Memories of Ice

'I didn't know you for the melodramatic type.'



'I am not-'



'She is an old woman, an old, dying woman. Abyss take me, leave her alone-'



'You are not listening!' Silverfox hissed. 'My mother is trapped in a nightmare — within her own mind, lost, terrified. Hunted! I have stayed closer to her than any of you realized. Far closer!'



'Silverfox,' Paran said quietly, 'if she is within a nightmare, then her living has become a curse. The only true mercy is to see it ended, once and for all.'



'No! She is my mother, damn you! And I will not abandon her !'



She wheeled her horse, drove her heels into its flanks.



Paran watched her ride off. Silverfox, what machinations have you wrapped around your mother? What is it you seek for her? Would you not tell us, please, so that we are made to understand that what we all see as betrayal is in fact something else?



Is it something else?



And these machinations — whose? Not Tattersail, surely. No, this must be Nightchill. Oh, how you've closed yourself to me, now. When once you reached out, incessantly, relentlessly seeking to pry open my heart. It seems that what we shared, so long ago in Pale, is as nothing.



I begin to think, now, that it was far more important to me than it was to you. Tattersail. you were, after all, an older woman. You'd lived your share of loves and losses. On the other hand, I'd barely lived at all.



What was, then, is no more.



Flesh and blood Bonecaster, you've become colder than the T'lan Imass you now command.



I suppose, then, they have indeed found a worthy master.



Beru fend us all.



Of the thirty transport barges and floating bridges the Pannions had used to cross the Catlin River, only a third remained serviceable, the others having fallen prey to the overzealous White Face Barghast during the first day of battle. Companies from Caladan Brood's collection of mercenaries had begun efforts at salvaging the wrecks with the intention of cobbling together a few more; while a lone serviceable floating bridge and the ten surviving barges already rode the lines across the river's expanse, loaded with troops, mounts and supplies.



Itkovian watched them as he walked the shoreline. He'd left his horse on a nearby hillock where the grasses grew thick, and now wandered alone, with only the shift of pebbles underfoot and the soft rush of the river accompanying him. The wind was sweeping up the river's mouth, a salt-laden breath from the sea beyond, so the sounds of the barges behind him — the winches, the lowing of yoked cattle, the shouts of drivers — did not reach him.



Glancing up, he saw a figure on the beach ahead, seated cross-legged and facing the scene of the crossing. Wild-haired, wearing a stained collection of rags, the man was busy painting on wood-backed muslin. Itkovian paused, watching the artist's head bob up and down, the long-handled brush darting about in his hand, now hearing his mumbling conversation with himself.



Or, perhaps, not with himself. One of the skull-sized boulders near the artist moved suddenly, revealing itself to be a large, olive-green toad.



And it had just replied to the artist's tirade, in a low, rumbling voice.



Itkovian approached.



The toad saw him first and said something in a language Itkovian did not understand.



The artist looked up, scowled. 'Interruptions,' he snapped in Daru, 'are not welcome!'



'My apologies, sir-'



'Wait! You're the one named Itkovian! Defender of Capustan!'



'Failed defen-'



'Yes, yes, everyone's heard your words from the parley. Idiocy. When I paint you in the scene, I'll be sure to include the noble failure — in your stance, perhaps, in where your eyes rest, maybe. A certain twist to the shoulders, yes, I think I see it now. Precisely. Excellent.'



'You are Malazan?'



'Of course I'm Malazan! Does Brood give one whit for history? He does not. But the old Emperor! Oh yes, he did, he did indeed! Artists with every army! On every campaign! Artists of purest talent, sharp-eyed — yes, dare I admit it, geniuses. Such as Ormulogun of Li Heng!'



'I am afraid I've not heard that name — he was a great artist of the Malazan Empire?'



'Was? Is! I am Ormulogun of Li Heng, of course. Endlessly mimicked, never surpassed! Ormulogun seraith Gumble!'



'An impressive title-'



'It's not a title, you fool. Gumble is my critic.' With that he gestured at the toad, then said to it, 'Mark him well, Gumble, so that you note the brilliance of my coming rendition. He stands straight, does he not? Yet his bones may well be iron, their burden that of a hundred thousand foundation stones … or souls, to be more precise. And his features, yes? Look carefully, Gumble, and you will see the fullest measure of this man. And know this, though I capture all he is on the canvas recording the parley outside Capustan, know this … in that image you will see that Itkovian is not yet done.'