Midnight tides

plaque. Yellowed at the edges, latticed with cracks, the illustration reduced to a series of stylized scratches that Brys none the less recognized. ‘The tile of the Errant. What of it, Moroch?’

The soldier rose to his feet. He’d lost weight, Brys noted, and seemed to have aged ten years since joining the treaty delegation. ‘He’s been here. All along. The bastard’s been right under our noses, Brys Beddict.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The Errant. The First Consort. Turudal Brizad.’

‘That is… ridiculous.’

‘I have a somewhat harsher word for it, Brys.’ The Champion glanced away from the man standing before him. ‘How did you come to this extraordinary conclusion, Moroch?’

‘There have been Turudal Brizads every generation – oh, different names, but it’s him. Scenes on tapestries, paintings. Walk the royal collection, Brys – everything’s out in the hallway, about to be moved. It was right there, for anyone to see, should they find reason to look.’

‘And what reason did you have, Moroch?’ A grimace. ‘He asked me to do something for him.’ Brys grunted. ‘He’s a god.’ Supposedly. ‘Why should he need your help?’

‘Because he says you will be too busy.’

Brys thought back to his last conversation with Turudal Brizad… the end of my objectivity. Something like that, as the man was walking away. ‘I admit to some… scepticism, Moroch Nevath.’

‘Set it aside for the moment, Brys. I am here to ask your advice. Assume the worst.’

‘A god asks for your help? I suppose one must consider possible motivations, and the consequences of accepting or rejecting the request.’

‘Yes.’

‘Will doing as he asks be to the benefit of Lether?’

‘He says it will.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘In the city, somewhere. He was watching the last of the refugees allowed in this morning, on the wall, or so one of my guards reported.’

‘Then, I would think, Moroth, that you must do as he asks.’

‘Over the duty of protecting the king?’

‘I imagine the god assumes that task will be mine.’

‘We are almost equal, you and I, Brys.’

‘I know.’

‘You may believe that you are the better between us. I believe otherwise.’

‘The decision was not ours to make, Moroch.’ Moroch studied him for a half-dozen heartbeats, then said, ‘I thank you for the advice, Finadd.’

‘I hesitate to say it, Moroch Nevath, but the Errant be with you.’

‘Not funny,’ the swordsman muttered as he strode away.

Brys made his way into the dome complex. He came to the main corridor, halting to study the layout once more. The walls had been scrubbed, the dust on the floor mopped away. Guards and functionaries were moving about, readying for the investiture. Many glances were cast in the direction of the figure sleeping halfway down the corridor, curled up on the centre tile.

Sighing, Brys approached Kuru Qan. ‘Ceda.’

The old man made a sound, then turned over so that his back was to Brys.

‘Wake up, Ceda. Please.’

Head lifting, Kuru Qan groped for the twin lenses lying on the floor nearby, drew them to his face. ‘Who calls?’

‘It is Brys Beddict.’

‘Ah, Finadd.’ Kuru Qan twisted round and peered up. ‘You look well.’

You do not. ‘Ceda, the investiture is about to begin. Unless you would have King Ezgara Diskanar step around you during his solemn march, you will have to move.’

‘No!’ The old man spread himself out on the flagstone. ‘I must not! This is mine. My place.’

‘You insist that he step to one side on his approach? Ceda, you risk the king’s anger-’

‘Relevant? Not in the least.’ His fingers scrabbled on the stone. ‘This is mine. Warn him, Finadd. Warn the king.’

‘About what?’

‘I will not be moved. Any who would try will be blasted into ashes. Ashes, Brys Beddict.’

Brys glanced around. A small crowd had gathered to listen to the exchange. The Finadd scowled. ‘Be on your way, all of you.’ People scrambled.

Temporarily alone once more, Brys crouched down before the Ceda. ‘You had paints and brushes with you last time. What happened to them?’

‘Paints and brushes?’ The eyes blinked behind the lenses. ‘Gone. Gone away. The king wants you now, Finadd. He is ready to begin the procession. Nifadas is coming – he will complain, but no matter. It will be a small audience, won’t it. Relevant? Oh yes. Best the king ignore me – explain that to him, Brys.’

The Finadd straightened. ‘I shall, Ceda.’

‘Excellent. Now, be on your way.’

‘This doesn’t smell right.’

Trull looked over at the KenrylPah demon that had spoken. It was taller than the Tiste Edur on their horses. A face of sharper features than those on Lilac, black as chiselled basalt, the upper and lower canines protruding and glinting silver. A fur-lined collar, a vest of bronze scales, salt-rimed and dark with patination. A heavy leather belt on which was slung a huge scabbarded tulwar. Leather leggings, grey and supple. The other demon, standing at its side, differed only in the choice of weapons, a massive matlock gripped in two gauntleted hands.

This second KenrylPah bared its teeth. ‘Making me hungry.’

‘Split bones,’ the other said. ‘Marrow.’

The stench the two were referring to was that of rotting corpses. They had reached the edge of the clearing, beyond which was the palisade wall of the town of Brous. In the field were barrows, and one long excavated trench. There was no-one in sight.

‘Brothers,’ the emperor said, ‘dismount and ready your weapons.’

Trull swung down from his horse. He turned. ‘K’risnan, can you sense anything?’

The young Arapay warlock’s face was sickly. He nodded. ‘In the town, I think. It knows we’re here.’

Rhulad closed both hands on the grip of his sword and raised it to centre guard position. ‘Udinaas, remain with the horses. Fear, on my left. Trull, my right. K’risnan, stay behind us five paces. Demons, out to either side.’

‘Can’t we eat first?’

‘Or pee? I need to pee.’

‘You should have thought of that before we left,’ the first demon said.

‘And you should have eaten. We’ve plenty of spare horses, you know.’

The emperor hissed. ‘Silence, both of you. We’ve had to listen to you the entire journey. No more, lest I decide to kill you first.’

‘That wouldn’t be wise,’ the second KenrylPah said. ‘I smell more than meat, I smell the one thing still alive in there, and it isn’t pleasant.’

‘I taste it,’ the first demon said. ‘And it makes me want to retch.’

‘You should have thought of retching before we left,’ the second one said.

‘I think of retching every time I look at you.’

‘Enough!’

‘I apologize for my brother,’ the first demon said.

‘And I for mine,’ the second one added.

Strange tyrants. Trull unslung his spear and strode to Rhulad’s side.

They made their way across the clearing. Reaching the pit, they saw the first of the bodies. Broken and tossed at the base of the deep, ragged excavation, like an open mass burial. Workers and soldiers. Flesh dark and