House of Chains


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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Power has voice, and that voice is the Song of the Tanno
Spiritwalker.

Kimloc

HE AWOKE TO A FAINT, DAMP NUZZLING AGAINST HIS SIDE. EYES slowly
opened, head tilted downward, to see a bhok’aral pup, patchy
with some sort of skin infection, curled against his stomach.

Kalam sat up, suppressing the urge to grab the creature by the
neck and fling it against a wall. Compassion was not the
consideration, of course. Rather, it was the fact that this
subterranean temple was home to hundreds, perhaps even thousands of
bhok’arala, and the creatures possessed a complex social
structure—harm this pup and Kalam might find himself beneath
a swarm of bull males. And small as the beasts were, they had
canines to rival a bear’s. Even so, he fought to contain his
revulsion as he gently pushed the mottled pup away.

It mewled pathetically and looked up at him with huge, liquid
eyes.

‘Don’t even try,’ the assassin muttered,
slipping free of the furs and rising. Flecks of mouldy skin covered
his midriff, and the thin woollen shirt was sodden from the
pup’s runny nose. Kalam removed the shirt and flung it into a
corner of the small chamber.

He’d not seen Iskaral Pust in over a week. Apart from
occasional tingling sensations at the tips of his fingers and toes,
he was more or less recovered from the enkar’al demon’s
attack. Kalam had delivered the diamonds and was now chafing to
leave.

Faint singing echoed from the hallway. The assassin shook his
head. Maybe one day Mogora will get it right, but in the
meantime . . . gods below, it grates! He
strode to his tattered backpack and rummaged inside until he found
a spare shirt.

Sudden thumping sounded outside his door, and he turned in time
to see it flung open. Mogora stood framed in the doorway, a wooden
bucket in one hand, a mop in the other. ‘Was he here? Just
now? Was he here? Tell me!’

‘I haven’t seen him in days,’ Kalam
replied.

‘He has to clean the kitchen!’

‘Is this all you do, Mogora? Chase after Iskaral
Fust’s shadow?’

‘All!’ The word was a shriek. She stormed
up to him, mop thrust forward like a weapon. ‘Am I
the only one using the kitchen! No!’

Kalam stepped back, wiping spittle from his face, but the Dal
Honese woman advanced.

‘And you! Do you think your
suppers arrive all by themselves? Do you think the shadow gods
simply conjure them out of thin air? Did I invite you
here? Are you my guest? Am I your serving wench?’

‘Gods forbid—’

‘Be quiet! I’m talking, not you!’ She thrust
the mop and bucket into Kalam’s hands, then, spying the
bhok’aral pup curled up on the cot, dropped into a predatory
crouch and edged closer, fingers hooked. ‘There you
are,’ she murmured. ‘Leave your skin everywhere, will
you? Not for much longer!’

Kalam stepped into her path. ‘Enough, Mogora. Get out of
here.’

‘Not without my pet.’

‘Pet? You’re intending to wring its neck,
Mogora!’

‘So?’

He set the mop and bucket down. I can’t believe
this. I’m defending a mangy
bhok’aral . . . from a D’ivers
witch.

There was movement in the doorway. Kalam gestured. ‘Look
behind you, Mogora. Harm this pup and you’ll have to face
them.’

She spun, then hissed. ‘Scum! Iskaral’s
beget—always spying! That’s how he hides—using
them!’

With a ululating scream she charged into the doorway. The
bhok’arala massed there shrieked in answer and scattered,
although Kalam saw one dart between her legs and leap onto the cot.
It scooped the pup up under one arm then bolted for the
corridor.

Mogora’s wailing cries dwindled as she continued her
pursuit.

‘Hee hee.’

Kalam turned.

Iskaral Pust emerged from the shadows in the far corner. He was
covered in dust, a sack draped over one bony shoulder.

The assassin scowled. ‘I’ve waited long enough in
this madhouse, Priest.’

‘Indeed you have.’ He cocked his head, tugging at
one of the few wisps of hair that remained on his pate.
‘I’m done and he can go, yes? I should be kindly, open,
scattering gold dust to mark his path out into the waiting world.
He’ll suspect nothing. He’ll believe he leaves of his
own free will. Precisely as it should be.’ Iskaral Pust
suddenly smiled, then held out the sack. ‘Here, a few
diamonds for you. Spend them here and there, spend them everywhere!
But remember, you must breach the Whirlwind—into the heart of
Raraku, yes?’

‘That is my intent,’ Kalam growled, accepting the
sack and stuffing it into his own backpack. ‘We do not
proceed at cross-purposes, Priest, although I realize you’d
rather we did, given your perverse mind. Even
so . . . breach the
Whirlwind . . . without being detected. How
will I manage that?’

‘With the help of Shadowthrone’s chosen mortal.
Iskaral Pust, High Priest and Master of Rashan and Meanas and Thyr!
The Whirlwind is a goddess, and her eyes cannot be everywhere. Now,
quickly collect your belongings. We must leave! She’s coming
back, and I’ve made another mess in the kitchen!
Hurry!’

They emerged from the warren of shadow beneath a large
outcropping, in daylight, less than a hundred paces from the raging
wall of the Whirlwind. After three strides forward Kalam reached
out and grabbed the priest by the arm and spun him round.

‘That singing? Where in Hood’s name is that singing
coming from, Iskaral? I’d heard it in the monastery and
thought it was Mogora—’

‘Mogora can’t sing, you fool! I hear nothing,
nothing but the wild winds and the hiss of sands! You are mad! Is
he mad? Yes, possibly. No, likely. The sun broiled his brain in
that thick skull. A gradual dissolution—but of course not, of
course not. It’s the Tanno song, that’s what it is.
Even so, he’s probably still mad. Two entirely separate
issues. The song. And his madness. Distinct, unrelated, both
equally confounding of all that my masters plan. Or potentially so.
Potentially. There is no certainty, not in this damned land,
especially not here. Restless Raraku. Restless!’

With a snarl, Kalam pushed the man away, began walking towards
the wall of the Whirlwind. After a moment, Iskaral Pust
followed.

‘Tell me how we’re going to manage this,
Priest.’

‘It’s simple, really. She’ll know the breach.
Like a knife stab. That cannot be avoided. Thus, misdirection! And
there is none better at misdirection than Iskaral Pust!’

They arrived to within twenty paces of the seething wall of
sand. Swirling clouds of dust engulfed them. Iskaral Pust moved
close, revealing a grin filled with grit. ‘Hold tight, Kalam
Mekhar!’ Then he vanished.

A massive shape loomed over the assassin, and he was suddenly
gathered up in a swarm of arms.

The azalan.

Running, now, flowing faster than any horse along the edge of
the Whirlwind Wall. The demon tucked Kalam close under its
torso—then plunged through.

A thundering roar filled the assassin’s ears, sand
flailing against his skin. He squeezed shut his eyes.

Multiple thuds, and the azalan was racing across packed sand.
Ahead lay the ruins of a city.

Fire flared beneath the demon, a path of flames raging in its
wake.

The raised tel of the dead city rose before them. The azalan did
not even slow, swarming up the ragged wall. A fissure loomed, not
large enough for the demon—but sufficient for Kalam.

He was flung into the crack as the azalan flowed over it.
Landing heavily amidst rubble and potsherds. Deep in the
fissure’s shadow.

Sudden thunder overhead, shaking the rock. Then again and again,
seeming to stitch a path back towards the wall of sand. The
detonations then ceased, and only the roar of the Whirlwind
remained.

I think he made it back out. Fast bastard.

The assassin remained motionless for a time, wondering if the
ruse had succeeded. Either way, he would wait for night before
venturing out.

He could no longer hear the song. Something to be grateful
for.

The walls of the fissure revealed layer upon layer of potsherds
on one side, a sunken and heaved section of cobblestone street on
another, and the flank of a building’s interior
wall—the plaster chipped and scarred—on the last. The
rubble beneath him was loose and felt deep.

Checking his weapons, Kalam settled down to wait.

Apsalar in his arms, Cutter emerged from the gateway. The
woman’s weight sent waves of pain through his bruised
shoulder, and he did not think he would be able to carry her for
long.

Thirty paces ahead, at the edge of the clearing where the two
trails converged, lay scores of corpses. And in their midst stood
Cotillion.

Cutter walked over to the shadow god. The Tiste Edur lay heaped
in a ring around a clear spot off to the left, but
Cotillion’s attention seemed to be on one body in particular,
lying at his feet. As the Daru approached, the god slowly settled
down into a crouch, reaching out to brush hair back from the
corpse’s face.

It was the old witch, Cutter saw, the one who had been burned.
The one I thought was the source of power in the Malazan party.
But it wasn’t her. It was Traveller. He halted a few
paces away, brought up short by Cotillion’s expression, the
ravaged look that made him suddenly appear twenty years older. The
gloved hand that had swept the hair back now caressed the dead
woman’s scorched face.

‘You knew her?’ Cutter asked.

‘Hawl,’ he replied after a moment. ‘I’d thought
Surly had taken them all out. None of the Talon’s command
left. I thought she was dead.’

‘She is.’ Then he snapped his mouth shut. A
damned miserable thing to say—

‘I made them good at hiding,’ Cotillion went on,
eyes still on the woman lying in the bloody, trampled grass.
‘Good enough to hide even from me, it seems.’

‘What do you think she was doing here?’

Cotillion flinched slightly. ‘The wrong question, Cutter.
Rather, why was she with Traveller? What is the Talon up to? And
Traveller . . . gods, did he know who she was?
Of course he did—oh, she’s aged and not well, but even
so . . .’

‘You could just ask him,’ Cutter murmured, grunting
as he shifted Apsalar’s weight in his arms. ‘He’s
in the courtyard behind us, after all.’

Cotillion reached down to the woman’s neck and lifted into
view something strung on a thong. A yellow-stained talon of some
sort. He pulled it loose, studied it for a moment, then twisted
round and flung it towards Cutter.

It struck his chest, then fell to lie in Apsalar’s
lap.

The Daru stared down at it for a moment, then looked up and met
the god’s eyes.

‘Go to the Edur ship, Cutter. I am sending you two to
another . . . agent of ours.’

‘To do what?’

‘To wait. In case you are needed.’

‘For what?’

‘To assist others in taking down the Master of the
Talon.’

‘Do you know where he or she is?’

He lifted Hawl into his arms and straightened. ‘I have a
suspicion. Now, finally, a suspicion about all of this.’ He
turned, the frail figure held lightly in his arms, and studied
Cutter for a moment. A momentary, wan smile. ‘Look at the two
of us,’ he said, then he swung away and began walking towards
the forest trail.

Cutter stared after him.

Then shouted: ‘It’s not the same! It’s
not!’ We’re not—

The forest shadows swallowed the god.

Cutter hissed a curse, then he turned to the trail that led down
to the shoreline.

The god Cotillion walked on until he reached a small glade off
to one side of the path. He carried his burden into its centre, and
gently set her down.

A host of shadows spun into being opposite, until the vague,
insubstantial form of Shadowthrone slowly resolved itself. For a
change, the god said nothing for a long time.

Cotillion knelt beside Hawl’s body. ‘Traveller is here,
Ammanas. In the Edur ruins.’

Ammanas grunted softly, then shrugged. ‘He’ll have
no interest in answering our questions. He never did. Stubborn as
any Dal Honese.’

‘You’re Dal Honese,’ Cotillion observed.

‘Precisely.’ Ammanas slipped noiselessly forward
until he was on the other side of the corpse. ‘It’s
her, isn’t it.’

‘It is.’

‘How many times do our followers have to die,
Cotillion?’ the god asked, then sighed. ‘Then again,
she clearly ceased being a follower some time ago.’

‘She thought we were gone, Ammanas. The Emperor and
Dancer. Gone. Dead.’

‘And in a way, she was right.’

‘In a way, aye. But not in the most important
way.’

‘Which is?’

Cotillion glanced up, then grimaced. ‘She was a
friend.’

‘Ah, that most important way.’ Ammanas was silent
for a moment, then he asked, ‘Will you pursue
this?’

‘I see little choice. The Talon is up to something. We
need to stop them—’

‘No, friend. We need to ensure that they fail.
Have you found a . . . trail?’

‘More than that. I’ve realized who is masterminding
the whole thing.’

Shadowthrone’s hooded head cocked slightly. ‘And
that is where Cutter and Apsalar are going now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are they sufficient?’

Cotillion shook his head. ‘I have other agents available.
But I would Apsalar be relatively close, in case something goes
wrong.’

Ammanas nodded. ‘So, where?’

‘Raraku.’

Though he could not see it, Cotillion knew that his
companion’s face was splitting into a broad grin. ‘Ah,
dear Rope, time’s come, I think, that I should tell you more
of my own endeavours . . .’

‘The diamonds I gave Kalam? I’d wondered about
those.’

Ammanas gestured at Hawl’s corpse. ‘Let us take her
home—our home, that is. And then we must
speak . . . at length.’

Cotillion nodded.

‘Besides,’ Shadowthrone added as he straightened,
‘Traveller being so close by makes me nervous.’

A moment later, the glade was empty, barring a few sourceless
shadows that swiftly dwindled into nothing.

Cutter reached the sandstone shoreline. Four runners had been
pulled up on the flat, grainy shelf of rock. Anchored in the bay
beyond were two large dromons, both badly damaged.

Around the runners gear lay scattered, and two huge trees had
been felled and dragged close—probably intended to replace
the snapped masts. Barrels containing salted fish had been
broached, while other casks stood in a row nearby, refilled with
fresh water.

Cutter set Apsalar down, then approached one of the runners.
They were about fifteen paces from bow to stern, broad of beam with
an unstepped mast and side-mounted steering oar. There were two
oarlocks to a side. The gunnels were crowded with riotous
carvings.

A sudden coughing fit from Apsalar swung him round.

She bolted upright, spat to clear her throat, then wrapped her
arms about herself as shivering racked through her.

Cutter quickly returned to her side.

‘D-Darist?’

‘Dead. But so are all the Edur. There was one among the
Malazans . . .’

‘The one of power. I felt him.
Such . . . anger!’

Cutter went over to the nearest water cask, found a ladle. He
dipped it full and walked back. ‘He called himself
Traveller.’

‘I know him,’ she whispered, then shuddered.
‘Not my memories. Dancer’s. Dancer knew him. Knew him
well. They were . . . three. It was never just
the two of them—did you know that? Never just Dancer and
Kellanved. No, he was there. Almost from the very
beginning. Before Tayschrenn, before Dujek, before even
Surly.’

‘Well, it makes no difference now, Apsalar,’ Cutter
said. ‘We need to leave this damned island—Traveller
can have it, as far as I’m concerned. Are you recovered
enough to help me get one of these runners into the water?
We’ve a bounty in supplies, too—’

‘Where are we going?’

He hesitated.

Her dark eyes flattened. ‘Cotillion.’

‘Another task for us, aye.’

‘Do not walk this path, Crokus.’

He scowled. ‘I thought you’d appreciate the
company.’ He offered her the ladle.

She studied him for a long moment, then slowly accepted it.

‘Pan’potsun Hills.’

‘I know,’ Lostara drawled.

Pearl smiled. ‘Of course you would. And now, at last, you
discover the reason I asked you along—’

‘Wait a minute. You couldn’t have known where this
trail would lead—’

‘Well, true, but I have faith in blind nature’s
penchant for cycles. In any case, is there a buried city
nearby?’

‘Nearby? You mean, apart from the one we’re standing
on?’ She was pleased to see his jaw drop. ‘What did you
think all these flat-topped hills were, Claw?’

He loosened his cloak. ‘Then again, this place will suit
just fine.’

‘For what?’

He cast her a sardonic glance. ‘Well, dear, a ritual. We
need to find a trail, a sorcerous one, and it’s old. Did you
imagine we would just wander directionless through this wasteland
in the hopes of finding something?’

‘Odd, I thought that was what we’ve been doing for
days.’

‘Just getting some distance between us and that damned
Imass head,’ he replied, walking over to a flat stretch of
stone, where he began kicking it clear of rubble. ‘I could
feel its unhuman eyes on us all the way across that
valley.’

‘Him and the vultures, aye.’ She tilted her head
back and studied the cloudless sky. ‘Still with us, in fact.
Those damned birds. Not surprising. We’re almost out of
water, with even less food. In a day or two we’ll be in
serious trouble.’

‘I will leave such mundane worries with you,
Lostara.’

‘Meaning, if all else fails, you can always kill and eat
me, right? But what if I decide to kill you first? Obsessed as I am
with mundane worries.’

The Claw settled down into a crosslegged position.
‘It’s become much cooler here, don’t you think? A
localized phenomenon, I suspect. Although I would imagine that some
measure of success in the ritual I am about to enact should warm
things up somewhat.’

‘If only the excitement of disbelief,’ Lostara
muttered, walking over to the edge of the tel and looking
southwestward to where the red wall of the Whirlwind cut a curving
slash across the desert. Behind her, she heard muted words, spoken
in some language unknown to her. Probably gibberish. I’ve
seen enough mages at work to know they don’t need
words . . . not unless they’re
performing. Pearl was probably doing just that. He was one for
poses, even while affecting indifference to his audience of one.
A man seeking his name in tomes of history. Some crucial role
upon which the fate of the empire pivots.

She turned as he slapped dust from hands, and saw him rising, a
troubled frown on his all-too-handsome face.

‘That didn’t take long,’ she said.

‘No.’ Even he sounded surprised. ‘I was
fortunate indeed. A local earth spirit was
killed . . . close by. By a confluence of dire
fates, an incidental casualty. Its ghost lingers, like a child
seeking lost parents, and so would speak to any and every stranger
who happens by, provided that stranger is prepared to
listen.’

Lostara grunted. ‘All right, and what did it have to
say?’

‘A terrible incident—well, the terrible
incident, the one that killed the spirit—the details of which
lead me to conclude there is some connec—’

‘Good,’ she interrupted. ‘Lead on, we’re
wasting time.’

He fell silent, giving her a wounded look that might well have
been sincere. I asked the question, I should at least
let him answer it.

A gesture, and he was making his way down the tel’s steep,
stepped side.

She shouldered her pack and followed.

Reaching the base, the Claw led her around its flank and
directly southward across a stony flat. The sunlight bounced from
its bleached surface with a fierce, blinding glare. Barring a few
ants scurrying underfoot, there was no sign of life on this
withered stretch of ground. Small stones lay in elongated clusters
here and there, as if describing the shorelines of a dying lake, a
lake that had dwindled into a scatter of pools, leaving nothing but
crusted salt.

They walked on through the afternoon, until a ridge of hills
became visible to the southwest, with another massive mesa rising
to its left. The flat began to form a discernible basin that seemed
to continue on between the two formations. With dusk only moments
away, they reached the even base of that descent, the mesa looming
on their left, the broken hill ahead and to their right.

Towards the centre of this flat lay the wreckage of a
trader’s wagon, surrounded by scorched ground where white
ashes spun in small vortices that seemed incapable of going
anywhere.

Pearl leading, they strode into the strange burned circle.

The ashes were filled with tiny bones, burned white and grey by
some intense heat, crunching underfoot. Bemused, Lostara crouched
down to study them. ‘Birds?’ she wondered aloud.

Pearl’s gaze was on the wagon or, perhaps, something just
beyond it. At her question he shook his head. ‘No, lass.
Rats.’

She saw a tiny skull lying at her feet, confirming his words.
‘There are rats of a sort, in the rocky
areas—’

He glanced over at her. ‘These
are—were—D’ivers. A particularly unpleasant
individual named Gryllen.’

‘He was slain here?’

‘I don’t think so. Badly hurt, perhaps.’ Pearl
walked over to a larger heap of ash, and squatted to sweep it
away.

Lostara approached.

He was uncovering a corpse, nothing but bones—and those
bones were all terribly gnawed.

‘Poor bastard.’

Pearl said nothing. He reached down into the collapsed skeleton
and lifted into view a small chunk of metal. ‘Melted,’
he muttered after a moment, ‘but I’d say it’s a
Malazan sigil. Mage cadre.’

There were four additional heaps similar to that which had
hidden the chewed bones. Lostara walked to the nearest one and
began kicking the ash away.

‘This one’s whole!’ she hissed, seeing
fire-blackened flesh.

Pearl came over. Together, they brushed the corpse clear from
the hips upward. Its clothing had been mostly burned off, and fire
had raced across the skin but had seemed incapable of doing much
more than scorch the surface.

As the Claw swept the last of the ash from the corpse’s
face, its eyes opened.

Cursing, Lostara leapt back, one hand sweeping her sword free of
its scabbard.

‘It’s all right,’ Pearl said, ‘this thing
isn’t going anywhere, lass.’

Behind the corpse’s wrinkled, collapsed lids, there were
only gaping pits. Its lips had peeled back with desiccation,
leaving it with a ghastly, blackened grin.

‘What remains?’ Pearl asked it. ‘Can you still
speak?’

Faint sounds rasped from it, forcing Pearl to lean closer.

‘What did it say?’ Lostara demanded.

The Claw glanced back at her. ‘He said, “I am named
Clam, and I died a terrible death.” ’

‘No argument there—’

‘And then he became an undead porter.’

‘For Gryllen?’

‘Aye.’

She sheathed her tulwar. ‘That seems a singularly
unpleasant profession following death.’

Pearl’s brows rose, then he smiled. ‘Alas, we
won’t get much more from dear old Clam. Nor the others. The
sorcery holding them animate fades. Meaning Gryllen is either dead
or a long way away. In any case, recall the warren of fire—it
was unleashed here, in a strange manner. And it left us a
trail.’

‘It’s too dark, Pearl. We should camp.’

‘Here?’

She reconsidered, then scowled in the gloom. ‘Perhaps not,
but none the less I am weary, and if we’re looking for signs,
we’ll need daylight in any case.’

Pearl strode from the circle of ash. A gesture and a sphere of
light slowly formed in the air above him. ‘The trail does not
lead far, I believe. One last task, Lostara. Then we can find
somewhere to camp.’

‘Oh, very well. Lead on, Pearl.’

Whatever signs he followed, they were not visible to Lostara.
Even stranger, it seemed to be a weaving, wandering one, a detail
that had the Claw frowning, his steps hesitant, cautious. Before
too long, he was barely moving at all, edging forward by the
smallest increments. And she saw that his face was beaded with
sweat.

She bit back on her questions, but slowly drew her sword once
more.

Then, finally, they came to another corpse.

The breath whooshed from Pearl, and he sank down to his knees in
front of the large, burned body.

She waited until his breathing slowed, then cleared her throat
and said, ‘What just happened, Pearl?’

‘Hood was here,’ he whispered.

‘Aye, I can well see that—’

‘No, you don’t understand.’ He reached out to
the corpse, his hand closing into a fist above its broad chest,
then punched down.

The body was simply a shell. It collapsed with a dusty crunch
beneath the blow.

He glared back at her. ‘Hood was here. The god
himself, Lostara. Came to take this man—not just his soul,
but also the flesh—all that had been infected by the warren
of fire—the warren of light, to be more precise. Gods, what I
would do for a Deck of Dragons right now. There’s been a
change in
Hood’s . . . household.’

‘And what is the significance of all this?’ she
asked. ‘I thought we were looking for Felisin.’

‘You’re not thinking, lass. Remember Stormy’s
tale. And Truth’s. Felisin, Heboric, Kulp and Baudin. We
found what was left of Kulp back at Gryllen’s wagon. And
this’—his gesture was fierce—‘is Baudin.
The damned Talon—though the proof’s not around his
neck, alas. Remember their strange skin? Gesler, Stormy, Truth? The
same thing happened to Baudin, here.’

‘You called it an infection.’

‘Well, I don’t know what it is. That warren
changed them. There’s no telling in what
way.’

‘So, we’re left with Felisin and Heboric Light
Touch.’

He nodded.

‘Then I feel I should tell you something,’ Lostara
continued. ‘It may not be
relevant . . .’

‘Go on, lass.’

She turned to face the hills to the southwest. ‘When we
trailed that agent of
Sha’ik’s . . . into those
hills—’

‘Kalam Mekhar.’

‘Aye. And we ambushed Sha’ik up at the old temple at
the summit—on the trail leading into Raraku—’

‘As you have described.’

She ignored his impatience. ‘We would have seen all this.
Thus, the events we’ve just stumbled upon here occurred after
our ambush.’

‘Well, yes.’

She sighed and crossed her arms. ‘Felisin and Heboric are
with the army of the Apocalpyse, Pearl. In Raraku.’

‘What makes you so certain?’

She shrugged. ‘Where else would they be? Think, man.
Felisin’s hatred of the Malazan Empire must be all-consuming.
Nor would Heboric hold much love for the empire that imprisoned and
condemned him. They were desperate, after Gryllen’s attack.
After Baudin and Kulp died. Desperate, and probably
hurting.’

He slowly nodded, straightened from his crouch beside the
corpse. ‘One thing you’ve never explained to me,
Lostara. Why did your ambush fail?’

‘It didn’t. We killed Sha’ik—I would
swear to it. A quarrel in the forehead. We could not recover the
body because of her guards, who proved too much for our company. We
killed her, Pearl.’

‘Then who in Hood’s name is commanding the
Apocalypse?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can you show me this place of ambush?’

‘In the morning, aye. I can take you right there.’
He simply stared at her, even as the sphere of light above them
began to waver, then finally vanished with a faint sigh.

His memories had awakened. What had lain within the T’lan
Imass, layered, indurated by the countless centuries, was a
landscape Onrack could read once more. And so, what he saw before
him now . . . gone were the mesas on the
horizon, the wind-sculpted towers of sandstone, the sweeps of
windblown sand and white ribbons of ground coral. Gone the gorges,
arroyos and dead riverbeds, the planted fields and irrigation
ditches. Even the city to the north, on the horizon’s very
edge, clinging like a tumour to the vast winding river, became
insubstantial, ephemeral to his mind’s eye.

And all that he now saw was as it had
been . . . so very long ago.

The inland sea’s cloudy waves, rolling like the promise of
eternity, along a shoreline of gravel that stretched north,
unbroken all the way to the mountains that would one day be called
the Thalas, and south, down to encompass the remnant now known as
the Clatar Sea. Coral reefs revealed their sharkskin spines a sixth
of a league beyond the beach, over which wheeled seagulls and
long-beaked birds long since extinct.

There were figures walking along the strand. Renig Obar’s
clan, come to trade whale ivory and dhenrabi oil from their tundra
homelands, and it seemed they had brought the chill winds with
them . . . or perhaps the unseemly weather that
had come to these warm climes hinted of something darker. A Jaghut,
hidden in some fasthold, stirring the cauldron of Omtose Phellack.
Much more of this and the reefs would die, and with them all the
creatures that depended on them.

A breath of unease fluttered through the Onrack who was flesh
and blood. But he had stepped aside. No longer a bonecaster for his
clan—Absin Tholai was far superior in the hidden arts, after all,
and more inclined to the hungry ambition necessary among those who
followed the Path of Tellann. All too often, Onrack had found his
mind drawn to other things.

To raw beauty, such as he saw before him now. He was not one for
fighting, for rituals of destruction. He was always reluctant to
dance in the deeper recesses of the caves, where the drums pounded
and the echoes rolled through flesh and bone as if one was lying in
the path of a stampeding herd of ranag—a herd such as the one
Onrack had blown onto the cave walls around them. His mouth bitter
with spit, charcoal and ochre, the backs of his hands stained where
they had blocked the spray from his lips, defining the shapes on
the stone. Art was done in solitude, images fashioned without
light, on unseen walls, when the rest of the clan slept in the
outer caverns. And it was a simple truth, that Onrack had grown
skilled in the sorcery of paint out of that desire to be apart, to
be alone.

Among a people where solitude was as close to a crime as
possible. Where to separate was to weaken. Where the very breaking
of vision into its components—from seeing to observing, from
resurrecting memory and reshaping it beyond the eye’s reach,
onto walls of stone—demanded a fine-edged, potentially deadly
propensity.

A poor bonecaster. Onrack, you were never what you were
meant to be. And when you broke the unwritten covenant and painted
a truthful image of a mortal Imass, when you trapped that lovely,
dark woman in time, there in the cavern no-one was meant to
find . . . ah, then you fell to the wrath of
kin. Of Logros himself, and the First Sword.

But he remembered the expression on the young face of Onos
T’oolan, when he had first looked upon the painting of his
sister. Wonder and awe, and a resurgence of an abiding
love—Onrack was certain that he had seen such in the First
Sword’s face, was certain that others had, as well, though of
course none spoke of it. The law had been broken, and would be
answered with severity.

He never knew if Kilava had herself gone to see the painting;
had never known if she had been angered, or had seen sufficient to
understand the blood of his own heart that had gone into that
image.

But that is the last memory I now come to.

‘Your silences,’ Trull Sengar muttered,
‘always send shivers through me, T’lan
Imass.’

‘The night before the Ritual,’ Onrack replied.
‘Not far from this place where we now stand. I was to have
been banished from my tribe. I had committed a crime to which there
was no other answer. Instead, events eclipsed the clans. Four
Jaghut tyrants had risen and had formed a compact. They sought to
destroy this land—as indeed they have.’

The Tiste Edur said nothing, perhaps wondering what, precisely,
had been destroyed. Along the river there were irrigation ditches,
and strips of rich green crops awaiting the season’s turn.
Roads and farmsteads, the occasional temple, and only to the
southwest, along that horizon, did the broken ridge of treeless
bluffs mar the scene.

‘I was in the cavern—in the place of my
crime,’ Onrack continued after a moment. ‘In darkness,
of course. My last night, I’d thought, among my own kind.
Though in truth I was already alone, driven from the camp to this
final place of solitude. And then someone came. A touch. A body,
warm. Soft beyond belief—no, not my wife, she had been among
the first to shun me, for what I had done, for the betrayal it had
meant. No, a woman unknown to me in the
darkness . . .’

Was it her? I will never know. She was gone in the morning,
gone from all of us, even as the Ritual was proclaimed and the
clans gathered. She defied the call—no, more horrible yet,
she had killed her own kin, all but Onos himself. He had managed to
drive her off—the truest measure of his extraordinary martial
prowess.

Was it her? Was there blood unseen on her hands? That dried,
crumbled powder I found on my own skin—which I’d
thought had come from the overturned bowl of paint. Fled from
Onos . . . to me, in my shameful cave.

And who did I hear in the passage beyond? In the midst of
our love-making, did someone come upon us and see what I myself
could not?

‘You need say no more, Onrack,’ Trull said
softly.

True. And were I mortal flesh, you would see me weep, and
thus say what you have just said. Thus, my grief is not lost to
your eyes, Trull Sengar. And yet still you ask why I proclaimed my
vow . . .

‘The trail of the renegades
is . . . fresh,’ Onrack said after a
moment.

Trull half smiled. ‘And you enjoy killing.’

‘Artistry finds new forms, Edur. It defies being
silenced.’ The T’lan Imass slowly turned to face him.
‘Of course, changes have come to us. I am no longer free to
pursue this hunt . . . unless you wish the
same.’

Trull grimaced, scanned the lands to the southwest. ‘Well,
it’s not as inviting a prospect as it once was, I’ll
grant you. But, Onrack, these renegades are agents in the betrayal
of my people, and I mean to discover as much as I can of their
role. Thus, we must find them.’

‘And speak with them.’

‘Speak with them first, aye, and then you can kill
them.’

‘I no longer believe I am capable of that, Trull Sengar. I
am too badly damaged. Even so, Monok Ochem and Ibra Gholan are
pursuing us. They will suffice.’

The Tiste Edur’s head had turned at this. ‘Just the
two of them? You are certain?’

‘My powers are diminished, but yes, I believe
so.’

‘How close?’

‘It does not matter. They withhold their desire for
vengeance against me . . . so that I might lead
them to those they have hunted from the very beginning.’

‘They suspect you will join the renegades, don’t
they?’

‘Broken kin. Aye, they do.’

‘And will you?’

Onrack studied the Tiste Edur for a moment. ‘Only if you
do, Trull Sengar.’

They were at the very edge of cultivated land, and so it was
relatively easy to avoid contact with any of the local residents.
The lone road they crossed was empty of life in both directions for
as far as they could see. Beyond the irrigated fields, the rugged
natural landscape reasserted itself. Tufts of grasses, sprawls of
water-smoothed gravel tracking down dry gulches and ravines, the
occasional guldindha tree.

The hills ahead were saw-toothed, the facing side clawed into
near cliffs.

Those hills were where the T’lan Imass had broken the ice
sheets, the first place of defiance. To protect the holy sites, the
hidden caves, the flint quarries. Where, now, the weapons of the
fallen were placed.

Weapons these renegades would reclaim. There was no
provenance to the sorcery investing those stone blades, at least
with respect to Tellann. They would feed the ones who held them,
provided they were kin to the makers—or indeed made by those
very hands long ago. Imass, then, since the art among the mortal
peoples was long lost. Also, finding those weapons would give the
renegades their final freedom, severing the power of Tellann from
their bodies.

‘You spoke of betraying your clan,’ Trull Sengar
said as they approached the hills. ‘These seem to be old
memories, Onrack.’

‘Perhaps we are destined to repeat our crimes, Trull
Sengar. Memories have returned to me—all that I had thought
lost. I do not know why.’

‘The severing of the Ritual?’

‘Possibly.’

‘What was your crime?’

‘I trapped a woman in time. Or so it seemed. I painted her
likeness in a sacred cave. It is now my belief that, in so doing, I
was responsible for the terrible murders that followed, for her
leaving the clan. She could not join in the Ritual that made us
immortal, for by my hand she had already become so. Did she know
this? Was this the reason for her defying Logros and the First
Sword? There are no answers to that. What madness stole her mind,
so that she would kill her closest kin, so that, indeed, she would
seek to kill the First Sword himself, her own brother?’

‘A woman not your mate, then.’

‘No. She was a bonecaster. A Soletaken.’

‘Yet you loved her.’

A lopsided shrug. ‘Obsession is its own poison, Trull
Sengar.’

A narrow goat trail led up into the range, steep and winding in
its ascent. They began climbing.

‘I would object,’ the Tiste Edur said, ‘to this
notion of being doomed to repeat our mistakes, Onrack. Are no
lessons learned? Does not experience lead to wisdom?’

‘Trull Sengar. I have just betrayed Monok Ochem and Ibra
Gholan. I have betrayed the T’lan Imass, for I chose not to
accept my fate. Thus, the same crime as the one I committed long
ago. I have always hungered for solitude from my kind. In the realm
of the Nascent, I was content. As I was in the sacred caves that
lie ahead.’

‘Content? And now, at this moment?’

Onrack was silent for a time. ‘When memories have
returned, Trull Sengar, solitude is an illusion, for every silence
is filled by a clamorous search for meaning.’

‘You’re sounding
more . . . mortal with every day that passes,
friend.’

‘Flawed, you mean.’

The Tiste Edur grunted. ‘Even so. Yet look at what you are
doing right now, Onrack.’

‘What do you mean?’

Trull Sengar paused on the trail and looked at the T’lan
Imass. His smile was sad. ‘You’re returning
home.’

A short distance away were camped the Tiste Liosan. Battered,
but alive. Which was, Malachar reflected, at least something.

Strange stars gleamed overhead, their light wavering, as if
brimming with tears. The landscape stretching out beneath them
seemed a lifeless wasteland of weathered rock and sand.

The fire they had built in the lee of a humped mesa had drawn
strange moths the size of small birds, as well as a host of other
flying creatures, including winged lizards. A swarm of flies had
descended on them earlier, biting viciously before vanishing as
quickly as they had come. And now, those bites seemed to
crawl, as if the insects had left something behind.

There was, to Malachar’s mind, an air
of . . . unwelcome to this realm. He scratched
at one of the lumps on his arm, hissed as he felt something squirm
beneath the hot skin. Turning back to the fire, he studied his
seneschal.

Jorrude knelt beside the hearth, head lowered—a position
that had not changed in some time—and Malachar’s
disquiet deepened. Enias squatted close by the seneschal, ready to
move if yet another fit of anguish overwhelmed his master, but
those disturbing sessions were arriving ever less frequently.
Orenas remained guarding the horses, and Malachar knew he stood
with sword drawn in the darkness beyond the fire’s light.

There would be an accounting one day, he knew, with the
T’lan Imass. The Tiste Liosan had proceeded with the ritual
in good faith. They had been too open. Never trust a
corpse. Malachar did not know if such a warning was found in
the sacred text of Osric’s Visions. If not, he would see that
it was added to the collected wisdom of the Tiste Liosan. When
we return. If we return.

Jorrude slowly straightened. His face was ravaged with grief.
‘The Guardian is dead,’ he announced. ‘Our realm
is assailed, but our brothers and sisters have been warned and even
now ride out to the gates. The Tiste Liosan will hold. Until
Osric’s return, we shall hold.’ He slowly swung to face
each of them in turn, including Orenas who silently appeared out of
the gloom. ‘For us, another task. The one we were assigned to
complete. On this realm, somewhere, we will find the trespassers.
The thieves of the Fire. I have quested, and they have never been
closer to my senses. They are in this world, and we shall find
them.’

Malachar waited, for he knew there was more.

Jorrude then smiled. ‘My brothers. We know nothing of this
place. But that is a disadvantage that will prove temporary, for I
have also sensed the presence of an old friend to the Tiste Liosan.
Not far away. We shall seek him out—our first task—and
ask him to acquaint us with the rigours of this land.’

‘Who is this old friend, Seneschal?’ Enias
asked.

‘The Maker of Time, Brother Enias.’

Malachar slowly nodded. A friend of the Tiste Liosan indeed.
Slayer of the Ten Thousand. Icarium.

‘Orenas,’ Jorrude said, ‘prepare our
horses.’



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