Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'The Jaghut remember Moon's Spawn. I alone am in possession of the relevant scrolls from Gothos's Folly that whisper of the K'Chain Nah'rhuk—the Short-Tails, misbegotten children of the Matrons—who fashioned mechanisms that bound sorcery in ways long lost, who built vast, floating fortresses from which they launched devastating attacks upon their long-tailed kin.

  'Oh, they lost in the end. Were destroyed. And but one floating fortress remained, damaged, abandoned to the winds. Gothos believed it had drifted north, to collide with the ice of a Jaghut winter, and was so frozen, trapped for millennia. Until found by the Tiste Andü Lord.

  'Do you comprehend, Toc the Younger? Anomander Rake knows nothing of Moon's Spawn's fullest powers—powers he has no means of accessing even were he to know of them. Dear Mother remembers, or at least some part of her does. Of course, she has nothing to fear. Moon's Spawn is not within two hundred leagues of here—my Winged Ones have searched for it, high overhead, through the warrens, everywhere. The only conclusion is that Moon's Spawn has fled, or failed at last—was it not almost destroyed over Pale? So you've told me.

  'So you see, Toc the Younger, your Malazan army holds no terror for any of us, including dear Mother. Onearm's Host will be crushed in the assault on Coral. As will Brood and his Rhivi. Moreover, the White Faces will be shattered—they've not the discipline for this kind of war. I will have them all. And I will feed you bits of Dujek Onearm's flesh—you'd like some meat again, wouldn't you? Something that hasn't been… regurgitated. Yes?'

  He said nothing, even as his stomach clenched in visceral greed.

  The Seer crouched lower and touched a fingertip to Toc's temple. 'It's so easy breaking you. All your faiths. One by one. Almost too easy. The only salvation you can hope for is mine, Toc the Younger. You understand that now, don't you?'

  'Yes,' he replied.

  'Very good. Pray, then, that there is mercy in my soul. True, I've yet to find any myself, though I admit I've little searched. But perhaps it exists. Hold to that, my friend.'

  'Yes.'

  The Seer straightened. 'I hear my mother's cries. Take him back, Seerdomin.'

  'As you command, Holy One.'

  Strong arms gathered Toc the Younger, lifted him with ease from the cold floor.

  He was carried from the room. In the hallway, the Seerdomin paused.

  'Toc, listen to me, please. She's chained down below, and the reach does not encompass the entire room. Listen. I will set you down beyond her grasp. I will bring food, water, blankets—the Seer will pay little heed to her cries, for she is always crying these days. Nor will he probe towards her mind—there are matters of far greater import consuming him.'

  'He will have you devoured, Seerdomin.'

  'I was devoured long ago, Malazan.'

  'I—I am sorry for that.'

  The man holding him said nothing for a long moment, and when he spoke at last, his voice cracked. 'You… you offer compassion. Abyss take me, Toc, I am ever surpassed. Allow to me, please, my small efforts—'

  'With gratitude, Seerdomin.'

  'Thank you.'

  He set off once more.

  Toc spoke. 'Tell me, Seerdomin, does the ice still grip the sea?'

  'Not for at least a league, Toc. Some unexpected twist of the currents has cleared the harbour. But the storms still rage over the bay, and the ice out there still thunders and churns like ten thousand demons at war. Can you not hear it?'

  'No.'

  'Aye, I'll grant you it's faint from here. From the keep's causeway, it is a veritable assault.'

  'I—I remember the wind…'

  'It no longer reaches us. Yet another wayward vagary, for which I am thankful.'

  'In the Matron's cave,' Toc said, 'there is no wind.'

  Wood splintered, a sickening sound that trembled through the entire Meckros fragment. Lady Envy paused in her climb towards the street's ragged, torn end. The slope had grown suddenly steeper, the frost slick on the cobbles underfoot. She hissed in frustration, then drew on a warren and floated to where Lanas Tog stood on the very edge.

  The T'lan Imass did not so much as sway on her perilous perch. Wind ripped at her tattered skins and bone-white hair. The swords still impaling her glistened with rime.

  Reaching her side, Lady Envy saw more clearly the source of the terrible, snapping sounds. A vast section of ice had collided with them, was grinding its way along the base in a foaming sluice of jetting water and spraying ice.

  'Dear me,' Lady Envy muttered. 'It seems we are ever pushed westward.'

  'Yet we drive towards land none the less,' Lanas Tog replied. 'And that is sufficient.'

  'Twenty leagues from Coral by this course, and all of it wilderness, assuming my memories of the region's map are accurate. I was so weary of walking, alas. Have you seen our abode yet? Apart from the canting floor and alarming views through the windows, it is quite sumptuous. I cannot abide discomfort, you know.'

  The T'lan Imass made no reply, continued staring northwestward.

  'You're all alike,' Lady Envy sniffed. 'It took weeks to get Tool in a conversational mood.'

  'You have mentioned the name earlier. Who is Tool?'

  'Onos T'oolan, First Sword. The last time I saw him, he was even more bedraggled than you, dear, so there's hope for you yet.'

  'Onos T'oolan. I saw him but once.'

  'The First Gathering, no doubt.'

  'Yes. He spoke against the ritual.'

  'So of course you hate him.'

  The T'lan Imass did not immediately reply. The structure shifted wildly beneath them, their end pitching down as the floe punched clear, then lifting upward once more. There was not even a waver to Lanas Tog's stance. She spoke. 'Hate him? No. Of course I disagreed. We all did, and so he acquiesced. It is a common belief.'

  Lady Envy waited, then crossed her arms and asked, 'What is?'

  'That truth is proved by weight of numbers. That what the many believe to be right, must be so. When I see Onos T'oolan once more, I will tell him: he was the one who was right.'

  'I don't think he holds a grudge, Lanas Tog. I suppose, thinking on it, that makes him unique among the T'lan Imass, doesn't it?'

  'He is the First Sword.'

  'I have had yet another, equally frustrating conversation with Mok. I'd been wondering, you see, why he and his brothers have not challenged you to combat yet. Both Senu and Thurule have fought Tool—and lost. Mok was next. Turns out the Seguleh will not fight women, unless attacked. So, by way of warning, do not attack them.'

  'I have no reason to, Lady Envy. Should I find one, however—'

  'All right, I'll be more direct. Tool was hard-pressed by both Senu and Thurule. Against Mok, well, it was probably even. Are you a match to the First Sword, Lanas Tog? If you truly seek to reach the Second Gathering in one piece, to deliver your message, then show some restraint.'

  Iron grated against bone as Lanas Tog shrugged.

  Lady Envy sighed. 'Now, which is more depressing? Attempting civil conversation with you and the Seguleh, or staring into the suffering eyes of a wolf? I cannot even comment on Garath's mood, for the beast still seems upset with me.'

  'The ay has awakened,' Lanas Tog said.

  I know, I know, and truly, my heart weeps on her behalf, or at least on behalf of the miserable goddess residing within her. Then again, they both deserve a few tears, don't they? An eternity alone for the not-quite-mortal ay cannot have been fun, after all.'

  The T'lan Imass turned her head. 'Who has granted the beast this edged gift?'

  Lady Envy shrugged, smiling with delight at the opportunity to return such a gesture. 'A misguided sibling who'd thought he was being kind. All right, perhaps that was too simplistic an answer. My sibling had found the goddess, terribly damaged by the Fall, and needed a warm-blooded place to lay her spirit, so that it could heal. Serendipity. The ay's pack was dead, whilst she herself was too young to survive in normal circumstances. Worse yet, she was the last left on the entire continent.'
<
br />   'Your sibling has a misplaced sense of mercy, Lady Envy.'

  'I agree. We have something in common after all! How wonderful!' A moment later, as she studied the T'lan Imass at her side, her effusiveness drained away. 'Oh,' she muttered, 'what a distressing truth that proved to be.'

  Lanas Tog returned her gaze to the tumultuous panorama stretching away to the northwest. 'Most truths are,' she said.

  'Well!' Lady Envy ran her hands through her hair. 'I think I'll head down and stare into a wolf's miserable eyes for a time! Just to improve my mood, you understand. You know, at least Tool had a sense of humour.'

  'He is the First Sword.'

  Muttering under her breath as she made her way back down the street, slippered feet barely brushing the icy cobbles, Lady Envy only paused when she reached the entrance to the house. 'Oh! That was quite funny! In an odd way. Well! How extraordinary!'

  Crone hopped about in a fury. Brood stood watching the Great Raven. Off to one side was Korlat. Lingering a half-dozen paces away was Kallor. The army marched in wide ranks down the raised road to their left, whilst to their right, at a distance of two thousand paces, rumbled the herd of bhederin.

  There were fewer of the beasts, Korlat noted. The crossing had claimed hundreds.

  A shrill hiss from Crone recaptured her wandering attention.

  The Great Raven had half spread her wings, halting directly in front of the warlord. 'You still do not grasp the gravity of this! Fool! Ox! Where is Anomander Rake? Tell me! I must speak with him—warn him—'

  'Of what?' Brood asked. 'That a few hundred condors have chased you away?'

  'Unknown sorcery hides within those abominable vultures! We are being deliberately kept away, you brainless thug!'

  'From Coral and environs,' Kallor noted drily. 'We've just come in sight of Lest, Crone. One thing at a time.'

  'Stupid! Do you think they're just sitting on their hands? They're preparing—'

  'Of course they are,' Kallor drawled, sneering down at the Great Raven. 'What of it?'

  'What's happened to Moon's Spawn? We know what Rake planned—has it succeeded? I cannot reach it! I cannot reach him! Where is Moon's Spawn?'

  No-one spoke.

  Crone's head darted down. 'You know less than I! Don't you? All this is bravado! We are lost!' The Great Raven wheeled to pin Korlat with her glittering, black eyes. 'Your Lord has failed, hasn't he? And taken three-quarters of the Tiste Andü with him! Will you be enough, Korlat? Will you—'

  'Crone,' Brood rumbled. 'We'd asked for word on the Malazans, not a list of your fears.'

  'The Malazans? They march! What else would they do? Endless wagons on the road, dust everywhere. Closing on Setta, which is empty but for a handful of sun-withered corpses!'

  Kallor grunted. 'They're making a swift passage of it, then. As if in a hurry. Warlord, there is deceit here.'

  Brood scowled, crossed his arms. 'You heard the bird, Kallor. The Malazans march. Faster than we'd expected, true, but that is all.'

  'You dissemble,' Kallor grated.

  Ignoring him, Brood faced the Great Raven once more. 'Have your kin keep an eye on them. As for what's happening at Coral, we'll worry about that when we reach Maurik and reunite our forces. Finally, regarding your master, Anomander Rake, have faith, Crone.'

  'Upon faith you hold to success? Madness! We must prepare for the worst!'

  Korlat's attention drifted once more. It had been doing that a lot of late. She'd forgotten what love could do, as it threaded its roots through her entire soul, as it tugged and pulled at her thoughts, obsession ripening like seductive fruit. She felt only its life, thickening within her, claiming all she was.

  Fears for her Lord and her kin seemed almost inconsequential. If truly demanded, she could attempt her warren, reach him via the paths of Kurald Galain. But there was no urgency within her to do any such thing. This war would find its own path.

  Her wants were held, one and all, in the eyes of a man. A mortal, of angled, edged nobility. A man past his youth, a soul layered in scars—yet he had surrendered it to her.

  Almost impossible to believe.

  She recalled her first sight of him up close. She had been standing with the Mhybe and Silverfox, the child's hand in her own. He had ridden towards the place of parley at Dujek's side. A soldier whose name she had already known—as a feared enemy, whose tactical prowess had defied Brood time and again, despite the odds against the Malazan's poorly supplied, numerically weakened forces.

  Even then, he had been as a lodestone to her eye.

  And not just hers alone, she realized. Her Lord had called him friend. The rarity of such a thing still threatened to steal her breath. Anomander Rake, in all the time she had known him, had acknowledged but one friend, and that was Caladan Brood. And between those two men, thousands of years of shared experiences, an alliance never broken. Countless clashes, it was true, but not once a final, irretrievable sundering.

  The key to that, Korlat well understood, lay in their maintaining a respectable distance from each other, punctuated by the occasional convergence.

  It was, she believed, a relationship that would never be broken. And from it, after centuries, had been born a friendship.

  Yet Rake had shared but a few evenings in Whiskeyjack's company. Conversations of an unknown nature had taken place between them. And it had been enough.

  Something in each of them has made them kin in spirit. Yet even I cannot see it. Anomander Rake cannot be reached out to, cannot be so much as touched—not his true self. I have never known what lies behind my Lord's eyes. I have but sensed its vast capacity—but not the flavour of all that it contains.

  But Whiskeyjack—my dear mortal lover—while I cannot see all that is within him, I can see the cost of containment. The bleeding, but not the wound. And I can see his strength—even the last time, when he was so weary…

  Directly south, the old walls of Lest were visible. There was no sign that repairs had been made since the Pannion conquest. The air above the city was clear of smoke, empty of birds. The Rhivi scouts had reported that there was naught but a few charred bones littering the streets. There had been raised gardens once, for which Lest had been known, but the flow of water had ceased weeks past and fire had since swept through the city—even at this distance Korlat could see the dark stain of soot on the walls.

  'Devastation!' moaned Crone. 'This is the tale before us! All the way to Maurik. Whilst our alliance disintegrates before our eyes.'

  'It does nothing of the sort,' rumbled Brood, his frown deepening.

  'Oh? And where is Silverfox? What has happened to the Mhybe? Why do the Grey Swords and Trake's Legion march so far behind us? Why were the Malazans so eager to leave our sides? And now, Anomander Rake and Moon's Spawn have vanished! The Tiste Andü—'

  'Are alive,' Korlat cut in, her own patience frayed at last.

  Crone wheeled on her. 'Are you certain?'

  Korlat nodded. Yet… am I? No. Shall I then seek them out? No. We shall see what is to be seen at Coral. That is all. Her gaze slowly swung westward. And you, my dear lover, thief of all my thoughts, will you ever release me?

  Please. Do not. Ever.

  Riding beside Gruntle, Itkovian watched the two Grey Sword outriders canter towards the Shield Anvil and Destriant.

  'Where are they coming from?' Gruntle asked.

  'Flanking rearguard,' Itkovian replied.

  'With news to deliver, it seems.'

  'So it appears, sir.'

  'Well? Aren't you curious? They've both asked you to ride with them—if you'd said yes you'd be hearing that report right now, instead of slouching along with us riffraff. Hey, that's a thought—I could divide my legion into two companies, call one Riff and the other—'

  'Oh, spare us!' Stonny snapped behind them.

  Gruntle twisted in his saddle. 'How long have you been in our shadow, woman?'

  'I'm never in your shadow, Gruntle. Not you, not Itkovian. Not any man. Besides, with the sun
so low on our right, I'd have to be alongside you to be in your shadow, not that I would be, of course.'

  'So instead,' the Mortal Sword grinned, 'you're the woman behind me.'

  'And what's that supposed to mean, pig?'

  'Just stating a fact, lass.'

  'Really? Well, you were wrong. I was about to make my way over to the Grey Swords, only you two oafs were in the way.'

  'Stonny, this ain't a road, it's a plain. How in Hood's name could we be in your way when you could ride your horse anywhere?'

  'Oafs. Lazy pigs. Someone here has to be curious. That someone needs a brain, of course, which is why you'll both just trot along, wondering what those outriders are reporting, wondering and doing not a damned thing about it. Because you're both brainless. As for me—'

  'As for you,' Itkovian said drily, 'you seem to be talking to us, sir. Indeed, engaged in a conversation—'

  'Which has now ended!' she snapped, neck-reining her horse to the left, then launching it past them.

  They watched her ride towards the other column.

  After a moment, Gruntle shrugged, then said, 'Wonder what she'll hear.'

  'As do I,' Itkovian replied.

  They rode on, their pace steady if a little slow. Gruntle's legion marched in their wake, a rabble, clumped like sea-raiders wandering inland in search of a farmhouse to pillage. Itkovian had suggested, some time earlier, that some training might prove beneficial, to which Gruntle had grinned and said nothing.

  Trake's Mortal Sword despised armies; indeed, despised anything even remotely connected to the notion of military practices. He was indifferent to discipline, and had but one officer—a Lestari soldier, fortunately—to manage his now eight-score followers: stony-eyed misfits that he'd laughingly called Trake's Legion.

  Gruntle was, in every respect, Itkovian's opposite.

  'Here she comes,' the Mortal Sword growled.

  'She rides,' Itkovian observed, 'with much drama.'