Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

Picker glanced over a shoulder. Detoran and Trotts stood side by side a few paces back, both hulking and monstrous.

At the corporal's side Hedge nudged her again, and she turned to see that Blend had drawn back the flap.

All right, Jet's get this done.

Blend led the way, followed by Spindle, then Hedge. Picker waved the Napan and the Barghast forward, then followed them into the tent's dark confines.

Even with Trotts at one end and Detoran at the other, with Spindle and Hedge at the sides, the table had them staggering before they'd gone three paces. Blend moved ahead of them to pull the flap back as far as she could. Within the sorcerous silence, the four soldiers managed to manoeuvre the massive table outside. Picker watched, glancing back at the divider every few moments — but the warlord made no appearance. So far so good.

The corporal and Blend added their muscles in carrying the table, and the six of them managed to take it fifty paces before exhaustion forced them to halt.

'Not much further,' Spindle whispered.

Detoran sniffed. 'They'll find it.'

'That's a wager I'll call you on,' Picker said. 'But first, let's get it there.'

'Can't you make this thing any lighter?' Hedge whined at Spindle. 'What kind of mage are you, anyway?'

Spindle scowled. 'A weak one, what of it? Look at you — you're not even sweating!'

'Quiet, you two,' Picker hissed. 'Come on, heave her up, now.'

'Speaking of heaving,' Hedge muttered as, amid a chorus of grunts, the table once again rose from the ground, 'when are you gonna wash that disgusting shirt of yours, Spindle?'

'Wash it? Mother never washed her hair when she was alive — why should I start now? It'll lose its lustre-'

'Lustre? Oh, you mean fifty years of sweat and rancid lard-'

'Wasn't rancid when she was alive, though, was it?'

'Thank Hood I don't know-'

'Will you two save your foul breath? Which way now, Spindle?'

'Right. Down that alley. Then left — the hide tent at the end-'

'Bet someone's living in it,' Detoran muttered.

'You're on with that one, too,' Picker said. 'It's the one the Rhivi use to lay out Tiste Andii corpses before cremation. Ain't been a killed Tiste since Darujhistan.'

'How'd you find it anyway?' Hedge asked.

'Spindle sniffed it out-'

'Surprised he can sniff anything-'

'All right, set her down. Blend — the flap.'

The table filled the entire room within, with only an arm's length of space around it on all sides. The low cots that had been used for the corpses went beneath, folded and stacked. A shuttered lantern was lit and hung from the centre-pole hook. Picker watched Hedge crouch down, his eyes inches from the table's scarred, pitted surface, and run his blunt, battered fingers lovingly along the wood's grain. 'Beautiful,' he whispered. He glanced up, met Picker's eyes. 'Call in the crew, Corporal, the game's about to start.'

Grinning, Picker nodded. 'Go get 'em, Blend.'

'Even cuts,' Hedge said, glaring at everyone. 'We're a squad now-'

'Meaning you let us in on the secret,' Spindle said, scowling. 'If we'd known you was cheating all that time-'

'Yeah, well, your fortunes are about to turn, ain't they? So quit the complaining.'

'Aren't you two a perfect match,' Picker observed. 'So tell us, Hedge, how does this work?'

'Oppositions, Corporal. Both Decks are the real thing, you see. Fiddler had the better sensitivity, but Spindle should be able to pull it off.' He faced the mage. 'You've done readings before, haven't you? You said-'

'Yeah yeah, squirt — no problem, I got the touch-'

'You'd better,' the sapper warned. He caressed the tabletop again. 'Two layers, you see, with the fixed Deck in between 'em. Lay a card down and there's a tension formed, and it tells ya which one the face-down one is. Never fails. Dealer knows every hand he plays out. Fiddler-'

'Ain't here,' Trotts growled, his arms crossed. He bared his teeth at Spindle.

The mage sputtered. 'I can do it, you horse-brained savage! Watch me!'

'Shut up,' Picker snapped. 'They're coming.'

It was near dawn when the other squads began filing back out of the tent, laughing and back-slapping as they jingled bulging purses. When the last of them had left, voices trailing away, Picker slumped wearily down on the table. Spindle, sweat dripping from his gleaming hairshirt, groaned and dropped his head, thumping against the thick wood.

Stepping up behind him, Hedge raised a hand.

'At ease, soldier,' Picker warned. 'Obviously, the whole damn thing's been corrupted — probably never worked to start with-'

'It did! Me and Fid made damned sure-'

'But it was stolen before you could try it out for real, wasn't it?'

'That doesn't matter — I tell you-'

'Everybody shut up,' Spindle said, slowly raising his head, his narrow forehead wrinkled in a frown as he scanned the tabletop. 'Corrupted. You may have something there, Picker.' He sniffed the air as if seeking a scent, then crouched down. 'Yeah. Give me a hand, someone, with these here cots.'

No-one moved.

'Help him, Hedge,' Picker ordered.

'Help him crawl under the table? It's too late to hide-'

'That's an order, soldier.'

Grumbling, the sapper lowered himself down. Together, the two men dragged the cots clear. Then Spindle edged beneath the table. A faint glow of sorcerous light slowly blossomed, then the mage hissed. 'It's the underside all right!'

'Brilliant observation, Spindle. Bet there's legs, too.'

'No, you fool. There's an image painted onto the underside … one big card, it looks like — only I don't recognize it.'

Scowling, Hedge joined the mage. 'What are you talking about? We didn't paint no image underneath — Hood's mouldering moccasins, what is that?'

'Red ochre, is my guess. Like something a Barghast would paint-'

'Or a Rhivi,' Hedge muttered. 'Who's that figure in the middle — the one with the dog-head on his chest?'

'How should I know? Anyway, I'd say the whole thing is pretty fresh. Recent, I mean.'

'Well, rub it off, dammit.'

Spindle crawled back out. 'Not a chance — the thing's webbed with wards, and a whole lot else besides.' He straightened, met Picker's eyes, then shrugged. 'It's a new card. Unaligned, without an aspect. I'd like to make a copy of it, Deck-sized, then try it out with a reading-'

'Whatever,' Picker said.

Hedge reappeared, suddenly energized. 'Good idea, Spin — you could charge for the readings, too. If this new Unaligned plays true, then you could work out the new tensions, the new relationships, and once you know them-'

Spindle grinned. 'We could run another game. Yeah-'

Detoran groaned. 'I have lost all my money.'

'We all have,' Picker snapped, glaring at the two sappers.

'It'll work next time,' Hedge said. 'You'll see.'

Spindle was nodding vigorously.

'Sorry if we seem to lack enthusiasm,' Blend drawled.

Picker swung to the Barghast. Trotts, take a look at that drawing.'

The warrior sniffed, then sank down to his hands and knees. Grunting, he made his way under the table. 'It's gone dark,' he said.

Hedge turned to Spindle. 'Do that light trick again, you idiot.'

The mage sneered at the sapper, then gestured. The glow beneath the table returned.

Trotts was silent for a few moments, then he crawled back out and climbed upright.

'Well?' Picker asked.

The Barghast shook his head. 'Rhivi.'

'Rhivi don't play with Decks,' Spindle said.

Trotts bared his teeth. 'Neither do Barghast.'

'I need some wood,' Spindle said, scratching the stubble lining his narrow jaw. 'And a stylus,' he went on, ignoring everyone else. 'And paints, and a brush…'

They watched as he wandered out of the tent. Picker sighed, glared one last time at Hedge. 'Hardly an auspicious entry into the Seventh Squad, sapper. Antsy's heart damn near stopped when he lost his whole column. Your sergeant is probably gutting black-livered wood pigeons and whispering your name right now — who knows, your luck might change and a demon won't hear him.'