One obstacle to this process was a dearth of experience, since his only contact with such rulers amounted to the previous – now dead – King N’Gorm (the Lesser), and now the usurper, Bauchelain the First. Still, of histories there were plenty available in Farrog’s Grand Library of the Arts, Alchemy, Nature and Divination, a small building off Harbor Square consisting of an imposing Archivist’s Desk forming a barrier between the public and the collection, the latter of which consisted of twelve bound books, eighteen scrolls and seven stone tablets. As formidable as the desk was, it was the Archivist who naturally posed the greatest obstacle to perusing the Royal Collection of Letters. Fortunately, the poor man possessed a neurotic terror of snakes, lizards, toads and frogs: creatures either slimy or scaly or both, a descriptive that one could, without stretching, reasonably apply to Ophal himself.
In any case, certain arrangements had been reached between the Ambassador and the Archivist, permitting Ophal’s access to the collection in the span of time between the midnight bell and dawn. As it turned out, the accumulated wisdom of the Farrogese had proved most illuminating, if somewhat depressingly limited.
Prior to King N’Gorm there had been a succession of mostly ineffectual rulers in Farrog. If this seemed a cruel assessment, it was nothing compared to Ophal’s opinion of N’Gorm himself. In a cool and clinical state of mind, one might assert that the man had been excruciatingly useless, and indeed, that his ignominious assassination was in fact a mercy for all concerned (arguably including N’Gorm himself).
That said, as Ophal sat in the waiting room outside the Throne Room, the rule of King N’Gorm served a useful counterweight in Ophal’s potential polemic concerning the art of political leadership, with the other end of the spectrum occupied by King Bauchelain the First.
Politically and under the present circumstances, of course, Ophal would rather N’Gorm had kept both his head and his throne, thus obviating the need for this fateful meeting.
Hearing a faint scuff from the doorway, Ophal glanced up and flinched back upon finding the Grand Bishop Korbal Broach standing there, small flat eyes fixed upon the Ambassador.
Clearing his throat, Ophal nodded in greeting. ‘Prrlll ffllap—’
‘Stop that,’ said Korbal Broach.
‘Ethcuse me, good ewening, Gwand Bithop.’
‘I have proclaimed a holy war, Ambassador.’
‘Yeth, why?’
Korbal Broach frowned. ‘Because … I felt like it?’
‘Aahh.’
The Grand Bishop stared down at him for a while longer.
Ophal fidgeted.
‘I don’t worship any gods,’ Korbal Broach then said.
‘Not ewen the … prrlll … Indifferent God?’
‘Oh no. In fact, we’re trying to kill him. He’s hard to kill.’
‘Yeth, I’m thure.’
‘He’s obsessed with sex.’
‘Prrlll. Awen’t we all?’
Korbal Broach blinked. ‘No.’
All things considered, it was probably a requirement among all tyrants to possess a companion such as this Korbal Broach; indeed, Ophal was nearing the formulation of a truism regarding insanity as a prerequisite to tyranny. The absence of conscience, the curious shallowness of contemplation, a cool pragmatism leading to the justification of all manner of depravity, slaughter and inhumanity. Such individuals were clearly useful for the tyrant, assuming one appreciated a sounding board throwing back raving madness at every opportunity.
‘I killed all my priests,’ said the Grand Bishop.
‘Aahh, how … thowough of you.’
‘They talked too much.’
‘Mhmm.’
Korbal Broach stared for a moment longer, and then departed.
Ophal allowed himself to relax. The kitten was coming back on him in a succession of furry burps. It had probably been infected with worms or something. That was the risk that came with unscheduled snacks, particularly in the alleys of Farrog. He was feeling decidedly queasy.
The King’s manservant now appeared in the doorway. ‘Ambassador? He’ll see you now.’
Ophal rose from his seat. ‘Prrlll, fflaapp, ethlenent!’
The old man grunted. ‘Easy for you to say.’ He hesitated, and then glanced back over a shoulder, before quickly stepping into the chamber. ‘Listen, it’s bad luck that you’re, uh, lizard people. I mean, it’s not your fault or anything, is it? It’s just what you are, right? But you know, naming your kingdom Nightmaria, well, maybe that worked for old King N’Gorm, but for my master, well, that’s more of an, uh, invitation.’
Ophal nodded excitedly. ‘Yeth! I too have weathed this concluthion! Ethlenent! Go on, pweathe!’
‘And calling yourselves Fiends, well—’
‘Aahh! Prrlll! About that—’
Some noise made the manservant turn to the doorway. ‘Oops, time to go, Ambassador. Please follow me – oh, you know the drill. Oh and remember, he likes genuflection, and obsequiousness. Grovelling is even better. Abject despair soothes him best of all – I’ve turned that into an art and, well, never mind. Come along.’
The manservant in the lead, they entered the throne room.
The headless corpse straddled Brash Phluster, both pallid hands slapping the artist across the cheeks, back and forth, back and forth. ‘Aaagh!’ Brash screamed, ‘get it off of me! Please!’
For the moment, however, everyone else was too busy fighting off the dozen or so other headless undead crowding the narrow corridor, barring Apto Canavalian, who had found a niche that had, once upon a time, been home to a statue or some such thing, as he found himself on a raised pedestal. Remaining utterly motionless demanded all his nerve, but it seemed to be working, as the horrid decapitated figures seemed to be ignoring him.
In between his moments of utter terror, he found himself musing on how the damned things saw anything at all. The ways of sorcery and necromancy were indeed a mystery, were they not?
The Chanters were laughing as they waded in, stamping sideways into shins and snapping bones so that the undead monstrosities fell over, to flop about before starting to pull themselves along, resuming their pursuit and most of them, Apto saw, were converging on poor Brash Phluster, who had unfortunately fallen over and was now being swarmed.
Off to one side, Steck Marynd protected Shartorial Infelance, in that usual manly fashion of his. Apto knew it all to be an act. It must be. Selflessness was hardly a survival trait, was it? In fact, it was the very opposite.
‘Self interest,’ he whispered, trying not to move his lips since statues weren’t in the habit of commentary. ‘The rational course, first and foremost. Always. Who else matters more than me?’
Tulgord Vise was now dragging bodies off Brash Phluster, lifting them until they dangled, whereupon he snapped their spines over one thigh, like a man assembling firewood, before flinging them to one side to make a neat, tidy stack.
‘A man without an axe, that is,’ muttered Apto. ‘And given how stupid he is, I doubt it’s anything new on him. Firewood? Use an axe. No axe? Get someone else to do it. Someone like Tulgord Vise.’ He almost snorted a laugh, coming ever so close to drawing the attention of the nearest headless undead.
Eventually, most of the creatures were little more than sacks of dead meat around broken bones, and Brash Phluster was at last able to scramble free, weeping uncontrollably, his cheeks bright red.
‘Why?’ he cried. ‘Why did they do that?’
Deeming it safe at last, Apto stepped down from the pedestal, stretching to work out the stiffness that came with holding the same pose for so long. ‘I recognize some of these bodies,’ he said. ‘They were judges.’
Brash stared at him, and then his swollen face twisted. ‘You think you’re funny? You’re not. Whose idea was it to use that niche and that pedestal? Whose idea was to pose like a statue? Mine! Then you pulled me off and threw me to the ground!’
Apto shrugged. ‘I know a good idea when I see it.’
‘As Gre
atest Artist of the Century I was the better fit on that pedestal!’
‘Fame is fleeting, isn’t it? Us critics prop you up only to drag you down.’
Steck now limped forward. ‘We need to keep moving,’ he said. ‘There’s bound to be more of these things, and then there’s the demons. We need weapons.’ He turned to Shartorial, whose eyes gleamed in worshipful regard as she looked steadily upon Steck Marynd. ‘We need to find the guards’ armoury, Milady, and the lockers where our weapons are kept. Can you lead us there?’
She nodded.
‘Tiny don’t need weapons,’ said Tiny, raising into view his battered fists. ‘Tiny breaks bones. Bones go snap.’
‘Crunch,’ added Midge.
‘Splinter,’ said Flea, who then frowned.
‘No,’ rumbled Tulgord Vise. ‘A Mortal Sword needs his sword. Otherwise he’s just …’
‘Mortal?’ asked Apto.
‘You begin to tire me, Critic,’ said Tulgord, glowering. ‘I am a Mortal Sword, blessed by a goddess, sworn to vengeance against the Nehemoth.’ He made a fist. ‘And they are almost within reach! This is our best chance!’
‘I agree,’ said Steck Marynd. ‘The time has come to kill them. To finally rid the world of Bauchelain and Korbal Broach.’
Gesturing, Shartorial said, ‘I will take you to your weapons! Come!’
They set off, stepping carefully to avoid all the grasping hands and reaching arms.
‘All in all,’ said Apto as they hurried down the corridor, ‘those undead seemed pretty useless.’
Steck grunted. ‘Aye. Distractions. Something else is down here in these crypts. I can feel it. Something truly nasty.’
‘We’ve been hearing screams,’ said Apto. ‘That suggests that you are right, Steck Marynd, and the sooner all of you are armed the safer I’ll – I mean we’ll – feel.’
‘Tiny feels safe,’ said Tiny. ‘Midge?’
‘Safe,’ said Midge.
‘Flea?’
‘Splinter,’ said Flea. ‘Bones go splinter! Like that, the sound. They go. The bones. Hah!’
Brash Phluster turned a glare on Apto. ‘I’m putting you in my next epic poem. Where you’re going to die most horribly, maybe more than once!’
‘As a discerning scholar of art, Brash, I already die a thousand deaths with every song you sing, every tale you concoct, every mangled travesty of language you presume to call a poem.’
Brash made a fist, his puffy face working soundlessly, as he struggled through his fury to find words. In the end, he simply shook his fist in Apto’s face.
‘Oh dear,’ said Apto. ‘The artist waiting for inspiration … wake me when you’re ready, won’t you?’
Tulgord Vise glanced back at them. ‘Stop baiting the poor poet, Critic.’
‘He just threatened to impugn my name and reputation!’
‘No he didn’t. Nobody’s heard of you anyway.’
‘I have a livelihood to protect!’
Tiny laughed his nasty laugh. ‘Deadlihood, soon, if you don’t shut your mouth.’
‘Mouth,’ said Midge.
‘Bones,’ said Flea.
‘I will write an epic poem about all of you,’ said Brash Phluster. ‘The Nehemothanai, and their trek across half the world, hunting down the evil necromancers Bauchelain and Korbal Broach, slaying them at last in the cursed City of Farrog! I envisage at least twenty thousand stanzas—’
‘As prologue, surely,’ suggested Apto Canavalian.
Ignoring him, Brash continued. ‘Every hero needs a poet, someone who witnesses them being, uh, heroes, and who can sing about them and make them famous, so their names journey down through the centuries.’
‘Tiny needs no poet. Tiny journeys down the centuries himself.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ insisted Brash Phluster. ‘Everything you do I’ll make bigger, more amazing, more everything.’
‘Everything Tiny does is already bigger and more amazing. Like when Tiny takes poet by the neck and twists off his head.’
‘Now that’s worth a poem all right,’ said Apto.
‘And then makes critic eat poet’s head, so he chokes on poet’s words, and hair.’
‘You know, Tiny,’ Apto observed, ‘that quip would work much better with a little work. Might I suggest you delete the “hair” bit?’
‘Tiny delete critic.’
‘Hair,’ said Flea.
Shartorial and Steck arrived at a narrow set of stairs leading upward, where they paused and Steck held up a hand. ‘There’s blood on these steps,’ he whispered. ‘Best you all be quiet now.’
‘Tiny don’t take orders from nobody.’
‘Nobody,’ agreed Midge.
Rubbing at his face, Steck said, ‘Listen, it’s just proper caution here. Remember, once we get our weapons, we become formidable and dangerous again, and we can carve our way up into the palace.’
‘Tiny’s not scared of anything.’
‘Fine then,’ growled Steck. ‘Take the lead here, won’t you?’
‘You don’t order Tiny. Tiny orders you, and you, and you, and you and you.’ He pushed past Steck and Shartorial. ‘Tiny goes first. You all follow and keep your mouths shut or Tiny shuts them for you, permanently if not forever.’
‘You truly are obnoxious,’ observed Tulgord Vise.
‘That’s right. Tiny kills ox with one hand, all the time. Tiny was an oxnobian before any of you were even born, or had mothers and shit.’
‘Tiny pulled the legs off a mule when he was six,’ said Midge.
‘We’re wasting too much time,’ hissed Shartorial.
Tiny blew her a kiss that sprayed her face with spittle, earning a warning growl from Steck Marynd, but Tiny was already on the stairs and Shartorial reached out a hand to hold Steck back, while using her other hand to wipe at her face.
‘Milady,’ Apto heard Steck whisper, ‘for that insult he’ll die. This I swear.’
‘It is no matter,’ she replied. ‘But do kill him at first opportunity anyway.’
‘I shall.’
Apto glanced over at Midge and Flea. They stared back stonily. Apto smiled and waved.
Flea smiled and waved back.
Steck then took his new woman by one hand and led her up the stairs in Tiny’s wake. Apto shoved Brash to one side to fall in directly behind Shartorial. Cursing, Brash scratched Apto’s left ear, only to stumble and bark his shin on the first step. Midge then stepped on the artist, and Flea followed.
Tulgord Vise stopped to drag Brash to his feet. ‘Stop being so clumsy, poet.’
‘Don’t let them kill me,’ whimpered Brash.
The Mortal Sword said, ‘Fear not, while I live. After all, a world without poets, sir, would be … would be … er, far less clumsy.’
‘But—’
‘Get moving and start acting like a man or I’ll kill you myself.’
‘You’re all awful,’ Brash Phluster hissed as he clambered his way up the steps. ‘My epic poem won’t lie about any of you! By the time I’m done The Nehemothenai, the audience will be cheering for the fucking necromancers!’
Hearing that, Apto twisted round, ‘Now you’re talking!’
Lurma Spilibus gently turned the latch and edged open the heavy door. A ribbon of light cut into the corridor, making everyone tense. She squeezed one eye into the crack, and then leaned back again, rubbing at that eye.
Plaintly whispered, ‘What did you see?’
‘A very narrow guard room. I couldn’t see the walls but what I saw was empty. Except for the bits of flesh and bone and hair and ripped-up clothing.’
‘Anyone see you?’ Le Groutt asked.
‘No,’ said Lurma, ‘I just told you.’
Plaintly nodded. ‘Bits of flesh and bone and hair and ripped-up clothing.’
‘That’s what I said, isn’t it? Bits of—’
‘That must’ve been some party,’ said Symon The Knife.
‘Granma’s wake was a damned good party,’ said Mortari, �
�even though she was just missing, but it’d been weeks and nobody takes that long drawing water from the well at the back of the yard. So we decided she was dead, and that was fair, wasn’t it? And then, months later, I bumped right into her. In the well, I mean, with all those cats with their tails all tied together.’
Gesturing, Plaintly said, ‘Go on, Lurma, check it out.’
But Lurma hesitated. ‘Could be traps.’
‘What kind of traps?’
‘If I knew that they wouldn’t be much good as traps, would they? No, leave this to me. Everyone else stay here, and be quiet while I check it out.’
‘Good idea,’ said Plaintly.
They remained crouched in the corridor, as Lurma Spilibus pushed the door open a bit more, and then slipped sideways into the guard room. A moment later her head popped back into view. ‘It’s wider that it was before, the room.’
‘Anything else?’ Plaintly asked.
‘Wait.’ The head popped out of sight again, and then they heard, ‘Two doors in the opposite wall, identical, both ajar.’
‘Room for all of us in there?’ Plaintly asked.
A hand appeared and waved them in.
They quickly entered the guard room, and then stood around, amidst a knocked-over wooden table, shattered chairs, broken plates, dented tankards, bent knives and snapped swords, and an abattoir’s worth of chopped-up meat and bone along with clumps of shredded, sodden clothing. Six crushed heads were piled up against a wall, along with twelve or so severed feet still wearing an assortment of cheap footwear.
Symon drew his knife. ‘Should I check for survivors?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Plaintly, ‘I think it’s too late for any of these ones.’
‘What do you think happened?’ Le Groutt asked, his eyes slightly wild.
‘That demon,’ said Plaintly.
‘The squirting one?’ Symon then shook his head. ‘Not a chance. That thing ran from us. It wasn’t much taller than Mortari here.’
‘Assuming I’m Mortari,’ said Mortari.
‘Well, who else would you be?’
‘I don’t know. It’s a mystery.’
‘Lurma,’ said Barunko, ‘more pee, please.’
‘Listen,’ said Plaintly, raising a hand to draw everyone’s attention, ‘something’s wrong here.’
The Second Collected Tales of Bauchelain & Korbal Broach: Three Short Novels of the Malazan Empire Page 35
