House of Chains
‘You’re right,’ Strings said, a grin slowly spreading across his features. ‘It’s not moving. But its shadow is…’
Cuttle grunted. ‘Queen take me, he’s right. That’s a damn strange thing-I’ve seen enough.’ He rose suddenly, looking nervous and shaken. ‘Magic’s creepy. I’m going to bed.’
The divination ended abruptly. Bottle opened his eyes and looked around at the others, his face glistening with sweat. ‘Why didn’t he move? Why only his shadow?’
Strings stood. ‘Because, lad, he isn’t ready yet.’
Smiles glared up at the sergeant. ‘So, who is he? The Rope himself?’
‘No,’ Bottle answered. ‘No, I’m sure of that.’
Saying nothing, Strings strode from the circle. No, not the Rope. Someone even better, as far as I am concerned. As far as every Malazan is concerned, for that matter. He’s here. And he’s on the other side of the Whirlwind Wall. And I know precisely who he’s sharpened his knives for .
He stood in the darkness, under siege. Voices assaulted him from all sides, pounding at his skull. It wasn’t enough that he had been responsible for the death of soldiers; now they would not leave him alone. Now their spirits screamed at him, ghostly hands reaching out through Hood’s Gate, fingers clawing through his brain.
Gamet wanted to die. He had been worse than useless. He had been a liability, joined now to the multitude of incompetent commanders who had left a river of blood in their wake, another name in that sullied, degrading history that fuelled the worst fears of the common soldier.
And it had driven him mad. He understood that now. The voices, the paralysing uncertainty, the way he was always cold, shivering, no matter how hot the daytime sun or how highly banked the nightly hearths. And the weakness, stealing through his limbs, thinning the blood in his veins, until it felt as if his heart was pumping muddy water. I have been broken. I failed the Adjunct with my very first test of mettle .
Keneb would be all right. Keneb was a good choice as the legion’s new Fist. He was not too old, and he had a family-people to fight for, to return to, people that mattered in his life. Those were important things. A necessary pressure, fire for the blood. None of which existed in Gamet’s life.
But he had always known his own weakness of spirit. And there had been no shortage of opportunities in which he could demonstrate his flaws, his failures. No shortage at all, even if she saw those moments as ones displaying loyalty, as disciplined acceptance of orders no matter how horrendous their outcome.
A new voice. Blinking, he looked around, then down, to see Keneb’s adopted whelp, Grub. Half naked, sun-darkened skin smeared with dirt, his hair a wild tangle, his eyes glittering in the starlight.
‘Loud.’
‘Yes, they are.’ The child was feral. It was late, maybe even nearing dawn. What was he doing up? What was he doing out here, beyond the camp’s pickets, inviting butchery by a desert raider?
‘Not they. It.’
Gamet frowned down at him. ‘What are you talking about? What’s loud?’ All I hear is voices-you can’t hear them. Of course you can’t .
‘The sandstorm. Roars. Very… very… very very very LOUD!’
‘Me neither. I’m happy. Father has a new shiny ring. Around his arm. It’s all carved. He’s supposed to give more orders, but he gives less. But I’m still happy. It’s very shiny. Do you like shiny things? I do, even though they hurt my eyes. Maybe it’s because they hurt my eyes. What do you think?’
‘I don’t think much of anything any more, lad.’
‘I think you do too much.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Father thinks the same. You think about things there’s no point in thinking about. It makes no difference. But I know why you do.’