‘Could have been avoided, had we been engaged in a closer relationship back then, such as the one we are about to enter into.’
‘What about those refugees who are Indebted?’ Ormly asked. ‘Having them all disappear could cause another crash in the Tolls.’
‘It won’t, because the trickle is to be so slow that no-one notices—’
‘How could they not notice?’
‘They will be… distracted.’
‘You’ve got something ugly planned, haven’t you, Tehol Beddict?’ Ormly’s small eyes glittered. ‘Meaning what happened the first time wasn’t no accident. Wasn’t incompetence neither. You just found yourself with a string in your hand, which you then tugged to see how much would unravel. You know what you’re telling us? You’re telling us you’re the most dangerous man in Lether. Why would we ever let you walk out of this chamber?’
‘Simple. This time I’m taking my friends with me. So the question is, are you my friends?’
‘And what if our Chief Investigator investigates you right here and right now?’
‘My scheme is already under way, Champion Ormly, whether I stay alive or not. It’s going to happen. Of course, if I die, then nobody escapes what’s coming.’
‘Hold on,’ Onyx said. ‘You said something about expense. You becoming our financial adviser is going to cost us?’
‘Well, naturally.’
‘How much?’
‘A quarter of a peak or thereabouts.’
‘So you pay us half and we pay you back a quarter.’
‘And so you come out ahead.’
‘He’s got a point,’ Scint said, snatching a rat from the table and biting its head off.
Everyone stared, including a roomful of rats.
Scint noticed, chewed for a moment, making crunching sounds, then said around a mouthful of rat head, ‘Sorry. Got carried away.’ He looked down at the headless corpse in his hand, then tucked it into his shirt and out of sight.
From where Glisten sat came a plaintive sound, then, ‘What did that rat ever do to you, Scinty?’
Scint swallowed, ‘I said sorry!’
Tehol leaned close to Bugg and whispered, ‘If you could poke any of them in the eyes…’
‘Three of ’em would likely complain, master.’
‘Can I guess?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Ormly, Bubyrd and Rucket.’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘What are you two whispering about?’ Onyx demanded.
Tehol smiled at her. ‘Do you accept my offer?’
****
Brys found the Ceda in his work room, hunched over an upended crab lying on the table. He had removed the flat carapace covering the underside and was prodding organs with a pair of copper probes. The crab appeared to be dead.
Burners had been lit beneath a cauldron behind Kuru Qan, and the lid was rocking to gusts of steam.
‘Finadd, this array of organs is fascinating. But I’m distracting myself. Shouldn’t do that, not at this critical juncture.’ He set the instruments down and picked up the crab. ‘What have you to tell me?’
Brys watched the Ceda nudge the cauldron’s lid aside then drop the crab in. ‘The Azath tower is dead.’
Kuru Qan pushed the lid back into place then walked back to sit in his chair. He rubbed at his eyes. ‘What physical evidence is there?’
‘Little, admittedly. But a child is resident there, on the grounds,’ Brys replied. ‘The tower was in some sort of communication with her.’
‘The role of Keeper? Odd that the Hold should choose a child. Unless the original Keeper had died. And even then… odd.’
‘There is more,’ Brys said. ‘A resident within one of the barrows was accorded the role of protector. The child, Kettle, believes that person is capable of destroying the others – all of whom are close to escaping their prisons.’
‘The Hold, in its desperation, made a bargain, then. What else does this Kettle know of that resident?’
‘He speaks to her constantly. He speaks through her, as well. At the moment, he is trapped. He can go no further, and no, I don’t know how that situation will be resolved. Ceda, I also spoke to that stranger.’ Kuru Qan looked up. ‘He reached into your mind? And showed you what?’
Brys shook his head. ‘He made no effort to convince me of anything, Ceda. Voiced no arguments in his own defence. Instead, I was made witness to an event, from long ago, I believe.’
‘What kind of event?’
‘The bringing down of a god. By a cadre of sorcerors, none of whom survived the ritual.’
Kuru Qan’s eyes widened at these words. ‘Relevant? Errant bless me, I hope not.’
‘You have knowledge of this, Ceda?’
‘Not enough, Finadd, I’m afraid. And this stranger was witness to that dire scene?’
‘He was. Inadvertently, he said.’
‘Then he has lived a very long time.’
‘Is he a threat?’
‘Of course he is. None here could match his power, I would think. And, assuming he is successful in destroying the other residents of the yard, the question one must face is, what then?’
‘It strikes me as a huge assumption, Ceda. Killing the others. Why would he hold to his bargain with a now-dead Azath?’
‘One must believe that the Hold chose wisely, Finadd. Do you have doubts?’
‘I’m not sure. He has asked for weapons. Two swords. I am inclined to accede to his request.’
The Ceda slowly nodded. ‘Agreed. No doubt you were thinking of finding something in the armoury. But for an individual such as this, a normal weapon won’t do, even one of Letherii steel. No, we must go to my private hoard.’
‘I wasn’t aware you had one.’
‘Naturally. Now, a moment.’ Kuru Qan rose and walked back to the cauldron. Using large tongs, he retrieved the crab, the shell now a fiery red. ‘Ah, perfect. Of course, it can cool down some. So, follow me.’
****
Brys had thought he knew virtually every area of the old palace, but the series of subterranean chambers the Ceda led him into were completely unfamiliar to him, although not a single hidden door was passed through on the way. By the Finadd’s internal map, they were now under the river.
They entered a low-ceilinged chamber with rack-lined walls on which were hundreds of weapons. Brys had collected a lantern along the way and he now hung it from a hook in a crossbeam. He walked to a rack crowded with swords. ‘Why a private collection, Ceda?’
‘Curios, most of them. Some antiques. I am fascinated with forging techniques, particularly those used by foreign peoples. Also, there is sorcery invested in these weapons.’
‘All of them?’ Brys lifted one particular weapon from its hooks, a close match to the description relayed to him by Kettle.
‘Yes. No, put that one back, Finadd. It’s cursed.’
Brys replaced it.
‘In fact,’ Kuru Qan went on in a troubled voice, ‘they’re all cursed. Well, this could prove a problem.’
‘Perhaps I should go to the regular armoury—’
‘Patience, Finadd. It’s the nature of curses that allows us to possibly find a reasonable solution. Two swords, you said?’
‘Why would sorcerors curse a weapon?’
‘Oh, most often not an intentional act on their parts. Often it’s simply a matter of incompetence. In many cases, the sorcerous investment refuses to function. The iron resists the imposition, and the better the forging technique the more resistant the weapon is. Sorcery thrives on flaws, whether structural in the physical sense, or metaphorical in the thematic sense. Ah, I see your eyes glazing over, Finadd. Never mind. Let’s peruse the antiques, shall we?’
The Ceda led him to the far wall, and Brys immediately saw a perfect weapon, long and narrow of blade, pointed and double-edged, modest hilt. ‘Letherii steel,’ he said, reaching for it.
‘Yes, in the Blue Style, which, as you well know, is the very earliest technique for Letherii steel. I
n some ways, the Blue Style produces finer steel than our present methods. The drawbacks lie in other areas.’
Brys tested the weight of the weapon. ‘The pommel needs to be replaced, but otherwise…’ Then he looked up. ‘But it’s cursed?’
‘Only in so far as all Blue Style weapons are cursed. As you know, the blade’s core is twisted wire, five braids of sixty strands each. Five bars are fused to that core to produce the breadth and edge. Blue Style is very flexible, almost unbreakable, with one drawback. Finadd, touch the blade to any other here. Lightly, please. Go ahead.’
Brys did so, and a strange sound reverberated from the Blue Style sword. A cry, that went on, and on.
‘Depending on where on the blade you strike, the note is unique, although each will eventually descend or ascend to the core’s own voice. The effect is cumulative, and persistent.’
‘Sounds like a dying goat.’
‘There is a name etched into the base of the blade, Finadd. Arcane script. Can you read it?’
Brys squinted, struggled a moment with the awkward lettering, then smiled. ‘Glory Goat. Well, it seems a mostly harmless curse. Is there any other sorcery invested in it?’
‘The edges self-sharpen, I believe. Nicks and notches heal, although some material is always lost. Some laws cannot be cheated.’ The Ceda drew out another sword. ‘This one is somewhat oversized, I’ll grant you—’
‘No, that’s good. The stranger was very tall.’
‘He was now, was he?’
Brys nodded, shifting the first sword to his left hand and taking the one Kuru Qan held in his right. ‘Errant, this would be hard to wield. For me, that is.’
‘Sarat Wept,’ the Ceda said. ‘About four generations old. One of the last in the Blue Style. It belonged to the King’s Champion of that time.’
Brys frowned. ‘Urudat?’
‘Very good.’
‘I’ve seen images of him in frescos and tapestries. A big man—’
‘Oh, yes, but reputedly very quick.’
‘Remarkable, given the weight of this sword.’ He held it out. ‘The blade pulls. The line is a hair’s breadth outward. This is a left-handed weapon.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well,’ Brys considered, ‘the stranger fights with both hands, and he specified two full swords, suggesting—’
‘A certain measure of ambidexterity. Yes.’
‘Investment?’
‘To make it shatter upon its wielder’s death.’
‘But—’
‘Yes, another incompetent effort. Thus, two formidable weapons in the Blue Style of Letherii steel. Acceptable?’
Brys studied both weapons, the play of aquamarine in the lantern-light. ‘Both beautiful and exquisitely crafted. Yes, I think these will do.’
‘When will you deliver them?’
‘Tomorrow. I have no desire to enter those grounds at night.’ He thought of Kettle, and felt once more the clasp of her cold hand. It did not occur to him then that he had not informed the Ceda of one particular detail from his encounter at the tower. It was a matter that, outwardly at least, seemed of little relevance.
Kettle was more than just a child.
She was also dead.
Thanks to this careless omission, the Ceda’s measure of fear was not as great as it should have been. Indeed, as it needed to be. Thanks to this omission, and in the last moments before the Finadd parted company with Kuru Qan, a crossroads was reached, and then, inexorably, a path was taken.
****
The night air was pleasant, a warm wind stirring the rubbish in the gutters as Tehol and Bugg paused at the foot of the steps to Scale House.
‘That was exhausting,’ Tehol said. ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’
‘Don’t you want to eat first, master?’
‘You scrounged something?’
‘No.’
‘So we have nothing to eat.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then why did you ask me if I wanted to eat?’
‘I was curious.’
Tehol anchored his fists on his hips and glared at his manservant. ‘Look, it wasn’t me who nearly got us investigated in there!’
‘It wasn’t?’
‘Well, not all me. It was you, too. Poking eyes and all that.’
‘Master, it was you who sent me there. You who had the idea of offering a contract.’
‘Poking eyes!’
‘All right, all right. Believe me, master, I regret my actions deeply!’
‘You regret deeply?’
‘Fine, deeply regret.’
‘That’s it, I’m going to bed. Look at this street. It’s a mess!’
‘I’ll get around to it, master, if I find the time.’
‘Well, that should be no problem, Bugg. After all, what have you done today?’
‘Scant little, it’s true.’
‘As I thought.’ Tehol cinched up his trousers. ‘Never mind. Lets go, before something terrible happens.’
Chapter Thirteen
Out of the white
Out of the sun’s brittle dismay
We are the grim shapes
Who haunt all fate
Out of the white
Out of the wind’s hoarse bray
We are the dark ghosts
Who haunt all fate
Out of the white
Out of the snow’s worldly fray
We are the sword’s wolves
Who haunt all fate
Jheck Marching Chant
Fifteen paces, no more than that. Between emperor and slave. A stretch of Letherii rugs, booty from some raid a century or more past, on which paths were worn deep, a pattern of stolen colour mapping stunted roads across heroic scenes. Kings crowned. Champions triumphant. Images of history the Edur had walked on, indifferent and intent on their small journeys in this chamber.
Udinaas wasn’t prepared to ascribe any significance to these details. He had come to his own pattern, a gaze unwavering and precise, the mind behind it disconnected, its surface devoid of ripples and its depths motionless.
It was safer that way. He could stand here, equidistant between two torch sconces and so bathed by the light of neither, and in this indeterminate centre he looked on, silently watching as Rhulad discarded his bearskin, to stand naked before his new wife.
Udinaas might have been amused, had he permitted the emotion, to see the coins burned into the emperor’s penis pop off, one, two, two more, then four, as Rhulad’s desire became apparent. Coins thumping to the rug-strewn floor, a few bouncing and managing modest rolls before settling. He might have been horrified at the look in the emperor’s red-rimmed eyes as he reached out, beckoning Mayen closer. Waves of sympathy for the hapless young woman were possible, but only in the abstract.
Witnessing this macabre, strangely comic moment, the slave remained motionless, without and within, and the bizarre reality of this world played itself out without comment.
Her self-control was, at first, absolute. He took her hand and drew it down, pulling her closer. ‘Mayen,’ the emperor said in a rasp, in a voice that reached for tenderness and achieved little more than rough lust. ‘Should I reveal to you that I have dreamed of this moment?’ A harsh laugh. ‘Not quite. Not like this. Not… in so much… detail.’
‘You made your desires known, Rhulad. Before… this.’
‘Yes, call me Rhulad. As you did before. Between us, nothing need change.’
‘Yet I am your empress.’
‘My wife.’
‘We cannot speak as if nothing has changed.’
‘I will teach you, Mayen. I am still Rhulad.’
He embraced her then, an awkward, child-like encirclement in gold. ‘You need not think of Fear,’ he said. ‘Mayen, you are his gift to me. His proof of loyalty. He did as a brother should.’
‘I was betrothed—’
‘And I am emperor! I can break the rules that would bind the Edur. The past is dead, Mayen, and it is I who shall forge t
he future! With you at my side. I saw you looking upon me, day after day, and I could see the desire in your eyes. Oh, we both knew that Fear would have you in the end. What could we do? Nothing. But I have changed all that.’ He drew back a step, although she still held him with one hand. ‘Mayen, my wife.’ He began undressing her.
Realities. Moments one by one, stumbling forward. Clumsy necessities. Rhulad’s dreams of this scene, whatever they had been in detail, were translated into a series of mundane impracticalities. Clothes were not easily discarded, unless designed with that in mind, and these were not. Her passivity under his ministrations added to the faltering, until this became an event bereft of romance.
Udinaas could see his lust fading. Of course it would revive. Rhulad was young, after all. The feelings of the object of his hunger were irrelevant, for an object Mayen had become. His trophy.
That the emperor sensed the slipping away of any chance of interlocking desires became evident as he began speaking once more. ‘I saw in your eyes how you wanted me. Now, Mayen, no-one stands between us.’
But he does, Rhulad. Moreover, your monstrosity has become something you now wear on your flesh. And now what had to arrive. Letherii gold yields to its natural inclination. Now, Letherii gold rapes this Tiste Edur. Ha.
The emperor’s lust had returned. His own statements had convinced him.
He pulled her towards the bed at the far wall. It had belonged to Hannan Mosag, and so was crafted for a single occupant. There was no room for lying side by side, which proved no obstacle for Rhulad’s intentions. He pushed her onto her back. Looked down at her for a moment, then said, ‘No, I would crush you. Get up, my love. You will descend upon me. I will give you children. I promise. Many children, whom you will adore. There will be heirs. Many heirs.’
An appeal, Udinaas could well hear, to sure instincts, the promise of eventual redemption. Reason to survive the ordeal of the present.
Rhulad settled down on the bed. Arms out to the sides.
She stared down at him.
Then moved to straddle this cruciform-shaped body of gold. Descending over him.
A game of mortality, the act of sex. Reduced so that decades became moments. Awakening, revelling in overwrought sensation, a brief spurt meant to procreate, spent exhaustion, then death. Rhulad was young. He did not last long enough to assuage his ego.
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