House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  Pearl had announced that it was safe now to travel during the day. The goddess had drawn inward, concentrating her power for, perhaps, one final, explosive release. For the clash with the Adjunct. A singularity of purpose locked in rage, a flaw that could be exploited.

  She allowed herself a private smile at that. Flaws. No shortage of those hereabouts, is there? Their moment of wild passion had passed, as far as she was concerned. The loosening of long pent-up energies—now that it was done, they could concentrate on other things. More important things. It seemed, however, that Pearl saw it differently. He’d even tried to take her hand this morning, a gesture that she decisively rebuffed despite its pathos. The deadly assassin was on the verge of transforming into a squirming pup—disgust threatened to overwhelm her, so she shifted her thoughts onto another track.

  They were running short on time, not to mention food and water. Raraku was a hostile land, resentful of whatever life dared exploit it. Not holy at all, but cursed. Devourer of dreams, destroyer of ambitions. And why not? It’s a damned desert.

  Clambering over the cobbles and stones, they reached the first ridge.

  ‘We’re close,’ Pearl said, squinting ahead. ‘Beyond that higher terrace, we should come within sight of the oasis.’

  ‘And then what?’ she asked, brushing dust from her tattered clothes.

  ‘Well, it would be remiss of me not to take advantage of our position—I should be able to infiltrate the camp and stir up some trouble. Besides,’ he added, ‘one of the trails I am on leads into the heart of that rebel army.’

  The Talons. The master of that revived cult. ‘Are you so certain of that?’

  He nodded, then half shrugged. ‘Reasonably. I have come to believe that the rebellion was compromised long ago, perhaps from the very start. That the aim of winning independence for Seven Cities was not quite as central to some as it should have been, and indeed, that those hidden motives are about to be unveiled.’

  ‘And it is inconceivable to you that such unveilings should occur without your hand in their midst.’

  He glanced at her. ‘My dear, you forget, I am an agent of the Malazan Empire. I have certain responsibilities . . .’

  Her eyes lit on an object lying among the cobbles—a momentary recognition, then her gaze quickly shifted away. She studied the murky sky. ‘Has it not occurred to you that your arrival might well jeopardize missions already under way in the rebel camp? The Empress does not know you’re here. In fact, even the Adjunct likely believes we are far away from this place.’

  ‘I am not uncomfortable with a supporting role—’

  Lostara snorted.

  ‘Well,’ he amended, ‘such a role is not entirely reprehensible. I can live with it.’

  Liar. She settled down on one knee to adjust the greaves lashed to her leather-clad shins. ‘We should be able to make that terrace before the sun sets.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  She straightened.

  They made their way down the rock-studded slope. The ground was littered with the tiny, shrivelled bodies of countless desert creatures that had been swept up into the Whirlwind, dying within that interminable storm yet remaining suspended within it until, with the wind’s sudden death, falling to earth once more. They had rained down for a full day, husks clattering and crunching on all sides, pattering on her helm and skidding from her shoulders. Rhizan, capemoths and other minuscule creatures, for the most part, although occasionally something larger had thumped to the ground. Lostara was thankful that the downpour had ended.

  ‘The Whirlwind has not been friendly to Raraku,’ Pearl commented, kicking aside the corpse of an infant bhok’aral.

  ‘Assuming the desert cares one way or another, which it doesn’t, I doubt it will make much difference in the long run. A land’s lifetime is far vaster than anything with which we are familiar, vaster, by far, than the spans of these hapless creatures. Besides, Raraku is already mostly dead.’

  ‘Appearances deceive. There are deep spirits in this Holy Desert, lass. Buried in the rock—’

  ‘And the life upon that rock, like the sands,’ Lostara asserted, ‘means nothing to those spirits. You are a fool to think otherwise, Pearl.’

  ‘I am a fool to think many things,’ he muttered.

  ‘Do not expect me to object to that observation.’

  ‘It never crossed my mind that you might, Lostara Yil. In any case, I would none the less advise that you cultivate a healthy respect for the mysteries of Raraku. It is far too easy to be blindsided in this seemingly empty and lifeless desert.’

  ‘As we’ve already discovered.’

  He frowned, then sighed. ‘I regret that you view . . . things that way, and can only conclude that you derive a peculiar satisfaction from discord, and when it does not exist—or, rather, has no reason to exist—you seek to invent it.’

  ‘You think too much, Pearl. It’s your most irritating flaw, and, let us be honest, given the severity and sheer volume of your flaws, that is saying something. Since this seems to be a time for advice, I suggest you stop thinking entirely.’

  ‘And how might I achieve that? Follow your lead, perhaps?’

  ‘I think neither too much nor too little. I am perfectly balanced—this is what you find so attractive. As a capemoth is drawn to fire.’

  ‘So I am in danger of being burned up?’

  ‘To a blackened, shrivelled crust.’

  ‘So, you’re pushing me away for my own good. A gesture of compassion, then.’

  ‘Fires neither push nor pull. They simply exist, compassionless, indifferent to the suicidal urges of flitting bugs. That is another one of your flaws, Pearl. Attributing emotion where none exists.’

  ‘I could have sworn there was emotion, two nights past—’

  ‘Oh, fire burns eagerly when there’s fuel—’

  ‘And in the morning there’s naught but cold ashes.’

  ‘Now you are beginning to understand. Of course, you will see that as encouragement, and so endeavour to take your understanding further. But that would be a waste of time, so I suggest you abandon the effort. Be content with the glimmer, Pearl.’

  ‘I see . . . murkily. Very well, I will accept your list of advisements.’

  ‘You will? Gullibility is a most unattractive flaw, Pearl.’

  She thought he would scream, was impressed by his sudden clamping of control, releasing his breath like steam beneath a cauldron’s lid, until the pressure died away.

  They approached the ascent to the last ridge, Lostara at her most contented thus far this day, Pearl likely to be feeling otherwise.

  As they reached the crest the Claw spoke again. ‘What was that you picked up on the last ridge, lass?’

  Saw that, did you? ‘A shiny rock. Caught my eye. I’ve since discarded it.’

  ‘Oh? So it no longer hides in that pouch on your belt?’

  Snarling, she plucked the leather bag from her belt and flung it to the ground, then drew out her chain-backed gauntlets. ‘See for yourself, then.’

  He gave her a startled glance, then bent down to collect the pouch.

  As he straightened, Lostara stepped forward.

  Her gauntlets cracked hard against Pearl’s temple.

  Groaning, he collapsed unconscious.

  ‘Idiot,’ she muttered, retrieving the pouch.

  She donned the gauntlets, then, with a grunt, lifted the man and settled him over one shoulder.

  Less than two thousand paces ahead lay the oasis, the air above it thick with dust and the smoke of countless fires. Herds of goats were visible along the fringes, in the shade of trees. The remnants of a surrounding wall curved roughly away in both directions.

  Carrying Pearl, Lostara made her way down the slope.

  She was nearing the base when she heard horses off to her right. Crouching down and thumping Pearl to the ground beside her, she watched as a dozen desert warriors rode into view, coming from the northwest. Their animals looked half starved, heads hanging
low, and she saw, among them, two prisoners.

  Despite the dust covering them, and the gloom of approaching dusk, Lostara recognized the remnants of uniforms on the two prisoners. Malazans. Ashok Regiment. Thought they’d been wiped out.

  The warriors rode without outriders, and did not pause in their steady canter until they reached the oasis, whereupon they vanished beneath the leather-leaved branches of the trees.

  Lostara looked around and decided that her present surroundings were ideal for staying put for the night. A shallow basin in the lee of the slope. By lying flat they would not be visible from anywhere but the ridge itself, and even that was unlikely with night fast falling. She checked on Pearl, frowning at the purple-ringed bump on his temple. But his breathing was steady, the beat of his heart unhurried and even. She laid out his cloak and rolled him onto it, then bound and gagged him.

  As gloom gathered in the basin, Lostara settled down to wait.

  Some time later a figure emerged from the shadows and stood motionless for a moment before striding silently to halt directly over Pearl.

  Lostara heard a muted grunt. ‘You came close to cracking open his skull.’

  ‘It’s harder than you think,’ she replied.

  ‘Was it entirely necessary?’

  ‘I judged it so. If you’ve no faith in that, then why recruit me in the first place?’

  Cotillion sighed. ‘He’s not a bad man, you know. Loyal to the empire. You have sorely abused his equanimity.’

  ‘He was about to interfere. Unpredictably. I assumed you wished the path clear.’

  ‘Initially, yes. But I foresee a certain usefulness to his presence, once matters fully . . . unfold. Be sure to awaken him some time tomorrow night, if he has not already done so on his own.’

  ‘Very well, since you insist. Although I am already deeply fond of my newfound peace and solitude.’

  Cotillion seemed to study her a moment, then the god said, ‘I will leave you then, since I have other tasks to attend to this night.’

  Lostara reached into the pouch and tossed a small object towards him.

  He caught it in one hand and peered down to study it.

  ‘I assumed that was yours,’ she said.

  ‘No, but I know to whom it belongs. And am pleased. May I keep it?’

  She shrugged. ‘It matters not to me.’

  ‘Nor should it, Lostara Yil.’

  She heard a dry amusement in those words, and concluded that she had made a mistake in letting him keep the object; that, indeed, it did matter to her, though for the present she knew not how. She shrugged again. Too late now, I suppose. ‘You said you were leaving?’

  She sensed him bridling, then in a swirl of shadows he vanished.

  Lostara lay back on the stony ground and contentedly closed her eyes.

  The night breeze was surprisingly warm. Apsalar stood before the small window overlooking the gully. Neither Mogora nor Iskaral Pust frequented these heights much, except when necessity forced them to undertake an excursion in search of food, and so her only company was a half-dozen elderly bhok’arala, grey-whiskered and grunting and snorting as they stiffly moved about on the chamber’s littered floor. The scattering of bones suggested that this top level of the tower was where the small creatures came to die.

  As the bhok’arala shuffled back and forth behind her, she stared out onto the wastes. The sand and outcrops of limestone were silver in the starlight. On the rough tower walls surrounding the window rhizan were landing with faint slaps, done with their feeding, and now, claws whispering, they began crawling into cracks to hide from the coming day.

  Crokus slept somewhere below, whilst resident husband and wife stalked each other down the unlit corridors and in the musty chambers of the monastery. She had never felt so alone, nor, she realized, so comfortable with that solitude. Changes had come to her. Hardened layers sheathing her soul had softened, found new shape in response to unseen pressures from within.

  Strangest of all, she had come, over time, to despise her competence, her deadly skills. They had been imposed upon her, forced into her bones and muscles. They had imprisoned her in blinding, gelid armour. And so, despite the god’s absence, she still felt as if she was two women, not one.

  Leading her to wonder with which woman Crokus had fallen in love.

  But no, there was no mystery there. He had assumed the guise of a killer, hadn’t he? The young wide-eyed thief from Darujhistan had fashioned of himself a dire reflection—not of Apsalar the fisher-girl, but of Apsalar the assassin, the cold murderer. In the belief that likeness would forge the deepest bond of all. Perhaps that would have succeeded, had she liked her profession, had she not found it sordid and reprehensible. Had it not felt like chains wrapped tight about her soul.

  She was not comforted by company within her prison. His love was for the wrong woman, the wrong Apsalar. And hers was for Crokus, not Cutter. And so they were together, yet apart, intimate yet strangers, and it seemed there was nothing they could do about it.

  The assassin within her preferred solitude, and the fisher-girl had, from an entirely different path, come into a similar comfort. The former could not afford to love. The latter knew she had never been loved. Like Crokus, she stood in a killer’s shadow.

  There was no point in railing against that. The fisher-girl had no life-skills of a breadth and stature to challenge the assassin’s implacable will. Probably, Crokus had similarly succumbed to Cutter.

  She sensed a presence close by her side, and murmured, ‘Would that you had taken all with you when you departed.’

  ‘You’d rather I left you bereft?’

  ‘Bereft, Cotillion? No. Innocent.’

  ‘Innocence is only a virtue, lass, when it is temporary. You must pass from it to look back and recognize its unsullied purity. To remain innocent is to twist beneath invisible and unfathomable forces all your life, until one day you realize that you no longer recognize yourself, and it comes to you that innocence was a curse that had shackled you, stunted you, defeated your every expression of living.’

  She smiled in the darkness. ‘But, Cotillion, it is knowledge that makes one aware of his or her own chains.’

  ‘Knowledge only makes the eyes see what was there all along, Apsalar. You are in possession of formidable skills. They gift you with power, a truth there is little point in denying. You cannot unmake yourself.’

  ‘But I can cease walking this singular path.’

  ‘You can,’ he acknowledged after a moment. ‘You can choose others, but even the privilege of choice was won by virtue of what you were—’

  ‘What you were.’

  ‘Nor can that be changed. I walked in your bones, your flesh, Apsalar. The fisher-girl who became a woman—we stood in each other’s shadow.’

  ‘And did you enjoy that, Cotillion?’

  ‘Not particularly. It was difficult to remain mindful of my purpose. We were in worthy company for most of that time—Whiskeyjack, Mallet, Fiddler, Kalam . . . a squad that, given the choice, would have welcomed you. But I prevented them from doing so. Necessary, but not fair to you or them.’ He sighed, then continued, ‘I could speak endlessly of regrets, lass, but I see dawn stealing the darkness, and I must have your decision.’

  ‘My decision? Regarding what?’

  ‘Cutter.’

  She studied the desert, found herself blinking back tears. ‘I would take him from you, Cotillion. I would prevent you doing to him what you did to me.’

  ‘He is that important to you?’

  ‘He is. Not to the assassin within me, but to the fisher-girl . . . whom he does not love.’

  ‘Doesn’t he?’

  ‘He loves the assassin, and so chooses to be like her.’

  ‘I understand now the struggle within you.’

  ‘Indeed? Then you must understand why I will not let you have him.’

  ‘But you are wrong, Apsalar. Cutter does not love the assassin within you. It attracts him, no doubt, because power
does that . . . to us all. And you possess power, and that implicitly includes the option of not using it. All very enticing, alluring. He is drawn to emulate what he sees as your hard-won freedom. But his love? Resurrect our shared memories, lass. Of Darujhistan, of our first brush with the thief, Crokus. He saw that we had committed murder, and knew that discovery made his life forfeit in our eyes. Did he love you then? No, that came later, in the hills east of the city—when I no longer possessed you.’

  ‘Love changes with time—’

  ‘Aye, it does, but not like a capemoth flitting from corpse to corpse on a battlefield.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Very well, a poor choice of analogy. Love changes, aye, in the manner of growing to encompass as much of its subject as possible. Virtues, flaws, limitations, everything—love will fondle them all, with child-like fascination.’

  She had drawn her arms tight about herself with his words. ‘There are two women within me—’

  ‘Two? There are multitudes, lass, and Cutter loves them all.’

  ‘I don’t want him to die!’

  ‘Is that your decision?’

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The sky was lightening, transforming into a vast, empty space above a dead, battered landscape. She saw birds climb the winds into its expanse.

  Cotillion persisted, ‘Do you know, then, what you must do?’

  Once again, Apsalar nodded.

  ‘I am . . . pleased.’

  Her head snapped round, and she stared into his face, seeing it fully, she realized, for the first time. The lines bracketing the calm, soft eyes, the even features, the strange hatch pattern of scars beneath his right eye. ‘Pleased,’ she whispered, studying him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ he answered with a faint smile, ‘I like the lad, too.’

  ‘How brave do you think I am?’

  ‘As brave as is necessary.’