The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (711 page)

No-one spoke for a half-dozen heartbeats, then Kettle giggled, drawing all eyes to her. Her blink was owlish. ‘They want us to find what we're looking for first, of course.'

‘Then why block our attempts to travel inland?' Seren demanded.

‘Because they know it's the wrong direction.'

‘How could they know that?'

Kettle's small, dust-stained hands fluttered like bats in the gloom. ‘The Crippled God told them, that's how. The Crippled God said it's not yet time to travel east. He's not ready for open war, yet. He doesn't want us to go into the wildlands, where all the secrets are waiting.'

Seren Pedac stared at the child. ‘Who in Errant's name is the Crippled God?'

‘The one who gave Rhulad his sword, Acquitor. The true power behind the Tiste Edur.' Kettle threw up her hands. ‘Scabandari's dead. The bargain was Hannan Mosag's, and the coin was Rhulad Sengar.'

Fear stood with bared teeth, staring at Kettle with something like terror in his eyes. ‘How do you know this?' he demanded.

‘The dead told me. They told me lots of things. So did the ones under the trees, the trapped ones. And they said something else too. They said the vast wheel is about to turn, one last time, before it closes. It closes, because it has to, because that's how he made it. To tell him all he needs to know. To tell him the truth.'

‘Tell who?' Seren asked, scowling in confusion.

‘Him, the one who's coming. You'll see.' She ran over to where Fear stood, took him by one hand and started tugging. ‘We need to hurry, or they'll get us. And if they get us, Silchas Ruin will have to kill everyone.'

I could strangle that child.
But she pushed herself to her feet once more.

Udinaas was laughing.

She was inclined to strangle him as well.

‘Silchas,' she said as she moved close, ‘do you have any idea what Kettle was talking about?'

‘No, Acquitor. But,' he added, ‘I intend to keep listening.'

He was not a man in bed. Oh, his parts functioned well enough, but in every other way he was a child, this Emperor of a Thousand Deaths. But worst of all, Nisall decided, was what happened afterwards, as he fell into that half-sleep, half-something else, limbs spasming, endless words tumbling from him in a litany of pleading, punctuated by despairing sobs that scraped the scented air of the chamber. And before long, after she'd escaped the bed itself, drawing a robe about her and taking position near the painted scene in the false window, five paces distant, she would watch him crawl down onto the floor and make his way as if crippled from some spinal injury, the ever-present sword trailing in one hand, across the room to the corner, where he would spend the rest of the night, curled up, locked in some eternal nightmare.

A thousand deaths, lived through night upon night. A thousand.

An exaggeration, of course. A few hundred at most.

Emperor Rhulad's torment was not the product of a fevered imagination, nor born of a host of anxieties. What haunted him were the truths of his past. She was able to identify some of his mutterings, in particular the one that dominated his nightmares, for she had been there. In the throne room, witness to Rhulad's non-death, weeping there on the floor all slick with his spilled blood, with a corpse on his throne and Rhulad's own slayer lying half upright against the dais – stolen away by poison.

Hannan Mosag's pathetic slither towards that throne had been halted by the demon that had appeared to collect the body of Brys Beddict, and the almost indifferent sword thrust that killed Rhulad as the apparition made its way out.

The Emperor's awakening shriek had turned her heart into a frozen lump, a cry so brutally raw that she felt its fire in her own throat.

But it was what followed, a short time after his return, that stalked Rhulad with a thousand dripping blades.

To die, only to return, is to never escape. Never escape…
anything
.

Wounds closing, he had lifted himself up, onto his hands and knees, still gripping the cursed sword, the weapon that would not let go. Weeping, drawing in ragged breaths, he crawled towards the throne, sagging down once more when he reached the dais.

Nisall had stepped out from where she had hidden moments earlier. Her mind was numb – the suicide of her king – her lover – and the Eunuch, Nifadas – the shocks, one upon another in this terrible throne room, the deaths, tumbling like crowded gravestones in a flooded field. Triban Gnol, ever the pragmatist, knelt before the new Emperor, pledging his service with the ease of an eel sliding under a new rock. The First Consort had been witness, as well, but she could not see Turudal Brizad now, as Rhulad, blood-wet coins gleaming, twisted round on the step and bared his teeth at Hannan Mosag.

‘
Not yours
,' he said in a rasp.

‘Rhulad—'

‘Emperor! And you, Hannan Mosag, are my
Ceda
. Warlock King no longer. My Ceda, yes.'

‘Your wife—'

‘Dead. Yes.' Rhulad lifted himself onto the dais, then rose, staring now at the dead Letherii king, Ezgara Diskanar. Then he reached out with his unburdened hand, grasped the front of the king's brocaded tunic, and dragged the corpse from the throne, letting it fall to one side, head crunching on the tiled floor. A shiver seemed to rack through Rhulad. Then he sat on the throne and looked out, eyes settling once more on Hannan Mosag. ‘Ceda,' he said, ‘in this, our chamber, you will ever approach us on your belly, as you do now.'

From the shadows at the far end of the throne room there came a phlegmatic cackle.

Rhulad flinched, then said, ‘Now you will leave us, Ceda. And take that hag Janall and her son with you.'

‘Emperor, please, you must understand—'

‘
Get out!
'

The shriek jarred Nisall, and she hesitated, fighting the urge to flee, to get away from this place. From the court, from the city, from everything.

Then his free hand snapped out and without turning he said to her, ‘Not you, whore. You stay.'

Whore
. ‘That term is inappropriate,' she said, then stiffened in fear, surprised by her own temerity.

He fixed feverish eyes on her. Then, incongruously, he waved dismissively and spoke with sudden weariness. ‘Of course. We apologize. Imperial Concubine…' His glittering face twisted in a half-smile. ‘Your king should have taken you as well. He was being selfish, or perhaps his love for you was so deep that he could not bear inviting you into death.'

She said nothing, for, in truth, she had no answer to give him.

‘Ah, we see the doubt in your eyes. Concubine, you have our sympathy. Know that we will not use you cruelly.' He fell silent then, as he watched Hannan Mosag drag himself back across the threshold of the chamber's grand entranceway. A half-dozen more Tiste Edur had appeared, tremulous in their furtive motions, their uncertainty at what they were witnessing. A hissed command from Hannan Mosag sent two into the room, each one drawing up the burlap over the mangled forms of Janall and Quillas, her son. The sound as they dragged the two flesh-filled sacks from the chamber was, to Nisall's ears, more grisly than anything else she had yet heard on this fell day.

‘At the same time,' the Emperor went on after a moment, ‘the title and its attendant privileges…remain, should you so desire.'

She blinked, feeling as if she was standing on shifting sand. ‘You free me to choose, Emperor?'

A nod, the bleary, red-shot eyes still fixed on the chamber's entranceway. ‘Udinaas,' he whispered. ‘Betrayer. You…you were not free to choose. Slave – my slave – I should never have trusted the darkness, never…' He flinched once more on the throne, eyes suddenly glittering. ‘He comes.'

She had no idea whom he meant, but the raw emotion in his voice frightened her anew. What more could come on this terrible day?

Voices outside, one of them sounding bitter, then diffident.

She watched as a Tiste Edur warrior strode into the throne room. Rhulad's brother. One of them. The one who had left Rhulad lying on the tiles. Young, handsome in that way of the Edur – both alien and perfect. She tried to recall if she had heard his name—

‘Trull,' said the Emperor in a rasp. ‘Where is he? Where is Fear?'

‘He has…left.'

‘Left? Left us?'

‘Us. Yes, Rhulad – or do you insist I call you Emperor?'

Expressions twisted across Rhulad's coin-studded face, one after another, then he grimaced and said, ‘You left me, too, brother. Left me bleeding…on the floor. Do you think yourself different from Udinaas? Less a betrayer than my Letherii slave?'

‘Rhulad, would that you were my brother of old—'

‘The one you sneered down upon?'

‘If it seemed I did that, then I apologize.'

‘Yes, you see the need for that now, don't you?'

Trull Sengar stepped forward. ‘It's the sword, Rhulad. It is cursed – please, throw it away. Destroy it. You've won the throne now, you don't need it any more—'

‘You are wrong.' He bared his teeth, as if sickened by self-hatred. ‘Without it I am just Rhulad, youngest son of Tomad. Without the sword, brother, I am nothing.'

Trull cocked his head. ‘You have led us to conquest. I will stand beside you. So will Binadas, and our father. You have won that throne, Rhulad – you need not fear Hannan Mosag—'

‘That miserable worm? You think me frightened of him?' The sword-tip made a snapping sound as its point jumped free of the tiles. Rhulad aimed the weapon at Trull's chest. ‘I am the
Emperor
!'

‘No, you're not,' Trull replied. ‘Your sword is Emperor – your sword and the power behind it.'

‘Liar!' Rhulad shrieked.

Nisall saw Trull flinch back, then steady himself. ‘Prove it.'

The Emperor's eyes widened.

‘Shatter the sword – Sister's blessing, just let it fall from your hand. Even that, Rhulad. Just that. Let it fall!'

‘No! I know what you want, brother! You will take it – I see you tensed, ready to dive for it – I see the truth!' The weapon was shuddering between them, as if eager for blood, anyone's blood.

Trull shook his head. ‘I want it shattered, Rhulad.'

‘You cannot stand at my side,' the Emperor hissed. ‘Too close – there is betrayal in your eyes – you left me! Crippled on the floor!' He raised his voice. ‘Where are my warriors? Into the chamber! Your Emperor commands it!'

A half-dozen Edur warriors suddenly appeared, weapons out.

‘Trull,' Rhulad whispered. ‘I see you have no sword. Now it is for you to drop your favoured weapon, your spear. And your knives. What? Do you fear I will slay you? Show me the trust you claim in yourself. Guide me with your honour,
brother
.'

She did not know it then; she did not understand enough of the Edur way of life, but she saw something in Trull's face, a kind of surrender, but a surrender that was far more complicated, fraught, than simply disarming himself there before his brother. Levels of resignation, settling one upon another, the descent of impossible burdens – and the knowledge shared between the two brothers, of what such a surrender signified. She did not realize at the time what Trull's answer would mean, the way it was done, not in his own name, not for himself, but for Fear. Fear Sengar, more than anyone else. She did not realize, then, the immensity of his sacrifice, as he unslung his spear and let it clatter to the tiles; as he removed his knife belt and threw it to one side.

There should have been triumph in Rhulad's tortured eyes, then, but there wasn't. Instead, a kind of confusion clouded his gaze, made him shy away, as if seeking help. His attention found and focused upon the six warriors, and he gestured with the sword and said in a broken voice, ‘Trull Sengar is to be Shorn. He will cease to exist, for ourself, for all Edur. Take him. Bind him. Take him away.'

Neither had she realized what that judgement, that decision, had cost Rhulad himself.

Free to choose, she had chosen to remain, for reasons she could not elucidate even in her own mind. Was there pity? Perhaps. Ambition, without question – for she had sensed, in that predatory manner demanded of life in the court, that there was a way through to him, a way to replace – without all the attendant history – those who were no longer at Rhulad's side. Not one of his warrior sycophants – they were worthless, ultimately, and she knew that Rhulad was well aware of that truth. In the end, she could see, he had no-one. Not his brother, Binadas, who, like Trull, proved too close and thus too dangerous for the Emperor to keep around – and so he had sent him away, seeking champions and scattered kin of the Edur tribes. As for his father, Tomad, again the suborning role proved far too awkward to accommodate. Of the surviving K'risnan of Hannan Mosag, fully half had been sent to accompany Tomad and Binadas, so as to keep the new Ceda weak.

And all the while, as these decisions were made, as the Shorning was conducted, in secrecy, away from Letherii eyes, and as Nisall manoeuvred herself into the Emperor's bed, the Chancellor, Triban Gnol, had watched on, with the hooded eyes of a raptor.

The consort, Turudal Brizad, had vanished, although Nisall had heard rumours among the court servants that he had not gone far; that he haunted the lesser travelled corridors and subterranean mysteries of the old palace, ghostly and rarely more than half seen. She was undecided on the veracity of such claims; even so, if he were indeed hiding still in the palace, she realized that such a thing would not surprise her in the least. It did not matter – Rhulad had no wife, after all.

The Emperor's lover, a role she was accustomed to, although it did not seem that way. Rhulad was so young, so different from Ezgara Diskanar. His spiritual wounds were too deep to be healed by her touch, and so, even as she found herself in a position of eminence, of power – close as she was to the throne – she felt helpless. And profoundly alone.