The Malazan Empire, page 590
‘Nothing. I admit to some…distraction.’
‘Just now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you over it yet?’
‘Almost. Alas, certain individuals are stirring in the city this evening.’
‘Well, are you going to do something about it or do I have to do everything around here?’
Bugg walked across the roof to stand beside the bed. He studied the reposed form of Tehol Beddict for a moment, then he collected the netting and draped it over his master.
Eyes, one brown, the other blue, blinked up at him. ‘Shouldn’t there be a frame or something? I feel I am being readied for my own funeral here.’
‘We used the frame for this morning’s fire.’
‘Ah. Well, is this going to keep me from being bitten?’
‘Probably not, but it looks rather fetching.’
Tehol closed his blue eye. ‘I see…’
Bugg sighed. ‘Gallows humour, Master.’
‘My, you are in a state, aren’t you?’
‘I am undecided,’ Bugg said, nodding. ‘Yes I know, one of my eternal flaws.’
‘What you require, old friend, is a mortal’s perspective on things. So let’s hear it. Lay out the dilemma for me, Bugg, so that I might provide you with a properly pithy solution.’
‘The Errant follows the Warlock King, to see what he plans. The Warlock King meddles with nefarious rituals set in place by another ascendant, who in turn leaves off eating a freshly killed corpse and makes for an unexpected rendezvous with said Warlock King, where they will probably make each other’s acquaintance then bargain to mutual benefit over the crumbling chains binding another ascendant – one soon to be freed, which will perturb someone far to the north, although that one is probably not yet ready to act. In the meantime, the long-departed Edur fleet skirts the Draconean Sea and shall soon enter the river mouth on its fated return to our fair city, and with it are two fell champions, neither of whom is likely to do what is expected of them. Now, to add spice to all of that, the secret that is the soul of one Scabandari Bloodeye will, in a depressingly short time, cease to be a secret, and consequently and in addition to and concomitant with, we are in for an interesting summer.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Not in the least, but one mouthful at a time, I always say.’
‘No you don’t. Shurq Elalle is the one always saying that.’
‘Your penchant for disgusting images, Master, is as ever poorly timed and thoroughly inappropriate. Now, about that pithy solution of yours…’
‘Well, I admit to disappointment. You didn’t even mention my grand scheme to bankrupt the empire.’
‘The Invigilator now hunts for you in earnest.’
‘Karos Invictad? No wonder you put me under a shroud. I shall endeavour to be close to the roof ’s edge the day he clambers into view with his drooling henchmen, so that I can fling myself over the side, which, you’ll agree, is far preferable to even one bell’s worth of his infamous, ghastly inquisition. In the meantime, what’s for supper?’
‘Vinik eggs – I found a somewhat broken nest washed up under a dock.’
‘But vinik eggs are poisonous, hence the clouds of complaining gulls constantly circling over every nasty little floating island.’
‘It’s a matter of proper cooking, Master, and the addition of a few essential herbs that serve to negate most of the ill effects.’
‘Most?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you have in your possession those life-sustaining herbs?’
‘Well, no, but I thought I’d improvise.’
‘There you have it.’
‘There I have what, Master?’
‘Why, my pithy reply, of course.’
Bugg squinted at Tehol Beddict, who winked, this time closing his brown eye. The Elder God scowled, then said, ‘Thank you, Master. What would I ever do without you?’
‘Scant little, I’d wager.’
Tanal Yathvanar set the package down on the Invigilator’s desk. ‘Delivered by a rat-faced urchin this morning. Sir, I expect it will prove no particular challenge. In any case,’ he continued as he began unwrapping the package, ‘I was instructed to treat it delicately, and to keep it upright. And you will, in moments, see why.’
Karos Invictad watched with heavy-lidded eyes as the grease-stained, poor quality ragweed wrapping was delicately pulled away, revealing a small, open-topped wooden box that seemed to possess layered sides. The Invigilator leaned forward to peer inside.
And saw a two-headed insect, such as were now appearing down by the river. Its legs were moving precisely, carrying it round…and round. The insides of the box were each of coloured, polished tiles, and it appeared that the tiles could be slid free, or rearranged, if one so chose.
‘What were the instructions, Tanal?’
‘The challenge is to halt the insect’s motion. It will, apparently, continue walking in a circle, in the same place, until it dies of starvation – which, incidentally, is the fail point for the puzzle…approximately four months. While the creature rotates in place, it will not eat. As for water, a small clump of soaked moss will suffice. As you can see, the tiles on the inside can be rearranged, and presumably, once the proper order or sequence is discovered, the insect will stop. And you will have defeated the puzzle. The restrictions are these: no object may be placed inside the container; nor can you physically touch or make contact with the insect.’
Karos Invictad grunted. ‘Seems direct enough. What is the record for the solution?’
‘There is none. You are the first and only player, apparently.’
‘Indeed. Curious. Tanal, three prisoners died in their cells last night – some contagion is loose down there. Have the corpses burned in the Receiving Ground west of the city. Thoroughly. And have the rest washed down with disinfectant.’
‘At once, Invigilator.’
The ruins were far more extensive than is commonly imagined. In fact, most historians of the early period of the colony have paid little or no attention to the reports of the Royal Engineer, specifically those of Keden Qan, who served from the founding until the sixth decade. During the formulation of the settlement building plan, a most thorough survey was conducted. The three extant Jhag towers behind the Old Palace were in fact part of a far larger complex, which of course runs contrary to what is known of Jhag civilization. For this reason, it may be safe to assume that the Jhag complex on the bank of the Lether River represents a pre-dispersion site. That is, before the culture disintegrated in its sudden, violent diaspora. An alternative interpretation would be that the three main towers, four subterranean vaults, and what Qan called the Lined Moat all belonged to a single, unusually loyal family.
In either case, the point I am making here is this: beyond the Jhag – or more correctly, Jaghut – complex, there were other ruins. Of course, one need not point out the most obvious and still existing Azath structure – that lecture will have to wait another day. Rather, in an area covering almost the entire expanse of present-day Letheras could be found foundation walls, plazas or concourses, shaped wells, drainage ditches and, indeed, some form of cemetery or mortuary, and – listen carefully now – all of it not of human design. Nor Jaghut, nor even Tarthenal.
Now, what were the details of this unknown complex? Well, for one, it was self-contained, walled, entirely covered by multilevel roofing – even the plazas, alleys and streets. As a fortress, it was virtually impregnable. Beneath the intricately paved floors and streets, there was a second even more defensible city, the corridors and tunnels of which can now be found as an integral part of our sewer outflow.
In short, Letheras, the colony of the First Empire, was founded upon the ruins of an earlier city, one whose layout seemed to disregard the presence of the Jaghut towers and the Azath, suggesting that it pre-dates both.
Even the first engineer, Keden Qan, was unable or unwilling to attempt an identification of these early builders. Virtually no artifacts were found – no potsherds, no sculptures, no remnants of metal-working. One last interesting detail. It appeared that in the final stages of occupation, the dwellers set about frantic alterations to their city. Qan’s analysis of these efforts led him to conclude that a catastrophic climate change had occurred, for the efforts indicated a desperate attempt to add insulation.
Presumably, that effort failed—
Her interior monologue ceased abruptly as she heard the faint scuff of someone approaching. Lifting her head was a struggle, but Janath Anar managed, just as the chamber’s heavy door creaked open and light flooded in from a lantern – dull and low yet blinding her nonetheless.
Tanal Yathvanar stepped into view – it would be none other but him, she knew – and a moment later he spoke. ‘I pray you’ve yet to drive yourself mad.’
Through cracked, blistered lips, she smiled, then said in a croaking voice, ‘Lectures. I am halfway into the term. Early history. Mad? Oh yes, without question.’
She heard him come closer. ‘I have been gone from you too long – you are suffering. That was careless of me.’
‘Careless is keeping me alive, you miserable little wretch,’ she said.
‘Ah, perhaps I deserved that. Come, you must drink.’
‘What if I refuse?’
‘Then, with your inevitable death, you are defeated. By me. Are you sure you want that, Scholar?’
‘You urge me to stubborn resistance. I understand. The sadist needs his victim alive, after all. For as long as humanly possible.’
‘Dehydration is a most unpleasant way to die, Janath Anar.’
He lifted the spigot of a waterskin to her mouth. She drank.
‘Not too quickly,’ Tanal said, stepping back. ‘You will just make yourself sick. Which wouldn’t, I see, be the first time for you.’
‘When you see maggots crawl out of your own wastes, Yathvanar…Next time,’ she added, ‘take your damned candle with you.’
‘If I do that,’ he replied, ‘you will go blind—’
‘And that matters?’
He stepped close once again and poured more water into her mouth.
Then he set about washing her down. Sores had opened where stomach fluids had burned desiccated skin, and, he could see, she had been pulling on her bindings, seeking to squeeze her hands through the shackles. ‘You are looking much worse for wear,’ he said as he dabbed ointment on the wounds. ‘You cannot get your hands through, Janath—’
‘Panic cares nothing for what can and can’t be done, Tanal Yathvanar. One day you will discover that. There was a priest once, in the second century, who created a cult founded on the premise that every victim tallied in one’s mortal life awaits that one beyond death. From the slightest of wounds to the most grievous, every victim preceding you into death…waits. For you.
‘A mortal conducts spiritual economics in his or her life, amassing credit and debt. Tell me, Patriotist, how indebted are you by now? How vast the imbalance between good deeds and your endless acts of malice?’
‘A bizarre, insane cult,’ he muttered, moving away. ‘No wonder it failed.’
‘In this empire, yes, it’s no wonder at all. The priest was set upon in the street and torn limb from limb. Still, it’s said adherents remain, among the defeated peoples – the Tarthenal, the Fent and Nerek, the victims, as it were, of Letherii cruelty – and before those people virtually disappeared from the city, there were rumours that the cult was reviving.’
Tanal Yathvanar sneered. ‘The ones who fail ever need a crutch, a justification – they fashion virtue out of misery. Karos Invictad has identified that weakness, in one of his treatises—’
Janath’s laugh broke into ragged coughing. When she recovered, she spat and said, ‘Karos Invictad. Do you know why he so despises academics? He is a failed one himself.’ She bared her stained teeth. ‘He calls them treatises, does he? Errant fend, how pathetic. Karos Invictad couldn’t fashion a decent argument, much less a treatise.’
‘You are wrong in that, woman,’ Tanal said. ‘He has even explained why he did so poorly as a young scholar – oh yes, he would not refute your assessment of his career as a student. Driven by emotions, back then. Incapable of a cogent position, leaving him rife with anger – but at himself, at his own failings. But, years later, he learned that all emotion had to be scoured from him; only then would his inner vision become clear.’
‘Ah, he needed wounding, then. What was it? A betrayal of sorts, I expect. Some woman? A protégé, a patron? Does it even matter? Karos Invictad makes sense to me, now. Why he is what he has become.’ She laughed again, this time without coughing, then said, ‘Delicious irony. Karos Invictad became a victim.’
‘Don’t be—’
‘A victim, Yathvanar! And he didn’t like it, oh no, not at all. It hurt – the world hurt him, so now he’s hurting it back. And yet, he has still to even the score. But you see, he never will, because in his mind, he’s still that victim, still lashing out. And as you said earlier, the victim and his crutch, his virtue of misery – one feeds the other, without cessation. No wonder he bridles with self-righteousness for all his claims to emotionless intellect—’
He struck her, hard, her head snapping to one side, spittle and blood threading out.
Breathing fast, chest strangely tight, Tanal hissed, ‘Rail at me all you will, Scholar. I expect that. But not at Karos Invictad. He is the empire’s last true hope. Only Karos Invictad will guide us into glory, into a new age, an age without the Edur, without the mixed-bloods, without even the failed peoples. No, just the Letherii, an empire expanding outward with sword and fire, all the way back to the homeland of the First Empire. He has seen our future! Our destiny!’
She stared at him in the dull light. ‘Of course. But first, he needs to kill every Letherii worthy of the name. Karos Invictad, the Great Scholar, and his empire of thugs—’
He struck her again, harder than before, then lurched back, raising his hand – it was trembling, skin torn and battered, a shard of one broken tooth jutting from one knuckle.
She was unconscious.
Well, she asked for it. She wouldn’t stop. That means she wanted it, deep inside, she wanted me to beat her. I’ve heard about this – Karos has told me – they come to like it, eventually. They like the…attention.
So, I must not neglect her. Not again. Plenty of water, keep her clean and fed.
And beat her anyway.
But she was not unconscious, for she then spoke in a mumble. He could not make it out and edged closer.
‘…on the other side…I will wait for you…on the other side…’
Tanal Yathvanar felt a slither deep in his gut. And fled from it. No god waits to pass judgement. No-one marks the imbalance of deeds – no god is beyond its own imbalances – for its own deeds are as subject to judgement as any other. So who then fashions this afterlife? Some natural imposition? Ridiculous – there is no balance in nature. Besides, nature exists in this world and this world alone – its rules mean nothing once the bridge is crossed…
Tanal Yathvanar found himself walking up the corridor, that horrid woman and her cell far behind him now – he had no recollection of actually leaving.
Karos has said again and again, justice is a conceit. It does not exist in nature. ‘Retribution seen in natural catastrophes is manufactured by all too eager and all too pious people, each one convinced the world will end but spare them and them alone. But we all know, the world is inherited by the obnoxious, not the righteous.’
Unless, came the thought in Janath’s voice, the two are one and the same.
He snarled as he hurried up the worn stone stairs. She was far below. Chained. A prisoner in her solitary cell. There was no escape for her.
I have left her down there, far below. Far behind. She can’t escape.
Yet, in his mind, he heard her laughter.
And was no longer so sure.
Two entire wings of the Eternal Domicile were empty, long, vacated corridors and never-occupied chambers, storage rooms, administration vaults, servant quarters and kitchens. Guards patrolling these sections once a day carried their own lanterns, and left unrelieved darkness in their wake. In the growing damp of these unoccupied places, dust had become mould, mould had become rot, and the rot in turn leaked rank fluids that ran down plastered walls and pooled in dips in the floors.
Abandonment and neglect would soon defeat the ingenious innovations of Bugg’s Construction, as they defeated most things raised by hands out of the earth, and Turudal Brizad, the Errant, considered himself almost unique in his fullest recognition of such sordid truths. Indeed, there were other elders persisting in their nominal existence, but they one and all fought still against the ravages of inevitable dissolution. Whereas the Errant could not be bothered.
Most of the time.
The Jaghut had come to comprehend the nature of futility, inspiring the Errant to a certain modicum of empathy for those most tragic of people. Where was Gothos now, he wondered. Probably long dead, all things considered. He had written a multiple-volumed suicide note – his Folly – that presumably concluded at some point, although the Errant had neither seen nor heard that such a conclusion existed. Perhaps, he considered with sudden suspicion, there was some hidden message in a suicidal testimonial without end, but if so, such meaning was too obscure for the mind of anyone but a Jaghut.
He had followed the Warlock King to the dead Azath, remained there long enough to discern Hannan Mosag’s intentions, and had now returned to the Eternal Domicile, where he could walk these empty corridors in peace. Contemplating, among other things, stepping once again into the fray. To battle, one more time, the ravages of dissolution.
He thought he could hear Gothos laughing, somewhere. But no doubt that was only his imagination, ever eager to mock his carefully reasoned impulses.
Finding himself in a stretch of corridor awash with slime-laden water, the Errant paused. ‘Well,’ he said with a soft sigh, ‘to bring a journey to a close, one must first begin it. Best I act whilst the will remains.’
His next step took him into a glade, thick verdant grasses underfoot, a ring of dazzling flowers at the very edges of the black-boled trees encircling the clearing. Butterflies danced from one bloom of colour to the next. The patch of sky visible overhead was faintly tinted vermilion and the air seemed strangely thin.
‘Just now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you over it yet?’
‘Almost. Alas, certain individuals are stirring in the city this evening.’
‘Well, are you going to do something about it or do I have to do everything around here?’
Bugg walked across the roof to stand beside the bed. He studied the reposed form of Tehol Beddict for a moment, then he collected the netting and draped it over his master.
Eyes, one brown, the other blue, blinked up at him. ‘Shouldn’t there be a frame or something? I feel I am being readied for my own funeral here.’
‘We used the frame for this morning’s fire.’
‘Ah. Well, is this going to keep me from being bitten?’
‘Probably not, but it looks rather fetching.’
Tehol closed his blue eye. ‘I see…’
Bugg sighed. ‘Gallows humour, Master.’
‘My, you are in a state, aren’t you?’
‘I am undecided,’ Bugg said, nodding. ‘Yes I know, one of my eternal flaws.’
‘What you require, old friend, is a mortal’s perspective on things. So let’s hear it. Lay out the dilemma for me, Bugg, so that I might provide you with a properly pithy solution.’
‘The Errant follows the Warlock King, to see what he plans. The Warlock King meddles with nefarious rituals set in place by another ascendant, who in turn leaves off eating a freshly killed corpse and makes for an unexpected rendezvous with said Warlock King, where they will probably make each other’s acquaintance then bargain to mutual benefit over the crumbling chains binding another ascendant – one soon to be freed, which will perturb someone far to the north, although that one is probably not yet ready to act. In the meantime, the long-departed Edur fleet skirts the Draconean Sea and shall soon enter the river mouth on its fated return to our fair city, and with it are two fell champions, neither of whom is likely to do what is expected of them. Now, to add spice to all of that, the secret that is the soul of one Scabandari Bloodeye will, in a depressingly short time, cease to be a secret, and consequently and in addition to and concomitant with, we are in for an interesting summer.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Not in the least, but one mouthful at a time, I always say.’
‘No you don’t. Shurq Elalle is the one always saying that.’
‘Your penchant for disgusting images, Master, is as ever poorly timed and thoroughly inappropriate. Now, about that pithy solution of yours…’
‘Well, I admit to disappointment. You didn’t even mention my grand scheme to bankrupt the empire.’
‘The Invigilator now hunts for you in earnest.’
‘Karos Invictad? No wonder you put me under a shroud. I shall endeavour to be close to the roof ’s edge the day he clambers into view with his drooling henchmen, so that I can fling myself over the side, which, you’ll agree, is far preferable to even one bell’s worth of his infamous, ghastly inquisition. In the meantime, what’s for supper?’
‘Vinik eggs – I found a somewhat broken nest washed up under a dock.’
‘But vinik eggs are poisonous, hence the clouds of complaining gulls constantly circling over every nasty little floating island.’
‘It’s a matter of proper cooking, Master, and the addition of a few essential herbs that serve to negate most of the ill effects.’
‘Most?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you have in your possession those life-sustaining herbs?’
‘Well, no, but I thought I’d improvise.’
‘There you have it.’
‘There I have what, Master?’
‘Why, my pithy reply, of course.’
Bugg squinted at Tehol Beddict, who winked, this time closing his brown eye. The Elder God scowled, then said, ‘Thank you, Master. What would I ever do without you?’
‘Scant little, I’d wager.’
Tanal Yathvanar set the package down on the Invigilator’s desk. ‘Delivered by a rat-faced urchin this morning. Sir, I expect it will prove no particular challenge. In any case,’ he continued as he began unwrapping the package, ‘I was instructed to treat it delicately, and to keep it upright. And you will, in moments, see why.’
Karos Invictad watched with heavy-lidded eyes as the grease-stained, poor quality ragweed wrapping was delicately pulled away, revealing a small, open-topped wooden box that seemed to possess layered sides. The Invigilator leaned forward to peer inside.
And saw a two-headed insect, such as were now appearing down by the river. Its legs were moving precisely, carrying it round…and round. The insides of the box were each of coloured, polished tiles, and it appeared that the tiles could be slid free, or rearranged, if one so chose.
‘What were the instructions, Tanal?’
‘The challenge is to halt the insect’s motion. It will, apparently, continue walking in a circle, in the same place, until it dies of starvation – which, incidentally, is the fail point for the puzzle…approximately four months. While the creature rotates in place, it will not eat. As for water, a small clump of soaked moss will suffice. As you can see, the tiles on the inside can be rearranged, and presumably, once the proper order or sequence is discovered, the insect will stop. And you will have defeated the puzzle. The restrictions are these: no object may be placed inside the container; nor can you physically touch or make contact with the insect.’
Karos Invictad grunted. ‘Seems direct enough. What is the record for the solution?’
‘There is none. You are the first and only player, apparently.’
‘Indeed. Curious. Tanal, three prisoners died in their cells last night – some contagion is loose down there. Have the corpses burned in the Receiving Ground west of the city. Thoroughly. And have the rest washed down with disinfectant.’
‘At once, Invigilator.’
The ruins were far more extensive than is commonly imagined. In fact, most historians of the early period of the colony have paid little or no attention to the reports of the Royal Engineer, specifically those of Keden Qan, who served from the founding until the sixth decade. During the formulation of the settlement building plan, a most thorough survey was conducted. The three extant Jhag towers behind the Old Palace were in fact part of a far larger complex, which of course runs contrary to what is known of Jhag civilization. For this reason, it may be safe to assume that the Jhag complex on the bank of the Lether River represents a pre-dispersion site. That is, before the culture disintegrated in its sudden, violent diaspora. An alternative interpretation would be that the three main towers, four subterranean vaults, and what Qan called the Lined Moat all belonged to a single, unusually loyal family.
In either case, the point I am making here is this: beyond the Jhag – or more correctly, Jaghut – complex, there were other ruins. Of course, one need not point out the most obvious and still existing Azath structure – that lecture will have to wait another day. Rather, in an area covering almost the entire expanse of present-day Letheras could be found foundation walls, plazas or concourses, shaped wells, drainage ditches and, indeed, some form of cemetery or mortuary, and – listen carefully now – all of it not of human design. Nor Jaghut, nor even Tarthenal.
Now, what were the details of this unknown complex? Well, for one, it was self-contained, walled, entirely covered by multilevel roofing – even the plazas, alleys and streets. As a fortress, it was virtually impregnable. Beneath the intricately paved floors and streets, there was a second even more defensible city, the corridors and tunnels of which can now be found as an integral part of our sewer outflow.
In short, Letheras, the colony of the First Empire, was founded upon the ruins of an earlier city, one whose layout seemed to disregard the presence of the Jaghut towers and the Azath, suggesting that it pre-dates both.
Even the first engineer, Keden Qan, was unable or unwilling to attempt an identification of these early builders. Virtually no artifacts were found – no potsherds, no sculptures, no remnants of metal-working. One last interesting detail. It appeared that in the final stages of occupation, the dwellers set about frantic alterations to their city. Qan’s analysis of these efforts led him to conclude that a catastrophic climate change had occurred, for the efforts indicated a desperate attempt to add insulation.
Presumably, that effort failed—
Her interior monologue ceased abruptly as she heard the faint scuff of someone approaching. Lifting her head was a struggle, but Janath Anar managed, just as the chamber’s heavy door creaked open and light flooded in from a lantern – dull and low yet blinding her nonetheless.
Tanal Yathvanar stepped into view – it would be none other but him, she knew – and a moment later he spoke. ‘I pray you’ve yet to drive yourself mad.’
Through cracked, blistered lips, she smiled, then said in a croaking voice, ‘Lectures. I am halfway into the term. Early history. Mad? Oh yes, without question.’
She heard him come closer. ‘I have been gone from you too long – you are suffering. That was careless of me.’
‘Careless is keeping me alive, you miserable little wretch,’ she said.
‘Ah, perhaps I deserved that. Come, you must drink.’
‘What if I refuse?’
‘Then, with your inevitable death, you are defeated. By me. Are you sure you want that, Scholar?’
‘You urge me to stubborn resistance. I understand. The sadist needs his victim alive, after all. For as long as humanly possible.’
‘Dehydration is a most unpleasant way to die, Janath Anar.’
He lifted the spigot of a waterskin to her mouth. She drank.
‘Not too quickly,’ Tanal said, stepping back. ‘You will just make yourself sick. Which wouldn’t, I see, be the first time for you.’
‘When you see maggots crawl out of your own wastes, Yathvanar…Next time,’ she added, ‘take your damned candle with you.’
‘If I do that,’ he replied, ‘you will go blind—’
‘And that matters?’
He stepped close once again and poured more water into her mouth.
Then he set about washing her down. Sores had opened where stomach fluids had burned desiccated skin, and, he could see, she had been pulling on her bindings, seeking to squeeze her hands through the shackles. ‘You are looking much worse for wear,’ he said as he dabbed ointment on the wounds. ‘You cannot get your hands through, Janath—’
‘Panic cares nothing for what can and can’t be done, Tanal Yathvanar. One day you will discover that. There was a priest once, in the second century, who created a cult founded on the premise that every victim tallied in one’s mortal life awaits that one beyond death. From the slightest of wounds to the most grievous, every victim preceding you into death…waits. For you.
‘A mortal conducts spiritual economics in his or her life, amassing credit and debt. Tell me, Patriotist, how indebted are you by now? How vast the imbalance between good deeds and your endless acts of malice?’
‘A bizarre, insane cult,’ he muttered, moving away. ‘No wonder it failed.’
‘In this empire, yes, it’s no wonder at all. The priest was set upon in the street and torn limb from limb. Still, it’s said adherents remain, among the defeated peoples – the Tarthenal, the Fent and Nerek, the victims, as it were, of Letherii cruelty – and before those people virtually disappeared from the city, there were rumours that the cult was reviving.’
Tanal Yathvanar sneered. ‘The ones who fail ever need a crutch, a justification – they fashion virtue out of misery. Karos Invictad has identified that weakness, in one of his treatises—’
Janath’s laugh broke into ragged coughing. When she recovered, she spat and said, ‘Karos Invictad. Do you know why he so despises academics? He is a failed one himself.’ She bared her stained teeth. ‘He calls them treatises, does he? Errant fend, how pathetic. Karos Invictad couldn’t fashion a decent argument, much less a treatise.’
‘You are wrong in that, woman,’ Tanal said. ‘He has even explained why he did so poorly as a young scholar – oh yes, he would not refute your assessment of his career as a student. Driven by emotions, back then. Incapable of a cogent position, leaving him rife with anger – but at himself, at his own failings. But, years later, he learned that all emotion had to be scoured from him; only then would his inner vision become clear.’
‘Ah, he needed wounding, then. What was it? A betrayal of sorts, I expect. Some woman? A protégé, a patron? Does it even matter? Karos Invictad makes sense to me, now. Why he is what he has become.’ She laughed again, this time without coughing, then said, ‘Delicious irony. Karos Invictad became a victim.’
‘Don’t be—’
‘A victim, Yathvanar! And he didn’t like it, oh no, not at all. It hurt – the world hurt him, so now he’s hurting it back. And yet, he has still to even the score. But you see, he never will, because in his mind, he’s still that victim, still lashing out. And as you said earlier, the victim and his crutch, his virtue of misery – one feeds the other, without cessation. No wonder he bridles with self-righteousness for all his claims to emotionless intellect—’
He struck her, hard, her head snapping to one side, spittle and blood threading out.
Breathing fast, chest strangely tight, Tanal hissed, ‘Rail at me all you will, Scholar. I expect that. But not at Karos Invictad. He is the empire’s last true hope. Only Karos Invictad will guide us into glory, into a new age, an age without the Edur, without the mixed-bloods, without even the failed peoples. No, just the Letherii, an empire expanding outward with sword and fire, all the way back to the homeland of the First Empire. He has seen our future! Our destiny!’
She stared at him in the dull light. ‘Of course. But first, he needs to kill every Letherii worthy of the name. Karos Invictad, the Great Scholar, and his empire of thugs—’
He struck her again, harder than before, then lurched back, raising his hand – it was trembling, skin torn and battered, a shard of one broken tooth jutting from one knuckle.
She was unconscious.
Well, she asked for it. She wouldn’t stop. That means she wanted it, deep inside, she wanted me to beat her. I’ve heard about this – Karos has told me – they come to like it, eventually. They like the…attention.
So, I must not neglect her. Not again. Plenty of water, keep her clean and fed.
And beat her anyway.
But she was not unconscious, for she then spoke in a mumble. He could not make it out and edged closer.
‘…on the other side…I will wait for you…on the other side…’
Tanal Yathvanar felt a slither deep in his gut. And fled from it. No god waits to pass judgement. No-one marks the imbalance of deeds – no god is beyond its own imbalances – for its own deeds are as subject to judgement as any other. So who then fashions this afterlife? Some natural imposition? Ridiculous – there is no balance in nature. Besides, nature exists in this world and this world alone – its rules mean nothing once the bridge is crossed…
Tanal Yathvanar found himself walking up the corridor, that horrid woman and her cell far behind him now – he had no recollection of actually leaving.
Karos has said again and again, justice is a conceit. It does not exist in nature. ‘Retribution seen in natural catastrophes is manufactured by all too eager and all too pious people, each one convinced the world will end but spare them and them alone. But we all know, the world is inherited by the obnoxious, not the righteous.’
Unless, came the thought in Janath’s voice, the two are one and the same.
He snarled as he hurried up the worn stone stairs. She was far below. Chained. A prisoner in her solitary cell. There was no escape for her.
I have left her down there, far below. Far behind. She can’t escape.
Yet, in his mind, he heard her laughter.
And was no longer so sure.
Two entire wings of the Eternal Domicile were empty, long, vacated corridors and never-occupied chambers, storage rooms, administration vaults, servant quarters and kitchens. Guards patrolling these sections once a day carried their own lanterns, and left unrelieved darkness in their wake. In the growing damp of these unoccupied places, dust had become mould, mould had become rot, and the rot in turn leaked rank fluids that ran down plastered walls and pooled in dips in the floors.
Abandonment and neglect would soon defeat the ingenious innovations of Bugg’s Construction, as they defeated most things raised by hands out of the earth, and Turudal Brizad, the Errant, considered himself almost unique in his fullest recognition of such sordid truths. Indeed, there were other elders persisting in their nominal existence, but they one and all fought still against the ravages of inevitable dissolution. Whereas the Errant could not be bothered.
Most of the time.
The Jaghut had come to comprehend the nature of futility, inspiring the Errant to a certain modicum of empathy for those most tragic of people. Where was Gothos now, he wondered. Probably long dead, all things considered. He had written a multiple-volumed suicide note – his Folly – that presumably concluded at some point, although the Errant had neither seen nor heard that such a conclusion existed. Perhaps, he considered with sudden suspicion, there was some hidden message in a suicidal testimonial without end, but if so, such meaning was too obscure for the mind of anyone but a Jaghut.
He had followed the Warlock King to the dead Azath, remained there long enough to discern Hannan Mosag’s intentions, and had now returned to the Eternal Domicile, where he could walk these empty corridors in peace. Contemplating, among other things, stepping once again into the fray. To battle, one more time, the ravages of dissolution.
He thought he could hear Gothos laughing, somewhere. But no doubt that was only his imagination, ever eager to mock his carefully reasoned impulses.
Finding himself in a stretch of corridor awash with slime-laden water, the Errant paused. ‘Well,’ he said with a soft sigh, ‘to bring a journey to a close, one must first begin it. Best I act whilst the will remains.’
His next step took him into a glade, thick verdant grasses underfoot, a ring of dazzling flowers at the very edges of the black-boled trees encircling the clearing. Butterflies danced from one bloom of colour to the next. The patch of sky visible overhead was faintly tinted vermilion and the air seemed strangely thin.
