Midnight Tides

  ****

  Turudal Brizad was just outside the throne room, leaning against a column, his arms crossed. Brys nodded to him and was about to pass when the Queen’s First Consort gestured him over. The Finadd hesitated, then approached.

  Turudal smiled. ‘Relax. I am no longer as dangerous as I once was, Brys Beddict. Assuming that I was dangerous in the first place.’

  ‘First Consort. Please permit me to express my sympathy—’

  ‘Thank you,’ Turudal cut in, ‘but it’s not necessary. The prince was not the only precipitous member of the royal family. My dear queen was, it is worth recalling, at the forefront of inviting this war against the Tiste Edur. She has the arrogance of her people, after all…’

  ‘And are they not your people as well, First Consort?’

  The man’s smile broadened. ‘So much of my life, Brys Beddict – here in this palace – can be characterized as fulfilling the role of objective observer in the proceedings of state, and in the domestic travails upon which, it must be said, my fortune depends. Rather, depended. In this, I am no different from my counterpart, the First Concubine. We were present as symbols, after all. And so we behaved accordingly.’

  ‘And now you find yourself without a role,’ Brys said.

  ‘I find myself even more objective as an observer than I have ever been, Finadd.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? To no end. None at all. I had forgotten what such freedom felt like. You realize, don’t you, that the Tiste Edur will conquer this kingdom?’

  ‘Our forces were divided before, First Consort.’

  ‘So were theirs, Finadd.’

  Brys studied the man before him, wondering what was so strange about him, this vague air of indifference and… what? ‘Why did she want this war, Turudal Brizad?’

  He shrugged. ‘The Letherii motive was, is and shall ever be but one thing. Wealth. Conquest as opportunity. Opportunity as invitation. Invitation as righteous claim. Righteous claim as preordained, as destiny.’ Something dark glittered in his eyes. ‘Destiny as victory, victory as conquest, conquest as wealth. But nowhere in that perfect scheme will you find the notion of defeat. All failures are temporary, flawed in the particular. Correct the particular and victory will be won the next time round.’

  ‘Until a situation arises where there is no second opportunity.’

  ‘And future scholars will dissect every moment of these days, assembling their lists of the particulars, the specifics from which no generalization threatening the prime assumptions can ever be derived. It is, in truth, an exquisite paradigm, the perfect mechanism ensuring the persistent survival of an entire host of terrible, brutal beliefs.’

  ‘You do seem to have achieved objectivity, Turudal Brizad.’

  ‘Do you know how the First Empire collapsed, Brys Beddict? I don’t mean the revised versions every child is taught by tutors. I mean the truth. Our ancestors unleashed their own annihilation. Through a ritual run wild, the civilization tore itself apart. Of course, in our version, those who came afterwards to clean up were transformed into the aggressors, the outside agency that wrought such destruction as to obliterate the First Empire. And here is another truth: our colonies here were not immune to the effects of that unfettered ritual. Although we succeeded in driving away the threat, as far as we could, into the ice wastes. Where, we hoped, the bastards would die out. Alas, they didn’t. And now, Brys Beddict, they’re coming back.’

  ‘Who? The Tiste Edur? We share nothing with them, Turudal—’

  ‘Not the Tiste Edur, although much of their history – that of their path of sorcery in particular – is bound with the succession of disasters that befell the First Empire. No, Finadd, I am speaking of their allies, the savages from the ice wastes, the Jheck.’

  ‘An interesting story,’ Brys said after a moment, ‘but I am afraid I do not comprehend its relevance.’

  ‘I am offering explanation,’ the First Consort said, pushing himself from the column and walking past Brys.

  ‘For what?’

  Without turning, he replied, ‘For the imminent failure, Finadd, of my objectivity.’

  ****

  Moroch Nevath slowed his lathered horse as he neared the gates. To either side of the raised road, what had once been a sprawling confusion of huts and shacks had been razed, leaving only mud, potsherds and slivers of wood. Stains on the city’s wall were all that remained of the countless buildings that had leaned against it for support.

  The crowds of refugees on the road had thinned the last few leagues, as Moroch outdistanced the leading edges. He’d seen deserters among them, and had struggled against an urge to deliver summary justice upon the cowards, but there would be time for that later. The gates ahead were open, a squad of soldiers from the Merchants’ Battalion standing guard.

  Moroch reined in before them. ‘This road will be packed by dusk,’ he said. ‘You will need at least four more squads to manage the flow.’

  A sergeant scowled up at him. ‘And who in the Errant’s name are you?’

  ‘Another deserter,’ muttered a soldier.

  Moroch’s uniform was covered in dust and patches of old blood. He was bearded, his hair filthy and unbound. Even so, he stared at the sergeant, shocked that he had not been recognized. Then he bared his teeth, ‘There will be deserters, yes. They are to be pulled aside, and all those refugees of acceptable age and fitness are to be recruited. Sergeant, I am Finadd Moroch Nevath. I led the survivors from High Fort down to Brans Keep, where we were attached to the Artisan Battalion. I go now to report to the Preda.’

  He was pleased at the sudden deference shown once he identified himself.

  The sergeant saluted, then asked, ‘Is it true, then, sir? The prince and the queen are prisoners of the Edur?’

  ‘A miracle that they survived at all, sergeant.’

  A strange expression flitted across the sergeant’s features, quickly disguised, yet Moroch had understood it. Why didn’t you fall defending them, Finadd? You ran, like all the others…

  ‘We will get them back, sir,’ the sergeant said after a moment.

  ‘Send for your reinforcements,’ Moroch said, kicking his horse into motion once more. You’re right. I should have died. But you were not there, were you?

  He rode into the city.

  ****

  Champion Ormly and Chief Investigator Rucket were sitting on the steps of the Rat Catchers’ Guild, sharing a bottle of wine. Both scowled when they saw Bugg, who approached to stand before them.

  ‘We know all about you now,’ Rucket said. She sneered, but added nothing more.

  ‘Well,’ said Bugg, ‘that’s a relief. What more have you heard from your agents in the occupied cities?’

  ‘Oh,’ Ormly said, ‘and we’re to reveal all our intelligence to you, simply because you ask for it?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘He has a point, the bastard,’ Rucket said to the Champion.

  Who looked at her in disbelief. ‘No he doesn’t! You’re smitten, aren’t you? Tehol and his manservant – both of them!’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. It’s in the contract, Ormly. We share information—’

  flawed in the particular. Correct the particular and victory will be won the next time round.’

  ‘Until a situation arises where there is no second opportunity.’

  ‘And future scholars will dissect every moment of these days, assembling their lists of the particulars, the specifics from which no generalization threatening the prime assumptions can ever be derived. It is, in truth, an exquisite paradigm, the perfect mechanism ensuring the persistent survival of an entire host of terrible, brutal beliefs.’

  ‘You do seem to have achieved objectivity, Turudal Brizad.’

  ‘Do you know how the First Empire collapsed, Brys Beddict? I don’t mean the revised versions every child is taught by tutors. I mean the truth. Our ancestors unleashed their own annihilation. Through a ritu
al run wild, the civilization tore itself apart. Of course, in our version, those who came afterwards to clean up were transformed into the aggressors, the outside agency that wrought such destruction as to obliterate the First Empire. And here is another truth: our colonies here were not immune to the effects of that unfettered ritual. Although we succeeded in driving away the threat, as far as we could, into the ice wastes. Where, we hoped, the bastards would die out. Alas, they didn’t. And now, Brys Beddict, they’re coming back.’

  ‘Who? The Tiste Edur? We share nothing with them, Turudal—’

  ‘Not the Tiste Edur, although much of their history – that of their path of sorcery in particular – is bound with the succession of disasters that befell the First Empire. No, Finadd, I am speaking of their allies, the savages from the ice wastes, the Jheck.’

  ‘An interesting story,’ Brys said after a moment, ‘but I am afraid I do not comprehend its relevance.’

  ‘I am offering explanation,’ the First Consort said, pushing himself from the column and walking past Brys.

  ‘For what?’

  Without turning, he replied, ‘For the imminent failure, Finadd, of my objectivity.’

  Moroch Nevath slowed his lathered horse as he neared the gates. To either side of the raised road, what had once been a sprawling confusion of huts and shacks had been razed, leaving only mud, potsherds and slivers of wood. Stains on the city’s wall were all that remained of the countless buildings that had leaned against it for support.

  The crowds of refugees on the road had thinned the last few leagues, as Moroch outdistanced the leading edges. He’d seen deserters among them, and had struggled against an urge to deliver summary justice upon the cowards, but there would be time for that later. The gates ahead were open, a squad of soldiers from the Merchants’ Battalion standing guard.

  Moroch reined in before them. ‘This road will be packed by dusk,’ he said. ‘You will need at least four more squads to manage the flow.’

  A sergeant scowled up at him. ‘And who in the Errant’s name are you?’

  ‘Another deserter,’ muttered a soldier.

  Moroch’s uniform was covered in dust and patches of old blood. He was bearded, his hair filthy and unbound. Even so, he stared at the sergeant, shocked that he had not been recognized. Then he bared his teeth, ‘There will be deserters, yes. They are to be pulled aside, and all those refugees of acceptable age and fitness are to be recruited. Sergeant, I am Finadd Moroch Nevath. I led the survivors from High Fort down to Brans Keep, where we were attached to the Artisan Battalion. I go now to report to the Preda.’

  He was pleased at the sudden deference shown once he identified himself.

  The sergeant saluted, then asked, ‘Is it true, then, sir? The prince and the queen are prisoners of the Edur?’

  ‘A miracle that they survived at all, sergeant.’

  A strange expression flitted across the sergeant’s features, quickly disguised, yet Moroch had understood it. Why didn’t you fall defending them, Finadd? You ran, like all the others…

  ‘We will get them back, sir,’ the sergeant said after a moment.

  ‘Send for your reinforcements,’ Moroch said, kicking his horse into motion once more. You’re right. I should have died. But you were not there, were you?

  He rode into the city.

  Champion Ormly and Chief Investigator Rucket were sitting on the steps of the Rat Catchers’ Guild, sharing a bottle of wine. Both scowled when they saw Bugg, who approached to stand before them.

  ‘We know all about you now,’ Rucket said. She sneered, but added nothing more.

  ‘Well,’ said Bugg, ‘that’s a relief. What more have you heard from your agents in the occupied cities?’

  ‘Oh,’ Ormly said, ‘and we’re to reveal all our intelligence to you, simply because you ask for it?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘He has a point, the bastard,’ Rucket said to the Champion.

  Who looked at her in disbelief. ‘No he doesn’t! You’re smitten, aren’t you? Tehol and his manservant – both of them!’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. It’s in the contract, Ormly. We share information—’

  ‘Fine, but what’s this man shared? Nothing. The Waiting Man. What’s he waiting for? That’s what I want to know.’

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  Bugg said, ‘You haven’t heard anything.’

  ‘Of course we have!’ Ormly snapped. ‘Peace reigns. The shops are open once more. Coins roll, the sea lanes are unobstructed.’

  ‘Garrisons?’

  ‘Disarmed. Including local constabulary. All protection and enforcement is being done by the Edur. Empty estates have been occupied by Edur families – some kind of nobility exists with them, with those tribes. Not so different after all.’

  ‘Curious,’ Bugg said. ‘No resistance?’

  ‘Their damned shades are everywhere. Even the rats don’t dare cause trouble.’

  ‘And how close to Letheras are the Edur armies?’

  ‘That we don’t know. Days away, maybe. The situation is pretty chaotic in the countryside north of here. I’m not answering any more questions and that’s that.’ Ormly took the bottle from Rucket and drank deep.

  Bugg looked round. The street was quiet. ‘Something in the air…’

  ‘We know,’ Rucket said.

  The silence lengthened, then Bugg rubbed at the back of his neck. Without another word, he walked away.

  A short time later, he approached the Azath tower. As he began crossing the street towards the front gate, a figure emerged from a nearby alley. Bugg halted.

  ‘Surprised to see you here,’ the man said as he drew nearer to the manservant. ‘But a momentary surprise. Thinking on it, where else would you be?’

  Bugg grunted, then said, ‘I wondered when you’d finally stir yourself awake. If.’

  ‘Better late than never.’

  ‘Here to give things a nudge, are you?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. And what about you?’

  ‘Well,’ Bugg considered, ‘that depends.’

  ‘On?’

  ‘You, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, I’m just passing through,’ the man said.

  Bugg studied him for a long moment, then cocked his head and asked, ‘So, how much of you was at the heart of this mess, I wonder? Feeding the queen’s greed, the prince’s estrangement from his father. Did the notion of the Seventh Closure simply amuse you?’

  ‘I but watched,’ the man replied, shrugging. ‘Human nature is responsible, as ever. That is not a burden I am willing to accept, especially from you.’

  ‘All right. But here you are, about to take a far more active role…’

  ‘This goes back, old man. Edur or human, I do not want to see a revisiting of the T’lan Imass.’

  After a moment, Bugg nodded. ‘The Pack. I see. I have never liked you much, but this time I am afraid I have to agree with you.’

  ‘That warms my heart.’

  ‘To be so benignly judged? I suppose it would at that.’

  He laughed, then, with a careless wave, walked past Bugg.

  The problem with gods, Bugg decided, was the way they ended up getting dragged along. Wherever their believers went. This one had vanished from memory everywhere else, as extinct as the Holds themselves.

  So. T’lan Imass, the Pack, and the coming of the Jheck. Soletaken worshippers of their ancient lord, and, from the potential resurrection of that ancient cult, a possible return of the T’lan Imass, to expunge the madness.

  What had driven him to act now, then? In this particular matter? The answer came to Bugg, and he smiled without humour. It’s called guilt.

  ****

  A metallic tapping woke Tehol Beddict. He sat up, looked round. It was nearing late afternoon. The tapping was repeated and he glanced over to see his bodyguard, weapon drawn, standing at the roof’s edge on the alley side. The man gestured him over.

  Climbing gingerly from the rickety b
ed, Tehol tiptoed to the bodyguard’s side.

  Down in the alley below a shape was crawling along beneath a stained tarp of some sort. Slow but steady progress towards the corner.

  ‘I admit,’ Tehol said, ‘it’s a curious thing. But sufficient cause to wake me up? Ah, there I have doubts. The city is full of crawling things, after all. Well, on a normal day, that is. Here we are, however, so perhaps it might be amusing if we follow its tortured journey.’

  The shape reached the corner, then edged round it.

  Tehol and his companion tracked it from above. Along the wall, then into the aisle leading to the entrance to Tehol’s house.

  ‘Ah, it is paying us a visit. Whatever it’s selling, I’m not sure I want any. We are facing a conundrum, my friend. You know how I hate being rude. Then again, what if it is selling some horrible disease?’

  It reached the doorway, slipped inside.

  The bodyguard walked to the hatch and looked down. After a moment, Tehol followed. As he peered over he heard a familiar voice call up.

  ‘Tehol. Get down here.’

  ‘Shurq?’

  A gesturing shape in the gloom.

  ‘Best wait here,’ Tehol said to his guard. ‘I think she wants privacy. You can keep an eye on the entrance from up here, right? Excellent. I’m glad we’re agreed.’ He climbed down the ladder.

  ‘I have a problem,’ she said when he reached the floor.

  ‘Anything I can do for you, Shurq, I shall. Did you know you have a spike of some sort in your forehead?’

  ‘That’s my problem, you idiot.’

  ‘Ah. Would you like me to pull it out?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Tehol.’

  ‘Not worse, surely, than leaving it there.’

  ‘The issue is not as clear as it appears to be,’ Shurq said. ‘Something is holding it. It’s not nearly as loose as one would hope.’

  ‘Are you concentrating on it?’

  She said nothing.

  He hastily added, ‘Maybe it’s bent or something.’

  ‘It goes through to the back of my skull. There may be a flange of some sort.’

  ‘Why not push it right through?’

  ‘And leave the back of my head in pieces?’

  ‘Well, the only other possibility I can think of at the moment, Shurq, is to pull it out a little bit, saw it off, then push what’s left back in. Granted, you’d have a hole, but you could take to wearing a bandanna or head-scarf, at least until we visit Selush.’