'I convey greetings from the Crippled God,' the Jaghut said, 'to you, Kallor' — he paused to survey the tent's interior — 'and your vast empire.'
'You tempt me,' Kallor rasped, 'to add to your … facial distress, Gethol. My empire may be gone, but I shall not yield this throne. You, of all people, should recognize that I am not yet done in my ambitions, and I am a patient man.'
Gethol grunted a laugh. 'Ah, dear Kallor. You are to me the exception to the rule that patience is a virtue.'
'I can destroy you, Jaghut, no matter who you call master these days. I can complete what your capable punisher began. Do you doubt me?'
'Most certainly not,' Gethol replied easily. 'I've seen you wield that two-handed sword of yours.'
'Then withdraw your verbal knives and tell me what you do here.'
'Apologies for disrupting your … concentration. I shall now explain. I am Herald to the Crippled God — aye, a new House has come to the Deck of Dragons. The House of Chains. The first renditions have been fashioned. And soon every Reader of the Deck will be seeking their likenesses.'
Kallor snorted. 'And you expect this gambit to work? That House shall be assailed. Obliterated.'
'Oh, the battle is well under way, old man. You cannot be blind to that, nor to the fact that we are winning.'
Kallor's eyes thinned to slits. 'The poisoning of the warrens? The Crippled God is a fool. What point in destroying the power he requires to assert his claim? Without the warrens, the Deck of Dragons is nothing.'
'The appellation "poison" is erroneous, Kallor. Rather, consider the infection one of enforcing a certain … alteration … to the warrens. Aye, those who resist it view it as a deadly manifestation, a "poison" indeed. But only because its primary effect is to make the warrens 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.
