The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (38 page)

“How can one plan anything with Oponn in the game?”

“Leave that to Dujek.” She studied his face. “Do you have difficulty with any of these instructions?”

Tayschrenn smiled. “In truth, Adjunct, I’m greatly relieved.”

Lorn nodded. “Good. Now, I need a mundane healer and quarters.”

“Of course.” Tayschrenn strode to the doors, then paused and turned. “Adjunct, I am glad you’re here.”

“Thank you, High Mage.” After he left, Lorn sank into her chair and her mind traveled back nine years, to the sights and sounds experienced by a child, to a night, one particular night in the Mouse, when every nightmare a young girl’s imagination could hold became real. She remembered blood, blood everywhere, and the empty faces of her mother, her father, and older brother—faces numbed by the realization that they’d been spared, that the blood wasn’t their own. As the memories stalked once again through her mind, a name rode the winds, rustling in the air as if clawing through dead branches. Lorn’s lips parted, and she whispered, “Tattersail.”

The sorceress had found the strength to leave her bed. She now stood at the window, leaning with one hand against the frame for support, and looked down on a street crowded with military wagons. The systematic plunder that quartermasters called “resupply” was well under way. The eviction of nobility and gentry from their familial estates for the stationing of the officer corps, of which she was one, had ended days ago, while the repairing of the outer walls, the refitting of sundered gates, and the clearing of “Moon rain” continued apace.

She was glad she’d missed the river of corpses that must have filled the city streets during the initial phase of cleanup—wagon after wagon groaning beneath the weight of crushed bodies, white flesh seared by fire and slashed by sword, rat-gnawed and raven-pecked—men, women, and children. It was a scene she had witnessed before, and she had no wish ever to see it again.

Now, shock and terror had seeped down and out of sight. Scenes of normality reappeared as farmers and merchants emerged from hiding to meet the needs of occupiers and occupied alike. Malazan healers had swept the city, rooting out the birthing of plague and treating common ailments among all those they touched. No citizen would have been turned from their path. And sentiments began the long, perfectly planned swing.

Soon, Tattersail knew, there’d be the culling of the nobility, a scourge that would raise to the gallows the greediest, least-liked nobles. And the executions would be public. A tried and true procedure that swelled recruitment on a tide of base vengeance—with every hand stained by a righteous glee. A sword in such hands completed the conspiracy and included all players in the hunt for the next victim to the cause—the Empire’s cause.

She’d seen it run its course in a hundred such cities. No matter how benign the original rulers, no matter how generous the nobility, the word of Empire, weighted by might, twisted the past into a tyranny of demons. A sad comment on humanity, a bitter lesson made foul by her own role in it.

In her mind returned the faces of the Bridgeburners, a strange counterpoint to the cynicism with which she viewed all around her. Whiskeyjack, a man pushed to the edge, or, rather, the edge creeping on him on all sides, a crumbling of beliefs, a failing of faiths, leaving as his last claim to humanity his squad, a shrinking handful of the only people that mattered anymore. But he held on, and he pushed back—pushed back hard. She liked to think—no, she wanted to
believe—he would win out in the end, that he’d live to see his world stripped of the Empire.

Quick Ben and Kalam, seeking to take the responsibility from their sergeant’s shoulders. It was their only means of loving the man, though they’d never put it in such terms. In the others, barring Sorry, she saw the same, yet with them there was a desperation that she found endearing, a childlike yearning to relieve Whiskeyjack of everything their grim place had laid upon him.

She responded to them in a way deeper than she’d thought possible, from a core she’d long been convinced was burned out, the ashes scattered in silent lament—a core no mage could afford. Tattersail recognized the danger, but that only made it all the more alluring.

Sorry was another matter, and she found herself avoiding even thinking about that young woman.

And that left Paran. What to do about this captain? At the moment the man was in the room, seated on the bed behind her and oiling his sword, Chance. They’d not spoken much since she’d awakened four days ago. There was still too much distrust.

Perhaps it was that mystery, that uncertainty, that made them so attracted to one another. And the attraction was obvious: even now, with her back to the man, she sensed a taut thread between them. Whatever energy burned between them, it felt dangerous. Which made it exciting.

Tattersail sighed. Hairlock had appeared this very morning, eager and agitated about something. The puppet would not answer their queries, but the sorceress suspected that Hairlock had found a trail, and it seemed it might take the puppet out of Pale and on to Darujhistan.

That was not a happy thought.

She stiffened as the ward she’d placed outside her door was tripped. Tattersail whirled to Paran. “A visitor,” she said.

He rose, Chance in his hands.

The sorceress waved her hand over him. “You’re no longer visible, Captain. Nor can anyone sense your presence. Make no sound, and wait here.” She strode into the outer room just as a soft knock sounded on the door.

She opened it to see a young marine standing in the hallway. “What is it?” she demanded.

The marine bowed. “High Fist Dujek is inquiring as to your health, Sorceress.”

“Much better,” she said. “That’s kind of him. Now, if you’ll—”

The marine interrupted diffidently. “If you answered as you just have, I am to convey the High Fist’s request that you attend a formal supper this evening in the main building.”

Tattersail cursed silently. She shouldn’t have told the truth. Now, it was too late. A “request” from her commander was not something that could be denied. “Inform the High Fist that I will be honored to share his company over supper.” A thought struck her. “May I ask who else will be present?”

“High Mage Tayschrenn, a messenger named Toc the Younger, and Adjunct Lorn.”

“Adjunct Lorn is here?”

“Arrived this morning, Sorceress.”

Oh, Hood’s Breath
. “Convey my reply,” Tattersail said, struggling against a rising tide of fear. She shut the door, then heard the marine’s boots hurrying down the hallway.

“What’s wrong?” Paran asked, from the opposite doorway.

She faced him. “Put that sword away, Captain.” She walked over to the dresser and began rummaging through the drawers. “I’m to attend a dinner,” she said.

Paran approached. “An official gathering.”

Tattersail nodded distractedly. “With Adjunct Lorn there as well, as if Tayschrenn isn’t bad enough.”

The Captain murmured, “So she’s finally arrived.”

Tattersail froze. She turned to him slowly. “You’ve been expecting her, haven’t you?”

Paran started and looked at her with frightened eyes.

She realized his mumbling hadn’t been meant for her ears. “Dammit,” she hissed. “You’re working for her!”

The captain’s answer was clear as he spun round. She watched him vanish into the bedroom, her thoughts a storm of fury. The threads of conspiracy now thrummed in her mind. So, Quick Ben’s suspicions had been accurate: a plan was afoot to kill the squad. Did that make her life at risk as well? She felt herself nearing a decision. What that decision was she wasn’t sure, but there was a direction to her thoughts now, and it had the inevitable momentum of an avalanche.

The seventh bell was ringing from some distant tower as Toc the Younger passed into the Empire headquarters.

He showed his invitation to yet another grim-faced, intense guard, and was grudgingly allowed to continue on down the main hall to the dining chamber. Unease churned in Toc’s stomach. He knew the Adjunct was behind the request, but she could be as unpredictable and as manipulative as the rest. Beyond the doors he now approached might as well be a pit filled with vipers, all hungrily awaiting his arrival.

Toc wondered if he’d be able to keep anything down, and knowing the condition of his facial wound, he then wondered grimly if anyone else would be able to keep anything down. Among his fellow soldiers his scars were barely noticed: rare was the soldier in Dujek’s army who did not carry a scar or three. Those few friends he had seemed simply thankful that he still lived.

In the Seven Cities, superstition held that loss of an eye was also the birth of inner sight. He’d been reminded of that belief at least a dozen times in the last couple of weeks. There had been no secret gift granted him in exchange for his eye. Flashes of searing light ripped through his mind every now and then, but he suspected that was no more than a memory of the last thing his eye had seen: fire.

And now he was about to sit among the loftiest company in the Empire, barring the Empress herself. Suddenly the wound was a thing of shame. He’d sit there as testament to the horrors of war—Toc stiffened just outside the dining room door. Was that why the Adjunct had invited him? He hesitated, then shrugged and entered.

Dujek, Tayschrenn, and the Adjunct turned as one to regard him. Toc the Younger bowed.

“Thank you for coming,” Adjunct Lorn said. She stood with the two men near the largest of three fireplaces, in the wall opposite the entrance. “Please, join us. We’re now awaiting but one more guest.”

Toc strode to them, thankful for Dujek’s grin. The High Fist set his crystal goblet down on the mantel and deliberately scratched the stump of his left arm.

“Bet it’s driving you half crazed,” the old man said, his grin broadening.

“I scratch with both hands,” Toc said.

Dujek barked a laugh. “Join us in a drink?”

“Thank you.” He noticed Lorn’s appraisal as he accepted a goblet from Dujek. Taking the decanter from a nearby table, his glance crossed the High Mage, but Tayschrenn’s attention was fixed on the roaring fire behind Lorn.

“Has your horse recovered?” the Adjunct asked.

Toc nodded as he filled his goblet. “Doing handstands the last time I looked in on her,” he said.

Lorn smiled tentatively, as if unsure whether he was mocking her. “I’ve explained your vital role in keeping me alive, Toc the Younger, how you loosed four arrows on the fly, and brought down four Barghast.”

He looked at her sharply. “I didn’t know I had the last two shots in me,” he said. He sipped wine, resisting the urge to scratch his wound.

Dujek grunted. “Your father was also in the habit of surprising people. There’s a man I miss.”

“I, too,” Toc replied, looking down.

The awkward silence that followed this exchange was mercifully broken by the arrival of the last guest. Toc turned with the others as the door swung open. He gazed at the woman standing in the entrance, then started. Was that Tattersail? He’d never seen her wearing anything but battle garb, and was now stunned. My, he thought wonderingly, she’s not bad, if you like them big, that is. He half grinned.

Lorn’s response to Tattersail’s appearance had sounded much like a gasp, then she spoke. “We have met before, though I doubt you’d remember.”

Tattersail blinked. “I think I would have recalled that,” she said cautiously.

“I think not. I was but eleven years old at the time.”

“Then you must be mistaken. I’m rarely in the company of children.”

“They burned the Mouse Quarter a week after you swept through it, Tattersail.” Lorn’s voice made everyone stiffen with its barely controlled rage. “Those survivors, the ones you left behind, were resettled in Mock’s Hole. And in those plague-ridden caverns my mother, my father, and my brother died.”

The blood drained from Tattersail’s round face.

Bewildered, Toc glanced at the others. Dujek’s expression was masked, but there was a storm behind his eyes as he studied Lorn. On Tayschrenn’s face, as he looked upon the sorceress, there dawned a sudden light.

“It was our first command,” Tattersail said quietly.

Toc saw Lorn trembling and held his breath. But when she spoke it was controlled, the words precise. “An explanation is required.” She turned to High Fist Dujek. “They were recruits, a cadre of mages. They were in Malaz City, awaiting their new commander, when the Master of the Claw issued an edict against sorcery. They were sent into the Old City—the Mouse—to cleanse it. They were—” her voice caught “—indiscriminate.” She swung her attention back to Tattersail. “This woman was one of those mages. Sorceress, that night was my last with my family. I was given to the Claw the very next day. The news of my family’s death was kept from me for years. Yet,” her words fell to a whisper, “I well remember that night—the blood, the screams.”

Tattersail seemed unable to speak. The air in the room had grown thick, stifling. Finally the sorceress prised her gaze from the Adjunct and said to Dujek, “High Fist, it was our first command. We lost control. I resigned from the officer corps the very next day and was posted with another Army.” She gathered herself. “If it is the Adjunct’s wish to convene a court, I offer no defense and will accept my execution as a just penalty.”

Lorn replied, “That is acceptable.” She laid her left hand upon her sword and prepared to withdraw it.

“No,” High Fist Dujek said. “It is not acceptable.”

Lorn froze. She glared at the old man. “You seem to forget my rank.”“No, I haven’t. Adjunct, if it is your will that those within the Empire who have committed crimes in the Emperor’s name must be executed,” he stepped forward, “then you must include me. Indeed, I believe High Mage Tayschrenn also has his share of horror committed on the Emperor’s behalf. And, finally, there is the Empress herself to consider. Laseen, after all, commanded the Emperor’s Claw—she created it, in fact. More, the Edict was hers, thankfully short-lived as it was.” He turned to Tattersail. “I was there, Tattersail. Under Whiskeyjack’s command I was sent down to rein you in, which I did.”

She shook her head. “Whiskeyjack commanded?” Her eyes narrowed. “This has the taste of a god’s game.”