Midnight Tides (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #5)

by Steven Erikson

This devious hunting of the seals was the opening move in a ploy the Letherii had used countless times, against every tribe beyond the borderlands. To the Letherii, the Edur were no different. But they are, you fools.

Talented warrior though he was, Hull Beddict had been naive. What he had embraced as a journey in search of knowledge, the first steps towards peaceful co-existence, had in fact been a prelude to conquest. His detailed reports of tribes such as the Nerek, and the Faraed and the Tarthenal, had been pored over by minions of Chancellor Triban Gnol. Weaknesses had been prised from the descriptions. And then, in a series of campaigns of subjugation, brutally exploited. And Hull Beddict, who had forged blood-ties with those fierce tribes, was there to witness all his enthusiasm delivered. Gifts that were not gifts at all, incurring debts, the debts exchanged for land. The deadly maze lined with traders, merchants, seducers of false need, purveyors of destructive poisons. Defiance answered with annihilation. The devouring of pride, independence and self-sufficiency. In all, a war so profoundly cynical in its cold, heartless expediting that no honourable soul could survive witness. Especially when that soul was responsible for it. For all of it.

Tehol paused at the ragged edge of the section of roof that had collapsed. ‘Ah yes, you have trousers to make—have you enough wool for that?’ ‘Well, I can make one leg down all the way, or I can make both short.’ ‘How short?’ ‘Pretty short.’ ‘Go with the one leg.’

‘Money is sleight of hand,’ Tehol said, nodding. ‘Unless you’ve got diamonds in your hands. Then it’s not just an idea any more. If you want to know the cheat behind the whole game, it’s right there, lasses. Even when money’s just an idea, it has power. Only it’s not real power. Just the promise of power. But that promise is enough so long as everyone keeps pretending it’s real. Stop pretending and it all falls apart.’

Tehol collected his cup and cautiously sniffed. Then he frowned at his manservant. Who shrugged. ‘We don’t have no herbs, master. I had to improvise.’ ‘With what? Sheep hide?’ Bugg’s brows rose. ‘Very close indeed. I had some leftover wool.’ ‘The yellow or the grey?’ ‘The grey.’ ‘Well, that’s all right, then.’ He sipped. ‘Smooth.’

Trust was gone, and Trull well knew that Rhulad’s future would now be dominated by the effort to regain it. A lapse, and the young man’s future path awaited him, deep-rutted and inevitable. A private journey beset by battle, each step resisted by a host of doubts, real and imagined—the distinction made no difference any more. Rhulad would see in his brothers and friends an unbroken succession of recriminations. Every gesture, every word, every glance. And, the tragedy was, he would not be far from the truth.

‘Does it ever strike you, Finadd, that peace leads to an indulgence in strife?’ ‘No, since your statement is nonsensical. The opposite of peace is war, while war is an extreme expression of strife. By your argument, life is characterized as an oscillation between strife during peace and strife during war.’ ‘Not entirely nonsensical, then,’ Turudal Brizad said. ‘We exist in a state of perpetual stress. Both within ourselves and in the world beyond.’ He shrugged. ‘We may speak of a longing for balance, but in our soul burns a lust for discord.’ ‘If your soul is troubled, Consort,’ Brys said, ‘you hide it well.’ ‘None of us here lack that skill, Finadd.’

Rhulad was not a corpse, nor was he undead, for an undead would not scream. He lived once more. His nerves awake, his mind afire. Trapped in a prison of gold. As was I, once. As every Letherii is trapped. Oh, he is poetry animate, is Rhulad Sengar, but his words are for the Letherii, not for the Edur.

‘He’s got a point,’ Scint said, snatching a rat from the table and biting its head off. Everyone stared, including a roomful of rats. Scint noticed, chewed for a moment, making crunching sounds, then said around a mouthful of rat head, ‘Sorry. Got carried away.’ He looked down at the headless corpse in his hand, then tucked it into his shirt and out of sight. From where Glisten sat came a plaintive sound, then, ‘What did that rat ever do to you, Scinty?’ Scint swallowed. ‘I said sorry!’

Hull’s eyes shone. ‘As I said, then. Destiny.’ ‘Is that what you choose to call it?’ ‘I hear anger in your voice, Acquitor.’ ‘Destiny is a lie. Destiny is justification for atrocity. It is the means by which murderers armour themselves against reprimand. It is a word intended to stand in place of ethics, denying all moral context. Hull, you are embracing that lie, and not in ignorance.’

‘When I am finally free,’ he said in a voice revealing strain, ‘I will be able to physically touch you, Kettle. My fingers upon your brow. And then I will have your answer.’ ‘I guess this Eres was my real mother.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And soon you will know who my father is.’ ‘I will know his blood, yes. At the very least.’ ‘I wonder if he’s still alive.’ ‘Knowing how Eres plays the game, lass, he might not even be your father yet. She wanders time, Kettle, in a manner no-one else can even understand, much less emulate. And this is very much her world. She is the fire that never dies.’ He paused, then said, ‘She will choose—or has chosen—with great deliberation. Your father was, is, or will be someone of great importance.’

A mystery without an answer. Trull suspected it was never intended as a bridge. Rather, it had been built for some other purpose. It did not make sense to him that it functioned solely as what had immediately occurred to him the first time he had visited. There were, after all, easier ways to measure the passage of time.

‘You live soft, Udinaas, in a very hard world.’ ‘I told you I was not without anger.’ ‘Which you bleed away, somehow, before it can hurt anyone else.’ ‘So I do all the bleeding, do I?’ She nodded. ‘I’m afraid you do, Udinaas.’

‘Why would ghosts want to scare the living?’ ‘I know, it’s a strange notion, but I predict they will discover they’re very good at it. Further, I predict they will enjoy the endeavour.’

Four heavy quarrels had pierced it. The creature was lying on its side, its bestial face twisted with pain. Trull crouched near the demon’s mud-smeared head. ‘Can you understand me?’ Small blue eyes flickered behind the lids, fixed on his own eyes. ‘Arbiter of life. Denier of mercy. I shall die here.’ The voice was thin, strangely childlike. ‘I shall call a healer—’ ‘Why? To fight again? To relive terror and grief?’ ‘You were not a warrior in your world?’ ‘A caster of nets. Warm shoals, a yellow sky. We cast nets.’ ‘All of you?’ ‘What war is this? Why have I been killed? Why will I never see the river again? My mate, my children. Did we win?’

‘And what does it mean? To be an Avowed?’ ‘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.’