They stared for a moment longer, then broke. Fled past Udinaas—
—and the scene changed.
Battered bedrock, pulverized stone, roiling mists. Two tall figures appeared, dragging between them a third one – a woman, unconscious or dead, long dark brown hair unbound and trailing on the ground. Udinaas flinched upon recognizing one of the walking figures – that blinding armour, the iron-clad boots and silver cloak, the helmed face. Menandore. Sister Dawn. He sought to flee – she could not avoid seeing him – but found himself frozen in place.
He recognized the other woman as well, from fearfully carved statues left half buried in loam in the forest surrounding the Hiroth village. Piebald skin, grey and black, making her hard face resemble a war-mask. A cuirass of dulled, patchy iron. Chain and leather vambraces and greaves, a full-length cape of sealskin billowing out behind her. Dapple, the fickle sister. Sukul Ankhadu.
And he knew, then, the woman they dragged between them. Dusk, Sheltatha Lore. Scabandari’s most cherished daughter, the Protectress of the Tiste Edur.
The two women halted, releasing the limp arms of the one between them, who dropped to the gritty bedrock as if dead. Two sets of wide, epicanthic Tiste eyes seemed to fix on Udinaas.
Menandore was the first to speak. ‘I didn’t expect to find you here.’
As Udinaas struggled to find a response to that, a man’s voice at his side said, ‘What have you done to her?’
The slave turned to see another Tiste, standing within an arm’s reach from where Udinaas sat on the stool. Taller than the women facing him, he was wearing white enamelled armour, blood-spattered, smudged and scarred by sword-cuts. A broken helm was strapped to his right hip. His skin was white as ivory. Dried blood marked the left side of his face with a pattern like branched lightning. Fire had burned most of his hair away, and the skin of his pate was cracked, red and oozing.
Twin scabbarded longswords were slung on his back, the grips and pommels jutting up behind his broad shoulders.
‘Nothing she didn’t deserve,’ Menandore replied in answer to the Tiste man’s question.
The other woman bared her teeth. ‘Our dear uncle had ambitions for this precious cousin of ours. Yet did he come when she screamed her need?’
The battle-scarred man stepped past the slave’s position, his attention on the body of Sheltatha Lore. ‘This is a dread mess. I would wash my hands of it – all of it.’
‘But you can’t,’ Menandore said with strange glee. ‘We’re all poisoned by the mother’s blood, after all—’
Sukul Ankhadu swung to her sister with the words, ‘Her daughters have fared worse than poison! There is nothing balanced to this shattering of selves. Look at us! Spiteful bitches – Tiam’s squalling heads rearing up again and again, generation after generation!’ She stabbed a finger at the Tiste man. ‘And what of you, Father? That she-nightmare sails out on feathered wings from the dark of another realm, legs spread oh so wide and inviting, and were you not first in line? Pure Osserc, First Son of Dark and Light, so precious! Yet there you were, weaving your blood with that whore – tell us, did you proclaim her your sister before or after you fucked her?’
If the venom of her words had any effect, there was no outward sign. The one named Osserc simply smiled and looked away. ‘You shouldn’t speak of your mother that way, Sukul. She died giving birth to you, after all—’
‘She died giving birth to us all!’ Sukul Ankhadu’s raised hand closed into a fist that seemed to twist the air. ‘Dies, and is reborn. Tiam and her children. Tiam and her lovers. Her thousand deaths, and yet nothing changes!’
Menandore spoke in a calm tone. ‘And who have you been arguing with, Osserc?’
Osserc scowled. ‘Anomander. He got the better of me this time. Upon consideration,’ he continued after a moment, ‘not surprising. The weapon of anger often proves stronger than cold reason’s armour.’ Then he shrugged. ‘Even so, I delayed him long enough—’
‘To permit Scabandari’s escape?’ Menandore asked. ‘Why? Your kin or not, he’s shown himself for what he truly is – a treacherous murderer.’
Osserc’s brows rose mockingly and he regarded the unconscious woman lying on the ground between his daughters. ‘Presumably, your cousin who’s clearly suffered at your hands is not dead, then. Accordingly, I might point out that Scabandari did not murder Silchas Ruin—’
‘True,’ Sukul snapped, ‘something far worse. Unless you think eating mud for eternity is a preferable fate.’
‘Spare me the outrage,’ Osserc sighed. ‘As you so often note, dear child, treachery and betrayal is our extended family’s most precious trait, or, if not precious, certainly its most popular one. In any case, I am done here. What do you intend doing with her?’
‘We think Silchas might enjoy the company.’
Osserc stiffened. ‘Two draconean Ascendants in the same grounds? You sorely test that Azath House, daughters.’
‘Will Scabandari seek to free her?’ Menandore asked.
‘Scabandari is in no condition to free anyone,’ Osserc replied, ‘including himself.’
The two women were clearly startled by this. After a moment, Menandore asked, ‘Who managed that?’
The man shrugged. ‘Does it matter? It was Scabandari’s conceit to think this world’s gods had not the power to oppose him.’ He paused then to eye his daughters speculatively, and said, ‘Heed that as a warning, my dears. Mother Dark’s first children were spawned without need of any sire. And, despite what Anomander might claim, they were not Tiste Andii.’
‘We did not know this,’ Menandore said.
‘Well, now you do. Tread softly, children.’
Udinaas watched the tall figure walk away, then the slave gasped as Osserc’s form blurred, shifted, unfolded to find a new shape. Huge, glittering gold and silver scales rippling as wings spread wide. A surge of power, and the enormous dragon was in the air.
Sukul Ankhadu and Menandore stared after him, until the dragon dwindled to a gleaming ember in the heavy sky, winked out and was gone.
Sukul grunted, then said, ‘I’m surprised Anomander didn’t kill him.’
‘Something binds them, sister, of which not we nor anyone else knows a thing about. I am certain of it.’
‘Perhaps. Or it might be something far simpler.’
‘Such as?’
‘They would the game continue,’ Sukul said with a tight smile. ‘And the pleasure would pale indeed were one to kill the other outright.’
Menandore’s eyes fell to the motionless form of Sheltatha Lore. ‘This one. She took a lover from among this world’s gods, did she not?’
‘For a time. Begetting two horrid little children.’
‘Horrid? Daughters, then.’
Sukul nodded. ‘And their father saw that clearly enough from the very start, for he named them appropriately.’
‘Oh? And what were those names, sister?’
‘Envy and Spite.’
Menandore smiled. ‘This god – I think I would enjoy meeting him one day.’
‘It is possible he would object to what we plan to do with Sheltatha Lore. Indeed, it is possible that even now he seeks our trail, so that he might prevent our revenge. Accordingly, as Osserc is wont to say, we should make haste.’
Udinaas watched as the two women moved apart, leaving their unconscious cousin where she lay.
Menandore faced her sister across the distance. ‘Sheltatha’s lover. That god – what is his name?’
Sukul’s reply seemed to come from a vast distance, ‘Draconus.’
Then the two women veered into dragons, of a size almost to match that of Osserc. One dappled, one blindingly bright.
The dappled creature lifted into the air, slid in a banking motion until she hovered over Sheltatha Lore’s body. A taloned claw reached down and gathered her in its grasp.
Then the dragon rose higher to join her sister. And away they wheeled. Southward.
The scene quickly faded before
the slave’s eyes.
And, once more, Udinaas was sitting outside the Sengar longhouse, a half-scaled fish in his red, cracked hands, its facing eye staring up at him with that ever-disturbing look of witless surprise – an eye that he had seen, with the barest of variations, all morning and all afternoon, and now, as dusk closed round him, it stared yet again, mute and emptied of life. As if what he held was not a fish at all.
Just eyes. Dead, senseless eyes… Yet even the dead accuse.
‘You have done enough, slave.’
Udinaas looked up.
Uruth and Mayen stood before him. Two Tiste women, neither dappled, neither blindingly bright. Just shades in faint, desultory variation.
Between them and a step behind, Feather Witch stood foremost among the attending slaves. Large eyes filled with feverish warnings, fixed on his own.
Udinaas bowed his head to Uruth. ‘Yes, mistress.’
‘Find a salve for those hands,’ Uruth said.
‘Thank you, mistress.’
The procession filed past, into the longhouse.
Udinaas stared down at the fish. Studied that eye a moment longer, then dug it out with his thumb.
****
Seren Pedac stood on the beach in the rain, watching the water in its ceaseless motion, the way the pelting rain transformed the surface into a muricated skin, grey and spider-haired as it swelled shoreward to break hissing, thin and sullen on the smooth stones.
Night had arrived, crawling out from the precious shadows. The dark hours were upon them all, a shawl of silence settling on the village behind her. She was thinking of the Letherii slaves.
Her people seemed particularly well suited to surrender. Freedom was an altar supplicants struggled to reach all their lives, clawing the smooth floor until blood spattered the gleaming, flawless stone, yet the truth was it remained for ever beyond the grasp of mortals. Even as any sacrifice was justified in its gloried name. For all that, she knew that blasphemy was a hollow crime. Freedom was no god, and if it was, and if it had a face turned upon its worshippers, its expression was mocking. A slave’s chains stole something he or she had never owned.
The Letherii slaves in this village owed no debt. They served recognizable needs, and were paid in food and shelter. They could marry. Produce children who would not inherit the debts of their parents. The portions of their day allotted their tasks did not progress, did not devour ever more time from their lives. In all, the loss of freedom was shown to be almost meaningless to these kin of hers.
A child named Feather Witch. As if a witch from the distant past, awkwardly dressed, stiff and mannered as all outdated things appear to be, had stepped out from the histories. Womb-chosen caster of the tiles, who practised her arts of divination for the service of her community, rather than for the coins in a leather pouch. Perhaps the name had lost its meaning among these slaves. Perhaps there were no old tiles to be found, no solemn nights when fates gathered into a smudged, crack-laced path, the dread mosaic of destiny set out before one and all – with a hood-eyed woman-child overseeing the frightful ritual.
She heard the crunch of stones from near the river mouth and turned to see a male slave crouching down at the waterline. He thrust his hands into the cold, fresh water as if seeking absolution, or ice-numbing escape.
Curious, Seren Pedac walked over.
The glance he cast at her was guarded, diffident. ‘Acquitor,’ he said, ‘these are fraught hours among the Edur. Words are best left unspoken.’
‘We are not Edur, however,’ she replied, ‘are we?’
He withdrew his hands, and she saw that they were red and swollen. ‘Emurlahn bleeds from the ground in these lands, Acquitor.’
‘None the less, we are Letherii.’
His grin was wry. ‘Acquitor, I am a slave.’
‘I have been thinking on that. Slavery. And freedom from debt. How do you weigh the exchange?’
He settled back on his haunches, water dripping from his hands, and seemed to study the clear water swirling past. The rain had fallen off and mist was edging out from the forest. ‘The debt remains, Acquitor. It governs every Letherii slave among the Edur, yet it is a debt that can never be repaid.’
She stared down at him, shocked. ‘But that is madness!’
He smiled once more. ‘By such things we are all measured. Why did you imagine that mere slavery would change it?’
Seren was silent for a time, studying the man crouched at the edge of the flowing water. Not at all unhandsome, yet, now that she knew, she could see his indebtedness, the sure burden upon him, and the truth that, for him, for every child he might sire, there would be no absolving the stigma. It was brutal. It was… Letherii. ‘There is a slave,’ she said, ‘who is named Feather Witch.’
He seemed to wince. ‘Yes, our resident caster of the tiles.’
‘Ah. I had wondered. How many generations has that woman’s family dwelt as a slave among the Edur?’
‘A score, perhaps.’
‘Yet the talent persisted? Within this world of Kurald Emurlahn? That is extraordinary.’
‘Is it?’ He shrugged and rose. ‘When you and your companions are guest to Hannan Mosag this night, Feather Witch will cast.’
Sudden chill rippled through Seren Pedac. She drew a deep breath and released it slow and heavy. ‘There is… risk, doing such a thing.’
‘That is known, Acquitor.’
‘Yes, I see now that it would be.’
‘I must return to my tasks,’ he said, not meeting her eyes.
‘Of course. I hope my delaying you does not yield grief.’
He smiled yet again, but said nothing.
She watched him walk up the strand.
****
Buruk the Pale stood wrapped in his rain cape before the Nerek fire. Hull Beddict was nearby, positioned slightly behind the merchant, hooded and withdrawn.
Seren walked to Buruk’s side, studied the struggling flames from which smoke rose to hang smeared, stretched and motionless above them. The night’s chill had seeped into the Acquitor’s bones and the muscles of her neck had tightened in response. A headache was building behind her eyes.
‘Seren Pedac,’ Buruk sighed. ‘I am unwell.’
She heard as much in his weak, shaky voice. ‘You ran long and far,’ she said.
‘Only to find myself standing still, here before a sickly fire. I am not so foolish as to be unaware of my crimes.’
Hull grunted behind them. ‘Would those be crimes already committed, or those to come, Buruk the Pale?’
‘The distinction is without meaning,’ the merchant replied. ‘Tonight,’ he said, straightening himself, ‘we shall be made guests of Hannan Mosag. Are you both ready?’
‘The formality,’ Seren said, ‘is the least of what this meeting portends, Buruk. The Warlock King intends to make his position unambiguous. We will hear a warning, which we are expected to deliver to the delegation when it arrives.’
‘Intentions are similarly without relevance, Acquitor. I am without expectations, whereas one of us three is consumed by nothing else. Rehearsed statements, dire pronouncements, all await this fell visit.’ Buruk swung his head to regard Hull Beddict. ‘You still think like a child, don’t you? Clay figurines sunk to their ankles in the sand, one here, one there, standing just so. One says this, the other says that, then you reach down and rearrange them accordingly. Scenes, vistas, stark with certainty. Poor Hull Beddict, who took a knife to his heart so long ago that he twists daily to confirm it’s still there.’
‘If you would see me as a child,’ the huge man said in growl, ‘that is your error, not mine, Buruk.’
‘A gentle warning,’ the merchant replied, ‘that you are not among children.’
Buruk then gestured them to follow and made his way towards the citadel.
Falling in step beside Hull – with the merchant a half-dozen paces ahead, barely visible in the dark – Seren asked, ‘Have you met this Hannan Mosag?’
‘I h
ave been guest here before, Seren.’
‘Of the Warlock King’s?’
‘No, of the Sengar household. Close to the royal blood, the eldest son, Fear Sengar, is Hannan Mosag’s Marshal of War – not his actual title, but it serves well as translation.’
Seren considered this for a moment, then frowned and said, ‘You anticipate, then, that friends will be present tonight.’
‘I had, but it is not to be. None of the Sengar barring the patriarch, Tomad, and his wife are in the village. The sons have left.’
‘Left? Where?’
Hull shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It is… odd. I have to assume Fear and his brothers will be back in time for the treaty meeting.’
‘Is the Warlock King aware of the blood-ties you have bound with Binadas Sengar?’
‘Of course.’
Buruk the Pale had reached the bridge leading to the inner ward. The mists had thickened into fog, obscuring the world surrounding the three Letherii. There was no-one else in sight, nor any sound beyond the crunch of their feet on the pebbled path. The massive bulk of the citadel rose before them.
The broad, arched entranceway was lurid with firelight.
‘He has no guards,’ Seren murmured.
‘None that can be seen,’ Hull Beddict replied.
Buruk climbed the two shallow steps to the landing, paused to release the clasps of his cape, then strode inside. A moment later Seren and Hull followed.
The long hall was virtually empty. The feast table was a much smaller version than what normally occupied the centre axis of the room, as evinced by the wear patterns on the vast rug covering the wood-slatted floor. And off to the right, Seren saw, stood that table, pushed flush against the tapestry-lined wall.
Near the far end of the chamber, the modest feast table had been positioned crossways, with three high-backed chairs awaiting the Letherii on this side. Opposite them sat the Warlock King, already well into his meal. Five Edur warriors stood in shadows behind Hannan Mosag, motionless.
They must be the K’risnan. Sorcerors… they look young.
The Warlock King waited until they had divested themselves of their outer clothing, then gestured them forward, and said in passable Letherii, ‘Join me, please. I dislike cold food, so here you see me, rudely filling my belly.’
Midnight Tides Page 26
