Row upon row of grey tents climbed the hills overlooking the plain that surrounded the city of Pale. Regimental standards ruffled sullenly in a faint breeze-the wind had turned since last night, carrying to Tattersail the stench of the latrine trenches. Overhead the remaining handful of stars dimmed into insignificance in the lightening sky. The world seemed almost peaceful.
Drawing her cloak against the chill, Tattersail paused outside the tent and turned to study the enormous mountain hanging suspended a quarter-mile above the city of Pale. She scanned the battered face of Moon's Spawn-its name for as long as she could remember. Ragged as a blackened tooth, the basalt fortress was home to the most powerful enemy the Malazan Empire had ever faced. High above the earth, Moon's Spawn could not be breached by siege. Even Laseen's own undead army, the T'lan Imass, who travelled as easily as dust on the wind, were unable, or unwilling, to penetrate its magical defences.
Pale's wizards had found a powerful ally. Tattersail recalled that the Empire had locked horns with the Moon's mysterious lord once before, in the days of the Emperor. Things had threatened to get ugly, but then Moon's Spawn withdrew from the game. No one still living knew why-just one of the thousand secrets the Emperor took with him to his watery grave.
The Moon's reappearance here on Genabackis had been a surprise.
And this time, there was no last-minute reprieve. A half-dozen legions of the sorcerous Tiste And? descended from Moon's Spawn, and under the command of a warlord named Caladan Brood they joined forces with the Crimson Guard mercenaries. Together, the two armies proceeded to drive back the Malaz 5th Army, which had been pushing eastward along the northern edge of Rhivi Plain. For the past four years the battered 5th had been bogged down in Blackdog Forest, forcing them to make a stand against Brood and the Crimson Guard. It was a stand fast becoming a death 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.