Shurq Elalle walked down the tunnel to the crypt door. Her thoughts were on Gerun Eberict; her concern was for Tehol Beddict. The Finadd was of the most vicious sort, after all, and Tehol seemed so…helpless. Oh, fit enough, probably quite capable of running fast and far should the need arise. But it was clear that Tehol had no intention of running anywhere. The silent bodyguards Brys had assigned to him were some comfort, although, the way Gerun worked, they might prove little more than a minor inconvenience.

If that was not troubling enough, there was the ominous silence from Kettle at the dead Azath tower. Was that a result of the child’s returning to life, thus severing the link that bound the dead? Or had something terrible happened?

She reached the portal and pushed it open.

Light flared from a lantern, and she saw Ublala seated on the sarcophagus, the lantern on his lap as he adjusted the flame.

She saw his expression and frowned. ‘What is wrong, my love?’

‘There’s no time,’ he said, rising, bumping his head on the ceiling, then ducking into a hunch. ‘Bad things. I was about to go.’ He set the lantern down on the lid. ‘Couldn’t wait for you any longer. I’ve got to go.’

‘Where?’

‘It’s the Seregahl,’ he mumbled, hands wringing. ‘It’s bad.’

‘The Seregahl? The old Tarthenal gods? Ublala, what are you talking about?’

‘I have to go.’ He headed for the doorway.

‘Ublala, what about Harlest? Where are you going?’

‘The old tower.’ He was in the tunnel, his words dwindling. ‘I love you, Shurq Elalle…’

She stared at the empty doorway. Love? That sounded…final.

Shurq Elalle went to the sarcophagus and slid the lid to one side.

‘Aarrgh! Hiss! Hiss! Hiss—’

‘Stop that, Harlest!’ She batted the clawing hands away. ‘Get out of there. We have to go—’

‘Where?’ Harlest slowly sat up, practising baring his long fangs and making growling sounds.

She studied him for a moment, then said, ‘A cemetery.’

‘Oh,’ Harlest sighed, ‘that’s perfect.’

 

Sitting in the street, in a pool of darkening blood, the emperor of the Tiste Edur had one hand held against his face and seemed to be trying to claw his eyes out. He still screamed every now and then, a shrill, wordless release of raw anguish.

On the bridge, thirty paces distant, the Letherii soldiers were silent and motionless behind their shields. Other citizens of the city were visible along the edge of the canal on the other side, a row of onlookers, their numbers growing.

Trull Sengar felt a hand settle on his shoulder and he turned to find Uruth, her face twisted with distress.

‘Son, something must be done—he’s losing his mind—’

Udinaas, the damned slave who had become so essential, so integral to Rhulad—to the young Edur’s sanity—had vanished. And now the emperor railed, recognizing no-one, froth on his lips, his cries those of a panicked beast. ‘He must be hunted down,’ Trull said. ‘That slave.’

‘There is more—’

Hannan Mosag had moved to stand close to Rhulad, and now spoke, his words carrying easily. ‘Emperor Rhulad, hear me! This is a day of dark truths. Your slave, Udinaas, has done what we would expect of a Letherii. Their hearts are filled with treachery and they serve none but themselves. Rhulad, Udinaas has run away.’ He paused, then said, ‘From you.’

The triumph was poorly hidden as the Warlock King continued. ‘He has made himself into your white nectar, and now leaves you in pain. This is a world without faith, Emperor. Only your kin can be trusted—’

Rhulad’s head snapped up, features ravaged with hurt, a dark fire in his eyes. ‘Trusted? You, Hannan Mosag? My brothers? Mayen?’ Blood-smeared gold, matted bear fur, sword-blade threaded through bits of human meat and intestines, the emperor staggered upright, chest heaving with emotion. ‘You are all as nothing to us. Liars, cheats, betrayers! All of you!’ He whipped the sword, spattering red and pink fragments onto the cobbles and against the shins of those standing nearest him, and bared his teeth. ‘The emperor shall reflect his people,’ he rasped, an ugly grin spreading. ‘Reflect, as it must be.’

Trull saw Fear take a step forward, halting as Rhulad’s sword shot upward, the point hovering at Fear’s throat.

‘Oh no, brother, we want nothing from you. We want nothing from any of you. Except obedience. An empire must be shaped, and that shaping shall be by the emperor’s hands. Warlock King!’

‘Sire?’

The sword slid away from Fear’s throat, waved carelessly towards the soldiers blocking the bridge. ‘Get rid of them.’

Binadas among them, the K’risnan shambled forward at Hannan Mosag’s gesture. Behind them were four slaves with two large leather sacks which they dragged over the cobbles to where the K’risnan waited in a row. Noting the sacks, the Warlock King shook his head. ‘Not here, I think. Something…simpler.’ He faced the emperor. ‘A moment, sire, in which to prepare. I shall do this myself.’

Uruth tugged Trull round again. ‘It is more than just Udinaas,’ she said. ‘Mayen has escaped.’

He stared at her, not quite comprehending. ‘Escaped?’

‘We must find her…’

‘She ran away…from us? From her own people?’

‘It is the hunger, Trull. Please.’

After a moment, he pulled away, looked round until he saw a company of warriors grouped behind Theradas and Midik Buhn. Trull walked over to them.

Theradas scowled. ‘What do you want, Trull Sengar?’

‘The emperor’s mother has orders for you and your warriors, Theradas.’

His expression lost its ferocity, was replaced with uncertainty. ‘What are they?’

‘Mayen is lost, somewhere in the city. She must be found. As for Udinaas…if you see him…’

‘If we see him he will die terribly, Trull Sengar.’

He betrayed Rhulad. When I warned him…Trull glanced over at Rhulad. A return from this madness? Not likely. It was too late. ‘As you like, Theradas. Just find Mayen.’

He watched them head off, then turned and met Uruth’s eyes. She nodded.

The soldiers on the bridge knew what was coming. He saw them duck lower behind their shields. Pointless. Pathetic, yet there was courage here, among these Letherii. Udinaas, I did not…did not think you would—

A seething, spitting grey wave rose suddenly at the foot of the bridge, churning higher.

The shield wall flinched back, contracted.

The wave plunged forward.

From the banks of the canal to either side citizens shrieked and scattered—

—as the sorcery rushed over the bridge, striking the soldiers in a spray of blood and strips of flesh. A heartbeat, then past, spreading out to wash over the fleeing citizens. Devouring them in writhing hunger.

Trull saw it strike nearby buildings, smashing down doors and bursting through shuttered windows. Screams.

‘Enough!’ Rhulad roared, stepping towards Hannan Mosag, who lowered his arms, which looked twisted and gnarled.

The sorcery vanished, leaving only heaps of bones, polished shields and armour on the bridge. From the sundered buildings, silence. Hannan Mosag sagged, and Trull saw how misshapen he had become beneath his furs.

The emperor suddenly giggled. ‘So eager, Hannan Mosag! Your secret god is so eager!’

Secret god? Trull looked over at Fear, and found his brother staring back.

‘Brothers,’ the emperor cried, waving his sword, ‘we march to the Eternal Domicile! To the throne! None can deny us! And should they dare, their flesh shall be rendered from their bones! They will know pain. They will suffer! Brothers, this shall be a day of suffering’—he seemed to find sweetness in tasting the word—‘for all who would oppose us! Now, walk with your Sire!’

He is…transformed. Lost to us. And all for the treachery of a slave…

 

An overgrown yard, just visible through the old, battered stones of the gateway. From the skeletal, twisted branches of leaning trees, something like steam billowed upward. There was no-one about. Iron Bars slowed his steps and looked back up the street. That manservant had yet to appear from beyond the corner of the building he had jogged round moments earlier.

‘Fine, then,’ the Avowed muttered, drawing his sword, ‘we’ll just have to see for ourselves…’ He approached the gateway, strode onto the winding stone path. The squat, square tower was opposite, stained and leaning and dead. From his left, the sounds of stones grinding together, the snap of wood, and thumps that trembled the ground beneath his feet. Over there, then.

Iron Bars walked into the yard.

Round a mud-smeared barrow, over a fallen tree, to come to a halt ten paces from what had once been an extensive, elongated mound, now torn apart and steaming, mud sliding down as five huge figures dragged themselves free. Flesh darkened by peat, skin mapped by the tracks of countless roots, dangling hair the colour of copper. Tugging weapons free—massive two-handed swords of black, polished wood.

The five were chanting.

Iron Bars grunted. ‘Tartheno Toblakai. Hood-damned Fenn. Well, this won’t be fun.’

One of the warriors heard him and fixed black, murky eyes on the Avowed. The chant ceased, and it spoke. ‘A child, my brothers.’

‘The one who spoke through the earth?’ another asked.

‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’

‘It would not help us, that child. We have promised a terrible death.’

‘Then let us—’

The Toblakai’s words were cut short as Iron Bars rushed forward.

A roar, a keening sweep of a wooden sword flung into the path of the Avowed’s own weapon, which slid under, point gliding back round and over the warrior’s enormous wrist, following in its swishing wake, to intercept the instinctive back-swing. Slashing through hard, thick skin, the edge scoring against muscle tough as wood.

A huge presence lunging in from the Avowed’s right. But Iron Bars continued forward, ducking beneath the first Toblakai’s arm, then pivoting round as the second attacker slammed into the first warrior. Disengaging his sword, thrusting upward, seeking the soft space between the lower mandibles—a jerk of the giant’s head, and the Avowed’s sword point speared its right eye, plunging deep in a spurt of what seemed to be swamp water.

A shriek.

Iron Bars found himself scrambling over the ruined barrow, the other Toblakai stumbling as they swung round to face him again—with a heap of boulders, mud and ripped-up roots in the way.

The Avowed leapt down onto level ground once more.

Black blood dripping from one arm, a hand pressed over a gouged socket and burst eye, the Toblakai he had attacked was staggering back.

The other four were spreading out, silent now, intent.

Until they could edge round the entire barrow, their approach would be difficult, the footing treacherous.

One down. Iron Bars was pleased—

And then the fifth one shook itself and straightened. One-eyed, but turning to face the Avowed once more.

‘You hurt our brother,’ one said.

‘There’s more to come,’ Iron Bars said.

‘It’s not good, hurting gods.’

Gods?

‘We are the Seregahl,’ the lead Toblakai said. ‘Before you hurt us, you might have begged for mercy. You might have knelt in worship, and perhaps we would have accepted you. But not now.’

‘No,’ the Avowed agreed, ‘I suppose not.’

‘That is all you would say?’

He shrugged. ‘Nothing else comes to mind.’

‘You are frowning. Why?’

‘Well, I’ve already killed a god today,’ Iron Bars said. ‘If I’d known this was going to be a day for killing gods, I might have paced myself better.’

The five were silent for a moment, then the first one said, ‘What god have you killed this day, stranger?’

‘The Pack.’

A hiss from the Toblakai on the far right. ‘The ones that escaped us! The fast ones!’

‘They were fast,’ Iron Bars said, nodding. ‘But not, it seems, fast enough.’

‘D’ivers.’

‘Yes,’ the Avowed said. ‘Six of them…and only five of you.’

The first Toblakai said to its brothers, ‘Careful with this one, then.’

‘We are free,’ the one-eyed one growled. ‘We must kill this one to remain so.’

‘True. This is cause enough.’

They began advancing again.

Iron Bars inwardly sighed. At least he’d made them nervous. And that might serve to keep him alive a little while longer. Then again, he reminded himself, he’d faced worse.

Well, maybe not. Maybe? Who am I kidding?

He shifted his weight, rising to the balls of his feet, readying himself to begin the dance. The dance of staying alive.

Until help came.

Help…from a short, pudgy, balding man. Oh, Hood, Iron Bars, just try and stay alive as long as you can—maybe they’ll die of exhaustion.

‘Look,’ one whined, ‘he’s smiling.’

 

Unseen storms, raging through the streets, battering the city. Bugg’s head was aching with the chaos of power, of the clash of fierce wills. He could still feel the impotent fury, of the ancient god trapped beneath the ice of Settle Lake—the Ceda’s trap had worked well indeed, and even now the ice was slowly thickening, closing in around the creature in the sealed cavern, and before the sun set it would find itself encased in the ice, feeling the unbearable cold, seeping into its being, stealing sensation, stealing its life.

Good things came of being nice to a Jaghut, something the T’lan Imass never understood.

Bugg made his way towards the end of the alley beyond which the old Azath tower was visible. He hoped Iron Bars had not done anything precipitous, such as entering the yard alone. Kettle would have warned him against that in any case. With luck, the child’s buried ally was buried no longer. The Avowed was intended to give support, that was all, and only if necessity demanded it. This wasn’t that man’s fight, after all—

His steps slowed suddenly, as a cold dread swept through him. He quested out with his senses, and detected movement where there should not be movement, an awakening of wills, intentions burning bright, threads of fate converging…

The manservant turned round, and began running.

 

Four of his ablest killers approached Gerun Eberict from up the street. The Finadd raised a hand to halt those behind him.

‘Finadd,’ the squad leader said upon arriving, ‘we had some luck. The brother at the far lookout was flushed out into the street by a pack of Edur. He took six of the bastards down with him. Once the Edur left I sent Crillo out to make sure he was dead—’

‘He was cut to pieces,’ Crillo interrupted, grinning.

‘—and he was at that,’ the squad leader resumed, with a glare at Crillo, whose grin broadened.

‘And the other?’ Gerun asked, scanning the vicinity. It wouldn’t do to run into a company of Tiste Edur right now.

The squad leader scowled. ‘Crillo got ’im. A damned lucky knife-throw—’

‘No luck at all,’ Crillo cut in. ‘Poor bastard never knew it was coming—’

‘Because he’d caught out the rest of us—’

‘They’re both dead?’ Gerun asked. Then shook his head. ‘Luck indeed. It should not have been that easy. All right, that leaves the one on the roof. He’ll have been looking for signals from his brothers and he won’t be seeing them now. Meaning, he’ll know we’re coming.’

‘It’s just one man, Finadd—’

‘A Shavankrats, Crillo. Don’t get overconfident just because the Errant’s nudged our way so far. All right, we stay as a group now—’ He stopped, then gestured everyone low.

Thirty paces ahead and coming from a side alley, a lone figure ran into the street. A Tiste Edur woman. Like a startled deer she froze, head darting. Before she had a chance to look their way, she heard something behind her and bolted. A metallic flash in her right hand revealed that she carried a knife of some sort.

Gerun Eberict grunted. She was heading the same direction as he was. An undefended Tiste Edur woman. He would enjoy her before killing her. Once his other business was out of the way, of course. Might let the lads have a go, too. Crillo first, for the work he’d already done getting rid of Brys’s damned guards.

The Finadd straightened. ‘After her, then, since it’s on the way.’

Dark laughs from his troop.

‘Take point, Crillo.’

They set out.

Faces behind shutters at second floor windows—the whole city cowered like half-drowned rats. It was disgusting. But they were showing him, weren’t they, showing him how few deserved to live. This new empire of the Tiste Edur would be little different, he suspected. There would need to be controllers, deliverers of swift and incorruptible justice. People would continue to be rude. Would continue to litter the streets. And there would still be people who were just plain ugly, earning the mercy of Gerun’s knife. He would have his work, as before, to make this city a place of beauty—

They had reached the place where the woman had emerged from the alley. Crillo was turning round, pointing in the direction she had run, when a spear struck his head, spinning him round in a mass of blood, brain and shattered bone.

From the alley rushed a score or more Tiste Edur warriors.

‘Take them!’ Gerun Eberict commanded, and was pleased to see his men surge forward.

Past the Finadd, who then stepped back.

I can always get more men.

And ran.

Onto the trail of the woman. Coincidentally, of course. His real target was Tehol Beddict. He’d take her down first, leave her trussed and gagged close by, to await his return. More difficult, now, since he was alone. Tehol’s bodyguard would be a challenge, but when one’s sword edges were painted with poison, even the slightest cut would be sufficient to kill the man. Quickly.

There!

The woman had been hiding in a niche twenty paces ahead. She bolted at his approach.

Gerun broke into a sprint.

Oh, he wanted her now. She was beautiful. He saw the knife in her hand and laughed. It was a fish knife—he’d seen the Letherii slaves using them in that Hiroth village.

Running hard, he quickly gained on her.

Across another street, into another alley.

Close, now, to Tehol Beddict’s home. But he could reach her in time—five more steps—

 

‘There’s trouble.’

Stunned, Tehol Beddict turned. ‘Not mute after all…’ His words trailed away at seeing the unease in the bodyguard’s eyes. ‘Serious trouble, then.’

‘My brothers are both dead. Gerun Eberict is coming.’

‘This city’s full of Edur,’ Tehol said, throwing both hands up to encompass a vast sweep of rooftops, tiers and bridges. ‘Ranging round like wolves. And then there’s those real wolves—’

‘It’s Gerun.’

Tehol studied the man. ‘All right. He’s on the way for a visit. What should we do about it?’

‘They can come up the walls, the way your thief friend does. We need to get below. We need a place with one door and only one door.’

‘Well, there’s the warehouse opposite—I know it quite well—’

‘Let’s go, then.’

The guard went to the hatch, knelt at its edge and cautiously looked down into the room below. He waved Tehol forward, then began the descent.

Moments later they stood in the room. The guard headed to the entrance, tugged the hanging back a fraction and peered outside. ‘Looks clear. I’ll lead, to that wall—’

“The warehouse wall. There’s a watchman, Chalas—’

‘If he’s still there I’d be surprised.’

‘You have a point. All right. When we get to the wall, we head right. Round the corner and in through the office door, the first one we’ll come to. The main sliding doors will be barred.’

‘And if the office door is locked?’

‘I know where the key’s hidden.’

The guard nodded.

They stepped into the narrow corridor, turned left and approached the street.

 

Three more strides.

She threw a desperate look over her shoulder, then lunged forward in a sudden burst of speed.

Gerun snarled, reaching out with one hand.

A whimpering sound escaped her, and she raised the knife just as she reached the mouth of the alley.

And thrust it into her own chest.

Gerun was a hand’s width behind her, coming opposite a side corridor between two warehouses, when he was grasped hard, pulled off his feet, and yanked into the dark corridor.

A fist crashed into his face, shattering his nose. Stunned, he was helpless as the sword was plucked from his hand, the helmet dragged from his head.

The massive hands lifted him and slammed him hard against a wall. Once, twice, three times, and with each impact the back of Gerun’s head crunched against the cut stone. Then he was smashed onto the greasy cobbles, breaking his right shoulder and clavicle. Consciousness slipped away. When it returned a moment later he was vaguely aware of a huge, hulking figure crouched over him in the gloom.

A massive hand snapped down to cover Gerun’s mouth and the figure froze.

The sound of running feet in the alleyway, a dozen, maybe more, all moccasined, the rasp of weapons. Then past.

Blearily, Gerun Eberict stared up at an unfamiliar face. A mixed blood. Half Tarthenal, half Nerek.

The huge man crouched closer. ‘For what you did to her,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘And don’t think it’ll be quick…’

The hand over his mouth, Gerun could say nothing. Could ask no questions. And he had plenty of those.

It was clear, however, that the mixed blood wasn’t interested.

And that, Gerun said to himself, was too bad.

 

Tehol was three paces behind the guard, who was nearing the warehouse wall, when a scraping noise alerted him. He looked to his right, in time to see an Edur woman stagger out from an alley. A knife handle jutted from her chest, and blood was streaming down.

Dumb misery in her eyes, she saw Tehol. Reached out a red-stained hand, then fell, landing on her left side and skidding slightly on the cobbles before coming to a stop.

‘Guard!’ Tehol hissed, changing direction. ‘She’s hurt—

From the warehouse wall: ‘No!’

As Tehol reached her, he looked up to see Tiste Edur warriors rushing from the alley mouth. A spear sailed towards him—

—and was intercepted by the guard lunging in from Tehol’s left side. The weapon caught the man under his left arm, snapping ribs as it sank deep into his chest. With a soft groan, the guard stumbled past, then sprawled onto the street, blood pouring from his mouth and nose.

Tehol went perfectly still.

The Edur ranged out cautiously, until they formed a rough circle around Tehol and the dead woman. One checked on the bodyguard, turning the man over with one foot. It was clear that the man was also dead.

In trader tongue, one of the Tiste Edur said, ‘You have killed her.’

Tehol shook his head. ‘No. She ran into view, already wounded. I was coming to…to help. I am sorry…’

The warrior sneered, then said to the younger Edur beside him, ‘Midik, see if this Letherii is armed.’

The one named Midik stepped up to Tehol. Reached out to pat him down, then snorted. ‘He’s wearing rags, Theradas. There is no place he could hide anything.’

A third warrior said, ‘He killed Mayen. We should take him back—’

‘No,’ Theradas growled. He sheathed his sword and pushed Midik to one side as he came close to Tehol. ‘Look at this one,’ he said in a growl. ‘See the insolence in his eyes.’

‘You do poorly at reading a Letherii’s expression,’ Tehol said sadly.

‘That is too bad, for you.’

‘Yes,’ Tehol replied, ‘I imagine—’

Theradas struck him with a gloved fist.

Pitching Tehol’s head back, his nose cracking loudly. He bent over, both hands to his face, then a foot slammed down diagonally against his right shin, snapping both bones. He fell. A heel crunched down on his chest, breaking ribs.

Tehol could feel his body trying to curl up as heels and fists battered at him. A foot smashed down on his left cheek, crushing bone and bursting that eye. White fire blazed in his brain, swiftly darkening to murky black.

Another kick dislocated his left shoulder.

Beneath yet another heel, his left elbow was crushed. As kicks hammered into his gut, he tried to draw his knees up, only to feel them stamped on and broken. Something burst low in his gut and he felt himself spilling out.

Then a heel landed on the side of his head.

 

Fifty paces up the street, Hull Beddict approached. He saw a crowd of Tiste Edur, and it was clear they were kicking someone to death. A sudden uneasiness in his stomach, he quickened his pace. There were bodies, he saw, beyond the circle. A soldier in the garb of a palace guard, the shaft of a spear jutting from him. And…an Edur woman.

‘Oh, Errant, what has happened here?’

He made to run—

—and found his path blocked.

A Nerek, and a moment later Hull Beddict recognized him. One of Buruk the Pale’s servants.

Frowning, wondering how he had come to be here, Hull moved to step around the man—who sidestepped once more to block him.

‘What is this?’

‘You have been judged, Hull Beddict,’ the Nerek said. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Judged? Please, I must—’

‘You chose to walk with the Tiste Edur emperor,’ the Nerek said. ‘You chose…betrayal.’

‘An end to Lether, yes—what of it? No more will this damned kingdom destroy people like the Nerek, and the Tarthenal—’

‘We thought we knew your heart, Hull Beddict, but now we see that it has turned black. It is poisoned, because forgiveness is not within you.’

‘Forgiveness?’ He reached out to push the Nerek aside. They’re beating someone. To death. I think—

From behind, two knives slid into his back, one under each shoulder blade, angling upward.

Arching in shock, Hull Beddict stared at the Nerek standing before him, and saw that the young man was weeping. What? Why—

He sank to his knees, weakness rising through him, and the storm of thoughts—the emotions and desires that had haunted him for years—they too weakened, fell away into a grey, calm mist. The mist rising yet higher, a sudden coldness in his muscles. It is…it is…so…

Hull Beddict pitched forward, onto his face, but he never felt the impact with the cobbles.

 

‘Stop. Please—’

The Tiste Edur turned, to see a Letherii step from where he had been hiding, round the corner of the warehouse. Nondescript, limping, a knout tucked into a rope belt, the man edged forward and continued in the trader tongue, ‘He’s never hurt no-one. Don’t kill him, please. I saw, you see.’

‘You saw what!’ Theradas demanded.

‘The woman, she stabbed herself. Look at the knife, see for yourself.’ Chalas wrung his hands, eyes on the bleeding, motionless form of Tehol. ‘Please, don’t hurt him no more.’

‘You must learn,’ Theradas said, baring his teeth. ‘We heed our emperor’s words. This shall be a day of suffering, old man. Now, leave us, or invite the same fate.’

Chalas surprised them, lunging forward to drape himself over Tehol, shifting to protect as much of him as he could.

Midik Buhn laughed.

Blows rained down, more savage than ever, and it was not long before Chalas lost consciousness. A half-dozen more kicks dislodged the man from Tehol, until the two were lying side by side. With sudden impatience, Theradas slammed his heel down on a head, hard enough to collapse the skull and crush the brain.

 

Standing on the far side of the bridge, Turudal Brizad felt the malign sorcery wash over him. The soldiers barricading the bridge had died in the grey conflagration a moment earlier, and now it seemed the terrible sorcery would reach out into the rest of the city. Into the nearby buildings, and, for the Errant, enough was enough.

He nudged the wild power coursing through those buildings, angling it ever downward, slipping it past occupied rooms, downward, past the hidden tunnels of the Rat Catchers’ Guild where so many citizens huddled, and into the insensate mud and clays of the long dead swamp. Where it could do nothing, and was slowed, slowed, then trapped.

It was clear, a moment later, that the Warlock King had not detected the manipulation, as the magic was surrendered, the poisoning conduit from the Crippled God closed once more. Hannan Mosag’s flesh would not suffer much more of that, fortunately.

Not that it would matter.

He watched as a score of Tiste Edur set off into the city, seeking, no doubt, the fleeing woman from their tribe. But nothing good would come of it, the Errant knew. Indeed, a most egregious error was in the offing, and he grieved for that.

Reaching with his senses, he gained a vision of an overgrown, broken-up yard surrounding a squat tower, and watched in wonder and awe as a lone figure wove a deadly dance in the midst of five enraged Toblakai gods. Extraordinary—a scene the Errant would never forget. But it could not last much longer, he knew.

Nothing good ever did, alas.

Blinking, he saw that the Tiste Edur emperor was now leading his kin across the bridge. On their way to the Eternal Domicile.

Turudal Brizad pushed himself into motion once more.

The Eternal Domicile, a conjoining of destinations, for yet another sequence of tragic events to come. Today, the empire is reborn. In violence and blood, as with all births. And what, when this day is done, shall we find lying, in our lap? Eyes opening onto this world?

The Errant began walking, staying ahead of the Tiste Edur, and feeling, deep within him, the lurching, stumbling measure of time, the countless heartbeats, merging one and all—no need, finally, for a nudge, a push or a pull. No need, it seemed, for anything. He would but witness, now.

He hoped.

 

Seated cross-legged in the street, the lone High Mage of the Crimson Guard present in this fell city, Corlo Orothos, once of Unta in the days before the empire, cocked his head at the heavy, thumping feet of someone approaching from behind. He risked opening his eyes, then raised a hand in time to halt the newcomer.

‘Hello, half-blood,’ he said. ‘Have you come to worship your gods?’

The giant figure looked down at Corlo. ‘Is it too late?’ he asked.

‘No, they’re still alive. Only one man opposes them, and not for much longer. I’m doing all I can, but it’s no easy thing to confuse gods.’

The Tarthenal half-blood frowned. ‘Do you know why we pray to the Seregahl?’

An odd question. ‘To gain their favour?’

‘No,’ Ublala replied, ‘we pray for them to stay away. And now,’ he added, ‘they’re here. That’s bad.’

‘Well, what do you intend to do about it?’

Ublala squinted down at Corlo, said nothing.

After a moment, the High Mage nodded. ‘Go on, then.’

He watched the huge man lumber towards the gateway. Just inside, he paused beside a tree, reached up and broke free a branch as thick as one of Corlo’s thighs. Hefting it in both hands, the half-blood jogged into the yard.

 

It was tearing him apart, striving to burst free of his skeletal cage, the minuscule, now terribly abused muscles. In their journey across Letheras, they’d left thirty or more dead Soletaken in their wake. And six Tiste Edur who’d come up from the docks eager for a fight.

They’d taken wounds—no, the remnant that was Udinaas corrected, I’ve taken wounds. I should be dead. I’m cut to pieces. Bitten, torn, gouged. But that damned Wyval won’t surrender. It needs me still…for a few moments longer.

Through a red haze, the old Azath tower and its yard came into view, and a surge of eagerness from the Wyval flooded him.

The Master needed help. All was not yet lost.

In a blur of motion, Udinaas was past the strange man sitting cross-legged on the street—he caught the sudden jerk of surprise from the man as they swept by. A moment later, plunging through the gateway.

Into the yard.

In time to see a mortal Tarthenal half-blood rushing to close on a fight where a lone swordsman was surrounded by the Toblakai gods, moments from buckling under a hail of blows.

Then, past them all.

To the barrow of the Master. The churned, steaming earth. Diving forward with a piercing, reptilian scream—and into the hot darkness, down, clawing, scraping—tearing clear from the mortal’s flesh, the body the Wyval had used for so long, the body it had hidden within—clambering free at last, massive, scaled and sleek-hided, talons plunging into the soil—

 

The child Kettle squealed as the creature, winged and as big as an ox, rushed past her on all fours. A thumping splash, water spraying in a broad fan that rose, and rose, then slapped down on the now churning pool. Foam, a snaking red-purple tail slithering down then vanishing in the swirling maelstrom.

She then heard a thud behind her and spun on the slick mud of the bank, the two swords still in her hands—

—to see a badly torn body, a man, lying face down. The shattered ends of long bones jutting from his arms and legs, blood pulsing slowly from ruptured veins. And, settling atop him, a wraith, descending like a shadow to match the contorted body beneath it. A shadowy face looking up at Kettle, the rasp of words—

‘Child, we need your help.’

She looked back over her shoulder—the surface of the pool was growing calm once more. ‘Oh, what do you want me to do? It’s all going wrong—’

‘Not as wrong as you think. This man, this Letherii. Help him, he’s dying. I cannot hold him together much longer. He is dying, and he does not deserve to die.’

She crawled closer. ‘What can I do?’

‘The blood within you, child. A drop or two, no more than that. The blood, child, that has returned you to life. Please…’

‘You are a ghost. Why would you have me do this for him—and not for you?’

The wraith’s red eyes thinned as it studied her. ‘Do not tempt me.’

Kettle looked down at the swords in her hands. Then she set one down and brought the freed hand to the gleaming blue edge of the one she still held. Slid her palm a bit along the edge, then lifted her hand to study the result. A long line of blood, a deep, perfect cut. ‘Oh, it’s sharp.’

‘Here, push him onto his back. Lay your wounded palm on his chest.’

Kettle moved forward.

 

A blow had broken his left arm, and the agony as Iron Bars dodged around and between the bellowing Seregahl sent white flashes through his brain. Half blinded, he wielded his battered, blunted sword on instinct alone, meeting blow after blow—he needed a moment free, a few heartbeats in which to recover, to clamp down on the pain—

But he’d run out of that time. Another blow got through, the strange wooden sword slicing as if glass-edged into his left hip. The leg on that side gave out beneath the biting wound. He looked up through sweat-stinging eyes, and saw the one-eyed Seregahl towering directly over him, teeth bared in triumph.

Then a tree branch struck the god in the head. Against its left temple, hard enough to snap the head right over to bounce from the opposite shoulder. The grin froze, and the Toblakai staggered. A second impact caught it, this time coming from behind, up into the back of the skull, the branch exploding into splinters. The god bent forward—

—as a knee drove up into its crotch—and forearms hammered its back, pushing it further down, the knee rising again, this time to crunch against the god’s face.

The grin, Iron Bars saw from where he crouched, was entirely gone now.

The Avowed rolled to one side a moment before the Toblakai landed atop him. Rolled, and rolled, stumbling to his feet finally to pivot round. And, rising to his name above the agony in his hip, straightening. Once more facing the Seregahl.

Where, it seemed, one of their own kind was now fighting them—a mortal Tarthenal, who had wrapped his huge arms around one of the gods from behind, trapping its arms to its sides as he squeezed. The remaining three gods had staggered back, as if in shock, and the moment was, to the Avowed’s eyes, suddenly frozen.

Two, then three heartbeats.

The cloudiness cleared from the Avowed’s eyes. A flicker of energy returned to his exhausted limbs. The pain faded away.

That mortal Tarthenal was moments from dying, as the other three stirred awake and moved forward.

Iron Bars raced to intercept them.

The odds were getting better.

 

Two huddled shapes on the street. Tiste Edur standing around, still kicking, still breaking bones. One stamped down, and brains sprayed out onto the cobbles.

Bugg slowed to a stagger, his face twisting with grief, then rage.

He roared.

Heads turned.

And the manservant unleashed what had remained hidden and quiescent within him for so long.

Fourteen Tiste Edur, standing, all reached up to clamp their ears—but the gesture was never completed, as thirteen of them imploded, as if beneath vast pressure, in horrible contractions of flesh, the wild spurt of blood and fluids, skulls collapsing inward.

Imploded, only to explode outward a moment later. In bloody pieces, spattering the warehouse wall and out across the street.

The fourteenth Tiste Edur, the one who had just crushed a head beneath his heel, was lifted into the air. Writhing, his eyes bulging horribly, wastes streaming down his legs.

As Bugg stalked forward.

Until he was standing before Theradas Buhn of the Hiroth. He stared up at the warrior, at his bloated face, at the agony in his eyes.

Trembling, Bugg said, ‘You, I am sending home…not your home. My home.’ A gesture, and the Tiste Edur vanished.

Into Bugg’s warren, away, then down, down, ever down.

Into depthless darkness, where the portal opened once more, flinging Theradas Buhn into icy, black water.

Where the pressure, immense and undeniable, embraced him.

Fatally.

Bugg’s trembling slowed. His roar had been heard, he knew. Upon the other side of the world, it had been heard. And heads had swung round. Immortal hearts had quickened.

‘No matter,’ he whispered.

Then moved forward, down to kneel beside the motionless bodies.

He gathered one of those bodies into his arms.

Rose, and walked away.

 

The Eternal Domicile. A title of such profound conceit, as thoroughly bound into the arrogance of the Letherii as the belief in their own immutable destiny. Manifest rights to all things, to ownership, to the claiming of all they perceived, the unconscionable, brazen arrogance of it all, as if a thousand gods stood at their backs, burdened with gifts for the chosen.

Trull Sengar could only wonder, what bred such certainties? What made a people so filled with rectitude and intransigence? Perhaps all that is needed…is power. A shroud of poison filling the air, seeping into every pore of every man, woman and child. A poison that twisted the past to suit the mores of the present, illuminating in turn an inevitable and righteous future. A poison that made intelligent people blithely disregard the ugly truths of past errors in judgement, of horrendous, brutal debacles that had stained red the hands of their forefathers. A poison that entrenched the stupidity of dubious traditions, and brought misery and suffering upon countless victims.

Power, then. The very same power we are about to embrace. Sisters have mercy upon our people.

The emperor of the Tiste Edur stood before the grand entrance to the Eternal Domicile. Mottled sword in his tight, glittering hand. Dusty bearskin riding shoulders grown massively broad with the weight of gold. Old blood staining his back in map patterns, as if he was redrawing the world. Hair now long, ragged and heavy with oily filth.

Trull was standing behind him, and so could not see his brother’s eyes. But he knew, should he look into them now, he would see the destiny he feared, he would see the poison coursing unopposed, and he would see the madness born of betrayal.

It would have taken little, he knew. The simple reaching out for a nondescript, sad-eyed slave, the closing of hands, to lift Rhulad upright, to guide him back into sanity. That, and nothing more.

Rhulad turned to face them. ‘The doors stand unbarred.’

Hannan Mosag said, ‘Someone waits within, sire. I sense…something.’

‘What do you ask of us, Warlock King?’

‘Permit me and my K’risnan to enter first, to see what awaits us. In the corridor…’

Rhulad’s eyes narrowed, then he waved them forward, and added, ‘Fear, Trull, Binadas, join us. We shall follow immediately behind.’

Hannan Mosag in the lead, the K’risnan and the slaves dragging the two sacks immediately behind him, then Rhulad and his brothers, all approached the doors of the Eternal Domicile.

 

Standing just outside the throne room’s entrance, Brys Beddict saw movement down the corridor, on this side of the motionless form of the Ceda. The Champion reached for his sword, then let his hand fall away as the First Consort, Turudal Brizad, emerged from the shadows, approaching nonchalantly, his expression calm.

‘I did not,’ Brys said in a low voice, ‘expect to see you again, First Consort.’

Turudal’s soft eyes lifted past Brys to look into the throne room beyond. ‘Who waits, Champion?’

‘The king, his concubine. The First Eunuch and the Chancellor. And six of my guards.’

Turudal nodded. ‘Well, we will not have to wait much longer. The Tiste Edur are but moments behind me.’

‘How fares the city?’

‘There has been fighting, Brys Beddict. Loyal soldiers lie dead in the streets. Among them, Moroch Nevath.’

‘And Gerun Eberict? What of him?’

Turudal cocked his head, then frowned. ‘He pursues…a woman.’

Brys studied the man. ‘Who are you, Turudal Brizad?’

The eyes met his own. ‘Today, a witness. We have come, after all, to the day of the Seventh Closure. An end, and a beginning—’

Brys raised a hand to silence the man, then took a step past him.

The Ceda was stirring in the hallway beyond. Then, rising to his feet, adjusting his grimy, creased robes, he lifted the lenses to his face and settled them in place.

Turudal Brizad turned to join Brys. ‘Ah, yes.’

The silhouettes of a group of tall figures had appeared at the distant doors, which were now open.

‘The Ceda…’

‘He has done very well, thus far.’

Brys shot the First Consort a baffled look. ‘What do you mean? He has done…nothing.’

Brows rose. ‘No? He has annihilated the sea-god, the demon chained by Hannan Mosag. And he has been preparing for this moment for days now. See where he stands? See the tile he has painted beneath himself? A tile from which all the power of the Cedance shall pass, upward, into his hands.’

The gloom of the hallway vanished, a white, glowing light suffusing the dusty air.

Revealing the row of Tiste Edur now facing the Ceda, less than fifteen paces between them.

The Edur in the centre of the row spoke. ‘Ceda Kuru Qan. The kingdom you serve has fallen. Step aside. The emperor wishes to claim his throne.’

‘Fallen?’ The Ceda’s voice was thin in comparison, almost quavering. ‘Relevant? Not in the least. I see you, Hannan Mosag, and your K’risnan. I feel you gathering your power. For your mad emperor to claim the throne of Lether, you shall have to pass through me.’

‘It is pointless, old man,’ Hannan Mosag said. ‘You are alone. All your fellow mages are dead. Look at you. Half blind, barely able to stand—’

‘Seek out the demon you chained in the sea, Warlock King.’

From this distance, Trull could not make out Hannan Mosag’s expression, but there was sudden fury in his voice. ‘You have done this?’

‘Letherii are well versed in using greed to lay traps,’ Kuru Qan said. ‘You’ll not have its power today, nor ever again.’

‘For that,’ the Warlock King said in a growl, ‘you will—’

The white mist exploded, the roar shaking ceiling and walls, and thundered forward, striking the Tiste Edur warlocks.

 

Ten paces behind Hannan Mosag and his K’risnan, Trull Sengar cried out, ducking away at the blazing concussion, his brothers following suit. He heard screams, cut short, then a body skidded across the polished floor to thud against Trull’s feet, knocking him down—

He found himself staring at a K’risnan, burnt beyond recognition, blackened slime melting away from split bones. Rising to his hands and knees, Trull looked up.

Only two Edur remained standing, battling the raging sorcery of the Ceda. Hannan Mosag and Binadas. The other K’risnan were all dead, as were the four slaves who had been crouching beside the two sacks.

As Trull stared, he saw Binadas flung to the ground as if by a thousand fists of light. Blood sprayed—

Then Fear was diving forward, skidding on the bucking tiles to within reach of his brother. Hands closed on a wrist and an ankle, then Fear was dragging Binadas back, away from the conflagration.

Hannan Mosag bellowed. Swirling grey tendrils sprang up from the floor, entwining the raging motes of fire. A blinding detonation—

Then darkness once more, slowly giving way to gloom.

Hannan Mosag, standing alone now, facing the Ceda.

A heartbeat—

Kuru Qan struck again, a moment before Hannan Mosag’s own attack. The two powers collided three paces in front of the Warlock King—

—and Trull saw Hannan Mosag stagger, sheathed in blood, his hands reaching back, groping, the left one landing atop one of the sacks and clutching tight. The other hand then found the other and grasped hold. The Warlock King steadied himself, then began to straighten once more against the onslaught.

 

The sorcery pouring from the Ceda had twisted the marble walls, until they began to bleed white liquid. The ceiling overhead had sagged, its paints scorched away, its surfaces polished and slick. Brys had stared, disbelieving, as the magic swatted away whatever defensive spells the K’risnan had raised before themselves, swatted it away in an instant, to rush in and slaughter them.

Against Hannan Mosag himself, it battered again and again, driving ever closer.

Then the Warlock King riposted, and the pressure in that hallway pushed Brys and Turudal back a step, then two.

All at once, the two battling powers annihilated each other in a flash, the thunder of the detonation sending cracks through the floor, bucking tiles into the air—everywhere but where the two sorcerors stood.

Dusty silence.

The marble columns to either side were burning in patches, melting from the top down like massive tallow candles. Overhead, the ceiling groaned, as if moments from collapse.

‘Now,’ Turudal Brizad hoarsely whispered, ‘we will see the measure of Hannan Mosag’s desperation…’

The sorceries roared to life once again, and Brys saw the Warlock King stagger.

The Ceda, Kuru Qan, the small, ancient man, stood unscathed, and the magic raging from him in wave after wave seemed to Brys to be that of a god.

The Warlock King would not survive this. And, once he fell, this ancient, primal sorcery would sweep out, taking the emperor and his kin, devouring them one and all. Outward, into the city. An entire people, the Tiste Edur, would be annihilated—Brys could sense its hunger, its outrage, its cold lust for vengeance—this was the power of the Letherii, the Cedance, the voice of destiny, a thing terrible beyond comprehension—

 

Trull saw the Warlock King steady himself, his hands gripping the sacks, and power began to flow from them, up his arms, as he began, slowly, to push back the Ceda’s attack.

Those arms twisted, grew into horrific, misshapen appendages. Hannan Mosag’s torso began to bend, the spine curving, writhing like a snake on hot stones, new muscles rising, knobs of bone pushing at the skin. He shrieked as the power burgeoned through him.

A grey wave rising, battering at the white fire, tearing its edges, pushing harder, filling half the long, colonnaded hallway, closing on the Ceda, who stood unmoving, head tilted up, the strange lenses flashing before his eyes. Standing, as if studying the storm clawing towards him.

 

Brys stared in horror as the foul sorcery of the Edur edged ever closer to the Ceda, towering over the small man. He saw a nearby column turn porous, then crumble to dust. A section of the ceiling it had been supporting collapsed downward, only to vanish in a cloudy haze and land in a thud of billowing dust.

Kuru Qan was looking up at the raging wall looming over him.

Brys saw him cock his head, the slightest of gestures.

A renewed burst of white fire, expanding outward from where he stood, surging up and outward, hammering into the grey wall.

Driving fissures through it, tearing enormous pieces away to whip like rent sails up towards the malformed ceiling.

Brys heard the Warlock King’s shriek, as the white flames roared towards him.

 

Trull felt himself dragged to his feet. He turned, stared into Fear’s face. His brother was shouting something—

—but the Warlock King was failing. Crumbling beneath the onslaught. Whatever energies he had drawn upon from what was hidden within the sacks were ebbing. Insufficient to counter the Ceda. The Warlock King was about to die—and with him—all of us…

‘Trull!’ Fear shook him. ‘Along the wall.’ He pointed. ‘There, edge forward. For a throw—’

A throw? He stared at the spear in his hands, the Blackwood glistening with beads of red sweat.

‘From the shadows, Trull, behind that pillar! From the shadows, Trull!’

It was pointless. Worse, he did not want to even try. What if he succeeded? What would be won?

‘Trull! Do this or we all die! Mother, Father—Mayen—her child! All the children of the Edur!’

Trull stared into Fear’s eyes, and did not recognize what he saw in them. His brother shook him again, then pushed him along the wall, into the bathing heat of the sorcery battering down at Hannan Mosag, then behind a friable column of what had once been solid marble.

Into cool shadow. Absurdly cool shadow. Trull stumbled forward at a final push from his brother. He was brought up against a warped, rippled wall—and could see, now, the Ceda. Less than seven paces distant. Head tilted upward, watching his assault on the Warlock King’s failing defences.

Tears blurred Trull’s eyes. He did not want to do this. But they will kill us all. Every one of us, leaving not a single Tiste Edur alive. I know this. In my heart I know this. They will take our lands, our riches. They will sow salt on our burial grounds: They will sweep us into history’s forgotten worlds. I…I know this.

He raised his spear, balanced now in his right hand. Was still for a moment, breath held, then two quick strides, arm flashing forward, the weapon flying straight and true.

Piercing the Ceda in his side, just below his left ribs, its solid weight and the momentum from Trull’s arm driving the point deep.

The Ceda spun with the impact, left leg buckling, and fell—away from the painted tile—

—that suddenly shattered.

The white fire vanished, and darkness swept in from all sides.

 

Numbed, Brys stepped forward—

—and was stayed by the hand of Turudal Brizad. ‘No, Champion. He’s gone.’

The Ceda. Kuru Qan. My friend…

 

Kettle sat in the mud, staring down at the man’s face. It looked to be a kind face, especially with the eyes closed in sleep. The scars were fading, all across his lean, tanned body. Her blood had done that. She had been dead, once, and now she had given life.

‘You’re a strange one,’ the wraith whispered from where it crouched by the water.

‘I am Kettle.’

A grunted laugh. ‘And what boils within you, I wonder?

‘You,’ she said, ‘are more than just a ghost.’

‘Yes.’ Amused. ‘I am Wither. A good name, don’t you think? I was Tiste Andii, once, long, long ago. I was murdered, along with all of my kin. Well, those of us that survived the battle, that is.’

‘Why are you here, Wither?’

‘I await my lord, Kettle.’ The wraith suddenly rose—she had not known how tall it was before. ‘And now…he comes.’

An up-rush of muddy water, and a gaunt figure rose, white-skinned as a blood-drained corpse, long pale hair plastered across its lean face. Coughing, pulling itself clear, crawling onto the bank.

‘The swords,’ he gasped.

Kettle hurried over to him and pushed the weapons into his long-fingered hands. He used them, points down, to help himself to his feet. Tall, she saw, shrinking back, taller even than the wraith. And such cold, cold eyes, deep red. ‘You said you would help us,’ she said, cowering beneath his gaze.

‘Help?’

The wraith knelt before his lord. ‘Silchas Ruin, I was once Killanthir, Third High Mage of the Sixth Cohort—’

‘I remember you, Killanthir.’

‘I have chosen the new name of Wither, my lord.’

‘As you like.’

The wraith glanced up. ‘Where is the Wyval?’

‘I fear he will not survive, but he keeps her occupied. A noble beast.’

‘Please,’ Kettle whimpered, ‘they’re out. They want to kill me—you promised—’

‘My lord,’ Wither said, ‘I would help the Wyval. Together, we can perhaps succeed in driving her deep. Even in binding her once again. If you would give me leave…’

Silchas Ruin was silent for a moment, staring down at the kneeling wraith. Then he said, ‘As you like.’

Wither bowed his head, paused to glance over at Kettle, and said, ‘Leave the Letherii to me. He will not awaken for some time.’ Then the wraith flowed down into the swirling water.

Silchas Ruin drew a deep breath, and looked down at the swords in his hands for the first time. ‘Strange, these. Yet I sense the mortal chose well. Child, get behind me.’ He regarded her, then nodded. ‘It is time to fulfil my promise.’

 

Corlo had no idea what would come of this. An Avowed could indeed die, if sufficiently damaged. It was, he believed, a matter of will as much as anything else. And he had known Iron Bars for a long time, although not as long as he had known other of the Avowed. To his mind, however, there was no other who could compare with Iron Bars, when it came to sheer will.

The High Mage was exhausted, used up. No longer could he deftly manipulate the four remaining gods, although, luckily, one of those was in enough trouble all on its own, with a crazed Tarthenal seemingly doing the impossible—squeezing the very life out of it. Talk about stubborn.

He had been beaten on, again and again, yet he would not relax his deadly embrace. Iron Bars had fought brilliantly, distracting the remaining three repeatedly, sufficient to keep the Tarthenal alive, but the Avowed was very nearly done. Corlo had never before seen such fighting, had never before witnessed the fullest measure of this Avowed’s ability. It had been said, by Guardsmen who would know, that he was nearly a match to Skinner. And now Corlo believed it.

He was more than a little startled when two corpses walked past him towards the gateway, one of them clawing the air and hissing.

They halted at the entrance to the yard, and he heard the woman swear with admirable inventiveness, then say, ‘I don’t know how we can help them. Oh, Ublala, you big, stupid fool.’

The other said, ‘We must attack, Shurq Elalle. I have fangs and talons, you know.’

‘Well, go on then.’

Shurq Elalle? The captain of the ship we’ve signed on with? Our…employer? Corlo pried his legs loose from their crossed position, wincing in pain, and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Hey, you.’

Shurq Elalle, standing alone now, slowly turned. ‘Are you addressing me?’

Corlo hobbled over. ‘Corlo, ma’am. Crimson Guard. We signed on with you—’

‘We?’

‘Yes, the one helping your big, stupid friend. That’s Iron Bars, my commander.’

‘You’re supposed to be waiting onboard!’

He blinked.

She scowled. ‘Your commander is about to die.’

‘I know—wait—’ He stepped past her, onto the track. ‘Wait, something’s coming—quick!’ He ran into the yard, Shurq Elalle following.

 

The Toblakai in the Tarthenal’s arms sagged, and Iron Bars heard the cracking of ribs—a moment before one of the gods slipped past the Avowed and slammed the side of his wooden sword into the Tarthenal’s head. The huge man toppled, dragging down with him the dead god in his arms.

Stunned, the Tarthenal tried feebly to extricate himself from the corpse.

With the last of his failing strength, Iron Bars leapt over to position himself above him, arriving in time to deflect a sword-blow and counter with a slash that forced the attacker back a step. From the right, another lunged, then spun away of its own accord, wheeling towards a thunderous concussion from a nearby barrow.

Where a tall, pale figure strode into view through a cloud of steam, a sword in each hand.

The Avowed, momentarily distracted, did not even see the sword-blade that slipped over his guard and, deflected at the last moment by clipping the hilt of his sword, slammed flat like a paddle into his right shoulder, breaking everything it could. The impact sent him flying, crashing down into the earth, weapon flying from a senseless hand. He ended up lying on his back, staring up through straggly black tree branches. Too hurt to move. Too tired to care.

From somewhere to his right he heard fighting, then a grunting bellow that sounded a lot like a death-cry. A Toblakai staggered, almost stumbling over Iron Bars, and the Avowed’s eyes widened upon seeing blood spurting from two stabs in the god’s neck, and a man gnawing on its left calf, being dragged along by its teeth, its taloned hands clawing up the god’s thigh.

Well, he’d seen stranger things, he supposed—no, not a chance of that—

The ground shook as another body thumped to the ground. A moment later, there was another dying groan.

Then footsteps slowly approached Iron Bars where he lay, staring up at the sky. A shadow fell over him. The Avowed blinked, and found himself looking up at a pallid, lean face, and two red, very red, eyes.

‘You did passably well,’ the stranger said.

‘And my Tarthenal friend?’

‘Struck in the skull. He’ll be fine, since I doubt there’s much inside it.’ A pause, then, ‘Why are you still lying there?’

 

Dust and smoke drifted out from the dark corridor. Turudal Brizad had drawn Brys back into the throne room, and the Champion now stood in the clear space before the dais.

From the throne behind him came a weary voice. ‘Finadd? The Ceda…’

Brys simply shook his head, unable to speak, struggling to push aside his grief.

From the gloom of the corridor, there was silence. Heavy, ominous.

Brys slowly drew out his sword.

A sound. The grate of footsteps dragging through dust and rubble, the scrape of a sword-tip, and a strange series of dull clicks.

The footsteps halted.

Then, a coin. The snap of its bounce—

—rolling slowly into the throne room.

Brys watched it arc a lazy, curling path over the tiles. Gold, blotched with dried blood.

Rolling, tilting, then wobbling to a stop.

The sounds resumed from the corridor, and a moment later a hulking figure shambled out from the shadows and roiling dust.

No-one spoke in the throne room as the emperor of the Tiste Edur entered. Three steps, then four, then five, until he was almost within sword-reach of the Champion. Behind him, Hannan Mosag, almost unrecognizable, so twisted and bent and broken was the Warlock King. Two more Edur warriors, their faces taut with distress, appeared in Hannan Mosag’s wake, dragging two sacks.

Brys spared the others the briefest of glances, noting the blood-smeared spear in the right hand of one of the warriors. The one who killed the Ceda. Then he fixed his attention once more on the emperor. The sword was too large for him. He walked as if in pain. Spasms flickered across his coin-studded face. His hooded eyes glittered as he stared past Brys…to the throne, and the king seated upon it.

A racking cough from Hannan Mosag as he sagged to a kneeling position, a gasp, and, finally, words. ‘King Ezgara Diskanar. I have something…to show you. A…gift.’ He lifted a mangled hand, the effort sending a shudder through him, and gestured behind him.

The two warriors glanced at each other, both uncertain.

The Warlock King grimaced. ‘The sacks. Untie them. Show the king what lies within them.’ Another hacking cough, a bubbling of pink froth at the corners of Hannan Mosag’s mouth.

The warriors worked at the knotted ropes, the one on the left pulling the strands loose a moment before the other one. Drawing the leather mouth open. The Edur, seeing what was within, suddenly recoiled, and Brys saw horror on the warrior’s face.

A moment later the other one cried out and stepped back.

‘Show them!’ screamed the Warlock King.

At that, even the emperor turned, startled.

The warrior on the left drew a deep, ragged breath, then stepped forward until he could grip the edges of the sack. With strangely gentle motions, he tugged the leather down.

A Letherii, bound tight. Blistered, suppurating skin, fingers worn to stubs, lumps and growths everywhere on his naked body. He had lost most of his hair, although some long strands remained. Blinking in the light, he tried lifting his head, but the malformed tendons and ligaments in his neck forced the motion to one side. The lower jaw settled and a thread of drool slipped down from the gaping mouth.

Then Brys recognized him.

Prince Quillas—

A cry from the king, a terrible, animal wail.

The other sack was pulled down. The queen, her flesh as ruined as that of her son. From her, however, came a wet cackle as if to answer her husband’s cry, then a tumbling of nonsensical words, a rush of madness grating out past her swollen, broken lips. Yet, in her eyes, fierce awareness.

Hannan Mosag laughed. ‘I used them. Against the Ceda. I used them. Letherii blood, Letherii flesh. Look upon the three of us. See, dear king, see the glory of what is to come.

The emperor shrieked, ‘Take them away! Fear! Trull! Take them away!’

The two warriors closed on the huddled figures, drawing the sacks up to what passed for shoulders, then dragging the queen and her son back towards the corridor.

Trembling, the emperor faced the king once more. He opened his mouth to say something, winced, then shut it again. Then he slowly straightened, and spoke in a rasping voice. ‘We are Rhulad Sengar, emperor of the Tiste Edur. And now, of Lether. Yield the throne, Diskanar. Yield…to us.’

From Brys’s left the First Eunuch strode forward, a wine jug and two goblets in his hands. He ascended the dais, offered Ezgara one of the goblets. Then he poured out the wine.

Bemused, the Champion took a step to his right and half turned to regard his king.

Who calmly drank down the wine in three quick swallows. At some time earlier the crown had been placed on his brow once again. Nisall was standing just behind the throne, her eyes narrowed on the First Eunuch, who had finished his own wine and was stepping back down from the dais, making his way to stand near the Chancellor at the far wall.

Ezgara Diskanar fixed dull eyes on Brys. ‘Stand aside, Champion. Do not die this day.’

‘I cannot do as you ask, my king,’ Brys said. ‘As you well know.’

A weary nod, then Ezgara looked away. ‘Very well.’

Nifadas spoke. ‘Champion. Show these savages the measure of a Letherii swordsman. The final act of our kingdom on this dark day.’

Brys frowned, then faced Rhulad Sengar. ‘You must fight me, Emperor. Or call upon more of your warriors to cut us down.’ A glance at the kneeling Hannan Mosag. ‘I believe your sorcery is done for now.’

Rhulad sneered. ‘Sorcery? We would not so discard this opportunity, Champion. No, we will fight, the two of us.’ He stepped back and raised the mottled sword. ‘Come. We have lessons for one another.’

Brys did not reply. He waited.

The emperor attacked. Surprisingly fast, a half-whirl of the blade high, then a broken-timed diagonal downward slash intended to meet the Champion’s sword and drive it down to the tiles.

Brys matched the momentary hesitation and leaned back, drawing his sword round as he side-stepped to his right. Blade now resting on the top of Rhulad’s own as it flashed downward, the Champion darted the tip up to the emperor’s left forearm and sliced through a tendon near the elbow.

He leapt back, thrusting low as he was pulling away, to push the tip of his sword between the tendon and kneecap of Rhulad’s left leg.

Snip.

The emperor stumbled forward, almost to the edge of the dais, then, astonishingly, righted himself to lunge in a two-handed thrust.

The mottled blade seemed to dance of its own accord, evading two distinct parries from Brys, and the Champion only managed to avoid the thrust by pushing the heavy blade aside with his left hand.

The two lower fingers spun away from that hand, even as Brys back-pedalled until he was in the centre of the space once more, this time with Rhulad between himself and the king on his throne.

Ezgara was smiling.

As Rhulad wheeled to face him once more, his weapon dipping low, Brys attacked.

Leading foot lifting high, stamping down on the emperor’s wavering sword-blade—not a perfect contact, but sufficient to bat it momentarily away—as he drove his point into Rhulad’s right kneecap. Slicing downward from the upper edge. Biting deep into the bone near the bottom edge. Twisting withdrawal, pulling the patella out through the cut.

A shriek, as Rhulad’s leg shot out to the side.

The kneecap still speared on Brys’s sword-point, he darted in again as the emperor drove his own sword down and to the left in an effort to stay upright, and slashed lightly across the tendons of the Edur’s right arm, just above the elbow.

Rhulad fell back, thudded hard on the tiles, coins snapping free.

The sword should have dropped from the Edur’s hands, yet it remained firm within two clenched fists.

But Rhulad could do nothing with it.

Trying to sit up, eyes filling with rage, he strained to lift the weapon.

Brys struck the floor with his sword-tip, dislodging the patella, stepped close to the emperor and severed the tendons and ligaments in the Edur’s right shoulder, sweeping the blade across to slice a neck tendon, then, point hovering a moment, thrusting down to disable the left shoulder in an identical manner. Standing over the helpless emperor, Brys methodically cut through both tendons above Rhulad’s heels, then sliced diagonally across his victim’s stomach, parting the wall of muscles there.

A kick sent Rhulad over, exposing his back.

Slashes above each shoulder blade, two more neck tendons. Lower back, ensuring that the sheets of muscle there fully separated, rolling up beneath the coin-studded skin. Back of shoulders, coins dancing away to bounce across the floor.

Brys then stepped back. Lowered his sword.

Rebounding shrieks from the emperor lying face down on the floor, limbs already curling of their own accord, muscles drawing up. The only movement in the chamber.

A slow settling of dust from the corridor.

Then, from one of the Edur warriors, ‘Sisters take me…’

King Ezgara Diskanar sighed, leaned drunkenly forward, then said, ‘Kill him. Kill him.’

Brys looked over. ‘No, sire.’

Disbelief on the old man’s face. ‘What?’

‘The Ceda was specific on this, sire. I must not kill him.’

‘He will bleed out,’ Nifadas said, his words strangely dull.

But Brys shook his head. ‘He will not. I opened no major vessels, First Eunuch.’

The Edur warrior named Trull then spoke. ‘No major vessels…how—how could you know? It is not possible…so fast…’

Brys said nothing.

The king suddenly slumped back on his throne.

Rhulad’s shrieks had fallen away, and now he wept. Heaving, helpless cries. A sudden gasp, then, ‘Brothers! Kill me!’

Trull Sengar recoiled at Rhulad’s command. He shook his head, looked across at Fear, and saw a terrible realization in his brother’s eyes.

Rhulad was not healing. Leaking blood onto the polished tiles. His body…destroyed. And he was not healing. Trull turned to Hannan Mosag, and saw the ugly gleam of satisfaction in the Warlock King’s eyes.

‘Hannan Mosag,’ Trull whispered.

‘I cannot. His flesh, Trull Sengar, is beyond me. Beyond all of us. Only the sword…and only by the sword. You, Trull Sengar. Or Fear.’ A weak wave of one hand. ‘Oh, call in someone else, if you’ve not the courage…’

Courage.

Fear grunted at that. As if punched in the chest.

Trull studied him—but Fear had not moved, not a single step. He dragged his eyes away, fixed them once more on Rhulad.

‘My brothers.’ Rhulad wept where he lay. ‘Kill me. One of you. Please.’

The Champion—that extraordinary, appalling swordsman—walked over to where the wine jug sat near the foot of the throne. The king looked half asleep, indifferent, his face flushed and slack. Trull drew a deep breath. He saw the First Eunuch, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. Another man, elderly, stood near Nifadas, hands to his eyes—a posture both strange and pathetic. The woman standing behind the throne was backing away, as if in sudden realization of something. There had been another man young, handsome, but it seemed he had vanished.

Along the walls, the six palace guards had all drawn their weapons and held them across their chest, a silent salute to the King’s Champion. A salute Trull wanted to match. His gaze returned once more to Brys. So modest in appearance so…his face. Familiar…Hull Beddict. So like Hull Beddict. Yes, his brother. The youngest. He watched the Letherii pour wine from the jug into the goblet the king had used earlier.

Sisters, this Champion—what has he done? He has given us this…this answer. This…solution.

Rhulad screamed. ‘Fear!’

Hannan Mosag coughed, then said, ‘He is gone, Emperor.’

Trull spun round, looked about. Gone? No—‘Where? Hannan Mosag, where—’

‘He…walked away.’ The Warlock King’s smile was bloodstained. ‘Just that, Trull Sengar. Walked. You understand, now, don’t you?’

‘To call the others, to bring them here…’

‘No,’ Hannan Mosag said. ‘I do not think so.’

Rhulad whimpered, then snapped, ‘Trull! I command you! Your emperor commands you! Stab me with your spear. Stab me!’

Tears filled Trull’s eyes. And how shall I look upon him…now? How? As my emperor, or as my brother? He tottered, almost collapsing as anguish washed through him. Fear. You have left. Left us. Me, with…this.

‘Brother! Please!’

From the entrance came a low cackle.

Trull turned, saw the bound forms of the queen and the prince, leaning against the wall like two obscene trophies. The sound was coming from the queen, and he saw a glitter from her eyes.

Something—something else—there’s more here…

He turned. Watched as the Champion straightened, goblet in his hand. Watched, as the man lifted it to his lips.

Trull’s gaze flicked to the king. To that half-lidded stare. The senseless eyes. The Edur’s head snapped round, to where the First Eunuch sat. Chin on chest, motionless.

‘No!’

As the Champion drank, head tilting back. Two swallows, then three. Lowering the cup, he turned to regard Trull. Frowned. ‘You had better leave,’ he said. ‘Drag your warlock with you. Approach the emperor and I will kill you.’

Too late. All…too late. ‘What—what do you intend?’

The Champion looked down at Rhulad. ‘We will…take him somewhere. You will not find him, Edur.’

The queen cackled again, clearly startling the swordsman.

‘It is too late,’ Trull said. ‘For you, in any case. If you have any mercy in you, Champion, best send your guards away now. And have them take the woman with them. My kin will be here at any moment.’ His gaze fell to Rhulad. ‘The emperor is for the Edur to deal with.’

The quizzical expression in the Champion’s face deepened. Then he blinked, shook his head. ‘What…what do you mean? I see that you will not kill your brother. And he must die, mustn’t he? To heal. To…return.’

‘Yes. Champion, I am sorry. I was too late to warn you.’

The swordsman sagged suddenly, and he threw a bloody hand out to the edge of the throne for balance. The sword, still in the other hand, wavered, then dipped until the point touched the floor. ‘What—what—’

Trull said nothing.

But Hannan Mosag cared nothing for compassion, and he laughed once more. ‘I understood your gesture, Champion. The coolness to match that of your king. Besides—’ His words broke into a cough. He spat phlegm, then resumed. ‘Besides, it hardly mattered, did it? Whether you lived or died. That’s how it seemed, anyway. At that brazen, fateful moment, at least.’

The Champion sank down to the floor, staring dully at the Warlock King.

‘Swordsman,’ Hannan Mosag called out. ‘Hear me, these final words. You have lost. Your king is dead. He was dead before you even began your fight. You fought, Champion, to defend a dead man.’

The Letherii, eyes widening, struggled to pull himself round, striving to look up, to the throne, to the figure seated there. But the effort proved too great, and he slid back down, head lolling.

The Warlock King was laughing. ‘He had no faith. Only gold. No faith in you, swordsman—’

Trull stalked towards him. ‘Be silent!’

Hannan Mosag sneered up at him. ‘Watch yourself, Trull Sengar. You are as nothing to me.’

‘You would claim the throne now, Warlock King?’ Trull asked.

An enraged shriek from Rhulad.

Hannan Mosag said nothing.

Trull looked back over his shoulder. Saw the Champion lying sprawled on the dais, at the king’s slippered feet. Lying, perfectly still, a mixture of surprise and dismay on his young face. Eyes staring, seeing nothing. But then, there could be no other way. No other way to kill such a man.

Trull swung his gaze back down to the Warlock King. ‘Someone will do as he commands,’ he said in a low voice.

‘Do you really think so?’

‘His chosen kin—’

‘Will do…nothing. No, Trull, not even Binadas. Just as your hand is stayed, so too will theirs be. It is a mercy, don’t you see? Of course you do. You see that all too well. A mercy.’

‘Whilst you heave that ruin of a body onto the throne, Hannan Mosag?’

The answer was plain in the eyes of the Warlock King. It is mine.

A hoarse whisper from Rhulad, ‘Trull…please. I am your brother. Do not…do not leave me. Like this. Please.’

Everything was breaking inside him. Trull stepped away from Hannan Mosag, and sank slowly to his knees. I need Fear. I need to find him. Talk.

‘Please, Trull…I never meant, I never meant…’

Trull stared down at his hands. He’d dropped his spear—he did not even know where it was. There were six Letherii guards—he looked up—no, they were gone. Where had they gone? The old man standing beside the body of the First Eunuch—where was he? The woman?

Where had everybody gone?

 

Tehol Beddict opened his eyes. One of them, he noticed, did not work very well. He squinted. A low ceiling. Dripping.

A hand stroked his brow and he turned his head. Oh, now that hurts. Bugg leaned forward, nodded. Tehol tried to nod back, almost managed. ‘Where are we?’

‘In a crypt. Under the river.’

‘Did we…get wet?’

‘Only a little.’

‘Oh.’ He thought about that for a time. Then said, ‘I should be dead.’

‘Yes, you should. But you were holding on. Enough, anyway, which is more than can be said for poor Chalas.’

‘Chalas?’

‘He tried to protect you, and they killed him for it. I am sorry, Tehol. I was too late in arriving.’

He thought about that, too. ‘The Tiste Edur.’

‘Yes. I killed them.’

‘You did?’

Bugg nodded, looked briefly away. ‘I am afraid I lost my temper.’

‘Ah.’

The manservant looked back. ‘You don’t sound surprised.’

‘I’m not. I’ve seen you step on cockroaches. You are ruthless.’

‘Anything for a meal.’

‘Yes, and what about that, anyway? We’ve never eaten enough—not to have stayed as healthy as we did.’

‘That’s true.’

Tehol tried to sit up, groaned and lay back down. ‘I smell mud.’

‘Mud, yes. Salty mud at that. There’s footprints here, were here when we arrived. Footprints, passing through.’

‘Arrived. How long ago?’

‘Not long. A few moments…’

‘During which you mended all my bones.’

‘And a new eye, most of your organs, this and that.’

‘The eye doesn’t work well.’

‘Give it time. Babies can’t focus past a nipple, you know.’

‘No, I didn’t. But I fully understand the sentiment.’

They were silent for a time.

Then Tehol sighed and said, ‘But this changes everything.’

‘It does? How?’

‘Well, you’re supposed to be my manservant. How can I continue the conceit of being in charge?’

‘Just the same as you always have.’

‘Hah hah.’

‘I could make you forget.’

‘Forget what?’

‘Very funny.’

‘No,’ Tehol said, ‘I mean specifically.’

‘Well,’ Bugg rubbed his jaw, ‘the events of this day, I suppose.’

‘So, you killed all those Tiste Edur.’

‘Yes, I am afraid so.’

‘Then carried me under the river.’

‘Yes.’

‘But your clothes are dry.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And your name’s not really Bugg.’

‘No, I guess not.’

‘But I like that name.’

‘Me too.’

‘And your real one?’

‘Mael.’

Tehol frowned, studied his manservant’s face, then shook his head. ‘It doesn’t fit. Bugg is better.’

‘I agree.’

‘So, if you could kill all those warriors. Heal me. Walk under a river. Answer me this, then. Why didn’t you kill all of them? Halt this invasion in its tracks?’

‘I have my reasons.’

‘To see Lether conquered? Don’t you like us?’

‘Lether? Not much. You take your natural vices and call them virtues. Of which greed is the most despicable. That and betrayal of commonality. After all, whoever decided that competition is always and without exception a healthy attribute? Why that particular path to self-esteem? Your heel on the hand of the one below. This is worth something? Let me tell you, it’s worth nothing. Nothing lasting. Every monument that exists beyond the moment—no matter which king, emperor or warrior lays claim to it—is actually a testament to the common, to co-operation, to the plural rather than the singular.’

‘Ah,’ Tehol interjected, managing to raise a finger to mark his objection, ‘without a king, general or whomever—without a leader, no monument gets built.’

‘Only because you mortals know only two possibilities. To follow or to lead. Nothing else.’

‘Hold on. I’ve seen consortiums and co-operatives at work, Bugg. They’re nightmares.’

‘Aye, breeding grounds for all those virtues such as greed, envy, betrayal and so on. In other words, each within the group seeks to impose a structure of followers and leaders. Dispense with a formal hierarchy, and you have a contest of personalities.’

‘So what is the solution?’

‘Would you be greatly disappointed to hear that you’re not it?’

‘Who? Me?’

‘Your species. Don’t feel bad. None have been, as of yet. Still, who knows what the future will bring.’

‘Oh, that’s easy for you to say!’

‘Actually, no, it isn’t. Look, I’ve seen all this again and again, over countless generations. To put it simply, it’s a mess, a tangled, irreparable mess.’

‘Some god you are. You are a god, aren’t you?’

The manservant shrugged. ‘Make no assumptions. About anything. Ever. Stay mindful, my friend, and suspicious. Suspicious, but not frightened by complexity.’

‘And I’ve some advice for you, since we’re doling it out here.’

‘And that is?’

‘Live to your potential.’

Bugg opened his mouth for a retort, then shut it again and narrowed his gaze.

Tehol gave him an innocent smile.

It was momentary, as more of the memories of this day stirred awake. ‘Chalas,’ he said after a moment. ‘That old fool.’

‘You have friends, Tehol Beddict.’

‘And that poor guard. He threw himself in front of that spear. Friends—yes, what’s happened to everyone else? Do you know? Is Shurq all right? Kettle?’

Bugg grunted, clearly distracted by something, then said, ‘I think they’re fine.’

‘Do you want to go and see for certain?’

He glanced down. ‘Not really. I can be very selfish at times, you know.’

‘No, I didn’t. But I admit, I do have a question. Only I don’t know how to ask it.’

Bugg studied him for a long moment, then he snorted, said, ‘You have no idea, Tehol, how boring it can be…existing for all eternity.’

‘Fine, but…a manservant?’

Bugg hesitated, then slowly shook his head, and met Tehol’s gaze. ‘My association with you, Tehol, has been an unceasing delight. You resurrected in me the pleasure of existence, and you cannot comprehend how rare that is.’

‘But…a manservant!’

Bugg drew a deep breath. ‘I think it’s time to make you forget this day, my friend.’

‘Forget? Forget what? Is there anything to eat around here?’

 

He’d wanted to believe. In all the possible glories. The world could be made simple, there need be no complexity, he’d so wanted it to be simple. He walked through the strangely silent city. Signs of fighting here and there. Dead Letherii soldiers, mostly. They should have given up. As would anyone professing to some rationality, but it seemed this was not the day for what was reasonable and straightforward. On this day, madness held dominion, flowing in invisible currents through this city.

Through these poor Letherii. Through the Tiste Edur.

Fear Sengar walked on, unmindful of where his steps took him. All his life, he had been gifted with a single, easily defined role. To fashion warriors among his people. And, when the need arose, to lead them into battle. There had been no great tragedies to mar his youth, and he’d stridden, not stumbled, into adulthood.

There had been no time when he’d felt alone. Alone in the frightened sense, that is. Solitude was born of decision, and could be as easily yielded when its purpose was done. There had been Trull. And Binadas, and then Rhulad. But, first and foremost, Trull. A warrior with skill unmatched when it came to fighting with the spear, yet without blood-lust—and blood-lust was a curse, he well knew, among the Edur. The hunger that swept away all discipline, that could reduce a well-trained fighter into a savage, weapons swinging wild, that strange, seething silence of the Tiste Edur pulled from cool thought. Among other peoples, he knew, that descent was announced with screams and howls and shrieks. An odd difference, and one that, for some unknown reason, deeply troubled Fear Sengar.

And then, looking upon this Champion of the Letherii king, this brother of Hull Beddict—Fear could not recall if he’d ever heard his name, but if he had, he’d forgotten it. That itself was a crime. He would have to learn that man’s name. It was important to learn it.

Fear was skilled with his sword. One of the finest sword-wielders among the Tiste Edur, a truth he simply accepted, with neither pride nor affected modesty. And, he knew, had he stood face to face with that Champion in the throne room, he would have lasted some time. Some fair time, and might well have, on occasion, surprised the Letherii. But Fear had no illusions about who would have been left standing when all was done.

He wanted to weep. For that Champion. For his king. For Rhulad, the brother he’d failed again and again. For Trull, whom he had now abandoned—to a choice no warrior should be forced to make.

Because he had failed Rhulad yet again. Trull could see that, surely. There was no way to hide the cowardice raging through Fear. Not from his closest, most cherished brother. Who gave voice to all my doubts, my terrors, so that I could defy them—so that I could be seen to defy them.

Shaped by Hannan Mosag…all of this. He understood that now. From the very first, the brutal unification of the tribes, the secret pact with the unknown god had already been made. So obvious, now. The Warlock King had turned his back on Father Shadow, and why not, since Scabandari Bloodeye was gone. Gone, never to return.

Not even Hannan Mosag, then, but long ago. That was when this path first began. Long, long ago.

There had been a moment, back then, when everything was still simple. He was certain of it. Before the fated choices were made. And to all that had occurred since, there was only one who could give answer, and that was Father Shadow himself.

He walked the dusty streets, past corpses lying here and there like passed-out revellers from some wild fête the night before. Barring the blood, the scattered weapons.

He was…lost. They had asked too much of him, far too much. There in that throne room. We carried his body back. Across the ice wastes. I thought I had sent Trull to his death. So many failures, and every one of them mine. There must be other ways…other ways…

Motionless, now, looking down upon a body.

Mayen.

The hunger, he saw, was gone from her face. Finally, there was nothing but peace there. As he’d seen before, when he’d looked upon her sleeping. Or singing with the other maidens. When he’d carried the sword which she then took into her hands. To bury at the threshold of her home. He would not think of other times, when he caught a certain darkness in her eyes, and was left wondering on the twisting of her mind—such things a man could not know, could never know. Fearful mysteries, the ones that lured a man into love, into fascination and, at times, into trembling terror.

Her face held none of that now. Only peace. Sleeping, like the child within her, here on this street.

Fear crouched, then knelt beside her. He closed a hand on the horn grip of the fisher knife, then pulled it from her chest. He studied the knife. A slave’s tool. A small sigil was carved near its base, one he recognized.

The knife had belonged to Udinaas.

Was this his gift? An offering of peace? Or simply one more act of deadly vengeance against the family of Edur who had owned him? Who had stolen his freedom? He abandoned Rhulad. As I have done. For that, I have no right to hate. But…what of this?

He rose, tucking the knife into his belt.

Mayen was dead. The child he would have loved was dead. Some force was here, some force eager to take everything away from him.

And he did not know what to do.

Weeping, ceaseless, weeping from the blood-spattered, twisted form lying on the floor of the throne room. On his knees ten paces away, Trull had his hands to his ears, wanting it to end, wanting someone to end it. This moment…it was trapped, deep within itself. It would not end. An eternal chorus of piteous crying, reaching into his skull.

Hannan Mosag was dragging himself towards the throne, so bent and mangled he was barely able to move more than a few hand’s widths at a time before the pain in his body forced him to pause once again.

Among the Letherii, only one remained, his reappearance a mystery, yet he stood, expression serene yet watchful, near the far wall. Young, handsome and somehow…soft. Not a soldier, then. He had said nothing, seeming content to observe.

Where were the other Edur? Trull could not understand. They had left Binadas, unconscious but alive, at the far end of the corridor. He turned his head in that direction, saw the huddled shapes of the queen and her son beside the entranceway. The prince looked either dead or asleep. The queen simply watched Hannan Mosag’s tortured progress towards the dais, teeth gleaming in a wet smile.

I need to find Father. He will know what to do…no, there is nothing to know, is there? Just as there is…nothing to do. Nothing at all, and that was the horror of it.

‘Please…Trull…’

Trull shook his head, trying not to hear.

‘All I wanted…you, and Fear, and Binadas. I wanted you to…include me. Not a child any longer, you see? That’s all, Trull.’

Hannan Mosag grunted a laugh. ‘Respect, Trull. That is what he wanted. Where does that come from, then? A sword? A wealth of coins burned into your skin? A title? That presumptuous, obnoxious we he’s always using now? None of those? How about stealing his brother’s wife?’

‘Be quiet,’ Trull said.

‘Do not speak to your king that way, Trull Sengar. It will…cost you.’

‘I am to quail at your threats, Warlock King?’

Trull let his hands fall away from his ears. The gesture had been useless. This chamber carried the slightest whisper. Besides, there could be no deafness without when there was none within. He caught slight movement from the Letherii at the far wall and looked over to see that he had turned his head, attention fixed now upon the entranceway. The man suddenly frowned.

Then Trull heard footsteps. Heavy, dragging. A sound of metal, and something like streaming water.

Hannan Mosag twisted round where he lay. ‘What? What comes? Trull—find a weapon, quickly!’

Trull did not move.

Rhulad’s weeping resumed, indifferent to all else.

The thudding footsteps came closer.

A moment later, an apparition shambled into view, blood pouring down from its gauntleted hands. Nearly the size of a Tarthenal, it was sheathed in black, stained iron plates, studded with green rivets. A great helm with caged eye-slits hid the face within, the grille-work hanging ragged on its shoulders and beneath its armoured chin. The figure was encrusted with barnacles at the joins of its elbows, knees and ankles. In one hand it carried a sword of Letherii steel, down which the blood flowed ceaselessly.

Rhulad hissed, ‘What is it, Trull? What has come?’

The monstrosity paused just within the entrance. Head creaking as it looked round, it fixed its focus, it seemed, on the corpse of the King’s Champion. It resumed walking forward, leaving twin trails of blood.

‘Trull!’ Rhulad shrieked.

The creature halted, looked down at the emperor lying on the floor. After a moment, a heavy voice rumbled from within the helm. ‘You are gravely injured.’

Trembling, Rhulad laughed, a sound close to hysteria. ‘Injured? Oh yes. Cut to pieces!’

‘You will live.’

Hannan Mosag said in a growl, ‘Begone, demon. Lest I banish you.’

‘You can try,’ it said. And moved forward once more. Until it stood directly in front of the Champion’s body. ‘I see no wounds, yet he lies dead. This honourable mortal.’

‘Poison,’ said the Letherii at the far wall.

The creature looked over. ‘I know you. I know all your names.’

‘I imagine you do, Guardian,’ the man replied.

‘Poison. Tell me, did you…push him in that direction?’

‘It is my aspect,’ the Letherii said, shrugging. ‘I am driven to…poignancy. Tell me, does your god know you are here?’

‘I will speak to him soon. Words of chastisement are necessary.’

The man laughed, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the wall. ‘I imagine they are at that.’

The Guardian looked once more upon the Champion. ‘He held the names. Of all those who were almost forgotten. This…this is a great loss.’

‘No,’ the Letherii said, ‘those names are not lost. Not yet. But they will be…soon.’

‘I need…someone, then.’

‘And you will find him.’

The Guardian regarded the Letherii once more. ‘I am…pushed?’

The man shrugged again.

The Guardian reached down, closed a firm grip on the Champion’s sword-belt, then lifted him from the floor and slung him over its left shoulder. Standing in a spreading pool of blood, it turned about.

And looked upon Rhulad Sengar. ‘They show no mercy, your friends,’ it said.

‘No?’ Rhulad’s laugh became a cough. He gasped, then said, ‘I am beginning to see…otherwise—’

‘I have learned mercy,’ the Guardian said, and thrust down with his sword.

Into Rhulad’s back, severing the spine.

Trull Sengar lurched to his feet, stared, disbelieving—

—as the Letherii man whispered, ‘And…once more.’

The Guardian walked towards the entrance, ignoring Hannan Mosag’s enraged bellow as it passed the Warlock King.

Trull stumbled forward, around the motionless form of his brother, until he reached Hannan Mosag. Snapped a hand down and dragged the Warlock King up, until he held him close. ‘The throne?’ Trull asked in a rasp. ‘You just lost it, bastard.’ He flung Hannan Mosag back down onto the floor. ‘I need to find Fear. Tell him,’ Trull said as he walked to the entranceway, ‘tell him, Mosag, that I went to find Fear. I am sending in the others—’

Rhulad spasmed behind him, then shrieked.

So be it.

 

The Wyval clawed its way free from the barrow, dripping red-streaked mud, flanks heaving. A moment later the wraith appeared, dragging the unconscious form of a Letherii man.

Shurq Elalle rose from where she had crouched beside Ublala, stroking his brow and wondering at the stupid smile plastered on his features, and, placing her hands on her hips, surveyed the scene. Five sprawled bodies, toppled trees, the stench of rotting earth. Two of her employees near the facing wall of the Azath tower, the mage tending to the Avowed’s wounds. Avowed. What kind of title is that, anyway?

Closer to the gate, Kettle and the tall, white-skinned warrior with the two Letherii swords.

Impressively naked, she noted, walking over. ‘If I am not mistaken,’ she said to him, ‘you are of the same blood as the Tiste Edur.’

A slight frown as he looked down upon her. ‘No. I am Tiste Andii.’

‘If you say so. Now that you have finished off those…things, I take it your allegiance to the Azath tower is at an end.’

He glanced over at it with his strange, red eyes. ‘We were never…friends,’ he said, then faintly smiled. ‘But it is dead. I am not bound to anyone’s service but my own.’ Studied her once again. ‘And there are things I must do…for myself.’

Kettle spoke. ‘Can I come with you?’

‘That would please me, child,’ the warrior said.

Shurq Elalle narrowed her eyes. ‘You made a promise, didn’t you?’ she asked him. ‘To the tower, and though it is dead the promise remains to be honoured.’

‘She will be safe, so long as she chooses to remain with me,’ the warrior said, nodding.

Shurq looked round once more, then said, ‘This city is now ruled by the Tiste Edur. Will they take undue note of you?’

‘Accompanied by a Wyval, a wraith and the unconscious slave he insists on keeping with him, I would imagine so.’

‘Best, then,’ she said, ‘you left Letheras without being seen.’

‘Agreed. Do you have a suggestion?’

‘Not yet—’

‘I have…’

They turned to see the Avowed and his mage, the latter lending the former his shoulder as they slowly approached. It had been Iron Bars who had spoken.

‘You,’ Shurq Elalle said, ‘work for me, now. No volunteering allowed.’

He grinned. ‘Aye, but all I’m saying is they need an escort. Someone who knows all the secret ways out of this city. It’s the least I can do, since this Tiste Andii saved my life.’

‘Thinking of things before I do does not bode well for a good working relationship,’ Shurq Elalle said.

‘Apologies, ma’am. I won’t do it again, I promise.’

‘You think I’m being petty, don’t you?’

‘Of course not. After all, the undead are never petty.’

She crossed her arms. ‘No? See that pit over there? There’s an undead man named Harlest hiding in it, waiting to scare someone with his talons and fangs.’

They all turned to study the pit in the yard of the Azath tower. From which they could now hear faint singing.

‘Hood’s balls,’ Iron Bars muttered. ‘When do we sail?’

Shurq Elalle shrugged. ‘As soon as they let us. And who is Hood?’

The white-skinned warrior replied distractedly, ‘The Lord of Death, and yes, he has balls.’

Everyone turned to stare at the warrior, who shrugged.

Shurq grunted, then said, ‘Don’t make me laugh.’

Kettle pointed up. ‘I like that. In your forehead, Mother. I like that.’

‘And let’s keep it there, shall we?’ Fortunately, no-one seemed to grasp the significance of her comment.

The warrior said to Iron Bars. ‘Your suggestion?’

The Avowed nodded.

 

Tehol Beddict, lying atop the sarcophagus, was sleeping. Bugg had been staring down at him, thoughtful, when he heard the sound of footsteps almost directly behind him. He slowly swung about as the Guardian emerged from the wall of water that marked the tunnel mouth.

The apparition was carrying a body over one shoulder. It halted and was silent as it studied the manservant.

Here, in this tomb emptied of water, in this place where an Elder god’s will held all back, the Guardian did not bleed.

Bugg sighed. ‘Oh, he will grieve for this,’ he said, finally recognizing the Letherii on the Guardian’s shoulder.

‘The Errant says the names remain alive within him,’ the creature said.

‘The names? Ah, yes. Of course.’

‘You abandoned us, Mael.’

‘I know. I am sorry.’

The Guardian stepped past him and stopped beside the sarcophagus. Its helmed head tilted down as it observed Tehol Beddict. ‘This one shares his blood.’

‘A brother, yes.’

‘He shall carry the memory of the names, then.’ It looked over. ‘Do you object to this?’

Bugg shook his head. ‘How can I?’

‘That is true. You cannot. You have lost the right.’

The manservant said nothing. He watched as the Guardian grasped hold of one of Brys’s hands and set it down upon Tehol’s brow. A moment, then it was done. The apparition stepped away, headed towards the far wall of water.

‘Wait, please,’ Bugg said.

It paused, looked back.

‘Where will you take him?’

‘Into the deep, where else, Elder One?’

Bugg frowned. ‘In that place…’

‘Yes. There shall be two Guardians now and for ever more.’

‘Will that eternal service please him, do you think?’

The apparition cocked its head. ‘I do not know. Does it please me?’

With that ambiguous question hanging in the still air, the Guardian carried the body of Brys Beddict into the water.

After a long moment, Bugg turned back to regard Tehol. His friend would wake with a terrible headache, he knew.

Nothing to be done for it, alas. Except, perhaps, for some tea…I’ve a particularly nasty herbal mix that’ll make him forget his headache. And if there is anyone in the world who will appreciate that, it is Tehol Beddict of Letheras.

But first, I’d better get him out of this tomb.

 

There were bodies lying in the throne room of the Eternal Domicile. The one halfway down the dais, face to the bloody tiles, still made Feather Witch’s breath catch, her heart thud loud in her chest. Fear or excitement, she knew not which—perhaps both. King Ezgara Diskanar, flung down from the throne, where Rhulad Sengar of the Tiste Edur now sat, and the darkness in the emperor’s eyes seemed beyond measure.

There had been pain in this chamber—she could feel its bitter wake, hanging still in the air. And Rhulad had been its greatest fount. Betrayals, more betrayals than any mortal could bear. She knew this was truth, knew it in her heart.

Before the emperor stood Tomad and Uruth, flanking the trembling, huddled form of Hannan Mosag, who had paid a dear price for this day of triumph. It seemed that he awaited something, a posture of terrified expectation, his eyes downcast. Yet Rhulad appeared content to ignore the Warlock King. For now, he would indulge his sour triumph.

Even so, where was Fear Sengar? And Trull? Feather Witch had assisted Uruth in tending to Binadas, who remained unconscious and would continue so until the healing was done. But, apart from Rhulad’s parents, the only others of the emperor’s inner court present were a handful of his adopted brothers, Choram Irard, Kholb Harat and Matra Brith. The Buhns were absent, as was the Jheck warchief, B’nagga.

Two Letherii remained, apart from the pathetic wreckages of Queen Janall and Prince Quillas. And already the Chancellor, Triban Gnol, had knelt before Rhulad and proclaimed his eternal service. The other Letherii drew Feather Witch’s attention again and again. Consort to the queen, Turudal Brizad gave the appearance of being almost indifferent to all he was witnessing here in the Eternal Domicile.

And he was handsome, extraordinarily handsome.

More than once, she had met his gaze, and saw in his eyes—even from across the room—a certain avid interest that sent tremors through her.

She remained a step behind Uruth, her new mistress, ever attentive, whilst commanders came and went with their irrelevant reports. Fighting here, an end to fighting there, the docks secured. The first of the emissaries from the protectorates eagerly awaited audience in the ruined hallway beyond.

The empire was born.

And she had witnessed, and more than witnessed. A knife, pushed into the hands of Mayen, and word had come that she had been found. Dead. No more would Feather Witch cower beneath her fury. The whore was dead.

Rhulad’s first command was to begin a hunt. For Udinaas. His adopted brothers were given a company of warriors each and sent out to find the slave. The search would be relentless, she knew, and in the end, Udinaas would be captured. And made to pay for his betrayal.

She did not know what to think about that. But the thought had run through her once—and only once, quickly driven away afterwards—a hope, a fervent prayer to the Errant that Udinaas would escape. That he would never be found. That at least one Letherii would defy this emperor, defeat him. And in defeating him thus, would break Rhulad’s heart yet again.

The world has drawn breath…and now breathes once more. As steady as ever, as unbroken in rhythm as the tides.

She could see, through the cleverly fashioned, slitted windows high in the dome overhead, the deepening of the light, and she knew the sun was setting on this day.

A day in which a kingdom was conquered, and a day in which that which was conquered began its inevitable destruction of the conquerors.

For such was the rhythm of these particular tides. Now, with the coming of night, when the shadows drew long, and what remained of the world turned away.

For that is what the Tiste Edur believe, is it not? Until midnight, all is turned away, silent and motionless. Awaiting the last tide.

On his throne, Rhulad Sengar sat, draped in the gold of Lether, and the dying light gleamed in his hooded eyes. Darkened the stains on the sword held in his right hand, point to the dais.

And Feather Witch, her eyes cast downward once more after that momentary glance, downward as required, saw, lying in the join of the dais, a severed finger. Small, like a child’s. She stared at it, fascinated, filled with a sudden desire. To possess it. There was power in such things, after all. Power a witch could use.

Assuming the person it had belonged to had been important.

Well, I shall find that out soon enough.

Dusk was claiming the throne room. Someone would have to light lanterns, and soon.

 

She had not left the room. There had been no reason to. She had sat, motionless, empty, numb to the sounds of fighting, to the howling wolves, to the distant screams in the city beyond. And told herself, every now and then, that she waited. The end of one thing brought the birth of another, after all.

Lives and loves, the gamut of existence was marked by such things. A breaking of paths, the ragged, uneven ever-forward stumble. Blood dried, eventually. Turned to dust. The corpses of kings were laid down and sealed in darkness and set away, to be forgotten. Graves were dug for fallen soldiers, vast pits like mouths in the earth, opened in hunger, and all the bodies were tumbled down, each exhaling a last gasp of lime dust. Survivors grieved, for a time, and looked upon empty rooms and empty beds, the scattering of possessions no-one possessed any longer, and wondered what was to come, what would be written anew on the wiped-clean slate. Wondering, how can I go on?

Kingdoms and empires, wars and causes, she was sick of them.

She wanted to be gone. Away, so far away that nothing of her life from before mattered in the least. No memories to drive her steps in this direction or that.

Corlo had warned her. Not to fall into the cycle of weeping. So now she sat dry-eyed, and let the city beyond weep for itself. She was done with such things.

A knock upon the door.

Seren Pedac looked down the hallway, her heart lurching.

A heavy sound, now repeated, insistent.

The Acquitor rose from the chair, tottering at the tingling in her legs—she had not moved in a long time—then made her way unevenly forward.

Dusk had arrived. She had not noticed that. Someone has decided. Someone has ended this day. Why would they do that?

Absurd thoughts, pushed into her mind as if from somewhere outside, in tones of faint irony, drawled out like a secret joke.

At the door now. Flinching as the knock sounded again, at a level opposite her face.

Seren opened it.

To find, standing before her, Fear and Trull Sengar.

 

Trull could not understand it, but it had seemed his steps were being guided, down this alley, along that street, through the vast city with unerring precision until he saw, in the gloom ahead, his brother. Walking with purpose over a minor bridge of the main canal. Turning in surprise at Trull’s hoarse shout. Then waiting until his brother caught up to him.

‘Rhulad is resurrected,’ Trull said.

Fear looked away, squinted into the shadows of the seemingly motionless water of the canal. ‘By your hand, Trull?’

‘No. I…failed in that. Something else. A demon of some sort. It came for the Champion—I don’t know why, but it carried the man’s body away. After killing Rhulad in what it saw as an act of mercy.’ Trull grimaced. ‘A gift of the ignorant. Fear—’

‘No. I will not return.’

Trull stared at him. ‘Listen to me, please. I believe, if we work together, we can guide him back. From madness. For the Sisters’ sake, Fear, we must try. For our people—’

‘No.’

‘You…would leave me to this?’

Sudden pain in Fear’s face, but he refused to meet his brother’s eyes. ‘I must go. I understand something now, you see. This is not of Rhulad’s making. Nor Hannan Mosag’s. It is Father Shadow’s, Trull.’

‘Scabandari Bloodeye is dead—’

‘Not his spirit. It remains…somewhere. I intend to find it.’

‘To what end?’

‘We have been usurped. All of us. By the one behind that sword. No-one else can save us, Trull. I mean to find Scabandari Bloodeye. If he is bound, I mean to free him. His spirit. We shall return together, or not at all.’

Trull knew his brother well enough to cease arguing. Fear had found a new purpose, and with it he intended to flee…from everything, and everyone, else. ‘How will you get out of the city? They will be looking for us—it’s probable they are doing so even now.’

‘Hull once told me that Seren Pedac had her home here.’ Fear shook his head. ‘I don’t know, I don’t understand it myself, but I believe she might help.’

‘Why?’

Fear shook his head.

‘How do you know where she lives?’

‘I don’t. But it’s…this way.’

He began walking. Trull quickly caught up to him and gripped his arm. ‘Listen—no, I don’t mean to prevent you. But listen to me, please.’

‘Very well, but let us walk in the meantime.’

‘All right. Do you not wonder at all this, Fear? How did I find you? It should have been impossible, yet here we are. And now you, and this house—the Acquitor’s house—Fear, something is guiding us. We are being manipulated—’

His brother’s smile was wry. ‘What of it?’

To that, Trull had no answer. Silent, he walked with Fear. Coming upon a score of dead Letherii, he paused to collect a sword and scabbard. He strapped it on, ignoring Fear’s raised brows, not out of some ambivalent emotion, but because he himself did not know why he had picked up the weapon. They walked on.

Until they came to a modest house.

 

Trull’s chest seemed to clench tight upon seeing her standing in the doorway. He could not understand it—no, he could, but it was impossible. Absurd. He’d only seen Seren Pedac a few times. Had but exchanged a few score words, if that. Yet, as he studied her face, the shock writ there, so at odds with the appalling depth in her eyes, he felt himself falling forward in his mind—

‘What?’ she asked, gaze darting between him and Fear. ‘What are you…’

‘I need your help,’ Fear said.

‘I cannot…I don’t see how…’

Sisters take me, I would give my heart to this woman. This Letherii…

Fear said, ‘I am fleeing. My brother, the emperor. I need a guide to take me through the city unseen. Tonight.’

‘How did you find me?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t even know why…why I have this belief that only you can help me.’

She looked then at Trull, and he saw her eyes hold on his for what seemed a long moment, slowly widening. ‘And you, Trull Sengar?’ she asked. ‘Are coming with us?’

With us. She will do this. Why? What need within her does this answer? The pressure in his chest constricted suddenly, even as the fateful words left him. ‘I cannot, Acquitor. I failed Rhulad this day. I must try…again. I must try to save him.’

Something like resignation filled her eyes.

As if he had wounded something that already bore a thousand scars.

And Trull wanted to cry out. Instead, he said, ‘I am sorry. But I will await your return—both of you—’

‘We shall return here?’ she asked, glancing at Fear, ‘Why?’

‘To end this,’ Fear said.

‘To end what?’

‘The tyranny born here tonight, Seren Pedac.’

‘You would kill Rhulad? Your own brother?’

‘Kill him? That would not work, as you know. No. But I shall find another way. I shall.’

Oh, who has grasped hold of my soul this night? He found himself unhitching the sword, heard himself saying, ‘I don’t know if you have a weapon, Acquitor,’ and knew his own disbelief at the absurdity of his own words, the shallowness of his reasoning, ‘so I will give you mine…’ And he was holding the sheathed sword out to her.

At the threshold of her home.

Fear turned, studied him, but Trull could not look away from her, not even to see what must be realization dawning in his face.

Letherii though she was, Seren Pedac clearly understood, her gaze becoming confused, then clearing. ‘Just that, I take it. A weapon…for me to use.’

No. ‘Yes…Acquitor. A weapon…’

She accepted it, but the gesture was without meaning now.

Trull found himself stepping back. ‘I have to go now. I will tell Rhulad I saw you, Fear, down at the docks.’

‘You cannot save him, brother,’ Fear said.

‘I can but try. Go well, Fear.’

And he was walking away. It was best, he decided through sudden tears. They would probably never return. Nor would she have accepted the sword. Which was why she asked him before reaching out for it. A weapon to use. Only that.

He was being a fool. A moment of profound weakness, a love that made no sense, no sense at all. No, better by far the way it had played out. She’d understood, and so she’d made certain. No other meaning. No proclamation. Simply a gesture in the night.

A weapon to use. Only that.

 

They remained standing at the threshold. Trull was gone, his footsteps swallowed by distance. Fear studied Seren Pedac as she looked down at the sword in her hands. Then, glancing up, she saw his fixed regard and smiled wryly.

‘Your brother…startled me. For a moment, I thought…never mind.’

Then why, Seren Pedac, is there such pain in your eyes? Fear hesitated, was about to speak, when a child’s voice spoke behind him.

‘Are you Seren Pedac?’

He spun round, sword hissing from its scabbard.

The Acquitor stepped past, holding out a hand to stay him. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked the small girl standing at the gate.

‘I am Kettle. Iron Bars said you would help us. We need to leave the city. With no-one seeing.’

‘We?’

The girl walked forward, and behind her came a tall, robed and hooded figure. Then a shadow wraith, dragging a body.

A startled sound from Seren. ‘Errant fend, this is about to get a lot harder.’

Fear said to her, ‘Acquitor, I would berate you for your generosity this night, had it not included me. Can you still manage this?’

She was studying the tall, hooded figure as she replied, ‘Probably. There are tunnels…’

Fear faced the girl and her party once more. His gaze focused on the wraith. ‘You, why are you not serving the emperor this night?’

‘I am unbound, Fear Sengar. You are fleeing? This is…unexpected.’

He disliked the amusement in its voice. ‘And who is that you are pulling behind you?’

‘The slave Udinaas.’

Fear said to Seren, ‘They will be hunting in earnest for these ones, Acquitor. For that slave.’

‘I remember him,’ she said.

‘His betrayal of the emperor has exacted a high price,’ Fear said. ‘More, I believe he killed Mayen—’

‘Believe what you like,’ the wraith said, ‘but you are wrong. You forget, Fear Sengar, this man is a slave. A thing to be used, and used he has been. By me, by the Wyval that even now circles us in the dark overhead. For what befell Rhulad, for Mayen—neither of these tragedies belong to Udinaas.’

As you say.

‘We can argue this later,’ Seren said. ‘Kettle, who is this disguised man?’

She was about to answer when the figure said, ‘I am Selekis, of the Azath tower.’

‘From the Azath tower?’ Seren asked. ‘Amusing. Well, you’re as tall as an Edur, Selekis. Can we not see your face?’

‘I would rather not, Seren Pedac. Not yet, in any case.’ It seemed its hidden gaze was on Fear as it continued, ‘Perhaps later, once we have quitted this city and have the time to discuss our eventual destinations. It may be, indeed, that we will travel together for some time.’

‘I think not,’ Fear said. ‘I go to find Father Shadow.’

‘Indeed? And Scabandari Bloodeye still lives?’

Shocked, Fear said nothing. He must be a Tiste Edur. One of the other tribes, perhaps. Also fleeing. No different from me, then.

‘All of you,’ Seren said, ‘inside. We should scrape together some supplies, although I am certain the Rat Catchers’ Guild will be able to supply us…for a price.’

The wraith softly laughed. ‘It is the Letherii way, of course…’

 

Shurq Elalle stepped clear of the ladder and onto the roof. The sun was up, and people could be seen on the tiers, a little slower in their walking than was usual. Uncertain, filled perhaps with some trepidation. There were Tiste Edur, after all, patrolling in squads. Whilst yet others, in larger groups, were moving through the city as if looking for someone in particular.

Tehol Beddict and his manservant were standing on the side overlooking the canal, their backs to Shurq as she approached. Tehol glanced over a shoulder and gave her a warm smile. He looked…different.

‘Tehol Beddict,’ she said as she came to stand beside him, ‘one of your eyes is blue.’

‘Is it? Must be some kind of nefarious infection, Shurq, since I can barely see with it besides.’

‘It’ll clear up in time,’ Bugg said.

‘So,’ Shurq said, ‘have you resumed plotting the end of civilization, Tehol?’

‘I have, and a delicious end it will be.’

She grunted. ‘I’ll send you Shand, Hejun and Rissarh, then—’

‘Don’t you dare. Deliver them to the islands. I work better alone.’

‘Alone?’

‘Well, with Bugg here, of course. Every man needs a manservant, after all.’

‘I imagine so. Well, I am here, then, to say goodbye.’

‘Off for some pirating, are we?’

‘Why not? I’m simply elaborating on a well-established career.’

Tehol looked to Bugg, and said, ‘The thief who sank…’

‘…has resurfaced,’ Bugg finished.

The two men smiled at each other.

Shurq Elalle turned away. ‘Well, that’s one thing I won’t miss.’

 

After she was gone, Tehol and Bugg stared out for a while longer at the reawakening city of Letheras. The city occupied, the throne usurped, strangers in the streets looking rather…lost.

The two-headed insect clung to Tehol’s shoulder and would not move. After a time, Tehol rubbed at his weak eye and sighed. ‘You know, Bugg, I am glad you didn’t do it.’

‘Do what?’

‘Make me forget.’

‘I figured you could handle it.’

‘You’re right. I can. At least, this way, I can grieve.’

‘In your own way.’

‘In my own way, yes. The only way I know how.’

‘I know, master.’

A short while later, Bugg turned about and walked towards the hatch. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’

‘Right. And when you do, clean up down there.’

The manservant paused at the hatch, considered, then said, ‘I think I will find the time to do just that, master.’

‘Excellent. Now I’m going to bed.’

‘Good idea, master.’

‘Well, of course it is, Bugg. It’s mine, isn’t it?’