Reaper's Gale

  And now pain arrived, in every joint, piercing fire. Ligaments and tendons, stretched for so long, now began contracting like burning ropes – oh, Errant take me—

  Her eyes flickered open once more, and with returning consciousness she became aware of savage hunger, coiling in her shrunken stomach. Watery waste trickled loose.

  There was no point in weeping. No point in wondering which of them was madder – him for his base appetites and senseless cruelty, or her for clinging so to this remnant of a life. A battle of wills, yet profoundly unequal – she knew that in her heart, had known it all along.

  The succession of grand lectures she had devised in her mind all proved hollow conceits, their taste too bitter to bear. He had defeated her, because his were weapons without reason – and so I answered with my own madness. I thought it would work. Instead, I ended up surrendering all that I had that was of any worth.

  And so now, the cold of death stealing over me, I can only dream of becoming a vengeful ghost, eager to torment the one who tormented me, eager to be to him as he was to me. Believing that such a balance was just, was righteous.

  Madness. To give in kind is to be in kind.

  So now, let me leave here, for ever gone—

  And she felt that madness reach out to her, an embrace that would sweep away her sense of self, her knowledge of who she had been, once, that proud, smug academic with her pristine intellect ordering and reordering the world. Until even practicality was a quaint notion, not even worthy of discourse, because the world outside wasn’t worth reaching out to, not really – besides, it was sullied, wasn’t it? By men like Tanal Yathvanar and Karos Invictad – the ones who revelled in the filth they made, because only the stench of excess could reach through to their numbed senses—

  —as it reaches through to mine. Listen! He returns, step by hesitant step—

  A calloused hand settled on her brow.

  Janath Anar opened her eyes.

  Faint light, coming from every direction. Warm light, gentle as a breath. Looming above her was a face. Old, lined and weathered, with eyes deep as the seas, even as tears made them glisten.

  She felt the chain being dragged close. Then the old man tugged with one hand and the links parted like rotted reeds. He reached down, then, and lifted her effortlessly.

  Abyss, yours is such a gentle face . . .

  Darkness, once more.

  Beneath the bed of the river, below silts almost a storey thick, rested the remains of almost sixteen thousand citizens of Letheras. Their bones filled ancient wells that had been drilled before the river’s arrival – before the drainage course from the far eastern mountains changed cataclysmically, making the serpent lash its tail, the torrent carving a new channel, one that inundated a nascent city countless millennia ago.

  Letherii engineers centuries past had stumbled upon these submerged constructs, wondering at the humped corridors and the domed chambers, wondering at the huge, deep wells with their clear, cold water. And baffled to explain how such tunnels remained more or less dry, the cut channels seeming to absorb water like runners of sponge.

  No records existed any more recounting these discoveries – the tunnels and chambers and wells were lost knowledge to all but a chosen few. And of the existence of parallel passages, the hidden doors in the walls of corridors, and the hundreds of lesser tombs, not even those few were aware. Certain secrets belonged exclusively to the gods.

  The Elder God carried the starved, brutalized woman into one of those side passages, the cantilevered door swinging shut noiselessly behind him. In his mind there was recrimination, a seething torrent of anger at himself. He had not imagined the full extent of depravity and slaughter conducted by the Patriotists, and he was sorely tempted to awaken himself, unleashing his fullest wrath upon these unmitigated sadists.

  Of course, that would lead to unwarranted attention, which would no doubt result in yet greater slaughter, and one that made no distinction between those who deserved death and those who did not. This was the curse of power, after all.

  As, he well knew, Karos Invictad would soon discover.

  You fool, Invigilator. Who has turned his deadly regard upon you? Deadly, oh my, yes indeed.

  Though few might comprehend that, given the modestly handsome, thoroughly benign features surrounding that face.

  Even so, Karos Invictad. Tehol Beddict has decided that you must go.

  And I almost pity you.

  * * *

  Tehol Beddict was on his knees on the dirt floor of the hovel, rummaging through a small heap of debris, when he heard a scuffling sound at the doorway. He glanced over a shoulder. ‘Ublala Pung, good evening, my friend.’

  The huge half-blood Tarthenal edged into the chamber, hunching beneath the low ceiling. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘A wooden spoon – or at least the fragment thereof. Employed in a central role in the preparation of this morning’s meal. I dread the possibility that Bugg tossed it into the hearth. Ah! Here, see that? A curdle of fat remains on it!’

  ‘Looks like dirt to me, Tehol Beddict.’

  ‘Well, even dirt has flavour,’ he replied, crawling over to the pot simmering on the hearth. ‘Finally, my soup acquires subtle sumptuousness. Can you believe this, Ublala Pung? Look at me, reduced to menial chores, even unto preparing my own meals! I tell you, my manservant’s head has grown too large by far. He rises above his station, does Bugg. Perhaps you could box him about the ears for me. Now, I am not as indifferent as you think – there is the glow of heightened excitement in your rather blunt, dogged features. What has happened? Has Shurq Elalle returned, then?’

  ‘Would I be here if she had?’ Ublala asked. ‘No, Tehol Beddict. She is gone. Out to the seas, with all her pirated young men. I was too big, you see. I had to sleep on the deck, no matter the weather, and that was no fun – and those pirates, they kept wanting to tie sails to me, laughing as if that was funny or something.’

  ‘Ah well, sailors have simple minds, friend. And pirates are failed sailors, mostly, taking simpledom to profound extremes—’

  ‘What? I have news, you know.’

  ‘Do you now?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Can I hear it?’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘Why yes, else I would not have asked.’

  ‘Really want to?’

  ‘Look, if you’re not interested in telling me—’

  ‘No, I’m interested. In telling you. That is why I’m here, although I will have some of that soup if you’re offering.’

  ‘Ublala Pung, you are most welcome to this soup, but first let me fish out this rag I fed into the broth, lest you choke or something.’

  ‘Rag? What kind of rag?’

  ‘Well, squarish, mostly. I believe it was used to wipe down a kitchen counter, thereby absorbing countless assorted foodstuffs.’

  ‘Tehol Beddict, one of the pure blood has come to the city.’

  ‘Is that your news?’

  The huge man nodded solemnly.

  ‘Pure blood?’

  Another nod.

  ‘So, a Tarthenal—’

  ‘No,’ Ublala Pung cut in. ‘Pure blood. Purer than any Tarthenal. And he carries a stone sword. On his face are the most terrifying tattoos, like a shattered tile. He is greatly scarred and countless ghosts swirl in his wake—’

  ‘Ghosts? You could see ghosts following him around?’

  ‘See them? Of course not. But I smelled them.’

  ‘Really? So what do ghosts smell like? Never mind. A Tarthenal who’s more Tarthenal than any Tarthenal has arrived in the city. What does he want?’

  ‘You do not understand, Tehol Beddict. He is a champion. He is here to challenge the Emperor.’

  ‘Oh, the poor man.’

  ‘Yes. The poor man, but he’s not a man, is he? He’s a Tiste Edur.’

  Tehol Beddict frowned across at Ublala Pung. ‘Ah, we were speaking of two different poor men. Well, a short time earlier a runner fr
om Rucket visited – it seems Scale House collapsed during that earthquake. But it was not your normal earthquake, such as never occurs around here anyway. Ublala Pung, there is another champion, one far more frightening than any pure blood Tarthenal. There is great consternation among the Rat Catchers, all of whom seem to know more than they’re letting on. The view seems to be that this time the Emperor’s search has drawn in a most deadly haul.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know nothing about that,’ Ublala Pung said, rubbing thoughtfully at the bristle on his chin. ‘Only, this pure blood has a stone sword. Chipped, like those old spear-points people are selling in the Downs Market. It’s almost as tall as he is, and he’s taller than me. I saw him pick up a Letherii guard and throw him away.’

  ‘Throw him away?’

  ‘Like a small sack of . . . of mushrooms or something.’

  ‘So his temper is even worse than yours, then.’

  ‘Pure bloods know no fear.’

  ‘Right. So how is it you know about pure bloods?’

  ‘The Sereghal. Our gods, the ones I helped to kill, they were fallen pure bloods. Cast out.’

  ‘So the one who has just arrived, he’s the equivalent of one of your gods, Ublala Pung? Please, don’t tell me you’re planning on trying to kill him. I mean, he has a stone sword and all.’

  ‘Kill him? No, you don’t understand, Tehol Beddict. This one, this pure blood, he is worthy of true worship. Not the way we appeased the Sereghal – that was to keep them away. Wait and see, wait and see what is going to happen. My kin will gather, once the word spreads. They will gather.’

  ‘What if the Emperor kills him?’

  Ublala Pung simply shook his head.

  They both looked over as Bugg appeared in the doorway, in his arms the body of a naked woman.

  ‘Now really,’ Tehol said, ‘the pot’s not nearly big enough. Besides, hungry as I am, there are limits and eating academics far exceeds them—’

  The manservant frowned. ‘You recognize this woman?’

  ‘I do, from my former life, replete as it was with stern tutors and the occasional subjects of youthful crushes and the like. Alas, she looks much worse for wear. I had always heard that the world of scholars was cut-throat – what debate on nuances resulted in this, I wonder?’

  Bugg carried her over and set her down on his own sleeping pallet.

  As the manservant stepped back, Ublala Pung stepped close and struck Bugg in the side of the head, hard enough to send the old man reeling against a wall.

  ‘Wait!’ Tehol shouted to the giant. ‘No more!’

  Rubbing at his temple, Bugg blinked up at Ublala Pung. ‘What was that all about?’ he demanded.

  ‘Tehol said—’

  ‘Never mind what I said, Ublala. It was but a passing thought, a musing devoid of substance, a careless utterance disconnected in every way from physical action. Never intended—’

  ‘You said he needed boxing about the head, Tehol Beddict. You asked me – because it’d got bigger or something, so I needed to puncture it so it’d get smaller again. It didn’t look any bigger to me. But that’s what you said. He was above his situation, you said—’

  ‘Station, not situation. My point is – both of you – stop looking at me like that. My point was, I was but voicing a few minor complaints of a domestic nature here. Not once suspecting that Ublala Pung would take me so literally.’

  ‘Master, he is Ublala Pung.’

  ‘I know, I know. Clearly, all the once-finely honed edges of my intellect have worn off of late.’ Then his expression brightened. ‘But now I have a tutor!’

  ‘A victim of the Patriotists,’ Bugg said, eyeing Ublala askance as he made his way over to the pot on the hearth. ‘Abyss below, Master, this barely passes as muddy water.’

  ‘Aye, alas, in dire need of your culinary magic. The Patriotists? You broke her out of prison?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. I do not anticipate a city-wide manhunt, however. She was to have been one of the ones who simply vanished.’

  Ublala Pung grunted a laugh. ‘They’d never find her if it was a manhunt.’

  The other two men looked across at him.

  The half-blood Tarthenal gestured at the obvious. ‘Look, she’s got breasts and stuff.’

  Bugg’s tone was soft as he said to Tehol, ‘She needs gentle healing, Master. And peace.’

  ‘Well, no better refuge from the dreads of the world than Tehol Beddict’s abode.’

  ‘A manhunt.’ Ublala laughed again, then shook his head. ‘Them Patriotists are idiots.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When stone is water, time is ice.

  When all is frozen in place

  fates rain down in fell torrent.

  My face revealed, in this stone that is water.

  The ripples locked hard to its shape

  a countenance passing strange.

  Ages will hide when stone is water.

  Cycles bound in these depths

  are flawed illusions breaking the stream.

  When stone is water, time is ice.

  When all is frozen in place our lives

  are stones in the torrent.

  And we rain down, rain down

  like water on stone

  with every strike of the hand.

  Water and Stone

  Elder Fent

  The Realm of Shadow was home to brutal places, yet not one could match the brutality of shadows upon the soul. Such thoughts haunted Cotillion these days. He stood on a rise, before him a gentle, elongated slope reaching down to a lake’s placid waters. A makeshift camp was visible on a level terrace forty paces to his left, a single longhouse flanked by half-buried outbuildings, including stable and coop. The entire arrangement – fortunately unoccupied at the time, excepting a dozen hens and a rooster, one irritated rook with a gimp leg and two milk cows – had been stolen from another realm, captured by some vagary of happenstance, or, more likely, the consequence of the breaking of mysterious laws, as seemed to occur sporadically during Shadow Realm’s endless migration.

  However it had arrived, Shadowthrone learned of it in time to despatch a flurry of wraiths to lay claim to the buildings and livestock, saving them from predation by roving demons or, indeed, one of the Hounds.

  Following the disaster at the First Throne, the score of survivors had been delivered to this place, to wander and wonder at the strange artifacts left by the previous inhabitants: the curved wooden prows surmounting the peaks of the longhouse with their intricate, serpentine carvings; the mysterious totemic jewellery, mostly of silver although amber seemed common as well; the bolts of cloth, wool both coarse and fine; wooden bowls and cups of hammered bronze. Wandering through it all, dazed, a blankness in their eyes . . .

  Recovering.

  As if such a thing is possible.

  Off to his right, a lone cape-shrouded figure stood at the water’s edge, motionless, seeming to stare out on the unmarred expanse of the lake. There was nothing normal to this lake, Cotillion knew, although the scene it presented from this section of the shore was deceptively serene. Barring the lack of birds. And the absence of molluscs, crustaceans or even insects.

  Every scrap of food to feed the livestock – and the miserable rook – was brought in by the wraiths Shadowthrone had assigned to the task. For all of that, the rooster had died mere days after arriving. Died from grief, I expect. Not a single dawn to crow awake.

  He could hear voices from somewhere just beyond the longhouse. Panek, Aystar and the other surviving children – well, hardly children any more. They’d seen battle, they’d seen their friends die, they knew the world – every world – was an unpleasant place where a human’s life was not worth much. They knew, too, what it meant to be used.

  Further down the beach, well past the lone hooded figure, walked Trull Sengar and the T’lan Imass, Onrack the Broken. Like an artist with his deathless muse, or perhaps at his shoulder a critic of ghastly mien. An odd friendship, that one. But then, T
’lan Imass were full of surprises.

  Sighing, Cotillion set off down the slope.

  The hooded head half turned at his approach. A face the hue of burnished leather, eyes dark beneath the felted wool rim of the hood. ‘Have you come with the key, Cotillion?’

  ‘Quick Ben, it is good to see that you have recovered.’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘What key?’

  The flash of a humourless smile. ‘The one that sets me free.’

  Cotillion stood beside the wizard and studied the murky expanse of water. ‘I would imagine that you could leave here at any time. You are a High Mage, with more than one warren at your disposal. Force a gate, then walk through it.’

  ‘Do you take me for a fool?’ Quick Ben asked in a quiet voice. ‘This damned realm is wandering. There’s no telling where I would come out, although if I guess correctly, I would be in for a long swim.’

  ‘Ah. Well, I’m afraid I pay little attention to such things these days. We are crossing an ocean, then?’

  ‘So I suspect.’

  ‘Then indeed, to journey anywhere you require our help.’

  The wizard shot him a glance. ‘As I thought. You have created pathways, gates with fixed exits. How did you manage that, Cotillion?’

  ‘Oh, not our doing, I assure you. We simply stumbled onto them, in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘The Azath.’

  ‘Very good. You always were sharp, Ben Delat.’

  A grunt. ‘I’ve not used that version of my name in a long time.’

  ‘Oh? When was the last time – do you recall?’

  ‘These Azath,’ Quick Ben said, clearly ignoring the question. ‘The House of Shadow itself, here in this realm, correct? Somehow, it has usurped the gate, the original gate. Kurald Emurlahn. The House exists both as a cast shadow and as its true physical manifestation. No distinction can be made between the two. A nexus . . . but that is not unusual for Azath constructs, is it? What is, however, is that the gate to Kurald Emurlahn was vulnerable in the first place, to such a usurpation.’

  ‘Necessity, I expect,’ said Cotillion, frowning at seeing a slow sweep of broad ripples approach the shore, their source somewhere further out. Not at all what it seems . . .