‘They conquered, but we won. Oh, I wish Tehol Beddict was here, since he’s much better at explaining things, but let me try. I shall imagine Tehol sitting here, to help me along. Conquest. There are different kinds of conquests. Now, we have Tiste Edur lording it here and there, the elite whose word is law and never questioned. After all, their sorcery is cruel, their judgement cold and terribly simplistic. They are, in fact, above all law-as the Letherii understand the notion-’
‘And,’ Lostara pressed, ‘how do they understand the notion of law?’
‘Well, a set of deliberately vague guidelines one hires an advocate to evade when necessary.’
‘What were you, Shurq Elalle, before you were a pirate?’
A thief. I’ve employed a few advocates in my day. In any case, my point is this. The Edur rule but either through ignorance or indifference-and let’s face it, without ignorance you don’t get to indifference-they care little about the everyday administration of the empire. So, that particular apparatus remains Letherii and is, these days, even less regulated than it has been in the past.’ She smiled again, one leg rocking. As for us lower orders, well, virtually nothing has changed. We stay poor. Debt-ridden and comfortably miserable and, as Tehol might say, miserable in our comfort.’
‘So,’ Lostara said, ‘not even the Letherii nobles would welcome a change in the present order.’
‘Them least of all.’
‘What of your Emperor?’
‘Rhulad? From all accounts, he is insane, and effectively isolated besides. The empire is ruled by the Chancellor, and lie’s Letherii. He was also Chancellor in the days of King Diskanar, and he was there to ensure that the transition went smoothly.’
A grunt from Blistig, and he turned to Tavore. ‘The marines, Adjunct,’ he said in a half-moan.
And Throatslitter understood and felt a dread chill seeping through him. We sent them in, expecting to find allies, expecting them to whip the countryside into a belligerent frenzy. But they won’t get that.
The whole damned empire is going to rise up all right. To tear out their throats.
Adjunct, you have done it again.
Chapter Fifteen
Crawl down sun this is not your time
Black waves slide under the sheathed moon
upon the shore a silent storm
a will untamed heaves up from the red-skirled foam
Scud to your mountain nests you iron clouds
to leave the sea its dancing refuse of stars
on this host of salty midnight tides
Gather drawn and swell tight your tempest
lift like scaled heads from the blind depths
all your effulgent might in restless roving eyes
Reel back you tottering forests
this night the black waves crash on the black shore
to steal the flesh from your bony roots
death comes, shouldering aside in cold legion
in a marching wind this dread this blood this reaper’s gale
– The Coming Storm, Reffer
The fist slammed down at the far end of the table. Food-crusted cutlery danced, plates thumped then skidded. The reverberation- heavy as thunder-rattled the goblets and shook all that sat down the length of the long table’s crowded world.
Fist shivering, pain lancing through the numb shock, Tomad Sengar slowly sat back.
Candle flames steadied, seeming eager to please with their regained calm, the pellucid warmth of their yellow light an affront nonetheless to the Edur’s bitter anger.
Across from him, his wife lifted a silk napkin to her lips, daubed once, then set it down and regarded her husband. ‘Coward.’
Tomad flinched, his gaze shifting away to scan the plastered wall to his right. Lifting past the discordant object hanging there to some place less… painful. Damp stains painted mottled maps near the ceiling. Plaster had lifted, buckled, undermined by that incessant leakage. Cracks zigzagged down like the after-image of lightning.
‘You will not see him,’ Uruth said.
‘He will not see me,’ Tomad replied, and this was not in agreement. It was, in fact, a retort.
‘A disgusting, scrawny Letherii who sleeps with young boys has defeated you, husband. He stands in your path and your bowels grow weak. Do not refute my words-you will not even meet my eyes. You have surrendered our last son.’
Tomad’s lips twisted in a snarl. ‘To whom, Uruth? Tell me. Chancellor Triban Gnol, who wounds children and calls it love?’ He looked at her then, unwilling to admit, even to himself, the effort that gesture demanded of him. ‘Shall I break his neck for you, wife? Easier than snapping a dead branch. What do you think his bodyguards will do? Stand aside?’