Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  They approached the west gate, which now resembled nothing more than a massive hole in the city's wall.

  Leaning against one of the burnt-out, most fallen gate-towers, Gruntle watched them with a half-grin on his barbed face. Stonny Menackis paced nearby, apparently in a temper.

  'Now there's only Humbrall Taur to wait for,' Gruntle said.

  Itkovian frowned as he reined in. 'Where is the Mask Council's retinue?'

  Stonny spat. 'They've gone ahead. Seems they want a private chat first.'

  'Relax, lass,' Gruntle rumbled. 'Your friend Keruli's with them, right?'

  'That's not the point! They hid. While you and the Grey Swords here kept them and their damned city alive!'

  'None the less,' Itkovian said, 'with Prince Jelarkan dead and no heir apparent, they are Capustan's ruling body.'

  'And they could damn well have waited!'

  Captain Norul twisted in her saddle to look back up the avenue. 'Humbrall Taur's coming. Perhaps, if we rode fast enough, we could catch them.'

  'Is it important?' Itkovian asked her.

  'Sir, it is.'

  He nodded. 'I concur.'

  'Let's ready our horses, Stonny,' Gruntle said, pushing himself from the wall.

  They set out across the plain, Humbrall Taur, Hetan and Cafal equally awkward on their borrowed mounts. The Barghast had been none too pleased by the Mask Council's attempted usurpation—old enmities and mistrust had flared to life once more. By all reports, the approaching armies were still a league, perhaps two, distant. Keruli, Rath'Hood, Rath'Burn and Rath'Shadowthrone were in a carriage, drawn by the three horses of the Gidrath that had not been butchered and eaten during the siege.

  Itkovian recalled the last time he had ridden this road, recalled faces of soldiers now dead. Farakalian, Torun, Sidlis. Behind the formality imposed by the Reve, these had been his friends. A truth I dared not approach. Not as Shield Anvil, not as a commander. But that has changed. They are my own grief, as difficult to bear as those tens of thousands of others.

  He pushed the thought away. Control was still necessary. He could afford no emotions.

  They came within sight of the priests' carriage. Stonny snarled in triumph. 'Won't they be delighted!'

  'Ease on the gloating, lass,' Gruntle advised. 'We reach them now in all innocence—'

  'Do you think me an idiot? Do you think me incapable of subtlety?

  I'll have you know—'

  'All right, woman,' her companion growled. 'Forget I spoke—'

  'I always do, Gruntle.'

  The Gidrath driver drew the carriage to a halt as they rode up. A window shutter slid to one side and Rath'Shadowthrone's masked face appeared, the expression neutral. 'How fortunate! The rest of our honourable entourage!'

  Itkovian sighed under his breath. There was nothing subtle in that tone, alas.

  'Honourable?' Stonny queried, brows lifting, 'I'm surprised you recognize the concept, Priest.'

  'Ah.' The mask swivelled to her. 'Master Keruli's wench. Shouldn't you be on your knees?'

  'I'll give you a knee, runt—right between the—'

  'Well now!' Gruntle said loudly. 'We're all here. I see outriders ahead. Shall we proceed?'

  'We're early,' Rath'Shadowthrone snapped.

  'Aye, and that's unfortunately unprofessional of us. Never mind. We can continue at the slowest pace possible, to give them time to prepare.'

  'A wise course, in the circumstances,' Rath'Shadowthrone conceded. The mask's hinged lips twisted into a broad smile, then the head withdrew and the shutter slid back in place.

  'I am going to cut that man into very small pieces,' Stonny said in a bright tone.

  'We all appreciated your sense of subtlety, lass,' Gruntle muttered.

  'And well you should, oaf.'

  Itkovian stared at the woman, then at the caravan captain, wondering.

  Corporal Picker sat on the dusty steps of what had once been a temple. Her back and shoulders ached from throwing chunks of masonry since dawn.

  Blend must have been hovering nearby for she appeared with a waterskin. 'You look thirsty.'

  Picker accepted it. 'Funny how you do your vanishing act whenever there's hard work to be done.'

  'Well, I brought you water, didn't I?'

  Picker scowled.

  Across the street Captain Paran and Quick Ben were saddling horses, preparing to head out to the reunion with Onearm's Host and Brood's army. They'd been uncommonly cosy since meeting up once more, making Picker suspicious. Quick Ben's schemes were never pleasant.

  'I'd rather we were all going,' she muttered.

  'To the parley? Why? This way everyone else does the walking.'

  'Easier to be lurking about, is it? Weighed down with a half-full waterskin. You'd be saying different if you'd been tossing rocks with the rest of us, Blend.'

  The lean woman shrugged. 'I've been busy enough.'

  'Doing what?'

  'Gathering information.'

  'Oh yeah. Whose whispering you been listening in on, then?'

  'People. Us and them, here and there.'

  Them? Who's them?

  'Uhm, let's see. Barghast. Grey Swords. A couple of loose-lipped Gidrath from the Thrall. Three acolytes from the temple behind you—'

  Picker flinched, swiftly rose to cast a nervous eye on the fire-scorched building behind her. 'Which god, Blend? No lies—'

  'Why would I lie, Corporal? Shadowthrone.'

  Picker grunted. 'Spyin' on the sneaks, was you? And what were they talking about?'

  'Some bizarre plan of their master's. Vengeance against a couple of necromancers holed up in an estate just up the street.'

  'The one with all the bodies out front and the smelly guards on the walls?'

  'Presumably the same and none other.'

  'All right, so let's hear the report on the rest of them.'

  'The Barghast are crowing. Agents of the Mask Council are buying food to feed the citizens. The Grey Swords are buying food, too, to feed a fast-growing camp of Tenescowri refugees outside the city. The White Faces are getting rich.'

  'Hold on, Blend. Did you say Tenescowri refugees? What are the Grey Swords up to? Hood knows there's enough corpses lying around for those cannibals, why give 'em real food? Why feed the evil bastards at all?'

  'Sound questions,' Blend agreed. 'Certainly, I admit my own curiosity was piqued.'

  'No doubt you've come up with a theory, too.'

  'I have assembled the puzzle, to be more precise. Disparate facts. Observances. Offhand comments believed to be uttered in private, overheard by none other than the faithful servant standing before you—'

  'Oponn's quivering knees, woman, get on with it!'

  'You never did appreciate a good gloat. All right. The Grey Swords were sworn to Fener. They weren't just a mercenary company, more like damned crusaders to the holy cause of war. And they took it seriously. Only something's happened. They've lost their god—'

  'No doubt there's a tale there.'

  'Indeed, but it's not relevant.'

  'Meaning you don't know it.'

  'Precisely. The point is, the company's surviving officers rode off to the Barghast camps, found a gaggle of tribal witches waiting for them, and together they all arranged a reconsecration.'

  'You mean they switched gods. Oh no, don't tell me Treach—'

  'No, not Treach. Treach already has his crusaders.'

  'Oh, right. Must be Jhess, then. Mistress of Weaving. They're all taking up knitting, but fiercely—'

  'Not quite. Togg. And Fanderay, the She-Wolf of Winter—Togg's long lost mate. Recall the story? You must have heard it when you were a child, assuming you were ever a child—'

  'Careful, Blend.'

  'Sorry. Anyway, the Grey Swords were virtually wiped out. They're looking for recruits.'

  Picker's brows rose. 'The Tenescowri? Hood's breath!'

  'Makes sense, actually.'

  'Sure. If I needed an army I'd look first to people
who eat each other when things get tough. Absolutely. In an instant.'

  'Well, that's an unfortunate angle to take. It's more a question of finding people with no lives—'

  'Losers, you mean.'

  'Uh, yes. No ties, no loyalties. Ripe for arcane rituals of induction.'

  Picker grunted again. 'Mad. Everyone's gone mad.'

  'Speaking of which,' Blend murmured.

  Captain Paran and Quick Ben rode up.

  'Corporal Picker.'

  'Aye, Captain?'

  'Do you know where Spindle is right now?'

  'No idea, sir.'

  'I'd suggest you keep better track of your squad, then.'

  'Well, he went off with Sergeant Antsy. Someone's come up from the tunnels, claiming to be Prince Arard—some dispossessed ruler from one of the cities south of the river. The man was demanding to speak with a representative of Onearm's Host and since we couldn't find you at the time…'

  Paran cursed under his breath. 'Let me get this straight. Sergeant Antsy and Spindle elected themselves to be Onearm's Host's official representatives to take audience with a prince? Antsy? Spindle?'

  Beside the captain, Quick Ben choked back a laugh, earning a glare from Paran.

  'Detoran volunteered, too,' Picker added in an innocent tone. 'So it was the three of them, I think. Maybe a few others.'

  'Mallet?'

  She shook her head. 'He's with Hedge, sir. Tending to healing and whatever.'

  'Captain,' Quick Ben interjected. 'We'd best start our journey. Antsy will stall as soon as he gets confused, and he usually gets confused immediately after the making of introductions. Detoran won't say a thing and likely none of the others will, either. Spindle might babble, but he's wearing a hairshirt. It should be all right.'

  'Really? And shall I hold you to that, Wizard?'

  Quick Ben's eyes widened.

  'Never mind,' Paran growled, gathering his reins. 'Let's quit this city… before we find ourselves in a whole new war. Corporal Picker.'

  'Sir?'

  'Why are you just standing here on your own?'

  She quickly glanced around. 'The bitch,' she whispered.

  'Corporal?'

  'Nothing. Sorry, sir. I was just resting.'

  'When you're done resting, Corporal, go retrieve Antsy, Spindle and the others. Send Arard to the Thrall, with word that the real representatives of Onearm's Host will see him shortly, should he wish an audience.'

  'Understood, Captain.'

  'I hope so.'

  She watched the two men ride off down the street, then spun around. 'Where are you, you coward?'

  'Sir?' Blend queried, emerging from the shadows of the temple's entrance.

  'You heard me.'

  'I'd noted something inside this hovel, went to investigate—' 'Hovel? Shadowthrone's sacred abode, you mean.' She was pleased to see Blend suddenly pale. 'Oh. I'd, uh, forgotten.' 'You panicked. Hee hee. Blend panicked. Smelled a scene about to happen and fled into the nearest building like a rabbit down a bolt-hole! Just wait until I tell the others—'

  'An unseemly version,' Blend sniffed, 'malignly twisting a purely coincidental occurrence. They'll not believe you.'

  'That's what you—'

  'Oh oh.'

  Blend vanished once again.

  Startled, Picker looked round.

  Two black-cloaked figures were coming down the street, making directly for the corporal.

  'Dear soldier,' the taller, pointy-bearded one called out.

  Her hackles rose at the imperious tone. 'What?'

  A thin brow arched. 'Respect is accorded ourselves, woman. We demand no less. Now listen. We are in need of supplies to effect the resumption of our journey. We require food, clean water and plenty of it, and if you could direct us to a clothier…'

  'At once. Here—' She stepped up to him and drove her gauntleted fist full into his face. The man's feet flew out from under him and he struck the cobbles with a meaty smack. Out cold.

  Blend stepped up behind the other man and cracked him in the head with the pommel of her short sword. With a high-pitched grunt, he crumpled.

  Closing fast behind them was an old man in ragged servant garb. He skidded to a halt five paces away and raised his hands. 'Don't hit me!' he shrieked.

  Picker frowned. 'Now why would we do that? Are these two… yours?'

  The manservant's expression was despondent. 'Aye,' he sighed, lowering his hands.

  'Advise them,' Picker said, 'of proper forms of address. When they awaken.'

  'Absolutely, sir.'

  'We should get moving, Corporal,' Blend said, eyes on the two unconscious men.

  'Yes. Yes, please!' the manservant begged.

  Picker shrugged. 'I see no point in dawdling. Lead on, soldier.'

  Paran and Quick Ben rode within a thousand paces of the Tenescowri encampment, which lay north of the road, on their right. Neither man spoke until they were well past, then the captain sighed. 'That looks to be trouble fast approaching.'

  'Oh? Why?'

  Paran shot his companion a startled glance, then returned his gaze to the road. 'The lust for vengeance against those peasants. The Capans might well swarm out through the gate and slaughter them, with the Mask Council's blessing.' And why, Wizard, do I think I see something out of the corner of my eye? There, on your shoulder. Then, when I look more closely, it's gone.

  'That'd be a mistake for the Mask Council,' Quick Ben commented. 'The Grey Swords looked ready to defend their guests, if those pickets and trenches were any indication.'

  'Aye, they're anticipating becoming very unpopular, with what they're now up to.'

  'Recruiting. Then again, why not? That mercenary company paid a high price defending the city and its citizens.'

  'The memory of their heroic efforts could vanish in an eye's wink, Wizard. There's only a few hundred Grey Swords left, besides. Should a few thousand Capans charge them—'

  'I wouldn't worry, Captain. Even the Capans—no matter how enraged—would hesitate before crossing those soldiers. They're the ones who survived, after all. As I said, the Mask Council would be foolish to hold the grudge. We'll discover more at the parley, no doubt.'

  'Assuming we're invited. Quick Ben, we'd do better with a private conversation with Whiskeyjack. I personally have very little to say to most of the others who will be present. I have a report to deliver, in any case.'

  'Oh, I wasn't planning on speaking at the parley, Captain. Just listening.'

  They had left the occupied areas behind and now rode down an empty road, the rolling plain stretching out on their right, the bluffs marking the river three hundred paces distant on their left.

  'I see riders,' Quick Ben said. 'North.'

  Paran squinted, then nodded. 'It's happened.'

  'What has?'

  'The Second Gathering.'

  The wizard shot him a glance. 'The T'lan Imass? How do you know?'

  Because she's stopped reaching out to me. Tattersail, Nightchill, Bellurdan—something's happened. Something… unexpected. And it's left them reeling. 'I just know, Wizard. Silverfox is the lead rider.'

  'Your vision must be as a hawk's.'

  Paran said nothing. I don't need eyes. She's coming.

  'Captain, does Tattersail's soul still dominate within Silverfox?'

  'I don't know,' he admitted. 'All I will say, however, is that whatever faith we held to that we could predict Silverfox's actions should now be dispensed with.'

  'What has she become, then?'

  'A Bonecaster in truth.'

  They reined in to wait for the four riders. Kruppe's mule seemed to be competing for the lead position, the short-legged beast slipping between a frenzied trot and a canter, the round Daru wobbling and bouncing atop the saddle. Two Malazan marines rode behind Silverfox and Kruppe, looking relaxed.

  'Would that I had seen,' Quick Ben murmured, 'what her companions had seen.'

  Yet nothing went as planned. I can see that in her posture—the bridle
d anger, the diffidence—and, buried deep, pain. She's surprised them. Surprised, and defied. And the T'lan Imass have answered in an equally unexpected way. Even Kruppe looks off-balanced, and not just by that pitching mule.

  Silverfox was staring at him as she drew rein, an expression that Paran could not define. As I had sensed, she's thrown up a wall between us—gods, but she looks like Tattersail! A woman, now. No longer the child. And the illusion of years spanning our parting is complete—she's become guarded, a possessor of secrets that as a child she would not have hesitated to reveal. Hood's breath, every time we meet it seems I must readjust… everything.

  Quick Ben spoke, 'Well met. Silverfox, what—'

  'No.'

  'Excuse me?'

  'No, Wizard. I have no explanations that I am prepared to voice. No questions that I will answer. Kruppe has already tried, too many times. My temper is short—do not test it.'

  Guarded, and harder. Much, much harder. After a moment, Quick Ben shrugged. 'Be that way, then.'

  'I am that way,' she snapped. 'The anger you would face is Nightchill's, and the rest of us will do nothing to restrain it. I trust I am understood.'

  Quick Ben simply grinned. Cold, challenging.

  'Kind sirs!' Kruppe cried. 'By chance would you be riding to our fair armies? If so, we would accompany you, delighted and relieved to return to said martial bosom. Delighted indeed, with the formidable company of yourselves. Relieved, as Kruppe has said, by the welcoming destination so closely pending. Impatient, it must be admitted, for the resumption of the journey. Incorrigibly optimistic—'

  'That will do, Kruppe,' Silverfox growled. 'Ahem, of course.'

  If anything truly existed between us, it is now over. She has left Tattersail behind. She is indeed a Bonecaster, now. The realization triggered a weaker pang of loss than he had expected. Perhaps we both have moved on. The pressure of what we have grown into, our hearts cannot overcome.

  So be it. No self-pity. Not this time. We've tasks before us. Paran gathered his reins. 'As Kruppe has said. Let us resume—we're already late as it is.'

  A large sheet of burlap had been raised over the hilltop to shield the parley from the hot afternoon sun. Malazan soldiers ringed the hill in a protective cordon, crossbows cradled in their arms.