Gardens of the Moon

Tattersail's breath caught. “And that's it,” she said, half to herself. Tayschrenn's the thread.



“The Emperor was insane,” Bellurdan said. “Else he would have protected himself better.”



Tattersail frowned at that. The Thelomen had a point. Like she'd just said, that old man wasn't a fool. So what had happened? “I'm sorry. We must talk later. The High Mage has summoned me. Bellurdan, will we talk later?”



The giant nodded. “As you wish. Soon I will depart to raise Nightchill's barrow. Far out on the Rhivi Plain, I think.”



Tattersail glanced back up the aisle. The marine still stood there, shifting from one foot to the other. “Bellurdan, would you mind if I cast a sealing spell on her remains?”



His eyes clouded and he looked down at the sack. “The guards are unhappy, it's true.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Yes, Tattersail. You may do that.”



“It smells bad from here to the throne,” Kalam said, his scarred face twisted with worry. He sat crouched on his haunches, absently scratching the lines of a web on the ground with his dagger, then looked up at his sergeant.



Whiskeyjack eyed Pale's stained walls, the muscles of his jaw bunching beneath his beard. “The last time I stood on this hill,” he said, his gaze narrowing, “it was crowded with armour. And a mage and a half.” He was silent for a time, then he sighed. “Go on, Corporal.”



Kalam nodded. “I pulled some old threads,” he said, squinting against the harsh morning light. “Somebody high up has us marked. Could be the court itself, or maybe the nobility-there's rumours they're back at it behind the scenes.” He grimaced. “And now we've got some new captain from Unta eager to get our throats cut. Four captains in the last three years, not one worth his weight in salt.”



Quick Ben stood ten feet away, at the hill's crest, his arms crossed. He now spoke. “You heard the plan. Come on, Whiskeyjack. That man slid straight out of the palace and into our laps on a stream of-”



“Quiet,” Whiskeyjack muttered. “I'm thinking.”



Kalam and Quick Ben exchanged glances.



A long minute passed. On the road below troop wagons rattled in the ruts leading into the city. Remnants of the 5th and 6th Armies, already battered, almost broken, by Caladan Brood and the Crimson Guard.



Whiskeyjack shook his head. The only force intact was the Moranth, they seemed determined to field only the Black regiments, using the Gr for lifts and drops-and where the hell was the Gold he'd been hearing much about? Damn those unhuman bastards anyway. Pale's gutters ran red from their hour of retribution. Once the burial shifts were through there'd be a few more hills outside the city's walls. Big ones.



There would be nothing to mark thirteen hundred dead Bridgeburners though. The worms didn't need to travel far to feast on those bodies. What chilled the sergeant to his bones was the fact that, apart from a few survivors, nobody had made a serious effort to save them. Some high ranking officer had delivered Tayschrenn's commiserations on those lost in the line of duty, then had unloaded a wagonload of tripe about heroism and sacrifice. His audience of thirty-nine stone-faced soldiers looked on without a word. The officer was found dead in his room hours later, expertly garotted. The mood was bad-nobody in regiment would have even thought of something so ugly five years ago. But now they didn't blink at the news.



Garotte-sounds like Claw work. Kalam had suggested it was a setup, an elaborate frame to discredit what was left of the Bridgeburners. Whiskeyjack was sceptical.



He tried to clear his thoughts. If there was a pattern it would be a simple one, simple enough to pass by unnoticed. But exhaustion see in like a thick haze behind his eyes. He took a deep lungful of the morning air. “The new recruit?” he asked.



Kalam rose from his haunches with a grunt. A faraway and longlook entered his eyes. “Maybe,” he said finally. “Pretty young for a Claw though.”



“I never believed in pure evil before Sorry showed up,” Quick Ben said. “But you're right, she's awfully young. How long are they trained before they're sent out?”



Kalam shrugged uneasily. “Fifteen years minimum. Mind you, they them young. Five or six.”



“Could be magery involved, making her look younger than she is.” Quick Ben said. “High-level stuff, but within Tayschrenn's abilities.”



“Seems too obvious,” Whiskeyjack muttered. “Call it bad upbringing.” Quick Ben snorted. “Don't tell me you believe that, Whiskeyjack.”