The Malazan Empire, page 30
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.”
Dujek swung back to the Adjunct. “The Empire has its history, and we each are in it.”
“In this,” Tayschrenn rasped, “I must agree with the High Fist, Adjunct.”
“There’s no need to have all this official,” Tattersail said, her eyes on Lorn. “I hereby challenge you to a duel. On my behalf I shall employ all my magical skills in an effort to destroy you. You may defend with your sword, Adjunct.”
Toc took a step forward. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He’d been about to tell Tattersail that Lorn carried an Otataral sword, that the duel would be grossly unfair, that she’d die within seconds, as the sword devoured her every spell. Then he saw that the sorceress knew all that.
Dujek rounded on Tattersail. “Dammit, woman! Do you think everything hinges on how it’s worded? Execution. Duel. None of it matters one whit! All that the Adjunct does, all that she says, is on behalf of Empress Laseen.” He spun to Lorn. “You are here as Laseen’s voice, as her will, Adjunct.”
Tayschrenn spoke softly, “The woman named Lorn, the woman who once was a child, who once had a family,” he looked upon the Adjunct with anguish in his eyes, “that woman does not exist. She ceased to exist the day she became the Adjunct.”
Lorn stared at the two men, her eyes wide.
Standing beside her, Toc watched those words battering her will, crushing the anger, shattering into dust every last vestige of identity. And from her eyes rose the icy, clinical repose of the Adjunct to the Empress. Toc felt his heart pounding hard against his chest. He’d just witnessed an execution. The woman named Lorn had risen from the turgid mists of the past, risen to right a wrong, to find justice and in that last act reclaim its life—and she had been denied. Not by the words of Dujek or Tayschrenn, but by the thing known as the Adjunct.
“Of course,” she said, removing her hand from her sword. “Please enter, Sorceress Tattersail, and dine with us.”
The flat tone of her voice told Toc that her invitation had not cost anything—and this horrified him, shook him to his very core. A quick glance showed a similar response from Tayschrenn and Dujek, though the latter veiled it.
Tattersail looked positively ill, but she nodded shakily in answer to the Adjunct’s invitation.
Toc found the decanter and a spare crystal goblet. He walked up to the sorceress. “I am Toc the Younger,” he said, smiling, “and you need a drink.” He poured the glass full and handed it to her. “Often, when we camped on the march, I’d see you lugging that traveling wardrobe of yours around. Now I finally see what was in it. Sorceress, you’re a sight for a sore eye.”
A look of gratitude entered Tattersail’s gaze. She raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t realized my traveling wardrobe garnered such attention.”
Toc grinned. “I’m afraid you’ve provided a standing joke in the Second. Anything surprising, be it an ambush or an unplanned skirmish—the enemy invariably came from your traveling wardrobe, Sorceress.”
Dujek guffawed behind him. “I’ve often wondered where that phrase came from, and damn, I heard it a lot—even from my officers.”
The atmosphere in the room relaxed somewhat; though undercurrents of tension still swirled, they seemed to be between Tattersail and High Mage Tayschrenn. The sorceress turned her gaze upon Lorn whenever the Adjunct’s attention was elsewhere, and Toc could see the compassion there, and his respect for her rose considerably. In her shoes, any look he gave Lorn would have been filled with fear. And whatever storm threatened between Tattersail and Tayschrenn seemed born of a difference in opinion coupled with suspicion; it didn’t look personal.
Then again, Toc considered, Dujek’s steady presence may have been providing the leveling influence. His father had spoken much of Dujek, of a man who never lost his touch with the powerless or the less powerful. In dealing with the former, he always made his own failings an easy recognition; and with the latter he had an unerring eye that cut away personal ambition with the precision of a surgeon removing septic flesh, leaving in its place someone who treated trust and honesty as givens.
Studying Dujek’s easy, relaxed rapport with the others in attendance, including himself, and then with the servants who filed in bearing trays of food, it struck Toc that the man had not changed perceptibly from the one Toc the Elder had called friend. And that impressed Toc deeply, knowing as he did the pressures that burdened the High Fist.
As soon as everyone was seated and the first course presented, it was Adjunct Lorn who took command, however. Dujek relinquished it without a word or a gesture, evidently confident that the earlier incident was now over as far as the Adjunct was concerned.
Lorn addressed Tattersail in that uncanny, flat voice. “Sorceress, permit me to compliment you on besting a Hound of Shadow, and on your timely recovery. I know that Tayschrenn has questioned you regarding this incident, but I would like to hear the tale from you directly.”
Tattersail set down her goblet and regarded her plate briefly before meeting the Adjunct’s steady gaze. “As the High Mage may have explained, it’s now clear that the gods have entered the fray. Specifically, they’ve become involved with the Empire’s plans for Darujhistan—”
Toc rose quickly. “I believe,” he said, “I should excuse myself now, as what will be discussed here exceeds—”
“Be seated, Toc the Younger,” Lorn commanded. “You are the Claw representative here, and as such you are responsible for speaking on its behalf.”
“I am?”
“You are.”
Slowly, Toc sat.
“Please continue, Sorceress.”
Tattersail nodded. “Oponn is central to this gambit. The Twin Jesters’ opening move has created ripples—I’m sure the High Mage would agree with this—and thus attracted the attention of other gods.”
“Shadowthrone,” Lorn said. She looked to Tayschrenn.
The High Mage concurred. “One could expect such a thing. I, however, have sensed nothing of Shadowthrone’s attention upon us, even though I pursued that possibility vigorously after the Hound’s attack.”
Lorn exhaled slowly. “Sorceress, please go on.”
“The Hound’s presence was triggered entirely by accident,” Tattersail said, flicking a glance at Tayschrenn. “I was doing a reading from my Deck of Dragons, and came upon the card of the Hound. As with all Adepts, I found the image animate to a certain extent. When I gave it my full concentration, it felt,” she cleared her throat, “as if a portal opened, created entirely from the other side of that card—from High House Shadow itself.” She raised her hands and gazed steadily at the High Mage. “Is this possible? The Shadow Realm is new among the Houses, its full power not yet expressed. Well, whatever happened—a portal, a rent—the Hound Gear appeared.”
