‘He fears for the life of your son, your highness.’
Ezgara nodded. ‘And has the Finadd’s restraint so weakened that he might murder my heir?’
‘One would hope not, sire.’
‘Do you imagine that my son understands the risk and will therefore act with constraint and decorum?’
‘Prince Quillas has been advised of the dangers, sire,’ Kuru Qan carefully replied. ‘He has gathered about him his most trusted bodyguards, under the command of Moroch Nevath.’
‘Presumably, Moroch feels equal to the task of defending his prince’s life.’ At this Ezgara turned and fixed Brys with an inquisitive gaze.
‘Moroch is supremely skilled, sire,’ Brys Beddict said after a moment. ‘I would hazard he will have tasters in line before the prince, and mages replete with a host of wards.’
‘To the latter, your highness,’ Kuru Qan said, ‘I can attest. I have lost a number of skilled students to the queen’s command.’
‘Thus,’ Ezgara Diskanar said, ‘we seek balance in the threat, and rely upon the wisdom of the players. Should one party decide on pre-emptive action, however, the scenario fast unravels.’
‘True, sire.’
‘Finadd Brys Beddict, is Moroch Nevath capable of advising restraint?’
‘I believe so, sire.’
‘The question remaining, however,’ Ezgara said, ‘is whether my son is capable of receiving it.’
Neither the Ceda nor Brys made response to that.
Their king eyed them both for a long moment, then settled his attention on Brys. ‘I look forward to your return to duties, Champion, and am relieved that you are recovering from your adventures.’
Ezgara Diskanar strode from the chamber. At the doorway’s threshold he said—without turning or pausing—‘Gerun Eberict will need to reduce his own entourage, I think…’
The door was closed by one of Kuru Qan’s servants, leaving the two men alone. The Ceda glanced over at Brys, then shrugged.
‘If wherewithal was an immortal virtue…’ Brys ventured.
‘Our king would be a god,’ Kuru Qan finished, nodding. ‘And upon that we now stake our lives.’ The lenses covering his eyes flashed with reflected light. ‘Curious observation to make at this time. Profoundly prescient, I think. Brys Beddict, will you tell me more of your journey?’
‘Only that I sought to right a wrong, and that, as a consequence, the Tiste Edur will be unable to bind any more forgotten gods.’
‘A worthwhile deed, then.’
‘Such is my hope.’
‘What do the old witches in the market always say? “The end of the world is announced with a kind word.”’
Brys winced.
‘Of course,’ the Ceda continued distractedly, ‘they just use that as an excuse to be rude to inquisitive old men.’
‘They have another saying, Ceda,’ Brys said after a moment. ‘“Truth hides in colourless clothes.”’
‘Surely not the same witches? If so, then they’re all the greatest liars known to the mortal world!’
Brys smiled at the jest. But a taste of ashes had come to his mouth, and he inwardly quailed at the first whispers of dread.
Chapter Seven
You see naught but flesh
in the wrought schemes
that stitch every dance
in patterns of rising—
the ritual of our days
our lives bedecked
with precious import
as if we stand unbolstered
before tables feast-heavy
and tapestries burdened
with simple deeds
are all that call us
and all that we call upon
as would flesh blood-swollen
by something other than need.
But my vision is not so
privileged and what I see
are the bones in ghostly motion,
the bones who are the
slaves and they weave
the solid world underfoot
with every stride you take.
SLAVES BENEATH
FISHER KEL TATH
Acquitor Seren Pedac watched Edur children playing among the sacred trees. The shadows writhing in the black bark of the boles were a chaotic swirl of motion surrounding the children, to which they seemed entirely indifferent. For some ineffable reason, she found the juxtaposition horrifying.
She had, years ago, seen young Nerek playing amidst the scattered bones of their ancestors, and it had left her more shaken than any battlefield she had walked. The scene before her now resonated in the same manner. She was here, in the Warlock King’s village, and in the midst of people, of figures in motion and voices ringing through the misty air, she felt lost and alone.
Encircling the holy grove was a broad walkway, the mud covered with shaggy strips of shredded bark, along which sat logs roughly carved into benches. Ten paces to Seren’s left was Hull Beddict, seated with his forearms on his knees, hands anchoring his head as he stared at the ground. He had neither moved nor spoken in some time, and the mundane inconsequentiality of their exchanged greetings no longer echoed between them, barring a faint flavour of sadness in the mutual silence.
The Tiste Edur ignored the two Letherii strangers in their midst. Lodgings had been provided for them and for Buruk the Pale. The first meeting with Hannan Mosag was to be this night, but the company had already been here for five days. Normally, a wait of a day or two was to be expected. It was clear that the Warlock King was sending them a message with this unprecedented delay.
A more dire warning still was to be found in the many Edur from other tribes now resident in the village. She had seen Arapay, Merude, Beneda and Sollanta among the native Hiroth. Den-Ratha, who dwelt in the northernmost regions of Edur territory, were notoriously reluctant to venture from their own lands. Even so, the fact of the unified tribes could be made no more apparent and deliberate than it had been, and a truth she had known only in the abstract was given chilling confirmation in its actuality. The divisive weaknesses of old were no more. Everything had changed.
The Nerek had pulled the wagons close to the guest lodge and were now huddled among them, fearful of venturing into the village. The Tiste Edur had a manner of looking right through those they deemed to be lesser folk. This frightened the Nerek in some way, as if the fact of their own existence could be damaged by the Edur’s indifference. Since arriving they had seemed to wither, immune to Buruk’s exhortations, barely inclined to so much as feed themselves. Seren had gone in search of Hull, in the hope of convincing him to speak to the Nerek.
Upon finding him, she had begun to wonder whether he’d been inflicted with something similar to the enervating pall that had settled on the Nerek. Hull Beddict looked old, as if the journey’s end had carried with it a fierce cost, and before him waited still heavier burdens.
Seren Pedac pulled her gaze from the playing children and walked back to where Hull sat on the log bench. Men were quick and stubborn with their barriers, but she’d had enough. ‘Those Nerek will starve if you don’t do something.’
There was no indication that he’d heard her.
‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘What’s a few more Nerek deaths to your toll?’
She’d wanted anger. Outrage. She’d wanted to wound him with that, if only to confirm that there was still blood to flow. But at her vicious words, he slowly looked up and met her eyes with a soft smile. ‘Seren Pedac. The Nerek await acceptance by the Tiste Edur, just as we do—although we Letherii are far less sensitive to the spiritual damage the Edur want us to suffer. Our skin is thick, after all—’
‘Born of our fixation on our so-called infallible destiny,’ she replied. ‘What of it?’
‘I used to think,’ he said, smile fading, ‘that the thickness of our…armour was naught but an illusion. Bluster and self-righteous arrogance disguising deep-seated insecurities. That we lived in perpetual crisis, since self-avowed destinies wear a thousand masks and not one of them truly
fits—’
‘How can they, Hull Beddict, when they’re modelled on perfection?’
He shrugged, looked down and seemed to study his hands. ‘But in most ways our armour is indeed thick. Impervious to nuances, blind to subtlety. Which is why we’re always so suspicious of subtle things, especially when exhibited by strangers, by outsiders.’
‘We Letherii know our own games of deceit,’ Seren said. ‘You paint us as blundering fools—’
‘Which we are, in so many ways,’ he replied. ‘Oh, we visualize our goals clearly enough. But we ignore the fact that every step we take towards them crushes someone, somewhere.’
‘Even our own.’
‘Yes, there is that.’ He rose, and Seren Pedac was struck once more by his bulk. A huge, broken man. ‘I will endeavour to ease the plight of the Nerek. But the answer rests with the Tiste Edur.’
‘Very well.’ She stepped back and turned round. The children played on, amidst the lost shadows. She listened to Hull walk away, the soft crackle of his moccasined feet on the wood chips fading.
Very well.
She made her way into the village, onto the main avenue, across the bridge that led through open gates into the inner ward, where the noble-born Hiroth had their residences. Just beyond them was Hannan Mosag’s longhouse. Seren Pedac paused in the broad clearing just within the palisade wall. No children in sight, only slaves busy with their menial chores and a half-dozen Edur warriors sparring with a wide assortment of weapons. None spared the Acquitor any notice, at least not outwardly, though she was certain that her arrival had been surreptitiously observed and that her movements would be tracked.
Two Letherii slaves were walking nearby, carrying between them a net-sling bulging with mussels. Seren approached.
‘I would speak with an Edur matron.’
‘She comes,’ one of them replied, not glancing over.
Seren turned.
The Edur woman who strode towards her was flanked by attendants. She looked young, but there was in truth no way of knowing. Attractive, but that in itself was not unusual. She wore a long robe, the wool dyed midnight blue, with gold-threaded patterns adorning cuffs and brocade. Her long, straight brown hair was unbound.
‘Acquitor,’ she said in Edur, ‘are you lost?’
‘No, milady. I would speak with you on behalf of the Nerek.’
Thin brows arched above the heart-shaped face. ‘With me?’
‘With an Edur,’ Seren replied.
‘Ah. And what is it you wish to say?’
‘Until such time that the Tiste Edur offer an official welcome to the Nerek, they starve and suffer spiritual torment. I would ask that you show them mercy.’
‘I am sure that this is but an oversight, Acquitor. Is it not true that your audience with the Warlock King occurs this very night?’
‘Yes. But that is no guarantee that we will be proclaimed guests at that time, is it?’
‘You would demand special treatment?’
‘Not for ourselves. For the Nerek.’
The woman studied her for a time, then, ‘Tell me, if you will, who or what are these Nerek?’
A half-dozen heartbeats passed, as Seren struggled to adjust to this unexpected ignorance. Unexpected, she told herself, but not altogether surprising—she had but fallen to her own assumptions. It seemed the Letherii were not unique in their self-obsessions. Or, for that matter, their arrogance. ‘Your pardon, milady—’
‘I am named Mayen.’
‘Your pardon, Mayen. The Nerek are the servants of Buruk the Pale. Similar in status to your slaves. They are of a tribe that was assimilated by Lether some time back, and now work to pay against their debt.’
‘Joining the Letherii entails debt?’
Seren’s gaze narrowed. ‘Not direc—not as such, Mayen. There were…unique circumstances.’
‘Yes, of course. Those do arise, don’t they?’ The Edur woman pressed a fingertip to her lips, then seemed to reach a decision. ‘Take me, then, to these Nerek, Acquitor.’
‘I’m sorry? Now?’
‘Yes, the sooner their spirits are eased the better. Or have I misunderstood you?’
‘No.’
‘Presumably, the blessing of any Edur will suffice for these pitiful tribespeople of yours. Nor can I see how it will affect the Warlock King’s dealings with you. Indeed, I am sure it won’t.’ She turned to one of her Letherii slaves. ‘Feather Witch, please inform Uruth Sengar that I will be somewhat delayed, but assure her it will not be for long.’
The young woman named Feather Witch bowed and rushed off towards a longhouse. Seren stared after her for a moment. ‘Mayen, if I may ask, who gave her that name?’
‘Feather Witch? It is Letherii, is it not? Those Letherii born as slaves among us are named by their mothers. Or grandmothers, whatever the practice among your kind may be. I have not given it much thought. Why?’
Seren shrugged. ‘It is an old name, that is all. I’ve not heard it used in a long time, and then only in the histories.’
‘Shall we walk, Acquitor?’
Udinaas sat on a low stool near the entrance, stripping scales from a basketful of dried fish. His hands were wet, red and cracked by the salt paste the fish had been packed in. He had watched the Acquitor’s arrival, followed Mayen’s detour, and now Feather Witch was approaching, a troubled expression on her face.
‘Indebted,’ she snapped, ‘is Uruth within?’
‘She is, but you must wait.’
‘Why?’
‘She speaks with the highborn widows. They have been in there some time, and no, I do not know what concerns them.’
‘And you imagine I would have asked you?’
‘How are your dreams, Feather Witch?’
She paled, and looked round as if seeking somewhere else to wait. But a light rain had begun to fall, and beneath the projecting roof of the longhouse they were dry. ‘You know nothing of my dreams, Indebted.’
‘How can I not? You come to me in them every night. We talk, you and I. We argue. You demand answers from me. You curse the look in my eyes. And, eventually, you flee.’
She would not meet his gaze. ‘You cannot be there. In my mind,’ she said. ‘You are nothing to me.’
‘We are just the fallen, Feather Witch. You, me, the ghosts. All of us. We’re the dust swirling around the ankles of the conquerors as they stride on into glory. In time, we may rise in their ceaseless scuffling, and so choke them, but it is a paltry vengeance, don’t you think?’
‘You do not speak as you used to, Udinaas. I no longer know who speaks through you.’
He looked down at his scale-smeared hands. ‘And how do I answer that? Am I unchanged? Hardly. But does that mean the changes are not mine? I fought the White Crow for you, Feather Witch. I wrested you from its grasp, and now all you do is curse me.’
‘Do you think I appreciate owing you my life?’
He winced, then managed a smile as he lifted his gaze once more, catching her studying him—though once more she glanced away. ‘Ah, I see now. You have found yourself…indebted. To me.’
‘Wrong,’ she hissed. ‘Uruth would have saved me. You did nothing, except make a fool of yourself.’
‘She was too late, Feather Witch. And you insist on calling me Indebted, as if saying it often enough will take away—’
‘Be quiet! I want nothing to do with you!’
‘You have no choice, although if you speak any louder both our heads will top a pike outside the walls. What did the Acquitor want with Mayen?’
She shifted nervously, hesitated, then said, ‘A welcome for the Nerek. They’re dying.’
Udinaas shook his head. ‘That gift is for the Warlock King to make.’
‘So you would think, yet Mayen offered herself in his stead.’
His eyes widened. ‘She did? Has she lost her mind?’
‘Quiet, you fool!’ Feather Witch crouched down across from him. ‘The impending marriage has filled her head. She fashions herse
lf as a queen and so has become insufferable. And now she would bless the Nerek—’
‘Bless?’
‘Her word, yes. I think even the Acquitor was taken aback.’
‘That was Seren Pedac, wasn’t it?’
Feather Witch nodded.
Both were silent for a few moments, then Udinaas said, ‘What would such a blessing do, do you think?’
‘Probably nothing. The Nerek are a broken people. Their gods are dead, the spirits of their ancestors scattered. Oh, a ghost or two might be drawn to the newly sanctified ground—’
‘An Edur’s blessing could do that? Sanctify the ground?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. But there could be a binding. Of destinies, depending on the purity of Mayen’s bloodline, on all that awaits her in her life, on whether she’s—’ Feather Witch gestured angrily and clamped her mouth shut.
On whether she’s a virgin. But how could that be in question? She’s not yet married, and Edur do not break those rules. ‘We did not speak of this, you and I,’ Udinaas said. ‘I told you that you had to wait, because that is expected of me. You had no reason to think your message from Mayen was urgent. We are slaves, Feather Witch. We do not think for ourselves, and of the Edur and their ways we know next to nothing.’
Her eyes finally locked with his. ‘Yes.’ A moment, then, ‘Hannan Mosag meets with the Letherii tonight.’
‘I know.’
‘Buruk the Pale. Seren Pedac. Hull Beddict.’
Udinaas smiled, but the smile held no humour. ‘If you will, at whose feet shall the tiles be cast, Feather Witch?’
‘Among those three? Errant knows, Udinaas.’ As if sensing her own softening towards him, she scowled and straightened. ‘I will stand over there. Waiting.’
‘You do intend to cast the tiles tonight, don’t you?’
She admitted it with a terse nod, then walked to the corner of the longhouse front, to the very edge of the thickening rain.
Udinaas resumed stripping scales. He thought back to his own words earlier. Fallen. Who tracks our footsteps, I wonder? We who are the forgotten, the discounted and the ignored. When the path is failure, it is never willingly taken. The fallen. Why does my heart weep for them? Not them but us, for most assuredly I am counted among them. Slaves, serfs, nameless peasants and labourers, the blurred faces in the crowd—just a smear on memory, a scuffing of feet down the side passages of history.
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