《Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1)》


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    PROLOGUE


    1154th Year of Burn''s Sleep 96th Year of the Malazan Empire. The Last Year of Emperor Kellanved''s Reign.


    The stains of rust seemed to map blood seas on the black, pocked surface of Mock''s Vane. A century old, it squatted on the point of an old pike that had been bolted to the outer top of the Hold''s wall. Monstrous and misshapen, it had been cold-hammered into the form of a winged demon, teeth bared in a leering grin, and was tugged and buffeted in squealing protest with every gust of wind.


    The winds were contrary the day columns of smoke rose over the Mouse Quarter of Malaz City. The Vane''s silence announced the sudden falling-off of the sea breeze that came clambering over the ragged walls of Mock''s Hold, then it creaked back into life as the hot, spark-scattered and smoke-filled breath of the Mouse Quarter reached across the city to sweep the promontory''s heights.


    Ganoes Stabro Paran of the House of Paran stood on tiptoe to see over the merlon. Behind him rose Mock''s Hold, once capital of the Empire but now, since the mainland had been conquered, relegated once more to a Fist''s holding. To his left rose the pike and its wayward trophy.


    For Ganoes, the ancient fortification overlooking the city was too familiar to be of interest. This visit was his third in as many years; he''d long ago explored the courtyard with its heaved cobblestones, the Old Keep-now a stable, its upper floor home to pigeons and swallows and bats-and the citadel where even now his father negotiated the island export tithe with the harbour officials. In the last instance, of course, a goodly portion was out of bounds, even for a son of a noble house; for it was in the citadel that the Fist had his residence, and in the inner chambers that such affairs of the Empire as concerned this island were conducted.


    Mock''s Hold forgotten behind him, Ganoes¡± attention was on the tattered city below, and the riots that ran through its poorest quarter.


    Mock''s Hold stood atop a cliff. The higher land of the Pinnacle was reached by a switchback staircase carved into the limestone of the cliff wall. The drop to the city below was eighty armspans or more, with the Hold''s battered wall adding still another six. The Mouse was at the city''s inland edge, an uneven spreading of hovels and overgrown tiers cut in half by the silt-heavy river that crawled towards the harbour. With most of Malaz City between Ganoes¡± position and the riots, it was hard to make out any detail, beyond the growing pillars of black smoke.


    It was midday, but the flash and thundering concussion of magery made the air seem dark and heavy.


    Armour clanking, a soldier appeared along the wall near him. The man leaned vambraced forearms on the battlement, the scabbard of his longsword scraping against the stones. ¡°Glad for your pure blood, eh?¡± he asked, grey eyes on the smouldering city below.


    The boy studied the soldier. He already knew the complete regimental accoutrements of the Imperial Army, and the man at his side was a commander in the Third-one of the Emperor''s own, an elite. On his dark grey shoulder-cloak was a silver brooch: a bridge of stone, lit by ruby flames. A Bridgeburner.


    High-ranking soldiers and officials of the Empire commonly passed through Mock''s Hold. The island of Malaz remained a vital port of call, especially now that the Korel wars to the south had begun. Ganoes had brushed shoulders with more than his share, here and in the capital, Unta.


    ¡°Is it true, then?¡± Ganoes asked boldly.


    ¡°Is what true?¡±


    ¡°The First Sword of Empire. Dassem Ultor. We heard in the capital before we left. He''s dead. Is it true? Is Dassem dead?¡±


    The man seemed to flinch, his gaze unwavering on the Mouse. ¡°Such is war,¡± he muttered, under his breath, as if the words were not meant for anyone else''s ears.


    ¡°You''re with the Third. I thought the Third was with him, in Seven Cities. At Y''Ghatan-¡±


    ¡°Hood''s Breath, they''re still looking for his body in the still-hot rubble of that damned city, and here you, are, a merchant''s son three thousand leagues from Seven Cities with information only a few are supposed to possess.¡± He still did not turn. ¡°I know not your sources, but take my advice and keep what you know to yourself.¡±


    Ganoes shrugged. ¡°It''s said he betrayed a god.¡±


    Finally the man faced him. His face was scarred, and something that might have been a burn marred his jaw and left cheek. For all that, he looked young for a commander. ¡°Heed the lesson there, son.¡±


    ¡°What lesson?¡±


    ¡°Every decision you make can change the world. The best life is the one the gods don''t notice. You want to live free, boy, live quietly.¡±


    ¡°I want to be a soldier. A hero.¡±

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    ¡°You''ll grow out of it.¡±


    Mock''s Vane squealed as a wayward gust from the harbour cleared the grainy smoke. Ganoes could now smell rotting fish and the waterfront''s stink of humanity.


    Another Bridgeburner, this one with a broken, scorched fiddle strapped to his back, came up to the commander. He was wiry and if anything younger-only a few years older than Ganoes himself, who was twelve. Strange pockmarks covered his face and the backs of his hands, and his armour was a mixture of foreign accoutrements over a threadbare, stained uniform. A shortsword hung in a cracked wooden scabbard at his hip. He leaned against the merlon beside the other man with the ease of long familiarity.


    ¡°It''s a bad smell when sorcerers panic,¡± the newcomer said. ¡°They''re losing control down there. Hardly the need for a whole cadre of mages, just to sniff out a few wax-witches.¡±


    The commander sighed. ¡°Thought to wait to see if they''d rein themselves in.¡±


    The soldier grunted. ¡°They are all new, untested. This could scar some of them for ever. Besides,¡± he added, ¡°more than a few down there are following someone else''s orders.¡±


    ¡°A suspicion, no more.¡±


    ¡°The proof''s right there,¡± the other man said. ¡°In the Mouse.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps.¡±


    ¡°You''re too protective,¡± the man said. ¡°Surly says it''s your greatest weakness.¡±


    ¡°Surly''s the Emperor''s concern, not mine.¡±


    A second grunt answered that. ¡°Maybe all of us before too long.¡±


    The commander was silent, slowly turning to study his companion.


    The man shrugged. ¡°Just a feeling. She''s taking a new name, you know. Laseen.¡±


    ¡°Laseen?¡±


    ¡°Napan word. Means-¡±


    ¡°I know what it means.¡±


    ¡°Hope the Emperor does, too.¡±


    Ganoes said, ¡°It means Thronemaster.¡±


    The two looked down at him.


    The wind shifted again, making the iron demon groan on its perch-a smell of cool stone from the Hold itself. ¡°My tutor''s Napan,¡± Ganoes explained.


    A new voice spoke behind them, a woman''s, imperious and cold.


    ¡°Commander.¡±


    Both soldiers turned, but without haste. The commander said to his companion, ¡°The new company needs help down there. Send Dujek and a wing, and get some sappers to contain the fires-wouldn''t do to have the whole city burn.¡±


    The soldier nodded, marched away, sparing the woman not a single glance.


    She stood with two bodyguards near the portal in the citadel''s square tower. Her dusky blue skin marked her as Napan, but she was otherwise plain, wearing a saltstained grey robe, her mousy hair cut short like a soldier''s, her features thin and unmemorable. It was, however, her bodyguards that sent a shiver through Ganoes. They flanked her: tall, swathed in black, hands hidden in sleeves, hoods shadowing their faces. Ganoes had never seen a Claw before, but he instinctively knew these creatures to be acolytes of the cult. Which meant the woman was:


    The commander said, ¡°It''s your mess, Surly. Seems I''ll have to clean it up.¡±


    Ganoes was shocked at the absence of fear-the near-contempt in the soldier''s voice. Surly had created the Claw, making it a power rivalled only by the Emperor himself.


    ¡°That is no longer my name, Commander.¡±


    The man grimaced. ¡°So I''ve heard. You must be feeling confident in the Emperor''s absence. He''s not the only one who remembers you as nothing more than a serving-wench down in the Old Quarter. I take it the gratitude''s washed off long since.¡±


    The woman''s face betrayed no change of expression to mark if the man''s words had stung. ¡°The command was a simple one,¡± she said. ¡°It seems your new officers are unable to cope with the task.¡±


    ¡°It''s got out of hand,¡± the commander said. ¡°They''re unseasoned-¡±


    ¡°Not my concern,¡± she snapped. ¡°Nor am I particularly disappointed. Loss of control delivers its own lessons to those who oppose us.¡±


    ¡°Oppose? A handful of minor witches selling their meagre talents-to what sinister end?¡±


    ¡°Finding the coraval schools on the shoals in the bay.¡±


    ¡°Hood''s Breath, woman, hardly a threat to the Empire.¡±


    ¡°Unsanctioned. Defiant of the new laws-¡±


    ¡°Your laws, Surly. They won''t work, and when the Emperor returns he''ll quash your prohibition of sorcery, you can be certain of that.¡±


    The woman smiled coldly. ¡°You''ll be pleased to know that the Tower''s signalled the approach of the transports for your new recruits. We''ll not miss you or your restless, seditious soldiers, Commander.¡±

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    Without another word, or a single glance spared for the boy standing beside the commander, she swung about and, flanked by her silent bodyguards, re-entered the citadel.


    Ganoes and the commander returned their attention to the riot in the Mouse. Flames were visible, climbing through the smoke.


    ¡°One day I''ll be a soldier,¡± Ganoes said.


    The man grunted. ¡°Only if you fail at all else, son. Taking up the sword is the last act of desperate men. Mark my words and find yourself a more worthy dream.¡±


    Ganoes scowled. ¡°You''re not like the other soldiers I''ve talked to. You sound more like my father.¡±


    ¡°But I''m not your father,¡± the man growled.


    ¡°The world,¡± Ganoes said, ¡°doesn''t need another Izrine merchant.¡± The commander''s eyes narrowed, gauging. He opened his mouth to make the obvious reply, then shut it again.


    Ganoes Paran looked back down at the burning quarter, pleased with himself. Even a boy, Commander, can make a point.


    Mock''s Vane swung once more. Hot smoke rolled over the wall, engulfing them. A reek of burning cloth, scorched paint and stone, and now of something sweet. ¡°An abattoir''s caught fire,¡± Ganoes said. ¡°Pigs.¡±


    The commander grimaced. After a long moment he sighed and leaned back down on the merlon. ¡°As you say, boy, as you say.¡±


    In the eighth year the Free Cities of Genabackis established contracts with a number of mercenary armies to oppose the Imperium''s advance; prominent among these were the Crimson Guard, under the command of Prince K''azz D''Avore (see Volumes III & V); and the Tiste And? regiments of Moon''s Spawn, under the command of Caladan Brood and others.


    The forces of the Malazan Empire, commanded by High Fist Dujek Onearm, consisted in that year of the 2nd, 5th and 6th Armies, as well as legions of Moranth.


    In retrospect two observations can be made. The first is that the Moranth alliance of 1156 marked a fundamental change in the science of warfare for the Malazan Imperium, which would prove efficacious in the short term. The second observation worth noting is that the involvement of the sorcerous Tiste And? of Moon''s Spawn represented the beginning of the continent''s Sorcery Enfilade, with devastating consequences.


    In the Year of Burn''s Sleep 1163, the Siege of Pale ended with a now legendary sorcerous conflagration. .


    Imperial Campaigns II S8-


    Volume IV, Genabackis Imrygyn Tallobant (b.1151)


    CHAPTER ONE


    The old stones of this road have rung with iron black-shod hoofs and drums -


    where I saw him walking up from the sea between the hills soaked red in sunset -


    he came, a boy among the echoes sons and brothers all in ranks of warrior ghosts -


    he came to pass where I sat on the worn final league-stone at day''s end -


    his stride spoke loud all I needed know of him on this road of stone ¡ª


    the boy walks another soldier, another one -


    bright heart not yet cooled to hard iron ¡ª


    Mother''s Lament Anonymous 1161st Year of Burn''s Sleep 103rd Year of the Malazan Empire 7th Year of Empress Laseen''s Rule


    ¡°Prod and pull,¡± The old woman was saying, ¡°Its the way of the Empress, as like the gods themselves.¡± She leaned to one side and spat, then brought a soiled cloth to her wrinkled lips. ¡°Three husbands and two sons I saw off to war.¡±


    The fishergirl''s eyes shone as she watched the column of mounted soldiers thunder past, and she only half listened to the hag standing beside her. The girl''s breath had risen to the pace of the magnificent horses. She felt her face burning, a flush that had nothing to do with the heat. The day was dying, the sun''s red smear over the trees on her right, and the sea''s sighing against her face had grown cool.


    ¡°That was in the days of the Emperor,¡± the hag continued. ¡°Hood roast the bastard''s soul on a spit. But look on, lass. Laseen scatters bones with the best of them. Heh, she started with his, didn''t she, now?¡±


    The fishergirl nodded faintly. As befitted the lowborn, they waited by the roadside, the old woman burdened beneath a rough sack filled with turnips, the girl with a heavy basket balanced on her head. Every minute or so the old woman shifted the sack from one bony shoulder to the other.


    With the riders crowding them on the road and the ditch behind them a steep drop to broken rocks, she had no place to put down the sack.


    ¡°Scatters bones, I said. Bones of husbands, bones of sons, bones of wives and bones of daughters. All the same to her. All the same to the Empire.¡± The old woman spat a second time. ¡°Three husbands and two sons, ten coin apiece a year. Five of ten''s fifty. Fifty coin a year''s cold company, lass. Cold in winter, cold in bed.¡±

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    The fishergirl wiped dust from her forehead. Her bright eyes darted among the soldiers passing before her. The young men atop their highbacked saddles held expressions stern and fixed straight ahead. The few women who rode among them sat tall and somehow fiercer than the men. The sunset cast red glints from their helms, flashing so that the girl''s eyes stung and her vision blurred.


    ¡°You''re the fisherman''s daughter,¡± the old woman said. ¡°I seen you afore on the road, and down on the strand. Seen you and your dad at market. Missing an arm, ain''t he? More bones for her collection is likely, eh?¡± She made a chopping motion with one hand, then nodded. ¡°Mine''s the first house on the track. I use the coin to buy candles. Five candles I burn every night, five candles to keep old Rigga company. It''s a tired house, full of tired things and me one of them, lass. What you got in the basket there?¡± Slowly the fishergirl realized that a question had been asked of her. She pulled her attention from the soldiers and smiled down at the old woman. ¡°I''m sorry,¡± she said, ¡°the horses are so loud.¡±


    Rigga raised her voice. ¡°I asked what you got in your basket, lass?¡±


    ¡°Twine. Enough for three nets. We need to get one ready for tomorrow. Dadda lost his last one-something in the deep waters took it and a whole catch, too. 11grand Lender wants the money he loaned us and we need a catch tomorrow. A good one.¡± She smiled again and swept her gaze back to the soldiers. ¡°Isn''t it wonderful?¡± she breathed.


    Rigga''s hand shot out and snagged the girl''s thick black hair, yanked it hard.


    The girl cried out. The basket on her head lurched, then slid down on to one shoulder. She grabbed frantically for it but it was too heavy. The basket struck the ground and split apart. ¡°Aaai!¡± the girl gasped, attempting to kneel. But Rigga pulled and snapped her head around.


    ¡°You listen to me, lass!¡± The old woman''s sour breath hissed against the girl''s face. ¡°The Empire''s been grinding this land down for a hundred years. You was born in it. I wasn''t. When I was your age Itko Kan was a country. We flew a banner and it was ours. We were free, lass.¡±


    The girl was sickened by Rigga''s breath. She squeezed shut her eyes.


    ¡°Mark this truth, child, else the Cloak of Lies blinds you for ever.¡±


    Rigga''s voice took on a droning cadence, and all at once the girl stiffened. Rigga, Riggalai the Seer, the wax-witch who trapped souls in candles and burned them. Souls devoured in flame-Rigga''s words carried the chilling tone of prophecy. ¡°Mark this truth. I am the last to speak to you. You are the last to hear me. Thus are we linked, you and I, beyond all else.¡±


    Rigga''s fingers snagged tighter in the girl''s hair. ¡°Across the sea the Empress has driven her knife into virgin soil. The blood now comes in a tide and it''ll sweep you under, child, if you''re not careful. They''ll put a sword in your hand, they''ll give you a fine horse, and they''ll send you across that sea. But a shadow will embrace your soul. Now, listen! Bury this deep! Rigga will preserve you because we are linked, you and I. But it is all I can do, understand? Look to the Lord spawned in Darkness; his is the hand that shall free you, though he''ll know it not-¡±


    ¡°What''s this?¡± a voice bellowed.


    Rigga swung to face the road. An outrider had slowed his mount. The Seer released the girl''s hair.


    The girl staggered back a step. A rock on the road''s edge turned underfoot and she fell. When she looked up the outrider had trotted past.


    Another thundered up in his wake.


    ¡°Leave the pretty one alone, hag,¡± this one growled, and as he rode by he leaned in his saddle and swung an open, gauntleted hand. The ironscaled glove cracked against Rigga''s head, spinning her around. She toppled.


    The fishergirl screamed as Rigga landed heavily across her thighs. A bead of crimson spit spattered her face. Whimpering the girl pushed herself back across the gravel, then used her feet to shove away Rigga''s body. She climbed to her knees.


    Something within Rigga''s prophecy seemed lodged in the girl''s head, heavy as a stone and hidden from light. She found she could not retrieve a single word the Seer had said. She reached out and grasped Rigga''s woollen shawl. Carefully, she rolled the old woman over. Blood covered one side of Rigga''s head, running down behind the ear. More blood smeared her lined chin and stained her mouth. The eyes stared sightlessly.


    The fishergirl pulled back, unable to catch her breath. Desperate, she looked about. The column of soldiers had passed, leaving nothing but dust and the distant tremble of hoofs. Rigga''s bag of turnips had spilled on to the road. Among the trampled vegetables lay five tallow candles.

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    The girl managed a ragged lungful of dusty air. Wiping her nose, she looked to her own basket.


    ¡°Never mind the candles,¡± she mumbled, in a thick, odd voice. ¡°They''re gone, aren''t they, now? just a scattering of bones. Never mind.¡± She crawled towards the bundles of twine that had fallen from the breached basket, and when she spoke again her voice was young, normal. ¡°We need the twine. We''ll work all night and get one ready. Dadda''s waiting. He''s right at the door, he''s looking up the track, he''s waiting to see me.


    She stopped, a shiver running through her. The sun''s light was almost gone. An unseasonal chill bled from the shadows, which now flowed like water across the road.


    ¡°Here it comes, then,¡± the girl grated softly, in a voice that wasn''t her own.


    A soft-gloved hand fell on her shoulder. She ducked down, cowering. ¡°Easy, girl,¡± said a man''s voice. ¡°It''s over. Nothing to be done for her now.¡±


    The fishergirl looked up. A man swathed in black leaned over her, his face obscured beneath a hood''s shadow. ¡°But he hit her,¡± the girl said, in child''s voice. ¡°And we have nets to tie, me and Dadda-¡±


    ¡°Let''s get you on your feet,¡± the man said, moving his long-fingered hands down under her arms. He straightened, lifting her effortlessly. Her sandalled feet dangled in the air before he set her down.


    Now she saw a second man, shorter, also clothed in black. This one stood on the road and was turned away, his gaze in the direction the soldiers had gone. He spoke, his voice reed-thin. ¡°Wasn''t much of a life,¡± he said, not turning to face her. ¡°A minor talent, long since dried up the Gift. Oh, she might have managed one more, but we''ll never know will we?¡±


    The fishergirl stumbled over to Rigga''s bag and picked up a candle. She straightened, her eyes suddenly hard, then deliberately spat on to the road.


    The shorter man''s head snapped towards her. Within the hood seemed the shadows played alone.


    The girl shrank back a step. ¡°It was a good life,¡± she whispered. ¡°She had these candles, you see. Five of them. Five for-¡±


    ¡°Necromancy,¡± the short man cut in.


    The taller man, still at her side, said softly, ¡°I see them, child. I understand what they mean.¡±


    The other man snorted. ¡°The witch harboured five frail, weak souls. Nothing grand.¡± He cocked his head. ¡°I can hear them now. Calling for her.¡±


    Tears filled the girl''s eyes. A wordless anguish seemed to well up from that black stone in her mind. She wiped her cheeks. ¡°Where did you come from?¡± she asked abruptly. ¡°We didn''t see you on the road.¡±


    The man beside her half turned to the gravel track. ¡°On the other side,¡± he said, a smile in his tone. ¡°Waiting, just like you.¡±


    The other giggled. ¡°On the other side indeed.¡± He faced down the road again and raised his arms.


    The girl drew in a sharp breath as darkness descended. A loud, tearing sound filled the air for a second, then the darkness dissipated and the girl''s eyes widened.


    Seven massive Hounds now sat around the man in the road. The eyes of these beasts glowed yellow, and all were turned in the same direction as the man himself.


    She heard him hiss, ¡°Eager, are we? Then go.¡± Silently, the Hounds bolted down the road.


    Their master turned and said to the man beside her, ¡°Something to gnaw on Laseen''s mind.¡± He giggled again.


    ¡°Must you complicate things?¡± the other answered wearily.


    The short man stiffened. ¡°They are within sight of the column.¡±


    He cocked his head. From up the road came the scream of horses.


    He sighed. ¡°You''ve reached a decision, Cotillion?¡±


    The other grunted amusedly. ¡°Using my name, Ammanas, means you''ve just decided for me. We can hardly leave her here now, can we?¡±


    ¡°Of course we can, old friend. just not breathing.¡±


    Cotillion looked down on the girl. ¡°No,¡± he said quietly,¡± she''ll do.¡±


    The fishergirl bit her lip. Still clutching Rigga''s candle, she took another step back, her wide eyes darting from one man to the other.


    ¡°Pity,¡± Ammanas said.


    Cotillion seemed to nod, then he cleared his throat and said, ¡°It''ll take time.¡±


    An amused note entered Ammanas''s reply. ¡°And have we time? True vengeance needs the slow, careful stalking of the victim. Have you forgotten the pain she once delivered us? Laseen''s back is against the wall already. She might fall without our help. Where would be the satisfaction in that?¡±

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    Cotillion''s response was cool and dry. ¡°You''ve always underestimated the Empress. Hence our present circumstances: No.¡± He gestured at the fishergirl. ¡°We''ll need this one. Laseen''s raised the ire of Moon''s Spawn, and that''s a hornet''s nest if ever there was one. The timing is perfect.¡±


    Faintly, above the screaming horses, came the shrieks of men and women, a sound that pierced the girl''s heart. Her eyes darted to Rigga''s motionless form on the roadside, then back to Ammanas, who now approached her. She thought to run but her legs had weakened to a helpless trembling. He came close and seemed to study her, even though the shadows within his hood remained impenetrable.


    ¡°A fishergirl?¡± he asked, in a kindly tone.


    She nodded.


    ¡°Have you a name?¡± ¡°Enough!¡± Cotillion growled. ¡°She''s not some mouse under your paw, Ammanas. Besides, I''ve chosen her and I will choose her name as well.¡±


    Ammanas stepped back. ¡°Pity,¡± he said again.


    The girl raised imploring hands. ¡°Please,¡± she begged Cotillion, ¡°I''ve done nothing! My father''s a poor man, but he''ll pay you all he can. He needs me, and the twine-he''s waiting right now!¡± She felt herself go wet between her legs and quickly sat down on the ground. ¡°I''ve done nothing!¡± Shame rose through her and she put her hands in her lap.


    ¡°Please.¡±


    ¡°I''ve no choice any more, child,¡± Cotillion said. ¡°After all, you know our names.¡±


    ¡°I''ve never heard them before!¡± the girl cried.


    The man sighed. "With what''s happening up the road right now, well, you''d be questioned. Unpleasantly. There are those who know our names.¡±


    ¡°You see, lass,¡± Ammanas added, suppressing a giggle, ¡°we''re not supposed to be here. There are names, and then there are names.¡± He swung to Cotillion and said, in a chilling voice, ¡°Her father must be dealt with. My Hounds?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Cotillion said. ¡°He lives.¡±


    ¡°Then how?¡±


    ¡°I suspect,¡± Cotillion said, ¡°greed will suffice, once the slate is wiped clean.¡± Sarcasm filled his next words. ¡°I''m sure you can manage the sorcery in that, can''t you?¡±


    Ammanas giggled. ¡°Beware of shadows bearing gifts.¡±


    Cotillion faced the girl again. He lifted his arms out to the sides. The shadows that held his features in darkness now flowed out around his body.


    Ammanas spoke, and to the girl his words seemed to come from a great distance. ¡°She''s ideal. The Empress could never track her down, could never even so much as guess.¡± He raised his voice. ¡°It''s not so bad a thing, lass, to be the pawn of a god.¡±


    ¡°Prod and pull,¡± the fishergirl said quickly.


    Cotillion hesitated at her strange comment, then he shrugged. The shadows whirled out to engulf the girl. With their cold touch her mind fell away, down into darkness. Her last fleeting sensation was of the soft wax of the candle in her right hand, and how it seemed to well up between the fingers of her clenched fist.


    The captain shifted in his saddle and glanced at the woman riding beside him. ¡°We''ve closed the road on both sides, Adjunct. Moved the local traffic inland. So far, no word''s leaked.¡± He wiped sweat from his brow and winced. The hot woollen cap beneath his helm had rubbed his forehead raw.


    ¡°Something wrong, Captain?¡±


    He shook his head, squinting up the road. ¡°Helmet''s loose. Had more hair the last time I wore it.¡±


    The Adjunct to the Empress did not reply.


    The mid-morning sun made the road''s white, dusty surface almost blinding. The captain felt sweat running down his body, and the mail of his helm''s lobster tail kept nipping the hairs on his neck. Already his lower back ached. It had been years since he''d last ridden a horse, and the roll was slow in coming. With every saddle-bounce he felt vertebrae crunch.


    It had been a long time since somebody''s title had been enough to straighten him up. But this was the Adjunct to the Empress, Laseen''s personal servant, an extension of her Imperial will. The last thing the captain wanted was to show his misery to this young, dangerous woman.


    Up ahead the road began its long, winding ascent. A salty wind blew from their left, whistling through the newly budding trees lining that side of the road. By mid-afternoon, that wind would breathe hot as a baker''s oven, carrying with it the stench of the mudflats. And the sun''s heat would bring something else as well. The captain hoped to be back in Kan by then.


    He tried not to think about the place they rode towards. Leave that to the Adjunct. In his years of service to the Empire, he''d seen enough to know when to shut everything down inside his skull. This was one of those times.

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    The Adjunct spoke. ¡°You''ve been stationed here long, Captain?¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± the man growled.


    The woman waited, then asked, ¡°How long?¡±


    He hesitated. ¡°Thirteen years, Adjunct.¡±


    ¡°You fought for the Emperor, then,¡± she said.


    ¡°Aye.¡±


    ¡°And survived the purge.¡±


    The captain threw her a look. If she felt his gaze, she gave no indication.


    Her eyes remained on the road ahead; she rolled easily in the saddle, the scabbarded longsword hitched high under her left arm-ready for mounted battle. Her hair was either cut short or drawn up under her helm, Her figure was lithe enough, the captain mused.


    ¡°Finished?¡± she asked. ¡°I was asking about the purges commanded by Empress Laseen following her predecessor''s untimely death.¡±


    The captain gritted his teeth, ducked his chin to draw up the helm''s strap-he hadn''t had time to shave and the buckle was chafing. ¡°Not everyone was killed, Adjunct. The people of Itko Kan aren''t exactly excitable. None of those riots and mass executions that hit other parts of the Empire. We all just sat tight and waited.¡±


    ¡°I take it,¡± the Adjunct said, with a slight smile, ¡°you''re not noble-born, Captain.¡±


    He grunted. ¡°If I''d been noble-born, I wouldn''t have survived, even here in Itko Kan. We both know that. Her orders were specific, and even the droll Kanese didn''t dare disobey the Empress.¡± He scowled. ¡°No, up through the ranks, Adjunct.¡±


    ¡°Your last engagement?¡±


    ¡°Wickan Plains.¡±


    They rode on in silence for a time, passing the occasional soldier stationed on the road. Off to their left the trees fell away to ragged heather, and the sea beyond showed its white-capped expanse. The Adjunct spoke. ¡°This area you''ve contained, how many of your guard have you deployed to patrol it?¡±


    ¡°Eleven hundred,¡± the captain replied.


    Her head turned at this, her cool gaze tightening beneath the rim of her helm.


    The captain studied her expression. ¡°The carnage stretches half a league from the sea, Adjunct, and a quarter-league inland.¡±


    The woman said nothing.


    They approached the summit. A score of soldiers had gathered there, and others waited along the slope''s rise. All had turned to watch them ¡°Prepare yourself, Adjunct.¡±


    The woman studied the faces lining the roadside. She knew these to be hardened men and women, veterans of the siege of Li Heng and the Wickan Wars out on the north plains. But something had been clawed into their eyes that had left them raw and exposed. They looked upon her with a yearning that she found disturbing, as if they hungered for answers. She fought the urge to speak to them as she passed, to offer whatever comforting words she could. Such gifts were not hers to give, however, nor had they ever been. In this she was much the same as the Empress.


    From beyond the summit she heard the cries of gulls and crows, a sound that rose into a high-pitched roar as they reached the rise. Ignoring the soldiers on either side, the Adjunct moved her horse forward. The captain followed. They came to the crest and looked down. The road dipped here for perhaps a fifth of a league, climbing again at the far end to a promontory.


    Thousands of gulls and crows covered the ground, spilling over into the ditches and among the low, rough heather and gorse. Beneath this churning sea of black and white the ground was a uniform red. Here and there rose the ribbed humps of horses, and from among the squalling birds came the glint of iron.


    The captain reached up and unstrapped his helm. He lifted it slowly from his head, then set it down over his saddle horn. ¡°Adjunct:¡±


    ¡°I am named Lorn,¡± the woman said softly.


    ¡°One hundred and seventy-five men and women. Two hundred and ten horses. The Nineteenth Regiment of the Itko Kanese Eighth Cavalry.¡±


    The captain''s throat tightened briefly. He looked at Lorn. ¡°Dead.¡± His horse shied under him as it caught an updraught. He closed savagely on the reins and the animal stilled, nostrils wide and ears back, muscles trembling under him. The Adjunct''s stallion made no move. ¡°All had their weapons bared. All fought whatever enemy attacked them. But the dead are all ours.¡±


    ¡°You''ve checked the beach below?¡± Lorn asked, still staring down on the road.


    ¡°No signs of a landing,¡± the captain replied. ¡°No tracks anywhere, neither seaward nor inland. There are more dead than these, Adjunct. Farmers, peasants, fisherfolk, travellers on the road. All of them torn apart, limbs scattered-children, livestock, dogs.¡± He stopped abruptly and turned away. ¡°Over four hundred dead,¡± he grated. ¡°We''re not certain of the exact count.¡±

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    ¡°Of course,¡± Lorn said, her tone devoid of feeling. ¡°No witnesses?¡±


    ¡°None.¡±


    A man was riding towards them on the road below, leaning close to his horse''s ear as he talked the frightened animal through the carnage.


    Birds rose in shrieking complaint in front of him, settling again once he had passed.


    ¡°Who is that?¡± the Adjunct asked.


    The captain grunted. ¡°Lieutenant Ganoes Paran. He''s new to my command. From Unta.¡±


    Lorn''s eyes narrowed on the young man. He''d reached the edge of the depression, stopping to relay orders to the work crews. He leaned back in his saddle then and glanced in their direction. ¡°Paran. From House Paran?¡±


    ¡°Aye, gold in his veins and all that.¡±


    ¡°Call him up here.¡±


    The captain gestured and the lieutenant kicked his mount''s flanks.


    Moments later he reined in beside the captain and saluted.


    The man and his horse were covered from head to toe in blood and bits of flesh. Flies and wasps buzzed hungrily around them. Lorn saw in Lieutenant Paran''s face none of the youth that rightly belonged there.


    For all that, it was an easy face to rest eyes upon.


    ¡°You checked the other side, Lieutenant?¡± the captain asked.


    Paran nodded. ¡°Yes, sir. There''s a small fishing settlement down from the promontory. A dozen or so huts. Bodies in all but two. Most of the barques look to be in, though there''s one empty mooring pole.¡±


    Lorn cut in. ¡°Lieutenant, describe the empty huts.¡±


    He batted at a threatening wasp before answering. ¡°One was at the top of the strand, just off the trail from the road. We think it belonged to an old woman we found dead on the road, about half a league south of here.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Adjunct, the hut''s contents were that of an old woman. Also, she seemed in the habit of burning candles. Tallow candles, in fact. The old woman on the road had a sack full of turnips and a handful of tallow candles. Tallow''s expensive here, Adjunct.¡±


    Lorn asked, ¡°How many times have you ridden through this battlefield, Lieutenant?¡±


    ¡°Enough to be getting used to it, Adjunct.¡± He grimaced.


    ¡°And the second empty hut?¡±


    ¡°A man and a girl, we think. The hut''s close to the tidemark, opposite the empty mooring pole.¡±


    ¡°No sign of them?¡±


    ¡°None, Adjunct. Of course, we''re still finding bodies, along the road, out in the fields.¡±


    ¡°But not on the beach.¡±


    No.


    The Adjunct frowned, aware that both men were watching her.


    ¡°Captain, what kind of weapons killed your soldiers?¡±


    The captain hesitated, then turned a glare on the lieutenant. ¡°You''ve been crawling around down there, Paran, let''s hear your opinion.¡±


    Paran''s answering smile was tight. ¡°Yes, sir. Natural weapons.¡±


    The captain felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He''d hoped he''d been wrong.


    ¡°What do you mean,¡± Lorn asked, ¡°natural weapons?¡±


    ¡°Teeth, mostly. Very big, very sharp ones.¡±


    The captain cleared his throat, then said, ¡°There haven''t been wolves in Itko Kan for a hundred years. In any case, no carcasses around-¡±


    ¡°If it was wolves,¡± Paran said, turning to eye the basin, ¡°they were as big as mules. No tracks, Adjunct. Not even a tuft of hair.¡±


    ¡°Not wolves, then,¡± Lorn said.


    Paran shrugged.


    The Adjunct drew a deep breath, held it, then let it out in a slow sigh.


    ¡°I want to see this fishing village.¡±


    The captain made ready to don his helmet, but the Adjunct shook her head. ¡°Lieutenant Paran will suffice, Captain. I suggest you take personal command of your guard in the meantime. The dead must be removed as quickly as possible. All evidence of the massacre is to be erased.¡±


    ¡°Understood, Adjunct,¡± the captain said, hoping he''d kept the relief out of his voice.


    Lorn turned to the young noble. ¡°Well, Lieutenant?¡±


    He nodded and clucked his horse into motion.


    It was when the birds scattered from their path that the Adjunct found herself envying the captain. Before her the roused carrion-eaters exposed a carpet of armour, broken bones and meat. The air was hot, turgid and cloying. She saw soldiers, still helmed, their heads crushed by what must have been huge, terribly powerful jaws. She saw torn mail, crumpled shields, and limbs that had been ripped from bodies. Lorn managed only a few moments of careful examination of the scene around them before she fixed her gaze on the promontory ahead, unable to encompass the magnitude of the slaughter. Her stallion, bred of the finest lines of Seven Cities stock, a warhorse trained in the blood for generations, had lost its proud, unyielding strut, and now picked its way carefully along the road.

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    Lorn realized she needed a distraction, and sought it in conversation.


    ¡°Lieutenant, have you received your commission yet?¡±


    ¡°No, Adjunct. I expect to be stationed in the capital.¡±


    She raised an eyebrow. ¡°Indeed. And how will you manage that?¡± Paran squinted ahead, a tight smile on his lips. ¡°It will be arranged.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± Lorn fell silent. ¡°The nobles have refrained from seeking military commissions, kept their heads low for a long time, haven''t they?¡±


    ¡°Since the first days of the Empire. The Emperor held no love for us. Whereas Empress Laseen''s concerns seem to lie elsewhere.¡±


    Lorn eyed the young man. ¡°I see you like taking risks, Lieutenant,¡± she said. ¡°Unless your presumption extends to goading the Adjunct to the Empress. Are you that confident of your blood''s invincibility?¡±


    ¡°Since when is speaking the truth presumptuous?¡±


    ¡°You are young, aren''t you?¡±


    This seemed to sting Paran. A flush rose in his smooth-shaven cheeks.


    ¡°Adjunct, for the past seven hours I have been knee-deep in torn flesh and spilled blood. I''ve been fighting crows and gulls for bodies-do you know what these birds are doing here? Precisely? They''re tearing off strips of meat and fighting over them; they''re getting fat on eyeballs and tongues, livers and hearts. In their frantic greed they fling the meat around:¡± He paused, visibly regaining control over himself as he straightened in his saddle. ¡°I''m not young any more, Adjunct. As for presumption, I honestly couldn''t care less. Truth can''t be danced around, not out here, not now, not ever again.¡±


    They reached the far slope. Off to the left a narrow track led down towards the sea. Paran gestured to it, then angled his horse forward.


    Lorn followed, her thoughtful expression holding on the lieutenant''s broad back, before she turned her attention to the route they took. The path was narrow, skirting the promontory''s bluff. Off to the left the trail''s edge dropped away to rocks sixty feet below. The tide was out, the waves breaking on a reef a few hundred yards offshore. Pools filled the black bedrock''s cracks and basins, dully reflecting an overcast sky.


    They came to a bend, and beyond and below stretched a crescent shaped beach. Above it, at the promontory''s foot, lay a broad, grassy shelf on which squatted a dozen huts.


    The Adjunct swung her gaze seaward. The barques rested on their low flanks beside their mooring poles. The air above the beach and the tidal flat was empty-not a bird in sight.


    She halted her mount. A moment later Paran glanced back at her then did the same. He watched her as she removed her helmet and shook out her long, auburn hair. It was wet and stringy with sweat. The lieutenant rode back to her side, a questioning took in his eyes.


    ¡°Lieutenant Paran, your words were well spoken.¡± She breathed in the salty air, then met his gaze. ¡°You won''t be stationed in Unta, I''m afraid. You will be taking your orders from me as a commissioned officer on my staff.¡±


    His eyes slowly narrowed. ¡°What happened to those soldiers, Adjunct?¡±


    She didn''t answer immediately, leaning back on her saddle and scanning the distant sea. ¡°Someone''s been here,¡± she said. ¡°A sorcerer of great power. Something''s happened, and we''re being diverted from discovering it.¡±


    Paran''s mouth dropped open. ¡°Killing four hundred people was a diversion?¡±


    ¡°If that man and his daughter had been out fishing, they''d have come in with the tide.¡±


    ¡°But-¡±


    ¡°You won''t find their bodies, Lieutenant.¡±


    Paran was puzzled. ¡°Now what?¡±


    She glanced at him, then swung her horse around. ¡°We go back.¡±


    ¡°That''s it?¡± He stared after her as she directed her mount back up the trail, then rode to catch up. ¡°Wait a minute, Adjunct,¡± he said, as he came alongside.


    She gave him a warning look.


    Paran shook his head. ¡°No. If I''m now on your staff, I have to know more about what''s going on.¡±


    She placed her helmet back on and cinched tight the strap under her chin. Her long hair dangled in tattered ropes down over her Imperial cape. ¡°Very well. As you know, Lieutenant, I''m no mage-¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Paran cut in, with a cold grin, ¡°you just hunt them down and kill them.¡±


    ¡°Don''t interrupt me again. As I was saying, I am anathema to sorcery. That means, Lieutenant, that, even though I''m not a practitioner, I have a relationship with magic. Of sorts. We know each other, if you will. I know the patterns of sorcery, and I know the patterns of the minds that use it. We were meant to conclude that the slaughter was thorough, and random. It was neither. There''s a path here, and we have to find it.¡±

 Page 10

    Slowly Paran nodded.


    ¡°Your first task, Lieutenant, is to ride to the market town-what''s its name again?¡±


    ¡°Gerrom.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Gerrom. They''ll know this fishing village, since that''s where the catch is sold. Ask around, find out which fisher family consisted of a father and daughter. Get me their names, and their descriptions. Use the militia if the locals are recalcitrant.¡±


    ¡°They won''t be,¡± Paran said. ¡°The Kanese are co-operative folk.¡±


    They reached the top of the trail and stopped at the road. Below, wagons rocked among the bodies, the oxen braying and stamping their blood-soaked hoofs. Soldiers shouted in the press, while overhead wheeled thousands of birds. The scene stank of panic. At the far end stood the captain, his helmet hanging from its strap in one hand.


    The Adjunct stared down on the scene with hard eyes. ¡°For their sake,¡± she said, ¡°I hope you''re right, Lieutenant.¡±


    As he watched the two riders approach, something told the captain that his days of ease in Itko Kan were numbered. His helmet felt heavy in his hand. He eyed Paran. That thin-blooded bastard had it made. A hundred strings pulling him every step of the way to some cushy posting in some peaceful city.


    He saw Lorn studying him as they came to the crest. ¡°Captain, I have a request for you.¡±


    The captain grunted. Request, hell. The Empress has to check her slippers every morning to make sure this one isn''t already in them. ¡°Of course, Adjunct.¡±


    The woman dismounted, as did Paran. The lieutenant''s expression was impassive. Was that arrogance, or had the Adjunct given him something to think about?


    ¡°Captain,¡± Lorn began, ¡°I understand there''s a recruiting drive under way in Kan. Do you pull in people from outside the city?¡±


    ¡°To join? Sure, more of them than anyone else. City folk got too much to give up. Besides, they get the bad news first. Most of the peasants don''t know everything''s gone to hell on Genabackis. A lot of them figure city folk whine too much anyway. May I ask why?¡±


    ¡°You may.¡± Lorn turned to watch the soldiers cleaning up the road. ¡°I need a list of recent recruits. Within the last two days. Forget the ones born in the city, just the outlying ones. And only the women and/or old men.¡±


    The captain grunted again. ¡°Should be a short list, Adjunct.¡±


    ¡°I hope so, Captain.¡±


    ¡°You figured out what''s behind all this?¡±


    Still following the activity on the road below, Lorn said, ¡°No idea.¡±


    Yes, the captain thought, and I''m the Emperor reincarnated. ¡°Too bad,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°Oh.¡± The Adjunct faced him. ¡°Lieutenant Paran is now on my staff. I trust you''ll make the necessary adjustments.¡±


    ¡°As you wish, Adjunct. I love paperwork.¡±


    That earned him a slight smile. Then it was gone. ¡°Lieutenant Paran will be leaving now.¡±


    The captain looked at the young noble and smiled, letting the smile say everything. Working for the Adjunct was like being the worm on the hook. The Adjunct was the hook, and at the other end of the line was the Empress. Let him squirm.


    A sour expression flitted across Paran''s face. ¡°Yes, Adjunct.¡±


    He climbed back into the saddle, saluted, then rode off down the road.


    The captain watched him leave, then said, ¡°Anything else, Adjunct?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Her tone brought him around.


    ¡°I would like to hear a soldier''s opinion of the nobility''s present inroads on the Imperial command structure.¡±


    The captain stared hard at her. ¡°It ain''t pretty, Adjunct.¡±


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    The captain talked.


    It was the eighth day of recruiting and Staff Sergeant Aragan sat blearyeyed behind his desk as yet another whelp was prodded forward by the corporal. They''d had some luck here in Kan. Fishing''s best in the backwaters, Kan''s Fist had said. All they get around here is stories. Stories don''t make you bleed. Stories don''t make you go hungry, don''t give you sore feet. When you''re young and smelling of pigshit and convinced there ain''t a weapon in all the damn world that''s going to hurt you, all stories do is make you want to be part of them.


    The old woman was right. As usual. These people had been under the boot so long they actually liked it. Well, Aragan thought, the education begins here.


    It had been a bad day, with the local captain roaring off with three companies and leaving not one solid rumour in their wake about what was going on. And if that wasn''t bad enough, Laseen''s Adjunct arrived from Unta not ten minutes later, using one of those eerie magical Warrens to get here. Though he''d never seen her, just her name on the hot, dry wind was enough to give him the shakes. Mage killer, the scorpion in the Imperial pocket.

 Page 11

    Aragan scowled down at the writing tablet and waited until the corporal cleared his throat. Then he looked up.


    The recruit standing before him took the staff sergeant aback. He opened his mouth, on his tongue a lashing tirade designed to send the young ones scampering. A second later he shut it again, the words unspoken. Kan''s Fist had made her instructions abundantly clear: if they had two arms, two legs and a head, take them. The Genabackis campaign was a mess. Fresh bodies were needed.


    He grinned at the girl. She matched the Fist''s description perfectly.


    Still. ¡°All right, lass, you understand you''re in line to join the Malazan Marines, right?¡±


    The girl nodded, her gaze steady and cool and fixed on Aragan.


    The recruiter''s expression tightened. Damn, she can''t be more than twelve or thirteen. If this was my daughter:


    What''s got her eyes looking so bloody old? The last time he''d seen anything like them had been outside Mott Forest, on Genabackis-he''d been marching through farmland hit by five years¡± drought and a war twice as long. Those old eyes were brought by hunger, or death. He scowled. ¡°What''s your name, girl?¡±


    ¡°Am I in, then?¡± she asked quietly.


    Aragan nodded, a sudden headache pounding against the inside of his skull. ¡°You''ll get your assignment in a week''s time, unless you got a preference.¡±


    ¡°Genabackan campaign,¡± the girl answered immediately. ¡°Under the command of High Fist Dujek Onearm. Onearm''s Host.¡±


    Aragan blinked. ¡°I''ll make a note,¡± he said softly. ¡°Your name, soldier?¡±


    ¡°Sorry. My name is Sorry.¡±


    Aragan jotted the name down on his tablet. ¡°Dismissed, soldier. The corporal will tell you where to go.¡± He looked up as she was near the door. ¡°And wash all that mud off your feet.¡± Aragan continued writing for a moment, then stopped. It hadn''t rained in weeks. And the mud around here was half-way between green and grey, not dark red. He tossed down the stylus and massaged his temples. Well, at least the headache''s fading.


    Gerrom was a league and a half inland along the Old Kan Road, a preEmpire thoroughfare rarely used since the Imperial raised coast road had been constructed. The traffic on it these days was mostly on foot, local farmers and fishers with their goods. Of them only unravelled and torn bundles of clothing, broken baskets and trampled vegetables littering the track remained to give evidence of their passage. A lame mule, the last sentinel overseeing the refuse of an exodus, stood dumbly nearby, ankledeep in a rice paddy. It spared Paran a single forlorn glance as he rode past.


    The detritus looked to be no more than a day old, the fruits and greenleaved vegetables only now beginning to rot in the afternoon heat.


    His horse carrying him at a slow walk, Paran watched as the first outbuildings of the small trader town came into view through the dusty haze. No one moved between the shabby mudbrick houses; no dogs came out to challenge him, and the only cart in sight leaned on a single wheel. To add to the uncanny scene, the air was still, empty of birdsong.


    Paran loosened the sword in its scabbard.


    As he neared the outbuildings he halted his mount. The exodus had been swift, a panicked flight. Yet he saw no bodies, no signs of violence beyond the haste evident in those leaving. He drew a deep breath, slowly released it, then clicked his horse forward. The main street was in effect the town''s only street, leading at its far end to an intersection marked by a single two-storey stone building: the Imperial Constabulary. Its tin backed shutters were closed, its heavy banded door shut. As he approached Paran held his eyes on the building.


    He dismounted before it, tying his mare to the hitching rail then looking back up the street. No movement. Unsheathing his blade, Paran swung back to the Constabulary door.


    A soft, steady sound from within stopped him, too low to be heard from any distance but now, as he stood before the huge door, he could hear a liquid murmuring that raised the hairs on his neck. Paran reach out with his sword and set its point under the latch. He lifted the handle upward until it disengaged, then pushed open the door.


    Movement rippled in the gloom within, a flap and soft thumping air carrying to Paran the redolent stench of putrifying flesh. Breathing hard and with a mouth dry as old cotton, he waited for his eyes to adjust.


    He stared into the Constabulary''s outer room, and it was a mass movement, a chilling soft sussuration of throats giving voice. The chamber was filled with black pigeons cooing in icy calm. Uniform human shapes lay in their midst, stretched haphazardly across the floor amid droppings and drifting black down. Sweat and death clung to the air thick as gauze.

 Page 12

    He took a step inside. The pigeons rustled but otherwise ignored him. None made for the open doorway.


    Swollen faces with coin-dull eyes stared up from the shadows; the faces were blue, as of men suffocated. Paran looked down at one of the soldiers. ¡°Not a healthy thing,¡± he muttered, ¡°wearing these uniforms these days.¡±


    A conjuring of birds to keep mocking vigil. Dark humour''s not to liking any more, I think. He shook himself, walked across the room. The pigeons tracked away from his boots, clucking. The door to the captain office was ajar. Musty light bled through the shuttered windows¡± uneven joins. Sheathing his sword, Paran entered the office. The captain still sat in his chair, his face bloated and bruised in shades of blue, green and grey.


    Paran swept damp feathers from the desktop, rummaged through the scroll work. The papyrus sheets fell apart under his touch, the leaves rotten and oily between his fingers.


    A thorough eliminating of the trail.


    He turned away, walked swiftly back through the outer room until he stepped into the warm light. He closed the Constabulary door as no doubt, the villagers had.


    The dark bloom of sorcery was a stain few cared to examine too closely. It had a way of spreading.


    Paran untethered his mare, climbed into the saddle and rode from the abandoned town. He did not look back.


    The sun sat heavy and bloated amid a smear of crimson cloud on the horizon. Paran fought to keep his eyes open. It had been a long day. A horrific day. The land around him, once familiar and safe, had become something else, a place stirred with the dark currents of sorcery. He was not looking forward to a night camped in the open.


    His mount plodded onward, head down, as dusk slowly enveloped them. Pulled by the weary chains of his thoughts, Paran tried to make sense of what had happened since morning.


    Snatched out from the shadow of that sour-faced, laconic captain and the garrison at Kan, the lieutenant had seen his prospects begin a quick rise. Aide to the Adjunct was an advancement in his career he could not have even imagined a week ago. Despite the profession he had chosen, his father and his sisters were bound to be impressed, perhaps even awed, by his achievement. Like so many other noble-born sons and daughters, he''d long since set his sights on the Imperial military, hungry for prestige and bored with the complacent, static attitudes of the noble class in general. Paran wanted something more challenging than co-ordinating shipments of wine, or overseeing the breeding of horses.


    Nor was he among the first to enlist, thus easing the way for entrance into officer training and selective postings. It had just been ill-luck that saw him sent to Kan, where a veteran garrison had been licking its wounds for nigh on six years. There''d been little respect for an untested lieutenant, and even less for a noble-born.


    Paran suspected that that had changed since the slaughter on the road.


    He''d handled it better than many of those veterans, helped in no small part by the superb breeding of his horse. More, to prove to them all his cool, detached professionalism, he''d volunteered to lead the inspection detail.


    He''d done well, although the detail had proved: difficult. He''d heard screaming while crawling around among the bodies, coming from somewhere inside his own head. His eyes had fixed on details, oddities-the peculiar twist of this body, the inexplicable smile on that dead soldier''s face-but what had proved hardest was what had been done to the horses. Crusted foam-filled nostrils and mouths-the signs of terror-and the wounds were terrible, huge and devastating. Bile and faeces stained the once-proud mounts, and over everything was a glittering carpet of blood and slivers of red flesh. He had nearly wept for those horses.


    He shifted uneasily on the saddle, feeling a clamminess come to his hands where they rested on the ornate horn. He''d held on to his confidence through the whole episode; yet now, as his thoughts returned to that horrid scene, it was as if something that had always been solid in his mind now stuttered, shied, threatening his balance; the faint contempt he''d shown for those veterans in his troop, kneeling helpless on the roadside racked by dry-heaves, returned to him now with a ghoulish cast.


    And the echo that came from the Constabulary at Gerrom, arriving like a late blow to his already bruised and battered soul, rose once again to pluck at the defensive numbness still holding him in check.


    Paran straightened with an effort. He''d told the Adjunct his youth was gone. He''d told her other things as well, fearless, uncaring, lacking all the caution his father had instilled in him when it came to the many faces of the Empire.


    From a great distance in his mind came old, old words: live quietly.


    He''d rejected that notion then; he rejected it still. The Adjunct, however, had noticed him. He wondered now, for the first time, if he was right to feel pride. That hard-bitten commander of so many years ago, on the walls of Mock''s Hold, would have spat at Paran''s feet, with contempt, had he now stood before him. The boy was a boy no longer, but a man.

 Page 13

    Should''ve heeded my words, son. Now look at you.


    His mare pulled up suddenly, hoofs thumping confusedly on the rutted road. Paran reached for his weapon as he looked uneasily around in the gloom. The track ran through rice paddies, the nearest shacks of the peasants on a parallel ridge a hundred paces from the road. Yet a figure now blocked the road.


    A cold breath swirled lazily past, pinning back the mare''s ears and widening her nostrils as she flinched.


    The figure-a man by his height-was swathed in shades of green: cloaked, hooded, wearing a faded tunic and linen leggings above greendyed leather boots. A single long-knife, the weapon of choice among Seven Cities warriors, was slung through a thin belt. The man''s hands, faintly grey in the afternoon light, glittered with rings, rings on every finger, above and below the knuckles. He raised one now, holding up a clay jug.


    ¡°Thirsty, Lieutenant?¡± The man''s voice was soft, the tone strangely melodic.


    ¡°Have I business with you?¡± Paran asked, his hand remaining on the grip of his longsword.


    The man smiled, pulling back his hood. His face was long, the skin a lighter shade of grey, the eyes dark and strangely angled. He looked to be in his early thirties, though his hair was white. ¡°The Adjunct asked of me a favour,¡± he said. ¡°She grows impatient for your report. I am to escort you: with haste.¡± He shook the jug. ¡°But first, a repast. I have a veritable feast secreted in my pockets-far better fare than a brow-beaten Kanese village can offer. Join me, here on the roadside. We can amuse ourselves in conversation and idle watching of peasants toiling endlessly. I am named Topper.¡±


    ¡°I know that name,¡± Paran said.


    ¡°Well, you should,¡± Topper replied. ¡°I am he, alas. The blood of a Tiste And? races in my veins, seeking escape, no doubt, from its more common human stream. Mine was the hand that took the life of Unta''s royal line, king, queen, sons and daughters.¡±


    ¡°And cousins, second cousins, third-¡±


    ¡°Expunging all hope, indeed. Such was my duty as a Claw of unsurpassed skill. But you have failed in answering my question.¡±


    ¡°Which was?¡±


    ¡°Thirsty?¡±


    Scowling, Paran dismounted. ¡°I thought you said the Adjunct wished for haste.¡±


    ¡°Hasten we shall, Lieutenant, once we''ve filled our bellies, and conversed in civil fashion.¡±


    ¡°Your reputation puts civility far down your list of skills, Claw.¡±


    ¡°It''s a most cherished trait of mine that sees far too little opportunity for exercise these fell days, Lieutenant. Surely you''d grant me some of your precious time, since I''m to be your escort?¡±


    ¡°Whatever arrangement you made with the Adjunct is between you and her,¡± Paran said, approaching. ¡°I owe you nothing, Topper. Except enmity.¡±


    The Claw squatted, removing wrapped packages from his pockets followed by two crystal goblets. He uncorked the jug. ¡°Ancient wounds. I was led to understand you''ve taken a different path, leaving behind the dull, jostling ranks of the nobility.¡± He poured, filling the goblets with amber-coloured wine. ¡°You are now one with the body of Empire, Lieutenant. It commands you. You respond unquestioningly to its wit. You are a small part of a muscle in that body. No more. No less. The time for old grudges is long past. So,¡± he set down the jug and hande Paran a goblet, ¡°we now salute new beginnings, Ganoes Paran, lieutenant and aide to Adjunct Lorn.¡±


    Scowling, Paran accepted the goblet.


    The two drank.


    Topper smiled, producing a silk handkerchief to dab against his lip. ¡°There now, that wasn''t so difficult, was it? May I call you by your chosen name?¡±


    ¡°Paran will do. And you? What title does the commander of the Claw hold?¡±


    Topper smiled again. ¡°Laseen still commands the Claw. I assist her. In this way I too am an aide of sorts. You may call me by my chosen name, of course. I''m not one for maintaining formalities beyond a reasonable point in an acquaintance.¡±


    Paran sat down on the muddy road. ¡°And we''ve passed that point?¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°How do you decide?¡±


    ¡°Ah, well.¡± Topper began unwrapping his packages, revealing cheese, fistbread, fruit and berries. I make acquaintances in one of two ways. You''ve seen the second of those.¡±


    ¡°And the first?¡±


    ¡°No time for proper introductions in those instances, alas.¡±


    Wearily Paran unstrapped and removed his helm. ¡°Do you wish to hear what I found in Gerrom?¡± he asked, running a hand through his black hair.

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    Topper shrugged. ¡°If you''ve the need.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps I''d better await my audience with the Adjunct.¡±


    The Claw smiled. ¡°You have begun to learn, Paran. Never be too easy with the knowledge you possess. Words are like coin-it pays to hoard.¡±


    ¡°Until you die on a bed of gold,¡± Paran said.


    ¡°Hungry? I hate eating alone.¡±


    Paran accepted a chunk of fistbread. ¡°So, was the Adjunct truly impatient, or are you here for other reasons?¡±


    With a smile, the Claw rose. ¡°Alas, genteel conversation is done. Our way opens.¡± He faced the road.


    Paran turned to see a curtain in the air tear open on the road, spilling dull yellow light. A Warren, the secret paths of sorcery. ¡°Hood''s Breath.¡±


    He sighed, fighting off a sudden chill. Within he could see a greyish pathway, humped on either side by low mounded walls and vaulted overhead by impenetrable ochre-hued mist. The air swept past into the portal like a drawn breath, revealing the pathway to be of ash as invisible currents stirred and raised spinning dust-devils.


    ¡°You will have to get used to this,¡± Topper said.


    Paran collected his mare''s reins and slung his helm on the saddlehorn.


    ¡°Lead on,¡± he said.


    The Claw cast him a quick appraising glance, then strode into the Warren.


    Paran followed. The portalway closed behind them, in its place a continuation of the path. Itko Kan had vanished, and with it all signs of life.


    The world they had entered was barren, deathly. The banked mounds lining the trail proved to be more ash. The air was gritty, tasting of metal.


    "Welcome to the Imperial ¡°Warren.¡± Topper said, with a hint of mockery.


    ¡°Pleasant.¡±


    ¡°Carved by force out of: what was here before. Has such an effort ever been achieved before? Only the gods can say.¡±


    They began walking.


    ¡°I take it, then,¡± Paran said, ¡°that no god claims this Warren. By this, you cheat the tolls, the gatekeepers, the guardians on unseen bridges, and all the others said to dwell in the Warrens in service to their immortal masters.¡±


    Topper grunted. ¡°You imagine the Warrens as crowded as that? Well, the beliefs of the ignorant are ever entertaining. You shall be good company on this short journey, I think.¡±


    Paran fell silent. The horizons beyond the banked heaps of ash were close, a vague blending of ochre sky and grey-black ground. Sweat trickled under his mail hauberk. His mare snorted heavily.


    ¡°In case you were wondering,¡± Topper said, after a time, ¡°the Adjunct is now in Unta. We will use this Warren to cross the distance-three hundred leagues in only a few short hours. Some think the Empire has grown too large, some even think their remote provinces are beyond the Empress Laseen''s reach. As you have just learned, Paran, such beliefs are held by fools.¡±


    The mare snorted again.


    ¡°I''ve shamed you into silence, then? I do apologize, Lieutenant, for mocking your ignorance.¡±


    ¡°It''s a risk you''ll have to live with,¡± Paran said.


    The next thousand paces of silence belonged to Topper.


    No shifting of light marked the passing of hours. A number of times they came upon places where the ash embankments had been disturbed, as by the passage of something large, shambling; and wide, a slithery trail led off into the gloom. In one such place they found a dark encrusted stain and the scatter of chain links like coins in the dust. Topper examined the scene closely while Paran watched.


    Hardly the secure road be''d have me believe. There''re strangers here and they''re not friendly.


    He was not surprised to find Topper increasing their pace thereafter.


    A short while later they came to a stone archway. It had been recently constructed, and Paran recognized the basalt as Untan, from the Imperial quarries outside the capital. The walls of his family''s estate were of the same grey-black glittering stone. At the centre of the arch, high over their heads, was carved a taloned hand holding a crystal globe: the Mala Imperial sigil.


    Beyond the arch was darkness.


    Paran cleared his throat. ¡°We have arrived?¡±


    Topper spun to him. ¡°You answer civility with arrogance, Lieutenant. You''d do well to shed the noble hauteur.¡±


    Smiling, Paran gestured. ¡°Lead on, escort.¡±


    In a whirl of cloak Topper stepped through the arch and vanished.


    The mare bucked as Paran pulled her closer to the arch, head tossing.


    He tried to soothe her but it was no use. Finally, he climbed into the saddle and gathered up the reins. He straightened the horse, then drove hard his spurs into her flanks. She bolted, leaped into the void.

 Page 15

    Light and colours exploded outward, engulfing them. The mare''s hoofs landed with a crunching thump, scattering something that might be gravel in all directions. Paran halted his horse, blinking as he took in the scene around them. A vast chamber, its ceiling glittering with beaten gold, its walls lined with tapestries, and a score of armoured guards closing in on all sides.


    Alarmed, the mare sidestepped to send Topper sprawling. A hoof lashed out after him, missing by a handspan. More gravel crunched-only it was not gravel, Paran saw, but mosaic stones. Topper rolled to his feet with a curse, his eyes flashing as he glared at the lieutenant.


    The guardsmen seemed to respond to some unspoken order, slowly withdrawing to their positions along the walls. Paran swung his attention from Topper. Before him was a raised dais surmounted by a throne of twisted bone. In the throne sat the Empress.


    Silence fell in the chamber except for the crunch of semi-precious gems beneath the mare''s hoofs. Grimacing, Paran dismounted, warily eyeing the woman seated on the throne.


    Laseen had changed little since the only other time he''d been this close to her; plain and unadorned, her hair short and fair above the blue tint of her unmemorable features. Her brown eyes regarded him narrowly.


    Paran adjusted his sword-belt, clasped his hands and bowed from the waist. ¡°Empress.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Laseen drawled, ¡°that you did not heed the commander''s advice of seven years ago.¡±


    He blinked in surprise.


    She continued, ¡°Of course, he did not heed the advice given him, either. I wonder what god tossed you two together on that parapet-I would do service to acknowledge its sense of humour. Did you imagine the Imperial Arch would exit in the stables, Lieutenant?¡±


    ¡°My horse was reluctant to make the passage, Empress.¡±


    ¡°With good reason.¡±


    Paran smiled. ¡°Unlike me, she''s of a breed known for its intelligence. Please accept my humblest apologies.¡±


    ¡°Topper will see you to the Adjunct.¡± She gestured, and a guardsman came forward to collect the mare''s reins.


    Paran bowed again then faced the Claw with a smile.


    Topper led him to a side door.


    ¡°You fool!¡± he snapped, as the door was closed soundly behind them.


    He strode quickly down the narrow hallway. Paran made no effort to keep pace, forcing the Claw to wait at the far end where a set of stairs wound upward. Topper''s expression was dark with fury. ¡°What was that about a parapet? You''ve met her before-when?¡±


    ¡°Since she declined to explain I can only follow her example,¡± Paran said. He eyed the saddle-backed stairs. ¡°This would be the West Tower, then. The Tower of Dust-?¡±


    ¡°To the top floor. The Adjunct awaits you in her chambers-there''s no other doors so you won''t get lost, just keep on until you reach the top.¡±


    Paran nodded and began climbing.


    The door to the tower''s top room was ajar. Paran rapped a knuckle against it and stepped inside. The Adjunct was seated at a bench at the far end, her back to a wide window. Its shutters were thrown open, revealing the red glint of sunrise. She was getting dressed. Paran halted, embarrassed.


    ¡°I''m not one for modesty,¡± the Adjunct said. ¡°Enter and close the door behind you.¡±


    Paran did as he was bidden. He looked around. Faded tapestries lined the walls. Ragged furs covered the stone tiles of the floor. The furniture-what little there was-was old, Napan in style and thus artless.


    The Adjunct rose to shrug into her leather armour. Her hair shimmered in the red light. ¡°You look exhausted, Lieutenant. Please, sit.¡±


    He looked around, found a chair and slumped gratefully into it. ¡°The trail''s been thoroughly obscured, Adjunct. The only people left in Gerrom aren''t likely to talk.¡±


    She fastened the last of the clasps. ¡°Unless I were to send a necromancer.¡±


    He grunted. ¡°Tales of pigeons-I think the possibility was foreseen.¡±


    She regarded him with a raised brow.


    ¡°Pardon, Adjunct. It seems that death''s heralds were: birds.¡±


    ¡°And were we to glance through the eyes of the dead soldiers, we would see little else. Pigeons, you said?¡±


    He nodded.


    ¡°Curious.¡± She fell silent.


    He watched her for a moment longer. ¡°Was I bait, Adjunct?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    He fell silent. When he closed his eyes his head spun. He''d not realized how weary he''d become. It was a moment before he understood that she was speaking to him. He shook himself, straightened.


    The Adjunct stood before him. ¡°Sleep later, not now, Lieutenant. I was informing you of your future. It would be well if you paid attention. You completed your task as instructed. Indeed, you have proved yourself highly: resilient. To all outward appearances, I am done with you, Lieutenant. You will be returned to the Officer Corps here in Unta. What will follow will be a number of postings, completing your official training. As for your time in Itko Kan, nothing unusual occurred there do

 Page 16

    ¡°And what of what really happened there, Adjunct? Do we abandon pursuit? Do we resign ourselves to never knowing exactly what happened, or why? Or is it simply me who is to be abandoned?¡±


    ¡°Lieutenant, this is a trail we must not follow too closely, but follow it we shall, and you will be central to the effort. I have assumed-perhaps in error-that you would wish to see it through, to be witness when the time for vengeance finally arrives. Was I wrong? Perhaps you''ve seen enough and seek only a return to normality.¡±


    He closed his eyes. ¡°Adjunct, I would be there when the time came.¡±


    She was silent and he knew without opening his eyes that she was studying him, gauging his worth. He was beyond unease and beyond caring. He''d stated his desire; the decision was hers.


    ¡°We proceed slowly. Your reassignment will take effect in a few days time. In the meanwhile, go home to your father''s estate. Get some rest.¡±


    He opened his eyes and rose to his feet. As he reached the doorway she spoke again. ¡°Lieutenant, I trust you won''t repeat the scene in the Hall.¡±


    ¡°I doubt it''d earn as many laughs the second time around, Adjunct.¡±


    As he reached the stairs he heard what might have been a cough from the room behind him. It was hard to imagine that it could have been any


    As he led his horse through the streets of Unta he felt numb inside. The familiar sights, the teeming, interminable crowds, the voices and clash of languages all struck Paran as something strange, something altered, not before his eyes but in that unknowable place between his eyes and his thoughts. The change was his alone, and it made him feel shorn, outcast. Yet the place was the same: the scenes before him were as they always had been and even in watching it pass by all around him, nothing had changed. It was the gift of noble blood that kept the world at a distance, to be observed from a position unsullied, unjostled by the commonry.


    Gift: and curse.


    Now, however, Paran walked among them without the family guards.


    The power of blood was gone, and all he possessed by way of armour was the uniform he now wore. Not a craftsman, not a hawker, not a merchant, but a soldier. A weapon of the Empire, and the Empire had those in the tens of thousands.


    He passed through Toll Ramp Gate and made his way along Marble Slope Road, where the first merchant estates appeared, pushed back from the cobbled street, half hidden by courtyard walls. The foliage of gardens joined their lively colours with brightly painted walls; the crowds diminished and private guards were visible outside arching gates.


    The sweltering air lost its reek of sewage and rotting food, slipping cooler across unseen fountains and carrying into the avenue the fragrance of blossoms.


    Smells of childhood.


    The estates spread out as he led his horse deeper into the Noble District. Breathing-space purchased by history and ancient coin. The Empire seemed to melt away, a distant, mundane concern. Here, families traced their lines back seven centuries to those tribal horsemen who had first come to this land from the east. In blood and fire, as was always the way, they had conquered and subdued the cousins of the Kanese who''d built villages along this coast. From warrior horsemen to horsebreeders to merchants of wine, beer and cloth. An ancient nobility of the blade, now a nobility of hoarded gold, trade agreements, subtle manoeuvrings and hidden corruptions in gilded rooms and oil-lit corridors.


    Paran had imagined himself acquiring trappings that closed a circle, a return to the blade from which his family had emerged, strong and savage, all those centuries ago. For his choice, his father had condemned him.


    He came to a familiar postern, a single high door along one side wall and facing an alley that in another part of the city would be a wide street.


    There was no guard here, just a thin bell-chain, which he pulled twice.


    Alone in the alley, Paran waited.


    A bar clanked on the other side, a voice growled a curse as the door swung back on protesting hinges.


    Paran found himself staring down at an unfamiliar face. The man was old, scarred and wearing much-mended chain-mail that ended raggedly around his knees. His pot-helm was uneven with hammered-out dents, yet polished bright.


    The man eyed Paran up and down with watery grey eyes, then grunted, ¡°The tapestry lives.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    The guardsman swung the door wide. ¡°Older now, of course, but it''s all the same by the lines. Good artist, to capture the way of standing, the expression and all. Welcome home, Ganoes.¡±


    Paran led his horse through the narrow doorway. The path between two outbuildings of the estate, showing sky overhead.


    ¡°I don''t know you, soldier,¡± Paran said. ¡°But it seems my portrait has been well studied by the guards. Is it now a throw-rug in your barracks?¡±

 Page 17

    ¡°Something like that.¡±


    ¡°What is your name?¡±


    ¡°Gamet,¡± the guard answered, as he followed behind the horse after shutting and locking the door. ¡°In service to your father these last three years.¡±


    ¡°And before that, Gamet?


    ¡°Not a question asked.¡±


    They came to the courtyard. Paran paused to study the guardsman ¡°My father''s usually thorough in researching the histories of those enter¡± Gamet grinned revealing a full set of white teeth.¡± h that he did.¡± Paran passed over the reins. He swung about and looked round the courtyard. It seemed smaller than he remembered. The old well, made by the nameless people who''d lived here before even the Kanese looked ready to crumble into a heap of dust. No craftsman would reset those ancient carved stones, fearing the curse of awakened ghosts. Under the estate house itself were similarly unmortared stones in the deepest reaches the many rooms and tunnels too bent, twisted and uneven to Servants and groundskeepers moved back and forth in the yard. None Gamet cleared his throat. ¡°Your father and mother aren''t here.¡±


    He nodded. There''d be foals to care for at Emalau the count ¡°Your sisters are though,¡± Gamet continued. ¡°I''ll have the house servants freshen up your room.¡±


    ¡°It''s been left as it was, then?¡±


    Gamet grinned again. ¡°Well, clear out the extra furniture and casks.¡±


    ¡°As always.¡± Paran sighed and, without another word, made his way to the house entrance.


    The feast hall echoed to Paran''s boots as he strode to the long dining table. Cats bolted across the floor, scattering at his approach. He unclasped his travelling cloak, tossed it across the back of a chair, then sat at a longbench and leaned his back against the panelled wall. He closed his eyes.


    A few minutes passed, then a woman''s voice spoke. ¡°I thought you were in Itko Kan.¡±


    He opened his eyes. His sister Tavore, a year younger than him, stood close to the head of the table, one hand on the back of their father''s chair.


    She was as plain as ever, a slash of bloodless lines comprising her features, her reddish hair trimmed shorter than was the style. She was taller than the last time he''d seen her, nearly his own height, no longer the awkward child. Her expression revealed nothing as she studied him.


    ¡°Reassignment,¡± Paran said.


    ¡°To here? We would have heard.¡±


    Ah, yes, you would have, wouldn''t you? All the sly whisperings among the connected families.


    ¡°Unplanned,¡± he conceded, ¡°but done nevertheless. Not stationed here in Unta, though. My visit is only a few days.¡±


    ¡°Have you been promoted?¡±


    He smiled. ¡°Is the investment about to reap coin? Reluctant as it was, we still must think in terms of potential influence, mustn''t we?¡±


    ¡°Managing this family''s position is no longer your responsibility, brother.¡±


    ¡°Ah, it''s yours now, then? Has Father withdrawn from the daily chores?¡±


    ¡°Slowly. His health is failing. Had you asked, even in Itko Kan. .¡±


    He sighed. ¡°Still making up for me, Tavore? Assuming the burden of my failings? I hardly left here on a carpet of petals, you may recall. In any case, I always assumed the house affairs would fall into capable hands.¡± Her pale eyes narrowed, but pride silenced the obvious question. ¡°At her studies. She''s not heard of your return. She will be very excited.¡± His sister snorted, turning away. Telisin? She''s too soft for this world, brother. For any world, I think. She''s not changed. She''ll be happy to see you.¡± He watched her stiff back as she left the hall.


    He smelled of sweat-his own and the mare''s-travel and grime, and of something else as well: Old blood and old fear. Paran looked around. Much smaller than I remembered.


    CHAPTER TWO


    With the coming of the Moranth the tide turned.


    And like ships in a harbour the Free Cities were swept under Imperial seas.


    The war entered its twelfth year, the Year of the Shattered Moon and its sudden spawn of deathly rain and black-winged promise.


    Two cities remained to contest the Malazan onslaught.


    One stalwart, proud banners beneath Dark''s powerful wing.


    The other divided-


    ¡ª without an army, bereft of allies-


    The strong city fell first.


    Call to Shadow Felisin (b.1146)


    63rd Year of Burn''s Sleep (two years later)


    105th Year of the Malazan Empire 9th Year of Empress Laseen''s Rule


    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.

 Page 18

    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.¡±

 Page 19

    ¡°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.¡±

 Page 20

    ¡°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?¡±

 Page 21

    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.

 Page 22

    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-¡±

 Page 23

    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.¡±

 Page 24

    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:

 Page 25

    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.

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    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.

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    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.

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    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.

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    ¡°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?¡±

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    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.

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    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?

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    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.

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    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.


    CHAPTER THREE


    Thelomen Tartheno Toblakai:


    find the names of a people so reluctant to fade into oblivion:


    Their legend rots my cynical cast and blights my eyes with bright glory ¡±


    Cross not the loyal cage embracing their unassailable heart:


    : Cross not these stolid menhirs, ever loyal to the earth.¡±


    Thelomen Tartheno Toblakai:


    Still standing, these towering pillars mar the gelid scape of my mind:


    Gothos¡± Folly (ILiv)


    Gothos


    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.¡±

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    ¡°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?

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    ¡°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.

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    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.¡±

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    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.¡±

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    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.

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    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.¡±

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    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.

 Page 41

    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.

 Page 42

    ¡°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.

 Page 43

    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.¡±

 Page 44

    ~&''vsj ¡ª , 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.

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    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.


    CHAPTER FOUR


    They were of a kind, then the histories writ large in tattooed tracery the tales a tracking of old wounds but something glowed hard in their eyes-those flame-gnawed arches, that vanishing span, they are their own past each in turn destined to fall in line on the quiet wayside beside the river they refuse to name:


    The Bridgeburners (IVi)


    Toc the Younger (b. 1141)


    Tattersail glared at whiskeyjack. ¡°Hairlock is insane,¡± She pronounced. ¡°That edge to him was always there, but he''s chewed holes in his own Warrens and he''s tasting Chaos. Worse yet, it''s making him more powerful, more dangerous.¡±


    They had gathered in Tattersail''s quarters, which consisted of an outer room-where they now sat-and a bedroom with the rare luxury of a solid wood door. The past occupants had hastily stripped the place of anything valuable and portable, leaving behind only the larger pieces of furniture. Tattersail sat at the table, along with Whiskeyjack, Quick Ben and Kalam, and the sapper named Fiddler. The air in the room had grown hot, stifling.


    ¡°Of course he''s insane,¡± Quick Ben replied, looking at his sergeant, whose face remained impassive. The wizard hastily added, ¡°But that''s to be expected. Fener''s tail, lady, he''s got the body of a puppet! Of course that''s twisted him.¡±

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    ¡°How twisted?¡± Whiskeyjack asked his wizard. ¡°He''s supposed to be watching our backs, isn''t he?¡±


    Kalam said, ¡°Quick Ben got him, under control. Hairlock''s backtracking, working through the maze-he''ll find out who in the Empire wants us dead.¡±


    ¡°The danger,¡± Quick Ben added, rounding on Tattersail, ¡°is his being &tectt_& Vke xvted,% vz~- the regular paths are all trip-wired.¡±


    Tattersail mulled over that point, then nodded. ¡°Tayschrenn would find him, or at least catch wind that someone''s sniffing around. But Hairlock''s using the power of Chaos, the paths that lie between Warrens, and that''s unhealthy-not just for him, but for all of us.¡±


    ¡°Why all of us?¡± Whiskeyjack asked.


    Quick Ben answered, ¡°It weakens the Warrens, frays the fabric, which in turns allows Hairlock to break into them at will: and out again. But we have no choice. We have to give Hairlock his rope. For now.¡±


    The sorceress sighed, massaging her brow. ¡°Tayschrenn''s the one you''re looking for. I''ve already told you-¡±


    ¡°That''s not good enough,¡± Quick Ben cut in. ¡°How many agents is he using? What are the details of the plan-what the hell is the plan? Is all this on Laseen''s orders, or is the High Mage eyeing the throne for himself? We need to know, dammit!¡±


    ¡°All right, all right,¡± Tattersail said. ¡°So Hairlock unravels the whole thing for you-then what? Do you intend to try to kill Tayschrenn and everyone else involved? Are you counting on my help in that?¡± She looked from one face to the next. Each revealed nothing. Anger flared and she rose. ¡°I know,¡± she said stiffly, ¡°that Tayschrenn probably murdered NKaronys, Nightchill, and my cadre. He probably knew your tunnels would collapse around you, and he might well have decided that Dujek''s Second was a threat that needed culling. But if you think I''m going to help you without knowing what you''re planning, you''re mistaken. There''s more to all this than you''re willing to tell me. If it was just your survival at stake, why don''t you just desert? I doubt Dujek would chase you down.


    ¡°Unless, of course, Tayschrenn''s suspicions about Onearm and the Second are grounded in truth-you''ve plans for a mutiny, proclaiming Dujek Emperor and marching off to Genabaris.¡± She paused, looking from one man to the next. ¡°Has Tayschrenn simply anticipated you, thereby fouling up your plans? Am I being pulled into a conspiracy? If I am, then I have to know its eventual goals. I have that right, don''t I?¡±


    Whiskeyjack grunted, then reached for the jug of wine standing on the table. He refilled everyone''s cup.


    Quick Ben let out a long breath, then rubbed the back of his neck.


    ¡°Tattersail,¡± he said quietly, ¡°we''re not going to challenge Tayschrenn directly. That would be suicide. No, we''ll cut away his support, carefully, with precision, then we arrange his: fall from grace. Assuming the Empress is not involved. But we need to know more, we need those answers before we can decide our options. You don''t have to get any more involved than you already are. In fact, it''s safer that way. Hairlock wants you to protect his back, failing every other option. Chances are, that won''t be necessary.¡± He looked up and gave her a strained smile.


    ¡°Leave Tayschrenn to me and Kalam.¡±


    All very well, but you didn''t answer me. Tattersail looked at the other black-skinned man, her eyes narrowing. ¡°You were a Claw once, weren''t you?¡±


    Kalam shrugged.


    ¡°I thought no one could leave-alive.¡±


    He shrugged again.


    The sapper, Fiddler, growled something incomprehensible and rose from his chair. He began pacing, his bandied legs carrying him from one wall to the next, like a fox in a pit. No one paid him any further attention.


    Whiskeyjack handed a cup to Tattersail. ¡°Stay with us in this, Sorceress. Quick Ben doesn''t usually foul things: too badly.¡± He made a sour face. ¡°I admit, I''m not completely convinced either, but I''ve learned to trust him. You can take that for whatever it''s worth.¡±


    Tattersail took a deep draught of wine. She wiped her lips. ¡°Your squad''s heading to Darujhistan tonight. Covert, which means I won''t be able to communicate with you if the situation turns bad.¡±


    ¡°Tayschrenn would detect the usual ways,¡± Quick Ben said. ¡°Hairlock''s our only unbreachable link-you reach us through him, Tattersail.¡±


    Whiskeyjack eyed the sorceress. ¡°Back to Hairlock. You don''t trust him.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    The sergeant fell silent, his gaze fixed on the tabletop. His impassive expression fell away, revealing a war of emotions.

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    He keeps his world bottled up, but the pressure''s building. She wondered what would happen when everything broke loose inside him.


    The two Seven Cities men waited, eyes on their sergeant. Only Fiddler continued his preoccupied pacing. The sapper''s mismatched uniform still carried the stains of the tunnels. Someone else''s blood had splashed thickly on the front of his tunic-as if a friend had died in his arrns. Poorly healed blisters showed under the uneven bristle of his cheeks and jaw, and his lank red hair hung haphazardly beneath his leather helmet.


    A long minute passed, then the sergeant nodded sharply to himself.


    His hard eyes still fixed on the tabletop, he said, ¡°All right, Sorceress. We''ll give you this. Quick Ben, tell her about Sorry.¡±


    Tattersail''s brows rose. She crossed her arms and faced the wizard.


    Quick Ben looked none too pleased. He shifted uneasily and cast a hopeful glance at Kalam, but the big man looked away.


    Whiskeyjack growled, ¡°Now, Wizard.¡±


    Quick Ben met Tattersail''s steady gaze with an almost child-like expression-fear, guilt and chagrin flitted across his fine features. ¡°You remember her?¡±


    She barked a harsh laugh. ¡°Not an easy one to forget. An odd: sense: about her. Dangerous.¡± She thought about revealing what she''d learned during her Fatid with Tayschrenn. Virgin of Death. But something held her back. No, she corrected herself, not just something-I still don''t trust them. ¡°You suspect she''s in the service of someone else?¡±


    The wizard''s face was ashen. He cleared his throat. ¡°She was recruited two years ago in Itko Kan, one of the usual sweeps across the Empire''s heartland.¡±


    Kalam''s voice rumbled beside her, ¡°Something ugly happened there at around the same time. It''s been buried pretty deep, but the Adjunct became involved, and a Claw came in her wake and silenced damn near everyone in the city guard who might have talked. I made use of old sources, scrounged up some odd details.¡±


    ¡°Odd,¡± Quick Ben said, ¡°and revealing, if you know what you''re looking for.¡±


    Tattersail smiled to herself. These two men had a way of talking in tandem. She returned her attention to the wizard, who continued.


    ¡°Seems a company of cavalry hit some hard luck. No survivors. As for what they ran into, it had something to do with-¡±


    ¡°Dogs,¡± Kalam finished without missing a beat.


    The sorceress frowned at the assassin.


    ¡°Put it together,¡± Quick Ben said, drawing her attention once again.


    ¡°Adjunct Lorn is Laseen''s personal mage-killer. Her arrival on the scene suggests sorcery was involved in the massacre. High sorcery.¡± The wizard''s gaze narrowed on Tattersail and he waited.


    She swallowed another mouthful of wine. The Fatid showed me. Dogs and sorcery. Into her mind returned the image of the Rope as she had seen it in the reading. High House Shadow, ruled by Shadowthrone and the Rope, and in their service-''The Seven Hounds of Shadow.¡± She looked to Whiskeyjack but the sergeant''s eyes remained downcast, his expression blank as stone.


    ¡°Good,¡± Quick Ben snapped, somewhat impatiently. ¡°The Hound hunted. That''s our guess, but it''s a good one. The Nineteenth Regiment of the Eighth Cavalry were all killed, even their horses. A league worth of coastline settlements needed repopulating.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡± Tattersail sighed. ¡°But what does this have to do with Sorry?¡±


    The wizard turned away and Kalam spoke. ¡°Hairlock''s going to follow more than just one trail, Sorceress. We''re pretty sure Sorry is somehow involved with House Shadow:¡±


    ¡°It certainly seems,¡± Tattersail said, ¡°that since its arrival in the Deck and the opening of its Warren, Shadow''s path crosses the Empire''s far too often to be accidental. Why should the Warren between Light and Dark display such: obsession with the Malazan Empire?¡±


    Kalam''s gaze was veiled. ¡°Odd, isn''t it? After all, the Warren only appeared following the Emperor''s assassination at Laseen''s hand. Shadowthrone and his companion the Patron of Assassins-Cotillion were unheard of before Kellanved and Dancer''s deaths. It also seems that whatever: disagreement there is between House Shadow and Empres Laseen is, uhm, personal:¡±


    Tattersail closed her eyes. Dammit, it''s that obvious, isn''t it? ¡°Quick Ben,¡± she said, ¡°hasn''t there always been an accessible Warren of Shadow? Rashan, the Warren of Illusions?¡±


    ¡°Rashan is a false Warren, Sorceress. A shadow of what it claims to represent, if you''ll excuse my wording. It is itself an illusion. The gods alone know where it came from or who created it in the first place, or even why. But the true Warren of Shadow has been closed, inaccessible for millennia, until the 1154th year of Burn''s Sleep, nine years ago. The earliest writings of House Shadow seemed to indicate that its throne was occupied by a Tiste Edur-¡±

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    ¡°Tiste Edur?¡± Tattersail interrupted. ¡°Who were they?¡±


    The wizard shrugged. ¡°Cousins of the Tiste And?? I don''t know Sorceress.¡±


    You don''t know? Actually, it seems you know a hell of a lot.


    Quick Ben shrugged to punctuate his last words, then he added, ¡°In any case, we believe Sorry is connected with House Shadow.¡±


    Whiskeyjack startled everyone by surging to his feet. ¡°I''m not convinced,¡± he said, throwing Quick Ben a glare that told Tattersail, the had been countless arguments over this issue. ¡°Sorry likes killing, and having her around is like having spiders down your shirt. I know all that. I can see it and feel it the same as any of you. It doesn''t mean she''s some kind of demon.¡± He turned to face Kalam. ¡°She kills like you do, Kalam. You''ve both got ice in your veins. So what? I look at you and I see a because that''s what men are capable of-I don''t hunt for excuses be I don''t like to think that that''s how nasty we can get. We look at and we see reflections of ourselves. Hood take it, if we don''t like we see.¡±


    He sat down just as abruptly as he had risen, and reached for the jug. When he continued his voice had dropped a notch. ¡°That is my opinion anyway. I''m no expert on demons but I''ve seen enough mortal men and women act like demons, given the need. My squad''s wizard is scared kss by a fifteen-year-old girl. My assassin slips a knife into his hand whenever she''s within twenty paces of him.¡± He met Tattersail''s eyes. ¡°Hairlock has two missions instead of one, and if you think Quick Ben and Kalam are correct in their suspicions you can walk from all this-I know how things go when gods step into the fray.¡± The lines around his mouth tightened momentarily, a replaying of memories. ¡°I know,¡± he whispered. Tattersail slowly let out her breath, which she had been holding the sergeant first rose to his feet. His needs were clear to her now. He wanted Sorry to be just human, just a girl twisted hard by a hard war. Because that was something he understood, something he could with.


    ¡°Back in Seven Cities,¡± she said quietly, ¡°the story goes that Emperor''s First Sword-his commander of his armies-Dassern had accepted a god''s offer. Hood made Dassern his Knight of Death. Then something happened, something went: wrong. And Dassern renounced the title, swore a vow of vengeance against Hood-against Lord of Death himself. All at once other Ascendants started med manipulating events. It all culminated with Dassern''s murder, the Emperor''s assassination, and blood in the streets, temples at sorceries unleashed.¡± She paused, seeing the memories of those reflected in Whiskeyjack''s face. ¡°You were there.¡± And you don''t want it to happen again, here and now. You think if you can deny that serves Shadow your conviction will be enough to shape reality. You to believe that to save your sanity, because there are some things that you can go through only once. Oh, Whiskeyjack, I can''t ease burden. You see, I think Quick Ben and Kalam are right. ¡°If Shadow claimed the girl, the trail will be evident-Hairlock will find it.¡±


    ¡°Do you walk away from this?¡± the sergeant asked.


    Tattersail smiled. ¡°The only death I fear is dying ignorant. No, answeL''Brave words, woman. These people have a way of bringing the best-or maybe the worst-in me.


    Something glittered in Whiskeyjack''s eyes, and he nodded. ¡°So that,¡± he said gruffly. He leaned back. ¡°What''s on your mind, Fiddler,¡± he asked the sapper, who was still pacing behind him.


    ¡°Got a bad feeling,¡± the man muttered. ¡°Something''s wrong. Not her though, but close by. It''s just-¡± He stopped, cocking his head, then sighed, resuming his uneasy walk. ¡°Not sure, not sure.¡±


    Tattersail''s eyes followed the wiry little man. A natural talent. Something working on pure instinct? Very rare. ¡°I think you should listen to him,¡± she said.


    Whiskeyjack gave her a pained look.


    Kalam grinned, a network of fines crinkling around his dark eyes. ¡°Fiddler saved our lives in the tunnel,¡± he explained. ¡°One of his bad feelings.¡±


    Tattersail leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. She asked, ¡°S where is Sorry right now?¡±


    Fiddler whirled, his eyes widening on the sorceress. His mouth opened, then snapped shut again.


    The other three surged to their feet, chairs toppling backwards.


    ¡°We''ve got to get going,¡± Fiddler grated. ¡°There''s a knife out there, and it''s got blood on it.¡±


    Whiskeyjack checked his longsword. ¡°Kalam, out front twenty paces.¡± He faced Tattersail as the assassin slipped out. ¡°We lost her couple of hours ago. Happens a lot between missions.¡± His face look drawn. ¡°There may be no connection with this bloodied knife.¡±

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    A blossoming of power filled the room and Tattersail spun to face Quick Ben. The wizard had accessed his Warren. The sorcery bled strange, swirling flavour that she could not recognize, and it frightened her with its intensity. She met the black man''s shining eyes. ¡°I should know you,¡± she whispered. ¡°There''s not enough true masters in this world for me to not know you. Who are you, Quick Ben?¡±


    Whiskeyjack interjected, ¡°Everyone ready?¡±


    The wizard''s only answer to Tattersail was a shrug. To Whiskeyjack he said, ¡°Ready.¡±


    The sergeant strode to the door. ¡°Take care, Sorceress.¡±


    A moment later they were gone. Tattersail righted the chairs, then refilled her goblet with wine. High House Shadow, and a knife in dark. A new game''s begun, or the old one''s just turned.


    Paran opened his eyes to bright, hot sunlight, but the sky above him was: wrong. He saw no sun; the yellow glare was sharp yet sourceless. Heat gusted down on him with oppressive weight.


    A moaning sound filled the air, not wind because there was no wind. He tried to think, tried to recall his last memories, but the past was blank, torn away, and only fragments remained: a ship''s cabin, the thrust of his dagger as he flung it again and again against a wooden post; a hand with rings, hair of white, grinning sardonically.


    He rolled to one side, seeking the source of the moaning sound. A dozen paces away on the flat plain that was neither grass nor earth rose an arched gateway leading to Nothing. I''ve seen such gates before. None so large, I think, as this one.


    None looking quite like this: this thing. Twisted, upright yet from his position sideways, the gate was not, he realized, made of stone. Bodies, naked human figures. Carved likenesses? No: oh, no. The figures moved, groaned, slowly writhed in place. Flesh blackened, as if stained with peat, eyes closed and mouths open with faint, endless moans.


    Paran climbed to his feet, staggered as a wave of dizziness ran through him, then fell once again to the ground.


    ¡°Something like indecision,¡± a voice said coolly.


    Blinking, Paran rolled on to his back. Above him stood a young man and woman-twins. The man wore loose silk clothing, white and gold; his thin face was pale, expressionless. His twin was wrapped in a shimmering purple cape, her blonde hair casting reddish glints.


    It was the man who''d spoken. He smiled without humour down at Paran. ¡°We''ve long admired your:¡± His eyes widened.


    ¡°Sword,¡± the woman finished, a smirk in her tone.


    ¡°Far more subtle than, say, a coin, don''t you think?¡± The man''s smile turned mocking. ¡°Most,¡± he said, swinging his head to study the ghastly edifice of the gate, ¡°don''t pause here. It''s said there was a cult, once, in the habit of drowning victims in bogs: I imagine Hood finds them aesthetically pleasing.¡±


    ¡°Hardly surprising,¡± the woman drawled, ¡°that Death has no taste.¡±


    Paran tried to sit up, but his limbs refused the command. He dropped his head back, feeling the strange loam yield to its weight. ¡°What has happened?¡± he rasped.


    ¡°You were murdered,¡± the man said lightly.


    Paran closed his eyes. ¡°Why, then, have I not passed through Hood''s Gate, if that is what it is?¡±


    ¡°We''re meddling,¡± the woman said.


    Oponn, the Twins of Chance. And my sword, my untested blade purchased years ago, with a name I chose so capriciously-''What does Oponn want from me?¡±


    ¡°Only this stumbling, ignorant thing you call your life, dear boy. The trouble with Ascendants is that they try to rig every game. Of course, we delight in: uncertainty.¡±


    A distant howl stroked the air.


    ¡°Oops,¡± the man said. ¡°Come to make certain of things, I''d say. We''d best leave, sister. Sorry, Captain, but it seems you''ll pass through that Gate after all.¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± the woman said.


    Her brother rounded on her. ¡°We agreed! No confrontation! Confrontation''s messy. Unpleasant. I despise discomfiting scenes! Besides, the ones who come don''t play fair.¡±


    ¡°Then neither do we,¡± the sister snapped. She turned to the gate, raised her voice, ¡°Lord of Death! We would speak with you! Hood!¡±


    Paran rolled his head, watched as a bent, limping figure emerged fro the Gate. Wearing rags, the figure slowly approached. Paran squinted an old woman, a child with drool on its chin, a deformed young girl, a stunted, broken Trell, a desiccated Tiste And?-


    ¡°Oh, make up your mind!¡± the sister said.


    The apparition cocked a death''s head, the grin of its teeth stained muddy yellow. ¡°You have chosen,¡± it said in quavering voice. Unimaginatively.¡±

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    ¡°You are not Hood.¡± The brother scowled.


    Bones shifted under creaking skin. ¡°The lord is busy.¡±


    ¡°Busy? We do not take kindly to insults,¡± the sister said.


    The apparition cackled, then stopped abruptly. ¡°How unfortunate. A mellifluous, deep-throated laugh would be more to my liking. Ah well, in answer: nor does my lord appreciate your interruption of this natural passage of a soul.¡±


    ¡°Murdered at the hand of a god,¡± the sister said. ¡°That makes him fair game.¡±


    The creature grunted, shuffled close to look down at Paran. The eye sockets glimmered faintly, as if old pearls hid within the shadows. ¡°What Oponn,¡± it asked, as it studied Paran, ¡°do you wish of my lord?¡±


    ¡°Nothing from me,¡± the brother said, turning away.


    ¡°Sister?¡±


    ¡°Even for the gods,¡± she replied, ¡°death awaits, an uncertainty hiding deep within them.¡± She paused. ¡°Make them uncertain.¡±


    The creature cackled again, and again cut it short. ¡°Reciprocity.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± the sister responded. ¡°I''ll look for another, a death premature. Meaningless, even.¡±


    The apparition was silent, then the head creaked in a nod. ¡°In this mortal''s shadow, of course.¡±


    ¡°Agreed.¡±


    ¡°My shadow?¡± Paran asked. ¡°What does that mean, precisely?¡±


    ¡°Much sorrow, alas,¡± the apparition said. ¡°Someone close to you, shall walk through Death''s Gates: in your place.¡±


    ¡°No. Take me instead, I beg of you.¡±


    ¡°Be quiet!¡± snapped the apparition. ¡°Pathos makes me ill.¡±


    The howl reverberated again, much closer this time.


    ¡°We''d best leave,¡± the brother said.


    The apparition opened its jaws as if to laugh, then clacked them shut.


    ¡°No,¡± it muttered, ¡°not again.¡± It hobbled back to the Gate, pausing once to turn back and wave.


    The sister rolled her eyes.


    ¡°Time to leave,¡± the brother repeated uneasily.


    ¡°Yes, yes,¡± his sister said, eyeing Paran.


    The captain sighed, looking away. ¡°No final riddles, if you please.¡±


    When he looked back Oponn was gone. Once again he tried to sit up.


    Once again he failed.


    A new presence arrived, filling the air with tension, a smell of threat.


    Sighing, Paran craned his head around. He saw a pair of Hounds-massive hulking creatures, dark, tongues lolling as they sat, watching him. These are what killed the company in Itko Kan. These are the cursed, horrifying beasts. Both Hounds froze, heads hunching towards him, as if seeing the hatred in his eyes. Paran felt his heart go cold at their avid attention. He was slow to realize he had bared his teeth.


    A stain of shadow separated the two Hounds, the stain vaguely manshaped and translucent. The shadow spoke. ¡°The one Lorn sent. I would have thought someone of: ability. Though, it must be said, you died well.¡±


    ¡°Evidently not,¡± Paran said.


    ¡°Ah, yes,¡± the shadow said, ¡°and so it falls to me to complete the task.


    Busy hours, these.¡±


    Paran thought of Oponn''s conversation with Hood''s servant.


    Uncertainty. If a god fears anything: ¡°The day you die, Shadowthrone,¡± he said quietly, ¡°I will be waiting for you on the other side of that gate. With a smile. Gods can die, can''t they?¡±


    Something crackled in the portalway of the gate. Shadowthrone and the Hounds flinched.


    Paran continued, wondering at his own courage, to bait these Ascendants. Always despised authority, didn''t they? ¡°Half-way between life and death-this promise costs me nothing, you see.¡±


    ¡°Liar, the only Warren that can touch you now is-¡±


    ¡°Death,¡± Paran said. ¡°Of course,¡± he added, ¡°someone else: interceded, and was certain to leave long before you and your too-loud Hounds arrived.¡±


    The King of High House Shadow edged forward. ¡°Who? What does it plan? Who opposes us?¡±


    ¡°Find your own answers, Shadowthrone. You do understand, don''t you, that if you send me on my way now, your: opposition will seek other means? Knowing nothing of who their next tool is, how will you sniff out their next move? You''ll be left darting at shadows.¡±


    ¡°Easier to follow you,¡± the god conceded. ¡°I must speak with my companion-¡±


    ¡°As you like,¡± Paran interrupted. ¡°I wish I could stand.¡±


    The god rasped laughter. ¡°If you stand, you walk. One way only. You have a reprieve-and if Hood comes to gather you to your feet, the guiding hand is his, not ours. Excellent. And if you live, so shall my shadow follow you.¡±

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    Paran grunted. ¡°My shadow''s a crowded place, these days.¡± His eyes fell once again on the Hounds. The creatures watched him still, their eyes faint coals. I''ll have you yet. As if fanned by his silent promise, the red glows sharpened.


    The god resumed speaking, but the world had darkened around Paran, fading, dwindling, until the voice was gone, and with it all awareness but the faint, renewed spinning of a coin.


    An unknown span of time passed in which Paran wandered through memories he had thought long lost-his days as a child clinging to his mother''s dress and taking his first, tottering steps; the nights of storm when he raced down the chill hallway to his parents¡± bedroom, tiny feet slapping on the cold stone; holding the hands of his two sisters as they stood waiting on the hard cobbles of the courtyard-waiting, waiting for someone. The images seemed to lurch sideways in his head. His mother''s dress? No, an old woman in the service of the household. Not his parents¡± bedroom, but those of the servants; and there, in the courtyard with his sisters, they''d stood half the morning, awaiting the arrival of their mother and father, two people they barely knew.


    In his mind scenes replayed themselves, moments of mysterious import, hidden significance, pieces of a puzzle he couldn''t recognize, shaped by hands not his own and with a purpose he couldn''t fathom.


    A tremor of fear travelled the length of his thoughts as he sensed that something-someone-was busy reordering the formative events of his life, turning them on end and casting them into the present new shadows. Somehow, the guiding hand: played. With him, with his life.


    It seemed an odd kind of death. Voices reached him.


    ¡°Aw, hell.¡± A face bent close to Paran''s own, looked into his open blank eyes. The face was Picker''s. ¡°He didn''t stand a chance,¡± she said. Sergeant Antsy spoke from a few feet away. ¡°Nobody in the Ninth would''ve done him like this,¡± he said. ¡°Not right here in the city.¡±


    Picker reached out and touched the chest wound, her fingers surprisingly soft on his torn flesh. ¡°This isn''t Kalam''s work.¡±


    ¡°You all right here?¡± Antsy asked. ¡°I''m going to get Hedge and Mallet, and whoever else has shown up.¡±


    ¡°Go ahead,¡± Picker replied, seeking and finding the second wound, eight inches below the first. ¡°This one came later, right-handed and weak.¡±


    A very odd death indeed, Paran thought. What held him here? Had there been another: place? A place of heat, searing yellow light? And voices, figures faint, indistinct, there beneath the arch of: of crowds strangely held in place, eyes closed, mouths open. A chorus of the dead: Had he gone somewhere only to return to these real voices, these real hands on his flesh? How could he see through the empty glass of his eyes, or feel the woman''s gentle touch on his body? And what of the pain, rising as from a great depth like a leviathan?


    Picker withdrew her hands and rested her elbows on her thighs as she crouched before Paran. ¡°Now, how come you''re still bleeding, Captain? Those knife wounds are at least an hour old.¡±


    The pain reached the surface. Paran felt his gummy lips split. The hinges of his jaw cracked and he drew in a savage gasp. Then screamed.


    Picker bolted backwards, her sword appearing in her hand as if from nowhere as she backed to the alley''s far wall. ¡°Shedenul''s mercy!¡±


    Boots pounded on the cobbles off to her right and her head whipped around. ¡°Healer! The bastard''s alive!¡±


    The third bell after midnight tolled sonorously through the city of Pale, echoing down streets emptied by the curfew. A light rain had begun, casting the night sky with a murky gold hue. In front of the large, rambling estate, two blocks from the old palace, that had become part of the 2nd''s quarters, two marines wrapped in black raincapes stood guard outside the main gate.


    ¡°Damned miserable night, ain''t it?¡± one said, shivering.


    The other shifted his pike to his left shoulder and hawked a mouthful of phlegm into the gutter. ¡°You just guessing, mind,¡± he said, wagging his head. ¡°Any other brilliant insights you feel ready to toss my way, you just speak up, hear?¡±


    ¡°What did I do?¡± the first man demanded, hurt.


    The second soldier stiffened. ¡°Hush, someone coming up the street.¡±


    The guard waited tensely, hands on their weapons. A figure crossed from the opposite side and stepped into the torchlight.


    ¡°Halt,¡± the second guard growled. ¡°Advance slowly, and you''d better have business here.¡±


    The man took a step closer. ¡°Kalam, Bridgeburners, the Ninth,¡± he said quietly.

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    The marines remained wary, but the Bridgeburner kept his distance, his dark face glistening in the rain. ¡°What''s your business here?¡± the second guard asked.


    Kalam grunted and glanced back down the street. ¡°We didn''t expect to be coming back. As for our business, well, it''s better that Tayschrenn don''t know about it. You with me, soldier?¡±


    The marine grinned and spat a second time into the gutter. ¡°Kalam-you''d be Whiskeyjack''s corporal.¡± There was a new tone of respect in his voice. ¡°Whatever you want you''ve got.¡±


    ¡°Damned right,¡± the other soldier growled. ¡°I was at Nathilog, sir. You want us blinded by the rain for the next hour or so, you just say the word.¡±


    ¡°We''re bringing in a body,¡± Kalam said. ¡°But this never happened on your shift.¡±


    ¡°Hood''s Gate, no,¡± the second marine said. ¡°Peaceful as the Seventh Dawn.¡±


    From down the street came the sounds of a number of men approaching. Kalam waved them forward, then slipped inside as the first guard unlocked the gate. ¡°What do you figure they''re up to?¡± he asked, after Kalam had disappeared.


    The other shrugged. ¡°Hope it''ll stick something hard and sharp up Tayschrenn, Hood take the treacherous murderer. And, knowing them Bridgeburners, that''s exactly what they''ll do.¡± He fell silent as the group arrived. Two men carried a third man between them. The second soldier''s eyes widened as he saw the rank of the unconscious man, and the blood staining the front of his baldric. ¡°Oponn''s luck,¡± he hissed to the Bridgeburner nearest him, a man wearing a tarnished leather cap.


    ¡°The pull not the push,¡± he added.


    The Bridgeburner threw him a sharp look. ¡°You see a woman come after us you get out of her way, you hear me?¡±


    ¡°A woman? Who?¡±


    ¡°She''s in the Ninth, and she might be thirsty for blood,¡± the man replied, as he and his comrade dragged the captain through the gate.


    ¡°Forget security,¡± he said, over his shoulder. ¡°Just stay alive if you can.¡±


    The two marines stared at each other after the men had passed. After a moment the first soldier reached to close the gate. The other man stopped him.


    ¡°Leave it open,¡± he muttered. ¡°Let''s find some shadows, close but not too close.¡±


    ¡°Hell of a night,¡± the first marine said.


    ¡°You got a thing about stating the obvious, haven''t you?¡± the other said, as he moved away from the gate.


    The first man shrugged helplessly, then hurried to follow.


    Tattersail stared long and hard at the card centred on the field she had laid down. She had chosen a spiral pattern, working her way through the entire Deck of Dragons and arriving with a final card, which could mark either an apex or an epiphany depending on how it placed itself.


    The spiral had become a pit, a tunnel downward, and at its root, seeming distant and shadow-hazed, waited the image of a Hound. She sensed an immediacy to this reading. High House Shadow had become involved, a challenge to Oponn''s command of the game. Her eyes were drawn to the first card she had placed, at the spiral''s very beginning. The Mason of High House Death held a minor position among the overall rankings, but now the figure etched on the wood seemed to have risen to an eminent placing. Brother to the Soldier of the same House, the Mason''s image was that of a lean, greying man clothed in faded leathers.


    His massive, vein-roped hands held stone-cutting tools and around him rose roughly dressed menhirs. Tattersail found she could make out faint glyphs on the stones, a language unfamiliar to her but reminiscent of Seven Cities¡± script. In the House of Death the Mason was the builder of barrows, the placer of stones, a promise of death not to one or a few but to many. The language on the menhirs delivered a message not intended for her: the Mason had carved those words for himself, and time had worn the edges-even the man himself appeared starkly weathered, his face latticed with cracks, his silvered beard thin and tangled. The role had been assumed by a man who''d once worked in stone, but no longer.


    The sorceress was having difficulty understanding this field. The patterns she saw startled her: it was as if a whole new game had begun, with players stepping on to the scene at every turn. Midway through the spiral was High House Dark''s Knight, its placement counterpoint to both the beginning and the end. As with the last time the Deck had unveiled this draconian figure, something hovered in the inky sky behind the Knight, as elusive as ever, at times seeming like a dark stain on her own eyes.


    The Knight''s sword reached a black, smoky streak towards the Hound at the spiral''s apex, and in this instance she knew its meaning. The future held a clash between the Knight and High House Shadow. The thought both frightened Tattersail and left her feeling relieved-it would be a confrontation. There would be no alliance between the Houses. It was a rare thing to see such a clear and direct link between two Houses: the potential for devastation left her cold with worry. Blood spilled on such a high level of power cast aftershocks down through the world.

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    Inevitably, people would be hurt. And this thought brought her round back to the Mason of High House Death. Tattersail''s heart thudded heavy in her chest. She blinked sweat from her eyes and managed a few deep breaths.


    ¡°Blood,¡± she murmured, ¡°ever flows downward.¡± The Mason''s shaping a barrow-after all, he is Death''s servant-and he will touch me directly.


    That barrow: is it mine? Do I back out? Abandon the Bridgeburners to their fate, flee from Tayschrenn, from the Empire?


    An ancient memory flooded her thoughts, which she had repressed for almost two centuries. The image shook her. Once again she walked the muddy streets of the village where she had been born, a child bearing the Talent, a child who had seen the horsemen of war sweeping down into their sheltered lives. A child who had run away from the knowledge, telling no one, and the night came, a night of screams and death.


    Guilt rose within her, its spectre visage hauntingly familiar. After all these years its face still held the power to shatter her world, making hollow those things she needed solid, rattling her illusion of security with a shame almost two hundred years old.


    The image sank once again into its viscid pool, but it left her changed.


    There would be no running away this time. Her eyes returned one last time to the Hound. The beast''s eyes seemed to burn with yellow fire, boring into her as if seeking to brand her soul.


    She stiffened in her chair as a cold presence washed over her from behind. Slowly, Tattersail. turned.


    ¡°Sorry for not giving you warning,¡± Quick Ben said, emerging from the swirling cloud of his Warren. It held a strange, spicy scent. ¡°Company''s coming,¡± he said, seeming distracted. ¡°I''ve called Hairlock. He comes by Warren.¡±


    Tattersail shivered as a wave of premonition brushed her spine. She faced the Deck again and began to collect the cards.


    ¡°The situation''s just become a lot more complicated,¡± the wizard said behind her.


    The sorceress paused, giving herself a small, tight smile. ¡°Really?¡± she murmured.


    The wind flung rain against Whiskeyjack''s face. Faintly through the dark night the fourth bell clanged. The sergeant pulled his raincape tighter and wearily shifted his stance. The view from the rooftop of the palace''s east turret was mostly obscured by sheets of rain. ¡°You''ve been chewing on something for days,¡± he said, to the man beside him. ¡°Let''s hear it soldier.¡±


    Fiddler wiped the rain from his eyes and squinted into the east. ¡°Not much to tell you, Sarge,¡± he said gruffly. ¡°Just feelings. That sorceress, for one.¡±


    ¡°Tattersail?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± Metal clinked as the sapper unstrapped his sword belt. ¡°Hate this damned thing,¡± he muttered.


    Whiskeyjack watched as the man tossed the belt and scabbarded shortsword to the rooftop''s pebbled surface behind them. ¡°Just don''t forget it like you did last time,¡± the sergeant said, hiding a grin.


    Fiddler winced. ¡°Make one mistake and nobody lets you forget it.¡±


    Whiskeyjack made no reply, though his shoulders shook with laughter.


    ¡°Hood''s Bones,¡± Fiddler went on, ¡°I ain''t no fighter. Not like that, anyway. Was born in an alley in Malaz City, learned the stone-cutting trade breaking into barrows up on the plain behind Mock''s Hold.¡± He glanced up at his sergeant. ¡°You used to be a stone-cutter, too. just like me. Only I''m no fast learner in soldiering like you was. It was the ranks or the mines for me-sometimes I think I went and made the wrong choice.¡±


    Whiskeyjack''s amusement died as a pang followed Fiddler''s words.


    Learn what? he wondered. How to kill people? How to send them off to die in some foreign land? ¡°What''s your feeling on Tattersail?¡± the sergeant asked curtly.


    ¡°Scared,¡± the sapper responded. ¡°She''s got some old demons riding her, is my guess, and they''re closing in.¡±


    Whiskeyjack grunted. ¡°It''s rare you''ll find a mage with a pleasant past,¡± he said. ¡°Story goes she wasn''t recruited, she was on the run. Then she messed up with her first posting.¡±


    ¡°It''s bad timing her going all soft on us now.¡±


    ¡°She''s lost her cadre. She''s been betrayed. Without the Empire, what''s she got to hold on to?¡± What has any of us got?


    ¡°It''s like she''s ready to cry, right on the edge, every single minute. I''m thinking she''s lost her backbone, Sarge. If Tayschrenn puts her under his thumb, she''s liable to squeal.¡±


    ¡°I think you''ve underestimated the sorceress, Fiddler,¡± Whiskeyjack said. ¡°She''s a survivor-and loyal. It''s not common news, but she''s been offered the title of High Mage more than once and she won''t accept. It doesn''t show, but a head-to-head between her and Tayschrenn would be a close thing. She''s a Master of her Warren, and you don''t acquire that with a weak spine.¡±

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    Fiddler whistled softly, leaned his arms on the parapet. ¡°I stand corrected.¡±


    ¡°Anything else, Sapper?¡±


    ¡°Just one,¡± Fiddler replied, deadpan.


    Whiskeyjack stiffened. He knew what that tone implied. ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°Something''s about to be unleashed tonight, Sergeant.¡± Fiddler swung round, his eyes glittering in the darkness. ¡°It''s going to be messy.¡±


    Both men turned at the thumping of the roof''s trap-door. High Fist Dujek Onearm. emerged, the light from the room below a broken beacon rising around him. He cleared the ladder''s last rung and stepped on to the roof. ¡°Give me a hand with this damn door here,¡± he called to the two men.


    They strode over, their boots crunching on the gravel scatter. ¡°Any word on Captain Paran, High Fist?¡± Whiskeyjack asked, as Fiddler crouched over the trap-door and, with a grunt, levered it back into place.


    ¡°None,¡± Dujek said. ¡°He''s disappeared. Then again so has that killer of yours, Kalam.¡±


    Whiskeyjack shook his head. ¡°I know where he is, and where he''s been all night. Hedge and Mallet were the last to see the captain, leaving Knob''s Inn, and then he just seems to vanish. High Fist, we didn''t kill this Captain Paran.¡±


    ¡°Don''t quibble with words,¡± Dujek muttered. ¡°Damn it, Fiddler, is that your sword lying over there? In a puddle?¡±


    Breath hissed between Fiddler''s teeth and he hurried over to the weapon.


    ¡°The man''s a hopeless legend,¡± Dujek said. ¡°Shedenul bless his hide.¡± He paused, seeming to reorder his thoughts. ¡°OK, perish the thought, then. You didn''t kill Paran. So where is he?¡±


    ¡°We''re looking,¡± Whiskeyjack said tonelessly.


    The High Fist sighed. ¡°All right. Understood. You want to know who else might be wanting Paran dead, and that means explaining who sent him. Well, he''s Adjunct Lorn''s man, has been for some time. He''s not Claw, though. He''s a bloody noble''s son from Unta.¡±


    Fiddler had donned his weapon and now stood twenty paces away at the roof''s edge, hands on his hips. A good man. They''re all good, dammit. Whiskeyjack blinked the rain from his eyes. ¡°From the capital? Could be someone in those circles. Nobody likes the old noble families, not even the nobles themselves.¡±


    ¡°It''s possible,¡± Dujek conceded, without much conviction. ¡°In any case, he''s to command your squad, and not for just this mission. The assignment''s permanent.¡±


    Whiskeyjack asked, ¡°Is the Darujhistan infiltration his own idea?¡±


    The High Fist replied, ¡°No, but whose it is is anybody''s guess. Maybe the Adjunct, maybe the Empress herself. So what all that means is we''re sending you in anyway.¡± He scowled briefly. ¡°I''m to relay the final details to you.¡± He faced the sergeant. ¡°Assuming Paran is gone for good.¡±


    ¡°May I speak freely, High Fist?¡±


    Dujek barked a laugh. ¡°You think I don''t know it, Whiskeyjack? The plan stinks. A tactical nightmare¡±


    ¡°I don''t agree.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I think it will do just as it was intended to do,¡± the sergeant said dully, his gaze at first on the lightening eastern horizon, then on the soldier standing at the roof''s edge. Because it is intended to get us all killed.


    The High Fist studied the sergeant''s face, then he said, ¡°Come with me.¡± He led Whiskeyjack over to where Fiddler stood. The sapper gave them a nod. A moment later all three stood looking down on the city.


    Pale''s ill-lit streets wound between the rough blocks of buildings that seemed unwilling to yield the night; behind curtains of rain their squatting silhouettes appeared to shiver before the coming dawn.


    After a while, Dujek said quietly, ¡°Danmed lonely out here, isn''t it?¡±


    Fiddler grunted. ¡°That it is, sir.¡±


    Whiskeyjack closed his eyes. Whatever was happening thousands of leagues away was being played out here. Such was Empire, and it always would be, no matter the place or the people. They were all instruments blind to the hands shaping them. The sergeant had faced that truth long ago. It had galled him then and it galled him now. The only relief, these days, seemed to come with exhaustion.


    ¡°There''s pressure,¡± the High Fist continued slowly, ¡°to disband the Bridgeburners. I''ve already received the order to merge the Second with the Fifth and Sixth. We''ll stand as the Fifth, near full complement. The tides are bringing new waters to our shore, gentlemen, and they smell bitter.¡± He hesitated, then said, ¡°If you and your squad come out of Darujhistan alive, Sergeant, you have my permission just to walk.¡±

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    Whiskeyjack''s head snapped around and Fiddler stiffened.


    Dujek nodded. ¡°You heard me. And as for the rest of the Bridgeburners, well, rest easy that I''ll take care of them.¡± The High Fist glanced eastward, baring his teeth in a humourless grin. ¡°They''re pushing me. But there''s no way in hell they''re going to leave me with no room to manoeuvre. I''ve got ten thousand soldiers I owe a lot to-¡±


    ¡°Excuse me, sir,¡± Fiddler cut in, ¡°there''s ten thousand soldiers saying they''re the ones owing. You say the word and-¡±


    ¡°Quiet,¡± Dujek warned.


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    Whiskeyjack remained silent, his thoughts a whirling maelstrom.


    Desertion. That word rang in his head like a dirge. And Fiddler''s assertion was, he felt, a true one. If High Fist Dujek decided it was time to make a move, the last place Whiskeyjack wanted to be was on the run hundreds of leagues away from the centre of things. He was too close to Dujek and, though they strove to hide it, the history between them ever churned beneath the surface. There''d been a time when Dujek had called him ¡°sir'', and though Whiskeyjack held no grudges he knew that Dujek still had trouble accepting the change of fortunes. If the time came, Whiskeyjack intended to be at Onearm''s side.


    ¡°High Fist,¡± he said at last, aware that both men had been waiting for him to speak, ¡°there''s still a few Bridgeburners left. Fewer hands on the sword. But the sword''s still sharp. It''s not our style to make life easy for those who oppose us-whoever they happen to be. To just quietly walk away:¡± The sergeant sighed. ¡°Well, that''d suit them, wouldn''t it? While there''s a hand on the sword, a single hand, the Bridgeburners won''t back down. It settles on honour, I guess.¡±


    ¡°I hear you,¡± Dujek said. Then he grunted. ¡°Well, here they come.¡±


    Whiskeyjack looked up, followed the High Fist''s gaze into the eastern sky.


    Quick Ben cocked his head, then hissed through his teeth. ¡°The Hounds have caught his trail,¡± he said.


    Kalam cursed vehemently, surging to his feet.


    Sitting on the bed, Tattersail frowned bleary-eyed at the bearish man as he paced, his footsteps on the floorboards barely raising a creak.


    Big as he was, Kalam seemed to glide, giving the scene an almost surreal feel, with the wizard cross-legged and hovering a few inches off the wooden floor in the room''s centre.


    Tattersail realized she was exhausted. Too much was happening, and it was happening all at once. She shook herself mentally and returned her attention to Quick Ben.


    The wizard was linked to Hairlock, and the marionette had been on someone''s-something''s-trail, which led down into the Warren of Shadow. Hairlock had reached the very gates of the Shadow Realm, and then he had gone beyond.


    For a time Quick Ben had lost contact with the puppet, and those long minutes of silence had left everyone''s nerves in tatters. When Hairlock''s presence returned to the wizard he no longer moved alone.


    ¡°He''s coming out,¡± Quick Ben announced. ¡°Shifting Warrens. With Oponn''s luck he''ll lose the Hounds.¡±


    Tattersail winced at the wizard''s casual use of the Fool''s name. With so many currents swirling so close beneath the surface it might well call unwelcome attention to them.


    Weariness hung heavy in the room like bitter incense, redolent with sweat and tension. After his last words Quick Ben had bowed his head.


    Tattersail knew his mind now travelled the Warrens, clinging to Hairlock''s shoulder with an unbreakable grip.


    Kalam''s pacing brought him before the sorceress. He stopped and faced her. ¡°What about Tayschrenn?¡± he asked gruffly, his hands twitching.


    ¡°He knows something has happened. He''s hunting, but the quarry eludes him.¡± She smiled up at the assassin. ¡°I feel him moving cautiously. Very cautiously. For all he knows, the quarry might be a rabbit, or a wolf.¡±


    Kalam''s expression remained grim. ¡°Or a Hound,¡± he muttered, then resumed his pacing.


    Tattersail stared at him. Was this what Hairlock was doing? Drawing a Hound after him? Were they all leading Tayschrerm into a deadly ambush? ¡°I trust not,¡± she said, her eyes hardening on the assassin. ¡°That would be foolish.¡±


    Kalam ignored her, pointedly avoiding her gaze.


    Tattersail rose. ¡°Not foolish. Insane. Do you realize what could be unleashed here? Some believe the Hounds are more ancient than the Shadow Realm itself. But it''s not just them-power draws power. If one Ascendant parts the fabric here and now, others will come, smelling blood. Come the dawn every mortal in this city could be dead.¡±

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    ¡°Easy, lady,¡± Kalam said. ¡°Nobody wants a Hound loosed in the city. I spoke from fear.¡± He still would not look at her.


    The assassin''s admission startled Tattersail. It was shame that kept his eyes from her. Fear was an admission of weakness. ¡°For Hood''s Sake,¡± she sighed, ¡°I''ve been sitting on a pillow for the past two hours.¡±


    That caught him. He stopped, faced her, then laughed.


    It was a deep, smooth laugh, and it pleased her immensely.


    The bedroom door opened and Mallet entered the room, his round face shiny and flushed. The healer glanced briefly at Quick Ben, then walked to Tattersail, where he crouched down in front of her. ¡°By all rights,¡± he said quietly, ¡°Captain Paran should be in an Officer''s Hole with five feet of mud on his pretty face.¡± He nodded to Kalam, who had joined them. ¡°The first wound was fatal, up under his heart. A professional thrust,¡± he added, with a meaningful look at the assassin. ¡°The second would have done him more slowly, but no less certain.¡±


    Kalam grimaced. ¡°So he should be dead. He isn''t. Which means?¡±


    ¡°Intervention,¡± Tattersail answered, a queasy feeling settling in her stomach. Her heavy-lidded gaze fixed on Mallet. ¡°Your Denul skills proved sufficient?¡±


    The healer quirked a smile. ¡°It was easy. I had help.¡± He explained, ¡°The wounds were already closing, the damage already mended. I quickened it some, but that''s all. There''s been a deep trauma, both body and mind. By all rights it should be weeks before he recovers physically. And that alone could be a problem.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Tattersail asked.


    Kalam strode to the table, retrieved a jug of wine and three clay cups.


    He rejoined them and began pouring as Mallet said, ¡°Healing should never be separated between the flesh and the sense of the flesh. It''s hard to explain. The Denul Warrens involve every aspect of healing, since damage, when it occurs, does so on all levels. Shock is the scar that bridges the gap between the body and the mind.¡±


    ¡°All and well,¡± Kalam growled, handing the healer a cup. ¡°What about Paran?¡±


    Mallet took a long draught and wiped at his mouth. ¡°Whatever force interceded cared for nothing but healing the flesh. He may well be on his feet in a day or two, but the shock needs time to heal.¡±


    ¡°You couldn''t do it?¡± Tattersail asked.


    He shook his head. ¡°All such things are intertwined. Whatever interceded severed those connections. How many shocks, traumatic events, has Paran received in his lifetime? Which scar am I to trace? I may well do more damage in my ignorance.¡±


    Tattersail thought about the young man they had dragged into her room an hour earlier. After his scream in the alley, announcing to Picker that he still lived, he had fallen into unconsciousness. All that she knew of Paran was that he was a noble''s son; that he''d come from Unta, and that he was the squad''s new officer on their mission in Darujhistan.


    ¡°In any case,¡± Mallet said, draining his cup, ¡°Hedge is keeping an eye on him. He may come to any minute, but there''s no telling what state his mind will be in.¡± The healer grinned at Kalam. ¡°Hedge has taken a liking to the brat.¡± His grin broadened as the assassin cursed.


    Tattersail raised an eyebrow.


    Seeing her expression, Mallet explained, ¡°Hedge also adopts stray dogs-and other, uh, needy creatures.¡± He glanced at Kalam, who had resumed pacing. ¡°And he can get stubborn about it, too.¡±


    The corporal growled wordlessly.


    Tattersail smiled. The smile faded as her thoughts returned to Captain Paran. ¡°He''s going to be used,¡± she pronounced, flatly. ¡°Like a sword.¡±


    Mallet sobered with her words. ¡°There''s nothing of mercy in the healing, only calculation.¡±


    Quick Ben''s voice startled them all. ¡°The attempt on his life came from Shadow.¡±


    There was silence in the room.


    Tattersail sighed. Before, it had been just a suspicion. She saw Mallet and Kalam exchange glances, and guessed at what passed between them.


    Wherever Sorry was, when she returned to the fold there would be some hard questions. And Tattersail now knew-with certainty-that the girl belonged to Shadow.


    ¡°And that means,¡± Quick Ben resumed blithely, ¡°that whoever interceded on Paran''s behalf is now in direct opposition with the Realm of Shadow.¡± His head turned, dark eyes fixing on the sorceress. ¡°We''ll need to know what Paran knows, whenever he comes around. Only-¡±


    ¡°We won''t be here,¡± Kalam finished.

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    ¡°As if Hairlock wasn''t enough,¡± Tattersail muttered, ¡°now you want me nursing this captain of yours.¡±


    Quick Ben rose, brushing the dust from his leather leggings. ¡°Hairlock will be gone for some time. Those Hounds are stubborn. It may be a while before he can shake them. Or, if the worst comes to the worst,¡± the wizard grinned darkly, ¡°he''ll turn on them and give the Shadow Lord something to think about.¡±


    Kalain said to Mallet, ¡°Gather up Hedge. We''ve got to move.¡±


    Quick Ben''s last comment left Tattersail cold. She grimaced at the ashen taste in her mouth, and watched in silence as the squad prepared to leave. They had a mission ahead of them, one that would take them right into the heart of Darujhistan. That city was the next on the Empire''s list, the last Free City, the continent''s lone gem worthy enough to covet. The squad would infiltrate, prepare the way. They''d be entirely on their own. In a strange way, Tattersail. almost envied the isolation they were about to enter. Almost, but not quite. She feared they would all die.


    The Mason''s Barrow returned to her thoughts as if raised by her own fears. It was, she realized, big enough to hold them all.


    With dawn a blade-thin crimson streak at their backs, the Black Moranth, crouching on the high saddles of their Quorl mounts, glittered like diamonds slick with blood. Whiskeyjack, Fiddler and the High Fist watched the dozen fliers approach. Overhead the rain had lessened, and around the nearby rooftops smudges of grey mist sank down to scuff stone and tile.


    ¡°Where''s your squad, Sergeant?¡± Dujek asked.


    Whiskeylack nodded at Fiddler, who turned and headed back to the trap-door. ¡°They''ll be here,¡± the sergeant answered.


    The sparkling, skin-thin wings of the Quorl, four to each creature, seemed to flip for the briefest of moments, and as one the twelve Moranth descended towards the turret''s rooftop. The sharp whirring sound of the wings was punctuated by the clicked commands of the Moranth riders as they called out to each other. They swept over the heads of the two men with a bare five feet to spare, and without ceremony landed behind them.


    Fiddler had disappeared into the room below. Dujek, his hand on his hip, glared at the Moranth for a moment before grumbling something inaudible and making his way to the trap-door.


    Whiskeyjack walked up to the nearest Moranth. A black chitin visor covered the soldier''s face, and it turned towards the sergeant in silent regard. ¡°There was one among you,¡± Whiskeyjack said, ¡°one-handed. He was five times marked for valour. Does he still live?¡±


    The Black Moranth did not reply.


    The sergeant shrugged and turned his attention to the Quorls. Though he had ridden their backs before, they continued to fascinate him. The winged creatures balanced on four thin legs emerging from beneath the saddles. They waited on the rooftop with wings splayed out and quivering fast enough to create a haze of water droplets suspended around them. Their long, oddly segmented tails jutted straight out behind them, multi-hued and twenty feet in length. Whiskeyjack''s nostrils twitched as the now familiar acrid scent reached him. The nearest Quorl''s enormous, wedge-shaped head was dominated by faceted eyes and articulating mandibles. Two additional limbs-arms, he supposed-were tucked underneath. As he stared the Quorl''s head swivelled until its left eye faced him squarely.


    The sergeant continued staring, wondering what the Quorl was seeing, wondering what it was thinking-if it thought at all. Curious, he gave the Quorl a nod.


    The head cocked, then turned away. Whiskeyjack''s eyes widened to see the tip of the Quorl''s tail curl up briefly. It was the first time he had seen such a motion.


    The alliance between the Moranth and the Empire had changed the face of Imperial war. The Malazan tactics here on Genabackis had twisted into a new shape, one increasingly dependent on transport by air of both soldiers and supplies. Such dependency was dangerous, as far as Whiskeyjack was concerned. We know so little about these Moranth-no one has ever seen their cities in the forest. I can''t even tell their sex.


    Most scholars held that they were true humans, but there was no way to tell-the Moranth collected their own dead from the battlefields. There would be trouble in the Empire if the Moranth ever exercised a thirst for power. From what he had heard, however, the various colour actions among them marked an ever-changing hierarchy, and the rivalry and competition remained at a fanatical pitch.


    High Fist Dujek marched back to Whiskeyjack''s side, his hard expression softened slightly with relief. From the trapdoor, voices rose in argument. ¡°They''ve arrived,¡± Dujek said. ¡°Giving your new recruit an earful about something-and don''t tell me what because I don''t want to know.¡±

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    Whiskeyjack''s momentary relief was shattered by what he only now realized was the secret hope that Sorry had deserted. So his men had found her after all, or she had found them. Either way, his veterans did not sound happy to see her. He couldn''t blame them. 14aa she tried to kill Paran? That seemed to be the suspicion of Quick Ben and Kalam.


    Kalam was doing most of the bellowing, putting more into his role as corporal than was warranted, and Dujek''s searching glance at Whiskeyjack was enough to push him towards the trap-door. He came to the edge and glared down into the room below. Everyone was there, standing in a menacing circle around Sorry, who leaned against the ladder as if bored by the whole proceedings.


    ¡°Quiet!¡± Whiskeyjack roared down. ¡°Check your supplies and get up here, now!¡± He watched them scamper, then gave a satisfied nod and returned to where the High Fist waited.


    Dujek was rubbing the stump of his left arm, frowning distractedly.


    ¡°Damn this weather,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°Mallet could ease that,¡± Whiskeyjack said.


    ¡°Not necessary,¡± Dujek replied. ¡°I''m just getting old.¡± He scratched his jaw. ¡°All of your heavy supplies have been delivered to the drop point. Ready to fly, Sergeant?¡±


    Whiskeyjack eyed the ridged second saddles on the Quorl where they rose up at the back of the thorax like cowls, then nodded sharply.


    They watched as the squad members emerged from the square doorway, each wearing a raincape and burdened with a heavy pack. Fiddler and Hedge were engaged in a whispering argument, the latter casting a glare back at Trotts who''d trodden on his heel. The Barghast had attached his entire collection of charms, trinkets and trophies to various parts of his burly body, looking like a bedecked leadwood tree during the Kanese F&e of the Scorpions. Barghast were known for their odd sense of humour. qUV&%e_n wab, Mtn waiting Quorls. Her satchel was no bigger than a bedroll, and the raincape she wore was more like a cloak-not standard issue-reaching down to her ankles. She''d raised the hood. Despite the dawn''s burgeoning light her face remained in shadow. This is all I have left. Whiskeyjack sighed.


    Dujek asked quietly, ¡°How is she doing, Sergeant?¡±


    ¡°Still breathing,¡± Whiskeyjack replied stonily.


    The High Fist slowly shook his head. ¡°So damn young these days. .¡±


    A memory returned to Whiskeyjack as he considered Dujek''s words.


    On a brief attachment to the 5th, away from the siege at Pale, in the midst of the Mott Campaign, Sorry had joined them from the new troops arriving at Nathilog. He''d watched her put a knife to three local mercenaries they''d taken prisoner in Greydog-ostensibly to glean information but, he recalled with a shudder, it had been nothing like that. Not an act of expedience. He had stared aghast, horrified, as Sorry set to work on their loins. He remembered meeting Kalam''s gaze, and the desperate gesture that sent the black man surging forward, knives bared. Kalam had pushed past Sorry and with three quick motions had laid open the men''s throats. And then came the moment that still twisted Whiskeyjack''s heart. In their last, frothing words, the mercenaries had blessed Kalam.


    Sorry had merely sheathed her weapon, then walked away.


    Though the woman had been with the squad for two years, still his men called her a recruit, and they would probably do so until the day they died. There was a meaning there, and Whiskeyjack understood it well. Recruits were not Bridgeburners. The stripping away of that label was an earned thing, a recognition brought by deeds. Sorry was a recruit because the thought of having her inextricably enfolded within the Bridgeburners burned like a hot knife in the throat of everyone in his squad. And that was something to which the sergeant himself was not immune.


    As all of this flashed through Whiskeyjack''s thoughts, his usually impassive expression failed him. In his head, he replied: Young? No, you can forgive the young, you can answer their simple needs, and you can look in their eyes and find enough there that is recognizable. But her?


    No. Best to avoid those eyes, in which there was nothing that was young-nothing at all.


    ¡°Let''s get you moving,¡± Dujek growled. ¡°Mount everyone up.¡± The High Fist turned to say a few last words to the sergeant, but what he saw in Whiskeyjack''s face killed those words in his throat.


    Two muted thunderclaps sounded in the city as the east spread its crimson cloak skyward, the first report followed scant minutes later by the second. The last of the night''s tears churned down gunnels and swirled along street gutters. Muddy puddles filled potholes, reflecting the thinning clouds overhead with an opaque cast. Among the narrow crooked alleys of Pale''s Krael Quarter, the chill and damp of the night clung to the dark spaces with tenacity. Here, the mould-laden bricks and worn cobbles had swallowed the second thunderclap, leaving no echo to challenge the patter of water droplets. Down one aisle, winding south along the outer wall, loped a dog the size of a mule. Its massive head was slung low forward in front of the broad, bunched muscles of its shoulders. That it had seen a night without rain was marked by its dusty, dry, mottled grey and black fur.

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    The animal''s muzzle was speckled with grey, and its eyes glowed amber.


    The Hound, marked Seventh among Shadowthrone''s servants and called Gear, hunted. The quarry was elusive, cunning, and swift in its flight. Yet Gear felt close. He knew that it was no human he tracked-no mortal man or woman could have escaped his jaws for so long. Even more astonishing, Gear had yet to catch a glimpse of the quarry. But it had trespassed, with impunity it had entered the Shadow Realm, trailing Shadowthrone himself and strumming all the webs Gear''s lord had spun.


    The only answer to such an affront was death.


    Soon, the Hound knew, he would be the hunted one, and if those hunters came in numbers and in strength Gear would be hard pressed to continue his search. There were those within the city who had felt the savage partings of the fabric. And less than a minute after passing through the Warren''s gate Gear''s hackles had stiffened, telling him of nearby magic''s burgeoning. Thus far the Hound had eluded detection, but that would not last.


    He moved silent and cautiously through the maze of shanties and lean-tos crouching against the city wall, ignoring the occasional denizen come out to taste the dawn''s rain-cleansed air. He stepped over the beggars sprawled in his path. Local dogs and ratters gave him one glance then slunk away, ears flattened and tail sweeping the muddy ground.


    As Gear rounded the corner of a sunken stone house the morning breeze brought his head round. He paused, eyes searching down the street opposite him. Mist drifted here and there, and the first carts of the lesser merchants were being pulled out by figures wrapped warm against the chill-the Hound was running out of time.


    Gear''s eyes travelled down the length of the street, focusing on a large, walled estate at the far end. Four soldiers lounged before its gate, watching passers-by with little interest and talking among themselves. Gear''s head lifted, his study finding a shuttered window on the estate''s second floor.


    Anticipation and pleasure surged through the Hound. He had found the trail''s end. Lowering his head again, he moved, his gaze unwavering on the four guards.


    The shift had ended. As the new marines approached they both noticed that the gate was unlocked, ajar.


    ¡°What''s this?¡± one asked, eyeing the two drawn faces of the soldiers who stood against the wall.


    ¡°It''s been that kind of night,¡± the elder responded. ¡°The kind where you don''t ask questions.¡±


    The two new men exchanged glances, then the one who had spoken gave the older man a nod and a grin. ¡°I know the kind. Well, get on, then. Your cots are waiting.¡±


    The older man shifted his pike and seemed to sag. His gaze flicked to his partner, but the young man had his attention on something up the street. ¡°I''d guess it''s too late now,¡± the older man said to the newcomers, meaning it won''t happen and so it don''t matter, but if a woman shows up, a Bridgeburner, you let her through and keep your eyes on the walls.¡±


    ¡°Look at that dog,¡± the younger soldier said.


    ¡°We hear you,¡± said the new man. ¡°Life in the Second-¡±


    ¡°Look at that dog,¡± the young marine repeated.


    The others turned to look up the street. The old guard stared, his eyes widening, then he hissed a curse and fumbled with his pike. None of the others managed even that much before the Hound was upon them.


    Sleepless, Tattersail lay flat on her back on the bed in the outer room.


    Her exhaustion had reached a point where even sleep eluded her so she stared at the ceiling, her thoughts wandering in a disordered review of the past seven days. Despite her initial anger at being embroiled in the Bridgeburners¡± schemes, she had to acknowledge the excitement she felt.


    The desire to collect her possessions and open a Warren, away from the Empire, away from Hairlock''s madness and hunger, away from the field of an endless war, now seemed an ancient one, born of a desperation she no longer felt.


    But it was more than just a renewed sense of humanity that compelled her to stay to see it through-the Bridgeburners, after all, had shown again and again that they could take care of their own affairs. No, she wanted to see Tayschrenn pulled down. It was a truth that frightened her.


    Hunger for vengeance poisoned the soul. And it was likely that she would have to wait a long time to see Tayschrenn''s just demise. She wondered if, having fed on that poison for so long, she might not end up viewing the world with Hairlock''s shining bright mad eyes.


    ¡°Too much,¡± she muttered. ¡°Too much all at once.¡±


    A sound at the door startled her. She sat up. ¡°Oh,¡± she said, scowling, ¡°you''ve returned.¡±

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    ¡°Safe and sound,¡± Hairlock said. ¡°Sorry to disappoint you, ¡°Sail.¡± The marionette waved one tiny, gloved hand and the door behind him closed, its latch falling into place. ¡°Much feared, these Hounds of Shadow,¡± he said, sauntering into the room''s centre and pirouetting once before sitting down, legs splayed and arms hanging limp. He sniggered. ¡°But in the end nothing more than glorified mutts, stupid and slow and sniffing at every tree. Finding naught of sly Hairlock.¡±


    Tattersail leaned back and closed her eyes. ¡°Quick Ben was displeased by your sloppiness.¡±


    ¡°Fool!¡± Hairlock spat. ¡°I leave him to his watching, I leave him convinced that such knowledge has power over me while I go where I choose. He eagerly lays claim to commanding me, a foolishness I give him now, to make my vengeance sweeter.¡±


    She had heard it all before and knew he was working on her, seeking to weaken her resolve. Unfortunately he was succeeding in part, for she felt doubt. Maybe Hairlock was telling the truth: maybe Quick Ben had already lost him, yet remained ignorant of the fact. ¡°Keep your vengeance for the man who stole your legs and then your body,¡± Tattersail said drily. ¡°Tayschrenn still mocks you.¡±


    ¡°He''ll pay first!¡± Hairlock shrieked. Then he hunched down, gripping his sides. ¡°One thing at a time,¡± he whispered.


    From the compound beyond the window came the first screams.


    Tattersail bolted upright as Hairlock shouted: ¡°Found! I mustn''t be seen, woman!¡±


    The marionette leaped to his feet and scurried to his box against the far wall. ¡°Destroy the Hound-you''ve no choice!¡± Scrambling, he opened the box and climbed inside. The lid thudded into place and the nimbus of a protective spell suffused it.


    Tattersail stood by the bed, hesitating. Wood shattered below and the building shook. Men shrieked, weapons clanged. The sorceress pushed herself upright, terror seeping into her limbs like molten lead. Destroy a Hound of Shadow? Heavy thumps rattled the window, as of bodies being flung aside on the floor below, then the thumps reached the foot of the stairs, and the screaming stopped. From the compound she heard soldiers shouting.


    Tattersail drew on her Thyr Warren. Power swept into her and pushed aside the paralysing fear. She straightened, all exhaustion gone, and swung her gaze on the door. Wood creaked, then the timber panel exploded inwards, as if flung from a catapult, and was instantly buffeted aside by Tattersail''s magical shield. The twin impacts shattered it, flinging shards and splinters against the ceiling and walls. Glass broke behind her, the window''s shutters springing open. An icy wind roiled into the room.


    The Hound appeared, its eyes yellow flames, the muscles of its high shoulders taut, rippling under its skin. The creature''s power swept like a wave over Tattersail and she drew a sharp breath. The Hound was old, older than anything she had ever encountered. It paused in the doorway, sniffing the air, blood dripping from its black lips. Then its gaze fixed on the iron-bound box against the wall to Tattersail''s left. The beast stepped forward.


    ¡°No,¡± she said.


    The Hound froze. Its massive head swung slow and measured to her, as if it was noticing her for the first time. Its lips peeled back to reveal the luminescent gleam of canines the length of a man''s thumb.


    Damn you, Hairlock! I need your help! Please!


    A white strip flashed above the Hound''s eyes as the lids snapped back.


    It charged.


    The attack was so swift that Tattersail was unable to raise her hands before the beast was upon her, surging through her outer magic as if it was no more than a brisk wind. Her closest defences, a layering of High Wards, met the Hound''s charge like a stone wall. She felt cracks streak outwards, deep fissures reaching through to her arms and chest with a snapping sound immediately replaced by spurting blood. This, and the Hound''s momentum, flung her back through the air. The wards at her back cushioned the blow as she hit the wall beside the window. Mortar puffed into the air around her, and fragments of crushed brick scattered across the floor.


    The Hound had fallen to its knees. Shaking its head, it regained its feet, snorted, then attacked again.


    Tattersail, her wits rocked by the first charge, weakly lifted one bloodstreaked arm before her face, unable to do anything else.


    As the Hound sprang into the air, jaws open and reaching for her head, a wave of grey light struck the beast in the side, throwing it into the bed to Tattersail''s right. Wood crunched. With a grunt the Hound was up again, wheeling this time to face Hairlock, who stood perched atop his box, glistening with sweat and arms raised. ¡°Oh, yes, Gear,¡± he shrilled. ¡°I''m your quarry!¡±

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    Tattersail slumped, then leaned to one side and vomited on the floor.


    A chaotic Warren swirled in the room, a miasma that churned into her like riotous pestilence. It radiated from Hairlock in visible pulses of grainy grey shot through with black.


    The Hound eyed Hairlock, its sides heaving. It was as if it was trying to dispel the waves of power from its brain. A low growl rumbled in its chest-its first sound. The wide head sagged.


    Tattersail stared, then understanding struck a hammer blow to her chest. ¡°Hound!¡± she screamed. ¡°He''s reaching for your soul! Escape! Get out of here!¡±


    The beast''s growl deepened, but it did not move.


    None of the three noticed the door to the inner bedroom opening off to the left, or the halting appearance of Captain Paran, wrapped in the colourless woollen blanket that covered him down to his ankles. Pale and drawn, the man moved forward, a blank cast to his eyes, which were fixed on the Hound. As the invisible battle of wills continued between Gear and Hairlock, Paran stepped closer.


    The movement caught Tattersail''s eye. She opened her mouth to shout a warning, but Paran moved first. The blanket parted to reveal a longsword, point flashing outward as he extended into a full lunge. The sword sank into Gear''s chest, even as the man leaped back, withdrawing the lunge, twisting the weapon as he pulled it clear. A bellow thundered from Gear''s throat. The Hound staggered back into the ruins of the bed, biting at the wound gushing blood from its side.


    Hairlock screamed in rage and jumped forward, closing in on Gear.


    Tattersail scythed one foot into the puppet''s path, flinging him against the far wall.


    Gear howled. A dark rift opened around him with the sound of tearing burlap. He whirled and plunged into the deepening shadow. The rent closed and was gone, leaving in its wake a rippling of cold air.


    Astonished beyond her pain, Tattersail swung her attention to Captain Paran and the bloodied sword in his hands. ¡°How?¡± she gasped. ¡°How could you have pierced the Hound''s magic? Your sword-¡±


    The captain looked down at it. ¡°Just lucky, I suppose.¡±


    ¡°Oponn!¡± Hairlock hissed, as he regained his feet, and glared at Tattersail. ¡°Hood''s Curse on the Fools! And you, woman, this I''ll not forget. You will pay-I swear it!¡± Tattersail looked away and sighed. A smile touched her lips as words uttered earlier now returned with new, grim meaning. ¡°You''ll be too busy staying alive, Hairlock, to start on me. You''ve given Shadowthrone something to think about. And you''ll live to regret his attention, puppet. Deny that if you dare.¡±


    ¡°I''m returning to my box,¡± Hairlock said, scrambling. ¡°Expect Tayschrenn here in minutes. You''ll say nothing, Sorceress.¡± He clambered inside. ¡°Nothing.¡± The lid slammed shut.


    Tattersail''s smile broadened, the taste of blood in her mouth like an omen, a silent, visible warning to Hairlock of things to come-a warning she knew he couldn''t see. That made the taste almost sweet.


    She tried to move, but it seemed that a chill had come to her limbs.


    Within her mind visions floated, but walls of darkness closed in around them before they could register. She felt herself fading.


    A man''s voice spoke close by, urgent. ¡°What do you hear?¡±


    She frowned, trying to concentrate. Then she smiled. ¡°A spinning coin. I hear a spinning coin.¡±


    BOOK TWO DARUJHISTAN


    What windfall has brushed our senses?


    This rocking thunderhead that scraped the lake''s placid waters and spun a single day''s shadows like a wheel that rolled us from dawn to dusk, while we tottered our tender ways:


    What windlass crackles dire warnings?


    There in the gentle swells that tossed a bobbing cork our way with its fine magenta scent wafting like a panoply of petals that might be ashes in twilight''s crimson smear:


    Rumour Born Fisher (b.?)


    CHAPTER FIVE


    And if this man sees you in his dreams while you rock in the season''s brooding night ¡°neath a tree''s stout branch, and your shadow is hooded above the knotted rope, so will the winds of his passing twitch your stiffened limbs into some semblance of running 907th Year in e Third Millennill Rumour Born Fisher (b.?)


    The Season of Fanderay in the year of the Five Tusks Two thousand years since the birth of Darujbistan, the city


    In his dream the small round man found himself leaving the city of Darujhistan through Two Ox Gate as he headed towards the setting sun. The tattered tails of his faded red waistcoat flapped in his haste.


    He had no idea how far he would have to walk. Already his feet ached.


    There were miseries in the world, and then there was misery. In times of conscience he held the world''s concerns above his own. Fortunately, he reflected, such times were few, and this, he told himself, was not one of them.

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    ¡°Alas, the very same dream propels these many-toed implements beneath these wobbly knees.¡± He sighed. ¡°Ever the same dream.¡± And so it was. He saw before him the sun riding the distant hilltop, a copper disc through woodsmoke haze. His feet carried him down the winding dirt street of Gadrobi Shantytown the shacks and huts on either side crouching in the gathering gloom. Old men wrapped in the dingy yellow rags of lepers squatted over nearby cookfires, falling silent as he passed.


    Similarly clad women stood by the muddy well, pausing in their endless dunking of cats-a bemusing activity, its symbolism lost on the man as he hurried past.


    He crossed Maiten River bridge, passed through the dwindling Gadrobi Herder camps, out on to the open road flanked by vineyard plantations. He lingered here, thinking of the wine these succulent grapes would produce. But dreams carried on with their own momentum, and the thought was but fleeting in its passage.


    He knew his mind was in flight-fleeing the doomed city at his back, fleeing the dark, brooding smudge in the sky above it; but most of all, fleeing all that he knew and all that he was.


    For some, the talent they possessed found its channel through a toss of knucklebones, the reading of heat fractures in scapulae, or the Fatid of the Deck of Dragons. For Kruppe, he had no need of any such affectations. The power of divination was in his head and he could not deny it, no matter how hard he tried. Within the walls of his skull rang the dirge of prophecy, and it echoed through his bones.


    He muttered under his breath. ¡°Of course this is a dream, the flight of sleep. Perhaps, thinks Kruppe, he will in truth escape this time. None could call Kruppe a fool, after all. Fat with sloth and neglect, yes; inclined to excesses, indeed, somewhat clumsy with a bowl of soup, most certainly. But not a fool. Such times are upon us when the wise man must choose. Is it not wisdom to conclude that other lives are of less importance than one''s own? Of course, very wise. Yes, Kruppe is wise.¡±


    He paused to catch his breath. The hills and the sun before him seemed no closer. Such were dreams like the hastening of youth into adulthood, a precipitous course one could never turn back on-but who mentioned youth? Or one youth in particular? ¡°Surely not wise Kruppe! His mind wanders-Kruppe excuses the pun magnanimously-racked by the misery of his soles, which are tired, nay, half worn out from this reckless pace. Blisters have already appeared, no doubt. The foot cries out for a warm, soapy balm. Its companion joins in the chorus. Ah! Such a litany! Such a wail of despair! Cease complaining, dear wings of flight. How far is the sun, anyway? just beyond the hills, Kruppe is certain. No more than that, surely. Yes, as certain as an ever-spinning coin-but who spoke of coins? Kruppe proclaims his innocence!¡± A breeze swept into his dream, down from the north carrying with it the smell of rain. Kruppe began fastening his threadbare coat. He drew in his belly in an effort to secure the last two buttons, but succeeded in clasping only one. ¡°Even in sleep,¡± he groaned, ¡°guilt makes its point.¡±


    He blinked against the wind. ¡°Rain? But the year has just begun! Does it rain in the spring? Kruppe has never before concerned himself with such mundane matters. Perhaps this scent is no more than the lake''s own breath. Yes, indeed. The question is settled.¡± He squinted at the dark ridge of clouds above Lake Azur.


    ¡°Must Kruppe run? Nay, where is his pride? His dignity? Not once have they shown their faces in Kruppe''s dreams. Is there no shelter on yon road? Ah, Kruppe''s feet are flailed, his soles bloodied shreds of throbbing flesh! What''s this?¡±


    Up ahead was a crossroads. A building squatted on a low rise just beyond. Candlelight bled from its shuttered windows.


    Kruppe smiled. ¡°Of course, an inn. Far has the journey been, clear the need for a place of rest and relaxation for the weary traveller. Such as Kruppe, wizened adventurer with more than a few leagues under his belt, not to mention spanning it.¡± He hurried forward.


    A broad, bare-limbed tree marked the crossroads. From one heavy branch something long and wrapped in burlap swung creaking in the wind. Kruppe spared it but the briefest glance. He came to the path and began his ascent.


    ¡°Ill judgement, pronounces Kruppe. Inns for the dusty journeyman should not sit atop hills. The curse of climbing is discovering how great the distance yet to climb. A word to the proprietor shall be necessary.


    ¡°Once sweet ale has soothed the throat, slabs of juicy red meat and broiled yams eased the gullet, and clean, anointed bandages clothed the feet. Such repairs must take precedence over flaws in planning such as Kruppe sees here.¡±


    His monologue fell away, replaced by gasps as he struggled up the path. When he arrived at the door Kruppe was so winded that he did not even so much as look up, merely pushed against the weathered panel until it swung inward with a squeal of rusty hinges. ¡°Alas!¡± he cried, pausing to brush the sleeves of his coat. ¡°A foamy tankard for this:¡±

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    His voice died as he surveyed the array of grimy faces turned to him.


    ¡°Methinks the business is poor,¡± he mumbled. The place was indeed an inn-or it had been, perhaps a century past. ¡°''Tis rain in the night air,¡± he said, to the half-dozen beggars crouched around a thick tallow candle set on the earthen floor.


    One of the fellows nodded. ¡°We will grant you audience, hapless one.¡±


    He waved at a straw mat. ¡°Be seated and entertain our presence.¡±


    Kruppe raised an eyebrow. ¡°Kruppe is graced by your invitation, sire.¡±


    He dipped his head, then strode forward. ¡°But, please, do not think he is bereft of contributions to this honoured gathering.¡± He sat down crosslegged, grunting with the effort, and faced the one who had spoken. ¡°He would break bread with you all.¡± From a sleeve he withdrew a small rye loaf A bread knife appeared in his other hand. ¡°Known to friends an strangers alike is Kruppe, the man now seated before you. Inhabitant of yon glittering Darujhistan, the mystic jewel of Genabackis, the juicy grape ripe for picking.¡± He produced a chunk of goat cheese and smiled broadly at the faces before him. ¡°And this is his dream.¡±


    ¡°So it is,¡± the beggars¡± spokesman said, his lined face crinkling with amusement. ¡°It ever pleases us when we taste your particular flavour, Kruppe of Darujhistan. And always are we pleased at your travelling appetites.¡±


    Kruppe laid down the rye loaf and cut slices. ¡°Kruppe has always considered you mere aspects of himself, a half-dozen Hungers among many, as it were. Yet, for all your needs, you would urge what of your master? That he turn back from his flight, of course. That one''s own skull is too worthy a chamber for deception to reign-and yet Kruppe assures you from long experience that all deceit is born in the mind and there it is nurtured while virtues starve.¡±


    The spokesman accepted a slice of bread and smiled. ¡°Perhaps we are your virtues, then.¡±


    Kruppe paused to study the cheese in his hand. ¡°A thought Kruppe has not considered before now, mingling with the silent observation of mould on this cheese. But alas, the subject is in danger of being lost within the maze of such semantics. Nor can beggars be choosers when it comes to cheese. You have returned once again, and Kruppe knows why, as he has already explained with admirable equanimity.¡±


    ¡°The Coin spins, Kruppe, still spins.¡± The spokesman''s face lost its humour.


    Kruppe sighed. He handed the chunk of goat cheese to the man seated on his right. ¡°Kruppe hears it,¡± he conceded wearily. ¡°He cannot help but hear it. An endless ringing that sings in the head. And for all that Kruppe has seen, for all that he suspects to be, he is just Kruppe, a man who would challenge the gods in their own game.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps we are your Doubts,¡± the spokesman said, ¡°which you have never been afraid to face before, as you do now. Yet even we seek to turn you back, even we demand that you strive for the life of Darujhistan, for the life of your many friends, and for the life of the youth at whos feet the Coin shall fall.¡±


    ¡°It falls this very night,¡± Kruppe said. The six beggars nodded at this though mostly they remained intent on the bread and cheese. ¡°Shall Kruppe accept this challenge, then? What are gods, after all, if not the perfect victims?¡± He smiled, raising his hands and fluttering his fingers ¡°For Kruppe, whose sleight of hand is matched only by his sleight of mind? Perfect victims of confidence, claims Kruppe, ever blinded by arrogance, ever convinced of infallibility. Is it not a wonder that they have survived this long?¡±


    The spokesman nodded and said, around a mouthful of cheese, ¡°Perhaps we are your Gifts, then. Wasting away, as it were.¡±


    ¡°Possibly,¡± Kruppe said, his eyes narrowing. ¡°Yet only one of you speaks.¡±


    The beggar paused to swallow, then he laughed, his eyes dancing in the candlelight. ¡°Perhaps the others have yet to find their voice, Kruppe.


    They await only their master''s command.¡±


    ¡°My,¡± Kruppe sighed, as he prepared to stand, ¡°but Kruppe is full of surprises.¡±


    The spokesman looked up. ¡°You return to Darujhistan?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Kruppe replied, gaining his feet with a heartfelt groan. ¡°He merely stepped out for a breath of night air, so much cleaner beyond the city''s crumbling walls, don''t you agree? Kruppe must needs exercise to hone his already prodigious skills. A walk in his sleep. This night,¡± he said, hitching his thumbs in his belt, ¡°the Coin falls. Kruppe must take his place in the centre of things. He returns to his bed, the night still young.¡±

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    His eyes travelled among the beggars. All seemed to have gained weight, a healthy robust colour to their upturned faces. Kruppe sighed with satisfaction. ¡°It has, pronounces Kruppe, been a pleasure, gentlemen. Next time, however, let us settle on an inn that is not on a hilltop. Agreed?¡±


    The spokesman smiled. ¡°Ah, but, Kruppe, Gifts are not easily attained, nor are Virtues, nor are Doubts easily overcome, and Hungers are ever the impetus to climbing.¡±


    Kruppe''s eyes narrowed on the man. ¡°Kruppe is too clever by far,¡± he muttered.


    He left their company and shut the creaking door softly behind him.


    Returning down the path he came to the crossroads and stopped in front of the burlap-wrapped figure swinging from the branch. Kruppe planted his fists on his hips and studied it. ¡°I know who you are,¡± he said jovially.


    ¡°The final aspect of Kruppe to complete this dream''s array of those faces facing him which are Kruppe''s own. Or so you would proclaim. You are Humility but, as everyone knows, Humility has no place in Kruppe''s life, remember that. So here you will stay.¡± With that he moved his gaze to the great city lighting the eastern sky blue and green. ¡°Ah, this wondrous fiery gem that is Darujhistan is home to Kruppe. And that,¡± he added, as he began to walk, ¡°is as it should be.¡±


    From the wharf sprawled along the shore of the lake, upward along the stepped tiers of the Gadrobi and Daru Districts, among the temple complexes and the Higher Estates, to the summit of Majesty Hill where gathers the city''s Council, the rooftops of Darujhistan presented flat tops, arched gables, coned towers, belfries and platforms crowded in such chaotic profusion as to leave all but the major streets for ever hidden from the sun.


    The torches marking the more frequented alleyways were hollow shafts that gripped pumice stones with fingers of blackened iron. Fed through ancient pitted copper pipes, gas hissed balls of flame around the porous stones, an uneven fire that cast a blue and green light. The gas was drawn from great caverns beneath the city and channelled by massive valves. Attending these works were the Greyfaces, silent men and women who moved like spectres beneath the city''s cobbled streets.


    For nine hundred years the breath of gas had fed at least one of the city''s districts. Though pipes had been sundered by raging tenement fires and gouts of flame reached hundreds of feet into the sky, the Greyfaces had held on, twisting the shackles and driving their invisible dragon to its knees.


    Beneath the rooftops was an underworld forever bathed in a blue glow. Such light marked the major avenues and the oft-frequented, narrow and crooked thoroughways of the markets. In the city, however, over twenty thousand alleys, barely wide enough for a two-wheeled cart, remained in shadow broken only by the occasional torch-bearing citizen By day the rooftops were bright and hot beneath the sun, crowded with the fluttering flags of domestic life drying in the lake wind. By night the stars and moon illuminated a world webbed with empty clothes-lines.


    On this night a figure wove around the hemp ropes and through the faint shadows. Overhead, a sickle moon sliced its way between thin clouds like a god''s scimitar. The figure wore soot-stained cloth wrapped snugly about its torso and limbs, and its face was similarly hidden, leaving only space enough for its eyes, which scanned the nearby rooftops. A black leather harness criss-crossed the figure''s chest, bearing pockets and tight, stiff loops holding tools of the trade: coils of copper wire, iron files, three metal saws each wrapped in oiled parchment, root gum and a squared lump of tallow, a spool of fishing string, a thinbladed dagger and a throwing knife both sheathed under the figure''s left The tips of the thief''s moccasins had been soaked in pitch. As he crossed the flat rooftop he was careful not to lower his full weight on his toes, leaving mostly intact the half-inch strip of sticky tar. He came to the building''s edge and looked down. Three flights below crouched a small garden, faintly lit by four gas lamps set at each corner of a flagstoned patio that encircled a fountain. A purple glow clung to the foliage encroaching on the patio, and glimmered on the water trickling down a series of stone tiers to the fountain''s shallow pool. On a bench beside the fountain sat a guard reclined in sleep, a spear across his knees.


    The D''Arle estate was a popular topic among the higher circles of Darujhistan''s nobility, specifically for the eligibility of the family''s youngest daughter. Many had been the suitors, many the gifts of gems and baubles that now resided in the young maiden''s bedroom.


    While such stories were passed like the sweetest bread in the upper circles, few of the commonry paid attention when the tales trickled down into their company. But there were those who listened carefully indeed, possessive and mute with their thoughts yet oddly eager for details.

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    His gaze on the dozing house guard in the garden below, the mind of Crokus Yourighand picked its way carefully through speculations of what was to come. The key lay in finding out which room among the estate''s score of chambers belonged to the maiden. Crokus did not like guesswork, but he''d found that his thoughts, carried almost entirely on instinct, moved with their own logic when determining these things.


    Top floor most assuredly for the youngest and fairest daughter of the D''Arles. And with a balcony overlooking the garden.


    He turned his attention from the guard to the wall immediately beneath him. Three balconies, but only one, off to the left, was on the third floor. Crokus pulled back from the edge and slipped silently along the roof until he judged he was directly above the balcony, then he approached again and looked down.


    Ten feet, at the most. On either side of the balcony rose ornately carved columns of painted wood. A half-moon arch spanned them an arm''s length down, completing the fancy frame. With a final glance at the house guard, who had not moved, and whose spear did not seem in danger of clattering to the flagstones at any moment, Crokus slowly lowered himself down the wall.


    His moccasins¡± pitch gripped the eaves with snug assurance. There were plenty of handholds, as the carver had cut deep into the hardwood, and sun, rain and wind had weathered the paint. He descended along one of the columns until his feet touched the balcony''s handrail where it abutted the wall. A moment later he crouched on the glazed tiles in the shadow of a wrought-iron table and pillowed chair.


    No light leaked between the shutters of the sliding door. Two soft steps brought him next to it. A moment''s examination identified the style of the latch''s lock. Crokus withdrew a fine-toothed saw and set to work. The sound the tool made was minimal, no more than the shivering of a locust''s leg. A fine tool, rare and probably expensive. Crokus was fortunate in having an uncle who dabbled in alchemy and had need of such magically hardened tools when constructing his bizarre condensing and filtering mechanisms. Better yet, an absent-minded uncle prone to misplacing things.


    Twenty minutes later the saw''s teeth snipped the last restraining bolt.


    He returned the tool to his harness, wiped the sweat from his hands, then nudged the door open.


    Crokus poked his head into the room. In the grey dimness he saw a large four-poster bed a few feet to his left, its headboard against the outer wall. Mosquito netting descended around it, ending in piled heaps on the floor. From within came the even breaths of someone deep in sleep. The room was redolent of expensive perfume, something spicy and probably from Callows.


    Immediately across from him were two doors, one ajar and leading into a bathing chamber; the other a formidable barrier of banded oak sporting an enormous lock. Against the wall to his right stood a clothes cupboard and a makeup stand over which stood three polished silver mirrors hinged together. The centre one rose flush on the wall, the outer two angled on to the tabletop to provide an infinity of admiring visages.


    Crokus turned sideways and edged into the room. He rose slowly and stretched, relieving his muscles of the tension that had held them for the past half-hour. He swung his gaze to the makeup stand, then tiptoed towards it.


    The D''Arle estate was third from the summit of Old K''rul''s Avenue, which climbed the first of the inner city''s hills to a circular court tangled with weeds and irregular, half-buried dolmens. Opposite the court rose K''rul Temple, its ancient stones latticed with cracks and entombed in moss.


    The last monk of the Eldering God had died generations past. The square belfry that rose from the temple''s inner court bore architectural stylings of a people long dead. Four rose marble posts marked the corners of the high platform, still holding aloft a peaked roof with sides that were scaled in green-stained bronze tiles.


    The belfry overlooked a dozen flat roofs, of houses that belonged to gentry. One such structure crowded close to one of the temple''s roughhewn walls, and across its roof lay the heavy shadow of the tower. On this roof crouched an assassin with blood on his hands.


    Talo Krafar of Jurig Denatte''s Clan drew breath in hissing gasps. Sweat trickled muddy streaks down his brow and droplets fell from his broad, crooked nose. His dark eyes were wide as he stared down at his hands, for the blood staining them was his own.


    His mission this night had been as a Roamer, patrolling the city''s rooftops which, except for the occasional thief, were the assassins¡± sole domain, the means by which they travelled the city for the most part undetected. The rooftops provided their routes on missions of unsanctioned political: activities or the continuation of a feud between two Houses, or the punishment for betrayal. The Council ruled by day under public scrutiny; the Guild ruled by night, unseen, leaving no witnesses. It had always been this way, since Darujhistan first rose on the shores of Lake Azur.

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    Talo had been crossing an innocuous rooftop when a crossbow quarrel had driven a hammer blow to his left shoulder. He was flung forward by the concussion, and for an unknown length of time stared dumbfounded at the cloud-wreathed sky overhead, wondering what had happened.


    Finally, as numbness slowly gave way to agony, he twisted on to his side.


    The quarrel had gone entirely through him. It lay on the tarred tiles a few feet away. He rolled until he was beside the bloodied bolt.


    One glance had been enough to confirm that this was no thief''s quarrel. It had come from a heavy weapon-an assassin''s weapon. As this fact worked its way through the confused jumble of Talo''s thoughts, he drew himself up to his knees, and then to his feet. An unsteady jog brought him to the building''s edge.


    Blood streamed from the wound as he climbed down to the unlit alley below. His moccasins resting finally on the slick, rubbish-littered cobblestones, he paused, forcing clarity into his head. An assassin war had begun this night. But which Clan Leader was fool enough to believe he or she could usurp Vorcan''s mastery of the Guild? In any case, he would return to his clan''s nest, if possible. With this in mind, he began to run.


    He had dashed into the shadows of his third alley when ice trickled down his spine. Breath catching, Talo froze. The sensation creeping over him was unmistakable, as certain as instinct: he was being stalked. He glanced down at the blood-soaked front of his shirt and realized that there was no hope of outrunning his hunter. No doubt his stalker had seen him enter the alley and even now had a crossbow trained on its mouth at the far end. At least, that is how xxx. He''d have to turn the game round, set a trap. And for that he''d need ¡ª mouth he had just entered the rooftops. Talo turned back to the alley and studied the nearby buildings. Two streets to his right squatted the K''rul Temple. His gaze fixed on the dark edifice that was the belfry.


    There.


    The climb left him close to unconsciousness, and he now crouched in the belfry''s shadow one building away from the temple. His exertions had pumped blood from his shoulder in horrifying volume. He''d seen blood before, of course, but never so much of his own at one time. He wondered for the first time seriously if he would die. A numbness spread in his arms and legs, and he knew if he remained where he was any longer he might never leave. With a soft grunt he pushed himself upright.


    The jump down to the temple roof was only a matter of a few yards, but the impact jarred him to his knees.


    Gasping, Talo drove thoughts of failure from his mind. All that was left was to climb down the temple''s inner wall to the court, then ascend the belfry''s spiral staircase. Two tasks. Two simple tasks. And, once within the belfry''s shadows, he could command every nearby rooftop.


    And the stalker would come to him. Talo paused to check his own crossbow, which was strapped to his back, and the three quarrels sheathed on his left thigh.


    He glared into the darkness around him. ¡°Whoever you are, you bastard,¡± he whispered, ¡°I want you.¡±


    He began to crawl across the temple roof.


    The lock on the jewel box had proved simple to pick. Ten minutes after entering the room Crokus had swept it clean. A small fortune''s worth of gold, gem- and pearl-studded jewellery now resided in a small leather bag tied to his belt.


    He squatted by the dressing-table and held in his hands his final prize.


    This, I''ll keep. The item was a sky-blue silk turban with gold-braided tassels, no doubt intended for the, upcoming Rite. He ended his long minute of admiration, tucked the turban under an arm, then rose. His gaze lingered on the bed across from him, and he moved closer.


    The netting obscured the form half buried beneath soft blankets.


    Another step brought him to the bedframe''s edge. From the waist up the girl was naked. An embarrassed flush rose in the thief''s cheeks, but he did not look away. Queen of Dreams, but she''s lovely! At seventeen years of age, Crokus had seen enough whores and dancers not to tremble agape at a woman''s exposed virtues; even still his gaze lingered. Then, grimacing, he headed back to the balcony door. A moment later he was outside. He drew a deep breath of the cool night air to clear his head. In the blanket of darkness overhead a handful of stars shone sufficiently bright to pierce the gauze of clouds. Not clouds, but smoke, drifting across the lake from the north. The word of Pale''s fall to the Malazan Empire had been on the tongues of everyone for the past two days.


    And we''re next.


    His uncle had told him that the Council still frantically proclaimed neutrality, desperate in their efforts to separate the city from the now destroyed Free Cities alliance. But the Malazans didn''t seem to be listening. And why should they? Uncle Mammot had asked. Darujhistan''s army is a contemptible handful of noble sons who do nothing but strut back and forth on Whore Street, gripping their jewelled swords:

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    Crokus climbed to the estate''s roof and padded silently across its tiles.


    Another house, of equal height, was before him, its flat top less than six feet away. The thief paused at the edge and looked down to the alley thirty feet below, seeing only a pool of darkness, then he jumped to land softly on the next roof.


    He began to cross it. Off to his left rose the stark silhouette of K''rul''s belfry tower, gnarled like a bony fist thrust into the night sky. Crokus brought one hand down to the leather bag tied to his belt, probing with his fingers the knot and the condition of the drawstrings. Satisfied that all was secure, he checked the turban tucked beneath a strap of his harness. All was well. He continued his soundless way across the rooftop. A fine night indeed. Crokus smiled to himself.


    Talo Krafar opened his eyes. Dazed and uncomprehending, he stared about himself. Where was he? Why did he feel so weak? Then memory returned, and a groan slipped from his lips. He had blacked out, leaning here against this marble pillar. But what had awoken him? Stiffening, the assassin pushed himself up on the dusty column and scanned the rooftops below. There! A figure moved across the flat top of a building less that fifty feet away.


    Now, you bastard. Now. He raised his crossbow, anchoring one elbow against the pillar. He had already cocked his weapon, though he had no memory of having done so. At this distance there was no chance of missing. In seconds his stalker would be dead. Talo bared his teeth and took careful aim.


    Crokus was half-way across the rooftop, one hand tracing the silk finery of the turban snug over his heart, when a coin clattered loudly at his feet.


    Instinctively he pounced down and trapped it beneath both hands.


    Something hissed through the air immediately above his head, and he looked up, startled, then ducked again as a ceramic tile shattered twenty feet away.


    He moaned with sudden realization. As he clambered to his feet one hand absently collected the coin and tucked it under his belt.


    Talo cursed in disbelief. He lowered the crossbow and stared down at the figure, dumbfounded, until his instinct for danger asserted itself one last time. Whirling, he caught a blurred glimpse of a cloaked figure standing before him, arms raised. Then the arms flashed down and two long, grooved daggers slid into Talo''s chest. With a final baffled grunt, the assassin died.


    A grating sound reached Crokus''s ears and he spun to face the belfry. A black shape tumbled from between the pillars and landed with a thump fifteen feet away. Moments later a crossbow clanged down beside it.


    Crokus looked up to see a silhouette framed between the pillars, glittering long-bladed knives in its hands. The figure seemed to be studying him.


    ¡°Oh, Mowri,¡± the thief prayed, then turned and ran.


    In the K''rul belfry the killer''s oddly shaped eyes watched the thief scamper towards the rooftop''s far side. With a slight lifting of its head the killer sniffed the air, then frowned. A burst of power had just frayed the fabric of night, like a finger poking through rotted cloth. And, through the rent, something had come.


    The thief reached the far edge and disappeared over it. The killer hissed a spell in a language older than the belfry and the temple, a language that had not been heard in this land for millennia, then sprang from the tower. Enwreathed in magic, the killer''s descent to the rooftop below was slow, controlled. The landing came as a light brush on the tiles.


    A second figure appeared, its cloak spread like a black wing, from the above darkness to join the first. Then a third, also descending in silence, landed on the rooftop. They spoke briefly. The last to arrive muttered a command, then moved off. The remaining two exchanged a few last words, then set out on the thief''s trail, the second one preparing its crossbow.


    Ten minutes later Crokus leaned against the sloped roof of a merchant''s house to regain his breath. He''d seen no one, heard nothing. Either the killer hadn''t pursued or he had managed to lose him. Or her. In his mind returned his single vision of the figure as it stood in the belfry. No, unlikely that it could be a woman-too tall, perhaps six and a half feet, and thin.


    A tremor ran through the young thief. What had he stumbled on? An assassin had almost skewered him, and then had himself been murdeied.


    A Guild war? If so, it made the rooftops a risky place to be.


    Warily, Crokus rose and looked about him.


    A tile further along the roof clattered down the sloped side. Crokus whirled to see the killer dashing towards him. One look at the two daggers flashing in the air and the thief darted to the roof''s edge and leaped out into darkness.


    The building across from him was too distant, but Crokus had chosen his resting place on familiar territory. As he fell into the shadows he reached out grasping hands. The guidewire caught his arms near the elbows and he scrambled frantically for a secure grip, then hung dangling twenty feet above the alley.

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    While most of the clothes-lines spanning the city''s streets were just thin, unreliable hemp, among them were wrapped wires. Placed by thieves generations past they were securely bolted to the walls. By day Monkey Road, as the thieves called it, looked no different from any other line, festooned with undergarments and sheets. With the sun''s setting, however, came its true purpose.


    With hands burned raw Crokus made his way along the wire towards the far wall. He chanced to glance up then, and froze. On the roof''s edge before him stood a second hunter, taking careful aim with a heavy, antique crossbow.


    Crokus let go of the wire. A quarrel whizzed directly above his head as he fell. From behind and below a window shattered. His drop was cut short by the first of a series of clothes-lines, tugging his limbs and twitching him about before snapping. After what seemed an eternity of bone-wrenching jerks and the whip of cord slicing through his clothes and flaying his skin, Crokus struck the alley''s cobblestones, straightlegged and leaning far forward. His knees buckled. He dipped a shoulder enough to earn a slightly cushioned roll, brought up short when his head struck a wall.


    Dazed and groaning, Crokus pushed himself upright. He looked up.


    Through vision blurred with pain he saw a figure descending in seeming slow-motion immediately overhead. The thief''s eyes widened. Sorcery!


    He turned and staggered dizzily before managing a limping run down the alleyway. He reached the corner and, briefly lit by gaslight, hurried across a wide street then entered the mouth of another alley. Once in its shadow, Crokus stopped. Cautiously, he poked his head out from the wall''s edge for a look. A quarrel struck the brick beside his face. He jumped back into the alley, spun and sprinted.


    Above him Crokus heard the flapping of a cloak. A burning spasm in his left hip made him stumble. Another quarrel whipped past his shoulder and skidded on the cobblestones. The spasm passed as quickly as it had come and he staggered on. Ahead, at the alley-mouth, was the lit doorway of a tenement. An old woman sat on the stone steps puffing on a pipe. Her eyes glittered as she watched the thief approach. As Crokus bounded past her and up the steps she rapped the pipe against the sole of her shoe. Sparks rained on to the cobbles.


    Crokus pushed open the door and plunged inside. He paused. A narrow, poorly lit hallway was before him, a staircase crowded with children at the far end. His eyes on the stairs, he jogged up the hall. From the curtained doorways on either side came a cacophony of noise: voices raised in argument, wailing babies, the clatter of cookware.


    ¡°Don''t you people ever sleep?¡± Crokus shouted as he ran. The children on the stairs scampered out of his way and he took the warped steps two at a time. On the top floor he stopped at a door a third of the way down the hall, this one solid oak. He pushed it open and entered the room within.


    An old man sitting behind a massive desk looked up briefly from his work, then resumed his frantic scrawl on a sheet of crinkled parchment.


    ¡°Evening, Crokus,¡± he said distractedly.


    ¡°And to you, Uncle,¡± Crokus gasped.


    On Uncle Mammot''s shoulder squatted a small winged monkey, whose glittering, half-mad gaze followed the young thief''s dart across the room to the window opposite the door. Flinging open the shutters Crokus climbed up on to the sill. Below was a squalid, overgrown garden mostly lost in shadows. A lone, gnarled tree rose upward. He eyed the branches across from him, then gripped the window-frame and leaned back. He drew a deep breath, then propelled himself forward.


    As he passed through the intervening gap he heard a surprised grunt come from directly above, then a wild scratching against stone. An instant later someone crashed down into the garden below. Cats shrieked and a voice groaned out a single pained curse.


    Crokus clung to a bowing branch. He timed each bounce of the resilient wood then extended his legs as the branch pulled him up. His moccasins landed on a window-sill and held. Grunting, he swung himself on to it and let go of the branch. He punched at the wooden shutters.


    They sprang inward and Crokus followed head first, down on to the floor and rolling to his feet.


    He heard movement from another room in the apartment. Scrambling to his feet, he bolted for the hallway door, flung it open and slipped out just as a hoarse voice shouted a curse behind him. Crokus ran to the far end of the passage, where a ladder led to a hatch on the ceiling.


    Soon he was on the roof. He crouched in the darkness and tried to catch his breath. The burning sensation returned to his hip. He must have damaged something in his fall from the guidewire. He reached down to massage the spot and found his fingers pressing something hard, round and hot. The coin! Crokus reached for it.

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    Just then he heard a sudden whistling sound, and chips of stone spattered him. Ducking, he saw a quarrel, its shaft split by the impact, bounce once on the rooftop then plummet over the edge, spinning wildly.


    A soft moan escaped his lips and he scrambled across the roof to the far side. Without pause he jumped. Ten feet down was an awning, sagged and stretched out of shape, on which he landed. The iron spars framing the canvas dipped but held. From there it was a quick climb down to the street.


    Crokus jogged to the corner, where an old building squatted with yellow light bleeding through dirty windows. A wooden sign hung above the door, bearing the faded image of a bird dead on its back, feet jutting upward. The thief bounded up the steps and pushed open the door.


    A rush of light and noise washed over him like balm. He slammed the door behind him and leaned against it. He closed his eyes, pulling the disguising cloth from his face and head, revealing shoulder-length black hair-now dripping with sweat-and regular features surrounding light blue eyes.


    As he reached up to wipe his brow a mug was pushed into his hand.


    Crokus opened his eyes to see Sulty hurry by, carrying on one hand a tray loaded with pewter tankards. She glanced at him over her shoulder and grinned. ¡°Rough night, Crokus?¡±


    He stared at her, then said, ¡°No, nothing special.¡± He raised the mug to his lips and drank deep.


    Across the street from the ramshackle Phoenix Inn, a hunter stood at the roof''s edge and studied the door through which the thief had just passed.


    The crossbow lay cradled in its arms.


    The second hunter arrived, sheathing two long-knives as it came alongside the first.


    ¡°What happened to you?¡± the first hunter asked quietly, in its native tongue.


    ¡°Had an argument with a cat.¡±


    The two were silent for a moment, then the first hunter sighed worriedly. ¡°All in all, too awry to be natural.¡±


    The other agreed. ¡°You felt the parting too, then.¡±


    ¡°An Ascendant: meddled. Too cautious to show itself fully, however.¡±


    ¡°Unfortunate. It''s been years since I last killed an Ascendant.¡±


    They began to check their weapons. The first hunter loaded the crossbow and slipped four extra quarrels in its belt. The second hunter removed each long-knife and cleaned it carefully of sweat and grime.


    They heard someone approach from behind, and turned to see their commander.


    ¡°He''s in the inn,¡± the second hunter said.


    ¡°We''ll leave no witnesses to this secret war with the Guild,¡± the first added.


    The commander glanced at the door of the Phoenix Inn. Then, to the hunters, she said, ¡°No. The wagging tongue of a witness might be useful to our efforts.¡±


    ¡°The runt had help,¡± the first hunter said meaningfully.


    The commander shook her head. ¡°We return to the fold.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡±


    The two hunters put away their weapons. The first glanced back at the inn and asked, ¡°Who protected him, do you think?¡±


    The second hunter snarled. ¡°Someone with a sense of humour.¡±


    CHAPTER SIX


    There is a cabal breathing deeper than the bellows drawing up the emerald fires beneath rain-glistened cobbles, while you may hear the groaning from the caverns below, the whisper of sorcery is less than the dying sigh of a thief stumbling unwilling into Darujhistan''s secret web Cabal (fragment)


    Puddle (b. 1122)


    The splayed tip of her right wing brushed the scarred black rock as Crone climbed the whistling updraughts of Moon''s Spawn. From the pocked caves and starlit ledges her restless brothers and sisters called out to her as she passed. ¡°Do we fly?¡± they asked. But Crone made no reply. Her glittering black eyes were fixed on heaven''s vault. Her enormous wings beat a thundering refrain of taut, unrelenting power. She had no time for the nervous cackling of the younglings; no time for answering their simplistic needs with the wisdom her thousand years of life had earned her.


    This night, Crone flew for her lord.


    As she rose above the shattered peaks of the Moon''s crest a high wind swept her wings, rasping dry and cold along her oily feathers. Around her, thin wisps of shredded smoke rode the currents of night air like lost spirits. Crone circled once, her sharp gaze catching the glimmer of the few remaining fires among the crags below, then she dipped a wing and sailed out on the wind''s tide as it rolled northward to Lake Azur.


    The featureless expanse of the Dwelling Plain was beneath her, the grass sweeping in grey waves unbroken by house or hill. Directly ahead lay the glittering jewelled cloak that was Darujhistan, casting into the sky a sapphire glow. As she neared the city her unnaturally acute vision detected, here and there among the estates crowding the upper tier, the aquamarine emanation of sorcery.

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    Crone cackled aloud. Magic was ambrosia to Great Ravens. They were drawn to it by the scent of blood and power, and within its aura their lifespans lengthened into centuries. Its musk had other effects as well. Crone cackled again. Her gaze fixed on one particular estate, around which glowed a profusion of protective sorcery. Her lord had imparted to her a thorough description of the magical signature she must find, and now she had found it. Crooking her wings, she sank gracefully towards the estate.


    Inland from Gadrobi District''s harbour the land rose in four tiers climbing eastward. Ramped cobblestone streets, worn to a polished mosaic, marked Gadrobi District''s Trade Streets, five in all, which were the only routes through Marsh District and into the next tier, Lakefront District.


    Beyond Lakefront''s crooked aisles twelve wooden gates opened on to Daru District, and from Daru another twelve gates-these ones manned by the City Watch and barred by iron portcullis-connected the lower and upper cities.


    On the fourth and highest tier brooded the estates of Darujhistan''s nobility as well as its publicly known sorcerers. At the intersection of Old King''s Walk and View Street rose a flat-topped hill on which sat Majesty Hall, where each day the Council gathered. A narrow park encircled the hill, with sand-strewn pathways winding among centuries-old acacias. At the park''s entrance, near High Gallows Hill, stood a massive rough-hewn stone gate, the last-surviving remnant of the castle that once commanded Majesty Hill.


    The days of kings had long since ended in Darujhistan. The gate, known as Despot''s Barbican, stood stark and unadorned, its lattice of cracks a fading script of past tyranny.


    In the shadow of the Barbican''s single massive lintel stone stood two men. One, his shoulder against the pitted rock, wore a ringed hauberk and a boiled leather cap bearing the City Watch insignia. Scabbarded to his belt was a plain shortsword, its grip of wrapped leather worn smooth. A pike leaned against one shoulder. He was nearing the end of his midnight guard duty and patiently awaited the arrival of the man who would officially relieve him. The guard''s eyes flicked on occasion to the second man, with whom he had shared this place many another night over the past year. The glances he cast at the well-dressed gentleman were surreptitious, empty of expression.


    As with every other time Councilman Turban Orr came to the gate at this dead hour of night, the nobleman had scarcely deemed the guard worthy of notice; nor had he ever given an indication that he recognized the guard as being the same man each time.


    Turban Orr seemed a man short on patience, forever pacing and fretting, pausing every now and then to adjust his jewelled burgundy cloak. The councilman''s polished boots clicked as he paced, throwing a soft echo under the Barbican. From the shadow the guard''s gaze caught Orr''s gloved hand where it rested on the silver pommel of a duelling sword, noting the index finger tapping in time with the boot clicks.


    At the early part of his watch, long before the arrival of the councilman, the guard would walk slowly around the Barbican, reaching out on occasion to touch the ancient, grim stonework. Six years¡± worth of night watch at this gate had bred a close relationship between the man and the rough-cut basalt: he knew every crack, every chisel scar; he knew where the fittings had weakened, where time and the elements had squeezed mortar from between the stones then gnawed it to dust. And he also knew that its apparent weaknesses were but a deception. The Barbican, and all it stood for, patiently waited still, a spectre of the past, hungry to be born yet again.


    And that, the guard had long ago vowed, he would never let it do-if such things were within his power. Despot''s Barbican provided the man with every reason he needed to be what he was: Circle Breaker, a spy.


    Both he and the councilman awaited the arrival of the other; the one who never failed to appear. Turban Orr would growl his usual complaint, disgusted with tardiness; then he would grasp the other''s arm and they would walk side by side beneath the Barbican''s brooding lintel stone. And, with eyes long accustomed to darkness, the guard would mark the other''s face, burning it indelibly in the superb memory hidden behind expressionless, unmemorable features.


    By the time the two Council members returned from their walk, the guard would have been relieved and well on his way to delivering a message according to his master''s instructions. If Circle Breaker''s luck held, he might survive the civil war into which Darujhistan, he felt, was about to plunge-and never mind the Malazan nemesis. One nightmare at a time, he often told himself, particularly on nights like these, when Despot''s Barbican seemed to breathe its promise of resurrection with mocking certainty.


    ¡°As this may be in your interest,¡± High Alchemist Baruk read aloud from the parchment note in his plump hands. Always the same opening line, hinting of disquieting knowledge. An hour earlier his servant Roald had delivered the note, which, like all the others that had come to him over the past year, had been found tucked into one of the ornamental murder holes in the estate''s rear postern gate.

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    Recognizing the pattern, Baruk had immediately read the missive then dispatched his messengers out into the city. Such news demanded action, and he was one of the few secret powers within Darujhistan capable of dealing with it.


    Now he sat in a plush chair in his study, musing. His deceptively sleepy gaze flicked down again to the words on the parchment. ¡°Councilman Turban Orr walks in the garden with Councilman Feder. I remain known only as Circle Breaker, a servant of the Eel, whose interests continue to coincide with your own.¡± Once again Baruk felt temptation. With his talents it would be a small thing to discover the writer''s identity-though not the Eel''s, of course: that was an identity sought by many, all to no avail-but, as always, something held him back.


    He shifted his bulk on the chair and sighed. ¡°Very well, Circle Breaker, I''ll continue to honour you, though clearly you know more of me than I of you, and fortunate it is indeed that your master''s interests coincide with my own. Still.¡± He frowned, thinking about the Eel, about the man''s-or woman''s-undisclosed interests. He knew enough to recognize that too many forces had come into play-a gathering of Ascendant powers was a fell thing. To continue to step unseen in defence of the city was becoming increasingly difficult. So, the question came yet again: Was this Eel using him as well?


    Oddly enough, he did not feel too concerned about this possibility. So much vital information had been passed into his hands already.


    He folded the parchment carefully and muttered a simple cantrip. The note vanished with a small plop of displaced air, joining the others in a safe place.


    Baruk closed his eyes. Behind him the broad window shutters rattled in a gust of wind, then settled again. A moment later there came a sharp rap against the smoky glass. Baruk sat upright, his eyes startled open. A second rap, louder than the first, brought him round with a swift alacrity surprising for one of his girth. On his feet, he faced the window.


    Something crouched on the ledge, visible through the shutters only as a bulky black shape.


    Baruk frowned. Impossible. Nothing could penetrate his magic barriers undetected. The alchemist gestured with one hand, and the shutters sprang open. Behind the glass waited a Great Raven. Its head snapped to view Baruk with one eye, then the other. It pushed boldly against the thin glass with its massive, ridged chest. The pane bulged, then shattered.


    His Warren fully open, Baruk raised both hands, a savage spell on his lips.


    ¡°Don''t waste your breath!¡± the Raven rasped, swelling its chest and ruffling its mangy feathers to rid itself of glass shards. It cocked its head.


    ¡°You''ve called your guards,¡± it observed. ¡°No need, Wizard.¡± A single hop brought the enormous bird on to the floor. ¡°I bring words you will value. Have you anything to eat?¡±


    Baruk studied the creature. ¡°I''m not in the habit of inviting Great Ravens into my home,¡± he said. ¡°You are no disguised demon, either.¡±


    ¡°Of course not. I''m named Crone.¡± Her head bobbed mockingly. ¡°At your pleasure, Lord.¡±


    Baruk hesitated, considering. After a moment he sighed and said, ¡°Very well. I''ve returned my guards to their posts. My servant Roald comes with the leavings of supper, if that''s agreeable to you.¡±


    ¡°Excellent!¡± Crone waddled across the floor to settle on the rug before the fireplace. ¡°There, Lord. Now, a calming crystal of wine, don''t you think?¡±


    ¡°Who has sent you, Crone?¡± Baruk asked, walking over to the decanter on his desk. Normally he did not drink after sunset, for night was when he worked, but he had to acknowledge Crone''s perceptiveness. A calming balm was exactly what he needed.


    The Great Raven hesitated slightly before answering, ¡°The Lord of Moon''s Spawn.¡±


    Baruk paused in the filling of his glass. ¡°I see,¡± he said quietly, struggling to control his surging heart. He set the decanter down slowly and, with great concentration, raised the goblet to his lips. The liquid was cool on his tongue, and its passage down his throat indeed calmed him. ¡°Well, then,¡± he said, turning, ¡°what would your lord have of a peaceful alchemist?¡±


    Crone''s chipped beak opened in what Baruk realized was silent laughter. The bird fixed a single glittering eye on him. ¡°Your answer rode the very breath of your words, Lord. Peace. My lord wishes to speak with you. He wishes to come here, this very night. Within the hour.¡±


    ¡°And you''re to await my answer.¡±


    ¡°Only if you decide quickly, Lord. I have things to do, after all. I''m more than a simple message-bearer. Those who know wisdom when they hear it hold me dear. I am Crone, eldest of the Moon''s Great Ravens, whose eyes have looked upon a thousand years of human folly. Hence my tattered coat and broken beak as evidence of your indiscriminate destruction. I am but a winged witness to your eternal madness.¡±

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    In quiet mockery Baruk said, ¡°More than just a witness. It''s well known how you and your kind feasted on the plain outside Pale''s walls.¡±


    ¡°Yet we were not the first to feast on flesh and blood, Lord, lest you forget.¡±


    Baruk turned away. ¡°Far be it for me to defend my species,¡± he muttered, more to himself than to Crone, whose words had stung him. His eyes fell on the shards of glass littering the floor. He voiced a mending spell and watched as they reassembled. ¡°I will speak with your lord, Crone.¡± He nodded as the glass pane rose from the floor and returned to the window-frame. ¡°Tell me, will he as easily disdain my wards as you did?¡±


    ¡°My lord is possessed of honour and courtesy,¡± Crone replied ambiguously. ¡°I shall call him, then?¡±


    ¡°Do so,¡± Baruk said, sipping his wine. ¡°An avenue will be provided for his passage.¡±


    There came a knock at the door.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    Roald stepped inside. ¡°Someone is at the gate wishing to speak with you,¡± the white-haired servant said, setting down a plate heaped with roast pork.


    Baruk glanced at Crone and raised an eyebrow.


    The bird ruffled her feathers. ¡°Your guest is mundane, a restless personage whose thoughts are thick with greed and treachery. A demon crouches on his shoulder, named Ambition.¡±


    ¡°His name, Roald?¡± Baruk asked.


    The servant hesitated, his soft eyes flicked uneasily at the bird now ambling towards the food.


    Baruk laughed. ¡°My wise guest''s counsel indicates she well knows the man''s name. Speak on, Roald.¡±


    ¡°Councilman Turban Orr.¡±


    ¡°I would remain for this,¡± Crone said. ¡°If you would seek my counsel.¡±


    ¡°Please do, and, yes, I would,¡± the alchemist replied.


    ¡°I am no more than a pet dog,¡± the Great Raven crooned slyly, anticipating his next question. ¡°To the councilman''s eyes, that is. My words a beast''s whimper to his ears.¡± She speared a piece of meat and swallowed it quickly.


    Baruk found himself beginning to like this mangy old witch of a bird.


    ¡°Bring the councilman to us, Roald.¡±


    The servant departed.


    Archaic torches lit an estate''s high-walled garden with a flickering light that threw wavering shadows across the pavestones. As a nightwind swept in from the lake, rustling leaves, the shadows danced like imps. On the second floor of the building was a balcony overlooking the garden.


    Behind the curtained window, two figures moved.


    Rallick Nom lay prone on the garden wall in a niche of darkness beneath the estate''s gabled cornice. He studied the feminine silhouette with the patience of a snake. It was the fifth night in a row that he had occupied his hidden vantage-point. The Lady Sinital''s lovers numbered as many, but he had identified two in particular worthy of attention.


    Both were city councilmen.


    The glass door opened and a figure walked out on to the balcony.


    Rallick smiled as he recognized Councilman Lim. The assassin shifted position slightly, slipping one gloved hand under the stock of his crossbow; reaching up with the other to swing back the oiled crank. His eyes on the man leaning against the balcony railing across from him, Rallick carefully inserted a quarrel. A glance down at the bolt''s iron head reassured him.


    The poison glittered wetly along the razor-sharp edges. Returning his attention to the balcony he saw that Lady Sinital had joined Lim.


    No wonder there''s no shortage of lovers for that one, Rallick thought, his eyes narrowing in study. Her black hair, now unpinned, flowed down sleek and shiny to the small of her back. She wore a gauze-thin nightdress and, with the lamps of the room behind her, her body''s round curves were clearly visible.


    As they spoke their voices carried to where Rallick lay hidden.


    ¡°Why the alchemist?¡± Lady Sinital was asking, evidently resuming a conversation begun inside. ¡°A fat old man smelling of sulphur and brimstone. Hardly suggestive of political power. Not even a council member, is he?¡±


    Lim laughed softly. ¡°Your naivete is a charm, Lady, a charm.¡±


    Sinital pulled back from the railing and crossed her arms. ¡°Educate me, then.¡± Her words came sharp, tightly bridled.


    Lim shrugged. ¡°We have naught but suspicions, Lady. But it is the wise wolf that follows every spoor, no matter how slight. The alchemist would have people think as you do. A doddering old fool.¡± Lim paused, as if in thought, perhaps weighing how much he should reveal. ¡°We have sources,¡± he continued cautiously, ¡°among the magery. They inform us of one certain fact heavy with implications. A good many of the wizards in the city fear the alchemist, and they name him by a title-that alone suggests a secret cabal of some sort. A gathering of sorcerers, Lady, is a fell thing.¡±

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    Lady Sinital had returned to the councilman''s side. Both now leaned on the railing studying the dark garden below. The woman was silent for a time, then she said, ¡°He has Council ties?¡±


    ¡°If he has, the evidence is buried deep.¡± Lim flashed a grin. ¡°And if he hasn''t, then that might change-this very night.¡±


    Politics, Rallick snarled silently. And power. The bitch spreads her legs to the Council, offering a vice few can ignore. Rallick''s hands twitched.


    He would kill this night. Not a contract: the Guild had no part in this.


    The vendetta was personal. She was gathering power around her, insulating herself, and Rallick thought he understood why. The ghosts of betrayal would not leave her alone.


    Patience, he reminded himself, as he took aim. For the last two years the life of Lady Sinital had been one of indolence, the riches she had stolen had served to whet her every greed, and the prestige as sole owner of the estate had done much to grease the hinges of her bedroom door.


    The crime she''d committed had not been against Rallick but, unlike her victim, Rallick had no pride to halt vengeance.


    Patience, Rallick repeated, his lips moving to the word as he sighted down the crossbow''s length. A quality defined by its reward, and that reward was but moments away.


    ¡°A fine looking hound,¡± Councilman Turban Orr said, as he handed Roald his cloak.


    In the room Baruk was the only one capable of discerning the aura of illusion surrounding the black hunting dog lying curled on the rug before the fireplace. The alchemist smiled and gestured to a chair. ¡°Please be seated, Councilman.¡±


    ¡°I apologize for disturbing you so late at night,¡± Orr said, as he lowered himself into the plush chair. Baruk sat down opposite him, Crone between them. ¡°It''s said,¡± Orr continued, ¡°that alchemy flowers best in deep darkness.¡±


    ¡°Hence you gambled on my being awake,¡± Baruk said. ¡°A well-placed wager, Councilman. Now, what would you have of me?¡±


    Orr reached down to pat Crone''s head.


    Baruk looked away to keep himself from laughing.


    ¡°The Council votes in two days,¡± Orr said. ¡°With a proclamation of neutrality such as we seek, war with the Malazan Empire will be averted-so we believe, but there are those in the Council who do not. Pride has made them belligerent, unreasonable.¡±


    ¡°As it does us all,¡± murmured Baruk.


    Orr leaned forward. ¡°The support of Darujhistan''s sorcerers would do much to favour our cause,¡± he said.


    ¡°Careful,¡± Crone rumbled. ¡°This man now hunts in earnest.¡±


    Orr glanced down at the dog.


    ¡°A bad leg,¡± Baruk said. ¡°Pay it no mind.¡± The alchemist leaned back in his chair and plucked at a loose thread on his robe. ¡°I admit to some confusion, Councilman. You appear to be assuming some things I cannot countenance.¡± Baruk spread his hands and met Orr''s eyes. ¡°Darujhistan''s sorcerers, for one. You could travel the Ten Worlds and not find a more spiteful rabid collection of humanity. I don''t suggest that they are all like this-there are those whose only interest, indeed, obsession, lies in the pursuit of their craft. Their noses have been buried in books so long they could not even tell you what century this is. The others find bickering their only true pleasure in life.¡±


    A smile had come to Orr''s thin lips as Baruk spoke. ¡°But,¡± he said with a cunning gleam in his dark eyes, ¡°there is one thing they all acknowledge.¡±


    ¡°Oh? What is that Councilman?¡±


    ¡°Power. We''re all aware of your eminence among the city''s mages, Baruk. Your word alone would bring others.¡±


    ¡°I''m flattered that you would think so,¡± Baruk replied. ¡°Unfortunately, therein lies your second erroneous assumption. Even if I had such influence as you suggest,¡± Crone snorted and Baruk flicked a savage glare at her, then continued, ¡°which I do not, for what possible reason would I support such a wilfully ignorant position as yours? A proclamation of neutrality? Might as well whistle against the wind, Councilman. What purpose would it serve?¡±


    Orr''s smile had tightened. ¡°Surely, Lord,¡± he purred, ¡°you have no wish to share the same fate as the wizards of Pale?¡±


    Baruk frowned. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Assassinated by an Empire Claw. Moon''s Dawn was entirely on its own against the Emnire.¡±


    ¡°Your information contradicts mine,¡± Baruk said stiffly, then cursed himself.


    ¡°Lean not too heavily on this one,¡± Crone said smugly. ¡°You are both wrong.¡±

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    Orr''s eyebrows had risen at Baruk''s words. ¡°Indeed? Perhaps it might profit us both to share our information?¡±


    ¡°Unlikely,¡± Baruk said. ¡°Throwing the threat of the Empire at me implies what? That if the proclamation is voted down, the city''s sorcerers will all die at the Empire''s hand. But if it wins, you''re free to justify opening the gates to the Malazans in peaceful co-existence, and in such a scenario the city''s magery lives on.


    ¡°Astute, Lord,¡± Crone said.


    Baruk studied the anger now visible beneath Orr''s expression.


    ¡°Neutrality? How you''ve managed to twist that word. Your proclamation serves the first step towards total annexation, Councilman. Fortunate for you that I cast no weight, no vote, no influence.¡± Baruk rose ¡°Roald will see you out.¡±


    Turban Orr also rose. ¡°You''ve made a grave error,¡± he said.


    ¡°The proclamation''s wording is not yet complete. It seems we would do well to remove any consideration regarding Darujhistan''s magery.¡±


    ¡°Too bold,¡± Crone observed. ¡°Prod him and see what more comes forth.¡±


    Baruk strode towards the window. ¡°One may only hope,¡± he said drily over a shoulder,¡± that your vote fails to win the day.¡±


    Orr''s reply was hot and rushed. ¡°By my count we''ve reached a majority this very night, Alchemist. You could have provided the honey on the cream. Alas,¡± he sneered, ¡°we''ll win by only one vote. But that will suffice.¡±


    Baruk turned to face Orr as Roald quietly entered the room, bearing the councilman''s cloak.


    Crone stretched out on the rug. ¡°On this night of all nights,¡± she said, in mock dismay, ¡°to tempt myriad fates with such words.¡± The Great Raven cocked her head. Faintly, as from a great distance, she thought she could hear the spinning of a coin.


    There was a tremble of power coming from somewhere within the city, and Crone shivered.


    Rallick Nom waited. No more indolence for the Lady Sinital. The end of such luxuries came this night. The two figures moved away from the railing and faced the glass door. Rallick''s finger tightened on the trigger.


    He froze. A whirring, spinning sound filled his head, whispering words that left him bathed in sudden sweat. All at once everything shifted, turned over in his mind. His plan for quick vengeance tumbled into disarray, and from the ruins arose something far more: elaborate.


    All this had come between breaths. Rallick''s gaze cleared. Lady Sinital and Councilman Lim stood at the door. The woman reached out to slide the panel to one side. Rallick swerved his crossbow an inch to the left, then squeezed the trigger. The blackened iron rib of the bow bucked with the release of tension. The quarrel sped outward, so fast as to be invisible until it hit home.


    A figure on the balcony spun with the quarrel''s impact, arms thrown out as it stumbled. The glass door shattered as the figure fell through it.


    Lady Sinital screamed in horror.


    Rallick waited no longer. Rolling on to his back he reached up and slid the crossbow into the narrow ledge between the cornice and the roof.


    Then he slipped down the outside of the wall, hung with his hands briefly as shouts of alarm filled the estate. A moment later he dropped, spinning as he fell, and landed cat-like in the alley.


    The assassin straightened, adjusted his cloak, then calmly walked into the side-street, away from the estate. No more indolence for the Lady Sinital. But no quick demise, either. A very powerful, very well-respected member of the City Council had just been assassinated on her balcony.


    Lim''s wife-now widow-would certainly have something to say about this. The first phase, Rallick told himself as he strode through Osserc''s Gate and descended the wide ramp leading down into the Daru District, just the first phase, an opening gambit, a hint to Lady Sinital that a hunt has begun, with the eminent mistress herself as the quarry. It won''t be easy: the woman''s no slouch in the intrigue game.


    ¡°There''ll be more blood,¡± he whispered aloud, as he turned a corner and approached the poorly lit entrance to the Phoenix Inn. ¡°But in the end she''ll fall, and with that fall an old friend will rise.¡± As he neared the inn a figure stepped from the shadows of an adjacent alleyway. Raffick stopped. The figure gestured, then stepped back into the darkness.


    Rallick followed. In the alley he waited for his eyes to adjust.


    The man in front of him sighed. ¡°Your vendetta probably saved your life tonight,¡± he said, his tone bitter.


    Rallick leaned against a wall and crossed his arms. ¡°Oh?¡±


    Clan Leader Ocelot stepped close, his narrow, pitted face twisted into its habitual scowl. ¡°The night''s been a shambles, Nom. You''ve heard nothing?¡±

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    ¡°No.


    Ocelot''s thin lips curled into a humourless smile. ¡°A war has begun on the rooftops. Someone is killing us. We lost five Roamers in less than an hour, meaning there''s more than one killer out there.¡±


    ¡°Undoubtedly,¡± Rallick replied, fidgeting as the damp stones of the inn''s wall reached through his cloak and touched his flesh with chill. As always, Guild affairs bored him.


    Ocelot continued, ¡°We lost that bull of a man, Talo Krafar, and a Clan Leader.¡± The man snapped a glance over his shoulder as if expecting a sudden dagger to come flashing at his own back.


    Despite his lack of interest Rallick''s eyebrows lifted at this last bit of news. ¡°They must be good.¡±


    ¡°Good? All of our eye-witnesses are dead, goes the sour joke this night. They don''t make mistakes, the bastards.¡±


    ¡°Everyone makes mistakes,¡± Rallick muttered. ¡°Has Vorcan gone out?¡±


    Ocelot shook his head. ¡°Not yet. She''s too busy recalling all the Clans.¡±


    Rallick frowned, curious in spite of himself. ¡°Could this be a challenge to her Guild mastery? Perhaps an inside thing, a faction-¡±


    ¡°You think we''re all fools, don''t you, Nom? That was Vorcan''s first suspicion. No, it''s not internal. Whoever''s killing our people is from outside the Guild, outside the city.¡±


    To Rallick the answer seemed obvious suddenly, and he shrugged. ¡°An Empire Claw, then.¡±


    Though his expression bore reluctance, Ocelot nevertheless acknowledged agreement. ¡°Likely,¡± he grated. ¡°They''re supposed to be the best, aren''t they? But why go after the Guild? You''d think they''d be taking out the nobles.¡±


    ¡°Are you asking me to guess the Empire''s intentions, Ocelot?¡±


    The Clan Leader blinked, then his scowl deepened. ¡°I came to warn you. And that''s a favour, Nom. With you wrapped up in this vendetta thing, the Guild''s not obliged to spread its wing over you. A favour.¡±


    Rallick pushed himself from the wall and turned to the alley-mouth.


    ¡°A favour, Ocelot?¡± He laughed softly.


    ¡°We''re setting a trap,¡± Ocelot said, moving to block Rallick''s way. He jerked his scarred chin at the Phoenix Inn. ¡°Make yourself visible, and leave no doubt as to what you do for a living.¡±


    Rallick''s gaze on Ocelot held steady, impassive. ¡°Bait.¡±


    ¡°Just do it.¡±


    Without replying, Rallick left the alley, climbed the steps and entered the Phoenix Inn.


    ¡°There is a shaping in the night,¡± Crone said, after Turban Orr had left.


    The air around her shimmered as she assumed her true shape.


    Baruk strode to his map table, hands clasped behind his back to still the trembling that had seized them. ¡°You felt it too, then.¡± He paused, then sighed. ¡°All in all, these seem the busiest hours.¡±


    ¡°A convergence of power ever yields thus,¡± Crone said, as she rose to stretch her wings. ¡°The black winds gather, Alchemist. Beware their flaying breath.¡±


    Baruk grunted. ¡°While you ride them, a harbinger of our tragic ills.¡±


    Crone laughed. She waddled to the window. ¡°My master comes. I''ve other tasks before me.¡±


    Baruk turned. ¡°Permit me,¡± he said, gesturing. The window swung clear.


    Crone flapped up on to the sill. She swivelled her head round and cocked an eye at Baruk. ¡°I see twelve ships riding a deep harbour,¡± she said. ¡°Eleven stand tall in flames.¡±


    Baruk stiffened. He had not anticipated a prophecy. Now he was afraid. ¡°And the twelfth?¡± he asked, his voice barely a whisper. ¡°On the wind a hailstorm of sparks fill the night sky. I see them spinning, spinning about the last vessel.¡± Crone paused. ¡°Still spinning.¡± Then she was gone.


    Baruk''s shoulders slumped. He turned back to the map on the table and studied the eleven once Free Cities that now bore the Empire flag.


    Only Darujhistan remained, the twelfth and last marked by a flag that was not burgundy and grey. ¡°The passing of freedom,¡± he murmured.


    Suddenly the walls around him groaned, and Baruk gasped as an enormous weight seemed to press down on him. The blood pounded in his head, lancing him with pain. He gripped the edge of the map table to steady himself. The incandescent globes of light suspended from the ceiling dimmed, then flickered out. In the darkness the alchemist heard cracks sweeping down the walls, as if a giant''s hand had descended on the building. All at once the pressure vanished. Baruk raised a shaking hand to his sweat-slicked brow.


    A soft voice spoke behind him. ¡°Greetings, High Alchemist. I am the Lord of Moon''s Spawn.¡±

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    Still facing the table, Baruk closed his eyes and nodded. ¡°The title isn''t necessary,¡± he whispered. ¡°Please call me Baruk.¡±


    ¡°I''m at home in darkness,¡± the Lord said. ¡°Will this prove an inconvenience, Baruk?¡±


    The alchemist muttered a spell. Before him the details of the map on the table took on distinction, emanating a cool blue glow. He faced the Lord and was startled to discover that the tall, cloaked figure reflected as little heat as the room''s inanimate objects. Nevertheless, he was able to distinguish quite clearly the man''s features. ¡°You''re Tiste And?¡± he said.


    The Lord bowed slightly. His angled, multihued eyes scanned the room. ¡°Have you any wine, Baruk?¡±


    ¡°Of course, Lord.¡± The alchemist walked over to his desk.


    ¡°My name, as best as it can be pronounced by humans, is Anomander Rake.¡± The Lord followed Baruk to the desk, his boots clicking on the polished marble floor.


    Baruk poured wine, then turned to study Rake with some curiosity. He had heard that Tiste And? warriors were fighting the Empire up north, commanded by a savage beast of a man named Caladan Brood. They had allied with the Crimson Guard and, together, the two forces were decimating the Malazans. So, there were Tiste And? in Moon''s Spawn, and the man standing before him was their lord.


    This moment marked the first time Baruk had ever seen a Tiste And? face to face. He was more than a little disturbed. Such remarkable eyes, he thought. One moment a deep hue of amber, cat-like and unnerving, the next grey and banded like a snake''s-a fell rainbow of colours to match any mood. He wondered if they were capable of lying.


    In the alchemist''s library lay copies of the surviving tomes of Gothos¡± Folly, Jaghut writings from millennia past. In them Tiste And? were mentioned here and there in an aura of fear, Baruk recalled. Gothos himself, a Jaghut wizard who had descended the deepest warrens of Elder Magic, had praised the gods of the time that the Tiste And? were so few in number. And if anything, the mysterious black-skinned race had dwindled since then.


    Anomander Rake''s skin was jet-black, befitting Gothos¡± descriptions, but his mane flowed silver. He stood close to seven feet tall. His features were sharp, as if cut from onyx, a slight upward tilt to the large vertical-pupilled eyes.


    A two-handed sword was strapped to Rake''s broad back, its silver dragonskull pommel and archaic crosshilt jutting from a wooden scabbard fully six and a half feet long. From the weapon bled power, staining the air like black ink in a pool of water. As his gaze rested on it Baruk almost reeled, seeing, for a brief moment, a vast darkness yawning before him, cold as the heart of a glacier, from which came the stench of antiquity and a faint groaning sound. Baruk wrenched his eyes from the weapon, looked up to find Rake studying him from over one shoulder.


    The Tiste And? quirked a knowing smile, then handed Baruk one of the wine-filled goblets. ¡°Was Crone her usual melodramatic self?¡±


    Baruk blinked, then could not help but grin.


    Rake sipped his wine. ¡°She''s never been modest in displaying her talents. Shall we sit?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Baruk replied, relaxing in spite of his trepidation. From his years of study the alchemist knew that great power shaped different souls differently. Had Rake''s been twisted Baruk would have known immediately. But the Lord''s control seemed absolute. That alone engendered awe. The man shaped his power, not the other way around.


    Such control was, well, inhuman. He suspected that this would not be the first insight he''d have regarding this warrior-mage that would leave him astonished and frightened.


    ¡°She threw everything she had at me,¡± Rake said suddenly. The Tiste And?¡± s eyes shone green as glacial ice.


    Startled by the vehemence of that outburst, Baruk frowned. She? Oh, the Empress, of course.


    ¡°And even then,¡± Rake continued,¡± she couldn''t bring me down.¡±


    The alchemist stiffened in his chair. ¡°Yet,¡± he said cautiously, ¡°you were driven back, battered and beaten. I can feel your power, Anomander Rake,¡± he added, grimacing. ¡°It pulses from you like waves. So I must ask: how is it you were defeated? I know something of the Empire''s High Mage Tayschrenn. He has power but it''s no match to yours. So again I ask, how?¡±


    His gaze on the map table, Rake replied, ¡°I''ve committed my sorcerers and warriors to Brood''s north campaign.¡± He turned a humourless grin on Baruk. ¡°Within my city are children, priests and three elderly, exceedingly bookish warlocks.¡±


    City? There was a city within Moon''s Spawn?


    A dun tone had entered Rake''s eyes. ¡°I cannot defend an entire Moon. I cannot be everywhere at once. And as for Tayschrenn, he didn''t give a damn about the people around him. I thought to dissuade him, make the price too high:¡± He shook his head as if perplexed, then he looked to Baruk. ¡°To save the home of my people, I retreated.¡±

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    ¡°Leaving Pale to fall-¡± Baruk shut his mouth, cursing his lack of tact.


    But Rake merely shrugged. ¡°I didn''t anticipate that I''d face a full assault. My presence alone had been keeping the Empire at bay for almost two years.¡±


    ¡°I''ve heard the Empress is short of patience,¡± murmured Baruk thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed, then he looked up. ¡°You have asked to meet with me, Anomander Rake, and so here we are. What is it you wish from me?¡±


    ¡°An alliance,¡± the Moon''s lord answered.


    ¡°With me? Personally?¡±


    ¡°No games, Baruk.¡± Rake''s voice was suddenly cold. ¡°I''m not fooled by that Council of idiots bickering at Majesty Hall. I know that it''s you and your fellow mages who rule Darujhistan.¡± He rose and glared down with eyes of grey. ¡°I''ll tell you this. For the Empress your city is the lone pearl on this continent of mud. She wants it and what she wants she usually gets.¡±


    Baruk reached down and plucked at the frayed edge of his robe. ¡°I see,¡± he said, in a low voice. ¡°Pale had its wizards.¡±


    Rake frowned. ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°Yet,¡± Baruk continued, ¡°when the battle was begun in earnest, your first thought was not for the alliance you made with the city but for the well-being of your Moon.¡±


    ¡°Who told you this?¡± Rake demanded.


    Baruk looked up and raised both hands. ¡°Some of those wizards managed to escape.¡±


    ¡°They''re in the city?¡± Rake''s eyes had gone black.


    Seeing them, Baruk felt sweat break out beneath his clothes. ¡°Why?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I want their heads,¡± Rake replied casually. He refilled his goblet and took a sip.


    An icy hand had slipped around Baruk''s heart and was now tightening. His headache had increased tenfold in the last few seconds. ¡°Why?¡±


    he asked again, the word coming out almost as a gasp.


    If the Tiste And? knew of the alchemist''s sudden discomfort he made no sign of it. ¡°Why?¡± He seemed to roll the word in his mouth like wine, a light smile touching his lips. ¡°When the Moranth army came down from the mountains, and Tayschrenn rode at the head of his wizard cadre, and when word spread that an Empire Claw had infiltrated the city,¡± Rake''s smile twisted into a snarl,¡± the wizards of Pale fled.¡± He paused, as if reliving memories. ¡°I dispatched the Claw when they were but a dozen steps inside the walls.¡± He paused again, his face betraying a flash of regret. ¡°Had the city''s wizards remained, the assault would have been repelled. Tayschrenn, it seemed, was preoccupied with: other imperatives. He''d saturated his position-a hilltop-with defensive wards. Then he unleashed demons not against me but against some of his companions. That baffled me but, rather than allow such conjurings; to wander at will, I expended vital power destroying them.¡± He sighed and said, ¡°I pulled the Moon back mere minutes from its destruction. I left it to drift south and went after those wizards.¡±


    ¡°After them?¡±


    ¡°I tracked down all but two.¡± Rake gazed at Baruk. ¡°I want those two, preferably alive, but their heads will suffice.¡±


    ¡°You killed those you found? How?¡±


    ¡°With my sword, of course.¡±


    Baruk recoiled as if struck. ¡°Oh,¡± he whispered. ¡°Oh.


    ¡°The alliance,¡± Rake said, before draining his goblet.


    ¡°I''ll speak to the Cabal on this matter,¡± Baruk answered, rising shakily to his feet. ¡°Word of the decision will be sent to you soon.¡± He stared at the sword strapped to the Tiste And?¡± s back. ¡°Tell me, if you get those wizards alive, will you use that on them?¡±


    Rake frowned. ¡°Of course.¡±


    Turning away, Baruk closed his eyes. ¡°You''ll have their heads, then.¡±


    Behind him Rake laughed harshly. ¡°There''s too much mercy in your heart, Alchemist.¡±


    The pale light beyond the window signified the dawn. Within the Phoenix Inn only one table remained occupied. Around it sat four men, one asleep in his chair with his head lying in a pool of stale beer. He snored loudly. The others were playing cards, two red-eyed with exhaustion while the last one studied his hand and talked. And talked.


    ¡°And then there was the time I saved Rallick Nom''s life, at the back of All Eve''s Street. Four, no, five nefarious hoodlums had backed the boy to a wall. He was barely standing, was Rallick, gushing blood from a hundred knife wounds. Clear to me was the grim fact that it couldn''t last much longer, that tussle. I come up on them six assassins from behind, old Kruppe with fire dancing on his fingertips-a magical spell of frightful violence. I uttered the cantrip in a single breath and lo! Six piles of ash at Rallick''s feet. Six piles of ash aglitter with the coin from their wallets-hah! A worthy reward!¡±

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    Murillio leaned his long, elegant frame close to Crokus Younghand. ¡°Is this possible?¡± he whispered. ¡°For a turn to last as long as Kruppe''s?¡±


    Crokus grinned wearily at his friend. ¡°I don''t mind, really. It''s safe in here, and that''s what counts for me.¡±


    ¡°Assassin''s war, bosh!¡± Kruppe said, leaning back to mop his brow with a wilted silk handkerchief. ¡°Kruppe remains entirely unconvinced. Tell me, did you not see Rallick Nom in here earlier? Spoke long with Murillio here, the lad did. As calm as ever, was he not?¡±


    Murillio grimaced. ¡°Nom gets like that every time he''s just killed somebody. Lay down a card, dammit! I''ve early appointments to attend to.¡±


    Crokus asked, ¡°So what was Rallick talking to you about?¡±


    Murillio''s answer was a mere shrug. He continued glaring at Kruppe.


    The small man''s pencil-thin eyebrows rose. ¡°Is it Kruppe''s turn?¡±


    Closing his eyes, Crokus slumped in his chair. He groaned. ¡°I saw three assassins on the rooftops, Kruppe. And the two that killed the third went after me, even though it''s obvious I''m no assassin.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± said Murillio, eyeing the young thief''s tattered clothing and the cuts and scrapes on his face and hands, ¡°I''m inclined to believe you.¡±


    ¡°Fools! Kruppe sits at a table of fools.¡± Kruppe glanced down at the snoring man. ¡°And Coll here is the biggest of them all. But sadly gifted with self-knowledge. Hence his present state, from which many profane truths might be drawn. Appointments, Murillio? Kruppe didn''t think the city''s multitude of mistresses awoke so early in the day. After all, what might they see in their mirrors? Kruppe shivers at the thought.¡±


    Crokus massaged the bruise hidden beneath his long, brown hair. He winced, then leaned forward. ¡°Come on, Kruppe,¡± he muttered. ¡°Play a card.¡±


    ¡°My turn?¡±


    ¡°Seems self-knowledge doesn''t extend to whose turn it is,¡± Murillio commented drily.


    Boots sounded on the stairs. The three turned to see Rallick Nom descending from the first floor. The tall, dark-skinned man looked rested.


    He wore his day cloak, a deep royal purple, clasped at the neck by a silver clamshell brooch. His black hair was freshly braided, framing his narrow, clean-shaven face. Raffick. walked up to the table and reached down to grasp Coll''s thinning hair. He raised the man''s head from the pool of beer and bent forward to study Coll''s blotched face. Then he gently set down the man''s head, and pulled up a chair.


    ¡°Is this the same game as last night?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Kruppe replied. ¡°Kruppe has these two men backed to the very wall, in danger of losing their very shirts! It''s good to see you again friend Rallick. The lad here,¡± Kruppe indicated Crokus with a limp hand fingers fluttering, ¡°speaks endlessly of murder above our heads. A veritable downpour of blood! Have you ever heard such nonsense Rallick, Kruppe''s friend?¡±


    Rallick shrugged. ¡°Another rumour. This city was built on rumours.¡±


    Crokus scowled to himself. It seemed that no one was willing to answer questions this morning. He wondered yet again what the assassin and Murillio had been talking about earlier; hunched as they''d been over a dimly lit table in one corner of the room, Crokus had suspected some sort of conspiracy. Not that such a thing was unusual for them, though most times Kruppe was at its centre.


    Murillio swung his gaze to the bar. ¡°Sulty!¡± he called out. ¡°You awake?


    There was a mumbled response from behind the wooden counter, the Sulty, her blonde hair dishevelled and plump face looking plumper, stood up. ¡°Yah,¡± she mumbled. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Breakfast for my friends here, if you please.¡± Murillio climbed to his feet and cast a critical, obviously disapproving eye over his clothing. The soft billowing shirt, dyed a bright green, now hung on his lanky frame wilted and beer-stained. His fine tanned leather pantaloons were crease and patchy. Sighing, Murillio stepped away from the table. ¡°I must bath and change. As for the game, I surrender consumed by hopelessness Kruppe, I now believe, will never play his card, thus leaving us trapped in the unlikely world of his recollections and reminiscences, potentially for ever. Goodnight, one and all.¡± He and Rallick locked gazes, the Murillio gave a faint nod.


    Crokus witnessed the exchange and his scowl deepened. He watched Murillio leave, then glanced at Rallick. The assassin sat staring down a Coll, his expression as unreadable as ever.


    Sulty wandered into the kitchen, and a moment later the clanking of pots echoed into the room.

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    Crokus tossed his cards into the table''s centre and leaned back, closing his eyes.


    ¡°Does the lad surrender as well?¡± Kruppe asked.


    Crokus nodded.


    ¡°Hah, Kruppe remains undefeated.¡± He set down his cards and tucked in a napkin at his thick, jiggling neck.


    In the thief''s mind suspicions of intrigue ran wild. First the assassin''s war now Rallick and Murillio had something cooking. He sighed mentally and opened his eyes. His whole body ached from the night''s adventures but he knew he''d been lucky. He stared down at Coll without seeing him The vision of those tall, black assassins returned to him and he shivered.


    Yet, for all the dangers hounding his back up on the rooftops this past night, he had to admit how exciting it''d all been. After slamming that door behind him and quaffing the beer Sulty had thrust into his hand, his whole body had trembled for an hour afterwards.


    His gaze focused on Coll. Coll, Kruppe, Murillio and Rallick. What a strange group-a drunkard, an obese mage of dubious abilities, a dandified fop and a killer.


    Still, they were his best friends. His parents had succumbed to the Winged Plague when he''d been four years old. Since then his uncle Mammot had raised him. The old scholar had done the best he could, but it hadn''t been enough. Crokus found the street''s shadows and moonless nights on rooftops far more exciting than his uncle''s mouldy books.


    Now, however, he felt very much alone. Kruppe''s mask of blissful idiocy never dropped, not even for an instant-all through the years when Crokus had been apprenticed to the fat man in the art of thievery, he''d never seen Kruppe act otherwise. Coll''s life seemed to involve the relentless avoidance of sobriety, for reasons unknown to Crokus-though he suspected that, once, Coll had been something more. And now Rallick and Murillio had counted him out of some new intrigue.


    Into his thoughts came an image-the moonlit limbs of a sleeping maiden-and he angrily shook his head.


    Sulty arrived with breakfast, husks of bread fried in butter, a chunk of goat cheese, a stem of local grapes and a pot of Callows bitter coffee. She served Crokus first and he muttered his thanks.


    Kruppe''s impatience grew while Sulty served Rallick. ¡°Such impertinence,¡± the man said, adjusting his coat''s wide, stained sleeves.


    ¡°Kruppe is of a mind to cast a thousand horrible spells on rude Sulty.¡±


    ¡°Kruppe had better not,¡± Rallick said.


    ¡°Oh, no, of course not,¡± Kruppe amended, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. ¡°A wizard of my skills would never belittle himself on a mere scullion, after all.¡±


    Sulty turned to him. ¡°Scullion?¡± She snatched a bread husk from the plate and slapped it down on Kruppe''s head. ¡°Don''t worry,¡± she said, as she walked back to the bar. ¡°With hair like yours nobody''d notice.¡±


    Kruppe pulled the husk from his head. He was about to toss it down on the floor, then changed his mind. He licked his lips. ¡°Kruppe is magnanimous this morning,¡± he said, breaking into a wide smile and setting the bread down on his plate. He leaned forward and laced together his pudgy fingers. ¡°Kruppe wishes to begin his meal with some grapes, please.¡±


    CHAPTER SEVEN


    I see a man crouched in a fire who leaves me cold and wondering what he is doing here so boldly crouched in my pyre:


    Gadrobi Epitaph Anonymous


    This time, kruppe''s dream took him out through marsh gap along South Road, then left on to Cutter Lake Road. Overhead the sky swirled a most unpleasant pattern of silver and pale green. ¡°All is in flux,¡± Kruppe gasped, his feet hurrying him along the dust barren road. ¡°The Coin has entered a child''s possession, though it knows it not. Is it for Kruppe to walk this Monkey Road? Fortunatetly Kruppe''s perfectly round body is an example of perfect symmetry. One not only born skilled at said balance, one must learn it through arduos practice. Of course, Kruppe is unique in never requiring practice in anything.¡±


    Off in the fields to his left, within a circle of young trees, a small fire cast a hazy red glow up among the budding branches. Kruppe''s sharp eye could make out a single figure seated there, seemingly holding its hands the flames. ¡°Too many stones to turn underfoot,¡± he gasped, ¡°on this rock rutted road. Kruppe would try the ribbed earth, which is yet too green with the season''s growth. Indeed, yon fire beckons.¡± He left the road at approached the circle of trees.


    As he strode between two slim boles and stepped into the pool of light the hooded figure turned slowly to study him, its face hidden in shadow despite the fire before it. Though it held its hands in the flame, they withstood the heat, the long, sinuous fingers spread wide.

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    ¡°I would partake of this warmth,¡± Kruppe said, with a slight bow. ¡°So rare within Kruppe''s dreams of late.¡±


    ¡°Strangers wander through them,¡± the figure said, in a thin, oddly accented voice. ¡°Such as I. Have you summoned me, then? It has been a long time since I walked on soil.¡±


    Kruppe''s brows rose. ¡°Summoned? Nay, not Kruppe who is also a victim of his dreams. Imagine, after all, that Kruppe sleeps even now beneath warm blankets secure in his humble room. Yet see me, stranger, for I am cold, nay, chilled.¡±


    The other laughed softly and beckoned Kruppe to the fire. ¡°I seek sensation once again,¡± it said, ¡°but my hands feel nothing. To be worshipped is to share the supplicant''s pain. I fear my followers are no more.¡±


    Kruppe was silent. He did not like the sombre mood of this dream. He held his hands before the fire yet felt little heat. A chill ache had settled into his knees. Finally he looked over the flames to the hooded figure opposite him. ¡°Kruppe thinks you are an Elder God. Have you a name?¡±


    ¡°I am known as K''rul.¡±


    Kruppe stiffened. His guess had been correct. The thought of an Elder God awakened and wandering through his dreams sent his thoughts scampering like frightened rabbits. ¡°How have you come to be here, K''rul?¡± he asked, a tremor in his voice. All at once this place seemed too hot. He pulled his handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped sweat from his brow.


    K''rul considered before answering, and Kruppe heard doubt in his voice. ¡°Blood has been spilled behind the walls of this glowing city, Kruppe, upon stone once holy in my name. This-this is new to me.


    ¡°Once I reigned in the minds of many mortals, and they fed me well with blood and split bones. Long before the first towers of stone rose to mortal whims, I walked among hunters.¡± The hood tilted upward and Kruppe felt immortal eyes fixing upon him. ¡°Blood has been spilled again, but that alone is not enough. I believe I am here to await one who will be awakened. One I have known before, long ago.¡±


    Kruppe digested this like sour bile. ¡°And what do you bring Kruppe?¡±


    The Elder God rose abruptly. ¡°An ancient fire that will give you warmth in times of need,¡± he said. ¡°But I hold you to nothing. Seek the T''lan Imass who will lead the woman. They are the Awakeners. I must prepare for battle, I think. One I will lose.¡±


    Kruppe''s eyes widened with sudden comprehension. ¡°You are being used,¡± he breathed.


    ¡°Perhaps. If so, then the Child Gods have made a grave error. After all,¡± a ghastly smile seemed to come into his tone, ¡°I will lose a battle. But I will not die.¡± K''rul turned away from the fire then. His voice drifted back to Kruppe. ¡°Play on, mortal. Every god falls at a mortal''s hands. Such is the only end to immortality.¡±


    The Elder God''s wistfulness was not lost on Kruppe. He suspected that a great truth had been revealed to him with those final words, a truth he was now given leave to use. ¡°And use it Kruppe shall,¡± he whispered.


    The Elder God had left the pool of light, heading north-east across the fields. Kruppe stared at the fire. It licked the wood hungrily, but no ash was born, and though unfed since he''d arrived it did not dim. He shivered.


    ¡°In the hands of a child,¡± he muttered. ¡°This night, Kruppe is truly alone in the world. Alone.¡±


    An hour before dawn Circle Breaker was relieved of his vigil at Despot''s Barbican. This night none had come to rendezvous beneath the gate.


    Lightning played among the jagged peaks of the Tahlyn Mountains to the north as the man walked in solitude down the winding Charms of Anise Street in the Spice Quarter. Ahead and below glittered the Lakefront, the merchant trader ships from distant Callows, Elingarth and Kepler''s Spite hunched dark and gloaming between gaslit stone piers.


    A cool lake breeze carried to the man the smell of rain, though overhead the stars glistened with startling clarity. He had removed his tabard, folding it into a small leather satchel now slung on one shoulder. Only the plain shortsword strapped at his hip marked him as a soldier, yet a soldier without provenance.


    He had divested himself of his official duties, and as he walked down towards the water, the years of service seemed to slough from his spirit.


    Bright were the memories of his childhood at these docks, to which he had been ever drawn by the allure of the strange traders as they swung into their berths like weary and weathered heroes returned from some elemental war. In those days it was not uncommon to see the galleys of the Freemen Privateers ease into the bay, sleek and riding low with booty.


    They hailed from such mysterious ports as Filman Orras, Fort By a Half, Dead Man''s Story and Exile; names that rang of adventure in the ears of a lad who had never seen his home city from outside its walls.

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    The man slowed as he reached the foot of the stone pier. The years between him and that lad marched through his mind, a possession of martial images growing ever grimmer. If he searched out the many cross-roads he had come to in the past, he saw their skies storm-warped, the lands ragged and wind-torn. The forces of age and experience worked on them now, and whatever choices he had made then seemed fated and almost desperate.


    Is it only the young who know desperation? he wondered, as he moved to sit on the pier''s stone sea-wall. Before him rippled the bay''s sooty waters. Twenty feet below, the rock-studded shore lay sheathed in darkness, the glitter of broken glass and crockery here and there winking like stars.


    The man turned slightly to face the right. His gaze travelled the slope there as it climbed to the summit, on which loomed the squat bulk of Majesty Hall. Never reach too far. A simple lesson of life he had learned long ago on the burning deck of a corsair, its belly filling with the sea as it drifted outside the pinnacle fortifications of a city named Broken jaw.


    Hubris, the scholars would call the fiery end of the Freemen Privateers.


    Never reach too far. The man''s eyes held on Majesty Hall. The deadlock that had come with the assassination of Councilman Lim still held within those walls. The Council raced aflurry in circles, more precious hours spent on eager speculation and gossip than on the matters of state.


    Turban Orr, his victory on the voting floor snatched from his hands in the last moment, now flung his hounds down every trail, seeking the spies he was convinced had infiltrated his nest. The councilman was no fool.


    Overhead a flock of grey gulls swept lakeward, crying into the nightchilled air. He drew a breath, hunched his shoulders and pulled his gaze with an effort from Majesty Hill.


    Too late to, concern himself about reaching too far. Since the day the Eel''s agent had come to him, the man''s future was sealed; to some it would be called treason. And perhaps, in the end, it was treason. Who could say what lay in the Eel''s mind? Even his principal agent-the man''s contact-professed ignorance of his master''s plans.


    His thoughts returned to Turban Orr. He''d set himself against a cunning man, a man of power. His only defence against Orr lay in anonymity. It wouldn''t last.


    He sat on the pier, awaiting the Eel''s agent. And he would deliver into that man''s hands a message for the Eel. How much would change with the delivery of that missive? Was it wrong for him to seek help, to threaten his frail anonymity-the solitude that gave him so much inner strength, that stiffened his own resolve? Yet, to match wits with Turban Orr-he did not think he could do it alone.


    The man reached into his jerkin and withdrew the scroll. A crossroads marked where he now stood, he recognized that much. In answer to his ill-measured fear, he''d written the plea for help on this scroll.


    It would be an easy thing to do, to surrender now. He hefted the frail parchment in his hands, feeling its slight weight, the vague oiliness of the coating, the rough weave of its tie-string. An easy, desperate thing to do.


    The man lifted his head. The sky had begun to pale, the lake wind picking up the day''s momentum. There would be rain, coming from the north as it often did at this time of year. A cleansing of the city, a freshening of its spice-laden breath. He slipped the string from the scroll and unfurled the parchment.


    So easy.


    With slow, deliberate movements, the man tore up the scroll. He let the ragged pieces drift down, scattering into the gloom of the lake''s shadowed shore. The rising waves swept them outward to dot the turgid swells like flecks of ash.


    Coming from somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought he heard a coin spinning. It seemed a sad sound.


    A few minutes later he left the pier. The Eel''s agent, out on his morning stroll, would in passing note his contact''s absence and simply continue on his way.


    He made his way along the Lakefront Street with the summit of Majesty Hill dwindling behind him. As he passed, the first of the silk merchants appeared, laying out their wares on the wide paved walk.


    Among the silks the man recognized the dyed lavender twists and bolts of Illem, the pale yellows of Setta and Lest-two cities to the south-east he knew had been annexed by the Pannion Seer in the last month-and the heavy bold twists of Sarrokalle. A dwindled sampling: all trade from the north had ended under Malazan dominion.


    He turned from the lake at the entry to the Scented Wood and headed into the city. Four streets ahead his single room waited on the second floor of a decaying tenement, grey and silent with the coming dawn, its thin, warped door latched and locked. In that room he allowed no place for memories; nothing to mark him in a wizard''s eye or tell the sharpwitted spy-hunter details of his life. In that room, he remained anonymous even to himself.

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    The Lady Sinital paced. These last few days too much of her hard-won gold had been spent smoothing the waters. That damn bitch of Lim''s had not let grief get in the way of her greed. Barely two days shrouded in black and then out on the courts hanging on that fop Murillio''s arm, smug as a tart at a ball.


    Sinital''s pencilled brows knitted slightly. Murillio: that young man had a way of being seen. He might be worth cultivation, all things considered.


    She stopped pacing and faced the man sprawled on her bed. ¡°So, you''ve learned nothing.¡± A hint of contempt had slipped into her tone and she wondered if he''d caught it.


    Councilman Turban Orr, his heavily scarred forearm covering his eyes, did not move as he replied, ¡°I''ve told you all this. There''s no knowing where that poisoned quarrel came from, Sinital. Hell, poisoned! What assassin uses poison these days? Vorcan''s got them so studded with magic everything else is obsolete.¡±


    ¡°You''re digressing,¡± she said, satisfied that he''d missed the careless unveiling of her sentiments.


    ¡°It''s like I said,¡± Orr continued. ¡°Lim was involved in more than one, uh, delicate venture. The assassination''s probably unconnected with you. It could have been anyone''s balcony, it just happened to be yours.¡±


    Lady Sinital crossed her arms. ¡°I don''t believe in coincidence, Turban. Tell me, was it coincidence that his death broke your majority-the night before the vote?¡± She saw the man''s cheek twitch and knew she''d stung him. She smiled and moved to the bed. She sat and ran a hand along his bared thigh. ¡°In any case, have you checked on him lately?¡±


    ¡°Him?¡±


    Sinital scowled, withdrawing her hand and standing. ¡°My beloved dispossessed, you idiot.¡±


    Turban Orr''s mouth curved into a smug smile. ¡°I always keep a check on him for you, my dear. Nothing''s changed in that area. He hasn''t sobered up since you threw him out on his arse.¡± The man sat up and reached to the bedpost where his clothes hung. He began dressing.


    Sinital whirled to him. ¡°What are you doing?¡± she demanded, her voice strident.


    ¡°What''s it look like?¡± Turban pulled on his breeches. ¡°The debate rages on at Majesty Hall. My influence is required.¡±


    ¡°To do what? Bend yet another councilman to your will?¡±


    He slipped on his silk shirt, still smiling. ¡°That, and other things.¡±


    Sinital rolled her eyes. ¡°Oh, of course-the spy. I''d forgotten about him.¡±


    ¡°Personally,¡± Orr resumed, ¡°I believe the proclamation of neutrality to the Malazans will go through-perhaps tomorrow or the next day.¡±


    She laughed harshly. ¡°Neutrality! You''re beginning to believe your own propaganda. What you want, Turban Orr, is power, the naked absolute power that comes with being a Malazan High Fist. You think this the first step to paving your road into the Empress''s arms. At the jo,¡± city''s expense, but you don''t give a damn about that.¡±


    Turban sneered up at Sinital. ¡°Stay out of politics, woman. Darujhistan''s fall to the Empire is inevitable. Better a peaceful occupation than a violent one.¡±


    ¡°Peaceful? Are you blind to what happened to Pale''s nobility? Oh, the ravens feasted on delicate flesh for days. This Empire devours noble blood.¡±


    ¡°What happened at Pale isn''t as simple as you make it,¡± Turban said. ¡°There was a Moranth reckoning involved, a clause in the alliance writ. Such culling will not occur here-and what if it does? We could use it as far as I''m concerned.¡± His grin returned. ¡°So much for your hear bleeding to the city''s woes. All that interests you is you. Save the righteous citizen offal for your fawns, Sinital.¡± He adjusted his leggings. Sinital stepped to the bedpost, reaching down to touch the silve pommel of Orr''s duelling sword. ¡°You should kill him and be done with it,¡± she said.


    ¡°Back to him again?¡± The councilman laughed as he rose. ¡°Your brain works with all the subtlety of a malicious child.¡± He collected his sword and strapped it on. ¡°It''s a wonder you wrested anything from that idiot husband of yours-you were so evenly matched in matters of cunning.¡±


    ¡°The easiest thing to break is a man''s heart,¡± Sinital said, with a private smile. She lay down on the bed. Stretching her arms and arching he back, she said, ¡°What about Moon''s Spawn? It''s still just hanging there.¡± Gazing down at her his eyes travelling along her body, the councilman replied distractedly, ¡°We''ve yet to work out a way to get a message up there. We''ve set up a tent in its shadow and stationed representatives in it but that mysterious lord just ignores us.¡±

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    ¡°Maybe he''s dead,¡± Sinital said, relaxing with a sigh. ¡°Maybe the Moon''s just sitting there because there''s nobody left alive inside. Have you thought of that, dear Councilman?¡±


    Turban Orr turned to the door. ¡°We have. I''ll see you tonight?¡±


    ¡°I want him killed,¡± Sinital said.


    The councilman reached for the latch. ¡°Maybe. I''ll see you tonight?¡± he asked again.


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    Turban Orr''s hand rested on the latch, then he opened the door an left the room.


    Lying on her bed, Lady Sinital sighed. Her thoughts shifted to a certain dandy, whose loss to a certain widow would be a most delicious coup.


    Murillio sipped spiced wine. ¡°The details are sketchy,¡± he said, making a face as the fiery alcohol stung his lips.


    In the street below a brilliantly painted carriage clattered past, draw by three white horses in black bridles. The man gripping the reins was robed in black and hooded. The horses tossed their heads, ears pinned back and eyes rolling, but the driver''s broad, veined hands held them in check. On either side of the carriage walked middle-aged women. Bronz cups sat on their shaved heads from which unfurled wavering streams of scented smoke.


    Murillio leaned against the railing and looked down upon the troupe.


    ¡°The bitch Fander''s being carted out,¡± he said. ¡°Bloody grim rituals, if you ask me.¡± He sat back in the plush chair and smiled at his companion, raising the goblet. ¡°The Wolf Goddess of Winter dies her seasonal death, on a carpet of white, no less. And in a week''s time the Gedderone F?te fills the streets with flowers, soon to clog gutters and block drains throughout the city.¡±


    The young woman across from him smiled, her eyes on her own goblet of wine, which she held in both hands like an offering. ¡°Which details were you referring to?¡± she asked, glancing up at him briefly.


    ¡°Details?¡±


    She smiled faintly. ¡°The sketchy ones.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Murillio waved one gloved hand dismissively. ¡°Lady Sinital''s version held that Councilman Lim had come in person to acknowledge her formal invitation.¡±


    ¡°Invitation? Do you mean to the festive she''s throwing on Gedderone''s Eve?¡±


    Murillio blinked. ¡°Of course. Surely your house has been invited?¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes. And you?¡±


    ¡°Alas, no,¡± Murillio said, smiling.


    Tfw- xxTnmnn 11 silent her eyelids lowering in thought. Murillio glanced back to the street below. He waited. Such things, after all, moved of their own accord, and even he could not guess the pace or track of a woman''s thoughts, especially when it had to do with sex. And this was most assuredly a play for favours-Murillio''s best game, and he always played it through. Never disappoint them, that was the key. The closest-held secret is the one that never sours with age.


    Few of the other tables on the balcony were occupied, the establishment''s noble patrons preferring the scented airs of the dining room within. Murillio found comfort in the buzzing life of the streets, and he knew his guest did too-at least in this instance. With all the noise rising from below, their chances of being overheard were slight.


    As his gaze wandered aimlessly along Morul''s Street of jewels, he stiffened slightly, eyes widening as they focused on a figure standing in a doorway opposite him. He shifted in his seat, dropping his left hand past the stone railing, out of the woman''s sight. Then he jerked it repeatedly, glaring down at the figure.


    Rallick Nom''s smile broadened. He stepped away from the doorway and strolled up the street, pausing to inspect an array of pearls laid out on an ebony table in front of a store. The proprietor took a nervous step forward then relaxed as Rallick moved on.


    Murillio sighed, leaning back and taking a mouthful of liquor. Idiot!


    The man''s face, his hands, his walk, his eyes, all said one thing: killer.


    Hell, even his wardrobe had all the warmth and vitality of an executioner''s uniform.


    When it came to subtlety Rallick Nom was sorely lacking. Which made this whole thing rather odd, that such a complex scheme could have been born from the assassin''s rigidly geometric brain. Still, whatever its origins, it was pure genius.


    ¡°Do you dearly wish to attend, Murillio?¡± the woman asked.


    Murillio smiled his warmest smile. He looked away. ¡°It''s a large estate, isn''t it?¡±


    ¡°Lady Sinital''s? Indeed, fraught with rooms.¡± The woman dipped one dainty finger into the pungent, fiery liquid, then raised it to her lips, inserting it into her mouth as if in afterthought. She continued studying the goblet in her other hand. ¡°I would expect a good many of the servants¡± quarters, though lacking in the simplest needs of luxury, will remain empty for much of the night.¡±

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    No clearer invitation did Murillio require. Rallick''s plan centred on this very moment, and its consequences. Still, adultery had one drawback. Murillio, had no desire to meet this woman''s husband on the duelling piste. He drove such disturbing thoughts away with another mouthful of wine. ¡°I would love to attend the Lady''s festival, on one condition.¡± He looked up and locked gazes with the woman. ¡°That you will grace me with your company that night-for an hour or two, that is.¡± His brow assumed a troubled furrow. ¡°I would not wish to impinge on your husband''s claim on you, of course.¡± Which is exactly what he would be doing, and they both knew it.


    ¡°Of course,¡± the woman replied, suddenly coy. ¡°That would be unseemly. How many invitations do you require?¡± ¡°Two,¡± he said. ¡°Best that I be seen with a companion.¡±


    ¡°Yes, it''s best.¡±


    Murillio glanced down at his now empty goblet with a rueful expression. Then he sighed. ¡°Alas, I must be taking my leave.¡±


    ¡°I admire your self-discipline,¡± the woman said.


    You won''t on Gedderone''s Eve, Murillio answered silently, as he rose from his chair. ¡°The Lady of Chance has graced me with this meeting of ours,¡± he said, bowing. ¡°Until the eve, Lady Orr.¡±


    ¡°Until then,¡± the councilman''s wife answered, seeming already to lose interest in him. ¡°Goodbye.¡±


    Murillio, bowed again, then left the balcony. Among the crowded tables more than a few noblewomen''s heavy-lidded eyes watched him leave.


    Morul''s Street of jewels ended at Sickle Gate. Rallick felt the wide eyes of the two guards beside the ramp following him as he passed through the passage between the massive stones of the Third Tier Wall. Ocelot had told him to make it plain, and while Murillio was of the opinion that only a blind man could ever mistake him for anything other than a killer, Rallick had taken pains to achieve the obvious.


    The guards did nothing, of course. Giving the appearance of being a murderer wasn''t the same as being one in truth. The city''s laws were strict in such things. He knew he might find himself being followed as he strode down the opulent streets of Higher Estates, but he''d leave them to it, making no effort to lose them. Darujhistan''s nobles paid good money to loose spies on to the streets day after day. Might as well make them earn their bread.


    Rallick had no sympathy for them. He did not, however, share the commoner''s hatred for the nobility. Their constant airs, prickly honours and endless squabbles made for good business, after all.


    When the Malazan Empire came that would end, he suspected. In the Empire, assassin guilds were illegal, and those of the trade who were deemed worthy were enlisted into the secret ranks of the Claw. As for those who weren''t considered worthy, they simply disappeared. The nobles didn''t fare much better, if the rumours from Pale held any truth.


    It would be a different world when the Empire came, and Rallick wasn''t sure he wanted to be part of it.


    Still, there were things left to achieve. He wondered if Murillio had succeeded in getting the invitations. Everything hinged on that. There''d been a long-drawn-out argument about it the night before. Murillio preferred widows. Adultery had never been his style. But Rallick had remained insistent, and finally Murillio had given in.


    The assassin still wondered about his friend''s reluctance. His first thought was that Murillio feared the possibility of a duel with Turban Orr. But Murillio was no slouch with a rapier. Rallick had practised with him in secluded places enough times to suspect that he was an Adept-and to that even Turban Orr could not make claim.


    No, it wasn''t fear that made Murillio shy from this part of the plan. It dawned on Rallick that there was a moral issue at stake. A whole new side of Murillio had revealed itself to Rallick then.


    He was pondering the implications when his gaze found a familiar face among the street''s crowd. He stopped and studied the surrounding buildings, and his eyes widened as he realized where his wanderings had taken him. His attention snapped back to the familiar figure appearing every few moments on the street''s opposite side. The assassin''s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.


    Beneath the mid-morning''s blue and silver hue, Crokus walked along Lakefront Street surrounded by the bedlam of merchants and shoppers.


    A dozen streets ahead rose the city hills beyond the Third Tier Wall. On the easternmost hill stood the K''rul belfry, its green-patched bronze scales glimmering in the sun''s light.


    To his mind the tower challenged Majesty Hall''s bright mien, gazing over the estates and buildings crouched on the lower hills with its rheumed eyes and history-scarred face-a jaded cast to its mocking gleam.

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    Crokus shared something of the tower''s imagined sardonic reserve for the pretence so rife in Majesty Hall, an emotion of his uncle''s that had seeped into the lad over the years. Adding fuel to this fire was a healthy dose of youthful resentment towards anything that smacked of authority.


    And though he gave it little thought, these provided the primary impulses for his thieving activities. Yet he''d never before understood the most subtle and hurtful insult his thefts delivered-the invasion and violation of privacy. Again and again, in his dreamy wanderings both day and night, the vision of the young woman asleep in her bed returned to him.


    Eventually Crokus grasped that the vision had everything to do with everything. He''d come into her room, a place where the noble brats drooling at her heels couldn''t enter, a place where she might talk to the ragged dolls of her childhood, when innocence didn''t just mean a flower not yet plucked. Her sanctuary. And he''d despoiled it, he''d snatched from this young woman her most precious possession: her privacy.


    No matter that she was the daughter of the D''Arles, that she was born to the pure blood-untainted by the Lady of Beggars¡± touch-that she would flow through life protected and shielded from the degradations of the real world. No matter any of these things. For Crokus, his crime against her was tantamount to rape. To have so boldly shattered her world:


    His thoughts a storm of self-recrimination, the young thief turned up the Charms of Anise Street, pushing through the crowds.


    In his mind the once-stalwart walls of righteous outrage were crumbling. The hated nobility had shown him a face that now haunted him with its beauty, and tugged him in a hundred unexpected directions.


    The sweet scents of the spice stores, wafting like perfume on the warming breeze, had unaccountably lodged a nameless emotion in his throat.


    The shouts of Daru children playing in the alleys brimmed his eyes w?h sentimental maundering.


    Crokus strode through Clove Gate and entered Osserc Narrow.


    Directly ahead rose the ramp leading into Higher Estates. As he approached he had to move quickly to one side to avoid a large carriage coming up on him from behind. He didn''t need to see the crest adorning the carriage''s side panel to recognize its house. The horses snapped and kicked, surging forward heedless of anyone or anything in their path.


    Crokus paused to watch the carriage clatter up the ramp, people scattering to either side. From what he''d heard of Councilman Turban Orr, it seemed the duellist''s horses matched his contempt for those he supposedly served.


    By the time he reached the Orr estate the carriage had already passed through the outer gate. Four burly private guards had resumed their station to either side. The wall at their backs rose a full fifteen feet, topped with rusty iron cuttings set in sun-baked clay. Pumice torches lined the wall at ten-foot intervals. Crokus strolled past the gate, ignoring the guards. At the base the wall looked to be about four feet in breadth, the rough-hewn bricks a standard squared foot. He continued on along the street, then turned right to check the wall fronting the alley.


    A single service door, tarred oak banded in bronze, was set in this wall at the nearest corner.


    And no guard. The shadows of the opposite estate draped a heavy cloak across the narrow aisle. Crokus entered the damp, musty darkness.


    He had travelled half the length of the alley when a hand closed around his mouth from behind and a dagger''s sharp point pressed against his side. Crokus froze, then grunted as the hand pulled his face round. He found himself looking into familiar eyes.


    Rallick Nom withdrew his dagger and stepped back, a severe frown marring his brow. Crokus gaped then licked his lips. ¡°Rallick, Beru''s Heart, you scared me!¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± the assassin said. He came close. ¡°Listen carefully, Crokus.


    You''ll not try Orr''s estate. You''ll not go near it again.¡±


    The thief shrugged. ¡°It was just a thought, Nom.¡±


    ¡°Kill it,¡± Rallick said.


    His lips thinning into a straight line, Crokus nodded. ¡°All right.¡± He turned and headed towards the strip of bright sunlight marking the next street. He felt Rallick''s eyes on him until he stepped out on to Traitor''s Track. He stopped. Off to his left climbed High Gallows Hill, its immaculate flowered slope a burst of colours surrounding the fifty-three Winding Steps. The five nooses above the platform swung slightly in the breeze, their shadows streaks of black reaching down the slope to the cobbles of the street. It had been a long time since the last High Criminal was hanged, while off in the Gadrobi District the Low Gallows¡± ropes were replaced weekly due to stretching. An odd contrast to mark these tense times.

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    Abruptly, he shook his head. Avoiding the turmoil of questions was too much of an effort. Had Nom followed him? No, a lesser likelihood than the assassin having marked Orr or someone in the estate for murder.


    A bold contract. He wondered who had had the guts to offer it-a fellow noble, no doubt. But the courage of the contract''s offering paled when compared to Rallick''s accepting it.


    In any case, the weight of the assassin''s warning was enough to crush any idea of thieving Orr''s estate-at least for now. Crokus jammed his hands into his pockets. As he walked, his thoughts lost in a maze of dead ends, he frowned with the realization that one of his hands, probing deep in the pocket, had closed around a coin.


    He withdrew it. Yes, it was the coin he''d found on the night of the assassinations. He recalled its inexplicable appearance, clattering at his feet an instant before the assassin''s crossbow quarrel whizzed past.


    Beneath the bright morning light Crokus now took the time to examine it. The first side he held up before him displayed the profile of a young man, with an amused expression, wearing some kind of floppy hat. Tiny rune-like lettering ran around the edge-a language the thief didn''t recognize as it was so very different from the cursive Daru script with which he was familiar.


    Crokus turned the coin. How odd! Another head, this one a woman''s facing the other way. The etched script here was of a style different from the opposite side, a kind of left-slanting hatchwork. The woman looked young, with features similar to the man''s; her expression held nothing of amusement, seeming to the thief''s eyes cold and unyielding.


    The metal was old, streaked here and there with raw copper and pitted around the faces with rough tin. The coin felt surprisingly heavy, though he concluded that its only worth lay in its uniqueness. He''d seen the coinage of Callows, Genabackis, Amat El and, once, the ridged bars of the Seguleh, but none had looked like this one.


    Where had it fallen from? Had his clothing picked it up somewhere, or had he kicked it into motion while crossing the roof? Or had it been among the D''Arle maiden''s treasure? Crokus shrugged. In any case, its arrival had been timely.


    By this time his walk had taken him to the East Gate. Just outside the city wall and along the road called Jatem''s Worry, crouched the handful of sagging buildings named Worrytown: the thief''s destination. The gate remained open during daylight hours, and a slow-plodding line of vegetable-carts crowded the narrow passage. Among them, he saw as he pushed his way along one edge, were the first wagonloads of refugees from Pale, those who''d managed to slip through the siege lines during the battle and had crossed the south Rhivi Plain and then through the Gadrobi Hills and finally on to Jatem''s Worry. Scanning their faces he saw a fiery desperation dulled by exhaustion: they looked upon the city with a jaded eye towards its meagre defences, realizing that they''d bought only a short measure of time with their flight, yet too tired to care.


    Disturbed by what he saw, Crokus hurried through the gate and approached Worrytown''s largest structure, a rambling wooden tavern.


    Over the door hung a board on which had been painted, decades ago, a three-legged ram. To the thief''s mind, the painting had nothing to do with the tavern''s name, which was the Boar''s Tears. The coin still in one hand, Crokus entered and paused just inside.


    A few desultory faces turned to regard him briefly, then swung back to their cups. At a table in a gloomy corner opposite, Crokus saw a familiar figure, its hands raised above its head and gesticulating wildly. A grin tugged the thief''s lips, and he strode forward.


    ¡°: and then did Kruppe sweep with motion so swift as to be unseen by any the king''s crown and sceptre from the sarcophagus lid. Too many priests in this tomb, thinks Kruppe then, one less ¡°twould be a relief to all lest the dead king''s musty breath shorten and so awaken his wraith.


    ¡°Many times afore this had Kruppe faced a wraith''s wrath in some deep pit of D''rek, droning its list of life-crimes and bemoaning its need to devour my soul-harrah! Kruppe was ever too elusive for such sundry spirits and their knock-kneed chatter-¡±


    Crokus laid a hand on Kruppe''s damp shoulder, and the shiny round face swung up to observe him. ¡°Ah!¡± Kruppe exclaimed, waving a hand towards his lone companion at the table and explaining, ¡°An apprentice past comes to fawn in due fashion! Crokus, be seated by all means possible. Wench! Some more of your finest wine, haste!¡± Crokus eyed the man seated opposite Kruppe. ¡°Seems you two might be busy right now.¡±


    Hope flared in the man''s expression and he rose quickly. ¡°Oh, no,¡± he exclaimed. ¡°By all means interrupt.¡± His eyes darted to Kruppe then back to Crokus. ¡°I must be leaving in any event, I assure you! Good day to you, Kruppe. Until some other time, then.¡± The man bobbed his head then departed.

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    ¡°Precipitous creature,¡± Kruppe muttered, reaching for the mug of wine the man had left behind. ¡°Ah, look at this,¡± he said, frowning up at Crokus, ¡°nigh two-thirds full. A potential waste!¡± Kruppe drank it down in one swift gulp, then sighed. ¡°Said potential averted, Dessembrae be praised.¡±


    Crokus sat. ¡°Was that man your trader contact?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Heavens, no.¡± Kruppe waved a hand. ¡°A poor refugee from Pale, wandering lost. Fortunate for him was Kruppe, whose brilliant insights have sent him-¡±


    ¡°Straight out the door,¡± Crokus finished, laughing.


    Kruppe scowled.


    The serving woman arrived with an earthen carafe of sour-smelling wine. Kruppe refilled the mugs. ¡°And now, wonders Kruppe, what would this expertly trained lad seek from this one-time master of all arts nefarious? Or have you triumphed yet again and come with booty atucked, seeking proper dispensation and the like?¡±


    ¡°Well, yes-I mean, no, not quite.¡± Crokus glanced around, then leaned forward. ¡°It''s about last time,¡± he whispered. ¡°I knew you''d be out here to sell the stuff I brought you.¡±


    Kruppe leaned forward to meet the lad, their faces inches apart. ¡°The D''Arle acquisition?¡± he whispered back, waggling his eyebrows.


    ¡°Exactly! Have you sold it off yet?¡±


    Kruppe pulled a handkerchief from a sleeve and mopped his brow.


    ¡°What with all this talk of war, the traders¡± routes are all amiss. So, to answer your question, uhm, not quite yet, admits Kruppe-¡±


    ¡°Great!¡±


    Kruppe started at the lad''s shout, his eyes squeezing shut. When they opened again they were thin slits. ¡°Ah, Kruppe understands. The lad wishes their return to his possession so that he might seek higher recompense elsewhere?¡±


    Crokus blinked. ¡°No, of course not. I mean, yes, I want it back. But I''m not planning on fencing it anywhere. That is, I''m still dealing with you on everything else. Only this one''s special.¡± As he spoke Crokus felt heat rise to his face, and was thankful for the gloom. ¡°A special case, Kruppe.¡±


    A broad smile broke on Kruppe''s round face. ¡°Why, most certainly, then, lad. Shall I deliver said items to you this eve? Excellent, consider the matter closed. Pray, tell, what do you have in yon hand there?¡±


    Crokus stared in confusion, then he glanced down at his hand. ¡°Oh, just a coin,¡± he explained, showing it to Kruppe. ¡°I picked it up the same night I thieved D''Arle''s. Two-headed, see?¡±


    ¡°Indeed? May Kruppe examine the peculiar item more closely?¡±


    Crokus obliged, then reached for the mug of wine. He leaned back. ¡°I was thinking of Orr''s estate next,¡± he said casually, his eyes fixed on Kruppe.


    ¡°Mmm.¡± Kruppe turned the coin in his hand again and again. ¡°Poorest quality cast,¡± he muttered. ¡°Crooked stamping, too. Orr''s estate, you say? Kruppe advises caution. The house is well protected. The metallurgist who foundried this should have been hanged, indeed, probably was, thinks Kruppe. Black copper, no less. Cheap tin, temperatures all too cool. Favour me, Crokus? Peruse the scene in the street from yon door. If you spy a red and green merchant''s wagon wobbling into town, Kruppe would be much obliged for such information.¡±


    Crokus rose and crossed the room to the door. Opening it he stepped outside and glanced around. Seeing no wagon in sight, the youth shrugged again and went back inside. He returned to the table. ¡°No merchant wagon.¡±


    ¡°Ah, well,¡± Kruppe said. He set down the coin on the table. ¡°Altogether worthless, judges wise Kruppe. You may part with it at your leisure.¡±


    Crokus collected the coin and slipped it into his pocket. ¡°No, I''m keeping it. For good luck.¡±


    Kruppe looked up, his eyes bright, but Crokus had his attention on the mug in his hands. The fat man glanced away, sighing. ¡°Kruppe must needs depart immediately, if this eve''s rendezvous is to be propitious for all involved.¡±


    Crokus drained his wine. ¡°We can head back together.¡±


    ¡°Excellent.¡± Kruppe rose, pausing to brush crumbs from his chest.


    ¡°Shall we be off, then?¡± He looked up to see Crokus frowning down at his hand. ¡°Has something smitten the lad?¡± he asked quickly.


    Crokus started. He looked away guiltily, the colour rising in his face.


    ¡°No,¡± he mumbled. He glanced again at his hand. ¡°I must''ve picked up some wax somewhere,¡± he explained. He rubbed his hand on his leg and grinned sheepishly. ¡°Let''s go.¡±

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    ¡°It will be a fine day for a walk, pronounces Kruppe, who is wise in all things.¡±


    White Gold''s Round encircled an abandoned tower with a panoply of brightly dyed awnings. The goldsmith merchant shops, each with their own security guards loitering outside, faced out on the round street, the aisles between them narrow cracks leading to the tower''s ruined compound.


    The many tales of death and madness surrounding Hinter''s Tower and its environs kept it empty and, uppermost in the minds of the goldsmiths, an unlikely approach to their precious stores.


    As the afternoon waned towards dusk, the Round''s crowds thinned and the private guards grew more wary. Iron grilles rattled into place over storefronts here and there, and among the few that remained open, torches were ignited.


    Murillio entered the Round from the Third Tier Road, pausing every now and then to examine a shopkeeper''s wares. Wrapped in a shimmering blue cloak from the Malle Waste, Murillio knew his ostentatious display of wealth would do much to allay suspicion.


    He came to one shop in particular, framed on either side by unlit stores.


    The goldsmith, narrow-faced and pebble-nosed, leaned hawkishly on his counter, his weathered hands before him bearing tiny grey scars that looked like raven tracks on mud. One finger tapped a restless beat. Murillio approached, meeting the man''s beetle eyes.


    ¡°Is this the shop of Krute of Talient?¡±


    ¡°I''m Krute,¡± the goldsmith grated sourly, as if disgruntled with his lot in life. ¡°Talient pearls, set in Bloodgold from the mines of Moap and Belt, none other to be found in all Darujhistan.¡± He leaned forward and spat past Murillio, who involuntarily stepped to one side.


    ¡°No customers this day?¡± he asked, pulling a handkerchief from his sleeve and touching his lips.


    Krute''s gaze tightened. ¡°Only one,¡± he said. ¡°Perused a cache of Goaliss gems, rare as dragon''s milk and suckled from rock as grim. A hundred slaves lost to each stone prised from the angry veins.¡± Krute''s shoulders jerked and his eyes darted. ¡°Out the back I keep them, lest temptation spatter the street with blood, and like.¡±


    Murillio nodded. ¡°Sound practice. Did he purchase any?¡±


    Krute grinned, revealing blackened stumps for teeth. ¡°One, but not the best. Come, I''ll show you.¡± He went to the side door and opened it.


    ¡°Through here, then.¡±


    Murillio entered the shop. Black curtains covered the walls, and the air was musty with old sweat. Krute led him into the back room, which if anything was more rank and stifling than the first. The goldsmith dropped the curtain between the two rooms and faced Murillio.


    ¡°Move quickly! I''ve laid out a horde of fool''s gold and worthless stones on the counter out front. If any sharp-eyed customer marks them this hole will be finished.¡± He kicked at the back wall and a panel swung from its hinges. ¡°Crawl through, dammit, and tell Rallick that the Guild is not pleased with his generosity regarding our secrets. Go!¡±


    Murillio fell to his knees and pushed his way through the portal, the earthen floor damp beneath his hands and staining his knees. He groaned his distaste as the door swung down behind him, then climbed to his feet.


    Before him rose Hinter''s Tower, its mould-ridden stone walls glistening in the dying light. An overgrown cobbled pathway led up to the arched entrance bereft of a door and heavy with shadows. Of the chamber within Murillio saw only darkness.


    Roots from the scraggy scrub oaks lining the path had pushed most of the cobbles up from the earth, making the way treacherous. After a cautious minute Murillio arrived at the doorway. He narrowed his gaze and tried to pierce the darkness. ¡°Rallick?¡± he hissed. "Where the hell are you?¡± A voice spoke behind him. ¡°You''re late.¡±


    Murillio spun, a long, thin duelling rapier in his left hand rasping from its sheath and sweeping low into guard position, a main-gauche appearing in his right hand as he dropped into a defensive crouch, then relaxed.


    ¡°Dammit, Rallick!¡±


    The assassin grunted in amusement, eyeing the rapier''s razor-sharp tip, which had but a moment earlier hovered inches from his solar plexis.


    ¡°Good to see your reflexes have not dulled, friend. All that wine and those pastries seem not to have girdled you: much.¡±


    Murillio resheathed his weapons. ¡°I expected to find you in the tower.¡±


    Eyes widening, Rallick said, ¡°Are you mad? The place is haunted.¡±


    ¡°You mean that''s not just a story you assassins made up to keep people away?¡±


    Rallick turned and made his way to a lower terrace that had once overlooked the garden. White stone benches squatted in the wiry yellow grass like the stained bones of some gargantuan beast. Below the terrace, Murillio saw as he joined the assassin, sprawled a muddy, algae-filled pond. Frogs croaked and mosquitoes buzzed in the tepid air. ¡°Some nights,¡± Rallick said as he brushed dead leaves from one of the benches, ¡°wraiths crowd the entrance-you can walk right up to them, listen to their pleas and threats. They all want out.¡± He sat down.

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    Murillio remained standing, his gaze on the tower. ¡°What of Hinter himself? Does his wraith number among them?¡±


    ¡°No. The madman sleeps within, or so it''s said. The wraiths are trapped in the sorcerer''s nightmares-he holds on to them, and even Hood cannot draw them to his cold bosom. Do you wish to know where those wraiths have come from, Murillio?¡± Rallick grinned. ¡°Enter the tower, and you''ll discover it first hand.¡±


    Murillio had been about to go into the tower when Rallick had surprised him. ¡°Thanks for the warning,¡± he snapped sarcastically, gathering his cloak and sitting down.


    Rallick waved the mosquitoes from his face. ¡°Well?¡±


    ¡°I have them,¡± Murillio said. ¡°Lady Orr''s most trusted hand-servant delivered them this afternoon.¡± He removed from inside his cloak a bamboo tube tied in blue ribbon. ¡°Two invitations to Lady Sinital''s F?te, as promised.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± The assassin looked quickly at his friend. ¡°You''ve not seen Kruppe''s nose twitch?¡±


    ¡°Not yet. Ran into him this afternoon. Seems Crokus is making some bizarre demands. Of course,¡± Murillio added, scowling, ¡°who can tell when Kruppe''s caught wind of something? In any case, I''ve seen nothing to suggest the slippery little gnome suspects we''re up to anything.¡±


    ¡°What was that you said about Crokus making bizarre demands?¡±


    ¡°A peculiar thing, that,¡± Murillio mused. ¡°When I dropped by the Phoenix Inn this afternoon Kruppe was delivering to the lad the pickings from his last job. Now, surely Crokus hasn''t abandoned Kruppe as his fence-we all would''ve caught wind of that.¡±


    ¡°That was from an estate, wasn''t it? Whose?¡± Rallick asked.


    ¡°D''Arle''s,¡± Murillio answered, then his eyebrows rose. ¡°Kiss of Gedderone! The D''Arle maiden! The ripe one with the cheeks-she''s being shown at damn near every gathering, all the frilly lads leaving a trail for the mop-boys. Oh, my! Our young thief is perchance smitten, and now keeps her baubles for himself. Of all the hopeless dreams a boy could have, he''s reached for the worst.¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± Rallick said quietly. ¡°Maybe not. A word to his uncle. .¡±


    Murillio''s pained expression lifted. ¡°A nudge in the right direction? Yes, finally! Marnmot will be pleased-¡±


    ¡°Patience,¡± Rallick interjected. ¡°Turning a thieving child into a man of standing and learning will require more work than a swooning heart will manage.¡±


    Murillio frowned. ¡°Well, forgive me for being so excited at the prospect of saving the lad''s life.¡±


    Rallick''s smile was soft. ¡°Never regret such pleasure,¡± he said.


    Catching the assassin''s tone, Murillio sighed, the sharp edges of his sarcasm sinking away. ¡°It''s been many years since we had so many things of hope to strive for,¡± he said quietly.


    ¡°The path to one will be bloody,¡± Rallick said. ¡°Don''t forget that. But, yes, it''s been a long time. I wonder if Kruppe even remembers such days.¡±


    Murillio snorted. ¡°Kruppe''s memory is revised hourly. All that holds him together is fear of being discovered.¡±


    Rallick''s eyes darkened. ¡°Discovered?¡±


    His friend seemed far away but then he collected himself and smiled.


    ¡°Oh, worn suspicions, no more. He''s a slippery one, is Kruppe.¡±


    Rallick chuckled at Murillio''s mocking syntax. He studied the pond before them. ¡°Yes,¡± he agreed, after a time, ¡°he''s the slippery one, all right.¡± He stood. ¡°Krute will be wanting to close up. The Round''s asleep by now.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    The two men left the terrace, methane mists swirling around their legs.


    As they reached the path Murillio turned for a look at the tower''s doorway, wondering if he could see the gibbering wraiths, but all he saw beneath the sagging arch was a wall of darkness. In some strange way he found that more disturbing than any horde of lost souls he might imagine.


    Bright morning sunlight flowed in from the broad windows of Baruk''s study, and a warm wind slipped into the room carrying the smells and noises from the street below. The alchemist, still dressed in his nightclothes, sat on a high stool at the map table. He held a brush in one hand, dipping it now and again into an ornate silver inkwell.


    The red ink had been watered down. He painted wash on the map, covering the areas now held by the Malazan Empire. Fully one half of the map-the north half-was red. A small clear strip just south of Blackdog Forest marked Caladan Brood''s forces, flanked on either side by two smaller patches indicating the Crimson Guard. The red wash surrounded these clear spots and extended down to engulf Pale, ending on the north edge of the Tahlyn Mountains.

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    The street noises had become quite loud, Baruk noted, as he leaned close to the map to paint the red tide''s southern border. Construction work, he concluded, hearing the squeal of winches and a voice bellowing at passers-by. The sounds died away, then there came a loud crack!


    Baruk jumped, his right forearm jerking out and knocking over the inkwell. The red ink poured across his map.


    Cursing, Baruk sat back. His eyes widened as he watched the spreading stain cover Darujhistan and continue south to Catlin. He stepped down from the stool, reaching for a cloth to wipe his hands, more than a little shaken by what could easily be taken as an omen. He walked across the chamber to the window, bent forward and looked down.


    A crew of workers was busy tearing up the street directly below. Two burly men swung picks while three others formed a line passing the shattered cobblestones to a growing pile on the pavement. The foreman stood nearby, his back to a wagon, studying a parchment scroll.


    Baruk frowned. ¡°Who''s in charge of road maintenance?¡± he wondered aloud.


    A soft knock diverted his attention. ¡°Yes?¡±


    His servant, Roald, took a single step into the room. ¡°One of your agents has arrived, Lord.¡±


    Baruk flicked a glance at the map table. ¡°Have him wait a moment, Roald.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Lord.¡± The servant stepped back and closed the door.


    The alchemist walked over to the table and rolled up the ruined map.


    From the hallway came a 1"-ua voice- i6kkovieA''b-Y a murmur. Baruk slid the map on to a shelf and turned in time to see the agent enter, on his trail a xxx. Waving at Roald to leave, Baruk gazed down at the gaudily dressed man. ¡°Good day, Kruppe.¡±


    Roald stepped out and softly shut the door.


    ¡°More than good, Baruk, dear friend of Kruppe. Truly wonderful! Have you partaken of the morn''s fresh air?¡±


    Baruk glanced at the window. ¡°Unfortunately,¡± he said,¡± the air outside my window has become rather dusty.¡±


    Kruppe paused. His arms returned to his sides, then he reached into a sleeve and withdrew his handkerchief. He patted his brow. ¡°Ah, yes, the road workers. Kruppe passed them on his way in. A rather belligerent lot, thinks Kruppe. Indeed, rude, but hardly exceptional for such menial labourers.¡±


    Baruk gestured to a chair.


    With a beatific smile Kruppe sat. ¡°Such a hot day,¡± he said, eyeing the carafe of wine on the mantelpiece.


    Ignoring this, Baruk strode to the window then turned his back to it.


    He studied the man, wondering if he would ever catch a glimpse of what lay beyond Kruppe''s cherubic demeanour. ¡°What have you heard?¡± he asked softly.


    ¡°What has Kruppe heard? What hasn''t Kruppe heard!¡±


    Baruk raised an eyebrow. ¡°How about brevity?¡±


    The man shifted in the chair and mopped his forehead. ¡°Such heat.¡±


    Seeing Baruk''s expression harden, he continued, ¡°Now, as for news.¡± He leaned forward, his voice falling to a whisper. ¡°''Tis muttered in corners in the bars, in dark doorways of dank streets, in the nefarious shadows of nocturnal night, in-¡±


    ¡°Get on with it!¡±


    ¡°Yes, of course. Well, Kruppe has caught wind of a rumour. An assassin''s war, no less. The Guild is taking losses, ¡°tis said.¡±


    Baruk turned back to the window, his eyes on the street below. ¡°And where do the thieves stand?¡±


    ¡°The rooftops are getting crowded. Throats are being slit. Profits have plummeted.¡±


    ¡°Where''s Rallick?¡±


    Kruppe blinked. ¡°He''s disappeared,¡± he said. ¡°Kruppe has not seen him in days.¡±


    ¡°This assassin''s war, it isn''t internal?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Has this new force been identified, then?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    Baruk''s gaze intensified. Below, the street workers seemed to spend more time arguing than working. An assassin''s war could be trouble.


    Vorcan''s Guild was strong, but the Empire was stronger, if indeed these newcomers were Claws. But something felt decidedly odd about the whole thing. In the past the Empress used such local guilds, often recruited from them. The alchemist could discern no purpose behind such a war, and that was even more disturbing to him than the war itself.


    Hearing a shuffling behind him, he remembered his agent. He turned and smiled. ¡°You can go now.¡±


    Something flashed in Kruppe''s eyes that startled Baruk. The fat man rose in a single fluid motion. ¡°Kruppe has more to tell, Master Baruk.¡±


    Bemused, the alchemist nodded for Kruppe to continue.

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    ¡°The tale is arduous and confused, alas,¡± he said, striding to join Baruk at the window. His handkerchief had disappeared. ¡°Kruppe can only surmise as best a man of innumerable talents may. In moments of leisure, during games of chance and the like. In the aura of the Twins an Adept may hear, see, smell, and touch things as insubstantial as the wind. A taste of Lady Luck, the bitter warning of the Lord''s Laughter.¡± Kruppe''s gaze snapped to the alchemist. ¡°Do you follow, Master?¡±


    His eyes riveted on the man''s round face, Baruk said quietly, ¡°You speak of Oponn.¡±


    Kruppe looked back down at the street. ¡°Perhaps. Perhaps a grim feint meant to mislead such as foolish Kruppe-¡±


    Foolish? Baruk smiled inwardly. Not this man.


    ¡°Who who can say?¡± Kruppe raised a hand, showing in his palm a flat disc of wax. ¡°An item,¡± he said softly, his eyes on the disc, ¡°that passes without provenance, pursued by many who thirst for its cold kiss, on which life and all that lay within life is often gambled. Alone, a beggar''s crown. In great numbers, a king''s folly. Weighted with ruin, yet blood washes from it beneath the lightest rain, and to the next no hint of its cost. It is as it is, says Kruppe, worthless but for those who insist otherwise.¡±


    Baruk was holding his breath. His lungs burned, yet it was an effort to release them. Kruppe''s words had drawn him into something-a place, hinting of vast stores of knowledge and the sure, unfailing, epreci_e hand that had gathered it, marked it on parchment. A library, shelves of black wood in sharp relief, tomes bound to shiny leather, yellowed scrolls, a pitted, stained desk-Baruk felt he had but stolen a single glance into this chamber. Kruppe''s mind, the secret place with its door locked to all but one. ¡°You speak,¡± Baruk said slowly, fighting to pull back into reality by focusing on the wax disc in Kruppe''s hand, ¡°of a coin.¡±


    Kruppe''s hand snapped shut. He turned and set the disc down on the window-sill. ¡°Examine this semblance, Master Baruk. It marks both sides of a single coin.¡± The handkerchief reappeared and Kruppe stepped back, dabbing his brow. ¡°My, but it is hot, says Kruppe!¡±


    ¡°Help yourself to some wine,¡± Baruk murmured. As the man left his side the alchemist opened his Warren. He gestured and the wax disc rose into the air, slowly moving to hover before him at eye-level. He studied the imprint facing him. ¡°The Lady,¡± he muttered, nodding. The disc turned, revealing to him the Lord. The disc turned again, and Baruk''s eyes widened as it began spinning. A whirring sound filled the back of his head. He felt his Warren resisting a pressure that grew with the sound, then his source collapsed.


    Faintly, as if from a great distance, he heard Kruppe speak. ¡°Even in this semblance, Master Baruk, blows the Twins¡± breath. No mage''s Warren can withstand that wind.¡±


    The disc still spun in the air in front of Baruk, a silver blur. A fine mist expanded around it. Hot droplets spattered his face and he stepped back.


    Blue fire flickered from the melting wax, the disc dwindling rapidly. A moment later it vanished, and the spinning sound and its accompanying pressure stopped abruptly.


    The sudden silence filled Baruk''s head with pain. He laid a trembling hand on the window-sill for support, then closed his eyes. ¡°Who carries the Coin, Kruppe?¡± His voice rasped from his constricted throat. ¡°Who?¡±


    Kruppe once again stood at his side. ¡°A lad,¡± he answered casually. ¡°Known to Kruppe, assuredly so, as well as to your other agents, Murillio, Rallick and Coll.¡±


    Baruk''s eyes reopened. ¡°That can''t be a coincidence,¡± he hissed, a desperate hope rising to struggle against the terror he felt. Oponn had entered the gambit, and in such reaches of power the life of a city and those within it meant nothing. He glared at Kruppe. ¡°Gather the group, then. All you''ve named. They''ve served my interests for a long time, and they must do so now, above all other concerns. Do you understand me?¡±


    ¡°Kruppe will convey your insistence. Rallick perchance is bound to Guild duties, while Coll, given purpose in life once again, might well steady his gaze and tread and take this mission to heart. Master Baruk? What is the mission, by the way?¡±


    ¡°Protect the Coinbearer. Watch him, mark whose face rests on him benign or foul. I must know if the Lady has him, or the Lord. And, Kruppe, for this, find Rallick. If the Lord claims the Coinbearer, the assassin''s talents will be required.¡±


    Kruppe blinked. ¡°Understood. Alas, may mercy smile upon young Crokus.¡±


    ¡°Crokus?¡± Baruk frowned. ¡°That''s a name I know.¡±

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    Kruppe''s face remained blank.


    ¡°Never mind. Very well, Kruppe.¡± He turned back to the window once again. ¡°Keep me informed.¡±


    ¡°As always, Baruk, Kruppe''s friend.¡± The man bowed. ¡°And thank you for the wine, it was most delicious.¡±


    Baruk heard the door open then close. He gazed down the street. He''d managed to clamp a hold on his fear. Oponn had a way of making ruins of the most finely wrought plans. Baruk despised that prospect of chance operating in his affairs. He could no longer rely on his ability to predict, to prepare contingencies, to work out every possibility and seek out the one best suited to his desires. As the Coin spun, thus the city.


    Added to this the mysterious ways of the Empress. Baruk rubbed his brow. He''d have to instruct Roald to bring him some healing tea. His headache was reaching debilitating proportions. As he brought his hand down past his face his eyes caught a flash of red. He raised both palms into view. Red ink stained them. He leaned forward on the window-sill.


    Through a sparkling cloud of dust, Darujhistan''s rooftops sprawled, and the harbour beyond. ¡°And you, Empress,¡± he whispered. ¡°I know you''re here, somewhere. Your pawns move unseen as yet, but I will find them.


    Be sure of that, with or without Oponn''s damned luck.¡±


    BOOK THREE-THE MISSION


    Marionettes dance afield beneath masterly hands-


    I stumble among them crossed by the strings in tangled two-step and curse all these fools in their mad pirouette-


    I shall not live as they do oh, no, leave me in my circled dance-


    these unbidden twitchings you see I swear on Hood''s Grave is artistry in motion


    Sayings of the Fool Theny Bule (b?)


    CHAPTER EIGHT


    He stepped down then among women and men, the sigil stripped in her foul cleansing of Emperor and First Sword so tragic this treachery. .


    He was of the Old Guard commanding the honed edge of Empire''s fury, and so in stepping down but not away he remained the remembrance before her eyes, the curse of conscience she would not stand.


    A price was placed before him that he glanced over in first passing unknowing and so unprepared in stepping down among women and men, he found what he''d surrendered and damned -


    A quarter-hour before dawn the sky held the colour of iron, shot through with streaks of rust. Sergeant Whiskeyjack squatted upon a dome of bedrock up from the pebble beach gazing out over the misty calm surface of Lake Azur. Far to the south on the lake''s opposite shore, rose the faint glow of Darujhistan.


    The mountain crossing of the night just past had been hell, the Quorl tossed about in the midst of three warring thunderheads. It was a miracle no one had been lost. The rain had since stopped, leaving the air cool and clammy.


    He heard the sound of boots accompanied by a clicking noise behind him. Whiskeyjack turned and straightened. Kalam and a Black Moranth approached, picking their way through the mossy tumble of rocks at the base of the slope. Behind them rose the shadowed redwood forest, the patched trunks standing like bearded sentinels against the mountainside.


    The sergeant drew a deep breath of the chill morning air.


    ¡°Everything''s fine,¡± Kalam said. ¡°The Green Moranth delivered as ordered, and more. Fiddler and Hedge are two happy sappers.¡±


    Whiskeyjack raised an eyebrow. He turned to the Black Moranth. ¡°I thought your munitions were getting scarce.¡±


    The creature''s face remained in shadow beneath the hinged helmet.


    The words that came from it seemed born from a cavern, hollow and faintly echoing. ¡°Selectively, Bird That Steals. You are well known to us, Bridgeburner. You tread the enemy''s shadow. From the Moranth, assistance will never be scarce.¡±


    Surprised, Whiskeyjack looked away, the skin tightening around his eyes.


    The Moranth continued. ¡°You asked of the fate of one of our kind. A warrior with but one arm, who fought at your side in the streets of Nathilog many years ago. He lives still.¡±


    The sergeant took a deep breath of the sweet forest air. ¡°Thank you,¡± he said.


    ¡°We wish that the blood you next find on your hands is your enemy''s, Bird That Steals.¡±


    He frowned, then gave a brusque nod and turned his attention back to Kalam. ¡°What else?¡±


    The assassin''s face became expressionless. ¡°Quick Ben''s ready,¡± he said.


    ¡°Good. Gather the others. I''ll be laying out my plan.¡±


    ¡°Your plan, Sergeant?¡±


    ¡°Mine,¡± Whiskeyjack said firmly. ¡°The one devised by the Empress and her tacticians is being rejected, as of now. We''re doing it my way. Get going, Corporal.¡±

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    Kalam saluted then left.


    Whiskeyjack stepped down from the rock, his boots sinking into the moss. ¡°Tell me, Moranth, might a squadron of your Black be patrolling this area two weeks from now?¡±


    The Moranth''s head swivelled audibly towards the lake. ¡°Such unscheduled patrols are common. I expect to command one myself in two weeks¡± time.¡±


    Whiskeyjack gazed steadily at the black-armoured warrior standing beside him. ¡°I''m not quite sure how to take that,¡± he said eventually.


    The warrior faced him. ¡°We are not so unalike,¡± he said. ¡°In our eyes deeds have measure. We judge. We act upon our judgements. As in Pale, we match spirit with spirit.¡±


    The sergeant frowned. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Eighteen thousand seven hundred and thirty-nine souls departed in the purge of Pale. One for each Moranth confirmed as a victim of Pale''s history of enmity towards us. Spirit with spirit, Bird That Steals.¡±


    Whiskeyjack found he had no response. The Moranth''s next words shook him deeply.


    ¡°There are worms within your empire''s flesh. But such degradation is natural in all bodies. Your people''s infection is not yet fatal. it can be scoured clean. The Moranth are skilled at such efforts.¡±


    ¡°How exactly,¡± Whiskeyjack paused, choosing his words carefully, ¡°do you intend this scouring?¡± He recalled the wagons piled with corpses winding out of Pale, and struggled against the ice tingling along his spine.


    ¡°Spirit with spirit,¡± the Moranth answered, returning his attention to the city on the south shore. ¡°We depart for now. You will find us here in two weeks¡± time, Bird That Steals.¡±


    Whiskeyjack watched the Black Moranth walk away, pushing through the thicket surrounding the clearing where his riders waited. A moment later he heard the rapid thud of wings, then the Quorl rose above the trees. The Moranth circled once overhead, then turned north, slipping between the bearded boles and heading upslope.


    The sergeant sat down on the bedrock again, his eyes on the ground as the members of his squad arrived, hunkering down around him. He remained silent, seeming unaware that he had company, his brow furrowed and jaw bunching as he ground his molars with a slow, steady precision.


    ¡°Sarge?¡± Fiddler said quietly.


    Startled, Whiskeyjack looked up. He drew a deep breath. Everyone had gathered with the exception of Quick Ben. He''d leave Kalam to fill in the wizard later. ¡°All right. The original plan''s been scrapped, since it was intended to get us all killed. I didn''t like that part, so we''ll do it my way and hopefully get out alive.¡±


    ¡°We ain''t going to mine the city gates?¡± Fiddler asked, glancing at Hedge.


    ¡°No,¡± the sergeant answered. ¡°We''ll put those Moranth munitions to better use. Two objectives, two teams. Kalam will lead one, and with him will be Quick Ben and:¡± he hesitated ¡°: and Sorry. I''ll lead the other team. The first task is to get into the city unnoticed. Out of uniform.¡± He looked to Mallet. ¡°I take it the Green delivered?¡±


    The healer nodded. ¡°It''s a local make, all right. Eighteen-foot fisher, four oars, should get us across the lake easy enough. Even a couple of nets included.¡±


    ¡°So we''ll do some fishing,¡± Whiskeyjack said. ¡°Coming into the harbour without a catch would look suspect. Anybody here ever fished?¡±


    There was silence, then Sorry spoke up. ¡°I have, a long time ago.¡±


    Whiskeyjack stared at her, then said, ¡°Right. Pick whoever you need for that.¡±


    Sorry smiled mockingly.


    Whiskeyjack pulled his gaze from hers with an oath under his breath.


    He eyed his two saboteurs. ¡°How much munitions?¡±


    ¡°Two crates,¡± Hedge replied, adjusting his leather cap. ¡°Cussers all the way down to Smokers.¡±


    ¡°We could cook a palace,¡± Fiddler added, shifting about excitedly.


    ¡°Good enough,¡± Whiskeyjack said. ¡°All right, everyone listen and pay attention, or we won''t come out of this alive:¡±


    In a secluded glade in the forest, Quick Ben poured white sand in a circle and sat down in its centre. He took five sharpened sticks and set them in a row before him, pushing them to various depths in the loam. The centre stick, the highest, rose about three feet; the ones on either side stood at two feet and the outer ones at a foot.


    The wizard uncoiled a yard''s length of thin gut string. He took one end and fashioned a scaled-down noose, which he tightened over the centre stick near the top. He ran the line to the left, looping it once over the next shaft, then crossed over to the right side and looped it again. He brought the string across to the far left stick, muttering a few words as he did so.

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    He wrapped it twice and brought it over to the far right stick, where he tied a knot and cut the trailing string.


    Quick Ben leaned back and folded his hands on his lap. A frown creased his brow. ¡°Hairlock!¡± An outer stick twitched, turned slightly, then fell still. ¡°Hairlock!¡± he barked again. All five shafts jerked. The centre one bent towards the wizard. The string tautened and a lowpitched hum emanated from it.


    A cold wind swept across Quick Ben''s face, stripping away the beads of sweat that had gathered in the last minute. A rushing sound filled his head, and he felt himself falling through dark caverns, their unseen walls ringing in his ears as if iron hammers clanged against the rock. Flashes of blinding silver light stung his eyes and the wind pulled at the skin and flesh of his face.


    In some shielded part of his mind he retained a sense of distance, of control. Within this calm he could think, observe, analyse. ¡°Hairlock,¡± he whispered, ¡°you''ve gone too far. Too deep. This Warren has swallowed you and will never spit you out. You''re losing control, Hairlock.¡± But these thoughts were for him alone; he knew the puppet was still distant.


    He watched himself continue, spinning, whirling through the Caverns of Chaos. Hairlock was compelled to match him, only upward. Abruptly he found himself standing. Beneath his feet the black rock seemed to swirl, cracked here and there in its slow convolutions by bright, glowing red.


    Looking around, he saw that he stood on a spar of rock, rising at an angle, its jagged apex a dozen feet in front of him. Turning, his gaze followed the spar as it sank down and out of sight, lost to billowing yellow clouds. A moment of vertigo gripped Quick Ben. He tottered, then, as he regained his balance he heard a chuckle behind him. He turned to see Hairlock perched atop the apex, his wooden body smeared and scorched, the doll''s clothing ripped and frayed.


    Quick Ben asked, ¡°This is the Spar of And? isn''t it?¡±


    Hairlock''s round head bobbed. ¡°Half-way. Now you know how far I have gone, wizard. To the very foot of the Warren, where power finds its first shape, and all is possible.¡±


    ¡°Just not very likely,¡± Quick Ben said, eyeing the marionette. ¡°How does it feel, standing in the middle of all that creation but unable to touch it, to use it? It''s too alien, isn''t it? It burns you with every reach.¡±


    ¡°I''ll master it,¡± Hairlock hissed. ¡°You know nothing. Nothing.¡±


    Quick Ben smiled. ¡°I''ve been here before, Hairlock.¡± He scanned the swirling gases around them, scudding on contrary winds. ¡°You''ve been lucky,¡± he said. ¡°Though they are few in number, there are creatures who call this realm home.¡± He paused and turned his smile on the puppet.


    ¡°They dislike intruders-have you seen what they do to them? What they leave behind?¡± The wizard''s smile broadened at seeing Hairlock''s involuntary jerk. ¡°So you have,¡± he said quietly.


    ¡°You are my protector,¡± Hairlock snapped. ¡°I''m bound to you, Wizard! The responsibility is yours, nor will I hide the fact if I am taken.¡±


    ¡°Bound to me, indeed.¡± Quick Ben lowered himself to his haunches.


    ¡°Good to hear your memory''s come back. Tell me, how fares Tattersail?¡±


    The puppet slumped, looking away. ¡°Her recovery is a difficult one.¡±


    Quick Ben frowned. ¡°Recovery? From what?¡±


    ¡°The Hound Gear tracked me.¡± Hairlock shifted uneasily. ¡°There was a skirmish.¡±


    A scowl grew on the wizard''s face. ¡°And?¡±


    The puppet shrugged. ¡°Gear fled, sorely wounded by a mundane sword in the hands of that captain of yours. Tayschrenn then arrived, but Tattersail had slipped into unconsciousness by then, so his search for answers was thwarted. But the fire of suspicion has been stoked beneath him. He sends out his servants, and they stalk the Warrens. They hunt for signs of who and what I am. And why. Tayschrenn knows your squad is involved, he knows you''re trying to save your own skins.¡± The puppet''s mad gaze flickered. ¡°He wants you all dead, Wizard. And as for Tattersail, perhaps he hopes her fever will kill her so he won''t have to-but there is much he''d lose if she died without his questioning her first. No doubt he''d seek out her soul, he''d pursue what she knows into Hood''s own realm, but she''d know enough to be elusive.¡±


    ¡°Shut up for a minute,¡± Quick Ben ordered. ¡°Back to the beginning. You said Captain Paran stabbed Gear with his sword?¡±


    Hairlock scowled. ¡°I did. A mortal weapon-it shouldn''t have been possible. He may well have dealt the Hound a fatal wound.¡± The puppet paused, then growled, ¡°You''ve not told me everything, Wizard. There are gods involved in this. If you keep me in such ignorance I might well stumble into the path of one of them.¡± He spat. ¡°A slave to you is bad enough. Do you think you could challenge a god for mastery of me? I''d be taken, turned, perhaps even:¡± Hairlock unsheathed one of his small knives, ¡°used against you.¡± He advanced a step, a dark glitter in his eyes.

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    Quick Ben raised an eyebrow. Inside, his heart lurched in his chest. Was it possible? Would he not have detected something? A flavour, a hint of immortal presence?


    ¡°One last thing, Wizard,¡± Hairlock murmured, taking another step. ¡°Tattersail''s fever crested just this night past. She screamed something about a coin. A coin that had spun, but now it has fallen, it has bounced, it has entered someone''s hand. You must tell me about this coin-I must have your thoughts, Wizard.¡± The puppet stopped suddenly and looked down at the knife in his hand. Hairlock hesitated, seeming confused, then sheathed the weapon and squatted. ¡°What''s so important about a coin?¡± he growled. ¡°Nothing. The bitch raved-she was stronger than I had thought.¡±


    Quick Ben froze. The puppet seemed to have forgotten that the wizard was present. The thoughts he now heard were Hairlock''s own. He realized he was looking through the shattered window into the puppet''s insane mind. And it was there that all the danger lay. The wizard held his breath as Hairlock continued, its eyes fixed on the clouds below.


    ¡°Gear should have killed her-would have, if not for that idiot captain. What irony, he now tends to her and puts his hand to his sword whenever I seek to come near. He knows I would snuff her life in an instant. But that sword. What god plays with this fool noble?¡± The puppet spoke on, but his words dwindled into inaudible mumbles.


    Quick Ben waited, hoping for more, though what he''d already heard was enough to set his heart pounding. This mad creature was unpredictable, and all that held him in check was a tenuous control-the strings of power he''d attached to Hairlock''s wooden body. But with this kind of madness came strength-enough strength to break those strings?


    The wizard was no longer as sure of his control as he had been.


    Hairlock had fallen silent. His painted eyes still flickered with black flame-the leaking of Chaotic power. Quick Ben took a step forward.


    ¡°Pursue Tayschrenn''s plans,¡± he commanded, then he kicked hard. The toe of his boot struck Hairlock''s chest and sent the puppet spinning.


    Hairlock flew out over the edge, then fell downward. His outraged snarl dwindled as he disappeared into the yellow clouds.


    Quick Ben drew a deep breath of the thick, stale air. He hoped that his abrupt dismissal had been enough to skew Hairlock''s recollections of the past few minutes. Still, he felt those strings of control growing ever more taut. The more this Warren twisted Hairlock, the more power he would command.


    The wizard knew what he''d have to do-Hairlock had given it to him, in fact. Still, Quick Ben wasn''t looking forward to it. The taste of sour bile rose into his mouth and he spat over the ledge. The air stank of sweat and it was a moment before he realized it was his own. He hissed a curse. ¡°Time to leave,¡± he muttered. He raised his arms.


    The wind returned with a roar, and he felt his body flung up, up into the cavern above, then the next. As the caverns blurred by, a single word clung to his thoughts, a word that seemed to twist around the problem of Hairlock like a web.


    Quick Ben smiled, but it was a smile responding to terror. And the word remained, Gear, and with that name the wizard''s terror found a face.


    Whiskeyjack rose amid silence. The expressions arrayed around him were sober, eyes downcast or fixed elsewhere, closed into some personal, private place where swam the heaviest thoughts. The lone exception was Sorry, who stared at the sergeant with bright, approving eyes.


    Whiskeyjack wondered who was doing the approving within those eyes-then he shook his head, angry that something of Quick Ben and Kalam''s suspicions had slipped into his thoughts.


    He glanced away, to see Quick Ben approaching. The wizard looked tired, an ashen tint to his face. Whiskeyjack''s gaze snapped to Kalam.


    The assassin nodded. ¡°Everyone, look alive,¡± he said. ¡°Load up the boat and get it ready.¡±


    Mallet leading the way, the others headed down to the beach.


    Waiting for Quick Ben to arrive, Kalam said, ¡°The squad looks beat, Sergeant. Fiddler, Trotts and Hedge moved enough dirt in those tunnels to bury the Empire''s dead. I''m worried about them. Mallet-he seems to be holding together, so far: Still, whatever Sorry knows about fishing, I doubt any one of us could row their way out of a bathtub. And we''re about to try crossing a lake damn near big as a sea?¡±


    ¡°Whiskeyjack''s jaw tightened, then he forced a casual shrug into his shoulders. ¡°You know damn well that any Warren opening anywhere near the city will likely be detected. No choice, Corporal. We row. Unless we can rig up a sail.¡±


    Kalam grunted. ¡°Since when does the girl know about fishing?¡±

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    The sergeant sighed. ¡°I know. Came out of nowhere, didn''t it?¡±


    ¡°Bloody convenient.¡±


    Quick Ben reached the dome of rock. Both men fell silent at seeing his expression.


    ¡°I''m about to propose something you''re going to hate,¡± the wizard said.


    ¡°Let''s hear it,¡± Whiskeyjack replied, in a voice empty of feeling.


    Ten minutes later the three men arrived on the slick pebbled beach, both Whiskeyjack and Kalam looking shaken. A dozen yards from the water''s edge sat the fisher boat. Trotts was straining on the rope attached to the prow hook, gasping and moaning as he leaned forward with all his weight.


    The rest of the squad stood in a clump off to one side, quietly discussing Trotts¡± futile efforts. Fiddler chanced to look up. Seeing Whiskeyjack marching towards them, he blanched.


    ¡°Trotts!¡± the sergeant bellowed.


    The Barghast''s face, woad tattoos stretched into illegibility, turned to Whiskeyjack with wide eyes.


    ¡°Let go of the rope, soldier.¡±


    Kalam released an amused snort behind Whiskeyjack, who glared at the others. ¡°Now,¡± he said, his voice harsh, ¡°since one of you idiots convinced everyone else that loading all the equipment into the boat when it''s still on shore was a good idea, you can all man the rope and drag it into the lake-not you, Trotts. You get inside, get comfortable, there at the stern.¡± Whiskeyjack paused. He studied Sorry''s expressionless face.


    ¡°From Fiddler and Hedge I expect this, but I thought I put you in charge of setting things up.¡±


    Sorry shrugged.


    Whiskeyjack sighed. ¡°Can you rig us a sail?¡±


    ¡°There''s no wind.¡±


    ¡°Well, maybe there will be.¡± Whiskeyjack said, exasperated.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Sorry answered. ¡°We have some canvas. We''ll need a mast.¡±


    ¡°Take Fiddler and make one. Now, the rest of you, get this boat into the water.¡±


    Trotts climbed inside and sat down at the stern. He stretched out his long legs and draped an arm over the splashboard. He bared his filed teeth in what might have been a smile.


    Whiskeyjack turned to a grinning Kalam and Quick Ben. ¡°Well?¡± he demanded. ¡°What''re you waiting for?¡±


    The grins died.


    CHAPTER NINE


    Have you seen the one who stands apart cursed in a ritual sealing his kind beyond death the host amassed and whirling like a plague of pollen-


    he stands apart the First among all ever veiled in time yet outcast and alone a T''lan Imass wandering like a seed unfallen


    Lay of Onos T''oolan Toc the Younger


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


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


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


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


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


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

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


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


    ¡°Jakatakan,¡± he said. tlites. They''d been cut to pieces.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ¡°We''re being flanked,¡± she called out to her crossbowman. ¡°Take the one on your left.¡±


    The soldier beside her grunted. ¡°My life need not be sheltered,¡± he said.


    ¡°We were charged with your protection, Adjunct-¡±


    ¡°Quiet,¡± Lorn commanded. ¡°The longer you stand the better protected I''ll be,¡± she said.


    The soldier grunted again.

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


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


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


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


    ¡°Attend, Adjunct,¡± he said.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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    ¡°I was expecting you days ago,¡± Lorn said, glaring at the figure.


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ¡°I asked you a question,¡± Lorn grated. ¡°Where were you?¡±


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


    Lorn demanded, ¡°Your name, T''lan?¡±


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


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


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


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


    He ducked his head in reply.


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


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


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


    ¡°I''ll need some strips of cloth,¡± he said, rising.


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


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


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


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

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    ¡°Damn,¡± Lorn hissed. ¡°Help me to my feet.¡±


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


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


    ¡°And mages,¡± Lorn said, taking the weapon awkwardly in her left hand and sheathing it.


    ¡°I came upon the dead shaman,¡± Toc said.


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


    ¡°Understood.¡± Toc turned to regard the immobile Imass.


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


    Toc shivered and spat. ¡°I''ll not envy you your company, Adjunct.¡±


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


    ¡°Six, seven days,¡± Toc said. ¡°I expected you to be mounted.¡±


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


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


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


    Toc helped her into the saddle. ¡°Do we leave the Imass where it is?¡± he asked.


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


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


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


    Toc complied.


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


    ¡°The barrow has yielded a truth, Adjunct,¡± Onos T''oolan said.


    Toc felt her stiffen. ¡°And that is?¡±


    ¡°We are upon the right path,¡± the T''lan Imass replied.


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


    ¡°Something the matter, Toc the Younger?¡± Lorn asked, not turning.


    He thought about his reply. He said, ¡°The price of being blind, Adjunct. Nothing more.¡±


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


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