Memories of Ice Read online

  Anomander Rake spoke. 'I had not anticipated such a… taut reunion, Caladan—'

  Paran's head snapped around, found the warlord. And the hammer held so lightly in his massive arms. I know you now, Warlord. Not that I'll reveal your dark secret—what would be the point in that? The choice is yours and yours alone. Kill us all, or the goddess you serve. Brood, I do not envy the curse of your privilege to choose. Oh, I do not, you poor bastard. Still, what is the price of a broken vow?

  The Son of Darkness continued. 'My apologies to one and all. As this man,' Rake gestured towards Quick Ben, 'has wisely noted, to act now—knowing so little of the nature of the powers revealed here—would indeed be precipitous.'

  'It may already be too late,' Kallor said, his flat, ancient eyes fixed on Silverfox. 'The child's sorcery was Tellann, and it has been a long time since it has been so thoroughly awakened. We are now all of us in peril. A combined effort, begun immediately, might succeed in cutting down this creature—we may never again possess such an opportunity.'

  'And should we fail, Kallor?' Anomander Rake asked. 'What enemy will we have made for ourselves? At the moment this child has acted to defend herself, nothing more. Not an inimical stance, is it? You risk too much in a single cast, High King.'

  'Finally,' boomed Caladan Brood, returning the dreaded, all-breaking hammer to its harness, 'the notion of strategy arrives.' The anger remained in his voice, as if he was furious at having to state what to him had been obvious all along. 'Neutrality remains the soundest course open to us, until the nature of Silverfox's power reveals itself. We've enough enemies on our plate as it is. Now, enough of the drama, if you please. Welcome back, Rake. No doubt you've information to impart regarding the status of Moon's Spawn, among other details of note.' He faced Paran with sudden exasperation. 'Captain, can you not do something about that damned floating table!'

  Flinching at the attention, Paran stared up at it. 'Well,' he managed, 'nothing immediately comes to mind, Warlord. Uh, I'm no mage—'

  Brood grunted, swung away. 'Never mind, then. We'll consider it a crass ornament.'

  Quick Ben cleared his throat. 'I might be able to manage something, Warlord, in time…'

  Caladan glanced at Dujek, who grinned and nodded his permission to Quick Ben.

  'Not simply a soldier, I see,' Anomander Rake said.

  The Seven Cities mage shrugged. 'I appreciate challenges, Lord. No guarantee that I'll have any success, mind you—no, do not quest towards me, Son of Darkness. I value my privacy.'

  'As you wish,' Rake said, turning away.

  'Is anyone else hungry?'

  All eyes turned to Kruppe.

  With everyone's attention elsewhere, the Mhybe edged away from the clearing, between two rows of peaked Tiste Andü tents, then she spun and tried to run. Bone and muscle protested, even as her veins burned with panic and terror.

  She hobbled on, half blinded by tears, her breath harsh, rattling gasps broken by soft whimpers. Oh… dear spirits… look upon me. Show me mercy, I beg you. Look at me stumble and totter—look! Pity me, spirits below! I demand it! Take my soul, you cruel ancestors, I beg you!

  The copper on her wrists and ankles—minor tribal wards against the aches in her bones—felt cold as ice against her withered skin, cold as a rapist's touch, disdainful of her frailty, contemptuous of her labouring heart.

  The Rhivi spirits refused her, mocking, laughing.

  The old woman cried out, staggered, fell hard to her knees. The jolt of the impact drove the air from her lungs. Twisting, she sagged to the ground, bedraggled, alone in an alley of dirt.

  '"Flesh,"' a voice murmured above her, '"which is the life within." These, cherished friend, are the words of birth, given in so many forms, in countless languages. They are joy and pain, loss and sacrifice, they give voice to the binds of motherhood… and more, they are the binds of life itself.'

  Grey hair dangling, the Mhybe raised her head.

  Crone sat atop a tent's ridgepole, wings hunched, eyes glittering wet.

  'I am not immune to grief, you see, my dear—tell no-one you have seen me so weakened by love. How can I comfort you?'

  The Mhybe shook her head, croaked, 'You cannot.'

  'She is you more than the others—more than the woman Tattersail, and Nightchill, more than the T'lan Imass—'

  'Do you see me, Crone? Do you truly see me?' The Mhybe pushed herself to her hands and knees, then sat back and glared up at the Great Raven. 'I am naught but bones and leather skin, I am naught but endless aches. Dried brittle—spirits below, each moment of this life, this terrible existence, and I edge closer to… to…' her head drooped, 'to hatred,' she finished in a ragged whisper. A sob racked her.

  'And so you would die now,' Crone said. 'Yes, I understand. A mother must not be led to hate the child she has birthed… yet you demand too much of yourself.'

  'She has stolen my life!' the Mhybe screamed, gnarled hands closing to fists from which the blood within them fled. The Rhivi woman stared at those fists, eyes wide as if they were seeing a stranger's hands, skeletal and dead, there at the end of her thin arms. 'Oh, Crone,' she cried softly. 'She has stolen my life…'

  The Great Raven spread her wings, tilted forward on the pole, then dropped in a smooth curve to thud on the ground before the Mhybe. 'You must speak with her.'

  'I cannot!'

  'She must be made to understand—'

  'She knows, Crone, she knows. What would you have me do—ask my daughter to stop growing? This river flows unceasing, unceasing…'

  'Rivers can be dammed. Rivers can be… diverted.'

  'Not this one, Crone.'

  'I do not accept your words, my love. And I shall find a way. This I swear.'

  'There is no solution—do not waste your time, my friend. My youth is gone, and it cannot be returned, not by alchemy and not by sorcery—Tellann is an unassailable warren, Crone. What it demands cannot be undone. And should you somehow succeed in stopping this flow, what then? You would have me an old woman for decades to come? Year after year, trapped within this cage? There is no mercy in that—no, it would be a curse unending. No, leave me be, please…'

  Footsteps approached from behind. A moment later Korlat lowered herself to the Mhybe's side, laid a protective arm around her and held her close. 'Come,' the Tiste Andü murmured. 'Come with me.'

  The Mhybe let Korlat help her to her feet. She felt ashamed at her own weakness, but all her defences had crumbled, her pride was in tatters, and she felt in her soul nothing but helplessness. I was a young woman once. What point in raging at the loss? My seasons have tumbled, it is done. And the life within fades, whilst the life beyond flowers. This is a battle no mortal can win, but where, dear spirits, is the gift of death? Why do you forbid me an end?

  She straightened slightly in Korlat's arms. Very well, then. Since you have already so cursed my soul, the taking of my own life can cause me no greater pain. Very well, dear spirits, I shall give you my answer. I shall defy your plans. 'Take me to my tent,' she said.

  'No,' Korlat said. The Mhybe twisted round, glared up at the Tiste Andü. 'I said—'

  'I heard you, Mhybe, indeed, more than you intended me to hear. The answer is no. I shall remain at your side, and I am not alone in my faith—'

  The Rhivi woman snorted. 'Faith? You are Tiste Andü! Do you take me for a fool with your claims to faith?'

  Korlat's expression tightened and she looked away. 'Perhaps you are right.'

  Oh, Korlat, I am sorry for that—I would take it back, I swear—

  'None the less,' the Tiste Andü continued, 'I shall not abandon you to despair.'

  'I am familiar with being a prisoner,' the Mhybe said, angry once again. 'But I warn you, Korlat—I warn you all, hatred is finding fertile soil within me. And in your compassion, in your every good intention, you nurture it. I beg you, let me end this.'

  'No, and you underestimate our resilience, Mhybe. You'll not succeed in turning us away.'

  'Then you s
hall indeed drag me into hatred, and the price will be all I hold dear within me, all that you might have once valued.'

  'You would make our efforts worthless?'

  'Not by choice, Korlat—and this is what I am telling you—I have lost all choice. To my daughter. And now, to you. You will create of me a thing of spite, and I beg you again—if you care for me at all—to let me cease this terrible journey.'

  'I'll not give you permission to kill yourself, Mhybe. If it must be hate that fuels you, so be it. You are under the care—the guardianship—of the Tiste Andü, now.'

  The Rhivi woman sagged, defeated. She struggled to fashion words for the feelings within her, and what came to her left her cold.

  Self-pity. To this I have fallen…

  All right, Korlat, you've won for now.

  'Burn is dying.'

  Caladan Brood and Anomander Rake stood alone in the tent, the remnants of tension still swirling around them. From the sounds in the clearing outside the mage Quick Ben seemed to have succeeded in pulling the massive wooden card back to the ground, and a discussion was under way as to what to do with it.

  The Son of Darkness removed his gauntlets, letting them drop to the tabletop before facing the warlord. 'Barring the one thing you must not do, can you do nothing else?'

  Brood shook his head. 'Old choices, friend—only the one possibility remains, as it always has. I am Tennes—the goddess's own warren—and what assails her assails me as well. Aye, I could shatter the one who has so infected her—'

  'The Crippled God,' Rake murmured, going perfectly still. 'He has spent an eternity nurturing his spite—he will be without mercy, Brood. This is an old tale. We agreed—you, I, the Queen of Dreams, Hood—we all agreed…'

  The warlord's broad face seemed on the verge of crumpling. Then he shook himself as would a bear, turned away. 'Almost twelve hundred years, this burden—'

  'And if she dies?'

  He shook his head. 'I do not know. Her warren dies, surely, that at the least, even as it becomes the Crippled God's pathway into every other warren… then they all die.'

  'And with that, all sorcery.'

  The warlord nodded, then drew a deep breath and straightened. 'Would that be so bad a thing, do you think?'

  Rake snorted. 'You assume the destruction would end with that. It seems that, no matter which of the two choices is made, the Crippled God wins.'

  'So it seems.'

  'Yet, having made your choice, you gift this world, and everyone on it, with a few more generations of living—'

  'Living, and dying, waging wars and unleashing slaughter. Of dreams, hopes and tragic ends—'

  'Not a worthy track, these thoughts of yours, Caladan.' Rake stepped closer. 'You have done, you continue to do, all that could be asked of you. We were there to share your burden, back then, but it seems we are—each of us—ever drawn away, into our own interests… abandoning you…'

  'Leave this path, Anomander. It avails us nothing. There are more immediate concerns to occupy this rare opportunity to speak in private.'

  Rake's broad mouth found a thin smile. 'True enough.' He glanced over to the tent's entrance. 'Out there…' He faced Brood again, 'Given the infection of Tennes, was your challenge a bluff?'

  The warlord bared his filed teeth. 'Somewhat, but not entirely. The question is not my ability to unleash power, it is the nature of that power. Wrought through with poison, rife with chaos—

  'Meaning it might well be wilder than your usual maelstrom? That is alarming indeed, Brood. Is Kallor aware of this?'

  'No.'

  Rake grunted. 'Best keep it that way.'

  'Aye,' the warlord growled. 'So practise some restraint of your own, next time, Rake.'

  The Tiste Andü walked over to pour himself some wine. 'Odd, I could have sworn I'd just done that.'

  'We must now speak of the Pannion Domin.'

  'A true mystery indeed, Caladan. Far more insidious than we had surmised. Layers of power, one hidden beneath another, then another. The Warren of Chaos lies at its heart, I suspect—and the Great Ravens concur.'

  'This strides too close a path to the Crippled God for it to be accidental, Rake. The Chained One's poison is that of Chaos, after all.'

  'Aye,' Rake smiled. 'Curious, isn't it? I think there can be no question of who is using whom—'

  'Maybe.'

  'Dealing with the Pannion Domin will present us with formidable challenges.'

  Brood grimaced, 'As the child insisted, we will need help.'

  The Son of Darkness frowned. 'Explain, please.'

  'The T'lan Imass, friend. The undead armies are coming.'

  The Tiste Andü's face darkened. 'Is this Dujek Onearm's contribution, then?'

  'No, the child. Silverfox. She is a flesh and blood Bonecaster, the first in a long, long time.'

  'Tell me of her.'

  The warlord did, at length, and when he was done there was silence in the tent.

  Studying Paran with hooded eyes, Whiskeyjack strode over. The young captain was trembling, as if gripped by fever, his face bone-white and slick with sweat. Quick Ben had somehow managed to lower the tabletop to the ground; sorcery still wreathed it with dancing lightning that seemed reluctant to fade. The wizard had crouched down beside it and Whiskeyjack recognized by his flat expression that the man was in a sorcerous trance. Questing, probing…

  'You are a fool.'

  The commander turned at the rasping words. 'None the less, Kallor.'

  The tall, grey-haired man smiled coldly. 'You will come to regret your vow to protect the child.'

  Shrugging, Whiskeyjack turned to resume his walk.

  'I am not done with you!' Kallor hissed.

  'But I am with you,' the Malazan calmly replied, continuing on.

  Paran was facing him now. The captain's eyes were wide, uncomprehending. Behind him, the Tiste Andü had begun to drift away, spectral and seemingly indifferent now that their lord had retired within the command tent with Caladan Brood. Whiskeyjack looked for Korlat but didn't see her; nor, he realized after a moment, was the Mhybe anywhere in sight. The child Silverfox stood a dozen paces from Paran, watching the captain with Tattersail's eyes.

  'No questions,' Paran growled as Whiskeyjack halted before him. 'I have no answers for you—not for what's happened here, not for what I've become. Perhaps it would be best if you placed someone else in command of the Bridgeburners—'

  'No reason for that,' Whiskeyjack said. 'Besides, I hate changing my mind on anything, Captain.'

  Quick Ben joined them. He grinned. 'That was close, wasn't it?'

  'What is that thing?' Whiskeyjack asked him, nodding towards the tabletop.

  'Just what it appears to be. A new Unaligned card in the Deck of Dragons. Well, it's the Unaligned of all Unaligneds. The table holds the entire Deck, remember.' The wizard glanced over at Paran. 'The captain here's on the threshold of ascendancy, as we suspected. And that means that what he does—or chooses not to do—could have profound effects. On all of us. The Deck of Dragons seems to have acquired a Master. Jen'isand Rul.'

  Paran turned away, clearly not wanting to be part of this conversation.

  Whiskeyjack frowned at the wizard. 'Jen'isand Rul. I thought that was a name referring to his… escapades within a certain weapon.'

  'It is, but since that name is on the card it seems the two are linked… somehow. If the captain's in the dark as much as the rest of us, then I'll have to do some hard thinking on what that linkage signifies. Of course,' he added, 'the captain might well know enough to help me along in this, provided he's willing.'

  Paran opened his mouth for a reply but Whiskeyjack spoke first. 'He's got no answers for us… right now. I take it we're carrying that ridiculous tabletop along with us on the march?'

  Quick Ben slowly nodded. 'It would be best, at least for a while, so I can study it some more. Still, I would advise we unload it before we cross into Pannion territory. The Trygalle Trade Guild can deliver it to the alchemist
in Darujhistan for safekeeping.'

  A new voice cut in, 'The card does not leave us.'

  The three men turned to find Silverfox standing close. Behind her, a dozen Rhivi warriors were lifting the tabletop.

  Watching the dark-skinned, lithe men carrying the tabletop away, Quick Ben frowned. 'Risky, taking an object of such power into battle, lass.'

  'We must accept that risk, Wizard.'

  Whiskeyjack grunted. 'Why?'

  'Because the card belongs to Paran, and he will have need of it.'

  'Can you explain that?'

  'We struggle against more than one enemy, as shall be seen.'

  'I don't want that card,' Paran snapped. 'You'd better paint a new face on that thing. I have the blood of a Hound of Shadow within me. I am a liability—when will you all see that? Hood knows, I do!'

  The rustle of armour alerted them to Kallor's approach.

  Whiskeyjack scowled. 'You are not part of this conversation.'

  Kallor smiled wryly. 'Never part of, but often the subject of—'

  'Not this time.'

  The High King's flat, grey eyes fixed on Quick Ben. 'You, wizard, are a hoarder of souls… I am a man who releases souls—shall I break the chains within you? An easy thing, to leave you helpless.'

  'Even easier,' Quick Ben replied, 'to make a hole in the ground.'

  Kallor dropped from sight, the earth gone from beneath him. Armour clattered, followed by a bellow of rage.

  Silverfox gasped, eyes widening on Quick Ben.

  The wizard shrugged. 'You're right, I don't care who, or what, Kallor is.'

  Whiskeyjack stepped to the edge of the pit, glanced down. 'He's climbing out… not bad for an old man.'

  'But since I'm not stupid,' Quick Ben said hastily, 'I'll take leave, now.' The wizard gestured and seemed to blur a moment before vanishing altogether.

  Turning his back on the grunting, cursing Kallor—whose gauntleted hands were now visible scrabbling at the crumbly edge of the pit