House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  ‘That,’ Heboric breathed, ‘is quite a challenge, lass.’

  ‘And so I need you, Ghost Hands. I need the secret you possess—’

  ‘Of L’oric I can say nothing—’

  ‘Not that secret, old man. No, the secret I seek lies in your hands.’

  He started. ‘My hands?’

  ‘That giant of jade you touched—it is defeating the otataral. Destroying it. I need to discover how. I need an answer to otataral, Heboric.’

  ‘But Kurald Emurlahn is Elder, Sha’ik—the Adjunct’s sword—’

  ‘Will annihilate the advantage I possess in my High Mages. Think! She knows she can’t negate the Whirlwind with her sword . . . so she will not even try! No, instead she will challenge my High Mages. Remove them from the field. She will seek to isolate me—’

  ‘But if she cannot defeat the Whirlwind, what does that matter?’

  ‘Because the Whirlwind, in turn, cannot defeat her!’ Heboric was silent. He had not heard this before, but after a moment’s thought, it began to make sense. Kurald Emurlahn might be Elder, but it was also in pieces. Weakened, riven through with Rashan—a warren that was indeed vulnerable to the effects of otataral. The power of the Adjunct’s sword and that of Sha’ik’s Whirlwind Goddess would effectively cancel each other out.

  Leaving the outcome in the hands of the armies themselves. And there, the otataral would cut through the sorcery of the High Mages. In turn leaving it all to Korbolo Dom. And Korbolo knows it, and he has his own ambitions. Gods, lass, what a mess. ‘Alas, Chosen One,’ he muttered, ‘I cannot help you, for I do not know why the otataral in me is failing. I have, however, a warning. The power of the jade giant is not one to be manipulated. Not by me, nor by you. If the Whirlwind Goddess seeks to usurp it, she will do more than suffer in the attempt—she will likely get obliterated.’

  ‘Then we must win knowledge without yielding an opportunity.’

  ‘And how in Hood’s name do you propose achieving that?’

  ‘I would you give me the answer to that, Heboric.’

  Me? ‘Then we are lost. I have no control over that alien power. I have no understanding of it at all!’

  ‘Perhaps not yet,’ she replied, with a chilling confidence in her voice. ‘But you grow ever closer, Heboric. Every time you partake of hen’bara tea.’

  The tea? That which you gave me so that I might escape my nightmares? Calling upon Sha’ik Elder’s knowledge of the desert, you said. A gift of compassion, I thought. A gift . . . He felt something crumbling inside him. A fortress in the desert of my heart, I should have known it would be a fortress of sand.

  He swung away, made insensate by layer upon layer of blindness. Numbed to the outside world, to whatever Sha’ik was now saying, to the brutal heat of the sun overhead.

  Stay?

  He felt no longer able to leave.

  Chains. She has made for me a house of chains . . .

  Felisin Younger came to the edge of the pit and looked down. The sun had left the floor, leaving naught but darkness below. There was no glimmer of hearthlight, confirming that no-one had come to take up residence in Leoman’s abode.

  A scraping sound nearby made her turn. Toblakai’s once-slavemaster had crawled into view around a wall foundation. His sun-blistered skin was caked in dust and excrement, the stumps at the ends of his arms and legs weeping a yellow, opaque liquid. The first signs of leprosy marred his joints at elbow and knee. Red-rimmed eyes fixed on Felisin and the man offered a blackened smile. ‘Ah, child. See me your humble servant. Mathok’s warrior—’

  ‘What do you know of that?’ she demanded.

  The smile broadened. ‘I bring word. See me your humble servant. Everyone’s humble servant. I have lost my name, did you know that? I knew it once, but it has fled me. My mind. But I do what I am told. I bring word. Mathok’s warrior. He cannot meet you here. He would not be seen. You understand? There, across the plaza, in the sunken ruin. He awaits.’

  Well, she considered, the secrecy made sense. Their escape from the camp demanded it, although Heboric Ghost Hands was by far the one most likely to be under surveillance. And he had gone into his tent days ago and refused all visitors. Even so, she appreciated Mathok’s caution.

  Though she had not known that Toblakai’s slavemaster was a part of their conspiracy. ‘The sunken temple?’

  ‘Yes, there. See me your humble servant. Go. He awaits.’ She set out across the flagstoned plaza. Hundreds of the camp’s destitute had settled here, beneath palm-frond shelters, making no efforts at organization—the expanse reeked of piss and faeces, streams of the foul mess flowing across the stones. Hacking coughs, mumbled entreaties and blessings followed her as she made her way towards the ruin.

  The temple’s foundation walls were hip high; within, a steep set of stone stairs led down to the subterranean floor. The sun’s angle had dipped sufficiently to render the area below in darkness.

  Felisin halted at the top of the stairs and peered down, seeking to penetrate the gloom. ‘Are you there?’ she called.

  A faint sound from the far end. The hint of movement.

  She descended.

  The sandy floor was still warm. Groping, she edged forward.

  Less than ten paces from the back wall and she could finally make him out. He was seated with his back to the stone. The gleam of a helm, scale armour on his chest.

  ‘We should wait for night,’ Felisin said, approaching. ‘Then make our way to Ghost Hands’ tent. The time has come—he can hide no longer. What is your name?’

  There was no reply.

  Something black and smothering rose up to clamp over her mouth and she was lifted from the ground. The blackness flowed like serpents around her, pinning her arms and binding her thrashing legs. A moment later she hung motionless, suspended slightly above the sandy floor.

  A gnarled fingertip brushed her cheek and her eyes widened as a voice whispered in her ear. ‘Sweetest child. Mathok’s fierce warrior felt Rashan’s caress a short while ago, alas. Now, there is only me. Only humble Bidithal, here to welcome you. Here to drink all pleasure from your precious body, leaving naught but bitterness, naught but dead places within. It is necessary, you understand.’ His wrinkled hands were stroking, plucking, pinching, pawing her. ‘I take no unsavoury pleasure in what I must do. The children of the Whirlwind must be riven barren, child, to make of them perfect reflections of the goddess herself—oh, you did not know that, did you? The goddess cannot create. Only destroy. The source of her fury, no doubt. So it must be with her children. My duty. My task. There is naught for you to do now but surrender.’

  Surrender. It had been a long time since she had last been made to surrender, to give away all that was within her. A long time since she’d let darkness devour all that she was. Years ago, she had not known the magnitude of the loss, for there had been nothing to offer a contrast to misery, hunger and abuse.

  But all that had changed. She had discovered, under Sha’ik’s protective wing, the notion of inviolacy.

  And it was that notion that Bidithal now proceeded to destroy.

  Lying on the landing at the top of the stairs, the creature that had once been a slavemaster on Genabackis smiled at Bidithal’s words, then the smile grew wider at her muffled cries.

  Karsa Orlong’s favoured child was in the hands of that sick old man. And all that would be done to her could not be undone.

  The sick old man had been kindly with his offers of gifts. Not just the impending return of his hands and feet, but the promise of vengeance against the Teblor. He would find his name once more. He knew he would. And with it, the confusion would go away, the hours of blind terror would no longer plague him, and the beatings at the hands of the others in this plaza would cease. It would have to, for he would be their master.

  They would pay for what they did. Everyone would pay. As soon as he found his name.

  There was weeping now. Despair’s own laughter, those racking heaves.

  That lass
would no longer look upon him with disgust. How could she? She was now like him. It was a good lesson. Viciously delivered—even the slavemaster could see that, could imagine it at least, and wince at the images he conjured in his head. But still, a good lesson.

  Time to leave—footsteps approached from below. He slithered back into the daylight, and the sound he made over the gravel, potsherds and sand was strangely reminiscent of chains. Chains dragging in his wake.

  Though there had been none to witness it, a strange glow had suffused L’oric’s tent shortly after noon. Momentary, then all was normal once more.

  Now, as dusk finally approached, a second flare of light burgeoned briefly then died away, again unnoticed.

  The High Mage staggered through the warren’s impromptu, momentary gate. He was drenched in blood. He stumbled with his burden across the hide-covered floor, then sank to his knees, dragging the misshapen beast into his arms, a single red hand pulling free to stroke its thick, matted hair.

  Its whimpers of pain had ceased. Mercifully, for each soft cry had broken anew L’oric’s heart.

  The High Mage slowly lowered his head, finally stricken with the grief he had been forced to hold back during his desperate, ineffectual efforts to save the ancient demon. He was filled with self-loathing, and he cursed his own complacency. Too long separated, too long proceeding as if the other realms held no danger to them.

  And now his familiar was dead, and the mirrored deadness inside him seemed vast. And growing, devouring his soul as sickness does healthy flesh. He was without strength, for the rage had abated.

  He stroked the beast’s blood-caked face, wondering anew at how its ugliness—now so still and free of pain—could nevertheless trigger depthless wellsprings of love from him. ‘Ah, my friend, we were more of a kind than either of us knew. No . . . you knew, didn’t you? Thus the eternal sorrow in your eyes, which I saw but chose to ignore, each time I visited. I was so certain of the deceit, you see. So confident that we could go on, undetected, maintaining the illusion that our father was still with us. I was . . .’ He crumpled then and could speak no further for a time.

  The failure had been his, and his alone. He was here, ensnaring himself in these paltry games, when he should have been guarding his familiar’s back—as it had done for him for century upon century.

  Oh, it had been close in any case—one less T’lan Imass, and the outcome might have proved different—no, now you lie to yourself, L’oric. That first axe-blow had done the damage, had delivered the fatal wound. All that transpired thereafter was born of dying rage. Oh, my beloved was no weakling, and the wielder of that stone axe paid for his ambush. And know this, my friend, I left the second one scattered through the fires. Only the clan leader escaped me. But I will hunt him down. This I swear.

  But not yet. He forced clarity into his thoughts, as the weight of the familiar where it lay against his thighs slowly diminished, its very substance ebbing away. Kurald Thyrllan was undefended, now. How the T’lan Imass had managed to penetrate the warren remained a mystery, but they had done so, completing the task they had set out to do with their legendary brutality.

  Would the Liosan have sensed the death? Perhaps only the seneschals, at first. Would they speak of it to the others? Not if they pause, for even a moment, and think about it. Of course, they had been the victims of the deceit all along. Osric had vanished—their god was gone—and Kurald Thyrllan was ripe for usurpation. And, eventually, those seneschals would realize that, had it truly been Osric behind the power that answered their prayers, then three T’lan Imass warriors would not have been enough—not nearly enough. My father is many things, but weak does not count among them.

  The withered, bird-sized thing that had been his familiar slipped down to the tent floor. L’oric stared at it, then slowly wrapped himself in his own arms. I need . . . I need help. Father’s companions. Which one? Anomander Rake? No. A companion, yes, on occasion, but never Osric’s friend. Lady Envy? Gods, no! Caladan Brood . . . but he carries his own burdens, these days. Thus, but one left . . .

  L’oric closed his eyes, and called upon the Queen of Dreams. ‘By your true name, T’riss, I would speak with you. In Osric my father’s name, hear my prayer . . .’

  A scene slowly formed in his mind, a place unfamiliar to him. A formal garden, high-walled, with a circular pool in the centre. Marble benches waited beneath the shadows of the surrounding growth. The flagstones around the pool were rippled with fine, white sand.

  He found himself approaching the pool, staring down into the mirrored surface.

  Where swam stars in inky blackness.

  ‘The resemblance is there.’

  He turned at the liquid voice, to see a woman now seated on the pool’s edge. She looked to be no more than twenty, her hair copper-gold and long. A heart-shaped face, pale, the eyes a light grey. She was not looking at him, her languid gaze on the pool’s unmarred surface instead. ‘Although,’ she added, with a faint smile, ‘you have done well to hide your Liosan traits.’

  ‘We are skilled in such things, Queen of Dreams.’

  She nodded, still not meeting his eyes. ‘As are all the Tiste. Anomander once spent almost two centuries in the guise of a royal bodyguard . . . human, in the manner you have achieved.’

  ‘Mistress,’ L’oric said, ‘my father—’

  ‘Sleeps. We all long ago made our choices, L’oric. Behind us, our paths stretch, long and worn deep. There is bitter pathos in the prospect of retracing them. Yet, for those of us who remain . . . awake, it seems we do nothing but just that. An endless retracing of paths, yet each step we take is forward, for the path has proved itself to be a circle. Yet—and here is the true pathos—the knowledge never slows our steps.’

  ‘ “Wide-eyed stupid”, the Malazans say.’

  ‘Somewhat rough-edged, but accurate enough,’ she replied. She reached a long-fingered hand down to the water.

  L’oric watched it vanish beneath the surface, but it was the scene around them that seemed to waken, a faint turbulence, the hint of ripples. ‘Queen of Dreams, Kurald Thyrllan has lost its protector.’

  ‘Yes. Tellann and Thyr were ever close, and now more than ever.’

  A strange statement . . . that he would have to think on later. ‘I cannot do it alone—’

  ‘No, you cannot. Your own path is about to become fraught, L’oric. And so you have come to me, in the hopes that I will find a suitable . . . protector.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your desperation urges you to trust . . . where no trust has been earned—’

  ‘You were my father’s friend!’

  ‘Friend? L’oric, we were too powerful to know friendship. Our endeavours far too fierce. Our war was with chaos itself, and, at times, with each other. We battled to shape all that would follow. And some of us lost that battle. Do not misapprehend, I held no deep enmity for your father. Rather, he was as unfathomable as the rest of us—a bemusement we all shared, perhaps the only thing we shared.’

  ‘You will not help?’

  ‘I did not say that.’

  He waited.

  She continued holding her hand beneath the pool’s placid surface, had yet to lift her head and meet his eyes. ‘This will take some time,’ she murmured. ‘The present . . . vulnerability . . . will exist in the interval. I have someone in mind, but the shaping towards the opportunity remains distant. Nor do I think my choice will please you. In the meantime . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  She shrugged. ‘We had best hope that potentially interested entities remain suitably distracted.’

  He saw her expression suddenly change, and when she spoke again the tone was urgent. ‘Return to your realm, L’oric! Another circle has been closed—terribly closed.’ She drew her hand from the pool.

  L’oric gasped.

  It was covered in blood.

  His eyes snapped open, and he was kneeling in his tent once more. Night had arrived, and the sounds outside were muted, peaceful, a city se
ttling down to its evening meal. Yet, he knew, something horrible had happened. He went still, questing outward. His powers—so weakened, so tremulous—‘Gods below!’ A swirl of violence, knotted upon itself, radiating waves of agony—a figure, small, twisted inward, in shredded clothes soaked through with blood, crawling through darkness.

  L’oric lurched to his feet, head spinning with anguish.

  Then he was outside, and suddenly running.

  He found her trail, a smeared track through sand and dust, out beyond the ruins, into the petrified forest. Towards, he knew instinctively, the sacred glade that had been fashioned by Toblakai.

  But there would be no succour for her there. Another abode of false gods. And Toblakai was gone, off to cross blades with his own fate.

  But she was without clear thought. She was only pain, lancing out to fire instincts of flight. She crawled as would any dying creature.

  He saw her at the edge of the glade, small, bedraggled, pulling herself forward in torturous increments.

  L’oric reached her side, a hand reaching to settle at the back of her head, onto sweat-snarled hair. She flinched away with a squeal, fingers clawing against his arm. ‘Felisin! He’s gone! It is L’oric. You are safe with me. Safe, now—’

  But still she sought to escape.