Midnight Tides

by Steven Erikson

‘Ah, Prist,’ Shurq murmured in a voice little more than a whisper and taking another step closer, ‘are you any good at keeping quiet? I hope so, because I intend to spend some time with you. Don’t worry,’ she added as she unbuckled her belt, ‘it’ll be fun.’

  ****

  Two bells later, Shurq lifted her head from the gardener’s muscled arm concentrating to listen beyond his loud snores. Poor bastard had been worn right out – she hoped Ublala could manage better – and all his subsequent whimpering and mewling was disgusting. As the bell’s low echoes faded, a solid silence replaced it.

  The guards had returned shortly after Shurq had slipped into Prist’s cubicle. Loud with speculation and bitter argument, indicating that Ublala had made good his escape, although a call for the services of the house healer suggested there’d been a clash or two. Since that time, things had settled down. There had been a cursory search of the estate, but not the servants’ quarters, suggesting that no suspicion of diversion and infiltration had occurred to the house guards. Careless. Indicative of a sad lack of imagination. All in all, as she had expected. An overbearing master had that effect. Initiative was dangerous, lest it clash with Gerun’s formidable ego.

  Shurq pulled herself loose from Prist’s exhausted, child-like embrace, and rose silently to don her clothes and gear. Gerun would have an office, adjoining his private rooms. Men like Gerun always had offices. It served their need for legitimacy.

  Its defences would be elaborate, the magic expensive and thorough. But not so complicated as to leave a Finadd confused. Accordingly, the mechanisms of deactivation would be straightforward. Another thing to consider, of course, was the fact that Gerun was absent. It was likely there were additional wards in place that could not be negated. She suspected they would be life-aspected, since other kinds could more easily be accidentally triggered.

  She quietly stepped back into the passageway. Sounds of sleep and naught else. Satisfied, Shurq returned to the T-intersection and turned left. Ascending the staircase, she was careful to place each foot along alternating edges where the joins reduced the likelihood of a telltale creak.

  Reaching the first landing, Shurq stepped close to the door, then paused. Motionless. A tripwire was set along the seam of the door, locked in place by the last servant to use the passage. Sometimes the simplest alarms succeeded where more elaborate ones failed, if only because the thief was over-anticipating the complication. She released the mechanism and turned the latch.

  Into another servants’ passage, running parallel to the formal hallway, assuming a typical layout for Gerun’s estate. She found the lone door where she expected, on the right at the far end. Another tripwire to release, then she stepped through. The hallway was unlit, which was clever. Three doors along the opposite wall, the rooms beyond showing no light.

  She was fairly certain she had found Gerun Eberict’s private quarters. Barely detectable in the gloom were a host of arcane sigils painted on the nearest door.

  Shurq edged closer to study those symbols.

  And froze as a dull voice spoke from down the corridor. ‘It was incompetence. Or so he says. And now I’m supposed to make it up to him.’

  She slowly turned. A seated figure, sprawled back with legs stretched out, head tilted to one side.

  ‘You’re dead,’ the man said.

  ‘Is that a promise or an observation?’

  ‘Just something we have in common,’ he answered. ‘That doesn’t happen to me much, any more.’

  ‘I know just how you feel. So, Gerun has you here guarding his rooms.’

  ‘It’s my penance.’

  ‘For incompetence.’

  ‘Yes. Gerun doesn’t fire people, you know. He kills them and then, depending on how angry he is, either buries them or keeps them on for a time. I suppose he’ll bury me eventually.’

  ‘Without releasing your soul?’

  ‘He often forgets about that part.’

  ‘I’m here to steal everything he has.’

  ‘If you were living I would of course kill you in some monstrous, terrifying way. I would get up from this chair, feet dragging, arms out with my hands clawing the air. I’d make bestial sounds and moans and hisses as if I was hungry to sink my teeth into your throat.’

  ‘That would certainly prove sufficient to deter a thief. A living one, that is.’

  ‘It would, and I’d probably enjoy it, too.’

  ‘But I’m not living, am I?’

  ‘No. But I have one question for you and it’s an important one.’

  ‘All right. Ask it.’

  ‘Why, since you’re dead, do you look so good? Who cut your hair? Why aren’t you rotting away like me? Are you stuffed with herbs or something? Are you wearing make-up? Why are the whites of your eyes so white? Your lips so glossy?’

  Shurq was silent a moment, then asked, ‘Is that your one question?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you like, I can introduce you to the people responsible for the new me. I am sure they can do the same for you.’

  ‘Really? Including a manicure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘What about filing my teeth? You know, to make them sharp and scary.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know how scary you will be with styled hair, make-up, perfect nails and glossy lips.’

  ‘But sharp teeth? Don’t you think the sharp teeth will terrify people?’

  ‘Why not just settle for those? Most people are frightened of rotting things, of things crawling with vermin and stinking like a freshly turned grave. Fangs and fingernails clipped into talons.’

  ‘I like it. I like how you think.’

  ‘My pleasure. Now, do I have to worry about these wards?’

  ‘No. In fact, I can show you where all the mechanisms are for the alarms.’

  ‘Won’t that give you away?’

  ‘Give me away? Why, I am coming with you, of course. Assuming you can get us both out of here.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I’m sure we’ll manage. What is your name, by the way?’

  ‘Harlest Eberict.’

  Shurq cocked her head, then said, ‘Oh. But you died ten years ago, according to your brother.’

  ‘Ten years? Is that all?’

  ‘He said you fell down the stairs, I believe. Or something like that.’

  ‘Stairs. Or pitched off the balcony. Maybe both.’

  ‘And what did you do or fail to do that earned such punishment?’

  ‘I don’t remember. Only that I was incompetent.’

  ‘That was long before Gerun saved the king’s life. How could he have afforded the sorcery needed to bind your soul to your body?’

  ‘I believe he called in a favour.’

  Shurq swung back to the door. ‘Does this lead to his office?’

  ‘No, that one goes to his love-making room. You want the one over here.’

  ‘Any chance of anyone hearing us talking right now, Harlest?’

  ‘No, the walls are thick.’

  ‘One last thing,’ Shurq said, eyeing Harlest. ‘Why didn’t Gerun bind your loyalty with magic?’

  The pale, patchy face displayed surprise. ‘Well, we’re brothers!’

  ****

  Alarms negated, the two undead stood in Finadd Gerun Eberict’s office.

  ‘He doesn’t keep much actual coin here,’ Harlest said. ‘Mostly writs of holding. He spreads his wealth around to protect it.’

  ‘Very wise. Where is his seal?’

  ‘On the desk.’

  ‘Very unwise. Do me a favour and start collecting those writs.’ She walked over to the desk and gathered up the heavy, ornate seal and the thick sheets of wax piled beside it. ‘This wax is an exclusive colour?’

  ‘Oh yes. He paid plenty for that.’ Harlest had gone to a wall and was removing a large tapestry behind which was an inset cabinet. He disengaged a number of tripwires, then swung open the small door. Within were stacks of scrolls and a small jewelled box.

  ‘What’s in the box?�
�� Shurq asked.

  Harlest lifted it out and tossed it to Shurq. ‘His cash. Like I said, he never keeps much around.’

  She examined the clasp. Satisfied that it wasn’t booby-trapped, she slid it to one side and tipped back the lid. ‘Not much? Harlest, this is full of diamonds.’

  The man, his arms loaded with scrolls, walked over. ‘It is?’

  ‘He’s called in a few of his holdings, I think.’

  ‘He must have. I wonder why?’

  ‘To use it,’ she replied, ‘for something very expensive. Oh well, he’ll just have to go without.’

  ‘Gerun will be so angry,’ Harlest said, shaking his head. ‘He will go mad. He’ll start hunting us down, and he won’t stop until he finds us.’

  ‘And then what? Torture? We don’t feel pain. Kill us? We’re already dead—’

  ‘He’ll take his money back—’

  ‘He can’t if it doesn’t exist any more.’

  Harlest frowned.

  Smiling, Shurq closed the box and reset the clasp. ‘It’s not like you and I have any use for it, is it? No, this is the equivalent of tossing Gerun off the balcony or down the stairs, only financially rather than physically.’

  ‘Well, he is my brother.’

  ‘Who murdered you and wouldn’t even leave it at that.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘So, we’re heading out via the balcony. I have a companion who is about to begin another diversion. Are you with me, Harlest?’

  ‘Can I still get the fangs?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  ****

  It was nearing dawn, and the ground steamed. Kettle sat on a humped root and watched a single trailing leg slowly edge its way into the mulch. The man had lost a boot in the struggle, and she watched his toes twitch a moment before they were swallowed up in the dark earth.

  He’d fought hard, but with his lower jaw torn off and his throat filling with blood, it hadn’t lasted long. Kettle licked her fingers.

  It was good that the tree was still hungry.

  The bad ones had begun a hunt beneath the ground, clawing and slithering and killing whatever was weak. Soon there would be a handful left, but these would be the worst ones. And then they would come out.

  She was not looking forward to that. And this night, she’d had a hard time finding a victim in the streets, someone with unpleasant thoughts who was where he didn’t belong for reasons that weren’t nice.

  It had been getting harder, she realized. She leaned back and pushed her stained fingers through her filthy hair, wondering where all the criminals and spies had disappeared to. It was strange, and troubling.

  And her friend, the one buried beneath the oldest tree, he’d told her he was trapped. He couldn’t go any further, even with her assistance. But help was on the way, although he wasn’t certain it would arrive in time.

  She thought about that man, Tehol, who had come by last night to talk. He seemed nice enough. She hoped he would visit again. Maybe he’d know what to do – she swung round on the root and stared up at the square tower – yes, maybe he’d know what to do, now that the tower was dead.

  Chapter Eleven

  Faded sails ride the horizon

  So far and far away to dwindle

  The dire script

  Writ on that proven canvas.

  I know the words belong to me

  They belong to me

  These tracks left by the beast

  Of my presence

  Then, before and now, later

  And all the moments between

  Those distant sails driven

  Hard on senseless winds

  That even now circle

  My stone-hearted self

  The grit of tears I never shed

  Biting my eyes.

  Faded sails hovering as if lifted

  Above the world’s curved line

  And I am lost and lost to answer

  If they approach or flee

  Approach or flee unbidden times

  In that belly swollen

  With unheard screams so far

  And far and so far and away.

  This Blind Longing

  Isbarath (of the Shore)

  Drawn to the shoreline, as if among the host of unwritten truths in a mortal soul could be found a recognition of what it meant to stand on land’s edge, staring out into the depthless unknown that was the sea. The yielding sand and stones beneath one’s feet whispered uncertainty, rasped promises of dissolution and erosion of all that was once solid.

  In the world could be assembled all the manifest symbols to reflect the human spirit, and in the subsequent dialogue was found all meaning, every hue and every flavour, rising in legion before the eyes. Leaving to the witness the decision of choosing recognition or choosing denial.

  Udinaas sat on a half-buried tree trunk with the sweeping surf clawing at his moccasins. He was not blind and there was no hope for denial. He saw the sea for what it was, the dissolved memories of the past witnessed in the present and fertile fuel for the future, the very face of time. He saw the tides in their immutable susurration, the vast swish like blood from the cold heart moon, a beat of time measured and therefore measurable. Tides one could not hope to hold back.

  Every year a Letherii slave, chest-deep in the water and casting nets, was grasped by an undertow and swept out to sea. With some, the waves later carried them back, lifeless and swollen and crab-eaten. At other times the tides delivered corpses and carcasses from unknown calamities, and the wreckage of ships. From living to death, the vast wilderness of water beyond the shore delivered the same message again and again.

  He sat huddled in his exhaustion, gaze focused on the distant breakers of the reef, the rolling white ribbon that came again and again in heartbeat rhythm, and from all sides rushed in waves of meaning. In the grey, heavy sky. In the clarion cries of the gulls. In the misty rain carried by the moaning wind. The uncertain sands trickling away beneath his soaked moccasins. Endings and beginnings, the edge of the knowable world.

  She’d run from the House of the Dead. The young woman at whose feet he’d tossed his heart. In the hope that she might glance at it – Errant take him, even pick it up and devour it like some grinning beast. Anything, anything but… running away.

  He had fallen unconscious in the House of the Dead – ah, is there meaning in that? – and had been carried out, presumably, back to the cot in the Sengar longhouse. He had awoken later – how long he did not know, for he’d found himself alone. Not even a single slave present in the building. No food had been prepared, no dishes or other signs of a meal left behind. The hearth was a mound of white ash covering a few lingering embers. Outside, beyond the faint voice of the wind and the nearer dripping of rainwater, was silence.

  Head filled with fog, his movements slow and awkward, he’d rebuilt the fire. Found a rain cape, and had then walked outside. Seeing no-one nearby, he had made his way down to the shoreline. To stare at the empty, filled sea, and the empty, filled sky. Battered by the silence and its roar of wind and gull screams and spitting rain. Alone on the beach in the midst of this clamouring legion.

  The dead warrior who was alive.

  The Letherii priestess who had fled in the face of a request for help, to give solace and to comfort a fellow Letherii.

  In the citadel of the Warlock King, Udinaas suspected, the Edur were gathered. Wills locked in a dreadful war, and, like an island around which the storm raged in endless cycles, the monstrous form of Rhulad Sengar, who had risen from the House of the Dead. Armoured in gold, clothed in wax, probably unable to walk beneath all that weight – until, of course, those coins were removed.

  The art of Udinaas… undone.

  There would be pain in that. Excruciating pain, but it had to be done, and quickly. Before the flesh and skin grew to embrace those coins.

  Rhulad was not a corpse, nor was he undead, for an undead would not scream. He lived once more. His
nerves awake, his mind afire. Trapped in a prison of gold.

  As was I, once. As every Letherii is trapped. Oh, he is poetry animate, is Rhulad Sengar, but his words are for the Letherii, not for the Edur.

  Just one meaning culled from that dire legion, and one that would not leave him alone. Rhulad was going to go mad. There was no doubt about that in the mind of Udinaas. Dying, only to return to a body that was no longer his, a body that belonged to the forest and the leaves and barrow earth. What kind of journey had that been? Who had opened the path, and why?

  It’s the sword. It has to be. The sword that would not release his hands. Because it was not finished with Rhulad Sengar. Death means nothing to it. It’s not finished.

  A gift meant, it seemed, for Hannan Mosag. Offered by whom?

  But Hannan Mosag will not have that sword. It has claimed Rhulad instead. And that sword with its power now hangs over the Warlock King.

  This could tear the confederacy apart. Could topple Hannan Mosag and his K’risnan. Unless, of course, Rhulad Sengar submitted to the Warlock King’s authority.

  A less problematic issue had it been Fear, or Trull. Perhaps even Binadas. But no, the sword had chosen Rhulad, the unblooded who had been eager for war, a youth with secret eyes and rebellion in his soul. It might be that he was broken, but Udinaas suspected otherwise. I was able to bring him back, to quell those screams. A respite from the madness, in which he could gather himself and recall all that he had been.

  It occurred to Udinaas that he might have made a mistake. A greater mercy might have been to not impede that swift plummet into madness.

  And now he would have me as his slave.

  Foam swirled around his ankles. The tide was coming in.

  ****

  ‘We might as well be in a village abandoned to the ghosts,’ Buruk the Pale said, using the toe of one boot to edge a log closer to the fire, grimacing at the steam that rose from its sodden bark.

  Seren Pedac stared at him a moment longer, then shrugged and reached for the battered kettle that sat on a flat stone near the flames. She could feel the handle’s heat through her leather gloves as she refilled her cup. The tea was stewed, but she didn’t much care as she swallowed a mouthful of the bitter liquid. At least it was warm.