Midnight Tides

‘A miracle that they survived at all, sergeant.’



A strange expression flitted across the sergeant’s features, quickly disguised, yet Moroch had understood it. Why didn’t you fall defending them, Finadd? You ran, like all the others …



‘We will get them back, sir,’ the sergeant said after a moment.



‘Send for your reinforcements,’ Moroch said, kicking his horse into motion once more. You’re right. I should have died. But you were not there, were you ?



He rode into the city.



Champion Ormly and Chief Investigator Rucket were sitting on the steps of the Rat Catchers’ Guild, sharing a bottle of wine. Both scowled when they saw Bugg, who approached to stand before them.



‘We know all about you now,’ Rucket said. She sneered, but added nothing more.



‘Well,’ said Bugg, ‘that’s a relief. What more have you heard from your agents in the occupied cities?’



‘Oh,’ Ormly said, ‘and we’re to reveal all our intelligence to you, simply because you ask for it?’



‘I don’t see why not.’



‘He has a point, the bastard,’ Rucket said to the Champion.



Who looked at her in disbelief. ‘No he doesn’t! You’re smitten, aren’t you? Tehol and his manservant – both of them!’



‘Don’t be absurd. It’s in the contract, Ormly. We share information-’



flawed in the particular. Correct the particular and victory will be won the next time round.’



‘Until a situation arises where there is no second opportunity.’



‘And future scholars will dissect every moment of these days, assembling their lists of the particulars, the specifics from which no generalization threatening the prime assumptions can ever be derived. It is, in truth, an exquisite paradigm, the perfect mechanism ensuring the persistent survival of an entire host of terrible, brutal beliefs.’



‘You do seem to have achieved objectivity, Turudal Brizad.’



‘Do you know how the First Empire collapsed, Brys Beddict? I don’t mean the revised versions every child is taught by tutors. I mean the truth. Our ancestors unleashed their own annihilation. Through a ritual run wild, the civilization tore itself apart. Of course, in our version, those who came afterwards to clean up were transformed into the aggressors, the outside agency that wrought such destruction as to obliterate the First Empire. And here is another truth: our colonies here were not immune to the effects of that unfettered ritual. Although we succeeded in driving away the threat, as far as we could, into the ice wastes. Where, we hoped, the bastards would die out. Alas, they didn’t. And now, Brys Beddict, they’re coming back.’



‘Who? The Tiste Edur? We share nothing with them, Turudal-’



‘Not the Tiste Edur, although much of their history – that of their path of sorcery in particular – is bound with the succession of disasters that befell the First Empire. No, Finadd, I am speaking of their allies, the savages from the ice wastes, the Jheck.’



‘An interesting story,’ Brys said after a moment, ‘but I am afraid I do not comprehend its relevance.’



‘I am offering explanation,’ the First Consort said, pushing himself from the column and walking past Brys.



‘For what?’



Without turning, he replied, ‘For the imminent failure, Finadd, of my objectivity.’



Moroch Nevath slowed his lathered horse as he neared the gates. To either side of the raised road, what had once been a sprawling confusion of huts and shacks had been razed, leaving only mud, potsherds and slivers of wood. Stains on the city’s wall were all that remained of the countless buildings that had leaned against it for support.



The crowds of refugees on the road had thinned the last few leagues, as Moroch outdistanced the leading edges. He’d seen deserters among them, and had struggled against an urge to deliver summary justice upon the cowards, but there would be time for that later. The gates ahead were open, a squad of soldiers from the Merchants’ Battalion standing guard.



Moroch reined in before them. ‘This road will be packed by dusk,’ he said. ‘You will need at least four more squads to manage the flow.’



A sergeant scowled up at him. ‘And who in the Errant’s name are you?’



‘Another deserter,’ muttered a soldier.



Moroch’s uniform was covered in dust and patches of old blood. He was bearded, his hair filthy and unbound. Even so, he stared at the sergeant, shocked that he had not been recognized. Then he bared his teeth, ‘There will be deserters, yes. They are to be pulled aside, and all those refugees of acceptable age and fitness are to be recruited. Sergeant, I am Finadd Moroch Nevath. I led the survivors from High Fort down to Brans Keep, where we were attached to the Artisan Battalion. I go now to report to the Preda.’