House of Chains

  ‘In any case, back to the matter at hand. Tavore is of noble blood, and it’s now clear that a truly covert element of Talons has returned to plague us, and has been making use of the nobility. Placing sympathetic agents in the military and administration—a mutually profitable infiltration. But Tavore is now the Adjunct, and as such, her old ties, her old loyalties, must needs be severed.’ Pearl paused to tap a finger on the laid-out scroll before him. ‘She has given us the Talons, Captain. We will find this Baudin Younger, and from him we will unravel the entire organization.’

  Lostara said nothing for a long moment. ‘In a sense, then,’ she said, ‘our mission is not extraneous to the interests of the empire after all.’ Pearl flashed a smile.

  ‘But if so,’ Lostara continued, ‘why didn’t the Adjunct just say so?’

  ‘Oh, I think we can leave that question unanswered for the time being—’

  ‘No, I would have it answered now!’

  Pearl sighed. ‘Because, my dear, for Tavore, the surrendering of the Talons is secondary to our finding Felisin. And that is extraneous, and not only extraneous, but also damning. Do you think the Empress would smile upon this clever little scheme, the lie behind this all-too-public demonstration of the new Adjunct’s loyalty? Sending her sister to the otataral mines! Hood take us all, that’s a hard woman! The Empress has chosen well, has she not?’

  Lostara grimaced. Chosen well . . . based on what, though? ‘Indeed she has.’

  ‘Aye, I agree. It’s a fair exchange in any case—we save Felisin and are rewarded with a principal agent of the Talons. The Empress will no doubt wonder what we were doing out on the Otataral Isle in the first place—’

  ‘You will have to lie to her, won’t you?’

  Pearl’s smile broadened. ‘We both will, lass. As would the Adjunct, and Fist Gamet if it came to that. Unless, of course, I take what the Adjunct has offered me. Offered me personally, that is.’

  Lostara slowly nodded. ‘You are at a loose end. Yes. Out of favour with the Clawmaster and the Empress. Eager to make reparations. An independent mission—you somehow latched onto the rumour of a true Talon, and set off on his trail. Thus, the credit for unravelling the Talons is to be yours, and yours alone.’

  ‘Or ours,’ Pearl corrected. ‘If you so desire.’

  She shrugged. ‘We can decide that later. Very well, Pearl. Now,’ she moved to his side, ‘what are these details with which the Adjunct has so kindly provided us?’

  Admiral Nok had been facing the hearth, his gaze on its cold ashes. At the sound of the door opening, he slowly turned, his expression as impassive as ever.

  ‘Thank you,’ the Adjunct said, ‘for your patience.’

  The admiral said nothing, his level gaze shifting to Gamet for a moment.

  The midnight bell’s muted echoes were only now fading. The Fist was exhausted, feeling fragile and scattered, unable to meet Nok’s eyes for very long. This night, he’d been little more than the Adjunct’s pet, or worse, a familiar. Tacitly conjoined with her plans within plans, bereft of even so much as the illusion of a choice. When Tavore had first drawn him into her entourage—shortly after Felisin’s arrest—Gamet had briefly considered slipping away, vanishing in the time-honoured tradition of Malazan soldiers who found themselves in unwelcome circumstances. But he hadn’t, and his reasons for joining the Adjunct’s core of advisers—not that they were ever invited to advise—had, upon ruthless self-reflection, proved less than laudable. He had been driven by macabre curiosity. Tavore had ordered the arrests of her parents, had sent her younger sister into the horrors of the otataral mines. For her career’s sake. Her brother, Paran, had in some way been disgraced on Genabackis. He had subsequently deserted. An embarrassment, granted, but surely not sufficient to warrant Tavore’s reaction. Unless . . . There were rumours that the lad had been an agent of Adjunct Lorn’s, and that his desertion had led, ultimately, to the woman’s death in Darujhistan. Yet, if that were true, then why did the Empress turn her royal gaze upon another child of the House of Paran? Why make Tavore the new Adjunct? ‘Fist Gamet.’ He blinked. ‘Adjunct?’

  ‘Seat yourself, please. I would have some final words with you, but they can wait for the time being.’

  Nodding, Gamet glanced around until he spied the lone high-backed chair set against one of the small room’s walls. It looked anything but comfortable, which was probably an advantage, given his weariness.

  Ominous creaks sounded when he settled into the chair and he grimaced. ‘No wonder Pormqual didn’t send this one off with all the rest,’ he muttered.

  ‘It is my understanding,’ Nok said, ‘that the transport ship in question sank in the harbour of Malaz City, taking the late High Fist’s loot with it.’

  Gamet’s wiry brows rose. ‘All that way . . . just to sink in the harbour? What happened?’

  The admiral shrugged. ‘None of the crew reached the shore to tell the tale.’

  None?

  Nok seemed to note his scepticism, for he elaborated, ‘Malaz Harbour is well known for its sharks. A number of dories were found, all awash but otherwise empty.’

  The Adjunct had, uncharacteristically, been permitting the exchange to continue, leading Gamet to wonder if Tavore had sensed a hidden significance to the mysterious loss of the transport ship. Now she spoke. ‘It remains, then, a peculiar curse—unexplained founderings, empty dories, lost crews. Malaz Harbour is indeed notorious for its sharks, particularly since they seem uniquely capable of eating victims whole, leaving no remnants whatsoever.’

  ‘There are sharks that can do just that,’ Nok replied. ‘I know of at least twelve ships on the muddy bottom of the harbour in question—’

  ‘Including the Twisted,’ the Adjunct drawled, ‘the old emperor’s flagship, which mysteriously slipped its moorings the night after the assassinations, then promptly plummeted into the deeps, taking its resident demon with it.’

  ‘Perhaps it likes company,’ Nok observed. ‘The island’s fishermen all swear the harbour’s haunted, after all. The frequency with which nets are lost—’

  ‘Admiral,’ Tavore cut in, her eyes resting on the dead hearth, ‘there is you, and three others. All who are left.’

  Gamet slowly straightened in his chair. Three others. High Mage Tayschrenn, Dujek Onearm, and Whiskeyjack. Four . . . gods, is that all now? Tattersail, Bellurdan, Nightchill, Duiker . . . so many fallen—

  Admiral Nok was simply studying the Adjunct. He had stood against the wrath of the Empress, first with Cartheron Crust’s disappearance, then Urko’s and Ameron’s. Whatever answers he had given, he had done so long ago.

  ‘I do not speak for the Empress,’ Tavore said after a moment. ‘Nor am I interested in . . . details. What interests me is . . . a matter of personal . . . curiosity. I would seek to understand, Admiral, why they abandoned her.’

  There was silence, filling the room, growing towards something like an impasse. Gamet leaned back and closed his eyes. Ah, lass, you ask questions of . . . of loyalty, as would someone who has never experienced it. You reveal to this admiral what can only be construed as a critical flaw. You command the Fourteenth Army, Adjunct, yet you do so in isolation, raising the very barricades you must needs take down if you would truly lead. What does Nok think of this, now? Is it any wonder he does not—

  ‘The answer to your question,’ the admiral said, ‘lies in what was both a strength and a flaw of the Emperor’s . . . family. The family that he gathered to raise an empire. Kellanved began with but one companion—Dancer. The two then hired a handful of locals in Malaz City and set about conquering the criminal element in the city—I should point out, that criminal element happened to rule the entire island. Their target was Mock, Malaz Island’s unofficial ruler. A pirate, and a cold-blooded killer.’

  ‘Who were these first hirelings, Admiral?’

  ‘Myself, Ameron, Dujek, a woman named Hawl—my wife. I had been First Mate to a corsair that worked the sea lanes around the Napan Isles—which
had just been annexed by Unta and were providing a staging point for the Untan king’s planned invasion of Kartool. We’d taken a beating and had limped into Malaz Harbour, only to have the ship and its crew arrested by Mock, who was negotiating a trade of prisoners with Unta. Only Ameron and Hawl and I escaped. A lad named Dujek discovered where we were holed up and he delivered us to his new employers. Kellanved and Dancer.’

  ‘Was this before they were granted entry into the Deadhouse?’ Gamet asked.

  ‘Aye, but only just. Our residency in the Deadhouse rewarded us with—as is now clearly evident—certain gifts. Longevity, immunity to most diseases, and . . . other things. The Deadhouse also provided us with an unassailable base of operations. Dancer later bolstered our numbers by recruiting among the refugee Napans who’d fled the conquest: Cartheron Crust and his brother, Urko. And Surly—Laseen. Three more men were to follow shortly thereafter. Toc Elder, Dassem Ultor—who was, like Kellanved, of Dal Honese blood—and a renegade High Septarch of the D’rek Cult, Tayschrenn. And finally, Duiker.’ He half smiled at Tavore. ‘The family. With which Kellanved conquered Malaz Island. Swiftly done, with minimal losses . . .’

  Minimal . . . ‘Your wife,’ Gamet said.

  ‘Yes, her.’ After a long moment, he shrugged and continued, ‘To answer you, Adjunct. Unknown to the rest of us, the Napans among us were far more than simple refugees. Surly was of the royal line. Crust and Urko had been captains in the Napan fleet, a fleet that would have likely repelled the Untans if it hadn’t been virtually destroyed by a sudden storm. As it turned out, theirs was a singular purpose—to crush the Untan hegemony—and they planned on using Kellanved to achieve that. In a sense, that was the first betrayal within the family, the first fissure. Easily healed, it seemed, since Kellanved already possessed imperial ambitions, and of the two major rivals on the mainland, Unta was by far the fiercest.’

  ‘Admiral,’ Tavore said, ‘I see where this leads. Surly’s assassination of Kellanved and Dancer shattered that family irrevocably, but that is precisely where my understanding falters. Surly had taken the Napan cause to its penultimate conclusion. Yet it was not you, not Tayschrenn, Duiker, Dassem Ultor or Toc Elder who . . . disappeared. It was . . . Napans.’

  ‘Barring Ameron,’ Gamet pointed out.

  The admiral’s lined face stretched as he bared his teeth in a humourless grin. ‘Ameron was half-Napan.’

  ‘So it was only the Napans who deserted the new Empress?’ Gamet stared up at Nok, now as confused as Tavore. ‘Yet Surly was of the royal Napan line?’

  Nok said nothing for a long time, then he sighed. ‘Shame is a fierce, vigorous poison. To now serve the new Empress . . . complicity and damnation. Crust, Urko and Ameron were not party to the betrayal . . . but who would believe them? Who could not help but see them as party to the murderous plot? Yet, in truth,’ his eyes met Tavore’s, ‘Surly had included none of us in her scheme—she could not afford to. She had the Claw, and that was all she needed.’

  ‘And where were the Talons in all this?’ Gamet asked, then cursed himself—ah, gods, too tired—

  Nok’s eyes widened for the first time that night. ‘You’ve a sharp memory, Fist.’

  Gamet clamped his jaws tight, sensing the Adjunct’s hard stare fixing on him.

  The admiral continued, ‘I am afraid I have no answer to that. I was not in Malaz City on that particular night; nor have I made enquiries to those who were. The Talons essentially vanished with Dancer’s death. It was widely believed that the Claw had struck them down in concert with the assassinations of Dancer and the Emperor.’

  The Adjunct’s tone was suddenly curt. ‘Thank you, Admiral, for your words this night. I will keep you no longer.’

  The man bowed, then strode from the room.

  Gamet waited with held breath, ready for her fiercest castigation. Instead, she simply sighed. ‘You have much work ahead of you, Fist, in assembling your legion. Best retire now.’

  ‘Adjunct,’ he acknowledged, pushing himself to his feet. He hesitated, then with a nod strode to the door.

  ‘Gamet.’

  He turned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where is T’amber?’

  ‘She awaits you in your chambers, Adjunct.’

  ‘Very well. Goodnight, Fist.’

  ‘And to you, Adjunct.’

  Buckets of salt water had been sloshed across the cobbled centre aisle of the stables, which had the effect of damping the dust and sending the biting flies into a frenzy, as well as making doubly rank the stench of horse piss. Strings, standing just within the doors, could already feel his sinuses stinging. His searching gaze found four figures seated on bound rolls of straw near the far end. Scowling, the Bridgeburner shifted the weight of the pack on his shoulder, then headed over.

  ‘Who was the bright spark missing the old smells of home?’ he drawled as he approached.

  The half-Seti warrior named Koryk grunted, then said, ‘That would be Lieutenant Ranal, who then had a quick excuse to leave us for a time.’ He’d found a flap of hide from somewhere and was cutting long strands from it with a thin-bladed pig-sticker. Strings had seen his type before, obsessed with tying things down, or worse, tying things to their bodies. Not just fetishes, but loot, extra equipment, tufts of grass or leafy branches depending on the camouflage being sought. In this case, Strings half expected to see twists of straw sprouting from the man.

  For centuries the Seti had fought a protracted war with the city-states of Quon and Li Heng, defending the barely inhabitable lands that had been their traditional home. Hopelessly outnumbered and perpetually on the run, they had learned the art of hiding the hard way. But the Seti lands had been pacified for sixty years now; almost three generations had lived in that ambivalent, ambiguous border that was the edge of civilization. The various tribes had dissolved into a single, murky nation, with mixed-bloods coming to dominate the population. What had befallen them had been the impetus, in fact, for Coltaine’s rebellion and the Wickan Wars—for Coltaine had clearly seen that a similar fate awaited his own people.

  It was not, Strings had come to believe, a question of right and wrong. Some cultures were inward-looking. Others were aggressive. The former were rarely capable of mustering a defence against the latter, not without metamorphosing into some other thing, a thing twisted by the exigencies of desperation and violence. The original Seti had not even ridden horses. Yet now they were known as horse warriors, a taller, darker-skinned and more morose kind of Wickan.

  Strings knew little of Koryk’s personal history, but he felt he could guess. Half-bloods did not lead pleasant lives. That Koryk had chosen to emulate the old Seti ways, whilst joining the Malazan army as a marine rather than a horse warrior, spoke tomes of the clash in the man’s scarred soul.

  Setting down his pack, Strings stood before the four recruits. ‘As much as I hate to confess it, I am now your sergeant. Officially, you’re 4th Squad, one of three squads under Lieutenant Ranal’s command. The 5th and 6th squads are supposedly on their way over from the tent city west of Aren. We’re all in the 9th Company, which consists of three squads of heavy infantry, three of marines, and eighteen squads of medium infantry. Our commander is a man named Captain Keneb—and no, I’ve not met him and know nothing of him. Nine companies in all, making up the 8th Legion—us. The 8th is under the command of Fist Gamet, who I gather is a veteran who’d retired to the Adjunct’s household before she became the Adjunct.’ He paused, grimacing at the slightly glazed faces before him. ‘But never mind all that. You’re in the 4th Squad. We’ve got one more coming, but even with that one we’re undermanned as a squad, but so are all the others and before you ask, I ain’t privy to the reasons for that. Now, any questions yet?’

  Three men and one young woman sat in silence, staring up at him.

  Strings sighed, and pointed to the nondescript soldier sitting to Koryk’s left. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  A bewildered look, then, ‘My real name, Sergeant, or the one the dri
ll sergeant in Malaz City gave me?’

  By the man’s accent and his pale, stolid features, Strings knew him as being from Li Heng. That being the case, his real name was probably a mouthful: nine, ten or even fifteen names all strung together. ‘Your new one, soldier.’

  ‘Tarr.’

  Koryk spoke up. ‘If you’d seen him on the training ground, you’d understand. Once he’s planted his feet behind that shield of his, you could hit him with a battering ram and he won’t budge.’

  Strings studied Tarr’s placid, pallid eyes. ‘All right. You’re now Corporal Tarr—’

  The woman, who’d been chewing on a straw, suddenly choked.

  Coughing, spitting out pieces of the straw, she glared up at Strings with disbelief. ‘What? Him? He never says nothing, never does nothing unless he’s told, never—’

  ‘Glad to hear all that,’ Strings cut in laconically. ‘The perfect corporal, especially that bit about not talking.’

  The woman’s expression tightened, then unveiled a small sneer as she looked away in feigned disinterest.

  ‘And what is your name, soldier?’ Strings asked her.

  ‘My real name—’

  ‘I don’t care what you used to be called. None of you. Most of us get new ones and that’s just the way it is.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Koryk growled.

  Ignoring him, Strings continued, ‘Your name, lass?’

  Sour contempt at the word lass.

  ‘Drill sergeant named her Smiles,’ Koryk said.

  ‘Smiles?’

  ‘Aye. She never does.’

  Eyes narrowing, Strings swung to the last soldier, a rather plain young man wearing leathers but no weapon. ‘And yours?’