The Malazan Empire, page 454
He thought about that, too. ‘The Tiste Edur.’
‘Yes. I killed them.’
‘You did?’
Bugg nodded, looked briefly away. ‘I am afraid I lost my temper.’
‘Ah.’
The manservant looked back. ‘You don’t sound surprised.’
‘I’m not. I’ve seen you step on cockroaches. You are ruthless.’
‘Anything for a meal.’
‘Yes, and what about that, anyway? We’ve never eaten enough—not to have stayed as healthy as we did.’
‘That’s true.’
Tehol tried to sit up, groaned and lay back down. ‘I smell mud.’
‘Mud, yes. Salty mud at that. There’s footprints here, were here when we arrived. Footprints, passing through.’
‘Arrived. How long ago?’
‘Not long. A few moments…’
‘During which you mended all my bones.’
‘And a new eye, most of your organs, this and that.’
‘The eye doesn’t work well.’
‘Give it time. Babies can’t focus past a nipple, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t. But I fully understand the sentiment.’
They were silent for a time.
Then Tehol sighed and said, ‘But this changes everything.’
‘It does? How?’
‘Well, you’re supposed to be my manservant. How can I continue the conceit of being in charge?’
‘Just the same as you always have.’
‘Hah hah.’
‘I could make you forget.’
‘Forget what?’
‘Very funny.’
‘No,’ Tehol said, ‘I mean specifically.’
‘Well,’ Bugg rubbed his jaw, ‘the events of this day, I suppose.’
‘So, you killed all those Tiste Edur.’
‘Yes, I am afraid so.’
‘Then carried me under the river.’
‘Yes.’
‘But your clothes are dry.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And your name’s not really Bugg.’
‘No, I guess not.’
‘But I like that name.’
‘Me too.’
‘And your real one?’
‘Mael.’
Tehol frowned, studied his manservant’s face, then shook his head. ‘It doesn’t fit. Bugg is better.’
‘I agree.’
‘So, if you could kill all those warriors. Heal me. Walk under a river. Answer me this, then. Why didn’t you kill all of them? Halt this invasion in its tracks?’
‘I have my reasons.’
‘To see Lether conquered? Don’t you like us?’
‘Lether? Not much. You take your natural vices and call them virtues. Of which greed is the most despicable. That and betrayal of commonality. After all, whoever decided that competition is always and without exception a healthy attribute? Why that particular path to self-esteem? Your heel on the hand of the one below. This is worth something? Let me tell you, it’s worth nothing. Nothing lasting. Every monument that exists beyond the moment—no matter which king, emperor or warrior lays claim to it—is actually a testament to the common, to co-operation, to the plural rather than the singular.’
‘Ah,’ Tehol interjected, managing to raise a finger to mark his objection, ‘without a king, general or whomever—without a leader, no monument gets built.’
‘Only because you mortals know only two possibilities. To follow or to lead. Nothing else.’
‘Hold on. I’ve seen consortiums and co-operatives at work, Bugg. They’re nightmares.’
‘Aye, breeding grounds for all those virtues such as greed, envy, betrayal and so on. In other words, each within the group seeks to impose a structure of followers and leaders. Dispense with a formal hierarchy, and you have a contest of personalities.’
‘So what is the solution?’
‘Would you be greatly disappointed to hear that you’re not it?’
‘Who? Me?’
‘Your species. Don’t feel bad. None have been, as of yet. Still, who knows what the future will bring.’
‘Oh, that’s easy for you to say!’
‘Actually, no, it isn’t. Look, I’ve seen all this again and again, over countless generations. To put it simply, it’s a mess, a tangled, irreparable mess.’
‘Some god you are. You are a god, aren’t you?’
The manservant shrugged. ‘Make no assumptions. About anything. Ever. Stay mindful, my friend, and suspicious. Suspicious, but not frightened by complexity.’
‘And I’ve some advice for you, since we’re doling it out here.’
‘And that is?’
‘Live to your potential.’
Bugg opened his mouth for a retort, then shut it again and narrowed his gaze.
Tehol gave him an innocent smile.
It was momentary, as more of the memories of this day stirred awake. ‘Chalas,’ he said after a moment. ‘That old fool.’
‘You have friends, Tehol Beddict.’
‘And that poor guard. He threw himself in front of that spear. Friends—yes, what’s happened to everyone else? Do you know? Is Shurq all right? Kettle?’
Bugg grunted, clearly distracted by something, then said, ‘I think they’re fine.’
‘Do you want to go and see for certain?’
He glanced down. ‘Not really. I can be very selfish at times, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t. But I admit, I do have a question. Only I don’t know how to ask it.’
Bugg studied him for a long moment, then he snorted, said, ‘You have no idea, Tehol, how boring it can be…existing for all eternity.’
‘Fine, but…a manservant?’
Bugg hesitated, then slowly shook his head, and met Tehol’s gaze. ‘My association with you, Tehol, has been an unceasing delight. You resurrected in me the pleasure of existence, and you cannot comprehend how rare that is.’
‘But…a manservant!’
Bugg drew a deep breath. ‘I think it’s time to make you forget this day, my friend.’
‘Forget? Forget what? Is there anything to eat around here?’
He’d wanted to believe. In all the possible glories. The world could be made simple, there need be no complexity, he’d so wanted it to be simple. He walked through the strangely silent city. Signs of fighting here and there. Dead Letherii soldiers, mostly. They should have given up. As would anyone professing to some rationality, but it seemed this was not the day for what was reasonable and straightforward. On this day, madness held dominion, flowing in invisible currents through this city.
Through these poor Letherii. Through the Tiste Edur.
Fear Sengar walked on, unmindful of where his steps took him. All his life, he had been gifted with a single, easily defined role. To fashion warriors among his people. And, when the need arose, to lead them into battle. There had been no great tragedies to mar his youth, and he’d stridden, not stumbled, into adulthood.
There had been no time when he’d felt alone. Alone in the frightened sense, that is. Solitude was born of decision, and could be as easily yielded when its purpose was done. There had been Trull. And Binadas, and then Rhulad. But, first and foremost, Trull. A warrior with skill unmatched when it came to fighting with the spear, yet without blood-lust—and blood-lust was a curse, he well knew, among the Edur. The hunger that swept away all discipline, that could reduce a well-trained fighter into a savage, weapons swinging wild, that strange, seething silence of the Tiste Edur pulled from cool thought. Among other peoples, he knew, that descent was announced with screams and howls and shrieks. An odd difference, and one that, for some unknown reason, deeply troubled Fear Sengar.
And then, looking upon this Champion of the Letherii king, this brother of Hull Beddict—Fear could not recall if he’d ever heard his name, but if he had, he’d forgotten it. That itself was a crime. He would have to learn that man’s name. It was important to learn it.
Fear was skilled with his sword. One of the finest sword-wielders among the Tiste Edur, a truth he simply accepted, with neither pride nor affected modesty. And, he knew, had he stood face to face with that Champion in the throne room, he would have lasted some time. Some fair time, and might well have, on occasion, surprised the Letherii. But Fear had no illusions about who would have been left standing when all was done.
He wanted to weep. For that Champion. For his king. For Rhulad, the brother he’d failed again and again. For Trull, whom he had now abandoned—to a choice no warrior should be forced to make.
Because he had failed Rhulad yet again. Trull could see that, surely. There was no way to hide the cowardice raging through Fear. Not from his closest, most cherished brother. Who gave voice to all my doubts, my terrors, so that I could defy them—so that I could be seen to defy them.
Shaped by Hannan Mosag…all of this. He understood that now. From the very first, the brutal unification of the tribes, the secret pact with the unknown god had already been made. So obvious, now. The Warlock King had turned his back on Father Shadow, and why not, since Scabandari Bloodeye was gone. Gone, never to return.
Not even Hannan Mosag, then, but long ago. That was when this path first began. Long, long ago.
There had been a moment, back then, when everything was still simple. He was certain of it. Before the fated choices were made. And to all that had occurred since, there was only one who could give answer, and that was Father Shadow himself.
He walked the dusty streets, past corpses lying here and there like passed-out revellers from some wild fête the night before. Barring the blood, the scattered weapons.
He was…lost. They had asked too much of him, far too much. There in that throne room. We carried his body back. Across the ice wastes. I thought I had sent Trull to his death. So many failures, and every one of them mine. There must be other ways…other ways…
Motionless, now, looking down upon a body.
Mayen.
The hunger, he saw, was gone from her face. Finally, there was nothing but peace there. As he’d seen before, when he’d looked upon her sleeping. Or singing with the other maidens. When he’d carried the sword which she then took into her hands. To bury at the threshold of her home. He would not think of other times, when he caught a certain darkness in her eyes, and was left wondering on the twisting of her mind—such things a man could not know, could never know. Fearful mysteries, the ones that lured a man into love, into fascination and, at times, into trembling terror.
Her face held none of that now. Only peace. Sleeping, like the child within her, here on this street.
Fear crouched, then knelt beside her. He closed a hand on the horn grip of the fisher knife, then pulled it from her chest. He studied the knife. A slave’s tool. A small sigil was carved near its base, one he recognized.
The knife had belonged to Udinaas.
Was this his gift? An offering of peace? Or simply one more act of deadly vengeance against the family of Edur who had owned him? Who had stolen his freedom? He abandoned Rhulad. As I have done. For that, I have no right to hate. But…what of this?
He rose, tucking the knife into his belt.
Mayen was dead. The child he would have loved was dead. Some force was here, some force eager to take everything away from him.
And he did not know what to do.
Weeping, ceaseless, weeping from the blood-spattered, twisted form lying on the floor of the throne room. On his knees ten paces away, Trull had his hands to his ears, wanting it to end, wanting someone to end it. This moment…it was trapped, deep within itself. It would not end. An eternal chorus of piteous crying, reaching into his skull.
Hannan Mosag was dragging himself towards the throne, so bent and mangled he was barely able to move more than a few hand’s widths at a time before the pain in his body forced him to pause once again.
Among the Letherii, only one remained, his reappearance a mystery, yet he stood, expression serene yet watchful, near the far wall. Young, handsome and somehow…soft. Not a soldier, then. He had said nothing, seeming content to observe.
Where were the other Edur? Trull could not understand. They had left Binadas, unconscious but alive, at the far end of the corridor. He turned his head in that direction, saw the huddled shapes of the queen and her son beside the entranceway. The prince looked either dead or asleep. The queen simply watched Hannan Mosag’s tortured progress towards the dais, teeth gleaming in a wet smile.
I need to find Father. He will know what to do…no, there is nothing to know, is there? Just as there is…nothing to do. Nothing at all, and that was the horror of it.
‘Please…Trull…’
Trull shook his head, trying not to hear.
‘All I wanted…you, and Fear, and Binadas. I wanted you to…include me. Not a child any longer, you see? That’s all, Trull.’
Hannan Mosag grunted a laugh. ‘Respect, Trull. That is what he wanted. Where does that come from, then? A sword? A wealth of coins burned into your skin? A title? That presumptuous, obnoxious we he’s always using now? None of those? How about stealing his brother’s wife?’
‘Be quiet,’ Trull said.
‘Do not speak to your king that way, Trull Sengar. It will…cost you.’
‘I am to quail at your threats, Warlock King?’
Trull let his hands fall away from his ears. The gesture had been useless. This chamber carried the slightest whisper. Besides, there could be no deafness without when there was none within. He caught slight movement from the Letherii at the far wall and looked over to see that he had turned his head, attention fixed now upon the entranceway. The man suddenly frowned.
Then Trull heard footsteps. Heavy, dragging. A sound of metal, and something like streaming water.
Hannan Mosag twisted round where he lay. ‘What? What comes? Trull—find a weapon, quickly!’
Trull did not move.
Rhulad’s weeping resumed, indifferent to all else.
The thudding footsteps came closer.
A moment later, an apparition shambled into view, blood pouring down from its gauntleted hands. Nearly the size of a Tarthenal, it was sheathed in black, stained iron plates, studded with green rivets. A great helm with caged eye-slits hid the face within, the grille-work hanging ragged on its shoulders and beneath its armoured chin. The figure was encrusted with barnacles at the joins of its elbows, knees and ankles. In one hand it carried a sword of Letherii steel, down which the blood flowed ceaselessly.
Rhulad hissed, ‘What is it, Trull? What has come?’
The monstrosity paused just within the entrance. Head creaking as it looked round, it fixed its focus, it seemed, on the corpse of the King’s Champion. It resumed walking forward, leaving twin trails of blood.
‘Trull!’ Rhulad shrieked.
The creature halted, looked down at the emperor lying on the floor. After a moment, a heavy voice rumbled from within the helm. ‘You are gravely injured.’
Trembling, Rhulad laughed, a sound close to hysteria. ‘Injured? Oh yes. Cut to pieces!’
‘You will live.’
Hannan Mosag said in a growl, ‘Begone, demon. Lest I banish you.’
‘You can try,’ it said. And moved forward once more. Until it stood directly in front of the Champion’s body. ‘I see no wounds, yet he lies dead. This honourable mortal.’
‘Poison,’ said the Letherii at the far wall.
The creature looked over. ‘I know you. I know all your names.’
‘I imagine you do, Guardian,’ the man replied.
‘Poison. Tell me, did you…push him in that direction?’
‘It is my aspect,’ the Letherii said, shrugging. ‘I am driven to…poignancy. Tell me, does your god know you are here?’
‘I will speak to him soon. Words of chastisement are necessary.’
The man laughed, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the wall. ‘I imagine they are at that.’
The Guardian looked once more upon the Champion. ‘He held the names. Of all those who were almost forgotten. This…this is a great loss.’
‘No,’ the Letherii said, ‘those names are not lost. Not yet. But they will be…soon.’
‘I need…someone, then.’
‘And you will find him.’
The Guardian regarded the Letherii once more. ‘I am…pushed?’
The man shrugged again.
The Guardian reached down, closed a firm grip on the Champion’s sword-belt, then lifted him from the floor and slung him over its left shoulder. Standing in a spreading pool of blood, it turned about.
And looked upon Rhulad Sengar. ‘They show no mercy, your friends,’ it said.
‘No?’ Rhulad’s laugh became a cough. He gasped, then said, ‘I am beginning to see…otherwise—’
‘I have learned mercy,’ the Guardian said, and thrust down with his sword.
Into Rhulad’s back, severing the spine.
Trull Sengar lurched to his feet, stared, disbelieving—
—as the Letherii man whispered, ‘And…once more.’
The Guardian walked towards the entrance, ignoring Hannan Mosag’s enraged bellow as it passed the Warlock King.
Trull stumbled forward, around the motionless form of his brother, until he reached Hannan Mosag. Snapped a hand down and dragged the Warlock King up, until he held him close. ‘The throne?’ Trull asked in a rasp. ‘You just lost it, bastard.’ He flung Hannan Mosag back down onto the floor. ‘I need to find Fear. Tell him,’ Trull said as he walked to the entranceway, ‘tell him, Mosag, that I went to find Fear. I am sending in the others—’
Rhulad spasmed behind him, then shrieked.
So be it.
The Wyval clawed its way free from the barrow, dripping red-streaked mud, flanks heaving. A moment later the wraith appeared, dragging the unconscious form of a Letherii man.
Shurq Elalle rose from where she had crouched beside Ublala, stroking his brow and wondering at the stupid smile plastered on his features, and, placing her hands on her hips, surveyed the scene. Five sprawled bodies, toppled trees, the stench of rotting earth. Two of her employees near the facing wall of the Azath tower, the mage tending to the Avowed’s wounds. Avowed. What kind of title is that, anyway?
Closer to the gate, Kettle and the tall, white-skinned warrior with the two Letherii swords.
