Through cracked, blistered lips, she smiled, then said in a croaking voice, ‘Lectures. I am halfway into the term. Early history. Mad? Oh yes, without question.’
She heard him come closer. ‘I have been gone from you too long – you are suffering. That was careless of me.’
‘Careless is keeping me alive, you miserable little wretch,’ she said.
‘Ah, perhaps I deserved that. Come, you must drink.’
‘What if I refuse?’
‘Then, with your inevitable death, you are defeated. By me. Are you sure you want that, Scholar?’
‘You urge me to stubborn resistance. I understand. The sadist needs his victim alive, after all. For as long as humanly possible.’
‘Dehydration is a most unpleasant way to die, Janath Anar.’
He lifted the spigot of a waterskin to her mouth. She drank.
‘Not too quickly,’ Tanal said, stepping back. ‘You will just make yourself sick. Which wouldn’t, I see, be the first time for you.’
‘When you see maggots crawl out of your own wastes, Yathvanar . . . Next time,’ she added, ‘take your damned candle with you.’
‘If I do that,’ he replied, ‘you will go blind—’
‘And that matters?’
He stepped close once again and poured more water into her mouth.
Then he set about washing her down. Sores had opened where stomach fluids had burned desiccated skin, and, he could see, she had been pulling on her bindings, seeking to squeeze her hands through the shackles. ‘You are looking much worse for wear,’ he said as he dabbed ointment on the wounds. ‘You cannot get your hands through, Janath—’
‘Panic cares nothing for what can and can’t be done, Tanal Yathvanar. One day you will discover that. There was a priest once, in the second century, who created a cult founded on the premise that every victim tallied in one’s mortal life awaits that one beyond death. From the slightest of wounds to the most grievous, every victim preceding you into death . . . waits. For you.
‘A mortal conducts spiritual economics in his or her life, amassing credit and debt. Tell me, Patriotist, how indebted are you by now? How vast the imbalance between good deeds and your endless acts of malice?’
‘A bizarre, insane cult,’ he muttered, moving away. ‘No wonder it failed.’
‘In this empire, yes, it’s no wonder at all. The priest was set upon in the street and torn limb from limb. Still, it’s said adherents remain, among the defeated peoples – the Tarthenal, the Fent and Nerek, the victims, as it were, of Letherii cruelty – and before those people virtually disappeared from the city, there were rumours that the cult was reviving.’
Tanal Yathvanar sneered. ‘The ones who fail ever need a crutch, a justification – they fashion virtue out of misery. Karos Invictad has identified that weakness, in one of his treatises—’
Janath’s laugh broke into ragged coughing. When she recovered, she spat and said, ‘Karos Invictad. Do you know why he so despises academics? He is a failed one himself.’ She bared her stained teeth. ‘He calls them treatises, does he? Errant fend, how pathetic. Karos Invictad couldn’t fashion a decent argument, much less a treatise.’
‘You are wrong in that, woman,’ Tanal said. ‘He has even explained why he did so poorly as a young scholar – oh yes, he would not refute your assessment of his career as a student. Driven by emotions, back then. Incapable of a cogent position, leaving him rife with anger – but at himself, at his own failings. But, years later, he learned that all emotion had to be scoured from him; only then would his inner vision become clear.’
‘Ah, he needed wounding, then. What was it? A betrayal of sorts, I expect. Some woman? A protégé, a patron? Does it even matter? Karos Invictad makes sense to me, now. Why he is what he has become.’ She laughed again, this time without coughing, then said, ‘Delicious irony. Karos Invictad became a victim.’
‘Don’t be—’
‘A victim, Yathvanar! And he didn’t like it, oh no, not at all. It hurt – the world hurt him, so now he’s hurting it back. And yet, he has still to even the score. But you see, he never will, because in his mind, he’s still that victim, still lashing out. And as you said earlier, the victim and his crutch, his virtue of misery – one feeds the other, without cessation. No wonder he bridles with self-righteousness for all his claims to emotionless intellect—’
He struck her, hard, her head snapping to one side, spittle and blood threading out.
Breathing fast, chest strangely tight, Tanal hissed, ‘Rail at me all you will, Scholar. I expect that. But not at Karos Invictad. He is the empire’s last true hope. Only Karos Invictad will guide us into glory, into a new age, an age without the Edur, without the mixed-bloods, without even the failed peoples. No, just the Letherii, an empire expanding outward with sword and fire, all the way back to the homeland of the First Empire. He has seen our future! Our destiny!’
She stared at him in the dull light. ‘Of course. But first, he needs to kill every Letherii worthy of the name. Karos Invictad, the Great Scholar, and his empire of thugs—’
He struck her again, harder than before, then lurched back, raising his hand – it was trembling, skin torn and battered, a shard of one broken tooth jutting from one knuckle.
She was unconscious.
Well, she asked for it. She wouldn’t stop. That means she wanted it, deep inside, she wanted me to beat her. I’ve heard about this – Karos has told me – they come to like it, eventually. They like the . . . attention.
So, I must not neglect her. Not again. Plenty of water, keep her clean and fed.
And beat her anyway.
But she was not unconscious, for she then spoke in a mumble. He could not make it out and edged closer.
‘. . . on the other side . . . I will wait for you . . . on the other side . . .’
Tanal Yathvanar felt a slither deep in his gut. And fled from it. No god waits to pass judgement. No-one marks the imbalance of deeds – no god is beyond its own imbalances – for its own deeds are as subject to judgement as any other. So who then fashions this afterlife? Some natural imposition? Ridiculous – there is no balance in nature. Besides, nature exists in this world and this world alone – its rules mean nothing once the bridge is crossed . . .
Tanal Yathvanar found himself walking up the corridor, that horrid woman and her cell far behind him now – he had no recollection of actually leaving.
Karos has said again and again, justice is a conceit. It does not exist in nature. ‘Retribution seen in natural catastrophes is manufactured by all too eager and all too pious people, each one convinced the world will end but spare them and them alone. But we all know, the world is inherited by the obnoxious, not the righteous.’
Unless, came the thought in Janath’s voice, the two are one and the same.
He snarled as he hurried up the worn stone stairs. She was far below. Chained. A prisoner in her solitary cell.
There was no escape for her.
I have left her down there, far below. Far behind. She can’t escape.
Yet, in his mind, he heard her laughter.
And was no longer so sure.
Two entire wings of the Eternal Domicile were empty, long, vacated corridors and never-occupied chambers, storage rooms, administration vaults, servant quarters and kitchens. Guards patrolling these sections once a day carried their own lanterns, and left unrelieved darkness in their wake. In the growing damp of these unoccupied places, dust had become mould, mould had become rot, and the rot in turn leaked rank fluids that ran down plastered walls and pooled in dips in the floors.
Abandonment and neglect would soon defeat the ingenious innovations of Bugg’s Construction, as they defeated most things raised by hands out of the earth, and Turudal Brizad, the Errant, considered himself almost unique in his fullest recognition of such sordid truths. Indeed, there were other elders persisting in their nominal existence, but they one and all fought still against the ravages of inevitable dissolution. Whereas
the Errant could not be bothered.
Most of the time.
The Jaghut had come to comprehend the nature of futility, inspiring the Errant to a certain modicum of empathy for those most tragic of people. Where was Gothos now, he wondered. Probably long dead, all things considered. He had written a multiple-volumed suicide note – his Folly – that presumably concluded at some point, although the Errant had neither seen nor heard that such a conclusion existed. Perhaps, he considered with sudden suspicion, there was some hidden message in a suicidal testimonial without end, but if so, such meaning was too obscure for the mind of anyone but a Jaghut.
He had followed the Warlock King to the dead Azath, remained there long enough to discern Hannan Mosag’s intentions, and had now returned to the Eternal Domicile, where he could walk these empty corridors in peace. Contemplating, among other things, stepping once again into the fray. To battle, one more time, the ravages of dissolution.
He thought he could hear Gothos laughing, somewhere. But no doubt that was only his imagination, ever eager to mock his carefully reasoned impulses.
Finding himself in a stretch of corridor awash with slime-laden water, the Errant paused. ‘Well,’ he said with a soft sigh, ‘to bring a journey to a close, one must first begin it. Best I act whilst the will remains.’
His next step took him into a glade, thick verdant grasses underfoot, a ring of dazzling flowers at the very edges of the black-boled trees encircling the clearing. Butterflies danced from one bloom of colour to the next. The patch of sky visible overhead was faintly tinted vermilion and the air seemed strangely thin.
A voice spoke behind him. ‘I do not welcome company here.’
The Errant turned. He slowly cocked his head. ‘It’s not often the sight of a woman inspires fear in my soul.’
She scowled. ‘Am I that ugly, Elder?’
‘To the contrary, Menandore. Rather . . . formidable.’
‘You have trespassed into my place of refuge.’ She paused, then asked, ‘Does it so surprise you, that one such as myself needs refuge?’
‘I do not know how to answer that,’ he replied.
‘You’re a careful one, Errant.’
‘I suspect you want a reason to kill me.’
She walked past him, long black sarong flowing from frayed ends and ragged tears. ‘Abyss below,’ she murmured, ‘am I so transparent? Who but you could have guessed that I require justification for killing?’
‘So your sense of sarcasm has survived your solitude, Menandore. It is what I am ever accused of, isn’t it? My . . . random acts.’
‘Oh, I know they’re not random. They only seem that way. You delight in tragic failure, which leads me to wonder what you want with me? We are not well suited, you and I.’
‘What have you been up to lately?’ he asked.
‘Why should I tell you?’
‘Because I have information to impart, which you will find . . . well suited to your nature. And I seek recompense.’
‘If I deny it you will have made this fraught journey for nothing.’
‘It will only be fraught if you attempt something untoward, Menandore.’
‘Precisely.’
Her unhuman eyes regarded him steadily.
He waited.
‘Sky keeps,’ she said.
‘Ah, I see. Has it begun, then?’
‘No, but soon.’
‘Well, you are not one to act without long preparation, so I am not that surprised. And which side will we, eventually, find you on, Menandore?’
‘Why, mine of course.’
‘You will be opposed.’
One thin brow arched.
The Errant glanced around. ‘A pleasant place. What warren are we in?’
‘You would not believe me if I told you.’
‘Ah,’ he nodded, ‘that one. Very well, your sisters conspire.’
‘Not against me, Errant.’
‘Not directly, or, rather, not immediately. Rest assured, however, that the severing of your head from your shoulders is the eventual goal.’
‘Has she been freed, then?’
‘Imminent.’
‘And you will do nothing? What of the others in that fell city?’
Others? ‘Mael is being . . . Mael. Who else hides in Letheras, barring your two sisters?’
‘Sisters,’ she said, then sneered as she turned away, walked to one edge of the glade, where she crouched and plucked a flower. Facing him once more, she lifted the flower to draw deep its scent.
From the snapped stem, thick red blood dripped steadily.
I’ve indeed heard it said that beauty is the thinnest skin.
She suddenly smiled. ‘Why, no-one. I misspoke.’
‘You invite me to a frantic and no doubt time-devouring search to prove your ingenuousness, Menandore. What possible reason could you have to set me on such a trail?’
She shrugged. ‘Serves you right for infringing upon my place of refuge, Errant. Are we done here?’
‘Your flower is bled out,’ he said, as he stepped back, and found himself once more in the empty, flooded corridor of the Eternal Domicile’s fifth wing.
Others. The bitch.
As soon as the Errant vanished from the glade, Menandore flung the wilted flower to one side, and two figures emerged from the forest, one from her left, the other from her right.
Menandore arched her back as she ran both hands through her thick red hair.
Both figures paused to watch.
She had known they would. ‘You heard?’ she asked, not caring which one answered.
Neither did. Menandore dropped her pose and scowled over to the scrawny, shadow-swarmed god to her left. ‘That cane is an absurd affectation, you know.’
‘Never mind my absurd affectations, woman. Blood dripping from a flower, for Hood’s sake – oops—’ The god known as Shadowthrone tilted a head towards the tall, cowled figure opposite. ‘Humblest apologies, Reaper.’
Hood, Lord of Death, seemed to cock his head as if surprised. ‘Yours?’
‘Apologies? Naturally not. I but made a declarative statement. Was there a subject attached to it? No. We three fell creatures have met, have spoken, have agreed on scant little, and have concluded that our previous impressions of each other proved far too . . . generous. Nonetheless, it seems we are agreed, more or less, on the one matter you, Hood, wanted to address. It’s no wonder you’re so ecstatic.’
Menandore frowned at the Lord of Death, seeking evidence of ecstasy. Finding none, she eyed Shadowthrone once more. ‘Know that I have never accepted your claim.’
‘I’m crushed. So your sisters are after you. What a dreadful family you have. Want help?’
‘You too? Recall my dismissal of the Errant.’
Shadowthrone shrugged. ‘Elders think too slowly. My offer is of another magnitude. Think carefully before you reject it.’
‘And what do you ask in return?’
‘Use of a gate.’
‘Which gate?’
Shadowthrone giggled, then the eerie sound abruptly stopped, and in a serious tone he said, ‘Starvald Demelain.’
‘To what end?’
‘Why, providing you with assistance, of course.’
‘You want my sisters out of the way, too – perhaps more than I do. Squirming on that throne of yours, are you?’
‘Convenient convergence of desires, Menandore. Ask Hood about such things, especially now.’
‘If I give you access to Starvald Demelain, you will use it more than once.’
‘Not I.’
‘Do you so vow?’
‘Why not?’
‘Foolish,’ Hood said in a rasp.
‘I hold you to that vow, Shadowthrone,’ Menandore said.
‘Then you accept my help?’
‘As you do mine in this matter. Convergence of desires, you said.’
‘You’re right,’ Shadowthrone said. ‘I retract all notions of “help”. We are mutually assisting one another, as fi
ts said convergence; and once finished with the task at hand, no other obligations exist between us.’
‘That is agreeable.’
‘You two,’ Hood said, turning away, ‘are worse than advocates. And you don’t want to know what I do with the souls of advocates.’ A heartbeat later and the Lord of Death was gone.
Menandore frowned. ‘Shadowthrone, what are advocates?’
‘A profession devoted to the subversion of laws for profit,’ he replied, his cane inexplicably tapping as he shuffled back into the woods. ‘When I was Emperor, I considered butchering them all.’
‘So why didn’t you?’ she asked as he began to fade into a miasma of gloom beneath the trees.
Faintly came the reply, ‘The Royal Advocate said it’d be a terrible mistake.’
Menandore was alone once again. She looked around, then grunted. ‘Gods, I hate this place.’ A moment later she too vanished.
Janall, once Empress of the Lether Empire, was now barely recognizable as a human. Brutally used as a conduit of the chaotic power of the Crippled God, her body had been twisted into a malign nightmare, bones bent, muscles stretched and bunched, and now, huge bulges of fat hung in folds from her malformed body. She could not walk, could not even lift her left arm, and the sorcery had broken her mind, the madness burning from eyes that glittered malevolently in the gloom as Nisall, carrying a lantern, paused in the doorway.
The chamber was rank with sweat, urine and other suppurations from the countless oozing sores on Janall’s skin; the sweet reek of spoiled food, and another odour, pungent, that reminded the Emperor’s Concubine of rotting teeth.
Janall dragged herself forward with a strange, asymmetrical shift of her hips, pivoting on her right arm. The motion made a sodden sound beneath her, and Nisall saw the streams of saliva easing out from the once-beautiful woman’s misshapen mouth. The floor was pooled in the mucus and it was this, she realized, that was the source of the pungent smell.
Fighting back nausea, the Concubine stepped forward. ‘Empress.’
‘No longer!’ The voice was ragged, squeezed out from a deformed throat, and drool spattered with every jerk of her misshapen jaw. ‘I am Queen! Of his House, his honeyed House – oh, we are a contented family, oh yes, and one day, one day soon, you’ll see, that pup on the throne will come here. For me, his Queen. You, whore, you’re nothing – the House is not for you. You blind Rhulad to the truth, but his vision will clear, once,’ her voice dropped to a whisper and she leaned forward, ‘we are rid of you.’