What else could anyone conclude? Those five armies were shattered. The enemy marches on, into the empire’s very heart. And what has happened east of Drene? More silence, and Atri-Preda Bivatt was considered by most as the next Freda of the Imperial Armies.
Rebellion in Bluerose, riots in every city. Wholesale desertion of entire units and garrisons. The Tiste Edur vanishing like ghosts, fleeing back to their homeland, no doubt. By the Errant, why did I not ride with Yan Tovis? Return to my wife-I am a fool, who will die here, in this damned palace. Die for nothing.
He stood, positioned beside the throne room’s entrance-way, and watched from under the rim of his helm the Emperor of a Thousand Deaths pace in front of the throne. Filthy with blood and spilled fluids from a dozen dead challengers, a dozen cut through in a whirlwind frenzy, Rhulad shrieking as his sword whirled and chopped and severed and seemed to drink in the pain and blood of its victims.
And now, dawn was beginning on this day, and the sleepless Emperor paced. Blackened coins shifting on his ravaged face as emotions worked his features in endless cycles of disbelief, distress and fear.
Before Rhulad Sengar, standing motionless, was the Chancellor.
Thrice, the Emperor paused to glare at Triban Gnol. Thrice he made as if to speak, only to resume his pacing, the sword-tip dragging across the tiles.
His own people had abandoned him. He had inadvertently drowned his own mother and father. Killed all of his brothers. Driven the wife he had stolen to suicide. Been betrayed by the First and only Concubine he had possessed, Nisall.
An economy in ruins, all order crumbling, and armies invading.
And his only answer was to force hapless foreigners onto the sands of the arena and butcher them.
Pathos or grand comedy?
It will not do, Emperor. All that blood and guts covering you will not do. When you are but the hands holding the sword, the sword rules, and the sword knows nothing but what it was made for. It can achieve no resolutions, can manage no subtle diplomacy, can solve none of the problems afflicting people in their tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands.
Leave a sword to rule an empire and the empire falls. Amidst war, amidst anarchy, amidst a torrent of blood and a sea of misery.
Coin-clad, the wielder of the sword paced out the true extent of his domain, here in this throne room.
Halting, facing the Chancellor once more. ‘What has happened?’
A child’s question. A child’s voice. Varat Taun felt his heart give slightly, felt its hardness suddenly soften. A child.
The Chancellor’s reply was measured, so reassuring that Varat Taun very nearly laughed at the absurdity of that tone. ‘We are never truly conquered, Emperor. You will stand, because none can remove you. The invaders will see that, understand that. They will have done with their retribution. Will they occupy? Unknown. If not them, then the coalition coming from the eastern kingdoms will-and such coalitions inevitably break apart, devour themselves. They too will be able to do nothing to you, Emperor.’
Rhulad Sengar stared at Triban Gnol, his mouth working but no sounds coming forth.
‘I have begun,’ the Chancellor resumed, ‘preparing our conditional surrender. To the Malazans. At the very least, they will enforce peace in the city, an end to the riots. Likely working in consort with the Patriotists. Once order is restored, we can begin the task of resurrecting the economy, minting-’
‘Where are my people?’ Rhulad Sengar asked.
‘They will return, Emperor. I am sure of it.’
Rhulad turned to face the throne. And suddenly went perfectly still. ‘It is empty,’ he whispered. ‘Look!’ He spun round, pointing his sword back at the throne. ‘Do you see? It is empty!’
‘Sire-’
‘Like my father’s chair in our house! Our house in the village! Empty!’
‘The village is no longer there, Emperor-’
‘But the chair remains! I see it! With my own eyes-my father’s chair! The paint fades in the sun. The wood joins split in the rain. Crows perch on the weathered arms! I see it!’
The shout echoed in silence then. Not a guard stirring. The Chancellor with bowed head, and who knew what thoughts flickered behind the serpent’s eyes?
Surrender. Conditional. Rhulad Sengar remains. Rhulad Sengar and, oh yes, Chancellor Triban Gnol. And the Patriotists. ‘We cannot be conquered. We are for ever. Step into our world and it devours you.’
Rhulad’s broad shoulders slowly sagged. Then he walked up to the throne, turned about and sat down. Looked out with bleak eyes. In a croaking voice he asked, ‘Who remains?’
The Chancellor bowed. ‘But one, Emperor.’
