Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'Serves us right to lay wagers with you,' Harllo muttered. 'You always win, you bastard.'

  Stonny was looking down at her smeared clothing with dismay. 'Callows leathers. They'll never recover.' She fixed hard blue eyes on Gruntle. 'Damn you—you're the biggest of us all. Should have been you pushing, not sitting up there, and never mind winning any bet.'

  'Hard lessons, that's me,' the man said, his grin broadening. Stonny's fine green and black attire was covered in brown slime. Her thick black hair hung down over her face, dripping milky water. 'Anyway, we're done for the day, so let's pull this thing off to the side—looks like you two could do with a swim.'

  'Hood take you,' Harllo snapped, 'what do you think we was doing?'

  'From the sounds, I'd say drowning. The clean water's upstream, by the way.' Gruntle gathered the tresses again. The crossing had left the horses exhausted, reluctant to move, and it took some cajoling on the captain's part to get them moving again. He halted the carriage a short distance off to one side of the ford. Other merchants had camped nearby, some having just managed the crossing and others preparing to do so on their way to Darujhistan. In the past few days, the situation had, if anything, become even more chaotic. Whatever had remained of the ford's laid cobbles in the river bed had been pushed either askew or deeper into the mud.

  It had taken four bells to manage the crossing, and for a time there Gruntle had wondered if they would ever succeed. He climbed down and turned his attention to the horses. Harllo and Stonny, now bickering with each other, set off upstream.

  Gruntle threw an uneasy glance towards the massive carriage that had gone before them on the ford, now parked fifty paces away. It had been an unfair bet. The best kind. His two companions had been convinced that this day wouldn't see the crossing of their master Keruli's carriage. They'd been certain that the monstrous vehicle ahead of them would bog down, that it'd be days sitting there in midstream before other merchants got impatient enough to add the muscle of their own crews to moving it out of the way.

  Gruntle had suspected otherwise. Bauchelain and Korbal Broach were not the kind of people to stomach inconvenience. They're damned sorcerors, anyway. Their servant, Emancipor Reese, had not even bothered to get down from the driver's bench, and simple twitches of the tresses had led the train of oxen onwards. The huge contrivance seemed to glide across the ford, not even jolting as the wheels moved over what Gruntle knew to be churned, uneven footing. Unfair bet, aye. At least I'm dry and clean.

  There had been enough witnesses to the unnatural event to accord a certain privacy to the mages' present encampment, so it was with considerable curiosity that Gruntle watched a caravan guard stride towards it. He knew the man well. A Daru, Buke worked the smaller caravanserai, signing with merchants just scraping by. He preferred working alone, and Gruntle knew why.

  Buke's master had tried the crossing earlier in the day. The dilapidated wagon had fallen to pieces in midstream, bits of wood and precious bundles of produce floating away as the master wallowed helplessly. Buke had managed to save the merchant, but with the loss of goods the contract had ceased to exist. After making arrangements for the master to accompany a train back to Darujhistan, Buke was, with scant gratitude for his efforts, cut loose by the merchant.

  Gruntle had expected him to make his own way back to the city. Buke had a fine, healthy and well-equipped horse. A three days' journey at the most.

  Yet here he was, his tall, lean figure fully attired in a guard's accoutrements, scale hauberk freshly oiled, crossbow strapped to back and longsword scabbarded at his hip, in quiet conversation with Emancipor Reese.

  Though out of earshot, Gruntle could follow the course of the conversation by the shifting postures of the two men. After a brief exchange, he saw Buke's shoulders drop fractionally. The grey-bearded guard glanced away. Emancipor Reese shrugged and half turned in dismissal.

  Both men then swung about to face the carriage, and a moment later Bauchelain emerged, drawing his black leather cape around his broad shoulders. Buke straightened under the sorcerer's attention, answered a few terse questions with equally terse replies, then gave a respectful nod. Bauchelain laid a hand on his servant's shoulder and the old man came close to buckling under that light touch.

  Gruntle clucked softly in sympathy. Aye, that mage's touch could fill an average man's breeches, Queen knows… Beru fend, Buke's just been hired. Pray he doesn't come to regret it.

  Tenement fires were deadly in Darujhistan, especially when gas was involved. The conflagration that had killed Buke's wife, mother and four children had been particularly ugly. That Buke himself had been lying drunk and dead to the world in an alley not a hundred paces from the house hadn't helped in the man's recovery. Like many of his fellow guards, Gruntle had assumed that Buke would turn to the bottle with serious intent after that. Instead, he'd done the opposite. Taking solitary contracts with poor, vulnerable merchants obviously offered to Buke a greater appeal than the wasting descent of a permanent drunk. Poor merchants were robbed far more often than rich ones. The man wants to die, all right. But swiftly, even honourably. He wants to go down fighting, as did his family, by all accounts. Alas, when sober—as he's been ever since that night—Buke fights extremely well, and the ghosts of at least a dozen highwaymen would bitterly attest to that.

  The chill dread that seemed to infuse the air around Bauchelain and, especially, around Korbal Broach, would have deterred any sane guard. But a man eager to embrace death would see it differently, wouldn't he?

  Ah, friend Buke, I hope you do not come to regret your choice. No doubt violence and horror swirls around your two new masters, but you're more likely to be a witness to it than a victim yourself. Haven't you been in suffering's embrace long enough?

  Buke set off to collect his horse and gear. Gruntle had begun a cook-fire by the time the old man returned. He watched Buke stow his equipment and exchange a few more words with Emancipor Reese, who had begun cooking a meal of their own, then the man glanced over and met Gruntle's gaze.

  Buke strode over.

  'A day of changes, friend Buke,' Gruntle said from where he squatted beside the hearth. 'I'm brewing some tea for Harllo and Stonny who should be back any moment—care to join us in a mug?'

  'That is kind of you, Gruntle. I will accept your offer.' He approached the captain.

  'Unfortunate, what happened to Murk's wagon.'

  'I warned him against the attempt. Alas, he did not appreciate my advice.'

  'Even after you pulled him from the river and pumped the water out of his lungs?'

  Buke shrugged. 'Hood brushing his lips put him in bad mood, I would imagine.' He glanced over at his new masters' carriage, lines crinkling the corners of his sad eyes. 'You have had discourse with them, have you not?'

  Gruntle spat into the fire. 'Aye. Better had you sought my advice before taking the contract.'

  'I respect your advice and always have, Gruntle, but you would not have swayed me.'

  'I know that, so I'll say no more of them.'

  'The other one,' Buke said, accepting a tin mug from Gruntle and cradling it in both hands as he blew on the steaming liquid. 'I caught a glimpse of him earlier.'

  'Korbal Broach.'

  'As you say. He's the killer, you realize.'

  'Between the two, I don't see much difference, to be honest.'

  Buke was shaking his head. 'No, you misunderstand. In Darujhistan, recall? For two weeks running, horribly mangled bodies were found in the Gadrobi District, every night. Then the investigators called in a mage to help, and it was as if someone had kicked a hornet's nest—that mage discovered something, and that knowledge had him terrified. It was quiet, grant you, but I chanced on the details that followed. Vorcan's guild was enlisted. The Council itself set forth the contract to the assassins. Find the killer, they said, using every method at your disposal, legal or otherwise. Then the murders stopped—'

  'I vaguely recall a fuss,' Gruntle said, frowning.

  'You
were in Quip's, weren't you? Blind for days on end.'

  Gruntle winced. 'Had my eye on Lethro, you know—went out on a contract and came back to find—'

  'She'd gone and married someone else,' Buke finished, nodding.

  'Not just someone else.' Gruntle scowled. 'That bloated crook, Parsemo—'

  'An old master of yours, I seem to recall. Anyway. Who was the killer and why did the killings stop? Vorcan's guild did not step forward to claim the Council's coin. The murders stopped because the murderer had left the city.' Buke nodded towards the massive carriage. 'He's the one. Korbal Broach. The man with the round face and fat lips.'

  'What makes you so certain, Buke?' The air had gone cold. Gruntle poured himself a second cup.

  The man shrugged, eyes on the fire. 'I just know. Who can abide the murder of innocents?'

  Hood's breath, Buke, I see both edges to that question well enough—do you? You mean to kill him, or at least die trying. 'Listen to me, friend. We may be out of the city's jurisdiction, but if Darujhistan's mages were in truth so thoroughly alarmed—and given that Vorcan's guild might still have an interest—issues of jurisdiction are meaningless. We could send word back—assuming you're right and you've proof of your certainty, Buke—and in the meantime you just keep your eye on the man. Nothing else. He's a sorceror—mark my words. You won't stand a chance. Leave the execution to the assassins and mages.'

  Buke glanced up at the arrival of Harllo and Stonny Menackis. The two had come up quietly, each wrapped in blankets, with their clothing washed and bundled in their arms. Their troubled expressions told Gruntle they'd heard at the very least his last statement.

  'Thought you'd be halfway back to Darujhistan,' Harllo said.

  Buke studied the guard over the rim of the mug. 'You are so clean I barely recognize you, friend.'

  'Ha ha.'

  'I have found myself a new contract, to answer you, Harllo.'

  'You idiot,' Stonny snapped. 'When are you going to get some sense back into your head, Buke? It's been years and years since you last cracked a smile or let any light into your eyes. How many bear traps are you going to stick your head in, man?'

  'Until one snaps,' Buke said, meeting Stonny's dark, angry eyes. He rose, tossing to one side the dregs from the mug. 'Thank you for the tea… and advice, friend Gruntle.' With a nod to Harllo, then Stonny, he headed back to Bauchelain's carriage.

  Gruntle stared up at Stonny. 'Impressive tact, my dear.' She hissed. 'The man's a fool. He needs a woman's hand on his sword-grip, if you ask me. Needs it bad.' Harllo grunted. 'You volunteering?'

  Stonny Menackis shrugged. 'It's not his appearance that one balks at, it's his attitude. The very opposite of you, ape.'

  'Sweet on my personality, are you?' Harllo grinned over at Gruntle. 'Hey, you could break my nose again—then we could straighten it and I'd be good as new. What say you, Stonny? Would the iron petals of your heart unfold for me?'

  She sneered. 'Everyone knows that two-handed sword of yours is nothing but a pathetic attempt at compensation, Harllo.'

  'He's a nice turn at the poetic, though,' Gruntle pointed out. 'Iron petals—you couldn't get more precise than that.'

  'There's no such thing as iron petals,' Stonny snorted. 'You don't get iron flowers. And hearts aren't flowers, they're big red, messy things in your chest. What's poetic about not making sense? You're as big an idiot as Buke and Harllo, Gruntle. I'm surrounded by thick-skulled witless fools.'

  'It's your lot in life, alas,' Gruntle said. 'Here, have some tea—you could do with… the warmth.'

  She accepted the mug, while Gruntle and Harllo avoided meeting each other's eyes.

  After a few moments, Stonny cleared her throat. 'What was all that about leaving the execution to assassins, Gruntle? What kind of mess has Buke got himself into now?'

  Oh, Mown, she truly cares for the man. He frowned into the fire and tossed in a few more lumps of dung before replying, 'He has some… suspicions. We were, uh, speaking hypothetically—'

  'Togg's tongue you were, ox-face. Out with it.'

  'Buke chose to speak with me, not you, Stonny,' Gruntle growled, irritated. 'If you've questions, ask them of him and leave me out of it.'

  'I will, damn you.'

  'I doubt you'll get anywhere,' Harllo threw in, somewhat unwisely, 'even if you do bat your eyes and pout those rosy lips of yours—'

  'Those are the last things you'll see when I push my knife through that tin tuber in your chest. Oh, and I'll blow a kiss, too.'

  Harllo's bushy brows rose. 'Tin tuber! Stonny, my dear—did I hear you right?'

  'Shut up, I'm not in the mood.'

  'You're never in the mood, Stonny!'

  She answered him with a contemptuous smile.

  'Don't bother saying it, dear,' Gruntle sighed.

  The shack leaned drunkenly against the city of Pale's inner wall, a confused collection of wooden planks, stretched hides and wicker, its yard a threshold of white dust, gourd husks, bits of broken crockery and wood shavings. Fragments of lacquered wooden cards hung from twine above the narrow door, slowly twisting in the humid heat.

  Quick Ben paused, glanced up and down the littered alleyway, then stepped into the yard. A cackle sounded from within. The wizard rolled his eyes and, muttering under his breath, reached for the leather loop nailed to the door.

  'Don't push!' a voice shrieked behind it. 'Pull, you snake of the desert!'

  Shrugging, Quick Ben tugged the door towards him.

  'Only fools push!' hissed the old woman from her cross-legged perch on a reed mat just within. 'Scrapes my knee! Bruises and worse plague me when fools come to visit. Ah, I sniffed Raraku, didn't I?'

  The wizard peered into the shack's interior. 'Hood's breath, there's only room for you in there!' Vague objects cluttered the walls, dangled from the low ceiling. Shadows swallowed every corner, and the air still held the chill of the night just past.

  'Just me!' the woman cackled. Her face was little more than skin over bones, her pate hairless and blotched with moles. 'Show what you have, many-headed snake, the breaking of curses is my gift!' She withdrew from the tattered folds of her robes a wooden card, held it up in trembling hands. 'Send your words into my warren and their shape shall be carved hereupon, burned true—'

  'No curses, woman,' Quick Ben said, crouching down until his eyes were level with hers. 'Only questions.'

  The card slipped beneath her robes. Scowling, the witch said, 'Answers cost plenty. Answers are worth more than the breaking of curses. Answers are not easily found—'

  'All right all right, how much?'

  'Colour the coin of your questions, twelve-souls.'

  'Gold.'

  'Then gold councils, one for each—'

  'Provided you give worthy answer.'

  'Agreed.'

  'Burn's Sleep.'

  'What of it?'

  'Why?'

  The old woman gaped toothlessly.

  'Why does the goddess sleep, witch? Does anyone know? Do you?'

  'You are a learned scoundrel—'

  'All I've read has been speculation. No-one knows. Scholars don't have the answer, but this world's oldest witch of Tennes just might. Tell me, why does Burn sleep?'

  'Some answers must be danced around. Give me another question, child of Raraku.'

  Sighing, Quick Ben lowered his head, studied the ground for a moment, then said, 'It's said the earth shakes and molten rock pours out like blood when Burn stirs towards wakefulness.'

  'So it is said.'

  'And that destruction would be visited upon all life were she to awaken.'

  'So it is said.'

  'Well?'

  'Well nothing. The land shakes, mountains explode, hot rivers flow. These are natural things of a world whose soul is white hot. Bound to their own laws of cause and effect. The world is shaped like a beetle's ball of dung, and it travels through a chilling void around the sun. The surface floats in pieces, on a sea of molten rock. Sometimes the piece
s grind together. Sometimes they pull apart. Pulled and pushed by tides as the seas are pulled and pushed.'

  'And where is the goddess in such a scheme?'

  'She was the egg within the dung. Hatched long ago. Her mind rides the hidden rivers beneath our feet. She is the pain of existence. The queen of the hive and we her workers and soldiers. And every now and then… we swarm.'

  'Into the warrens?'

  The old woman shrugged. 'By whatever paths we find.'

  'Burn is sick.'

  'Aye.'

  Quick Ben saw a sudden intensity light the witch's dark eyes. He thought for a long moment, then said, 'Why does Burn sleep?'

  'It's not yet time for that. Ask another question.'

  The wizard frowned, looked away. 'Workers and soldiers… you make us sound like slaves.'

  'She demands nothing, what you do you do for yourselves. You work to earn sustenance. You fight to protect it or to gain more. You work to confound rivals. You fight from fear and hatred and spite and honour and loyalty and whatever other causes you might fashion. Yet, all that you do serves her… no matter what you do. Not simply benign, Adaephon Delat, but amoral. We can thrive, or we can destroy ourselves, it matters not to her—she will simply birth another brood and it begins again.'

  'You speak of the world as a physical thing, subject to natural laws. Is that all it is?'

  'No, in the end the minds and senses of all that is alive define what is real—real for us, that is.'

  'That's a tautology.'

  'So it is.'

  'Is Burn the cause to our effect?'

  'Ah, you wind sideways like the desert snake you are in truth! Ask your question!'

  'Why does Burn sleep?'

  'She sleeps… to dream.'

  Quick Ben said nothing for a long time. When he finally looked into the old woman's eyes he saw confirmation of his greatest fears. 'She is sick,' he said.

  The witch nodded. 'Fevered.'

  'And her dreams…'

  'Delirium descends, lad. Dreams become nightmares.'

  'I need to think of a way to excise that infection, because I don't think Burn's fever will be enough. If anything, that heat that's meant to cleanse is achieving the opposite effect.'