Midnight Tides

by Steven Erikson

  ‘All right. I also need to check on that safe-house for Shurq and her newfound friend.’

  ‘Harlest Eberict. That was quite a surprise. Just how many undead people are prowling around in this city anyway?’

  ‘Obviously more than we’re aware of, master.’

  ‘For all we know, half the population might be undead – those people on the bridge there, there, those ones with all those shopping baskets in tow, maybe they’re undead.’

  ‘Possibly, master,’ Bugg conceded. ‘Do you mean undead literally or figuratively?’

  ‘Oh, yes, there is a difference, isn’t there? Sorry, I got carried away. Speaking of which, how are Shurq and Ublala getting along?’

  ‘Swimmingly.’

  ‘Impressively droll, Bugg. So, you want to check on their hidden abode. Is that all you’re up to today?’

  ‘That’s just the morning. In the afternoon—’

  ‘Can you manage a short visit?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Rat Catchers’ Guild.’

  ‘Scale House?’

  Tehol nodded. ‘I have a contract for them. I want a meeting – clandestine – with the Guild Master. Tomorrow night, if possible.’

  Bugg looked troubled. ‘That guild—’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I can drop by on my way to the gravel quarry.’

  ‘Excellent. Why are you going to the gravel quarry?’

  ‘Curiosity. They opened up a new hill to fill my last order, and found something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not sure. Only that they hired a necromancer to deal with it. And the poor fool disappeared, apart from some hair and toe nails.’

  ‘Hmm, that is interesting. Keep me informed.’

  ‘As always, master. And what have you planned for today?’

  ‘I thought I’d go back to bed.’

  ****

  Brys lifted his gaze from the meticulous scroll and studied the scribe seated across from him. ‘There must be some mistake,’ he said.

  ‘No sir. Never, sir.’

  ‘Well, if these are just the reported disappearances, what about those that haven’t been reported?’

  ‘Between thirty and fifty per cent, I would say, sir. Added on to what we have. But those would be the blue-edged scrolls. They’re stored on the Projected Shelf.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Projected. That one, the one sticking out from the wall over there.’

  ‘And what is the significance of the blue edges?’

  ‘Posited realities, sir, that which exists beyond the statistics. We use the statistics for formal, public statements and pronouncements, but we operate on the posited realities or, if possible, the measurable realities.’

  ‘Different sets of data?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s the only way to operate an effective government. The alternative would lead to anarchy. Riots, that sort of thing. We have posited realities for those projections, of course, and they’re not pretty.’

  ‘But’ – Brys looked back down at the scroll – ‘seven thousand disappearances in Letheras last year?’

  ‘Six thousand nine hundred and twenty-one, sir.’

  ‘With a possible additional thirty-five hundred?’

  ‘Three thousand four hundred and sixty and a half, sir.’

  ‘And is anyone assigned to conduct investigations on these?’

  ‘That has been contracted out, sir.’

  ‘Clearly a waste of coin, then—’

  ‘Oh no, the coin is well spent.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘A respectable amount, sir, which we can use in our formal and public pronouncements.’

  ‘Well, who holds this contract?’

  ‘Wrong office, sir. That information is housed in the Chamber of Contracts and Royal Charters.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it. Where is it?’

  The scribe rose and walked to a small door squeezed between scroll-cases. ‘In here. Follow me, sir.’

  The room beyond was not much larger than a walk-in closet. Blue-edged scrolls filled cubby-holes from floor to ceiling on all sides. Rummaging in one cubby-hole at the far wall, the scribe removed a scroll and unfurled it. ‘Here we are. It’s a relatively new contract. Three years so far. Ongoing investigations, biannual reports delivered precisely on the due dates, yielding no queries, each one approved without prejudice.’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘The Rat Catchers’ Guild.’

  Brys frowned. ‘Now I am well and truly confused.’

  The scribe shrugged and rolled up the scroll to put it away. Over his shoulder he said, ‘No need to be, sir. The guild is profoundly competent in a whole host of endeavours—’

  ‘Competence doesn’t seem a relevant notion in this matter,’ Brys observed.

  ‘I disagree. Punctual reports. No queries. Two renewals without challenge. Highly competent, I would say, sir.’

  ‘Nor is there any shortage of rats in the city, as one would readily see with even a short walk down any street.’

  ‘Population management, sir. I dread to think what the situation would be like without the guild.’

  Brys said nothing.

  A defensiveness came to the scribe’s expression as he studied the Finadd for a long moment. ‘We have nothing but praise for the Rat Catchers’ Guild, sir.’

  ‘Thank you for your efforts,’ Brys said. ‘I will find my own way out. Good day.’

  ‘And to you, sir. Pleased to have been of some service.’

  Out in the corridor, Brys paused, rubbing at his eyes. Archival chambers were thick with dust. He needed to get outside, into what passed for fresh air in Letheras.

  Seven thousand disappearances every year. He was appalled.

  So what, I wonder, has Tehol stumbled onto? His brother remained a mystery to Brys. Clearly, Tehol was up to something, contrary to outward appearances. And he had somehow held on to a formidable level of efficacy behind – or beneath – the scenes. That all too public fall, so shocking and traumatic to the financial tolls, now struck Brys as just another feint in his brother’s grander scheme – whatever that was.

  The mere thought that such a scheme might exist worried Brys. His brother had revealed, on occasion, frightening competence and ruthlessness. Tehol possessed few loyalties. He was capable of anything.

  All things considered, the less Brys knew of Tehol’s activities, the better. He did not want his own loyalties challenged, and his brother might well challenge them. As with Hull. Oh, Mother, it is the Errant’s blessing that you are not alive to see your sons now. Then again, how much of what we are now is what you made us into?

  Questions without answers. There seemed to be too many of those these days.

  He made his way into the more familiar passages of the palace. Weapons training awaited him, and he found himself anticipating that period of blissful exhaustion. If only to silence the cacophony of his thoughts.

  ****

  There were clear advantages to being dead, Bugg reflected, as he lifted the flagstone from the warehouse office floor, revealing a black gaping hole and the top rung of a pitted bronze ladder. Dead fugitives, after all, needed no food, no water. No air, come to that. Made hiding them almost effortless.

  He descended the ladder, twenty-three rungs, to arrive at a tunnel roughly cut from the heavy clay and then fired to form a hard shell. Ten paces forward to a crooked stone arch beneath which was a cracked stone door crowded with hieroglyphs. Old tombs like this were rare. Most had long since collapsed beneath the weight of the city overhead or had simply sunk so far down in the mud as to be unreachable. Scholars had sought to decipher the strange sigils on the doors of the tombs, while common folk had long wondered why tombs should have doors at all. The language had only been partially deciphered, sufficient to reveal that the glyphs were curse-laden and aspected to the Errant in some mysterious way. All in all, cause enough to avoid them, especially since, after a few had been broken into, it became known th
at the tombs contained nothing of value, and were peculiar in that the featureless plain stone sarcophagus each tomb housed was empty. There was the added unsubstantiated rumour that those tomb-robbers had subsequently suffered horrid fates.

  The door to this particular tomb had surrendered its seal to the uneven heaving descent of the entire structure. Modest effort could push it to one side.

  In the tunnel, Bugg lit a lantern using a small ember box, and set it down on the threshold to the tomb. He then applied his shoulder to the door.

  ‘Is that you?’ came Shurq’s voice from the darkness within.

  ‘Why yes,’ Bugg said, ‘it is.’

  ‘Liar. You’re not you, you’re Bugg. Where’s Tehol? I need to talk to Tehol.’

  ‘He is indisposed,’ Bugg said. Having pushed the door open to allow himself passage into the tomb, he collected the lantern and edged inside.

  ‘Where’s Harlest?’

  ‘In the sarcophagus.’

  There was no lid to the huge stone coffin. Bugg walked over and peered in. ‘What are you doing, Harlest?’ He set the lantern down on the edge.

  ‘The previous occupant was tall. Very tall. Hello, Bugg. What am I doing? I am lying here.’

  ‘Yes, I see that. But why?’

  ‘There are no chairs.’

  Bugg turned to Shurq Elalle. ‘Where are these diamonds?’

  ‘Here. Have you found what I was looking for?’

  ‘I have. A decent price, leaving you the majority of your wealth intact.’

  ‘Tehol can have what’s left in the box there. My earnings from the whorehouse I’ll keep.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want a percentage from this, Shurq? Tehol would be happy with fifty per cent. After all, the risk was yours.’

  ‘No. I’m a thief. I can always get more.’

  Bugg glanced around. ‘Will this do for the next little while?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. It’s dry, at least. Quiet, most of the time. But I need Ublala Pung.’

  Harlest’s voice came from the sarcophagus. ‘And I want sharp teeth and talons. Shurq said you could do that for me.’

  ‘Work’s already begun on that, Harlest.’

  ‘I want to be scary. It’s important that I be scary. I’ve been practising hissing and snarling.’

  ‘No need for concern there,’ Bugg replied. ‘You’ll be truly terrifying. In any case, I should be going—’

  ‘Not so fast,’ Shurq cut in. ‘Has there been any word on the robbery at Gerun Eberict’s estate?’

  ‘No. Not surprising, if you think about it. Gerun’s undead brother disappears, the same night as some half-giant beats up most of the guards. Barring that, what else is certain? Will anyone actually attempt to enter Gerun’s warded office?’

  ‘If I eat human flesh,’ Harlest said, ‘it will rot in my stomach, won’t it? That means I will stink. I like that. I like thinking about things like that. The smell of doom.’

  ‘The what? Shurq, probably they don’t know they’ve been robbed. And even if they did, they wouldn’t make a move until their master returns.’

  ‘I expect you’re right. Anyway, be sure to send me Ublala Pung. Tell him I miss him. Him and his—’

  ‘I will, Shurq. I promise. Anything else?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Let me think.’

  Bugg waited.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said after a time, ‘what do you know about these tombs? There was a corpse here, once, in that sarcophagus.’

  ‘How can you be certain?’

  Her lifeless eyes fixed on his. ‘We can tell.’

  ‘Oh. All right.’

  ‘So, what do you know?’

  ‘Not much. The language on the door belongs to an extinct people known as Forkrul Assail, who are collectively personified in our Fulcra by the personage we call the Errant. The tombs were built for another extinct people, called the Jaghut, whom we acknowledge in the Hold we call the Hold of Ice. The wards were intended to block the efforts of another people, the T’lan Imass, who were the avowed enemies of the Jaghut. The T’lan Imass pursued the Jaghut in a most relentless manner, including those Jaghut who elected to surrender their place in the world – said individuals choosing something closely resembling death. Their souls would travel to their Hold, leaving their flesh behind, the flesh being stored in tombs like this one. That wasn’t good enough for the T’lan Imass. Anyway, the Forkrul Assail considered themselves impartial arbiters in the conflict, and that was, most of the time, the extent of their involvement. Apart from that,’ Bugg said with a shrug, ‘I really can’t say.’

  Harlest Eberict had slowly sat up during Bugg’s monologue and was now staring at the manservant. Shurq Elalle was motionless, as the dead often were. Then she said, ‘I have another question.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Is this common knowledge among serving staff?’

  ‘Not that I am aware of, Shurq. I just pick up things here and there, over time.’

  ‘Things no scholar in Letheras picks up? Or are you just inventing as you go along?’

  ‘I try to avoid complete fabrication.’

  ‘And do you succeed?’

  ‘Not always.’

  ‘You’d better go now, Bugg.’

  ‘Yes, I’d better. I’ll have Ublala visit you tonight.’

  ‘Do you have to?’ Harlest asked. ‘I’m not the voyeuristic type—’

  ‘Liar,’ Shurq said. ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘Okay, so I’m lying. It’s a useful lie, and I want to keep it.’

  ‘That position is indefensible—’

  ‘That’s a rich statement, coming from you and given what you’ll be up to tonight—’

  Bugg collected the lantern and slowly backed out as the argument continued. He pushed the door back in place, slapped the dust from his hands, then returned to the ladder.

  Once back in the warehouse office, he replaced the flagstone, then collecting his drawings, he made his way to the latest construction site. Bugg’s Construction’s most recent acquisition had once been a school, stately and reserved for children of only the wealthiest citizens of Letheras. Residences were provided, creating the typical and highly popular prison-style educational institution. Whatever host of traumas were taught within its confines came to an end when, during one particularly wet spring, the cellar walls collapsed in a sluice of mud and small human bones. The floor of the main assembly hall promptly slumped during the next gathering of students, burying children and instructors alike in a vast pit of black, rotting mud, in which fully a third drowned, and of these the bodies of more than half were never recovered. Shoddy construction was blamed, leading to a scandal.

  Since that event, fifteen years past, the derelict building had remained empty, reputedly haunted by the ghosts of outraged proctors and bewildered hall monitors.

  The purchase price had been suitably modest.

  The upper levels directly above the main assembly hall were structurally compromised, and Bugg’s first task had been to oversee the installation of bracing, before the crews could re-excavate the pit down to the cellar floor. Once that floor was exposed – and the jumble of bones dispatched to the cemetery – shafts were extended straight down, through lenses of clay and sand, to a thick bed of gravel. Cement was poured in and a ring of vertical iron rods put in place, followed by alternating packed gravel and cement for half the depth of the shaft. Limestone pillars, their bases drilled to take the projecting rods, were then lowered. From there on upwards, normal construction practices followed. Columns, buttresses and false arches, all the usual techniques in which Bugg had little interest.

  The old school was being transformed into a palatial mansion. Which they would then sell to some rich merchant or noble devoid of taste. Since there were plenty of those, the investment was a sure one.

  Bugg spent a short time at the site, surrounded by foremen thrusting scrolls in his face describing countless alterations and specifications requiring app
roval. A bell passed before he finally managed to file his drawings and escape.

  The street that became the road that led to the gravel quarry was a main thoroughfare wending parallel with the canal. It was also one of the oldest tracks in the city. Built along the path of a submerged beach ridge of pebbles and cobbles sealed in clay, the buildings lining it had resisted the sagging decay common to other sections of the city. Two hundred years old, many of them, in a style so far forgotten as to seem foreign.

  Scale House was tall and narrow, squeezed between two massive stone edifices, one a temple archive and the other the monolithic heart of the Guild of Street Inspectors. A few generations past, a particularly skilled stone carver had dressed the limestone façade and formal, column-flanked entrance with lovingly rendered rats. In multitudes almost beyond counting. Cavorting rats, dancing rats, fornicating rats. Rats at war, at rest, rats feasting on corpses, swarming feast-laden tabletops amidst sleeping mongrels and drunk servants. Scaly tails formed intricate borders to the scenes, and in some strange way it seemed to Bugg as he climbed the steps that the rats were in motion, at the corner of his vision, moving, writhing, grinning.

  He shook off his unease, paused a moment on the landing, then opened the door and strode inside.

  ‘How many, how bad, how long?’

  The desk, solid grey Bluerose marble, almost blocked the entrance to the reception hall, spanning the width of the room barring a narrow space at the far right. The secretary seated behind it had yet to look up from his ledgers. He continued speaking after a moment. ‘Answer those questions, then tell us where and what you’re willing to pay and is this a one-off or are you interested in regular monthly visits? And be advised we’re not accepting contracts at the moment.’

  ‘No.’

  The secretary set down his quill and looked up. Dark, small eyes glittered with suspicion from beneath a single wiry brow. Ink-stained fingers plucked at his nose, which had begun twitching as if the man was about to sneeze. ‘We’re not responsible.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For anything.’ More tugging at his nose. ‘And we’re not accepting any more petitions, so if you’re here to deliver one you might as well just turn round and leave.’

  ‘What sort of petition might I want to hand to you?’ Bugg asked.