It was now Tattersail's turn to be impressed. The High Mage was an Adept, then. Had he, too, heard the laughter punctuating the laying of the field? She hoped not. «You might be right,» she said. «The Virgin's face is ever changing-it could be anyone. Can't say the same for Oponn, or the Rope's.» She nodded. «A very possible deception,» she said, pleased to be conversing with an equal-a truth that made her grimace inwardly.
It's always better when hatred and outrage stay pure, uncompromised.
«I would hear your thoughts,» Tayschrenn said.
Tattersail started, shied from the High Mage's steady gaze. She began collecting the cards. Would it hurt to offer some explanation? If anything, it will leave him even more rattled than be already is. «Deception is the Patron Assassin's forte. I sensed nothing of his presumed master, Shadowthrone himself. Makes me suspect the Rope is on his own here. Beware the Assassin, High Mage, if anything his games are even more subtle than Shadowthrone's. And while Oponn plays their own version, it remains the same game, and that game is being played out in our world. The Twins of Luck have no control in Shadow's Realm, and Shadow is a Warren known for slipping its boundaries. For breaking the rules.»
«True enough,» Tayschrenn said, rising to his feet with a grunt. «The birth of that bastard realm has ever troubled me.»
«It's young yet,» Tattersail said. She picked up her Deck and returned it to the pocket inside her cloak. «Its final shaping is still centuries away, and it may never happen. Recall other new Houses that ended up dying a quick death.»
«This one stinks of too much power.» Tayschrenn returned to his study of the Moranth Mountains. «My gratitude,» he said, as Tattersail went to the steps leading down into the city, «is worth something, I hope. In any case, Sorceress, you have it.»
Tattersail hesitated at the landing, then began the descent. He'd be less magnanimous if he found out that she had just misled him. She could guess the Virgin's identity. Her thoughts travelled back to the moment of the Virgin's appearance. The horses she had heard, passing beneath, hadn't been an illusion. Whiskeyjack's squad had just entered the city, through the gate below. And among them rode Sorry. Coincidence?
Maybe, but she didn't think so. The Spinning Coin had faintly wobbled at that instant, then its ringing returned. Though she heard it in her mind day and night, it had become almost second nature, and Tattersail found she had to concentrate to find it. But she'd caught the nudge, felt the pitch change and sensed a brief instant of uncertainty.
Death's Virgin, and the Assassin of High House Shadow. There was a connection there, somehow, and it bothered Oponn. Obviously, everything remained in a flux. «Terrific,» she muttered, as she reached the bottom of the staircase.
She saw the young marine who had approached her earlier. He stood in a line of recruits in the centre of the compound. No commanding officer was in sight. Tattersail called the boy over.
«Yes, Sorceress?» he asked, as he arrived to stand at attention in front of her.
«What are you all standing around for, soldier?»
"We're about to be issued our weapons. The staff sergeant's gone to bring the wagon round.»
Tattersail nodded. «I have a task for you. I'll see that you get your weapons-but not the tinny ones your friends are about to receive. If a superior officer questions your absence, refer him to me.»
«Yes, Sorceress.»
A pang of regret hit Tattersail. upon meeting the boy's bright, eager gaze. Chances were, he'd be dead within a few months. The Empire had many crimes staining its banner, but this was the worst of them. She sighed. «Deliver, in person, this message to Sergeant Whiskeyjack, Bridgeburners. The fat lady with the spells wants to talk. You have it, soldier?»
The boy blanched.
«Let's hear it.»
The marine repeated the message in a deadpan tone.
Tattersail smiled. «Very good. Now run along, and don't forget to get an answer from him. I'll be in my quarters.»
Captain Paran swung around for a last look at the Black Moranth. The squad had just reached the plateau's crest. He watched until they disappeared from view, then shifted his gaze back to the city in the east.
From this distance, with the wide, flat plain in between, Pale seemed peaceful enough, although the ground outside the walls was studded with black basaltic rubble and the memory of smoke and fire clung to the air. Along the wall scaffolding rose in places, tiny figures crowding the frameworks. They appeared to be rebuilding huge gaps in the stonework.
From the north gate a sluggish stream of wagons wound out towards the hills, the air above them filled with crows. Along the edge of those hills ran a line of mounds too regular to be natural.
He'd heard the rumours, here and there. Five dead mages, two of them High Mages. The 2nd's losses enough to fire speculation that it would be merged with the 5th and the 6th to form a new regiment. And Moon's Spawn had retreated south, across the Tahlyn Mountains to Lake Azur, trailing smoke, drifting and leaning to one side like a spent thunderhead.
But one tale reached into the captain's thoughts deeper than all the rest: the Bridgeburners were gone. Some stories said killed to a man; others insisted that a few squads had made it out of the tunnels before the collapse.
Paran was frustrated. He'd been among Moranth for days. The uncanny warriors hardly ever spoke, and when they did it was to each other in that incomprehensible tongue of theirs. All of his information was out of date, and that put him in an unfamiliar position. Mind you, he thought, since Genabaris it had been one unfamiliar situation after another.
So here he was, on the waiting end of things once again. He readjusted his duffel bag and was preparing for a long wait when he saw a horseman top the far plateau's crest. The man had an extra mount with him, and he rode straight for the captain.
He sighed. Dealing with the Claw always grated. They were so damn smug. With the exception of that man in Genabaris, none seemed to like him much. It had been a long time since he'd known someone he could call a friend. Over two years, in fact.
The rider arrived. Seeing him up close, Paran took an involuntary step back. Half the man's face had been burned away. A patch covered the right eye and the man held his head at an odd angle. The man flashed a ghastly grin, then dismounted.
«You're the one, huh?» he asked in a rasping voice.
«Is it true about the Bridgeburners?» Paran demanded. «Wiped out?»
«More or less. Five squads left, or thereabouts. About forty in all.» His left eye squinted and he reached up to adjust his battered helmet. «Didn't know where you'd be heading before. Do now. You're Whiskeyjack's new captain, huh?»
«Sergeant Whiskeyjack is known to you?» Paran scowled. This Claw wasn't like the others. Whatever thinking they did about him they kept to themselves, and he preferred it that way.
The man climbed back into his saddle. «Let's ride. We can talk on the way.»
Paran went to the other horse and tied his bag to the saddle, which was of the Seven Cities style, high-backed and with a hinged horn that folded forward-he'd seen several like this on this continent. It was a detail he'd already filed away. Natives from the Seven Cities had a predisposition for making trouble, and this whole Genabackan Campaign had been a foul-up from the very start. No coincidence, that. Most of the 2nd, 5th and 6th Armies had been recruited from the Seven Cities subcontinent.
He mounted and they settled into a steady canter across the plateau.
The Claw talked. «Sergeant Whiskeyjack's got a lot of followers around here. Acts like he don't know it. You got to remember something that's been damn near forgotten back in Malaz-Whiskeyjack once commanded his own company:»