Memories of Ice

'Tempered delight. He grieved for the untimely deaths, of course-'

'Of course.'

'Then he put in a bid.'

'Naturally.'

'Anyway, it's now a temple-'

Gruntle swung to her. 'Hold on, now. I'm not buying into any faith when I enter, am I?'

She smirked. 'Whatever you say.'

'I mean, I'm not. Understand me? And Keruli had better understand, too. And his hoary old god! Not a single genuflection, not even a nod to the altar, and if that's not acceptable then I'm staying out here.'

'Relax, no-one's expecting anything of you, Gruntle. Why would they?'

He ignored the mocking challenge in her eyes. 'Fine, so lead the way, woman.'

'I always do.' She strode to the door and pulled it open. 'Local security measures — you can't kick these doors in, they all open outward, and they're built bigger than the inside frame. Smart, eh? The Grey Swords are expecting a house by house scrap once the walls fall — those Pannions are going to find the going messy.'

'The defence of Capustan assumes the loss of the walls? Hardly optimistic. We're all in a death trap, and Keruli's dream-escape trick won't help us much when the Tenescowri are roasting our bodies for the main course, will it?'

'You're a miserable ox, aren't you?'

'The price for being clear-eyed, Stonny.'

She ducked as she entered the building, waving for Gruntle to follow. He hesitated, then, still scowling, stepped through.

A small reception chamber greeted them, bare-walled, clay-tiled, with a few lantern niches set in the walls and a row of iron pegs unadorned by clothing. Another doorway was opposite, a long leather apron providing the barrier. The air smelled of lye soap, with a faint undercurrent of bile.

Stonny unclasped her cloak and hung it on a hook. 'The wife crawled out of the main room to die here,' she said. 'Dragging her entrails the whole way. Raised the suspicion that her suicide wasn't voluntary. Either that or she changed her mind.'

'Maybe a goat's milk hawker knocked on the door,' Gruntle suggested, 'and she was trying to cancel her order.'

Stonny studied him for a moment, as if considering, then she shrugged. 'Seems a bit elaborate, as an explanation, but who knows? Could be.' She swung about and entered the inner doorway in a swish of leather.

Sighing, Gruntle followed.

The main chamber ran the full width of the house; a series of alcoves — storage rooms and cell-like bedrooms — divided up the back wall, a central arched walkway bisecting it to lead into the courtyard garden beyond. Benches and trunks crowded one corner of the chamber. A central firepit and humped clay bread-oven was directly before them, radiating heat. The air was rich with the smell of baking bread.

Master Keruli sat cross-legged on the tiled floor to the left of the firepit, head bowed, his pate glistening with beads of sweat.

Stonny edged forward and dropped to one knee. 'Master?'

The priest looked up, his round face creasing in a smile. 'I have wiped clean their slates,' he said. 'They now dwell at peace. Their souls have fashioned a worthy dream-world. I can hear the children laughing.'

'Your god is merciful,' Stonny murmured.

Rolling his eyes, Gruntle strode over to the trunks. 'Thanks for saving my life, Keruli,' he growled. 'Sorry I was so miserable about it. Looks like your supplies survived, that's good. Well, I'll be on my way now-'

'A moment please, Captain.'

Gruntle turned.

'I have something,' the priest said, 'for your friend, Buke. An … aid … for his endeavours.'

'Oh?' Gruntle avoided Stonny's searching stare.

'There, in that second trunk, yes, the small, iron one. Yes, open it. Do you see? Upon the dark grey bolt of felt.'

'The little clay bird?'

'Yes. Please instruct him to crush it into powder, then mix with cooled water that has been boiled for at least a hundred heartbeats. Once mixed, Buke must drink it — all of it.'

'You want him to drink muddy water?'

'The clay will ease the pains in his stomach, and there are other benefits as well, which he will discover in due time.'

Gruntle hesitated. 'Buke isn't a trusting man, Keruli.'

'Tell him that his quarry will elude him otherwise. With ease. Tell him, also, that to achieve what he desires, he must accept allies. You both must. I share your concerns on this matter. Additional allies will find him, in time.'

'Very well,' Gruntle said, shrugging. He collected the small clay object and dropped it into his belt- pouch.

'What are you two talking about?' Stonny asked quietly.

Gruntle tensed at that gentle tone, as it usually preceded an explosion of temper, but Keruli simply broadened his smile. 'A private matter, dear Stonny. Now, I have instructions for you — please be patient. Captain Gruntle, there are no debts between us now. Go in peace.'

'Right. Thanks,' he added gruffly. 'I'll make my own way out, then.'

'We'll talk later, Gruntle,' Stonny said. 'Won't we?'

You'll have to find me first. 'Of course, lass.'

A few moments later he stood outside, feeling strangely weighed down, by nothing less than an old man's kind, forgiving nature. He stood for a while, unmoving, watching the locals hurrying past. Like ants in a kicked nest. And the next kick is going to be a killer …

Stonny watched Gruntle leave, then turned to Keruli. 'You said you had instructions for me?'

'Our friend the captain has a difficult path ahead.'

Stonny scowled. 'Gruntle doesn't walk difficult paths. First sniff of trouble and he's off the opposite way.'

'Sometimes there is no choice.'

'And what am I supposed to do about it?'

'His time is coming. Soon. I ask only that you stay close to him.'

Her scowl deepened. 'That depends on him. He has a talent for not being found.'

Keruli turned back to tend the oven. 'I'd rather think,' he murmured, 'that his talent is about to fail him.'

Torchlight and diffuse sunlight bathed the array of dugout canoes and their wrapped corpses. The entire pit had been exposed, gutting most of the Thrall's floor — the granite pillar with its millstone cap standing alone in the very centre — to reveal the crafts, crushed and cluttered like the harvest of an ancient hurricane.

Hetan knelt, head bowed, before the first dugout. She had not moved in some time.

Itkovian had descended to conduct his own close examination of the remains, and now moved with careful steps among the wreckage, Cafal following in silence. The Shield Anvil's attention was drawn to the carving on the prows; while no two sets were identical, there was a continuity in the themes depicted — scenes of battle at sea, the Barghast clearly recognizable in their long, low dugouts, struggling with a singular enemy, a tall, lithe species with angular faces and large, almond-shaped eyes, in high-walled ships.

As he crouched to study one such panel, Cafal murmured behind him, 'T'isten'ur.'

Itkovian glanced back. 'Sir?'

'The enemies of our Founding Spirits. T'isten'ur, the Grey-Skinned. Demons in the oldest tales who collected heads, yet kept the victims living … heads that remained watchful, bodies that worked ceaselessly. T'isten'ur: demons who dwelt in shadows. The Founding Spirits fought them on the Blue Wastes…' He fell silent, brow knitting, then continued, 'The Blue Wastes. We had no understanding of such a place. The shouldermen believed it was our Birth Realm. But now … it was the sea, the oceans.'

'The Barghast Birth Realm in truth, then.'

'Aye. The Founding Spirits drove the T'isten'ur from the Blue Wastes, drove the demons back into their underworld, the Forest of Shadows — a realm said to lie far to the southeast …'