House of Chains


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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 the 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.

Pearl had announced that it was safe now to travel during the
day. The goddess had drawn inward, concentrating her power for,
perhaps, one final, explosive release. For the clash with the
Adjunct. A singularity of purpose locked in rage, a flaw that could
be exploited.

She allowed herself a private smile at that. Flaws. No
shortage of those hereabouts, is there? Their moment of wild
passion had passed, as far as she was concerned. The loosening of
long pent-up energies—now that it was done, they could concentrate
on other things. More important things. It seemed, however, that
Pearl saw it differently. He’d even tried to take her hand
this morning, a gesture that she decisively rebuffed despite its
pathos. The deadly assassin was on the verge of transforming into a
squirming pup—disgust threatened to overwhelm her, so she
shifted her thoughts onto another track.

They were running short on time, not to mention food and water.
Raraku was a hostile land, resentful of whatever life dared exploit
it. Not holy at all, but cursed. Devourer of dreams, destroyer
of ambitions. And why not? It’s a damned desert.

Clambering over the cobbles and stones, they reached the first
ridge.

‘We’re close,’ Pearl said, squinting ahead.
‘Beyond that higher terrace, we should come within sight of
the oasis.’

‘And then what?’ she asked, brushing dust from her
tattered clothes.

‘Well, it would be remiss of me not to take advantage of
our position—I should be able to infiltrate the camp and stir
up some trouble. Besides,’ he added, ‘one of the trails
I am on leads into the heart of that rebel army.’

The Talons. The master of that revived cult. ‘Are
you so certain of that?’

He nodded, then half shrugged. ‘Reasonably. I have come to
believe that the rebellion was compromised long ago, perhaps from
the very start. That the aim of winning independence for Seven
Cities was not quite as central to some as it should have been, and
indeed, that those hidden motives are about to be
unveiled.’

‘And it is inconceivable to you that such unveilings
should occur without your hand in their midst.’

He glanced at her. ‘My dear, you forget, I am an agent of
the Malazan Empire. I have certain
responsibilities . . .’

Her eyes lit on an object lying among the cobbles—a
momentary recognition, then her gaze quickly shifted away. She
studied the murky sky. ‘Has it not occurred to you that your
arrival might well jeopardize missions already under way in the
rebel camp? The Empress does not know you’re here. In fact,
even the Adjunct likely believes we are far away from this
place.’

‘I am not uncomfortable with a supporting
role—’

Lostara snorted.

‘Well,’ he amended, ‘such a role is not
entirely reprehensible. I can live with it.’

Liar. She settled down on one knee to adjust the
greaves lashed to her leather-clad shins. ‘We should be able
to make that terrace before the sun sets.’

‘Agreed.’

She straightened.

They made their way down the rock-studded slope. The ground was
littered with the tiny, shrivelled bodies of countless desert
creatures that had been swept up into the Whirlwind, dying within
that interminable storm yet remaining suspended within it until,
with the wind’s sudden death, falling to earth once more.
They had rained down for a full day, husks clattering and crunching
on all sides, pattering on her helm and skidding from her
shoulders. Rhizan, capemoths and other minuscule creatures, for the
most part, although occasionally something larger had thumped to
the ground. Lostara was thankful that the downpour had ended.

‘The Whirlwind has not been friendly to Raraku,’
Pearl commented, kicking aside the corpse of an infant
bhok’aral.

‘Assuming the desert cares one way or another, which it
doesn’t, I doubt it will make much difference in the long
run. A land’s lifetime is far vaster than anything with which
we are familiar, vaster, by far, than the spans of these hapless
creatures. Besides, Raraku is already mostly dead.’

‘Appearances deceive. There are deep spirits in this Holy
Desert, lass. Buried in the rock—’

‘And the life upon that rock, like the sands,’
Lostara asserted, ‘means nothing to those spirits. You are a
fool to think otherwise, Pearl.’

‘I am a fool to think many things,’ he muttered.

‘Do not expect me to object to that
observation.’

‘It never crossed my mind that you might, Lostara Yil. In
any case, I would none the less advise that you cultivate a healthy
respect for the mysteries of Raraku. It is far too easy to be
blindsided in this seemingly empty and lifeless desert.’

‘As we’ve already discovered.’

He frowned, then sighed. ‘I regret that you
view . . . things that way, and can only
conclude that you derive a peculiar satisfaction from discord, and
when it does not exist—or, rather, has no reason to
exist—you seek to invent it.’

‘You think too much, Pearl. It’s your most
irritating flaw, and, let us be honest, given the severity and
sheer volume of your flaws, that is saying something. Since this
seems to be a time for advice, I suggest you stop thinking
entirely.’

‘And how might I achieve that? Follow your lead,
perhaps?’

‘I think neither too much nor too little. I am perfectly
balanced—this is what you find so attractive. As a capemoth
is drawn to fire.’

‘So I am in danger of being burned up?’

‘To a blackened, shrivelled crust.’

‘So, you’re pushing me away for my own good. A
gesture of compassion, then.’

‘Fires neither push nor pull. They simply exist,
compassionless, indifferent to the suicidal urges of flitting bugs.
That is another one of your flaws, Pearl. Attributing emotion where
none exists.’

‘I could have sworn there was emotion, two nights
past—’

‘Oh, fire burns eagerly when there’s
fuel—’

‘And in the morning there’s naught but cold
ashes.’

‘Now you are beginning to understand. Of course, you will
see that as encouragement, and so endeavour to take your
understanding further. But that would be a waste of time, so I
suggest you abandon the effort. Be content with the glimmer,
Pearl.’

‘I see . . . murkily. Very well, I
will accept your list of advisements.’

‘You will? Gullibility is a most unattractive flaw,
Pearl.’

She thought he would scream, was impressed by his sudden
clamping of control, releasing his breath like steam beneath a
cauldron’s lid, until the pressure died away.

They approached the ascent to the last ridge, Lostara at her
most contented thus far this day, Pearl likely to be feeling
otherwise.

As they reached the crest the Claw spoke again. ‘What was
that you picked up on the last ridge, lass?’

Saw that, did you? ‘A shiny rock. Caught my eye.
I’ve since discarded it.’

‘Oh? So it no longer hides in that pouch on your
belt?’

Snarling, she plucked the leather bag from her belt and flung it
to the ground, then drew out her chain-backed gauntlets. ‘See
for yourself, then.’

He gave her a startled glance, then bent down to collect the
pouch.

As he straightened, Lostara stepped forward.

Her gauntlets cracked hard against Pearl’s temple.

Groaning, he collapsed unconscious.

‘Idiot,’ she muttered, retrieving the pouch.

She donned the gauntlets, then, with a grunt, lifted the man and
settled him over one shoulder.

Less than two thousand paces ahead lay the oasis, the air above
it thick with dust and the smoke of countless fires. Herds of goats
were visible along the fringes, in the shade of trees. The remnants
of a surrounding wall curved roughly away in both directions.

Carrying Pearl, Lostara made her way down the slope.

She was nearing the base when she heard horses off to her right.
Crouching down and thumping Pearl to the ground beside her, she
watched as a dozen desert warriors rode into view, coming from the
northwest. Their animals looked half starved, heads hanging low,
and she saw, among them, two prisoners.

Despite the dust covering them, and the gloom of approaching
dusk, Lostara recognized the remnants of uniforms on the two
prisoners. Malazans. Ashok Regiment. Thought they’d been
wiped out.

The warriors rode without outriders, and did not pause in their
steady canter until they reached the oasis, whereupon they vanished
beneath the leather-leaved branches of the trees.

Lostara looked around and decided that her present surroundings
were ideal for staying put for the night. A shallow basin in the
lee of the slope. By lying flat they would not be visible from
anywhere but the ridge itself, and even that was unlikely with
night fast falling. She checked on Pearl, frowning at the
purple-ringed bump on his temple. But his breathing was steady, the
beat of his heart unhurried and even. She laid out his cloak and
rolled him onto it, then bound and gagged him.

As gloom gathered in the basin, Lostara settled down to
wait.

Some time later a figure emerged from the shadows and stood
motionless for a moment before striding silently to halt directly
over Pearl.

Lostara heard a muted grunt. ‘You came close to cracking
open his skull.’

‘It’s harder than you think,’ she replied.

‘Was it entirely necessary?’

‘I judged it so. If you’ve no faith in that, then
why recruit me in the first place?’

Cotillion sighed. ‘He’s not a bad man, you know.
Loyal to the empire. You have sorely abused his
equanimity.’

‘He was about to interfere. Unpredictably. I assumed you
wished the path clear.’

‘Initially, yes. But I foresee a certain usefulness to his
presence, once matters fully . . . unfold. Be
sure to awaken him some time tomorrow night, if he has not already
done so on his own.’

‘Very well, since you insist. Although I am already deeply
fond of my newfound peace and solitude.’

Cotillion seemed to study her a moment, then the god said,
‘I will leave you then, since I have other tasks to attend to
this night.’

Lostara reached into the pouch and tossed a small object towards
him.

He caught it in one hand and peered down to study it.

‘I assumed that was yours,’ she said.

‘No, but I know to whom it belongs. And am pleased. May I
keep it?’

She shrugged. ‘It matters not to me.’

‘Nor should it, Lostara Yil.’

She heard a dry amusement in those words, and concluded that she
had made a mistake in letting him keep the object; that, indeed, it
did matter to her, though for the present she knew not
how. She shrugged again. Too late now, I suppose.
‘You said you were leaving?’

She sensed him bridling, then in a swirl of shadows he
vanished.

Lostara lay back on the stony ground and contentedly closed her
eyes.

The night breeze was surprisingly warm. Apsalar stood before the
small window overlooking the gully. Neither Mogora nor Iskaral Pust
frequented these heights much, except when necessity forced them to
undertake an excursion in search of food, and so her only company
was a half-dozen elderly bhok’arala, grey-whiskered and
grunting and snorting as they stiffly moved about on the
chamber’s littered floor. The scattering of bones suggested
that this top level of the tower was where the small creatures came
to die.

As the bhok’arala shuffled back and forth behind her, she
stared out onto the wastes. The sand and outcrops of limestone were
silver in the starlight. On the rough tower walls surrounding the
window rhizan were landing with faint slaps, done with their
feeding, and now, claws whispering, they began crawling into cracks
to hide from the coming day.

Crokus slept somewhere below, whilst resident husband and wife
stalked each other down the unlit corridors and in the musty
chambers of the monastery. She had never felt so alone, nor, she
realized, so comfortable with that solitude. Changes had come to
her. Hardened layers sheathing her soul had softened, found new
shape in response to unseen pressures from within.

Strangest of all, she had come, over time, to despise her
competence, her deadly skills. They had been imposed upon her,
forced into her bones and muscles. They had imprisoned her in
blinding, gelid armour. And so, despite the god’s absence,
she still felt as if she was two women, not one.

Leading her to wonder with which woman Crokus had fallen in
love.

But no, there was no mystery there. He had assumed the guise of
a killer, hadn’t he? The young wide-eyed thief from
Darujhistan had fashioned of himself a dire reflection—not of
Apsalar the fisher-girl, but of Apsalar the assassin, the cold
murderer. In the belief that likeness would forge the deepest bond
of all. Perhaps that would have succeeded, had she liked
her profession, had she not found it sordid and reprehensible. Had
it not felt like chains wrapped tight about her soul.

She was not comforted by company within her prison. His love was
for the wrong woman, the wrong Apsalar. And hers was for Crokus,
not Cutter. And so they were together, yet apart, intimate yet
strangers, and it seemed there was nothing they could do about
it.

The assassin within her preferred solitude, and the fisher-girl
had, from an entirely different path, come into a similar comfort.
The former could not afford to love. The latter knew she had never
been loved. Like Crokus, she stood in a killer’s shadow.

There was no point in railing against that. The fisher-girl had
no life-skills of a breadth and stature to challenge the
assassin’s implacable will. Probably, Crokus had similarly
succumbed to Cutter.

She sensed a presence close by her side, and murmured,
‘Would that you had taken all with you when you
departed.’

‘You’d rather I left you bereft?’

‘Bereft, Cotillion? No. Innocent.’

‘Innocence is only a virtue, lass, when it is temporary.
You must pass from it to look back and recognize its unsullied
purity. To remain innocent is to twist beneath invisible and
unfathomable forces all your life, until one day you realize that
you no longer recognize yourself, and it comes to you that
innocence was a curse that had shackled you, stunted you, defeated
your every expression of living.’

She smiled in the darkness. ‘But, Cotillion, it is
knowledge that makes one aware of his or her own chains.’

‘Knowledge only makes the eyes see what was there all
along, Apsalar. You are in possession of formidable skills. They
gift you with power, a truth there is little point in denying. You
cannot unmake yourself.’

‘But I can cease walking this singular path.’

‘You can,’ he acknowledged after a moment.
‘You can choose others, but even the privilege of choice was
won by virtue of what you were—’

‘What you were.’

‘Nor can that be changed. I walked in your bones, your
flesh, Apsalar. The fisher-girl who became a woman—we stood
in each other’s shadow.’

‘And did you enjoy that, Cotillion?’

‘Not particularly. It was difficult to remain mindful of
my purpose. We were in worthy company for most of that
time—Whiskeyjack, Mallet, Fiddler,
Kalam . . . a squad that, given the choice,
would have welcomed you. But I prevented them from doing so.
Necessary, but not fair to you or them.’ He sighed, then
continued, ‘I could speak endlessly of regrets, lass, but I
see dawn stealing the darkness, and I must have your
decision.’

‘My decision? Regarding what?’

‘Cutter.’

She studied the desert, found herself blinking back tears.
‘I would take him from you, Cotillion. I would prevent you
doing to him what you did to me.’

‘He is that important to you?’

‘He is. Not to the assassin within me, but to the
fisher-girl . . . whom he does not
love.’

‘Doesn’t he?’

‘He loves the assassin, and so chooses to be like
her.’

‘I understand now the struggle within you.’

‘Indeed? Then you must understand why I will not let you
have him.’

‘But you are wrong, Apsalar. Cutter does not love the
assassin within you. It attracts him, no doubt, because power does
that . . . to us all. And you possess power,
and that implicitly includes the option of not using it. All very
enticing, alluring. He is drawn to emulate what he sees as your
hard-won freedom. But his love? Resurrect our shared memories,
lass. Of Darujhistan, of our first brush with the thief, Crokus. He
saw that we had committed murder, and knew that discovery made his
life forfeit in our eyes. Did he love you then? No, that came
later, in the hills east of the city—when I no longer
possessed you.’

‘Love changes with time—’

‘Aye, it does, but not like a capemoth flitting from
corpse to corpse on a battlefield.’ He cleared his throat.
‘Very well, a poor choice of analogy. Love changes, aye, in
the manner of growing to encompass as much of its subject as
possible. Virtues, flaws, limitations, everything—love will fondle
them all, with child-like fascination.’

She had drawn her arms tight about herself with his words.
‘There are two women within me—’

‘Two? There are multitudes, lass, and Cutter loves them
all.’

‘I don’t want him to die!’

‘Is that your decision?’

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The sky was
lightening, transforming into a vast, empty space above a dead,
battered landscape. She saw birds climb the winds into its
expanse.

Cotillion persisted, ‘Do you know, then, what you must
do?’

Once again, Apsalar nodded.

‘I am . . . pleased.’

Her head snapped round, and she stared into his face, seeing it
fully, she realized, for the first time. The lines bracketing the
calm, soft eyes, the even features, the strange hatch pattern of
scars beneath his right eye. ‘Pleased,’ she whispered,
studying him. ‘Why?’

‘Because,’ he answered with a faint smile, ‘I
like the lad, too.’

‘How brave do you think I am?’

‘As brave as is necessary.’

‘Again.’

‘Aye. Again.’

‘You don’t seem much like a god at all,
Cotillion.’

‘I’m not a god in the traditional fashion, I am a
patron. Patrons have responsibilities. Granted, I rarely have the
opportunity to exercise them.’

‘Meaning they are not yet burdensome.’

His smile broadened, and it was a lovely smile. ‘You are
worth far more for your lack of innocence, Apsalar. I will see you
again soon.’ He stepped back into the shadows of the
chamber.

‘Cotillion.’

He paused, arms half raised. ‘Yes.’

‘Thank you. And take care of Cutter. Please.’

‘I will, as if he were my own son, Apsalar. I
will.’

She nodded, and then he was gone.

And, a short while later, so was she.

There were snakes in this forest of stone. Fortunately for Kalam
Mekhar, they seemed to lack the natural belligerence of their kind.
He was lying in shadows amidst the dusty, shattered fragments of a
toppled tree, motionless as serpents slithered around him and over
him. The stone was losing its chill from the night just past, a hot
wind drifting in from the desert beyond.

He had seen no sign of patrols, and little in the way of
well-trod trails. None the less, he sensed a presence in this
petrified forest, hinting of power that did not belong on this
world. Though he could not be certain, he sensed something demonic
about that power.

Sufficient cause for unease. Sha’ik might well have placed
guardians, and he would have to get past those.

The assassin lifted a flare-neck to one side then drew his two
long-knives. He examined the grips, ensuring that the leather
bindings were tight. He checked the fittings of the hilts and
pommels. The edge of the otataral long-knife’s blade was
slightly rough—otataral was not an ideal metal for weapons.
It cut ragged and needed constant sharpening, even when it had seen
no use, and the iron had a tendency to grow brittle over time.
Before the Malazan conquest, otataral had been employed by the
highborn of Seven Cities in their armour for the most part. Its
availability had been tightly regulated, although less so than when
under imperial control.

Few knew the full extent of its properties. When absorbed
through the skin or breathed into the lungs for long periods, its
effects were varied and unpredictable. It often failed in the face
of Elder magic, and there was another characteristic that Kalam
suspected few were aware of—a discovery made entirely by
accident during a battle outside Y’Ghatan. Only a handful of
witnesses survived the incident, Kalam and Quick Ben among them,
and all had agreed afterwards that their reports to their officers
would be deliberately vague, questions answered by shrugs and
shakes of the head.

Otataral, it seemed, did not go well with Moranth munitions,
particularly burners and flamers. Or, to put it another way, it
doesn’t like getting hot. He knew that weapons were
quenched in otataral dust at a late stage in their forging. When
the iron had lost its glow, in fact. Likely, blacksmiths had
arrived at that conclusion the hard way. But even that was not the
whole secret. It’s what happens to hot
otataral . . . when you throw magic at
it.

He slowly resheathed the weapon, then focused his attention on
the other. Here, the edge was smooth, slightly wavy as often
occurred with rolled, multi-layered blades. The water etching was
barely visible on this gleaming, black surface, the silver inlay
fine as thread. Between the two long-knives, he favoured this one,
for its weight and balance.

Something struck the ground beside him, bouncing with a pinging
sound off a fragment of tree trunk, then rattling to a stop down
beside his right knee.

Kalam stared at the small object for a moment. He then looked up
at the tree looming over him. He smiled. ‘Ah, an oak,’
he murmured. ‘Let it not be said I don’t appreciate the
humour of the gesture.’ He sat up and reached down to collect
the acorn. Then leaned back once more. ‘Just like old
times . . . glad, as always, that we
don’t do this sort of thing any
more . . .’

Plains to savanna, then, finally, jungle. They had arrived in
the wet season, and the morning suffered beneath a torrential
deluge before, just past noon, the sun burned through to lade the
air with steam as the three T’lan Imass and one Tiste Edur
trudged through the thick, verdant undergrowth.

Unseen animals fled their onward march, thrashing heavily
through the brush on all sides. Eventually, they stumbled onto a
game trail that led in the direction they sought, and their pace
increased.

‘This is not your natural territory, is it, Onrack?’
Trull Sengar asked between gasps of the humid, rank air.
‘Given all the furs your kind
wear . . .’

‘True,’ the T’lan Imass replied. ‘We are
a cold weather people. But this region exists within our memories.
Before the Imass, there was another people, older, wilder. They
dwelt where it was warm, and they were tall, their dark skins
covered in fine hair. These we knew as the Eres. Enclaves survived
into our time—the time captured within this
warren.’

‘And they lived in jungles like this one?’

‘Its verges, occasionally, but more often the surrounding
savannas. They worked in stone, but with less skill than
us.’

‘Were there bonecasters among them?’

Monok Ochem answered from behind them. ‘All Eres were
bone-casters, Trull Sengar. For they were the first to carry the
spark of awareness, the first so gifted by the spirits.’

‘And are they now gone, Monok Ochem?’

‘They are.’

Onrack added nothing to that. After all, if Monok Ochem found
reasons to deceive, Onrack could find none to contradict the
bone-caster. It did not matter in any case. No Eres had ever been
discovered in the Warren of Tellann.

After a moment, Trull Sengar asked, ‘Are we close,
Onrack?’

‘We are.’

‘And will we then return to our own world?’

‘We shall. The First Throne lies at the base of a
crevasse, beneath a city—’

‘The Tiste Edur,’ Monok Ochem cut in, ‘has no
need for learning the name of that city, Onrack the Broken. He
already knows too much of our people.’

‘What I know of you T’lan Imass hardly qualifies as
secrets,’ Trull Sengar said. ‘You prefer killing to
negotiation. You do not hesitate to murder gods when the
opportunity arises. And you prefer to clean up your own
messes—laudable, this last one. Unfortunately, this
particular mess is too big, though I suspect you are still too
proud to admit to that. As for your First Throne, I am not
interested in discovering its precise location. Besides, I’m
not likely to survive the clash with your renegade kin.’

‘That is true,’ Monok Ochem agreed.

‘You will likely make sure of it,’ Trull Sengar
added.

The bonecaster said nothing.

There was no need to, Onrack reflected. But I shall defend
him. Perhaps Monok and Ibra understand this, and so they will
strike at me first. It is what I would do, were I in their place.
Which, oddly enough, I am.

The trail opened suddenly into a clearing filled with bones.
Countless beasts of the jungle and savanna had been dragged here
by, Onrack surmised, leopards or hyenas. The longbones he noted
were all gnawed and split open by powerful jaws. The air reeked of
rotted flesh and flies swarmed in the thousands.

‘The Eres did not fashion holy sites of their own,’
Monok Ochem said, ‘but they understood that there were places
where death gathered, where life was naught but memories, drifting
lost and bemused. And, to such places, they would often bring their
own dead. Power gathers in layers—this is the birthplace of
the sacred.’

‘And so you have transformed it into a gate,’ Trull
Sengar said.

‘Yes,’ the bonecaster replied.

‘You are too eager to credit the Imass, Monok
Ochem,’ Onrack said. He faced the Tiste Edur. ‘Eres
holy sites burned through the barriers of Tellann. They are too old
to be resisted.’

‘You said their sanctity was born of death. Are they
Hood’s, then?’

‘No. Hood did not exist when these were fashioned, Trull
Sengar. Nor are they strictly death-aspected. Their power comes, as
Monok Ochem said, from layers. Stone shaped into tools and weapons.
Air shaped by throats. Minds that discovered, faint as flickering
fires in the sky, the recognition of oblivion, of an
end . . . to life, to love. Eyes that
witnessed the struggle to survive, and saw with wonder its
inevitable failure. To know and to understand that we must all die,
Trull Sengar, is not to worship death. To know and to understand is
itself magic, for it made us stand tall.’

‘It seems, then,’ Trull Sengar muttered, ‘that
you Imass have broken the oldest laws of all, with your
Vow.’

‘Neither Monok Ochem nor Ibra Gholan will speak in answer
to that truth,’ Onrack said. ‘You are right, however.
We are the first lawbreakers, and that we have survived this long
is fit punishment. And so, it remains our hope that the Summoner
will grant us absolution.’

‘Faith is a dangerous thing,’ Trull Sengar sighed.
‘Well, shall we make use of this gate?’

Monok Ochem gestured, and the scene around them blurred, the
light fading.

A moment before the darkness became absolute, a faint shout from
the Tiste Edur drew Onrack’s attention. The warrior turned,
in time to see a figure standing a dozen paces away. Tall, lithely
muscled, with a fine umber-hued pelt and long, shaggy hair reaching
down past the shoulders. A woman. Her breasts were large and
pendulous, her hips wide and full. Prominent, flaring cheekbones, a
broad, full-lipped mouth. All this registered in an instant, even
as the woman’s dark brown eyes, shadowed beneath a solid
brow, scanned across the three T’lan Imass before fixing on
Trull Sengar.

She took a step towards the Tiste Edur, the movement graceful as
a deer’s—

Then the light vanished entirely.

Onrack heard another surprised shout from Trull Sengar. The
T’lan Imass strode towards the sound, then halted, thoughts
suddenly scattering, a flash of images cascading through the
warrior’s mind. Time folding in on itself, sinking away, then
rising once more—

Sparks danced low to the ground, tinder caught, flames
flickering.

They were in the crevasse, standing on its littered floor.
Onrack looked for Trull Sengar, found the Tiste Edur lying prone on
the damp rock a half-dozen paces away.

The T’lan Imass approached.

The mortal was unconscious. There was blood smearing his lap,
pooling beneath his crotch, and Onrack could see it cooling,
suggesting that it did not belong to Trull Sengar, but to the Eres
woman who had . . . taken his seed.

His first seed. But there had been nothing to her
appearance suggesting virginity. Her breasts had swollen with milk
in the past; her nipples had known the pressure of a pup’s
hunger. The blood, then, made no sense.

Onrack crouched beside Trull Sengar.

And saw the fresh wound of scarification beneath his belly
button. Three parallel cuts, drawn across diagonally, and the
stained imprints of three more—likely those the woman had cut
across her own belly—running in the opposite direction.

‘The Eres witch has stolen his seed,’ Monok Ochem
said from two paces away.

‘Why?’ Onrack asked.

‘I do not know, Onrack the Broken. The Eres have the minds
of beasts—’

‘Not to the exclusion of all else,’ Onrack replied,
‘as you well know.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Clearly, this one had intent.’

Monok Ochem nodded. ‘So it would seem. Why does the Tiste
Edur remain unconscious?’

‘His mind is elsewhere—’

The bonecaster cocked its head. ‘Yes, that is the
definition of unconscious—’

‘No, it is elsewhere. When I stepped close, I
came into contact with sorcery. That which the Eres projected. For
lack of any other term, it was a warren, barely formed, on the very
edge of oblivion. It was,’ Onrack paused, then continued,
‘like the Eres themselves. A glimmer of light behind the
eyes.’

Ibra Gholan suddenly drew his weapon.

Onrack straightened.

There were sounds, now, beyond the fire’s light, and the
T’lan Imass could see the glow of flesh and blood bodies, a
dozen, then a score. Something else approached, the footfalls
uneven and shambling.

A moment later, an aptorian demon loomed into the light, a shape
unfolding like black silk. And riding its humped, singular
shoulder, a youth. Its body was human, yet its face held the
features of the aptorian—a massive, lone eye, glistening and
patterned like honeycomb. A large mouth, now opening to reveal
needle fangs that seemed capable of retracting, all but their tips
vanishing from sight. The rider wore black leather armour, shaped
like scales and overlapping. A chest harness bore at least a dozen
weapons, ranging from long-knives to throwing darts. Affixed to the
youth’s belt were two single-hand crossbows, their grips
fashioned from the base shafts of antlers.

The rider leaned forward over the spiny, humped shoulder. Then
spoke in a low, rasping voice. ‘Is this all that Logros can
spare?’

‘You,’ Monok Ochem said, ‘are not
welcome.’

‘Too bad, Bonecaster, for we are here. To guard the First
Throne.’

Onrack asked, ‘Who are you, and who has sent you
here?’

‘I am Panek, son of Apt. It is not for me to answer your
other question, T’lan Imass. I but guard the outer ward. The
chamber that is home to the First Throne possesses an inner
warden—the one who commands us. Perhaps she can answer you.
Perhaps, even, she will.’

Onrack picked up Trull Sengar. ‘We would speak with her,
then.’

Panek smiled, revealing the crowded row of fangs. ‘As I
said, the Throne Room. No doubt,’ he added, smile broadening,
‘you know the way.’



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