Gardens of the Moon

CHAPTER TWO

Through the pallor of smoke ravens wheeled. Their calls raised a shrill chorus above the cries of wounded and dying soldiers. The stench of seared flesh hung unmoving in the haze.

On the third hill overlooking the fallen city of Pale, Tattersail stood alone. Scattered around the sorceress the curled remains of burnt armour-greaves, breastplates, helms and weapons-lay heaped in piles. An hour earlier there had been men and women wearing that armour, but of them there was no sign. The silence within those empty shells rang like a dirge in Tattersail's head.

Her arms were crossed, tight against her chest. The burgundy cloak with its silver emblem betokening her command of the 2nd Army's wizard cadre now hung from her round shoulders stained and scorched.

Her oval, fleshy face, usually parading an expression of cherubic humour, was etched with deep-shadowed lines, leaving her cheeks flaccid and pale.

For all the smells and sounds surrounding Tattersail, she found herself listening to a deeper silence. In some ways it came from the empty armour surrounding her, an absence that was in itself an accusation. But there was another source of the silence. The sorcery that had been unleashed here today had been enough to fray the fabric between the worlds. Whatever dwelt beyond, in the Warrens of Chaos, felt close enough to reach out and touch.

She'd thought her emotions spent, used up by the terror she had just been through, but as she watched the tight ranks of a legion of Moranth Black marching into the city a frost of hatred slipped over her heavylidded eyes.

Allies. They're claiming their hour of blood. At the end of that hour there would be a score thousand fewer survivors among the citizens of Pale. The long savage history between the neighbouring peoples was about to have the scales of retribution balanced. By the sword.

Shedunul's mercy, hasn't there been enough?

A dozen fires raged unchecked through the city. The siege was over, finally, after three long years. But Tattersail knew that there was more to come. Something hid, and waited, in the silence. So she would wait as well. The deaths of this day deserved that much from her-after all, she had failed in all the other ways that mattered.

On the plain below, the bodies of Malazan soldiers covered the ground, a rumpled carpet of dead. Limbs jutted upward here and there, ravens perching on them like overlords. Soldiers who had survived the slaughter wandered in a daze among the bodies, seeking fallen comrades.

Tattersail's eyes followed them achingly.

«They're coming,» said a voice, a dozen feet to her left. Slowly she turned. The wizard Hairlock lay sprawled on the burnt armour, the pate of his shaved skull reflecting the dull sky. A wave of sorcery had destroyed him from the hips down. Pink, mud-spattered entrails billowed out from under his ribcage, webbed by drying fluids. A faint penumbra of sorcery revealed his efforts at staying alive.

«Thought you were dead,» Tattersail muttered.

«Felt lucky today.»

«You don't look it.»

Hairlock's grunt released a gout of dark thick blood from below his heart. «They're coming,» he said. «See them yet?»

She swung her attention to the slope, her pale eyes narrowing. Four soldiers approached. «Who are they?»

The wizard didn't answer.

Tattersail faced him again and found his hard gaze fixed on her, intent in the way a dying person achieves in those last moments. «Thought you'd take a wave through the gut, huh? Well, I suppose that's one way to get shipped out of here.»

His reply surprised her. «The tough fa?ade ill fits you, «Sail. Always has.» He frowned and blinked rapidly, fighting off darkness, she supposed. «There's always the risk of knowing too much. Be glad I spared you.» He smiled, unveiling red-stained teeth. «Think nice thoughts. The flesh fades.»

She eyed him steadily, wondering at his sudden: humanity. Maybe dying did away with the usual games, the pretences of the living dance.

Maybe she just wasn't prepared to see the mortal man in Hairlock finally showing itself. Tattersail prised her arms from the dreadful, aching hug she had wrapped around herself, and sighed shakily. «You're right. It's not the time for facades, is it? I never liked you, Hairlock, but I'd never question your courage-I never will.» She studied him critically, a part of her astonished that the horror of his wound didn't so much as make her flinch. «I don't think even Tayschrenn's arts are enough to save you, Hairlock.»

Something cunning flashed in his eyes and he barked a pained laugh.

«Dear girl,» he gasped, «your naivete never fails to charm me.»

«Of course,» she snapped, stung at falling for his sudden ingenuousness. «One last joke on me, just for old times sake.»

«You misunderstand.»

«Are you so certain? You're saying it isn't over yet. Your hatred of our High Mage is fierce enough to let you slip Hood's cold grasp, is that it? Vengeance from beyond the grave?»

«You must know me by now. I always arrange a back door.»

«You can't even crawl. How do you plan on getting to it?»

The wizard licked his cracked lips. «Part of the deal,» he said softly. «The door comes to me. Comes even as we speak.»

Unease coiled around her insides. Behind her, Tattersail heard the crunch of armour and the rattle of iron, the sound arriving like a cold wind. She turned to see the four soldiers appear on the summit. Three men, one woman, mud-smeared and crimson-streaked, their faces almost bone-white. The sorceress found her eyes drawn to the woman, who hung back like an unwelcome afterthought as the three men approached.

The girl was young, pretty as an icicle and looking as warm to the touch.

Something wrong there. Careful.

The man in the lead-a sergeant by the torque on his arm-came up to Tattersail. Set deep in a lined, exhausted face, his dark grey eyes searched hers dispassionately. «This one?» he asked, turning to the tall, thin black-skinned man who came up beside him.

This man shook his head. «No, the one we want is over there,» he said.

Though he spoke Malazan, his harsh accent was Seven Cities.

The third and last man, also black, slipped past on the sergeant's left and for all his girth seemed to glide forward, his eyes on Hairlock. His ignoring Tattersail made her feel somehow slighted. She considered a well-chosen word or two as he stepped around her, but the effort seemed suddenly too much.

«Well,» she said to the sergeant, «if you're the burial detail, you're early. He's not dead yet. Of course,» she continued, «you're not the burial detail. I know that. Hairlock's made some kind of deal-he's thinking he can survive with half a body.»

The sergeant's lips grew taut beneath his grizzled, wiry beard. «What's your point, Sorceress?»

The black man beside the sergeant glanced back at the young girl still standing a dozen paces behind them. He seemed to shiver, but his lean face was expressionless as he turned back and offered Tattersail an enigmatic shrug before moving past her.

She shuddered involuntarily as power buffeted her senses. She drew a sharp breath. He's a mage. Tattersail tracked the man as he joined his comrade at Hairlock's side, striving to see through the muck and blood covering his uniform. «Who are you people?»

«Ninth squad, the Second.»

«Ninth?» The breath hissed from her teeth. «You're Bridgeburners.» Her eyes narrowed on the battered sergeant. «The Ninth. That makes you Whiskeyjack.»

He seemed to flinch.

Tattersail found her mouth dry. She cleared her throat. «I've heard of you, of course. I've heard the.»

«Doesn't matter,» he interrupted, his voice grating. «Old stories grow like weeds.»

She rubbed at her face, feeling grime gather under her nails.

Bridgeburners. They'd been the old Emperor's elite, his favourites, but since Laseen's bloody coup nine years ago they'd been pushed hard into every rat's nest in sight. Almost a decade of this had cut them down to a single, under-manned division. Among them, names had emerged. The survivors, mostly squad sergeants, names that pushed their way into the Malazan armies on Genabackis, and beyond. Names, spicing the already sweeping legend of Onearm's Host. Detoran, Antsy, Spindle, Whiskeyjack. Names heavy with glory and bitter with the cynicism that every army feeds on. They carried with them like an emblazoned standard the madness of this unending campaign.

Sergeant Whiskeyjack was studying the wreckage on the hill. Tattersail watched him piece together what had happened. A muscle in his cheek twitched. He looked at her with new understanding, a hint of softening behind his grey eyes that almost broke Tattersail then and there. «Are you the last left in the cadre?» he asked.

She looked away, feeling brittle. «The last left standing. It wasn't skill, either. just lucky.»

If he heard her bitterness he gave no sign, falling silent as he watched his two Seven Cities soldiers crouching low over Hairlock.

Tattersail licked her lips, shifted uneasily. She glanced over to the two soldiers. A quiet conversation was under way. She heard Hairlock laugh, the sound a soft jolt that made her wince. «The tall one,» she said. «He's a mage, isn't he?»

Whiskeyjack grunted, then said, «His name's Quick Ben.»

«Not the one he was born with.»

«No.

She rolled her shoulders against the weight of her cloak, momentarily easing the dull pain in her lower back. «I should know him, Sergeant. That kind of power gets noticed. He's no novice.»

«No,» Whiskeylack replied. «He isn't.»

She felt herself getting angry. «I want an explanation. What's happening here?»

Whiskeyjack grimaced. «Not much, by the looks of it.» He raised his voice. «Quick Ben!»

The mage looked over. «Some last-minute negotiations, Sergeant,» he said, flashing a white grin.

«Hood's Breath.» Tattersail sighed, turning away. The girl, she saw, still stood at the hill's crest and seemed to be studying the Moranth columns passing into the city. As if sensing Tattersail's attention, her head snapped around. Her expression startled the sorceress. Tattersail pulled her eyes away. «Is this what's left of your squad, Sergeant? Two desert marauders and a blood-hungry recruit?»

Whiskeyjack's tone was flat: «I have seven left.»

«This morning?»

«Fifteen.»

Something's wrong here. Feeling a need to say something, she said, «Better than most.» She cursed silently as the blood drained from the sergeant's face. «Still,» she added, «I'm sure they were good men, the ones you lost.»

«Good at dying,» he said.

The brutality of his words shocked her. Mentally reeling, she squeezed shut her eyes, fighting back tears of bewilderment and frustration. Too much has happened. I'm not ready for this. I'm not ready for Whiskeyjack, a man buckling under his own legend, a man who's climbed more than one mountain of the dead in service to the Empire.

The Bridgeburners hadn't shown themselves much over the past three years. Since the siege began, they'd been assigned the task of undermining Pale's massive, ancient walls. That order had come straight from the capital, and it was either a cruel joke or the product of appalling ignorance: the whole valley was a glacial dump, a rock pile plugging a crevice that reached so far underground even Tattersail's mages had trouble finding its bottom. They've been underground three years running. When was the last time they saw the sun?

Tattersail stiffened suddenly. «Sergeant.» She opened her eyes to him.

«You've been in your tunnels since this morning?»

With sinking understanding, she watched anguish flit across the man's face. «What tunnels?» he said softly, then moved to stride past her.

She reached out and closed her hand on his arm. A shock seemed to run through him. «Whiskeyjack,» she whispered, «you've guessed as much. About-about me, about what happened here on this hill, all these soldiers.» She hesitated, then said, «Failure's something we share. I'm sorry.»

He pulled away, eyes averted. «Don't be, Sorceress.» He met her gaze. «Regret's not something we can afford.»

She watched him walk to his soldiers.

A young woman's voice spoke directly behind Tattersail. «We numbered fourteen hundred this morning, Sorceress.»

Tattersail turned. At this close range, she saw that the girl couldn't be more than fifteen years old. The exception was her eyes, which held the dull glint of weathered onyx-they looked ancient, every emotion eroded away into extinction. «And now?»

The girl's shrug was almost careless. «Thirty, maybe thirty-five. Four of the five tunnels fell in completely. We were in the fifth and dug our way out. Fiddler and Hedge are working on the others, but they figure everybody else's been buried for good. They tried to round up some help.» A cold, knowing smile spread across her mud-streaked face. «But your master, the High Mage, stopped them.»

«Tayschrenn did what? Why?»

The girl frowned, as if disappointed. Then she simply walked away, stopping at the hill's crest and facing the city again.

Tattersail stared after her. The girl had thrown that last statement at her as if hunting for some particular response. Complicity? In any case, a clean miss. Tayschrenn's not making any friends. Good. The day had been a disaster, and the blame fell squarely at the High Mage's feet. She stared at Pale, then lifted her gaze to the smoke-filled sky above it.

That massive, looming shape she had greeted every morning for the last three years was indeed gone. She still had trouble believing it, despite the evidence of her eyes. «You warned us,» she whispered to the empty sky, as the memories of the morning returned. «You warned us, didn't you?»

She'd been sleeping with Calot the past four months: a little diversionary pleasure to ease the boredom of a siege that wasn't going anywhere. At least, that was how she explained to herself their unprofessional conduct.

It was more than that, of course, much more. But being honest with herself had never been one of Tattersail's strengths.

The magical summons, when it came, awakened her before Calot. The mage's small but well-proportioned body was snug in the many soft pillows of her flesh. She opened her eyes to find him clinging to her like a child. Then he, too, sensed the calling and awoke to her smile.

«Hairlock?» he asked, shivering as he climbed out from under the blankets.

Tattersail grimaced. «Who else? The man never sleeps.»

«What now, I wonder?» He stood, looking around for his tunic.

She was watching him. He was so thin, making them an odd combination. Through the faint dawn light seeping through the canvas tent walls, the sharp, bony angles of his body looked soft, almost child-like.

For a man a century old, he carried it well. «Hairlock's been running errands for Dujek,» she said. «It's probably just an update.»

Calot grunted as he pulled on his boots. «That's what you get for taking command of the cadre, «Sail. Anyway, it was easier saluting Nedurian, let me tell you. Whenever I look at you, I just want to-»

«Stick to business, Calot,» Tattersail. said, meaning it with humour though it came out with enough of an edge to make Calot glance at her sharply.

«Something up?» he asked quietly, the old frown finding its familiar lines on his high forehead.

Thought I'd got rid of those. Tattersail sighed. «Can't tell, except that Hairlock's contacted both of us. If it was just a report, you'd still be In growing tension they finished dressing in silence. Less than an hour later Calot would be incinerated beneath a wave of blue fire, and ravens would be answering Tattersail's despairing scream. But, for the moment, the two mages were readying themselves for an unscheduled gathering at High Fist Dujek Onearm's command tent.

In the muddy path beyond Calot's tent, soldiers of the last watch huddled around braziers filled with burning horse dung, holding out hands to the heat. Few walked the pathways, the hour still too early.

Row upon row of grey tents climbed the hills overlooking the plain that surrounded the city of Pale. Regimental standards ruffled sullenly in a faint breeze-the wind had turned since last night, carrying to Tattersail the stench of the latrine trenches. Overhead the remaining handful of stars dimmed into insignificance in the lightening sky. The world seemed almost peaceful.

Drawing her cloak against the chill, Tattersail paused outside the tent and turned to study the enormous mountain hanging suspended a quarter-mile above the city of Pale. She scanned the battered face of Moon's Spawn-its name for as long as she could remember. Ragged as a blackened tooth, the basalt fortress was home to the most powerful enemy the Malazan Empire had ever faced. High above the earth, Moon's Spawn could not be breached by siege. Even Laseen's own undead army, the T'lan Imass, who travelled as easily as dust on the wind, were unable, or unwilling, to penetrate its magical defences.

Pale's wizards had found a powerful ally. Tattersail recalled that the Empire had locked horns with the Moon's mysterious lord once before, in the days of the Emperor. Things had threatened to get ugly, but then Moon's Spawn withdrew from the game. No one still living knew why-just one of the thousand secrets the Emperor took with him to his watery grave.

The Moon's reappearance here on Genabackis had been a surprise.

And this time, there was no last-minute reprieve. A half-dozen legions of the sorcerous Tiste And? descended from Moon's Spawn, and under the command of a warlord named Caladan Brood they joined forces with the Crimson Guard mercenaries. Together, the two armies proceeded to drive back the Malaz 5th Army, which had been pushing eastward along the northern edge of Rhivi Plain. For the past four years the battered 5th had been bogged down in Blackdog Forest, forcing them to make a stand against Brood and the Crimson Guard. It was a stand fast becoming a death sentence.

But, clearly, Caladan Brood and the Tiste And? weren't the only inhabitants of Moon's Spawn. An unseen lord remained in command of the fortress, bringing it here and sealing a pact with Pale's formidable wizards.

Tattersail's cadre had little hope of magically challenging such opposition. So the siege had ground to a halt, with the exception of the Bridgeburners who never relaxed their stubborn efforts to undermine the city's ancient walls.

Stay, she prayed to Moon's Spawn. Turn your face endlessly, and keep the smell of blood, the screams of the dying from settling on this land.

Wait for us to blink first.

Calot waited beside her. He said nothing, understanding the ritual this had become. It was one of the many reasons why Tattersail loved the man. As a friend, of course. Nothing serious, nothing frightening in the love for a friend.

«I sense impatience in Hairlock,» Calot murmured beside her.

She sighed. «I do, too. That's why I'm reluctant.»

«I know, but we can't dally too long, «Sail.» He grinned mischievously. «Bad form.»

«Hmmm, can't have them jumping to conclusions, can we?»

«They wouldn't have to jump very far. Anyway,» his smile faltered slightly, «let's get going.»

A few minutes later they arrived at the command tent. The lone marine standing guard at the flap seemed nervous as he saluted the two mages. Tattersail paused and searched his eyes. «Seventh Regiment?»

Avoiding her gaze, the guard nodded. «Yes, Sorceress. Third Squad.»

«Thought you looked familiar. Give my regards to Sergeant Rusty.» She stepped closer. «Something in the air, soldier?»

He blinked. «High in the air, Sorceress. High as they come.»

Tattersail glanced at Calot, who had paused at the tent flap. Calot puffed out his cheeks, making a comical face. «Thought I smelled him.»

She winced at this confirmation. The guard, she saw, was sweating under his iron helmet. «Thanks for the warning, soldier.»

«Always an even trade, Sorceress.» The man snapped a second salute, this one sharper, and in its way more personal. Years and years of this.

Insisting I'm family to them, one of the 2nd Army-the oldest intact force, one of the Emperor's own. Always an even trade, Sorceress. Save our skins, we'll save yours. Family, after all. Why, then, do I always feel so estranged from them? Tattersail returned the salute.

They entered the command tent. She sensed immediately the presence of power, what Calot called smell. It made his eyes water. It gave her a migraine headache. This particular emanation was a power she knew well, and it was anathema to her own. Which made the headaches all the worse.

Inside the tent, lanterns cast a dim smoky light on the dozen or so wooden chairs in the first compartment. A camp-table off to one side held a tin pitcher of watered wine and six tarnished cups that glistened with droplets of condensation.

Calot muttered beside her, «Hood's Breath, «Sail, I hate this.»

As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Tattersail saw, through the opening that led into the tent's second compartment, a familiar robed figure. He leaned with long-fingered hands on Dujek's map-table. His magenta cloak rippled like water though he remained motionless. «Oh, really now,» Tattersail whispered.

«Just my thought,» Calot said, wiping his eyes.

«Do you think,» she said, as they took their seats, «it's a studied pose?»

Calot grinned. «Absolutely. Laseen's High Mage couldn't read a battle map if his life depended on it.»

«So long as our lives don't depend on it.»

A voice spoke from a chair near them, «Today we work.»

Tattersail scowled at the preternatural darkness enwreathing the chair.

«You're as bad as Tayschrenn, Hairlock. And be glad I didn't decide to sit in that chair.»

Dully, a row of yellow teeth appeared, then the rest of the mage took shape as Hairlock relinquished the spell. Beads of sweat marked the man's flat, scarred brow and shaved pate-nothing unusual there:

Hairlock would sweat in an ice-pit. He held his head at an angle, achieving in his expression something like smug detachment combined with contempt. He fixed his small dark eyes on Tattersail. «You remember work, don't you?» His smile broadened, further flattening his mashed, misaligned nose. «It's what you were doing before you started rolling in the sack with dear Calot here. Before you went soft.»

Tattersail drew breath for a retort, but was interrupted by Calot's slow, easy drawl. «Lonely, Hairlock? Should I tell you that the campfollowers demand double the coin from you?» He waved a hand, as if clearing away unsavoury thoughts. «The simple fact is, Dujek chose Tattersail to command the cadre after Nedurian's untimely demise at Mott Wood. You may not like it, but that's just too bad. It's the price you pay for ambivalence.»

Hairlock reached down and brushed a speck of dirt from his satin slippers, which had, improbably, escaped unmarred the muddy streets outside. «Blind faith, dear comrades, is for fools-»

He was interrupted by the tent flap swishing aside. High Fist Dujek Onearm entered, the soap of his morning shave still clotting the hair in his ears, the smell of cinnamon water wafting after him.

Over the years, Tattersail had come to attach much to that aroma.

Security, stability, sanity. Dujek Onearm represented all those things, and not just to her but to the army that fought for him. As he stopped now in the centre of the room and surveyed the three mages, she leaned back slightly and, from under heavy lids, studied the High Fist. Three years of enforced passivity in this siege seemed to have acted like a tonic on the ageing man. He looked more like fifty rather than his seventy-nine years. His grey eyes remained sharp and unyielding in his tanned, lean face. He stood straight, which made him seem taller than his five and a half feet, wearing simple, unadorned leathers, stained as much by sweat as by the Imperial magenta dye. The stump of his left arm, just below the shoulder, was wrapped in leather strips. His hairy chalk-white calves were visible between the sharkskin straps of the Napan sandals.

Calot withdrew a handkerchief from his sleeve and tossed it to Dujek.

The High Mage snagged it. «Again? Damn that barber,» he growled, wiping the soap from his jaw and ears. «I swear he does it on purpose.»

He balled the handkerchief and flung it on to Calot's lap. «Now, we're all here. Good. Regular business first. Hairlock, you finished jawing with the boys below?»

Hairlock stifled a yawn. «Some sapper named Fiddler took me in, showed me around.» He paused to pluck lint from his brocaded sleeve, then met Dujek's eyes. «Give them six or seven years and they might have reached the city walls by then.»

«It's pointless,» Tattersail said, «which is what I put in my report.» She squinted up at Dujek. «Assuming it ever made it to the Imperial Court.»

«Camel's still swimming,» Calot said.

Dujek grunted-as close as he ever got to laughing. «All right, cadre, listen carefully. Two things.» A faint scowl crossed his scarred features.

«One, the Empress has sent a Claw. They're in the city, hunting down Pale's wizards.»

A chill danced up Tattersail's spine. No one liked having the Claws around. Those Imperial assassins-Laseen's favoured weapon-kept their poisoned daggers sharp for anyone and everyone, Malazans included.

It seemed Calot was thinking the same thing, for he sat up sharply. «If they're here for any other reason:»

«They'll have to come through me first,» Dujek said, his lone hand reaching down to rest on the pommel of his longsword.

He has an audience, there in the other room. He's telling the man commanding the Claw how things stand. Shedunul bless him.

Hairlock spoke. «They'll go to ground. They're wizards, not idiots.»

It was a moment before Tattersail understood the man's comment. Oh, right. Pale's wizards.

Dujek glanced down at Hairlock, gauging, then he nodded. «Two, we're attacking Moon's Spawn today.»

In the other compartment, High Mage Tayschrenn turned at these words and approached slowly. Within his hood a broad smile creased his dark face, a momentary cracking of seamless features. The smile passed quickly, the ageless skin becoming smooth once again. «Hello, my colleagues,» he said, droll and menacing all at once.

Hairlock snorted. «Keep the melodrama to a minimum, Tayschrenn, and we'll all be happier.»

Ignoring Hairlock's comment, the High Mage continued, «The Empress has lost her patience with Moon's Spawn-»

Dujek cocked his head and interrupted, his voice softly grating. «The Empress is scared enough to hit first and hit hard. Tell it plain, Magicker. This is your front line you're talking to here. Show some respect, dammit.»

The High Mage shrugged. «Of course, High Fist.» He faced the cadre.

«Your group, myself and three other High Mages will strike Moon's Spawn within the hour. The North Campaign has drawn most of the edifice's inhabitants away. We believe that the Moon's lord is alone. For almost three years his mere presence has been enough to hold us in check. This morning, my colleagues, we will test this lord's mettle.»

«And hope to hell he's been bluffing all this time,» Dujek added, a scowl deepening the lines on his forehead. «Any questions?»

«How soon can I get a transfer?» Calot asked.

Tattersail cleared her throat. «What do we know about the Lord of Moon's Spawn?»

«Scant little, I'm afraid,» Tayschrenn said, his eyes veiled. «A Tiste And? for certain. An archmage.»

Hairlock leaned forward and deliberately spat at the floor in front of Tayschrenn. «Tiste And? High Mage? I think we can be a little more specific than that, don't you?»

Tattersail's migraine worsened. She realized she was holding her breath, slowly forced it out as she gauged Tayschrenn's reaction-to the man's words and to the traditional Seven Cities challenge.

«An archmage,» Tayschrenn repeated. «Perhaps the Archmage of the Tiste And?. Dear Hairlock,» he added, his voice lowering a notch, «your primitive tribal gestures remain quaint, if somewhat tasteless.»

Hairlock bared his teeth. «The Tiste And? are Mother Dark's first children. You've felt the tremors through the Warrens of Sorcery, Tayschrenn. So have I. Ask Dujek about the reports coming down from the North Campaign. Elder magic-Kurald Galain. The Lord of Moon's Spawn is the Master Archmage-you know his name as well as I do.»

«I know nothing of the sort,» the High Mage snapped, losing his calm at last. «Perhaps you'd care to enlighten us, Hairlock, and then I can begin inquiries as to your sources.»

«Ahh!» Hairlock bolted forward in his chair, an eager malice in his taut face. «A threat from the High Mage. Now we're getting somewhere. Answer me this, then. Why only three other High Mages? We've hardly been thinned out that badly. More, why didn't we do this two years ago?»

Whatever was building between Hairlock and Tayschrenn was interrupted by Dujek, who growled wordlessly, then said, «We're desperate, mage. The North Campaign has gone sour. The Fifth is damn near gone, and won't be getting any reinforcements until next spring. The point is, the Moon's lord could have his army back any day now. I don't want to have to send you up against an army of Tiste And? and I sure as hell don't want the Second having to show two fronts with a relieving force coming down on them. Bad tactics, and whoever this Caladan Brood is, he's shown himself adept at making us pay for our mistakes.»

«Caladan Brood,» Calot murmured. «I swear I've heard that name somewhere before. Odd that I've never given it much thought.»

Tattersail's eyes narrowed on Tayschrenn. Calot was right: the name of the man commanding the Tiste And? alongside the Crimson Guard did sound familiar-but in an old way, echoing ancient legends, perhaps, or some epic poem.

The High Mage met her gaze, flat and,calculating. «The need,» he said, turning to the others, «for justifications has passed. The Empress has commanded, and we must obey.»

Hairlock snorted a second time. «Speaking of twisting arms,» he sat back, still smiling contemptuously at Tayschrenn, «remember how we played cat and mouse at Aren? This plan has your stink on it. You've been itching for a chance like this for a long time.» His grin turned savage. «Who, then, are the other three High Mages? Let me guess.»

«Enough!» Tayschrenn stepped close to Hairlock, who went very still, eyes glittering.

The lanterns had dimmed. Calot used the handkerchief in his lap to wipe tears from his cheeks.

Power, oh, damn, my bead feels ready to crack wide open.

«Very well,» Hairlock whispered, «let's lay it out on the table. I'm sure the High Fist will appreciate you putting all his suspicions in the proper order. Make it plain, old friend.»

Tattersail glanced at Dujek. The commander's face had closed up, his sharp eyes narrow and fixed on Tayschrenn. He was doing some hard thinking.

Calot leaned against her. «What the hell's going on, «Sail?»

«No idea,» she whispered, «but it's heating up nicely.» Though she'd made her comment light, her mind was whirling around a cold knot of fear. Hairlock had been with the Empire longer than she had-or Calot.

He'd been among the sorcerers who'd fought against the Malazans in Seven Cities, before Aren fell and the Holy Falah'd were scattered, before he'd been given the choice of death or service to the new masters. He'd joined the 2nd's cadre at Pan'potsun-like Dujek himself he'd been there, with the Emperor's old guard, when the first vipers of usurpation had stirred, the day the Empire's First Sword was betrayed and brutally murdered. Hairlock knew something. But what?

«All right,» Dujek drawled, «we've got work to do. Let's get at it.»

Tattersail sighed. Old Onearm's way with words. She swung a look on the man. She knew him well, not as a friend-Dujek didn't make friends-but as the best military mind left in the Empire. If, as Hairlock had just implied, the High Fist was being betrayed by someone, somewhere, and if Tayschrenn was part of it: we're a bent bough, Calot had once said of Onearm's Host, and beware the Empire when it breaks. Seven Cities» soldiery, the closeted gbosts of the conquered but unconquerable:

Tayschrenn gestured to her and to the other mages. Tattersail rose, as did Calot. Hairlock remained seated, eyes closed as if asleep.

Calot said to Dujek, «About that transfer.»

«Later,» the High Fist grunted. «Paperwork's a nightmare when you've only got one arm.» He surveyed his cadre and was about to add something but Calot spoke first.

«Anomandaris.»

Hairlock's eyes snapped open, found Tayschrenn with bright pleasure.

«Ahhh,» he said, into the silence following Calot's single pronouncement.

«Of course. Three more High Mages? Only three?»

Tattersail stared at Dujek's pale, still face. «The poem,» she said quietly. «I remember now. "Caladan Brood, the menhired one, winter-bearing, barrowed and sorrowless."»

Calot picked up the next lines.

«"… in a tomb bereaved of words, and in his hands that have crushed anvils-"»

Tattersail continued,» " the hammer of his song-

he lives asleep, so give silent warning to all-wake him not.

Wake him not."»

Everyone in the compartment was staring at Tattersail. now as her last words fell away. «He's awake, it seems,» she said, her mouth dry.

"'Anomandaris", the epic poem by Fisher Keltath.»

«The poem's not about Caladan Brood,» Dujek said, frowning.

«No,» she agreed. «It's mostly about his companion.»

Hairlock climbed slowly to his feet. He stepped close to Tayschrenn.

«Anomander Rake, Lord of the Tiste And? who are the souls of Starless Night. Rake, the Mane of Chaos. That's who the Moon's lord is, and you're pitting four High Mages and a single cadre against him.»

Tayschrenn's smooth face held the faintest sheen of sweat now. «The Tiste And?» he said, in an even voice, «are not like us. To you they may seem unpredictable, but they aren't. Just different. They have no cause of their own. They simply move from one human drama to the next. Do you actually think Anomander Rake will stay and fight?»

«Has Caladan Brood backed away?» Hairlock snapped.

«He is not Tiste And? Hairlock. He's human-some say with Barghast blood, but none the less he shares nothing of Elder blood, or its ways.»

Tattersail said, «You're counting on Rake betraying Pale's wizards-betraying the pact made between them.»

«The risk is not as overreaching as it may seem,» the High Mage said. «Bellurdan has done the research in Genabaris, Sorceress. Some new scrolls of Gothos» Folly were discovered in a mountain fastness beyond Blackdog Forest. Among the writings are discussions of the Tiste And? and other peoples from the Elder Age. And remember, Moon's Spawn has retreated from a direct confrontation with the Empire before.»

The waves of fear sweeping through Tattersail made her knees weak.

She sat down again, heavily enough to make the camp chair creak.

«You've condemned us to death,» she said, «if your gamble proves wrong. Not just us, High Mage, all of Onearm's Host.»

Tayschrernn swung round slowly, putting his back to Hairlock and the others. «Empress Laseen's orders,» he said, without turning. «Our colleagues come by Warren. When they arrive, I will detail the positioning. That is all.» He strode into the map room, resumed his original stance.

Dujek seemed to have aged in front of Tattersail's eyes. Swiftly she slid her glance from him, too anguished to meet the abandonment in his eyes, and the suspicion curdling beneath its surface. Coward-that's what you are, woman. A coward.

Finally the High Fist cleared his throat. «Prepare your Warrens, cadre. As usual, always an even trade.»

Give the High Mage credit, Tattersail thought. There was Tayschrenn, standing on the first hill, almost inside the Moon's shadow. They had arrayed themselves into three groups, each taking a hilltop on the plain outside Pale's walls. The cadre's was most distant, Tayschrenn's the closest. On the centre hill stood the three other High Mages. Tattersail knew them all. Nightchill, raven-haired, tall, imperious and with a cruel streak the old Emperor used to drool over. At her side her lifelong companion, Bellurdan, skull-crusher, a Thelomen giant who would test his prodigious strength against the Moon's portal, should it come to that.

And NKaronys, fire-wielder, short and round, his burning staff taller than a spear.

The 2nd and 6th Armies had formed ranks on the plain, weapons bared and awaiting the call to march on the city when the time came.

Seven thousand veterans and four thousand recruits. The Black Moranth legions lined the ridge to the west a quarter-mile distant.

No wind stirred the midday air. Biting midges roved in visible clouds through the soldiers waiting below. The sky was overcast, the cloud cover thin but absolute.

Tattersail stood on the hill's crest, sweat running down under her clothing, and watched the soldiers on the plain before facing her meagre cadre. At full strength, six mages should have been arrayed behind her, but there were only two. Off to one side Hairlock waited, wrapped in the dark grey raincloak that was his battle attire-looking smug.

Calot nudged Tattersail and jerked his head towards Hairlock. «What's he so happy about?»

«Hairlock,» Tattersail called. The man swung his head. «Were you right about the three High Mages?»

He smiled, then turned away again.

«I hate it when he's hiding something,» Calot said.

The sorceress grunted. «He's added something up, all right. What's so particular about Nightchill, Bellurdan and NKaronys? Why did Tayschrenn pick them and how did Hairlock know he'd pick them?»

«Questions, questions,» Calot sighed. «All three are old hands at this kind of stuff. Back in the days of the Emperor they each commanded a company of Adepts-when the Empire had enough mages in the ranks to form actual companies. NKaronys climbed through the ranks in the Falari Campaign, and Bellurdan and Nightchill were from before even then-came down from Fenn on the Quon mainland during the unification wars.»

«All old hands,» Tattersail mused, «as you said. None have been active lately, have they? Their last campaign was Seven Cities-»

«Where NKaronys took a beating in the Pan'potsun Wastes-»

«He was left hanging-the Emperor had just been assassinated. Everything was chaotic. The T'lan Imass refused to acknowledge the new Empress, marched themselves off into the Jhag Odhan.»

«Rumour has it they're back, at half-strength-whatever they ran into out there wasn't pleasant.»

Tattersail nodded. «Nightchill and Bellurdan were told to report to Nathilog, left sitting on their hands for the past six, seven years-»

«Until Tayschrenn sent the Thelomen off to Genabaris, to study a pile of ancient scrolls, of all things.»

«I'm frightened,» Tattersail admitted. «Very frightened. Did you see Dujek's face? He knew something-a realization, and it hit him like a dagger in the back.»

«Time to work,» Hairlock called.

Calot and Tattersail swung around.

A shiver ran through her. Moon's Spawn had been revolving steadily for the last three years. It had just stopped. Near its very top, on the side facing them, was a small ledge, and a shadowed recess had appeared. A portal. No movement showed yet. «He knows,» she whispered.

«And he isn't running,» Calot added.

Down on the first hill, High Mage Tayschrenn rose and lifted his arms out to the sides. A wave of golden flame spanned his hands, then rolled upward, growing as it raced towards Moon's Spawn. The spell crashed against the black rock, sending chunks hurtling out, then down. A rain of death descended into the city of Pale, and among the Malazan legions waiting in the plain.

«It's begun,» Calot breathed.

Silence answered Tayschrenn's first attack, save for the faint scatter of rubble on the city's tiled rooftops and the distant cries of wounded soldiers on the plain. Everyone's eyes were trained upward.

The reply was not what anyone expected.

A black cloud enshrouded Moon's Spawn, followed by faint shrieking.

A moment later the cloud spread out, fragmenting, and Tattersail realized what she was seeing.

Ravens.

Thousands upon thousands of Great Ravens. They must have nested among the crags and pocks in the Moon's surface. Their shrieks grew more defined, a caterwaul of outrage. They wheeled out from the Moon, their fifteen-foot wingspans catching the wind and lifting them high above the city and plain.

Fear lurched into terror in Tattersail's heart.

Hairlock barked a laugh and whirled to them. «These are the Moon's messengers, colleagues!» Madness glittered in his eyes. «These carrion birds!» He flung back his cloak and raised his arms. «Imagine a lord who's kept thirty thousand Great Ravens well fed!»

A figure had appeared on the ledge before the portal, its arms upraised, long silver hair blowing from its head.

Mane of Chaos. Anomander Rake. Lord of the black-skinned Tiste And? who has looked down on a hundred thousand winters, who has tasted the blood of dragons, who leads the last of his kind, seated in the Throne of Sorrow and a kingdom tragic and fey-a kingdom with no land to call its own.

Anomander Rake looked tiny against the backdrop of his edifice, almost insubstantial at this distance. The illusion was about to be shattered. She gasped as the aura of his power bloomed outward-to see it at such a distance: «Channel your Warrens,» Tattersail commanded, her voice cracking. «Now!»

Even as Rake gathered his power, twin balls of blue fire raced upward from the centre hill. They struck the Moon near its base and rocked it.

Tayschrenn launched another wave of gilden flames, crashing with amber spume and red-tongued smoke.

The Moon's lord responded. A black, writhing wave rolled down to the first hill. The High Mage was buffeted to his knees deflecting it, the hilltop around him blighted as the necrous power rolled down the slopes, engulfing nearby ranks of soldiers. Tattersail watched as a midnight flash swallowed the hapless men, followed by a thump that thundered through the earth. When the flash dissipated, the soldiers lay in rotting heaps, mown down like stalks of grain.

Kurald Galain sorcery. Elder magic, the Breath of Chaos.

Her breaths coming fast and tight in her chest, Tattersail felt her Thyr Warren flow into her. She shaped it, muttering chain-words under her breath, then unleashed the power. Calot followed, drawing from his Mockra Warren. Hairlock surrounded himself in his own mysterious source, and the cadre entered the fray.

Everything narrowed down for Tattersail from then on, yet a part of her mind remained distant, held on a leash of terror, observing with a kind of muffled vision all that happened around her.

The world became a living nightmare, as sorcery flew upward to batter Moon's Spawn, and sorcery rained downward, indiscriminate and devastating. Earth rose skyward in thundering columns. Rocks ripped through men like hot stones through snow. A downpour of ash descended to cover the living and dead alike. The sky dimmed to pallid rose, the sun a coppery disc behind the haze.

She saw a wave sweep past Hairlock's defences, cutting him in half.

His howl was more rage than pain, instantly muted as virulent power washed over Tattersail and she found her own defences assailed by the sorcery's cold, screaming will as it sought to destroy her. She reeled back, brought up short by Calot as he added his Mockra power to bolster her faltering parries. Then the assault passed, sweeping on and down the hill to their left.

Tattersail had fallen to her knees. Calot stood over her, chaining words of power around her, his face turned away from Moon's Spawn, fixed on something or someone down below on the plain. His eyes were wide with terror.

Too late Tattersail understood what was happening. Calot was defending her at his own expense. A final act, even as he watched his own death erupt around him. A blast of bright fire engulfed him. Abruptly the net of protection over Tattersail vanished. A wash of crackling heat from where Calot had stood sent her tumbling to one side. She felt more than heard her own shriek, and her sense of distance closed in then, a layer of mental defence obliterated.

Spitting dirt and ashes, Tattersail climbed to her feet and fought on, no longer launching attacks just struggling to remain alive. Somewhere in the back of her head a voice was screaming, urgent, panicked. Calot had faced the plain not Moon's Spawn-he'd faced right! Hairlock had been struck from the plain!

She watched as a Kenryll'ah demon arose beneath Nightchill.

Laughing shrilly, the towering, gaunt creature tore Nightchill limb from limb. It had begun feeding by the time Bellurdan arrived. The Thelomen bellowed as the demon raked its knife-like talons against his chest.

Ignoring the wounds and the blood that sprayed from them, he closed his hands around the demon's head and crushed it.

NKaronys unleashed gouts of flame from the staff in his hands until Moon's Spawn almost disappeared inside a ball of fire. Then ethereal wings of ice closed around the short, fat wizard, freezing him where he stood. An instant later he was crushed to dust.

Magic rained in an endless storm around Tayschrenn, where he still knelt on the withered, blackened hilltop. But every wave directed his way he shunted aside, wreaking devastation among the soldiers cowering on the plain. Through the carnage filling the air, through the ash and shrill tongued ravens, through the raining rocks and the screams of the wounded and dying, through the blood-chilling shrieks of demons flinging themselves into ranks of soldiery-through it all sounded the steady thunder of the High Mage's onslaught. Enormous cliffs, sheared from the Moon's face and raging with flame and trailing columns of black smoke, fell down into the city of Pale, transforming the city into its own cauldron of death and chaos.

Her ears numbed and body throbbing as if her flesh itself gasped for breath, Tattersail was slow to grasp that the sorcery had ceased. Even the voice shrieking in the back of her mind had fallen silent. She raised bleary eyes to see Moon's Spawn, billowing smoke and ablaze in a dozen places on its ravaged mien, moving away, pulling back. Then it was past the city, unsteady in its revolutions and leaning to one side. Moon's Spawn headed south, towards the distant Tahlyn Mountains.

She looked around, vaguely recalling that a company of soldiers had sought refuge on the blasted summit. Then something had hit her, taking all she had left to resist it. Now, nothing was left of the company but their armour. Always an even trade, Sorceress. She fought against a sob, then swung her attention to the first hill.

Tayschrenn was down, but alive. A half-dozen marines scampered up the hillside to gather around the High Mage. A minute later they carried him away.

Bellurdan, most of his clothing burned away and his flesh scorched red, remained on the centre hill, collecting Nightchill's scattered limbs and raising his voice in a mournful wail. The sight, in all its horror and pathos, struck Tattersail's heart like a hammer on an anvil. Quickly she turned away. «Damn you, Tayschrenn.»

Pale had fallen. The price was Onearm's Host and four mages. Only now were the Black Moranth legions moving in. Tattersail's jaw clenched, her lips drawing from their fullness into a thin white line.

Something tugged at her memory, and she felt a growing certainty that this scene was not yet played out.

The sorceress waited.

The Warrens of Magic dwelt in the beyond. Find the gate and nudge it open a crack. What leaks out is yours to shape. With these words a young woman set out on the path to sorcery. Open yourself to the Warren that comes to you-that finds you. Draw forth its power-as much as your body and soul are capable of containing-but remember, when the body fails, the gate closes.

Tattersail's limbs ached. She felt as though someone had been beating her with clubs for the past two hours. The last thing she had expected was that bitter taste on her tongue that said something nasty and ugly had come to the hilltop. Such warnings seldom came to a practitioner unless the gate was open, a Warren unveiled and bristling with power.

She'd heard tales from other sorcerers, and she'd read mouldy scrolls that touched on moments like these, when the power arrived groaning and deadly, and each time, it was said, a god had stepped on to the mortal ground.

If she could have driven the nail of immortal presence in this place, however, it would have to be Hood, the God of Death. Yet her instincts said no. She didn't believe a god had arrived, but something else had.

What frustrated the sorceress was that she couldn't decide who among the people surrounding her was the dangerous one. Something kept drawing her gaze back to the young girl. But the child seemed only half there most of the time.

The voices behind her finally drew her attention. Sergeant Whiskeyjack stood over Quick Ben and the other soldier, both of whom still knelt at Hairlock's side. Quick Ben clutched an oblong object, wrapped in hides, and was looking up at his sergeant as if awaiting approval.

There was tension between the two men. Frowning, Tattersail walked over. «What are you doing?» she asked Quick Ben, her eyes on the object in the wizard's almost feminine hands. He seemed not to have heard, his eyes on the sergeant.

Whiskeyjack shot her a glance. «Go ahead, Quick,» he growled, then strode off to stand at the hill's edge, facing west-towards the Moranth Mountains.

Quick Ben's fine, ascetic features tightened. He nodded at his companion. «Get ready, Kalam.»

The soldier named Kalam leaned back on his haunches, his hands in his sleeves. The position seemed an odd response to Quick Ben's request, but the mage seemed satisfied. Tattersail watched as he laid one of his thin, spidery hands on Hairlock's trembling, blood-splashed chest. He whispered a few chaining words and closed his eyes.

«That sounded like Denul,» Tattersail said, glancing at Kalam, who remained motionless in his crouch. «But not quite,» she added slowly.

«He's twisted it somehow.» She fell silent then, seeing something in Kalam that reminded her of a snake waiting to strike. Wouldn't take much to set him off, I think. Just a few more ill-timed words, a careless move towards Quick Ben or Hairlock. The man was big, bearish, but she remembered his dangerous glide past her. Snake indeed, the man's a killer, a soldier who's reached the next level in the art of murder Not just a job any more, this man likes it. She wondered then if it wasn't this energy, this quiet promise of menace, that swept over her with the flavour of sexual tension. Tattersail sighed. A day for perversity.

Quick Ben had resumed his chaining words, this time over the object, which he now set down beside Hairlock. She watched as enwreathing power enveloped the wrapped object, watched in growing apprehension as the mage traced his long fingers along the hide's seams. The energy trickled from him with absolute control. He was her superior in the lore.

He had opened a Warren she didn't even recognize.

«Who are you people?» she whispered, stepping back.

Hairlock's eyes snapped open, clear of pain and shock. His gaze found Tattersail and the stained smile came easily to his broken lips. «Lost arts, «Sail. What you're about to see hasn't been done in a thousand years.»

His face darkened then and the smile faded. Something burned in his eyes. «Think back, woman! Calot and I. When we went down. What did you see? Did you feel something? Something odd? Come on, think! Look at me! See my wound, see how I'm lying! Which direction was I facing when that wave hit?»

She saw the fire in his eyes, of anger mingled with triumph. «I'm not sure,» she said slowly. «Something, yes.» That detached, reasoning part of her mind that had laboured with her throughout the battle, that had screamed in her mind at Calot's death, screamed in answer to the waves of sorcery-to the fact that they had come from the plain. Her eyes narrowed on Hairlock. «Anomander Rake never bothered to aim. He was being indiscriminate. Those waves of power were aimed, weren't they? Coming at us from the wrong side.» She was trembling. «But why? Why would Tayschrenn do that?»

Hairlock reached up one mangled hand and clutched Quick Ben's cloak. «Use her, Mage. I'll take the chance.»

Tattersail's thoughts raced. Hairlock had been sent down into the tunnels by Dujek. And Whiskeyjack and his squad had been down there.

A deal had been struck. «Hairlock, what's happening here?» she demanded, fear clenching the muscles of her neck and shoulders. «What do you mean, «use» me?»

«You're not blind, wornan!»

«Quiet,» Quick Ben said. He laid down the object on the wizard's ravaged chest, positioning it carefully so that it was centred lengthways along Hairlock's breastbone. The top end reached to just under the man's chin, the bottom end extending a few inches beyond what was left of his torso. Webs of black energy spun incessantly over the hide's mottled surface.

Quick Ben passed a hand over the object and the web spread outward.

The glittering black threads traced a chaotic pattern that insinuated Hairlock's entire body, over flesh and through it, the pattern ever changing, the changes coming faster and faster. Hairlock jerked, his eyes bulging, then fell back. A breath escaped his lungs in a slow, steady hiss.

When it ceased with a wet gurgle, he did not draw another.

Quick Ben sat back on his haunches and glanced over at Whiskeyjack.

The sergeant was now facing them, his expression unreadable.

Tattersail wiped sweat from her brow with a grimy sleeve. «It didn't work, then. You failed to do whatever it was you were trying to do.»

Quick Ben climbed to his feet. Kalam picked up the wrapped object and stepped close to Tattersail. The assassin's eyes were dark, penetrating as they searched her face.

Quick Ben spoke. «Hold on to it, Sorceress. Take it back to your tent and unwrap it there. Above all, don't let Tayschrenn see it.»

Tattersail scowled. «What? just like that?» Her gaze fell on the object.

«I don't even know what I'd be accepting. Whatever it is, I don't like it.»

The girl spoke directly behind her in a voice that was sharp and accusing. «I don't know what you've done, Wizard. I felt you keeping me away. That was unkind.»

Tattersail faced the girl, then glanced back at Quick Ben. What is all this? The black man's expression was glacial, but she saw a flicker around his eyes. Looked like fear.

Whiskeyjack rounded on the girl at her words. «You got something to say about all this, recruit?» His tone was tight.

The girl's dark eyes slid to her sergeant. She shrugged, then walked away.

Kalam offered the object to Tattersail. «Answers,» he said quietly, in a north Seven Cities accent, melodic and round. «We all need answers, Sorceress. The High Mage killed your comrades. Look at us, we're all that's left of the Bridgeburners. Answers aren't easily: attained. Will you pay the price?»

With a final glance at Hairlock's lifeless body-so brutally torn apart-and the lifeless stare of his eyes, she accepted the object. It felt light in her hands. Whatever was within the hide cocoon was slight in size; parts of it moved and against her grip she felt knobs and shafts of something hard. She stared at the assassin's bearish face. «I want,» she said slowly, «to see Tayschrenn get what he deserves.»

«Then we're in agreement,» Kalam said, smiling. «This is where it starts.»

Tattersail felt her stomach jump at that smile. Woman, what's got into you? She sighed. «Done.» As she turned away to descend the slope and make her way back to the main camp, she caught the girl's eye. A chill rippled through her. The sorceress stopped. «You, recruit,» she called. «What's your name?»

The girl smiled as if at a private joke. «Sorry.»

Tattersail grunted. It figured. She tucked the package under an arm and staggered down the slope.

Sergeant Whiskeyjack kicked at a helmet and watched as it tumbled and bounced down the hillside. He spun and glared at Quick Ben. «It's done?»

The wizard's eyes darted to Sorry, then he nodded.

«You will draw unwarranted attention on our squad,» the young girl told Whiskeyjack. «High Mage Tayschrenn will notice.»

The sergeant raised an eyebrow. «Unwarranted attention? What the hell does that mean?»

Sorry made no reply.

Whiskeyjack bit back sharp words. What had Fiddler called her? An uncanny bitch. He'd said it to her face and she'd just stared him down with those dead, stony eyes. As much as he hated to admit it, Whiskeyjack shared the sapper's crude assessment. What made things even more disturbing, this fifteen-year-old girl had Quick Ben scared half out of his wits, and the wizard didn't want to talk about it. What had the Empire sent him?

His gaze swung back to Tattersail. She was crossing the killing field below. The ravens rose screaming from her path, and remained circling overhead, their caws uneasy and frightened. The sergeant felt Kalam's solid presence at his side.

«Hood's Breath,» Whiskeyjack muttered. «That sorceress seems an unholy terror as far as those birds are concerned.»

«Not her,» Kalam said. «It's what she's carrying.»

Whiskeyjack scratched his beard, his eyes narrowing. «This stinks. You sure it's necessary?»

Kalam shrugged.

«Whiskeyjack,» Quick Ben said, behind them, «they kept us in the tunnels. Do you think the High Mage couldn't have guessed what would happen?»

The sergeant faced his wizard. A dozen paces beyond stood Sorry, well within hearing range. Whiskeyjack scowled at her, but said nothing.

After a moment of heavy silence, the sergeant turned his attention to the city. The last of the Moranth legions was marching beneath the West Gate's arch. Columns of black smoke rose from behind the battered, scarred walls. He knew something of the history of grim enmity between the Moranth and the citizens of the once Free City of Pale. Contested trade routes, two mercantile powers at each other's throat. And Pale won more often than not. At long last it seemed that the black-armoured warriors from beyond the western mountains, whose faces remained hidden behind the chitinous visors on their helms and who spoke in clicks and buzzes, were evening the score. Faintly, beyond the cries of carrion birds, came the wail of men, women and children dying beneath the sword.

«Sounds like the Empress is keeping her word with the Moranth,» Quick Ben said quietly. «An hour of slaughter. I didn't think Dujek-»

«Dujek knows his orders,» Whiskeyjack cut in. «And there's a High Mage taloned on his shoulder.»

«An hour,» Kalam repeated. «Then we clean up the mess.»

«Not our squad,» Whiskeyjack said. «We've received new orders.»

The two men stared at their sergeant.

«And you still need convincing?» Quick Ben demanded. «They're driving us into the ground. They mean to.»

«Enough!» Whiskeyjack barked. «Not now. Kalam, find Fiddler. We need resupply from the Moranth. Round up the rest, Quick, and take Sorry with you. Join me outside the High Fist's tent in an hour.»

«And you?» Quick Ben asked. «What are you going to do?»

The sergeant heard an ill-concealed yearning in the wizard's voice. The man needed a direction, or maybe confirmation that they were doing the right thing. A little late for that. Even so, Whiskeyjack felt a pang of regret-he couldn't give what Quick Ben wanted the most. He couldn't tell him that things would turn out for the best. He sank down on his haunches, his eyes on Pale. «What am I going to do? I'm going to do some thinking, Quick Ben. I've been listening to you and Kalam, to Mallet and Fiddler, even Trotts has been jawing in my ear. Well, now it's my turn. So leave me be, Wizard, and take that damn girl with you.»

Quick Ben flinched, seeming to withdraw. Something in Whiskeyjack's words had made him very unhappy-or maybe everything.

The sergeant was too tired to worry about it. He had their new assignment to think over. Had he been a religious man, Whiskeyjack would have let blood in Hood's Bowl, calling upon the shades of his ancestors. As much as he hated to admit it, he shared the feeling among his squad: someone in the Empire wanted the Bridgeburners dead.

Pale was behind them now, the nightmare nothing but the taste of ashes in his mouth. Ahead lay their next destination: the legendary city of Darujhistan. Whiskeyjack had a premonition that a new nightmare was about to begin.

Down in the camp just beyond the last crest of denuded hills, horsedrawn carts loaded with wounded soldiers crowded the narrow aisles between the tent rows. All the precise order of the Malazan encampment had disintegrated, and the air was febrile with soldiers screaming their pain, giving voice to horror.

Tattersail threaded her way around the dazed survivors, stepping across puddles of blood in the wagon-ruts, her eyes lingering on an obscene pile of amputated limbs outside the cutter tents. From the massive sprawl of the camp followers» slum of tents and shelters came a wailing dirge-a broken chorus of thousands of voices, the sound a chilling reminder that war was always a thing of grief.

In some military headquarters back in the Empire's capital of Unta, three thousand leagues distant, an anonymous aide would paint a red stroke across the 2nd Army on the active list, and then write in fine script beside it: Pale, late winter, the 1163rd Year of Burn's Sleep. Thus would the death of nine thousand men and women be noted. And then forgotten.

Tattersail grimaced. Some of us won't forget. The Bridgeburners harboured some frightening suspicions. The thought of challenging Tayschrenn in a direct confrontation appealed to her sense of outrage and-if the High Mage had killed Calot-her feeling of betrayal. But she knew that her emotions had a way of running away with her. A sorcery duel with the Empire's High Mage would buy her a quick passage to Hood's Gate. Self-righteous wrath had planted more corpses in the around than an empire could lav claim to, and as Calot used to say:

Shake your fist all you want but dead is dead. She'd witnessed all too many scenes of death since she'd first joined the ranks of the Malazan Empire, but at least they couldn't be laid squarely at her feet. That was the difference, and it had been enough for a long time. Not as I once was. I've spent twenty years washing the blood from my hands. Right now, however, the scene that rose again and again behind her eyes was the empty armour on the hilltop, and it gnawed at her heart. Those men and women had been running to her, looking for protection against the horrors of the plain below. It had been a desperate act, a fatal one, but she understood it. Tayschrenn didn't care about them, but she did. She was one of their own. In past battles they'd fought like rabid dogs to keep enemy legions from killing her. This time, them instead of shielding my own hide? She'd been surviving on instinct back then, and her instincts had had nothing to do with altruism. Those it was a mage war. Her territory. Favours were traded in the 2nd. It's what kept everyone alive, and it was what had made the 2nd a legion of legend. Those soldiers had expectations, and they had the right to them.

They'd come to her for salvation. And they died for it.

And if I had sacrificed myself then? Cast my Warren's defences on to Being alive, Tattersail concluded as she approached her tent, isn't the same as feeling good about it. She entered her tent and closed the flap behind her, then stood surveying her worldly possessions. Scant few, after two hundred and nineteen years of life. The oak chest containing her book of Thyr sorcery remained sealed by warding spells; the small collection of alchemical devices lay scattered on the tabletop beside her cot, like a child's toys abandoned in mid-game.

Amid the clutter sat her Deck of Dragons. Her gaze lingered on the reading cards before continuing its round. Everything looked different now, as if the chest, the alchemy, and her clothes all belonged to someone else: someone younger, someone still possessing a shred of vanity.

Only the Deck-the Fatid-called out to her like an old friend.

Tattersail walked over to stand before it. With an absent gesture she set down the package given her by Kalam, then pulled out a stool from under the table. Sitting down, she reached for the Deck. She hesitated.

It had been months. Something had kept her away. Maybe Calot's death could have been foretold, and maybe that suspicion had been pacing in the darkness of her thoughts all this time. Pain and fear had been shaping her soul all her life, but her time with Calot had been another kind of shaping, something light, happy, pleasantly floating.

She'd called it mere diversion.

«How's that for wilful denial?» She heard the bitterness in her tone and hated herself for it. Her old demons were back, laughing at the death of her illusions. You refused the Deck once before, the night before Mock's throat was opened, the night before Dancer and the man who would one day rule an Empire stole into your master's-your lover's-Hold. Would you deny that a pattern exists, woman?

Her vision blurry with memories she'd thought buried for ever, she looked down at the Deck, blinking rapidly. «Do I want you to talk to me, old friend? Do I need your reminders, your wry confirmation that faith is for fools?»

A motion caught the corner of her eye. Whatever was inside the bound hide had moved. Lumps rose here and there, pushing against the seams.

Tattersail stared. Then, her breath catching, she reached to it and set it in front of her. She withdrew a small dagger from her belt and began to cut the seams. The object within went still, as if awaiting the result of her efforts. She peeled back a sliced flap of hide.

«Sail,» said a familiar voice.

Her eyes widened as a wooden marionette, wearing bright yellow silk clothing, climbed out of the bag. Painted on its round face were features she recognized.

«Hairlock.»

«Good to see you again,» the marionette said, rising to its feet. It wobbled and held out artfully carved hands to regain balance. «And the soul did shift,» he said, doffing his floppy hat and managing an unsteady bow.

Soul shifting. «But that's been lost for centuries. Not even Tayschrenn-» She stopped, pursing her lips. Her thoughts raced.

«Later,» Hairlock said. He took a few steps, then bent his head forward to study his new body. «Well,» he sighed, «one mustn't quibble, must one?»

He looked up and fixed painted eyes on the sorceress. «You have to go to my tent before the thought occurs to Tayschrenn, I need my Book. You're part of this now. There's no turning back.»

«Part of what?»

Hairlock made no reply, having broken his uncanny stare. He lowered himself down to his knees. «Thought I smelled a Deck,» he said.

Sweat ran in cold rivulets under Tattersail's arms. Hairlock had made her uneasy at the best of times, but this: She could smell her own fear.

That he'd swung his gaze from her made her grateful for small mercies.

This was Elder Magic, Kurald Galain, if the legends were true, and it was deadly, vicious, raw and primal. The Bridgeburners had a reputation for being a mean crowd, but to walk the Warrens closest to Chaos was pure madness. Or desperation.

Almost of its own accord, her Thyr Warren opened and a surge of power filled her weary body. Her eyes snapped to the Deck.

Hairlock must have sensed it. «Tattersail,» he whispered, amusement it his tone. «Come. The Fatid calls to you. Read what is to be read.»

Profoundly disturbed by her own answering flush of excitement, Tattersail reluctantly reached for the Deck of Dragons. She saw her hand tremble as it closed on it. She shuffled slowly, feeling the chill of the lacquered wooden cards seep into her fingers and then her arms. «I feel a storm raging in them already,» she said, trimming the Deck and setting it down on the tabletop.

Hairlock's answering laugh was eager and mean. «First House sets the course. Quickly!»

She turned over the top card. Her breath caught. «Knight of Dark.»

Hairlock sighed. «The Lord of Night rules this game. Of course.»

Tattersail studied the painted figure. The face remained blurred as always did; the Knight was naked, his skin jet black. From the hips up he was human, heavily muscled, holding aloft a black two-handed sword that trailed smoky, ethereal chains drifting off into the background's empty darkness. His lower body was draconian, its armoured scales black, paling to grey at the belly. As always, she saw something new, something she had never seen before that pertained to the moment.

There was a shape suspended in the darkness above the Knight's head: she could only detect it on the edge of her vision, a vague hint that vanished when she focused on the place itself. Of course, you never give up the truth so easily, do you?

«Second card,» Hairlock urged, crouching close to the playing field inscribed on the tabletop.

She flipped the second card. «Oponn.» The two-faced jester of Chance.

«Hood's Curse on their meddling ways,» Hairlock growled.

The Lady held the upright position, her male twin's bemused stare upside down at the card's foot. Thus the thread of luck that pulled back rather than pushed forward-the thread of success. The Lady's expression seemed soft, almost tender, a new facet marking how things now balanced. A second heretofore unseen detail caught Tattersail's intense study. Where the Lord's right hand reached up to touch the Lady's left a tiny silver disc spanned the space between them. The sorceress leaned forward, squinting. A coin, and on the face a male head.

She blinked. No, female. Then male, then female. She sat back suddenly.

The coin was spinning.

«Next!» Hairlock demanded. «You are too slow!»

Tattersail saw that the marionette was paying no attention to the card Oponn, and had in fact probably given it only sufficient notice to identify it. She drew a deep breath. Hairlock and the Bridgeburners were tied up in this, she knew that instinctively, but her own role was as yet undecided. With these two cards, she already knew more than they did. It still wasn't much, but it might be enough to keep her alive in what was to come. She released her breath all at once, reached forward and slammed a palm down on the Deck.

Hairlock jumped, then whirled to her. «You hold on this?» he raged. «You hold on the Fool? The second card? Absurd! Play on, woman!»

«No,» Tattersail replied, sweeping the two cards into her hands and returning them to the Deck. «I've chosen to hold. And there's nothing you can do about it.» She rose.

«Bitch! I can kill you in the blink of an eye! Here and now!»

«Fine,» Tattersail said. «A good excuse for missing Tayschrenn's debriefing. By all means proceed, Hairlock.» Crossing her arms, she waited.

The marionette snarled. «No,» he said. «I have need of you. And you despise Tayschrenn even more than I.» He cocked his head, reconsidering his last words, then barked a laugh. «Thus I am assured there will be no betrayal.»

Tattersail thought about that. «You are right,» she said. She turned and walked to the tent flap. Her hand closed on the rough canvas, then she stopped. «Hairlock, how well can you hear?»

«Well enough,» the marionette growled behind her.

«Do you hear anything, then?» A spinning coin?

«Camp sounds, is all. Why, what do you hear?»

Tattersail smiled. Without answering she pulled aside the tent flap and went outside. As she headed towards the command tent, a strange hope sang through her.

She'd never held Oponn as an ally. Calling on luck in anything was sheer idiocy. The first House she had placed, Darkness, touched her hand ice-cold, loud with the crashing waves of violence and power run amok-and yet an odd flavour there, something like salvation. The Knight could be enemy or ally, or more likely neither. Just out there, unpredictable, self-absorbed. But Oponn rode the warrior's shadow, leaving House Dark tottering on the edge, suspended in a place between night and day. More than anything else, it had been Oponn's spinning coin that had demanded her choice to hold.

Hairlock heard nothing. Wonderful.

Even now, as she approached the command tent, the faint sound continued in her head, as it would for some time, she believed. The coin spun, and spun. Oponn whirled two faces to the cosmos, but it was the Lady's bet. Spin o silver. Spin on.