Deadhouse Gates

'The ship herself?'



'Not that I could determine. Look, Kalam, we're being tracked by someone in a warren – that's my guess. Someone who wants to make certain of that cargo. A theory only, but it's all I've got. Thus, friend, all my secrets unveiled.'



Kalam was silent a long moment, then he shook himself. 'I have contacts in Malaz City – an unexpected converging well ahead of schedule, but there it is.'



'Contacts, excellent – we'll need them. Where?'



'There's a black heart in Malaz City, the blackest. The one thing every denizen avoids mention of, wilfully ignores – and there, if all goes well, we will await our allies.'



'Let me guess: the infamous tavern called Smiley's, once owned by the man who would one day become an Emperor – the sailors tell me the food is quite awful.'



Kalam stared at the man in wonder. Hood alone knows, either breathtakingly sardonic or ... or what, by the Abyss? 'No, a place called the Deadhouse. And not inside it, but at the gates, though by all means, Salk Elan, feel free to explore its yard.'



The man leaned both arms on the rail, squinting out at the dull lights of Malaz City. 'Assuming a long wait for your friends, perhaps I shall, perhaps I shall at that.'



It was unlikely he noticed Kalam's feral grin.



Iskaral Pust gripped the latch with both hands, his feet planted against the door, and, gibbering his terror, pulled frantically – to no avail. With a growl, Mappo stepped over Icarium where he lay at the foot of Tremorlor's entrance, and prised the High Priest from the unyielding barrier.



Fiddler heard the Trell straining at the latch, but the sapper's attention was fixed on the swarm of bloodflies. Tremorlor was resisting them, but the advance was inexorable. Blind stood at his side, head lifted, hackles raised. The four other Hounds had reappeared on the trail and were charging towards the yard's vine-wreathed gate. The shadow cast down by the D'ivers swept over them like black water.



'It either opens at the touch,' Apsalar said in a startlingly calm voice, 'or it does not open at all. Stand back, Mappo, let us all try.'



'Icarium stirs!' Crokus cried out.



'It's the threat,' the Trell answered. 'Gods below, not here, not now!'



'No better time!' Iskaral Pust shrieked.



Apsalar spoke again. 'Crokus, you're the last to try but Fiddler. Come here, quickly.'



The silence that followed told Fiddler all he needed to know. He risked a glance back to where Mappo crouched over Icarium. 'Awaken him,' he said, 'or all is lost.'



The Trell lifted his face and the sapper saw the anguished indecision writ there. 'This close to Tremorlor – the risk, Fiddler—'



'What—'



But he got no further.



As if speared by lightning, the Jhag's body jolted, a high-pitched keening rising from him. The sound buffeted the others and sent them tumbling. Fresh blood streaming from the wound on his head and his eyes struggling to open, Icarium surged to his feet. The ancient single-edged long sword slipped free, the blade a strange, shivering blur.



The Hounds and the D'ivers swarm reached the yard simultaneously. The grounds and ragged trees erupted, chaotic webs of root and branch twisting skyward like black sails, billowing, spreading wide. Other roots snapped out for the Hounds – the beasts screamed. Blind was gone from Fiddler's side, down among her kin.



At that moment, in the midst of all he saw, Fiddler grinned inwardly. Not just Shadowthrone for treachery – how could an Azath resist the Hounds of Shadow?



A hand gripped his shoulder.



'The latch!' Apsalar hissed. 'Try the door, Fid!'



The D'ivers struck Tremorlor's last, desperate defence. Wood exploded.



The sapper was pushed against the door by a pair of hands on his back, catching a momentary glimpse of Mappo, his arms wrapped around a still mostly unaware Icarium, holding the Jhag back even as that keening sound rose and with it an overwhelming, inexorable power burgeoned. The pressure slapped Fiddler against the door's sweaty, dark wood and held him there in effortless contempt, whispering its promise of annihilation. He struggled to work his arm towards the latch, straining every muscle to that single task.



Hounds howled from the farthest reaches of the yard, a triumphant, outraged sound that rose towards fear as Icarium's own rage swallowed all else. Fiddler felt the wood tremble, felt that tremble spread through the House.



His sweat mingling with Tremorlor's, the sapper gave one last surge of all his strength, willing success, willing the achievement of moving his arm, closing a hand on the latch.