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

by Steven Erikson

We have a talent for disguising greed under the cloak of freedom. As for past acts of depravity, we prefer to ignore those. Progress, after all, means to look ever forward, and whatever we have trampled in our wake is best forgotten.’

‘Calm down,’ Tehol said. ‘I simply asked how you were this morning, in case you’ve forgotten. Your reply was supposed to be equally inane and nondescript. If I’d wanted a list of your ailments—well, I wouldn’t. Who would? Innocuous civility is what was expected, Padderunt. Not foul invective.’

Menandore’s eyes fell to the motionless form of Sheltatha Lore. ‘This one. She took a lover from among this world’s gods, did she not?’ ‘For a time. Begetting two horrid little children.’ ‘Horrid? Daughters, then.’ Sukul nodded. ‘And their father saw that clearly enough from the very start, for he named them appropriately.’ ‘Oh? And what were those names, sister?’ ‘Envy and Spite.’

Menandore faced her sister across the distance. ‘Sheltatha’s lover. That god—what is his name?’ Sukul’s reply seemed to come from a vast distance, ‘Draconus.’

Freedom was no god, and if it was, and if it had a face turned upon its worshippers, its expression was mocking. A slave’s chains stole something he or she had never owned.

less. The poetry suffers in translation—’ ‘The Eleint would destroy all in their paths to achieve vengeance,’ Feather Witch said in a grating voice. ‘As we all shall see in the long night to come. The Queen lies dead and may never again rise. The Consort writhes upon a tree and whispers with madness of the time of his release. The Liege is lost, dragging chains in a world where to walk is to endure, and where to halt is to be devoured. The Knight strides his own doomed path, soon to cross blades with his own vengeance. Gate rages with wild fire. Wyval—’

‘It is done,’ Fear murmured. ‘Death cannot be struggled against, brother. It ever arrives, defiant of every hiding place, of every frantic attempt to escape. Death is every mortal’s shadow, his true shadow, and time is its servant, spinning that shadow slowly round, until what stretched behind one now stretches before him.’

‘Peace. Warm yourself, warrior, while I tell you of peace. History is unerring, and even the least observant mortal can be made to understand, through innumerable repetition. Do you see peace as little more than the absence of war? Perhaps, on a surface level, it is just that. But let me describe the characteristics of peace, my young friend. A pervasive dulling of the senses, a decadence afflicting the culture, evinced by a growing obsession with low entertainment. The virtues of extremity—honour, loyalty, sacrifice—are lifted high as shoddy icons, currency for the cheapest of labours.

‘Peace, my young warrior, is born of relief, endured in exhaustion, and dies with false remembrance. False? Ah, perhaps I am too cynical. Too old, witness to far too much. Do honour, loyalty and sacrifice truly exist? Are such virtues born only from extremity? What transforms them into empty words, words devalued by their overuse? What are the rules of the economy of the spirit, that civilization repeatedly twists and mocks?’

‘We don’t have any weapons, master.’ ‘None? Did we ever?’ ‘No. Some wooden spoons…’ ‘And are you adept with them?’ ‘Very.’ ‘Well, that’s all right, then. You coming?’ ‘In a moment, master.’ ‘Right, and be sure to clean up. This place is a dreadful mess.’ ‘If I find the time.’

The tombs were built for another extinct people, called the Jaghut, whom we acknowledge in the Hold we call the Hold of Ice. The wards were intended to block the efforts of another people, the T’lan Imass, who were the avowed enemies of the Jaghut. The T’lan Imass pursued the Jaghut in a most relentless manner, including those Jaghut who elected to surrender their place in the world—said individuals choosing something closely resembling death. Their souls would travel to their Hold, leaving their flesh behind, the flesh being stored in tombs like this one. That wasn’t good enough for the T’lan Imass. Anyway, the Forkrul Assail considered themselves impartial arbiters in the conflict, and that was, most of the time, the extent of their involvement. Apart from that,’ Bugg said with a shrug, ‘I really can’t say.’

‘Kettle, how many people have you killed in the past year?’ She cocked her head. ‘I can’t count past eight and two.’ ‘Ah.’ ‘Lots of eight and twos.’

without hope,’ Brys said. ‘I am sorry for that. Do not seek to find hope among your leaders. They are the repositories of poison. Their interest in you extends only so far as their ability to control you. From you, they seek duty and obedience, and they will ply you with the language of stirring faith. They seek followers, and woe to those who question, or voice challenge.

‘Civilization after civilization, it is the same. The world falls to tyranny with a whisper. The frightened are ever keen to bow to a perceived necessity, in the belief that necessity forces conformity, and conformity a certain stability. In a world shaped into conformity, dissidents stand out, are easily branded and dealt with. There is no multitude of perspectives, no dialogue. The victim assumes the face of the tyrant, self-righteous and intransigent, and wars breed like vermin. And people die.’

Seek for it, Brys Beddict, in the one who stands at your side, from the stranger upon the other side of the street. Be brave enough to endeavour to cross that street. Look neither skyward nor upon the ground. Hope persists, and its voice is compassion, and honest doubt.’

‘I’m pleased, although somewhat alarmed.’ ‘The circumstances warranted extreme action on my part.’ ‘Does that happen often?’ ‘I’m afraid it does.’

manservant. ‘Bugg, are we going to get out of here alive?’ ‘Hard to say, master.’ ‘All because you poked that secretary in the eyes?’ Bugg shrugged. ‘Touchy, aren’t they?’ ‘So it seems, master. Best get on with the offer, don’t you think?’ ‘Good idea. Diversion, yes indeed.’ ‘You idiots,’ Onyx said. ‘We can hear you!’ ‘Excellent!’

don’t like what you did. I don’t like anything you’ve done, but most of all, I don’t like what you did to this woman here, and that child. So, I am going to make you hurt. A lot.’

Where were the moneylenders? This war belonged to them, after all.

Kuru Qan placed the lenses once more before his eyes and peered at Brys. ‘You see, then. I knew you would. Brys, there is no Hold of Death. Your task? Naught but keeping an old man company on this night.’

‘I have a problem,’ she said when he reached the floor. ‘Anything I can do for you, Shurq, I shall. Did you know you have a spike of some sort in your forehead?’ ‘That’s my problem, you idiot.’ ‘Ah. Would you like me to pull it out?’ ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Tehol.’ ‘Not worse, surely, than leaving it there.’

He scratched at his beard. ‘Damned fleas. All right. Paths of aspected magic. Like forces and unlike forces. Right? Unlike forces repel, and like forces hold together, you see. Same as water in a river, all flowing the same way. Sure, there’s eddies, draws and such, but it all heads down eventually. I’ll talk about those eddies later. So, the warrens are those rivers, only you can’t see them. The current is invisible, and what you can see is only the effect. Watch a mob in a square, the way the minds of every person in it seem to melt into one. Riots and public executions, or battles, for that matter, they’re all hints of Mockra, they’re what you can see. But a mage who’s found a way into the warren of Mockra, well, that mage can reach deeper, down into that water. In fact, that mage can jump right in and swim with the current. Find an eddy and step back out, in a different place from where he started.’

Tyrants and emperors rise and fall. Civilizations burgeon then die, but there are always casters of nets. And tillers of the soil, and herders in the pastures. We are where civilization begins, and when it ends, we are there to begin it again.’

‘And your name’s not really Bugg.’ ‘No, I guess not.’ ‘But I like that name.’ ‘Me too.’ ‘And your real one?’ ‘Mael.’

‘Right. And when you do, clean up down there.’ The manservant paused at the hatch, considered, then said, ‘I think I will find the time to do just that, master.’ ‘Excellent. Now I’m going to bed.’ ‘Good idea, master.’ ‘Well, of course it is, Bugg. It’s mine, isn’t it?’

‘Now, get going. You’ll find a way of calm through.’ ‘And you, Mael?’ ‘I’ll drop in later. I’ve things for you to do, Withal. But for now,’ he faced inland, ‘I am going to beat a god senseless.’