Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'Aye. A fierceness not unique to sitting a saddle, from all that I've heard.'

  Itkovian glanced at Gruntle. 'My apologies. I had assumed you and she—'

  'A few times,' the man replied. 'When we were both drunk, alas. Her more drunk than me, I'll admit. Neither of us talk about it, generally. We stumbled onto the subject once and it turned into an argument about which of us was the more embarrassed—ah, lass! What news?'

  She reined in hard, her horse's hooves kicking up dust. 'Why in Hood's name should I tell you?'

  'Then why in Hood's name did you ride back to us?'

  She scowled. 'I was simply returning to my position, oaf—and you, Itkovian, that had better not be a hint of a smile I see there. If it was, I'd have to kill you.'

  'Most certainly not, sir.'

  'Glad to hear it.'

  'So?' Gruntle asked her.

  'What?'

  'The news, woman!'

  'Oh, that. Wonderful news, of course, it's the only kind we hear these days, right? Pleasing revelations. Happy times—'

  'Stonny.'

  'Old friends, Gruntle! Trundling after us about a league back. Big, bone carriage, pulled by a train that ain't quite what it seems. Dragging a pair of flatbed wagons behind, too, loaded with junk—did I say junk? I meant loot, of course, including more than one sun-blackened corpse. And an old man on the driver's seat. With a mangy cat in his lap. Well, what do you know? Old friends, yes?'

  Gruntle's expression had flattened, his eyes suddenly cold. 'No Buke?'

  'Not even his horse. Either he's flown, or—'

  The Mortal Sword wheeled his horse round and drove his heels into the beast's flanks.

  Itkovian hesitated. He glanced at Stonny and was surprised to see undisguised sympathy softening her face. Her green eyes found him. 'Catch up with him, will you?' she asked quietly.

  He nodded, lowered the visor of his Malazan helm. The faintest shift in weight and a momentary brush of the reins against his horse's neck brought the animal about.

  His mount was pleased with the opportunity to stretch its legs, and given its lighter burden was able to draw Itkovian alongside Gruntle with two-thirds of a league remaining. The Mortal Sword's horse was already labouring.

  'Sir!' Itkovian called. 'Pace, sir! Else we'll be riding double on the return!'

  Gruntle hissed a curse, made as if to urge his horse yet faster, then relented, straightening in the saddle, reins loose, as the beast's gallop slowed, fell into a canter.

  'Fast trot now, sir,' Itkovian advised. 'We'll drop to a walk in a hundred paces so she can stretch her neck and open full her air passages.'

  'Sorry, Itkovian,' Gruntle said a short while later. 'There's no heat to my temper these days, but that seems to make it all the deadlier, I'm afraid.'

  'Trake would—'

  'No, don't even try, friend. I've said it before. I don't give a damn what Trake wants or expects of me, and the rest of you had best stop seeing me that way. Mortal Sword—I hate titles. I didn't even like being called captain when I guarded caravans. I only used it so I could charge more.'

  'Do you intend to attempt harm upon these travellers, sir?'

  'You well know who they are.'

  'I do.'

  'I had a friend

  'Aye, the one named Buke. I recall him. A man broken by sorrow. I once offered to take his burdens, but he refused me.'

  Gruntle's head snapped round at that. 'You did? He did?'

  Itkovian nodded. 'Perhaps I should have been more… direct.'

  'You should have grabbed him by the throat and done it no matter what he wanted. That's what the new Shield Anvil's done to that one-eyed First Child of the Dead Seed, Anaster, isn't it? And now the man rides at her side—'

  'Rides unknowing. He is naught but a shell, sir. There was naught else within him but pain. Its taking has stolen his knowledge of himself. Would you have had that as Buke's fate as well, sir?'

  The man grimaced.

  Less than a third of a league remained, assuming Stonny's claim was accurate, but the roll of the eroded beach ridges reduced the line of sight, and indeed it was the sound that the carriage made, a muted clanking riding the wind, that alerted the two men to its proximity.

  They crested a ridge and had to rein in quickly to avoid colliding with the train of oxen.

  Emancipor Reese was wearing a broad, smudged bandage, wrapped vertically about his head, not quite covering a swollen jaw and puffy right eye. The cat in his lap screamed at the sudden arrival of the two riders, then clawed its way up the servant's chest, over the left shoulder, and onto the roof of the ghastly carriage, where it vanished into a fold of K'Chain Che'Malle bone and skin. Reese himself jumped in his seat, almost toppling from his perch before recovering his balance.

  'Bathtardth! Why you do tha? Hood'th b'eth!'

  'Apologies, sir,' Itkovian said, 'for startling you so. You are injured—'

  'In'ured? Tho. Tooth. B'oke ith. Olib pith.'

  Itkovian frowned, glanced at Gruntle.

  The Mortal Sword shrugged. 'Olive pit, maybe?'

  'Aye!' Reese nodded vigorously, then winced at the motion. 'Wha you wanth?'

  Gruntle drew a deep breath, then said, 'The truth, Reese. Where's Buke?'

  The servant shrugged. 'Gone.'

  'Did they—'

  'Tho! Gone! Thlown!' He jerked his arms up and down. 'Thlap thlap! Unnerthan? Yeth?'

  Gruntle sighed, glanced away, then slowly nodded. 'Well enough,' he said a moment later.

  The carriage door opened and Bauchelain leaned out. 'Why have we stop—ah, the caravan captain… and the Grey Sword, I believe, but where, sir, is your uniform?'

  'I see no need—'

  'Never mind,' Bauchelain interrupted, climbing out, 'I wasn't really interested in your answer. Well, gentlemen, you have business to discuss, perhaps? Indulge my rudeness, if you will, I am weary and short of temper of late, alas. Indeed, before you utter another word, I advise you not to irritate me. The next unpleasant interruption is likely to see my temper snap entirely, and that would be a truly fell thing, I assure you. Now, what would you with us?'

  'Nothing,' Gruntle said.

  The necromancer's thin, black brows rose fractionally. 'Nothing?'

  'I came to enquire of Buke.'

  'Buke? Who—oh yes, him. Well, the next time you see him, tell him he is fired.'

  I'll do that.'

  No-one spoke for a moment, then Itkovian cleared his throat. 'Sir,' he said to Bauchelain, 'your servant has broken a tooth and appears to be in considerable discomfort. Surely, with your arts…'

  Bauchelain turned and looked up at Reese. 'Ah, that explains the head garb. I admit I'd been wondering… a newly acquired local fashion, perhaps? But no, as it turns out. Well, Reese, it seems I must once more ask Korbal Broach to make ready for surgery—this is the third such tooth to break, yes? More olives, no doubt. If you still persist in the belief that olive pits are deadly poison, why are you so careless when eating said fruit? Ah, never mind.'

  'Tho thurgery, pleath! Tho! Pleath!'

  'What are you babbling about, man? Be quiet! Wipe that drool away—it's unsightly. Do you think I cannot see your pain, servant? Tears have sprung from your eyes, and you are white—deathly white. And look at you shake so—not another moment must be wasted! Korbal Broach! Come out, if you will, with your black bag! Korbal!'

  The wagon rocked slightly in answer.

  Gruntle swung his horse round. Itkovian followed suit.

  'Until later, then, gentlemen!' Bauchelain called out behind them. Rest assured I am grateful for your advising me of my servant's condition. As he is equally grateful, no doubt, and were he able to speak coherently I am sure he would tell you so.'

  Gruntle lifted a hand in a brusque wave.

  They set off to rejoin Trake's Legion.

  Neither spoke for a time, until a soft rumbling from Gruntle drew Itkovian's attention. The Mortal Sword, he saw, was laughing.

  'Wh
at amuses you so, sir?'

  'You, Itkovian. I expect Reese will curse your concern for the rest of his days.'

  'An odd expression of gratitude that would be. Will he not be healed?'

  'Oh, yes, I am sure he will, Itkovian. But here's something for you to ponder on, if you will. Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease.'

  'Can you explain that?'

  'Ask Emancipor Reese, the next time you see him.'

  'Very well, I will do just that, sir.'

  The stench of smoke clung to the walls, and sufficient old stains blotting the rugs attested to the slaughter of acolytes down hallways and in anterooms and annexes throughout the temple.

  Coll wondered if Hood had been pleased to have his own children delivered unto him, within the god's own sanctified structure.

  It appeared to be no easy thing to desecrate a place made sacred to death. The Daru could feel the breath of unabated power, cool and indifferent, as he sat on the stone bench outside the chamber of the sepulchre.

  Murillio paced up and down the wide main hallway to his right, stepping into his line of sight then out again, over and over.

  In the holy chamber beyond, the Knight of Death was preparing a place for the Mhybe. Three bells had passed since Hood's chosen servant had walked into the chamber of the sepulchre, the doors closing of their own accord behind him.

  Coll waited until Murillio reappeared once more. 'He can't let go of those swords.'

  Murillio paused, glanced over. 'So?'

  'Well,' Coll rumbled, 'it might well take him three bells to make a bed.'

  His friend's expression filled with suspicion. 'That was supposed to be funny?'

  'Not entirely. I was thinking in pragmatic terms. I was trying to imagine the physical awkwardness of attempting to do anything with swords stuck to your hands. That's all.'

  Murillio made to say something, changed his mind with a muttered oath, wheeled and resumed his pacing.

  They had carried the Mhybe into the temple five days past, settling her into a room that had once belonged to a ranking priest. They had unloaded the wagon and stored their food and water in the cellars amidst the shards of hundreds of shattered jugs and the floor and the walls made sticky with wine, the air thick and cloying and rank as an innkeeper's apron.

  Every meal since had tasted wine-soaked, reminding Coll of the almost two years he had wasted as a drunk, drowning in misery's dark waters as only a man in love with self-pity can. He would have liked to call the man he had been a stranger now, but the world had a way of spinning unnoticed, until what he'd thought he'd turned his back on suddenly faced him again.

  Even worse, introspection—for him at least—was a funnel in sand, a spider waiting at the bottom. And Coll well knew he was quite capable of devouring himself.

  Murillio strode into view again.

  'The ant danced blind,' Coll said.

  'What?'

  'The old children's tale—remember it?'

  'You've lost your mind, haven't you?'

  'Not yet. At least I don't think so.'

  'But that's just it, Coll. You wouldn't know, would you?'

  He watched Murillio spin round once more, step past the wall's edge and out of sight. The world spins about us unseen. The blind dance in circles. There's no escaping what you are, and all your dreams glittered white at night, but grey in the light of day. And both are equally deadly. Who was that damned poet? The Vindictive. An orphan, he'd claimed. Wrote a thousand stories to terrify children. Was stoned by a mob in Darujhistan, which he survived. I think—that was years ago. His tales live in the streets, now. Singsong chants to accompany the games of the young.

  Damned sinister, if you ask me.

  He shook himself, seeking to clear his mind before stumbling into yet another pitfall of memory. Before she'd stolen his estate, before she'd destroyed him, Sinital had told him she carried his child. He wondered if that child had ever existed—Sinital fought with lies where others used knives. There'd been no announcement of any birth. Though of course the chance of his missing such an announcement was pretty much certain in those days that followed his fall. But his friends would have known. Would have told him, if not then, then now…

  Murillio stepped into view.

  'A moment there,' Coll growled.

  'Now what? The beetle flipped on its back? The worm circling the hole?'

  'A question, Murillio.'

  'All right, if you insist.'

  'Did you ever hear tell of a child born to Sinital?' He watched his friend's face slowly close, the eyes narrowing. 'That is a question not to be asked in this temple, Coll.'

  'I'm asking it none the less.'

  'I do not think you're ready—'

  'Not for you to judge and you should know better, Murillio. Dammit, I've been sitting on the Council for months! And I'm still not ready? What absurdity is—'

  'All right all right! It's just this: there's only rumours.'

  'Don't lie to me.'

  'I'm not. There was a span of more than a few months—just after your, uh, demise—when she made no public appearance. Explained away as mourning, of course, though everyone knew—'

  'Yes, I know what everyone knew. So she hid out for a time. Go on.'

  'Well, we believed she was consolidating her position. Behind the scenes. Rallick was keeping an eye on her. At least I think he was. He'd know more.'

  'And you two never discussed the details of what she was up to, what she looked like? Murillio—'

  'Well, what would Rallick know of mothering?'

  'When they're with child, their bellies swell and their breasts get bigger. I'm sure our assassin friend has seen one or two so-afflicted women on Darujhistan's streets—did he just think they were eating melons whole?'

  'No need to be sarcastic, Coll. All I'm saying is, he wasn't sure.'

  'What about the estate's servants? Any women who'd just given birth?'

  'Rallick never mentioned—'

  'My, what an observant assassin.'

  'Fine!' Murillio snapped. 'Here's what I think! She had a child. She sent it away. Somewhere. She wouldn't have abandoned it, because at some point she would have wanted to use it, as a verifiable heir, as marriage-bait, whatever. Sinital was lowborn; whatever contacts she had from her past were private ones—kept from everyone but those involved, including you, as you well know. I think she sent the child that way, somewhere no-one would think of looking.'

  'Almost three, now,' Coll said, slowly leaning back to rest his head against the wall. He closed his eyes. 'Three years of age…'

  'Maybe so. But at the time there wasn't any way of finding—'

  'You'd have needed my blood. Then Baruk…'

  'Right,' Murillio snapped, 'we'd just go and bleed you one night when you were passed-out drunk.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because, you ox, back then, there didn't seem much point!'

  'Fair enough. But I've walked a straight line for months now, Murillio.'

  'Then you do it, Coll. Go to Baruk.'

  'I will. Now that I know.'

  'Listen, friend, I've known a lot of drunks in my time. You look at four, five months being sober and think it's eternity. But me, I see a man still brushing the puke from his clothes. A man who could get knocked right back down. I wasn't going to push—it's too soon—'

  'I hear you. I don't curse your decision, Murillio. You were right to be cautious. But what I see—what I see now, that is—is a reason. Finally, a real reason to hold myself up.'

  'Coll, I hope you're not thinking you can just walk into whatever household your child's being raised in and take it away—'

  'Why not? It's mine.'

  'And there's a place waiting for it on your mantelpiece, right?'

  'You think I can't raise a child?'

  'I know you can't, Coll. But, if you do this right, you can pay to see it grow up well, with opportunities that it might not otherwise have.'

  'A hidden benefactor. Huh. That would b
e… noble.'

  'Be honest: it would be convenient, Coll. Not noble, not heroic.'

  'And you call yourself a friend.'

  'I do.'

  Coll sighed. 'And so you should, though I don't know what I've done to deserve such friendship.'

  'Since I don't want to depress you further, we'll discuss that subject some other time.'

  The massive stone doors to the chamber of the sepulchre swung open.

  Grunting, Coll rose from the bench.

  The Knight of Death stepped into the hallway to stand directly before Murillio. 'Bring the woman,' the warrior said. 'The preparations are complete.'

  Coll strode to the entrance and looked within. A large hole had been carved through the floor's solid stone in the centre of the chamber.

  Shattered stone rose in heaps banked against a side wall. Suddenly chilled, the Daru pushed past the Knight of Death. 'Hood's breath!' he exclaimed. 'That's a damned sarcophagus!'

  'What?' Murillio cried, rushing to join Coll. He stared at the burial pit, then spun to the Knight. 'The Mhybe's not dead, you fool!' The warrior's lifeless eyes fixed on Coll's companion. 'The preparations,' he said, 'are complete.'

  Ankle-deep in dust, she stumbled across a wasteland. The tundra had disintegrated, and with it the hunters, the demonic pursuers who had been such unwelcome company for so long. The desolation surrounding her was, she realized, far worse. No grasses underfoot, no sweet cool wind. The hum of the blackflies was gone, those avid companions so eager to feed on her flesh—though her scalp still crawled as if some had survived the devastation.

  And she was weakening, her youthful muscles failing in some un-definable way. Not weariness alone, but some kind of chronic dissolution. She was losing her substantiality, and that realization was the most terrifying of all.

  The sky overhead was colourless, devoid of cloud or even sun, yet faintly illuminated by some unseen source. It seemed impossibly distant—to look upward for too long was to risk madness, mind railing at its inability to comprehend what the eyes were seeing.

  So she held her gaze fixed directly ahead as she staggered on. There was nothing to mark the horizon in any direction. She might well be walking in circles for all she knew, though if so it was a vast circle, for she'd yet to cross her own path. She had no destination in mind for this journey of the spirit; nor the will to seek to fashion one in this deathly dreamscape, had she known how.