Midnight Tides by Steven Erikson
‘That’s the consensus,’ Gerun said. ‘Every call’s on Flailing, Floundering and Vanishing. No strokes, no Risings.’
‘And your call?’
‘Seventy to one.’
Brys frowned. Odds like that meant but one thing. ‘You believe he’ll make it!’
Heads turned at his exclamation, the buzz around them grew louder.
Gerun leaned on the railing, drawing a long breath through his teeth, making that now infamous whistling sound. ‘Most half-blood Tarthenal get the worst traits,’ he muttered in a low voice, then grinned. ‘But not Ublala Pung.’
A roar from the crowds lining the walkway and tiers, and from the opposite side. The guards were leading the criminal down the launch. Ublala walked hunched over, straining with the weight of the sack. At the water’s edge he pushed the guards away and turned.
Pulling down his loincloth. And urinating in an arcing stream.
Somewhere, a woman screamed.
‘They’ll collect that body,’ one merchant said, awed, ‘down at the Eddies. I’ve heard there’re surgeons who can—’
‘And wouldn’t you pay a peak for that, Inchers!’ his companion cut in.
‘I’m not lacking, Hulbat – watch yourself! I was just saying—’
‘And ten thousand women are dreaming!’
A sudden hush, as Ublala Pung turned to face the canal.
Then strode forward. Hips. Chest. Shoulders.
A moment later his head disappeared beneath the thick, foul water.
Not a flounder, not a flail. Those who had bet on Vanishing crowed. Crowds pulled apart, figures closing on bookmakers.
‘Brys Beddict, what’s the distance across?’
‘A hundred paces.’
‘Aye.’
They remained leaning on the railing. After a moment, Brys shot the Finadd a quizzical look. Gerun nodded towards the launch below. ‘Look at the line, lad.’
There was some commotion around the retrieval line, and Brys saw – at about the same time as, by the rising voices, did others – that the rope was still playing out. ‘He’s walking the bottom!’
Brys found he could not pull his eyes from that uncoiling rope. A dozen heartbeats. Two dozen. A half-hundred. And still that rope snaked its way into the water.
The cries and shouts had risen to deafening pitch. Pigeons burst into the air from nearby rooftops, scattering in panic. Bettors were fighting with bookmakers for payment tiles. Someone fell from the Third Tier and, haplessly, missed the canal by a scant two paces. He struck flagstones and did not move, a circle of witnesses closing round his body.
‘That’s it,’ Gerun Eberict sighed.
A figure was emerging on the far-side launch. Streaming mud.
‘Four lungs, lad.’
Eight hundred docks. At seventy to one. ‘You’re a rich man who’s just got richer, Finadd.’
‘And Ublala Pung’s a free one. Hey, I saw your brother earlier. Tehol. Other side of the canal. He was wearing a skirt.’
****
‘Don’t stand so close – no, closer, so you can hear me, Shand, but not too close. Not like we know each other.’
‘You’ve lost your mind,’ she replied.
‘Maybe. Anyway, see that man?’
‘Who?’
‘That criminal, of course. The half-blood who tore apart Urum’s – the extortionist deserved it by the way—’
‘Tarthenal have four lungs.’
‘And so does he. I take it you didn’t wager?’
‘I despise gambling.’
‘Very droll, lass.’
‘What about him?’
‘Hire him.’
‘With pleasure.’
‘Then buy him some clothes.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘He’s not being employed because of his physical attributes – well, not those ones, anyway. You three need a bodyguard.’
‘He can guard my body any time.’
‘That’s it, Shand. I’m done talking with you today.’
‘No you’re not, Tehol. Tonight. The workshop. And bring Bugg.’
‘Everything is going as planned. There’s no need—’
‘Be there.’
****
Four years ago, Finadd Gerun Eberict single-handedly foiled an assassination attempt on King Diskanar. Returning to the palace late one night, he came upon the bodies of two guards outside the door to the king’s private chambers. A sorcerous attack had filled their lungs with sand, resulting in asphyxiation. Their flesh was still warm. The door was ajar.
The palace Finadd had drawn his sword. He burst into the king’s bedchamber to find three figures leaning over Ezgara Diskanar’s sleeping form. A mage and two assassins. Gerun killed the sorceror first, with a chop to the back of the man’s neck, severing his spinal cord. He had then stop-thrust the nearest assassin’s attack, the point of his sword burying itself in the man’s chest, just beneath the left collarbone. It would prove to be a mortal wound. The second assassin thrust his dagger at the Finadd’s face. Probably he had been aiming for one of Gerun’s eyes, but the Finadd threw his head back and the point entered his mouth, slicing through both lips, then driving hard between his front teeth. Pushing them apart, upon which the blade jammed.
The sword in Gerun’s hand chopped down, shattering the outstretched arm. Three more wild hacks killed the assassin.
This last engagement was witnessed by a wide-eyed king.
Two weeks later, Finadd Gerun Eberict, his breath whistling through the new gap in his front teeth, knelt before Ezgara Diskanar in the throne room, and before the assembled masses was granted the King’s Leave. For the remainder of the soldier’s life, he was immune to criminal conviction. He was, in short, free to do as he pleased, to whomever he pleased, barring the king’s own line.
The identity of the person behind the assassination attempt was never discovered.
Since then, Gerun Eberict had been on a private crusade. A lone, implacable vigilante. He was known to have personally murdered thirty-one citizens, including two wealthy, highly respected and politically powerful merchants, and at least a dozen other mysterious deaths were commonly attributed to him. He had, in short, become the most feared man in Letheras.
He had also, in that time, made himself rich.
Yet, for all that, he remained a Finadd in the King’s Guard, and so was bound to the usual responsibilities. Brys Beddict suspected the decision to send Gerun Eberict with the delegation was as much to relieve the city of the pressure of his presence as it was a statement to the queen and the prince. And Brys wondered if the king had come to regret his sanction.
The two palace guards walked side by side across Soulan Bridge and into the Pursers’ District. The day was hot, the sky white with thin, high clouds. They entered Rild’s, an establishment known for its fish cuisine, as well as an alcoholic drink made from orange rinds, honey and Tusked Seal sperm. They sat in the inner courtyard, at Gerun’s private table.
As soon as drinks and lunch were ordered, Gerun Eberict leaned back in his chair and regarded Brys with curiosity. ‘Is my guest this day the King’s Champion?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Brys admitted. ‘My brother, Hull, is accompanying Buruk the Pale. It is believed that Buruk will remain with the Edur until the Great Meeting. There is concern about Hull.’
‘What kind of concern?’
‘Well, you knew him years ago.’
‘I did. Rather well, in fact. He was my Finadd back then. And upon my promotion, he and I got roaring drunk at Porul’s and likely sired a dozen bastards each with a visiting troupe of flower dancers from Trate. In any case, the company folded about ten months later, or so we heard.’
‘Yes, well. He’s not the same man, you know.’
‘Isn’t he?’
The drinks arrived, an amber wine for Brys, the Tusked Milk for Gerun.
‘No,’ Brys said in answer to the Finadd’s question, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘And what if,’ Brys said quietly, ‘the king’s name is on Hull’s list?’ Gerun’s eyes went flat. ‘As I said, I’m the only one crossing off names.’
‘Then why is Hull with Buruk the Pale?’
‘Buruk is not the king’s man, Brys. The very opposite, in fact. I look forward to finally meeting him.’
A cold chill ran through Brys.
‘In any case,’ Gerun went on, ‘it’s your other brother who interests me.’
‘Tehol? Don’t tell me he’s on your list.’
Gerun smiled, revealing the sideways tilt of his upper and lower teeth. ‘And I’d tell you if he was? Relax, he isn’t. Not yet, in any case. But he’s up to something.’
‘I find that hard to believe. Tehol stopped being up to anything a long time ago.’
‘That’s what you think.’
‘I know nothing to suggest otherwise, but it seems that you do.’
Gerun’s second drink arrived. ‘Were you aware,’ the Finadd said, dipping a finger into the thick, viscid liquid, ‘that Tehol still possesses myriad interests, in property, licences, mercantile investments and transportation? He’s raised pretty solid fronts, enough to be fairly sure that no-one else knows that he’s remained active.’
‘Not solid enough, it seems.’
Gerun shrugged. ‘In many ways, Tehol walked the path of the King’s Leave long before me, and without the actual sanction.’
‘Tehol’s never killed anyone—’
Gerun’s smile grew feral. ‘The day the Tolls collapsed, Brys, an even dozen financiers committed suicide. And that collapse was solely and exclusively by Tehol’s hand. Perfectly, indeed brilliantly timed. He had his own list, only he didn’t stick a knife in their throats; instead, he made them all his business partners. And took every one of them down—’
‘But he went down, too.’
‘He didn’t kill himself over it, though, did he? Didn’t that tell you something? It should have.’
‘Only that he didn’t care.’
‘Precisely. Brys, tell me, who is Tehol’s greatest admirer?’
‘You?’
‘No. Oh, I’m suitably impressed. Enough to be suspicious as the Errant’s Pit now that he’s stirring the pot once more. No. Someone else.’
Brys looked away. Trying to decide if he liked this man sitting opposite him. Liked him enough for this conversation. He knew he hated the subject matter.
Their lunches arrived.
Gerun Eberict focused his attention on the grilled fillet on the silver plate in front of him, after ordering a third Tusked Milk.
It occurred to Brys that he had never seen a woman drink that Particular concoction.
‘I don’t speak to Tehol,’ he said after a time, his gaze on his own serving as he slowly picked the white flesh apart, revealing the row of vertebrae and the dorsal spines.
‘You despise what he did?’
Brys frowned, then shook his head. ‘No. What he did after.’
‘Which was?’
‘Nothing.’
‘The water had to clear, lad. So he could look around once more and see what remained.’
‘You’re suggesting diabolical genius, Gerun.’
‘I am. Tehol possesses what Hull does not. Knowledge is not enough. It never is. It’s the capacity to do something with that knowledge. To do it perfectly. Absolute timing. With devastating consequences. That’s what Tehol has. Hull, Errant protect him, does not.’
Brys looked up and met the Finadd’s pale eyes. ‘Are you suggesting that Hull is Tehol’s greatest admirer?’
‘Hull’s very own inspiration. And that is why he is with Buruk the Pale.’
‘Do you intend to stand in his way at the Great Meeting?’
‘It might well be too late by that time, Brys. Assuming that is my intention.’
‘It isn’t?’
‘I haven’t decided.’
‘You want war?’
Gerun’s gaze remained level. ‘That particular tide stirs the deepest silts. Blinding everyone. A man with a goal can get a lot done in that cloud. And, eventually, it settles.’
‘And lo,’ Brys said, unable to hide his bitterness, ‘the world has changed.’
‘Possibly.’
‘War as the means—’
‘To a peaceful end—’
‘That you will find pleasing to your eye.’
Gerun pushed his plate away and sat back once more. ‘What is life without ambition, Brys?’
Brys rose, his meal pried apart into a chaotic mass on the plate before him. ‘Tehol would be better at answering that than am I, Finadd.’
Gerun smiled up at him. ‘Inform Nifadas and Kuru Qan that I am not unaware of the complexities wrought through the impending Great Meeting. Nor am I blind to the need to usher me out of the city for a time. I have, of course, compensated for my own absence, in anticipation of my triumphant return.’
‘I will convey your words, Finadd.’
‘I regret your loss of appetite, Brys. The fish was excellent. Next time, we will speak of inconsequential things. I both respect and admire you, Champion.’
‘Ah, so I am not on your list.’
‘Not yet. A joke, Brys,’ he added upon seeing the Champion’s expression. ‘Besides, you’d cut me to pieces. How can I not admire that? I see it this way – the history of this decade, for our dear Letheras, can be most succinctly understood by a faithful recounting of the three Beddict brothers. And, as is clear, the tale’s not yet done.’
So it would seem. ‘I thank you, Finadd, for the company and the invitation.’
Gerun leaned forward and picked up the Champion’s plate. ‘Take the back exit, if you please,’ he said, offering Brys the plate. ‘There’s a starveling lad living in the alley. Mind, he’s to return the silver – make sure he understands that. Tell him you were my guest.’
‘Very well, Finadd.’
****
‘Try these on.’
Tehol stared at the woollen trousers, then reached for them. ‘Tell me, Bugg, is there any point in you continuing?’
‘Do you mean these leggings, or with my sorry existence?’
‘Have you hired your crew?’ He stripped off his skirt and began donning the trousers.
‘Twenty of the most miserable malcontents I could find.’
‘Grievances?’
‘Every one of them, and I’m pretty certain they are all legitimate. Granted, a few probably deserved their banishment from the trade.’
‘Most de-certifications are political, Bugg. Just be sure none of them are incompetent. All we need is for them to keep a secret, and for that, spite against the guilds is the best motivation.’
‘I’m not entirely convinced. Besides, we’ve had some warnings from the guilds.’
‘In person?’
‘Delivered missives. So far. Your left knee will stay warm.’
‘Warm? It’s hot out there, Bugg, despite what your old rheumy bones tell you.’
‘Well, they’re trousers for every season.’
‘Really? Assure the guilds we’re not out to underbid. In fact, the very opposite. Nor do we pay our crew higher rates. No benefits, either—’
‘Barring a stake in the enterprise.’
‘Say nothing of that, Bugg. Look at the hairs on my right thigh. They’re standing on end.’
‘It’s the contrast they don’t like.’
‘The guilds?’
‘No, your hairs. The guilds just want to know where by the Errant I came from. And how dare I register a company.’
‘Don’t worry about that, Bugg. Once they find out wha
‘I’m having second thoughts.’
‘About what?’
‘Put the skirt back on.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with you. Find some more wool. Preferably the same colour, although that is not essential, I suppose. In any case, we have a meeting with the three darlings this evening.’
‘Risky.’
‘We must be circumspect.’
‘That goes both ways. I stole that wool.’
Tehol wrapped the sheet once more about his waist. ‘I’ll be back down later to collect you. Clean up around here, will you?’
‘If I’ve the time.’
Tehol climbed the ladder to the roof.
The sun’s light was deepening, as it edged towards the horizon, bathing the surrounding buildings in a warm glow. Two artists had set up easels on the Third Tier, competing to immortalize Tehol and his bed. He gave them a wave that seemed to trigger a loud argument, then settled down on the sun-warmed mattress. Stared up at the darkening sky.
He had seen his brother Brys at the Drownings. On the other side of the canal, in conversation with Gerun Eberict. Rumour had it that Gerun was accompanying the delegation to the Tiste Edur. Hardly surprising. The King needed that wild man out of the city.
The problem with gold was the way it crawled. Where nothing else could. It seeped out from secrets, flowered in what should have been lifeless cracks. It strutted when it should have remained hidden, beneath notice. Brazen as any weed between the cobbles, and, if one was so inclined, one could track those roots all the way down. Sudden spending, from kin of dead hirelings, followed quickly – but not quickly enough – by sudden, inexplicable demises. A strange severing that left the king’s inquisitors with no-one to question, no-one to torture to find the source of the conspiracy. Assassination attempts were no small thing, after all, especially when the king himself was the target. Extraordinary, almost unbelievable success – to have reached Diskanar’s own bedchamber, to stand poised above the man, mere heartbeats from delivering death. That particular sorceror had never before shown such skill in the relevant arts. To conjure sand to fill the chests of two men was highest sorcery.
Natural curiosity and possible advantage, these had been Tehol’s motives, and he’d been much quicker than the royal inquisitors. A fortune, he had discovered, had been spent on the conspiracy, a life’s savings.