House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  ‘And what is the name of this House?’ the customer asked. ‘What throne? Who claims to rule it?’

  ‘The House of Chains, my friend. To your other questions, there is naught but confusion in answer. Ascendants vie. But I will tell you this: the Throne where the King shall sit—the Throne, my friend, is cracked.’

  ‘You are saying this House belongs to the Chained One?’

  ‘Aye. The Crippled God.’

  ‘The others must be assailing it fiercely,’ the man murmured, his expression thoughtful.

  ‘You would think, but not so. Indeed, it is they who are assailed! Do you wish to see the new cards?’

  ‘I may return later and do that very thing,’ the man replied. ‘But first, let me see those poor knives on that post.’

  ‘Poor knives! Aaii! Not poor, oh no!’ The old man spun on his seat, reached up and collected the brace of weapons. He grinned, blue-veined tongue darting between red gums. ‘Last owned by a Pardu ghost-slayer!’ He drew one of the knives from its sheath. The blade was blackened, inlaid with a silver serpent pattern down its length.

  ‘That is not Pardu,’ the customer growled.

  ‘Owned, I said. You’ve a sharp eye indeed. They are Wickan. Booty from the Chain of Dogs.’

  ‘Let me see the other one.’

  The old man unsheathed the second blade.

  Kalam Mekhar’s eyes involuntarily widened. Quickly regaining his composure, he glanced up at the proprietor—but the man had seen and was nodding.

  ‘Aye, friend. Aye . . .’

  The entire blade, also black, was feather-patterned, the inlay an amber-tinged silver—that amber taint . . . alloyed with otataral. Crow clan. But not a lowly warrior’s weapon. No, this one belonged to someone important.

  The old man resheathed the Crow knife, tapped the other one with a finger. ‘Invested, this one. How to challenge the otataral? Simple. Elder magic.’

  ‘Elder. Wickan sorcery is not Elder—’

  ‘Oh, but this now-dead Wickan warrior had a friend. See, here, take the knife in your hand. Squint at this mark, there, at the base—see, the serpent’s tail coils around it—’

  The long-knife was startlingly heavy in Kalam’s hand. The finger ridges in the grip were overlarge, but the Wickan had compensated for this with thicker leather straps. The stamp impressed into the metal in the centre of the looped tail was intricate, almost beyond belief, given the size of the hand that must have inscribed it. Fenn. Thelomen Toblakai. The Wickan had a friend indeed. And worse, I know that mark. I know precisely who invested this weapon. Gods below, what strange cycles am I striding into here?

  There was no point in bartering. Too much had been revealed. ‘Name your price,’ Kalam sighed.

  The old man’s grin broadened. ‘As you can imagine, a cherished set—my most valuable prize.’

  ‘At least until the dead Crow warrior’s son comes to collect it—though I doubt he will be interested in paying you in gold. I will inherit that vengeful hunter, so rein in your greed and name the price.’

  ‘Twelve hundred.’

  The assassin set a small pouch on the table and watched the proprietor loosen the strings and peer inside.

  ‘There is a darkness to these diamonds,’ the old man said after a moment.

  ‘It is that shadow that makes them so valuable and you know it.’

  ‘Aye, I do indeed. Half of what is within will suffice.’

  ‘An honest hawker.’

  ‘A rarity, yes. These days, loyalty pays.’

  Kalam watched the old man count out the diamonds. ‘The loss of imperial trade has been painful, it seems.’

  ‘Very. But the situation here in G’danisban is doubly so, friend.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Why, everyone is at B’ridys, of course. The siege.’

  ‘B’ridys? The old mountain fortress? Who is holed up there?’

  ‘Malazans. They retreated from their strongholds in Ehrlitan, here and Pan’potsun—were chased all the way into the hills. Oh, nothing so grand as the Chain of Dogs, but a few hundred made it.’

  ‘And they’re still holding out?’

  ‘Aye. B’ridys is like that, alas. Still, not much longer, I wager. Now, I am done, friend. Hide that pouch well, and may the gods ever walk in your shadow.’

  Kalam struggled to keep the grin from his face as he collected the weapons. ‘And with you, sir.’ And so they will, friend. Far closer than you might want.

  He walked a short distance down the market street, then paused to adjust the clasps of the weapon harness. The previous owner had not Kalam’s bulk. Then again, few did. When he was done he slipped into the harness, then drew his telaba’s overcloak around once more. The heavier weapon jutted from under his left arm.

  The assassin continued on through G’danisban’s mostly empty streets. Two long-knives, both Wickan. The same owner? Unknown. They were complementary in one sense, true, yet the difference in weight would challenge anyone who sought to fight using both at the same time.

  In a Fenn’s hand, the heavier weapon would be little more than a dirk. The design was clearly Wickan, meaning the investment had been a favour, or in payment. Can I think of a Wickan who might have earned that? Well, Coltaine—but he carried a single long-knife, un-patterned. Now, if only I knew more about that damned Thelomen Toblakai . . .

  Of course, the High Mage named Bellurdan Skullcrusher was dead.

  Cycles indeed. And now this House of Chains. The damned Crippled God—

  You damned fool, Cotillion. You were there at the last Chaining, weren’t you? You should have stuck a knife in the bastard right there and then.

  Now, I wonder, was Bellurdan there as well?

  Oh, damn, I forgot to ask what happened to that Pardu ghost-slayer . . .

  The road that wound southwest out of G’danisban had been worn down to the underlying cobbles. Clearly, the siege had gone on so long that the small city that fed it was growing gaunt. The besieged were probably faring worse. B’ridys had been carved into a cliffside, a longstanding tradition in the odhans surrounding the Holy Desert. There was no formal, constructed approach—not even steps, nor handholds, cut into the stone—and the tunnels behind the fortifications reached deep. Within those tunnels, springs supplied water. Kalam had only seen B’ridys from the outside, long abandoned by its original inhabitants, suggesting that the springs had dried up. And while such strongholds contained vast storage chambers, there was little chance that the Malazans who’d fled to it had found those chambers supplied.

  The poor bastards were probably starving.

  Kalam walked the road in the gathering dusk. He saw no-one else on the track, and suspected that the supply trains would not set out from G’danisban until the fall of night, to spare their draught animals the heat. Already, the road had begun its climb, twisting onto the sides of the hills.

  The assassin had left his horse with Cotillion in the Shadow Realm. For the tasks ahead, stealth, not speed, would prove his greatest challenge. Besides, Raraku was hard on horses. Most of the outlying sources of water would have been long since fouled, in anticipation of the Adjunct’s army. He knew of a few secret ones, however, which would of necessity have been kept untainted.

  This land, Kalam realized, was in itself a land under siege—and the enemy had yet to arrive. Sha’ik had drawn the Whirlwind close, a tactic that suggested to the assassin a certain element of fear. Unless, of course, Sha’ik was deliberately playing against expectations. Perhaps she simply sought to draw Tavore into a trap, into Raraku, where her power was strongest, where her forces knew the land whilst the enemy did not.

  But there’s at least one man in Tavore’s army who knows Raraku. And he’d damn well better speak up when the time comes.

  Night had arrived, stars glittering overhead. Kalam pressed on. Burdened beneath a pack heavy with food and waterskins, he continued to sweat as the air chilled. Reaching the summit of yet another hill, he discerned the glow of the bes
iegers’ camp beneath the ragged horizon’s silhouette. From the cliffside itself there was no light at all.

  He continued on.

  It was midmorning before he arrived at the camp. Tents, wagons, stone-ringed firepits, arrayed haphazardly in a rough semicircle before the rearing cliff-face with its smoke-blackened fortress. Heaps of rubbish surrounded the area, latrine pits overflowing and reeking in the heat. As he made his way down the track, Kalam studied the situation. He judged that there were about five hundred besiegers, many of them—given their uniforms—originally part of Malazan garrisons, but of local blood. There had been no assault in some time. Makeshift wooden towers waited off to one side.

  He had been spotted, but no challenge was raised, nor was much interest accorded him as he reached the camp’s edge. Just another fighter come to kill Malazans. Carrying his own food, ensuring he would not burden anyone else, and therefore welcome.

  As the hawker in G’danisban had suggested, the patience of the attackers had ended. Preparations were under way for a final push. Probably not this day, but the next. The scaffolds had been left untended for too long—ropes had dried out, wood had split. Work crews had begun the repairs, but without haste, moving slowly in the enervating heat. There was an air of dissolution to the camp that even anticipation could not hide.

  The fires have cooled here. Now, they’re only planning an assault so they can get this over with, so they can go home.

  The assassin noted a small group of soldiers near the centre of the half-ring where it seemed the orders were coming from. One man in particular, accoutred in the armour of a Malazan lieutenant, stood with hands on hips and was busy haranguing a half-dozen sappers.

  The workmen wandered off a moment before Kalam arrived, desultorily making for the towers.

  The lieutenant noticed him. Dark eyes narrowed beneath the rim of the helm. There was a crest on that skullcap. Ashok Regiment.

  Stationed in Genabaris a few years past. Then sent back to . . . Ehrlitan, I think. Hood rot the bastards, I’d have thought they would have stayed loyal.

  ‘Come to see the last of them get their throats cut?’ the lieutenant asked with a hard grin. ‘Good. You’ve the look of an organized and experienced man, and Beru knows, I’ve far too few of them here in this mob. Your name?’

  ‘Ulfas,’ Kalam replied.

  ‘Sounds Barghast.’

  The assassin shrugged as he set down his pack. ‘You’re not the first to think that.’

  ‘You will address me as sir. That’s if you want to be part of this fight.’

  ‘You’re not the first to think that . . . sir.’

  ‘I am Captain Irriz.’

  Captain . . . in a lieutenant’s uniform. Felt unappreciated in the regiment, did you? ‘When does the assault begin, sir?’

  ‘Eager? Good. Tomorrow at dawn. There’s only a handful left up there. It shouldn’t take long once we breach the balcony entrance.’

  Kalam looked up at the fortress. The balcony was little more than a projecting ledge, the doorway beyond narrower than a man’s shoulders. ‘They only need a handful,’ he muttered, then added, ‘sir.’

  Irriz scowled. ‘You just walked in and you’re already an expert?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Simply an observation.’

  ‘Well, we’ve a mage just arrived. Says she can knock a hole where that door is. A big hole. Ah, here she comes now.’

  The woman approaching was young, slight and pallid. And Malazan. Ten paces away, her steps faltered, then she halted, light brown eyes fixing now on Kalam. ‘Keep that weapon sheathed when you’re near me,’ she drawled. ‘Irriz, get that bastard to stand well away from us.’

  ‘Sinn? What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Wrong? Nothing, probably. But one of his knives is an otataral weapon.’

  The sudden avarice in the captain’s eyes as he studied Kalam sent a faint chill through the assassin. ‘Indeed. And where did you come by that, Ulfas?’

  ‘Took it from the Wickan I killed. On the Chain of Dogs.’

  There was sudden silence. Faces turned to regard Kalam anew. Doubt flickered onto Irriz’s face. ‘You were there?’

  ‘Aye. What of it?’

  There were hand gestures all round, whispered prayers. The chill within Kalam grew suddenly colder. Gods, they’re voicing blessings . . . but not on me. They’re blessing the Chain of Dogs. What truly happened there, for this to have been born?

  ‘Why are you not with Sha’ik, then?’ Irriz demanded. ‘Why would Korbolo have let you leave?’

  ‘Because,’ Sinn snapped, ‘Korbolo Dom is an idiot, and Kamist Reloe even worse. Personally, I am amazed he didn’t lose half his army after the Fall. What true soldier would stomach what happened there? Ulfas, is it? You deserted Korbolo’s Dogslayers, yes?’

  Kalam simply shrugged. ‘I went looking for a cleaner fight.’

  Her laugh was shrill, and she spun in mocking pirouette in the dust. ‘And you came here? Oh, you fool! That’s so funny! It makes me want to scream, it’s so funny!’

  Her mind is broken. ‘I see nothing amusing in killing,’ he replied. ‘Though I find it odd that you are here, seemingly so eager to kill fellow Malazans.’

  Her face darkened. ‘My reasons are my own, Ulfas. Irriz, I would speak with you in private. Come.’

  Kalam held his expression impassive as the captain flinched at the imperious tone. Then the renegade officer nodded. ‘I will join you in a moment, Sinn.’ He turned back to the assassin. ‘Ulfas. We want to take most of them alive, to give us sport. Punishment for being so stubborn. I especially want their commander. He is named Kindly—’

  ‘Do you know him, sir?’

  Irriz grinned. ‘I was 3rd Company in the Ashok. Kindly leads the 2nd.’ He gestured at the fortress. ‘Or what’s left of it. This is a personal argument for me, and that is why I intend to win. And it’s why I want those bastards alive. Wounded and disarmed.’

  Sinn was waiting impatiently. Now she spoke up, ‘There’s a thought. Ulfas, with his otataral knife—he can make their mage useless.’

  Irriz grinned. ‘First into the breach, then. Acceptable to you, Ulfas?’

  First in, last out. ‘It won’t be my first time, sir.’

  The captain then joined Sinn and the two strode off.

  Kalam stared after them. Captain Kindly. Never met you, sir, but for years you’ve been known as the meanest officer in the entire Malazan military. And, it now seems, the most stubborn, too.

  Excellent. I could use a man like that.

  He found an empty tent to stow his gear—empty because a latrine pit had clawed away the near side of its sand-crusted wall and was now soaking the ground beneath the floor’s single rug along the back. Kalam placed his bag beside the front flap then stretched out close to it, shutting his mind and senses away from the stench.

  In moments he was asleep.

  He awoke to darkness. The camp beyond was silent. Slipping out from his telaba, the assassin rose into a crouch and began winding straps around his loose-fitting clothes. When he was done, he drew on fingerless leather gloves, then wound a black cloth around his head until only his eyes remained uncovered. He edged outside.

  A few smouldering firepits, two tents within sight still glowing with lamplight. Three guards sitting in a makeshift picket facing the fortress—about twenty paces distant.

  Kalam set out, silently skirting the latrine pit and approaching the skeletal scaffolding of the siege towers. They had posted no guard there. Irriz was probably a bad lieutenant, and now he’s an even worse captain. He moved closer.

  The flicker of sorcery at the base of one of the towers froze him in place. After a long, breathless moment, a second muted flash, dancing around one of the support fittings.

  Kalam slowly settled down to watch.

  Sinn moved from fitting to fitting. When she finished with the closest tower, she proceeded to the next. There were three in all.

  When she was working on the last fitting at th
e base of the second tower, Kalam rose and slipped forward. As he drew near her, he unsheathed the otataral blade.

  He smiled at her soft curse. Then, as realization struck her, she whirled.

  Kalam held up a staying hand, slowly raised his knife, then sheathed it once more. He padded to her side. ‘Lass,’ he whispered in Malazan, ‘this is a nasty nest of snakes for you to play in.’

  Her eyes went wide, gleaming like pools in the starlight. ‘I wasn’t sure of you,’ she replied quietly. Her thin arms drew tight around herself. ‘I’m still not. Who are you?’

  ‘Just a man sneaking to the towers . . . to weaken all the supports. As you have done. All but one of them, that is. The third one is the best made—Malazan, in fact. I want to keep that one intact.’

  ‘Then we are allies,’ she said, still hugging herself.

  She’s very young. ‘You showed fine acting abilities earlier on. And you’ve surprising skill as a mage, for one so . . .’

  ‘Minor magicks only, I’m afraid. I was being schooled.’

  ‘Who was your instructor?’

  ‘Fayelle. Who’s now with Korbolo Dom. Fayelle, who slid her knife across the throats of my father and mother. Who went hunting for me, too. But I slipped away, and even with her sorcery she could not find me.’

  ‘And this is to be your revenge?’

  Her grin was a silent snarl. ‘I have only begun my revenge, Ulfas. I want her. But I need soldiers.’

  ‘Captain Kindly and company. You mentioned a mage in that fortress. Have you been in touch with him?’

  She shook her head. ‘I have not that skill.’

  ‘Then why do you believe that the captain will join you in your cause?’

  ‘Because one of his sergeants is my brother—well, my half-brother. I don’t know if he still lives, though . . .’

  He settled a hand on her shoulder, ignoring the answering flinch. ‘All right, lass. We will work together on this. You’ve your first ally.’

  ‘Why?’

  He smiled unseen behind the cloth. ‘Fayelle is with Korbolo Dom, yes? Well, I have a meeting pending with Korbolo. And with Kamist Reloe. So, we’ll work together in convincing Captain Kindly. Agreed?’