Memories of Ice

  'Silverfox,' Paran said quietly, 'if she is within a nightmare, then her living has become a curse. The only true mercy is to see it ended, once and for all.'

  'No! She is my mother, damn you! And I will not abandon her!'

  She wheeled her horse, drove her heels into its flanks.

  Paran watched her ride off. Silverfox, what machinations have you wrapped around your mother? What is it you seek for her? Would you not tell us, please, so that we are made to understand that what we all see as betrayal is in fact something else?

  Is it something else?

  And these machinations—whose? Not Tattersail, surely. No, this must be Nightchill. Oh, how you've closed yourself to me, now. When once you reached out, incessantly, relentlessly seeking to pry open my heart. It seems that what we shared, so long ago in Pale, is as nothing.

  I begin to think, now, that it was far more important to me than it was to you. Tattersail… you were, after all, an older woman. You'd lived your share of loves and losses. On the other hand, I'd barely lived at all.

  What was, then, is no more.

  Flesh and blood Bonecaster, you've become colder than the T'lan Imass you now command.

  I suppose, then, they have indeed found a worthy master.

  Bern fend us all.

  Of the thirty transport barges and floating bridges the Pannions had used to cross the Catlin River, only a third remained serviceable, the others having fallen prey to the overzealous White Face Barghast during the first day of battle. Companies from Caladan Brood's collection of mercenaries had begun efforts at salvaging the wrecks with the intention of cobbling together a few more; while a lone serviceable floating bridge and the ten surviving barges already rode the lines across the river's expanse, loaded with troops, mounts and supplies.

  Itkovian watched them as he walked the shoreline. He'd left his horse on a nearby hillock where the grasses grew thick, and now wandered alone, with only the shift of pebbles underfoot and the soft rush of the river accompanying him. The wind was sweeping up the river's mouth, a salt-laden breath from the sea beyond, so the sounds of the barges behind him—the winches, the lowing of yoked cattle, the shouts of drivers—did not reach him.

  Glancing up, he saw a figure on the beach ahead, seated cross-legged and facing the scene of the crossing. Wild-haired, wearing a stained collection of rags, the man was busy painting on wood-backed muslin. Itkovian paused, watching the artist's head bob up and down, the long-handled brush darting about in his hand, now hearing his mumbling conversation with himself.

  Or, perhaps, not with himself. One of the skull-sized boulders near the artist moved suddenly, revealing itself to be a large, olive-green toad.

  And it had just replied to the artist's tirade, in a low, rumbling voice.

  Itkovian approached.

  The toad saw him first and said something in a language Itkovian did not understand.

  The artist looked up, scowled. 'Interruptions,' he snapped in Daru, 'are not welcome!'

  'My apologies, sir—'

  'Wait! You're the one named Itkovian! Defender of Capustan!'

  'Failed defen—'

  'Yes, yes, everyone's heard your words from the parley. Idiocy. When I paint you in the scene, I'll be sure to include the noble failure—in your stance, perhaps, in where your eyes rest, maybe. A certain twist to the shoulders, yes, I think I see it now. Precisely. Excellent.'

  'You are Malazan?'

  'Of course I'm Malazan! Does Brood give one whit for history? He does not. But the old Emperor! Oh yes, he did, he did indeed! Artists with every army! On every campaign! Artists of purest talent, sharp-eyed—yes, dare I admit it, geniuses. Such as Ormulogun of Li Heng!'

  'I am afraid I've not heard that name—he was a great artist of the Malazan Empire?'

  'Was? Is! I am Ormulogun of Li Heng, of course. Endlessly mimicked, never surpassed! Ormulogun seraith Gumble!'

  'An impressive title—'

  'It's not a title, you fool. Gumble is my critic.' With that he gestured at the toad, then said to it, 'Mark him well, Gumble, so that you note the brilliance of my coming rendition. He stands straight, does he not? Yet his bones may well be iron, their burden that of a hundred thousand foundation stones… or souls, to be more precise. And his features, yes? Look carefully, Gumble, and you will see the fullest measure of this man. And know this, though I capture all he is on the canvas recording the parley outside Capustan, know this… in that image you will see that Itkovian is not yet done.'

  The soldier started.

  Ormulogun grinned. 'Oh yes, warrior, I see all too well for your comfort, yes? Now Gumble, spew forth your commentary, for I know its tide is building! Come now!'

  'You are mad,' the toad observed laconically. 'Forgive him, Shield Anvil, he softens his paint in his own mouth. It has poisoned his brain—'

  'Poisoned, pickled, poached, yes, yes, I've heard every variation from you until I'm sick to my stomach!'

  'Nausea is to be expected,' the toad said with a sleepy blink. 'Shield Anvil, I am no critic. Merely a humble observer who, when able, speaks on behalf of the tongue-tied multitudes otherwise known as the commonalty, or, more precisely, the rabble. An audience, understand, wholly incapable of self-realization or cogent articulation, and thus possessors of depressingly vulgar tastes when not apprised of what they truly like, if only they knew it. My meagre gift, therefore, lies in the communication of an aesthetic framework upon which most artists hang themselves.'

  'Ha, slimy one! Ha! So very slimy! Here, have a fly!' Ormulogun plunged his paint-smeared fingers into a pouch at his side. He withdrew a deerfly and tossed it at the toad.

  The still living but dewinged insect landed directly in front of Gumble, who lunged forward and devoured it in a pink flash. 'As I was saying—'

  'A moment, if you please,' Itkovian interrupted.

  'I will allow a moment,' the toad said, 'if possessing admirable brevity.'

  'Thank you, sir. Ormulogun, you say it was the practice of the Emperor of Malaz to assign artists to his armies. Presumably to record historical moments. Yet is not Onearm's Host outlawed? For whom, then, do you paint?'

  'A record of the outlawry is essential! Besides, I had little choice but to accompany the army. What would you have me do, paint sunsets on cobbles in Darujhistan for a living? I found myself on the wrong continent! As for the so-called community of artisans and patrons in the so-called city of Pale and their so-called styles of expression—'

  'They hated you,' Gumble said.

  'And I hated them! Tell me, did you see anything worthy of mention in Pale? Did you?'

  'Well, there was one mosaic—'

  'What?'

  'Fortunately, the attributed artist was long dead, permitting my effusiveness in its praise.'

  'You call that effusive? "It shows promise…" Isn't that what you said? You well know it's precisely what you said, as soon as that foppish host mentioned the artist was dead!'

  'Actually,' Itkovian commented, 'rather droll, to say such a thing.'

  'I am never droll,' the toad said.

  'Though you do drool on occasion! Ha! Slimy one, yes? Ha!'

  'Suck another lump of paint, will you? There, that quicksilvered white. Looks very tasty.'

  'You just want me dead,' Ormulogun muttered, reaching for the small gummy piece of paint. 'So you can get effusive.'

  'If you say so.'

  'You're a leech, you know that? Following me around everywhere. A vulture.'

  'Dear man,' Gumble sighed, 'I am a toad. While you are an artist. And for my fortune in the distinction, I daily thank every god that is and every god that ever was.'

  Itkovian left them exchanging ever more elaborate insults, and continued on down the shoreline. He forgot to look at Ormulogun's canvas.

  Once the armies were across the river, they would divide. The city of Lest lay directly south, four days' march, while the road to Setta angled west-southwest. Setta was at the very feet of the Vision Mountains, risi
ng on the banks of the river from which it took its name. That same river continued on to the sea south of Lest, and would need to be crossed by both forces, eventually.

  Itkovian would accompany the army that struck for Lest, which consisted of the Grey Swords, elements of Tiste Andü, the Rhivi, Ilgres Barghast, a regiment of cavalry from Saltoan, and a handful of lesser mercenary companies from North Genabackis. Caladan Brood remained in overall command, with Kallor and Korlat as his seconds. The Grey Swords were attached in the manner of an allied force, with the Shield Anvil considered Brood's equal. This distinction did not apply to the other mercenary companies, for they were one and all contracted to the warlord. The Daru, Gruntle, and his motley followers were being viewed as wholly independent, welcome at the briefings but free to do as they pleased.

  All in all, Itkovian concluded, the organization of the command was confused, the hierarchies of rank ephemeral. Not unlike our circumstances in Capustan, with the prince and the Mask Council ever muddying the waters. Perhaps this is a characteristic of the north and its independent city-states—before the Malazan invasion forced them into a confederacy of sorts, that is. And even then, it seemed, old rivalries and feuds perennially undermined the unification, to the invaders' advantage.

  The structure imposed by the Malazan High Fist upon those forces accompanying him was far clearer in its hierarchy. The imperial way was instantly recognizable to Itkovian, and indeed was similar to what he would have established, were he in Dujek Onearm's place. The High Fist commanded. His seconds were Whiskeyjack and Humbrall Taur—the latter displaying his wisdom by insisting upon Dujek's pre-eminence—as well as the commander of the Black Moranth, whom Itkovian had yet to meet. These three were considered equal in rank, yet distinct in their responsibilities.

  Itkovian heard horse hooves and turned to see the Malazan second, Whiskeyjack, riding towards him along the strand. That he had paused to speak with the artist was evident in Ormulogun's hastily gathering up his supplies in the soldier's wake.

  Whiskeyjack reined in. 'Good day to you, Itkovian.'

  'And to you, sir. Is there something you wish of me?' The bearded soldier shrugged, scanning the area. 'I am looking for Silverfox. Her, or the two marines who are supposed to be accompanying her.'

  'Following her, you no doubt mean. They passed me earlier, first Silverfox, then the two soldiers. Riding east.'

  'Did any of them speak with you?'

  'No. They rode at some distance from me, so courtesies were not expected. Nor did I endeavour to hail them.' The commander grimaced. 'Is something wrong, sir?'

  'Quick Ben's been using his warrens to assist in the crossing. Our forces are on the other side and are ready to march, since we've the longer road.'

  'Indeed. Is Silverfox not of the Rhivi, however? Or do you simply wish to make formal your goodbye?'

  His frown deepened. 'She's as much Malazan as Rhivi. I would ask her to choose whom to accompany.'

  'Perhaps she has, sir.'

  'Maybe not,' Whiskeyjack replied, eyes now fixed on something to the east.

  Itkovian turned, but since he was on foot it was a moment longer before the two riders came into his line of sight. The marines, approaching at a steady canter.

  They drew up before their commander.

  'Where is she?' Whiskeyjack asked.

  The marine on the right shrugged. 'We followed her to the coast. Above the tide-line was a row of lumpy hills surrounded by swampy ditches. She rode into one of the hills, Whiskeyjack—'

  'Rode into the side of one of 'em,' the other elaborated. 'Vanished. Not a pause nor a stumble from her horse. We rode up to the spot but there was nothing there but grass, mud and rocks. We've lost her, which is, I guess, what she wanted.'

  The commander was silent.

  Itkovian had expected a heartfelt curse at the very least, and was impressed at the man's self-control.

  'All right. Ride back with me. We're crossing to the other side.'

  'We saw Gumble's pet on the way out.'

  'I've already sent him and Ormulogun back. Theirs is the last wagon, and you well know Ormulogun's instructions regarding his collection.'

  The marines nodded.

  Itkovian asked, 'His collection? How many scenes has he painted since Pale?'

  'Since Pale?' one of the marines grinned. 'There's over eight hundred stretches in that wagon. Ten, eleven years' worth. Dujek here, Dujek there, Dujek even where he wasn't but should have been. He's already done one of the siege of Capustan, with Dujek arriving in the nick of time, tall in his saddle and coming through the gate. There's one White Face Barghast crouching in the gate's shadow, looting a dead Pannion. And in the storm clouds over the scene you'll make out Laseen's face if you look carefully enough—'

  'Enough,' Whiskeyjack growled. 'Your words give offence, soldier. The man before you is Itkovian.'

  The marine's grin broadened but she said nothing.

  'We know that, sir,' the other one said. 'Which is why my comrade here was teasing him. Itkovian, there's no such painting. Ormulogun is the Host's historian, since we ain't got any other, and he's charged on pain of death to keep things accurate, right down to the nosehairs.'

  'Ride,' Whiskeyjack told them. 'I would a private word with Itkovian.'

  'Aye, sir.'

  The two marines departed.

  'Apologies, Itkovian—'

  'No need, sir. There is welcome relief to such irreverence. In fact, it pleases me that they would display such comfort.'

  'Well, they're only like that with people they respect, though it's often taken as the opposite, which can lead to all sorts of trouble.'

  'So I would imagine.'

  'Well,' Whiskeyjack said gruffly, then surprised Itkovian by dismounting, stepping up to him and holding out his gauntleted hand. 'Among the soldiers of the Empire,' he said, 'where the worn gauntlet is for war and nothing other than war, to remain gauntleted when grasping the hand of another, in peace, is the rarest of gestures.'

  'So it, too, is often misunderstood,' Itkovian said. 'I, sir, do not miscomprehend the significance, and so am honoured.' He grasped the commander's hand. 'You accord me far too much—'

  'I do not, Itkovian. I only wish you were travelling with us, so that I could come to know you better.'

  'Yet we will meet at Maurik, sir.'

  Whiskeyjack nodded. 'Until then, Itkovian.'

  They released their grips. The commander swung himself back into the saddle and gathered the reins. He hesitated, then said, 'Are all Elin like you, Itkovian?'

  He shrugged. 'I am not unique.'

  'Then 'ware the Empress the day her legions assail your homeland's borders.'

  His brows rose. 'And come that day, will you be commanding those legions?'

  Whiskeyjack grinned. 'Go well, sir.'

  Itkovian watched the man ride away, down the strand, his horse's hooves kicking up green clumps of sand. He had a sudden, inexplicable conviction that they would never see each other again. After a moment, he shook his head to dispel the dread thought.

  'Well, of course Kruppe will bless this company with his presence!'

  'You misunderstood,' Quick Ben sighed. 'That was only a question, not an invitation.'

  'Poor wizard is weary, yes? So many paths of sorcery to take the place of mundane barges plagued with leaky lack of integrity. None the less, Kruppe is impressed with your prowess—such a dance of warrens rarely if ever before witnessed by humble self. And each one pristine! As if to say faugh! to the foolish one in chains! Such a bold challenge! Such a—'

  'Oh, be quiet! Please!' Quick Ben stood on the river's north shore. Mud covered his leggings to mid-thigh, the price for minimizing as much as possible the distance of the paths he had fashioned for the columns of troops, the wagons, the livestock and the spare mounts. He only awaited the last few stragglers who'd yet to arrive, Whiskeyjack included. To make his exhaustion even more unpleasant, the spirit of Talamandas whined unceasing complaint from his invisible perch
on the wizard's left shoulder.

  Too much power had been unveiled here. Sufficient to draw notice. Careless, claimed the sticksnare in a whisper. Suicidal, in fact. The Crippled God cannot help but find us. Stupid bluster! And what of the Pannion Seer? A score of dread warrens all trembling to our passage! Proof of our singular efficacy against the infection! Will either of them simply sit back and do nothing in answer to what they have seen here?

  'Silence,' Quick Ben muttered.

  Kruppe's wiry brows rose. 'One rude command was sufficient, Kruppe haughtily assures miserable wizard!'

  'Not you. Never mind. I was thinking aloud.'

  'Curious habit for a mage, yes? Dangerous.'

  'You think so? How about some more loudly uttered thoughts, Daru? The display is deliberate. The unveiling of power here is precisely intended to kick the hornet nests. Both of them! Clumsily massive, an appalling absence of subtlety. Thunder to those who had been expecting the almost soundless padding of a mouse's feet and its whispering tail. Now, why would I do that, do you wonder?'

  'Kruppe does not wonder at all, except, perhaps, at your insisting on explaining such admirable tactics of misdirection to these squalling seagulls.'

  Quick Ben scowled down at the round little man. 'Really? I had no idea I was that obvious. Maybe I should reconsider.'

  'Nonsense, Wizard! Hold to your unassailable self-confidence—aye, some might well call it megalomania, but not Kruppe, for he too is in possession of unassailable self-confidence, such as only mortals are capable of and then rightfully but a mere handful the world over. You've singular company, Kruppe assures you!'

  Quick Ben grinned. 'Singular? And what about these seagulls?'

  Kruppe waved a plump hand. 'Pah! Lest one should land on your left shoulder, that is. Which would be another matter entirely, would it not?'

  The wizard's dark eyes thinned suspiciously on the Daru at his side.

  Kruppe blithely continued, 'In which case, poor ignorant bird would be witness to such potent plurality of cunning converse so as to reel confused if not mercifully constipated!'