Steven Erikson - Reaper's gale

Tehol faced Bugg, ‘Listen to that mob. We going to be able to leave here alive? I’m really not in the mood for a Drowning. Especially my own.’

Brys grunted. ‘You’ve not been paying attention, brother. You’re a hero. They want to see you.’

‘I am? Why, I never imagined that they had it in them.’

‘They didn’t,’ Bugg replied, with a sour expression. ‘Ormly and Rucket have spent a fortune on criers.’ Brys smiled. ‘Humbled, Tehol?’

‘Never. Bugg, take me to Janath. Please.’ At that, Brys Beddict’s brows rose. Ah, it is that way, then. Well. Good.

A surviving officer of the city garrison formally surrendered to the Adjunct just inside the west gate, and now Tavore led her occupying army into Letheras.

Leaving Fist Blistig in charge of the main force, she assembled the five hundred or so surviving marines, along with Fist Keneb, and her own troop of mounted cavalry, and set out for the imperial palace. This ill-named ‘Eternal Domicile’.

Sinn, riding behind Lostara Yil, had cried out when the dragon had appeared over the city; then had laughed and clapped her hands when at least two cussers and then wave after wave of ferocious sorcery routed the creature.

Captain Faradan Sort’s advance squads were still active-that much had been made abundantly clear. And they were at the palace, or at least very close. And they were in a mood.

Most commanders would have raged at this-uncontrolled soldiers raising mayhem somewhere ahead, a handful of grubby marines who’d lived in the wilds for too long now battering at the palace door, frenzied with blood-lust and eager to deliver vengeance. Was this how she wanted to announce her conquest? Would the damned fools leave anything still breathing in that palace?

And what of this un-killable Emperor? Lostara Yil did not believe such a thing was even possible. A cusser in the bastard’s crotch there on that throne and he’ll be giving to the people for days and days. She wouldn’t put it past Fiddler, either. One step into the throne room, the thwock of that oversized crossbow, and then the sergeant diving back, trying to get clear as the entire room erupted. He’d probably happily kill himself for that pleasure.

Yet, while without doubt the Adjunct shared such visions, Tavore said nothing. Nor did she urge her troops to any haste-not that any of them were in shape for that, especially the marines. Instead, they advanced at a measured pace, and citizens began appearing from the side lanes, alleys and avenues, to watch them march past. Some even cried out a welcome, with voices breaking with relief.

The city was a mess. Riots and earthquakes and Moranth munitions. Lostara Yil began to realize that, if the arrival of the Bonehunters signified anything, it was the promise of a return to order, a new settling of civilization, of laws and, ironically, of peace.

But Adjunct, if we tarry here too long, that will turn. It always does. Nobody likes being under an occupier’s heel. Simple human nature, to take one’s own despair and give it a foreigner’s face, then let loose the hounds of blood.

See these citizens? These bright, gladdened faces? Any one of them, before long, could turn. The reapers of violence can hide behind the calmest eyes, the gentlest of smiles. ‘

The column’s pace was slowing, with ever more crowds before them. Chants were rising and falling here and there. Letherii words, the tone somewhere between hope and insistence.

‘Adjunct, what is it they’re all saying?’

A name,’ she replied. ‘Well, two names, I think. One they call the Saviour. The other…’

‘The other… what, sir?’

She cast Lostara a quick glance, then her mouth set, before she said, ‘Emperor.’

Emperor? ‘But I thought-’

A new Emperor, Captain. By proclamation, it would seem.’

Oh, and have we nothing to say on this?

Directly ahead was a wall of citizens, blocking all hopes ‘ of passage, through which a small group was moving, pushing its way to the forefront.

The Adjunct raised a gloved hand to signal a halt.

The group emerged, an enormously fat woman in the lead, followed by a gnarled little man who seemed to be carrying rats in the pockets of his cloak, and then two men who looked like brothers. Both lean, one in the uniform of an officer, the other wearing a tattered, blood-stained blanket.

Tavore dismounted, gesturing for Lostara to do the same.

The two women approached the group. As they drew closer, the fat woman stepped to one side and with a surprisingly elegant wave of one plump hand she said, ‘Commander, I present to you Brys Beddict, once Champion to King Ezgara Diskanar-before the Edur conquest-now proclaimed the Saviour. And his brother, Tehol Beddict, financial genius, liberator of the oppressed and not half bad in bed, even now being proclaimed the new Emperor of Lether by his loving subjects.’

The Adjunct seemed at a loss for a reply.

Lostara stared at this Tehol Beddict-although, truth be told, she’d rather let her eyes linger on Brys-and frowned at the disgusting blanket wrapped about him. Financial genius?

Brys Beddict now stepped forward and, as had the huge woman, spoke in the trader’s tongue. ‘We would escort you to the Eternal Domicile, Commander, where we will, I believe, find an emperor without an empire, who will need to be ousted.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘I assume you come as liberators, Commander. And, accordingly, have no wish to overstay your welcome.’

‘By that,’ the Adjunct said, ‘you mean to imply that I have insufficient forces to impose a viable occupation. Were you aware, Brys Beddict, that your eastern borderlands have been overrun? And that an army of allies now marches into your empire?’

‘Do you come as conquerors, then?’ Brys Beddict asked.

The Adjunct sighed, then unstrapped and pulled off her helm. She drew her hand from its glove and ran it through her short, sweat-damp hair. ‘Hood forbid,’ she muttered.

‘Find us a way through these people, then, Brys Beddict.’ She paused, cast her gaze to Tehol Beddict, and slowly frowned. ‘You are rather shy for an emperor,’ she observed.

Tehol refuted that with the brightest smile, and it transformed him, and suddenly Lostara forgot all about the man’s martial-looking brother.

Spirits of the sand, those eyes…

‘I do apologize, Commander. I admit I have been somewhat taken aback.’

The Adjunct slowly nodded. ‘By this popular acclaim, yes, I imagine-’

‘No, not that. She said I was not half bad in bed. I am crushed by the other half, the “half good” bit-’

‘Oh, Tehol,’ the fat woman said, ‘I was being modest for your sake.’

‘Modesty from you, Rucket? You don’t know the meaning of the word! I mean, I just look at you and it’s hard not to, if you know what I mean.’

‘No.’

‘Anyway!’ Tehol clapped his hands together. ‘We’ve had the fireworks, now let’s get this parade started!’

Sirryn Kanar ran down the corridor, away from the fighting. The damned foreigners were in the Eternal Domicile, delivering slaughter-no calls for surrender, no demands to throw down weapons. Just those deadly quarrels, those chopping shortswords and those devastating grenados. His fellow guards were dying by the score, their blood splashing the once pristine walls.

And Sirryn vowed he was not going to suffer the same fate.

They wouldn’t kill the Chancellor. They needed him, and besides, he was an old man. Obviously unarmed, a peaceful man. Civilized. And the guard they’d find standing at his side, well, even he carried naught but a knife at his belt. No sword, no shield, no helm or even armour.

I can stay alive there, right at the Chancellor’s side.

But where is he?