Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'Aye,' Quick Ben growled, 'think on that. In the meantime, you're going to ease loose your power, sufficient to carry me over this crowd of Barghast, and into the plaza in front of the Thrall. Then you're going to withdraw, far enough to give Talamandas the freedom he's supposed to have. Hover behind his painted eyes, if you so desire, but no closer. Until I decide I need you once more.'

  'You will be mine one day, mortal—'

  'No doubt, Hood. In the meantime, let's just luxuriate in the anticipation, shall we?' With these words, the wizard released his grip on the god's cloak. The presence flinched back.

  Power flowed steady, the currents of air drawing Quick Ben and the sticksnare clinging to his shoulder over the tops of the canopies.

  Talamandas hissed. 'What has happened? I, uh, vanished for a moment.'

  'Everything's fine,' the wizard murmured. 'Does the power feel true, Sticksnare?'

  'Aye, it does. This, this I can use.'

  'Glad to hear it. Now, guide us to the plaza.'

  A thin gauze of old smoke dulled the stars overhead. Captain Paran sat on the wide steps of the Thrall's main entrance. Directly ahead, at the end of a wide avenue, stood the gatehouse. Visible through its open doorway, in the plaza beyond, firelight from Barghast camps gleamed through gathering mists.

  The Malazan was exhausted, yet sleep would not come to him. His thoughts had wandered countless paths since he'd left Cafal's company two bells earlier. Barghast shouldermen still worked in the chamber, dismantling the canoes, collecting ancient weapons. Outside that room and beyond that activity, the Thrall seemed virtually deserted, lifeless.

  The empty halls and corridors led Paran inexorably to what he imagined his parents' estate in Unta might now look like, with his mother and father dead, Felisin chained to a line in some mining pit a thousand leagues away, and dear sister Tavore dwelling in a score opulent chambers in Laseen's palace.

  A house alone with its memories, looted by servants and guards and the street's gutter rats. Did the Adjunct ever ride past? Did her thoughts turn to it in the course of her busy day?

  She was not one to spare a moment to sentiment. Cold-eyed, hers was a brutal rationality, pragmatism with a thousand honed edges—to cut open anyone foolish enough to come close.

  The Empress would be well pleased with her new Adjunct.

  And what of you, Felisin? With your wide smile and dancing eyes? There is no modesty in the Otataral Mines, nothing to shield you from

  the worst of human nature. You'll have been taken under wing none the less, by some pimp or pit-thug.

  A flower crushed underfoot.

  Yet your sister has it in mind to retrieve you—that much I know of her. She might well have thrown in a guardian or two for the length of your sentence.

  But she'll not be rescuing a child. Not any more. No smile, and something hard and deadly in those once-dancing eyes. You should have found another way, sister. Gods, you should have killed Felisin outright—that would have been a mercy.

  And now, now I fear you will some day pay dearly… Paran slowly shook his head. His was a family none would envy. Torn apart by our own hands, no less. And now, we siblings, each launched on our separate fates. The likelihood of those fates' one day converging never seemed so remote.

  The worn steps before him were flecked with ash; as if the only survivor in this city was the stone itself. The darkness felt solemn, sorrowful. All the sounds that should have accompanied the night, in this place, were absent. Hood feels close this night…

  One of the massive double doors behind him swung open. The captain glanced back over a shoulder, then nodded. 'Mortal Sword. You look well… rested.'

  The huge man grimaced. 'I feel beaten to within a finger's breadth of my life. That's a mean woman.'

  'I've heard men say that of their women before, and always there's a pleased hint to the complaint. As I hear now.' Gruntle frowned. 'Aye, you're right. Funny, that.'

  'These stairs are wide. Have a seat if you like.'

  'I would not disturb your solitude, Captain.'

  'Please do, it's nothing I would regret abandoning. Too many dark thoughts creep in when I'm alone.'

  The Mortal Sword moved forward and slowly settled down onto the step at Paran's side, his tattered armour—straps loose—rustling and clinking. He rested his forearms on his knees, the gauntleted hands dangling. 'I share the same curse, Captain.'

  'Fortunate, then, that you found Hetan.' The man grunted. 'Problem is, she's insatiable.'

  'In other words, you're the one in search of solitude, which my presence has prevented.'

  'So long as you don't claw my back, your company is welcome.'

  Paran nodded. 'I'm not the catty type—uh, sorry.'

  'No need. If Trake ain't got a sense of humour that's his problem. Then again, he must have, since he picked me as his Mortal Sword.'

  Paran studied the man beside him. Behind the barbed tattoos was a face that had lived hard years. Weathered, roughly chiselled, with eyes that matched those of a tiger's now that the god's power was within his flesh and blood. None the less, there were laugh lines around those eyes. 'Seems to me Trake chose wisely…'

  'Not if he expects piety, or demands vows. Hood knows, I don't even like fighting. I'm not a soldier and have no desire to be. How, then, am I supposed to serve the God of War?'

  'Better you, I think, than some blood-lusting square-foot with a single eyebrow, Gruntle. Reluctance to unsheathe those swords and all they represent seems a good thing to me. The gods know it's rare enough at the moment.'

  'Not sure about that. This whole city was reluctant. The priests, the Gidrath, even the Grey Swords. If there'd been any other way…' He shrugged. 'The same for me. If it wasn't for what happened to Harllo and Stonny, I'd be down in the tunnels right now, gibbering with the rest of them.'

  'Stonny's your friend with the broken rapier, right? Who's Harllo?'

  Gruntle turned his head away for a moment. 'Another victim, Captain.' Bitterness filled his tone. 'Just one more on the trail. So I hear that your Malazan army's just west of here, come to join this death-cursed war. Why?'

  'A temporary aberration. We ran out of enemies.'

  'Soldiers' humour. I never could understand it. Is fighting that important to you?'

  'If you mean me, personally, then no, it isn't. But for men like Dujek Onearm and Whiskeyjack, it's the sum total of their lives. They're makers of history. Their gift is the power to command. What they do revises the scholar's maps. As for the soldiers who follow them, I'd say that most of them see it as a profession, a career, probably the only one they're any good at. They are the physical will of the commanders they serve, and so are their own makers of history, one soldier at a time.'

  'And what happens if their commanders are suicidal fools?'

  'It's a soldier's lot to complain about their officers. Every mud-crusted footman is an artist at second-guessing, master strategists after the fact. But the truth is, the Malazan Empire has a tradition of superb, competent commanders. Hard and fair, usually from the ranks, though I grant you my own noble class has made destructive inroads on that tradition. Had I myself followed a safer path, I might well be a Fist by now—not through competence, of course, or even experience. Connections would have sufficed. The Empress has finally recognized the rot, however, and has already acted upon it, though likely too late.'

  'Then why in Hood's name would she have outlawed Dujek Onearm?'

  Paran was silent for a moment, then he shrugged. 'Politics. Expedience can force even the hand of an Empress, I suppose.'

  'Has the sound of a feint to me,' Gruntle muttered. 'You don't cut loose your best commander in a fit of pique.'

  'You might be right. Alas, I'm not the one who can either confirm or deny. There's some old wounds still festering between Laseen and Dujek, in any case.'

  'Captain Paran, you speak too freely for your own good—not that I'm a liability, mind you. But you've an openness and an honesty that might earn
you the gallows some day.'

  'Here's some more, Mortal Sword. A new House has appeared, seeking membership in the Deck of Dragons. It belongs to the Crippled God. I can feel the pressure—the voice of countless gods, all demanding that I deny my sanction, since it seems that I am the one cursed with that responsibility. Do I bless the House of Chains, or not? The arguments against such a blessing are overwhelming, and I don't need any god whispering in my head to apprise me of that.'

  'So, where is the problem, Captain?'

  'It's simple. There's a lone voice crying out, deep within me, so buried as to be almost inaudible. A lone voice, Gruntle, demanding the very opposite. Demanding that I must sanction the House of Chains. I must bless the Crippled God's right to a place within the Deck of Dragons.'

  'And whose voice cries out such madness?'

  'I think it's mine.'

  Gruntle was silent for a dozen heartbeats, yet Paran felt the man's unhuman eyes fixed on him. Eventually, the Mortal Sword looked away and shrugged. 'I don't know much about the Deck of Dragons. Used for divinations, yes? Not something I've ever pursued.'

  'Nor I,' Paran admitted.

  Gruntle barked a laugh, sharp and echoing, then he slowly nodded. 'And what did you say of me earlier? Better a man who hates war to serve the God of War than one who lusts for it. Thus, why not a man who knows nothing of the Deck of Dragons to adjudicate it rather than a lifelong practitioner?'

  'You may have something there. Not that it alleviates my sense of inadequacy.'

  'Aye, just that.' He paused, then continued, 'I felt my god recoil at your words, Captain—your instincts on the Crippled God's House of Chains. But as I said before, I'm not a follower. So I guess I saw it different. If Trake wants to tremble on four watery legs that's his business.'

  'Your lack of fear has me curious, Gruntle. You seem to see no risk in legitimizing the House of Chains. Why is that?'

  The man shrugged his massive shoulders. 'But that's just it, isn't it. Legitimizing. Right now, the Crippled God's outside the whole damned game, meaning he's not bound by any rules whatsoever—'

  Paran suddenly sat straight. 'You're right. Abyss take me, that's it. If I bless the House of Chains then the Crippled God becomes… bound—'

  'Just another player, aye, jostling on the same board. Right now, he just keeps kicking it whenever he gets the chance. When he's on it, he won't have that privilege. Anyway, that's how it seems to me, Captain. So when you said you wanted to sanction the House, I thought: why the fuss? Sounds perfectly reasonable to me. The gods can be damned thick-witted on occasion—probably why they need us mortals to do the straight thinking when straight thinking's required. Listen to that lone voice, lad, that's my advice.'

  'And it's good advice—'

  'Maybe, or maybe not. I might end up being roasted over the eternal fires of the Abyss by Trake and all the other gods for having given it.'

  'I'll have company, then,' Paran said, grinning.

  'Good thing we both hate solitude.'

  'That's a soldier's humour, Gruntle.'

  'Is it? But I was being serious, Captain.'

  'Oh.'

  Gruntle glanced over. 'Got you.'

  A sliding downdraught of cool air brought Quick Ben onto the gritty flagstones of the plaza. A dozen paces ahead loomed the gatehouse. Beyond it, seated side by side on the Thrall's wide, low steps, were Captain Paran and the Mortal Sword.

  'Just the two I wanted to talk with,' the wizard muttered, relinquishing the Warren of Sere.

  'No more arguments, please,' Talamandas replied from his perch on Quick Ben's shoulder. 'Those are two powerful men—'

  'Relax,' the wizard said. 'I'm not anticipating a confrontation.'

  'Well, I'll make myself unseen, just in case.'

  'Suit yourself.'

  The sticksnare vanished, though the wizard could still feel his meagre weight, and the twig fingers gripping his cloak. The two men looked up as Quick Ben approached. Paran nodded a greeting. 'Last time I saw you, you were racked with fever. I'm glad to see you're better. Gruntle, this is Quick Ben, a soldier in the Bridgeburners.'

  'A mage.'

  'That, too.'

  Gruntle studied Quick Ben for a moment, and Paran sensed a bestial presence shifting uneasily behind the man's amber, feline eyes. Then the Daru said, 'You smell of death and it's not to my liking.'

  Quick Ben started. 'Indeed? I've been consorting with the wrong company lately. Unpalatable, agreed, but, alas, necessary.'

  'Is it just that?'

  'I hope so, Mortal Sword.'

  A brutal threat glared for a moment in Gruntle's eyes, then, slowly, dimmed. He managed a shrug. 'It was a Bridgeburner who saved Stonny's life, so I'll keep my reins taut. At least until I see if it wears off.'

  'Consider it,' Paran said to Quick Ben, 'an elaborate way of saying you need to bathe soon.'

  'Well,' the wizard replied, eyes on the captain, 'humour from you makes for a change.'

  'Plenty of changes,' Paran agreed, 'of late. If you're looking to rejoin the company they're in the Gidrath barracks.'

  'Actually, I bring word from Whiskeyjack.'

  Paran sat straighten 'You've managed to contact him? Despite the poisoned warrens? Impressive, Wizard. Now you have my utmost attention. Has he new orders for me?'

  'Another parley has been requested by Brood,' Quick Ben said. 'With all the commanders, including Gruntle here, and Humbrall Taur and whomever's left of the Grey Swords. Can you make the request known to the other principals here in Capustan?'

  'Aye, I suppose so. Is that it?'

  'If you've a report to make to Whiskeyjack, I can convey it.'

  'No thank you. I'll save that for when we meet in person.' Quick Ben scowled. Be that way, then. 'Regarding the rest, best we speak in private, Captain.'

  Gruntle made to rise but Paran reached out and halted the motion. 'I can probably anticipate your questions right here and now, Quick Ben.'

  'Maybe you can but I'd rather you didn't.'

  'Too bad for you, then. I'll make it plain. I have not yet decided whether or not to sanction the House of Chains. In fact, I haven't decided anything about anything, and it might be some time before that changes. Don't bother trying to pressure me, either.'

  Quick Ben raised both hands. 'Please, Captain. I have no intention of pressuring you, since I was the victim of such an effort only a short while ago, by Hood himself, and it's left me riled. When someone warns me to follow one course of action, my instinct is to do the very opposite. You're not the only one inclined to stir the manure.'

  Gruntle barked a laugh. 'Such droll understatement! Seems I've found perfect company this night. Do go on, Wizard.'

  'Only one more thing to add,' Quick Ben continued, studying Paran. 'An observation. Might be a wrong one, but I don't think so. You got sick, Captain, not from resisting the power forced upon you, but from resisting yourself. Whatever your instincts are demanding, listen to them. Follow them, and Abyss take the rest. That's all.'

  'Is that your advice,' Paran quietly asked, 'or Whiskeyjack's?'

  Quick Ben shrugged. 'If he was here, he'd say no different, Captain.'

  'You've known him a long time, haven't you?'

  'Aye, I have.'

  After a moment, Paran nodded. 'I'd just about reached the same conclusion myself, this night, with Gruntle's help, that is. Seems the three of us are about to make some very powerful beings very angry.'

  'Let 'em squeal,' the Mortal Sword growled. 'Hood knows, we've done more than our share, while they sat back and laughed. Time's come to pull the gauntlet onto the other hand.'

  Quick Ben sighed under his breath. All right, Hood, so I didn't really try, but only because it was clear that Paran wasn't inclined to heed you. And maybe I see why, now that I think on it. So, for what it's worth, consider this advice: there will be a House of Chains. Accept it, and prepare for it. You've ample time… more or less.

  Oh, one more thing, Hood. You and your fellow gods
have been calling out the rules uncontested for far too long. Step back, now, and see how us mortals fare… I think you're in for a surprise or two.

  Wan, dirt-smeared, but alive. The survivors of Capustan emerged from the last pit mouth as the sky paled to the east, blanched dwellers from the city's roots, shying from the torchlight as they stumbled onto the concourse, where they milled, as if lost in the place they had once known as home.

  Shield Anvil Itkovian sat once more astride his warhorse, even though any quick movement made him sway, head spinning with exhaustion and the pain of his wounds. His task now was to be visible, his sole purpose was his presence. Familiar, recognizable, reassuring.

  Come the new day, the priests of the Mask Council would begin a procession through the city, to add their own reassurance—that authority remained, that someone was in control, that things—life—could now begin again. But here, in the still darkness—a time Itkovian had chosen to ease the shock of the surrounding ruination—with the priests sleeping soundly in the Thrall, the Grey Swords, numbering three hundred and nineteen in all when including those from the tunnels, were positioned at every tunnel mouth and at every place of convergence.

  They were there to ensure martial law and impart a sombre order to the proceedings, but their greatest value, as Itkovian well knew, was psychological.

  We are the defenders. And we still stand.

  While grieving was darkness, victory and all it meant was a greying to match the dawn, a lessening of the oppression that was loss, and of the devastation that slowly revealed itself on all sides. There could be no easing of the conflict within each and every survivor—the brutal randomness of fate that plagued the spirit—but the Grey Swords made of themselves a simple, solid presence. They had become, in truth, the city's standard.

  And we still stand.

  Once this task was complete, the contract was, to Itkovian's mind, concluded. Law and order could be left to the Gidrath from the Thrall. The surviving Grey Swords would leave Capustan, likely never to return. The question now occupying the Shield Anvil concerned the company's future. From over seven thousand to three hundred and nineteen: this was a siege from which the Grey Swords might never recover. But even such horrific losses, if borne alone, were manageable. The expelling of Fener from his warren was another matter. An army sworn to a god bereft of its power was, as far as Itkovian was concerned, no different from any other band of mercenaries: a collection of misfits and a scattering of professional soldiers. A column of coins offered no reliable backbone; few were the existent companies that could rightly lay claim to honour and integrity; few would stand firm when flight was possible.