They emerged to see figures running, converging on the House of the Dead.
‘What is happening?’
Trull shook his head at his brother’s question. ‘Perhaps Udinaas…’
They set off.
Two slaves stumbled from the building’s entrance, then fled in panic, one of them shouting incoherently.
The brothers picked up their pace.
Trull saw the Letherii Acquitor and her merchant on the bridge, figures rushing past them as they made a slow, hesitant approach.
The screams had not abated. There was pain in those cries, and horror. The sound, renewed breath after breath, made the blood gelid in Trull’s veins. He could almost…
Mayen was in the doorway, which was ajar. Behind her stood the slave Feather Witch.
Neither moved.
Fear and Trull reached them.
Feather Witch’s head snapped round, the eyes half mad as they stared up at first Trull, then Fear.
Fear came to the side of his betrothed in the doorway. He stared inward, face flinching with every scream. ‘Mayen,’ he said, ‘keep everyone else out. Except for Tomad and Uruth and the Warlock King, when they arrive. Trull—’ The name was spoken like a plea.
Mayen stepped back and Trull edged forward.
Side by side, they entered the House of the Dead.
A mass, a hunched shape, covered in wax like peeling skin, revealing the glitter of gold coins, slouched down at the foot of the stone platform, face lowered, forehead on knees, arms wrapped tight about shins but still holding the sword. A mass, a hunched shape, voicing endless shrieks.
The slave Udinaas stood nearby. He had been carrying a cauldron of wax. It lay on its side two paces to the Letherii’s left, the wax spilled out amidst twigs and straw.
Udinaas was murmuring. Soothing words cutting beneath the screams. He was moving closer to the shape, step by careful step.
Fear made to start forward but Trull gripped his upper arm and held him back. He’d heard something in those shrieks. They had come to answer the slave’s low soothings, defiant at first, but now thinning, the voice filling with pleading. Strangled again and again into shudders of raw despair. And through it all Udinaas continued to speak.
Sister bless us, that is Rhulad. My brother.
Who was dead.
The slave slowly crouched before the horrid figure, and Trull could make out his words as he said, ‘There are coins before your eyes, Rhulad Sengar. That is why you can see nothing. I would remove them. Your brothers are here. Fear and Trull. They are here.’
The shrieks broke then, replaced by helpless weeping.
Trull stared as Udinaas then did something he did not think possible. The slave reached out and took Rhulad’s head in his hands, as a mother might an inconsolable child. Tender, yet firm, the hands slowly lifted it clear of the knees.
A sobbing sound came from Fear, quickly silenced, but Trull felt his brother tremble.
The face—oh, Father Shadow, the face.
A crazed mask of wax, cracked and scarred. And beneath it, gold coins, melded onto the flesh—not one had dislodged—angled like the scales of armour around the stretched jaw, the gasping mouth.
Udinaas leaned closer still, spoke low beside Rhulad’s left ear.
Words, answered with a shudder, a spasm that made coins click—the sound audible but muted beneath wax. A foot scraped across the stone flagstones surrounding the platform, drew in tighter.
Fear jolted in Trull’s grip, but he held on, held his brother back as Udinaas reached down to his belt and drew out a work knife.
Whispering; rhythmic, almost musical. The slave brought the knife up. Carefully set the edge near the tip alongside the coin covering Rhulad’s left eye.
The face flinched, but Udinaas drew his right arm round into a kind of embrace, leaned closer, not pausing in his murmuring. Pressure with the edge, minute motion, then the coin flashed as it came loose along the bottom. A moment later it fell away.
The eye was closed, a mangled, red welt. Rhulad must have sought to open it because Udinaas laid two fingers against the lid and Trull saw him shake his head as he said something, then repeated it.
A strange tic from Rhulad’s head, and Trull realized it had been a nod.
Udinaas then reversed the position of his arms, and set the knife edge to Rhulad’s right eye.
Outside was the sound of a mass of people, but Trull did not turn about. He could not pull his gaze from the Letherii, from his brother.
He was dead. There was no doubt. None.
The slave, who had worked on Rhulad for a day and a night, filling mortal wounds with wax, burning coins into the cold flesh, who had then seen his charge return to life, now knelt before the Edur, his voice holding insanity at bay, his voice—and his hands—guiding Rhulad back to the living.
A Letherii slave.
Father Shadow, who are we to have done this?
The coin was prised loose.
Trull pulled Fear along as he stepped closer. He did not speak. Not yet.
Udinaas returned the knife to its sheath. He leaned back, one hand withdrawing to settle on Rhulad’s left shoulder. Then the slave pivoted and looked up at Trull. ‘He’s not ready to speak. The screaming has exhausted him, given the weight of the coins encasing his chest.’ Udinaas half rose, intending to move away, but Rhulad’s left arm rustled, hand sobbing away from the sword’s grip, coins clicking as the fingers groped, then found the slave’s arm. And held on.
Udinaas almost smiled—and Trull saw for the first time the exhaustion of the man, the extremity of all that he had gone through—and settled down once more. ‘Your brothers, Rhulad,’ he said. ‘Trull, and Fear. They are here to take care of you now. I am but a slave—’
Two coins fell away as Rhulad’s grip tightened.
‘You will stay, Udinaas,’ Trull said. ‘Our brother needs you. We need you.’
The Letherii nodded. ‘As you wish, master. Only…I am tired. I—I keep blacking out, only to awaken at the sound of my own voice.’ He shook his head helplessly. ‘I don’t even know what I have said to your brother—’
‘It matters not,’ Fear cut in. ‘What you have done…’ His words trailed away, and for a moment it seemed his face would crumple. Trull saw the muscles of his brother’s neck tauten, then Fear’s eyes closed tight, he drew a deep breath and was himself once more. He shook his head, unable to speak.
Trull crouched beside Udinaas and Rhulad. ‘Udinaas, I understand. You need rest. But stay for a few moments longer, if you can.’
The slave nodded.
Trull shifted his gaze, studied Rhulad’s ravaged face, the eyes still shut—but there was movement behind them. ‘Rhulad. It is Trull. Listen to me, my brother. Keep your eyes closed, for now. We must get this—this armour—off you—’
At that Rhulad shook his head.
‘They are funereal coins, Rhulad—’
‘Y-yes. I…know.’
Words raw and heavy, the breath pushed out from a constricted chest.
Trull hesitated, then said, ‘Udinaas has been with you, alone, preparing you—’
‘Yes.’
‘He is used up, brother.’
‘Yes. Tell Mother. I want. I want him.’
‘Of course. But let him go now, please—’
The hand dropped away from the slave’s arm, clunking hard and seemingly insensate on the floor. The other hand, still holding the sword, suddenly twitched.
And a ghastly smile emerged on Rhulad’s face. ‘Yes. I hold it still. This. This is what he meant.’
Trull edged back slightly.
Udinaas crawled off a short distance, leaned up against the chest of coins. He drew himself up into a shape echoing that of Rhulad, and, in the moment before he turned his face away, Trull saw the visage fill with anguish.
Exhaustion or no, for Udinaas peace and rest was ten thousand paces away—Trull could see that, could understand that brutal truth. Rhulad had had the slave,
but whom did Udinaas have?
Not a typical Edur thought.
But nothing—nothing—was as it was. Trull rose and moved close to Fear. He thought for a moment, then swung round to the entranceway. Mayen was still standing there, at her side the Letherii, Feather Witch. Trull gestured at the slave, then pointed to where Udinaas crouched.
He saw her face stretch in horror. Saw her shake her head.
Then she ran from the building.
Trull grimaced.
A commotion at the entrance, and Mayen withdrew from sight.
Tomad and Uruth appeared.
And behind them, as they slowly edged forward, came Hannan Mosag.
Oh. Oh no. The sword. The damned sword—
Chapter Ten
White petals spin and curl on their way
down to the depthless sea.
The woman and her basket, her hand flashing red
in quick soft motion scattering these
pure wings, to ride a moment on the wind.
She stands, a forlorn goddess birthing flight
that fails and falls on the river’s broad breast.
A basket of birds destined to drown.
See her weep in the city’s drawn shadow
her hand a thing disembodied,
carrion-clawed and ceaseless in repetition,
she delivers death and in her eyes
is seen the horror of living.
LADY ELASSARA OF TRATE
CORMOR FURAL
The roll of thunder, the heavy trammelling of rain on the roof. The storm was following the course of the river, drawn northward and dragging one edge of its heaving clouds across Letheras. Unseasonal, unwelcome, making the single room of Tehol’s abode close and steamy. There were two more stools than there had been, retrieved by Bugg from a rubbish heap. On one of them, in the far corner, sat Ublala Pung, weeping.
As he had been without pause for over a bell, his huge frame racked with a shuddering that made the stool creak alarmingly.
In the centre of the small room, Tehol paced.
A splashing of feet outside, then the curtain in the doorway was tugged to one side and Bugg stamped in, water streaming from him. He coughed. ‘What’s burning in the hearth?’
Tehol shrugged. ‘Whatever was piled up beside it, of course.’
‘But that was your rain hat. I wove it myself, with my own two hands.’
‘A rain hat? Those reeds had wrapped rotting fish—’
‘That’s the stink, all right.’ Bugg nodded, wiping at his eyes. ‘Anyway, rotting is a relative term, master.’
‘It is?’
‘The Faraed consider it a delicacy.’
‘You just wanted me to smell like fish.’
‘Better you than the whole house,’ Bugg said, glancing over at Ublala. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘I haven’t a clue,’ Tehol said. ‘So, what’s the news?’
‘I found her.’
‘Great.’
‘But we’ll have to go and get her.’
‘Go outside?’
‘Yes.’
‘Into the rain?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well,’ Tehol said, resuming his pacing, ‘I don’t like that at all. Too risky.’
‘Risky?’
‘Why, yes. Risky. I might get wet. Especially now that I don’t have a rain hat.’
‘And whose fault is that, I wonder?’
‘It was already smouldering, sitting so close to the hearth. I barely nudged it with my toe and up it went.’
‘I was drying it out.’
Tehol paused in mid-step, studied Bugg for a moment, then resumed pacing. ‘It’s a storm,’ he said after a moment. ‘Storms pass. I need a reason to procrastinate.’
‘Yes, master.’
Tehol swung round and approached Ublala Pung. ‘Most beloved bodyguard, whatever is wrong?’
Red-rimmed eyes stared up at him. ‘You’re not interested. Not really. Nobody is.’
‘Of course I’m interested. Bugg, I’m interested, aren’t I? It’s my nature, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely, master. Most of the time.’
‘It’s the women, isn’t it, Ublala? I can tell.’
The huge man nodded miserably.
‘Are they fighting over you?’
He shook his head.
‘Have you fallen for one of them?’
‘That’s just it. I haven’t had a chance to.’
Tehol glanced over at Bugg, then back to Ublala. ‘You haven’t had a chance to. What a strange statement. Can you elaborate?’
‘It’s not fair, that’s what it is. Not fair. You won’t understand. It’s not a problem you have. I mean, what am I? Am I to be nothing but a toy? Just because I have a big—’
‘Hold on a moment,’ Tehol cut in. ‘Let’s see if I fully understand you, Ublala. You feel they’re just using you. Interested only in your, uh, attributes. All they want from you is sex. No commitment, no loyalty even. They’re happy taking turns with you, taking no account of your feelings, your sensitive nature. They probably don’t even want to cuddle afterwards or make small talk, right?’
Ublala nodded.
‘And all that is making you miserable?’
He nodded again, snuffling, his lower lip protruding, his broad mouth downturned at the corners, a muscle twitching in his right cheek.
Tehol stared for a moment longer, then he tossed up his hands. ‘Ublala! Don’t you understand? You’re in a man’s paradise! What all the rest of us can only dream about!’
‘But I want something more!’
‘No! You don’t! Trust me! Bugg, don’t you agree? Tell him!’
Bugg frowned, then said, ‘It is as Tehol says, Ublala. Granted, a tragic truth, and granted, Master’s nature is to revel in tragic truths, which to many might seem unusual, unhealthy even—’
‘Thanks for the affirmation, Bugg,’ Tehol interrupted with a scowl. ‘Go clean up, will you?’ He faced Ublala again. ‘You are at the pinnacle of male achievement, my friend—wait! Did you say it’s not a problem I have? What did you mean by that?’
Ublala blinked. ‘What? Uh, are you at that pinnacle, or whatever you called it—are you at it too?’
Bugg snorted. ‘He hasn’t been at it in months.’
‘Well, that’s it!’ Tehol stormed to the hearth and plucked out what was left of the matted reeds. He stamped out the flames, then picked the charred object up and set it on his head. ‘All right, Bugg, let’s go and get her. As for this brainless giant here, he can mope around all alone in here, for all I care. How many insults can a sensitive man like me endure, anyway?’
Wisps of smoke drifted from the reeds on Tehol’s head.
‘That’s about to take flame again, master.’
‘Well, that’s what’s good about rain, then, isn’t it? Let’s go.’
Outside in the narrow aisle, water streamed ankle-deep towards the clogged drain at the far end, where a small lake was forming. Bugg a half-step in the lead, they sloshed their way across its swirling, rain-pocked expanse.
‘You should be more sympathetic to Ublala, master,’ Bugg said over a shoulder. ‘He’s a very unhappy man.’
‘Sympathy belongs to the small-membered, Bugg. Ublala has three women drooling all over him, or have you forgotten?’
‘That’s a rather disgusting image.’
‘You’ve been too old too long, dear servant. There’s nothing inherently disgusting about drool.’ He paused, then said, ‘All right, maybe there is. However, do we have to talk about sex? That subject makes me nostalgic.’
‘Errant forbid.’
‘So, where is she?’
‘In a brothel.’
‘Oh, now that’s really pathetic.’
‘More like a newly acquired raging addiction, master. The more she feeds it, the hungrier it gets.’
They crossed Turol Avenue and made their way into the Prostitutes’ District. The downpour was diminishing, the tail ends o
f the storm front streaming overhead. ‘Well,’ Tehol commented, ‘that is not a desirable condition for one of my most valued employees. Especially since her addiction doesn’t include her handsome, elegant boss. Something tells me it should have been me weeping in a corner back there, not Ublala.’
‘It may simply be a case of Shurq not wanting to mix business with pleasure.’
‘Bugg, you told me she’s in a brothel.’
‘Oh. Right. Sorry.’
‘Now I’m truly miserable. I wasn’t miserable this morning. If the trend continues, by dusk I’ll be swimming the canal with bags of coins around my neck.’
‘Here we are.’
They stood before a narrow, three-storey tenement, set slightly in from the adjoining buildings and looking a few centuries older than anything else on the street. The front facing held a carved façade around two square, inset columns of dusty blue marble. Decidedly female demons in bas-relief, contorted and writhing in a mass orgy, crowded the panels, and atop the columns crouched stone gargoyles with enormous breasts held high and inviting.
Tehol turned to Bugg. ‘This is the Temple. She’s in the Temple?’
‘Does that surprise you?’
‘I can’t even afford to step across the threshold. Even Queen Janall frequents this place but a few times a year. Annual membership dues are ten thousand docks…I’ve heard…it rumoured. From someone, once.’
‘Matron Delisp is probably very pleased with her newest property.’
‘I’d wager she is at that. So, how do we extract Shurq Elalle, especially since it’s obvious she is where she wants to be, and the Matron has at least thirty thugs in her employ who’re likely to try and stop us? Should we simply consider this a lost cause and be on our way?’
Bugg shrugged. ‘That is up to you to decide, master.’
‘Well.’ He considered. ‘I’d like at least a word with her.’
‘Probably all you can afford.’
‘Don’t be absurd, Bugg. She doesn’t charge by the word…does she?’
‘She might well charge by the glance, master. Our dear dead thief has blossomed—’
‘Thanks to me! Who arranged for her overhaul? Her drydock repairs, the new coat of paint? We had a deal—’
‘Tell it to her, master, not me. I am well aware of the lengths you go to in appeasing your own peculiar appetites.’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 401