The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (806 page)

Letur Anict had returned to Drene two days before, and Venitt Sathad suspected that the Factor had been as unprepared for the sudden maelstrom as had the garrison. In Overseer Brohl Handar's absence, Letur governed the city and its outlying region. Whatever reports his agents might have delivered upon his return would have been rife with fears but scant on specifics – the kind of information that Letur Anict despised and would summarily dismiss. Besides, the Patriotists were supposed to take care of such things in their perpetual campaign of terror. A few more arrests, some notable disappearances, the confiscation of properties.

Of course, Rautos Hivanar, his master, had noted the telltale signs of impending chaos. Tyrannical control was dependent on a multitude of often disparate forces, running the gamut from perception to overt viciousness. The sense of power needed to be pervasive in order to create and maintain the illusion of omniscience. Invigilator Karos Invictad understood that much, at least, but where the thug in red silks failed was in understanding that thresholds existed, and to cross them – with ever greater acts of brutality, with paranoia and fear an ever-rising fever – was to see the illusion shattered.

At some point, no matter how repressive the regime, the citizenry will come to comprehend the vast power in their hands. The destitute, the Indebted, the beleaguered middle classes; in short, the myriad victims. Control was sleight of hand trickery, and against a hundred thousand defiant citizens, it stood no real chance. All at once, the game was up.

The threshold, this time, was precisely as Rautos Hivanar had feared. The pressure of a crumbling, over-burdened economy. Shortage of coin, the crushing weight of huge and ever-growing debts, the sudden inability to pay for anything. The Patriotists could draw knives, swords, could wield their knotted clubs, but against desperate hunger and a sense of impending calamity, they might as well have been swinging reeds at the wind.

In the face of all this, the Tiste Edur were helpless. Bemused, uncomprehending, and wholly unprepared.
Unless, that is, their answer will be to begin killing. Everyone.

Another of Karos Invictad's blind spots. The Invigilator's contempt for the Tiste Edur could well prove suicidal. Their Emperor could not be killed. Their K'risnan could unleash sorcery that could devour every Letherii in the empire. And the fool thought to target them in a campaign of arrests?

No, the Patriotists had been useful; indeed, for a time, quite necessary. But—

‘Venitt Sathad, welcome to Drene.'

Without looking up, Venitt gestured with one hand as he reached for the wine bottle. ‘Find yourself a chair, Orbyn Truthfinder.' A glance upward. ‘I was just thinking about you.'

The huge, odious man smiled. ‘I am honoured. If, that is, your thoughts were of me specifically. If, however, they were of the Patriotists, well, I suspect that “honour” would be the wrong word indeed.'

The proprietor was struggling to drag another chair out to the table, but it was clear that whatever had caused the limp was proving most painful. Venitt Sathad set the bottle back down, rose, and walked over to help him.

‘Humble apologies, kind sir,' the old man gasped, his face white and beads of sweat spotting his upper lip. ‘Had a fall yestereve, sir—'

‘Must have been a bad one. Here, leave the chair to me, and find us another unbroken bottle of wine – if you can.'

‘Most obliged, sir…'

Wondering where the old man had found this solid oak dining chair – one large enough to take Orbyn's mass – Venitt Sathad pulled it across the cobbles and positioned it opposite his own chair with the table in between, then he sat down once more.

‘If not honour,' he said, retrieving the bottle again and refilling the lone clay cup, ‘then what word comes to mind, Orbyn?'

Truthfinder eased down into the chair, gusting out a loud, wheezing sigh. ‘We can return to that anon. I have been expecting your arrival for some time now.'

‘Yet I found neither you nor the Factor in the city, Orbyn, upon my much-anticipated arrival.'

A dismissive gesture, as the proprietor limped up with a cup and a second bottle of Bluerose wine, then retreated with head bowed. ‘The Factor insisted I escort him on a venture across the sea. He has been wont to waste my time of late. I assure you, Venitt, that such luxuries are now part of the past. For Letur Anict.'

‘I imagine he is in a most discomfited state at the moment.'

‘Rattled.'

‘He lacks confidence that he can restore order?'

‘Lack of confidence has never been Letur Anict's weakness. Reconciling it with reality is, alas.'

‘It is unfortunate that the Overseer elected to accompany Atri-Preda Bivatt's campaign to the east.'

‘Possibly fatally so, yes.'

Venitt Sathad's brows lifted. ‘Have some wine, Orbyn. And please elaborate on that comment.'

‘There are assassins in that company,' Truthfinder replied, frowning to indicate his distaste. ‘Not mine, I assure you. Letur plays his own game with the Overseer. Political. In truth, I do not expect Brohl Handar to return to Drene, except perhaps as a wrapped, salted corpse.'

‘I see. Of course, this sparring of his has now put him at a great disadvantage.'

Orbyn nodded as he poured his cup full. ‘Yes, with Brohl nowhere in sight, the blame for last night's riot rests exclusively with the Factor. There will be repercussions, no doubt?'

‘Truthfinder, that riot is not yet over. It will continue into this night, where it will boil out from the slums with still greater force and ferocity. There will be more assaults on Letur's estate, and before long on all of his properties and holdings throughout Drene, and those he will not be able to protect. The barracks will be under siege. There will be looting. There will be slaughter.'

Orbyn was leaning forward, rubbing at his oily brow. ‘So it is true, then. Financial collapse.'

‘The empire reels. The Liberty Consign is mortally wounded. When the people learn that there have been other riots, in city after city—'

‘The Tiste Edur will be stirred awake.'

‘Yes.'

Orbyn's eyes fixed on Venitt Sathad's. ‘There are rumours of war in the west.'

‘West? What do you mean?'

‘An invasion from the sea, that seems to be focused on the Tiste Edur themselves. Punitive, in the wake of the fleets. A distant empire that did not take kindly to the murder of its citizens. And now, reports of the Bolkando and their allies, massing along the border.'

A tight smile from Venitt Sathad. ‘The alliance we forged.'

‘Indeed. Another of Letur Anict's brilliant schemes gone awry.'

‘Hardly his exclusively, Orbyn. Your Patriotists were essential participants in that propaganda.'

‘I wish I could deny that. And so we come to that single word, the one that filled my mind in the place of “honour”. I find you here, in Drene. Venitt Sathad, understand me. I know what you do for your master, and I know just how well you do it. I know what even Karos Invictad does not – nor have I any interest in enlightening him. Regarding you, sir.'

‘You wish to speak for yourself, now? Rather than the Patriotists?'

‘To stay alive, yes.'

‘Then the word is indeed not honour.'

Orbyn Truthfinder, the most feared man in Drene, drained his cup of wine. He leaned back. ‘You sit here, amidst carnage. People hurry past and they see you, and though you are, in features and in stature, barely worth noting, notice you they do. And a chill grips their hearts, and they do not know why. But I do.'

‘You comprehend, then, that I must pay Letur Anict a visit.'

‘Yes, and I wish you well in that.'

‘Unfortunately, Orbyn, we find ourselves in a moment of crisis. In the absence of Overseer Brohl Handar, it falls to Letur Anict to restore order. Yes, he may well fail, but he must be given the opportunity to succeed. For the sake of the empire, Orbyn, I expect you and your agents to assist the Factor in every way possible.'

‘Of course. But I have lost thirty-one agents since yesterday. And those among them who had families…well, no-one was spared retribution.'

‘It is a sad truth, Orbyn, that all who have been rewarded by tyranny must eventually share an identical fate.'

‘You sound almost satisfied, Venitt.'

The Indebted servant of Rautos Hivanar permitted a faint smile to reach his lips as he reached for his cup of wine.

Orbyn's expression flattened. ‘Surely,' he said, ‘you do not believe a mob is capable of justice?'

‘They have been rather restrained, thus far.'

‘You cannot be serious.'

‘Orbyn, not one Tiste Edur has been touched.'

‘Because the rioters are not fools. Who dares face Edur sorcery? It was the very inactivity of the local Edur that incited the mobs to ever more vicious extremes – and I assure you, Letur Anict is well aware of that fact.'

‘Ah, so he would blame the Tiste Edur for this mess. How convenient.'

‘I am not here to defend the Factor, Venitt Sathad.'

‘No, you are here to bargain for your life.'

‘I will of course assist Letur Anict in restoring order. But I am not confident that he will succeed, and I will not throw away my people.'

‘Actually, you will do just that.'

Orbyn's eyes widened. Sweat was now trickling down his face. His clothes were sticking patchily to the folds of fat beneath.

‘Truthfinder,' Venitt Sathad continued, ‘the Patriotists have outlived their usefulness, barring one last, most noble sacrifice. As the focus of the people's rage. I understand there is a Drene custom, something to do with the season of storms, and the making of seaweed fisher folk – life-sized dolls with shells for eyes, dressed in old clothes and the like. Sent out to mark the season's birth, I believe, in small boats. An offering to the sealords of old – for the storms to drown. Quaint and unsurprisingly bloodthirsty, as most old customs are. The Patriotists, Orbyn, must become Drene's seaweed fisher folk. We are in a season of storms, and sacrifices are necessary.'

Truthfinder licked his lips. ‘And what of me?' he asked in a whisper.

‘Ah, that particular session of bargaining is not yet complete.'

‘I see.'

‘I hope so.'

‘Venitt Sathad, my agents – there are wives, husbands, children—'

‘Yes, I am sure there are. Just as there were wives, husbands and children of all those you happily arrested, tortured and murdered all in the name of personal financial gain. The people, Orbyn, do understand redressing an imbalance.'

‘This is as Rautos Hivanar demands—'

‘My master leaves the specifics to me. He respects my record of…efficiency. While the authority he represents no doubt bolsters compliance, I rarely make overt use of it. By that I mean I rarely find the need. You said you know me, Truthfinder, did you not?'

‘I know you, Venitt Sathad, for the man who found Gerun Eberict's murderer and sent that half-blood away with a chest full of coins. I know you for the killer of a hundred men and women at virtually every level of society, and, no matter how well protected, they die, and you emerge unscathed, your identity unknown—'

‘Except, it seems, to you.'

‘I stumbled onto your secret life, Venitt Sathad, many years ago. And I have followed your career, not just within the empire, but in the many consulates and embassies where your…skills…were needed. To advance Letherii interests. I am a great admirer, Venitt Sathad.'

‘Yet now you seek to cast in the coin of your knowledge in order to purchase your life. Do you not comprehend the risk?'

‘What choice do I have? By telling you all I know, I am also telling you I have no illusions – I know why you are here, and what you need to do; indeed, my only surprise is that it has taken Rautos Hivanar so long to finally send you. In fact, it might be you have arrived too late, Venitt Sathad.'

To that, Venitt slowly nodded. Orbyn Truthfinder was a dangerous man. Yet, for the moment, still useful. As, alas, was Letur Anict. But such things were measured day by day, at times moment by moment.
Too late. You fool, Orbyn, even you have no real idea just how true that statement is – too late.

Tehol Beddict played a small game, once, to see how it would work out. But this time – with that damned manservant of his – he has played a game on a scale almost beyond comprehension.

And I am Venitt Sathad. Indebted, born of Indebted, most skilled slave and assassin of Rautos Hivanar, and you, Tehol Beddict – and you, Bugg – need never fear me.

Take the bastards down. Every damned one of them. Take them all down.

It seemed Orbyn Truthfinder saw something in his expression then that drained all colour from the man's round, sweat-streamed face.

Venitt Sathad was amused.
Orbyn, have you found a truth?

 

Scattered to either side of the dark storm front, grey clouds skidded across the sky, dragging slanting sheets of rain. The plains were greening along hillsides and in the troughs of valleys, a mottled patchwork of lichen, mosses and matted grasses. On the summit of a nearby hill was the carcass of a wild bhederin, hastily butchered after dying to a lightning strike. The beast's legs were sticking up into the air and on one hoof was perched a storm-bedraggled crow. Eviscerated entrails stretched out and down the slope facing Brohl Handar and his troop as they rode past.

The Awl were on the run. Warriors who had died of their wounds were left under heaps of stones, and they were as road-markers for the fleeing tribe, although in truth unnecessary since with the rains the trail was a broad swath of churned ground. In many ways, this uncharacteristic carelessness worried the Overseer, but perhaps it was as Bivatt had said: the unseasonal bank of storms that had rolled across the plains in the past three days had caught Redmask unprepared – there could be no hiding the passage of thousands of warriors, their families, and the herds that moved with them. That, and the bloody, disastrous battle at Praedegar had shown Redmask to be fallible; indeed, it was quite possible that the masked war leader was now struggling with incipient mutiny among his people.