Memories of Ice

'Same as before. Soldier of High House Death's right-hand to Obelisk. Magi of Shadow's here — first time for that one, too — a grand deception's at work, is my guess. The Captain of High House Light holds out some hope, but it's shaded by Hood's Herald — though not directly, there's a distance there, I think. The Assassin of High House Shadow seems to have acquired a new face, I'm getting hints of it … bloody familiar, that face.'

The one named Hedge grunted. 'Should bring Quick Ben in on this-'

'That's it!' Spindle hissed. 'The Assassin's face — it's Kalam!'

'Bastard!' Hedge growled. 'I'd suspected as much — him and Fid paddling off the way they did — you know what this means, don't you…'

'We can guess,' the corporal said, sounding unhappy. 'But the other thing's clear, Spin, isn't it?'

'Aye. Seven Cities is about to rise — may have already. The Whirlwind … Hood must be smiling right now. Smiling something fierce.'

'I got some questions for Quick Ben,' Hedge muttered. 'Don't I just.'

'You should ask him about the new card, too,' Spindle said. 'If he don't mind crawling, let him take a look.'

'Aye…'

A new card of the Deck of Dragons? Crone cocked her head up farther, thinking furiously. New cards were trouble, especially ones with power. The House of Shadow was proof enough of that… Her eyes — one, then, as she further cocked her head, the other — slowly focused, her mind dragged back from its abstracted realm, fixing at last on the underside of the table.

To find a pair of human eyes, the paint glittering as if alive, staring back down at her.

The Mhybe stepped out of the tent, her mind befuddled with exhaustion. Silverfox had fallen asleep in her chair, during one of Kruppe's rambling accounts describing yet another peculiarity of the Trygalle Trade Guild's Rules of Contract, and the Mhybe had decided to let the child be.

In truth, she longed for some time away from her daughter. A pressure was building around Silverfox, an incessant need that, moment by moment, was taking ever more of the Mhybe's life-spirit. Of course, this feeble attempt at escape was meaningless. The demand was boundless, and no conceivable distance could effect a change. Her flight from the tent, from her daughter's presence, held naught but symbolic meaning.

Her bones were a rack of dull, incessant pains, an ebb and flow of twinges that only the deepest of sleep could temporarily evade — the kind of sleep that had begun to elude her.

Paran emerged from the tent and approached. 'I would ask you something, Mhybe, then I shall leave you in peace.'

Oh, you poor, savaged man. What would you have me answer? 'What do you wish to know, Captain?'

Paran stared out at the sleeping camp. 'If someone wished to hide a table …'

She blinked, then smiled. 'You will find them in the tent of the Shrouds — it is unfrequented for the moment. Come, I shall take you there.'

'Directions will suffice-'

'Walking eases the aches, Captain. This way.' She made her way between the first of the tent rows. 'You have stirred Tattersail awake,' she observed after a few moments. 'As a dominant personality for my daughter, I think I am pleased by the development.'

'I am glad for that, Mhybe.'

'What was the sorceress like, Captain?'

'Generous … perhaps to a fault. A highly respected and indeed well-liked cadre mage.'

Oh, sir, you hold so much within yourself, chained and in darkness. Detachment is a flaw, not a virtue — don't you realize that?

He went on, 'You might well have viewed, from your Rhivi perspective, the Malazan forces on this continent as some kind of unstoppable, relentless monster, devouring city after city. But it was never like that. Poorly supplied, often outnumbered, in territories they had no familiarity with — by all accounts, Onearm's Host was being chewed to pieces. The arrival of Brood, the Tiste Andii, and the Crimson Guard stopped the campaign in its tracks. The cadre mages were often all that stood between the Host and annihilation.'

'Yet they had the Moranth …'

'Aye, though not as reliable as you might think. None the less, their alchemical munitions have changed the nature of warfare, not to mention the mobility of their quorls. The Host has come to rely heavily on both.'

'Ah, I see faint lantern-glow coming from the Shroud — there, directly ahead. There have been rumours that all was not well with the Moranth …'

Paran shot her a glance, then shrugged. 'A schism has occurred, triggered by a succession of defeats weathered by their elite forces, the Gold. At the moment, we have the Black at our side, and none other, though the Blue continue on the sea-lanes to Seven Cities.'