The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (779 page)

He felt more than heard the scratch at the door behind him, and slowly straightened. ‘The Emperor will see you now.'

Tomad wheeled round to face the door, and Sirryn saw in the bastard's face a sudden strain beneath the haughty façade. Beyond him, Uruth swept her cloak back, freeing her arms. Was that fear in her eyes? He watched her move up to stand beside her husband, yet it seemed all they drew from that proximity was yet another tension.

Stepping to one side, Sirryn Kanar swung open the door. ‘Halt in the tiled circle,' he said. ‘Step past it and a dozen arrows will find your body. No warning will be voiced. By the Emperor's own command. Now, proceed. Slowly.'

 

At this moment, a Tiste Edur and four Letherii soldiers approached the city's west gate on lathered horses. A shout from the Edur sent pedestrians scattering from the raised road. The five riders were covered in mud and two bore wounds. The swords of the two whose scabbards were not empty were blood-crusted. The Edur was one of those without weapons, and from his back jutted the stub of an arrow, its iron head buried in his right scapula. Blood soaked his cloak where the quarrel had pinned it to his back. This warrior was dying. He had been dying for four days.

Another hoarse shout from the Tiste Edur, as he led his ragged troop beneath the gate's arch, and into the city of Letheras.

 

The Errant studied Rhulad Sengar, who had sat motionless since the Chancellor had returned to announce the imminent arrival of Tomad and Uruth. Was it some faltering of courage that had kept the Emperor from demanding their immediate presence? There was no way to tell. Even the Chancellor's cautious queries had elicited nothing.

Lanterns burned on. The traditional torches breathed out smoke, their flickering light licking the walls. Triban Gnol stood, hands folded, waiting.

Within Rhulad's head battles were being waged. Armies of will and desire contested with the raving forces of fear and doubt. The field was sodden with blood and littered with fallen heroes. Or into his skull some blinding fog had rolled in, oppressive as oblivion itself, and Rhulad wandered lost.

He sat as if carved, clothed in stained wealth, the product of a mad artist's vision. Lacquered eyes and scarred flesh, twisted mouth and black strands of greasy hair. Sculpted solid to the throne to cajole symbols of permanence and imprisonment, but this madness had lost all subtlety – ever the curse of fascism, the tyranny of gleeful servility that could not abide subversion.

Look upon him, and see what comes when justice is vengeance. When challenge is criminal. When scepticism is treason. Call upon them, Emperor! Your father, your mother. Call them to stand before you in this inverted nightmare of fidelity, and unleash your wrath!

‘Now,' Rhulad said in a croak.

The Chancellor gestured to a guard near the side door, who turned in a soft rustle of armour and brushed his gauntleted hand upon the ornate panel. A moment later it opened.

All of this was occurring to the Errant's left, along the same wall he leaned against, so he could not see what occurred then beyond, barring a few indistinct words.

Tomad and Uruth Sengar strode into the throne room, halting in the tiled circle. Both then bowed to their Emperor.

Rhulad licked his broken lips. ‘They are kin,' he said.

A frown from Tomad.

‘Enslaved by humans. They deserved our liberation, did they not?'

‘From the Isle of Sepik, Emperor?' asked Uruth. ‘Are these of whom you speak?'

‘They were indeed liberated,' Tomad said, nodding.

Rhulad leaned forward. ‘Enslaved kin. Liberated. Then why, dear Father, do they now rot in chains?'

Tomad seemed unable to answer, a look of confusion on his lined face.

‘Awaiting your disposition,' Uruth said. ‘Emperor, we have sought audience with you many times since our return. Alas,' she glanced over at Triban Gnol, ‘the Chancellor sends us away. Without fail.'

‘And so,' Rhulad said in a rasp, ‘you proclaimed them guests of the empire as was their right, then settled them where? Why, not in our many fine residences surrounding the palace. No. You chose the trenches – the pits alongside debtors, traitors and murderers. Is this your notion of the Guest Gift in your household, Tomad? Uruth? Strange, for I do not recall in my youth this most profound betrayal of Tiste Edur custom.
Not in the House of my family!
'

‘Rhulad. Emperor,' Tomad said, almost stepping back in the face of his son's rage, ‘have you seen these kin of ours? They are…pathetic. To look upon them is to feel stained. Dirtied. Their spirits are crushed. They have been made a mockery of all that is Tiste Edur. This was the crime the humans of Sepik committed against our blood, and for that we answered, Emperor. That island is now dead.'

‘Kin,' the Emperor whispered. ‘Explain to me, Father, for I do not understand. You perceive the crime and deliver the judgement, yes, in the name of Edur blood. No matter how fouled, no matter how decrepit. Indeed, those details are without relevance – they in no way affect the punishment, except perhaps to make it all the more severe. All of this, Father, is a single thread of thought, and it runs true. Yet there is another, isn't there? A twisted, knotted thing. One where the victims of those humans are undeserving of our regard, where they must be hidden away, left to rot like filth.

‘What, then, were you avenging?

‘Where – oh where, Father – is the Guest Gift? Where is the honour that binds all Tiste Edur? Where, Tomad Sengar, where, in all this, is my will?
I am Emperor and the face of the empire is mine and mine alone!
'

As the echoes of that shriek rebounded in the throne room, reluctant to fade, neither Uruth nor Tomad seemed able to speak. Their grey faces were the colour of ash.

Triban Gnol, standing a few paces behind and to the right of the two Edur, looked like a penitent priest, his eyes down on the floor. But the Errant, whose senses could reach out with a sensitivity that far surpassed that of any mortal, could hear the hammering of that old man's wretched heart; could almost smell the dark glee concealed behind his benign, vaguely rueful expression.

Uruth seemed to shake herself then, slowly straightening. ‘Emperor,' she said, ‘we cannot know your will when we are barred from seeing you. Is it the Chancellor's privilege to deny the Emperor's own parents? The Emperor's own blood? And what of all the other Tiste Edur? Emperor, a wall has been raised around you. A Letherii wall.'

The Errant heard Triban Gnol's heart stutter in its cage. ‘Majesty!' the Chancellor cried in indignation. ‘No such wall exists! You are protected, yes. Indeed. From all who would harm you—'

‘Harm him?' Tomad shouted, wheeling on the Chancellor. ‘He is our son!'

‘Assuredly not you, Tomad Sengar. Nor you, Uruth. Perhaps the protection necessary around a ruler might seem to you a wall, but—'

‘We would speak to him!'

‘From you,' Rhulad said in a dreadful rasp, ‘I would hear nothing. Your words are naught but lies. You both lie to me, as Hannan Mosag lies, as every one of my fellow Tiste Edur lies. Do you imagine I cannot smell the stench of your fear? Your hatred? No, I will hear neither of you. However, you shall hear me.'

The Emperor slowly leaned back in his throne, his eyes hard. ‘Our kin will be set free. This I command. They will be set free. For you, my dear parents, it seems a lesson is required. You left them to rot in darkness. In the ships. In the trench-pits. From these egregious acts, I can only assume that you do not possess any comprehension of the horror of such ordeals. Therefore it is my judgement that you must taste something of what you inflicted upon our kin. You will both spend two months interred in the dungeon crypts of the Fifth Wing. You will live in darkness, fed once a day through chutes in the ceilings of your cells. You will have no-one but each other with whom to speak. You will be shackled. In darkness – do you understand, Uruth? True darkness. No shadows for you to manipulate, no power to whisper in your ear. In that time, I suggest you both think long of what Guest Gift means to a Tiste Edur, of honouring our kin no matter how far they have fallen. Of what it truly means to liberate.' Rhulad waved his free hand. ‘Send them away, Chancellor. I am made ill by their betrayal of our own kin.'

The Errant, very nearly as stunned as were Tomad and Uruth, missed whatever gesture Triban Gnol used to summon forth the Letherii guards. They appeared quickly, as if conjured from thin air, and closed round Tomad and Uruth.

Letherii hands, iron-scaled and implacable, closed about Tiste Edur arms.

And the Errant knew that the end had begun.

 

Samar Dev's hope of ending things before they began did not last long. She was still four strides from Karsa Orlong when he reached Icarium and Taralack Veed. The Toblakai had approached from the side, almost behind the Jhag – who had turned to contemplate the canal's murky waters – and she watched as the huge warrior reached out one hand, grasped Icarium by an upper arm, and swung him round.

Taralack Veed lunged to break that grip and his head was snapped by a punch that seemed almost casual. The Gral collapsed onto the pavestones and did not move.

Icarium was staring down at the hand clutching his left arm, his expression vaguely perturbed.

‘Karsa!' Samar Dev shouted, as heads turned and citizens – those who had witnessed Taralack Veed's fate – moved away. ‘If you've killed the Gral—'

‘He is nothing,' Karsa said in a growl, his eyes fixed on Icarium. ‘Your last minder, Jhag, was far more formidable. Now you stand here with no-one to attack me from behind.'

‘Karsa, he is unarmed.'

‘But I am not.'

Icarium was still studying that battered hand gripping his arm – the red weals of scarring left by shackles encircling the thick wrist, the dots and dashes of old tattoos – as if the Jhag was unable to comprehend its function. Then he glanced over at Samar Dev, and his face brightened in a warm smile. ‘Ah, witch. Both Taxilian and Varat Taun have spoken highly of you. Would that we had met earlier – although I have seen you from across the compound—'

‘She is not your problem,' Karsa said. ‘I am your problem.'

Icarium slowly turned and met the Toblakai's eyes. ‘You are Karsa Orlong, who does not understand what it means to spar. How many comrades have you crippled?'

‘They are not comrades. Nor are you.'

‘What about me?' Samar Dev demanded. ‘Am I not a comrade of yours, Karsa?'

He scowled. ‘What of it?'

‘Icarium is unarmed. If you kill him here you will not face the Emperor. No, you will find yourself in chains. At least until your head gets lopped off.'

‘I have told you before, witch. Chains do not hold me.'

‘You want to face the Emperor, don't you?'

‘And if this one kills him first?' Karsa demanded, giving the arm a shake that clearly startled Icarium.

‘Is that the problem?' Samar Dev asked.
And is that why you're crippling other champions? Not that any will play with you any more, you brainless bully.

‘You wish to face Emperor Rhulad before I do?' Icarium inquired.

‘I do not ask for your permission, Jhag.'

‘Yet I give it nonetheless, Karsa Orlong. You are welcome to Rhulad.'

Karsa glared at Icarium who, though not as tall, somehow still seemed able to meet the Toblakai eye to eye without lifting his head.

Then something odd occurred. Samar Dev saw a slight widening of Karsa's eyes as he studied Icarium's face. ‘Yes,' he said in a gruff voice. ‘I see it now.'

‘I am pleased,' replied Icarium.

‘See what?' Samar Dev demanded.

On the ground behind her Taralack Veed groaned, coughed, then rolled onto his side and was sick.

Karsa released the Jhag's arm and stepped back. ‘You are good to your word?'

Icarium bowed slightly then said, ‘How could I not be?'

‘That is true. Icarium, I witness.'

The Jhag bowed a second time.

‘Keep your hands away from that sword!'

This shout brought them all round, to see a half-dozen Letherii guards edging closer, their weapons unsheathed.

Karsa sneered at them. ‘I am returning to the compound, children. Get out of my way.'

They parted like reeds before a canoe's prow as the Toblakai marched forward, then moved into his wake, hurrying to keep up with Karsa's long strides.

Samar Dev stared after them, then loosed a sudden yelp, before clapping her hands to her mouth.

‘You remind me of Senior Assessor, doing that,' Icarium observed with another smile. His gaze lifted past her. ‘And yes, there he remains, my very own personal vulture. If I gesture him to us, do you think he will come, witch?'

She shook her head, still struggling with an overwhelming flood of relief and the aftermath of terror's cold clutch that even now made her hands tremble. ‘No, he prefers to worship from a distance.'

‘Worship? The man is deluded. Samar Dev, will you inform him of that?'

‘As you like, but it won't matter, Icarium. His people, you see, they remember you.'

‘Do they now.' Icarium's eyes narrowed slightly on the Senior Assessor, who had begun to cringe from the singular attention of his god.

Spirits below, why was I interested in this monk in the first place? There is no lure to the glow of fanatical worship. There is only smug intransigence and the hidden knives of sharp judgement.

‘Perhaps,' said Icarium, ‘I must speak to him after all.'

‘He'll run away.'

‘In the compound, then—'

‘Where you can corner him?'

The Jhag smiled. ‘Proof of my omnipotence.'

 

Sirryn Kanar's exultation was like a cauldron on the boil, the heavy lid moments from stuttering loose, yet he had held himself down on the long walk into the crypts of the Fifth Wing, where the air was wet enough to taste, where mould skidded beneath their boots and the dank chill reached tendrils to their very bones.