“Then he is a traitor.”
“No. He's a man who cares for those he is responsible for and to. He's the best of the Empire. If he's forced to turn, Tayschrenn, then we're the traitors. Am I getting through?”
The High Mage's face was lined with a deep, disturbed frown. “Yes, Adjunct,” he said quietly. “You are.” He looked up. “This task the Empress has commanded of me, it weighs heavily, Adjunct. These are not my strengths. It would do well if you dismissed me.”
Lorn gave that serious consideration. Mages by nature never commanded loyalty. Fear, yes, and the respect born of fear, but the one thing a mage found difficult to understand or cope with was loyalty. And yet there had been one mage, long ago, who had commanded loyalty-and that was the Emperor. She said, “High Mage, we are all agreed on one thing. The old guard must disappear. All who stood with the Emperor and still cling to his memory will ever work against us, whether consciously or unconsciously. Dujek is an exception, and there is a handful of others like him. Those we must not lose. As for the others, they have to die. The risk lies in alerting them to that fact. If we're too open we may end up with an insurrection the size of which could destroy the Empire.”
“Apart from Dujek and Tattersail,” Tayschrenn said, “we've cleaned out everyone else. As for Whiskeyjack and his squad, he's all yours, Adjunct.”
“With luck,” Lorn said, then frowned as the High Mage winced.
“What's the matter?”
He rose. “I peruse my Deck of Dragons nightly,” he said. “And I'm certain that Oponn has entered the world of mortal affairs. Tattersail's own reading did much to confirm my suspicions.”
Lorn looked at him sharply. “She's an Adept?”
“Far more adept than I,” Tayschrenn admitted.
Lorn thought. “What can you tell me of Oponn's involvement?”
“Darujhistan,” Tayschrenn replied.
Lorn closed her eyes. “I was afraid you'd say that. We need Darujhistan-desperately. Its wealth, coming into our hands, would break this continent's back.”
“I know, Adjunct. But the matter is even worse than you realize. I also believe that, somehow, Whiskeyjack and Tattersail are in league with one another.”
“Any word of what happened to Captain Paran?”
“None. Someone is hiding him, or his body. I'm inclined to believe he's dead, Adjunct, but his soul has yet to pass through Hood's Gate and only a mage could prevent that.”
“Tattersail?”
The High Mage shrugged. “Possibly. I would know more of this captain's role in all this.”
Lorn hesitated, then said, “He was engaged in a long, arduous search.”
Tayschrenn growled, “Perhaps he found whatever he was seeking.”
Lorn eyed him. “Perhaps. Tell me, how good is Tattersail?”
“Good enough to be a High Mage,” Tayschrenn said. “Good enough to survive a Hound's attack and to drive it away, though I would not think such a thing possible. Even I would have difficulty managing that.”
“Maybe she had help,” Lorn murmured.
“I hadn't thought of that.”
“Think on it now,” Lorn said. “But before you do, the Empress requests that you continue your efforts, though not against Dujek.
“You're needed here as a conduit in case my mission goes wrong in Darujhistan. Do not involve yourself with managing the occupation of Pale. Further, you are to provide Dujek with details on Oponn's appearance. If a god has entered the fray, he has a right to know and to plan accordingly.”
“How can one plan anything with Oponn in the game?”
“Leave that to Dujek.” She studied his face. “Do you have difficulty with any of these instructions?”
Tayschrenn smiled. “In truth, Adjunct, I'm greatly relieved.”
Lorn nodded. “Good. Now, I need a mundane healer and quarters.”
“Of course.” Tayschrenn strode to the doors, then paused and turned.
“Adjunct, I am glad you're here.”
“Thank you, High Mage.” After he left, Lorn sank into her chair and her mind travelled back nine years, to the sights and sounds experienced by a child, to a night, one particular night in the Mouse, when every nightmare a young girl's imagination could hold became real. She remembered blood, blood everywhere, and the empty faces of her mother, her father and older brother-faces numbed by the realization that they'd been spared, that the blood wasn't their own. As the memories stalked once again through her mind, a name rode the winds, rustling in the air as if clawing through dead branches. Lorn's lips parted, and she whispered, “Tattersail.”