Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'Think on it, then, dearest worker.'

  'I may need help.'

  The witch held out a withered hand, palm up.

  Quick Ben fished beneath his shirt and withdrew a waterworn pebble. He dropped it into her hand.

  'When the time comes, Adaephon Delat, call upon me.'

  'I shall. Thank you, mistress.' He set a small leather bag filled with gold councils on the ground between them. The witch cackled. Quick Ben backed away.

  'Now shut that door—I prefer the cold!'

  As the wizard strode down the alley, his thoughts wandered loose, darted and whipped on gusts—most of the currents false and without significance. One, however, snagged in his mind and stayed with him, at first meaningless, a curiosity and nothing more: she prefers the cold. Strange. Most old people like heat and plenty of it…

  Captain Paran saw Quick Ben leaning against the pitted wall beside the headquarters entrance, arms wrapped tightly about himself and looking ill-tempered. The four soldiers stationed as guards were all gathered ten paces away from the mage, showing obvious unease.

  Paran led his horse forward by the reins, handed them to a stabler who appeared from the compound gateway, then strode towards Quick Ben.

  'You look miserable, mage—and that makes me nervous.'

  The Seven Cities native scowled. 'You don't want to know, Captain. Trust me in this.'

  'If it concerns the Bridgeburners, I'd better hear it, Quick Ben.'

  'The Bridgeburners?' He barked a humourless laugh. 'This goes far beyond a handful of bellyaching soldiers, sir. At the moment, though, I haven't worked out any possible solutions. When I do, I'll lay it all out for you. In the meantime, you might want to requisition a fresh mount—we're to join Dujek and Whiskeyjack at Brood's camp. Immediately.'

  'The whole company? I just got them settled!'

  'No, sir. You, me, Mallet and Spindle. There've been some… unusual developments, I gather, but don't ask me what because I don't know.'

  Paran grimaced.

  'I've sent for the other two already, sir.'

  'Very well. I'll go find myself another horse, then.' The captain swung about and headed towards the compound, trying to ignore the fiery pain in his stomach. Everything was taking too long—the army had been sitting here in Pale for months now, and the city didn't want it. With the outlawing, none of the expected imperial support had arrived, and without that administrative infrastructure, there had been no relief from the tense, unpleasant role of occupiers.

  The Malazan system of conquest followed a set of rules that was systematic and effective. The victorious army was never meant to remain in place beyond the peacekeeping transition and handover to a firmly entrenched and fully functioning civil government in the Malazan style. Civic control was not a burden the army had been trained for—it was best achieved through bureaucratic manipulation of the conquered city's economy. 'Hold those strings and the people will dance for you,' had been the core belief of the Emperor, and he'd proved the truth of it again and again—nor did the Empress venture any alterations to the method. Acquiring that control involved both the imposition of legal authority and a thorough infiltration of whatever black market happened to be operating at the time. 'Since you can never crush a black market the next best thing is to run it.' And that task belonged to the Claw.

  But there are no Claw agents, are there? No scroll scribblers, either.

  We don't control the black market. We can't even manage the above-board economy, much less run a civil administration. Yet we continue to proceed as if imperial support is imminent, when it most decidedly is not. I don't understand this at all.

  Without the Darujhistan gold, Dujek's army would be starving right now. Desertions would have begun, as soldier after soldier left with the hope of returning to the imperial embrace, or seeking to join mercenary companies or caravanserai. Onearm's army would vanish before his very eyes. Loyalty never survives a pinched stomach.

  After some confusion, the stablers found Paran another mount. He wearily swung himself into the saddle and guided the animal out of the compound. The afternoon sun had begun to throw cooling shadows onto the city's bleached streets. Pale's denizens began emerging, though few lingered anywhere near the Malazan headquarters. The guards held a finely honed sense of suspicion for anyone who hovered overlong, and the assault-issue heavy crossbows cradled in their arms were kept locked back.

  Blood had been spilled at the headquarters entrance, and within the building itself. A Hound of Shadow had attacked, not so long ago, leaving a score dead. Paran's memories of that event were still fragmentary. The beast had been driven off by Tattersail… and the captain himself. For the soldiers on guard at the headquarters, however, a peaceful posting had turned into a nightmare. They'd been caught woefully unprepared, a carelessness that would not be repeated. Such a Hound would still scythe through them almost effortlessly, but at least they would go down fighting, not staring slack-jawed.

  Paran found Quick Ben, Mallet and Spindle awaiting him astride their own horses. Of the three, the captain knew Spindle the least. The short, bald man's skills ranged from sorcery to sapping, or so he'd been told. His eternally sour disposition did not invite conversation, nor did the foul-smelling thigh-length black and grey hairshirt he wore—woven from his dead mother's hair, if the rumour held any truth. As Paran pulled in alongside the man, he glanced at that shirt. Hood's breath, that could be an old woman's hair! The realization made him even more nauseous.

  'Take point, Spindle.'

  'Aye, Captain—we'll have a real crush to push through when we hit North Market Round.'

  'So find us a way round the place.'

  'Them alleys ain't safe, sir—'

  'Access your warren, then, and let it bleed enough to make hairs stand on end. You can do that, can't you?'

  Spindle glanced at Quick Ben. 'Uh, sir, my warren… triggers things.'

  'Serious things?'

  'Well, not really—'

  'Proceed, soldier.'

  'Aye, Captain.'

  Expressionless, Quick Ben took rear position, whilst an equally silent Mallet rode alongside Paran.

  'Any idea what's going on at Brood's camp, Healer?' the captain asked.

  'Not specifically, sir,' Mallet replied. 'Just… sensations.' He continued after an enquiring glance from Paran. 'A real brew of powers over there, sir. Not just Brood and the Tiste Andü—I'm familiar with those. And Kallor's, too, for that matter. No, there's something else. Another presence. Old, yet new. Hints of T'lan Imass, maybe…'

  'T'lan Imass?'

  'Maybe—I'm just not sure, truth to tell, Captain. It's overpowering everyone else, though.'

  Paran's head turned at that.

  A cat yowled nearby, followed by a flash of grey as the creature darted along a garden wall then vanished from sight. More yowls sounded, this time from the other side of the narrow street.

  A shiver danced up Paran's spine. He shook himself. 'The last thing we need is a new player. The situation's tense enough as it is—'

  Two dogs locked in a vicious fight tumbled from an alley mouth just ahead. A panicked cat zigzagged around the snarling, snapping beasts. As one, the horses shied, ears flattening. In the drain gutter to their right the captain saw—with widening eyes—a score of rats scampering parallel to them.

  'What in Hood's name—'

  'Spindle!' Quick Ben called from behind them. The lead sorcerer twisted in his saddle, a miserable expression on his weathered face.

  'Ease off some,' Quick Ben instructed, not unkindly.

  Spindle nodded, turned back.

  Paran waved buzzing flies from his face. 'Mallet, what warren does Spindle call upon?' he asked quietly.

  'It's not his warren that's the problem, sir, it's how he channels it. This has been mild so far, all things considered.'

  'Must be a nightmare for our cavalry—'

  'We're foot soldiers, sir,' Mallet pointed out, with a dry grin. 'In any case, I've seen him br
eak up an enemy charge all by himself. Needless to say, he's useful to have around…'

  Paran had never before seen a cat run head first into a wall. The dull thud was followed by a crazed scraping of claws as the animal bounced away in stunned surprise. Its antics were enough to attract the attention of the two dogs. A moment later they set off after the cat. All three vanished down another alley.

  The captain's own nerves were jittering, adding to the discomfort in his belly. ,' could call Quick Ben to point and have him take over, but his is a power that would get noticed—sensed from afar, in fact—and I'd rather not risk that. Nor, I suspect, would he.

  Each neighbourhood they passed through rose in cacophony—the spitting of cats, the howling and barking of dogs and the braying of mules. Rats raced round the group on all sides, as mindless as lemmings.

  When Paran judged that they had circumvented the market round, he called forward to Spindle to yield his warren. The man did so with a sheepish nod.

  A short while later they reached North Gate and rode out onto what had once been a killing field. Vestiges of that siege remained, if one looked carefully amidst the tawny grasses. Rotting pieces of clothing, the glint of rivets and the bleached white of splintered bones. Midsummer flowers cloaked the flanks of the recent barrows two hundred paces to their left in swathes of brittle blue, the hue deepening as the sun sank lower behind the mounds.

  Paran was glad for the relative quiet of the plain, despite the heavy, turgid air of restless death that he felt seeping into his marrow as they crossed the scarred killing field. It seems I am ever riding through such places. Since that fated day in Itko Kan, with angry wasps stinging me for disturbing their blood-drenched feast, I have been stumbling along in Hood's wake. I feel as if I've known naught but war and death all my life, though in truth it's been but a scant few years. Queen of Dreams, it makes me feel old… He scowled. Self-pity could easily become a well-worn path in his thoughts, unless he remained mindful of its insipid allure.

  Habits inherited from my father and mother, alas. And whatever portion sister Tavore received she must have somehow shunted onto me. Cold and canny as a child, even more so as an adult. If anyone can protect our House during Laseen's latest purge of the nobility, it will be her. No doubt I'd recoil from using whatever tactics she's chosen, but she's not the type to accept defeat. Thus, better her than me. None the less, unease continued to gnaw Paran's thoughts. Since the outlawing, they'd heard virtually nothing of events occurring elsewhere in the empire. Rumours of a pending rebellion in Seven Cities persisted, though that was a promise oft whispered but yet to be unleashed. Paran had his doubts.

  Nomatter what, Tavore will take care of Felisin. That, at least, I can take comfort from…

  Mallet interrupted his thoughts. 'I believe Brood's command tent is in the Tiste Andü camp, Captain. Straight ahead.'

  'Spindle agrees with you,' Paran observed. The mage was leading them unerringly to that strange—even from a distance—and eerie encampment. No-one was visible mantaining vigil at the pickets. In fact, the captain saw no-one at all.

  'Looks like the parley went off as planned,' the healer commented. 'We haven't been cut down by a sleet of quarrels yet.'

  'I too take that as promising,' Paran said.

  Spindle led them into a kind of main avenue between the tall, sombre tents of the Tiste Andü. Dusk had begun to fall; the tattered strips of cloth tied to the tent poles were losing their already-faded colours. A few shadowy, spectral figures appeared from the various side trackways, paying the group little heed.

  'A place to drag the spirit low,' Mallet muttered under his breath. The captain nodded. Like travelling a dark dream… 'That must be Brood's tent up ahead,' the healer continued. Two figures waited outside the utilitarian command tent, their attention on Paran and his soldiers. Even in the gloom the captain had no trouble identifying them.

  The visitors drew their horses to a halt then dismounted and approached.

  Whiskeyjack wasted little time. 'Captain, I need to speak with your soldiers. Commander Dujek wishes to do the same with you. Perhaps we can all gather afterwards, if you're so inclined.'

  The heightened propriety of Whiskeyjack's words put Paran's nerves on edge. He simply nodded in reply, then, as the bearded second-in-command marched off with Mallet, Quick Ben and Spindle following, the captain fixed his attention on Dujek.

  The veteran studied Paran's face for a moment, then sighed. 'We've received news from the empire, Captain.'

  'How, sir?'

  Dujek shrugged. 'Nothing direct, of course, but our sources are reliable. Laseen's cull of the nobility proved… efficient.' He hesitated, then said, 'The Empress has a new Adjunct…'

  Paran slowly nodded. There was nothing surprising in that. Lorn was dead. The position needed to be filled. 'Have you news of my family, sir?'

  'Your sister Tavore salvaged what she could, lad. The Paran holdings in Unta, the outlying estates… most of the trade agreements. Even so… your father passed away, and, a short while later, your mother elected… to join him on the other side of Hood's Gate. I am sorry, Ganoes…'

  Yes, she would do that, wouldn't she? Sorry? Aye, as am I. 'Thank you, sir. To be honest, I'm less shocked by that news than you might think.'

  'There's more, I'm afraid. Your, uh, outlawry left your House exposed. I don't think your sister saw much in the way of options. The cull promised to be savage. Clearly, Tavore had been planning things for some time. She well knew what was coming. Nobleborn children were being… raped. Then murdered. The order to have every noble-born child under marrying age slain was never made official, perhaps indeed Laseen was unaware of what was going on—'

  'I beg you sir, if Felisin is dead, tell me so and leave out the details.'

  Dujek shook his head. 'No, she was spared that, Captain. That is what I am trying to tell you.'

  'And what did Tavore sell to achieve that… sir?'

  'Even as the new Adjunct, Tavore's powers were limited. She could not be seen to reveal any particular… favouritism—or so I choose to read her intentions…'

  Paran closed his eyes. Adjunct Tavore. Well, sister, you knew your own ambition. 'Felisin?'

  'The Otataral Mines, Captain. Not a life sentence, you can be sure of that. Once the fires cool in Unta, she will no doubt be quietly retrieved—'

  'Only if Tavore judges it to be without risk to her reputation—'

  Dujek's eyes widened. 'Her rep—'

  'I don't mean among the nobility—they can call her a monster all they want, as I'm sure they are doing right now—she does not care. Never did. I mean her professional reputation, Commander. In the eyes of the Empress and her court. For Tavore, nothing else will matter. Thus, she is well suited to be the new Adjunct.' Paran's voice was toneless, the words measured and even. 'In any case, as you said, she was forced to make do with the situation, and as to that situation… I am to blame for all that's happened, sir. The cull—the rapes, the murders, the deaths of my parents, and all that Felisin must now endure.'

  'Captain—'

  'It is all right, sir.' Paran smiled. 'The children of my parents are, one and all, capable of virtually anything. We can survive the consequences, perhaps we lack normal conscience, perhaps we are monsters in truth.

  'Thank you for the news, Commander. How went the parley?' Paran did all he could to ignore the quiet grief in Dujek's eyes.

  'It went well, Captain,' the old man whispered. 'You will depart in two days, barring Quick Ben who will catch up later. No doubt your soldiers are ready for—'

  'Yes, sir, they are.'

  'Very good. That is all, Captain.'

  'Sir.'

  Like the laying of a silent shroud, darkness arrived. Paran stood atop the vast barrow, his face caressed by the mildest of winds. He had managed to leave the encampment without running into Whiskeyjack and the Bridgeburners. Night had a way of inviting solitude, and he felt welcome on this mass grave with all its echoing memories of pain, anguish
and despair. Among the dead beneath me, how many adult voices cried out for their mothers?

  Death and dying makes us into children once again, in truth, one last time, there in our final wailing cries. More than one philosopher has claimed that we ever remain children, far beneath the indurated layers that make up the armour of adulthood.

  Armour encumbers, restricts the body and soul within it. But it also protects. Blows are blunted. Feelings lose their edge, leaving us to suffer naught but a plague of bruises, and, after a time, bruises fade.

  Tilting his head back triggered sharp protests from the muscles of his neck and shoulders. He stared skyward, blinking against the pain, the tautness of his flesh wrapped around bones like a prisoner's bindings.

  But there's no escape, is there? Memories and revelations settle in like poisons, never to be expunged. He drew the cooling air deep into his lungs, as if seeking to capture in the breath of the stars their coldness of regard, their indifferent harshness. There are no gifts in suffering. Witness the Tiste Andü.

  Well, at least the stomach's gone quiet… building, I suspect, for another eye-watering bout…

  Bats flitted through the darkness overhead, wheeling and darting as they fed on the wing. The city of Pale flickered to the south, like a dying hearth. Far to the west rose the hulking peaks of the Moranth Mountains. Paran slowly realized that his folded arms now gripped his sides, struggling to hold all within. He was not a man of tears, nor did he rail at all about him. He'd been born to a carefully sculpted, cool detachment, an education his soldier's training only enhanced. If such things are qualities, then she has humbled me. Tavore, you are indeed the master of such schooling. Oh, dearest Felisin, what life have you now found for yourself? Not the protective embrace of the nobility, that's for certain.

  Boots sounded behind him.

  Paran closed his eyes. No more news, please. No more revelations.

  'Captain.' Whiskeyjack settled a hand on Paran's shoulder.

  'A quiet night,' the captain observed.

  'We looked for you, Paran, after your words with Dujek. It was Silverfox who quested outward, found you.' The hand withdrew. Whiskeyjack stood alongside him, also studying the stars.