The Wurms of Blearmouth by Steven Erikson

Author:Steven Erikson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fantasy
ISBN: 9780765324269
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2011-12-31T13:00:00+00:00

“The challenges of governance,” said Bauchelain, studying the wine in the crystal goblet he held up to candelight, “pose unique travails that few common folk have the intelligence to understand. Would you not agree to this, sir?”

“I have said as much many times,” Fangatooth replied, glancing over at Coingood. “As you have noted in my Tome of Tyranny, Scribe. Do you see, Bauchelain, how he writes down all that we say? I am assembling a book, you see, a work of many parts, and now, with this night, you yourself enter the narrative of my rise to power.”

“How congenial, sir,” Bauchelain said, raising the goblet in a toast.

“And if your companion would deign to speak, then he too would be rewarded with immortality, there upon the vellum of my virtues—Coingood, note that one! My vellum of virtues! It’s my gift for the turn of phrase, you see, which I am adamant in preserving for posterity. ‘Preserving for posterity!’ Write that, Scribe!”

“Alas,” said Bauchelain, “Korbal Broach’s talents lie elsewhere, and as a dinner guest he is often noted for his modesty, and his evident appreciation of fine food. Is that not so, my friend?”

Korbal Broach glanced up from his plate. He licked his greasy lips and said, “Those bodies I left outside should be frozen by now, don’t you think, Bauchelain?”

“I imagine so,” Bauchelain replied.

Grunting, Korbal returned to his meal.

Fangatooth gestured and a servant refilled his goblet. “It always astonishes me,” he said, “that so many common people look with horror and revulsion upon a corpse, when I admit to seeing in its lifeless pose a certain eloquence.”

“A singular statement, yes.”

“Precisely. Flesh in its most artless expression.”

“Which transcends the mundane and becomes art itself, when one considers its ongoing potential.”

“Potential, yes.” Fangatooth then frowned. “What potential do you mean, Bauchelain?”

“Well, take those bodies you suspend upon hooks on your keep wall. Are they not symbolic? Else, why display them at all? The corpse is the purest symbol of authority there is, I would assert. Proof of the power of life over death, and in the face of that, defiance loses all meaning. Resistance becomes a pointless plunge into the lime pit of lost causes.”

Throughout this Fangatooth was making rolling gestures with his hand, almost in the scribe’s face, and Coingood scratched away as fast as he could.

“The corpse, my friend,” continued Bauchelain, “is the truth of power laid bare. Undisguised, stripped away of all obfuscation. Why, the corpse exists in all forms of governance. May it rest beneath soft velvet, or perch gilded in gold, or holding aloft gem-studded swords, it remains a most poignant, if silent, rebuke to all those absurd notions of equality so common among troublemakers.” Bauchelain paused and sipped at his wine. “The corpse can only be the friend of the one in power. Like a bed-mate, a cold lover, a bony standard, a throne of clammy flesh.” He lifted his goblet. “Shall we toast the corpse, my friends?”

From the far end of the table, Emancipor belched and said, “Aye, Master, that’s one to drink to, all right.

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