Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(169)

‘Get your own.’

The elder Lost cousin rolled his eyes, but rose and stomped off.

‘You are making quite a name for yourself,’ Fisher told Kyle. Again, Kyle felt acutely uncomfortable; here was the composer and singer of so many epic lays about ancient heroes telling him he was making a name? Was he making fun of him? He didn’t know what to say and so he merely shrugged and muttered, ‘Just trying to stay alive.’

Again the bard glanced between him and the Andii. ‘You never met Anomandaris, did you?’

Kyle did not hide his perplexity at the question. ‘No, never. Why?’

The bard was nodding to himself, his hand still at his chin. ‘Just wondering. As a poet, the parallels interest me.’

‘Parallels?’

Stalker re-joined them, sitting at Badlands’ bench.

‘Did you know that Anomandaris carried another title beyond Son of Darkness?’

Kyle had no idea what the man was getting at. He shook his head.

The bard’s gaze flicked to the Andii, Jethiss, who sat solemn and quiet, as if carved of jet. ‘Another name the man carried was Black-sword.’

Some sort of alarm now widened Jethiss’s dark eyes, and the line of his sharp chin writhed as he ground his jaws.

Kyle tilted his head, recalling. ‘I remember hearing that once or twice.’

Fisher nodded. ‘Now he is gone from us. The black sword is broken. And almost immediately what should arise but another blade … a Whitesword.’

Kyle wanted to leap from the table. How could he put these two things together? It wasn’t comparable at all! ‘Now wait a minute … what are you suggesting?’

The bard leaned back, raising his open hands. ‘I’m not suggesting anything. I am merely observing. These facts couldn’t escape the notice of any singer.’

Kyle scowled, irritated by the observation. Gods! As if he didn’t have enough troubles already! ‘Well … I’d really rather not hear any such speculations.’

‘As you will.’

The Andii, Kyle noted, drew breath to speak then, but checked himself and turned his attention to Badlands instead. The Iceblood – for that was what Kyle now knew all these northerners for – had been giving the discussion hardly any attention at all as he sat forward on his elbows, staring down at his tankard. The Andii cleared his throat. ‘Badlands,’ he began, ‘tell me – what lies to the far north of here?’

Fisher actually winced at the question. ‘Nothing that concern us,’ he put in quickly.

The Lost brother slowly raised his head and Kyle flinched inwardly upon seeing his face, for it hardly resembled at all the laughing and joking Badlands he had known before: the mouth was a grim line etched in granite, the eyes hollow and flat and empty. How hard it must be for the man to sit here surrounded at every turn by reminders of what was gone from him. He must feel severed in half.

One corner of those humourless lips edged up. ‘The far north? You mean the heights? The peaks of the Salt range?’

Jethiss nodded.

‘Those are just legends,’ Fisher cut in, giving Badlands a warning glare.

But the Lost brother answered with his own scornful look. ‘Right, bard. Just stories and fanciful songs.’ He turned his attention to Jethiss. ‘Up above the Holdings are the ice-fields of the Salt range. Snake-like rivers of ice that descend from a broad plateau of blue-black ice some thousand feet thick. We rarely venture up there as there’s little hunting to be had. The only one who haunts those heights is old Buri. The Sayers claim him as an ancestor, but really he’s a forefather of us all seein’ as he’s older even than some clans.’ Badlands took a sip of his tankard. ‘Beyond the ice-fields are the peaks – wind-blasted bare rock faces where nothing ever grows. No plants at all. No moss or weed. Just dry, cold and barren.’

‘There’s an old story, though,’ Stalker began, easing into his cousin’s tale. ‘Our uncle, Baynar Lost, travelled to those heights. He told of seeing bizarre things, hallucinations, maybe. He claimed he saw something that resembled a tower of rock. Stones heaped up tall into something like a dwelling.’ Stalker turned his bright golden eyes on Fisher. ‘How’s that tale go, Fish? Our origins?’

Jethiss turned his expectant gaze upon the bard. Fisher let out a long hard breath, shot Stalker an annoyed glance. ‘Our legends say that’s where we were born. We Icebloods. That our ancestor guards the heights. Mother of us all.’

The title ancestor startled Kyle. He remembered the words of the Silent People’s champions and their shamans: ‘Go to the great mountains to stand before our ancestors …’ He’d thought it referred to these people, these so-called Icebloods. But perhaps it had a more literal meaning: a real ancestor to stand before – the one and only true ancestor.

Jethiss, he noted, appeared troubled now, even disappointed. He frowned as if puzzled. ‘And that is all?’ he asked, his gaze searching.

‘Regarding the heights?’ Badlands answered. He shook his head. ‘No … there’s one more legend about the peaks.’ He looked to Fisher. ‘Ain’t you going to tell it?’

But the bard would not raise his eyes. ‘It’s just a child’s night-story,’ he murmured reluctantly. ‘Silly nonsense.’