Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'The situation in Capustan is a bit confused,' the warlord explained. The city's ruled by a prince and a coalition of High Priests, and the two factions are ever at odds with each other. Problems have been compounded by the prince's hiring a mercenary company to augment his own minimal forces—'

  'What company?' Whiskeyjack asked.

  'The Grey Swords. Have you heard of them, Commander?'

  'No.'

  'Nor have I,' Brood said. 'It's said they're up from Elingarth—a decent complement: over seven thousand. Whether they'll prove worthy of the usurious fees they've carved from the prince remains to be seen. Hood knows, their so-called standard contract is almost twice the coin of what the Crimson Guard demands.'

  'Their commander read the situation,' Kallor commented, his tone suggesting vast weariness, if not outright boredom. 'Prince Jelarkan has more coin than soldiers, and the Pannions won't be bought off—it's a holy war as far as the Seer's concerned, after all. To worsen matters, the council of High Priests has the backing of each temple's private company of highly trained, well-equipped soldiers. That's almost three thousand of the city's most able fighters, whilst the prince himself has been left with dregs for his own Capanthall—which he's prevented from expanding beyond two thousand by law. For years the Mask Council—the coalition of temples—has been using the Capanthall as a recruiting ground for their own companies, bribing away the best—'

  Clearly the Mhybe wasn't alone in suspecting that, given the opportunity, Kallor would have gone on all afternoon, for Whiskeyjack interrupted the man as he drew breath.

  'So this Prince Jelarkan circumvented the law by hiring mercenaries.'

  'Correct,' was Brood's swift reply. 'In any case, the Mask Council has managed to invoke yet another law, preventing the Grey Swords from active engagement beyond the city walls, so the crossing will not be contested—'

  'Idiots,' Dujek growled. 'Given this is a holy war, you'd think the temples would do all they could to effect a united front against the Pannions.'

  'I imagine they believe they are,' Kallor answered with a sneer that could have been meant for Dujek or the priests in Capustan, or both. 'While at the same time ensuring that the prince's power remains held in check.'

  'It's more complicated than that,' Brood countered. 'The ruler of Maurik capitulated with little bloodshed by arresting all the priests in her city and handing them over to the Pannions' Tenescowri. In one move, she saved her city and its citizens, topped up her royal coffers with booty from the temples and got rid of an eternal thorn in her side. The Pannion Seer granted her a governorship which is better than being torn apart and devoured by the Tenescowri—which is what happened to the priests.'

  The Mhybe hissed. 'Torn apart and devoured?'

  'Aye,' the warlord said. 'The Tenescowri are the Seer's peasant army—they're fanatics that the Seer doesn't bother supplying. Indeed, he's given them his holy blessing to do whatever is necessary to feed and arm themselves. If certain other rumours are true, then cannibalism is the least of the horrors—'

  'We've heard similar rumours,' Dujek muttered. 'So, Warlord, the question before us is, do we seek to save Capustan or let it fall? The Seer must know we're coming—his followers have spread the cult far beyond his borders, in Darujhistan, in Pale, in Saltoan—meaning he knows we will be crossing Catlin River somewhere, somewhen. If he takes Capustan, then the river's widest ford is in his hands. Which leaves us with naught but the old ford west of Saltoan where the stone bridge used to be. Granted, our engineers could float us a bridge there, provided we bring the wood with us. That's the overland option, in any case. We've two others, of course…'

  Crone, perched on one end of the table, cackled. 'Listen to him!' The Mhybe nodded, understanding the Great Raven and experiencing her own amused disbelief.

  Dujek scowled down the length of the table at Crone. 'You have a problem, bird?'

  'You are the warlord's match indeed! Word for word, you think aloud as he does! Oh, how can one not see the honed edge of poetry in your mutual war of the past twelve years?'

  'Be quiet, Crone,' Brood commanded. 'Capustan will be besieged. The Pannions' forces are formidable—we've learned that Septarch Kulpath is commanding the expedition, and he's the ablest of all the Seer's septarchs. He has half the total number of Beklites with him—that's fifty thousand regular infantry—and a division of Urdomen besides the usual support attachments and auxiliary units. Capustan is a small city, but the prince has worked hard on the walls, and the city's layout itself is peculiarly suited to district by district defence. If the Grey Swords don't pull out with the first skirmish, Capustan might hold for a time. None the less…'

  'My Black Moranth could land a few companies in the city,' Dujek said, glancing over at the silent Twist, 'but without an explicit invitation to do so, tension could prove problematic.'

  Kallor snorted. 'Now that is an understatement. What city on Genabackis would welcome Malazan legions into their midst? More, you'd have to bring your own food—you can be sure of that, High Fist—not to mention face outright hostility if not actual betrayal from the Capan people.'

  'It's clear,' Whiskeyjack ventured, 'that we need to establish preliminary contact with Capustan's prince.'

  Silverfox giggled, startling everyone. 'All this orchestration, Uncle! You've already set in motion a plan to do so. You and the onearmed soldier have schemed this to the last detail. You plan on liberating Capustan, though of course not directly—you two never do anything directly, do you? You want to remain hidden behind the events, a classic Malazan tactic if ever there was one.'

  Like the master gamblers they were, the two men showed no expression at her words.

  Kallor's chuckle was a soft rattle of bones.

  The Mhybe studied Whiskeyjack. The child's so very alarming, isn't she? By the spirits, she alarms even me, and I know so much more than you do, sir.

  'Well,' Brood rumbled after a moment, 'I'm delighted to hear we're in agreement—Capustan mustn't fall if we can help it, and an indirect means of relief is probably the best option, all things considered. On the surface, we must be seen—the majority of your forces as well as mine, Onearm—to be marching overland, at a predictable pace. That will establish Septarch Kulpath's timetable for the siege, for both him and us. I take it we're also agreed that Capustan must not be our sole focus.'

  Dujek slowly nodded. 'It may still fall, despite our efforts. If we're to defeat the Pannion Domin, we must strike for its heart.'

  'Agreed. Tell me, Onearm, which city have you targeted for this first season of the campaign?'

  'Coral,' Whiskeyjack replied immediately.

  All eyes returned to the map. Brood was grinning. 'It seems we do indeed think alike. Once we reach the north border of the Domin, we drive like a spear southward, a swift succession of liberated cities… Setta, Lest, Maurik—won't the governess be pleased—then to Coral itself. We undo in a single season the Seer's gains over the past four years. I want that cult reeling, I want cracks sent right through the damned thing.'

  'Aye, Warlord. So we march overland, yes? No boats—that would hasten Kulpath's hand, after all. There's one more issue to clarify, however,' Whiskeyjack continued, his grey eyes swinging to the one representative—apart from the Black Moranth commander—who'd yet to speak, 'and that is, what can we expect from Anomander Rake? Korlat? Will the Tiste Andü be with us?'

  The woman simply smiled.

  Brood cleared his throat. 'Like you,' he said, 'we have initiated some moves of our own. As we speak, Moon's Spawn travels towards the Domin. Before it reaches the Seer's territory, it will… disappear.'

  Dujek raised his brows. 'An impressive feat.'

  Crone cackled.

  'We know little of the sorcery behind the Seer's power,' the warlord said, 'only that it exists. Like your Black Moranth, Moon's Spawn represents tactical opportunities we'd be fools not to exploit.' Brood's grin broadened. 'Like you, High Fist, we seek to avoid predictability.' He nodded towards
Korlat. 'The Tiste Andü possess formidable sorceries—'

  'Not enough,' Silverfox cut in.

  The Tiste Andü woman frowned down at the girl. 'That is quite an assertion, child.'

  Kallor hissed. Trust nothing of what she says. Indeed, as Brood well knows, I consider her presence at this meeting foolish—she is no ally of ours. She will betray us all, mark my words. Betrayal, it is her oldest friend. Hear me, all of you. This creature is an abomination.'

  'Oh, Kallor,' Silverfox sighed, 'must you always go on like that?'

  Dujek turned to Caladan Brood. 'Warlord, I admit to some confusion over the girl's presence—who in Hood's name is she? She seems in possession of preternatural knowledge. For what seems a ten-year-old child—'

  'She is far more than that,' Kallor snapped, staring at Silverfox with hard, hate-filled eyes. 'Look at the hag beside her,' the High King growled. 'She's barely seen twenty summers, High Fist, and this child was torn from her womb not six months ago. The abomination feeds on the life force of her mother—no, not mother, the unfortunate vessel that once hosted the child—you all shivered at the cannibalism of the Tenescowri, what think you of a creature that so devours the life-soul of the one who birthed it? And there is more—' He stopped, visibly bit back what he was about to say, and sat back. 'She should be killed. Now. Before her power surpasses us all.'

  There was silence within the tent.

  Damn you, Kallor. Is this what you want to show our newfound allies? A camp divided. And… spirits below… damn you a second time, for she never knew. She never knew…

  Trembling, the Mhybe looked down at Silverfox. The girl's eyes were wide, even now filling with tears as she stared up at her mother. 'Do I?' she whispered. 'Do I feed on you?'

  The Mhybe closed her eyes, wishing she could hide the truth from Silverfox once again, and for ever more. Instead, she said, 'Not your choice, daughter—it is simply part of what you are, and I accept this'—and yet rage at the foul cruelty of it—'as must you. There is an urgency within you, Silverfox, a force ancient and undeniable—you know it as well, feel it—'

  'Ancient and undeniable?' Kallor rasped. 'You don't know the half of it, woman.' He jolted forward across the table and grasped Silverfox's tunic, pulled her close. Their faces inches apart, the High King bared his teeth. 'You're in there, aren't you? I know it. I feel it. Come out, bitch—'

  'Release her,' Brood commanded in a low, soft voice.

  The High King's sneer broadened. He relented his grip on the girl's tunic, slowly leaned back.

  Heart pounding, the Mhybe raised a trembling hand to her face. Terror had ripped through her when Kallor had grasped her daughter, an icy flood that left her limbs without strength—vanquishing with ease her maternal instinct to defend—revealing to herself, and to everyone present, her own cowardice. She felt tears of shame well in her eyes, trickle down her lined cheeks.

  'Touch her again,' the warlord continued, 'and I will beat you senseless, Kallor.'

  'As you like,' the ancient warrior replied.

  Armour rustled as Whiskeyjack turned to Caladan Brood. The commander's face was dark, his expression harsh. 'Had you not done so, Warlord, I would have voiced my own threat.' He fixed iron eyes on the High King. 'Harm a child? I would not beat you senseless, Kallor, I would rip your heart out.'

  The High King grinned. 'Indeed. I shake with fear.'

  'That will do,' Whiskeyjack murmured. His gauntleted left hand lashed out in a backhanded slap, striking Kallor's face. Blood sprayed across the table as the High King's head snapped back. The force of the blow staggered him. The handle of his bastard sword was suddenly in his hands, the sword hissing—then halting, half drawn.

  Kallor could not move his arms further, for Caladan Brood now gripped both wrists. The High King strained, blood vessels swelling on his neck and temple, achieving nothing. Brood must have tightened his huge hands then, for he gasped, the sword's handle dropping from his grasp, the weapon thunking back into the scabbard. Brood stepped closer, but the Mhybe heard his soft words none the less. 'Accept what you have earned, Kallor. I have had quite enough of your contempt at this gathering. Any further test of my temper and it shall be my hammer striking your face. Understood?'

  After a long moment, the High King grunted.

  Brood released him.

  Silence filled the tent, no-one moving, all eyes on Kallor's bleeding face.

  Dujek withdrew a cloth from his belt—crusted with dried shaving soap—and tossed it at the High King. 'Keep it,' he growled.

  The Mhybe moved up behind a pale, wide-eyed Silverfox, and laid her hands on her daughter's shoulders. 'No more,' she whispered. 'Please.'

  Whiskeyjack faced Brood once again, ignoring Kallor as if the man had ceased to exist. 'Explain please, Warlord,' he said in a calm voice. 'What in Hood's name is this child?'

  Shrugging her mother's hands from her shoulders, Silverfox stood, poised as if about to flee. Then she shook her head, wiped her eyes and drew a shuddering breath. 'No,' she said, 'let none answer but me.' She looked up at her mother—the briefest meeting of gazes—then surveyed the others once more. 'In all things,' she whispered, 'let none answer but me.'

  The Mhybe reached out a hand, but could not touch. 'You must accept it, daughter,' she said, hearing the brittleness of her own conviction, and knowing—with a renewed surge of shame—that the others heard it as well. You must forgive… forgive yourself. Oh, spirits below, I dare not speak such words—I have lost that right, I have surely lost it now…

  Silverfox turned to Whiskeyjack. 'The truth, now, Uncle. I am born of two souls, one of whom you knew very well. The woman Tattersail. The other soul belonged to the discorporate, ravaged remnants of a High Mage named Nightchill—in truth, little more than her charred flesh and bones, though other fragments of her were preserved as a consequence of a sealing spell. Tattersail's… death… occurred within the sphere of the Tellann warren—as projected by a T'lan Imass—'

  The Mhybe alone saw the standard-bearer Artanthos flinch. And what, sir, do you know of this? The question flitted briefly through her mind—conjecture and consideration were tasks too demanding to exercise.

  'Within that influence, Uncle,' Silverfox continued, 'something happened. Something unexpected. A Bonecaster from the distant past appeared, as did an Elder God, and a mortal soul—'

  Cloth held to his face, Kallor's snort was muffled. '"Nightchill",' he murmured. 'Such a lack of imagination… Did K'rul even know? Ah, what irony…'

  Silverfox resumed. 'It was these three who gathered to help my mother, this Rhivi woman who found herself with an impossible child. I was born in two places at once—among the Rhivi in this world, and into the hands of the Bonecaster in the Tellann warren.' She hesitated, shuddering as if suddenly spent. 'My future,' she whispered after a moment, her arms drawing around herself, 'belongs to the T'lan Imass.' She spun suddenly to Korlat. They are gathering, and you will need their power in the war to come.'

  'Unholy conjoining,' Kallor rasped, hand and cloth falling away, eyes narrowed, his face white as parchment behind the smeared blood. 'As I had feared—oh, you fools. Every one of you. Fools—'

  'Gathering,' the Tiste Andü repeated, also ignoring the High King. 'Why? To what end, Silverfox?'

  'That is for me to decide, for I exist to command them. To command them all. My birth proclaimed the Gathering—a demand that every T'lan Imass on this world has heard. And now, those who are able, are coming. They are coming.'

  In his mind, Whiskeyjack was reeling. Fissures in Brood's contingent was alarming enough, but the child's revelations… his thoughts spun, spiralled down… then arose in a new place. The command tent and its confines slipped away, and he found himself in a world of twisted schemes, dark betrayals and their fierce, unexpected consequences—a world he hated with a passion.

  Memories rose like spectres. The Enfilade at Pale, the decimation of the Bridgeburners, the assault on Moon's Spawn. A plague of suspicions, a maelstrom of desperat
e schemes…

  A'Karonys, Bellurdan, Nightchill, Tattersail… The list of mages whose deaths could be laid at High Mage Tayschrenn's sandalled feet was written in the blood of senseless paranoia. Whiskeyjack had not been sorry to see the High Mage take his leave, though the commander suspected he was not as far off as it seemed. Outlawry, Laseen's proclamation cut us loose … but it's all a lie. Only he and Dujek knew the truth of that—the remainder of the Host believed they had indeed been outlawed by the Empress. Their loyalty was to Dujek Onearm, and, perhaps, to me as well. And Hood knows, we'll test that loyalty before we're done…

  Yet she knows. The girl knows. He had no doubt that she was Tattersail reborn—the sorceress was there, in the cast of the child's features, in the way she stood and moved, in that sleepy, knowing gaze. The repercussions that tumbled from that truth overwhelmed Whiskeyjack—he needed time, time to think…

  Tattersail reborn… damn you to Hood, Tayschrenn—inadvertent or not—what have you done?

  Whiskeyjack had not known Nightchill—they'd never spoken and the breadth of his knowledge was based solely on the tales he'd heard. Mate to the Thelomen, Bellurdan, and a practitioner of High Rashan sorcery, she had been among the Emperor's chosen. Ultimately betrayed, just as the Bridgeburners had been…

  There had been an edge to her, it was said, a hint of jagged bloodstained iron. And, he could see, what remained of that woman had cast a shadow over the child—the soft gleam in Tattersail's sleepy eyes had darkened, somehow, and seeing it frayed the commander's already rattled nerves.

  Oh, Hood. One of those repercussions had just settled in his mind with a thunderous clang. Oh, the gods forgive us our foolish games…

  Back in Pale waited Ganoes Paran. Tattersail's lover. What will he make of Silverfox? From woman to a newborn babe in an instant, then from that newborn to a ten-year-old child in six months. And six months from now? A twenty-year-old woman? Paran… lad… is it grief that is burning holes in your gut? If so, then what will its answering do to you?

  As he struggled to comprehend the young girl's words, and all that he saw in her face, his thoughts turned to the Mhybe standing beside Silverfox. Sorrow flooded him. The gods were cruel indeed. The old woman would likely be dead within the year, a brutal sacrifice to the child's needs. A malign, nightmarish twist to the role of motherhood.