‘I think you should run,’ Taxilian said under his breath, not meeting her eyes. ‘I would, barring the event I believe is coming. But as you say, my interest is perhaps mostly professional. You, on the other hand, would do better to look to your own life – to maintaining it, that is.’
She frowned. ‘It’s not that I hold to an unreasoning faith in the martial prowess of Karsa Orlong. There have been enough hints that the Emperor has fought other great champions, other warriors of formidable skill, and none could defeat him. Nonetheless, I admit to a feeling of…well, loyalty.’
‘Enough to join him at Hood’s Gate?’
‘I am not sure. In any case, don’t you imagine that we’re being watched? Don’t you think that others have tried to flee their fate?’
‘No doubt. But Samar Dev, to not even try…’
‘I will think on it, Taxilian. Now, I’ve changed my mind – that second carafe of wine will have to wait. Let us walk this fair city. I am of a mind to see this ruined temple for myself. We can gawk like the foreigners we are, and the Patriotists will think nothing of it.’ She rose from her seat.
Taxilian followed suit. ‘I trust you’ve already paid the proprietor.’
‘No need. Imperial largesse.’
‘Generosity towards the condemned – that runs contrary to my sense of this fell empire.’
‘Things are always more complex than they first seem.’
Tracked by the eyes of a dozen patrons, the two left the restaurant.
The sun devoured the last shadows in the sand-floored compound, heat rising in streaming waves along the length of the rectangular, high-walled enclosure. The sands had been raked and smoothed by servants, and that surface would remain unmarred until late afternoon, when the challengers in waiting would troop out to spar with each other and gather – those who shared a language – to chew and gnaw on these odd, macabre circumstances. Yet, leaning against a wall just within the inner entranceway, Taralack Veed watched Icarium move slowly alongside the compound’s outer wall, one hand out to brush with fingertips the bleached, dusty stone and its faded frieze.
On that frieze, faded images of imperial heroes and glory-soaked kings, chipped and scarred now by the weapons of unmindful foreigners sparring with each other, each and every one of those foreigners intent upon the murder of the Emperor now commanding the throne.
Thus, a lone set of footprints now, tracking along that wall, a shadow diminished to almost nothing beneath the tall, olive-skinned warrior, who paused to look skyward as a flock of unfamiliar birds skittered across the blue gap, then continued on until he reached the far end, where a huge barred gate blocked the way into the street beyond. The figures of guards were just visible beyond the thick, rust-pitted bars. Icarium halted facing that gate, stood motionless, the sunlight bleaching him as if the Jhag had just stepped out from the frieze on his left, as faded and worn as any hero of antiquity.
But no, not a hero. Not in anyone’s eyes. Not ever. A weapon and nothing more. Yet…he lives, he breathes, and when something breathes, it is more than a weapon. Hot blood in the veins, the grace of motion, a cavort of thoughts and feelings in that skull, awareness like flames in the eyes. The Nameless Ones had knelt on the threshold of stone for too long. Worshipping a house, its heaved grounds, its echoing rooms – why not the living, breathing ones who might dwell within that house? Why not the immortal builders? A temple was hallowed ground not to its own existence but to the god it would honour. But the Nameless Ones did not see it that way. Worship taken to its absurd extreme…yet perhaps in truth as primitive as leaving an offering in a fold of rock, of blood-paint on that worn surface…oh, I am not the one for this, for thoughts that chill the marrow of my soul.
A Gral, cut and scarred by the betrayals. The ones that wait in every man’s shadow – for we are both house and dweller. Stone and earth. Blood and flesh. And so we will haunt the old rooms, walk the familiar corridors, until, turning a corner, we find ourselves facing a stranger, who can be none other than our most evil reflection.
And then the knives are drawn and a life’s battle is waged, year after year, deed after deed. Courage and vile treachery, cowardice and bright malice.
The stranger has driven me back, step by step. Until I no longer know myself – what sane man would dare recognize his own infamy? Who would draw pleasure from the sensation of evil, satisfaction from its all too bitter rewards? No, instead we run with our own lies – do I not utter my vows of vengeance each dawn? Do I not whisper my curses against all those who wronged me?
And now I dare judge the Nameless Ones, who would wield one evil against another. And what of my place in this dread scheme?
He stared across at Icarium, who still faced the gate, who stood like a statue, blurred behind ripples of heat. My stranger. Yet which one of us is the evil one?
His predecessor, Mappo – the Trell – had long ago left such struggles behind, Taralack suspected. Choosing to betray the Nameless Ones rather than this warrior before the gate. An evil choice? The Gral was no longer so sure of his answer.
Hissing under his breath, he pushed himself from the wall and walked the length of the compound, through waves of heat, to stand at the Jhag’s side. ‘If you leave your weapons,’ Taralack said, ‘you are free to wander the city.’
‘Free to change my mind?’ Icarium asked with a faint smile.
‘That would achieve little – except perhaps our immediate execution.’
‘There might be mercy in that.’
‘You do not believe your own words, Icarium. Instead, you speak to mock me.’
‘That may be true, Taralack Veed. As for this city,’ he shook his head, ‘I am not yet ready.’
‘The Emperor could decide at any moment—’
‘He will not. There is time.’
The Gral scowled up at the Jhag. ‘How are you certain?’
‘Because, Taralack Veed,’ Icarium said, quiet and measured as he turned to walk back, ‘he is afraid.’
Staring after him, the Gral was silent. Of you? What does he know? Seven Holies, who would know of this land’s history? Its legends? Are they forewarned of Icarium and all that waits within him?
Icarium vanished in the shadow beneath the building entranceway. After a dozen rapid heartbeats, Taralack followed, not to reclaim the Jhag’s dour companionship, but to find one who might give him the answers to the host of questions now assailing him.
Varat Taun, once second in command to Atri-Preda Yan Tovis, huddled in a corner of the unfurnished room. His only reaction to Yan Tovis’s arrival was a flinch. Curling yet tighter in that corner, he did not lift his head to look upon her. This man had, alone, led Taralack Veed and Icarium back through the warrens – a tunnel torn open by unknown magic, through every realm the expedition had traversed on their outward journey. The Atri-Preda herself had seen the blistering wound that had been the exit gate; she had heard its shrieking howl, a voice that seemed to reach into her chest and grip her heart; she had stared in disbelieving wonder at the three figures emerging from it, one dragged between two…
No other survivors. Not one. Neither Edur nor Letherii.
Varat Taun’s mind had already snapped. Incapable of coherent explanations, he had babbled, shrieking at anyone who drew too close to his person, yet unable or unwilling to tear his wide eyes from the unconscious form of Icarium.
Taralack Veed’s rasping words, then: All dead. Everyone. The First Throne is destroyed, every defender slaughtered – Icarium alone was left standing, and even he was grievously wounded. He is…he is worthy of your Emperor.
But so the Gral had been saying since the beginning. The truth was, no-one knew for certain. What had happened in the subterranean sepulchre where stood the First Throne?
The terrible claims did not end there. The Throne of Shadow had also been destroyed. Yan Tovis remembered the dismay and horror upon the features of the Tiste Edur when they comprehended Taralack Veed’s badly accented words.
Anothe
r expedition was necessary. That much had been obvious. To see the truth of such claims.
The gate had closed shortly after spitting out the survivors, the healing almost as violent and fraught as the first wounding, with a cacophony of screams – like the lost souls of the damned – erupting from that portal at the last moment, leaving witnesses with the terrible conviction that others had been racing to get out.
Swift into the wake of that suspicion came the news of failures – on ship after ship of the fleet – by the warlocks of the Edur when they sought to carve new paths into the warrens. The trauma created by that chaotic rent had somehow sealed every possible path to the place of the Throne of Shadow, and that of the T’lan Imass First Throne. Was this permanent? No-one knew. Even to reach out, as the warlocks had done, was to then recoil in savage pain. Hot, they said; the very flesh of existence rages like fire.
Yet in truth Yan Tovis had little interest in such matters. She had lost soldiers, and none stung more than her second in command, Varat Taun.
She stared now upon his huddled form. Is this what I will deliver to his wife and child in Bluerose? Letherii healers had tended to him, unsuccessfully – the wounds on his mind were beyond their powers to mend.
The sounds of boots in the corridor behind her. She stepped to one side as the guard arrived with his barefooted charge. Another ‘guest’. A monk from the archipelago theocracy of Cabal who had, oddly enough, volunteered to join the Edur fleet, following, it turned out, a tradition of delivering hostages to fend off potential enemies. The Edur fleet had been too damaged to pose much threat at that time, still licking its wounds after clashing with the denizens of Perish, but that had not seemed to matter much – the tradition announcing first contact with strangers was an official policy.
The Cabalhii monk standing now in the threshold of the doorway was no higher than Twilight’s shoulder, slight of build, bald, his round face painted into a comical mask with thick, solid pigments, bright and garish, exaggerating an expression of hilarity perfectly reflected in the glitter of the man’s eyes. Yan Tovis had not known what to expect, but certainly nothing like…this.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see him,’ she now said. ‘I understand that you possess talent as a healer.’
The monk seemed moments from bursting into laughter at her every word, and Twilight felt a flash of irritation.
‘Can you understand me?’ she demanded.
Beneath the face paint the features were flat, unresponsive, as he said in fluid Letherii, ‘I understand your every word. By the lilt of your accent, you come from the empire’s north, on the coast. You have also learned the necessary intonation that is part of the military’s own lexicon, which does not entirely amend the residue of your low birth, yet is of sufficient mediation to leave most of your comrades uncertain of your familial station.’ The eyes, a soft brown, were brimming with silent mirth with each statement. ‘This of course does not refer to the temporary taint that has come from long proximity among sailors, as well as the Tiste Edur. Which, you may be relieved to hear, is fast diminishing.’
Yan Tovis glanced at the guard standing behind the monk. A gesture sent her away.
‘If that was your idea of a joke,’ she said to the Cabalhii after the woman had left, ‘then even the paint does not help.’
The eyes flashed. ‘I assure you, no humour was intended. Now, I am told your own healers have had no success. Is this correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the Tiste Edur?’
‘They are…uninterested in Varat Taun’s fate.’
A nod, then the monk, drawing his loose silks closer, walked noiselessly towards the figure in the far corner.
Varat Taun squealed and began clawing at the walls.
The monk halted, cocking his head, then turned about and approached Yan Tovis. ‘Do you wish to hear my assessment?’
‘Go on.’
‘He is mad.’
She stared down into those dancing eyes, and felt a sudden desire to throttle this Cabalhii. ‘Is that all?’ Her question came out in a rasping tone, rough with threat.
‘All? It is considerable. Madness. Myriad causes, some the result of physical damage to the brain, others due to dysfunctioning organs which can be ascribed to traits of parentage – an inherited flaw, as it were. Other sources include an imbalance of the Ten Thousand Secretions of the flesh, a tainting of select fluids, the fever kiss of delusion. Such imbalances can be the result of aforementioned damage or dysfunction.’
‘Can you heal him?’
The monk blinked. ‘Is it necessary?’
‘Well, that is why I sent for you – excuse me, but what is your name?’
‘My name was discarded upon attaining my present rank within the Unified Sects of Cabal.’
‘I see, and what rank is that?’
‘Senior Assessor.’
‘Assessing what?’
The expression did not change. ‘All matters requiring assessment. Is more explanation required?’
Yan Tovis scowled. ‘I’m not sure,’ she muttered. ‘I think we are wasting our time.’
Another wild cavort in the monk’s eyes. ‘The appearance of a foreign fleet among our islands required assessment. The empire that despatched it required assessment. The demands of this Emperor require assessment. And now, as we see, the condition of this young soldier requires assessment. So I have assessed it.’
‘So where, precisely, does your talent for healing come in?’
‘Healing must needs precede assessing success or failure of the treatment.’
‘What treatment?’
‘These things follow a progression of requirements, each of which must be fully met before one is able to proceed to the next. Thus. I have assessed this soldier’s present condition. He is mad. I then, for your benefit, described the various conditions of madness and their possible causes. Thereafter we negotiated the issue of personal nomenclature – an aside with little relevance, as it turns out – and now I am ready to resume the task at hand.’
‘Forgive my interruption, then.’
‘There is no need. Now, to continue. This soldier has suffered a trauma sufficient to disrupt the normal balance of the Ten Thousand Secretions. Various organs within his brain are now trapped in a cycle of dysfunction beyond any measures of self-repair. The trauma has left a residue in the form of an infection of chaos – it is, I might add, never wise to sip the deadly waters between the warrens. Furthermore, this chaos is tainted with the presence of a false god.’
‘A false god – what is false about it?’
‘I am a monk of the Unified Sects of Cabal, and it now seems necessary that I explain the nature of my religion. Among the people of Cabal there are three thousand and twelve sects. These sects are devoted, one and all, to the One God. In the past, terrible civil wars plagued the islands of Cabal, as each sect fought for domination of both secular and spiritual matters. Not until the Grand Synod of New Year One was peace secured and formalized for every generation to come. Hence, the Unified Sects. The solution to the endless conflicts was, it turned out, brilliantly simple. “Belief in the One God occludes all other concerns.”’
‘How could there be so many sects and only one god?’
‘Ah. Well, you must understand. The One God writes nothing down. The One God has gifted its children with language and thought in the expectation that the One God’s desires be recorded by mortal hands and interpreted by mortal minds. That there were three thousand and twelve sects at New Year One is only surprising in that there were once tens of thousands, resulting from a previous misguided policy of extensive education provided to every citizen of Cabal – a policy since amended in the interests of unification. There is now one college per sect, wherein doctrine is formalized. Accordingly, Cabal has known twenty-three months of uninterrupted peace.’
Yan Tovis studied the small man, the dancing eyes, the absurd mask of paint. ‘And which sect doctrine did you learn, Senior Assessor?’
‘And their tenet?’
‘Only this: the One God, having written nothing down, having left all matters of interpretation of faith and worship to the unguided minds of over-educated mortals, is unequivocally insane.’
‘Which, I suppose, is why your mask shows wild laughter—’
‘Not at all. We of the Mockers are forbidden laughter, for that is an invitation to the hysteria afflicting the One God. In the Holy Expression adorning my face you are granted a true image of the One Behind the Grand Design, in so far as our sect determines such.’ The monk suddenly clasped his hands beneath his chin. ‘Now, our poor soldier has suffered overlong as it is, whilst we digressed yet again. I have assessed the taint of a false god in the beleaguered mind of this wounded man. Accordingly, that false god must be driven out. Once this is done, I shall remove the blockages in the brain preventing self-repair, and so all imbalances will be redressed. The effects of said treatment will be virtually immediate and readily obvious.’
Yan Tovis blinked. ‘You can truly heal him?’
‘Have I not said so?’
‘Senior Assessor.’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you aware of the purpose you are meant to serve here in Letheras?’
‘I believe I will be expected to meet the Emperor on a pitch, whereupon we shall endeavour to kill each other. Furthermore, I am led to understand that this Emperor cannot be slain with any measure of finality, cursed as he is by a false god – the very same false god who has afflicted this soldier here, by the way. Thus, it is my assessment that I will be killed in that contest, to the dismay of no-one and everyone.’
‘And your One God will not help you, a senior priest of its temple?’
The man’s eyes glittered. ‘The One God helps no-one. After all, should it help one then it must help all, and such potentially universal assistance would inevitably lead to irreconcilable conflict, which in turn would without question drive the One God mad. As indeed it did, long ago.’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 605