Gardens of the Moon - Page 49/254

A blossoming of power filled the room and Tattersail spun to face Quick Ben. The wizard had accessed his Warren. The sorcery bled strange, swirling flavour that she could not recognize, and it frightened her with its intensity. She met the black man's shining eyes. “I should know you,” she whispered. “There's not enough true masters in this world for me to not know you. Who are you, Quick Ben?”

Whiskeyjack interjected, “Everyone ready?”

The wizard's only answer to Tattersail was a shrug. To Whiskeyjack he said, “Ready.”

The sergeant strode to the door. “Take care, Sorceress.”

A moment later they were gone. Tattersail righted the chairs, then refilled her goblet with wine. High House Shadow, and a knife in dark. A new game's begun, or the old one's just turned.

Paran opened his eyes to bright, hot sunlight, but the sky above him was: wrong. He saw no sun; the yellow glare was sharp yet sourceless. Heat gusted down on him with oppressive weight.

A moaning sound filled the air, not wind because there was no wind. He tried to think, tried to recall his last memories, but the past was blank, torn away, and only fragments remained: a ship's cabin, the thrust of his dagger as he flung it again and again against a wooden post; a hand with rings, hair of white, grinning sardonically.

He rolled to one side, seeking the source of the moaning sound. A dozen paces away on the flat plain that was neither grass nor earth rose an arched gateway leading to Nothing. I've seen such gates before. None so large, I think, as this one.

None looking quite like this: this thing. Twisted, upright yet from his position sideways, the gate was not, he realized, made of stone. Bodies, naked human figures. Carved likenesses? No: oh, no. The figures moved, groaned, slowly writhed in place. Flesh blackened, as if stained with peat, eyes closed and mouths open with faint, endless moans.

Paran climbed to his feet, staggered as a wave of dizziness ran through him, then fell once again to the ground.

“Something like indecision,” a voice said coolly.

Blinking, Paran rolled on to his back. Above him stood a young man and woman-twins. The man wore loose silk clothing, white and gold; his thin face was pale, expressionless. His twin was wrapped in a shimmering purple cape, her blonde hair casting reddish glints.

It was the man who'd spoken. He smiled without humour down at Paran. “We've long admired your:” His eyes widened.

“Sword,” the woman finished, a smirk in her tone.

“Far more subtle than, say, a coin, don't you think?” The man's smile turned mocking. “Most,” he said, swinging his head to study the ghastly edifice of the gate, “don't pause here. It's said there was a cult, once, in the habit of drowning victims in bogs: I imagine Hood finds them aesthetically pleasing.”

“Hardly surprising,” the woman drawled, “that Death has no taste.”

Paran tried to sit up, but his limbs refused the command. He dropped his head back, feeling the strange loam yield to its weight. “What has happened?” he rasped.

“You were murdered,” the man said lightly.

Paran closed his eyes. “Why, then, have I not passed through Hood's Gate, if that is what it is?”

“We're meddling,” the woman said.

Oponn, the Twins of Chance. And my sword, my untested blade purchased years ago, with a name I chose so capriciously-'What does Oponn want from me?”

“Only this stumbling, ignorant thing you call your life, dear boy. The trouble with Ascendants is that they try to rig every game. Of course, we delight in: uncertainty.”

A distant howl stroked the air.

“Oops,” the man said. “Come to make certain of things, I'd say. We'd best leave, sister. Sorry, Captain, but it seems you'll pass through that Gate after all.”

“Maybe,” the woman said.

Her brother rounded on her. “We agreed! No confrontation! Confrontation's messy. Unpleasant. I despise discomfiting scenes! Besides, the ones who come don't play fair.”

“Then neither do we,” the sister snapped. She turned to the gate, raised her voice, “Lord of Death! We would speak with you! Hood!”

Paran rolled his head, watched as a bent, limping figure emerged fro the Gate. Wearing rags, the figure slowly approached. Paran squinted an old woman, a child with drool on its chin, a deformed young girl, a stunted, broken Trell, a desiccated Tiste And?-

“Oh, make up your mind!” the sister said.

The apparition cocked a death's head, the grin of its teeth stained muddy yellow. “You have chosen,” it said in quavering voice. Unimaginatively.”