House of Chains

Whirlwind’s Elder magic, evading my every effort to discern his soul. And yet he has revealed much to you, I think.’

‘In confidence, Chosen One. I am sorry. All I can offer you is this: L’oric is not your enemy.’

‘Well, that means more to me than you perhaps realize. Not my enemy. Does that make him my ally, then?’

Heboric said nothing.

After a moment, Sha’ik sighed. ‘Very well. He remains a mystery, then, in the most important of details. What can you tell me of Bidithal’s explorations of his old warren? Rashan.’

He cocked his head. ‘Well, the answer to that, Chosen One, depends in part on your own knowledge. Of the goddess’s warren-your Elder warren fragment that is the Whirlwind.’

‘Kurald Emurlahn.’

He nodded. ‘Indeed. And what do you know of the events that saw it torn apart?’

‘Little, except that its true rulers had ceased to exist, thus leaving it vulnerable. The relevant fact is this, however: the Whirlwind is the largest fragment in this realm. And its power is growing. Bidithal would see himself as its first-and its penultimate-High Priest. What he does not understand is that there is no such role to be taken. I am the High Priestess. I am the Chosen One. I am the single mortal manifestation of the Whirlwind Goddess. Bidithal would enfold Rashan into the Whirlwind, or, conversely, use the Whirlwind to cleanse the Shadow Realm of its false rulers.’ She paused, and Heboric sensed her shrug. ‘Those false rulers once commanded the Malazan Empire. Thus. We are all here, preparing for a singular confrontation. Yet what each of us seeks from that battle is at odds. The challenge, then, is to cajole all those disparate motives into one, mutually triumphant effect.’

‘That,’ Heboric breathed, ‘is quite a challenge, lass.’

‘And so I need you, Ghost Hands. I need the secret you possess-’

‘Of L’oric I can say nothing-’

‘Not that secret, old man. No, the secret I seek lies in your hands.’

He started. ‘My hands?’

‘That giant of jade you touched-it is defeating the otataral. Destroying it. I need to discover how. I need an answer to otataral, Heboric.’

‘But Kurald Emurlahn is Elder, Sha’ik-the Adjunct’s sword-’

‘Will annihilate the advantage I possess in my High Mages. Think! She knows she can’t negate the Whirlwind with her sword… so she will not even try! No, instead she will challenge my High Mages. Remove them from the field. She will seek to isolate me-’

‘But if she cannot defeat the Whirlwind, what does that matter?’

‘Because the Whirlwind, in turn, cannot defeat her!’ Heboric was silent. He had not heard this before, but after a moment’s thought, it began to make sense. Kurald Emurlahn might be Elder, but it was also in pieces. Weakened, riven through with Rashan-a warren that was indeed vulnerable to the effects of otataral. The power of the Adjunct’s sword and that of Sha’ik’s Whirlwind Goddess would effectively cancel each other out.

Leaving the outcome in the hands of the armies themselves. And there, the otataral would cut through the sorcery of the High Mages. In turn leaving it all to Korbolo Dom. And Korbolo knows it, and he has his own ambitions. Gods, lass, what a mess. ‘Alas, Chosen One,’ he muttered, ‘I cannot help you, for I do not know why the otataral in me is failing. I have, however, a warning. The power of the jade giant is not one to be manipulated. Not by me, nor by you. If the Whirlwind Goddess seeks to usurp it, she will do more than suffer in the attempt-she will likely get obliterated.’

‘Then we must win knowledge without yielding an opportunity.’

‘And how in Hood’s name do you propose achieving that?’

‘I would you give me the answer to that, Heboric.’

Me? ‘Then we are lost. I have no control over that alien power. I have no understanding of it at all!’

‘Perhaps not yet,’ she replied, with a chilling confidence in her voice. ‘But you grow ever closer, Heboric. Every time you partake of hen’bara tea.’

The tea? That which you gave me so that I might escape my nightmares? Calling upon Sha’ik Elder’s knowledge of the desert, you said. A gift of compassion, I thought. A gift… He felt something crumbling inside him. A fortress in the desert of my heart, I should have known it would be a fortress of sand.

He swung away, made insensate by layer upon layer of blindness. Numbed to the outside world, to whatever Sha’ik was now saying, to the brutal heat of the sun overhead.

Stay?

He felt no longer able to leave.

Chains. She has made for me a house of chains…

Felisin Younger came to the edge of the pit and looked down. The sun had left the floor, leaving naught but darkness below. There was no glimmer of hearthlight, confirming that no-one had come to take up residence in Leoman’s abode.

A scraping sound nearby made her turn. Toblakai’s once-slavemaster had crawled into view around a wall foundation. His sun-blistered skin was caked in dust and excrement, the stumps at the ends of his arms and legs weeping a yellow, opaque liquid. The first signs of leprosy marred his joints at elbow and knee. Red-rimmed eyes fixed on Felisin and the man offered a blackened smile. ‘Ah, child. See me your humble servant. Mathok’s warrior-’

‘What do you know of that?’ she demanded.

The smile broadened. ‘I bring word. See me your humble servant. Everyone’s humble servant. I have lost my name, did you know that? I knew it once, but it has fled me. My mind. But I do what I am told. I bring word. Mathok’s warrior. He cannot meet you here. He would not be seen. You understand? There, across the plaza, in the sunken ruin. He awaits.’

Well, she considered, the secrecy made sense. Their escape from the camp demanded it, although Heboric Ghost Hands was by far the one most likely to be under surveillance. And he had gone into his tent days ago and refused all visitors. Even so, she appreciated Mathok’s caution.

Though she had not known that Toblakai’s slavemaster was a part of their conspiracy. ‘The sunken temple?’

‘Yes, there. See me your humble servant. Go. He awaits.’ She set out across the flagstoned plaza. Hundreds of the camp’s destitute had settled here, beneath palm-frond shelters, making no efforts at organization-the expanse reeked of piss and faeces, streams of the foul mess flowing across the stones. Hacking coughs, mumbled entreaties and blessings followed her as she made her way towards the ruin.

The temple’s foundation walls were hip high; within, a steep set of stone stairs led down to the subterranean floor. The sun’s angle had dipped sufficiently to render the area below in darkness.

Felisin halted at the top of the stairs and peered down, seeking to penetrate the gloom. ‘Are you there?’ she called.

A faint sound from the far end. The hint of movement.

She descended.

The sandy floor was still warm. Groping, she edged forward.

Less than ten paces from the back wall and she could finally make him out. He was seated with his back to the stone. The gleam of a helm, scale armour on his chest.

‘We should wait for night,’ Felisin said, approaching. ‘Then make our way to Ghost Hands’ tent. The time has come-he can hide no longer. What is your name?’

There was no reply.

Something black and smothering rose up to clamp over her mouth and she was lifted from the ground. The blackness flowed like serpents around her, pinning her arms and binding her thrashing legs. A moment later she hung motionless, suspended slightly above the sandy floor.

A gnarled fingertip brushed her cheek and her eyes widened as a voice whispered in her ear. ‘Sweetest child. Mathok’s fierce warrior felt Rashan’s caress a short while ago, alas. Now, there is only me. Only humble Bidithal,