Bruthen could remember, with absolute clarity, the look of growing rage and terror in that Tarthenal’s bestial face each time his fallen opponent arose, renewed, stronger and deedlier than he had been only moments earlier.
He entered the bizarre necropolis, eyes drifting across the Various weapons, once so lovingly cared for-many of them bearing names-but now sheathed in rust. At the far end, slighty separated from all the others, stood an empty urn. Months earlier, out of curiosity, he had reached down into it, and found a silver cup. The cup that had contained the poison that killed three Letherii in the throne room-that had killed Brys Beddict.
No ashes. Even his sword had disappeared.
Bruthen Trana suspected that if this man were to return, now, he would face Rhulad again, and do what he did before. No, it was more than suspicion. A certainty.
Unseen by Rhulad, as the new Emperor lay there, cut to shreds on the floor, Bruthen had edged into the chamber to see for himself. And in that moment’s fearful glance, he had discerned the appalling precision of that butchery. Brys Beddict had been perfunctory. Like a scholar dissecting a weak argument, an effort on his part no greater than tying on his moccasins.
Would that he had seen the duel itself, that he had witnessed the artistry of this tragically slain Letheriij swordsman.
He stood, looking down at the dusty, web-covered urn.
And prayed for Brys Beddict’s return.
A pattern was taking shape, incrementally, inexorably. Yet the Errant, once known as Turudal Brizad, Consort to Queen Janall, could not discern its meaning. The sensation, of unease, of dread, was new to him. Indeed, he considered, one could not imagine a more awkward state of mind for a god, here in the heart of his realm.
Oh, he had known times of violence; he had walked the ashes of dead empires, but his own sense of destiny was even then, ever untarnished, inviolate and absolute. And to make matters worse, patterns were his personal obsession, held to with a belief in his mastery of that arcane language, a mastery beyond challenge.
Then who is it who plays with me now?
He stood in the gloom, listening to the trickle of water seeping down some unseen wall, and stared down at the Cedance, the stone tiles of the Holds, the puzzle floor that was the very foundation of his realm. The Cedance. My tiles. Mine. 1 am the Errant. This is my game.
While before him the pattern ground on, the rumbling of stones too low and deep to hear, yet their resonance grated in his bones. Disparate pieces, coming together. A function hidden, until the last moment-when all is too late, when the closure denies every path of escape.
Do you expect me to do nothing? I am not just one more of your victims. I am the Errant. By my hand, every fate is turned. All that seems random is by my design. This is an immutable truth. It has ever been. It shall ever be.
Still, the taste of fear was on his tongue, as if he’d been sucking on dirtied coins day after day, running the wealth of an empire through his mouth. But is that bitter flow inward or out?
The grinding whisper of motion, all resolution of the images carved into the tiles… lost. Not a single Hold would reveal itself.
The Cedance had been this way since the day Ezgara Diskanar died. The Errant would be a fool to disregard link’ age, but that path of reason had yet’to lead him anywhere. Perhaps it was not Ezgara’s death that mattered, but the Ceda’s. He never liked me much. And I stood and watched, as the Tiste Edur edged to one side, as he flung his spear, transfix^ ing Kuru Qan, killing the greatest Ceda since the First Empire. Mv game, I’d thought at the time. But now, I wonder…
Maybe it was Kuru Qan’s. And, somehow, it still plays out. I did not warn him of that imminent danger, did I? Before his last breath rattled, he would have comprehended that… amission.
Has this damned mortal cursed me? Me, a god!
Such a curse should be vulnerable. Not even Kuru Qan was capable of fashioning something that could not be dis-mantled by the Errant. He need only understand its structure, all that pinned it in place, the hidden spikes guiding these tiles.
What comes? The empire is reborn, reinvigorated, revealing the veracity of the ancient prophecy. All is as I foresaw.
His study of the blurred pavestones below the walkway 1 became a glare. He hissed in frustration, and watched his 1 breath plume away in the chill.
An unknown transformation, in which I see naught but the ice of my own exasperation. Thus, I see, but am blind, blind to it all.
The cold, too, was a new phenomenon. The heat of 1 power had bled away from this place. Nothing was as it should be.
Perhaps, at some point, he would have to admit defeat. And then I will have to pay a visit to a little, crabby old man. Working as a servant to a worthless fool. Humble, I will come in search of answers. I let Tehol live, didn’t I? That must count for something.
Mael, I know you interfered last time. With unconscionable disregard for the rules. IsAy rules. But 1 have forgiven you, and that, too, must count for something.
Humility tasted even worse than fear. He was not yet ready for that.
He would take command of the Cedance. But to usurp the pattern, he would first have to find its maker. Kuru Qan? He was unconvinced.
There are disturbances in the pantheons, new and old. Chaos, the stink of violence. Yes, this is a god’s meddling. Perhaps Mael himself is to blame-no, it feels wrong. More likely, he knows nothing, remains blissfully ignorant. Will it serve me to make him aware that something is awry?
An empire reborn. True, the Tiste Edur had their secrets, or at least they believed such truths were well hidden. They were not. An alien god had usurped them, and had made of a young Edur warrior an avatar, a champion, suitably flawed in grisly homage to the god’s own pathetic dysfunctions. Power from pain, glory from degradation, themes in apposition-an empire reborn offered the promise of vigour, of expansion and longevity, none of which was, he had to admit, truly assured. And such are promises.
The god shivered suddenly in the bitter cold air of this vast, subterranean chamber. Shivered, on this walkway above a swirling unknown.
The pattern was taking shape.
And when it did, it would be too late.
‘It’s too late.’
‘But there must be something we can do.’
‘I’m afraid not. It’s dying, Master, and unless we take advantage of its demise right now, someone else will.’
The capabara fish had used its tentacles to crawl up the canal wall, pulling itself over the edge onto the walkway, where it flattened out, strangely spreadeagled, to lie, mouth gaping, gills gasping, watching the morning get cloudy as it expired. The beast was as long as a man is tall, as fat as a mutton merchant from the Inner Isles, and, to Tehol’s astonishment, even uglier. ‘Yet my heart breaks.’
Bugg scratched his mostly hairless pate, then sighed. ‘It’s the unusually cold water,’ he said. ‘These like their mud warm.’
‘Cold water? Can’t you do something about that?’
‘Bugg’s Hydrogation.’
‘You’re branching out?’
‘No, I was just trying on the title.’
‘How do you hydrogate?’
‘1 have no idea. Well, I have, but it’s not quite a legitimate craft.’
‘Meaning it belongs in the realm of the gods.’
‘Mostly. Although,’ he said, brightening, ‘with the recent spate of flooding, and given my past experience in engineering dry foundations, I begin to see some possibilities-.’
‘Can you soak investors?’
Bugg grimaced. ‘Always seeing the destructive side, aren’t you, Master?’
‘It’s my opportunistic nature. Most people,’ he added, ‘would view that as a virtue. Now, are you truly telling me you can’t save this poor fish?’
