The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (13 page)

And if I had sacrificed myself then? Cast my Warren’s defenses onto them instead of shielding my own hide?
She’d been surviving on instinct back then, and her instincts had had nothing to do with altruism. Those kind of people didn’t live long in war.

Being alive, Tattersail concluded as she approached her tent, isn’t the same as feeling good about it. She entered her tent and closed the flap behind her, then stood surveying her worldly possessions. Scant few, after two hundred and nineteen years of life. The oak chest containing her book of Thyr sorcery remained
sealed by warding spells; the small collection of alchemical devices lay scattered on the tabletop beside her cot, like a child’s toys abandoned in mid-game.

Amid the clutter sat her Deck of Dragons. Her gaze lingered on the reading cards before continuing its round. Everything looked different now, as if the chest, the alchemy, and her clothes all belonged to someone else: someone younger, someone still possessing a shred of vanity. Only the Deck—the Fatid—called out to her like an old friend.

Tattersail walked over to stand before it. With an absent gesture she set down the package given her by Kalam, then pulled out a stool from under the table. Sitting down, she reached for the Deck. She hesitated.

It had been months. Something had kept her away. Maybe Calot’s death could have been foretold, and maybe that suspicion had been pacing in the darkness of her thoughts all this time. Pain and fear had been shaping her soul all her life, but her time with Calot had been another kind of shaping, something light, happy, pleasantly floating. She’d called it mere diversion.

“How’s that for willful denial?” She heard the bitterness in her tone and hated herself for it. Her old demons were back, laughing at the death of her illusions.
You refused the Deck once before, the night before Mock’s throat was opened, the night before Dancer and the man who would one day rule an Empire stole into your master’s—your lover’s—Hold. Would you deny that a pattern exists, woman?

Her vision blurry with memories she’d thought buried forever, she looked down at the Deck, blinking rapidly. “Do I want you to talk to me, old friend? Do I need your reminders, your wry confirmation that faith is for fools?”

A motion caught the corner of her eye. Whatever was inside the bound hide had moved. Lumps rose here and there, pushing against the seams. Tattersail stared. Then, her breath catching, she reached to it and set it in front of her. She withdrew a small dagger from her belt and began to cut the seams. The object within went still, as if awaiting the result of her efforts. She peeled back a sliced flap of hide.

“ ’Sail,” said a familiar voice.

Her eyes widened as a wooden marionette, wearing bright yellow silk clothing, climbed out of the bag. Painted on its round face were features she recognized.

“Hairlock.”

“Good to see you again,” the marionette said, rising to its feet. It wobbled and held out artfully carved hands to regain balance. “And the soul did shift,” he said, doffing his floppy hat and managing an unsteady bow.

Soul shifting
. “But that’s been lost for centuries. Not even Tayschrenn—” She stopped, pursing her lips. Her thoughts raced.

“Later,” Hairlock said. He took a few steps, then bent his head forward to study his new body. “Well,” he sighed, “one mustn’t quibble, must one?” He looked up and fixed painted eyes on the sorceress. “You have to go to my tent before the thought occurs to Tayschrenn. I need my Book. You’re part of this now. There’s no turning back.”

“Part of what?”

Hairlock made no reply, having broken his uncanny stare. He lowered himself down to his knees. “Thought I smelled a Deck,” he said.

Sweat ran in cold rivulets under Tattersail’s arms. Hairlock had made her uneasy at the best of times,
but this
. . . She could smell her own fear. That he’d swung his gaze from her made her grateful for small mercies. This was Elder Magic, Kurald Galain, if the legends were true, and it was deadly, vicious, raw and primal. The Bridgeburners had a reputation for being a mean crowd, but to walk the Warrens closest to Chaos was pure madness. Or desperation.

Almost of its own accord, her Thyr Warren opened and a surge of power filled her weary body. Her eyes snapped to the Deck.

Hairlock must have sensed it. “Tattersail,” he whispered, amusement in his tone. “Come. The Fatid calls to you. Read what is to be read.”

Profoundly disturbed by her own answering flush of excitement, Tattersail reluctantly reached for the Deck of Dragons. She saw her hand tremble as it closed on it. She shuffled slowly, feeling the chill of the lacquered wooden cards seep into her fingers and then her arms. “I feel a storm raging in them already,” she said, trimming the Deck and setting it down on the tabletop.

Hairlock’s answering laugh was eager and mean. “First House sets the course. Quickly!”

She turned over the top card. Her breath caught. “Knight of Dark.”

Hairlock sighed. “The Lord of Night rules this game. Of course.”

Tattersail studied the painted figure. The face remained blurred as it always did; the Knight was naked, his skin jet black. From the hips up he was human, heavily muscled, holding aloft a black two-handed sword that trailed smoky, ethereal chains drifting off into the background’s empty darkness. His lower body was draconean, its armored scales black, paling to gray at the belly. As always, she saw something new, something she had never seen before that pertained to the moment. There was a shape suspended in the darkness above the Knight’s head: she could only detect it on the edge of her vision, a vague hint that vanished when she focused on the place itself.
Of course, you never give up the truth so easily, do you?

“Second card,” Hairlock urged, crouching close to the playing field inscribed on the tabletop.

She flipped the second card. “Oponn.” The two-faced Jester of Chance. “Hood’s Curse on their meddling ways,” Hairlock growled.

The Lady held the upright position, her male twin’s bemused stare upside down at the card’s foot. Thus the thread of luck that pulled back rather than pushed forward—the thread of success. The Lady’s expression seemed soft, almost tender, a new facet marking how things now balanced. A second heretofore unseen detail caught Tattersail’s intense study. Where the Lord’s right hand reached up to touch the Lady’s left a tiny silver disc spanned the space between them. The sorceress leaned forward, squinting. A coin, and on the face a male head. She blinked. No, female. Then male, then female. She sat back suddenly. The coin was spinning.

“Next!” Hairlock demanded. “You are too slow!”

Tattersail saw that the marionette was paying no attention to the card Oponn, and had in fact probably given it only sufficient notice to identify it. She drew a deep breath. Hairlock and the Bridgeburners were tied up in this, she knew that instinctively, but her own role was as yet undecided. With these two cards, she already knew more than they did. It still wasn’t much, but it might be enough to keep her alive in what was to come. She released her breath all at once, reached forward and slammed a palm down on the Deck.

Hairlock jumped, then whirled to her. “You hold on this?” he raged. “You hold on the Fool? The second card? Absurd! Play on, woman!”

“No,” Tattersail replied, sweeping the two cards into her hands and returning them to the Deck. “I’ve chosen to hold. And there’s nothing you can do about it.” She rose.

“Bitch! I can kill you in the blink of an eye! Here and now!”

“Fine,” Tattersail said. “A good excuse for missing Tayschrenn’s debriefing. By all means proceed, Hairlock.” Crossing her arms, she waited.

The marionette snarled. “No,” he said. “I have need of you. And you despise Tayschrenn even more than I.” He cocked his head, reconsidering his last words, then barked a laugh. “Thus I am assured there will be no betrayal.”

Tattersail thought about that. “You are right,” she said. She turned and walked to the tent flap. Her hand closed on the rough canvas, then she stopped. “Hairlock, how well can you hear?”

“Well enough,” the marionette growled behind her.

“Do you hear anything, then?”
A spinning coin?

“Camp sounds, is all. Why, what do you hear?”

Tattersail smiled. Without answering she pulled aside the tent flap and went outside. As she headed toward the command tent, a strange hope sang through her.

She’d never held Oponn as an ally. Calling on luck in anything was sheer idiocy. The first House she had placed, Darkness, touched her hand ice-cold, loud with the crashing waves of violence and power run amok—and yet an odd flavor there, something like salvation. The Knight could be enemy or ally, or more likely neither. Just out there, unpredictable, self-absorbed. But Oponn rode the warrior’s shadow, leaving House Dark tottering on the edge, suspended in a place between night and day. More than anything else, it had been Oponn’s spinning coin that had demanded her choice to hold.

Hairlock heard nothing.
Wonderful
.

Even now, as she approached the command tent, the faint sound continued in her head, as it would for some time, she believed. The coin spun, and spun. Oponn whirled two faces to the cosmos, but it was the Lady’s bet.
Spin on, silver. Spin on
.

Thelomen Tartheno Toblakai
. . .

find the names of a people

so reluctant to fade

into oblivion . . .

Their legend rots

my cynical cast and blights

my eyes with bright glory . . .

“Cross not the loyal cage

embracing their unassailable heart . . .

. . . Cross not these stolid menhirs,

ever loyal to the earth.”

Thelomen Tartheno Toblakai
. . .

Still standing, these towering pillars

mar the gelid scape

of my mind . . .

G
OTHOS
’ F
OLLY
(II.
IV
)
G
OTHOS
(
B
.?)

The imperial trireme carved the deep-sea troughs like a relentless ax-blade, sails stretched and spars creaking under the steady wind. Captain Ganoes Paran remained in his cabin. He had long since grown tired of scanning the eastern horizon for the first sighting of land. It would come, and it would come soon.

He leaned against the sloping wall opposite his bunk, watching the lanterns sway and idly tossing his dagger into the lone table’s center pole, which was now studded with countless tiny holes.

A cool musty brush of air swept across his face and he turned to see Topper emerge from the Imperial Warren. It had been two years since he’d last seen the Claw Master. “Hood’s Breath, man,” Paran said, “can’t you find another color of cloth? This perverse love of green must surely be curable.”

The tall half-blood Tiste Andii seemed to be wearing the same clothes as the last time Paran had seen him: green wool, green leather. Only the countless rings spearing his long fingers showed any splash of contrary color. The Claw Master had arrived in a sour mood and Paran’s opening words had not improved it. “You imagine I enjoy such journeys, Captain? Seeking out a ship on the ocean is a challenge of sorcery few could manage.”

“Makes you a reliable messenger, then,” Paran muttered.

“I see you’ve made no effort to improve on courtesy, Captain—I admit I understand nothing of the Adjunct’s faith in you.”

“Don’t lose sleep over it, Topper. Now you’ve found me, what is the message?”

The man scowled. “She’s with the Bridgeburners. Outside Pale.”

“The siege continues? How old is your information?”

“Less than a week, which is as long as I’ve been hunting you. In any case,” he continued, “the deadlock is about to be broken.”

Paran grunted. Then he frowned. “Which squad?”

“You know them all?”

“Yes,” Paran asserted.

Topper’s scowl deepened, then he raised a hand and began examining his rings. “Whiskeyjack’s. She’s one of his recruits.”

Paran closed his eyes. It should not have surprised him.
The gods are playing with me. Question is, which gods? Oh, Whiskeyjack. You once commanded an army, back when Laseen was named Surly, back when you could have listened to your companion, when you could have made a choice. You could’ve stopped Surly. Hood, perhaps you could have stopped me. But now you command a squad, just a squad, and she’s the Empress. And me? I’m a fool who followed his dream, and now all I desire is its end
. He opened his eyes and regarded Topper.
“Whiskeyjack. The War of Seven Cities: through the breach at Aren, the Holy Desert Raraku, Panpot’sun, Nathilog . . .”

“All in the Emperor’s time, Paran.”

“So,” Paran said, “I’m to take command of Whiskeyjack’s squad. The mission will take us to Darujhistan, to the city of cities.”

“Your recruit is showing her powers,” Topper said, grimacing. “She’s corrupted the Bridgeburners, possibly even Dujek Onearm and the entire Second and Third Armies on Genabackis.”

“You can’t be serious. Besides, my concern is with the recruit. With her. Only her. The Adjunct agrees we’ve waited long enough. Now you’re telling me we’ve waited too long? I can’t believe Dujek’s about to become a renegade—not Dujek. Not Whiskeyjack either.”

“You are to proceed as planned, but I have been instructed to remind you that secrecy is paramount, now more than ever. An agent of the Claw will contact you once you reach Pale. Trust no one else. Your recruit’s found her weapon, and with it she means to strike at the heart of the Empire. Failure cannot be considered.” Topper’s odd eyes glinted. “If you now feel unequal to the task . . .”

Paran studied the man standing before him.
If it’s as bad as you describe, why not send in a hand of Claw assassins?

The man sighed, as if he’d somehow heard Paran’s silent question. “A god is using her, Captain. She won’t die easily. The plan for dealing with her has required . . . adjustments. Expansion, in fact. Additional threats must be taken care of, but these are threads already woven. Do as you have been commanded. All risk must be removed if we are to take Darujhistan, and the Empress wants Darujhistan. She also feels it is time for Dujek Onearm to be . . .” he smiled “. . . disarmed.”