Memories of Ice & House of Chains - By Steven Erikson Page 0,50

moment, then said, 'Why does Burn sleep?'

'It's not yet time for that. Ask another question.'

The wizard frowned, looked away. 'Workers and soldiers ... you make us sound like slaves.'

'She demands nothing, what you do you do for yourselves. You work to earn sustenance. You fight to protect it or to gain more. You work to confound rivals. You fight from fear and hatred and spite and honour and loyalty and whatever other causes you might fashion. Yet, all that you do serves her ... no matter what you do. Not simply benign, Adaephon Delat, but amoral. We can thrive, or we can destroy ourselves, it matters not to her – she will simply birth another brood and it begins again.'

'You speak of the world as a physical thing, subject to natural laws. Is that all it is?'

'No, in the end the minds and senses of all that is alive define what is real – real for us, that is.'

'That's a tautology.'

'So it is.'

'Is Burn the cause to our effect?'

'Ah, you wind sideways like the desert snake you are in truth! Ask your question!'

'Why does Burn sleep?'

'She sleeps ... to dream.'

Quick Ben said nothing for a long time. When he finally looked into the old woman's eyes he saw confirmation of his greatest fears. 'She is sick,' he said.

The witch nodded. 'Fevered.'

'And her dreams . . .'

'Delirium descends, lad. Dreams become nightmares.'

'I need to think of a way to excise that infection, because I don't think Burn's fever will be enough. If anything, that heat that's meant to cleanse is achieving the opposite effect.'

'Think on it, then, dearest worker.'

'I may need help.'

The witch held out a withered hand, palm up.

Quick Ben fished beneath his shirt and withdrew a waterworn pebble. He dropped it into her hand.

'When the time comes, Adaephon Delat, call upon me.'

'I shall. Thank you, mistress.' He set a small leather bag filled with gold councils on the ground between them. The witch cackled. Quick Ben backed away.

'Now shut that door – I prefer the cold!'

As the wizard strode down the alley, his thoughts wandered loose, darted and whipped on gusts – most of the currents false and without significance. One, however, snagged in his mind and stayed with him, at first meaningless, a curiosity and nothing more: she prefers the cold. Strange. Most old people like heat and plenty of it...

Captain Paran saw Quick Ben leaning against the pitted wall beside the headquarters entrance, arms wrapped tightly about himself and looking ill-tempered. The four soldiers stationed as guards were all gathered ten paces away from the mage, showing obvious unease.

Paran led his horse forward by the reins, handed them to a stabler who appeared from the compound gateway, then strode towards Quick Ben.

'You look miserable, mage – and that makes me nervous.'

The Seven Cities native scowled. 'You don't want to know, Captain. Trust me in this.'

'If it concerns the Bridgeburners, I'd better hear it, Quick Ben.'

'The Bridgeburners?' He barked a humourless laugh. 'This goes far beyond a handful of bellyaching soldiers, sir. At the moment, though, I haven't worked out any possible solutions. When I do, I'll lay it all out for you. In the meantime, you might want to requisition a fresh mount – we're to join Dujek and Whiskeyjack at Brood's camp. Immediately.'

'The whole company? I just got them settled!'

'No, sir. You, me, Mallet and Spindle. There've been some . . . unusual developments, I gather, but don't ask me what because I don't know.'

Paran grimaced.

'I've sent for the other two already, sir.'

'Very well. I'll go find myself another horse, then.' The captain swung about and headed towards the compound, trying to ignore the fiery pain in his stomach. Everything was taking too long – the army had been sitting here in Pale for months now, and the city didn't want it. With the outlawing, none of the expected imperial support had arrived, and without that administrative infrastructure, there had been no relief from the tense, unpleasant role of occupiers.

The Malazan system of conquest followed a set of rules that was systematic and effective. The victorious army was never meant to remain in place beyond the peacekeeping transition and handover to a firmly entrenched and fully functioning civil government in the Malazan style. Civic control was not a burden the army had been trained for – it was best achieved through bureaucratic manipulation of the conquered city's economy. 'Hold those strings and the people will dance for you,' had been the core belief of the Emperor,