The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (753 page)

‘Me? Are you mad?'

‘It's the only way.'

They heard the scuff of boots from the street, then a loud voice: ‘
There! Who's skulking in that alley?
'

Ublala flinched down. ‘How did he know?'

‘We better run!'

They bolted, as a spear of lantern-light lanced across the alley mouth; then, pursued by shouting soldiers, the two fugitives reached the far end of the alley.

Where Tehol went left.

And Ublala went right.

Alarms resounded in the night.

The answering of his prayers was nothing like Bruthen Trana had imagined. Not through the grotesque creature that was Hannan Mosag, the Warlock King. The very man who had started the Edur down this path of dissolution. Ambition, greed and betrayal – it was all Bruthen could manage to stand still before Hannan Mosag, rather than strangle the life from the Warlock King.

Yet from that twisted mouth had come…hope. It seemed impossible. Macabre. Mocking Bruthen Trana's visions of heroic salvation.
Rhulad falls – the whole Sengar bloodline obliterated – and then…Hannan Mosag. For his crimes. Honour can be won – I will see to that.

This is how it must be.

He was not unduly worried over the Letherii. The Chancellor would not live much longer. The palace would be purged. The Patriotists would be crushed, their agents slain, and those poor prisoners whose only crime, as far as he could tell, was to disagree with the practices of the Patriotists – those prisoners, Letherii one and all, could be freed. There was no real sedition at work here. No treason. Karos Invictad used such accusations as if they encompassed a guilt that needed no proof, as if they justified any treatment of the accused he desired. Ironically, in so doing he subverted humanity itself, making him the most profound traitor of all.

But not even that mattered much. Bruthen Trana did not like the man, a dislike that seemed reason enough to kill the bastard. Karos Invictad took pleasure in cruelty, making him both pathetic and dangerous. If he were permitted to continue, there was the very real risk that the Letherii people would rise up in true rebellion, and the gutters in every city of the empire would run crimson.
No matter. I do not like him. For years I was witness to his contempt for me, there in his eyes. I will brook the affront no longer.

This, more than anything else, dismayed Bruthen Trana. Hannan Mosag's insisting he leave immediately – for some place where the sun dies.
West. But no, not west. The Warlock King misunderstood his own vision
—

A sudden thought, slowing his steps as he made his way down into the subterranean corridors and chambers beneath the Old Palace.
Who answered his prayers? Who showed him this path? He suggested it was not this Crippled God. Father Shadow? Has Scabandari Bloodeye returned to us?

No, he has not. Then…who?

A moment later, Bruthen Trana scowled, then cursed under his breath and resumed his journey.
I am given hope and what do I do? Seek to kill it with my own hands. No, I understand the path – better than Hannan Mosag himself.

Where the sun dies is not to the west.

It is beneath the waves. In the depths.

Did not a demon of the seas retrieve his body? No, Hannan Mosag, you dare not name him. He is not even Tiste Edur. Yet he must be our salvation.

He reached the sloping tunnel that would take him to the slave's supposedly secret abode. These Letherii were indeed pathetic.

We each carry a whisper of Emurlahn within us – each and every Tiste Edur. This is why no slave among the tribes could escape us.

Except for one, he corrected himself. Udinaas. But then, the K'risnan knew where he was – or so Bruthen Trana suspected. They knew, yet chose to do nothing.

It was no wonder Rhulad did not trust them.

Nor do I.

He could smell the stench of bitter magic as he drew nearer, and he heard her muttering in her chamber, and knew that something had changed. In the one named Feather Witch. In the power she possessed.

Well, he would give her no time to prepare.

 

Feather Witch looked up in fear and alarm as the Tiste Edur warrior strode in. Squealing, she backed away until brought short by a wall, then sank down and covered her face.

The stark intent in the warrior's face was fierce.

He grasped her by the hair and yanked her to her feet, then higher, the pain forcing a shriek from her.

With his other hand he grasped the small leather pouch between her breasts. When he tore it loose, the thong cut like wire across the back of her neck and behind one ear. She could feel blood. She thought that her ear had very nearly been cut loose, that it hung by a strand of—

He flung her back down. Her head cracked against the stone of the wall. She slumped onto the floor, ragged sobbing erupting from her heaving chest.

And listened – beyond the close roar of blood in her skull – to his dwindling footsteps.

He had taken the severed finger.

He goes to find the soul of Brys Beddict.

 

Tehol staggered into the single room, collapsed down near the hearth. Sheathed in sweat, gasping to gain his breath.

Bugg, seated with his back to a wall and sipping tea, slowly raised his brows. ‘Afflicted with the delusion of competence, I see.'

‘That – that's what you said – to Ublala? You cruel, heartless—'

‘The observation was made regarding all mortals, actually.'

‘He didn't take it that way!'

Janath spoke from where she sat sipping from her own chipped clay cup. ‘All those alarms ringing through the city are because of you, Tehol Beddict?'

‘They will be on the lookout now,' Bugg observed, ‘for a man wearing a blanket.'

‘Well,' Tehol retorted, ‘there must be plenty of those, right?'

There was no immediate reply.

‘There must be,' Tehol insisted, a little wildly even to his own ears. He hastened on in a more reasonable tone. ‘The ever growing divide between the rich and the poor and all that. Why, blankets are the new fashion among the destitute. I'm sure of it.'

Neither listener said anything, then both sipped from their cups.

Scowling, Tehol said, ‘What's that you're drinking?'

‘Hen tea,' Bugg said.

‘Soup, you mean.'

‘No,' said Janath. ‘Tea.'

‘Wait, where are all the chickens?'

‘On the roof,' Bugg said.

‘Won't they fall off?'

‘One or two might. We do regular rounds. So far, they have displayed uncharacteristic cleverness. Rather unique for this household.'

‘Oh right, kick the exhausted fugitive why don't you? They probably caught poor old Ublala.'

‘Maybe. He did have a diversion in mind.'

Tehol's eyes narrowed on his manservant. ‘Those wisps above your ears need trimming. Janath, find me a knife, will you?'

‘No.'

‘You
would
side with him, wouldn't you?'

‘Bugg is actually a very capable man, Tehol. You don't deserve him, you know.'

‘I assure you, Scholar, the undeservedness is mutual.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘You know, from the smell I think I could make a strong argument that hen tea is no different from watery chicken soup, or, at the very least, broth.'

‘You never could grasp semantics, Tehol Beddict.'

‘I couldn't grasp much of anything, I seem to recall. Yet I will defend my diligence, my single-minded lust for seductive knowledge, the purity of true academic…uh, pursuit – why, I could go on and on—'

‘Ever your flaw, Tehol.'

‘—but I won't, cursed as I am with an unappreciative audience. So tell me, Bugg, why was Ublala so eager to talk to this true blood Tarthenal?'

‘He wishes to discover, I imagine, if the warrior is a god.'

‘A what?'

‘A new god, I mean. Or an ascendant, to be more precise. I doubt there are worshippers involved. Yet.'

‘Well, Tarthenal only worship what terrifies them, right? This is just some warrior doomed to die by the Emperor's sword. Hardly the subject to inspire poor Ublala Pung.'

To that Bugg simply shrugged.

Tehol wiped sweat from his brow. ‘Give me some of that hen tea, will you?'

‘With or without?'

‘With or without what?'

‘Feathers.'

‘That depends. Are they clean feathers?'

‘They are now,' Bugg replied.

‘All right, then, since I can't think of anything more absurd. With.'

Bugg reached for a clay cup. ‘I knew I could count on you, Master.'

 

She woke to a metallic clang out in the corridor.

Sitting up, Samar Dev stared into the darkness of her room.

She thought she could hear breathing, just outside her door, then, distinctly, a muted whimper.

She rose, wrapping the blanket about her, and padded to the doorway. Lifted the latch and swung the flimsy barrier aside.

‘Karsa?'

The huge figure spun to face her.

‘No,' she then said. ‘Not Karsa. Who are you?'

‘Where is he?'

‘Who?'

‘The one like me. Which room?'

Samar Dev edged out into the corridor. She looked to the left and saw the motionless forms of the two palace guards normally stationed to either side of the corridor's entranceway. Their helmed heads were conspicuously close together, and those iron pots were both severely dented. ‘You killed them?'

The huge man glanced over, then grunted. ‘They were looking the wrong way.'

‘You mean they didn't see you.'

‘Maybe my hands.'

The nonsensical yet oddly satisfying exchange had been in whispers. Samar Dev gestured that he follow and set off up the corridor until she came to the door to Karsa Orlong's room. ‘He's in here.'

‘Knock,' the giant ordered. ‘Then walk in ahead of me.'

‘Or else?'

‘Or else I knock your head…together.'

Sighing, she reached towards the door with one fist.

It opened and the point of a stone sword suddenly hovered in the hollow of her throat.

‘Who is that behind you, witch?'

‘You have a visitor,' she replied. ‘From…outside.'

Karsa Orlong, naked above the waist, his escaped slave tattoos a crazed web reaching down to his shoulders and chest, withdrew the sword and stepped back.

The stranger pushed Samar Dev to one side and entered the small room.

Whereupon he sank down to his knees, head bowing. ‘Pure one,' he said, the words like a prayer.

Samar Dev edged in and shut the door behind her, as Karsa Orlong tossed his sword on the cot, then reached down with one hand – and hammered the stranger in the side of the head.

Rocking the man. Blood started from his nostrils and he blinked stupidly up at Karsa.

Who said, ‘There is Toblakai blood in you. Toblakai kneel to no-one.'

Samar Dev crossed her arms and leaned back against the door. ‘First lesson when dealing with Karsa Orlong,' she murmured. ‘Expect the unexpected.'

The huge man struggled back to his feet, wiping at the blood on his face. He was not as tall as Karsa, but almost as wide. ‘I am Ublala Pung, of the Tarthenal—'

‘Tarthenal.'

Samar Dev said, ‘A mixed-blood remnant of some local Toblakai population. Used to be more in the city – I certainly have not seen any others out in the markets and such. But they've virtually vanished, just like most of the other tribes the Letherii subjugated.'

Ublala half turned to glower at her. ‘Not vanished. Defeated. And now those who are left live on islands in the Draconean Sea.'

At the word ‘defeated', Samar Dev saw Karsa scowl.

Ublala faced the Toblakai once more, then said, with strange awkwardness, ‘Lead us, War Leader.'

Sudden fire in Karsa's eyes and he met Samar Dev's gaze. ‘I told you once, witch, that I would lead an army of my kind. It has begun.'

‘They're not Toblakai—'

‘If but one drop of Toblakai blood burns in their veins, witch, then they are Toblakai.'

‘Decimated by Letherii sorcery—'

A sneer. ‘Letherii sorcery? I care naught.'

Ublala Pung, however, was shaking his head. ‘Even with our greatest shamans, Pure One, we could not defeat it. Why, Arbanat himself—'

This time it was Samar Dev who interrupted. ‘Ublala, I have seen Karsa Orlong
push
his way through that sorcery.'

The mixed-blood stared at her, mouth agape. ‘Push?' The word was mostly mouthed, the barest of whispers.

Despite herself, she nodded. ‘I wish I could tell you otherwise, you poor bastard. I wish I could tell you to run away and hide with your kin on those islands, because this one here makes empty promises. Alas, I cannot. He does not make empty promises. Not so far, anyway. Of course,' she added with a shrug that belied the bitterness she felt, ‘this Edur Emperor will kill him.'