Gardens of the Moon

Paran grimaced as he pushed open the tavern door and stepped out into the street. It was no wonder the old Emperor's armies had so easily devoured the feudal kingdoms in his path on the road to Empire. He was suddenly glad of the stains marring his uniform-he no longer looked out of place.



He strode into the alley leading to the barracks” side entrance. The way lay in shadow beneath high-walled buildings and the faded canopies that hung over sagging balconies. Pale was a dying city. He knew enough of its history to recognize the bleached tints of long-lost glory. True, it had commanded enough power to forge an alliance with Moon's Spawn but the captain suspected that that had had more to do with the Moon lord's sense of expedience than to any kind of mutual recognition of power. The local gentry made much of finery and pomp, but their props looked tired and worn. He wondered how alike he and his kind were with these droopy citizens. A sound behind him, the faintest scuff, made him turn. A shadowwrapped figure closed on him. Paran cried out, snatching at his sword.



An icy wind washed over him as the figure moved in. The captain backpedalled, seeing the glint of blades in each hand. He twisted to one side, his sword half-way out of the scabbard. His attacker's left hand darted up. Paran jerked his head back, throwing his shoulder forward to block a blade that never arrived. Instead, the long dagger slid like fire into his chest. A second blade sank into his side even as blood gushed up inside to fill his mouth. Coughing and groaning, Paran reeled, careened off a wall, then slid down with one hand grasping futilely at the damp stones, his fingernails gouging tracks through the mould.



A blackness closed around his thoughts which seemed to involve only a deep, heartfelt regret. Faintly, a ringing sound came to his ears, as if something small and metallic was skittering across a hard surface. The sound remained, of something spinning, and the darkness encroached no further.



“Sloppy,” a man said in a thin voice. “I am surprised.” The accent was familiar, pulling him to a childhood memory, his father dealing with Da Honese traders.



The answer came from directly above Paran. “Keeping an eye on me?



Another accent he recognized, Kanese, and the voice seemed to come from a girl, or a child, yet he knew it was the voice of his killer.



“Coincidence,” the other replied, then giggled. “Someone-something I should say-has entered our Warren. Uninvited. My Hounds hunt.”



“I don't believe in coincidences.”



Again came the giggle. “Nor do I. Two years ago we began a game of our own. A simple settling of old scores. It seems we have stumbled into a wholly different game here in Pale.”



“Whose?”



“I shall have that answer soon enough.”



“Don't get distracted, Ammanas. Laseen remains our target, and the collapse of the Empire she rules but never earned.”



“I have, as always, supreme confidence in you, Cotillion.



“I must be getting back,” the girl said, moving away.



“Of course. So this is the man Lorn sent to find you?”



“I believe so. This should draw her into the fray, in any case.”



“And this is desirable?” The conversation faded as the two speakers walked away leaving, as the only sound in Paran's head, that whiffing hum, as if a coin was spinning, endlessly spinning.



CHAPTER FOUR



They were of a kind, then the histories writ large in tattooed tracery the tales a tracking of old wounds but something glowed hard in their eyes-those flame-gnawed arches, that vanishing span, they are their own past each in turn destined to fall in line on the quiet wayside beside the river they refuse to name:



The Bridgeburners (IVi)



Toc the Younger (b. 1141)



Tattersail glared at whiskeyjack. “Hairlock is insane,” She pronounced. “That edge to him was always there, but he's chewed holes in his own Warrens and he's tasting Chaos. Worse yet, it's making him more powerful, more dangerous.”



They had gathered in Tattersail's quarters, which consisted of an outer room-where they now sat-and a bedroom with the rare luxury of a solid wood door. The past occupants had hastily stripped the place of anything valuable and portable, leaving behind only the larger pieces of furniture. Tattersail sat at the table, along with Whiskeyjack, Quick Ben and Kalam, and the sapper named Fiddler. The air in the room had grown hot, stifling.



“Of course he's insane,” Quick Ben replied, looking at his sergeant, whose face remained impassive. The wizard hastily added, “But that's to be expected. Fener's tail, lady, he's got the body of a puppet! Of course that's twisted him.”

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