were visible—as unlikely to be noticed as she could manage, should someone in the courtyard glance up in her direction.
Gerun Eberict was standing before the doors, listening to the captain of the house guard, who was speaking at length, punctuating his statements every now and then with gestures indicating bafflement.
His report was cut off when Gerun’s right hand snapped out to close around his neck.
Even from this distance, she could see the man’s face darken to a curious shade of blue.
Of course, no person with any courage would take much of that, so she was not surprised when the captain tugged a knife from his belt.
Gerun had been waiting for that, having palmed his own knife, with which he stabbed the captain, up under the breastbone, pushing it to the hilt.
The captain sagged. The Finadd released his hold on the man’s neck and watched him crumple to the flagstones.
‘It’s just coin, Gerun,’ Shurq said quietly. ‘And a missing brother who you killed a long time ago. Your lack of control is dismaying…for your other employees, that is. For me, well, little more than confirmation of all my suspicions.’
There would be a bloodbath, if not tonight, then the next night. The city’s countless spies and snitches—those who had remained—would be stung into frantic activity and the great hunt for the thief would begin.
All rather unpleasant.
Gerun’s wealth had paid for the exodus of the city’s indigents, meaning he would have to make most of his victims Letherii rather than Nerek, Tarthenal or Faraed. Indeed, he might find victims hard to find. Besides which, there was a war, and the Finadd might well find his time otherwise occupied. The man’s rage would be apoplectic in no time.
She watched as Gerun stormed into his house, guards scrambling after him, then she lowered herself along the slope, rolled onto her back and slid towards the edge.
There was a balcony directly below—
No, not any more.
She fell, struck a clothes line that snapped with her weight, cannoned off the side of a ledge thick with pigeon droppings, and landed spread-eagled on a heap of rubbish. Where she lay for a time, unmoving.
That was the problem with cities. Nothing ever stayed the same. She’d used that balcony at least a half-dozen times before, when staking out the estate. She lifted an arm. Then the other. Drew her legs beneath her. Nothing broken thus far. And, after a careful examination, nothing overly damaged. Fortunately, she concluded, the dead did not suffer much from pride, said wounding being minimal.
It was then that she discovered the bar of rusty iron projecting from her forehead. Perfumed liquids were leaking out, blurring her vision. She probed the offending object with her fingertips. Punched right through the bone, all the way, in fact, to the back of her skull, if the grating noises the bar made when she wriggled it were any indication.
‘I’ve made a mess of my brain,’ she said. ‘But was I really using it? Probably not. Still, was I in the habit of talking to myself before? I don’t think so.’
She stood, knee-deep in the refuse, contemplating physically removing the bar. But that might make things even messier. Less than a hand’s width projected out, after all. Hard not to notice, but far less egregious than, say, an arm’s length. A visit to Tehol Beddict seemed incumbent, if only for endless advice she could take pleasure in rejecting.
Alas, she realized, she would have to wait for night, since there was no way she could get to his home without being seen. There had been a time, long ago, when she liked attention. Admiring regards and all that, and it was always satisfying to flaunt her qualities. But a bar in the head took fashion sense to excess by any standard of measure. People would notice, and not in a good way.
Disconsolate, Shurq Elalle sat down in the rubbish. To await the coming of night.
‘What happened to the legs of my bed?’
‘We needed the wood, master.’
‘Yes, but why only three of them?’
‘I was saving the other one for later. I found a bag of something that might be tea.’
‘Well.’ Tehol sat up. ‘I’m just amazed I slept through it.’
‘You were clearly very tired, master.’
‘Yes, which is very understandable, given how busy I’ve been. I have been busy, haven’t I?’
‘I could not say, having been too busy myself to take much notice. But I have faith in your proclamations, master. You certainly slept like a man who’d been busy.’
‘Seems proof enough, I would say. I’m convinced. Now, while I’ve been working myself senseless, you make claim to having had many things on your table. Let’s hear about them.’
‘Very well, master. We’re more or less done with the wings of the Eternal Domicile. Dry, foundations restored, my crews cleaning up. There have been some complaints about the cold draughts in the Fifth Wing, but that’s not my problem, strictly speaking.’
‘Why the cold draughts, Bugg?’
‘Presumably related to the shoring methods I employed, but they don’t know that.’
‘And why should your shoring methods make it cold? Bugg, do I detect some discomfort in your demeanour?’
‘Discomfort, master? Not at all. Are you certain you want the details of this matter?’
‘When you put it that way, probably not. So, is that all you’ve been doing?’
‘I’ve also been here and there, working through all the rumours to see if I could glean some truth. I have accordingly assembled a list of facts.’
‘A list, Wonderful. I love lists. They’re so…ordered.’
‘Indeed, master. Shall I proceed? Well, the northern frontier belongs to the Tiste Edur, as do all the coastal cities all the way down to Height and possibly Old Gedure. It is believed the Edur fleets are in the Ouster Sea, opposite Lenth and therefore on the edge of Gedry Bay. From this one must assume they intend to sail up Lether River. Possibly with the aim of arriving in concert with the land armies. It is clear that the Tiste Edur are marching on Letheras and are planning to conquer it and take the throne. Whether this will succeed in triggering the capitulation of the entire kingdom remains to be seen. Personally, I believe it will. Nor do I think the protectorates will go much beyond restlessness. To do otherwise would be suicidal.’
