Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'Yet, you and the gods took him down once before. The Chaining.'

  'A costly endeavour, Whiskeyjack. One in which the god Fener was vital. Tell me, among your soldiers, the Tusked One is a popular god—have you priests as well?'

  'No. Fener's popular enough, being the Lord of Battle. Malazans are somewhat… relaxed when it comes to the pantheon. We tend to discourage organized cults within the military.'

  'Fener is lost to us,' Rake said. 'Lost? What do you mean?'

  'Torn from his realm, now striding the mortal earth.'

  'How?'

  There was a grim smile in Rake's tone as he explained. 'By a Malazan. A once-priest of Fener, a victim of the Reve.'

  'Which means?'

  'His hands were ritually severed. The power of the Reve then sends those hands to the hooves of Fener himself. The ritual must be the expression of purest justice, but this one wasn't. Rather, there was a perceived need to reduce the influence of Fener, and in particular that High Priest, by agents of the Empire—likely the Claw. You mentioned the discouraging of cults within the army. Perhaps that was a factor—my knowledge is not complete, alas. Certainly the High Priest's Penchant for historical analysis was another—he had completed an investigation that concluded that the Empress Laseen in fact failed in her assassination of the Emperor and Dancer. Granted, she got the throne she so badly wanted, but neither Kellanved nor Dancer actually died. Instead, they ascended.'

  'I can see why Surly's back would crawl at that revelation.'

  'Surly?'

  'The Empress Laseen. Surly was her old name.'

  'In any case, those severed hands were as poison to Fener. He could not touch them, nor could he remove them from his realm. He burned the tattoos announcing his denial upon the high priest's skin, and so sealed the virulent power of the hands, at least for the time being. And that should have been that. Eventually, the priest would die, and his spirit would come to Fener to retrieve what had been cruelly and wrongfully taken from him. That spirit would then become the weapon of Fener's wrath, his vengeance upon the priests of the fouled temple, and indeed upon the Claw and the Empress herself. A dark storm awaited the Malazan Empire, Whiskeyjack.'

  'But something's happened.'

  'Aye. The High Priest has, by design or chance, come into contact with the Warren of Chaos—an object, perhaps, forged within that warren. The protective seal around his severed hands was obliterated by that vast, uncontrolled surge of power. And, finding Fener, those hands… pushed.'

  'Hood's breath,' Whiskeyjack muttered, his eyes on the glittering river.

  'And now,' Rake continued, 'the Tiger of Summer ascends to take his place. But Treach is young, much weaker, his warren but a paltry thing, his followers far fewer in number than Fener's. All is in flux. No doubt the Crippled God is smiling.'

  'Wait a moment,' Whiskeyjack objected. 'That's one huge coincidence.'

  'Some fates were foreseen, or so it seems.'

  'By whom?'

  'The Elder Gods.'

  'And why are they so interested in all this?'

  'They were there when the Crippled God fell—was dragged—down to this earth. The Fall destroyed many of them, leaving but a few survivors. Whatever secrets surround the Fallen One—where he came from, the nature of his aspect, the ritual itself that captured him—K'rul and his kin possess them. That they have chosen to become directly involved, now that the Crippled God has resumed his war, has dire implications as to the seriousness of the threat.'

  'Treach has ascended?'

  'Quite an understatement, Lord.' Whiskeyjack said nothing for a time, then he sighed. 'Leading us back to Ganoes Paran and the House of Chains. All right, I understand why you want him to deny the Crippled God's gambit. I should warn you, however, Paran doesn't take orders well.'

  'We must hope, then, that he sees which course is wisest. Will you advise him on our behalf?'

  'I'll try.'

  'Tell me, Whiskeyjack,' Rake said in a different tone, 'do you ever find the voice of a river unsettling?'

  The Malazan frowned. 'To the contrary, I find it calming.'

  'Ah. This, then, points to the essential difference between us.'

  Between mortals and immortals? Beru fend… Anomander Rake, I know precisely what you need. 'I've a small cask of Gredfallan ale, Lord. I would like to retrieve it, now, if you don't mind waiting?'

  'A sound plan, Whiskeyjack.'

  And by dawn, may you find the voice grown calm.

  The Malazan turned and made his way back to the encampment. As he approached the first row of tents, he paused and turned back to look at the distant figure, standing tall and motionless on the grassy ridge.

  The sword Dragnipur, strapped crossways on Anomander Rake's back, hung like an elongated cross, surrounded in its own breath of preternatural darkness.

  Alas, I don't think Gredfallan ale will be enough…

  'And which warren will you choose for this?'

  Quick Ben studied the sprawled bodies and the tumbled, bloodstained stones of the city wall. Spot-fires were visible through the gap, smoke blotting the night sky above dark, seemingly lifeless buildings. 'Rashan, I think,' he said.

  'Shadow. I should have guessed.' Talamandas scrambled atop a heap of corpses then turned to look at the wizard. 'Shall we proceed?'

  Quick Ben opened the warren, tightly leashed, and held it close about him. The sorcery swallowed him in shadows. Talamandas snickered, then approached.

  'I shall ride your shoulder for this, yes?'

  'If you insist,' the wizard grumbled.

  'You leave me little choice. To control a warren by tumbling it before you and sweeping it up behind you may well reveal your mastery, but I am left with little room to manoeuvre within it. Though why we need bother with warrens at all right now is beyond me.'

  'I need the practice. Besides, I hate being noticed.' Quick Ben gestured. 'Climb aboard, then.'

  The sticksnare clambered up the wizard's leg, set its feet of bound twine on his belt, then dragged itself up Quick Ben's tunic. The weight, as Talamandas settled on his left shoulder, was insubstantial. Twig fingers closed on his collar. 'I can handle a tumble or two,' the stick-snare said, 'but don't make a habit of it.'

  Quick Ben moved forward, slipping through the gap in the wall. The firelight threw stark slashes through the shadows, randomly painting glimpses of the wizard's body. Deep shadow cutting through any firelit scene would have been noticeable. He concentrated on blending into what surrounded him.

  Flame, smoke and ashes. Vague moans from collapsed buildings; a few streets away, the mourning chant of Barghast.

  'The Pannions are all gone,' Talamandas whispered. 'Why the need to hide?'

  'It's my nature. Caution keeps me alive, now be quiet.' He entered a street lined by Daru estates. While other avenues evinced the efforts of the White Face tribes to clear away bodies, no such task had taken place here. Pannion soldiery lay dead in appalling numbers, heaped around one estate in particular, its blackened gatehouse a maw ringed in dried blood. A low wall ran to either side of the gate. Dark, motionless figures stood guard along it, apparently perched on some kind of walkway halfway up the other side.

  Crouched at the foot of another building, sixty paces away, Quick Ben studied the scene. The bitter breath of sorcery still clung to the air.

  On his shoulder, Talamandas hissed in sudden recognition.

  'The necromancers! The ones who tore me from my barrow!'

  'I thought you had nothing to fear from them any more,' Quick Ben murmured.

  'I don't, but that does nothing to diminish my hatred or disgust.' 'That's unfortunate, because I want to talk to them.'

  'Why?'

  'To take their measure, why else?'

  'Idiocy, Wizard. Whatever they are, is nothing good.'

  'And I am? Now let me think.'

  'You'll never get past those undead guards.'

  'When I say let me think, I mean shut up.'

  Grumbling,
shifting about on Quick Ben's shoulder, Talamandas reluctantly subsided.

  'We'll need a different warren for this,' the wizard finally said. 'The choice is this: Hood's own, or Aral Gamelon—'

  'Aral what? I've never heard—'

  'Demonic. Most conjurors who summon demons are opening a path to Gamelon—though they probably don't know it, not by its true name, anyway. Granted, one can find demons in other warrens—the Aptorians of Shadow, for example. But the Korvalahrai and the Galayn, the Empire's favoured, are both of Gamelon. Anyway, if my instincts are accurate, there's both kinds of necromancy present in that estate—you did say there were two of them, didn't you?'

  'Aye, and two kinds of madness.'

  'Sounds interesting.'

  'This is a whim! Have you learned nothing from your multiple souls, Wizard? Whims are deadly. Do something for no reason but curiosity and it closes like a wolf's jaws on your throat. And even if you manage to escape, it haunts you. For ever.'

  'You talk too much, Sticksnare. I've made my decision. Time to move.' He folded the warren of Rashan about himself, then stepped forward.

  'Ashes in the urn!' Talamandas hissed.

  'Aye, Hood's own. Comforted by the familiarity? It's the safer choice, since Hood himself has blessed you, right?'

  'I am not comforted.'

  That wasn't too surprising, as Quick Ben studied the transformation around him. Death ran riot in this city. Souls crowded the streets, trapped in cycles of their own last moments of life. The air was filled with shrieks, wailing, the chop of weapons, the crushing collapse of stone and the suffocating smoke. Layered beneath this were countless other deaths—those that were set down, like successive snowfalls, on any place where humans gathered. Generation upon generation.

  Yet, Quick Ben slowly realized, this conflagration was naught but echoes, the souls themselves ghostly. 'Gods below,' he murmured in sudden understanding. 'This is but memory—what the stones of the streets and buildings hold, memories of the air itself. The souls—they've all gone through Hood's Gate…'

  Talamandas was motionless on his shoulder. 'You speak true, Wizard,' he muttered. 'What has happened here? Who has taken all these dead?'

  'Taken, aye, under wing. They've been blessed, one and all, their pain ended. Is this the work of the Mask Council?'

  The sticksnare spat, 'Those fools? Not likely.'

  Quick Ben said nothing for a time, then he sighed. 'Capustan might recover, after all. I didn't think that was possible. Well, shall we walk with these ghosts?'

  'Do we have to?'

  Not replying, Quick Ben strode forward. The undead guards—Seerdomin and Urdomen—were dark smears, stains on Hood's own warren. But they were blind to his presence in the realm where the wizard now walked. Of the two necromancers residing within, one was now negated.

  The only risk remaining was if the other one—the summoner—had released any demons to supplement the estate's defences.

  Quick Ben strode through the gateway. The compound before him was clear of any bodies, though caked blood coated the flagstones here and there.

  Twig fingers spasmed tight on his shoulder. 'I smell—'

  The Sirinth demon had been squatting in front of the main house doors, draped in the lintel stone's shadow. It now grunted and heaved its bulk clear of the landing, coming into full view. Swathed in folds of toad-like skin, splay-limbed, with a wide, low head that was mostly jaws and fangs, the Sirinth massed more than a bhederin bull. In short bursts, however, it could be lightning fast.

  A short burst was all it needed to reach Quick Ben and Talamandas.

  The sticksnare shrieked.

  Quick Ben lithely side-stepped, even as he unfolded yet another warren, this one layered over Hood's own. A backward stride took him into that warren, where heat flowed like liquid and dry amber light suffused the air.

  The Sirinth wheeled, then dropped flat on its belly within Aral Gamelon.

  Quick Ben edged further into the demonic warren.

  Whining, the Sirinth sought to follow, only to be brought short by a now visible iron collar and chain, the chain leading back out—all the way, Quick Ben knew, to whatever binding circle the summoner had conjured when chaining this creature.

  'Too bad, friend,' the wizard said as the demon squealed. 'Might I suggest a deal, Sirinth? I break the chain and you go find your loved ones. Peace between us.'

  The creature went perfectly motionless. Folded lids slid back to reveal large, luminous eyes. In the mortal realm they'd just left, those eyes burned like fire. Here, within Aral Gamelon, they were almost docile.

  Almost. Don't fool yourself, Quick. This thing could gobble you up in one bite. 'Well?'

  The Sirinth slithered sideways, stretched its neck.

  Sorcery glowed from the collar and chain, the iron crowded with carved glyphs.

  'I'll need to take a closer look,' Quick Ben told the demon. 'Know that Hood's warren remains with us—'

  'Not well enough!' Talamandas hissed. 'Those undead guards have seen us!'

  'We've a few moments yet,' Quick Ben replied. 'If you shut up, that is. Sirinth, if you attack me when I come close, I'll reveal for you another chain about your neck—Hood's. Dead but not dead, trapped in the in-between. For ever. Understand me?'

  The creature squealed again, but made no other move. 'Good enough.'

  'You fool—'

  Ignoring the sticksnare, Quick Ben stepped to the side of the huge demon. He knew that head could snap round, fast enough to be nothing more than a blur, the jaws opening to swallow head, shoulders—Talamandas included—and torso down to hips.

  He studied the glyphs, then grunted. 'Accomplished indeed. The key, however, to breaking this chaining lies in unravelling but a single thread. The challenge is finding the right one—'

  'Will you hurry! Those undead are converging! On us!'

  'A moment, please.' Quick Ben leaned closer, squinting at the sigils. 'Curious,' he murmured, 'this is Korelri script. High Korelri, which hasn't been used in centuries. Well, easy enough then.' He reached out, muttering a few words, and scored one glyph with the nail of his thumb. 'Thus, changing its meaning—' Gripping the chain on either side of the marred sigil, Quick Ben gave a quick yank.

  The chain snapped.

  The Sirinth lunged forward, then spun, jaws wide.

  Talamandas screamed.

  Quick Ben was already in the air, through the warren's gate, back into Hood's own, where he dipped a shoulder as he struck the flagstones, rolling over then back onto his feet—with Talamandas still clinging to his tunic. The wizard then froze.

  They were surrounded by dark, insubstantial figures, now motionless as their quarry was no longer visible.

  Wisely, Talamandas said nothing. Still crouching, Quick Ben slowly, silently edged between two undead guards, then padded clear, approaching the double doors.

  'Gods,' the sticksnare moaned in a whisper, 'why are we doing this?'

  'Because it's fun?'

  The doors were unlocked.

  Quick Ben slipped inside and shut the door behind them, the soft click of the latch seeming over-loud in the alcove.

  'So,' Talamandas breathed, 'which warren now?'

  'Ah, do I sense you're getting into the spirit of the thing?'

  'Bad word to choose, mortal.'

  Smiling, Quick Ben closed Hood's own. It should be clear why I'm doing this, Sticksnare. I've been without warrens for too long. I need the practice. More, I need to know just how efficacious you are. And so far, so good. The poison is held at bay, unable to close on me. I'm pleased. He strode to the nearest wall, set both hands against the cool stone.

  Talamandas chuckled. 'D'riss. The Path of Stone. Clever bastard.' Quick Ben pushed the warren open, slid into the wall. There was nothing easy in this. Stone could be traversed easily enough—its resistance no more than water—but mortar was less yielding, tugging at his passage like the strands of a particularly stubborn spider's web. Worse, the walls were thin, forcing
him to edge along sideways.

  He followed the wall's course from room to room, working his way ever inward. Daru-style architecture was predictable and symmetrical. The main chamber of the ground floor would be central. Upper levels were more problematic, but more often than not the ground floor's main chamber was vaulted, pushing the upper rooms to the building's sides.

  The rooms were visible to him, but just barely. Grainy, grey, the furniture smudged and indistinct. But living flesh positively glowed. 'Stone knows blood, but cannot hold it. Stone yearns for life, yet can only mimic it.' The words were ancient ones, a mason and sculptor who'd lived centuries ago in Unta. Appropriate enough when on the Path of D'riss. When in the flesh of the Sleeping Goddess.

  Slipping round a corner, Quick Ben caught his first sight of the main chamber.

  A figure reclined on some kind of divan near the fireplace. He seemed to be reading a book. Another man stoked the fire's faintly pink, dull flames, muttering under his breath. Pacing back and forth on the mantel was a small creature, a crow or raven perhaps.

  The man on the divan was speaking even as he flipped parchment pages in his book, his words made muted and brittle-sounding by the stone. 'When you're done there, Emancipor, return the guards to their positions on the wall. Having them standing in the courtyard all facing inward on nothing is suggestive of the ridiculous. Hardly a scene to inspire fear in potential intruders.'

  'If you don't mind my saying so, master,' Emancipor said as he rose from before the hearth and wiped soot from his hands, 'if we've unwelcome company shouldn't we be doing something about it?'

  'Much as I dislike losing my demons, dear servant, I do not assume that all visitors are malign. Dismissing my Sirinth was no doubt the only option available, and even then it must have been a risk-laden endeavour. The chain is but half of the geas, of course; the commands within the collar cannot so easily be defeated. Thus, some patience, now, until our guest decides to make formal his or her visit.'

  Talamandas's acorn head touched Quick Ben's ear. 'Leave me here when you step through, Wizard. Treachery from this man is not just a likelihood, it's a damned certainty.'