Gardens of the Moon

CHAPTER TEN

Jimkaros inn stood just beyond eltrosan square in the opal Quarter of Pale. That much Toc knew from his wanderings through the city. But for the life of him he could not think of anyone staying there whom he knew. Yet the instructions for this mysterious meeting had been clear.

He now approached the ostentatious structure warily. He saw nothing suspicious. The square was crowded with the usual gentry and merchant shops; of Malazan guards there were few. The culling of the nobility had done much to cloak Pale's atmosphere with a shocked stillness that hung about people like invisible yokes.

The past few days Toc had kept much to himself, carousing with his fellow soldiers when the mood took him, though those times seemed rarer these days. With the Adjunct gone, and Tattersail reported missing, Dujek and Tayschrenn were involved in mutually exclusive responsibilities. The High Fist was busy restructuring Pale, and his newly formed 5th Army; while the High Mage sought Tattersail, evidently without much success.

Toc suspected that the peace between the two men would not last.

Since the dinner, he had stayed away from anything official, choosing to eat with his comrades rather than dine with the officers as was now his privilege as ranking Claw. The less noticed he made himself the better, as far as he was concerned.

He entered Vimkaros Inn and paused. Before him was a roofless courtyard with paths winding among a rich garden. Clearly, the inn had survived the siege unscathed. A wide central path led directly to a broad counter behind which stood a corpulent old man eating grapes. A few guests walked the side paths, moving among the plants and conversing in low tones.

The message had insisted he come dressed in local garb. Thus, Toc drew little attention as he strode to the counter.

The old man paused in his snacking and bowed with his head. «At your service, sir,» he said, wiping his hands.

«I believe a table has been reserved in my name,» Toc said. «I am Render Kan.»

The old man studied a wax tablet before him, then looked up with a smile. «Of course. Follow me.»

A minute later Toc sat at a table on a balcony overlooking the garden court. His only company was a decanter of chilled Saltoan wine, which arrived when he did, and he now sipped from a goblet, his lone eye surveying the people in the garden below.

A servant arrived and bowed before him. «Kind sir,» the man said, «I am to deliver the following message. A gentleman will soon join you who has been out of his depth yet not aware of it. He is, now.»

Toc frowned. «That's the message?»

«It is.»

«His own words?»

«And yours, sir.» The servant bowed again and departed.

Toc's frown deepened, then he sat forward, his every muscle tensing.

He turned to the balcony's entrance in time to see Captain Paran stride through. He was dressed in the manner of the local gentry, unarmed, and looking quite fit. Toc rose, grinning.

«Not unduly shocked, I hope,» Paran said, as he arrived. They sat down and the captain poured himself some wine. «Did the message prepare you?»

«Barely,» Toc replied. «I'm not sure how to receive you, Captain. Is this according to the Adjunct's instructions?»

«She believes me dead,» Paran said, his brow wrinkling. «And I was, for a time. Tell me, Toc the Younger, am I speaking to a Claw, or to a soldier of the Second?»

Toc's eye narrowed. «That's a tough question.»

«Is it?» Paran asked, his gaze intense and unwavering.

Toc hesitated, then grinned again. «Hood's Breath, no, it damn well isn't! All right, Captain, welcome to the defunct Second, then.»

Paran laughed, clearly relieved.

«Now what's all this about you being dead but not dead, Captain?»

Paran's humour vanished. He took a mouthful of wine and swallowed, looking away. «An attempted assassination,» he explained, grimacing. I should have died, if not for Mallet and Tattersail.»

«What? Whiskeyjack's healer and the sorceress?»

Paran nodded. «I've been recovering until recently in Tattersail's quarters. WhiskeyJack's instructions were to keep my existence secret the time being. Toc,» he leaned forward, «what do you know of the Adjunct's plans?»

Toc examined the garden below. Tattersail had known-she managed to keep it from everyone at the dinner. Remarkable. «Now,» said quietly, «you ask questions of a Claw.»

«I do.»

«Where's Tattersail?» Toc swung his gaze to the captain and held the man's eyes.

The captain jerked his head. «Very well. She travels overland-Darujhistan. She knows a T'lan Imass accompanies the Adjunct, and she believes Lorn's plan includes killing Whiskeyjack and his squad. I do not agree. My role in the mission was to keep an eye on one member of the sergeant's squad, and that person was to be the only one to die. She gave me the command after three years of service to her-it's a reward, and I can't believe she would take it from me. There, that is what I know. Can you help me, Toc?»

«The Adjunct's mission,» Toc said, after releasing a long breath, «as far as I'm aware of it, involves far more than just killing Sorry. The T'lan Imass is with her for something else. Captain,» Toc's expression was grim, «the days of the Bridgeburners are numbered. Whiskeyjack's name is damn near sacred among Dujek's men. This is something of which I couldn't convince the Adjunct-in fact she seems to think the opposite but if the sergeant and the Bridgeburners are eliminated, this army won't be pulled back in line, it will mutiny. And the Malazan Empire will be against High Fist Dujek with not a single commander who can match him. The Genabackan Campaign will disintegrate, and civil war may well sweep into the heart of the Empire.»

The blood had drained from Paran's face. «I believe you,» he said. «Very well, you've taken my doubts and made of them convictions. And they leave me with but one choice.»

«And that is?»

Paran turned the empty goblet in his hands. «Darujhistan,» he said. «With luck I'll catch Tattersail, and together we'll attempt to contact Whiskeyjack before the Adjunct does.» He glanced at Toc. «Evidently the Adjunct can no longer sense my whereabouts. Tattersail forbade me to accompany her, arguing that Lorn would be able to detect me, but she also let slip that my «death» had severed the bonds between me and the Adjunct. I should have made the connection sooner, but she: distracted me.»

Into Toc's mind returned the memory of how she'd looked that evening, and he nodded knowingly. «I'm sure she did.»

Paran sighed. «Yes, well. In any case, I need at least three horses, and supplies. The Adjunct is proceeding on some kind of timetable. I know that much. So she's not travelling with much haste. I should catch up with Tattersail in a day or two, then together we can drive hard to the edge of the Tahlyn Mountains, skirt them and slip past the Adjunct.»

Toc had leaned back during Paran's elaboration of his plan, a half-smile on his lips. «You'll need Wickan horses, Captain, since what you've described requires mounts superior to those the Adjunct's riding. Now, how do you plan to get past the city gates dressed as a local but leading Empire horses?»

Paran blinked.

Toc grinned. «I've got your answer, Captain.» He spread his hands. «I'll go with you. Leave the horses and supplies to me, and I guarantee we'll get out of the city unnoticed.»

«But-»

«Those are my conditions, Captain.»

Paran coughed. «Very well. And now that I think on it, the company would be welcome.»

«Good,» Toc grunted. He reached for the decanter. «Let's drink on the damn thing, then.»

The way was becoming more and more difficult, and Tattersail felt her first tremor of fear. She travelled a Warren of High Thyr and not even Tayschrenn possessed the ability to assail it, yet under attack it was. Not directly. The power that opposed her was pervasive, and it deadened her sorcery.

The Warren had become narrow, choked with obstacles. At times it shuddered around her, the dark walls to either side writhing as if under tremendous pressure. And within the tunnel she struggled to shape, the air stank of something she had difficulty identifying. There was a tinge of sour brimstone and a mustiness that reminded her of unearthed tombs. It seemed to drain the power from her with every breath she took.

She realized that she could not continue. She would have to enter the physical world and find rest. Once again she cursed her own carelessness.

She had forgotten her Deck of Dragons. With them she would have known what to expect. She entertained once again the suspicion that an outside force had acted upon her, severing her from the Deck. The first distraction had come from Captain Paran, and while it had been pleasant, she reminded herself that Paran belonged to Oponn. After that, she'd experienced an unaccountable urgency to be on her way, so much so that she'd left everything behind.

Bereft of her Warren, she would find herself alone on the Rhivi Plain, without food, without even a bedroll. The mindless need for haste she'd experienced ran contrary to her every instinct. She was growing certain that it had been imposed upon her, that somehow she'd let her defences down, left herself exposed to such manipulations. And that returned her thoughts to Captain Paran, to the servant of Oponn's will.

Finally, she could go no further. She began to withdraw her strained power, collapsing the Warren layer by layer about her. The ground beneath her boots became solid, cloaked in spare yellow grass, and the air around her shifted into the dull lavender of dusk. A wind brushed her face smelling of soil. The horizon steadied itself on all sides-far off to her right the sun still bathed the Talhyn Mountains, the peaks glittering like gold-and immediately ahead rose an enormous silhouetted figure, turning to face her and voicing a surprised grunt.

Tattersail stepped back in alarm, and the voice that emerged from the figure pushed the air from her lungs in a whooshing breath of relief, then terror.

«Tattersail,» Bellurdan said sadly, «Tayschrenn did not expect you'd manage to come this far. Thus, I was anticipating detecting you from a distance.» The Thelomen giant lifted his arms in an expansive, child-like shrug. At his feet was a familiar burlap sack, though the body within had shrunk since she'd last seen it.

«How has the High Mage managed to deny my Warren?» she asked.

On the heels of her terror had come weariness, almost resignation.

«He could not do that,» Bellurdan answered. «He simply anticipated that you would attempt to travel to Darujhistan, and as your Thyr Warren cannot function over water, he concluded you would take this path.»

«Then what happened with my Warren?»

Bellurdan grunted distastefully. «The T'lan Imass who accompanies the Adjunct has created around them a dead space. Our sorcery is devoured by the warrior's Eldering powers. The effect is cumulative. If you were to open your Warren entirely, you would be consumed utterly, Tattersail.»

The Thelomen stepped forward. «The High Mage has instructed me to arrest you and return you to him.»

«And if I resist?»

Bellurdan answered, in a tone filled with sorrow, «Then I am to kill you.»

«I see.» Tattersail thought for a time. Her world seemed to have closed in now, her every memory irrelevant and discarded. Her heart pounded like a thundering drum in her chest. All that remained of her past, and her only true sense of her life, was regret-an unspecified, yet overwhelming regret. She looked up at the Thelomen, compassion brimming in her eyes. «So where are this T'lan and the Adjunct, then?»

«Perhaps eight hours to the east. The Imass is not even aware of us. The time for conversation is ended, Tattersail. Will you accompany me?»

Her mouth dry, she said, «I did not think you one to betray a longstanding friend.»

Bellurdan spread his hands wider and said in a pained voice «I will never betray you, Tattersail. The High can there be betrayal?»

«Not that,» Tattersail replied quickly. «I once asked if I could speak with you at length. Remember? You said yes, Bellurdan. Yet now you tell me conversation is ended. I had not imagined your word to be so worthless.»

In the dying light it was impossible to see the Thelomen's face, but the anguish in his tone was plain. «I am sorry, Tattersail. You are correct. I gave you my word that we would speak again. Can we not do this while we return to Pale?»

«No,» Tattersail snapped. «I wish it now.»

Bellurdan bowed his head. «Very well.»

Tattersail forced the tension from her shoulders and neck. «I have some questions,» she said. «First, Tayschrenn sent you to Genabaris for a time, didn't he? You were searching through some scrolls for him?»

«Yes.»

«May I ask what were those scrolls?»

«Is it of vital significance now, Tattersail?»

«It is. The truth will help me in deciding whether to go with you, or die here.»

Bellurdan hesitated only a moment. «Very well. Among the archives collected from the city's mages-all of whom were executed, as you know-were found some copied fragments of Gothos» Folly, an ancient Jaghut tome-»

«I know of it,» Tattersail interjected. «Go on.»

«As a Thelomen, I possess Jaghut blood, though of course Gothos I Mage commands both of us. How I would deny it. The High Mage entrusted the examination of these writings to me. I was to seek out information concerning the burial of a Jaghut Tyrant, a burial that was in fact a prison.»

«Wait,» Tattersail said, shaking her head. «The Jaghut had no government. What do you mean by a Tyrant?»

«One whose blood was poisoned by the ambition to rule over others. This Jaghut Tyrant enslaved the land around it-all living things-for close to three thousand years. The Imass of the time sought to destroy it, and failed. It was left to other Jaghut to attend to the sundering and imprisoning of the Tyrant-for such a creature was as abominable to them as it was to Imass.»

Tattersail's heart now hammered in her chest. «Bellurdan.» She had to fight to push the words from her. «Where was this Tyrant buried?»

«I concluded that the barrow lies south of here, in the Gadrobi Hills directly east of Darujhistan.»

«Oh, Queen of Dreams. Bellurdan, do you know what you've done?»

«I have done as I was commanded by our High Mage.»

«And that's why the T'lan Imass is with the Adjunct.»

«I don't understand what you are saying, Tattersail.»

«Dammit, you brainless ox!» she rasped. «They plan to free the Tyrant! Lorn's sword-her Otataral sword-»

«No,» Bellurdan rumbled. «They would not do such a thing. Rather, they seek to prevent someone else releasing it. Yes, that is more likely. It is the truth of things. Now, Tattersail, our conversation is done.»

«I can't go back,» the sorceress said. «I must go on. Please, don't stop me.»

«We are to return to Pale,» Bellurdan said stubbornly. «Your concern has been satisfied. Permit me to take you back so that I may continue seeking the proper burial place for Nightchill.»

There was no choice left in Tattersail's mind, but there had to be a way out. The conversation had bought her time, time to recover from the ordeal of travelling by Warren. Bellurdan's words returned to her: if she accessed her Thyr Warren now she would be consumed. Incinerated by the reactive influence of the T'lan Imass. Her eyes fell on the burlap sack beside the Thelomen and saw from it a faint gleam of sorcery. A spell.

My own spell. She recalled now: a gesture of compassion, a spell of: preservation. Is this my way out? Hood's Breath, is it even possible? She thought of Hairlock, the journey from the dying body to a lifeless vessel. Shedenul, have mercy on us:

The sorceress stepped back and opened her Warren. High Thyr magic blazed around her. She saw Bellurdan stagger back then steady himself. He screamed something, but she could not hear him. Then he charged at her.

She regretted the Thelomen's fatal courage as the fire blackened the world around her, even as she opened her arms and embraced him.

Lorn strode to Tool's side. The T'lan Imass faced west, and a tension swirled about him that she could almost see.

«What is it?» she asked, her eyes on the white fountain of fire rising above the horizon. «I've never seen anything like that.»

«Nor I,» Tool replied. «It is within the barrier I have cast around us.»

«But that's impossible,» the Adjunct snapped.

«Yes, impossible to last this long. Its source should have been consumed almost instantly. Yet:» The T'lan Imass fell silent.

There was no need for Tool to finish his sentence. The pillar of fire still raged in the night sky as it had for the past hour. The stars swam in the inky darkness around it, magic swirling in a frenzy as if from a bottomless well. On the wind was a smell that left Lorn slightly nauseous. «Do you recognize the Warren, Thol?»

«Warrens, Adjunct. Tellann, Thyr, Denul, Uriss, Tennes, Thelomen Toblakai, Starvald Demelain:»

«Starvald Denielain, what in Hood's Name is that?»

«Elder.»

«I thought there were but three Elder Warrens, and that's not one of them.»

«Three? No, there were many, Adjunct, all born of one. Starvald Demelain.»

Lorn wrapped her cloak tighter about herself, eyes on the column of fire. «Who could manage such a conjuring?»

«There was one: once. Of worshippers there are none left, so he is no more. I have no answer to your question, Adjunct.» The Imass staggered as the pillar bloomed outwards, then winked out. A distant thundering rumble reached them.

«Gone,» Lorn whispered.

«Destroyed,» Tool said. The warrior cocked his head. «Strange, the source is indeed destroyed. But something has also been born. I sense it, a new presence.»

Lorn checked her sword. «What is it?» she demanded.

Tool shrugged. «New. It flees.»

Was this cause for worry? Lorn scowled and turned to the T'lan Imass, but he had already left her side, and was now striding back to their campfire. The Adjunct glanced once more at the western horizon. There was a cloud, blotting out the stars. It looked huge. She shivered.

It was time to sleep. The Imass would stand guard, so she need not worry about surprise visitors. The day had been long, and she'd overrationed her water; she felt weak, an unfamiliar sensation. Her scowl deepened as she walked to the camp. Tool, standing immobile beside the flames, reminded her of his arrival two days ago. The fiery glimmer that jumped along his withered flesh-and-bone helm once again triggered something primordial in her mind, and with it came a deep, unreasoning fear of darkness. She stepped close to the Imass. «Fire is life,» she whispered, the phrase seeming to rise from the depths of instinct.

Tool nodded. «Life is fire,» he said. «With such words was born the First Empire. The Empire of Imass, the Empire of Humanity.» The warrior turned to the Adjunct. «You've done well, my child.»

The grey pall of smoke hung unmoving over Blackdog Forest a dozen leagues north of her as Crone dipped her splayed tail and sank wearily towards the army encamped on the Rhivi Plain.

The tents marched outward like spokes from a central fortified hub where stood a large canopy, rippling in the morning breeze. Towards this centre the Great Raven descended. Her sharp gaze marked Rhivi plainsmen moving among the aisles. Off on the eastern rim fluttered the banners of the Catlin Horse, green and silver to mark the mercenary contingent of Caladan Brood's main army. By far the greatest proportion of soldiers, however, were Tiste And? — Anomander Rake's people, dwellers of the city within Moon's Spawn-their tall, dark-clad forms moving like shadows between the tents.

Wheeled tracks led north to the forest fringes: supply routes to entrenchments once held by the Malazans and now marking Brood's front lines. Rhivi-driven carts moved forward; an endless stream of supplies, while other wagons, laden with the dead and the wounded, entered the camp in a grim flow.

Crone cackled. Magic bled from the main tent and stained the dusty air with a heavy, turgid magenta, the colour of the Uriss Warren, earth magic. Her wings now felt light and held a youthful spring as she beat the air. «Ahhh,» Crone sighed, «magic.» Sweeping through the wards and traps, the Great Raven glided over the tent and thrummed rapidly as she dropped outside the entrance.

No guard barred the doorway, which had been left pulled back and tied to a support pole. Crone hopped inside.

With the exception of a small hanging at the far end, behind which squatted an army cot, no other divisions had been made within the tent.

In the centre stood a massive table, its surface etched with the contours of the surrounding land. One man stood alone, leaning over it, his back to the doorway. An enormous iron hammer was slung across his broad back; despite its size and evident weight, it looked almost toy-like against that span of muscle and bone. Power rolled from him in musky waves.

«Delays, delays,» Crone muttered, as she flapped up to land on the tabletop.

Caladan Brood grunted distractedly.

«You sensed the storm of sorcery last night?» she asked.

«Sensed? We could see it. The Rhivi shamans seem somewhat disturbed, but they have no answers. We'll discuss that later, Crone. Now I must think.»

Crone cocked her head at the map. «The west flank falls back in total disarray. Who commands that Barghast mob?»

Brood asked, «When did you fly within sight of them?»

«Two days past. I saw but a third of the original force left alive.»

Brood shook his head. «Jorrick Sharplance, under him five thousand Barghast and seven Blades of the Crimson Guard.»

«Sharplance?» Crone hissed laughter. «Full of himself, is he?»

«He is, but the Barghast so named him. As I was saying, five legions of Gold Moranth dropped into his lap three days ago. Jorrick retreated under cover of night, and bled off two-thirds of his army east and west-his Barghast have a knack of disappearing where no cover seems possible. Yesterday his panicked mob did an about-face and met the Gold. His Barghast moved in as pincers. Two Moranth legions wiped out, the other three retreating to the forest with half their supplies scattered on the plain.»

Crone cocked her head again. «Jorrick's plan?»

Brood inclined his head. «He's Crimson Guard, though the Barghast call him their own. Young, thus fearless.»

The raven studied the map. «And the east? How holds Fox Pass?»

«Well,» Brood said. «Mostly Stannis conscripts on the other side-the Malazans are finding them a reluctant ally. We'll see the Crimson Guard's mettle in twelve months» time, when the next wave of Malazan marines disembark at Nisst.»

«Why not drive northward?» Crone asked. «Prince K'azz could liberate the Free Cities over the winter.»

«The Prince and I agree on this,» Brood said. «He stays where he is.»

«Why?» Crone demanded.

Brood grunted. «Our tactics are our business.»

«Suspicious bastard,» Crone muttered. She hopped along the south edge of the map. «Your underbelly remains for final grim scrutiny. Naught but Rhivi plainsmen between you and Pale. And now forces walk the plain that even the Rhivi know nothing of-yet you show little concern, warrior. Why is that, Crone wonders?»

«I have been in communication with Prince K'azz and his mages, and with the Barghast and Rhivi shamans. What was born on the plain last night belongs to no one. It is alone, and frightened. Even now the Rhivi have begun the search for it. Concerned? No, not by that. Still, there's much more going on in the south.» Brood straightened.

«Anomander is in the midst of it,» Crone purred. «Plotting and counterplotting, scattering broken glass in everyone's path. I've never seen him in a better mood.»

«Enough gossip. You have news for me?»

«Of course, Master.» Crone stretched her wings and sighed. She jabbed her beak at an itch, crunched a flea and gulped it down. «I know who holds the Spinning Coin.»

«Who?»

«A youth whose bliss is ignorance. The Coin spins and turns a face to all those in his company. They've their own game, but it will converge with greater things, and so Oponn's thin threads reverberate in spheres otherwise immune to the jesters» influence.»

«What does Rake know?»

«Of this, little. But you well know his dislike of Oponn. He would cut those threads given the opportunity.»

«Idiot,» Brood muttered. He thought for a time, unmoving, like a shaping of stone and iron, while Crone ambled back and forth across the Rhivi Plain, her long, black talons scattering the wooden regiment and division markers like dominoes.

«Without Oponn, Rake's power is presently unmatched,» Brood said. «He hangs over Darujhistan like a beacon and the Empress is sure to send something against him. Such a battle would-»

«Level Darujhistan,» Crone chirped brightly. «In flames numbering twelve, so fly the Free Cities, so much ash in the wind.»

«Rake's disdain for everything beneath him has left us stumbling and flat on our faces one time too many,» Brood said. He glanced at Crone and raised a hairless eyebrow. «You're scattering my armies. Stop it.»

Crone stopped pacing and squatted. «Once again,» she sighed, «Caladan Brood the Great Warrior seeks the bloodless way. Rake gets that coin and he'll pull Oponn right in and spit the Lord and Lady on that lovely sword of his. Imagine the chaos that would ensue-a wonderful ripple that could topple gods and deluge realms.» She heard her own excitement and revelled in its blatancy. «Such fun.»

«Quiet, bird,» Brood said. «The Coin Bearer needs protection, now that Rake's recalled his mages.»

«But who is there to match the Tiste And??» Crone asked. «Surely you don't intend to leave your campaign here?»

Brood bared his filed teeth in a nasty grin. «Ha, caught you out, I think. Good. You need taking down a notch or two, Crone. You don't know everything. How does it feel?»

«I'll permit such torture from you, Brood,» Crone squawked, «only because I respect your temper. just don't push me too far. Tell me, who around here can match Rake's mages? This is something I must know. You and your secrets. How can I be a true servant to my master's wishes when he withholds vital information?»

«What do you know of the Crimson Guard?» Brood asked.

«Scant,» Crone replied. «A company of mercenaries held in high regard among such kind, what of them?»

«Ask Rake's Tiste And? for their assessment, crow.»

Crone's feathers arched indignantly. «Crow? I'll not take such insults! I'm leaving. Returning to the Moon, there to devise such a list of foul names for Caladan Brood as to stain the realms!»

«Begone with you, then,» Brood said, smiling. «You've done well.»

«If only Rake wasn't even more stingy than you,» Crone said, as she hopped towards the doorway, «my spying skills would be used on you instead of on him.»

Brood spoke. «One last thing, Crone.»

She stopped at the entrance and cocked her head.

The warrior's attention had returned to the map. «When you find yourself over the Rhivi Plain far to the south, mark whatever powers you sense active there. But be careful, Crone. Something's brewing, and it stinks.

Crone's cackle was her only reply, and then she was gone.

Brood stood over his map, thinking hard. He remained unmoving for close to twenty minutes, then he straightened. Stepping outside he searched the sky. Crone was nowhere in sight. He grunted and turned to survey the nearest tents. «Kallor! Where are you?»

A tall grey man stepped around a tent and walked slowly up to Brood.

«The Gold have bogged down in the forest, Warlord,» he said in a gravelly voice, his ancient, lifeless eyes meeting Brood's. «A storm comes down from the Laederon Heights. The Moranth's Quorls will be grounded for some time.»

Brood nodded. «I'm leaving you in charge. Heading to Fox Pass.»

Kallor raised an eyebrow.

Brood stared at him, then said, «Let's not get too excited. People will start thinking you're not as bored with all this as you make out to be. I'm meeting with Prince K'azz.»

A faint smile quirked Kallor's thin lips. «What madness has Jorrick Sharplance perpetrated now?»

«None, so far as I'm aware,» Brood answered. «Ease up on the lad, Kallor. He pulled off the last one. Remember, you were young once, too The old warrior shrugged. «Jorrick's last success belongs to the Lady of Luck if anything. It surely was not the product of genius.»

«I'll not argue you that one,» Brood said.

«May I ask, what is the reason for speaking with K'azz in person?»

Brood looked around. «Where's that damn horse of mine, anyway?»

«Probably cowering,» Kallor said drily. «Word is, his legs have become shorter and stubbier beneath your prodigious self. I remain unconvinced that such a thing is possible, but who can argue with a horse?»

«I need some of the Prince's men,» Brood said, heading off down aisle. «To be more precise,» he said, over his shoulder, «I need the Crimson Guard's Sixth Blade.»

Watching Caladan Brood stride away, Kallor sighed. «Rake again, is it, Warlord? You'd do better to follow my advice and destroy him. You will dismissing my advice, Brood.» His dull eyes followed Brood until he turned a corner and disappeared from sight. «Consider that my last warning.»

The charred earth crunched under their horses» hoofs. The glance that Toc the Younger threw back over his shoulder was received with a grim nod from Captain Paran. They were nearing the source of last night's column of fire.

As Toc had promised, leaving the city had proved a simple matter, none accosted them, and the gates had been left ajar. Their horses were indeed Wickan-bred, lean and long-limbed; and though their ears flattened and eyes rolled they held to the discipline of their reins.

The still midday air was heavy with the stench of sulphur, and already a fine coat of ash covered the two riders and their horses. Overhead the sun was a bright copper orb. Toc stopped his mount and waited for the captain to arrive.

Paran wiped grimy sweat from his brow and adjusted his helmet.

camail felt heavy on his shoulders as he squinted ahead. They were heading towards the place where the pillar of fire had come from. The night just past had been one of deep fear for Paran: neither he nor Toc had ever witnessed such a conflagration of sorcery. Though they had camped leagues away they had felt the heat pouring from it. Now, as they approached, all Paran could feel was dread.

Neither he nor Toc spoke. Perhaps a hundred yards eastward r something that looked like a misshapen tree stump, one gnarled, blackened branch reaching skyward. In a perfect circle around it the grass sward was untouched for perhaps five yards. A dark smudge lay in the unburned area, slightly off to one side.

Paran nudged his mount forward and Toc followed after unslinging and stringing his bow. As Toc caught up with the captain, Paran saw that his companion had nocked an arrow.

The closer they approached the less like a tree the charred thing looked. The limb that reached out from it had familiar lines. Paran's gaze narrowed some more, then he cursed and spurred his horse. He closed the distance quickly, leaving behind a startled Toc.

Arriving, he dismounted and strode up to what he now saw were two bodies, one gigantic. Both had been burned beyond recognition, but Paran held no illusions as to who the other was. All that come close to me, all that I care for: «Tattersail,» he whispered, then fell to his knees.

Toc joined him, but remained in the saddle, standing in the stirrups and scanning the horizon. A minute later he dismounted and walked a slow circle around the embracing bodies, stopping at the dark smudge they'd seen from a distance. He crouched to study it.

Paran raised his head and struggled to keep his eyes on the figures. The limb belonged to the giant. The fire that had consumed them both had blackened the arm for most of its length, but its hand was only slightly scorched. Paran stared at the grasping fingers and wondered what salvation the giant had reached for in its moment of death. The freedom that is death, a freedom denied me. Damn the gods, damn them all.

Numbed, he was slow to realize that Toc called to him.

It was an effort to rise to his feet. He staggered to where Toc still crouched. On the ground before the man was a torn burlap sack.

«Tracks lead from this,» Toc said shakily, a strange expression on his face. He scratched vigorously at his scar, then rose. «Heading north-east.»

Paran looked at his companion without comprehension. «Tracks?»

«Small, like a child's. Only. .»

«Only what?» The man hugged himself. «Those feet were mostly bones.» He met the captain's blank stare. «As if the soles were gone, rotted or burned away-I don't know: Something horrible has happened here, Captain. I'm glad it's heading away, whatever it is.»

Paran turned back to the two entwined figures. He flinched. One hand reached up to touch his face. «That's Tattersail,» he said, in a flat voice.

«I know. I'm sorry. The other one is the Thelomen High Mage Bellurdan. It has to be.» Toc looked down at the burlap sack. «He took leave to come out here and bury Nightchill.» He added quietly, «I don't think Nightchill needs burying any more.»

«Tayschrenn did this,» Paran said.

Something in the captain's voice brought Toc round.

«Tayschrenn. And the Adjunct. Tattersail was right. They would not have killed her otherwise. Only she didn't die easily, she never took the easy path in anything.

«Lorn's taken her from me, just like she's tak everything else.»

«Captain:»

Paran's hand unconsciously gripped the pommel of his sword. «The heartless bitch has a lot coming to her, and I mean to deliver it.»

«Fine,» Toc growled. «Just let's be smart about it.»

Paran glared at him, «Let's get going, Toc the Younger.»

Toc glanced one last time into the north-east. This wasn't over, he said to himself, shivering. He winced as a savage, painful itch rose beneath scar. Though he tried, he found he could not reach through to it. And formless fire burned behind his empty eye-socket-something he had been experiencing often lately. Muttering, he strode to his horse a climbed into the saddle.

The captain had already swung his own mount and the trailing horse southward. The set of the man's back spoke volumes to Toc the Younger and he wondered if he hadn't made a mistake in accompanying him. Then he shrugged. «Well,» he said, to the two charred bodies, as he rode past, «it's done, ain't it?»

The plain below lay sheathed in darkness. Looking to the west, Crone could still see the setting sun. She rode the highest winds, the air around her bitter cold. The Great Raven had left Caladan Brood's company days ago. Since then, she'd detected no sign of life in the wastes below. Even the massive herds of Bhederin, which the Rhivi were in the habit following, had disappeared.

At night, Crone's senses were limited, though it was in such darkness that she could best detect sorcery. As she winged ever southward she scanned the land far below with a hungry eye. Others among her brethren from Moon's Spawn regularly patrolled the plains in service Anomander Rake. She'd yet to see one, but it was only a matter of time. When she did, she would ask them if they'd detected any source of magic recently.

Brood was not one to overreact. If something was happening down here that soured his palate, it could be momentous, and she wanted know of it before anyone else.

Fire flashed in the sky ahead of her, perhaps a league distant. It flared briefly, tinged green and blue, then disappeared. Crone tensed. That had been sorcery, but of a kind she'd never known. As she swept into the air the air washed over her hot and wet, with a charnel stench that remind her of-she cocked her head-burnt feathers.

A cry sounded ahead, angry and frightened. Crone opened her beak reply, then shut it again. It had come from one of her kin, she certain, but for some reason she felt the need to hold her tongue. Then another ball of fire flashed, this time close enough to Crone that she saw what it engulfed: a Great Raven.

Her breath hissed from her beak. In that brief instant of light she'd seen half a dozen more of her brethren wheeling in the sky ahead of her and to the west. She thrummed her wings and angled towards them.

When she could hear their panicked flapping about her on all sides, Crone called out, «Children! Attend to Crone! The Great Mother has come!» The ravens voiced relieved cries and closed in around her. They all shrieked at once in an effort to tell her what was happening, but Crone's angry hiss silenced them at once. «I heard among you Hurtle's voice,» Crone said, «did I not?» One male swept near her. «You did,» he replied. «I am Hurtle.»

«I've just come from the north, Hurtle. Explain to me what has occurred.»

«Confusion,» Hurtle drawled sarcastically.

Crone cackled. She loved a good joke more than anyone. «Indeed! Go on, lad!»

«Before dusk Kin Clip detected a flare of sorcery below her on the plain. It was odd, its feel, but clearly a Warren had just opened and something had issued on to the plain. Kin Clip spoke to me of this, then investigated. I shadowed her from above during the descent, and so saw what she saw. Crone, it has come to my mind that once again the art of soul-shifting has been exercised.»

«Ehr «Travelling on the ground and having just come from a Warren was a small puppet,» Hurtle explained, «animate and possessing great power. When this puppet detected Clip he gestured at her and she burst into flames. Since then, the creature has disappeared into its Warren, reappearing only to kill another of us.»

«Why do you remain?» Crone demanded.

Hurtle chuckled. «We would determine its course, Crone. Thus far, it seems to travel southward.»

«Very well. Now that that's been confirmed, leave and take the others with you. Return to Moon's Spawn and report to our lord.»

«As you command, Crone.» Hurtle dipped a wing and slid off into darkness. His voice called out and was answered by a chorus.

Crone waited. She wanted to be certain that they had all departed the area before doing some investigating on her own. Was this puppet the thing birthed in the pillar of fire? It didn't seem likely. And what kind of sorcery did it employ that no Great Raven could absorb?

There was an Eldering taste about this. Soul-shifting was no simple cantrip, and it had never been common-ustsuig the wizards even when its techniques were known. Too many tales of madness born within the shifting.

Perhaps this puppet had survived from Cese times. Crone thought about that. Unlikely.

Magic bloomed on the plain below, then faded. A small magical form scampered from the spot, weaving as it ran. Here, thought Crone, lie the answers to my questions. Destroy my younglings, will you? Would you so easily disdain Crone?

She crooked her wings and dropped. The air whistled around her. She raised a penumbra of protective magic that encapsulated her just as the small figure ceased its march and looked up. Faintly, Crone heard a manic laugh rise up to meet her, then the puppet gestured.

The power that engulfed Crone was Iowri;cse, far beyond anything she anticipated. Her defences held but she found herself buffeted, as if fists punched her from every direction. She cried out in pain, spinning as she fell. It took all her strength and will to; MM out her battered wings and catch a rising current of air. She voiced an outraged, alarmed shriek she climbed higher into the night sky. A tffice down revealed that the puppet had returned once again to its Warren, for nothing magical was visible.

«Aye.» She sighed. «What a price to pay for knowledge! Elder Warrren indeed, the eldest of them all. Who plays with Chaos? Crone knows naught. All things are gathering, %.L=.- here.» She found another stream of wind and angled south. This was something Anomander Rake must know of, never mind Caladan The "110 instructions that the Ti And? lord be kept ignorant of almost 4-i;;&~thing. Rake was good more than Brood credited him. VMMM Met, for one.» Crone laugh «And death. Good at death!»

She picked up speed, so did not notice the, — dead smudge on the plain below her, nor the woman camped in its centre. There was no me there to speak of, in any case.

Adjunct Lorn squatted by her bedroll, her eyes scanning the night sky. «Tool, was all that connected to what we witnessed two nights ago?»

The T'lan Imass shook his head. «I think — sro-t, Adjunct. If anything, concerns me more. It is sorcery, and it 1wres the barrier I have around us.»

«How?» she asked quietly.

«There is only one possibility, Adjunct. It is Eldering, a lost Warren ages past, returned to us. Whoever its wielder might be, we must assume it tracks us, with purpose.»

Lorn straightened wearily, then stretched her back, feeling her vertebrae pop. «Is its flavour Shadowthrone's?»

«No.»

«Then I will not assume it's tracking us, Tool.» She eyed her bedroll.

Tool faced the woman and watched in silence as she prepared to sleep.

«Adjunct,» he said, «this hunter appears able to penetrate my defences, and thus it may open its Warren's portal directly behind us, once we are found.»

«I've no fear of magic,» Lorn muttered. «Let me sleep.»

The T'lan Imass fell silent, but he continued staring down at the woman as the hours of night crawled on. Tool moved slightly as dawn lightened the east, then was still again.

Groaning, Lorn rolled on to her back as the sunlight reached her face.

She opened her eyes and blinked rapidly, then froze. She slowly raised her head to find the T'lan Imass standing directly above her.

And, hovering inches from her throat, was the tip of the warrior's flint sword.

«Success,» Tool said, «demands discipline, Adjunct. Last night we witnessed an expression of Elder magic, choosing as its target ravens. Ravens, Adjunct, do not fly at night. You might think the combination of my abilities with yours ensures our safety. That is no guarantee, Adjunct.» The T'lan Imass withdrew his weapon and stepped to one side.

Lorn drew a shaky breath. «A flaw,» she said, pausing to clear her throat before continuing, «which I admit to, Tool. Thank you for alerting me to my growing complacency.» She sat up. «Tell me, doesn't it strike you as odd that this supposedly empty Rhivi Plain should display so much activity?»

«Convergence,» Tool said. «Power ever draws other power. It is not a complicated thought, yet it escaped us, the Imass.» The ancient warrior swung his head to the Adjunct. «As it escapes their children. The Jaghut well understood the danger. Thus they avoided one another, abandoned each other to solitude, and left a civilization to crumble into dust. The Forkrul Assail understood as well, though they chose another path. What is odd, Adjunct, is that of these three founding peoples, it is the Imass whose legacy of ignorance survived the ages.»

Lorn stared at Tool. «Was that an attempt at humour?» she asked.

The T'lan Imass adjusted his helmet. «That depends on your mood, Adjunct.»

She climbed to her feet and strode to check her horses. «You're getting stranger every day, Tool,» she said quietly, more to herself than to the Imass. Into her mind returned the first thing she had seen when she opened her eyes-that damned creature and his sword. How long had he stood like that? All night?

The Adjunct paused to test her shoulder tentatively. It was healing quickly. Perhaps the injury had not been as severe as she'd first thought As she saddled her horse she chanced to glance at Tool. The warrior stood staring at her. What kind of thoughts would occupy someone who'd lived through three hundred thousand years? Or did the Imas live? Before meeting Tool she had generally thought of them as undead, hence without a soul, the flesh alone animated by some external force.

But now she wasn't so sure.

«Tell me, Tool, what dominates your thoughts?»

The Imass shrugged before replying. «I think of futility, Adjunct.»

«Do all Imass think about futility?»

«No. Few think at all.»

«Why is that?»

The Imass leaned his head to one side and regarded her. «Because Adjunct, it is futile.»

«Let's get going, Tool. We're wasting time.»

«Yes, Adjunct.»

She climbed into the saddle, wondering how the Imass had meant that.

BOOK FOUR ASSASSINS

I dreamed a coin with shifting face-so many youthful visages so many costly dreams, and it rolled and rang «round the gilded rim of a chalice made for gems

Life of Dreams Mares the Hag