House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  Karsa had proclaimed the Malazans his enemy.

  The warrior slipped out onto the track and headed east. Hunched low, he ran hard, his eyes scanning the way ahead, seeking cover, expecting at any moment the shout that would announce his discovery.

  He moved into the shadows of a large house that leaned slightly over the alley. In another five strides he would come to the wide street that led down to the lakeshore. Crossing it undetected was likely to prove a challenge. Silgar’s hunters remained in the town, as did an unknown number of Malazans. Enough to cause him trouble? There was no telling.

  Five cautious strides, and he was at the edge of the street. There was a small crowd at the far end, lakeside. Wrapped bodies were being carried out of a house, whilst two men struggled with a young, naked, blood-splashed woman. She was hissing and trying to claw at their eyes. It was a moment before Karsa recollected her. The blood-oil still burned within her, and the crowd had drawn back in obvious alarm, their attention one and all fixed on her writhing form.

  A glance to the right. No-one.

  Karsa bolted across the street. He was but a single stride from the alley opposite when he heard a hoarse shout, then a chorus of cries. Skidding through sluicing mud, the warrior raised his sword and snapped his gaze towards the distant crowd.

  To see only their backs, as they fled like panicked deer, leaving the wrapped corpses strewn in their wake. The young woman, suddenly released, fell to the mud shrieking, one hand snapping out to clamp on the ankle of one of her captors. She was dragged through the mud for a body length before she managed to foul the man’s stride and send him sprawling. She clambered atop him with a snarl.

  Karsa padded into the alley.

  A bell started a wild clanging.

  He continued on, eastward, parallel to the main street. The far end, thirty or more paces distant, seemed to face onto a long, stone-walled, single level building, the windows visible bearing heavy shutters. As he raced towards it, he saw three Malazan soldiers dart across his field of vision—all were helmed, visors lowered, and none turned their heads.

  Karsa slowed his pace as he neared the alley’s end. He could see more of the building ahead now. It looked somehow different from all the others in the town, its style more severe, pragmatic—a style the Teblor could admire.

  He halted at the alley mouth. A glance to his right revealed that the building before him fronted onto the main street, beyond which was a clearing to match that of the west gate, the edge of the town wall visible just beyond. To his left, and closer to hand, the building came to an end, with a wooden corral flanked by stables and outbuildings. Karsa returned his attention to his right and leaned out slightly further.

  The three Malazan soldiers were nowhere to be seen.

  The bell was still pealing somewhere behind him, yet the town seemed strangely deserted.

  Karsa jogged towards the corral. He arrived with no alarms raised, stepped over the railing, and made his way along the building’s wall towards the doorway.

  It had been left open. The antechamber within held hooks, racks and shelves for weapons, but all such weapons had been removed. The close dusty air held the memory of fear. Karsa slowly entered. Another door stood opposite, this one shut.

  A single kick sent it crashing inward.

  Beyond, a large room with a row of cots on either side. Empty.

  The echoes of the shattered door fading, Karsa ducked through the doorway and straightened, looking around, sniffing the air. The chamber reeked of tension. He felt something like a presence, still there, yet somehow managing to remain unseen. The warrior cautiously stepped forward. He listened for breathing, heard nothing, took another step.

  The noose dropped down from above, over his head and down onto his shoulders. Then a wild shout, and it snapped tight around his neck.

  As Karsa raised his sword to slice through the hemp rope, four figures descended behind him, and the rope gave a savage yank, lifting the Teblor off his feet.

  There was a sudden splintering from above, followed by a desultory curse, then the crossbeam snapped, the rope slackening though the noose remained taut around Karsa’s throat. Unable to draw breath, he spun, sword cleaving in a horizontal slash—that passed through empty air. The Malazan soldiers, he saw, had already dropped to the floor and rolled away.

  Karsa dragged the rope free of his neck, then advanced on the nearest scrambling soldier.

  Sorcery hammered him from behind, a frenzied wave that engulfed the Teblor. He staggered, then, with a roar, shook it off.

  He swung his sword. The Malazan before him leapt backward, but the blade’s tip connected with his right knee, shattering the bone. The man shrieked as he toppled.

  A net of fire descended on Karsa, an impossibly heavy web of pain that drove him to his knees. He sought to slash at it, but his weapon was fouled by the flickering strands. It began constricting as if it possessed a life of its own.

  The warrior struggled within the ever-tightening net, and in moments was rendered helpless.

  The wounded soldier’s screams continued, until a hard voice rumbled a command and eerie light flashed in the room. The shrieks abruptly stopped.

  Figures closed in around Karsa, one crouching down near his head. A dark-skinned, scarred face beneath a bald, tattoo-stitched pate. The man’s smile was a row of gleaming gold. ‘You understand Nathii, I take it. That’s nice. You’ve just made Limp’s bad leg a whole lot worse, and he won’t be happy about that. Even so, you stumbling into our laps will more than make up for the house arrest we’re presently under—’

  ‘Let’s kill him, Sergeant—’

  ‘Enough of that, Shard. Bell, go find the slavemaster. Tell him we got his prize. We’ll hand him over, but not for nothing. Oh, and do it quietly—I don’t want the whole town outside with torches and pitchforks.’ The sergeant looked up as another soldier arrived. ‘Nice work, Ebron.’

  ‘I damned near wet my pants, Cord,’ the man named Ebron replied, ‘when he just threw off the nastiest I had.’

  ‘Just shows, don’t it?’ Shard muttered.

  ‘Shows what?’ Ebron demanded.

  ‘Well, only that clever beats nasty every time, that’s all.’

  Sergeant Cord grunted, then said, ‘Ebron, see what you can do for Limp, before he comes round and starts screaming again.’

  ‘I’ll do that. For a runt, he’s got some lungs, don’t he just.’

  Cord reached down and carefully slid his hand between the burning strands to tap a finger against the bloodsword. ‘So here’s one of the famed wooden swords. So hard it breaks Aren steel.’

  ‘Look at the edge,’ Shard said. ‘It’s that resin they use that makes that edge—’

  ‘And hardens the wood itself, aye. Ebron, this web of yours, is it causing him pain?’

  The sorcerer’s reply came from beyond Karsa’s line of sight. ‘If it was you in that, Cord, you’d be howling to shame the Hounds. For a moment or two, then you’d be dead and sizzling like fat on a hearthstone.’

  Cord frowned down at Karsa, then slowly shook his head. ‘He ain’t even trembling. Hood knows what we could do with five thousand of these bastards in our ranks.’

  ‘Might even manage to clean out Mott Wood, eh, Sergeant?’

  ‘Might at that.’ Cord rose and stepped away. ‘So what’s keeping Bell?’

  ‘Probably can’t find no-one,’ Shard replied. ‘Never seen a whole town take to the boats like that before.’

  Boots sounded in the antechamber, and Karsa listened to the arrival of at least a half-dozen newcomers.

  A soft voice said, ‘Thank you, Sergeant, for recovering my property—’

  ‘Ain’t your property any more,’ Cord replied. ‘He’s a prisoner of the Malazan Empire, now. He killed Malazan soldiers, not to mention damaging imperial property by kicking in that door there.’

  ‘You cannot be serious—’

  ‘I’m always serious, Silgar,’ Cord quietly drawled. ‘I can guess what
you got in mind for this giant. Castration, a cut-out tongue, hobbling. You’ll put him on a leash and travel the towns south of here, drumming up replacements for your bounty hunters. But the Fist’s position on your slaving activities is well enough known. This is occupied territory—this is part of the Malazan Empire now, like it or not, and we ain’t at war with these so-called Teblor. Oh, I’ll grant you, we don’t appreciate renegades coming down and raiding, killing imperial subjects and all that. Which is why this bastard is now under arrest, and he’ll likely be sentenced to the usual punishment: the otataral mines of my dear old homeland.’ Cord moved to settle down beside Karsa once more. ‘Meaning we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, since our detachment’s heading home. Rumours of rebellion and such, though I doubt it’ll come to much.’

  Behind him, the slavemaster spoke. ‘Sergeant, the Malazan hold upon its conquests on this continent is more than precarious at the moment, now that your principal army is bogged down outside the walls of Pale. Do you truly wish for an incident here? To so flout our local customs—’

  ‘Customs?’ Still gazing down at Karsa, Cord bared his teeth. ‘The Nathii custom has been to run and hide when the Teblor raid. Your studious, deliberate corruption of the Sunyd is unique, Silgar. Your destruction of that tribe was a business venture on your part. Damned successful it was, too. The only flouting going on here is yours, with Malazan law.’ He looked up, his smile broadening. ‘What in Hood’s name do you think our company’s doing here, you perfumed piece of scum?’

  All at once tension filled the air as hands settled on sword-grips.

  ‘Rest easy, I’d advise,’ Ebron said from one side. ‘I know you’re a Mael priest, Silgar, and you’re right on the edge of your warren right now, but I’ll turn you into a lumpy puddle if you make so much as a twitch for it.’

  ‘Order your thugs back,’ Cord said, ‘or this Teblor will have company on his way to the mines.’

  ‘You would not dare—’

  ‘Wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Your captain would—’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t.’

  ‘I see. Very well. Damisk, take the men outside for a moment.’

  Karsa heard receding footsteps.

  ‘Now then, Sergeant,’ Silgar continued after a moment, ‘how much?’

  ‘Well, I admit I was considering some kind of exchange. But then the town’s bells stopped. Which tells me we’re out of time. Alas. Captain’s back—there, the sound of the horses, coming fast. All of this means we’re all official, now, Silgar. Of course, maybe I was stringing you along all the time, until you finally went and offered me a bribe. Which, as you know, is a crime.’

  The Malazan troop had arrived at the corral, Karsa could hear. A few shouts, the stamping of hoofs, a brief exchange of words with Damisk and the other guards standing outside, then heavy boots on the floorboards.

  Cord turned. ‘Captain—’

  A rumbling voice cut him off. ‘I thought I’d left you under house guard. Ebron, I don’t recall granting you permission to rearm these drunken louts . . .’ Then the captain’s words trailed away.

  Karsa sensed the smile on Cord’s face as he said, ‘The Teblor attempted an assault on our position, sir—’

  ‘Which no doubt sobered you up quick.’

  ‘That it did, sir. Accordingly, our clever sorcerer here decided to give us back our weapons, so that we could effect the capture of this overgrown savage. Alas, Captain, matters have since become somewhat more complicated.’

  Silgar spoke. ‘Captain Kindly, I came here to request the return of my slave and was met with overt hostility and threats from this squad here. I trust their poor example is not indicative of the depths to which the entire Malazan army has fallen—’

  ‘That they’re definitely not, Slavemaster,’ Captain Kindly replied.

  ‘Excellent. Now, if we could—’

  ‘He tried to bribe me, sir,’ Cord said in a troubled, distressed tone.

  There was silence, then the captain said, ‘Ebron? Is this true?’

  ‘Afraid it is, Captain.’

  There was cool satisfaction in Kindly’s voice as he said, ‘How unfortunate. Bribery is a crime, after all . . .’

  ‘I was just saying the same thing, sir,’ Cord noted.

  ‘I was invited to make an offer!’ Silgar hissed.

  ‘No you wasn’t,’ Ebron replied.

  Captain Kindly spoke. ‘Lieutenant Pores, place the slavemaster and his hunters under arrest. Detach two squads to oversee their incarceration in the town gaol. Put them in a separate cell from that bandit leader we captured on the way back—the infamous Knuckles is likely to have few friends locally. Barring those we strung up beside the road east of here, that is. Oh, and send in a healer for Limp—Ebron seems to have made something of a mess in his efforts on the unfortunate man.’

  ‘Well,’ Ebron snapped, ‘I ain’t Denul, you know.’

  ‘Watch your tone, Mage,’ the captain calmly warned.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘I admit to some curiosity, Ebron,’ Kindly continued. ‘What is the nature of this spell you have inflicted on this warrior?’

  ‘Uh, a shaping of Ruse—’

  ‘Yes, I know your warren, Ebron.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Well, it’s used to snare and stun dhenrabi in the seas—’

  ‘Dhenrabi? Those giant sea-worms?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, why in Hood’s name isn’t this Teblor dead?’

  ‘Good question, Captain. He’s a tough one, he is, ain’t he just.’

  ‘Beru fend us all.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Sergeant Cord.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I have decided to drop the charges of drunkenness against you and your squad. Grief for lost ones. An understandable reaction, all things considered. This time. The next abandoned tavern you stumble into, however, is not to be construed as an invitation to licentiousness. Am I understood?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir.’

  ‘Good. Ebron, inform the squads that we are departing this picturesque town. As soon as possible. Sergeant Cord, your squad will see to the loading of supplies. That will be all, soldiers.’

  ‘What of this warrior?’ Ebron asked.

  ‘How long will this sorcerous net last?’

  ‘As long as you like, sir. But the pain—’

  ‘He seems to be bearing up. Leave him as he is, and in the meantime think of a way to load him onto the bed of a wagon.’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’ll need long poles—’

  ‘Whatever,’ Captain Kindly muttered, striding away.

  Karsa sensed the sorcerer staring down on him. The pain had long since faded, no matter what Ebron’s claims, and indeed, the steady, slow tensing and easing of the Teblor’s muscles had begun to weaken it.

  Not long, now . . .

  Chapter Three

  Among the founding families of Darujhistan, there is Nom.

  The Noble Houses of Darujhistan

  Misdry

  ‘I MISSED YOU, KARSA ORLONG.’

  Torvald Nom’s face was mottled blue and black, his right eye swollen shut. He had been chained to the wagon’s forward wall and was slouched down amidst rotting straw, watching as the Malazan soldiers levered the Teblor onto the bed using stripped-down saplings that had been inserted beneath the limbs of the huge, net-wrapped warrior. The wagon shifted and groaned as Karsa’s weight settled on it.

  ‘Pity the damned oxen,’ Shard said, dragging one of the saplings free, his breath harsh and his face red with exertion.

  A second wagon stood nearby, just within the field of Karsa’s vision as he lay motionless on the weathered boards. In its back sat Silgar, Damisk, and three other Nathii lowlanders. The slavemaster’s face was white and patchy, the blue and gold trim of his expensive clothes stained and wrinkled. Seeing him, Karsa laughed.

  Silgar’s head snapped around, dark eyes fixing like knives on the Uryd warrior.

  ‘Taker of sla
ves!’ Karsa sneered.

  The Malazan soldier, Shard, climbed onto the wagon’s wall and leaned over to study Karsa for a moment, then he shook his head. ‘Ebron!’ he called out. ‘Come look. That web ain’t what it was.’

  The sorcerer clambered up beside him. His eyes narrowed. ‘Hood take him,’ he muttered. ‘Get us some chains, Shard. Heavy ones, and lots of them. Tell the captain, too, and hurry.’

  The soldier dropped out of sight.

  Ebron scowled down at Karsa. ‘You got otataral in your veins? Nerruse knows, that spell should have killed you long ago. What’s it been, three days now. Failing that, the pain should have driven you mad. But you’re no madder than you were a week ago, are you?’ His scowl deepened. ‘There’s something about you . . . something . . .’

  Soldiers were suddenly clambering up on all sides, some dragging chains whilst others held back slightly with crossbows cocked. ‘Can we touch this?’ one asked, hesitating over Karsa. ‘You can now,’ Ebron replied, then spat.

  Karsa tested the magical constraints in a single, concerted surge that forced a bellow from his throat. Strands snapped. Answering shouts. Wild panic.

  As the Uryd began dragging himself free, his sword still in his right hand, something hard cracked into the side of his head. Blackness swept over him.

  He awoke lying on his back, spread-eagled on the bed of the wagon as it rocked and jolted beneath him. His limbs were wrapped in heavy chains that had been spiked to the boards. Others crisscrossed his chest and stomach. Dried blood crusted the left side of his face, sealing the lid of that eye. He could smell dust, wafting up from between the boards, as well as his own bile.

  Torvald spoke from somewhere beyond Karsa’s head. ‘So you’re alive after all. Despite what the soldiers were saying, you looked pretty much dead to me. You certainly smell that way. Well, almost: In case you’re wondering, friend, it’s been six days. That gold-toothed sergeant hit you hard. Broke the shovel’s shaft.’

  A sharp, throbbing pain bloomed in Karsa’s head as soon as he tried to lift it clear of the foul-smelling boards. He grimaced, settling once more. ‘Too many words, lowlander. Be quiet.’