The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  The surface of the seas, every sailor knew, was ephemeral. Quaint sketchings across an ever-changing slate, and lives were but sparks, so easily quenched by the demon forces that could rise from far below to shake their beast hides and so up-end the world.

  Propitiation was aversion, a prayer to pass unnoticed, to escape untaken. Blood before the bow, dolphins dancing to starboard and a gob of spit to ride blessed winds. The left hand scrubs, the right hand dries. Wind widdershins on the cleats, sun-bleached rags tied to the sea-anchor’s chain. A score of gestures, unquestioned and bound in tradition, all to slide the seas in peace.

  None sought to call up the ravelled spirits from those water-crushed valleys that saw no light. They were not things to be bound, after all. Nor bargained with. Their hearts beat in the cycles of the moon, their voice was the heaving storm and their wings could spread from horizon to horizon, in towering white-veined sheets of water that swept all before them.

  Beneath the waves of Trate Harbour, with three dead ships like fins on its back, the bound spirit clambered in a surge of cold currents towards shore. The last spears of sunlight slanted through its swirling flesh, and the easing of massive pressures made the creature grow in size, pushing onto the rocky coastlines ahead and to the sides the bay’s own warmer waters, so that the fish and crustaceans of the shallows tumbled up from the waves in mangled shreds of flesh and shattered shell, granting the gulls and land crabs a sudden feast of slaughter.

  The spirit lifted the ships, careering wild now, on a single wave that rose high as it swelled shoreward. The docks, which had a few moments earlier been crowded with silent onlookers, became a swarm of fleeing figures, the streets leading inland filling with stampedes that slowed to choking, crushing masses of humanity.

  The wave tumbled closer, then suddenly fell away. Hulls thundered at the swift plunge, spars snapped and, on the third ship, the main mast exploded in a cloud of splintered wood. Rocking, trailing wreckage, the harvesters coasted between the piers.

  Pressures drawing inward, building once more, the spirit withdrew from the bay. In its wake, devastation.

  Glimmering in its obsidian world, the first ship crunched and slid against a pier, and came to a gentle rest. The white flecks of the gulls plunged down to the deck, to begin at long last their feeding. The Tarancede Tower had witnessed all, the smooth tiles near its pinnacle absorbing every flickering detail of the event, despite the failing light.

  And, in a chamber beneath the old palace in the city of Letheras, far to the southeast, Ceda Kuru Qan watched. Before him lay a tile that matched those of the distant tower above Trate’s harbour, and, as he stared at the enormous black shadow that had filled the bay and most of the inlet, and was now beginning its slow withdrawal, the sorceror blinked sweat from his eyes and forced his gaze back to those three harvest ships now lolling against the piers.

  The gulls and the gathering darkness made it difficult to see much, barring the twisted corpses huddled on the deck, and the last few flickering wraiths.

  But Kuru Qan had seen enough.

  Five wings to the Eternal Domicile, of which only three were complete. Each of the latter consisted of wide hallways with arched ceilings sheathed in gold-leaf. Between elaborate flying buttresses to either side and running the entire length were doorways leading to chambers that would serve as offices and domiciles of the Royal Household’s administrative and maintenance staff. Towards the centre the adjoining rooms would house guards, armouries and trapdoors leading to private passages—beneath ground level—that encircled the entire palace that was the heart of the Eternal Domicile.

  At the moment, however, those passages were chest-deep in muddy water, through which rats moved with no particular purpose barring that of, possibly, pleasure. Brys Beddict stood on a landing three steps from the silt-laden flood and watched the up-thrust heads swimming back and forth in the gloom. Beside him stood a palace engineer covered in drying mud.

  ‘The pumps are next to useless,’ the man was saying. ‘We went with big hoses, we went with small ones, made no difference. Once the pull got strong enough in went a rat, or ten, plugging things up. Besides, the seep’s as steady as ever. Though the Plumbs still swear we’re above the table here.’

  ‘I’m sure the Ceda will consent to attaching a mage to your crew.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it, Finadd. All we need is to hold the flow back for a time, so’s we can bucket the water out and the catchers can go down and collect the rats. We lost Ormly last night, the palace’s best catcher. Likely drowned—the fool couldn’t swim. If the Errant’s looking away, we might be spared finding much more than bones. Rats know when it’s a catcher they’ve found, you know.’

  ‘These tunnels are essential to maintaining the security of the king—’

  ‘Well, ain’t nobody likely to try using them if they’re flooded—’

  ‘Not as a means of ingress for assassins,’ Brys cut in. ‘They are to permit the swift passage of guards to any area above that is breached.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I was only making a joke, Finadd. Of course, you could choose fast swimmers among your guards…all right, never mind. Get us a mage to sniff round and tell us what’s going on and then to stop the water coming in and we’ll take care of the rest.’

  ‘Presumably,’ Brys said, ‘this is not indicative of subsidence—’

  ‘Like the other wings? No, nothing’s slumped—we’d be able to tell. Anyway, there’s rumours that those ones are going to get a fresh look at. A new construction company has been working down there, nearby. Some fool bought up the surrounding land. There’s whispers they’ve figured out how to shore up buildings.’

  ‘Really? I’ve heard nothing about it.’

  ‘The guilds aren’t happy about it, that’s for sure, since these upstarts are hiring the Unwelcomes—those malcontents who made the List. Paying ’em less than the usual rate, though, which is the only thing going for them, I suppose. The guilds can’t close them down so long as they do that.’ The engineer shrugged, began prying pieces of hardened clay from his forearms, wincing at the pulled hairs. ‘Of course, if the royal architects decide that Bugg’s shoring works, then that company’s roll is going sky-high.’

  Brys slowly turned from his study of the rats and eyed the engineer. ‘Bugg?’

  ‘Damn, I need a bath. Look at my nails. Yeah, Bugg’s Construction. There must be a Bugg, then, right? Else why name it Bugg’s Construction?’

  A shout from a crewman down on the lowest step, then a scream. Wild scrambling up to the landing, where the worker spun round and pointed.

  A mass of rats, almost as wide as the passageway itself, had edged into view. Moving like a raft, it crept into the pool of lantern light towards the stairs. In its centre—the revelation eliciting yet another scream from the worker and a curse from the engineer—floated a human head. Yellow-tinted silver hair, a pallid, deeply lined face with a forehead high and broad above staring, narrow-set eyes.

  Other rats raced away as the raft slipped to nudge against the lowest step.

  The worker gasped, ‘Errant take us, it’s Ormly!’

  The eyes flickered, then the head was rising, lifting the nearest rats in the raft with it, humped over shoulders, streaming glimmering water. ‘Who in the Hold else would it be?’ the apparition snapped, pausing to hawk up a mouthful of phlegm and spitting it into the swirling water. ‘Like my trophies?’ he asked, raising his arms beneath the vast cape of rats. ‘Strings and tails. Damned heavy when wet, though.’

  ‘We thought you were dead,’ the engineer muttered, in a tone suggesting that he would rather it were true.

  ‘You thought. You’re always thinking, ain’t ya, Grum? Maybe this, probably that, could be, might be, should be—hah! Think these rats scared me? Think I was just going to drown? Hold’s welcoming pit, I’m a catcher and not any old catcher. They know me, all right. Every rat in this damned city knows Ormly the Catcher! Who’s this?’

  ‘Finadd Brys Beddict.’ The
King’s Champion introduced himself. ‘That is an impressive collection of trophies you’ve amassed there, Catcher.’

  The man’s eyes brightened. ‘Isn’t it just! Better when it’s floating, though. Right now, damned heavy. Damned heavy.’

  ‘Best climb out from under it,’ Brys suggested. ‘Engineer Grum, I think a fine meal, plenty of wine and a night off is due Ormly the Catcher.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I will speak with the Ceda regarding your request.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Brys left them on the landing. It seemed increasingly unlikely that the Eternal Domicile would be ready for the birth of the Eighth Age. Among the populace, there seemed to be less than faint enthusiasm for the coming celebration. The histories might well recount prophecies about the glorious empire destined to rise once more in less than a year from now, but in truth, there was little in this particular time that supported the notion of a renaissance, neither economically nor militarily. If anything, there was a slight uneasiness, centred on the impending treaty gathering with the tribes of the Tiste Edur. Risk and opportunity; the two were synonymous for the Letherii. Even so, war was never pleasant, although thus far always satisfactory in its conclusion. Thus risk led to opportunity, with few thoughts spared for the defeated.

  Granted, the Edur tribes were now united. At the same time, other such alliances had formed in opposition to Letherii ambitions in the past, and not one had proved immune to divisive strategies. Gold bought betrayal again and again. Alliances crumbled and the enemy collapsed. What likelihood that it would be any different this time round?

  Brys wondered at the implicit complacency of his own people. He was not, he was certain, misreading public sentiment. Nerves were on edge, but only slightly. Markets remained strong. And the day-in, day-out mindless yearnings of a people for whom possession was everything continued unabated.

  Within the palace, however, emotions were more fraught. The Ceda’s divinations promised a fundamental alteration awaiting Lether. Kuru Qan spoke, in a meandering, bemused way, of some sort of Ascension. A transformation…from king to emperor, although how such a progression would manifest itself remained to be seen. The annexation of the Tiste Edur and their rich homelands would indeed initiate a renewed vigour, a frenzy of profit. Victory would carry its own affirmation of the righteousness of Lether and its ways.

  Brys emerged from the Second Wing and made his way down towards Narrow Canal. It was late morning, almost noon. Earlier that day, he had exercised and sparred with the other off-duty palace guards in the compound backing the barracks, then had breakfasted at a courtyard restaurant alongside Quillas Canal, thankful for this brief time of solitude, although his separation from the palace—permitted only because the king was visiting the chambers of the First Concubine and would not emerge until midafternoon—was an invisible tether that gradually tightened, until he felt compelled to resume his duties by visiting the Eternal Domicile and checking on progress there. And then back to the old palace.

  To find it, upon passing through the main gate and striding into the Grand Hall, in an uproar.

  Heart thudding hard in his chest, Brys approached the nearest guard. ‘Corporal, what has happened?’

  The soldier saluted. ‘Not sure, Finadd. News from Trate, I gather. The Edur have slaughtered some Letherii sailors. With foulest sorcery.’

  ‘The king?’

  ‘Has called a council in two bells’ time.’

  ‘Thank you, Corporal.’

  Brys continued on into the palace.

  He made his way into the inner chambers. Among the retainers and messengers rushing along the central corridor he saw Chancellor Triban Gnol standing with a handful of followers, a certain animation to his whispered conversation. The man’s dark eyes flicked to Brys as the Champion strode past, but his lips did not cease moving. Behind the Chancellor, Brys saw, was the Queen’s Consort, Turudal Brizad, leaning insouciantly against the wall, his soft, almost feminine features displaying a faint smirk.

  Brys had always found the man strangely disturbing, and it had nothing to do with his singular function as consort to Janall. He was a silent presence, often at meetings dealing with the most sensitive issues of state, ever watchful despite his studied indifference. And it was well known that he shared his bed with more than just the queen, although whether Janall herself knew of that was the subject of conjecture in the court. Among his lovers, it was rumoured, was Chancellor Triban Gnol.

  An untidy nest, all in all.

  The door to the First Eunuch’s office was closed and guarded by two of Nifadas’s own Rulith, eunuch bodyguards, tall men with nothing of the common body-fat one might expect to see. Heavy kohl lined their eyes and red paint broadened their mouths into a perpetual downturned grimace. Their only weapons were a brace of hooked daggers sheathed under their crossed arms, and if they wore any armour it was well disguised beneath long, crimson silk shirts and tan pantaloons. They were barefoot.

  Both nodded and stepped aside to permit Brys to pass.

  He tugged the braided tassel and could faintly hear the dull chime sound in the chamber beyond.

  The door clicked open.

  Nifadas was alone, standing behind his desk, the surface of which was crowded with scrolls and unfurled maps. His back was to the room, and he seemed to be staring at a wall. ‘King’s Champion. I have been expecting you.’

  ‘This seemed the first in order, First Eunuch.’

  ‘Just so.’ He was silent for a few heartbeats, then: ‘There are beliefs that constitute the official religion of a nation, but those beliefs and that religion are in truth little more than the thinnest gold hammered on far older bones. No nation is singular, or exclusive—rather, it should not be, for its own good. There is much danger in asserting for oneself a claim to purity; whether of blood or of origin. Few may acknowledge it, but Lether is far richer for its devouring minorities, provided that digestion remains eternally incomplete.’

  ‘Be that as it may, Finadd, I confess to you a certain ignorance. The palace isolates those trapped within it, and its roots nurture poorly. I would know of the people’s private beliefs.’

  Brys thought for a moment, then asked, ‘Can you be more specific, First Eunuch?’

  Nifadas still did not turn to face him. ‘The seas. The denizens of the deep. Demons and old gods, Brys.’

  ‘The Tiste Edur call the dark waters the realm of Galain, which is said to belong to kin, for whom Darkness is home. The Tarthenal, I have heard, view the seas as a single beast with countless limbs—including those that reach inland as rivers and streams. The Nerek fear it as their netherworld, a place where drowning is eternal, a fate awaiting betrayers and murderers.’

  ‘And the Letherii?’

  Brys shrugged. ‘Kuru Qan knows more of this than I, First Eunuch. Sailors fear but do not worship. They make sacrifices in the hopes of avoiding notice. On the seas, the arrogant suffer, whilst only the meek survive, although it’s said if abasement is carried too far, the hunger below grows irritated and spiteful. Tides and currents reveal the patterns one must follow, which in part explains the host of superstitions and rituals demanded of those who would travel by sea.’

  ‘And this…hunger below. It has no place among the Holds?’

  ‘Not that I know of, First Eunuch.’

  Nifadas finally turned, regarded Brys with half-closed eyes. ‘Does that not strike you as odd, Finadd Beddict? Lether was born of colonists who came here from the First Empire. That First Empire was then destroyed, the paradise razed to lifeless desert. Yet it was the First Empire in which the Holds were first discovered. True, the Empty Hold proved a later manifestation, at least in so far as it related to ourselves. Thus, are we to imagine that yet older beliefs survived and were carried to this new land all those millennia ago? Or, conversely, does each land—and its adjoining seas—evoke an indigenous set of beliefs? If that is the case, then the argument supporting the presence of physical, undeniable gods is greatly su
pported.’

  ‘But even then,’ Brys said, ‘there is no evidence that such gods are remotely concerned with mortal affairs. I do not think sailors envisage the hunger I spoke of as a god. More as a demon, I think.’

  ‘To answer the unanswerable, a need from which we all suffer.’ Nifadas sighed. ‘Finadd, the independent seal harvesters were all slain. Three of their ships survived the return journey to Trate, crewed up to the very piers by Edur wraiths, yet carried on seas that were more than seas. A demon, such as the sailors swear upon…yet, it was something far more, or so our Ceda believes. Are you familiar with Faraed beliefs? Theirs is an oral tradition, and if the listing of generations is accurate and not mere poetic pretence, then the tradition is ancient indeed. The Faraed creation myths centre on Elder gods. Each named and aspected, a divisive pantheon of entirely unwholesome personalities. In any case, among them is the Elder Lord of the Seas, the Dweller Below. It is named Mael. Furthermore, the Faraed have singled out Mael in their oldest stories. It once walked this land, Finadd, as a physical manifestation, following the death of an Age.’

  ‘An Age? What kind of Age?’

  ‘Of the time before the Faraed, I think. There are…contradictions and obscurities.’

  ‘Ceda Kuru Qan believes the demon that carried the ships was this Mael?’

  ‘If it was, then Mael has suffered much degradation. Almost mindless, a turgid maelstrom of untethered emotions. But powerful none the less.’

  ‘Yet the Tiste Edur have chained it?’

  Nifadas’s thin brows rose. ‘Clear a path through a forest and every beast will use it. Is this control? Of a sort, perhaps.’

  ‘Hannan Mosag sought to make a statement.’

  ‘Indeed, Finadd, and so he has. Yet is it a true statement or deceptive bravado?’

  Brys shook his head. He had no answer to offer.

  Nifadas swung away once more. ‘The king has deemed this of sufficient import. The Ceda even now prepares the…means. None the less, you deserve the right to be asked rather than commanded.’