A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

this
champion?'
    'That's why you're doing the diversion, Tehol.'
    'Me? Are you mad?'
    'It's the only way.'
    They heard the scuff of boots from the street, then a loud
voice: ' There! Who's skulking in that alley? '
    Ublala flinched down. 'How did he know?'
    'We better run!'
    They bolted, as a spear of lantern-light lanced across the
alley mouth; then, pursued by shouting soldiers, the two
fugitives reached the far end of the alley.
    Where Tehol went left.
    And Ublala went right.
    Alarms resounded in the night.
    * * *
    The answering of his prayers was nothing like Bruthen
Trana had imagined. Not through the grotesque creature
that was Hannan Mosag, the Warlock King. The very man
who had started the Edur down this path of dissolution.
Ambition, greed and betrayal – it was all Bruthen could
manage to stand still before Hannan Mosag, rather than
strangle the life from the Warlock King.
    Yet from that twisted mouth had come . . . hope. It
seemed impossible. Macabre. Mocking Bruthen Trana's
visions of heroic salvation. Rhulad falls – the whole Sengar bloodline obliterated – and then . . . Hannan Mosag. For his crimes. Honour can be won – I will see to that.
    This is how it must be.
    He was not unduly worried over the Letherii. The
Chancellor would not live much longer. The palace would
be purged. The Patriotists would be crushed, their agents
slain, and those poor prisoners whose only crime, as far as
he could tell, was to disagree with the practices of the
Patriotists – those prisoners, Letherii one and all, could be
freed. There was no real sedition at work here. No treason.
Karos Invictad used such accusations as if they encompassed
a guilt that needed no proof, as if they justified
any treatment of the accused he desired. Ironically, in so
doing he subverted humanity itself, making him the most
profound traitor of all.
    But not even that mattered much. Bruthen Trana did
not like the man, a dislike that seemed reason enough to
kill the bastard. Karos Invictad took pleasure in cruelty,
making him both pathetic and dangerous. If he were permitted
to continue, there was the very real risk that the
Letherii people would rise up in true rebellion, and the gutters
in every city of the empire would run crimson. No matter. I do not like him. For years I was witness to his contempt for me, there in his eyes. I will brook the affront no longer.
    This, more than anything else, dismayed Bruthen Trana.
Hannan Mosag's insisting he leave immediately – for some
place where the sun dies. West. But no, not west. The Warlock King misunderstood his own vision —
    A sudden thought, slowing his steps as he made his way
down into the subterranean corridors and chambers
beneath the Old Palace. Who answered his prayers? Who showed him this path? He suggested it was not this Crippled God. Father Shadow? Has Scabandari Bloodeye returned to us?
    No, he has not. Then . . . who?
    A moment later, Bruthen Trana scowled, then cursed
under his breath and resumed his journey. I am given hope and what do I do? Seek to kill it with my own hands. No, I understand the path – better than Hannan Mosag himself.
    Where the sun dies is not to the west.
    It is beneath the waves. In the depths.
    Did not a demon of the seas retrieve his body? No, Hannan Mosag, you dare not name him. He is not even Tiste Edur. Yet he must be our salvation.
    He reached the sloping tunnel that would take him to
the slave's supposedly secret abode. These Letherii were
indeed pathetic.
    We each carry a whisper of Emurlahn within us – each and every Tiste Edur. This is why no slave among the tribes could escape us.
    Except for one, he corrected himself. Udinaas. But then,
the K'risnan knew where he was – or so Bruthen Trana
suspected. They knew, yet chose to do nothing.
    It was no wonder Rhulad did not trust them.
    Nor do I.
    He could smell the stench of bitter magic as he drew
nearer, and he heard her muttering in her chamber, and
knew that something had changed. In the one named
Feather Witch. In the power she possessed.
    Well, he would give her no time to prepare.
    Feather Witch looked up in fear and alarm as the Tiste Edur
warrior strode in. Squealing, she backed away until brought
short by a wall, then sank down and covered her face.
    The stark intent in the warrior's face was fierce.
    He grasped her by the hair and yanked her to her feet,
then higher, the pain forcing a shriek from her.
    With his other hand he grasped the small leather pouch
between her breasts.