Memories of Ice Read online

  'Oh! Yes, of course. By all means, proceed.'

  The corporal rolled back the sleeve of her dusty shirt, revealing, in the heavy wool's underside, its burgundy dye. Munug's gasp was audible.

  Picker smiled. 'That's right, we're Bridgeburners. Amazing what dust disguises, hey?' She worked the ivory rings up her scarred, muscled arm. Between her biceps and shoulder there was a soft click. Frowning, Picker studied the three tores, then hissed in surprise. I'll be damned.' Munug's smile broadened for the briefest of moments, then he bowed slightly. 'May I now resume my journey?'

  'Go on,' she replied, barely paying him any further attention, her eyes studying the gleaming tores on her arm.

  Blend stared after the man for a full minute, a faint frown wrinkling her dusty brow.

  Munug found the side-cut in the path a short while later. Glancing back down the trail to confirm for at least the tenth time that he was not followed, he quickly slipped between the two tilting stones that framed the hidden entrance.

  The gloomy passage ended after a half-dozen paces, opening out onto a track winding through a high-walled fissure. Shadows swallowed the trader as he scurried down it. Sunset was less than a hundred heartbeats away, he judged—the delay with the Bridgeburners could prove fatal, if he failed to make the appointment.

  'After all,' he whispered, 'gods are not known for forgiving natures…'

  The coins were heavy. His heart thumped hard in his chest. He wasn't used to such strenuous efforts. He was an artisan, after all. Down on his luck of late, perhaps, weakened by the tumours between his legs, no doubt, but his talent and vision had if anything grown sharper for all the grief and pain he'd suffered. 'I have chosen you for those very flaws, Munug. That, and your skills, of course. Oh yes, I have great need of your skills . . .'

  A god's blessing would surely take care of those tumours. And, if not, then three hundred councils would come close to paying for a Denul healer's treatment back in Darujhistan. After all, it wasn't wise to trust solely in a god's payment for services. Munug's tale to the Bridgeburners about an auction in Pale was true enough—it paid to fashion options, to map out fall-back plans—and while sculpting and carving were his lesser skills, he was not so modest as to deny the high quality of his work. Of course, they were as nothing compared to his painting. As nothing, nothing at all.

  He hastened along the track, ignoring the preternatural mists that closed in around him. Ten paces later, as he passed through the warren's gate, the clefts and crags of the East Tahlyn Hills disappeared entirely, the mists thinning to reveal a featureless, stony plain beneath a sickly sky. Further out on the plain sat a ragged hide tent, smoke hanging over it in a sea-blue haze. Munug hurried towards it.

  Chest labouring, the artisan crouched down before the entrance and scratched on the flap covering it.

  A ragged cough sounded from within, then a voice rasped, 'Enter, mortal.'

  Munug crawled in. Thick, acrid smoke assaulted his eyes, nostrils and throat, but after his first breath a cool numbness spread out from his lungs. Keeping his head lowered and eyes averted, Munug stopped just within the entrance, and waited.

  'You are late,' the god said, wheezing with each breath.

  'Soldiers on the trail, master—'

  'Did they discover it?'

  The artisan smiled down at the dirty rushes of the tent floor. 'No. They searched my pack, as I knew they would, but not my person.'

  The god coughed again, and Munug heard a scrape as the brazier was drawn across the floor. Seeds popped on its coals, and the smoke thickened. 'Show me.'

  The artisan reached into the folds of his threadbare tunic and drew forth a thick, book-sized package. He unwrapped it to reveal a stack of wooden cards. Head still lowered and working blind, Munug pushed the cards towards the god, splaying them out as he did so.

  He heard the god's breath catch, then a soft rustle. When it spoke again the voice was closer. 'Flaws?'

  'Aye, master. One for each card, as you instructed.'

  'Ah, this pleases me. Mortal, your skill is unsurpassed. Truly, these are images of pain and imperfection. They are tortured, fraught with anguish. They assault the eye and bleed the heart. More, I see chronic loneliness in such faces as you have fashioned within the scenes.' Dry amusement entered its tone. 'You have painted your own soul, mortal.'

  'I have known little happiness, mast—'

  The god hissed. 'Nor should you expect it! Not in this life, not in the thousand others you are doomed to endure before you attain salvation—assuming you have suffered enough to have earned it!'

  'I beg that there be no release in my suffering, master,' Munug mumbled.

  'Lies. You dream of comfort and contentment. You carry the gold that you believe will achieve it, and you mean to prostitute your talent to achieve yet more—do not deny this, mortal. I know your soul—I see its avidness and yearning here in these images. Fear not, such emotions amuse me, for they are the paths to despair.'

  'Yes, master.'

  'Now, Munug of Darujhistan, your payment…'

  The old man screamed as fire blossomed within the tumours between his legs. Twisting with agony, he curled up tight on the filthy rushes.

  The god laughed, the horrible sound breaking into lung-ravaging coughs that were long in passing.

  The pain, Munug realized after a while, was fading.

  'You are healed, mortal. You are granted more years of your miserable life. Alas, as perfection is anathema to me, so it must be among my cherished children.'

  'M-master, I cannot feel my legs!'

  'They are dead, I am afraid. Such was the price of curing. It seems, artisan, that you will have a long, wearying crawl to wherever it is you seek to go. Bear in mind, child, that the value lies in the journey, not in the goal achieved.' The god laughed again, triggering yet another fit of coughing.

  Knowing he was dismissed, Munug pulled himself around, dragged the dead weight of his lower limbs through the tent entrance, then lay gasping. The pain he now felt came from his own soul. He pulled his pack up alongside him, rested his head on it. The columns of stacked coins were hard against his sweat-runnelled forehead. 'My rewards,' he whispered. 'Blessed is the touch of the Fallen One. Lead me, dear master, down the paths of despair, for I deserve this world's pain in unending bounty…'

  From the tent behind him, the Crippled God's laughter hacked the air. 'Cherish this moment, dear Munug! By your hand, the new game is begun. By your hand, the world shall tremble!'

  Munug closed his eyes. 'My rewards…'

  Blend continued staring up the trail long after the trader had disappeared from view. 'He was not,' she muttered, 'as he seemed.'

  'None of them are,' Picker agreed, tugging at the tores on her arm. These things are damned tight.'

  'Your arm will probably rot and fall off, Corporal.'

  She looked up with wide eyes. 'You think they're cursed?'

  Blend shrugged. 'If it was me I'd have Quick Ben take a good long peer at them, and sooner not later.'

  'Togg's balls, if you'd a suspicion—'

  'Didn't say I did, Corporal—it was you complaining they were tight. Can you get them off?'

  She scowled. 'No, damn you.'

  'Oh.' Blend looked away.

  Picker contemplated giving the woman a good, hard cuff, but it was a thought she entertained at least ten times a day since they'd paired up for this posting, and once again she resisted it. 'Three hundred councils to buy my arm falling off. Wonderful.'

  'Think positive, Corporal. It'll give you something to talk about with Dujek.'

  'I really do hate you, Blend.'

  She offered Picker a bland smile. 'So, did you drop a pebble in that old man's pack, then?'

  'Aye, he was fidgety enough to warrant it. He damn near fainted when I called him back, didn't he?'

  Blend nodded.

  'So,' Picker said, unrolling her sleeve, 'Quick Ben tracks him—'

  'Unless he cleans out his pack—'

>   The corporal grunted. 'He cared less about what was in it than I did. No, whatever serious booty he carried was under his shirt, no doubt about it. Anyway, he'll be sure to put out the word when he gets to Pale—the traffic of smugglers through these hills will drop right off, mark my words and I'll lay coin on that wager—and I threw him the line about better chances at the Divide when you was off collecting the councils.'

  Blend's smile broadened. '"Chaos at the crossroads", eh? The only chaos Paran's crew has over there is what to do with all the takings.'

  'Let's fix some food—the Moranth will likely be as punctual as usual.'

  The two Bridgeburners made their way back up the trail.

  An hour after sunset the flight of Black Moranth arrived, descending on their quorls in a slithering flutter of wings to the circle of lanterns Picker and Blend had set out. One of them carried a passenger who clambered off as soon as his quorl's six legs alighted on the stony ground.

  Picker grinned at the cursing man. 'Over here, Quick—'

  He spun to face her. 'What in Hood's name have you been up to, Corporal?'

  Her grin fell away. 'Not much, Wizard. Why?'

  The thin, dusk-skinned man glanced over a shoulder at the Black Moranth, then hastened to the position where Picker and Blend waited. He lowered his voice. 'We need to keep things simple, damn it. Coming over the hills I almost fell out of that knobby saddle—there's warrens swirling around down here, power bleeding from everywhere—' He stopped, stepped closer, eyes glittering. 'From you, too, Picker…'

  'Cursed after all,' Blend muttered.

  Picker glared at her companion and threw as much sarcasm into her tone as she could muster, 'Just like you suspected all along, right, Blend? You lying—'

  'You've acquired the blessing of an ascendant!' Quick Ben accused in a hiss. 'You idiot! Which one, Picker?'

  She struggled to swallow with a suddenly dry throat. 'Uh, Treach?'

  'Oh, that's just great.'

  The corporal scowled. 'What's wrong with Treach? Perfect for a soldier—the Tiger of Summer, the Lord of Battle—'

  'Five centuries ago, maybe! Treach veered into his Soletaken form hundreds of years ago—the beast hasn't had a human thought since! It's not just mindless—it's insane, Picker!'

  Blend snickered.

  The wizard whirled on her. 'What are you laughing at?'

  'Nothing. Sorry.'

  Picker rolled up her sleeve to reveal the tores. 'It's these, Quick Ben,' she explained hastily. 'Can you get them off me?'

  He recoiled upon seeing the ivory bands, then shook his head. 'If it was a sane, reasonable ascendant, maybe some… negotiation might be possible. In any case, never mind—'

  'Never mind?' Picker reached out and gripped handfuls of raincape. She shook the wizard. 'Never mind? You snivelling worm—' She stopped suddenly, eyes widening.

  Quick Ben regarded her with a raised eyebrow. 'What are you doing, Corporal?' he asked softly.

  'Uh, sorry, Wizard.' She released him.

  Sighing, Quick Ben adjusted his cape. 'Blend, lead the Moranth to the cache.'

  'Sure,' she said, ambling towards the waiting warriors. 'Who made the delivery, Corporal?'

  'The tores?'

  'Forget the tores—you're stuck with them. The councils from Darujhistan. Who delivered them?'

  'Odd thing, that,' Picker said, shrugging. 'A huge carriage showed up, as if from nowhere. One moment the trail's empty, the next there's six stamping horses and a carriage—Wizard, this trail up here can't manage a two-wheeled cart, much less a carriage. The guards were armed to the teeth, too, and jumpy—I suppose that makes sense, since they were carrying ten thousand councils.'

  'Trygalle,' Quick Ben muttered. 'Those people make me nervous…' After a moment he shook his head. 'Now, my last question. The last tracker you sent off—where is it?'

  Picker frowned. 'Don't you know? They're your pebbles, Wizard!'

  'Who did you give it to?'

  'A carver of trinkets—'

  'Trinkets like the one you're wearing on your arm, Corporal?'

  'Well, yes, but that was his lone prize—I looked at all the rest and it was good but nothing special.'

  Quick Ben glanced over to where the black-armoured Moranth were loading wrapped columns of coin onto their quorls under Blend's smirking gaze. 'Well, I don't think it's gone far. I guess I'll just have to go and find it. Shouldn't take long

  She watched him walk off a short distance, then sit cross-legged on the ground.

  The night air was growing cold, a west wind arriving from the Tahlyn Mountains. The span of stars overhead had become sharp and crisp. Picker turned and watched the loading. 'Blend,' she called, 'make sure there's two spare saddles besides the wizard's.'

  'Of course,' she replied.

  The city of Pale wasn't much, but at least the nights were warm. Picker was getting too old to be camping out night after night, sleeping on cold, hard ground. The past week waiting for the delivery had settled a dull ache into her bones. At least, with Darujhistan's generous contribution, Dujek would be able to complete the army's resupply.

  With Oponn's luck, they'd be on the march within a week. Off to another Hood-kissed war, as if we ain't weary enough. Fener's hoof, who or what is the Pannion Domin, anyway?

  Since leaving Darujhistan eight weeks past, Quick Ben had been attached to Second-in-Command Whiskeyjack's staff, with the task of assisting in the consolidation of Dujek's rebel army. Bureaucracy and minor sorceries seemed strangely well suited to one another. The wizard had been busy weaving a network of communications through Pale and its outlying approaches. Tithes and tariffs, in answer to the army's financial needs, and the imposition of control, easing the transition from occupation to possession. At least for the moment. Onearm's Host and the Malazan Empire had parted ways, after all, yet the wizard had wondered, more than once, at the curiously imperial responsibilities he had been tasked to complete.

  Outlaws, are we? Indeed, and Hood dreams of sheep gambolling in green pastures, too.

  Dujek was… waiting. Caladan Brood's army had taken its time coming south, and had only the day before reached the plain north of Pale—Tiste Andü at its heart with mercenaries and Ilgres Barghast on one flank and the Rhivi and their massive bhederin herds on the other.

  But there would be no war. Not this time.

  No, by the Abyss, we've all decided to fight a new enemy, assuming the parley goes smoothly—and given that Darujhistan's rulers are already negotiating with us, that seems likely. A new enemy. Some theocratic empire devouring city after city in a seemingly unstoppable wave of fanatic ferocity. The Pannion Domin—why do 1 have a bad feeling about this? Never mind, it's time to find my wayward tracker…

  Eyes closing, Quick Ben loosed his soul's chains and slipped away from his body. For the moment, he could sense nothing of the innocuous waterworn pebble he'd dipped into his particular host of sorceries, so he had little choice but to fashion his search into an outward spiral, trusting in proximity to brush his senses sooner or later.

  It meant proceeding blind, and if there was one thing the wizard hated—

  Ah, found you!

  Surprisingly close, as if he'd crossed some kind of hidden barrier. His vision showed him nothing but darkness—not a single star visible overhead—but beneath him the ground had levelled out. I'm into a warren, all right. What's alarming is, I don't quite recognize it. Familiar, but wrong.

  He discerned a faint reddish glow ahead, rising from the ground. It coincided with the location of his tracker. The smell of sweet smoke was in the tepid air. Quick Ben's unease deepened, but he approached the glow none the less.

  The red light bled from a ragged tent, he now saw. A hide flap covered the entrance, but it hung untied. The wizard sensed nothing of what lay within.

  He reached the tent, crouched down, then hesitated. Curiosity is my greatest curse, but simple acknowledgement of a flaw does not correct it. Alas. He drew the flap aside and looked insi
de.

  A blanket-wrapped figure sat huddled against the tent's far wall, less than three paces away, leaning over a brazier from which smoke rose in sinuous coils. Its breathing was loud, laboured. A hand that appeared to have had every one of its bones broken lifted into view and gestured. A voice rasped from beneath the hooded blanket. 'Enter, mage. I believe I have something of yours…'

  Quick Ben accessed his warrens—he could only manage seven at any one time though he possessed more. Power rippled through him in waves. He did so with reluctance—to unveil simultaneously nearly all he possessed filled him with a delicious whisper of omnipotence. Yet he knew that sensation for the dangerous, potentially fatal illusion it was.

  'You realize now,' the figure continued between wheezing gasps, 'that you must retrieve it. For one such as myself to hold such a link to your admirable powers, mortal—'

  'Who are you?' the wizard asked.

  'Broken. Shattered. Chained to this fevered corpse beneath us. I did not ask for such a fate. I was not always a thing of pain…'

  Quick Ben pressed a hand to the earth outside the tent, quested with his powers. After a long moment, his eyes widened, then slowly closed. 'You have infected her.'

  'In this realm,' the figure said, 'I am as a cancer. And, with each passing of light, I grow yet more virulent. She cannot awaken, whilst I burgeon in her flesh.' He shifted slightly, and from beneath the folds of filthy blanket came the rustle of heavy chain. 'Your gods have bound me, mortal, and think the task complete.'

  'You wish a service in exchange for my tracker,' Quick Ben said. 'Indeed. If I must suffer, then so too must the gods and their world—' The wizard unleashed his host of warrens. Power ripped through the tent. The figure shrieked, jerking backward. The blanket burst into flame, as did the creature's long, tangled hair. Quick Ben darted into the tent behind the last wave of his sorcery. One hand flashed out, angled down at the wrist, palm up. His fingertips jabbed into the figure's eye-sockets, his palm slamming into its forehead, snapping the head back. Quick Ben's other hand reached out and unerringly scooped up the pebble as it rolled amidst the rushes.

  The power of the warrens winked out. Even as the wizard pulled back, pivoted and dived for the entrance, the chained creature bellowed with rage. Quick Ben scrambled to his feet and ran.