Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1)

Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1) Page 109

The marine interrupted diffidently. “If you answered as you just have, I am to convey the High Fist's request that you attend a formal supper this evening in the main building.”

Tattersail cursed silently. She shouldn't have told the truth. Now, it was too late. A “request” from her commander was not something that could be denied. “Inform the High Fist that I will be honoured to share his company over supper.” A thought struck her. “May I ask who else will be present?”

“High Mage Tayschrenn, a messenger named Toc the Younger, and Adjunct Lorn.”

“Adjunct Lorn is here?”

“Arrived this morning, Sorceress.”

Oh, Hood's Breath. “Convey my reply,” Tattersail said, struggling against a rising tide of fear. She shut the door, then heard the marine's boots hurrying down the hallway.

“What's wrong?” Paran asked, from the opposite doorway.

She faced him. “Put that sword away, Captain.” She walked over to the dresser and began rummaging through the drawers. “I'm to attend a dinner,” she said.

Paran approached. “An official gathering.”

Tattersail nodded distractedly. “With Adjunct Lorn there as well, as if Tayschrenn isn't bad enough.”

The Captain murmured, “So she's finally arrived.”

Tattersail froze. She turned to him slowly. “You've been expecting her, haven't you?”

Paran started and looked at her with frightened eyes.

She realized his mumbling hadn't been meant for her ears. “Dammit,” she hissed. “You're working for her!”

The captain's answer was clear as he spun round. She watched him vanish into the bedroom, her thoughts a storm of fury. The threads of conspiracy now thrummed in her mind. So, Quick Ben's suspicions had been accurate: a plan was afoot to kill the squad. Did that make her life at risk as well? She felt herself nearing a decision. What that decision was she wasn't sure, but there was a direction to her thoughts now, and it had the inevitable momentum of an avalanche.

The seventh bell was ringing from some distant tower as Toc the Younger passed into the Empire headquarters.

He showed his invitation to yet another grim-faced, intense guard, and was grudgingly allowed to continue on down the main hall to the dining chamber. Unease churned in Toc's stomach. He knew the Adjunct was behind the request, but she could be as unpredictable and as manipulative as the rest. Beyond the doors he now approached might as well be a pit filled with vipers, all hungrily awaiting his arrival.

Toc wondered if he'd be able to keep anything down, and knowing the condition of his facial wound, he then wondered grimly if anyone else would be able to keep anything down. Among his fellow soldiers his scars were barely noticed: rare was the soldier in Dujek's army who did not carry a scar or three. Those few friends he had seemed simply thankful that he still lived.

In the Seven Cities, superstition held that loss of an eye was also the birth of inner sight. He'd been reminded of that belief at least a dozen times in the last couple of weeks. There had been no secret gift granted him in exchange for his eye. Flashes of searing light ripped through his mind every now and then, but he suspected that was no more than a memory of the last thing his eye had seen: fire.

And now he was about to sit among the loftiest company in the Empire, barring the Empress herself. Suddenly the wound was a thing of shame. He'd sit there as testament to the horrors of war-Toc stiffened just outside the dining room door. Was that why the Adjunct had invited him? He hesitated, then shrugged and entered.

Dujek, Tayschrenn and the Adjunct turned as one to regard him. Toc the Younger bowed.

“Thank you for coming,” Adjunct Lorn said. She stood with the two men near the largest of three fireplaces, in the wall opposite the entrance “Please, join us. We're now awaiting but one more guest.”

Toc strode to them, thankful for Dujek's grin. The High Fist set his crystal goblet down on the mantel and deliberately scratched the stump of his left arm.

“Bet it's driving you half crazed,” the old man said, his grin broadening.

“I scratch with both hands,” Toc said.

Dujek barked a laugh. “Join us in a drink?”

“Thank you.” He noticed Lorn's appraisal as he accepted a goblet from Dujek. Taking the decanter from a nearby table, his glance crossed the High Mage, but Tayschrenn's attention was fixed on the roaring fire behind Lorn.

“Has your horse recovered?” the Adjunct asked.

Toc nodded as he filled his goblet. “Doing handstands the last time I looked in on her,” he said.