The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 12
Tattersail stood half a dozen paces behind High Mage Tayschrenn. The Malazan banners snapped in the wind, the spars creaking above the smoke-stained turret, but here in the shelter of the wall the air was calm. On the western horizon across from her rose the Moranth Mountains, reaching a mangled arm northward to Genabaris. As the range swept southward it joined the Tahlyn in a jagged line stretching a thousand leagues into the east. Off to her right lay the flat yellow-grassed Rhivi Plain.
Tayschrenn leaned on a merlon looking down on the wagons rolling into the city. From below rose the groans of oxen and shouting soldiers. The High Mage hadn’t moved or said a word in some minutes. Off to his left waited a small wood table, its surface scarred and pitted and crowded with runes cut deep into the oak. Peculiar dark stains blotted the surface here and there.
Knots of tension throbbed in Tattersail’s shoulders. Meeting Bellurdan had shaken her, and she didn’t feel up to what was to come.
“Bridgeburners,” the High Mage muttered.
Startled, the sorceress frowned, then stepped up to stand beside Tayschrenn. Descending from a hill off to the right, a hill she knew intimately, rode a party of soldiers. Even from this distance she recognized four of them: Quick Ben, Kalam, Whiskeyjack, and that recruit, Sorry. The fifth rider was a short, wiry man, who had sapper written all over him. “Oh?” she said, feigning lack of interest.
“Whiskeyjack’s squad,” Tayschrenn said. He turned his full gaze on the sorceress. “The same squad you spoke with immediately following the Moon’s retreat.” The High Mage smiled, then clapped Tattersail’s shoulder. “Come. I require a Reading. Let’s begin.” He walked over to stand before the table. “Oponn’s strands are twisting a peculiar maze, the influence snares me again and again.” He turned his back to the wall and sat down on a crenel, then looked up. “Tattersail,” he said soberly, “in matters of Empire, I am the servant of the Empress.”
Tattersail recalled their argument at the debriefing. Nothing had been resolved. “Perhaps I should take my complaints to her, then.”
Tayschrenn’s brows rose. “I take that as sarcastic.”
“You do?”
The High Mage said, stiffly, “I do, and be thankful for it, woman.”
Tattersail pulled out her Deck and held it against her stomach, running her fingers over the top card. Cool, a feeling of great weight and darkness. She set the Deck in the table’s center, 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. Judgment 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 Hounds. She laid a hand on the fourth card and felt a thrill 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 humor in this shaping—even now I feel we are being misled. Death’s Virgin, a likely deceit.”
It was now Tattersail’s turn to be impressed. The High Mage was an Adept, then. Had he, too, heard the laughter punctuating the laying of the field? She hoped not. “You might be right,” she said. “The Virgin’s face is ever changing—it could be anyone. Can’t say the same for Oponn, or the Rope’s.” She nodded. “A very possible deception,” she said, pleased to be conversing with an equal—a truth that made her grimace inwardly. It’s always better when hatred and outrage stay pure, uncompromised.
“I would hear your thoughts,” Tayschrenn said.
Tattersail started, shied from the High Mage’s steady gaze. She began collecting the cards. Would it hurt to offer some explanation? If anything, it will leave him even more rattled than he 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 traveled 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 center of the compound. No commanding officer was in sight. Tattersail called the boy over.
“Yes, Sorceress?” he asked, as he arrived to stand at attention in front of her.
“What are you all standing around for, soldier?”
“We’re about to be issued our weapons. The staff sergeant’s gone to bring the wagon round.”
Tattersail nodded. “I have a task for you. I’ll see that you get your weapons—but not the tinny ones your friends are about to receive. If a superior officer questions your absence, refer him to me.”
“Yes, Sorceress.”
A pang of regret hit Tattersail upon meeting the boy’s bright, eager gaze. Chances were, he’d be dead within a few months. The Empire had many crimes staining its banner, but this was the worst of them. She sighed. “Deliver, in person, this message to Sergeant Whiskeyjack, Bridgeburners. The fat lady with the spells wants to talk. You have it, soldier?”
The boy blanched.
“Let’s hear it.”
The marine repeated the message in a deadpan tone.
Tattersail smiled. “Very good. Now run along, and don’t forget to get an answer from him. I’ll be in my quarters.”
Captain Paran swung around for a last look at the Black Moranth. The squad had just reached the plateau’s crest. He watched until they disappeared from view, then shifted his gaze back to the city in the east.
From this distance, with the wide, flat plain in between, Pale seemed peaceful enough, although the ground outside the walls was studded with black basaltic rubble and the memory of smoke and fire clung to the air. Along the wall scaffolding rose in places, tiny figures crowding the frameworks. They appeared to be rebuilding huge gaps in the stonework. From the north gate a sluggish stream of wagons wound out toward 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 rumors, 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 Dassem 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 Panpot’sun Wastes. He ended the war then and there. Of course, everything went bad 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 Hood’s Gate with the campaigns.” The Claw sat forward, pushing the saddlehorn down, and spat past his horse’s left ear.
Paran shivered, seeing that gesture. In the old days it had announced the beginning of tribal war among the Seven Cities. Now, it had become the symbol of the Malaz 2nd Army. “Are you suggesting,” he cut in, “that the story you’ve just told me is commonplace?”
“Not in detail,” the Claw admitted. “But some old veterans in the Second fought with Ultor, not just in Seven Cities but as far back as Falar.”
Paran thought for a time. The man riding beside him, though a Claw, was also 2nd Army. And he’d been through a lot with them. It made for an interesting perspective. He glanced at the man and saw him grinning. “What’s so funny?”
The man shrugged. “The Bridgeburners are a little hot, these days. They’re getting chaff for recruits and that makes it look like they’re about to be disbanded. You talk with whoever it is you talk with back in Malaz, you tell them they’d end up with a mutiny on their hands, they start messing with the Bridgeburners. That’s in every report I send but no one seems to listen to me.” His grin broadened. “Maybe they think I’ve been turned or something, eh?”
Paran shrugged. “You were called in to meet me, weren’t you?”
The Claw laughed. “You’ve really been out of touch, haven’t you? They called me in because I’m the last Active in the Second. And as for the Fifth and Sixth—forget it. Brood’s Tiste Andii 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.
As they passed into the gate’s shadow, the Claw spoke again. “By the by, 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.”
