Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'Oh my,' she whispered yet again. 'How shall we follow Tool across… this? And why was he not a T'lan Elephant, or a T'lan Whale, so that he could carry us on his back, in sumptuous howdahs? With running hot water and ingenious plumbing.'

  Mok appeared at her side, rain streaming from his enamel mask. 'I will face him yet,' he said.

  'Oh really. And when did duelling Tool become more important than your mission to the Seer? How will the First or the Second react to such self-importance?'

  'The First is the First and the Second is the Second,' Mok replied laconically.

  Lady Envy rolled her eyes. 'How astute an observation.'

  'The demands of the self have primacy, mistress. Always, else there would be no champions. There would be no hierarchy at all. The Seguleh would be ruled by mewling martyrs blindly trampling the helpless in their lust for the common good. Or we would be ruled by despots who would hide behind an army to every challenge, creating of brute force a righteous claim to honour. We know of other lands, mistress. We know much more than you think.'

  She turned to study him. 'Goodness. And here I have been proceeding on the assumption that entertaining conversation was denied to me.'

  'We are immune to your contempt, mistress.'

  'Hardly, you've been smarting ever since I reawakened you. Smarting? Indeed, seething.'

  'There are matters to be discussed,' Mok said.

  'Are you sure? Would you by chance be referring to this tumultuous tempest barring our advance? Or perhaps to the fleeing remnants of the army that pursued us here? They'll not return, I assure you—'

  'You have sent a plague among them.'

  'What an outrageous accusation! It's been a miracle that disease has not struck them long ago, what with eating each other without even the civil application of cooking. Dear me, that you would so accuse—'

  'Garath succumbs to that plague, mistress.'

  'What? Nonsense! He is ailed by his wounds—'

  'Wounds that the power of his spirit should have long since healed. The fever within the beast, that so fills the lungs, is the same as that which afflicts the Pannions.' He slowly turned to face her. 'Do something.'

  'An outrage—'

  'Mistress.'

  'Oh, all right! But don't you see the delicious irony? Poleil, Queen of Disease, has allied herself with the Crippled God. A decision that deeply affronts me, I will have you know. How cunning of me to loot her warren and so beset her allies!'

  'I doubt the victims appreciate the irony, mistress. Nor, I imagine, does Garath.'

  'I'd much rather you'd stayed taciturn!'

  'Heal him.'

  'He'll not let me close!'

  'Garath is no longer capable of standing, mistress. Where he now lies, he will not rise from, unless you heal him.'

  'Oh, what a miserable man you are! If you're wrong and he tries to bite me, I will be very upset with you, Mok. I will lay waste to your loins. I will make your eyes crossed so that everyone who looks at you and your silly mask will not be able to help but laugh. And I will think of other things, too, I assure you.'

  'Heal him.'

  'Of course I will! Garath is my beloved companion, after all. Even if he once tried to pee on my robe—though I will acknowledge that since he was asleep at the time it was probably one of K'rul's pranks. All right, all right, stop interrupting me.' She approached the huge hound.

  His eyes were glazed, each breath a hacking contortion. Garath did not raise his head as she edged closer.

  'Oh, dear, forgive my inattention, dearest pup. I'd thought only the wounds, and so had already begun to grieve. You are felled by an unseemly vapour? Unacceptable. Easily negated, in fact.' She reached out, fingers lightly resting on the hot, steaming hide. 'There—' Garath swung his head, lips slowly peeling back. Lady Envy scampered away. 'And that is how you thank me? I have healed you, dearest one!'

  'You made him ill in the first place, mistress,' Mok said behind her.

  'Be quiet, I'm not talking to you any more. Garath! Look at how your strength returns, even as we watch! See, you are standing! Oh, how wonderful! And—no, stay away, please. Unless you want a pat? Do you want a pat? If so, you must stop growling at once!'

  Mok stepped between them, eyes on the bristling hound. 'Garath, we have need of her, even as we have need of you. There is no value in continuing this enmity.'

  'He can't understand you!' Lady Envy said. 'He's a dog! An angry dog, in fact.'

  The hulking creature turned away, padded slowly to where Baaljagg stood facing the storm. The wolf did not so much as glance at him.

  Mok stepped forward. 'Baaljagg sees something, mistress.'

  'What? Out there?'

  They hurried up the pinnacle's slope.

  The bergs of ice had captured a prize. Less than a thousand paces away, at the very edge of the small inlet before them, floated a structure. High-walled on two sides with what appeared to be a latticework of wicker, and surmounted by frost-rimed houses—three in all—it looked nothing more than a broken, torn-away piece of a port town or city. A narrow, crooked alley was indeed visible between the tall, warped houses. As the ice gripping the base of the structure twisted to some unseen current, the two opposites sides came into view, revealing the broken maw of wooden framework reaching beneath the street level, crowded with enormous balsa logs and what appeared to be massive inflated bladders, three of them punctured and flaccid.

  'How decidedly peculiar,' Lady Envy said.

  'Meckros,' Mok said.

  'Excuse me?'

  'The home of the Seguleh is an island, mistress. We are, on rare occasion, visited by the Meckros, who dwell in cities that ride the oceans. They endeavour to raid our coastline, ever forgetful of the unfortunate results of the previous raids. Their fierce zeal entertains those among the Lower Schools.'

  'Well,' Lady Envy sniffed, 'I see no occupants in that… misplaced neighbourhood.'

  'Nor do I, mistress. However, look at the ice immediately beyond the remnant. It has found an outward current and now seeks to join it.'

  'Goodness, you can't be suggesting—'

  Baaljagg gave clear answer to her unfinished question. The wolf spun, flashed past them, and hastened down to the wave-hammered rocks below. Moments later, they saw the huge wolf lunging from the thrashing water onto a broad raft of ice, then scampering across to the other side. Baaljagg then leapt outward, to land skidding on another floe.

  'The method seems viable,' Mok said.

  Garath plunged past them, following the wolf's route down to the shoreline.

  'Oh!' Lady Envy cried, stamping a foot. 'Can't we ever discuss things?'

  'I see a possible route forming, mistress, which might well permit us to avoid getting too wet—'

  'Wet? Who's wet? Very well, call your brothers and lead the way.'

  The journey across the pitching, heaving, often awash floes of ice proved frantic, perilous and exhausting. Upon reaching the rearing wall of wicker, they found no sign of Baaljagg or Garath, yet could follow their tracks on the snow-crusted raft, which seemed to be holding afloat most of the Meckros structure, round to the unwalled, broken side.

  Within the chaotic framework of beams and struts, steeply angled, thick-planked ladders had been placed—no doubt originally built to assist in maintenance of the city's undercarriage. The frosted steps within sight all revealed deep gouging from the wolf's and the hound's passage upward.

  Water streamed down the jumbled, web-like framework, revealing the sundered nature of the street and houses above.

  Senu in the lead, followed by Thurule then Mok, with Lady Envy last, the travellers climbed slowly, cautiously upward.

  They eventually emerged through a warehouse-sized trap door that opened onto the pitched, main floor of one of the houses. The chamber was crowded along three of its four walls with burlap-wrapped supplies. Huge barrels had tumbled, rolled, and were now gathered at one end. To its right were double doors, now shattered open, no doubt by Baaljagg
and Garath, revealing a cobbled street beyond. The air was bitter cold.

  'It might be worthwhile,' Mok said to Lady Envy, 'to examine each of these houses, from level to level, to determine which is the most structurally sound and therefore inhabitable. There seem to be considerable stores remaining which we can exploit.'

  'Yes, yes,' Lady Envy said distractedly. 'I leave to you and your brothers such mundane necessities. The assumption that our journey has brought us to, however, rests in the untested belief that this contraption will perforce carry us north, across the entire breadth of Coral Bay, and hence to the city that is our goal. I, and I alone, it seems, must do the fretting on this particular issue.'

  'As you like, mistress.'

  'Watch yourself, Mok!' she snapped. He tilted his masked head in silent apology.

  'My servants forget themselves, it seems. Think on the capacity of my fullest irritation, you three. In the meantime, I shall idle on the city's street, such as it is.' With that, she pivoted and strode languidly towards the doorway.

  Baaljagg and Garath stood three paces beyond, the rain striking their broad backs hard enough to mist with spray. Both animals faced a lone figure, standing in the gloom of the opposite house's overhanging dormer.

  For a moment, Lady Envy almost sighed, then the fact that she did not recognize the figure struck home. 'Oh! And here I was about to say: dear Tool, you waited for us after all! But lo, you are not him, are you?' The T'lan Imass before them was shorter, squatter than Tool. Three black-iron broadswords of unfamiliar style impaled this undead warrior's broad, massive chest, two of them driven in from behind, the other from the T'lan Imass's left. Broken ribs jutted through black, salt-rimed skin. The leather strapping of all three sword handles hung in rotted, unravelled strips from the grips' wooden underplates. Wispy remnants of old sorcery flowed fitfully along the pitted blades.

  The warrior's features were extraordinarily heavy, the brow ridge a skinless shelf of bone, stained dark brown, the cheek bones swept out and high to frame flattened oval-shaped eye sockets. Cold-hammered copper fangs capped the undead's upper canines. The T'lan Imass did not wear a helm. Long hair, bleached white, dangled to either side of the broad, chinless face, weighted at the ends with shark teeth.

  A most dreadful, appalling apparition, Lady Envy reflected. 'Have you a name, T'lan Imass?' she asked.

  'I have heard the summons,' the warrior said in a voice that was distinctly feminine. 'It came from a place to match the direction I had already chosen. North. Not far, now. I shall attend the Second Gathering, and I shall address my Kin of the Ritual, and so tell them that I am Lanas Tog. Sent to bring word of the fates of the Ifayle T'lan Imass and of my own Kerluhm T'lan Imass.'

  'How fascinating,' Lady Envy said. 'And their fates are?'

  'I am the last of the Kerluhm. The Ifayle, who heeded our first summons, are all but destroyed. Those few that remain cannot extricate themselves from the conflict. I myself did not expect to survive the attempt. Yet I have.'

  'A horrific conflict indeed,' Lady Envy quietly observed. 'Where does it occur?'

  'The continent of Assail. Our losses: twenty-nine thousand eight hundred and fourteen Kerluhm. Twenty-two thousand two hundred Ifayle. Eight months of battle. We have lost this war.'

  Lady Envy was silent for a long moment, then she said, 'It seems you've finally found a Jaghut Tyrant who is more than your match, Lanas Tog.'

  The T'lan Imass cocked her head. 'Not Jaghut. Human.'

  Book Four

  Memories Of Ice

  First in, last out.

  Motto of the Bridgeburners

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Your friend's face might prove the mask the daub found in subtle shift to alter the once familiar visage.

  Or the child who formed unseen in private darkness as you whiled oblivious to reveal cruel shock as a stone through a temple's pane.

  To these there is no armour on the soul.

  And upon the mask is writ the bold word, echoed in the child's eyes, a sudden stranger to all you have known.

  Such is betrayal.

  Death Vigil of Sorulan

  Minir Othal

  CAPTAIN PARAN REINED IN HIS HORSE NEAR THE SMOKE-BLACKENED rubble of the East Watch redoubt. He twisted in his saddle for a last look at Capustan's battered walls. Jelarkan's Palace reared tall and dark against the bright blue sky. Streaks of black paint etched the tower like cracks, a symbol of the city's mourning for its lost prince. The next rain would see that paint washed away, leaving no sign. That structure, he had heard, never wore the mortal moment for very long. The Bridgeburners were filing out through the East Gate. First in, last out. They're always mindful of such gestures. Sergeant Antsy was in the lead, with Corporal Picker a step behind. The two looked to be arguing, which was nothing new. Behind them, the soldiers of the other seven squads had lost all cohesion; the company marched in no particular order. The captain wondered at that. He'd met the other sergeants and corporals, of course. He knew the names of every surviving Bridgeburner and knew their faces as well. None the less, there was something strangely ephemeral about them. His eyes narrowed as he watched them walk the road, veiled in dust, like figures in a sun-bleached, threadbare tapestry. The march of armies, he reflected, was timeless.

  Horse hooves sounded to his right and he swung to see Silverfox ride up to halt at his side.

  'Better we'd stayed avoiding each other,' Paran said, returning his gaze to the soldiers on the road below.

  'I'd not disagree,' she said after a moment. 'But something's happened.'

  'I know.'

  'No, you don't. What you no doubt refer to is not what I'm talking about, Captain. It's my mother—she's gone missing. Her and those two Daru who were caring for her. Somewhere in the city they turned their wagon, left the line. No-one seems to have seen a thing, though of course I cannot question an entire army—'

  'What of your T'lan Imass? Could they not find them easily enough?' She frowned, said nothing.

  Paran glanced at her. 'They're not happy with you, are they?'

  'That is not the problem. I have sent them and the T'lan Ay across the river.'

  'We've reliable means of reconnoitring already, Silverfox—'

  'Enough. I do not need to explain myself.'

  'Yet you're asking for my help—'

  'No. I am asking if you knew anything about it. Those Daru had to have had assistance.'

  'Have you questioned Kruppe?'

  'He's as startled and dismayed as I am, and I believe him.'

  'Well,' Paran said, 'people have a habit of underestimating Coll. He's quite capable of pulling this off all on his own.'

  'You do not seem to realize the severity of what they've done. In kidnapping my mother—'

  'Hold on, Silverfox. You left your mother to their care. Left? No, too calm a word. Abandoned her. And I have no doubt at all that Coll and Murillio took the charge seriously, with all the compassion for the Mhybe you do not seem to possess. Consider the situation from their point of view. They're taking care of her, day in and day out, watching her wither. They see the Mhybe's daughter, but only from a distance. Ignoring her own mother. They decide that they have to find someone who is prepared to help the Mhybe. Or at the very least grant her a dignified end. Kidnapping is taking someone away from someone else.

  'The Mhybe has been taken away, but from whom? No-one. No-one at all.'

  Silverfox, her face pale, was slow to respond. When she did, it was in a rasp, 'You have no idea what lies between us, Ganoes.'

  'And it seems you've no idea of how to forgive—not her, not yourself. Guilt has become a chasm—'

  'That is rich indeed, coming from you.'

  His smile was tight. 'I've done my climb down, Silverfox, and am now climbing up the other side. Things have changed for both of us.'

  'So you have turned your back on your avowed feelings for me.'

  'I love you still, but with your death I succumbed to a kind of infatuation. I convinced
myself that what you and I had, so very briefly, was of far vaster and deeper import than it truly was. Of all the weapons we turn upon ourselves, guilt is the sharpest, Silverfox. It can carve one's own past into unrecognizable shapes, false memories leading to beliefs that sow all kinds of obsessions.'

  'Delighted to have you clear the air so, Ganoes. Has it not occurred to you that clinical examination of oneself is yet another obsession? What you dissect has to be dead first—that's the principle of dissection, after all.'

  'So my tutor explained,' Paran replied, 'all those years ago. But you miss a more subtle truth. I can examine myself, my every feeling, until the Abyss swallows the world, yet come no closer to mastery of those emotions within me. For they are not static things; nor are they immune to the outside world—to what others say, or don't say. And so they are in constant flux.'

  'Extraordinary,' she murmured. 'Captain Ganoes Paran, the young master of self-control, the tyrant unto himself. You have indeed changed. So much so that I no longer recognize you.'

  He studied her face, searching for a hint of the feelings behind those words. But she had closed herself to him. 'Whereas,' he said slowly, 'I find you all too recognizable.'

  'Would you call that ironic? You see me as a woman you once loved, while I see you as a man I never knew.'

  'Too many tangled threads for irony, Silverfox.'

  'Perhaps pathos, then.'

  He looked away. 'We've wandered far from the subject. I am afraid I can tell you nothing of your mother's fate. Yet I am confident, none the less, that Coll and Murillio will do all they can for her.'

  'Then you're an even bigger fool than they are, Ganoes. By stealing her, they have sealed her doom.'

  'I didn't know you for the melodramatic type.'

  'I am not—'

  'She is an old woman, an old, dying woman. Abyss take me, leave her alone—'

  'You are not listening!' Silverfox hissed. 'My mother is trapped in a nightmare—within her own mind, lost, terrified. Hunted! I have stayed closer to her than any of you realized. Far closer!'