A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

usurpation had stirred, the day the Empire's First Sword was betrayed and brutally murdered. Hairlock knew something. But what?
    'All right,' Dujek drawled, 'we've got work to do. Let's get at it.'
    Tattersail sighed. Old Onearm's way with words. She swung a look on the man. She knew him well, not as a friend – Dujek didn't make friends – but as the best military mind left in the Empire. If, as Hairlock had just implied, the High Fist was being betrayed by someone, somewhere, and if Tayschrenn was part of it ... we're a bent bough, Calot had once said of Onearm's Host, and beware the Empire when it breaks. Seven Cities' soldiery, the closeted ghosts of the conquered but unconquerable ...
    Tayschrenn gestured to her and to the other mages. Tattersail rose, as did Calot. Hairlock remained seated, eyes closed as if asleep.
    Calot said to Dujek, 'About that transfer.'
    'Later,' the High Fist grunted. 'Paperwork's a nightmare when you've only got one arm.' He surveyed his cadre and was about to add something but Calot spoke first.
    'Anomandaris.'
    Hairlock's eyes snapped open, found Tayschrenn with bright pleasure. 'Ahhh,' he said, into the silence following Calot's single pronouncement. 'Of course. Three more High Mages? Only three?'
    Tattersail stared at Dujek's pale, still face. 'The poem,' she said quietly. 'I remember now.
    'Caladan Brood, the menhired one,
winter-bearing, harrowed and sorrowless ...'
    Calot picked up the next lines.
    '... in a tomb bereaved of words,
and in his hands that have crushed anvils —'
    Tattersail continued,
    ' the hammer of his song –
he lives asleep, so give silent warning
to all – wake him not.
Wake him not.'
    Everyone in the compartment was staring at Tattersail now as her last words fell away. 'He's awake, it seems,' she said, her mouth dry. '"Anomandaris", the epic poem by Fisher Keltath.'
    'The poem's not about Caladan Brood,' Dujek said, frowning.
    'No,' she agreed. 'It's mostly about his companion.'
    Hairlock climbed slowly to his feet. He stepped close to Tayschrenn. 'Anomander Rake, Lord of the Tiste Andii, who are the souls of Starless Night. Rake, the Mane of Chaos. That's who the Moon's lord is, and you're pitting four High Mages and a single cadre against him.'
    Tayschrenn's smooth face held the faintest sheen of sweat now. 'The Tiste Andii,' he said, in an even voice, 'are not like us. To you they may seem unpredictable, but they aren't. Just different. They have no cause of their own. They simply move from one human drama to the next. Do you actually think Anomander Rake will stay and fight?'
    'Has Caladan Brood backed away?' Hairlock snapped.
    'He is not Tiste Andii, Hairlock. He's human – some say with Barghast blood, but none the less he shares nothing of Elder blood, or its ways.'
    Tattersail said, 'You're counting on Rake betraying Pale's wizards – betraying the pact made between them.'
    'The risk is not as overreaching as it may seem,' the High Mage said. 'Bellurdan has done the research in Genabaris, Sorceress. Some new scrolls of Gothos' Folly were discovered in a mountain fastness beyond Blackdog Forest. Among the writings are discussions of the Tiste Andii, and other peoples from the Elder Age. And remember, Moon's Spawn has retreated from a direct confrontation with the Empire before.'
    The waves of fear sweeping through Tattersail made her knees weak. She sat down again, heavily enough to make the camp chair creak. 'You've condemned us to death,' she said, 'if your gamble proves wrong. Not just us, High Mage, all of Onearm's Host.'
    Tayschrenn swung round slowly, putting his back to Hairlock and the others. 'Empress Laseen's orders,' he said, without turning. 'Our colleagues come by Warren. When they arrive, I will detail the positioning. That is all.' He strode into the map room, resumed his original stance.
    Dujek seemed to have aged in front of Tattersail's eyes. Swiftly she slid her glance from him, too anguished to meet the abandonment in his eyes, and the suspicion curdling beneath its surface. Coward – that's what you are, woman. A coward.
    Finally the High Fist cleared his throat. 'Prepare your Warrens, cadre. As usual, always an even trade.'
     
    Give the High Mage credit, Tattersail thought. There was Tayschrenn, standing on the first hill, almost inside the Moon's shadow. They had arrayed themselves into three groups, each taking a hilltop on the plain outside Pale's walls. The cadre's was most distant, Tayschrenn's the closest. On