House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  The rising sun washed all tones from the sky to the east. Karsa checked his supplies one last time, the foodstuffs and waterskins, the additional items and accoutrements necessary for survival in a hot, arid land. A kit wholly unlike what he had carried for most of his life. Even the sword was different—ironwood was heavier than bloodwood, its edge rougher although almost—but not quite—as hard. It did not slice the air with the ease of his oiled bloodwood sword. Yet it had served him well enough. He glanced skyward; dawn’s colours were almost entirely gone, now, the blue directly above vanishing behind suspended dust.

  Here, in Raraku’s heart, the Whirlwind Goddess had stolen the colour of the sun’s own fire, leaving the landscape pallid and deathly. Colourless, Karsa Orlong? Bairoth Gild’s ghostly voice was filled with wry humour. Not so. Silver, my friend. And silver is the colour of oblivion. Of chaos. Silver is when the last of the blood is washed from the blade—

  ‘No more words,’ Karsa growled.

  Leoman spoke from nearby. ‘Having just arrived, Toblakai, I am yet to even speak. Do you not wish my farewell?’

  Karsa slowly straightened, slinging his pack over a shoulder. ‘Words need not be spoken aloud, friend, to prove unwelcome. I but answered my own thoughts. That you are here pleases me. When I began my first journey, long ago, none came to witness.’

  ‘I asked Sha’ik,’ Leoman replied from where he stood ten paces away, having just passed through the trail’s gap in the low, crumbled wall—the mud bricks, Karsa saw, were on their shaded side covered with rhizan, clinging with wings contracted, their mottled colourings making them almost identical to the ochre bricks. ‘But she said she would not join me this morning. Even stranger, it seemed as if she already knew of your intentions, and was but awaiting my visit.’

  Shrugging, Karsa faced Leoman. ‘A witness of one suffices. We may now speak our parting words. Do not hide overlong in your pit, friend. And when you ride out with your warriors, hold to the Chosen One’s commands—too many jabs from the small knife can awaken the bear no matter how deep it sleeps.’

  ‘It is a young and weak bear, this time, Toblakai.’

  Karsa shook his head. ‘I have come to respect the Malazans, and fear that you would awaken them to themselves.’

  ‘I shall consider your words,’ Leoman replied. ‘And now ask that you consider mine. Beware your gods, friend. If you must kneel before a power, first look upon it with clear eyes. Tell me, what would your kin say to you in parting?’

  ‘ “May you slay a thousand children.” ’

  Leoman blanched. ‘Journey well, Toblakai.’

  ‘I shall.’

  Karsa knew that Leoman could neither see nor sense that he was flanked where he stood at the trail’s gap in the wall. Delum Thord on the left, Bairoth Gild on the right. Teblor warriors, blood-oil smeared in crimson tones even the Whirlwind could not eradicate, and they stepped forward as the Teblor swung about to face the western trail.

  ‘Lead us. Lead your dead, Warleader.’

  Bairoth’s mocking laugh clicked and cracked like the potsherds breaking beneath Karsa Orlong’s moccasins. The Teblor grimaced. There would be, it seemed, a fierce price for the honour.

  None the less, he realized after a moment, if there must be ghosts, it was better to lead them than to be chased by them. ‘If that is how you would see it, Karsa Orlong.’ In the distance rose the swirling wall of the Whirlwind. It would be good, the Teblor reflected, to see the world beyond it again, after all these months. He set out, westward, as the day was born.

  ‘He has left,’ Kamist Reloe said as he settled onto the cushions.

  Korbolo Dom eyed the mage, his blank expression betraying nothing of the contempt he felt for the man. Sorcerers did not belong in war. And he had shown the truth of that when destroying the Chain of Dogs. Even so, there were necessities to contemplate, and Reloe was the least of them. ‘That leaves only Leoman,’ he rumbled from where he lay on the pillows and cushions.

  ‘Who departs with his rats in a few days.’

  ‘Will Febryl now advance his plans?’

  The mage shrugged. ‘It is hard to say, but there is a distinct avidness in his gaze this morning.’

  Avidness. Indeed. Another High Mage, another insane wielder of powers better left untapped. ‘There is one who remains, who perhaps presents us with the greatest threat of them all, and that is Ghost Hands.’

  Kamist Reloe sneered. ‘A blind, doddering fool. Does he even know that hen’bara tea is itself the source of the thinning fabric between his world and all that he would flee from? Before long, his mind will vanish entirely within the nightmares, and we need concern ourselves with him no more.’

  ‘She has secrets,’ Korbolo Dom muttered, leaning forward to collect a bowl of figs. ‘Far beyond those gifted her by the Whirlwind. Febryl proceeds headlong, unmindful of his own ignorance. When the battle with the Adjunct’s army is finally joined, success or failure will be decided by the Dogslayers—by my army. Tavore’s otataral will defeat the Whirlwind—I am certain of it. All that I ask of you and Febryl and Bidithal is that I am unobstructed in commanding the forces, in shaping that battle.’

  ‘We are both aware,’ Kamist growled, ‘that this struggle goes far beyond the Whirlwind.’

  ‘Aye, so it does. Beyond all of Seven Cities, Mage. Do not lose sight of our final goal, of the throne that will one day belong to us.’

  Kamist Reloe shrugged. ‘That is our secret, old friend. We need only proceed with caution, and all that opposes us will likely vanish before our very eyes. Febryl kills Sha’ik, Tavore kills Febryl, and we destroy Tavore and her army.’

  ‘And then become Laseen’s saviour—as we crush this rebellion utterly. Gods, I swear I will see this entire land empty of life if need be. A triumphant return to Unta, an audience with the Empress, then the driven knife. And who will stop us? The Talon are poised to cut down the Claws. Whiskeyjack and the Bridgeburners are no more, and Dujek remains a continent away. How fares the Jhistal priest?’

  ‘Mallick travels without opposition, ever southward. He is a clever man, a wise man, and he will play out his role to perfection.’

  Korbolo Dom made no reply to that. He despised Mallick Rel, but could not deny his usefulness. Still, the man was not one to be trusted . . . to which High Fist Pormqual would attest, were the fool still alive. ‘Send for Fayelle. I would a woman’s company now. Leave me, Kamist Reloe.’

  The High Mage hesitated, and Korbolo scowled.

  ‘There is the matter,’ Kamist whispered, ‘of L’oric . . .’

  ‘Then deal with him!’ Korbolo snapped. ‘Begone!’

  Bowing his head, the High Mage backed out of the tent.

  Sorcerers. Could he find a way to destroy magic, the Napan would not hesitate. The extinction of powers that could slaughter a thousand soldiers in an instant would return the fate of mortals to the mortals themselves, and this could not but be a good thing. The death of warrens, the dissolution of gods as memory of them and their meddling slowly vanished, the withering of all magic . . . the world then would belong to men such as Korbolo himself. And the empire he would shape would permit no ambiguity, no ambivalence.

  His will unopposed, the Napan could end, once and for all, the dissonant clangour that so plagued humanity—now and throughout its history.

  I will bring order. And from that unity, we shall rid the world of every other race, every other people, we shall overpower and crush every discordant vision, for there can in the end be only one way, one way of living, of ruling this realm. And that way belongs to me.

  A good soldier well knew that success was found in careful planning, in incremental steps.

  Opposition had a way of stepping aside all on its own. You are now at Hood’s feet, Whiskeyjack. Where I have always wanted you. You and your damned company, feeding worms in a foreign land. None left to stop me, now . . .

  Chapter Eleven

  This was a path she did not welcome.

  The Sha’ik R
ebellion

  Tursabaal

  THE BREATHS OF THE HORSES PLUMED IN THE CHILL MORNING AIR. Dawn had but just arrived, the air hinting nothing of the heat the coming day would deliver. Wrapped in the furs of a bhederin, old sweat making the lining of his helm clammy as the touch of a corpse, Fist Gamet sat motionless on his Wickan mount, his gaze fixed on the Adjunct.

  The hill just south of Erougimon where Coltaine had died had come to be known as the Fall. Countless humps on the summit and slopes indicated where bodies had been buried, the metal-strewn earth already cloaked in grasses and flowers.

  Ants had colonized this entire hill, or so it seemed. The ground swarmed with them, their red and black bodies coated in dust yet glittering none the less as they set about their daily tasks.

  Gamet, the Adjunct and Tene Baralta had ridden out from the city before dawn. Outside the gates to the west, the army had begun to stir. The march would begin this day. The journey north, to Raraku, to Sha’ik and the Whirlwind. To vengeance.

  Perhaps it was the rumours that had drawn Tavore out here to the Fall, but already Gamet regretted her decision to bring him along. This place showed him nothing he wanted to see. Nor, he suspected, was the Adjunct well pleased with what they had found.

  Red-stained braids, woven into chains, draped across the summit, and coiled around the twin stumps of the cross that had once stood there. Dog skulls crowded with indecipherable hieroglyphs looked out along the crest through empty sockets. Crow feathers dangled from upright-thrust broken arrow shafts. Ragged banners lay pinned to the ground on which were painted various representations of a broken Wickan long-knife. Icons, fetishes, a mass of detritus to mark the death of a single man.

  And all of it was aswarm in ants. Like mindless keepers of this now hallowed ground.

  The three riders sat in their saddles in silence.

  Finally, after a long while, Tavore spoke. ‘Tene Baralta.’ Inflectionless.

  ‘Aye, Adjunct?’

  ‘Who—who is responsible for . . . for all of this? Malazans from Aren? Your Red Blades?’

  Tene Baralta did not immediately reply. Instead, he dismounted and strode forward, his eyes on the ground. Near one of the dog skulls he halted and crouched down. ‘Adjunct, these skulls—the runes on them are Khundryl.’ He pointed towards the wooden stumps. ‘The woven chains, Kherahn Dhobri.’ A gesture to the slope. ‘The banners . . . unknown, possibly Bhilard. Crow feathers? The beads at their stems are Semk.’

  ‘Semk!’ Gamet could not keep the disbelief from his voice. ‘From the other side of Vathar River! Tene, you must be in error . . .’

  The large warrior shrugged. He straightened and gestured towards the rumpled hills directly north of them. ‘The pilgrims only come at night—unseen, which is how they will have it. They’re hiding out there, even now. Waiting for night.’

  Tavore cleared her throat. ‘Semk. Bhilard—these tribes fought against him. And now they come to worship. How is this? Explain, please, Tene Baralta.’

  ‘I cannot, Adjunct.’ He eyed her, then added, ‘But, from what I understand, this is . . . modest, compared with what lines the Aren Way.’

  There was silence once more, though Gamet did not need to hear her speak to know Tavore’s thoughts.

  This—this is the path we now take. We must walk, step by step, the legacy. We? No. Tavore. Alone. ‘This is no longer Coltaine’s war!’ she said to Temul. But it seems it remains just that. And she now realizes, down in the depths of her soul, that she will stride that man’s shadow . . . all the way to Raraku.

  ‘You will both leave me now,’ the Adjunct said. ‘I shall rejoin you on the Aren Way.’

  Gamet hesitated, then said, ‘Adjunct, the Crow Clan still claim the right to ride at the forefront. They will not accept Temul as their commander.’

  ‘I will see to their disposition,’ she replied. ‘For now, go.’ He watched Tene Baralta swing back onto his horse. They exchanged a glance, then both wheeled their mounts and set off at a canter along the track leading to the west gate.

  Gamet scanned the rock-studded ground rolling past beneath his horse’s hoofs. This was where the historian Duiker drove the refugees towards the city—this very sweep of empty ground. Where, at the last, that old man drew rein on his weary, loyal mare—the mare that Temul now rode—and watched as the last of his charge was helped through the gate.

  Whereupon, it was said, he finally rode into the city.

  Gamet wondered what had gone through the man’s mind at that moment. Knowing that Coltaine and the remnants of the Seventh were still out there, fighting their desperate rearguard action. Knowing that they had achieved the impossible.

  Duiker had delivered the refugees.

  Only to end up staked to a tree. It was beyond him, Gamet realized, to comprehend the depth of that betrayal.

  A body never recovered. No bones laid to rest.

  ‘There is so much,’ Tene Baralta rumbled at Gamet’s side.

  ‘So much?’

  ‘To give answer to, Gamet. Indeed, it takes words from the throat, yet the silence it leaves behind—that silence screams.’

  Discomforted by Tene’s admission, Gamet said nothing.

  ‘Pray remind me,’ the Red Blade went on, ‘that Tavore is equal to this task.’

  Is that even possible? ‘She is.’ She must be. Else we are lost.

  ‘One day, Gamet, you shall have to tell me what she has done, to earn such loyalty as you display.’

  Gods, what answer to make to that? Damn you, Tene, can you not see the truth before you? She has done . . . nothing. I beg you. Leave an old man to his faith.

  ‘Wish whatever you like,’ Gesler growled, ‘but faith is for fools.’

  Strings cleared the dust from his throat and spat onto the side of the track. Their pace was torturously slow, the three squads trailing the wagon loaded down with their supplies. ‘What’s your point?’ he asked the sergeant beside him. ‘A soldier knows but one truth, and that truth is, without faith, you are already as good as dead. Faith in the soldier at your side. But even more important—and no matter how delusional it is in truth—there is the faith that you cannot be killed. Those two and those two alone—they are the legs holding up every army.’

  The amber-skinned man grunted, then waved at the nearest of the trees lining Aren Way

  . ‘Look there and tell me what you see—no, not those Hood-damned fetishes—but what’s still visible under all that mess. The spike holes, the dark stains of bile and blood. Ask the ghost of the soldier who was on that tree—ask that soldier about faith.’

  ‘A faith betrayed does not destroy the notion of faith itself,’ Strings retorted. ‘In fact, it does the very opposite—’

  ‘Maybe for you, but there are some things you can’t step around with words and lofty ideals, Fid. And that comes down to who is in that vanguard somewhere up ahead. The Adjunct. Who just lost an argument with that pack of hoary Wickans. You’ve been lucky—you had Whiskeyjack, and Dujek. Do you know who my last commander was—before I was sentenced to the coastal guard? Korbolo Dom. I’d swear that man had a shrine to Whiskeyjack in his tent—but not the Whiskeyjack you know. Korbolo saw him differently. Unfulfilled potential, that’s what he saw.’

  Strings glanced over at Gesler. Stormy and Tarr were walking in step behind the two sergeants, close enough to hear, though neither had ventured a comment or opinion. ‘Unfulfilled potential? What in Beru’s name are you talking about?’

  ‘Not me. Korbolo Dom. “If only the bastard had been hard enough,” he used to say, “he could’ve taken the damned throne. Should’ve.” As far as Dom is concerned, Whiskeyjack betrayed him, betrayed us all—and that’s something that renegade Napan won’t forgive.’

  ‘Too bad for him,’ Strings growled, ‘since there’s a good chance the Empress will send the whole Genabackan army over in time for the final battle. Dom can take his complaints to Whiskeyjack himself.’

  ‘A pleasant thought,’ Gesler laughed. ‘But my
point was, you’ve had commanders worthy of the faith you put in them. Most of the rest of us didn’t have that luxury. So we got a different feeling about it all. That’s it, that’s all I was trying to say.’

  The Aren Way marched past on both sides. Transformed into a vast, open-air temple, each tree cluttered with fetishes, cloths braided into chains, figures painted on the rough bark to approximate the soldiers who had once writhed there on spikes driven in by Korbolo Dom’s warriors. Most of the soldiers ahead and behind Strings walked in silence. Despite the vast, empty expanse of blue sky overhead, the road was oppressive.

  There had been talk of cutting the trees down, but one of the Adjunct’s first commands upon arriving in Aren had been to forbid it. Strings wondered if she now regretted her decision.

  His gaze travelled up to one of the Fourteenth’s new standards, barely visible through clouds of roiling dust up ahead. She had understood the whole thing with the finger bones well enough, understood the turning of the omen. The new standard well attested to that. A grimy, thin-limbed figure holding a bone aloft, the details in shades of dun colours that were barely visible on the yellow ochre field, the border a woven braid of the imperial magenta and dark grey. A defiant figure standing before a sandstorm. That the standard could as easily apply to Sha’ik’s army of the Apocalypse was a curious coincidence. As if Tavore and Sha’ik—the two armies, the forces in opposition—are in some way mirrored reflections of the other.

  There were many strange . . . occurrences in all this, nibbling and squirming beneath Strings’ skin like bot-fly larvae, and it seemed indeed that he was feeling strangely fevered throughout the day. Strains of a barely heard song rose up from the depths of his mind on occasion, a haunting song that made his flesh prickle. And stranger still, the song was entirely unfamiliar.

  Mirrored reflections. Perhaps not just Tavore and Sha’ik. What of Tavore and Coltaine? Here we are, reversing the path on that blood-soaked road. And it was that road that proved Coltaine to most of those he led. Will we see the same with our journey? How will we see Tavore the day we stand before the Whirlwind? And what of my own return? To Raraku, the desert that saw me destroyed only to rise once more, mysteriously renewed—a renewal that persists, since for an old man I neither look nor feel old. And so it remains for all of us Bridgeburners, as if Raraku stole something of our mortality, and replaced it with . . . with something else.