Triban Gnol watched his hands as he sat behind his desk, watched their hunt for beauty and perfection, lost now and for ever more. He broke my fingers. I can still hear—
‘Chancellor?’
He looked up, studied Sirryn, his newly favoured agent in the palace. Yes, the man was ideal. Stupid and unimaginative, he had probably tormented weaker children outside the tutor’s classroom, to compensate for the fog in his head that made every attempt at learning a pointless waste of time. A creature eager for faith, suckling at someone’s tit as if begging to be convinced that anything – absolutely anything – could taste like nectar.
‘It draws close to the eighth bell, sir.’
‘Yes.’
‘The Emperor—’
‘Tell me nothing of the Emperor, Sirryn. I do not need your observations on the Emperor.’
‘Of course. My apologies, Chancellor.’
He would see these hands before him painted crimson again, he now knew. In a most literal fashion. ‘Have you found Bruthen Trana?’
Sirryn’s gaze flickered, then fell to the floor. ‘No. He has truly vanished, sir.’
‘Hannan Mosag sent him away,’ Triban Gnol said, musing. ‘Back up to the Edur homeland, I suspect. To dig in the middens.’
‘The middens, sir?’
‘Heaps of garbage, Sirryn.’
‘But – why—’
‘Hannan Mosag did not approve of Bruthen’s precipitous stupidity. The fool very nearly launched a palace bloodbath. At the very least, sent away or not, Bruthen Trana has made it plain to all that such a bloodbath is imminent.’
‘But the Emperor cannot be killed. There can be no—’
‘That means nothing. It never has. I rule this empire. Besides, there is now a champion . . .’ Triban Gnol fell silent, then shook his head and slowly rose. ‘Come, Sirryn, it is time to tell the Emperor of the war we are now in.’
Outside in the corridor waited seven Letherii mages, called in from the four armies massing just west of Letheras. The Chancellor experienced a moment of regret that Kuru Qan was gone. And Enedictal and Nekal Bara, mages of impressive prowess. These new ones were but pale shadows, mostly supplanted by Hannan Mosag’s Cedance of Tiste Edur. Yet they would be needed, because there weren’t enough K’risnan left. And soon, the Chancellor suspected as he set out for the throne room, the others falling in behind him, soon there would be still fewer K’risnan.
The foreign enemy was deadly. They killed mages as a matter of course. Using explosive incendiaries, grenados. Able to somehow hide from the sorcery seeking them, they sprang deadly ambushes that rarely left behind a corpse of their own.
But the most important detail was one that Triban Gnol would keep from the Emperor. These foreigners were making a point of killing Tiste Edur. So, although Letherii soldiers were assembling to march west against the invaders, the Chancellor had prepared secret instructions to the commanders. He could see a way through all of this. For the Letherii, that is.
‘Have you readied your gear, Sirryn?’ he asked as they approached the throne room doors.
‘Yes,’ the soldier said bemusedly.
‘I need someone I can rely on with the armies, Sirryn, and that someone is you.’
‘Yes, Chancellor!’
Just convey my words to the letter, idiot. ‘Fail me, Sirryn, and do not bother coming back.’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘Get the doors.’
Sirryn rushed ahead.
Inside the throne room was an unexpected, unwelcome surprise. Crouched in a desultory heap of twisted bone and mangled flesh was Hannan Mosag and four of his K’risnan.
As emblems of the foul sorcery feeding these Edur, there could be no better image to burn its bitter way into the Chancellor’s brain. His father would have appreciated the scene, would indeed have gathered huge chunks of marble from which he would hack out life-sized likenesses, as if in mimicking reality he could somehow discover what lay beneath it, the turgid currents of soul. A waste of time, as far as Triban Gnol was concerned. Besides, some things should never be revealed.
Hannan Mosag’s deformed face seemed to leer at the Chancellor as he strode past the Ceda and his four Tiste Edur warlocks, but there was fear in the Ceda’s eyes.
Sword-tip skittering on the cracked, scarred and gouged tiles, the Emperor of a Thousand Deaths shifted uneasily on his throne. ‘Chancellor,’ Rhulad rasped, ‘how good of you to come. And Letherii mages, a most impressive if useless gathering.’
Triban Gnol bowed, then said, ‘Allied with Hannan Mosag’s formidable Cedance, sire, our sorcerous prowess should be more than sufficient to rid ourselves of these foreign interlopers.’
Coins clicked on Rhulad’s face as he grimaced. ‘And the mages of the Borthen Brigade, were they sufficient? What of the Brigade itself, Chancellor? They have been mauled! Letherii mages, Letherii soldiers! Tiste Edur! Your foreign interlopers are carving through a damned army!’
‘Unanticipated,’ Triban Gnol murmured, eyes downcast, ‘that the imperial fleets in their search for champions should have so riled a distant empire. As to that empire’s belligerence, well, it seems almost unmatched; indeed, virtually insane, given the distances spanned to prosecute vengeance. Odd, as well, that no formal declaration of war was received – although, of course, it is doubtful our fleets ventured the same preceding the slaughter of that empire’s citizens. Perhaps,’ he added, glancing up, ‘negotiation remains possible. Some form of financial compensation, should we prove able to arrange a truce—’
Hacking laughter from Hannan Mosag. ‘You provincial fool, Gnol. Would that you were even capable of expanding that puny, melodramatic theatre of your mind, then mayhap humility would still that flapping tongue of yours.’
Brows raised, the Chancellor half turned to regard the Ceda. ‘And what secret knowledge of this enemy do you possess? And would you care to enlighten myself and your Emperor?’
‘This is not punitive,’ Hannan Mosag said. ‘Although it might seem that way. Empires get their noses bloodied all the time, and there were enough clashes at sea to deliver the message that this Malazan Empire was not to be trifled with. Our fleets were sent scurrying from their waters – Hanradi Khalag was brutally honest in his assessment. Malazan mages are more than a match for us, and for the Letherii.’
‘If not punitive,’ Triban Gnol asked, ‘then what?’
Hannan Mosag faced the Emperor. ‘Sire, my answer is best reserved for you alone.’
Rhulad bared his teeth. ‘I am not deceived by your games, Ceda. Speak.’
‘Sire—’
‘Answer him!’
‘I must not!’
Silence, in which Triban Gnol could hear naught but his own heart, thudding hard against his ribs. Hannan Mosag had made a terrible mistake here, victim of his own self-importance. Seeking to use this information of his as a means to crawl back to the Emperor’s side. But the effort . . . so clumsy!
‘Tell me,’ Rhulad said in a whisper, ‘why this must be our secret.’
‘Sire, this matter belongs among the Tiste Edur.’
‘Why?’
Ah. Because, dear Emperor, these Malazans, they are coming for you. Triban Gnol cleared his throat and clasped his hands together above his robe’s belt. ‘This is unnecessary,’ he said in his smoothest voice. ‘I am not so provincial as Hannan Mosag would like to believe. Emperor, your fleets set out across the world in search of champions, and so indeed they have gathered the best, most capable fighters from a host of peoples. What they could not have anticipated is that an entire empire would proclaim itself a champion. And set itself against you, sire. Our reports have made it clear,’ he added, ‘that the enemy is converging on Letheras, on this very city.’ He regarded Hannan Mosag as he added, ‘They are – and yes, Ceda, I see the truth plain on your face – they are coming for the Emperor of a Thousand Deaths. Alas, I do not expect they will elect to challenge him one soldier at a time.’
Rhulad seemed to hav
e shrunk back into the throne. His red-shot eyes were wide with terror. ‘They must be stopped,’ he said in a trembling hiss. ‘You will stop them. You, Hannan Mosag! And you, Chancellor! Our armies must stop them!’
‘And so we shall,’ Triban Gnol said, bowing again, before straightening and glancing across at the Ceda. ‘Hannan Mosag, for all of our . . . disputes, do not for a moment fear that we Letherii will abandon our Emperor to these foreign dogs. We must unite, you and I, and bring all that we have together, and so annihilate these Malazans. Such audacity must be punished, thoroughly. Truly united, the Tiste Edur and the Letherii cannot be defeated.’
‘Yes,’ said Rhulad. ‘That is true. Array the armies in an unbroken line outside the city – it is clear, isn’t it, that they do not have the numbers to challenge such a thing?’
‘Sire,’ Triban Gnol ventured, ‘perhaps it would be best to advance a little distance nonetheless. Westward. In that way we can, if need be, assemble our reserves in case there is a breach. Two lines of defence, sire, to make certain.’
‘Yes,’ Rhulad said, ‘those tactics are sound. How far away are these Malazans? How long do we have?’
‘Weeks,’ Triban Gnol said.
‘Good. That is well. Yes, we must do that. All of that, as you say. Ceda! You will second yourself and your K’risnan to the Chancellor—’
‘Sire, he is no military commander—’
‘Quiet! You have heard my will, Hannan Mosag. Defy me again and I will have you flailed.’
Hannan Mosag did not quail at the threat. Why would he in that destroyed body? Clearly, the Ceda, once Warlock King, was familiar with agony; indeed, at times it seemed the deadly magic that poured through him transformed pain into ecstasy, lighting Hannan Mosag’s eyes with fervent fire.
Triban Gnol said to the Emperor, ‘Sire, we shall protect you.’ He hesitated, just long enough, then half raised a hand as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘Emperor, I wonder, perhaps it would be best to begin the Challenges? Soon? Their presence is a distraction, an irritant for my guards. There have been incidents of violence, a growing impatience.’ He paused again, two heartbeats, then said in a lower tone: ‘Speculation, sire, that you fear to face them . . .’
Hannan Mosag’s sneer produced a bestial growl. ‘You pathetic creature, Gnol—’
‘Not another word, Ceda!’ Rhulad hissed. Spasms rippled across the Emperor’s mottled face. The sword skittered again.
Yes, Rhulad, you understand what it is to fear death more than any of us. Perhaps more than any mortal creature this world has seen. But you flinch not from some vague notion of oblivion, do you? No, for you, dear Emperor, death is something different. Never an end, only that which precedes yet another pain-filled rebirth. Even in death you cannot lose yourself, cannot escape – does anyone else here, apart from me, truly grasp the sheer horror of that?
‘The Challenges,’ said the Emperor, ‘will begin in four days. Chancellor, have your assessors agreed on an order?’
‘Yes, sire. Three of the least skilled to begin. It is likely you will kill all three in a single day. They will tax you, of that we can be sure, but not unduly so. The second day is reserved for one champion. A masked woman. Exceptional speed but perhaps lacking imagination. Yet she will be difficult.’
‘Good.’
‘Sire . . .’
‘Yes? What is it?’
‘There are the two we have spoken of before. The Tarthenal with the flint sword. Undefeated by any other champion – in fact, no-one dares spar with him any more. He has the habit of breaking bones.’
‘Yes. The arrogant one.’ Rhulad smiled. ‘But I have faced Tarthenal before.’
‘But not one with Karsa Orlong’s prowess, sire.’
‘No matter, that.’
‘He may succeed in killing you, sire. Perhaps more than once. Not seven. Such days are long past. But, perhaps, three or four. We have allotted three days.’
‘Following the masked woman?’
‘No, there are six others to span two days.’
Hannan Mosag was staring at the Chancellor now. ‘Three days for this Tarthenal? No champion has yet been accorded three days.’
‘Nonetheless, my assessors were unanimous, Ceda. This one is . . . unique.’
Rhulad was trembling once more. Slain by Karsa Orlong three, four times. Yes, sire, the sheer horror of that . . .
‘There remains one more,’ the Emperor said.
‘Yes. The one named Icarium. He will be the last. If not the eighth day, then the ninth.’
‘And the number of days with him, Chancellor?’
‘Unknown, sire. He does not spar.’
‘Then how do we know he can fight?’
Triban Gnol bowed again. ‘Sire, we have discussed this before. The report of Varat Taun, corroborated by Icarium’s companion, Taralack Veed. And now, I learned today, something new. Something most extraordinary.’
‘What? Tell me!’
‘Among the rejected champions, sire, a monk from a distant archipelago. It would appear, sire, that this monk – and indeed all of his people – worship a single god. And this god is none other than Icarium.’
Rhulad flinched as if struck across the face. The sword’s point leapt up from the floor, then cracked down again. Marble chips clattered down the dais step. ‘I am to cross blades with a god?’
The Chancellor shrugged. ‘Do such claims hold veracity, sire? A primitive, ignorant people, these Cabalhii. No doubt seeing in dhenrabi the soul of sea-storms and in crab carapaces the faces of the drowned. I should add, Emperor, that this monk believes his god to be insane, to which the only answer is a painted mask denoting laughter. Savages possess the strangest notions.’
‘A god . . .’
Triban Gnol risked a glance at Hannan Mosag. The Warlock King’s expression was closed as he studied Rhulad. Something about that awakened a worm of unease in the Chancellor’s gut.
‘I shall slay a god . . .’
‘There is no reason to believe otherwise,’ Triban Gnol said in a calm, confident voice. ‘It will serve timely, sire, in pronouncing your own godhood.’
Rhulad’s eyes widened.
‘Immortality,’ the Chancellor murmured, ‘already well established. Worshipped? Oh yes, by every citizen of this empire. Too modest, oh yes, to make the pronouncement of what is obvious to us all. But, when you stand over Icarium’s destroyed corpse, well, that will be pronouncement enough, I should imagine.’
‘Godhood. A god.’
‘Yes, sire. Most assuredly. I have instructed the guild of sculptors, and their finest artists have already begun work. We shall announce the end of the Challenge in a most appropriate, a most glorious, manner.’
‘You are wise indeed,’ Rhulad said, slowly leaning back. ‘Yes, wise.’
Triban Gnol bowed, ignoring the sour grunt from Hannan Mosag. Oh, Ceda, you are mine now, and I shall use you. You and your foul Edur. Oh yes. His eyes focused on his hands, folded so serenely where they rested on the clasp of his belt. ‘Sire, orders must be delivered to our armies. The Ceda and I must discuss the disposition of mages and K’risnan.’
‘Yes, of course. Leave me, all of you. Attend to your tasks.’
Gesturing behind him, Triban Gnol backed away, head still lowered, eyes now on the floor with its chips of marble and streaks of dust.
He could hear Hannan Mosag and his collection of freaks dragging their way towards the doors, like gigantic migrating toads. The simile brought a faint smile to his lips.
Out in the corridor, the doors shutting behind them, Triban Gnol turned to study Hannan Mosag. But the Ceda was continuing on, toads crowding his wake.
‘Hannan Mosag,’ the Chancellor called out. ‘You and I have—’
‘Save your crap for Rhulad,’ the Ceda snapped.
‘He will be displeased to hear of your lack of co-operation.’
‘Flap away with that tongue of yours, Gnol. The displeasures yet to come will overwhelm your pathetic bleatings, I
am sure.’
‘What do you mean?’
But Hannan Mosag did not answer.
Triban Gnol watched as they plunged into a side passage and were gone from sight. Yes, I will deal with you, Ceda, with great satisfaction. ‘Sirryn, assemble your entourage in the compound and be on your way within the bell. And take these mages with you.’
‘Yes sir.’
The Chancellor remained where he was until they too were gone, then he set off for his office, well pleased. That worm of unease was, however, reluctant to cease its gnawing deep inside him. He would have to think on that – too dangerous to just ignore such instincts, after all. But not right now. It was important to reward oneself, promptly, and so he released that flow of satisfaction. Everything was proceeding nicely – that detail about the Emperor himself being the final target of these foreigners simply sweetened the scenario. The Tiste Edur would of course stand to defend their Emperor – they would, certainly.
Yet, Rhulad’s own brothers, the day of the accession. The worm writhed, forcing a twitch to his face, and he quickened his pace, eager for the sanctuary of his office.
Only to discover it occupied.
Triban Gnol stood in the doorway, surprised and discomfited by the sight of the man standing to one side of the huge desk. The crimson silks, the onyx rings, that damned sceptre of office tapping rhythmically on one rounded shoulder. ‘What in the Errant’s name are you doing here, Invigilator?’
Karos Invictad sighed. ‘I share your displeasure, Chancellor.’
Triban Gnol entered the room, walked round his desk and sat. ‘I am in the habit of assuming that your control of the city is well in hand—’
‘Where is Bruthen Trana?’
The Chancellor pursed his lips. ‘I haven’t the time for this. Put your panic to rest – Bruthen Trana is no longer in Letheras.’
‘Then where has he gone? What road? How long ago? What is the size of his escort?’
Sighing, Triban Gnol leaned back, eyes settling on his hands where they rested palms down on the desktop. ‘Your need for vengeance, Invigilator, is compromising your responsibilities in maintaining order. You must step back, draw a few deep breaths—’