‘Twilight, Watch and Rise,’ Deadsmell muttered. ‘Covered the whole night, haven’t ya? But damn me, the blood’s awful thin. Your skin’s the colour of clay – couldn’t have been more than a handful at the start, probably refugees hiding among the local savages. A pathetic handful, but the old titles remained. Guarding the Shores of Night.’
Yan Tovis licked her lips. ‘Just the Shore,’ she said.
Deadsmell smiled. ‘Lost the rest, did you?’
‘Corporal,’ Tavore said.
‘Our squad spent time on the right ship,’ Deadsmell explained. ‘Enough for me to do plenty of talking with our black-skinned guests. Twilight,’ he said to Yan Tovis, ‘that’s a Letherii word you use. Would you be surprised if I told you the word for “twilight”, in your original language, was “yenander”? And that “antovis” meant “night” or even “dark”? Your own name is your title, and I can see by your expression that you didn’t even know it. Yedan Derryg? Not sure what “derryg” is – we’ll need to ask Sandalath – but “yedanas” is “watch”, both act and title. Gods below, what wave was that? The very first? And why the Shore? Because that’s where newborn K’Chain Che’Malle came from, isn’t it? The ones not claimed by a Matron, that is.’ His hard eyes held on Yan Tovis a moment longer, then he settled back once more and closed his eyes.
Errant fend, is he going to do that all evening?
‘I do not know what he is talking about,’ Yan Tovis said, but it was clear that she had been rattled. ‘You are all foreigners – what can you know of the Shake? We are barely worth mentioning even in Letherii history.’
‘Twilight,’ said Tavore, ‘you are here to assert your title as Queen – will you also proclaim this island sovereign?’
‘Yes.’
‘And, in that capacity, do you seek to treat with us?’
‘The sooner I can negotiate you Malazans off this island, the happier I will be. And you, as well.’
‘Why is that?’
The mage named Widdershins spoke up, ‘Those refugees of hers, Adjunct. One big squall of witches and warlocks. Oh, squiggily stuff for the most part – fouling water and cursin’ us with the runs and boils and the like. Mind, they could get together and work nastier rituals…’
Shurq Elalle stared at the strange man. Squiggily?
‘Yes,’ said Yan Tovis. ‘They could become troublesome.’
Galt grunted. ‘So saving all their lives don’t count for nothing?’
‘It does, of course. But, like all things, even gratitude wanes in time, soldier. Especially when the deed hangs over us like an executioner’s axe.’
Galt’s scowl deepened, then he prodded Yedan Derryg with his sword. ‘I need to keep this here?’ he asked.
The bearded, helmed soldier seemed to chew on his reply before answering, ‘That is for my Queen to decide.’
‘Belay my last order,’ Yan Tovis said. ‘We can deal with Brullyg later.’
‘Like demon-spawn you will!’ Brullyg drew himself up. ‘Adjunct Tavore Paran, I hereby seek your protection. Since I have co-operated with you from the very start, the least you can do is keep me alive. Sail me to the mainland if that suits. I don’t care where I end up – just not in that woman’s clutches.’
Shurq Elalle smiled at the fool. Only everything you don’t deserve, Brullyg. Mercy? In the Errant’s fart, that’s where you’ll find that.
Tavore’s voice was suddenly cold. ‘Shake Brullyg, your assistance is duly noted, and you have our gratitude, although I do seem to recall something about this island’s imminent destruction beneath a sea of ice – which we prevented and continue to prevent. It may please the Queen that we do not intend to remain here much longer.’
Brullyg paled. ‘But what about that ice?’ he demanded. ‘If you leave—’
‘As the season warms,’ Tavore said, ‘the threat diminishes. Literally.’
‘So what holds you here?’ Yan Tovis demanded.
‘We seek a pilot to the Lether River. And Letheras.’
Silence again. Shurq Elalle, who had been gleefully observing Brullyg’s emotional dissolution, slowly frowned. Then looked round. All eyes were fixed on her. What had the Adjunct just said? Oh. The Lether River and Letheras.
And a pilot to guide their invasion fleet.
‘What’s that smell?’ Widdershins suddenly asked.
Shurq scowled. ‘The Errant’s fart, is my guess.’
Chapter Eighteen
The view thus accorded was a vista to answer my last day in the mortal world. The march down of hewn stones, menhirs and rygoliths showed in these unrelieved shadows the array of stolid faces, the underworld grimaces and hisses, bared teeth to threaten, the infinite rows of rooted gods and spirits stretching down the slope, across hill after hill, all the way, yes, to the limitless beyond sight, beyond the mirror of these misshapen, squinting eyes. And in these stalwart belligerents, who each in their day of eminence reached out clawed, grasping hands, the crimson touch of faith in all its demands on our time, our lives, our loves and our fears, were naught but mystery now, all recognition forgotten, abandoned to the crawl of remorseless change. Did their lost voices ride this forlorn wind? Did I tremble to the echo of blood beseechings, the tearing of young virgin flesh and the wonder of an exposed heart, the bemused last beats of insistent outrage? Did I fall to my knees before this ghastly succession of holy tyranny, as might any ignorant cowerer in crowded shadows?
The armies of the faithful were gone. They marched away in lifted waves of dust and ash. Priests and priestesses, the succumbers to hope who conveyed their convictions with the desperate thirst of demons hoarding fearful souls in their private meanings of wealth, they remained couched in the cracks of their idols, bits of crumbling bone lodged in the stone’s weaknesses, that and nothing more.
The view thus accorded, is the historian’s curse. Lessons endless on the pointlessness of games of intellect, emotion and faith.
The only worthwhile historians, I say, are those who conclude their lives in succinct acts of suicide.
Sixth Note, Volume II
Collected Suicide Notes
Historian Brevos (the Indecisive)
His mother had loved his hands. A musician’s hands. A sculptor’s hands. An artist’s hands. Alas, they had belonged on someone else, for Chancellor Triban Gnol was without such talents. Yet his fondness for his hands, tainted as it might be by the mockery of a physical gift without suitable expression, had grown over the years. They had, in a sense, become his own works of art. When lost in thought, he would watch them, their sinuous movements filled with grace and elegance. No artist could capture the true beauty of these pointless instruments, and although there was darkness to such appreciation, he had long since made peace with that.
Yet now, the perfection was gone. The healers had done what they could, but Triban Gnol could see the misshapen marring of once-flawless lines. He could still hear the snap of his finger bones, the betrayal of all that his mother had loved, had worshipped in their secret ways.
His father, of course, would have laughed. A sour grunt of a laugh. Well, not his true father, anyway. Simply the man who had ruled the household with thick-skulled murky cruelty. He had known that his wife’s cherished son was not his own. His hands were thick and clumsy – all the more viciously ironic in that artistic talent resided within those bludgeon tools. No, Triban Gnol’s once-perfect hands had come from his mother’s lover, the young (so young, then) consort, Turudal Brizad, a man who was anything but what he seemed to be. Anything, yes, and nothing as well.
She would have approved, he knew, of her son’s finding in the consort – his father – a perfect lover.
Such were the sordid vagaries of palace life in King Ezgara Diskanar’s cherished kingdom, all of which seemed aged now, exhausted, bitter as ashes in Triban Gnol’s mouth. The consort was gone, yet not gone. Touch withdrawn, probably for ever now, a consort whose existence had become as ephemeral as his timeless beauty.
Ep
hemeral, yes. As with all things that these hands had once held; as with all things that had passed through these long, slim fingers. He knew he was feeling sorry for himself. An old man, beyond all hopes of attraction for anyone. Ghosts crowded him, the array of stained hues that had once painted his cherished works of art, layer upon layer – oh, the only time they had been truly soaked in blood had been the night he had murdered his father. All the others had died somewhat removed from such direct effort. A host of lovers who had betrayed him in some way or other, often in the simple but terrible crime of not loving him enough. And now, like a crooked ancient, he took children to his bed, gagging them to silence their cries. Using them up. Watching his hands do their work, the failed and ever-failing artist in pursuit of some kind of perfection, yet destroying all that he touched.
The crowding ghosts were accusation enough. They did not need to whisper in his skull.
Triban Gnol watched his hands as he sat behind his desk, watched their hunt for beauty and perfection, lost now and for ever more. He broke my fingers. I can still hear—
‘Chancellor?’
He looked up, studied Sirryn, his newly favoured agent in the palace. Yes, the man was ideal. Stupid and unimaginative, he had probably tormented weaker children outside the tutor’s classroom, to compensate for the fog in his head that made every attempt at learning a pointless waste of time. A creature eager for faith, suckling at someone’s tit as if begging to be convinced that anything – absolutely anything – could taste like nectar.
‘It draws close to the eighth bell, sir.’
‘Yes.’
‘The Emperor—’
‘Tell me nothing of the Emperor, Sirryn. I do not need your observations on the Emperor.’
‘Of course. My apologies, Chancellor.’
He would see these hands before him painted crimson again, he now knew. In a most literal fashion. ‘Have you found Bruthen Trana?’
Sirryn’s gaze flickered, then fell to the floor. ‘No. He has truly vanished, sir.’
‘Hannan Mosag sent him away,’ Triban Gnol said, musing. ‘Back up to the Edur homeland, I suspect. To dig in the middens.’
‘The middens, sir?’
‘Heaps of garbage, Sirryn.’
‘But – why—’
‘Hannan Mosag did not approve of Bruthen’s precipitous stupidity. The fool very nearly launched a palace bloodbath. At the very least, sent away or not, Bruthen Trana has made it plain to all that such a bloodbath is imminent.’
‘But the Emperor cannot be killed. There can be no—’
‘That means nothing. It never has. I rule this empire. Besides, there is now a champion…’ Triban Gnol fell silent, then shook his head and slowly rose. ‘Come, Sirryn, it is time to tell the Emperor of the war we are now in.’
Outside in the corridor waited seven Letherii mages, called in from the four armies massing just west of Letheras. The Chancellor experienced a moment of regret that Kuru Qan was gone. And Enedictal and Nekal Bara, mages of impressive prowess. These new ones were but pale shadows, mostly supplanted by Hannan Mosag’s Cedance of Tiste Edur. Yet they would be needed, because there weren’t enough K’risnan left. And soon, the Chancellor suspected as he set out for the throne room, the others falling in behind him, soon there would be still fewer K’risnan.
The foreign enemy was deadly. They killed mages as a matter of course. Using explosive incendiaries, grenados. Able to somehow hide from the sorcery seeking them, they sprang deadly ambushes that rarely left behind a corpse of their own.
But the most important detail was one that Triban Gnol would keep from the Emperor. These foreigners were making a point of killing Tiste Edur. So, although Letherii soldiers were assembling to march west against the invaders, the Chancellor had prepared secret instructions to the commanders. He could see a way through all of this. For the Letherii, that is.
‘Have you readied your gear, Sirryn?’ he asked as they approached the throne room doors.
‘Yes,’ the soldier said bemusedly.
‘I need someone I can rely on with the armies, Sirryn, and that someone is you.’
‘Yes, Chancellor!’
Just convey my words to the letter, idiot. ‘Fail me, Sirryn, and do not bother coming back.’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘Get the doors.’
Sirryn rushed ahead.
Inside the throne room was an unexpected, unwelcome surprise. Crouched in a desultory heap of twisted bone and mangled flesh was Hannan Mosag and four of his K’risnan. As emblems of the foul sorcery feeding these Edur, there could be no better image to burn its bitter way into the Chancellor’s brain. His father would have appreciated the scene, would indeed have gathered huge chunks of marble from which he would hack out life-sized likenesses, as if in mimicking reality he could somehow discover what lay beneath it, the turgid currents of soul. A waste of time, as far as Triban Gnol was concerned. Besides, some things should never be revealed.
Hannan Mosag’s deformed face seemed to leer at the Chancellor as he strode past the Ceda and his four Tiste Edur warlocks, but there was fear in the Ceda’s eyes.
Sword-tip skittering on the cracked, scarred and gouged tiles, the Emperor of a Thousand Deaths shifted uneasily on his throne. ‘Chancellor,’ Rhulad rasped, ‘how good of you to come. And Letherii mages, a most impressive if useless gathering.’
Triban Gnol bowed, then said, ‘Allied with Hannan Mosag’s formidable Cedance, sire, our sorcerous prowess should be more than sufficient to rid ourselves of these foreign interlopers.’
Coins clicked on Rhulad’s face as he grimaced. ‘And the mages of the Borthen Brigade, were they sufficient? What of the Brigade itself, Chancellor? They have been mauled! Letherii mages, Letherii soldiers! Tiste Edur! Your foreign interlopers are carving through a damned army!’
‘Unanticipated,’ Triban Gnol murmured, eyes downcast, ‘that the imperial fleets in their search for champions should have so riled a distant empire. As to that empire’s belligerence, well, it seems almost unmatched; indeed, virtually insane, given the distances spanned to prosecute vengeance. Odd, as well, that no formal declaration of war was received – although, of course, it is doubtful our fleets ventured the same preceding the slaughter of that empire’s citizens. Perhaps,’ he added, glancing up, ‘negotiation remains possible. Some form of financial compensation, should we prove able to arrange a truce—’
Hacking laughter from Hannan Mosag. ‘You provincial fool, Gnol. Would that you were even capable of expanding that puny, melodramatic theatre of your mind, then mayhap humility would still that flapping tongue of yours.’
Brows raised, the Chancellor half turned to regard the Ceda. ‘And what secret knowledge of this enemy do you possess? And would you care to enlighten myself and your Emperor?’
‘This is not punitive,’ Hannan Mosag said. ‘Although it might seem that way. Empires get their noses bloodied all the time, and there were enough clashes at sea to deliver the message that this Malazan Empire was not to be trifled with. Our fleets were sent scurrying from their waters – Hanradi Khalag was brutally honest in his assessment. Malazan mages are more than a match for us, and for the Letherii.’
‘If not punitive,’ Triban Gnol asked, ‘then what?’
Hannan Mosag faced the Emperor. ‘Sire, my answer is best reserved for you alone.’
Rhulad bared his teeth. ‘I am not deceived by your games, Ceda. Speak.’
‘Sire—’
‘Answer him!’
‘I must not!’
Silence, in which Triban Gnol could hear naught but his own heart, thudding hard against his ribs. Hannan Mosag had made a terrible mistake here, victim of his own self-importance. Seeking to use this information of his as a means to crawl back to the Emperor’s side. But the effort…so clumsy!
‘Tell me,’ Rhulad said in a whisper, ‘why this must be our secret.’
‘Sire, this matter belongs among the Tiste Edur.’
‘Why?’
>
Ah. Because, dear Emperor, these Malazans, they are coming for you. Triban Gnol cleared his throat and clasped his hands together above his robe’s belt. ‘This is unnecessary,’ he said in his smoothest voice. ‘I am not so provincial as Hannan Mosag would like to believe. Emperor, your fleets set out across the world in search of champions, and so indeed they have gathered the best, most capable fighters from a host of peoples. What they could not have anticipated is that an entire empire would proclaim itself a champion. And set itself against you, sire. Our reports have made it clear,’ he added, ‘that the enemy is converging on Letheras, on this very city.’ He regarded Hannan Mosag as he added, ‘They are – and yes, Ceda, I see the truth plain on your face – they are coming for the Emperor of a Thousand Deaths. Alas, I do not expect they will elect to challenge him one soldier at a time.’
Rhulad seemed to have shrunk back into the throne. His red-shot eyes were wide with terror. ‘They must be stopped,’ he said in a trembling hiss. ‘You will stop them. You, Hannan Mosag! And you, Chancellor! Our armies must stop them!’
‘And so we shall,’ Triban Gnol said, bowing again, before straightening and glancing across at the Ceda. ‘Hannan Mosag, for all of our…disputes, do not for a moment fear that we Letherii will abandon our Emperor to these foreign dogs. We must unite, you and I, and bring all that we have together, and so annihilate these Malazans. Such audacity must be punished, thoroughly. Truly united, the Tiste Edur and the Letherii cannot be defeated.’
‘Yes,’ said Rhulad. ‘That is true. Array the armies in an unbroken line outside the city – it is clear, isn’t it, that they do not have the numbers to challenge such a thing?’
‘Sire,’ Triban Gnol ventured, ‘perhaps it would be best to advance a little distance nonetheless. Westward. In that way we can, if need be, assemble our reserves in case there is a breach. Two lines of defence, sire, to make certain.’
‘Yes,’ Rhulad said, ‘those tactics are sound. How far away are these Malazans? How long do we have?’
The Malazan Empire Page 651