Midnight Tides

by Steven Erikson

  I really should stop doing that.

  ****

  ‘Five wings will buy you a grovel,’ Tehol Beddict muttered from his bed. ‘Haven’t you ever wondered how odd it is? Of course, every god should have a throne, but shouldn’t it also follow that every throne built for a god is actually occupied? And if it isn’t, who in their right mind decided that it was worthwhile to worship an empty throne?’

  Seated on a low three-legged stool at the foot of the bed, Bugg paused in his knitting. He held out and examined the coarse wool shirt he was working on, one eye squeezing into a critical squint.

  Tehol’s gaze flicked down at his servant. ‘I’m fairly certain my left arm is of a length close to, if not identical with, that of my right. Why do you persist in this conceit? You’ve no talent to speak of, in much of anything, come to think of it. Probably why I love you so dearly, Bugg.’

  ‘Not half as much as you love yourself,’ the old man replied, resuming his knitting.

  ‘Well, I see no point in arguing that.’ He sighed, wiggling his toes beneath the threadbare sheet. The wind was freshening, blessedly cool and only faintly reeking of the south shore’s Stink Flats. Bed and stool were the only furniture on the roof of Tehol’s house. Bugg still slept below, despite the sweltering heat, and only came up when his work demanded light enough to see. Saved on lamp oil, Tehol told himself, since oil was getting dreadfully expensive now that the whales were getting scarce.

  He reached down to the half-dozen dried figs on the tarnished plate Bugg had set down beside him. ‘Ah, more figs. Another humiliating trip to the public privies awaits me, then.’ He chewed desultorily, watching the monkey-like clambering of the workers on the dome of the Eternal Domicile. Purely accidental, this exquisitely unobstructed view of the distant palace rising from the heart of Letheras, and all the more satisfying for that, particularly the way the nearby towers and Third Height bridges so neatly framed King Ezgara Diskanar’s conceit. ‘Eternal Domicile indeed. Eternally unfinished.’

  The dome had proved so challenging to the royal architects that four of them had committed suicide in the course of its construction, and one had died tragically – if somewhat mysteriously – trapped inside a drainage pipe. ‘Seventeen years and counting. Looks like they’ve given up entirely on that fifth wing. What do you think, Bugg? I value your expert opinion.’

  Bugg’s expertise amounted to rebuilding the hearth in the kitchen below. Twenty-two fired bricks stacked into a shape very nearly cubic, and indeed it would have been if three of the bricks had not come from a toppled mausoleum at the local cemetery. Grave masons held to peculiar notions of what a brick’s dimensions should be, pious bastards that they were.

  In response to Tehol’s query, Bugg glanced up, squinting with both eyes.

  Five wings to the palace, the dome rising from the centre. Four tiers to those wings, except for the shoreside one, where only two tiers had been built. Work had been suspended when it was discovered that the clay beneath the foundations tended to squeeze out to the sides, like closing a fist on a block of butter. The fifth wing was sinking.

  ‘Gravel,’ Bugg said, returning to his knitting.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gravel,’ the old man repeated. ‘Drill deep wells down into the clay, every few paces or so, and fill ’em with gravel, packed down with drivers. Cap ‘em and build your foundation pillars on top. No weight on the clay means it’s got no reason to squirm.’

  Tehol stared down at his servant. ‘All right. Where in the Errant’s name did you come by that? And don’t tell me you stumbled onto it trying to keep our hearth from wandering.’

  Bugg shook his head. ‘No, it’s not that heavy. But if it was, that’s what I would’ve done.’

  ‘Bore a hole? How far down?’

  ‘Bedrock, of course. Won’t work otherwise.’

  ‘And fill it with gravel.’

  ‘Pounded down tight, aye.’

  Tehol plucked another fig from the plate, brushed dust from it – Bugg had been harvesting from the market leavings again. Outwitting the rats and dogs. ‘That’d make for an impressive cook hearth.’

  ‘It would at that.’

  ‘You could cook secure and content in the knowledge that the flatstone will never move, barring an earthquake—’

  ‘Oh no, it’ll handle an earthquake too. Gravel, right? Flexible, you see.’

  ‘Extraordinary.’ He spat out a seed. ‘What do you think? Should I get out of bed today, Bugg?’

  ‘Got no reason to—’ The servant stopped short, then cocked his head, thinking. ‘Mind you, maybe you have.’

  ‘Oh? And you’d better not be wasting my time with this.’

  ‘Three women visited this morning.’

  ‘Three women.’ Tehol glanced up at the nearest Third Height bridge, watched people and carts moving across it. ‘I don’t know three women, Bugg. And if I did, all of them arriving simultaneously would be cause for terror, rather than an incidental “oh by the way”.’

  ‘Aye, but you don’t know them. Not even one of them. I don’t think. New faces to me, anyway.’

  ‘New? You’ve never seen them before? Not even in the market? The riverfront?’

  ‘No. Might be from one of the other cities, or maybe a village. Odd accents.’

  ‘And they asked for me by name?’

  ‘Well, not precisely. They wanted to know if this was the house of the man who sleeps on his roof.’

  ‘If they needed to ask that, they are from some toad-squelching village. What else did they want to know? The colour of your hair? What you were wearing while standing there in front of them? Did they want to know their own names as well? Tell me, are they sisters? Do they share a single eyebrow?’

  ‘Not that I noticed. Handsome women, as I recall. Young and meaty. Sounds as though you’re not interested, though.’

  ‘Servants shouldn’t presume. Handsome. Young and meaty. Are you sure they were women?’

  ‘Oh yes, quite certain. Even eunuchs don’t have breasts so large, or perfect, or, indeed, lifted so high the lasses could rest their chins—’

  Tehol found himself standing beside the bed. He wasn’t sure how he got there, but it felt right. ‘You finished that shirt, Bugg?’

  The servant held it out once more. ‘Just roll up the sleeve, I think.’

  ‘Finally, I can go out in public once more. Tie those ends off or whatever it is you do to them and give it here.’

  ‘But I haven’t started yet on the trousers—’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Tehol cut in, wrapping the bed sheet about his waist, once, twice, thrice, then tucking it in at one hip. He then paused, a strange look stealing across his features. ‘Bugg, for Errant’s sake, no more figs for a while, all right? Where are these mountainously endowed sisters, then?’

  ‘Red Lane

  . Huldo’s.’

  ‘The pits or on the courtyard?’

  ‘Courtyard.’

  ‘That’s something, at least. Do you think Huldo might have forgotten?’

  ‘No. But he’s been spending a lot of time down at the Drownings.’

  Tehol smiled, then began rubbing a finger along his teeth. ‘Winnin’ or roosin’?’

  ‘Loosing.’

  ‘Hah!’ He ran a hand through his hair and struck a casual pose. ‘How do I look?’

  Bugg handed him the shirt. ‘How you manage to keep those muscles when you do nothing baffles me,’ he said.

  ‘A Beddict trait, dear sad minion of mine. You should see Brys, under all that armour. But even he looks scrawny when compared to Hull. As the middle son, I of course represent the perfect balance. Wit, physical prowess and a multitude of talents to match my natural grace. When combined with my extraordinary ability to waste it all, you see, standing before you, the exquisite culmination.’

  ‘A fine and pathetic speech,’ Bugg said with a nod.

  ‘It was, wasn’t it? I shall be on my way now.’ Tehol gestured as he walked to the ladder. ‘Cl
ean up the place. We might have guests this evening.’

  ‘I will, if I find the time.’

  Tehol paused at the ragged edge of the section of roof that had collapsed. ‘Ah yes, you have trousers to make – have you enough wool for that?’

  ‘Well, I can make one leg down all the way, or I can make both short.’

  ‘How short?’

  ‘Pretty short.’

  ‘Go with the one leg.’

  ‘Aye, master. And then I have to find us something to eat. And drink.’

  Tehol turned, hands on his hips. ‘Haven’t we sold virtually everything, sparing one bed and a lone stool? So, just how much tidying up is required?’

  Bugg squinted. ‘Not much,’ he conceded. ‘What do you want we should eat tonight?’

  ‘Something that needs cooking.’

  ‘Would that be something better when cooked, or something that has to be cooked?’

  ‘Either way’s fine.’

  ‘How about wood?’

  ‘I’m not eating—’

  ‘For the hearth.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, find some. Look at that stool you’re sitting on – it doesn’t really need all three legs, does it? When scrounging doesn’t pay, it’s time to improvise. I’m off to meet my three destinies, Bugg. Pray the Errant’s looking the other way, will you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Tehol made his way down the ladder, discovering, in a moment of panic, that only one rung in three remained.

  The ground-level room was bare except for a thin mattress rolled up against one wall. A single battered pot rested on the hearth’s flatstone, which sat beneath the front-facing window, a pair of wooden spoons and bowls on the floor nearby. All in all, Tehol reflected, elegant in its severity.

  He swung aside the ratty curtain that served as a door, reminding himself to tell Bugg to retrieve the door latch from the hearth-bed. A bit of polishing and it might earn a dock or two from Cusp the Tinkerer. Tehol stepped outside.

  He was in a narrow aisle, so narrow he was forced to sidle sideways out to the street, kicking rubbish aside with each step. Meaty women… wish I’d seen them squeezing their way to my door. An invitation to dinner now seemed essential. And, mindful host that he was, he could position himself with a clear view, and whatever pleasure they saw on his face they could take for welcome.

  The street beyond was empty save for three Nerek, a mother and two half-blood children, who’d found in the recessed niche in the wall opposite a new home and seemed to do nothing but sleep. He strode past their huddled forms, kicking at a rat that had been edging closer, and threaded his way between the high-stacked wooden crates that virtually blocked this end of the street. Biri’s warehouse was perpetually overstocked, and Biri viewed the last reach of Cul Street

  this side of Quillas Canal as his own personal compound.

  Chalas, the watchman of the yard, was sprawled on a bench on the other side, where Cul opened out onto Burl Square

  , his leather-wrapped clout resting on his thighs. Red-shot eyes found Tehol. ‘Nice skirt,’ the guard said.

  ‘You’ve lightened my step, Chalas.’

  ‘Happy to oblige, Tehol.’

  Tehol paused, hands on hips, and surveyed the crowded square. ‘The city thrives.’

  ‘No change there… exceptin’ the last time.’

  ‘Oh, that was a minor sideways tug, as far as currents go.’

  ‘Not to hear Biri talk of it. He still wants your head salted and in a barrel rolling out to sea.’

  ‘Biri always did run in place.’

  Chalas grunted. ‘It’s been weeks since you last came down. Special occasion?’

  ‘I have a date with three women.’

  ‘Want my clout?’

  Tehol glanced down and studied the battered weapon. ‘I wouldn’t want to leave you defenceless.’

  ‘It’s my face scares ’em away. Exceptin’ those Nerek. Got past me, those ones did.’

  ‘Giving you trouble?’

  ‘No. The rat count’s way down, in fact. But you know Biri.’

  ‘Better than he knows himself. Remind him of that, Chalas, if he starts thinking of giving them trouble.’

  ‘I will.’

  Tehol set out, winding through the seething press in the square. The Down Markets opened out onto it from three sides; a more decrepit collection of useless items for sale Tehol had yet to see. And the people bought in a frenzy, day after blessed day. Our civilization thrives on stupidity. And it only took a sliver of cleverness to tap that idiot vein and drink deep of the riches. Comforting, if slightly depressing. The way of most grim truths.

  He reached the other side, entered Red Lane

  . Thirty strides on and he came opposite the arched entrance to Huldo’s. Down the shadowed walkway and back into the courtyard’s sunlight. A half-dozen tables, all occupied. Repose for the blissfully ignorant or those without the coin to sample the pits in Huldo’s inner sanctum, where various sordid activities were conducted day and night, said activities occasionally approaching the artistic expression of the absurd. One more example, Tehol reflected, of what people would pay for, given the chance.

  The three women at a table in the far corner stood out for not just the obvious detail – they were the only women present – but for a host of subtler distinctions. Handsome is… just the right word. If they were sisters it was in sentiment only, and for the shared predilection for some form of martial vigour, given their brawn, and the bundled armour and covered weapons heaped beside the table.

  The one on the left was red-haired, the fiery tresses sun-bleached and hanging in reluctant ripples down onto her broad shoulders. She was drinking from a clay-wrapped bottle, disdaining or perhaps not understanding the function of the cup that had accompanied it. Her face belonged to a heroic statue lining a colonnade, strong and smooth and perfect, her blue eyes casting a stony regard with the serene indifference of all such statues. Next to her, and leaning with both forearms on the small tabletop, was a woman with a hint of Faraed blood in her, given the honeyed hue of her skin and the faint up-tilt of her dark eyes. Her hair was either dark brown or black, and had been tied back, leaving clear her heart-shaped face. The third woman sat slouched back in her chair, left leg tipped out to one side, the right incessantly jittering up and down – fine legs, Tehol observed, clad in tight rawhide, tanned very nearly white. Her head was shaved, the pale skin gleaming. Wide-set, light grey eyes lazily scanning the other patrons, finally coming to rest on Tehol where he stood at the courtyard’s threshold.

  He smiled.

  She sneered.

  Urul, Huldo’s chief server, edged out from a nearby shadow and beckoned Tehol over.

  He came as close as he dared. ‘You’re looking… well, Urul. Is Huldo here?’

  The man’s need for a bath was legendary. Patrons gave their orders with decisive brevity and rarely called Urul over for more wine until the meal was finished. He stood before Tehol now, brow gleaming with oily sweat, hands fidgeting over the wide sash of his belt. ‘Huldo? No, Errant be praised. He’s on the Low Walk at the Drownings. Tehol, those women – they’ve been here all morning! They frighten me, the way they scowl whenever I get close.’

  ‘Leave them to me, Urul,’ Tehol said, risking a pat on the man’s damp shoulder.

  ‘You?’

  ‘Why not?’ With that, Tehol adjusted his skirt, checked his sleeves, and threaded his way between the tables. Halting before the three women, he glanced round for a chair. He found one and dragged it close, then settled with a sigh.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked the bald one.

  ‘That was my question. My servant informs me that you visited my residence this morning. I am Tehol Beddict… the one who sleeps on his roof.’

  Three sets of eyes fixed on him.

  Enough to make a stalwart warlord wilt… but me? Only slightly.

  ‘You?’

  Tehol scowled at the bald woman. ‘Why does everyone keep asking that? Yes,
me. Now, by your accent, I’d hazard you’re from the islands. I don’t know anyone in the islands. Accordingly, I don’t know you. Not to say I wouldn’t like to, of course. Know you, that is. At least, I think so.’

  The red-haired woman set her bottle down with a clunk. ‘We’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that—’

  ‘No,’ the bald woman said to her companion. ‘This is an affectation. We should have anticipated a certain degree of… mockery.’

  ‘He has no trousers.’

  The dark-eyed woman added, ‘And his arms are lopsided.’

  ‘Not quite accurate,’ Tehol said to her. ‘It’s only the sleeves that are somewhat askew.’

  ‘I don’t like him,’ she pronounced, crossing her arms.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ the bald woman said. ‘Errant knows, we’re not going to bed him, are we?’

  ‘I’m crushed.’

  ‘You would be,’ the red-haired woman said, with an unpleasant smile.

  ‘Bed him? On the roof? You must be insane, Shand.’

  ‘How can not liking him be unimportant?’

  The bald woman, the one named Shand, sighed and rubbed her eyes. ‘Listen to me, Hejun. This is business. Sentiments have no place in business – I’ve already told you that.’

  Hejun’s arms remained crossed, and she shook her head. ‘You can’t trust who you don’t like.’

  ‘Of course you can!’ Shand said, blinking.

  ‘It’s his reputation I’m not happy with,’ said the third, as yet unnamed, woman.

  ‘Rissarh,’ Shand said, sighing again, ‘it’s his reputation what’s brought us here.’

  Tehol clapped his hands. Once, loud enough to startle the three women. ‘Excellent. Rissarh with the red hair. Hejun, with Faraed blood. And Shand, no hair at all. Well,’ he set his hands on the table and rose, ‘I’m content with that. Goodbye—’

  ‘Sit down!’

  The growl was so menacing that Tehol found himself seated once more, the prickle of sweat beneath his woollen shirt.

  ‘That’s better,’ Shand said in a more mellow tone. She leaned forward. ‘Tehol Beddict. We know all about you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We even know why what happened happened.’