years.” His face darkened then and the smile faded. Something burned in his eyes. “Think back, woman! Calot and I. When we went down. What did you see? Did you feel something? Something odd? Come on, think! Look at me! See my wound, see how I’m lying! Which direction was I facing when that wave hit?”
She saw the fire in his eyes, of anger mingled with triumph. “I’m not sure,” she said slowly. “Something, yes.” That detached, reasoning part of her mindthat had labored with her throughout the battle, that had screamed in her mind at Calot’s death, screamed in answer to the waves of sorcery—
to the fact that they had come from the plain
. Her eyes narrowed on Hairlock. “Anomander Rake never bothered to aim. He was being indiscriminate. Those waves of power were
aimed
, weren’t they? Coming at us from the wrong side.” She was trembling. “But why? Why would Tayschrenn do that?”
Hairlock reached up one mangled hand and clutched Quick Ben’s cloak. “Use her, Mage. I’ll take the chance.”
Tattersail’s thoughts raced. Hairlock had been sent down into the tunnels by Dujek. And Whiskeyjack and his squad had been down there. A deal had been struck. “Hairlock, what’s happening here?” she demanded, fear clenching the muscles of her neck and shoulders. “What do you mean, ‘use’ me?”
“You’re not blind, woman!”
“Quiet,” Quick Ben said. He laid down the object on the wizard’s ravaged chest, positioning it carefully so that it was centered lengthways along Hairlock’s breastbone. The top end reached to just under the man’s chin, the bottom end extending a few inches beyond what was left of his torso. Webs of black energy spun incessantly over the hide’s mottled surface.
Quick Ben passed a hand over the object and the web spread outward. The glittering black threads traced a chaotic pattern that insinuated Hairlock’s entire body, over flesh and through it, the pattern ever changing, the changes coming faster and faster. Hairlock jerked, his eyes bulging, then fell back. A breath escaped his lungs in a slow, steady hiss. When it ceased with a wet gurgle, he did not draw another.
Quick Ben sat back on his haunches and glanced over at Whiskeyjack. The sergeant was now facing them, his expression unreadable.
Tattersail wiped sweat from her brow with a grimy sleeve. “It didn’t work, then. You failed to do whatever it was you were trying to do.”
Quick Ben climbed to his feet. Kalam picked up the 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
She saw the fire in his eyes, of anger mingled with triumph. “I’m not sure,” she said slowly. “Something, yes.” That detached, reasoning part of her mindthat had labored with her throughout the battle, that had screamed in her mind at Calot’s death, screamed in answer to the waves of sorcery—
to the fact that they had come from the plain
. Her eyes narrowed on Hairlock. “Anomander Rake never bothered to aim. He was being indiscriminate. Those waves of power were
aimed
, weren’t they? Coming at us from the wrong side.” She was trembling. “But why? Why would Tayschrenn do that?”
Hairlock reached up one mangled hand and clutched Quick Ben’s cloak. “Use her, Mage. I’ll take the chance.”
Tattersail’s thoughts raced. Hairlock had been sent down into the tunnels by Dujek. And Whiskeyjack and his squad had been down there. A deal had been struck. “Hairlock, what’s happening here?” she demanded, fear clenching the muscles of her neck and shoulders. “What do you mean, ‘use’ me?”
“You’re not blind, woman!”
“Quiet,” Quick Ben said. He laid down the object on the wizard’s ravaged chest, positioning it carefully so that it was centered lengthways along Hairlock’s breastbone. The top end reached to just under the man’s chin, the bottom end extending a few inches beyond what was left of his torso. Webs of black energy spun incessantly over the hide’s mottled surface.
Quick Ben passed a hand over the object and the web spread outward. The glittering black threads traced a chaotic pattern that insinuated Hairlock’s entire body, over flesh and through it, the pattern ever changing, the changes coming faster and faster. Hairlock jerked, his eyes bulging, then fell back. A breath escaped his lungs in a slow, steady hiss. When it ceased with a wet gurgle, he did not draw another.
Quick Ben sat back on his haunches and glanced over at Whiskeyjack. The sergeant was now facing them, his expression unreadable.
Tattersail wiped sweat from her brow with a grimy sleeve. “It didn’t work, then. You failed to do whatever it was you were trying to do.”
Quick Ben climbed to his feet. Kalam picked up the 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
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