House of Chains

  ‘Oh no. Just me and Sobelone. He told us to keep our mouths shut.’ Tugg blinked, then added, ‘But not with you, obviously, since you already know. I was just making conversation. Just being friendly. Amazing how that Whirlwind Wall just collapsed like that, isn’t it?’

  Horns sounded in the distance.

  ‘Time to march,’ Gesler muttered, ‘praise Hood and all . . .’

  Keneb rode up alongside Gamet. Their legion had been positioned as rearguard for this day of travel and the dust was thick in the hot air.

  ‘I’m starting to doubt the Whirlwind Wall ever vanished,’ Keneb said.

  ‘Aye, there’s less we’re kicking up than is still coming down,’ Gamet replied. He hesitated, then said, ‘My apologies, Captain—’

  ‘No need, sir. I am in fact relieved—if you’ll excuse the pun. Not just from the pressure of being a Fist, but also because Ranal’s promotion was rescinded. It was a pleasure informing him of that. Were you aware he had restructured the units? Using Greymane’s arrangements? Of course, Greymane was fighting a protracted war over a huge territory with no defined front. He needed self-contained fighting units, ready for any contingency. Even more irritating, he neglected to inform anyone else.’

  ‘Are you returning the squads to their original placement, Captain?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. Waiting for your word.’

  Gamet thought about it for a time. ‘I will inform the Adjunct of our legion’s new structure.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘It might prove useful. We are to hold the rear at the battle, on a broken landscape. Ranal’s decision, no doubt made in ignorance, is none the less suitable.’

  Keneb sighed, but said nothing, and Gamet well understood. I may have returned as Fist with the Adjunct’s confirmation, but her decision on our positioning has made it clear she’s lost confidence in me.

  They rode on in silence, but it was not a comfortable one.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Who among the pantheon would the Fallen One despise and fear the most? Consider the last chaining, in which Hood, Fener, the Queen of Dreams, Osserc and Oponn all participated, in addition to Anomander Rake, Caladan Brood and a host of other ascendants. It is not so surprising, then, that the Crippled God could not have anticipated that his deadliest enemy was not found among those mentioned . . .

  The Chainings

  Istan Hela

  ‘JUST BECAUSE I’M A WOMAN—ALL WOMAN—IT DOESN’T MEAN I CAN COOK.’

  Cutter glanced across at Apsalar, then said, ‘No, no, it’s very good, really—’

  But Mogora wasn’t finished, waving a grass-snarled wooden ladle about as she stomped back and forth. ‘There’s no larder, nothing at all! And guests! Endless guests! And is he around to go find us some food? Never! I think he’s dead—’

  ‘He’s not dead,’ Apsalar cut in, holding her spoon motionless above the bowl. ‘We saw him only a short while ago.’

  ‘So you say, with your shiny hair and pouty lips—and those breasts—just wait till you start dropping whelps, they’ll be at your ankles one day, big as they are—not the whelps, the breasts. The whelps will be in your hair—no, not that shiny hair on your head, well, yes, that hair, but only as a manner of speech. What was I talking about? Yes, I have to go out every day, climbing up and down that rope ladder, scrounging food—yes, that grass is edible, just chew it down. Chew and chew. Every day, armfuls of grasses, tubers, rhizan, cockroaches and bloodflies—’ Both Cutter and Apsalar put down their spoons.

  ‘—and me tripping over my tits. And then!’ She waved the ladle, flinging wet grass against a wall. ‘Those damned bhok’arala get into my hoard and steal all the yummy bits—every single cockroach and bloodfly! Haven’t you noticed? There’s no vermin in this ruin anywhere! Not a mouse, not a bug—what’s a thousand spiders to do?’

  Cautiously, the two guests resumed eating, their sips preceded by close examination of the murky liquid in their spoons.

  ‘And how long do you plan to stay here? What is this, a hostel? How do you expect my husband and me to return to domestic normality? If it’s not you it’s gods and demons and assassins messing up the bedrooms! Will I ever get peace?’ With that she stomped from the room.

  After a moment, Cutter blinked and sat straighter. ‘Assassins?’

  ‘Kalam Mekhar,’ Apsalar replied. ‘He left marks, an old Bridgeburner habit.’

  ‘He’s back? What happened?’

  She shrugged. ‘Shadowthrone and Cotillion have, it seems, found use for us all. If I were to guess, Kalam plans on killing as many of Sha’ik’s officers as he can.’

  ‘Well, Mogora did raise an interesting question. Cotillion wanted us here, but why? Now what?’

  ‘I have no answers for you, Crokus. It would seem Cotillion’s interests lie more with you than with me. Which is not surprising.’

  ‘It isn’t? It is to me. Why would you say otherwise?’

  She studied him for a moment, then her eyes shifted away. ‘Because I am not interested in becoming his servant. I possess too many of his memories, including his mortal life as Dancer, to be entirely trustworthy.’

  ‘That’s not an encouraging statement, Apsalar—’

  A new voice hissed from the shadows, ‘Encouragement is needed? Simple, easy, unworthy of concern—why can’t I think of a solution! Something stupid to say, that should be effortless for me. Shouldn’t it?’ After a moment, Iskaral Pust edged out from the gloom, sniffing the air. ‘She’s been . . . cooking!’ His eyes then lit on the bowls on the table. ‘And you’ve been eating it! Are you mad? Why do you think I’ve been hiding all these months? Why do you think I have my bhok’arala sift through her hoard for the edible stuff? Gods, you fools! Oh yes, fine food . . . if you’re an antelope!’

  ‘We’re managing,’ Cutter said. ‘Is there something you want with us? If not, I’m with Mogora on one thing—the less I see of you the better—’

  ‘She wants to see me, you Daru idiot! Why do you think she’s always trying to hunt me down?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a good act, isn’t it? But let’s be realistic, Pust, she’s happier without you constantly in her face. You’re not wanted. Not necessary. In fact, Pust, you are completely useless.’

  The High Priest’s eyes widened, then he snarled and bolted back into the corner of the room, vanishing into its shadows.

  Cutter smiled and leaned back in his chair. ‘That worked better than I could have hoped.’

  ‘You have stepped between husband and wife, Crokus. Not a wise decision.’

  He narrowed his gaze on her. ‘Where do you want to go from here, Apsalar?’

  She would not meet his eyes. ‘I have not yet made up my mind.’

  And Cutter knew that she had.

  The spear was a heavy wood, yet surprisingly flexible for its solid feel. Upright, its fluted chalcedony point reached to Trull Sengar’s palm when he stood with one arm stretched upward. ‘Rather short for my fighting style, but I will make do. I thank you, Ibra Gholan.’

  The T’lan Imass swung round and strode to where Monok Ochem waited.

  Onrack watched Trull Sengar blow on his hands, then rub them on his tattered buckskin leggings. He flexed the spear shaft once more, then leaned it on one shoulder and faced Onrack. ‘I am ready. Although I could do with some furs—this warren is cold, and the wind stinks of ice—we’ll have snow by nightfall.’

  ‘We shall be travelling south,’ Onrack said. ‘Before long, we shall reach the tree line, and the snow will turn to rain.’

  ‘That sounds even more miserable.’

  ‘Our journey, Trull Sengar, shall be less than a handful of days and nights. And in that time we shall travel from tundra to savanna and jungle.’

  ‘Do you believe we will reach the First Throne before the renegades?’

  Onrack shrugged. ‘It is likely. The path of Tellann will present to us no obstacles, whilst that of chaos shall slow our enemies, for its path is never straight.’

  ‘
Never straight, aye. That notion makes me nervous.’

  Ah. That is what I am feeling. ‘A cause for unease, granted, Trull Sengar. None the less, we are faced with a more dire concern, for when we reach the First Throne we must then defend it.’

  Ibra Gholan led the way, Monok Ochem waiting until Onrack and the Tiste Edur passed by before falling in step.

  ‘We are not trusted,’ Trull Sengar muttered.

  ‘That is true,’ Onrack agreed. ‘None the less, we are needed.’

  ‘The least satisfying of alliances.’

  ‘Yet perhaps the surest, until such time as the need passes. We must remain mindful, Trull Sengar.’

  The Tiste Edur grunted in acknowledgement.

  They fell silent then, as each stride took them further south.

  As with so many tracts within Tellann, the scars of Omtose Phellack remained both visible and palpable to Onrack’s senses. Rivers of ice had gouged this landscape, tracing the history of advance and, finally, retreat, leaving behind fluvial spans of silts, rocks and boulders in screes, fans and slides, and broad valleys with basins worn down to smooth-humped bedrock. Eventually, permafrost gave way to sodden peat and marshland, wherein stunted black spruce rose in knotted stands on islands formed by the rotted remains of ancestral trees. Pools of black water surrounded these islands, layered with mists and bubbling with the gases of decay.

  Insects swarmed the air, finding nothing to their liking among the T’lan Imass and the lone mortal, though they circled in thick, buzzing clouds none the less. Before long, the marshes gave way to upthrust domes of bedrock, the low ground between them steep-sided and tangled with brush and dead pines. The domes then merged, creating a winding bridge of high ground along which the four travelled with greater ease than before.

  It began to rain, a steady drizzle that blackened the basaltic bedrock and made it slick.

  Onrack could hear Trull Sengar’s harsh breathing and sensed his companion’s weariness. But no entreaties to rest came from the Tiste Edur, even as he increasingly used his spear as a staff as they trudged onward.

  Forest soon replaced the exposed bedrock, slowly shifting from coniferous to deciduous, the hills giving way to flatter ground. The trees then thinned, and suddenly, beyond a line of tangled deadfall, plains stretched before them, and the rain was gone. Onrack raised a hand. ‘We shall halt here.’

  Ibra Gholan, ten paces ahead, stopped and swung round. ‘Why?’

  ‘Food and rest, Ibra Gholan. You may have forgotten that these number among the needs of mortals.’

  ‘I have not forgotten, Onrack the Broken.’

  Trull Sengar settled onto the grasses, a wry smile on his lips as he said, ‘It’s called indifference, Onrack. I am, after all, the least valuable member of this war party.’

  ‘The renegades will not pause in their march,’ Ibra Gholan said. ‘Nor should we.’

  ‘Then journey ahead,’ Onrack suggested.

  ‘No,’ Monok Ochem commanded. ‘We walk together. Ibra Gholan, a short period of rest will not prove a great inconvenience. Indeed, I would the Tiste Edur speak to us.’

  ‘About what, Bonecaster?’

  ‘Your people, Trull Sengar. What has made them kneel before the Chained One?’

  ‘No easy answer to that question, Monok Ochem.’

  Ibra Gholan strode back to the others. ‘I shall hunt game,’ the warrior said, then vanished in a swirl of dust.

  The Tiste Edur studied the fluted spearhead of his new weapon for a moment, then, setting the spear down, he sighed. ‘It is a long tale, alas. And indeed, I am no longer the best choice to weave it in a manner you might find useful—’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, Monok Ochem, I am Shorn. I no longer exist. To my brothers, and my people, I never existed.’

  ‘Such assertions are meaningless in the face of truth,’ Onrack said. ‘You are here before us. You exist. As do your memories.’

  ‘There have been Imass who have suffered exile,’ Monok Ochem rasped. ‘Yet still we speak of them. We must speak of them, to give warning to others. What value a tale if it is not instructive?’

  ‘A very enlightened view, Bonecaster. But mine are not an enlightened people. We care nothing for instruction. Nor, indeed, for truth. Our tales exist to give grandeur to the mundane. Or to give moments of great drama and significance an air of inevitability. Perhaps one might call that “instruction” but that is not their purpose. Every defeat justifies future victory. Every victory is propitious. The Tiste Edur make no misstep, for our dance is one of destiny.’

  ‘And you are no longer in that dance.’

  ‘Precisely, Onrack. Indeed, I never was.’

  ‘Your exile forces you to lie even to yourself, then,’ Onrack observed.

  ‘In a manner of speaking, that is true. I am therefore forced to reshape the tale, and that is a difficult thing. There was much of that time that I did not understand at first—certainly not when it occurred. Much of my knowledge did not come to me until much later—’

  ‘Following your Shorning.’

  Trull Sengar’s almond-shaped eyes narrowed on Onrack, then he nodded. ‘Yes.’

  As knowledge flowered before my mind’s eye in the wake of the Ritual of Tellann’s shattering. Very well, this I understand. ‘Prepare for the telling of your tale, Trull Sengar. If instruction can be found within it, recognition is the responsibility of those to whom the tale is told. You are absolved of the necessity.’

  Monok Ochem grunted, then said, ‘These words are spurious. Every story instructs. The teller ignores this truth at peril. Excise yourself from the history you would convey if you must, Trull Sengar. The only lesson therein is one of humility.’

  Trull Sengar grinned up at the bonecaster. ‘Fear not, I was never pivotal among the players. As for excision, well, that has already occurred, and so I would tell the tale of the Tiste Edur who dwelt north of Lether as would they themselves tell it. With one exception—which has, I admit, proved most problematic in my mind—and that is, there will be no aggrandizement in my telling. No revelling in glory, no claims of destiny or inevitability. I shall endeavour, then, to be other than the Tiste Edur I appear to be, to tear away my cultural identity and so cleanse the tale—’

  ‘Flesh does not lie,’ Monok Ochem said. ‘Thus, we are not deceived.’

  ‘Flesh may not lie, but the spirit can, Bonecaster. Instruct yourself in blindness and indifference—I in turn intend to attempt the same.’

  ‘When will you begin your tale?’

  ‘At the First Throne, Monok Ochem. Whilst we await the coming of the renegades . . . and their Tiste Edur allies.’

  Ibra Gholan reappeared with a broken-necked hare, which he skinned in a single gesture, then flung the blood-smeared body to the ground beside Trull Sengar. ‘Eat,’ the warrior instructed, tossing the skin aside.

  Onrack moved off while the Tiste Edur made preparations for a fire. He was, he reflected, disturbed by Trull Sengar’s words. The Shorning had made much of excising the physical traits that would identify Trull Sengar as Tiste Edur. The bald pate, the scarred brow. But these physical alterations were as nothing, it appeared, when compared to those forced upon the man’s spirit. Onrack realized that he had grown comfortable in Trull Sengar’s company, lulled, perhaps, by the Edur’s steady manner, his ease with hardship and extremity. Such comfort was deceiving, it now seemed. Trull Sengar’s calm was born of scars, of healing that left one insensate. His heart was incomplete. He is as a T’lan Imass, yet clothed in mortal flesh. We ask that he resurrect his memories of life, then wonder at his struggle to satisfy our demands. The failure is ours, not his.

  We speak of those we have exiled, yet not to warn—as Monok Ochem claims. No, nothing so noble. We speak of them in reaffirmation of our judgement. But it is our intransigence that finds itself fighting the fiercest war—with time itself, with the changing world around us.

  ‘I will preface my tale,’ Trull Sengar was saying as he roasted th
e skinned hare, ‘with an admittedly cautionary observation.’

  ‘Tell me this observation,’ Monok Ochem said.

  ‘I shall, Bonecaster. It concerns nature . . . and the exigency of maintaining a balance.’

  Had he possessed a soul, Onrack would have felt it grow cold as ice. As it was, the warrior slowly turned in the wake of Trull Sengar’s words.

  ‘Pressures and forces are ever in opposition,’ the Edur was saying as he rotated the spitted hare over the flames. ‘And the striving is ever towards a balance. This is beyond the gods, of course—it is the current of existence—but no, beyond even that, for existence itself is opposed by oblivion. It is a struggle that encompasses all, that defines every island in the Abyss. Or so I now believe. Life is answered by death. Dark by light. Overwhelming success by catastrophic failure. Horrific curse by breathtaking blessing. It seems the inclination of all people to lose sight of that truth, particularly when blinded by triumph upon triumph. See before me, if you will, this small fire. A modest victory . . . but if I feed it, my own eager delight is answered, until this entire plain is aflame, then the forest, then the world itself. Thus, an assertion of wisdom here . . . in the quenching of these flames once this meat is cooked. After all, igniting this entire world will also kill everything in it, if not in flames then in subsequent starvation. Do you see my point, Monok Ochem?’

  ‘I do not, Trull Sengar. This prefaces nothing.’

  Onrack spoke. ‘You are wrong, Monok Ochem. It prefaces . . . everything.’

  Trull Sengar glanced over, and answered with a smile.

  Of sadness overwhelming. Of utter . . . despair.

  And the undead warrior was shaken.

  A succession of ridges ribboned the landscape, seeming to slowly melt as sand drifted down from the sky.

  ‘Soon,’ Pearl murmured, ‘those beach ridges will vanish once more beneath dunes.’

  Lostara shrugged. ‘We’re wasting time,’ she pronounced, then set off towards the first ridge. The air was thick with settling dust and sand, stinging the eyes and parching the throat. Yet the haze served to draw the horizons closer, to make their discovery increasingly unlikely. The sudden demise of the Whirlwind Wall suggested that the Adjunct and her army had reached Raraku, were even now marching upon the oasis. She suspected that there would be few, if any, scouts patrolling the northeast approaches.