Reaper's Gale

  ‘I came,’ Nisall said, ‘to see if you needed anything—’

  ‘Liar. You came in search of allies. You think to steal him away. From me. From our true master. You will fail! Where’s my son? Where is he?’

  Nisall shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t even know if he’s still alive – there are those in the court who claim he is, whilst others tell me he is long dead. But, Empress, I will seek to find out. And when I do, I will return. With the truth.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. You were never my ally. You were Ezgara’s whore, not mine.’

  ‘Has Turudal Brizad visited you, Empress?’

  For a moment it seemed she would not answer. Then she managed something like a shrug. ‘He does not dare. Master sees through my eyes – tell Rhulad that, and he will understand what must be. Through my eyes – look closer, if you would know a god. The god. The only god that matters now. The rest of them are blind, as blind as you’ve made Rhulad, but they’re all in for a surprise, oh yes. The House is big – bigger than you imagine. The House is all of us, whore, and one day that truth will be proclaimed, so that all will hear. See me? I am on my knees, and that is no accident. Every human shall be on their knees, one day, and they will know me for their Queen. As for the King in Chains,’ she laughed, a sound thick with phlegm, ‘well, the crown is indifferent to whose skull it binds. The pup is failing, you know. Failing. There is . . . dissatisfaction. I should kill you, now, here. Come closer, whore.’

  Instead, Nisall backed away a step, then two, until she was once more in the doorway. ‘Empress, the Chancellor is the source of Rhulad’s . . . failings. Your god should know that, lest it make a mistake. If you would kill anyone, it should be Triban Gnol, and, perhaps, Karos Invictad – they plot to usurp the Edur.’

  ‘The Edur?’ She spat. ‘Master’s almost done with them. Almost done.’

  ‘I will send servants down,’ Nisall said. ‘To clean your chamber, Empress.’

  ‘Spies.’

  ‘No, from your own entourage.’

  ‘Turned.’

  ‘Empress, they will take care of you, for their loyalty remains.’

  ‘But I don’t want them!’ Janall hunched lower. ‘I don’t want them . . . to see me like this.’

  ‘A bed will be sent down. Canopied. You can draw the shroud when they arrive. Pass out the soiled bedding through a part in the curtain.’

  ‘You would do this? I wanted you dead.’

  ‘The past is nothing,’ Nisall said. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Get out,’ Janall rasped, looking away. ‘Master is disgusted with you. Suffering is our natural state. A truth to proclaim, and so I shall, when I win my new throne. Get out, whore, or come closer.’

  ‘Expect your servants within the bell,’ Nisall said, turning and walking from the grisly chamber.

  As the echo of the whore’s footsteps faded, Janall, Queen of the House of Chains, curled up into a ball on the slick, befouled floor. Madness flickered in her eyes, there, then gone, then there once more. Over and over again. She spoke, one voice thick, the other rasping.

  ‘Vulnerable.’

  ‘Until the final war. Watch the army, as it pivots round, entirely round. These sordid games here, the times are almost past, past us all. Oh, when the pain at last ends, then you shall see the truth of me. Dear Queen, my power was once the sweetest kiss. A love that broke nothing.’

  ‘Give me my throne. You promised.’

  ‘Is it worth it?’

  ‘I beg you—’

  ‘They all beg me, and call it prayer. What sour benediction must I swallow from this eternal fount of dread and spite and bald greed? Will you never see? Never understand? I must find the broken ones, just do not expect my reach, my touch. No-one understands, how the gods fear freedom. No-one.’

  ‘You have lied to me.’

  ‘You have lied to yourself. You all do, and call it faith. I am your god. I am what you made me. You all decry my indifference, but I assure you, you would greater decry my attention. No, make no proclamations otherwise. I know what you claim to do in my name. I know your greatest fear is that I will one day call you on it – and that is the real game here, this knuckles of the soul. Watch me, mortal, watch me call you on it. Every one of you.’

  ‘My god is mad.’

  ‘As you would have me, so I am.’

  ‘I want my throne.’

  ‘You always want.’

  ‘Why won’t you give it to me?’

  ‘I answer as a god: if I give you what you want, we all die. Hah, I know – you don’t care! Oh, you humans, you are something else. You make my every breath agony. And my every convulsion is your ecstasy. Very well, mortal, I will answer your prayers. I promise. Just do not ever say I didn’t warn you. Do not. Ever.’

  Janall laughed, spraying spit. ‘We are mad,’ she whispered. ‘Oh yes, quite mad. And we’re climbing into the light . . .’

  For all the scurrying servants and the motionless, helmed guards at various entrances, Nisall found the more populated areas of the Eternal Domicile in some ways more depressing than the abandoned corridors she’d left behind a third of a bell past. Suspicion soured the air, fear stalked like shadows underfoot between the stanchions of torchlight. The palace’s name had acquired a taint of irony, rife as the Eternal Domicile was with paranoia, intrigue and incipient betrayal. As if humans could manage no better, and were doomed to such sordid existence for all time.

  Clearly, there was nothing satisfying in peace, beyond the freedom it provided to get up to no good. She had been shaken by her visit to the supposedly insane once-empress, Janall. This Crippled God indeed lurked in the woman’s eyes – Nisall had seen it, felt that chilling, unhuman attention fixing on her, calculating, pondering her potential use. She did not want to be part of a god’s plans, especially that god’s. Even more frightening, Janall’s ambitions remained, engorged with visions of supreme power, her tortured, brutalized body notwithstanding. The god was using her as well.

  There were rumours of war hissing like wind in the palace, tales of a belligerent conspiracy of border kingdoms and tribes to the east. The Chancellor’s reports to Rhulad had been anything but simple in their exhortations to raise the stakes. A formal declaration of war, the marching of massed troops over the borders in a pre-emptive campaign of conquest. Far better to spill blood on their lands than on Letherii soil, after all. ‘If the Bolkando-led alliance wants war, we should give it to them.’ The Chancellor’s glittering eyes belied the cool, almost toneless enunciation of those words.

  Rhulad had fidgeted on his throne, muttering his unease – the Edur were too spread out, the K’risnan were overworked. Why did the Bolkandans so dislike him? There had been no list of grievances. He had done nothing to spark this fire to life.

  Triban Gnol had pointed out, quietly, that four agents of the conspiracy had been captured entering Letheras only the other day. Disguised as merchants seeking ivory. Karos Invictad had sent by courier their confessions and would the Emperor like to see them?

  Shaking his head in denial, Rhulad had said nothing, his pain-racked eyes fixed on the tiles of the dais beyond his slippered feet.

  So lost, this terrible Emperor.

  As she turned onto the corridor leading to her private chambers, she saw a tall figure standing near her door. A Tiste Edur, one of the few who were resident in the palace. She vaguely recalled the warrior’s having something to do with security.

  He tilted his head in greeting as she approached. ‘First Concubine Nisall.’

  ‘Has the Emperor sent you?’ she asked, stepping past and waving him behind her into the chambers. Few men could intimidate her – she knew too well their minds. She was less at ease in the company of women, and the virtually neutered men such as Triban Gnol.

  ‘Alas,’ the warrior said, ‘I am not permitted to speak to my Emperor.’

  She paused and glanced back at him. ‘Are you out of favour?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

&n
bsp; Intrigued now, Nisall regarded the Edur for a moment, then asked, ‘Would you like some wine?’

  ‘No, thank you. Were you aware that a directive has been issued by Invigilator Karos Invictad to compile evidence leading to your arrest for sedition?’

  She grew very still. Sudden heat flashed through her, then she felt cold, beads of sweat like ice against her skin. ‘Are you here,’ she whispered, ‘to arrest me?’

  His brows rose. ‘No, nothing of the sort. The very opposite, in fact.’

  ‘You wish, then, to join in my treason?’

  ‘First Concubine, I do not believe you are engaged in any seditious acts. And if you are, I doubt they are directed against Emperor Rhulad.’

  She frowned. ‘If not the Emperor, then whom? And how could it be considered treasonous if they are not aimed at Rhulad? Do you think I resent the Tiste Edur hegemony? Precisely whom am I conspiring against?’

  ‘If I was forced to hazard a guess . . . Chancellor Triban Gnol.’

  She said nothing for a moment, then, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Forgive me. My name is Bruthen Trana. I was appointed to oversee the operations of the Patriotists, although it is likely that the Emperor has since forgotten that detail.’

  ‘I am not surprised. You’ve yet to report to him.’

  He grimaced. ‘True. The Chancellor has made certain of that.’

  ‘He insists you report to him instead, yes? I’m beginning to understand, Bruthen Trana.’

  ‘Presumably, Triban Gnol’s assurances that he has conveyed said reports to Rhulad are false.’

  ‘The only reports the Emperor receives regarding the Patriotists are those from the Invigilator, as vetted through the Chancellor.’

  He sighed. ‘As I suspected. First Concubine, it is said your relationship with the Emperor has gone somewhat beyond that of ruler and chosen whore – forgive me for the use of that term. Rhulad is being isolated – from his own people. Daily he receives petitions, but they are all from Letherii, and those are carefully selected by Triban Gnol and his staff. This situation had worsened since the fleets sailed, for with them went Tomad Sengar and Uruth, and many other Hiroth, including Rhulad’s brother, Binadas. All who might have effectively opposed the Chancellor’s machinations were removed from the scene. Even Hanradi Khalag . . .’ His words fell away and he stared at her, then shrugged. ‘I must speak to the Emperor, Nisall. Privately.’

  ‘I may not be able to help you, if I am to be arrested,’ she said.

  ‘Only Rhulad himself can prevent that from occurring,’ Bruthen Trana said. ‘In the meantime, I can afford you some protection.’

  She cocked her head. ‘How?’

  ‘I will assign you two Edur bodyguards.’

  ‘Ah, so you are not entirely alone, Bruthen.’

  ‘The only Edur truly alone here is the Emperor. And, perhaps, Hannan Mosag, although he still has his K’risnan – but it is anything but certain that the once-Warlock King is loyal to Rhulad.’

  Nisall smiled without much humour. ‘And so it turns out,’ she said, ‘that the Tiste Edur are no different from the Letherii after all. Do you know, Rhulad would have it . . . otherwise.’

  ‘Perhaps, then, First Concubine, we can work together to help him realize his vision.’

  ‘Your bodyguards had best be subtle, Bruthen. The Chancellor’s spies watch me constantly.’

  The Edur smiled. ‘Nisall, we are children of Shadow . . .’

  Once, long ago, she had walked for a time through Hood’s Realm. In the language of the Eleint, the warren that was neither new nor Elder was known as Festal’rythan, the Layers of the Dead. She had found proof of that when traversing the winding cut of a gorge, the raw walls of which revealed innumerable strata evincing the truth of extinction. Every species that ever existed was trapped in the sediments of Festal’rythan, not in the same manner of similar formations of geology as could be found in any world; no, in Hood’s Realm, the soul sparks persisted, and what she was witness to was their ‘lives’, abandoned here, crushed into immobility. The stone itself was, in the peculiar oxymoron that plagued the language of death, alive.

  In the broken grounds surrounding the lifeless Azath of Letheras, many of those long-extinct creatures had crawled back through the gate, as insidious as any vermin. True, it was not a gate as such, just . . . rents, fissures, as if some terrible demon had slashed from both sides, talons the size of two-handed swords tearing through the fabric between the warrens. There had been battles here, the spilling of ascendant blood, the uttering of vows that could not be kept. She could still smell the death of the Tarthenal gods, could almost hear their outrage and disbelief, as one fell, then another, and another . . . until all were gone, delivered unto Festal’rythan. She did not pity them. It was too easy to be arrogant upon arriving in this world, to think that none could challenge the unleashing of ancient power.

  She had long since discovered a host of truths in time’s irresistible progression. Raw became refined, and with refinement, power grew ever deadlier. All that was simple would, in time and under sufficient pressure – and if random chance proved benign rather than malignant – acquire greater complexity. And yet, at some point, a threshold was crossed, and complexity crumbled into dissolution. There was nothing fixed in this; some forms rose and fell with astonishing rapidity, while others could persist for extraordinarily long periods in seeming stasis.

  Thus, she believed she comprehended more than most, yet found that she could do little with that knowledge. Standing in the overgrown, battered yard, her cold unhuman eyes fixed on the malformed shape squatting at the edge of the largest sundered barrow, she could see through to the chaos inside him, could see how it urged dissolution within that complex matrix of flesh, blood and bone. Pain radiated from his hunched, twisted back as she continued studying him.

  He had grown aware of her presence, and fear whispered through him, the sorcery of the Crippled God building. Yet he was uncertain if she presented a threat. In the meantime, ambition rose and fell like crashing waves around the island of his soul.

  She could, she decided, make use of this one.

  ‘I am Hannan Mosag,’ the figure said without turning. ‘You . . . you are Soletaken. The cruellest of the Sisters, accursed among the Edur pantheon. Your heart is betrayal. I greet you, Sukul Ankhadu.’

  She approached. ‘Betrayal belongs to the one buried beneath, Hannan Mosag, to the Sister you once worshipped. How much, Edur, did that shape your destiny, I wonder? Any betrayals plaguing your people of late? Ah, I saw that flinch. Well, then, neither of us should be surprised.’

  ‘You work to free her.’

  ‘I always worked better with Sheltatha Lore than I did with Menandore . . . although that may not be the case now. The buried one has her . . . obsessions.’

  The Tiste Edur grunted. ‘Don’t we all.’

  ‘How long have you known your most cherished protectress was entombed here?’

  ‘Suspicions. For years. I had thought – hoped – that I would discover what remained of Scabandari Bloodeye here as well.’

  ‘Wrong ascendant,’ Sukul Ankhadu said, her tone droll. ‘Had you got it right as to who betrayed whom back then, you would have known that.’

  ‘I hear the contempt in your voice.’

  ‘Why are you here? So impatient as to add your power to the rituals I unleashed below?’

  ‘It may be,’ Hannan Mosag said, ‘that we could work together . . . for a time.’

  ‘What would be the value in that?’

  The Tiste Edur shifted to look up at her. ‘It seems obvious. Even now, Silchas Ruin hunts for the one I’d thought here. I doubt that either you or Sheltatha Lore would be pleased should he succeed. I can guide you onto his trail. I can also lend you . . . support, at the moment of confrontation.’

  ‘And in return?’

  ‘For one, we can see an end to your killing and eating citizens in the city. For another, we can destroy Silchas Ruin.’

&nbs
p; She grunted. ‘I have heard that determination voiced before, Hannan Mosag. Is the Crippled God truly prepared to challenge him?’

  ‘With allies . . . yes.’

  She considered his proposal. There would be treachery, but it would probably not occur until after Ruin was disposed of – the game would turn over the disposition of the Finnest. She well knew that Scabandari Bloodeye’s power was not as it once was, and what remained would be profoundly vulnerable. ‘Tell me, does Silchas Ruin travel alone?’

  ‘No. He has a handful of followers, but of them, only one is cause for concern. A Tiste Edur, the eldest brother of the Sengar, once commander of the Edur Warriors.’

  ‘A surprising alliance.’

  ‘Shaky is a better way of describing it. He too seeks the Finnest, and will, I believe, do all he can to prevent its falling into Ruin’s hands.’

  ‘Ah, expedience plagues us all.’ Sukul Ankhadu smiled. ‘Very well, Hannan Mosag. We are agreed, but tell your Crippled God this: fleeing at the moment of attack, abandoning Sheltatha Lore and myself to Silchas Ruin and, say, making off with the Finnest during the fight, will prove a fatal error. With our dying breaths, we will tell Silchas Ruin all he needs to know, and he will come after the Crippled God, and he will not relent.’

  ‘You will not be abandoned, Sukul Ankhadu. As for the Finnest itself, do you wish to claim it for yourselves?’

  She laughed. ‘To fight over it between us? No, we’d rather see it destroyed.’

  ‘I see. Would you object, then, to the Crippled God’s making use of its power?’

  ‘Will such use achieve eventual destruction?’

  ‘Oh yes, Sukul Ankhadu.’

  She shrugged. ‘As you like.’ You must truly think me a fool, Hannan Mosag. ‘Your god marches to war – he will need all the help he can get.’