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CHAPTER TEN

All that breaks must be discarded even as the thunder of faith
returns ever fading echoes.

Prelude to Anomandaris
Fisher

THE DAY THE FACES IN THE ROCK AWAKENED WAS CELEBRATED AMONG the
Teblor by a song. The memories of his people were, Karsa Orlong now
knew, twisted things. Surrendered to oblivion when unpleasant,
burgeoning to a raging fire of glory when heroic. Defeat had been
spun into victory in the weaving of every tale.

He wished Bairoth still lived, that his sagacious companion did
more than haunt his dreams, or stand before him as a thing of
rough-carved stone in which some chance scarring of his chisel had
cast a mocking, almost derisive expression.

Bairoth could have told him much of what he needed to know at
this moment. While Karsa’s familiarity with their
homeland’s sacred glade was far greater than either
Bairoth’s or Delum Thord’s, and so ensured the
likenesses possessed some accuracy, the warrior sensed that
something essential was missing from the seven faces he had carved
into the stone trees. Perhaps his lack of talent had betrayed him,
though that did not seem the case with the carvings of Bairoth and
Delum. The energy of their lives seemed to emanate from their
statues, as if merged with the petrified wood’s own memory.
As with the entire forest, in which there was the sense that the
trees but awaited the coming of spring, of rebirth beneath the
wheel of the stars, it seemed that the two Teblor warriors were but
awaiting the season’s turn.

But Raraku defied every season. Raraku itself was eternal in its
momentousness, perpetually awaiting rebirth. Patience in the stone,
in the restless, ever-murmuring sands.

The Holy Desert seemed, to Karsa’s mind, a perfect place
for the Seven Gods of the Teblor. It was possible, he reflected as
he slowly paced before the faces he had carved into the boles, that
something of that sardonic sentiment had poisoned his hands. If so,
the flaw was not visible to his eyes. There was little in the faces
of the gods that could permit expression or demeanour—his
recollection was of skin stretched over broad, robust bone, of
brows that projected like ridges, casting the eyes in deep shadow.
Broad, flat cheekbones, a heavy, chinless
jaw . . . a bestiality so unlike the features
of the Teblor . . .

He scowled, pausing to stand before Urugal which, as with the
six others, he had carved level with his own eyes. Serpents
slithered over his dusty, bared feet, his only company in the
glade. The sun had begun its descent, though the heat remained
fierce.

After a long moment of contemplation, Karsa spoke out loud.
‘Bairoth Gild, look with me upon our god. Tell me what is
wrong. Where have I erred? That was your greatest talent,
wasn’t it? Seeing so clearly my every wrong step. You might
ask: what did I seek to achieve with these carvings? You would ask
that, for it is the only question worth answering. But I have no
answer for you—ah, yes, I can almost hear you laugh at my
pathetic reply.’ I have no answer.
‘Perhaps, Bairoth, I imagined you wished their company. The
great Teblor gods, who one day awakened.’

In the minds of the shamans. Awakened in their dreams.
There, and there alone. Yet now I know the flavour of those dreams,
and it is nothing like the song. Nothing at all.

He had found this glade seeking solitude, and it had been
solitude that had inspired his artistic creations. Yet now that he
was done, he no longer felt alone here. He had brought his own life
to this place, the legacies of his deeds. It had ceased to be a
refuge, and the need to visit was born now from the lure of his
efforts, drawing him back again and again. To walk among the snakes
that came to greet him, to listen to the hiss of sands skittering
on the moaning desert wind, the sands that arrived in the glade to
caress the trees and the faces of stone with their bloodless
touch.

Raraku delivered the illusion that time stood motionless, the
universe holding its breath. An insidious conceit. Beyond the
Whirlwind’s furious wall, the hourglasses were still turned.
Armies assembled and began their march, the sound of their boots,
shields and gear a deathly clatter and roar. And, on a distant
continent, the Teblor were a people under siege.

Karsa continued staring at the stone face of Urugal. You are
not Teblor. Yet you claim to be our god. You awakened, there in the
cliff, so long ago. But what of before that time? Where were you
then, Urugal? You and your six terrible companions?

A soft chuckle from across the clearing brought Karsa
around.

‘And which of your countless secrets is this one,
friend?’

‘Leoman,’ Karsa rumbled, ‘it has been a long
time since you last left your pit.’

Edging forward, the desert warrior glanced down at the snakes.
‘I was starved for company. Unlike you, I see.’ He
gestured at the carved boles. ‘Are these yours? I see two
Toblakai—they stand in those trees as if alive and but
moments from striding forth. It disturbs me to be reminded that
there are more of you. But what of these others?’

‘My gods.’ He noted Leoman’s startled
expression and elaborated, ‘The Faces in the Rock. In my
homeland, they adorn a cliffside, facing onto a glade little
different from this one.’

‘Toblakai—’

‘They call upon me still,’ Karsa continued, turning
back to study Urugal’s bestial visage once more. ‘When
I sleep. It is as Ghost Hands says—I am haunted.’

‘By what, friend? What is it
your . . . gods . . . demand
of you?’

Karsa shot Leoman a glance, then he shrugged. ‘Why have
you sought me out?’

Leoman made to say one thing, then chose another. ‘Because
my patience is at an end. There has been news of events concerning
the Malazans. Distant defeats. Sha’ik and her favoured few
are much excited . . . yet achieve nothing.
Here we await the Adjunct’s legions. In one thing Korbolo Dom
is right—the march of those legions should be contested. But
not as he would have it. No pitched battles. Nothing so dramatic or
precipitous. In any case, Toblakai, Mathok has given me leave to
ride out with a company of warriors—and Sha’ik has
condescended to permit us beyond the Whirlwind.’

Karsa smiled. ‘Indeed. And you are free to harass the
Adjunct? Ah, I thought as much. You are to scout, but no further
than the hills beyond the Whirlwind. She will not permit you to
journey south. But at least you will be doing something, and for
that I am pleased for you, Leoman.’

The blue-eyed warrior stepped closer. ‘Once beyond the
Whirlwind, Toblakai—’

‘She will know none the less,’ Karsa replied.

‘And so I will incur her displeasure.’ Leoman
sneered. ‘There is nothing new in that. And what of you,
friend? She calls you her bodyguard, yet when did she last permit
you into her presence? In that damned tent of hers? She is reborn
indeed, for she is not as she once was—’

‘She is Malazan,’ Toblakai said.

‘What?’

‘Before she became Sha’ik. You know this as well as
I—’

‘She was reborn! She became the will of the goddess,
Toblakai. All that she was before that time is without
meaning—’

‘So it is said, ‘Karsa rumbled. ‘Yet her
memories remain. And it is those memories that chain her so. She is
trapped by fear, and that fear is born of a secret which she will
not share. The only other person who knows that secret is Ghost
Hands.’

Leoman stared at Karsa for a long moment, then slowly settled
into a crouch. The two men were surrounded by snakes, the sound of
slithering on sand a muted undercurrent. Lowering one hand, Leoman
watched as a flare-neck began entwining itself up his arm.
‘Your words, Toblakai, whisper of defeat.’

Shrugging, Karsa strode to where his tool kit waited at the base
of a tree. ‘These years have served me well. Your company,
Leoman. Sha’ik Elder. I once vowed that the Malazans were my
enemies. Yet, from what I have seen of the world since that time, I
now understand that they are no crueller than any other lowlander.
Indeed, they alone seem to profess a sense of justice. The people
of Seven Cities, who so despise them and wish them gone—they
seek nothing more than the power that the Malazans took from them.
Power that they used to terrorize their own people. Leoman, you and
your kind make war against justice, and it is not my
war.’

‘Justice?’ Leoman bared his teeth. ‘You expect
me to challenge your words, Toblakai? I will not. Sha’ik
Reborn says there is no loyalty within me. Perhaps she is right. I
have seen too much. Yet here I remain—have you ever wondered
why?’

Karsa drew out a chisel and mallet. ‘The light
fades—and that makes the shadows deeper. It is the light, I
now realize. That is what is different about them.’

‘The Apocalyptic, Toblakai. Disintegration. Annihilation.
Everything. Every human . . . lowlander. With
our twisted horrors—all that we commit upon each other. The
depredations, the cruelties. For every gesture of kindness and
compassion, there are ten thousand acts of brutality. Loyalty? Aye,
I have none. Not for my kind, and the sooner we obliterate
ourselves the better this world will be.’

‘The light,’ Karsa said, ‘makes them look
almost human.’

Distracted as he was, the Toblakai did not notice Leoman’s
narrowing eyes, nor the struggle to remain silent.

One does not step between a man and his gods.

The snake’s head lifted in front of Leoman’s face
and hovered there, tongue flicking.

‘The House of Chains,’ Heboric muttered, his
expression souring at the words.

Bidithal shivered, though it was hard to tell whether from fear
or pleasure. ‘Reaver. Consort. The Unbound—these are
interesting, yes? For all the world like
shattered—’

‘From whence came these images?’ Heboric demanded.
Simply looking upon the wooden cards with their lacquered
paintings—blurred as they were—was filling the
ex-priest’s throat with bile. I
sense . . . flaws. In each and every one. That
is no accident, no failing of the hand that brushed them into
being.

‘There is no doubting,’ L’oric said in answer
to his question, ‘their veracity. The power emanating from
them is a sorcerous stench. I have never before witnessed such a
vigorous birth within the Deck. Not even Shadow felt—’

‘Shadow!’ Bidithal snapped. ‘Those deceivers
could never unveil that realm’s true power! No, here, in this
new House, the theme is pure. Imperfection is celebrated, the twist
of chaotic chance mars one and all—’

‘Silence!’ Sha’ik hissed, her arms wrapped
tight about herself. ‘We must think on this. No-one speak.
Let me think!’

Heboric studied her for a moment, squinting to bring her into
focus, even though she sat beside him. The cards from the new House
had arrived the same day as the news of the Malazan defeats on
Genabackis. And the time since then had been one of seething
discord among Sha’ik’s commanders, sufficient to dampen
her pleasure at hearing of her brother Ganoes Paran’s
survival, and now leading her to uncharacteristic distraction.

The House of Chains was woven into their fates. An insidious
intrusion, an infection against which they’d had no chance to
prepare. But was it an enemy, or the potential source for renewed
strength? It seemed Bidithal was busy convincing himself that it
was the latter, no doubt drawn in that direction by his growing
disaffection with Sha’ik Reborn. L’oric, on the other
hand, seemed more inclined to share Heboric’s own misgivings;
whilst Febryl was unique in remaining silent on the entire
matter.

The air within the tent was close, soured by human sweat.
Heboric wanted nothing more than to leave, to escape all this, yet
he sensed Sha’ik clinging to him, a spiritual grip as
desperate as anything he’d felt from her before.

‘Show once more the new Unaligned.’

Yes. For the thousandth time.

Scowling, Bidithal searched through the Deck, then drew out the
card, which he laid down in the centre of the goat-hair mat.
‘If any of the new arrivals is dubious,’ the old man
sneered, ‘it is this one. Master of the Deck? Absurd. How can
one control the uncontrollable?’

There was silence.

The uncontrollable? Such as the Whirlwind itself?

Sha’ik had clearly not caught the insinuation.
‘Ghost Hands, I would you take this card, feel it, seek to
sense what you can from it.’

‘You make this request again and again, Chosen One,’
Heboric sighed. ‘But I tell you, there is no link between the
power of my hands and the Deck of Dragons. I am of no help to
you—’

‘Then listen closely and I shall describe it. Never mind
your hands—I ask you now as a once-priest, as a scholar. Listen.
The face is obscured, yet hints—’

‘It is obscured,’ Bidithal interrupted in a derisive tone,
‘because the card is no more than the projection of
someone’s wishful thinking.’

‘Cut me off again and you will regret it, Bidithal,’
Sha’ik said. ‘I have heard you enough on this subject.
If your mouth opens again I will tear out your tongue. Ghost Hands,
I will continue. The figure is slightly above average in height.
There is the crimson streak of a scar—or blood
perhaps—down one side of the face—a wounding, yes?
He—yes, I am certain it’s a man, not a woman—he
stands on a bridge. Of stone, shot through with cracks. The horizon
is filled with flames. It seems he and the bridge are surrounded,
as if by followers, or servants—’

‘Or guardians,’ L’oric added. ‘Your
pardon, Chosen One.’

‘Guardians. Yes, a good possibility. They have the look of
soldiers, do they not?’

‘On what,’ Heboric asked, ‘do these guardians
stand? Can you see the ground they stand upon?’

‘Bones—there is much fine detail there, Ghost Hands.
How did you know?’

‘Describe those bones, please.’

‘Not human. Very large. Part of a skull is visible,
long-snouted, terribly fanged. It bears the remnants of a helmet of
some sort—’

‘A helmet? On the skull?’

‘Yes.’

Heboric fell silent. He began rocking yet was only remotely
aware of the motion. There was a sourceless keening growing in his
head, a cry of grief, of anguish.

‘The Master,’ Sha’ik said, her voice
trembling, ‘he stands strangely. Arms held out, bent at the
elbows so that the hands depend, away from the body—it is the
strangest posture—’

‘Are his feet together?’

‘Almost impossibly so.’

As if forming a point. Dull and remote to his own ears,
Heboric asked, ‘And what does he wear?’

‘Tight silks, from the way they shimmer. Black.’

‘Anything else?’

‘There is a chain. It cuts across his torso, left shoulder
down to right hip. It is a robust chain, black wrought iron. There
are wooden discs on his shoulders—like epaulets, but large, a
hand’s span each—’

‘How many in all?’

‘Four. You know something now, Ghost Hands. Tell
me!’

‘Yes,’ L’oric murmured, ‘you have
thoughts on this—’

‘He lies,’ Bidithal growled. ‘He has been
forgotten by everyone—even his god—and he now seeks to
invent a new importance.’

Febryl spoke in a mocking rasp. ‘Bidithal, you foolish
man. He is a man who touches what we cannot feel, and sees what we
are blind to. Speak on, Ghost Hands. Why does this Master stand
so?’

‘Because,’ Heboric said, ‘he is a
sword.’

But not any sword. He is one sword, above all, and it cuts
cold. That sword is as this man’s own nature. He will cleave
his own path. None shall lead him. He stands now in my mind. I see
him. I see his face. Oh,
Sha’ik . . .

‘A Master of the Deck,’ L’oric said, then
sighed. ‘A lodestone to order . . . in
opposition to the House of Chains—yet he stands alone,
guardians or no, while the servants of the House are many.’

Heboric smiled. ‘Alone? He has always been thus.’

‘Then why is your smile that of a broken man, Ghost
Hands?’

I grieve for humanity. This family, so at war
with itself. ‘To that, L’oric, I shall not
answer.’

‘I shall now speak with Ghost Hands alone,’
Sha’ik pronounced. But Heboric shook his head. ‘I am
done speaking, for now, even with you, Chosen One. I will say this
and nothing more: have faith in the Master of the Deck. He shall
answer the House of Chains. He shall answer it.’

Feeling ancient beyond his years, Heboric climbed to his feet.
There was a stir of motion beside him, then young Felisin’s
hand settled on his forearm. He let her guide him from the
chamber.

Outside, dusk had arrived, marked by the cries of the goats as
they were led into the enclosures. To the south, just beyond the
city’s outskirts, rumbled the thunder of horse hoofs. Kamist
Reloe and Korbolo Dom had absented themselves from the meeting to
oversee the exercises of the troops. Training conducted in the
Malazan style, which Heboric had to admit was the renegade
Fist’s only expression of brilliance thus far. For the first
time, a Malazan army would meet its match in all things, barring
Moranth munitions. Tactics and disposition of forces would be
identical, ensuring that numbers alone would decide the day. The
threat of the munitions would be answered with sorcery, for the
Army of the Whirlwind possessed a full cadre of High Mages, whilst
Tavore had—as far as they knew—none. Spies in Aren had
noted the presence of the two Wickan children, Nil and Nether, but
both, it was claimed, had been thoroughly broken by
Coltaine’s death.

Yet why would she need mages? She carries an otataral sword,
after all. Even so, its negating influence cannot be extended over
her entire army. Dear Sha’ik, you may well defeat your sister
after all.

‘Where would you go, Ghost Hands?’ Felisin
asked.

‘To my home, lass.’

‘That is not what I meant.’

He cocked his head. ‘I do not know—’

‘If indeed you do not, then I have seen your path before
you have, and this I find hard to believe. You must leave here,
Ghost Hands. You must retrace your path, else what haunts you will
kill you—’

‘And that matters? Lass—’

‘Look beyond yourself for a moment, old man! Something is
contained within you. Trapped within your mortal flesh. What will
happen when your flesh fails?’

He was silent for a long moment, then he asked, ‘How can
you be so sure of this? My death might simply negate the risk of
escape—it might shut the portal, as tightly sealed as it had
been before—’

‘Because there is no going back. It’s here—the
power behind those ghostly hands of yours—not the otataral,
which is fading, ever fading—’

‘Fading?’

‘Yes, fading! Have not your dreams and visions worsened?
Have you not realized why? Yes, my mother has told me—on the
Otataral Isle, in the desert—that statue. Heboric, an entire
island of otataral was created to contain that statue, to hold it
prisoner. But you have given it a means to escape—there,
through your hands. You must return!’

‘Enough!’ he snarled, flinging her hand away.
‘Tell me, did she also tell you of herself on that
journey?’

‘That which she was before no longer
matters—’

‘Oh, but it does, lass! It does matter!’

‘What do you mean?’

The temptation came close to overwhelming him. Because she
is Malazan! Because she is Tavore’s sister! Because this war
is no longer the Whirlwind’s—it has been stolen away,
twisted by something far more powerful, by the ties of blood that
bind us all in the harshest, tightest chains! What chance a raging
goddess against that?

Instead, he said nothing.

‘You must undertake the journey,’ Felisin said in a
low voice. ‘But I know, it cannot be done alone. No. I will
go with you—’

He staggered away at her words, shaking his head. It was a
horrible idea, a terrifying idea. Yet brutally perfect, a nightmare
of synchronicity.

‘Listen! It need not be just you and I—I will find
someone else. A warrior, a loyal protector—’

‘Enough! No more of this!’ Yet it will take her
away—away from Bidithal and his ghastly desires. It will take
her away . . . from the storm that is coming.
‘With whom else have you spoken of this?’ he
demanded.

‘No-one, but I thought . . . Leoman.
He could choose for us someone from Mathok’s
people—’

‘Not a word, lass. Not now. Not yet.’

Her hand gripped his forearm once more. ‘We cannot wait
too long, Ghost Hands.’

‘Not yet, Felisin. Now, take me home, please.’

‘Will you come with me, Toblakai?’

Karsa dragged his gaze from Urugal’s stone face. The sun
had set with its characteristic suddenness, and the stars overhead
were bright. The snakes had begun dispersing, driven into the
eerily silent forest in search of food. ‘Would you I run
beside you and your puny horses, Leoman? There are no Teblor mounts
in this land. Nothing to match my size—’

‘Teblor mounts? Actually, friend, you are wrong in that.
Well, not here, true, as you say. But to the west, in the Jhag
Odhan, there are wild horses that are a match to your stature. Wild
now, in any case. They are Jhag horses—bred long ago by the
Jaghut. It may well be that your Teblor mounts are of the same
breed—there were Jaghut on Genabackis, after all.’

‘Why have you not told me this before?’

Leoman lowered his right hand to the ground, watched as the
flare-neck unwound down the length of his arm. ‘In truth,
this is the first time you have ever mentioned that you Teblor
possessed horses. Toblakai, I know virtually nothing of your past.
No-one here does. You are not a loquacious man. You and I, we have
ever travelled on foot, haven’t we?’

‘The Jhag Odhan. That is beyond Raraku.’

‘Aye. Strike west through the Whirlwind, and you will come
to cliffs, the broken shoreline of the ancient sea that once filled
this desert. Continue on until you come to a small city—Lato
Revae. Immediately to the west lies the tip of the Thalas
Mountains. Skirt their south edge, ever westward, until you come to
River Ugarat. There is a ford south of Y’Ghatan. From the
other side, strike west and south and west, for two weeks or more,
and you will find yourself in the Jhag Odhan. Oh, there is some
irony in this—there were once nomadic bands of Jaghut there.
Hence the name. But these Jaghut were fallen. They had been
predated on for so long they were little more than
savages.’

‘And are they still there?’

‘No. The Logros T’lan Imass slaughtered them. Not so
long ago.’

Karsa bared his teeth. ‘T’lan Imass. A
name from the Teblor past.’

‘Closer than that,’ Leoman muttered, then he
straightened. ‘Seek leave from Sha’ik to journey into
the Jhag Odhan. You would make an impressive sight on the
battlefield, astride a Jhag horse. Did your kind fight on
horseback, or simply use them for transport?’

Karsa smiled in the darkness. ‘I will do as you say,
Leoman. But the journey will take long—do not wait for me. If
you and your scouts are still beyond the Whirlwind upon my return,
I will ride out to find you.’

‘Agreed.’

‘What of Felisin?’

Leoman was silent for a moment, then he replied, ‘Ghost
Hands has been awakened to
the . . . threat.’

Karsa sneered. ‘And what value will that be? I should kill
Bidithal and be done with it.’

‘Toblakai, it is more than you that troubles Ghost Hands.
I do not believe he will remain in camp much longer. And when he
leaves, he will take the child with him.’

‘And that is a better option? She will become no more than
his nurse.’

‘For a time, perhaps. I will send someone with them, of
course. If Sha’ik did not need you—or at least believe
she does—I would ask you.’

‘Madness, Leoman. I have travelled once with Ghost Hands.
I shall not do so again.’

‘He holds truths for you, Toblakai. One day, you will need
to seek him out. You might even need to ask for his
help.’

‘Help? I need no-one’s help. You speak unpleasant
words. I will hear them no more.’

Leoman’s grin was visible in the gloom. ‘You are as
you always are, friend. When will you journey into the Jhag Odhan,
then?’

‘I shall leave tomorrow.’

‘Then I had best get word to Sha’ik. Who knows, she
might even condescend to see me in person, whereupon I might well
succeed in ending her distraction with this House of
Chains—’

‘This what?’

Leoman waved a dismissive hand. ‘The House of Chains. A
new power in the Deck of Dragons. It is all they talk about these
days.’

‘Chains,’ Karsa muttered, swinging round to stare at
Urugal. ‘I so dislike chains.’

‘I will see you in the morning, Toblakai? Before you
depart?’

‘You shall.’

Karsa listened to the man stride away. His mind was a maelstrom.
Chains. They haunted him, had haunted him ever since he and Bairoth
and Delum rode out from the village. Perhaps even before then.
Tribes fashioned their own chains, after all. As did kinship, and
companions, and stories with their lessons in honour and sacrifice.
And chains as well between the Teblor and their seven gods.
Between me and my gods. Chains again, there in my visions—the
dead I have slain, the souls Ghost Hands says I drag behind me. I
am—all that I am—has been shaped by such
chains.

This new House—is it mine?

The air in the clearing was suddenly cold, bitterly so. A final,
thrashing rush as the last of the snakes fled the clearing. Karsa
blinked his eyes into focus, and saw Urugal’s indurated
visage . . . awakening.

A presence, there in the dark holes of the face’s
eyes.

Karsa heard a howling wind, filling his mind. A thousand souls
moaning, the snapping thunder of chains. Growling, he steeled
himself before the onslaught, fixed his gaze on his god’s
writhing face.

‘Karsa Orlong. We have waited long for this. Three years,
the fashioning of this sacred place. You wasted so much time on the
two strangers—your fallen friends, the ones who failed where
you did not. This temple is not to be sanctified by sentimentality.
Their presence offends us. Destroy them this night.’

The seven faces were all wakeful now, and Karsa could feel the
weight of their regard, a deathly pressure behind which lurked
something . . . avid, dark and filled with
glee.

‘By my hand,’ Karsa said to Urugal, ‘I have
brought you to this place. By my hand, you have been freed from
your prison of rock in the lands of the Teblor—yes, I am not
the fool you believe me to be. You have guided me in this, and now
you are come. Your first words are of chastisement? Careful,
Urugal. Any carving here can be shattered by my hand, should I so
choose.’

He felt their rage, buffeting him, seeking to make him wither
beneath the onslaught, yet he stood before it unmoving, and
unmoved. The Teblor warrior who would quail before his gods was no
more.

‘You have brought us closer,’ Urugal eventually
rasped. ‘Close enough to sense the precise location of what
we desire. And there you must now go, Karsa Orlong. You have
delayed the journey for so long—your journey to ourselves,
and on to the path we have set before you. You have hidden too long
in the company of this petty spirit who does little more than spit
sand.’

‘This path, this journey—to what end? What is it you
seek?’

‘Like you, warrior, we seek freedom.’

Karsa was silent. Avid indeed. Then he spoke. ‘I
am to travel west. Into the Jhag Odhan.’

He sensed their shock and excitement, then the chorus of
suspicion that poured out from the seven gods.

‘West! Indeed, Karsa Orlong. But how do you know
this?’ Because, at last, I am my father’s son.
‘I shall leave with the dawn, Urugal. And I will find for you what
you desire.’ He could feel their presence fading, and knew
instinctively that these gods were not as close to freedom as they
wanted him to believe. Nor as powerful.

Urugal had called this clearing a temple, but it was a contested
one, and now, as the Seven withdrew, and were suddenly gone, Karsa
slowly turned from the faces of the gods, and looked upon those for
whom this place had been in truth sanctified. By Karsa’s own
hands. In the name of those chains a mortal could wear with
pride.

‘My loyalty,’ the Teblor warrior quietly said,
‘was misplaced. I served only glory. Words, my friends. And
words can wear false nobility. Disguising brutal truths. The words
of the past, that so clothed the Teblor in a hero’s
garb—this is what I served. While the true glory was before
me. Beside me. You, Delum Thord. And you, Bairoth Gild.’

From the stone statue of Bairoth emerged a distant, weary voice.
‘Lead us, Warleader.’

Karsa flinched. Do I dream this? Then he
straightened. ‘I have drawn your spirits to this place. Did
you travel in the wake of the Seven?’

‘We have walked the empty lands,’ Bairoth Gild
replied. ‘Empty, yet we were not alone. Strangers await us
all, Karsa Orlong. This is the truth they would hide from you. We
are summoned. We are here.’

‘None,’ came Delum Thord’s voice from the
other statue, ‘can defeat you on this journey. You lead the
enemy in circles, you defy every prediction, and so deliver the
edge of your will. We sought to follow, but could not.’

‘Who, Warleader,’ Bairoth asked, his voice bolder,
‘is our enemy, now?’

Karsa drew himself up before the two Uryd warriors.
‘Witness my answer, my friends. Witness.’

Delum spoke, ‘We failed you, Karsa Orlong. Yet you invite
us to walk with you once again.’

Karsa fought back an urge to scream, to unleash a
warcry—as if such a challenge might force back the
approaching darkness. He could make no sense of his own impulses,
the torrential emotions threatening to engulf him. He stared at the
carved likeness of his tall friend, the awareness in those unmarred
features—Delum Thord before the Forkassal—the Forkrul Assail
named Calm—had, on a mountain trail on a distant continent,
so casually destroyed him.

Bairoth Gild spoke. ‘We failed you. Do you now ask that we
walk with you?’

‘Delum Thord. Bairoth Gild.’ Karsa’s voice was
hoarse. ‘It is I who failed you. I would be your warleader
once more, if you would so permit me.’

A long moment of silence, then Bairoth replied, ‘At last,
something to look forward to.’

Karsa almost fell to his knees, then. Grief, finally unleashed.
At an end, his time of solitude. His penance was done. The journey
to begin again. Dear Urugal, you shall witness. Oh, how you
shall witness.

The hearth was little more than a handful of dying coals. After
Felisin Younger left, Heboric sat motionless in the gloom. A short
time passed, then he collected an armload of dried dung and rebuilt
the fire. The night had chilled him—even the hands he could
not see felt cold, like heavy pieces of ice at the end of his
wrists.

The only journey that lay ahead of him was a short one, and he
must walk it alone. He was blind, but in this no more blind than
anyone else. Death’s precipice, whether first glimpsed from
afar or discovered with the next step, was ever a surprise. A
promise of the sudden cessation of questions, yet there were no
answers waiting beyond. Cessation would have to be enough. And
so it must be for every mortal. Even as we hunger for resolution.
Or, even more delusional: redemption.

Now, after all this time, he was able to realize that every path
eventually, inevitably dwindled into a single line of footsteps.
There, leading to the very edge.
Then . . . gone. And so, he faced only what
every mortal faced. The solitude of death, and oblivion’s
final gift that was indifference.

The gods were welcome to wrangle over his soul, to snipe and
snap over the paltry feast. And if mortals grieved for him, it was
only because by dying he had shaken them from the illusion of unity
that comforted life’s journey. One less on the path.

A scratch at the flap entrance, then the hide was drawn aside
and someone entered.

‘Would you make of your home a pyre, Ghost Hands?’
The voice was L’oric’s.

The High Mage’s words startled Heboric into a sudden
realization of the sweat running down his face, the gusts of fierce
heat from the now raging hearth. Unthinking, he had fed the flames
with piece after piece of dung.

‘I saw the glow—difficult to miss, old man. Best
leave it, now, let it die down.’

‘What do you want, L’oric?’

‘I acknowledge your reluctance to speak of what you know.
There is no value, after all, in gifting Bidithal or Febryl with
such details. And so I shall not demand that you explain what
you’ve sensed regarding this Master of the Deck. Instead, I
offer an exchange, and all that we say will remain between the two
of us. No-one else.’

‘Why should I trust you? You are hidden—even to
Sha’ik. You give no reason as to why you are here. In her
cadre, in this war.’

‘That alone should tell you I am not like the
others,’ L’oric replied.

Heboric sneered. ‘That earns you less than you might
think. There can be no exchange because there is nothing you can
tell me that I would be interested in hearing. The schemes of
Febryl? The man’s a fool. Bidithal’s perversions? One
day a child will slip a knife between his ribs. Korbolo Dom and
Kamist Reloe? They war against an empire that is far from dead. Nor
will they be treated with honour when they are finally brought
before the Empress. No, they are criminals, and for that their
souls will burn for eternity. The Whirlwind? That goddess has my
contempt, and that contempt does naught but grow. Thus, what could
you possibly tell me, L’oric, that I would value?’

‘Only the one thing that might interest you, Heboric Light
Touch. Just as this Master of the Deck interests me. I would not
cheat you with the exchange. No, I would tell you all that I know
of the Hand of Jade, rising from the otataral sands—the Hand
that you have touched, that now haunts your dreams.’

‘How could you know these—’ He fell silent.
The sweat on his brow was now cold.

‘And how,’ L’oric retorted, ‘can you
sense so much from a mere description of the Master’s card?
Let us not question these things, else we trap ourselves in a
conversation that will outlive Raraku itself. So, Heboric, shall I
begin?’

‘No. Not now. I am too weary for this. Tomorrow,
L’oric.’

‘Delay may
prove . . . disastrous.’ After a moment,
the High Mage sighed. ‘Very well. I can see your exhaustion.
Permit me, at least, to brew your tea for you.’

The gesture of kindness was unexpected, and Heboric lowered his
head. ‘L’oric, promise me this—that when the
final day comes, you be a long way from here.’

‘A difficult promise. Permit me to think on it. Now, where
is the hen’bara?’

‘Hanging from a bag above the pot.’

‘Ah, of course.’

Heboric listened to the sounds of preparation, the rustle of
flower-heads from the bag, the slosh of water as L’oric
filled the pot. ‘Did you know,’ the High Mage murmured
as he worked, ‘that some of the oldest scholarly treatises on
the warrens speak of a triumvirate. Rashan, Thyr and Meanas. As if
the three were all closely related to one another. And then in turn
seek to link them to corresponding Elder warrens.’

Heboric grunted, then nodded. ‘All flavours of the same
thing? I would agree. Tiste warrens. Kurald this and Kurald that.
The human versions can’t help but overlap, become confused. I
am no expert, L’oric, and it seems you know more of it than
I.’

‘Well, there certainly appears to be a mutual insinuation
of themes between Darkness and Shadow, and, presumably, Light. A
confusion among the three, yes. Anomander Rake himself has asserted
a proprietary claim on the Throne of Shadow, after
all . . .’

The smell of the brewing tea tugged at Heboric’s mind.
‘He has?’ he murmured, only remotely interested.

‘Well, of a sort. He set kin to guard it, presumably from
the Tiste Edur. It is very difficult for us mortals to make sense
of Tiste histories, for they are such a long-lived people. As you
well know, human history is ever marked by certain personalities,
rising from some quality or notoriety to shatter the status quo.
Fortunately for us, such men and women are few and far between, and
they all eventually die or disappear. But among the
Tiste . . . well, those personalities never go
away, or so it seems. They act, and act yet again. They persist.
Choose the worst tyrant you can from your knowledge of human
history, Heboric, then imagine him or her as virtually undying. In
your mind, bring that tyrant back again and again and again. How,
having done so, would you imagine our history then?’

‘Far more violent than that of the Tiste, L’oric.
Humans are not Tiste. Indeed, I have never heard of a Tiste
tyrant . . .’

‘Perhaps I used the wrong word. I meant only—in
human context—a personality of devastating power, or potential.
Look at this Malazan Empire, born from the mind of Kellanved, a
single man. What if he had been eternal?’

Something in L’oric’s musings had reawakened
Heboric. ‘Eternal?’ He barked a laugh. ‘Perhaps
he is at that. There is one detail you might consider, perhaps more
relevant than anything else that’s been said here. And that
is, the Tiste are no longer isolated in their scheming. There are
humans now, in their games—humans, who’ve not the
patience of the Tiste, nor their legendary remoteness. The warrens
of Kurald Galain and Kurald Emurlahn are no longer pure, unsullied
by human presence. Meanas and Rashan? Perhaps they are proving the
doors into both Darkness and Shadow. Or perhaps the matter is more
complex than even that—how can one truly hope to separate the
themes of Darkness and Light from Shadow? They are as those
scholars said, an interdependent triumvirate. Mother, father and
child—a family ever squabbling . . . only
now the in-laws and grandchildren are joining in.’

He waited for a reply from L’oric, curious as to how his
comments had been received, but none was forthcoming. The ex-priest
looked up, struggled to focus on the High Mage—

—who sat motionless, a cup in one hand, the ring of the
brewing pot in the other. Motionless, and staring at Heboric.

‘L’oric? Forgive me, I cannot discern your
expression—’

‘Well that you cannot,’ the High Mage rasped.
‘Here I sought to raise the warning of Tiste meddling in
human affairs—to have you then voice a warning in the
opposite direction. As if it is not us who must worry, but the
Tiste themselves.’

Heboric said nothing. A strange, whispering suspicion flitted
through him for a moment, as if tickled into being by something in
L’oric’s voice. After a moment, he dismissed it. Too
outrageous, too absurd to entertain.

L’oric poured the tea.

Heboric sighed. ‘It seems I am to be ever denied the
succour of that brew. Tell me, then, of the giant of
jade.’

‘Ah, and in return you will speak of the Master of the
Deck?’

‘In some things I am forbidden to
elaborate—’

‘Because they relate to Sha’ik’s own secret
past?’

‘Fener’s tusk, L’oric! Who in this rat’s
nest might be listening in to our conversation right now? It is
madness to speak—’

‘No-one is listening, Heboric. I have made certain of
that. I am not careless with secrets. I have known much of your
recent history since the very beginning—’

‘How?’

‘We agreed to not discuss sources. My point is, no-one
else is aware that you are Malazan, or that you are an escapee from
the otataral mines. Except Sha’ik, of course. Since she
escaped with you. Thus, I value privacy—with my knowledge and
with my thoughts—and am ever vigilant. Oh, there have been
probes, sorcerous questings—a whole menagerie of spells as
various inhabitants seek to keep track of rivals. As occurs every
night.’

‘Then your absence will be detected—’

‘I sleep restful in my tent, Heboric, as far as those
questings are concerned. As do you in your tent. Each alone.
Harmless.’

‘You are more than a match for their sorceries, then.
Which makes you more powerful than any of them.’ He heard as
much as saw L’oric’s shrug, and after a moment the
ex-priest sighed. ‘If you wish details concerning
Sha’ik and this new Master of the Deck, then it must be the
three of us who meet. And for that to occur, you will have to
reveal more of yourself to the Chosen One than you might
wish.’

‘Tell me this, at least. This new Master—he was
created in the wake of the Malazan disaster on Genabackis. Or do
you deny that? That bridge on which he stands—he was of, or
is somehow related to, the Bridgeburners. And those ghostly
guardians are all that remains of the Bridgeburners, for they were
destroyed in the Pannion Domin.’

‘I cannot be certain of any of that,’ Heboric
replied, ‘but what you suggest seems likely.’

‘So, the Malazan influence ever grows—not just on
our mundane world, but throughout the warrens, and now in the Deck
of Dragons.’

‘You make the mistake of so many of the empire’s
enemies, L’oric. You assume that all that is Malazan is
perforce unified, in intent and in goal. Things are far more
complicated than you imagine. I do not believe this Master of the
Deck is some servant of the Empress. Indeed, he kneels before
no-one.’

‘Then why the Bridgeburner guardians?’

Heboric sensed that the question was a leading one, but decided
he would play along. ‘Some loyalties defy Hood
himself—’

‘Ah, meaning he was a soldier in that illustrious company.
Well, things are beginning to make sense.’

‘They are?’

‘Tell me, have you heard of a Spiritwalker named
Kimloc?’

‘The name is vaguely familiar. But not from around here.
Karakarang? Rutu Jelba?’

‘Now resident of Ehrlitan. His history is not relevant
here, but somehow he must have come into recent contact with a
Bridgeburner. There is no other explanation for what he has done.
He has given them a song, Heboric. A Tanno song, and,
curiously, it begins here. In Raraku. Raraku, friend, is the
birthplace of the Bridgeburners. Do you know the significance of
such a song?’

Heboric turned away, faced the hearth and its dry heat, and said
nothing.

‘Of course,’ L’oric went on after a
moment, ‘that significance has now diminished somewhat, since
the Bridgeburners are no more. There can be no
sanctification . . .’

‘No, I suppose not,’ Heboric murmured.

‘For the song to be sanctified, a Bridgeburner would have
to return to Raraku, to the birthplace of the company. And that
does not seem likely now, does it?’

‘Why is it necessary a Bridgeburner return to
Raraku?’

‘Tanno sorcery is . . . elliptical.
The song must be like a serpent eating its tail. Kimloc’s
Song of the Bridgeburners is at the moment without an end. But it
has been sung, and so lives.’ L’oric shrugged.
‘It’s like a spell that remains active, awaiting
resolution.’

‘Tell me of the giant of jade.’

The High Mage nodded. He poured out the tea and set the cup down
in front of Heboric. ‘The first one was found deep in the
otataral mines—’

‘The first one!’

‘Aye. And the contact proved, for those miners who
ventured too close, fatal. Or, rather, they disappeared. Leaving no
trace. Sections of two others have been discovered—all three
veins are now sealed. The giants
are . . . intruders to our world. From some
other realm.’

‘Arriving,’ Heboric muttered, ‘only to be
wrapped in chains of otataral.’

‘Ah, you are not without your own knowledge, then. Indeed,
it seems their arrival has, each time, been anticipated. Someone,
or something, is ensuring that the threat these giants impose is
negated—’

But Heboric shook his head at that and said, ‘No, I think
you are wrong, L’oric. It is the very passage—the
portal through which each giant comes—that creates the
otataral.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Of course not. There are too many mysteries surrounding
the nature of otataral to be certain of anything. There was a
scholar—I forget her name—who once suggested that
otataral is created by the annihilation of all that is necessary
for sorcery to operate. Like slag with all the ore burned out. She
called it the absolute draining of energy—the energy that
rightfully exists in all things, whether animate or
otherwise.’

‘And had she a theory as to how that could
occur?’

‘Perhaps the magnitude of the sorcery unleashed—a
spell that is all-devouring of the energy it feeds on.’

‘But not even the gods could wield such magic.’

‘True, but I think it is nevertheless
possible . . . through ritual, such as a
cadre—or army—of mortal sorcerers could
achieve.’

‘In the manner of the Ritual of Tellann,’
L’oric nodded. ‘Aye.’

‘Or,’ Heboric said softly as he reached for the
cup, ‘the calling down of the Crippled
God . . .’

L’oric was motionless, staring fixedly at the tattooed
ex-priest. He said nothing for a long time, whilst Heboric sipped
the hen’bara tea. He finally spoke. ‘Very well, there
is one last piece of information I will tell you—I see now
the need, the very great need to do so, though it
shall . . . reveal much of myself.’

Heboric sat and listened, and as L’oric continued
speaking, the confines of his squalid hut dimmed to insignificance,
the heat of the hearth no longer reaching him, until the only
sensation left came from his ghostly hands. Together, there at the
ends of his wrists, they became the weight of the world.

The rising sun washed all tones from the sky to the east. Karsa
checked his supplies one last time, the foodstuffs and waterskins,
the additional items and accoutrements necessary for survival in a
hot, arid land. A kit wholly unlike what he had carried for most of
his life. Even the sword was different—ironwood was heavier
than bloodwood, its edge rougher although almost—but not
quite—as hard. It did not slice the air with the ease of his
oiled bloodwood sword. Yet it had served him well enough. He
glanced skyward; dawn’s colours were almost entirely gone,
now, the blue directly above vanishing behind suspended dust.

Here, in Raraku’s heart, the Whirlwind Goddess had stolen
the colour of the sun’s own fire, leaving the landscape
pallid and deathly. Colourless, Karsa Orlong? Bairoth
Gild’s ghostly voice was filled with wry humour. Not so.
Silver, my friend. And silver is the colour of oblivion. Of chaos.
Silver is when the last of the blood is washed from the
blade—

‘No more words,’ Karsa growled.

Leoman spoke from nearby. ‘Having just arrived, Toblakai,
I am yet to even speak. Do you not wish my farewell?’

Karsa slowly straightened, slinging his pack over a shoulder.
‘Words need not be spoken aloud, friend, to prove unwelcome.
I but answered my own thoughts. That you are here pleases me. When
I began my first journey, long ago, none came to
witness.’

‘I asked Sha’ik,’ Leoman replied from where he
stood ten paces away, having just passed through the trail’s
gap in the low, crumbled wall—the mud bricks, Karsa saw, were on
their shaded side covered with rhizan, clinging with wings
contracted, their mottled colourings making them almost identical
to the ochre bricks. ‘But she said she would not join me this
morning. Even stranger, it seemed as if she already knew of your
intentions, and was but awaiting my visit.’

Shrugging, Karsa faced Leoman. ‘A witness of one suffices.
We may now speak our parting words. Do not hide overlong in your
pit, friend. And when you ride out with your warriors, hold to the
Chosen One’s commands—too many jabs from the small
knife can awaken the bear no matter how deep it sleeps.’

‘It is a young and weak bear, this time, Toblakai.’

Karsa shook his head. ‘I have come to respect the Malazans,
and fear that you would awaken them to themselves.’

‘I shall consider your words,’ Leoman replied.
‘And now ask that you consider mine. Beware your gods,
friend. If you must kneel before a power, first look upon it with
clear eyes. Tell me, what would your kin say to you in
parting?’

‘ “May you slay a thousand children.” ’

Leoman blanched. ‘Journey well, Toblakai.’

‘I shall.’

Karsa knew that Leoman could neither see nor sense that he was
flanked where he stood at the trail’s gap in the wall. Delum
Thord on the left, Bairoth Gild on the right. Teblor warriors,
blood-oil smeared in crimson tones even the Whirlwind could not
eradicate, and they stepped forward as the Teblor swung about to
face the western trail.

‘Lead us. Lead your dead, Warleader.’

Bairoth’s mocking laugh clicked and cracked like the
potsherds breaking beneath Karsa Orlong’s moccasins. The
Teblor grimaced. There would be, it seemed, a fierce price for the
honour.

None the less, he realized after a moment, if there must be
ghosts, it was better to lead them than to be chased by them.
‘If that is how you would see it, Karsa
Orlong.’ In the distance rose the swirling wall of the
Whirlwind. It would be good, the Teblor reflected, to see the world
beyond it again, after all these months. He set out, westward, as
the day was born.

‘He has left,’ Kamist Reloe said as he settled onto
the cushions.

Korbolo Dom eyed the mage, his blank expression betraying
nothing of the contempt he felt for the man. Sorcerers did not
belong in war. And he had shown the truth of that when destroying
the Chain of Dogs. Even so, there were necessities to contemplate,
and Reloe was the least of them. ‘That leaves only
Leoman,’ he rumbled from where he lay on the pillows and
cushions.

‘Who departs with his rats in a few days.’

‘Will Febryl now advance his plans?’

The mage shrugged. ‘It is hard to say, but there is a
distinct avidness in his gaze this morning.’

Avidness. Indeed. Another High Mage, another insane wielder of
powers better left untapped. ‘There is one who remains, who
perhaps presents us with the greatest threat of them all, and that
is Ghost Hands.’

Kamist Reloe sneered. ‘A blind, doddering fool. Does he
even know that hen’bara tea is itself the source of the
thinning fabric between his world and all that he would flee from?
Before long, his mind will vanish entirely within the nightmares,
and we need concern ourselves with him no more.’

‘She has secrets,’ Korbolo Dom muttered, leaning
forward to collect a bowl of figs. ‘Far beyond those gifted
her by the Whirlwind. Febryl proceeds headlong, unmindful of his
own ignorance. When the battle with the Adjunct’s army is
finally joined, success or failure will be decided by the
Dogslayers—by my army. Tavore’s otataral will defeat
the Whirlwind—I am certain of it. All that I ask of you and Febryl
and Bidithal is that I am unobstructed in commanding the forces, in
shaping that battle.’

‘We are both aware,’ Kamist growled, ‘that this
struggle goes far beyond the Whirlwind.’

‘Aye, so it does. Beyond all of Seven Cities, Mage. Do not
lose sight of our final goal, of the throne that will one day
belong to us.’

Kamist Reloe shrugged. ‘That is our secret, old friend. We
need only proceed with caution, and all that opposes us will likely
vanish before our very eyes. Febryl kills Sha’ik, Tavore
kills Febryl, and we destroy Tavore and her army.’

‘And then become Laseen’s saviour—as we crush
this rebellion utterly. Gods, I swear I will see this entire land
empty of life if need be. A triumphant return to Unta, an audience
with the Empress, then the driven knife. And who will stop us? The
Talon are poised to cut down the Claws. Whiskeyjack and the
Bridgeburners are no more, and Dujek remains a continent away. How
fares the Jhistal priest?’

‘Mallick travels without opposition, ever southward. He is
a clever man, a wise man, and he will play out his role to
perfection.’

Korbolo Dom made no reply to that. He despised Mallick Rel, but
could not deny his usefulness. Still, the man was not one to be
trusted . . . to which High Fist Pormqual would
attest, were the fool still alive. ‘Send for Fayelle. I would
a woman’s company now. Leave me, Kamist Reloe.’

The High Mage hesitated, and Korbolo scowled.

‘There is the matter,’ Kamist whispered, ‘of
L’oric . . .’

‘Then deal with him!’ Korbolo snapped.
‘Begone!’

Bowing his head, the High Mage backed out of the tent.

Sorcerers. Could he find a way to destroy magic, the Napan would
not hesitate. The extinction of powers that could slaughter a
thousand soldiers in an instant would return the fate of mortals to
the mortals themselves, and this could not but be a good thing. The
death of warrens, the dissolution of gods as memory of them and
their meddling slowly vanished, the withering of all
magic . . . the world then would belong to men
such as Korbolo himself. And the empire he would shape would permit
no ambiguity, no ambivalence.

His will unopposed, the Napan could end, once and for all, the
dissonant clangour that so plagued humanity—now and
throughout its history.

I will bring order. And from that unity, we shall rid the
world of every other race, every other people, we shall overpower
and crush every discordant vision, for there can in the end be only
one way, one way of living, of ruling this realm. And that way
belongs to me.

A good soldier well knew that success was found in careful
planning, in incremental steps.

Opposition had a way of stepping aside all on its own. You
are now at Hood’s feet, Whiskeyjack. Where I have always
wanted you. You and your damned company, feeding worms in a foreign
land. None left to stop me, now . . .

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