The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (522 page)

The sword clattered at Rhulad's feet.

‘Choose.'

Withal watched, saw the Edur's expression change.

With a scream, Rhulad snatched up the weapon and lunged—

—and was gone.

Rasping laughter. ‘There is so little, Withal, that surprises me any more.'

Disgusted, the Meckros turned away.

‘A moment, Withal. I see your weariness, your displeasure. What is it that plagues you so? That is what I ask myself.'

‘The lad doesn't deserve it—'

‘Oh, but he does. They all do.'

‘Aye,' Withal said, eyes level as he stared at the Crippled God, ‘that does seem to be the sole judgement you possess. But it's hardly clean, is it?'

‘Careful. My gratitude for what you have done for me wears thin.'

‘Gratitude?' Withal's laugh was harsh. ‘You are thankful after compelling me into doing your bidding. That's a good one. May you be as generous of thought after I force you into killing me.' He studied the hooded figure. ‘I see your problem,
you know. I see it now, and curse myself for having missed it before. You have no realm to command, as do other gods. So you sit there, alone, in your tent, and that is the extent of your realm, isn't it? Broken flesh and foul, stifling air. Skin-thin walls and the heat the old and lame desire. Your world, and you alone in it, and the irony is, you cannot even command your own body.'

A wretched cough, then, ‘Spare me your sympathy, Meckros. I have given the problem of you considerable thought, and have found a solution, as you shall soon discover. When you do, think on what you have said to me. Now, go.'

‘You still don't understand, do you? The more pain you deliver to others, god, the more shall be visited upon you. You sow your own misery, and because of that whatever sympathy you might rightly receive is swept away.'

‘I said go, Withal. Build yourself a nest. Mape's waiting.'

 

They emerged onto a windswept sward with the crashing waves of the sea on their right and before them the delta of a broad river. On the river's other side stood a walled city.

Seren Pedac studied the distant buildings, the tall, thin towers that seemed to lean seaward. ‘Old Katter,' she said. ‘We're thirty leagues south of Trate. How is that possible?'

‘Warrens,' Corlo muttered, sagging until he sat on the ground. ‘Rotted. Septic, but still, a warren.'

The Acquitor made her way down to the beach. The sun was high and hot overhead.
I must wash. Get clean. The sea…

Iron Bars followed, in one hand the encrusted object where the spirit of a Tiste Andii woman now resided.

She strode into the water, the foaming waves thrashing round her shins.

The Avowed flung the object past her—a small splash not far ahead.

Thighs, then hips.

Clean. Get clean.

To her chest. A wave rolled, lifted her from the bottom, spun and flung her towards the shore. She clawed herself round until she could push forward once again. Cold salty water rising over her face. Bright, sunlit, silty water, washing sight from her eyes. Water biting at scabbed wounds, stinging her broken lips, water filling her mouth and begging to be drawn inside.

Like this.

Hands grasped her, pulled her back. She fought, but could not break loose.

Clean!

Her face swept by cold wind, eyes blinking in painful light. Coughing, weeping, she struggled, but the hands dragged her remorselessly onto the beach, flung her onto the sand. Then, as she tried to claw free, arms wrapped tight about her, pinning her own arms, and a voice gasped close to her ear, ‘I know, lass. I know what it's about. But it ain't the way.'

Heaving, helpless sobs, now.

And he held her still.

‘Heal her, Corlo.'

‘I'm damn near done—'

‘Now. And sleep. Make her sleep—'

 

No, you can't die. Not again. I have need of you.

So many layers, pressing down upon these indurative remnants, a moment of vast pressure, the thick, so thick skin tracing innumerable small deaths. And life was voice, not words, but sound, motion. Where all else was still, silent. Oblivion waited when the last echo faded.

Dying the first time should have been enough. This world was foreign, after all. The gate sealed, swept away. Her husband—if he still lived—was long past his grief. Her daughter, perhaps a mother herself by now, a grandmother. She had fed on draconic blood, there in the wake of Anomander. Somewhere, she persisted, and lived free of sorrow.

It had been important to think that way. Her only weapon against insanity.

No gifts in death but one.

But something held her back.

Something with a voice.
These are restless seas indeed. I had not thought my questing would prove so…easy. True, you are not human, but you will do. You will do.

These remnants, suddenly in motion, grating motion. Fragments, particles too small to see, drawing together. As if remembering to what they had once belonged. And, within the sea, within the silts, waited all that was needed. For flesh, for bone and blood. All these echoes, resurrected, finding shape. She looked on in horror.

Watched, as the body—so familiar, so strange—clawed its way upward through the silts. Silts that lightened, thinned, then burst into a plume that swirled in the currents. Arms reaching upward, a body heaving into view.

She hovered near, compelled to close, to enter, but knowing it was too soon.

Her body, which she had left so long ago. It was not right. Not fair.

Scrambling mindlessly along the sea bottom. Finned creatures darting in and out of sight, drawn to the stirred-up sediments, frightened away by the flailing figure. Multi-legged shapes scrabbling from its path.

A strange blurring, passed through, and then sunlight glittered close overhead. Hands broke the surface, firm sand underfoot, sloping upward.

Face in the air.

And she swept forward, plunged into the body, raced like fire within muscle and bone.

Sensations. Cold, a wind, the smell of salt and a shoreline's decay.

Mother Dark, I am…alive.

 

The voice of return came not in laughter, but in screams.

All had gathered as word of the emperor's death spread. The city was taken,
but Rhulad Sengar had been killed. Neck snapped like a sapling. His body lay where it fell, with the slave Udinaas standing guard, a macabre sentinel who did not acknowledge anyone, but simply stared down at the coin-clad corpse.

Hannan Mosag. Mayen with Feather Witch trailing. Midik Buhn, now blooded and a warrior in truth. Hundreds of Edur warriors, blood-spattered with glory and slaughter. Silent, pale citizens, terrified of the taut expectancy in the smoky air.

All witness to the body's sudden convulsions, its piercing screams. For a ghastly moment, Rhulad's neck remained broken, rocking his head in impossible angles as he staggered to his feet. Then the bone mended, and the head righted itself, sudden light in the hooded eyes.

More screams, from Letherii now. Figures fleeing.

Rhulad's ragged shrieks died and he stood, wavering, the sword trembling in his hands.

Udinaas spoke. ‘Emperor, Trate is yours.'

A sudden spasm, then Rhulad seemed to see the others for the first time. ‘Hannan Mosag, settle the garrison. The rest of the army shall camp outside the city. Send word to your K'risnan with the fleet: they are to make for Old Katter.'

The Warlock King stepped close and said in a low voice, ‘It is true, then. You cannot die.'

Rhulad flinched. ‘I die, Hannan Mosag. It is all I know, dying. Leave me now. Udinaas.'

‘Emperor.'

‘I need—find—I am…'

‘Your tent awaits you and Mayen,' the slave said.

‘Yes.'

Midik Buhn spoke, ‘Emperor, I shall lead your escort.'

His expression confused, Rhulad looked down at his body, the smeared, crusted coins, the spattered furs. ‘Yes, brother Midik. An escort.'

‘And we shall find the one who…did this, sire…to you.'

Rhulad's eyes flashed. ‘He cannot be defeated. We are helpless before him. He lies…'

Midik was frowning. He glanced at Udinaas.

‘Emperor,' the slave said, ‘he meant the one who killed you and your kin. Here in this street.'

Clawing at his face, Rhulad turned away. ‘Of course. He wore…crimson.'

Udinaas said to Midik, ‘I will give you a detailed description.'

A sharp nod. ‘Yes. The city will be searched.'

But he's gone, you fool. No, I don't know how I know. Still, the man's gone. With Seren Pedac.
‘Of course.'

‘Udinaas!' A desperate gasp.

‘I am here, Emperor.'

‘Take me out of this place!'

It was known, now, and soon the Ceda would learn of it. But would he understand? How could he? It was impossible, insane.

He can do nothing. Will he realize this?

The warrior in gold trailed the slave, step by step, through the fallen city, Mayen and Feather Witch in their wake. Midik Buhn and a dozen warriors flanked them all, weapons at the ready. The passage was uncontested.

 

Withal sat on a bench in his smithy. Plain walls, stone and plaster, the forge cold and filled with ash. Paved floor, the small workshop three-walled, the open side facing onto a fenced compound where stood a cut-stone-rimmed well, a quenching trough, firewood and a heap of tailings and slag. A hut on the opposite side housed his cot and nothing else.

The extent of his world. Mocking reminder of his profession, the purpose behind living.

The Crippled God's voice whispered in his mind,
Withal. My gift. I am not without sympathy, no matter what you might think. I understood. Nachts are poor company for a man. Go, Withal, down to the beach. Take possession of my gift.

He slowly rose, bemused.
A boat? A raft? A damned log I could ride out with the tide?
He made his way outside.

And heard the Nachts, chattering excitedly down on the strand.

Withal walked to the verge, and stood, looking down.

A woman was staggering from the water. Tall, black-skinned, naked, long red hair.

And the Meckros turned round, strode away.

‘You bastard—'

The Crippled God replied in mock consternation,
Is this not what you want? Is she too tall for you? Her eyes too strange? Withal, I do not understand
….

‘How could you have done this? Take possession, you said. It's all you know, isn't it? Possession. Things to be used. People. Lives.'

She needs your help, Withal. She is lost, alarmed by the Nachts. Slow to recall her flesh.

‘Later. Leave me alone, now. Leave us both alone.'

A soft laugh, then a cough.
As you wish. Disappointing, this lack of gratitude.

‘Go to the Abyss.'

No reply.

Withal entered the hut, stood facing the cot for a time, until he was certain that the Crippled God was not lurking somewhere in his skull. Then he lowered himself to his knees and bowed his head.

He hated religion. Detested gods. But the nest was empty. The nest needed tearing apart. Rebuilding.

The Meckros had a host of gods for the choosing. But one was older than all the others, and that one belonged to the sea.

Withal began to pray.

In Mael's name.

Stumbling in the gloom, the drunk had fallen into the canal. Tehol had mostly lost sight of him from his position at the edge of the roof, but he could hear splashing and curses, and the scrabbling against the rings set in the stone wall.

Sighing, Tehol glanced over at the nameless guard Brys had sent. Or one of them, at least. The three brothers looked pretty much identical, and none had given their names. Nothing outward or obvious to impress or inspire fear. And, by the unwavering cast of their lipless, eyeslitted expressions, sadly unqualified as welcome company.

‘Can your friends tell you apart?' Tehol enquired, then frowned. ‘What a strange question to ask of a man. But you must be used to strange questions, since people will assume you were somewhere when you weren't, or, rather, not you, but the other yous, each of whom could be anywhere. It now occurs to me that saying nothing is a fine method for dealing with such confusion, to which each of you have agreed to as the proper response, unless you are the same amongst yourselves, in which case it was a silent agreement. Always the best kind.'

The drunk, far below, was climbing from the canal, swearing in more languages than Tehol believed existed. ‘Will you listen to that? Atrocious. To hear such no doubt foul words uttered with such vehemence—hold on, that's no drunk, that's my manservant!' Tehol waved and shouted, ‘Bugg! What are you doing down there? Is this what I pay you for?'

The sodden manservant was looking upward, and he yelled something back that Tehol could not make out. ‘What? What did you say?'

‘You—don't—pay—me!'

‘Oh, tell everyone, why don't you!'

Tehol watched as Bugg made his way to the bridge and crossed, then disappeared from view behind the nearby buildings. ‘How embarrassing. Time's come for a serious talk with dear old Bugg.'

Sounds from below, more cursing. Then creaking from the ladder.

Bugg's mud-smeared head and face rose into view.

‘Now,' Tehol said, hands on hips, ‘I'm sure I sent you off to do something important, and what do you do? Go falling into the canal. Was that on the list of tasks? I think not.'

‘Are you berating me, master?'

‘Yes. What did you think?'

‘More effective, I believe, had you indeed sent me off to do something important. As it was, I was on a stroll, mesmerized by moonlight—'

‘Don't step there! Back! Back!'

Alarmed, Bugg froze, then edged away.

‘You nearly crushed Ezgara! And could he have got out of the way? I think not!' Tehol moved closer and knelt beside the insect making its slow way across the roof's uneven surface. ‘Oh, look, you startled it!'

‘How can you tell?' Bugg asked.

‘Well, it's reversed direction, hasn't it? That must be startling, I would imagine.'

‘You know, master, it was a curio—I didn't think you would make it a pet.'

‘That's because you're devoid of sentiment, Bugg. Whereas Ezgara here is doubly—'

‘Ovoid?'

‘Charmingly so.' Tehol glanced over at the guard, who was staring back at him as was his wont. ‘And this man agrees. Or, if not him, then his brothers. Why, one let Ezgara crawl all over his face, and he didn't even blink!'

‘How did Ezgara manage to get onto his face, master?'

‘And down the other's jerkin, not a flinch. These are warm-hearted men, Bugg, look well upon them and learn.'

‘I shall, master.'

‘Now, did you enjoy your swim?'

‘Not particularly.'

‘A misstep, you say?'

‘I thought I heard someone whisper my name—'

‘Shurq Elalle?'

‘No.'

‘Harlest Eberict? Kettle? Chief Investigator Rucket? Champion Ormly?'

‘No.'

‘Might you have been imagining things?'

‘Quite possibly. For example, I believe I am being followed by rats.'

‘You probably are, Bugg. Maybe one of them whispered your name.'

‘An unpleasant notion, master.'

‘Yes it is. Do you think it pleases me that my manservant consorts with rats?'

‘Would you rather go hungry?' Bugg reached under his shirt.

‘You haven't!'

‘No, it's cat,' he said, withdrawing a small, skinned, headless and pawless carcass. ‘Canal flavoured, alas.'

‘Another gift from Rucket?'

‘No, oddly enough. The canal.'

‘Ugh.'

‘Smells fresh enough—'

‘What's that wire trailing from it?'

The manservant lifted the carcass higher, then took the dangling wire between two fingers and followed it back until it vanished in the flesh. He tugged, then grunted.

‘What?' Tehol asked.

‘The wire leads to a large, barbed hook.'

‘Oh.'

‘And the wire's snapped at this end—I thought something broke my fall.' He tore a small sliver of meat from one of the cat's legs, broke it in two, then placed one piece at each end of the insect named Ezgara. It settled to feed. ‘Anyway, a quick rinse and we're ahead by two, if not three meals. Quite a run of fortune, master, of late.'

‘Yes,' Tehol mused. ‘Now I'm nervous. So, have you any news to tell me?'

‘Do you realize, master, that Gerun Eberict would have had to kill on average between ten and fifteen people a day in order to achieve his annual dividend? How does he find the time to do anything else?'

‘Perhaps he's recruited thugs sharing his insane appetites.'

‘Indeed. Anyway, Shurq has disappeared—both Harlest and Ublala are distraught—'

‘Why Harlest?'

‘He had only Ublala to whom he could show off his new fangs and talons, and Ublala was less than impressed, so much so that he pushed Harlest into the sarcophagus and sealed him in.'

‘Poor Harlest.'

‘He adjusted quickly enough,' said Bugg, ‘and now contemplates his dramatic resurrection—whenever it occurs.'

‘Disturbing news about Shurq Elalle.'

‘Why?'

‘It means she didn't change her mind. It means she's going to break into the Tolls Repository. Perhaps even this very night.'

Bugg glanced over at the guard. ‘Master…'

‘Oops, that was careless, wasn't it?' He rose and walked over. ‘He hears all, it's true. My friend, we can at least agree on one thing, can't we?'

The eyes flickered as the man stared at Tehol.

‘Any thief attempting the Repository is as good as dead, right?' He smiled, then swung back to face his manservant.

Bugg began removing his wet clothes. ‘I believe I've caught a chill.'

‘The canal is notoriously noxious—'

‘No, from earlier, master. The Fifth Wing. I've managed to successfully shore up the foundations—'

‘Already? Why, that's extraordinary.'

‘It is, isn't it? In any case, it's chilly in those tunnels…now.'

‘Dare I ask?'

Bugg stood naked, eyes on the faint stars overhead. ‘Best not, master.'

‘And what of the Fourth Wing?'

‘Well, that's where my crews are working at the moment. A week, perhaps ten days. There's an old drainage course beneath it. Rather than fight it, we're installing a fired-clay conduit—'

‘A sewage pipe.'

‘In the trade, it's a fired-clay conduit.'

‘Sorry.'

‘Which we'll then pack with gravel. I don't know why Grum didn't do that in the first place, but it's his loss and our gain.'

‘Are you dry yet, Bugg? Please say you're dry. Look at our guard here, he's horrified. Speechless.'

‘I can tell, and I apologize.'

‘I don't think I've ever seen so many scars on one person,' Tehol said. ‘What do you do in your spare time, Bugg, wrestle angry cacti?'

‘I don't understand. Why would they have to be angry?'

‘Wouldn't you be if you attacked you for no reason? Hey, that's a question I could ask our guard here, isn't it?'

‘Only if he—or they—were similarly afflicted, master.'

‘Good point. And he'd have to take his clothes off for us to find out.'

‘Not likely.'

‘No. Now, Bugg, here's my shirt. Put it on, and be thankful for the sacrifices I make on your behalf.'

‘Thank you, master.'

‘Good. Ready? It's time to go.'

‘Where?'

‘Familiar territory for you, or so I was surprised to discover. You are a man of many mysteries, Bugg. Occasional priest, healer, the Waiting Man, consorter with demons and worse. Were I not so self-centred, I'd be intrigued.'

‘I am ever grateful for your self-centredness, master.'

‘That's only right, Bugg. Now, presumably, our silent bodyguard will be accompanying us. Thus, we three. Marching purposefully off into the night. Shall we?'

 

Into the maze of shanties on the east side of Letheras. The night air was hot, redolent and turgid. Things skittered through the heaps of rotting rubbish, wild dogs slunk through shadows in ill-tempered packs looking for trouble—threatening enough to cause the bodyguard to draw his sword. Sight of the bared blade was enough to send the beasts scampering.

Those few homeless indigents brave or desperate enough to risk the dangers of the alleys and streets had used rubbish to build barricades and hovels. Others had begged for space on the sagging roofs of creaky huts and slept fitfully or not at all. Tehol could feel countless pairs of eyes looking down upon them, tracking their passage deeper into the heart of the ghetto.

As they walked, Tehol spoke. ‘…the assumption is the foundation stone of Letherii society, perhaps all societies the world over. The notion of inequity, my friends. For from inequity derives the concept of value, whether measured by money or the countless other means of gauging human worth. Simply put, there resides in all of us the unchallenged belief that the poor and the starving are in some way deserving of their fate. In other words, there will always be poor people. A truism to grant structure to the continual task of comparison, the establishment through observation of not our mutual similarities, but our essential differences.

‘I know what you're thinking, to which I have no choice but to challenge you both. Like this. Imagine walking down this street, doling out coins by the thousands. Until everyone here is in possession of vast wealth. A solution? No, you say, because among these suddenly rich folk there will be perhaps a majority who will prove wasteful, profligate and foolish, and before long they will be poor once again. Besides, if wealth were distributed in such a fashion, the coins themselves would lose all value—they would cease being useful. And without such utility, the entire social structure we love so dearly would collapse.

‘Ah, but to that I say, so what? There are other ways of measuring self-worth. To which you both heatedly reply: with no value applicable to labour, all sense of worth vanishes! And in answer to that I simply smile and shake my head. Labour and its product become the negotiable commodities. But wait, you object, then value sneaks in after all! Because a man who makes bricks cannot be equated with, say, a man who paints portraits. Material is inherently value-laden, on the basis of our need to assert comparison—but ah, was I not challenging the very assumption that one must proceed with such intricate structures of value?

‘And so you ask, what's your point, Tehol? To which I reply with a shrug. Did I say my discourse was a valuable means of using this time? I did not. No, you
assumed
it was. Thus proving my point!'

‘I'm sorry, master,' Bugg said, ‘but what was that point again?'

‘I forget. But we've arrived. Behold, gentlemen, the poor.'

They stood at the edge of an old market round, now a mass of squalid shelters seething with humanity. A few communal hearths smouldered. The area was ringed in rubbish—mostly dog and cat bones—which was crawling with rats. Children wandered in the dazed, lost fashion of the malnourished. Newborns lay swaddled and virtually unattended. Voices rose in arguments and somewhere on the opposite side was a fight of some sort. Mixed-bloods, Nerek, Faraed, Tarthenal, even the odd Fent. A few Letherii as well, escapees from Indebtedness.

Bugg looked on in silence for a half-dozen heartbeats, then said, ‘Master, transporting them out to the Isles won't solve anything.'

‘No?'

‘These are broken spirits.'

‘Beyond hope of recovery?'

‘Well, that depends on how paternalistic you intend to be, master. The rigours of past lifestyles are beyond these people. We're a generation or more too late. They've not old skills to fall back on, and as a community this one is intrinsically flawed. It breeds violence and neglect and little else.'

‘I know what you're saying, Bugg. You're saying you've had better nights and the timing wasn't good, not good at all. You're miserable, you've got a chill, you should be in bed.'

‘Thank you, master. I was wondering myself.'

‘Your issue of paternalism has some merit, I admit,' Tehol said, hands on hips as he studied the grubby shanty-town. ‘That is to say, you have a point. In any case, doom is about to sweep through this sad place. Lether is at war, Bugg. There will be…recruitment drives.'

‘Press-ganging,' the manservant said, nodding morosely.

‘Yes, all that malignant violence put to good use. Of course, such poor soldiers will be employed as fodder. A harsh solution to this perennial problem, admittedly, but one with long precedent.'

‘So, what have you planned, master?'

‘The challenge facing myself and the sharp minds of the Rat Catchers' Guild, was, as you have observed, how does one reshape an entire society? How does one convert this impressive example of the instinct to survive into a communally
positive force? Clearly, we needed to follow a well-established, highly successful social structure as our inspiration—'