Midnight Tides

by Steven Erikson

  Watched, as the body – so familiar, so strange – clawed its way upward through the silts. Silts that lightened, thinned, then burst into a plume that swirled in the currents. Arms reaching upward, a body heaving into view.

  She hovered near, compelled to close, to enter, but knowing it was too soon.

  Her body, which she had left so long ago. It was not right. Not fair.

  Scrambling mindlessly along the sea bottom. Finned creatures darting in and out of sight, drawn to the stirred-up sediments, frightened away by the flailing figure. Multi-legged shapes scrabbling from its path.

  A strange blurring, passed through, and then sunlight glittered close overhead. Hands broke the surface, firm sand underfoot, sloping upward.

  Face in the air.

  And she swept forward, plunged into the body, raced like fire within muscle and bone.

  Sensations. Cold, a wind, the smell of salt and a shoreline’s decay.

  Mother Dark, I am… alive.

  ****

  The voice of return came not in laughter, but in screams.

  All had gathered as word of the emperor’s death spread. The city was taken, but Rhulad Sengar had been killed. Neck snapped like a sapling. His body lay where it fell, with the slave Udinaas standing guard, a macabre sentinel who did not acknowledge anyone, but simply stared down at the coin-clad corpse.

  Hannan Mosag. Mayen with Feather Witch trailing. Midik Buhn, now blooded and a warrior in truth. Hundreds of Edur warriors, blood-spattered with glory and slaughter. Silent, pale citizens, terrified of the taut expectancy in the smoky air.

  All witness to the body’s sudden convulsions, its piercing screams. For a ghastly moment, Rhulad’s neck remained broken, rocking his head in impossible angles as he staggered to his feet. Then the bone mended, and the head righted itself, sudden light in the hooded eyes.

  More screams, from Letherii now. Figures fleeing.

  Rhulad’s ragged shrieks died and he stood, wavering, the sword trembling in his hands.

  Udinaas spoke. ‘Emperor, Trate is yours.’

  A sudden spasm, then Rhulad seemed to see the others for the first time. ‘Hannan Mosag, settle the garrison. The rest of the army shall camp outside the city. Send word to your K’risnan with the fleet: they are to make for Old Katter.’

  The Warlock King stepped close and said in a low voice, ‘It is true, then. You cannot die.’

  Rhulad flinched. ‘I die, Hannan Mosag. It is all I know, dying. Leave me now. Udinaas.’

  ‘Emperor.’

  ‘I need – find – I am…’

  ‘Your tent awaits you and Mayen,’ the slave said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Midik Buhn spoke, ‘Emperor, I shall lead your escort.’

  His expression confused, Rhulad looked down at his body, the smeared, crusted coins, the spattered furs. ‘Yes, brother Midik. An escort.’

  ‘And we shall find the one who… did this, sire… to you.’ Rhulad’s eyes flashed. ‘He cannot be defeated. We are helpless before him. He lies…’

  Midik was frowning. He glanced at Udinaas.

  ‘Emperor,’ the slave said, ‘he meant the one who killed you and your kin. Here in this street.’

  Clawing at his face, Rhulad turned away. ‘Of course. He wore… crimson.’

  Udinaas said to Midik, ‘I will give you a detailed description.’

  A sharp nod. ‘Yes. The city will be searched.’

  But he’s gone, you fool. No, I don’t know how I know. Still, the man’s gone. With Seren Pedac. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Udinaas!’ A desperate gasp.

  ‘I am here, Emperor.’

  ‘Take me out of this place!’

  It was known, now, and soon the Ceda would learn of it. But would he understand? How could he? It was impossible, insane.

  He can do nothing. Will he realize this?

  The warrior in gold trailed the slave, step by step, through the fallen city, Mayen and Feather Witch in their wake. Midik Buhn and a dozen warriors flanked them all, weapons at the ready. The passage was uncontested.

  ****

  Withal sat on a bench in his smithy. Plain walls, stone and plaster, the forge cold and filled with ash. Paved floor, the small workshop three-walled, the open side facing onto a fenced compound where stood a cut-stone-rimmed well, a quenching trough, firewood and a heap of tailings and slag. A hut on the opposite side housed his cot and nothing else. The extent of his world. Mocking reminder of his profession, the purpose behind living.

  The Crippled God’s voice whispered in his mind, Withal. My gift. I am not without sympathy, no matter what you might think. I understood. Nachts are poor company for a man. Go, Withal, down to the beach. Take possession of my gift.

  He slowly rose, bemused. A boat? A raft? A damned log I could ride out with the tide? He made his way outside.

  And heard the Nachts, chattering excitedly down on the strand.

  Withal walked to the verge, and stood, looking down.

  A woman was staggering from the water. Tall, black-skinned, naked, long red hair.

  And the Meckros turned round, strode away.

  ‘You bastard—’

  The Crippled God replied in mock consternation, Is this not what you want? Is she too tall for you? Her eyes too strange? Withal, I do not understand…

  ‘How could you have done this? Take possession, you said. It’s all you know, isn’t it? Possession. Things to be used. People. Lives.’

  She needs your help, Withal. She is lost, alarmed by the Nachts. Slow to recall her flesh.

  ‘Later. Leave me alone, now. Leave us both alone.’

  A soft laugh, then a cough. As you wish. Disappointing, this lack of gratitude.

  ‘Go to the Abyss.’

  No reply.

  Withal entered the hut, stood facing the cot for a time, until he was certain that the Crippled God was not lurking somewhere in his skull. Then he lowered himself to his knees and bowed his head.

  He hated religion. Detested gods. But the nest was empty. The nest needed tearing apart. Rebuilding.

  The Meckros had a host of gods for the choosing. But one was older than all the others, and that one belonged to the sea.

  Withal began to pray.

  In Mael’s name.

  Chapter Seventeen

  None had seen the like. Chorum’s Mill was a marvel of invention. Wheels upon wheels, granite and interlocking gears, axles and spokes and rims of iron, a machine that climbed from that fast river three full levels and ground the finest flour Lether had ever seen – Some say it was the rain, the deluge that filled the water’s course through the mill’s stony toes. Some say it was the sheer complexity that was the cause of it all, the conceit of a mortal man’s vision. Some say it was the Errant’s nudge, fickle and wayward that voiced the sudden roar that dawn, The explosions of stone and the shrieks of iron, And the vast wheels breaking free and bursting through the thick walls, and the washing women downstream the foam at their thighs looked up to see their granite doom rolling down – Not a wrinkle left, not a stain survived, and old Misker, perched on Ribble the Mule. Well the mule Knew its place as it bolted and leapt head-first down the well, but poor old Misker hugged the draw pail on its rope and so swung clear, to skin his knees on the round’s cobbles and swear loud, the boisterous breath preceding the fateful descent of toothy death the gear wheel, tall as any man but far taller than Misker (even perched on his mule) and that would not be hard once it was done with him, why the rat – oh, did I forget to mention the rat?

  Excerpt from The Rat’s Tail

  (The Cause Of It All)

  Chant Prip

  Stumbling in the gloom, the drunk had fallen into the canal. Tehol had mostly lost sight of him from his position at the edge of the roof, but he could hear splashing and curses, and the scrabbling against the rings set in the stone wall.

  Sighing, Tehol glanced over at the nameless guard Brys had sent. Or one of them, at least. The three brothers looked pretty much ident
ical, and none had given their names. Nothing outward or obvious to impress or inspire fear. And, by the unwavering cast of their lipless, eye-slitted expressions, sadly unqualified as welcome company.

  ‘Can your friends tell you apart?’ Tehol enquired, then frowned. ‘What a strange question to ask of a man. But you must be used to strange questions, since people will assume you were somewhere when you weren’t, or, rather, not you, but the other yous, each of whom could be anywhere. It now occurs to me that saying nothing is a fine method for dealing with such confusion, to which each of you have agreed to as the proper response, unless you are the same amongst yourselves, in which case it was a silent agreement. Always the best kind.’

  The drunk, far below, was climbing from the canal, swearing in more languages than Tehol believed existed. ‘Will you listen to that? Atrocious. To hear such no doubt foul words uttered with such vehemence – hold on, that’s no drunk, that my manservant!’ Tehol waved and shouted, ‘Bugg! What are you doing down there? Is this what I pay you for?’

  The sodden manservant was looking upward, and he yelled something back that Tehol could not make out. ‘What? What did you say?’

  ‘You – don’t – pay – me!’

  ‘Oh, tell everyone, why don’t you!’

  Tehol watched as Bugg made his way to the bridge and crossed, then disappeared from view behind the nearby buildings. ‘How embarrassing. Time’s come for a serious talk with dear old Bugg.’

  Sounds from below, more cursing. Then creaking from the ladder.

  Bugg’s mud-smeared head and face rose into view.

  ‘Now,’ Tehol said, hands on hips, ‘I’m sure I sent you off to do something important, and what do you do? Go falling into the canal. Was that on the list of tasks? I think not.’

  ‘Are you berating me, master?’

  ‘Yes. What did you think?’

  ‘More effective, I believe, had you indeed sent me off to do something important. As it was, I was on a stroll, mesmerized by moonlight—’

  ‘Don’t step there! Back! Back!’

  Alarmed, Bugg froze, then edged away.

  ‘You nearly crushed Ezgara! And could he have got out of the way? I think not!’ Tehol moved closer and knelt beside the insect making its slow way across the roof’s uneven surface. ‘Oh, look, you startled it!’

  ‘How can you tell?’ Bugg asked.

  ‘Well, it’s reversed direction, hasn’t it? That must be startling, I would imagine.’

  ‘You know, master, it was a curio – I didn’t think you would make it a pet.’

  ‘That’s because you’re devoid of sentiment, Bugg. Whereas Ezgara here is doubly—’

  ‘Ovoid?’

  ‘Charmingly so.’ Tehol glanced over at the guard, who was staring back at him as was his wont. ‘And this man agrees. Or, if not him, then his brothers. Why, one let Ezgara crawl all over his face, and he didn’t even blink!’

  ‘How did Ezgara manage to get onto his face, master?’

  ‘And down the other’s jerkin, not a flinch. These are warm-hearted men, Bugg, look well upon them and learn.’

  ‘I shall, master.’

  ‘Now, did you enjoy your swim?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘A misstep, you say?’

  ‘I thought I heard someone whisper my name—’

  ‘Shurq Elalle?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Harlest Eberict? Kettle? Chief Investigator Rucket? Champion Ormly?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Might you have been imagining things?’

  ‘Quite possibly. For example, I believe I am being followed by rats.’

  ‘You probably are, Bugg. Maybe one of them whispered your name.’

  ‘An unpleasant notion, master.’

  ‘Yes it is. Do you think it pleases me that my manservant consorts with rats?’

  ‘Would you rather go hungry?’ Bugg reached under his shirt.

  ‘You haven’t!’

  ‘No, it’s cat,’ he said, withdrawing a small, skinned, headless and pawless carcass. ‘Canal flavoured, alas.’

  ‘Another gift from Rucket?’

  ‘No, oddly enough. The canal.’

  ‘Ugh.’

  ‘Smells fresh enough—’

  ‘What’s that wire trailing from it?’

  The manservant lifted the carcass higher, then took the dangling wire between two fingers and followed it back until it vanished in the flesh. He tugged, then grunted.

  ‘What?’ Tehol asked.

  ‘The wire leads to a large, barbed hook.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And the wire’s snapped at this end – I thought something broke my fall.’ He tore a small sliver of meat from one of the cat’s legs, broke it in two, then placed one piece at each end of the insect named Ezgara. It settled to feed. ‘Anyway, a quick rinse and we’re ahead by two, if not three meals. Quite a run of fortune, master, of late.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tehol mused. ‘Now I’m nervous. So, have you any news to tell me?’

  ‘Do you realize, master, that Gerun Eberict would have had to kill on average between ten and fifteen people a day in order to achieve his annual dividend? How does he find the time to do anything else?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s recruited thugs sharing his insane appetites.’

  ‘Indeed. Anyway, Shurq has disappeared – both Harlest and Ublala are distraught—’

  ‘Why Harlest?’

  ‘He had only Ublala to whom he could show off his new fangs and talons, and Ublala was less than impressed, so much so that he pushed Harlest into the sarcophagus and sealed him in.’

  ‘Poor Harlest.’

  ‘He adjusted quickly enough,’ said Bugg, ‘and now contemplates his dramatic resurrection – whenever it occurs.’

  ‘Disturbing news about Shurq Elalle.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It means she didn’t change her mind. It means she’s going to break into the Tolls Repository. Perhaps even this very night.’

  Bugg glanced over at the guard. ‘Master…’

  ‘Oops, that was careless, wasn’t it?’ He rose and walked over. ‘He hears all, it’s true. My friend, we can at least agree on one thing, can’t we?’

  The eyes flickered as the man stared at Tehol.

  ‘Any thief attempting the Repository is as good as dead, right?’ He smiled, then swung back to face his manservant.

  Bugg began removing his wet clothes. ‘I believe I’ve caught a chill.’

  ‘The canal is notoriously noxious—’

  ‘No, from earlier, master. The Fifth Wing. I’ve managed to successfully shore up the foundations—’

  ‘Already? Why, that’s extraordinary.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? In any case, it’s chilly in those tunnels… now.’

  ‘Dare I ask?’

  Bugg stood naked, eyes on the faint stars overhead. ‘Best not, master.’

  ‘And what of the Fourth Wing?’

  ‘Well, that’s where my crews are working at the moment. A week, perhaps ten days. There’s an old drainage course beneath it. Rather than fight it, we’re installing a fired-clay conduit—’

  ‘A sewage pipe.’

  ‘In the trade, it’s a fired-clay conduit.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Which we’ll then pack with gravel. I don’t know why Grum didn’t do that in the first place, but it’s his loss and our gain.’

  ‘Are you dry yet, Bugg? Please say you’re dry. Look at our guard here, he’s horrified. Speechless.’

  ‘I can tell, and I apologize.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many scars on one person,’ Tehol said. ‘What do you do in your spare time, Bugg, wrestle angry cacti?’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why would they have to be angry?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be if you attacked you for no reason? Hey, that’s a question I could ask our guard here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Only if he – or they – were similarly afflicted, master.’

>   ‘Good point. And he’d have to take his clothes off for us to find out.’

  ‘Not likely.’

  ‘No. Now, Bugg, here’s my shirt. Put it on, and be thankful for the sacrifices I make on your behalf.’

  ‘Thank you, master.’

  ‘Good. Ready? It’s time to go.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Familiar territory for you, or so I was surprised to discover. You are a man of many mysteries, Bugg. Occasional priest, healer, the Waiting Man, consorter with demons and worse. Were I not so self-centred, I’d be intrigued.’

  ‘I am ever grateful for your self-centredness, master.’

  ‘That’s only right, Bugg. Now, presumably, our silent bodyguard will be accompanying us. Thus, we three. Marching purposefully off into the night. Shall we?’

  ****

  Into the maze of shanties on the east side of Letheras. The night air was hot, redolent and turgid. Things skittered through the heaps of rotting rubbish, wild dogs slunk through shadows in ill-tempered packs looking for trouble – threatening enough to cause the bodyguard to draw his sword. Sight of the bared blade was enough to send the beasts scampering.

  Those few homeless indigents brave or desperate enough to risk the dangers of the alleys and streets had used rubbish to build barricades and hovels. Others had begged for space on the sagging roofs of creaky huts and slept fitfully or not at all. Tehol could feel countless pairs of eyes looking down upon them, tracking their passage deeper into the heart of the ghetto.

  As they walked, Tehol spoke. ‘… the assumption is the foundation stone of Letherii society, perhaps all societies the world over. The notion of inequity, my friends. For from inequity derives the concept of value, whether measured by money or the countless other means of gauging human worth. Simply put, there resides in all of us the unchallenged belief that the poor and the starving are in some way deserving of their fate. In other words, there will always be poor people. A truism to grant structure to the continual task of comparison, the establishment through observation of not our mutual similarities, but our essential differences.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, to which I have no choice but to challenge you both. Like this. Imagine walking down this street, doling out coins by the thousands. Until everyone here is in possession of vast wealth. A solution? No, you say, because among these suddenly rich folk there will be perhaps a majority who will prove wasteful, profligate and foolish, and before long they will be poor once again. Besides, if wealth were distributed in such a fashion, the coins themselves would lose all value – they would cease being useful. And without such utility, the entire social structure we love so dearly would collapse.