Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7)

Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7) Page 310

‘Ooh, all the old wounds still smarting, are they?’

‘Never mind old wounds, Janath. You need to leave.’

‘What? Are there rumours I’m incapable of something?’

‘No, I’m serious. Any day now, there is going to be trouble. Here.’

‘Where am I supposed to go?’

‘You need to contact who’s left of your scholarly friends-find one you can trust-’

‘Tehol Beddict, really now. I have no friends among my fellow scholars, and certainly not one I can trust. You clearly know nothing of my profession. We crush beaks between our teeth as a matter of course. In any case, what kind of trouble are you talking about? This economic sabotage of yours?’

‘Bugg should really learn to keep quiet.’

She was studying him in a most discomforting way. ‘You know, Tehol Beddict, I never imagined you for an agent of evil.’

Tehol smoothed back his hair and swelled his chest.

‘Very impressive, but I’m not convinced. Why are you doing all this? Is there some wound from the past that overwhelms all the others? Some terrible need for vengeance to answer some horrendous trauma of your youth? No, I am truly curious.’

‘It was all Bugg’s idea, of course.’

She shook her head. ‘Try again.’

‘There are all kinds of evil, Janath.’

‘Yes, but yours will see blood spilled. Plenty of it.’

‘Is there a difference between spilled blood and blood squeezed out slowly, excruciatingly, over the course of a foreshortened lifetime of stress, misery, anguish and despair-all in the name of some amorphous god that no-one dares call holy? Even as they bend knee and repeat the litany of sacred duty?’

‘Oh my,’ she said. ‘Well, that is an interesting question. Is there a difference? Perhaps not, perhaps only as a matter of degree. But that hardly puts you on a moral high ground, does it?’

‘I have never claimed a moral high ground,’ Tehol said, ‘which in itself sets me apart from my enemy.’

‘Yes, I see that. And of course you are poised to destroy that enemy with its own tools, using its own holy scripture; using it, in short, to kill itself. You are at the very end of the slope on which perches your enemy. Or should I say “clings”. Now, that you are diabolical comes as no surprise, Tehol. I saw that trait in you long ago. Even so, this blood-thirstiness? I still cannot see it.’

‘Probably something to do with your lessons on pragmatism.’

‘Oh now, don’t you dare point a finger at me! True pragmatism, in this instance, would guide you to vast wealth and the reward of indolence, to the fullest exploitation of the system. The perfect parasite, and be damned to all those lesser folk, the destitute and the witless, the discarded failures squatting in every alley. You certainly possess the necessary talent and genius and indeed, were you now the wealthiest citizen of this empire, living in some enormous estate surrounded by an army of bodyguards and fifty concubines in your stable, I would not in the least be surprised.’

‘Not surprised,’ Tehol said, ‘but, perhaps, disappointed nonetheless?’

She pursed her lips and glanced away. ‘Well, that is another issue, Tehol Beddict. One we are not discussing here.’

‘If you say so, Janath. In any case, the truth is, I am the wealthiest citizen in this empire. Thanks to Bugg, of course, my front man.’

‘Yet you live in a hovel.’

‘Disparaging my abode? You, an un-paying guest! 1 am deeply hurt, Janath.’

‘No you’re not.’

‘Well, the hens are-and since they do not speak Letherii…’

‘Wealthiest citizen or not, Tehol Beddict, your goal is not the ostentatious expression of that wealth, not the fullest exploitation of the power it grants you. No, you intend the collapse of this empire’s fundamental economic structure. And 1 still cannot fathom why.’

Tehol shrugged. ‘Power always destroys itself in the end, Janath. Would you contest that assertion?’

‘No. So, are you telling me that all of this is an exercise in power? An exercise culminating in a lesson no-one could not recognize for what it is? A metaphor made real?’

‘But Janath, when I spoke of power destroying itself I was not speaking in terms of metaphor. I meant it literally. So, how many generations of Indebted need to suffer-even as the civilized trappings multiply and abound on all sides, with an ever-increasing proportion of those material follies out of their financial reach? How many, before we all collectively stop and say, “Aaii! That’s enough! No more suffering, please! No more hunger, no more war, no more inequity!” Well, as far as I can see, there are never enough generations. We just scrabble on, and on, devouring all within reach, including our own kind, as if it was nothing more than the undeniable expression of some natural law, and as such subject to no moral context, no ethical constraint-despite the ubiquitous and disingenuous blathering over-invocation of those two grand notions.’