The Malazan Empire, page 607
Soft laughter.
The mist spun, wavered, then settled once more, tendrils reaching out tentatively – beyond the carved borders.
Feather Witch gasped. ‘You mock me with your power – yet, coward that you are, you dare not show yourself.’
‘Dear girl, this game will eat you alive.’ The words, the faintest whisper – the touch of breath along both ears. She started, glared about, sensed a presence behind her and spun round – no-one.
‘Who is here?’ she demanded.
‘Beware the gathering of names…it is…premature…’
‘Name yourself, ghost! I command it.’
‘Oh, compulsion is ever the weapon of the undeserving. Let us instead bargain in faith. That severed finger you keep round your neck, Caster, what do you intend with it?’
She clutched at the object. ‘I will not tell you—’
‘Then I in turn will reveal to you the same – nothing.’
She hesitated. ‘Can you not guess?’
‘Ah, and have I guessed correctly?’
‘Yes.’
‘Premature.’
‘I am biding my time, ghost – I am no fool.’
‘No indeed,’ the ghost replied. ‘Even so, let us extend the bargain—’
‘Why? You have revealed nothing of yourself—’
‘Patience. Caster of the Tiles, await my…encouragement. Before you do what you intend. Await me, and I will assist you.’
She snorted. ‘You are a ghost. You have no power—’
‘I am a ghost, and that is precisely why I have power. For what you seek, that is.’
‘Why should I believe you? Why should I agree to anything you suggest?’
‘Very well, my part of the bargain. You speak now with Kuru Qan, once Ceda to King Ezgara Diskanar.’
‘Slain by Trull Sengar…’
Something like a chuckle. ‘Well, someone needed to thrust the spear…’
‘You knew it was coming?’
‘Knowing and being able to do something about it are two different matters, Caster of the Tiles. In any case, lay the true blame at the Errant’s feet. And I admit, I am of a mind to call him out on that, eventually. But like you, I understand the necessity of biding one’s time. Have we a bargain?’
She licked her lips, then nodded. ‘We have.’
‘Then I shall leave you to your education. Be careful when casting your tiles – you risk much by so revealing your talents as a seer.’
‘But I must know—’
‘Knowing and being able to do something about it—’
‘Yes,’ she snapped, ‘I heard you the first time.’
‘You lack respect, girl.’
‘And be glad of it.’
‘You may have a point there. Worth some consideration, I think.’
‘Do you now intend to spy on me my every moment down here?’
‘No, that would be cruel, not to mention dull. When I come here, you shall be warned – the wind, the mist, yes? Now, witness its vanishing.’
She stared down at the swirling cloud, watched as it faded, then was gone.
Silence in the chamber, the air still beyond her own breath. Kuru Qan, the Ceda! See how I gather allies. Oh, this shall be sweet vengeance indeed!
The waning sun’s shafts of dusty light cut across the space where the old temple had stood, although the wreckage filling the lower half of that gap was swallowed in gloom. Fragments of façade were scattered on the street – pieces of rats in dismaying profusion. Edging closer, Samar Dev kicked at the rubble, frowning down at the disarticulated stone rodents. ‘This is most…alarming,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ Taxilian said, smiling, ‘now the witch speaks. Tell me, what do you sense in this fell place?’
‘Too many spirits to count,’ she murmured. ‘And all of them…rats.’
‘There was a D’ivers once, wasn’t there? A terrible demonic thing that travelled the merchant roads across Seven Cities—’
‘Gryllen.’
‘Yes, that was its name! So, do we have here another such…Gryllen?’
She shook her head. ‘No, this feels older, by far.’
‘And what of that bleeding? Of power?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Glancing around, she saw a tall, cloaked man leaning against a wall on the other side of the street, watching them. ‘Some things, long ago grinding to a halt, should never be reawakened. Alas…’
Taxilian sighed. ‘You use that word a lot. “Alas”. You are too resigned, Samar Dev. You flee from your own curiosity – I do not think you were always like this.’
She squinted at him. ‘Oh, my curiosity remains. It’s my belief in my own efficacy that has taken a beating.’
‘We spin and swirl on the currents of fate, do we?’
‘If you like.’ She sighed. ‘Very well, I’ve seen enough. Besides, it will be curfew soon, and I gather guards kill lawbreakers on sight.’
‘You have seen – but you explain nothing!’
‘Sorry, Taxilian. All of this requires…some thought. If I reach any spectacular conclusions any time soon, I will be sure to let you know.’
‘Do I deserve such irony?’
‘No, you don’t. Alas.’
Bugg finally made his way round the corner, emerging from the alley’s gloom then pausing in the sunlit street. He glanced over at Tehol, who stood leaning against a wall, arms crossed beneath his blanket, which he had wrapped about him like a robe. ‘Master,’ he said, ‘why do you hesitate now?’
‘Me? Why, this only appears to be hesitation. You know, you could have let me help you carry that.’
Bugg set the heavy sack down. ‘You never offered.’
‘Well, that would be unseemly. You should have insisted.’
‘Are you sure you have that right, Master?’
‘Not in the least, but some graciousness on your part would have helped us move past this awkward moment.’
From the bag came soft clucking sounds.
Tehol blinked down at it. ‘Bugg, you said retired hens, correct?’
‘I did. In exchange for some modest repairs to a water trough.’
‘But…they’re not dead.’
‘No, Master.’
‘But…that means one of us has to kill them. Wring their necks. See the light of life dim in their beady eyes. You are a hard man, Bugg.’
‘Me?’
‘Retired – their egg-laying days over. Isn’t there some kind of pasture awaiting them? Some well-strewn pecking ground?’
‘Only the one in the sky, Master. But I see your point. About killing them, I mean.’
‘Blood on your hands, Bugg – I’m glad I’m not you.’
‘This is ridiculous. We’ll figure something out when we get back home.’
‘We could build us a coop on the roof, as mad folk do for pigeons. That way the birds could fly in and out, back and forth, and see something of this fine city.’
‘Chickens can’t fly, Master.’
‘Beats wringing their necks, though, don’t you think?’
‘Seeing the city?’
‘Well, momentarily.’
Clearly satisfied with his solution, Tehol adjusted his blanket then walked out onto the street. Sighing, Bugg collected the sack with its dozen hens and followed at a somewhat slower pace.
‘Well,’ he said as he joined Tehol in front of the ruin, ‘at least that foreign witch is gone.’
‘She was a foreign witch? Rather pretty, in a stolid, earthy way. All right, handsome, then, although I assure you I would never say that to her face, knowing how women are so easily offended.’
‘By a compliment?’
‘Absolutely. If it is the wrong compliment. You have been…inactive far too long, dear Bugg.’
‘Possibly. I am also reticent when it comes to compliments. They have a way of coming after you.’
Tehol glanced over at him, brows lifted. ‘Sounds like you’ve been married once or twice.’
‘Once or twice,’ Bugg replied, grimacing. Glancing up at the ruined Scale House, he went very still. ‘Ah, I see now what she no doubt saw.’
‘If what you are seeing is the source for making the hairs of my neck stand on end every time I come here, then I would be pleased if you explained.’
‘For someone to step inside,’ Bugg said, ‘of necessity there must be a door. And if one does not exist, one must be made.’
‘How can a collapsed building be a door, Bugg?’
‘I begin to comprehend what is coming.’
‘Sufficient to suggest a course of action?’
‘In this matter, Master, the best course is to do nothing.’
‘Hold on, Bugg, that particular conclusion seems to crop up rather often with you.’
‘We’d best get home before curfew, Master. Care to take a turn with this sack?’
‘Errant’s blessing, have you lost your mind?’
‘I thought as much.’
There was little in Sirryn Kanar’s thoughts that reached down to the depths of his soul – he had a sense of that, sufficient to make him recognize that he was blessed with a virtually untroubled life. He possessed a wife frightened enough to do whatever he told her to do. His three children held him in the proper mixture of respect and terror, and he had seen in his eldest son the development of similar traits of dominance and certainty. His position as a lieutenant in the Palace Cell of the Patriotists did not, as far as he was concerned, conflict with his official title of Sergeant of the Guard – protection of the powerful demanded both overt and covert diligence, after all.
The emotions commanding him were similarly simple and straightforward. He feared what he could not understand, and he despised what he feared. But acknowledging fear did not make him a coward – for he had proclaimed for himself an eternal war against all that threatened him, be it a devious wife who had raised walls round her soul, or conspirators against the empire of Lether. His enemies, he well understood, were the true cowards. They thought within clouds that obscured all the harsh truths of the world. Their struggles to ‘understand’ led, inevitably, to seditious positions against authority. Even as they forgave the empire’s enemies, they condemned the weaknesses of their own homeland – not recognizing that they themselves personified such weaknesses.
An empire such as Lether was ever under siege. This had been the first statement uttered by Karos Invictad during the recruitment and training process, and Sirryn Kanar had understood the truth of that with barely a moment’s thought. A siege, inside and out, yes – the very privileges the empire granted were exploited by those who would see the empire destroyed. And there could be no room for ‘understanding’ such people – they were evil, and evil must be expurgated.
The vision of Karos Invictad had struck him with the force of revelation, yielding such perfect clarity and, indeed, peace in what had been, at times, a soul in turmoil – battered and assailed on occasion by a world blurry with confusion and uncertainty – that all that raged within him settled out as certainty arrived, blazing and blinding in its wondrous gift of release.
He now lived an untroubled life, and so set an example to his fellow agents in the palace. In their eyes he had seen, again and again, the glimmer of awe and fear, or, equally satisfying, a perfect reflection of his own – flat, remorseless, as impervious to every deceit the enemy might attempt as he himself was.
Untroubled, then, he gestured to two burly Patriotists who stepped forward and kicked in the door. It virtually flew off its flimsy hinges, crashing down into the opulent chamber beyond. A scream, then another, from the gloom to the left – where the handmaidens slept – but already the lead agents were crossing the room to the door opposite. More violence, wood splintering beneath heavy boots.
Sprawled in the hallway behind Sirryn was the corpse of a Tiste Edur – someone had set a guard. Curious, but of little consequence. Poisoned quarrels had proved both quick and virtually silent. Already two of his men were preparing to carry the corpse away – just one more Edur who mysteriously vanished.
Sirryn Kanar positioned himself in the centre of the first chamber, as another agent arrived with a hooded lantern to stand off to one side, shedding just enough light. Too much would not do – the shadows needed to be alive, writhing, confusion on all sides. Sirryn delighted in precision.
His men emerged from the inner room, a figure between them – half naked, hair tousled, a look of disbelief—No. Sirryn Kanar’s eyes narrowed. Not disbelief. Resignation. Good, the traitor knew her fate, knew she could never escape it. Saying nothing, he gestured for his agents to take her out.
Three handmaidens, weeping now, huddled against the wall, near their sleeping pallets. ‘Attend to them,’ Sirryn commanded, and four from his squad moved towards them. ‘The senior one will be questioned, the other two disposed of immediately.’
He looked around, pleased at the ease of this operation, barely noticing the death-cries of two women.
In a short while, he would deliver his two prisoners to the squad waiting at a side postern of the palace, who would move quickly through the night – alone on the streets this long after curfew – to the headquarters of the Patriotists. Deliver the two women into interrogation cells. And the work would begin, the only release from the ordeal full confession of their crimes against the empire.
A simple, straightforward procedure. Proven effective. Traitors were invariably weak of will.
And Sirryn Kanar did not think the First Concubine would be any different. If anything, even more flimsy of spirit than most.
Women delighted in their airs of mystery, but those airs vanished before the storm of a man’s will. True, whores hid things better than most – behind an endless succession of lies that never fooled him. He knew they were contemptuous of him and men like him, believing him weak by simple virtue of his using them – as if that use came from actual, genuine need. But he had always known how to wipe the smirks from their painted faces.
He envied the interrogators. That bitch Nisall – she was no different from his wife, he suspected.
Our enemies are legion, Karos Invictad had said, so you must understand, all of you – this war, it will last for ever. For ever.
Sirryn Kanar was content with that notion. Kept things simple.
And it is our task, the Master of the Patriotists had continued, to ensure that. So that we are never expendable.
Somewhat more confusing, that part, but Sirryn felt no real compulsion to pursue the notion. Karos was very clever, after all. Clever and on our side. The right side.
His thoughts shifting to the bed that awaited him, and the whore he’d have delivered to him there, the lieutenant marched down the empty palace corridor, his men falling in behind him.
Bruthen Trana stepped into the chamber. His eyes settled on the corpses of the two handmaidens. ‘How long ago?’ he asked the Arapay warlock who was crouched over the bodies. Two other Edur entered the First Concubine’s bedroom, emerged again a moment later.
The warlock muttered something inaudible under his breath, then said in a louder voice, ‘A bell, perhaps. Shortswords. The kind used by the Palace Guard.’
‘Gather ten more warriors,’ Bruthen Trana said. ‘We are marching to the headquarters of the Patriotists.’
The warlock slowly straightened. ‘Shall I inform Hannan Mosag?’
‘Not yet. We cannot delay here. Sixteen Edur warriors and a warlock should suffice.’
‘You mean to demand the release of the woman?’
‘There are two, yes?’
A nod.
‘They will begin interrogations immediately,’ Bruthen Trana said. ‘And that is not a pleasant procedure.’
‘And if they have wrung confessions from them?’
‘I understand your concern, K’ar Penath. Do you fear violence this night?’
The other warriors in the chamber had paused, eyes fixed on the Arapay warlock.
‘Fear? Not in the least. With confessions in hand, however, Karos Invictad and, by extension, Triban Gnol, will be able to assert righteous domain—’
‘We are wasting time,’ Bruthen Trana cut in. ‘My patience with Karos Invictad is at an end.’ And where is the guard I set in the hallway outside? As if I cannot guess.
A new voice spoke from the outer doorway: ‘Personal enmity, Bruthen Trana, is a very dangerous guide to your actions.’
The Tiste Edur turned.
The Chancellor, with two bodyguards hovering in the corridor behind him, stood with hands folded. After a moment he took a step into the room and looked about. An expression of regret when he saw the two dead women. ‘Clearly, there was some resistance. They were most loyal servants to the First Concubine, probably innocent of all wrongdoing – this is tragic indeed. Blood on Nisall’s hands now.’
Bruthen Trana studied the tall, thin man for a long moment, then he walked past him and out into the hall.
Neither bodyguard was suspicious, and neither had time to draw their weapons before the Edur’s knives – one in each hand – slid up under their jaws, points driven deep into their brains. Leaving the weapons embedded, Bruthen Trana spun round, both hands snapping out to grasp the Chancellor’s heavy brocaded collar. The Letherii gasped as he was yanked from his feet, flung round to face Bruthen, then slammed hard against the corridor’s opposite wall.
‘My patience with you,’ the Edur said in a low voice, ‘is at an end as well. Tragic demise for your bodyguards. Blood on your hands, alas. And I am not of a mind, presently, to forgive you their deaths.’
Triban Gnol’s feet dangled, the stiff-tipped slippers kicking lightly against Bruthen Trana’s shins. The Letherii’s face was darkening, eyes bulging as they stared into the Edur’s hard, cold gaze.
I should kill him now. I should stand here and watch him suffocate in the drawn folds of his own robe. Better yet, retrieve a knife and slice open his guts – watch them tumble onto the floor.
Behind him, K’ar Penath said, ‘Commander, as you said, we’ve no time for this.’
Baring his teeth, Bruthen Trana flung the pathetic man aside. An awkward fall: Triban Gnol threw a hand down to break his descent, and the snap of finger bones – like iron nails driven into wood – was followed immediately by a gasp and squeal of pain.
