House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  Sufficient to catch Pella’s notice, and he threw her a sharp look.

  Both dogs had awakened at Truth’s arrival, but neither rose from where they lay—they simply fixed eyes on the lad.

  Truth set down the bag and snapped to sudden attentiveness. Colour rose in his face.

  My charms. It’s not Pella who’ll remember this day. Not Pella who’ll find someone to worship. ‘Tell me about what happened on the western shore of Otataral Island. Did the rendezvous occur as planned?’

  ‘I believe so,’ Truth replied after a moment. ‘But we weren’t part of that plan—we just happened to find ourselves in the same boat with Kulp, and it was Kulp who was looking to collect them.’

  ‘Kulp? The cadre mage from the Seventh?’

  ‘Aye, him. He’d been sent by Duiker—’

  ‘The imperial historian?’ Gods, what twisted trail is this? ‘And why would he have any interest in saving Felisin?’

  ‘Kulp said it was the injustice,’ Truth answered. ‘But you got it wrong—it wasn’t Felisin that Duiker wanted to help. It was Heboric.’

  Pella spoke in a low voice quite unlike what she had heard from him moments earlier. ‘If Duiker is going to be made out as some kind of traitor . . . well, lass, better think twice. This is Aren, after all. The city that watched. That saw Duiker delivering the refugees to safety. He was the last one through the gate, they say.’ The emotion riding his words was now raw. ‘And Pormqual had him arrested!’

  A chill rippled through Lostara. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Blistig loosed us Red Blades from the gaols. We were on the wall by the time Pormqual had his army out there on the plain. If Duiker was seeking to free Heboric, a fellow scholar, well, I have no complaint with that. The trail we are on is Felisin’s.’

  Truth nodded at that. ‘Tavore has sent you, hasn’t she? You and that Claw inside, listening to Gesler and Stormy.’

  Lostara briefly closed her eyes. ‘I am afraid I lack Pearl’s subtlety. This mission was meant to be . . . secret.’

  ‘Fine with me,’ Pella said. ‘And you, Truth?’

  The tall lad nodded. ‘It doesn’t really matter anyway. Felisin is dead. They all are. Heboric. Kulp. They all died. Gesler was just telling that part.’

  ‘I see. None the less, please say nothing to anyone else. We will be pursuing our task, if only to gather her bones. Their bones, that is.’

  ‘That would be a good thing,’ Truth said with a sigh.

  Lostara made to leave but Pella gestured to catch her attention. ‘Here.’ He held out to her the finger bone he had been drilling a hole through. ‘Take this for yourself. Wear it in plain sight.’

  ‘Why?’

  Pella scowled. ‘You’ve just asked a favour of us . . .’

  ‘Very well.’ She accepted the grisly object.

  Pearl appeared in the doorway. ‘Lostara,’ he called. ‘Are you done here?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Time to leave, then.’ She could see by his expression that he too had been told of Felisin’s death. Though probably in greater detail than the little that Truth had said.

  In silence, they retraced their route through the stables, out into the compound, then across to the gate. The door swung open as they arrived and the soldier named Maybe waved them out. Lostara’s attention was drawn to the bale of straw, which seemed to be wavering, strangely melting where it squatted, but Pearl simply waved her on.

  As they drew some distance from the estate, the Claw voiced a soft curse, then said, ‘I need a healer.’

  ‘Your limp is barely noticeable,’ Lostara observed.

  ‘Years of discipline, my dear. I’d much rather be screaming. The last time I suffered such strength used against me was with that Semk demon, that godling. The three of them—Gesler, Stormy and Truth—there’s more that’s strange about them than just their skin.’

  ‘Any theories?’

  ‘They went through a warren of fire—and somehow survived, though it seems that Felisin, Baudin and Heboric didn’t. Though their actual fate remains unknown. Gesler simply assumes they died. But if something unusual happened to those coastal guards in that warren, then why not the same to the ones who were washed overboard?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was not told the details.’

  ‘We must pay a visit to a certain impounded ship. I will explain on the way. Oh, and next time don’t offer to pay off someone else’s debt . . . until you find out how big it is.’

  And next time, leave that pompous attitude at the stable doors. ‘Very well.’

  ‘And stop taking charge.’

  She glanced over at him. ‘You advised me to use my charm, Pearl. It’s hardly my fault if I possess more of that quality than you.’

  ‘Really? Let me tell you, that corporal was lucky you stepped between us.’

  She wanted to laugh, but pushed it back. ‘You clearly did not notice the weapon under the man’s bed.’

  ‘Weapon? I care—’

  ‘It was a two-handed flint sword. The weapon of a T’lan Imass, Pearl. It probably weighs as much as I do.’

  He said no more until they reached the Silanda.

  The ship’s berth was well guarded, yet clearly permission for Pearl and Lostara had been provided earlier, for the two were waved onto the old dromon’s battered deck then left deliberately alone, the ship itself cleared of all others.

  Lostara scanned the area amidships. Flame-scarred and mud smeared. A strange pyramidal mound surrounded the main mast, draped in a tarpaulin. New sails and sheets had been fitted, clearly taken from a variety of other vessels.

  Standing at her side, Pearl’s gaze fell upon the covered mound, and he voiced a soft grunt. ‘Do you recognize this ship?’ he asked.

  ‘I recognize it’s a ship,’ Lostara replied.

  ‘I see. Well, it’s a Quon dromon of the old, pre-imperial style. But much of the wood and the fittings are from Drift Avalii. Do you know anything of Drift Avalii?’

  ‘It’s a mythical island off the Quon Tali coast. A drifting island, peopled with demons and spectres.’

  ‘Not mythical, and it does indeed drift, though the pattern seems to describe a kind of wobbly circle. As for demons and spectres . . . well . . .’ he strode to the tarpaulin, ‘hardly anything so frightening.’ He drew the covering back.

  Severed heads, neatly piled, all facing outward, eyes blinking and fixing on Pearl and Lostara. The glimmer of wet blood.

  ‘If you say so,’ Lostara croaked, stepping back.

  Even Pearl seemed taken aback, as if what he had unveiled was not entirely what he had expected. After a long moment he reached down and touched a fingertip to the pooled blood. ‘Still warm . . .’

  ‘B-but that’s impossible.’

  ‘Any more impossible than the damned things being still conscious—or alive at the very least?’ He straightened and faced her, then waved expansively. ‘This ship is a lodestone. There are layers upon layers of sorcery, soaked into the very wood, into the frame. It descends upon you with the weight of a thousand cloaks.’

  ‘It does? I don’t feel it.’

  He looked at her blankly, then faced the mound of severed heads once more. ‘Neither demons nor spectres, as you can see. Tiste Andü, most of them. A few Quon Talian sailors. Come, let us go and examine the captain’s cabin—magic tumbles from that room in waves.’

  ‘What kind of magic, Pearl?’

  He had already begun walking towards the hatch. A dismissive gesture. ‘Kurald Galain, Tellann, Kurald Emurlahn, Rashan—’ He paused suddenly and swung round. ‘Rashan. Yet you feel nothing?’

  She shrugged. ‘Are there more . . . heads . . . in there, Pearl? If so, I think I’d rather not—’

  ‘Follow me,’ he snapped.

  Inside, black wood, the air thick as if roiling with memories of violence. A grey-skinned, barbaric-looking corpse pinned to the captain’s chair by a massive spear. Other bodies, sprawled here and there as if grabbed, broken then tossed aside.

  A du
ll, sourceless glow permeated the low, cramped room. Barring strange patches on the floor, smeared with, Lostara saw, otataral dust. ‘Not Tiste Andü,’ Pearl muttered. ‘These must be Tiste Edur. Oh, there are plenty of mysteries here. Gesler told me about the crew manning the oars down below—headless bodies. Those poor Tiste Andü on the deck. Now, I wonder who killed these Edur . . .’

  ‘How does all this lead us further onto Felisin’s trail, Pearl?’

  ‘She was here, wasn’t she? Witness to all this. The captain here had a whistle, strung around his neck, which was used to direct the rowers. It’s disappeared, alas.’

  ‘And without that whistle, this ship just sits here.’

  Pearl nodded. ‘Too bad, isn’t it? Imagine, a ship with a crew you never have to feed, that never needs rest, that never mutinies.’

  ‘You can have it,’ Lostara said, turning back to the doorway. ‘I hate ships. Always have. And now I’m leaving this one.’

  ‘I see no reason not to join you,’ Pearl said. ‘We have a journey ahead of us, after all.’

  ‘We do? Where?’

  ‘The Silanda travelled warrens between the place where it was found by Gesler, and where it reappeared in this realm. From what I can gather, that journey crossed the mainland, from the north Otataral Sea down to Aren Bay. If Felisin, Heboric and Baudin jumped off, they might well have reappeared on land somewhere on that route.’

  ‘To find themselves in the midst of the rebellion.’

  ‘Given what seems to have led up to it, they might well have considered that a far less horrendous option.’

  ‘Until some band of raiders stumbled onto them.’

  Captain Keneb’s 9th Company was called to muster in three successive assemblies on the parade ground. There had been no advance warning, simply the arrival of an officer commanding the soldiers to proceed at double-time.

  Squads 1, 2 and 3 went first. These were heavy infantry, thirty soldiers in all, loaded down in scale armour and chain vambraces and gauntlets, kite shields, weighted longswords, stabbing spears strapped to their backs, visored and cheek-guarded helms with lobster tails, dirks and pig-stickers at their belts.

  The marines were next. Ranal’s 4th, 5th and 6th squads. Following them were the bulk of the company’s troops, medium infantry, the 7th to the 24th squads. Only slightly less armoured than the heavy infantry, there was, among them, the addition of soldiers skilled in the use of the short bow, the longbow, and the spear. Each company was intended to work as a discrete unit, self-reliant and mutually supportive.

  As he stood in front of his squad, Strings studied the 9th. Their first assembly as a separate force. They awaited the Adjunct’s arrival in mostly precise ranks, saying little, not one out of uniform or weaponless.

  Dusk was fast approaching, the air growing mercifully cool.

  Lieutenant Ranal had been walking the length of the three squads of marines for some time, back and forth, his steps slow, a sheen of sweat on his smooth-shaven cheeks. When he finally halted, it was directly before Strings.

  ‘All right, Sergeant,’ he hissed. ‘It’s your idea, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Those damned finger bones! They showed up in your squad first—as if I wouldn’t have noticed that. And now I’ve heard from the captain that it’s spreading through every legion. Graves are being robbed all over the city! And I’ll tell you this—’ He stepped very close and continued in a rough whisper. ‘If the Adjunct asks who is responsible for this last spit in her face over what happened yesterday, I won’t hesitate in directing her to you.’

  ‘Spit in her face? Lieutenant, you are a raging idiot. Now, a clump of officers have just appeared at the main gate. I suggest you take your place, sir.’

  Face dark with fury, Ranal wheeled and took position before the three squads.

  The Adjunct led the way, her entourage trailing.

  Captain Keneb awaited her. Strings remembered the man from the first, disastrous mustering. A Malazan. The word was out that he had been garrisoned inland, had seen his share of fighting when their company had been overrun. Then the flight southward, back to Aren. There was enough in that to lead Strings to wonder if the man hadn’t taken the coward’s route. Rather than dying with his soldiers, he’d been first in the rout. That’s how many officers outlived their squads, after all. Officers weren’t worth much, as far as the sergeant was concerned.

  The Adjunct was speaking with the man now, then the captain stepped back and saluted, inviting Tavore to approach the troops. But instead she drew a step closer to the man, reached out and touched something looped about Keneb’s neck.

  Strings’ eyes widened slightly. That’s a damned finger bone.

  More words between the man and the woman, then the Adjunct nodded and proceeded towards the squads.

  Alone, her steps slow, her face expressionless.

  Strings saw the flicker of recognition as she scanned the squads. Himself, then Cuttle. After a long moment, during which she entirely ignored the ramrod-straight Lieutenant Ranal, she finally turned to the man. ‘Lieutenant.’

  ‘Adjunct.’

  ‘There seems to be a proliferation of non-standard accoutrements on your soldiers. More so here than among any of the other companies I have reviewed.’

  ‘Yes, Adjunct. Against my orders, and I know the man responsible—’

  ‘No doubt,’ she replied. ‘But I am not interested in that. I would suggest, however, that some uniformity be established for those . . . trinkets. Perhaps from the hip belt, opposite the scabbard. Furthermore, there have been complaints from Aren’s citizenry. At the very least, the looted pits and tombs should be returned to their original state . . . as much as that is possible, of course.’

  Ranal’s confusion was obvious. ‘Of course, Adjunct.’

  ‘And you might note, as well,’ the Adjunct added drily, ‘that you are alone in wearing a . . . non-standard uniform of the Fourteenth Army, at this time. I suggest you correct that as soon as possible, Lieutenant. Now, you may dismiss your squads. And on your way out, convey my instruction to Captain Keneb that he can proceed with moving the company’s medium infantry to the fore.’

  ‘Y-yes, Adjunct. At once.’ He saluted. Strings watched her walk back to her entourage. Oh, well done, lass.

  Gamet’s chest was filled with aching as he studied the Adjunct striding back to where he and the others waited. A fiercely welling emotion. Whoever had come up with the idea deserved . . . well, a damned kiss, as Cuttle would have said. They’ve turned the omen.

  Turned it!

  And he saw the rekindled fire in Tavore’s eyes as she reached them.

  ‘Fist Gamet.’

  ‘Adjunct?’

  ‘The Fourteenth Army requires a standard.’

  ‘Aye, it does indeed.’

  ‘We might take our inspiration from the soldiers themselves.’

  ‘We might well do that, Adjunct.’

  ‘You will see to it? In time for our departure tomorrow?’

  ‘I will.’

  From the gate a messenger arrived on horseback. He had been riding hard, and drew up sharply upon seeing the Adjunct.

  Gamet watched the man dismount and approach. Gods, not bad news . . . not now . . .

  ‘Report,’ the Adjunct demanded.

  ‘Three ships, Adjunct,’ the messenger gasped. ‘Just limped into harbour.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Volunteers! Warriors! Horses and wardogs! It’s chaos at the docks!’

  ‘How many?’ Gamet demanded.

  ‘Three hundred, Fist.’

  ‘Where in Hood’s name are they from?’

  The messenger’s gaze snapped away from them—over to where Nil and Nether stood. ‘Wickans.’ He met Tavore’s gaze once more. ‘Adjunct! Clan of the Crow. The Crow! Coltaine’s own!’

  Chapter Nine

  At night ghosts come in rivers of grief, to claw away the sand beneath a man’s feet

  G’danii saying

&n
bsp; THE TWIN LONG-KNIVES WERE SLUNG IN A FADED LEATHER HARNESS stitched in swirling Pardu patterns. They hung from a nail on one of the shop’s corner posts, beneath an elaborate Kherahn shaman’s feather headdress. The long table fronting the canopied stall was crowded with ornate obsidian objects looted from some tomb, each one newly blessed in the name of gods, spirits or demons. On the left side, behind the table and flanking the toothless proprietor who sat cross-legged on a high stool, was a tall screened cabinet.

  The burly, dark-skinned customer stood examining the obsidian weapons for some time before a slight flip of his right hand signalled an interest to the hawker.

  ‘The breath of demons!’ the old man squealed, jabbing a gnarled finger at various stone blades in confusing succession. ‘And these, kissed by Mael—see how the waters have smoothed them? I have more—’

  ‘What lies in the cabinet?’ the customer rumbled.

  ‘Ah, you’ve a sharp eye! Are you a Reader, perchance? Could you smell the chaos, then? Decks, my wise friend! Decks! And oh, haven’t they awakened! Yes, all anew. All is in flux—’

  ‘The Deck of Dragons is always in flux—’

  ‘Ah, but a new House! Oh, I see your surprise at that, friend! A new House. Vast power, ’tis said. Tremors to the very roots of the world!’

  The man facing him scowled. ‘Another new House, is it? Some local impostor cult, no doubt—’

  But the old man was shaking his head, eyes darting past his lone customer, suspiciously scanning the market crowd—paltry as it was. He then leaned forward. ‘I do not deal in those, friend. Oh, I am as loyal to Dryjhna as the next, make no claims otherwise! But the Deck permits no bias, does it? Oh no, balanced wise eyes and mind is necessary. Indeed. Now, why does the new House ring with truth? Let me tell you, friend. First, a new Unaligned card, a card denoting that a Master now commands the Deck. An arbiter, yes? And then, spreading out like a runaway stubble fire, the new House. Sanctioned? Undecided. But not rejected out of hand, oh no, not rejected. And the Readers—the patterns! The House will be sanctioned—not one Reader doubts that!’