The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (478 page)

‘Well, I run the company. I don't use those things.'

‘But you need the belt.'

‘If I'm to be taken seriously, master, yes.'

‘Oh yes, that is important, isn't it? Duly noted in expenses, I presume?'

‘Of course. That and the wooden hat.'

‘You mean one of those red bowl-shaped things?'

‘That's right.'

‘So why aren't you wearing it?'

‘I'm not working right now. Not as sole proprietor of Bugg's Construction, anyway.'

‘Yet you've got the belt.'

‘It's comforting, master. I suppose this must be what it's like wearing a sword-belt. There's something immensely reassuring about a solid weight on the hips.'

‘As if you were eternally duelling with your materials.'

‘Yes, master. Are you done with your thinking?'

‘I am.'

‘Good.' Bugg unstrapped his belt and tossed it to the rooftop. ‘Makes my hips lopsided. I walk in circles.'

‘How about some herbal tea?'

‘I'd love some.'

‘Excellent.'

They stared at one another for a moment longer, then Bugg nodded and made his way to the ladder. As soon as his back was turned, Tehol tugged the trousers higher once more. Glancing down at the belt, he hesitated, then shook his head.
That would be a presumption
.

Bugg climbed down and out of sight. Tehol strode to his bed and settled down on the creaking frame. He stared up at the murky stars. A holiday festival was approaching, this one dedicated to the Errant, that eternally mysterious purveyor of chance, fateful circumstance and ill-chosen impulses. Or some such thing. Tehol was never certain. The Holds and their multitude of denizens were invented as dependable sources of blame for virtually anything, or so he suspected. Evading responsibility was a proclivity of the human species, it seemed.

There would be vast senseless celebration, in any case. Of something, perhaps nothing, and certainly involving everything. Frenzied wagers at the Special Drownings, in which the most notorious criminals would try to swim like swans. People who liked to be seen would make a point of being seen. Spectacle was an investment in worthy indolence, and indolence bespoke wealth. And meanwhile, housebound guards in empty estates would mutter and doze at their posts.

A scuffing sound from the gloom to his right. Tehol glanced over. ‘You're early.'

Shurq Elalle stepped closer. ‘You said midnight.'

‘Which is at least two bells from now.'

‘Is it? Oh.'

Tehol sat up. ‘Well, you're here. No point in sending you away. Even so, we're not to visit Selush until a chime past midnight.'

‘We could go early.'

‘We could, although I'd rather not alarm her. She indicated she'd need lots of supplies, after all.'

‘What makes me worse than any other corpse?'

‘Other corpses don't fight back, for one thing.'

The undead woman came closer. ‘Why would I feel compelled to resist? Is she not simply making me pretty?'

‘Of course. I was just making conversation. And how have you been, Shurq Elalle?'

‘The same.'

‘The same. Which is?'

‘I've been better. Still, many would call consistency a virtue. Those are extraordinary trousers.'

‘I agree. Not to everyone's taste, alas—'

‘I have no taste.'

‘Ah. And is that a consequence of being dead, or a more generic self-admission?'

The flat, lifeless eyes, which had until now been evading direct contact, fixed on Tehol. ‘I was thinking…the night of Errant's Festival.'

Tehol smiled. ‘You anticipate me, Shurq.'

‘There are sixteen guards on duty at all times, with an additional eight sleeping or gambling in the barracks, which is attached to the estate's main house via a single covered walkway that is nineteen strides in length. All outer doors are double-barred. There are four guards stationed in cubbies at each corner of the roof, and wards skeined over every window. The estate walls are twice the height of a man.'

‘Sounds formidable.'

Shurq Elalle's shrug elicited a wet-leather sound, though whether from her clothes or from somewhere else could not be determined.

Bugg reappeared, climbing one-handed, the other balancing a tray made from a crate lid. Two clay cups were on the tray, their contents steaming. He slowly edged onto the roof, then, glancing up and seeing the two of them, he halted in consternation. ‘My apologies. Shurq Elalle, greetings. Would you care for some tea?'

‘Don't be absurd.'

‘Ah, yes. Thoughtless of me. Your pardon.' Bugg walked over with the tray.

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.'

‘Yes, it would be.'

‘We're not poisoning ourselves, are we?'

‘Only mildly, master.'

‘There are times,' Shurq Elalle said, ‘when I regret being dead. This is not one of those times, however.'

The two men eyed her speculatively, sipping at their tea.

‘Ideally,' she continued, ‘I would now clear my throat to cover this moment of awkwardness. But I am incapable of feeling any more awkward than is my normal state. Secondly, clearing my throat has unpleasant consequences.'

‘Ah, but Selush has devised a pump,' Tehol said. ‘The operation will be, uh, not for the delicate. Even so, soon you shall exude the perfume of roses.'

‘And how will she manage that?'

‘With roses, I imagine.'

Shurq raised a thin brow. ‘I am to be stuffed with dried flowers?'

‘Well, not everywhere, of course.'

‘A practical question, Tehol Beddict. How am I to be stealthy if I crackle with every step I take?'

‘A good question. I suggest you bring that up with Selush.'

‘Along with everything else, it would seem. Shall I resume my account of the potential victim's estate? I assume your manservant is trustworthy.'

‘Exceptionally so,' Tehol replied. ‘Please continue.'

‘Finadd Gerun Eberict will be attending the Special Drownings, whereupon, at its conclusion, he will be a guest at an event hosted by Turudal Brizad—'

‘The Queen's Consort?'

‘Yes. I once robbed him.'

‘Indeed! And what did you take?'

‘His virginity. We were very young—well, he was, anyway. This was long before he danced at the palace and so earned the interest of the queen.'

‘Now that's an interesting detail. Were you his true love, if I may ask such a personal question?'

‘Turudal's only love is for himself. As I said, he was younger and I the older. Of course, he's now older than me, which is a curious fact. Somewhat curious, anyway. In any case, there was no shortage of men and women pursuing him even back then. I imagine he believed the conquest was his. Perhaps he still does. The measure of the perfect theft is when the victim remains blissfully unaware that he or she has been stolen from.'

‘I'd think,' observed Bugg, ‘that Turudal Brizad did not regret his surrender.'

‘None the less,' Shurq Elalle said. She was silent, then: ‘There is nothing in this world that cannot be stolen.'

‘And with that thought swirling like lanolin in our stomachs,' Tehol said, setting his cup down, ‘you and I should take a walk, Shurq.'

‘How far to Selush's?'

‘We can stretch it out. Thank you, dear Bugg, for the delightfully unique refreshment. Clean up around here, will you?'

‘If I've the time.'

Shurq hesitated. ‘Should I climb down the wall then shadow you unseen?'

Tehol frowned. ‘Only if you must. You could just draw that hood up and so achieve anonymity.'

‘Very well. I will meet you in the street, so that I am not seen exiting a house I never entered.'

‘There are still watchers spying on me?'

‘Probably not, but it pays to be cautious.'

‘Very good. I will see you in a moment, then.'

Tehol descended the ladder. The single room reeked of sheep sweat, and the heat from the hearth was fierce. He quickly made his way outside, turned right instead of left and came to what had once been a sort of unofficial mews, now cluttered with refuse and discarded building materials, the fronts facing onto it sealed by bricks or doors with their latches removed.

Shurq Elalle emerged from the shadows, her hood drawn about her face. ‘Tell me more about this Selush.'

They began walking, threading single file down a narrow lane to reach the street beyond. ‘A past associate of Bugg's. Embalmers and other dealers of the dead are a kind of extended family, it seems. Constantly exchanging techniques and body parts. It's quite an art, I gather. A body's story can be unfurled from a vast host of details, to be read like a scroll.'

‘What value assembling a list of flaws when the subject is already dead?'

‘Morbid curiosity, I imagine. Or curious morbidity.'

‘Are you trying to be funny?'

‘Never, Shurq Elalle. I have taken to heart your warnings on that.'

‘You, Tehol Beddict, are very dangerous to me. Yet I am drawn, as if you were intellectual white nectar. I thirst for the tension created by my struggle to avoid being too amused.'

‘Well, if Selush succeeds in what she intends, the risk associated with laughter will vanish, and you may chortle fearlessly.'

‘Even when I was alive, I never
chortled
. Nor do I expect to do so now that I am dead. But what you suggest invites…disappointment. A releasing of said tension, a dying of the sparks. I now fear getting depressed.'

‘The risk of achieving what you wish for,' Tehol said, nodding as they reached Trench Canal and began to walk along its foul length. ‘I empathize, Shurq Elalle. It is a sore consequence to success.'

‘Tell me what you know of the old tower in the forbidden grounds behind the palace.'

‘Not much, except that your undead comrade resides in the vicinity. The girl.'

‘Yes, she does. I have named her Kettle.'

‘We cross here.' Tehol indicated a footbridge. ‘She means something to you?'

‘That is difficult to answer. Perhaps. It may prove that she means something to all of us, Tehol Beddict.'

‘Ah. And can I be of some help in this matter?'

‘Your offer surprises me.'

‘I endeavour to remain ever surprising, Shurq Elalle.'

‘I am seeking to discover her…history. It is, I think, important. The old tower appears to be haunted in some way, and that haunting is in communication with Kettle. It poses desperate need.'

‘For what?'

‘Human flesh.'

‘Oh my.'

‘In any case, this is why Gerun Eberict is losing the spies he sets on you.'

Tehol halted. ‘Excuse me?'

‘Kettle kills them.'

 

Steeply sloped, the black wall of rock reached up into the light. The currents swept across its rippled face with unceasing ferocity, and all that clung to it to draw sustenance from that roiling stream was squat, hard-shelled and stubborn. Vast flats stretched out from the base of the trench wall, and these were scoured down to bedrock. Enormous tangled islands of detritus, crushed and bound together by unimaginable pressures, crawled across the surface, like migrating leviathans in the flow of dark water.

Brys stood on the plain, watching the nearest tumbling mass roll past. He knew he was witness to sights no mortal had ever seen, where natural eyes would see only darkness, where the pressures would have long since killed corporeal flesh descending from the surface far above. Yet here he stood, to his own senses as real, as physical, as he had been in the palace. Clothed, armoured, his sword hanging at his hip. He could feel the icy water and its wild torrent in a vague, remote fashion, but the currents could not challenge his balance, could not drag him off his feet. Nor did the cold steal the strength from his limbs.

He drew breath, and the air was cool and damp—it was, he realized, the air of the subterranean chamber of the Cedance.

That recognition calmed his heart, diminished his disorientation.

A god dwells in this place
. It seemed well suited for such a thing. Primal, fraught with extremes, a realm of raw violence and immense, clashing forces of nature.

Another mass of wreckage shambled past, and Brys saw, amidst pale, skeletal branches and what seemed to be bundles of unravelled rope, flattened pieces of metal whose edges showed extruded white tendrils.
By the Errant, that metal is armour, and those tendrils are…

The detritus tumbled away. As it did, Brys saw something beyond it. Stationary, blockish, vertical shapes rearing from the plain.

He walked towards them.

Dolmens.

This beggared comprehension. It seemed impossible that the plain before him had once known air, sunlight and dry winds.

And then he saw that the towering stones were of the same rock as the plain, and that they were indeed part of it, lifting as solid projections. As Brys drew nearer, he saw that their surfaces were carved, an unbroken skein of linked glyphs.

Six dolmens in all, forming a row that cut diagonally from the angle of the trench wall.

He halted before the nearest one.

The glyphs formed a silver latticework over the black stone, and in the uneven surface beneath the symbols he saw the hints of a figure. Multi-limbed, the head small, sloping and squat, a massive brow ridge projecting over a single eye socket. The broad mouth appeared to be a row of elongated tendrils, the end of each sporting long, thin fangs, and it was closed to form an interlocking, spiny row. Six segmented arms, two—possibly four—legs, barely suggested in the black stone's undulations.