Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'And that limitation may prove temporary,' the Destriant said. 'Once this Gathering takes place, the T'lan Imass may find themselves directed to a new purpose.'

  'What more have we learned of the summoner?'

  'She accompanies Brood's army.'

  'How far away?'

  'Six weeks.'

  Hetan snorted. 'They are slow.'

  'They are a small army,' Brukhalian growled. 'And cautious. I find no fault in the pace they have chosen. The Septarch intends to take Capustan in a single day, but he well knows that the longest he can safely take to conclude the siege is six weeks. Once he fails in his first effort, he will step back and reconsider. Probably at length.'

  'We cannot hold for six weeks,' Itkovian murmured, his eyes reaching over the row of temples lining Old Daru's front street and fixing on the high walls of the ancient keep that was now the Thrall.

  'We must, sir,' Brukhalian replied. 'Shield Anvil, your counsel, please. Kulpath's campaign at Setta—there were no K'Chain Che'Malle to hasten that siege. Its duration?'

  'Three weeks,' Itkovian immediately replied. 'Setta is a larger city, sir, and the defenders were unified and well organized. They stretched to three weeks a siege that should only have required a week at most. Sir, Capustan is smaller, with fewer defenders—and disputatious defenders at that. Further, the Tenescowri has doubled its size since Setta. Finally, the Beklites and Urdomen have been honed by a hard-fought contest. Six weeks, sir? Impossible.'

  'We must make the impossible possible, Shield Anvil.'

  Itkovian's jaw clenched. He said nothing.

  Within sight of the Thrall's high gates, Brukhalian stopped and faced the Barghast. 'You have heard us, Hetan. Should the clans of the White Face grasp the spear of war, how many warriors will march? How soon could they arrive?'

  The woman bared her teeth. 'The clans have never united to wage war, but if they did, the warriors of the White Face would number seventy thousand.' Her smile broadened, cold and defiant. 'They will not do so now. No march. No relief. For you, no hope.'

  'The Domin will set hungry eyes upon your people next, Hetan,' Itkovian said.

  She shrugged.

  'What then,' Brukhalian rumbled, 'is the purpose of this audience with the Mask Council?'

  'When I give answer, it will be to the priests.'

  Itkovian spoke. 'I was given to understand that you had travelled south to discover the nature of the K'Chain Che'Malle.'

  'There was no cause to elaborate on our mission, wolf. We have completed one task set before us by the shouldermen of the clans. Now, we must complete the second task. Will you now present us to the fools, or must we continue on alone?'

  The Council Hall was a massive chamber, domed with a semicircle of wooden tiers facing the grand entrance. The dome's ceiling had once glittered with gold leaf, of which only a few patches remained. The bas-relief images the gold had once lit were now faded and mostly shapeless, hinting of a procession of human figures in ceremonial garb. The floor was laid with bright, geometric tiles, forming no discernible pattern around a central disc of polished granite, and much worn.

  Torches high on the stone walls flickered yellow light and exhaled tendrils of black smoke that drifted in the chamber's currents. Standing motionless to either side of the entrance and before each of the fourteen doors arrayed behind the tiers were Gidrath guards, visored and in full scaled armour.

  The fourteen priests of the Mask Council sat in a row on the highest of the three tiers, sombre in their robes and silent behind the carved, hinged masks of their gods. The representations were varied but singularly ghastly, caricatured in their malleable expressions, though at the moment every one of them was fixed in neutral regard.

  Brukhalian's boots echoed as he strode to halt in the centre of the chamber, standing on the single huge millstone appropriately called the Navel. 'Mask Council,' he intoned, 'may I present to you Hetan and Cafal, Barghast emissaries of the White Face. The Grey Swords have honoured the request for this introduction. Now that it is complete, we shall depart this session.' He stepped back.

  Rath'Dessembrae raised a slim hand. 'One moment, please, Mortal Sword,' she said. 'Whilst we know nothing of the nature of the Barghast's intentions, we ask that you remain in attendance, for there are matters that must be discussed at the conclusion of the audience.'

  Brukhalian bowed his head. 'Then we must convey our distance from the Barghast and their unknown petition.'

  'Of course,' the masked woman murmured, the sorrowful visage of her god's face shifting into a slight smile.

  Itkovian watched Brukhalian return to where he and Karnadas stood just within the entrance.

  Hetan and her brother strode to take position on the millstone. She studied the priests, then lifted her head and called out, 'The White Face is in mourning!'

  A hand thumped down on the railing. Rath'D'rek was on his feet, the Worm of Autumn's goddess face twisted into a scowl. 'Again? By the Abyss, you deliver your tribe's claims at this time! The same opening words! The same idiotic assertion! The answer was no the first time, no the second time, no every time! This audience is closed!'

  'It is not!'

  'You dare address us in such a tone—'

  'I do, you fart-fouled runt!'

  Eyes wide, Itkovian stared at Hetan, then at the Council.

  The Barghast woman spread out her arms. 'Attend my words! Ignore them at your peril!'

  Her brother had begun a soft chant. The air swirled around the two savage warriors.

  On all sides, the Gidrath guards reached for their weapons. Itkovian stumbled as Karnadas pushed past him, robes flowing behind the priest in his haste. 'A moment, please!' he cried. 'Holy brothers and sisters! Would you see your loyal guards slain? Would you see the Thrall itself destroyed, with all of you killed in the process? Look carefully upon the sorcery you see before you, I beg you! No simple shaman's magic—look! The Barghast spirits have assembled. Brothers and sisters, the Barghast Spirits are here, in this room!' Silence, save for Cafal's low chant.

  Brukhalian drew close to Itkovian. 'Shield Anvil,' he muttered, 'know you anything, sir, of what we see before us?'

  'The possibility had not even occurred to me,' Itkovian murmured. 'An old petition, this one. I did not think—'

  'What is it they request?'

  He slowly shook his head. 'Recognition, sir. The earth beneath this city is Barghast land, or so they assert. Reading the accounts of previous audiences, they have been dismissed with a boot to the backside, more or less. Mortal Sword, I did not imagine—'

  'Listen, now, sir. The woman has leave to speak.' The brothers and sisters had heeded the Destriant's words, were now once again seated, displaying an array of furious expressions. Had not the moment been so tense, Itkovian would have grinned at the obvious… consternation of the gods.

  'Acceptable,' Hetan grated, narrow gaze studying the priests and priestesses. 'What has been a request is now a demand. I shall now list your past arguments for denying our petition, and repeat once again our replies. Perhaps this time you will choose to see reason when you vote. If not, I shall force the issue.'

  Rath'Hood barked a laugh, leaned forward. 'Force the issue? Dear lass, this city and all within it are perhaps no more than a few bells from annihilation. Yet you threaten us with force? Are you truly the foolish little girl you seem?'

  Hetan's grin was savage. 'Your past arguments. The earliest Daru records of this settlement insist the land was unoccupied. Save for ancient buildings long abandoned that were clearly not Barghast in origin. The few records that the herder camps possessed reinforced this notion. The Barghast lived to the north, upon the slopes of the hills and within the Range itself. Aye, shouldermen made pilgrimages to this land, but such journeys were infrequent and of brief duration. Agreed thus far? Good. To these arguments we have in the past made simple reply. Barghast do not live upon holy ground—the dwelling place of the bones of their ancestors. Do you live in your own cemeteries? You do
not. Nor do we. The first Capan tribes found naught but the barrows of Barghast dead. They levelled them and with the Daru raised a city on our sacred land.

  'This affront cannot be undone. The past is immutable, and we are not so foolish as to insist otherwise. No, our request was simple. Formal recognition of our ownership, and right to make pilgrimage.

  'You denied the request, again and again. Priests, our patience is at an end.'

  Rath'Shadowthrone crowed his laughter. He threw up his hands. 'Indeed! Excellent! Very well! Brothers and sisters, let us grant the Barghast all they wish! Delicious irony, to freely give all that we are about to lose! Will the Pannions honour it?' His mask shifted into a sneer. 'I think not.'

  Hetan shook her head. 'I said our patience has ended, beetle-under-rock. Our past requests no longer obtain. This city will fall. The Pannions will offer no welcome. The desire of Barghast pilgrims none the less must be answered. Thus.' She crossed her arms.

  The silence stretched.

  Then Rath'Queen of Dreams gasped.

  Hetan faced her squarely. 'Ah, you know the truth of it!'

  With a visage of thoughtful regard belied by the flustered alarm evinced by her posture and gestures, the priestess cleared her throat. 'Not all among us. A few. Very few.' Her head turned, surveyed her brothers and sisters. Rath'Burn was the first to react, her breath hissing through the slitted mouth of her mask.

  After a moment, Rath'Hood grunted. 'I see. An extraordinary solution indeed—'

  'Obvious!' Rath'Shadowthrone snapped, jerking in his seat. 'No secret knowledge required! None the less, we must consider the matter! What is lost by relinquishment? What is gained by denial?'

  'No,' Hetan said. 'Denial shall not force our hand into defending this land. Humbrall Taur, my father, rightly guessed the twist of your thoughts. If it must be, we shall accept our loss. However, my brother and I will kill everyone in this chamber before we leave here today, should you choose to deny us. Can you accept your loss?'

  No-one spoke for a long moment, then Rath'Queen of Dreams coughed again. 'Hetan, may I ask you a question?'

  The grey-faced woman nodded.

  'How will you effect the expediting of… of what you seek?'

  'What secret do you withhold?' Rath'Oponn shrieked. 'You and Rath'Hood and Rath'Burn! What are you all going on about! The rest of us must know!'

  'Use that kernel of a brain,' Rath'Shadowthrone sneered. 'What do pilgrims go to honour and revere?'

  'Uh… relics? Icons?'

  Rath'Shadowthrone mimed a tutor's patient, condescending nod. 'Very good, brother. So, how do you put an end to the pilgrimage?' Rath'Oponn stared, his mask blank.

  'You move the relics, you idiot!' Rath'Shadowthrone screamed. 'But wait!' Rath'Beru said. 'Doesn't that assume their location is known? Weren't all the mounds flattened? By the Abyss, how many estates and Camp hearthhomes have some battered Barghast urn up on a shelf? Are we to set out and search every house in the city?'

  'We care nothing for vessels,' Hetan rumbled.

  'That's precisely the secret!' Rath'Shadowthrone chimed to Rath'Beru, head wagging from side to side. 'Our two sisters and one brother know where the bones lie!' He faced Rath'Queen of Dreams. 'Don't you, dear? Some fool or wise spark gathered them all those centuries back and deposited them in one place—and that place still remains, doesn't it? Put that nauseating coyness to bed and out with the goods, woman!'

  'You are so crass,' the priestess hissed.

  Itkovian stopped listening as the bickering continued. His gaze was on Hetan, his attention sharpened. He wished he could see her eyes, if only to confirm what he now suspected.

  She was trembling. So slight, the Shield Anvil doubted anyone else noticed. Trembling… and I think I know why.

  Movement caught his eye. Karnadas was backing away, edging towards Brukhalian's side once again. The Destriant's gaze seemed to be fixed on the brothers and sisters on the council, in particular upon the silent, slight figure of Rath'Fener, seated on the far right. The set of Karnadas's back and shoulders—and his deliberate avoidance of focusing on Hetan—told Itkovian that the Destriant had come to the same revelation—a revelation that had the Shield Anvil's heart thumping.

  The Grey Swords were not part of this. Indeed, they were neutral observers, but Itkovian could not help adding his silent will to Hetan's cause.

  The Destriant withdrew to Brukhalian's side, casually glanced over and met Itkovian's eyes.

  The Shield Anvil responded with the faintest of nods.

  Karnadas's eyes widened, then he sighed.

  Aye. The Barghast gambit. Generations of pilgrims… long before the coming of the Capan and Daru, long before the settlement was born. Barghast do not normally honour their dead in such a manner.

  No, the bones hidden here—somewhere—are not simply the bones of some dead warchief or shoulderman. These bones belong to someone… profoundly important. Valued so highly that the sons and daughters of countless generations journeyed to their legendary resting place. Thus, one significant truth… which leads to the next one.

  Hetan trembles. The Barghast spirits… tremble. They have been lost—made blind by the desecration. For so long… lost. Those holiest of remains… and the Barghast themselves were never certain—never certain that they were here, in this earth in this place, were never certain that they existed at all.

  The mortal remains of their spirit-gods.

  And Hetan is about to find them. Humbrall Taur's long-held suspicion… Humbrall Taur's audacious—no, outrageous—gambit. 'Find me the bones of the Founding Families, daughter Hetan.'

  The White Face clans knew that the Domin would come for them, once Capustan fell. There would, in truth, be war. Yet the clans had never before been unified—the ancient blood-feuds and rivalries ever gnawed from within. Humbrall Taur needed those ancient holy remains. To raise as a standard. To knit the clans together—all feuds forgotten.

  But Hetan is too late. Even if she wins, here, now, she is too late. Take the mortal remains, dear, by all means—but how will you get them out of Capustan? How will you get through rank upon rank of Pannion soldiers?

  Rath'Queen of Dreams's voice cut through his thoughts. 'Very well. Hetan, daughter of Humbrall Taur, we accede to your request. We return to you the mortal remains of your ancestors.' She slowly rose and gestured to her Gidrath captain. The soldier stepped close and she began whispering instructions. After a moment the man nodded and exited through the door behind him. The masked woman turned once again to the Barghast. 'Some effort will be required in… reaching the resting place. With your permission, we would like to speak with Mortal Sword Brukhalian in the meantime, on matters pertaining to the defence of this city.'

  Hetan scowled, then shrugged. 'As you wish. But our patience is short.'

  The Queen of Dreams mask shifted into a smile. 'You shall be able to witness the extrication yourself, Hetan.'

  The Barghast woman stepped back from the Navel.

  'Approach, Mortal Sword,' Rath'Hood rumbled. 'Sword sheathed, this time.'

  Itkovian watched his commander stride forward, wondering at the high priest's admonition, and at Brukhalian's answering cold smile.

  Rath'Shadowthrone leaned forward. 'Know, Mortal Sword, that the Mask Council finally acknowledges what was obvious to you and me from the very start—the inevitable destruction of Capustan.'

  'You are mistaken,' Brukhalian replied, his deep voice reverberating in the hall. 'There is nothing inevitable about this impending siege, provided we each hold to a unified defence—'

  'The outlying redoubts shall be held,' Rath'Beru snapped, 'for as long as is possible.'

  'They will be slaughtered, you blinkered fool!' Rath'Shadowthrone shrieked. 'Hundreds of lives thrown away! Lives we can ill afford to lose!'

  'Enough!' Rath'Queen of Dreams shouted. This is not the issue we are meant to discuss. Mortal Sword, the return of the Shield Anvil's troop was witnessed by many. Specifically, the appearance of… larg
e wolves. Reputedly somewhat… worse for wear. These creatures have not been seen since—'

  An inner door opened to a line of unarmoured Gidrath soldiers, each carrying picks, who strode across the broad floor before fanning out at one end, where they set to examining the tiles along the edge.

  Brukhalian cleared his throat. 'This is a subject, Rath'Queen of Dreams, that involves Prince Jelarkan—'

  Only momentarily distracted by the arrival of the workers, the high priestess faced Brukhalian again. 'We have already had discourse with the prince on the subject. He was reluctant with his knowledge, and seemed intent on winning concessions from the Council in exchange for information. We will not participate in such crass bargaining, Mortal Sword. We wish to know the nature and the significance of these beasts, and you will provide us with answers.'

  'Alas, in the absence of our employer,' Brukhalian said, 'we cannot comply. Should the prince instruct us otherwise…'

  The workers began tapping their picks against the edge of the floor. Fragments of ceramic tile pattered like hail around their feet. Itkovian watched Hetan draw a step closer to the men. Cafal's chant had fallen to a whisper, a susurration beneath every other sound in the chamber, and his eyes were now fixed, glittering, on the Gidraths' efforts.

  The bones lie beneath us. Gathered here, in the chambered heart of the Thrall—how long ago, I wonder?

  Rath'Shadowthrone snorted at Brukhalian's words. 'Really, now. This avails us nothing. Someone call for the prince. Shield Anvil, there were two mages among those merchants you saved—were those undead wolves their pets, perhaps? We understand that the mages have taken up residence here in the Daru Quarter. While another of that merchant party has done the same; indeed, has purchased a small house and has petitioned the Council for Rights to Renovation. What an odd lot! A hundred thousand cannibals outside our walls, and these strangers are all buying property! With undead wolves for pets as well! What say you, Itkovian, to all this?'

  The Shield Anvil shrugged. 'Your reasoning has a certain logic, Rath'Shadowthrone. As for the mages' and merchant's actions, I cannot, alas, account for their optimism. Perhaps you would be better advised to enquire of them directly.'