Midnight Tides

by Steven Erikson

No man could have survived such a loss. It was a black pool on the cobbles, reluctant to seep into the cracks between the set stones. A throat opened wide, the wound left to drain before the corpse had been dragged away. And the trail was plain, twin heel tracks alongside the warehouse wall, round a corner and out of sight.

  The Finadd considered following it.

  Then, upon seeing a single footprint, traced in dried dust on the dust, he changed his mind.

  The footprint left by a child. Bared. As it dragged the dead man away.

  Every city had its darkness, its denizens who prowled only at night in their own game of predator and prey. Brys knew it was not his world, nor did he wish to hunt down its secrets. These hours belonged to the white crow, and it was welcome to them.

  He turned the other way, began his walk back to the palace.

  His brother’s formidable mind had not been idle, it seemed. His indifference no more than a feint. Which made Tehol a very dangerous man. Thank the Errant he’s on my side…

  He is on my side, isn’t he?

  ****

  The old palace, soon to be entirely abandoned in favour of the Eternal Domicile, sat on a sunken hill, the building proper a hundred paces in from the river’s seasonally uncertain banks. Sections of a high wall indicated that there had been an enclosure once, extending from the palace to the river, in which an assortment of structures had been effectively isolated from the rest of the city.

  Not so much in a proprietary claim to ownership, for the structures in question predated even the founding First Empire. Perhaps, for those original builders, there had been a recognition, of sorts, of something verging on the sacred about these grounds, although, of course, not holy to the colonizers. Another possibility was that the first Letherii were possessors of a more complete arcane knowledge – secrets long since lost – that inspired them to do honour to the Jaghut dwellings and the single, oddly different tower in their midst.

  The truth had crumbled along with the enclosure walls, and no answers could be found sifting the dust of crumbled mortar and flakes of exfoliated schist. The area, while no longer sealed, was by habit avoided. The land itself was worthless, by virtue of a royal proclamation six centuries old that prohibited demolition of the ancient structures, and subsequent resettlement. Every legal challenge or, indeed, enquiry regarding that proclamation was summarily dismissed without even so much as recourse to the courts.

  All very well. Skilled practitioners of the tiles of the Holds well knew the significance of that squat, square, leaning tower with its rumpled, overgrown grounds. And indeed of the Jaghut dwellings, representative as they were of the Ice Hold. Many held that the Azath tower was the very first true structure of the Azath on this world.

  From her new perspective, Shurq Elalle was less sceptical than she might have once been. The grounds surrounding the battered grey stone tower exerted an ominous pull on the dead thief. There were kin there, but not of blood. No, this was the family of the undead, of those unable or unwilling to surrender to oblivion. In the case of those interred in the lumpy, clay-shot earth around the tower, their graves were prisons. The Azath did not give up its children.

  She sensed as well that there were living creatures buried there, most of them driven mad by centuries upon centuries snared in ancient roots that held them fast. Others remained ominously silent and motionless, as if awaiting eternity’s end.

  The thief approached the forbidden grounds behind the palace. She could see the Azath tower, its third and uppermost storey edging above the curved walls of the Jaghut dwellings. Not one of the structures stood fully upright. All were tilted in some fashion, the subsurface clay squeezing out from beneath their immense weight or lenses of sand washed away by underground runoff. Vines had climbed the sides in chaotic webs, although those that had reached out to the Azath died there, withered against the foundation stones amidst yellowed grasses.

  She did not need to see the blood trail in order to follow it. The smell was heavy in the sultry night air, invisible streaks riding the currents, and she pursued its wake until she came to the low, crooked wall surrounding the Azath tower.

  Just beyond, at the base of a twisted tree, sat the child Kettle. Nine or ten years old… for ever. Naked, her pale skin smeared, her long hair clotted with coagulating blood. The corpse before her was already half under the earth, being dragged down into the darkness.

  To feed the Azath? Or some ravenous denizen? Shurq had no idea. Nor did she care. The grounds swallowed bodies, and that was useful.

  Kettle looked up, black eyes dully reflecting starlight. There were moulds that, if left unattended, could blind, and the film was thick over the girl’s dead eyes. She slowly rose and walked over.

  ‘Why won’t you be my mother?’

  ‘I’ve already told you, Kettle. I am no-one’s mother.’

  ‘I followed you tonight.’

  ‘You’re always following me,’ Shurq said.

  ‘Just after you left that roof, another man came to the house, soldier. And he was followed.’

  ‘And which of the two did you kill?’

  ‘Why, the one who followed, of course. I’m a good girl. I take care of you. Just as you take care of me—’

  ‘I take care of no-one, Kettle. You were dead long before I was. Living here in these grounds. I used to bring you bodies.’

  ‘Never enough.’

  ‘I don’t like killing. Only when I have no choice. Besides, I wasn’t the only one employing your services.’

  ‘Yes you were.’

  Shurq stared at the girl for a long moment. ‘I was?’

  ‘Yes. And you wanted to know my story. Everyone else runs from me, just like they run from you now. Except that man on the roof. Is he another one not like everyone else?’

  ‘I don’t know, Kettle. But I am working for him now.’

  ‘I am glad. Grown-ups should work. It helps fill their minds. Empty minds are bad. Dangerous. They fill themselves up. With bad things. Nobody’s happy.’

  Shurq cocked her head. ‘Who’s not happy?’

  Kettle waved one grubby hand at the rumpled yard. ‘Restless. All of them. I don’t know why. The tower sweats all the time now.’

  ‘I will bring you some salt water,’ Shurq said, ‘for your eyes. You need to wash them out.’

  ‘I can see easily enough. With more than my eyes now. My skin sees. And tastes. And dreams of light.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Kettle pushed bloody strands of hair from her heart-shaped face. ‘Five of them are trying to get out. I don’t like those five – I don’t like most of them, but especially those five. The roots are dying. I don’t know what to do. They whisper how they’ll tear me to pieces. Soon. I don’t want to be torn to pieces. What should I do?’

  Shurq was silent. Then she asked, ‘How much do you sense of the Buried Ones, Kettle?’

  ‘Most don’t talk to me. They have lost their minds. Others hate me for not helping them. Some beg and plead. They talk through the roots.’

  ‘Are there any who ask nothing of you?’

  ‘Some are ever silent.’

  ‘Talk to them. Find someone else to speak to, Kettle. Someone who might be able to help you.’ Someone else to be your mother… or father. ‘Ask for opinions, on any and all matters. If one remains then who does not seek to please you, who does not attempt to twist your desires so that you free it, and who holds no loyalty to the others, then you will tell me of that one. All that you know. And I will advise you as best I can – not as a mother, but as a comrade.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Good. Now, I came here for another reason, Kettle. I want to know, how did you kill that spy?’

  ‘I bit through his throat. It’s the quickest, and I like the blood.’

  ‘Why do you like the blood?’

  ‘In my hair, to keep it from my face. And it smells alive, doesn’t it? I like that smell.’

  ‘How many do you kill?’

  �
��Lots. The ground needs them.’

  ‘Why does the ground need them?’

  ‘Because it’s dying.’

  ‘Dying? And what would happen if it does die, Kettle?’

  ‘Everything will get out.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I like it here.’

  ‘Kettle, from now on,’ Shurq said, ‘I will tell you who to kill – don’t worry, there should be plenty.’

  ‘All right. That’s nice of you.’

  ****

  Among the hundreds of creatures buried in the grounds of the Azath, only one was capable of listening to the conversation between the two undead on the surface above. The Azath was relinquishing its hold on this denizen, not out of weakness, but out of necessity. The Guardian was anything but ready. Indeed, might never be ready. The choice itself had been flawed, yet another sign of faltering power, of age crawling forward to claim the oldest stone structure in the realm.

  The Azath tower was indeed dying. And desperation forced a straying onto unprecedented paths.

  Among all the prisoners, a choice had been made. And preparations were under way, slow as the track of roots through stone, but equally inexorable. But there was so little time.

  The urgency was a silent scream that squeezed blood from the Azath tower. Five kin creatures, taken and held since the time of the K’Chain Che’Malle, were almost within reach of the surface.

  And this was not good, for they were Toblakai.

  Chapter Five

  Against the flat like thunder where the self dwells between the eyes, beneath the blow the bone shattered and the soul was dragged forth to writhe in the grip of unredeemed vengeance…

  The Last Night of Bloodeye

  Author unknown (compiled by Tiste Andii scholars of Black Coral)

  The shadow’s laughter was low, a sound that promised madness to all who heard it. Udinaas let the netting fall away from his fingers and leaned back against the sun-warmed rock. He squinted up at the bright sky. He was alone on the beach, the choppy waves of the bay stretching out before him. Alone, except for the wraith that now haunted him at every waking moment.

  Conjured, then forgotten. Wandering, an eternal flight from the sun, but there were always places to hide.

  ‘Stop that,’ Udinaas said, closing his eyes.

  ‘Why ever? I smell your blood, slave. Growing colder. I once knew a world of ice. After I was killed, yes, after. Even darkness has flaws, and that’s how they stole me. But I have dreams.’

  ‘So you’re always saying. Then follow them, wraith, and leave me alone.’

  ‘I have dreams and you understand nothing, slave. Was I pleased to serve? Never. Never ever never and again, never. I’m following you.’

  Udinaas opened his eyes and stared down at the sliver of shadow between two rocks, from which the voice was emerging. Sand fleas scampered and darted on the flanking stone, but of the wraith itself there was no visible sign. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why ever why? That which you cast beckons me, slave. You promise a worthy journey – do you dream of gardens, slave? I know you do – I can smell it. Half dead and overgrown, why ever not? There is no escape. So, with my dreams, it serves me to serve. Serves to serve. Was I not once a Tiste Andii? I believe I was. Murdered and flung into the mud, until the ice came. Then torn loose, after so long, to serve my slayers. My slavers, whose diligence then wavered. Shall we whisper of betrayers, slave?’

  ‘You would bargain?’

  ‘Hither when you call me, call me Wither. I have dreams. Give me that which you cast. Give me your shadow, and I will become yours. Your eyes behind you, whom no-one else can see or hear, unless they guess and have power but why would they guess? You are a slave. Who behaves. Be sure to behave, slave, until the moment you betray.’

  ‘I thought Tiste Andii were supposed to be dour and miserable. And please, Wither, no more rhymes.’

  ‘Agreed, once you give me your shadow.’

  ‘Can other wraiths see you? Hannan Mosag’s—’

  ‘That oaf? I will hide in your natural casting. Hidden. Never found. See, no rhymes. We were bold in those days, slave. Soldiers in a war, an invasion. Soaked in the cold blood of K’Chain Che’Malle. We followed the youngest child of Mother Dark herself. And we were witness.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To Bloodeye’s betrayal of our leader. To the dagger driven into our lord’s back. I myself fell to a blade wielded by a Tiste Edur. Unexpected. Sudden slaughter. We stood no chance. No chance at all.’

  Udinaas made a face, studied the tossing waves that warred with the river’s outpouring current. ‘The Edur claim it was the other way round, Wither.’

  ‘Then why am I dead and they alive? If we were the ambushers that day?’

  ‘How should I know? Now, if you intend to lurk in my shadow, Wither, you must learn to be silent. Unless I speak to you. Silent, and watchful, and nothing more.’

  ‘First, slave, you must do something for me.’

  Udinaas sighed. Most of the noble-born Edur were at the interment ceremony for the murdered fisherman, along with a half-dozen kin from the Beneda, since the Edur’s identity had finally been determined. Fewer than a dozen warriors remained in the compound behind him. Shadow wraiths seemed to grow bolder at such times, emerging to flit across the ground, between longhouses and along the palisade walls.

  He had often wondered at that. But now, if Wither was to be believed, he had his answer. Those wraiths are not ancestral kin to the mortal Edur. They are Tiste Andii, the bound souls of the slain. And, I was desperate for allies… ‘Very well, what do you wish me to do Wither?’

  ‘Before the seas rose in this place, slave, the Hasana Inlet was a lake. To the south and west, the land stretched out to join with the westernmost tip of the Reach. A vast plain, upon which the last of my people were slaughtered. Walk the shoreline before you, slave. South. There is something of mine – we must find it.’

  Udinaas rose and brushed the sand from his coarse woollen trousers. He looked about. Three slaves from the Warlock King’s citadel were down by the river mouth, beating clothes against rocks. A lone fisher-boat was out on the water, but distant. ‘How far will I need to walk?’

  ‘It lies close.’

  ‘If I am perceived to be straying too far, I will be killed outright.’

  ‘Not far, slave—’

  ‘I am named Udinaas, and so you will address me.’

  ‘You claim the privilege of pride?’

  ‘I am more than a slave, Wither, as you well know.’

  ‘But you must behave as if you were not. I call you “slave” to remind you of that. Fail in your deception, and the pain they shall inflict upon you in the search for all you would hide from them shall be without measure—’

  ‘Enough.’ He walked down to the waterline. The sun threw his shadow into his wake, pulled long and monstrous.

  The rollers had built a humped sweep of sand over the stones, on which lay tangled strands of seaweed and a scattering of detritus. A pace inland of this elongated rise was a depression filled with slick pebbles and rocks. ‘Where should I be looking?’

  ‘Among the stones. A little further. Three, two paces. Yes. Here.’

  Udinaas stared down, scanning the area. ‘I see nothing.’

  ‘Dig. No, to your left – those rocks, move those. That one. Now, deeper. There, pull it free.’

  A misshapen lump that sat heavy in his hand. Finger-length and tapered at one end, the metal object within swallowed by thick calcifications. ‘What is it?’

  ‘An arrowhead, slave. Hundreds of millennia, crawling to this shore. The passage of ages is measured by chance. The deep roll of tides, the succession of wayward storms. This is how the world moves—’

  ‘Hundreds of millennia? There would be nothing left—’

  ‘A blade of simple iron without sorcerous investment would indeed have vanished. The arrowhead remains, slave, because it will not surrender. You must chip away at all that surrounds it. You must
resurrect it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have my reasons, slave.’

  There was nothing pleasing in this, but Udinaas straightened and tucked the lump in his belt pouch. He returned to his nets. ‘I shall not,’ he muttered, ‘be the hand of your vengeance.’

  Wither’s laugh followed him in the crunch of stones.

  ****

  There was smoke hanging above the lowlands, like clouds dragged low and now shredded by the dark treetops.

  ‘A funeral,’ Binadas said.

  Seren Pedac nodded. There had been no storms, and besides, the forest was too wet to sustain a wildfire. The Edur practice of burial involved a tumulus construction, which was then covered to form a pyre. The intense heat baked the coin-sheathed corpse as if it was clay, and stained the barrow stones red. Shadow wraiths danced amidst the flames, twisted skyward with the smoke, and would linger long after the mourners were gone.

  Seren drew her knife and bent to scrape mud from her boots. This side of the mountains the weather daily crept in from the sea shedding rain and mist in pernicious waves. Her clothes were soaked through. Three times since morning the heavily burdened wagons had skidded off the trail, once crushing a Nerek to death beneath the solid, iron-rimmed wheels.

  Straightening, she cleaned her knife between two gloved fingers, then sheathed it at her side.

  Moods were foul. Buruk the Pale had not emerged from his wagon in two days, nor had his three half-blood Nerek concubines. But the descent was finally done, and ahead was a wide, mostly level trail leading to Hannan Mosag’s village.

  Binadas stood and watched as the last wagon rocked clear of the slope, and Seren sensed the Edur’s impatience. Someone had died in his village, after all. She glanced over at Hull Beddict, but could sense nothing from him. He had withdrawn deep into himself, as if building reserves in anticipation of what was to come. Or, equally likely, struggling to bolster crumbling resolve. She seemed to have lost her ability to read him. Pain worn without pause and for so long could itself become a mask.

  ‘Binadas,’ Seren said, ‘the Nerek need to rest. The journey before us is clear. There is no need for you to remain with us as escort. Go to your people.’