Gardens of the Moon

“Tiste Edur?” Tattersail interrupted. “Who were they?”



The wizard shrugged. “Cousins of the Tiste And?? I don't know Sorceress.”



You don't know? Actually, it seems you know a hell of a lot.



Quick Ben shrugged to punctuate his last words, then he added, “In any case, we believe Sorry is connected with House Shadow.”



Whiskeyjack startled everyone by surging to his feet. “I'm not convinced,” he said, throwing Quick Ben a glare that told Tattersail, the had been countless arguments over this issue. “Sorry likes killing, and having her around is like having spiders down your shirt. I know all that. I can see it and feel it the same as any of you. It doesn't mean she's some kind of demon.” He turned to face Kalam. “She kills like you do, Kalam. You've both got ice in your veins. So what? I look at you and I see a because that's what men are capable of-I don't hunt for excuses be I don't like to think that that's how nasty we can get. We look at and we see reflections of ourselves. Hood take it, if we don't like we see.”



He sat down just as abruptly as he had risen, and reached for the jug. When he continued his voice had dropped a notch. “That is my opinion anyway. I'm no expert on demons but I've seen enough mortal men and women act like demons, given the need. My squad's wizard is scared kss by a fifteen-year-old girl. My assassin slips a knife into his hand whenever she's within twenty paces of him.” He met Tattersail's eyes. “Hairlock has two missions instead of one, and if you think Quick Ben and Kalam are correct in their suspicions you can walk from all this-I know how things go when gods step into the fray.” The lines around his mouth tightened momentarily, a replaying of memories. “I know,” he whispered. Tattersail slowly let out her breath, which she had been holding the sergeant first rose to his feet. His needs were clear to her now. He wanted Sorry to be just human, just a girl twisted hard by a hard war. Because that was something he understood, something he could with.



“Back in Seven Cities,” she said quietly, “the story goes that Emperor's First Sword-his commander of his armies-Dassern had accepted a god's offer. Hood made Dassern his Knight of Death. Then something happened, something went: wrong. And Dassern renounced the title, swore a vow of vengeance against Hood-against Lord of Death himself. All at once other Ascendants started med manipulating events. It all culminated with Dassern's murder, the Emperor's assassination, and blood in the streets, temples at sorceries unleashed.” She paused, seeing the memories of those reflected in Whiskeyjack's face. “You were there.” And you don't want it to happen again, here and now. You think if you can deny that serves Shadow your conviction will be enough to shape reality. You to believe that to save your sanity, because there are some things that you can go through only once. Oh, Whiskeyjack, I can't ease burden. You see, I think Quick Ben and Kalam are right. “If Shadow claimed the girl, the trail will be evident-Hairlock will find it.”



“Do you walk away from this?” the sergeant asked.



Tattersail smiled. “The only death I fear is dying ignorant. No, answeL'Brave words, woman. These people have a way of bringing the best-or maybe the worst-in me.



Something glittered in Whiskeyjack's eyes, and he nodded. “So that,” he said gruffly. He leaned back. “What's on your mind, Fiddler,” he asked the sapper, who was still pacing behind him.



“Got a bad feeling,” the man muttered. “Something's wrong. Not her though, but close by. It's just-” He stopped, cocking his head, then sighed, resuming his uneasy walk. “Not sure, not sure.”



Tattersail's eyes followed the wiry little man. A natural talent. Something working on pure instinct? Very rare. “I think you should listen to him,” she said.



Whiskeyjack gave her a pained look.



Kalam grinned, a network of fines crinkling around his dark eyes. “Fiddler saved our lives in the tunnel,” he explained. “One of his bad feelings.”



Tattersail leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. She asked, “S where is Sorry right now?”



Fiddler whirled, his eyes widening on the sorceress. His mouth opened, then snapped shut again.



The other three surged to their feet, chairs toppling backwards.



“We've got to get going,” Fiddler grated. “There's a knife out there, and it's got blood on it.”



Whiskeyjack checked his longsword. “Kalam, out front twenty paces.” He faced Tattersail as the assassin slipped out. “We lost her couple of hours ago. Happens a lot between missions.” His face look drawn. “There may be no connection with this bloodied knife.”

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