Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  The warlord's grin grew feral. 'And so destroy every civilization on this world, aye. No doubt you judge her need as sufficiently pressing, High Priestess.'

  'And you dare not?' she snapped, leaning forward with both hands on the table. 'You have deceived her!'

  'No. I have constrained her.'

  His reply left her momentarily speechless.

  'There's a rug-seller's shop,' Gruntle said, 'in Darujhistan. To cross its floor is to scale layer upon layer of woven artistry. Thus are the lessons of mortals laid down before the gods. Pity that they keep stumbling so—you'd think they'd have learned by now.'

  Rath'Burn wheeled on him. 'Silence! You know nothing of this! If Brood does not act, Burn will die! And when she dies, so too does all life on this world! That is the choice, you fool! Topple a handful of corrupt civilizations or absolute annihilation—what would you choose?'

  'Well, since you're asking—'

  'I withdraw the question, for you are clearly as insane as the warlord here. Caladan Brood, you must yield the hammer. To me. Here and now. In the name of Burn, the Sleeping Goddess, I demand it.'

  The warlord rose, unslung the weapon. 'Here, then.' He held it out in his right hand.

  Rath'Burn's eyes blinked, then she shot upright, strode round the table.

  She grasped the hammer's copper-wrapped handle in both hands.

  Brood released it.

  The weapon plunged earthward. The snaps of the woman's wrist bones cut through the air. Then she screamed, even as the hill trembled to the impact of the hammer's massive head. Cups bounced on the table, splashed red wine across its surface. Rath'Burn had fallen to her knees, no longer holding the weapon, her broken arms cradled on her lap.

  'Artanthos,' Dujek said, his eyes on Brood—who looked down on the woman with a dispassionate regard—'find us a healer. A good one.'

  The soldier standing behind the High Fist headed off.

  The warlord addressed the High Priestess. 'The difference between you and your goddess, woman, is faith. A simple thing, after all. You see only two options open to me. Indeed, so did the Sleeping Goddess, at first. She gave to me the weapon, and gave to me the freedom to choose. It has taken a long while for me to understand what else she gave to me. I have withheld acting, withheld making that choice, and thought myself a coward. Perhaps I still am, yet a small measure of wisdom has finally lodged itself in my head—'

  'Burn's faith,' K'rul said. 'That you would find a third choice.'

  'Aye. Her faith.'

  Artanthos reappeared with another Malazan, but Brood held out a hand to halt them. 'No, I will heal her myself. She was not to know, after all.'

  'Too generous,' K'rul murmured. 'She abandoned her goddess long ago, Warlord.'

  'No journey is too long,' Brood replied, lowering himself to kneel before Rath'Burn.

  Itkovian had last seen High Denul unveiled by Destriant Karnadas, and that fraught with the infection poisoning the warrens. What he saw now was… clean, unaffected, and appallingly powerful.

  K'rul rose suddenly, looked around.

  Rath'Burn gasped.

  The Elder God's odd actions drew Itkovian's attention, and he followed K'rul's gaze. To see that another group had arrived on the hilltop, standing at a distance to the right of the tarp. Captain Paran was the only one among the four newcomers that Itkovian recognized, and he was not the man at whom the Elder God was looking.

  A dark-skinned, tall and lean man, faintly smiling, was watching the proceedings from the back of the group, focused, it seemed, on Brood. After a moment, some instinct made him glance at K'rul. The man answered the Elder God's rapt attention with a slight, strangely uneven shrug—as if some invisible weight burdened his left shoulder.

  Itkovian heard K'rul sigh.

  Rath'Burn and Caladan Brood rose together, then. Her bones had been knitted. No swelling or bruising marred her bared forearms. She stood as if in shock, leaning against the warlord.

  'What is this?' Kallor demanded. 'That warren bore no sign of poison.'

  'Indeed,' K'rul smiled. 'It seems the illness has been pushed back from this location. Temporary, yet sufficient. Perhaps this is another lesson in the powers of faith… which I shall endeavour to heed…'

  Itkovian's eyes narrowed. He speaks with two meanings. One, for us. A deeper second meaning, for that man standing over there.

  A moment later the large, heavy-set woman standing beside Captain Paran approached the table.

  Seeing her, Kallor backed off a step.

  'Careless,' she drawled to the warlord, who spun at her words, 'dropping your hammer like that.'

  'Silverfox. We'd wondered if we would see you again.'

  'Yet you sent Korlat out to track me, Warlord.'

  'Only to ascertain your whereabouts and direction of travel. It appears she got lost, for she has yet to return.'

  'A temporary misdirection. My T'lan Ay now surround her and are guiding her back here. Unharmed.'

  'I am relieved to hear that. By your words, I assume that the Second Gathering has taken place.'

  'It has.'

  Whiskeyjack had seen Captain Paran and was approaching him for a private word. The tall, dark-skinned man moved to join them.

  'Tell us, then,' the warlord continued, 'has another army joined in the proceedings?'

  'My T'lan Imass have tasks before them that will require a journey to the Pannion Domin. To your advantage, should there be more K'Chain Che'Malle K'ell Hunters, for we will deal with them.'

  'Presumably, you've no intention of elaborating on these tasks that you mentioned.'

  'Warlord, they are private matters, and have no bearing on you or your war.'

  'Don't believe her,' Kallor growled. 'They want the Seer, for they know what he is—a Jaghut Tyrant.'

  Silverfox faced Kallor. 'And should you capture the Pannion Seer, what would you do with him? He is insane, his mind twisted by the taint of the Warren of Chaos and the Crippled God's manipulations. Execution is the only option. Leave that to us, for we exist to kill Jaghut—'

  'Not always,' Dujek interjected.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Did not one of your T'lan Imass accompany the Adjunct Lorn when she freed the Jaghut Tyrant south of Darujhistan?'

  Silverfox looked troubled. 'The Clanless One. Yes. An event I do not as yet understand. None the less, that Tyrant was awakened from a cursed sleep, only to die in truth—'

  A new voice spoke. 'Actually, while a little worse for wear, Raest was admirably animate the last time I saw him.'

  Silverfox spun. 'Ganoes, what do you mean? The Tyrant was slain.'

  The small, round man now standing beside Captain Paran drew a handkerchief from a sleeve and mopped his brow. 'Well, as to that… not quite, Kruppe reluctantly advises. Matters were somewhat confused, alas—'

  'A House of the Azath took the Jaghut Tyrant,' K'rul explained. 'The Malazan plan, as I understand it, was to force Anomander Rake's hand—a confrontation that was intended to weaken him, if not see him slain outright. Raest never did come face to face with the Lord of Moon's Spawn, as it turned out—'

  'I see little relevance in all this,' Silverfox cut in. 'If the Clanless One has indeed broken his vow, then he will have to answer to me.'

  'My point was,' Dujek said, 'you make a claim that the T'lan Imass and what they do or don't do is separate from everyone and everything else. You insist on detachment, but, as a veteran of the Malazan campaigns, I tell you that what you assert is patently untrue.'

  'Perhaps indeed the Logros T'lan Imass grew… confused. If so, such ambivalence is past. Unless, of course, you would challenge the authority that I was born to.' No-one spoke in answer to that.

  Silverfox nodded. 'Very well. You have been told of the position of the T'lan Imass. We will have this Jaghut Tyrant. Does anyone here wish to counter our claim?'

  'From the implicit threats in your tone, woman,' Brood grated, 'that would be a foolhardy position to take. I for one will not squa
bble and tug the Seer's limbs.' He swung to Dujek. 'High Fist?' The one-armed soldier grimaced, then shook his head. Itkovian's attention was drawn to the short, fat Daru, for some reason he could not have hoped to explain. A benign smile curved those full, slightly greasy lips.

  This is a most fell gathering of powers here. Yet why do I believe that the very epicentre of efficacy lies with this strange little man? He holds even K'rul's regard, as would an admiring companion rest eyes upon a lifelong… prodigy of sorts, perhaps. A prodigy whose talents have come to overwhelm his master's. But there is no envy in that regard, nor even pride—which always whispers of possessiveness, after all. No, the emotion is far more subtle, and complex…

  'We have matters of supply to discuss,' Caladan Brood finally said. The High Priestess still leaned on him. He now guided her back to her chair, with surprising gentleness, and spoke to her in low tones. She nodded in reply.

  'The Barghast,' Cafal said, 'have come prepared. Your numbers are manageable.'

  'And the price?' Dujek asked.

  The young warrior grinned. 'You'll find it palatable… more or less.'

  Silverfox strode away, as if she had said all she'd intended to say and had no interest in the mundane matters still needing discussion.

  Itkovian noted that Captain Paran, his dark-skinned companion and Whiskeyjack had already departed. Gruntle seemed to have begun dozing in his chair, oblivious of Stonny's scowl opposite him. Rath'Hood and Rath'Shadowthrone were slumped in their chairs, masks angled into morose expressions—leaving Itkovian to wonder at how much control the priests had over those lacquered, hinged contrivances.

  The new Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords sat motionless, her gaze fixed on Itkovian with unveiled sorrow.

  And… pity.

  I am a distraction. Very well. He stepped back, turned about and made his way towards the back of the tarp.

  He was surprised to find Paran, Whiskeyjack and the dark-skinned man waiting there. A tall, martial woman with midnight skin had joined them and now studied Itkovian with extraordinary, almond-shaped eyes the colour of sun-bleached grass.

  Meeting that gaze, Itkovian almost staggered. Fener's tusks, such sadness—an eternity of loss… empty existence—

  She broke the contact with a startled, then alarmed, expression.

  Not for me. Not for my embrace. Not that. Some wounds can never be healed, some memories should never be reawakened. Cast no light upon that darkness, sir. It is too much—He came then to another realization. Fener was gone, and with the god had vanished his protection. Itkovian was vulnerable as he had never been before. Vulnerable to the world's pain, to its grief.

  'Itkovian, we were hoping,' Captain Paran said, 'that you'd come. This is my commander, Whiskeyjack. And Quick Ben, of the Bridgeburners. And the Tiste Andü is Korlat, second to Anomander Rake. We are pleased with your company, Itkovian. Will you join us?'

  'I've a restless cask of Gredfallan ale in my tent,' Whiskeyjack said. My vow—'A welcome invitation, sirs. I accept. Thank you. Mistress,' he added to Korlat, 'my deepest apologies.'

  'They are mine to make,' she replied. 'I was unguarded, and carelessly unmindful of all that you are.'

  The three Malazans looked back and forth at the two of them, but none ventured a query or comment.

  'Allow me,' Whiskeyjack finally said, setting off down the slope towards the Host's camp.

  The Bridgeburner, Quick Ben, paced alongside Itkovian. 'Well, it seems Silverfox has surprised us all this day.'

  I do not know her, sir, and so can make no observation as to her disposition.'

  'You sensed nothing from her?'

  'I did not say that.'

  The man flashed a white grin. 'True enough. You didn't.'

  'She has done a terrible wrong, sir, yet upon her shoulders it weighs nothing.'

  The breath hissed between Quick Ben's teeth. 'Nothing? Are you certain? Hood's breath, that's not good. Not good at all.'

  'Nightchill,' Paran said behind them.

  Quick Ben threw a glance over a shoulder. 'You think?'

  'I know, Wizard. And, to make matters worse, Nightchill was—is—a whole lot more than what we'd thought. Not just a High Mage of the Empire. She's all hard edges—her mate Bellurdan was her balance, but of the Thelomen I sense nothing.'

  'And Tattersail?'

  'In the shadows. Observing, but without much interest, it seems.'

  'A woman named Silverfox was the subject,' Itkovian murmured, 'yet you speak of three others.'

  'Sorry. All reborn within Silverfox. It's a long story.'

  He nodded. 'All perforce needing to live with one another, no matter how disparate their individual natures.'

  'Aye,' Paran sighed. 'Not surprising that there'd be a war of wills—'

  'There is no war within her,' Itkovian said.

  'What?'

  'They walk in agreement, sir. She is calm within.'

  They reached level ground, approached the Malazan camp. Whiskeyjack and Korlat strode side by side and close, a half-dozen paces ahead.

  'Now that,' Quick Ben muttered, 'is the most surprising revelation this day.'

  'So far,' Paran pointed out. 'Something tells me we're not done yet.'

  'Gentlemen!' a voice wheezed behind them. 'A moment please, whilst Kruppe's formidable yet sadly short legs propel self hastily into your company!'

  The elaborate statement was sufficient to close the distance as the three men paused to permit Kruppe's breathless arrival, upon which they resumed their walk.

  'Wind of fortune!' Kruppe panted. 'Carrying to Kruppe all your words—'

  'How convenient,' Quick Ben wryly muttered. 'And no doubt you've a comment or ten to make on the subject of Silverfox.'

  'Indeed! Kruppe was witness, after all, to said dreadful Gathering. Yet all alarm subsequent to said events has grown quiet within oneself, for truths have marched out from the darkness to prostrate themselves at Kruppe's slippered feet.'

  'That conjures up an image of you stumbling and falling flat on your face, Daru,' the wizard commented.

  'Carelessly constructed, Kruppe allows, yet none of you have ever seen Kruppe dance! And dance he can, with breathtaking artistry and grace—nay! He glides like an unbroken egg on a greased skillet. Stumble? Fall? Kruppe? Never!'

  'You'd mentioned truths,' Paran reminded him.

  'Ah yes! Truths, squirming like puppies around Kruppe, upon which he laid patting hand on each one and all in turn, as would any kindly master. The result? Kruppe advises that all is well within Silverfox! Be at ease. Be calmed. Be… lieve—uh…'

  'Was that a stumble?'

  'Nonsense. Even linguistic confusion has value.'

  'Really? How so?'

  'Uh, the matter is too subtle for mere words, alas. We must not stray too far from the subject at hand, or foot, which was the matter of truths—'

  'Squirming like puppies.'

  'Indeed, Captain. Like wolf puppies, to be more precise.' The two Malazans stopped suddenly, followed a moment later by Itkovian, as Kruppe's dream-like, mesmerizing stream of words revealed sudden substance, as if swirling before a rock. A rock… one of Kruppe's truths? These Malazans are used to this—or simply smarter than I.

  'Out with it,' Paran growled.

  'Out with what, precisely, dear Captain? Kruppe revels in sly ambiguity, after all, and so hoards his secrets as must any respectable hoarder of secrets… must. Does the subject concern this honour-bound ex-mercenary who walks alongside us? Indirectly, yes. Or, rather, the company he has so recently departed. Indirectly, Kruppe utters once more. Two ancient gods, once mere spirits, the first to run with mortals—those T'lan Imass of flesh and blood of so long ago—the most ancient of companions. And their kin, who followed in kind, and run still with the T'lan Imass.

  'Two wolf-gods, yes? Does anyone here not recall the bedtime story of their separation, their eternal search for one another? Of course, all of you do. Such a sorrowful story, the kind impressionable children neve
r forget. But what drove them apart? How goes the tale? Then one day horror visited the land. Horror from the dark sky. Descending to shatter the world. And so the lovers were thrown apart, never again to embrace. And it goes on blah blah and so forth and forthwhich.

  'Gentlemen, the horror was of course the Fallen One's fateful descent. And whatever healing was demanded of the surviving powers proved a difficult, burdensome task. The Elder Gods did what they could, but understand, they were themselves younger than the two wolf-gods, and, more significantly, they did not find ascendancy walking in step with humans—or those who would one day become humans, that is—'

  'Stop, please!' Paran snapped.

  'Kruppe cannot! To pause here would be to lose all that must be said! The dimmest of memories are all that remain, and even they are succumbing to the gathering gloom! Frail fragments come as fraught dreams, and the promise of reunion and rebirth are lost, unrecognized, the redemption promised wandering a tundra alone, howling with the wind—yet salvation is at hand! Disparate spirits are united in their resolve! A spirit of hard edges, to hold the others to their course despite all the pain that others must bear. Another spirit, to clasp hard the hurt of abandonment until it can find proper answer! And yet a third spirit, filled with love and compassion—if somewhat witless, granted—to so flavour the pending moment. And a fourth, possessing the power to achieve the necessary reparation of old wounds—'

  'Fourth?' Quick Ben sputtered. 'Who's the fourth in Silverfox?'

  'Why, the seed-child of a T'lan Imass Bonecaster, of course. Pran Chole's daughter, the one whose true name is indeed the one by which we all know her!'

  Itkovian's gaze flicked past Kruppe, to see Korlat and Whiskeyjack twenty paces off, standing in front of a large tent, looking back at the group. No doubt curious, yet maintaining a respectful distance.

  'Thus, Kruppe advises one and all,' the Daru resumed after a moment, his tone deeply satisfied, pudgy fingers lacing together to rest on his paunch, 'faith. Patience. Await what must be awaited.'

  'And you call that an explanation?' Paran demanded, scowling.