A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

surprised. The Chancellor had probably
begun his plans long before King Ezgara Diskanar
downed the fatal draught in the throne room. Ensuring a smooth transition , is how he would have defended himself. The empire is greater than its ruler, and that is where lies the Chancellor's loyalty. Always and for ever more. Laudable
sentiments, no doubt, but the truth was never so clear. The
lust for power was a strong current, roiling with clouds that
obscured all to everyone, barring, perhaps, Triban Gnol
himself, who was at the very centre of the maelstrom. His
delusion of control had never been challenged, but Yan
Tovis believed that it would not last.
    After all, the Tiste Edur had returned. Tomad Sengar,
Hanradi Khalag and three other former war chiefs of the
tribes, as well as over four thousand seasoned warriors
who'd long ago left their naivety behind, lost in Callows, in
Sepik, Nemil, the Perish Coast, Shal-Morzinn and Drift
Avalii, in a host of foreign waters, among the Meckros –
the journey had been long. Fraught—
    'The nest is about to be kicked awake,' Taralack Veed
said, a rather ugly grin twisting his features.
    Yan Tovis shrugged. 'To be expected. We have been
absent a long time.'
    'Maybe your Emperor is already dead. I see no Tiste Edur
in that contingent.'
    'I do not think that likely. Our K'risnan would have
known.'
    'Informed by their god? Yan Tovis, no gift from a god
comes for free. More, if it sees fit, it will tell its followers
nothing. Or, indeed, it will lie. The Edur do not understand
any of this, but you surprise me. Is it not the very nature of
your deity, this Errant, to deceive you at every turn?'
    'The Emperor is not dead, Taralack Veed.'
    'Then it is only a matter of time.'
    'So you continually promise.'
    But he shook his head. 'I do not speak of Icarium now. I
speak of when a god's chosen one fails . And they always do,
Twilight. We are never enough in their eyes. Never faithful
enough, never fearful enough, never abject enough. Sooner
or later we betray them, in weakness or in overwrought
ambition. We see before us a city of bridges yet what I see
and what you see are two different things. Do not let your
eyes deceive you – the bridges awaiting us are all too
narrow for mortals.'
    Their ship slowly angled in towards the central imperial
dock like a weary beast of burden, and a handful of Edur
officers were now on deck, whilst sailors readied the lines
along the port rail. The stench of effluent from the murky
waters rose thick enough to sting the eyes.
    Taralack Veed spat onto his hands and smoothed back
his hair yet again. 'Almost time. I go to collect my
champion.'
    Noticed by no-one, Turudal Brizad, the Errant, stood with
his back to a quayside warehouse thirty or so paces from the
main pier. His gaze noted the disembarking of Tomad
Sengar – the venerable warrior looking worn and aged –
and his expression, as he observed the absence of Tiste Edur
among the delegation from the palace, seemed to grow
darker by the moment. But neither he nor any of the other
Edur held the god's attention for long. His attention
sharpened as the Atri-Preda in command of this fleet's
Letherii Marines strode the length of the gangway, followed
by a half-dozen aides and officers, for he sensed, all at once,
that there was something fated about the woman. Yet the
details eluded him.
    The god frowned, frustrated by his diminishing
percipience. He should have sensed immediately what
awaited Yan Tovis. Five years ago he would have, thinking
nothing of the gift, the sheer privilege of such ascendant
power. Not since those final tumultuous days of the First
Empire – the succession of ghastly events that led to the
intercession of the T'lan Imass to quell the fatal throes of
Dessimbelackis's empire – had the Errant felt so disconnected.
Chaos was rolling towards Letheras with the
force of a cataclysmic wave, an ocean surge that simply
engulfed this river's currents – yes, it comes from the sea. That much I know, that much I can feel. From the sea, just like this woman, this Twilight.
    Another figure appeared on the plank. A foreigner, the
skin of his forearms a swirl of arcane tattoos, the rest of his
upper body wrapped in a roughly woven cape, the hood
hiding his features. Barbaric, wary, the glitter of eyes taking
it all in, pausing halfway down to hawk and spit over the
side, a gesture that startled the Errant and, it seemed, most
of those standing on the dock.
    A moment later another foreigner rose