The Malazan Empire, page 28
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 bedridden 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?—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.
A suspicion nagged him that the dog wasn’t dead, that it would be back. The puppet ignored most of his questions, and when it did speak to him it was to voice dire threats. Apparently, though the Sorceress was ill, her presence alone—her continued existence—was all that kept Hairlock from fulfilling those threats.
Where was Whiskeyjack? Had the sergeant left without him? What would that do to Adjunct Lorn’s plan?
He ceased pacing and turned a glare on the sorceress lying in the bed. Hairlock had told Paran that she’d somehow hidden him when Tayschrenn arrived, the High Mage having sensed the dog’s presence. Paran had no memory of any of that, but he wondered how the woman could have managed anything after the beating she’d taken. Hairlock had scoffed that the sorceress hadn’t even been aware of opening her Warren that one last time; that she’d done it all on instinct. Paran had the feeling that the marionette had been scared by that unveiling of power. Hairlock seemed most eager for the woman’s death, but was either unable to achieve it himself or too frightened to try. The creature had muttered something about wards she’d raised about her person.
Yet Paran found nothing to impede his ministrations when the fever had been at its worst. It had broken the previous night, and now Paran felt his impatience reaching some kind of threshold. The sorceress slept, but if she didn’t awaken soon he’d take matters into his own hands—leave this hiding place, perhaps seek out Toc the Younger, provided he could avoid Tayschrenn or any officers on his way out of the building.
Paran’s unseeing glare remained fixed on the sorceress, his thoughts racing. Slowly, a new awareness tickled the edges of his mind, and he abruptly blinked. The woman’s eyes were open, and they studied him.
He took a half-step forward but was stopped dead by her first words.
“I heard the Coin drop, Captain.”
The blood drained from Paran’s face. An echo flittered through his memory. “A coin?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “A spinning coin?” The voices of gods, of dead men and women. Howls of Hounds—all pieces of my memory’s torn tapestry.
“Spins no longer,” the woman replied. She pushed herself into a sitting position. “How much do you remember?”
“Scant,” the captain admitted, surprised at himself for telling the truth. “The puppet will not even tell me your name,” he said.
“Tattersail. I’ve been, uh, in the company of Whiskeyjack and his squad.” A veil of caution seemed to slip over her sleepy gaze. “I was to take care of you until your health returned.”
“I believe you did,” Paran said. “And I returned the favor, which evens the scales, Sorceress.”
“So it does. Well, now what?”
Paran’s eyes widened. “You don’t know?”
Tattersail shrugged.
“But this is ridiculous,” Paran exclaimed. “I know nothing of what’s happening here. I awaken to find a half-dead witch and a talking puppet for company, and of my new command not a single sign. Have they left for Darujhistan already?”
“I can’t give you much in the way of answers,” Tattersail murmured. “All I can tell you is the sergeant wanted you alive, because he needs to know who tried to assassinate you. We’d all like to know, in fact.” She fell silent, expectant.
Paran studied her round, ghostly pale face. There was something about her that seemed to disregard her physical mundanity, overwhelmed it, in fact, so that the captain found himself responding in ways that surprised him. It was, he saw, a friendly face, and he couldn’t recall the last time he’d experienced such a thing. It left him off-balance, with only Tattersail to steady him. And that made him feel as if he were descending a spiral, with the sorceress in the center. Descending? Perhaps it was an ascent. He wasn’t sure, and the uncertainty made him wary.
“I recall nothing of it,” he said. And that wasn’t entirely a lie, though it felt like it with her heavy-lidded eyes steady upon him.
“I think,” Paran added, despite his misgivings, “there were two of them. I recall a conversation, though I was dead. I think.”
“But you heard a spinning coin,” Tattersail said.
“Yes,” he answered, bewildered. And more . . . I went to a place—yellow, infernal light, a chorus of moans, a death’s head . . .
Tattersail nodded to herself as if confirming a suspicion. “A god intervened, Captain Paran. Returned the life to you. You might think it was on your behalf, but I’m afraid there wasn’t any altruism involved. Are you following me?”
“I’m being used,” Paran stated flatly.
She raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t bother you?”
Paran shrugged and turned away. “It’s nothing new,” he muttered.
“I see,” she said quietly. “So Whiskeyjack was right, then. You’re not just some new captain, you’re something a lot more.”
“That’s my concern,” Paran snapped, still avoiding her gaze. Then he faced her, his expression dark. “And what’s your role in all this? You took care of me. Why? Serving your god, are you?”
Tattersail barked a laugh. “Not likely. Nor did I do much for you in any case. Oponn took care of that.”
Paran stiffened. “Oponn?” The Twins, sister and brother, the Twins of Chance. He who pushes, she who pulls. Have they been in my dreams? Voices, mention of my . . . sword. He was still for a moment, then he strode over to the dresser. On it lay his sheathed sword. He laid a hand on the grip. “I purchased this sword three years ago, though its first use came just a few nights past—against the dog.”
“You recall that?”
Something in Tattersail’s voice brought him around. In her eyes he now saw fear. She made no attempt to hide it. He nodded. “Yet I named the weapon the day I bought it.”
“The name?”
Paran’s grin was ghastly. “Chance.”
“The pattern has been long in the weaving,” Tattersail said, closing her eyes and sighing. “Though I suspect even Oponn could not have imagined your blade tasting its first blood on a Hound of Shadow.”
Paran closed his eyes, then he sighed. “The dog was a Hound.”
She looked at him and nodded. “You’ve met Hairlock?”
“I have.”
“Beware him,” Tattersail said. “It was his unleashing of a Warren of Chaos that left me fevered. If Warrens are indeed structured, then Hairlock’s is diametrically opposed to mine. He’s mad, Captain, and he vowed to kill you.”
Paran strapped on his sword. “What’s his role in all of this?”
“I’m not sure,” Tattersail said.
That sounded like a lie, but Paran let it pass. “He was coming in nightly to check on your progress,” he said. “But I haven’t seen him the past two nights.”
“How many days have I been out?”
“Six, I think. I’m no more certain of time’s passage than you are, I’m afraid.” He strode to the door. “All I know is, I can’t just hide here forever.”
“Wait!”
Paran smiled. “Very well.” He faced her again. “Tell me why shouldn’t I leave?”
The sorceress hesitated, then spoke. “I still need you here,” she said.
“Why?”
“It’s not me that Hairlock’s afraid of,” she answered, seeming to find the words difficult. “It’s you—your sword—that’s kept me alive. He saw what you managed to do to the Hound.”
“Damn,” he hissed. Though essentially still a stranger to him, she’d reached through to him with her admission. He tried to fight the compassion welling up inside him. He told himself that his mission overrode all other concerns, that he’d repaid his debt to her, if ever there was one, that she hadn’t given him all the reasons he suspected existed for his staying hidden, meaning she didn’t trust him—he told himself all these things, but none of it was enough.
“If you go,” she said, “Hairlock will kill me.”
“What of the wards about you?” he demanded, almost desperately. “Hairlock said you’ve wards about you.”
Tattersail’s smile was drawn. “You think he’d just come right out and tell you how dangerous you really are? Wards?” She laughed. “I’ve barely the strength to sit straight. If I attempted to open my Warren in this state the power would consume me, burn me to ashes. Hairlock wants you kept in the dark—about everything. The puppet lied.”
Even this rang like a half-truth in Paran’s ears. But there was enough there that made sense, that gave reason to Hairlock’s hatred of him, and the puppet’s obvious fear. The greater deceit would come from Hairlock, not Tattersail, or so he believed, though there was little to support that belief—only . . . at least Tattersail was human. He sighed. “Sooner or later,” he said, unclipping his sword belt and returning it to the dresser, “you and I will have to cut past all this misleading game-playing. Oponn or no, we’ve a common enemy.”
Tattersail sighed. “Thank you. Captain Paran?”
He eyed her warily. “What?”
She smiled. “It is good to meet you.”
He scowled. She was at it again.
“This seems an unhappy army,” Lorn said, as they waited outside Pale’s north gate. One of the guards had entered the city in search of another horse, while the remaining three stood muttering a short distance away.
Toc the Younger had dismounted. He moved close to his horse and said, “It is, Adjunct. Very unhappy. Along with the dismantling of the Second and Sixth Armies came a shuffling of commands. Nobody’s where they were before, right down to the greenest recruit. Squads split up everywhere. And now there’s the rumor that the Bridgeburners are going to be retired.” He glanced over at the three marines, saw their hard eyes on him and the Adjunct. “People around here don’t like that,” he said quietly.
Lorn leaned back in her saddle. The pain in her shoulder had become a steady throb, and she was glad the journey was done—at least for the time being. They’d seen nothing of the T’lan Imass since the barrow, though she often sensed his presence, in the dusty wind, beneath the plain’s cracked pan. While in the company of Toc the Younger she’d sensed the restless anger churning among the Malazan forces on this continent.
In Pale, ten thousand soldiers crowded the edge of revolt, the spies among them brutally removed, awaiting only High Fist Dujek’s word. And the High Mage Tayschrenn wasn’t easing the situation by openly countermanding Dujek’s instructions to his officers. Yet what troubled the Adjunct the most was this vague tale of a Hound of Shadow doing battle with the 2nd’s last cadre mage—there was a mystery there, and she suspected it was vital. The rest could be dealt with, provided she took charge.
The Adjunct was eager for her meeting with Tayschrenn and this sorceress Tattersail—the name was familiar, tugging at memories that seemed born in her childhood. And around such evasive hints rustled a cloak of fear. But she was determined to deal with that when the time came.
The gate swung open. She looked up to see the marine with a warhorse, and they had company. Toc the Younger snapped a salute, the energy behind it making Lorn wonder at his loyalty. The Adjunct dismounted slowly, then nodded at High Fist Dujek.
The man seemed to have aged a dozen years since she’d last seen him, thirteen months ago in Genabaris. A small smile came to Lorn’s mouth as the scene emerged in her mind: the High Fist a worn, weary one-armed man, the Empress’s Adjunct, her sword arm in a sling, and Toc the Younger, last representative of the Claw on Genabackis, one-eyed and half his face scarred by fire. Here they were, representatives of three of the four Empire powers on the continent, and they all looked like Hood’s Heralds.
Misreading her smile, Dujek grinned. “Good to see you, too, Adjunct. I was overseeing the resupply when this guard brought word of your arrival.” His gaze grew thoughtful as he studied her, the grin fading. “I’ll find you a Denul healer, Adjunct.”
“Sorcery doesn’t work on me, High Fist. It hasn’t in a long time. A mundane healer is sufficient.” Her gaze narrowed on Dujek. “Assuming I’ll have no need to unsheath my sword within the walls of Pale.”
“I make no guarantees, Adjunct,” Dujek said casually. “Come, let us walk.”
Lorn turned to Toc the Younger. “Thank you for the escort, soldier.”
Dujek laughed, his eyes bright on Toc. “Unnecessary, Adjunct. I know who, and what, Toc the Younger is—as does virtually everyone else. If he’s as good a Claw as he is a soldier, you’d do well to keep him alive.”
“Meaning?”
Dujek gestured that they walk. “Meaning that his reputation as a soldier of the Second is the only thing preventing a knife across the throat. Meaning get him out of Pale.”
The Adjunct eyed Toc. “I will see you later,” she said.
Joining Dujek, who had passed beneath the gate’s massive arch, Lorn matched his pace as they entered the city. Soldiers crowded the streets, directing merchant wagons and the mobs of citizenry. Evidence of the rain of death still scarred many of the buildings, but laborers had been set to work under the direction of marines.
“The nobility are about to be culled,” Dujek said at her side. “Tayschrenn wants it to be thorough, and public.”
“Empire policy,” Lorn replied stiffly. “You’re well aware of that, High Fist.”
Dujek glared at her. “Nine out of ten nobles to hang, Adjunct? Children included?”
Lorn stared at him. “That seems excessive.”
Dujek was silent for a time, leading her down the main avenue, then heading uphill toward the Empire headquarters. Many faces turned to regard them stonily as they passed. It seemed Dujek’s identity was known among Pale’s citizens. Lorn tried to sense the atmosphere his presence created, but couldn’t be certain if it was fear or respect, or both.
“My mission,” Lorn said, as they approached a three-story stone building, its entrance blocked by a dozen watchful marines, “will take me out of the city soon—”
“I don’t want any details, Adjunct,” Dujek cut in. “You do what you have to do and just stay out of my way.”
His tone was unthreatening, almost pleasant, but Lorn felt her muscles tense. This man was being pushed, and Tayschrenn was doing the pushing. What was the High Mage up to? The whole situation stank of incompetence.
“As I was saying,” Lorn continued, “I won’t be here long. When I am here, however,” and her voice hardened, “I will make plain to the High Mage that his interference in the city’s management will not be tolerated. If you need backing, you have it, Dujek.”
They stopped just outside the building’s entrance, and the old man gazed steadily at her, as if weighing her sincerity. But when he spoke, his words surprised her. “I can take care of my own problems, Adjunct. Do what you will, but I’m not asking for anything.”
“You’ll permit the excessive culling of the nobility, then?”
Dujek’s expression set into stubborn lines. “Battle tactics can be applied in any situation, Adjunct. And the High Mage is no tactician.” He turned and led her up the steps. Two guards opened the doors, which looked new and were banded in bronze. The High Fist and the Adjunct entered.
They strode down a long, wide hallway marked by doors on either side every dozen feet or so. Marines stood guard before each one, hands on their weapons. It was clear to Lorn that the incident with the Hound had heightened wariness to an almost absurd degree. Then a thought struck her. “High Fist, have there been attempts on your life?”
