A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

impassable to them. Servants of the Crippled God, however, will find themselves able to travel freely in the paths.'
    'I am servant to no-one,' Kallor growled.
    'The position of High King is vacant within the Crippled God's House of Chains.'
    Kallor shrugged. 'None the less requiring that I stain my knees before the Chained One.'
    'No such gestures are demanded of the High King. The House of Chains exists beyond the Crippled God's influence – is that not obvious? He is chained, after all. Trapped in a lifeless fragment of a long-dead warren. Bound to the flesh of the Sleeping Goddess – aye, that has proved his singular means of efficacy, but it is limited. Understand, Kallor, that the Crippled God now casts the House of Chains into the world, indeed, abandons it to its fate. Survival depends on those who come to the titles it contains. Some of those the Chained One can influence – though never directly – whilst others, such as that of King of High House Chains, must be freely assumed.'
    'If so,' Kallor rumbled after a long moment, 'why are you not the King?'
    Gethol bowed his head. 'You honour me, sir,' he said drily. 'I am, however, content to be Herald—'
    'Under the delusion that the messenger is ever spared, no matter what the message? You were never as smart as your brother, were you? Somewhere, Gothos must be laughing.'
    'Gothos never laughs. But, given that I know where he languishes, I do. Often. Now, should I remain here much longer awaiting your answer, my presence may well be detected. There are Tiste Andii nearby—'
    'Very near. Not to mention Caladan Brood. Lucky for you Anomander Rake has left – returned to Moon's Spawn, wherever it is—'
    'Its location must be discovered, revealed to the Crippled God.'
    The grey-haired warrior raised an eyebrow. 'A task for the King?'
    'Does betrayal sting your sense of honour, Kallor?'
    'If you call it a sudden reversal of strategy, the sting fades. What I require, in exchange, is an opportunity, arranged howsoever the Crippled God pleases.'
    'What is the nature of this opportunity, High King?'
    Kallor smiled, then his expression hardened. 'The woman Silverfox ... a moment of vulnerability, that is all I ask.'
    Gethol slowly bowed. 'I am your Herald, sire, and shall convey your desires to the Crippled God.'
    'Tell me,' Kallor said, 'before you go. Does this throne suit the House of Chains, Gethol?'
    The Jaghut studied the battered, iron-coloured wood, noted the cracks in its frame. 'It most certainly does, sire.'
    'Begone, then.'
    The Herald bowed once more, the portal opening behind him. A moment later he stepped back, and was gone.
    Smoke from the candle swirled in the wake of the vanishing portal. Kallor drew a deep breath. Adding years and years of renewed vigour. He sat motionless ... a hunter on the edge of ambush. Suitably explosive. Suitably deadly.
     
    Whiskeyjack stepped out of the command tent, stood gazing up at the sweep of stars overhead. It had been a long time since he'd felt so weary.
    He heard movement behind him, then a soft, long-fingered hand settled on his shoulder, the touch sending waves through him. 'It would be nice,' Korlat murmured, 'to hear good news for a change.'
    He grunted.
    'I see the worry in your eyes, Whiskeyjack. It's a long list, isn't it? Your Bridgeburners, Silverfox, her mother, and now this assault on the warrens. We are marching blind. So much rests on unknowns. Does Capustan still hold, or has the city fallen? And what of Trotts? And Paran? Quick Ben?'
    'I am aware of that list, Korlat,' he rumbled.
    'Sorry. I share them, that is all.'
    He glanced at her. 'Forgive me, but why? This is not your war
    – gods below, it's not even your world! Why are you yielding to its
    needs?' He sighed loudly and shook his head, returning his gaze to the night
    sky. 'That's a question we asked often, early in the campaigns. I remember,
    in Blackdog Forest, stumbling over a half-dozen of your kin. A Moranth cusser
    had taken them out. A squad of regulars was busy looting the bodies. They
    were cursing – not finding anything of worth. A few knotted strips of
    coloured cloth, a stream-polished pebble, plain weapons – the kind you
    could pick up in any market in any city.' He was silent for a moment, then
    he continued, 'And I remember wondering – what was the story of their
    lives? Their dreams, their aspirations? Would their kin miss them? The Mhybe
    once mentioned that the Rhivi took on the task of burying the