Rhulad Sengar could remain Emperor-that hardly mattered, did it? The Warlock King would not be frightened of him, not any more. And, to crush him yet further, he possessed a certain note, a confession-oh, the madness unleashed then!
Then, these damned invaders-well, they were about to find themselves without a fleet.
And the river shall rise, flooding, a torrent to cleanse this accursed city. Of foreigners. Of the Letherii themselves. 1 will see them all drowned.
Reaching the mouth of the alley, he dragged himself into its gloom, pleased to be out of the dawn’s grey light, and the stench of the pond wafted down to him. Rot, dissolution, the dying of the ice. At long last, all his ambitions were about to come true.
Crawling over the slick, mould-slimed cobblestones. He could hear thousands.in the streets, somewhere near. Some name being cried out like a chant. Disgust filled Hannan Mosag. He never wanted anything to do with these Letherii. No, he would have raised an impenetrable wall between them and his people. He would have ruled over the tribes, remaining in the north, where the rain fell like mist and the forests of sacred trees embraced every village.
There would have been peace, for all the Tiste Edur.
Well, he had sent them all back north, had he not? He had begun his preparations. And soon he would join them, as Warlock King. And he would make his dream a reality.
And Rhulad Sengar? Well, 1 leave him a drowned empire, a wasteland of mud and dead trees and rotting corpses. Rule well, Emperor.
He found himself scrabbling against a growing stream of icy water that was working its way down the alley, the touch numbing his hands, knees and feet. He began slipping. Cursing under his breath, Hannan Mosag paused, staring down at the water flowing round him.
From up ahead there came a loud crack! and the Warlock King smiled. My child stirs.
Drawing upon the power of the shadows in this alley, he resumed his journey.
‘Ah, the fell guardians,’ Ormly said as he strode to the muddy bank of Settle Lake. The Champion Rat Catcher had come in from the north side, where he’d been busy in Creeper District, hiring random folk to cry out the name of the empire’s great revolutionary, the hero of heroes, the this and that and all the rest. Tehol Beddict! He’s taken all the money back-from all the rich slobs in their estates! He’s going to give it all to every one of you-he’s going to clear all your debts! And are you listening? I’ve more rubbish to feed you-wait, come back! True, he’d just added on that last bit.
What a busy night! And then a runner from Selush had brought him the damned sausage that a man had once used to pick his nose or something.
All right, there was some disrespect in that and it wasn’t worthy, not of Brys Beddict-the Hero’s very own brother!-nor of himself, Ormly of the Rats. So, enough of that, then.
‘Oh, look, sweetcakes, it’s him.’
‘Who, dove-cookie?’
‘Why, I forget his name. Tha’s who.’
Ormly scowled at the pair lolling on the bank like a couple of gaping fish. ‘I called you guardians? You’re both drunk!’
‘You’d be too,’ Ursto Hoobutt said, ‘if ‘n you had to listen to this simperin’ witch ‘ere.’ He wagged his head to mime his wife as he said: ‘Ooh, I wanna baby! A big baby, with only one upper lip but a bottom one too to clamp onto you know where an’ get even bigger! Ooh, syrup-smoochies, oh, please? Can I? Can I? Can I!’
‘You poor man,’ Ormly commiserated, walking up to them. He paused upon seeing the heaved and cracked slabs of ice crowding the centre of the lake. ‘It’s pushing, is it?’
‘Took your time, too,’ Pinosel muttered, casting her husband her third glowering look since Ormly had arrived. She swished whatever was in the jug in her left hand, then tilted it back to drink deep. Then wiped at her mouth, leaned forward and glared up at Ormly from lowered brows. ‘Ain’t gonna have no jus’ one upper lip, neither. Gonna be healthy-’
‘Really, Pinosel,’ Ormly said, ‘the likelihood of that-’
‘You don’t know nothing!’
‘All right, maybe I don’t. Not about the likes of you two, anyway. But here’s what I do know. In the Old Palace there’s a panel in the baths that was painted about six hundred years ago. Of Settle Lake or something a lot like it, with buildings in the background. And who’s sitting there in the grasses on the bank, sharing a jug? Why, an ugly woman and an even uglier man-both looking a lot like you two!’
‘Watchoo yer callin’ ugly,’ Pinosel said, lifting her head with an effort, taking a deep breath to compose her features, then patting at her crow’s nest hair. ‘Sure,’ she said, ‘I’ve had better days.’
‘Ain’t that the truth,’ mumbled Ursto.
‘An’ I ‘eard that! An’ oose fault is that, porker-nose?’
‘Only the people that ain’t no more ‘ere t’worship us an’ all that.’
“Zactly!’
Ormly frowned at the pond and its ice. At that moment a huge slab buckled with a loud crack! And he found himself involuntarily stepping back, one step, two. ‘Is it coming up?’ he demanded.
‘No,’ Ursto said, squinting one-eyed at the groaning heap of ice. ‘That’d be the one needing his finger back.’
The meltwater fringing the lake was bubbling and swirling now, bringing up clouds of silt as some current swept round the solid mass in the middle. Round and round, like a whirlpool only in reverse.
And all at once there was a thrashing, a spray of water, and a figure in its midst-struggling onto the bank, coughing, streaming muddy water, and holding in one incomplete hand a scabbarded sword.
Pinosel, her eyes bright as diamonds, lifted the jug in a wavering toast. ‘Hail the Saviour! Hail the half-drowned dog spitting mud!’ And then she crowed, the cry shifting into a cackle, before drinking deep once more.
Ormly plucked the severed finger from his purse and walked down to where knelt Brys Beddict. ‘Looking for this?’ he asked.
There had been a time of sleep, and then a time of pain. Neither had seemed to last very long, and now Brys Beddict, who had died of poison in the throne room of the Eternal Domicile, was on his hands and knees beside a lake of icy water. Racked with shivers, still coughing out water and slime.
And some man was crouched beside him, trying to give him a severed finger swollen and dyed pink.
He felt his left hand gripping a scabbard, and knew it for his own. Blinking to clear his eyes, he flitted a glance to confirm that the sword still resided within it. It did. Then, pushing the man’s gift away, he slowly settled onto his haunches, and looked round.
Familiar, yes.
The man beside him now laid a warm hand on his shoulder, as if to still his shivering. ‘Brys Beddict,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Tehol is about to die. Brys, your brother needs you now.’
And, as Brys let the man help him to his feet, he drew out his sword, half expecting to see it rusted, useless-but no, the weapon gleamed with fresh oil.
‘Hold on!’ shouted another voice.
The man steadying Brys turned slightly. ‘What is it, Ursto?’
‘The demon god’s about to get free! Ask ‘im!’
‘Ask him what?’
‘The name! Ask ‘im what’s its name, damn you! We can’t send it away without its name!’
Brys spat grit from his mouth. Tried to think. The demon god in the ice, the ice that was failing. Moments from release, moments from… ‘Ay’edenan of the Spring,’ he said. ‘Ay’edenan tek’ velut!enan.’
The man beside him snorted. ‘Try saying that five times fast! Errant, try saying it once!’
But someone was cackling.
‘Brys-’
He nodded. Yes. Tehol. My brother-‘Take me,’ he said. ‘Take me to him.’
‘I will,’ the man promised. ‘And on the way, I’ll do some explaining. All right?’
Brys Beddict, Saviour of the Empty Throne, nodded.