House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  ‘This path, this journey—to what end? What is it you seek?’

  ‘Like you, warrior, we seek freedom.’

  Karsa was silent. Avid indeed. Then he spoke. ‘I am to travel west. Into the Jhag Odhan.’

  He sensed their shock and excitement, then the chorus of suspicion that poured out from the seven gods.

  ‘West! Indeed, Karsa Orlong. But how do you know this?’ Because, at last, I am my father’s son. ‘I shall leave with the dawn, Urugal. And I will find for you what you desire.’ He could feel their presence fading, and knew instinctively that these gods were not as close to freedom as they wanted him to believe. Nor as powerful.

  Urugal had called this clearing a temple, but it was a contested one, and now, as the Seven withdrew, and were suddenly gone, Karsa slowly turned from the faces of the gods, and looked upon those for whom this place had been in truth sanctified. By Karsa’s own hands. In the name of those chains a mortal could wear with pride.

  ‘My loyalty,’ the Teblor warrior quietly said, ‘was misplaced. I served only glory. Words, my friends. And words can wear false nobility. Disguising brutal truths. The words of the past, that so clothed the Teblor in a hero’s garb—this is what I served. While the true glory was before me. Beside me. You, Delum Thord. And you, Bairoth Gild.’

  From the stone statue of Bairoth emerged a distant, weary voice. ‘Lead us, Warleader.’

  Karsa flinched. Do I dream this? Then he straightened. ‘I have drawn your spirits to this place. Did you travel in the wake of the Seven?’

  ‘We have walked the empty lands,’ Bairoth Gild replied. ‘Empty, yet we were not alone. Strangers await us all, Karsa Orlong. This is the truth they would hide from you. We are summoned. We are here.’

  ‘None,’ came Delum Thord’s voice from the other statue, ‘can defeat you on this journey. You lead the enemy in circles, you defy every prediction, and so deliver the edge of your will. We sought to follow, but could not.’

  ‘Who, Warleader,’ Bairoth asked, his voice bolder, ‘is our enemy, now?’

  Karsa drew himself up before the two Uryd warriors. ‘Witness my answer, my friends. Witness.’

  Delum spoke, ‘We failed you, Karsa Orlong. Yet you invite us to walk with you once again.’

  Karsa fought back an urge to scream, to unleash a warcry—as if such a challenge might force back the approaching darkness. He could make no sense of his own impulses, the torrential emotions threatening to engulf him. He stared at the carved likeness of his tall friend, the awareness in those unmarred features—Delum Thord before the Forkassal—the Forkrul Assail named Calm—had, on a mountain trail on a distant continent, so casually destroyed him.

  Bairoth Gild spoke. ‘We failed you. Do you now ask that we walk with you?’

  ‘Delum Thord. Bairoth Gild.’ Karsa’s voice was hoarse. ‘It is I who failed you. I would be your warleader once more, if you would so permit me.’

  A long moment of silence, then Bairoth replied, ‘At last, something to look forward to.’

  Karsa almost fell to his knees, then. Grief, finally unleashed. At an end, his time of solitude. His penance was done. The journey to begin again. Dear Urugal, you shall witness. Oh, how you shall witness.

  The hearth was little more than a handful of dying coals. After Felisin Younger left, Heboric sat motionless in the gloom. A short time passed, then he collected an armload of dried dung and rebuilt the fire. The night had chilled him—even the hands he could not see felt cold, like heavy pieces of ice at the end of his wrists.

  The only journey that lay ahead of him was a short one, and he must walk it alone. He was blind, but in this no more blind than anyone else. Death’s precipice, whether first glimpsed from afar or discovered with the next step, was ever a surprise. A promise of the sudden cessation of questions, yet there were no answers waiting beyond. Cessation would have to be enough. And so it must be for every mortal. Even as we hunger for resolution. Or, even more delusional: redemption.

  Now, after all this time, he was able to realize that every path eventually, inevitably dwindled into a single line of footsteps. There, leading to the very edge. Then . . . gone. And so, he faced only what every mortal faced. The solitude of death, and oblivion’s final gift that was indifference.

  The gods were welcome to wrangle over his soul, to snipe and snap over the paltry feast. And if mortals grieved for him, it was only because by dying he had shaken them from the illusion of unity that comforted life’s journey. One less on the path.

  A scratch at the flap entrance, then the hide was drawn aside and someone entered.

  ‘Would you make of your home a pyre, Ghost Hands?’ The voice was L’oric’s.

  The High Mage’s words startled Heboric into a sudden realization of the sweat running down his face, the gusts of fierce heat from the now raging hearth. Unthinking, he had fed the flames with piece after piece of dung.

  ‘I saw the glow—difficult to miss, old man. Best leave it, now, let it die down.’

  ‘What do you want, L’oric?’

  ‘I acknowledge your reluctance to speak of what you know. There is no value, after all, in gifting Bidithal or Febryl with such details. And so I shall not demand that you explain what you’ve sensed regarding this Master of the Deck. Instead, I offer an exchange, and all that we say will remain between the two of us. No-one else.’

  ‘Why should I trust you? You are hidden—even to Sha’ik. You give no reason as to why you are here. In her cadre, in this war.’

  ‘That alone should tell you I am not like the others,’ L’oric replied.

  Heboric sneered. ‘That earns you less than you might think. There can be no exchange because there is nothing you can tell me that I would be interested in hearing. The schemes of Febryl? The man’s a fool. Bidithal’s perversions? One day a child will slip a knife between his ribs. Korbolo Dom and Kamist Reloe? They war against an empire that is far from dead. Nor will they be treated with honour when they are finally brought before the Empress. No, they are criminals, and for that their souls will burn for eternity. The Whirlwind? That goddess has my contempt, and that contempt does naught but grow. Thus, what could you possibly tell me, L’oric, that I would value?’

  ‘Only the one thing that might interest you, Heboric Light Touch. Just as this Master of the Deck interests me. I would not cheat you with the exchange. No, I would tell you all that I know of the Hand of Jade, rising from the otataral sands—the Hand that you have touched, that now haunts your dreams.’

  ‘How could you know these—’ He fell silent. The sweat on his brow was now cold.

  ‘And how,’ L’oric retorted, ‘can you sense so much from a mere description of the Master’s card? Let us not question these things, else we trap ourselves in a conversation that will outlive Raraku itself. So, Heboric, shall I begin?’

  ‘No. Not now. I am too weary for this. Tomorrow, L’oric.’

  ‘Delay may prove . . . disastrous.’ After a moment, the High Mage sighed. ‘Very well. I can see your exhaustion. Permit me, at least, to brew your tea for you.’

  The gesture of kindness was unexpected, and Heboric lowered his head. ‘L’oric, promise me this—that when the final day comes, you be a long way from here.’

  ‘A difficult promise. Permit me to think on it. Now, where is the hen’bara?’

  ‘Hanging from a bag above the pot.’

  ‘Ah, of course.’

  Heboric listened to the sounds of preparation, the rustle of flower-heads from the bag, the slosh of water as L’oric filled the pot. ‘Did you know,’ the High Mage murmured as he worked, ‘that some of the oldest scholarly treatises on the warrens speak of a triumvirate. Rashan, Thyr and Meanas. As if the three were all closely related to one another. And then in turn seek to link them to corresponding Elder warrens.’

  Heboric grunted, then nodded. ‘All flavours of the same thing? I would agree. Tiste warrens. Kurald this and Kurald that. The human versions can’t help but overlap, become confused. I
am no expert, L’oric, and it seems you know more of it than I.’

  ‘Well, there certainly appears to be a mutual insinuation of themes between Darkness and Shadow, and, presumably, Light. A confusion among the three, yes. Anomander Rake himself has asserted a proprietary claim on the Throne of Shadow, after all . . .’

  The smell of the brewing tea tugged at Heboric’s mind. ‘He has?’ he murmured, only remotely interested.

  ‘Well, of a sort. He set kin to guard it, presumably from the Tiste Edur. It is very difficult for us mortals to make sense of Tiste histories, for they are such a long-lived people. As you well know, human history is ever marked by certain personalities, rising from some quality or notoriety to shatter the status quo. Fortunately for us, such men and women are few and far between, and they all eventually die or disappear. But among the Tiste . . . well, those personalities never go away, or so it seems. They act, and act yet again. They persist. Choose the worst tyrant you can from your knowledge of human history, Heboric, then imagine him or her as virtually undying. In your mind, bring that tyrant back again and again and again. How, having done so, would you imagine our history then?’

  ‘Far more violent than that of the Tiste, L’oric. Humans are not Tiste. Indeed, I have never heard of a Tiste tyrant . . .’

  ‘Perhaps I used the wrong word. I meant only—in human context—a personality of devastating power, or potential. Look at this Malazan Empire, born from the mind of Kellanved, a single man. What if he had been eternal?’

  Something in L’oric’s musings had reawakened Heboric. ‘Eternal?’ He barked a laugh. ‘Perhaps he is at that. There is one detail you might consider, perhaps more relevant than anything else that’s been said here. And that is, the Tiste are no longer isolated in their scheming. There are humans now, in their games—humans, who’ve not the patience of the Tiste, nor their legendary remoteness. The warrens of Kurald Galain and Kurald Emurlahn are no longer pure, unsullied by human presence. Meanas and Rashan? Perhaps they are proving the doors into both Darkness and Shadow. Or perhaps the matter is more complex than even that—how can one truly hope to separate the themes of Darkness and Light from Shadow? They are as those scholars said, an interdependent triumvirate. Mother, father and child—a family ever squabbling . . . only now the in-laws and grandchildren are joining in.’

  He waited for a reply from L’oric, curious as to how his comments had been received, but none was forthcoming. The ex-priest looked up, struggled to focus on the High Mage—

  —who sat motionless, a cup in one hand, the ring of the brewing pot in the other. Motionless, and staring at Heboric.

  ‘L’oric? Forgive me, I cannot discern your expression—’

  ‘Well that you cannot,’ the High Mage rasped. ‘Here I sought to raise the warning of Tiste meddling in human affairs—to have you then voice a warning in the opposite direction. As if it is not us who must worry, but the Tiste themselves.’

  Heboric said nothing. A strange, whispering suspicion flitted through him for a moment, as if tickled into being by something in L’oric’s voice. After a moment, he dismissed it. Too outrageous, too absurd to entertain.

  L’oric poured the tea.

  Heboric sighed. ‘It seems I am to be ever denied the succour of that brew. Tell me, then, of the giant of jade.’

  ‘Ah, and in return you will speak of the Master of the Deck?’

  ‘In some things I am forbidden to elaborate—’

  ‘Because they relate to Sha’ik’s own secret past?’

  ‘Fener’s tusk, L’oric! Who in this rat’s nest might be listening in to our conversation right now? It is madness to speak—’

  ‘No-one is listening, Heboric. I have made certain of that. I am not careless with secrets. I have known much of your recent history since the very beginning—’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We agreed to not discuss sources. My point is, no-one else is aware that you are Malazan, or that you are an escapee from the otataral mines. Except Sha’ik, of course. Since she escaped with you. Thus, I value privacy—with my knowledge and with my thoughts—and am ever vigilant. Oh, there have been probes, sorcerous questings—a whole menagerie of spells as various inhabitants seek to keep track of rivals. As occurs every night.’

  ‘Then your absence will be detected—’

  ‘I sleep restful in my tent, Heboric, as far as those questings are concerned. As do you in your tent. Each alone. Harmless.’

  ‘You are more than a match for their sorceries, then. Which makes you more powerful than any of them.’ He heard as much as saw L’oric’s shrug, and after a moment the ex-priest sighed. ‘If you wish details concerning Sha’ik and this new Master of the Deck, then it must be the three of us who meet. And for that to occur, you will have to reveal more of yourself to the Chosen One than you might wish.’

  ‘Tell me this, at least. This new Master—he was created in the wake of the Malazan disaster on Genabackis. Or do you deny that? That bridge on which he stands—he was of, or is somehow related to, the Bridgeburners. And those ghostly guardians are all that remains of the Bridgeburners, for they were destroyed in the Pannion Domin.’

  ‘I cannot be certain of any of that,’ Heboric replied, ‘but what you suggest seems likely.’

  ‘So, the Malazan influence ever grows—not just on our mundane world, but throughout the warrens, and now in the Deck of Dragons.’

  ‘You make the mistake of so many of the empire’s enemies, L’oric. You assume that all that is Malazan is perforce unified, in intent and in goal. Things are far more complicated than you imagine. I do not believe this Master of the Deck is some servant of the Empress. Indeed, he kneels before no-one.’

  ‘Then why the Bridgeburner guardians?’

  Heboric sensed that the question was a leading one, but decided he would play along. ‘Some loyalties defy Hood himself—’

  ‘Ah, meaning he was a soldier in that illustrious company. Well, things are beginning to make sense.’

  ‘They are?’

  ‘Tell me, have you heard of a Spiritwalker named Kimloc?’

  ‘The name is vaguely familiar. But not from around here. Karakarang? Rutu Jelba?’

  ‘Now resident of Ehrlitan. His history is not relevant here, but somehow he must have come into recent contact with a Bridgeburner. There is no other explanation for what he has done. He has given them a song, Heboric. A Tanno song, and, curiously, it begins here. In Raraku. Raraku, friend, is the birthplace of the Bridgeburners. Do you know the significance of such a song?’

  Heboric turned away, faced the hearth and its dry heat, and said nothing.

  ‘Of course,’ L’oric went on after a moment, ‘that significance has now diminished somewhat, since the Bridgeburners are no more. There can be no sanctification . . .’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Heboric murmured.

  ‘For the song to be sanctified, a Bridgeburner would have to return to Raraku, to the birthplace of the company. And that does not seem likely now, does it?’

  ‘Why is it necessary a Bridgeburner return to Raraku?’

  ‘Tanno sorcery is . . . elliptical. The song must be like a serpent eating its tail. Kimloc’s Song of the Bridgeburners is at the moment without an end. But it has been sung, and so lives.’ L’oric shrugged. ‘It’s like a spell that remains active, awaiting resolution.’

  ‘Tell me of the giant of jade.’

  The High Mage nodded. He poured out the tea and set the cup down in front of Heboric. ‘The first one was found deep in the otataral mines—’

  ‘The first one!’

  ‘Aye. And the contact proved, for those miners who ventured too close, fatal. Or, rather, they disappeared. Leaving no trace. Sections of two others have been discovered—all three veins are now sealed. The giants are . . . intruders to our world. From some other realm.’

  ‘Arriving,’ Heboric muttered, ‘only to be wrapped in chains of otataral.’

  ‘Ah, you are not without your own knowledge, then. I
ndeed, it seems their arrival has, each time, been anticipated. Someone, or something, is ensuring that the threat these giants impose is negated—’

  But Heboric shook his head at that and said, ‘No, I think you are wrong, L’oric. It is the very passage—the portal through which each giant comes—that creates the otataral.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Of course not. There are too many mysteries surrounding the nature of otataral to be certain of anything. There was a scholar—I forget her name—who once suggested that otataral is created by the annihilation of all that is necessary for sorcery to operate. Like slag with all the ore burned out. She called it the absolute draining of energy—the energy that rightfully exists in all things, whether animate or otherwise.’

  ‘And had she a theory as to how that could occur?’

  ‘Perhaps the magnitude of the sorcery unleashed—a spell that is all-devouring of the energy it feeds on.’

  ‘But not even the gods could wield such magic.’

  ‘True, but I think it is nevertheless possible . . . through ritual, such as a cadre—or army—of mortal sorcerers could achieve.’

  ‘In the manner of the Ritual of Tellann,’ L’oric nodded. ‘Aye.’

  ‘Or,’ Heboric said softly as he reached for the cup, ‘the calling down of the Crippled God . . .’

  L’oric was motionless, staring fixedly at the tattooed ex-priest. He said nothing for a long time, whilst Heboric sipped the hen’bara tea. He finally spoke. ‘Very well, there is one last piece of information I will tell you—I see now the need, the very great need to do so, though it shall . . . reveal much of myself.’

  Heboric sat and listened, and as L’oric continued speaking, the confines of his squalid hut dimmed to insignificance, the heat of the hearth no longer reaching him, until the only sensation left came from his ghostly hands. Together, there at the ends of his wrists, they became the weight of the world.