At the moment, however, those passages were chest-deep in muddy water, through which rats moved with no particular purpose barring that of, possibly, pleasure. Brys Beddict stood on a landing three steps from the silt- laden flood and watched the up-thrust heads swimming back and forth in the gloom. Beside him stood a palace engineer covered in drying mud.
‘The pumps are next to useless,’ the man was saying. ‘We went with big hoses, we went with small ones, made no difference. Once the pull got strong enough in went a rat, or ten, plugging things up. Besides, the seep’s as steady as ever. Though the Plumbs still swear we’re above the table here.’
‘I’m sure the Ceda will consent to attaching a mage to your crew.’
‘I’d appreciate it, Finadd. All we need is to hold the flow back for a time, so’s we can bucket the water out and the catchers can go down and collect the rats. We lost Ormly last night, the palace’s best catcher. Likely drowned – the fool couldn’t swim. If the Errant’s looking away, we might be spared finding much more than bones. Rats know when it’s a catcher they’ve found, you know.’
‘These tunnels are essential to maintaining the security of the king-’
‘Well, ain’t nobody likely to try using them if they’re flooded-’
‘Not as a means of ingress for assassins,’ Brys cut in. ‘They are to permit the swift passage of guards to any area above that is breached.’
‘Yes, yes. I was only making a joke, Finadd. Of course, you could choose fast swimmers among your guards… all right, never mind. Get us a mage to sniff round and tell us what’s going on and then to stop the water coming in and we’ll take care of the rest.’
‘Presumably,’ Brys said, ‘this is not indicative of subsidence-’
‘Like the other wings? No, nothing’s slumped – we’d be able to tell. Anyway, there’s rumours that those ones are going to get a fresh look at. A new construction company has been working down there, nearby. Some fool bought up the surrounding land. There’s whispers they’ve figured out how to shore up buildings.’
‘Really? I’ve heard nothing about it.’
‘The guilds aren’t happy about it, that’s for sure, since these upstarts are hiring the Unwelcomes – those malcontents who made the List. Paying ’em less than the usual rate, though, which is the only thing going for them, I suppose. The guilds can’t close them down so long as they do that.’ The engineer shrugged, began prying pieces of hardened clay from his forearms, wincing at the pulled hairs. ‘Of course, if the royal architects decide that Bugg’s shoring works, then that company’s roll is going sky-high.’
Brys slowly turned from his study of the rats and eyed the engineer. ‘Bugg?’
‘Damn, I need a bath. Look at my nails. Yeah, Bugg’s Construction. There must be a Bugg, then, right? Else why name it Bugg’s Construction?’
A shout from a crewman down on the lowest step, then a scream. Wild scrambling up to the landing, where the worker spun round and pointed.
A mass of rats, almost as wide as the passageway itself, had edged into view. Moving like a raft, it crept into the pool of lantern light towards the stairs. In its centre – the revelation eliciting yet another scream from the worker and a curse from the engineer – floated a human head. Yellow-tinted silver hair, a pallid, deeply lined face with a forehead high and broad above staring, narrow-set eyes.
Other rats raced away as the raft slipped to nudge against the lowest step.
The worker gasped, ‘Errant take us, it’s Ormly!’
The eyes flickered, then the head was rising, lifting the nearest rats in the raft with it, humped over shoulders, streaming glimmering water. ‘Who in the Hold else would it be?’ the apparition snapped, pausing to hawk up a mouthful of phlegm and spitting it into the swirling water. ‘Like my trophies?’ he asked, raising his arms beneath the vast cape of rats. ‘Strings and tails. Damned heavy when wet, though.’
‘We thought you were dead,’ the engineer muttered, in a tone suggesting that he would rather it were true.
‘You
‘Finadd Brys Beddict.’ The King’s Champion introduced himself. ‘That is an impressive collection of trophies you’ve amassed there, Catcher.’
The man’s eyes brightened. ‘Isn’t it just! Better when it’s floating, though. Right now, damned heavy. Damned heavy.’
‘Best climb out from under it,’ Brys suggested. ‘Engineer Grum, I think a fine meal, plenty of wine and a night off is due Ormly the Catcher.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I will speak with the Ceda regarding your request.’
‘Thanks.’
Brys left them on the landing. It seemed increasingly unlikely that the Eternal Domicile would be ready for the birth of the Eighth Age.
Among the populace, there seemed to be less than faint enthusiasm for the coming celebration. The histories might well recount prophecies about the glorious empire destined to rise once more in less than a year from now, but in truth, there was little in this particular time that supported the notion of a renaissance, neither economically nor militarily. If anything, there was a slight uneasiness, centred on the impending treaty gathering with the tribes of the Tiste Edur. Risk and opportunity; the two were synonymous for the Letherii. Even so, war was never pleasant, although thus far always satisfactory in its conclusion. Thus risk led to opportunity, with few thoughts spared for the defeated.
Granted, the Edur tribes were now united. At the same time, other such alliances had formed in opposition to Letherii ambitions in the past, and not one had proved immune to divisive strategies. Gold bought betrayal again and again. Alliances crumbled and the enemy collapsed. What likelihood that it would be any different this time round?
Brys wondered at the implicit complacency of his own people. He was not, he was certain, misreading public sentiment. Nerves were on edge, but only slightly. Markets remained strong. And the day-in, day-out mindless yearnings of a people for whom possession was everything continued unabated.
Within the palace, however, emotions were more fraught. The Ceda’s divinations promised a fundamental alteration awaiting Lether. Kuru Qan spoke, in a meandering, bemused way, of some sort of Ascension. A transformation…
Brys emerged from the Second Wing and made his way down towards Narrow Canal. It was late morning, almost noon. Earlier that day, he had exercised and sparred with the other off-duty palace guards in the compound backing the barracks, then had breakfasted at a courtyard restaurant alongside Quillas Canal, thankful for this brief time of solitude, although his separation from the palace – permitted only because the king was visiting the chambers of the First Concubine and would not emerge until mid-afternoon – was an invisible tether that gradually tightened, until he felt compelled to resume his duties by visiting the Eternal Domicile and checking on progress there. And then back to the old palace.
To find it, upon passing through the main gate and striding into the Grand Hall, in an uproar.
Heart thudding hard in his chest, Brys approached the nearest guard. ‘Corporal, what has happened?’
The soldier saluted. ‘Not sure, Finadd. News from Trate, I gather. The Edur have slaughtered some Letherii sailors. With foulest sorcery.’
‘The king?’
‘Has called a council in two bells’ time.’
‘Thank you, Corporal.’
Brys continued on into the palace.
He made his way into the inner chambers. Among the retainers and messengers rushing along the central corridor he saw Chancellor Triban Gnol standing with a handful of followers, a certain animation to his whispered conversation. The man’s dark eyes flicked to Brys as the Champion strode past, but his lips did not cease moving.
