Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'Maybe that's just Tattersail's memories… undressing him,' Mallet commented.

  'Very funny,' Whiskeyjack drawled. 'So Silverfox dips into his soul—no guarantee she'll be sharing her discoveries with us, is there?'

  'If Tattersail and Nightchill's personae come to dominate…'

  'The sorceress is well enough, but Nightchill…' Whiskeyjack shook his head.

  'She was a nasty piece of work,' Quick Ben agreed. 'Something of a mystery there. Still, a Malazan…'

  'Of whom we know very little,' the commander growled. 'Remote. Cold.'

  Mallet asked, 'What was her warren?'

  'Rashan, as far as I could tell,' Quick Ben said sourly. 'Darkness.'

  'That's knowledge that Silverfox can draw on, then,' the healer said after a moment.

  'Probably instinctively, in fragments—not much of Nightchill survived, I gather.'

  'Are you sure of that, wizard?' Whiskeyjack asked.

  'No.' About Nightchill, I'm less sure than I'm implying. There have been other Nightchills… long before the Malazan Empire. The First Age of the Nathilog Wars. The Liberation of Karakarang on Seven Cities, nine centuries back. The Seti and their expulsion from Fenn, on Quon Tali, almost two thousand years ago. A woman, a sorceress, named Nightchill, again and again. If she's the same one…

  The commander leaned in his saddle and spat to the ground. 'I'm not happy.'

  Wizard and healer said nothing.

  I'd tell him about Burn… but if he ain't happy now what'll the news of the world's impending death do to him? No, deal with that one on your own, Quick, and be ready to jump when the time comes… The Crippled God's declared war on the gods, on the warrens, on the whole damned thing and every one of us in it. Fine, O Fallen One, but that means you'll have to outwitme. Forget the gods and their clumsy games, I'll have you crawling in circles before long…

  Moments passed, the horses motionless under the riders except for the flicking of tails and the twitching of coats and ears to ward off biting flies.

  'Keep facing Paran in the right direction,' Whiskeyjack finally said. 'Shove when the opportunity arises. Quick Ben, find out all you can about Nightchill—through any and every source available. Mallet, explain about Paran to Spindle—I want all three of you close enough to the captain to count nose hairs.' He gathered the reins and swung his mount round. 'The Darujhistan contingent's due to arrive at Brood's any time now—let's head back.'

  They rode down from the hill and its ruinous vestiges at a canter, leaving the flies buzzing aimlessly above the summit.

  Whiskeyjack reined in before the tent that had been provided for Dujek Onearm, his horse breathing hard from the extended ride, through the Bridgeburners' encampment where he'd left Quick Ben and Mallet, and into Brood's sprawled camp. He swung from the saddle, wincing as he stepped down on his bad leg.

  The standard-bearer Artanthos appeared. 'I'll take the reins, Commander,' the young man said. 'The beast needs rubbing down—'

  'He ain't the only one,' Whiskeyjack muttered. 'Onearm's within?'

  'Aye. He has been expecting you.'

  Without another word the commander entered the tent.

  'Damned about time,' Dujek growled from his cot, grunting as as he sat up. 'Pour us some ale, there, on the table. Find a chair. You hungry?'

  'No.'

  'Me neither. Let's drink.'

  Neither spoke until Whiskeyjack had finished repositioning furniture and pouring ale. The silence continued until they'd both finished the first tankards and the commander refilled them from the jug.

  'Moon's Spawn,' Dujek said after wiping his mouth then reaching for the tankard once again. 'If we're lucky, we'll see it again, but not till Coral, or even later. So, Anomander Rake's agreed to throw his—and the Moon's—weight against this Pannion Domin. Reasons? Unknown. Maybe he just likes a fight.'

  Whiskeyjack frowned. 'At Pale, he struck me as a reluctant combatant, Dujek.'

  'Only because his Tiste Andü were busy elsewhere. Good thing, too, or we would have been annihilated.'

  'You might be right. Seems we're mustering a whole lot to take on a middling-sized empire of zealots, Dujek. I know, the Domin's smelled foul from the start, and something's building. Even so…'

  'Aye.' After a moment, Dujek shrugged. 'We'll see what we see. Did you speak with Twist?'

  Whiskeyjack nodded. 'He agrees that his flights should remain unseen—no supplying of our forces on the march if at all possible. He has scouts seeking a strategic place to hold up close to the Pannion border—hidden but close enough to strike when the time comes.'

  'Good. And is our army ready to leave Pale?'

  'As ready as it'll ever be. The question of supply on the march remains.'

  'We'll cover that when the emissaries from Darujhistan get here. Now. Silverfox…'

  'Hard to say, Dujek. This gathering of T'lan Imass is worrying, especially when she asserts that we'll all need those undead warriors when we take on the Pannion Domin. High Fist, we don't know enough about our enemy—'

  'That will change—have you instructed Quick Ben on initiating contact with that mercenary company in Capustan?'

  'He's worked something out. We'll see if they take the bait.'

  'Back to Silverfox, Whiskeyjack. Tattersail was a solid ally—a friend—'

  'She's there, in this Rhivi child. Paran and she have… spoken.' He fell silent for a moment, then sighed, his eyes on the tankard in his hands. 'Things have yet to unfold, so we'll just have to wait and see.'

  'Any creature that so devours its parent…'

  'Aye, but then again, whenever have the T'lan Imass shown a speck of compassion? They're undead, soulless and let's face it, once-allies or not, damned horrific. They were on the Emperor's leash and no-one else's. Fighting alongside them back in Seven Cities was not a comforting experience—we both know that, Dujek.'

  'Expedience always comes arm-in-arm with discomfort,' the High Fist muttered. 'And now they're back, only this time they're on a child's leash…'

  Whiskeyjack grunted. 'That's a curious observation, but I see what you mean. Kellanved showed… restraint with the T'lan Imass, discounting that mess at Aren. Whereas a child, born of ravaged souls within the warren of Tellann, acquiring such power…'

  'And how many children have you met capable of showing restraint? Tattersail's wisdom needs to come to the fore, and soon.'

  'We'll do all we can, Dujek.'

  The old man sighed, then nodded. 'Now, your sense of our newfound allies?'

  'The departure of the Crimson Guard is a blow,' Whiskeyjack said. 'A disparate collection of dubious mercenaries and hangers-on in their place signifies a drop in quality. The Mott Irregulars are the best of the bunch, but that's not saying a whole lot. The Rhivi and Barghast are solid enough, as we both know, and the Tiste Andü are unequalled. Still, Brood needs us. Badly.'

  'Perhaps more than we need him and his forces, aye,' Dujek said. 'In a normal kind of war, that is.'

  'Rake and Moon's Spawn are Brood's true shaved knuckles in the hole. High Fist, with the T'lan Imass joined to our cause, I cannot see any force on this continent or any other that could match us. God knows, we could annex half the continent—'

  'Could we now?' Dujek grinned sourly. 'Stow that thought, old friend, stow it deep so it never again sees the light of day. We're about to march off and sword-kiss a tyrant—what happens afterwards is a discussion that will have to await another time. Right now, we're both edging around a deadly pit—'

  'Aye, we are. Kallor.'

  'Kallor.'

  'He will try to kill the child,' Whiskeyjack said.

  'He won't,' Dujek countered. 'If he tries, Brood will go for him.' The one-armed man leaned forward with his tankard and Whiskeyjack refilled it. Settling back, the High Fist studied the commander, then said, 'Caladan Brood is the real shaved knuckle in the hole, old friend. I've read of his times up around Laederon, in the Nathilog Histories. Hood's breath, you don't want to get him riled
—whether you're an ally or an enemy makes no difference to Brood when his rage is unleashed. At least with Anomander Rake, it's a cold, taut power. Not so with the warlord. That hammer of his… it's said that it's the only thing that can awaken Burn. Swing it against the ground, hard enough, and the goddess will open her eyes. And the truth is, if Brood didn't have the strength to do so, he wouldn't be carrying the hammer in the first place.'

  Whiskeyjack mused on this for a while, then said, 'We have to hope that Brood remains as the child's protector.'

  'Kallor will work to sway the warlord,' Dujek asserted, 'with argument rather than with his sword. He may well seek Rake's support, as well…'

  The commander eyed the High Fist. 'Kallor's paid you a visit.'

  'Aye, and he's a persuasive bastard. Even to the point of dispelling his enmity towards you—he's not been physically struck in centuries, or so he said. He also said he deserved it.'

  'Generous of him,' Whiskeyjack drawled. When it's politically expedient. 'I'll not stand to one side in the butchering of a child,' the commander added in a cold voice. 'No matter what power or potential is within her.'

  Dujek glanced up. 'In defiance of my command, should I give it?'

  'We've known each other a long time, Dujek.'

  'Aye, we have. Stubborn.'

  'When it matters.'

  The two men said nothing for a time, then the High Fist looked away and sighed. 'I should bust you back down to sergeant.'

  Whiskeyjack laughed.

  'Pour me another,' Dujek growled. 'We've got an emissary from Darujhistan on the way and I want to be properly cheerful when he arrives.

  'What if Kallor's right?'

  The Mhybe's eyes narrowed. 'Then, Warlord, you had best give him leave to cut me down the same time he kills my daughter.'

  Caladan Brood's wide, flat brow furrowed as he scowled down at her. 'I remember you, you know. Among the tribes when we campaigned in the north. Young, fiery, beautiful. Seeing you—seeing what the child has done to you—causes pain within me, woman.'

  'Mine is greater, I assure you, Warlord, yet I choose to accept it—'

  'Your daughter is killing you—why?'

  The Mhybe glanced across at Korlat. The Tiste Andü's expression was distraught. The air within the tent was sweltering, the currents around the three of them damp and turgid. After a moment, the old woman returned her gaze to Caladan Brood. 'Silverfox is of Tellann, of the T'lan Imass, Warlord. They have no life-force to give her. They are kin, yet can offer no sustenance, for they are undead, whilst their new child is flesh and blood. Tattersail too is dead. As was Nightchill. Kinship is more important than you might think. Blood-bound lives are the web that carries each of us; they make up that which a life climbs, from newborn to child, then child to adulthood. Without such life-forces, one withers and dies. To be alone is to be ill, Warlord, not just spiritually, but physically as well. I am my daughter's web, and I am alone in that—'

  Brood was shaking his head. 'Your explanation does not answer her… impatience, Mhybe. She claims she will command the T'lan Imass. She claims they have heard her summons. Does this not in turn mean that the undead armies have already accepted her?'

  Korlat spoke up. 'Warlord, you believe Silverfox seeks to hasten her own growth in order to confirm her authority when she comes face to face with the T'lan Imass? The undead armies will reject a child summoner—is this your belief?'

  'I am seeking the reason for what she's doing to her mother, Korlat,' Brood said, with a pained expression.

  'You might well be correct, Warlord,' the Mhybe said. 'Bone and flesh can hold only so much power—the limit is always finite. For such beings as you and Anomander Rake—and you, too, Korlat—you possess the centuries of living necessary to contain what you command. Silverfox does not, or, rather, her memories tell her she does, yet her child's body denies those memories. Thus, vast power awaits her, and to fully command it she must be a grown woman—and even then…'

  'Ascendancy is born of experience,' Korlat said. 'An interesting notion, Mhybe.'

  'And experience… tempers,' the Rhivi woman nodded.

  'Thus, Kallor's fear,' Brood rumbled, rising from his chair with a restless sigh. 'Untempered power.'

  'It may be,' Korlat said in a low voice, 'that Kallor himself is the cause of the child's impatience—she seeks to become a woman in order to alleviate his fears.'

  'I'd doubt he'd appreciate the irony,' the warlord muttered. 'Alleviate, you said? Thinking on it, more likely she knows she'll have to defend herself against him sooner or later—'

  'A secret hovers between them,' Korlat murmured.

  There was silence. All knew the truth of that, and all were troubled. One of the souls within Silverfox had crossed paths with Kallor before. Tattersail, Bellurdan or Nightchill.

  After a long moment, Brood cleared his throat. 'Life experiences… the child possesses those, does she not, Mhybe? The three Malazan mages…'

  The Mhybe smiled wearily. 'A Thelomen, two women, and myself—one father and three reluctant mothers to the same child. The father's presence seems so faint that I have begun to suspect it exists only as Nightchill's memory. As for the two women, I am seeking to discover who they were, and what I have learned thus far—of Tattersail—comforts me.'

  'And Nightchill?' Korlat asked.

  Brood interjected, 'Did not Rake kill her here at Pale?'

  'No, Nightchill was ambushed—betrayed—by the High Mage Tayschrenn,' the Tiste Andü replied. 'We have been informed,' she added drily, 'that Tayschrenn has since fled back to the Empress.' Korlat faced the Mhybe again. 'What have you learned of her?'

  'I have seen flashes of darkness within Silverfox,' the Rhivi woman replied reluctantly, 'which I would attribute to Nightchill. A seething anger, a hunger for vengeance, possibly against Tayschrenn. At some time, perhaps soon, there will be a clash between Tattersail and Nightchill—the victor will come to dominate my daughter's nature.'

  Brood was silent for a half-dozen breaths, then said, 'What can we do to aid this Tattersail?'

  'The Malazans are seeking to do that very thing, Warlord. Much rests on their efforts. We must have faith in them. In Whiskeyjack, and in Captain Paran—the man who was once Tattersail's lover.'

  'I have spoken with Whiskeyjack,' Korlat said. 'He possesses an unshakeable integrity, Warlord. An honourable man.'

  'I hear your heart in your words,' Brood observed.

  Korlat shrugged. 'Less cause to doubt me, then, Caladan. I am not careless in such matters.'

  The warlord grunted. 'I dare not take another step in that direction,' he said wryly. 'Mhybe, hold close to your daughter. Should you begin to see the spirit of Nightchill rising and that of Tattersail setting, inform me at once.'

  And should that occur, my telling you will see my daughter killed.

  'My thoughts,' Brood continued, his thin eyes fixed on her, 'are not settled on that matter. Rather, such an event may well lead to my more directly supporting the Malazans in their efforts on Tattersail's behalf.'

  The Mhybe raised her brows. 'Precisely how, Warlord?'

  'Have faith in me,' Brood said.

  The Rhivi woman sighed, then nodded. 'Very well, I shall so inform you.'

  The tent flap was drawn back and Hurlochel, Brood's standard-bearer, entered. 'Warlord,' he said, 'the Darujhistan contingent approach our camp.'

  'Let us go to meet them, then.'

  Since arriving, the hooded driver seemed to have fallen asleep. The huge, ornate carriage's double doors opened from within and a regent-blue slippered foot emerged. Arrayed before the carriage and its train of six jewel-decked horses, in a crescent, were the representatives of the two allied armies: Dujek, Whiskeyjack, Twist and Captain Paran to the left, and Caladan Brood, Kallor, Korlat, Silverfox and the Mhybe to the right.

  The Rhivi matron had been left exhausted by the events of the night just past, and her meeting with Brood had added yet more layers of weariness—the holding back on so much
in the face of the warlord's hard questions had been difficult, yet, she felt, necessary. Her daughter's meeting with Paran had been far more strained and uncertain than the Mhybe had suggested to Brood. Nor had the intervening hours since then diminished the awkwardness of the situation. Worse, the reunion may have triggered something within Silverfox—the child had drawn heavily on the Mhybe since then, stripping away year after year from her mother's failing life. Is it Tattersail behind the fevered demand on my life-spirit? Or Nightchill?

  This will end soon. I yearn for the release of the Hooded One's embrace. Silverfox has allies, now. They will do what is necessary, I am certain of it—please, Spirits of the Rhivi, make me certain of it. The time for me is surely past, yet those around me continue to make demands of me. No, I cannot go on…

  The slippered foot probed daintily downward, wavering until it touched ground. A rather plump calf, knee and thigh followed. The short, round man who emerged was wearing silks of every colour, the effect one of clashing discord. A shimmering, crimson handkerchief was clutched in one pudgy hand, rising to dab a glittering forehead. Both feet finally on the ground, the Daru loosed a loud sigh. 'Burn's fiery heart, but it's hot!'

  Caladan Brood stepped forward. 'Welcome, representative of the City of Darujhistan, to the armies of liberation. I am Caladan Brood, and this is Dujek Onearm…'

  The short, round man blinked myopically, mopped his brow once again, then beamed a smile. 'Representative of the City of Darujhistan? Indeed! None better, Kruppe says, though he be a lowly citizen, a curious commoner come to cast kindly eyes upon this momentous occasion! Kruppe is suitably honoured by your formal, nay, respectful welcome—what vast display, Kruppe wonders, will you formidable warriors unveil when greeting the Council of Darujhistan's official representatives? The sheer escalation now imminent has Kruppe's heart all apatter with anticipation! Look on, to the south—the councillors' carriage even now approaches!'

  A Great Raven's cackle spilled into the silence following the man's pronouncements.

  Despite her fraught, worn emotions, the Mhybe smiled. Oh yes, of course. I know this man. She stepped forward, unable to resist herself as she said, 'I have been in your dreams, sir.'