Hairlock leaned forward and deliberately spat at the floor in front of Tayschrenn. “Tiste And? High Mage? I think we can be a little more specific than that, don't you?”
Tattersail's migraine worsened. She realized she was holding her breath, slowly forced it out as she gauged Tayschrenn's reaction-to the man's words and to the traditional Seven Cities challenge.
“An archmage,” Tayschrenn repeated. “Perhaps the Archmage of the Tiste And?. Dear Hairlock,” he added, his voice lowering a notch, “your primitive tribal gestures remain quaint, if somewhat tasteless.”
Hairlock bared his teeth. “The Tiste And? are Mother Dark's first children. You've felt the tremors through the Warrens of Sorcery, Tayschrenn. So have I. Ask Dujek about the reports coming down from the North Campaign. Elder magic-Kurald Galain. The Lord of Moon's Spawn is the Master Archmage-you know his name as well as I do.”
“I know nothing of the sort,” the High Mage snapped, losing his calm at last. “Perhaps you'd care to enlighten us, Hairlock, and then I can begin inquiries as to your sources.”
“Ahh!” Hairlock bolted forward in his chair, an eager malice in his taut face. “A threat from the High Mage. Now we're getting somewhere. Answer me this, then. Why only three other High Mages? We've hardly been thinned out that badly. More, why didn't we do this two years ago?”
Whatever was building between Hairlock and Tayschrenn was interrupted by Dujek, who growled wordlessly, then said, “We're desperate, mage. The North Campaign has gone sour. The Fifth is damn near gone, and won't be getting any reinforcements until next spring. The point is, the Moon's lord could have his army back any day now. I don't want to have to send you up against an army of Tiste And? and I sure as hell don't want the Second having to show two fronts with a relieving force coming down on them. Bad tactics, and whoever this Caladan Brood is, he's shown himself adept at making us pay for our mistakes.”
“Caladan Brood,” Calot murmured. “I swear I've heard that name somewhere before. Odd that I've never given it much thought.”
Tattersail's eyes narrowed on Tayschrenn. Calot was right: the name of the man commanding the Tiste And? alongside the Crimson Guard did sound familiar-but in an old way, echoing ancient legends, perhaps, or some epic poem.
The High Mage met her gaze, flat and,calculating. “The need,” he said, turning to the others, “for justifications has passed. The Empress has commanded, and we must obey.”
Hairlock snorted a second time. “Speaking of twisting arms,” he sat back, still smiling contemptuously at Tayschrenn, “remember how we played cat and mouse at Aren? This plan has your stink on it. You've been itching for a chance like this for a long time.” His grin turned savage. “Who, then, are the other three High Mages? Let me guess.”
“Enough!” Tayschrenn stepped close to Hairlock, who went very still, eyes glittering.
The lanterns had dimmed. Calot used the handkerchief in his lap to wipe tears from his cheeks.
Power, oh, damn, my bead feels ready to crack wide open.
“Very well,” Hairlock whispered, “let's lay it out on the table. I'm sure the High Fist will appreciate you putting all his suspicions in the proper order. Make it plain, old friend.”
Tattersail glanced at Dujek. The commander's face had closed up, his sharp eyes narrow and fixed on Tayschrenn. He was doing some hard thinking.
Calot leaned against her. “What the hell's going on, “Sail?”
“No idea,” she whispered, “but it's heating up nicely.” Though she'd made her comment light, her mind was whirling around a cold knot of fear. Hairlock had been with the Empire longer than she had-or Calot.
He'd been among the sorcerers who'd fought against the Malazans in Seven Cities, before Aren fell and the Holy Falah'd were scattered, before he'd been given the choice of death or service to the new masters. He'd joined the 2nd's cadre at Pan'potsun-like Dujek himself he'd been there, with the Emperor's old guard, when the first vipers of 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 gbosts of the conquered but unconquerable: