‘Please,’ Trull said, ‘resume your meal. You have earned it, Udinaas.’
‘Is there something you wish of me, Trull Sengar?’
‘No. Yes. What have you done?’
The slave cocked his head. ‘What do you mean?’
‘With…him. What have you done, Udinaas?’
‘Not much, Trull Sengar.’
‘No, I need an answer. What are you to him?’
Udinaas set down his plate, drank a mouthful of wine. ‘A subject who’s not afraid of him, I suppose.’
‘That’s…all? Wait, yes, I see. But then I wonder, why? Why are you not afraid of him?’
Udinaas sighed, and Trull realized how exhausted the slave was. ‘You, all the Edur, you see the sword. Or the gold. You see…the power. The terrifying, brutal power.’ He shrugged. ‘I see what it takes from him, what it costs Rhulad. I am Letherii, after all,’ he added with a grimace. I understand the notion of debt.’ He looked up. ‘Trull Sengar, I am his friend. That is all.’
Trull studied the slave for a half-dozen heartbeats. ‘Never betray him, Udinaas. Never.’
The Letherii’s gaze skittered away. He drank more wine.
‘Udinaas—’
‘I heard you,’ the man said in a grating voice.
Trull turned to leave. Then he paused and glanced back. ‘I have no wish to depart on such terms. So, Udinaas, for what you have done, for what you have given him, thank you.’
The slave nodded without looking up. He reached down to retrieve his plate.
Trull returned to the central chamber to find that Hannan Mosag had arrived, and was speaking to Rhulad.
‘…Hull believes it lies near a town downriver from here. A day’s journey, perhaps. But, Emperor, a necessary journey none the less.’
Rhulad looked away, glared at the far wall. ‘The armies must go on. To Brans Keep. No delays, no detours. I will go, and Fear and Trull as well. Hull Beddict, to guide us. Udinaas, of course.’
‘A K’risnan,’ the Warlock King said, ‘and our new demonic allies, the two Kenryll’ah.’
‘Very well, those as well. We shall meet you at Brans Keep.’
‘What is it?’ Trull asked. ‘What has happened?’
‘Something has been freed,’ Hannan Mosag said. ‘And it must be dealt with.’
‘Freed by whom, and for what purpose?’
The Warlock King shrugged. ‘I know not who was responsible. But I assume it was freed to fight us.’
‘A demon of some sort?’
‘Yes. I can only sense its presence, its will. I cannot identify it. The town is named Brous.’
‘Trull slowly nodded. ‘Would that Binadas were with us,’ he said.
Rhulad glanced up. ‘Why?’
Trull smiled, said nothing.
After a moment, Fear grunted, then nodded.
Rhulad matched Trull’s smile. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘would that he were.’
Hannan Mosag looked at the three of them in turn. ‘I do not understand.’
The emperor’s laugh was harsh, only slightly bitter. ‘You send us on another quest, Warlock King.’
Hannan Mosag visibly blanched.
Seeing that, Rhulad laughed again, this time in pure amusement.
After a moment, both Fear and Trull joined him, whilst Hannan Mosag stared at them all in disbelief.
They had drunk too much wine, Trull told himself later. That was all. Far too much wine.
Seren Pedac and the Crimson Guardsmen guided their horses down from the road, across the ditch, and drew rein at the edge of a green field. The vanguard of the Merchants’ Battalion had emerged from the city’s gates, and the Acquitor could see Preda Unnutal Hebaz at the forefront, riding a blue-grey horse, white-maned, that tossed its head in irritation, hooves stamping with impatience.
‘If she’s not careful,’ Iron Bars observed, ‘that beast will start bucking. And she’ll find herself on her arse in the middle of the road.’
‘That would be an ill omen indeed,’ Seren said.
After a moment, the Preda managed to calm the horse.
‘I take it we have something of a wait before us,’ Iron Bars said.
‘King’s Battalion and Merchants’ Battalion at the very least. I don’t know what other forces are in Letheras. I wouldn’t think the south battalions and brigades have had time to reach here, which is unfortunate.’ She thought for a moment, then said, ‘If we cross this field, we can take the river road and enter through Fishers’ Gate. It will mean crossing two-thirds of the city to reach my home, but for you, Avowed, well, presumably the ship you’re signed on with will be close by.’
Iron Bars shrugged. ‘We’re delivering you to your door, Acquitor.’
‘That’s not necessary—’
‘Even so, it is what we intend to do.’
‘Then, if you don’t mind…’
‘Fishers’ Gate it shall be. Lead on, Acquitor.’
The rearguard elements of the King’s Battalion had turned in the concourse before the Eternal Domicile and were now marching up the Avenue of the Seventh Closure. King Ezgara Diskanar, who had stood witness on the balcony of the First Wing since his official despatch of the Preda at dawn, finally swung about and made his way inside. The investiture was about to begin, but Brys Beddict knew he had some time before his presence was required.
Four of his own guard were on the balcony with him. Brys gestured one over. ‘Find me a messenger.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Brys waited, staring out over the city. The air was oppressive with more than just humidity and heat. After the passing of the battalion’s rearguard, few citizens ventured into its wake. The battle at Brans Keep was still days away, but it seemed that most of the city’s residents—those who remained—had elected to stay in their homes as much as possible.
The messenger arrived, a woman he had employed often and one he knew he could trust.
‘Deliver a missive to my brother, Tehol, at his home.’
‘He will be on his roof?’
‘I expect so, and that is the message—he is to stay there. Now, an additional message, to the Shavankrat brother guarding Tehol. A name. Gerun Eberict. That is all.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Go, then.’
She quickly left. Brys strode into the narrow corridor that tracked the length of the wing on the second tier. At the far end steps descended to an antechamber that was part of the central dome complex. There, he found Finadd Moroch Nevath, sitting on a stone bench.
‘Brys, I have been waiting for you.’
‘Not too long, I hope. What do you wish of me, Finadd?’
‘Do you believe in gods?’
Startled, Brys was silent for a moment, then said, ‘I am afraid I do not see the relevance of that question.’
Moroch Nevath reached into a pouch at his hip and withdrew a battered tile, such as might be found among market readers. ‘When did you last speak with Turudal Brizad?’
‘The First Consort has not been in the palace—either palace, since yesterday,’ Brys said. ‘First Eunuch Nifadas ordered an extensive search, and it has been concluded that Turudal has fled. Not entirely surprising—’
Moroch tossed him the tile. Instinctively, Brys caught it in his left hand. He looked down at the ceramic plaque. Yellowed at the edges, latticed with cracks, the illustration reduced to a series of stylized scratches that Brys none the less recognized. ‘The tile of the Errant. What of it, Moroch?’
The soldier rose to his feet. He’d lost weight, Brys noted, and seemed to have aged ten years since joining the treaty delegation. ‘He’s been here. All along. The bastard’s been right under our noses, Brys Beddict.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The Errant. The First Consort. Turudal Brizad.’
‘That is…ridiculous.’
‘I have a somewhat harsher word for it, Brys.’
The Champion glanced away from the man standing before him. ‘How did you c
ome to this extraordinary conclusion, Moroch?’
‘There have been Turudal Brizads every generation—oh, different names, but it’s him. Scenes on tapestries, paintings. Walk the royal collection, Brys—everything’s out in the hallway, about to be moved. It was right there, for anyone to see, should they find reason to look.’
‘And what reason did you have, Moroch?’
A grimace. ‘He asked me to do something for him.’
Brys grunted. ‘He’s a god.’ Supposedly. ‘Why should he need your help?’
‘Because he says you will be too busy.’
Brys thought back to his last conversation with Turudal Brizad…. the end of my objectivity. Something like that, as the man was walking away. ‘I admit to some…scepticism, Moroch Nevath.’
‘Set it aside for the moment, Brys. I am here to ask your advice. Assume the worst.’
‘A god asks for your help? I suppose one must consider possible motivations, and the consequences of accepting or rejecting the request.’
‘Yes.’
‘Will doing as he asks be to the benefit of Lether?’
‘He says it will.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘In the city, somewhere. He was watching the last of the refugees allowed in this morning, on the wall, or so one of my guards reported.’
‘Then, I would think, Moroth, that you must do as he asks.’
‘Over the duty of protecting the king?’
‘I imagine the god assumes that task will be mine.’
‘We are almost equal, you and I, Brys.’
‘I know.’
‘You may believe that you are the better between us. I believe otherwise.’
‘The decision was not ours to make, Moroch.’
Moroch studied him for a half-dozen heartbeats, then said, ‘I thank you for the advice, Finadd.’
‘I hesitate to say it, Moroch Nevath, but the Errant be with you.’
‘Not funny,’ the swordsman muttered as he strode away.
Brys made his way into the dome complex. He came to the main corridor, halting to study the layout once more. The walls had been scrubbed, the dust on the floor mopped away. Guards and functionaries were moving about, readying for the investiture. Many glances were cast in the direction of the figure sleeping halfway down the corridor, curled up on the centre tile.
Sighing, Brys approached Kuru Qan. ‘Ceda.’
The old man made a sound, then turned over so that his back was to Brys.
‘Wake up, Ceda. Please.’
Head lifting, Kuru Qan groped for the twin lenses lying on the floor nearby, drew them to his face. ‘Who calls?’
‘It is Brys Beddict.’
‘Ah, Finadd.’ Kuru Qan twisted round and peered up. ‘You look well.’
You do not. ‘Ceda, the investiture is about to begin. Unless you would have King Ezgara Diskanar step around you during his solemn march, you will have to move.’
‘No!’ The old man spread himself out on the flagstone. ‘I must not! This is mine. My place.’
‘You insist that he step to one side on his approach? Ceda, you risk the king’s anger—’
‘Relevant? Not in the least.’ His fingers scrabbled on the stone. ‘This is mine. Warn him, Finadd. Warn the king.’
‘About what?’
‘I will not be moved. Any who would try will be blasted into ashes. Ashes, Brys Beddict.’
Brys glanced around. A small crowd had gathered to listen to the exchange. The Finadd scowled. ‘Be on your way, all of you.’ People scrambled.
Temporarily alone once more, Brys crouched down before the Ceda. ‘You had paints and brushes with you last time. What happened to them?’
‘Paints and brushes?’ The eyes blinked behind the lenses. ‘Gone. Gone away. The king wants you now, Finadd. He is ready to begin the procession. Nifadas is coming—he will complain, but no matter. It will be a small audience, won’t it. Relevant? Oh yes. Best the king ignore me—explain that to him, Brys.’
The Finadd straightened. ‘I shall, Ceda.’
‘Excellent. Now, be on your way.’
‘This doesn’t smell right.’
Trull looked over at the Kenryll’ah demon that had spoken. It was taller than the Tiste Edur on their horses. A face of sharper features than those on Lilac, black as chiselled basalt, the upper and lower canines protruding and glinting silver. A fur-lined collar, a vest of bronze scales, salt-rimed and dark with patination. A heavy leather belt on which was slung a huge scabbarded tulwar. Leather leggings, grey and supple. The other demon, standing at its side, differed only in the choice of weapons, a massive matlock gripped in two gauntleted hands.
This second Kenryll’ah bared its teeth. ‘Making me hungry.’
‘Split bones,’ the other said. ‘Marrow.’
The stench the two were referring to was that of rotting corpses. They had reached the edge of the clearing, beyond which was the palisade wall of the town of Brous. In the field were barrows, and one long excavated trench. There was no one in sight.
‘Brothers,’ the emperor said, ‘dismount and ready your weapons.’
Trull swung down from his horse. He turned. ‘K’risnan, can you sense anything?’
The young Arapay warlock’s face was sickly. He nodded. ‘In the town, I think. It knows we’re here.’
Rhulad closed both hands on the grip of his sword and raised it to centre guard position. ‘Udinaas, remain with the horses. Fear, on my left. Trull, my right. K’risnan, stay behind us five paces. Demons, out to either side.’
‘Can’t we eat first?’
‘Or pee? I need to pee.’
‘You should have thought of that before we left,’ the first demon said.
‘And you should have eaten. We’ve plenty of spare horses, you know.’
The emperor hissed. ‘Silence, both of you. We’ve had to listen to you the entire journey. No more, lest I decide to kill you first.’
‘That wouldn’t be wise,’ the second Kenryll’ah said. ‘I smell more than meat, I smell the one thing still alive in there, and it isn’t pleasant.’
‘I taste it,’ the first demon said. ‘And it makes me want to retch.’
‘You should have thought of retching before we left,’ the second one said.
‘I think of retching every time I look at you.’
‘Enough!’
‘I apologize for my brother,’ the first demon said.
‘And I for mine,’ the second one added.
Strange tyrants. Trull unslung his spear and strode to Rhulad’s side.
They made their way across the clearing. Reaching the pit, they saw the first of the bodies. Broken and tossed at the base of the deep, ragged excavation, like an open mass burial. Workers and soldiers. Flesh dark and bloating in the heat. Flies swarmed.
They skirted the pit and approached the town. The gates opposite them had been knocked down, inward, the heavy doors shattered. Somewhere in the town a dog was barking.
The street was strewn with corpses just inside the wall. The doors of every house and building within sight had been stove in. Ahead and to the right, two horses stood yoked to a wagon that had been knocked over. Exhaustion and the strain of the yokes had driven one of the beasts into an awkward sitting position. Trull hesitated, then walked over to them, drawing the knife at his belt. The others paused and watched as he cut the horses loose. Neither animal was in any condition to flee, but they slowly made their way outside on trembling, uncertain legs.
Trull returned to his position beside Rhulad.
‘It’s coming,’ the first demon said.
Further down the main street a flock of starlings swirled into view, spinning between the buildings. In a mass of black, the birds seemed to boil towards the Tiste Edur and the Kenryll’ah. Striding in the midst of the birds, a tall figure, spectral, its skin white, its hair pallid yellow and hanging in limp strands. It was wearing a leather harness that looked wrinkled and blackened with rot. There was
something strange about its limbs.
‘He is unarmed,’ Fear said.
‘Yet,’ the K’risnan hissed behind them, ‘he is the one.’
The starlings spun higher, alighting on roof edges to either side, as the figure halted ten paces away.
‘Peaceful,’ it said in Letherii, ‘is it not?’
Rhulad spoke. ‘I am Emperor Rhulad of the Tiste Edur. Who, and what, are you, stranger?’
‘I am Forkrul Assail. I am named Serenity.’
‘You are a demon, then?’
The head cocked. ‘I am?’
‘This is not your world.’
‘It isn’t?’
Rhulad half turned. ‘K’risnan, banish him.’
‘I cannot, Emperor.’
‘The tumult of your presence invites discord,’ Serenity said.
Watching the Forkrul Assail’s movements, Trull realized that it possessed extra joints in the arms and the legs, and there was some kind of hinge across the creature’s breastbone. Its motion was oddly loose.
‘Discord?’ Rhulad asked.
‘I desire peace once more.’
Fear spoke. ‘If it is peace you seek, Serenity, then you need only turn and walk away. Leave.’
‘To leave here is to arrive elsewhere. I cannot retreat from disorder, for it shall surely follow. Peace must be asserted where one finds oneself. Only when discord is resolved will there be peace.’ The Forkrul Assail then stepped forward.
‘’Ware!’ one of the demons snarled.
Serenity surged closer, even as the starlings exploded skyward once more.
Trull’s weapon possessed the greatest reach, but he did not attempt to stab the creature. Its arms were lifted to fend off the attack, and Trull chose to batter at those with a high sweep of the spear shaft. Like a serpent, Serenity’s right arm writhed around the shaft, binding the weapon. A sudden flex and the Blackwood cracked, then splintered, the red core welling into view down the length of the split. Trull had little time to feel shock, as Serenity’s left hand lashed out.
Two fingertips touched Trull’s temple—
He was already pitching himself to the side, but at the contact he felt his neck wrenched round. Had he remained standing, had he resisted, his neck would now be broken. As it was, ducking, shoulder dipping, he was flung downward, thrown off his feet.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 443