A suspicion nagged him that the dog wasn't dead, that it would be back. The puppet ignored most of his questions, and when it did speak to him it was to voice dire threats. Apparently, though the Sorceress was ill, her presence alone-her continued existence-was all that kept Hairlock from fulfilling those threats.

Where was Whiskeyjack? Had the sergeant left without him? What would that do to Adjunct Lorn's plan?

He ceased pacing and turned a glare on the sorceress lying in the bed.

Hairlock had told Paran that she'd somehow hidden him when Tayschrenn arrived, the High Mage having sensed the dog's presence.

Paran had no memory of any of that, but he wondered how the woman could have managed anything after the beating she'd taken. Hairlock had scoffed that the sorceress hadn't even been aware of opening her Warren that one last time; that she'd done it all on instinct. Paran had the feeling that the marionette had been scared by that unveiling of power. Hairlock seemed most eager for the woman's death, but was either unable to achieve it himself or too frightened to try. The creature had muttered something about wards she'd raised about her person.

Yet Paran found nothing to impede his ministrations when the fever had been at its worst. It had broken the previous night, and now Paran felt his impatience reaching some kind of threshold. The sorceress slept, but if she didn't awaken soon he'd take matters into his own hands-leave this hiding place, perhaps seek out Toc the Younger, provided he could avoid Tayschrenn or any officers on his way out of the building.

Paran's unseeing glare remained fixed on the sorceress, his thoughts racing. Slowly, a new awareness tickled the edges of his mind, and he abruptly blinked. The woman's eyes were open, and they studied him.

He took a half-step forward but was stopped dead by her first words.

“I heard the Coin drop, Captain.”

The blood drained from Paran's face. An echo flittered through his memory. “A coin?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “A spinning coin?”

The voices of gods, of dead men and women. Howls of Hounds-all pieces of my memory's torn tapestry.

“Spins no longer,” the woman replied. She pushed herself into a sitting position. “How much do you remember?”

“Scant,” the captain admitted, surprised at himself for telling the truth. “The puppet will not even tell me your name,” he said.

“Tattersail. I've been, uh, in the company of Whiskeyjack and his squad.” A veil of caution seemed to slip over her sleepy gaze. “I was to take care of you until your health returned.”

“I believe you did,” Paran said. “And I returned the favour, which evens the scales, Sorceress.”

“So it does. Well, now what?”

Paran's eyes widened. “You don't know?”

Tattersail shrugged.

“But this is ridiculous,” Paran exclaimed. “I know nothing of what's happening here. I awaken to find a half-dead witch and a talking puppet for company, and of my new command not a single sign. Have they left for Darujhistan already?”

“I can't give you much in the way of answers,” Tattersail murmured “All I can tell you is the sergeant wanted you alive, because he needs to know who tried to assassinate you. We'd all like to know, in fact.” She fell silent, expectant.

Paran studied her round, ghostly pale face. There was something about her that seemed to disregard her physical mundanity, overwhelmed it, in fact, so that the captain found himself responding in ways that surprised him. It was, he saw, a friendly face, and he couldn't recall the last time he'd experienced such a thing. It left him off-balance, with only Tattersail to steady him. And that made him feel as if he were descending a spiral, with the sorceress in the centre. Descending? Perhaps it was an ascent. He wasn't sure, and the uncertainty made him wary.

“I recall nothing of it,” he said. And that wasn't entirely a lie, though it felt like it with her heavy-lidded eyes steady upon him.

“I think,” Paran added, despite his misgivings, “there were two of them I recall a conversation, though I was dead. I think.”

“But you heard a spinning coin,” Tattersail said.

“Yes,” he answered, bewildered. And more: I went to a place yellow, infernal light, a chorus of moans, a death's head:

Tattersail nodded to herself as if confirming a suspicion. “A god intervened, Captain Paran. Returned the life to you. You might think it was on your behalf, but I'm afraid there wasn't any altruism involved Are you following me?”