Memories of Ice

'Dujek — High Fist Onearm? The Malazan? Lords below, Itkovian! How long have you known this?'

The Shield Anvil cleared his throat. 'Preliminary contact was established some time ago, Prince. Through sorcerous avenues. These have since grown impassable-'

'Yes, yes, I know that well enough. Continue, damn you.'

'The presence of the summoner among their company was news only recently told us — by a Bonecaster of the Kron T'lan Imass-'

'The army, Itkovian! Tell me more of this army!'

'Dujek and his legions have been outlawed by Empress Laseen. They are now acting independently. His complement numbers perhaps ten thousand. Caladan Brood has under his command a number of small mercenary companies, three Barghast clans, the Rhivi nation and the Tiste Andii — a total number of combatants of thirty thousand.'

Prince Jelarkan's eyes were wide. Itkovian watched the information breach the man's inner defences, watched as the host of hopes flowered then withered in swift succession.

'On the surface,' the Shield Anvil said quietly, 'all that I have told you seems of vital import. Yet, as I see you now comprehend, it is in truth all meaningless. Five weeks, Prince. Leave them to their vengeance, if you will, for that is all they might manage. And even then, given their limited numbers-'

'Are these Brukhalian's conclusions, or yours?'

'Both, I regret to say.'

'You fools,' the young man grated. 'You Hood-damned fools.'

'Sire, we cannot withstand the Pannions for five weeks.'

'I know that, damn you! The question now is: why do we even try?'

Itkovian frowned. 'Sir, such was the contract. The defence of the city-'

'Idiot — what do I care about your damned contract? You've already concluded you will fail in any case! My concern is for the lives of my people. This army comes from the west? It must. Marching beside the river-'

'We cannot break out, Prince. We would be annihilated.'

'We concentrate everything to the west. A sudden sortie, that flows into an exodus. Shield Anvil-'

'We will be slaughtered,' Itkovian cut in. 'Sire, we have considered this. It will not work. The Septarch's wings of horsemen will surround us, grind us to a halt. Then the Beklites and Tenescowri will arrive. We will have yielded a defensible position for an indefensible one. It would all be over within the span of a single bell.'

Prince Jelarkan stared at the Shield Anvil with undisguised contempt and, indeed, hatred. 'Inform Brukhalian of the following,' he rasped. 'In the future, it is not the task of the Grey Swords to do the prince's thinking for him. It is not their task to decide what he needs to know and what he doesn't. The prince is to be informed of all matters, regardless of how you judge their relevance. Is this understood, Shield Anvil?'

'I shall convey your words precisely, sire.'

'I must presume,' the prince continued, 'that the Mask Council knows even less than I did a bell ago.'

'That would be an accurate assumption. Sire, their interests-'

'Save me from any more of your learned opinions, Itkovian. Good day.'

Itkovian watched the prince stalk away, towards the compound's exit, his gait too stiff to be regal. Yet noble in its own way. You have my regret, dear prince, though I would not presume to voice it. I am the will of the Mortal Sword. My own desires are irrelevant. He pushed away the surge of bitter anger that rose beneath these thoughts, returned his gaze to the two Barghast still seated on the rug.

The trance had broken. Hetan and Cafal were now leaning close to the brazier, where white smoke rose in twisting coils into the sunlit air.

Startled, it was a moment before Itkovian stepped forward.

As he approached, he saw that an object had been placed on the brazier's coals. Red-tinged on its edges, flat and milky white in the centre. A fresh scapula, too light to be from a bhederin, yet thinner and longer than a human's. A deer's shoulder blade, perhaps, or an antelope's. The Barghast had begun a divination, employing the object that gave meaning to the tribal name of their shamans.

More than just warriors, then. I should have guessed. Cafal's chant in the Thrall. He is a shoulderman; and Hetan is his female counterpart.

He stopped just beyond the edge of the rug, slightly to Cafal's left. The shoulder blade had begun to show cracks. Fat bubbled up along the thick edges of the bone, sizzled and flared like a ring of fire.

The simplest divination was the interpretation of the cracks as a map, a means of finding wild herds for the tribe's hunters. In this instance, Itkovian well knew, the sorcery under way was far more complex, the cracks more than simply a map of the physical world. The Shield Anvil stayed silent, tried to catch the mumbled conversation between Hetan and her brother.

They were speaking Barghast, a language of which Itkovian had but passing knowledge. Even stranger, it seemed the conversation was three-way, the siblings cocking their heads or nodding at replies only they could hear.

The scapula was a maze of cracks now, the bone showing blue, beige and calcined white. Before too long it would begin to crumble, as the creature's spirit surrendered to the overwhelming power flowing through its dwindling lifeforce.

The eerie conversation ended. As Cafal fell back into a trance, Hetan sat back, looked up and met Itkovian's eyes. 'Ah, wolf, I am pleased by the sight of you. There have been changes to the world. Surprising changes.'

'And are these changes pleasing to you, Hetan?'

She smiled. 'Would it give you pleasure if they were?'

Do I step over this precipice? 'That possibility exists.'

The woman laughed, slowly climbed to her feet. She winced as she stretched her limbs. 'Spirits take me, my bones ache. My muscles cry out for caring hands.'

'There are limbering exercises-'

'Don't I know it, wolf. Will you join me in such endeavours?'

'What news do you have, Hetan?'

She grinned, hands on her hips. 'By the Abyss,' she drawled, 'you are clumsy. Yield to me and learn all my secrets, is that the task set before you? It is a game you should be wary of playing. Especially with me.'

'Perhaps you are right,' he said, drawing himself up and turning away.

'Hold, man!' Hetan laughed. 'You flee like a rabbit? And I called you wolf? I should change that name.'

'That is your choice,' he replied over a shoulder as he set off.

Her laugh rang out behind him once more. 'Ah, now this is a game worth playing! Go on, then, dear rabbit! My elusive quarry, ha!'

Itkovian re-entered the headquarters, walked down the hallway skirting the outer wall until he came to the tower entrance. His armour shifted and clanked as he made his way up the steep stone stairs. He tried to drive out images of Hetan, her laughing face and bright, dancing eyes, the runnels of sweat tracking her brow through the layer of ash, the way she stood, back arched, chest thrown out in deliberate, provocative invitation. He resented the rebirth of long-buried desires now plaguing him. His vows were crumbling, his every prayer to Fener meeting with naught but silence, as if his god was indifferent to the sacrifices Itkovian had made in his name.

And perhaps that is the final, most devastating truth. The gods care nothing for ascetic impositions on mortal behaviour. Care nothing for rules of conduct, for the twisted morals of temple priests and monks. Perhaps indeed they laugh at the chains we wrap around ourselves — our endless, insatiable need to find flaws within the demands of life. Or perhaps they do not laugh, but rage at us. Perhaps our denial of life's celebration is our greatest insult to those whom we worship and serve.

He reached the arms room at the top of the circular stairs, nodded distractedly at the two soldiers stationed there, then made his way up the ladder to the roof platform.

The Destriant was already there. Karnadas studied Itkovian as the Shield Anvil joined him. 'Yours, sir, is a troubled mien.'

'Aye, I do not deny it. I have had discourse with Prince Jelarkan, which closed with his displeasure. Subsequently, I spoke with Hetan. Destriant, my faith is assailed.'

'You question your vows.'