House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Agreed.’

  The relief in her voice sent a twinge through the assassin. She’d been alone for far too long in her deadly quest. In need of help . . . but with no-one around to whom she could turn. Just one more orphan in this Hood-cursed rebellion. He recalled his first sight of those thirteen hundred children he had unwittingly saved all those months back, his last time crossing this land. And there, in those faces, was the true horror of war. Those children had been alive when the carrion birds came down for their eyes . . . A shudder ran through him.

  ‘What is wrong? You seemed far away.’

  He met her eyes. ‘No, lass, far closer than you think.’

  ‘Well, I have already done most of my work this night. Irriz and his warriors won’t be worth much come the morning.’

  ‘Oh? And what did you have planned for me?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure. I was hoping that, with you up front, you’d get killed quick. Captain Kindly’s mage wouldn’t go near you—he’d leave it to the soldiers with their crossbows.’

  ‘And what of this hole you were to blast into the cliff-face?’

  ‘Illusion. I’ve been preparing for days. I think I can do it.’

  Brave and desperate. ‘Well, lass, your efforts seem to have far outstripped mine in ambition. I’d intended a little mayhem and not much more. You mentioned that Irriz and his men wouldn’t be worth much. What did you mean by that?’

  ‘I poisoned their water.’

  Kalam blanched behind his mask. ‘Poison? What kind?’

  ‘Tralb.’

  The assassin said nothing for a long moment. Then, ‘How much?’

  She shrugged. ‘All that the healer had. Four vials. He once said he used it to stop tremors, such as afflicted old people.’

  Aye. A drop. ‘When?’

  ‘Not long ago.’

  ‘So, unlikely anyone’s drunk it yet.’

  ‘Except maybe a guard or two.’

  ‘Wait here, lass.’ Kalam set out, silent in the darkness, until he came within sight of the three warriors manning the picket. Earlier, they had been seated. That was no longer the case. But there was movement, low to the ground—he slipped closer.

  The three figures were spasming, writhing, their limbs jerking. Foam caked their mouths and blood had started from their bulging eyes. They had fouled themselves. A water skin lay nearby in a patch of wet sand that was quickly disappearing beneath a carpet of capemoths.

  The assassin drew his pig-sticker. He would have to be careful, since to come into contact with blood, spit or any other fluid was to invite a similar fate. The warriors were doomed to suffer like this for what to them would be an eternity—they would still be spasming by dawn, and would continue to do so until either their hearts gave out or they died from dehydration. Horribly, with Tralb it was often the latter rather than the former.

  He reached the nearest one. Saw recognition in the man’s leaking eyes. Kalam raised his knife. Relief answered the gesture. The assassin drove the narrow-bladed weapon down into the guard’s left eye, angled upward. The body stiffened, then settled with a frothy sigh. He quickly repeated the grisly task with the other two. Then meticulously cleaned his knife in the sand. Capemoths, wings rasping, were descending on the scene. Hunting rhizan quickly joined them. The air filled with the sound of crunching exoskeletons.

  Kalam faced the camp. He would have to stove the casks. Enemies of the empire these warriors might be, but they deserved a more merciful death than this.

  A faint skittering sound spun him around.

  A rope had uncoiled down the cliff-face from the stone balcony. Figures began descending, silent and fast.

  They had watchers.

  The assassin waited.

  Three in all, none armed with more than daggers. As they came forward one halted while still a dozen paces distant.

  The lead man drew up before the assassin. ‘And who in Hood’s name are you?’ he hissed, gold flashing from his teeth.

  ‘A Malazan soldier,’ was Kalam’s whispered reply. ‘Is that your mage hanging back over there? I need his help.’

  ‘He says he can’t—’

  ‘I know. My otataral long-knife. But he need not get close—all he has to do is empty this camp’s water casks.’

  ‘What for? There’s a spring not fifty paces downtrail—they’ll just get more.’

  ‘You’ve another ally here,’ Kalam said. ‘She fouled the water with Tralb—what do you think afflicted these poor bastards?’

  The second man grunted. ‘We was wondering. Not pleasant, what happened to them. Still, it’s no less than they deserved. I say leave the water be.’

  ‘Why not take the issue to Captain Kindly? He’s the one making the decisions for you, right?’

  The man scowled.

  His companion spoke. ‘That’s not why we’re down here. We’re here to retrieve you. And if there’s another one, we’ll take her, too.’

  ‘To do what?’ Kalam demanded. He was about to say Starve? Die of thirst? but then he realized that neither soldier before him looked particularly gaunt, nor parched. ‘You want to stay holed up in there for ever?’

  ‘It suits us fine,’ the second soldier snapped. ‘We could leave at any time. There’s back routes. But the question is, then what? Where do we go? The whole land is out for Malazan blood.’

  ‘What is the last news you’ve heard?’ Kalam asked.

  ‘We ain’t heard any at all. Not since we quitted Ehrlitan. As far as we can see, Seven Cities ain’t part of the Malazan Empire any more, and there won’t be nobody coming to get us. If there was, they’d have come long since.’

  The assassin regarded the two soldiers for a moment, then he sighed. ‘All right, we need to talk. But not here. Let me get the lass—we’ll go with you. On condition that your mage do me the favour I asked.’

  ‘Not an even enough bargain,’ the second soldier said. ‘Grab for us Irriz. We want a little sit-down with that fly-blown corporal.’

  ‘Corporal? Didn’t you know, he’s a captain now. You want him. Fine. Your mage destroys the water in those casks. I’ll send the lass your way—be kind to her. All of you head back up. I may be a while.’

  ‘We can live with that deal.’

  Kalam nodded and made his way back to where he’d left Sinn.

  She had not left her position, although instead of hiding she was dancing beneath one of the towers, spinning in the sand, arms floating, hands fluttering like capemoth wings.

  The assassin hissed in warning as he drew near. She halted, saw him, and scurried over. ‘You took too long! I thought you were dead!’

  And so you danced? ‘No, but those three guards are. I’ve made contact with the soldiers from the fortress. They’ve invited us inside—conditions seem amenable up there. I’ve agreed.’

  ‘But what about the attack tomorrow?’

  ‘It will fail. Listen, Sinn, they can leave at any time, unseen—we can be on our way into Raraku as soon as we can convince Kindly. Now, follow me—and quietly.’

  They returned to where the three Malazan imperials waited.

  Kalam scowled at the squad mage, but he grinned in return. ‘It’s done. Easy when you’re not around.’

  ‘Very well. This is Sinn—she’s a mage as well. Go on, all of you.’

  ‘Lady’s luck to you,’ one of the soldiers said to Kalam.

  Without replying, the assassin turned about and slipped back into the camp. He returned to his own tent, entered and crouched down beside his kit bag. Rummaging inside it, he drew out the pouch of diamonds and selected one at random.

  A moment’s careful study, holding it close in the gloom. Murky shadows swam within the cut stone. Beware of shadows bearing gifts. He reached outside and dragged in one of the flat stones used to hold down the tent walls, and set the diamond onto its dusty surface.

  The bone whistle Cotillion had given him was looped on a thong around his neck. He pulled it clear and set it to his lips. ‘Blow hard and you’ll awa
ken all of them. Blow soft and directly at one in particular, and you’ll awaken that one alone.’ Kalam hoped the god knew what he was talking about. Better if these weren’t Shadowthrone’s toys . . . He leaned forward until the whistle was a mere hand’s width from the diamond.

  Then softly blew through it.

  There was no sound. Frowning, Kalam pulled the whistle from his lips and examined it. He was interrupted by a soft tinkling sound.

  The diamond had crumbled to glittering dust.

  From which a swirling shadow rose.

  As I’d feared. Azalan. From a territory in the Shadow Realm bordering that of the Aptorians. Rarely seen, and never more than one at a time. Silent, seemingly incapable of language—how Shadowthrone commanded them was a mystery.

  Swirling, filling the tent, dropping to all six limbs, the spiny ridge of its massive, hunched back scraping against the fabric to either side of the ridge-pole. Blue, all-too-human eyes blinked out at Kalam from beneath a black-skinned, flaring, swept-back brow. Wide mouth, lower lip strangely protruding as if in eternal pout, twin slits for a nose. A mane of thin bluish-black hair hung in strands, tips brushing the tent floor. There was no indication of its gender. A complicated harness crisscrossed its huge torso, studded with a variety of weapons, not one of which seemed of practical use.

  The azalan possessed no feet as such—each appendage ended in a wide, flat, short-fingered hand. The homeland of these demons was a forest, and these creatures commonly lived in the tangled canopy high overhead, venturing down to the gloomy forest floor only when summoned.

  Summoned . . . only to then be imprisoned in diamonds. If it was me, I’d be pretty annoyed by now.

  The demon suddenly smiled.

  Kalam glanced away, considering how to frame his request. Get Captain Irriz. Alive, but kept quiet. Join me at the rope. There would need to be some explaining to do, and with a beast possessing no language—

  The azalan turned suddenly, nostrils twitching. The broad, squat head dipped down on its long, thickly muscled neck. Down to the tent’s back wall at the base.

  Where urine from the latrine pit had soaked through.

  A soft cluck, then the demon wheeled about and lifted a hind limb. Two penises dropped into view from a fold of flesh.

  Twin streams reached down to the sodden carpet.

  Kalam reeled back at the stench, back, out through the flap and outside into the chill night air, where he remained, on hands and knees, gagging.

  A moment later the demon emerged. Lifted its head to test the air, then surged into the shadows—and was gone.

  In the direction of the captain’s tent.

  Kalam managed a lungful of cleansing air, slowly brought his shuddering under control. ‘All right, pup,’ he softly gasped, ‘guess you read my mind.’ After a moment he rose into a crouch, reached back with breath held into the tent to retrieve his pack, then staggered towards the cliff-face.

  A glance back showed steam or smoke rising out from his tent’s entrance, a whispering crackle slowly growing louder from within it.

  Gods, who needs a vial of Tralb?

  He padded swiftly to where the rope still dangled beneath the balcony.

  A sputtering burst of flames erupted from where his tent had been.

  Hardly an event to go unnoticed. Hissing a curse, Kalam sprinted for the rope.

  Shouts rose from the camp. Then screams, then shrieks, each one ending in a strange mangled squeal.

  The assassin skidded to a halt at the cliff-face, closed both hands on the rope, and began climbing. He was halfway up to the balcony when the limestone wall shook suddenly, puffing out dust. Pebbles rained down. And a hulking shape was now beside him, clinging to the raw, runnelled rock. Tucked under one arm was Irriz, unconscious and in his bedclothes. The azalan seemed to flow up the wall, hands gripping the rippled ribbons of shadow as if they were iron rungs. In moments the demon reached the balcony and swung itself over the lip and out of sight.

  And the stone ledge groaned.

  Cracks snaked down.

  Kalam stared upward to see the entire balcony sagging, pulling away from the wall.

  His moccasins slipped wildly as he tried to scrabble his way to one side. Then he saw long, unhuman hands close on the lip of the stone ledge. The sagging ceased.

  H-how in Hood’s name—

  The assassin resumed climbing. Moments later he reached the balcony and pulled himself over the edge.

  The azalan was fully stretched over it. Two hands gripped the ledge. Three others held shadows on the cliffside above the small doorway.

  Shadows were unravelling from the demon like layers of skin, vaguely human shapes stretching out to hold the balcony to the wall—and being torn apart by the immense strain. As Kalam scrambled onto its surface, a grinding, crunching sound came from where the balcony joined the wall, and it dropped a hand’s width along the seam.

  The assassin launched himself towards the recessed doorway, where he saw a face in the gloom, twisted with terror—the squad mage. ‘Back off!’ Kalam hissed. ‘It’s a friend!’ The mage reached out and clasped Kalam’s forearm. The balcony dropped away beneath the assassin even as he was dragged into the corridor.

  Both men tumbled back, over Irriz’s prone body. Everything shook as a tremendous thump sounded from below. The echoes were slow to fade.

  The azalan swung in from under the lintel stone. Grinning. A short distance down the corridor crouched a squad of soldiers. Sinn had an arm wrapped round one of them—her half-brother, Kalam assumed as he slowly regained his feet.

  One of the soldiers the assassin had met earlier moved forward, edging past the assassin and—with more difficulty—the azalan, back out to the edge. After a moment he called back. ‘All quiet down there, Sergeant. The camp’s a mess, though. Can’t see anyone about . . .’ The other soldier from before frowned. ‘No one, Bell?’

  ‘No. Like they all ran away.’

  Kalam offered nothing, though he had his suspicions. There was something about all those shadows in the demon’s possession . . .

  The squad mage had disentangled himself from Irriz and now said to the assassin, ‘That’s a damned frightening friend you have there. And it ain’t imperial. Shadow Realm?’

  ‘A temporary ally,’ Kalam replied with a shrug.

  ‘How temporary?’

  The assassin faced the sergeant. ‘Irriz has been delivered—what do you plan on doing with him?’

  ‘Haven’t decided yet. The lass here says you’re named Ulfas. Would that be right? A Genabackan Barghast name? Wasn’t there a war chief by that name? Killed at Blackdog.’

  ‘I wasn’t about to tell Irriz my real name, Sergeant. I’m a Bridgeburner. Kalam Mekhar, rank of corporal.’

  There was silence.

  Then the mage sighed. ‘Wasn’t you outlawed?’

  ‘A feint, one of the Empress’s schemes. Dujek needed a free hand for a time.’

  ‘All right,’ the sergeant said. ‘It don’t matter if you’re telling the truth or not. We’ve heard of you. I’m Sergeant Cord. The company mage here is Ebron. That’s Bell, and Corporal Shard.’

  The corporal was Sinn’s half-brother, and the young man’s face was blank, no doubt numbed by the shock of Sinn’s sudden appearance.

  ‘Where’s Captain Kindly?’

  Cord winced. ‘The rest of the company—what’s left, is down below. We lost the captain and the lieutenant a few days ago.’

  ‘Lost? How?’

  ‘They, uh, they fell down a well shaft. Drowned. Or so Ebron found out, once he climbed down and examined the situation more closely. It’s fast-running, an underground river. They were swept away, the poor bastards.’

  ‘And how do two people fall down a well shaft, Sergeant?’

  The man bared his gold teeth. ‘Exploring, I imagine. Now, Corporal, it seems I outrank you. In fact, I’m the only sergeant left. Now, if you aren’t outlawed, then you’re still a soldier of the empire. And as a soldier of the e
mpire . . .’

  ‘You have me there,’ Kalam muttered.

  ‘For now, you’ll be attached to my old squad. You’ve got seniority over Corporal Shard, so you’ll be in charge.’

  ‘Very well, and what’s the squad’s complement?’

  ‘Shard, Bell and Limp. You’ve met Bell. Limp’s down below. He broke his leg in a rock-slide, but he’s mending fast. There’s fifty-one soldiers in all. Second Company, Ashok Regiment.’

  ‘It seems your besiegers are gone,’ Kalam observed. ‘The world hasn’t been entirely still while you’ve been shut up in here, Sergeant. I think I should tell you what I know. There are alternatives to waiting here—no matter how cosy it might be—until we all die of old age . . . or drowning accidents.’

  ‘Aye, Corporal. You’ll make your report. And if I want to ask for advice on what to do next, you’ll be first in line. Now, enough with the opinions. Time to go below—and I suggest you find a leash for that damned demon. And tell it to stop smiling.’

  ‘You’ll have to tell it yourself, Sergeant,’ Kalam drawled.

  Ebron snapped, ‘The Malazan Empire don’t need allies from the Shadow Realm—get rid of it!’

  The assassin glanced over at the mage. ‘As I said earlier, changes have come, Mage. Sergeant Cord, you’re entirely welcome to try throwing a collar round this azalan’s neck. But I should tell you first—even though you’re not asking for my advice—that even though those weird gourds, pans and knobby sticks strapped on to the beast’s belts don’t look like weapons, this azalan has just taken the lives of over five hundred rebel warriors. And how long did that take? Maybe fifty heartbeats. Does it do what I ask? Now that’s a question worth pondering, don’t you think?’

  Cord studied Kalam for a long moment. ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘Having worked alone for some time, Sergeant,’ the assassin replied in a low voice, ‘my skin’s grown thin. I’ll take your squad. I’ll even follow your orders, unless they happen to be idiotic. If you have a problem with all this, take it up with my own sergeant next time you see him. That’d be Whiskeyjack. Apart from the Empress herself, he’s the only man I answer to. You want to make use of me? Fine. My services are available to you . . . for a time.’