A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

warrior an avatar, a champion, suitably flawed
in grisly homage to the god's own pathetic dysfunctions.
Power from pain, glory from degradation, themes in
apposition – an empire reborn offered the promise of
vigour, of expansion and longevity, none of which was, he
had to admit, truly assured. And such are promises.
    The god shivered suddenly in the bitter cold air of this vast,
subterranean chamber. Shivered, on this walkway above a
swirling unknown.
    The pattern was taking shape.
    And when it did, it would be too late.
    'It's too late.'
    'But there must be something we can do.'
    'I'm afraid not. It's dying, Master, and unless we take
advantage of its demise right now, someone else will.'
    The capabara fish had used its tentacles to crawl up the
canal wall, pulling itself over the edge onto the walkway,
where it flattened out, strangely spreadeagled, to lie, mouth
gaping, gills gasping, watching the morning get cloudy as it
expired. The beast was as long as a man is tall, as fat as a
mutton merchant from the Inner Isles, and, to Tehol's
astonishment, even uglier. 'Yet my heart breaks.'
    Bugg scratched his mostly hairless pate, then sighed. 'It's
the unusually cold water,' he said. 'These like their mud
warm.'
    'Cold water? Can't you do something about that?'
    'Bugg's Hydrogation.'
    'You're branching out?'
    'No, I was just trying on the title.'
    'How do you hydrogate?'
    'I have no idea. Well, I have, but it's not quite a
legitimate craft.'
    'Meaning it belongs in the realm of the gods.'
    'Mostly. Although,' he said, brightening, 'with the recent
spate of flooding, and given my past experience in
engineering dry foundations, I begin to see some
possibilities.'
    'Can you soak investors?'
    Bugg grimaced. 'Always seeing the destructive side,
aren't you, Master?'
    'It's my opportunistic nature. Most people,' he added,
'would view that as a virtue. Now, are you truly telling me
you can't save this poor fish?'
    'Master, it's already dead.'
    'Is it? Oh. Well, I guess we now have supper.'
    'More like fifteen suppers.'
    'In any case, I have an appointment, so I will see you and
the fish at home.'
    'Why, thank you, Master.'
    'Didn't I tell you this morning walk would prove
beneficial?'
    'Not for the capabara, alas.'
    'Granted. Oh, by the way, I need you to make me a list.'
    'Of what?'
    'Ah, I will have to tell you that later. As I said, I am late
for an appointment. It just occurred to me: is this fish too
big for you to carry by yourself?'
    'Well,' Bugg said, eyeing the carcass, 'it's small as far as
capabara go – remember the one that tried to mate with a
galley?'
    'The betting on that outcome overwhelmed the
Drownings. I lost everything I had that day.'
    'Everything?'
    'Three copper docks, yes.'
    'What outcome did you anticipate?'
    'Why, small rowboats that could row themselves with big
flippery paddles.'
    'You're late for your appointment, Master.'
    'Wait! Don't look! I need to do something unseemly
right now.'
    'Oh, Master, really.'
    Spies stood on street corners. Small squads of grey rain-caped
Patriotists moved through the throngs that parted to
give them wide berth as they swaggered with gloved hands
resting on their belted truncheons, and on their faces the
bludgeon arrogance of thugs. Tehol Beddict, wearing his
blanket like a sarong, walked with the benign grace of an
ascetic from some obscure but harmless cult. Or at least he
hoped so. To venture onto the streets of Letheras these days
involved a certain measure of risk that had not existed in
King Ezgara Diskanar's days of pleasant neglect. While on
the one hand this lent an air of intrigue and danger to every
journey – including shopping for over-ripe root crops –
there were also the taut nerves that one could not quell, no
matter how many mouldy turnips one happened to be
carrying.
    Compounding matters, in this instance, was the fact that
he was indeed intent on subversion. One of the first victims
in this new regime had been the Rat Catchers' Guild. Karos
Invictad, the Invigilator of the Patriotists, had acted on his
first day of officialdom, despatching fully a hundred agents
to Scale House, the modest Guild headquarters, whereupon
they effected arrests on scores of Rat Catchers, all of whom,
it later turned out, were illusions – a detail unadvertised, of
course, lest the dread Patriotists announce their arrival to
cries of ridicule. Which would not do.
    After all, tyranny has no sense of humour. Too thin-skinned, too thoroughly full of its own