Midnight Tides

‘And what reason did you have, Moroch?’ A grimace. ‘He asked me to do something for him.’ Brys grunted. ‘He’s a god.’ Supposedly . ‘Why should he need your help?’



‘Because he says you will be too busy.’



Brys thought back to his last conversation with Turudal Brizad… the end of my objectivity . Something like that, as the man was walking away. ‘I admit to some… scepticism, Moroch Nevath.’



‘Set it aside for the moment, Brys. I am here to ask your advice. Assume the worst.’



‘A god asks for your help? I suppose one must consider possible motivations, and the consequences of accepting or rejecting the request.’



‘Yes.’



‘Will doing as he asks be to the benefit of Lether?’



‘He says it will.’



‘Where is he now?’



‘In the city, somewhere. He was watching the last of the refugees allowed in this morning, on the wall, or so one of my guards reported.’



‘Then, I would think, Moroth, that you must do as he asks.’



‘Over the duty of protecting the king?’



‘I imagine the god assumes that task will be mine.’



‘We are almost equal, you and I, Brys.’



‘I know.’



‘You may believe that you are the better between us. I believe otherwise.’



‘The decision was not ours to make, Moroch.’ Moroch studied him for a half-dozen heartbeats, then said, ‘I thank you for the advice, Finadd.’



‘I hesitate to say it, Moroch Nevath, but the Errant be with you.’



‘Not funny,’ the swordsman muttered as he strode away.



Brys made his way into the dome complex. He came to the main corridor, halting to study the layout once more. The walls had been scrubbed, the dust on the floor mopped away. Guards and functionaries were moving about, readying for the investiture. Many glances were cast in the direction of the figure sleeping halfway down the corridor, curled up on the centre tile.



Sighing, Brys approached Kuru Qan. ‘Ceda.’



The old man made a sound, then turned over so that his back was to Brys.



‘Wake up, Ceda. Please.’



Head lifting, Kuru Qan groped for the twin lenses lying on the floor nearby, drew them to his face. ‘Who calls?’



‘It is Brys Beddict.’



‘Ah, Finadd.’ Kuru Qan twisted round and peered up. ‘You look well.’



You do not . ‘Ceda, the investiture is about to begin. Unless you would have King Ezgara Diskanar step around you during his solemn march, you will have to move.’



‘No!’ The old man spread himself out on the flagstone. ‘I must not! This is mine. My place.’



‘You insist that he step to one side on his approach? Ceda, you risk the king’s anger-’



‘Relevant? Not in the least.’ His fingers scrabbled on the stone. ‘This is mine. Warn him, Finadd. Warn the king.’



‘About what?’



‘I will not be moved. Any who would try will be blasted into ashes. Ashes, Brys Beddict.’



Brys glanced around. A small crowd had gathered to listen to the exchange. The Finadd scowled. ‘Be on your way, all of you.’ People scrambled.



Temporarily alone once more, Brys crouched down before the Ceda. ‘You had paints and brushes with you last time. What happened to them?’



‘Paints and brushes?’ The eyes blinked behind the lenses. ‘Gone. Gone away. The king wants you now, Finadd. He is ready to begin the procession. Nifadas is coming – he will complain, but no matter. It will be a small audience, won’t it. Relevant? Oh yes. Best the king ignore me – explain that to him, Brys.’



The Finadd straightened. ‘I shall, Ceda.’



‘Excellent. Now, be on your way.’



‘This doesn’t smell right.’



Trull looked over at the KenrylPah demon that had spoken. It was taller than the Tiste Edur on their horses. A face of sharper features than those on Lilac, black as chiselled basalt, the upper and lower canines protruding and glinting silver. A fur-lined collar, a vest of bronze scales, salt-rimed and dark with patination. A heavy leather belt on which was slung a huge scabbarded tulwar. Leather leggings, grey and supple. The other demon, standing at its side, differed only in the choice of weapons, a massive matlock gripped in two gauntleted hands.



This second KenrylPah bared its teeth. ‘Making me hungry.’



‘Split bones,’ the other said. ‘Marrow.’



The stench the two were referring to was that of rotting corpses. They had reached the edge of the clearing, beyond which was the palisade wall of the town of Brous. In the field were barrows, and one long excavated trench. There was no-one in sight.