House of Chains

  And Karsa wanted to be there. Not to kill Malazans, but to guard Leoman’s back. But there was a darker truth, he well knew. The battle would be a day of chaos, and Karsa Orlong meant to add to it. Sha’ik or no Sha’ik, there are those in her camp who deserve only death. And I shall deliver it. He did not bother conjuring a list of reasons, of insults delivered, contempt unveiled, crimes committed. He had been indifferent for long enough, indifferent to so many things. He had reined in his spirit’s greatest strengths, among them his need to make judgements, and act decisively upon them in true Teblor fashion.

  I have tolerated the deceitful and the malicious for long enough. My sword shall now answer them.

  The Toblakai warrior was even less interested in creating a list of names, since names invited vows, and he had had enough of vows. No, he would kill as the mood took him.

  He looked forward to his homecoming.

  Provided he arrived in time.

  Descending the slopes leading down into the Holy Desert, he was relieved to see, far to the north and east, the red crest of fury that was the Whirlwind Wall. Only days away, now.

  He smiled at that distant anger, for he understood it. Constrained—chained—for so long, the goddess would soon unleash her wrath. He sensed her hunger, as palpable as that of the twin souls within his sword. The blood of deer was too thin.

  He reined in Havok at an old camp near the edge of a salt flat. The slopes behind him would provide the last forage and water for the horse until just this side of the Whirlwind Wall, so he would spend time here bundling grasses for the journey, as well as refilling the waterskins from the spring ten paces from the camp.

  He built a fire using the last of the bhederin dung from the Jhag Odhan—something he did only rarely—and, following a meal, opened the pack containing the ruined T’lan Imass and dragged the remnants out for the first time.

  ‘You are impatient to get rid of me?’ Siballe asked in a dry, rasping voice.

  He grunted, staring down at the creature. ‘We’ve travelled far, Unfound. It has been a long time since I last looked upon you.’

  ‘Then why do you choose to look upon me now, Karsa Orlong?’

  ‘I do not know. I regret it already.’

  ‘I have seen the sun’s light through the weave of the fabric. Preferable to darkness.’

  ‘Why should what you prefer interest me?’

  ‘Because, Karsa Orlong, we are within the same House. The House of Chains. Our master—’

  ‘I have no master,’ the Teblor growled.

  ‘As he would have it,’ Siballe replied. ‘The Crippled God does not expect you to kneel. He issues no commands to his Mortal Sword, his Knight of Chains—for that is what you are, the role for which you have been shaped from the very beginning.’

  ‘I am not in this House of Chains, T’lan Imass. Nor will I accept another false god.’

  ‘He is not false, Karsa Orlong.’

  ‘As false as you,’ the warrior said, baring his teeth. ‘Let him rise before me and my sword will speak for me. You say I have been shaped. Then there is much to which he must give answer.’

  ‘The gods chained him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They chained him, Karsa Orlong, to dead ground. He is broken. In eternal pain. He has been twisted by captivity and now knows only suffering.’

  ‘Then I shall break his chains—’

  ‘I am pleased—’

  ‘And then kill him.’

  Karsa grabbed the shattered T’lan Imass by its lone arm and stuck it back into the pack. Then rose.

  Great tasks lay ahead. The notion was satisfying.

  A House is just another prison. And I have had enough of prisons. Raise walls around me, and I will knock them down.

  Doubt my words, Crippled God, to your regret . . .

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Otataral, I believe, was born of sorcery. If we hold that magic feeds on hidden energies, then it follows that there are limits to those energies. Sufficient unveiling of power that subsequently cascades out of control could well drain those life-forces dry.

  Further, it is said that the Elder warrens resist the deadening effect of otataral, suggesting that the world’s levels of energy are profoundly multilayered. One need only contemplate the life energy of corporeal flesh, compared to the undeniable energy within an inanimate object, such as rock. Careless examination might suggest that the former is alive, whilst the latter is not. In this manner, perhaps otataral is not quite as negating as it would first appear . . .

  Musings on the

  Physical Properties of the World

  Tryrssan of Mott

  THE 9TH, 11TH AND 12TH SQUADS, MEDIUM INFANTRY, HAD BEEN attached to the marines of the 9th Company. There were rumours, as well, that the 1st, 2nd and 3rd squads—the heavy infantry with their oversized muscles and sloping brows—would soon join them to form a discrete fighting unit.

  None from the newly arrived squads were entirely strangers to Strings. He had made a point of learning names and memorizing faces throughout the 9th Company.

  Footsore and weary from interrupted nights, the sergeant and his squad were sprawled around a cookfire, lulled by the incessant roar of the Whirlwind Wall a thousand paces north of the encamped army. Even rage could numb, it seemed.

  Sergeant Balm of the 9th squad strode over after directing his soldiers into their new camp. Tall and wide-shouldered, the Dal Honese had impressed Strings with his cool indifference to pressure. Balm’s squad had already done its share of fighting, and the names of Corporal Deadsmell, Throatslitter, Widdershins, Gait and Lobe were already among the tales travelling through the legion. The same was true of some from the other two squads. Moak, Burnt and Stacker. Thorn Tissy, Tulip, Ramp and Able.

  The heavy infantry were yet to wet their swords, but Strings had been impressed with their discipline—easier with slope-brows, of course. Tell ’em to stand firm and they take root down to the bedrock. A few of them were wandering in, he noted. Flashwit, Bowl, Shortnose and Uru Hela. Mean-looking one and all.

  Sergeant Balm squatted down. ‘You’re the one named Strings, aren’t you? Heard it’s not your real name.’

  Strings raised his brows. ‘And “Balm” is?’

  The dark-skinned young man frowned, his heavy eyebrows meeting as he did so. ‘Why, yes, it is.’

  Strings glanced over at another soldier from the 9th squad, a man standing nearby looking as if he wanted to kill something. ‘And what about him? What’s his name again, Throatslitter? Did his ma decide on that for her little one, do you think?’

  ‘Can’t say,’ Balm replied. ‘Give a toddler a knife and who knows what’ll happen.’

  Strings studied the man for a moment, then grunted. ‘You wanted to see me about something?’

  Balm shrugged. ‘Not really. Sort of. What do you think of the captain’s new units? Seems a little late to make changes like this . . .’

  ‘It’s not that new, actually. Greymane’s legions are sometimes set up in the same manner. In any case, our new Fist has approved it.’

  ‘Keneb. Not sure about him.’

  ‘And you are about our fresh-faced captain?’

  ‘Aye, I am. He’s nobleborn, is Ranal. Enough said.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Balm looked away, started tracking a distant bird in flight. ‘Oh, only that he’s likely to get us all killed.’

  Ah. ‘Speak louder, not everyone heard that opinion.’

  ‘Don’t need to, Strings. They share it.’

  ‘Sharing it ain’t the same as saying it.’

  Gesler, Borduke and the sergeants from the 11th and 12th squads came over and muttered introductions went round the group. Moak, of the 11th, was Falari, copper-haired and bearded like Strings. He’d taken a lance down his back, from shoulder to tailbone, and, despite the healer’s efforts, was clearly struggling with badly knitted muscles. The 11th’s sergeant, Thorn Tissy, was squat, with a face that might be handsome to a
female toad, his cheeks pocked and the backs of his hands covered in warts. He was, the others saw when he removed his helm, virtually hairless.

  Moak squinted at Strings for a long moment, as if seeking to conjure recognition, then he drew out a fish spine from his belt pouch and began picking his teeth. ‘Anybody else hear about that killer soldier? Heavy infantry, not sure what company, not even sure what legion. Named Neffarias Bredd. I heard he killed eighteen raiders all in one night.’

  Strings lifted his gaze to meet Gesler’s, but neither man’s expression changed.

  ‘I heard it was eighteen one night, thirteen the next,’ Thorn Tissy said. ‘We’ll have to ask the slope-brows when they show.’

  ‘Well,’ Strings pointed out, ‘there’s one over there.’ He raised his voice. ‘Flashwit! Come join us for a moment, if you please.’

  The ground seemed to tremble with the woman’s approach. She was Napan and Strings wondered if she knew she was female. The muscles of her arms were larger than his thighs. She had cut all her hair off, her round face devoid of ornament barring a bronze nose-ring. Yet her eyes were startlingly beautiful, emerald green.

  ‘Have you heard of another heavy, Flashwit? Neffarias Bredd?’

  Those extraordinary eyes widened. ‘Killed fifty raiders, they say.’

  ‘Which legion?’ Moak asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Not ours, though.’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Well,’ Moak snapped, ‘what do you know?’

  ‘He killed fifty raiders. Can I go now? I have to pee.’

  They watched her walk away.

  ‘Standing up, do you think?’ Thorn Tissy asked the others in general.

  Moak snorted. ‘Why don’t you go ask her.’

  ‘Ain’t that eager to get killed. Why don’t you, Moak?’

  ‘Here come the heavy’s sergeants,’ Balm observed.

  Mosel, Sobelone and Tugg could have been siblings. They all hailed from Malaz City, typical of the mixed breed prevalent on the island, and the air of threat around them had less to do with size than attitude. Sobelone was the oldest of the three, a severe-looking woman with streaks of grey in her shoulder-length black hair, her eyes the colour of the sky. Mosel was lean, the epicanthic folds of his eyes marking Kanese blood somewhere in his family line. His hair was braided and cut finger-length in the fashion of Jakatakan pirates. Tugg was the biggest of the three, armed with a short single-bladed axe. The shield strapped on his back was enormous, hardwood, sheathed in tin and rimmed in bronze.

  ‘Which one of you is Strings?’ Mosel asked.

  ‘Me. Why?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Nothing. I was just wondering. And you’—he nodded at Gesler—‘you’re that coastal guard, Gesler.’

  ‘So I am. What of it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  There was a moment of awkward silence, then Tugg spoke, his voice thin, emerging from, Strings suspected, a damaged larynx. ‘We heard the Adjunct was going to the wall tomorrow. With that sword. Then what? She stabs it? It’s a storm of sand, there’s nothing to stab. And aren’t we already in Raraku? The Holy Desert? It don’t feel any different, don’t look any different, neither. Why didn’t we just wait for ’em? Or let ’em stay and rot here in this damned wasteland? Sha’ik wants an empire of sand, let her have it.’

  That fractured voice was excruciating to listen to, and it seemed to Strings that Tugg would never stop. ‘Plenty of questions there,’ he said as soon as the man paused to draw a wheezing breath. ‘This empire of sand can’t be left here, Tugg, because it’s a rot, and it will spread—we’d lose Seven Cities, and far too much blood was spilled conquering it in the first place to just let it go. And, while we’re in Raraku, we’re on its very edge. It may be a Holy Desert, but it looks like any other. If it possesses a power, then that lies in what it does to you, after a while. Maybe not what it does, but what it gives. Not an easy thing to explain.’ He then shrugged, and coughed.

  Gesler cleared his throat. ‘The Whirlwind Wall is sorcery, Tugg. The Adjunct’s sword is otataral. There will be a clash between the two. If the Adjunct’s sword fails, then we all go home . . . or back to Aren—’

  ‘Not what I heard,’ Moak said, pausing to spit before continuing. ‘We swing east then north if we can’t breach the wall. To G’danisban, or maybe Ehrlitan. To wait for Dujek Onearm and High Mage Tayschrenn. I’ve even heard that Greymane might be recalled from the Korelri campaign.’

  Strings stared at the man. ‘Whose shadow have you been standing in, Moak?’

  ‘Well, it makes sense, don’t it?’

  Sighing, Strings straightened. ‘It’s all a waste of breath, soldiers. Sooner or later, we’re all marching in wide-eyed stupid.’ He strode over to where his squad had set up the tents.

  His soldiers, Cuttle included, were gathered around Bottle, who sat cross-legged and seemed to be playing with twigs and sticks.

  Strings halted in his tracks, an uncanny chill creeping through him. Gods below, for a moment there I thought I was seeing Quick Ben, with Whiskeyjack’s squad crowding round some damned risky ritual . . . He could hear faint singing from somewhere in the desert beyond the camp, singing that sliced like a sword’s edge through the roar of the Whirlwind Wall. The sergeant shook his head and approached.

  ‘What are you doing, Bottle?’

  The young man looked up guiltily. ‘Uh, not much, Sergeant—’

  ‘Trying a divination,’ Cuttle growled, ‘and as far as I can tell, getting nowhere.’

  Strings slowly crouched down in the circle, opposite Bottle. ‘Interesting style there, lad. Sticks and twigs. Where did you pick that up?’

  ‘Grandmother,’ he muttered.

  ‘She was a witch?’

  ‘More or less. So was my mother.’

  ‘And your father? What was he?’

  ‘Don’t know. There were rumours . . .’ He ducked his head, clearly uncomfortable.

  ‘Never mind,’ Strings said. ‘That’s earth-aspected, the pattern you have there. You need more than just what anchors the power . . .’

  All the others were staring at Strings now.

  Bottle nodded, then drew out a small doll made of woven grasses, a dark, purple-bladed variety. Strips of black cloth were wrapped about it.

  The sergeant’s eyes widened. ‘Who in Hood’s name is that supposed to be?’

  ‘Well, the hand of death, sort of, or so I wanted it to be. You know, where it’s going. But it’s not co-operating.’

  ‘You drawing from Hood’s warren?’

  ‘A little . . .’

  Well, there’s more to this lad than I’d first thought. ‘Never mind Hood. He may hover, but won’t stride forward until after the fact, and even then, he’s an indiscriminate bastard. For that figure you’ve made, try the Patron of Assassins.’

  Bottle flinched. ‘The Rope? That’s too, uh, close . . .’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Smiles demanded. ‘You said you knew Meanas. And now it turns out you know Hood, too. And witchery. I’m starting to think you’re just making it all up.’

  The mage scowled. ‘Fine, then. Now stop flapping your lips. I’ve got to concentrate.’

  The squad settled down once more. Strings fixed his gaze on the various sticks and twigs that had been thrust into the sand before Bottle. After a long moment, the mage slowly set the doll down in their midst, pushing the legs into the sand until the doll stood on its own, then carefully withdrew his hand.

  The pattern of sticks on one side ran in a row. Strings assumed that was the Whirlwind Wall, since those sticks began waving, like reeds in the wind.

  Bottle was mumbling under his breath, with a growing note of urgency, then frustration. After a moment the breath gusted from him and he sat back, eyes blinking open. ‘It’s no use—’

  The sticks had ceased moving.

  ‘Is it safe to reach in there?’ Strings asked.

  ‘Aye, Sergeant.’

  Strin
gs reached out and picked up the doll. Then he set it back down . . . on the other side of the Whirlwind Wall. ‘Try it now.’

  Bottle stared across at him for a moment, then leaned forward and closed his eyes once more.

  The Whirlwind Wall began wavering again. Then a number of the sticks along that row toppled.

  A gasp from the circle, but Bottle’s scowl deepened. ‘It’s not moving. The doll. I can feel the Rope . . . close, way too close. There’s power, pouring into or maybe out of that doll, only it’s not moving—’

  ‘You’re right,’ Strings said, a grin slowly spreading across his features. ‘It’s not moving. But its shadow is . . .’

  Cuttle grunted. ‘Queen take me, he’s right. That’s a damn strange thing—I’ve seen enough.’ He rose suddenly, looking nervous and shaken. ‘Magic’s creepy. I’m going to bed.’

  The divination ended abruptly. Bottle opened his eyes and looked around at the others, his face glistening with sweat. ‘Why didn’t he move? Why only his shadow?’

  Strings stood. ‘Because, lad, he isn’t ready yet.’

  Smiles glared up at the sergeant. ‘So, who is he? The Rope himself?’

  ‘No,’ Bottle answered. ‘No, I’m sure of that.’

  Saying nothing, Strings strode from the circle. No, not the Rope. Someone even better, as far as I am concerned. As far as every Malazan is concerned, for that matter. He’s here. And he’s on the other side of the Whirlwind Wall. And I know precisely who he’s sharpened his knives for.

  Now, if only that damned singing would stop . . .

  He stood in the darkness, under siege. Voices assaulted him from all sides, pounding at his skull. It wasn’t enough that he had been responsible for the death of soldiers; now they would not leave him alone. Now their spirits screamed at him, ghostly hands reaching out through Hood’s Gate, fingers clawing through his brain.

  Gamet wanted to die. He had been worse than useless. He had been a liability, joined now to the multitude of incompetent commanders who had left a river of blood in their wake, another name in that sullied, degrading history that fuelled the worst fears of the common soldier.