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 draft 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.
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 arms. 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 childlike 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 Hounds 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’s 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 Empress 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? Meanas, the Warren of Illusions?”
“Meanas 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—”
“Tiste Edur?” Tattersail interrupted. “Who were they?”
The wizard shrugged. “Cousins of the Tiste Andii? I don’t know, Sorceress.”
You don’t know? Actually, it seems you know a whole 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 there 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 man because that’s what men are capable of—I don’t hunt for excuses because I don’t like to think that that’s how nasty we can get. We look at Sorry and we see reflections of ourselves. Hood take it, if we don’t like what we see.”
He sat down just a
s abruptly as he had risen, and reached for the wine 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 witless by a fifteen-year-old girl. My assassin slips a knife into his palm whenever she’s within twenty paces of him.” He met Tattersail’s eyes. “So, 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 eyes tightened momentarily, a replaying of memories. “I know,” he whispered.
Tattersail slowly let out her breath, which she had been holding since 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 world. Because that was something he understood, something he could deal with. “Back in Seven Cities,” she said quietly, “the story goes that the Emperor’s First Sword—his commander of his armies—Dassem Ultor, had accepted a god’s offer. Hood made Dassem his Knight of Death. Then something happened, something went . . . wrong. And Dassem renounced the title, swore a vow of vengeance against Hood—against the Lord of Death himself. All at once other Ascendants started meddling, manipulating events. It all culminated with Dassem’s murder, then the Emperor’s assassination, and blood in the streets, temples at war, sorceries unleashed.” She paused, seeing the memories of those times 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 Sorry serves Shadow your conviction will be enough to shape reality. You need to believe that to save your sanity, because there are some things in life that you can go through only once. Oh, Whiskeyjack, I can’t ease your burden. You see, I think Quick Ben and Kalam are right. “If Shadow has 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, is my answer.” Brave words, woman. These people have a way of bringing out the best—or maybe the worst—in me.
Something glittered in Whiskeyjack’s eyes, and he nodded. “So that’s 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 here, though, but close by. It’s just—” He stopped, cocking his head, then he 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 lines 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, “So 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 backward.
“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 a couple of hours ago. Happens a lot between missions.” His face looked drawn. “There may be no connection with this bloodied knife.”
A blossoming of power filled the room and Tattersail spun to face Quick Ben. The wizard had accessed his Warren. The sorcery bled a strange, swirling flavor 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 the 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 thunk of his dagger as he flung it again and again against a wooden post; a man 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 onto 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 blond hair casting reddish glints.
It was the man who’d spoken. He smiled without humor 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 from 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 Andii—
“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.”
“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.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 14
