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

House of Chains (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #4) Page 210

‘What do you know of that?’ she demanded.

The smile broadened. ‘I bring word. See me your humble servant. Everyone’s humble servant. I have lost my name, did you know that? I knew it once, but it has fled me. My mind. But I do what I am told. I bring word. Mathok’s warrior. He cannot meet you here. He would not be seen. You understand? There, across the plaza, in the sunken ruin. He awaits.’

Well, she considered, the secrecy made sense. Their escape from the camp demanded it, although Heboric Ghost Hands was by far the one most likely to be under surveillance. And he had gone into his tent days ago and refused all visitors. Even so, she appreciated Mathok’s caution.

Though she had not known that Toblakai’s slavemaster was a part of their conspiracy. ‘The sunken temple?’

‘Yes, there. See me your humble servant. Go. He awaits.’ She set out across the flagstoned plaza. Hundreds of the camp’s destitute had settled here, beneath palm-frond shelters, making no efforts at organization-the expanse reeked of piss and faeces, streams of the foul mess flowing across the stones. Hacking coughs, mumbled entreaties and blessings followed her as she made her way towards the ruin.

The temple’s foundation walls were hip high; within, a steep set of stone stairs led down to the subterranean floor. The sun’s angle had dipped sufficiently to render the area below in darkness.

Felisin halted at the top of the stairs and peered down, seeking to penetrate the gloom. ‘Are you there?’ she called.

A faint sound from the far end. The hint of movement.

She descended.

The sandy floor was still warm. Groping, she edged forward.

Less than ten paces from the back wall and she could finally make him out. He was seated with his back to the stone. The gleam of a helm, scale armour on his chest.

‘We should wait for night,’ Felisin said, approaching. ‘Then make our way to Ghost Hands’ tent. The time has come-he can hide no longer. What is your name?’

There was no reply.

Something black and smothering rose up to clamp over her mouth and she was lifted from the ground. The blackness flowed like serpents around her, pinning her arms and binding her thrashing legs. A moment later she hung motionless, suspended slightly above the sandy floor.

A gnarled fingertip brushed her cheek and her eyes widened as a voice whispered in her ear. ‘Sweetest child. Mathok’s fierce warrior felt Rashan’s caress a short while ago, alas. Now, there is only me. Only humble Bidithal, here to welcome you. Here to drink all pleasure from your precious body, leaving naught but bitterness, naught but dead places within. It is necessary, you understand.’ His wrinkled hands were stroking, plucking, pinching, pawing her. ‘I take no unsavoury pleasure in what I must do. The children of the Whirlwind must be riven barren, child, to make of them perfect reflections of the goddess herself-oh, you did not know that, did you? The goddess cannot create. Only destroy. The source of her fury, no doubt. So it must be with her children. My duty. My task. There is naught for you to do now but surrender.’

Surrender. It had been a long time since she had last been made to surrender, to give away all that was within her. A long time since she’d let darkness devour all that she was. Years ago, she had not known the magnitude of the loss, for there had been nothing to offer a contrast to misery, hunger and abuse.

But all that had changed. She had discovered, under Sha’ik’s protective wing, the notion of inviolacy.

And it was that notion that Bidithal now proceeded to destroy.

Lying on the landing at the top of the stairs, the creature that had once been a slavemaster on Genabackis smiled at Bidithal’s words, then the smile grew wider at her muffled cries.

Karsa Orlong’s favoured child was in the hands of that sick old man. And all that would be done to her could not be undone.

The sick old man had been kindly with his offers of gifts. Not just the impending return of his hands and feet, but the promise of vengeance against the Teblor. He would find his name once more. He knew he would. And with it, the confusion would go away, the hours of blind terror would no longer plague him, and the beatings at the hands of the others in this plaza would cease. It would have to, for he would be their master.

They would pay for what they did. Everyone would pay. As soon as he found his name.

There was weeping now. Despair’s own laughter, those racking heaves.

That lass would no longer look upon him with disgust. How could she? She was now like him. It was a good lesson. Viciously delivered-even the slavemaster could see that, could imagine it at least, and wince at the images he conjured in his head. But still, a good lesson.