A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

hegemony?
Precisely whom am I conspiring against?'
    'If I was forced to hazard a guess . . . Chancellor Triban
Gnol.'
    She said nothing for a moment, then, 'What do you
want?'
    'Forgive me. My name is Bruthen Trana. I was appointed
to oversee the operations of the Patriotists, although it is
likely that the Emperor has since forgotten that detail.'
    'I am not surprised. You've yet to report to him.'
    He grimaced. 'True. The Chancellor has made certain of
that.'
    'He insists you report to him instead, yes? I'm beginning
to understand, Bruthen Trana.'
    'Presumably, Triban Gnol's assurances that he has
conveyed said reports to Rhulad are false.'
    'The only reports the Emperor receives regarding the
Patriotists are those from the Invigilator, as vetted through
the Chancellor.'
    He sighed. 'As I suspected. First Concubine, it is said
your relationship with the Emperor has gone somewhat
beyond that of ruler and chosen whore – forgive me for the
use of that term. Rhulad is being isolated – from his own
people. Daily he receives petitions, but they are all from
Letherii, and those are carefully selected by Triban Gnol
and his staff. This situation had worsened since the fleets
sailed, for with them went Tomad Sengar and Uruth, and
many other Hiroth, including Rhulad's brother, Binadas.
All who might have effectively opposed the Chancellor's
machinations were removed from the scene. Even Hanradi
Khalag . . .' His words fell away and he stared at her,
then shrugged. 'I must speak to the Emperor, Nisall.
Privately.'
    'I may not be able to help you, if I am to be arrested,' she
said.
    'Only Rhulad himself can prevent that from occurring,'
Bruthen Trana said. 'In the meantime, I can afford you
some protection.'
    She cocked her head. 'How?'
    'I will assign you two Edur bodyguards.'
    'Ah, so you are not entirely alone, Bruthen.'
    'The only Edur truly alone here is the Emperor. And,
perhaps, Hannan Mosag, although he still has his K'risnan
– but it is anything but certain that the once-Warlock King
is loyal to Rhulad.'
    Nisall smiled without much humour. 'And so it turns
out,' she said, 'that the Tiste Edur are no different from the
Letherii after all. Do you know, Rhulad would have it . . .
otherwise.'
    'Perhaps, then, First Concubine, we can work together to
help him realize his vision.'
    'Your bodyguards had best be subtle, Bruthen. The
Chancellor's spies watch me constantly.'
    The Edur smiled. 'Nisall, we are children of Shadow . . .'
    Once, long ago, she had walked for a time through Hood's
Realm. In the language of the Eleint, the warren that was
neither new nor Elder was known as Festal'rythan, the
Layers of the Dead. She had found proof of that when
traversing the winding cut of a gorge, the raw walls of
which revealed innumerable strata evincing the truth of
extinction. Every species that ever existed was trapped in
the sediments of Festal'rythan, not in the same manner of
similar formations of geology as could be found in any
world; no, in Hood's Realm, the soul sparks persisted, and
what she was witness to was their 'lives', abandoned here,
crushed into immobility. The stone itself was, in the
peculiar oxymoron that plagued the language of death, alive .
    In the broken grounds surrounding the lifeless Azath of
Letheras, many of those long-extinct creatures had crawled
back through the gate, as insidious as any vermin. True, it
was not a gate as such, just . . . rents, fissures, as if some
terrible demon had slashed from both sides, talons the size
of two-handed swords tearing through the fabric between
the warrens. There had been battles here, the spilling of
ascendant blood, the uttering of vows that could not be
kept. She could still smell the death of the Tarthenal gods,
could almost hear their outrage and disbelief, as one fell,
then another, and another . . . until all were gone,
delivered unto Festal'rythan. She did not pity them. It was
too easy to be arrogant upon arriving in this world, to think
that none could challenge the unleashing of ancient power.
    She had long since discovered a host of truths in time's
irresistible progression. Raw became refined, and with
refinement, power grew ever deadlier. All that was simple
would, in time and under sufficient pressure – and if
random chance proved benign rather than malignant –
acquire greater complexity. And yet, at some point, a
threshold was crossed, and complexity crumbled into
dissolution. There was nothing fixed in this; some forms
rose and fell with