Memories of Ice

So be it. No self-pity. Not this time. We've tasks before us.



Paran gathered his reins. 'As Kruppe has said. Let us resume — we're already late as it is.'



A large sheet of burlap had been raised over the hilltop to shield the parley from the hot afternoon sun. Malazan soldiers ringed the hill in a protective cordon, crossbows cradled in their arms.



Eyes on the figures beneath the tarp, Itkovian halted his horse and dismounted a dozen paces from the guards. The Mask Council's carriage had also stopped, the side-doors swinging open to the four representatives of Capustan.



Hetan had clambered down from her horse with a relieved grunt and now came alongside Itkovian. She thumped his back. 'I've missed you, wolf!'



'The wolves may be all around me, sir,' Itkovian said, 'but I make no such claim for myself.'



'The tale's run through the clans,' Hetan said, nodding. 'Old women never shut up.'



'And young women?' he asked, still studying the figures on the hilltop.



'Now you dance on danger, dear man.'



'Forgive me if I offended.'



'I would forgive you a smile no matter its reason. Aye, not likely. If you've humour you hide it far too well. This is too bad.'



He regarded her. 'Too bad? Do you not mean tragic?'



Her eyes narrowed, then she hissed in frustration and set off up the slope.



Itkovian watched her for a moment, then shifted his attention to the priests who were now gathered beside the carriage. Rath'Shadowthrone was complaining.



'They would have us all winded! A gentler slope and we could have stayed in the carriage-'



'Sufficient horses and we might have done the same,' Rath'Hood sniffed. 'This is calculated to insult-'



'It is nothing of the sort, comrades,' Keruli murmured. 'Even now, swarms of biting insects begin their assault upon our fair selves. I suggest you cease complaining and accompany me to the summit and its saving wind.' With that, the small, round-faced man set off.



'We should insist — ow!'



The three scrambled after Keruli, deer-flies buzzing their heads.



Humbrall Taur laughed. 'They need have only smeared themselves in bhederin grease!'



Gruntle replied, 'They're slippery enough as it is, Warchief. Besides, it's a far more fitting introduction for our visitors — three masked priests stumbling and puffing and waving at phantoms circling their heads. At least Keruli's showing some dignity, and he's probably the only one among them with a brain worthy of the name.'



'Thank the gods!' Stonny cried.



Gruntle turned to her. 'What? Why?'



'Well, you've just used up your entire store of words, oaf. Meaning you'll be silent for the rest of the day!'



The huge man's grin was far more feral than he intended.



Itkovian watched the two Daru set off, followed by Humbrall Taur, Hetan and Cafal.



Captain Norul said, 'Sir?'



'Do not wait for me,' he replied. 'You now speak for the Grey Swords, sir.'



She sighed, strode forward.



Itkovian slowly scanned the landscape. Apart from the cordon encircling the base of the hill, the two foreign armies were nowhere to be seen. There would be no blustery display of strength to intimidate the city's representatives — a generous gesture that might well be lost on the priests; which was unfortunate indeed, since Rath'Hood, Rath'Burn and Rath'Shadowthrone were in serious need of humbling.



Fly-bitten and winded would have to do.



He cast an appraising glance at the Malazan guards. Their weapons, he noted, were superbly crafted, if a little worn. The repairs and mending on their armour had been done in the field — this was an army a long way from home, a long way from resupply annexes. Dark-skinned faces beneath battered helms studied him in return, expressionless, perhaps curious that he had remained here, with only a silent Gidrath carriage-driver for company.



I am garbed as an officer. Misleading details, now. He drew off his gauntlets, reached up and removed the brooch denoting his rank, let it drop to the ground. He pulled free the grey sash tied about his waist and threw it to one side. Finally, he unstrapped his visored helm.



The soldier closest to him stepped forward then.



Itkovian nodded. 'I am amenable to an exchange, sir.'



'It would hardly be fair,' the man replied in broken Daru.



'Forgive me if I disagree. The silver inlay and gold crest may well suggest an ornamental function to my war-helm, but I assure you, the bronze and iron banding are of the highest quality, as are the cheek-guards and the webbing. Its weight is but a fraction more than the one you presently bear.'