Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

'More so than the T'lan Imass?'

She nodded. 'There is, within the T'lan Imass, an emptiness, as of a smoke-blackened cavity. But not with the T'lan Ay. Within these wolves … I see sorrow. Eternal sorrow…'

She shivered in his arms. Whiskeyjack said nothing. You see in their eyes, dear lover, what I see in yours. And it is the reflection — the recognition — that has shaken you so.

'At the camp's edge,' Korlat went on, 'they fell to dust. One moment trotting on either side, then … gone. I don't know why, but that disturbed me more than anything else.'

Because it is what awaits all of us. Even you, Korlat. 'This conversation was supposed to be short. It ends now. Come to bed, lass.'

She looked into his eyes. 'And after tonight?'

He grimaced. 'It may be a while, aye.'

'Crone has returned.'

'Has she now?'

Korlat nodded. She was about to say more, then hesitated, searching his eyes, and said nothing.

Setta, Lest, Maurik. The cities were empty. Yet the armies were dividing none the less. And neither would speak of why. Both sides of the alliance had things to hide, secrets to maintain, and the closer they got to Coral the more problematic it became maintaining those secrets.

Most of the Tiste Andii have vanished. Gone with Rake, probably to Moon's Spawn. But where is Moon's Spawn? And what in Hood's name are they planning? Will we arrive at Coral only to find the city already fallen, the Pannion Seer dead — his soul taken by Dragnipur — and that massive mountain hanging overhead?

The Black Moranth have searched for that damned floating rock. to no avail.

And then there are our secrets. We're sending Paran and the Bridgeburners ahead; Hood take us, we're doing a lot more than that.

This is an unwelcome play for power, now imminent — we all knew it was coming. Setta, Lest, Maurik. The subtle game is no longer subtle.

'My heart is yours, Korlat,' Whiskeyjack said to the woman in his arms. 'Nothing else matters to me. Nothing — no-one.'

'Please — do not apologize for what has not even happened yet. Don't talk about it at all.'

'I didn't think I was, lass.' Liar. You were. In your own way. You were apologizing.

She accepted the lie with a wry smile. 'Very well.'

Later, Whiskeyjack would think back on his words, and wish that they had been cleaner — devoid of hidden intent.

Eyes grainy from lack of sleep, Paran watched Quick Ben close his conversation with Haradas then leave the company of the Trygalle trader to rejoin the captain.

'The sappers will howl,' Paran said as the two of them resumed their walk towards the Malazan encampment, newly established on the south shore of Catlin River.

Quick Ben shrugged. 'I'll take Hedge to one side for a word or two. After all, Fiddler's closer than a brother to him, and with the mess that Fid's got into he needs all the help he can get. The only issue is whether the Trygalle can deliver the package in time.'

'They're an extraordinary lot, those traders.'

'They're insane. Doing what they're doing. Sheer audacity is the only thing that keeps them alive.'

'I'd add a certain skill for travelling inimical warrens, Quick.'

'Let us hope it's sufficient,' the wizard responded.

'It wasn't just Moranth munitions, was it?'

'No. The situation in Seven Cities couldn't be more desperate. Anyway, I've done what I could. As to its effectiveness, we'll see.'

'You're a remarkable man, Quick Ben.'

'No, I'm not. Now, best keep all this as private an affair as possible. Hedge will keep his trap shut, and so will Whiskeyjack-'

'Gentlemen! Such a lovely evening!'

Both swung at the voice booming directly behind them.

'Kruppe!' Quick Ben hissed. 'You slippery-'

'Now now, Kruppe begs your indulgence. 'Twas mere happy accident that Kruppe heard your admirable words whilst almost stumbling ever so quietly on your heels, and indeed, now desires nothing else than to partake, ever so humbly, in courageous enterprise!'

'If you speak a word of this to anyone,' Quick Ben growled, 'I will slit your throat.'

The Daru withdrew his decrepit handkerchief and mopped his forehead, three quick dabs that seemed to leave the silk cloth sodden with sweat. 'Kruppe assures deadly wizard that silence is as Kruppe's closest mistress, lover unseen and unseeable, unsuspected and unmitigable. Whilst at the same time, Kruppe proclaims that the fair citizens of Darujhistan will hark to such a noble cause — Baruk himself so assures and would do so in person were he able. Alas, he has naught but this to offer.' With that Kruppe withdrew with a flourish a small glass ball from the handkerchief, then dropped it to the ground. It broke with a soft tinkle. Mists rose, gathered knee-high between the Daru and the two Malazans, and slowly assumed the form of a bhokaral.

'Aai,' Kruppe muttered, 'such ugly, indeed visually offensive, creatures.'

'Only because you resemble them all too closely,' Quick Ben pointed out, his eyes on the apparition.

The bhokaral twisted its neck to look up at the wizard, glittering black eyes in a black, grapefruit-sized head. The creature bared its needle teeth. 'Greet! Baruk! Master! Would! Help!'

'Sadly terse effort on dear, no doubt overworked Baruk's part,' Kruppe said. 'His best conjurations display linguistic grace, if not amiable fluidity, whilst this. thing, alas, evinces-'

'Quiet, Kruppe,' Quick Ben said. He spoke to the bhokaral. 'Uncharacteristic as it sounds, I would welcome Baruk's help, but I must wonder at the alchemist's interest. This is a rebellion in Seven Cities, after all. A Malazan matter.'

The bhokaral's head bobbed. 'Yes! Baruk! Master! Raraku! Azath! Great!' The head jumped up and down again.

'Great?' Paran echoed.

'Great! Danger! Azath! Icarium! More! Coltaine! Admire! Honour! Allies! Yes! Yes?'

'Something tells me this won't be easy,' Quick Ben muttered. 'All right, let's get down to details …'

Paran turned at the sound of an approaching rider. The figure appeared, indistinct in the starlight. The first detail the captain noted was the horse, a powerful destrier, proud and clearly short-tempered. The woman astride the animal was by contrast unprepossessing, her armour plain and old, the face beneath the rim of the helm apparently undistinguished, middle-aged.

Her gaze flicked to Kruppe, the bhokaral and Quick Ben. Her expression unchanged, she said to Paran, 'Captain, I would a word with you in private, sir.'

'As you wish,' he replied, and led her off fifteen paces from the others. 'Private enough?'

'This will suffice,' the woman replied, reining in and dismounting. She stepped up to him. 'Sir, I am the Destriant of the Grey Swords. Your soldiers hold a prisoner and I have come to formally request that he be taken into our care.'

Paran blinked, then nodded. 'Ah, that would be Anaster, who once commanded the Tenescowri.'

'It would, sir. We are not yet done with him.'

'I see …' He hesitated.

'Has he recovered from his wounds?'

'The lost eye? He has been treated by our healers.'

'Perhaps,' the Destriant said, 'I should deliver my request to High Fist Dujek.'

'No, that won't be necessary. I can speak on behalf of the Malazans. In that capacity, however, it's incumbent that I ask a few questions first.'

'As you wish, sir. Proceed.'

'What do you intend to do with the prisoner?'

She frowned. 'Sir?'

'We do not countenance torture, no matter what his crime. If it is required, we would be forced to extend protection over Anaster, and so deny your request.'

She glanced away briefly, then fixed her level gaze on him once more, and Paran realized she was much younger than he had at first assumed. 'Torture, sir, is a relative term.'