Midnight Tides & The Bonehunters - By Steven Erikson Page 0,288

left. Brys strode into the narrow corridor that tracked the length of the wing on the second tier. At the far end steps descended to an antechamber that was part of the central dome complex. There, he found Finadd Moroch Nevath, sitting on a stone bench.

'Brys, I have been waiting for you.'

'Not too long, I hope. What do you wish of me, Finadd?'

'Do you believe in gods?'

Startled, Brys was silent for a moment, then said, 'I am afraid I do not see the relevance of that question.'

Moroch Nevath reached into a pouch at his hip and withdrew a battered tile, such as might be found among market readers. 'When did you last speak with Turudal Brizad?'

'The First Consort has not been in the palace – either palace, since yesterday,' Brys said. 'First Eunuch Nifadas ordered an extensive search, and it has been concluded that Turudal has fled. Not entirely surprising—'

Moroch tossed him the tile. Instinctively, Brys caught it in his left hand. He looked down at the ceramic plaque. Yellowed at the edges, latticed with cracks, the illustration reduced to a series of stylized scratches that Brys none the less recognized. 'The tile of the Errant. What of it, Moroch?'

The soldier rose to his feet. He'd lost weight, Brys noted, and seemed to have aged ten years since joining the treaty delegation. 'He's been here. All along. The bastard's been right under our noses, Brys Beddict.'

'What are you talking about?'

'The Errant. The First Consort. Turudal Brizad.'

'That is ... ridiculous.'

'I have a somewhat harsher word for it, Brys.'

The Champion glanced away from the man standing before him. 'How did you come to this extraordinary conclusion, Moroch?'

'There have been Turudal Brizads every generation – oh, different names, but it's him. Scenes on tapestries, paintings. Walk the royal collection, Brys – everything's out in the hallway, about to be moved. It was right there, for anyone to see, should they find reason to look.'

'And what reason did you have, Moroch?'

A grimace. 'He asked me to do something for him.'

Brys grunted. 'He's a god.' Supposedly. 'Why should he need your help?'

'Because he says you will be too busy.'

Brys thought back to his last conversation with Turudal Brizad.... the end of my objectivity. Something like that, as the man was walking away. 'I admit to some ... scepticism, Moroch Nevath.'

'Set it aside for the moment, Brys. I am here to ask your advice. Assume the worst.'

'A god asks for your help? I suppose one must consider possible motivations, and the consequences of accepting or rejecting the request.'

'Yes.'

'Will doing as he asks be to the benefit of Lether?'

'He says it will.'

'Where is he now?'

'In the city, somewhere. He was watching the last of the refugees allowed in this morning, on the wall, or so one of my guards reported.'

'Then, I would think, Moroth, that you must do as he asks.'

'Over the duty of protecting the king?'

'I imagine the god assumes that task will be mine.'

'We are almost equal, you and I, Brys.'

'I know.'

'You may believe that you are the better between us. I believe otherwise.'

'The decision was not ours to make, Moroch.'

Moroch studied him for a half-dozen heartbeats, then said, 'I thank you for the advice, Finadd.'

'I hesitate to say it, Moroch Nevath, but the Errant be with you.'

'Not funny,' the swordsman muttered as he strode away.

Brys made his way into the dome complex. He came to the main corridor, halting to study the layout once more. The walls had been scrubbed, the dust on the floor mopped away. Guards and functionaries were moving about, readying for the investiture. Many glances were cast in the direction of the figure sleeping halfway down the corridor, curled up on the centre tile.

Sighing, Brys approached Kuru Qan. 'Ceda.'

The old man made a sound, then turned over so that his back was to Brys.

'Wake up, Ceda. Please.'

Head lifting, Kuru Qan groped for the twin lenses lying on the floor nearby, drew them to his face. 'Who calls?'

'It is Brys Beddict.'

'Ah, Finadd.' Kuru Qan twisted round and peered up. 'You look well.'

You do not. 'Ceda, the investiture is about to begin. Unless you would have King Ezgara Diskanar step around you during his solemn march, you will have to move.'

'No!' The old man spread himself out on the flagstone. 'I must not! This is mine. My place.'

'You insist that he step to one side on his approach? Ceda, you risk the king's anger—'

'Relevant? Not in the least.' His fingers scrabbled on the stone. 'This is mine. Warn him, Finadd. Warn the