Memories of Ice

'It was your home, wasn't it?'

'Aye. Though my home now is in the heart of my Seer.'

'Where the winds are even colder,' Toc muttered.

The Seerdomin was silent for a moment.

Toc was expecting a blow from a gauntleted fist, or a painful wrench from the hand gripping his frail arm. Either one would have been an appropriate response; either one would have elicited an approving nod from the Seer. Instead, the man said, 'This is a summer day, but not like the summer days I remember in my youth. Coral's wind was warm. Soft, caressing as a lover's breath. My father, he fished out beyond the cut. Up along the coast north of here. Vast, rich shoals. He'd be gone for a week or more with every season's run. We'd all go down to the causeway to watch the fleets return, to see our father's orange sail among the barques.'

Toc glanced up at the man, saw the smile, the glimmering echo of a child's joy in his eyes.

Saw them die once more.

'He came back the last time … to find that his family had embraced the Faith. His wife, to the Tenescowri. His sons, to the ranks, eldest begun schooling as Seerdomin. He did not throw his lines to me on that day — seeing my uniform. Seeing my mother — hearing her mindless shrieks. Seeing my brothers with spears in hand, my sisters naked and clinging to men thrice their age. No, he swung the boom, tacked onto the offshore breeze.

'I watched his sail until I could see it no more. It was my way, Malazan-'

'Of saying goodbye,' Toc whispered.

'Of saying good luck. Of saying … well done.'

Destroyer of lives. Seer, how could you have done this to your people?

A distant bell rang in the palace behind them.

The Seerdomin's grip tightened. 'The allotted time is done.'

'Back to my own embrace,' Toc said, his gaze straining to catch, one last time, the world before him. Remember this, for you will not see it again, Toc the Younger.

'Thank you for the use of your cloak,' he said.

'You are welcome, Malazan. These winds were once warm. Come, lean on me while we walk — your weight is as nothing.'

They slowly made their way towards the building. 'Easily borne, you mean.'

'I did not say that, Malazan. I did not say that.'

The gutted tenement seemed to shiver a moment before collapsing in a cloud of dust. The cobbles of the street trembled beneath Shield Anvil Itkovian's boots and thunder shook the air.

Hedge turned to him, grinning through the smears of soot. 'See? Easy.'

Itkovian answered the Bridgeburner with a nod, watched as Hedge rejoined his fellow sappers and they set off for the next unrecoverable building.

'At the very least,' Captain Norul said beside him as she brushed dust from her surcoat, 'there will be no shortage of material.'

The morning was hot, the sun bright. Life was returning to Capustan. People with scarves covering their faces crawled through the rubble of their homes. Bodies were still being retrieved as wreckage was cleared away, wrapped and thrown onto fly-swarmed wagons. The air of the street stank with decay, but it seemed that the horses they rode had long since grown used to it.

'We should proceed, sir,' the captain said.

They resumed their journey. Beyond the west gate were gathering the official representatives — the contingent that would set out to meet the approaching armies of Dujek Onearm and Caladan Brood. The parley was set to take place in three bells' time.

Itkovian had left the company's new Destriant in command. Tenescowri refugees were arriving from the plain by the hundreds. Those few who'd attempted to enter Capustan had been set upon by the survivors. Reports of peasants being torn apart by frenzied mobs had reached the Shield Anvil. In response he had sent the Grey Swords out to establish an internment camp outside the west wall. Food was scarce. Itkovian wondered how his new Destriant was managing. At the very least, shelters were being prepared for the hapless refugees.

Who will soon become recruits. Those who survive the next few weeks in any case. It's likely the Grey Swords' coffers will. be emptied purchasing food and supplies from the Barghast. Fener grant — no, Togg grant that the investment will prove worthwhile.

He was not looking forward to the parley. Indeed, the truth was, he had no real business attending it. The captain at his side was now the commander of the Grey Swords. His role as her adviser was dubious; she was capable of representing the company's interests without any help from him.

They approached the west gate, which now resembled nothing more than a massive hole in the city's wall.

Leaning against one of the burnt-out, most fallen gate-towers, Gruntle watched them with a half-grin on his barbed face. Stonny Menackis paced nearby, apparently in a temper.

'Now there's only Humbrall Taur to wait for,' Gruntle said.

Itkovian frowned as he reined in. 'Where is the Mask Council's retinue?'

Stonny spat. 'They've gone ahead. Seems they want a private chat first.'

'Relax, lass,' Gruntle rumbled. 'Your friend Keruli's with them, right?'

'That's not the point! They hid. While you and the Grey Swords here kept them and their damned city alive!'

'None the less,' Itkovian said, 'with Prince Jelarkan dead and no heir apparent, they are Capustan's ruling body.'

'And they could damn well have waited!'

Captain Norul twisted in her saddle to look back up the avenue. 'Humbrall Taur's coming. Perhaps, if we rode fast enough, we could catch them.'

'Is it important?' Itkovian asked her.

'Sir, it is.'

He nodded. 'I concur.'

'Let's ready our horses, Stonny,' Gruntle said, pushing himself from the wall.

They set out across the plain, Humbrall Taur, Hetan and Cafal equally awkward on their borrowed mounts. The Barghast had been none too pleased by the Mask Council's attempted usurpation — old enmities and mistrust had flared to life once more. By all reports, the approaching armies were still a league, perhaps two, distant. Keruli, Rath'Hood, Rath'Burn and Rath'Shadowthrone were in a carriage, drawn by the three horses of the Gidrath that had not been butchered and eaten during the siege.

Itkovian recalled the last time he had ridden this road, recalled faces of soldiers now dead. Farakalian, Torun, Sidlis. Behind the formality imposed by the Reve, these had been his friends. A truth I dared not approach. Not as Shield Anvil, not as a commander. But that has changed. They are my own grief, as difficult to bear as those tens of thousands of others.

He pushed the thought away. Control was still necessary. He could afford no emotions.

They came within sight of the priests' carriage.

Stonny snarled in triumph. 'Won't they be delighted!'

'Ease on the gloating, lass,' Gruntle advised. 'We reach them now in all innocence-'

'Do you think me an idiot? Do you think me incapable of subtlety? I'll have you know-'

'All right, woman,' her companion growled. 'Forget I spoke-'

'I always do, Gruntle.'

The Gidrath driver drew the carriage to a halt as they rode up. A window shutter slid to one side and Rath' Shadowthrone's masked face appeared, the expression neutral. 'How fortunate! The rest of our honourable entourage!'

Itkovian sighed under his breath. There was nothing subtle in that tone, alas.

'Honourable?' Stonny queried, brows lifting, 'I'm surprised you recognize the concept, Priest.'

'Ah.' The mask swivelled to her. 'Master Keruli's wench. Shouldn't you be on your knees?'

'I'll give you a knee, runt — right between the-'

'Well now!' Gruntle said loudly. 'We're all here. I see outriders ahead. Shall we proceed?'

'We're early,' Rath'Shadowthrone snapped.