Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'I will sit with you, Mhybe,' Korlat replied. 'There are two bowls, after all.'

  The Rhivi woman stared down at her own wrinkled, pocked, skeletal hands, then at the bowl clutched between them, the watery broth with its slivers of wine-stained meat. 'See this? The butcher of the goat. The slayer. Did he or she pause at the desperate cries of the animal? Look into its pleading eyes? Hesitate with the knife? In my dreams, I am as that goat. This is what you curse me to.'

  'The slaughterer of the goat was Rhivi,' Korlat said after a moment. 'You and I know that ritual well, Mhybe. Propitiation. Calling upon the merciful spirit whose embrace is necessity. You and I both know how that spirit comes upon the goat, or indeed any such creature whose body shall feed your people, whose skin shall clothe you. And so the beast does not cry out, does not plead. I have witnessed… and wondered, for it is indeed a remarkable thing. Unique to the Rhivi, not in its intent, but in its obvious efficacy. It is as if the ritual's arriving spirit shows the beast a better future—something beyond the life it's known to that point—'

  'Lies,' the Mhybe murmured. 'The spirit deceives the poor creature. To make the slaying easier.'

  Korlat fell silent.

  The Mhybe raised the bowl to her lips.

  'Perhaps, even then,' the Tiste Andü resumed, 'the deception is a gift… of mercy.'

  'There is no such thing,' the Mhybe snapped. 'Words to comfort the killer and his kin and naught else. Dead is dead, as the Bridgeburners are wont to say. Those soldiers know the truth of it. Children of the Malazan Empire hold no illusions. They are not easily charmed.'

  'You seem to know much of them.'

  Two marines come to visit occasionally. They've taken it upon themselves to guard my daughter. And to tell me of her, since no-one else has a mind to, and I cherish them for that.'

  'I did not know this…'

  'It alarms you? Have terrible secrets been revealed to me? Will you now put a stop to it?'

  A hand closed on her shoulder. 'I wish you would at least look upon my face, Mhybe. No, I will do no such thing. Nor am I aware of any dire secrets being kept from you. Indeed, I now wish to seek out these two marines, to thank them.'

  'Leave them be, Korlat. They do not ask for thanks. They are simple soldiers, two women of the Empire. Through them, I know that Kruppe visits Silverfox regularly. He's taken on the role of kindly uncle, perhaps. Such a strange man, endearing despite the terrible curse he has laid upon me.'

  'Curse? Oh. Mhybe, of all that I have seen of Kruppe, I can tell you, he is not one to curse anyone. I do not believe he ever imagined what the rebirthing of Tattersail would mean to you.'

  'So very true, that. I understand it well, you see. He was called upon by the Elder God—who either chose to become involved or was so already. An abomination had been created, as Kallor has called it, and it was an abomination in fact. The withered corpse of Nightchill, Tattersail's soul trapped within it, the apparition webbed by T'lan Imass sorcery. A nightmare creation. The Elder God sought to save it, somehow, in some form, and for that it seemed he needed Kruppe. Thus. The Daru did all he could, believing it to be a mercy. But make no mistake, now, Korlat. Kruppe and his Elder God have decided to make use of the child they fashioned. Opportunistic or deliberate from the start? Does it matter? And lo, Kruppe now walks with Silverfox. Do they conspire? Am I blind…'

  'Conspire? To what end, Mhybe?'

  'You don't know? I find that hard to believe.'

  'Clearly, you have concluded we are all conspiring… against you.'

  'Aren't you?' With all the strength she could muster, the Mhybe flung the bowl away, heard it splash, bounce off something, heard a shout of surprise from Murillio, who—it seemed—had the misfortune to be in its path of flight. 'Guard me!' she hissed. 'Feed me! Watch me so I don't take my own life! And this is not a conspiracy? And my daughter—my own daughter—does she visit? No! When have I last seen her face? When? I can barely remember the time!'

  The hand tightened on her shoulder. Korlat's voice, when she spoke, was low yet taut. 'I hear you, my friend. I shall get to the bottom of this. I shall discover the truth, and then I shall tell you. This I promise, Mhybe.'

  'Then tell me, what has happened? Earlier today. I felt… something. An event. Coll and Murillio spoke of a scene between Kruppe and Brood. Tell me, where was Silverfox in all this?'

  'She was there,' Korlat replied. 'She joined me as I rode forward in answer to Whiskeyjack's summons. I will be honest, Mhybe. Something indeed did occur, before the clash between Brood and Kruppe. Your daughter has found… protectors, but she will not extend that protection to you—for some reason she believes you are in danger, now. I do not know the source.'

  Yet I do. Oh, Korlat, your friendship for me has blinded you. I am in danger indeed. From myself. 'Protectors. Who? What?'

  Korlat drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. 'Silverfox asked that I say nothing to you of them. I could not understand why, yet I acquiesced. I realize now that to do so was wrong. Wrong to you, Mhybe. A conspiracy, and I shall not be party to it. Your daughter's protectors were wolves. Ancient, giant beasts—'

  Terror ripped through the Mhybe. Snarling, she flung a hand at Korlat's face, felt her nails tear through skin. 'My hunters!' she screamed as the Tiste Andü flinched away. 'They want to kill me! My daughter—' My daughter! Plaguing my dreams! Spirits below, she wants to kill me!

  Coll and Murillio had leapt onto the wagon, were shouting in alarm even as Korlat hissed at them to calm down, but the Mhybe ceased hearing them, ceased seeing anything of the world surrounding her at that moment. She continued thrashing, nails clawing the air, betrayal searing through her chest, turning her heart into ashes. My daughter! My daughter!

  And my voice, it whimpers. And my eyes, they plead.

  And that knife is in her hands, and in her gaze there is naught but cold, cold intent.

  Whiskeyjack's half-smile vanished when he turned upon Korlat's arrival, to see that her eyes were as white hot iron, to see as she stalked through the tent's entrance four parallel slashes on her right cheek, wet with blood that had run down to the line of her jaw and now dripped onto the rushes covering the floor.

  The Malazan almost stepped back as the Tiste Andü strode towards him. 'Korlat, what has happened?'

  'Hear my words, lover,' the woman grated in an icy voice. 'Whatever secrets you have withheld from me—about Tattersail reborn, about those damned T'lan Ay, about what you've instructed those two marines guarding the child to say to the Mhybe—you will tell me. Now.'

  He felt himself grow cold, felt his face twitch at the full thrust of her fury. 'Instructions?' he asked quietly. 'I have given them no instructions. Not even to guard Silverfox. What they've done has been their own decision. What they might have said, that it should lead to this—well, I shall accept responsibility for that, for I am their commander. And I assure you, if punishment is required—'

  'Stop. A moment, please.' Something had settled within her, and now she trembled.

  Whiskeyjack thought to take her in his arms, but held back. She needed comfort, he sensed, but his instincts told him she was not yet ready to receive it. He glanced around, found a relatively clean hand-cloth, soaked it in a basin, then held it out to her.

  She had watched in silence, the shade of her eyes deepening to slate grey, but she made no effort to accept the cloth.

  He slowly lowered his hand.

  'Why,' Korlat asked, 'did Silverfox insist that her mother not learn of the T'lan Ay?'

  'I have no idea, Korlat, beyond the explanation she voiced. At the time, I thought you knew.'

  'You thought I knew.'

  He nodded.

  'You thought that I had been keeping from you… a secret. Something to do with Silverfox and her mother…'

  Whiskeyjack shrugged.

  'Were you planning to confront me?'

  'No.'

  Her eyes widened on him. Silence stretched, then, 'For Hood's sake, clean my wounds.'

/>   Relieved, he stepped closer and began, with the gentlest of touches, to daub her cuts. 'Who struck you?' he asked quietly.

  'The Mhybe. I think I have just made a dreadful mistake, for all my good intentions…'

  'That's often the case,' he murmured, 'with good intentions.'

  Korlat's gaze narrowed searchingly. 'Pragmatic Malazans. Clear-eyed indeed. Why do we keep thinking of you as just soldiers? Brood, Rake, Kallor… myself, we all look upon you and Dujek and your army as something… ancillary. A sword we hope to grasp in our hands when the need arrives. It seems now that we're all fools. In fact, not one of us has come to realize the truth of how things now stand.'

  He frowned. 'And how do they now stand?'

  'You have become our backbone. Somehow, you are what gives us our strength, holds us together. Oh, I know you possess secrets, Whiskeyjack—'

  He smiled wryly. 'Not as many as you seem to think. I will tell you the biggest one. It's this. We feel outmatched. By you—by Rake, by Caladan Brood, by Kallor. By the Tiste Andü army and that of the Rhivi and the Barghast. Hood, even that mob of mercenaries accompanying you makes us nervous. We don't have your power. We're just an army. Our best wizard isn't even ranked. He's a squad mage, and right now he's very far away and, I suspect, feeling like a fly in a web. So, come the battles, we know we'll be the spear's head, and it's going to cost us dear. As for the Seer himself, and whatever hides behind him, well, we're now hoping you'll deal with that. Same goes for the Crippled God. You're right, Korlat, we're just soldiers. Tired ones, at that. If we're this combined army's backbone, then Hood help us, it's a bowed, brittle one.'

  She reached up and laid her hand over his, pressed it against her cheek. Their eyes locked. 'Bowed and brittle? I think not.'

  Whiskeyjack shook his head. 'I'm not being modest, Korlat. I speak the truth, though I fear you're not prepared to hear it.'

  'Silverfox is manipulating her mother,' the Tiste Andü said after a moment. 'Somehow. Possibly even being responsible for the old woman's terrible nightmares.'

  'I find that hard to countenance—'

  'Not something Tattersail would do, right? But what of this Nightchill? Or the Thelomen? You knew them, Whiskeyjack. Better than any of us, at least. Is it possible that one of them—or both—are responsible for this?'

  He said nothing while he completed wiping clean the wounds on her cheek. 'This will require a healer's touch, Korlat, lest infection—'

  'Whiskeyjack.'

  He sighed, stepped back. 'Nightchill, I fear, might well harbour feelings of betrayal. Her targets for vengeance could be chosen indiscriminately. Same for Bellurdan Skullcrusher. Both were betrayed, after all. If you are right, about what's happening to the Mhybe—that they're doing something to her—then I still think that Tattersail would be resisting them.'

  'What if she's already lost the struggle?'

  'I've seen no sign of—'

  Korlat's eyes flashed and she jabbed a finger against his chest. 'Meaning your two marines have reported no sign of it!'

  He grimaced. 'They are volunteers none the less, Korlat. Given the alarming extent of our ignorance in these matters, it pays to be watchful. Those two marines chose to guard Silverfox because they see in her Tattersail. Not just physically, but in the woman's personality as well. If anything had gone awry, they would've noticed it, and they would've come to me. Fast.'

  Korlat lowered her hand. She sighed. 'And here I've come storming in to tear your head from your shoulders. Damn you, Whiskeyjack, how did I come to deserve you? And, the Abyss take me, why are you still here? After all my accusations…'

  'A few hours ago, Dujek made a similar entrance.' He grinned. 'It's just been that kind of day, I suppose. Now, we should call for a healer—'

  'In a moment.' She studied him. 'Whiskeyjack. You've truly no idea of how rare a man you are, do you?'

  'Rare?' His grin broadened. 'Of course I know. There's only one of me, thank Hood.'

  'That's not what I meant.'

  He moved closer and drew an arm about her waist. 'Time to find a healer, woman. I've got simple needs, and we're wasting time.'

  'A soldier's reply,' she said. 'I'm not fooled, you know.'

  Unseen by her, he closed his eyes. Oh, but you are, Korlat. If you'd known the full extent of my fear… that I might lose you…

  Arms waving expansively, Kruppe, Eel of Darujhistan, occasional fence and thief, Defier of Caladan Brood the Warlord, ambled his way down the main avenue of tents towards the supply wagons. He had just come from the cook tent of the Mott Irregulars, and in each hand was a Nathi black-cake, dripping with syrup. A few paces in his wake, his mule kept pace, nose stretched out to those two cakes, ears pricked forward.

  The second bell since midnight had just tolled through the camps, stirring the distant herds of bhederin to a mournful lowing, which faded as the beasts slipped back into slumber. As he reached the edge of the wagons—arranged rectangularly to form a wheeled fort—he noted two Malazan marines, cloaks wrapped about their bodies, sitting before a small dung-fire.

  Kruppe altered his course and approached. 'Gentle friends,' he softly called. 'Tis late and no doubt your pretty selves are due for some sweetness.'

  The two women glanced up. 'Huh,' one of them grunted. 'It's that fat Daru.'

  'And his mule, hovering there in the shadows.'

  'Unique indeed is Kruppe! Behold!' He thrust forward the dripping cakes. 'For you, darlings.'

  'So which should we eat, the cakes or your hands?'

  The other drew her knife at her companion's words. 'A couple of quick cuts and we can choose for ourselves, right?'

  Kruppe stepped back. 'Queen of Dreams! Hard-bitten and distinctly unfeminine! Guardians of fair Silverfox, yes? Reassuring truth. Heart of Tattersail, shining so bright from the child-now-woman—'

  'Aye, we seen you before plenty enough. Chatting with the lass. She's the sorceress, all right. Plain to see for them of us who knew her.'

  'Extraordinary disconnectiveness, this exchange. Kruppe is delighted—'

  'We getting them syrup cakes or what?'

  'Naturally, though the flash of that blade still blinds generous Kruppe.'

  'Y'ain't got no sense of humour, have ya? Join us, if you dare.' The Daru smiled and strode forward. 'Nathi black-cakes, my dears.'

  'We recognize 'em. The Mott Irregulars use to throw them at us when they ran out of arrows.'

  'Jaybar got one full in the face, as I recall.'

  'That he did, then he stumbled and when he came up he was like the forest floor with eyes.'

  'Dreadful sap, deadly weapon,' Kruppe agreed, once more offering the cakes to the two marines.

  They took them.

  'Courageous task, protection of the Rhivi lass.'

  'She ain't no Rhivi lass. She's Tattersail. That fur and the hides are just for show.'

  'Ah, then you have spoken with her.'

  'Not much and we don't need to. These cakes go down better without all the twigs and leaves, don't they just.'

  Kruppe blinked, then slowly nodded. 'No doubt. Vast responsibility, being the eyes of your commander regarding said lass.'

  Both women paused in their chewing. They exchanged a glance, then one of them swallowed and said, 'Who, Dujek? If we're his eyes then he's blind as a mole.'

  'Ah, Kruppe meant Whiskeyjack, of course.'

  'Whiskeyjack ain't blind and he don't need us to see for him, either.'

  'None the less,' the Daru smiled, 'he no doubt is greatly comforted by your self-appointed task and reports and such. Were Kruppe Whiskeyjack, he knows he would.'

  'Would what?'

  'Why, be comforted, of course.'

  Both women grunted, then one snorted and said, 'That's a good one. If you were Whiskeyjack. Hah.'

  'A figure of speech—'

  'Ain't no such thing, fatty. You trying to walk in Whiskeyjack's footsteps? Trying to see through his eyes? Hah.'

  'I'll say,' the other woman agreed. 'H
ah.'

  'And so you did,' Kruppe noted.

  'Did what?'

  'Agree.'

  'Damned right. Whiskeyjack should've been Emperor, when the old one got knocked off. Not Laseen. But she knew who her rival was, didn't she just. That's why she stripped him of rank, turned him into a Hood-damned sergeant and sent him away, far away.'

  'An ambitious man, this Whiskeyjack, then.'

  'Not in the least, Daru. And that's the whole point. Would've made a good Emperor, I said. Not wanting the job is the best and only qualification worth considering.'

  'A curious assertion, dear.'

  'I ain't.'

  'Pardon, you ain't what?'

  'Curious. Listen, the Malazan Empire would be a far different thing if Whiskeyjack had taken the throne all those years ago. If he'd done what we all wanted him to do and grabbed Laseen by the scruff of the neck and sent her through a tower window.'

  'And was he capable of such a remarkable feat?'

  The two marines looked confused. One turned to her companion. 'Seen him out of his boots?'

  The other shook her head. 'No. Still, they might be remarkable. Why not?'

  'Then it'd be a boot to the backside, but I said by the scruff of the neck.'

  'Well, feet that could do that would be remarkable, wouldn't they?'

  'You got a point, friend.'

  'Ahem,' Kruppe interrupted. 'A remarkable feat, dears. As in achievement.'

  'Oh.'

  'Oh yeah, right. Got it. So you're asking could he have done it if he'd a mind to? Sure. Not good to cross Whiskeyjack, and if that's not enough, he's got wits.'

  'So, why then, Kruppe asks in wonder, did he not do so at the time?'

  'Because he's a soldier, you idiot. Laseen's taking the throne was messy enough. The whole empire was shaky. People start stabbing and jumping into a blood-wet throne and sometimes it don't stop, sometimes it's like dominoes, right? One after another after another, and the whole thing falls apart. He was the one we all looked to, right? Waiting to see how he'd take it, Laseen and all that. And when he just saluted and said, "Yes, Empress," well, things just settled back down.'