The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (798 page)

‘Sire, he is no military commander—'

‘Quiet! You have heard my will, Hannan Mosag. Defy me again and I will have you flailed.'

Hannan Mosag did not quail at the threat. Why would he in that destroyed body? Clearly, the Ceda, once Warlock King, was familiar with agony; indeed, at times it seemed the deadly magic that poured through him transformed pain into ecstasy, lighting Hannan Mosag's eyes with fervent fire.

Triban Gnol said to the Emperor, ‘Sire, we shall protect you.' He hesitated, just long enough, then half raised a hand as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘Emperor, I wonder, perhaps it would be best to begin the Challenges? Soon? Their presence is a distraction, an irritant for my guards. There have been incidents of violence, a growing impatience.' He paused again, two heartbeats, then said in a lower tone: ‘Speculation, sire, that you fear to face them…'

Hannan Mosag's sneer produced a bestial growl. ‘You pathetic creature, Gnol—'

‘Not another word, Ceda!' Rhulad hissed. Spasms rippled across the Emperor's mottled face. The sword skittered again.

Yes, Rhulad, you understand what it is to fear death more than any of us. Perhaps more than any mortal creature this world has seen. But you flinch not from some vague notion of oblivion, do you? No, for you, dear Emperor, death is something different. Never an end, only that which precedes yet another pain-filled rebirth. Even in death you cannot lose yourself, cannot escape – does anyone else here, apart from me, truly grasp the sheer horror of that?

‘The Challenges,' said the Emperor, ‘will begin in four days. Chancellor, have your assessors agreed on an order?'

‘Yes, sire. Three of the least skilled to begin. It is likely you will kill all three in a single day. They will tax you, of that we can be sure, but not unduly so. The second day is reserved for one champion. A masked woman. Exceptional speed but perhaps lacking imagination. Yet she will be difficult.'

‘Good.'

‘Sire…'

‘Yes? What is it?'

‘There are the two we have spoken of before. The Tarthenal with the flint sword. Undefeated by any other champion – in fact, no-one dares spar with him any more. He has the habit of breaking bones.'

‘Yes. The arrogant one.' Rhulad smiled. ‘But I have faced Tarthenal before.'

‘But not one with Karsa Orlong's prowess, sire.'

‘No matter, that.'

‘He may succeed in killing you, sire. Perhaps more than once. Not seven. Such days are long past. But, perhaps, three or four. We have allotted three days.'

‘Following the masked woman?'

‘No, there are six others to span two days.'

Hannan Mosag was staring at the Chancellor now. ‘Three days for this Tarthenal? No champion has yet been accorded
three
days.'

‘Nonetheless, my assessors were unanimous, Ceda. This one is…unique.'

Rhulad was trembling once more. Slain by Karsa Orlong three, four times.
Yes, sire, the sheer horror of that…

‘There remains one more,' the Emperor said.

‘Yes. The one named Icarium. He will be the last. If not the eighth day, then the ninth.'

‘And the number of days with him, Chancellor?'

‘Unknown, sire. He does not spar.'

‘Then how do we know he can fight?'

Triban Gnol bowed again. ‘Sire, we have discussed this before. The report of Varat Taun, corroborated by Icarium's companion, Taralack Veed. And now, I learned today, something new. Something most extraordinary.'

‘What? Tell me!'

‘Among the rejected champions, sire, a monk from a distant archipelago. It would appear, sire, that this monk – and indeed all of his people – worship a single god. And this god is none other than Icarium.'

Rhulad flinched as if struck across the face. The sword's point leapt up from the floor, then cracked down again. Marble chips clattered down the dais step. ‘I am to cross blades with a
god
?'

The Chancellor shrugged. ‘Do such claims hold veracity, sire? A primitive, ignorant people, these Cabalhii. No doubt seeing in dhenrabi the soul of sea-storms and in crab carapaces the faces of the drowned. I should add, Emperor, that this monk believes his god to be insane, to which the only answer is a painted mask denoting laughter. Savages possess the strangest notions.'

‘A god…'

Triban Gnol risked a glance at Hannan Mosag. The Warlock King's expression was closed as he studied Rhulad. Something about that awakened a worm of unease in the Chancellor's gut.

‘I shall slay a god…'

‘There is no reason to believe otherwise,' Triban Gnol said in a calm, confident voice. ‘It will serve timely, sire, in pronouncing your own godhood.'

Rhulad's eyes widened.

‘Immortality,' the Chancellor murmured, ‘already well established. Worshipped? Oh yes, by every citizen of this empire. Too modest, oh yes, to make the pronouncement of what is obvious to us all. But, when you stand over Icarium's destroyed corpse, well, that will be pronouncement enough, I should imagine.'

‘Godhood. A god.'

‘Yes, sire. Most assuredly. I have instructed the guild of sculptors, and their finest artists have already begun work. We shall announce the end of the Challenge in a most appropriate, a most glorious, manner.'

‘You are wise indeed,' Rhulad said, slowly leaning back. ‘Yes, wise.'

Triban Gnol bowed, ignoring the sour grunt from Hannan Mosag.
Oh, Ceda, you are mine now, and I shall use you. You and your foul Edur. Oh yes.
His eyes focused on his hands, folded so serenely where they rested on the clasp of his belt. ‘Sire, orders must be delivered to our armies. The Ceda and I must discuss the disposition of mages and K'risnan.'

‘Yes, of course. Leave me, all of you. Attend to your tasks.'

Gesturing behind him, Triban Gnol backed away, head still lowered, eyes now on the floor with its chips of marble and streaks of dust.

He could hear Hannan Mosag and his collection of freaks dragging their way towards the doors, like gigantic migrating toads. The simile brought a faint smile to his lips.

Out in the corridor, the doors shutting behind them, Triban Gnol turned to study Hannan Mosag. But the Ceda was continuing on, toads crowding his wake.

‘Hannan Mosag,' the Chancellor called out. ‘You and I have—'

‘Save your crap for Rhulad,' the Ceda snapped.

‘He will be displeased to hear of your lack of co-operation.'

‘Flap away with that tongue of yours, Gnol. The displeasures yet to come will overwhelm your pathetic bleatings, I am sure.'

‘What do you mean?'

But Hannan Mosag did not answer.

Triban Gnol watched as they plunged into a side passage and were gone from sight.
Yes, I will deal with you, Ceda, with great satisfaction.
‘Sirryn, assemble your entourage in the compound and be on your way within the bell. And take these mages with you.'

‘Yes sir.'

The Chancellor remained where he was until they too were gone, then he set off for his office, well pleased. That worm of unease was, however, reluctant to cease its gnawing deep inside him. He would have to think on that – too dangerous to just ignore such instincts, after all. But not right now. It was important to reward oneself, promptly, and so he released that flow of satisfaction. Everything was proceeding nicely – that detail about the Emperor himself being the final target of these foreigners simply sweetened the scenario. The Tiste Edur would of course stand to defend their Emperor –
they would, certainly
.

Yet, Rhulad's own brothers, the day of the accession.
The worm writhed, forcing a twitch to his face, and he quickened his pace, eager for the sanctuary of his office.

Only to discover it occupied.

Triban Gnol stood in the doorway, surprised and discomfited by the sight of the man standing to one side of the huge desk. The crimson silks, the onyx rings, that damned sceptre of office tapping rhythmically on one rounded shoulder. ‘What in the Errant's name are you doing here, Invigilator?'

Karos Invictad sighed. ‘I share your displeasure, Chancellor.'

Triban Gnol entered the room, walked round his desk and sat. ‘I am in the habit of assuming that your control of the city is well in hand—'

‘Where is Bruthen Trana?'

The Chancellor pursed his lips. ‘I haven't the time for this. Put your panic to rest – Bruthen Trana is no longer in Letheras.'

‘Then where has he gone? What road? How long ago? What is the size of his escort?'

Sighing, Triban Gnol leaned back, eyes settling on his hands where they rested palms down on the desktop. ‘Your need for vengeance, Invigilator, is compromising your responsibilities in maintaining order. You must step back, draw a few deep breaths—'

The sceptre cracked down on the desktop, directly between the Chancellor's hands. Triban Gnol lurched back in alarm.

Karos Invictad leaned far forward, seeking an imposing, threatening posture that, alas, failed. The man was, simply put, too small. Sweat glistened on his brow, beads glinting from his nose and to either side of that too-full mouth. ‘You patronizing piece of shit,' the Invigilator whispered. ‘I was given leave to hunt down Tiste Edur. I was given leave to make arrests. I wanted that K'risnan who accompanied Bruthen Trana, only to find him beyond my reach because of Hannan Mosag and this damned invasion from the west. Fine. He can wait until the trouble passes. But Bruthen Trana…no, I will not put that aside. I want him.
I want him!
'

‘He has been whisked away, Invigilator, and no, we have no information on when, or which road or ship he set out on. He is gone. Will he return? I imagine he will, and when that time comes, of course he is yours. In the meantime, Karos, we are faced with far more important concerns. I have four armies massing west of the city for which wages are now two weeks overdue. Why? Because the treasury is experiencing a shortage of coin. Even as you and your favourite agents line the walls of your new estates with stolen loot, even as you assume control of one confiscated enterprise after another. Tell me, Invigilator, how fares the treasury of the Patriotists these days? Minus the loot?' The Chancellor then rose from his chair, making full use of his superior height and seeing with grim pleasure the small man step back. It was now Triban Gnol's turn to lean across the desk. ‘We have a crisis! The threat of financial ruin looms over us all – and you stand here fretting over one Tiste Edur barbarian!' He made a show of struggling to master his fury, then added, ‘I have received increasingly desperate missives from the Liberty Consign, from Rautos Hivanar himself – the wealthiest man in the empire. Missives, Invigilator, imploring me to summon you – so be it, here you are, and you
will
answer my questions! And if those answers do not satisfy me, I assure you they will not satisfy Rautos Hivanar!'

Karos Invictad sneered. ‘Hivanar. The old fool has gone senile. Obsessing over a handful of artifacts dug up from the river bank. Have you seen him of late? He has lost so much weight his skin hangs like drapery on his bones.'

‘Perhaps you are the source of his stress, Invigilator—'

‘Hardly.'

‘Rautos has indicated you have been…excessive, in your use of his resources. He begins to suspect you are using his coin for the payroll of the entire Patriotist organization.'

‘I am and will continue to do so. In pursuit of the conspirators.' Karos smiled. ‘Chancellor, your opinion that Rautos Hivanar is the wealthiest man in the empire is, alas, in error. At least, if it was once so, it is no longer.'

Triban Gnol stared at the man. At his flushed, triumphant expression. ‘Explain yourself, Karos Invictad.'

‘At the beginning of this investigation, Chancellor, I perceived the essential weakness in our position. Rautos Hivanar himself. As leader of the Liberty Consign. And, by extension, the Consign itself was, as an organization, inherently flawed. We were faced with a looming collision, one that I could not will myself blind to, and accordingly it was incumbent on me to rectify the situation as quickly as possible. You see, the power lay with me, but the wealth resided in the clutches of Hivanar and his Consign. This was unacceptable. In order to meet the threat of the conspirators – or, as I now see, conspirator – yes, there is but one – in order to meet his threat, I needed to attack from a consolidated position.'

Triban Gnol stared, disbelieving even as he began to comprehend the direction of the Invigilator's pompous, megalomaniacal monologue.

‘The sweetest irony is,' Karos Invictad continued, sceptre once more tapping a beat on his shoulder, ‘that lone criminal and his pathetically simplistic efforts at financial sabotage provided me with the greatest inspiration. It was not difficult, for one of my intelligence, to advance and indeed to elaborate on that theme of seeming destabilization. Of course, the only people being destabilized were Rautos Hivanar and his fellow bloated blue-bloods, and was I supposed to be sympathetic? I, Karos Invictad, born to a family crushed by murderous debt? I, who struggled, using every talent I possessed to finally rid myself of that inherited misery – no,' he laughed softly, ‘there was no sympathy in my heart. Only bright revelation, brilliant inspiration – do you know who was my greatest idol when I fought my war against Indebtedness? Tehol Beddict. Recall him? Who could not lose, whose wealth shot skyward with such stunning speed, achieving such extraordinary height, before flashing out like a spent star in the night sky. Oh, he liked his games, didn't he? Yet, a lesson there, and one I heeded well. Such genius, sparking too hot, too soon, left him a gutted shell. And that, Chancellor, I would not emulate.'

‘You,' Triban Gnol said, ‘are the true source of this empire-wide sabotage.'