Memories of Ice

  Quick Ben shrugged. The sticksnare's weight left his shoulder.

  Smiling, the wizard stepped from the warren, began brushing gritty dust from his tunic and rain-cape.

  The seated man slowly closed his book without looking up. 'Some wine, Emancipor, for me and my guest.'

  The servant spun to face Quick Ben. 'Hood's breath! Where did he come from?'

  'The walls have ears, eyes and all the rest. Be on with your task, Emancipor.' The man finally lifted his head and met the wizard's gaze.

  Now that's a lizard's regard. Well, I've never quailed from the like before, so why should I now? 'Wine would be wonderful,' Quick Ben said, matching the seated man's Daru.

  'Something… flowery,' the necromancer added as the servant strode towards a side door.

  The crow on the mantel had ceased its pacing and now studied the wizard with cocked head. After a moment, it resumed its back and forth ambling,

  'Please, be seated. My name is Bauchelain.'

  'Quick Ben.' The wizard walked to the plush chair opposite the necromancer and settled into it. He sighed.

  'An interesting name. Aptly chosen, if I may so presume. To have dodged the Sirinth's attack—I assume it attacked once you'd released it?'

  'Clever,' Quick Ben conceded, 'locking a hold-over spell in that collar, one last command to kill whomever frees it. I assume that doesn't include you, its summoner.'

  'I never free my demons,' Bauchelain said.

  'Never?'

  'Every exception to a magical geas weakens it. I allow none.'

  'Poor demons!'

  Bauchelain shrugged. 'I hold no sympathy for mere tools. Do you weep for your dagger when it breaks in someone's back?'

  'That depends on whether it killed the bastard or just made him mad.'

  'Ah, but then you weep for yourself.'

  'I was making a joke.'

  Bauchelain raised a single, thin eyebrow.

  The subsequent silence was broken by Emancipor's return, bearing a tray on which sat a dusty bottle and two crystal goblets.

  'Not a glass for yourself?' the necromancer asked. 'Am I so un-egalitarian, Emancipor?'

  'Uh, I took a swig below, master.'

  'You did?'

  'T'see if it was flowery.'

  'And was it?'

  'Not sure. Maybe. What's flowery?'

  'Hmm, we must resume your education, I think, of such finer things. Flowery is the opposite of… woody. Not bitter memory of sap, in other words, but something sweet, as of narcissus or skullcrown—'

  'Those flowers are poisonous,' Quick Ben noted in faint alarm.

  'But pretty and sweet in appearance, yes? I doubt any of us are in the habit of eating flowers, thus in analogy I sought visual cues for dear Emancipor.'

  'Ah, I see.'

  'Before you pour from that bottle, then, Emancipor. Was the aftertaste bitter or sweet?'

  'Uh, it was kind of thick, master. Like iron.'

  Bauchelain rose and grasped the bottle. He held it close, then sniffed the mouth. 'You idiot, this is blood from Korbal Broach's collection. Not that row, the one opposite. Take this back to the cellar.'

  Emancipor's lined face had gone parchment-white. 'Blood? Whose?'

  'Does it matter?'

  As Emancipor gaped, Quick Ben cleared his throat and said, 'To your servant, I think the answer would be "yes, it does".'

  The crow cackled from the mantelpiece, head bobbing.

  The servant sagged on watery knees, the goblets on the tray clinking together.

  Frowning, Bauchelain collected the bottle again and sniffed once more. 'Well,' he said, returning it to the tray, 'I'm not the one to ask, of course, but I think it's virgin's blood.'

  Quick Ben had no choice but to enquire, 'How can you tell?'

  Bauchelain regarded him with raised brows. 'Why, it's woody.'

  To Hood with plans. Paran sat slouched on one of the lower benches in the Thrall's council chamber. The night outside seemed to have flowed into the vast, dusty room, dulling the torchlight along the walls. Before him, the floor had been gutted, revealing an array of dust-caked outrigger canoes. The wrapped corpses that had once filled them had been removed by the Barghast in solemn ceremony, but, to the captain's senses, the most important artefacts had been left behind. His eyes never left the seafaring canoes, as if they held truths that might prove overwhelming, if only he could glean them.

  The pain in his stomach rode dwindling echoes. He thought he now understood the source of his illness. He was not a man who welcomed power, but it had been thrust upon him regardless. Nothing so clear or obvious as a sword, such as Dragnipur; nothing that he could wield, cutting through enemies like an avenging demon who knelt only before cold justice. Yet, power none the less. Sensitivity to unseen currents, knowledge of the interconnectedness that bound all things and everyone to everyone else. Ganoes Paran, who despised authority, had been chosen as an adjudicator. A mitigator of power whose task was to assert a structure—the rules of the game—upon players who resented every challenge to their freedom to do as they pleased.

  Worse than a Malazan magistrate in Unta. Holding fast to the law, whilst being pressured by every influence imaginable, from rival factions to the wishes of the Empress herself. Prod and pull, push and tug, turning even the easiest and most straightforward of decisions into a nightmare. No wonder my body recoils, seeks to reject what has been forced upon me.

  He was alone in the Thrall's council chamber. The Bridgeburners had found the Gidrath barracks more to their style and were no doubt gambling and drinking themselves blind with the half-hundred Gidrath who comprised the Thrall's Inner Guard; whilst the priests of the Mask Council had retired for the night.

  And it seemed Trake's Mortal Sword, the man named Gruntle, had initiated a friendship with Humbrall Taur's daughter, Hetan, in a manner that Paran suspected might eventually result in kin ties with the White Face clan—the two had made their way into the heart of the Thrall, no doubt in search of somewhere private. Much to the disgust of the woman, Stonny Menackis.

  Shield Anvil Itkovian had led his troop back to the barracks near Jelarkan's Palace, to effect repairs and, come the morrow, begin the task of retrieving the refugees hidden in the tunnels beneath the city. The resurrection of Capustan would likely prove torturous and anguished, and the captain did not envy the Grey Sword the task.

  We, on the other hand, will have moved on. Itkovian will need to find, among the survivors, someone with royal blood—no matter how thinned—to set on that stained throne. The city's infrastructure is in ruins. Who will feed the survivors? How long before trade is reestablished with cities like Saltoan and Darujhistan? Hood knows the Barghast don't owe the people of Capustan anything…

  Peace had come to his stomach, finally. He drew a tentative breath, slowly sighed. Power. His thoughts had a way of slipping into mundane considerations—a means to procrastination, he well knew, and it was a struggle to return to the one issue he would have to deal with sooner or later. A storm of plans, each one trying to make me into a fulcrum. I need only spread the fingers of one hand, and so encompass the entire Deck of Dragons. A truth I'd rather not recognize. But I feel those damned cards within me, like the barely articulated bones of a vast beast, so vast as to be unrecognizable in its entirety. A skeleton threatening to blow apart. Unless I can hold on, and that is the task, forced upon me now. To hold it all together.

  Players in the game, wanting no others. Players outside the game and wanting in. Players to the forefront and ones behind, moving in the shadows. Players who play fair, players who cheat. Gods, where do I begin to unravel all of this?

  He thought about Gruntle, Mortal Sword to the newly ascended Treach. In a way, the Tiger of Summer had always been there, silently padding in Fener's wake. If the tales were true, the First Hero had lost his way long ago, surrendered entirely to the bestial instincts of his Soletaken form. Still, the sheer, overwhelming coincidence… Paran had begun to suspect that the Elder Gods had
not orchestrated matters to the degree Nightchill had implied; that opportunism and serendipity was as much responsible for the turn of events as anything else. Otherwise, against the Elder Gods, none of us stand a chance, including the Crippled God. If it was all planned, then that plan would have had to involve Treach losing his way—thereby becoming a sleeper in the game, his threat to Fener deftly negated until the moment the First Hero was needed. And his death, too, would have had to have been arranged, the timing made precise, so that he would ascend at the right moment.

  And every event that led, ultimately, to Fener's extremity, his sudden, brutal vulnerability, would have had to have been known to the Elder Gods, down to the last detail.

  Thus, unless we are all playing out roles that are predetermined and so inevitable—thereby potentially knowable by such beings as the Elder Gods—unless that, then, what each and every one of us chooses to do, or not to do, can have profound consequences. Not just on our own lives, but on the world—the worlds, every realm in existence.

  He recalled the writings of historians who had asserted precisely that. The old soldier Duiker, for one, though he's long since fallen out of favour. Any scholar who accepts an Imperial robe is immediately suspect… for obvious reasons of compromised integrity and bias. Still, in his early days, he was a fierce proponent of individual efficacy.

  The curse of great minds. Arriving young to an idea, surviving the siege that invariably assails it, then, finally, standing guard on the ramparts long after the war's over, weapons dull in leaden hands… damn, I'm wandering yet again.

  So, he was to be the fulcrum. A position demanding a sudden burgeoning of his ego, the unassailable belief in his own efficacy. That's the last thing I'm capable of, alas. Plagued by uncertainty, scepticism, by all the flaws inherent in someone who's chronically without purpose. Who undermines every personal goal like a tree gnawing its own roots, if only to prove its grim opinion by toppling.

  Gods, talk about the wrong choice…

  A scuffling sound alerted Paran to the presence of someone else in the chamber. Blinking, he scanned the gloom. A figure was among the canoes, hulking, armoured in tarnished coins.

  The captain cleared his throat. 'Paying a last visit?'

  The Barghast warrior straightened.

  His face was familiar, but it was a moment before Paran recognized the young man. 'Cafal, isn't it? Brother to Hetan.'

  'And you are the Malazan captain.'

  'Ganoes Paran.'

  'The One Who Blesses.'

  Paran frowned. 'No, that title would better fit Itkovian, the Shield Anvil—'

  Cafal shook his head. 'He but carries burdens. You are the One Who Blesses.'

  'Are you suggesting that if anyone is capable of relieving Itkovian's... burden… then it's me? I need only… bless him?' Adjudicator, I'd thought. Obviously more complicated than that. The power to bless? Bern fend.

  'Not for me to say,' Cafal growled, his eyes glittering in the torchlight. 'You can't bless someone who denies your right to do so.'

  'A good point. No wonder most priests are miserable.'

  Teeth glimmered in either a grin or something nastier.

  Oh, I think I dislike this notion of blessing. But it makes sense. How else does a Master of the Deck conclude arbitration? Like an Untan magistrate indeed, only there's something of the religious in this—and that makes me uneasy. Mull on that later, Ganoes…

  'I was sitting here,' Paran said, 'thinking—every now and then—that there is a secret within those decaying canoes.' Cafal grunted.

  'If I take that as agreement, would I be wrong?'

  'No.'

  Paran smiled. He'd learned that Barghast hated saying yes to anything, but an affirmative could be gleaned by guiding them into saying no to the opposite. 'Would you rather I leave?'

  'No. Only cowards hoard secrets. Come closer, if you like, and witness at least one of the truths within these ancient craft.'

  'Thank you,' Paran replied, slowly pushing himself upright. He collected a lantern and strode to the edge of the pit, then climbed down to stand on the mouldy earth beside Cafal.

  The Barghast's right hand was resting on a carved prow. Paran studied it. 'Battle scenes. On the sea.'

  'Not the secret I would show you,' Cafal rumbled. 'The carvers possessed great skill. They hid the joins, and even the passing of centuries has done little to reveal their subterfuge. See how this canoe looks to have been carved of a single tree? It was, but none the less the craft was constructed in pieces—can you discern that, Ganoes Paran?' The captain crouched close. 'Barely,' he said after a while, 'but only because some of the pieces have warped away from the joins. These panels with the battle scenes, for example—'

  'Aye, those ones. Now, witness the secret.' Cafal drew a wide-bladed hunting knife. He worked the point and edge between the carved panel and its underlying contact. Twisted.

  The battle-scene gunnel sprang free at the prow end. Within, a long hollow was visible. Something gleamed dull within it. Returning the knife to his belt, Cafal reached into the cavity and withdrew the object.

  A sword, its water-etched blade narrow, single-edged, and like liquid in the play of torchlight. The weapon was overlong, tip flaring at the last hand-span. A small diamond-shaped hilt of black iron protected the sinew-wrapped grip. The sword was unmarked by its centuries unoiled and unsheathed.

  'There is sorcery within that.'

  'No.' Cafal raised the weapon, closing both hands in an odd finger-locking grasp around the grip. 'In our people's youth, patience and skill were wedded in perfect union. The blades we made were without equal then, and remain so now.'

  'Forgive me, Cafal, but the hook-blades and spears I've seen among your warriors hardly evince singular skill.'

  Cafal bared his teeth. 'No need to forgive. Indeed, you tread too kindly with your words. The weapons our smiths forge these days are poorly made. We have lost the ancient knowledge.'

  'I can't imagine a wholly mundane sword to survive unscathed such neglect, Cafal. Are you sure it has not been imbued with—'

  'I am. The blend of metals defies time's assault. Among them, metals that have yet to be rediscovered and now, with sorcery so prevalent, may never be.' He held the sword out to Paran. 'It looks unbalanced, yes? Top-heavy. Here.'

  Paran accepted the weapon. It was as light as a dagger. 'Impossible,' he muttered. 'It must break—'

  'Not easily, Captain. The flex seems stiff, yes? Thus you conclude it is brittle, but it is not. Examine the edge. There are no nicks, yet this particular sword has seen battle many, many times. The edge remains true and sharp. This sword does not need mothering.'

  Handing it back, Paran turned his gaze upon the canoes. 'And these craft possess more of such weapons?' 'They do.'

  'Who will use them? The warchiefs?'

  'No. Children.'

  'Children?'

  'Carefully selected, to begin their training with these swords. Imagine swinging this blade, Captain. Your muscles are tuned to something far heavier. You will either over-swing or over-compensate. A hard blow could spring it from your hand. No, the true potential of these swords can only be found in hands that know no other weapon. And much of what those children learn, they must do so by themselves—after all, how can we teach what we do not know?'

  'And what will be the purpose of these swords? Of those young warriors who will wield them?'

  'You may find an answer one day, Ganoes Paran.' Paran was silent for a time. 'I think,' he finally said, 'I have gleaned another secret.'

  'And what is that?'

  You will dismantle these canoes. Learn the art of making them. 'Will the land remain your home for much longer, Barghast?' Cafal smiled. 'No.' 'Thus.'

  'Thus. Captain, Humbrall Taur would ask something of you. Would you hear his request from him, or may I voice it on his behalf?'

  'Go ahead.'

  'The Barghast would have their gods… blessed.'

  'What? You don't need me for that—
'

  'That is true. We ask it none the less.'

  'Well, let me think about it, Cafal. One of my problems is, I don't know how it's done. Do I just walk up to the bones and say "I bless you" or is something more complicated necessary?'

  Cafal's heavy brows rose. 'You do not know?'

  'No. You might want to call together all your shamans and discuss the matter.'

  'Aye, we shall need to do just that. When we discover the ritual that is necessary, will you agree to it?'

  'I said I'd think about it, Cafal.'

  'Why do you hesitate?'

  Because I'm a Hood-damned fulcrum and what I choose to do could—will—change everything. 'I intend no offence. But I'm a cautious bastard.'

  'A man possessing power must act decisively, Ganoes Paran. Else it trickle away through his fingers.'

  'When I decide to act, Cafal, it will be decisive. If that makes sense. One thing it won't be is precipitous, and if indeed I possess vast power then be glad for that.'

  The Barghast warrior grunted. 'Perhaps your caution is wise, after all. I shall convey your words to my father.'

  'So be it.'

  'If you wish solitude now, find somewhere else. My kin are coming to retrieve the remaining weapons. This will be a busy night.'

  'All right. I'll go for a walk.'

  'Be careful, Ganoes Paran.'

  The captain turned. 'Of what?'

  'The Mask Council know who—what—you are, and they dislike it.'

  'Why?'

  Cafal grinned once more. 'Rivals do not sit well with the Mask Council. They have still not relented in acknowledgement of Keruli, who seeks to join their company. You—you might well be in a position to claim yourself as their master in all things. Eyes are darting within those masks, Captain.'

  'Hood's breath,' Paran sighed. 'Who is Keruli, by the way?'

  'K'rul's High Priest.'

  'K'rul? The Elder God?'

  'Expect Keruli to seek your blessing. On his god's behalf.'

  Paran rubbed his brow, suddenly weary beyond belief. 'I've changed my mind,' he muttered. 'Never mind the walk.'

  'What will you do?'

  'Find a hole and crawl into it, Cafal.'

  The warrior's laugh was harsh, and not quite as sympathetic as Paran would have liked.