House of Chains

  The Tiste Edur said nothing for a time, then he sighed. ‘All right. But you lead me to wonder, if the First Throne is so vulnerable, why have you not set someone of your own choosing upon it?’

  ‘To command the First Throne, one must be mortal. Which mortal can we trust to such a responsibility? We did not even choose Kellanved—his exploitation was opportunistic. Furthermore, the issue may soon become irrelevant. The T’lan Imass have been summoned—and all hear it, whether bound to the Vow or freed from it. A new, mortal bonecaster has arisen in a distant land.’

  ‘And you want that bonecaster to take the First Throne.’

  ‘No. We want the summoner to free us all.’

  ‘From the Vow?’

  ‘No. From existence, Trull Sengar.’ Onrack shrugged heavily. ‘Or so, I expect, the Bound will ask, or, perhaps, have already asked. Oddly enough, I find that I do not share that sentiment any more.’

  ‘Nor would any others who’d escaped the Vow. I would think, then, that this new mortal bonecaster is in grave danger.’

  ‘And so protected accordingly.’

  ‘Are you able to resist that bonecaster’s summons?’

  ‘I am . . . free to choose.’

  The Tiste Edur cocked his head. ‘It would seem, Onrack, that you are already free. Maybe not in the way that this bonecaster might offer you, but even so . . .’

  ‘Yes. But the alternative I represent is not available to those still bound by the Vow.’

  ‘Let’s hope Monok Ochem is not too resentful.’

  Onrack slowly turned. ‘We shall see.’

  Dust swirled upward from the grasses at the edge of the crest, twin columns that resolved into the bonecaster Monok Ochem and the clan leader, Ibra Gholan. The latter lifted its sword and strode directly towards Onrack.

  Trull Sengar stepped into the warrior’s path. ‘Hold, Ibra Gholan. Onrack has information you will want to hear. Bonecaster Monok Ochem—you especially, so call off the clan leader. Listen first, then decide whether Onrack has earned a reprieve.’

  Ibra Gholan halted, then took a single step back, lowering its sword.

  Onrack studied Monok Ochem. Though the spiritual chains that had once linked them had since snapped, the bonecaster’s enmity—Monok’s fury—was palpable. Onrack knew his list of crimes, of outrages, had grown long, and this last theft of the body parts of another T’lan Imass was the greatest abomination, the most dire twisting of the powers of Tellann thus far. ‘Monok Ochem. The renegades would lead their new master to the First Throne. They travel the paths of chaos. It is their intent, I believe, to place a mortal Tiste Edur upon that throne. Such a new ruler of the T’lan Imass would, in turn, command the new mortal bonecaster—the one who has voiced the summons.’

  Ibra Gholan slowly turned to face Monok Ochem, and Onrack could sense their consternation.

  Onrack then continued, ‘Inform Logros that I, Onrack, and the one to whom I am now bound—the Tiste Edur Trull Sengar—share your dismay. We would work in concert with you.’

  ‘Logros hears you,’ Monok Ochem rasped, ‘and accepts.’

  The swiftness of that surprised Onrack and he cocked his head. A moment’s thought, then, ‘How many guardians protect the First Throne?’

  ‘None.’

  Trull Sengar straightened. ‘None?’

  ‘Do any T’lan Imass remain on the continent of Quon Tali?’ Onrack asked.

  ‘No, Onrack the Broken,’ Monok Ochem replied. ‘This intention you describe was . . . unanticipated. Logros’s army is massed here in Seven Cities.’

  Onrack had never before experienced such agitation, rattling through him, and he identified the emotion, belatedly, as shock. ‘Monok Ochem, why has Logros not marched in answer to the summons?’

  ‘Representatives were sent,’ the bonecaster replied. ‘Logros holds his army here in anticipation of imminent need.’

  Need? ‘And none can be spared?’

  ‘No, Onrack the Broken. None can be spared. In any case, we are closest to the renegades.’

  ‘There are, I believe, six renegades,’ Onrack said. ‘And one among them is a bonecaster. Monok Ochem, while we may well succeed in intercepting them, we are too few . . .’

  ‘At least let me find a worthy weapon,’ Trull Sengar muttered. ‘I may end up facing my own kin, after all.’

  Ibra Gholan spoke. ‘Tiste Edur, what is your weapon of choice?’

  ‘Spear. I am fair with a bow as well, but for combat . . . spear.’

  ‘I will acquire one for you,’ the clan leader said. ‘And a bow as well. Yet I am curious—there were spears to be found among the cache you but recently departed. Why did you not avail yourself of a weapon at that time?’

  Trull Sengar’s reply was low and cool. ‘I am not a thief.’

  The clan leader faced Onrack, then said, ‘You chose well, Onrack the Broken.’

  I know. ‘Monok Ochem, has Logros a thought as to who the renegade bonecaster might be?’

  ‘Tenag Ilbaie,’ Monok Ochem immediately replied. ‘It is likely he has chosen a new name.’

  ‘And Logros is certain?’

  ‘All others are accounted for, barring Kilava Onas.’

  Who remains in her mortal flesh and so cannot be among the renegades. ‘Born of Ban Raile’s clan, a tenag Soletaken. Before he was chosen as the clan’s bonecaster, he was known as Haran ’Alle, birthed as he was in the Summer of the Great Death among the Caribou. He was a loyal bonecaster—’

  ‘Until he failed against the Forkrul Assail in the Laederon Wars,’ Monok Ochem cut in.

  ‘As we in turn fail,’ Onrack rasped.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Monok Ochem demanded. ‘In what way have we failed?’

  ‘We chose to see failure as disloyalty, Bonecaster. Yet in our harsh judgement of fallen kin, we committed our own act of disloyalty. Tenag Ilbaie strove to succeed in his task. His defeat was not by choice. Tell me, when have we ever triumphed in a clash with Forkrul Assail? Thus, Tenag Ilbaie was doomed from the very beginning. Yet he accepted what was commanded of him. Knowing full well he would be destroyed and so condemned. I have learned this, Monok Ochem, and through you shall say to Logros and all the T’lan Imass: these renegades are of our own making.’

  ‘Then it falls to us to deal with them,’ Ibra Gholan growled.

  ‘And what if we should fail?’ Onrack asked.

  To that, neither T’lan Imass gave answer.

  Trull Sengar sighed. ‘If we are to indeed intercept these renegades, we should get moving.’

  ‘We shall travel by the Warren of Tellann,’ Monok Ochem said. ‘Logros has given leave that you may accompany us on that path.’

  ‘Generous of him,’ Trull Sengar muttered.

  As Monok Ochem prepared to open the warren, the bonecaster paused and looked back at Onrack once more. ‘When you . . . repaired yourself, Onrack the Broken . . . where was the rest of the body?’

  ‘I do not know. It had been . . . taken away.’

  ‘And who destroyed it in the first place?’

  Indeed, a troubling question. ‘I do not know, Monok Ochem. There is another detail that left me uneasy.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘The renegade was cut in half by a single blow.’

  The winding track that led up the boulder-strewn hillside was all too familiar, and Lostara Yil could feel the scowl settling into her face. Pearl remained a few paces behind her, muttering every time her boots dislodged a stone that tumbled downward. She heard him curse as one such rock cracked against a shin, and felt the scowl shift into a savage smile.

  The bastard’s smooth surface was wearing off, revealing unsightly patches that she found cause both for derision and a strange, insipid attraction. Too old to dream of perfection, perhaps, she had instead discovered a certain delicious appeal in flaws. And Pearl had plenty of those.

  He resented most the relinquishing of the lead, but this terrain belonged to Lostara, to her memories. The ancient, exposed temple floor
lay directly ahead, the place where she had driven a bolt into Sha’ik’s forehead. And, if not for those two bodyguards—that Toblakai in particular—that day would have ended in even greater triumph, as the Red Blades returned to G’danisban with Sha’ik’s head riding a lance. Thus ending the rebellion before it began.

  So many lives saved, had that occurred, had reality played out as seamlessly as the scene in her mind. On such things, the fate of an entire subcontinent had irrevocably tumbled headlong into this moment’s sordid, blood-soaked situation.

  That damned Toblakai. With that damned wooden sword. If not for him, what would this day be like? We’d likely not be here, for one thing. Felisin Paran would not have needed to cross all of Seven Cities seeking to avoid murder at the hands of frenzied rebels. Coltaine would be alive, closing the imperial fist around every smouldering ember before it rose in conflagration. And High Fist Pormqual would have been sent to the Empress to give an accounting of his incompetence and corruption. All, but for that one obnoxious Toblakai . . .

  She passed by the large boulders they had hidden behind, then the one she had used to draw close enough to ensure the lethality of her shot. And there, ten paces from the temple floor, the scattered remains of the last Red Blade to fall during the retreat.

  Lostara stepped onto the flagstoned floor and halted.

  Pearl arrived at her side, looking around curiously.

  Lostara pointed. ‘She was seated there.’

  ‘Those bodyguards didn’t bother burying the Red Blades,’ he commented.

  ‘No, why would they?’

  ‘Nor,’ the Claw continued, ‘it seems, did they bother with Sha’ik.’ He walked over to a shadowed spot between the two pillars of an old arched gate.

  Lostara followed, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest.

  The form was tiny, wrapped in wind-frayed tent cloth. The black hair had grown, and grown, long after death, and the effect—after Pearl crouched and tugged the canvas away to reveal the desiccated face and scalp—was horrific. The hole the quarrel had punched into her forehead revealed a skull filled with windblown sand. More of the fine grains had pooled in the corpse’s eye sockets, nose and gaping mouth.

  ‘Raraku reclaims its own,’ Pearl muttered after a moment. ‘And you’re certain this was Sha’ik, lass?’

  She nodded. ‘The Book of Dryjhna was being delivered, as I explained. Directly into her hands. From which, it was prophesied, a rebirth would occur, and that in turn would trigger the Whirlwind, the Apocalypse . . . the rebellion.’

  ‘Describe for me again these bodyguards.’

  ‘A Toblakai and the one known as Leoman of the Flails. Sha’ik’s most personal bodyguards.’

  ‘Yet, it would appear that the rebellion had no need for Sha’ik, or the Whirlwind. It was well under way by the time Felisin arrived at this place. So, what occurred in that time? Are you suggesting that the bodyguards simply . . . waited? Here? Waited for what?’

  Lostara shrugged. ‘For the rebirth, perhaps. The beauty of prophecies is that they are so conveniently open to countless reinterpretations, as the demand presents itself. The fools waited, and waited . . .’

  Frowning, Pearl straightened and looked around. ‘But the rebirth did occur. The Whirlwind rose, to give focus—to provide a raging heart—for the rebellion. It all happened, just as it had been prophesied. I wonder . . .’

  Lostara watched him from beneath half-closed lids. A certain grace to his movements, she conceded. An elegance that would have been feminine in a man less deadly. He was like a flare-neck snake, calm and self-contained . . . until provoked. ‘But look at her,’ she said. ‘There was no rebirth. We’re wasting time here, Pearl. So, maybe Felisin stumbled here, onto all this, before continuing onward.’

  ‘You are being deliberately obtuse, dear,’ Pearl murmured, disappointing her that he had not risen to the bait.

  ‘Am I?’

  Her irritation deepened at the smile he flashed her.

  ‘You are quite right, Lostara, in observing that nothing whatsoever could have been reborn from this corpse. Thus, only one conclusion follows. The Sha’ik alive and well in the heart of Raraku is not the same Sha’ik. Those bodyguards found a . . . replacement. An impostor, someone they could fit neatly into the role—the flexibility of prophecies you noted a moment ago would have served them well. Reborn. Very well, younger in appearance, yes? An old woman cannot lead an army into a new war, after all. And further, an old woman would find it hard to convince anyone that she’d been reborn.’

  ‘Pearl.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I refuse the possibility—yes, I know what you are thinking. But it’s impossible.’

  ‘Why? Nothing else fits—’

  ‘I don’t care how well it fits! Is that all we mortals are? The victims of tortured irony to amuse an insane murder of gods?’

  ‘A murder of crows, a murder of gods—I like that, lass. As for tortured irony, more like exquisite irony. You don’t think Felisin would leap at the chance to become such a direct instrument of vengeance against her sister? Against the empire that sent her to a prison mine? Fate may well present itself, but the opportunity still must be embraced, wilfully, eagerly. There was less chance or coincidence in all this—more like a timely convergence of desires and necessities.’

  ‘We must return to the Adjunct,’ Lostara pronounced.

  ‘Alas, the Whirlwind stands between us. I can use no warrens to hasten our journey within that sphere of power. And it would take us far too long to go around it. Fear not, we shall endeavour to reach Tavore in time, with our ghastly revelation. But we shall have to pass through the Whirlwind, through Raraku itself, and quietly, carefully. Discovery would prove fatal.’

  ‘You are delighted with this, aren’t you?’

  His eyes widened—a look of his of which she had grown far too fond, she realized with a surge of irritation. ‘Unfair, my dear Lostara Yil. I am satisfied that the mystery has been solved, that our task of ascertaining Felisin’s fate has been concluded. As far as we can take it at the moment, that is.’

  ‘And what of your hunt for the leader of the Talons?’

  ‘Oh, I think I will find satisfaction in that area soon, as well. All things are converging nicely, in fact.’

  ‘See, I knew you were pleased!’

  He spread his hands. ‘Would you rather I lacerate my flesh in flagellation?’ At her cocked eyebrow his gaze narrowed suspiciously for a brief moment, then he drew a breath and resumed, ‘We are nearly done, lass, with this mission. And soon we will be able to sit ourselves down in a cool tent, goblets of chilled wine in our hands, and ruminate at leisure over the countless discoveries we have made.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ she remarked drily, crossing her arms. He swung about and faced the Whirlwind. The roaring, shrieking maelstrom commanded the sky, spinning out an endless rain of dust.

  ‘Of course, first we will have to breach the goddess’s defences, undetected. You are of Pardu blood, so she will take no heed of you. I, on the other hand, am one-fourth Tiste Andü—’

  She started, breath catching. ‘You are?’

  He looked back, surprised. ‘You didn’t know? My mother was from Drift Avalii, a half-blood white-haired beauty—or so I’m told, as I have no direct recollection, since she left me with my father as soon as I’d been weaned.’

  Lostara’s imagination conjured up an image of Pearl suckling at his mother’s breast, and found the scene alarming. ‘So you were a live birth?’

  And smiled at his offended silence.

  They made their way down the trail towards the basin, where the Whirlwind’s fierce storm raged ceaselessly, rising to tower over them the closer they approached. It was nearing dusk. They were short on food, though they had plenty of water, replenished from the spring near the ruined temple. Lostara’s boots were falling apart around her feet, and Pearl’s moccasins were now mostly wrapped rags. The seams of their clothing had frayed and grown brittle beneath the unre
lenting sun. Leather had cracked and iron had become pitted and layered in patination and rust-stains from their harrowing passage through the Thyrllan Warren.

  She felt worn out and weathered; in appearance, she knew, looking ten years older than she was in truth. All the more reason for her alternating fury and dismay at seeing Pearl’s hale, unlined face and his oddly shaped eyes so clear and bright. The lightness of his step made her want to brain him with the flat of her sword.

  ‘How do you intend to evade the Whirlwind’s notice, Pearl?’ she asked as they drew closer.

  He shrugged. ‘I have a plan. Which may or may not work.’

  ‘Sounds like most of your plans. Tell me, then, what precarious role do you have in mind for me?’

  ‘Rashan, Thyr and Meanas,’ he replied. ‘The perpetual war. This fragment of warren before us is not fully comprehended by the goddess herself. Not surprising, since she was likely little more than a zephyr spirit to begin with. I, however, do comprehend . . . well, better than her, anyway.’

  ‘Are you even capable of answering succinctly? “Do your feet hurt?” “Oh, the warrens of Mockra and Rashan and Omtose Phellack, from which arise all aches below the knee—” ’

  ‘All right. Fine. I intend to hide in your shadow.’

  ‘Well, I’m already used to that, Pearl. But I should point out, that Whirlwind Wall is obscuring the sunset rather thoroughly.’

  ‘True, yet it exists none the less. I will just have to step carefully. Provided, of course, you make no sudden, unexpected moves.’

  ‘In your company, Pearl, the thought has yet to occur to me.’

  ‘Ah, that’s good. I in turn feel I should point out, however, that you persist in fomenting a certain tension between us. One that is anything but, uh, professional. Oddly enough, it seems to increase with every insult you throw my way. A peculiar flirtation—’

  ‘Flirtation? You damned fool. I’d be much happier seeing you fall flat on your face and get beaten helpless by that damned goddess, if only for the satisfaction I’d receive—’