House of Chains Page 15

  ‘Quiet’s not in my nature, alas. Of course, you don’t have to listen. Now, you might think otherwise, but we should be celebrating our good fortune. Prisoners of the Malazans is an improvement over being Silgar’s slaves. Granted, I might end up getting executed as a common criminal—which is, of course, precisely what I am—but more likely we’re both off to work in the imperial mines in Seven Cities. Never been there, but even so, it’s a long trip, land and sea. There might be pirates. Storms. Who knows? Might even be the mines aren’t so bad as people say. What’s a little digging? I can’t wait for the day they put a pickaxe in your hands—oh my, won’t you have some fun? Lots to look forward to, don’t you think?’

  ‘Including cutting out your tongue.’

  ‘Humour? Hood take me, I didn’t think you had it in you, Karsa Orlong. Anything else you want to say? Feel free.’

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘We’ll reach Culvern Crossing by tonight—the pace has been torturously slow, thanks to you, since it appears you weigh more than you should, more even than Silgar and his four thugs. Ebron says you don’t have normal flesh—same for the Sunyd, of course—but with you it’s even more so. Purer blood, I suppose. Meaner blood, that’s for sure. I remember, once, in Darujhistan, I was just a lad, a troop arrived with a grey bear, all chained up. Had it in a huge tent just outside Worrytown, charged a sliver to see it. First day, I was there. The crowd was huge. Everyone’d thought grey bears had died out centuries ago—’

  ‘Then you are all fools,’ Karsa growled.

  ‘So we were, because there it was. Collared, chained down, with red in its eyes. The crowd rushed in, me in it, and that damned thing went wild. Broke loose like those chains were braids of grass. You wouldn’t believe the panic. I got trampled on, but managed to crawl out from under the tent with my scrawny but lovely body mostly intact. That bear—bodies were flying from its path. It charged straight for the Gadrobi Hills and was never seen again. Sure, there’s rumours to this day that the bastard’s still there, eating the occasional herder . . . and herd. Anyway, you remind me of that grey bear, Uryd. The same look in your eyes. A look that says: Chains will not hold me. And that’s what has me so eager to see what will happen next.’

  ‘I shall not hide in the hills, Torvald Nom.’

  ‘Didn’t think you would. Do you know how you will be loaded onto the prison ship? Shard told me. They’ll take the wheels off this wagon. That’s it. You’ll be riding this damned bed all the way to Seven Cities.’

  The wagon’s wheels slid down into deep, stony ruts, the jarring motion sending waves of pain through Karsa’s head.

  ‘You still here?’ Torvald asked after a moment.

  Karsa remained silent.

  ‘Oh well,’ the Daru sighed.

  Lead me, Warleader.

  Lead me.

  This was not the world he had expected. The lowlanders were both weak and strong, in ways he found difficult to comprehend. He had seen huts built one atop another; he had seen watercraft the size of entire Teblor houses.

  Expecting a farmstead, they had found a town. Anticipating the slaughter of fleeing cowards, they had instead been met with fierce opponents who stood their ground.

  And Sunyd slaves. The most horrifying discovery of all. Teblor, their spirits broken. He had not thought such a thing was possible.

  I shall snap those chains on the Sunyd. This, I vow before the Seven. I shall give the Sunyd lowlander slaves in turn—no. To do such would be as wrong as what the lowlanders have done to the Sunyd, have done, indeed, to their own kin. No, his sword’s gathering of souls was a far cleaner, a far purer deliverance.

  He wondered about these Malazans. They were, it was clear, a tribe that was fundamentally different from the Nathii. Conquerors, it seemed, from a distant land. Holders to strict laws. Their captives not slaves, but prisoners, though it had begun to appear that the distinction lay in name only. He would be set to work.

  Yet he had no desire to work. Thus, it was punishment, intended to bow his warrior spirit, to—in time—break it. In this, a fate to match that of the Sunyd.

  But that shall not happen, for I am Uryd, not Sunyd. They shall have to kill me, once they realize that they cannot control me. And so, the truth is before me. Should I hasten that realization, I shall never see release from this wagon.

  Torvald Nom spoke of patience—the prisoner’s code. Urugal, forgive me, for I must now avow to that code. I must seem to relent.

  Even as he thought it, he knew it would not work. These Malazans were too clever. They would be fools to trust a sudden, inexplicable passivity. No, he needed to fashion a different kind of illusion.

  Delum Thord. You shall now be my guide. Your loss is now my gift. You walked the path before me, showing me the steps. I shall awaken yet again, but it shall not be with a broken spirit, but with a broken mind.

  Indeed, the Malazan sergeant had struck him hard. The muscles of his neck had seized, clenched tight around his spine. Even breathing triggered lancing stabs of pain. He sought to slow it, shifting his thoughts away from the low roar of his nerves.

  The Teblor had lived in blindness for centuries, oblivious of the growing numbers—and growing threat—of the lowlanders. Borders, once defended with vicious determination, had for some reason been abandoned, left open to the poisoning influences from the south. It was important, Karsa realized, to discover the cause of this moral failing. The Sunyd had never been among the strongest of the tribes, yet they were Teblor none the less, and what befell them could, in time, befall all the others. This was a difficult truth, but to close one’s eyes to it would be to walk the same path yet again.

  There were failings that must be faced. Pahlk, his own grandfather, had been something far less than the warrior of glorious deeds that he pretended to be. Had Pahlk returned to the tribe with truthful tales, then the warnings within them would have been heard. A slow but inexorable invasion was under way, one step at a time. A war on the Teblor that assailed their spirit as much as it did their lands. Perhaps such warnings would have proved sufficient to unite the tribes.

  He considered this, and darkness settled upon his thoughts. No. Pahlk’s failing had been a deeper one; it was not his lies that were the greatest crime, it was his lack of courage, for he had shown himself unable to wrest free of the strictures binding the Teblor. His people’s rules of conduct, the narrowly crafted confines of expectations—its innate conservatism that crushed dissent with the threat of deadly isolation—these were what had defeated his grandfather’s courage.

  Yet not, perhaps, my father’s.

  The wagon jolted once more beneath him.

  I saw your mistrust as weakness. Your unwillingness to participate in our tribe’s endless, deadly games of pride and retribution—I saw this as cowardice. Even so, what have you done to challenge our ways? Nothing. Your only answer was to hide yourself away—and to belittle all that I did, to mock my zeal . . .

  Preparing me for this moment.

  Very well, Father, I can see the gleam of satisfaction in your eyes, now. But I tell you this, you delivered naught but wounds upon your son. And I have had enough of wounds.

  Urugal was with him. All the Seven were with him. Their power would make him impervious to all that besieged his Teblor spirit. He would, one day, return to his people, and he would shatter their rules. He would unite the Teblor, and they would march behind him . . . down into the lowlands.

  Until that moment, all that came before—all that afflicted him now—was but preparation. He would be the weapon of retribution, and it was the enemy itself that now honed him.

  Blindness curses both sides, it seems. Thus, the truth of my words shall be shown.

  Such were his last thoughts before consciousness once more faded away.

  Excited voices awoke him. It was dusk and the air was filled with the smell of horses, dust and spiced foods. The wagon was motionless under him, and he could now hear, mingled with the voices, the sounds of many people a
nd a multitude of activities, underscored by the rush of a river.

  ‘Ah, awake once more,’ Torvald Nom said.

  Karsa opened his eyes but did not otherwise move.

  ‘This is Culvern Crossing,’ the Daru went on, ‘and it’s a storm swirling with the latest news from the south. All right, a small storm, given the size of this latrine pit of a town. The scum of the Nathii, which is saying a lot. The Malazan company’s pretty excited, though. Pale’s just fallen, you see. A big battle, lots of sorcery, and Moon’s Spawn retreated—likely headed to Darujhistan, in fact. Beru take me, I wish I was there right now, watching it crossing the lake, what a sight that’d be. The company, of course, are wishing they’d been there for the battle. Idiots, but that’s soldiers for you—’

  ‘And why not?’ Shard’s voice snapped as the wagon rocked slightly and the man appeared. ‘The Ashok Regiment deserves better than to be stuck up here hunting bandits and slavers.’

  ‘The Ashok Regiment is you, I presume,’ Torvald said.

  ‘Aye. Damned veterans, too, one and all.’

  ‘So why aren’t you down south, Corporal?’

  Shard made a face, then turned away with narrowed eyes. ‘She don’t trust us, that’s why,’ he murmured. ‘We’re Seven Cities, and the bitch don’t trust us.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Torvald said, ‘but if she—and by that I take you to mean your Empress—doesn’t trust you, then why is she sending you home? Isn’t Seven Cities supposedly on the edge of rebellion? If there’s a chance of you turning renegade, wouldn’t she rather have you here on Genabackis?’

  Shard stared down at Torvald Nom. ‘Why am I talking to you, thief? You might damn well be one of her spies. A Claw, for all I know.’

  ‘If I am, Corporal, you haven’t been treating me very well. A detail I’d be sure to put in my report—this secret one, the one I’m secretly writing, that is. Shard, wasn’t it? As in a piece of broken glass, yes? And you called the Empress “bitch”—’

  ‘Shut up,’ the Malazan snarled.

  ‘Just making a rather obvious point, Corporal.’

  ‘That’s what you think,’ Shard sneered as he dropped back down from the side of the wagon and was lost from sight.

  Torvald Nom said nothing for a long moment, then, ‘Karsa Orlong, do you have any idea what that man meant by that last statement?’

  Karsa spoke in a low voice, ‘Torvald Nom, listen well. A warrior who followed me, Delum Thord, was struck on the head. His skull cracked and leaked thought-blood. His mind could not walk back up the path. He was left helpless, harmless. I, too, have been struck on the head. My skull is cracked and I have leaked thought-blood—’

  ‘Actually, it was drool—’

  ‘Be quiet. Listen. And answer, when you will, in a whisper. I have awakened now, twice, and you have observed—’

  Torvald interjected in a soft murmur. ‘That your mind’s lost on the trail or something. Is that what I have observed? You babble meaningless words, sing childhood songs and the like. All right, fine. I’ll play along, on one condition.’

  ‘What condition?’

  ‘That whenever you manage to escape, you free me as well. A small thing, you might think, but I assure you—’

  ‘Very well. I, Karsa Orlong of the Uryd, give my word.’

  ‘Good. I like the formality of that vow. Sounds like it’s real.’

  ‘It is. Do not mock me, else I kill you once I have freed you.’

  ‘Ah, now I see the hidden caveat. I must twist another vow from you, alas—’

  The Teblor growled with impatience, then relented and said, ‘I, Karsa Orlong, shall not kill you once I have freed you, unless given cause.’

  ‘Explain the nature of those causes—’

  ‘Are all Daru like you?’

  ‘It needn’t be an exhaustive list. “Cause” being, say, attempted murder, betrayal, and mockery of course. Can you think of any others?’

  ‘Talking too much.’

  ‘Well, with that one we’re getting into very grey, very murky shades, don’t you think? It’s a matter of cultural distinctions—’

  ‘I believe Darujhistan shall be the first city I conquer—’

  ‘I’ve a feeling the Malazans will get there first, I’m afraid. Mind you, my beloved city has never been conquered, despite its being too cheap to hire a standing army. The gods not only look down on Darujhistan with a protective eye, they probably drink in its taverns. In any case—oh, shhh, someone’s coming.’

  Bootsteps neared, then, as Karsa watched through slitted eyes, Sergeant Cord clambered up into view and glared for a long moment at Torvald Nom. ‘You sure don’t look like a Claw . . .’ he finally said. ‘But maybe that’s the whole point.’

  ‘Perhaps it is.’

  Cord’s head began turning towards Karsa and the Teblor closed his eyes completely. ‘He come around yet?’

  ‘Twice. Doing nothing but drooling and making animal sounds. I think you went and damaged his brain, assuming he has one.’

  Cord grunted. ‘Might prove a good thing, so long as he doesn’t die on us. Now, where was I?’

  ‘Torvald Nom, the Claw.’

  ‘Right. OK. Even so, we’re still treating you as a bandit—until you prove to us you’re something otherwise—and so you’re off to the otataral mines with everyone else. Meaning, if you are a Claw, you’d better announce it before we leave Genabaris.’

  ‘Assuming, of course,’ Torvald smiled, ‘my assignment does not require me to assume the disguise of a prisoner in the otataral mines.’

  Cord frowned, then, hissing a curse, he dropped down from the side of the wagon.

  They heard him shout, ‘Get this damned wagon on that ferry! Now!’

  The wheels creaked into sudden motion, the oxen lowing.

  Torvald Nom sighed, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes.

  ‘You play a deadly game,’ Karsa muttered.

  The Daru propped one eye open. ‘A game, Teblor? Indeed, but maybe not the game you think.’

  Karsa grunted his disgust.

  ‘Be not so quick to dismiss—’

  ‘I am,’ the warrior replied, as the oxen dragged the wagon onto a ramp of wooden boards. ‘My causes shall be “attempted murder, betrayal, mockery, and being one of these Claws”.’

  ‘And talking too much?’

  ‘It seems I shall have to suffer that curse.’

  Torvald slowly cocked his head, then he grinned. ‘Agreed.’

  In a strange way, the discipline of maintaining the illusion of mindlessness proved Karsa’s greatest ally in remaining sane. Days, then weeks lying supine, spread-eagled and chained down to the bed of a wagon was a torture unlike anything the Teblor could have imagined possible. Vermin crawled all over his body, covering him in bites that itched incessantly. He knew of large animals of the deep forest being driven mad by blackflies and midges, and now he understood how such an event could occur.

  He was washed down with buckets of icy water at the end of each day, and was fed by the drover guiding the wagon, an ancient foul-smelling Nathii who would crouch down beside his head with a smoke-blackened iron pot filled with some kind of thick, seed-filled stew. He used a large wooden spoon to pour the scalding, malty cereal and stringy meat into Karsa’s mouth—the Teblor’s lips, tongue and the insides of his cheeks were terribly blistered, the feedings coming too often to allow for healing.

  Meals became an ordeal, which was alleviated only when Torvald Nom talked the drover into permitting the Daru to take over the task, ensuring that the stew had cooled sufficiently before it was poured into Karsa’s mouth. The blisters were gone within a few days.

  The Teblor endeavoured to keep his muscles fit through sessions, late at night, of flexing and unflexing, but all his joints ached from immobility, and for this he could do nothing.

  At times, his discipline wavered, his thoughts travelling back to the demon he and his comrades had freed. That woman, the Forkassal, had spent an unimagi
nable length of time pinned beneath that massive stone. She had managed to achieve some movement, had no doubt clung to some protracted sense of progress as she clawed and scratched against the stone. Even so, Karsa could not comprehend her ability to withstand madness and the eventual death that was its conclusion.

  Thoughts of her left him humbled, his spirit weakened by his own growing frailty in these chains, in the wagon bed’s rough-hewn planks that had rubbed his skin raw, in the shame of his soiled clothes, and the simple, unbearable torment of the lice and fleas.

  Torvald took to talking to him as he would a child, or a pet. Calming words, soothing tones, and the curse of talking too much was transformed into something Karsa could hold on to, his desperate grip ever tightening.

  The words fed him, kept his spirit from starving. They measured the cycle of days and nights that passed, they taught him the language of the Malazans, they gave him an account of the places they travelled through. After Culvern Crossing, there had been a larger town, Ninsano Moat, where crowds of children had clambered onto the wagon, poking and prodding him until Shard arrived to drive them away. Another river had been crossed there. Onward to Malybridge, a town of similar proportions to Ninsano Moat, then, seventeen days later, Karsa stared up at the arched stone gateway of a city—Tanys—passing over him, and on either side, as the wagon made its rocking way down a cobbled street, huge buildings of three, even four levels. And all around, the sounds of people, more lowlanders than Karsa had thought possible.

  Tanys was a port, resting on tiered ridges rising from the east shore of the Malyn Sea, where the water was brackish with salt—such as was found in a number of springs near the Rathyd borderlands. Yet the Malyn Sea was no turgid, tiny pool; it was vast, for the journey across it to the city called Malyntaeas consumed four days and three nights.

  It was the transferring onto the ship that resulted in Karsa’s being lifted upright—unwheeled wagon bed included—for the first time, creating a new kind of torture as the chains took his full weight. His joints screamed within him and gave voice as Karsa’s shrieks filled the air, continuing without surcease until someone poured a fiery, burning liquid down his throat, enough to fill his stomach, after which his mind sank away.