Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'Aye,' the High Fist replied.

  As Whiskeyjack made his way towards his own tent he saw a tall, dark-robed figure standing before it.

  He smiled as he approached. 'I'd missed you.'

  'And I you,' Korlat responded.

  'Brood's been keeping you busy. Come inside, it'll only be a moment before I get the lantern lit.'

  He heard her sighing behind him as they entered the tent. 'I'd rather you didn't bother.'

  'Well, you can see in the dark, but—'

  She drew him round and settled against him, murmured, 'If there is to be a conversation, keep it short, please. What I desire is not answered by words.'

  He closed his arms around her. 'I'd only wondered if you'd found Silverfox.'

  'No. It seems she is able to travel paths I did not think still existed, instead, two of her undead wolves arrived… to escort me home. They are… unusual.'

  Whiskeyjack thought back to when he'd first seen the T'lan Ay, rising as dt from the yellow grasses, finding their bestial shapes until the on all sides were covered. 'I know. There's something strangely disproportionate about them—'

  ', you are right. They jar the eye. Too long limbs, too large ears, yet short-necked and wide-jawed. But there is more than just physical appearance that I found… alarming.'

  'More so than the T'lan Imass?'

  She nodded. 'There is, within the T'lan Imass, an emptiness, as of a smoke-blackened cavity. But not with the T'lan Ay. Within these wolves… I see sorrow. Eternal sorrow…'

  She shivered in his arms. Whiskeyjack said nothing. You see in their eyes, dear lover, what I see in yours. And it is the reflection—the recognition—that has shaken you so.

  'At the camp's edge,' Korlat went on, 'they fell to dust. One moment trotting on either side, then… gone. I don't know why, but that disturbed me more than anything else.'

  Because it is what awaits all of us. Even you, Korlat. 'This conversation was supposed to be short. It ends now. Come to bed, lass.' She looked into his eyes. 'And after tonight?' He grimaced. 'It may be a while, aye.'

  'Crone has returned.'

  'Has she now?'

  Korlat nodded. She was about to say more, then hesitated, searching his eyes, and said nothing.

  Setta, Lest, Maurik. The cities were empty. Yet the armies were dividing none the less. And neither would speak of why. Both sides of the alliance had things to hide, secrets to maintain, and the closer they got to Coral the more problematic it became maintaining those secrets.

  Most of the Tiste Andü have vanished. Gone with Rake, probably to Moon's Spawn. But where is Moon's Spawn? And what in Hood's name are they planning? Will we arrive at Coral only to find the city already fallen, the Pannion Seer dead—his soul taken by Dragnipur—and that massive mountain hanging overhead?

  The Black Moranth have searched for that damned floating rock… to no avail.

  And then there are our secrets. We're sending Paran and the Bridgeburners ahead; Hood take us, we're doing a lot more than that. This is an unwelcome play for power, now imminent—we all knew it was coming. Setta, Lest, Maurik. The subtle game is no longer subtle. 'My heart is yours, Korlat,' Whiskeyjack said to the woman in his arms. 'Nothing else matters to me. Nothing—no-one.'

  'Please—do not apologize for what has not even happened yet. Don't talk about it at all.'

  'I didn't think I was, lass.' Liar. You were. In your own way. You were apologizing.

  She accepted the lie with a wry smile. 'Very well.' Later, Whiskeyjack would think back on his words, and wish that they had been cleaner—devoid of hidden intent.

  Eyes grainy from lack of sleep, Paran watched Quick Ben close his conversation with Haradas then leave the company of the Trygalle trader to rejoin the captain.

  'The sappers will howl,' Paran said as the two of them resumed their walk towards the Malazan encampment, newly established on the south shore of Catlin River.

  Quick Ben shrugged. 'I'll take Hedge to one side for a word or two. After all, Fiddler's closer than a brother to him, and with the mess that Fid's got into he needs all the help he can get. The only issue is whether the Trygalle can deliver the package in time.'

  'They're an extraordinary lot, those traders.'

  'They're insane. Doing what they're doing. Sheer audacity is the only thing that keeps them alive.'

  'I'd add a certain skill for travelling inimical warrens, Quick.'

  'Let us hope it's sufficient,' the wizard responded.

  'It wasn't just Moranth munitions, was it?'

  'No. The situation in Seven Cities couldn't be more desperate. Anyway, I've done what I could. As to its effectiveness, we'll see.'

  'You're a remarkable man, Quick Ben.'

  'No, I'm not. Now, best keep all this as private an affair as possible. Hedge will keep his trap shut, and so will Whiskeyjack—'

  'Gentlemen! Such a lovely evening!'

  Both swung at the voice booming directly behind them.

  'Kruppe!' Quick Ben hissed. 'You slippery—'

  'Now now, Kruppe begs your indulgence. 'Twas mere happy accident that Kruppe heard your admirable words whilst almost stumbling ever so quietly on your heels, and indeed, now desires nothing else than to partake, ever so humbly, in courageous enterprise!'

  'If you speak a word of this to anyone,' Quick Ben growled, 'I will slit your throat.'

  The Daru withdrew his decrepit handkerchief and mopped his forehead, three quick dabs that seemed to leave the silk cloth sodden with sweat. 'Kruppe assures deadly wizard that silence is as Kruppe's closest mistress, lover unseen and unseeable, unsuspected and unmitigable, whilst at the same time, Kruppe proclaims that the fair citizens of Darujhistan will hark to such a noble cause—Baruk himself so assures and would do so in person were he able. Alas, he has naught but this fer.' With that Kruppe withdrew with a flourish a small glass ball from the handkerchief, then dropped it to the ground. It broke with a tinkle. Mists rose, gathered knee-high between the Daru and the two Malazans, and slowly assumed the form of a bhokaral.

  'Aai,' Kruppe muttered, 'such ugly, indeed visually offensive, creatures.'

  'Only because you resemble them all too closely,' Quick Ben pointed out, his eyes on the apparition.

  The bhokaral twisted its neck to look up at the wizard, glittering black eyes in a black, grapefruit-sized head. The creature bared its needle teeth. 'Greet! Baruk! Master! Would! Help!'

  'Sadly terse effort on dear, no doubt overworked Baruk's part,' Kruppe said. 'His best conjurations display linguistic grace, if not amiable fluidity, whilst this… thing, alas, evinces—'

  'Quiet, Kruppe,' Quick Ben said. He spoke to the bhokaral. 'Uncharacteristic as it sounds, I would welcome Baruk's help, but I must wonder at the alchemist's interest. This is a rebellion in Seven Cities, after all. A Malazan matter.'

  The bhokaral's head bobbed. 'Yes! Baruk! Master! Raraku! Azath! Great!' The head jumped up and down again.

  'Great?' Paran echoed.

  'Great! Danger! Azath! Icarium! More! Coltaine! Admire! Honour!' Allies! Yes! Yes?'

  'Something tells me this won't be easy,' Quick Ben muttered. 'All right, let's get down to details…'

  Paran turned at the sound of an approaching rider. The figure appeared, indistinct in the starlight. The first detail the captain noted was the horse, a powerful destrier, proud and clearly short-tempered. The woman astride the animal was by contrast unprepossessing, her armour plain and old, the face beneath the rim of the helm apparently undistinguished, middle-aged.

  Her gaze flicked to Kruppe, the bhokaral and Quick Ben. Her expression unchanged, she said to Paran, 'Captain, I would a word with you in private, sir.'

  'As you wish,' he replied, and led her off fifteen paces from the others. 'Private enough?'

  This will suffice,' the woman replied, reining in and dismounting. She stepped up to him. 'Sir, I am the Destriant of the Grey Swords. Your soldiers hold a prisoner and I have come to formally request that he be taken into our care.
'

  Paran blinked, then nodded. 'Ah, that would be Anaster, who once commanded the Tenescowri.'

  'It would, sir. We are not yet done with him.'

  'I see…' He hesitated.

  'Has he recovered from his wounds?'

  'The lost eye? He has been treated by our healers.'

  'Perhaps,' the Destriant said, 'I should deliver my request to High Fist Dujek.'

  'No, that won't be necessary. I can speak on behalf of the Malazans. In that capacity, however, it's incumbent that I ask a few questions first.'

  'As you wish, sir. Proceed.'

  'What do you intend to do with the prisoner?'

  She frowned. 'Sir?'

  'We do not countenance torture, no matter what his crime. If it is required, we would be forced to extend protection over Anaster, and so deny your request.'

  She glanced away briefly, then fixed her level gaze on him once more, and Paran realized she was much younger than he had at first assumed. 'Torture, sir, is a relative term.'

  'Is it?'

  'Please, sir, permit me to continue.'

  'Very well.'

  'The man, Anaster, might well view what we seek for him as torture, but that is a fear born of ignorance. He will not be harmed. Indeed, my Shield Anvil seeks the very opposite for the unfortunate man.'

  'She would take the pain from him.'

  The Destriant nodded.

  'That spiritual embrace—such as Itkovian did to Rath'Fener.'

  'Even so, sir.'

  Paran was silent a moment, then he said, 'The notion terrifies Anaster?'

  'Yes.'

  'Why?'

  'Because he knows of nothing else within him. He has equated his entire identity with the pain of his soul. And so fears its end.'

  Paran turned towards the Malazan camp. 'Follow me,' he said.

  'Sir?' she asked behind him.

  'He is yours, Destriant. With my blessing.'

  She staggered then, against her horse, which grunted and sidestepped.

  Paran spun. 'What—'

  The woman righted herself, lifted a hand to her brow, then shook her head. 'I am sorry. There was… weight… to your use of that word.'

  'My use—oh.'

  Oh. Hood's breath, Ganoes—that was damned careless. 'And?' he reluctantly asked.

  'And… I am not sure, sir. But I think you would be well advised to, uh, exercise caution in the future.'

  'Aye, I think you're right. Are you recovered enough to continue?'

  She nodded, collecting the reins of her horse.

  Don't think about it, Ganoes Paran. Take it as a warning and nothing more. You did nothing to Anaster—you don't even know the man. A warning, and you'll damn well heed it…

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Glass is sand and sand is glass!

  The ant dancing blind as blind ants do on the lip of the rim and the rim of the lip.

  White in the night and grey in the day—smiling spider she never smiles but smile she does though the ant never sees, blind as it is and now was!

  Tales to Scare Children

  Malesen the Vindictive (b.?)

  'MINDLESS PANIC, ALAS, MAKES HER TWITCH.' The Seerdomin's voice above him said, 'I believe it has—grown… excessive of late, Holy One.'

  The Pannion Seer's reply was a shriek: 'Do you think I can't see that? Do you think I'm blind?'

  'You are all wise and all knowing,' the Seerdomin officer rumbled. 'I was simply expressing my concern, Holy One. He can no longer walk, and his breath seems so laboured within that malformed chest.'

  'He'… crippled… crumpled ribs like skeleton hands closing tighter on lungs, ever tighter. Seerdomin. This is me you describe. But who am I?

  I'd felt power once. Long ago. There is a wolf.

  A wolf. Trapped in this cage—my chest, these bones, yes, he cannot breathe. It hurts so to breathe.

  The howls are gone. Silenced. The wolf cannot call… call… To whom?

  I'd rested my hand, once, on her furred shoulder. Near the neck. We'd not yet awakened, she and I. So close, travelling in step, yet not awakened… such tragic ignorance. Yet she'd gifted me her mortal visions, her only history—such as she knew it to be, whilst deep in her heart slept…

  … slept my beloved.

  'Holy One, your mother's embrace will kill him, should he be returned to it—'

  'You dare order me?' the Seer hissed, and there was trembling in his voice.

  'I do not command, Holy One. I state a fact.'

  'Ultentha! Dearest Septarch, come forward! Yes, look upon this man at your Seerdomin's feet. What think you?'

  'Holy One,' a new voice, softer, 'my most trusted servant speaks true. This man's bones are so mangled—'

  'I can see!' the Seer screamed.

  'Holy One,' the Septarch continued, 'relieve him from his horror.'

  'No! I will not! He is mine! He is Mother's! She needs him—someone to hold—she needs him!'

  'Her love is proving fatal,' the Seerdomin said.

  'You both defy me? Shall I gather my Winged Ones? To send you to oblivion? To fight and squabble over what's left? Yes? Shall I?'

  'As the Holy One wills.'

  'Yes, Ultentha! Precisely! As I will!'

  The Seerdomin spoke. 'Shall I return him to the Matron, then, Holy One?'

  'Not yet. Leave him there. I am amused by the sight of him. Now, Ultentha, your report.'

  'The trenches are completed, Holy One. The enemy will come across the flats to face the city wall. They'll not send scouts to the forested ridge on their right—I will stake my soul on that.'

  'You have, Ultentha, you have. And what of those damned Great Ravens? If but one has seen…'

  'Your Winged Ones have driven them off, Holy One. The skies have been cleared, and so the enemy's intelligence is thus thwarted. We shall permit them to establish their camps on the flats, then we shall rise from our hidden positions and descend upon their flank. This, in time with the assault of the Mage Cadres from the walls and the Winged Ones from the sky, as well as Septarch Inal's sortie from the gates—Holy One, victory will be ours.'

  'I want Caladan Brood. I want his hammer, delivered into my hands. I want the Malazans annihilated. I want the Barghast gods grovelling at my feet. But most of all, I want the Grey Swords! Is that understood? I want that man, Itkovian—then I will have a replacement for my mother. Thus, hear me well, if you seek mercy for Toc the Younger, bring to me Itkovian. Alive.'

  'It will be as you will, Holy One,' Septarch Ultentha said.

  It will be as he wills. He is my god. What he wills, all that he wills. The wolf cannot breathe. The wolf is dying.

  He—we are dying.

  'And where is the enemy now, Ultentha?'

  'They have indeed divided, two days past, since they crossed the river.'

  'Yet are they not aware that the cities they march towards are dead?'

  'So their Great Ravens must have reported, Holy One.'

  'Then what are they up to?'

  'We are unsure. Your Winged Ones dare not draw too close—their presence is yet to be noted, I believe, and best we keep it that way.'

  'Agreed. Well, perhaps they imagine we have set traps—hidden troops, or some such thing—and fear a surprise attack from behind should they simply ignore the cities.'

  'We are granted more time by their caution, Holy One.'

  'They are fools, swollen with the victory at Capustan.'

  'Indeed, Holy One. For which they will dearly pay.'

  Everyone pays. No-one escapes. I thought I was safe. The wolf was a power unto himself, stretching awake. He was where I fled to.

  But the wolf chose the wrong man, the wrong body. When he came down to take my eye—that flash of grey, burning, that I'd thought a stone—I'd been whole, young, sound.

  But the Matron has me now. Old skin sloughing from her massive arms, the smell of abandoned snakepits. The twitch of her embrace—and bones break, break and break again. There has been so much
pain, its thunder endless of late. I have felt her panic, as the Seer has said. This is what has taken my mind. This is what has destroyed me.

  Better I had stayed destroyed. Better my memories never returned. Knowledge is no gift.

  Cursed aware. Lying here on this cold floor, the softly surging waves of pain receding—I can no longer feel my legs. I smell salt. Dust and mould. There is weight on my left hand. It is pinned beneath me, and now grows numb.

  I wish I could move.

  ' . . . salt the bodies. There's no shortage. Scurvy's taken so many of the Tenescowri, it's all our troops can do to gather the corpses, Holy One.'

  'Mundane diseases will not take the soldiers, Ultentha. I have seen this in a dream. The mistress walked among the Tenescowri, and lo, their flesh swelled, their fingers and toes rotted and turned black, their teeth fell out in streams of red spit. But when she came upon my chosen warriors, I saw her smile. And she turned away.'

  'Holy One,' the Seerdomin said, 'why would Poleil bless our cause?'

  'I know not, nor do I care. Perhaps she has had her own vision, of the glory of our triumph, or perhaps she simply begs favour. Our soldiers will be hale. And once the invaders are destroyed, we can begin our march once more, to new cities, new lands, and there grow fat on the spoils.'

  The invaders… among them, my kin. I was Toc the Younger, a Malazan. And the Malazans are coming.

  The laugh that came from his throat began softly, a liquid sound, then grew louder as it continued.

  The conversation fell silent. The sound he made was the only one in the chamber.

  The Seer's voice spoke from directly above him. 'And what amuses you so, Toc the Younger? Can you speak? Ah, haven't I asked that once before?'

  Breath wheezing, Toc answered, 'I speak. But you do not hear me. You never hear me.'

  'Indeed?'

  'Onearm's Host, Seer. The deadliest army the Malazan Empire has ever produced. It's coming for you.'

  'And I should quake?'

  Toc laughed again. 'Do as you like. But your mother knows.'

  'You think she fears your stupid soldiers? I forgive your ignorance, Toc the Younger. Dear Mother, it must be explained, has ancient… terrors. Moon's Spawn. But let me be more precise, so as to prevent your further misunderstanding. Moon's Spawn is now home to the Tiste Andü and their dreaded Lord, but they are as lizards in an abandoned temple. They dwell unaware of the magnificence surrounding them. Dear Mother cannot be reached by such details, alas. She is little more than instinct these days, the poor, mindless thing.