The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (552 page)

Along the walls, the six palace guards had all drawn their weapons and held them across their chest, a silent salute to the King's Champion. A salute Trull wanted to match. His gaze returned once more to Brys. So modest in appearance so…
his face. Familiar…Hull Beddict. So like Hull Beddict. Yes, his brother. The youngest
. He watched the Letherii pour wine from the jug into the goblet the king had used earlier.

Sisters, this Champion—what has he done? He has given us this…this answer. This…solution
.

Rhulad screamed. ‘Fear!'

Hannan Mosag coughed, then said, ‘He is gone, Emperor.'

Trull spun round, looked about.
Gone? No
—‘Where? Hannan Mosag, where—'

‘He…walked away.' The Warlock King's smile was bloodstained. ‘Just that, Trull Sengar. Walked. You understand, now, don't you?'

‘To call the others, to bring them here…'

‘No,' Hannan Mosag said. ‘I do not think so.'

Rhulad whimpered, then snapped, ‘Trull! I command you! Your emperor commands you! Stab me with your spear. Stab me!'

Tears filled Trull's eyes.
And how shall I look upon him…now? How? As my emperor, or as my brother?
He tottered, almost collapsing as anguish washed through him.
Fear. You have left. Left us. Me, with…this
.

‘Brother! Please!'

From the entrance came a low cackle.

Trull turned, saw the bound forms of the queen and the prince, leaning against the wall like two obscene trophies. The sound was coming from the queen, and he saw a glitter from her eyes.

Something—something else—there's more here
…

He turned. Watched as the Champion straightened, goblet in his hand. Watched, as the man lifted it to his lips.

Trull's gaze flicked to the king. To that half-lidded stare. The senseless eyes.
The Edur's head snapped round, to where the First Eunuch sat. Chin on chest, motionless.

‘No!'

As the Champion drank, head tilting back. Two swallows, then three. Lowering the cup, he turned to regard Trull. Frowned. ‘You had better leave,' he said. ‘Drag your warlock with you. Approach the emperor and I will kill you.'

Too late. All…too late
. ‘What—what do you intend?'

The Champion looked down at Rhulad. ‘We will…take him somewhere. You will not find him, Edur.'

The queen cackled again, clearly startling the swordsman.

‘It is too late,' Trull said. ‘For you, in any case. If you have any mercy in you, Champion, best send your guards away now. And have them take the woman with them. My kin will be here at any moment.' His gaze fell to Rhulad. ‘The emperor is for the Edur to deal with.'

The quizzical expression in the Champion's face deepened. Then he blinked, shook his head. ‘What…what do you mean? I see that you will not kill your brother. And he must die, mustn't he? To heal. To…return.'

‘Yes. Champion, I am sorry. I was too late to warn you.'

The swordsman sagged suddenly, and he threw a bloody hand out to the edge of the throne for balance. The sword, still in the other hand, wavered, then dipped until the point touched the floor. ‘What—what—'

Trull said nothing.

But Hannan Mosag cared nothing for compassion, and he laughed once more. ‘I understood your gesture, Champion. The coolness to match that of your king. Besides—' His words broke into a cough. He spat phlegm, then resumed. ‘Besides, it hardly mattered, did it? Whether you lived or died. That's how it seemed, anyway. At that brazen, fateful moment, at least.'

The Champion sank down to the floor, staring dully at the Warlock King.

‘Swordsman,' Hannan Mosag called out. ‘Hear me, these final words. You have lost. Your king is dead. He was dead before you even began your fight. You fought, Champion, to defend a dead man.'

The Letherii, eyes widening, struggled to pull himself round, striving to look up, to the throne, to the figure seated there. But the effort proved too great, and he slid back down, head lolling.

The Warlock King was laughing. ‘He had no faith. Only gold. No faith in you, swordsman—'

Trull stalked towards him. ‘Be silent!'

Hannan Mosag sneered up at him. ‘Watch yourself, Trull Sengar. You are as nothing to me.'

‘You would claim the throne now, Warlock King?' Trull asked.

An enraged shriek from Rhulad.

Hannan Mosag said nothing.

Trull looked back over his shoulder. Saw the Champion lying sprawled on the dais, at the king's slippered feet. Lying, perfectly still, a mixture of surprise and
dismay on his young face. Eyes staring, seeing nothing.
But then, there could be no other way. No other way to kill such a man
.

Trull swung his gaze back down to the Warlock King. ‘Someone will do as he commands,' he said in a low voice.

‘Do you really think so?'

‘His chosen kin—'

‘Will do…nothing. No, Trull, not even Binadas. Just as your hand is stayed, so too will theirs be. It is a mercy, don't you see? Of course you do. You see that all too well. A mercy.'

‘Whilst you heave that ruin of a body onto the throne, Hannan Mosag?'

The answer was plain in the eyes of the Warlock King.
It is mine
.

A hoarse whisper from Rhulad, ‘Trull…please. I am your brother. Do not…do not leave me. Like this. Please.'

Everything was breaking inside him. Trull stepped away from Hannan Mosag, and sank slowly to his knees.
I need Fear. I need to find him. Talk
.

‘Please, Trull…I never meant, I never meant…'

Trull stared down at his hands. He'd dropped his spear—he did not even know where it was. There were six Letherii guards—he looked up—no, they were gone. Where had they gone? The old man standing beside the body of the First Eunuch—where was he? The woman?

Where had everybody gone?

 

Tehol Beddict opened his eyes. One of them, he noticed, did not work very well. He squinted. A low ceiling. Dripping.

A hand stroked his brow and he turned his head.
Oh, now that hurts
. Bugg leaned forward, nodded. Tehol tried to nod back, almost managed. ‘Where are we?'

‘In a crypt. Under the river.'

‘Did we…get wet?'

‘Only a little.'

‘Oh.' He thought about that for a time. Then said, ‘I should be dead.'

‘Yes, you should. But you were holding on. Enough, anyway, which is more than can be said for poor Chalas.'

‘Chalas?'

‘He tried to protect you, and they killed him for it. I am sorry, Tehol. I was too late in arriving.'

He thought about that, too. ‘The Tiste Edur.'

‘Yes. I killed them.'

‘You did?'

Bugg nodded, looked briefly away. ‘I am afraid I lost my temper.'

‘Ah.'

The manservant looked back. ‘You don't sound surprised.'

‘I'm not. I've seen you step on cockroaches. You are ruthless.'

‘Anything for a meal.'

‘Yes, and what about that, anyway? We've never eaten enough—not to have stayed as healthy as we did.'

‘That's true.'

Tehol tried to sit up, groaned and lay back down. ‘I smell mud.'

‘Mud, yes. Salty mud at that. There's footprints here, were here when we arrived. Footprints, passing through.'

‘Arrived. How long ago?'

‘Not long. A few moments…'

‘During which you mended all my bones.'

‘And a new eye, most of your organs, this and that.'

‘The eye doesn't work well.'

‘Give it time. Babies can't focus past a nipple, you know.'

‘No, I didn't. But I fully understand the sentiment.'

They were silent for a time.

Then Tehol sighed and said, ‘But this changes everything.'

‘It does? How?'

‘Well, you're supposed to be my manservant. How can I continue the conceit of being in charge?'

‘Just the same as you always have.'

‘Hah hah.'

‘I could make you forget.'

‘Forget what?'

‘Very funny.'

‘No,' Tehol said, ‘I mean specifically.'

‘Well,' Bugg rubbed his jaw, ‘the events of this day, I suppose.'

‘So, you killed all those Tiste Edur.'

‘Yes, I am afraid so.'

‘Then carried me under the river.'

‘Yes.'

‘But your clothes are dry.'

‘That's right.'

‘And your name's not really Bugg.'

‘No, I guess not.'

‘But I like that name.'

‘Me too.'

‘And your real one?'

‘Mael.'

Tehol frowned, studied his manservant's face, then shook his head. ‘It doesn't fit. Bugg is better.'

‘I agree.'

‘So, if you could kill all those warriors. Heal me. Walk under a river. Answer me this, then. Why didn't you kill all of them? Halt this invasion in its tracks?'

‘I have my reasons.'

‘To see Lether conquered? Don't you like us?'

‘Lether? Not much. You take your natural vices and call them virtues. Of which greed is the most despicable. That and betrayal of commonality. After all, whoever decided that competition is always and without exception a healthy attribute? Why that particular path to self-esteem? Your heel on the hand of the one below. This is worth something? Let me tell you, it's worth nothing. Nothing lasting. Every monument that exists beyond the moment—no matter which king, emperor or warrior lays claim to it—is actually a testament to the common, to co-operation, to the plural rather than the singular.'

‘Ah,' Tehol interjected, managing to raise a finger to mark his objection, ‘without a king, general or whomever—without a
leader
, no monument gets built.'

‘Only because you mortals know only two possibilities. To follow or to lead. Nothing else.'

‘Hold on. I've seen consortiums and co-operatives at work, Bugg. They're nightmares.'

‘Aye, breeding grounds for all those virtues such as greed, envy, betrayal and so on. In other words, each within the group seeks to impose a structure of followers and leaders. Dispense with a formal hierarchy, and you have a contest of personalities.'

‘So what is the solution?'

‘Would you be greatly disappointed to hear that you're not it?'

‘Who? Me?'

‘Your species. Don't feel bad. None have been, as of yet. Still, who knows what the future will bring.'

‘Oh, that's easy for you to say!'

‘Actually, no, it isn't. Look, I've seen all this again and again, over countless generations. To put it simply, it's a mess, a tangled, irreparable mess.'

‘Some god you are. You are a god, aren't you?'

The manservant shrugged. ‘Make no assumptions. About anything. Ever. Stay mindful, my friend, and suspicious. Suspicious, but not frightened by complexity.'

‘And I've some advice for you, since we're doling it out here.'

‘And that is?'

‘Live to your potential.'

Bugg opened his mouth for a retort, then shut it again and narrowed his gaze.

Tehol gave him an innocent smile.

It was momentary, as more of the memories of this day stirred awake. ‘Chalas,' he said after a moment. ‘That old fool.'

‘You have friends, Tehol Beddict.'

‘And that poor guard. He threw himself in front of that spear. Friends—yes, what's happened to everyone else? Do you know? Is Shurq all right? Kettle?'

Bugg grunted, clearly distracted by something, then said, ‘I think they're fine.'

‘Do you want to go and see for certain?'

He glanced down. ‘Not really. I can be very selfish at times, you know.'

‘No, I didn't. But I admit, I do have a question. Only I don't know how to ask it.'

Bugg studied him for a long moment, then he snorted, said, ‘You have no idea, Tehol, how boring it can be…existing for all eternity.'

‘Fine, but…a
manservant?
'

Bugg hesitated, then slowly shook his head, and met Tehol's gaze. ‘My association with you, Tehol, has been an unceasing delight. You resurrected in me the pleasure of existence, and you cannot comprehend how rare that is.'

‘But…a manservant!'

Bugg drew a deep breath. ‘I think it's time to make you forget this day, my friend.'

‘Forget? Forget what? Is there anything to eat around here?'

 

He'd wanted to believe. In all the possible glories. The world could be made simple, there need be no complexity, he'd so wanted it to be simple. He walked through the strangely silent city. Signs of fighting here and there. Dead Letherii soldiers, mostly. They should have given up. As would anyone professing to some rationality, but it seemed this was not the day for what was reasonable and straightforward. On this day, madness held dominion, flowing in invisible currents through this city.

Through these poor Letherii. Through the Tiste Edur.

Fear Sengar walked on, unmindful of where his steps took him. All his life, he had been gifted with a single, easily defined role. To fashion warriors among his people. And, when the need arose, to lead them into battle. There had been no great tragedies to mar his youth, and he'd stridden, not stumbled, into adulthood.

There had been no time when he'd felt alone. Alone in the frightened sense, that is. Solitude was born of decision, and could be as easily yielded when its purpose was done. There had been Trull. And Binadas, and then Rhulad. But, first and foremost, Trull. A warrior with skill unmatched when it came to fighting with the spear, yet without blood-lust—and blood-lust was a curse, he well knew, among the Edur. The hunger that swept away all discipline, that could reduce a well-trained fighter into a savage, weapons swinging wild, that strange, seething silence of the Tiste Edur pulled from cool thought. Among other peoples, he knew, that descent was announced with screams and howls and shrieks. An odd difference, and one that, for some unknown reason, deeply troubled Fear Sengar.