House of Chains

Apsalar shrugged. ‘They were given a task.’



He fell silent, pondering that brusque statement. He’d always believed that a singular capacity to inflict death engendered a certain wisdom-of the fragility of the spirit, of its mortality-as he had known, and experienced first-hand, with Rallick Nom in Darujhistan. But Apsalar revealed nothing of such wisdom; her words were hard with judgement, often flatly dismissive. She had taken focus and made of it a weapon… or a means of self-defence .



She had not intended any of the three Edur she had taken down to die swiftly. Yet it seemed she drew no pleasure, as a sadist might. It is more as if she was trained to do so… trained as a torturer. Yet Cotillion-Dancer-was no torturer. He was an assassin. So where does the vicious streak come from? Does it belong to her own nature? An unpleasant, disturbing thought.



He lifted his left arm, gingerly, wincing. Their next fight would likely be a short one, even with Apsalar at their side.



‘You are in no condition to fight,’ she observed.



‘Nor is Darist,’ Cutter retorted.



‘The sword will carry him. But you will prove a liability. I would not be distracted by protecting you.’



‘What do you suggest? I kill myself now so I’m not in your way?’



She shook her head-as if the suggestion had been, on its face, entirely reasonable, just not what she had in mind-and spoke in a low voice. ‘There are others on this island. Hiding well, but not well enough to escape my notice. I want you to go to them. I want you to enlist their help.’



‘Who are these others?’



‘You yourself identified them, Cutter. Malazans. Survivors, I would assume, from the three war dromons. There is one of power among them.’



Cutter glanced over at Darist. The youths had moved the old man so that he sat with his back against the wall beside the inside doorway, opposite the gate. His head was lowered, bearded chin to chest, and only the faint rise and fall of his chest indicated that he still lived. ‘All right. Where will I find them?’



The forest was filled with ruins. Crumbled, moss-covered, often little more than overgrown heaps, but it was evident to Cutter as he padded along the narrow, faint trail Apsalar had described for him that this forest had risen from the heart of a dead city-a huge city, dominated by massive buildings. Pieces of statuary lay scattered here and there, figures of enormous stature, constructed in sections and fixed together with a glassy substance he did not recognize. Although mostly covered in moss, he suspected the figures were Edur.



An oppressive gloom suffused all that lay beneath the forest canopy. A number of living trees showed torn bark, and while the bark was black, the smooth, wet wood underneath was blood red. Fallen companions revealed that the fierce crimson turned black with death. The wounded upright trees reminded Cutter of Darist-of the Tiste Andu’s black skin and the deep red cuts slashing through it.



He found he was shivering in the damp air as he padded along. His left arm was now entirely useless, and though he had retrieved his knives-including the broken-tipped one-he doubted that he would be able to put up much of a fight should the need arise.



He could make out his destination directly ahead. A mound of rubble, pyramidal and particularly large, its summit sunbathed. There were trees on its flanks, but most were dead in the strangling grip of vines. A gaping hole of impenetrable darkness yawned from the side nearest Cutter.



He slowed, then, twenty paces from the cave, halted. What he was about to do ran against every instinct. ‘Malazans!’ he called out, then winced at his own loudness. But the Edur are closing on the Throne-no-one nearby to hear me. I hope . ‘I know you are within! I would speak with you!’



Figures appeared at the flanking edges of the cave, two on each side, crossbows cocked and trained on Cutter. Then, from the centre, emerged three more, two women and a man. The woman on the left gestured and said, ‘Come closer, hands out to your sides.’



Cutter hesitated, then stretched out his right hand. ‘My left arm won’t lift, I’m afraid.’



‘Come ahead.’ He approached.



The speaker was tall, muscular. Her hair was long, stained red. She wore tanned leathers. A longsword was scabbarded at her hip. Her skin was a deep bronze in hue. Cutter judged she was ten or more years older than him, and he felt a shiver run through him when he lifted his gaze and met her tilted, gold-hued eyes.



The other woman was unarmed, older, and her entire right side, head, face, torso and leg, was horrifically burned-the flesh fused with wisps of clothing, mangled and melted by the ravages of a sorcerous attack. It was a wonder that she was standing-or even alive.