Bugg did not even seem to hear him.
‘Oh, be like that, then. I think I want to talk to that other one-what did you call him? Oh yes, the Jhag. Any person who would not flinch in the grip of that Tarthenal is either brainless or-oh, not a pleasant thought-even scarier. Perhaps it would do to hesitate at this moment, mindful as ever of loyal manservant’s advice… no? No it is. So please, do stand there like a man whose heart has just dropped through to lodge somewhere underneath his spliver or some such organ I don’t want to know about. Yes, then, do that.’
Tehol set off towards the Jhag. The other savage who had been punched unconscious by the Tarthenal-the Tarthenal whom Ublala Pung had broken into the compound to find-was now sitting up, looking dazedly about. Blood still streamed from his thoroughly broken nose. The woman, attractive in an earthy way, Tehol noted again, was speaking to the tattooed giant, while a dozen paces away a foreigner stood gazing with something like awe upon either the woman or the Jhag.
In all, Tehol decided, an interesting scenario. Interesting enough to interrupt in his usual charming manner. As he drew closer, he spread his arms and announced, ‘Time, I think, for a more proper welcome to our fair city!’ And his blanket slipped down to gather at his feet.
Bugg, alas, missed this delightful introduction, for even as his eyes had clung to the Toblakai, so he found himself walking, following, step after step, as the warrior and his escort marched towards the Champion’s Compound-or whatever unintentionally ironic name the guileless officials of the palace had named it. They had come to within a street of the walled enclosure when all hopes of continuing came to a sudden but confused end. For the street was filled with people.
Emaciated, fouled with excrement, mostly naked flesh covered in welts and sores, they packed the street like abandoned children, lost and forlorn, blinking in the harsh afternoon sun. Hundreds of the wretched creatures.
The Toblakai’s guards halted at this unexpected barrier, and Bugg saw the foremost one reel back as if assailed by a stench, then turn to argue with the others. Their ‘prisoner’, on the other hand, simply bellowed at the mob to clear the way, then walked on, shouldering through the press.
He had gone perhaps twenty paces when he too drew to a halt. Shoulders and head above the crowd, he glared about, then shouted in a rude version of Malazan: ‘I know you! Once slaves of Sepik Island! Hear me!’
Faces swung round. The crowd shifted on all sides, forming a rough circle.
They hear. They are desperate to hear.
‘I, Karsa Orlong, will give answer! So I vow. Your kin refuse you. They cast you out. You live or you die and neither matters to them. Nor to any in this cursed land. To your fate I offer nothing! In vengeance for what has been done to you, I offer everything. Now, go your way-your chains are gone. Go, so that never again will they return to you!’ With that, the Toblakai warrior moved on, towards the compound’s main gate.
Not precisely what they needed to hear, I think. Not yet, anyway. In time, 1 suspect, it may well return to them.
No, this-here and now-this demands another kind of leadership.
The guards had retreated, seeking another route.
The few citizens within sight were doing the same. No-one wanted to see this legacy.
Bugg pushed himself forward. He drew upon his power, felt it struggle at this unseemly purpose. Damn my worshippers-whoever, wherever you are. I will have my way here! Power, devoid of sympathy, cold as the sea, dark as the depths. I will have my way.
‘Close your eyes,’ he said to the mob. The words were little more than a whisper, yet all heard them, solid and undeniable in their minds. Close your eyes.
They did. Children, women, men. Motionless now. Eyes closed tight, breaths held in sudden tension, perhaps even fear-but Bugg suspected that these people were beyond fear. They waited for what would come next. And did not move.
I will have my way. ‘Hear me. There is a place of safety. Far from here. I will send you there. Now. Friends will find you. They will bring healing, and you will have food, clothing and shelter. When you feel the ground shift beneath you, open your eyes to your new home.’
The sea did not forgive. Its power was hunger and swelling rage. The sea warred with the shore, with the very sky. The sea wept for no-one.
Bugg did not care.
Like any tidal pool motionless under the hot sun, his blood had grown… heated. And the smallest pool was filled with the promise of an ocean, a score of oceans-all their power could be held in a single drop of water. Such was Denaeth Rusen, such was Ruse, the warren where life was first born. And there, in that promise of life itself, will I find what I need.
Of empathy.
Of warmth.
The power, when it came, was a true current. Angry, yes, yet true. Water had known life for so long it held no memory of purity. Power and gift had become one, and so it yielded to its god.
And he sent them away.
Bugg opened his eyes, and saw before him an empty street.
In his room once more, Karsa Oflong lifted free his shoulder scabbard, then, holding the weapon and its harness in his hands, he stared down at the long table, on which sat an oil lantern set on low burn. After a moment he laid the sword and rigging down. And grew still once more.
Many things to consider, a heaving of foam and froth from some struck well deep within him. The slaves. Cast out because their lives were meaningless. Both these Edur and the Letherii were heartless, yet cowards. Eager to turn away from witnessing the cost of their indifference. Content to strip fellowship from any whenever it suited them.
Yet they would call him the barbarian.
If so, then he was well pleased with the distinction.
And, true to his savagely clear vision of right and wrong, he would hold in his mind that scene-those starved faces, the liquid eyes that seemed to shine so bright he felt burned by their touch-hold to it when he faced Emperor Rhulad. When he then faced every Letherii and every Edur who chose to stand in his way.
So he had vowed, and so all would witness.
This cold thought held him motionless for another dozen heartbeats, then a second image returned to him. Icarium, the one they called Lifestealer.
He had been moments from breaking that Jhag’s neck.
And then he had seen in the ash-skinned face… something. And with it, recognition.
He would yield to Karsa. He had given his word, and Karsa now knew that would not be broken.
There was Jhag blood in this Icarium, but of that Karsa knew little. Father or mother a Jaghut; it hardly mattered which.
Yet the other parent. Father or mother. Well, he had seen enough in Icarium’s face to know that blood. To know it like the whisper of his very own.
Toblakai.
In his opulent office, Chancellor Triban Gnol slowly sat down with uncharacteristic caution. A dust-laden, sweat-and blood-stained Letherii soldier stood before him, Hanked on his right by Sirryn Kanar, whose return from the crypts had coincided with the arrival of this messenger.
Triban Gnol looked away from the exhausted soldier. He would call in the scrub-slaves afterwards, to wash down the floor where the man now stood; to scent the air once again with pine oil. Eyes on a lacquered box on the desktop before him, he asked, ‘How many did you come in with, (Corporal?’
‘Three others. And an Edur.’
Triban Gnol’s head snapped up. ‘Where is he now?’
‘Died not three steps into the Domicile’s grand entrance, sir.’
‘Indeed? Died?’
‘He was grievously wounded, sir. And I knew enough to prevent any healer reaching him in time. I moved close to help him as he staggered, and gave the arrow in his back a few twists, then a deeper push. He passed out with the pain of that, and as I caught him and lowered him to the floor, I closed my thumb upon the great artery in his neck. I was able to hold that grip for thirty or more heartbeats. That was more than the Edur could withstand.’