Gardens of the Moon

CHAPTER NINE

Toc the younger leaned forward in his saddle and spat. It was his third day out from Pale, and he longed for the city's high wall around him. The Rhivi Plain stretched out on all sides, cloaked in yellow grass that rippled in the afternoon wind, but otherwise featureless He scratched the edges of the wound that had taken his left eye, and muttered under his breath. Something was wrong. He should have met her two days past. Nothing was going as planned these days. What with Captain Paran vanishing before even meeting Whiskeyjack and the story making the rounds about a Hound attacking the 2nd's last-surviving mage and leaving fourteen dead marines in its wake, he supposed he shouldn't be surprised that this rendezvous had gone awry as well.

Chaos seemed a sign of the times. Toc straightened and rose in his saddle. Though there was no true road as such on the Plain, merchant caravans had mapped a rough track running north-south along the western edge. Trade had since died out, but the passing of generations of wagons and horse trains had left its mark. The centre of the Plain was home to the Rhivi, those small brown-skinned people who moved with the herds in a seasonal cycle. Though not warlike, the Malazan Empire had forced their hand, and now they fought and scouted alongside Caladan Brood's Tiste And? legions against the Empire.

Moranth reports placed the Rhivi far to the north and east, and Toc was thankful for that. He was feeling very alone out in this wasteland, yet loneliness was a lesser evil, all things considered.

Toc's single eye widened. It seemed he wasn't so alone, after all.

Perhaps a league ahead ravens wheeled. The man cursed and loosened the scimitar sheathed at his hip. He fought the urge to push his horse into a gallop and settled for a quick trot.

As he neared he saw trampled grass off to one side of the trader's track. The cackling laughter of the ravens was the only sound to break the stillness. They had already begun feeding. Toc reined in his horse and sat unmoving in his saddle, hunched forward. None of the bodies he saw looked as if they were apt to start moving, and the ravens» preoccupied squabbling was good evidence that any survivors had long gone. Still, he a bad feeling about this. Something hung in the air, something between a smell and a taste.

He waited, for what he wasn't certain, but a reluctance to move gripped him. All at once he identified the strangeness he felt: magic. It had been unleashed here. «I hate this,» he muttered, then dismounted.

The ravens gave him room, but not much. Ignoring their outraged shrieks he approached the bodies. They numbered twelve in all. Eight wore the uniforms of Malazan Marines-but these weren't average soldiers. His gaze narrowed on the silver sigils on their helmets.

«Jakatakan,» he said. tlites. They'd been cut to pieces.

He turned his attention to the remaining bodies and felt a tremor of fear run through him. No wonder the Jakatakan had taken such a beating. Toc strode to one of the bodies and crouched beside it. He knew something of the clan markings among the Barghast, how each hunter group was identified through their woad tattooing. The breath hissed between his teeth and he reached out to turn the savage's face towards him, then he nodded. These were Ilgres Clan. Before the Crimson Guard had enlisted them, their home territory had been fifteen hundred leagues to the east, among the mountains just south of the Porule. Slowly Toc rose. The Ilgres numbered among the strongest of those who had joined the Crimson Guard at Blackdog Forest, but, that was four hundred leagues north. So what had brought them here?

The stench of spilled magic wafted across his face and he turned, his eye fixing on a body he hadn't noticed before. It lay beside scorched grass. «So,» he said, «my question's answered.» This band had been led by a Barghast shaman. Somehow, they'd stumbled on to a trail and this shaman had recognized it for what it was. Toc studied the shaman's body. Killed by a sword wound in the throat. The unleashing of sorcery had been the shaman's, but no magic had opposed him. And that was odd, particularly since it was the shaman who had died, rather than whomever he'd attacked.

Toc grunted. «Well, she's said to be hell on mages.» He walked a slow circle around the kill site, and found the trail with little difficulty. Some of the Jakatakan had survived, and from the smaller set of boot-prints, so had their charge. And overlaying these tracks were half a dozen moccasin prints. The trail veered westerly from the trader's track, yet still led south.

Returning to his horse, Toc mounted and swung the animal around.

He removed the short bow from its saddle holster and strung it, then nocked an arrow. There was no hope of coming up on the Barghast undetected. Out on this plain he'd be visible a long time before entering arrow-range-and that range had become much closer now that he'd lost an eye. So they'd be waiting for him, with those damn lances. But he knew he had no choice; he hoped only to take down one or two of them before they skewered him.

Toc spat again, then wrapped the reins around his left forearm and adjusted his grip on the bow. He gave the wide red scar crossing his face a vigorous, painful scratch, realizing that the maddening itch would return in moments anyway. «Oh well,» he said, then drove his heels into the horse's flanks.

The lone hill that rose up before Adjunct Lorn was not a natural one. The tops of mostly buried stones encircled its base. She wondered what might be entombed within it, then dismissed her misgivings. If those standing stones were of the size she'd seen rising around the mysterious barrows outside Genabaris, this mound dated back millennia. She turned to the two exhausted marines stumbling in her wake. «We'll make our stand here. You with the crossbow, I want you lying up top.»

The man ducked his head in answer and staggered to the mound's grassy summit. Both he and his comrade seemed almost relieved,tha she'd called a halt, though they knew their death was but minutes away.

Lorn eyed the other soldier. He'd taken a lance barb in his left shoulder and the blood still flowed profusely down the front of his breastplate. How he had stayed on his feet in the last hour was beyond Lorn's understanding. He looked upon her with eyes dulled by resignation, showing nothing of the pain he must be feeling.

«I'll hold your left,» he said, shifting his grip on the curved tulwar in his right hand.

Lorn unsheathed her own longsword and fixed her attention northwards. Only four of the six Barghast were visible, approaching slowly.

«We're being flanked,» she called out to her crossbowman. «Take the one on your left.»

The soldier beside her grunted. «My life need not be sheltered,» he said.

«We were charged with your protection, Adjunct-»

«Quiet,» Lorn commanded. «The longer you stand the better protected I'll be,» she said.

The soldier grunted again.

The four Barghast were lingering now, just out of bowshot range. Two still carried their lances; the other two gripped short axes. Then a voice cried out far to Lorn's right and she whirled to see a lance speeding towards her, and behind it a charging Barghast.

Lorn brought her blade across her body and dropped into a crouch as she raised the weapon over her head. Her sword caught the lance's shaft and even as it did so she was turning, pulling her weapon to one side.

The deflected lance sped past and cracked into the hillside off to her right.

Behind her she heard the crossbowman release a quarrel. As she spun back to the four charging Barghast there came a scream of pain from the other side of the mound. The soldier beside her seemed to have forgotten his wound, as he gripped his tulwar with both hands and planted his feet wide.

«Attend, Adjunct,» he said.

The Barghast off to the right cried out and she turned to see him spinning with the impact of a quarrel.

The four warriors before them were no more than thirty feet away.

The two with lances now launched them. Lorn made no move, realizing almost immediately that the one aimed at her would fly wide. The soldier beside her dropped away to his left, but not enough to avoid the lance as it thudded into his right thigh. It struck with such force as to drive right through his leg and embed itself in the earth. The soldier was pinned, but his only response was a soft gasp, and he raised his sword to parry an axe swinging at his head.

In this time Lorn had already closed with the Barghast rushing at her.

His axe was a shorter weapon, and she took advantage of this with a thrust before he came into his own range. He brought the coppersheathed haft up to parry, but Lorn had already flicked her wrist, completing the feint and dipping under the axe. Her lunge buried the sword point in the Barghast's chest, slicing the leather armour as if were cloth.

Her attack had committed her, and her sword was nearly wrenched from her hand as the savage toppled backwards. Off-balance, she staggered a step, expecting the crushing blow of an axe. But it didn't, arrive. Regaining her balance she spun round, to find her crossbowman now wielding his tulwar, engaging the other Barghast. Lorn snapped her attention to see how her other guard fared.

Somehow, he still lived, though he faced two Barghast. He'd managed to drag the lance out of the earth, but the weapon's shaft remained in his leg. That he was able to move at all, much less defend himself, spoke eloquently of Jakatakan discipline and training.

Lorn rushed to engage the Barghast on the man's right, nearest her. Even as she did so, an axe slipped past the soldier's guard and struck him across the chest. Scale snapped as the heavy weapon's edge ripped through armour. The soldier groaned and fell to one knee, blood sprurting on to the ground.

Lorn was in no position to defend him and could only watch in horror as the axe swung again, this time striking the man in the head. His helmet collapsed inward and his neck broke. He toppled sideways, laying at Lorn's feet. Her forward momentum carried her right over him.

A curse broke from her lips as she sprawled, crashing into the Bargh in front of her. She tried to bring the point of her sword up behind but he twisted lithely to one side and leaped away. Lorn took a swing at him, missing, even as she fell. She felt her shoulder dislocate as she hit the hard ground, and the sword dropped from her numbed hand. Now, she thought, the only thing left to do is die. She rolled on to back.

With a growl the Barghast was standing beside her, axe raised high. Lorn was in a good position to see the skeletal hand bursting from earth beneath the Barghast. It grasped an ankle. Bones snapped, the warrior screamed. Vaguely, as she watched, she wondered where the other two savages had gone. All sounds of fighting seemed to be stopped, but the ground rumbled with a growing, urgent thunder.

The Barghast stared down at the hand crushing his shin. He screamed again as the wide, rippled blade of a flint sword shot up between his legs. The axe left the warrior's hands as he frantically brought them down in an effort to deflect the sword, twisting to one side and kicking out his free leg. It all came too late. The sword impaled him, jamming against his hipbone and lifting him from the ground. His dying shriek rose ward.

Lorn climbed to her feet with difficulty, her right arm hanging useless at her side. She identified the thundering sound as the beat of hoofs, and turned in the direction from which they came. A Malazan. As that fact sank in, she swung her attention from the rider and looked around. Both her guards were dead, and arrows jutted from two Barghast bodies.

She took a shallow breath-all she could manage as pain spread across her chest-and gazed upon the creature that had risen from the earth. It was cloaked in rotting furs, and it stood over the warrior's body, one leg still clutched in its hand. The other hand gripped the sword, which had been pushed the length of the Barghast's body, the point emerging from his neck.

«I was expecting you days ago,» Lorn said, glaring at the figure.

It turned to regard her, its face hidden in shadow beneath the yellowed bone shelf of its helmet. The helmet, she saw, was the skull-cap of some horned beast, one horn broken off at its base.

The rider arrived behind her. «Adjunct!» he called out, dismounting. He came to her side, bow still in his hand and arrow nocked. His lone eye glanced across Lorn and, seeming satisfied that her wound was not mortal, fixed on the massive but squat creature facing them. «Hood's Breath, a T'lan Imass.»

Lorn continued glaring at the T'lan Imass. «I knew you were about. It's the only thing that explains a Barghast shaman bringing himself and his hand-picked hunters into the area. He must have used a Warren to get here. So where were you?»

Toc the Younger stared at the Adjunct, amazed at her outburst. His gaze flicked back to the T'lan Imass. The last time he'd seen one was in Seven Cities, eight years past, and then it had been from a distance as the undead legions marched out into the western wastelands on some mission even the Empress could learn nothing about. At this close range, Toc eagerly studied the T'lan Imass. Not much left of it, he concluded.

Despite the sorcery, three hundred thousand years had taken their toll.

The skin that stretched across the squat man's robust bones was a shiny nut brown in colour, the texture of leather. Whatever flesh it had once covered had contracted to thin strips the consistency of oak roots-such muscles showed through torn patches here and there. The creature's face, what Toc could see of it, bore a heavy chinless jawbone, high cheeks and a pronounced brow ridge. The eye sockets were dark holes.

«I asked you a question,» Lorn grated. «Where were you?»

The head creaked as the Imass looked down at its feet. «Exploring,» it said quietly in a voice born of stones and dust.

Lorn demanded, «Your name, T'lan?»

«Onos T'oolan, once of the Tarad Clan, of the Logros T'lan. I was birthed in the autumn of the Bleak Year, the ninth son to the Cla whetted as warrior in the Sixth Jaghut War-»

«Enough,» Lorn said. She sagged wearily and Toc moved to her side Glancing up at him she scowled, «You look grim.» Then a small smile came to her lips. «But good to me.»

Toc grinned. «First things first, Adjunct. A place for you to rest.» She did not protest as he guided her to a grassy knoll near the barrow and gently pushed her to her knees. He glanced back to see the T'lan Imas still standing where it had first emerged from the ground. It had turned however, and seemed to be studying the barrow. «We must make you arm immobile,» Toc said to the worn, weathered woman kneeling befor him. «I am named Toc the Younger,» he said, squatting down.

She raised her gaze at this. «I knew your father,» she said. Her smile returned. «Also a great bowman.»

He ducked his head in reply.

«He was a fine commander too,» Lorn continued, studying the ravaged youth who was now tending to her arm. «The Empress has regretted his death-»

«Not dead for sure,» Toc interrupted, his tone tight and his single eye averted as he began removing the gauntlet from her hand. «Disappeared.

«Yes,» Lorn said softly. «Disappeared since the Emperor's death.» She winced as he pulled away the gauntlet and tossed it aside.

«I'll need some strips of cloth,» he said, rising.

Lorn watched him stride to one of the Barghast bodies. She had not known who her Claw contact would be, only that he was the last left alive among Dujek's forces. She wondered why he had veered so sharply from his father's path. There was nothing pleasant, or proud, in being Claw. Only efficiency and fear.

He took a knife to the body's tanned leather armour, slicing it back to reveal a rough woollen shirt, into which he cut. Then he returned to her side, a handful of long strips in one hand. «I didn't know you had a Imass for company,» he said, as he crouched beside her again.

«They choose their own modes of travel,» Lorn said, a hint of anger in her voice. «And come when they please. But yes, he's an integral player in my mission. She fell silent, gritting her teeth in pain as Toc slipped th rude sling over her shoulder and under her arm.

«I have little good to report,» Toc said, and he told her of Paran's disappearance, and of Whiskeyjack and his squad departing without the yJ I captain in attendance. By the time he had finished he had adjusted the sling to his own satisfaction, and sat back on his haunches with sigh.

«Damn,» Lorn hissed. «Help me to my feet.»

After he'd done so, she wobbled a bit and gripped his shoulder to steady herself. Then she nodded. «Get me my sword.»

Toc strode to the spot she'd indicated. After a brief search he found the longsword in the grass, and his eye thinned to a slit upon seeing the weapon's dusty red blade. He brought it to her, and said, «An Otataral sword, Adjunct, the ore that kills magic.»

«And mages,» Lorn said, taking the weapon awkwardly in her left hand and sheathing it.

«I came upon the dead shaman,» Toc said.

«Well,» Lorn said, «Otataral is no mystery to you of the Seven Cities, but few here know it, and I would keep it that way.»

«Understood.» Toc turned to regard the immobile Imass.

Lorn seemed to read his thought. «Otataral cannot quench their magic-believe me, it's been tried. The Warrens of the Imass are similar to those of the Jaghut and the Forkrul Assail-Elder-, blood- and earthbound-that flint sword of his will never break, and it cuts through the finest iron as easily as it will flesh and bone.»

Toc shivered and spat. «I'll not envy you your company, Adjunct.»

Lorn smiled. «You'll be sharing it for the next few days, Toc the Younger. We've a long walk to Pale.»

«Six, seven days,» Toc said. «I expected you to be mounted.»

Lorn's sigh was heartfelt. «The Barghast shaman worked his talents on them. A disease took them all, even my stallion, which I brought with me through the Warren.» Her lined face softened momentarily, and Toc could feel her genuine sorrow.

It surprised him. All that he'd heard of the Adjunct had painted for him a picture of a cold-blooded monster, the gauntleted hand of death that could descend from anywhere at any time. Perhaps this side of her existed; he hoped he would not have to see it. Then again, he corrected himself, she'd not spared her soldiers a second glance. Toc spoke, «You'll ride my mare, Adjunct. She's no warhorse, but she's quick and long on endurance.»

They walked to where he'd left his horse, and Lorn smiled. «That's a Wickan breed, Toc the Younger,» she said, as she laid a hand on the mare's neck, «so cease the modesty, else I lose trust in you. A fine animal.»

Toc helped her into the saddle. «Do we leave the Imass where it is?» he asked.

Lorn nodded. «He'll find his own way. Now, let's give this mare the opportunity to prove herself. Wickan blood is said to smell of iron.» She reached down and offered her left arm. «Mount up,» she said.

Toc barely managed to hide his shock. Share the saddle with the Adjunct of the Empire? The notion was so absurd that he came near to laughing. «I can walk, Adjunct,» he said gruffly. «With such little time to waste, you would be better to ride on, and ride hard. You'll see Pale's walls in three days. I can manage a jog at ten-hour stretches.»

«No, Toc the Younger.» Lorn's tone brooked no argument. «I need you in Pale, and I need to hear all there is about the occupying legions, and Dujek, and Tayschrenn. Better to arrive a few days late than unprepared. Now, grasp my arm and let's be on with it.»

Toc complied.

As he sank into the saddle behind Lorn, his mare snorted and stepped quickly to one side. Both he and the Adjunct almost fell. They turned to see the T'lan Imass standing beside them. It raised its head to Lorn.

«The barrow has yielded a truth, Adjunct,» Onos T'oolan said.

Toc felt her stiffen. «And that is?»

«We are upon the right path,» the T'lan Imass replied.

Something told Toc that the path the creature referred to had nothing to do with the trader's track leading south to Pale. He cast one final glance back at the barrow as Lorn silently swung the horse around, and then at Onos T'oolan. Neither seemed likely to unveil their secrets, but Lorn's reaction had raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and the itch around his lost eye roused itself. Toc muttered a curse under his breath and began to scratch.

«Something the matter, Toc the Younger?» Lorn asked, not turning.

He thought about his reply. He said, «The price of being blind, Adjunct. Nothing more.»

Captain Paran paced in the narrow room. This was madness! All he knew was that he was being hidden, but the only answers to his questions would come from a bed-ridden sorceress locked in some strange fever, and a nasty puppet whose painted eyes seemed to fix on him with intense hatred.

Vague memories haunted him as well, the feel of slick, cold stones scraping beneath his fingernails at a moment when all his strength had poured from his body; and then the hazy vision of a massive dog-a Hound? — in the room, a dog that seemed to breathe death. It had been seeking to kill the woman, and he'd stopped it-somehow, he wasn't sure of the details.

A suspicion nagged him that the dog wasn't dead, that it would be back. The puppet ignored most of his questions, and when it did speak to him it was to voice dire threats. Apparently, though the Sorceress was ill, her presence alone-her continued existence-was all that kept Hairlock from fulfilling those threats.

Where was Whiskeyjack? Had the sergeant left without him? What would that do to Adjunct Lorn's plan?

He ceased pacing and turned a glare on the sorceress lying in the bed.

Hairlock had told Paran that she'd somehow hidden him when Tayschrenn arrived, the High Mage having sensed the dog's presence.

Paran had no memory of any of that, but he wondered how the woman could have managed anything after the beating she'd taken. Hairlock had scoffed that the sorceress hadn't even been aware of opening her Warren that one last time; that she'd done it all on instinct. Paran had the feeling that the marionette had been scared by that unveiling of power. Hairlock seemed most eager for the woman's death, but was either unable to achieve it himself or too frightened to try. The creature had muttered something about wards she'd raised about her person.

Yet Paran found nothing to impede his ministrations when the fever had been at its worst. It had broken the previous night, and now Paran felt his impatience reaching some kind of threshold. The sorceress slept, but if she didn't awaken soon he'd take matters into his own hands-leave this hiding place, perhaps seek out Toc the Younger, provided he could avoid Tayschrenn or any officers on his way out of the building.

Paran's unseeing glare remained fixed on the sorceress, his thoughts racing. Slowly, a new awareness tickled the edges of his mind, and he abruptly blinked. The woman's eyes were open, and they studied him.

He took a half-step forward but was stopped dead by her first words.

«I heard the Coin drop, Captain.»

The blood drained from Paran's face. An echo flittered through his memory. «A coin?» he asked, his voice barely a whisper. «A spinning coin?»

The voices of gods, of dead men and women. Howls of Hounds-all pieces of my memory's torn tapestry.

«Spins no longer,» the woman replied. She pushed herself into a sitting position. «How much do you remember?»

«Scant,» the captain admitted, surprised at himself for telling the truth. «The puppet will not even tell me your name,» he said.

«Tattersail. I've been, uh, in the company of Whiskeyjack and his squad.» A veil of caution seemed to slip over her sleepy gaze. «I was to take care of you until your health returned.»

«I believe you did,» Paran said. «And I returned the favour, which evens the scales, Sorceress.»

«So it does. Well, now what?»

Paran's eyes widened. «You don't know?»

Tattersail shrugged.

«But this is ridiculous,» Paran exclaimed. «I know nothing of what's happening here. I awaken to find a half-dead witch and a talking puppet for company, and of my new command not a single sign. Have they left for Darujhistan already?»

«I can't give you much in the way of answers,» Tattersail murmured «All I can tell you is the sergeant wanted you alive, because he needs to know who tried to assassinate you. We'd all like to know, in fact.» She fell silent, expectant.

Paran studied her round, ghostly pale face. There was something about her that seemed to disregard her physical mundanity, overwhelmed it, in fact, so that the captain found himself responding in ways that surprised him. It was, he saw, a friendly face, and he couldn't recall the last time he'd experienced such a thing. It left him off-balance, with only Tattersail to steady him. And that made him feel as if he were descending a spiral, with the sorceress in the centre. Descending? Perhaps it was an ascent. He wasn't sure, and the uncertainty made him wary.

«I recall nothing of it,» he said. And that wasn't entirely a lie, though it felt like it with her heavy-lidded eyes steady upon him.

«I think,» Paran added, despite his misgivings, «there were two of them I recall a conversation, though I was dead. I think.»

«But you heard a spinning coin,» Tattersail said.

«Yes,» he answered, bewildered. And more: I went to a place yellow, infernal light, a chorus of moans, a death's head:

Tattersail nodded to herself as if confirming a suspicion. «A god intervened, Captain Paran. Returned the life to you. You might think it was on your behalf, but I'm afraid there wasn't any altruism involved Are you following me?»

«I'm being used,» Paran stated flatly.

She raised an eyebrow. «That doesn't bother you?»

Paran shrugged and turned away. «It's nothing new,» he muttered.

«I see,» she said quietly. «So Whiskeyjack was right, then. You're not just some new captain, you're something a lot more.»

«That's my concern,» Paran snapped, still avoiding her gaze. Then he faced her, his expression dark. «And what's your role in all this? You took care of me. Why? Serving your god, are you?»

Tattersail barked a laugh. «Not likely. Nor did I do much for you in any case. Oponn took care of that.»

Paran stiffened. «Oponn?» The Twins, sister and brother, the Twins of Chance. He who pushes, she who pulls. Have they been in my dreams? Voices, mention of my: sword. He was still for a moment, then he strode over to the dresser. On it lay his sheathed sword. He laid a hand on the grip. «I purchased this sword three years ago, though its first use came just a few nights past-against the dog.»

«You recall that?»

Something in Tattersail's voice brought him around. In her eyes he now saw fear. She made no attempt to hide it. He nodded. «Yet I named the weapon the day I bought it.»

«The name?»

Paran's grin was ghastly. «Chance.»

«The pattern has been long in the weaving,» Tattersail said, closing her eyes and sighing. «Though I suspect even Oponn could not have imagined your blade tasting its first blood on a Hound of Shadow.»

Paran closed his eyes, then he sighed. «The dog was a Hound.»

She looked at him and nodded. «You've met Hairlock?»

«I have.»

«Beware him,» Tattersail said. «It was his unleashing of a Warren of Chaos that left me fevered. If Warrens are indeed structured, then Hairlock's is diametrically opposed to mine. He's mad, Captain, and he vowed to kill you.»

Paran strapped on his sword. «What's his role in all of this?»

«I'm not sure,» Tattersail said.

That sounded like a lie, but Paran let it pass. «He was coming in nightly to check on your progress,» he said. «But I haven't seen him the past two nights.»

«How many days have I been out?»

«Six, I think. I'm no more certain of time's passage than you are, I'm afraid.» He strode to the door. «All I know is, I can't just hide here for ever.»

«Wait!»

Paran smiled. «Very well.» He faced her again. «Tell me why shouldn't I leave?»

The sorceress hesitated, then spoke. «I still need you here,» she said.

«Why?»

«It's not me that Hairlock's afraid of,» she answered, seeming to find the words difficult. «It's you-your sword-that's kept me alive. He saw what you managed to do to the Hound.»

«Damn,» he hissed. Though essentially still a stranger to him, she'd reached through to him with her admission. He tried to fight the compassion welling up inside him. He told himself that his mission overrode all other concerns, that he'd repaid his debt to her, if ever there was one, that she hadn't given him all the reasons he suspected existed for his staying hidden, meaning she didn't trust him-he told himself all these things, but none of it was enough.

«If you go,» she said, «Hairlock will kill me.»

«What of the wards about you?» he demanded, almost desperately. «Hairlock said you've wards about you.»

Tattersail's smile was drawn. «You think he'd just come right out and tell you how dangerous you really are? Wards?» She laughed. «I've barely the strength to sit straight. If I attempted to open my Warren in this state the power would consume me, burn me to ashes. Hairlock wants you kept in the dark-about everything. The puppet lied.»

Even this rang like a half-truth in Paran's ears. But there was enough there that made sense, that gave reason to Hairlock's hatred of him, and the puppet's obvious fear. The greater deceit would come from Hairlock, not Tattersail, or so he believed, though there was little to support that belief-only: at least Tattersail was human. He sighed. «Sooner or later,» he said, unclipping his sword belt and returning it to the dresser, «You and I will have to cut past all this misleading game-playing. Oponn or no, we've a common enemy.»

Tattersail sighed. «Thank you. Captain Paran?»

He eyed her warily. «What?»

She smiled. «It is good to meet you.»

He scowled. She was at it again.

«This seems an unhappy army,» Lorn said, as they waited outside Pale's north gate. One of the guards had entered the city in search of another horse, while the remaining three stood muttering a short distance away.

Toc the Younger had dismounted. He moved close to his horse and said, «It is, Adjunct. Very unhappy. Along with the dismantling of the Second and Sixth Armies came a shuffling of commands. Nobody's where they were before, right down to the greenest recruit. Squads split up everywhere. And now there's the rumour that the Bridgeburners are going to be retired.» He glanced over at the three marines, saw their hard eyes on him and the Adjunct. «People around here don't like that,» he said quietly.

Lorn leaned back in her saddle. The pain in her shoulder had become a steady throb, and she was glad the journey was done-at least for the time being. They'd seen nothing of the T'lan Imass since the barrow, though she often sensed his presence, in the dusty wind, beneath the plain's cracked pan. While in the company of Toc the Younger she'd sensed the restless anger churning among the Malazan forces on this continent.

In Pale, ten thousand soldiers crowded the edge of revolt, the spies among them brutally removed, awaiting only High Fist Dujek's word.

And the High Mage Tayschrenn wasn't easing the situation by openly countermanding Dujek's instructions to his officers. Yet what troubled the Adjunct the most was this vague tale of a Hound of Shadow doing battle with the 2nd's last cadre mage-there was a mystery there, and she suspected it was vital. The rest could be dealt with, provided she took charge.

The Adjunct was eager for her meeting with Tayschrenn and this sorceress Tattersail-the name was familiar, tugging at memories that seemed born in her childhood. And around such evasive hints rustled a cloak of fear. But she was determined to deal with that when the time came.

The gate swung open. She looked up to see the marine with a warhorse, and they had company. Toc the Younger snapped a salute, the energy behind it making Lorn wonder at his loyalty. The Adjunct dismounted slowly, then nodded at High Fist Dujek.

The man seemed to have aged a dozen years since she'd last seen him, thirteen months ago in Genabaris. A small smile came to Lorn's mouth as the scene emerged in her mind: the High Fist a worn, weary one-armed man, the Empress's Adjunct, her sword arm in a sling, and Toc the Younger, last representative of the Claw on Genabackis, one-eyed and half his face scarred by fire. Here they were, representatives of three of the four Empire powers on the continent, and they all looked like hell.

Misreading her smile, Dujek grinned. «Good to see you, too, Adjunct. I was overseeing the resupply when this guard brought word of your arrival.» His gaze grew thoughtful as he studied her, the grin fading. «I'll find you a Denul healer. Adiunct.»

«Sorcery doesn't work on me, High Fist. It hasn't in a long time. A mundane healer is sufficient.» Her gaze narrowed on Dujek. «Assuming I'll have no need to unsheath my sword within the walls of Pale.»

«I make no guarantees, Adjunct,» Dujek said casually. «Come, let us walk.»

Lorn turned to Toc the Younger. «Thank you for the escort soldier.»

Dujek laughed, his eyes bright on Toc. «Unnecessary, Adjunct. I know who, and what, Toc the Younger is-as does virtually everyone else. If he's as good a Claw as he is a soldier, you'd do well to keep him. Dujek gestured that they walk. «Meaning that his reputation as a soldier of the Second is the only thing preventing a knife across the throat. Meaning get him out of Pale.»

The Adjunct eyed Toc. «I will see you later.» she said joining Dujek, who had passed beneath the gate's massive arch, Lorn matched his pace as they entered the city. Soldiers crowded the streets, directing merchant wagons and the mobs of citizenry. Evidence of the rain of death still scarred many of the buildings, but labourers had been

«The nobility are about to be culled,» Dujek said at her side.

«Empire policy,» Lorn replied stiffly. «You're well aware of that, High Fist.»

Dujek glared at her. «Nine out of ten nobles to hang, Adjunct? Children included?»

Lorn stared at him. «That seems excessive.»

Dujek was silent for a time, leading her down the main avenue then heading uphill towards the Empire headquarters. Many faces turned to regard them stonily as they passed, it seemed Dujek's identity was known among Pale's citizens. Lorn tried to sense the atmosphere his presence created, but couldn't be certain if it was fear or respect, or both.

«My mission,» Lorn said, as they approached a three-storey stone building, its entrance blocked by a dozen watchful marines, «will take me out of the city soon-»

«I don't want any details, Adjunct,» Dujek cut in. «You do what you have to do and just stay out of my way.»

His tone was unthreatening, almost pleasant, but Lorn felt her muscles tense. This man was being pushed, and Tayschrenn was doing the pushing. What was the High Mage up to? The whole situation stank of incompetence.

«As I was saying,» Lorn continued, «I won't be here long. When I am here, however,» and her voice hardened, «I will make plain to the High Mage that his interference in the city's management will not be tolerated. If you need backing, you have it, Dujek.»

They stopped just outside the building's entrance, and the old man gazed steadily at her, as if weighing her sincerity. But when he spoke, his words surprised her. «I can take care of my own problems, Adjunct. Do what you will, but I'm not asking for anything.»

«You'll permit the excessive culling of the nobility, then?»

Dujek's expression set into stubborn lines. «Battle tactics can be applied in any situation, Adjunct. And the High Mage is no tactician.» He turned and led her up the steps. Two guards opened the doors, which looked new and were banded in bronze. The High Fist and the Adjunct entered.

They strode down a long, wide hallway marked by doors on either side every dozen feet or so. Marines stood guard before each one, hands on their weapons. It was clear to Lorn that the incident with the Hound had heightened wariness to an almost absurd degree. Then a thought struck her. «High Fist, have there been attempts on your life?»

Dujek's grunt was amused. «Four in the last week, Adjunct. You get used to it. All these marines here volunteered themselves-they don't even listen to me any more. The last assassin was so badly chopped up I couldn't even make out if it was a man or a wornan.»

«You have a lot of Seven Cities natives in your legions, High Fist?»

«Aye. Loyal to a fault when they want to be.»

Loyal to what, Lorn wondered, and to whom? Seven Cities recruits were being sent elsewhere these days. The Empress did not wish Dujek's soldiers to become aware that their homeland was on the brink of open rebellion. Such news might well tip the scales here on Genabackis, and that in turn would trigger Seven Cities itself. Both Lorn and the Empress were well aware how dangerous things had become, and they had to tread carefully indeed in their efforts to repair the damage. And it was now becoming obvious that Tayschrenn presented a major problem.

She realized that she needed Dujek's support more than he needed hers.

They arrived at the hall's end where stood massive double doors. The soldiers at either side saluted the High Fist then opened them. Beyond was a large chamber dominated by a hardwood table in its centre. Maps, scrolls, ink and paint jars crowded its surface. Dujek and Lorn entered and the doors were shut behind them.

«Tayschrenn has been informed of your arrival, but will be delayed somewhat,» Dujek said, sitting on the edge of the table. «If you have questions regarding the recent events at Pale, ask them now.»

She knew he was giving her the opportunity to hear answers that didn't come from Tayschrenn. Though as to whose version of the truth she would accept was up to her. Lorn began to appreciate Dujek's comment about battle tactics. She strode to a nearby chair and settled slowly into its cushions. «Very well, High Fist. Small matters first. Have you encountered any difficulty with the Moranth?»

Dujek scowled. «Funny you should ask. They're getting pretty highminded about some things. I had a hell of a time getting the Gold legions-their e1ite warriors-to fight Caladan Brood. Seems they consider him too honourable to treat as an enemy. The whole alliance was on shaky ground for a while there, but in the end they marched. Soon I'll send the Black to join thern.»

Lorn nodded. «Similar problems with the Green and the Blue in Genabaris,» she said, «which explains why I came overland. The Empress suggests we make the most of the alliance, since it may not last.»

«We haven't much choice,» Dujek growled. «How many legions will I have in the spring landing?»

Lorn hesitated, then said, «Two. And a regiment of Wickan lancers. The Wickans and the Eleventh Legion will disembark at Nathilog. The Ninth will land in Nisst and join with the conscript forces-the Empress trusts the latter reinforcements will be sufficient to break the Crimson Guard at Fox Pass, thus opening Brood's flank.»

«Then the Empress is a fool,» Dujek said, his tone hard. «The conscripts are next to useless, Adjunct, and by this time next year the Crimson Guard will have liberated Nisst, Treet, One Eye Cat, Porule, Garalt and-»

«I know the list.» Lorn rose abruptly. «You'll receive two more legions next year, High Fist. That's it.»

Dujek thought for a time, his gaze on the map pegged to the table top.

Lorn waited. She knew he was lost in reordering, re-evaluating his plans for next season's campaign, that he'd entered a world of materiel and divisions, in second-guessing Caladan Brood and the commander of the Crimson Guard, Prince K'azz. Finally he cleared his throat. «Adjunct, is it possible to reverse the landings? The Eleventh and the Wickan lancers disembarking on the east coast, south of Apple. The Ninth on the west coast, to Tulips.»

Lorn strode to the table and studied the map. Tulips? Why there? That made no sense at all. «The Empress would be curious as to your revised plans, High Fist.»

«Meaning "maybe".» Dujek rubbed the stubble on his jaw, then gave a sharp nod. «All right, Adjunct. First, the conscripts will not hold Fox Pass. The Crimson Guard will be into the northlands by the time our reinforcements arrive. Much of that area is farmland, pasture. As we retreat, pulling the conscripts back to Nisst, we raze the countryside. No crops, no livestock. Whatever supplies K'azz will need he'll have to bring with him. Now, Adjunct, any army on the move, any army pursuing a routed army, is bound to leave its supply train behind, string it out in its haste to catch its enemy and deliver the killing blow. And that's where the Wickan lancers come in.»

The Wickan were born raiders, Lorn knew. In such countryside they'd be elusive, striking quickly and with deadly consequences. «And the Eleventh? Where will they be in all this?»

«A third will be stationed in Nisst. The rest will be on the quick march-to Fox Pass.»

«While Caladan Brood remains south of Blackdog Forest? That doesn't make sense, High Fist.»

«You suggested using the Moranth for all it's worth, didn't you? Well, from Tulips the Moranth and their Quorl will be staging a massive lift.»

Dujek's gaze narrowed as he studied the map. «I want the Ninth south of Blackdog Swamp by the time I bring up my forces from here and place them south of Brood. A concerted push from the Gold and Black should push him right into our laps, while his allies, the Crimson Guard, are stuck on the wrong side of Fox Pass.»

«You intend to transport an entire legion by air?»

«Does the Empress want this war won in her lifetime or not?» He pushed himself away from the table and paced. «Mind you,» he said, as if struck by sudden doubts, «it may all be academic. If I were Brood I'd:»

His voice trailed away, and he faced the Adjunct. «Will the transport orders be reversed?»

Lorn searched his face. Something told her that the High Fist had just made an intuitive leap, and it had to do with Caladan Brood, and that as far as Dujek was concerned, it was indeed now academic. She also realized that this was something he wouldn't share with her. She scanned the map again, trying to see what Dujek had seen. But it was hopeless, she was no tactician. Trying to guess Dujek's thoughts was hard enough; but to try the same with Caladan Brood was impossible. «Your plan, although brash, is now officially accepted on behalf of the Empress. Your request will be fulfilled.»

Dujek nodded half-heartedly.

«One thing, High Fist, before Tayschrenn arrives. There was a Hound of Shadow here?»

«Yes,» the man said. «I wasn't here at the time, but I saw the mess the beast left behind. If not for Tattersail it would've been far worse.»

Lorn saw a glint of horror in Dujek's eyes and into her mind returned the scene from the coast road west of Itko Kan, two years ago. «I've seen the work of Hounds before,» she said, meeting his eyes.

In that moment of locked gazes they shared something profound. Then Dujek pulled his eyes away. «This Tattersail,» Lorn said, to hide a pang of regret, «Must be a very capable sorceress.»

«The only cadre mage to have survived Tayschrenn's assault on Moon's Spawn,» Dujek replied.

«Indeed?» To Lorn, that revelation was even more remarkable. She wondered if Dujek suspected anything, but his next words put her at ease.

«She called it luck, on both counts, and she might be right.»

«Has she been a cadre mage for a long time?» Lorn asked.

«Ever since I took command. Perhaps eight, nine years.»

The familiarity of Tattersail's name returned to Lorn then, like a mailed fist clenching her heart. She found herself sitting down again, and Dujek had taken a step towards her, genuine concern in his eyes.

«Your injury needs attending to,» he said gruffly. «I shouldn't have waited.»

«No, no, it's all right. Weariness, that's all.»

He studied her quizzically. «Would you like some wine, Adjunct?»

She nodded. Tattersail. Was it possible? She would know when she saw the woman. She would know then. «Nine years,» she murmured, «the Mouse.»

«I beg your pardon?»

She looked up to find Dujek before her. He offered her a goblet of wine. «Nothing,» she said, as she accepted it. «Thank you.»

As the double doors swung open both turned. In strode Tayschrenn, his face dark with fury as he confronted Dujek.

«Damn you,» the High Mage grated. «If you had a hand in this I'll find it, and that is a promise.»

Dujek raised an eyebrow. «A hand in what, High Mage?» he asked coolly.

«I've just been to the Hall of Records. A fire? The place looks like the inside of an oven.»

Lorn rose and stepped between them. «High Mage Tayschrenn,» she said, in a low, dangerous tone, «perhaps you could tell me why this matter of some fire in some bureaucrat's chamber should override all other considerations?»

Tayschrenn blinked. «I beg your pardon, Adjunct,» he said tightly, «but within the Hall of Records were the city's census lists.» His dark eyes swung past her to fix on Dujek. «Wherein all the names of Pales nobility could be found.»

«Unfortunate,» the High Fist said. «Have you begun an investigation? My staffs services are, of course, entirely at your disposal.»

«Unnecessary, High Fist,» the wizard drawled sardonically. «Why make all your other spies redundant?» Tayschrenn paused, then stepped back and bowed to Lorn. «Greetings, Adjunct. I apologize for this ungracious-seeming reunion-»

«Save your apologies for later," Lorn said levelly. She faced Dujek.

«Thank you for the wine and conversation,» she said, noting with satisfaction Tayschrenn's stiffening at that. «I trust there'll be a formal dinner this evening?»

Dujek nodded. «Of course, Adjunct.»

«Would you be so kind as to request Tattersail's attendance as well?»

She felt yet another flinch come from the High Mage, and saw in Dujek's gaze a new respect as he looked upon her, as if acknowledging her own skills in this brand of tactics.

Tayschrenn interrupted. «Adjunct, the sorceress has been ill as a result of her encounter with the Hound of Shadow,» he turned a smile on Dujek, «which I'm sure has been described to you by the High Fist.»

Not well enough, Lorn thought ruefully, but let Tayschrenn imagine the worst. «I'm interested in a wizard's evaluation of that event, High Mage,» she said.

«Which you shall have shortly.»

Dujek bowed. «I will inquire as to Tattersail's health, Adjunct. If you will excuse me, then, I can be on my way.» He turned to Tayschrenn and gave a curt nod.

Tayschrenn watched the one-armed old man leave the room, then waited for the doors to close once again. «Adjunct, this situation is-»

«Absurd,» Lorn finished hotly. «Dammit, Tayschrenn, where's your sense? You've taken on the craftiest bastard the Empire military has ever had the privilege of possessing and he's eating you alive.» She spun to the table and refilled her goblet. «And you deserve it.»

«Adjunct-»

She faced him. «No. Listen, Tayschrenn. I speak directly from the Empress. She reluctantly approved your commandeering the assault on Moon's Spawn-but if she'd known you so thoroughly lacked subtlety, she would never have permitted it. Do you take everyone else for fools?»

«Dujek is just one man,» Tayschrenn said.

Lorn took a large mouthful of wine, then set down the goblet and rubbed her brow. «Dujek's not the enemy,» she said wearily. «Dujek's never been the enemy.»

Tayschrenn stepped forward. «He was the Emperor's man, Adjunct.»

«Challenging that man's loyalty to the Empire is insulting, and it's that very insult that may well turn him. Dujek is not just one man. Right now he's ten thousand, and in a year's time he'll be twenty-five thousand. He doesn't yield when you push, does he? No, because he can't. He's got ten thousand soldiers behind him-and, believe me, when they get angry enough to push back, you'll not be able to withstand them. As for Dujek, he'll just end up being carried on the tide.»

«Then he is a traitor.»

«No. He's a man who cares for those he is responsible for and to. He's the best of the Empire. If he's forced to turn, Tayschrenn, then we're the traitors. Am I getting through?»

The High Mage's face was lined with a deep, disturbed frown. «Yes, Adjunct,» he said quietly. «You are.» He looked up. «This task the Empress has commanded of me, it weighs heavily, Adjunct. These are not my strengths. It would do well if you dismissed me.»

Lorn gave that serious consideration. Mages by nature never commanded loyalty. Fear, yes, and the respect born of fear, but the one thing a mage found difficult to understand or cope with was loyalty. And yet there had been one mage, long ago, who had commanded loyalty-and that was the Emperor. She said, «High Mage, we are all agreed on one thing. The old guard must disappear. All who stood with the Emperor and still cling to his memory will ever work against us, whether consciously or unconsciously. Dujek is an exception, and there is a handful of others like him. Those we must not lose. As for the others, they have to die. The risk lies in alerting them to that fact. If we're too open we may end up with an insurrection the size of which could destroy the Empire.»

«Apart from Dujek and Tattersail,» Tayschrenn said, «we've cleaned out everyone else. As for Whiskeyjack and his squad, he's all yours, Adjunct.»

«With luck,» Lorn said, then frowned as the High Mage winced.

«What's the matter?»

He rose. «I peruse my Deck of Dragons nightly,» he said. «And I'm certain that Oponn has entered the world of mortal affairs. Tattersail's own reading did much to confirm my suspicions.»

Lorn looked at him sharply. «She's an Adept?»

«Far more adept than I,» Tayschrenn admitted.

Lorn thought. «What can you tell me of Oponn's involvement?»

«Darujhistan,» Tayschrenn replied.

Lorn closed her eyes. «I was afraid you'd say that. We need Darujhistan-desperately. Its wealth, coming into our hands, would break this continent's back.»

«I know, Adjunct. But the matter is even worse than you realize. I also believe that, somehow, Whiskeyjack and Tattersail are in league with one another.»

«Any word of what happened to Captain Paran?»

«None. Someone is hiding him, or his body. I'm inclined to believe he's dead, Adjunct, but his soul has yet to pass through Hood's Gate and only a mage could prevent that.»

«Tattersail?»

The High Mage shrugged. «Possibly. I would know more of this captain's role in all this.»

Lorn hesitated, then said, «He was engaged in a long, arduous search.»

Tayschrenn growled, «Perhaps he found whatever he was seeking.»

Lorn eyed him. «Perhaps. Tell me, how good is Tattersail?»

«Good enough to be a High Mage,» Tayschrenn said. «Good enough to survive a Hound's attack and to drive it away, though I would not think such a thing possible. Even I would have difficulty managing that.»

«Maybe she had help,» Lorn murmured.

«I hadn't thought of that.»

«Think on it now,» Lorn said. «But before you do, the Empress requests that you continue your efforts, though not against Dujek.

«You're needed here as a conduit in case my mission goes wrong in Darujhistan. Do not involve yourself with managing the occupation of Pale. Further, you are to provide Dujek with details on Oponn's appearance. If a god has entered the fray, he has a right to know and to plan accordingly.»

«How can one plan anything with Oponn in the game?»

«Leave that to Dujek.» She studied his face. «Do you have difficulty with any of these instructions?»

Tayschrenn smiled. «In truth, Adjunct, I'm greatly relieved.»

Lorn nodded. «Good. Now, I need a mundane healer and quarters.»

«Of course.» Tayschrenn strode to the doors, then paused and turned.

«Adjunct, I am glad you're here.»

«Thank you, High Mage.» After he left, Lorn sank into her chair and her mind travelled back nine years, to the sights and sounds experienced by a child, to a night, one particular night in the Mouse, when every nightmare a young girl's imagination could hold became real. She remembered blood, blood everywhere, and the empty faces of her mother, her father and older brother-faces numbed by the realization that they'd been spared, that the blood wasn't their own. As the memories stalked once again through her mind, a name rode the winds, rustling in the air as if clawing through dead branches. Lorn's lips parted, and she whispered, «Tattersail.»

The sorceress had found the strength to leave her bed. She now stood at the window, leaning with one hand against the frame for support, and looked down on a street crowded with military wagons. The systematic plunder that quartermasters called «resupply» was well under way. The eviction of nobility and gentry from their familial estates for the stationing of the officer corps, of which she was one, had ended days ago, while the repairing of the outer walls, the refitting of sundered gates, and the clearing of «Moon rain» continued apace.

She was glad she'd missed the river of corpses that must have filled the city streets during the initial phase of clean-up-wagon after wagon groaning beneath the weight of crushed bodies, white flesh seared by fire and slashed by sword, rat-gnawed and raven-pecked-men, women, and children. It was a scene she had witnessed before, and she had no wish ever to see it again.

Now, shock and terror had seeped down and out of sight. Scenes of normality reappeared as farmers and merchants emerged from hiding to meet the needs of occupiers and occupied alike. Malazan healers had swept the city, rooting out the birthing of plague and treating common ailments among all those they touched. No citizen would have been turned from their path. And sentiments began the long, perfectly planned swing.

Soon, Tattersail knew, there'd be the culling of the nobility, a scourge that would raise to the gallows the greediest, least-liked nobles. And the executions would be public. A tried and true procedure that swelled recruitment on a tide of base vengeance-with every hand stained by a righteous glee. A sword in such hands completed the conspiracy and included all players in the hunt for the next victim to the cause-the Empire's cause.

She'd seen it run its course in a hundred such cities. No matter how benign the original rulers, no matter how generous the nobility, the word of Empire, weighted by might, twisted the past into a tyranny of demons. A sad comment on humanity, a bitter lesson made foul by her own role in it.

In her mind returned the faces of the Bridgeburners, a strange counterpoint to the cynicism with which she viewed all around her.

Whiskeyjack, a man pushed to the edge, or, rather, the edge creeping on him on all sides, a crumbling of beliefs, a failing of faiths, leaving as his last claim to humanity his squad, a shrinking handful of the only people that mattered any more. But he held on, and he pushed back-pushed back hard. She liked to think-no, she wanted to believe-he would win out in the end, that he'd live to see his world stripped of the Empire.

Quick Ben and Kalam, seeking to take the responsibility from their sergeant's shoulders. It was their only means of loving the man, though they'd never put it in such terms. In the others, barring Sorry, she saw the same, yet with them there was a desperation that she found endearing, a child-like yearning to relieve Whiskeyjack of everything their grim place had laid upon him.

She responded to them in a way deeper than she'd thought possible, from a core she'd long been convinced was burned out, the ashes scattered in silent lament-a core no mage could afford. Tattersail recognized the danger, but that only made it all the more alluring.

Sorry was another matter, and she found herself avoiding even thinking about that young woman.

And that left Paran. What to do about this captain? At the moment the man was in the room, seated on the bed behind her and oiling his sword, Chance. They'd not spoken much since she'd awakened four days ago.

There was still too much distrust.

Perhaps it was that mystery, that uncertainty, that made them so attracted to one another. And the attraction was obvious: even now, with her back to the man, she sensed a taut thread between them. Whatever energy burned between them, it felt dangerous. Which made it exciting.

Tattersail sighed. Hairlock had appeared this very morning, eager and agitated about something. The puppet would not answer their queries, but the sorceress suspected that Hairlock had found a trail, and it seemed it might take the puppet out of Pale and on to Darujhistan.

That was not a happy thought.

She stiffened as the ward she'd placed outside her door was tripped.

Tattersail whirled to Paran. «A visitor,» she said.

He rose, Chance in his hands.

The sorceress waved her hand over him. «You're no longer visible, Captain. Nor can anyone sense your presence. Make no sound, and wait here.» She strode into the outer room just as a soft knock sounded on the door.

She opened it to see a young marine standing in the hallway. «What is it?» she demanded.

The marine bowed. «High Fist Dujek is inquiring as to your health, Sorceress.»

«Much better,» she said. «That's kind of him. Now, if you'll-»

The marine interrupted diffidently. «If you answered as you just have, I am to convey the High Fist's request that you attend a formal supper this evening in the main building.»

Tattersail cursed silently. She shouldn't have told the truth. Now, it was too late. A «request» from her commander was not something that could be denied. «Inform the High Fist that I will be honoured to share his company over supper.» A thought struck her. «May I ask who else will be present?»

«High Mage Tayschrenn, a messenger named Toc the Younger, and Adjunct Lorn.»

«Adjunct Lorn is here?»

«Arrived this morning, Sorceress.»

Oh, Hood's Breath. «Convey my reply,» Tattersail said, struggling against a rising tide of fear. She shut the door, then heard the marine's boots hurrying down the hallway.

«What's wrong?» Paran asked, from the opposite doorway.

She faced him. «Put that sword away, Captain.» She walked over to the dresser and began rummaging through the drawers. «I'm to attend a dinner,» she said.

Paran approached. «An official gathering.»

Tattersail nodded distractedly. «With Adjunct Lorn there as well, as if Tayschrenn isn't bad enough.»

The Captain murmured, «So she's finally arrived.»

Tattersail froze. She turned to him slowly. «You've been expecting her, haven't you?»

Paran started and looked at her with frightened eyes.

She realized his mumbling hadn't been meant for her ears. «Dammit,» she hissed. «You're working for her!»

The captain's answer was clear as he spun round. She watched him vanish into the bedroom, her thoughts a storm of fury. The threads of conspiracy now thrummed in her mind. So, Quick Ben's suspicions had been accurate: a plan was afoot to kill the squad. Did that make her life at risk as well? She felt herself nearing a decision. What that decision was she wasn't sure, but there was a direction to her thoughts now, and it had the inevitable momentum of an avalanche.

The seventh bell was ringing from some distant tower as Toc the Younger passed into the Empire headquarters.

He showed his invitation to yet another grim-faced, intense guard, and was grudgingly allowed to continue on down the main hall to the dining chamber. Unease churned in Toc's stomach. He knew the Adjunct was behind the request, but she could be as unpredictable and as manipulative as the rest. Beyond the doors he now approached might as well be a pit filled with vipers, all hungrily awaiting his arrival.

Toc wondered if he'd be able to keep anything down, and knowing the condition of his facial wound, he then wondered grimly if anyone else would be able to keep anything down. Among his fellow soldiers his scars were barely noticed: rare was the soldier in Dujek's army who did not carry a scar or three. Those few friends he had seemed simply thankful that he still lived.

In the Seven Cities, superstition held that loss of an eye was also the birth of inner sight. He'd been reminded of that belief at least a dozen times in the last couple of weeks. There had been no secret gift granted him in exchange for his eye. Flashes of searing light ripped through his mind every now and then, but he suspected that was no more than a memory of the last thing his eye had seen: fire.

And now he was about to sit among the loftiest company in the Empire, barring the Empress herself. Suddenly the wound was a thing of shame. He'd sit there as testament to the horrors of war-Toc stiffened just outside the dining room door. Was that why the Adjunct had invited him? He hesitated, then shrugged and entered.

Dujek, Tayschrenn and the Adjunct turned as one to regard him. Toc the Younger bowed.

«Thank you for coming,» Adjunct Lorn said. She stood with the two men near the largest of three fireplaces, in the wall opposite the entrance «Please, join us. We're now awaiting but one more guest.»

Toc strode to them, thankful for Dujek's grin. The High Fist set his crystal goblet down on the mantel and deliberately scratched the stump of his left arm.

«Bet it's driving you half crazed,» the old man said, his grin broadening.

«I scratch with both hands,» Toc said.

Dujek barked a laugh. «Join us in a drink?»

«Thank you.» He noticed Lorn's appraisal as he accepted a goblet from Dujek. Taking the decanter from a nearby table, his glance crossed the High Mage, but Tayschrenn's attention was fixed on the roaring fire behind Lorn.

«Has your horse recovered?» the Adjunct asked.

Toc nodded as he filled his goblet. «Doing handstands the last time I looked in on her,» he said.

Lorn smiled tentatively, as if unsure whether he was mocking her. «I've explained your vital role in keeping me alive, Toc the Younger, how you loosed four arrows on the fly, and brought down four Barghast.»

He looked at her sharply. «I didn't know I had the last two shots in me,» he said. He sipped wine, resisting the urge to scratch his wound.

Dujek grunted. «Your father was also in the habit of surprising people. There's a man I miss.»

«I, too,» Toc replied, looking down.

The awkward silence that followed this exchange was mercifully broken by the arrival of the last guest. Toc turned with the others as the door swung open. He gazed at the woman standing in the entrance, then started. Was that Tattersail? He'd never seen her wearing anything but battle garb, and was now stunned. My, he thought wonderingly, she's not bad, if you like them big, that is. He half grinned.

Lorn's response to Tattersail's appearance had sounded much like a gasp, then she spoke. «We have met before, though I doubt you'd remember.»

Tattersail blinked. «I think I would have recalled that,» she said cautiously.

«I think not. I was but eleven years old at the time.»

«Then you must be mistaken. I'm rarely in the company of children.»

«They burned the Mouse Quarter a week after you swept through it, Tattersail.» Lorn's voice made everyone stiffen with its barely controlled rage. «Those survivors, the ones you left behind, were resettled in Mock's Hole. And in those plague-ridden caverns my mother, my father and my brother died.»

The blood drained from Tattersail's round face.

Bewildered, Toc glanced at the others. Dujek's expression was masked, but there was a storm behind his eyes as he studied Lorn. On Tayschrenn's face, as he looked upon the sorceress, there dawned a sudden light.

«It was our first command,» Tattersail said quietly.

Toc saw Lorn trembling and held his breath. But when she spoke it was controlled, the words precise. «An explanation is required.» She turned to High Fist Dujek. «They were recruits, a cadre of mages. They were in Malaz City, awaiting their new commander, when the Master of the Claw issued an edict against sorcery. They were sent into the Old City-the Mouse-to cleanse it. They were-» her voice caught «-indiscriminate.» She swung her attention back to Tattersail. «This woman was one of those mages. Sorceress, that night was my last with my family. I was given to the Claw the very next day. The news of my family's death was kept from me for years. Yet,» her words fell to a whisper, «I well remember that night-the blood, the screams.»

Tattersail seemed unable to speak. The air in the room had grown thick, stifling. Finally the sorceress prised her gaze from the Adjunct and said to Dujek, «High Fist, it was our first command. We lost control. I resigned from the officer corps the very next day and was posted with another Army.» She gathered herself. «If it is the Adjunct's wish to convene a court, I offer no defence and will accept my execution as a just penalty.»

Lorn replied, «That is acceptable.» She laid her left hand upon her sword and prepared to withdraw it.

«No,» High Fist Dujek said. «It is not acceptable.»

Lorn froze. She glared at the old man. «You seem to forget my rank.»

«No, I haven't. Adjunct, if it is your will that those within the Empire who have committed crimes in the Emperor's name must be executed, he stepped forward, «then you must include me. Indeed, I believe High Mage Tayschrenn also has his share of horror committed on the Emperor's behalf. And, finally, there is the Empress herself to consider.

Laseen, after all, commanded the Emperor's Claw-she created it, in fact. More, the Edict was hers, thankfully short-lived as it was.» He turned to Tattersail. «I was there, Tattersail. Under Whiskeyjack's command I was sent down to rein you in, which I did.»

She shook her head. «Whiskeyjack commanded?» Her eyes narrowed «This has the taste of a god's game.»

Dujek swung back to the Adjunct. «The Empire has its history, and we each are in it.»

«In this,» Tayschrenn rasped, «I must agree with the High Fist, Adjunct.

«There's no need to have all this official,» Tattersail said, her eyes on Lorn. «I hereby challenge you to a duel. On my behalf I shall employ all my magical skills in an effort to destroy you. You may defend with your sword, Adjunct.»

Toc took a step forward. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He'd been about to tell Tattersail that Lorn carried an Otataral sword that the duel would be grossly unfair, that she'd die within seconds, as the sword devoured her every spell. Then he saw that the sorceress knew all that.

Dujek rounded on Tattersail. «Dammit, woman! Do you think everything hinges on how it's worded? Execution. Duel. None of it matters one whit! All that the Adjunct does, all that she says, is on behalf of Empress Laseen.» He spun to Lorn. «You are here as Laseen's voice, as her will, Adjunct.»

Tayschrenn spoke softly, «The woman named Lorn, the woman who once was a child, who once had a family,» he looked upon the Adjunct with anguish in his eyes, «that woman does not exist. She ceased to exist the day she became the Adjunct.»

Lorn stared at the two men, her eyes wide.

Standing beside her, Toc watched those words battering her will, crushing the anger, shattering into dust every last vestige of identity. And from her eyes rose the icy, clinical repose of the Adjunct to the Empress.

Toc felt his heart pounding hard against his chest. He'd just witnessed an execution. The woman named Lorn had risen from the turgid mists of the past, risen to right A wrong, to find justice and in that last act reclaim its life-and she had been denied. Not by the words of Dujek or Tayschrenn, but by the thing known as the Adjunct.

«Of course,» she said, removing her hand from her sword. «Please enter, Sorceress Tattersail, and dine with us.»

The flat tone of her voice told Toc that her invitation had not cost anything-and this horrified him, shook him to his very core. A quick glance showed a similar response from Tayschrenn and Dujek, though the latter veiled it.

Tattersail looked positively ill, but she nodded shakily in answer to the Adjunct's invitation.

Toc found the decanter and a spare crystal goblet. He walked up to the sorceress. «I am Toc: the Younger,» he said, smiling, «and you need a drink.» He poured the glass full and handed it to her. «Often, when we camped on the march, I'd see you lugging that travelling wardrobe of yours around. Now I finally see what was in it. Sorceress, you're a sight for a sore eye.»

A look of gratitude entered Tattersail's gaze. She raised an eyebrow. «I hadn't realized my travelling wardrobe garnered such attention.»

Toc grinned. «I'm afraid you've provided a standing joke in the Second.

Anything surprising, be it an ambush or an unplanned skirmish-the enemy invariably came from your travelling wardrobe, Sorceress.»

Dujek guffawed behind him. «I've often wondered where that phrase came from, and damn, I heard it a lot-even from my officers.»

The atmosphere in the room relaxed somewhat; though undercurrents of tension still swirled, they seemed to be between Tattersail and High Mage Tayschrenn. The sorceress turned her gaze upon Lorn whenever the Adjunct's attention was elsewhere, and Toc could see the compassion there, and his respect for her rose considerably. In her shoes, any look he gave Lorn would have been filled with fear. And whatever storm threatened between Tattersail and Tayschrenn seemed born of a difference in opinion coupled with suspicion; it didn't look personal.

Then again, Toc considered, Dujek's steady presence may have been providing the levelling influence. His father had spoken much of Dujek, of a man who never lost his touch with the powerless or the less powerful. In dealing with the former, he always made his own failings an easy recognition; and with the latter he had an unerring eye that cut away personal ambition with the precision of a surgeon removing septic flesh, leaving in its place someone who treated trust and honesty as givens.

Studying Dujek's easy, relaxed rapport with the others in attendance, including himself, and then with the servants who filed in bearing trays of food, it struck Toc that the man had not changed perceptibly from the one Toc the Elder had called friend. And that impressed Toc deeply, knowing as he did the pressures that burdened the High Fist.

As soon as everyone was seated and the first course presented, it was Adjunct Lorn who took command, however. Dujek relinquished it without a word or a gesture, evidently confident that the earlier incident was now over as far as the Adjunct was concerned.

Lorn addressed Tattersail in that uncanny, flat voice. «Sorceress, permit me to compliment you on besting a Hound of Shadow, and on your timely recovery. I know that Tayschrenn has questioned you regarding this incident, but I would like to hear the tale from you directly.»

Tattersail set down her goblet and regarded her plate briefly before meeting the Adjunct's steady gaze. «As the High Mage may have explained, it's now clear that the gods have entered the fray. Specifically, they've become involved with the Empire's plans for Darujhistan-»

Toc rose quickly. «I believe,» he said, «I should excuse myself now, as what will be discussed here exceeds-»

«Be seated, Toc the Younger,» Lorn commanded. «You are the Claw representative here, and as such you are responsible for speaking on its behalf.»

«I am?»

«You are.»

Slowly, Toc sat.

«Please continue, Sorceress.»

Tattersail nodded. «Oponn is central to this gambit. The Twin jesters» opening move has created ripples-I'm sure the High Mage would agree with this-and thus attracted the attention of other gods.»

«Shadowthrone,» Lorn said. She looked to Tayschrenn.

The High Mage concurred. «One could expect such a thing. I, however, have sensed nothing of Shadowthrone's attention upon us, even though I pursued that possibility vigorously after the Hound's attack.»

Lorn exhaled slowly. «Sorceress, please go on.»

«The Hound's presence was triggered entirely by accident,» Tattersail said, flicking a glance at Tayschrenn. «I was doing a reading from my Deck of Dragons, and came upon the card of the Hound. As with all Adepts, I found the image animate to a certain extent. When I gave it my full concentration, it felt,» she cleared her throat, «as if a portal opened, created entirely from the other side of that card-from High House Shadow itself.» She raised her hands and gazed steadily at the High Mage. «Is this possible? The Shadow Realm is new among the Houses, its full power not yet expressed. Well, whatever happened-a portal, a rent-the Hound Gear appeared.»

«Then why,» Tayschrenn asked, «did it appear in the street? Why not in your room?»

Tattersail smiled. «I can speculate.»

«Please do,» the Adjunct said.

«I have wards about my room,» Tattersail said. «The innermost of these are High Thyr.»

Tayschrenn started at that, clearly surprised.

«Such wards,» Tattersail continued, «create a flux, a tide of power that surges and ebbs like a pulsing heart, one that is beating very fast. I suspect that these wards were sufficient to bounce the Hound away from my immediate area, since in its transitional state-half-way between its realm and ours-the Hound could not fully express its powers. Once it had arrived, however, it could, and it did.»

«How did you manage to fend off a Hound of Shadow?» Tayschrenn asked.

«Luck,» Tattersail replied, without hesitation. Her answer hung in the air, and it seemed to Toc that everyone had forgotten their meal.

«In other words,» Lorn said slowly, «you believe that Oponn intervened.»

«I do.»

«Why?»

Tattersail barked a laugh. «If I could work that out, Adjunct, I'd be a happy woman. As it is,» her humour fell away, «it seems we're being used. The Empire itself has become a pawn.»

«Is there a way out?» Dujek asked, his words a growl that startled everyone.

Tattersail shrugged. «If there is, it lies in Darujhistan, since that's where Oponn's gambit seems centred. Mind you, High Fist, drawing us into Darujhistan might well be what Oponn seeks to achieve.»

Toc sat back, absently scratching his wound. There was more to it, he suspected, though he could find no discernible source for his suspicion.

He scratched harder. Tattersail could be glib when she wanted to be; her story had a straightforwardness to it. The best lies were the simple ones.

Still, nobody else seemed unduly suspicious. The sorceress had shifted attention from her story to its implications for future action. She had everyone thinking past her, and the faster their thoughts raced, the further behind they left their doubts about her.

He watched her watching the others, and was the only one to notice the flash of triumph and relief in her eyes when Lorn spoke.

«Oponn is not the first god seeking to manipulate the Malazan Empire,» the Adjunct said. «Others have failed, come away bloodied. It's unfortunate the lesson was lost on Opornn-and on Shadowthrone, for that matter.» She sighed deeply. «Tattersail, whatever your differences with the High Mage, it is necessary, no, vital, that you work together in seeking to discover the details of Oponn's intervention. In the meantime, High Fist Dujek will continue preparing his legion to march, as well as solidifying our hold on Pale. For myself, I will be leaving the city shortly. Rest assured, my mission has goals identical to yours. Now, one last thing,» she turned to Toc, «I wish to hear the Claw's evaluation of the words that have been exchanged here.»

He stared in surprise. He'd assumed the role she had expected of him without even realizing it. He sat straight and glanced at Tattersail. She now looked nervous, drawing her hands beneath the table. He waited until their gazes locked and held before he turned to the Adjunct.

«In so far as she knows it, the sorceress speaks the truth,» he said. «Her speculations were genuine, although concerning the dynamics of magic I'm at a loss. Perhaps High Mage Tayschrenn could comment on that.»

Lorn seemed vaguely disappointed with Toc's evaluation, but she nodded anyway and said, «Accepted, then. High Mage?»

Tayschrenn released a slow breath. «Accurate,» he said. «Speculation is sound.»

Toc refilled his goblet. The first course was removed almost untouched, but as the second course arrived everyone turned their full attention to it and conversation ceased. Toc ate slowly, avoiding Tattersail's eyes, though he sensed them upon him time and again. He wondered at his own actions: deceiving the Adjunct to the Empress, the High Mage and the High Fist all in one shot struck him as rash, if not suicidal. And his reasons for doing so were not entirely rational, which made it all the more distressing.

he n.

er es.

d ad,he ce for ces in e, im er she is st full He the not. ch. The 2nd had a long, bloody history. More times than Toc could count someone had come through for someone else whatever the odds. And, more often than not, it had been the mage cadre. He'd been there on the plain outside Pale, and he'd watched with a thousand others the cadre being torn apart, hopelessly outmatched. That kind of waste didn't sit well with the 2nd. And, though he was a Claw, the faces that surrounded him, the faces that looked upon him in hope, despair, and-at times-fatal resignation, those faces had been mirrors of his own, and they defied the Claw at every turn. The years in the Claw where feeling and caring had been systematically assailed, those years failed to withstand the day-in, day-out reality that was the 2nd Army.

This night, and with his words, Toc had given something back to Tattersail, not just for her but for the cadre. It didn't matter if she understood, and he knew she must be feeling bewildered by his actions; none of that mattered. What he'd done he'd done for himself.

He sat up. Now that's odd, he thought, my wound's stopped itching.

Feeling light-headed, Tattersail wobbled every now and then as she walked down the hall towards the door to her room. She knew it wasn't the wine. With her nerves as frayed as they were, that fine vintage had tasted like water, and had had as much effect.

Adjunct Lorn had raised in the sorceress memories she'd spent years burying. For Lorn, it had been a pivotal event. But for Tattersail, it had been just one nightmare among many. Still, it had pushed her where other crimes had not, and as a result she'd found herself attached to the 2nd Army-the Army she'd been sent to as a recruit, the closing of a circle, but in that time she had changed.

That attachment, those twenty-odd years of service, had this night saved her life. She knew that Toc the Younger had lied for her, and the look he had given her prior to stating his evaluation had been a message she'd understood. Though he had come to the 2nd as a Claw, as a spy, not even his years of training within that secret organization could withstand the new world in which he'd found himself.

Tattersail understood this all too clearly, for the same had happened to her. The sorceress in a cadre of mages who had entered the Mouse Quarter so long ago had cared naught for anyone but herself. Even her attempt to cut herself away from the horrors of which she'd been part had been born of a selfish desire to flee, to absolve her own conscience-but the Empire had denied her in this. An old soldier had come to her the day after the slaughter in the Mouse Quarter. Old, nameless, a veteran sent to convince the sorceress that she was still needed. She well remembered his words. «Should you ever outrun the guilt within your past, Sorceress, you will have outrun your soul. When it finds you again it will kill you.» And then, rather than deny her desperate needs absolutely, he'd sent her into a veteran army, the 5th, until the time came for her to return-to the 2nd, to a place under the command of Dujek Onearm. With that, she'd been given a second chance.

Tattersail came to her door and paused to sense the condition of her wards. All was well. Sighing, she entered her room, then leaned against the door as it closed behind her.

Captain Paran stepped out from the bedroom, his expression wan and somehow shy. «Not under arrest? I'm surprised.»

«So am I,» she replied.

«Hairlock was here,» Paran said. «He instructed me to give you a message.»

Tattersail studied the man's face, seeking a hint of what he was about to deliver. He avoided her gaze and remained standing near the doorway into the bedroom. «Well?» she demanded.

Paran cleared his throat. «First, he was, uh, excited. He knew of Adjunct's arrival, and said she wasn't alone.»

«Not alone? Did he explain that?»

Paran shrugged. «Said the dust walks around the Adjunct, the d shifts beneath her boots, and the wind whispers of frost and fire.» He raised his eyebrows. «Does that explain anything? Damned if I know.»

Tattersail strode to her dresser. She began to remove the scant jewellery she'd donned for the dinner. «I think it does,» she said slowly. «Did he say anything else?»

«He did. He said that the Adjunct and her companion were leaving Pale soon, and that he intended to track them. Sorceress:»

She saw that Paran was struggling with something, as if fighting his every instinct. Tattersail laid one arm on the dresser and waited. When he met her gaze, her breath caught. «You were about to say something,» she said, her voice low. Her heart was pounding all too fast, and she felt her body responding as if of its own accord. The look she'd seen in his eyes had been clear in its meaning.

«I know something of the Adjunct's mission,» he said. «I was to be her contact in Darujhistan.»

Whatever had been building between them disintegrated as Tattersail's eyes went hard and anger darkened her face. «She's going to Darujhistan is she? And you and she were to oversee the long-awaited demise of the Bridgeburners. Together, you thought you'd be able to kill Whiskeyjack, to cut down his squad from within.»

«No!» Paran took a step forward, but when Tattersail shot out her hand, palm facing him, he froze. «Wait,» he whispered. «Before you do anything, just hear me out.»

Her Thyr Warren surged into her hand, eager for release. «Why? Damn Oponn for letting you live!»

«Tattersail, please!» She scowled. «Speak.»

Paran stepped back and turned to a nearby chair. Hands held out at his sides, he sat down and looked up at her.

«Keep those hands there,» Tattersail commanded. «Away from your sword.»

«This has been the Adjunct's personal mission, from the very start. Three years ago I was stationed in Itko Kan, Officers Corps. One day every available soldier was mustered out and marched to a section of the coast road.» Paran's hands had begun to shake, and the muscles of his jaw stood out. «What we saw there, Tattersail, you would not believe.»

She recalled Quick Ben and Kalam's story. «A massacre. A company cavalry.»

Astonishment showed on Paran's face. «How did you know?»

«Go on, Captain,» she grated.

«Adjunct Lorn arrived from the capital and took charge. She guessed that the massacre had been a: a diversion. We began upon a trail. It was not a clear one, not at first. Sorceress, may I lower my arms?»

«Slowly. On the chair arms, Captain.»

He sighed gratefully and set down his trembling forearms as she'd instructed. «Anyway, the Adjunct determined that a girl had been taken, possessed by a god.»

«Which god?»

Paran made a face. «Come, now, if you know of the massacre, is it hard to guess? That company was killed by Shadow Hounds. Which god? Well, Shadowthrone comes to mind,» he said sarcastically. «The Adjunct believes Shadowthrone was involved, but the god that possessed the girl was the Rope-I know of no other name for him-the Patron of Assassins, Shadowthrone's companion.»

Tattersail dropped her arm. She'd closed her Warren a minute earlier, since it had begun to push hard and she had feared she didn't have the strength to resist it much longer. «You've found the girl,» she stated dully.

Vacant a %at forward. «Yes!»

"Att names Sorry.»

«You're aware of this,» Paran said, sinking back into the chair. «Which means that Whiskeyjack is also aware, since who else could have told you?» He looked up into her eyes with a clouded expression. «I'm now very confused.»

«You're not alone,» Tattersail said. «So all this-your arrival, the Adjunct's-it was all a hunt for the girl?» She shook her head. «That's not enough, it can't be enough, Captain.»

«It's all that I'm aware of, Tattersail.»

She studied him for a moment. «I believe you. Tell me, what are the details of the Adjunct's mission?»

«I don't know,» Paran said, tossing up his hands. «Somehow, I was the one she'd be able to find, so my being with the squad would bring her to the girl.»

«The Adjunct's talents are many,» Tattersail mused. «Through the antithesis of sorcery, she might well possess the ability to have linked with you, especially if you've been in her company for the past two years.»

«Then why isn't she breaking down your door?»

Tattersail's eyes were on the jewellery scattered on the dresser. «Oponn severed the link, Captain.»

«I dislike the thought of exchanging one set of shackles for another,» Paran grumbled.

«There's more to this,» Tattersail insisted, more to herself than to the captain. «Lorn has a T'lan Imass with her.»

Paran jerked upright.

«Hairlock's snide hints,» she explained. «I believe the mission was twofold. Kill Sorry, yes, but also kill Whiskeyjack and his squad. The T'lan would not be involved if her plan concerned just you. Her Otataral sword is sufficient to destroy Sorry, and possibly kill the Rope as well, assuming that's who's possessing the girl.»

«I would not like to believe that,» Paran said. «They are my command. My responsibility. The Adjunct would not betray me so-»

«Wouldn't she? Why not?»

The captain seemed at a loss to answer her, but there was a stubborn glower in his eyes.

Tattersail reached the decision she had sensed was coming, and it left her cold. «Hairlock left too early. The puppet was eager, too eager to pursue the Adjunct and that T'lan Imass. He must have discovered something about them, about what they're up to.»

«Who is Hairlock's master?» Paran asked.

«Quick Ben, Whiskeyjack's mage.» She looked to him. «He's the best I've seen. Not the most powerful, mind you, but smart. Still, if the T'lan Imass comes on him unawares he won't stand a chance, and neither will the rest.» She paused, her eyes holding on the captain. «I have to leave Pale,» she said abruptly.

Paran shot to his feet. «Not alone.»

«Alone,» Tattersail insisted. «I have to find Whiskeyjack, and if you're tagging along then Lorn will find him too.»

«I refuse to believe the Adjunct presents any risk to the sergeant,» Paran said. «Tell me, can you succeed in killing Sorry? Even with Quick Ben's help?»

The sorceress hesitated. «I'm not sure I want to,» she said slowly.

«What?»

«It has to be Whiskeyjack's decision, Captain. And I don't think I can give any good reason for convincing you of that. I just feel it's right.»

She felt herself relying on instinct in this matter, but vowed to hold true to it.

«Even so,» Paran said, «I can't remain hiding here, can I? What do I eat? The bedding?»

«I can get you out into the city,» Tattersail said. «None will recognize you. Take a room in an inn and stay out of your uniform. If all goes well I'll be back in two weeks. You can wait that long, can't you, Captain?»

Paran stared. «And what happens if I just walk out of here and introduce myself to Dujek Onearm?»

«The High Mage Tayschrerm would shred your brain with truthseeking sorcery, Captain. You've Oponn's touch, and after tonight Oponn is now an official enemy of the Empire. And when Tayschrenn's done he'll leave you to die, which is preferable to the madness that would grip you if he kept you alive. He'll show that mercy, at least.» Tattersail anticipated Paran's thoughts. «Dujek might well seek to protect you, but in this Tayschrenn outranks him. You've become a tool of Oponn, and for Dujek the safety of his soldiers takes precedence over his pleasure in frustrating Tayschrenn. So, in fact, he might not protect you at all. I'm sorry, Captain, but you're truly alone if you walk.»

«I'll be alone when you leave, too, Sorceress.»

«I know, but it won't be for ever.» She searched his eyes and felt compassion welling behind her own. «Paran,» she said, «it's not all bad. Despite all the distrust between us, I'm feeling things for you I haven't felt for anyone in-well, in some time.» She smiled sadly. «I don't know what that's worth, Captain, but I'm glad I said it anyway.»

Paran gazed at her for a long minute, then said, «Very well, Tattersail, I'll do as you ask. An inn? Do you have some local coin?»

«Easily acquired.» Her shoulders slumped. «I'm sorry, but I'm exhausted.» As she turned to the bedroom her gaze fell on the dresser-top one last time. Amid a small pile of underclothing she saw her Deck of Dragons. It would be foolish not to do a reading, considering the decision she'd made.

Paran spoke close behind her. «Tattersail, how thorough is your exhaustion?»

She felt the heat in his words triggering a smouldering fire beneath her stomach, and her gaze slid away from the Deck as she turned to face the captain. Though she voiced no reply to his question, her answer was clear. He took her hand, surprising her with such an innocent gesture. So young, she thought, and now he's leading me into the bedroom. She would have laughed if the act hadn't been so sweet.

False dawn played the eastern horizon as Adjunct Lorn guided her mount and packhorse out from Pale's East Gate. True to Dujek's words the guards were nowhere in sight, and the gate had been left open. She hoped the few sleepy eyes that had followed her through the streets had only mild curiosity behind them. In any case, she was dressed in simple, unadorned leather armour; her face was mostly hidden in the shadow cast by the plain bronze helmet's browguard. Even her horses were a local breed, sturdy and placid, much smaller than the Malazan warhorses with which she was most familiar, but a comforting ride none the less. It seemed unlikely that she would have attracted undue attention. More than one unemployed mercenary had left Pale since the Empire's arrival.

The south horizon was a jagged line of snow-capped mountains. The Tahlyn Mountains would remain on her right for some time, before the Rhivi Plain swept past them and became the Catlin Plain. Few farms broke the flatlands around her, and those that did crowded the city's own lands. The Rhivi people were not tolerant of such encroachments, and since every trade route that led to and from Pale crossed their traditional territory, those of the city wisely refrained from angering the Rhivi.

Ahead, as she walked her horses, the dawn showed its face with a streak of crimson. The rain had passed a few days back, and the sky overhead was silver-blue and clear, a few stars dwindling as light came to the world.

The day promised to be hot. The Adjunct loosened the leather thongs between her breasts, revealing the fine mail hauberk beneath. By midday she would reach the first wellspring, where she would replenish her supply of water. She ran a hand across the surface of one of the bladders strapped to her saddle. It came away wet with condensation. She passed her hand across her lips.

The voice that spoke beside her jolted her in the saddle and her mount snorted in fear and sidestepped.

«I will walk with you,» Onos T'oolan said, «for a time.»

Lorn glared at the T'lan Imass. «I would rather you announced your arrival,» she said tightly, «from a distance.»

«As you wish.» Onos T'oolan sank into the ground like so much dust.

The Adjunct cursed. Then she saw him waiting a hundred yards ahead of her, back-lit by the rising sun. The crimson sky seemed to have cast a red flame about the warrior. The effect jangled her nerves, as if she looked upon a scene that touched her deepest, oldest memories-memories that went beyond her own life. The T'lan Imass stood unmoving until she reached him, then fell into step beside her.

Lorn tightened her knees about the horse's shoulders and closed the reins until the mare settled down. «Do you have to be so literal-minded, Tool?» she asked.

The desiccated warrior seemed to consider, then nodded. «I accept that name. All of my history is dead. Existence begins anew, and with it shall be a new name. It is suitable.»

«Why were you selected to accompany me?» the Adjunct asked.

«In the lands west and north of Seven Cities, I alone among my clan survived the Twenty-eighth Jaghut War.»

Lorn's eyes widened. «I thought those wars numbered twenty-seven,» she said quietly. «When your legions left us after conquering Seven Cities, and you marched into the wastelands-»

«Our Bone Casters sensed an enclave of surviving Jaghut,» Tool said. «Our commander Logros T'lan determined that we exterminate them. Thus we did.»

«Which explains your decimated numbers upon returning,» Lorn said.

«You could have explained your decision to the Empress. As it was, she was left without her most powerful army, and no knowledge of when it might return.»

«Return was not guaranteed, Adjunct,» Tool said.

Lorn stared at the tattered creature. «I see.»

«The cessation of my clan's chieftain, Kig Aven, was accompanied by all my kin. Thus alone, I am unbound to Logro. Kig Aven's Bone Caster was Kilava Onass, who has been lost since long before the Emperor reawakened us.»

Lorn's mind raced. Among the Malazan Empire, the T'lan Imass were also known as the Silent Host. She'd never known an Imass as loquacious as this Tool. Perhaps it had something to do with this «unbounding'. Within the Imass, only Commander Logros ever spoke to humans on a regular basis. As for the Bone Casters-Imass shamans-they stayed out of sight. The only one that had ever appeared was one named Olar Ethil, who stood alongside the clan chieftain Eitholos Ilm during the battle of Kartool, which had seen an exchange of sorcery that made Moon's Spawn look like a child's cantrip.

In any case, she'd already learned more of the Imass from this brief conversation with Tool than was present in the Empire Annals. The Emperor had known more, much more, but making records of such knowledge had never been his style. That he had reawakened the Imass had been a theory argued among scholars for years. And now she knew it to be true. How many other secrets would this T'lan Imass reveal in casual conversation?

«Tool,» she said, «had you ever met the Emperor personally?»

«I awakened before Galad Ketan and after Onak Shendok and, as with all the T'lan Imass, I knelt before the Emperor as he sat upon the First Throne.»

«The Emperor was alone?» Lorn asked.

«No. He was accompanied by the one named Dancer.»

«Damn,» she hissed. Dancer had died beside the Emperor. «Where is this First Throne, Tool?»

The warrior was silent for a time, then it said, «Upon the Emperor's death the Logros T'lan Imass gathered minds-a rare thing that was last done before the Diaspora-and a binding resulted. Adjunct, the answer to your question is within this binding. I cannot satisfy you. This holds for all Logros T'lan Imass and for all Kron T'lan Imass.»

«Who are the Kron?»

«They are coming,» Tool replied.

Sudden sweat sprang out on the Adjunct's brow. Logros» legions, when they first arrived on the scene, numbered around nineteen thousand. They were believed now to number fourteen thousand, and the majority of those losses had come beyond the Empire's borders, in this last Jaghut War. Were another nineteen thousand Imass about to arrive? What had the Emperor unleashed?

«Tool,» she asked slowly, almost regretting her need to persist in questioning him, «what is the significance of these Kron coming?»

«The Year of the Three Hundredth Millennium approaches,» the warrior replied.

«What happens then?»

«Adjunct, the Diaspora ends.»

The Great Raven called Crone rode the high winds above Rhivi Plain. The northern horizon was now a green-tinged curve, growing more substantial with every hour of flight. Weariness weighed down her wings, but the heaven's breath was a strong one. And more, nothing could assail her certainty that changes were coming to this world, and she drew again and again upon her vast reserves of magical power.

If ever there was a dire convergence of great forces, it was now, and in this place. The gods were descending to the mortal soil to do battle, shapings were being forged of flesh and bone, and the blood of sorcery now boiled with a madness born of inevitable momentum. Crone had never felt more alive.

With these unveiling of powers, heads had turned. And to one Crone flew in answer to a summons she was powerless to ignore. Lord Anomander Rake was not her only master, and for her this only made things more interesting. As for her own ambitions, she would keep them to herself. For now, knowledge was her power.

And if there was one secret more alluring than any other she might covet, it was the mystery surrounding the half human warrior called Caladan Brood. Anticipation lifted Crone's wings with renewed strength.

Steadily, Blackdog Forest spread its verdant cloak over the north.