Memories of Ice (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #3)

by Steven Erikson

Memories are woven tapestries hiding hard walls—tell me, my friends, what hue your favoured thread, and I in turn, will tell the cast of your soul … LIFE OF DREAMS

these are Seguleh! The most feared warriors on this continent. Especially the way they attack without the slightest warning, for reasons only they know—’ ‘Their communication,’ Tool said, ‘is mostly non-verbal. They assert dominance with posture, faint gestures, direction of stance and tilt of head.’ Toc blinked. ‘They do? Oh. Then why haven’t I, in my ignorance, been cut down long ago?’ ‘Your unease in their presence conveys submission,’ the T’lan Imass replied. ‘A natural coward, that’s me. I take it, then, that you show no … unease.’ ‘I yield to no-one, Toc the Younger.’

Rake eyed Kallor. ‘It seems you stand alone.’ ‘It was ever thus.’

Active service was intended to hone, not destroy.

Soldiers are issued armour for their flesh and bones, but they must fashion their own for their souls. Piece by piece.’

hope the T’lan Imass are not too offended. Tell me, Shield Anvil, do these undead warriors hold grudges?’ Itkovian allowed himself a private smile. You can ask that of the next Jaghut we happen across. ‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’

Sorrow was a steady, faint susurration within Paran, a tide that neither ebbed nor flowed, yet threatened to drown him none the less.

‘Trotts lives. He asserts his claim to leadership.’ ‘Yet he has no tribe—’ ‘He has a tribe, Warchief. Thirty-eight Bridgeburners. He showed you that, in the style he chose for the duel.’

‘You suggest, then, that my crisis is not with my faith, but with my vows. That I have blurred the distinction.’ ‘I do, Shield Anvil.’ ‘Destriant,’ Itkovian said, eyes still on the Pannion encampments, ‘your words invite a carnal flood.’

‘The lesson was hard, not easily swallowed, for the truth was this: there were intelligent beings in the world who exploited the virtues of others, their compassion, their love, their faith in kin. Exploited, and mocked.

Rule and administration was a viper’s nest, a ceaseless contest among small and petty minds with illusory rewards.

self. And each one pristine! As if to say faugh! to the

Anomander Rake was a man of solitude – an almost pathological independence. He was indifferent to the needs of others, for whatever reassurance or confirmation they might expect or demand. He said he would be there for the assault on Coral, and so he will.

Tool slowly settled the flint sword into its shoulder-hook, his depthless gaze ignoring the abandoned shacks to either side and fixing on the massive stone barrier before him. Dust on the wind could rise and sweep high over this wall. Dust could run in streams through the rubble fill beneath the foundation stones. The T’lan Imass could make his arrival unknown. But the Pannion Seer had taken Aral Fayle. Toc the Younger. A mortal man … who had called Tool friend. He strode forward, hide-wrapped feet kicking through scattered bones. The time had come for the First Sword of the T’lan Imass to announce himself.

Whiskeyjack’s body was gone. And Ganoes Paran was bereft, his heart a vast cavern, dark, echoing with emotions he would not, could not show.