House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Beru fend,’ Torvald muttered, ‘not again.’

  Karsa shrugged.

  Neither resisted as the shackles were fitted onto their wrists and ankles. There was some difficulty in dealing with the Teblor in this matter—when the shackles clicked into place, they were so tight as to cut off the blood flow to Karsa’s hands and feet.

  Torvald, watching, said in Malazan, ‘Those will need to be changed, lest he lose his appendages—’

  ‘Hardly a consideration,’ said a familiar voice from the entrance to one of the larger buildings. Silgar, trailed by Damisk, emerged onto the dusty street. ‘You will indeed lose your hands and feet, Karsa Orlong, which should effectively put an end to the threat you pose. Of course, that will do much to diminish your value as a slave, but I am prepared to accept the loss.’

  ‘Is this how you repay saving your miserable lives?’ Torvald demanded.

  ‘Why, yes, it is. Repayment. For the loss of most of my men. For the arrest by the Malazans. For countless other outrages which I won’t bother listing, since these dear Arak tribesmen are rather far from home, and, given that they’re somewhat less than welcome in this territory, they are impatient to depart.’

  Karsa could no longer feel his hands and feet. As one of the Arak tribesmen pushed him forward he stumbled, then fell to his knees. A thick knout cracked into the side of his head. Sudden rage gripped the Teblor. He lashed out his right arm, ripping the chain from an Arak’s hands, and swung it full into the face of his attacker. The man screamed.

  The others closed in then, wielding their knouts—clubs made from black, braided hair—until Karsa fell senseless to the ground.

  When he finally regained consciousness, it was dusk. He had been tied to some sort of travois, which was in the process of being unhitched from a train of long-legged, lean horses. Karsa’s face was a mass of bruises, his eyes almost swollen shut, his tongue and the inside of his mouth cut and nicked by his own teeth. He looked down at his hands. They were blue, the fingertips darkening to black. They were dead weights at the ends of his limbs, as were his feet.

  The tribesmen were making camp a short distance from the coastal road. To the west, at the horizon’s very edge, was the dull yellow glow of a city.

  A half-dozen small, virtually smokeless fires had been lit by the Arak, using some sort of dung for fuel. Karsa saw, twenty paces distant, the slavemaster and Damisk seated among a group of the tribesmen. The hearth closest to the Teblor was being used to cook suspended skewers of tubers and meat.

  Torvald sat nearby, working on something in the gloom. None of the Arak seemed to be paying the two slaves any attention.

  Karsa hissed.

  The Daru glanced over. ‘Don’t know about you,’ he whispered, ‘but I’m damned hot. Got to get out of these clothes. I’m sure you are as well. I’ll come over and help you in a moment.’ There was the faint sound of ripping seams. ‘At last,’ Torvald murmured, dragging his tunic free. Naked, he began edging closer to Karsa. ‘Don’t bother trying to say anything, friend. I’m surprised you can even breathe, with the way they beat you. In any case, I need your clothes.’

  He came up alongside the Teblor, spared a glance towards the tribesmen—none of whom had noticed him—then reached up and began tugging at Karsa’s tunic. There was but a single seam, and it had already been stretched and sundered in places. As he worked, Torvald continued whispering. ‘Small fires. Smokeless. Camping in a basin, despite the insects. Talking in mumbles, very quiet. And Silgar’s words earlier, that stupid gloat—had the Arak understood him they would probably have skinned the idiot on the spot. Well, from his stupidity was born my brilliance, as you’ll soon see. It’ll likely cost me my life, but I swear I’ll be here even as a ghost, just to see what comes. Ah, done. Stop shivering, you’re not helping things at all.’

  He pulled the tattered tunic from Karsa, then took it with him back to his original position. He then tore handfuls of grasses from the ground, until he had two large piles. Bundling both pieces of tunic, he then stuffed them with the grass. Flashing Karsa a grin, he crawled over to the nearest hearth, bundles in tow.

  He pushed them up against the glowing fragments of dung, then retreated.

  Karsa watched as first one caught fire, then the other. Flames flared into the night, a roar of sparks and snake-like blades of grass lifting high. Shouts from the Arak, figures rushing over, scrambling for handfuls of earth, but there was little of that in the basin, only pebbles and hard, sun-dried clay. Horse-blankets were found, thrown over the roaring flames.

  The panic that then swept through the tribesmen left the two slaves virtually ignored, as the Arak rushed to break camp, repack supplies, saddle their horses. Through it all, Karsa heard a single word repeated numerous times, a word filled with fear. Gral.

  Silgar appeared as the Arak gathered their horses. His face was filled with fury. ‘For that, Torvald Nom, you have just forfeited your life—’

  ‘You won’t make it to Ehrlitan,’ the Daru predicted with a hard grin.

  Three tribesmen were approaching, hook-bladed knives in their hands.

  ‘I will enjoy watching your throat cut,’ Silgar said.

  ‘The Gral have been after these bastards all this time, Slavemaster. Hadn’t you realized that? Now, I’ve never heard of the Gral, but your Arak friends have one and all pissed onto their hearths, and even a Daru like me knows what that means—they don’t expect to live through the night, and not one of them wants to spill his bladder when he dies. Seven Cities taboo, I gather—’

  The first Arak reached Torvald, one hand snapping out to take the Daru by the hair, pushing Torvald’s head back and lifting the knife.

  The ridgeline behind the Arak was suddenly swarming with dark figures, silently sweeping down into the camp.

  The night was broken by screams.

  The Arak crouched before Torvald snarled and tore the knife across the Daru’s throat. Blood spattered the hard clay. Straightening, the tribesman wheeled to run for his horse. He managed not a single step, for a half-dozen shapes came out of the darkness, silent as wraiths. There was a strange whipping sound, and Karsa saw the Arak’s head roll from his shoulders. His two companions were both down.

  Silgar was already fleeing. As a figure rose before him, he lashed out. A wave of sorcery struck the attacker, dropped the man to the ground, where he writhed in the grip of crackling magic for a moment, before his flesh exploded.

  Ululating cries pealed through the air. The same whipping sound sang in the darkness from all sides. Horses screamed.

  Karsa dragged his gaze from the scene of slaughter and looked over at Torvald’s slumped body. To his amazement, the Daru was still moving, feet kicking furrows in the pebbles, both hands up at his throat.

  Silgar returned to Karsa’s position, his lean face gleaming with sweat. Damisk appeared behind him and the slavemaster gestured the tattooed guard forward.

  Damisk held a knife. He quickly cut at the bindings holding Karsa to the travois. ‘No easy out for you,’ he hissed. ‘We’re leaving. By warren, and we’re taking you with us. Silgar’s decided to make you his plaything. A lifetime of torture—’

  ‘Enough babbling!’ Silgar snapped. ‘They’re almost all dead! Hurry!’

  Damisk cut the last rope.

  Karsa laughed, then managed to form words. ‘What would you have me do now? Run?’

  Snarling, Silgar moved closer. There was a flare of blue light, then the three of them were plunging into fetid, warm water.

  Unable to swim, the weight of his chains dragging him down, Karsa sank into the midnight depths. He felt a tug on his chains, then saw a second flash of lurid light.

  His head, then his back, struck hard cobbles. Dazed, he rolled onto his side. Silgar and Damisk, both coughing, knelt nearby. They were on a street, flanked on one side by enormous warehouses, and on the other by stone jetties and moored ships. At the moment, there was no-one else in sight.

  Silgar spat, then said, ‘Damisk
, get those shackles off him—he bears no criminal brand, so the Malazans won’t see him as a slave. I won’t be arrested again—not after all this. The bastard is ours, but we’ve got to get him off the street. We’ve got to hide.’

  Karsa watched Damisk crawl to his side, fumbling with keys. Watched as the Nathii unlocked the shackles on his wrists, then his ankles. A moment later, the pain struck as blood flowed back into near-dead flesh. The Teblor screamed.

  Silgar unleashed magic once more, a wave that descended on the Teblor like a blanket—that he tore off with unthinking ease, his shrieks slicing into the night air, echoing back from nearby buildings, ringing out across the crowded harbour.

  ‘You there!’ Malazan words, a bellow, then the swiftly approaching clash and clatter of armoured soldiers.

  ‘An escaped slave, sirs!’ Silgar said hastily. ‘We have—as you can see—just recaptured him—’

  ‘Escaped slave? Let’s see his brand—’

  The last words Karsa registered, as the pain in his hands and feet sent him plummeting into oblivion.

  He awoke to Malazan words being spoken directly above him. ‘ . . . extraordinary. I’ve never seen natural healing such as this. His hands and feet—those shackles were on for some time, Sergeant. On a normal man I’d be cutting them off right now.’

  Another voice spoke, ‘Are all Fenn such as this one?’

  ‘Not that I’ve ever heard. Assuming he’s Fenn.’

  ‘Well, what else would he be? He’s as tall as two Dal Honese put together.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, Sergeant. Before I was posted here, the only place I knew well was six twisting streets in Li Heng. Even the Fenn was just a name and some vague description about them being giants. Giants no-one’s seen for decades at that. The point is, this slave was in bad shape when you first brought him in. Beaten pretty fierce, and someone punched him in the ribs hard enough to crack bones—wouldn’t want to cross whoever that was. For all that, the swelling’s already down on his face—despite what I’ve just done to it—and the bruises are damned near fading in front of our eyes.’

  Continuing to feign unconsciousness, Karsa listened to the speaker stepping back, then the sergeant asking, ‘So the bastard’s not in danger of dying, then.’

  ‘Not that I can see.’

  ‘Good enough, Healer. You can return to the barracks.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Various movement, boots on flagstones, the clang of an iron-barred door; then, as these echoes dwindled, the Teblor heard, closer by, the sound of breathing.

  In the distance there was some shouting, faint and muted by intervening walls of stone, yet Karsa thought he recognized the voice as belonging to the slavemaster, Silgar. The Teblor opened his eyes. A low, smoke-stained ceiling—not high enough to permit him to stand upright. He was lying on a straw-littered, greasy floor. There was virtually no light, apart from a dim glow reaching in from the walkway beyond the barred door.

  His face hurt, a strange stinging sensation prickling on his cheeks, forehead and along his jaw.

  Karsa sat up.

  There was someone else in the small, windowless cell, hunched in a dark corner. The figure grunted and said something in one of the languages of the Seven Cities.

  A dull ache remained in Karsa’s hands and feet. The inside of his mouth was dry and felt burnt, as if he’d just swallowed hot sand. He rubbed at his tingling face.

  A moment later the man tried Malazan, ‘You’d likely understand me if you were Fenn.’

  ‘I understand you, but I am not one of these Fenn.’

  ‘I said it sounds like your master isn’t enjoying his stay in the stocks.’

  ‘He has been arrested?’

  ‘Of course. The Malazans like arresting people. You’d no brand. At the time. Keeping you as a slave is therefore illegal under imperial law.’

  ‘Then they should release me.’

  ‘Little chance of that. Your master confessed that you were being sent to the otataral mines. You were on a ship out of Genabaris that you’d cursed, said curse then leading to the ship’s destruction and the deaths of the crew and the marines. The local garrison is only half-convinced by that tale, but that’s sufficient—you’re on your way to the island. As am I.’

  Karsa rose. The low ceiling forced him to stand hunched over. He made his way, hobbling, to the barred door.

  ‘Aye, you could probably batter it down,’ the stranger said. ‘But then you’ll be cut down before you manage three steps from this gaol. We’re in the middle of the Malazan compound. Besides, we’re about to be taken outside in any case, to join the prisoners’ line chained to a wall. In the morning, they’ll march us down to the imperial jetty and load us onto a transport.’

  ‘How long have I been unconscious?’

  ‘The night you were carried in, the day after, the next night. It’s now midday.’

  ‘And the slavemaster has been in the stocks all this time?’

  ‘Most of it.’

  ‘Good,’ Karsa growled. ‘What of his companion? The same?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘And what crime have you committed?’ Karsa asked.

  ‘I consort with dissidents. Of course,’ he added, ‘I am innocent.’

  ‘Can you not prove that?’

  ‘Prove what?’

  ‘Your innocence.’

  ‘I could if I was.’

  The Teblor glanced back at the figure crouched in the corner. ‘Are you, by any chance, from Darujhistan?’

  ‘Darujhistan? No, why do you ask?’

  Karsa shrugged. He thought back to Torvald Nom’s death. There was a coldness surrounding the memory, but he could sense all that it held at bay. The time for surrender, however, was not now.

  The barred door was set in an iron frame, the frame fixed to the stone blocks with large iron bolts. The Teblor gave it a shake. Dust sifted out from around the bolts, pattered onto the floor.

  ‘I see you’re a man who ignores advice,’ the stranger observed.

  ‘These Malazans are careless.’

  ‘Overconfident, I’d suggest. Then again, perhaps not. They’ve had dealings with Fenn, with Trell, Barghast—a whole host of oversized barbarians. They’re tough, and sharper than they let on. They put an otataral anklet on that slavemaster—no magic from him any more—’

  Karsa turned. ‘What is this “otataral” everyone speaks of?’

  ‘A bane to magic.’

  ‘And it must be mined.’

  ‘Yes. It’s usually a powder, found in layers, like sandstone. Resembles rust.’

  ‘We scrape a red powder from cliffsides to make our blood-oil,’ the Teblor murmured.

  ‘What is blood-oil?’

  ‘We rub it into our swords, and into our armour. To bring on battle madness, we taste it.’

  The stranger was silent for a moment, though Karsa could feel the man’s eyes on him. ‘And how well does magic work against you?’

  ‘Those who attack me with sorcery usually reveal surprise on their faces . . . just before I kill them.’

  ‘Well now, that is interesting. It is believed that otataral is only found on the single large island east of here. The empire controls its production. Tightly. Their mages learned the hard way during the conquest, in the battles before the T’lan Imass got involved. If not for the T’lan Imass, the invasion would have failed. I have some more advice for you. Reveal nothing of this to the Malazans. If they discover there is another source of otataral, a source they do not control, well, they will send into your homeland—wherever that is—every regiment they possess. They will crush your people. Utterly.’

  Karsa shrugged. ‘The Teblor have many enemies.’

  The stranger slowly sat straighten ‘Teblor? That is what you call yourselves? Teblor?’ After a moment, he leaned back again, and softly laughed.

  ‘What do you find so amusing?’

  An outer door clanged open, and Karsa stepped back from the barred door as a squad of soldiers
appeared. The three at the front had unsheathed their swords, while the four behind them held large, cocked crossbows. One of the swordsmen stepped up to the door. He paused upon seeing Karsa. ‘Careful,’ he called to his companions, ‘the savage has awakened.’ He studied the Teblor and said, ‘Do nothing stupid, Fenn. It matters nothing to us whether you live or die—the mines are crowded enough for them not to miss you. Understand me?’

  Karsa bared his teeth, said nothing.

  ‘You there, in the corner, on your feet. It’s time for some sunshine.’

  The stranger slowly straightened. He was wearing little more than rags. Lean and dark-skinned, his eyes were a startling light blue. ‘I demand a proper trial, as is my right under imperial law.’

  The guardsman laughed. ‘Give it up. You’ve been identified. We know precisely who you are. Aye, your secret organization is not as seamless as you might think. Betrayed by one of your own—how does that feel? Let’s go, you come out first. Jibb, you and Gullstream keep your crossbows on that Fenn—I don’t like his smile. Especially now,’ he added.

  ‘Oh look,’ another soldier said, ‘you’ve confused the poor ox. Bet he doesn’t even know his entire face is one big tattoo. Scrawl did good work, though. Best I’ve seen in a long while.’

  ‘Right,’ another drawled, ‘and how many escaped prisoner tattoos have you seen, Jibb?’

  ‘Just one, and it’s a work of art.’

  The source of the stinging sensation on Karsa’s face was revealed now. He reached up, seeking to feel something of the pattern, and slowly began tracing lines of slightly raised, damp strips of raw skin. They were not contiguous. He could make no sense of what the tattoo portrayed.

  ‘Shattered,’ the other prisoner said as he walked over to the door, which the first guard unlocked and swung open. ‘The brand makes your face look like it’s been shattered.’

  Two guards escorted the man outside, whilst the others, nervously eyeing Karsa, waited for their return. One of the crossbowmen, whose high forehead revealed white blotches—leading the Teblor to speculate that he was the one named Gullstream—leaned back against the opposite wall and said, ‘I don’t know, I’m thinking Scrawl made it too big—he was ugly enough to start with, now he looks damned terrifying.’