The Malazan Empire Read online

  Dujek’s grunt was amused. “Four in the last week, Adjunct. You get used to it. All these marines here volunteered themselves—they don’t even listen to me anymore. The last assassin was so badly chopped up I couldn’t even make out if it was a man or a woman.”

  “You’ve a lot of Seven Cities natives in your legions, High Fist?”

  “Aye. Loyal to a fault when they want to be.”

  Loyal to what, Lorn wondered, and to whom? Seven Cities recruits were being sent elsewhere these days. The Empress did not wish Dujek’s soldiers to become aware that their homeland was on the brink of open rebellion. Such news might well tip the scales here on Genabackis, and that in turn would trigger Seven Cities itself. Both Lorn and the Empress were well aware how dangerous things had become, and they had to tread carefully indeed in their efforts to repair the damage. And it was now becoming obvious that Tayschrenn presented a major problem.

  She realized that she needed Dujek’s support more than he needed hers.

  They arrived at the hall’s end where stood massive double doors. The soldiers at either side saluted the High Fist, then opened them. Beyond was a large chamber dominated by a hardwood table in its center. Maps, scrolls, ink, and paint jars crowded its surface. Dujek and Lorn entered and the doors were shut behind them.

  “Tayschrenn has been informed of your arrival, but will be delayed somewhat,” Dujek said, sitting on the edge of the table. “If you have questions regarding the recent events at Pale, ask them now.”

  She knew he was giving her the opportunity to hear answers that didn’t come from Tayschrenn. Though as to whose version of the truth she would accept was up to her. Lorn began to appreciate Dujek’s comment about battle tactics. She strode to a nearby chair and settled slowly into its cushions. “Very well, High Fist. Small matters first. Have you encountered any difficulty with the Moranth?”

  Dujek scowled. “Funny you should ask. They’re getting pretty high-minded about some things. I had a hard time getting the Gold legions—their élite wariors—to fight Caladan Brood. Seems they consider him too honorable to treat as an enemy. The whole alliance was on shaky ground for a while there, but in the end they marched. Soon I’ll send the Black to join them.”

  Lorn nodded. “Similar problems with the Green and the Blue in Genabaris,” she said, “which explains why I came overland. The Empress suggests we make the most of the alliance, since it may not last.”

  “We haven’t much choice,” Dujek growled. “How many legions will I have in the spring landing?”

  Lorn hesitated, then said, “Two. And a regiment of Wickan lancers. The Wickans and the Eleventh Legion will disembark at Nathilog. The Ninth will land in Nisst and join with the conscript forces—the Empress trusts the latter reinforcements will be sufficient to break the Crimson Guard at Fox Pass, thus opening Brood’s flank.”

  “Then the Empress is a fool,” Dujek said, his tone hard. “The conscripts are next to useless, Adjunct, and by this time next year the Crimson Guard will have liberated Nisst, Treet, One Eye Cat, Porule, Garalt, and—”

  “I know the list.” Lorn rose abruptly. “You’ll receive two more legions next year, High Fist. That’s it.”

  Dujek thought for a time, his gaze on the map pegged to the tabletop. Lorn waited. She knew he was lost in reordering, re-evaluating his plans for next season’s campaign, that he’d entered a world of matériel and divisions, in second-guessing Caladan Brood and the commander of the Crimson Guard, Prince K’azz. Finally he cleared his throat. “Adjunct, is it possible to reverse the landings? The Eleventh and the Wickan lancers disembarking on the east coast, south of Apple. The Ninth on the west coast, to Tulips.”

  Lorn strode to the table and studied the map. Tulips? Why there? That made no sense at all. “The Empress would be curious as to your revised plans, High Fist.”

  “Meaning ‘maybe.’ ” Dujek rubbed the stubble on his jaw, then gave a sharp nod. “All right, Adjunct. First, the conscripts will not hold Fox Pass. The Crimson Guard will be into the northlands by the time our reinforcements arrive. Much of that area is farmland, pasture. As we retreat, pulling the conscripts back to Nisst, we raze the countryside. No crops, no livestock. Whatever supplies K’azz will need he’ll have to bring with him. Now, Adjunct, any army on the move, any army pursuing a routed army, is bound to leave its supply train behind, string it out in its haste to catch its enemy and deliver the killing blow. And that’s where the Wickan lancers come in.”

  The Wickan were born raiders, Lorn knew. In such countryside they’d be elusive, striking quickly and with deadly consequences. “And the Eleventh? Where will they be in all this?”

  “A third will be stationed in Nisst. The rest will be on the quick march—to Fox Pass.”

  “While Caladan Brood remains south of Blackdog Forest? That doesn’t make sense, High Fist.”

  “You suggested using the Moranth for all it’s worth, didn’t you? Well, from Tulips the Moranth and their Quorl will be staging a massive lift.” Dujek’s gaze narrowed as he studied the map. “I want the Ninth south of Blackdog Swamp by the time I bring up my forces from here and place them south of Brood. A concerted push from the Gold and Black should push him right into our laps, while his allies, the Crimson Guard, are stuck on the wrong side of Fox Pass.”

  “You intend to transport an entire legion by air?”

  “Does the Empress want this war won in her lifetime or not?” He pushed himself away from the table and paced. “Mind you,” he said, as if struck by sudden doubts, “it may all be academic. If I were Brood I’d . . .” His voice trailed away, and he faced the Adjunct. “Will the transport orders be reversed?”

  Lorn searched his face. Something told her that the High Fist had just made an intuitive leap, and it had to do with Caladan Brood, and that as far as Dujek was concerned, it was indeed now academic. She also realized that this was something he wouldn’t share with her. She scanned the map again, trying to see what Dujek had seen. But it was hopeless, she was no tactician. Trying to guess Dujek’s thoughts was hard enough; but to try the same with Caladan Brood was impossible. “Your plan, although brash, is now officially accepted on behalf of the Empress. Your request will be fulfilled.”

  Dujek nodded half-heartedly.

  “One thing, High Fist, before Tayschrenn arrives. There was a Hound of Shadow here?”

  “Yes,” the man said. “I wasn’t here at the time, but I saw the mess the beast left behind. If not for Tattersail it would’ve been far worse.”

  Lorn saw a glint of horror in Dujek’s eyes and into her mind returned the scene from the coast road west of Itko Kan, two years ago. “I’ve seen the work of Hounds before,” she said, meeting his eyes.

  In that moment of locked gazes they shared something profound. Then Dujek pulled his eyes away. “This Tattersail,” Lorn said, to hide a pang of regret, “must be a very capable sorceress.”

  “The only cadre mage to have survived Tayschrenn’s assault on Moon’s Spawn,” Dujek replied.

  “Indeed?” To Lorn, that revelation was even more remarkable. She wondered if Dujek suspected anything, but his next words put her at ease.

  “She called it luck, on both counts, and she might be right.”

  “Has she been a cadre mage for a long time?” Lorn asked.

  “Ever since I took command. Perhaps eight, nine years.”

  The familiarity of Tattersail’s name returned to Lorn then, like a mailed fist clenching her heart. She found herself sitting down again, and Dujek had taken a step toward her, genuine concern in his eyes.

  “Your injury needs attending to,” he said gruffly. “I shouldn’t have waited.”

  “No, no, it’s all right. Weariness, that’s all.”

  He studied her quizzically. “Would you like some wine, Adjunct?”

  She nodded. Tattersail. Was it possible? She would know when she saw the woman. She would know then. “Nine years,” she murmured, “the Mouse.”

  “I beg your pardo
n?”

  She looked up to find Dujek before her. He offered her a goblet of wine. “Nothing,” she said, as she accepted it. “Thank you.”

  As the double doors swung open both turned. In strode Tayschrenn, his face dark with fury as he confronted Dujek.

  “Damn you,” the High Mage grated. “If you had a hand in this I’ll find it, and that is a promise.”

  Dujek raised an eyebrow. “A hand in what, High Mage?” he asked coolly.

  “I’ve just been to the Hall of Records. A fire? The place looks like the inside of an oven.”

  Lorn rose and stepped between them. “High Mage Tayschrenn,” she said, in a low, dangerous tone, “perhaps you could tell me why this matter of some fire in some bureaucrat’s chamber should override all other considerations?”

  Tayschrenn blinked. “I beg your pardon, Adjunct,” he said tightly, “but within the Hall of Records were the city’s census lists.” His dark eyes swung past her to fix on Dujek. “Wherein all the names of Pale’s nobility could be found.”

  “Unfortunate,” the High Fist said. “Have you begun an investigation? My staff’s services are, of course, entirely at your disposal.”

  “Unnecessary, High Fist,” the wizard drawled sardonically. “Why make all your other spies redundant?” Tayschrenn paused, then stepped back and bowed to Lorn. “Greetings, Adjunct. I apologize for this ungracious-seeming reunion—”

  “Save your apologies for later,” Lorn said levelly. She faced Dujek. “Thank you for the wine and conversation,” she said, noting with satisfaction Tayschrenn’s stiffening at that. “I trust there’ll be a formal dinner this evening?”

  Dujek nodded. “Of course, Adjunct.”

  “Would you be so kind as to request Tattersail’s attendance as well?” She felt yet another flinch come from the High Mage, and saw in Dujek’s gaze a new respect as he looked upon her, as if acknowledging her own skills in this brand of tactics.

  Tayschrenn interrupted. “Adjunct, the sorceress has been ill as a result of her encounter with the Hound of Shadow,” he turned a smile on Dujek, “which I’m sure has been described to you by the High Fist.”

  Not well enough, Lorn thought ruefully, but let Tayschrenn imagine the worst. “I’m interested in a wizard’s evaluation of that event, High Mage,” she said.

  “Which you shall have shortly.”

  Dujek bowed. “I will inquire as to Tattersail’s health, Adjunct. If you will excuse me, then, I can be on my way.” He turned to Tayschrenn and gave a curt nod.

  Tayschrenn watched the one-armed old man leave the room, then waited for the doors to close once again. “Adjunct, this situation is—”

  “Absurd,” Lorn finished hotly. “Dammit, Tayschrenn, where’s your sense? You’ve taken on the craftiest bastard the Empire military has ever had the privilege of possessing and he’s eating you alive.” She spun to the table and refilled her goblet. “And you deserve it.”

  “Adjunct—”

  She faced him. “No. Listen, Tayschrenn. I speak directly from the Empress. She reluctantly approved your commandeering the assault on Moon’s Spawn— but if she’d known you so thoroughly lacked subtlety, she would never have permitted it. Do you take everyone else for fools?”

  “Dujek is just one man,” Tayschrenn said.

  Lorn took a large mouthful of wine, then set down the goblet and rubbed her brow. “Dujek’s not the enemy,” she said wearily. “Dujek’s never been the enemy.”

  Tayschrenn stepped forward. “He was the Emperor’s man, Adjunct.”

  “Challenging that man’s loyalty to the Empire is insulting, and it’s that very insult that may well turn him. Dujek is not just one man. Right now he’s ten thousand, and in a year’s time he’ll be twenty-five thousand. He doesn’t yield when you push, does he? No, because he can’t. He’s got ten thousand soldiers behind him—and, believe me, when they get angry enough to push back, you’ll not be able to withstand them. As for Dujek, he’ll just end up being carried on the tide.”

  “Then he is a traitor.”

  “No. He’s a man who cares for those he is responsible for and to. He’s the best of the Empire. If he’s forced to turn, Tayschrenn, then we’re the traitors. Am I getting through?”

  The High Mage’s face was lined with a deep, disturbed frown. “Yes, Adjunct,” he said quietly. “You are.” He looked up. “This task the Empress has commanded of me, it weighs heavily, Adjunct. These are not my strengths. It would do well if you dismissed me.”

  Lorn gave that serious consideration. Mages by nature never commanded loyalty. Fear, yes, and the respect born of fear, but the one thing a mage found difficult to understand or cope with was loyalty. And yet there had been one mage, long ago, who had commanded loyalty—and that was the Emperor. She said, “High Mage, we are all agreed on one thing. The old guard must disappear. All who stood with the Emperor and still cling to his memory will ever work against us, whether consciously or unconsciously. Dujek is an exception, and there is a handful of others like him. Those we must not lose. As for the others, they have to die. The risk lies in alerting them to that fact. If we’re too open we may end up with an insurrection the size of which could destroy the Empire.”

  “Apart from Dujek and Tattersail,” Tayschrenn said, “we’ve cleaned out everyone else. As for Whiskeyjack and his squad, he’s all yours, Adjunct.”

  “With luck,” Lorn said, then frowned as the High Mage winced. “What’s the matter?”

  He rose. “I peruse my Deck of Dragons nightly,” he said. “And I’m certain that Oponn has entered the world of mortal affairs. Tattersail’s own reading did much to confirm my suspicions.”

  Lorn looked at him sharply. “She’s an Adept?”

  “Far more adept than I,” Tayschrenn admitted.

  Lorn thought. “What can you tell me of Oponn’s involvement?”

  “Darujhistan,” Tayschrenn replied.

  Lorn closed her eyes. “I was afraid you’d say that. We need Darujhistan—desperately. Its wealth, coming into our hands, would break this continent’s back.”

  “I know, Adjunct. But the matter is even worse than you realize. I also believe that, somehow, Whiskeyjack and Tattersail are in league with one another.”

  “Any word of what happened to Captain Paran?”

  “None. Someone is hiding him, or his body. I’m inclined to believe he’s dead, Adjunct, but his soul has yet to pass through Hood’s Gate and only a mage could prevent that.”

  “Tattersail?”

  The High Mage shrugged. “Possibly. I would know more of this captain’s role in all this.”

  Lorn hesitated, then said, “He was engaged in a long, arduous search.”

  Tayschrenn growled, “Perhaps he found whatever he was seeking.”

  Lorn eyed him. “Perhaps. Tell me, how good is Tattersail?”

  “Good enough to be a High Mage,” Tayschrenn said. “Good enough to survive a Hound’s attack and to drive it away, though I would not think such a thing possible. Even I would have difficulty managing that.”

  “Maybe she had help,” Lorn murmured.

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Think on it now,” Lorn said. “But before you do, the Empress requests that you continue your efforts, though not against Dujek. You’re needed here as a conduit in case my mission goes wrong in Darujhistan. Do not involve yourself with managing the occupation of Pale. Further, you are to provide Dujek with details on Oponn’s appearance. If a god has entered the fray, he has a right to know and to plan accordingly.”

  “How can one plan anything with Oponn in the game?”

  “Leave that to Dujek.” She studied his face. “Do you have difficulty with any of these instructions?”

  Tayschrenn smiled. “In truth, Adjunct, I’m greatly relieved.”

  Lorn nodded. “Good. Now, I need a mundane healer and quarters.”

  “Of course.” Tayschrenn strode to the doors, then paused and turned. “Adjunct, I am glad you’re her
e.”

  “Thank you, High Mage.” After he left, Lorn sank into her chair and her mind traveled back nine years, to the sights and sounds experienced by a child, to a night, one particular night in the Mouse, when every nightmare a young girl’s imagination could hold became real. She remembered blood, blood everywhere, and the empty faces of her mother, her father, and older brother—faces numbed by the realization that they’d been spared, that the blood wasn’t their own. As the memories stalked once again through her mind, a name rode the winds, rustling in the air as if clawing through dead branches. Lorn’s lips parted, and she whispered, “Tattersail.”

  The sorceress had found the strength to leave her bed. She now stood at the window, leaning with one hand against the frame for support, and looked down on a street crowded with military wagons. The systematic plunder that quartermasters called “resupply” was well under way. The eviction of nobility and gentry from their familial estates for the stationing of the officer corps, of which she was one, had ended days ago, while the repairing of the outer walls, the refitting of sundered gates, and the clearing of “Moon rain” continued apace.

  She was glad she’d missed the river of corpses that must have filled the city streets during the initial phase of cleanup—wagon after wagon groaning beneath the weight of crushed bodies, white flesh seared by fire and slashed by sword, rat-gnawed and raven-pecked—men, women, and children. It was a scene she had witnessed before, and she had no wish ever to see it again.

  Now, shock and terror had seeped down and out of sight. Scenes of normality reappeared as farmers and merchants emerged from hiding to meet the needs of occupiers and occupied alike. Malazan healers had swept the city, rooting out the birthing of plague and treating common ailments among all those they touched. No citizen would have been turned from their path. And sentiments began the long, perfectly planned swing.

  Soon, Tattersail knew, there’d be the culling of the nobility, a scourge that would raise to the gallows the greediest, least-liked nobles. And the executions would be public. A tried and true procedure that swelled recruitment on a tide of base vengeance—with every hand stained by a righteous glee. A sword in such hands completed the conspiracy and included all players in the hunt for the next victim to the cause—the Empire’s cause.