A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

waking moment. They are, if you forgive
me, his obsession.' His brows lifted a fraction. 'How can a
true subject question their Emperor's love of justice? The
citizens have come to adore him. They have come to see
him for the honourable ruler he is in truth. That transition
has taken some time, I admit, and involved immense effort
on our part.'
    'I wish to speak to the Emperor,' Bruthen said, his tone
matching precisely the previous time he had spoken those
words.
    Triban Gnol sighed. 'Presumably you wish to make your
report regarding Invigilator Karos Invictad and his
Patriotists in person. I assure you, I do forward said reports.'
He frowned at the Tiste Edur, then nodded and said, 'Very
well. I will convey your wishes to his highness, Bruthen
Trana.'
    'If need be, place me among the petitioners.'
    'That will not be necessary.'
    The Tiste Edur gazed at the Chancellor for a half-dozen
heartbeats, then he turned about and left the office. In the
larger room beyond waited a crowd of Letherii. A score of
faces turned to regard Bruthen as he threaded his way
through – faces nervous, struggling with fear – while others
studied the Tiste Edur with eyes that gave away nothing:
the Chancellor's agents, the ones who, Bruthen suspected,
went out each morning to round up the day's petitioners,
then coached them in what to say to their Emperor.
    Ignoring the Letherii as they parted to let him pass, he
made his way out into the corridor, then onward through
the maze of chambers, hallways and passages that
composed the palace. He saw very few other Tiste Edur,
barring one of Hannan Mosag's K'risnan, bent-backed and
walking with one shoulder scraping against a wall, dark
eyes flickering an acknowledgement as he limped along.
    Bruthen Trana made his way into the wing of the palace
closest to the river, and here the air was clammy, the
corridors mostly empty. While the flooding that had
occurred during the early stages of construction had been
rectified, via an ingenious system of subsurface pylons, it
seemed nothing could dispel the damp. Holes had been
knocked in outer walls to create a flow of air, to little effect
apart from filling the musty gloom with the scent of river
mud and decaying plants.
    Bruthen walked through one such hole, emerging out
onto a mostly broken-up cobble path, with felled trees
rotting amidst high grasses off to his left and the foundations
of a small building to his right. Abandonment
lingered in the still air like suspended pollen, and Bruthen
was alone as he ascended the path's uneven slope to arrive
at the edge of a cleared area, at the other end of which rose
the ancient tower of the Azath, with the lesser structures of
the Jaghut to either side. In this clearing there were grave
markers, set out in no discernible order. Half-buried urns,
wax-sealed at the mouth, from which emerged weapons.
Swords, broken spears, axes, maces – trophies of failure, a
stunted forest of iron.
    The Fallen Champions, the residents of a most
prestigious cemetery. All had killed Rhulad at least once,
some more than once – the greatest of these, an almost fullblood
Tarthenal, had slain the Emperor seven times, and
Bruthen could remember, with absolute clarity, the look of
growing rage and terror in that Tarthenal's bestial face each
time his fallen opponent arose, renewed, stronger and
deadlier than he had been only moments earlier.
    He entered the bizarre necropolis, eyes drifting across the
various weapons, once so lovingly cared for – many of them
bearing names – but now sheathed in rust. At the far end,
slightly separated from all the others, stood an empty urn.
Months earlier, out of curiosity, he had reached down into
it, and found a silver cup. The cup that had contained the
poison that killed three Letherii in the throne room – that
had killed Brys Beddict.
    No ashes. Even his sword had disappeared.
    Bruthen Trana suspected that if this man were to return,
now, he would face Rhulad again, and do what he did
before. No, it was more than suspicion. A certainty.
    Unseen by Rhulad, as the new Emperor lay there, cut to
shreds on the floor, Bruthen had edged into the chamber
to see for himself. And in that moment's fearful glance, he
had discerned the appalling precision of that butchery. Brys
Beddict had been perfunctory. Like a scholar dissecting a
weak argument, an effort on his part no greater than tying
on his moccasins.
    Would that he had seen the duel itself, that he had
witnessed the artistry of this