They came to the courtyard. Paran paused to study the guardsman «My father's usually thorough in researching the histories of those enter» Gamet grinned revealing a full set of white teeth.» h that he did.» Paran passed over the reins. He swung about and looked round the courtyard. It seemed smaller than he remembered. The old well, made by the nameless people who'd lived here before even the Kanese looked ready to crumble into a heap of dust. No craftsman would reset those ancient carved stones, fearing the curse of awakened ghosts. Under the estate house itself were similarly unmortared stones in the deepest reaches the many rooms and tunnels too bent, twisted and uneven to Servants and groundskeepers moved back and forth in the yard. None Gamet cleared his throat. «Your father and mother aren't here.»
He nodded. There'd be foals to care for at Emalau the count «Your sisters are though,» Gamet continued. «I'll have the house servants freshen up your room.»
«It's been left as it was, then?»
Gamet grinned again. «Well, clear out the extra furniture and casks.»
«As always.» Paran sighed and, without another word, made his way to the house entrance.
The feast hall echoed to Paran's boots as he strode to the long dining table. Cats bolted across the floor, scattering at his approach. He unclasped his travelling cloak, tossed it across the back of a chair, then sat at a longbench and leaned his back against the panelled wall. He closed his eyes.
A few minutes passed, then a woman's voice spoke. «I thought you were in Itko Kan.»
He opened his eyes. His sister Tavore, a year younger than him, stood close to the head of the table, one hand on the back of their father's chair.
She was as plain as ever, a slash of bloodless lines comprising her features, her reddish hair trimmed shorter than was the style. She was taller than the last time he'd seen her, nearly his own height, no longer the awkward child. Her expression revealed nothing as she studied him.
«Reassignment,» Paran said.
«To here? We would have heard.»
Ah, yes, you would have, wouldn't you? All the sly whisperings among the connected families.
«Unplanned,» he conceded, «but done nevertheless. Not stationed here in Unta, though. My visit is only a few days.»
«Have you been promoted?»
He smiled. «Is the investment about to reap coin? Reluctant as it was, we still must think in terms of potential influence, mustn't we?»
«Managing this family's position is no longer your responsibility, brother.»
«Ah, it's yours now, then? Has Father withdrawn from the daily chores?»
«Slowly. His health is failing. Had you asked, even in Itko Kan. .»
He sighed. «Still making up for me, Tavore? Assuming the burden of my failings? I hardly left here on a carpet of petals, you may recall. In any case, I always assumed the house affairs would fall into capable hands.» Her pale eyes narrowed, but pride silenced the obvious question. «At her studies. She's not heard of your return. She will be very excited.» His sister snorted, turning away. Telisin? She's too soft for this world, brother. For any world, I think. She's not changed. She'll be happy to see you.» He watched her stiff back as she left the hall.
He smelled of sweat-his own and the mare's-travel and grime, and of something else as well: Old blood and old fear. Paran looked around. Much smaller than I remembered.
CHAPTER TWO
With the coming of the Moranth the tide turned.
And like ships in a harbour the Free Cities were swept under Imperial seas.
The war entered its twelfth year, the Year of the Shattered Moon and its sudden spawn of deathly rain and black-winged promise.
Two cities remained to contest the Malazan onslaught.
One stalwart, proud banners beneath Dark's powerful wing.
The other divided-
— without an army, bereft of allies-
The strong city fell first.
Call to Shadow Felisin (b.1146)
63rd Year of Burn's Sleep (two years later)
105th Year of the Malazan Empire 9th Year of Empress Laseen's Rule
Through the pallor of smoke ravens wheeled. Their calls raised a shrill chorus above the cries of wounded and dying soldiers. The stench of seared flesh hung unmoving in the haze.
On the third hill overlooking the fallen city of Pale, Tattersail stood alone. Scattered around the sorceress the curled remains of burnt armour-greaves, breastplates, helms and weapons-lay heaped in piles. An hour earlier there had been men and women wearing that armour, but of them there was no sign. The silence within those empty shells rang like a dirge in Tattersail's head.
Her arms were crossed, tight against her chest. The burgundy cloak with its silver emblem betokening her command of the 2nd Army's wizard cadre now hung from her round shoulders stained and scorched.
Her oval, fleshy face, usually parading an expression of cherubic humour, was etched with deep-shadowed lines, leaving her cheeks flaccid and pale.
For all the smells and sounds surrounding Tattersail, she found herself listening to a deeper silence. In some ways it came from the empty armour surrounding her, an absence that was in itself an accusation. But there was another source of the silence. The sorcery that had been unleashed here today had been enough to fray the fabric between the worlds. Whatever dwelt beyond, in the Warrens of Chaos, felt close enough to reach out and touch.
She'd thought her emotions spent, used up by the terror she had just been through, but as she watched the tight ranks of a legion of Moranth Black marching into the city a frost of hatred slipped over her heavylidded eyes.
Allies. They're claiming their hour of blood. At the end of that hour there would be a score thousand fewer survivors among the citizens of Pale. The long savage history between the neighbouring peoples was about to have the scales of retribution balanced. By the sword.
Shedunul's mercy, hasn't there been enough?
A dozen fires raged unchecked through the city. The siege was over, finally, after three long years. But Tattersail knew that there was more to come. Something hid, and waited, in the silence. So she would wait as well. The deaths of this day deserved that much from her-after all, she had failed in all the other ways that mattered.
On the plain below, the bodies of Malazan soldiers covered the ground, a rumpled carpet of dead. Limbs jutted upward here and there, ravens perching on them like overlords. Soldiers who had survived the slaughter wandered in a daze among the bodies, seeking fallen comrades.
Tattersail's eyes followed them achingly.
«They're coming,» said a voice, a dozen feet to her left. Slowly she turned. The wizard Hairlock lay sprawled on the burnt armour, the pate of his shaved skull reflecting the dull sky. A wave of sorcery had destroyed him from the hips down. Pink, mud-spattered entrails billowed out from under his ribcage, webbed by drying fluids. A faint penumbra of sorcery revealed his efforts at staying alive.
«Thought you were dead,» Tattersail muttered.
«Felt lucky today.»
«You don't look it.»
Hairlock's grunt released a gout of dark thick blood from below his heart. «They're coming,» he said. «See them yet?»
She swung her attention to the slope, her pale eyes narrowing. Four soldiers approached. «Who are they?»
The wizard didn't answer.
Tattersail faced him again and found his hard gaze fixed on her, intent in the way a dying person achieves in those last moments. «Thought you'd take a wave through the gut, huh? Well, I suppose that's one way to get shipped out of here.»
His reply surprised her. «The tough fa?ade ill fits you, «Sail. Always has.» He frowned and blinked rapidly, fighting off darkness, she supposed. «There's always the risk of knowing too much. Be glad I spared you.» He smiled, unveiling red-stained teeth. «Think nice thoughts. The flesh fades.»
She eyed him steadily, wondering at his sudden: humanity. Maybe dying did away with the usual games, the pretences of the living dance.
Maybe she just wasn't prepared to see the mortal man in Hairlock finally showing itself. Tattersail prised her arms from the dreadful, aching hug she had wrapped around herself, and sighed shakily. «You're right. It's not the time for facades, is it? I never liked you, Hairlock, but I'd never question your courage-I never will.» She studied him critically, a part of her astonished that the horror of his wound didn't so much as make her flinch. «I don't think even Tayschrenn's arts are enough to save you, Hairlock.»
Something cunning flashed in his eyes and he barked a pained laugh.
«Dear girl,» he gasped, «your naivete never fails to charm me.»
«Of course,» she snapped, stung at falling for his sudden ingenuousness. «One last joke on me, just for old times sake.»
«You misunderstand.»
«Are you so certain? You're saying it isn't over yet. Your hatred of our High Mage is fierce enough to let you slip Hood's cold grasp, is that it? Vengeance from beyond the grave?»
«You must know me by now. I always arrange a back door.»
«You can't even crawl. How do you plan on getting to it?»
The wizard licked his cracked lips. «Part of the deal,» he said softly. «The door comes to me. Comes even as we speak.»
Unease coiled around her insides. Behind her, Tattersail heard the crunch of armour and the rattle of iron, the sound arriving like a cold wind. She turned to see the four soldiers appear on the summit. Three men, one woman, mud-smeared and crimson-streaked, their faces almost bone-white. The sorceress found her eyes drawn to the woman, who hung back like an unwelcome afterthought as the three men approached.
The girl was young, pretty as an icicle and looking as warm to the touch.
Something wrong there. Careful.
The man in the lead-a sergeant by the torque on his arm-came up to Tattersail. Set deep in a lined, exhausted face, his dark grey eyes searched hers dispassionately. «This one?» he asked, turning to the tall, thin black-skinned man who came up beside him.
This man shook his head. «No, the one we want is over there,» he said.
Though he spoke Malazan, his harsh accent was Seven Cities.
