The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (10 page)

“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 camp-followers demand double the coin from you?” He waved a hand, as if clearing away unsavory thoughts. “The simple fact is, Dujek chose Tattersail to command the cadre after Nedurian’s untimely demise at Mott Wood. You may not like it, but that’s just too bad. It’s the price you pay for ambivalence.”

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

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

Over the years, Tattersail had come to attach much to that aroma. Security,
stability,
sanity
. Dujek Onearm represented all those things, and not just to her but to the army that fought for him. As he stopped now in the center 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 aging man. He looked more like fifty rather than his seventy-nine years. His gray 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 favored 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 Hood 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 Andii, for certain. An archmage.”

Hairlock leaned forward and deliberately spat at the floor in front of Tayschrenn. “Tiste Andii, 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 Andii. Dear Hairlock,” he added, his voice lowering a notch, “your primitive tribal gestures remain quaint, if somewhat tasteless.”

Hairlock bared his teeth. “The Tiste Andii 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 Andii, and I sure as Hood 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 Andii 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 head 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’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 Panpot’sun—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 ghosts of the conquered but unconquerable
. . .

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

Calot said to Dujek, “About that transfer.”

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

“Anomandaris.”

Hairlock’s eyes snapped open, found Tayschrenn with bright pleasure. “Ahhh,” he said, into the silence following Calot’s single pronouncement. “Of course. Three more High Mages? Only three?”

Tattersail stared at Dujek’s pale, still face. “The poem,” she said quietly. “I remember now.”

“
Caladan Brood, the menhired one,
winter-bearing, barrowed and sorrowless . . .”

Calot picked up the next lines.

“. . . in a tomb bereaved of words,
and in his hands that have crushed anvils—”

Tattersail continued,

“the hammer of his song—
he lives asleep, so give silent warning
to all—wake him not.
Wake him not.”

Everyone in the compartment was staring at Tattersail now as her last words fell away. “He’s awake, it seems,” she said, her mouth dry. ‘Anomandaris,’ the epic poem by Fisher kel Tath.”

“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 Andii, 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 Andii,” 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?”