CHAPTER FIVE
F
Rom Kiska’s side Artan signalled through the darkness to Hattar, who obviously couldn’t believe what he was being told. Artan signed again, insistent. Furious, Hattar slammed his weapons into their sheaths and stepped away from the door.
A soft laugh echoed all around the room; it whispered from every shadow. Kiska felt a familiar prickling at her neck and recognized the feeling for what it must be: the accessing of a Warren. She’d felt it a number of times with Agayla, when her Aunt sat with her legs curled under her as she dealt the Dragons deck. This time, however, the sensation was much more intense: dislocating and eerily sentient.
Beside her, Artan breathed deeply and shifted his stance, obviously readying for a confrontation he hadn’t expected or wanted.
‘A wise decision, Tay,’ murmured a voice like fine cloth brushing across itself.
Kiska bit back a yelp as the voice seemed to whisper from every shadow — even from over her shoulder, though her back touched the cold stone wall.
Standing in the open hall, the cultist pushed back his hood. The face and head were unremarkable: bristly short black hair, narrow fine features. No scars. The eyes, though, shone like jewels of jet. He stepped into the room, glanced at Hattar and smiled. The expression, dismissive, set Kiska’s teeth on edge.
Artan’s —
‘Evening.’
Kiska shot Artan a quick glance. Tay? Surely not Tay, as in Tayschrenn? Imperial High Mage, greatest of all talents aligned with the Empire!
The robed man chuckled lightly. His one-sided smile deepened. He seemed barely able to contain himself, as if at any moment he’d break out laughing at a joke known only to himself. ‘And what brings you here this night?’
‘As always,’ Artan replied, ‘concern for the Empire.’
The man cocked a brow. ‘So you still cling to that worn conceit of neutrality. Always the dutiful one.’
‘I serve the long term, as always.’
‘The long term? You serve yourself, Tay.’ The eyes flicked to Kiska. ‘And who is this?’
The dark pits of his eyes fascinated Kiska; she wanted to answer. Suddenly she wished to tell this man everything about her. Artan’s hand snatched painfully at her forearm. She winced, kept quiet.
‘She’s with me.’
The smile broadened. ‘Always an eye for talent, hmm, Tay?’
Artan remained silent, clenching his jaw as if hardening himself to the baiting. At that, the man’s smile dulled to a bored expression, the edges set into disappointment. He sighed. ‘Stay here if you mean to stand aside, Tay. Don’t move until it’s over. Anyone upstairs is a participant… understood?’ Artan nodded. The man inclined his head. ‘Till morning, then.’
‘Perhaps.’
The secret smile reappeared. ‘Yes. Of course. Perhaps.’ He turned and walked away, through the door and around the corner, as if to ascend the stairs.
Kiska stared at where he’d disappeared. She yearned to check if he’d really gone. ‘Was that really
Signing to Hattar, Artan pulled out a chair and sat wearily at the long dining table. Hattar closed the door.
‘We should be safe here,’ he said while massaging his brow. The confrontation seemed to have left him exhausted, which surprised Kiska, as earlier she’d witnessed mere irritation and contempt when faced with over fifty cultists.
He gestured for Kiska to sit. ‘Really him?’ he repeated. ‘Not in the flesh, if that’s what you mean. That was a sending… an image. He’s obviously stretched very thin tonight. Understandably so.’
‘He called you Tay.’
‘He did.’
Kiska licked her lips. ‘As in
‘No,’ growled Hattar.
Artan — Tay-waved a tired hand at Hattar. ‘Yes.’
By the gods! Here she was, sitting next to one of the greatest sorcerers of the age. Greater, many said, than the Emperor himself. There was so much she wanted to ask, yet how could she, a nobody from nowhere, dare to address such a personage? Kiska reflected with growing horror on her behaviour towards him. How had he put up with her? She watched him side-long: suddenly he’d become something alien, utterly separate from her own life.
A candle flamed to life at the door. Hattar touched it to a candelabra at the dining table and warm candlelight brought the room’s centre to life. Wide tapestries — war booty probably — insulated the walls, interspersed with shields, banners, and a multitude of pre-Imperium ships’ flags in a riot of colours and designs. Tayschrenn sat at the end of the table furthest from the door, in a high-backed, dark wood chair. Kiska took a chair along the side, situated between the table and the wall. Hattar returned to watching the door.
Kiska cleared her throat, whispered, ‘So what now?’
‘Now?’ Tayschrenn sat back, let out a long slow exhalation. His eyes appeared bruised and sunken. ‘Now we wait.’
Kiska nodded, glanced to the ceiling. ‘It’s quiet.’
Tayschrenn’s shoulders tightened at that. ‘The Malazan way,’ he breathed. ‘The murderer’s touch. A brush of cloth. A sip of wine. The gleam of a blade as fine as a snake’s tooth. Your name whispered just as you fall into sleep.’ He shook his head as if sad or regretful. The candlelight reflected gold from his eyes. He asked abruptly, ‘What of you, then?’
Kiska started. ‘What? Me?’
‘Yes. Tell me about yourself.’
Kiska’s cheeks burned in embarrassment. She lowered her head. How could he be so relaxed when, just overhead, the Abyss itself seemed ready to open up? ‘Me? Nothing. There’s nothing to tell. I was born here. My father died at sea when I was young. I hardly knew him. He was a sailor. My mother is a seamstress.’ Kiska glanced up. Tayschrenn was watching her over steepled fingers. The sight dried her throat.
‘And your mentoring?’ he asked. ‘How did that start?’
She swallowed, blushing again, but couldn’t help smiling. ‘By accident, you might say. I broke into Agayla’s shop and she caught me.’
Tayschrenn leaned back and laughed. His shoulders lowered as tension drained from them. He grinned and Kiska suddenly couldn’t be sure of his age. His guarded features bespoke a lifetime of watchfulness and calculation. The laugh and smile melted decades from the man.
‘I was very young,’ Kiska added, piqued.
‘You must have been, to try to steal from her.’
‘You said you’d met. You know her?’ The idea fascinated Kiska. Agayla, familiar with such heady circles of power — like a secret other life.
Tayschrenn shook his head. ‘Really only by reputation. You could say we’re colleagues.’
Kiska sat back. Well, colleagues; that was something! Amazing that she knew someone Tayschrenn considered a colleague. What would Agayla think of being called an associate? Actually, knowing her, she might not be pleased. She rarely spoke of politics, but whenever the subject came up the heat of her scorn could curl the dried roots hanging from the rafters.
