by Mika Len


by Inek Jaffar


by Agent_Dax


by SK_girl


by maru-hime


by Tygrax

LXXII “‘All right. Fine. I intend to hide in your shadow.’

‘Well, I’m already used to that, Pearl. But I should point out, that the Whirlwind Wall is obscuring the sunset rather thoroughly.’

‘True, yet it exists none the less. I will just have to step carefully. Provided, of course, you make no sudden, unexpected moves.’

‘In your company, Pearl, the thought has yet to occur to me.’

‘Ah, that’s good. I in turn feel I should point out, however, that you persist in fomenting a certain tension between us. One that is anything but, uh, professional. Oddly enough, it seems to increase with every insult you throw my way, A peculiar flirtation –’

‘Flirtation? You damned fool. I’d be much happier seeing you fall flat on your face and getting beaten helpless by that damned goddess, if only for the satisfaction I’d receive –’

‘Precisely as I was saying, dear.’

‘Really? So if I was to pour boiling oil all over you, you’d be telling me –in between screams –to get my head out from between your –’ She shut her mouth with an audible snap.
-
Wisely, Pearl made no comment.

Flat of the sword? No, the edge. ‘I want to kill you, Pearl.’

‘I know.’” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pg. 790-791

LXXI “He took a step closer, and the six T’lan Imass flinched. ‘You used us. You used me. And, for my reward, what did you just offer?’

‘We sought –’

‘You offered a new set of chains. Now, leave this place. You have all you desired. Get out.’” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pg. 684

LXX “‘Perfection is an illusion,’ ‘Siballe said. ‘Thus, mortal and immortal alike are striving for what cannot be achieved. Our new master seeks to alter the paradigm, Karsa Orlong. A third force, to change for ever the eternal war between order and dissolution.’

‘A master demanding the worship of imperfection,’ the Teblor growled.

‘Siballe’s head creaked in a nod. ‘Yes.’

Karsa realized he was thirsty and walked over to his pack, retrieving a waterskin. He drank deep, then returned to his sword. He closed both hands about the grip and lifted it before him, studying its rippled length.

‘An extraordinary creation,’ Urugal said. ‘If Imass weapons could have a god…’

Karsa smiled at the T’lan Imass he had once knelt before, in a distant glade, in a time of youth –when the world he saw was both simple and…perfect. ‘You are not gods.’

‘We are,’ Urugal replied. ‘To be a god is to possess worshippers.’

‘To guide them,’ ‘Siballe added.

‘You are wrong, both of you,’ Karsa said. ‘To be a god is to know the burden of believers. Did you protect? You did not. Did you offer comfort, solace? Were you possessed of compassion? Even pity? To the Teblor, T’lan Imass, you were slavemasters, eager and hungry, making harsh demands, and expecting cruel sacrifices –all to feed your own desires. You were the Teblors’ unseen chains.’” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pg. 682

LXIX “‘You spoke of betraying your clan,’ Trull Sengar said as they approached the hills. ‘These seem to be old memories, Onrack.’

‘Perhaps we are destined to repeat our crimes, Trull Sengar. Memories have returned to me –all that I had thought lost. I do not know why.’

‘The severing of the Ritual?’

‘Possibly.’

‘What was your crime?’

‘I trapped a woman in time. Or so it seemed. I painted her likeness in a sacred cave. It is now my belief that, in so doing, I was responsible for the terrible murders that followed, for her leaving the clan. She could not join in the Ritual that made us immortal, for by my hand she had already become so. Did she know this? Was this the reason for her defying Logros and the First Sword? There are no answers to that. What madness stole her mind, so that she would kill her closest kin, so that, indeed, she would seek to kill the First Sword himself, her own brother?’

‘A woman not your mate, then.’

‘No. She was a bonecaster. A Soletaken.’

‘Yet you loved her.’

A lopsided shrug. ‘Obsession is its own poison, Trull Sengar.’” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pg. 674

LXIIX “[…] ‘I could feel its unhuman eyes on us all the way across that valley.’

‘Him and the vultures, aye.’ She tilted her head back and studied the cloudless sky. ‘Still with us, in fact. Those damned birds. Not surprising. We’re almost out of water, with even less food. In a day or two we’ll be in serious trouble.’

‘I will leave such mundane worries with you, Lostara.’

‘Meaning, if all else fails, you can always kill and eat me, right? But what if I decide to kill you first? Obsessed as I am with mundane worries.’

The Claw settled down into a cross-legged position. ‘It’s become much cooler here, don’t you think? A localized phenomenon, I suspect. Although I would imagine that some measure of success in the ritual I am about to enact should warm things up somewhat.’

‘If only the excitement of disbelief,’ Lostara muttered, walking over to the edge of the tel and looking south-westward to where the red wall of the Whirlwind cut a curving slash across the desert. Behind her, she heard muted words, spoken in some language unknown to her. Probably gibberish. I’ve seen enough mages at work to know that don’t need words…not unless they’re performing. Pearl was probably doing just that. He was one for poses, even while affecting indifference to his audience of one. A man seeking his name in tomes of history. Some crucial role upon which the fate of the empire pivots.” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pg. 664

LXVII “‘Stay back, warrior! The Jaghut hissed. ‘This is high Tellann –’

‘And I am Karsa Orlong, of the Teblor,’ the warrior growled. He kicked at the nearest stones.

Searing flame swept up to engulf Karsa. He snarled and pushed his way through it, reaching down both hands to take the slab of stone, grunting as he lifted it from the woman’s chest. The flames swarmed him, seeking to rend his flesh from his bones, but his growl simply deepened. Pivoting, flinging the huge slab to one side. Where it struck a wall, and shattered.

The flames died.

Karsa shook himself, then looked down once more.

The ring was now broken. The Jaghut’s eyes were wide as she stared up at him, movement stirring her limbs.

‘Never before,’ she sighed, then shook her head as if in disbelief. ‘Ignorance, honed into a weapon. Extraordinary, Thelomen Toblakai.’” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pg. 619

LXVI “He skirted the village on its north side, through knee-high grains, the soil soft from the pervious night’s irrigating. Karsa assumed the water came from the river somewhere ahead, though he could not imagine how the flow was regulated. The notion of a life spent tilling fields was repellent to the Teblor warrior. The rewards seemed to be exclusive to the highborn landowners, whilst the labourers themselves had only a minimal existence, prematurely aged and worn down by the ceaseless toil. And the distinction between high and low status was born from farming itself- or so it appeared to Karsa. Wealth was measured in control over other people, and the grip of that control could never be permitted to loosen. Odd, then, that this rebellion had had nothing to do with such inequities, that in truth it had been little more than a struggle between those who would be in charge.

Yet the majority of the suffering had descended upon the lowborn, upon the common folk. What matter the colour of the collar around a man’s neck, if the chains linked to them were identical?

Better to struggle against helplessness, as far as he was concerned. This blood-soaked Apocalypse was pointless, a misdirected explosion of fury that, when it passed, left the world unchanged.” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pg. 611

LXV “As they floated out over the ledge, Lostara looked up one last time, but not at the dragon, rather at the starscape beyond. ‘What do you make of that night sky, Pearl? I do not recognize the constellations…nor have I ever before seen those glowing swirls in any night sky I’ve looked at.’

He grunted. ‘That’s a foreign sky –as foreign as can be. A hole leading into alien realms, countless strange worlds filled with creatures unimaginable –’

‘You really don’t know, do you?’

‘Of course I don’t!’ he snapped.

‘Then why don’t you just say so?’

‘It was more fun conjecturing creatively, of course. How can a man be the object of a woman’s interest if he’s always professing his ignorance?’

‘You want me to be interested in you? Why didn’t you say so? Now I will hang on your every word, of course. Shall I gaze adoringly into your eyes as well?’

He swung on her a glum look. ‘Men really have no chance, do they?’

‘Typical conceit to have thought otherwise, Pearl.’

They were falling gently though darkness. The sorcerous globe of light followed, but at some distance, smudged and faint behind the suspended dust.

Lostara looked downward, then snapped her head up and closed her eyes, fighting vertigo. Through gritted teeth she asked, ‘How much farther do we sink, do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You could’ve given a better answer than that!’ When he made no reply she glanced at him through slitted eyes. He looked positively despondent.

‘Well?’ she demanded.

‘If these are the depths of despair, lass, we’re almost there.’” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pgs. 566-567

LXIV “Pearl shrugged. ‘I have an no idea. But I have a few theories.’

‘Of course you do,’ she snapped. ‘Like all other men –you hate to say you don’t know and leave it at that. You have an answer to every question, and if you don’t you make one up.’

‘An outrageous assertion, my dear. It is not a matter of making up answers, it is rather an exercise in conjecture. There is a difference –’

‘That’s what you say, not what I have to listen to. All the time. Endless words. Does a man even exist who believes there can be too many words?’” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pg. 562

LXIIV “‘That won’t be easy,’ Trull observed, watching the T’lan Imass shifting the upright stone, ‘so I suppose I can expect to keep my blood for a while longer.’

Onrack slowly swung his misshapen head to study the Tiste Edur. ‘It is you who should be fleeing, Trull Sengar.’

‘Your bonecaster explained that they needed only a drop or two.’

My bonecaster…no longer. ‘True, if all goes well.’

‘Why shouldn’t it?’

‘The Tiste Liosan. Kurald Thyrllan –this is the name they give their warren. Seneschal Jorrude is not a sorcerer. He is a warrior-priest.’

Trull frowned. ‘It is the same for the Tiste Edur, for my people, Onrack –’

‘And as such, the seneschal must kneel before his power. Whereas a sorcerer commands power. Your approach is fraught, Trull Sengar. You assume that a benign spirit gifts you that power. If that spirit is usurped, you may not even know it. And then, you become a victim, a tool, manipulated to serve unknown purposes.’” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pg. 552

LXII “‘Is there need to whisper?’ Kalam asked.

The man flinched. ‘Quiet! My wife!’

‘Is she sleeping?’

Iskaral Pust’s small face was so like a bhok’aral’s that the assassin was wondering at the man’s bloodlines –no, Kalam, don’t be ridiculous. –‘Sleeping?’ the priest sputtered. ‘She never sleeps! No, you fool, she hunts!’

‘Hunts? What does she hunt?’

‘Not what. Who. She hunts for me, of course.’ His eyes glittered as he stared at Kalam. ‘But has she found me? No! We’ve not seen each other for months! Hee hee!’ He jutted his head closer. ‘It’s a perfect marriage. I’ve never been happier. You should try it.’” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pg. 549

LXI “Lady’s luck to you,’ Cord replied, then he gestured. ‘Everyone else, let’s go.’ At the stairway, the sergeant glanced back at the assassin [Kalam]. ‘That demon…did it get the captain and the lieutenant, do you think?’

‘No. It said otherwise.’

‘It spoke to you?’

‘In my mind, aye. But it was a short conversation.’

Cord grinned. ‘Something tells me, with you, they’re all short.’” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pg. 541

LX “Here, in Raraku’s heart, the Whirlwind Goddess had stolen the colour of the sun’s own fire, leaving the landscape pallid and deathly. Colourless, Karsa Orlong? Bairoth Gild’s ghostly voice was filled with wry humor. Not so. Silver, my friend. And silver is the colour of oblivion. Of chaos. Silver is when the last of the blood is washed from the blade –

‘No more words,’ Karsa growled.

Leoman spoke from nearby. ‘Having just arrived, Toblakai, I am yet to even speak. Do you not wish my farewell?’

Karsa slowly straightened, slinging his pack over a shoulder. ‘Words need not be spoken aloud, friend, to prove unwelcome. I but answered my own thoughts. That you are here pleases me. When I began my first journey, long ago, none came to witness.’

[…]

Shrugging, Karsa faced Leoman. ‘A witness of one suffices. We may now speak our parting words. Do not hide overlong in your pit, friend. And when you ride out with your warriors, hold to the Chosen One’s commands –too many jabs from the small knife can awaken the bear no matter how deep it sleeps.’

‘It is a young and weak bear this time, Toblakai.’

Karsa shook his head. ‘I have come to respect the Malazans, and fear that you would awaken them to themselves.’

‘I shall consider your words,’ Leoman replied. ‘And now ask that you consider mine. Beware your gods, friend. If you must kneel before a power, first look upon it with clear eyes. Tell me, what would your kin say to you in parting?’

‘“May you slay a thousand children.”’

Leoman blanched. ‘Journey well, Toblakai.’

‘I shall.’

Karsa knew that Leoman could neither see nor sense that he was flanked where he stood at the trail’s gap in the wall. Delum Thord on the left, Bairoth Gild on the right. Teblor warriors, blood-oil smeared in crimson tones even the Whirlwind could not eradicate, and they stepped forward as the Teblor swung about to face the western trail.

‘Lead us. Lead your dead, Warleader.’

Bairoth’s mocking laugh clicked and cracked like the potsherds breaking beneath Karsa Orlong’s moccasins. The Teblor grimaced. There would be, it seemed, a fierce price for the honor.

None the less, he realized after a moment, if there must be ghosts, it was better to lead them than to be chased by them.

‘If that is how you would see it, Karsa Orlong.’” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pgs. 483-484

LVIX “‘Things that outlive their usefulness are discarded,’ Onrack replied.

‘Abandoned, yes –’

‘Unless, of course,’ the T’lan Imass went on, ‘they would then pose a threat to one who had so exploited them. If so, then the answer would be to annihilate them once they are no longer useful.’

‘There is the unpleasant ring of truth to your words, Onrack.’

‘I am generally unpleasant, Trull Sengar.’

‘So I am learning. You say the souls of two Hounds are imprisoned within these –which ones again?’

‘We now walk between them.’

‘What are they doing here, I wonder?’

‘The stone has been shaped to encompass them, Trull Sengar. No-one asks the spirit or the god, when the icon is fashioned, if it wishes entrapment. Do they? The need to make such vessels is a mortal’s need. That one can rest eyes on the thing one worships is an assertion of control at worst, or at best the illusion that one can negotiate over one’s own fate.’

‘And you find such notions suitably pathetic, Onrack?’

‘I find most notions pathetic, Trull Sengar.’

‘Are these beasts trapped for eternity, do you think? Is this where they go when they are destroyed?’

Onrack shrugged. ‘I have no patience with these games. You posses your own knowledge and suspicions, yet would not speak them. Instead, you seek to discover what I know, and what I sense of these snared spirits. I care nothing for the fate either way of these Hounds of Shadow. Indeed, I find it unfortunate that –if these two were slain in some other realm and so have ended up here –there are but five remaining, for that diminishes my chances of killing one myself. And I think I would enjoy killing a Hound of Shadow.’” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pgs. 444-445

LVIIX “‘When I was young, I wrote poetry, in the path that my mother already walked. Did you know that?’

He smiled at the word ‘young’ but replied in all seriousness, ‘No, I did not.’

‘I…have resurrected the habit.’

‘May it serve you well.’

She must have sensed something of the blood-slick edge underlying his statement, for her expression tightened. ‘But that is never its purpose, is it. To serve. Or to yield satisfaction –self-satisfaction, I mean, since the other kind but follows as a returning ripple in a well –’

‘Confusing the pattern.’

‘As you say, Toblakai. No, the drive to create is something other, isn’t it? Have you an answer?’

He shrugged. ‘If one exists, it will only be found in the search –and searching is at creation’s heart, Chosen One.’

She stared at the statues once more. ‘And what are you searching for? With these…old friends?’

‘I do not know. Yet.’

‘Perhaps they will tell you, one day.’” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pg. 360

LVII “And in these truths, Heboric suspected a mystery. Bidithal had not always been a High Mage. Not in title in any case. In the Dhobri language, he had been known as Rashan’ais. The archpriest of the cult of Rashan, which had existed in the Seven Cities long before the Throne of Shadow had been reoccupied. In the twisted minds of humanity, it seemed, there was nothing objectionable about worshipping an empty throne. No stranger than kneeling before the Boar of Summer, before a god of war.” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pg. 347

LVI “Heboric snorted. ‘Cults feed upon one another, lass. Whole myths are co-opted to fuel the faith. Seven Cities was born of nomadic tribes, yet the legacy preceding them was that of an ancient civilization, which in turn rested uneasy on the foundations of a still older empire –the First Empire of the T’lan Imass. That which survives in memory or falters and fades away is but chance and circumstance.’

‘Poets may know hunger,’ she commented drily, ‘but historians devour. And devouring murders language, makes of it a dead thing.’

‘Not the historian’s crime, lass, but the critic’s.’

‘Why quibble? Scholars, then.’

‘Are you complaining that my explanation destroys the mysteries of the pantheon? Felisin, there are more worthy things to wonder at in this world. Leave the gods and goddesses to their own sickly obsessions.’

Her laugh struck through him again. ‘Oh, you are amusing company, old man! A priest cast out by his god. An historian once gaoled for his theories. A thief with nothing left worth stealing. I am not the one in need of wonder.’” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pg. 339

LV “ ‘[…] The flood waters must have brought chaos to the climate. And destroyed the civilization that existed here.’

Onrack looked down. ‘Were they Tiste Edur?’

The man shook his head. ‘No, more like your descendants, Onrack. Although the corpses we saw here along the wall were badly decayed.’ Trull grimaced. ‘They are as vermin, these humans of yours.’

‘Not mine,’ Onrack replied.

‘You feel no pride, then, at their insipid success?’

The T’lan Imass cocked his head. ‘They are prone to mistakes, Trull Sengar. The Logros have killed tem in their thousands when the need to reassert order made doing so necessary. With ever greater frequency they annihilate themselves, for success breeds contempt for those very qualities that purchased it.’

‘It seems you’ve given this some thought.’

Onrack shrugged in a clatter of bones. ‘More than my kin, perhaps, the edge of my irritation with humankind remains jagged.’

The Tiste Edur was attempting to stand, his motions slow and deliberate. ‘The Nascent required…cleansing,’ he said, his tone bitter, ‘or so it was judged.’

‘Your methods,’ Onrack said, ‘are more extreme than what the Logros would choose.’

Managing to totter upright, Trull Sengar faced the T’lan Imass with a wry grin. ‘Sometimes, friend, what is begun proves too powerful to contain.’

‘Such is the curse of success.’

Trull seemed to wince at the words, and he turned away.” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pg. 331

LIV “ ‘[…] Word is, we’re all being mustered out to face the Adjunct’s lizard eyes in a day or two.’

The soldier Gesler had named Tavos Pond –a tall, dark, moustached man who was probably Korelri –spoke up. ‘So we should polish our equipment, Sergeant?’

‘Polish whatever you like,’ the man replied disinterestedly, ‘just not in public. As for the Adjunct, if she can’t handle a few scuffed up soldiers then she won’t last long. It’s a dusty world out there, and the sooner we blend in the better.’” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pg. 304

LIIV “ ‘Indeed, with words. Form an opinion, say it often enough and pretty soon everyone’s saying it right back at you, and then it becomes a conviction, fed by unreasoning anger and defended with weapons of fear, At which point words become useless and you’re left with a fight to the death.’

Karsa grunted. ‘A fight beyond death, I would say.’

‘True enough. Generation after generation.’

‘Are all people of Darujhistan like you, Torvald Nom?’

‘More or less. Contentious bastards. We thrive on argument, meaning we never go past the stage of using words. We love words, Karsa, as much as you love cutting off heads and collecting ears and tongues. Walk down any street, in any district, and everyone you speak to will have a different opinion, no matter what the subject is. Even the possibility of being conquered by the Malazans. I was thinking a moment ago –that shark, choking on Borrug’s body. I suspect, should Darujhistan ever become part of the Malazan Empire, the empire will be like that shark, and Darujhistan like Borrug. We’ll choke the beast that swallows us.’

‘The shark did not choke for very long.’

‘That’s because Borrug was too dead to say anything about it.’

‘An interesting distinction, Torvald Nom.’

‘Well, of course. Us Daru are a subtle folk.’” –Steven Erikson, “House of Chains” pgs. 236-237

LII “‘Fener’s Reve. In the Reve…I wonder, did I simply find for myself another prison?’

‘She is free within you, mortal.’

That would be... A good thing.

‘We would not lie to you, Itkovian Otanthalian. She is free. And smiles still. You have told us what you were. But we still do not understand –your…generosity. Your compassion. And so we ask again. Why have you done this for us?’

‘Sirs, you speak of compassion. I understand something, now, of compassion. Would you hear?’

‘Speak on, mortal.’

‘We humans do not understand compassion. In each moment of our lives, we betray it. Aye, we know of its worth, yet in knowing we then attach to it a value, we guard the giving of it, believing it must be earned. T’lan Imass. Compassion is priceless in the truest sense of the word. It must be given freely. In abundance.’

‘We do not understand, but we will consider long your words.’

‘There is always more to do, it seems.’

‘You do not answer our question –’

‘No.’

‘Why?’” –Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 873

LI “Toes had earned his name by his habit of collecting toes among the enemy’s dead –whether he’d been personally responsible for killing them or not. He had concocted some kind of drying powder with which he treated his trophies before sewing them onto his vest –the man smelled like a crypt in dry weather, like a pauper’s pit before the lime when it rained. He claimed to be a necromancer, and that some disastrously botched ritual in the past had left him oversensitive to ghosts –they followed him, he would assert, adding that by cutting off their mortal toes he took from the ghosts all sense of balance se that they fell down so often that he was able to leave them far behind.

Indeed, he looked like a haunted man, but, as Blend had pointed out, who wouldn’t be haunted with all those dead toes hanging from him?” –Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 752

L “Murillio strode into view again.

‘The ant danced blind,’ Coll said.

‘What?’

‘The old children’s tale –remember it?’

‘You’ve lost your mind, haven’t you?’

‘Not yet. At least I don’t think so.’

‘But that’s just it, Coll. You wouldn’t know, would you?’

He watched Murillio spin round once more, step past the wall’s edge and out of sight. The world spins about us unseen. The blind dance in circles. There’s no escaping what you are, and all your dreams glittered white at night, but grey in the light of day. And both are equally deadly. Who was that damned poet? The Vindictive. An orphan, he’d claimed. Wrote a thousand stories to terrify children. Was stoned by a mob in Darujhistan, which he survived, I think –that was years ago. His tales live in the streets, now. Singsong chants to accompany the games of the young.

Damned sinister, if you ask me.” –Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 724

IL “‘I came to enquire of Buke.’

‘Buke? Who –oh yes, him. Well, the next time you see him, tell him he is fired.’

‘I’ll do that.’

No-one spoke for a moment, then Itkovian cleared his throat. ‘Sir,’ he said to Bauchelain, ‘your servant has broken a tooth and appears to be in considerable discomfort. Surely, with your arts…’

Bauchelain turned and looked up at Reese. ‘Ah, that explains the head garb. I admit I’d been wondering…a newly acquired local fashion, perhaps? But no, as it turns out. Well Reese, it seems I must once more ask Korbal Broach to make ready for surgery –this is the third such tooth to break, yes? More olives, no doubt. If you still persist in the belief that olive pits are deadly poison, why are you so careless when eating said fruit? Ah, never mind.’

‘Tho thurgery, pleath! Tho! Pleath!’

‘What are you babbling about, man? Be quiet! Wipe that drool away –it’s unsightly. Do you think I cannot see your pain, servant? Tears have sprung from your eyes, and you are white –deathly white. And look at you shake so –not another moment must be wasted! Korbal Broach! Come out, if you will, with your black bag! Korbal!’

The wagon rocked slightly in answer.

Gruntle swung his horse round. Itkovian followed suit.

‘Until later, then gentlemen!’ Bauchelain called out behind them. ‘Rest assured I am grateful for your advising me of my servant’s condition. As he is equally grateful, no doubt, and were he able to speak coherently I am sure he would tell you so.’

Gruntle lifted a hand in a brusque wave.

They set off to rejoin Trake’s Legion.

Neither spoke for a time, until a soft rumbling from Gruntle drew Itkovian’s attention. The Mortal Sword, he saw, was laughing.

‘What amuses you so, sir?’

‘You, Itkovian. I expect Reese will curse your concern for the rest of his days.’

‘An odd expression of gratitude that would be. Will he not be healed?’

‘Oh, yes, I am sure he will, Itkovian. But here’s something for you to ponder on, if you will. Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease.’

‘Can you explain that?’

‘Ask Emancipor Reese, the next time you see him.’

‘Very well, I will do just that, sir.’” –Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 722

IIL “The T’lan Imass made no reply, continued staring northwestward.

‘You’re all alike,’ Lady Envy sniffed. ‘It took weeks to get Tool in a conversational mood.’

‘You mentioned the name earlier. Who is Tool?’

‘Onos T’oolan, First Sword. The last time I saw him, he was even more bedraggled than you, dear, so there’s hope for you yet.’

‘Onos T’oolan. I saw him but once.’

‘The First Gathering, no doubt.’

‘Yes. He spoke against the ritual.’

‘So of course you hate him.’

The T’lan Imass did not immediately reply. The structure shifted wildly them, their end pitching down as the floe punched clear, then lifting them once more. There was not even a waver to Lanas Tog’s stance. She spoke. ‘Hate him? No. Of course I disagreed. We all did, and so he acquiesced. It is a common belief.’

Lady Envy waited, then crossed her arms and asked, ‘What is?’

‘That truth is proved by weight of numbers. That what the many believe to be right, must be so. When I see Onos T’oolan once more, I will tell him: he was the one who was right.’” –Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 713

XXXXVII “‘Silence,’ Quick Ben muttered.

Kruppe’s wiry brows rose. ‘One rude command was sufficient, Kruppe haughtily assures miserable wizard!’

‘Not you. Never mind. I was thinking aloud.’

‘Curious habit for a mage, yes? Dangerous.’

‘You think so? How about some more loudly uttered thoughts, Daru? The display is deliberate. The unveiling of power here is precisely intended to kick the hornet nests. Both of them! Clumsily massive, an appalling absence of subtlety. Thunder to those who had been expecting the almost soundless padding of a mouse’s feet and its whispering tail. Now, why would I do that, do you wonder?’

‘Kruppe does not wonder at all, except, perhaps, at your insisting on explaining such admirable tactics of misdirection to these squalling seagulls.’

Quick Ben scowled down at the round little man. ‘Really? I had no idea I was that obvious. Maybe I should reconsider.’

‘Nonsense, Wizard! Hold to your unassailable self-confidence –aye, some might well call it megalomania, but not Kruppe, for he too is in possession of unassailable self-confidence, such as only mortals are capable of and then rightfully but a mere handful the world over. You’ve singular company, Kruppe assures you!’” –Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pgs. 685-686

XXXXVI “‘We saw Gumble’s pet on the way out.’

‘I’ve already sent him and Ormulogun back. Theirs is the last wagon, and you well know Ormulogun’s instructions regarding his collection.’

The marines nodded.

Itkovian asked, ‘His collection? How many scenes has he painted since Pale?’

‘Since Pale?’ one of the marines grinned. ‘There’s over eight hundred stretches in that wagon. Ten, eleven years’ worth. Dujek here, Dujek there, Dujek even where he wasn’t but should have been. He’s already done one of the siege of Capustan, with Dujek arriving in the nick of time, tall in his saddle and coming through the gate. There’s one White Face Barghast crouching in the gate’s shadow, looting a dead Pannion. And in the storm clouds over the scene you’ll make out Laseen’s face if you look carefully enough –
’
‘Enough,’ Whiskeyjack growled. ‘Your words give offense, soldier. The man before you is Itkovian.’

The marine’s grin broadened but she said nothing.

‘We know that, sir,’ the other one said. ‘Which is why my comrade here was teasing him. Itkovian, there’s no such painting. Ormulogun is the Host’s historian, since we ain’t got any other, and he’s charged on pain of death to keep things accurate, right down to the nosehairs.’” –Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pgs. 683-684

XXXXV “‘And it seems you’ve no idea of how to forgive –not her, not yourself. Guilt has become a chasm –’

‘That is rich indeed, coming from you.’

His smile was tight. ‘I’ve done my climb down, Silverfox, and am now climbing up the other side. Things have changed for both of us.’

‘So you have turned your back on your avowed feelings for me.’

‘I love you still, but with your death I succumbed to a kind of infatuation. I convinced myself that what you and I had, so very briefly, was of far vaster and deeper import that it truly was. Of all the weapons we turn upon ourselves, guilt is the sharpest, Silverfox. It can carve one’s own past into unrecognizable shapes, false memories leading to beliefs that sow all kinds of obsessions.’

‘Delighted to have you clear the air so, Ganoes. Has it not occurred to you that clinical examination of oneself is yet another obsession? What you dissect has to be dead first –that’s the principle of dissection, after all.’

‘So my tutor explained,’ Paran replied, ‘all those years ago. But you miss a more subtle truth. I can examine myself, my every feeling, until the Abyss swallows the world, yet come no closer to mastery of those emotions within me. For they are not static things; nor are they immune to the outside world –to what others say, or don’t say. And so they are in constant flux.’” –Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 677


XXXXIV “’Sound questions,’ Blend agreed. ‘Certainly, I admit my own curiosity was piqued.’

‘No doubt you’ve come up with a theory, too.’

‘I have assembled the puzzle, to be more precise. Disparate facts. Observances. Offhand comments believed to be uttered in private, overheard by none other than the faithful servant standing before you –’

‘Oponn’s quivering knees, woman, get on with it!’

‘You never did appreciate a good gloat. All right. The Grey Swords were sworn to Fener. They weren’t just a mercenary company, more like damned crusaders to the holy cause of war. And they took it seriously. Only something’s happened. They’ve lost their god –’

‘No doubt there’s a tale there.’

‘Indeed, but it’s not relevant.’

‘Meaning you don’t know it.’

‘Precisely. The point is, the company’s surviving officers rode off to the Barghast camps, found a gaggle of tribal witches waiting for them, and together they all arranged a reconsideration.’

‘You mean they switched gods. Oh no, don’t tell me Treach –’

No, not Treach. Treach already has his crusaders.’

‘Oh, right. Must be Jhess, then. Mistress of Weaving. They’re all taking up knitting, but fiercely –’

‘Not quite. Togg. And Fanderay, the She-Wolf of Winter –Togg’s long lost mate. Recall the story? You must have heard it when you were a child, assuming you were ever a child –’

‘Careful, Blend.’

‘Sorry. Anyway, the Grey Swords were virtually wiped out. They’re looking for recruits.

Picker’s brows rose. ‘The Tenescowri? Hood’s Breath!’

‘Makes sense, actually.’

‘Sure. If I needed an army I’d look first to people who eat each other when things get tough. Absolutely. In an instant.’
‘Well, that’s an unfortunate angle to take. It’s more a question of finding people with no lives –’

‘Losers, you mean.’

‘Uh, yes. No ties, no loyalties. Ripe for arcane rituals of induction.’

Picker grunted again. ‘Mad. Everyone’s gone mad.’

‘Speaking of which,’ Blend murmured.

Captain Paran and Quick Ben rode up.” – Steven Erikson “Memories of Ice” pgs. 635-636


XXXXIIV “‘Flight is an illusion. Even Mother here comprehends that. She knows I am not her child, yet she cannot help herself. She even possesses memories, of a time when she was a true Matron, a mother to a real brood. Children who loved her, and other children –who betrayed her. And left her to suffer for an eternity. She never anticipated an escape from that. Yet when she found herself free at last, it was to discover that her world ha turned to dust. Her children were long dead, entombed in their barrows –for without a mother, they withered and died. She looked to you, then, Seer. Her adopted son. And showed you your power, so that she could use it. To re-create her world. She raised her dead children. She set them to rebuilding the city. But it was all false, the delusion could not deceive her, could only drive her mad. And that,’ he continued, ‘is where you usurped her. Thus, her child has made her a prisoner once more. There is no escaping the paths of our lives, it seems. A truth you’re not prepared to face, Seer. Not yet.’

‘My child has made me a prisoner as well,’ the Mhybe whispered. ‘Is this the curse of all mothers?’

‘It is the curse of love.’” –Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 626

XXXXII “’Your lack of fear has me curious, Gruntle. You seem to see no risk in legitimizing the House of Chains. Why is that?’

The man shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘But that’s just it, isn’t it. Legitimizing. Right now, the Crippled God’s outside the whole damned game, meaning he’s not bound by any rules whatsoever –’

Paran suddenly sat straight. ‘You’re right. Abyss take me, that’s it. If I bless the House of Chains then the Crippled God becomes…bound –’

‘Just another player, aye, jostling on the same board. Right not, he just keeps kicking it whenever he gets the chance. When he’s on it, he won’t have that privilege. Anyway, that’s how it seems to me, Captain. So when you said you wanted to sanction the House, I thought: why the fuss? Sounds perfectly reasonable to me. The gods can be damned thick-witted on occasion –probably why they need us mortals to do the straight thinking when straight thinking’s required. Listen to that lone voice, lad, that’s my advice.’

‘And it’s good advice –’

‘Maybe, or maybe not. I might end up being roasted over the eternal fires of the Abyss by Trake and all the other gods for having given it.’

‘I’ll have company, then,’ Paran said, grinning.

‘Good thing we both hate solitude.’

‘That’s a soldier’s humor, Gruntle.’

‘Is it? But I was being serious, Captain.’

‘Oh.’

Gruntle glanced over. ‘Got you.’” –Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 596

XXXXI “‘Clever,’ Quick Ben conceded, ‘locking a hold-over spell in that collar, one last command to kill whomever frees it. I assume doesn’t include you, its summoner?’

‘I never free my demons,’ Bauchelain said.

‘Never?’

‘Every exception to a magical geas weakens it. I allow none.’

‘Poor demons!’

Bauchelain shrugged. ‘I hold no sympathy for mere tools. Do you weep for your dagger when it breaks in someone’s back?’

‘That depends on whether it killed the b*****d or just made him mad.’

‘Ah, but then you weep for yourself.’

‘I was making a joke.’

Bauchelain raised a single, thin eyebrow.

The subsequent silence was broken by Emancipor’s return, bearing a tray on which sat a dusty bottle and two crystal goblets.

‘Not a glass for yourself?’ the necromancer asked. ‘Am I so unegalitarian, Emancipor?

‘Uh, I took a swig below, master.’

‘You did?’

‘T’see if it was flowery.’

‘And was it?’

‘Not sure. Maybe. What’s flowery?’

‘Hmm, we must resume your education, I think, of such finer things. Flowery is the opposite of …woody. Not bitter memory of sap, in other words, but something sweet, as of narcissus or skullcrown –’

‘Those flowers are poisonous,’ Quick Ben noted in faint alarm.

‘But pretty and sweet in appearance, yes? I doubt any of us are in the habit of eating flowers, thus in analogy I sought visual cues for dear Emancipor.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘Before you pour from that bottle, then, Emancipor. Was the aftertaste bitter or sweet?’

‘Uh, it was kind of thick, master. Like iron.’

Bauchelain rose and grasped the bottle. He held it close, then sniffed from the mouth. ‘You idiot, this is blood from Korbal Broach’s collection. Not that row, the one opposite. Take this back to the cellar.’

Emancipor’s lined face had gone parchment-white. ‘Blood? Whose?’

‘Does it matter?’

As Emancipor gaped, Quick Ben cleared his throat and said, ‘To your servant, I think the answer would be “yes, it does”.’

The crow cackled from the mantelpiece, head bobbing.

The servant sagged on watery knees, the goblets on the tray clinking together.

Frowning, Bauchelain collected the bottle again and sniffed once more. ‘Well,’ he said, returning it to the tray, ‘I’m not the one to ask, of course, but I think it’s virgin’s blood.’

Quick Ben had no choice but to enquire, ‘How can you tell?’

Bauchelain regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘Why, it’s woody.’” – Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pgs. 576-577

XXXX “‘Tell me, Whiskeyjack,’ Rake said in a different tone, ‘do you ever find the voice of a river unsettling?’

The Malazan frowned. ‘To the contrary, I find it calming.’

‘Ah. This, then, points to the essential difference between us.’

Between mortals and immortals? Beru fend…Anomander Rake, I know precisely what you need. ‘I’ve a small cask of Gredfallan ale, Lord. I would like to retrieve it, now, if you don’t mind waiting?’

‘A sound plan, Whiskeyjack.’

[…]

The sword Dragnipur, strapped crossways on Anomander Rake’s back, hung like an elongated cross, surrounded in its own breath of preternatural darkness.

Alas, I don’t think Gredfallan ale will be enough.” – Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice, pg. 569

XXXIX “The second bell since midnight had just tolled through the camps, stirring the distant herds of bhederin to a mournful lowing, which faded as the beasts slipped back into slumber. As he reached the edge of the wagons – arranged rectangularly to form a wheeled fort – he noted two Malazan marines, cloaks wrapped about their bodies, sitting before a small dung fire.

Kruppe altered his course and approached. ‘Gentle friends,’ he softly called. ‘‘Tis late and no doubt your pretty selves are due some sweetness.’

The two women glanced up. ‘Huh,’ one of them grunted. ‘It’s that fat Daru.’

‘And his mule, hovering there in the shadows.’

‘Unique indeed is Kruppe! Behold!’ He thrust forward the dripping cakes. ‘For you, darlings.’

‘So which should we eat, the cakes or your hands?’

The other drew her knife at her companion’s words. ‘A couple of quick cuts and we can choose for ourselves, right?’

Kruppe stepped back. ‘Queen of Dreams! Hard-bitten and distinctly unfeminine! Guardians of fair Silverfox, yes? Reassuring truth. Heart of Tattersail, shining so bright from the child-now-woman –’

‘Aye, we seen you before plenty enough. Chatting with the lass. She’s the sorceress, all right. Plain to see for them of us who knew her.’

‘Extraordinary disconnectiveness, this exchange. Kruppe is delighted –’

‘We getting them syrup cakes or what?’

‘Naturally, though the flash of that blade still blinds generous Kruppe.’

‘Y’ain’t got no sense of humor, have ya? Join us, if you dare.’

The Daru smiled and strode forward. ‘Nathi black-cakes, my dears.’

‘We recognize ‘em. The Mott Irregulars used to throw them at us when they ran out of arrows.’

‘Jaybar got one full in the face, as I recall.’

‘That he did, then he stumbled and when he came up he was like the forest floor with eyes.’

‘Dreadful sap, deadly weapon,’ Kruppe agreed, once more offering the cakes to the two marines.

They took them.

‘Courageous task, protection of the Rhivi lass.’

‘She ain’t no Rhivi lass. She’s Tattersail. That fur and the hides are just for show.’

‘Ah, then you have spoken with her.’

‘Not much and we don’t need to. These cakes go down better without all the twigs and leaves, don’t they just.’

Kruppe blinked, then slowly nodded. ‘No doubt. Vast responsibility, being the eyes of your commander regarding said lass.’

Both women paused in their chewing. They exchanged a glance, then one of them swallowed and said, ‘Who, Dujek? If we’re his eyes and ears then he’s blind as a mole.’

‘Ah, Kruppe meant Whiskeyjack, of course.’

‘Whiskeyjack ain’t blind and he don’t need us to see for him, either.’

‘None the less,’ the Daru smiled, ‘he no doubt is greatly comforted by your self-appointed task and reports and such. Were Kruppe Whiskeyjack, he knows he would.’

‘Would what?’

‘Why, be comforted, of course.’

Both women grunted, then one snorted and said, ‘That’s a good one. If you were Whiskeyjack. Hah.’

‘A figure of speech –’

‘Ain’t no such thing, fatty. You trying to walk in Whiskeyjack’s footsteps? Trying to see through his eyes? Hah.’

‘I’ll say,’ the other woman agreed. ‘Hah.’

‘And so you did,’ Kruppe noted.

‘Did what?’

‘Agree.’

‘Damned right. Whiskeyjack should’ve been Emperor, when the old one got knocked off. Not Laseen. But she knew who her rival was, didn’t she just. That’s why she stripped him of rank, turned him into a Hood-damned sergeant and sent him away, far away.’

‘An ambitious man, this Whiskeyjack then.’

‘Not in the least, Daru. And that’s the whole point. Would’ve made a good Emperor, I said. Not wanting the job is the best and only qualification worth considering.’

‘A curious assertion, dear.’

‘I ain’t.’

‘Pardon, you ain’t what?’

‘Curious. Listen, the Malazan Empire would be a far different thing if Whiskeyjack had taken the throne all those years ago. If he’d done what we all wanted him to do and grabbed Laseen by the scruff of the neck and sent her through a tower window.’

‘And was he capable of such a remarkable feat?’

The two marines looked confused. One turned to her companion. ‘Seen him out of his boots?’

The other shook her head. ‘No. Still, they might be remarkable. Why not?’

‘Then it’d be a boot to the backside, but I said by the scruff of the neck.’

‘Well, feet that could do that would be remarkable, wouldn’t they?’

‘You got a point, friend.’

‘Ahem,’ Kruppe interrupted. ‘A remarkable feat, dears. As in achievement.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh yeah, right. Got it. So you’re asking could he have done it if he’d a mind to? Sure. Not good to cross Whiskeyjack, and if that’s not enough, he’s got wits.’

‘So, why then, Kruppe asks in wonder, did he not do so at the time?’

‘Because he’s a soldier, you idiot. Laseen’s taking the throne was messy enough. The whole empire was shaky. People start stabbing and jumping into a blood-wet throne and sometimes it don’t stop, sometimes it’s like dominoes, right? One after another after another, and the whole thing falls apart. He was the one we all looked to, right? Waiting to see how he’d take it, Laseen and all that. And when he just saluted and said, “Yes, Empress,” well, things just settled back down.’

‘He was giving her a chance, you see.’

‘Of course. And do you lasses now believe he made a mistake?’

The women shrugged in unison. ‘Don’t matter, now,’ one said. ‘We’re here and here’s here and that’s that.’

‘So be it and so be it,’ Kruppe said rising with a sigh. ‘Wondrous conversation. Kruppe thanks you and will now take his leave.’

‘Right. Thanks for the cakes.’

‘Kruppe’s pleasure. Good night, dears.’

He ambled off, back towards the supply wagons.

As he disappeared into the gloom the two marines said nothing for a time, busy as they were licking the sap from their fingers.

Then one sighed.

The other followed suit.

‘Well?’

‘Ah, that was damned easy.’

‘Think so?’

‘Sure. He came expecting to find two brains and found barely one.’

‘Still, it might have babbled too much.’

‘That’s the nature of half-brains, love. T’do otherwise would’ve made him suspicious.’

‘What do you figure he and Tattersail talk about, anyway?’

‘The old woman, is my guess.’

‘I’d figured the same.’

‘They got something in the works.’

‘My suspicions exactly.’

‘And Tattersail’s in charge.’

‘So she is.’

‘Which is good enough for me.’

‘Same here. You know, that black-cake wasn’t quite the same without the twigs and leaves.’

‘That’s odd, I was just thinking the same thing…’” – Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pgs. 468-471

XXXIIX “The pressure never relented. Into her thoughts, amidst the burgeoning pain in her legs, the fire in her chest and the dry, sharp agony of her throat, cam the horrifying realization that escape was impossible. That she was going to die. Pulled down like any other animal doomed to become a victim of the wolves’ hunger.

For them, she knew, the sea of her mind, whipped now to a frenzied storm of panic and despair, meant nothing. They were hunters, and what resided within the soul of their quarry had no relevance. As with the antelope, the bhederin calf, the ranag, grace and wonder, promise and potential – reduced one and all to meat.

Life’s final lesson, the only truthful one buried beneath a layered skein of delusions.

Sooner or later, she now understood, we are all naught but food. Wolves or worms, the end abrupt or lingering, it mattered not in the least.” Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 461


XXXVII “Messenger, send the First Wing to their aid. Upon delivering my command, take some rest, sir.’

‘Yes, Shield Anvil.’

‘That is not the helmet you were issued with, is it, sir?’

Abashed, she shook her head. ‘I, uh, lost it, Shield Anvil.’

‘Have the quartermaster find you one that fits.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Go.’

The two veterans watched the young woman depart.

‘Careless,’ the Trimaster murmured, ‘losing her helm.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Clever, finding another one.’

The Shield Anvil smiled.

‘I shall take my leave now, sir.’

‘Fener go with you, Trimaster.’” – Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 425

XXXVI “What Septarch Kulpath was waiting for, no-one knew, though there was plenty of speculation. More barges carrying Tenescowri had been seen crossing the river, until it seemed that half the empire’s population had joined the peasant army. ‘With numbers like that,’ someone had said a bell earlier, ‘there’ll be barely a mouthful of Capan citizen each.’ Gruntle had been virtually alone in appreciating the jest.” – Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 401

XXXV “Paran sighed. I need to sleep. But I can’t. ‘I’d better gather the Bridgeburners.’

‘Trotts’s new tribe,’ Quick Ben said, grinning.

‘Then why can I hear his snores?’

‘He’s new to responsibility, Captain [Paran]. You’ll have to teach him.’

Teach him what? How to live beneath the burden of command? That’s something I can’t manage myself. I need only look into Whiskeyjack’s face to understand that no-one can – no-one who has a heart, anyway. We learn to mask our feelings, to bury our humanity deep in our souls. And that can’t be taught, only shown.

‘Go rouse the b*****d,’ Paran growled.

‘Yes, sir.’” – Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 367

XXXIV “Mallet squinted down at the wizard. ‘I didn’t say I was weakened, sir, only that I ain’t feeling right. I got help healing Trotts. Spirits, I think now. Maybe Barghast. They put me back together, somehow, someway, and Hood knows I needed putting back together. Anyway, it’s like I got someone else’s legs, someone else’s arms…’ He reached out and laid a hand against Quick Ben’s brow, then grunted. ‘He’s on his way back. It’s protective sorcery that’s keeping him asleep.’

‘Can you speed things up?’

‘Sure.’ The healer slapped the wizard.

Quick Ben’s eyes snapped open. ‘Ow. You b*****d, Mallet.’” – Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 363

XXXIIV “Stonny unclasped her cloak and hung it on a hook. ‘The wife crawled out of the main room to die here,’ she said. ‘Dragging her entrails the whole way. Raised the suspicion that her suicide wasn’t voluntary. Either that or she changed her mind.’

‘Maybe a goat’s milk hawker knocked on the door,’ Gruntle suggested, ‘and she was trying to cancel the order.’

Stonny studied him for a moment, as if considering, then she shrugged. ‘Seems a bit elaborate, as an explanation, but who knows? Could be.’ She swung about and entered the inner doorway in a swish of leather.

Sighing, Gruntle followed.” – Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 328

XXXII “‘I guess I was too busy dying for real,’ Gruntle snapped.

‘Yes, you were, and Keruli saved you from that, too. Ungracious pig. One moment I was getting tossed around by a K’Chain Che’Malle, the next I woke up…somewhere else…With a huge ghost wolf standing over me. And I knew – knew instantly, Gruntle, that nothing was getting past that wolf. It was standing guard…over me.’

‘Some kind of servant of the Elder God?’

‘No, he doesn’t have any servants. What he has is friends. I don’t know about you, but knowing that – realizing it as I did there with that giant wolf – well, a god that finds friends instead of mindless worshippers…dammit, I’m his, Gruntle, body and soul. And I’ll fight for him, because I know he’ll fight for me. Horrible Elder Gods, bah! I’ll take him over those snarling bickering fools with their temples and coffers and rituals any day.’” – Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 326

XXXI “‘Aye, only he’s not the one going out at night. Bauchelain tolerates Korbal’s…peculiar interests. Broach [Korbal] has the mind of a child – an unfettered, malign child. I know them, now, Gruntle. I know them.’

‘How many other fools have tried to outwit Bauchelain, I wonder?’

‘Cemeteries full, I’d guess.’” – Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 310

XXX “His previous memories of the city had fragmented, and stained as they were by shock, then pint after pint of ale, he looked around in momentary bewilderment. ‘Which district is this?’ he asked.

‘Backside of Old Daru, Temple District,’ Buke said. ‘One street north and you hit opulence and gardened temples. You found the quarter’s only rotten alley and its only foul tenement, Gruntle.’

‘Been there before, I guess,’ he muttered, squinting at the nearby buildings. ‘Some other excuse back then, can’t remember what.’

‘Excuses are easy enough to come by. I well remember that.’

‘Aye, they are and no doubt you do.’ He glanced down at the sorry state of his clothes. ‘I need a bath – where are my weapons?’

‘Stonny took care of them. And most of your coin as well. You’re paid up – no debts – so you can put your back to all that.’” – Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 309

XXIX “Between blinks, Baaljagg shifted from tall and gaunt to a size to match the dog, Garath. Smiling, Lady Envy glanced southward. ‘Those yellow wolves are still following, so very curious, but it seems unlikely they will approach now that we are among humans. Alas, reducing the Seguleh to the size of children would achieve little in the way of anonymity, wouldn’t you concur, Toc the Younger?’

The Malazan conjured in his mind an image of two masked, death-dealing ‘children,’ and a moment later his imagination was in full retreat. ‘Uh,’ he managed, ‘no. I mean yes. Yes, I concur.’” – Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 290

XXIIX “Toc paused, his eye narrowing. ‘Tool, that was glorified dissection – are you not his match in speed?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘And could he have done that without his brothers slicing those arms off? What if the beast had attacked with its feet instead of its jaws? Tool, that K’Chain Che’Malle was trying for all three of them at once. Stupid. Arrogant.’

The T’lan Imass cocked his head. ‘Arrogance. A vice of being undead, Toc the Younger.’

The Malazan’s grin broadened. ‘And yours has just been shaken, Tool?’

‘An unfamiliar sensation.’ – Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg.287

XXVII “He blinked suddenly, finding Lady Envy walking alongside him once again. ‘Tool say the wrong thing?’ he asked.

Her nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘Haven’t you ever wondered what the undead think about, Toc the Younger?’

‘No. That is, I don’t ever recall musing on the subject, Lady.’

‘They had gods, once, you know.’

He shot her a glance. ‘Oh?’

‘Well. Spirits then. Earth and rock and tree and beast and sun and stars and antler and bone and blood—’

‘Yes, yes, Lady, I grasp the theme.’

‘Your interruptions are most rude, young man – are you typical of your generation? If so, then the world is indeed on a downward spiral into the Abyss. Spirits, I was saying. All extinct now. All nothing more than dust. The Imass have outlasted their own deities. Difficult to imagine, but they are godless in every sense, Toc the Younger. Faith…now ashes. Answer me this, my dear, do you ever envision your afterlife?’

He grunted. ‘Hood’s gate? In truth, I avoid thinking about it, Lady. What’s the point? We die and our soul passes through. I suppose it’s up to Hood or one of his minions to decide what to do with it, if anything.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘If anything. Yes.’” – Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pgs. 283-284

XXVI “‘Oh my,’ Lady Envy whispered, suddenly soaked in sweat. ‘Poisoned. By the Abyss…I need a bath. Come, Garath, let us go collect the Third. Shall I awaken him with a kiss?’

The dog glanced over at her.

‘Twin scars on his mask, and the imprint of painted lips! Would he be the fourth, then, or the Fifth? How do they count lips, do you think? One upper, one lower, or both together? Let’s find out.’” – Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 243

XXV “‘I was granted…visions. We shared remembrances, I think. How? I don’t know. There were emotions within it, Tool, enough to make one despair.’ After a moment he returned to cleaning the scrawny creature beneath his hands.

‘Every gift is edged.’

Toc grimaced as he gutted the animal. ‘Edged. I suppose so. I’m beginning to suspect the truth of the legends – lose an eye to receive the gift of true vision.’

‘How did you lose your eye, Toc the Younger?’

‘A sizzling chunk from Moon’s Spawn – that deathly rain when the Enfilade was in full swing.’

‘Stone.’

Toc nodded. ‘Stone.’ Then he stopped, looked up.

‘Obelisk,’ Tool said. ‘In the ancient Deck of Holds, it was known as Menhir. Touched by stone, mortal – Chen’re aral lich’fayle – there, on your brow. I give you a new name. Aral Fayle.’

‘I don’t recall asking for a new name, Tool.’

‘Names are not for the asking, mortal. Names are earned.’” – Steven Erikson, “Memories of Ice” pg. 229

XXIV “If in Act I you have a pistol hanging on the wall, then it must fire in the last act.” – Ilia Gurliand

XXIIV “A grimy fly can soil the entire wall and a small, dirty little act can ruin the entire proceedings.” – Anton Chekhov

XXII “He who constantly swims in the ocean loves dry land.” – Anton Chekhov

XXI “The secret of success is sincerity. Once you can fake that you've got it made.” – Jean Giraudoux


XX "It's nice to be important, but it's more important to be nice." - H.P. Baxxter of Scooter, in "Move Your a**!"

XIX "What is justice? Two forces collide. Each may have the right in his own sphere. And here's where an Emperor commands orderly solutions. Those collisions he cannot prevent — he solves. [How?], in the simplest way: he decides." - Frank Herbert, "Dune Messiah"

XIIX "Here lies a toppled god —
His fall was not a small one.
We did but build his pedestal,
A narrow and tall one." - Frank Herbert, "Dune Messiah"

XVII "Religion must remain an outlet for people who say to themselves, "I am not the kind of person I want to be." It must never sink into an assemblage of the self-satisfied." - Frank Herbert, "Dune"

XVI "Arrakis teaches the attitude of the knife — chopping off what's incomplete and saying: "Now it's complete because it's ended here."" - Frank Herbert, "Dune"

XV "Any road followed precisely to its end leads precisely nowhere. Climb the mountain just a little bit to test that it's a mountain. From the top of the mountain, you cannot see the mountain." - Frank Herbert, "Dune"

XIV "The command of the old despotisms was Thou shalt not. The command of the totalitarians was Thou shalt. Our command is Thou art." - George Orwell, "1984"

XIIV "War is Peace, Freedom is Slavery, Ignorance is Strength" - George Orwell, "1984"

XII "Pity for the guilty is treason to the innocent." - Ayn Rand, "The Romantic Manifesto"

XI "Definitions are the guardians of rationality, the first line of defense against the chaos of mental disintegration." - Ayn Rand, "The Romantic Manifesto"

X "I shall choose friends among men, but neither slaves nor masters. And I shall choose only such as please me, and them I shall love and respect, but neither command nor obey. And we shall join our hands when we wish, or walk alone when we so desire." - Ayn Rand, "Anthem"

IX "All gods are homemade, and it is we who pull their strings, and so, give them the power to pull ours." - Aldous Huxley, "Island"

IIX "Rudd ambled to the tree's base, the few stiff hairs of his hackles the only sign of his simmering temper. He clambered upward, pulled himself onto the chest of the corpse and rummaged with one hand beneath the rotted shirt. He plucked loose a tattered, soiled piece of cloth. Unfolding it, he frowned.

Irp's voice rose from below. 'What is it?'

'A name's written on here.'

'Whose?'

Rudd shrugged. 'Sa'yless Lorthal.'

'That's a woman's name. He's not a woman, is he?'

'Of course not!' Rudd snapped. A moment later he tucked the cloth back under the shirt. 'Mortals are strange,' he muttered, as he began searching beneath the shirt again. He quickly found what he sought, and drew forth a small bottle of smoky glass.

[...]

Rudd then held the bottle against one pointed ear and shook it. 'Ah! He's in there all right!'

'Good, let's go--'

'Not yet. The body comes with us. Mortals are particular that way-he won't want another. So, go get it, Irp.'

'There's nothing left of the damned thing!' Irp sqauwked.

'Right, then it won't weigh much, will it?'" - Steven Erikson, "Deadhouse Gates"

VII "'A lie! But no, I must stuff my outrage into a bag, a bag such as the curious sack the Trell carries-such a curious sack, that! Is there another fragment trapped within it? The possibility is...possible. A likely likelihood, indeed, a certain certainty! I need but turn this ingenuous smile on the Jhag to show my benign patience at his foul insult, for I am a bigger man than he, oh yes. All his airs, his posturing, his poorly disguised asides-hark!' Iskaral Pust spun around, squinted into the forest beyond the boulder.

'Do you hear something, High Priest?' Icarium asked calmly.

'Hear, here?' Pust scowled. 'Why ask me that?'" - Steven Erikson, "Deadhouse Gates"

VI "Felisin's hands... ah, they have grasped and touched, they have been slick and they have been soiled, and yet have held nothing. Life slips through them like a ghost." - Steven Erikson, "Deadhouse Gates"