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

by Steven Erikson

‘Before Houses there were Holds,’ Paran continued with remorseless logic. ‘Both fixed, both stationary. Settled. Before settlement … there was wandering. House from Hold, Hold from … a gate in motion, ceaseless motion …’ He squeezed shut his eyes. ‘A wagon, burdened beneath the countless souls sealing the gate into Dark …’ And I sent two Hounds

Jen’isand Rul, the Wanderer within the Sword.’ She met his eyes. ‘You are a new Unaligned, Ganoes Paran. Birthed by accident or by some purpose the need of which only the Azath know. You must find the answer for your own creation, you must find the purpose behind what you have become.’

His brows rose mockingly. ‘You set for me a quest? Really, Silverfox. Aimless, purposeless men do not undertake quests.

‘An unseen war has begun, Paran. The warrens themselves are under assault – I can feel the pressure within the Deck of Dragons, though I have yet to rest a hand upon one. An army is being … assembled, perhaps, and you – a soldier – are part of that army.’

Tattersail. ‘I have enough wars to fight, Silverfox …’ Her eyes glistened as she looked up at him. ‘Perhaps, Ganoes Paran, they are all one war.’

have dreams as well … a child within a wound. Screaming.’ ‘Do you run from that child?’ ‘Aye,’ he admitted shakily. ‘Those screams are … terrible.’ ‘You must run towards the child, my love. Flight will close your heart.’

‘You are the Wanderer within the Sword. The card exists.’ ‘I don’t care.’ ‘Nor does it,’ she retorted. ‘You don’t have any choice—’ He rounded on her. ‘Nothing new in that! Now ask Oponn how well I performed!’ His laugh was savage. ‘I doubt the Twins will ever recover. The wrong choice, Tattersail, I am ever the wrong choice!’

The wagon carries the gate, the gate into Kurald Galain, the warren of Darkness. The sword gathers souls to seal it … such a wound it must be, to demand so many souls … He

Two days and seven leagues of black, clinging clouds of ash, and Lady Envy’s telaba showed not a single stain.

Keep your head low, son

A new voice, rasping and cold, now spoke. ‘Blacksword.’ They turned to see Mok facing them. ‘That was centuries ago,’ Lady Envy said. ‘The memory of worthy opponents does not fade among the Seguleh, mistress.’ ‘Rake said the last swordsman he faced wore a mask with seven symbols.’

Mok tilted his head. ‘That mask still awaits him. Blacksword holds the Seventh position. Mistress, we would have him claim it.’

She spun, a wave of argent power surging out from her. It struck Mok, threw him back through the air. He landed with a heavy thud. The coruscating glare vanished.

‘Thurule is mended. I am almost weary!

‘Paran’s … affliction. His mortal flesh has the taint of ascendant blood … and ascendant places … but as Quick will tell you, neither one should be manifesting as illness. No, that blood, and those places, are like shoves down a corridor.’ ‘And he keeps crawling back,’ Quick Ben added. ‘Trying to escape. And the more he tries—’ ‘The sicker he gets,’ Mallet finished.

Is the captain himself ascendant?’ ‘As near as,’ the wizard admitted.

‘What’s at the end of this corridor you described?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Me neither,’ Quick Ben said regretfully. ‘But I think we should add a few shoves of our own. If only to save Paran from himself.’ ‘And how do you propose we do that?’ The wizard grinned. ‘It’s already started, Commander. Connecting him to Silverfox. She reads him like Tattersail did a Deck of Dragons, sees more every time she rests eyes on him.’

‘I’ll not stand to one side in the butchering of a child,’ the commander added in a cold voice. ‘No matter what power or potential is within her.’ Dujek glanced up. ‘In defiance of my command, should I give it?’ ‘We’ve known each other a long time, Dujek.’ ‘Aye, we have. Stubborn.’ ‘When it matters.’

‘Silverfox is of Tellann, of the T’lan Imass, Warlord. They have no life-force to give her. They are kin, yet can offer no sustenance, for they are undead, whilst their new child is flesh and blood. Tattersail too is dead. As was Nightchill. Kinship is more important than you might think. Blood-bound lives are the web that carries each of us; they make up that which a life climbs, from newborn to child, then child to adulthood. Without such life-forces, one withers and dies. To be alone is to be ill, Warlord, not just spiritually, but physically as well. I am my daughter’s web, and I am alone in that—’ Brood was shaking his head. ‘Your explanation does not answer her … impatience, Mhybe. She claims she will command the T’lan Imass. She claims they have heard her summons. Does this not in turn mean that the undead armies have already accepted her?’

‘Bone and flesh can hold only so much power – the limit is always finite. For such beings as you and Anomander Rake – and you, too, Korlat – you possess the centuries of living necessary to contain what you command. Silverfox does not, or, rather, her memories tell her she does, yet her child’s body denies those memories. Thus, vast power awaits her, and to fully command it she must be a grown woman – and even then …’

‘It may be,’ Korlat said in a low voice, ‘that Kallor himself is the cause of the child’s impatience – she seeks to become a woman in order to alleviate his fears.’ ‘I’d doubt he’d appreciate the irony,’ the warlord muttered. ‘Alleviate, you said? Thinking on it, more likely she knows she’ll have to defend herself against him sooner or later—’

‘I have seen flashes of darkness within Silverfox,’ the Rhivi woman replied reluctantly, ‘which I would attribute to Nightchill. A seething anger, a hunger for vengeance, possibly against Tayschrenn. At some time, perhaps soon, there will be a clash between Tattersail and Nightchill – the victor will come to dominate my daughter’s nature.’

‘I have spoken with Whiskeyjack,’ Korlat said. ‘He possesses an unshakeable integrity, Warlord. An honourable man.’ ‘I hear your heart in your words,’ Brood observed. Korlat shrugged. ‘Less cause to doubt me, then, Caladan. I am not careless in such matters.’

A rather plump calf, knee, and thigh followed. The short, round man who emerged was wearing silks of every colour, the effect one of clashing discord. A shimmering, crimson handkerchief was clutched in one pudgy hand, rising to dab a glittering forehead. Both feet finally on the ground, the Daru loosed a loud sigh. ‘Burn’s fiery heart, but it’s hot!’

Horses decidedly similar to ones you and Meese seem to have acquired, might I add.’

The carriage doors opened and out climbed a broad-shouldered, balding man. His blunt-featured face was dark with anger as he strode towards Kruppe.

‘Kruppe and the truth are lifelong partners, friend Coll! Indeed, wedded bliss – we only yesterday celebrated out fortieth anniversary, the

Crone bounded down to hop towards Kruppe. ‘You, sir, should have been a Great Raven!’ ‘And you a dog!’ he shouted back. Crone halted, teetered a moment, wings half spreading. She cocked her head, whispered, ‘A dog?’ ‘Only so that I might ruffle you behind the ears, my dear!’ ‘Ruffle? Ruffle!’ ‘Very well, not a dog, then. A parrot?’ ‘A parrot!’ ‘Perfect!’

‘Which has yet to occur,’ D’Arle snapped. ‘She is well, sir. My patience with you is growing very thin, Kruppe—’ ‘Alas, I can only dream of thin.

The Assassin of High House Shadow seems to have acquired a new face, I’m getting hints of it … bloody familiar, that face.’ The one named Hedge grunted. ‘Should bring Quick Ben in on this—’ ‘That’s it!’ Spindle hissed. ‘The Assassin’s face – it’s Kalam!’

Her bones were a rack of dull, incessant pains, an ebb and flow of twinges that only the deepest of sleep could temporarily evade – the kind of sleep that had begun to elude her.

‘What was the sorceress like, Captain?’ ‘Generous … perhaps to a fault. A highly respected and indeed well-liked cadre mage.’ Oh, sir, you hold so much within yourself, chained and in darkness. Detachment is a flaw, not a virtue – don’t you realize that?

‘Once there, Trotts detaches from your command. He’s to initiate contact with the White Face Barghast, by whatever means he deems proper. You and your company are to provide his escort, but you will not become otherwise entangled in the negotiations. We need the White Face clan – the entire clan.’

A moment later the Son of Darkness stood, cloaked, framed by the gouged tracks of the dragon’s front talons, his slightly epicanthic eyes glimmering dull bronze as he surveyed his kin.

He had stood then as he did now: tall, implacable, a sword emanating sheer terror hanging down the length of his back, his long, silver hair drifting in the breeze. A slight turn of his head was his only acknowledgement of Korlat’s approach.

Rake was an atmosphere, a heart-thudding, terror-threaded presence no-one could ignore, much less escape. Violence, antiquity, sombre pathos, and darkest horror – the Son of Darkness was a gelid eddy in immortality’s current, and the Mhybe could feel, crawling beneath her very skin, every Rhivi spirit awakened in desperation. The sword, yet more than the sword. Dragnipur in the hands of cold justice, cold and unhuman. Anomander Rake, the only one among us whose presence sparks fear in Kallor’s eyes … the only one … except, it seems, for Silverfox – for my daughter. What might Kallor fear most, if not an alliance between the Son of Darkness and Silverfox?

The standard-bearer Artanthos was a step behind and slightly to the right of Onearm, a marine’s rain cape drawn about him, hiding his hands. The young man’s eyes glittered. Is that power swirling from the man? No, I am mistaken – I see nothing now …

Sorcery flowed from Anomander Rake, grainy grey, rolling in a slow wave across the clearing, passing through Whiskeyjack effortlessly, then swallowing Silverfox in an opaque, swirling embrace. The Mhybe cried out, lurched forward, but Korlat’s hand closed on her arm. ‘Fear not,’ she said, ‘he but seeks to understand her—understand what she is …’

Off to one side, an exhausted Picker sat watching him, her expression a strange mixture of dismay and admiration, and thus she was the only one to see him taking yet another forward step, then simply vanishing.

‘Why am I here?’ The grin broadened. ‘Follow me.’

Seven paces along, the hallway ended with a door on the left and another directly in front. The Jaghut opened the one on the left, revealing a circular chamber beyond, surrounding spiral stairs of root-bound wood. There was no light, yet Paran found he could see well enough. They went down, the steps beneath them like flattened branches spoking out from the central trunk.

They stood on a landing. Paran judged that they had gone down six, perhaps seven levels into the bowels of the earth. The stone walls had disappeared, leaving only gloom, the ground underfoot a mat of snaking roots. ‘I can go no further, Master of the Deck,’ Raest said. ‘Walk into the darkness.’ ‘And if I refuse?’ ‘Then I kill you.’ ‘Unforgiving bastard, this Azath,’ Paran muttered. ‘I kill you, not for the Azath, but for the wasted effort of this journey. Mortal, you’ve no sense of humour.’ ‘And you think you do?’ the captain retorted. ‘If you refuse to go further, then … nothing. Apart from irritating me, that is. The Azath is patient. You will make the journey eventually, though the privilege of my escort occurs but once, and that once is now.’

‘Miserably, if there was justice in the world.’ Paran faced the darkness. ‘And is there?’ ‘You ask that of a Jaghut? Now, do we stand here for ever?’

‘A war has begun.’ Paran fought back a sudden shiver. ‘A war? Involving the Houses of the Azath?’ ‘No entity will be spared, mortal. Not the Houses, not the gods. Not you, human, nor a single one of your short-lived, insignificant comrades.’ Paran grimaced. ‘I’ve enough wars to deal with as it is, Raest.’ ‘They are all one.’

I can travel at will, it seems. Into each and every card, of every Deck that ever existed.

The Hold of the Beasts … long before the First Throne … this was the heart of the T’lan Imass’s power – their spirit world, when they were still flesh and blood, when they still possessed spirits to be worshipped and revered. Long before they initiated the Ritual of Tellann … and so came to outlast their own pantheon …

A realm, then, abandoned. Lost to its makers. What then, is the Warren of Tellann that the T’lan Imass now use? Ah, that warren must have been born from the Ritual itself, a physical manifestation of their Vow of Immortality, perhaps. Aspected, not of life, nor even death. Aspected … of dust.

Then he saw the flaw, the marring a dark, suppurating welt. Waves of nausea swept through Paran, yet he would not look away. There, at the wound’s heart, a humped, kneeling, broken figure. Chained. Chained to Burn’s own flesh. From the figure, down the length of the chains, poison flowed into the Sleeping Goddess. She

She made of herself a weapon! Her entire spirit, all its power, into a single forging … a hammer, a hammer capable of breaking … breaking anything. And Burn then found a man to wield it … Caladan Brood.

But breaking the chains meant freeing the Crippled God. And an unchained Crippled God meant an unleashing of vengeance – enough to sweep all life from the surface of this world. And yet Burn, the Sleeping Goddess, was indifferent to that. She would simply begin again.