He held his gaze on the Emperor. Dulled coins luridly gleaming, a rhythm of smudged reflection rising and settling with Rhulad’s breathing; the black sanguine promise of the sword’s long, straight blade, tip dug into the marble dais, the grey bony hand gripping the wire-wrapped handle. Sprawled there on his throne, Rhulad was indeed a metaphor made real. Armoured in riches and armed with a weapon that promised both immortality and annihilation, he was impervious to everything but his own growing madness. When Rhulad fell, the Errant believed, it would be from the inside out.
The ravaged face revealed this truth in a cascade of details, from the seamed scars of past failures to which, by virtue of his having survived them, he was indifferent, to whatever lessons they might hold. Pocked flesh to mock the possession of wealth long lost. Sunken eyes wherein resided the despairing penury of his spirit, a spirit that at times pushed close to those glittering dark prisms and let loose its silent howl.
Twitches tracked this brutal mien. Random ripples beneath the mottled skin, a migration of expressions attempting to escape the remote imperial mask.
One could understand, upon looking at Rhulad on his throne, the lie of simplicity that power whispered in the beholder’s ear. The seductive voice urging pleasurable and satisfying reduction, from life’s confusion to death’s clarity. This, murmured power, is how I am revealed. Stepping naked through all the disguises. I am threat and if threat does not suffice, then I act. Like a reaper’s scythe.
The lie of simplicity. Rhulad still believed it. In that he was no different from every other ruler, through every age, in every place where people gathered to fashion a common, the weal of community with its necessity for organization and division. Power is violence, its promise, its deed. Power cares nothing for reason, nothing for justice, nothing for compassion. It is, in fact, the singular abnegation of these things-once the cloak of deceits is stripped away, this one truth is revealed.
And the Errant was tired of it. All of it.
Mael once said there was no answer. For any of this. He said it was the way of things and always would be, and the only redemption that could be found was that all power, no matter how vast, how centralized, no matter how dominant, will destroy itself in the end. What entertained then was witnessing all those expressions of surprise on the faces of the wielders.
This seemed a far too bitter reward, as far as the Errant was concerned. I have naught of Mael’s capacity for cold, depthless regard. Nor his legendary patience. Nor, for that matter, his temper.
No Elder God was blind to the folly of those who would reign in the many worlds. Assuming it was able to think at all, of course, and for some that was in no way a certain thing. Anomander Rake saw it clearly enough, and so he turned away from its vastness, instead choosing to concentrate on specific, minor conflicts. And he denied his worshippers, a crime so profound to them that they simply rejected it out of hand. Osserc, on the other hand, voiced his own refusal-of the hopeless truth-and so tried again and again and failed every time. For Osserc, Anomander Rake’s very existence became an unconscionable insult.
Draconus-ah, now he was no fool. He would have wearied of his tyranny-had he lived long enough. I still wonder if he did not in fact welcome his annihilation. To die beneath the sword made by his own hands, to see his most cherished daughter standing to one side, witness, wilfully blind to his need… Draconus, how could you not despair of all you once dreamed?
And then there was Kilmandaros. Now she liked the notion of… simplicity. The solid righteousness of her fist was good enough for her. But then, see where it took her!
And what of K’rul? Why, he was-
‘Stop!’ Rhulad shrieked, visibly jolting on the throne, the upper half of his body suddenly leaning forward, the eyes black with sudden threat. ‘What did you just say?’
The Chancellor frowned, then licked his withered lips. ‘Emperor, I was recounting the costs of disposing the corpses from the trench-pens-’
‘Corpses, yes.’ Rhulad’s hand twitched where it folded over the throne’s ornate arm. He stared fixedly at Triban Gnol, then, with a strange smile, he asked, ‘What corpses?’
‘From the fleets, sire. The slaves rescued from the island of Sepik, the northernmost protectorate of the Malazan Empire.’
‘Slaves. Rescued. Slaves.’
The Errant could see Triban Gnol’s confusion, a momentary flicker, then… comprehension.
Oh now, let us witness this!
‘Your fallen kin, sire. Those of Tiste Edur blood who had suffered beneath the tyranny of the Malazans.’
‘Rescued.’ Rhulad paused as if to taste that word. ‘Edur blood.’
‘Diluted-’
‘Edur blood!’
‘Indeed, Emperor.’
‘Then why are they in the trench’pens?’
‘They were deemed fallen, sire.’
Rhulad twisted on the throne, as if assailed from within. His head snapped back. His limbs were seized with trembling. He spoke as one lost. ‘Fallen? But they are our kin. In this entire damned world, our only kin!’
‘That is true, Emperor. I admit, I was somewhat dismayed at the decision to consign them to those most terrible cells-’
‘Whose decision, Gnol? Answer me!’
A bow, which the Errant knew hid a satisfied gleam in the Chancellor’s eyes-quickly disguised as he looked up once more. ‘The disposition of the fallen Sepik Edur was the responsibility of Tomad Sengar, Emperor.’
Rhulad slowly settled back. ‘And they are dying.’
‘In droves, sire. Alas.’
‘We rescued them to deliver our own torment. Rescued them to kill them.’
‘It is, I would suggest, a somewhat unjust fate-’
‘Unjust? You scrawny snake-why did you not tell me of this before?’
‘Emperor, you indicated no interest in the financial details-’
Oh, a mistake there, Gnol.
“The what?’
Beads of sweat on the back of the Chancellor’s neck now. “The varied expenses associated with their imprisonment, sire.’
‘They are Tiste Edur!’
Another bow.
Rhulad suddenly clawed at his face and looked away. ‘Edur blood,’ he murmured. ‘Rescued from slavery. Trench-pens is their reward.’
Triban Gnol cleared his throat. ‘Many died in the holds of the ships, sire. As I understand it, their maltreatment began upon leaving Sepik Island. What is it you would have me do, Emperor?’
And so deftly you regain ground, Triban Gnol.
‘Bring me Tomad Sengar. And Uruth. Bring to me my father and mother.’
‘Now?’
The sword scraped free, point lifting to centre on Triban Gnol. ‘Yes, Chancellor. Now.’
Triban Gnol and his bodyguard quickly departed.
Rhulad was alone in his throne room, now holding his sword out on nothing.
‘How? How could they do this? These poor people-they are of our own blood. I need to think.’ The Emperor lowered the sword then shifted about on the throne, drawing his coin-clad legs up. ‘How? Nisall? Explain this to me-no, you cannot, can you. You have fled me. Where are you, Nisall? Some claim you are dead. Yet where is your body? Are you just another bloated corpse in the canal-the ones I see from the tower-were you one of those, drifting past? They tell me you were a traitor. They tell me you were not a traitor. They all lie to me. I know that, I can see that. Hear that. They all lie to me-’ He sobbed then, his free hand covering his mouth, his eyes darting about the empty room.
The Errant saw that gaze slide right over him. He thought to step forward then, to relinquish the sorcery hiding him, to say to the Emperor: Yes, sire. They all lie to you. But I will not. Do you dare hear the truth, Emperor Rhukd? All of it?
‘Slaves. This-this is wrong. Tomad-Father-where did this cruelty come from?’
