Authors: Steven Erikson
Kindly stood, holding a braided leather leash with one end tied into a noose. ‘I’m going to slip this over your head, dog. Make a fuss and I’ll hang you high and laugh at every twitch. In fact, I’ll devise a hundred new ways of killing you and I’ll use every one of them.’ He lifted the noose into view.
A matted ball of twigs, hair and clumps of mud that had been lying off to one side of the pen—a heap that had been doing its own growling—suddenly launched
itself forward in a flurry of bounds until it drew close enough to fling itself into the air—sharp, tiny teeth aiming for the captain’s neck.
He lashed out his left fist, intercepting the lapdog in mid-air. A muted crunching sound, and the clack of jaws snapping shut on nothing, as the Hengese lapdog named Roach abruptly altered course, landing and bouncing a few times behind Bent, where it lay stunned, small chest heaving, pink tongue lolling.
The gazes of Kindly and the cattle-dog had remained locked through all of this.
‘Oh, never mind the damned leash,’ said the captain after a moment. ‘Never mind Grub and Sinn. Let’s make this as simple as possible. I am going to draw my sword and chop you to pieces, dog.’
‘Don’t do that!’ said a voice behind him.
Kindly turned to see Grub and, behind the boy, Sinn. Both stood just inside the stable entrance, wearing innocent expressions. ‘Convenient,’ he said. ‘The Adjunct wants you both.’
‘The reading?’ Grub asked. ‘No, we can’t do that.’
‘But you will.’
‘We thought we could hide in the old Azath,’ said Grub, ‘but that won’t work—’
‘Why?’ Kindly demanded.
Grub shook his head. ‘We don’t want to go. It’d be . . . bad.’
The captain held up the leash with its noose. ‘One way or the other, maggots.’
‘Sinn will burn you to a crisp!’
Kindly snorted. ‘Her? Probably just wet herself, from the look on her face. Now, will this be nice or will it be
my
way? Aye, you can guess which way I’m leaning, can’t you?’
‘It’s the Azath—’ began Grub.
‘Not my problem,’ cut in Kindly. ‘You want to whine, save it for the Adjunct.’
They set out.
‘Everyone hates you, you know,’ Grub said.
‘Seems fair,’ Kindly replied.
She rose from her chair, wincing at the ache in her lower back, and then waddled towards the door. She had few acquaintances, barring a titchy midwife who stumbled in every now and then, inside a cloud of eye-watering d’bayang fumes, and the old woman down the lane who’d baked her something virtually every day since she started showing. And it was late, which made the heavy knock at her door somewhat unusual.
Seren Pedac, who had once been an Acquitor, opened the door.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘hello.’
The old man bowed. ‘Lady, are you well?’
‘Well, I’ve no need for any masonry work, sir—’
‘Acquitor—’
‘I am no longer—’
‘Your title remains on the kingdom’s tolls,’ he said, ‘and you continue to receive your stipend.’
‘And twice I have requested that both be terminated.’ And then she paused and cocked her head. ‘I’m sorry, but how do you know about that?’
‘My apologies, Acquitor. I am named Bugg, and my present responsibilities include those of Chancellor of the Realm, among, uh, other things. Your requests were noted and filed and subsequently rejected by me.’ He held up a hand. ‘Be at ease, you will not be dragged from your home to resume work. You are essentially retired, and will receive your full pension for the rest of your life, Acquitor. In any case,’ he added, ‘I am not visiting this night in that capacity.’
‘Oh? Then, sir, what is it you want?’
‘May I enter?’
She stepped back, and once he’d come inside she shut the door, edged past him in the narrow corridor, and led him into the sparsely furnished main room. ‘Please sit, Chancellor. Having never seen you, I’m afraid I made no connection with the kind gentleman who helped me move a few stones.’ She paused, and then said, ‘If rumours are correct, you were once the King’s manservant, yes?’
‘Indeed I was.’ He waited until she’d settled into her chair before seating himself in the only other chair. ‘Acquitor, you are in your sixth month?’
She started. ‘Yes. And which file did you read to discover that?’
‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘I am feeling unusually clumsy tonight. In, uh, your company, I mean.’
‘It has been some time since I last intimidated anyone, Chancellor.’
‘Yes, well, perhaps . . . well, it’s not quite you, Acquitor.’
‘Should I be relieved that you have retracted your compliment?’
‘Now you play with me.’
‘I do. Chancellor, please, what is all this about?’
‘I think it best you think of me in a different capacity, Acquitor. Rather than “chancellor”, may I suggest “Ceda”.’
Her eyes slowly widened. ‘Ah. Very well. Tehol Beddict had quite the manservant, it seems.’
‘I am here,’ said Bugg, eyes dropping momentarily to the swell of her belly, ‘to provide a measure of . . . protection.’
She felt a faint twist of fear inside. ‘For me, or my baby? Protection from what?’
He leaned forward, hands entwined. ‘Seren Pedac, your child’s father was Trull Sengar. A Tiste Edur and brother to Emperor Rhulad. He was, however, somewhat
more
than that.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he was my love.’
His gaze shied away and he nodded. ‘There is a version of the Tiles, consisting of Houses, a kind of formal structure imposed on various forces at work in the universe. It is called the Deck of Dragons. Within this Deck, the House of Shadow is ruled, for the moment, not by the Tiste Edur who founded that realm, but by new entities. In the House, there is a King, no Queen as yet, and below the King of High House Shadow there are sundry, uh, servants. Such roles find new faces every now and then. Mortal faces.’
She watched him, her mouth dry as sun-baked stone. She watched as he wrung his hands, as his eyes shifted away again and again. ‘Mortal faces,’ she said.
‘Yes, Acquitor.’
‘Trull Sengar.’
‘The Knight of Shadow.’
‘Cruelly abandoned, it would seem.’
‘Not by choice, nor neglect, Acquitor. These Houses, they are engaged in war, and this war escalates—’
‘Trull did not choose that title, did he?’
‘No. Choice plays little part in such things. Perhaps even the Lords and Ladies of the Houses are in truth less omnipotent than they would like to believe. The same, of course, can be said for the gods and goddesses. Control is an illusion, a deceptive one that salves thin-skinned bluster.’
‘Trull is dead,’ Seren said.
‘But the Knight of Shadow lives on,’ Bugg replied.
The dread had been building within her, an icy tide rising to flood every space within her, between her thoughts, drowning them one by one, and now cold fear engulfed her. ‘Our child,’ she whispered.
Bugg’s eyes hardened. ‘The Errant invited the murder of Trull Sengar. Tonight, Acquitor, the Deck of Dragons will be awakened, in this very city. This awakening is in truth a challenge to the Errant, an invitation to battle. Is he ready? Is he of sufficient strength to counter-attack? Will this night end awash in mortal blood? I cannot say. One thing I mean to prevent, Seren Pedac, is the Errant striking his enemies through the child you carry.’
‘That’s not good enough,’ she whispered.
His brows rose. ‘Acquitor?’
‘I said it’s not good enough! Who is this King of High House Shadow? How dare he claim my child! Summon him, Ceda! Here! Now!’
‘Summon? Acquitor, even if I could, that would be . . . please, you must understand. To summon a god—even if naught but a fragment of its spirit—will be to set afire the brightest beacon—one that will be seen by not just the Errant, but other forces as well. On this night, Acquitor, we must do nothing to draw attention to ourselves.’
‘It is you who needs to understand, Ceda. If the Errant wants to harm my child . . . you may well be a Ceda, but the Errant is a
god.
Who has already murdered the man I loved—a Knight of Shadow. You may not be
enough
. My child is to be the new Knight of Shadow? Then the High King of Shadow will come here—tonight—
and he will protect his Knight!
’
‘Acquitor—’
‘Summon him!’
‘Seren—I am enough. Against the Errant. Against any damned fool who dares to come close,
I am enough
.’
‘That makes no sense.’
‘Nevertheless.’
She stared at him, unable to disguise her disbelief, her terror.
‘Acquitor, there are other forces in the city. Ancient, benign ones, yet powerful nonetheless. Would it ease your concern if I summon
them
on your behalf? On your unborn son’s behalf?’
Son. The red-eyed midwife was right, then.
‘They will listen to you?’
‘I believe so.’
After a moment, she nodded. ‘Very well. But Ceda, after tonight—I will speak to this King of Shadow.’
He flinched. ‘I fear you will find the meeting unsatisfactory, Acquitor.’
‘I will decide that for myself.’
Bugg sighed. ‘So you shall, Seren Pedac.’
‘When will you summon your friends, Ceda?’
‘I already have.’
Lostara Yil had said there’d be eleven in all not counting Fiddler himself. That was madness. Eleven players for the reading. Bottle glanced across at Fiddler as they marched up the street in the wake of the two women. The man looked sick, rings under his eyes, mouth twisted in a grimace. The darker roots of his hair and beard made the silvered ends seem to hover like an aura, a hint of chaos.
Gesler and Stormy clumped along behind them. Too cowed for their usual arguing with each other about virtually everything. As bad as a married couple, they were. Maybe they sensed the trouble on the way—Bottle was sure those two marines had more than just gold-hued skin setting them apart from everyone else. Clearly, whatever fates existed displayed a serious lack of discrimination when choosing to single out certain people from the herd. Gesler and Stormy barely had one brain between them.
Bottle tried to guess who else would be there. The Adjunct and Lostara Yil, of course, along with Fiddler himself, and Gesler and Stormy. Maybe Keneb—he’d been at the last one, hadn’t he? Hard to remember—most of that night was a blur now. Quick Ben? Probably. Blistig? Well, one sour, miserable bastard might settle things out some. Or just make everything worse. Sinn? Gods forbid.
‘This is a mistake,’ muttered Fiddler. ‘Bottle—what’re you sensing? Truth now.’
‘You want the truth? Really?’
‘Bottle.’
‘Fine, I’m too scared to edge out there—this is an old city, Sergeant. There’s . . . things. Mostly sleeping up until now. I mean, for as long as we’ve been here.’
‘But now they’re awake.’
‘Aye. Noses in the air. This reading, Sergeant, it’s about as bad an idea as voicing a curse in Oponn’s name while sitting in Hood’s lap.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’
‘Can you spike the whole thing, Sergeant? Just say it won’t go, you’re all closed up inside or something?’
‘Not likely. It just . . . takes over.’
‘And then there’s no stopping it.’
‘No.’
‘Sergeant.’
‘What?’
‘We’re going to be exposed, horribly exposed. Like offering our throats to whoever—and they’re probably not merciful types. So, how do we defend ourselves?’
Fiddler glanced across at him, and then edged closer. Ahead was the HQ—they were running out of time. ‘I can’t do nothing, Bottle. Except take the head off, and with luck some of those nasties will go down with it.’
‘You’re going to be sitting on a cusser, aren’t you?’
Fiddler shifted the leather satchel slung from one shoulder, and that was confirmation enough for Bottle.
‘Sergeant, when we get into the room, let me try one last time to talk her out of it.’
‘Let’s hope she at least holds to the number.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Eleven is bad, twelve is worse. But thirteen would be a disaster. Thirteen’s a bad number for a reading. We don’t want thirteen, anything but—’
‘Lostara said eleven, Sergeant. Eleven.’
‘Aye.’ And Fiddler sighed.
When another knock sounded at the door, Bugg raised a hand. ‘Permit me, please, Acquitor.’ And he rose at her nod and went to let in their new guests.
She heard voices, and looked up to see the Ceda appear with two bedraggled figures: a man, a woman, dressed in rags. They halted just inside the main room and a roiling stink of grime, sweat and alcohol wafted towards Seren Pedac. She struggled against an impulse to recoil as the pungent aroma swept over her. The man grinned with greenish teeth beneath a massive, red-veined, bulbous nose. ‘Greetings, Mahybe! Whachoo got t’drink? Ne’er mind,’ and he flourished a clay flask in one blackened hand. ‘Lovey dear moogins, find us all some cups, willya?’