Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'Who is Silverfox?'

  'I think,' the bearded veteran rumbled, 'that's for you to decide.'

  Frowning, Paran faced the commander. 'I've little patience for riddles at the moment, sir.'

  Whiskeyjack nodded, eyes still on the glittering sweep of the night sky. 'You will just have to suffer the indulgence, Captain. I can lead you forward a step at a time, or with a single shove from behind. There may be a time when you look back on this moment and come to appreciate which of the two I chose.'

  Paran bit back a retort, said nothing.

  'They await us at the base of the barrow,' Whiskeyjack continued. 'As private an occasion as I could manage. Just Mallet, Quick Ben, the Mhybe and Silverfox. Your squad members are here in case you have… doubts. They've both exhausted their warrens this night—to assure the veracity of what has occurred—'

  'What,' Paran snapped, 'are you trying to say, sir?'

  Whiskeyjack met the captain's eyes. 'The Rhivi child, Silverfox. She is Tattersail reborn.'

  Paran slowly turned, gaze travelling down to the foot of the barrow, where four figures waited in the darkness. And there stood the Rhivi child, a sunrise aura about her person, a penumbra of power that stirred the wilder blood that coursed within him. Yes. She is the one. Older now, revealing what she will become. Dammit, woman, you never could keep things simple. All that was trapped within him seemed to wash through his limbs, leaving him weak and suddenly shivering. He stared down at Silverfox. 'She is a child.' But I knew that, didn't I? I've known that for a while, I just didn't want to think about it… And now, no choice.

  Whiskeyjack grunted. 'She grows swiftly—there are eager, impatient forces within her, too powerful for a child's body to contain. You'll not have long—'

  'Before propriety arrives,' Paran finished drily, not noticing Whiskeyjack's start. 'Fine for then, what of now? Who will naught but see me as a monster should we even so much as hold hands? What can I say to her? What can I possibly say?' He spun to Whiskeyjack. 'This is impossible—she is a child!'

  'And within her is Tattersail. And Nightchill—'

  'Nightchill! Hood's breath! What has happened—how?'

  'Questions not easily answered, lad. You'd do better to ask them of Mallet and Quick Ben—and of Silverfox herself.'

  Paran involuntarily took a step back. 'Speak with her? No. I cannot—'

  'She wishes it, Paran. She awaits you now.'

  'No.' His eyes were once again pulled downslope. 'I see Tattersail, yes. But there's more—not just this Nightchill woman—she's a Soletaken, now, Whiskeyjack. The creature that gave her her Rhivi name—the power to change…'

  The commander's eyes narrowed. 'How do you know, Captain?'

  'I just know—'

  'Not good enough. It wasn't easy for Quick Ben to glean that truth. Yet you know. How, Paran?'

  The captain grimaced. 'I've felt Quick Ben's probings in my direction—when he thinks my attention is elsewhere. I've seen the wariness in his eyes. What has he found, Commander?'

  'Oponn's abandoned you, but something else has taken its place. Something savage. His hackles rise whenever you're close—'

  'Hackles.' Paran smiled. 'An apt choice of word. Anomander Rake killed two Hounds of Shadow—I was there. I saw it. I felt the stain of a dying Hound's blood—on my flesh, Whiskeyjack. Something of that blood now runs in my veins.'

  The commander's voice was deadpan. 'What else?'

  'There has to be something else, sir?'

  'Yes. Quick Ben caught hints—there's much more than simply an ascendant's blood to what you've become.' Whiskeyjack hesitated, then said, 'Silverfox has fashioned for you a Rhivi name. Jen'isand Rul.'

  'Jen'isand Rul.'

  'It translates as "the Wanderer within the Sword". It means, she says, that you have done something no other creature has ever done—mortal or ascendant—and that something has set you apart. You have been marked, Ganoes Paran—yet no-one, not even Silverfox, knows what it portends. Tell me what happened.'

  Paran shrugged. 'Rake used that black sword of his. When he killed the Hounds. I followed them… into that sword. The spirits of the Hounds were trapped, chained with all the… all the others. I think I freed them, sir. I can't be sure of that—all I know is that they ended up somewhere else. No longer chained.'

  'And have they returned to this world?'

  'I don't know. Jen'isand Rul… why should there be any significance to my having wandered within that sword?'

  Whiskeyjack grunted. 'You're asking the wrong man, Captain. I'm only repeating what Silverfox has said. One thing, though, that has just occurred to me.' He stepped closer. 'Not a word to the Tiste Andü—not Korlat, not Anomander Rake. The Son of Darkness is an unpredictable bastard, by all accounts. And if the legend of Dragnipur is true, the curse of that sword of his is that no-one escapes its nightmare prison—their souls are chained… for ever. You've cheated that, and perhaps the Hounds have as well. You've set an alarming… precedent.'

  Paran smiled bitterly in the darkness. 'Cheated. Yes, I have cheated many things, even death.' But not pain. No, that escape still eludes me. 'You think Rake takes much comfort in the belief of his sword's… finality.'

  'Seems likely, Ganoes Paran, does it not?'

  The captain sighed. 'Aye.'

  'Now, let us go down to meet Silverfox.'

  'No.'

  'Damn you, Paran,' Whiskeyjack growled. 'This is about more than just you and her all starry-eyed. That child possesses power, and it's vast and… and unknown. Kallor has murder in his eyes when he looks at her. Silverfox is in danger. The question is, do we protect her or stand aside? The High King calls her an abomination, Captain. Should Caladan Brood turn his back at the wrong moment—'

  'He'll kill her? Why?'

  'He fears, I gather, the power within her.'

  'Hood's breath, she's just a—' He stopped, realizing the venality of the assertion, just a child? Hardly. 'Protect her against Kallor, you said. That's a risky position to assume, Commander. Who stands with us?'

  'Korlat, and by extension, all of the Tiste Andü.'

  'Anomander Rake?'

  'That we don't yet know. Korlat's mistrust of Kallor, coupled with a friendship with the Mhybe, has guided her to her decision. She says she will speak with her master when he arrives—'

  'Arrives?'

  'Aye. Tomorrow, possibly early, and if so you'd best avoid him, if at all possible.'

  Paran nodded. One meeting was enough. 'And the warlord?'

  'Undecided, we think. But Brood needs the Rhivi and their bhederin herds. For the moment, at least, he remains the girl's chief protector.'

  'And what does Dujek think of all this?' the captain asked.

  'He awaits your decision.'

  'Mine? Beru fend, Commander—I'm no mage or priest. Nor can I glean the child's future.'

  'Tattersail resides within Silverfox, Paran. She must be drawn forth… to the fore.'

  'Because Tattersail would never betray us. Yes, now I see.'

  'You needn't sound so miserable about it, Paran.'

  No? And if you stood in my place, Whiskeyjack? 'Very well, lead on.'

  'It seems,' Whiskeyjack said, striding to the edge of the barrow's summit, 'we will have to promote you to a rank equal to mine, Captain, if only to circumvent your confusion as to who commands who around here.'

  Their arrival was a quiet, stealthy affair, leading their mounts into the encampment with the minimum of fuss. Few Tiste Andü remained outside their tents to take note. Sergeant Antsy led the main group of Bridgeburners towards the kraal to settle in the horses, whilst Corporal Picker, Detoran, Blend, Trotts and Hedge slipped away to find Brood's command tent. Spindle awaited them at its entrance.

  Picker gave him a nod and the mage, wrapped in his foul-smelling hairshirt with its equally foul hood thrown over his head, turned to face the tied-down entrance flap. He made a series of hand gestures, paused, then spat at the canvas. There was no sound as the spit struck
the flap. He swung a grin to Picker, then bowed before the entrance in invitation.

  Hedge nudged the corporal and rolled his eyes.

  There were two rooms within, she knew, and the warlord was sleeping in the back one. Hopefully. Picker looked around for Blend—damn, where is she? Here a moment ago—

  Two fingers brushed her arm and she nearly leapt out of her leathers. Beside her, Blend smiled. Picker mouthed a silent stream of curses. Blend's smile broadened, then she stepped past, up to the tent entrance, where she crouched down to untie the fastenings.

  Picker glanced over a shoulder. Detoran and Trotts stood side by side a few paces back, both hulking and monstrous.

  At the corporal's side Hedge nudged her again, and she turned to see that Blend had drawn back the flap.

  All right, let's get this done.

  Blend led the way, followed by Spindle, then Hedge. Picker waved the Napan and the Barghast forward, then followed them into the tent's dark confines.

  Even with Trotts at one end and Detoran at the other, with Spindle and Hedge at the sides, the table had them staggering before they'd gone three paces. Blend moved ahead of them to pull the flap back as far as she could. Within the sorcerous silence, the four soldiers managed to manoeuvre the massive table outside. Picker watched, glancing back at the divider every few moments—but the warlord made no appearance. So far so good.

  The corporal and Blend added their muscles in carrying the table, and the six of them managed to take it fifty paces before exhaustion forced them to halt.

  'Not much further,' Spindle whispered.

  Detoran sniffed. 'They'll find it.'

  'That's a wager I'll call you on,' Picker said. 'But first, let's get it there.'

  'Can't you make this thing any lighter?' Hedge whined at Spindle. 'What kind of mage are you, anyway?'

  Spindle scowled. 'A weak one, what of it? Look at you—you're not even sweating!'

  'Quiet, you two,' Picker hissed. 'Come on, heave her up, now.'

  'Speaking of heaving,' Hedge muttered as, amid a chorus of grunts, the table once again rose from the ground, 'when are you gonna wash that disgusting shirt of yours, Spindle?'

  'Wash it? Mother never washed her hair when she was alive—why should I start now? It'll lose its lustre—'

  'Lustre? Oh, you mean fifty years of sweat and rancid lard—'

  'Wasn't rancid when she was alive, though, was it?'

  'Thank Hood I don't know—'

  'Will you two save your foul breath? Which way now, Spindle?'

  'Right. Down that alley. Then left—the hide tent at the end—'

  'Bet someone's living in it,' Detoran muttered.

  'You're on with that one, too,' Picker said. 'It's the one the Rhivi use to lay out Tiste Andü corpses before cremation. Ain't been a killed Tiste since Darujhistan.'

  'How'd you find it anyway?' Hedge asked.

  'Spindle sniffed it out—'

  'Surprised he can sniff anything—'

  'All right, set her down. Blend—the flap.'

  The table filled the entire room within, with only an arm's length of space around it on all sides. The low cots that had been used for the corpses went beneath, folded and stacked. A shuttered lantern was lit and hung from the centre-pole hook. Picker watched Hedge crouch down, his eyes inches from the table's scarred, pitted surface, and run his blunt, battered fingers lovingly along the wood's grain. 'Beautiful,' he whispered. He glanced up, met Picker's eyes. 'Call in the crew, Corporal, the game's about to start.'

  Grinning, Picker nodded. 'Go get 'em, Blend.'

  'Even cuts,' Hedge said, glaring at everyone. 'We're a squad now—'

  'Meaning you let us in on the secret,' Spindle said, scowling. 'If we'd known you was cheating all that time—'

  'Yeah, well, your fortunes are about to turn, ain't they? So quit the complaining.'

  'Aren't you two a perfect match,' Picker observed. 'So tell us, Hedge, how does this work?'

  'Oppositions, Corporal. Both Decks are the real thing, you see. Fiddler had the better sensitivity, but Spindle should be able to pull it off.' He faced the mage. 'You've done readings before, haven't you? You said—'

  'Yeah yeah, squirt—no problem, I got the touch—'

  'You'd better,' the sapper warned. He caressed the tabletop again. 'Two layers, you see, with the fixed Deck in between 'em. Lay a card down and there's a tension formed, and it tells ya which one the face-down one is. Never fails. Dealer knows every hand he plays out. Fiddler—'

  'Ain't here,' Trotts growled, his arms crossed. He bared his teeth at Spindle.

  The mage sputtered. 'I can do it, you horse-brained savage! Watch me!'

  'Shut up,' Picker snapped. They're coming.'

  It was near dawn when the other squads began filing back out of the tent, laughing and back-slapping as they jingled bulging purses. When the last of them had left, voices trailing away, Picker slumped wearily down on the table. Spindle, sweat dripping from his gleaming hairshirt, groaned and dropped his head, thumping against the thick wood.

  Stepping up behind him, Hedge raised a hand.

  'At ease, soldier,' Picker warned. 'Obviously, the whole damn thing's been corrupted—probably never worked to start with—'

  'It did! Me and Fid made damned sure—'

  'But it was stolen before you could try it out for real, wasn't it?'

  'That doesn't matter—I tell you—'

  'Everybody shut up,' Spindle said, slowly raising his head, his narrow forehead wrinkled in a frown as he scanned the tabletop. 'Corrupted. You may have something there, Picker.' He sniffed the air as if seeking a scent, then crouched down. 'Yeah. Give me a hand, someone, with these here cots.'

  No-one moved.

  'Help him, Hedge,' Picker ordered.

  'Help him crawl under the table? It's too late to hide—'

  'That's an order, soldier.'

  Grumbling, the sapper lowered himself down. Together, the two men dragged the cots clear. Then Spindle edged beneath the table. A faint glow of sorcerous light slowly blossomed, then the mage hissed. 'It's the underside all right!'

  'Brilliant observation, Spindle. Bet there's legs, too.'

  'No, you fool. There's an image painted onto the underside… one big card, it looks like—only I don't recognize it.'

  Scowling, Hedge joined the mage. 'What are you talking about? We didn't paint no image underneath—Hood's mouldering moccasins, what is that?'

  'Red ochre, is my guess. Like something a Barghast would paint—'

  'Or a Rhivi,' Hedge muttered. 'Who's that figure in the middle—the one with the dog-head on his chest?'

  'How should I know? Anyway, I'd say the whole thing is pretty fresh. Recent, I mean.'

  'Well, rub it off, dammit.'

  Spindle crawled back out. 'Not a chance—the thing's webbed with wards, and a whole lot else besides.' He straightened, met Picker's eyes, then shrugged. 'It's a new card. Unaligned, without an aspect. I'd like to make a copy of it, Deck-sized, then try it out with a reading—'

  'Whatever,' Picker said.

  Hedge reappeared, suddenly energized. 'Good idea, Spin—you could charge for the readings, too. If this new Unaligned plays true, then you could work out the new tensions, the new relationships, and once you know them—'

  Spindle grinned. 'We could run another game. Yeah—'

  Detoran groaned. 'I have lost all my money.'

  'We all have,' Picker snapped, glaring at the two sappers.

  'It'll work next time,' Hedge said. 'You'll see.'

  Spindle was nodding vigorously.

  'Sorry if we seem to lack enthusiasm,' Blend drawled.

  Picker swung to the Barghast. 'Trotts, take a look at that drawing.'

  The warrior sniffed, then sank down to his hands and knees. Grunting, he made his way under the table. 'It's gone dark,' he said.

  Hedge turned to Spindle. 'Do that light trick again, you idiot.'

  The mage sneered at the sapper, then gestured
. The glow beneath the table returned.

  Trotts was silent for a few moments, then he crawled back out and climbed upright.

  'Well?' Picker asked.

  The Barghast shook his head. 'Rhivi.'

  'Rhivi don't play with Decks,' Spindle said.

  Trotts bared his teeth. 'Neither do Barghast.'

  'I need some wood,' Spindle said, scratching the stubble lining his narrow jaw. 'And a stylus,' he went on, ignoring everyone else. 'And paints, and a brush…'

  They watched as he wandered out of the tent. Picker sighed, glared one last time at Hedge. 'Hardly an auspicious entry into the Seventh Squad, sapper. Antsy's heart damn near stopped when he lost his whole column. Your sergeant is probably gutting black-livered wood pigeons and whispering your name right now—who knows, your luck might change and a demon won't hear him.'

  Hedge scowled. 'Ha ha.'

  'I don't think she's kidding,' Detoran said.

  'Fine,' Hedge snapped. 'I got a cusser waiting for it, and damned if I won't make sure I take you all with me.'

  'Team spirit,' Trotts said, his smile broadening.

  Picker grunted. 'All right, soldiers, let's get out of here.'

  Paran and Silverfox stood apart from the others, watching the eastern sky grow light with streaks of copper and bronze. The last of the stars were withdrawing overhead, a cold, indifferent scatter surrendering to the warmth of a blue, cloudless day.

  Through the awkwardness of the hours just past, stretching interminable as a succession of pain and discomfort in Paran's mind, emotional exhaustion had arrived, and with it a febrile calm. He had fallen silent, fearful of shattering that inner peace, knowing it to be nothing but an illusion, a pensively drawn breath within a storm.

  'Tattersail must be drawn forth.' He had indeed done that. The first meeting of their eyes had unlocked every shared memory, and that unlocking was an explosive curse for Paran. A child. I face a child, and so recoil at the thought of intimacy—even if it had once been with a grown woman. The woman is no more. This is a child. But there was yet more to the anguish that boiled within the man. Another presence, entwined like wires of black iron through all that was Tattersail. Nightchill, the sorceress, once lover to Bellurdan—where she had led, the Thelomen had followed. Anything but an equal relationship, and now, with Nightchill, had come a bitter, demanding presence. Bitter, indeed. With Tayschrenn… with the Empress and the Malazan Empire and Hood knows what or who else. She knows she was betrayed at the Enfilade at Pale. Both her and, out there on the plain, Bellurdan. Her mate.