Midnight Tides by Steven Erikson
‘Means they swore to return their prince to his lands. He was driven out, you see, by the cursed Emperor Kellanved. Anyway, it ain’t happened yet. But it will, someday, maybe soon.’
‘And that was the vow? All right. It seems this prince had some able soldiers with him.’
‘Oh indeed, lass, especially when the vow’s kept them alive all this time.’
‘What do you mean?’
The mage looked suddenly nervous. ‘I’m saying too much. Never rnind me, lass. Anyway, you’ve seen the trail the bastards left behind, iney made no effort to hide, meaning they’re cocksure themselves, aren’t they?’ He smiled, but there was no humour in it. ‘We’ll catch up, and then we’ll show them what real cavalry can do. Riding horses with stirrups, I mean – we don’t often fight from the saddle, but we ain’t new to it either.’
‘Well, I admit, you’ve got me curious.’
‘Just curious, lass? No hunger for vengeance?’
She looked away. ‘I want to look around,’ she said. ‘Alone, if you don’t mind.’
The mage shrugged. ‘Don’t wander too far. The Avowed’s taken to you, I think.’
That’s… unfortunate. ‘I won’t.’
Seren headed into the wood. There had been decades of thinning, leaving plenty of stumps and open spaces between trees. She listened to Corlo walking away, back to the clearing. As soon as silence enveloped her, she suddenly regretted the solitude. Desires surged, none of them healthy, none of them pleasant. She would never again feel clean, and this truth pushed her thoughts in the opposite direction, as if a part of her sought to foul her flesh yet further, as far as it could go. Why not? Lost in the darkness as she was, it was nothing to stain her soul black, through and through.
Alone, now frightened – of herself, of the urges within her – she walked on, unmindful of direction. Deeper into the wood, where the stumps were fewer and soft with rot, the deadfall thicker. The afternoon light barely reached through here.
Hurt was nothing. Was meaningless. But no, there was value in pain, if only to remind oneself that one still lived. When nothing normal could be regained, ever, then other pleasures had to be found. Cultivated, the body and mind taught anew, to delight in a darker strain.
A clearing ahead, in which reared figures.
She halted.
Motionless, half sunk into the ground, tilting this way and that in the high grasses. Statues. This had been Tarthenal land, she recalled. Before the Letherii arrived to crush the tribes. The name ‘Dresh’ was Tarthenal, in fact, as were the nearby village names of Denner, Lan and Brous.
Seren approached, came to the edge of the clearing.
Five statues in all, vaguely man-shaped but so weathered as to be featureless, with but the slightest indentations marking the pits of their eyes carved into the granite. They were all buried to their waists, suggesting that, when entirely above ground, they stood as tall as the Tarthenal themselves. Some kind of pantheon, she supposed, names and faces worn away by the tens of centuries that had passed since this glade had last known worshippers.
The Letherii had nearly wiped the Tarthenal out back then. As close to absolute genocide as they had ever come in their many conquests. She recalled a line from an early history written by a witness of that war. ‘They fought in defence of their holy sites with expressions of terror, as if in failing something vast and terrible would be unleashed…’ Seren looked around. The only thing vast and terrible in this place was the pathos of its abandonment.
Such dark moments in Letherii history were systematically disregarded, she knew, and played virtually no role in their culture’s vision of itself as bringers of progress, deliverers of freedom from the fetters of primitive ways of living, the cruel traditions and vicious rituals. Liberators, then, destined to wrest from savage tyrants their repressed victims, in the name of civilization. That the Letherii then imposed their own rules of oppression was rarely acknowledged. There was, after all, but one road to success and fulfilment, gold-cobbled and maintained by Letherii toll-collectors, and only the free could walk it.
Free to profit from the same game. Free to discover one’s own inherent disadvantages. Free to be abused. Free to be exploited. Free to be owned in lieu of debt. Free to be raped.
And to know misery. It was a natural truth that some walked that road faster than others. There would always be those who could only crawl. Or fell to the wayside. The most basic laws of existence, after all, were always harsh.
The statues before her were indifferent to all of that. Their worshippers had died defending them, and all for nothing. Memory was not loyal to the past, only to the exigencies of the present. She wondered if the Tiste Edur saw the world the same way. How much of their own past had they selectively forgotten, how many unpleasant truths had they twisted into self-appeasing lies? Did they suffer from the same flaw, this need to revise history to answer some deep-seated diffidence, a hollowness at the core that echoed with miserable uncertainty? Was this entire drive for progress nothing more than a hopeless search for some kind of fulfilment, as if on some instinctive level there was a murky understanding, a recognition that the game had no value, and so victory was meaningless?
Such understanding would have to be murky, for clarity was hard, and the Letherii disliked things that were hard, and so rarely chose to think in that direction. Baser emotions were the preferred response, and complex arguments were viewed with anger and suspicion.
She laid a hand upon the shoulder of the nearest statue, and was surprised to discover the stone warm to her touch. Retaining the sun’s heat, perhaps. But no, it was too hot for that. Seren pulled her hand away – any longer and she would have burned her skin.
Unease rose within her. Suddenly chilled, she stepped back. And now saw the dead grass surrounding each statue, desiccated by incessant heat.
It seemed the Tarthenal gods were not dead after all. Sometimes the past rises once again to reveal the lies. Lies that persisted through nothing more than force of will, and collective opinion. Sometimes that revelation comes drenched in fresh blood. Delusions invited their own shattering. Letherii pre-eminence. Tiste Edur arrogance. The sanctity of my own flesh.
A sound behind her. She turned.
Iron Bars stood at the edge of the clearing. ‘Corlo said there was something… restless… in this wood.’
She sighed. ‘Better were it only me.’
He cocked his head, smiled wryly.
She approached. ‘Tarthenal. I thought I knew this land. Every trail, the old barrow grounds and holy sites. It is a responsibility of an Acquitor, after all.’
‘We hope to make use of that knowledge,’ the Avowed said. ‘I don’t want no fanfare when we enter Letheras.’
‘Agreed. Even among a crowd of refugees, we would stand out. You might consider finding clothing that looks less like a uniform.’
‘I doubt it’d matter, lass. Either way, we’d be seen as deserters and flung into the ranks of defenders. This ain’t our war and we’d rather have nothing to do with it. The question is, can you get us into Letheras unseen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. The lads are almost ready with the new stirrups.’
She glanced back at the statues.
‘Makes you wonder, don’t it, lass?’
‘About what?’
‘The way old anger never goes away.’
Seren faced him again. ‘Anger. That’s something you’re intimately familiar with, I gather.’
A frown. ‘Corlo talks too much.’
‘If you wanted to get your prince’s land back, what are you doing here? I’ve never heard of this Emperor Kellanved, so his empire must be far away.’
‘Oh, it’s that, all right. Come on, it’s time to go.’
‘Sorry,’ she said as she followed him back into the forest. ‘I was prying.’
‘Aye, you were.’
‘Well. In return, you can ask me what you like.’
‘And you’ll answer?’
‘Maybe
.’
‘You don’t seem the type to end up as you did in Trate. So the merchant you were working for killed himself. Was he your lover or something?’
‘No, and you’re right, I’m not. It wasn’t just Buruk the Pale, though I should have seen it coming – he as much as told me a dozen times on our way back. I just wasn’t willing to hear, I suppose. The Tiste Edur emperor has a Letherii adviser—’
‘Hull Beddict.’
‘Yes.’
‘You knew him?’
She nodded.
‘And now you’re feeling betrayed? Not only as a Letherii, but personally too. Well, that’s hard, all right—’
‘But there you are wrong, Iron Bars. I don’t feel betrayed, and that’s the problem. I understand him all too well, his decision – I understand it.’
‘Wish you were with him?’
‘No. I saw Rhulad Sengar – the emperor – I saw him come back to life. Had it been Hannan Mosag, the Warlock King… well, I might well have thrown in my lot with them. But not the emperor…’
‘He came back to life? What do you mean by that?’
‘He was dead. Very dead. Killed when collecting a sword for Hannan Mosag – a cursed sword of some kind. They couldn’t get it out of his hands.’
‘Why didn’t they just cut his hands off?’
‘It was coming to that, I suspect, but then he returned.’
‘A nice trick. Wonder if he’ll be as lucky the next time.’
They reached the edge of the wood and saw the others seated on the horses and waiting. At the Avowed’s comment, Seren managed a smile. ‘From the rumours, I’d say yes, he was.’
‘He was killed again?’
‘Yes, Iron Bars. In Trate. Some soldier who wasn’t even from Lether. Just stepped up to him and broke his neck. Didn’t even stay around to carve the gold coins from his body…’
‘Hood’s breath,’ he muttered as they strode towards the others. ‘Don’t tell the others.’
‘Why?’
‘I got a reputation of making bad enemies, that’s why.’
****
Eleven Tarthenal lived within a day’s walk from the glade and its statues. Old Hunch Arbat had been chosen long ago for the task to which he sullenly attended, each month making the rounds with his two-wheeled cart, from one family to the next. Not one of the farms where the Tarthenal lived in Indebted servitude to a land-owner in Dresh was exclusively of the blood. Mixed-breed children scampered out to greet Old Hunch Arbat, flinging rotten fruit at his back as he made his way to the slop pit with his shovel, laughing and shouting their derision as he flung sodden lumps of faeces into the back of the cart.
Among the Tarthenal, all that existed in the physical world possessed symbolic meaning, and these meanings were mutually connected, bound into correspondences that were themselves part of a secret language.
Faeces was gold. Piss was ale. The mixed-breeds had forgotten most of the old knowledge, yet the tradition guiding Old Hunch Arbat’s rounds remained, even if most of its significance was lost.
Once he’d completed his task, a final journey was left to him: pulling the foul cart with its heap of dripping, fly-swarmed waste onto a little-used trail in the Breeder’s Wood, and eventually into the glade where stood the mostly buried statues.
As soon as he arrived, just past sunset, he knew that something had changed. In a place that had never changed, not once in his entire life.
There had been visitors, perhaps earlier that day, but that was the least of it. Old Hunch Arbat stared at the statues, seeing the burnt grasses, the faint glow of heat from the battered granite. He grimaced, revealing the blackened stumps of teeth – all that was left after decade upon decade of Letherii sweet-cakes – and when he reached for his shovel he saw that his hands were trembling.
He collected a load, carried it over to the nearest statue. Then flung the faeces against the weathered stone.
‘Splat,’ he said, nodding.
Hissing, then blackening, smoke, then ashes skirling down.
‘Oh. Could it be worse? Ask yourself that, Old Hunch Arbat. Could it be worse? No, says Old Hunch Arbat, I don’t think so. You don’t think so? Aren’t you sure, Old Hunch Arbat? Old Hunch Arbat ponders, but not for long. You’re right, I say, it couldn’t be worse.
‘Gold. Gold and ale. Damn gold damn ale damn nothing damn everything.’ Cursing made him feel slightly better. ‘Well then.’ He walked back to the cart. ‘Let’s see if a whole load will appease. And, Old Hunch Arbat, your bladder’s full, too. You timed it right, as always. Libations. The works, Old Hunch Arbat, the works.
‘And if that don’t help, then what, Old Hunch Arbat? Then what?
‘Why, I answer, then I spread the word – if they’ll listen. And if they do? Why, I say, then we run away.
‘And if they don’t listen?
‘Why, I reply, then I run away.’
He collected another load onto his wooden shovel. ‘Gold. Gold and ale…’
****
‘Sandalath Drukorlat. That is my name. I am not a ghost. Not any more. The least you can do is acknowledge my existence. Even the Nachts have better manners than you. If you keep sitting there and praying, I’ll hit you.’
She had been trying since morning. Periodic interruptions to his efforts. He wanted to send her away, but it wasn’t working. He’d forgotten how irritating company could be. Uninvited, unwelcome, persistent reminder of his own weaknesses. And now she was about to hit him.
Withal sighed and finally opened his eyes. The first time that day. Even in the gloom of his abode, the light hurt, made him squint. She stood before him, a silhouette, unmistakably female. For a god swathed in blankets, the Crippled One seemed unmindful of the nakedness among his chosen.
Chosen. Where in Hood’s name did he find her? Not a ghost, she said. Not any more. She just said that. She must have been one, then. Typical. He couldn’t find anyone living. Not for this mission of mercy. Who better for someone starved of companionship than someone who’s been dead for who knows how long? Listen to me. I’m losing my mind.
She raised a hand to strike him.
He flinched back. ‘All right, fine! Sandalath something. Pleased to meet you—’
‘Sandalath Drukorlat. I am Tiste Andii—’
‘That’s nice. Now, in case you haven’t noticed, I was in the midst of prayers—’
‘You’re always in the midst of prayers, and it’s been two days now. At least, I think two days. The Nachts slept, anyway. Once.’
‘They did? How strange.’
‘And you are?’
‘Me? A weaponsmith. A Meckros. Sole survivor of the destruction of my city—’
‘Your name!’
‘Withal. No need to shout. There hasn’t been any shouting. Well, some screaming, but not by me. Not yet, that is—’
‘Be quiet. I have questions that you are going to answer.’
She was not particularly young, he noted as his eyes adjusted. Then again, neither was he. And that wasn’t good. The young were better at making friends. The young had nothing to lose. ‘You’re being rather imperious, Sandalath.’
‘Oh, did I hurt your feelings? Dreadfully sorry. Where did you get those clothes?’
‘From the god, who else?’
‘What god?’
‘The one in the tent. Inland. You can’t miss it. I don’t see how – two days? What have you been doing with yourself? It’s just up from the strand—’
‘Be quiet.’ She ran both hands through her hair.
Withal would rather she’d stayed a silhouette. He looked away. ‘I thought you wanted answers. Go ask him—’
‘I didn’t know he was a god. You seemed preferable company, since all I got from him was coughing and laughter – at least, I think it was laughter—’
‘It was, have no doubt about that. He’s sick.’
‘Sick?’
‘Insane.’
‘So, an insane hacking god and a muscle-bound, ba
ld aspirant. And three Nachts. That’s it? No-one else on this island?’
‘Some lizard gulls, and ground-lizards, and rock-lizards, and lizard-rats in the smithy—’
‘So where did you get that food there?’
He glanced over at the small table. ‘The god provides.’
‘Really. And what else does this god provide?’
Well, you, for one. ‘Whatever suits his whim, I suppose.’
‘Your clothes.’
‘Yes.’
‘I want clothes.’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you mean, “yes”? Get me some clothes.’
‘I’ll ask.’
‘Do you think I like standing here, naked, in front of some stranger? Even the Nachts leer.’
‘I wasn’t leering.’
‘You weren’t?’
‘Not intentionally. I just noticed, you’re speaking the Letherii trader language. So am I.’
‘You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?’
‘I’ve had lots of practice, I suppose.’ He rose. ‘It occurs to me that you’re not going to let me resume my prayers. At least until you get some clothes. So, let’s go talk to the god.’
‘You go talk to him. I’m not. Just bring me clothes, Withal.’
He regarded her. ‘Will that help you… relax?’
Then she did hit him, a palm pounding into the side of his head.
She’d caught him unprepared, he decided a moment later, after he picked himself free of the wreckage of the wall he’d gone through. And stood, weaving, the scene around him spinning wildly. The glaring woman who’d stepped outside and seemed to be considering hitting him again, the pitching sea, and the three Nachts on a sward nearby, rolling in silent hilarity.
He walked down towards the sea.
Behind him, ‘Where are you going?’
‘To the god.’
‘He’s the other way.’
He reversed direction. ‘Talking to me like I don’t know this island. She wants clothes. Here, take mine.’ He pulled his shirt over his head.
And found himself lying on his back, staring up through the bleached weave of the cloth, the sun bright and blinding—
—suddenly eclipsed. She was speaking. ‘… just lie there for a while longer, Withal. I wasn’t intending to hit you that hard. I fear I’ve cracked your skull.’
‘And that was the vow? All right. It seems this prince had some able soldiers with him.’
‘Oh indeed, lass, especially when the vow’s kept them alive all this time.’
‘What do you mean?’
The mage looked suddenly nervous. ‘I’m saying too much. Never rnind me, lass. Anyway, you’ve seen the trail the bastards left behind, iney made no effort to hide, meaning they’re cocksure themselves, aren’t they?’ He smiled, but there was no humour in it. ‘We’ll catch up, and then we’ll show them what real cavalry can do. Riding horses with stirrups, I mean – we don’t often fight from the saddle, but we ain’t new to it either.’
‘Well, I admit, you’ve got me curious.’
‘Just curious, lass? No hunger for vengeance?’
She looked away. ‘I want to look around,’ she said. ‘Alone, if you don’t mind.’
The mage shrugged. ‘Don’t wander too far. The Avowed’s taken to you, I think.’
That’s… unfortunate. ‘I won’t.’
Seren headed into the wood. There had been decades of thinning, leaving plenty of stumps and open spaces between trees. She listened to Corlo walking away, back to the clearing. As soon as silence enveloped her, she suddenly regretted the solitude. Desires surged, none of them healthy, none of them pleasant. She would never again feel clean, and this truth pushed her thoughts in the opposite direction, as if a part of her sought to foul her flesh yet further, as far as it could go. Why not? Lost in the darkness as she was, it was nothing to stain her soul black, through and through.
Alone, now frightened – of herself, of the urges within her – she walked on, unmindful of direction. Deeper into the wood, where the stumps were fewer and soft with rot, the deadfall thicker. The afternoon light barely reached through here.
Hurt was nothing. Was meaningless. But no, there was value in pain, if only to remind oneself that one still lived. When nothing normal could be regained, ever, then other pleasures had to be found. Cultivated, the body and mind taught anew, to delight in a darker strain.
A clearing ahead, in which reared figures.
She halted.
Motionless, half sunk into the ground, tilting this way and that in the high grasses. Statues. This had been Tarthenal land, she recalled. Before the Letherii arrived to crush the tribes. The name ‘Dresh’ was Tarthenal, in fact, as were the nearby village names of Denner, Lan and Brous.
Seren approached, came to the edge of the clearing.
Five statues in all, vaguely man-shaped but so weathered as to be featureless, with but the slightest indentations marking the pits of their eyes carved into the granite. They were all buried to their waists, suggesting that, when entirely above ground, they stood as tall as the Tarthenal themselves. Some kind of pantheon, she supposed, names and faces worn away by the tens of centuries that had passed since this glade had last known worshippers.
The Letherii had nearly wiped the Tarthenal out back then. As close to absolute genocide as they had ever come in their many conquests. She recalled a line from an early history written by a witness of that war. ‘They fought in defence of their holy sites with expressions of terror, as if in failing something vast and terrible would be unleashed…’ Seren looked around. The only thing vast and terrible in this place was the pathos of its abandonment.
Such dark moments in Letherii history were systematically disregarded, she knew, and played virtually no role in their culture’s vision of itself as bringers of progress, deliverers of freedom from the fetters of primitive ways of living, the cruel traditions and vicious rituals. Liberators, then, destined to wrest from savage tyrants their repressed victims, in the name of civilization. That the Letherii then imposed their own rules of oppression was rarely acknowledged. There was, after all, but one road to success and fulfilment, gold-cobbled and maintained by Letherii toll-collectors, and only the free could walk it.
Free to profit from the same game. Free to discover one’s own inherent disadvantages. Free to be abused. Free to be exploited. Free to be owned in lieu of debt. Free to be raped.
And to know misery. It was a natural truth that some walked that road faster than others. There would always be those who could only crawl. Or fell to the wayside. The most basic laws of existence, after all, were always harsh.
The statues before her were indifferent to all of that. Their worshippers had died defending them, and all for nothing. Memory was not loyal to the past, only to the exigencies of the present. She wondered if the Tiste Edur saw the world the same way. How much of their own past had they selectively forgotten, how many unpleasant truths had they twisted into self-appeasing lies? Did they suffer from the same flaw, this need to revise history to answer some deep-seated diffidence, a hollowness at the core that echoed with miserable uncertainty? Was this entire drive for progress nothing more than a hopeless search for some kind of fulfilment, as if on some instinctive level there was a murky understanding, a recognition that the game had no value, and so victory was meaningless?
Such understanding would have to be murky, for clarity was hard, and the Letherii disliked things that were hard, and so rarely chose to think in that direction. Baser emotions were the preferred response, and complex arguments were viewed with anger and suspicion.
She laid a hand upon the shoulder of the nearest statue, and was surprised to discover the stone warm to her touch. Retaining the sun’s heat, perhaps. But no, it was too hot for that. Seren pulled her hand away – any longer and she would have burned her skin.
Unease rose within her. Suddenly chilled, she stepped back. And now saw the dead grass surrounding each statue, desiccated by incessant heat.
It seemed the Tarthenal gods were not dead after all. Sometimes the past rises once again to reveal the lies. Lies that persisted through nothing more than force of will, and collective opinion. Sometimes that revelation comes drenched in fresh blood. Delusions invited their own shattering. Letherii pre-eminence. Tiste Edur arrogance. The sanctity of my own flesh.
A sound behind her. She turned.
Iron Bars stood at the edge of the clearing. ‘Corlo said there was something… restless… in this wood.’
She sighed. ‘Better were it only me.’
He cocked his head, smiled wryly.
She approached. ‘Tarthenal. I thought I knew this land. Every trail, the old barrow grounds and holy sites. It is a responsibility of an Acquitor, after all.’
‘We hope to make use of that knowledge,’ the Avowed said. ‘I don’t want no fanfare when we enter Letheras.’
‘Agreed. Even among a crowd of refugees, we would stand out. You might consider finding clothing that looks less like a uniform.’
‘I doubt it’d matter, lass. Either way, we’d be seen as deserters and flung into the ranks of defenders. This ain’t our war and we’d rather have nothing to do with it. The question is, can you get us into Letheras unseen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. The lads are almost ready with the new stirrups.’
She glanced back at the statues.
‘Makes you wonder, don’t it, lass?’
‘About what?’
‘The way old anger never goes away.’
Seren faced him again. ‘Anger. That’s something you’re intimately familiar with, I gather.’
A frown. ‘Corlo talks too much.’
‘If you wanted to get your prince’s land back, what are you doing here? I’ve never heard of this Emperor Kellanved, so his empire must be far away.’
‘Oh, it’s that, all right. Come on, it’s time to go.’
‘Sorry,’ she said as she followed him back into the forest. ‘I was prying.’
‘Aye, you were.’
‘Well. In return, you can ask me what you like.’
‘And you’ll answer?’
‘Maybe
‘You don’t seem the type to end up as you did in Trate. So the merchant you were working for killed himself. Was he your lover or something?’
‘No, and you’re right, I’m not. It wasn’t just Buruk the Pale, though I should have seen it coming – he as much as told me a dozen times on our way back. I just wasn’t willing to hear, I suppose. The Tiste Edur emperor has a Letherii adviser—’
‘Hull Beddict.’
‘Yes.’
‘You knew him?’
She nodded.
‘And now you’re feeling betrayed? Not only as a Letherii, but personally too. Well, that’s hard, all right—’
‘But there you are wrong, Iron Bars. I don’t feel betrayed, and that’s the problem. I understand him all too well, his decision – I understand it.’
‘Wish you were with him?’
‘No. I saw Rhulad Sengar – the emperor – I saw him come back to life. Had it been Hannan Mosag, the Warlock King… well, I might well have thrown in my lot with them. But not the emperor…’
‘He came back to life? What do you mean by that?’
‘He was dead. Very dead. Killed when collecting a sword for Hannan Mosag – a cursed sword of some kind. They couldn’t get it out of his hands.’
‘Why didn’t they just cut his hands off?’
‘It was coming to that, I suspect, but then he returned.’
‘A nice trick. Wonder if he’ll be as lucky the next time.’
They reached the edge of the wood and saw the others seated on the horses and waiting. At the Avowed’s comment, Seren managed a smile. ‘From the rumours, I’d say yes, he was.’
‘He was killed again?’
‘Yes, Iron Bars. In Trate. Some soldier who wasn’t even from Lether. Just stepped up to him and broke his neck. Didn’t even stay around to carve the gold coins from his body…’
‘Hood’s breath,’ he muttered as they strode towards the others. ‘Don’t tell the others.’
‘Why?’
‘I got a reputation of making bad enemies, that’s why.’
****
Eleven Tarthenal lived within a day’s walk from the glade and its statues. Old Hunch Arbat had been chosen long ago for the task to which he sullenly attended, each month making the rounds with his two-wheeled cart, from one family to the next. Not one of the farms where the Tarthenal lived in Indebted servitude to a land-owner in Dresh was exclusively of the blood. Mixed-breed children scampered out to greet Old Hunch Arbat, flinging rotten fruit at his back as he made his way to the slop pit with his shovel, laughing and shouting their derision as he flung sodden lumps of faeces into the back of the cart.
Among the Tarthenal, all that existed in the physical world possessed symbolic meaning, and these meanings were mutually connected, bound into correspondences that were themselves part of a secret language.
Faeces was gold. Piss was ale. The mixed-breeds had forgotten most of the old knowledge, yet the tradition guiding Old Hunch Arbat’s rounds remained, even if most of its significance was lost.
Once he’d completed his task, a final journey was left to him: pulling the foul cart with its heap of dripping, fly-swarmed waste onto a little-used trail in the Breeder’s Wood, and eventually into the glade where stood the mostly buried statues.
As soon as he arrived, just past sunset, he knew that something had changed. In a place that had never changed, not once in his entire life.
There had been visitors, perhaps earlier that day, but that was the least of it. Old Hunch Arbat stared at the statues, seeing the burnt grasses, the faint glow of heat from the battered granite. He grimaced, revealing the blackened stumps of teeth – all that was left after decade upon decade of Letherii sweet-cakes – and when he reached for his shovel he saw that his hands were trembling.
He collected a load, carried it over to the nearest statue. Then flung the faeces against the weathered stone.
‘Splat,’ he said, nodding.
Hissing, then blackening, smoke, then ashes skirling down.
‘Oh. Could it be worse? Ask yourself that, Old Hunch Arbat. Could it be worse? No, says Old Hunch Arbat, I don’t think so. You don’t think so? Aren’t you sure, Old Hunch Arbat? Old Hunch Arbat ponders, but not for long. You’re right, I say, it couldn’t be worse.
‘Gold. Gold and ale. Damn gold damn ale damn nothing damn everything.’ Cursing made him feel slightly better. ‘Well then.’ He walked back to the cart. ‘Let’s see if a whole load will appease. And, Old Hunch Arbat, your bladder’s full, too. You timed it right, as always. Libations. The works, Old Hunch Arbat, the works.
‘And if that don’t help, then what, Old Hunch Arbat? Then what?
‘Why, I answer, then I spread the word – if they’ll listen. And if they do? Why, I say, then we run away.
‘And if they don’t listen?
‘Why, I reply, then I run away.’
He collected another load onto his wooden shovel. ‘Gold. Gold and ale…’
****
‘Sandalath Drukorlat. That is my name. I am not a ghost. Not any more. The least you can do is acknowledge my existence. Even the Nachts have better manners than you. If you keep sitting there and praying, I’ll hit you.’
She had been trying since morning. Periodic interruptions to his efforts. He wanted to send her away, but it wasn’t working. He’d forgotten how irritating company could be. Uninvited, unwelcome, persistent reminder of his own weaknesses. And now she was about to hit him.
Withal sighed and finally opened his eyes. The first time that day. Even in the gloom of his abode, the light hurt, made him squint. She stood before him, a silhouette, unmistakably female. For a god swathed in blankets, the Crippled One seemed unmindful of the nakedness among his chosen.
Chosen. Where in Hood’s name did he find her? Not a ghost, she said. Not any more. She just said that. She must have been one, then. Typical. He couldn’t find anyone living. Not for this mission of mercy. Who better for someone starved of companionship than someone who’s been dead for who knows how long? Listen to me. I’m losing my mind.
She raised a hand to strike him.
He flinched back. ‘All right, fine! Sandalath something. Pleased to meet you—’
‘Sandalath Drukorlat. I am Tiste Andii—’
‘That’s nice. Now, in case you haven’t noticed, I was in the midst of prayers—’
‘You’re always in the midst of prayers, and it’s been two days now. At least, I think two days. The Nachts slept, anyway. Once.’
‘They did? How strange.’
‘And you are?’
‘Me? A weaponsmith. A Meckros. Sole survivor of the destruction of my city—’
‘Your name!’
‘Withal. No need to shout. There hasn’t been any shouting. Well, some screaming, but not by me. Not yet, that is—’
‘Be quiet. I have questions that you are going to answer.’
She was not particularly young, he noted as his eyes adjusted. Then again, neither was he. And that wasn’t good. The young were better at making friends. The young had nothing to lose. ‘You’re being rather imperious, Sandalath.’
‘Oh, did I hurt your feelings? Dreadfully sorry. Where did you get those clothes?’
‘From the god, who else?’
‘What god?’
‘The one in the tent. Inland. You can’t miss it. I don’t see how – two days? What have you been doing with yourself? It’s just up from the strand—’
‘Be quiet.’ She ran both hands through her hair.
Withal would rather she’d stayed a silhouette. He looked away. ‘I thought you wanted answers. Go ask him—’
‘I didn’t know he was a god. You seemed preferable company, since all I got from him was coughing and laughter – at least, I think it was laughter—’
‘It was, have no doubt about that. He’s sick.’
‘Sick?’
‘Insane.’
‘So, an insane hacking god and a muscle-bound, ba
‘Some lizard gulls, and ground-lizards, and rock-lizards, and lizard-rats in the smithy—’
‘So where did you get that food there?’
He glanced over at the small table. ‘The god provides.’
‘Really. And what else does this god provide?’
Well, you, for one. ‘Whatever suits his whim, I suppose.’
‘Your clothes.’
‘Yes.’
‘I want clothes.’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you mean, “yes”? Get me some clothes.’
‘I’ll ask.’
‘Do you think I like standing here, naked, in front of some stranger? Even the Nachts leer.’
‘I wasn’t leering.’
‘You weren’t?’
‘Not intentionally. I just noticed, you’re speaking the Letherii trader language. So am I.’
‘You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?’
‘I’ve had lots of practice, I suppose.’ He rose. ‘It occurs to me that you’re not going to let me resume my prayers. At least until you get some clothes. So, let’s go talk to the god.’
‘You go talk to him. I’m not. Just bring me clothes, Withal.’
He regarded her. ‘Will that help you… relax?’
Then she did hit him, a palm pounding into the side of his head.
She’d caught him unprepared, he decided a moment later, after he picked himself free of the wreckage of the wall he’d gone through. And stood, weaving, the scene around him spinning wildly. The glaring woman who’d stepped outside and seemed to be considering hitting him again, the pitching sea, and the three Nachts on a sward nearby, rolling in silent hilarity.
He walked down towards the sea.
Behind him, ‘Where are you going?’
‘To the god.’
‘He’s the other way.’
He reversed direction. ‘Talking to me like I don’t know this island. She wants clothes. Here, take mine.’ He pulled his shirt over his head.
And found himself lying on his back, staring up through the bleached weave of the cloth, the sun bright and blinding—
—suddenly eclipsed. She was speaking. ‘… just lie there for a while longer, Withal. I wasn’t intending to hit you that hard. I fear I’ve cracked your skull.’