The Malazan Empire, page 866
Yedan struggled to his feet.
He saw the scout with the punctured lung attempting to clamber back on to his horse. Collecting a lance, Yedan strode over. He used the haft to knock the warrior away from the horse, sending the man sprawling, and then stepped up and set the point against the Liosan’s chest. Staring down into the man’s terror-filled eyes, he pushed down on the lance, using all his weight. The armour’s enamel surface crazed, and then the point punched through.
Yedan pushed harder, twisting and grinding the serrated blade into the Liosan’s chest.
Until he saw the light leave the warrior’s eyes.
After making certain the others were dead, he bound his wounded arm, retrieved his sword and then the surviving lances and long-knives from the corpses, along with the helms. Rounding up the horses and tying them to a staggered lead, he set out at a canter back the way he had come.
He was a prince of the Shake, with memories in the blood.
Yan Tovis opened her eyes. Shadowed figures slid back and forth above her and to the sides—she could make no sense of them, nor of the muted voices surrounding her—voices that seemed to come from the still air itself. She was sheathed in sweat.
Tent walls—ah, and the shadows were nothing more than silhouettes. The voices came from outside. She struggled to sit up, the wounds on her wrists stinging as the sutures stretched. She frowned down at them, trying to recall . . . things. Important things.
The taste of blood, stale, the smell of fever—she was weak, lightheaded, and there was . . . danger.
Heart thudding, she forced her way through the entrance, on her hands and knees, the world spinning round her. Bright, blinding sunlight, scorching fires in the sky—two, three, four—four suns!
‘Highness!’
She sat back on her haunches, squinted up as a figure loomed close. ‘Who?’
‘Sergeant Trope, Highness, in Yedan’s company. Please, crawl no further, the witches—there’re wards, all round, Highness. All round you. A moment, the witches are on their way.’
‘Help me up. Where’s my brother?’
‘He rode out, Highness. Some time ago. Before the fourth sun rose—and now we’re burning alive—’
She took his proffered arm and pulled herself on to her feet. ‘Not suns, Sergeant. Attacks.’
He was a scarred man, face bludgeoned by decades of hard living. ‘Highness?’
‘We are under attack—we need to leave here. We need to leave now!’
‘O Queen!’ Pully was dancing her way closer, evading the scored lines of the wards encircling the tent. ‘He’s coming back! Witchslayer! We must ready ourselves—drip drip drip some blood, Highness. We brought ya back, me an Skwish an we did. Leave off her, you oaf, let ’er stand!’
But Yan Tovis held on to the sergeant’s wrist—solid as a rooted tree, and she needed that. She glared at Pully. ‘Drank deep, I see.’
The witch flinched. ‘Careless, an us all, Queen. But see, the Watch comes—with spare horses, white horses!’
Yan Tovis said to Trope, ‘Guide me out of these wards, Sergeant.’ And get this pretty witch out of my face.
She could hear the horses drawing closer, and, from the road, the suffering of thousands of people swept over her in an inundating tide—she almost gagged beneath that deluge.
‘Clear, Highness—’
She straightened. A fifth sun was flaring to life on the horizon. The iron fastenings of Trope’s armour were searing hot and she winced at their touch, but still would not let go of his arm. She felt her skin tightening—We’re being roasted alive.
Her brother, one arm bound in blood-soaked rags, reined in at the side of the road. Yan Tovis stared at the trailing horses. Liosan horses, yes. That clutch of lances, the sheathed long-knives and cluster of helms. Liosan.
Skwish and Pully were suddenly there, on the very edge of the road. Pully cackled a laugh.
Yan Tovis studied her brother’s face. ‘How soon?’ she asked.
She watched his bearded jaw bunch as he chewed on his answer, before squinting and saying, ‘We have time, Queen.’
‘Good,’ she snapped. ‘Witches, attend to me. We begin—not in haste, but we begin.’
Two young women, scampering and bobbing their heads like the hags they once were. New ambitions, yes, but old, old fears.
Yan Tovis met Yedan’s eyes once more, and saw that he knew. And was prepared. Witchslayer, mayhap you’re not done with that, before this is all over.
Chapter Eleven
In the first five years of King Tehol the Only’s reign, there were no assassination attempts, no insurrections, no conspiracies of such magnitude as to endanger the crown; no conflicts with neighbouring realms or border tribes. The kingdom was wealthy, justice prevailed, the common people found prosperity and unprecedented mobility.
That all of this was achieved with but a handful of modest proclamations and edicts makes the situation all the more remarkable.
Needless to say, dissatisfaction haunted Lether. Misery spread like a plague. No one was happy, the list of complaints as heard on the crowded, bustling streets grew longer with each day that passed.
Clearly, something had to be done . . .
LIFE OF TEHOL
JANATH
‘Clearly,’ said King Tehol, ‘there’s nothing to be done.’ He held up the Akrynnai gift and peered at it for a time, and then sighed.
‘No suggestions, sire?’ Bugg asked.
‘I’m at a loss. I give up. I keep trying, but I must admit: it’s hopeless. Darling wife?’
‘Don’t ask me.’
‘Some help you are. Where’s Brys?’
‘With his legions, husband. Preparing to march.’
‘The man’s priorities are a mess. I remember how our mother despaired.’
‘Of Brys?’ Janath asked, surprised.
‘Well, no. Me, mostly. Never mind. The issue here is that we’re facing a disaster. One that could scar this nation for generations to come. I need help, and see how none of you here can manage a single useful suggestion. My advisors are even more pathetic than the man they purport to advise. The situation is intolerable.’ He paused, and then frowned over at Bugg. ‘What’s the protocol? Find me that diplomat so I can chase him out of here again—no, wait, send for the emissary.’
‘Are you sure, sire?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
Bugg gestured at the gift in the King’s hands. ‘Because we’re no closer to finding a suitable gift in reciprocation.’
Tehol leaned forward. ‘And why, dear Chancellor, is that?’
‘Because none of us has a clue what that thing is, sire.’
Tehol grimaced. ‘How can this thing defeat the greatest minds of the kingdom?’
‘I didn’t know we’d tried them yet,’ murmured Janath.
‘It’s bone, antler, inlaid pearl and it has two handles.’ Tehol waited, but no one had anything to add to that succinct description. ‘At least, I think they’re handles . . .’
Janath’s breath caught, and then she said, ‘Oh.’
King Tehol scratched his jaw. ‘Best the emissary wait a little longer, I think.’
‘Sound decision, sire.’
‘Such opinions, Bugg, are invaluable. Now, dear wife, shall we retire to our private chambers to further our exploration of this, uhm, offering?’
‘You must be mad. Find Shurq Elalle. Or Rucket.’
‘Finally, proper advice!’
‘And I’ll buy myself a new dagger.’
‘That hints of high emotions, my beloved. Jealous rage does not become you.’
‘It doesn’t become anyone, husband. You didn’t really think I wanted you to follow my suggestion?’
‘Well, it’s true that it’s easy to make suggestions when you know they won’t be heeded.’
‘Yes it is. Now, you will find a small room with a stout door and multiple locks, and once the emissary has departed, in goes that gift, never again to see the light of day.’ And she settled back on the throne, arms crossed.
Tehol eyed the gift forlornly, and then sighed once more. ‘Send for the emissary, Bugg.’
‘At once, sire.’ He gestured to a servant waiting at the far end of the throne room.
‘While we’re waiting, is there any kingly business we need to mull over?’
‘Your repatriation proclamation, sire—that’s going to cause trouble.’
Tehol thumped the arm of his throne with a fist. ‘And trouble is precisely what I want! Indignation! Outrage! Protests! Let the people rail and shake their knobby fists! Let us, yes, stir this steaming stew, wave the ladle about, spattering all the walls and worse.’
Janath turned to eye him speculatively.
Bugg grunted. ‘Should work. I mean, you’re taking land away from some very wealthy families. You could well foment a general insurrection. Assuming that would be useful.’
‘Useful?’ demanded Janath. ‘In what context could insurrection be useful? Tehol, I warned you about that edict—’
‘Proclamation—’
‘—and the rage you’ll incite. But did you listen?’
‘I most certainly did, my Queen. But let me ask you, are my reasons any less just?’
‘No, it was stolen land to begin with, but that’s beside the point. The losers won’t see it that way.’
‘And that, my love, is precisely my point. Justice bites. With snippy sharp teeth. If it doesn’t, then the common folk will perceive it as unbalanced, forever favouring the wealthy and influential. When robbed, the rich cry out for protection and prosecution. When stealing, they expect the judiciary to look the other way. Well, consider this a royal punch in the face. Let them smart.’
‘You truly expect to purge cynicism from the common people, Tehol?’
‘Well, wife, in this instance it’s more the sweet taste of vengeance, but a deeper lesson is being delivered, I assure you. Ah, enough prattling about inconsequential things—the noble Akrynnai emissary arrives! Approach, my friend!’
The huge man with the wolf-skin cloak strode forward, showing his fiercest scowl.
Smiling, King Tehol said, ‘We delight in this wondrous gift and please do convey our pleasure to Sceptre Irkullas, and assure him we will endeavour to make use of it as soon as an opportunity . . . arises.’
The warrior’s scowl deepened. ‘Make use? What kind of use? It’s a damned piece of art, sire. Stick it on a damned wall and forget about it—that’s what I would do were I you. A closet wall, in fact.’
‘Ah, I see. Forgive me.’ Tehol frowned down at the object. ‘Art, yes. Of course.’
‘It wasn’t even the Sceptre’s idea,’ the emissary grumbled. ‘Some ancient agreement, wasn’t it? Between our peoples? An exchange of meaningless objects. Irkullas has a whole wagon stuffed with similar rubbish from you Letherii. Trundles around after us like an arthritic dog.’
‘The wagon’s pulled by an arthritic dog?’
The man grunted. ‘I wish. Now, I have something to discuss. Can we get on with it?’
Tehol smiled. ‘By all means. This has proved most fascinating.’
‘What has? I haven’t started yet.’
‘Just so. Proceed, then, sir.’
‘We think our traders have been murdered by the Barghast. In fact, we think the painted savages have declared war on us. And so we call upon our loyal neighbours, the Letherii, for assistance in this unwanted war.’ And he crossed his arms, glowering.
‘Is there precedent for our assistance in such conflicts?’ Tehol asked, settling his chin in one hand.
‘There is. We ask, you say “no”, and we go home. Sometimes,’ he added, ‘you say, “Of course, but first let us have half a thousand brokes of pasture land and twenty ranks of tanned hides, oh, and renounce sovereignty of the Kryn Freetrade Lands and maybe a royal hostage or two.” To which we make a rude gesture and march home.’
‘Are there no other alternatives?’ Tehol asked. ‘Chancellor, what has so irritated the—what are they called again—the Barnasties?’
‘Barghast,’ corrected Bugg. ‘White Face Clans—they claim most of the plains as their ancestral homeland. I suspect this is the reason for their setting out to conquer the Akrynnai.’
Tehol turned to Janath and raised an eyebrow. ‘Repatriation issues, see how they plague peoples? Bugg, are these Barghast in truth from those lands?’
The Chancellor shrugged.
‘What kind of answer is that?’ Tehol demanded.
‘The only honest kind, sire. The problem is this: migratory tribes move around, that’s what makes them migratory. They flow in waves, this way and that. The Barghast may well have dwelt on the plains and much of the Wastelands once, long, long ago. But what of it? Tarthenal once lived there, too, and Imass, and Jheck—a well-trammelled land, by any count. Who’s to say which claim is more legitimate than the next?’
The emissary barked a laugh. ‘But who lives there now? We do. The only answer that matters. We will destroy these Barghast. Irkullas calls to the Kryn and their mercenary Warleader Zavast. He calls to Saphinand and to the D’rhasilhani. And he sends me to you Letherii, to take the measure of your new King.’
‘If you will crush the Barghast with the assistance of your allies,’ said Tehol, ‘why come here at all? What measure do you seek from me?’
‘Will you pounce when our backs are turned? Our spies tell us your commander is in the field with an army—’
‘We can tell you that,’ Tehol said. ‘There’s no need for spies—’
‘We prefer spies.’
‘Right. Well. Yes, Brys Beddict leads a Letherii army—’
‘Into the Wastelands—through our territory, in fact.’
‘Actually,’ said Bugg, ‘we will be mostly skirting your territories, sir.’
‘And what of these foreigners you march with?’ the emissary asked, adding an impressive snarl after the question.
Tehol held up a hand. ‘A moment, before this paranoia gets out of hand. Deliver the following message to Sceptre Irkullas, from King Tehol of Lether. He is free to prosecute his war against the Barghast—in defence of his territory and such—without fear of Letherii aggression. Nor, I add, that of the Malazans, the foreigners, I mean.’
‘You cannot speak for the foreigners.’
‘No, but Brys Beddict and his army will be escorting them, and so guarantee that nothing treacherous will take place—’
‘Hah! Bolkando is already warring with the foreigners’ allies!’
Bugg snorted. ‘Thus revealing to you that the much acclaimed Bolkando Alliance has a straw spine,’ he pointed out. ‘Leave the Bolkando to sort out their own mess. As for the Malazans, assure Irkullas, they are not interested in you or your lands.’
The emissary’s eyes had narrowed, his expression one of deep, probably pathological suspicion. ‘I shall convey your words. Now, what gift must I take back to Irkullas?’
Tehol rubbed his chin. ‘How does a wagonload of silks, linens, quality iron bars and a hundred or so silver ingots sound, sir?’
The man blinked.
‘Outmoded traditions are best left behind, I’m sure Sceptre Irkullas will agree. Go, then, with our blessing.’
The man bowed and then walked off, weaving as if drunk.
Tehol turned to Janath and smiled.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Now the poor bastard has to reciprocate in kind—which will likely impoverish him. Those old traditions survived for a reason, husband.’
‘He won’t be impoverished with the haul I just sent his way.’
‘But he’ll need to divide it up among his warleaders, to buy their loyalty.’
‘He would have done that anyway,’ said Tehol. ‘And where did this insane notion of buying loyalty come from? It’s a contradiction in terms.’
‘The currency is obligation,’ said Bugg. ‘Gifts force honour upon the receiver. Sire, I must speak with you now as the Ceda. The journey Brys intends is more fraught than we had initially thought. I fear for his fate and that of his legions.’
‘This relates, I assume,’ said Janath, ‘to the unknown motives of the Malazans. But Brys is not compelled to accompany them beyond the Wastelands, is he? Indeed, is it not his intention to return once that expanse is successfully crossed?’
Bugg nodded. ‘Alas, I now believe that the Wastelands are where the greatest peril waits.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘Blood has been spilled on those ancient soils. There will be more to come.’
Tehol rose from the throne, the Akrynnai gift in his hands. He held it out to one side and a servant hurried forward to take it. ‘I do not believe my brother is as unaware of such dangers as you think, Bugg. His sojourn in the realm of the dead—or wherever it was—has changed him. Not surprising, I suppose. In any case, I don’t think he returned to the realm of the living just to keep me company.’
‘I suspect you are right,’ said Bugg. ‘But I can tell you nothing of the path he has taken. In a sense, he stands outside of . . . well, everything. As a force, one might view him as unaligned, and therefore unpredictable.’
‘Which is why the Errant sought to kill him,’ said Janath.
‘Yes,’ replied Bugg. ‘One thing I can say: while in close company with the Malazans, Brys is perhaps safer from the Errant than he would be anywhere else.’
‘And on the return journey?’ Tehol asked.
‘I expect the Errant to be rather preoccupied by then, sire.’
‘Why is that?’
Bugg was long in replying, and on his blunt face could be seen a reluctant weighing of risks, ending in a grimace and then a sigh. ‘He compels me. In my most ancient capacity, he compels me. Sire, by the time Brys begins his return to the kingdom, the Errant will be busy . . . contending with me.’
