Memories of Ice (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #3)

Memories of Ice (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #3) Page 346

Directly south, the old walls of Lest were visible. There was no sign that repairs had been made since the Pannion conquest. The air above the city was clear of smoke, empty of birds. The Rhivi scouts had reported that there was naught but a few charred bones littering the streets. There had been raised gardens once, for which Lest had been known, but the flow of water had ceased weeks past and fire had since swept through the city — even at this distance Korlat could see the dark stain of soot on the walls.

'Devastation!' moaned Crone. 'This is the tale before us! All the way to Maurik. Whilst our alliance disintegrates before our eyes.'

'It does nothing of the sort,' rumbled Brood, his frown deepening.

'Oh? And where is Silverfox? What has happened to the Mhybe? Why do the Grey Swords and Trake's Legion march so far behind us? Why were the Malazans so eager to leave our sides? And now, Anomander Rake and Moon's Spawn have vanished! The Tiste Andii-'

'Are alive,' Korlat cut in, her own patience frayed at last.

Crone wheeled on her. 'Are you certain?'

Korlat nodded. Yet. am 1? No. Shall I then seek them out? No. We shall see what is to be seen at Coral. That is all. Her gaze slowly swung westward. And you, my dear lover, thief of all my thoughts, will you ever release me?

Please. Do not. Ever.

Riding beside Gruntle, Itkovian watched the two Grey Sword outriders canter towards the Shield Anvil and Destriant.

'Where are they coming from?' Gruntle asked.

'Flanking rearguard,' Itkovian replied.

'With news to deliver, it seems.'

'So it appears, sir.'

'Well? Aren't you curious? They've both asked you to ride with them — if you'd said yes you'd be hearing that report right now, instead of slouching along with us riffraff. Hey, that's a thought — I could divide my legion into two companies, call one Riff and the other-'

'Oh, spare us!' Stonny snapped behind them.

Gruntle twisted in his saddle. 'How long have you been in our shadow, woman?'

'I'm never in your shadow, Gruntle. Not you, not Itkovian. Not any man. Besides, with the sun so low on our right, I'd have to be alongside you to be in your shadow, not that I would be, of course.'

'So instead,' the Mortal Sword grinned, 'you're the woman behind me.'

'And what's that supposed to mean, pig?'

'Just stating a fact, lass.'

'Really? Well, you were wrong. I was about to make my way over to the Grey Swords, only you two oafs were in the way.'

'Stonny, this ain't a road, it's a plain. How in Hood's name could we be in your way when you could ride your horse anywhere?'

'Oafs. Lazy pigs. Someone here has to be curious. That someone needs a brain, of course, which is why you'll both just trot along, wondering what those outriders are reporting, wondering and doing not a damned thing about it. Because you're both brainless. As for me-'

'As for you,' Itkovian said drily, 'you seem to be talking to us, sir. Indeed, engaged in a conversation-'

'Which has now ended!' she snapped, neck-reining her horse to the left, then launching it past them.

They watched her ride towards the other column.

After a moment, Gruntle shrugged, then said, 'Wonder what she'll hear.'

'As do I,' Itkovian replied.

They rode on, their pace steady if a little slow. Gruntle's legion marched in their wake, a rabble, clumped like sea-raiders wandering inland in search of a farmhouse to pillage. Itkovian had suggested, some time earlier, that some training might prove beneficial, to which Gruntle had grinned and said nothing.

Trake's Mortal Sword despised armies; indeed, despised anything even remotely connected to the notion of military practices. He was indifferent to discipline, and had but one officer — a Lestari soldier, fortunately — to manage his now eight-score followers: stony-eyed misfits that he'd laughingly called Trake's Legion.

Gruntle was, in every respect, Itkovian's opposite.

'Here she comes,' the Mortal Sword growled.

'She rides,' Itkovian observed, 'with much drama.'

'Aye. A fierceness not unique to sitting a saddle, from all that I've heard.'

Itkovian glanced at Gruntle. 'My apologies. I had assumed you and she-'

'A few times,' the man replied. 'When we were both drunk, alas. Her more drunk than me, I'll admit. Neither of us talk about it, generally. We stumbled onto the subject once and it turned into an argument about which of us was the more embarrassed — ah, lass! What news?'