A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

wrapped object and stepped close to Tattersail. The assassin's eyes were dark, penetrating as they searched her face.
    Quick Ben spoke. 'Hold on to it, Sorceress. Take it back to your tent and unwrap it there. Above all, don't let Tayschrenn see it.'
    Tattersail scowled. 'What? Just like that?' Her gaze fell on the object. 'I don't even know what I'd be accepting. Whatever it is, I don't like it.'
    The girl spoke directly behind her in a voice that was sharp and accusing. 'I don't know what you've done, Wizard. I felt you keeping me away. That was unkind.'
    Tattersail faced the girl, then glanced back at Quick Ben. What is all this? The black man's expression was glacial, but she saw a flicker around his eyes. Looked like fear.
    Whiskeyjack rounded on the girl at her words. 'You got something to say about all this, recruit?' His tone was tight.
    The girl's dark eyes slid to her sergeant. She shrugged, then walked away.
    Kalam offered the object to Tattersail. 'Answers,' he said quietly, in a north Seven Cities accent, melodic and round. 'We all need answers, Sorceress. The High Mage killed your comrades. Look at us, we're all that's left of the Bridgeburners. Answers aren't easily ... attained. Will you pay the price?'
    With a final glance at Hairlock's lifeless body – so brutally torn apart – and the lifeless stare of his eyes, she accepted the object. It felt light in her hands. Whatever was within the hide cocoon was slight in size; parts of it moved and against her grip she felt knobs and shafts of something hard. She stared at the assassin's bearish face. 'I want,' she said slowly, 'to see Tayschrenn get what he deserves.'
    'Then we're in agreement,' Kalam said, smiling. 'This is where it starts.'
    Tattersail felt her stomach jump at that smile. Woman, what's got into you? She sighed. 'Done.' As she turned away to descend the slope and make her way back to the main camp, she caught the girl's eye. A chill rippled through her. The sorceress stopped. 'You, recruit,' she called. 'What's your name?'
    The girl smiled as if at a private joke. 'Sorry.'
    Tattersail grunted. It figured. She tucked the package under
    an arm and staggered down the slope.
     
    Sergeant Whiskey jack kicked at a helmet and watched as it tumbled and bounced down the hillside. He spun and glared at Quick Ben. 'It's done?'
    The wizard's eyes darted to Sorry, then he nodded.
    'You will draw unwarranted attention on our squad,' the young girl told Whiskeyjack. 'High Mage Tayschrenn will notice.'
    The sergeant raised an eyebrow. 'Unwarranted attention? What the hell does that mean?'
    Sorry made no reply.
    Whiskeyjack bit back sharp words. What had Fiddler called her? An uncanny bitch. He'd said it to her face and she'd just stared him down with those dead, stony eyes. As much as he hated to admit it, Whiskeyjack shared the sapper's crude assessment. What made things even more disturbing, this fifteen-year-old girl had Quick Ben scared half out of his wits, and the wizard didn't want to talk about it. What had the Empire sent him?
    His gaze swung back to Tattersail. She was crossing the killing field below. The ravens rose screaming from her path, and remained circling overhead, their caws uneasy and frightened. The sergeant felt Kalam's solid presence at his side.
    'Hood's Breath,' Whiskeyjack muttered. 'That sorceress seems an unholy terror as far as those birds are concerned.'
    'Not her,' Kalam said. 'It's what she's carrying.'
    Whiskeyjack scratched his beard, his eyes narrowing. 'This stinks. You sure it's necessary?'
    Kalam shrugged.
    'Whiskeyjack,' Quick Ben said, behind them, 'they kept us in the tunnels. Do you think the High Mage couldn't have guessed what would happen?'
    The sergeant faced his wizard. A dozen paces beyond stood Sorry, well within hearing range. Whiskeyjack scowled at her, but said nothing.
    After a moment of heavy silence, the sergeant turned his attention to the city. The last of the Moranth legions was marching beneath the West Gate's arch. Columns of black smoke rose from behind the battered, scarred walls. He knew something of the history of grim enmity between the Moranth and the citizens of the once Free City of Pale. Contested trade routes, two mercantile powers at each other's throat. And Pale won more often than not. At long last it seemed that the black-armoured warriors from beyond the western mountains, whose faces remained hidden behind the chitinous visors on their helms and who spoke in clicks and