House of Chains (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #4)

by Steven Erikson

‘How many of us bow before a god in the desperate hope that we can somehow shape our fate? Praying to that familiar face pushes away our terror of the unknown – the unknown being the future. Who knows, maybe these Tiste Andii are the only ones among us all who see the truth, the truth being oblivion.’

‘Teblor logic,’ Torvald chuckled, ‘is truly wonderful.’

‘I was never very good at acquiring friends. Acquaintances, minions and the like – that was easy. But my big mouth—’ ‘Sends potential friends fleeing. Yes, I understand. Clearly.’

There’s little value in seeking to find reasons for why people do what they do, or feel the way they feel. Hatred is a most pernicious weed, finding root in any kind of soil. It feeds on itself.’ ‘With words.’ ‘Indeed, with words. Form an opinion, say it often enough and pretty soon everyone’s saying it right back at you, and then it becomes a conviction, fed by unreasoning anger and defended with weapons of fear. At which point, words become useless and you’re left with a fight to the death.’ Karsa grunted. ‘A fight beyond death, I would say.’ ‘True enough. Generation after generation.’

‘Where’d you get the name “Strings”, anyway?’ the young woman asked after a moment. Fiddler smiled. ‘That tale’s too long to tell, lass.’

Kellanved began with but one companion – Dancer. The two then hired a handful of locals in Malaz City and set about conquering the criminal element in the city – I should point out, that criminal element happened to rule the entire island. Their target was Mock, Malaz Island’s unofficial ruler. A pirate, and a cold-blooded killer.’

Our residency in the Deadhouse rewarded us with – as is now clearly evident – certain gifts. Longevity, immunity to most diseases, and … other things. The Deadhouse also provided us with an unassailable base of operations. Dancer later bolstered our numbers by recruiting among the refugee Napans who’d fled the conquest: Cartheron Crust and his brother, Urko. And Surly – Laseen. Three more men were to follow shortly thereafter. Toc Elder, Dassem Ultor – who was, like Kellanved, of Dal Honese blood – and a renegade High Septarch of the D’rek Cult, Tayschrenn. And finally, Duiker.’ He half smiled at Tavore. ‘The family. With which Kellanved conquered Malaz Island.

Bargaining with gods was – for the mortal involved – an exercise in self-delusion.

An army that waits is soon an army at war with itself. Kellanved

‘Poets may know hunger,’ she commented drily, ‘but historians devour. And devouring murders language, makes of it a dead thing.’ ‘Not the historian’s crime, lass, but the critic’s.’

‘Death is not an unkind fate,’ Darist said above him. ‘If she was a friend, you will miss her company, and that is the true source of your grief – your sorrow is for yourself. My words may displease you, but I speak from experience. I have felt the deaths of many of my kin, and I mourn the spaces in my life where they once stood. But such losses serve only to ease my own impending demise.’

I grieve for humanity. This family, so at war with itself.

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.

‘A soldier knows but one truth, and that truth is, without faith, you are already as good as dead. Faith in the soldier at your side. But even more important – and no matter how delusional it is in truth – there is the faith that you cannot be killed. Those two and those two alone – they are the legs holding up every army.’

‘A faith betrayed does not destroy the notion of faith itself,’ Strings retorted. ‘In fact, it does the very opposite—’ ‘Maybe for you, but there are some things you can’t step around with words and lofty ideals, Fid.

In what seemed a vast distance, duller spheres swam, clustering about the fiery stars, and realization struck him a hammer blow. The stars, they are as the sun. Each star. Every star. And those spheres – they are worlds, realms, each one different yet the same. The Abyss was not as empty as he’d believed it to be. But … where dwell the gods? These worlds – are they warrens? Or are the warrens simply passageways connecting them?

Odd, then, that this rebellion had had nothing to do with such inequities, that in truth it had been little more than a struggle between those who would be in charge. Yet the majority of the suffering had descended upon the lowborn, upon the common folk. What matter the colour of the collar around a man’s neck, if the chains linked to them were identical?

Look upon the ruined cities, the old roads. The past is all patterns, and those patterns remain beneath our feet, even as the stars above reveal their own patterns – for the stars we gaze upon each night are naught but an illusion from the past.’

‘Obsession is its own poison, Trull Sengar.’

What do the gods themselves worship, but perfection? The unattainable victory over nature, over nature’s uncertainty. There are many words for this struggle. Order against chaos, structure against dissolution, light against dark, life against death. But they all mean the same thing.’

‘You are not gods.’ ‘We are,’ Urugal replied. ‘To be a god is to possess worshippers.’ ‘To guide them,’ ’Siballe added. ‘You are wrong, both of you,’ Karsa said. ‘To be a god is to know the burden of believers. Did you protect? You did not. Did you offer comfort, solace? Were you possessed of compassion? Even pity? To the Teblor, T’lan Imass, you were slavemasters, eager and hungry, making harsh demands, and expecting cruel sacrifices – all to feed your own desires. You were the Teblor’s unseen chains.’

I do not grieve for my own ignorance. Why should I? Not knowing what I have missed means I do not miss what I do not know. How could I? Do you see?

Every defeat justifies future victory. Every victory is propitious.

‘It won’t be your usual battle, will it?’ Bottle asked. Strings shrugged. ‘There’s no such thing, lad. There’s nothing usual about killing and dying, about pain and terror.’

He wondered if the morrow would indeed be witness to his last battle. Hardly a welcome thought, but maybe it was necessary. Maybe he was being called to join the fallen Bridgeburners. Not so bad, then. Couldn’t ask for more miserable company. Damn, but I miss them. I miss them all. Even Hedge.

‘The glory of battle, Koryk, dwells only in the bard’s voice, in the teller’s woven words. Glory belongs to ghosts and poets. What you hear and dream isn’t the same as what you live – blur the distinction at your own peril, lad.’