‘To stay alive, yes.’
‘Then the word is indeed not honour.’
Orbyn Truthfinder, the most feared man in Drene, drained his cup of wine. He leaned back. ‘You sit here, amidst carnage. People hurry past and they see you, and though you are, in features and in stature, barely worth noting, notice you they do. And a chill grips their hearts, and they do not know why. But I do.’
You comprehend, then, that I must pay Letur Anict a visit.’
Yes, and I wish you well in that.’
‘Unfortunately, Orbyn, we find ourselves in a moment of crisis. In the absence of Overseer Brohl Handar, it falls to Letur Anict to restore order. Yes, he may well fail, but he must be given the opportunity to succeed. For the sake of the empire, Orbyn, I expect you and your agents to assist the Factor in every way possible.’
‘Of course. But I have lost thirty-one agents since yesterday. And those among them who had families… well, no-one was spared retribution.’
‘It is a sad truth, Orbyn, that all who have been rewarded by tyranny must eventually share an identical fate.’
‘You sound almost satisfied, Venitt.’
The Indebted servant of Rautos Hivanar permitted a faint smile to reach his lips as he reached for his cup of wine.
Orbyn’s expression flattened. ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘you do not believe a mob is capable of justice?’
‘They have been rather restrained, thus far.’
‘You cannot be serious.’
‘Orbyn, not one Tiste Edur has been touched.’
‘Because the rioters are not fools. Who dares face Edur sorcery? It was the very inactivity of the local Edur that incited the mobs to ever more vicious extremes-and I assure you, Letur Anict is well aware of that fact.’
‘Ah, so he would blame the Tiste Edur for this mess. How convenient.’
‘I am not here to defend the Factor, Venitt Sathad.’
‘No, you are here to bargain for your life.’
‘I will of course assist Letur Anict in restoring order. But I am not confident that he will succeed, and I will not throw away my people.’
‘Actually, you will do just that.’
Orbyn’s eyes widened. Sweat was now trickling down his face. His clothes were sticking patchily to the folds of fat beneath.
‘Truthfinder,’ Venitt Sathad continued, ‘the Patriotists have outlived their usefulness, barring one last, most noble sacrifice. As the focus of the people’s rage. I understand there is a Drene custom, something to do with the season of storms, and the making of seaweed fisher folk-life-sized dolls with shells for eyes, dressed in old clothes and the like. Sent out to mark the season’s birth, I believe, in small boats. An offering to the sealords of old-for the storms to drown. Quaint and unsurprisingly bloodthirsty, as most old customs are. The Patriotists, Orbyn, must become Drene’s seaweed fisher folk. We are in a season of storms, and sacrifices are necessary.’
Truthfinder licked his lips. ‘And what of me?’ he asked in a whisper.
‘Ah, that particular session of bargaining is not yet complete.’
‘I see.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Venitt Sathad, my agents-there are wives, husbands, children-’
‘Yes, I am sure there are. Just as there were wives, husbands and children of all those you happily arrested, tortured and murdered all in the name of personal financial gain. The people, Orbyn, do understand redressing an imbalance.’
‘This is as Rautos Hivanar demands-’
‘My master leaves the specifics to me. He respects my record of… efficiency. While the authority he represents no doubt bolsters compliance, 1 rarely make overt use of it. By that I mean I rarely find the need. You said you know me, Truthfinder, did you not?’
‘I know you, Venitt Sathad, for the man who found Gerun Eberict’s murderer and sent that half-blood away with a chest full of coins. 1 know you for the killer of a hundred men and women at virtually every level of society, and, no matter how well protected, they die, and you emerge unscathed, your identity unknown-’
‘Except, it seems, to you.’
‘I stumbled onto your secret life, Venitt Sathad, many years ago. And I have followed your career, not just within the empire, but in the many consulates and embassies where your… skills… were needed. To advance Letherii interests. I am a great admirer, Venitt Sathad.’
Yet now you seek to cast in the coin of your knowledge in order to purchase your life. Do you not comprehend the risk?’
‘What choice do 1 have? By telling you all I know, I am also telling you I have no illusions-I know why you are here, and what you need to do; indeed, my only surprise is that it has taken Rautos Hivanar so long to finally send you. In fact, it might be you have arrived too late, Venitt Sathad.’
To that, Venitt slowly nodded. Orbyn Truthfinder was a dangerous man. Yet, for the moment, still useful. As, alas, was Letur Anict. But such things were measured day by day, at times moment by moment. Too late. You fool, Orbyn, even you have no real idea just how true that statement is-too late.
Tehol Beddict played a small game, once, to see how it would work out. But this time-with that damned manservant of his-he has played a game on a scale almost beyond comprehension.
And I am Venitt Sathad. Indebted, born of Indebted, most skilled slave and assassin of Rautos Hivanar, and you, Tehol Beddict-and you, Bugg-need never fear me.
Take the bastards down. Every damned one of them. Take them all down.
It seemed Orbyn Truthfinder saw something in his expression then that drained all colour from the man’s round, sweat-streamed face.
Venitt Sathad was amused. Orbyn, have you found a truth?
Scattered to either side of the dark storm front, grey clouds skidded across the sky, dragging slanting sheets of rain. The plains were greening along hillsides and in the troughs of valleys, a mottled patchwork of lichen, mosses and matted grasses. On the summit of a nearby hill was the carcass of a wild bhederin, hastily butchered after dying to a lightning strike. The beast’s legs were sticking up into the air and on one hoof was perched a storm-bedraggled crow. Eviscerated entrails stretched out and down the slope facing Brohl Handar and his troop as they rode past.
The Awl were on the run. Warriors who had died of their wounds were left under heaps of stones, and they were as road-markers for the fleeing tribe, although in truth unnecessary since with the rains the trail was a broad swath of churned ground. In many ways, this uncharacteristic carelessness worried the Overseer, but perhaps it was as Bivatt had said: the unseasonal bank of storms that had rolled across the plains in the past three days had caught Redmask unprepared-there could be no hiding the passage of thousands of warriors, their families, and the herds that moved with them. That, and the bloody, disastrous battle at Praedegar had shown Redmask to be fallible; indeed, it was quite possible that the masked war leader was now struggling with incipient mutiny among his people.
They needed an end to this, and soon. The supply train out of Drene had been disrupted, the cause unknown. Bivatt had this day despatched a hundred Bluerose lancers onto their back-trail, seeking out those burdened wagons and their escort. Food shortage was imminent and no army, no matter how loyal and well trained, would fight on an empty stomach. Of course, bounteous feasts were just ahead-the herds of rodara and myrid. Battle needed to be joined. Redmask and his Awl needed to be destroyed.
A cloud scudded into their path with sleeting rain. Surprisingly cold for this late in the season. Brohl Handar and his Tiste Edur rode on, silent-this was not the rain of their homeland, nothing soft, gentle with mists. Here, the water lanced down, hard, and left one drenched in a score of heartbeats. We are truly strangers here.
But in that we are not alone.
They were finding odd cairns, bearing ghastly faces painted in white, and in the cracks and fissures of those tumuli there were peculiar offerings-tufts of wolf fur, teeth, the tusks from some unknown beast and antlers bearing rows of pecules and grooves. None of this was Awl-even the Awl scouts among Bivatt’s army had never before seen the like.