A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

says there is no loyalty within me. Perhaps she is right. I have seen too much. Yet here I remain – have you ever wondered why?'
    Karsa drew out a chisel and mallet. 'The light fades
– and that makes the shadows deeper. It is the light, I now realize. That is what is different about them.'
    'The Apocalyptic, Toblakai. Disintegration. Annihilation. Everything. Every human ... lowlander. With our twisted horrors – all that we commit upon each other. The depredations, the cruelties. For every gesture of kindness and compassion, there are ten thousand acts of brutality. Loyalty? Aye, I have none. Not for my kind, and the sooner we obliterate ourselves the better this world will be.'
    'The light,' Karsa said, 'makes them look almost human.'
    Distracted as he was, the Toblakai did not notice Leoman's narrowing eyes, nor the struggle to remain silent.
    One does not step between a man and his gods.
    The snake's head lifted in front of Leoman's face and hovered there, tongue flicking.
     
    'The House of Chains,' Heboric muttered, his expression souring at the words.
    Bidithal shivered, though it was hard to tell whether from fear or pleasure. 'Reaver. Consort. The Unbound – these are interesting, yes? For all the world like shattered—'
    'From whence came these images?' Heboric demanded. Simply looking upon the wooden cards with their lacquered paintings – blurred as they were – was filling the ex-priest's throat with bile. I sense . . . flaws. In each and every one. That is no accident, no failing of the hand that brushed them into being.
    'There is no doubting,' L'oric said in answer to his question, 'their veracity. The power emanating from them is a sorcerous stench. I have never before witnessed such a vigorous birth within the Deck. Not even Shadow felt—'
    'Shadow!' Bidithal snapped. 'Those deceivers could never unveil that realm's true power! No, here, in this new House, the theme is pure. Imperfection is celebrated, the twist of chaotic chance mars one and all—'
    'Silence!' Sha'ik hissed, her arms wrapped tight about
herself. 'We must think on this. No-one speak. Let me think!'
    Heboric studied her for a moment, squinting to bring her into focus, even though she sat beside him. The cards from the new House had arrived the same day as the news of the Malazan defeats on Genabackis. And the time since then had been one of seething discord among Sha'ik's commanders, sufficient to dampen her pleasure at hearing of her brother Ganoes Paran's survival, and now leading her to uncharacteristic distraction.
    The House of Chains was woven into their fates. An insidious intrusion, an infection against which they'd had no chance to prepare. But was it an enemy, or the potential source for renewed strength? It seemed Bidithal was busy convincing himself that it was the latter, no doubt drawn in that direction by his growing disaffection with Sha'ik Reborn. L'oric, on the other hand, seemed more inclined to share Heboric's own misgivings; whilst Febryl was unique in remaining silent on the entire matter.
    The air within the tent was close, soured by human sweat. Heboric wanted nothing more than to leave, to escape all this, yet he sensed Sha'ik clinging to him, a spiritual grip as desperate as anything he'd felt from her before.
    'Show once more the new Unaligned.'
    Yes. For the thousandth time.
    Scowling, Bidithal searched through the Deck, then drew out the card, which he laid down in the centre of the goat-hair mat. 'If any of the new arrivals is dubious,' the old man sneered, 'it is this one. Master of the Deck? Absurd. How can one control the uncontrollable?'
    There was silence.
    The uncontrollable? Such as the Whirlwind itself?
    Sha'ik had clearly not caught the insinuation. 'Ghost Hands, I would you take this card, feel it, seek to sense what you can from it.'
    'You make this request again and again, Chosen One,'
Heboric sighed. 'But I tell you, there is no link between the power of my hands and the Deck of Dragons. I am of no help to you—'
    'Then listen closely and I shall describe it. Never mind your hands – I ask you now as a once-priest, as a scholar. Listen. The face is obscured, yet hints—'
    'It is obscured,' Bidithal interrupted in a derisive tone, 'because the card is no more than the projection of someone's wishful thinking.'
    'Cut me off again and you will regret it, Bidithal,' Sha'ik said. 'I have heard you enough on this subject. If your mouth opens again I will tear out your tongue.