Tattersail glared at Whiskeyjack. “Hairlock is insane,” she pronounced. “That edge to him was always there, but he’s chewed holes in his own Warrens and he’s tasting Chaos. Worse yet, it’s making him more powerful, more dangerous.”

They had gathered in Tattersail’s quarters, which consisted of an outer room—where they now sat—and a bedroom with the rare luxury of a solid wood door. The past occupants had hastily stripped the place of anything valuable and portable, leaving behind only the larger pieces of furniture. Tattersail sat at the table, along with Whiskeyjack, Quick Ben, and Kalam, and the sapper named Fiddler. The air in the room had grown hot, stifling.

“Of course he’s insane,” Quick Ben replied, looking at his sergeant, whose face remained impassive. The wizard hastily added, “But that’s to be expected. Fener’s tail, lady, he’s got the body of a puppet! Of course that’s twisted him.”

“How twisted?” Whiskeyjack asked his wizard. “He’s supposed to be watching our backs, isn’t he?”

Kalam said, “Quick’s got him under control. Hairlock’s backtracking, working through the maze—he’ll find out who in the Empire wants us dead.”

“The danger,” Quick Ben added, rounding on Tattersail, “is his being detected. He needs to slip through the Warrens the unconventional way—the regular paths are all trip-wired.”

Tattersail mulled over that point, then nodded. “Tayschrenn would find him, or at least catch wind that someone’s sniffing around. But Hairlock’s using the power of Chaos, the paths that lie between Warrens, and that’s unhealthy—not just for him, but for all of us.”

“Why all of us?” Whiskeyjack asked.

Quick Ben answered, “It weakens the Warrens, frays the fabric, which in turns allows Hairlock to break into them at will . . . and out again. But we have no choice. We have to give Hairlock his rope. For now.”

The sorceress sighed, massaging her brow. “Tayschrenn’s the one you’re looking for. I’ve already told you—”

“That’s not good enough,” Quick Ben cut in. “How many agents is he using? What are the details of the plan—what in Hood’s name is the plan? Is all this on Laseen’s orders, or is the High Mage eyeing the throne for himself? We need to know, dammit!”

“All right, all right,” Tattersail said. “So Hairlock unravels the whole thing for you—then what? Do you intend to try to kill Tayschrenn and everyone else involved? Are you counting on my help in that?” She looked from one face to the next. Each revealed nothing. Anger flared and she rose. “I know,” she said stiffly, “that Tayschrenn probably murdered A’Karonys, Nightchill, and my cadre. He probably knew your tunnels would collapse around you, and he might well have decided that Dujek’s Second was a threat that needed culling. But if you think I’m going to help you without knowing what you’re planning, you’re mistaken. There’s more to all this than you’re willing to tell me. If it was just your survival at stake, why don’t you just desert? I doubt Dujek would chase you down. Unless, of course, Tayschrenn’s suspicions about Onearm and the Second are grounded in truth—you’ve plans for a mutiny, proclaiming Dujek Emperor and marching off to Genabaris.” She paused, looking from one man to the next. “Has Tayschrenn simply anticipated you, thereby fouling up your plans? Am I being pulled into a conspiracy? If I am, then I have to know its eventual goals. I have that right, don’t I?”

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 as 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.

“We’d best leave,” the brother said.

The apparition opened its jaws as if to laugh, then clacked them shut. “No,” it muttered, “not again.” It hobbled back to the Gate, pausing once to turn back and wave.

The sister rolled her eyes.

“Time to leave,” the brother repeated uneasily.

“Yes, yes,” his sister said, eyeing Paran.

The captain sighed, looking away. “No final riddles, if you please.” When he looked back Oponn was gone. Once again he tried to sit up. Once again he failed.

A new presence arrived, filling the air with tension, a smell of threat.

Sighing, Paran craned his head around. He saw a pair of Hounds—massive hulking creatures, dark, tongues lolling as they sat, watching him. These are what killed the company in Itko Kan. These are the cursed, horrifying beasts. Both Hounds froze, heads hunching toward him, as if seeing the hatred in his eyes. Paran felt his heart go cold at their avid attention. He was slow to realize he had bared his teeth.

A stain of shadow separated the two Hounds, the stain vaguely man-shaped and translucent. The shadow spoke. “The one Lorn sent. I would have thought someone of . . . ability. Though, it must be said, you died well.”

“Evidently not,” Paran said.

“Ah, yes,” the shadow said, “and so it falls to me to complete the task. Busy hours, these.”

Paran thought of Oponn’s conversation with Hood’s servant. Uncertainty. If a god fears anything . . . “The day you die, Shadowthrone,” he said quietly, “I will be waiting for you on the other side of that gate. With a smile. Gods can die, can’t they?”

Something crackled in the portalway of the gate. Shadowthrone and the Hounds flinched.

Paran continued, wondering at his own courage, to bait these Ascendants. Always despised authority, didn’t I? “Halfway between life and death—this promise costs me nothing, you see.”

“Liar, the only Warren that can touch you now is—”

“Death,” Paran said. “Of course,” he added, “someone else . . . interceded, and was certain to leave long before you and your too-loud Hounds arrived.”

The King of High House Shadow edged forward. “Who? What does it plan? Who opposes us?”

“Find your own answers, Shadowthrone. You do understand, don’t you, that if you send me on my way now, your . . . opposition will seek other means? Knowing nothing of who their next tool is, how will you sniff out their next move? You’ll be left darting at shadows.”

“Easier to follow you,” the god conceded. “I must speak with my companion—”

“As you like,” Paran interrupted. “I wish I could stand . . .”

The god rasped laughter. “If you stand, you walk. One way only. You have a reprieve—and if Hood comes to gather you to your feet, the guiding hand is his, not ours. Excellent. And if you live, so shall my shadow follow you.”

Paran grunted. “My shadow’s a crowded place, these days.” His eyes fell once again on the Hounds. The creatures watched him still, their eyes faint coals. I’ll have you yet. As if fanned by his silent promise, the red glows sharpened.

The god resumed speaking, but the world had darkened around Paran, fading, dwindling, until the voice was gone, and with it all awareness but the faint, renewed spinning of a coin.

An unknown span of time passed in which Paran wandered through memories he had thought long lost—his days as a child clinging to his mother’s dress and taking his first, tottering steps; the nights of storm when he raced down the chill hallway to his parents’ bedroom, tiny feet slapping on the cold stone; holding the hands of his two sisters as they stood waiting on the hard cobbles of the courtyard—waiting, waiting for someone. The images seemed to lurch sideways in his head. His mother’s dress? No, an old woman in the service of the household. Not his parents’ bedroom, but those of the servants; and there, in the courtyard with his sisters, they’d stood half the morning, awaiting the arrival of their mother and father, two people they barely knew.

In his mind scenes replayed themselves, moments of mysterious import, hidden significance, pieces of a puzzle he couldn’t recognize, shaped by hands not his own and with a purpose he couldn’t fathom. A tremor of fear traveled the length of his thoughts as he sensed that something—someone—was busy reordering the formative events of his life, turning them on end and casting them into the present new shadows. Somehow, the guiding hand . . . played. With him, with his life.

It seemed an odd kind of death—

Voices reached him.

“Aw, Hood take him.” A face bent close to Paran’s own, looked into his open blank eyes. The face was Picker’s. “He didn’t stand a chance,” she said.

Sergeant Antsy spoke from a few feet away. “Nobody in the Ninth would’ve done him like this,” he said. “Not right here in the city.”

Picker reached out and touched the chest wound, her fingers surprisingly soft on his torn flesh. “This isn’t Kalam’s work.”

“You all right here?” Antsy asked. “I’m going to get Hedge and Mallet, and whoever else has shown up.”

“Go ahead,” Picker replied, seeking and finding the second wound, eight inches below the first. “This one came later, right-handed and weak.”

A very odd death indeed, Paran thought. What held him here? Had there been another . . . place? A place of heat, searing yellow light? And voices, figures faint, indistinct, there beneath the arch of . . . of crowds strangely held in place, eyes closed, mouths open. A chorus of the dead . . . Had he gone somewhere only to return to these real voices, these real hands on his flesh? How could he see through the empty glass of his eyes, or feel the woman’s gentle touch on his body? And what of the pain, rising as from a great depth like a leviathan?

Picker withdrew her hands and rested her elbows on her thighs as she crouched before Paran. “Now, how come you’re still bleeding, Captain? Those knife wounds are at least an hour old.”

The pain reached the surface. Paran felt his gummy lips split. The hinges of his jaw cracked and he drew in a savage gasp. Then screamed.

Picker bolted backward, her sword appearing in her hand as if from nowhere as she backed to the alley’s far wall. “Shedenul’s mercy!”

Boots pounded on the cobbles off to her right and her head whipped around. “Healer! The bastard’s alive!”

The third bell after midnight tolled sonorously through the city of Pale, echoing down streets emptied by the curfew. A light rain had begun, casting the night sky with a murky gold hue. In front of the large, rambling estate, two blocks from the old palace, that had become part of the 2nd’s quarters, two marines wrapped in black raincapes stood guard outside the main gate.

“Damned miserable night, ain’t it?” one said, shivering.

The other shifted his pike to his left shoulder and hawked a mouthful of phlegm into the gutter. “You just guessing, mind,” he said, wagging his head. “Any other brilliant insights you feel ready to toss my way, you just speak up, hear?”

“What did I do?” the first man demanded, hurt.

The second soldier stiffened. “Hush, someone coming up the street.”

The guards waited tensely, hands on their weapons. A figure crossed from the opposite side and stepped into the torchlight.

“Halt,” the second guard growled. “Advance slowly, and you’d better have business here.”

The man took a step closer. “Kalam, Bridgeburners, the Ninth,” he said quietly.

The marines remained wary, but the Bridgeburner kept his distance, his dark face glistening in the rain. “What’s your business here?” the second guard asked.

Kalam grunted and glanced back down the street. “We didn’t expect to be coming back. As for our business, well, it’s better that Tayschrenn don’t know about it. You with me, soldier?”

The marine grinned and spat a second time into the gutter. “Kalam—you’d be Whiskeyjack’s corporal.” There was a new tone of respect in his voice. “Whatever you want you’ve got.”

“Damned right,” the other soldier growled. “I was at Nathilog, sir. You want us blinded by the rain for the next hour or so, you just say the word.”

“We’re bringing in a body,” Kalam said. “But this never happened on your shift.”

“Hood’s Gate, no,” the second marine said. “Peaceful as the Seventh Dawn.”

From down the street came the sounds of a number of men approaching. Kalam waved them forward, then slipped inside as the first guard unlocked the gate. “What do you figure they’re up to?” he asked, after Kalam had disappeared.

The other shrugged. “Hope it’ll stick something hard and sharp up Tayschrenn, Hood take the treacherous murderer. And, knowing them Bridgeburners, that’s exactly what they’ll do.” He fell silent as the group arrived. Two men carried a third man between them. The second soldier’s eyes widened as he saw the rank of the unconscious man, and the blood staining the front of his baldric. “Oponn’s luck,” he hissed to the Bridgeburner nearest him, a man wearing a tarnished leather cap. “The pull not the push,” he added.

The Bridgeburner threw him a sharp look. “You see a woman come after us you get out of her way, you hear me?”

“A woman? Who?”

“She’s in the Ninth, and she might be thirsty for blood,” the man replied, as he and his comrade dragged the captain through the gate. “Forget security,” he said, over his shoulder. “Just stay alive if you can.”

The two marines stared at each other after the men had passed. After a moment the first soldier reached to close the gate. The other man stopped him.

“Leave it open,” he muttered. “Let’s find some shadows, close but not too close.”

“Lousy night,” the first marine said.

“You got a thing about stating the obvious, haven’t you?” the other said, as he moved away from the gate.

The first man shrugged helplessly, then hurried to follow.

Tattersail stared long and hard at the card centered on the field she had laid down. She had chosen a spiral pattern, working her way through the entire Deck of Dragons and arriving with a final card, which could mark either an apex or an epiphany depending on how it placed itself.

The spiral had become a pit, a tunnel downward, and at its root, seeming distant and shadow-hazed, waited the image of a Hound. She sensed an immediacy to this reading. High House Shadow had become involved, a challenge to Oponn’s command of the game. Her eyes were drawn to the first card she had placed, at the spiral’s very beginning. The Mason of High House Death held a minor position among the overall rankings, but now the figure etched on the wood seemed to have risen to an eminent placing. Brother to the Soldier of the same House, the Mason’s image was that of a lean, graying man clothed in faded leathers. His massive, vein-roped hands held stone-cutting tools, and around him rose roughly dressed menhirs. Tattersail found she could make out faint glyphs on the stones, a language unfamiliar to her but reminiscent of Seven Cities’ script. In the House of Death the Mason was the builder of barrows, the placer of stones, a promise of death not to one or a few but to many. The language on the menhirs delivered a message not intended for her: the Mason had carved those words for himself, and time had worn the edges—even the man himself appeared starkly weathered, his face latticed with cracks, his silvered beard thin and tangled. The role had been assumed by a man who’d once worked in stone, but no longer.

The sorceress was having difficulty understanding this field. The patterns she saw startled her: it was as if a whole new game had begun, with players stepping onto the scene at every turn. Midway through the spiral was High House Dark’s Knight, its placement counterpoint to both the beginning and the end. As with the last time the Deck had unveiled this draconean figure, something hovered in the inky sky behind the Knight, as elusive as ever, at times seeming like a dark stain on her own eyes.

The Knight’s sword reached a black, smoky streak toward the Hound at the spiral’s apex, and in this instance she knew its meaning. The future held a clash between the Knight and High House Shadow. The thought both frightened Tattersail and left her feeling relieved—it would be a confrontation. There would be no alliance between the Houses. It was a rare thing to see such a clear and direct link between two Houses: the potential for devastation left her cold with worry. Blood spilled on such a high level of power cast aftershocks down through the world. Inevitably, people would be hurt. And this thought brought her round back to the Mason of High House Death. Tattersail’s heart thudded heavy in her chest. She blinked sweat from her eyes and managed a few deep breaths.

“Blood,” she murmured, “ever flows downward.” The Mason’s shaping a barrow—after all, he is Death’s servant—and he will touch me directly. That barrow . . . is it mine? Do I back out? Abandon the Bridgeburners to their fate, flee from Tayschrenn, from the Empire?

An ancient memory flooded her thoughts, which she had repressed for almost two centuries. The image shook her. Once again she walked the muddy streets of the village where she had been born, a child bearing the Talent, a child who had seen the horsemen of war sweeping down into their sheltered lives. A child who had run away from the knowledge, telling no one, and the night came, a night of screams and death.

Guilt rose within her, its specter visage hauntingly familiar. After all these years its face still held the power to shatter her world, making hollow those things she needed solid, rattling her illusion of security with a shame almost two hundred years old.

The image sank once again into its viscid pool, but it left her changed. There would be no running away this time. Her eyes returned one last time to the Hound. The beast’s eyes seemed to burn with yellow fire, boring into her as if seeking to brand her soul.

She stiffened in her chair as a cold presence washed over her from behind. Slowly, Tattersail turned.

“Sorry for not giving you warning,” Quick Ben said, emerging from the swirling cloud of his Warren. It held a strange, spicy scent. “Company’s coming,” he said, seeming distracted. “I’ve called Hairlock. He comes by Warren.”

Tattersail shivered as a wave of premonition brushed her spine. She faced the Deck again and began to collect the cards.

“The situation’s just become a lot more complicated,” the wizard said behind her.

The sorceress paused, giving herself a small, tight smile. “Really?” she murmured.

The wind flung rain against Whiskeyjack’s face. Faintly through the dark night the fourth bell clanged. The sergeant pulled his raincape tighter and wearily shifted his stance. The view from the rooftop of the palace’s east turret was mostly obscured by sheets of rain. “You’ve been chewing on something for days,” he said, to the man beside him. “Let’s hear it, soldier.”

Fiddler wiped the rain from his eyes and squinted into the east. “Not much to tell you, Sarge,” he said gruffly. “Just feelings. That sorceress, for one.”

“Tattersail?”

“Yeah.” Metal clinked as the sapper unstrapped his sword belt. “Hate this damned thing,” he muttered.

Whiskeyjack watched as the man tossed the belt and scabbarded shortsword to the rooftop’s pebbled surface behind them. “Just don’t forget it like you did last time,” the sergeant said, hiding a grin.

Fiddler winced. “Make one mistake and nobody lets you forget it.”

Whiskeyjack made no reply, though his shoulders shook with laughter.

“Hood’s Bones,” Fiddler went on, “I ain’t no fighter. Not like that, anyway. Was born in an alley in Malaz City, learned the stone-cutting trade breaking into barrows up on the plain behind Mock’s Hold.” He glanced up at his sergeant. “You used to be a stonecutter, too. Just like me. Only I’m no fast learner in soldiering like you was. It was the ranks or the mines for me—sometimes I think I went and made the wrong choice.”

Whiskeyjack’s amusement died as a pang followed Fiddler’s words. Learn what? he wondered. How to kill people? How to send them off to die in some foreign land? “What’s your feeling on Tattersail?” the sergeant asked curtly.

“Scared,” the sapper responded. “She’s got some old demons riding her, is my guess, and they’re closing in.”

Whiskeyjack grunted. “It’s rare you’ll find a mage with a pleasant past,” he said. “Story goes she wasn’t recruited, she was on the run. Then she messed up with her first posting.”

“It’s bad timing her going all soft on us now.”

“She’s lost her cadre. She’s been betrayed. Without the Empire, what’s she got to hold on to?” What has any of us got?

“It’s like she’s ready to cry, right on the edge, every single minute. I’m thinking she’s lost her backbone, Sarge. If Tayschrenn puts her under his thumb, she’s liable to squeal.”

“I think you’ve underestimated the sorceress, Fiddler,” Whiskeyjack said. “She’s a survivor—and loyal. It’s not common news, but she’s been offered the title of High Mage more than once and she won’t accept. It doesn’t show, but a head-to-head between her and Tayschrenn would be a close thing. She’s a Master of her Warren, and you don’t acquire that with a weak spine.”

Fiddler whistled softly, leaned his arms on the parapet. “I stand corrected.”

“Anything else, Sapper?”

“Just one,” Fiddler replied, deadpan.

Whiskeyjack stiffened. He knew what that tone implied. “Go on.”

“Something’s about to be unleashed tonight, Sergeant.” Fiddler swung round, his eyes glittering in the darkness. “It’s going to be messy.”

Both men turned at the thumping of the roof’s trap-door. High Fist Dujek Onearm emerged, the light from the room below a broken beacon rising around him. He cleared the ladder’s last rung and stepped onto the roof. “Give me a hand with this damn door here,” he called to the two men.

They strode over, their boots crunching on the gravel scatter. “Any word on Captain Paran, High Fist?” Whiskeyjack asked, as Fiddler crouched over the trap-door and, with a grunt, levered it back into place.

“None,” Dujek said. “He’s disappeared. Then again so has that killer of yours, Kalam.”

Whiskeyjack shook his head. “I know where he is, and where he’s been all night. Hedge and Mallet were the last to see the captain, leaving Knobb’s Inn, and then he just seems to vanish. High Fist, we didn’t kill this Captain Paran.”

“Don’t quibble with words,” Dujek muttered. “Damn it, Fiddler, is that your sword lying over there? In a puddle?”

Breath hissed between Fiddler’s teeth and he hurried over to the weapon.

“The man’s a hopeless legend,” Dujek said. “Shedenul bless his hide.” He paused, seeming to reorder his thoughts. “OK, perish the thought, then. You didn’t kill Paran. So where is he?”

“We’re looking,” Whiskeyjack said tonelessly.

The High Fist sighed. “All right. Understood. You want to know who else might be wanting Paran dead, and that means explaining who sent him. Well, he’s Adjunct Lorn’s man, has been for some time. He’s not Claw, though. He’s a bloody noble’s son from Unta.”

Fiddler had donned his weapon and now stood twenty paces away at the roof’s edge, hands on his hips. A good man. They’re all good, dammit. Whiskeyjack blinked the rain from his eyes. “From the capital? Could be someone in those circles. Nobody likes the old noble families, not even the nobles themselves.”

“It’s possible,” Dujek conceded, without much conviction. “In any case, he’s to command your squad, and not for just this mission. The assignment’s permanent.”

Whiskeyjack asked, “Is the Darujhistan infiltration his own idea?”

The High Fist replied, “No, but whose it is is anybody’s guess. Maybe the Adjunct, maybe the Empress herself. So what all that means is we’re sending you in anyway.” He scowled briefly. “I’m to relay the final details to you.” He faced the sergeant. “Assuming Paran is gone for good.”

“May I speak freely, High Fist?”

Dujek barked a laugh. “You think I don’t know it, Whiskeyjack? The plan stinks. A tactical nightmare—”

“I don’t agree.”

“What?”

“I think it will do just as it was intended to do,” the sergeant said dully, his gaze at first on the lightening eastern horizon, then on the soldier standing at the roof’s edge. Because it is intended to get us all killed.

The High Fist studied the sergeant’s face, then he said, “Come with me.” He led Whiskeyjack over to where Fiddler stood. The sapper gave them a nod. A moment later all three stood looking down on the city. Pale’s ill-lit streets wound between the rough blocks of buildings that seemed unwilling to yield the night; behind curtains of rain their squatting silhouettes appeared to shiver before the coming dawn.

After a while, Dujek said quietly, “Damned lonely out here, isn’t it?”

Fiddler grunted. “That it is, sir.”

Whiskeyjack closed his eyes. Whatever was happening thousands of leagues away was being played out here. Such was Empire, and it always would be, no matter the place or the people. They were all instruments blind to the hands shaping them. The sergeant had faced that truth long ago. It had galled him then and it galled him now. The only relief, these days, seemed to come with exhaustion.

“There’s pressure,” the High Fist continued slowly, “to disband the Bridgeburners. I’ve already received the order to merge the Second with the Fifth and Sixth. We’ll stand as the Fifth, near full complement. The tides are bringing new waters to our shore, gentlemen, and they smell bitter.” He hesitated, then said, “If you and your squad come out of Darujhistan alive, Sergeant, you have my permission just to walk.”

Whiskeyjack’s head snapped around and Fiddler stiffened.

Dujek nodded. “You heard me. And as for the rest of the Bridgeburners, well, rest easy that I’ll take care of them.” The High Fist glanced eastward, baring his teeth in a humorless grin. “They’re pushing me. But there’s no way in hell they’re going to leave me with no room to manoeuvre. I’ve got ten thousand soldiers I owe a lot to—”

“Excuse me, sir,” Fiddler cut in, “there’s ten thousand soldiers saying they’re the ones owing. You say the word and—”

“Quiet,” Dujek warned.

“Yes, sir.”

Whiskeyjack remained silent, his thoughts a whirling maelstrom. Desertion. That word rang in his head like a dirge. And Fiddler’s assertion was, he felt, a true one. If High Fist Dujek decided it was time to make a move, the last place Whiskeyjack wanted to be was on the run hundreds of leagues away from the center of things. He was too close to Dujek, and though they strove to hide it, the history between them ever churned beneath the surface. There’d been a time when Dujek had called him “sir,” and though Whiskeyjack held no grudges he knew that Dujek still had trouble accepting the change of fortunes. If the time came, Whiskeyjack intended to be at Onearm’s side.

“High Fist,” he said at last, aware that both men had been waiting for him to speak, “there’s still a few Bridgeburners left. Fewer hands on the sword. But the sword’s still sharp. It’s not our style to make life easy for those who oppose us—whoever they happen to be. To just quietly walk away . . .” The sergeant sighed. “Well, that’d suit them, wouldn’t it? While there’s a hand on the sword, a single hand, the Bridgeburners won’t back down. It settles on honor, I guess.”

“I hear you,” Dujek said. Then he grunted. “Well, here they come.”

Whiskeyjack looked up, followed the High Fist’s gaze into the eastern sky.

Quick Ben cocked his head, then hissed through his teeth. “The Hounds have caught his trail,” he said.

Kalam cursed vehemently, surging to his feet.

Sitting on the bed, Tattersail frowned bleary-eyed at the bearish man as he paced, his footsteps on the floorboards barely raising a creak. Big as he was, Kalam seemed to glide, giving the scene an almost surreal feel, with the wizard cross-legged and hovering a few inches off the wooden floor in the room’s center.

Tattersail realized she was exhausted. Too much was happening, and it was happening all at once. She shook herself mentally and returned her attention to Quick Ben.

The wizard was linked to Hairlock, and the marionette had been on someone’s—something’s— trail, which led down into the Warren of Shadow. Hairlock had reached the very gates of the Shadow Realm, and then he had gone beyond.

For a time Quick Ben had lost contact with the puppet, and those long minutes of silence had left everyone’s nerves in tatters. When Hairlock’s presence returned to the wizard he no longer moved alone.

“He’s coming out,” Quick Ben announced. “Shifting Warrens. With Oponn’s luck he’ll lose the Hounds.”

Tattersail winced at the wizard’s casual use of the Fool’s name. With so many currents swirling so close beneath the surface it might well call unwelcome attention to them.

Weariness hung heavy in the room like bitter incense, redolent with sweat and tension. After his last words Quick Ben had bowed his head. Tattersail knew his mind now traveled the Warrens, clinging to Hairlock’s shoulder with an unbreakable grip.

Kalam’s pacing brought him before the sorceress. He stopped and faced her. “What about Tayschrenn?” he asked gruffly, his hands twitching.

“He knows something has happened. He’s hunting, but the quarry eludes him.” She smiled up at the assassin. “I feel him moving cautiously. Very cautiously. For all he knows, the quarry might be a rabbit, or a wolf.”

Kalam’s expression remained grim. “Or a Hound,” he muttered, then resumed his pacing.

Tattersail stared at him. Was this what Hairlock was doing? Drawing a Hound after him? Were they all leading Tayschrenn into a deadly ambush? “I trust not,” she said, her eyes hardening on the assassin. “That would be foolish.”

Kalam ignored her, pointedly avoiding her gaze.

Tattersail rose. “Not foolish. Insane. Do you realize what could be unleashed here? Some believe the Hounds are more ancient than the Shadow Realm itself. But it’s not just them—power draws power. If one Ascendant parts the fabric here and now, others will come, smelling blood. Come the dawn every mortal in this city could be dead.”

“Easy, lady,” Kalam said. “Nobody wants a Hound loosed in the city. I spoke from fear.” He still would not look at her.

The assassin’s admission startled Tattersail. It was shame that kept his eyes from her. Fear was an admission of weakness. “For Hood’s Sake,” she sighed, “I’ve been sitting on a pillow for the past two hours.”

That caught him. He stopped, faced her, then laughed.

It was a deep, smooth laugh, and it pleased her immensely.

The bedroom door opened and Mallet entered the room, his round face shiny and flushed. The healer glanced briefly at Quick Ben, then walked to Tattersail, where he crouched down in front of her. “By all rights,” he said quietly, “Captain Paran should be in an Officer’s Hole with five feet of mud on his pretty face.” He nodded to Kalam, who had joined them. “The first wound was fatal, up under his heart. A professional thrust,” he added, with a meaningful look at the assassin. “The second would have done him more slowly, but no less certain.”

Kalam grimaced. “So he should be dead. He isn’t. Which means?”

“Intervention,” Tattersail answered, a queasy feeling settling in her stomach. Her heavy-lidded gaze fixed on Mallet. “Your Denul skills proved sufficient?”

The healer quirked a smile. “It was easy. I had help.” He explained, “The wounds were already closing, the damage already mended. I quickened it some, but that’s all. There’s been a deep trauma, both body and mind. By all rights it should be weeks before he recovers physically. And that alone could be a problem.”

“What do you mean?” Tattersail asked.

Kalam strode to the table, retrieved a jug of wine and three clay cups. He rejoined them and began pouring as Mallet said, “Healing should never be separated between the flesh and the sense of the flesh. It’s hard to explain. The Denul Warrens involve every aspect of healing, since damage, when it occurs, does so on all levels. Shock is the scar that bridges the gap between the body and the mind.”

“All and well,” Kalam growled, handing the healer a cup. “What about Paran?”

Mallet took a long draft and wiped at his mouth. “Whatever force interceded cared for nothing but healing the flesh. He may well be on his feet in a day or two, but the shock needs time to heal.”

“You couldn’t do it?” Tattersail asked.

He shook his head. “All such things are intertwined. Whatever interceded severed those connections. How many shocks, traumatic events, has Paran received in his lifetime? Which scar am I to trace? I may well do more damage in my ignorance.”

Tattersail thought about the young man they had dragged into her room an hour earlier. After his scream in the alley, announcing to Picker that he still lived, he had fallen into unconsciousness. All that she knew of Paran was that he was a noble’s son; that he’d come from Unta, and that he was the squad’s new officer on their mission in Darujhistan.

“In any case,” Mallet said, draining his cup, “Hedge is keeping an eye on him. He may come to any minute, but there’s no telling what state his mind will be in.” The healer grinned at Kalam. “Hedge has taken a liking to the brat.” His grin broadened as the assassin cursed.

Tattersail raised an eyebrow.

Seeing her expression, Mallet explained, “Hedge also adopts stray dogs—and other, uh, needy creatures.” He glanced at Kalam, who had resumed pacing. “And he can get stubborn about it, too.”

The corporal growled wordlessly.

Tattersail smiled. The smile faded as her thoughts returned to Captain Paran. “He’s going to be used,” she pronounced, flatly. “Like a sword.”

Mallet sobered with her words. “There’s nothing of mercy in the healing, only calculation.”

Quick Ben’s voice startled them all. “The attempt on his life came from Shadow.”

There was silence in the room.

Tattersail sighed. Before, it had been just a suspicion. She saw Mallet and Kalam exchange glances, and guessed at what passed between them. Wherever Sorry was, when she returned to the fold there would be some hard questions. And Tattersail now knew—with certainty—that the girl belonged to Shadow.

“And that means,” Quick Ben resumed blithely, “that whoever interceded on Paran’s behalf is now in direct opposition with the Realm of Shadow.” His head turned, dark eyes fixing on the sorceress. “We’ll need to know what Paran knows, whenever he comes around. Only—”

“We won’t be here,” Kalam finished.

“As if Hairlock wasn’t enough,” Tattersail muttered, “now you want me nursing this captain of yours.”

Quick Ben rose, brushing the dust from his leather leggings. “Hairlock will be gone for some time. Those Hounds are stubborn. It may be a while before he can shake them. Or, if the worst comes to the worst,” the wizard grinned darkly, “he’ll turn on them and give the Shadow Lord something to think about.”

Kalam said to Mallet, “Gather up Hedge. We’ve got to move.”

Quick Ben’s last comment left Tattersail cold. She grimaced at the ashen taste in her mouth, and watched in silence as the squad prepared to leave. They had a mission ahead of them, one that would take them right into the heart of Darujhistan. That city was the next on the Empire’s list, the last Free City, the continent’s lone gem worthy enough to covet. The squad would infiltrate, prepare the way. They’d be entirely on their own. In a strange way, Tattersail almost envied the isolation they were about to enter. Almost, but not quite. She feared they would all die.

The Mason’s Barrow returned to her thoughts as if raised by her own fears. It was, she realized, big enough to hold them all.

With dawn a blade-thin crimson streak at their backs, the Black Moranth, crouching on the high saddles of their Quorl mounts, glittered like diamonds slick with blood. Whiskeyjack, Fiddler, and the High Fist watched the dozen fliers approach. Overhead the rain had lessened, and around the nearby rooftops smudges of gray mist sank down to scuff stone and tile.

“Where’s your squad, Sergeant?” Dujek asked.

Whiskeyjack nodded at Fiddler, who turned and headed back to the trap-door. “They’ll be here,” the sergeant answered.

The sparkling, skin-thin wings of the Quorl, four to each creature, seemed to flip for the briefest of moments, and as one the twelve Moranth descended toward the turret’s rooftop. The sharp whirring sound of the wings was punctuated by the clicked commands of the Moranth riders as they called out to each other. They swept over the heads of the two men with a bare five feet to spare, and without ceremony landed behind them.

Fiddler had disappeared into the room below. Dujek, his hand on his hip, glared at the Moranth for a moment before grumbling something inaudible and making his way to the trap-door.

Whiskeyjack walked up to the nearest Moranth. A black chitin visor covered the soldier’s face, and it turned toward the sergeant in silent regard. “There was one among you,” Whiskeyjack said, “one-handed. He was five times marked for valor. Does he still live?”

The Black Moranth did not reply.

The sergeant shrugged and turned his attention to the Quorls. Though he had ridden their backs before, they continued to fascinate him. The winged creatures balanced on four thin legs emerging from beneath the saddles. They waited on the rooftop with wings splayed out and quivering fast enough to create a haze of water droplets suspended around them. Their long, oddly segmented tails jutted straight out behind them, multihued and twenty feet in length. Whiskeyjack’s nostrils twitched as the now familiar acrid scent reached him. The nearest Quorl’s enormous, wedge-shaped head was dominated by faceted eyes and articulating mandibles. Two additional limbs—arms, he supposed—were tucked underneath. As he stared the Quorl’s head swiveled until its left eye faced him squarely.

The sergeant continued staring, wondering what the Quorl was seeing, wondering what it was thinking—if it thought at all. Curious, he gave the Quorl a nod.

The head cocked, then turned away. Whiskeyjack’s eyes widened to see the tip of the Quorl’s tail curl up briefly. It was the first time he had seen such a motion.

The alliance between the Moranth and the Empire had changed the face of Imperial war. The Malazan tactics here on Genabackis had twisted into a new shape, one increasingly dependent on transport by air of both soldiers and supplies. Such dependency was dangerous, as far as Whiskeyjack was concerned. We know so little about these Moranth—no one has ever seen their cities in the forest. I can’t even tell their sex. Most scholars held that they were true humans, but there was no way to tell—the Moranth collected their own dead from the battlefields. There would be trouble in the Empire if the Moranth ever exercised a thirst for power. From what he had heard, however, the various color factions among them marked an ever-changing hierarchy, and the rivalry and competition remained at a fanatical pitch.

High Fist Dujek marched back to Whiskeyjack’s side, his hard expression softened slightly with relief. From the trap-door, voices rose in argument. “They’ve arrived,” Dujek said. “Giving your new recruit an earful about something—and don’t tell me what because I don’t want to know.”

Whiskeyjack’s momentary relief was shattered by what he only now realized was the secret hope that Sorry had deserted. So his men had found her after all, or she had found them. Either way, his veterans did not sound happy to see her. He couldn’t blame them. Had she tried to kill Paran? That seemed to be the suspicion of Quick Ben and Kalam.

Kalam was doing most of the bellowing, putting more into his role as corporal than was warranted, and Dujek’s searching glance at Whiskeyjack was enough to push him toward the trap-door. He came to the edge and glared down into the room below. Everyone was there, standing in a menacing circle around Sorry, who leaned against the ladder as if bored by the whole proceedings.

“Quiet!” Whiskeyjack roared down. “Check your supplies and get up here, now!” He watched them scamper, then gave a satisfied nod and returned to where the High Fist waited.

Dujek was rubbing the stump of his left arm, frowning distractedly. “Damn this weather,” he muttered.

“Mallet could ease that,” Whiskeyjack said.

“Not necessary,” Dujek replied. “I’m just getting old.” He scratched his jaw. “All of your heavy supplies have been delivered to the drop point. Ready to fly, Sergeant?”

Whiskeyjack eyed the ridged second saddles on the Quorl where they rose up at the back of the thorax like cowls, then nodded sharply.

They watched as the squad members emerged from the square doorway, each wearing a raincape and burdened with a heavy pack. Fiddler and Hedge were engaged in a whispering argument, the latter casting a glare back at Trotts who’d trodden on his heel. The Barghast had attached his entire collection of charms, trinkets, and trophies to various parts of his burly body, looking like a bedecked leadwood tree during the Kanese Fête of the Scorpions. Barghast were known for their odd sense of humor. Quick Ben and Kalam flanked Sorry, both men glowering and on edge, while Sorry, ignoring everyone, slowly made her way to the waiting Quorls. Her satchel was no bigger than a bedroll, and the raincape she wore was more like a cloak—not standard issue—reaching down to her ankles. She’d raised the hood. Despite the dawn’s burgeoning light her face remained in shadow. This is all I have left. Whiskeyjack sighed.

Dujek asked quietly, “How is she doing, Sergeant?”

“Still breathing,” Whiskeyjack replied stonily.

The High Fist slowly shook his head. “So damn young these days . . .”

A memory returned to Whiskeyjack as he considered Dujek’s words. On a brief attachment to the 5th, away from the siege at Pale, in the midst of the Mott Campaign, Sorry had joined them from the new troops arriving at Nathilog. He’d watched her put a knife to three local mercenaries they’d taken prisoner in Graydog—ostensibly to glean information but, he recalled with a shudder, it had been nothing like that. Not an act of expedience. He had stared aghast, horrified, as Sorry set to work on their loins. He remembered meeting Kalam’s gaze, and the desperate gesture that sent the black man surging forward, knives bared. Kalam had pushed past Sorry and with three quick motions had laid open the men’s throats. And then came the moment that still twisted Whiskeyjack’s heart. In their last, frothing words, the mercenaries had blessed Kalam.

Sorry had merely sheathed her weapon, then walked away.

Though the woman had been with the squad for two years, still his men called her a recruit, and they would probably do so until the day they died. There was a meaning there, and Whiskeyjack understood it well. Recruits were not Bridgeburners. The stripping away of that label was an earned thing, a recognition brought by deeds. Sorry was a recruit because the thought of having her inextricably enfolded within the Bridgeburners burned like a hot knife in the throat of everyone in his squad. And that was something to which the sergeant himself was not immune.

As all of this flashed through Whiskeyjack’s thoughts, his usually impassive expression failed him. In his head, he replied: Young? No, you can forgive the young, you can answer their simple needs, and you can look in their eyes and find enough there that is recognizable. But her? No. Best to avoid those eyes, in which there was nothing that was young—nothing at all.

“Let’s get you moving,” Dujek growled. “Mount everyone up.” The High Fist turned to say a few last words to the sergeant, but what he saw in Whiskeyjack’s face killed those words in his throat.

________

Two muted thunderclaps sounded in the city as the east spread its crimson cloak skyward, the first report followed scant minutes later by the second. The last of the night’s tears churned down gunnels and swirled along street gutters. Muddy puddles filled potholes, reflecting the thinning clouds overhead with an opaque cast. Among the narrow crooked alleys of Pale’s Krael Quarter, the chill and damp of the night clung to the dark spaces with tenacity. Here, the mold-laden bricks and worn cobbles had swallowed the second thunderclap, leaving no echo to challenge the patter of water droplets.

Down one aisle, winding south along the outer wall, loped a dog the size of a mule. Its massive head was slung low forward in front of the broad, bunched muscles of its shoulders. That it had seen a night without rain was marked by its dusty, dry, mottled gray and black fur. The animal’s muzzle was speckled with gray, and its eyes glowed amber.

The Hound, marked Seventh among Shadowthrone’s servants and called Gear, hunted. The quarry was elusive, cunning, and swift in its flight. Yet Gear felt close. He knew that it was no human he tracked—no mortal man or woman could have escaped his jaws for so long. Even more astonishing, Gear had yet to catch a glimpse of the quarry. But it had trespassed, with impunity it had entered the Shadow Realm, trailing Shadowthrone himself and strumming all the webs Gear’s lord had spun. The only answer to such an affront was death.

Soon, the Hound knew, he would be the hunted one, and if those hunters came in numbers and in strength Gear would be hard pressed to continue his search. There were those within the city who had felt the savage partings of the fabric. And less than a minute after passing through the Warren’s gate Gear’s hackles had stiffened, telling him of nearby magic’s burgeoning. Thus far the Hound had eluded detection, but that would not last.

He moved silent and cautiously through the maze of shanties and lean-tos crouching against the city wall, ignoring the occasional denizen come out to taste the dawn’s rain-cleansed air. He stepped over the beggars sprawled in his path. Local dogs and ratters gave him one glance then slunk away, ears flattened and tail sweeping the muddy ground.

As Gear rounded the corner of a sunken stone house the morning breeze brought his head round. He paused, eyes searching down the street opposite him. Mist drifted here and there, and the first carts of the lesser merchants were being pulled out by figures wrapped warm against the chill—the Hound was running out of time.

Gear’s eyes traveled down the length of the street, focusing on a large, walled estate at the far end. Four soldiers lounged before its gate, watching passers-by with little interest and talking among themselves. Gear’s head lifted, his study finding a shuttered window on the estate’s second floor.

Anticipation and pleasure surged through the Hound. He had found the trail’s end. Lowering his head again, he moved, his gaze unwavering on the four guards.

_________

The shift had ended. As the new marines approached they both noticed that the gate was unlocked, ajar.

“What’s this?” one asked, eyeing the two drawn faces of the soldiers who stood against the wall.

“It’s been that kind of night,” the elder responded. “The kind where you don’t ask questions.”

The two new men exchanged glances, then the one who had spoken gave the older man a nod and a grin. “I know the kind. Well, get on, then. Your cots are waiting.”

The older man shifted his pike and seemed to sag. His gaze flicked to his partner, but the young man had his attention on something up the street. “I’d guess it’s too late now,” the older man said to the newcomers, “meaning it won’t happen and so it don’t matter, but if a woman shows up, a Bridgeburner, you let her through and keep your eyes on the walls.”

“Look at that dog,” the younger soldier said.

“We hear you,” said the new man. “Life in the Second—”

“Look at that dog,” the young marine repeated.

The others turned to look up the street. The old guard stared, his eyes widening, then he hissed a curse and fumbled with his pike. None of the others managed even that much before the Hound was upon them.

Sleepless, Tattersail lay flat on her back on the bed in the outer room. Her exhaustion had reached a point where even sleep eluded her so she stared at the ceiling, her thoughts wandering in a disordered review of the past seven days. Despite her initial anger at being embroiled in the Bridgeburners’ schemes, she had to acknowledge the excitement she felt.

The desire to collect her possessions and open a Warren, away from the Empire, away from Hairlock’s madness and hunger, away from the field of an endless war, now seemed an ancient one, born of a desperation she no longer felt.

But it was more than just a renewed sense of humanity that compelled her to stay to see it through—the Bridgeburners, after all, had shown again and again that they could take care of their own affairs. No, she wanted to see Tayschrenn pulled down. It was a truth that frightened her. Hunger for vengeance poisoned the soul. And it was likely that she would have to wait a long time to see Tayschrenn’s just demise. She wondered if, having fed on that poison for so long, she might not end up viewing the world with Hairlock’s shining bright mad eyes.

“Too much,” she muttered. “Too much all at once.”

A sound at the door startled her. She sat up. “Oh,” she said, scowling, “you’ve returned.”

“Safe and sound,” Hairlock said. “Sorry to disappoint you, ’Sail.” The marionette waved one tiny, gloved hand and the door behind him closed, its latch falling into place. “Much feared, these Hounds of Shadow,” he said, sauntering into the room’s center and pirouetting once before sitting down, legs splayed and arms hanging limp. He sniggered. “But in the end nothing more than glorified mutts, stupid and slow and sniffing at every tree. Finding naught of sly Hairlock.”

Tattersail leaned back and closed her eyes. “Quick Ben was displeased by your sloppiness.”

“Fool!” Hairlock spat. “I leave him to his watching, I leave him convinced that such knowledge has power over me while I go where I choose. He eagerly lays claim to commanding me, a foolishness I give him now, to make my vengeance sweeter.”

She had heard it all before and knew he was working on her, seeking to weaken her resolve. Unfortunately he was succeeding in part, for she felt doubt. Maybe Hairlock was telling the truth: maybe Quick Ben had already lost him, yet remained ignorant of the fact. “Keep your vengeance for the man who stole your legs and then your body,” Tattersail said dryly. “Tayschrenn still mocks you.”

“He’ll pay first!” Hairlock shrieked. Then he hunched down, gripping his sides. “One thing at a time,” he whispered.

From the compound beyond the window came the first screams.

Tattersail bolted upright as Hairlock shouted: “Found! I mustn’t be seen, woman!”

The marionette leaped to his feet and scurried to his box against the far wall. “Destroy the Hound—you’ve no choice!” Scrambling, he opened the box and climbed inside. The lid thudded into place and the nimbus of a protective spell suffused it.

Tattersail stood by the bed, hesitating. Wood shattered below and the building shook. Men shrieked, weapons clanged. The sorceress pushed herself upright, terror seeping into her limbs like molten lead. Destroy a Hound of Shadow? Heavy thumps rattled the window, as of bodies being flung aside on the floor below, then the thumps reached the foot of the stairs, and the screaming stopped. From the compound she heard soldiers shouting.

Tattersail drew on her Thyr Warren. Power swept into her and pushed aside the paralyzing fear. She straightened, all exhaustion gone, and swung her gaze on the door. Wood creaked, then the timber panel exploded inward, as if flung from a catapult, and was instantly buffeted aside by Tattersail’s magical shield. The twin impacts shattered it, flinging shards and splinters against the ceiling and walls. Glass broke behind her, the window’s shutters springing open. An icy wind roiled into the room.

The Hound appeared, its eyes yellow flames, the muscles of its high shoulders taut, rippling under its skin. The creature’s power swept like a wave over Tattersail and she drew a sharp breath. The Hound was old, older than anything she had ever encountered. It paused in the doorway, sniffing the air, blood dripping from its black lips. Then its gaze fixed on the iron-bound box against the wall to Tattersail’s left. The beast stepped forward.

“No,” she said.

The Hound froze. Its massive head swung slow and measured to her, as if it was noticing her for the first time. Its lips peeled back to reveal the luminescent gleam of canines the length of a man’s thumb.

Damn you, Hairlock! I need your help! Please!

A white strip flashed above the Hound’s eyes as the lids snapped back. It charged.

The attack was so swift that Tattersail was unable to raise her hands before the beast was upon her, surging through her outer magic as if it was no more than a brisk wind. Her closest defenses, a layering of High Wards, met the Hound’s charge like a stone wall. She felt cracks streak outward, deep fissures reaching through to her arms and chest with a snapping sound immediately replaced by spurting blood. This, and the Hound’s momentum, flung her back through the air. The wards at her back cushioned the blow as she hit the wall beside the window. Mortar puffed into the air around her, and fragments of crushed brick scattered across the floor.

The Hound had fallen to its knees. Shaking its head, it regained its feet, snorted, then attacked again.

Tattersail, her wits rocked by the first charge, weakly lifted one blood-streaked arm before her face, unable to do anything else.

As the Hound sprang into the air, jaws open and reaching for her head, a wave of gray light struck the beast in the side, throwing it into the bed to Tattersail’s right. Wood crunched. With a grunt the Hound was up again, wheeling this time to face Hairlock, who stood perched atop his box, glistening with sweat and arms raised. “Oh, yes, Gear,” he shrilled. “I’m your quarry!”

Tattersail slumped, then leaned to one side and vomited on the floor. A chaotic Warren swirled in the room, a miasma that churned into her like riotous pestilence. It radiated from Hairlock in visible pulses of grainy gray shot through with black.

The Hound eyed Hairlock, its sides heaving. It was as if it was trying to dispel the waves of power from its brain. A low growl rumbled in its chest—its first sound. The wide head sagged.

Tattersail stared, then understanding struck a hammer blow to her chest. “Hound!” she screamed. “He’s reaching for your soul! Escape! Get out of here!”

The beast’s growl deepened, but it did not move.

None of the three noticed the door to the inner bedroom opening off to the left, or the halting appearance of Captain Paran, wrapped in the colorless woolen blanket that covered him down to his ankles. Pale and drawn, the man moved forward, a blank cast to his eyes, which were fixed on the Hound. As the invisible battle of wills continued between Gear and Hairlock, Paran stepped closer.

The movement caught Tattersail’s eye. She opened her mouth to shout a warning, but Paran moved first. The blanket parted to reveal a longsword, point flashing outward as he extended into a full lunge. The sword sank into Gear’s chest, even as the man leaped back, withdrawing the lunge, twisting the weapon as he pulled it clear. A bellow thundered from Gear’s throat. The Hound staggered back into the ruins of the bed, biting at the wound gushing blood from its side.

Hairlock screamed in rage and jumped forward, closing in on Gear.

Tattersail scythed one foot into the puppet’s path, flinging him against the far wall.

Gear howled. A dark rift opened around him with the sound of tearing burlap. He whirled and plunged into the deepening shadow. The rent closed and was gone, leaving in its wake a rippling of cold air.

Astonished beyond her pain, Tattersail swung her attention to Captain Paran and the bloodied sword in his hands. “How?” she gasped. “How could you have pierced the Hound’s magic? Your sword—”

The captain looked down at it. “Just lucky, I suppose.”

“Oponn!” Hairlock hissed, as he regained his feet, and glared at Tattersail. “Hood’s Curse on the Fools! And you, woman, this I’ll not forget. You will pay—I swear it!”

Tattersail looked away and sighed. A smile touched her lips as words uttered earlier now returned with new, grim meaning. “You’ll be too busy staying alive, Hairlock, to start on me. You’ve given Shadowthrone something to think about. And you’ll live to regret his attention, puppet. Deny that if you dare.”

“I’m returning to my box,” Hairlock said, scrambling. “Expect Tayschrenn here in minutes. You’ll say nothing, Sorceress.” He clambered inside. “Nothing.” The lid slammed shut.

Tattersail’s smile broadened, the taste of blood in her mouth like an omen, a silent, visible warning to Hairlock of things to come—a warning she knew he couldn’t see. That made the taste almost sweet.

She tried to move, but it seemed that a chill had come to her limbs. Within her mind visions floated, but walls of darkness closed in around them before they could register. She felt herself fading.

A man’s voice spoke close by, urgent. “What do you hear?”

She frowned, trying to concentrate. Then she smiled. “A spinning coin. I hear a spinning coin.”