Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'So I shall, Shield Anvil, so I shall.'

  The tiles proved to be fixed to larger, rectangular slabs of stone. The workers had managed to pry one loose and were dragging it to one side, revealing trusses of pitch-stained wooden beams. The trusses formed a gridwork, suspended above a subterranean chamber from which musty, turgid air flowed. Once the first slab was free, the removal process quickened in pace.

  'I think,' Rath'Hood said, 'we should postpone our discussion with the Mortal Sword, for it seems that the chamber will soon lose its floor in answer to Hetan's demands. When that particular discussion resumes, Prince Jelarkan will attend, in order that he may hold the Mortal Sword's hand in the face of our questioning. In the meantime, we are witness to a historic unveiling which is swiftly acquiring our collective attention. So be it.'

  'Gods,' Rath'Shadowthrone muttered, 'you do prattle on, Deathmask. Even so, let us heed your advice. Quickly, you damned soldiers, away with the floor! Let us see these mouldy bones!'

  Itkovian edged closer to stand at Hetan's side. 'Well played,' he murmured.

  Tension made her breath shallow, and she clearly did not trust herself to make reply.

  More slabs were dragged clear. Pole-lanterns were found and readied, but thus far, darkness continued to swallow all that lay beneath the floor.

  Cafal came to Itkovian's other side, his chant ended. 'They are here,' he rumbled. 'Crowding us.'

  The Shield Anvil nodded in understanding. The spirits, drawn through into our world by the chant. Arrived. Avid with yearning. I feel them indeed…

  A vast pit had been opened, its sides ragged but geometric, perhaps seven paces across and almost as wide, reaching out to the central millstone which itself seemed to be standing atop a stone column. The

  Rath' priests and priestesses of the Council had risen from their places and were now edging down for a closer look. One figure separated himself from the others and approached the trio of Grey Swords.

  Brukhalian and Itkovian bowed when Rath'Fener arrived. The man's tusked, furred mask was expressionless, the human eyes flatly regarding Karnadas. 'I have quested,' he said in a quiet, soft tone, 'to the very hooves of our Lord. I fasted for four days, slipped through the reeds and found myself on the blood-soaked shore of the Tusked One's own realm. When last, sir, did you make such a journey?'

  The Destriant smiled. 'And what did you learn when there, Rath'Fener?'

  'The Tiger of Summer is dead. His flesh rots on a plain far to the south of here. Slain by minions of the Pannion Seer. Yet, look upon Rath'Trake—he is possessed of a renewed vigour, nay, a silent joy.'

  'It would seem, then,' Karnadas said after a moment, 'the tale of Trake is not yet done.'

  Rath'Fener hissed, 'Is this a true gambit to godhood? There is but one lord of war!'

  'Perhaps we'd be wise to look to our own, sir,' the Destriant murmured.

  The masked priest snorted, then whirled away and stalked off.

  Itkovian watched him for a moment, then leaned towards Karnadas. 'Are you immune to shock and dismay, sir? Did you know of this news?'

  'Trake's death?' The Destriant's brows slowly rose, his eyes still on Rath'Fener. 'Oh yes. My colleague travelled far to arrive at Fener's cloven hooves. While I, sir, have never left that place.' Karnadas turned to Brukhalian. 'Mortal Sword, the time has surely come to unmask this pompous shrew and his claims to pre-eminence—'

  'No,' Brukhalian rumbled.

  'He reeks of desperation, sir. We cannot trust such a creature among our flock—'

  Brukhalian faced Karnadas. 'And the consequences of such an act, sir? Would you take your place among the Mask Council?'

  'There would be value in that—'

  This city is not our home, Karnadas. Becoming snared in its web risks far too much. My answer remains no.'

  'Very well.'

  The pole-lanterns had been ignited, had begun a collectively cautious descent in the hands of Gidrath guards. All attention was suddenly fixed on what was revealed below.

  The subterranean chamber's earthen floor was less than a man's height beneath the crossbeams. Filling the space between the two levels was the wooden prow of an open, seafaring craft, twisted with age and perhaps the one-time weight of soil and rocks, black-pitched and artfully carved. From where Itkovian stood he could see a web-like span of branches reaching out to an outrigger.

  Three workers lowered themselves into the chamber, lanterns in hand. The Shield Anvil moved closer. The craft had been carved from a single tree, its entire length—more than ten paces—now flattened and corkscrewed in its resting place. Alongside it, Itkovian could now make out another craft, identical with the first, then another. The entire hidden floor of the Thrall's Council Chamber was crowded with boats. He had not known what to expect, but it was certainly not this. The Barghast are not seafarers… not any more. Gods below, these craft must be thousands of years old.

  'Tens of thousands,' the Destriant whispered at his side. 'Even the sorcery that preserves them has begun to fail.'

  Hetan dropped down to land lithely beside the first craft. Itkovian could see that she too was surprised, reaching out tentatively close to but not touching the gunnel, where her hand hovered in trembling uncertainty.

  One of the guards moved his lantern pole directly over the boat.

  Voices gasped.

  Bodies filled the craft, stacked haphazardly, each one wrapped in what looked to be red-stained sailcloth, each limb separately entwined, the rough-woven cloth covering each corpse from head to toe. There appeared to be no desiccation beneath the wrapping.

  Rath'Queen of Dreams spoke, 'The early writings of our Council describe the finding of such dugout canoes… in most of the barrows razed during the building of Capustan. Each held but a few bodies such as these you see here, and most of the canoes disintegrated in the effort of removing them. However, some measure of respect for the dead was honoured—those corpses not inadvertently destroyed in the excavations were gathered, and reinterred within the surviving craft. There are,' she continued, her words cutting through the silence, 'nine canoes beneath us, and over sixty bodies. It was the belief of scholars at that time that these barrows were not Barghast—I think you can see why that conclusion was reached. You may also note that the bodies are larger—almost Toblakai in stature—supporting the notion that they weren't Barghast. Although, it must be granted, there are most certainly Toblakai traits among Hetan and her people. My own belief is that the Toblakai, the Barghast and the Trell are all from the same stock, with the Barghast having more human blood than the other two. I have little evidence to support my belief, apart from simple observation of physical characteristics and ways of living.'

  'These are our Founding Spirits,' Hetan said. 'The truth screams within me. The truth closes about my heart with iron fingers.'

  'They find their power,' Cafal rumbled from the edge of the pit.

  Karnadas nodded and said quietly, 'They do indeed. Joy and pain… exaltation tempered by the sorrow for the ones still lost. Shield Anvil, we are witnessing the birth of gods.'

  Itkovian walked over to Cafal, laid a hand on the man's shoulder. 'Sir, how will you take these remains from the city? The Pannions view every god but their own as avowed enemies. They will seek to destroy all that you have found.'

  The Barghast fixed his small, hard eyes on the Shield Anvil. 'We have no answer, wolf. Not yet. But we do not fear. Not now, and not ever again.'

  Itkovian slowly nodded. 'It is well,' he said with fullest understanding, 'when you find yourself in the embrace of your god.'

  Cafal bared his teeth. 'Gods, wolf. We have many. The first Barghast to come to this land, the very first.'

  'Your ancestors have ascended.'

  'They have. Who now dares challenge our pride?'

  That remains to be seen, alas.

  'You've an apology to make,' Stonny Menackis said as she stepped out of the practice circle and reached for a cloth to wipe the sweat from her face.

&
nbsp; Gruntle sighed. 'Aye, I'm sorry, lass—'

  'Not to me, you idiot. No point in apologizing for who you are and always will be, is there?' She paused to examine the narrow blade of her rapier, scowled at a nick near the inside edge a hand's span from the tip, and glanced back at the Grey Swords recruit who was still in the circle and awaiting a new opponent. 'Damn woman's green, but a fast learner. Your apology, oaf, should be made to Master Keruli—'

  'Not my master any longer.'

  'He saved our skins, Gruntle, including your worthless hide.'

  Crossing his arms, Gruntle raised a brow. 'Oh, and how did he manage that? Blacking out at the first rush—funny, I didn't see any lightning and conflagration from his Elder God, his nasty Lord—'

  'We all went down, you fool. We were done for. But that priest plucked our souls away—as far as those K'Chain Che'Malle could sense, we were dead. Don't you remember dreaming? Dreaming! Pulled right into that Elder God's own warren. I recall every detail—'

  'I guess I was too busy dying for real,' Gruntle snapped.

  'Yes, you were, and Keruli saved you from that, too. Ungracious pig. One moment I was getting tossed around by a K'Chain Che'Malle, the next I woke up… somewhere else… with a huge ghost wolf standing over me. And I knew—knew instantly, Gruntle, that nothing was getting past that wolf. It was standing guard… over me?

  'Some kind of servant of the Elder God?'

  'No, he doesn't have any servants. What he has is friends. I don't know about you, but knowing that—realizing it as I did there with that giant wolf—well, a god that finds friends instead of mindless worshippers… dammit, I'm his, Gruntle, body and soul. And I'll fight for him, because I know he'll fight for me. Horrible Elder Gods, bah! I'll take him over those snarling bickering fools with their temples and coffers and rituals any day.'

  Gruntle stared at her, disbelieving. 'I must still be hallucinating,' he muttered.

  'Never mind me,' Stonny said, sliding her rapier into its scabbard. 'Keruli and his Elder God saved your life, Gruntle. So we're now going to him, and you're going to apologize and if you're smart you're going to pledge to stand with him, in all that's to come—'

  'Like Hood I am. Oh, sure, I'll say sorry and all that, but I don't want anything to do with any gods, Elder or otherwise, and that includes their priests—'

  'I knew you weren't smart but I had to offer anyway. Let's go, then. Where's Buke disappeared to?'

  'Not sure. He was just, uh, delivering me.'

  'The Elder God saved him, too. And Mancy. Hood knows those two necromancers didn't give a damn whether they lived or died. If he's smart, he'll quit that contract.'

  'Well, none of us are as smart as you, Stonny.'

  'Don't I know it.'

  They left the compound. Gruntle was still feeling the effects of the last few days, but with a belly full of food instead of wine and ale and the momentary but efficacious attention of the Grey Sword priest, Karnadas, he found his walk steadier and the pain behind his eyes had faded to a dull ache. He had to lengthen his stride to keep up with Stonny's habitual march. Even as her beauty attracted attention, her relentless pace and dark glare ensured a clear path through any crowd, and Capustan's few, cowed citizens scurried quicker than most to get out of her way.

  They skirted the cemetery, the upright clay coffin-boles passing on their left. Another necropolis lay just ahead, evincing the Daru style of crypts and urns that Gruntle knew well from Darujhistan, and Stonny angled their route slightly to its left, taking the narrow, uneven passageway between the necropolis's low-walled grounds and the outer edge of the Tura'l Concourse. Twenty paces ahead was a smaller square, which they traversed before reaching the eastern edge of the Temple District.

  Gruntle had had enough of stumbling in Stonny's wake like a dog in tow. 'Listen,' he growled, 'I just came from this quarter. If Keruli's camped nearby why didn't you just come to get me and save me the walk?'

  'I did come to get you, but you stank like a pauper-tavern's piss pit. Is that how you wanted to show yourself to Master Keruli? You needed cleaning up, and food, and I wasn't going to baby you through all that.'

  Gruntle subsided, muttering under his breath. Gods, I wish the world was full of passive, mewling women. He thought about that a moment longer, then scowled. On second thoughts, what a nightmare that'd be. It's the job of a man to fan the spark into flames, not quench it…

  'Get that dreamy look off your face,' Stonny snapped. 'We're here.'

  Blinking, Gruntle sighed, then stared at the small, dilapidated building before them—plain, pitted stone blocks, covered here and there by old plaster; a flat, beamed roof, the ancient wood sagging; and a doorway that he and Stonny would have to crouch to pass through. 'This is it? Hood's breath, this is pathetic.'

  'He's a modest man,' Stonny drawled, hands on hips. 'His Elder God's not one for pomp and ceremony. Anyway, with its recent history, it went cheap.'

  'History?'

  Stonny frowned. 'Takes spilled blood to sanctify the Elder God's holy ground. A whole family committed suicide in this house, less than a week past. Keruli was…'

  'Delighted?'

  'Tempered delight. He grieved for the untimely deaths, of course—'

  'Of course.'

  'Then he put in a bid.'

  'Naturally.'

  'Anyway, it's now a temple—'

  Gruntle swung to her. 'Hold on, now. I'm not buying into any faith when I enter, am I?'

  She smirked. 'Whatever you say.'

  'I mean, I'm not. Understand me? And Keruli had better understand, too. And his hoary old god! Not a single genuflection, not even a nod to the altar, and if that's not acceptable then I'm staying out here.'

  'Relax, no-one's expecting anything of you, Gruntle. Why would they?'

  He ignored the mocking challenge in her eyes. 'Fine, so lead the way, woman.'

  'I always do.' She strode to the door and pulled it open. 'Local security measures—you can't kick these doors in, they all open outward, and they're built bigger than the inside frame. Smart, eh? The Grey Swords are expecting a house by house scrap once the walls fall—those Pannions are going to find the going messy.'

  'The defence of Capustan assumes the loss of the walls? Hardly optimistic. We're all in a death trap, and Keruli's dream-escape trick won't help us much when the Tenescowri are roasting our bodies for the main course, will it?'

  'You're a miserable ox, aren't you?'

  'The price for being clear-eyed, Stonny.'

  She ducked as she entered the building, waving for Gruntle to follow. He hesitated, then, still scowling, stepped through.

  A small reception chamber greeted them, bare-walled, clay-tiled, with a few lantern niches set in the walls and a row of iron pegs unadorned by clothing. Another doorway was opposite, a long leather apron providing the barrier. The air smelled of lye soap, with a faint undercurrent of bile.

  Stonny unclasped her cloak and hung it on a hook. 'The wife crawled out of the main room to die here,' she said. 'Dragging her entrails the whole way. Raised the suspicion that her suicide wasn't voluntary. Either that or she changed her mind.'

  'Maybe a goat's milk hawker knocked on the door,' Gruntle suggested, 'and she was trying to cancel her order.'

  Stonny studied him for a moment, as if considering, then she shrugged. 'Seems a bit elaborate, as an explanation, but who knows? Could be.' She swung about and entered the inner doorway in a swish of leather.

  Sighing, Gruntle followed.

  The main chamber ran the full width of the house; a series of alcoves—storage rooms and cell-like bedrooms—divided up the back wall, a central arched walkway bisecting it to lead into the courtyard garden beyond. Benches and trunks crowded one corner of the chamber. A central firepit and humped clay bread-oven was directly before them, radiating heat. The air was rich with the smell of baking bread.

  Master Keruli sat cross-legged on the tiled floor to the left of the firepit, head bowed, his pate glistening with beads of s
weat.

  Stonny edged forward and dropped to one knee. 'Master?'

  The priest looked up, his round face creasing in a smile. 'I have wiped clean their slates,' he said. 'They now dwell at peace. Their souls have fashioned a worthy dream-world. I can hear the children laughing.'

  'Your god is merciful,' Stonny murmured.

  Rolling his eyes, Gruntle strode over to the trunks. 'Thanks for saving my life, Keruli,' he growled. 'Sorry I was so miserable about it. Looks like your supplies survived, that's good. Well, I'll be on my way now—'

  'A moment please, Captain.' Gruntle turned.

  'I have something,' the priest said, 'for your friend, Buke. An… aid… for his endeavours.'

  'Oh?' Gruntle avoided Stonny's searching stare.

  'There, in that second trunk, yes, the small, iron one. Yes, open it. Do you see? Upon the dark grey bolt of felt.'

  'The little clay bird?'

  'Yes. Please instruct him to crush it into powder, then mix with cooled water that has been boiled for at least a hundred heartbeats. Once mixed, Buke must drink it—all of it.'

  'You want him to drink muddy water?'

  'The clay will ease the pains in his stomach, and there are other benefits as well, which he will discover in due time.'

  Gruntle hesitated. 'Buke isn't a trusting man, Keruli.'

  'Tell him that his quarry will elude him otherwise. With ease. Tell him, also, that to achieve what he desires, he must accept allies. You both must. I share your concerns on this matter. Additional allies will find him, in time.'

  'Very well,' Gruntle said, shrugging. He collected the small clay object and dropped it into his belt-pouch.

  'What are you two talking about?' Stonny asked quietly.

  Gruntle tensed at that gentle tone, as it usually preceded an explosion of temper, but Keruli simply broadened his smile. 'A private matter, dear Stonny. Now, I have instructions for you—please be patient. Captain Gruntle, there are no debts between us now. Go in peace.'

  'Right. Thanks,' he added gruffly. I'll make my own way out, then.'