Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

'About what?'

'Well, the Malazans, for one.'

'Does it make any difference? Brood will still reach Maurik first. So we wait two days instead of two weeks, what of it? Just means we get this whole mess over with that much sooner — Hood knows, maybe Dujek's already conquered Coral — and he can have it, as far as I'm concerned.'

'You've got a point,' Gruntle muttered.

Itkovian glanced away. Perhaps she has. To what am I riding? What do I still seek from this world? I do not know. I care nothing for this Pannion Seer — he'll accept no embrace from me, after all, assuming the Malazans leave him breathing, which is itself unlikely.

Is this why I lag so far behind those who will reshape the world? Indifferent, empty of concern? I seem to be done — why can I not accept that truth? My god is gone — my burden is my own. Perhaps there is no answer for me — is that what the new Shield Anvil sees when she looks upon me with such pity in her eyes?

Is the entirety of my life now behind me, save for the daily, senseless trudge of this body?

Perhaps I am done. Finally done.

'Cheer up, Itkovian,' Gruntle said, 'the war might be over before we get even close — wouldn't that be a wild whimper to close this tale, eh?'

'Rivers are for drinking from and drowning in,' Hetan grumbled, one arm wrapped about a barrel.

Whiskeyjack smiled. 'I thought your ancestors were seafarers,' he said.

'Who finally came to their senses and buried their damn canoes once and for all.'

'You are sounding uncharacteristically irreverent, Hetan.'

'I'm about to puke on your boots, old man, how else should I sound?'

'Ignore my daughter,' Humbrall Taur said, hide-wrapped feet thumping as he approached. 'She's been bested by a Daru.'

'Do not mention that slug!' Hetan hissed.

'You'll be pleased to know he's been on another barge these last three days whilst you suffered,' Whiskeyjack told her. 'Recovering.'

'He only left this one because I swore I'd kill him,' Hetan muttered. 'He wasn't supposed to get besotted, the slimy worm! Spirits below, such an appetite!'

Humbrall Taur's laugh rumbled. 'I had never thought to witness such delicious-'

'Oh, be quiet, Father!'

The huge Barghast warchief winked at Whiskeyjack. 'I now look forward to actually meeting this man from Darujhistan.'

'Then I should forewarn you that appearances deceive,' Whiskeyjack said, 'particularly in the person of Kruppe.'

'Oh, I have seen him from afar, being dragged hither and thither by my daughter, at least in the beginning. And then of late I noted that the role of the master had reversed. Remarkable. Hetan is very much my wife's child, you see.'

'And where is your wife?'

'Almost far enough away back in the White Face Range to leave me breathing easily. Almost. Perhaps, by Coral. '

Whiskeyjack smiled, feeling once more his wonder at the gifts of friendship he had received of late.

The once-tamed shore of River Maurik swept past opposite him. Reeds surrounded fishing docks and mooring poles; old boats lay rotting and half buried in silts on the bank. Grasses grew high around fisher shacks further up the strand. The abandonment and all it signified darkened his mood momentarily.

'Even for me,' Humbrall Taur growled beside him, 'it is an unwelcome sight.'

Whiskeyjack sighed.

'We approach the city, yes?'

The Malazan nodded. 'Perhaps another day.'

Behind them, Hetan groaned in answer to that.

'Do you imagine that Brood knows?'

'I think so, at least in some part. We've got Mott Irregulars among the stablers and handlers…'

'Mott Irregulars — who or what is that, Commander?'

'Something vaguely resembling a mercenary company, Warchief. Woodcutters and farmers, for the most part. Created by accident — by us Malazans, in fact. We'd just taken the city of Oraz and were marching west to Mott — which promptly surrendered with the exception of the outlanders in Mott Wood. Dujek didn't want a company of renegades preying on our supply lines with us pushing ever inland, so he sent the Bridgeburners into Mott Wood with the aim of hunting them down. A year and a half later and we were still there. The Irregulars were running circles around us. And the times they'd decided to stand and fight, it was as if some dark swamp god possessed them — they bloodied our noses more than once. Did the same to the Gold Moranth. Eventually, Dujek pulled us out, but by then the Mott Irregulars had been contacted by Brood. He drew them into his army. In any case,' he shrugged, 'they're a deceptive bunch, keep coming back like a bad infestation of gut-worms — which we've learned to live with.'

'So you know what your enemy knows of you,' Humbrall nodded.

'More or less.'

'You Malazans,' the Barghast said, shaking his head, 'play a complicated game.'

'Sometimes,' Whiskeyjack conceded. 'At other times, we're plain simple.'

'One day, your armies will march to the White Face Range.'

'I doubt it.'

'Why not?' Humbrall Taur demanded. 'Are we not worthy enough foes, Commander?'

'Too worthy, Warchief. No, the truth is this. We have treated with you, and the Malazan Empire takes such precedents seriously. You will be met with respect and offers to establish trade, borders and the like — if you so desire. If not, the envoys will depart and that will be the last you ever see of the Malazans, until such time as you decide otherwise.'

'Strange conquerors, you foreigners.'

'Aye, we are at that.'

'Why are you on Genabackis, Commander?'

'The Malazan Empire? We're here to unify, and through unification, grow rich. We're not selfish about getting rich, either.'

Humbrall Taur thumped his coin-threaded hauberk. 'And silver is all that interests you?'

'Well, there's more than one kind of wealth, Warchief.'

'Indeed?' The huge warrior's eyes had narrowed.

Whiskeyjack smiled. 'Meeting the White Face clans of the Barghast is one such reward. Diversity is worth celebrating, Humbrall Taur, for it is the birthplace of wisdom.'

'Your words?'

'No, the Imperial Historian, Duiker.'

'And he speaks for the Malazan Empire?'

'In the best of times.'

'And are these the best of times?'

Whiskeyjack met the warrior's dark eyes. 'Perhaps they are.'

'Will you two be quiet!' Hetan growled behind them. 'I am about to die.'

Humbrall Taur swung about to study his daughter where she crouched against the barrels of grain. 'A thought,' he rumbled.

'What?'

'Only that you might not be seasick, daughter.'

'Really! Then what-' Hetan's eyes went wide. 'Spirits below!'

Moments later, Whiskeyjack was forced to lean unceremoniously, feet first, over the barge's gunnel, the current tugging at his boots, the flowing water giving them a thorough cleansing.

A seastorm had struck Maurik some time since its desertion, toppling ornamental trees and heaping seaweed-tangled dunes of sand against building walls. The streets were buried beneath an unmarred, evenly rippled white carpet of sand, leaving no bodies or other detritus visible.

Korlat rode alone down the port city's main thoroughfare. Squat, sprawling warehouses were on her left, civic buildings, taverns, inns and trader shops on her right. Overhead, hauling ropes linked the upper floors of the warehouses to the flat rooftops of the trader shops, festooned now with seagrasses as if decorated for a maritime festival.

Apart from what came with the warm wind's steady sigh, there was no movement down the length of the street, nor in the alleys intersecting it. Windows and doorways gaped black and forlorn. The warehouses had been stripped bare, their wide sliding doors facing onto the street left open.

She approached the westernmost reaches of the city, the smell of the sea behind her giving way to a sweeter taint of freshwater decay from the river beyond the warehouses on her left.