Gardens of the Moon

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-”