House of Chains

  He glanced back to check on his squad. None were lagging, which was a good sign. He doubted any of them were in the shape required for the journey they were now on. The early days would prove the most difficult, before marching in full armour and weapons became second nature—not that it would ever prove a comfortable second nature—this land was murderously hot and dry, and the handful of minor healers in each of the companies would recall this march as a seemingly endless nightmare of fending off heat prostration and dehydration.

  There was no way yet to measure the worth of his squad. Koryk certainly had the look, the nature, of the mailed fist that every squad needed. And the stubborn set to Tarr’s blockish features hinted at a will not easily turned aside. There was something about the lass, Smiles, that reminded Strings all too much of Sorry—the remorseless chill of her eyes belonged to those of a murderer, and he wondered at her past. Bottle had all the diffident bluster of a young mage, probably one versed in a handful of spells from some minor warren. The last soldier in his squad, of course, the sergeant had no worries about. He’d known men like Cuttle all his life. A burlier, more miserable version of Hedge. Having Cuttle there was like . . . coming home.

  The testing would come, and it would probably be brutal, but it would temper those who survived.

  They were emerging from the Aren Way

  , and Gesler gestured to the last tree on their left. ‘That’s where we found him,’ he said in a low tone.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Duiker. We didn’t let on, since the lad—Truth—was so hopeful. Next time we came out, though, the historian’s body was gone. Stolen. You’ve seen the markets in Aren—the withered pieces of flesh the hawkers claim belonged to Coltaine, or Bult, or Duiker. The broken long-knives, the scraps of feathered cape . . .’

  Strings was thoughtful for a moment, then he sighed. ‘I saw Duiker but once, and that at a distance. Just a soldier the Emperor decided was worth schooling.’

  ‘A soldier indeed. He stood on the front line with all the others. A crusty old bastard with his short-sword and shield.’

  ‘Clearly, something about him caught Coltaine’s eye—after all, Duiker was the one Coltaine chose to lead the refugees.’

  ‘I’d guess it wasn’t Duiker’s soldiering that decided Coltaine, Strings. It was that he was the Imperial Historian. He wanted the tale to be told, and told right.’

  ‘Well, it’s turned out that Coltaine told his own tale—he didn’t need a historian, did he?’

  Gesler shrugged. ‘As you say. We weren’t in their company long, just long enough to take on a shipload of wounded. I talked a bit with Duiker, and Captain Lull. And then Coltaine broke his hand punching me in the face—’

  ‘He what?’ Strings laughed. ‘No doubt you deserved it—’

  Stormy spoke behind them. ‘Broke his hand, aye, Gesler. And your nose, too.’

  ‘My nose has been broke so many times it does it on instinct,’ the sergeant replied. ‘It wasn’t much of a punch.’

  Stormy snorted. ‘He dropped you to the ground like a sack of turnips! That punch rivalled Urko’s, the time he—’

  ‘Not even close,’ Gesler drawled. ‘I once saw Urko punch down the side of a mudbrick house. Three blows, no more than four, anyway, and the whole thing toppled in a cloud of dust. That Napan bastard could punch.’

  ‘And that’s important to you?’ Strings asked.

  Gesler’s nod was serious. ‘The only way any commander will ever earn my respect, Fid.’

  ‘Planning on testing the Adjunct soon?’

  ‘Maybe. Of course, I’ll make allowances, she being nobleborn and all.’

  Once beyond Aren Way

  ’s battered gate and the abandoned ruins of a small village, they could now see the Seti and Wickan outriders on their flanks—a comforting sight to Strings. The raiding and sniping could begin at any time, now that the army had left the walls of Aren behind. Most of the tribes had, if the rumours were true, conveniently forgotten the truces they had won from the Malazan Empire. The old ways did naught but sleep restless beneath the surface of such peoples.

  The landscape ahead and to either side was sun-blasted and broken, a place where even wild goats grew lean and listless. The mounded, flat-topped heaps of rubble that marked long-dead cities were visible on every horizon. Ancient raised roads, now mostly dismantled, stitched the rugged hillsides and ridges.

  Strings wiped sweat from his brow. ‘Green as we are, it’s about time she called—’

  Horns sounded along the massive train’s length. Motion ceased, and the shouts of the water crews rose into the dusty air as they scrambled for the barrels. Strings swung about and studied his squad—they were already on the ground, sitting or sprawled, their long-sleeved undershirts darkened with sweat.

  Among Gesler’s and Borduke’s squads, the reaction to the rest-halt had been identical, and Borduke’s mage, Balgrid—slightly overweight and clearly unused to the armour he was wearing—looked pale and shivering. That squad’s healer, a quiet, small man named Lutes, was already moving towards him.

  ‘A Seti summer,’ Koryk said, offering Strings a carnivorous smile. ‘When the grasslands are driven to dust by the herds, when the earth underfoot clicks like breaking metal.’

  ‘Hood take you,’ Smiles snapped. ‘This land’s full of dead things for a reason.’

  ‘Aye,’ the Seti half-blood replied, ‘only the tough survive. There are tribes aplenty out there—they’ve left enough sign in passing.’

  ‘You have seen that, have you?’ Strings said. ‘Good. You’re now the squad’s scout.’

  Koryk’s white grin broadened. ‘If you insist, Sergeant.’

  ‘Unless it’s night,’ Strings added. ‘Then it’ll be Smiles. And Bottle, assuming his warren is suitable.’

  Bottle scowled, then nodded. ‘Well enough, Sergeant.’

  ‘So what’s Cuttle’s role, then?’ Smiles demanded. ‘Lying around like a beached porpoise?’

  Beached porpoise? Grew up by the sea, did you? Strings glanced over at the veteran soldier. The man was asleep. I used to do that, back in the days when nothing was expected of me, when I wasn’t in charge of a damned thing. I miss those days. ‘Cuttle’s task,’ Strings replied, ‘is keeping the rest of you alive when I’m not close by.’

  ‘Then why isn’t he the corporal?’ Smiles wanted to know, a belligerent set to her petite features.

  ‘Because he’s a sapper, and you don’t want a sapper for a corporal, lass.’ Of course, I’m a sapper, too. Best keep that to myself . . .

  Three soldiers from the company’s infantry arrived with waterskins.

  ‘Drink it down slow,’ Strings instructed. Gesler caught his eye from a few paces away, near the wagon, and Strings headed over. Borduke joined them.

  ‘Well, this is curious,’ Gesler muttered. ‘Borduke’s sickly mage—his warren’s Meanas. And my mage is Tavos Pond, and he’s the same. Now, Strings, your lad, Bottle . . .’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘He’s also Meanas,’ Borduke growled, pulling at his beard in a habitual gesture Strings knew would come to irritate him. ‘Balgrid’s confirmed it. They’re all Meanas.’

  ‘Like I said.’ Gesler sighed. ‘Curious.’

  ‘That could be put to use,’ Strings said. ‘Get all three of them working on rituals—illusions are damned useful, when done right. Quick Ben could pull a few—the key is in the details. We should drag them all together tonight—’

  ‘Ah,’ said a voice from beyond the wagon, and Lieutenant Ranal strode into view, ‘all my sergeants together in one place. Convenient.’

  ‘Come to eat dust with the rest of us?’ Gesler asked. ‘Damned generous of you.’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t heard about you,’ Ranal sneered. ‘Had it been my choice, you’d be one of the lads carrying those waterskins, Gesler—’

  ‘You’d go thirsty if I was,’ the sergeant replied.

  Ranal’s face darkened. ‘Captain Keneb wa
nts to know if there’s any mages in your squads. The Adjunct needs a tally of what’s available.’

  ‘None—’

  ‘Three,’ Strings interrupted, ignoring Gesler’s glare. ‘All minor, as would be expected. Tell the captain we’ll be good for covert actions.’

  ‘Keep your opinions to yourself, Strings. Three, you said. Very well.’ He wheeled about and marched off.

  Gesler rounded on Strings. ‘We could lose those mages—’

  ‘We won’t. Go easy on the lieutenant, Gesler, at least for now. The lad knows nothing of being an officer in the field. Imagine, telling sergeants to keep their opinions quiet. With Oponn’s luck, Keneb will explain a few things to the lieutenant, eventually.’

  ‘Assuming Keneb’s any better,’ Borduke muttered. He combed his beard. ‘Rumour has it he was the only one of his company to survive. And you know what that likely means.’

  ‘Let’s wait and see,’ Strings advised. ‘It’s a bit early to start honing the knives—’

  ‘Honing the knives,’ Gesler said, ‘now you’re talking a language I understand. I’m prepared to wait and see, as you suggest, Fid. For now. All right, let’s gather the mages tonight, and if they can actually get along without killing each other, then we might find ourselves a step or two ahead.’

  Horns sounded to announce the resumption of the march. Soldiers groaned and swore as they clambered upright once more.

  The first day of travel was done, and to Gamet it seemed they had travelled a paltry, pathetic distance from Aren. To be expected, of course. The army was a long way from finding its feet.

  As am I. Saddle sore and light-headed from the heat, the Fist watched from a slight rise alongside the line of march as the camp slowly took shape. Pockets of order amidst a chaotic sea of motion. Seti and Wickan horse warriors continued to range well beyond the outlying pickets, far too few in number, however, to give him much comfort. And those Wickans—grandfathers and grandmothers one and all. Hood knows, I might well have crossed blades with some of those old warriors. Those ancient ones, they were never settled with the idea of being in the Empire. They were here for another reason entirely. For the memory of Coltaine. And the children—well, they were being fed the singular poison of bitter old fighters filled with tales of past glory. And so, ones who’ve never known the terror of war and ones who’ve forgotten. A dreadful pairing . . .

  He stretched to ease the kinks in his spine, then forced himself into motion. Down from the ridge, along the edge of the rubble-filled ditch, to where the Adjunct’s command tent sat, its canvas pristine, Temul’s Wickans standing guard around it.

  Temul was not in sight. Gamet pitied the lad. He was already fighting a half-dozen skirmishes, without a blade drawn, and he was losing. And there’s not a damned thing any of us can do about it.

  He approached the tent’s entrance, scratched at the flap and waited.

  ‘Come in, Gamet,’ the Adjunct’s voice called from within.

  She was kneeling in the fore-chamber before a long, stone box, and was just settling the lid into place when he stepped through the entrance. A momentary glimpse—her otataral sword—then the lid was in place. ‘There is some softened wax—there in that pot over the brazier. Bring it over, Gamet.’

  He did so, and watched as she brushed the inset join between lid and base, until the container was entirely sealed. Then she rose and swept the windblown sand from her knees. ‘I am already weary of this pernicious sand,’ she muttered.

  She studied him for a moment, then said, ‘There is watered wine behind you, Gamet. Pour yourself some.’

  ‘Do I look in need, Adjunct?’

  ‘You do. Ah, I well know, you sought out a quiet life when you joined our household. And here I have dragged you into a war.’

  He felt himself bridling and stood straighten ‘I am equal to this, Adjunct.’

  ‘I believe you. None the less, pour yourself some wine. We await news.’

  He swung about in search of the clay jug, found it and strode over. ‘News, Adjunct?’

  She nodded, and he saw the concern on her plain features, a momentary revelation that he turned away from as he poured out a cup of wine. Show me no seams, lass. I need to hold on to my certainty.

  ‘Come stand beside me,’ she instructed, a sudden urgency in her tone.

  He joined her. They faced the clear space in the centre of the chamber.

  Where a portal flowered, spreading outward like liquid staining a sheet of gauze, murky grey, sighing out a breath of stale, dead air. A tall, green-clad figure emerged. Strange, angular features, skin the shade of coal-dust marble; the man’s broad mouth had the look of displaying a perpetual half-smile, but he was not smiling now.

  He paused to brush grey dust from his cloak and leggings, then lifted his head and met Tavore’s gaze. ‘Adjunct, greetings from the Empress. And myself, of course.’

  ‘Topper. I sense your mission here will be an unpleasant one. Fist Gamet, will you kindly pour our guest some wine?’

  ‘Of course.’ Gods below, the damned master of the Claw. He glanced down at his own cup, then offered it to Topper. ‘I have yet to sip. Here.’

  The tall man tilted his head in thanks and accepted the cup.

  Gamet went to where the jug waited.

  ‘You have come directly from the Empress?’ Tavore asked the Clawmaster.

  ‘I have, and before that, from across the ocean . . . from Genabackis, where I spent a most glum evening in the company of High Mage Tayschrenn. Would it shock you to know that he and I got drunk that night?’

  Gamet’s head turned at that. It seemed such an unlikely image in his mind that he was indeed shocked.

  The Adjunct looked equally startled, then she visibly steeled herself. ‘What news have you to tell me?’

  Topper swallowed down a large mouthful of wine, then scowled. ‘Watered. Ah well. Losses, Adjunct. On Genabackis. Terrible losses . . .’

  Lying motionless in a grassy depression thirty paces beyond the squad’s fire, Bottle closed his eyes. He could hear his name being called. Strings—who was called Fid by Gesler—wanted him, but the mage was not ready. Not yet. He had a different conversation to listen to, and managing that—without being detected—was no easy task.

  His grandmother back in Malaz City would have been proud. ‘Never mind those damned warrens, child, the deep magic is far older. Remember, seek out the roots and tendrils, the roots and tendrils. The paths through the ground, the invisible web woven from creature to creature. Every creature—on the land, in the land, in the air, in the water—they are all linked. And it is within you, if you have been awakened, and spirits below, you’ve been awakened, child! Within you, then, to ride those tendrils.’

  And ride them he did, though he would not surrender his private fascination with warrens, with Meanas in particular. Illusions . . . playing with those tendrils, with those roots of being, twisting and tying them into deceptive knots that tricked the eye, the touch, that deceived every sense, now that was a game worth playing . . .

  But for the moment, he had immersed himself in the old ways, the undetectable ways—if one were careful, that is. Riding the life-sparks of capemoths, of rhizan, of crickets and chigger fleas, of roving blood-flies. Mindless creatures dancing on the tent’s wall, hearing but not comprehending the sound shivers of the words coming from the other side of that tent wall.

  Comprehension was Bottle’s task. And so he listened. As the newcomer spoke, interrupted by neither the Adjunct nor Fist Gamet. Listened, and comprehended.

  Strings glared down at the two seated mages. ‘You can’t sense him?’

  Balgrid’s shrug was sheepish. ‘He’s out there, hiding in the dark somewhere.’

  ‘And he’s up to something,’ Tavos Pond added. ‘But we can’t tell what.’

  ‘It’s strange,’ Balgrid muttered.

  Strings snorted and strode back to Gesler and Borduke. The other squad members were brewing tea at the small fire they had built to one
side of the path. Cuttle’s snores were loud from the tent beyond. ‘The bastard’s vanished,’ Strings said.

  Gesler grunted. ‘Maybe he’s deserted, and if that’s the case the Wickans will hunt him down and come back with his head on a spear. There won’t be—’

  ‘He’s here!’

  They turned to see Bottle settling down by the fire. Strings stamped over. ‘Where in Hood’s name have you been?’ he demanded.

  Bottle looked up, his brows slowly lifting. ‘Nobody else felt it?’ He glanced over at Balgrid and Tavos Pond, who were both approaching. ‘That portal? The one that opened in the Adjunct’s tent?’ He frowned at the blank expressions on the faces of the two other mages, then asked in a deadpan voice, ‘Have you two mastered hiding pebbles yet? Making coins disappear?’

  Strings lowered himself opposite Bottle. ‘What was all that about a portal?’

  ‘Bad news, Sergeant,’ the young man replied. ‘It all went foul on Genabackis. Dujek’s army mostly wiped out. The Bridgeburners annihilated. Whiskeyjack’s dead—’

  ‘Dead!’

  ‘Hood take us!’

  ‘Whiskeyjack? Gods below!’

  The curses grew more elaborate, along with postulations of disbelief, but Strings no longer heard them. His mind was numb, as if a wildfire had ripped through his inner landscape, scorching the ground barren. He felt a heavy hand settle on his shoulder and vaguely heard Gesler murmuring something, but after a moment he shook the man off, rose and walked into the darkness beyond the camp.

  He did not know how long, or how far he walked. Each step was senseless, the world outside his body not reaching through to him, remaining beyond the withered oblivion of his mind. It was only when a sudden weakness took his legs that he sank down onto the wiry, colourless grasses.