Memories of Ice Page 5

  Toc watched the burly dog trot towards the tower. The entrance, the scout now saw, was in fact via a balcony, probably the first floor—yet another indication of the depth of the crushed glass. 'That place doesn't appear very habitable,' he observed.

  'Appearances deceive,' she murmured, once again flashing him a heart-stuttering smile.

  'Have you a name?' Toc asked her as they began walking. 'She is Lady Envy,' Tool said. 'Daughter of Draconus—he who forged the sword Dragnipur, and was slain by its present wielder, Anomander Rake, lord of Moon's Spawn, with that selfsame sword. Draconus had two daughters, it is believed, whom he named Envy and Spite—'

  'Hood's breath, you can't be serious,' Toc muttered. 'The names no doubt amused him, as well,' the T'lan Imass continued.

  'Really,' Lady Envy sighed, 'now you've gone and ruined all my fun. Have we met before?'

  'No. None the less, you are known to me.'

  'So it seems! It was, I admit, over-modest of me to assume that I would not be recognized. After all, I've crossed paths with the T'lan Imass more than once. At least twice, that is.'

  Tool regarded her with his depthless gaze. 'Knowing who you are does not answer the mystery of your present residency here in Morn, should you look to pursue coyness, Lady. I would know what you seek in this place.'

  'Whatever do you mean?' she asked mockingly.

  As they approached the tower's entrance a leather-armoured masked figure appeared in the gaping doorway. Toc stopped in his tracks. 'That's a Seguleh!' He spun to Lady Envy. 'Your servant's a Seguleh!'

  'Is that what they're called?' Her brow wrinkled. 'A familiar name, though its context escapes me. Ah well. I have gleaned their personal names, but little else. They happened by and chanced to see me—this one, who is called Senu, and two others. They concluded that killing me would break the monotony of their journey.' She sighed. 'Alas, now they serve me.' She addressed the Seguleh. 'Senu, have your brothers fully awakened?'

  The short, lithe man tilted his head, his dark eyes flat within the slits of his ornate mask.

  'I've gathered,' Lady Envy said to Toc, 'that gesture indicates acquiescence. They are not a loquacious lot, I have found.'

  Toc shook his head, his eyes on the twin broadswords slung under Senu's arms. 'Is he the only one of the three to acknowledge you directly, Lady?'

  'Now that you mention it… Is that significant?'

  'Means he's on the bottom rung in the hierarchy. The other two are above conversing with non-Seguleh.'

  'How presumptuous of them!'

  The scout grinned. 'I've never seen one before—but I've heard plenty. Their homeland is an island south of here, and they're said to be a private lot, disinclined to travel. But they are known of as far north as Nathilog.' And Hood take me, aren't they known.

  'Hmm, I did sense a certain arrogance that has proved entertaining. Lead us within, dear Senu.'

  The Seguleh made no move. His eyes had found Tool and now held steady on the T'lan Imass.

  Hackles rising, the ay stepped to one side to clear a space between the two figures.

  'Senu?' Lady Envy enquired with honeyed politeness.

  'I think,' Toc whispered, 'he's challenging Tool.'

  'Ridiculous! Why would he do that?'

  'For the Seguleh, rank is everything. If the hierarchy's in doubt, challenge it. They don't waste time.'

  Lady Envy scowled at Senu. 'Behave yourself, young man!' She waved him into the room beyond.

  Senu seemed to flinch at the gesture.

  An itch spasmed across Toc's scar. He scratched it vigorously, breathing a soft curse.

  The Seguleh backed into the small room, then hesitated a moment

  'I admit that I find the depth of his knowledge most disconcerting—the names the T'lan Imass revealed meant little to you.'

  Toc shrugged. 'Anomander Rake I've heard, of course. I didn't know he took a sword from someone else—nor when that event occurred. It strikes me, however, that you may well be justified in feeling some animosity towards him, since he killed your father—what was his name? Draconus. The Malazan Empire shares that dislike. So, in sharing enemies—'

  'We are perforce allies. A reasonable surmise. Unfortunately wrong. Regardless, I would be pleased to provide what food and drink you are able to carry, though I have nothing in the way of weapons, I'm afraid. In return, I may some day ask of you a favour—nothing grand, of course. Something small and relatively painless. Is this acceptable?'

  Toc felt his appetite draining away. He glanced at Tool, got no help from the undead warrior's expressionless face. The Malazan scowled. 'You have me at a disadvantage, Lady Envy.'

  She smiled.

  And here I was hoping we'd get past the polite civility to something more… intimate. Here you go again, Toc, thinking with the wrong brain—

  Her smile broadened.

  Flushing, he reached for his cup. 'Very well, I agree to your proposal.'

  'Your equanimity is a delight, Toc the Younger.'

  He almost choked on his wine. If I wasn't a sword-kissed one-eyed bastard, I'd be tempted to call that a flirt.

  Tool spoke. 'Lady Envy, if you seek further knowledge of this Rent, you will not find it here.'

  Toc was pleased to see the mild shock on her face as she swung to the T'lan Imass. 'Indeed? It appears I am not alone in enjoying a certain coyness. Can you explain?'

  Anticipating the response to that, Toc the Younger grunted, then ducked as she flashed him a dark look.

  'Perhaps,' Tool predictably replied.

  Hah, I knew it.

  An edge came into her tone. 'Please do so, then.'

  'I follow an ancient trail, Lady Envy. Morn was but one stop on that trail. It now leads northward. You would find your answers among those I seek.'

  'You wish me to accompany you.'

  'I care not either way,' Tool said in his uninflected rasp. 'Should you choose to stay here, however, I must warn you. Meddling with the Rent has its risks—even for one such as you.'

  She crossed her arms. 'You think I lack suitable caution?'

  'Even now you have reached an impasse, and your frustration mounts. I add one more incentive, Lady Envy. Your old travelling companions are converging on the very same destination—the Pannion Domin. Both Anomander Rake and Caladan Brood prepare to wage war against the Domin. A grave decision—does that not make you curious?'

  'You are no simple T'lan Imass,' she accused.

  Tool made no reply to that.

  'He has you at a disadvantage, it seems,' Toc said, barely restraining his amusement.

  'I find impertinence disgustingly unattractive,' she snapped. 'Whatever happened to your affable equanimity, Toc the Younger?'

  He wondered at his sudden impulse to fling himself down at her feet, begging forgiveness. Shrugging the absurd notion off, he said, 'Badly stung, I think.'

  Her expression softened to something doe-like.

  The irrational desire returned. Toc scratched his scar, looked away.

  'I did not intend to sting you—'

  Right, and the Queen of Dreams has chicken feet.

  '—and I sincerely apologize.' She faced Tool again. 'Very well, we shall all of us undertake a journey. How exciting!' She gestured to her Seguleh servants. 'Begin preparations at once!'

  Tool said to Toc, 'I shall collect materials for your bow and arrows now. We can complete them on the way.'

  The scout nodded, then added, 'I wouldn't mind watching you make them, Tool. Could be useful knowledge…'

  The T'lan Imass seemed to consider, then tilted his head. 'We found it so.'

  They all turned at a loud grunt from where Senu lay against the wall. He had regained consciousness, to find the ay standing over him, the beast licking with obvious pleasure the painted patterns on his mask.

  'The medium,' Tool explained in his usual deadpan tone, 'appears to be a mixture of charcoal, saliva and human blood.'

  'Now that,' Toc muttered, 'is what I call a rude a
wakening.'

  Lady Envy brushed close to him as she moved towards the doorway, and cast him a glance as she passed. 'Oh, I am looking forward to this outing!'

  The anything but casual contact slipped a nest of serpents into Toc's gut. Despite his thudding heart, the Malazan was not sure if he should be pleased, or terrified.

  Chapter Two

  Onearm's Host bled from countless wounds. An endless campaign, successive defeats followed by even costlier victories. But of all the wounds borne by the army of Dujek Onearm, those to its soul were the gravest…

  Silverfox Outrider

  Hurlochel

  NESTLED AMIDST THE ROCKS AND TUMBLED BOULDERS OF THE hillside, Corporal Picker watched the old man make his laborious way up the trail. His shadow slipped over Blend's position, yet the man who cast it knew nothing of the soldier's proximity. Blend rose in silence behind him, dust sloughing down, and made a series of hand gestures intended for Picker.

  The old man continued on unawares. When he was but a half-dozen paces away, Picker straightened, the grey cloak left by the morning's dust-storm cascading away as she levelled her crossbow. 'Far enough, traveller,' she growled.

  His surprise sent the old man stumbling back a step. A stone turned underfoot and he pitched to the ground, crying out yet managing to twist to avoid landing atop the leather pack strapped to his back. He skidded another pace down the trail, and found himself almost at Blend's feet.

  Picker smiled, stepped forward. 'That'll do,' she said. 'You don't look dangerous, old fella, but just in case, there's five other crossbows trained on you right now. So, how about you tell me what in Hood's name you're doing here?'

  Sweat and dust stained the old man's threadbare tunic. His sunburned forehead was broad over a narrow set of features, vanishing into an almost chinless jaw. His snaggled, crooked teeth jutted out in all directions, making his smile an argumentative parody. He pulled his thin, leather-wrapped legs under himself and slowly levered upright. 'A thousand apologies,' he gasped, glancing over a shoulder at Blend. He flinched at what he saw in her eyes, swung hastily back to face Picker. 'I'd thought this trail untenanted—even by thieves. You see, my life's savings are invested in what I carry—I could not afford a guard, nor even a mule—'

  'You're a trader, then,' Picker drawled. 'Bound where?'

  'Pale. I am from Darujhistan—'

  'That's obvious enough,' Picker snapped. 'Thing is, Pale is now in imperial hands… as are these hills.'

  'I did not know—about these hills, that is. Of course I am aware that Pale has entered the Malazan embrace—'

  Picker grinned at Blend. 'Hear that? An embrace. That's a good one, old man. A motherly hug, right? What's in the sack, then?'

  'I am an artisan,' the old man said, ducking his head. 'Uh, a carver of small trinkets. Bone, ivory, jade, serpentine—'

  'Anything invested—spells and the like?' the corporal asked. 'Anything blessed?'

  'Only by my talents, to answer your first query. I am no mage, and I work alone. I was fortunate, however, in acquiring a priest's blessings on a set of three ivory tores—'

  'What god?'

  'Treach, the Tiger of Summer.'

  Picker sneered. 'That's not a god, you fool. Treach is a First Hero, a demigod, a Soletaken ascendant—'

  'A new temple has been sanctified in his name,' the old man interrupted. 'On the Street of the Hairless Ape, in the Gadrobi Quarter—I myself was hired to punch the leather binding for the Book of Prayers and Rituals.'

  Picker rolled her eyes and lowered the crossbow. 'All right, let's see these tores, then.'

  With an eager nod, the old man unslung his pack and set it down before him. He released the lone strap.

  'Remember,' Picker grunted, 'if you pull out anything awry you'll get a dozen quarrels airing your skull.'

  'This is a pack, not my breeches,' the trader murmured. 'Besides, I thought it was five.'

  The corporal scowled.

  'Our audience,' Blend said quietly, 'has grown.'

  'That's right,' Picker added hastily. 'Two whole squads, hiding, watching your every move.'

  With exaggerated caution, the old man drew forth a small packet of twine-wrapped doeskin. 'The ivory is said to be ancient,' he said in a reverent tone. 'From a furred, tusked monster that was once Treach's favoured prey. The beast's corpse was found in frozen mud in distant Elingarth—'

  'Never mind all that,' Picker snapped. 'Let's see the damned things.'

  The trader's white, wiry eyebrows rose in alarm. 'Damned! No! Not ever! You think I would sell cursed items?'

  'Be quiet, it was just a damned expression. Hurry up, we haven't got all damned day.'

  Blend made a sound, quickly silenced by a glare from her corporal.

  The old man unwrapped the packet, revealing three upper-arm rings, each of one piece and undecorated, polished to a gleaming, pale lustre.

  'Where's the blessing marks?'

  'None. They were each in turn wrapped within a cloth woven from Treach's own moult-hair—for nine days and ten nights—'

  Blend snorted.

  'Moult-hair?' The corporal's face twisted. 'What a disgusting thought.'

  'Spindle wouldn't think so,' Blend murmured.

  'A set of three arm tores,' Picker mused. 'Right arm, left arm… then where? And watch your mouth—we're delicate flowers, Blend and me.'

  'All for one arm. They are solid, yet they interlock—such was the instruction of the blessing.'

  'Interlocking yet seamless—this I have to see.'

  'I cannot, alas, demonstrate this sorcery, for it will occur but once, when the purchaser has threaded them onto his—or her—weapon arm.'

  'Now that has swindle written all over it.'

  'Well, we got him right here,' Blend said. 'Cheats only work if you can make a clean getaway.'

  'Like in Pale's crowded markets. Well indeed,' Picker grinned down at the old man, 'we're not in a crowded market, are we? How much?'

  The trader squirmed. 'You have selected my most valued work—I'd intended an auction for these—'

  'How much, old man?'

  'Th-three hundred g-gold councils.'

  'Councils. That's Darujhistan's new coinage, isn't it?'

  'Pale's adopted the Malazan jakata as standard weight,' Blend said. 'What's the exchange?'

  'Damned if I know,' Picker muttered.

  'If you please,' the trader ventured, 'the exchange in Darujhistan is two and one-third jakatas to one council. Broker's fees comprise at least one jakata. Thus, strictly speaking, one and a third.'

  Blend shifted her weight, leaned forward for a closer look at the tores. 'Three hundred councils would keep a family comfortable for a couple of years at least…'

  'Such was my goal,' the old man said. 'Although, as I live alone and modestly, I anticipated four or more years, including materials for my craft. Anything less than three hundred councils and I would be ruined.'

  'My heart weeps,' Picker said. She glanced over at Blend. 'Who'll miss it?'

  The soldier shrugged.

  'Rustle up three columns, then.'

  'At once, Corporal.' Blend stepped past the old man, moved silently up the trail, then out of sight.

  'I beg you,' the trader whined. 'Do not pay me in jakatas—'

  'Calm down,' Picker said. 'Oponn's smiling on you today. Now, step away from the pack. I'm obliged to search it.'

  Bowing, the old man backed up. 'The rest is of lesser value, I admit. Indeed, somewhat rushed—'

  'I'm not looking to buy anything else,' Picker said, rummaging with one hand through the pack. 'This is official, now.'

  'Ah, I see. Are some trade items now forbidden in Pale?'

  'Counterfeit jakatas, for one. Local economy's taking a beating, and Darujhistan councils aren't much welcome, either. We've had quite a haul this past week.'

  The trader's eyes widened. 'You will pay me in counterfeited coin?'

  'Tempting, but no. Like I said, Oponn's winked your
way.' Finished with her search, Picker stepped back, and pulled out a small wax tablet from her belt-pouch. 'I need to record your name, trader. It's mostly smugglers using these trails, trying to avoid the post at the plains track through the Divide—you're one of the few honest ones, it seems. Those clever smugglers end up paying for their cleverness tenfold on these here trails, when the truth is they'd have a better chance slipping through the chaos at the post.'

  'I am named Munug.'

  Picker glanced up. 'You poor bastard.'

  Blend returned down the trail, three wrapped columns of coins cradled in her arms.

  The trader shrugged sheepishly, his eyes on the wrapped coin stacks. 'Those are councils!'

  'Aye,' Picker muttered. 'In hundred-columns—you'll probably throw your back lugging them to Pale, not to mention back again. In fact, you needn't bother making the trip at all, now, right?' She fixed him with her eyes as she put the tablet back into the pouch.

  'You have a valid point,' Munug conceded, rewrapping the tores and passing the packet to Blend. 'I shall journey to Pale none the less—to deal the rest of my work.' Eyes shifting nervously, he bared his crooked teeth in a weak smile. 'If Oponn's luck holds, I might well double my take.' Picker studied the man a moment longer, then shook her head. 'Greed never pays, Munug. I'd lay a wager that in a month's time you'll come wending back down this trail with nothing but dust in your pockets. What say you? Ten councils.'

  'If I lose, you'd have me ten in debt to you.'

  'Ah well, I'd consider a trinket or three instead—you've skilled hands, old man, no question of that.'

  'Thank you, but I respectfully decline the wager.' Picker shrugged. 'Too bad. You've another bell of daylight. There's a wayside camp up near the summit—if you're determined enough you might reach it before sunset.'

  'I shall make the endeavour.' He slung his arms through the pack's straps, grunted upright, then, with a hesitant nod, moved past the corporal.

  'Hold on there,' Picker commanded.

  Munug's knees seemed to weaken and the old man almost collapsed. 'Y-yes?' he managed.

  Picker took the tores from Blend. 'I've got to put these on, first. Interlocking, you claimed. But seamless.'