Memories of Ice

'You said you are glad that I've come,' Gruntle rumbled. 'Why?'



'Well, you're a Mortal Sword, right? They're calling me one, too. I guess, uh, well. What does that mean, anyway?'



'You don't know?'



'No. Do you?'



Gruntle said nothing for a long moment, then he grinned. 'Not really.'



The tension left Anaster in a heartfelt sigh. He stepped close. 'Listen. Before this — uh, before I arrived in this body, I was a scout in the Malazan army. And as far as I was concerned, temples were where poor people paid to keep the priests' wine cellars well stocked. I don't want followers. That Destriant back there, the Shield Anvil — gods, what a hard woman! They're piling expectations on me — I'm feeling like that man Itkovian is feeling right now, not that he's feeling anything, I suppose. Hood, just mentioning his name breaks my heart and I never even knew him.'



'I did, Anaster. Relax, lad — about everything. Did you think I asked to be Trake's Mortal Sword? I was a caravan guard, and a miserable one and I was happy with it-'



'You were happy being miserable?'



'Damned right I was.'



Anaster suddenly smiled. 'I stumbled on a small cask of ale — it's back in the camp of the Grey Swords. We should go for a walk, Gruntle.'



'Under the trees, aye. I'll find Stonny — a friend. You'll like her, I think.'



'A woman? I like her already. I'll get the ale, meet you back here.'



'A sound plan, Anaster. Oh, and don't tell the Destriant or the Shield Anvil-'



'I won't, even if they torture me …' His voice fell away, and Gruntle saw the young man grow paler than usual. Then he shook his head. 'See you soon, friend.'



'Aye.' Friend … Yes, I think so.



He watched Anaster swing back onto the horse — the man he had been knew how to ride.



No, not the man he had been. The man he is. Gruntle watched him riding away for a moment longer, then turned back to find Stonny.



Steam or smoke still drifted from the four Trygalle Trade Guild carriages waiting at the base of the hill. Quick Ben had gone ahead to speak with the train's master — an opulently dressed, overweight man whose bone-deep exhaustion was discernible from fifty paces away.



Paran, waiting with the Bridgeburners for Dujek on the crest of the hill, watched the wizard and the Trygalle mage engaging in a lengthy conversation the result of which seemed to leave Quick Ben bemused. The Daru, Kruppe, then joined them, and the discussion resumed once more. Heatedly.



'What's all that about?' Picker wondered beside the captain.



Paran shook his head. 'I have no idea, Lieutenant.'



'Sir.'



Something in her tone brought him round. 'Yes?'



'You shouldn't have left me in command — I messed it up, bad, sir.'



He saw the raw pain in her eyes, continued to meet them despite a sudden desire to look away. 'Not you, Lieutenant. The command was mine, after all. I abandoned all of you.'



She shook her head. 'Quick's told us what you two did, Captain. You went where you had to, sir. It was well played. It'd seemed to us that there was no victory to be found, in any of this, but now we know that's not true — and that means more than you might realize.'



'Lieutenant, you walked out of that keep with survivors. No-one could have done better.'



'I agree,' a new voice growled.



Dujek's appearance shocked both soldiers to silence. The man seemed to have aged ten years in the span of a single day and night. He was bent, the hand of his lone arm trembling. 'Lieutenant, call the Bridgeburners over. I would speak to you all.'



Picker turned and gestured the five soldiers closer.



'Good,' the High Fist grunted. 'Now, hear me. There's half a wagon of back pay being loaded onto one of those Trygalle carriages below. Back pay for the company known as the Bridgeburners. Full complement. Enough to buy each of you an estate and a life of well-earned idyll. The Trygalle will take you to Darujhistan — I don't recommend you head back to the Empire. As far as Tayschrenn and Fist Aragan and I are concerned, not one Bridgeburner walked out of that keep. No, say not a single word, soldiers — Whiskeyjack wanted this for you. Hood, he wanted it for himself, too. Respect that.



'Besides, you've one more mission, and it takes you to Darujhistan. The Trygalle has delivered someone. He's presently in the care of the High Alchemist, Baruk. The man's not well — he needs you, I think. Malazans. Soldiers. Do what you can for him when you're there, and when you decide that you can't do anything more, then walk away.'