The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (501 page)

 

A dozen paces from the citadel a figure emerged from the rain to stand in front of Udinaas.

The Acquitor.

‘What has he done?'

Udinaas studied her for a moment, then shrugged. ‘He stole his brother's betrothed. We have an empress, and she does poorly at a brave face.'

‘The Edur are usurped,' Seren Pedac said. ‘And a tyrant sits on the throne.'

Udinaas hesitated, then said, ‘Tell the First Eunuch. You must prepare for war.'

She revealed no surprise at his words; rather, a heavy weariness dulled her eyes. She turned away, walked into the rain and was gone.

I am a bearer of good tidings indeed. And now, it's Feather Witch's turn…

Rain rushed down from the sky, blinding and blind, indifferent and mindless, but it held no meaning beyond that. How could it? It was just rain, descending from the sky's massed legion of grieving clouds. And the crying wind was the breath of natural laws, born high in the mountains or out at sea. Its voice promised nothing.

There was no meaning to be found in lifeless weather, in the pulsing of tides and in the wake of turning seasons.

No meaning to living and dying, either.

The tyrant was clothed in gold, and the future smelled of blood.

It meant nothing.

Five wings will buy you a grovel. I admit, master, the meaning of that saying escapes me.'

Tehol ran both hands through his hair, pulling at the tangles. ‘Ouch. It's the Eternal Domicile, Bugg. Wings numbering five, a grovel at the feet of the Errant, at the feet of destiny. The empire is risen. Lether awakens to a new day of glory.'

They stood side by side on the roof.

‘But the fifth wing is sinking. What about four wings?'

‘Gulls in collision, Bugg. My, it's going to be hot, a veritable furnace. What are the tasks awaiting you today?'

‘My first meeting with Royal Engineer Grum. The shoring up we've done with the warehouses impressed him, it seems.'

‘Good.' Tehol continued staring out over the city for another moment, then he faced his servant. ‘Should it have?'

‘Impressed him? Well, the floors aren't sagging and they're bone dry. The new plaster isn't showing any cracks. The owners are delighted—'

‘I thought I owned those warehouses.'

‘Aren't you delighted?'

‘Well, you're right, I am. Every one of me.'

‘That's what I told the Royal Engineer when I responded to his first missive.'

‘What about the people fronting me on those investments?'

‘They're delighted, too.'

‘Well,' Tehol sighed, ‘it's just that kind of day, isn't it?'

Bugg nodded. ‘Must be, master.'

‘And is that all you have planned? For the whole day?'

‘No. I need to scrounge some food. Then I need to visit Shand and her partners to give them that list of yours again. It was too long.'

‘Do you recall it in its entirety?'

‘I do. Puryst Rott Ale, I liked that one.'

‘Thank you.'

‘But they weren't all fake, were they?'

‘No, that would give it away too quickly. All the local ones were real. In any case, it'll keep them busy for a while. I hope. What else?'

‘Another meeting with the guilds. I may need bribe money for that.'

‘Nonsense. Stand fast—they're about to be hit from another quarter.'

‘Strike? I hadn't heard—'

‘Of course not. The incident that triggers it hasn't happened yet. You know the Royal Engineer's obliged to hire guild members only. We have to see that conflict eliminated before it gives us trouble.'

‘All right. I also need to check on that safe-house for Shurq and her newfound friend.'

‘Harlest Eberict. That was quite a surprise. Just how many undead people are prowling around in this city anyway?'

‘Obviously more than we're aware of, master.'

‘For all we know, half the population might be undead—those people on the bridge there, there, those ones with all those shopping baskets in tow, maybe they're undead.'

‘Possibly, master,' Bugg conceded. ‘Do you mean undead literally or figuratively?'

‘Oh, yes, there is a difference, isn't there? Sorry, I got carried away. Speaking of which, how are Shurq and Ublala getting along?'

‘Swimmingly.'

‘Impressively droll, Bugg. So, you want to check on their hidden abode. Is that all you're up to today?'

‘That's just the morning. In the afternoon—'

‘Can you manage a short visit?'

‘Where?'

‘Rat Catchers' Guild.'

‘Scale House?'

Tehol nodded. ‘I have a contract for them. I want a meeting—clandestine—with the Guild Master. Tomorrow night, if possible.'

Bugg looked troubled. ‘That guild—'

‘I know.'

‘I can drop by on my way to the gravel quarry.'

‘Excellent. Why are you going to the gravel quarry?'

‘Curiosity. They opened up a new hill to fill my last order, and found something.'

‘What?'

‘Not sure. Only that they hired a necromancer to deal with it. And the poor fool disappeared, apart from some hair and toe nails.'

‘Hmm, that is interesting. Keep me informed.'

‘As always, master. And what have you planned for today?'

‘I thought I'd go back to bed.'

 

Brys lifted his gaze from the meticulous scroll and studied the scribe seated across from him. ‘There must be some mistake,' he said.

‘No, sir. Never, sir.'

‘Well, if these are just the reported disappearances, what about those that haven't been reported?'

‘Between thirty and fifty per cent, I would say, sir. Added on to what we have. But those would be the blue-edged scrolls. They're stored on the Projected Shelf.'

‘The what?'

‘Projected. That one, the one sticking out from the wall over there.'

‘And what is the significance of the blue edges?'

‘Posited realities, sir, that which exists beyond the statistics. We use the statistics for formal, public statements and pronouncements, but we operate on the posited realities or, if possible, the measurable realities.'

‘Different sets of data?'

‘Yes, sir. It's the only way to operate an effective government. The alternative would lead to anarchy. Riots, that sort of thing. We have posited realities for those projections, of course, and they're not pretty.'

‘But'—Brys looked back down at the scroll—‘seven thousand disappearances in Letheras last year?'

‘Six thousand nine hundred and twenty-one, sir.'

‘With a possible additional thirty-five hundred?'

‘Three thousand four hundred and sixty and a half, sir.'

‘And is anyone assigned to conduct investigations on these?'

‘That has been contracted out, sir.'

‘Clearly a waste of coin, then—'

‘Oh no, the coin is well spent.'

‘How so?'

‘A respectable amount, sir, which we can use in our formal and public pronouncements.'

‘Well, who holds this contract?'

‘Wrong office, sir. That information is housed in the Chamber of Contracts and Royal Charters.'

‘I've never heard of it. Where is it?'

The scribe rose and walked to a small door squeezed between scroll-cases. ‘In here. Follow me, sir.'

The room beyond was not much larger than a walk-in closet. Blue-edged scrolls filled cubby-holes from floor to ceiling on all sides. Rummaging in one cubby-hole at the far wall, the scribe removed a scroll and unfurled it. ‘Here we are. It's a relatively new contract. Three years so far. Ongoing investigations, biannual reports delivered precisely on the due dates, yielding no queries, each one approved without prejudice.'

‘With whom?'

‘The Rat Catchers' Guild.'

Brys frowned. ‘Now I am well and truly confused.'

The scribe shrugged and rolled up the scroll to put it away. Over his shoulder he said, ‘No need to be, sir. The guild is profoundly competent in a whole host of endeavours—'

‘Competence doesn't seem a relevant notion in this matter,' Brys observed.

‘I disagree. Punctual reports. No queries. Two renewals without challenge. Highly competent, I would say, sir.'

‘Nor is there any shortage of rats in the city, as one would readily see with even a short walk down any street.'

‘Population management, sir. I dread to think what the situation would be like without the guild.'

Brys said nothing.

A defensiveness came to the scribe's expression as he studied the Finadd for a long moment. ‘We have nothing but praise for the Rat Catchers' Guild, sir.'

‘Thank you for your efforts,' Brys said. ‘I will find my own way out. Good day.'

‘And to you, sir. Pleased to have been of some service.'

Out in the corridor, Brys paused, rubbing at his eyes. Archival chambers were thick with dust. He needed to get outside, into what passed for fresh air in Letheras.

Seven thousand disappearances every year. He was appalled.

So what, I wonder, has Tehol stumbled onto?
His brother remained a mystery to Brys. Clearly, Tehol was up to something, contrary to outward appearances. And he had somehow held on to a formidable level of efficacy behind—or beneath—the scenes. That all too public fall, so shocking and traumatic to the financial tolls, now struck Brys as just another feint in his brother's grander scheme—whatever that was.

The mere thought that such a scheme might exist worried Brys. His brother had revealed, on occasion, frightening competence and ruthlessness. Tehol possessed few loyalties. He was capable of anything.

All things considered, the less Brys knew of Tehol's activities, the better. He did not want his own loyalties challenged, and his brother might well challenge them.
As with Hull. Oh, Mother, it is the Errant's blessing that you are not alive to see your sons now. Then again, how much of what we are now is what you made us into?

Questions without answers. There seemed to be too many of those these days.

He made his way into the more familiar passages of the palace. Weapons training awaited him, and he found himself anticipating that period of blissful exhaustion. If only to silence the cacophony of his thoughts.

 

There were clear advantages to being dead, Bugg reflected, as he lifted the flagstone from the warehouse office floor, revealing a black gaping hole and the top rung of a pitted bronze ladder. Dead fugitives, after all, needed no food, no water. No air, come to that. Made hiding them almost effortless.

He descended the ladder, twenty-three rungs, to arrive at a tunnel roughly cut from the heavy clay and then fired to form a hard shell. Ten paces forward to a crooked stone arch beneath which was a cracked stone door crowded with hieroglyphs. Old tombs like this were rare. Most had long since collapsed beneath the weight of the city overhead or had simply sunk so far down in the mud as to be unreachable. Scholars had sought to decipher the strange sigils on the doors of the
tombs, while common folk had long wondered why tombs should have doors at all. The language had only been partially deciphered, sufficient to reveal that the glyphs were curse-laden and aspected to the Errant in some mysterious way. All in all, cause enough to avoid them, especially since, after a few had been broken into, it became known that the tombs contained nothing of value, and were peculiar in that the featureless plain stone sarcophagus each tomb housed was empty. There was the added unsubstantiated rumour that those tomb-robbers had subsequently suffered horrid fates.

The door to this particular tomb had surrendered its seal to the uneven heaving descent of the entire structure. Modest effort could push it to one side.

In the tunnel, Bugg lit a lantern using a small ember box, and set it down on the threshold to the tomb. He then applied his shoulder to the door.

‘Is that you?' came Shurq's voice from the darkness within.

‘Why yes,' Bugg said, ‘it is.'

‘Liar. You're not you, you're Bugg. Where's Tehol? I need to talk to Tehol.'

‘He is indisposed,' Bugg said. Having pushed the door open to allow himself passage into the tomb, he collected the lantern and edged inside.

‘Where's Harlest?'

‘In the sarcophagus.'

There was no lid to the huge stone coffin. Bugg walked over and peered in. ‘What are you doing, Harlest?' He set the lantern down on the edge.

‘The previous occupant was tall. Very tall. Hello, Bugg. What am I doing? I am lying here.'

‘Yes, I see that. But why?'

‘There are no chairs.'

Bugg turned to Shurq Elalle. ‘Where are these diamonds?'

‘Here. Have you found what I was looking for?'

‘I have. A decent price, leaving you the majority of your wealth intact.'

‘Tehol can have what's left in the box there. My earnings from the whorehouse I'll keep.'

‘Are you sure you don't want a percentage from this, Shurq? Tehol would be happy with fifty per cent. After all, the risk was yours.'

‘No. I'm a thief. I can always get more.'

Bugg glanced around. ‘Will this do for the next little while?'

‘I don't see why not. It's dry, at least. Quiet, most of the time. But I need Ublala Pung.'

Harlest's voice came from the sarcophagus. ‘And I want sharp teeth and talons. Shurq said you could do that for me.'

‘Work's already begun on that, Harlest.'

‘I want to be scary. It's important that I be scary. I've been practising hissing and snarling.'

‘No need for concern there,' Bugg replied. ‘You'll be truly terrifying. In any case, I should be going—'

‘Not so fast,' Shurq cut in. ‘Has there been any word on the robbery at Gerun Eberict's estate?'

‘No. Not surprising, if you think about it. Gerun's undead brother disappears, the same night as some half-giant beats up most of the guards. Barring that, what else is certain? Will anyone actually attempt to enter Gerun's warded office?'

‘If I eat human flesh,' Harlest said, ‘it will rot in my stomach, won't it? That means I will stink. I like that. I like thinking about things like that. The smell of doom.'

‘The what? Shurq, probably they don't know they've been robbed. And even if they did, they wouldn't make a move until their master returns.'

‘I expect you're right. Anyway, be sure to send me Ublala Pung. Tell him I miss him. Him and his—'

‘I will, Shurq. I promise. Anything else?'

‘I don't know,' she replied. ‘Let me think.'

Bugg waited.

‘Oh, yes,' she said after a time, ‘what do you know about these tombs? There was a corpse here, once, in that sarcophagus.'

‘How can you be certain?'

Her lifeless eyes fixed on his. ‘We can tell.'

‘Oh. All right.'

‘So, what do you know?'

‘Not much. The language on the door belongs to an extinct people known as Forkrul Assail, who are collectively personified in our Fulcra by the personage we call the Errant. The tombs were built for another extinct people, called the Jaghut, whom we acknowledge in the Hold we call the Hold of Ice. The wards were intended to block the efforts of another people, the T'lan Imass, who were the avowed enemies of the Jaghut. The T'lan Imass pursued the Jaghut in a most relentless manner, including those Jaghut who elected to surrender their place in the world—said individuals choosing something closely resembling death. Their souls would travel to their Hold, leaving their flesh behind, the flesh being stored in tombs like this one. That wasn't good enough for the T'lan Imass. Anyway, the Forkrul Assail considered themselves impartial arbiters in the conflict, and that was, most of the time, the extent of their involvement. Apart from that,' Bugg said with a shrug, ‘I really can't say.'