Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  Quick Ben blinked in startlement. 'What did you say?'

  'Well sir, were we not suggesting the placement of corks? Be quiet, shut up. Kruppe simply advised of an internal version with which seagull's ceaseless bleating complaint is silenced, indeed, stoppered up to the relief of one and all!'

  Two hundred paces to their right another barge loaded with Brood's forces set out, the craft quickly drawing the lines down-current as it left the shore.

  A pair of marines rode up to Quick Ben and Kruppe.

  The wizard scowled at them. 'Where's Whiskeyjack?'

  'On the way, Bridgeburner. Did the toad and his artist show up?'

  'Just in time to take charge of their wagon, aye. They're on the other side.'

  'Fancy work. We crossing the same way?'

  'Well, I was thinking of dropping you halfway—when did you two last bathe?'

  The women exchanged a glance, then one shrugged and said, 'Don't know. A month? Three? We've been busy.'

  'And we'd rather not get wet, Wizard,' the other marine said. 'Our armour and the clothes under 'em might fall apart.'

  'Kruppe asserts that would prove a sight never to be forgotten!'

  'Bet your eyes'd fall out,' the soldier agreed. 'And if they didn't we'd have to help 'em along some.'

  'At least our nails would be clean,' the other observed.

  'Aai! Coarse women! Kruppe sought only to compliment!'

  'You're the one needing a bath,' the marine said.

  The Daru's expression displayed shock, then dismay. 'Outrageous notion. Sufficient layers of sweet scent applied over sufficient years, nay, decades, have resulted in a permanent and indeed impervious bouquet of gentlest fragrance.' He waved his plump, pale hands. 'A veritable aura about oneself to draw lovestruck butterflies—'

  'Look like deerflies to me—'

  'These are uncivil lands—yet do you see a single insect alight?'

  'Well, there's a few drowned in your oily hair, now that you ask.'

  'Precisely. Inimical foes one and all fall to the same fate.'

  'Ah,' Quick Ben said, 'here comes Whiskeyjack. Finally. Thank the gods.'

  Darkness swallowed the alley as dusk descended on the ruined city. A few oil lamps lit the major thoroughfares, and the occasional squad of Gidrath walked rounds carrying lanterns of their own.

  Wrapped in a cloak hiding his full armour, Coll stood within an alcove and watched one such squad troop past at the alley's mouth, watched as the pool of yellow light slowly dwindled, until the night once more reclaimed the street.

  He stepped out and gestured.

  Murillio flicked the traces, startling the oxen into motion. The wagon creaked and rocked over the cracked, heat-blasted cobbles.

  Coll strode in advance, out onto the street. It had been only partially cleared of rubble. Three gutted temples were within the range of his vision, showing no indication of having been reoccupied. No different from the four others they had found earlier that afternoon.

  At the moment, the prospects were grim. It seemed the only surviving priests were those in the Thrall, and that was the last place they wanted to visit. Rumour was, political rivalries had reached a volatile state, now that the Mask Council was free of the presence of powerful allies; free, as well, of a royal presence who traditionally provided a levelling influence on their excesses. The future of Capustan was not a promising one.

  Coll turned to the right—northeast—waving behind him as he made his way up the street. He heard Murillio's muted cursing as he slapped the traces down onto the backs of the two oxen. The animals were tired and hungry, the wagon behind them overburdened.

  Hood take us, we might have made a terrible mistake…

  He heard the flap of a bird's wings overhead, soft and momentary, and thought nothing of it.

  Deep ruts had been worn into the cobbles from the passage of countless wagons, many of them of late heavily loaded down with broken stone, but their width did not match that of the Rhivi wagon—a thick-wheeled, plains vehicle built to contest high grasses and muddy sinkholes. Nor could Murillio manage to avoid the wagon's slipping into one of the ruts, for the oxen had a grooved path of their own on this side of the street. The result was a sharply canted, awkward progress, the yokes shifted into angles that were clearly uncomfortable for the oxen.

  Behind him, Coll heard one low a complaint, which ended with a strange grunt and whip of the traces. He spun in time to see Murillio's body pitching from the seat, to strike the cobbles with a bone-cracking impact.

  A huge figure, all in black, who seemed for the briefest moment to be winged, now stood atop the wagon.

  Murillio lay in a motionless heap beside the front wheel.

  Fear ripped through the Daru. 'What the—'

  The figure gestured. Black sorcery bloomed from him, swept tumbling towards Coll.

  Swearing, the Daru flung himself to the right, rolled clanking, metal snapping on stone, to collide with the first half-moon step of a temple.

  But the magic flowed too wide to escape, swirling and spinning its inky power to fill the street like a flash-flood.

  Lying on his side, back jammed against the step, Coll could only throw up a forearm to cover his eyes as the sorcery loomed over him, then plunged down.

  And vanished. Blinking, Coll grunted, dropped his arm in time to see a dark, armoured figure step directly over him from behind—from the direction of the temple's entrance.

  His peripheral vision caught flanking longswords, one of them strangely bent, gliding past as the massive warrior reached the cobbles of the street.

  The attacker perched on the wagon spoke in a high voice, the tone bemused. 'You should be dead. I can feel the coldness of you. I can sense the fist of Hood, coiled there in your lifeless chest. He's kept you here. Wandering.'

  Huh, this new arrival doesn't look very dead to me. His eyes scanned the shadows to the right of the wagon, seeking Murillio's motionless form.

  'Not wandering,' the warrior rasped, still striding towards the figure. 'Hunting.'

  'Us? But we've taken so few from you! Less than a score in this city. Knight of Death, has your master not fed unto bursting of late? And I but sought the unconscious hag—she lies in the bed of this wagon. Hovering at the very edge of the chasm. Surely your master—'

  'Not for you,' the warrior rumbled. 'Her spirit awaits. And those of her gathered kin. And the beasts whose hearts are empty. All await. Not for you.'

  The air in the alley had grown bitter cold.

  'Oh, all right, then,' the attacker sighed. 'What of this driver and his guard? I could use so many pieces of them—'

  'No. Korbal Broach, hear the words of my master. You are to release the undead who guard your compound. You and the one named Bauchelain are to leave the city. This night.'

  'We'd planned on a morning departure, Knight of Death—for you are the Knight, yes? High House Death stirs to wakefulness, I now sense. A morning departure, yes? To follow these fascinating armies southward—'

  'This night, or I shall descend upon you, and claim your souls. Do you realize the fate my master has in store for you two?'

  Coll watched as the bald, pallid-faced man atop the wagon raised his arms—which then blurred, broadened into midnight wings. He giggled. 'You will have to catch us first!' The blurring became a smear, then where the man had stood there was only a bedraggled crow, cawing sharply as it rose upward, wings thrumming, and was swallowed by darkness.

  The warrior walked to where Murillio lay.

  Coll drew a deep breath, seeking to slow his hammering heart, then climbed painfully to his feet. 'My thanks to you, sir,' he grunted, wincing at what in the morning would be fierce bruising on his right shoulder and hip. 'Does my companion live?'

  The warrior, who Coll now saw was wearing the remnants of Gidrath armour, swung to face him. 'He lives. Korbal Broach requires that they be alive… for his work. At least at first. You are to come with me.'

  'Ah, when you said hunting, that
sorcerer assumed it was him you were hunting. But it wasn't, was it?'

  'They are an arrogant pair.'

  Coll slowly nodded. He hesitated, then said, 'Forgive me if I am being rude, but I would know what you—what your Lord—would do with us? We've an elderly woman to care for—'

  'You are to have my master's protection. Come, the Temple of Hood has been prepared for your residence.'

  'Not sure how I should take that. The Mhybe needs help.'

  'What the Mhybe needs, Coll of Darujhistan, is not for you to give.'

  'Is it for Hood to give?'

  'The woman's flesh and bone must be maintained. Fed, given water, cared for. That is your responsibility.'

  'You did not answer.'

  'Follow me. We have not far to go.'

  'At the moment,' Coll said quietly, 'I am inclined otherwise.' He reached for his sword.

  The Knight of Death cocked his head. 'Tell me, Coll of Darujhistan, do you sleep?'

  The Dam frowned. 'Of course. What—'

  'I did once, too. I must have, yes? But now, I do not. Instead, I pace. You see, I cannot remember sleep. I cannot remember what it was like.'

  'I—I am sorry for that.'

  'Thus, one who does not sleep… and, here in this wagon, one who will not awaken. I believe, Coll of Darujhistan, that we will have need of each other. Soon. This woman and I.'

  'What kind of need?'

  'I do not know. Come, we've not far.'

  Coll slowly resheathed his sword. He could not have explained why he did so; none of his questions had been answered to his satisfaction, and the thought of entering Hood's protection chilled his skin. None the less, he nodded and said, 'A moment, if you will. I have to lift Murillio onto the bed.'

  'Ah, yes. That is true. I would have done so but, alas, I find myself unable to release my swords from my own hands.' The warrior was silent a moment longer, then he said, 'Korbal Broach saw into me. His words have made my mind… troubled. Coll of Darujhistan, I think I am dead. Am I? Am I dead?'

  'I don't know,' the Daru replied, 'but… I think so.'

  'The dead, it is said, do not sleep.'

  Coll well knew the saying, and knew that it had originally come from Hood's own temple. He knew, as well, the wry observation that closed the quote. '"While the living do not live." Not that that makes much sense.'

  'It does to me,' the warrior said. 'For I now know that I have lost what I did not know I once possessed.'

  Coll's mind stumbled through that statement, then he sighed. 'I'd be a fool not to take your word for it… have you a name?'

  'I believe so, but I have forgotten it.'

  'Well,' Coll said as he crouched down over Murillio and gathered the man into his arms, 'Knight of Death won't do, I'm afraid.' He straightened, grunting at the weight in his arms. 'You were a Gidrath, yes? And a Capan—though I admit, with that bronze hue to your skin, you've more the colouring of—'

  'No, I was not Gidrath. Not Capan. I am not, I think, from this continent at all. I do not know why I appeared here. Nor how. I have not been here long. This is as my master wills. Of my past, I recall but one thing.'

  Coll carried Murillio to the back of the wagon and laid the man down. 'And what's that?'

  'I once stood within fire.'

  After a long moment, Coll sighed roughly. 'An unfortunate memory…'

  'There was pain. Yet I held on. Fought on. Or so I believe. I was, I think, sworn to defend a child's life. But the child was no more. It may be… that I failed.'

  'Well, we still need a name for you.'

  'Perhaps one will come to you eventually, Coll of Darujhistan.'

  'I promise it.'

  'Or perhaps one day my memories will return in full, and with them my name.'

  And if Hood has any mercy in him that day will never come, friend. For I think there was nothing easy in your life. Or in your death. And it seems he does possess mercy, for he's taken you far away from all that you once knew, for if I'm not mistaken, if only by your features and never mind that strange skin, you're Malazan.

  Itkovian had crossed on the last barge, beneath a vast spread of spear-point stars, in the company of Stonny Menackis and Gruntle and his score of barbed followers, along with a hundred or so Rhivi—mostly elders and their dogs. The animals snapped and squabbled in the confines of the flat, shallow craft, then settled down for the journey's second half once they'd managed to fight their way to the gunnels and could look out over the river.

  The dogs were the first off when the barge ground ashore on the south side, barking wildly as they splashed through the reeds, and Itkovian was glad for their departure. Only half listening to Gruntle and Stonny exchanging insults like a husband and wife who had known each other far too long, Itkovian readied his horse to await the laying down of planks, and watched with mild interest the Rhivi elders following in the wake of their dogs without heed to the shore's churned mud and matted reeds.

  The low, worn-down hills on this side of the river still held a haze of dust and dung-smoke, draped like a mourner's veil over the army's score thousand or more tents. Apart from a few hundred Rhivi herders and the bhederin herd they were tasked to drive across come the dawn, the entire force of the invaders was now on Pannion territory.

  No-one had contested the landing. The low hills to the south seemed devoid of life, revealing naught but the worn tracks left behind by Septarch Kulpath's besieging army.

  Gruntle moved up alongside him. 'Something tells me we'll be marching through razed land all the way down to Coral.'

  'That seems likely, sir. It is as I would have done, were I the Seer.'

  'I sometimes wonder if Brood and Dujek realize that the army that besieged Capustan was but one among at least three of comparable size. And while Kulpath was a particularly effective Septarch, there are six others competent enough to cause us grief.'

  Itkovian pulled his gaze from the encampment ahead to study the hulking warrior at his side. 'We must assume our enemy is preparing for us. Yet, within the Domin, the last grains of the bell-glass are even now trickling down.'

  Treach's Mortal Sword grunted. 'You know something the rest of us don't?'

  'Not specifically, sir. I have but drawn conclusions based on such details as I was able to observe when viewing Kulpath's army, and the Tenescowri.'

  'Well, don't keep them to yourself.'

  Itkovian returned his gaze to the south. After a moment he sighed.

  'Cities and governments are but the flowering head of a plant whose stalk is the commonalty, and it is the commonalty whose roots are within the earth, drawing the necessary sustenance that maintains the flower. The Tenescowri, sir, is the Domin's surviving commonalty—people torn from their land, from their villages, their homes, their farms. All food production has ceased, and in its place has arisen the horror of cannibalism. The countryside before us is indeed razed, but not in answer to us. It has been a wasteland for some time, sir. Thus, while the flower still blazes its colour, it is in fact already dead.'

  'Drying from a hook beneath the Crippled God's shelf?' Itkovian shrugged. 'Caladan Brood and the High Fist have selected cities as their destinations. Lest, Setta, Maurik and Coral. Of these, I believe only the last still lives. None of the others would be able to feed a defending army; indeed, not even its own citizenry—if any still remain. The Seer has no choice but to concentrate his forces on the one city where he now resides, and his soldiers will have no choice but to assume the practices of the Tenescowri. I suspect that the Tenescowri were created for that eventual purpose—as food for the soldiers.'

  Gruntle's expression was troubled. 'What you describe, Itkovian, is an empire that was never meant to sustain itself.'

  'Unless it could continue to expand without surcease.'

  'But even then, it would be alive only on its outer, ever-advancing edges, spreading out from a dead core, a core that grew with it.' Itkovian nodded. 'Aye, sir.'

  'So, if Brood and Dujek are expecting battles at Se
tta, Lest and Maurik, they may be in for a surprise.'

  'So I believe.'

  'Those Malazans will end up doing a lot of pointless marching,' Gruntle observed, 'if you're right.'

  'Perhaps there are other issues sufficient to justify the division of forces, Mortal Sword.'

  'Not quite as united as they would have us believe?'

  'There are powerful leaders gathered within that command, sir. It is perhaps miraculous that a serious clash of wills has not yet occurred.' Gruntle said nothing for a time.

  The broad wicker platforms were being anchored in place at the front of the barge, a company of mercenaries assembling the walkway with practised efficiency.

  'Let us hope, then,' he finally rumbled, 'the siege at Coral is not a long one.'

  'It will not be,' Itkovian asserted. 'I predict a single attack, intended to overwhelm. A combination of soldiery and sorcery. The massive sundering of defences is the intention of the warlord and the High Fist. Both are well aware of the risks inherent in any prolonged investment.'

  'Sounds messy, Itkovian.'

  Stonny Menackis came up behind them, leading her horse. 'Get moving, you two—you're holding us all up and this damned barge is settling. If I get any mud on these new clothes, I will kill whoever's to blame. Barbed or otherwise.'

  Itkovian smiled. 'I'd intended complimenting you on your garb—'

  'The wonders of the Trygalle. Made to order by my favourite tailor in Darujhistan.'

  'You seem to favour green, sir.'

  'Ever seen a jaelparda?'

  Itkovian nodded. 'Such snakes are known in Elingarth.'

  'Deadly kissers, jaelparda. This green is a perfect match, isn't it? It'd better be. It's what I paid for and it wasn't cheap. And this pale gold—you see? Lining the cloak? Ever looked at the underbelly of a white paralt?'

  'The spider?'

  'The death-tickler, aye. This is the colour.'

  'I could not have mistaken it for otherwise,' Itkovian replied.

  'Good, I'm glad someone here understands the subtle nuances of high civilization. Now move your damned horse or what you ain't used for far too long will get introduced to the toe of my shiny new boot.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Corporal Picker watched Detoran drag Hedge towards her tent. The two passed in silence along the very edge of the firepit's light. Before they vanished once more into the gloom, Picker was witness to a comic pantomime as Hedge, the skin of his face stretched taut in a wild grimace, sought to bolt in an effort to escape Detoran. She responded by reaching up to grip the man's throat and shaking his head back and forth until his struggles ceased.