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

Memories of Ice (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #3) Page 65

'And he keeps crawling back,' Quick Ben added. 'Trying to escape. And the more he tries-'

'The sicker he gets,' Mallet finished.

Whiskeyjack, eyes once again on Pale, grimaced wryly. 'The last time I stood on this hill I had to listen to Quick and Kalam finishing each other's sentences. Turns out less has changed than I'd thought. Is the captain himself ascendant?'

'As near as,' the wizard admitted. And, needless to say, that's worrying. But it'd be even more worrying if Paran. wanted it. Then again, who knows what ambitions lie hidden beneath that reluctant visage?

'What do you two make of his tale of the Hounds and Rake's sword?'

'Troubling,' Mallet replied.

'That's an understatement,' Quick Ben said. 'Damned scary.'

Whiskeyjack scowled at him. 'Why?'

'Dragnipur's not Rake's sword — he didn't forge it. How much does the bastard know about it? How much should he know? And where in Hood's name did those Hounds go? Wherever it is, Paran's linked by blood with one of them-'

'And that makes him. unpredictable,' Mallet interjected.

'What's at the end of this corridor you described?'

'I don't know.'

'Me neither,' Quick Ben said regretfully. 'But I think we should add a few shoves of our own. If only to save Paran from himself.'

'And how do you propose we do that?'

The wizard grinned. 'It's already started, Commander. Connecting him to Silverfox. She reads him like Tattersail did a Deck of Dragons, sees more every time she rests eyes on him.'

'Maybe that's just Tattersail's memories … undressing him,' Mallet commented.

'Very funny,' Whiskeyjack drawled. 'So Silverfox dips into his soul — no guarantee she'll be sharing her discoveries with us, is there?'

'If Tattersail and Nightchill's personae come to dominate …'

'The sorceress is well enough, but Nightchill. ' Whiskeyjack shook his head.

'She was a nasty piece of work,' Quick Ben agreed. 'Something of a mystery there. Still, a Malazan …'

'Of whom we know very little,' the commander growled. 'Remote. Cold.'

Mallet asked, 'What was her warren?'

'Rashan, as far as I could tell,' Quick Ben said sourly. 'Darkness.'

'That's knowledge that Silverfox can draw on, then,' the healer said after a moment.

'Probably instinctively, in fragments — not much of Nightchill survived, I gather.'

'Are you sure of that, wizard?' Whiskeyjack asked.

'No.' About Nightchill, I'm less sure than I'm implying. There have been other Nightchills. long before the Malazan Empire. The First Age of the Nathilog Wars. The Liberation of Karakarang on Seven Cities, nine centuries back. The Seti and their expulsion from Venn, on Quon Tali, almost two thousand years ago. A woman, a sorceress, named Nightchill, again and again. If she's the same one …

The commander leaned in his saddle and spat to the ground. 'I'm not happy.'

Wizard and healer said nothing.

I'd tell him about Burn. but if he ain't happy now what'll the news of the world's impending death do to him? No, deal with that one on your own, Quick, and be ready to jump when the time comes. The Crippled God's declared war on the gods, on the warrens, on the whole damned thing and every one of us in it. Fine, O Fallen One, but that means you'll have to outwit me. Forget the gods and their clumsy games, I'll have you crawling in circles before long …

Moments passed, the horses motionless under the riders except for the flicking of tails and the twitching of coats and ears to ward off biting flies.

'Keep facing Paran in the right direction,' Whiskeyjack finally said. 'Shove when the opportunity arises. Quick Ben, find out all you can about Nightchill — through any and every source available. Mallet, explain about Paran to Spindle — I want all three of you close enough to the captain to count nose hairs.' He gathered the reins and swung his mount round. 'The Darujhistan contingent's due to arrive at Brood's any time now — let's head back.'

They rode down from the hill and its ruinous vestiges at a canter, leaving the flies buzzing aimlessly above the summit.

Whiskeyjack reined in before the tent that had been provided for Dujek Onearm, his horse breathing hard from the extended ride, through the Bridgeburners' encampment where he'd left Quick Ben and Mallet, and into Brood's sprawled camp. He swung from the saddle, wincing as he stepped down on his bad leg.