House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  An old soldier at the Fist’s side coughed and spat, then, at Gamet’s glance, mumbled an apology.

  ‘No need . . . Captain. It’s a grisly sight, and we’re all too close . . .’

  ‘Not that, sir. Only . . .’ he paused, then slowly shook his head. ‘Never mind, sir. Just an old memory, that’s all.’

  Gamet nodded. ‘I’ve a few of those myself. So, Fist Tene Baralta wants to know if he needs to send his healers forward. The answer you may bring him lies before you.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  He watched the grizzled old soldier back his horse clear then swing it round and ride off. Then Gamet fixed his attention once more upon the Adjunct.

  She had reached the far end, where most of the bodies lay, heaped up against blood-splashed stone walls, and, after a long moment, during which she scanned the scene on all sides, she gathered the reins and began retracing her path.

  Gamet set the helm on his head once more and closed the clasp.

  She reached the slope and rode up to halt alongside him.

  He had never before seen her expression so severe. A woman with few of a woman’s charms, as they say of her, in tones approaching pity. ‘Adjunct.’

  ‘He left many of them wounded,’ she said. ‘Anticipating, perhaps, that we’d reach them in time. Wounded Malazans are better than dead ones, after all.’

  ‘Assuming that warleader seeks to delay us, aye.’

  ‘He does. Even with the Khundryl supply lines, our resources are strained as it is. The loss of the wagons last night will be felt by everyone.’

  ‘Then why didn’t Sha’ik send this warleader against us as soon as we crossed the Vathar River? We’re a week or less away from the Whirlwind Wall. She could have purchased another month or more, and we’d be in far worse shape when we finally arrived.’

  ‘You are correct, Fist. And I have no answer for you. Temul has gauged this raiding party’s strength at just under two thousand—he was fairly certain that the midday contact on the flank revealed the enemy’s full force, since he sighted supply horses as well as those taken from the Seti. Thus, a rather large raiding army.’

  Gamet ruminated on this for a time, then he grunted. ‘It’s almost as if we’re facing a confused opposition, one at odds with itself.’

  ‘The same thought had occurred to me. For the moment, however, we must concern ourselves with this warleader, else he bleed us to death.’

  Gamet swung his horse around. ‘More words with Gall, then,’ he said, grimacing. ‘If we can get them out of their great-grandfathers’ armour, they might actually manage a ride up a hill without leaving their horses blown.’

  ‘I want the marines out tonight, Fist.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘The marines, Adjunct? On foot? You wish the pickets bolstered?’

  She drew a deep breath. ‘In the year 1147, Dassem Ultor was faced with a similar situation, with a much smaller army and three entire tribal nations mauling him virtually every night.’

  After a moment Gamet nodded. ‘I know the scenario, Adjunct, and I recall his answer. The marines will be sent out tonight.’

  ‘Be sure they understand what is expected of them, Fist Gamet.’

  ‘There’s some veterans among them,’ he replied. ‘And in any case, I plan to command the operation myself.’

  ‘That will not be—’

  ‘Yes, it will, Adjunct. My apologies. But . . . yes, it will.’

  ‘So be it.’

  It was one thing to doubt his commander’s measure, but another entirely to doubt his own.

  There were three types of scorpion common in the odhan, none of which displayed any toleration for either of the others. Early in the second week Strings had drawn his two fellow sergeants aside to unveil his scheme. Both Gesler and Borduke had proved agreeable, particularly at the offer of splitting the profits three ways. Borduke was first to draw the odd-coloured stone and was quick to choose the Red-backed Bastard—outwardly the meanest of the three scorpion types. Gesler had followed, choosing the amber In Out—so named for its transparent exoskeleton through which, if one was inclined to look carefully, various poisons could be seen racing beneath its carapace.

  The two sergeants had then looked with pity upon their hapless companion. The Lord’s luck that the man with the idea in the first place should be left with the Birdshit scorpion—puny and flat and black and looking like its namesake. Of course, when it came to the three-way split of the main profits, none of that really mattered. Only in the private wagers between the three sergeants would Strings come out wanting.

  But Strings had affected only mild disappointment at being left with the Birdshit, answering with naught but a slight shrug as he collected the handful of pebbles they had used in choosing the order of selection. And neither Gesler nor Borduke caught the old sapper’s twitch of a smile as he turned away, nor his seemingly casual glance to where Cuttle sat in the shade of a boulder—a glance answered with the slightest of nods.

  The squads were then set to the task of finding their respective champions whilst on the march, and, when that failed, at dusk when the horrid little creatures were wont to scuttle out from their hiding places in search of something to kill.

  Word quickly spread, and soon the wagers started pouring in. Borduke’s soldier, Maybe, was chosen for the task of bet-holder, given his extraordinary ability to retain facts. And one Holder was selected from each squad, who then in turn selected a Trainer.

  The afternoon following the raid and the slaughter of the Seti, Strings slowed his pace during the march, until he fell in step with Bottle and Tarr. Despite his casual expression, the truth was, the bile roiled sour in his stomach. The Fourteenth had found its own scorpion, out there in the wastes beyond, and it had just delivered its first sting. The mood of the soldiers was low, and uncertainty gnawed at their confidence. None had believed, it was clear, that the first blood they tasted would be their own. Got to get their minds off it.

  ‘How’s little Joyful, Bottle?’

  The mage shrugged. ‘As hungry and nasty as ever, Sergeant.’

  Strings nodded. ‘And how’s the training coming along, Corporal?’

  Tarr frowned beneath the rim of his helm. ‘All right, I suppose. As soon as I figure out what kind of training it needs, I’ll get right on it.’

  ‘Good, the situation sounds ideal. Spread the word. First battle’s tonight, one bell after we set camp.’

  Both soldiers swung their heads round at this.

  ‘Tonight?’ Bottle asked. ‘After what just—’

  ‘You heard me. Gesler and Borduke are getting their beauties primed, same as us. We’re ready, lads.’

  ‘It’s going to draw quite a crowd,’ Corporal Tarr said, shaking his head. ‘The lieutenant won’t help but wonder—’

  ‘Not just the lieutenant, I’d imagine,’ Strings replied. ‘But there won’t be much of a crowd. We’ll use the old word-line system. Run the commentary back through the whole camp.’

  ‘Joyful’s going to get skewered,’ Bottle muttered, his expression growing sorrowful. ‘And here I been feeding her, every night. Big juicy capemoths . . . she’d just pounce real pretty, then start eating until there wasn’t nothing left but a couple wings and a crunched-up ball. Then she’d spend half the night cleaning her pincers and licking her lips—’

  ‘Lips?’ Smiles asked from behind the three men. ‘What lips? Scorpions don’t have lips—’

  ‘What do you know?’ Bottle shot back. ‘You won’t even get close—’

  ‘When I get close to a scorpion I kill it. Which is what any sane person would do.’

  ‘Sane?’ the mage retorted. ‘You pick them up and start pulling things off! Tail, pincers, legs—I ain’t seen nothing so cruel in my life!’

  ‘Well, ain’t that close enough to see if it’s got lips?’

  ‘Where’s it all go, I wonder?’ Tarr muttered.

  Bottle nodded. ‘I know, it’s amazing. She’s so tiny . . .’

  ‘Tha
t’s our secret,’ Strings said quietly.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The reason why I picked a Birdshit, soldiers.’

  ‘You didn’t pick . . .’

  At the suspicious silence that followed, Strings simply smiled. Then he shrugged. ‘Hunting’s one thing. An easy thing. Birdshits don’t need to get . . . elaborate, killing a maimed capemoth. It’s when they have to fight. Protecting territory, or their young. That’s when the surprise comes. You think Joyful’s going to lose tonight, Bottle? Think your heart’s going to get broken? Relax, lad, old Strings here has always got your tender feelings in mind . . .’

  ‘You can drop that “Strings” bit, Sergeant,’ Bottle said after a moment. ‘We all know who you are. We all know your real name.’

  ‘Well, that’s damned unfortunate. If it gets out to the command—’

  ‘Oh, it won’t, Fiddler.’

  ‘Maybe not on purpose, but in the heat of battle?’

  ‘Who’s going to listen to our screams of panic in a battle, Sergeant?’

  Fiddler shot the young man a look, gauging, then he grinned. ‘Good point. Still, be careful what you say and when you say it.’

  ‘Aye, Sergeant. Now, could you explain that surprise you were talking about?’

  ‘No. Wait and see.’

  Strings fell silent then, noting a small party of riders approaching down the line of march. ‘Straighten up, soldiers. Officers coming.’

  Fist Gamet, the sergeant saw, was looking old, worn out. Getting dragged out of retirement was never a good thing, he knew, since the first thing that an old soldier put away was his nerve, and that was hard, if not impossible, to get back. That stepping away, of course, marked a particular kind of retirement—and one a cautious soldier usually avoided. Abandoning the lifestyle was one thing, but surrendering the deadly edge was another. Studying the Fist as the man rode up, Fiddler felt a tremor of unease.

  Accompanying Gamet were Captain Keneb and the lieutenant, the latter so grim-faced as to be near comical. His officer mask, with which he tries to look older and thus more professional. Instead, it’s the scowl of a constipated man. Someone should tell him . . .

  The threesome reined in to walk their horses alongside Fiddler’s own squad—somewhat unnerving to the sergeant, though he offered them a nod. Keneb’s eyes, he noted, were on Cuttle.

  But it was Ranal who spoke first. ‘Sergeant Strings.’

  ‘Aye, sir?’

  ‘You and Cuttle, please, off to one side for a private conversation.’ Then he raised his voice to the squad marching ahead. ‘Sergeant Gesler and Corporal Stormy, back with us on the double.’

  ‘Four should be enough,’ the Fist rumbled, ‘to see the instructions properly delivered to the other squads.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Ranal, who had been about to call over Borduke. When the four marines were assembled, Fist Gamet cleared his throat, then began, ‘It’s clear you are all veterans. And Captain Keneb informs me that you have marched in these lands before—no, I need no more details of that. My reliance depends on that very experience, however. The Adjunct wishes the marines to answer the desert raiders tonight.’ He fell silent then.

  And no-one spoke for a time, as the significance of the Fist’s words slowly settled in the minds of the four marines.

  Finally, Captain Keneb said, ‘Aye, Dassem’s answer, all those years ago. It’s fortunate, then, that you’d planned on using the word-line this evening. Simple enough to keep it going once the three-way fight’s finished.’ He leaned over slightly in his saddle and said to Fiddler, ‘You’ve the Birdshit, Sergeant? What are the odds running at right now?’

  ‘Maybe says it’s about forty to one,’ Fiddler replied, keeping his face straight.

  ‘Even better than I’d hoped,’ Keneb replied, leaning back. ‘But I should add, Sergeant, that I’ve convinced the Fist to back your Birdshit as well.’

  ‘Ten jakatas,’ Gamet said, ‘and in this I rely upon the captain’s . . . experience. And yours, Sergeant . . . Strings.’

  ‘Uh, we’ll do our best, sir.’

  Gesler turned to Stormy. ‘Smell something, Corporal?’

  The huge Falari with the flint sword on his back scowled. ‘Ain’t no scorpions on the coasts, dammit. Aye, Sergeant, I’m smelling something all right.’

  ‘Get used to it,’ Cuttle advised.

  Ranal was looking confused, but wisely said nothing . . . for now.

  ‘Use the word-line,’ Keneb said, resuming his instructions, ‘and remember, make sure the toughest squads are the ones showing their smiles.’

  ‘Aye, Captain,’ Fiddler replied, wondering if he should reassess his opinion of Keneb.

  ‘One last thing,’ the man added. ‘Fist Gamet will be commanding the operation tonight. Accordingly, I want your two squads and Borduke’s to double your duties tonight.’

  Oh, Hood’s balls under a big rock. ‘Understood, Captain.’

  The soldiers of the Fourteenth Army were strangely arrayed throughout the encampment once the tents had been raised and the cookfires started, seemingly casually seated in a manner that, if seen from on high, would have resembled a vast, knotted rope. And following the meal, activities seemed to cease entirely, barring the reluctant marching out of the soldiers on first picket duty.

  In one particular place, centred on the marines of the 9th Company of the 8th Legion, a somewhat different assembly of soldiers was apparent—a smallish, exclusive ring, surrounding a still smaller ring of daggers thrust into the ground, edge inward, at a spacing of two finger-widths. For the moment, that inner ring was empty, the sand smoothed flat and free of pebbles.

  Maybe was the last soldier to join the others waiting impatiently around the modest arena, saying nothing though his lips moved in a silent recitation of numbers and names. Seeing the eyes of the others on him, he gave a single nod.

  Fiddler swung to Bottle. ‘Bring out Joyful Union, lad.’ Borduke and Gesler issued similar instructions for their respective combatants. The Red-backed Bastard had been named Mangonel by Borduke’s squad, while Gesler and company had named their amber In Out scorpion Clawmaster.

  The three boxes were brought forward and Fiddler said to his fellow sergeants, ‘All right, here and now we’re to look upon our beauties, and so swear that no alterations have been made to them, either by sorcery or alchemy or any other means. They are natural as the day we first found them. Unchanged. Each of us will examine each of the three scorpions—as closely as we might choose, including the assistance of a mage if desired, and then swear out loud, by whatever gods we normally swear by, as precise a statement of what we see as we can. Here, I’ll start.’

  He gestured and the three boxes were set down just outside the knife ring. The first wooden container—Borduke’s—had its lid removed and Fiddler leaned close. He was silent for a long time, then he nodded. ‘I, Sergeant Strings of the 4th squad in the 9th Company of the 8th Legion, swear by the ghosts of the Deadhouse and every other nasty nightmare that haunts me that the creature before me is a natural, unaltered Red-backed Bastard scorpion.’

  The sergeant then moved on to Gesler’s champion, and after a long examination he sighed and nodded, repeating his sworn vow on behalf of the In Out scorpion scuttling about in the small wooden box. He then concluded with his own Joyful Union. Gesler followed the procedure, seeking the added opinions of both Tavos Pond and Sands during his protracted examination of Joyful Union, whilst Fiddler leaned back with a slight smile on his bearded face, waiting patiently until, with a snarl, Gesler swore his vow. ‘I, Sergeant Gesler of the 5th squad in the 9th Company of the 8th Legion, swear by the two Lords of Summer, Fener and Treach, that the creature before me is a natural, unaltered Birdshit scorpion—even though I know there’s something about it I’m not seeing and I’m about to lose my life’s savings on the Sergeants’ Wager.’ Fiddler’s smile broadened momentarily.

  Borduke crawled up to Joyful Union and came as close as was possible without being stung, his face
almost inside the small box. Since that draped the motionless creature in shadow he cursed and leaned back slightly. ‘I should know about scorpions, shouldn’t I? But all I ever do is stamp on them—like any sane man would do. Sure, I knew a whore once who kept one on a thong about her neck, as golden as the skin of her breasts—tender nipples, you see, and she didn’t like them manhandled—’

  ‘Get on with it,’ Gesler snapped.

  ‘Don’t rush me. I don’t like being rushed.’

  ‘All right, I won’t rush you. Just swear your damned vow before my heart flies out to fill my breeches.’

  ‘I, Borduke of the 6th squad in the 9th Company of the 8th Legion, swear on the downy belly of the Queen of Dreams that the creature before me is a natural, unaltered Birdshit scorpion, and may my father’s ghost remain in its tomb, since the inheritance was mine to lose anyway, right? Dead means you don’t care any more, right? It had better, because if it doesn’t, then I’m doomed to paternal haunting for the rest of my days.’

  ‘The worst kind,’ Lutes muttered.

  ‘Another word from you, soldier,’ Borduke growled, moving back into the circle, ‘and I’ll make you the only one smiling later tonight.’

  ‘Besides,’ Balgrid said, ‘it ain’t the worst kind. Maternal haunting—now that’s a killer. How long can a man stand being seven years old?’

  ‘Will you two be quiet!’ Borduke snarled, his large-knuckled fingers clutching as if squeezing invisible throats.

  ‘We ready?’ Fiddler quietly asked.

  ‘She’ll hide, won’t she?’ Gesler demanded. ‘Wait till the other two have chopped and stabbed each other up before pouncing on the mangled survivor! That’s it, isn’t it? Her jelly brains are purer than theirs, purer and smarter, aren’t they?’

  Fiddler shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t know about that, Gesler. Are you done?’

  The bronzed-hued marine settled back, the muscles of his jaw bunching.