Midnight Tides by Steven Erikson
‘You thought. You’re always thinking, ain’t ya, Grum? Maybe this, probably that, could be, might be, should be – hah! Think these rats scared me? Think I was just going to drown? Hold’s welcoming pit, I’m a catcher and not any old catcher. They know me, all right. Every rat in this damned city knows Ormly the Catcher! Who’s this?’
‘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… from king to emperor, although how such a progression would manifest itself remained to be seen. The annexation of the Tiste Edur and their rich homelands would indeed initiate a renewed vigour, a frenzy of profit. Victory would carry its own affirmation of the righteousness of Lether and its ways.
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. Behind the Chancellor, Brys saw, was the Queen’s Consort, Turudal Brizad, leaning insouciantly against the wall, his soft, almost feminine features displaying a faint smirk.
Brys had always found the man strangely disturbing, and it had nothing to do with his singular function as consort to Janall. He was a silent presence, often at meetings dealing with the most sensitive issues of state, ever watchful despite his studied indifference. And it was well known that he shared his bed with more than just the queen, although whether Janall herself knew of that was the subject of conjecture in the court. Among his lovers, it was rumoured, was Chancellor Triban Gnol.
An untidy nest, all in all.
The door to the First Eunuch’s office was closed and guarded by two of Nifadas’s own Rulith, eunuch bodyguards, tall men with nothing of the common body-fat one might expect to see. Heavy kohl lined their eyes and red paint broadened their mouths into a perpetual down-turned grimace. Their only weapons were a brace of hooked daggers sheathed under their crossed arms, and if they wore any armour it was well disguised beneath long, crimson silk shirts and tan pantaloons. They were barefoot.
Both nodded and stepped aside to permit Brys to pass.
He tugged the braided tassel and could faintly hear the dull chime sound in the chamber beyond.
The door clicked open.
Nifadas was alone, standing behind his desk, the surface of which was crowded with scrolls and unfurled maps. His back was to the room, and he seemed to be staring at a wall. ‘King’s Champion. I have been expecting you.’
‘This seemed the first in order, First Eunuch.’
‘Just so.’ He was silent for a few heartbeats, then: ‘There are beliefs that constitute the official religion of a nation, but those beliefs and that religion are in truth little more than the thinnest gold hammered on far older bones. No nation is singular, or exclusive – rather, it should not be, for its own good. There is much danger in asserting for oneself a claim to purity, whether of blood or of origin. Few may acknowledge it, but Lether is far richer for its devouring minorities, provided that digestion remains eternally incomplete.
‘Be that as it may, Finadd, I confess to you a certain ignorance. The palace isolates those trapped within it, and its roots nurture poorly. I would know of the people’s private beliefs.’
Brys thought for a moment, then asked, ‘Can you be more specific, First Eunuch?’
Nifadas still did not turn to face him. ‘The seas. The denizens of the deep. Demons and old gods, Brys.’
‘The Tiste Edur call the dark waters the realm of Galain, which is said to belong to kin, for whom Darkness is home. The Tarthenal, I have heard, view the seas as a single beast with countless limbs – including those that reach inland as rivers and streams. The Nerek fear it as their netherworld, a place where drowning is eternal, a fate awaiting betrayers and murderers.’
‘And the Letherii?’
Brys shrugged. ‘Kuru Qan knows more of this than I, First Eunuch. Sailors fear but do not worship. They make sacrifices in the hopes of avoiding notice. On the seas, the arrogant suffer, whilst only the meek survive, although it’s said if abasement is carried too far, the hunger below grows irritated and spiteful. Tides and currents reveal the patterns one must follow, which in part explains the host of superstitions and rituals demanded of those who would travel by sea.’
‘And this… hunger below. It has no place among the Holds?’
‘Not that I know of, First Eunuch.’
Nifadas finally turned, regarded Brys with half-closed eyes. ‘Does that not strike you as odd, Finadd Beddict? Lether was born of colonists who came here from the First Empire. That First Empire was then destroyed, the paradise razed to lifeless desert. Yet it was the First Empire in which the Holds were fir
st discovered. True, the Empty Hold proved a later manifestation, at least in so far as it related to ourselves. Thus, are we to imagine that yet older beliefs survived and were carried to this new land all those millennia ago? Or, conversely, does each land – and its adjoining seas – evoke an indigenous set of beliefs? If that is the case, then the argument supporting the presence of physical, undeniable gods is greatly supported.’
‘But even then,’ Brys said, ‘there is no evidence that such gods are remotely concerned with mortal affairs. I do not think sailors envisage the hunger I spoke of as a god. More as a demon, I think.’
‘To answer the unanswerable, a need from which we all suffer.’ Nifadas sighed. ‘Finadd, the independent seal harvesters were all slain. Three of their ships survived the return journey to Trate, crewed up to the very piers by Edur wraiths, yet carried on seas that were more than seas. A demon, such as the sailors swear upon… yet, it was something far more, or so our Ceda believes. Are you familiar with Faraed beliefs? Theirs is an oral tradition, and if the listing of generations is accurate and not mere poetic pretence, then the tradition is ancient indeed. The Faraed creation myths centre on Elder gods. Each named and aspected, a divisive pantheon of entirely unwholesome personalities. In any case, among them is the Elder Lord of the Seas, the Dweller Below. It is named Mael. Furthermore, the Faraed have singled out Mael in their oldest stories. It once walked this land, Finadd, as a physical manifestation, following the death of an Age.’
‘An Age? What kind of Age?’
‘Of the time before the Faraed, I think. There are… contradictions and obscurities.’
‘Ceda Kuru Qan believes the demon that carried the ships was this Mael?’
‘If it was, then Mael has suffered much degradation. Almost mindless, a turgid maelstrom of untethered emotions. But powerful none the less.’
‘Yet the Tiste Edur have chained it?’
Nifadas’s thin brows rose. ‘Clear a path through a forest and every beast will use it. Is this control? Of a sort, perhaps.’
‘Hannan Mosag sought to make a statement.’
‘Indeed, Finadd, and so he has. Yet is it a true statement or deceptive bravado?’
Brys shook his head. He had no answer to offer.
Nifadas swung away once more. ‘The king has deemed this of sufficient import. The Ceda even now prepares the… means. None the less, you deserve the right to be asked rather than commanded.’
‘What is it I am asked to do, First Eunuch?’
A faint shrug. ‘Awaken an Elder god.’
****
‘There is great flux in the composite. Is this relevant? I think not.’ Ceda Kuru Qan pushed his wire-bound lenses further up the bridge of his nose and peered at Brys. ‘This is a journey of the mind, King’s Champion, yet the risk to you is such that you might as well travel into the netherworld in truth. If your mind is slain, there is no return. Extreme necessity, alas; the king wills that you proceed.’
‘I did not imagine that there would be no danger, Ceda. Tell me will my martial skills be applicable?’
‘Unknown. But you are young, quick-witted and resilient.’ He turned away and scanned the cluttered worktop behind him. ‘Great flux, alas. Leaving but one choice.’ He reached out and picked up a goblet. A pause, a dubious squint at its contents, then he took a cautious sip. ‘Ah! As suspected. The flux in the composite is due entirely to curdled milk Brys Beddict, are you ready?’
The King’s Champion shrugged.
Kuru Qan nodded. ‘I was going to have you drink this.’
‘Curdled milk will not harm me,’ Brys said, taking the goblet from the Ceda. He quickly tossed it down, then set the silver cup on the table. ‘How long?’
‘For what?’
‘Until the potion takes effect.’
‘What potion? Come with me. We shall use the Cedance for this journey.’
Brys followed the old sorceror from the chamber. At the door he cast a glance back at the goblet. The mixture had tasted of citrus and sour goat’s milk; he could already feel it bubbling ominously in his stomach. ‘I must now assume there was no purpose to what I just drank.’
‘A repast. One of my experiments. I was hoping you’d enjoy it, but judging by your pallor it would seem that that was not the case.’
‘I’m afraid you are correct.’
‘Ah well, if it proves inimical you will no doubt bring it back up.’
‘That’s comforting knowledge, Ceda.’
The remainder of the journey to the palace depths was mercifully uneventful. Ceda Kuru Qan led Brys into the vast chamber where waited the tiles of the Holds. ‘We shall employ a tile of the Fulcra in this effort, King’s Champion. Dolmen.’
They walked out across the narrow causeway to the central disc. The massive tiles stretched out on all sides beneath them.
The roiling in Brys’s stomach had subsided somewhat. He waited for the Ceda to speak.
‘Some things are important. Others are not. Yet all would claim a mortal’s attention. It falls to each of us to remain ever mindful, and thus purchase wisdom in the threading of possibilities. It is our common failing, Brys Beddict, that we are guided by our indifference to eventualities. The moment pleases, the future can await consideration.
‘The old histories we brought with us from the First Empire recount similar failings. Rich ports at river mouths that were abandoned after three centuries, due to silting caused by the clearing of forests and poorly conceived irrigation methods. Ports that, were you to visit their ruins now, you would find a league or more inland of the present coast. The land crawls to the sea; it was ever thus. Even so, what we humans do can greatly accelerate the process.
‘Is all that relevant? Only partly, I admit. As I must perforce admit to many things, I admit to that. There are natural progressions that, when unveiled, are profoundly exemplary of the sheer vastness of antiquity. Beyond even the age of the existence of people, this world is very, very old, Brys Beddict.’ Kuru Qan gestured.
Brys looked down to where he had indicated, and saw the tile of the Dolmen. The carved and painted image depicted a single, tilted monolith half-buried in lifeless clay. The sky behind it was colourless and devoid of features.
‘Even seas are born only to one day die,’ Kuru Qan said. ‘Yet the land clings to its memory, and all that it has endured is clawed onto its visage. Conversely, at the very depths of the deepest ocean, you will find the traces of when it stood above the waves. It is this knowledge that we shall use, Brys.’
‘Nifadas was rather vague as to my task, Ceda. I am to awaken Mael, presumably to apprise the Elder god that it is being manipulated. But I am not a worshipper, nor is there a single Letherii who would claim otherwise for him or herself – why would Mael listen to me?’
‘I have no idea, Brys. You shall have to improvise.’
‘And if this god is truly and absolutely fallen, until it is little more than a mindless beast, then what?’
Kuru Qan blinked behind the lenses, and said nothing.
Brys shifted uneasily. ‘If my mind is all that shall make the journey, how will I appear to myself? Can I carry weapons?’
‘How you manifest your defences is entirely up to you, Finadd. Clearly, I anticipate you will find yourself as you are now. Armed and armoured. All conceit, of course, but that is not relevant. Shall we begin?’
‘Very well.’
Kuru Qan stepped forward, one arm snapping out to grasp Brys by his weapons harness. A savage, surprisingly powerful tug pitched him forward, headlong over the edge of the disc. Shouting in alarm, he flailed about, then plummeted down towards the tile of the Dolmen.
****
‘Even in the noblest of ventures, there’s the occasional stumble.’
Bugg’s eyes were flat, his lined face expressionless, as he stared steadily at Tehol without speaking.
‘Besides, it’s only a small failing, all things considered. As for myself, why, I am happy enough. Truly. Yours is the perfectly unde
rstandable disappointment and, dare I say it, a modest battering of confidence, that comes with an effort poorly conceived. No fault in the deed itself, I assure you.’ As proof he did a slow turn in front of his manservant. ‘See? The legs are indeed of matching length. I shall remain warm, no matter how cool the nights become. Granted, we don’t have cool nights. Sultry is best we can manage, I’ll grant you, but what’s a little sweat between… uh… the legs?’
‘That shade of grey and that tone of yellow are the worst combination I have ever attempted, master,’ Bugg said. ‘I grow nauseous just looking at you.’
‘But what has that to do with the trousers?’
‘Very little, admittedly. My concern is with principles, of course.’
‘Can’t argue with that. Now, tell me of the day’s doings, and hurry up, I’ve a midnight date with a dead woman.’
‘The extent of your desperation, master, never fails to astonish me.’
‘Did our favourite money-lender commit suicide as woefully anticipated?’
‘With nary a hitch.’
‘Barring the one by which he purportedly hung himself?’
‘As you say, but that was before fire tragically swept through his premises.’
‘And any word on Finadd Gerun Eberict’s reaction to all this?’
‘Decidedly despondent, master.’
‘But not unduly suspicious?’
‘Who can say? His agents have made inquiries, but more directly towards a search for a hidden cache of winnings, an attempt to recoup the loss and such. No such fortune, however, has surfaced.’
‘And it had better not. Eberict needs to swallow the loss entire, not that it was in truth a loss, only a denial of increased fortune. His primary investments remain intact, after all. Now, stop blathering, Bugg. I need to do some thinking.’ Tehol hitched up his trousers, wincing at Bugg’s sudden frown. ‘Must be losing weight,’ he muttered, then began pacing.
Four steps brought him to the roof’s edge. He wheeled and faced Bugg. ‘What’s that you’re wearing?’
‘It’s the latest fashion among masons and such.’
‘The Dusty Few.’
‘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… from king to emperor, although how such a progression would manifest itself remained to be seen. The annexation of the Tiste Edur and their rich homelands would indeed initiate a renewed vigour, a frenzy of profit. Victory would carry its own affirmation of the righteousness of Lether and its ways.
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. Behind the Chancellor, Brys saw, was the Queen’s Consort, Turudal Brizad, leaning insouciantly against the wall, his soft, almost feminine features displaying a faint smirk.
Brys had always found the man strangely disturbing, and it had nothing to do with his singular function as consort to Janall. He was a silent presence, often at meetings dealing with the most sensitive issues of state, ever watchful despite his studied indifference. And it was well known that he shared his bed with more than just the queen, although whether Janall herself knew of that was the subject of conjecture in the court. Among his lovers, it was rumoured, was Chancellor Triban Gnol.
An untidy nest, all in all.
The door to the First Eunuch’s office was closed and guarded by two of Nifadas’s own Rulith, eunuch bodyguards, tall men with nothing of the common body-fat one might expect to see. Heavy kohl lined their eyes and red paint broadened their mouths into a perpetual down-turned grimace. Their only weapons were a brace of hooked daggers sheathed under their crossed arms, and if they wore any armour it was well disguised beneath long, crimson silk shirts and tan pantaloons. They were barefoot.
Both nodded and stepped aside to permit Brys to pass.
He tugged the braided tassel and could faintly hear the dull chime sound in the chamber beyond.
The door clicked open.
Nifadas was alone, standing behind his desk, the surface of which was crowded with scrolls and unfurled maps. His back was to the room, and he seemed to be staring at a wall. ‘King’s Champion. I have been expecting you.’
‘This seemed the first in order, First Eunuch.’
‘Just so.’ He was silent for a few heartbeats, then: ‘There are beliefs that constitute the official religion of a nation, but those beliefs and that religion are in truth little more than the thinnest gold hammered on far older bones. No nation is singular, or exclusive – rather, it should not be, for its own good. There is much danger in asserting for oneself a claim to purity, whether of blood or of origin. Few may acknowledge it, but Lether is far richer for its devouring minorities, provided that digestion remains eternally incomplete.
‘Be that as it may, Finadd, I confess to you a certain ignorance. The palace isolates those trapped within it, and its roots nurture poorly. I would know of the people’s private beliefs.’
Brys thought for a moment, then asked, ‘Can you be more specific, First Eunuch?’
Nifadas still did not turn to face him. ‘The seas. The denizens of the deep. Demons and old gods, Brys.’
‘The Tiste Edur call the dark waters the realm of Galain, which is said to belong to kin, for whom Darkness is home. The Tarthenal, I have heard, view the seas as a single beast with countless limbs – including those that reach inland as rivers and streams. The Nerek fear it as their netherworld, a place where drowning is eternal, a fate awaiting betrayers and murderers.’
‘And the Letherii?’
Brys shrugged. ‘Kuru Qan knows more of this than I, First Eunuch. Sailors fear but do not worship. They make sacrifices in the hopes of avoiding notice. On the seas, the arrogant suffer, whilst only the meek survive, although it’s said if abasement is carried too far, the hunger below grows irritated and spiteful. Tides and currents reveal the patterns one must follow, which in part explains the host of superstitions and rituals demanded of those who would travel by sea.’
‘And this… hunger below. It has no place among the Holds?’
‘Not that I know of, First Eunuch.’
Nifadas finally turned, regarded Brys with half-closed eyes. ‘Does that not strike you as odd, Finadd Beddict? Lether was born of colonists who came here from the First Empire. That First Empire was then destroyed, the paradise razed to lifeless desert. Yet it was the First Empire in which the Holds were fir
‘But even then,’ Brys said, ‘there is no evidence that such gods are remotely concerned with mortal affairs. I do not think sailors envisage the hunger I spoke of as a god. More as a demon, I think.’
‘To answer the unanswerable, a need from which we all suffer.’ Nifadas sighed. ‘Finadd, the independent seal harvesters were all slain. Three of their ships survived the return journey to Trate, crewed up to the very piers by Edur wraiths, yet carried on seas that were more than seas. A demon, such as the sailors swear upon… yet, it was something far more, or so our Ceda believes. Are you familiar with Faraed beliefs? Theirs is an oral tradition, and if the listing of generations is accurate and not mere poetic pretence, then the tradition is ancient indeed. The Faraed creation myths centre on Elder gods. Each named and aspected, a divisive pantheon of entirely unwholesome personalities. In any case, among them is the Elder Lord of the Seas, the Dweller Below. It is named Mael. Furthermore, the Faraed have singled out Mael in their oldest stories. It once walked this land, Finadd, as a physical manifestation, following the death of an Age.’
‘An Age? What kind of Age?’
‘Of the time before the Faraed, I think. There are… contradictions and obscurities.’
‘Ceda Kuru Qan believes the demon that carried the ships was this Mael?’
‘If it was, then Mael has suffered much degradation. Almost mindless, a turgid maelstrom of untethered emotions. But powerful none the less.’
‘Yet the Tiste Edur have chained it?’
Nifadas’s thin brows rose. ‘Clear a path through a forest and every beast will use it. Is this control? Of a sort, perhaps.’
‘Hannan Mosag sought to make a statement.’
‘Indeed, Finadd, and so he has. Yet is it a true statement or deceptive bravado?’
Brys shook his head. He had no answer to offer.
Nifadas swung away once more. ‘The king has deemed this of sufficient import. The Ceda even now prepares the… means. None the less, you deserve the right to be asked rather than commanded.’
‘What is it I am asked to do, First Eunuch?’
A faint shrug. ‘Awaken an Elder god.’
****
‘There is great flux in the composite. Is this relevant? I think not.’ Ceda Kuru Qan pushed his wire-bound lenses further up the bridge of his nose and peered at Brys. ‘This is a journey of the mind, King’s Champion, yet the risk to you is such that you might as well travel into the netherworld in truth. If your mind is slain, there is no return. Extreme necessity, alas; the king wills that you proceed.’
‘I did not imagine that there would be no danger, Ceda. Tell me will my martial skills be applicable?’
‘Unknown. But you are young, quick-witted and resilient.’ He turned away and scanned the cluttered worktop behind him. ‘Great flux, alas. Leaving but one choice.’ He reached out and picked up a goblet. A pause, a dubious squint at its contents, then he took a cautious sip. ‘Ah! As suspected. The flux in the composite is due entirely to curdled milk Brys Beddict, are you ready?’
The King’s Champion shrugged.
Kuru Qan nodded. ‘I was going to have you drink this.’
‘Curdled milk will not harm me,’ Brys said, taking the goblet from the Ceda. He quickly tossed it down, then set the silver cup on the table. ‘How long?’
‘For what?’
‘Until the potion takes effect.’
‘What potion? Come with me. We shall use the Cedance for this journey.’
Brys followed the old sorceror from the chamber. At the door he cast a glance back at the goblet. The mixture had tasted of citrus and sour goat’s milk; he could already feel it bubbling ominously in his stomach. ‘I must now assume there was no purpose to what I just drank.’
‘A repast. One of my experiments. I was hoping you’d enjoy it, but judging by your pallor it would seem that that was not the case.’
‘I’m afraid you are correct.’
‘Ah well, if it proves inimical you will no doubt bring it back up.’
‘That’s comforting knowledge, Ceda.’
The remainder of the journey to the palace depths was mercifully uneventful. Ceda Kuru Qan led Brys into the vast chamber where waited the tiles of the Holds. ‘We shall employ a tile of the Fulcra in this effort, King’s Champion. Dolmen.’
They walked out across the narrow causeway to the central disc. The massive tiles stretched out on all sides beneath them.
The roiling in Brys’s stomach had subsided somewhat. He waited for the Ceda to speak.
‘Some things are important. Others are not. Yet all would claim a mortal’s attention. It falls to each of us to remain ever mindful, and thus purchase wisdom in the threading of possibilities. It is our common failing, Brys Beddict, that we are guided by our indifference to eventualities. The moment pleases, the future can await consideration.
‘The old histories we brought with us from the First Empire recount similar failings. Rich ports at river mouths that were abandoned after three centuries, due to silting caused by the clearing of forests and poorly conceived irrigation methods. Ports that, were you to visit their ruins now, you would find a league or more inland of the present coast. The land crawls to the sea; it was ever thus. Even so, what we humans do can greatly accelerate the process.
‘Is all that relevant? Only partly, I admit. As I must perforce admit to many things, I admit to that. There are natural progressions that, when unveiled, are profoundly exemplary of the sheer vastness of antiquity. Beyond even the age of the existence of people, this world is very, very old, Brys Beddict.’ Kuru Qan gestured.
Brys looked down to where he had indicated, and saw the tile of the Dolmen. The carved and painted image depicted a single, tilted monolith half-buried in lifeless clay. The sky behind it was colourless and devoid of features.
‘Even seas are born only to one day die,’ Kuru Qan said. ‘Yet the land clings to its memory, and all that it has endured is clawed onto its visage. Conversely, at the very depths of the deepest ocean, you will find the traces of when it stood above the waves. It is this knowledge that we shall use, Brys.’
‘Nifadas was rather vague as to my task, Ceda. I am to awaken Mael, presumably to apprise the Elder god that it is being manipulated. But I am not a worshipper, nor is there a single Letherii who would claim otherwise for him or herself – why would Mael listen to me?’
‘I have no idea, Brys. You shall have to improvise.’
‘And if this god is truly and absolutely fallen, until it is little more than a mindless beast, then what?’
Kuru Qan blinked behind the lenses, and said nothing.
Brys shifted uneasily. ‘If my mind is all that shall make the journey, how will I appear to myself? Can I carry weapons?’
‘How you manifest your defences is entirely up to you, Finadd. Clearly, I anticipate you will find yourself as you are now. Armed and armoured. All conceit, of course, but that is not relevant. Shall we begin?’
‘Very well.’
Kuru Qan stepped forward, one arm snapping out to grasp Brys by his weapons harness. A savage, surprisingly powerful tug pitched him forward, headlong over the edge of the disc. Shouting in alarm, he flailed about, then plummeted down towards the tile of the Dolmen.
****
‘Even in the noblest of ventures, there’s the occasional stumble.’
Bugg’s eyes were flat, his lined face expressionless, as he stared steadily at Tehol without speaking.
‘Besides, it’s only a small failing, all things considered. As for myself, why, I am happy enough. Truly. Yours is the perfectly unde
‘That shade of grey and that tone of yellow are the worst combination I have ever attempted, master,’ Bugg said. ‘I grow nauseous just looking at you.’
‘But what has that to do with the trousers?’
‘Very little, admittedly. My concern is with principles, of course.’
‘Can’t argue with that. Now, tell me of the day’s doings, and hurry up, I’ve a midnight date with a dead woman.’
‘The extent of your desperation, master, never fails to astonish me.’
‘Did our favourite money-lender commit suicide as woefully anticipated?’
‘With nary a hitch.’
‘Barring the one by which he purportedly hung himself?’
‘As you say, but that was before fire tragically swept through his premises.’
‘And any word on Finadd Gerun Eberict’s reaction to all this?’
‘Decidedly despondent, master.’
‘But not unduly suspicious?’
‘Who can say? His agents have made inquiries, but more directly towards a search for a hidden cache of winnings, an attempt to recoup the loss and such. No such fortune, however, has surfaced.’
‘And it had better not. Eberict needs to swallow the loss entire, not that it was in truth a loss, only a denial of increased fortune. His primary investments remain intact, after all. Now, stop blathering, Bugg. I need to do some thinking.’ Tehol hitched up his trousers, wincing at Bugg’s sudden frown. ‘Must be losing weight,’ he muttered, then began pacing.
Four steps brought him to the roof’s edge. He wheeled and faced Bugg. ‘What’s that you’re wearing?’
‘It’s the latest fashion among masons and such.’
‘The Dusty Few.’