‘Stand close by me, slave,’ Rhulad gasped, fierce trembling sweeping over him. ‘Remind me! Please! Udinaas—’
The slave thought for a moment, then said, ‘You died. Your body was dressed for honourable burial as a blooded warrior of the Hiroth. Then you returned. By the sword now in your hand, you returned and are alive once more.’
‘Yes, that is it. Yes.’ A laugh that rose to a piercing shriek, stopping abruptly as a spasm ripped through Rhulad. He gaped, as if in pain, then muttered, ‘The wounds…’
‘Emperor?’
‘No matter. Just the memory. Cold iron pushing into my body. Cold fire. I tried. I tried to curl up around those wounds. Up tight, to protect what I had already lost. I remember…’
Udinaas was silent. Since the emperor would not look at him, he was free to observe. And arrive at conclusions.
The young should not die. That final moment belonged to the aged. Some rules should never be broken, and whether the motivation was compassionate or coldly calculated hardly mattered. Rhulad had been dead too long, too long to escape some kind of spiritual damage. If the emperor was to be a tool, then he was a flawed one.
And what value that?
‘We are imperfect.’
Udinaas started, said nothing.
‘Do you understand that, Udinaas?’
‘Yes, Emperor.’
‘How? How do you understand?’
‘I am a slave.’
Rhulad nodded. His left hand, gauntleted in gold, lifted to join his right where it gripped the handle of the sword. ‘Yes, of course. Yes. Imperfect. We can never match the ideals set before us. That is the burden of mortality.’ A twisted grimace. ‘Not just mortals.’ A flicker of the eyes, momentarily fixing on the slave’s own, then away again. ‘He whispers in my mind. He tells me what to say. He makes me cleverer than I am. What does that make me, Udinaas? What does that make me?’
‘A slave.’
‘But I am Tiste Edur.’
‘Yes, Emperor.’
A scowl. ‘The gift of a life returned.’
‘You are Indebted.’
Rhulad flinched back in his chair, his eyes flashing with sudden rage. ‘We are not the same, slave! Do you understand? I am not one of your Indebted. I am not a Letherii.’ Then he sagged in a rustle of coins. ‘Daughter take me, the weight of this…’
‘I am sorry, Emperor. It is true. You are not an Indebted. Nor, perhaps, are you a slave. Although perhaps it feels that way, at times. When exhaustion assails you.’
‘Yes, that is it. I am tired. That’s all. Tired.’
Udinaas hesitated, then asked, ‘Emperor, does he speak through you now?’
A fragile shake of the head. ‘No. But he does not speak through me. He only whispers advice, helps me choose my words. Orders my thoughts—but the thoughts are mine. They must be. I am not a fool. I possess my own cleverness. Yes, that is it. He but whispers confidence.’
‘You have not eaten,’ Udinaas said. ‘Nor drunk anything. Do you know hunger and thirst, Emperor? Can I get you something to replenish your strength?’
‘Yes, I would eat. And…some wine. Find a servant.’
‘At once, master.’
Udinaas walked to the small curtain covering the entrance to the passage that led to the kitchens. He found a servant huddled in the corridor a dozen paces from the door. Terrified eyes glistened up at him as he approached. ‘On your feet, Virrick. The emperor wants wine. And food.
‘The god would eat?’
‘He’s not a god. Food and drink, Virrick. Fit for an emperor, and be quick about it.’
The servant scrambled up, seemed about to bolt.
‘You know how to do this,’ Udinaas said in a calm voice, ‘It’s what you have been trained to do.’
‘I am frightened—’
‘Listen to me. I will tell you a secret. You always like secrets, don’t you, Virrick?’
A tentative nod.
‘It is this,’ Udinaas said. ‘We slaves have no reason to fear. It is the Edur who have reason, and that gives us leave to continue laughing behind their backs. Remember doing that, Virrick? It’s your favourite game.’
‘I—I remember, Udinaas.’
‘Good. Now go into the kitchens and show the others. You know the secret, now. Show them, and they will follow. Food, and wine. When you are ready, bring it to the curtain and give the low whistle, as you would do normally. Virrick, we need things to return to normal, do you understand? And that task falls to us, the slaves.’
‘Feather Witch ran—’
‘Feather Witch is young, and what she did was wrong. I have spoken to her and shall do so again.’
‘Yes, Udinaas. You are the emperor’s slave. You have the right of it; there is much wisdom in your words. I think we will listen to you, Indebted though you are. You have been…elevated.’ He nodded. ‘Feather Witch failed us—’
‘Do not be so harsh on her, Virrick. Now, go.’
He watched the servant hurry off down the corridor, then Udinaas swung about and returned to the throne chamber.
‘What took you so long?’ Rhulad demanded in near panic. ‘I heard voices.’
‘I was informing Virrick of your requirements, Emperor.
‘You are too slow. You must be quicker, slave.’
‘I shall, master.’
‘Everyone must be told what to do. No-one seems capable of thinking for themselves.’
Udinaas said nothing, and did not dare smile even as the obvious observation drifted through his mind.
‘You are useful to us, slave. We will need…reminding…again. At unexpected times. And that is what shall you do for us. That, and food and drink at proper times.’
‘Yes, master.’
‘Now, stand in attendance, whilst we rest our eyes for a time.’
‘Of course, master.’
He stood, waiting, watching, a dozen paces away.
The distance between emperor and slave.
As he made his way onto the bridge, Trull Sengar saw the Acquitor. She was standing midway across the bridge, motionless as a frightened deer, her gaze fixed on the main road leading through the village. Trull could not see what had snared her attention.
He hesitated. Then her head turned and he met her eyes.
There were no words for what passed between them at that instant. A gaze that began searchingly, then swiftly and ineffably transformed into something else. That locked contact was mutually broken in the next moment, instinctive reactions from them both.
In the awkward wake, nothing was said for a half-dozen heartbeats. Trull found himself struggling against a sense of vast emptiness deep in his chest.
Seren Pedac spoke first. ‘Is there no room left, Trull Sengar?’
And he understood. ‘No, Acquitor. No room left.’
‘I think you would have it otherwise, wouldn’t you?’
The question brushed too close to the wordless recognition they had shared only a few moments earlier, and he saw once again in her eyes a flicker of…something. He mentally recoiled from an honest reply. ‘I serve my emperor.’
The flicker vanished, replaced by a cool regard that slipped effortlessly through his defences, driving like a knife into his chest. ‘Of course. Forgive me. It is too late for questions like that. I must be leaving now, to escort Buruk the Pale back to Trate.’
Each word a twist of that knife, despite their being seemingly innocuous. He did not understand how they—and the look in her eyes—could hurt him so deeply, and he wanted to cry out. Denials. Confessions. Instead he punctuated the break of that empathy with a damning shrug. ‘Journey well, Acquitor.’ Nothing more, and he knew himself for a coward.
He watched her walk away. Thinking on his life’s journey as much as the Acquitor’s, on the stumbles that occurred, with no awareness of their potential for profundity. Balance reacquired, but the path had changed.
So many choices proved irrevocable. Trull wondered if this one would as well.
/> Chapter Fourteen
Where is the darkness
In the days gone past
When the sun bathed everything
In godling light
And we were burnished bright
In our youthful ascendancy
Delighted shrieks and
Distant laughter
Carried on the gilden stream
Of days that did not pause
For night with every shadow
Burned through
By immortal fire
Where then is the darkness
Arrived at sun’s death
Arrived creeping and low
To growl revelations
Of the torrid descent
That drags us down
Onto this moment.
IMMORTAL FIRE
FISHER KEL TATH
A voice spoke from the darkness. ‘I wouldn’t go down that street, old man.’
Bugg glanced over. ‘I thank you for the warning,’ he replied, walking on.
Ten paces into the narrow alley he could smell spilled blood. Footsteps behind him told him the look-out had moved into his wake, presumably to block his avenue of retreat.
‘I warned you.’
‘I’m the one you sent for,’ Bugg said.
Four more figures appeared from the gloom in front of him, cut-throats one and all. They looked frightened.
The look-out came round and stepped close to peer at Bugg’s face. ‘You’re the Waiting Man? You ain’t what I ’spected.’
‘What has happened here? Who’s dead and who killed him?’
‘Not “who” killed ’im,’ one of the four standing before Bugg muttered. ‘More like “what”. An’ we don’t know. Only it was big, skin black as canal water, with spikes on its arms. Eyes like a snake’s, glowing grey.’
Bugg sniffed the air, seeking something beyond the blood.
‘It ripped Strong Rall to pieces, it did, then went into that building.’
The manservant swung his gaze to where the man pointed. A derelict temple, sunken down at one corner, the peaked roof tilted sharply on that side. Bugg grunted. ‘That was the last temple of the Fulcra, wasn’t it?’
‘Don’t ask us.’
‘That cult’s been dead a hundred years at least,’ the manservant continued, scowling at the dilapidated structure. The entranceway, wide and gaping, capped in a solid lintel stone, was once three steps higher than street level. Back when this alley had been a street. He could just make out the right corner of the top step. There seemed to be a heap of rubbish piled up just within, recently disturbed. Bugg glanced back at the five thugs. ‘What were you doing skulking around here, anyway?’
An exchange of looks, then the look-out shrugged. ‘We was hiding.’
‘Hiding?’
‘This little girl…well, uh…’
‘Ah. Right.’ Bugg faced the entrance once again.
‘Hold on, old man,’ the man said. ‘You ain’t goin’ in there, are you?’
‘Well, why else did you call for me?’
‘We expected you to, uh, to get the city guards or something. Maybe a mage or three.’
‘I might well do that. But first, better to know what we’re dealing with.’ Bugg then clambered into the ruined temple. Thick, damp air and profound darkness. A smell of freshly turned earth, and then, faintly, the sound of breathing. Slow and deep. The manservant fixed his gaze on the source of that sound. ‘All right,’ he said in a murmur, ‘it’s been some time since you last breathed the night air. But that doesn’t give you the right to kill a hapless mortal, does it?’
A massive shape shuffled to one side near the far wall. ‘Don’t hurt me. I’m not going back. They’re killing everyone.’
Bugg sighed. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’
The shape seemed to break apart, and the manservant saw motion, fanning out. At least six new, smaller forms, each low and long. The gleam of reptilian eyes fixed on him from all along the back wall.
‘So that is why you chose this temple,’ Bugg said. ‘Alas, your worshippers are long gone.’
‘You may think so.’ A half-dozen voices now, a whispered chorus. ‘But you are wrong.’
‘Why did you kill that mortal?’
‘He was blocking the doorway.’
‘So, now that you’re here…’
‘I will wait.’
Bugg considered this, and the implications inherent in that statement. He slowly frowned. ‘Very well. But no more killing. Stay in here.’
‘I will agree to that. For now.’
‘Until what you’re waiting for…arrives.’
‘Yes. Then we shall hunt.’
Bugg turned away. ‘That’s what you think,’ he said under his breath.
He reappeared outside the temple. Studied the five terrified faces in the gloom. ‘Spread the word that no-one is to enter that temple.’
‘That’s it? What about the guards? The mages? What about Strong Rall?’
‘Well, if you’re interested in vengeance, I suggest you find a few thousand friends first. There will be a reckoning, eventually.’
The look-out snorted. ‘The Waiting Man wants us to wait.’
Bugg shrugged. ‘The best I can do. To oust this beast, the Ceda himself would have to come down here.’
‘So send for him!’
‘I’m afraid I don’t possess that sort of clout. Go home, all of you.’
Bugg moved past them and made his way down the alley. Things were getting decidedly complicated. And that was never good. He wondered how many more creatures were escaping the barrows. From the Pack’s words, not many. Which was a relief.
Even so, he decided, he’d better see for himself. The rendezvous awaiting him would have to wait a little longer. That would likely earn him an earful, but it couldn’t be helped. The Seventh Closure was shaping up to be eventful. He wondered if that prophecy, of empire reborn, was in some way linked to the death of the Azath tower. He hoped not.
The night was surprisingly quiet. The usual crowds that appeared once the day’s heat was past were virtually absent as Bugg made his way down the length of Quillas Canal. He came within sight of the Eternal Domicile. Well, he reminded himself, at least that had been a success. The Royal Engineer, aptly named Grum, had been a reluctant, envious deliverer of a royal contract, specifying Bugg’s Construction to assume control of shoring up the compromised wings of the new palace. He had been even less pleased when Bugg ordered the old crews to vacate, taking their equipment with them. Bugg had then spent most of the following day wading flooded tunnels, just to get a feel of the magnitude of the task ahead.
True to Tehol’s prediction, Bugg’s modest company was climbing in the Tolls, frighteningly fast. Since the list of shares was sealed, Bugg had managed to sell four thousand and twenty-two per cent of shares, and still hold a controlling interest. Of course, he’d be headlining the Drownings if the deceit was ever discovered. ‘But I’m prepared to take that risk,’ Tehol had said with a broad smile. Funny man, his master.
Nearing the old palace, then into the wending alleyways and forgotten streets behind it. This part of the city seemed virtually lifeless, no-one venturing outside. Stray dogs paused in their scavenging to watch him pass. Rats scurried from his path.
He reached the wall of the square tower, walked along it until he was at the gateway. A pause, during which he wilfully suppressed his nervousness at entering the grounds. The Azath was dead, after all. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he strode forward.
The barrows to either side were strangely crumpled, but he could see no gaping holes. Yet. He left the path. Insects bunched or squirmed underfoot. The tufts of grass looked macerated and were crawling with life.
Bugg arrived at one barrow where the near side was gone, in its place a black pit across which was the toppled bole of a dead tree. There was the sound of scrabbling from within.
Then Kettle clambered into view. Clumps of white worms writ
hed in her straggly, matted hair, rode seething on her shoulders. She pulled herself up using a branch of the tree, then paused to brush the worms off, the gesture dainty and oddly affecting. ‘It’s gone,’ she said. ‘Uncle Bugg, this one’s gone.’
‘I know.’
‘I didn’t see it. I should have seen it.’
He shook his head. ‘It is very stealthy, Kettle. And fast. All it needed was a moment when your back was turned. A single moment, no more. In any case, I’ve met it, and, for now at least, it won’t be bothering anyone.’
‘Nothing’s working, Uncle Bugg. I need the one below. I need to get him out.’
‘What is impeding him, do you know?’
She shook her head, the motion shedding more worms. ‘At least he’s got swords now. Uncle Brys brought them. I pushed them into the barrow.’
‘Brys Beddict? Lass, you are finding worthy allies. Has the Ceda visited?’
‘I don’t know any Ceda.’
‘I am surprised by that. He should come soon, once he finds out about you.’
‘Me?’
‘Well, more specifically, your heart.’
She cocked her head. ‘I hear thumps. In my chest. Is that my heart?’
‘Yes. How often are the thumps coming?’
‘Maybe eight a day. Now. Before, maybe four. To start, once. Loud, hurting my head.’
‘Hurting? You are feeling pain, lass?’
‘Not so much any more. Aches. Twinges. That’s how I know something’s wrong with me. Used to be I didn’t feel anything.’
Bugg ran a hand through his thinning hair. He looked up, studied the night sky. Cloud-covered, but the clouds were high, flat and unwrinkled, a worn blanket through which stars could be seen here and there. He sighed. ‘All right, lass, show me where you buried the swords.’
He followed her to a barrow closer to the tower.
‘He’s in this one.’
But the manservant’s gaze was drawn to an identical barrow beside the one she indicated. ‘Now, who does that one belong to, I wonder.’
‘She’s always promising me things. Rewards. The five who are killing all the others won’t go near her. Sometimes, her anger burns in my head like fire. She’s very angry, but not at me, she says. Those bitches, she says, and that tells me she’s sleeping, because she only says that when she’s sleeping. When she’s awake, she whispers nice things to me.’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 416