Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

She bared her teeth. 'Good, let us go meet these bickering priests, then.'

'I still wonder why you have requested this audience, Hetan,' Itkovian said. 'If you are to announce the impending arrival of the entire clans of the Barghast to our aid, the Mask Council is not the place to do so. Efforts will begin immediately to manipulate you and your people, towards an endless and infectious mire of petty rivalries and battles of will. If you will not inform the Grey Swords, then I strongly urge you to speak with Prince Jelarkan-'

'You talk too much, wolf.'

Itkovian fell silent, his eyes narrowing.

'Your mouth will be too busy when I bed you,' she continued. 'I will insist.'

The Shield Anvil swung to face Brukhalian and Karnadas as they arrived. He saluted.

'There's some colour in your face, sir,' the Destriant observed. 'Which was not the case when you returned from the walls.'

Hetan barked a laugh. 'He is about to lie with a woman for the first time.'

Karnadas raised his brows at Itkovian. 'What of your vows, Shield Anvil?'

'My vows remain,' the soldier grated. 'The Barghast is mistaken.'

Brukhalian grunted. 'Besides, aren't you in mourning, Hetan?'

'To mourn is to feel a flower's slow death, hill bear. To bed a man is to recall the flower's bright glory.'

'You'll have to pluck another,' Karnadas said with a faint smile. 'The Shield Anvil has taken monastic vows, alas-'

'Then he mocks his god! The Barghast know of Fener, the Tusked One. There is fire in his blood!'

'The fire of battle-'

'Of lust, scrawny pup!'

'Enough,' Brukhalian rumbled. 'We walk to the Thrall, now. I have news to relate to you all and will need the time. Come.'

They strode through the barracks gate, swung left to cross the concourse that skirted the city's south wall. Capustan's open spaces — an accidental feature of the self-contained Camps — had needed little in their conversion into killing grounds. Strongpoints had been constructed at various approaches, of stone and wood and soaked bales of hay. When the walls were breached the enemy would pour into the concourses and enter an enfilade. Prince Jelarkan had emptied half his treasury for arrows, bows, ballistae, mangonels and other weapons of slaughter. The network of defences imposed a web on the city, in keeping with Brukhalian's plan of measured, organized contraction.

Yield not a single cobble until it is ankle deep in Pannion blood.

The few brightly clothed citizens in sight moved from the path of the Grey Swords and the ash-faced, barbaric Barghast.

Brukhalian spoke. 'The Destriant and I have held counsel with the Kron T'lan Imass. Bek Okhan informs us that their offer of alliance is in answer to the K'Chain Che'Malle. They will not fight mortal humans. He further informs us that the K'ell Hunters have gathered half a league to the north, perhaps eighty in all. From this I surmise that they will represent Septarch Kulpath's opening gambit — an assault on the north gate. The appearance of such formidable creatures will strike terror in our defenders. The gate will be shattered, the Hunters will enter the city, and the slaughter will begin. Kulpath will then send his Urdomen forward, against the other gates. By dusk Capustan will have fallen.' He paused, as if chewing his words, then resumed. 'No doubt the Septarch is confident. Fortunately for us, the K'ell Hunters will never reach the north gate, for fourteen thousand T'lan Imass and however many T'lan Ay with them will rise to block their path. Bek Okhan assures us the denial will be absolute, and final.'

'Assuming the validity of his assertion,' Itkovian allowed as they approached the Old Daru district, 'Septarch Kulpath will need to adjust his plan.'

'And in circumstances of great confusion,' Karnadas said.

Brukhalian nodded. 'It falls to us to predict his adjustment.'

'He won't know that the T'lan Imass are interested only in the K'Chain Che'Malle,' the Shield Anvil said. 'At least not immediately.'

'And that limitation may prove temporary,' the Destriant said. 'Once this Gathering takes place, the T'lan Imass may find themselves directed to a new purpose.'

'What more have we learned of the summoner?'

'She accompanies Brood's army.'

'How far away?'

'Six weeks.'

Hetan snorted. 'They are slow.'

'They are a small army,' Brukhalian growled. 'And cautious. I find no fault in the pace they have chosen. The Septarch intends to take Capustan in a single day, but he well knows that the longest he can safely take to conclude the siege is six weeks. Once he fails in his first effort, he will step back and reconsider. Probably at length.'

'We cannot hold for six weeks,' Itkovian murmured, his eyes reaching over the row of temples lining Old Daru's front street and fixing on the high walls of the ancient keep that was now the Thrall.

'We must, sir,' Brukhalian replied. 'Shield Anvil, your counsel, please. Kulpath's campaign at Setta — there were no K'Chain Che'Malle to hasten that siege. Its duration?'

'Three weeks,' Itkovian immediately replied. 'Setta is a larger city, sir, and the defenders were unified and well organized. They stretched to three weeks a siege that should only have required a week at most. Sir, Capustan is smaller, with fewer defenders — and disputatious defenders at that. Further, the Tenescowri has doubled its size since Setta. Finally, the Beklites and Urdomen have been honed by a hard-fought contest. Six weeks, sir? Impossible.'

'We must make the impossible possible, Shield Anvil.'

Itkovian's jaw clenched. He said nothing.

Within sight of the Thrall's high gates, Brukhalian stopped and faced the Barghast. 'You have heard us, Hetan. Should the clans of the White Face grasp the spear of war, how many warriors will march? How soon could they arrive?'

The woman bared her teeth. 'The clans have never united to wage war, but if they did, the warriors of the White Face would number seventy thousand.' Her smile broadened, cold and defiant. 'They will not do so now. No march. No relief. For you, no hope.'

'The Domin will set hungry eyes upon your people next, Hetan,' Itkovian said.

She shrugged.

'What then,' Brukhalian rumbled, 'is the purpose of this audience with the Mask Council?'

'When I give answer, it will be to the priests.'

Itkovian spoke. 'I was given to understand that you had travelled south to discover the nature of the K'Chain Che'Malle.'

'There was no cause to elaborate on our mission, wolf. We have completed one task set before us by the shouldermen of the clans. Now, we must complete the second task. Will you now present us to the fools, or must we continue on alone?'

The Council Hall was a massive chamber, domed with a semicircle of wooden tiers facing the grand entrance. The dome's ceiling had once glittered with gold leaf, of which only a few patches remained. The bas-relief images the gold had once lit were now faded and mostly shapeless, hinting of a procession of human figures in ceremonial garb. The floor was laid with bright, geometric tiles, forming no discernible pattern around a central disc of polished granite, and much worn.

Torches high on the stone walls flickered yellow light and exhaled tendrils of black smoke that drifted in the chamber's currents. Standing motionless to either side of the entrance and before each of the fourteen doors arrayed behind the tiers were Gidrath guards, visored and in full scaled armour.

The fourteen priests of the Mask Council sat in a row on the highest of the three tiers, sombre in their robes and silent behind the carved, hinged masks of their gods. The representations were varied but singularly ghastly, caricatured in their malleable expressions, though at the moment every one of them was fixed in neutral regard.