Memories of Ice

The Barghast woman had arrived and was standing a few paces distant, sharp, dark eyes fixed intently on the exchange between the Shield Anvil and Silverfox. At the pause, she laughed low in her throat, drawing everyone's attention.



'Too bad there are no men worthy of this company,' she growled. 'Seeing you, I am reminded of this world's true heart of power. Malazan marines, a Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords, a witch and a sorceress. And now, to complete the tapestry, a daughter of the White Face Barghast … bringing food and wine.'



The two marines shot to their feet, grinning.



'And I would gossip!' Hetan shouted. 'Shield Anvil! Itkovian holds to vows no longer, true? I can bed him-'



'If you can catch him,' the Grey Sword replied, one brow arching.



'If he had fifty legs I could still catch him! Silverfox! What of Kruppe, hey?'



The Bonecaster blinked. 'What of him?'



'You're a big woman. You could trap him under you! Leave him squealing!'



'What a horrifying image.'



'I'll grant you he's round and small and slimy, but clever, yes? Clever heats the blood all on its own, does it not? I have heard that, while you may look like a woman, you remain as a child in the most important way. Stir yourself with desire, lass! You've been consorting with the undead and the withered for far too long! Grasp the spear with both hands, I always say!'



Silverfox slowly shook her head. 'You said you brought wine?'



Grin broadening, Hetan approached. 'Aye, two bladders as big as your breasts and no doubt just as sweet. Gather, formidable companions, and let us feast!'



Haradas smiled. 'A wonderful idea, thank you.'



The Shield Anvil hesitated. She glanced over at the marines, then began removing her battered helm. She sighed loudly. 'Let the wolves wait,' she said. 'I cannot hold to dread comportment in the manner of my predecessor-'



'Cannot?' Hetan challenged. 'Or will not?'



'Will not,' the woman corrected, pulling her helm free. Sweat-soaked, iron-streaked hair tumbled loose. 'May the Wolves forgive me.'



'One of them will,' the Barghast asserted, crouching to lay out the foodstuffs from her pack.



Coll drew the furs closer about the Mhybe's frail, shrunken form. There was movement behind the lids of her eyes, random and frantic. Her breath was a broken wheeze. The Daru councillor looked down on her for a moment longer, then he straightened and slipped down from the edge of the wagon-bed.



Murillio stood nearby, tightening the straps of the water casks attached to the wagon's right side-rail. Old tents had been used to cover the packages of food they had purchased from a Barghast trader that morning, which had been affixed to the opposite side-rail, giving the Rhivi wagon a wide, bloated appearance.



The two men had also acquired a pair of horses, at exorbitant cost, from the Mott Irregulars, a strangely ineffectual-looking company of mercenaries attached to Caladan Brood's army that Coll had not even known were present. Mercenaries whose backwoods garb belied the martial profession, yet perfectly suited the company's name. The horses were barely broken, thick-limbed yet tall, a breed the Irregulars claimed was their own — bloodlines that included Nathi destriers, Mott carthorses and Genabarii drays, all drawn together to produce a large, sturdy, ill-tempered animal with a surprisingly wide back that made riding them a luxury.



'Provided they don't bite your hand off,' the buck-toothed Mottman had added, pulling lice from his long, stringy hair and popping them into his mouth as he talked.



Coll sighed, vaguely discomfited by the memory, and warily approached the two horses.



The two mounts could have been twins, both sorrel, their manes uncut and long, thick tails snagged with burrs and spar-grass seeds. The saddles were Malazan — old spoils of war, no doubt — the thick blankets beneath them Rhivi. The beasts eyed him.



One casually swung its hindquarters in the Daru's direction. He stopped, muttering a soft curse.



'Sweetroot,' Murillio said from beside the wagon. 'Bribe 'em. Here, we have some in the packs.'



'And reward their ill manners? No.' Coll circled at a distance. The horses had been tethered to a tent peg, allowing them to match his movement. Three steps closer and the Daru would get his head kicked in. He cursed in a slightly louder tone, then said, 'Murillio, lead the oxen up beside that peg — use the wagon to block them. And if this doesn't work, find me a mallet.'



Grinning, Murillio climbed up onto the seat and gathered the traces. Fifteen heartbeats later he halted the beasts just past the tent peg, the wagon effectively barring the horses from circling any further.