Gardens of the Moon

CHAPTER THREE

The imperial trireme carved the deep-sea troughs like a relentless axe-blade, sails stretched and spars creaking under the steady wind. Captain Ganoes Paran remained in his cabin. He had long since grown tired of scanning the eastern horizon for the first sighting of land. It would come, and it would come soon.

He leaned against the sloping wall opposite his bunk, watching the lanterns sway and idly tossing his dagger into the lone table's centre pole, which was now studded with countless tiny holes.

A cool musty brush of air swept across his face and he turned to see Topper emerge from the Imperial Warren. It had been two years since he'd last seen the Claw Master. «Hood's Breath, man,» Paran said, «can't you manage to find another colour of cloth? This perverse love of green must surely be curable.»

The tall half-blood Tiste And? seemed to be wearing the same clothes as the last time Paran had seen him: green wool, green leather. Only the countless rings spearing his long fingers showed any splash of contrary colour. The Claw Master had arrived in a sour mood and Paran's opening words had not improved it. «You imagine I enjoy such journeys, Captain? Seeking out a ship on the ocean is a challenge of sorcery few could manaze.»

«Makes you a reliable messenger, then,» Paran muttered.

«I see you've made no effort to improve on courtesy, Captain-I admit I understand nothing of the Adjunct's faith in you.»

«Don't lose sleep over it, Topper. Now you've found me, what is the» The man scowled. «She's with the Bridgeburners. Outside Pale.» «The siege continues? How old is your information?»

«Less than a week, which is as long as I've been hunting you. In any case,» he continued, «the deadlock is about to be broken.»

Paran grunted. Then he frowned. «Which squad?»

«You know them all?»

«Yes,» Paran asserted.

Topper's scowl deepened, then he raised a hand and began examining his rings. «Whiskeyjack's. She's one of his recruits.»

Paran closed his eyes. It should not have surprised him. The gods are playing with me. Question is, which gods? Oh, Whiskeyjack. You once commanded an army, back when Laseen was named Surly, back when you could have listened to your companion, when you could have made a choice. You could've stopped Surly. Hell, perhaps you could have stopped me. But now you command a squad, just a squad, and she's the Empress. And me? I'm a fool who followed his dream, and now all I desire is its end. He opened his eyes and regarded Topper. «Whiskeyjack. The War of Seven Cities: through the breach at Aren, the Holy Desert Raraku, Pan'potsun, Nathilog:»

«All in the Emperor's time Paran.»

«So,» Paran said, «I'm to take command of Whiskeyjack's squad. The mission will take us to Darulhistan, to the city of cities.»

«Your recruit is showing her powers,» Topper said, grimacing. «She's corrupted the Bridgeburners, possibly even Dujek Onearm and the entire Second and Third Armies on Genabackis.»

«You can't be serious. Besides, my concern is with the recruit With her. Only her. The Adjunct agrees we've waited long enough. Now you're telling me we've waited too long? I can't believe Dujek's about to become a renegade-not Dujek. Not Whiskeyjack either.»

«You are to proceed as planned, but I have been instructed to remind you that secrecy is paramount, now more than ever. An agent of the Claw will contact you once you reach Pale. Trust no one else. Your recruit's found her weapon, and with it she means to strike at the heart of the Empire. Failure cannot be considered.» Topper's odd eyes glinted. «If you now feel unequal to the task:»

Paran studied the man standing before him. If it's as bad as you describe, why not send in a hand of Claw assassins?

The man sighed, as if he'd somehow heard Paran's silent question. «A god is using her, Captain. She won't die easily. The plan for dealing with her has required: adjustments. Expansion, in fact. Additional threats must be taken care of, but these are threads already woven. Do as you have been commanded. All risk must be removed if we are to take Darujhistan, and the Empress wants Darujhistan. She also feels it is time for Dujek Onearm to be:» he smiled, «disarmed.»

«Why?»

«He has a following. It's still held that the Emperor had old Onearm in mind as his heir.»

Paran snorted. «The Emperor planned to rule for ever, Topper. This suspicion of Laseen's is plain ridiculous and persists only because it justifies her paranoia.»

«Captain,» Topper said quietly, «greater men than you have died for less. The Empress expects obedience of her servants, and demands loyalty.»

«Any reasonable ruler would have the expectation and the demand the other way round.»

Topper's mouth thinned to a pale line. «Assume command of the squad, stay close to the recruit but otherwise do nothing to make her suspicious of you. Once in place you are to wait. Understood?»

Paran looked away, his gaze finding the porthole. Beyond was blue sky. There were too many omissions, half-truths and outright lies in this: this chaotic mess. How will I play it, when the time comes? The recruit must die. At least that much is certain. But the rest? Whiskeyjack, I remember you, you stood tall then, and in my dreams I never imagined this growing nightmare. Will I have your blood on my bands when all this is done? At the very heart of things, he realized, he no longer knew who was the ultimate betrayer in all this, if a betrayer there must be. Was the Empire the Empress? Or was it something else, a legacy, an ambition, a vision at the far end of peace and wealth for all? Or was it a beast that could not cease devouring? Darujhistan-the greatest city in the world. Would it come to the Empire in flames? Was there wisdom in opening its gates? Within the troubled borders of the Malazan Empire, people lived in such peace as their ancestors had never imagined; and if not for the Claw, for the endless wars in distant lands, there would be freedom as well. Had this been the Emperor's dream at the very beginning? Did it matter any more?

«Are my instructions understood, Captain?»

He glanced over at the man and waved a hand. «Well enough.»

Snarling, Topper spread wide his arms. The Imperial Warren yawned behind him. He stepped back and was gone.

Paran leaned forward, his head in his hands.

It was the Season of Currents and in the port city of Genabaris the heavy Malazan transports rocked and twisted, straining at their ropes like massive beasts. The piers, unused to such gargantuan craft moored alongside them, creaked ominously with every wayward, savage pull on the bollards.

Crates and cloth-wrapped bundles crowded the yards, supplies fresh in from the Seven Cities and destined for the front lines. Supply clerks clambered over them like monkeys, hunting sigils of identification and chattering to each other over the heads of clockmen and soldiers.

The agent leaned against a crate at the foot of the pier, his burly arms crossed and his small, narrow eyes fixed on the officer sitting on a bundle some thirty yards further down the pier. Neither had moved in the last hour.

The agent was having a hard time convincing himself that this was the man he'd been sent to retrieve. He looked awfully young, and as green as the rancid water of this bay. His uniform still bore its maker's chalk lines, and the leather grip of his longsword showed not a single sweatstain. He had the stink of nobility about him like a perfumed cloud. And for the past hour he'd just been sitting there, hands in lap, shoulders hunched, watching like some stupid cow the frenzied activity swirling around him. Though he ranked captain, not a single soldier even bothered to salute him-the stink wasn't subtle.

The Adjunct must have been knocked on her head during that last assassination attempt on the Empress. It was the only possible explanation for this farce of a man rating the kind of service the agent was about to deliver. In person, yet. These days, he concluded sourly, the whole show was being run by idiots.

With a loud sigh, the agent pushed himself upright and sauntered over to the officer.

The man didn't even know he had company until the agent stepped in front of him, then he looked up.

The agent did some quick rethinking. Something in this man's gaze was dangerous. There was a glitter there, buried deep, that made the man's eyes seem older than the rest of his face. «Narne?» The agent's question was a strained grunt.

«Took your time about it,» the captain said, rising.

A tall bastard, too. The agent scowled. He hated tall bastards. «Who're you waiting for, Captain?»

The man looked up the pier. «The waiting's over. Let's walk. I'll just take it on faith you know where we're going.» He reached down and retrieved a duffel bag, then took the lead.

The agent moved up beside the captain. «Fine,» he growled. «Be that way.» They left the pier and the agent turned them up the first street on the right. «A Green Quorl came in last night. You'll be taken directly to Cloud Forest, and from there a Black will take you into Pale.»

The captain gave the agent a blank stare.

«You never heard of Quorls?»

«No. I assume they're a means of transportation. Why else would I be removed from a ship a thousand leagues distant from Pale?»

«The Moranth use them, and we're using the Moranth.» The agent scowled to himself. «Using them a lot, these days. The Green do most of the courier stuff, and moving people around like you and me, but the Black are stationed in Pale, and the different clans don't like to mix. The Moranth are made up of a bunch of clans, got colours for names, and wear them too. Nobody gets confused that way.»

«And I'm to ride with a Green, on a Quorl?»

«You got it, Captain.»

They headed up a narrow street. Malazan guards milled around every crossing, hands on their weapons.

The captain returned a salute from one such squad. «Having trouble with insurrections?» he asked.

«Insurrections, yeah. Trouble, no.»

«Let's see if I understand you correctly.» The captain's tone was stiff. «Instead of delivering me by ship to a point nearest Pale, I'm to ride overland with a bunch of half-human barbarians who smell like grasshoppers and dress like them, too. And this way, no one will notice, especially since it'll take us a year to get to Pale and by then everything will have gone all to hell. Correct so far?»

Grinning, the agent shook his head. Despite his hatred for tall men or rather, men taller than himself, he felt his guard going down. At least this one talked straight-and, for a noble, that was pretty impressive. Maybe Lorn still had the old stuff after all. «You said overland? Well, hell, yes, Captain. Way overland.» He stopped at a nondescript doorway and turned to the man. «Quorls, you see, they fly. They got wings. Four in fact. And you can see right through every one of them, and if you're of a mind you can poke your finger through one of those wings. Only don't do it when you're a quarter-mile up, right? «Cause it may be a long way down but it'll seem awfully fast at the time. You hear me, Captain?» He opened the door. Beyond rose a staircase.

The man's face had lost its colour. «So much for intelligence reports,» he muttered.

The agent's grin widened. «We see them before you do. Life's on a need-to-know. Remember that, Captain:» The man's smile was the only answer he gave.

They entered and closed the door behind them.

A young marine intercepted Tattersail as she made her way across the compound in what was now Empire headquarters in Pale. The boy's face had bewilderment written all over it, and he opened his mouth a few times before any words came out.

«Sorceress?»

She stopped. The thought of having Tayschrenn wait a little longer appealed to her. «What is it, soldier?»

The marine stole a glance over one shoulder, then said, «The guards, Sorceress. They've got something of a problem. They sent me to-»

«Who? Which guards? Take me to them.»

«Yes, Sorceress.»

She followed the marine around the nearest corner of the main building, where the compound wall ran close, creating a narrow passage running the building's length. At the far end knelt a figure, his bare head bowed. Beside him was a large, lumpy burlap sack, covered in brown stains. Clouds of flies swarmed around both the man and the sack.

The marine halted and turned to the sorceress. «He still hasn't moved. The guards keep getting sick when they patrol through here.»

Tattersail stared at the huddled man, a sudden welling of tears behind her eyes. Ignoring the marine, she strode into the aisle. The stench hit her like a wall. Damn, she thought, he's been here since the battle. Five days.

The sorceress came closer. Though Bellurdan knelt, his head came near to her own height. The Thelomen High Mage still wore what was left of his battle garb, the ragged strips of fur scorched and torn, the rough weave of fragments of tunic stained with blood. As she arrived to stop before him, she saw that his neck and face were covered in burn blisters, and most of his hair was gone.

«You look terrible, Bellurdan,» she said.

The giant's head slowly turned. Red-rimmed eyes focused on her face.

«Ah,» he rumbled. «Tattersail.» His exhausted smile cracked the charred flesh of one cheek. The wound gaped red and dry.

That smile almost broke her down. «You need healing, old friend.» Her gaze flicked to the burlap sack. Its surface crawled with flies. «Come on. Nightchill would bite your head off if she could see you now.» She felt trembling steal into her, but grimly pressed on. «We'll take care of her Bellurdan. You and me. But we'll need our strength to do that.»

The Thelomen shook his head slowly. «I choose this, Tattersail. The scars without are the scars within.» He drew a deep breath. «I will survive these wounds. And I alone will raise my love's barrow. But the time is not yet right.» He laid a massive hand on the sack. «Tayschrenn has given me leave to do this. Will you do the same?»

Tattersail was shocked to feel the surge of anger rising up in her. «Tayschrenn gave you leave, did he?» To her own ears her voice sound brutal, a harsh grating of sarcasm. She saw Bellurdan flinch and seem withdraw, and a part of her wanted to wail, to throw her arms around the giant and weep, but rage possessed her. «That bastard killed Nightchill! Bellurdan! The Moon's lord had neither the time nor the inclination to raise demons. Think about it! Tayschrenn had the time prepare-»

«No!» The Thelomen's voice thundered down the aisle. He surged to his feet and Tattersail stepped back. The giant looked ready to tear down the walls, a desperate fire in his eyes. His hands closed into fists. Then his glare fixed on her. He seemed to freeze. All at once his shoulder slumped, his hands opened, and his eyes dimmed. «No,» he said again, this time in a tone filled with sorrow. «Tayschrenn is our protector. As has always been, Tattersail. Remember the very beginning? The Emperor was mad, but Tayschrenn stood at his side. He shaped the Empire dream and so opposed the Emperor's nightmare. We underestimated Lord of Moon's Spawn, that is all.»

Tattersail stared up at Bellurdan's ravaged face. The memory of Hairlock's torn body returned to her. There was an echo there, but she couldn't quite catch it. «I remember the beginning,» she said softly, doing some searching of her own. The memories remained sharp, but whatever thread there was that connected then to now still eluded her. She wanted desperately to talk to Quick Ben, but she had seen nothing of the Bridgeburners since the day of the battle. They'd left her with Hairlock, and that puppet scared her more and more with every passing day. Particularly now that he'd found a grudge to hold on to-the scene with the Deck of Dragons still smarted-and he worked it by keeping her in the dark. «The Emperor had a knack for gathering the right people around him,» she continued. «But he wasn't a fool. He knew the betrayal would come from that group. What made us the right people was our power. I remember, Bellurdan.» She shook her head. «The Emperor's gone, but the power's still here.»

Tattersail's breath caught. «And that's it,» she said, half to herself. Tayschrenn's the thread.

«The Emperor was insane,» Bellurdan said. «Else he would have protected himself better.»

Tattersail frowned at that. The Thelomen had a point. Like she'd just said, that old man wasn't a fool. So what had happened? «I'm sorry. We must talk later. The High Mage has summoned me. Bellurdan, will we talk later?»

The giant nodded. «As you wish. Soon I will depart to raise Nightchill's barrow. Far out on the Rhivi Plain, I think.»

Tattersail glanced back up the aisle. The marine still stood there, shifting from one foot to the other. «Bellurdan, would you mind if I cast a sealing spell on her remains?»

His eyes clouded and he looked down at the sack. «The guards are unhappy, it's true.» He thought for a moment, then said, «Yes, Tattersail. You may do that.»

«It smells bad from here to the throne,» Kalam said, his scarred face twisted with worry. He sat crouched on his haunches, absently scratching the lines of a web on the ground with his dagger, then looked up at his sergeant.

Whiskeyjack eyed Pale's stained walls, the muscles of his jaw bunching beneath his beard. «The last time I stood on this hill,» he said, his gaze narrowing, «it was crowded with armour. And a mage and a half.» He was silent for a time, then he sighed. «Go on, Corporal.»

Kalam nodded. «I pulled some old threads,» he said, squinting against the harsh morning light. «Somebody high up has us marked. Could be the court itself, or maybe the nobility-there's rumours they're back at it behind the scenes.» He grimaced. «And now we've got some new captain from Unta eager to get our throats cut. Four captains in the last three years, not one worth his weight in salt.»

Quick Ben stood ten feet away, at the hill's crest, his arms crossed. He now spoke. «You heard the plan. Come on, Whiskeyjack. That man slid straight out of the palace and into our laps on a stream of-»

«Quiet,» Whiskeyjack muttered. «I'm thinking.»

Kalam and Quick Ben exchanged glances.

A long minute passed. On the road below troop wagons rattled in the ruts leading into the city. Remnants of the 5th and 6th Armies, already battered, almost broken, by Caladan Brood and the Crimson Guard.

Whiskeyjack shook his head. The only force intact was the Moranth, they seemed determined to field only the Black regiments, using the Gr for lifts and drops-and where the hell was the Gold he'd been hearing much about? Damn those unhuman bastards anyway. Pale's gutters ran red from their hour of retribution. Once the burial shifts were through there'd be a few more hills outside the city's walls. Big ones.

There would be nothing to mark thirteen hundred dead Bridgeburners though. The worms didn't need to travel far to feast on those bodies. What chilled the sergeant to his bones was the fact that, apart from a few survivors, nobody had made a serious effort to save them. Some high ranking officer had delivered Tayschrenn's commiserations on those lost in the line of duty, then had unloaded a wagonload of tripe about heroism and sacrifice. His audience of thirty-nine stone-faced soldiers looked on without a word. The officer was found dead in his room hours later, expertly garotted. The mood was bad-nobody in regiment would have even thought of something so ugly five years ago. But now they didn't blink at the news.

Garotte-sounds like Claw work. Kalam had suggested it was a setup, an elaborate frame to discredit what was left of the Bridgeburners. Whiskeyjack was sceptical.

He tried to clear his thoughts. If there was a pattern it would be a simple one, simple enough to pass by unnoticed. But exhaustion see in like a thick haze behind his eyes. He took a deep lungful of the morning air. «The new recruit?» he asked.

Kalam rose from his haunches with a grunt. A faraway and longlook entered his eyes. «Maybe,» he said finally. «Pretty young for a Claw though.»

«I never believed in pure evil before Sorry showed up,» Quick Ben said. «But you're right, she's awfully young. How long are they trained before they're sent out?»

Kalam shrugged uneasily. «Fifteen years minimum. Mind you, they them young. Five or six.»

«Could be magery involved, making her look younger than she is.» Quick Ben said. «High-level stuff, but within Tayschrenn's abilities.»

«Seems too obvious,» Whiskeyjack muttered. «Call it bad upbringing.» Quick Ben snorted. «Don't tell me you believe that, Whiskeyjack.»

The sergeant's face tightened. «The subject's closed on Sorry. And don't tell me what I think, Wizard.» He faced Kalam. «All right. You think Empire's into killing its own these days. You think Laseen's cleaning house, maybe? Or someone close to her? Getting rid of certain people. Fine. Tell me why.»

«The old guard,» Kalam replied immediately. «Everyone still loyal to Emperor's memory.»

«Doesn't wash,» Whiskeyjack said. «We're all dying off anyway. We don't need Laseen's help. Apart from Dujek there's not a man in this army here who even knows the Emperor's name, and nobody'd give a damn in any case. He's dead. Long live the Empress.»

«She ain't got the patience to wait it out,» Quick Ben said.

Kalam nodded agreement. «She's losing momentum as it is. Things used to be better-it's that memory she wants dead.»

«Hairlock's our snake in the hole,» Quick Ben said with a sharp nod.

«It'll work, Whiskeyjack. I know what I'm doing on this one.»

«We do it the way the Emperor would have,» Kalam added. «We turn the game. We do our own house-cleaning.»

Whiskeyjack raised a hand. «All right. Now be quiet. You're both sounding too damn rehearsed.» He paused. «It's a theory. A complicated one. Who's in the know and who isn't?» He scowled at Quick Ben's expression. «Right, that's Hairlock's task. But what happens when you come face to face with someone big, powerful and mean?»

«Like Tayschrenn?» The Wizard grinned.

«Right. I'm sure you've got an answer. Let's see if I can work it out myself. You look for someone even nastier. You make a deal and you set things up, and if we're quick enough we'll come out smelling of roses. Am I close, Wizard?»

Kalam snorted his amusement.

Quick Ben looked away. «Back in the Seven Cities, before the Empire showed up-»

«Back in the Seven Cities is back in the Seven Cities,» Whiskeyjack said. «Hell, I led the company chasing you across the desert, remember? I know how you work, Quick. And I know you're damn good at this. But I also recall that you were the only one of your cabal to come out alive back then. And this time?»

The wizard seemed hurt by Whiskeyjack's words. His lips thinned to a straight line.

The sergeant sighed. «All right. We go with it. Start things rolling. And pull that sorceress all the way in. We'll need her if Hairlock breaks his chains.»

«And Sorry?» Kalam asked.

Whiskeyjack hesitated. He knew the question behind that question.

Quick Ben was the squad's brains, but Kalam was their killer. Both made him uneasy with their single-minded devotion to their respective talents.

«Leave her alone,» he said at last. «For now.»

Kalam and Quick Ben sighed, sharing a grin behind their sergeant's back.

«Just don't get cocky,» Whiskeyjack said drily.

The grins faded.

The sergeant's gaze returned to the wagons entering the city. Two riders approached. «All right,» he said. «Mount up. Here comes our reception committee.» The riders were from his squad, Fiddler and Sorry.

«You think the new captain's arrived?» Kalam asked, as he climbed into his saddle. His roan mare turned her head and snapped at him. He growled in return. A moment later the two long-time companions settled down into their mutual mistrust.

Whiskeyjack looked on, amused. «Probably. Let's head down to them. Anybody up on the wall watching us might be getting antsy.» Then his humour fell away. They had, indeed, just turned the game. And the timing couldn't have been worse. He knew the full extent of their next mission, and in that he knew more than either Quick Ben or Kalam.

There was no point in complicating things even further, though. They'll find out soon enough.

Tattersail stood half a dozen feet behind High Mage Tayschrenn. The Malazan banners snapped in the wind, the spars creaking above the smoke-stained turret, but here in the shelter of the wall the air was calm.

On the western horizon across from her rose the Moranth Mountains, reaching a mangled arm northward to Genabaris. As the range swept southward it joined the Tahlyn in a jagged line stretching a thousand leagues into the east. Off to her right lay the flat yellow-grassed Rhivi Plain.

Tayschrenn leaned on a merlon looking down on the wagons rolling into the city. From below rose the groans of oxen and shouting soldiers.

The High Mage hadn't moved or said a word in some minutes. Off to his left waited a small wood table, its surface scarred and pitted and crowded with runes cut deep into the oak. Peculiar dark stains blotted the surface here and there.

Knots of tension throbbed in Tattersail's shoulders. Meeting Bellurdan had shaken her, and she didn't feel up to what was to come.

«Bridgeburners,» the High Mage muttered.

Startled, the sorceress frowned, then stepped up to stand beside Tayschrenn. Descending from a hill off to the right, a hill she knew intimately, rode a party of soldiers. Even from this distance she recognized four of them: Quick Ben, Kalam, Whiskeyjack and that recruit, Sorry.

The fifth rider was a short, wiry man, who had sapper written all over him. «Oh?» she said, feigning lack of interest.

«Whiskeyjack's squad,» Tayschrenn said. He turned his full gaze on the sorceress. «The same squad you spoke with immediately following the Moon's retreat.» The High Mage smiled, then clapped Tattersail's shoulder. «Come. I require a Reading. Let's begin.» He walked over to stand before the table. «Oponn's strands are twisting a peculiar maze, the influence snares me again and again.» He turned his back to the wall and sat down on a crenel, then looked up. «Tattersail,» he said soberly, «in matters of Empire, I am the servant of the Empress.»

Tattersail. recalled their argument at the debriefing. Nothing had been resolved. «Perhaps I should take my complaints to her, then.»

Tayschrenn's brows rose. «I take that as sarcastic.»

«You do?»

The High Mage said, stiffly, «I do, and be thankful for it, woman.»

Tattersail pulled out her Deck and held it against her stomach, running her fingers over the top card. Cool, a feeling of great weight and darkness. She set the Deck in the table's centre, then lowered her bulk slowly into a kneeling position. Her gaze locked with Tayschrenn's. «Shall we begin?»

«Tell me of the Spinning Coin.»

Tattersail's breath caught. She could not move.

«First card,» Tayschrenn commanded.

With an effort she expelled the air from her lungs in a hissing sigh.

Damn him, she thought. An echo of laughter sounded in her head, and she realized that someone, something, had opened the way. An Ascendant was reaching through her, its presence cool and amused, almost fickle. Her eyes shut of their own accord, and she reached for the first card. She flipped it almost haphazardly to her right. Eyes still closed, she felt herself smile. «An unaligned card: Orb. Judgement and true sight.» The second card she tossed to the left side of the field. «Virgin, High House Death. Here scarred and blindfolded, with blood on her hands.» Faintly, as if from a great distance away, came the sound of horses, thundering closer, now beneath her, as if the earth had swallowed them.

Then the sound rose anew, behind her. She felt herself nod. The recruit.

«The blood on her hands is not her own, the crime not its own. The cloth against her eyes is wet.»

She slapped the third card immediately in front of her. Behind her lids an image formed. It left her cold and frightened. «Assassin, High House Shadow. The Rope, a count of knots unending, the Patron of Assassins is in this game.» For a moment she thought she heard the howling of Uoun&. Skit lai(I aliana on tiat fourtki caTcX and, felt a tlafikk of recognition ripple through her, followed by something like false modesty.

«Oponn, Lady's head high, Lord's low.» She picked it up and set it down opposite Tayschrenn.

There's your block. She smiled to herself. Chew on it awhile, High Mage. The Lady regards you with disgust. Tattersail knew he must be burning with questions, but he wouldn't speak them. There was too much power behind this opening. Had he sensed the Ascendant's presence? She wondered if it scared him.

«The Coin,» she heard herself say, «spins on, High Mage. Its face looks upon many, a handful perhaps, and here is their card.» She set the fifth card to Oponn's right, edges touching. «Another unaligned card: Crown. Wisdom and justice, as it is upright. Around it a fair city's walls, lit by flames of gas, blue and green.» She pondered. «Yes, Darujhistan, the last Free City.»

The way closed, the Ascendant withdrawing as if bored. Tattersail's eyes opened, an unexpected warmth comforting her weary body. «Into Oponn's maze,» she said, amused at the truth hidden in that statement. «I can take it no further, High Mage.»

Tayschrenn's breath gusted out and he leaned back. «You've gone far past what I've managed, Sorceress.» His face was drawn as he looked at her. «I'm impressed with your source, though not pleased with its message.»

He frowned, planting his elbows on his knees and steepling his long-fingered hands before his face. «This Spinning Coin, ever echoing. There's the jester's humour in this shaping-even now I feel we are being misled. Death's Virgin, a likely deceit.»

It was now Tattersail's turn to be impressed. The High Mage was an Adept, then. Had he, too, heard the laughter punctuating the laying of the field? She hoped not. «You might be right,» she said. «The Virgin's face is ever changing-it could be anyone. Can't say the same for Oponn, or the Rope's.» She nodded. «A very possible deception,» she said, pleased to be conversing with an equal-a truth that made her grimace inwardly.

It's always better when hatred and outrage stay pure, uncompromised.

«I would hear your thoughts,» Tayschrenn said.

Tattersail started, shied from the High Mage's steady gaze. She began collecting the cards. Would it hurt to offer some explanation? If anything, it will leave him even more rattled than be already is. «Deception is the Patron Assassin's forte. I sensed nothing of his presumed master, Shadowthrone himself. Makes me suspect the Rope is on his own here. Beware the Assassin, High Mage, if anything his games are even more subtle than Shadowthrone's. And while Oponn plays their own version, it remains the same game, and that game is being played out in our world. The Twins of Luck have no control in Shadow's Realm, and Shadow is a Warren known for slipping its boundaries. For breaking the rules.»

«True enough,» Tayschrenn said, rising to his feet with a grunt. «The birth of that bastard realm has ever troubled me.»

«It's young yet,» Tattersail said. She picked up her Deck and returned it to the pocket inside her cloak. «Its final shaping is still centuries away, and it may never happen. Recall other new Houses that ended up dying a quick death.»

«This one stinks of too much power.» Tayschrenn returned to his study of the Moranth Mountains. «My gratitude,» he said, as Tattersail went to the steps leading down into the city, «is worth something, I hope. In any case, Sorceress, you have it.»

Tattersail hesitated at the landing, then began the descent. He'd be less magnanimous if he found out that she had just misled him. She could guess the Virgin's identity. Her thoughts travelled back to the moment of the Virgin's appearance. The horses she had heard, passing beneath, hadn't been an illusion. Whiskeyjack's squad had just entered the city, through the gate below. And among them rode Sorry. Coincidence?

Maybe, but she didn't think so. The Spinning Coin had faintly wobbled at that instant, then its ringing returned. Though she heard it in her mind day and night, it had become almost second nature, and Tattersail found she had to concentrate to find it. But she'd caught the nudge, felt the pitch change and sensed a brief instant of uncertainty.

Death's Virgin, and the Assassin of High House Shadow. There was a connection there, somehow, and it bothered Oponn. Obviously, everything remained in a flux. «Terrific,» she muttered, as she reached the bottom of the staircase.

She saw the young marine who had approached her earlier. He stood in a line of recruits in the centre of the compound. No commanding officer was in sight. Tattersail called the boy over.

«Yes, Sorceress?» he asked, as he arrived to stand at attention in front of her.

«What are you all standing around for, soldier?»

"We're about to be issued our weapons. The staff sergeant's gone to bring the wagon round.»

Tattersail nodded. «I have a task for you. I'll see that you get your weapons-but not the tinny ones your friends are about to receive. If a superior officer questions your absence, refer him to me.»

«Yes, Sorceress.»

A pang of regret hit Tattersail. upon meeting the boy's bright, eager gaze. Chances were, he'd be dead within a few months. The Empire had many crimes staining its banner, but this was the worst of them. She sighed. «Deliver, in person, this message to Sergeant Whiskeyjack, Bridgeburners. The fat lady with the spells wants to talk. You have it, soldier?»

The boy blanched.

«Let's hear it.»

The marine repeated the message in a deadpan tone.

Tattersail smiled. «Very good. Now run along, and don't forget to get an answer from him. I'll be in my quarters.»

Captain Paran swung around for a last look at the Black Moranth. The squad had just reached the plateau's crest. He watched until they disappeared from view, then shifted his gaze back to the city in the east.

From this distance, with the wide, flat plain in between, Pale seemed peaceful enough, although the ground outside the walls was studded with black basaltic rubble and the memory of smoke and fire clung to the air. Along the wall scaffolding rose in places, tiny figures crowding the frameworks. They appeared to be rebuilding huge gaps in the stonework.

From the north gate a sluggish stream of wagons wound out towards the hills, the air above them filled with crows. Along the edge of those hills ran a line of mounds too regular to be natural.

He'd heard the rumours, here and there. Five dead mages, two of them High Mages. The 2nd's losses enough to fire speculation that it would be merged with the 5th and the 6th to form a new regiment. And Moon's Spawn had retreated south, across the Tahlyn Mountains to Lake Azur, trailing smoke, drifting and leaning to one side like a spent thunderhead.

But one tale reached into the captain's thoughts deeper than all the rest: the Bridgeburners were gone. Some stories said killed to a man; others insisted that a few squads had made it out of the tunnels before the collapse.

Paran was frustrated. He'd been among Moranth for days. The uncanny warriors hardly ever spoke, and when they did it was to each other in that incomprehensible tongue of theirs. All of his information was out of date, and that put him in an unfamiliar position. Mind you, he thought, since Genabaris it had been one unfamiliar situation after another.

So here he was, on the waiting end of things once again. He readjusted his duffel bag and was preparing for a long wait when he saw a horseman top the far plateau's crest. The man had an extra mount with him, and he rode straight for the captain.

He sighed. Dealing with the Claw always grated. They were so damn smug. With the exception of that man in Genabaris, none seemed to like him much. It had been a long time since he'd known someone he could call a friend. Over two years, in fact.

The rider arrived. Seeing him up close, Paran took an involuntary step back. Half the man's face had been burned away. A patch covered the right eye and the man held his head at an odd angle. The man flashed a ghastly grin, then dismounted.

«You're the one, huh?» he asked in a rasping voice.

«Is it true about the Bridgeburners?» Paran demanded. «Wiped out?»

«More or less. Five squads left, or thereabouts. About forty in all.» His left eye squinted and he reached up to adjust his battered helmet. «Didn't know where you'd be heading before. Do now. You're Whiskeyjack's new captain, huh?»

«Sergeant Whiskeyjack is known to you?» Paran scowled. This Claw wasn't like the others. Whatever thinking they did about him they kept to themselves, and he preferred it that way.

The man climbed back into his saddle. «Let's ride. We can talk on the way.»

Paran went to the other horse and tied his bag to the saddle, which was of the Seven Cities style, high-backed and with a hinged horn that folded forward-he'd seen several like this on this continent. It was a detail he'd already filed away. Natives from the Seven Cities had a predisposition for making trouble, and this whole Genabackan Campaign had been a foul-up from the very start. No coincidence, that. Most of the 2nd, 5th and 6th Armies had been recruited from the Seven Cities subcontinent.

He mounted and they settled into a steady canter across the plateau.

The Claw talked. «Sergeant Whiskeyjack's got a lot of followers around here. Acts like he don't know it. You got to remember something that's been damn near forgotten back in Malaz-Whiskeyjack once commanded his own company:»

Paran's head snapped around. That fact had been thoroughly stripped from the annals. As far as Empire history was concerned, it had never happened.

«: back in the days when Dassern Ultor ran the military,» the Claw continued blithely. «It was Whiskeyjack's Seventh Company that ran down the Seven Cities» mage cabal out in the Pan'potsun Wastes. He ended the war then and there. Of course, everything went to hell after that, what with Hood taking Ultor's daughter. And not long after that, when Ultor died, all his men were pulled down fast. That's when the bureaucrats swallowed up the Army. Damn jackals. And they've been sniping at each other ever since and to hell with the campaigns.» The Claw sat forward, pushing the saddlehorn down, and spat past his horse's left ear.

Paran shivered, seeing that gesture. In the old days it had announced the beginning of tribal war among the Seven Cities. Now, it had become the symbol of the Malaz 2nd Army. «Are you suggesting,» he cut in, «that the story you've just told me is commonplace?»

«Not in detail,» the Claw admitted. «But some old veterans in the Second fought with Ultor, not just in Seven Cities but as far back as Falar.»

Paran thought for a time. The man riding beside him, though a Claw, was also 2nd Army. And he'd been through a lot with them. It made for an interesting perspective. He glanced at the man and saw him grinning.

«What's so funny?»

The man shrugged. «The Bridgeburners are a little hot, these days. They're getting chaff for recruits and that makes it look like they're about to be disbanded. You talk with whoever it is you talk with back in Malaz, you tell them they'd end up with a mutiny on their hands, they start messing with the Bridgeburners. That's in every report I send but no one seems to listen to me.» His grin broadened. «Maybe they think I've been turned or something, eh?»

Paran shrugged. «You were called in to meet me, weren't you?»

The Claw laughed. «You've really been out of touch, haven't you?

They called me in because I'm the last Active in the Second. And as for the Fifth and Sixth-forget it. Brood's Tiste And? could pick out a Claw from a thousand paces. None of them left, either. My own Claw Master was garotted two days back-that's something else, ain't it? You, I inherited, Captain. Once we hit the city, I send you on your way, and that's probably the last we'll ever see of each other. You deliver your mission details as Captain of the Ninth Squad, they either laugh in your face or they stick a knife in your eye-it's even betting what they'll do. Too bad, but there it is.»

Up ahead loomed the gates of Pale.

«One more thing,» the Claw said, his eyes on the merlons above the gate, «just a bone I'll throw you in case Oponn's smiling on you. The High Mage Tayschrenn's running things here. Dujek's not happy, especially considering what happened with Moon's Spawn. It's a bad situation between them, but the High Mage is relying on his being in close and constant communication with the Empress, and that's what's keeping him on top. A warning, then. Dujek's soldiers will follow him: anywhere. And that goes for the Fifth and Sixth Armies, too. What's been gathered here is a storm waiting to break.»

Paran stared at the man. Topper had explained the situation, but Paran had dismissed the man's assessment-it had seemed too much like a scenario devised to justify the Empress filling the gallows. Not a tangle I want to get involved in. Leave me to complete my single task-I desire no more than that.

ks *w-i VwSseA XT&wtvt UwN %'?6Ve- tverby, Tayschrenn just watched us arrive. Any chance he knows you, Captain?»

«No.» I hope not, he added silently.

As they trotted into the city proper and a wall of sound rose to meet them, Paran's eyes glazed slightly. Pale was a madhouse, buildings on all sides gutted by fire, the streets, despite being cobble-heaved in places and dented in others, were packed with people, carts, braying animals and marines. He wondered if he should start measuring his life in minutes.

Taking command of a squad that had gone through four captains in three years, then delivering a mission that no sane soldier would consider, coupled with a brewing firestorm of a large-scale insurrection possibly headed by the Empire's finest military commander, against a High Mage who looked to be carving his own rather big niche in the world-all of this had Paran feeling somewhat dismayed.

He was jolted by a heavy slap on his back. The Claw had moved his horse close and now he leaned over.

«Out of your depth, Captain? Don't worry, every damn person here's out of their depth. Some know it, some don't. It's the ones who don't you got to worry about. Start with what's right in front of you and forget the rest for now. It'll show up in its own time. Find any marine and ask direction to the Bridgeburners. That's the easy part.»

Paran nodded.

The Claw hesitated, then leaned closer. «I've been thinking, Captain. It's a hunch, mind you, but I think you're here to do some good. No, don't bother answering. Only, if you get into trouble, you get word to Toc the Younger, that's me. I'm in the Messenger Corps, outrider class, the Second. All right?»

Paran nodded again. «Thank you,» he said, just as a loud crash sounded behind them, followed by a chorus of angry voices. Neither rider turned.

«What's that you said, Captain?»

Paran smiled. «Better head off. Keep your cover-in case something happens to me. I'll find myself a guide, by the book.»

«Sure thing, Captain.» Toc the Younger waved, then swung his mount down a side-street. Moments later Paran lost sight of him. He drew a deep breath, then cast his gaze about, searching for a likely soldier.

Paran knew that his early years in the noble courts of his homeland had prepared him well for the kind of deception Adjunct Lorn demanded of him. In the past two years, however, he had begun to recognize more clearly what he was becoming. That brash, honest youth who had spoken with the Empress's Adjunct that day on the Itko Kanese coast now gnawed at him. He'd dropped right into Lorn's lap like a lump of unshaped clay. And she had proceeded to do what she did best.

What frightened Paran most, these days, was that he had grown used to being used. He'd been someone else so many times that he saw a thousand faces, heard a thousand voices, all at war with his own. When he thought of himself, of that young noble-born man with the overblown faith in honesty and integrity, the vision that came to him now was of something cold, hard and dark. It hid in the deepest shadows of his mind, and it watched. No contemplation, no judgement, just icy, clinical observation.

He didn't think that that young man would see the light of day again.

He would just shrink further back, swallowed by darkness, then disappear, leaving no trace.

And Paran wondered if he even cared any more.

He marched into the barracks that had once housed Pale's Noble Guard. One old veteran lounged on a nearby cot, her rag-wrapped feet jutting over the end. The mattress had been stripped away and tossed into a corner; the woman lay on the flat boards, her hands behind her head.

Paran's gaze held on her briefly, then travelled down the ward. With the lone exception of the veteran marine, the place was empty. He returned his attention to her. «Corporal, is it?» The woman didn't move. «Yeah, what?» «I take it,» he said drily, «that the chain of command has thoroughly disintegrated around here.»

Her eyes opened and managed a lazy sweep of the officer standing before her. «Probably,» she said, then closed her eyes again. «You looking for somebody or what?»

«I'm looking for the Ninth Squad, Corporal.»

«Why? They in trouble again?»

Paran smiled to himself. «Are you the average Bridgeburner, Corporal?»

«All the average ones are dead,» she said.

«Who's your commander?» Paran asked.

«Antsy, but he's not here.»

«I can see that.» The captain waited, then sighed. «Well, where is this Antsy?»

«Try Knobb's Inn, up the street. The last I seen of him he was losing his shirt to Hedge. Antsy's a card-player, right, only not a good one.» She began picking at a tooth at the back of her mouth.

Paran's brows rose. «Your commander gambles with his men?»

«Antsy's a sergeant,» the woman explained. «Our captain's dead. Anyway, Hedge is not in our squad.»

«Oh, and what squad is he with?»

The woman grinned, swallowing whatever her finger had dislodged.

«The Ninth.»

«What's your name, Corporal?»

«Picker, what's yours?»

«Captain Paran.»

Picker shot up into a sitting position, her eyes wide. «Oh, you're the new captain who's yet to pull a sword, eh?»

Paran grinned. «That's right.»

«You got any idea of the odds on you right now? It doesn't look good.»

«What do you mean?»

She smiled a broad smile. «The way I pick it,» she said, leaning back down and closing her eyes again, «the first blood you see on your hands is gonna be your own, Captain Paran. Go back to Quon Tali where it's safe. Go on, the Empress needs her feet licked.»

«They're clean enough,» Paran said. He was not sure how to deal with this situation. Part of him wanted to draw his sword and cut Picker in half.

Another wanted to laugh, and that one had an edge of hysteria to it.

Behind him the outer door banged open and heavy footsteps sounded on the floorboards. Paran turned. A red-faced sergeant, his face dominated by an enormous handlebar moustache, stormed into the room. Ignoring Paran, he strode up beside Picker's cot and glowered down at her.

«Dammit, Picker, you told me Hedge was having a bad run, and now that bow-legged turd's cleaned me out!» «Hedge is having a bad run,» Picker said. «But yours is worse. You never asked me about that, did you? Antsy, meet Captain Paran, the Ninth's new officer.»

The sergeant swung around and stared. «Hood's Breath,» he muttered, then faced Picker again.

«I'm looking for Whiskeyjack, Sergeant,» Paran said softly.

Something in the captain's tone brought Antsy around. He opened his mouth, then shut it when his eyes caught Paran's steady gaze. «Some kid delivered a message. Whiskeyjack trooped out. A few of his people are at Knobb's.»

«Thank you, Sergeant.» Paran walked stiffly from the room.

Antsy let out a long breath and glanced at Picker.

"Two days,» she pronounced, «then somebody does him. Old Rockface has already laid twenty to that.»

~&'vsj — , txpits~xlon ~xglrixtnt& «Si~-mdVxngW'tX % ine- t1rive ~, ~Dt a &amue~L shame.»

Paran entered Knobb's Inn and stopped just inside the doorway. The place was packed with soldiers, their voices a jumbled roar. Only a few showed on their uniforms the flame emblem of the Bridgeburners. The rest were 2nd Army.

At a large table beneath an overhanging walkway that fronted rooms on the first floor half a dozen Bridgeburners sat playing cards. A wideshouldered man whose black hair was braided into a pony-tail and knotted with charms and fetishes sat with his back to the room, dealing out the cards with infinite patience. Even through the high-tide roar Paran could hear the man's monotone counting. The others at the table deluged the dealer with curses, to little effect.

«Barghast,» Paran murmured, his gaze on the dealer. «Only one in the Bridgeburners. That's the Ninth, then.» He took a deep breath, then plunged into the crowd.

By the time he arrived behind the Barghast his fine cloak was drenched with sour ale and bitter wine, and sweat cast a shine on his forehead. The Barghast, he saw, had just finished the deal and was setting down the deck in the table's centre, revealing as he did so the endless blue woad tattooing on his bared arm, the spiral patterns marred here and there by white scars.

«Is this the Ninth?» Paran asked loudly.

The man opposite the Barghast glanced up, his weathered face the same colour as his leather cap, then returned his attention to his cards.

«You Captain Paran?»

«I am. And you, soldier?»

«Hedge.» He nodded at the heavy man seated to his right. «That's Mallet, the squad's healer. And the Barghast's name is Trotts, and it ain't because he likes jogging.» He jerked his head to his left. «The rest don't matter-they're Second Army and lousy players to boot. Take a seat, Captain. Whiskeyjack and the rest been called out for the time being. Should be back soon.»

Paran found an empty chair and pulled it up between Mallet and Trotts.

Hedge growled, «Hey, Trotts, you gonna call this game or what?»

Releasing a long breath, Paran turned to Mallet. «Tell me, Healer, what's the average life expectancy for an officer in the Bridgeburners?»

A grunt escaped Hedge's lips. «Before or after Moon's Spawn?»

Mallet's heavy brows rose slightly as he answered the captain. «Maybe two campaigns. Depends on a lot of things. Balls ain't enough, but it helps. And that means forgetting everything you learned and jumping into your sergeant's lap like a babe. You listen to him, you might make it.»

Hedge thumped the table. «Wake up, Trotts! What are we playing here?»

The Barghast scowled. «I'm thinking,» he rumbled.

Paran leaned back and unhitched his belt.

Trotts decided on a game, to the groans of Hedge, Mallet and the three 2nd Army soldiers, since it was the game Trotts always decided on.

Mallet spoke. «Captain, you've been hearing things about the Bridgeburners, right?»

Paran nodded. «Most officers are terrified of the Bridgeburners. Word is, the mortality rate's so high because half the captains end up with a dagger in their back.»

He paused, and was about to continue when he noticed the sudden silence. The game had stopped, and all eyes had fixed on him. Sweat broke out under Paran's clothing. «And from what I've seen so far,» he pressed on, «I'm likely to believe that rumour. But I'll tell you something-all of you-if I die with a knife in my back, it'd better be because I earned it. Otherwise, I will be severely disappointed.» He hitched his belt and rose. «Tell the sergeant I'll be in the barracks. I'd like to speak with him before we're officially mustered.»

Hedge gave a slow nod. «Will do, Captain.» The man hesitated. «Uh, Captain? Care to sit in on the game?»

Paran shook his head. «Thanks, no.» A grin tugged the corner of his mouth. «Bad practice, an officer taking his enlisted men's money.»

«Now there's a challenge you'd better back up some time,» Hedge said, his eyes brightening.

«I'll think about it,» Paran replied, as he left the table. Pushing through the crowd, he felt a growing sense of something that caught him completely off-guard: insignificance. A lot of arrogance had been drilled into him, from his days as a boy among the nobility through to his time at the academy. That arrogance now cowered in some corner of his brain, shocked silent and numb.

He had known that well before he'd met the Adjunct: his path into and through the officer training corps of the Marine Academy had been an easy procession marked by winks and nods. But the Empire's wars were fought here, thousands of leagues away, and here, Paran realized, nobody cared one whit about court influences and mutually favourable deals. Those short-cuts swelled his chances of dying, and dying fast. If not for the Adjunct, he'd have been totally unprepared to take command.

Paran grimaced as he pushed open the tavern door and stepped out into the street. It was no wonder the old Emperor's armies had so easily devoured the feudal kingdoms in his path on the road to Empire. He was suddenly glad of the stains marring his uniform-he no longer looked out of place.

He strode into the alley leading to the barracks» side entrance. The way lay in shadow beneath high-walled buildings and the faded canopies that hung over sagging balconies. Pale was a dying city. He knew enough of its history to recognize the bleached tints of long-lost glory. True, it had commanded enough power to forge an alliance with Moon's Spawn but the captain suspected that that had had more to do with the Moon lord's sense of expedience than to any kind of mutual recognition of power. The local gentry made much of finery and pomp, but their props looked tired and worn. He wondered how alike he and his kind were with these droopy citizens. A sound behind him, the faintest scuff, made him turn. A shadowwrapped figure closed on him. Paran cried out, snatching at his sword.

An icy wind washed over him as the figure moved in. The captain backpedalled, seeing the glint of blades in each hand. He twisted to one side, his sword half-way out of the scabbard. His attacker's left hand darted up. Paran jerked his head back, throwing his shoulder forward to block a blade that never arrived. Instead, the long dagger slid like fire into his chest. A second blade sank into his side even as blood gushed up inside to fill his mouth. Coughing and groaning, Paran reeled, careened off a wall, then slid down with one hand grasping futilely at the damp stones, his fingernails gouging tracks through the mould.

A blackness closed around his thoughts which seemed to involve only a deep, heartfelt regret. Faintly, a ringing sound came to his ears, as if something small and metallic was skittering across a hard surface. The sound remained, of something spinning, and the darkness encroached no further.

«Sloppy,» a man said in a thin voice. «I am surprised.» The accent was familiar, pulling him to a childhood memory, his father dealing with Da Honese traders.

The answer came from directly above Paran. «Keeping an eye on me?

Another accent he recognized, Kanese, and the voice seemed to come from a girl, or a child, yet he knew it was the voice of his killer.

«Coincidence,» the other replied, then giggled. «Someone-something I should say-has entered our Warren. Uninvited. My Hounds hunt.»

«I don't believe in coincidences.»

Again came the giggle. «Nor do I. Two years ago we began a game of our own. A simple settling of old scores. It seems we have stumbled into a wholly different game here in Pale.»

«Whose?»

«I shall have that answer soon enough.»

«Don't get distracted, Ammanas. Laseen remains our target, and the collapse of the Empire she rules but never earned.»

«I have, as always, supreme confidence in you, Cotillion.

«I must be getting back,» the girl said, moving away.

«Of course. So this is the man Lorn sent to find you?»

«I believe so. This should draw her into the fray, in any case.»

«And this is desirable?» The conversation faded as the two speakers walked away leaving, as the only sound in Paran's head, that whiffing hum, as if a coin was spinning, endlessly spinning.