Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

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.'

The soldier was silent for a long moment, then he slowly unstrapped his camailed helm. 'When you change your mind-'

'I shall not.'

'Yes. Only, I was saying, when you change your mind, seek me out and not a single harsh thought to the return. I am named Azra Jael. Eleventh squad, fifth cohort, the third company of marines in Onearm's Host.'

'I am Itkovian … once a soldier of the Grey Swords.'

They made the exchange.

Itkovian studied the helm in his hands. 'Solidly fashioned. I am pleased.'

'Aren steel, sir. Hasn't needed hammering out once, so the metal's sound. The camail's Napan, yet to see a sword-cut.'

'Excellent. I am enriched by the exchange and so humbled.'

The soldier said nothing.

Itkovian looked up to the summit. 'Would they be offended, do you think, if I approached? I'll not venture an opinion, of course, but I would hear-'

The soldier seemed to be struggling against some strong emotion, but he shook his head. 'They would be honoured by your presence, sir.'

Itkovian half smiled. 'I think not. Besides, I'd rather they did not notice, if truth be told.'

'Swing round the hill, then. Come up from behind, sir.'

'Good idea. Thank you, sir, I will. And thank you, as well, for this fine helm.'

The man simply nodded.

Itkovian strode through the cordon, the soldiers to either side stepping back a measured pace to let him pass, then saluting as he did so.

Misplaced courtesy, but appreciated none the less.

He made his way to the hill's opposite side. The position revealed to him the two encamped armies to the west. Neither one was large, but both had been professionally established, the Malazan forces marked by four distinct but connected fortlets created by mounded ridges and steep-sided ditches. Raised trackways linked them.

I am impressed by these foreigners. And I must now conclude that Brukhalian was right — could we have held, these would have proved more than a match to Septarch Kulpath's numerically superior forces. They would have broken the siege, if we but could have held …

He began the ascent, the Malazan helm tucked under his left arm.

The wind was fierce near the summit, driving the insects away. Reaching the crest, Itkovian paused. The sun-tarp on its poles was fifteen paces directly ahead. On this, the backside of the formal meeting place, sat a row of water casks and ornate crates bearing the sigil of the Trygalle Trade Guild — well recognizable as the traders had first become established in Elingarth, Itkovian's homeland. Eyes resting on that sigil, he felt proud on their behalf for their evident success.

A large table had been set up beneath the tarp, but everyone stood beyond it, under the sun, as if the formalities of introductions were not yet complete.

Perhaps there has already been a disagreement. Probably the Mask Council, voicing their complaints.

Itkovian angled to his left and walked quietly forward, intending to take position in the leeside of the tarp, close to the water casks.

Instead, a Malazan officer noticed him and leaned towards another man. A short exchange followed, then the other man, also a commander of the Malazans, slowly turned to study Itkovian.

A moment later everyone else was doing the same.

Itkovian halted.

A large warrior, hammer strapped to his back, stepped forward. 'The man we have been waiting to meet. You are Itkovian, Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords. Defender of Capustan. I am Caladan Brood-'

'Your pardon, sir, but I am no longer Shield Anvil, and no longer a soldier of the Grey Swords.'

'So we have been told. None the less, please come forward.'

Itkovian did not move. He studied the array of faces fixed on him. 'You would unveil my shame, sir.'

The warrior frowned. 'Shame?'

'Indeed. You called me the defender of Capustan, and in that I must accept the mocking title, for I did not defend Capustan. The Mortal Sword Brukhalian commanded that I hold the city until your arrival. I failed.'

No-one spoke. A half-dozen heartbeats passed.

Then Brood said, 'No mockery was intended. And you failed only because you could not win. Do you understand me, sir?'

Itkovian shrugged. 'I comprehend your argument, Caladan Brood, but I see little value in debating semantics. I would, if you so permit, stand to one side of these proceedings. I shall venture no comments or opinions, I assure you.'

'Then the loss is ours,' the warrior growled.

Itkovian glanced at his captain and was shocked to see her weathered cheeks streaked with tears.

'Would you have us argue your value, Itkovian?' Brood asked, his frown deepening.

'No.'

'Yet you feel that you have no worth here at this gathering.'

'It may be that I am not yet done, sir, but such responsibilities that I must one day embrace are mine to bear, and thus must be borne alone. I lead no-one, and so have no role in those discussions that are to be undertaken here. I would only listen. It is true that you have no cause to be generous-'

'Please,' Caladan Brood cut in. 'Enough. You are welcome, Itkovian.'

'Thank you.'

As if in silent agreement the dignitaries ended their immobility and approached the large, wooden table. The priests of the Mask Council sat themselves down at one end. Humbrall Taur, Hetan and Cafal took positions behind the chairs closest to them, making it clear that they would stand during the proceedings. Gruntle and Stonny sat opposite each other near the middle, the Grey Swords' new Shield Anvil beside the latter. Caladan Brood and the two Malazan commanders — one of them, Itkovian now saw, one-armed — sat down at the end opposite the priests. A tall, grey-haired warrior in full-length chain stood two paces behind Brood, on his left. A Malazan standard-bearer hovered behind his commanders to the right.

Cups were filled from a jug of watered wine, yet even before the task had been completed for everyone present, Rath'Hood was speaking.

'A more civilized location for this historic gathering would have been at the Thrall, the palace from which the rulers of Capustan govern-'

'Now that the prince is dead, you mean,' Stonny drawled, her lip curling. 'The place has no floor, in case you forgot, Priest.'

'You could call that a structural metaphor, couldn't you?' Gruntle asked her.

'You might, being an idiot.'

Rath'Hood tried again. 'As I was saying-'

'You weren't saying, you were posturing.'

'This wine is surprisingly good,' Keruli murmured. 'Given that this is a martial gathering, the location seems appropriate. I, for one, have a question or two for the commanders of the foreign army.'

The one-armed commander grunted, then said, 'Ask them.'

'Thank you, High Fist, I will. First of all, someone is missing, true? Are there not Tiste Andii among you? And their legendary leader, Anomander Rake, Lord of Moon's Spawn, should he not be present? Indeed, one wonders at the disposition of Moon's Spawn itself — the tactical advantages of such an edifice-'