The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (21 page)

“Easy, lady,” Kalam said. “Nobody wants a Hound loosed in the city. I spoke from fear.” He still would not look at her.

The assassin’s admission startled Tattersail. It was shame that kept his eyes from her. Fear was an admission of weakness. “For Hood’s Sake,” she sighed, “I’ve been sitting on a pillow for the past two hours.”

That caught him. He stopped, faced her, then laughed.

It was a deep, smooth laugh, and it pleased her immensely.

The bedroom door opened and Mallet entered the room, his round face shiny and flushed. The healer glanced briefly at Quick Ben, then walked to Tattersail, where he crouched down in front of her. “By all rights,” he said quietly, “Captain Paran should be in an Officer’s Hole with five feet of mud on his pretty face.” He nodded to Kalam, who had joined them. “The first wound was fatal, up under his heart. A professional thrust,” he added, with a meaningful look at the assassin. “The second would have done him more slowly, but no less certain.”

Kalam grimaced. “So he should be dead. He isn’t. Which means?”

“Intervention,” Tattersail answered, a queasy feeling settling in her stomach. Her heavy-lidded gaze fixed on Mallet. “Your Denul skills proved sufficient?”

The healer quirked a smile. “It was easy. I had help.” He explained, “The wounds were already closing, the damage already mended. I quickened it some, but that’s all. There’s been a deep trauma, both body and mind. By all rights it should be weeks before he recovers physically. And that alone could be a problem.”

“What do you mean?” Tattersail asked.

Kalam strode to the table, retrieved a jug of wine and three clay cups. He rejoined them and began pouring as Mallet said, “Healing should never be separated between the flesh and the sense of the flesh. It’s hard to explain. The Denul Warrens involve every aspect of healing, since damage, when it occurs, does so on all levels. Shock is the scar that bridges the gap between the body and the mind.”

“All and well,” Kalam growled, handing the healer a cup. “What about Paran?”

Mallet took a long draft and wiped at his mouth. “Whatever force interceded cared for nothing but healing the flesh. He may well be on his feet in a day or two, but the shock needs time to heal.”

“You couldn’t do it?” Tattersail asked.

He shook his head. “All such things are intertwined. Whatever interceded severed those connections. How many shocks, traumatic events, has Paran received in his lifetime? Which scar am I to trace? I may well do more damage in my ignorance.”

Tattersail thought about the young man they had dragged into her room an hour earlier. After his scream in the alley, announcing to Picker that he still lived, he had fallen into unconsciousness. All that she knew of Paran was that he was a noble’s son; that he’d come from Unta, and that he was the squad’s new officer on their mission in Darujhistan.

“In any case,” Mallet said, draining his cup, “Hedge is keeping an eye on him. He may come to any minute, but there’s no telling what state his mind will be in.” The healer grinned at Kalam. “Hedge has taken a liking to the brat.” His grin broadened as the assassin cursed.

Tattersail raised an eyebrow.

Seeing her expression, Mallet explained, “Hedge also adopts stray dogs—and other, uh, needy creatures.” He glanced at Kalam, who had resumed pacing. “And he can get stubborn about it, too.”

The corporal growled wordlessly.

Tattersail smiled. The smile faded as her thoughts returned to Captain Paran. “He’s going to be used,” she pronounced, flatly. “Like a sword.”

Mallet sobered with her words. “There’s nothing of mercy in the healing, only calculation.”

Quick Ben’s voice startled them all. “The attempt on his life came from Shadow.”

There was silence in the room.

Tattersail sighed. Before, it had been just a suspicion. She saw Mallet and Kalam exchange glances, and guessed at what passed between them. Wherever Sorry was, when she returned to the fold there would be some hard questions. And Tattersail now knew—with certainty—that the girl belonged to Shadow.

“And that means,” Quick Ben resumed blithely, “that whoever interceded on Paran’s behalf is now in direct opposition with the Realm of Shadow.” His head turned, dark eyes fixing on the sorceress. “We’ll need to know what Paran knows, whenever he comes around. Only—”

“We won’t be here,” Kalam finished.

“As if Hairlock wasn’t enough,” Tattersail muttered, “now you want me nursing this captain of yours.”

Quick Ben rose, brushing the dust from his leather leggings. “Hairlock will be gone for some time. Those Hounds are stubborn. It may be a while before he can shake them. Or, if the worst comes to the worst,” the wizard grinned darkly, “he’ll turn on them and give the Shadow Lord something to think about.”

Kalam said to Mallet, “Gather up Hedge. We’ve got to move.”

Quick Ben’s last comment left Tattersail cold. She grimaced at the ashen taste in her mouth, and watched in silence as the squad prepared to leave. They had a mission ahead of them, one that would take them right into the heart of Darujhistan. That city was the next on the Empire’s list, the last Free City, the continent’s lone gem worthy enough to covet. The squad would infiltrate, prepare the way. They’d be entirely on their own. In a strange way, Tattersail almost envied the isolation they were about to enter. Almost, but not quite. She feared they would all die.

The Mason’s Barrow returned to her thoughts as if raised by her own fears. It was, she realized, big enough to hold them all.

With dawn a blade-thin crimson streak at their backs, the Black Moranth, crouching on the high saddles of their Quorl mounts, glittered like diamonds slick with blood. Whiskeyjack, Fiddler, and the High Fist watched the dozen fliers approach. Overhead the rain had lessened, and around the nearby rooftops smudges of gray mist sank down to scuff stone and tile.

“Where’s your squad, Sergeant?” Dujek asked.

Whiskeyjack nodded at Fiddler, who turned and headed back to the trap-door. “They’ll be here,” the sergeant answered.

The sparkling, skin-thin wings of the Quorl, four to each creature, seemed to flip for the briefest of moments, and as one the twelve Moranth descended toward the turret’s rooftop. The sharp whirring sound of the wings was punctuated by the clicked commands of the Moranth riders as they called out to each other. They swept over the heads of the two men with a bare five feet to spare, and without ceremony landed behind them.

Fiddler had disappeared into the room below. Dujek, his hand on his hip, glared at the Moranth for a moment before grumbling something inaudible and making his way to the trap-door.

Whiskeyjack walked up to the nearest Moranth. A black chitin visor covered the soldier’s face, and it turned toward the sergeant in silent regard. “There was one among you,” Whiskeyjack said, “one-handed. He was five times marked for valor. Does he still live?”

The Black Moranth did not reply.

The sergeant shrugged and turned his attention to the Quorls. Though he had ridden their backs before, they continued to fascinate him. The winged creatures balanced on four thin legs emerging from beneath the saddles. They waited on the rooftop with wings splayed out and quivering fast enough to create a haze of
water droplets suspended around them. Their long, oddly segmented tails jutted straight out behind them, multihued and twenty feet in length. Whiskeyjack’s nostrils twitched as the now familiar acrid scent reached him. The nearest Quorl’s enormous, wedge-shaped head was dominated by faceted eyes and articulating mandibles. Two additional limbs—arms, he supposed—were tucked underneath. As he stared the Quorl’s head swiveled until its left eye faced him squarely.

The sergeant continued staring, wondering what the Quorl was seeing, wondering what it was thinking—if it thought at all. Curious, he gave the Quorl a nod.

The head cocked, then turned away. Whiskeyjack’s eyes widened to see the tip of the Quorl’s tail curl up briefly. It was the first time he had seen such a motion.

The alliance between the Moranth and the Empire had changed the face of Imperial war. The Malazan tactics here on Genabackis had twisted into a new shape, one increasingly dependent on transport by air of both soldiers and supplies. Such dependency was dangerous, as far as Whiskeyjack was concerned.
We know so little about these Moranth—no one has ever seen their cities in the forest. I can’t even tell their sex
. Most scholars held that they were true humans, but there was no way to tell—the Moranth collected their own dead from the battlefields. There would be trouble in the Empire if the Moranth ever exercised a thirst for power. From what he had heard, however, the various color factions among them marked an ever-changing hierarchy, and the rivalry and competition remained at a fanatical pitch.

High Fist Dujek marched back to Whiskeyjack’s side, his hard expression softened slightly with relief. From the trap-door, voices rose in argument. “They’ve arrived,” Dujek said. “Giving your new recruit an earful about something—and don’t tell me what because I don’t want to know.”

Whiskeyjack’s momentary relief was shattered by what he only now realized was the secret hope that Sorry had deserted. So his men had found her after all, or she had found them. Either way, his veterans did not sound happy to see her. He couldn’t blame them. Had she tried to kill Paran? That seemed to be the suspicion of Quick Ben and Kalam.

Kalam was doing most of the bellowing, putting more into his role as corporal than was warranted, and Dujek’s searching glance at Whiskeyjack was enough to push him toward the trap-door. He came to the edge and glared down into the room below. Everyone was there, standing in a menacing circle around Sorry, who leaned against the ladder as if bored by the whole proceedings.

“Quiet!” Whiskeyjack roared down. “Check your supplies and get up here, now!” He watched them scamper, then gave a satisfied nod and returned to where the High Fist waited.

Dujek was rubbing the stump of his left arm, frowning distractedly. “Damn this weather,” he muttered.

“Mallet could ease that,” Whiskeyjack said.

“Not necessary,” Dujek replied. “I’m just getting old.” He scratched his jaw. “All of your heavy supplies have been delivered to the drop point. Ready to fly, Sergeant?”

Whiskeyjack eyed the ridged second saddles on the Quorl where they rose up at the back of the thorax like cowls, then nodded sharply.

They watched as the squad members emerged from the square doorway, each wearing a raincape and burdened with a heavy pack. Fiddler and Hedge were engaged in a whispering argument, the latter casting a glare back at Trotts who’d trodden on his heel. The Barghast had attached his entire collection of charms, trinkets, and trophies to various parts of his burly body, looking like a bedecked leadwood tree during the Kanese Fête of the Scorpions. Barghast were known for their odd sense of humor. Quick Ben and Kalam flanked Sorry, both men glowering and on edge, while Sorry, ignoring everyone, slowly made her way to the waiting Quorls. Her satchel was no bigger than a bedroll, and the raincape she wore was more like a cloak—not standard issue—reaching down to her ankles. She’d raised the hood. Despite the dawn’s burgeoning light her face remained in shadow.
This is all I have left
. Whiskeyjack sighed.

Dujek asked quietly, “How is she doing, Sergeant?”

“Still breathing,” Whiskeyjack replied stonily.

The High Fist slowly shook his head. “So damn young these days . . .”

A memory returned to Whiskeyjack as he considered Dujek’s words. On a brief attachment to the 5th, away from the siege at Pale, in the midst of the Mott Campaign, Sorry had joined them from the new troops arriving at Nathilog. He’d watched her put a knife to three local mercenaries they’d taken prisoner in Graydog—ostensibly to glean information but, he recalled with a shudder, it had been nothing like that. Not an act of expedience. He had stared aghast, horrified, as Sorry set to work on their loins. He remembered meeting Kalam’s gaze, and the desperate gesture that sent the black man surging forward, knives bared. Kalam had pushed past Sorry and with three quick motions had laid open the men’s throats. And then came the moment that still twisted Whiskeyjack’s heart. In their last, frothing words, the mercenaries had
blessed
Kalam.

Sorry had merely sheathed her weapon, then walked away.

Though the woman had been with the squad for two years, still his men called her a recruit, and they would probably do so until the day they died. There was a meaning there, and Whiskeyjack understood it well. Recruits were not Bridgeburners. The stripping away of that label was an earned thing, a recognition brought by deeds. Sorry was a recruit because the thought of having her inextricably enfolded within the Bridgeburners burned like a hot knife in the throat of everyone in his squad. And that was something to which the sergeant himself was not immune.

As all of this flashed through Whiskeyjack’s thoughts, his usually impassive expression failed him. In his head, he replied: Young? No, you can forgive the young, you can answer their simple needs, and you can look in their eyes and find enough there that is recognizable. But her? No. Best to avoid those eyes, in which there was nothing that was young—nothing at all.

“Let’s get you moving,” Dujek growled. “Mount everyone up.” The High Fist turned to say a few last words to the sergeant, but what he saw in Whiskeyjack’s face killed those words in his throat.

________

Two muted thunderclaps sounded in the city as the east spread its crimson cloak skyward, the first report followed scant minutes later by the second. The last of the night’s tears churned down gunnels and swirled along street gutters. Muddy puddles filled potholes, reflecting the thinning clouds overhead with an opaque cast. Among the narrow crooked alleys of Pale’s Krael Quarter, the chill and damp of the night clung to the dark spaces with tenacity. Here, the mold-laden bricks and worn cobbles had swallowed the second thunderclap, leaving no echo to challenge the patter of water droplets.

Down one aisle, winding south along the outer wall, loped a dog the size of a mule. Its massive head was slung low forward in front of the broad, bunched muscles of its shoulders. That it had seen a night without rain was marked by its dusty, dry, mottled gray and black fur. The animal’s muzzle was speckled with gray, and its eyes glowed amber.