A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

no bias,
does it? Oh no, balanced wise eyes and mind is necessary.
Indeed. Now, why does the new House ring with truth? Let
me tell you, friend. First, a new Unaligned card, a card
denoting that a Master now commands the Deck. An
arbiter, yes? And then, spreading out like a runaway stubble
fire, the new House. Sanctioned? Undecided. But not
rejected out of hand, oh no, not rejected. And the Readers
– the patterns! The House will be sanctioned – not one
Reader doubts that!'
    'And what is the name of this House?' the customer asked. 'What throne? Who claims to rule it?'
    'The House of Chains, my friend. To your other, questions, there is naught but confusion in answer. Ascendants vie. But I will tell you this: the Throne where the King shall sit – the Throne, my friend, is cracked.'
    'You are saying this House belongs to the Chained One?'
    'Aye. The Crippled God.'
    'The others must be assailing it fiercely,' the man murmured, his expression thoughtful.
    'You would think, but not so. Indeed, it is they who are assailed! Do you wish to see the new cards?'
    'I may return later and do that very thing,' the man replied. 'But first, let me see those poor knives on that post.'
    'Poor knives! Aaii! Not poor, oh no!' The old man spun on his seat, reached up and collected the brace of weapons.
He grinned, blue-veined tongue darting between red gums. 'Last owned by a Pardu ghost-slayer!' He drew one of the knives from its sheath. The blade was blackened, inlaid with a silver serpent pattern down its length.
    'That is not Pardu,' the customer growled.
    'Owned, I said. You've a sharp eye indeed. They are Wickan. Booty from the Chain of Dogs.'
    'Let me see the other one.'
    The old man unsheathed the second blade.
    Kalam Mekhar's eyes involuntarily widened. Quickly regaining his composure, he glanced up at the proprietor – but the man had seen and was nodding.
    'Aye, friend. Aye ...'
    The entire blade, also black, was feather-patterned, the inlay an amber-tinged silver – that amber taint . . . alloyed with otataral. Crow clan. But not a lowly warrior's weapon. No, this one belonged to someone important.
    The old man resheathed the Crow knife, tapped the other one with a finger. 'Invested, this one. How to challenge the otataral? Simple. Elder magic'
    'Elder. Wickan sorcery is not Elder—'
    'Oh, but this now-dead Wickan warrior had a friend. See, here, take the knife in your hand. Squint at this mark, there, at the base – see, the serpent's tail coils around it—'
    The long-knife was startlingly heavy in Kalam's hand. The finger ridges in the grip were overlarge, but the Wickan had compensated for this with thicker leather straps. The stamp impressed into the metal in the centre of the looped tail was intricate, almost beyond belief, given the size of the hand that must have inscribed it. Venn. Thelomen Toblakai. The Wickan had a friend indeed. And worse, I know that mark. I know precisely who invested this weapon. Gods below, what strange cycles am I striding into here?
    There was no point in bartering. Too much had been revealed. 'Name your price,' Kalam sighed.
    The old man's grin broadened. 'As you can imagine, a cherished set – my most valuable prize.'
    'At least until the dead Crow warrior's son comes to collect it – though I doubt he will be interested in paying you in gold. I will inherit that vengeful hunter, so rein in your greed and name the price.'
    'Twelve hundred.'
    The assassin set a small pouch on the table and watched the proprietor loosen the strings and peer inside.
    'There is a darkness to these diamonds,' the old man said after a moment.
    'It is that shadow that makes them so valuable and you know it.'
    'Aye, I do indeed. Half of what is within will suffice.'
    'An honest hawker.'
    'A rarity, yes. These days, loyalty pays.'
    Kalam watched the old man count out the diamonds. 'The loss of imperial trade has been painful, it seems.'
    'Very. But the situation here in G'danisban is doubly so, friend.'
    'And why is that?'
    'Why, everyone is at B'ridys, of course. The siege.'
    'B'ridys? The old mountain fortress? Who is holed up there?'
    'Malazans. They retreated from their strongholds in Ehrlitan, here and Pan'potsun – were chased all the way into the hills. Oh, nothing so grand as the Chain of Dogs, but a few hundred made it.'
    'And they're still holding out?'
    'Aye. B'ridys is like that, alas. Still, not much longer, I wager. Now, I am done, friend. Hide that pouch well, and may the gods