‘Alas, I fear the Tiste Edur won’t be any better. Coin is the poison, after all, and it infects indiscriminately.’
‘As I suspected,’ Tehol mused, ‘clearly, now is not the time to destroy the economy.’
‘Either way, you’re right, master.’
‘Of course I am. Furthermore, it seems incumbent that, for the moment at least, we should do nothing. About anything. The Rat Catchers’ Guild has done a fine job thus far; we need make no adjustments there. I know the details of who owes what from the Tolls Repository and Shand has acted with impressive facility on that information. We know the dire state of the royal treasury. You have been paid for your work on the Eternal Domicile, haven’t you?’
‘Just yesterday, master.’
‘Excellent. Well, that was exhausting. I think I’ll go back to bed.’
‘Good idea, master.’
‘After all, this rooftop is probably the safest place in Letheras now.’
‘Indeed. Best stay here.’
‘And you, Bugg?’
‘I thought I’d take a walk.’
‘More rumours to track down?’
‘Something like that, master.’
‘Be careful, Bugg, they’re press-ganging recruits with some ferocity.’
‘I was wondering about that, master. No-one’s paid you a visit?’
‘Why, they have. But our silent bodyguard sent them away.’
‘He said something?’
‘No, it was just a look, I think. They scurried.’
‘Impressive. As for me, master, I have ways of making myself unpalatable, even for desperate recruiters.’
‘You have always been unpalatable, it’s true,’ Tehol noted as he gingerly lowered himself onto his bed. ‘Even the fleas avoid you. Just one more of those eternal mysteries, Bugg, that so endears you to me. Or is it endears me to you?’
‘The former, I think, master.’
‘Oh, no. You don’t like me. I discover this after all this time?’
‘I was only commenting on your usage of the appropriate phrase in the context of your statement and the sentiment you presumably wished to express. Of course I like you, master. How could I not?’
‘You have a point there, Bugg. Anyway, I’m going to sleep now, so if you don’t want me for anything else…’
‘Right, master. I’ll see you later, then.’
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,
‘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
