sentence.
But, clearly, Caladan Brood and the Tiste And? weren't the only inhabitants of Moon's Spawn. An unseen lord remained in command of the fortress, bringing it here and sealing a pact with Pale's formidable wizards.
Tattersail's cadre had little hope of magically challenging such opposition. So the siege had ground to a halt, with the exception of the Bridgeburners who never relaxed their stubborn efforts to undermine the city's ancient walls.
Stay, she prayed to Moon's Spawn. Turn your face endlessly, and keep the smell of blood, the screams of the dying from settling on this land.
Wait for us to blink first.
Calot waited beside her. He said nothing, understanding the ritual this had become. It was one of the many reasons why Tattersail loved the man. As a friend, of course. Nothing serious, nothing frightening in the love for a friend.
«I sense impatience in Hairlock,» Calot murmured beside her.
She sighed. «I do, too. That's why I'm reluctant.»
«I know, but we can't dally too long, «Sail.» He grinned mischievously. «Bad form.»
«Hmmm, can't have them jumping to conclusions, can we?»
«They wouldn't have to jump very far. Anyway,» his smile faltered slightly, «let's get going.»
A few minutes later they arrived at the command tent. The lone marine standing guard at the flap seemed nervous as he saluted the two mages. Tattersail paused and searched his eyes. «Seventh Regiment?»
Avoiding her gaze, the guard nodded. «Yes, Sorceress. Third Squad.»
«Thought you looked familiar. Give my regards to Sergeant Rusty.» She stepped closer. «Something in the air, soldier?»
He blinked. «High in the air, Sorceress. High as they come.»
Tattersail glanced at Calot, who had paused at the tent flap. Calot puffed out his cheeks, making a comical face. «Thought I smelled him.»
She winced at this confirmation. The guard, she saw, was sweating under his iron helmet. «Thanks for the warning, soldier.»
«Always an even trade, Sorceress.» The man snapped a second salute, this one sharper, and in its way more personal. Years and years of this.
Insisting I'm family to them, one of the 2nd Army-the oldest intact force, one of the Emperor's own. Always an even trade, Sorceress. Save our skins, we'll save yours. Family, after all. Why, then, do I always feel so estranged from them? Tattersail returned the salute.
They entered the command tent. She sensed immediately the presence of power, what Calot called smell. It made his eyes water. It gave her a migraine headache. This particular emanation was a power she knew well, and it was anathema to her own. Which made the headaches all the worse.
Inside the tent, lanterns cast a dim smoky light on the dozen or so wooden chairs in the first compartment. A camp-table off to one side held a tin pitcher of watered wine and six tarnished cups that glistened with droplets of condensation.
Calot muttered beside her, «Hood's Breath, «Sail, I hate this.»
As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Tattersail saw, through the opening that led into the tent's second compartment, a familiar robed figure. He leaned with long-fingered hands on Dujek's map-table. His magenta cloak rippled like water though he remained motionless. «Oh, really now,» Tattersail whispered.
«Just my thought,» Calot said, wiping his eyes.
«Do you think,» she said, as they took their seats, «it's a studied pose?»
Calot grinned. «Absolutely. Laseen's High Mage couldn't read a battle map if his life depended on it.»
«So long as our lives don't depend on it.»
A voice spoke from a chair near them, «Today we work.»
Tattersail scowled at the preternatural darkness enwreathing the chair.
«You're as bad as Tayschrenn, Hairlock. And be glad I didn't decide to sit in that chair.»
Dully, a row of yellow teeth appeared, then the rest of the mage took shape as Hairlock relinquished the spell. Beads of sweat marked the man's flat, scarred brow and shaved pate-nothing unusual there:
Hairlock would sweat in an ice-pit. He held his head at an angle, achieving in his expression something like smug detachment combined with contempt. He fixed his small dark eyes on Tattersail. «You remember work, don't you?» His smile broadened, further flattening his mashed, misaligned nose. «It's what you were doing before you started rolling in the sack with dear Calot here. Before you went soft.»
Tattersail drew breath for a retort, but was interrupted by Calot's slow, easy drawl. «Lonely, Hairlock? Should I tell you that the campfollowers demand double the coin from you?» He waved a hand, as if clearing away unsavoury thoughts. «The simple fact is, Dujek chose Tattersail to command the cadre after Nedurian's untimely demise at Mott Wood. You may not like it, but that's just too bad. It's the price you pay for ambivalence.»
Hairlock reached down and brushed a speck of dirt from his satin slippers, which had, improbably, escaped unmarred the muddy streets outside. «Blind faith, dear comrades, is for fools-»
He was interrupted by the tent flap swishing aside. High Fist Dujek Onearm entered, the soap of his morning shave still clotting the hair in his ears, the smell of cinnamon water wafting after him.
Over the years, Tattersail had come to attach much to that aroma.
Security, stability, sanity. Dujek Onearm represented all those things, and not just to her but to the army that fought for him. As he stopped now in the centre of the room and surveyed the three mages, she leaned back slightly and, from under heavy lids, studied the High Fist. Three years of enforced passivity in this siege seemed to have acted like a tonic on the ageing man. He looked more like fifty rather than his seventy-nine years. His grey eyes remained sharp and unyielding in his tanned, lean face. He stood straight, which made him seem taller than his five and a half feet, wearing simple, unadorned leathers, stained as much by sweat as by the Imperial magenta dye. The stump of his left arm, just below the shoulder, was wrapped in leather strips. His hairy chalk-white calves were visible between the sharkskin straps of the Napan sandals.
Calot withdrew a handkerchief from his sleeve and tossed it to Dujek.
The High Mage snagged it. «Again? Damn that barber,» he growled, wiping the soap from his jaw and ears. «I swear he does it on purpose.»
He balled the handkerchief and flung it on to Calot's lap. «Now, we're all here. Good. Regular business first. Hairlock, you finished jawing with the boys below?»
Hairlock stifled a yawn. «Some sapper named Fiddler took me in, showed me around.» He paused to pluck lint from his brocaded sleeve, then met Dujek's eyes. «Give them six or seven years and they might have reached the city walls by then.»
«It's pointless,» Tattersail said, «which is what I put in my report.» She squinted up at Dujek. «Assuming it ever made it to the Imperial Court.»
«Camel's still swimming,» Calot said.
Dujek grunted-as close as he ever got to laughing. «All right, cadre, listen carefully. Two things.» A faint scowl crossed his scarred features.
«One, the Empress has sent a Claw. They're in the city, hunting down Pale's wizards.»
A chill danced up Tattersail's spine. No one liked having the Claws around. Those Imperial assassins-Laseen's favoured weapon-kept their poisoned daggers sharp for anyone and everyone, Malazans included.
It seemed Calot was thinking the same thing, for he sat up sharply. «If they're here for any other reason:»
«They'll have to come through me first,» Dujek said, his lone hand reaching down to rest on the pommel of his longsword.
He has an audience, there in the other room. He's telling the man commanding the Claw how things stand. Shedunul bless him.
Hairlock spoke. «They'll go to ground. They're wizards, not idiots.»
It was a moment before Tattersail understood the man's comment. Oh, right. Pale's wizards.
Dujek glanced down at Hairlock, gauging, then he nodded. «Two, we're attacking Moon's Spawn today.»
In the other compartment, High Mage Tayschrenn turned at these words and approached slowly. Within his hood a broad smile creased his dark face, a momentary cracking of seamless features. The smile passed quickly, the ageless skin becoming smooth once again. «Hello, my colleagues,» he said, droll and menacing all at once.
Hairlock snorted. «Keep the melodrama to a minimum, Tayschrenn, and we'll all be happier.»
Ignoring Hairlock's comment, the High Mage continued, «The Empress has lost her patience with Moon's Spawn-»
Dujek cocked his head and interrupted, his voice softly grating. «The Empress is scared enough to hit first and hit hard. Tell it plain, Magicker. This is your front line you're talking to here. Show some respect, dammit.»
The High Mage shrugged. «Of course, High Fist.» He faced the cadre.
«Your group, myself and three other High Mages will strike Moon's Spawn within the hour. The North Campaign has drawn most of the edifice's inhabitants away. We believe that the Moon's lord is alone. For almost three years his mere presence has been enough to hold us in check. This morning, my colleagues, we will test this lord's mettle.»
«And hope to hell he's been bluffing all this time,» Dujek added, a scowl deepening the lines on his forehead. «Any questions?»
«How soon can I get a transfer?» Calot asked.
Tattersail cleared her throat. «What do we know about the Lord of Moon's Spawn?»
«Scant little, I'm afraid,» Tayschrenn said, his eyes veiled. «A Tiste And? for certain. An archmage.»
Hairlock leaned forward and deliberately spat at the floor in front of Tayschrenn. «Tiste And? High Mage? I think we can be a little more specific than that, don't you?»
Tattersail's migraine worsened. She realized she was holding her breath, slowly forced it out as she gauged Tayschrenn's reaction-to the man's words and to the traditional Seven Cities challenge.
«An archmage,» Tayschrenn repeated. «Perhaps the Archmage of the Tiste And?. Dear Hairlock,» he added, his voice lowering a notch, «your primitive tribal gestures remain quaint, if somewhat tasteless.»
Hairlock bared his teeth. «The Tiste And? are Mother Dark's first children. You've felt the tremors through the Warrens of Sorcery, Tayschrenn. So have I. Ask Dujek about the reports coming down from the North Campaign. Elder magic-Kurald Galain. The Lord of Moon's Spawn is the Master Archmage-you know his name as well as I do.»
«I know nothing of the sort,» the High Mage snapped, losing his calm at last. «Perhaps you'd care to enlighten us, Hairlock, and then I can begin inquiries as to your sources.»
«Ahh!» Hairlock bolted forward in his chair, an eager malice in his taut face. «A threat from the High Mage. Now we're getting somewhere. Answer me this, then. Why only three other High Mages? We've hardly been thinned out that badly. More, why didn't we do this two years ago?»
Whatever was building between Hairlock and Tayschrenn was interrupted by Dujek, who growled wordlessly, then said, «We're desperate, mage. The North Campaign has gone sour. The Fifth is damn near gone, and won't be getting any reinforcements until next spring. The point is, the Moon's lord could have his army back any day now. I don't want to have to send you up against an army of Tiste And? and I sure as hell don't want the Second having to show two fronts with a relieving force coming down on them. Bad tactics, and whoever this Caladan Brood is, he's shown himself adept at making us pay for our mistakes.»
