Reaper's Gale

  Hannan Mosag managed his own smile, a twisted, feral thing. ‘He is incapable of marching. He does not even crawl. The war comes to him, Sister.’

  If there was hidden significance to that distinction, Sukul Ankhadu was unable to discern it. Her gaze lifted, fixed on the river to the south. Wheeling gulls, strange islands of sticks and grasses spinning on the currents. And, she could sense, beneath the swirling surface, enormous, belligerent leviathans, using the islands as bait. Whatever came close enough . . .

  She was drawn to a rumble of power from the broken barrow and looked down once more. ‘She’s coming, Hannan Mosag.’

  ‘Shall I leave? Or will she be amenable to our arrangement?’

  ‘On that, Edur, I cannot speak for her. Best you depart – she will, after all, be very hungry. Besides, she and I have much to discuss . . . old wounds to mend between us.’

  She watched as the malformed warlock dragged himself away. After all, you are much more her child than you are mine, and I’d rather she was, for the moment, without allies.

  It was all Menandore’s doing, anyway.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The argument was this: a civilization shackled to the strictures of excessive control on its populace, from choice of religion through to the production of goods, will sap the will and the ingenuity of its people – for whom such qualities are no longer given sufficient incentive or reward. At face value, this is accurate enough. Trouble arrives when the opponents to such a system institute its extreme opposite, where individualism becomes godlike and sacrosanct, and no greater service to any other ideal (including community) is possible. In such a system rapacious greed thrives behind the guise of freedom, and the worst aspects of human nature come to the fore, a kind of intransigence as fierce and nonsensical as its maternalistic counterpart.

  And so, in the clash of these two extreme systems, one is witness to brute stupidity and blood-splashed insensitivity; two belligerent faces glowering at each other across the unfathomed distance, and yet, in deed and in fanatic regard, they are but mirror reflections.

  This would be amusing if it weren’t so pathetically idiotic . . .

  In Defence of Compassion

  Denabaris of Letheras, 4th century

  Dead pirates were better, Shurq Elalle mused. There was a twisted sort of justice in the dead preying upon the living, especially when it came to stealing all their treasured possessions. Her pleasure in prying those ultimately worthless objects from their hands was the sole reason for her criminal activities, more than sufficient incentive to maintain her new-found profession. Besides, she was good at it.

  The hold of the Undying Gratitude was filled with the cargo from the abandoned Edur ship, the winds were fresh and steady, pushing them hard north out of the Draconean Sea, and it looked as if the huge fleet in her wake was not getting any closer.

  Edur and Letherii ships, a hundred, maybe more. They’d come out of the southwest, driving at a converging angle towards the sea lane that led to the mouth of the Lether River. The same lane that Shurq Elalle’s ship now tracked, as well as two merchant scows the Undying Gratitude was fast overhauling. And that last detail was too bad, since those Pilott scows were ripe targets, and without a mass of Imperial ships crawling up her behind, she’d have pounced.

  Cursing, Skorgen Kaban limped up to where she stood at the aft rail. ‘It’s that infernal search, ain’t it? The two main fleets, or what’s left of ‘em.’ The first mate leaned over the rail and spat down into the churning foam skirling out from the keel. ‘They’re gonna be nipping our tails all the way into Letheras harbour.’

  ‘That’s right, Pretty, which means we have to stay nice.’

  ‘Aye. Nothing more tragic than staying nice.’

  ‘We’ll get over it,’ Shurq Elalle said. ‘Once we’re in the harbour, we can sell what we got, hopefully before the fleet arrives to do the same – because then the price will drop, mark my words. Then we head back out. There’ll be more Pilott scows, Skorgen.’

  ‘You don’t think that fleet came up on the floating wreck, do you? They’ve got every stretch of canvas out, like maybe they was chasing us. We get to the mouth and we’re trapped, Captain.’

  ‘Well, you have a point there. If they were truly scattered by that storm, a few of them could have come up on the wreck before it went under.’ She thought for a time, then said, ‘Tell you what. We’ll sail past the mouth. And if they ignore us and head upriver, we can come round and follow them in. But that means they’ll offload before we will, which means we won’t make as much—’

  ‘Unless their haul ain’t going to market,’ the first mate cut in. ‘Could be it’s all to replenish the royal vaults, Captain, or maybe it goes to the Edur and nobody else. Blood and Kagenza, after all. We could always find a coastal port and do our selling there.’

  ‘You get wiser with every body part you lose, Pretty.’

  He grunted. ‘Gotta be some kind of upside.’

  ‘That’s the attitude,’ she replied. ‘All right, that’s what we’ll do, but never mind the coastal port – they’re all dirt poor this far north, surrounded by nothing but wilderness and bad roads where the bandits line up to charge tolls. And if a few Edur galleys take after us, we can always scoot straight up to that hold-out prison isle this side of Fent Reach – that’s a tight harbour mouth, or so I’ve been told, and they got a chain to keep the baddies out.’

  ‘Pirates ain’t baddies?’

  ‘Not as far as they’re concerned. The prisoners are running things now.’

  ‘I doubt it’ll be that easy,’ Skorgen muttered. ‘We’d just be bringing trouble down on them – it’s not like the Edur couldn’t have conquered them long ago. They just can’t be bothered.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. The point is, we’ll run out of food and water if we can’t resupply somewhere. Edur galleys are fast, fast enough to stay with us. Anywhere we dock they’ll be on us before the last line is drawn to the bollard. With the exception of the prison isle.’ She scowled. ‘It’s a damned shame. I wanted to go home for a bit.’

  ‘Then we’d best hope the whole damned fleet back there heads upriver,’ Skorgen the Pretty said, scratching round an eye socket.

  ‘Hope and pray – you pray to any gods, Skorgen?’

  ‘Sea spirits, mostly. The Face Under the Waves, the Guardian of the Drowned, the Swallower of Ships, the Stealer of Winds, the Tower of Water, the Reef Hiders, the—’

  ‘All right, Pretty, that’ll do. You can keep your host of disasters to yourself . . . just make sure you do all the propitiations.’

  ‘Thought you didn’t believe in all that, Captain.’

  ‘I don’t. But it never hurts to make sure.’

  ‘One day their names will rise from the water, Captain,’ Skorgen Kaban said, making a complicated warding gesture with his one remaining hand. ‘And with them the seas will lift high, to claim the sky itself. And the world will vanish beneath the waves.’

  ‘You and your damned prophecies.’

  ‘Not mine. Fent. Ever see their early maps? They show a coast leagues out from what it is now. All their founding villages are under hundreds of spans of water.’

  ‘So they believe their prophecy is coming true. Only it’s going to take ten thousand years.’

  His shrug was lopsided. ‘Could be, Captain. Even the Edur claim that the ice far to the north is breaking up. Ten thousand years, or a hundred. Either way, we’ll be long dead by then.’

  Speak for yourself, Pretty. Then again, what a thought. Me wandering round on the sea bottom for eternity. ‘Skorgen, get young Burdenar down from the crow’s nest and into my cabin.’

  The first mate made a face. ‘Captain, you’re wearing him out.’

  ‘I ain’t heard him complain.’

  ‘Of course not. We’d all like to be as lucky – your pardon, Captain, for me being too forward, but it’s true. I was serious, though. You’re wearing him out, and he’s the youngest sailor we got.’

  ‘R
ight, meaning I’d probably kill the rest of you. Call him down, Pretty.’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’

  She stared back at the distant ships. The long search was over, it seemed. What would they be bringing back to fair Letheras, apart from casks of blood? Champions. Each one convinced they can do what no other has ever managed. Kill the Emperor. Kill him dead, deader than me, so dead he never gets back up.

  Too bad that would never happen.

  On his way out of Letheras, Venitt Sathad, Indebted servant to Rautos Hivanar, halted the modest train outside the latest addition to the Hivanar holdings. The inn’s refurbishment was well under way, he saw, as, accompanied by the owner of the construction company under hire, he made his way past the work crews crowding the main building, then out back to where the stables and other outbuildings stood.

  Then stopped.

  The structure that had been raised round the unknown ancient mechanism had been taken down. Venitt stared at the huge monolith of unknown metal, wondering why, now that it had been exposed, it looked so familiar. The edifice bent without a visible seam, three-quarters of the way up – at about one and a half times his own height – a seemingly perfect ninety degrees. The apex looked as if it awaited some kind of attachment, if the intricate loops of metal were anything more than decorative. The object stood on a platform of the same peculiar, dull metal, and again there was no obvious separation between it and the platform itself.

  ‘Have you managed to identify its purpose?’ Venitt asked the old, mostly bald man at his side.

  ‘Well,’ Bugg conceded, ‘I have some theories.’

  ‘I would be interested in hearing them.’

  ‘You will find others in the city,’ Bugg said. ‘No two alike, but the same nonetheless, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘No, I don’t, Bugg.’

  ‘Same manufacture, same mystery as to function. I’ve never bothered actually mapping them, but it may be that there is some kind of pattern, and from that pattern, the purpose of their existence might be comprehended. Possibly.’

  ‘But who built them?’

  ‘No idea, Venitt. Long ago, I suspect – the few others I’ve seen myself are mostly underground, and further out towards the river bank. Buried in silts.’

  ‘In silts . . .’ Venitt continued staring, then his eyes slowly widened. He turned to the old man. ‘Bugg, I have a most important favour to ask of you. I must continue on my way, out of Letheras. I need a message delivered, however, back to my master. To Rautos Hivanar.’

  Bugg shrugged. ‘I see no difficulty managing that, Venitt.’

  ‘Good. Thank you. The message is this: he must come here, to see this for himself. And – and this is most important – he must bring his collection of artifacts.’

  ‘Artifacts?’

  ‘He will understand, Bugg.’

  ‘All right,’ the old man said. ‘I can get over there in a couple of days . . . or I can send a runner if you like.’

  ‘Best in person, Bugg, if you would. If the runner garbles the message, my master might end up ignoring it.’

  ‘As you like, Venitt. Where, may I ask, are you going?’

  The Indebted scowled. ‘Bluerose, and then on to Drene.’

  ‘A long journey awaits you, Venitt. May it prove dull and uneventful.’

  ‘Thank you, Bugg. How go things here?’

  ‘We’re waiting for another shipment of materials. When that arrives, we can finish up. Your master has pulled another of my crews over for that shoring-up project at his estate, but until the trusses arrive that’s not as inconvenient as it might be.’ He glanced at Venitt. ‘Do you have any idea when Hivanar will be finished with all of that?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, it’s not shoring-up – although that is involved.’ He paused, rubbed at his face. ‘More of a scholarly pursuit. Master is extending bulwarks out into the river, then draining and pumping the trenches clear so that the crews can dig down through the silts.’

  Bugg frowned. ‘Why? Is he planning to build a breakwater or a pier?’

  ‘No. He is recovering . . . artifacts.’

  Venitt watched the old man look back at the edifice, and saw the watery eyes narrow. ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing those.’

  ‘Some of your foremen and engineers have done just that . . . but none were able to work out their function.’ And yes, they are linked to this thing here. In fact, one piece is a perfect replica of this, only on a much smaller scale. ‘When you deliver your message, you can ask to see what he’s found, Bugg. I am sure he would welcome your observations.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ the old man said distractedly.

  ‘Well,’ Venitt said. ‘I had best be going.’

  ‘Errant ignore you, Venitt Sathad.’

  ‘And you, Bugg.’

  ‘If only . . .’

  That last statement was little more than a whisper, and Venitt glanced back at Bugg as he crossed the courtyard on his way out. A peculiar thing to say.

  But then, old men were prone to such eccentricities.

  Dismounting, Atri-Preda Bivatt began walking among the wreckage. Vultures and crows clambered about from one bloated body to the next, as if confused by such a bounteous feast. Despite the efforts of the carrion eaters, it was clear to her that the nature of the slaughter was unusual. Huge blades, massive fangs and talons had done the damage to these hapless settlers, soldiers and drovers. And whatever had killed these people had struck before – the unit of cavalry that had pursued Redmask from Drene’s North Gate had suffered an identical fate.

  In her wake strode the Edur Overseer, Brohl Handar. ‘There are demons,’ he said, ‘capable of this. Such as those the K’risnan conjured during the war . . . although they rarely use teeth and claws.’

  Bivatt halted near a dead hearth. She pointed to a sweep of dirt beside it. ‘Do your demons leave tracks such as these?’

  The Edur warrior came to her side. ‘No,’ he said after a moment. ‘This has the appearance of an oversized, flightless bird.’

  ‘Oversized?’ She glanced over at him, then resumed her walk.

  Her soldiers were doing much the same, silent as they explored the devastated encampment. Outriders, still mounted, were circling the area, keeping to the ridge lines.

  The rodara and myrid herds had been driven away, their tracks clearly visible heading east. The rodara herd had gone first, and the myrid had simply followed. It was possible, if the Letherii detachment rode hard, that they would catch up to the myrid. Bivatt suspected the raiders would not lag behind to tend to the slower-moving beasts.

  ‘Well, Atri-Preda?’ Brohl Handar asked from behind her. ‘Do we pursue?’

  She did not turn round. ‘No.’

  ‘The Factor will be severely displeased by your decision.’

  ‘And that concerns you?’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  She said nothing. The Overseer was growing more confident in his appointment. More confident, or less cautious – there had been contempt in the Tiste Edur’s tone. Of course, that he had chosen to accompany this expedition was evidence enough of his burgeoning independence. For all of that, she almost felt sorry for the warrior.

  ‘If this Redmask is conjuring demons of some sort,’ Brohl Handar continued, ‘then we had best move in strength, accompanied by both Letherii and Edur mages. Accordingly, I concur with your decision.’

  ‘It pleases me that you grasp the military implications of this, Overseer. Even so, in this instance even the desires of the Factor are of no importance to me. I am first and foremost an officer of the empire.’

  ‘You are, and I am the Emperor’s representative in this region. Thus.’

  She nodded.

  A few heartbeats later the Tiste Edur sighed. ‘It grieves me to see so many slain children.’

  ‘Overseer, we are no less thorough when slaying the Awl.’

  ‘That, too, grieves me.’

  ‘Such is war,’ she said.

  He grunted, then said, ‘Atr
i-Preda, what is happening on these plains is not simply war. You Letherii have initiated a campaign of extermination. Had we Edur elected to cross that threshold, would you not have called us barbarians in truth? You do not hold the high ground in this conflict, no matter how you seek to justify your actions.’

  ‘Overseer,’ Bivatt said coldly, ‘I care nothing about justifications, nor moral high ground. I have been a soldier too long to believe such things hold any sway over our actions. Whatever lies in our power to do, we do.’ She gestured at the destroyed encampment around them. ‘Citizens of Lether have been murdered. It is my responsibility to give answer to that, and so I shall.’

  ‘And who will win?’ Brohl Handar asked.

  ‘We will, of course.’

  ‘No, Atri-Preda. You will lose. As will the Awl. The victors are men such as Factor Letur Anict. Alas, such people as the Factor view you and your soldiers little differently from how they view their enemies. You are to be used, and this means that many of you will die. Letur Anict does not care. He needs you to win this victory, but beyond that his need for you ends . . . until a new enemy is found. Tell me, do empires exist solely to devour? Is there no value in peace? In order and prosperity and stability and security? Are the only worthwhile rewards the stacks of coin in Letur Anict’s treasury? He would have it so – all the rest is incidental and only useful if it serves him. Atri-Preda, you are in truth less than an Indebted. You are a slave – I am not wrong in this, for I am a Tiste Edur who possesses slaves. A slave, Bivatt, is how Letur Anict and his kind see you.’

  ‘Tell me, Overseer, how would you fare without your slaves?’

  ‘Poorly, no doubt.’

  She turned about and walked back to her horse. ‘Mount up. We’re returning to Drene.’

  ‘And these dead citizens of the empire? Do you leave their bodies to the vultures?’

  ‘In a month even the bones will be gone,’ Bivatt said, swinging onto her horse and gathering the reins. ‘The whittle beetles will gnaw them all to dust. Besides, there is not enough soil to dig proper graves.’

  ‘There are stones,’ Brohl Handar noted.