Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

Treach's Mortal Sword grunted. 'You know something the rest of us don't?'

'Not specifically, sir. I have but drawn conclusions based on such details as I was able to observe when viewing Kulpath's army, and the Tenescowri.'

'Well, don't keep them to yourself.'

Itkovian returned his gaze to the south. After a moment he sighed. 'Cities and governments are but the flowering head of a plant whose stalk is the commonalty, and it is the commonalty whose roots are within the earth, drawing the necessary sustenance that maintains the flower. The Tenescowri, sir, is the Domin's surviving commonalty — people torn from their land, from their villages, their homes, their farms. All food production has ceased, and in its place has arisen the horror of cannibalism. The countryside before us is indeed razed, but not in answer to us. It has been a wasteland for some time, sir. Thus, while the flower still blazes its colour, it is in fact already dead.'

'Drying from a hook beneath the Crippled God's shelf?'

Itkovian shrugged. 'Caladan Brood and the High Fist have selected cities as their destinations. Lest, Setta, Maurik and Coral. Of these, I believe only the last still lives. None of the others would be able to feed a defending army; indeed, not even its own citizenry — if any still remain. The Seer has no choice but to concentrate his forces on the one city where he now resides, and his soldiers will have no choice but to assume the practices of the Tenescowri. I suspect that the Tenescowri were created for that eventual purpose — as food for the soldiers.'

Gruntle's expression was troubled. 'What you describe, Itkovian, is an empire that was never meant to sustain itself.'

'Unless it could continue to expand without surcease.'

'But even then, it would be alive only on its outer, ever-advancing edges, spreading out from a dead core, a core that grew with it.'

Itkovian nodded. 'Aye, sir.'

'So, if Brood and Dujek are expecting battles at Setta, Lest and Maurik, they may be in for a surprise.'

'So I believe.'

'Those Malazans will end up doing a lot of pointless marching,' Gruntle observed, 'if you're right.'

'Perhaps there are other issues sufficient to justify the division of forces, Mortal Sword.'

'Not quite as united as they would have us believe?'

'There are powerful leaders gathered within that command, sir. It is perhaps miraculous that a serious clash of wills has not yet occurred.'

Gruntle said nothing for a time.

The broad wicker platforms were being anchored in place at the front of the barge, a company of mercenaries assembling the walkway with practised efficiency.

'Let us hope, then,' he finally rumbled, 'the siege at Coral is not a long one.'

'It will not be,' Itkovian asserted. 'I predict a single attack, intended to overwhelm. A combination of soldiery and sorcery. The massive sundering of defences is the intention of the warlord and the High Fist. Both are well aware of the risks inherent in any prolonged investment.'

'Sounds messy, Itkovian.'

Stonny Menackis came up behind them, leading her horse. 'Get moving, you two — you're holding us all up and this damned barge is settling. If I get any mud on these new clothes, I will kill whoever's to blame. Barbed or otherwise.'

Itkovian smiled. 'I'd intended complimenting you on your garb-'

'The wonders of the Trygalle. Made to order by my favourite tailor in Darujhistan.'

'You seem to favour green, sir.'

'Ever seen a jaelparda?'

Itkovian nodded. 'Such snakes are known in Elingarth.'

'Deadly kissers, jaelparda. This green is a perfect match, isn't it? It'd better be. It's what I paid for and it wasn't cheap. And this pale gold — you see? Lining the cloak? Ever looked at the underbelly of a white paralt?'

'The spider?'

'The death-tickler, aye. This is the colour.'

'I could not have mistaken it for otherwise,' Itkovian replied.

'Good, I'm glad someone here understands the subtle nuances of high civilization. Now move your damned horse or what you ain't used for far too long will get introduced to the toe of my shiny new boot.'

'Yes, sir.'

Corporal Picker watched Detoran drag Hedge towards her tent. The two passed in silence along the very edge of the firepit's light. Before they vanished once more into the gloom, Picker was witness to a comic pantomime as Hedge, the skin of his face stretched taut in a wild grimace, sought to bolt in an effort to escape Detoran. She responded by reaching up to grip the man's throat and shaking his head back and forth until his struggles ceased.

After they'd disappeared, Blend grunted. 'What night thankfully hides …'

'Not well enough, alas,' Picker muttered, poking at the fire with a splintered spear-shaft.

'Well, she'll probably be gagging him right now, then ripping off his-'

'All right all right, I take your point.'

'Poor Hedge.'

'Poor Hedge nothing, Blend. If it didn't get him going it wouldn't still be going on night after night.'

'Then again, we're soldiers one and all.'

'And what's that mean?'

'Means we know that following orders is the best way of staying alive.'

'So Hedge had better stand to attention if he wants to keep breathing? Is that what you're saying? I'd have thought terror'd leave it limp and dangling.'

'Detoran used to be a master sergeant, remember. I once saw a recruit stay at attention for a bell and a half after the poor lad's heart had burst to one of her tirades. A bell and a half, Picker, standing there dead and cold-'

'Rubbish. I was there. It was about a tenth of a bell and you know it.'

'My point still stands, and I'd bet my whole column of back pay that Hedge's is doing the same.'

Picker stabbed at the fire. 'Funny, that,' she murmured after a while.

'What is?'

'Oh, what you were saying. Not the dead recruit, but Detoran having been a master sergeant. We've all been busted about, us Bridgeburners. Almost every damned one of us, starting right up top with Whiskeyjack himself. Mallet led a healer's cadre back when we had enough healers and the Emperor was in charge. And didn't Spindle captain a company of sappers once?'

'For three days, then one of 'em stumbled onto his own cusser-'

'And then they all went up, yeah. We were a thousand paces up the road and my ears rang for days.'

'That was the end of companies made up of sappers. Dassem broke 'em up after that, meaning that Spindle had no specialist corps to captain any more. So, Picker, what about it?'

'Nothing. Just that none of us is what we once was.'

'I've never been promoted.'

'Well, surprise! You've made a profession of not getting noticed!'

'Even so. And Antsy was born a sergeant-'

'And it's stunted his growth, aye. He's never been busted down, granted, but that's because he's the worst sergeant there ever was. Keeping him one punishes all of us, starting with Antsy himself. All I was saying was, we're all of us losers.'

'Oh, that's a welcome thought, Picker.'

'And who said every thought has to be a nice one? Nobody.'

'I would, only I didn't think of it.'

'Ha. Ha.'

The slow clump of horse hooves reached them. A moment later Captain Paran came into view, leading his horse by the reins.

'Been a long day, Captain,' Picker said. 'We got some tea if you'd like.'

Paran looped the reins over the saddle horn and approached. 'Last fire left among the Bridgeburners. Don't you two ever sleep?'

'We could ask the same of you, sir,' Picker replied. 'But we all already know that sleep's for weaklings, right?'

'Depends on how peaceful it is, I'd think.'

'Captain's right on that,' Blend said to Picker.

'Well,' the corporal sniffed, 'I'm peaceful enough when I sleep.'

Blend grunted. 'That's what you think.'