The Thousandfold Thought

by R. Scott Bakker

  Hope … Such a strange word.

  Did the Consult know what they had created? How far could Golgotterath see?

  Augury, Memgowa had written, said more about men’s fear than about their future. But how could Achamian resist? He slept with the First Apocalypse—she was an old and taxing lover. How could he not daydream about the Second, about the terrible power slumbering in Anasûrimbor Kellhus, and the overthrow of his School’s ancient Enemy? There would be glory this time. Victory would not come at the cost of all that mattered.

  Min-Uroikas broken. Shauriatis, Mekeritrig, Aurang and Aurax—all of them destroyed! The No-God unresurrected. The Consult a memory stamped into the muck.

  Despite their opiate glamour, there was something terrifying about these thoughts. The Gods were perverse. Natter as they might, the priests knew nothing of their malicious whims. Perhaps they would see the world burn just to punish the hubris of one man. Nothing, Achamian had long ago decided, was quite so dangerous as boredom in the absence of scruples.

  And Kellhus, with his cryptic responses, only aggravated these apprehensions. Whenever Achamian asked him why he continued to march on Shimeh when the Fanim were no more than a distraction, he always said, “If I’m to succeed my brother, I must reclaim his house.”

  “But the war isn’t here!” Achamian once exclaimed in exasperation.

  Kellhus merely smiled—for it had become a kind of game at this point—and said, “But it must be, since the war is everywhere.”

  Never had mystery seemed so taxing.

  “Tell me,” Kellhus said one night following their Gnostic lessons, “why is it the future that plagues you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your questions always turn on what will happen, and very rarely on what I have already wrought.”

  Achamian shrugged, too weary to care much for anything beyond sleep. “Because I dream the future every night, I suppose … That, and I have the ear of a living prophet.”

  Kellhus laughed. “So it’s like hash and peaches,” he said, repeating the off-colour Nansur expression for irresistible combinations. “Even still, out of all the men who dare ask me questions, you’re entirely unique.”

  “How so?”

  “Most men ask after their souls.”

  Achamian could not speak. It seemed his heart could scarce beat, let alone his lungs breathe.

  “With me,” Kellhus continued, “the Tusk is rewritten, Akka.” A long, ransacking look. “Do you understand? Or do you simply prefer to think yourself damned?”

  Though he could muster no retort, Achamian knew.

  He preferred.

  During this period he cast the Cants of Calling no fewer than three times, though he was only able to report to Nautzera once. Apparently the old fool was having difficulty sleeping. The man was imperious and obsequious by turns, as though at once denying and recognizing the sudden shift in the balance of power between them. As a member of the Quorum, Nautzera formally possessed absolute authority over Achamian—he could even command his execution, if he thought the mission warranted such drastic measures. But in fact, the situation was quite the reverse. The Consult had been rediscovered, an Anasûrimbor had returned, and the Second Apocalypse was nigh. These were the very things that gave their School meaning, the very mandate from which they derived their name, and for the moment only one of their number—a discontent, no less—secured their connection to them. During one peevish and heady moment of their discussion, Achamian realized that in a sense he had become their de facto Grandmaster.

  Another unsettling parallel.

  As Achamian expected, the Mandate was in an uproar. Their agents around the Three Seas had been notified. The Quorum had organized an expedition that was set to leave for the Sacred Lands as soon as the ochala winds began—a thought that filled Achamian with more than a little trepidation. But otherwise, they really had no idea as to how they should proceed. Two thousand years of preparation, it seemed, had left them utterly unprepared.

  And it showed in Nautzera’s relentless questions, which ranged from the asinine to the disconcertingly shrewd. How was it the Anasûrimbor could see the skin-spies? Did he truly hail from Atrithau? Why did he continue marching against Shimeh? What had convinced Achamian of the man’s divinity? How fared his old grudges? Whom did he serve?

  To this last he answered, “Seswatha.”

  My brother.

  He understood Nautzera’s undertones well enough: the Quorum feared for his sanity, though given his new-found pre-eminence they had no doubt gilded their concerns in absolving explanations. Think of what the red whores did to him! Think of what he’s suffered! Achamian knew how it worked. Even now they concocted rationales to relieve him of the burden they themselves coveted. Men forever argued their desires, forever made what the Near Antique logicians called the Inference to the Purse, which, they claimed, had secured more conclusions for more men than mere truth ever could. As the Cironji were fond of saying, if it jingled, then it was true.

  Despite his obvious suspicion, Nautzera also voiced many ostensibly heartening sentiments. We would have you know you’re not alone in this, Akka. Your School stands with you. Only to follow them with sentiments such as: You’ve accomplished so much! Take pride, brother. Take pride!

  Which was to say without saying, You’ve done enough.

  Then came the admonitions, which swiftly became recriminations. Beware the Spires turned into You were told to set aside your vengeance! In the space of breaths, Take care in what you teach him became Many think you betray our School!

  When Achamian could tolerate no more, he finally said: The Warrior-Prophet has asked me to relay a message to the Quorum, Nautzera … Would you hear it?

  Achamian took the following silence for ethereal sputtering. They were powerless, and once again Nautzera had been reminded. Speak, the old sorcerer finally replied.

  He says: “You are players in this war, nothing more. The balance remains precarious. Recall what it is you dream. Recall the ancient errors. Do not act out of conceit or ignorance.”

  Another pause. Then, That’s it?

  That is—

  What? Does he imply that he possesses this war? Who is he compared with what we know, what we dream?

  All men were misers, Achamian reflected. They differed only in the objects of their obsession.

  He, Nautzera, is the Warrior-Prophet.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JOKTHA

  To indulge it is to breed it. To punish it is to feed it. Madness knows no bridle but the knife.

  —SCYLVENDI PROVERB

  When others speak, I hear naught but the squawking of parrots. But when I speak, it always seems to be the first time. Each man is the rule of the other, no matter how mad or vain.

  —HATATIAN, EXHORTATIONS

  Early Spring, 4112 Year-of-the-Tusk, Joktha

  Strange, this feeling. Curiously childlike, though when he racked his soul, Ikurei Conphas could find no resembling childhood memory. It was as though he’d been bruised beneath the skin, on his heart, or even his soul. A strange sense of fragility dogged his every look, his every word. He no longer trusted his face … It was as though certain muscles had been removed.

  “For some it is a defect carried from the womb …”

  What did that mean?

  The disarming of his men occurred beyond Caraskand’s walls, across a fallow millet field. There were no incidents, though Conphas very nearly snapped his teeth presiding over it. Columnaries who could sleep in formation suddenly found the most basic commands unintelligible. Several watches passed before all the various units were numbered and disarmed. When it was completed, his Columns, shorn of armour and insignia, looked little more than an assembly of half-starved beggars. Innumerable onlookers jeered from the walls.

  Riding along their forward lines, Nersei Proyas called on those who had given themselves to the Warrior-Prophet to abandon their ranks. “The nations of our birth,” he cried, “no longer comma
nd us. The customs of our fathers no longer command us. Our blood has ceased answering to what has come before … Destiny, not history, is our master!”

  There was a moment of accusatory indecision, then the first defectors began pressing their way through their Orthodox brothers. The traitors gathered behind Proyas, some defiant, others mute, and for a moment it seemed the formations would dissolve in a mass exodus. Conphas watched stone-faced, his innards churning. Then, as though a soundless horn had pealed, the defections stopped. Conphas could scarce believe his eyes: the ranks remained intact. Fewer than one in five had left their places. Fewer than one in five!

  Obviously vexed, Proyas spurred his horse down a lane between the formations, shouting, “You are Men of the Tusk!”

  “We are veterans of Kiyuth!” someone bawled in a drill-master’s voice.

  “We answer to the Lion!” another cried.

  “The Lion!”

  For a heartbeat Conphas could scarce believe his ears. Then, as one, the hard-hearted survivors of the Selial and Nasueret Columns roared their approval. The shouting continued, growing in desperation and fury. Someone threw a stone, which clipped Proyas’s helm. The Prince retreated, swearing in fury.

  Conphas raised his forearm in Imperial salute, and his men raised theirs in thundering reply. Tears clouded his eyes. The bruise of his indignities began to fade, especially when he heard Proyas declare the terms extended by the Warrior-Prophet.

  Conphas could scarcely conceal his glee. Apparently the Scarlet Spires had managed to relay a message to their mission in Momemn via Carythusal, and thence to Xerius. This meant that a forced march back across Khemema—which, perils aside, would have seriously compromised his timetable—was no longer necessary. Instead, he and the remnants of his Columns would be interned at Joktha, where they would await a fleet of transports that had been dispatched by his uncle.

  No matter who threw the number-sticks, it seemed, he owned the results.

  The following march along the River Oras to Joktha was uneventful. He spent much of the ride lost in thought, reviewing explanation after explanation. His staff followed at a discreet distance, watching with strange eyes, never daring to speak unless directly addressed. Periodically, he asked them questions.

  “Tell me, what man doesn’t aspire to godhead?”

  The consensus was, not surprisingly, absolute. All men, they said, sought to emulate the Gods, though only the most bold, the most honest, dared voice their ambitions. Of course, the fools simply mouthed what they thought he wanted to hear. Ordinarily this would have incensed Conphas—no command could tolerate sycophants—but his uncertainty made him curiously indulgent. After all, according to the so-called Warrior-Prophet, his was a marred soul, a deformation born of the womb. The famed Ikurei Conphas was not quite human.

  The strange thing was that he understood full well what the man had meant. His entire life, Conphas had known he was different. He never stammered in embarrassment. He never blushed in the presence of his betters. He never minced his words with his worries. All around him, men jerked this way and that, pulled by hooks that he knew only by reputation: love, guilt, duty … Though he understood how to use these words well enough, they meant nothing to him.

  And the strangest thing of all was that he didn’t care.

  Listening to his officers oblige his vanity, Conphas came to a powerful realization: his beliefs mattered nothing, so long as they delivered what he wanted. Why make logic the rule? Why make fact the ground? The only consistency that mattered, the only correspondence, was that between belief and desire. If it pleased him to think himself divine, then so he would think. And Conphas understood that just as he possessed the remarkable ability to do anything, no matter how merciful or bloodthirsty, he also possessed the ability to believe anything. The Warrior-Prophet could hang the ground vertical, make all things fall toward the horizon, and Conphas need only point sideways to restore the order of up and down.

  Perhaps the sorcerer’s tales of the Consult and the Second Apocalypse were true. Perhaps the Prince of Atrithau was some kind of saviour. Perhaps his soul was deformed. It simply did not matter if he did not care. So he told himself that his life was his witness, that ages had passed without producing a soul such as his, that the Whore of Fate lusted for him and him alone.

  “The fiend couldn’t attack you outright,” General Sompas ventured, “not without risking more bloodshed, more losses.” The caste-noble raised a hand against the sun to look directly at his Exalt-General. “So he heaped infamy on your name, kicked dirt across your fire, so that he alone might illumine the councils of the great.”

  Even though he knew the man simply flattered him, Conphas decided that he agreed. He told himself that the Prince of Atrithau was the most accomplished liar he’d ever encountered—a veritable Ajokli! He told himself that the Council had been a trap, the product of thorough rehearsal and painstaking premeditation.

  So he told himself, and so he believed. For Conphas, there was no difference between decision and revelation, manufacture and discovery. Gods made themselves the rule. And he was one of them.

  By the time he sighted Joktha’s staunch towers on the fourth day, the bruise had utterly vanished. The old iron smirk reassumed command of his expression. I, Conphas thought to himself, have willed this.

  Peering through the scattered hemlock trees, he idly surveyed his prison. Unlike most cities encountered by the Men of the Tusk, Joktha’s curtain walls largely ignored the advantages of terrain. The location had been chosen for its natural harbour—which was merely the largest on a coastline pocked with several such harbours. The landward fortifications formed a long, wandering line, grey as bands of iron in the sun, intersected by the small city’s single gate: the great barbican of the Tooth—so named because of the white tile adorning its exterior.

  From his vantage on the banks of the Oras, Conphas could see little of the city save for the hazy heights of what was called the Donjon Palace, the stronghold of the city’s masters. The surrounding countryside, though green and overgrown, betrayed the turmoil of the past season. Not a field had been planted. The orchards had been hacked to stumps. The encircling hills loomed dark, lined with ancient terracing and dotted with derelict villas. An abandoned Ceneian fort occupied a low promontory to the south, its stone so battered that it looked more a work of nature than of man. Only glimpses of sky through an intact window revealed its origins.

  The world seemed as blasted as it should.

  Suddenly they were riding through a loose stand of peppertrees, and Conphas found himself wondering at the wash of their sweet scent in the wind. Old Skauras had kept peppertrees, an entire grove of them, back when Conphas had been his hostage. It had been a notorious rendezvous, particularly for the seduction of slaves. He would need to hold on to such memories, Conphas realized, to preserve his resolve through the weeks to come. A captive had to always recall those he had mastered, lest he become one of them.

  Another of Grandmother’s lessons.

  The road they followed veered away from the wooded banks of the Oras, and Conphas led his great and miserable train across denuded and fallow ground, directly toward the Tooth. What looked like two or three hundred Conriyan knights awaited them, arrayed to either side of the dark gate. His jailers. He was heartened, even amused, by their lacklustre appearance and numbers.

  The sight of the Scylvendi leaning on his pommel, however, struck his amusement dead.

  The man wore his hauberk bare, save for the thick Scylvendi girdle about his waist. His black hair tangled about the folds of his mail hood, a complement to the Kianene scalps that fluttered from his horse’s bridle.

  Why him?

  The Prince of Atrithau was a fiend—a cunning, cunning fiend! Even still.

  Even still.

  “Exalt-General …”

  Scowling, Conphas turned to his General. “What is it, Sompas?”

  “How …” the man sputtered. His eyes flashed with scarcely restrained fury.
“How does he expect …”

  “The conditions are clear. I retain my freedom, so long as I remain within Joktha’s walls. I retain my staff, and all the slaves that service it. I’m heir to the Mantle, Sompas. To antagonize me is to antagonize the Empire. So long as they think me neutered, they’ll play their game by the rules.”

  “But …”

  Conphas scowled. Martemus had never hesitated with his questions, but then neither had he feared Conphas. Not really. Perhaps Sompas was the smarter man.

  “You think we’ve been humiliated?”

  “This is an outrage, Exalt-General! An outrage!”

  It was the Scylvendi, Conphas realized. The disarming had been salt enough, but to submit to a Scylvendi? He mused for a moment, surprised that he’d thought only of the implications and nothing of this slight. Had the past months sheared away so many of the old intuitions? “You’re mistaken, General. The Warrior-Prophet does us a favour.”

  “Favour? How …” Sompas trailed as though horrified by his own vehemence. The man was forever forgetting and remembering his place. Conphas found it quite amusing, actually.

  “Of course. He’s returned to me my most precious possession.”

  The fool could only stare.

  “My men. He’s returned to me my men. He’s even culled them for me.”

  “But we are disarmed.”

  Conphas looked back at the great train of beggars that was his army. They looked shadowy in the dust, at once dark and pale, like a legion of wraiths too insubstantial to threaten, let alone harm.

  Perfect.

  He glanced one last time at his General. “Hold on to your worries, Sompas …” He turned back to the Scylvendi, raising his hand in the mockery of a salute. “Your dismay,” he muttered askance, “lends the stamp of authenticity to these proceedings.”

  I’m forgetting something.

  The terrace was broad. The marmoreal paving stones were cracked here and there, as might be expected in a nation that suffered frost, but not in Enathpaneah. Even in the dark they were clearly visible, like rivers inked across maps. Cracks. No doubt the original residents had their slaves cast carpets over the offending stones, at least while entertaining guests. No Fanim Prince would tolerate such a defect. No Inrithi Lord.