The Chancellor, Triban Gnol, had been present earlier but had left with the last change of guards. Ghost-like since the loss of the queen and the prince, and Turudal Brizad, he had grown suddenly ancient and withered, drifting down corridors speaking to no-one.
Finadd Moroch Nevath had disappeared, although Brys trusted that the swordsman would arrive when the time came. For all that he had suffered, he was a brave man and none of the rumours concerning his conduct at High Fort were, to Brys’s mind, worth the spit needed to utter them.
First Eunuch Nifadas, along with Brys Beddict, had assumed the responsibility for what remained of the soldiers in the palace. Each wing entranceway was now barricaded by at least thirty guards, with the exception of the King’s Path, where the Ceda in his madness had forbidden anyone to remain, barring himself. In the city beyond, Finadd Gerun Eberict and the city garrison were positioned throughout Letheras, their numbers insufficient to hold the gates or walls yet prepared to fight none the less – at least, Brys assumed that was the case, since he had not left the throne room in some time, and Gerun had not reappeared since the man assumed command of the garrison.
Spelled by Nifadas, the King’s Champion had rested on a bench near the throne room’s grand entrance, managing a half-dozen bells of surprisingly sound sleep. Servants had awakened him with breakfast, beginning the day to come with surreal normality. Chilled in sweat-damp clothes beneath his armour, Brys quickly ate, then rose and walked to where Nifadas sat at the bench opposite.
‘First Eunuch, it is time for you to rest.’
‘Champion, there is no need for that. I have done very little and am not in the least fatigued.’
Brys studied the man’s eyes. They were sharp and alert, quite unlike the usual sleepy regard with which Nifadas commonly presented. ‘Very well,’ he said.
The First Eunuch smiled up at him. ‘Our last day, Finadd.’
Brys frowned. ‘There is no reason to assume, Nifadas, that the Edur will see cause to take your life. As with the Chancellor, your knowledge will be needed.’
‘Knowledge, yes. A worthy assumption, Finadd.’
The First Eunuch added nothing more.
Brys glanced back at the throne, then strode towards it. He came close to Nisall. ‘First Concubine, he will sleep a while yet.’ He took her arm. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said as she began to resist, ‘just to that bench over there. No further.’
‘How, Brys? How could it all collapse? So fast? I don’t understand.’
He remembered back to the secret meetings, where Nisall and Unnutal Hebaz and Nifadas and the king planned their moves and countermoves in the all-devouring games of intrigue within the Royal Household. Her confidence then had seemed unassailable the cleverness bright in her eyes. He remembered how the Letherii saw the Tiste Edur and their lands, a pearl ripe for the plucking. ‘I don’t know, Nisall.’
She let him guide her down from the dais. ‘It seems so… quiet. Has the day begun?’
‘The sun has risen, yes.’
‘He won’t leave the throne.’
‘I know.’
‘He is… frightened.’
‘Here, Nisall, lie down here. Use these cushions. Not ideal, I know-’
‘No, it’s fine. Thank you.’
Her eyes closed as soon as she settled. Brys stared down at her for a moment. She was already sleeping.
He swung round and walked down to the grand entrance, strode into the low-ceilinged corridor where he intended to make his stand. Just beyond, the Ceda was lying, curled up in sleep, on the centre tile.
And standing near Kuru Qan was Gerun Eberict. With sword in hand. Staring down at the Ceda.
Brys edged closer. ‘Finadd.’
Gerun looked up, expressionless.
‘The King’s Leave does not absolve you from all things, Gerun Eberict.’
The man bared his teeth. ‘He has lost his mind, Brys. It would be a mercy.’
‘Not for you to judge.’
Gerun cocked his head. ‘You would oppose me in this?’
‘Yes.’
After a moment, the Finadd stepped back, sliding his sword back into the scabbard at his hip. ‘Well timed, then. Ten heartbeats later…’
‘What are you doing here?’ Brys asked.
‘My soldiers are all in position. What else would you have me do?’
‘Command them.’
A whistling snort from him, then, ‘I have other tasks awaiting me this day.’
Brys was silent. Wondering if he should kill the man now.
It seemed Gerun guessed his thoughts, for his scarred sneer broadened. ‘Recall your responsibilities, Brys Beddict.’ He gestured and a dozen of his own estate guards strode into the chamber. ‘You are supposed to die defending the king, after all. In any case,’ he added as he slowly backed away, ‘you have just confirmed my suspicions, and for that I thank you.’
Blood or honour. ‘I know what you believe, Gerun Eberict. And so I warn you now, you will not be permitted the Leave in this.’
‘You speak for the king? Brys Beddict, that is rather presumptuous of you, don’t you think?’
‘The king expects you to command the garrison in defence of the city – not abandon your responsibilities in order to conduct your own crusade.’
‘Defence of the city? Don’t be an idiot, Brys. If the garrison seeks heroic final stands it is welcome to them. I intend to survive this damned conquest. The Tiste Edur do not frighten me in the least.’ He turned about then and, surrounded by his guards, left the chamber.
Blood or honour.
Bugg was not entirely surprised to find himself virtually alone on the wall. His ascent had not been challenged, since it seemed all the garrison guards had withdrawn to various choke-points in the city. Whether those soldiers would rise to stubborn defence remained to be seen, of course. In any case, their presence had kept the streets empty for the most part.
The manservant leaned on a merlon and watched the Edur army approach down the west road. An occasional glance to his left allowed him to monitor the closing of the fleet, and the vast, deadly demon beneath it – a presence spanning the width of the river and stretching back downstream almost half a league. A terrible, brutal creature straining at its sorcerous chains.
The west gate was open and unguarded. The lead elements of the Edur army had closed to within a thousand paces, advancing with caution. Ranging to either side of the column, in the ditches and across the fields, the first of the Soletaken wolves came into view.
Bugg sighed, looked over at the other occupant along the wall. ‘You will have to work fast, I think.’
The artist was a well-known and easily recognized figure in Letheras. A mass of hair that began on his head and swept down to join with the wild beard covering jaw and neck, his nub of a nose and small blue eyes the only visible features on his face. He was short and wiry, and painted with agitated capering – often perched on one leg – smearing paint on surfaces that always seemed too small for the image he was seeking to capture. This failing of perspective had long since been elevated into a technique, then a legitimate style, in so far as artistic styles could be legitimate. At Bugg’s comment he scowled and rose up on one leg, the foot of the other against the knee. ‘The scene, you fool! It is burned into my mind, here behind this eye, the left one. I forget nothing. Every detail. Historians will praise my work this day, you’ll see. Praise!’
‘Are you done, then?’
‘Very nearly, very very nearly, yes, nearly done. Every detail. I have done it again. That’s what they will say. Yes, I have done it again.’
‘May I see?’
Sudden suspicion.
Bugg added, ‘I am something of an historian myself.’
