A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

that skein
entwined all who found themselves in its midst.
    Poison in that touch, yet not fatal, just intoxicating. Sweet, yet perhaps, ultimately, deadly. This is what comes of . . . comfort . Yet, he could well see, the reward of comfort was
not available to all; indeed, it seemed disturbingly rare.
While those who possessed wealth clearly exulted in its display,
that very ostentation underscored the fact that they
were a distinct minority. But that imbalance was, he now
understood, entirely necessary. Not everyone could be rich
– the system would not permit such equity, for the power
and privilege it offered was dependent on the very opposite. Inequity, else how can power be assessed, how can the gifts of privilege be valued? For there to be rich, there must be poor, and more of the latter than the former.
    Simple rules, easily arrived at through simple observation.
Brohl Handar was not a sophisticated man, a
shortcoming he was reminded of every day since his arrival
as Overseer of Drene. He had no particular experience with
governing, and few of the skills in his possession were
proving applicable to his new responsibilities.
    The Factor, Letur Anict, was conducting an unofficial
war against the tribes beyond the borderlands, using
imperial troops to steal land and consolidate his new-found
holdings. There was no real justification for this bloodshed;
the goal was personal wealth. As yet, however, Brohl
Handar did not know what he was going to do about it, if
indeed he was going to do anything. He had prepared a
long report to the Emperor, providing well-documented
details describing the situation here in Drene. That report
remained in Brohl's possession, for he had begun to suspect
that, should he send it off to Letheras, it would not reach
the Emperor, or any of his Edur advisors. The Letherii
Chancellor, Triban Gnol, appeared to be complicit and
possibly even in league with Letur Anict – hinting at a vast
web of power, hidden beneath the surface and seemingly
thriving unaffected by Edur rule. At the moment, all Brohl
Handar had were suspicions, hints of that insidious web of
power. One link was certain, and that was with this
Letherii association of wealthy families, the Liberty
Consign. Possibly, this organization was at the very heart of
the hidden power. But he could not be sure.
    Brohl Handar, a minor noble among the Tiste Edur, and
newly appointed Overseer to a small city in a remote corner
of the empire, well knew that he could not challenge such
a thing as the Liberty Consign. He was, indeed, beginning
to believe that the Tiste Edur tribes, scattered as they had
become across this vast land, were little more than flotsam
riding the indifferent currents of a turgid, deep river.
    Yet, there is the Emperor.
    Who is quite probably insane.
    He did not know to whom to turn; nor even if what he
was witnessing was, in truth, as dangerous as it seemed.
    Brohl was startled by a commotion near the gate and he
leaned forward to set an eye against the slit between the
shutters.
    An arrest. People were quickly moving away from the
scene as two nondescript Letherii, one to each side, pushed
their victim face-first against one of the gate's uprights.
There were no shouted accusations, no frightened denials.
The silence shared by the Patriotist agents and their
prisoner left the Overseer strangely shaken. As if the details
did not matter to any of them.
    One of the agents was searching for weapons, finding
none, and then, as his fellow agent held the man against
the ornate upright, he removed the leather hip-satchel
from the man's belt and began rummaging through it. The
prisoner's face was pressed sideways against the bas-relief
carvings on the broad, squared column, and those carvings
depicted some past glory of the Letherii Empire. Brohl
Handar suspected the irony was lost on all concerned.
    Sedition would be the charge. It was always the charge.
But against what? Not the presence of the Tiste Edur – that
would be pointless, after all, and certainly there had been
virtually no attempts at reprisal, at least none that Brohl
Handar had heard about. So . . . what, precisely? Against
whom? The Indebted always existed, and some fled their
debts, but most did not. There were sects formulated
around political or social disquiet, many of them drawing
membership from the disenfranchised remnants of subjugated
tribes – the Fent, the Nerek, Tarthenal and others.
But since the conquest, most of these sects had