House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Those sacrifices, do you think they were done to welcome us, Fist? I can’t imagine such slaughter to be ongoing—the herds would be wiped out in no time.’

  ‘Some have been here a while,’ Gamet observed. ‘But you must be right, Captain.’

  ‘So we would cross a river of blood. If these damned tribes consider that gesture an honourable one, then the Queen has stolen their sanity. This notion of seeing the world metaphorically has ever driven me to distraction. The Seven Cities native sees everything differently. To them, the landscape is animate—not just the old notion of spirits, but in some other, far more complicated way.’

  Gamet glanced at the man. ‘Is it worth making a study of it, Captain?’

  Keneb started, then half smiled, adding a strangely despondent shrug. ‘That particular dialogue spoke of the rebellion and only the rebellion—for months and months before it finally happened. Had we bothered to read those signs, Fist, we could have been better prepared.’

  They had drawn up behind the Adjunct and the two Wickans. At Keneb’s words, Tavore turned her horse round and faced the captain. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘knowledge is not enough.’

  ‘Your pardon, Adjunct,’ Keneb said.

  Tavore fixed her flat gaze on Gamet. ‘Bring forward the marines, Fist. We will require sappers and munitions. We shall cross a ford, not a bridge of detritus held in place by blood.’

  ‘Aye, Adjunct. Captain, if you will join me . . .’

  They pulled their horses round and made their way back up the slope. Glancing over at Keneb, Gamet saw that the man was grinning. ‘What amuses you, Captain?’

  ‘Munitions, sir. The sappers will weep.’

  ‘So long as they don’t destroy the ford itself, I will be glad to give them comforting hugs.’

  ‘I wouldn’t let them hear a promise like that, sir.’

  ‘No, I suppose you’re right.’

  They reached the front ranks of the 10th Legion and Gamet waved a messenger over. As the rider approached, Fist Tene Baralta joined the woman and the two arrived together.

  ‘Sappers?’ the Red Blade asked.

  Gamet nodded. ‘Aye.’

  Tene Baralta nodded and said to the messenger, ‘Take word to the marine lieutenants. The Adjunct requires some demolition. Immediately.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ she replied, wheeling her horse round.

  They watched her canter back along the line, then the Red Blade faced Gamet. ‘They will see it as an insult. This bridge of blood is intended as a blessing.’

  ‘She knows that, Tene Baralta,’ Gamet replied. ‘But the footing is far too treacherous. That should be obvious, even to our hidden observers.’

  The large man shrugged, armour clanking with the motion. ‘Perhaps a quiet word to Gall of the Khundryl, a rider sent out to find those observers, to ensure that no misunderstanding occurs.’

  ‘A good suggestion,’ Gamet replied.

  ‘I shall see to it, then.’

  The Red Blade rode off.

  ‘Forgive me if I am too forward, Fist,’ Keneb murmured, ‘but what just occurred strikes me as the very thing that the Adjunct would dislike most.’

  ‘Do you believe she dislikes initiative among her officers, Captain?’

  ‘I wouldn’t presume—’

  ‘You just did.’

  ‘Ah, well, I see your point. My apologies, Fist.’

  ‘Never apologize when you’re right, Keneb. Wait here for the squads.’ He set off down to where the Adjunct still sat astride her horse at the shoreline.

  Nil and Nether had dismounted and were now kneeling, heads bowed, in the muddy water.

  Gamet could see, upon arriving, Tavore’s tightly bridled anger. Aye, they cling still to the chains, and it seems letting go is the last thing they would do . . . given the choice. Well, I was the one who mentioned initiative. ‘I see the children are playing in the mud, Adjunct.’

  Her head snapped round and her eyes narrowed.

  Gamet went on, ‘I advise we assign a minder for them, lest they injure themselves in their exuberance. After all, Adjunct, I doubt the Empress intended you to mother them, did she?’

  ‘Well, no,’ she drawled after a moment. ‘They were to be my mages.’

  ‘Aye, so I wonder, have you instructed them to commune with the ghosts? Do they seek to appease the river spirits?’

  ‘No, again, Fist. In truth, I have no idea what they’re doing.’

  ‘I am of the opinion that you are proving far too permissive a mother, Adjunct.’

  ‘Indeed. Then I give you leave to act in my stead, Fist.’

  There was no way Nil and Nether were uncognizant of the conversation behind them, but neither altered their position. With a loud sigh, Gamet dismounted and walked to the muddy waterline.

  Then reached down and closed a hand on their hide shirts, just behind their necks, and yanked the two Wickans upright.

  Loud squeals, then hissing fury as the Fist shook them both for a moment, then turned them round until they faced the Adjunct. ‘This is what a Wickan grandmother would have done. I know, somewhat harsher than is the Malazan style of parenting. Then again, these two children are not Malazan, are they?’ He set them down.

  ‘Perhaps it’s too late, Fist,’ Tavore said, ‘but I would remind you that these two children are also warlocks.’

  ‘I’ve seen no sign of it yet, Adjunct. But if they want to curse me, then so be it.’

  For the moment, however, neither seemed inclined to do so. Rage had given way to something very much resembling a sulk.

  Tavore cleared her throat. ‘Nil, Nether, I believe there will be need for representatives of our army to seek out the local tribes in this forest, to assure them we are aware of the meaning behind their gesture. None the less, we must ensure safe passage across this ford.’

  ‘Adjunct, Fist Tene Baralta has suggested something similar, but using the Khundryl.’

  ‘Perhaps representatives from both, then.’ To the Wickans: ‘Report to Fist Tene Baralta.’

  Gamet watched the siblings exchange a glance, then Nil said to the Adjunct, ‘As you wish.’

  Nether cast a parting look of venom at Gamet as they headed off.

  ‘Pray you won’t have to pay for that,’ Tavore said when they were out of earshot.

  Gamet shrugged.

  ‘And next time, have Tene Baralta bring his suggestions to me personally.’

  ‘Aye, Adjunct.’

  Cuttle and Strings scrambled back from the shoreline. Soaked and sheathed in blood-crusted mud, they none the less could not keep grins from their faces. A doubling of pleasure in that the munitions had come from the Fourteenth’s stores, not their own. Twelve crackers that would drive the explosions horizontally, three cussers placed shallow in the detritus to loosen the wreckage.

  And a bare handful of heartbeats before it all went up.

  The rest of the army had pulled back to the top of the slope on this side; the Seti scouts on the opposite side were nowhere to be seen. Leaving only the two sappers—

  —running like madmen.

  A thundering whump sent both men flying. Sand, mud, water, followed by a rain of debris.

  Hands over their heads, they lay motionless for a long moment, with the only sound to reach them the rush of water sweeping over the cleared ford. Then Strings looked across at Cuttle, to find him looking back.

  Maybe two cussers would have done.

  They exchanged nods, then clambered to their feet.

  The ford was indeed clear. The water beyond seethed with flotsam, now making its way down to the Dojal Hading Sea.

  Strings wiped mud from his face. ‘Think we made any holes, Cuttle?’

  ‘Nothing that’ll drown anyone, I’d wager. Good thing you didn’t run,’ Cuttle added in a murmur, as riders made their way down the slope behind them.

  Strings shot the man a glance. ‘What don’t you hear?’

  ‘Not a question I can answer, is it, Fid?’

  The
first rider arrived—their fellow sapper, Maybe, from the 6th squad. ‘Flat and clean,’ he said, ‘but you left it too close—what’s the point of making a big explosion when you’ve got your face in the dirt when it goes off?’

  ‘Any other bright comments to make, Maybe?’ Cuttle growled, brushing himself down—a gesture that clearly had no chance of any kind of measurable success. ‘If not, then kindly ride out there and check for holes.’

  ‘Slowly,’ Strings added. ‘Let your horse find its own pace.’

  Maybe’s brows rose. ‘Really?’ Then he nudged his mount forward.

  Strings stared after the soldier. ‘I hate satirical bastards like him.’

  ‘The Wickans will skin him alive if he breaks that horse’s legs.’

  ‘That has the sound of a feud in the making.’

  Cuttle paused in his fruitless efforts to clean himself, then frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  Ranal and Keneb rode up. ‘Nicely done,’ the captain said. ‘I think.’

  ‘Should be all right,’ Strings replied. ‘So long as nobody starts firing arrows at us.’

  ‘Taken care of, Sergeant. Well, to your squad, the privilege of first crossing.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  There should have been pleasure, in a task well done, but Strings felt nothing beyond the initial rush that had immediately followed the detonation. The broken song whispered on in his mind, a dirge lying beneath his every thought.

  ‘The way ahead seems clear,’ Cuttle muttered.

  Aye. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  The land rose steeply on the north side of the Vathar River, with a treeless butte towering over the trail to the west. The army’s crossing continued as the Adjunct and Gamet climbed the goat trail towards the butte’s summit. The sun was low in the sky—their second full day at the ford—and the river was made molten by the lurid streams of light off to their left, although this side of the rock prominence was in deep shadow.

  The mud covering Gamet’s leather-clad legs was drying to a stiff, crack-latticed skin that shed dust as he clambered in Tavore’s wake. He was breathing hard, his undergarments soaked with sweat.

  They reached the summit, emerging once more into sunlight. A brisk, hot wind swept the barren, flat rock. A ring of stones on a lower shelf, on what passed for the lee side, marked where a hearth or watch-fire had once been constructed, possibly at the time of the Chain of Dogs.

  The Adjunct wiped dust from her gloves, then strode to the north edge. After a moment, Gamet followed.

  The city of Ubaryd was visible, dun-coloured and sheathed in smoke, to the northeast. Beyond it glittered the Dojal Hading Sea. The city’s harbour was crowded with ships.

  ‘Admiral Nok,’ the Adjunct said.

  ‘He’s retaken Ubaryd, then.’

  ‘Where we will resupply, yes.’ Then she pointed northward. ‘There, Gamet. Do you see it?’

  He squinted, wondering what he was supposed to look at across the vast wasteland that was the Ubaryd Odhan. Then the breath hissed between his teeth.

  A fiery wall of red on the horizon, as if a second sun was setting.

  ‘The Whirlwind,’ Tavore said.

  Suddenly, the wind was much colder, pushing hard against Gamet where he stood.

  ‘Beyond it,’ the Adjunct continued, ‘waits our enemy. Tell me, do you think Sha’ik will contest our approach?’

  ‘She would be a fool not to,’ he replied.

  ‘Are you certain of that? Would she rather not face unblooded recruits?’

  ‘It is a huge gamble, Adjunct. The march alone will have hardened the Fourteenth. Were I her, I would prefer to face a battle-weary, bruised enemy. An enemy burdened with wounded, with a shortage of arrows, horses and whatnot. And by that time of final meeting, I would also have learned something of you, Adjunct. Your tactics. As it is, Sha’ik has no way to take your measure.’

  ‘Yes. Curious, isn’t it? Either she is indifferent to me, or she feels she has already taken my measure—which of course is impossible. Even assuming she has spies in our army, thus far I have done little more than ensure that we march in an organized fashion.’

  Spies? Gods below, I hadn’t even considered that!

  Neither spoke for a time, each lost in their own thoughts as they stared northward.

  The sun was vanishing on their left.

  But the Whirlwind held its own fire.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Power has voice, and that voice is the Song of the Tanno Spiritwalker.

  Kimloc

  HE AWOKE TO A FAINT, DAMP NUZZLING AGAINST HIS SIDE. EYES slowly opened, head tilted downward, to see a bhok’aral pup, patchy with some sort of skin infection, curled against his stomach.

  Kalam sat up, suppressing the urge to grab the creature by the neck and fling it against a wall. Compassion was not the consideration, of course. Rather, it was the fact that this subterranean temple was home to hundreds, perhaps even thousands of bhok’arala, and the creatures possessed a complex social structure—harm this pup and Kalam might find himself beneath a swarm of bull males. And small as the beasts were, they had canines to rival a bear’s. Even so, he fought to contain his revulsion as he gently pushed the mottled pup away.

  It mewled pathetically and looked up at him with huge, liquid eyes.

  ‘Don’t even try,’ the assassin muttered, slipping free of the furs and rising. Flecks of mouldy skin covered his midriff, and the thin woollen shirt was sodden from the pup’s runny nose. Kalam removed the shirt and flung it into a corner of the small chamber.

  He’d not seen Iskaral Pust in over a week. Apart from occasional tingling sensations at the tips of his fingers and toes, he was more or less recovered from the enkar’al demon’s attack. Kalam had delivered the diamonds and was now chafing to leave.

  Faint singing echoed from the hallway. The assassin shook his head. Maybe one day Mogora will get it right, but in the meantime . . . gods below, it grates! He strode to his tattered backpack and rummaged inside until he found a spare shirt.

  Sudden thumping sounded outside his door, and he turned in time to see it flung open. Mogora stood framed in the doorway, a wooden bucket in one hand, a mop in the other. ‘Was he here? Just now? Was he here? Tell me!’

  ‘I haven’t seen him in days,’ Kalam replied.

  ‘He has to clean the kitchen!’

  ‘Is this all you do, Mogora? Chase after Iskaral Fust’s shadow?’

  ‘All!’ The word was a shriek. She stormed up to him, mop thrust forward like a weapon. ‘Am I the only one using the kitchen! No!’

  Kalam stepped back, wiping spittle from his face, but the Dal Honese woman advanced.

  ‘And you! Do you think your suppers arrive all by themselves? Do you think the shadow gods simply conjure them out of thin air? Did I invite you here? Are you my guest? Am I your serving wench?’

  ‘Gods forbid—’

  ‘Be quiet! I’m talking, not you!’ She thrust the mop and bucket into Kalam’s hands, then, spying the bhok’aral pup curled up on the cot, dropped into a predatory crouch and edged closer, fingers hooked. ‘There you are,’ she murmured. ‘Leave your skin everywhere, will you? Not for much longer!’

  Kalam stepped into her path. ‘Enough, Mogora. Get out of here.’

  ‘Not without my pet.’

  ‘Pet? You’re intending to wring its neck, Mogora!’

  ‘So?’

  He set the mop and bucket down. I can’t believe this. I’m defending a mangy bhok’aral . . . from a D’ivers witch.

  There was movement in the doorway. Kalam gestured. ‘Look behind you, Mogora. Harm this pup and you’ll have to face them.’

  She spun, then hissed. ‘Scum! Iskaral’s beget—always spying! That’s how he hides—using them!’

  With a ululating scream she charged into the doorway. The bhok’arala massed there shrieked in answer and scattered, although Kalam saw one dart between her legs and leap onto the cot. It scooped the pup up und
er one arm then bolted for the corridor.

  Mogora’s wailing cries dwindled as she continued her pursuit.

  ‘Hee hee.’

  Kalam turned.

  Iskaral Pust emerged from the shadows in the far corner. He was covered in dust, a sack draped over one bony shoulder.

  The assassin scowled. ‘I’ve waited long enough in this madhouse, Priest.’

  ‘Indeed you have.’ He cocked his head, tugging at one of the few wisps of hair that remained on his pate. ‘I’m done and he can go, yes? I should be kindly, open, scattering gold dust to mark his path out into the waiting world. He’ll suspect nothing. He’ll believe he leaves of his own free will. Precisely as it should be.’ Iskaral Pust suddenly smiled, then held out the sack. ‘Here, a few diamonds for you. Spend them here and there, spend them everywhere! But remember, you must breach the Whirlwind—into the heart of Raraku, yes?’

  ‘That is my intent,’ Kalam growled, accepting the sack and stuffing it into his own backpack. ‘We do not proceed at cross-purposes, Priest, although I realize you’d rather we did, given your perverse mind. Even so . . . breach the Whirlwind . . . without being detected. How will I manage that?’

  ‘With the help of Shadowthrone’s chosen mortal. Iskaral Pust, High Priest and Master of Rashan and Meanas and Thyr! The Whirlwind is a goddess, and her eyes cannot be everywhere. Now, quickly collect your belongings. We must leave! She’s coming back, and I’ve made another mess in the kitchen! Hurry!’

  They emerged from the warren of shadow beneath a large outcropping, in daylight, less than a hundred paces from the raging wall of the Whirlwind. After three strides forward Kalam reached out and grabbed the priest by the arm and spun him round.

  ‘That singing? Where in Hood’s name is that singing coming from, Iskaral? I’d heard it in the monastery and thought it was Mogora—’

  ‘Mogora can’t sing, you fool! I hear nothing, nothing but the wild winds and the hiss of sands! You are mad! Is he mad? Yes, possibly. No, likely. The sun broiled his brain in that thick skull. A gradual dissolution—but of course not, of course not. It’s the Tanno song, that’s what it is. Even so, he’s probably still mad. Two entirely separate issues. The song. And his madness. Distinct, unrelated, both equally confounding of all that my masters plan. Or potentially so. Potentially. There is no certainty, not in this damned land, especially not here. Restless Raraku. Restless!’