‘Sit down, Fist!’
Shocked by the order, he sank back, looking defeated, bewildered.
Hood knew, Lostara Yil sympathized.
‘Kolanse,’ said Tavore. ‘According to Letherii writings, an isolated confederation of kingdoms. Nothing special, nothing particularly unique, barring a penchant for monotheism. For the past decade, suffering a terrible drought, sufficient to cripple the civilization.’ She paused. ‘High Mage?’
Quick Ben rubbed vigorously at his face, and then said, ‘The Crippled God came down in pieces. Everyone knows that. Most of him, it’s said, fell on Korel, which is what gave that continent its other name: Fist. Other bits fell . . . elsewhere. Despite the damage done to Korel, that was not where the true heart of the god landed. No, it spun away from the rest of him. It found its very own continent . . .’
‘Kolanse,’ said Keneb. ‘It landed in Kolanse.’
Tavore said, ‘I mentioned that penchant for monotheism—it is hardly surprising, given what must have been a most traumatic visitation by a god—the visitor who never went away.’
‘So,’ said Keneb through clenched teeth, ‘we are marching to where the gods are converging. Gods that intend to chain the Crippled God one final time. But we refuse to be anyone’s weapon. If that is so, then what in Hood’s name will we be doing there?’
‘I think,’ Quick Ben croaked, ‘we will have the answer to that when we get there.’
Keneb groaned and slumped back down, burying his face in his hands.
‘Kolanse has been usurped,’ said Tavore. ‘Not in the name of the Crippled God, but in the name of justice. Justice of a most terrible kind.’
Quick Ben said, ‘Ahkrast Korvalain.’
Sinn jumped as if stung, then huddled down once more.
Keneb’s hands dropped away, though the impressions of his fingertips remained, mottling his face. ‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘The Elder Warren, Fist,’ said the Adjunct, ‘of the Forkrul Assail.’
‘They are preparing the gate,’ Quick Ben said, ‘and for that, they need lots of blood. Lots.’
Lostara finally spoke. She could not help it. She knew more about the cult of Shadow than anyone here, possibly excepting Quick Ben. ‘Adjunct, you say we march at the behest of no god. Yet, I suspect, Shadowthrone will be most pleased when we strike for Kolanse, when we set out to destroy that unholy gate.’
‘Thank you,’ Tavore said. ‘I take it we now comprehend High Mage Quick Ben’s angst. His fear that, somehow, we are playing into Shadowthrone’s hands.’
I think we are.
‘Even when he was Emperor,’ said Keneb, ‘he learned to flinch from the sting of justice.’
‘The T’lan Imass occupation of Aren,’ said Blistig, nodding.
Tavore flicked a glance at Blistig, and then said, ‘Though we may share an enemy it does not mean we are allies.’
Adjunct, that is too brazen. Fiddler’s reading was anything but subtle. But she was awestruck. By what Tavore had done here. Something blistered in this chamber now, touching like fire everyone present—even Blistig. Even that whelp of nightmare, Sinn. If a god showed its face in this chamber at this moment, six fists would vie to greet it.
‘What is the gate for?’ Lostara asked. ‘Adjunct? Do you know that gate’s purpose?’
‘The delivery of justice,’ Quick Ben offered in answer. ‘Or so one presumes.’
‘Justice against whom?’
The High Mage shrugged. ‘Us? The gods? Kings and queens, priests, emperors and tyrants?’
‘The Crippled God?’
Quick Ben’s grin was feral. ‘They’re sitting right on top of him.’
‘Then the gods might well stand back and let the Forkrul Assail do their work for them.’
‘Not likely—you can’t suck power from a dead god, can you?’
‘So, we could either find ourselves the weapon in the hands of the gods after all, or, if we don’t cooperate, trapped between two bloodthirsty foes.’ Even as she spoke those words, Lostara regretted them. Because, once said, everything points to . . . points to the worst thing imaginable. Oh, Tavore, now I understand your defiance when it comes to how history will judge us. And your words that what we will do will be unwitnessed—that was less a promise, I think now. More like a prayer.
‘It is time,’ the Adjunct said, collecting her gloves, ‘to speak with the King. You can run away now, Sinn. The rest of you are with me.’
______
Brys Beddict needed a moment alone, and so he held back when the Queen entered the throne room, and moved a few paces away from the two helmed guards flanking the entrance. The Errant was on his mind, a one-eyed nemesis clutching a thousand daggers. He could almost feel the god’s cold smile, icy and chilling as a winter breath on the back of his neck. Inside and outside, in front of him and behind him, it made no difference. The Errant passed through every door, stood on both sides of every barrier. The thirst for blood was pervasive, and Brys felt trapped like a fly in amber.
If not for a Tarthenal’s mallet fist, Brys Beddict would be dead.
He was still shaken.
Since his return to the mortal world, he had felt strangely weightless, as if nothing in this place could hold him down, could keep him firmly rooted to the earth. The palace, which had once been the very heart of his life, his only future, now seemed but a temporary respite. This was why he had petitioned his brother to be given command of the Letherii army—even in the absence of enemies he could justify travelling out from the city, to wander to the very border marches of the kingdom.
What was he looking for? He did not know. Would he—could he—find it in the reaches beyond the city’s walls? Was something out there awaiting him? Such thoughts were like body-blows to his soul, for they sent him reeling back—into brother Hull’s shadow.
Perhaps he haunts me now. His dreams, his needs, slipping like veils in front of my eyes. Perhaps he has cursed me with his own thirst—too vast to be appeased in a single life—no, he will now use mine.
Ungracious fears, these. Hull Beddict was dead. The only thing that haunted Brys now was his memories of the man, and they belonged to no one else, did they?
Let me lead the army. Let us march into unknown lands—leave me free, brother, to try again, to deliver unto strangers a new meaning to the name ‘Letherii’—not one foul with treachery, not one to become a curse word to every nation we encounter.
Let me heal Hull’s wounds.
He wondered if Tehol would understand any of that, and then snorted—the sound startling both guards, their eyes shifting to him and then away again. Of course Tehol would understand. All too well, in fact, on levels far surpassing Brys’s paltry, shallow efforts. And he would say something offhand, that would cut deep enough to bite bone—or he might not—Tehol was never as cruel as Brys dreaded. And what odd dynamic is that? Only that he’s too smart for me . . . and if I had his wits, why, I would use them with all the deadly skill I use when wielding a sword.
Hull had been the dreamer, and his dreams were the kind that fed on his own conscience before all else. And see how that blinded him? See how that destroyed him?
Tehol tempered whatever dream he held. It helped having an Elder God at his side, and a wife who was probably a match to Tehol’s own genius. It helps, too, I suppose, that he’s half mad.
What of Brys, then? This brother least of the three? Taking hold of a sword and making it a standard, an icon of adjudication. A weapon master stood before two worlds: the complex one within the weapon’s reach and the simplified one beyond it. I am Hull’s opposite, in all things.
So why do I now yearn to follow in his steps?
He had been interred within stone upon the unlit floor of an ocean. His soul had been a single thread woven into a skein of forgotten and abandoned gods. How could that not have changed him? Perhaps his new thirst was their thirst. Perhaps it had nothing whatsoever to do with Hull Beddict.
Perhaps, indeed, this was the E
rrant’s nudge.
Sighing, he faced the doors to the throne room, adjusted his weapon belt, and then strode into the chamber.
Brother Tehol, King of Lether, was in the midst of a coughing fit. Janath was at his side, thumping on his back. Bugg was pouring water into a goblet, which he then held at the ready.
Ublala Pung stood before the throne. He swung round at Brys’s approach, revealing an expression of profound distress. ‘Preda! Thank the spirits you’re here! Now you can arrest and execute me!’
‘Ublala, why would I do that?’
‘Look, I have killed the King!’
But Tehol was finally recovering, sufficiently to take the goblet Bugg proffered. He drank down a mouthful, gasped, and then sat back on the throne. In a rasp he said, ‘It’s all right, Ublala, you’ve not killed me . . . yet. But that was a close one.’
The Tarthenal whimpered and Brys could see that the huge man was moments from running away.
‘The King exaggerates,’ said Janath. ‘Be at ease, Ublala Pung. Welcome, Brys, I was wondering where you’d got to, since I could have sworn you were on my heels only a few moments ago.’
‘What have I missed?’
Bugg said, ‘Ublala Pung was just informing us of, among other things, something he had forgotten. A matter most, well, extraordinary. Relating to the Toblakai warrior, Karsa Orlong.’
‘The slayer of Rhulad Sengar has returned?’
‘No, we are blessedly spared that, Brys.’ And then Bugg hesitated.
‘It turns out,’ explained Janath—as Tehol quickly drank down a few more mouthfuls of water—‘that Karsa Orlong set a charge upon Ublala Pung, one that he had until today entirely forgotten, distracted as he has been of late by the abuses heaped upon him by his fellow guards.’
‘I’m sorry—what abuses?’
Tehol finally spoke. ‘We can get to that later. The matter may no longer be relevant, in any case, since it seems Ublala must leave us soon.’
Brys squinted at the abject Tarthenal. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To the islands, Preda.’
‘The islands?’
Ublala nodded solemnly. ‘I must gather all the Tarthenal and make an army. And then we have to go to find Karsa Orlong.’
‘An army? Why would Karsa Orlong want an army of Tarthenal?’
‘To destroy the world!’
‘Of course,’ interjected Bugg, ‘by my last census there are fourteen hundred and fifty-one Tarthenal now settled on the islands. One half of them not yet adults—under seventy years of age by Tarthenal reckoning. Ublala’s potential “army” will amount to around five hundred adults of reasonable maturity and dubious martial prowess.’
‘To destroy the world!’ Ublala shouted again. ‘I need a boat! A big one!’
‘These sound like heady matters,’ Brys said after a moment, ‘which require more discussion. For the moment—forgive me, Ublala—we are soon to entertain the Malazan high command. Should we not begin discussing that impending meeting?’
‘What’s to discuss?’ Tehol asked. He scowled suddenly down at his cup. ‘Gods below, I’ve been drinking water! Bugg, are you trying to poison me or something? Wine, man, wine! Oops, sorry, Brys, that was insensitive of me. Beer, man, beer!’
‘The Malazans will probably petition us,’ Brys said. ‘For some unfathomable reason, they intend to march into the Wastelands. They will seek to purchase writs of passage—which will involve diplomatic efforts on our part—as well as sufficient supplies to satisfy their troops. King Tehol, I admit to having little confidence with respect to those writs of passage—we all know the inherent duplicity of the Bolkando and the Saphii—’
‘You want to provide the Malazans with an escort,’ said Janath.
‘A big one!’ shouted Ublala, as if unaware that the conversation in the throne room had moved on. ‘I want Captain Shurq Elalle. Because she’s friendly and she likes sex. Oh, and I need money for food and chickens, too, and boot polish to make my army. Can I get all that?’
‘Of course you can!’ replied Tehol with a bright smile. ‘Chancellor, see to it, won’t you?’
‘This very day, King,’ said Bugg.
‘Can I go now?’ Ublala asked.
‘If you like.’
‘Sire,’ began Brys, in growing exasperation, ‘I think—’
‘Can I stay?’ Ublala asked.
‘Naturally!’
‘Sire—’
‘Dear brother,’ said Tehol, ‘have you gleaned no hint of my equanimity? Of course you can escort the Malazans, although I think your chances with the Adjunct are pretty minimal, but who am I to crush hopeless optimism under heel? I mean, would I even be married to this lovely woman at my side here, if not for her seemingly unrealistic hopes?’ Bugg delivered a new mug to the King, this one filled with beer. ‘Bugg, thank you! Do you think Ublala’s worked up a thirst?’
‘Undoubtedly, sire.’
‘Then pour away!’
‘Not away!’ cried Ublala. ‘I want some!’
‘It would give me an opportunity to observe the Malazan military in the field, sire,’ explained Brys, ‘and to learn what I can—’
‘Nobody’s objecting, Brys!’
‘I am simply stating the accurate reasons justifying my desire—’
‘Desires should never be justified,’ Tehol said, wagging a finger. ‘All you end up doing is illuminating the hidden reasons by virtue of their obvious absence. Now, brother, you happen to be the most eligible Beddict—legitimately eligible, I mean—so why not cast wide your amorous net? Even if, by some peculiar quirk on your part, the Adjunct is not to your tastes, there is always her aide—what was that foreign-sounding name again, Bugg?’
‘Blistig.’
Tehol frowned. ‘Really?’
Brys rubbed at his brow, and at an odd splashing sound glanced over at Ublala and saw the man guzzling from an enormous pitcher, a brown pool spreading round his bare feet. ‘Her name is Lostara Yil,’ he said, unaccountably weary, almost despondent.
‘Then,’ demanded Tehol, ‘who is Blistig, Bugg?’
‘Sorry, one of the Fists—uhm, Atri-Predas—in her command. My mistake.’
‘Is he pretty?’
‘I’m sure someone exists in the world who might think so, sire.’
‘Tehol,’ said Brys, ‘we need to discuss the motivations of these Malazans. Why the Wastelands? What are they looking for? What do they hope to achieve? They are an army, after all, and armies exist to wage wars. Against whom? The Wastelands are empty.’
‘It’s no use,’ said Janath. ‘I’ve already tried addressing this with my husband.’
‘A most enlightening discussion, dear wife, I assure you.’
She regarded him with raised brows. ‘Oh? That hardly describes my conclusions.’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Tehol asked, gaze flicking from Janath to Brys, to Bugg and hence to Ublala, and then back to Brys once more—and then, with a slight widening of his eyes, back again to the Tarthenal who had just consumed most of the contents of the pitcher and was belching golden froth that ran down his chin. Noting the King’s attention, Ublala Pung wiped his chin and smiled.
‘Isn’t what obvious?’ Janath asked.
‘Huh? Oh, they’re not going to the Wastelands, my Queen, they’re going to Kolanse. They’re just passing through the Wastelands since they no longer have the transports to get to Kolanse by sea. Nor have we the ships to accommodate them, alas.’
‘What do they seek in Kolanse?’ Brys asked.
Tehol shrugged. ‘How should I know? Do you think, maybe, we should ask them?’
‘I would wager,’ said Bugg, ‘they’ll rightly tell us it’s none of our business.’
‘Is it?’
‘Sire, your question encourages me to dissemble, and I’d rather not do that.’
‘Entirely understandable, Bugg. Let’s leave it there, then. Are you unwell, Ublala Pung?’
The giant was frowning down at his feet. ‘Did
I piddle myself?’
‘No, that’s beer.’
‘Oh. That’s good, then. But . . .’
‘Yes, Ublala?’
‘Where are my boots?’
Janath reached out and stayed her husband’s hand as he was lifting his goblet to drink. ‘Not again, husband. Ublala, you informed us earlier that you fed your boots to the other guards in your billet.’
‘Oh.’ Ublala belched, wiped foam from his nose, and then smiled again. ‘I remember now.’
Tehol blessed his wife with a grateful look and then said, ‘That reminds me, did we send healers to the palace barracks?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘Well done, Bugg. Now then, since I hear the Malazan entourage on its way in the hallway beyond: Brys, how big do you want to make your escort?’
‘Two brigades and two battalions, sire.’
‘Is that reasonable?’ Tehol asked, looking round.
‘I have no idea,’ Janath replied. ‘Bugg?’
‘I’m no general, my Queen.’
‘We need an expert opinion, then,’ said Tehol. ‘Brys?’
Nothing good was going to come of this, Bottle knew, but he also recognized the necessity and so walked uncomplaining in Ebron’s company as they cut across the round with its heaving, shouting throng locked in a frenzy of buying and selling and consuming—like seabirds flocking to a single rock day after day, reliving the same rituals that built up a life in layers of . . . well, don’t hedge now . . . of guano. Of course, one man’s shit was another man’s . . . whatever.
There was a hidden privilege in being a soldier, he decided. He had been pushed outside normal life, protected from the rigours of meeting most basic needs—food, drink, clothes, shelter: all of these were provided to him in some form or other. And family—don’t forget that. All in exchange for the task of delivering terrible violence; only every now and then to be sure, for such things could not be sustained over long periods of time without crushing the capacity for feeling, without devouring a mortal’s humanity.
In that context, Bottle reconsidered—with a dull spasm of anguish deep inside—maybe the exchange wasn’t that reasonable after all. Less a privilege than a burden, a curse. Seeing the faces in this crowd flashing past, a spinning, whirling cascade of masks—each a faintly stunning alternative to his own—he felt himself not simply pushed outside, but estranged. Leaving him bemused, even perturbed, as he witnessed their seemingly mindless, pointless activities, only to find himself envious of these shallow, undramatic lives—wherein the only need was satiation. Possessions, stuffed bellies, expanding heaps of coin.
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